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THE LEGEND OF JUBAL 
 
 AND 
 
 qU^ 
 
 OTHER POEMS, OLD AND NEW. 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY, 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 «\ 
 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 
 
 14 AND 16 Vesky Street. 
 
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CONTENTS. 
 
 fACB. 
 
 The Legend of Jubai - - - ^ . ,. ^ 
 
 (Reprinted from ' Macmillan*3 Magazine.') 
 
 Agatha ------»- 25 
 
 (Reprinted from * The Atlantic Monthly.*) 
 
 Armgart - - ^ . - « , . ^6 
 
 (Reprinted from ' Macmillan's Magazine.') 
 
 How Lisa loved theJCing - - » • • • y-j 
 
 (Reprinted from * Blackwood's Magazine.*) 
 
 A Minor Prophet "-»-•» 89 
 
 Brother and Sister . . , . . . -97 
 
 Stradivarius :» . - - I02 
 
 A College Breakfast Party • - - - • - 106 
 
 (Reprinted from * Macmillan's Magazine.') 
 
 Two Lovers - - - - • • • 127 
 
 Self and Life ------.- 129 
 
 ** Sweet Evenings come and go, Love*' - • - 132 
 
 The Death of Moses • - • • . • - 133 
 
 Arion - - • - - • • 137 
 
 " O may I Join the Choir Invisible " . • » • 139 
 
 The Spanish Gypsy ..••«» I43 
 
iVlAR 15 1917 
 
THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 
 
 When Cain was driven from Jehovah's land 
 He wandered eastward, seeking some far strand 
 Ruled by kind gods who asked no offerings 
 Save pure field-fruits, as aromatic things, 
 To feed the subtler sense of frames divine 
 That lived on fragrance for their food and wine : 
 Wild joyous gods, who winked at faults and tolly. 
 And could be pitiful and melancholy. 
 He never had a doubt that such gods were ; 
 He looked within, and saw them mirrored there. 
 Some think he came at last to Tartary, 
 And some to Ind ; but, howsoe'er it be, 
 His staff he planted where sweet waters ran, 
 And in that home of Cain the Arts began. 
 
 Man's life was spacious in the early world : 
 
 It paused, like some slow ship with sail unfurled 
 
 Waiting in seas by scarce a wavelet curled j 
 
 Beheld the slow star-paces of the skies. 
 
 And grew from strength to strength through centuries ; 
 
 Saw infant trees fill out their giant limbs, 
 
 And heard a thousand times the sweet birds' marriage hymns» 
 
 In Cain's young city none had heard of Death 
 
 Save him, the founder ; and it was his faith 
 
 That here, away from harsh Jehovah's law, 
 
 Man was immortal, since no halt or flaw 
 
 In Cain's own frame betrayed six hundred years, 
 
 But dark as pines that autumn never sears 
 
 His locks thronged backward as he ran, his frame 
 
 Rose like the orbed sun each morn the same, 
 
 Lake-mirrored to his gaze ; and that red brand, 
 
 The scorching impress of Jehovah's hand, 
 
6 THE LEGEND OFJUBAL, 
 
 Was still clear-edged to his unwearied eye, 
 Its secret firm in time- fraught memory. 
 He said, " My happy offspring shall not know 
 That the red life from out a man may flow 
 When smitten by his brother." True, his race 
 Bore each one stamped upon his new-born face 
 A copy of the brand no whit less clear ; 
 But every mother held that little copy dear. 
 
 Thus generations in glad idlesse throve. 
 
 Nor hunted prey, nor with each other strove ; 
 
 For clearest springs were plenteous in the land, 
 
 And gourds for cups ; the ripe fruits sought the hand. 
 
 Bending the laden boughs with fragrant gold ; 
 
 And for their roofs and garments wealth untold 
 
 Lay everywhere in grasses and broad leaves : 
 
 They labored gently, as a maid who weaves 
 
 Her hair in mimic mats, and pauses oft 
 
 And strokes across her palm the tresses soft, 
 
 Then peeps to watch the poised butterfly, 
 
 Or little burthened ants that homeward hie. 
 
 Time was but leisure to their lingering thought, 
 
 There was no need for haste to finish aught ; 
 
 But sweet beginnings were repeated still 
 
 Like infant babblings that no task fulfil ; 
 
 For love, that loved not change, consirained the simple will 
 
 Till, hurling stones in mere athletic joy, 
 Strong Lamech struck and killed his fairest boy, 
 And tried to wake him with the tenderest cries, 
 And fetched and held before the glazed eyes 
 The things they best had loved to look upon ; 
 But never glance or smile or sigh he won. 
 The generations stood around those twain 
 Helplessly gazing, till their father Cain 
 Parted the press, and said, " He will not wake 
 This is the endless sleep, and we must make 
 A bed deep down for him beneath the sod ; 
 For know, my sons, there is a mighty God 
 Angry with all man's race, but most with me. 
 I fled from out His land in vain ! — *tis He 
 Who came and slew the lad, for He has found 
 This home of ours, and we shall all be bound 
 By the harsh bands of His most cruel will. 
 
THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 
 
 Which any moment may some dear one kill. 
 
 Nay, though we live for countless moons, at last 
 
 We and all ours shall die like summers past. 
 
 This is Jehovah's will, and He is strong ; 
 
 I thought the way I travelled was too long 
 
 For Him to follow me : my thought was vain ! 
 
 He walks unseen, but leaves a track of pain, 
 
 Pale Death His footprint is, and He will come again I " 
 
 And a new spirit from that hour came o'er 
 
 The race of Cain : soft idlesse was no more. 
 
 But even the sunshine had a heart of care, 
 
 Smiling with hidden dread — a mother fair 
 
 Who folding to her breast a dying child 
 
 Beams with feigned joy that but makes sadness mild. 
 
 Death was now lord of Life, and at his word 
 
 Time, vague as air before, new terrors stirred, 
 
 With measured wing now audibly arose 
 
 Throbbing through all things to some unknown close. 
 
 Now glad Content by clutching Haste was torn, 
 
 And Work grew eager, and Devise was born. 
 
 It seemed the light was never loved before, 
 
 Now each man said, "Twill go and come no more." 
 
 No budding branch, no pebble from the brook, 
 
 No form, no shadow, but new dearness took 
 
 From the one thought that life must have an end ; 
 
 And the last parting now began to send 
 
 Diffusive dread through love and wedded bliss, 
 
 Thrilling them into finer tenderness. 
 
 Then Memory disclosed her face divine, 
 
 That like the calm nocturnal lights doth shine 
 
 Within the soul, and shows the sacred graves, 
 
 And shows the presence that no sunlight craves, 
 
 No space, no warmth, out moves among them all • 
 
 Gone and yet here, and coming at each call. 
 
 With ready voice and eyes that understand. 
 
 And lips that ask a kiss, and dear responsive hand. 
 
 Thus to Cain's race death was tear-watered seed 
 
 Of various life and action-shaping need. 
 
 But chief the sons of Lamech felt the strings 
 
 Of new ambition, and the force that springs 
 
 In passion beating on the shores of fate. 
 
 They said, "There comes a night v/hen all too late 
 
S THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 
 
 The mind shall long to prompt the achieving hanc* 
 
 The eager thought behind closed portals stand, 
 
 And the last wishes to the mute lips press 
 
 Buried ere death in silent helplessness. 
 
 Then while the soul its way with sound can cleave, 
 
 And while the arm is strong to strike and heave, 
 
 Let soul and arm give shape that will abide 
 
 And rule above our graves, and power divide 
 
 With that great god of day, whose rays must bend 
 
 As we shall make the moving shadows tend. 
 
 Come, let us fashion acts that are to be, 
 
 When we shall lie in darkness silently, 
 
 As our young brother doth, whom yet we see 
 
 Fallen and slain, but reigning in our will 
 
 By that one image of him pale and still." 
 
 For Lamech's sons were heroes of their race 
 
 Jabal, the eldest, bore upon his face 
 
 The look of that calm river-god, the Nile, 
 
 Mildly secure in power that needs not guile. 
 
 But Tubal-Cain was restless as the fire 
 
 That glows and spreads and leaps fiom high to higher 
 
 Where'er is aught to seize or to subdue ; 
 
 Strong as a storm he lifted or o'erthrew, 
 
 His urgent limbs like rounded granite grew, 
 
 Such granite as the plunging torrent wears 
 
 And roaring rolls around through countless years. 
 
 But strength that still on movement must be fed, 
 
 Inspirmg thought of change, devices bred, 
 
 And urged his mind though earth and air to rove 
 
 For force that he could conquer if he strove, 
 
 For lurking forms that might new tasks fulfil 
 
 And yield unwilling to his stronger will. 
 
 Such Tubal-Cain. But Jubal had a frame 
 
 Fashioned to finer senses, which became 
 
 A yearning for some-hidden soul of things, 
 
 Some outward touch complete on inner springs 
 
 That vaguely moving bred a lonely pain, 
 
 A want that did but stronger grow with gain 
 
 Of all good else, as spirits might be sad 
 
 For lack of speech to tell us they are glad. 
 
 Now Jabal learned to tame the lowing kine. 
 And from their udders drew the snow-white wine 
 Thai stirs the innocent joy, and makes the stream 
 
THE LEGEND OF /UBAL, 
 
 Of elemental life with fulness teem ; 
 
 The star-browed calves he nursed with feeding hand, 
 
 And sheltered them, till all the little band 
 
 Stood mustered gazing at the sunset way 
 
 Whence he would come with store at close of day. 
 
 He soothed the silly sheep with friendly tone 
 
 And reared their staggering lambs that, older grown, 
 
 Followed his steps with sense-taught memory ; 
 
 Till he, their shepherd, could their leader be 
 
 And guide them through the pastures as he would, 
 
 With sway that grew from ministry of good. 
 
 He spread his tents upon the grassy plain 
 
 Which, eastward widening like the open main. 
 
 Showed the first whiteness 'neath the morning star ; 
 
 Near him his sister, deft, as women are, 
 
 Plied her quick skill in sequence to his thought 
 
 Till the hid treasures of the milk she caught 
 
 Revealed like pollen 'mid the petals white, 
 
 The golden pollen, virgin to the light. 
 
 Even the she-wolf with young, on rapine bent, 
 
 He caught and tethered in his mat-walled tent, 
 
 And cherished all her little sharp-nosed young 
 
 Till the small race with hope and terror clung 
 
 About his footsteps, till each new-reared brood. 
 
 Remoter from the memories of the wood, 
 
 More glad discerned their common home with man. 
 
 This was the work of Jabal : he began 
 
 The pastoral life, and, sire of joys to be. 
 
 Spread the sweet ties that bind the family 
 
 O'er dear dumb souls that thrilled at man's caress, 
 
 And shared his pains with patient helpfulness. 
 
 But Tubal-Cain had caught and yoked the fire. 
 Yoked it with stones that bent the flaming spire 
 And made it roar in prisoned servitude 
 Within the furnace, till with force subdued 
 It changed all forms he willed to work upon. 
 Till hard from soft, and soft from hard, he won. 
 The pliant clay he moulded as he would. 
 And laughed with joy when 'mid the heat it stood 
 Shaped as his hand had chosen, while the mass 
 That from his hold, dark, obstinate, would pass, 
 He drew all glowing from the busy heat, 
 AH breathino: as with life that he could beat 
 
10 THE LEGEND OF [UBAL, 
 
 With thundering hammer, making it obey 
 
 His will creative, like the pale soft clay. 
 
 Each day he wrought and better than he planned, 
 
 Shape breeding shape beneath his restless hand. 
 
 * The soul without still helps the soul within. 
 
 And its deft magic ends what we begin.) 
 
 Nay, in his dreams his hammer he would wield 
 
 And seem to see a myriad types revealed, 
 
 Then spring with wondering triumphant cry, 
 
 And, lest the inspiring vision should go by 
 
 Would rush to labor with that plastic zeal 
 
 Which all the passion of our life can steal 
 
 For force to work with. Each day saw the birth 
 
 Of various forms which, flung upon the earth. 
 
 Seemed harmless toys to cheat the exacting hour, 
 
 But were as seeds instinct with hidden power. 
 
 The axe, the club, the spiked wheel, the chain, 
 
 Held silently the shrieks and moans of pain ; 
 
 And near them latent lay in share and spade. 
 
 In the strong bar, the saw, and deep-curved blade. 
 
 Glad voices of the hearth and harvest-home. 
 
 The social good, and all earth's joy to come. 
 
 Thus to mixed ends wrought Tubal ; and they say, 
 
 Some things he made have lasted to this day ; 
 
 As, thirty silver pieces that were found 
 
 By Noah's children buried in the ground. 
 
 He made them from mere hunger of device, 
 
 'J'hose small white discs ; but they became the price 
 
 The traitor Judas sold his Master for ; 
 
 And men still handling them in peace and wa. 
 
 Catch foul disease, that comes as appetite, 
 
 And lurks and clings as withering, damning blight 
 
 But Tubal-Cain wot not of treachery. 
 
 Nor greedy lust, nor any ill to be. 
 
 Save the one ill of sinking into naught. 
 
 Banished from action and act-shaping thought. 
 
 He was the sire of swift-transforming skill, 
 
 Which arms for conquest man's ambitious will ; 
 
 And round him gladly, as his hammer rung, 
 
 Gathered the elders and the growing young: 
 
 These handled vaguely and those plied the tools; 
 
 Till happy chance begetting conscious rules, 
 
 The home of Cain with industry was rife, 
 
 And glimpses of a strong persistent life, 
 
THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. x\ 
 
 Panting through generations as one breath, 
 And fiUino: with its soul the blank of death. 
 
 '& 
 
 Jubal, too, watched the hammer, till his eyes, 
 
 No longer following its fall or rise. 
 
 Seemed glad with something that they could not see, ] 
 
 But only listened to — some melody. 
 
 Wherein dumb longings inward speech had found. 
 
 Won from the common store of struggling sound. 
 
 Then, as the metal shapes more various grew, 
 
 And, hurled upon each other, resonance drew, 
 
 Each gave new tones, the revelations dim 
 
 Of some external soul that spoke for him : 
 
 The hollow vessel's clang, the clash, the boom, 
 
 Like light that makes wide spiritual room 
 
 And skyey spaces in the spaceless thought, 
 
 To Jubal such enlarged passion brought 
 
 That love, hope, rage, and all experience. 
 
 Were fused in vaster being, fetching thence 
 
 Concords and discords, cadences and cries 
 
 That seemed from some world shrouded soul to rise. 
 
 Some rapture more intense, some mightier rage. 
 
 Some living sea that burst the bounds of man's brief age. 
 
 Then with such blissful trouble and glad care 
 
 For growth within unborn as mother's bear. 
 
 To the far woods he wandered, listening, 
 
 And heard the birds their little stories sing 
 
 In notes whose rise and fall seemed melted speech — 
 
 Melted with tears, smiles, glances — that can reach 
 
 More quickly through our frame's deep-winding night. 
 
 And without thought raise thought's best fruit, delight. 
 
 Pondering, he sought his home again and heard 
 
 The fluctuant changes of the spoken word : 
 
 The deep remonstrance and the argued want, 
 
 Insistent first in close monotonous chant, 
 
 Next leaping upward to defiant stand 
 
 Or downward beating like the resolute hand ; 
 
 The mother's call, the children's answering cry, 
 
 The laugh's light cataract tumbling from on high ; 
 
 The suasive repetitions Jabal taught. 
 
 That timid browsing cattle homeward brought : 
 
 The clear-winged fugue of echoes vanishing ; 
 
 And through them all the hammer's rhythmic ring. 
 
12 THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 
 
 Jubal sat lonely, all around was dim, 
 
 Yet his face glowed with light revealed to him : 
 
 For as the delicate stream of odor wakes 
 
 The thought-wed sentience and some image makes 
 
 From out the mingled fragments of the past, 
 
 Finely compact in wholeness that will last. 
 
 So streamed as from the body of each sound 
 
 Subtler pulsations, swift as warmth, which found 
 
 All prisoned germs and all their powers unbound, 
 
 Till thought self-luminous flamed from memory, 
 
 And in creative vision wandered free. 
 
 Then Jubal, standing, rapturous arms upraised, " 
 
 And on the dark with eager eyes he gazed, 
 
 As had some manifested god been there. 
 
 It was his thought he saw : the presence fair 
 
 Of unachieved achievement, the high task, 
 
 The struggling unborn spirit that doth ask 
 
 With irresistible cry for blood and breath, 
 
 Till feeding its great life we sink in death. 
 
 He said, "Were now those mighty tones and cries 
 
 That from the giant soul of earth arise. 
 
 Those groans of some great travail heard from far. 
 
 Some power at wrestle with the things that are. 
 
 Those sounds which vary with the varying form 
 
 Of clay and metal, and in sightless swarm 
 
 Fill the wide space with tremors : were these wed 
 
 To human voices with such passion fed 
 
 As does but glimmer in our common speech. 
 
 But might flame out in tones whose changing reach, 
 
 Surpassing meagre need, informs the sense 
 
 With fuller union, finer difference — 
 
 Were this great vison, now obscurely bright 
 
 As morning hills that melt in new-poured light, 
 
 Wrought into solid form and living sound. 
 
 Moving with ordered throb and sure rebound, 
 
 Then Nay, I Jubal will that work begin ! 
 
 The generations of our race shall win 
 
 New life, that grows from out the heart of this. 
 
 As spring from winter, or as lovers' bliss 
 
 For out the dull unknown of unwaked energies." 
 
 'is* 
 
 Thus he resolved, and in the soul-fed light 
 Of coming ages waited through the night, 
 
THE LEGEND OF JUBAL, I J 
 
 Watching for that near dawn whose chiller ray 
 Show^ed but the unchanged world of yesterday ; 
 Where all the order of his dream divine 
 Lay like Olympian form within the mine ; 
 Where fervor that could fill the earthly round 
 With thronged joys of form-begotten sound 
 Must shrink intense within the patient power 
 That lonely labors through the niggard hour. 
 Such patience have the heroes who begin, 
 Sailing the first to lands which others win. 
 Jubal must dare as great beginners dare, 
 Strike form's first way in matter rude and bare, 
 And, yearning vaguely toward the plenteous quire 
 Of the world's harvest, make one poor small lyre. 
 He made it, and from out its measured frame 
 Drew the harmonic soul, whose answers came 
 With guidance sweet and lessons of delight 
 Teaching to ear and hand the blissful Right, 
 Where strictest law is gladness to the sense 
 And all desire bends toward obedience. 
 
 Then Jubal poured his triumph in a song — 
 
 The rapturous word that rapturous notes prolong 
 
 As radiance streams from smallest things that burn, 
 
 Or thought of loving into love doth turn. 
 
 And still his lyre gave companionship 
 
 In sense-taught concert as of lip with lip. 
 
 Alone amid the hills at first he tried 
 
 His winged song ; then with adoring pride 
 
 And bridegroom's joy at leading forth his bride, 
 
 He said, " This wonder which my soul hath found. 
 
 This heart of magic in the might of sound, 
 
 Shall forthwith be the share of all our race 
 
 And like the morning gladden common space : 
 
 The song shall spread and swell as rivers do, 
 
 And I will teach our youth with skill to woo 
 
 This living lyre, to know its secret will. 
 
 Its fine division of the good and ill. 
 
 So shall men call me sire of harmony, 
 
 And where great Song is, there my life shall be.'* 
 
 Thus glorying as a god beneficent, 
 Forth from his solitary joy he went 
 To bless mankind. It was at evening. 
 
14 THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 
 
 When shadows lengthen from each westward thing, 
 
 When imminence of change makes sense more fine 
 
 And light seems hoUer in its grand decline. 
 
 The fruit-trees wore their studded coronal, 
 
 iLarth and her children were at festival, 
 
 Glowing as with one heart and one consent — 
 
 Thought, love, trees, rocks, in sweet warm radiance blent 
 
 The tribe of Cain was resting on the ground, 
 
 The various ages wreathed in one broad round. 
 
 Here lay, while children peeped o'er his huge thighs, 
 
 The sinewy man embrowned by centuries ; 
 
 Here the broad-bosomed mother of the strong 
 
 Looked, like Demeter, placid o'er the throng 
 
 Of young lithe forms whose rest was movement too — 
 
 Tricks, prattle, nods, and laughs that lightly flew, 
 
 And sayings of flower-beds where Love blev 
 
 For all had feasted well upon the flush 
 
 Of juicy fruits, on nuts, and honey fresh, 
 
 And now their wine was health-bred merriment, 
 
 Which through the generations circling went, 
 
 Leaving none sad, for even father Cain 
 
 Smiled as a Titan might, despising pain. 
 
 Jabal sat climbed on by a playful ring 
 
 Of children, lambs and whelps, whose gambolling, 
 
 With tiny hoofs, paws, hands, and dimpled feet, 
 
 Made barks, bleats, laughs, in pretty hubbub meet. 
 
 But Tubal's hammer rang from far away, 
 
 Tubal alone would keep no holiday. 
 
 His furnace must not slack for any feast, 
 
 For of all hardship work he counted least ; 
 
 He scorned all rest but sleep, where every dream 
 
 Made his repose more potent action seem. 
 
 Yet with health's nectar some strange thirst was blent, 
 The fateful growth, the unnamed discontent. 
 The inward shaping toward some unborn power. 
 Some deeper-breathing act, the being's flower. 
 After all gestures, words, and speech of eyes, 
 The soul had more to tell, and broke in sighs. 
 Then from the east, with glory on his head 
 Such as low-slanting beams on corn-waves spread, 
 Came Jubal with his lyre : there 'mid the throng, 
 Where the blank space was, poured a solemn song, 
 
THE LEGEND OF JUBAL- t^ 
 
 Touching his lyre to full harmonic throb 
 
 And measured pulse, with cadences that sob, 
 
 Exult and cry, and search the inmost deep 
 
 Where the dark sources of new passion sleep. 
 
 Joy took the air, and took each breathing soul, 
 
 Embracing them in one entrance'd whole, 
 
 Yet thrilled each varying frame to various ends. 
 
 As Spring new-waking through the creature sends 
 
 Or rage or tenderness ; more plenteous life 
 
 Here breeding dread, and there a fiercer strife. 
 
 He who had lived through twice three centuries, 
 
 Whose months monotonous, like trees on trees 
 
 In hoary forests, stretched a backward maize. 
 
 Dreamed himself dimly through the travelled days 
 
 Till in clear light he paused, and felt the sun 
 
 That warmed him when he was a little one ; 
 
 Felt that true heaven, the recovered past, 
 
 The dear small Known amid the Unknown vast, 
 
 And in that heaven wept. But younger limbs 
 
 Thrilled toward the future, that bright land which swims 
 
 In western glory, isles and streams and bays, 
 
 Where hidden pleasures float in golden haze. 
 
 And in all these the rhythmic influence. 
 
 Sweetly o'ercharging the delighted sense, 
 
 Flowed out in movements, little waves that spread 
 
 Enlarging, till in tidal union led 
 
 The youths and maidens both alike long-tressed. 
 
 By grace-inspiring melody possessed, 
 
 Rose in slow dance, with beauteous floating s\verve 
 
 Of limbs and hair, and many a melting curve 
 
 Of ringed feet swayed by each close-linked palm : 
 
 Then Jubal poured more rapture in his psalm, 
 
 The dance fired music, music fired the dance, 
 
 The glow diffusive lit each countenance, 
 
 Till all the gazing elders rose and stood 
 
 With glad yet awful shock of that "mysterious good. 
 
 Even Tubal caught the sound, and wondering came, 
 Urging his sooty bulk like smoke-wrapt flame 
 Till he could see his brother with the lyre, 
 The work for which he lent his furnace-fire 
 And diligent hammer, witting naught of this — 
 This power in metal shape which made strange bliss, 
 
.,6 THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 
 
 Entering within him like a dream full-fraught 
 With new creations finished in a thought. 
 
 The sun had sunk, but music still was there, 
 
 And when this ceased, still triumph filled the air: 
 
 It seemed the stars were shining with delight 
 
 And that no night was ever like this night. 
 
 All clung with praise to Jubal ; some besought 
 
 That he would teach them his new skill ; some caught, 
 
 Swiftly as smiles are caught in looks that meet, 
 
 The tone's melodic change and rhythmic beat : 
 
 'Twas easy following where invention trod — 
 
 All eyes can see when light flows out from God. 
 
 And thus did Jubal to his race reveal 
 
 Music their larger soul, where woe and weal 
 
 Filling the resonant chords, the song, the dance, 
 
 Moved with a wider-winged utterance. 
 
 Now many a lyre was fashioned, many a song 
 
 Raised echoes new, old echoes to prolong, 
 
 Till things of Jubal's making were so rife, 
 
 " Hearing myself," he said, " hems in my life, 
 
 And I will get to some far-of land. 
 
 Where higher mountains under heaven stand 
 
 And touch the blue at rising of the stars. 
 
 Whose song they hear where no rough mingling mars 
 
 The great clear voices. Such lands there must be, 
 
 Where varying forms make varying symphony — 
 
 Where other thunders roll amid the hills. 
 
 Some mightier wind a mightier forest fills 
 
 With other strains through other-shapen boughs; 
 
 Where bees and birds and beasts that hunt or browse 
 
 Will teach me songs I know not. Listening there. 
 
 My life shall grow like trees both tall and fair 
 
 That rise and spread and bloom toward fuller fruit each year/ 
 
 He took a raft, and travelled with the stream 
 Southward for many a league, till he might deem"^ 
 He saw at last the pillars of the sky. 
 Beholding mountains whose white majesty 
 Rushed through him as new awe, and made new song 
 That swept with fuller wave the chords along. 
 Weighting his voice with deep religious chime, 
 The iteration of slow chant sublime. 
 
THE LEGEND OF [UBAL. ly 
 
 It was the region long inhabited 
 
 By all the race of Seth ; and Jubal said : 
 
 " Here have I found my thirsty soul's desire, 
 
 Eastward the hills touch heaven, and evening's fire 
 
 Flames through deep waters ; I will take wvf rest, 
 
 And feed anew from my great mother's breast, 
 
 The sky-clasped Earth, whose voices nurture me 
 
 As the flowers' sweetness doth the honey-bee." 
 
 He lingered wandering for many an age, 
 
 And, sowing music, made high heritage 
 
 For generations far beyond the Flood — • 
 
 For the poor late-begotten human brood 
 
 Born to life's weary brevity and perilous good. 
 
 And ever as he travelled he would climb 
 
 The farthest mountain, yet the heavenly chime, 
 
 The mighty tolling of the far-off spheres 
 
 Beating their pathway, never touched his ears. 
 
 But wheresoe'er he rose the heavens rose. 
 
 And the far-gazing mountain could disclose 
 
 Naught but a wider earth ; until one height 
 
 Showed him the ocean stretched in liquid light, 
 
 And he could hear its multitudinous roar. 
 
 Its plunge and hiss upon the pebbled shore: 
 
 Then Jubal silent sat, and touched his lyre no more. 
 
 He thought, " The world is great, but I am weak, 
 And where the sky bends is no solid peak 
 To give me footing, but instead, this main — 
 Myriads of maddened horses thundering o'er the plain. 
 
 *' New voices come to me where'er I roam, 
 My heart too widens with its widening home : 
 But song grows weaker, and the heart must break 
 For lack of voice, or fingers that can wake 
 The lyre's full answer ; nay, its chords were all 
 Too few to meet the growing spirit's call. 
 The former songs seem little, yet no more 
 Can soul, hand, voice, with interchanging lore 
 Tell what the earth is saying unto me : 
 The secret is too great, I hear confusedly. 
 
 " No farther will I travel : once again 
 My brethren I will see, and that fair plain 
 
l3 TIJE LEGEND OE JUBAL. 
 
 Where I and Song were born. There fresh-voiced youth 
 
 Will pour my strains with all the early truth 
 
 Which now abides not in my voice and hands, 
 
 But only in the soul, the will that stands 
 
 Helpless to mov«t My tribe remembering 
 
 Will cry ' 'Tis he ! ' and run to greet me, welcoming." 
 
 The way was weary. Many a date-palm grew, 
 
 And shook out clustered gold against the blue, 
 
 While Jubal, guided by the steadfast spheres. 
 
 Sought the dear home of those first eager years, 
 
 When, with fresh vision fed, the fuller will 
 
 Took living outward shape in pliant skill ; 
 
 For still he hoped to find the former things. 
 
 And the warm gladness recognition brings. 
 
 His footsteps erred among the mazy woods 
 
 And long illusive sameness of the floods, 
 
 Winding and wandering. Through far regions, strange 
 
 With Gentile homes and faces, did he range, 
 
 And left his music in their memory. 
 
 And left at last, when naught besides would free 
 
 His homeward steps from clinging hands and cries, 
 
 The ancient lyre. And now in ignorant eyes 
 
 No sign remained of Jubal, Lamech's son. 
 
 That mortal frame wherein was first begun 
 
 The immortal life of song. His withered brow 
 
 Pressed over eyes that held no lightning now. 
 
 His locks streamed whiteness on the hurrying air, 
 
 The unresting soul had worn itself quite bare 
 
 Of beauteous token, as the outworn might 
 
 Of oaks siow dying, gaunt in summer's light. 
 
 His full deep voice toward thinnest treble ran : 
 
 He was the rune-writ story of a man. 
 
 And so at last he neared the well-known land. 
 Could see the hills in ancient order stand 
 With friendly faces whose familiar gaze 
 Looked through the sunshine of his childish days; 
 Knew the deep-shadowed folds of hanging woods, 
 And seemed to see the self-same insect broods 
 Whirling and quivering o'er the flowers — to hear 
 The self-same cuckoo making distance near. 
 Yea, the dear Earth, with mother's constancy, 
 Met and embraced him, and said, " Thou art he ! 
 
THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. ^ ig 
 
 This was thy cradle, here my breast was thine, 
 Where feeding, thou didst all thy life entwine 
 With my sky-wedded life in heritage. divine." 
 
 But wending ever through the watered plain, 
 
 Firm not to rest save in the home of Cain, 
 
 He saw dread Change, with dubious face and cold, 
 
 That never kept a welcome for the old, 
 
 Like some strange heir upon the hearth, arise 
 
 Saying " This home is mine." He thought his eyes 
 
 Mocked all deep memories, as things new made. 
 
 Usurping sense, make old things shrink and fade 
 
 And seem ashamed to meet the staring day. 
 
 His memory saw a small foot-trodden way. 
 
 His eyes a broad far-stretching paven road 
 
 Bordered with many a tomb and fair abode ; 
 
 The little city that once nestled low 
 
 As buzzing groups about some central glow, 
 
 Spread like a murmuring crowd o'er plain and steep, 
 
 Or monster huge in heavy-breathing sleep. 
 
 His heart grew faint, and tremblingly he sank 
 
 Close, by the wayside on a weed-grown bank. 
 
 Not far from where a new-raised temple stood, 
 
 Sky-roofed, and fragrant with wrought cedar wood. 
 
 The morning sun was high'; his rays fell hot 
 
 On this hap-chosen, dusty, common spot, 
 
 On the dry-withered grass and withered man : 
 
 That wondrous frame where melody began 
 
 Lay as a tomb defaced that no eye cared to scan. 
 
 But while he sank far music reached his ear. 
 He listened until wonder silenced fear 
 And gladness wonder ; for the broadening stream 
 Of sound advancing was his early dream, 
 Brought like fulfilment of forgotten prayer ; 
 As if his soul, breathed out upon the air, 
 Had held the invisible seeds of harmony 
 Quick with the various strains of life to be. 
 He listened : the sweet mingled difference 
 With charm alternate took the meeting sense ; 
 Then bursting like some shield-broad lily red, 
 Sudden and near the trumpet's notes out-spread, 
 And soon his eyes could see the metal flower, 
 
2 1 THE LEGEND OF JUBAL, 
 
 Shining upturned, out on the morning pour 
 
 Its incense audible ; could see a train 
 
 From out the street slow-winding on the plain 
 
 With lyres and cymbals, flutes and psalteries, 
 
 While men, youths, maids, in concert sang to these 
 
 With various throat, or in succession poured, 
 
 Or in full volume mingled. But one word 
 
 Ruled each recurrent rise and answering Eall, 
 
 As when the multitudes adoring call 
 
 On some great name divine, their common soul. 
 
 The common need, love, joy, that knits them in one whole. 
 
 The word was "Jubal ! " . . . " Jubal" filled the air 
 
 And seemed to ride aloft, a spirit there, 
 
 Creator of the quire, the full-fraught strain 
 
 That grateful rolled itself to him again. 
 
 The aged man adust upon the bank — 
 
 Whom no eyes saw — at first with rapture drank 
 
 The bliss of music, then, with swelling heart, 
 
 Felt, this was his own being's greater part, 
 
 The universal joy once born in him. 
 
 But when the train, with living face and limb 
 
 And vocal breath, came nearer and more near, 
 
 The longing grew that they should hold him dear ; 
 
 Him, Lamech's son, whom all their fathers knew, 
 
 The breathing Jubal — him, to whom their love was due. 
 
 All was forgotten but the burning need 
 
 To claim his fuller self, to claim the deed 
 
 That lived away from him, and grew apart. 
 
 While he as from a tomb, with lonely heart, 
 
 Warmed by no meeting glance, no hand that pressed, 
 
 Lay chill amid the life his life had blessed. 
 
 What though his song should spread from man's small race 
 
 Out through the myriad worlds that people space, 
 
 And make the heavens one joy-diffusing quire ? — 
 
 Still 'mid that vast would throb the keen desire 
 
 Of this poor aged flesh, this eventide, 
 
 This twilight soon in darkness to subside, 
 
 This little pulse of self that, having glowed 
 
 Through thrice three centuries, and divinely strowed 
 
 The light of music through the vague of sound. 
 
 Ached with its sm.allness still in good that had no bound. 
 
THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 21 
 
 For no eye saw him, while with loving pride 
 Each voice with each in praise of Jubal vied. 
 Must he in conscious trance, dumb, helpless lie 
 While all that ardent kindred passed him by ? 
 His flesh cried out to live with living men 
 And join that soul which to the inward ken 
 Of all the hymning train was present there. 
 Strong passion's daring sees not aught to dare : 
 The frost-locked starkness of his frame low-bent, 
 His voice's penury of tones long spent, 
 He felt not ; all his being leaped in flame 
 To meet his kindred as they onward came 
 Slackening and wheeling toward the temple's face : 
 He rushed before them to the glittering space, 
 And, with a strength that was but strong desire, 
 Cried, "I am Jubal, I ! ... I made the lyre 1 " 
 
 The tones amid a lake of silence fell 
 
 Broken and strained, as if a feeble bell 
 
 Had tuneless pealed the triumph of a land 
 
 To listening crowds in expectation spanned. 
 
 Sudden came showers of laughter on that lake; 
 
 They spread along the train from front to wake 
 
 In one great storm of merriment, while he 
 
 Shrank doubting whether he could Jubal be, 
 
 And not a dream of Jubal, whose rich vein 
 
 Of passionate music came with that dream-pain 
 
 Wherein the sense slips off from each loved thing ' 
 
 And all appearance is mere vanishing. 
 
 But ere the laughter died from out the rear, 
 
 Anger in front saw profanation near ; 
 
 Tubal was but a name in each man's faith 
 
 For glorious power untouched by that slow death 
 
 Which creeps with creeping time ; this too, the spot, 
 
 And this the day, it must be crime to blot, 
 
 Even with scoffing at a madman's lie : 
 
 Jubal was not a name to wed with mockery. 
 
 Two rushed upon him : two, the most devout 
 
 In honor of great Jubal, thrust him out, 
 
 And beat him with their flutes. 'Twas little need ; 
 
 He strove not, but with tottering speed, 
 
 As if the scorn and howls were driving wind 
 
22 THE LEGEiXD OF [UBAL. 
 
 That urged his body, serving so the mind 
 
 Which could but shrink and yearn, he sought the screen 
 
 Of thorny thickets, and there fell unseen. 
 
 The immortal name of Jubal filled the sky, 
 
 While Jubal lonely laid him down to die. 
 
 He said within his soul, " This is the end : 
 
 O'er all the earth to where the heavens bend 
 
 And hem men's travel, I have breathed my soul : 
 
 I lie here now the remnant of that whole, 
 
 The embers of a life, a lonely pain ; 
 
 As far-off rivers to my thirst were vain, 
 
 So of my mighty years naught comes to me again, 
 
 " Is the day sinking ? Softest coolness springs 
 From something round me : dewy shadowy wings 
 Enclose me all around — no, not above — 
 Is moonlight there ? I see a face of love, 
 Fair as sweet music when my heart was strong : 
 Yea — art thou come again to me, great Song ? " 
 
 The face bent over him like silver night 
 
 In long-remembered snmmers ; that calm light 
 
 Of day which shine in firmaments of thought, 
 
 That past unchangeable, from change still wrought. 
 
 And gentlest tones were with the vision blent; 
 
 He knew not if that gaze the music sent 
 
 Or music that calm gaze : to hear, to see. 
 
 Was but one undivided ecstasy : 
 
 The raptured senses melted into one, 
 
 And parting life a moment's freedom won 
 
 From in and outer, as a little child 
 
 Sits on a bank and sees blue heavens mild 
 
 Down in the water, and forgets its lambs, 
 
 And knoweth naught save the blue heaven that swims. 
 
 " Jubal," the face said, " I am thy loved Past, 
 The soul that makes thee one from first to last. 
 I am the angel of thy life and death, 
 Thy outbreathed being drawing its last breath. 
 Am I not thine alone, a dear dead bride 
 Who blest thy lot above all men's beside ? 
 Thy bride whom thou wouldst never change, nor take 
 Any bride living, for that dead one's sake? 
 Was I not all thy yearning and delight, 
 
THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 23 
 
 Thy chosen search, thy senses' beauteous Right, 
 
 Which still had been the hunger of thy frame 
 
 In central heaven, hadst thou been still the same ? 
 
 Wouldst thou have asked aught else from any god — 
 
 Whether with gleaming feet on earth he trod 
 
 Or thundered through the skies — aught else for share 
 
 Of mortal good than in thy soul to bear 
 
 The growth of song, and feel the sweet unrest 
 
 Of the world's spring-tide in thy conscious breast? 
 
 No, thou hadst grasped thy lot with all its pain, 
 
 Nor loosed it any painless lot to gain 
 
 Where music's voice was silent ; for thy fate 
 
 Was human music's self incorporate : 
 
 Thy senses' keenness and thy passionate strife 
 
 Where flesh of her flesh and her womb of life. 
 
 And greatly hast thou lived, for not alone 
 
 With hidden raptures were her secrets shown, 
 
 Buried within thee, as the purple light 
 
 Of gems may sleep in solitary night ; 
 
 But thy expanding joy was still to give, 
 
 And with the generous air in song to live^ 
 
 Feeding the wave of ever-widening bliss 
 
 Here fellowship means equal perfectness. 
 
 And on the mountains in thy wandering 
 
 Thy feet were beautiful as blossomed spring, 
 
 That turns the leafless wood to love's glad home, 
 
 For with thy coming Melody was come. 
 
 This was thy lot, to feel, create, bestow 
 
 And that immeasurable life to know 
 
 From which the fleshly self falls shrivelled, dead, 
 
 And seed primeval that has forests bred. 
 
 It is the glory of the heritage 
 
 Thy life has left, that makes thy outcast age : 
 
 Thy limbs shall lie dark, tombless on this sod, 
 
 Because thou shinest in man's soul, a god, 
 
 Who found and gave new passion and new joy 
 
 That naught but Earth's destruction can destroy. 
 
 Thy gifts to give was thine of men alone : 
 
 Twas but in giving that thou couldst atone 
 
 For too much wealth amid their poverty."— 
 
 The words seemed melting into symphony, 
 The wings upbore him, and the gazing song 
 Was floating him the heavenly space abng, 
 
24 THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 
 
 Where mighty harmonies all gently fell 
 Through veiling vastness, like the far-off bell, 
 Till, ever onward through the choral blue, 
 He heard more faintly and more faintly knew, 
 Quitting mortality, a quenched sun-wave, 
 The All-creating Presence for his grave. 
 1869. 
 
AGATHA 
 
 Come with me to the mountain, not where rotks 
 
 Soar harsh above the troops of hurrying pines, 
 
 But where the earth spreads soft and rounded breasts 
 
 To feed her cliildren ; where the generous hills 
 
 Like a green isle betwixt the sky and plain 
 
 To keep some Old World things aloof from change. 
 
 Here too 'tis hill and hollow : new-born streams 
 
 With sweet enforcement, joyously compelled 
 
 Like laughing children, hurry down the steeps, 
 
 And make a dimpled chase athwart the stones ; 
 
 Pine woods are black upon the heights, the slopes 
 
 ?Vre green with pasture, and the bearded corn 
 
 Fringes the blue above the sudden ridge : 
 
 A little world whose round horizon cuts 
 
 This isle of hills with heaven for a sea. 
 
 Save in clear moments when southwestward gleams 
 
 France by the Rhine, melting anon to haze. 
 
 The monks of old chose here their still retreat 
 
 And called it by the Blessed Virgin's name, 
 
 Sancta Maria, which the peasant's tongue, 
 
 Speaking from out the parent's heart that turns 
 
 All loved thingo Into little things, has made 
 
 Sanct Margen Holy little Mary, dear 
 
 As all the sweet home things she smiles upon, 
 
 The children and the cows, the apple-trees. 
 
 The cart, the plough, all named with that caress 
 
 Which feigns them little, easy to be held, 
 
 Familiar to the eyes and hand and heart. 
 
 What though a Queen ? She puts her crov/n away 
 
 And with her little Boy wears common clothes, 
 
 Caring for common wants, remembering 
 
 That day when good Saint Joseph left hia work 
 
 To marry her with humble trust sublime. 
 
25 AGATHA. 
 
 The monks are gone, their shadows tall no more 
 
 Tall-frocked and cowled athwart the evening fields 
 
 At milking-time ; their silent corridors 
 
 Are turned to homes of bare-armed aproned men, 
 
 Who toil for wife and children. But the bells, 
 
 Pealing on high from two quaint convent towers, 
 
 Still ring the Catholic signals, summoning 
 
 To grave remembrance of the larger life 
 
 That bears our own, like perishable fruit 
 
 Upon its heaven-wide branches. At their sound 
 
 The shepherd boy far-off upon the hill. 
 
 The workers with the saw and at the forge, 
 
 The triple generation round the hearth, — 
 
 Grandames and mothers and the flute-voiced girls,— 
 
 Fall on their knees and send forth prayerful cries 
 
 To the kind Mother with the little Boy, 
 
 Who pleads for helpless men against the storm. 
 
 Lightning and plagues and all terrific shapes 
 
 Of power supreme. 
 
 Within the prettiest hollow of these hills, 
 
 Just as you enter it, upon the slope 
 
 Stands a low cottage neighbored cheerily 
 
 By running water, which, at farthest end 
 
 Of the same hollow, turns a heavy mill, 
 
 And feeds the j^isture for the miller's cows, 
 
 Blanchi and Nageli, Veilchen and the rest, 
 
 Matrons with faces as Griselda mild, 
 
 Coming at call. And on the farthest height 
 
 A little tower looks out above the pines 
 
 Where mounting you will find a sanctuary 
 
 Open and still ; without, the silent crowd 
 
 Of heaven-planted, incense-mingling flowers; 
 
 Within, the altar where the mother sits 
 
 'Mid votive tablets hung from far-off years 
 
 By peasants succored in the peril of fire, 
 
 Fever, or flood, who thought that Mary's love, 
 
 Willing but not omnipotent, had stood 
 
 Between their lives and that dread power which slew 
 
 Their neighbor at their side. The chapel bell 
 
 Will melt to gentlest music ere it reach 
 
 That cottage on the slope, whose garden gate 
 
 Has caught the rose-tree boughs and stands ajar; 
 
 So does the door, to let the sunbeams in ; 
 
 For in the slanting sunbeams angels come 
 
AGATHA. 
 
 And visit Agatha who dwells within, — 
 Old Agatha, whose cousins Kate and Nell 
 Are housed by her in Love and Duty's name, 
 They being feeble, with small withered wits, 
 And she believing that the higher gift 
 Was given to be shared. So Agatha 
 Shares her one room all neat, on afternoons, 
 As if some memory were sacred there 
 And everything within the four low v/alls 
 An honored relic. 
 
 One long summer's day 
 An angel entered at the rose-hung gate. 
 With skirts pale blue, a brow to quench the pearl, 
 Hair soft and blonde as infants', plenteous 
 As hers who made the wavy lengths once speak 
 The grateful worship of a rescued soul. 
 The angel paused before the open door 
 To give good day. " Come in," said Agatha. 
 I followed close, and watched and listened there. 
 The angel was a lady, noble, young, 
 Taught in all seemhness that fits a court, 
 All lore that shapes the mind to delicate use, 
 Yet quiet, lowly, as a meek white dove 
 That with its presence teaches gentleness. 
 Men called her Countess Linda ; little girls 
 In Freiburg town, orphans whom she caressed 
 Said Mamma Linda : yet her years were few, 
 Her outward beauties all in budding time, 
 Her virtues the aroma of the plant 
 That dwells in all its being, root, stem, leaf, 
 And waits not ripeness. 
 
 *' Sit," said Agatha. 
 Her cousins were at work in neighboring homes 
 But yet she was not lonely ; all things round 
 Seemed filled with noiseless yet responsive life, 
 As of a child at breast that gently clings : 
 Not sunlight only or the breathing flowers 
 Or the swift shadows of the birds and bees. 
 But all the household goods, which, polished fair 
 By hands that cherished them for service done. 
 Shone as with glad content. The wooden beams 
 Dark and yet friendly, easy to be reached, 
 Bore three white crosses for a speaking sign ; 
 The walls had little pictures hung a-row, 
 
 27 
 
28 ^^>'/ THA, 
 
 Telling the stones of Saint Ursula, 
 
 And Saint Elizabeth, the lowly queen ; 
 
 And on the bench that served for table too, 
 
 Skirting the wall to save the narrow space, 
 
 There lay the Catholic books, inherited 
 
 From those old times when printing still was young 
 
 With stout-limbed promise, like a sturdy boy. 
 
 And in the farthest corner stood the bed 
 
 Where o'er the pillow hung two pictures wreathed 
 
 With freshed-plucked ivy : one the Virgin's death, 
 
 And one her flowering tomb, while high above 
 
 She smiling bends and lets her girdle down 
 
 For ladder to the soul that cannot trust 
 
 In life which outlasts burial. Agatha 
 
 Sat at her knitting, aged, upright, slim, 
 
 And spoke her welcome wath mild dignity. 
 
 She kept the company of kings and queens 
 
 And mitred saints who sat below the feet 
 
 Of Francis with the ragged frock and wounds ; 
 
 And Rank for her meant Duty, various, 
 
 Yet equal in its worth, done worthily. 
 
 Command was service ; humblest service done 
 
 By willing and discerning souls was glory. 
 
 Fair Countess Linda sat upon the bench. 
 Close fronting the old knitter, and they talked 
 With sw^eet antiphony of young and old. 
 
 Agatha. 
 
 You like our valley, lady ? I am glad 
 
 You thought it well to come again. But rest — 
 
 The walk is long from Master Michael's inn. 
 
 Countess Linda. 
 Yes, but no walk is prettier. 
 
 Agatha. 
 
 It is true : 
 There lacks no blessing here, the waters all 
 Have virtues like the garments of the Lord, 
 And heal much sickness \ then, the crops and cows 
 Flourish past speaking, and the garden flowers, 
 Pink, blue, and purple, 'tis a joy to see 
 
AGATHA. 29 
 
 How they yield honey for the singing bees. 
 I would the whole world were as good a home. 
 
 Countess Linda. 
 
 And you are well off, Agatha ? — your friends 
 Left you a certain bread : is it not so ? 
 
 Agatha. 
 
 Not so at all, dear lady. I had nought, 
 
 Was a poor orphan ; but I came to tend 
 
 Here in this house, an old afflicted pair. 
 
 Who wore out slowly ; and the last who died, 
 
 Full thirty years ago, left me this roof 
 
 And all the household stuff. It was great wealth ; 
 
 And so I had a home for Kate and Nell. 
 
 Countess Linda. 
 
 But how, then, have you earned your daily bread 
 These thirty years ? 
 
 Agatha. 
 
 O, that is easy earning. 
 We help the neighbors, and our bit and sup 
 Is never failing ; they have work for us 
 In house and field, all sorts of odds and ends 
 Patching and mending, turning o'er the hay, 
 Holding sick children, — there is always work ; 
 And they are very good, — the neighbors are : 
 Weigh not our bits of work with weight and scale, 
 But glad themselves with giving us good shares 
 Of meat and drink ; and in the big farm-house 
 When cloth comes home from weaving, the good wife 
 Cuts me a piece, — this very gown, — and says : 
 " Here, Agatha, you old maid, you have time 
 To pray for Hans who is gone soldiering : 
 The saints might help him, and they have much to do, 
 Twere well they were besought to think of him." 
 She spoke half jesting, but I pray, I pray 
 For poor young Hans. I take it much to heart 
 That other people are worse off than I, — 
 I ease my soul with praying for them all. 
 
30 
 
 AGATIiA. 
 
 Countess Linda. 
 
 That is your way of singing, Agatha ; 
 
 Just as the nightingales pour forth sad songs, 
 
 And when they reach men's ears they make men's hearts 
 
 Feel the more kindly. 
 
 Agatha. 
 
 Nay, I cannot sing: 
 My voice is hoarse, and oft I think my prayers 
 Are foolish, feeble things ; for Christ is good 
 Whether I pray or not, — the Virgin's heart 
 Is kinder far than mine ; and then I stop 
 And feel I can do nought towards helping men, 
 Till out it comes, like tears that will not hold, 
 And I must pray again for all the world. 
 'Tis good to me, — 1 mean the neighbors are : 
 To Kate and Nell too. I have money saved 
 To go on pilgrimage the second time. 
 
 Countess Linda. 
 And do you mean to go on pilgrimage 
 With all your years to carry, Agatha ? 
 
 Agatha. 
 The years are light, dear lady : 'tis my sins 
 Are heavier than I would. And I shall go 
 All the way to Einsiedeln with that load : 
 I need to work it off. 
 
 Countess Linda. 
 
 What sort of sins, 
 Dear Agatha ? I think they must be small. 
 
 Agatha, 
 Nay, but they may be greater than I know ; 
 ''Tis but dim light I see by. So I try 
 All ways I know of to be cleansed and pure. 
 I would not sink where evil spirits are. 
 There's perfect goodness somewhere : so I strive 
 
 Countess Linda. 
 You were the better for that pilgrimage 
 You made before ? The shrine is beautiful ; 
 And then you saw fresh country all the way. 
 
AGATHA. ^I 
 
 Agatha. 
 
 Yes, that is true. And ever since that time 
 The world seems greater, and the Holy Church 
 More wonderful. The blessed pictures all, 
 The heavenly images v/ith books and wings. 
 Are company to me through the day and night. 
 The time ! the time ! It never seemed far back, 
 Only to father's father and his kin 
 That lived before him. But the time stretched out 
 After that pilgrimage : I seemed to see 
 Far back, and yet I knew time lay behind, 
 As there are countries lying still behind 
 The highest mountains, there in Switzerland. 
 O, it is great to go on pilgrimage ! 
 
 Countess Linda. 
 Perhaps some neighbors Vvill be pilgrims too, 
 And you can start together in a band. 
 
 Agatha. 
 Not from these hills : people are Dusy here, 
 The beasts want tendance. One who is not missed 
 Can go and pray for others who must work. 
 I owe it to all neighbors, young and old ; 
 For they are good past thinking, — lads and girls 
 Given to mischief, merry naughtiness. 
 Quiet it, as the hedgehogs smooth their spines, 
 For fear of hurting poor old Agatha. 
 'Tis pretty : why, the cherubs in the sky 
 Look young and merry, and the angels play 
 On citherns, lutes, and all sweet instruments. 
 I would have young things merry. See the Lord 
 A little baby playing with the birds ; 
 And how the Blessed Mother smiles at him. 
 
 Countess Linda. 
 I think you are too happy, Agatha, 
 
 care for heaven. Earth contents you well. 
 
 Agatha. 
 Nay, nay, I shall be called, and I shall go 
 Right willingly. I shall get helpless, blind, 
 Be like an old stalk to be plucked away : 
 The garden must be cleared for young spring plants. 
 
32 
 
 AGATHA. 
 
 'Tis hom^ beyond the grave, the most are there, 
 All those we pray to, all the Church's lights,— 
 And poor old souls are welcome in their rags : 
 One sees it by the pictures. Good Saint Ann, 
 The Virgin's mother, she is very old, 
 And had her troubles with her husband too. 
 Poor Kate and Nell are younger far than I, 
 But they will have this roof to cover them. 
 I shall go willingly ; and willingness 
 Makes the yoke easy and the burden light. 
 
 Countess Linda. 
 When you ga southward in your pilgrimage, 
 Come to see m-e in Freiburg, Agatha. 
 Where you have friends you should not go to inns. 
 
 Agatha. 
 Yes, I will gladly come to see you, lady. 
 And you will give me sweet hay for a bed. 
 And in the morning I shall wake betimes 
 And start when all tlie birds begin to sing. 
 
 Countess Linda. 
 You wear your smart clothes on the pilgrimage, 
 Such pretty clothes as all the women here 
 Keep by them for their best : a velvet cap 
 And collar golden-broidered ? They look well 
 On old and young alike. 
 
 Agatha. 
 
 Nay, I have none, — 
 Never had better clothes than these you see. 
 Good clothes are pretty, but one sees them best 
 When others wear them, and I somehow thought 
 'Twas not worth while. I had so many things 
 More than some neighbors, I was partly shy 
 Of wearing better clothes than they, and now 
 I am so old and custom is so strong 
 'Twould hurt me sore to put on finery. 
 
 Countess Linda. 
 Your gray hair is a crown, dear Agatha. 
 Shake hands ; good bye. The sun is going down, 
 And I must see the glory from the hill. 
 
AGATHA. 
 
 I stayed among those hills j and oft heard more 
 
 Of Agatha. I liked to hear her name, 
 
 As that of one half grandame and half saint, 
 
 Uttered with reverent playfulness. The lads 
 
 And younger men all called her mother, aunt, 
 
 Or granny, with their pet diminutives, 
 
 And bade their lasses and their brides behave 
 
 Right well to one who surely made a link 
 
 'Twixt faulty folk and God by loving both ; 
 
 Not one but counted service done by her, 
 
 Asking no pay save just her daily bread. 
 
 At feasts and weddings, when they passed in groups 
 
 Along the vale, and the good country wine. 
 
 Being vocal in them, made them quire along 
 
 In quaintly mingled mirth and piety. 
 
 They fain must jest and play some friendly trick 
 
 On three old maids ; but when the moment came 
 
 Always they bated breath and made their sport 
 
 Gentle as feather-stroke, that Agatha 
 
 Might like the waking for the love it showed. 
 
 Their song made happy music 'mid the hills, 
 
 For nature tuned their race to harmony, 
 
 And poet Hans, the tailor, wrote them songs 
 
 That grew from out their life, as crocuses 
 
 From out the meadow's moistness. 'Twas his song 
 
 They oft sang, wending homeward from a feast, — 
 
 The song I give you. It brings in, you see. 
 
 Their gentle jesting with the three old maids. 
 
 Midnight by the chapel bell ! 
 
 Homeward, homeward all, farewell ! 
 
 I with you, and you with me. 
 
 Miles are short with company. 
 
 Heart of Mary\ bless the way^ ' 
 Keep us all by night and day / 
 
 Moon and stars at feast with night 
 
 Now have drunk their fill of light. 
 
 Home they hurry, making time 
 
 Trot apace, like merry rhyme. 
 
 Heart of Mary, mystic rose. 
 Send us all a sweet repose f 
 
 Swiftly through the wood down hill, 
 Kun till you can hear the mill. 
 
 33 
 
34 
 
 ACATJIA. 
 
 Toin's ghost is wandering now, 
 Shaped just hke a snow-white cow. 
 Heart of Mary, morning siar^ 
 Ward off danger^ near or far ! 
 
 Toin's wagon with its load 
 Fell and crushed him in the road 
 *Twixt these pine-trees. Never fear ! 
 Give a neighbor's ghost good cheer. 
 
 Holy Babe, our God and Brother^ 
 Bind ns fast to one another ! 
 
 Hark ! the mill is at its work, 
 
 Now we pass beyond the murk 
 
 To the hollow, where the moon 
 
 Makes her silvery afternoon. 
 
 Good Saint Joseph:, faithful spouse^ 
 Help us all to keep our vows / 
 
 Here the three old maidens dwell, 
 
 Agatha and Kate and Nell ; 
 
 See, the moon shines on the thatch, 
 
 We will go and shake the latch. 
 Heart of Mary, cup of joy, 
 Give us mirth without alloy ! 
 
 Hush, 'tis here, no noise, sing low, 
 
 Rap with gentle knuckles — so ! 
 
 Like the little tapping birds. 
 
 On the door ; then sing good words. 
 Meek Saint Ajina^ old and fair, 
 Hallow all the snow-zuhite hair f 
 
 Little maidens old, sweet dreams I 
 
 Sleep one sleep till morning beams. 
 
 Mothers ye, who help us all, 
 
 Quick at hand, if ill befall. 
 
 Hold Gabriel lily-laden, 
 Bless the aged mother-maiden I 
 
 Forward, mount the broad hillside 
 Swift as soldiers when they ride. 
 See the two towers how they peep. 
 Round-capped giants, o'er the steep. 
 Heai't of Mary, by thy sorrow, 
 Keep us upright through the morrow / 
 
AG A 'J HA. 
 
 Now they rise quite suddenly 
 Like a man from bended knee, 
 Now Saint Margen is in sight, 
 Here the roads branch off — good-night 
 If ear t of Mar v, by thy grace, 
 Gilt us -with the :amts a placet 
 r86. 
 
 35 
 
ARMGART. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Salon lit with lamps and ornai7iented with green plants. 
 An open piano ^ with many scattered sheets of music. Bronze 
 busts of Beethoven and Gluck on pillars opposite each other, 
 A small table spread with supper. To Fraulein VVa^- 
 PURGA, who advances with a slight lametiess of gait fn^m 
 an adjoining room, enters Graf Dornberg at the oppos*ie 
 door in a travelliftg dress, 
 
 Graf. 
 Good-morning, Fraulein ! 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 What, so soon returned ? 
 I feared your mission kept you still at Prague. 
 
 Graf. 
 
 But now arrived ! You see my travelling dress. 
 I hurried from the panting, roaring stream 
 Like any courier of embassy 
 Who hides the fiends of war within his bag. 
 
 Walpurga. 
 You know that Armgart sings to-night ? 
 
 Graf. 
 
 Has sung ! 
 'Tis close on half-past nine. The Orpheus 
 Lasts not so long. Her spirits— were they high ? 
 Was Leo confident t 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 He only feared 
 Some tameness at beginning. Let the house 
 Once ring, he said, with plaudits, she is safe. 
 
And Armgart ? 
 
 ARMCART, 37 
 
 Graf. 
 Walpurga. 
 
 She was stiller than her wont. 
 But once, at some such trivial word of mine, 
 As that the highest prize might yet be won 
 By her who took the second — she was roused, 
 " For me," she said, " I triumph or I fail. 
 I never strove for any second prize." 
 
 Graf. 
 
 Poor human-hearted singing-bird ! She bears 
 
 Caesar's ambition in'her delicate breast, 
 
 And nought to still it with but quivering song ! 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 I had not for the world been there to-night: 
 Unreasonable dread oft chills me more 
 Than any reasonable hope can warm. 
 
 Graf. 
 
 You have a rare affection for your cousin ; 
 As tender as a sister's. 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 Nay, I fear 
 My love is little more than what I felt • 
 
 For happy stories when I was a child. 
 She fills my life that would be empty else, 
 And lifts my nought to value by her side. 
 
 Graf. 
 
 She is reason good enough, or seems to be, 
 Why all were born whose being ministers 
 To her completeness. Is it most her voice 
 Subdues us ? or her instinct exquisite. 
 Informing each old strain with some new grace 
 Which takes our sense like any natural good ? 
 Or most her spiritual energy 
 That sweeps us in the current of her song? 
 
33 AEMGART. 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 I know not. Losing either, we should lose 
 That whole we call our Armgart. For herself, 
 She often wonders what her life had been 
 Without that voice for channel to her soul. 
 She says, it must have leaped through all her limbs- 
 Made her a MjEnad — made her snatch a brand 
 And fire some forest, that her rage might mount 
 In crashing roaring flames through half a land, 
 Leaving her still and patient for a while. 
 " Poor wretch ! " she says, of any murderess — 
 " The world was cruel, and she could not sing : 
 I carry my revenges in my throat ; 
 I love in singing, and am loved again." 
 
 Graf. 
 
 Mere mood ! I cannot yet believe it more. 
 Too much ambition has unwomaned her; 
 But only for a while. Her nature hides 
 One half its treasures by its very wealth, 
 Taxing the hours to show it. 
 
 Walpuega. 
 
 Hark ! she comes. 
 
 Enter Leo with a wreath in his hand^ holding the door open for 
 Armgart, zvho wears a furred niantte and hood. She is 
 followed by her maid, carrying an armfnl of bouquets. 
 
 Leo. 
 Place for the queen of song ! 
 
 Graf {advancing towards Armgart, ivho throws off her hood 
 and mantle, and shows a star of brilliants in her hair?) 
 
 A triumph, then. 
 You will not be a niggard of your joy 
 And chide the eagerness that came to share it. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 kind ! 3'ou hastened your return for me. 
 
 1 would you had been there to hear me sing ! 
 Walpurga, kiss me : never tremble more 
 
 Lest Armgart's wing should fail her. She has found 
 
ARMGART. 3q 
 
 This night the region where her rapture breatlies — 
 Pouring her passion on the air made live 
 With human heart-throbs. Tell them, Leo, tell them 
 How I outsang your hope and made you cry 
 Because Gluck could not hear me. That was folly I 
 He sang, not listened : every linked note 
 Was his immortal pulse that stirred in mine, 
 And all my gladness is but part of him. 
 Give me the wreath. 
 
 \_SIie crow7is the bust of Glo^^, 
 
 Leo (sardofiically). 
 
 Ay, ay, but m*trk you this . 
 It was not part of him — that trill you made 
 In spite of me and reason ! 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 You were wrong—. 
 Dear Leo, you were wrong : the hous^j was held 
 As if a storm were listening with delii^ht 
 And hushed its thunder. 
 
 Leo. 
 
 Will you ask the house 
 To teach you singing ? Quit your \jfpheus then, 
 And sing in farces grown to operas. 
 Where all the prurience of the fuh-ied mob 
 Is tickled v/ith melodic impuden^^e : 
 Jerk forth burlesque bravuras, square your arms 
 Akimbo with a tavern wench's grace, 
 And set the splendid compass oi your voice 
 To lyric jigs. Go to ! I thougtit you meant 
 To be an artist — lift your audience 
 To see your vision, not trick forth a show 
 To please the grossest taste of grossest numbers. 
 
 Armgart {taking up Leo's hand^ and kissing it). 
 
 Pardon, good Leo, I am penitent. 
 
 Will do penance : sing a hundred trills 
 
 Into a deep-dug grave, then burying them 
 
 As one did Midas, secret, rid myself 
 
 Of naughty exultation. O I trilled 
 
 At nature's prompting, like the nightingales. 
 
 To scold them, dearest Leo. 
 
+0 
 
 ARMGART, 
 
 Leo. 
 
 I stop my ears. 
 Nature in Gluck inspiring Orpheus, 
 Has done with nightingales. Are bird-beaks lips ? 
 
 Graf. 
 
 Truce to rebukes ! Tell us — who were not there — 
 The double drama : how the expectant house 
 Took the first notes- 
 
 Walpurga {turning from her occupation of decking the 
 
 room with the flowers). 
 
 Yes, tell us all, dear Armgart. 
 Did you feel tremors ? Leo, how did she look ? 
 Was there a cheer to greet her ? 
 
 Leo. 
 
 Not a sound. 
 She walked like Orpheus in his solitude, 
 And seemed to see naught but what no man saw. 
 'Twas famous. Not the Schroeder-Devrient 
 Had done it better. But your blessed public 
 Had never any judgment in cold blood — 
 Thinks all perhaps were better otherwise, 
 Till rapture brings a reason. 
 
 Armgart {scornfully). 
 
 I knew that ! 
 The women whispered, " Not a pretty face ! " 
 The men, " Well, well, a goodly length of limb 
 She bears the chiton."— It were all the same 
 Were I the Virgin Mother and my stage 
 The opening heavens at the Judgment-day :^ 
 Gossips would peep, jog elbows, rate the price 
 Of such a woman in the social mart. 
 What were the drama of the world to them, 
 Unless they felt the hell-prong ? 
 
 Leo. 
 
 Peace, now, peace I 
 I hate my phrases to be smothered o'er 
 With sauce of paraphrase, my sober tune 
 
ARMGART. 4t 
 
 Made bass to rambling trebles, showering down 
 An endless demi-semi-quavers. 
 
 Armgart {taking a bo7t-bon fro7Ji the table, uplifting it beforl 
 putting it ifito her mouth, and turning away). 
 
 Mum ! 
 
 Graf. 
 Yes, tell us all the glory, leave the blame. 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 You first, dear Leo — what you saw and heard ; 
 Then Armgart — she must tell us what she felt. 
 
 Leo. 
 
 Well ! The first notes came clearly firmly forth. 
 
 And I was easy, for behind those rills 
 
 I knew there was a fountain. I could see 
 
 The house was breathing gently, heads were still ; 
 
 Parrot opinion was struck meekly mute, 
 
 And human hearts were swelling. Armgart stood 
 
 As if she had been new-created there 
 
 And found her voice which found a melody. 
 
 The minx ! Gluck had not written, nor I taught : 
 
 Orpheus was Armgart, Armgart Orpheus. 
 
 Well, well, all through the scena I could feel 
 
 The silence tremble now, now poise itself 
 
 With added weight of feeling, till at last 
 
 Delight o'er-toppled it. The final note 
 
 Had happy drowning in the unloosed roar 
 
 That surged and ebbed and ever surged again, 
 
 Till expectation kept it pent awhile 
 
 Ere Orpheus returned. Pfui ! He was changed : 
 
 My demi-god was pale, had downcast eyes 
 
 That quivered like a bride's who fain would send 
 
 Backward the risina: tear. 
 
 't> 
 
 Armgart {advancing, but then turning away, as if to check het 
 speech), 
 
 I was a bride, 
 A.3 nans are at their spousals. 
 
42 
 
 AKMGART. 
 
 Leo. 
 
 Ay, niy lady, 
 That moment will not come again : applause 
 May come and plenty ; but the first, first draught ! 
 
 {Sfiaps his jifigers). 
 Music has sounds for it — I know no words. 
 I felt it once myself when they performed 
 My overture to Sintram. Well ! 'tis strange, 
 We know not pain from pleasure in such joy. 
 
 Armgart {tiirniiig quickly). 
 
 Oh, pleasure has cramped dwelling in our souls, 
 And when full Being comes must call on pain 
 To lend it liberal space. 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 I hope the house 
 Kept a reserve of plaudits : I am jealous 
 Lest they had dulled themselves for coming good 
 That should have seemed the better and the best. 
 
 Leo. 
 
 No, 'twas a revel v/here they had but quaffed 
 Their opening cup. I think the artist's star. 
 His audience keeps not sober : once afire, 
 They flame towards climax, though his merit hold 
 But fairly even. 
 
 Armgart {Jier Jia7id o?i Leo's arni). 
 
 Now, now, confess the truth : 
 I sang still better to the very end — 
 All save the trill ; I give that up to you, 
 To bite and growl at. Wh}^ you said yourself, 
 Each time I sang, it seemed new doors were oped 
 That you might hear heaven clearer. 
 
 Leo (shaki?i'g his finger). 
 
 I was raving. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 I am not glad with that mean vanity 
 Which knows no good beyond its appetite 
 
ARMGAKT. 4^ 
 
 Full feasting upon praise ! I am only glad, 
 
 Being jDraised for what I know is worth the praise j 
 
 Glad of the proof that I myself have part 
 
 In what I worship ! At the last applause — 
 
 Seeming a roar of tropic winds that tossed 
 
 The handkerchiefs and many-colored flowers, 
 
 Falling like shattered rainbows all around — 
 
 Think you I felt myself ts. prima donna 'i 
 
 No, but a happy spiritual star 
 
 Such as old Dante saw, wrought in a rose 
 
 Of light in Paradise, whose only self 
 
 Was consciousness of glory wide-diffused, 
 
 Music, life, power — I moving in the midst 
 
 With a sublime necessity of good. 
 
 Leo {until a shrug), 
 
 I thought it was -^ prima donna came 
 Within the side-scenes ; ay, and she was proud 
 To find the bouquet from the royal box 
 Enclosed a jewel-case, and proud to wear 
 A star of brilliants, quite an earthly star,' 
 Valued by thalers. Come, my lady, own 
 Ambition has five senses, and a self 
 That gives it good warm lodging when it sinks 
 Plump down from ecstasy. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Own it ? why not? 
 Am I a sage whose words must fall like seed 
 Silently buried toward a far-off spring? 
 I sing to living men and my effect 
 Is like the summer's sun, that ripens corn 
 Or now or never. If the world brings me gifts, 
 Gold, incense, myrrh — 'twill be the needful sign 
 That I have stirred it as the high year stirs 
 Before I sink to winter. 
 
 Graf. 
 
 Ecstasies 
 Are short — most happily ! We should but lose 
 Were Armgart borne too commonly and long 
 Out of the self that charms us. Could I choose, 
 
44 
 
 ARAIGART. 
 
 She were less apt to soar beyond the reach 
 Of woman's foibles, innocent vanities, 
 Fondness for trifles like that pretty star 
 Twinkling beside her cloud of ebon hair. 
 
 Armgart (taking out the gem ajid looking at if). 
 
 This little star ! I would it were the seed 
 
 Of a whole Milky Way, if such bright shimmer 
 
 Were the sole speech men told their rapture with 
 
 At Armgart's music. Shall I turn aside 
 
 From splendors which flash out the glow I make, 
 
 And live to make, in all the chosen breasts 
 
 Of half a Continent? No, may it come, 
 
 That splendor ! May the day be near when men 
 
 Think much to let my horses draw me home. 
 
 And new lands welcome me upon their beach, 
 
 Loving me for my fame. That is the truth 
 
 Of what I wish, nay yearn for. Shall I lie ? 
 
 Pretend to seek obscurity — to sing 
 
 In hope of disregard ? A vile pretence ! 
 
 And blasphemy besides. For what is fame 
 
 But the benignant strength of One, transformed 
 
 To joy of Many ? Tributes, plaudits come 
 
 As necessary breathing of such joy ; 
 
 And may they come to me ! 
 
 Graf. 
 
 The auguries 
 Point clearly that way. Is it no offence 
 To wish the eagle's wing may find repose, 
 As feebler wings do, in a quiet nest ? 
 Or has the taste of fame already turned 
 The Woman to a Aluse . . , 
 
 Leo {going to the table). 
 
 Who needs no supper.? 
 I am her priest, ready to eat her share 
 Of good Walpurga's offerings. 
 
 Graf, will you come ? 
 
 Walpurga. ^ 
 
 Armgart, coma 
 
ARMGART, ^^ 
 
 Graf. 
 
 Thanks, I play truant here, 
 And must retrieve my self-induged delay. 
 But will the Muse receive a votary 
 At any hour to-morrow ? 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Any hour 
 After rehearsal, after twelve at noon. 
 
46 AKMGART, 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The same Salon, monwig, Armgart seated in her bontiet and 
 walking dress. The Graf standing near her against the 
 piano. 
 
 Graf. 
 
 Armgart, to many minds the first success 
 
 Is reason for desisting. I liave known 
 
 A man so versatile, he tried all arts, 
 
 But when in each by turns lie had achieved 
 
 Just so much mastery as made men sa\% 
 
 " He could be kind here if he would," he threw 
 
 The lauded skill aside. He hates, said one, 
 
 The level of achieved pre-eminence, 
 
 He must be conquering still ; but others said • 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 The truth, I hope : he had a meagre soul, 
 
 Holding no depth where love could root itself. 
 
 *' Could if he would t " True greatness ever wills — 
 
 It lives in wholeness if it live at all. 
 
 And all its strength is knit with constancy. 
 
 Graf. 
 
 He used to say himself he was too sane 
 
 To give his life away for excellence 
 
 Which yet must stand, an ivory statuette 
 
 Wrought to perfection through long lonely years, 
 
 Huddled in the mart of mediocrities. 
 
 He said, the very finest doing wins 
 
 The admiring only ; but to leave undone, 
 
 Promise and not fulfil, like buried youth, 
 
 Wins all the envious, makes them sigh your name 
 
 As that fair Absent, blameless Possible, 
 
 Which could alone impassion them ; and thus, 
 
 Serene negation has free gift of all, 
 
ARMGART, 47 
 
 Panting achievement struggles, is denied, 
 Or wins to lose again. What say you, Armgart? 
 Truth has rough flavors if we bite it through ; 
 1 tliink this sarcasm came from out its core 
 Of bitter irony. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 It is the truth 
 Mean souls select to feed upon. What then ? 
 Their meanness is a truth, which I will spurn. 
 The praise I seek lives not in envious breath 
 Using my name to blight another's deed. 
 I sing for love of song and that renown 
 Which is the spreading act, the world-wide share, 
 Of good that I was born with. Had I failed — 
 Well, that had been a truth most pitiable 
 I cannct bear to think what life would be 
 With high hope shrunk to endurance, stunted aims 
 Like broken lances ground to eating-knives, 
 A self sunk down to look with level eyes 
 At low achievement, doomed from day to day 
 To distaste of its consciousness. But I 
 
 Graf. 
 
 Have won, not lost, in your decisive throw. 
 
 And I too glory in this issue ; yet, 
 
 The public verdict has no potency 
 
 To sway my judgment of what Armgart is : 
 
 My pure delight in her would be but sullied, 
 
 If it o'erflowed with mixture of men's praise. 
 
 And had she failed, I should have said, " The pearl 
 
 Remains a pearl for me, reflects the light 
 
 With the same fitness that first charmed my gaze — 
 
 Is worth as fine a setting now as then." 
 
 Armgart {rising). 
 
 Oh, you are good ! But why will you rehearse 
 The talk of cynics, who with insect eyes 
 Explore the secrets of the rubbish-heap ? 
 I hate your epigrams and pointed saws 
 Whose narrow truth is but broad falsit3^ 
 Confess your friend was shallow. 
 
48 ARMGART, 
 
 Graf. 
 
 I confess 
 Life IS not rounded in an epigram, 
 And saying aught, we leave a world unsaid. 
 I quoted, merely to shape forth my thought 
 That high success has terrors when achieved— 
 Like preternatural spouses whose dire love 
 Hangs perilous on slight observances : 
 Whence it were possible that Armgart crowned 
 Might turn and listen to a pleading voice, 
 Though Armgart striving in the race was deaf. 
 You said you dared not think that life had been 
 Without the stamp of eminence ; have you thought 
 How you will bear the poise of eminence 
 With dread of sliding ? Paint the future out 
 As an unchecked and glorious career, 
 'Twill grow more strenuous by the very love 
 You bear to excellence, the very fate 
 Of human powers, with tread at every step 
 On possible verges. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 I accept the peril. 
 I choose to walk high with sublimer dread 
 Rather then crawl in safety. And, besides, 
 I am an artist as you are a noble : 
 I ought to bear the burthen of my rank. 
 
 Graf. 
 
 Such parallels, dear Armgart, are but snares 
 
 To catch the mind with seeming argument — 
 
 Small baits oi; likeness 'mid disparity. 
 
 Men rise the higher as their task is high, 
 
 The task being well achieved. A woman's rank 
 
 Lies in the fulness of her womanhood : 
 
 Therein alone she is royal. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Yes, I know 
 The oft-taught Gospel : " Woman, thy desire 
 Shall be that all superlatives on earth 
 Belong to men, save the one highest kind— 
 To be a mother. Thou shall not desire 
 
ARMGART, 
 
 To do aught best save pure subservience : 
 Nature has willed it so !" O blessed Nature ! 
 Let her be arbitress ; she gave me voice 
 Such as she only gives a woman child, 
 Best of its kind, gave me ambition too, 
 That sense transcendent which can taste the joy 
 Of swaying multitudes, of being adored 
 For such achievement, needed excellence. 
 As man's best art must wait for, or be dumb. 
 Men did not sav, when I had sung: last night, 
 '' Twas good, nay^ wonderful, considering 
 She is a woman " — and then turn to add, 
 " Tenor or baritone had sung her songs 
 Better, of course : she's but a woman spoiled." 
 I beg your pardon, Graf, you said it. 
 
 Graf. 
 
 No! 
 How should I say it, Armgart ? I who own 
 The magic of your nature-given art 
 As sweetest effluence of your w^omanhood 
 Which, being to my choice the best, must find 
 The best of utterance. But this I say : 
 Your fervid youth beguiles you ; you mistake 
 A strain of lyric passion for a life 
 Which in the spending is a chronicle 
 With ugly pages. Trust me, Armgart, trust me ; 
 Ambition exquisite as yours which soars 
 Toward something quintessential you call fame, 
 Is not robust enough for this gross world 
 Whose fame is dense with false and foolish breath- 
 Ardor, a-twin with nice refining thought, 
 Prepares a double pain. Pain had been saved, 
 Nay, purer glory reached, had you been throned 
 As woman only, holding all your art 
 As attribute to that dear sovereignty — 
 Concentering your power in home delights 
 Which penetrate and purify the world. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 What ! leave the opera with my part ill-sung 
 While I was warbling in a drawing-room ? 
 Sing in the chimney-corner to inspire 
 My husband reading news ? Let the world hear 
 
 49 
 
so 
 
 ARMGART, 
 
 My music only in his morning speech 
 Less stammering than most honorable men's ? 
 No ! tell me that my song is poor, my art 
 The piteous feat of weakness aping strength— 
 That were fit proem to your argument. 
 Till then, I am an artist by my birth — 
 By the same warrant that I am a woman : 
 Na}^, in the added rarer gift I see 
 Supreme vocation : if a conflict comes, 
 Perish — no, not the woman, but the joys 
 Which men makes narrow by their narrowness. 
 Oh, I am happy ! The great masters write 
 For women's voices, and great Music wants me,' 
 I need not crush myself within a mould 
 Of theory called Nature : I have room 
 To breathe and grow unstunted. 
 
 Graf. 
 
 Armgart, hear me. 
 I meant not that our talk should hurry on 
 To such collision. Foresight of the ills 
 Thick shadowing your path, drew on my speech 
 Beyond intention. True, I came to ask 
 A great renunciation, but not this 
 Towards which my words at first perversely strayed, 
 As if in memory of their earlier suit, 
 
 Forgetful 
 
 Armgart, do you remember too ? the suit 
 Had but postponement, was not quite disdained— 
 Was told to wait and learn — what it has learned— 
 A more submissive speech. 
 
 Armgart {with some agitatioii). 
 
 Then it forgot 
 Its lesson cruelly. As I remember, 
 *Twas not to speak save to the artist crowned, 
 Nor speak to her of casting off her crown. 
 
 Graf. 
 
 Nor will it, Armgart. I came not to seek 
 Any renunciation save the wife's. 
 Which turns away from other possible love 
 Future and worthier, to take his love 
 
ARMGART, 
 
 Who asks the name of husband. He who sought 
 Armgart obscure, and heard her answer, " Wait " — 
 May come without suspicion now to seek 
 Armgart applauded. 
 
 Armgart {turning iowat'ds him). 
 
 Yes, without suspicion 
 Of aught save what consists with faithfulness 
 In all expressed intent. Forgive me, Graf— 
 I am ungrateful to no soul that loves me — 
 To you most grateful. Yet the best intent 
 Grasps but a living present which may grow 
 Like any unfledged bird. You are a noble, 
 And have a high career ; just now you said 
 'Twas higher far than aught a woman seeks 
 Beyond mere womanhood. Yet claim to be 
 More than a husband but could not rejoice 
 That I were more than wife. What follows, then ? 
 You choosing me with such persistency 
 As is but stretched-out rashness, soon must find 
 Our marriage asks concessions, asks resolve 
 To share renunciation or demand it. 
 Either we both renounce a mutual ease, 
 As in a nation's need both man and wife 
 Do public services, or one of us 
 Must yield that something else for which each lives 
 Besides the other. Men are reasoners : 
 That premiss of superior claims perforce 
 Urges conclusion — " Armgart, it is you." 
 
 Graf. 
 
 But if I say I have considered this 
 
 With strict prevision, counted all the cost 
 
 Which that great good of loving you demands — 
 
 Questioned my stores of patience, half resolved 
 
 To live resigned without a bliss whose threat 
 
 Touched you as well as me — and finally, 
 
 With impetus of undivided will 
 
 Returned to say, " You shall be free as now 
 
 Only accept the refuge, shelter, guard, 
 
 My love will give you freedom " — then your vv-ords 
 
 Are hard accusal. 
 
5 2 ARMCART, 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Well, I accuse myself. 
 My love would be accomplice of your will 
 
 Again — my v/ill? 
 
 Graf. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Oh^ your unspoken will. 
 Your silent tolerance would torture me, 
 And on that rack I should deny the good 
 I yet believed in. 
 
 Graf. 
 
 Then I am the man 
 Whom you v^^ould love ? 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Whom I refuse to love ! 
 No ; I will live alone and pour my pain 
 With passion into music, where it turns 
 To what is best within my better self. 
 I v/ill not take for a husband one who deems 
 The thing my soul acknowledges as good — 
 The thing I hold worth striving, suffering for, 
 To be a thing dispensed with easily, 
 Or else the idol of a mind infirm, 
 
 Graf. 
 
 Armgart, you are ungenerous ; you strain 
 My thought beyond its mark. Our difference 
 Lies not so deep as love — as union 
 Through a mysterious fitness that transcends 
 Formal agreement. 
 
 Armgart, 
 
 It lies deep enough 
 To chafe the union. If many a man 
 Refrains, degraded, from the utmost right, 
 Because the pleadings of his wife's small fears 
 Are little serpents biting at his heel, — 
 How shall a woman keep her steadfastness 
 
ARMGART, 
 
 Beneath a frost within her husband's eyes 
 Where coldness scorches ? Graf, it is your sorrow 
 That you love Armgart. Nay, it is her sorrow 
 That she may not love you. 
 
 Graf. 
 
 Woman, it seems, 
 Has enviable power to love or not 
 According to her will — 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 She has the will — 
 I have — who am one woman — not to take 
 Disloyal pledges that divide her will — 
 The man who marries me must wed my Art — 
 Honor and cherish it, not tolerate. 
 
 Graf. 
 
 The man is yet to come whose theory 
 
 Will weigh as naught with you against his love. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Whose theory will plead beside his love. 
 
 Graf. 
 
 Himself a singer, then ? who knows no life 
 Out of the opera books, where tenor parts 
 Are found to suit him ? 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 You are bitter, Graf. 
 Forgive me ; seek the woman you deserve. 
 All grace, all goodness, who has not yet found 
 A meaning in her life, nor any end 
 Beyond fulfilling yours. The type abounds. 
 
 Graf. 
 And happily, for the world. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Yes, happily. 
 Let It excuse me that my kind is rare : 
 Commonness is its own security. 
 
 53 
 
54 
 
 ARMGART, 
 
 Graf. 
 
 Armgart, I would with all my soul I knew 
 The man so rare that he could make your life 
 As woman sweet to you, as artist safe. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Oh, I can live unmated, but not live 
 Without the bliss of singing to the world, 
 And feeling all my world respond to me. 
 
 Graf. 
 May it be lasting. Then, we two must part ? 
 
 Armgart. 
 I thank you from my heart for all. Farewell I 
 
ARMGART. ^^ 
 
 SCENE III. 
 A Year Later. 
 The same Salon, Walpurga is standing looking towards tht 
 window with afi air of uneasiness. 
 Doctor Grahn; 
 
 Doctor. 
 Were is my patient, Fraulein ? 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 Fled ! escaped \ 
 Gone rehearsal. Is it dangerous ? 
 
 Doctor.- 
 No, no ; her throat is cured. I only came 
 To hear her try her voice. Had she yet sung r 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 No ; she had meant to wait for you. She said, 
 *' The Doctor has a right to my first song." 
 Her gratitude was full of little plans, 
 But all were swept away like gathered flowers 
 By sudden storm. She saw this opera bill — 
 It was a wasp to sting her : she turned pale. 
 Snatched up her hat and mufflers, said in haste, 
 " I go to Leo — to rehearsal — none 
 Shall sing Fidelio to-night but me ! " 
 Then rushed down stairs. 
 
 Doctor {looking at his watch). 
 
 And this, not long ago ? 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 Barely an hour. 
 
 Doctor. 
 
 I will come again. 
 Returning from Charlottenburg at one. 
 
56 ARM G ART, 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 Doctor^ I feel a strange presentiment. 
 Are you quite easy ? 
 
 Doctor. 
 
 She can take no harm. 
 *Twas time for her to sing : her throat is well. 
 It was a fierce attack, and dangerous ; 
 I had to use strong remedies, but — well ! 
 At one, dear Fraulein, we shall meet again. 
 
ARMGART. 
 
 57 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Two Hours Later. 
 
 Walpurga starts tip^ looking towards the door. Armgart 
 enters, followed by Leo. She throws herself ofi a chair 
 which stands with its back towards the door, speechless, 
 not seeming to see anything. Walpurga casts a questioning 
 terrified look at Leo. He shrugs his shoulders, and lifts 
 up his hands behind Armgart, who sits like a helpless 
 image, while Walpurga takes Ojf her hat and mantle, 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 Armgart, dear Amgart (kneeling and taking her hands\ 
 
 only speak to me, 
 Your poor Walpurga. Ohj^your hands are cold. 
 Clasp mine, and warm them ! I will kiss them warm. 
 
 (Armgart looks at her an instant, then draws away her hands, 
 and, turning aside, buries her face against the back of the 
 chair, Walpurga rising and standing fiear.) 
 
 (Doctor Grahn enters^ 
 Doctor. 
 News ! stirring news to-day ! wonders come thick 
 
 Armgart [starting up at the first sound of his voice, and speaking 
 vehemently). 
 
 Yes, thick, thick thick ! and you have murdered it ! 
 
 Murdered my voice — poisoned the soul in me, 
 
 And kept me living. 
 
 You never told me that your cruel cures 
 
 Were clogging films — a mouldy, dead'ning blight— 
 
 A lava-mud to crust and bury me, 
 
 Yet hold me living in a deep, deep tomb, 
 
 Crying unheard forever ! Oh, your cures 
 
 Are devil's triumphs : you can rob, maim, slay, 
 
 And keep a hell on the other side your cure 
 
58 ARMGART, 
 
 Where you can see your victim quivering 
 Between the teeth of torture — see a soul 
 Made keen by loss — all anguish with a good 
 Once known and gone ! {^2\i7'iis and sinks back on her 
 chair ^ 
 
 O misery, misery !" 
 You might have killed me, might have let me sleep 
 After my happy day and wake — not here ! 
 In some new unremembered world, — not here, 
 Where all is faded, flat — a feast broke off — 
 Banners all meaningless — exulting words 
 Dull, dull — a drum that lingers in the air 
 Beating to melody which no man hears. 
 
 Doctor {after a moment's silence). 
 
 A sudden check has shaken you, poor child ! 
 All things seem livid, tottering to your sense, 
 From inward tumult. Stricken by a threat 
 You see your terrors only. Tell me, Leo : 
 'Tis not such utter loss. 
 
 (Leo, tvith a shrug, goes quietly out.) 
 
 The freshest bloom 
 Merely, has left the fruit ; the fruit itself . . • 
 
 Armgart. 
 Is ruined, withered, is a thing to hide 
 Away from scorn or pity. Oh, you stand 
 And look compassionate now, but when Death came 
 With mercy in his hands, you hindered him. 
 I did not choose to live and have your pity. 
 You never told me, never gave me choice 
 So die a singer, lightning-struck, unmaimed, 
 Or live what you would make me with your cures— 
 A self accursed with consciousness of change, 
 A mind that lives in nought but members lopped, 
 A power turned to pain — as meaningless 
 As letters fallen asunder that once made 
 A hymn of rapture. Oh, I had meaning once, 
 Like day and sweetest air. What am I now ? 
 The millionth woman in superfluous herds. 
 Why should I be, do, think ? 'Tis thistle-seed, 
 That grows and grows to feed the rubbish-heap. 
 Leave me alone I 
 
ARMGAR7\ ^^ 
 
 Doctor. 
 
 Well, I will come again ; 
 Send for me when you will, though but to rate me. 
 That is medicinal — a letting blood. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Oh, there is one physician, only one. 
 
 Who cures and never spoils. Him 1 shall send for ; 
 
 He comes readily. 
 
 Doctor {to Walpurga). 
 
 One word, dear Fraulein. 
 
5o AHMCART. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 Armgart, Walpurga, 
 
 ARxMGART. 
 
 Walpurga, have you walked this morning ? 
 Walpurga. 
 
 No. 
 
 ArMGaRT. 
 
 Go, then, and walk ; I wish to be alone. 
 
 Walpurga, 
 
 I will not leave you. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Will not, at my wish ? 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 Will not, because you w^ish it. Say no more, 
 But take this draught. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 The Doctor gave it you ? 
 It is an anodyne. Put it away. 
 He cured me of my voice, and now he wants 
 To cure me of my vision and resolve — 
 Drug me to sleep that I may wake again 
 Without a purpose, abject as the rest 
 To bear the yoke of life. He shall not cheat me 
 Of that fresh strength which anguish gives the soul, 
 The inspiration of revolt, ere rage 
 Slackens to faltering. Now I see the truth. 
 
 Walpurga {setting down the glass). 
 
 Then you must see a future in your reach, 
 With happiness enough to make a dower 
 For two of modest claims. 
 
ARMGAKT, (^^ 
 
 Armgart 
 
 Oh, you intone 
 That chant of consolation wherewith ease 
 Makes itself easier in the sight of pain. 
 
 V/alpurga. 
 
 No j I would not console you, but rebuke. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 That is more bearable. Forgive me, dear. 
 Say what you will. But now I want to write. 
 
 {She rises aiid moves towards a table), 
 
 Walpurga. 
 I say then, you are simply fevered, mad , 
 You cry aloud at horrors that would vanish 
 If you would change the light, throw into shade 
 The loss you aggrandize, and let day fall 
 On good remaining, nay on good refused 
 Which many be gain now. Did you not reject 
 A woman's lot more brilliant, as some held, 
 Than any singer's ? It may still be yours. 
 Graf Dornberg loved you well. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Not me, not me. 
 He loved one well who was like me in all 
 Save in a voice which made that All unlike 
 As diamond is to charcoal. Oh, a man's love ! 
 Think you he loves a woman's inner self 
 Aching with loss of loveliness ? — as mothers 
 Cleave to the palpitating pain that dwells 
 Within their misformed offspring t 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 But the Graf 
 Chose you as simple Armgart — had preferred 
 That you should never seek for any fame 
 But such as matrons have who rear great sons. 
 And therefore you rejected him ; but now — 
 
 Armgart. 
 Ay, now — now he would see me as I am, 
 
 {She takes icp a hand-viirror^ 
 
52 ARMGART. 
 
 Russet and songless as a missel-thrush. 
 
 An ordinary girl — a plain brown girl, 
 
 Who, if some meaning flash from out her words, 
 
 Shocks as a disproportioned thing — a Will 
 
 That, like an arm astretch and broken off, 
 
 Has nought to hurl — the torso of a soul. 
 
 I sang him into love of me : my song 
 
 Was consecration, lifted me apart 
 
 From the crowd chiselled like me, sister forms, 
 
 But empty of divineness. Nay, my charm 
 
 Was half that I could win fame yet renounce ! 
 
 A wife v/ th glory possible absorbed 
 
 Into her husband's actual. 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 For shame ! 
 Armgart, you slander him. What would you say 
 If now he came to you and asked again 
 That you would be his wife ? 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 No, and thrice no I 
 It would be pitying constancy, not love. 
 That brought him to me now. I will not be 
 A pensioner in marriage. Sacraments 
 Are not to feed the paupers of the world. 
 If he were generous — I am generous too. 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 Proud, Armgart, but not generous. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Say no more. 
 He will not know until — • 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 He knows already. 
 Armgart {quickly). 
 Is he come back ? 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 Yes, and will soon be here. 
 The Doctor had twice seen him and would ^o 
 From hence again to see him. 
 
It is all one. 
 
 ARMGART. 53 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Well, he knows. 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 What if he were outside ? 
 I hear a footstep in the ante-room. 
 
 Armgart {j-aising herself and assuming calmness). 
 
 Why let him come, of course. I shall behave 
 Like what I am ,a common personage 
 Who looks for nothing but civility. 
 I shall not play the fallen heroine, 
 Assume a tragic part and throw out cues 
 For a beseeching lover. 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 Some one raps. 
 
 {Goes to the door?) 
 A letter — from the Graf. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Then open it. 
 (Walpurga siill offers it.) 
 Nay, my head swims. Read it. I cannot see. 
 (Walpurga opens it. reads and pauses^ 
 Read it. Have done ! No matter what it is. 
 (Walpurga reads in a low, hesitating voice.) 
 " I am deeply moved — my heart is rent, to hear of your 
 illness and its cruel result, just now communicated to me by 
 Dr. Grahn. But surely it is possible that this result may not 
 be permaner-t. For youth such as yours, Time may hold in 
 store something more than resignation : who shall say that it 
 does not hold renewal ? I have not dared to ask admission 
 to you in the hours of a recent shock, but I cannot depart on 
 a long mission without tendering my sympathy and my fare- 
 well. I start this evening for the Caucasus, and thence I pro- 
 ceed to India, where I am intrusted by the Government with 
 business which may be of long duration." 
 
 (Walpurga sits down dejectedly^ 
 
64 ARM G ART. 
 
 Armgart {after a slight shudder^ bitterly). 
 
 The Graf has much discretion. I am glad. 
 
 He spares us both a pain, not seeing me. 
 
 What I like least is that consoling hope — 
 
 That empty cup, so neatly ciphered " Time," 
 
 Handed me as a cordial for despair. 
 
 {Slowly and dreamily) Time — what a word to fling as 
 
 charity ! 
 Bland neutral word for slow, dull-beating pain — 
 Days, months, and years ! — If I would wait for them. 
 {She takes up her hat and puts it on, then wraps her 
 
 mantle round her. Walpurga leaves the room.) 
 Why, this is but beginning. Walp. re-e?iters.) Kiss me, 
 
 dear. 
 I am going now — alone — out — for a walk. 
 Say you will never wound me any more 
 With such cajolery as nurses use 
 To patients amorous of a crippled life. 
 Flatter the blind : I see. 
 
 Wai.purga. 
 
 Well, I was wrong. 
 In haste to soothe, I snatched at flickers merely. 
 Believe mc, I will flatter you no more. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Bear v/itncss, I am calm. I read my lot 
 
 As soberly as if it were a tale 
 
 Writ by a creeping feuilletonist and called 
 
 " The Woman's Lot : a Tale of Everyday : " 
 
 A middling w^oman's, to impress the world 
 
 With high superfluousness ; her thoughts a crop 
 
 Of chick-weed errors or of pot-herb facts, 
 
 Smiled at like some child's drawing on a slate. 
 
 " Genteel ? " "O yes, gives lessons ; not so good 
 
 As any man's w^ould be, but cheaper far." 
 
 " Pretty .? " "No : yet she makes a figure fit 
 
 For good society. Poor thing, she sews 
 
 Both late and earl}^, turns and alters all 
 
 To suit the changing mode. Some widower 
 
 Might do well, marrying her ; but in these days ! . , • 
 
ARMGART, 
 
 Well, she can somewhat eke her narrow gains 
 
 By writing, just to furnish her with gloves 
 
 And droschkies in the rain. They print her things 
 
 Often for charity." — Oh, a dog's life ! 
 
 A harnessed dog's, that draws a little cart 
 
 Voted a nuisance ! I am going now. 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 Not now, the door is locked. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Give me the key ! 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 Locked on the outside. Gretchen has the key : 
 She is gone on errands. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 What, you dare to keep me 
 
 6s 
 
 Your prisoner ? 
 
 W^alpurga. 
 
 And have I not been yours ? 
 Your wish has been a bolt to keep me in. 
 Perhaps that middling woman whom you paint 
 With far-off scorn 
 
 ARxMGART. 
 
 I paint what I must be 
 What is my soul to me without the voice 
 That gave it freedom ? — gave it one grand touch 
 And made it nobly h •"»ian ? — Prisoned now, 
 Prisoned in all the petty mimicries 
 Called woman's knowledge, that will fit the world 
 As doll-clothes fit a man. I can do naught 
 Better than what a million women do — 
 Must drudge among the crowd and f.::! my life 
 Beating upon the world without response, 
 Beating with passion through an insect's horn 
 That moves a millet-seed laboriously. 
 If I would do it ! 
 
 Walpurga {coldly). 
 
 And why should you not ? 
 
66 ARMGART. 
 
 Armgart {turning quickly). 
 
 Because Heaven made me royal — wrought me out 
 
 With subtle finish towards pre-eminence, 
 
 Made every channel of my soul converge 
 
 To one high function, and then flung me down, 
 
 That breaking I might turn to subtlest pain. 
 
 An inborn passion gives a rebel's right : 
 
 I would rebel and die in twenty worlds 
 
 Sooner than bear the yoke of thwarted life, 
 
 Each keenest sense turned into keen distaste, 
 
 Hunger not satisfied but kept alive 
 
 Breathing in languor half a century. 
 
 All the world now is but a rack of threads 
 
 To twist and dwarf me into pettiness 
 
 And basely feigned content, the placid mask 
 
 Of women's misery. 
 
 Walpurga {indignantly). 
 
 Ay, such a mask 
 As the few born like you to easy joy, 
 Cradled in privilege, take for natural 
 On all the lowly faces that must look 
 Upward to you ! What revelation now 
 Shows you the mask or gives presentiment 
 Of sadness hidden ? You who every day 
 These five years saw me limp to wait on you, 
 And thought the order perfect which gave me^ 
 The girl without pretension to be aught, 
 A splendid cousin for my happiness : 
 To watch the night through when her brain was fired 
 With too much gladness — listen, always listen 
 To what she felt, who having power had right 
 To feel exorbitantly, and submerge 
 The souls around her with the poured-out flood 
 Of what must be ere she were satisfied ! 
 That was feigned patience, was it ? Why not love, 
 Love nurtured even with that strength of self 
 Which found no room save in another's life ? 
 Oh, such as I know joy by negatives, 
 And all their deepest passion is a pang 
 Till they accept their pauper's heritage. 
 And meekly liv^e from out the general store 
 Of joy they were born stripped of. I accept^— 
 
ARMGART. ^J 
 
 Nay, now would sooner choose it than the wealth 
 Of natures you call royal, who can live 
 In mere mock knowledge of their fellows' woe, 
 Thinking their smiles may heal it. 
 
 Armgart {treimdously). 
 
 Nay, Walpurga, 
 I did not make a palace of my joy 
 To shut the world's truth from me. All my good 
 Was that I touched the world and made a part 
 In the world's dower of beauty, strength, and bliss \ 
 It was the glimpse of consciousness divine 
 Which pours out day and sees the day is good. 
 Now I am fallen dark ; I sit in gloom, 
 Remembering bitterly. Yet you speak truth ; 
 I wearied you, it seems ; took all your help 
 As cushioned nobles use a weary serf, 
 Not looking at his face. 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 Oh, I but stand 
 As a small symbol for the mighty sum 
 Of claims unpaid to needy myriads ; 
 I think you never set your loss beside 
 That mighty deficit. Is your work gone — 
 The prouder queenly work that paid itself 
 And yet was overpaid with men's applause ? 
 Are you no longer chartered, privileged. 
 But sunk to simple woman's penury, 
 To ruthless Nature's chary average — 
 Where is the rebel's right for you alone ? 
 Noble rebellion lifts a common load : 
 But what is he who flings his own load off 
 And leaves his fellows toiling ? 
 Say rather, the deserter's. Oh, you smiled 
 From your clear height on all the million lots 
 Which yet you brand as abject. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 I was blind 
 With too much happiness : true vision comes 
 Only, it seems, with sorrow. Were there one 
 This moment near me, suffering what I feel, 
 And needing me for comfort in her pang — 
 Then it were worth the while to live ; not else. 
 
68 ARM G ART. 
 
 Walpurga. 
 One — near you — why, they throng ! you hardly stir 
 But your act touches them. We touch afar. 
 For did not swarthy slaves of yesterday 
 Leap in their bondage at the Hebrews' flight, 
 Which touched them through the thrice millennial dark \ 
 But you can find the sufferer you need 
 With touch less subtle. 
 
 • Armgart. 
 
 Who has need of me ? 
 Walpurga. 
 Love finds the need it fills. But you are hard, 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Is it not you, Walpurga, who are hard ? 
 You humored all my wishes till to-day, 
 When fate has blighted me. 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 You would not hear 
 The " chant of consolation : " words of hope 
 Only embittered you. Then hear the truth — 
 A lame girl's truth, whom no one ever praised 
 For being cheeful. " It is well," they said : 
 " Where she cross-grained she could not be endured." 
 A word of truth from her had startled you ; 
 But you — you claimed the universe ; naught less 
 Than all existence working in sure tracks 
 Towards your supremacy. The wheels might scathe 
 A myriad destinies — nay, must perforce ; 
 But yours they must keep clear of ; just for you 
 The seething atoms through the firmament 
 Must bear a human heart — which you had not \ 
 For what is it to you that women, men, 
 Plod, faint, are weary, and espouse despair 
 Of aught but fellowship ? Save that you spurn 
 To be among them ? Now, then, you are lame — 
 Maimed, as }0U said, and levelled with the crowd: 
 Call it new birth — birth from that monstrous Self 
 Which, smiling dov/n upon a race oppressed. 
 Says, " All is good, for I am throned at ease." 
 Dear Armjjart — nav, you tremble — I am cruel. 
 
ARMGART. 6^ 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 no I hark ! Some one knocks. Come in ! — come in .' 
 
 (Enter Leo.) 
 Leo. 
 See, Gretchen let me in. I could not rest 
 Longer away from you. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Sit down, dear Leo. 
 Walpurga, I would speak with him alone. 
 
 (Walpurga goes out^ 
 
 (Leo hesitatingly). 
 You mean to walk ? 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 No, I shall stay within. 
 {She takes off her hat and mantle^ and sits down immediately. 
 
 After apaiise^ speaking in a subdued tone to Leo.) 
 How old are you ? 
 
 Leo. 
 Threescore and five. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 That's old. 
 
 1 never thought till now how you have lived. 
 They hardly ever play your music ? 
 
 Leo {raising his eyebrows and tJwowing out his lip.) 
 
 No! 
 Schubert too wrote for silence : half his work 
 Lay like a frozen Rhine till summers came 
 That warmed the grass above him. Even so I 
 His music lives now with a mighty youth. 
 
 Armgart. 
 Do you think yours will live when you are dead ? 
 
 Leo. 
 Pfui ! The time was, I drank that home-brewed wine 
 A-nd found it heady, while my blood was young : 
 Now it scarce warms me. Tipple it as I may, 
 I am sober still, and say : " My old friend Leo, 
 Much grain is wasted in the world and rots ; 
 Why not thy handful ? " 
 
70 
 
 ARMGART, 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Strange ! since I have known you 
 Till now I never knew how you lived. 
 When I sang well — that was your jubilee. 
 But you were old already. 
 
 Leo. 
 
 Yes, child, yes : 
 
 Youth thinks itself the goal of each old life ; 
 Age has but travelled from a far-off time 
 Just to be ready for youth's service. Well I 
 It was my chief delight to perfect you. 
 
 Armgart. 
 Good Leo ! You have lived on little joys. 
 But your delight in me is crushed for ever. 
 Your pains, where are they now ? They shaped intent 
 Which action frustrates ; shaped an inward sense 
 Which is but keen despair, the agony 
 Of highest vision in the lowest pit. 
 
 Leo. 
 Nay, nay, I have a thought : keep to the stage, 
 To drama without song ; for you can act — 
 Who knows how well, when all the soul is poured 
 Into that sluice alone ? 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 I know, and you : 
 The second or third best in tragedies 
 That cease to touch the fibre of the time. 
 No ; song is gone, but nature's other gift, 
 Self-judgment, is not gone. Song was my speech, 
 And with its impulse only, action came : 
 Song was the battle's onset, when cool purpose 
 Glows into rage, becomes a warring god 
 And moves the limbs with miracle. But now — 
 Oh, I should stand hemmed in with thoughts and rules- 
 Say " Thij way passion acts," yet never feel 
 The might of passion. How should I declaim ? 
 As monsters write with feet instead of hands. 
 I will not feed on doing great tasks ill, 
 Dull the world's sense with mediocrity. 
 And live by trash that smothers excellence. 
 
ARMGART. *, 
 
 One gift I had that ranked me with the best — 
 The secret of my frame — and that is gone. 
 For all life now I am a broken thing. 
 But silence there ! Good Leo, advise me now. 
 I would take humble work and do it well — 
 Teach music, singing — what I can — not here, 
 But in some smaller town where I may bring 
 The method you have taught me, pass your gift 
 To others who can use it for delight. 
 You think I can do that ? 
 
 {She pauses with a sob in her voice^ 
 
 Leo. 
 
 Yes, yes, dear child ! 
 And it were well, perhaps, to change the place- 
 Begin afresh as I did when I left 
 Vienna with a heart half broken. 
 
 Armgart {roused by surprise). 
 
 You? 
 Leo. 
 Well, it is long ago. But I had lost — 
 No matter ! We must bury our dead joys 
 And live above them with a living world. 
 But whither, think you, you would like to go ? 
 
 Armgart. 
 To Freiburg. 
 
 Leo. 
 In the Breisgau ? And why there ? 
 It IS too small. 
 
 Armgart. 
 Walpurga was born there, 
 And loves the place. She quitted it for me 
 These five years past. Now I will take her there. 
 Dear Leo, I will bury my dead joy. 
 
 Leo. 
 Mothers do so, bereaved ; then learn to love 
 Another's living child. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Oh, it is hard 
 To take the little corpse, and lay it low, 
 
72 
 
 ARMGART. 
 
 And sa}', " None misses it but me." 
 She sings . . . 
 
 I mean Paulina sings Fidelio, 
 And they will welcome her to-night» 
 
 Leo. 
 
 Well, well, 
 *Tis better that our griefs should not spread far. 
 1870. 
 
HO W LISA L VED THE KING. 73 
 
 HOW LISA LOVED THE KING. 
 
 Six hundred years ago, in Dante's time, 
 
 Before his cheek was furrowed by deep rhyme — 
 
 When Europe, fed afresh from Eastern story, 
 
 Was Hke a garden tangled with the glory 
 
 Of flowers hand-planted and of flowers air-sown, 
 
 Climbing and trailing, budding and full-blown. 
 
 Where purple bells are tossed amid pink stars, 
 
 And springing blades, green troops in innocent wars, 
 
 Crowd every shady spot of teeming earth, 
 
 Making invisible motion visible birth — 
 
 Six hundred years ago, Palermo town 
 
 Kept holiday. A deed of great renown, 
 
 A high revenge, had freed it from the yoke 
 
 Of hated Frenchmen, and from Calpe's rock 
 
 To where the Bosporus caught the earlier sun, 
 
 'Twas told that Pedro, King of Aragon, 
 
 Was welcomed master of all Sicily, 
 
 A royal knight, supreme as kings should be 
 
 In strength and gentleness that make high chivalry. 
 
 Spain was the favorite home of knightly grace. 
 
 Where generous men rode steeds of generous race ; 
 
 Both Spanish, yet half Arab, both inspired » 
 
 By mutual spirit, that each motion fired 
 
 With beauteous response, like minstrelsy 
 
 Afresh fulfilling fresh expectancy. 
 
 So when Palermo made high festival, 
 
 The joy of matrons and of maiden's all 
 
 Was the mock terror of the tournament. 
 
 Where safety, with the glimpse of danger blent, 
 
 Took exaltation as from epic song. 
 
 Which greatly tells the pains that to great life belong. 
 
 And in all eyes King Pedro was the king 
 
 Of cavaliers : as in a full-gemmed ring 
 
^4 HOW LISA LOVED THE KING. 
 
 The largest ruby, or as that bright star 
 
 Whose shining shows us where the Hyads are. 
 
 His the best jennet, and he sat it best ; 
 
 His weapon, whether tilting or in rest, 
 
 Was worthiest watching, and his face once seen 
 
 Gave to the promise of his royal mein 
 
 Such rich fulfilment as the opened eyes 
 
 Of a loved sleeper, or the long-watched rise 
 
 Of vernal day, whose joy o'er stream and meadow flies. 
 
 But of the maiden forms that thick enwreathed 
 
 The broad piazza and sweet witchery breathed, 
 
 With innocent faces budding all arow 
 
 From balconies and windows high and low, 
 
 Who was it felt the deep mysterious glow, 
 
 The impregnation with supernal fire 
 
 Of young ideal love — transformed desire, 
 
 Whose passion is but worship of that Best 
 
 Taught by the many-mingled creed of each young breast ? 
 
 'Twas gentle Lisa, of no noble line, 
 
 Child of Bernardo, a rich Florentine, 
 
 Who from his merchant-city hither came 
 
 To trade in drugs ; yet kept an honest fame, 
 
 And had the virtue not to try and sell 
 
 Drugs that had none. He loved his riches well, 
 
 But loved them chiefly for his Lisa's sake. 
 
 Whom with a father's care he sought to make 
 
 The bride of some true honorable man : — 
 
 Of Perdicone (so the rumor ran), 
 
 Whose birth was higher than his fortunes were j 
 
 For still your trader likes a mixture fair 
 
 Of blood that hurries to some higher strain 
 
 Than reckoning money's loss and money's gain. 
 
 And of such mixture good may surely come : 
 
 Lords' scions so may learn to cast a sum, 
 
 A trader's grandson bear a well-set head, 
 
 And have less conscious manners, better bred , 
 
 Nor, when he tries to be polite, to be rude instead. 
 
 'Twas Perdicone's friends made overtures 
 To good Bernardo ; so one dame assures 
 Her neighbor dame who notices the youth 
 Fixing his eyes on Lisa ; and in truth 
 Eyes that could see her on this summer day 
 Might find it hard to turn another way. 
 
HO IV LISA LOVED THE KIXG, yn 
 
 She had a pensive beauty, yet not sad ; 
 
 Rather, like minor cadences that glad 
 
 The hearts of little birds amid spring boughs \ 
 
 And oft the trumpet or the joust would rouse 
 
 Pulses that gave her cheek a finer glow, 
 
 Parting her lips that seemed a mimic bow 
 
 By chiselling Love for play in coral wrought, 
 
 Then quickened by him with the passionate thought, 
 
 The soul that trembled in the lustrous night 
 
 Of slow long eyes. Her body was so slight, 
 
 It seemed she could have floated in the sky, 
 
 And with the angelic choir made symphony ; 
 
 But in her cheek's rich tinge, and in the dark 
 
 Of darkest hair and eyes, she bore a mark 
 
 Of kinship to her generous mother earth, 
 
 The fervid land that gives the plumy palm.-trees birth. 
 
 She saw not Perdicone ; her young mind 
 
 Dreamed not that any man had ever pined 
 
 For such a little simple maid as she : 
 
 She had but dreamed how heavenly it would be 
 
 To love some hero noble, beauteous, great, 
 
 Who would live stories worthy to narrate, 
 
 Like Roland, or the warriors of Troy, 
 
 The Cid, or Amadis, or that fair boy 
 
 Who conquered everything beneath the sun, 
 
 And somehow, some time, died at Babylon 
 
 Fighting the Moors. For heroes all were good 
 
 And fair as that archangel who withstood 
 
 The Evil One, the author of all wrong — 
 
 That Evil One v/ho made the French so strong ; 
 
 And now the flower of heroes must be he 
 
 VVho drove those tyrants from dear Sicily, 
 
 So that her maids might walk to vespers tranquilly. 
 
 Young Lisa saw this hero in the king, 
 And as wood-lilies that sweet odors bring 
 Might dream the light that opes the modest eyne 
 Was lily-odored, — and as rites divine. 
 Round turf-laid altars, or 'neath roofs of stone, 
 Draw sanctity from out the heart alone 
 That loves and worships, so the miniature 
 Perplexed of her soul's world, all virgin pure. 
 Filled with heroic virtues that bright form, 
 .laona's royalty, the finished norm 
 
7 5 HO IV LISA LOVED THE KING. 
 
 Of horsemanship — the half of chivalry : 
 For how could generous men avengers be, 
 Save as God's messengers on coursers fleet ? — 
 These, scouring earth, made Spain with Syria meet 
 In one self world where the same right had sway, 
 And good must grow as grew the blessed day. 
 No more ; great Love his essence had endued 
 With Pedro's form, and entering subdued 
 The soul of Lisa, fervid and intense. 
 Proud in its choice of proud obedience 
 To hardship glorified by perfect reverence. 
 
 Sweet Lisa homeward carried that dire guest, 
 And in her chamber through the hours of rest 
 The darkness was alight for her with sheen 
 Of arms, and plumed helm, and bright between 
 Their commoner gloss, like the pure living spring 
 'Twit porphyry lips, or living bird's bright wing 
 'Twixt golden wires, the glances of the king 
 Flashed on her soul, and waked vibrations there 
 Of known delights love-mixed to new and rare : 
 The impalpable dream was turned to breathing flesh, 
 Chill thought of summer to the warm close mesh 
 Of sunbeams held between the citron-leaves. 
 Clothing her life of life. Oh, she believes 
 That she could be content if he but knew 
 (Her poor small self could claim no other due) 
 How Lisa's lowly love had highest reach 
 Of winged passion, whereto winged speech 
 Would be scorched remnants left by mounting flame. 
 Though, had she such lame message, were it blame 
 To tell what greatness dwelt in her, what rank 
 She held in loving t Modest maidens shrank 
 From* telling love that fed on selfish hope ; 
 But love as hopeless as the shattering song 
 Wailed for love beings who have joined the throng 
 Of mighty dead ones. . . . Nay, but she was weak— 
 Knew only prayers and ballads — could not speak 
 With eloquence save what dumb creatures have. 
 That with small cries and touches small boons crave. 
 
 She watched all day that she might see him pass 
 With knights and ladies ; but she said, " Alas ! 
 Though he should see me, it were all as one 
 He saw a pigeon sitting on the stone 
 
HOW LISA LOVED THE KING, 
 
 Of wall or balcony : some colored spot 
 
 His eye just sees, his mind regardeth not. 
 
 I have no music-touch that could bring nigh 
 
 My love to his soul's hearing. I shall die, 
 
 And he will never know who Lisa was — 
 
 The trader's child, whose soaring spirit rose 
 
 As hedge-born aloe-flowers that rarest years disclose. 
 
 " For were I now a fair deep-breasted queen 
 
 A-horseback, with blonde hair, and tunic green 
 
 Gold-bordered like Costanza, I should need 
 
 No change within to make me queenly there ; 
 
 For they the royal-hearted women are 
 
 Who nobly love the noblest, yet have grace 
 
 For needy suffering lives in lowliest place, 
 
 Carrying a choicer sunlight in their smile, 
 
 The heavenliest ray that pitieth the vile. 
 
 My love is such, it cannot choose but soar 
 
 Up to the highest ; yet for evermore, 
 
 Though I were happy, throned beside the king, 
 
 I should be tender to each little thing 
 
 With hurt warm breast, that had no speech to tell 
 
 Its inward pang, and I would soothe it well 
 
 With tender touch and with a low soft moan 
 
 For company : my dumb love-pang is lone. 
 
 Prisoned as topaz-beam within a rough-garbed stone* 
 
 So, inward-wailing, Lisa passed her days. 
 
 Each night the August moon with changing phase 
 
 Looked broader, harder on her unchanged pain ; 
 
 Each noon the heat lay heavier again 
 
 On her despair j until her body frail 
 
 Shrank like the snow that watchers in the vale 
 
 See narrowed on the height each summer morn ; 
 
 Whi'e her dark glance burnt larger, more forlorn, 
 
 As if the soul within her all on fire 
 
 Made of her being one swift funeral pyre. 
 
 Father and mother saw with sad dismay 
 
 The meaning of their riches melt away : 
 
 For without Lisa what would sequins buy "i 
 
 What wish were left if Lisa were to die ? 
 
 Through her they cared for summers still to come, 
 
 Else they would be as ghosts without a home 
 
 In any flesh that could feel glad desire. 
 
 They pay the best physicians, never tire 
 
 77 
 
78 HOW LISA LOVED THE KING, 
 
 Of seeking what will soothe her, promising 
 That aught she longed for, though it were a thing 
 Hard to be come at as the Indian snow, 
 Or roses that on alpine summits blow — 
 It should be hers. She answers with low voice, 
 She longs for death alone — death is her choice ; 
 Death is the King who never did think scorn, 
 But rescues every meanest soul to sorrow born. 
 
 Yet one day, as they bent above her bed 
 And watched her in brief sleep, her drooping head 
 Turned gently, as the thirsty flowers that feel 
 Some moist revival through their petals steal, 
 And little flutterings of her lids and lips 
 Told of such dreamy joy as sometimes dips 
 A skyey shadow in the mind's poor pool. 
 She oped her eyes, and turned their dark gems full 
 Upon her father, as in utterance dumb 
 Of some new prayer that in her sleep had come. 
 " What is it, Lisa ? " " Father, I would see 
 Minuccio, the great singer ; bring him me." 
 For always, night and day, her unstilled thought, 
 Wandering all o'er its little world, had sought 
 How she could reach, by some soft pleading touch, 
 King Pedro's soul, that she who loved so much 
 Dying, might have a place within his mind — 
 A little grave which he would sometimes find 
 And plant some flower on it — some thought, some mem- 
 ory kind. 
 Till in her dream she saw Minuccio 
 Touching his viola, and chanting low 
 A strain that, falling on her brokenly, 
 Seemed blossoms lightly blown from off a tree, 
 Each burthened with a word that was a scent — 
 Raona, Lisa, love, death, tournament ; 
 Then in her dream she said, " He sings of me — 
 Might be my messenger ; ah, now I see 
 
 The king is listening " Then she awoke. 
 
 And, missing her dear dream, that new-born longing 
 spoke. 
 
 She longed for music : that was natural j 
 Physicians said it was medicinal ; 
 The humors might be schooled by true consent 
 Of a fine tenor and fine instrument ; 
 
HOW LISA LOVED THE KING, 79 
 
 In brief, good music, mixed with doctor's stuff 
 
 Apollo with Asklepios — enough ! 
 
 Minuccio, entreated, gladly came. 
 
 (He was a singer of most gentle fame — 
 
 A noble, kindly spirit, not elate 
 
 That he was famous, but that song was great — 
 
 Would sing as finely to this suffering child 
 
 As at the court where princes on him smiled.) 
 
 Gently he entered and sat down by her, 
 
 Asking what sort of strain she would prefer — 
 
 The voice alone, or voice with viol wed ; 
 
 Then, when she chose the last, he preluded 
 
 With magic hand, that summoned from the strings 
 
 Aerial spirits, rare yet vibrant wings 
 
 That fanned the pulses of his listener, 
 
 And waked each sleeping sense with blissful stir. 
 
 Her cheek already showed a slow faint blush, 
 
 But soon the voice, in pure full liquid rush, 
 
 Made all the passion, that till now she felt, 
 
 Seem but cool waters that in warmer melt. 
 
 Finished the song, she prayed to be alone 
 
 With kind Minuccio ; for her faith had grown 
 
 To trust him as if missioned like a priest 
 
 With some high grace, that when his singing ceased 
 
 Still made him wiser, more magnanimous 
 
 Than common men who had no genius. 
 
 So laying her small hand within his palm. 
 
 She told him how that secret glorious harm 
 
 Of loftiest loving had befallen her ; 
 
 That death, her only hope, most bitter were, 
 
 If when she died her love must perish too 
 
 As songs unsung and thoughts unspoken do, 
 
 Which else might live within another breast. 
 
 She said, " Minuccio, the grave were rest. 
 
 If I were sure, that lying cold and lone. 
 
 My love, my best of life, had safely flown 
 
 And nestled in the bosom of the king ; 
 
 See, 'tis a small weak bird, with unfledged wing. 
 
 But you will carry it for me secretly. 
 
 And bear it to the king, then come to me 
 
 And tell me it is safe, and I shall go 
 
 Content, knowing that he I love my love doth know. 
 
I/O IV LISA LOVED THE A'LVG. 
 
 Then she wept silently, but each large tear 
 
 Made pleading music to the inward ear 
 
 Of good Minuccio. " Lisa, trust in me," 
 
 He said, and kissed her fingers loyally ; 
 
 " It is sweet law to me to do your will, 
 
 And ere the sun his round shall thrice fulfil, 
 
 I hope to bring you news of such rare skill 
 
 As amulets have, that aches in trusting bosoms still." 
 
 He needed not to pause and first devise 
 
 How he should tell the king ; for in nowise 
 
 Were such love-message worthily bested 
 
 Save in fine verse by music rendered. 
 
 He sought a poet-friend, a Siennese, 
 
 And " Mico, mine," he said, "full oft to please 
 
 Thy whim of sadness I have sung thee strains 
 
 To make thee weep in verse : now pay my pains, 
 
 And write me a canzon divinely sad, 
 
 Sinlessly passionate and meekly mad 
 
 With young despair, speaking a maiden's heart 
 
 Of fifteen summers, who would fain depart 
 
 From ripening life's new-urgent mystery — 
 
 Love-choice of one too high her love to be — 
 
 But cannot yield her breath till she has poured 
 
 Her strength away in this hot-bleeding word 
 
 Telling the secret of her soul to her soul's lord.'* 
 
 Said Mico, " Nay, that thought is poesy, 
 
 I need but listen as it sings to me. 
 
 Come thou again to-morrow." The third day, 
 
 When linked notes had perfected the lay, 
 
 Minuccio had his summons to the court 
 
 To make, as he was wont, the moments short 
 
 Of ceremonious dinner to the king. 
 
 This was the time when he had meant to bring , 
 
 Melodious message of young Lisa's love : 
 
 He waited till the air had ceased to move 
 
 To ringing silver, till Falernian wine 
 
 Made quickened sense with quietude combine. 
 
 And then with passionate descant made each ear incline 
 
 Zove, thou didst see me, light as morning^ s breath. 
 Roaming a garden i7i a joyous error, 
 Laughing at chases vain, a happy child, 
 Till of thy countenance the alluring terror 
 
//0\V LISA LOVED THE KING, §, 
 
 In majesty from out the blossoms smiled^ 
 From out their life seeming a beauteous Death, 
 
 O Love, who so didst choose me for thine own^ 
 
 Taking this little isle to thy great sway 
 
 See now, it is the honor of thy throne 
 
 That what thou gavest perish not awav^ 
 
 Nor leave some sweet remembrance to atone 
 
 By life that will be for the brief life ^one : 
 
 Hear, ere the shroud o'er these frail limbs be thrown 
 
 Since every king is vassal unto thee, 
 
 My heart's lord needs must listen loyally — 
 
 O tell him I am waiting for my Death / 
 
 I'ell him, for that he hath such royal potver 
 'Twere hard for him to think how small a thing, 
 How slight a sign, would make a wealthy dower 
 For one like 7Jte, the bride of that pale king 
 Whose bed is mine at some swift-nearing hour. 
 Go to my lord, and to his memory bring 
 That happy birthday of my soi'rowing 
 When his large glance made meaner gazers glad, 
 Fntering the bannered lists : 'twas theft I had 
 The wound that laid fne in the arms of Death, 
 
 Tell him, O Love^ I am a lowly maid. 
 No more than any little knot of thyme 
 That he with careless foot 7nay often tread ; 
 Yet lowest fragrance oft will mount sublime 
 And cleave to things most high and hallowed, 
 As doth the fragrance of my life's springtime, 
 My lowly love, that soaring seeks to climb 
 Within his thought, and make a gentle bliss, 
 More blissful than if mine, in being his : 
 So shall I live in him and rest in Death. 
 
 The strain was new. It seemed a pleading cry, 
 And yet a rounded perfect melody, 
 Making grief beauteous as the tear-filled eyes 
 Of little child at little miseries. 
 Trembling at first, then swelling as it rose, 
 Like rising light that broad and broader grows, 
 It filled the hall, and so possessed the air 
 That not one breathing soul was present there, 
 6 
 
g3 HOW LISA LOVED THE AWVG, 
 
 Though dullest, slowest, but was quivering 
 In music's grasp, and forced to hear her sing. 
 .But most such sweet compulsion took the mood 
 Of Pedro (tired of doing what he would). 
 Whether the words which that strange meaning bore 
 Were but the poet's feigning or aught more. 
 Was bounden question, since their aim must be 
 At some imagined or true royalty. 
 He called Minuccio and bade him tell 
 What poet of the day had writ so well ; 
 For though they came behind all former rhymes, 
 The verses were not bad for these poor times. 
 *' Monsignor, they are only three days old," 
 Minuccio said ; "but it must not be told 
 How this so'v grew, save to your royal ear." 
 Eager, the k'- g withdrew where none was near, 
 And gave ciose audience to Minuccio, 
 Who meetly told that love-tale meet to know. 
 The king had features pliant to confess 
 The presence of a manly tenderness — 
 Son, father, brother, lover, blent in one, 
 In fine harmonic exaltation — 
 The spirit of religious chivalry. 
 He listened, and Minuccio could see 
 The tender, generous admiration spread 
 O'er all his face, and glorify his head 
 With royalty that would have kept its rank 
 Though his brocaded robes to tatters shrank. 
 He answered without pause, " So sweet a maid, 
 In nature's own insignia arrayed. 
 Though she were come of unmixed trading blood 
 That sold and bartered ever since the Flood, 
 Would have the self-contained and single worth 
 Of radiant jewels born in darksome earth. 
 Raona were a shame to Sicily, 
 Letting such love and tears unhonored be : 
 Hasten, Minuccio, tell her that the king 
 To-day will surely visit her when vespers ring.** 
 
 Joyful, Minuccio bore the joyous word. 
 And told at full, while none but Lisa heard, 
 How each thing had befallen, sang the son^ 
 And like a patient nurse who would prolong 
 
HO IV LISA LOVED THE KING, g^ 
 
 All means of soothing, dwelt upon each tone, 
 
 Each look, with which the mighty Aragon 
 
 Marked the high worth his royal heart assigned 
 
 To that dear place he held in Lisa's mind. 
 
 She listened till the draughts of pure content 
 
 Through all her limbs like some new being went — 
 
 Life, not recovered, but untried before, 
 
 From out the growing world's unmeasured store 
 
 Of fuller, better, more divinely mixed. 
 
 'Twas glad reverse : she had so firmly fixed 
 
 To die, already seemed to fall a veil 
 
 Shrouding the inner glow from light of senses pale. 
 
 Her parents wondering see her half arise— 
 
 Wondering, rejoicing, see her long dark eyes 
 
 Brimful with clearness, not of 'scaping tears, 
 
 But of some light ethereal that enspheres 
 
 Their orbs with calm, some vision newly learnt 
 
 Where strangest fires erewhile had blindly burnt. 
 
 She asked to have her soft white robe and band 
 
 And coral ornaments, and with her hand 
 
 She gave her locks' dark length a backward fall, 
 
 Then looked intently in a mirror small, 
 
 And feared her face might perhaps displease the king ; 
 
 " In truth," she said, " I am a tiny thing ; 
 
 I v/as too bold to tell what could such visit bring.'* 
 
 Meanwhile the king, revolving in his thought 
 
 That virgin passion, was more deeply wrought 
 
 To chivalrous pity ; and at vesper bell. 
 
 With careless mien which hid his purpose well, 
 
 Went forth on horseback, and as if by chance 
 
 Passing Bernardo's house, he paused to glance 
 
 At the fine garden of this wealthy man. 
 
 This Tuscan trader turned Palermitan : 
 
 But, presently dismounting, chose to walk 
 
 Amid the trellises, in gracious talk 
 
 With this same trader, deigning even to ask 
 
 If he had yet fulfilled the father's task 
 
 Of marrying that daughter whose young charms 
 
 Himself, betwixt the passages of arms, 
 
 Noted admiringly. " Monsignor, no, 
 
 She is not married ; that were little woe. 
 
 Since she has counted barely fifteen years ; 
 
 But all such hopes of late have turned to fears ; 
 
$4 now LISA LOVED THE KING. 
 
 She droops and fades ; though for a space quite britf — 
 
 Scarce three hours past — she finds some strange relief." 
 
 The king avised : " 'Twere dole to all of us, 
 
 The world should lose a maid so beauteous -, 
 
 Let me now see her j since I am her liege lord, 
 
 Her spirits must wage war with death at my strong word.*' 
 
 In such half-serious playfulness, he wends, 
 
 With Lisa's father and two chosen friends, 
 
 Up to the chamber where she pillowed sits 
 
 Watching the open door, that now admits 
 
 A presence as much better than her dreams, 
 
 As happiness than any longing seems. 
 
 The king advanced, and, with a reverent kiss 
 
 Upon her hand, said, " Lady, what is this ? 
 
 You, whose sweet youth should others' solace be. 
 
 Pierce all our hearts, languishing piteously. 
 
 We pray you, for the love of us, be cheered, 
 
 Nor be too reckless of that life, endeared 
 
 To us who know your passing worthiness, 
 
 And count your blooming life as part of our life's bliss." 
 
 Those words, that touch upon her hand from him 
 
 Whom her soul worshipped, as far seraphim 
 
 Worship the distant glory, brought some shame 
 
 Quivering upon her cheek, yet thrilled her frame 
 
 With such deep joy she seemed in paradise, 
 
 In wondering gladness, and in dumb surprise 
 
 That bliss could be so blissful : then she spoke— 
 
 " Signor, I was too weak to bear the yoke. 
 
 The golden yoke of thoughts too great for me • 
 
 That was the ground of my infirmity. 
 
 But now, I pray your grace to have belief 
 
 That I shall soon be well, nor any more cause grief." 
 
 The king alone perceived the covert sense 
 Of all her words, which made one evidence 
 With her pure voice and candid loveliness 
 That he had lost much honor, honoring less 
 That message of her passionate distress. 
 He stayed beside her for a little while 
 With gentle looks and speech, until a smile 
 As placid as a ray of early morn 
 On opening flower-cups o'er her lips was borne. 
 When he had left her, and the tidings spread 
 Through all the town how he had visited 
 
now LISA LOVED THE KING. 8^ 
 
 The Tuscan trader's daughter, who was sick, 
 Men sai(i it was a royal deed and catholic. 
 
 And Lisa ? she no longer wished for death ; 
 
 But as a poet, who sweet verses saith 
 
 Within his soul, and joys in music there, 
 
 Nor seeks another heaven, nor can bear 
 
 Disturbing pleasures, so was she content, 
 
 Breathing the life of grateful sentiment, 
 
 She thought no maid betrothed could be more blest ; 
 
 For treasure must be valued by the test 
 
 Of highest excellence and rarity, 
 
 And her dear joy was best as best could be \ 
 
 There seemed no other crown to her delight 
 
 Now the high loved one saw her love aright. 
 
 Thus her soul thriving on that exquisite mood, 
 
 Spread like the May- time all its beauteous good 
 
 O'er the soft bloom of neck, and arms, and cheek, 
 
 And strengthened the sweet body, once so weak, 
 
 Until she rose and walked, and, like a bird 
 
 With sweetly rippling throat, she made her spring joys heard. 
 
 The king, when he the happy change had seen, 
 
 Trusted the ear of Constance, his fair queen, 
 
 With Lisa's innocent secret, and conferred 
 
 How they should jointly, by their deed and word, 
 
 Honor this maiden's love, which, like the prayer 
 
 Of loyal hermits, never thought to share 
 
 In what it gave. The queen had that chief grace 
 
 Of womanhood, a heart that can embrace 
 
 All goodness in another woman's form ; 
 
 And that same day, ere the sun lay too warm, 
 
 On southern terraces, a messenger 
 
 Informed Bernardo that the royal pair 
 
 Would straightway visit him and celebrate 
 
 Their gladness at his daughter's happier state, 
 
 Which they were fain to see. Soon came the king 
 
 On horseback, with his barons, heralding 
 
 The advent of the queen in courtly state ; 
 
 And all, descending at the garden gate, 
 
 Streamed with their feathers, velvet, and brocade, 
 
 Through the bleached alleys, till they, pausing, niade 
 
 A lake of splendor 'mid the aloes gray — 
 
 When, meekly facing all their proud array. 
 
 The white-robed Lisa with her parents stood, 
 
86 now LISA LOVED THE KING. 
 
 As some white dove before the gorgeous brood 
 
 Of dapple-breasted birds born by the Colchian flood. 
 
 The king and queen, by gracious looks and speech, 
 
 Encourage her, and thus their courtiers teach 
 
 How this fair morning they may courtliest be 
 
 By making Lisa pass it happily. 
 
 And soon the ladies and the barons all 
 
 Draw her by turns, as at a festival 
 
 Made for her sake, to easy, gay discourse, 
 
 And compliment with looks and smiles enforce ; 
 
 A joyous hum is heard the gardens round ; 
 
 Soon there is Spanish dancing and the sound 
 
 Of minstrel's song, and autumn fruits are pluckt ; 
 
 Till mindfully the king and queen conduct 
 
 Lisa apart to where a trellised shade 
 
 Made pleasant resting. Then King Pedro said — 
 
 " Excellent maiden, that rich gift of love 
 
 Your heart hath made us, hath a w^orth above 
 
 All royal treasures, nor is fitly met 
 
 Save when the grateful memory of deep debt 
 
 Lies still behind the outward honors done • 
 
 And as a sign that no oblivion 
 
 Shall overflood that faithful memory, 
 
 We while we live your cavalier will be. 
 
 Nor will we ever arm ourselves for fight, 
 
 Whether for struggle dire or brief delight 
 
 Of warlike feigning, but we first will take 
 
 The colors you ordain, and for your sake 
 
 Charge the more bravely where your emblem is ; 
 
 Nor will we ever claim an added bliss 
 
 To our sweet thoughts of you save one sole kiss. 
 
 But there still rests the outward honor meet 
 
 To mark your worthiness, and we entreat 
 
 That you will turn your ear to proffered vows 
 
 Of one who loves you, and would be your spouse. 
 
 We must not wrong yourself and Sicily 
 
 By letting all your blooming years pass by 
 
 Unmated : you will give the world its due 
 
 From beauteous maiden and become a matron true.*' 
 
 Then Lisa, wrapt in virgin wonderment 
 At her ambitious love's complete content. 
 Which left no further good for her to seek 
 Than love's obedience, said with accent meek— 
 
HOW USA LOVED THE KING. 
 
 87 
 
 " Monsignor, I know well that were it known 
 
 To all the world how high my love had flown, 
 
 There would be few who would not deem me mad, 
 
 Or say my mind the falsest image had 
 
 Of my condition and your lofty place. 
 
 But heaven has seen that for no moment's space 
 
 Have I forgotten you to be the king, 
 
 Or me myself to be a lowly thing — 
 
 A little lark, enamoured of the sky. 
 
 That soared to sing, to break its breast, and die. 
 
 But, as you better know than I, the heart 
 
 In choosing chooseth not its own desert, 
 
 But that great merit which attracteth it ; 
 
 'Tis law, I. struggled, but I must submit. 
 
 And having seen a worth all worth above, 
 
 I loved you, love you, and shall always love. 
 
 But that doth mean, my will is ever yours, 
 
 Not only when your will my good insures, 
 
 But if it wrought me what the world calls harm — 
 
 Fire, wounds, would wear from your dear will a charm. 
 
 That you will be my knight is full content. 
 
 And for that kiss — I pray, first for the queen's consent.*' 
 
 Her answer, given with such firm gentleness. 
 
 Pleased the queen well, and made her hold no less 
 
 Of Lisa's merit than the king had held. 
 
 And so, all cloudy threats of grief dispelled, 
 
 I'here was betrothal made that very morn 
 
 'Twixt Perdicone, youthful, brave, well-born. 
 
 And Lisa, whom he loved ; she loving well 
 
 The lot that from obedience befell. 
 
 The queen a rare betrothal ring on each 
 
 Bestowed, and other gems, with gracious speech. 
 
 And that no joy might lack, the king, who knew 
 
 The youth was poor, gave him rich Ceffalu 
 
 And Cataletta, large and fruitful lands — 
 
 Adding much promise when he joined their hands. 
 
 At last he said to Lisa, with an air 
 
 Gallant yet noble : " Now we claim our share 
 
 From your sweet love, a share which is not small ; 
 
 For in the sacrament one crumb is all." 
 
 Then taking her small face his hands between, 
 
 He kissed her on the brow with kiss serene. 
 
 Fit seal to that pure vision her young soul had seen. 
 
88 HO IV LISA LOVED THE KING, 
 
 Sicilians witnessed that King Pedro kept 
 His royal promise : Perdicone stept 
 To many honors honorably won, 
 Living with Lisa in true union. 
 Throughout his Hfe the king still took delight 
 To call himself fair Lisa's faithful knight; 
 And never wore in field or tournament 
 A scarf or emblem save by Lisa sent. 
 
 Such deeds made subjects loyal in that land : 
 
 They joyed that one so worthy to command, 
 
 So chivalrous and gentle, had become 
 
 The king of Sicily, and filled the room 
 
 Of Frenchmen, who abused the Church's trust, 
 
 Till, in a righteous vengeance on their lust, 
 
 Messina rose, with God, and with the dagger's thrust. 
 
 L'envoi. 
 /deader, this story pleased me long ago 
 In the bright pages of Boccaccio^ 
 And where the author of a good we know^ 
 Let us not fail to pay the grateful thanks we owe* 
 
 1869. 
 
A MIiVOK PROPHET. 8g 
 
 A MINOR PROPHET. 
 
 I HAVE a friend, a vegetarian seer, 
 
 By name Elias Baptist Butterworth, 
 
 A harmless, bland, disinterested man, 
 
 Whose ancestors in Cromwell's day believed 
 
 The Second Advent certain in five years, 
 
 But when King Charles the Second came instead, 
 
 Revised their date and sought another world : 
 
 I mean — not heaven but — America. 
 
 A fervid stock, whose generous hope embraced 
 
 The fortunes of mankind, not stopping short 
 
 At rise of leather, or the fall of gold. 
 
 Nor listening to the voices of the time 
 
 As housewives listen to a cackling hen. 
 
 With wonder whether she has laid her egg 
 
 On their own nest-egg. Still they did insist 
 
 Somewhat too wearisomely on the joys 
 
 Of their Millennium, when coats and hats 
 
 Would all be of one pattern, books and songs 
 
 All fit for Sundays, and the casual talk 
 
 As good as sermons preached extempore. 
 
 And in Elias the ano^^vi'al zeal 
 
 Breathes strong as ever, only modified 
 
 By Transatlantic air and modern thought. 
 
 You could not pass him in the street and fail 
 
 To note his shoulders' long declivity, 
 
 Beard to the waist, swan-neck, and large pale eyes ; 
 
 Or, when he lifts his hat, to mark his hair 
 
 Brushed back to show his great capacity — 
 
 A full grain's length at the angle of the brow 
 
 Proving him witty, while the shallower men 
 
 Only seem witty in their repartees. 
 
 Not that he's vain, but that his doctrine needs 
 
 The testimony of his frontal lobe. 
 
90 
 
 A MINOR PROPHET, 
 
 On all points he adopts the latest views ; 
 
 Takes for the key of univeral Mind 
 
 The " levitation " of stout gentlemen ; 
 
 Believes the Rappings are not spirits' work, 
 
 But the Thought-atmosphere's, a steam of brains 
 
 In correlated force of raps, as proved 
 
 By motion, heat, and science generally ; 
 
 The Spectrum, for example, which has shown 
 
 The self-same metals in the sun as here ; 
 
 So the Thought-atmosphere is everywhere : 
 
 High truths that glimmered under other names 
 
 To ancient sages, whence good scholarship 
 
 Applied to Eleusinian mysteries — 
 
 The Vedas — Tripitaka — Vendidad — 
 
 Might furnish weaker proof for weaker minds 
 
 That Thought was rapping in the hoary past, 
 
 And might have edified the Greeks by raps 
 
 At the greater Dionysia, if their ears 
 
 Had not been filled with Sophoclean verse. 
 
 And when all Earth is vegetarian — 
 
 When, lacking butchers, quadrupeds die out. 
 
 And less Thought-atmosphere is reabsorbed 
 
 By nerves of insects parasitical. 
 
 Those higher truths, seized now by higher minds 
 
 But not expressed (the insects hindering) 
 
 Will either flash out into eloquence, 
 
 Or better still, be comprehensible 
 
 By rappings simply, without need of roots. 
 
 'Tis on this theme — the vegetarian world — 
 
 That good Elias willingly expands : 
 
 He loves to tell in mildly nasal tones 
 
 And vowels stretched to suit the widest views, 
 
 The future fortunes of our infant Earth — 
 
 When it will be too full of human kind 
 
 To have the room for wilder animals. 
 
 Saith he Sahara will be populous 
 
 With families of gentlemen retired 
 
 From commerce in more Central Africa, 
 
 Who order coolness as we order coal. 
 
 And have a lobe anterior strong enough 
 
 To think away the sand-storms. Science thus 
 
 Will leave no spot on this terraqueous globe 
 
 Unfit to be inhabited by man, 
 
A ML \ 'OR PR OPJIE T. 91 
 
 The chief of animals : all meaner brutes 
 
 Will have been smoked and elbowed out of life. 
 
 No lions then shall lap Caffrarian pools, 
 
 Or shake the Atlas with their midnight roar: 
 
 Even the slow, slime-loving crocodile, 
 
 The last of animals to take a hint, 
 
 Will then retire forever from a scene 
 
 Where public feeling strongly sets against him. 
 
 Fishes may lead carnivorous lives obscure, 
 
 But must not dream of culinary rank 
 
 Or being dished in good society. 
 
 Imagination in that distant age, 
 
 Aiming at fiction called historical, 
 
 Will vainly try to reconstruct the times 
 
 When it was men's preposterous delight 
 
 To sit astride live horses, which consumed 
 
 Materials for incalculable cakes ; 
 
 When there were milkmaids who drew milk from cows 
 
 With udders kept abnormal for that end 
 
 Since the rude mythopceic period 
 
 Of Aryan dairymen, who did not blush 
 
 To call their milkmaid and their daughter one — 
 
 Helplessly gazing at the Milky Way, 
 
 Nor dreaming of the astral cocoa-nuts 
 
 Quite at the service of posterity. 
 
 'Tis to be feared, though, that the duller boys, 
 
 Much given to anachronisms and nuts, 
 
 (Elias has confessed boys will be boys) 
 
 May write a jockey for a centaur, think 
 
 Europa's suitor was an Irish bull, 
 
 ^sop a journalist who wrote up Fox, 
 
 And Bruin a chief swindler upon 'Change. 
 
 Boys will be boys, but dogs will all be moral, 
 
 With longer alimentary canals 
 
 Suited to diet vegetarian. 
 
 The uglier breeds will fade from memory, 
 
 Or, being palaeontological. 
 
 Live but as portraits in large learned books, 
 
 Distasteful to the feelings of an age 
 
 Nourished on purest beauty. Earth will hold 
 
 No stupid brutes, no cheerful queernesses, 
 
 No naive cunning, grave absurdity. 
 
 Wart-pigs with tender and parental grunts, 
 
 Wombats much flattened as to their contour, 
 
92 
 
 A MINOR PROPHET, 
 
 Perhaps from too much crushing in the ark, 
 
 But taking meekly that fatality ; 
 
 The serious cranes, unstung by ridicule ; 
 
 Long-headed, short-legged, solemn-looking curs, 
 
 (Wise, silent critics of a flippant age) ; 
 
 The silly straddling foals, the weak-brained geese 
 
 Hissing fallaciously at sound of wheels — . 
 
 All these rude products will have disappeared 
 
 Along with every faulty human type. 
 
 By dint of diet vegetarian 
 
 All will be harmony of hue and line, 
 
 Bodies and minds all perfect, limbs well-turned. 
 
 And talk quite free from aught erroneous. 
 
 Thus far Elias in his seer's mantle : 
 
 But at this climax in his prophecy 
 
 My sinking spirits, fearing to be swamped, 
 
 Urge me to speak. " High prospects these, my friend, 
 
 Setting the w^eak carnivorous brain astretch ; 
 
 We will resume the thread another day." 
 
 *' To-morrow," cries Elias, " at this hour ? " 
 
 *' No, not to-morrow — I shall have a cold — 
 
 At least I feel some soreness — this endemic—* 
 
 Good by." 
 
 No tears are sadder than the smile 
 
 With which I quit Elias. Bitterly 
 
 I feel that every change upon this earth 
 
 Is bought with sacrifice. My yearnings fail 
 
 To reach that high apocalyptic mount 
 
 Which shows in bird's-eye view a perfect world. 
 
 Or enter warmly into other joys 
 
 Than those of faulty, struggling human kind. 
 
 That strain upon my soul's too feeble wing 
 
 Ends in ignoble floundering : I fall 
 
 Into short-sighted pity for the men 
 
 Who living in those perfect future times 
 
 Will not know half the dear imperfect things 
 
 That move my smiles and tears — will never know 
 
 The fine old incongruities that raise 
 
 My friendly laugh ; the innocent conceits 
 
 That like a needless eyeglass or black patch 
 
 Give those who wear them harmless happiness ; 
 
 The twists and cracks in our poor earthenware, 
 
A MINOR PROrJIET. 
 
 That touch me to more conscious fellowship 
 
 (1 am not myself the finest Parian) 
 
 With my coevals. So poor Colin Clout, 
 
 To whom raw onion gives prospective zest, 
 
 Consoling hours of dampest wintry v/ork, 
 
 Could hardly fancy any regal joys 
 
 Quite unimpregnate with the onion's scent : 
 
 Perhaps his highest hopes are not all clear 
 
 Of w^aftings from that energetic bulb : 
 
 'Tis well that onion is not heresy. 
 
 Speaking in parable, I am Colin Clout. 
 
 A clinging flavor penetrates my life — 
 
 My onion is imperfectness : I cleave 
 
 To nature's blunders, evanescent types 
 
 Which sages banish from Utopia. 
 
 *' Not worship beauty ? " say you. Patience, friend \ 
 
 I worship in the temple with the rest ; 
 
 But by my hearth I keep a sacred nook 
 
 For gnomes and dwarfs, duck-footed waddling elves 
 
 Who stitched and hammered for the weary man 
 
 In days of old. And in that piety 
 
 I clothe ungainly forms inherited 
 
 From toiling generations, daily bent 
 
 At desk, or plough, or loom, or in the mine, 
 
 In pioneering labors for the world. 
 
 Nay, I am apt when floundering confused 
 
 From too rash flight, to grasp at paradox, 
 
 And pity future men who will not know 
 
 A keen experience with pity blent, 
 
 The pathos exquisite of lovely minds 
 
 Hid in harsh forms — not penetrating them 
 
 Like fire divine within a common bush 
 
 Which glows transfigured by the heavenly guest, 
 
 So that men put their shoes off j but encaged 
 
 Like a sweet child within some thick-walled cell^ 
 
 Who leaps and fails to hold th:; i.in dew-bar,;. 
 
 But having shown a little dimpled hand 
 
 Is visited thenceforth by tender hearts 
 
 Whose e37es keep w^atch about the prison walls. 
 
 A foolish, nay, a wicked paradox ! 
 
 For purest pity is the eye of love 
 
 Melting at sight of sorrow ; and to grieve 
 
 Because it sees no sorrow, shows a love 
 
 Warped from its truer nature, turned to love 
 
94 A MINOR PROPIIEH. 
 
 Of merest habit, like the miser's greed. 
 But I am Colin still : my prejudice 
 Is for the flavor of my daily food. 
 Not that I doubt the world is growing still 
 As once it grew from Chaos and from Night ; 
 Or have a soul too shrunken for the hope 
 Which dawned in human breasts, a double morn, 
 With earliest watchings of the rising light 
 Chasing the darkness ; and through many an age 
 Has raised the vision of a future time 
 That stands an Angel with a face all mild 
 Spearing the demon. I too rest in faith 
 That man's perfection is the crowning flower, 
 Toward which the urgent sap in life's great tree 
 Is pressing, — seen in puny blossoms now, 
 But in the world's great morrows to expand 
 With broadest petal and with deepest glow. 
 
 Yet, see the patched and plodding citizen 
 
 Waiting upon the pavement with the throng 
 
 While some victorious world hero makes 
 
 Triumphal entry, and the peal of shouts 
 
 And flash of faces 'neath uplifted hats 
 
 Run like a storm of joy along the streets ! 
 
 He says, " God bless him ! " almost with a sob, 
 
 As the great hero passes ; he is glad 
 
 The world holds mighty men and mighty deeds j 
 
 The music stirs his pulses like strong wine, 
 
 The moving splendor touches him with awe — 
 
 'Tis glory shed around the common weal, 
 
 And he will pay his tribute willingly, 
 
 Though with the pennies earned by sordid toil. 
 
 Perhaps the hero's deeds have helped to bring 
 
 A time when every honest citizen 
 
 Shall wear a coat unpatched. And yet he feels 
 
 More easy fellowship with neighbors there 
 
 Who look on too ; and he will soon relapse 
 
 From noticing the banners and the steeds 
 
 To think with pleasure there is just one bun 
 
 Left in his pocket, that may serve to tempt 
 
 The wide-eyed lad, whose weight is all too much 
 
 For that young mother's arms : and then he falls 
 
 To dreamy picturing of sunny days 
 
 Wiien he himself was a small big-cheeked lad 
 
A MINOR PROPJIET. 
 
 In some far village where ^lo heroes came, 
 
 And stood a listener 'tvvixt his father's legs 
 
 In the warm fire-light, while the old folk talked 
 
 And shook their heads and looked upon the floor ; 
 
 And he was puzzled, thinking life was fine — 
 
 The bread and cheese so nice all through the year 
 
 And Christmas sure to come. Oh that good time ! 
 
 He, could he choose, would have those days again 
 
 And see the dear old-fashioned things once more. 
 
 But soon the wheels and drums have all passed by 
 
 And tramping feet are heard like sudden rain •. 
 
 The quiet startles our good citizen ; 
 
 He feels the child upon his arms, and knows 
 
 He is with the people making holiday 
 
 Because of hopes for better days to come. 
 
 But Hope to him was like the brilliant west 
 
 Telling of sunrise in a world unknown, 
 
 And from that dazzling curtain of bright hues 
 
 He turned to the familiar face of fields 
 
 Lying all clear in the calm morning land. 
 
 Maybe 'tis wiser not to fix a lens 
 
 Too scrutinizing on the glorious times 
 
 When Barbarossa shall arise and shake 
 
 His mountain, good King Arthur come again. 
 
 And all the heroes of such giant soul 
 
 That, living once to cheer mankind with hope. 
 
 They had to sleep until the time was ripe 
 
 For greater deeds to match their greater thought 
 
 Yet no ! the earth yields nothing more Divine 
 
 Than high prophetic vision — than the Seer 
 
 Who fasting from man's meaner joy beholds 
 
 The paths of beauteous order, and constructs 
 
 A fairer type, to shame our low content. 
 
 But prophecy is like potential sound 
 
 Which turned to music seems a voice sublime 
 
 From out the soul of light ; but turns to noise 
 
 In scrannel pipes, and makes all ears averse. 
 
 The faith that life on earth is being shaped 
 To glorious ends, that order, justice, love 
 Mean man's completeness, mean effect as sure 
 As roundness in the dew-drop — that great faith 
 Is but the rushing and expanding stream 
 Of thought, of feeling, fed by all the past. 
 
 95 
 
9'o 
 
 6 A MIXOI^ FROrnET. 
 
 Our finest hope is finest memory, 
 
 As they who love in age think youth is blest 
 
 Because it has a life to fill with love. 
 
 Full souls are double mirrors, making still 
 
 An endless vista of fair things before 
 
 Repeating things behind : so faith is strong 
 
 Only when we are strong, shrinks when we shrink. 
 
 It comes when music stirs us, and the chords 
 
 Moving on some grand climax shake our souls 
 
 With influx new that makes new energies. 
 
 It comes in swellings of the heart and tears 
 
 That rise at noble and at gentle deeds — 
 
 At labors of the master-artist's hand 
 
 Which, trembling, touches to a finer end, 
 
 Tremblino- before an image seen within. 
 
 It comes in moments of heroic love, 
 
 Un jealous joy in joy not made for us — 
 
 In conscious triumph of the good within 
 
 Making us worship goodness that rebukes. 
 
 Even our failures are a prophecy, 
 
 Even our yearnings and our bitter tears 
 
 After that fair and true we cannot grasp ; 
 
 As patriots who seem to die in vain 
 
 Make liberty more sacred by their pangs. 
 
 Presentiment of bitter things on earth 
 Sweeps in with every force that slirs our souls 
 To admiration, self-renouncing love. 
 Or thoughts, like light, that bind the world in one 
 Sweeps like the sense of vastness, when at night 
 We hear the roll and dash of waves that break 
 Nearer and nearer with the rushing tide, 
 Which rises to the level of the cliff 
 Because the wide Atlantic rolls behind 
 Throbbing respondent to the far-off orbs. 
 
 iS6c;. 
 
BROTHER AND SISTER. ^7 
 
 BROTHER AND SISTER. 
 
 I. 
 
 I CANNOT choose but think upon the time 
 When our two lives grew like two buds that kiss 
 At lightest thrill from the tee's swinging chime, 
 Because the one so near the other is. 
 
 He was the elder and a little man 
 Of forty inches, bound to show no dread, 
 And I the girl that puppy-like now ran, 
 Now lagged behind my brother's larger tread. 
 
 I held him wise, and when he talked to me 
 Of snakes and birds, and which God loved the best, 
 I thought his knowledge marked the boundary 
 Where men grew blind, though angels knew the rest. 
 
 If he said *' Hush ! "' I tried to hold my breath 
 Wherever he said " Come! " I stepped in faith. 
 
 II. 
 Long years have left their writing on my brow, 
 But yet the freshness and the dew-fed beam 
 Of those young mornings are about me now. 
 When we two wandered toward the far-off stream 
 
 With rod and line. Our basket held a store 
 Baked for us only, and I thought with joy 
 That I should have my share, though he had more, 
 Because he was the elder and a boy. 
 
 The firmaments of daisies since to me 
 Have had those mornings in their opening e3'es. 
 The bunched cowslip's pale transparency 
 Carries that sunshine of sweet memories, 
 
 And wild-rose branches take their finest scent 
 From those blest hours of infantine content. 
 
g8 BROTHER AXD SISTER. 
 
 HI. 
 
 Our mother bade us keep the trodden ways, 
 Stroked down my tippet, set my brother's frill, 
 Then with the benediction of her gaze 
 Clung to us lessening, and pursued us still 
 
 Across the homestead to the rookery elms, 
 Whose tall old trunks had each a grassy mound, 
 So rich for us, we counted them as realms 
 With varied products : here were earth-nuts found, 
 
 And here the Lady-fingers in deep shade ; 
 Here sloping towards the ^loat the rushes grew, 
 The large to split for pith, the small to braid ; 
 While over all the dark rooks cawing flew, 
 
 And made a happy strange solemnity, 
 
 A deep-toned chant from life unknown to me. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Our meadow-path had memorable spots : 
 One where it bridged a tiny rivulet. 
 Deep hid by tangled blue Forget-me-nots ; 
 And all along the waving grasses met 
 
 My little palm, or nodded to my cheek, 
 When flowers with upturned faces gazing drew 
 My wonder downward, seeming all to speak 
 With eyes of souls that dumbly heard and knew. 
 
 Then came the copse, where wild things rushed unseen 
 And black-scathed grass betrayed the past abode 
 Of mystic gypsies, who still lurked between 
 Me and each hidden distance of the road. 
 
 A gypsy once had startled me at play, 
 Blotting with her dark smile my sunny day. 
 
 V. 
 
 Thus rambling we were schooled in deepest lore, 
 And learned the meanings that give words a soul, 
 The fear, the love, the primal passionate store, 
 Whose shaping impulses make manhood whole. 
 
 Those hours were seed to all my after good ; 
 My infant gladness, through eye, ear. and touch, 
 
BROTHER AXD SISTER. ^C) 
 
 Took easily as warmtli a various food 
 To nourish the sweet skill of loving much. 
 
 For who in age shall roam the earth and find 
 Reasons for loving that will strike out love 
 With sudden rod from the hard year-pressed mind ? 
 Were reasons sown as thick as stars above, 
 
 'Tis love must see them, as tlie eye sees light : 
 Day is but Number to the darkened sight. 
 
 vr. 
 
 Our brown canal was endless to my thought; 
 And on its banks I sat in dreamy peace. 
 Unknowing how the good I loved was wrought, 
 Untroubled by the fear that it would cease. 
 
 Slowly the barges floated into view 
 Rounding a grassy hill to me sublime 
 With some Unknown beyond it, whither flew 
 The parting cuckoo toward a fresh spring time. 
 
 The wide-arched bridge, the scented elder-flowers, 
 The wondrous watery rings that died too soon, 
 The echoes of the quarry, the still hours 
 With white robe sweeping-on the shadeless noon. 
 
 Were but my growing self, are part of me. 
 My present Past, my root of piety. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Those long days measured by my little feet 
 Had chronicles which yield me many a text ; 
 When irony still finds an image meet 
 Of full-grown judgments in this world perplcxt. 
 
 One day my brother left me in high charge, 
 To mind the rod, while he went seeking bait, 
 And bade me, when I saw a nearing barge. 
 Snatch out the line, lest he should come too late. 
 
 Proud of the task, I watched with all my might 
 For one whole minute, till my eyes grew wide. 
 
lOO BKOTIIBR AND S/SJ'ER: 
 
 Till sky and earth took on a strange new light 
 And seemed a dream-world floating on some tide — 
 
 A fair pavilioned boat for me alone 
 
 Bearing me onward through the vast unknown. 
 
 VI 1 1. 
 
 But sudden came the barge's pitch-black prow, 
 Nearer and angrier came my brother's cry, 
 And all my soul was quivering fear, when lo ! 
 Upon the imperilled line, suspended high, 
 
 A silver perch ! My guilt that won the prey. 
 Now turned to merit, had a guerdon rich 
 Of hugs and praises, and made merry play, 
 Until my triumph reached it highest pitch 
 
 When all at home were told the wondrous feat, 
 And how the little sister had fished well. 
 In secret, though my fortune tasted sweet, 
 I wondered why this happiness befell. 
 
 " The little lass had luck," the gardener said 
 And so I learned, luck was with glory wed. 
 
 IX. 
 
 We had the self-same v/orld enlarged for each 
 By loving difference of girl and boy : 
 The fruit that hung on high be3^ond my reach 
 He plucked for me, and oft he must employ 
 
 A measuring glance to guide my tiny shoe 
 Where lay firm stepping-stones, or call to mind 
 "This thing I like my sister may not do. 
 For she is little, and I must be kind." 
 
 Thus boyish Will the nobler mastery learned 
 Where inward vision over impulse reigns, 
 Widening its life with separate life discerned, 
 A Like unlike, a Self that self restrains. 
 
 His years with others must the sweeter be 
 For those brief days he spent in loving me. 
 
BROTHER AND SISTER. lOi 
 
 X. 
 
 His sorrow was my sorrow, and his joy 
 
 Sent little leaps and laughs through all my frame; 
 
 My doll seemed lifeless and no girlish toy 
 
 Had any reason when my brother came. 
 
 I knelt with him at marbles, m.arked his fling 
 Cut the ringed stem and make the apple drop, 
 Or watched him winding close the spiral string 
 That looped the orbits of the humming top. 
 
 Grasped by such fellowship my vagrant thought 
 Ceased with dream-fruit dream-wishes to fulfil \ 
 My aery-picturing fantasy was taught 
 Subjection to the harder, truer skill 
 
 That seeks with deeds to grave a thought-tracked line^ 
 And by " What is," '' What will be " to define. 
 
 XI. 
 
 School parted us ; we never found again 
 That childish world v^'here our two spirits mingled 
 Like scents from varying roses that remain 
 One sweetness, nor can evermore be singled. 
 
 Yet the twin habit of that early time 
 Lingered for long about the heart and tongue : 
 We had been natives of one happy clime, 
 And its dear accent to our utterance clung. 
 
 Till the dire years whose awful name is Change 
 Llad grasped our souls still yearning in divorce, 
 And pitiless shaped them in two forms that rang? 
 Two elements which se'-xr their life's course^ 
 
 But were another childhood -world my <^ha^'<=, 
 I would be born a little sister there. 
 
I03 STRADIVARIUS. 
 
 STRADIVARIUS. 
 
 Your soul was lifted by the wings to-day 
 
 Hearing the master of the violin : 
 
 You praised him, praised the great Sebastian too 
 
 Who made that fine Chaconne ; but did you think 
 
 Of old Antonio Stradivari ? — him 
 
 Who a good century and a half ago 
 
 Put his true work in that brown instrument 
 
 And by the nice adjustment of its frame 
 
 Gave it responsive life, continuous 
 
 With the master's finger-tips and perfected 
 
 Like them by delicate rectitude of use. 
 
 Not Bach alone, helped by fine precedent 
 
 Of genius gone before, nor Joachim 
 
 Who holds the strain afresh incorporate 
 
 By inward hearing and notation strict 
 
 Of nerve and muscle, made our joy to-day 
 
 Another soul was living in the air 
 
 And swaying it to true deliverance 
 
 Of high invention and responsive skill : — 
 
 That plain white-aproned man who stood at work 
 
 Patient and accurate full fourscore years, 
 
 Cherished his sight and touch by temperance, 
 
 And since keen sense is love of perfectness 
 
 Made perfect violins, the needed paths 
 
 For inspiration and high mastery. 
 
 No simpler man than he : he never cried, 
 *' Why was I born to this monotonous task 
 Of making violins ?" or flung them down 
 To suit with hurling act a well-hurled curse 
 At labor on such perishable stuff. 
 Hence neighbors in Cremona held him dull, 
 Called him a slave, a mill-horse, a machine, 
 Begged him to tell his motives or to lend 
 
STRADIVARIUS. IC3 
 
 A few gold pieces to a loftier mind. 
 
 Yet he had pithy words full fed by fact ; 
 
 For Fact, well-trusted, reasons and persuades, 
 
 Is gnomic, cutting, or ironical, 
 
 Draws tears, or is a tocsin to arouse — 
 
 Can hold all figures of the orator 
 
 In one plain sentence ; has her pauses too — • 
 
 Eloquent silence at the chasm abrupt 
 
 Where knowledge ceases. Thus Antonio 
 
 j\Iade answer as Fact willed, and made them strong. 
 
 Naldo, a painter of eclectic school, 
 Taking his dicers, candlelight and grins 
 From Caravaggio, and in holier groups 
 Combining Flemish flesh with martyrdom — 
 Knowing all tricks of style at thirty-one, 
 And weary of them, while Antonio 
 At sixty-nine wrought placidly his best 
 Making the violin you heard to-day — 
 Naldo would tease him oft to tell his aims. 
 
 " Perhaps thou hast some pleasant vice to feed — 
 
 The love of louis d'ors in heaps of four, 
 
 Each violin a heap — I've nought to blame ; 
 
 My vices waste such heaps. But then, why work 
 
 With painful nicety ? Since fame once earned 
 
 By luck or merit — oftenest by luck — 
 
 (Else why do I put Bonifazio's name 
 
 To work that '• pinxit Naldo 'would not sell ?) 
 
 Is welcome index to the wealthy mob 
 
 Where they should pay their gold, and where they pay 
 
 There they find merit — take your tow for flax, 
 
 And hold the flax unlabel) ed with your name, 
 
 Too coarse for sufferance." 
 
 Antonio then : 
 " I like the gold — well, yes — but not for meals. 
 And as my stomach, so my eye and hand, 
 And inward sense that works along with both, 
 Have hunger that can never feed on coin. 
 Who draws a line and satisfies his soul, 
 Making it crooked where it should be straight ? 
 An idiot with an oyster-shell may draw 
 His lines along the sand, all wavering, 
 
104 STRADIVARIUS. 
 
 Fixing no point or pathway to a point; 
 
 An idiot one remove may choose his line, 
 
 Straggle and be content ; but God be praised, 
 
 Antonio Stradivari has an eye 
 
 That winces at false work and loves the true, 
 
 With hand and arm that play ujDon the tool 
 
 As willingly as any singing bird 
 
 Sets him to sing his morning roundelay, 
 
 Because he likes to sing and likes the song." 
 
 Then Naldo : " 'Tis a petty kind of fame 
 At best, that comes of making violins ; 
 And saves no masses, either. Thou wilt go 
 To purgatory none the less." 
 
 But he : 
 ** 'Twere purgatory here to make them ill ; 
 And for my fame — when any master holds 
 'Twixt chin and hand a violin of mine, 
 He will be glad that Stradivari lived, 
 Made violins, and made tliem of the best. 
 The masters only know whose v.-ork is good : 
 They will choose mine, and while God gives them skill 
 I give them instruments to play upon, 
 God choosing me to help Him." 
 
 " What ! were God 
 At fault for violins, thou absent.? " 
 
 " Yes ; 
 He were at fault for Stradivari's work." 
 
 " Why, many hold Giuseppe's violins 
 As good as thine." 
 
 " May be : they are different. 
 His quality declines: he spoils his hand 
 With over-drinking. But were his the best, 
 He could not work for two. My work is mine, 
 And, heresy or not, if my hand slacked 
 I should rob God — since he is fullest good — 
 Leaving a blank instead of violins. 
 I say, not God Himself can make man's best 
 Without best men to help Him. I am one best 
 Here in Cremona, using sunlight well 
 To fashion finest maple till it serves 
 More cunningly than throats, for harmony. 
 'Tis rare delight; I would not change my skill 
 
STRADIVARIUS. I05 
 
 To be the Emperor with bungling hands, 
 And lose my work, which comes as natural 
 As self at waking." 
 
 " Thou art little more 
 Than a deft jDOtter's wheel, Antonio ; 
 Turning out work by mere necessity 
 And lack of varied function. Higher arts 
 Subsist on freedom — eccentricity — 
 Uncounted inspirations — influence 
 That comes with drinking, gambling, talk turned wild, 
 Then moody misery and lack of food — 
 With every dithyrambic fine excess : 
 These make at last a storm which flashes out 
 In lightning revelations. Steady work 
 Turns genius to a loom ; the soul must lie 
 Like grapes beneath the sun till ripeness comes 
 And mellow vintage. I could paint you now 
 The finest Crucifixion ; yesternight 
 Returning home I saw it on a sky 
 Blue-black, thick-starred. I want two louis d'ors 
 To buy the canvas and the costly blues — 
 Trust me a fortnight." 
 
 " Where are those last two 
 I lent thee for thy Judith ? — her thou saw'st 
 In saffron gown, with Holofernes' head 
 And beauty all complete ? " 
 
 " She is but sketched ; 
 I lack the proper model — and the mood. 
 A great idea is an eagle's ^gg, 
 Craves time for hatching ; while the eagle sits 
 Feed her." 
 
 " If thou wilt call thy pictures eggs 
 I call the hatching, Work. 'Tis God gives skill, 
 But not without men's hands : He could not make 
 Antonio Stradivari's violins 
 V/ithout Antonio. Get thee to thy easel.''' 
 
 1873- 
 
ic6 A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-FARTY, 
 
 A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 
 
 Young Hamlet, not the hesitating Dane, 
 
 But one named after him, who lately strove 
 
 For honors at our English Wittenberg, — 
 
 Blond, metaphysical, and sensuous, 
 
 Questioning all things and yet half convinced 
 
 Credulity were better ; held inert 
 
 'Twixt fascinations of all opposites. 
 
 And half suspecting that the mightiest soul 
 
 (Perhaps his own ?) was union of extremes, 
 
 Having no choice but choice of everything : 
 
 As, drinking deep to-day for love of wine, 
 
 To-morrow half a Brahmin, scorning life 
 
 As mere illusion, yearning for that True 
 
 Which has no qualities ; another day 
 
 Finding the fount of grace in sacraments, 
 
 And purest reflex of the light divine 
 
 In gem-bossed pyx and broidered chasuble, 
 
 Resolved to wear no stockings and to fast 
 
 With arms extended, waiting ecstasy ; 
 
 But getting cramps instead, and needing change, 
 
 A would-be-pagan next : — 
 
 Young Hamlet sat 
 A guest with five of somewhat riper age 
 At breakfast wiih Horatio, a friend 
 With few opinions, but of faithful heart. 
 Quick to detect the fibrous sjDreading roots 
 Of character that feed men's theories, 
 Yet cloaking weaknesses with charity 
 And ready in all service save rebuke. 
 
 With ebb of breakfast and the cider-cup 
 Came high debate : the others seated there 
 
A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY, 
 
 Were Osric, spinner of fine sentences, 
 A delicate insect creeping over life 
 Feeding on molecules of tioral breath. 
 And weaving gossamer to trap the sun ; 
 Laertes ardent, rash, and radical ; 
 Discursive Rosencranz, grave Guildenstern, 
 And he for whom the social meal was made 
 The polished priest, a tolerant listener, 
 Disposed to give a hearing to the lost, 
 And breakfast with them ere they went below. 
 
 From alpine metaphysic glaciers first 
 
 The talk sprang copious ; the themes were old, 
 
 But so is human breath, so infant eyes. 
 
 The daily nurslings of creative light. 
 
 Small words held mighty meanings : Matter, Force, 
 
 Self, Not-self, Being, Seeming, Space and Time — 
 
 Plebeian toilers on the dusty road 
 
 Of daily traffic, turned to Genii 
 
 And cloudy giants darkening sun and moon. 
 
 Creation was reversed in human talk : 
 
 None said, " Let Darkness be," but Darkness was ; 
 
 And in it weltered with Teutonic ease, 
 
 An argumentative Leviathan, 
 
 Blowing cascades from out his element, 
 
 The thunderous Rosencranz, till 
 
 " Truce, I beg ! '* 
 Said Osric, with nice accent. *• I abhor 
 That battling of the ghosts, that strife of terms 
 For utmost lack of color, form, and breath, 
 That tasteless squabbling called Philosophy : 
 As if a blue-winged butterfly afloat 
 For just three days above the Italian fields. 
 Instead of sipping at the heart of flowers. 
 Poising in sunshine, fluttering towards its bride. 
 Should fast and speculate, considering 
 What were if it were not .'' or what now is 
 Instead of that which seems to be itself ? 
 Its deepest wisdom surely were to be 
 A sipping, marrying, blue-winged butterfly ; 
 Since utmost speculation on itself 
 Were but a three days' living of worse sort— 
 A bruising struggle all within the bounds 
 Of butterfly existence." 
 
 107 
 
loS ^ COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY, 
 
 " I protest," 
 Burst in Laertes, " against arguments 
 That start with calling me a butterfly, 
 A bubble, spark, or other metaphor 
 Which carries your conclusions as a phrase 
 In quibbling law will carry jDroperty. 
 Put a thin sucker for my human lips 
 Fed at a mother's breast, who now needs food 
 That I will earn for her ; put bubbles blown 
 From frothy thinking, for the joy, the love, 
 The wants, the pity, and the fellowship 
 (The ocean deeps I might sa}^ were I bent 
 On bandying metaphors) that make a man — 
 Why, rhetoric brings within your easy reach 
 Conclusions worthy of — a butterfly. 
 The universe, I h.old, is no charade. 
 No acted pun unriddled by a word, 
 Nor pain a decimal diminishing 
 With hocus-pocus of a dot or naught. 
 For those who know it, pain is solely jDain : 
 Not any letters of the alphabet 
 V/rought syllogistically pattern-wise. 
 Nor any cluster of fine images. 
 Nor any missing of their figured dance 
 By blundering molecules. Analysis 
 May show you the right physic for the ill, 
 Teaching the molecules to find their dance, 
 But spare me your analogies, that hold 
 Such insight as the figure of a crow 
 And bar of music put to signify 
 A crowbar." 
 
 Said the Priest, " There I agree— 
 Would add that sacramental grace is grace 
 Which to be known must first be felt, with all 
 The strengthening influxes that come by prayer, 
 I note this passingly — would not delay 
 The conversation's tenor, save to hint 
 That taking stand with Rosencranz one sees 
 Final equivalence of all we name 
 Our Good and 111 — their difference meanwdiile 
 Being inborn prejudice that plumps you down 
 An Ego, brings a weight into your scale 
 Forcing a standard. That resistless v/eight 
 Obstinate, irremovable by though.t, 
 
A COLLEGE BREAIvFAST-PARTY. 
 
 Persisting through disproof, an ache, a need 
 
 That spaceless stays where sharp analysis 
 
 Has shown a plenum filled without it — what 
 
 If this, to use your phrase, were just that Being 
 
 Not looking solely, grasping from the dark, 
 
 Weighing the difference you call Ego ? This 
 
 Gives you persistence, regulates the flux 
 
 With strict relation rooted in the All. 
 
 Who is he of your late philosophers 
 
 Takes the true name of Being to be W^ill ? 
 
 I — nay, the Church objects naught, is content : 
 
 Reason has reached its utmost negative, 
 
 Physic and metaphysic meet in the inane 
 
 And backward shrink to intense prejudice, 
 
 Making their absolute and homogene 
 
 A loaded relative, a choice to be 
 
 Whatever is — supposed : a What is not. 
 
 The Church demands no more, has standing room 
 
 And basis for her doctrine : this (no more) — 
 
 That the strong bias which we name the Soul, 
 
 Though fed and clad by dissoluble waves, 
 
 Has antecedent quality, and rules 
 
 i>y veto or consent the strife of thought. 
 
 Making arbitrament that we call faith." 
 
 Here was brief silence, till young Hamlet spoke. 
 
 *' I crave direction, Father, how to know 
 
 The sign of that imperative whose right 
 
 To sway my act in face of thronging doubts 
 
 Were an oracular gem in price beyond 
 
 Urim and Thummim lost to Israel. 
 
 That bias of the soul, that conquering die 
 
 Loaded with golden emphasis of Will — 
 
 How find it where resolve, once made, becomes 
 
 The rash exclusion of an opposite 
 
 Which draws the stronger as I turn aloof." 
 
 "I think I hear a bias in your words," 
 
 The Priest said mildly, — " that strong natural bent 
 
 Which we call hunger. What more positive 
 
 Than appetite ? — of spirit or of flesh, 
 
 I care not — ' sense of need ' were truer phrase. 
 
 You hunger for authoritative right. 
 
 And yet discern no difference of tones, 
 
 No weight of rod that niarks imperial rule ? 
 
 log 
 
A COLLEGE BREAKEAST-PARTY, 
 
 Laertes granting, i will put your case 
 
 In analogic form : the doctors hold 
 
 Hunger which gives no relish — save caprice 
 
 That tasting venison fancies mellow pears — 
 
 A symptom of disorder, and prescribe 
 
 Strict discipline. Were I physician here 
 
 I would prescribe that exercise of soul 
 
 Which lies in full obedience : you ask, 
 
 Obedience to what ? The answer lies 
 
 Within the word itself ; for how obey 
 
 What has no rule, asserts no absolute claim ? 
 
 Take inclination, taste — why, that is you, 
 
 No rule about you. Science, reasoning 
 
 On nature's order — they exist and move 
 
 Solely by disputation, hold no pledge 
 
 Of final consequence, but push the swing 
 
 Where Epicurus and the Stoic sit 
 
 In endless see-saw. One authorit}'. 
 
 And only one, says simply this. Obey: 
 
 Place yourself in that current (test it so !) 
 
 Of spiritual order where at least 
 
 Lies promise of a high communion, 
 
 A Head informing members, Life that breathes 
 
 With gift of forces over and above 
 
 The////i" of arithmetic interchange. 
 
 'The Church too has a body,' you object, 
 
 ^ Can be dissected, put beneath the lens 
 
 And shown the merest continuity 
 
 Of all existence else beneath the sun.' 
 
 I grant you ; but the lens will not disprove 
 
 A presence which eludes it. Take your wit, 
 
 Your highest passion, widest-reaching thought : 
 
 Show their conditions if you wdll or can. 
 
 But though you saw the final atom-dance 
 
 Making each molecule that stands for sign 
 
 Of love being present, where is still your love ? 
 
 How measure that, how certify its weight ? 
 
 And so I say, the body of the Church 
 
 Carries a Presence, promises and gifts 
 
 Never disproved — whose argument is found 
 
 In lasting failure of the search elsewhere 
 
 For w^hat it holds to satisfy man's need, 
 
 But I grow lengthy: my excuse must be 
 
 Your question, Hamlet, which has probed right through 
 
A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. uj 
 
 To the pitch of our belief. And I have robbed 
 iMyseif of pleasure as a listener. 
 'Tis noon, I see \ and my appointment stands 
 For half-past twelve with Voltimand. Good-by.' 
 
 Brief parting, brief regret — sincere, but quenched 
 In fumes of best Havannah, which consoles 
 For lack of other certitude. Then said, 
 Mildly sarcastic, quiet Guildenstern : 
 **I marvel how the Father gave new charm 
 To weak conclusions : I was half convinced 
 The poorest reasoner made the finest man, 
 And held his logic lovelier for its limp." 
 
 ** I fain would hear," said Hamlet, ** how you find 
 
 A stronger footing than the Father gave. 
 
 How base your self-resistance save on faith 
 
 In some invisible Order, higher Right 
 
 Than changing impulse. What does Reason bid ? 
 
 To take a fullest rationality 
 
 What offers best solution : so the Church. 
 
 Science, detecting hydrogen aflame 
 
 Outside our firmament, leaves mystery 
 
 Whole and untouched beyond ; nay, in our blood 
 
 And in the potent atoms of each germ 
 
 The Secret lives — envelops, penetrates 
 
 Whatever sense perceives or thought divines. 
 
 Science, whose soul is explanation, halts 
 
 With hostile front at mystery. The Church 
 
 Takes mystery as her empire, brings its wealth 
 
 Of possibility to fill the void 
 
 'Twixt contradictions — warrants so a faith 
 
 Defying sense and all its ruthless train 
 
 Of arrogant ' Therefores.' Science with her lens 
 
 Dissolves the Forms that made the other half 
 
 Of all our love, which thenceforth widowed lives 
 
 To gaze with maniac stare at what is not. 
 
 The Church explains not, governs — feeds resolve 
 
 By vision fraught with heart-experience 
 
 And human yearning." 
 
 "Ay," said Guildenstern, 
 With friendly nod, " the Father, I can see, 
 Has caught you up in his air-chariot. 
 
iI2 A COLLEGE BREAL^'FAST-PARTl, 
 
 His thought takes rainbow-bridges, out of reach 
 
 By solid obstacles, evaporates 
 
 The coarse and common into subtilties, 
 
 Insists that what is real in the Church 
 
 Is something out of evidence, and begs 
 
 (Just in parenthesis) you'll never mind 
 
 What stares you in the face and bruises you. 
 
 Why, by his method I could justify 
 
 Each superstition and each tyranny 
 
 That ever rode upon the back of man, 
 
 Pretending fitness for his sole defence 
 
 Against life's evil. How can aught subsist 
 
 That holds no theory of gain or good ? 
 
 Despots with terror in their red right hand 
 
 Must argue good to helpers and themselves, 
 
 Must let submission hold a core of gain 
 
 To make their slaves choose life. Their theory. 
 
 Abstracting inconvenience of racks, 
 
 Whip-lashes, dragonnades and all things coarse 
 
 Inherent in the fact or concrete mass. 
 
 Presents the pure idea — utmost good 
 
 Secured by Order only to be found 
 
 In strict subordination, hierarchy 
 
 Of forces where, by nature's lavv', the strong 
 
 Has rightful empire, rule of weaker proved 
 
 Mere dissolution. What can you object ? 
 
 The Inquisition — if you turn av/ay 
 
 From narrow notice how the scent of gold 
 
 Has guided sense of damning heresy — 
 
 The Inquisition is sublime, is love 
 
 Hindering the spread of poison in men's souls 2 
 
 The flames are nothing : only smaller pain 
 
 To hinder greater, or the pain of one 
 
 To save the many, such as throbs at heart 
 
 Of every system born into the world. 
 
 So of the Church as high communion 
 
 Of Head with members, fount of spirit force 
 
 Beyond the calculus, and carrying proof 
 
 In her sole power to satisfy man's need; 
 
 That seems ideal truth as clear as lines 
 
 That, necessary though invisible, trace 
 
 The balance of the planets and the sun— 
 
 Until I find a hitch in that last claim. 
 
 * To satisfy nian's need.' Sir, that depends : 
 
A C0LLEC2L LREAKI- AST-PARTY. nj 
 
 We settle first the measure of man's need 
 
 Before we grant capacity to fill. 
 
 John, James, or Thomas, you may satisfy : 
 
 But since you choose ideals I demand 
 
 Your Church shall satisfy ideal man, 
 
 His utmost reason and his utmost love. 
 
 And say these rest a-hungered — find no scherne 
 
 Content them both, but hold the world accursed, 
 
 A Calvary where Reason mocks at Love, 
 
 And Love forsaken sends out orphan cries 
 
 Hopeless of answer ; still the soul remains 
 
 Larger, diviner than your half-way Church, 
 
 Which racks your reason into false consent, 
 
 And soothes your Love with sops of selfishness." 
 
 " There I am with you," cried Laertes. " What 
 
 To me are any dictates, though they came 
 
 With thunders from the Mount, if still within 
 
 I see a higher Right, a higher Good 
 
 Compelling love and worship ? Though the earth 
 
 Held force electric to discern and kill 
 
 Each thinking rebel — what is martyrdom 
 
 But death- defying utterance of belief. 
 
 Which being mine remains my truth supremo 
 
 Though solitary as the throb of pain 
 
 Lying outside the pulses of the world ? 
 
 Obedience is good : ay, but to what ? 
 
 And for v/hat ends ? For say that I rebel 
 
 Against your rule as devilish, or as rule 
 
 Of thunder-guiding powers that deny 
 
 Man's highest benefit rebellion then 
 
 Were strict obedience ^o another rule 
 
 Which bids me flout your thunder." 
 
 " Lo you now I " 
 Said Osric, delicately, "how you come, 
 Laertes mine, with all your warring zeal 
 As Python-slayer of the present age — 
 Cleansing all social swamps by darting rays 
 Of dubious doctrine, hot with energy 
 Of private judgment and disgust for doubt — 
 To state my thesis, which you most abhor 
 When sung in Daphnis-notes beneath the pines 
 To gentle rush of waters. Your belief — 
 In essence v;hat is it but simply Taste ? 
 
114 
 
 A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-FARTY, 
 
 I urge with you exemption from all claims 
 
 That come from other than my proper will, 
 
 An Ultimate within to balance yours, 
 
 A solid meeting you, excluding you, 
 
 Till you show fuller force by entering 
 
 My spiritual space and crushing Me 
 
 To a subordinate complement of You : 
 
 Such ultimate must stand alike for all. 
 
 Preach your crusade, then ; all will join who like 
 
 The hurly-burly of aggressive creeds; 
 
 Still your unpleasant Ought, your itch to chocse 
 
 What grates upon the sense, is simply Taste, 
 
 Differs, I think, from mine (permit the word, 
 
 Discussion forces it) in being bad." 
 
 The tone was too polite to breed offence. 
 
 Showing a tolerance of what was " bad " 
 
 Becoming courtiers. Louder Rosencranz 
 
 Took up the ball with rougher movement, v.ont 
 
 To show contempt for doting reasoners 
 
 Who hugged some reasons with a jDreference, 
 
 As warm Laertes did : he gave five puffs 
 
 Intolerantly skeptical, then said, 
 
 " Your human good, which you would make supreme, 
 
 How do you know it ? Has it shown its face 
 
 In adamantine type, with features clear. 
 
 As this republic, or that monarchy? 
 
 As federal grouping, or municipal? 
 
 Equality, or finely shaded lines 
 
 Of social difference ? ecstatic whirl 
 
 And draught intense of passionate joy and pain, 
 
 Or sober self-control that starves its youth 
 
 And lives to wonder what the world calls joy? 
 
 Is it in sympathy that shares men's pangs 
 
 Or in cool brains that can explain them well ? 
 
 Is it in labor or in laziness ? 
 
 In training for the tug of rivalry 
 
 To be admired, or in the admiring soul ? 
 
 In risk or certitude ? In battling rage 
 
 And hardy challenges of Protean luck, 
 
 Or in a sleek and rural apathy 
 
 Full fed with sameness ? Pray define your Good 
 
 Beyond rejection by majority ;- 
 
 Next, how it may subsist without the 111 
 
A COLLEGE BREAKEAST-PARTY. n^ 
 
 Which seems its only outh'ne. Show a world 
 Of pleasure not resisted ; or a world 
 Of pressure equalized, yet various 
 In action formative ; for that will serve 
 As illustration of your human good — 
 Which at its perfecting (your goal of hope) 
 Will not be straight extinct, or fall to sleep 
 In the deep bosom of the Unchangeable. 
 What will you work for, then, and call it good 
 With full and certain vision — good for aught 
 Save partial ends which happen to be yours ? 
 How will you get your stringency to bind 
 Thought or desire in demonstrated tracks 
 Which are but waves within a balanced whole ? 
 Is ' relative ' the magic word that turns 
 Your fiux mercurial of good to gold ? 
 Why, that analysis at which you range 
 As anti-social force that sweeps you down 
 The world in one cascade of molecules, 
 Is brother ' relative ' — and grins at you 
 Like any convict whom you thought to send 
 Outside society, till this enlarged 
 And meant New England and Australia too. 
 The Absolute is your shadow, and the space 
 Which you say might be real v.ere you milled 
 To curves pellicular, the thinnest thin. 
 Equation of no thickness, is still you." 
 
 " Abstracting all that makes him clubbable," 
 
 Horatio interposed. But Rosencranz, 
 
 Deaf as the angry turkey-cock whose ears 
 
 Are plugged by swollen tissues when he scolds 
 
 At men's pretensions : " Pooh, your ' Relative ' 
 
 Shuts you in, hopeless, with your progeny 
 
 As in a Hunger tower ; your social good, 
 
 Like other deities by turn supreme, 
 
 Is transient reflex of a prejudice, 
 
 Anthology of causes and effects 
 
 To suit the mood of fanatics who lead 
 
 The mood of tribes or nations. I admit 
 
 If you could show a sword, nay, chance of sword 
 
 Hanging conspicuous to their inward eyes 
 
 With edge so constant threatening as to sway 
 
 All greed and lust by terror; and a law 
 
ji6 A COLLEGE BREAICF AST-PARTY. 
 
 Clear-writ and proven as the law supreme 
 
 Which that dread sword enforces — then your Jcighij 
 
 Duty, or social Good, were it once brought 
 
 7'o common measure with the potent law, 
 
 Would dip the scale, would put unchanging marks 
 
 Of wisdom or of folly on each deed, 
 
 And warrant exhortation. Until then, 
 
 Where is your standard or criterion ? 
 
 'What always, everywhere, by all men' — why, 
 
 That were but Custom, and your system needs 
 
 Ideals never yet incorporate, 
 
 The imminent doom of Custom. Can you find 
 
 Appea} beyond the sentience in each man ? 
 
 Frighten the blind with scarecrows ? raise an awe 
 
 Of things unseen where appetite commands 
 
 Chambers of imagery in the soul 
 
 At all its avenues? — You chant your hymns 
 
 To Evolution, on your altar lay 
 
 A sacred egg called Progress : have you proved 
 
 A Best unique where all is relative, 
 
 And where each change is loss as well as gain ? 
 
 The age of healthy Saurians, well supplied 
 
 With heat and pre}', will balance well enough 
 
 A human age where maladies are strong 
 
 And pleasures feeble ; wealth a monster gorged 
 
 Mid hungry populations ; intellect 
 
 Aproned in laboratories, bent on proof 
 
 That t/iis is t/iat and both are crood for naui^^ht 
 
 Save feeding error through a weary life ; 
 
 While Art and Poesy struggle like poor ghosts 
 
 To hinder cock-crow and the dreadful light, 
 
 Lurking in darkness and the charnel-house, 
 
 Or like two stalwart graybeards, imbecile 
 
 With limbs still active, playing a belief 
 
 That hunt the slipper, foot-ball, hide-and-seekj 
 
 Are sweetly merry, donning pinafores 
 
 And lisping emulously in their speech. 
 
 O human race ! Is this then all thy gain ?— 
 
 Working at disproof, playing at belief, 
 
 Debate on causes, distaste of effects. 
 
 Power to transmute all elements, and lack 
 
 Of any power to sway the fatal skill 
 
 And make thy lot ^.Mght else than rigid dooiiie 
 
 The Saurians were better. — Guildenstern. . 
 
A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY, 
 
 Pass me the taper. Still the human curse 
 Has mitigation in the best cigars." 
 
 Then swift Laertes, not without a glare 
 
 Of leonine wrath, " I thank thee for that word : 
 
 That one confession, were I Socrates, 
 
 Should force you onward till you ran your head 
 
 At your own image — flatly gave the lie 
 
 To all your blasphemy of that human good 
 
 Which bred and nourished you to sit at ease 
 
 And learnedly deny it. Say the world 
 
 Groans ever with the pangs of doubtful births: 
 
 Say, life's a poor donation at the best — 
 
 Wisdom a yearning after nothingness — 
 
 Nature's great vision and the thrill supreme 
 
 Of thought-fed passion but a weary play — 
 
 I argue not against you. Who can prove 
 
 Wit to be witty when with deeper ground 
 
 Dulness intuitive declares wit dull ? 
 
 If life is worthless to you — why, it is. 
 
 You only know how little love you feel 
 
 To give you fellowship, how little force 
 
 Responsive to the quality of things. 
 
 Then end your life, throw off the unsought yoke. 
 
 If not — if you remain to taste cigars. 
 
 Choose racy diction, perorate at large 
 
 With tacit scorn of meaner men who win 
 
 No wreath or tripos — then admit at least 
 
 A possible Better in the seeds of earth ; 
 
 Acknowledge debt to that laborious life 
 
 Which, sifting evermore the mingled seeds, 
 
 Testing the Possible with patient skill, 
 
 And daring ill in presence of a good 
 
 For futures to inherit, made your lot 
 
 One you would choose rather than end it, nay, 
 
 Rather than, say, some twenty million lots 
 
 Of fellow-Britons toiling all to make 
 
 That nation, that community, whereon 
 
 You feed and thrive and talk philosophy. 
 
 I am no optimist whose faith must hang 
 
 On hard pretence that pain is beautiful 
 
 And agony explained for men at ease 
 
 By virtue's exercise in pitying it. 
 
 But this I hold : that he who takes one gift 
 
 117 
 
i8 A COLLEUE BREAKFAST-PARTY, 
 
 Made for him b)' the hopeful work of man, 
 
 Who tastes sweet bread, walks where he will unarmed, 
 
 His shield and warrant the invisible law, 
 
 Who owns a hearth and household charities, 
 
 Who clothes his body and his sentient soul 
 
 With skill and thoughts of men, and yet denies 
 
 A human good worth toiling for, is cursed 
 
 With worse negation than the poet feigned 
 
 In Mephistopheles. The Devil spins 
 
 His wire-drawn argument against all good 
 
 With sense of brimstone as his private lot. 
 
 And never drew a solace from the Earth.*' 
 
 Laertes fuming paused, and Guildenstern 
 
 Took up with cooler skill the fusillade : 
 
 *' I meet your deadliest challenge, Rosencranz :-^ 
 
 Where get, you say, a binding law, a rule 
 
 Enforced by sanction, an Ideal throned 
 
 With thunder in its hand ? I answer, there 
 
 Whence every faith and rule has drawn its force 
 
 Since human consciousness awaking owned 
 
 An outward, whose unconquerable sway 
 
 Resisted first and then subdued desire 
 
 By pressure of the dire Impossible 
 
 Urging to possible ends the active soul 
 
 And shaping so its terror and its love. 
 
 Why, you have said it — threats and promises 
 
 Depend on each man's sentence for their force ; 
 
 All sacred rules, imagined or revealed, 
 
 Can have no form or potency apart 
 
 From the percipient and emotive mind. 
 
 God, duty, love, submission, fellowship. 
 
 Must first be framed in man, as music is, 
 
 Before they live outside him as a law. 
 
 And still they grow and shape themselves anew^ 
 
 With fuller concentration in their life 
 
 Of inward and of outward energies 
 
 Blending to make the last result called Man, 
 
 Which means, not this or that philosopher 
 
 Looking through beauty into blankness, not 
 
 The swindler who has sent his fruitful lie 
 
 By the last telegram : it means the tide 
 
 Of needs reciprocal, toil, trust, and love — 
 
 The surging multitude of human claims 
 
A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY, ,,^ 
 
 Which make " a presence not to be put by " 
 
 Above the horizon of the general soul. 
 
 Is inward Reason shrunk to subtleties, 
 
 And inward wisdom pining passion-starved ? — 
 
 The outward Reason has the world in store, 
 
 Regenerates passion with the stress of want, 
 
 Regenerates knowledge with discovery, 
 
 Shows sly rapacious Self a blunderer, 
 
 Widens dependence, knits the social whole 
 
 In sensible relation more defined. 
 
 Do Boards and dirty-handed millionaires 
 
 Govern the planetary system ? — sway 
 
 The pressure of the Universe ? — decide 
 
 That man henceforth shall retrogress to ape, 
 
 Emptied of every sympathetic thrill 
 
 The All has wrought in him ? dam up henceforth 
 
 The flood of human claims as private force 
 
 To turn their wheels and make a private hell 
 
 For fish-pond to their mercantile domain ? 
 
 What are they but a parasitic growth 
 
 On the vast real and ideal world 
 
 Of man and nature blent in one divine ? 
 
 Why, take your closing dirge — say evil grows 
 
 And good is dwindling ; science mere decay, 
 
 Mere dissolution of ideal wholes 
 
 Which through the ages past alone have made 
 
 The earth and firmament of human faith; 
 
 Say, the small arc of Being we call man 
 
 Is near its mergence, what seems growing life 
 
 Naught but a hurrying chanp!-e towards lower types, 
 
 The ready rankness of degeneracy. 
 
 Well, they who mourn for the world's dying good 
 
 May take their common sorrows for a rock, 
 
 On it erect religion and a church, 
 
 A worship, rites, and passionate piety — 
 
 The worship of the Best though crucified 
 
 And God-forsaken in its dying pangs ; 
 
 The sacramental rites of fellowship 
 
 In common woe ; visions that purify 
 
 Through admiration and despairing love 
 
 Which keep their spiritual life intact 
 
 Beneath the murderous clutches of disproof 
 
 And feed a martyr-strength." 
 
120 COLLEGE BREAKFAST PAR TV. 
 
 " Religion high ! " 
 (Rosencranz here) " but with communicants 
 Few as the cedars upon Lebanon — 
 A child might count them. What the world demands 
 Is faith coercive of the multitude." 
 
 " Tush, Guildenstern, you granted him too much," 
 
 Burst in Laertes ; " I will never grant 
 
 One inch of law to feeble blasphemies 
 
 Which hold no higher ratio to life — 
 
 Full vigorous human life that peopled earth 
 
 And wrought and fought and loved and bravely died- 
 
 Than the sick morning glooms of debauchees. 
 
 Old nations breed old children, wizened babes 
 
 Whose youth is lanquid and incredulous, 
 
 Weary of life without the will to die ; 
 
 Their passions visionary appetites 
 
 Of bloodless spectres wailing that the world 
 
 For lack of substance slips from out their grasp ; 
 
 Their thoughts the withered husks of all things dead, 
 
 Holding no force of germs instinct with life, 
 
 Which never hesitates but moves and grows. 
 
 Yet hear them boast in screams their godlike ill. 
 
 Excess of knowing ! Fie on you, Rosencranz ! 
 
 You lend your brains and fine-dividing tongue 
 
 For bass-notes to this shrivelled crudity, 
 
 This immature decrepitude that strains 
 
 To fill our ears and claim the prize of strength 
 
 For mere unmanliness. Out on them all !-^ 
 
 Wits, puling minstrels, and philosophers, 
 
 Who living softly prate of suicide. 
 
 And suck the commonwealth to feed their ease 
 
 While they vent epigrams and threnodies, 
 
 Mocking or wailing all the eager work 
 
 Which makes that public store whereon they feed. 
 
 Is wisdom flattened sense and mere distaste ? 
 
 Why, any superstition warm with love. 
 
 Inspired with purpose, wild with energy 
 
 That streams resistless through his ready frame, 
 
 Has more of human truth within its life 
 
 Than souls that look through color into naught, — 
 
 Whose brain, too unimpassioned for delight. 
 
 Has feeble ticklings of a vanity 
 
 Which finds the universe beneath its mark, 
 
A COLLEGE BREAA'/'AST-PAKTY. izy 
 
 And scorning the blue heavens as merely blue 
 Can only say, ' What then ? ' — pre-eminent 
 In wondrous want of likeness to their kind, 
 Founding that worship of sterility 
 Whose one supreme is vacillating Will 
 Which makes the Light, then says, ' 'Twere beter not' * 
 
 Here rash Laertes brought his Handel-strain 
 As of some angry Polypheme, to pause ; 
 And Osric, shocked at ardors out of taste, 
 Relieved the audience with a tenor voice 
 And delicate delivery. 
 
 " For me, 
 ' range myself in line with Rosencranz 
 Against all schemes, religious or profane, 
 That flaunt a Good as pretex for a lash 
 To Hog us all who have the better taste, 
 Into conformity, requiring me 
 At peril of the thong and sharp disgrace 
 To care how mere Philistines pass their lives ; 
 Whether the English pauper-total grows 
 From one to two before the naughts ; how far 
 Teuton will outbreed Roman ; if the class 
 Of proletaires will make a federal band 
 To bind all Europe and America, 
 Throw, in their wrestling, every government, 
 Snatch the world's purse and keep the guillotine 
 Or else (admitting these are casualties) 
 Driving my soul with scientific hail 
 That shuts the landscape out with particles j 
 Insisting that the Palingenesis 
 Means telegraphs and measure of the rate 
 At which the stars move — nobody knows where. 
 So far, my Rosencranz, we are at one. 
 But not when you blaspheme the life of Art, 
 The sweet perennial youth of Poesy, 
 Which asks no logic but its sensuous growth, 
 No right but loveliness ; which fearless strolls 
 Betwixt the burning mountain and the sea. 
 Reckless of earthquake and the lava stream. 
 Filling its hour with beauty. It knows naught 
 Of bitter strife, denial, grim resolve. 
 Sour resignation, busy emphasis 
 
122 ^ COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY, 
 
 Of fresh illusions named the new-born True, 
 Old Error's latest child ; but as a lake 
 Images all things, yet within its depths 
 Dreams them all lovelier — thrills with sound 
 And makes a harp of plenteous liquid chords— 
 So Art or Poesy : we its votaries 
 Are the Olympians, fortunately born 
 From the elemental mixture ; 'tis our lot 
 To pass more swiftly than the Delian God, 
 But still the earth breaks into flowers for us, 
 And mortal sorrows when they reach our ears 
 Are dying falls to melody divine. 
 Hatred, war, vice, crime, sin, those human storms, 
 Cyclones, floods, what you will — outbursts of force- 
 Feed art with contrast, give the grander touch 
 To the master's pencil and the poet's song. 
 Serve as Vesuvian fires or navies tossed 
 On yawning Waters, which when viewed afar 
 Deepen the calm sublime of those souls 
 Who keep the heights of poesy and turn 
 A fleckless mirror to the various world. 
 Giving its many-named and fitful flux 
 An imaged, harmless, spiritual life. 
 With pure selection, native to art's frame, 
 Of beauty only, save its minor scale 
 Of ill and pain to give the ideal joy 
 A keener edge. This is a mongrel globe ; 
 All finer being wrought from its coarse earth 
 Is but accepted privilege : what else 
 Your boasted virtue, which proclaims itself 
 A good above the average consciousness ? 
 Nature exists by partiality 
 Each planet's poise carry two extremes 
 With verging breadths of minor wretchedness 
 We are her favorites and accept our wings. 
 For your accusal, Rosencranz, that art 
 Shares in the dread and weakness of the time, 
 I hold it null ; since art or poesy pure. 
 Being blameless by all standards save her own, 
 Takes no account of modern or antique 
 In morals, science, or philosophy : 
 No dull elenchus makes a yoke for her. 
 Whose law and measure are the sweet consent 
 Of sensibilities that move apart 
 
A COLLEGIA BREAKFASr-PARTY. 
 
 From rise or fall of systems, states or creeds — 
 Apart from what Philistines call man's weal." 
 
 ** Ay, we all know those votaries of the Muse 
 Ravished with singing till they quite forgot 
 Their manhood, sang, and gaped, and took no food, 
 Then died of emptiness, and for reward 
 Lived on as grasshoppers " — Laertes thus : 
 But then he checked himself as one who feels 
 His muscles dangerous, and Guildenstern 
 Filled up the pause with calmer confidence. 
 
 ** You use your wings, my Osric, poise yourself 
 
 Safely outside all reach of argument, 
 
 Then dogmatize at will (a method known 
 
 To ancient women and philosophers, 
 
 Nay, to Philistines whom you most abhor) ; 
 
 Else, could an arrow reach you, I should ask 
 
 Whence came taste, beauty, sensibilities 
 
 Refined to preference infallible ? 
 
 Doubtless, ye're gods — these odors ye inhale, 
 
 A sacrificial scent. But how, I pray. 
 
 Are adors made, if not by gradual change 
 
 Of sense or substance ? Is your beautiful 
 
 A seedless, rootless flower, or has it grown 
 
 With human growth, which means the rising sum 
 
 Of human struggle, order, knowledge ? — sense 
 
 Trained to a fuller record, more exact — 
 
 To truer guidance of each passionate force ? 
 
 Get me your roseate flesh without the blood 
 
 Get fine aromas without structure wrought 
 
 From simpler being into manifold : 
 
 Then and then only flaunt your Beautiful 
 
 As what can live apart from thought, creeds, states, 
 
 Which mean life's structure. Osric, I beseech — 
 
 The infallible should be more catholic — 
 
 Join in a war-dance with the cannibals, 
 
 Hear Chinese music, love a face tattooed, 
 
 Give adoration to a pointed skull, 
 
 And think the Hindu Siva looks divine : 
 
 'Tis art, 'tis poesy. Say, you object : 
 
 How came you by that lofty dissidence, 
 
 If not through changes in the social man 
 
 Widening his consciousness from Here and Now 
 
 i23 
 
124 ^ COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 
 
 To larger wholes beyond the reach of sense ; 
 
 Controlling to a fuller harmony 
 
 The thrill of passion and the rule of fact : 
 
 And paling false ideals in the light 
 
 Of full-rayed sensibilities which blend 
 
 Truth and desire ? Taste, beauty, what are they 
 
 But the soul's choice towards perfect bias wrought 
 
 By finer balance of a fuller gr©wth — 
 
 Sense brought to subtlest metamorphosis 
 
 Through love, thought, joy — the general human store 
 
 Which grows from all life's functions ? As the plant 
 
 Holds its corolla, purple, delicate, 
 
 Solely as outflush of that energy 
 
 Which moves transformingly in root and branch. 
 
 Guildenstern paused, and Hamlet quivering 
 
 Since Osric spoke, in transit imminent 
 
 From catholic striving into laxity. 
 
 Ventured his word. " Seems to me, Guildenstern, 
 
 Your argument, though shattering Osric's point 
 
 That sensibilities can move apart 
 
 From social order, yet has not annulled 
 
 His thesis that the life of poesy 
 
 (Admitting it must grow from out the whole) 
 
 Has separate functions, a transfigured realm 
 
 Freed from the rigors of the practical. 
 
 Where what is hidden from the grosser world — 
 
 Stormed down by roar of engines and the shouts 
 
 Of eager concourse — rises beauteous 
 
 As voice of water-drops in sapphire caves ; 
 
 A realm where finest spirits have free sway 
 
 In exquisite selection, uncontrolled 
 
 By hard material necessity 
 
 Of cause and consequence. For you will grant 
 
 The Ideal has discoveries which ask 
 
 No test, no faith, save that we joy in them : 
 
 A new-found continent, with spreading lands 
 
 Where pleasure charters all, where virtue, rank, 
 
 Use, right, and truth have but one name. Delight, 
 
 Thus Art's creations, when etherealized 
 
 To least admixture of the grosser fact 
 
 Delight may stamp as highest." 
 
A COLLEGE B-REAKFAST-PARTY. 125 
 
 *' Possible I " 
 Said Guildenstern, with touch of weariness, 
 " But then we might dispute of what Is gross, 
 What high, what low." 
 
 "Nay," said Laertes, **ask 
 The mightiest makers who have reigned, still reign 
 Within the ideal realm. See if their thought 
 Be drained of practice and the thick warm blood 
 Of hearts that beat in action various 
 Through the wide drama of the struggling world. 
 Good-by, Horatio." 
 
 Each now said " Good-by." 
 Such breakfast, such beginning of the day 
 Is more than half the whole. The sun was hot 
 On southward branches of the meadow elms. 
 The shadows slowly farther crept and veered 
 Like changing memories, and Hamlet strolled 
 Alone and dubious on the empurpled path 
 Between the waving grasses of new June 
 Close by the stream where well-compacted boats 
 Were moored or moving with a lazy creak 
 To the soft dip of oars. All sounds were light 
 As tiny silver bells upon the robes 
 Of hovering silence. Birds made twitterings 
 That seemed but Silence self o'erfull of love. 
 'Twas invitation all to sweet repose ; 
 And Hamlet, drowsy with the mingled draughts 
 Of cider and conflicting sentiments, 
 Chose a green couch and watched with half-closed eyes 
 The meadow-road, the stream and dreamy lights, 
 Until they merged themselves in sequence strange 
 With undulating ether, time, the soul, 
 The will supreme, the individual claim, 
 The social Ought, the lyrist's liberty, 
 Democritus, Pythagoras in talk 
 With Anselm, Darwin, Comte, and Schopenhauer, 
 The poets rising slow from out their tombs 
 Summoned as arbiters — that border-world 
 Of dozing, ere the sense is fully locked. 
 
126 A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY, 
 
 And then he dreamed a dream so luminous 
 He wake (he says) convinced ; but what it taught 
 Withholds as yet. Perhaps those graver shades 
 Admonished him that visions told in haste 
 Part with their virtues to the squandering lips 
 And leave the soul in wider emptiness. 
 Aprils 1874, 
 
TH'V LOVERS. 
 
 122 
 
 TWO LOVERS. 
 
 Two lovers by a moss-grown spring : 
 They leaned soft cheeks together there, 
 Mingled the dark and sunny hair, 
 And heard the wooing thrushes sing. 
 O budding time ! 
 O love's blest prime ! 
 
 Two wedded from the portal stept : 
 The bells made happy carollings, 
 The air was soft as fanning wings, 
 White petals on the pathway slept. 
 
 O pure eyed bride I 
 O tender pride ! 
 
 Two faces o'er a cradle bent : 
 
 Two hands above the head were locked ; 
 These pressed each other while they rocked, 
 Those watched a life that love had sent. 
 O solemn hour ! 
 O hidden power ! 
 
 Two parents by the evening fire : 
 The red light fell about their knees 
 On heads that rose by slow degrees 
 Like buds upon the lily spire. 
 
 O patient life ! 
 O tender strife I 
 
 The two still sat together there, 
 
 The red light shown about their knees ; 
 But all the heads by slow degrees 
 Had gone and left that lonely pair. 
 O voyage fast ! 
 O vanished past 1 
 
128 ^WO LOVERS, 
 
 The red light shone upon the flooi 
 
 And made the space between them wide ; 
 They drew their chairs up side by side, 
 Their pale cheeks joined, and said " Once mort I 
 O memories ! 
 O past that is I 
 
 1866. 
 
SELF AND LIFE. 129 
 
 SELF AND LIFE. 
 
 Self. 
 
 Changeful comrade, Life of mine, 
 
 Before we two must part, 
 I will tell thee, thou shalt say, 
 
 What thou hast been and art. 
 Ere I lose my hold of thee 
 Justify thyself to me. 
 
 Life. 
 
 I was thy warmth upon thy mother's knee 
 
 When light and love within her eyes were one j 
 
 We laughed together by the laurel-tree. 
 
 Culling warm daisies 'neath the sloping sun : 
 
 We heard the chickens' lazy croon, 
 
 Where the trellised woodbines grew, 
 And all the summer afternoon 
 Mystic gladness o'er thee threw. 
 Was it person ? Was it thing ? 
 Was it touch or whispering ? 
 It was bliss and it was I : 
 Bliss was what thou knew*st me by. 
 
 Self. 
 
 Soon I knew thee more by Fear 
 
 And sense of what was not, 
 Haunting all I held most dear ; 
 
 I had a double lot : 
 Ardor, cheated with alloy. 
 Wept the more for dreams of joy. 
 
 Life. 
 
 Remember how thy ardor's magic sense 
 
 Made poor things rich to thee and small things great ; 
 
,30 SELF AND LIFE. 
 
 How hearth and garden, field and bushy fence, 
 Were thy own eager love incorporate ; 
 
 And how the solemn, splendid Past 
 
 O'er thy early widened earth 
 Made grandeur, as on sunset cast 
 Dark elms near take mighty girth. 
 Hands and feet were tiny still 
 When we knew the historic thrill, 
 Breathed deep breath in heroes dead, 
 Tasted the immortals' bread. 
 
 Self. 
 
 Seeing what I might have been 
 
 Reproved the thing I was. 
 Smoke on heaven's clearest sheen, 
 
 The speck within the rose. 
 By revered ones' frailties stung 
 Reverence was with anguish wrung. 
 
 Life. 
 
 But all thy anguish and thy discontent 
 Was growth of mine, the elemental strife 
 
 Towards feeling manifold with vision blent 
 To wider thought : I was no vulgar life 
 
 That, like the water-mirrored ape, 
 
 Not discerns the thing it sees, 
 Nor knows its own in others' shape. 
 Railing, scorning, at its ease. 
 
 Half man's truth must hidden lie 
 If unlit by Sorrow's eye. 
 I by Sorrow wrought in thee 
 Willing pain of ministry. 
 
 Self. 
 
 Slowly was the lesson taught 
 
 Through passion, error, care ; 
 Insight was with loathing fraught 
 
 And effort with despair. 
 Written on the wall I saw 
 " Bow ! " I knew, not loved, the law. 
 
SELF AND LIFE, 131 
 
 Life. 
 
 But then I brought a love that wrote within 
 The law of gratitude, and made thy heart 
 
 Beat to the heavenly tune of seraphin 
 Whose only joy in having is, to impart : 
 
 Till thou, poor self — despite thy ire, 
 
 Wrestling 'gainst my mingled share, 
 Thy faults, hard falls, and vain desire 
 Still to be what others were — 
 Filled, o'erflowed with tenderness 
 Seeming more as thou wert less, 
 Knew me through that anguish past 
 As a fellowship more vasU 
 
 Self. 
 Yea, I embrace thee, changeful Life ! 
 
 Far-sent, unchosen mate ! 
 Self and thou, no more at strife, 
 
 Shall wed in hallowed state. 
 Willing spousals now shall prove 
 Life is justified by love. 
 
132 '' SWEET EVENINGS COME AND GO, LOVE:* 
 
 "SWEET EVENINGS COME AND GO, LOVE" 
 
 " La noche buena se viene, 
 
 La noche buena se va, 
 Y nosotros nos iremos 
 
 Y no volveremos mas." 
 
 — Old Villancico. 
 
 Sweet evenings come and go, love, 
 They came and went of yore ; 
 
 This evening of our life, love, 
 Shall go and come no more. 
 
 When we have passed away, love, 
 All things will keep their name ; 
 
 But yet no life on earth, love. 
 With ours will be the same. 
 
 The daisies will be there, love. 
 The stars in heaven will shine : 
 
 I shall not feel thy wish, love. 
 Nor thou my hand in thine. 
 
 A better time will come, love, 
 And better souls be born : 
 
 I would not be the best, love, 
 To leave thee now forlorn. 
 
THE DBA Til OF MOSES, 133 
 
 THE DEATH OF MOSES. 
 
 Moses, who spake with God as with his friend, 
 And ruled his people with the twofold power 
 Of wisdom that can dare and still be meek, 
 Was writing his last word, the sacred name 
 Unutterable of that Eternal Will 
 Which was and is and evermore shall be. 
 Yet was his task not finished, for the flock 
 Needed its shepherd and the life-taught sage 
 Leaves no successor ; but to chosen men. 
 The rescuers and guides of Israel, 
 A death was given called the Death of Grace, 
 Which freed them from the burden of the flesh 
 But left them rulers of the multitude 
 And loved companions of the lonely. This 
 Was God's last gift to Moses, this the hour 
 When soul must part from self and be but soul. 
 
 God spake to Gabriel, the messenger 
 
 Of mildest death that draws the parting life 
 
 Gently, as when a little rosy child 
 
 Lifts up its lips from off the bowl of milk 
 
 And so draws forth a curl that dipped its gold 
 
 In the soft white — thus Gabriel draws the soul. 
 
 *' Go bring the soul c f Moses unto me ! " 
 
 And the awe-stricken angel answered, " Lord, 
 
 How shall I dare to take his life who lives 
 
 Sole of his kind, not to be likened once 
 
 In all the generations of the earth ? '* 
 
 Then God called Michael, him of pensive brow 
 Snow-vest and flaming sword, who knows and acti 
 ** Go bring the spirit of Moses unto me ! " 
 But Michael with such grief as angels feel, 
 Loving the mortals whom they succor, pled : 
 ** Almighty, spare me ; it was I who taught 
 
134 
 
 l^HE DEA TH OF MOSES. 
 
 Thy servant Moses ; he is part of me 
 As I of thy deep secrets, knowing them." 
 
 Then God called Zamael, the terrible, 
 
 The angel of fierce death, of agony 
 
 That comes in battle and in pestilence 
 
 Remorseless, sudden or with lingering throes. 
 
 And Zamael, his raiment and broad wings 
 
 Blood-tinctured, the dark lustre of his eyes 
 
 Shrouding the red, fell like the gathering night 
 
 Before the prophet. But that radiance 
 
 Won from the heavenly presence in the mount 
 
 Gleamed on the prophet's brow and dazzling pierced 
 
 Its conscious opposite : the angel turned 
 
 His murky gaze aloof and inly said : 
 
 *' An angel this, deathless to angel's stroke." 
 
 But Moses felt the subtly nearing dark : — 
 
 ** Who art thou ? and what wilt thou ? " Zamael then 
 
 *' I am God's reaper ; through the fields of life 
 
 I gather ripened and unripened souls 
 
 Both willing and unwilling. And I come 
 
 Now to reap thee." But Moses cried, 
 
 Firm as a seer who waits the trusted sign : 
 
 " Reap thou the fruitless plant and common herb— 
 
 Not him who from the womb was sanctified 
 
 To teach the law of purity and love." 
 
 And Zamael baffled from his errand fled. 
 
 But Moses, pausing, in the air serene 
 Heard now that mystic whisper, far yet near, 
 The all-penetrating Voice, that said to him, 
 " Moses, the hour is come and thou must die." 
 ** Lord, I obey ; but thou rememberest 
 How thou. Ineffable, didst take me once 
 Within thy orb of light untouched by death." 
 Then the voice answered, " Be no more afraid : 
 With me shall be thy death and burial." 
 So Moses waited, ready now to die. 
 
 And the Lord came, invisible as a thought, 
 Three angels gleaming on his secret track, 
 Prince Michael, Zagael, Gabriel, charged to guard 
 The soul-forsaken body as it fell 
 
THE DEA TH OF MOSES. 135 
 
 And bear it to the hidden sepulchre 
 
 Denied for ever to the search of man. 
 
 And the Voice said to Moses : " Close thine eyes." 
 
 He closed them. " Lay thine hand upon thine heart, 
 
 And draw thy feet together." He obeyed. 
 
 And the Lord said, " O spirit ! child of mine ! 
 
 A hundred years and twenty thou hast dwelt 
 
 Within this tabernacle wrought of clay. 
 
 This is the end : come forth and flee to heaven." 
 
 But the grieved soul with plaintive pleading cried, 
 *' I love this body with a clinging love : 
 The courage fails me, Lord, to part from it." 
 
 " O child, come forth ! for thou shalt dwell with me 
 About the immortal throne where seraphs joy 
 In growing vision and in growing love." 
 
 Yet hesitating, fluttering, like the bird 
 
 With young wing weak and dubious, the soul 
 
 Stayed. But behold ! upon the death-dewed lips 
 
 A kiss descended, pure, unspeakable — 
 
 The bodiless Love without embracing Love 
 
 That lingered in the body, drew it forth 
 
 With heavenly strength and carried it to heaven. 
 
 But now beneath the sky the watchers all, 
 
 Angels that keep the homes of Israel 
 
 Or on high purpose wander o'er the world 
 
 Leading the Gentiles, felt a dark eclipse : 
 
 The greatest ruler among men was gone. 
 
 And from the westward sea was heard a wail, 
 
 A dirge as from the isles of Javanim, 
 
 Crying, " Who now is left upon the earth 
 
 Like him to teach the right and smite the wron^ ! 
 
 And from the East, far o'er the Syrian waste, 
 
 Came slowlier, sadlier, the answering dirge : 
 
 " No prophet like him lives or shall arise 
 
 In Israel or the world for evermore." 
 
 But Israel waited, looking toward the mount, 
 Till with the deepening eve the elders came 
 Saying, " His burial is hid with God. 
 We stood far off and saw the angels lift 
 His corpse aloft until they seemed a star 
 That burnt itself away within the sky," 
 
136 ^HE DEA TH OF MOSES. 
 
 The people answered with mute orphaned gaze 
 Looking for what had vanished evermore. 
 Then through the gloom without them and within 
 The spirit's shaping light, mysterious speech, 
 Invisible Will wrought clear in sculptured sound, 
 The thought-begotten daughter of the voice, 
 Thrilled on their listening sense : " He has no tomb. 
 He dwells not with you dead, but lives as Law. " 
 
AKIOJ\r, , j^y 
 
 ARION. 
 (Herod. I. 24.) 
 
 AicoN, whose melodic soul 
 Taught the dithyramb to roll 
 
 Like forest fires, and sing 
 
 Olympian suffering, 
 
 Had carried his diviner lore 
 From Corinth to the sister shore 
 
 Where Greece could largelier be, 
 
 Branching o'er Italy. 
 
 Then weighted with his glorious name 
 And bags of gold, aboard he came 
 'Mid harsh seafaring men 
 To Corinth bound again. 
 
 The sailors eyed the bags and thought: 
 " The gold is good, the man is naught — 
 And who shall track the wave 
 That opens for his grave ? " 
 
 With brawny ^rm« and cruel eyes 
 They press aroand mm where he lies 
 In sleep beside his lyre, 
 Hearing the Muses quire. 
 
 He waked and saw this wolf-<^^,ce^ Death 
 Breaking the dream that filled his breath 
 
 With inspiration strong 
 
 Of yet unchanted song. 
 
 •* Take, take my gold and let me live ! " 
 He prayed, as kings do when they give 
 Their all with royal will, 
 Holding born kingship still. 
 
138 ARION. 
 
 To rob the living they refuse, 
 
 One death or others he must choose, 
 
 Either the watery pall 
 
 Or wounds and burial. 
 
 " My solemn robe then let me don, 
 Give me high space to stand upon, 
 
 That dying I may pour 
 
 A song unsung before." 
 
 It pleased them well to grant this pra)^eir 
 To hear for naught how it might fare 
 
 With men who paid their gold 
 
 For what a poet sold. 
 
 In flowing stole, his eyes aglow 
 With inward fire, he neared the prow 
 
 And took his god-like stand, 
 
 The cithara in hand. 
 
 The wolfish men all shrank aloof, 
 And feared this singer might be proof 
 
 Against their murderous power. 
 
 After his lyric hour. 
 
 But he, in liberty of song, 
 Fearless of death or other wrong. 
 With full spondaic toll 
 Poured forth his mighty soul : 
 
 Poured forth the strain his dream had taught, 
 A nome with lofty passson fraught 
 
 Such as makes batdes won 
 
 On fields of Marathon. 
 
 The last long vowels trembled then 
 Vs awe within those wolfish men : 
 
 They said, with mutual stare, 
 Some god was present there. 
 
 But lo ! Arion leaped on high 
 Ready, his descant done, to die ; 
 Not asking, " Is it well ? " 
 Like a pierced eagle fell. 
 1873. 
 
" O MAY J JOIN THE, CHOIR INVISIBLE:^ lyj 
 
 " O MAY I JOIN THE CHOIR INVISIBLE/ 
 
 Longum illudtempus, quum non era, magis me movet, quam hoc exiguum- 
 CiCERO, ad Att., xii, i8. 
 
 O MAY I join the choir invisible 
 
 Of those immortal dead who live again 
 
 In minds made better by their presence : live 
 
 In pulses stirred to generosity, 
 
 In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn 
 
 For miserable aims that end with self. 
 
 In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, 
 
 And with their mild persistence urge man's search 
 
 To vaster issues. 
 
 So to live is heaven : 
 To make undying music in the world. 
 Breathing as beauteous order that controls 
 With growing sway the growmg life of man. 
 So we inherit that sweet purity 
 For which we struggled, failed, and agonized 
 With widening retrospect that bred despair. 
 Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued, 
 A vicious parent shaming still its child 
 Poor anxious penitence, is quick dissolved ; 
 Its discords, quenched by meeting harmonies, 
 Die in the large and charitable air. 
 And all our rarer, better, truer self, 
 That sobbed religiously in yearning song. 
 That watched to ease the burthen of the world, 
 Laboriously tracing what must be. 
 And what may yet be better — saw within 
 A worthier image for the sanctuary, 
 And shaped it forth before the multitude 
 Divinely human, raising worship so 
 To higher reverence more mixed with love — 
 That better self shall live till human Time 
 Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky 
 Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb 
 Unread forever 
 
r ^o " ^ ^/^ y I JOIN THE CHOIR INVISIBLES 
 
 This is life to come, 
 Which martyred men have made more glorious 
 For us who strive to follow. May I reach 
 That purest heaven, be to other souls 
 The cup of strength in some great agony, 
 Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love, 
 Beget the smiles that have no cruelty — 
 Be the sweet presence of a good diffused, 
 And in diffusion ever more intense. 
 So shall I join the choir invisible 
 Whose music is the gladness of the world. 
 
 1867. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY, 
 
This Work was originally written in the winter ^1864-65 ; after a visit i 
 to Spain in 1867 // zvas rezorittett and amplified. The reader conversant, 
 with Spanish poetry will see that in two of the Lyrics an attempt has been, 
 made to imitate the trochaic measure and assonance of the Spanish Ballad.', 
 
 May, 1868. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 ^Tis the warm South, where Europe spreads her land' 
 Like fretted leaflets, breathing on the deep : 
 Broad-breasted Spain, leaning with equal love 
 On the Mid Sea that moans with memories, 
 And or. the untravelled Ocean's restless tides. 
 This river, shadowed by the battlements 
 And gleaming silvery towards the northern sky, 
 Feeds the famed stream that waters Andalus 
 And loiters, amorous of the fragrant air, 
 By Crddova and Seville to the bay 
 Fronting Algarva and the wandering flood 
 Of Guadiana. This deep mountain gorge 
 Slopes widening on the olive-plumed plains 
 Of fair Granada : one far-stretching arm 
 Points to Elvira, one to eastward heights 
 Of Alpujarras where the new-bathed Day 
 With oriflamme uplifted o'er the peaks 
 Saddens the breasts of northward-looking snows 
 That loved the night, and soared with soaring stars ; 
 Flashing the signals of his nearing swiftness 
 From Almeria's purple-shadowed bay 
 On to the far-off rocks that gaze and glow- 
 On to Alhambra, strong and ruddy heart 
 Of glorious Morisma, grasping now, 
 A maimed giant in his agony. 
 This town that dips its feet within the stream 
 And seems to sit a tower-crowned Cybele, 
 Spreading her ample robe adown the rocks, 
 Is rich Beadmr : 'twas Moorish long ago, 
 
144 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY, 
 
 But now the Cross is sparkling on the Mosque, 
 
 And bells make Catholic the trembling air. 
 
 The fortress gleams in Spanish sunshine now 
 
 ('Tis south a mile before the rays are Moorish ) — 
 
 Hereditary jewel, agraffe bright 
 
 On all the many-titled privilege 
 
 Of young Duke Silva. No Castilian knight 
 
 That serves Queen Isabel has higher charge ; 
 
 For near this frontier sits the Moorish king, 
 
 Not Boabdil the weaverer, who usurps 
 
 A throne he trembles in, and fawning licks 
 
 The feet of conquerors, but that fierce lion 
 
 Grisly El Zagal, who has made his lair 
 
 In Guadix' fort, and rushing thence with strength, 
 
 Half his own fierceness, half the untainted heart 
 
 Of mountain bands that fight for holiday, 
 
 Wastes the fair lands that lie by Alcala, 
 
 Wreathing his horse's neck with Christian heads. 
 
 To keep the Christian frontier — such high trust 
 
 Is young Duke Silva's ; and the time is great. 
 
 (What times are little ? To the sentinel 
 
 That hour is regal when he mounts on guard.) 
 
 The fifteenth century since the Man Divine 
 
 Taught and was hated in Capernaum 
 
 Is near its end — is falling as a husk 
 
 Away from all the fruit its years have riped. 
 
 The Moslem faith, now flickering like a torch 
 
 In a night struggle on this shore of Spain, 
 
 Glares, a broad column of advancing flame, 
 
 Along the Danube and the Illyrian shore 
 
 Far into Italy, where eager monks. 
 
 Who watch in dreams and dream the while they watch, 
 
 See Christ grow paler in the baleful light, 
 
 Crying again the cry of the forsaken. 
 
 But faith, the stronger for extremity. 
 
 Becomes prophetic, hears the far-off tread 
 
 Of western chivalry, sees downward sweep 
 
 The archangel Michael with the gleaming sword, 
 
 And listens for the shriek of hurrying fiends 
 
 Chased from their revels in God's sanctuary. 
 
 So trusts the monk, and lifts appealing eyes 
 
 To the high dome, the Church's firmament, 
 
 Where the blue light-pierced curtain, rolled away, 
 
THE SPANISH G VFS V. i .1 5 
 
 Reveals the throne and Him who sits thereon. 
 So trust the men whose best hope for the world 
 Is ever that the world is near its end : 
 Impatient of the stars that keep their course 
 And make no pathway for the coming Judge. 
 
 But other futures stir the world's great heart. 
 The West now enters on the heritage 
 Won from the tombs of mighty ancestors, 
 The seeds, the gold, the gems, the silent harps 
 That lay deep buried with the memories 
 Of old renown. 
 
 No more, as once in sunny Avignon, 
 The poet-scholar spreads the Homeric page, 
 And gazes sadly, like the deaf at song ; 
 For now the old epic voices ring again 
 And vibrate with the beat and melody 
 Stirred by the warmth of old Ionian days* 
 The martyred sage, the Attic orator, 
 Immortality incarnate, like the gods, 
 In spiritual bodies, winged words 
 Holding a universe impalpable, 
 Find a new audience. For evermore, 
 With grander resurrection than was feigned 
 Of Attila's fierce Huns, the soul of Greece 
 Conquers the bulk of Persia. The maimed form 
 Of calmly-joyous beauty, marble-limbed. 
 Yet breathing with the thought that shaped its lips, 
 Looks mild reproach from out its opened grave 
 At creeds of terror ; and the vine-v/reathed god 
 Fronts the pierced Image with the crown of thorns. 
 The soul of man is widening towards the past ; 
 No longer hanging at the breasts of life 
 Feeding in blindness to his parentage- 
 Quenching all wonder with Omnipotence, 
 Praising a name with indolent piet}^— 
 He spells the record of his long descent, 
 More largely conscious of the life that was. 
 And from the height that shows where morning shone 
 On far-off summits pale and gloomy now, 
 The horizon widens round him, and the west 
 Looks vast with untracked waves whereon his gaze 
 Follows the flight of the swift-vanished bird 
 That like the sunken sim is mirrored still 
 10 
 
1 4 6 THE SPANISH G YPS Y. 
 
 Upon the yearning soul within the eye. 
 
 And so in Crodova through patient nights 
 
 Columbus watches, or he sails in dreams 
 
 Between the setting stars and finds new day ; 
 
 Then wakes again to the old weary days, 
 
 Girds on the cord and frock of pale Saint Francis, 
 
 And like him zealous pleads with foolish men. 
 
 " I ask but for a million maravedis : 
 
 Give me three caravels to find a world, 
 
 New shores, new realms, new soldiers for the Cross. 
 
 Son cosas grandes /" Thus he pleads in vain ; 
 
 Yet fjMnts not utterly, but pleads anew, 
 
 Thinking, " God means it, and has chosen me." 
 
 For this man is the pulse of all mankind 
 
 Feeding an embryo future, offspring strange 
 
 Of the fond Present, that with mother-prayers 
 
 And mother-fancies looks for championship 
 
 Of all her loved beliefs and old-world ways 
 
 From that young Time she bears within her womb. 
 
 The sacred places shall be purged again, 
 
 The Turk converted, and the Holy Church, 
 
 Like the mild Virgin with the outspread robe. 
 
 Shall fold all tongues and nations lovingly. 
 
 But since God works by armies, who shall be 
 The modern Cyrus ? Is it France most Christian, 
 Who with his lilies and brocaded knights, 
 French oaths, French vices, and the newest style 
 Of out-puffed sleeve, shall pass from west to east, 
 A winnowing fan to purify the seed 
 For fair millenial harvests soon to come ? 
 Or is not Spain the land of chosen warriors ? 
 Crusaders consecrated from the womb, 
 Carrying the sword-cross stamped upon their souls 
 By the long yearnings of a nation's life, 
 Through all the seven patient centuries 
 Since first Pelayo and his resolute band 
 Trusted the God within their Gothic hearts 
 At Covadunga, and defied Mahound ; 
 Beginning so the Holy War of Spain 
 That now is panting with the eagerness 
 Of labor near its end. The silver cross 
 Glitters o'er Malaga and streams dread light 
 On Moslem galleys, turning all their stores 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY, 1 47 
 
 From threats to gifts. What Spanish knight is he 
 Who, living now, holds it not shame to live 
 Apart from that hereditary battle 
 Which needs his sword ? Castilian gentlemeii 
 Choose not their task — they choose to dc it well. 
 
 The time is great, and greater no man's trust 
 Than his who keeps the fortress for his king, 
 Wearing great honors as some delicate robe 
 Brocaded o'er with names 'twere sin to tarnish. 
 Born de la Cerda, Calatravan knight. 
 Count of Segura, fourth Duke of Bedmar, 
 Offshoot from that high stock of old Castile 
 Whose topmost branch is proud Medina Celi — 
 Such titles with their blazonry are his 
 Who keeps this fortress, its sworn governor, 
 Lord of the valley, master of the town. 
 Commanding whom he will, himself commandeu 
 By Christ his Lord who sees him from the Cross 
 And from bright heaven where the Mother pleads 
 By good Saint James upon the milk-white steed. 
 Who leaves his bliss to fight for chosen Spain ; — 
 By the dead gaze of all his ancestors ; — 
 And by the mystery of his Spanish blood 
 Charged with the awe and glories of the past. 
 
 See now with soldiers in his front and rear 
 He winds at evening through the narrow streets 
 That toward the Castle gate climb devious : 
 His charger, of fine Andalusian stock, 
 An Indian beauty, black but delicate. 
 Is conscious of the herald trumpet note. 
 The gathering glances, and famliar ways 
 That lead fast homeward : she forgets fatigue, 
 And at the light touch of the master's spur 
 Thrills with the zeal to bear him royally. 
 Arches her neck and clambers up the stones 
 As if disdainful of the difficult steep. 
 Night-black the charger, black the rider's plume, 
 But all between is bright with morning hues — 
 Seems ivory and gold and deep blue gems. 
 And starry flashing steel and pale vermilion, 
 All set in jasper : on his surcoat white 
 Glitter the sword-belt and the jewelled hilt, 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Red on the back and breast the holy cross, 
 
 And 'twixt the helmet and the soft- spun white 
 
 Thick tawny wavelets like the lion's mane 
 
 Turn backward from his brow, pale, wide, erect, 
 
 Shadowing blue eyes — blue as the rain-washed sky 
 
 That braced the early stem of Gothic kings 
 
 He claims for ancestry. A goodly knight, 
 
 A noble caballero, broad of chest 
 
 And long of limb. So much the August sun, 
 
 Now in the west but shooting half its beams 
 
 Past a dark rocky profile toward the plain. 
 
 At windings of the path across the slope 
 
 Makes suddenly luminous for all who see : 
 
 For women smiling from the terraced roofs ; 
 
 For boys that prone on trucks with head up-propped 
 
 Lazy and curious, stare irreverent ; 
 
 For men who make obeisance with degrees 
 
 Of good-will shading towards servility 
 
 Where good-will ends and secret fear begins 
 
 And curses, too, low-muttered through the teeth, 
 
 Explanatory to the God of Shem. 
 
 Five, grouped within a whitened tavern court 
 Of Moorish fashion, where the trellised vines 
 Purpling above their heads make odorous shade, 
 Note through the open door the passers-by, 
 Getting some rills of novelty to speed 
 The lagging stream of talk and help the wine. 
 'Tis Christian to drink wine : whoso denies 
 His flesh at bidding save of Holy Church, 
 Let him beware and take to Christian sins 
 Lest he be taxed with Moslem sanctity. 
 
 The souls are five, the talkers only three. 
 
 (No time, most tainted by wrong faith and rule, 
 
 But holds some listeners and dumb animals.) 
 
 Mine Host is one : he with the well-arched nose, 
 
 Soft eyed, fat-handed, loving men for naught 
 
 But his own humor, patting old and young 
 
 Upon the back, and mentioning the cost 
 
 With confidential blandness, as a tax 
 
 That he collected much against his will 
 
 From Spaniards who were all his bosom friends : 
 
 Warranted Christian — Mse how keep an inn, 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 149 
 
 Which calling asks true faith ? though like his wine 
 
 Of cheaper sort, a trifle over-new. 
 
 His father was a convert, chose the chrism 
 
 As men choose physic, kept his chimney warm 
 
 With smokiest wood upon a Saturday, 
 
 Counted his gains and grudges on a chaplet, 
 
 And crossed himself asleep for fear of spies ; 
 
 Trusting the God of Israel would see 
 
 'Twas Christian tyranny that made him base. 
 
 Our host his son was born ten years too soon. 
 
 Had heard his mother call him Ephraim, 
 
 Knew holy things from common, thought it sin 
 
 To feast on days when Israel's children mourned, 
 
 So had to be converted with his sire, 
 
 To doff the awe he learned as Ephraim, 
 
 And suit his manners to a Christian name. 
 
 But infant awe, that unborn moving thing, 
 
 Dies with what nourished it, can never rise 
 
 From the dead womb and walk and seek new pasture. 
 
 Thus baptism seemed to him a merry game 
 
 Not tried before, all sacraments a mode 
 
 Of doing homage for one's property. 
 
 And all religions a queer human whim 
 
 Or else a vice, according to degrees : 
 
 As, 'tis a whim to like your chestnuts hot. 
 
 Burn your own mouth and draw your face awry, 
 
 A vice to pelt frogs with them — animals 
 
 Content to take life coolly. And Lorenzo 
 
 Would have all lives made easy, even lives 
 
 Of spiders and inquisitors, yet still 
 
 Wishing so well to flies and Moors and Jews 
 
 He rather wished the others easy death ; 
 
 For loving all men clearly was deferred 
 
 Till all men loved each other. Such mine Host, 
 
 With chiselled smile caressing Seneca, 
 
 The solemn mastiff leaning on his knee. 
 
 His right-hand guest is solemn as the dog, 
 Square-faced and massive : Blasco is his name, 
 A prosperous silversmith from Aragon ; 
 \\\ speech not silvery, rather tuned as notes 
 From a deep vessel made of plenteous iron. 
 Or some great bell of slow but certain swing 
 That, if 3'ou only wait, will tell the hour 
 
^5' 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 As well as flippant clocks that strike in haste 
 
 And set off chiming a superfluous tune — 
 
 Like Juan there, the spare man with the lute 
 
 Who makes you dizzy with his rapid tongue, 
 
 Whirring athwart your mind with comment swift 
 
 On speech you would have finished by and by. 
 
 Shooting your bird for you while you are loading, 
 
 Cheapening your wisdom as a pattern known, 
 
 Woven by any shuttle on demand. 
 
 Can never sit quite still, too : sees a wasp 
 
 And kills it with a movement like a flash ; 
 
 Whistles low notes or seems to thrum his lute 
 
 As a mere hyphen 'twixt two syllables 
 
 Of any steadier man ; walks up and down 
 
 And snufis the orange flowers and shoots a pea 
 
 To hit a streak of light let through the awning. 
 
 Has a queer face : eyes large as plums, a nose 
 
 Small, round, uneven, like a bit of wax 
 
 Melted and cooled by chance. Thin-fingered, lithe, 
 
 And as a squirrel noiseless, startling men 
 
 Only by quickness. In his speech and look 
 
 A touch of graceful wiklness, as of things 
 
 Not trained or tamed for uses of the world ; 
 
 Most like the Fauns that roamed in days of old 
 
 About the listening whispering woods, and shared 
 
 The subtler sense of sylvan ears and eyes 
 
 Undulled by scheming thought, yet joined the rout 
 
 Of men and women en the festal days, 
 
 And played the syrinx too, and knew love's pains, 
 
 Turning their anguish into melody. 
 
 For Juan was a minstrel still, in times 
 
 When minstrelsy was held a thing outworn. 
 
 Spirits seem buried and their epitaph 
 
 Is writ in Latin by severest pens, 
 
 Yet still they flit above the trodden grave 
 
 And find new bodies, animating them 
 
 In quaint and ghostly way with antique souls. 
 
 So Juan was a troubadour revived, 
 
 Freshening life's dusty road with babbling rills 
 
 Of wit and song, living 'mid harnessed men 
 
 With limbs ungalled by armor, ready so 
 
 To soothe them weary, and to cheer them sad. 
 
 Guest at the board, companion in the camp, 
 
 A crystal mirror to the life around, 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Flashing the comment keen of simple fact 
 
 Defined in words; lending brief lyric voice 
 
 To grief and sadness ; hardly taking note 
 
 Of difference betwixt his own and others' ; 
 
 But rather singing as a listener 
 
 To the deep moans, the cries, the wild strong joys 
 
 Of universal Nature, old yet young. 
 
 Such Juan, the third talker, shimmering bright 
 
 As butterfly or bird with quickest life. 
 
 The silent Roldan has his brightness too, 
 
 But only in his spangles and rosettes. 
 
 His parti-colored vest and crimson hose 
 
 Are dulled with old Valencian dust, his eyes 
 
 With straining fifty years at gilded balls 
 
 To catch them dancing, or with brazen looks 
 
 At men and women as he made his jests 
 
 Some thousand times and watched to count the pence 
 
 His wife was gathering. His olive face 
 
 Has an old writing in it, characters 
 
 Stamped deep by grins that had no merriment, 
 
 The soul's rude mark proclaiming ail its blank ; 
 
 As on some faces that have long grown old 
 
 In lifting tapers up to forms obscene 
 
 On ancient walls and chuckling v.'ith false zest 
 
 To please my lord, who gives the larger fee 
 
 For that hard industry in apishness. 
 
 Roldan would gladly never laugh again ; 
 
 Pensioned, he would be grave as any ox. 
 
 And having beans and crumbs and oil secured 
 
 Would borrow no man's jokes for evermore. 
 
 'Tis harder now because his wife is gone. 
 
 Who had quick feet, and danced to ravishment 
 
 Of every ring jewelled with Spanish eyes, 
 
 But died and left this boy, lame from his birth, 
 
 And sad and obstinate, though when he will 
 
 He sings God-taught such marrow-thrilling strains 
 
 As seem the very voice of dying Spring, 
 
 A flute-like wail that mourns the blossoms gone, 
 
 And sinks, and is not, like their fragrant breath. 
 
 With fine transition on the trembling air. 
 
 He sits as if imprisoned by some fear, 
 
 Motionless, with wide eyes that seem not made 
 
 For hungry glancing of a twelve-year'd boy 
 
 To mark the living thing that he could teaze, 
 
 SI 
 
1^2 THE SPANISH GYPSY 
 
 But for the gaze of some primeval sadness 
 Dark twin with light in the creative ray. 
 This little Pablo has his spangles too, 
 And large rosettes to hide his poor left foot 
 Rounded like any hoof (his mother thought 
 God willed it so to punish all her sins). 
 
 I said the souls w^ere five — besides the dog. 
 
 But there was still a sixth, with wrinkled face, 
 
 Grave and disgusted with all merriment 
 
 Not less than Roldan. It is Annibal, 
 
 The experienced monkey who performs the tricks, 
 
 Jumps through the hoops, and carries round the hat. 
 
 Once full of sallies and impromptu feats, 
 
 Now cautious not to light on aught that's new, 
 
 Lest he be whipped to do it o'er again 
 
 From A to Z, and make the gentry laugh : 
 
 A misanthropic monkey, gray and grim, 
 
 Bearing a lot that has no remedy 
 
 For want of concert in the monkey tribe. 
 
 We see the company, above their heads 
 The braided matting, golden as ripe corn, 
 Stretched in a curving strip close by the grapes, 
 Elsewhere rolled back to greet the cooler sky ; 
 A fountain near, vase-shapen and broad-lipped, 
 Where timorous birds alight with tiny feet, 
 And hesitate and bend wise listening ears, 
 And fly away again with undipped beak. 
 On the stone floor the juggler's heaped-up goods, 
 Carpet and hoops, viol and tambourine, 
 Where Annibal sits perched with brows severe, 
 A serious ape whom none take seriously, 
 Obliged in this fool's world to earn his nuts 
 By hard buffoonery. We see them all 
 And hear their talk — the talk of Spanish men, 
 With Southern intonation, vowels turned 
 Caressingly betvv^een the consonants, 
 Persuasive, willing, with such intervals 
 As music borrows from the wooing birds, 
 That plead with subtly curving, sweet descent — 
 And yet can quarrel, as these Spaniards can. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY, I^j 
 
 Juan (iiear the doorway) . 
 You hear the trumpet ? There's old Ramon's blast. 
 No bray but his can shake the air so well. 
 He takes his trumpeting as solemnly 
 As angel charged to wake the dead ; thinks war 
 Was made for trumpeters, and their great art 
 Made solely for themselves who understand it. 
 His features all have shaped themselves to blowing, 
 And when his trumpet's bagged or left at home 
 He seems a chattel in a broker's booth, 
 A spoutless watering-can, a promise to pay 
 No sum particular. O fine old Ramon ! 
 The blasts get louder and the clattering hoofs ; 
 They crack the ear as well as heaven's thunder 
 For owls that listen blinking. There's the banner. 
 
 Host (joinmg hi7n : the others follow to the door). 
 
 The Duke has finished reconnoitring, then? 
 
 We shall hear news. They say he means a sally — 
 
 Would strike El Zagal's Moors as they push home 
 
 Like ants with booty heavier than themselves ; 
 
 Then, joined by other nobles with their bands, 
 
 I,ay siege to Guadix. Juan, you're a bird 
 
 That nest within the Castle. What say you ? 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Naught, I say naught. 'Tis but a toilsome game 
 
 To bet upon that feather Policy, 
 
 And guess where after twice a hundred puffs 
 
 'Twill catch another feather crossing it : 
 
 Guess how the Pope will blow and how the king ; 
 
 What force my lady's fan has ; how a cough 
 
 Seizing the Padre's throat may raise a gust, 
 
 And how the queen may sigh the feather down. 
 
 Such catching at imaginary threads, 
 
 Such spinning twisted air, is not for me. 
 
 If I should want a game, I'll rather bet 
 
 On racing snails, two large, slow, lingering snails — 
 
 No spurring, equal weights — a chance sublime, 
 
 Nothing to guess at, pure uncertainty. 
 
 Here comes the Duke. They give but feeble shouts. 
 
 And some look sour. 
 
'54 
 
 THE SFAA'ISH G YPSY. 
 
 Host. 
 
 That spoils a fair occasion. 
 Civility brings no conclusions with it, 
 And cheerful Vivas make the moments glide 
 Instead of grating like a rusty wheel. 
 
 Juan. 
 O they are dullards, kick because they're stung, 
 And bruise a friend to show they hate a wasp. 
 
 Host. 
 Best treat your wasp with delicate regard ; 
 When the right moment comes say, " By your leave, 
 Use your heel — so ! and make an end of him. 
 That's if we talked of wasps ; but our young Duke- 
 Spain holds not a more gallant gentleman. 
 Live, live, Duke Silva ! 'Tis a rare smile he has, 
 But seldom seen. 
 
 Juan. 
 A true hidalgo's smile, 
 That gives much favor, but beseeches none. 
 His smile is sweetened by his gravity : 
 It comes like dawn upon Sierra snows. 
 Seeming more generous for the coldness gone : 
 Breaks from the calm — a sudden o^ enlng flower 
 On dark deep waters : now a chalice shut, 
 A mystic shrine, the next a full- rayed star, 
 Thrilling, pulse-quickening as a living word. 
 I'll make a song of that. 
 
 Host. 
 
 Prithee, not now. 
 You'll fall to staring like a wooden saint, 
 And wag your head as it were set on wires. 
 Here's fresh sherbet. Sit, be good company. 
 {To Blasco) You are a stranger, sir, and cannot know 
 How our Duke's nature suits his princely frame. 
 
 Blasco. 
 Nay, but I marked his spurs — chased cunningly! 
 A duke should know good gold and silver plate ; 
 Then he will know the quality of mine. 
 I've ware for tables and for altars too, 
 Our Lady in all sizes, crosses, bells : 
 He'll need such weapons full as much as swords 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 1^5 
 
 If he would capture any Moorish town. 
 
 For, let me tell you, when a mosque is cleansed . . , 
 
 Juan. 
 The demons fly so thick from sound of bells 
 And smell of incense, you may see the air 
 Streaked with them as with smoke. Why, they are 
 
 spirits : 
 You may well think how crowded they must be 
 To make a sort of haze. 
 
 Blasco. 
 
 I knew not that. 
 Still, they're of smok}' nature, demons are ; 
 And since you say so — well, it proves the more 
 The need of bells and censers. Ay, your Duke 
 Sat well : a true hidalgo. I can judge — 
 Of harness specially. I saw the camp. 
 The royal camp at Velez Malaga. 
 'Twas like the court of heaven — such liveries! 
 And torches carried by the score at night 
 Before the nobles. Sirs, I made a dish 
 To set an emerald in would fit a crown, 
 For Don Alonzo, lord of Aguilar. 
 Your Duke's no whit behind him in his mien 
 Or harness either. But you seem to say 
 The people love him not. 
 
 Host. 
 They've naught against him. 
 But certain winds will make men's temper bad. 
 When the Solano blows hot venomed breath, 
 It acts upon men's knives : steel takes to stabbing 
 Which else, with cooler winds, were honest steel, 
 Cutting but garlick. There's a wind just now 
 Blows right from Seville — 
 
 Blasco, 
 
 Ay, you mean the wind . 
 Ves, yes, a wind that's rather hot . . . 
 Host. 
 
 With faggots 
 Juan. 
 A wind that suits not with our townsmen's blood. 
 Abram, 'tis said, objected to be scorched, 
 
:^e TH^ SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 And, as the learned Arabs vouch, he gave 
 
 The antipathy in full to Ishmael. 
 
 'Tis true, these patriarchs had their oddities. 
 
 Blasco. 
 Their oddities ? I'm of their mind, I know. 
 Though, as to Abraham and Ishmael, 
 I'm an old Christian, and owe naught to them 
 Or any Jew among them. But I know 
 We made a stir in Saragossa — we : 
 The men of Aragon ring hard — true metal. 
 Sirs, I'm no friend to heresy, but then 
 A Christian's money is not safe. As how ? 
 A lapsing Jew or any heretic 
 May owe me twenty ounces : suddenly 
 He's prisoned, suffers penalties — 'tis well : 
 If men will not believe, 'tis good to make them, 
 But let the penalties fall on them alone. 
 The Jew is stripped, his goods are confiscate ; 
 Now, where, I pray you, go my twenty ounces ? 
 God knows, and perhaps the King may, but not I. 
 And more, my son may lose his young wife's dower 
 Because 'twas promised since her father's soul 
 Fell to wrong thinking. How was I to know ? 
 I could but use my sense and cross myself. 
 Christian is Christian — I gave in — but still 
 Taxing is taxing, though you call it holy. 
 We Saragossans liked not this new tax 
 They call the — nonsense, I'm from Aragon ! 
 I speak too bluntly. But, for Holy Church, 
 No man believes more. 
 
 Host. 
 
 Nay, sir, never feai 
 Good Master Roldan here is no delator. 
 
 RoLDAN {starting from a reverie). 
 
 You speak to me, sirs ? I perform to-night — 
 The Plaga Santiago. Twenty tricks, 
 All different, I dance, too. And the boy 
 Sings like a bird. I crave your patronage. 
 
 Blasco. 
 Faith, you shall have it, sir. In travelling 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 157 
 
 I take a little freedom, and am gay. 
 You marked not what I said just now ? 
 
 ROLDAN. 
 
 I ? no. 
 
 I pray your pardon. I've a twinging knee, 
 That makes it hard to listen. You were saying? 
 
 Blasco. 
 Nay, it was naught. {Aside to Host) Is it his deepness if 
 
 Host. 
 
 No. 
 He*s deep in nothing but his poverty. 
 
 Blasco. 
 But 'twas his poverty that made me think , 
 
 Host. 
 His piety might wish to keep the feasts 
 As well as fasts. No fear ; he hears not. 
 
 Blasco. 
 
 Good. 
 I speak my mind about the penalties, 
 But, look you, I'm against assassination. 
 You know my meaning — Master Arbues, 
 The grand Inquisitor in Aragon. 
 I knew naught — paid no copper towards the ^&^^, 
 But I was there, at prayers, within the church. 
 How could I help it ? Why, the saints were there, 
 And looked straight on above the altars. I . . . 
 
 Juan. 
 Looked carefully another way. 
 
 Blasco. 
 
 Why, at my beads. 
 'Twas after midnight, and the canons all 
 Were chanting matins. I was not in church 
 To gape and stare. I saw the martyr kneel : 
 I never liked the look of him alive — 
 He was no martyr then. I thought he made 
 An ugly shadow as he crept athwart 
 The bands of light, then passed within the gloom 
 By the broad pillar. 'Twas in our great Seo, 
 At Saragossa. The pillars tower so large 
 
1^8 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 You cross yourself to see them, lest white Death 
 
 Should hide behind their dark. And so it was. 
 
 I looked away again and told my beads 
 
 Unthinkingly ; but still a man has ears ; 
 
 And right across the chanting came a sound 
 
 As if a tree had^crashed above the roar 
 
 Of some great torrent. So it seemed to me ; 
 
 For when you listen long and shut your eyes 
 
 Small sounds get thunderous. He had a shell 
 
 Like any lobster : a good iron suit 
 
 From top to toe beneath the innocent serge. 
 
 That made the tell-tale sound. But then came shrieks^ 
 
 The chanting stopped and turned to rushing feet, 
 
 And in the midst lay Master Arbues, 
 
 Felled like an ox. 'Twas wicked butchery. 
 
 Some honest men had hoped it would have scared 
 
 The Inquisition out of Aragon. 
 
 'Twas money thrown away — I would say, crime 
 
 Clean thrown away 
 
 Host. 
 
 That was a pity now. 
 Next to a missing thrust, what irks me most 
 Is a neat well-amied stroke that kills your man, 
 Yet ends in mischief — as in Aragon. 
 It was a lesson to our people here. 
 Else there's a monk within our city walls, 
 A holy, high-born, stern Dominican, 
 They might have made the great mistake to kill. 
 
 Blasco. 
 What ! is he .? . . . 
 
 Host 
 Yes ; a Master Abrues 
 Of finer quality. The Prior here 
 And uncle to our Duke. 
 
 Blasco. 
 
 He will want plate : 
 A holy pillar or a crucifix. 
 But, did you say, he was like Arbues ? 
 
 Juan 
 As a black eagle with gold beak and claws 
 Is like a raven. Even in his cowl, 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. ^y^ 
 
 Covered from head to foot, tiie Prior is known 
 
 From all the black herd round. When he uncovers 
 
 And stands white-f rocked, with ivory face, his eyes 
 
 Black-gleaming, black his coronal of hair 
 
 Like shredded jasper, he seems less a man 
 
 With struggling aims, than pure incarnate Will, 
 
 Fit to subdue rebellious nations, nay. 
 
 That human flesh he breathes in, charged with passion 
 
 Which quivers in his nostril and his lip. 
 
 But disciplined by long in-dwelling will 
 
 To silent labor in the yoke of law. 
 
 A truce to thy comparisons, Lorenzo ! 
 
 Thine is no subtle nose for difference j 
 
 'Tis dulled by feigning and civility. 
 
 Host. 
 Pooh, thou'rt a poet, crazed with finding words 
 May stick to things and seem like qualities. 
 No pebble is a pebble in thy hands : 
 'Tis a moon out of work, a barren ^gg, 
 Or twenty things that no man sees but thee. 
 Our Father Isidor's — a living saint. 
 And that is heresy, some townsmen think : 
 Saints should be dead, according to the Church, 
 My mind is this : the Father is so holy 
 'Twere sin to wish his soul detained from bliss. 
 Easy translation to the realms above, 
 The shortest journey to the seventh heaven, 
 Js what I'd never grudge him. 
 
 Blasco. 
 
 Piously saih. 
 Look you, I'm dutiful, obey the Church 
 When there's no help for it : I mean to say, 
 When Pope and Bishop and all customers 
 Order alike. But there be bishops now. 
 And were aforetime, who have held it wrong, 
 This hurry to convert the Jews. As how ? 
 Your Jew pays tribute to the bishop, say. 
 That's good, and must please God, to see the Churcd 
 Maintained in ways that ease the Christian's purse. 
 Convert the Jew, and where's the tribute, pray ? 
 He lapses, too : 'tis slippery work, conversion : 
 And then the holy taxing carries off 
 His money at one sweep. No tribute more ! 
 
^r)0 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 He's penitent or burnt, and there's an end. 
 Now guess which plea God . . . 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Whether he likes 
 A well-burnt Jew or well-fed bishop best. 
 
 [While Juan put this problem theologic 
 Entered, with resonant step, another guest — 
 A soldier : all his keenness in his sword, 
 His eloquence in scars upon his cheek, 
 His virtue in much slaying of the Moor : 
 With brow well-creased in horizontal folds 
 To save the space, as having naught to do : 
 Lips prone to whistle whisperingly — no tune, 
 But trotting rhythm : meditative eyes. 
 Most often fixed upon his legs and spurs : 
 Styled Captain Lopez.] 
 
 Lopez. 
 
 At your service, sirs. 
 
 Juan. 
 Ha, Lopez ? Why, thou hast a face full-charged 
 As any herald's. What news of the wars ? 
 
 Lopez. 
 Such news as is most bitter on my tongue. 
 
 Juan. 
 Then spit it forth. 
 
 Host. 
 Sit, Captain : here's a cup, 
 Fresh-filled. What news ? 
 
 Lopez. 
 
 'Tis bad. We make no saliy 
 We sit still here and wait whate'er the Moor 
 Shall please to do. 
 
 Host. 
 Some townsmen will be glad. 
 
 Lopez. 
 Glad, will they be ? But I'm not glad, not I, 
 Nor any Spanish soldier of clean blood. 
 But the Duke's wisdom is to wait a siege 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. ,6l 
 
 Instead of laying one. Therefore — meantime — 
 He wiii be .iiairied straightway. 
 
 Host. 
 
 Ha, ha, ha I 
 Thy speech is like an hourglass ; turn it down 
 The other way, 'twill stand as well, and say 
 The Duke will wed, therefore he waits a siege. 
 But what say Don Diego and the Prior ? 
 The holy uncle and the fiery Don ? 
 
 Lopez. 
 
 there be sayings running all abroad 
 
 As thick as nuts o'erturned. No man need lack. 
 Some say, 'twas letters changed the Duke's intent : 
 From Malaga, says Bias. From Rome, says Quintm, 
 From spies at Guadix, says Sebastian. 
 Some say, 'tis all a pretext — say, the Duke 
 Is but a lapdog hanging on a skirt, 
 Turning his eyeballs upward like a monk : 
 'Twas Don Diego said that — so says Bias ; 
 Last week, he said . . . 
 
 Juan. 
 
 O do without the " said ! " 
 Open thy mouth and pause in lieu of it. 
 
 1 had as lief be pelted with a pea 
 Irregularly in the self-same spot 
 As hear such iteration without rule, 
 Such torture of uncertain certainty. 
 
 Lopez. 
 Santiago ! Juan, thou art hard to please. 
 I speak not for my own delighting, I. 
 I can be silent, 1. 
 
 Blasco. 
 
 Nay, sir, speak on ! 
 I like your matter well. I deal in plate. 
 This wedding touches me. Who is the bride ? 
 
 Lopez. 
 One that some say the Duke does ill to wed. 
 One that his mother reared — God rest her soul ! — ■ 
 Duchess Diana — she who died last year. 
 A bird picked up away from any nest. 
 
 IX 
 
1 62 THE SPANISH G YPSV. 
 
 Her name — the Duchess gave it — is Fedahna. 
 No harm in that. But the Duke stoops, they say, 
 In wedding her. And that's the simple truth. 
 
 Juan. 
 Thy simple truth is but a false opinion : 
 The simple truth of asses who believe 
 Their thistle is the very best of food. 
 Fie, Lopez, thou a Spaniard with a sword 
 Dreamest a Spanish noble ever stoops 
 By doing honor to the maid he loves ! 
 He stoops alouv. when he dishonors her, 
 
 Lopez. 
 Nay, I said nought against her. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Better not. 
 Else I would challenge thee to fight with wits, 
 And spear thee through and through ere thou couldst dra\^ 
 The bluntest word. Yes, yes, consult thy spurs : 
 Spurs are a sign of knighthood, and should tell thee 
 That knightly love is blent with reverence. 
 As heavenly air is blent with heavenly blue. 
 Don Silva's heart beats to a loyal tune : 
 He wills no highest-born Castilian dame. 
 Betrothed to highest noble, should be held 
 More sacred than Fedalma. He enshrines 
 Her virgin image for the general awe 
 And for his own — will guard her from the world, 
 Nay, his profaner self, lest he should lose 
 The place of his religion. He does well. 
 Nought can come closer to the poet's strain^ 
 
 Host. 
 Or farther from his practice, Juan, eh ? 
 If thou'rt a sample ? 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Wrong there, my Lorenzo I 
 Touching Fedalma the poor poet plays 
 A finer part even than the noble Duke. 
 
 Lopez. 
 By making ditties, singing with round mouth 
 Likest a crowing cock ? Thou meanest that t 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY, 163 
 
 Juan. 
 Lopez, take physic, thou are getting ill, 
 Growing descriptive ; 'tis unnatural. 
 I mean, Don Silva's love expects reward. 
 Kneels with a heav^en to come ; but the poor poet 
 Worships without reward, nor hopes to find 
 A heaven save in his worship. He adores 
 The sweetest woman for her sweetness' sake, 
 Joys in the love that was not born for him, 
 Because 'tis lovingness, as beggars joy, 
 Warming their naked limbs on wayside walls. 
 To hear a tale of princes and their glory. 
 There's a poor poet (poor, I mean, in coin) 
 Worships Fedalma with so true a love 
 That if her silken robe were changed for rags, 
 And she were driven out to stony wilds 
 Barefoot, a scorned wanderer, he would kiss 
 Her ragged garment's edge, and only ask 
 For leave to be her slave. Digest that, friend, 
 Or let it lie upon thee as a weight 
 To check light thinking of Fedalma. 
 
 Lopez. 
 
 I? 
 I think no harm of her ; I thank the saints 
 I wear a sword and peddle not in thinking. 
 'Tis Father Marcos says she'll not confess 
 And loves not holy water ; says her blood 
 Is infidel ; says the Duke's wedding her 
 Is union of light with darkness. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Tush ! 
 
 [Now Juan — who by snatches touched his lute 
 
 With soft arpeggio, like a whispered dream 
 
 Of sleeping music while he spoke of love — 
 
 In jesting anger at the soldier's talk. 
 
 Thrummed loud and fast, then faster and more loud, 
 
 Till, as he answered " Tush ! " he struck a chord 
 
 Sudden as whip-crack close by Lopez' ear. 
 
 Mine host and Blasco smiled, the mastiff barked, 
 
 Roldan looked up and Annibal looked down, 
 
 Cautiously neutral in so new a case ; 
 
1 54 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 The boy raised longing, listening eyes that seemed 
 An exiled spirit's waiting in strained hope 
 Of voices coming from the distant land. 
 But Lopez bore the assault like any rock : 
 That was not what he drew his sword at — he ! 
 He spoke with neck erect.] 
 
 Lopez. 
 
 If that's a hint 
 The company should ask thee for a song, 
 Sing, then 1 
 
 Host. 
 Ay, Juan, sing, and jar no more. 
 Something brand new. Thou'rt wont to make my ear 
 A test of novelties. Hast thou aught fresh ? 
 
 Juan. 
 As fresh as rain-drops. Here's a Cancion 
 Springs like a tiny mushroom delicate 
 Out of the priest's foul scandal of Fedalma. 
 
 [He preluded with querying intervals. 
 Rising, then falling just a semitone. 
 In minor cadence — sound with poised wing 
 Hovering and quivering towards the needed fall. 
 Then in a voice that shook the willing air 
 With masculine vibration sang this song. 
 
 Should I long that dark were fair ? 
 
 Say, O song! 
 
 Lacks my love aught, that I should long ^ 
 
 Dark the night, with breath all flow' rs, 
 And tetider broken voice that fills 
 With ravislwient the listeni?ig hours : 
 Whisperings, wooings. 
 Liquid ripples and soft ring-dove cooifigs 
 In low-toned rhythm that love's aching stills. 
 Dark the night, 
 Yet is she bright, 
 
 For in her dark she brings the mystic star. 
 Trembling yet strong, as is the voice of love, 
 From some imhtown afar. 
 O radiant Dark ! O darklyfostered ray f 
 Thou hast a joy too deep for shallow Day. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 While Juan sang, all round the tavern court 
 
 Gathered a constellation of black eyes. 
 
 Fat Lola leaned upon the balcony 
 
 With arms that might have pillowed Hercules 
 
 (Who built, 'tis known, the mightiest Spanish towns), 
 
 Thin Alda's face, sad as a wasted passion, 
 
 Leaned o'er the nodding baby's ; 'twixt the rails 
 
 The little Pepe showed his two black beads, 
 
 His flat-ringed hair and small Semitic nose, 
 
 Complete and tiny as a new-born minnow ; 
 
 Patting his head and holding in her arms 
 
 The baby senior, stood Lorenzo's wife 
 
 All neghgent, her kerchief discomposed 
 
 By little clutches, woman's coquetry 
 
 Quite turned to mother's cares and sweet content. 
 
 These on the balcony, while at the door 
 
 Gazed the lank boys and lazy-shouldered men. 
 
 'Tis likely too the rats and insects peeped. 
 
 Being southern Spanish ready for a lounge. 
 
 The singer smiled, as doubtless Orpheus smiled. 
 
 To see the animals both great and small. 
 
 The mountainous elephant and scampering mouse, 
 
 Held by the ears in decent audience ; 
 
 Then, when mine host desired the strain once more, 
 
 He fell to preluding with rhythmic change 
 
 Of notes recurrent, soft as pattering drops 
 
 That fall from off the eaves in faery dance 
 
 When clouds are breaking ; till at measured pause 
 
 He struck with strength, in rare responsive chords.] 
 
 Host. 
 Come, then, a ga3'er ballad, if thou wilt : 
 I quarrel not with change. What say you, Captain ? 
 
 Lopez. 
 All's one to me. I note no change of tune, 
 Not I, save in the ring of horses' hoofs, 
 Or in the drums and trumpets when they call j 
 To action or retreat. I ne'er could see 
 The good of singing. 
 
 Blasco. 
 
 Why, it passes time- 
 Saves you from getting over-wise : that's good. 
 For, look you, fools are merry here below, ^ 
 
 I6S 
 
1 66 THE SPANISH GYFSY. 
 
 Yet they will go to heaven all the same, 
 Having the sacraments ; and, look you, heaven 
 Is a long holiday, and solid men, 
 Used to much business, might be ill at ease 
 Not liking play. And so, in travelling, 
 I shape myself betimes to idleness 
 And take fools' pleasures . . . 
 Host. 
 
 Hark, the song begins ! 
 
 Juan (sings). 
 
 Maiden, crowfied with glossy blackness^ 
 
 Lithe as pa7ither forest-roaming, 
 Lofig-armed naiad, when she dances. 
 On a strea7n of ether fioatitig — 
 
 Bright, O bright Fedalma / 
 
 Form all curves like softness drifted. 
 Wave-kissed marble roundly dimpling. 
 
 Far-off music slowly winged, 
 Gently rising, gently sinking — 
 
 Bright, O bright Fedalma ! 
 
 Pure as rain-tear on a rose-leaf, 
 
 Cloud high-born i?i noonday spotless, 
 
 Sudden perfect as the dew-bead. 
 Gem of earth and sky begotten — 
 
 Bright, O bright Fedalma 1 
 
 Beauty has no mortal father, 
 
 Holy light her form engendered 
 Out of tremor, yea^'ning, gladness. 
 Presage sweet and joy remejnbered — 
 
 Child of Light, F'edalma ! 
 Blasco. 
 Faith, a good song, sung to a stirring tune. 
 I like the words returning in a round ; 
 It gives a sort of sense. Another such ! 
 
 RoLDAN {rising). 
 Sirs, you will hear my boy. 'Tis very hard 
 When gentles sing for naught to all the town. 
 How can a poor man live ? And now 'tis time 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 1 67 
 
 I go to the Pla9a — who will give me pence 
 When he can hear hidalgos and give naught ? 
 
 Juan. 
 True, friend. Be pacified. I'll sing no more. 
 Go thou, and we will follow. Never fear. 
 My voice is common as the ivy-leaves, 
 Plucked in all seasons — bears no price ; thy boy's 
 Is like the almond blossoms. Ah, he's lame ! 
 
 Host. 
 Load him not heavily. Here, Pedro ! help. 
 Go with them to the Placa, take the hoops. 
 The sights will pay thee. 
 
 Blasco. 
 
 I'll be there anon, 
 And set the fashion with a good white coin. 
 But let us see as well as hear. 
 
 Host. 
 
 Ay, prithee. 
 Some tricks, a dance. 
 
 Blasco. 
 
 Yes, 'tis more rational. 
 
 RoLDAN (turning round with the bundle and monkey on /lis 
 shoulders). 
 
 You shall see all, sirs. There's no man in Spain 
 
 Knows his art better. I've a twinging knee 
 
 Oft hinders dancing, and the boy is lame. 
 
 But no man's monkey has more tricks than mine. 
 
 [At this high praise the gloomy Annibal, 
 
 Mournful professor of high drollery. 
 
 Seemed to look gloomier, and the little troop 
 
 Went slowly out, escorted from the door 
 
 By all the idlers. From the balcony 
 
 Slowly subsided the black radiance 
 
 Of agate eyes, and broke in chattering sounds, 
 
 Coaxings and trampings, and the small hoarse squeak 
 
 Of Pepe's reed. And our group talked again.] 
 
 H*OST. 
 
 I'll get this juggler, if he quits him well. 
 An audience here as choice as can be lured. 
 
1 68 THE SPA X/SH G VPS V. 
 
 For me, when a poor devil does bis best, 
 
 'Tis my delight to soothe his soul with praise. 
 
 What though the best be bad ? remains the good 
 
 Of throwing food to a lean hungry dog. 
 
 I'd give up the best jugglery in Hfe 
 
 To see a miserable juggler pleased. 
 
 But that's my humor. Crowds are malcontent 
 
 And cruel as the Holy .... Shall we go} 
 
 All of us now together } 
 
 Lopez. 
 
 Well, not I. 
 I may be there anon, but first I go 
 To the lower prison. There is strict command 
 That all our gypsy prisoners shall to-night 
 Be lodged within the fort. They've forged enough 
 Of balls and bullets — used up all the metal. 
 At morn to-morrow they must carry stones 
 Up the south tower. 'Tis a fine stalwart band, 
 Fit for the hardest tasks. Some say, the queen 
 Would have the Gypsies banished with the Jews. 
 Some say, 'twere better harness them for work. 
 They'd feed on any filth and save the Spaniard. 
 Some say — but I must go. 'Twill soon be time 
 To head the escort. We shall meet again. 
 
 Blasco. 
 Go, sir, with God {exit Lopez). A very proper man, 
 And soldierly. But, for this banishment 
 Some men are hot on, it ill pleases me. 
 The Jews, now (sirs, if any Christian here 
 Had Jews for ancestors, I blame him not ; 
 We cannot all be Goths of Aragon) — 
 Jews are not fit for heaven, but on earth 
 They are most useful. 'Tis the same with mules, 
 Horses, or oxen, or with any pig 
 Excep*" Saint Anthony's. They are useful here 
 (The Jews, I mean) though they may go to hell. 
 And, look you, useful sins — why Providence 
 Sends Jews to do 'em, saving Christian souls. 
 The very Gypsies, curbed and harnessed well. 
 Would make draught cattle, feed on vermin too, 
 Cost less than grazing brutes, and turn bad food 
 To handsome carcasses ; sweat at the forge 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 169 
 
 For little wages, and well drilled and flogged 
 
 Might work like slaves, some Spaniards looking on. 
 
 I deal in plate, and am no priest to say 
 
 What God may mean, save when he means plain sense; 
 
 But when he sent the Gypsies wandering 
 
 In punishment because they sheltered not 
 
 Our Lady and Saint Joseph (and no doubt 
 
 Stole the small ass they fled with into Egypt), 
 
 Why send them here ? 'Tis plain he saw the use 
 
 They'd be to Spaniards. Shall we banish them 
 
 And tell God we know better ? 'Tis a sin. 
 
 They talk of vermin ; but, sirs, vermin large 
 
 Were made to eat the small, or else to eat 
 
 The noxious rubbish, and picked Gypsy men 
 
 Might serve in war to climb, be killed, and fall 
 
 To make an easy ladder. Once I saw 
 
 A Gypsy sorcerer, at a spring and grasp 
 
 Kill one who came to seize him : talk of strength ! 
 
 Nay, swiftness, too, for while we crossed ourselves 
 
 He vanished like — say, like . . 
 
 Juan. 
 
 A swift black snake, 
 Or like a living arrow fledged with will. 
 
 Blasco. 
 Why, did you see him, pray ? 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Not then, but now, 
 As painters see the many in the one. 
 We have a Gypsy in Bedmar whose frame 
 Nature compacted with such fine selection, 
 'Twould yield a dozen types : all Spanish knights, 
 From him who slew Rolando at the pass 
 Up to the mighty Cid ; all deities. 
 Thronging Olympus in fine attitudes ; 
 Or all hell's heroes whom the poet saw 
 Tremble like lions, writhe like demigods. 
 
 Host. 
 Pause not yet, Juan — more hyperbole ! 
 Shoot upward still and flare in meteors 
 Before thou sink to earth in dull brown fact. 
 
170 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Blasco. 
 Nay, give me fact, high shooting suits not me. 
 I never stare lo look for soaring larks. 
 What is this Gypsy ? 
 
 Host. 
 
 Chieftain of a band, 
 The Moor's allies, whom full a month ago 
 Our Duke surprised and brought as captives home. 
 He needed smiths, and doubtless the brave Moor 
 Has missed some useful scouts and archers too. 
 Juan's fantastic pleasure is to watch 
 These Gypsies forging, and to hold discourse 
 With this great chief, whom he transforms at will 
 To sage or warrior, and like the sun 
 Plays daily at fallacious alchemy, 
 Turns sand to gold and dewy spider-webs 
 To myriad rainbows. Still the sand is sand, 
 And still in sober shade you see the web. 
 'Tis so. Til wager, with his Gypsy chief — 
 A piece of stalwart cunning, nothing more. 
 
 Juan. 
 No ! My invention had been all too poor 
 To frame this Zarca as I saw him first. 
 'Twas when they stripped him. In his chieftain's geai 
 Amidst his men he seemed a royal barb 
 Followed by wild-maned Andalusian colts. 
 He had a necklace of a strange device 
 In finest gold of unknown workmanship, 
 But delicate as Moorish, fit to kiss 
 Fedalma's neck, and play in shadows there. 
 He wore fine mail, a rich-wrought sword and belt, 
 And on his surcoat black a broidered torch, 
 A pine-branch flaming, grasped by two dark hands. 
 But when they stripped him of his ornaments 
 It was the baubles lost their grace, not he. 
 His eyes, his mouth, his nostril, all inspired 
 With scorn that mastered utterance of scorn, 
 With power to check all rage until it turned 
 To ordered force, unleashed on chosen prey — 
 It seemed the soul within him made his limbs 
 And made them grand. The baubles were well gone. 
 He stood the more a king, when bared to man. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY, 171 
 
 Blasco. 
 Maybe. But nakedness is bad for trade, 
 And is not decent. Well -wrought metal, sir, 
 Is not a bauble. Had you seen the camp. 
 The royal camp at Velez Malaga, 
 Ponce de Leon and the other dukes, 
 The king himself and all his thousand knights 
 For bodyguard, 'twould not have left you breath 
 To praise a Gypsy thus. A man's a man ; 
 But when you see a king, you see the work 
 Of many thousand men. King Ferdinand 
 Bears a fine presence, and hath proper limbs ; 
 But what though he were shrunken as a relic ? 
 You'd see the gold and gems that cased him o*er, 
 And all the pages round him in brocade, 
 And all the lords, themselves a sort of kings, 
 Doing him reverence. That strikes an awe 
 Into a common man — especially 
 A judge of plate. 
 
 Host. 
 
 Faith, very wisely said. 
 Purge thy speech, Juan. It is over-full 
 Of this same Gypsy. Praise the Catholic King. 
 And come now, let us see the juggler's skill. 
 
 The Pla^a Safttiago. 
 
 'Tis daylight still, but now the golden cross 
 Uplifted by the angel on the dome 
 Stands rayless in calm color clear-defined 
 Against the northern blue ; from turrets high 
 The flitting splendor sinks with folded wing 
 Dark-hid till morning, and the battlements 
 Wear soft relenting whiteness mellowed o'er 
 By summers generous and winters bland. 
 Now in the east the distance casts its veil 
 And gazes with a deepening earnestness. 
 The old rain-fretted mountains in their robes 
 Of shadow-broken gray ; the rounded hills 
 Reddened with blood of Titans, whose huge limbs, 
 Entombed within, feed full the hardy flesh 
 Of cactus green and blue broad-sworded aloes 
 The cypress soaring black above the lines 
 Of white court-walls ; the jointed sugar-canes 
 
172 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY, 
 
 Pale-golden with their feathers motionless 
 
 In the warm quiet : — all thought-teaching form 
 
 Utters itself in firm unshimmering hues. 
 
 For the great rock has screened the westering sun 
 
 That still on plains beyond streams vaporous gold 
 
 Among the branches ; and within Bedmar 
 
 Has come the time of sweet serenity 
 
 When color glows unglittering, and the soul 
 
 Of visible things shows silent happiness, 
 
 As that of lovers trusting though apart. 
 
 The ripe-cheeked fruits, the crimson-petalled flowers \ 
 
 The winged life that pausing seems a gem 
 
 Cunningly carven on the dark green leaf \ 
 
 The face of man with hues supremely blent 
 
 To difference fine as of a voice 'mid sounds : — 
 
 Each lovely light-dipped thing seems to emerge 
 
 Flushed gravely from baptismal sacrament. 
 
 All beauteous existence rests, yet vv^akes, 
 
 Lies still, yet conscious, with clear open eyes 
 
 And gentle breath and mild suffused joy. 
 
 'Tis day, but day that falls like melody 
 
 Repeated on a string with graver tones — 
 
 Tones such as linger in a long farewell. 
 
 The Plaga widens in the passive air — 
 
 The Placja Santiago, where the church, 
 
 A mosque converted, shows an eyeless face 
 
 Red-checkered, faded, doing penance still — 
 
 Bearing with Moorish arch the imaged saint, 
 
 Apostle, baron, Spanish warrior, ^ 
 
 Whose charger's hoofs trample the turbaned dead, 
 
 Whose banner with the Cross, the bloody sword 
 
 Flashes athwart the Moslem's glazing eye, 
 
 And mocks his trust in Allah who forsakes. 
 
 Up to the church the Plaga gently slopes, 
 
 In shape most like the pious palmer's shell, 
 
 Girdled with low white houses ; high above 
 
 Tower the strong fortress and sharp-angled wall 
 
 And well-flanked castle gate. From o'er the roofs, 
 
 And from the shadowed patios cool, there spreads 
 
 The breath of flowers and aromatic leaves 
 
 Soothing the sense with bliss indefinite — 
 
 A baseless hope, a glad presentiment, 
 
 That curves the lip more softly, fills the eye 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 173 
 
 With more indulgent beam. And so it soothes, 
 
 So gently sways the pulses of the crowd 
 
 Who make a zone about the central spot 
 
 Chosen by Roldan for his theatre. 
 
 Maids with arched eyebrows, delicate-penciled, dark, 
 
 Fold their round arms below the kerchief full ; 
 
 Men shoulder little girls ; and grandames gray, 
 
 But muscular still, hold babies on their arms ; 
 
 While mothers keep the stout-legged boys in front 
 
 Against their skirts, as old Greek pictures show 
 
 The Glorious Mother with the Boy divine. 
 
 Youths keep the places for themselves, and roll 
 
 Large lazy eyes, and call recumbent dogs 
 
 (For reasons deep below the reach of thought). 
 
 The old men cough with purpose, wish to hint 
 
 Wisdom within that cheapens jugglery, 
 
 Maintain a neutral air, and knit their brows 
 
 In observation. None are quarrelsome, 
 
 Noisy, or very merry ; for their blood 
 
 Moves slowly into fervor — they rejoice 
 
 Like those dark birds that sweep with heavy wing, 
 
 Cheering their mates with melancholy cries. 
 
 But now the gilded balls begin to play 
 
 In rhythmic numbers, ruled by practice fine 
 
 Of eye and muscle : all the juggler's form 
 
 Consents harmonious in swift-gliding change, 
 
 Easily forward stretched or backward bent 
 
 With lightest step and movement circular 
 
 Round a fixed point : 'tis not the old Roldan now, 
 
 The dull, hard, weary, miserable man. 
 
 The soul all parched to languid appetite 
 
 And memory of desire : 'tis wondrous force 
 
 That moves in combination multiform 
 
 Towards conscious ends : 'tis Roldan glorious, 
 
 Holding all eyes like any meteor. 
 
 King of the moment save when Annibal 
 
 Divides the scene and plays the comic part, 
 
 Gazing with blinking glances up and down 
 
 Dancing and throwing naught and catching it, 
 
 With mimicry as merry as the tasks 
 
 Of penance-working shades in Tartarus. 
 
 Pablo stands passive, and a space apart. 
 Holding a viol, waiting for command. 
 
174 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Music must not be wasted, but must rise 
 
 As needed climax; and the audience 
 
 Is growing witli late comers. Juan now, 
 
 And the familiar Host, with Blasco broad, 
 
 Find way made gladly to the inmost round 
 
 Studded with heads. Lorenzo knits the crowd 
 
 Into one family by showing all 
 
 Good-will and recognition. Juan casts 
 
 His large and rapid-measuring glance around ; 
 
 But — with faint quivering, transient as a breath 
 
 Shaking a flame — his eyes make sudden pause 
 
 Where by the jutting angle of a street 
 
 Castle-ward leading, stands a female form, 
 
 A kerchief pale square-drooping o'er the brow, 
 
 About her shoulders dim brown serge — in garb 
 
 Most like a peasant woman from the vale, 
 
 Who might have lingered after marketing 
 
 To see the show. What thrill mysterious, 
 
 Ray-borne from orb to orb of conscious eyes, 
 
 The swift observing sweep of Juan's glance 
 
 Arrests an instant, then with prompting fresh 
 
 Diverts it lastingly? He turns at once 
 
 To watch the gilded balls, and nod and smile 
 
 At little round Pepita, blondest maid 
 
 In all Bedmar — Pepita, fair yet flecked, 
 
 Saucy of lip and nose, of hair as red 
 
 As breasts of robins stepping on the snow- — 
 
 VVho stands in front with little tapping feet, 
 
 And baby-dimpled hands that hide enclosed 
 
 Those sleeping crickets, the dark castanets. 
 
 Buc soon the gilded balls have ceased to play 
 
 And Annibal is leaping through the hoops. 
 
 That turn to twelve, meeting him as he flies 
 
 In the swift circle. Shuddering he leaps. 
 
 But with each spring flies swift and swifter still 
 
 To loud and louder shouts, while the great hoops 
 
 Are changed to smaller. Now the crowd is fired. 
 
 The motion swift, the living victim urged, 
 
 The imminent failure and repeated scape 
 
 Hurry all pulses and intoxicate 
 
 With subtle wine of passion many-mixt. 
 
 'Tis all about a monkey leaping hard 
 
 Till near to gasping ; but it serves as well 
 
 As the great circus or arena dire, 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY, 
 
 Where these are lacking. Roldan cautiously 
 Slackens the leaps and lays the hoops to rest, 
 And Annibal retires with reeling brain 
 And backward staggers — pity, he could not smile* 
 
 Now Roldan spreads his carpet, now he shows 
 
 Strange metamorphoses : the pebble black 
 
 Changes to whitest egg within his hand ; 
 
 A staring rabbit, with retreating ears, 
 
 Is swallowed by the air and vanishes ; 
 
 He tells men's thoughts about the shaken dice, 
 
 Their secret choosings ; makes the white beans pass 
 
 With causeless act sublime from cup to cup 
 
 Turned empty on the ground — diablerie 
 
 That pales the girls and puzzles all the boys : 
 
 These tricks are samples, hinting to the town 
 
 Roldan's great mastery. He tumbles next, 
 
 And Annibal is called to mock each feat 
 
 With arduous comicality and save 
 
 Ey rule romantic the great public mind 
 
 (And Roldan's body) from too serious strain. 
 
 But with the tumbling, lest the feats should fail, 
 
 And so need veiling in a haze of sound, 
 
 Pablo awakes the viol and the bow — 
 
 The masculine bow that draws the woman's heart 
 
 From out the strings and makes them cry, yearn, plead, 
 
 Tremble, exult, with mystic union 
 
 Of joy acute and tender suffering. 
 
 To play the viol and discreetly mix 
 
 Alternate with the bow's keen bit'.r.g tones 
 
 The throb responsive to the finger's touch, 
 
 Was rarest skill that Pablo half had»caught 
 
 From an old blind and wandering Catalan ; 
 
 The other half was rather heritage 
 
 From treasure stored by generations past 
 
 In winding chambers of receptive sense. 
 
 The winged sounds exalt the thick-pressed crowd 
 
 With a new pulse in common, blending all 
 
 The gazing life into one larger soul 
 
 With dimly widened consciousness : as waves 
 
 In heightened movement tell of waves far off. 
 
 And the light changes ; westward stationed clouds, 
 
 The sun's ranged outposts, luminous message spread, 
 
 I7S 
 
176 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Rousing quiescent things to doff their shade 
 And show themselves as added audience. 
 Now Pablo, letting fall the eager bow, 
 Solicits softer murmurs from the strings, 
 And now above them pours a wondrous voice 
 (Such as Greek reapers heard in Sicily) 
 With wounding rapture in it, like love's arrows ; 
 And clear upon clear air as colored gems 
 Dropped in a crystal cup of water pure, 
 Fall words of sadness, simple, lyrical : 
 
 Spi'ing comes hither^ 
 
 Buds the rose ; 
 Roses wither^ 
 
 Siveet spring goes. 
 OJala, would she ca?'ry me! 
 
 Su77imer soars — 
 
 Wide-winged day 
 White light pours, 
 Flies away. 
 OJala, luould he carry met 
 
 Soft winds blow, 
 
 Westward horn. 
 Onward go 
 
 Toward the 7norn. 
 Ojala, would they carry 7ne! 
 
 Sweet birds sing 
 
 O'er the graves, 
 Then take wing 
 
 O'er the waves. 
 Ojald, would they car?y we .■ 
 
 When the voice paused and left the viol's note 
 To plead forsaken, 'twas as when a cloud 
 Hiding the sun, makes all the leaves and flowers 
 Shiver. But when with measured change the strings 
 Had taught regret new longing, clear again. 
 Welcome as hope recovered, flowed the voice. 
 
 Warm whispering through the slender olive leaves 
 Come to me a gentle sound ^ 
 Whispering of a secret found 
 
 In the clear sunshine 'mid the golden sheaves ; 
 
THE SPANISH G YPS Y, 1 7 ; 
 
 Said it was sleeping for 77ie in the morn. 
 Called it gladness, called it joy ^ 
 D?'ew me on — " Come hither, boy " — 
 
 To where the blue wings rested on the corn, 
 
 I thought the gentle sound had whispered true—^ 
 Thought the little heaven mine, 
 Leaned to clutch the thing divine. 
 
 And saiu the blue wings melt within the blue. 
 
 The long notes linger on the trembling air, 
 
 With subtle penetration enter all 
 
 The myriad corridors of the passionate soul, 
 
 Message-like spread, and answering action rouse. 
 
 Not angular jigs that warm the chilly limbs 
 
 In hoary northern mists, but action curved 
 
 To soft andante strains pitched plaintively. 
 
 Vibrations sympathetic stir all limbs : 
 
 Old men live backward in their dancing prime, 
 
 And move in memory ; small legs and arm 
 
 With pleasant agitation purposeless 
 
 Go up and down like pretty fruits in gales. 
 
 All long in common for the expressive act 
 
 Yet wait for it ; as in the olden time 
 
 Men waited for the bard to tell their thought. 
 
 *' The dance ! the dance ! " is shouted all around. 
 
 Now Pablo lifts the bow, Pepita now. 
 
 Ready as bird that sees the sprinkled corn, 
 
 When Juan nods and smiles, puts forth her foot 
 
 And lifts her arm to wake the castanets. 
 
 Juan advances, too, from out the ring 
 
 And bends to quit his lute ; for now the scene 
 
 Is empty ; Roldan weary, gathers pence. 
 
 Followed by Annibal with purse and stick. 
 
 The carpet lies a colored isle untrod. 
 
 Inviting feet : " The dance, the dance," resounds, 
 
 The bow entreats with slow melodic strain, 
 
 And all the air with expectation yearns. 
 
 Sudden, with gliding motion like a flame 
 That through dim vapor makes a path of glory, 
 A figure lithe, all white and saffron-robed, 
 Flashed right across the circle, and now stood 
 With ripened arms uplift and regal head. 
 Like some tall flower whose dark and intense heart 
 Lies half within a tulip-tinted cup. 
 2 
 
lyS THE SPANISH GYPSV. 
 
 Juan stood fixed and pale ; Pepita stepped 
 Backward wit'^in the ring : the voices fell 
 From shouts insistent to more passive tones 
 Half meaning welcome, half astonishment. 
 *' Lady Fedalma ! — will she dance for us ? " 
 
 But she, sole swayed by impulse passionate, 
 Feeling all life was music and all eyes 
 The warming qu'ckening light that music makes, 
 Moved as, in dance religious, Miriam, 
 When on the Red Sea shore she raised her voice 
 And led the chorus of the people's joy ; 
 Or as the Trojan maids that reverent sang 
 Watching the sorrow-crowned Jr^ jcuba : 
 Moved in slow curves voluminous, gradual, 
 Feeling and action flowing into one, 
 In Eden's natural taintless marriage-bond ; 
 Ardently modest, sensuously pure, 
 With young delight that wonders at itself 
 And throbs as innocent as opening flowers. 
 Knowing not coniment — soilless, beautiful. 
 The spirit in her gravely glowing face 
 With sweet community informs her limbs, 
 Filling their fine gradation with the breath 
 Of virgin majesty ; as full vowelled words 
 Are new impregnate with the master's thought, 
 Even the chance-strayed delicate tendrils black, 
 That backward 'scape from out her wreathing hair- 
 Even the pliant folds that cling transverse 
 When with obliquely soaring bend altern 
 She seems a goddess quitting earth again — 
 Gather expression — a soft undertone 
 And resonance exquisite from the grand chord 
 Of her harmoniously bodied soul. 
 
 At the first a reverential silence guards 
 
 The eager senses of the gazing crowd : 
 
 They hold their breath, and live by seeing her. 
 
 But soon the admiring tension finds relief — 
 
 Sighs of delight, applausive murmurs low, 
 
 And stirrings gentle as of eared corn 
 
 Or seed-bent grasses, when the ocean's breath 
 
 Spreads landward. Even Juan is impelled 
 
 By the swift-travelling movement : fear and doubt 
 
THE SFANISII GYPSY. 
 
 Give way before the hurrying energy \ 
 He takes his kite and strikes in fellowship, 
 Filling more full the rill of melody 
 Raised ever and anon to clearest flood 
 By Pablo's voice, that dies away too soon. 
 Like the sweet blackbird's fragmentary chant, 
 Yet wakes again, with varying rise and fall, 
 In songs that seem emergent memories 
 Prompting brief utterance — little cancions 
 And villancicos, Andalusia-born. 
 
 Pablo (smgs.) 
 
 It 7C'as ill the prime 
 
 Of the sweet Sp7'ing-iime. 
 
 In the limiefs th?'oat 
 
 Trembled the love-note^ 
 And the love-stirred air 
 Thrilled the blossoms there. 
 
 Little shadows dcuiced 
 Each a tiny elf, 
 
 Happy in large light 
 And the thinnest self. 
 
 It was but a minute 
 
 In a far-off Spring, 
 
 Btct each gentle things 
 Sweetly-wooing linnet, 
 Soft-thrilled hawthorn tree^ 
 
 Happy shadowy elf 
 With the thinnest self 
 
 Live still on in me. 
 O the sweet, sweet prime 
 Of the past Spring-time I 
 
 And still the light is changing : high ^bove 
 Float soft pink clouds ; others with deeper flush 
 Stretch like flamingos bending toward the south. 
 Comes a more solemn brilliance o'er the sky, 
 A meaning more intense upon the air — 
 The inspiration of the dying day. 
 And Juan now, when Pablo's notes subside, 
 Soothes the regretful tar, and breaks the pause 
 With masculine voice in deep antiphony. 
 
 179 
 
I So THE SPANISH G VPS Y. 
 
 Juan (smgs). 
 
 Day is dying! Float, O song, 
 
 Down the westward rive?', 
 Requiem chanting to the Day — 
 Day, the mighty Giver. 
 
 Pierced by shafts of Time he bleeds^ 
 
 Melted rubies sending 
 Through the river and the sky. 
 
 Earth and heaven blendi?ig ; 
 
 All the long-drawn earthly banks 
 
 Up to cloud-hvid lifting: 
 Slow betiveen them drifts the sivan, 
 
 ^Twixttwo heavens drifting. 
 
 Wings half open, like a flow' r 
 
 Lily deeper flushing, 
 Neck and breast as virgin's piwc — 
 Virgin proudly blushing. 
 
 Day is dying! Float, O swan, 
 
 Down the ruby river ; 
 Follo7v, song, in requiem 
 
 7o the mighty Giver. 
 
 The exquisite hour, the ardor of the crowd, 
 
 The strains more plenteous, and the gathering might 
 
 Of action passionate where no effort is. 
 
 But self's poor gates open to rushing power 
 
 That blends the inward ebb and outward vast — 
 
 All gathering influences culminate 
 
 And urge Fedalma. Earth and heaven seem one, 
 
 Life a glad trembling on the outer edge 
 
 Of unknown rapture. Swifter now she moves, 
 
 Filling the measure with a double beat 
 
 And widening circle ; now she seems to glow 
 
 Vv^ith more declared presence, glorified. 
 
 Circling, she lightly bends and lifts on high 
 
 The multitudinous-sounding tambourine. 
 
 And makes it ring and boom, then lifts it higher 
 
 Stretching her left arm beauteous ; now the crowd 
 
 Exultant shouts, forgetting poverty 
 
 In the rich moment of possessing her. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. l8i 
 
 But sudden, at one point, the exultant throng 
 Is pushed and hustled, and then thrust apart : 
 Something approaches — something cuts the ring 
 Of jubilant idlers — startling as a streak 
 From alien wounds across the blooming flesh 
 Of careless sporting childhood. 'Tis the band 
 Of Gypsy prisoners. Soldiers lead the van 
 And make sparse flanking guard, aloof surveyed 
 By gallant Lopez, stringent in command. 
 The Gypsies chained in couplets, all save one, 
 Walk in dark file with grand bare legs and arms 
 And savage melancholy in their eyes 
 The star-like gleam from out black clouds of hair; 
 Now they are full in sight, and now they stretch 
 Right to the centre of the open space. 
 Fedalma now, with gentle wheeling sweep 
 Returning, like the loveliest of the Hours 
 Strayed from her sisters, truant lingering. 
 Faces again the centre, swings again 
 The uplifted tambourine. . . . 
 
 When lo ! with sound 
 Stupendous throbbing, solemn as a voice 
 Sent by the invisible choir of all the dead, 
 Tolls the great passing bell that calls to prayer 
 For souls departed : at the mighty beat 
 It seems the light sinks awe-struck — 'tis the note 
 Of the sun's burial ; speech and action pause ; 
 Religious silence and the holy sign 
 Of everlasting memories (the sign 
 Of death that turned to more diffusive life) 
 Pass o'er the Placa. Little children gaze 
 With lips apart, and feel the unknown god ; 
 And the most men and women pray. Not all. 
 The soldiers pray ; the Gypsies stand unmoved 
 As pagan statues w^ith proud level gaze. 
 But he who wears a solitary chain 
 Heading the file, has turned to face Fedalma. 
 She motionless, with arm uplifted, guards 
 The tambourine aloft (lest, sudden-lowered, 
 Its trivial jingle mar the duteous pause). 
 Reveres the general prayer, but prays not, stands 
 With level glance meeting that Gypsy's eyes, 
 That seem to her the sadness of the world 
 Rebuking her, the great bell's hidden thought 
 
t82 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Now first unveiled — the sorrows unredeemed 
 
 Of races outcast, scorned, and wandering. 
 
 Wliy does he look at her ? why she at him ? 
 
 As if the meeting light between their eyes 
 
 Made permanent union ? His deep-knit brow, 
 
 Inflated nostril, scornful lip compressed, 
 
 Seem a dark hieroglyph of coming fate 
 
 Written before her. Father Isidor 
 
 Had terrible eyes and was her enemy ; 
 
 She knew it and defied him ; all her soul 
 
 Rounded and hardened in its separateness 
 
 When they encountered. But this prisoner — 
 
 This Gypsy, passing, gazing casually — 
 
 Was he her enemy too t She stood all quelled, 
 
 The impetuous joy that hurried in her veins 
 
 Seemed backward rushing turned to chillest awe, 
 
 Uneasy wonder, and a vague self-doubt. 
 
 The minute brief stretched measureless, dream-filled 
 
 By a dilated new-fraught consciousness. 
 
 Now it was gone ; the pious murmur ceased. 
 The Gypsies all move onward at command 
 And careless noises blent confusedly. 
 But the ring closed again, and many ears 
 Waited for Pablo's music, many eyes 
 Turned towards the carpet : it lay bare and dim, 
 Twilight was there — the bright Fedalma gone. 
 
 A handsome rooi7i in the Castle. On a table a rich jewel-casket. 
 
 Silva had doffed his mail and with it all 
 
 The heavier harness of his warlike cares. 
 
 He had not seen Fedalma ; miser-like 
 
 He hoarded through the hour a costlier joy 
 
 By longing oft-repressed. Now it was earned ; 
 
 And with observance wonted he would send 
 
 To ask admission. Spanish gentlemen 
 
 Who wooed fair dames of noble ancestry 
 
 Did homage with rich tunics and slashed sleeveS 
 
 And outward-surging linen's costly snow ; 
 
 With broidered scarf transverse, and rosary 
 
 Handsomely wrought to fit high-blooded prayer; 
 
 So hinting in how deep respect they held 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 183 
 
 That self they threw before their lady's feet. 
 
 And Silva — that Fedalma's rate should stand 
 
 No jot below the highest, that her love 
 
 Might seem to all the royal gift it was — 
 
 Turned every trifle in his mien and garb 
 
 To scrupulous language, uttering to the world 
 
 That since she loved him he went carefully, 
 
 Bearing a thing so precious in his hand. 
 
 A man of high-wrought strain, fastidious 
 
 In his acceptance, dreading all delight 
 
 That speedy dies and turns to carrion : 
 
 His senses much exacting, deep instilled 
 
 With keen imagination's airy needs ; — 
 
 Like strong-limbed monsters studded o'er with eyes, 
 
 Their hunger checked by overwhelming vision, 
 
 Or that fierce lion in symbolic dream 
 
 Snatched from the ground by wings and new-endowed 
 
 With a man's thought-propelled relenting heart. 
 
 Silva was both the lion and the man ; 
 
 First hesitating shrank, then fiercely sprang, 
 
 Or having sprung, turned pallid at his deed 
 
 And loosed the prize paying his blood for naught. 
 
 A nature half-transformed, with qualities 
 
 That oft bewrayed each other, elements 
 
 Not blent but struggling, breeding strange effects, 
 
 Passing the reckoning of his friends or foes. 
 
 Haughty and generous, grave and passionate; 
 
 With tidal moments of devoutest awe, 
 
 Sinking anon to farthest ebb of doubt ; 
 
 Deliberating ever till the sting 
 
 Of a recurrent ardor made him rush 
 
 Right against reasons that himself had drilled 
 
 And marshalled painfully. A spirit framed 
 
 Too proudly special for obedience, 
 
 Too subtly pondering for mastery : 
 
 Born of a goddess with a mortal sire. 
 
 Heir of flesh-fettered, weak divinity. 
 
 Doom-gifted with long resonant consciousness 
 
 And perilous heightening of the sentient soul. 
 
 But look less curiously: life itself' 
 
 May not express us all, may leave the worst 
 
 And the best too, like tunes in mechanism 
 
 Never awaked. In various catalogues 
 
 Objects stand variously. Silva stands 
 
i84 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 As a young Spaniard, handsome, noble, brave, 
 With titles many, high in pedigree j 
 Or, as a nature quiveringly poised 
 In reach of storms, whose qualities may turn 
 To murdered virtues that still walk as ghosts 
 Within the shuddering soul and shriek remorse 
 Or, as a lover .... In the screening time 
 Of purple blossoms, when the petals crowd 
 And softly crush like cherub cheeks in heaven, 
 Who thinks of greenly withered fruit and worms ? 
 O the warm southern spring is beauteous ! 
 And in love's spring all good seems possible : 
 No threats, all promise, brooklets ripple full 
 And bathe the rushes, vicious crawling things 
 Are pretty eggs, the sun shines graciously 
 And parches not, the silent rain beats warm 
 As childhood's kisses, days are young and grow, 
 And earth seems in its sweet beginning time 
 Fresh made for two who live in Paradise. 
 Silva is in love's spring, its freshness breathed 
 Within his soul along the dusty ways 
 W^hile marching homeward ; 'tis around him now 
 As in a garden fenced in for delight, — 
 And he may seek delight. Smiling he lifts 
 A whistle from his belt, but lets it fall 
 Ere it has reached his lips, jarred by the sound 
 Of ushers' knocking, and a voice that craves 
 Admission for the Prior of San Domingo. 
 
 Prior {entermg). 
 You look perturbed, my son. I thrust myself 
 Between you and some beckoning intent 
 That wears a face more smiling than my own. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 Father, enough that you are here. I wait, 
 As always, your commands — nay, should have sought 
 An early audience. 
 
 Prior. 
 To give, I trust. 
 Good reasons for your change of policy ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 Strong reasons, father. 
 
THE SPA //IS II GVPSV. 
 
 Prior. 
 
 ■8s 
 
 Ay, but are they good ? 
 I have known reasons strong, but strongly evil. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 'Tis possible. I but deliver mine 
 To your strict judgment. Late despatches sent 
 With urgence by the Count of Bavien, 
 No hint on my part prompting, with bes 
 The testified concurrence of the king 
 And our Grand Master, have made peremptory 
 The course which else had bee.-i but rational. 
 Without the forces furnished by allies 
 The siege of Guadix would be madness. More, 
 El Zagal has liis eyes upon Bedmar : 
 Let him attempt it : in three weeks from hence 
 The Master and the Lord of Aguilar 
 Will bring their forces. We shall catch the Moors, 
 The last gleaned clusters of their bravest men, 
 As in a trap. You have my reasons, father. 
 
 Prior. 
 And they sound well. But free-tongued rumor adds 
 A pregnant supplement — in substance this : 
 That inclination snatches arguments 
 To make indulgence seem judicious choice ; 
 That you, commanding in God's Holy War, 
 Lift prayers to Satan to retard the fight 
 And give you time for feasting — wait a siege, 
 Call daring enterprise impossible, 
 Because you'd marry ! You, a Spanish duke, 
 Christ's general, wo Jd marry like a clown. 
 Who, selling fodder dearer for the war. 
 Is all the merrier ; nay, like the brutes, 
 Who know no awe to check their appetite, 
 Coupling 'mid heaps of slain, while still in front 
 The battle rages. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 Rumor on your lips 
 Is eloquent, father. 
 
 Prior. 
 Is she true ? 
 
l86 THE SPANISH GYrSY. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Perhaps. 
 I seek to justiry my public acts 
 And not my private joy. Before the world 
 Enough if I am faithful in command, 
 Betray not by my deeds, swerve from no task 
 My knightly vows constrain me to : herein 
 I ask all men to test me. 
 
 Prior. 
 
 Knightly vows ? 
 Is it by their constraint that you must marry ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 Marriage is not a breach of them. I use 
 A sanctioned liberty .... your pardon, father. 
 I need not teach you what the Church decrees. 
 But facts may weaken texts, and so dry up 
 The fount of eloquence. The Church relaxed 
 Our Order's rule before I took the vows. 
 
 Prior. 
 Ignoble liberty ! you snatch your rule 
 From what God tolerates, not what he loves ? — 
 Inquire what lowest offering may suffice, 
 Cheapen it meanly to an obolus, 
 Buy, and then count the coin left in your purse 
 For your debauch ? — Measure obedience 
 By scantest powers of brethren whose frail flesh 
 Our Holy Church indulges ? — Ask great Law, 
 The rightful sovereign of the human soul, 
 For what it pardons, not v/hat it commands } 
 
 fallen knighthood, penitent of high vows, 
 Asking a charter to degrade itself ! 
 
 Such poor apology of rules relaxed 
 Blunts not suspicion of that doubleness 
 Your enemies tax you with. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Oh, for the rest, 
 Conscience is harder than our enemies. 
 Knows more, accuses with more nicety. 
 Nor needs to question Rumor if we fall 
 Below the perfect model of our thought. 
 
 1 fear no outward arbiter. — You smile? 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 187 
 
 Prior. 
 Ay, at the contrast 'twixt your portraiture 
 And the true image of your conscience, shown 
 As now I see it in your acts. I see 
 A drunken sentinel who gives alarm 
 At his own shadow, but when scalers snatch 
 His weapon from his hand smiles idiot-like 
 At games he's dreaming of. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 A parable ! 
 The husk is rough — holds something bitter, doubtless. 
 
 Prior. 
 Oh, the husk gapes with meaning over-ripe. 
 You boast a conscience that controls your deeds, 
 Watches your knightly armor, guards your rank 
 From stain of treachery — you, helpless slave. 
 Whose will lies nerveless in the clutch of lust — 
 Of blind mad passion — passion itself most helpless, 
 Storm-driven, like the monsters of the sea. 
 O famous conscience ! 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Pause there ! Leave unsaid 
 Aught that will match that text. More were too much, 
 Even from holy lips. I own no love 
 But such as guards my honor, since it guards 
 Hers whom I love ! I suffer no foul words 
 To stain the gift I lay before her feet ; 
 And, being hers, my honor is more safe. 
 
 Prior. 
 Versemakers' talk ! fit for a world of rhymes, 
 Where facts are feigned to tickle idle ears. 
 Where good and evil play at tournament 
 And end in amity — a world of lies — 
 A carnival of words where every year 
 Stale falsehoods serve fresh men. Your honor safer 
 What honor has a man with double bonds ? 
 Honor is shifting as the shadows are 
 To souls that turn their passions into laws. 
 A Christian knight who weds an infidel 
 
 Don Silva {fiercely). 
 An infidel ! 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Prior. 
 May one day spurn the Cross, 
 An:l call that honor ! — one day find his sword 
 Stained with his brother's blood, and call that honor I 
 Apostates' honor ? — harlots' chastity ! 
 Renegades' faithfulness ? — Iscariot's ! 
 
 Don Silva. 
 Strong words and burning ; but they scorch not me. 
 Fedalma is a daughter of the Church — 
 Has been baptized and nurtured in the faith. 
 
 Prior. 
 Ay, as a thousand Jewesses, who yet 
 Are brides of Satan in a robe of flames. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 Fedalma is no Jewess, bears no marks 
 That tell of Hebrew blood. 
 
 Prior. 
 
 She bears the marks 
 Of races unbaptized, that never bowed 
 Before the holy signs, were never moved 
 By stirrings of the sacramental gifts. 
 
 Don Silva {scornfully). 
 Holy accusers practise palmistry. 
 And, other witness lacking, read the skin. 
 
 Prior. 
 I read a record deeper than the skin. 
 What ! Shall the trick of nostrils and of lips 
 Descend through generations, and the soul 
 That moves within our frame like God in worlds- 
 Convulsing, urging, melting, withering — 
 Imprint no record, leave no documents, 
 Of her great history ? Shall men bequeath 
 The fancies of their palate to their sons, 
 And shall the shudder of restraining awe, 
 The slow-wept tears of contrite memory. 
 Faith's prayerful labor, and the food divine 
 Of fasts ecstatic — shall these pass away 
 Like wind upon the waters, tracklessly? 
 Shall the mere curl of eyelashes remain, 
 And god-enshrining symbols leave no trace 
 
THE SPANISH GYFSY. 189 
 
 Of tremors reverent ? — That maiden's blood 
 Is as unchristain as the leopard's. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Say, 
 Unchristahi as the Blessed Virgin's blood 
 Before the angel spoke the word, " All hail ! " 
 
 Prior {sjnilmg bitterly). 
 Said I not truly ? See, your passion weaves 
 Already blasphemies ! 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 'Tis you provoke them. 
 
 Prior. 
 I strive, as still the Holy Spirit strives. 
 To move the will perverse. But, failing this, 
 God commands other means to save our blood, 
 To save Castilian glory — nay, to save 
 The name of Christ from blot of traitorous deeds. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 Of traitorous deeds ! Age, kindred, and your cowl. 
 Give an ignoble license to your tongue. 
 As for your threats, fulfil them at your peril. 
 'Tis you, not I, will gibbet our great name 
 To rot in infamy. If I am strong — 
 
 In patience now, trust me, I can be strong 
 Then in defiance. 
 
 Prior 
 
 Miserable man ! 
 Your strength will turn to anguish, like the strength 
 Of fallen angels. Can you change your blood ? 
 You are a Christian, with the Christian awe 
 In every vain. A Spanish noble, born 
 To serve your people and your people's faith. 
 Strong, are you ? Turn your back upon the Cross- 
 Its shadow is before you. Leave your place : 
 Quit the great ranks of knighthood : you will walk 
 Forever with a tortured double self, 
 A self that will be hungry while you feast, 
 Will blush with shame while you are glorified, 
 Will feel the ache and chill of desolation 
 Even in the very bpsom of your love. 
 
rgo 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Mate yourself with this woman, fit for what ? 
 To make the sport of Moorish palaces, 
 A lewd Herodias .... 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Stop ! no other man, 
 Priest though he were, had had his throat left free 
 For passage of those words. I would have clutched 
 His serpent's neck, and flung him out to hell ! 
 A monk must needs defile the name of love : 
 He knows it but as tempting devils paint it. 
 You think to scare my love from its resolve 
 With arbitrary consequences, strained 
 By rancorous effort from the thinnest motes 
 Of possibility ? — cite hideous lists 
 Of sins irrelevant, to frighten me 
 With bugbears' names, as women fright a child ? 
 Poor pallid wisdom, taught by inference 
 From blood-drained life, where phantom terrors rule. 
 And all achievement is to leave undone ! 
 Paint the day dark, make sunshine cold to me, 
 Abolish the earth's fairness, prove it all 
 A fiction of my eyes — then, after that, 
 Profane Fedalma. 
 
 Prior. 
 O there is no need : 
 She has profaned herself. Go, raving man, 
 And see her dancing now. Go, see your bride 
 Flaunting her beauties grossly in the gaze 
 Of vulgar idlers — eking out the show 
 Made in the Placa by a mountebank. 
 I hinder you no farther. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 It is false ! 
 Prior. 
 Go, prove it false, then. 
 
 [Father Isidor 
 Drew on his cowl and turned away. The face 
 That flashed anathemas, in swift eclipse 
 Seemed Silva's vanished confidence. In haste 
 He rushed unsignalled through the corridor 
 To where the Duchess once, Fedalma now, 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. ig. 
 
 Had residence retired from din of arms — 
 Knocked, opened, found all empty — said 
 With muffled voice, " Fedalma ! " — called more loud, 
 More oft on Inez, the old trusted nurse — 
 Then searched the terrace-garden, calling still, 
 But heard no answering sound, and saw no face 
 Save painted faces staring all unmoved 
 By agitated tones. He hurried back, 
 Giving half-conscious orders as he went 
 To page and usher, that they straight should seek 
 Lady Fedalma ; then with stinging shame 
 Wished himself silent ; reached again the room 
 Where still the Father's menace seemed to hang 
 Thickening the air ; snatched cloak and plumed hat, 
 And grasped, not knowing why, his poniard's hilt ; 
 Then checked himself and said : — '\ 
 
 If he spoke truth ! 
 To know were wound enough — to see the truth 
 V/ere fire upon the wound. It must be false ! 
 His hatred saw amiss, or snatched mistake 
 In other men's report. I am a fool ! 
 But where can she be gone ? gone secretly ? 
 And in my absence.'' Oh, she meant no wrong ! 
 I am a fool ! — But where can she be gone ? 
 With only Inez ? Oh, she meant no wrong ! 
 I swear she never meant it. There's no wrong 
 But she would make it momentary right 
 By innocence in doing it. . . . 
 
 And yet, 
 WHiat is our certainty ? Why, knowing all 
 That is not secret. Mighty confidence ! 
 One pulse of Time makes the base hollow — sends 
 The towering certainty we built so high 
 Toppling in fragments meaningless. What is — 
 What will be — must be — pooh ! they wait the key 
 Of that which is not yet ; all other keys 
 Are made of our conjectures, take their sense 
 From humors fooled by hope, or by despair. 
 Know what is good ? O God, we know not yet 
 If bliss itself is not young misery 
 With fangs swift growing. . . . 
 
 But some outward harm 
 May even now be hurting, grieving her. 
 
192 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Oh ! I must search — face shame — if shame be there. 
 Here, Perez ! hasten to Don Alvar — tell him 
 Lady Fedalma must be sought — is lost — 
 Has met, I fear, some mischance. He must send 
 Towards divers points. I go myself to seek 
 First in the town. . . . 
 
 [As Perez oped the door, 
 Then moved aside for passage of the Duke, 
 Fedalma entered, cast away the cloud 
 Of serge and linen, and outbeaming bright, 
 Advanced a pace towards Silva — but then paused, 
 For he had started and retreated ; she, 
 Quick and responsive as the subtle air 
 To change in him, divined that she must wait 
 Until they were alone : they stood and looked. 
 Within the Duke was struggling confluence 
 Of feelings manifold — pride, anger, dread. 
 Meeting in stormy rush with sense secure 
 That she was present, with the new-stilled thirst 
 Of gazing love, with trust inevitable 
 As in beneficent virtues of the light 
 And all earth's sweetness, that Fedalma's soul 
 Was free from blemishing purpose. Yet proud wrath 
 Leaped in dark flood above the purer stream 
 That strove to drown it : Anger seeks its prey — 
 Something to tear with sharp-edged tooth and cla 
 Likes not to go off hungry, leaving Love 
 To feast on milk and honeycomb at will. 
 Silva's heart said, he must be happy soon, 
 She being there ; but to be happy — first 
 He must be angry, having cause. Yet love 
 Shot like a stifled cry of tenderness 
 All through the harshness he would fain have given 
 To the dear word]. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 Fedalma ! 
 Fedalma. 
 
 O my lord ! 
 You are come back, and I was wandering ! 
 
 Don Silva {coldly^ but ivith suppressed agitation). 
 You meant I should be iscnorant. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY, 193 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Oh no, 
 I should have told you after — not before, 
 Lest you should hinder me. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Then my known wish 
 Can make no hindrance ? 
 
 Fedalma {archly). 
 
 That depends 
 On what the wish may be. You wished me once 
 Not to uncage the birds. I meant to obey : 
 But in a moment something — something stronger, 
 Forced me to let them out. It did no harm. 
 They all came back again — the silly birds ! 
 I told you, after. 
 
 Don Silva {with haughty coldness). 
 
 Will you tell me now 
 What was the promptin"^ stronger than my wish 
 That made you wander 1 
 
 Fedalma {advancing a step towards him, with a 
 sudden look of anxiety). 
 
 Are you angry ? 
 
 Don Silva {s7nili7ig bitterly'). 
 
 A man deep-wounded may feel too much pain 
 To feel much anger. 
 
 Fedalma (still 7nore ajixiously). 
 You — deep-wounded ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Have I not made your place and dignity 
 The very heart of my ambition ? You — 
 No enemy could do it — you alone 
 Can strike it mortally. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Nay, Silva, nay. 
 Has some one told you false ? I only went 
 To see the world with Inez — see the town, 
 The people, everything. It was no harm. 
 I" 
 
 Angry ? 
 
194 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 I did not mean to dance : it happened so 
 At last . . . 
 
 Don Silva. 
 O God, it's true then ! — true that you, 
 A maiden nurtured as rare flowers are, 
 The very air of heaven sifted fine 
 Lest any mote should mar your purity. 
 Have flung yourself out on the dusty way 
 For common eyes to see your beauty soiled ! 
 You own it true — you danced upon the Placa ? 
 
 Fedalma {proud/y). 
 Yes, it is true. I was not wrong to dance. 
 The air was filled with music, with a song 
 That seemed the voice of the sweet eventide — 
 The glowing light entering through eye and ear — 
 That seemed our love — mine, yours — they are but 
 
 one — 
 Trembling through all my limbs, as fervent words 
 Tremble within my soul and must be spoken. 
 And all the people felt a common joy 
 And shouted for the dance. A brightness soft 
 As of the angels moving down to see 
 Illumined the broad space. The joy, the life 
 Around, within me, were one heaven : I longed 
 To blend them visibly : I longed to dance 
 Before the people — be as mounting flame 
 To all that burned within them ! Nay, I danced ; 
 There was no longing : I but did the deed 
 Being moved to do it. 
 
 {As Fedalma speaks, she and Don Silva are 
 gradually drawn iiea?'er to each other ^ 
 Oh ! I seemed new-waked 
 To life in unison with a multitude — 
 Feeling my soul upborne by all their souls, 
 Floating within their gladness ! Soon I lost 
 All sense of separateness : Fedalma died 
 As a star dies, and melts into the light. 
 I was not, but joy was, and love and triumph. 
 Nay, my dear lord, I never could do aught 
 But I must fee/ you present. And once done, 
 Why, you must love it better than your wish. 
 I pray you, say so — say, it was not wrong ! 
 
TIJE SPANISH GYPSY. I^c 
 
 ( While Fedalma has been making this last 
 appeal^ they have gradually come close 
 together^ and at last embrace^ 
 
 Don Silva (Jiolding her hands). 
 
 Dangerous rebel ! if the world without 
 
 Were pure as that within . . . but 'tis a book 
 
 Wherein you only read the poesy 
 
 And miss all wicked meanings. Hence the need 
 
 For trust — obedience — call it what you will — 
 
 Towards him whose life will be your guard — towards me 
 
 Who now am soon to be your husband. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Yes! 
 That very thing that when I am your wife 
 I shall be something different, — shall be 
 I know not what, a Duchess with new thoughts — 
 For nobles never think like common men, 
 Nor wives like maidens (Oh, you wot not yet 
 How much I note, with all my ignorance) — 
 That very thing has made me mere resolve 
 To have my will before I am your wife. 
 How can the Duchess ever satisfy 
 Fedalma's unwed eyes ? and so to-day 
 I scolded Inez till she cried and went. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 It was a guilty weakness : she knows well 
 That since you pleaded to be left more free 
 From tedious tendance and control of dames 
 Whose rank matched better with your destiny, 
 Her charge — my trust — was weightier. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Nay, my lord 
 You must not blame her, dear old nurse. She cried. 
 Why, you would have consented too, at last. 
 I said such things ! I was resolved to go, 
 And see the streets, the shops, the men at word, 
 The women, little children — everything, 
 Just as it is when nobody looks on. 
 And I have done it ! We were out four hours. 
 I feel so wise. 
 
196 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY, 
 
 Don SiLVA. 
 [jHad you but seen the town, 
 You innocent naughtiness, not shown yourself— 
 Shown yourself dancing — you bewilder me! — 
 Frustrate my judgment with strange negatives 
 That seem like poverty, and yet are wealth 
 In precious womanlinesss, beyond the dower 
 Of other women : wealth in virgin gold, 
 Outweighing all their petty currency. 
 You daring modesty ! You shrink no more 
 From gazing men than from the gazing flowers 
 That, dreaming sunshine, open as you pass. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 No, I should like the world to look at me 
 With eyes of love that make a second day. 
 I think your eyes would keep the life in me 
 Though I had naught to feed on else. Their blue 
 Is better that the heavens' — holds more love 
 For me, Fedalma — is a little heaven 
 For this one little world that looks up now. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 O precious little world ! you make the heaven 
 As the earth makes the sky. But, dear, all eyes, 
 Though looking even on you, have not a glance 
 That cherishes .... 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Ah no, I meant to tell you — 
 Tell how my dancing ended with a pang. 
 There came a man, one among many more. 
 But he came first, with iron on his limbs. 
 And when the bell tolled, and the people prayed, 
 And I stood pausing — then he looked at me. 
 O Silva, such a man ! I thought he rose 
 From the dark place of long-imprisoned souls, 
 To say that Christ had never come to them. 
 It was a look to shame a seraph's joy, 
 And make him sad in heaven. It found me there- 
 Seemed to have travelled far to find me there 
 And grasp me — claim this festal life of mine 
 As heritage of sorrow, chill my blood 
 With the cold iron of some unknown bonds. 
 The gladness hurrying full within my veins 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. I(j7 
 
 Was sudden frozen, and I danced no more. 
 
 But seeing you let loose the stream of joy, 
 
 Mingling the present with the sweetest past. 
 
 Yet, Silva, still I see him. Who is he ? 
 
 Who are those prisoners with him 1 Are they Moors ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 No, they are Gypsies, strong and cunning knaves, 
 A double gain to us by the Moors' loss : 
 The man you mean — their chief — is an ally 
 The infidel will miss. His look might chase 
 A herd of monks, and make them fly more swift 
 Than from St. Jerome's lion. Such vague fear, 
 Such bird-like tremors when that savage glance 
 Turned full upon you in your height of joy 
 Was natural, was not worth emphasis. 
 Forget it, dear. This hour is worth whole days 
 When we are sundered. Danger urges u.s 
 To quick resolve. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 What danger? what resolve? 
 I never felt chill shadow in my heart 
 Until this sunset. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 A dark emity 
 Plots how to sever us. And our defence 
 Is speedy marriage, secretly achieved, 
 Then publicly declared. Beseech you, dear, 
 Grant me this confidence ; do my will in this, 
 Trusting the reasons why I overset 
 All my own airy building raised so high 
 Of bridal honors, marking when you step 
 From off your maiden throne to come to me 
 And bear the yoke of love. There is great need. 
 I hastened home, carrying this prayer to you 
 Within my heart. The bishop is my friend, 
 Furthers our marriage, holds in enmity — 
 Some whom we love not and who love not us. 
 By this night's moon our priest will be despatched 
 From Jaen. I shall march an escort strong 
 To meet him. Ere a second sun from this 
 Has risen — you consenting — we may wed. 
 
1^8 THE SPANISH GYPSY, 
 
 None knowing that we wed ? 
 
 Fedalma. 
 I'e wed ? 
 Don Silva 
 
 Beforehand none 
 Save Inez and Don Alvar. But the vows 
 Once safely binding us, my household all 
 Shall know you as their Duchess. No man then 
 Can aim a blow at you but through my breast, 
 And what stains you must stain our ancient name ; 
 If any hate yo\x I will take his hate, 
 And wear it as a glove upon my helm ; 
 Nay, God himself will never have the power 
 To strike you solely and leave me unhurt. 
 He having made us one. Now put the seal 
 Of your dear lips on that. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 A solemn kiss ? — 
 Such as I gave you when you came that day 
 From Cordova, when first we said we loved ? 
 When you had left the ladies of the Court 
 For thirst to see me ; and you told me so. 
 And then I seemed to know why I had lived. 
 I never knew before. A kiss like that ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 Yes, yes, you face divine ! When was our kiss 
 Like any other ? 
 
 Fedalma. 
 Nay, I cannot tell 
 What other kisses are. But that one kiss 
 Remains upon my lips. The angels, spirits, 
 Creatures with finer sense, may see it there. 
 And now another kiss that will not die, 
 Saying, To-morrow I shall be your wife ! 
 
 {They kiss, and pause a moment, looking ear- 
 nestly in each other's eyes. Then Fedalma, 
 breaking aivay from Don Silva, stands 
 at a little distance from him with a look of 
 roguish delight^ 
 
 f^ow I am glad I saw the town to-day 
 Before I am a Duchess — glad I gave 
 
THE SPA NISH G YPS Y. I gc) 
 
 This poor Fedalma all her wish. For once, 
 
 Long years ago, I cried when Inez said, 
 
 " You are no more a little girl ;" I grieved 
 
 To part forever from that little girl 
 
 And all her happy world so near the ground. 
 
 It must be sad to outlive aught we love. 
 
 So I shall grieve a little for these days 
 
 Of poor unwed Fedalma. Oh, they are sweet, 
 
 And none will come just like them. Perhaps the wind 
 
 Wails so in winter for the summers dead, 
 
 And all sad sounds are nature's funeral cries 
 
 For what has been and is not. Are they, Silva ? 
 
 {She comes nearer to him again ^ and lays her 
 hand on his arm, looking up at him with 
 melancholy^ 
 
 Don Silv^. 
 
 Why, dearest, you began in merriment, 
 
 And end as sadly as a widowed bird. 
 
 Some touch mysterious has new-tuned your soul 
 
 To melancholy sequence. You soared high 
 
 In that wild flight of rapture when you danced, 
 
 And now you droop. 'Tis arbitrary grief, 
 
 Surfeit of happiness, that mourns for loss 
 
 Of unwed love, which does but die like seed 
 
 Foi fuller harvest of our tenderness. 
 
 We in our wedded life shall know no loss. 
 
 We shall new-date our years. What went before 
 
 Will be the time of promise, shadows, dreams ; 
 
 But this, full revelation of great love. 
 
 For rivers blent take in a broader heaven, 
 
 And we shall blend our souls. Away with grief ! 
 
 When this dear head shall wear the double crown 
 
 Of wife and Duchess — spiritually crowned 
 
 With sworn espousal before God and man — 
 
 Visably crowned with jewels that bespeak 
 
 The chosen sharer of my heritage — 
 
 My love will gather perfectness, as thoughts 
 
 That nourish us to magnanimity 
 
 Grow perfect with more perfect utterance. 
 
 Gathering full-shapen strength. And then these 
 
200 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 (Don Silva draws Fedalma towards the jewel- 
 casket on the table, and opens it^ 
 Helping the utterance of my soul's full choice, 
 Will be the words made richer by just use, 
 And have new meaning in their lustrousness. 
 You know these jewels ; they are precious signs 
 Of long-transmitted honor, heightened still 
 By worthy wearing ; and I give them you — 
 Ask you to take them — place our house's trust 
 In her sure keeping whom my heart has found 
 Worthiest, most beauteous. These rubies — see — 
 Were falsely placed if not upon your brow. 
 
 (Fedalma, while Don Silva holds open the 
 casket, bends over it, looking at the jewels 
 with delight.) 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Ah, I remember them. In childish days 
 I felt as if they were alive and breathed. 
 I used to sit with awe and look at them. 
 And now they will be mine ! I'll put them on. 
 Help me, my lord, and you shall see me now 
 Somewhat as I shall look at Court with you, 
 That we may know if I shall bear them well. 
 I have a fear sometimes : I think your love 
 Has never paused within your eyes to look. 
 And only passes through them into mine. 
 But when the Court is looking, and the queen, 
 Your eyes will follow theirs. Oh, if you saw 
 That I was other than you wished — 'twere death ! 
 
 Don Silva (taking up a jewel and placing it against her ear). 
 Nay, let us try. Take out your ear-ring, sweet. 
 This ruby glows with longing for your ear. 
 
 Fedalma {taking out her ear-rings, and then lifting up 
 other jewels, one lyy one). 
 
 Pray, fasten in the rubies. 
 
 - (Don Silva begins to put in the ear-ring^) 
 I was right ! 
 These gems have life in them : their colors speak, 
 Say what words fail of. So do many things— 
 The scent of jasmine, and the fountain's plash, 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY, 20I 
 
 7'he moving shadows on the far-off hills, 
 
 The slanting moonlight, and our clasping hands. 
 
 Silva, there's an ocean round our words 
 
 That overflows and drowns them. Do you know 
 Sometimes when we sit silent, and the air 
 Breathes gently on us from the orange-trees, 
 It seems that with the whisper of a word 
 Our souls mi-ist shrink, get poorer, more apart. 
 Is it not true ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Yes, dearest, it is true. 
 Speech is but broken light upon the depth 
 Of the unspoken : even your loved words 
 Float in the larger meaning of your voice 
 As something dimmer. 
 
 {He is still trying in vain to fasten the second ear-ring, 
 while she has stooped again over the casket,) 
 
 Fedalma (raisijzg her head.) 
 
 Ah ! your lordly hands 
 Will never fix that jewel. Let me try. 
 Women's small finger-tips have eyes. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 No, no ! 
 
 1 like the task, only you must be still. 
 
 {She stands perfectly still., clasping her ha?ids together 
 while he fastens the second ear-ring. Suddenly a 
 clanking noise is heard without^ 
 
 FeDALMA {starting with an expression of pain). 
 What is that sound ? — that jarring cruel sound ? 
 'Tis there — outside. 
 
 {She tries to start away towards the window , hut Don 
 Silva detains her.) 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 O heed it not, it comes 
 From workmen in the outer gallery. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 It is the sound of fetters ; sound of work 
 Is not so dismal. Hark, they pass along ! 
 
2C2 THE SPANISH GYPSY, 
 
 I know it IS those Gypsy prisoners. 
 
 I saw tliem, heard their chains. O hornole, 
 
 To be in chains ! Why, I with all my bliss 
 
 Have longed sometimes to fly and be at large ; 
 
 Have felt imprisoned in my luxury 
 
 With servants for my jailers. O my lord, 
 
 Do you not wish the world were difterent ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 It will be different when this war has ceased. 
 You, wedding me, will make it different, 
 Making one life more perfect. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 That is true ! 
 And I shall beg much kindness at your hands 
 For those who are less happy than ourselves. — 
 {Brightening) Oh I shall rule you ! ask for many things 
 Before the world, which you will not deny 
 For very pride, lest men should say, " The Duke 
 Holds lightly by his Duchess; he repents 
 His humble choice." 
 
 {She breaks away from him and returns to the jewels^ 
 taking np a necklace, and clasping it o?t her neck 
 while he takes a circlet of diamonds and rubies and 
 raises it towards her head as he speaks.) 
 
 Don Silva. 
 Doubtless, I shall persist 
 In loving you, to disappoint the world ; 
 Out of pure obstinacy feel myself 
 Happiest of men. Now, take the coronet. 
 
 {He places the circlet on her head.) 
 The diamonds want more light. See, from this lamp 
 I can set tapers burning. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Tell me, now, 
 When all these cruel wars are at an end, 
 And when we go to Court at Cordova, 
 Or Seville, or Toledo — wait awhile, 
 I must be farther off for you to see — 
 
 {She 7'etreats to a distance Jf'om him, ajid then 
 advances slowli''^ 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY, 203 
 
 Now think (I would the tapers gave more light !) 
 
 If when you show me at the tournaments 
 
 Among the other ladies, they will say, 
 
 " Duke Silva is well matched. His bride was naugnt, 
 
 Was some poor foster-child, no man knows what ; 
 
 Yet is her carriage noble, all her robes 
 
 Are worn with grace : she might have been well born." 
 
 Will they say so ? Think now we are at Court, 
 
 And all eyes bent on me. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Fear not, my Duchess 
 Some knight who loves may say his lady-love 
 Is fairer, being fairest. None can say 
 Don Silva's bride might better fit her rank. 
 You will make rank seem natural as kind, 
 As eagle's plumage or the lion's might. 
 A crown upon your brow would seem God-made. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 Then I am glad ! I shall try on to-night 
 The other jewels — have the tapers lit, 
 And see the diamonds sparkle. 
 
 (^She goes to ihe casket again^ 
 Here is gold — 
 A necklace of pure gold — most finely wrought. 
 
 i^She takes out a la?'ge gold necklace and holds it 
 up before her, then turns to Don Silva.) 
 But this is one that you have worn, my lord ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 No, love, I never wore it. Lay it down. 
 
 (lie puts the necklace gently out of her hand, 
 then joins both her ha?ids and holds them 
 up between his own.) 
 You must not look at jewels any more, 
 But look at me. 
 
 Fedalma (looking up at him^ 
 O you dear heaven ! 
 I should see naught if you were gone. 'Tis true 
 My mind is too much given to gauds — to things 
 That fetter thought within this narrow space. 
 That comes of fear. 
 
2 04 THE SPA NISH G YFS V, 
 
 Don Silva. 
 What fear ? 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Fear of myself. 
 For when I walk upon the battlements 
 And see the river travelling toward the plain, 
 I'he mountains screening all the world beyond, 
 A longing comes that haunts me in my dreams — 
 Dreams where I seem to spring from off the walls, 
 And fly far, far away, until at last 
 I find myself alone among the rocks, 
 Remember then that I have left you — try 
 To fly back to you — and my v/ings are gone ! 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 A wicked dream ! If ever I left you, 
 
 Even in dreams, it was some demon dragged me, 
 
 And with fierce struggles I av;aked myself. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 It is a hateful dream, and when it comes — 
 
 I mean, when in my waking hours there comes 
 
 That longing to be free, I am afraid : 
 
 I run down to my chamber, plait my hair, 
 
 Weave colors in it, lay out all my gauds. 
 
 And in my mind make new ones prettier. 
 
 You see I have two minds, and both are foolish. 
 
 Sometimes a torrent rushing through my soul 
 
 Escapes in wild strange wishes ; presently, 
 
 It dwindles to a little babbling rill 
 
 And plays among the pebbles and the flowers. 
 
 Inez will have it^I lack broidery. 
 
 Says naught else gives content to noble maids. 
 
 But I have never broidered — never will. 
 
 No, when I am a Duchess and a wife 
 
 I shall ride forth — may I not ? — by your side. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 Yes, you shall ride upon a palfrey, black 
 To match Bavieca. Not Queen Isabel 
 Will be a sight more gladdening to men's eyes 
 Than my dark queen Fedalma. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY, 20! 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Ah, but you, 
 You are my king, and I shall tremble still 
 With some great fear that throbs within my love. 
 Does your love fear ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Ah, yes ! all preciousness 
 To mortal hearts is guarded by a fear. 
 All love fears loss, and most that loss supreme, 
 Its own perfection — seeing, feeling change 
 From high to lower, dearer to less dear. 
 Can love be careless ? If we lost our love 
 What should we find ? — with this sweet Past torn off, 
 Our lives deep scarred just where their beauty lay ? 
 The best we found thenceforth were still a worse : 
 The only better is a Past that lives 
 On through an added Present, stretching still 
 In hope unchecked by shaming memories 
 To life's last breath. And so I tremble too 
 Before my queen Fedalma. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 That is just. 
 'Twere hard of Love to make us women fear 
 And leave you bold. Yet Love is not quite even. 
 For feeble creatures, little birds and fawns, 
 Are shaken more by fear, while large strong things 
 Can bear it stoutly. So we women still 
 Are not well dealt with. Yet I'd choose to be 
 Fedalma loving Silva. You, my lord, 
 Hold the worse share, since you must love poor me. 
 But is it what we love, or how we love. 
 That makes true jrood ? 
 
 fc>^ 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 O subtlety ! for me 
 'Tis what I love determines how I love. 
 The goddess with pure rites reveals herself 
 And makes pure worship. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Do you worship me ? 
 
2o6 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 Ay, with that best of worship which adores 
 Goodness adorable. 
 
 Fedalma (archly). 
 
 Goodness obedient, 
 Doing your will, devoutest worshipper ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 Yes — listening to this prayer. This very night 
 I shall go forth. And you will rise with day 
 And wait for me ? 
 
 Fedalma. 
 Yes. 
 
 Don Silva, 
 
 I shall surely come. 
 And then we shall be married. Now I go 
 To audience fixed in Abderahman's tower. 
 Farewell, love ! 
 
 (^They Cftibrace.) 
 
 Fedalma. 
 Some chill dread possesses me i 
 Don Silva. 
 Oh, confidence has oft been evil augury. 
 So dread may hold a jDromise. Sweet, farewell ! 
 I shall send tendance as I pass, to bear 
 This casket to your chamber. — One more kiss. 
 
 {Exit>) 
 
 Fedalma i^vhen Don Silva is gone, returfiifig to the casket, and 
 
 looki?ig dreamily at the jewels^. 
 Yes, now that good seems less impossible ! 
 Now it seems true that I shall be his wife, 
 Be ever by his side, and make a part 
 
 In all his purposes 
 
 These rubies greet me Duchess. How they glow ! 
 
 Their prison souls are throbbing like my own. 
 
 Perchance they loved once, were ambitious, proud ; 
 
 Or do they only dream of wider life, 
 
 Ache from intenseness, yearn to burst the wall 
 
 Compact of crystal splendor, and to flood 
 
 Some wider space with glory ? Poor, poor gems ! 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 207 
 
 We must be patient in our prison-house, 
 
 And find our space in loving. Pray you, love me. 
 
 Let us he glad together. And 3^ou, gold — 
 
 i^She takes up the gold necklace^ 
 You wondrous necklace — will you love me too, 
 And be my amulet to keep me safe 
 From eyes that hurt ? 
 
 {^She spreads out the necklace^ meaning to clasp 
 it on her neck. Then pauses^ startled^ hold- 
 ing it before her.) 
 
 Why, it is magical ! 
 He says he never wore it — yet these lines — 
 Nay, if he had, I should remember well 
 ' Twas he, no other. And these twisted lines — 
 They seem to speak to me as writing would, 
 To bring a message from the dead, dead past — 
 What is their secret ? Are they characters ? 
 I never learned them ; yet they stir some sense 
 That once I dreamed — I have forgotten what. 
 Or was it life ? Perhaps I lived before 
 In some strange world where first my soul was shaped, 
 And all this passionate love, and joy^ and pain. 
 That come, I know not whence, and sway my deeds, 
 Are old imperious memories, blind yet strong. 
 That this world stirs within me ; as this chain 
 Stirs some strange certainty of visions gone. 
 And all my mind is as an eye that stares 
 Into the darkness painfully. 
 
 (JVhile Fedalma has been lookiiig at the necklace^ 
 Juan has entered^ and Jindi/ig himself unobserved 
 by her^ says at last,) 
 
 Senora ! 
 
 Fedalma starts^ and gathering the necklace together^ turns 
 around — 
 Oh, Juan, it is you ! 
 
 Juan. 
 
 I met the Duke — 
 Had waited long without, no matter why — 
 And when he ordered one to wait on you 
 And carry forth a burthen you would give, 
 I prayed for leave to be the servitor. 
 
2c8 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Don Silva owes me twenty granted wishes 
 That 1 have never tendered, lacking aught 
 That I could wish for and a Duke could grant \ 
 But this one wish to serve you, weighs as much 
 As twenty other longings. 
 
 Fedalma {sviiling). 
 
 That sounds well. 
 You turn your speeches prettily as songs. 
 But I will not forget the many days 
 You have neglected me. Your pupil learns 
 But little from you now Her studies flag. 
 The Duke says, " That is idle Juan's way : 
 Poets must rove — are honey sucking birds 
 And know not constancy." Said he quite true ? 
 
 Juan. 
 O lady, constancy has kind and rank. 
 One man's is lordly, plump, and bravely clad, 
 Holds its head high, and tells the world its name 
 ilnother man's is beggared, must go bare, 
 iind shiver through the world, the jest of all, 
 But that puts the motley on, and plays 
 Itself the jester. But I see you hold 
 The Gypsy's necklace : it is quaintly wrought, 
 
 Fedalma. 
 The Gypsy's ? Do you know its history ? 
 
 Juan. 
 No farther back than when I saw it taken 
 From off its wearer's neck — the Gypsy chief's. 
 
 Fedalma (eagerly). 
 What ! he who paused, at tolling of the bell, 
 Before me in the Placa ? 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Yes, I saw 
 His look fixed on you. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 Know you aught of him ? 
 Juan. 
 Something and nothing — as I know the sky. 
 Or some great story of the olden time 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY, 2og 
 
 That hides a secret. I have oft talked with him. 
 He seems to say much, yet is but a wizard 
 Who draws down rain by sprinkling ; throws me out 
 Some pregnant text that urges comment ; casts 
 A sharp-hooked question, baited with such skill 
 It needs must catch the answer. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 It is hard 
 That such a man should be a prisoner — 
 Be chained to work. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Oh, he is dangerous ! 
 Granada with this Zarca for a king 
 Might still maim* Christendom. He is of those 
 Who steel the keys from snoring Destiny 
 And make the prophets lie. A Gypsy, too, 
 Suckled by hunted beasts, whose mother-milk 
 Has filled his veins with hate. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 I thought his eyes 
 Spoke not of hatred — seemed to say he bore 
 The pain of those who never could be saved. 
 What if the Gypsies are but savage beasts 
 And must be hunted ? — let them be set free, 
 Have benefit of chase, or stand at bay 
 And fight for life and offspring. Prisoners ! 
 Oh ! they have made their fires beside the streams, 
 Their w-alls have been the rocks, the pillared pines, 
 Their roof the living sky that breathes with light : 
 They may well hate a cage, like strong-winged birds, 
 Like me, who have no wings, but only wishes. 
 I will beseech the Duke to set them free. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Pardon me, lady, if I seem to warn, 
 Or try to play the sage. What *f the Duke 
 Loved not to hear of Gypsies ? if their name 
 Were poisoned for him once, being used amiss .^ 
 I speak not as of fact. Our nimble souls 
 Can spin an insubstantial universe 
 Suiting our mood, and call it possible, 
 Sooner than see one grain with eye exact 
 
2 1 o THE SPANISH G YPS V. 
 
 And give strict record of it. Yet by chance 
 Our fancies may be truth and make us seers. 
 'Tis a rare teeming world, so harvest-full, 
 Even guessing ignorance may pluck some fruit. 
 Note what I say no farther than will stead 
 The siege you lay. I would not seem to tell 
 Aught that the Duke may think and yet withhold : 
 It were a trespass in me. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Fear not, Juan. 
 Your words bring daylight with them when you speak. 
 I understand your care. But I am brave — 
 Oh ! and so cunning ! — always I prevail. 
 Now, honored Troubadour, if you will be 
 Your pupil's servant, bear this casket hence. 
 Nay, not the necklace : it is hard to place. 
 Pray go before me ; Iiiez will be there. 
 
 (Ex/V ]iJAN with the casket.') 
 
 Fedalma {looking again at the necklace). 
 It is his past clings to you, not my my own. 
 If we have each our angels, good and bad, 
 FateSj separate from ourselves, who act for us 
 When we are blind, or sleep, then this man's fate, 
 Hovering about the thing he used to wear, 
 Has laid its grasp on mine appealingly. 
 Dangerous, is he ? — well, a Spanish knight 
 Would have his enemy strong — defy, not bind hiin. 
 I can dare all things when my soul is moved 
 By something hidden that possesses me 
 If Silva said this man must keep his chains 
 I should find ways to free him — disobey 
 And free him as I did the birds. But no ! * 
 
 As soon as we are wed, I'll put my prayer, 
 And he will not deny me : he is good. 
 Oh, I shall have much power as well as joy ! 
 Duchess Fedalma may c]^a what she will. 
 
 A Street by the Castle. Juan lea7is against a parapet, in moon- 
 light, and touches his lute half uncojisciously. Pepita 
 stands on tiptoe watching him, and then advances till her 
 shadoiu falls in front of him. He looks towards her. A 
 piece of white drapery thrown over her head catches the moon' 
 li.^ht. 
 
 I 
 
THE SPANISH G VrSY. g 1 1 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Pla ! my Pepita ! see how thin and long 
 Your shadow is. 'Tis so your ghost will be, 
 When you are dead. 
 
 Pepita {crossing herself). 
 
 Dead ! — O the blessed saints I 
 You would be glad, then, if Pepita died ? 
 
 Juan. 
 Glad ! why ? Dead maidens are not merry. Ghosts 
 Are doleful company. 1 like you living. 
 
 Pepita. 
 I think you like me not. I wish you did. 
 Sometimes you sing to me and make me dance ; 
 Another time you take no heed of me, 
 Not though I kiss my hand to you and smile. 
 But Andres would be glad if I kissed him, 
 
 Juan. 
 My poor Pepfta, I am old. 
 
 Pepita. 
 
 No, no. 
 You have no wrinkles. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Yes, I have — within ; 
 The wrinkles are within, my little bird. 
 Why, I have lived a thousand years. 
 And kept the company of men whose bones 
 Crumbled before the blessed Virgin lived. 
 
 Pepita {crossing herself). 
 Nay, God defend us, that is wicked talk ! 
 You say it but to scorn me. ( With a sob) I will go. 
 
 Juan. 
 Stay, little pigeon. I am not unkind. 
 Come, sit upon the wall. Nay, never cry. 
 Give me your cheek to kiss. There, cry no more ! 
 
 (Pepita, sitting on the low parapet, puts up her cheek to 
 Juan, who kisses it, putting his hand under her chin. 
 She takes his hand and kisses it.) 
 
212 THE SPANISH GYPSY, 
 
 Pepita. 
 
 1 like to kiss your hand. It is so good^ 
 So smooth and soft. 
 
 Juan. 
 Well, well, I'll sing to you. 
 
 Pepita. 
 A pretty song, loving and merry ? 
 
 Juan, 
 
 Yes, 
 
 (Juan si?igs.) 
 
 Memory^ 
 7 ell to 7ne 
 What is fair, 
 Past co7npare, 
 
 In the land of Tubal i 
 
 - Is it Spring's 
 lovely things^ 
 Blossoms white. 
 Rosy (light ? 
 
 Then it is Pepita, 
 
 Summer's crest 
 Red- gold tressed, 
 
 Corn-dowers peeping under? 
 Idle noons, 
 lingering moons, 
 Sudden cloud, 
 Lightning's shroud. 
 Sudden rain. 
 Quick agaift 
 
 Seniles where late 7uas ihunder /— 
 Are all these 
 Made to please ? 
 
 So too is Pepita, 
 
 Autumn'' s prime, 
 Apple-time, 
 Smooth cheek rounds 
 * Heart all sound /— 
 
 Is it this 
 
THE SPA NISH G YFS Y, ^ 1 5 
 
 You would kiss ? 
 Then it is Pepita, 
 
 You can bring 
 No sweet things 
 Bui my mind 
 Still shall find 
 It is my Pepita, 
 
 Memory 
 Says to me 
 It is she 
 She is fair 
 Past compare 
 
 In the land of Tubal. 
 
 Pepita {seizing Juan's hand again). 
 Oh, then, you do love me ? 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Yes, in the song. 
 Pepita (sadly). 
 Not out of it ? — not love me out of it ? 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Only a little out of it, my bird. 
 
 When I was singing I was Andres, say, 
 
 Or one who loves you better still than he. 
 
 Pepita. 
 Not yourself ? 
 
 Juan. 
 
 No! 
 
 Pepita (throwing his hand down pettishly). 
 
 Then take it back again I 
 I will not have it ! 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Listen, little one. 
 Juan is not a living man by himself : 
 His life is breathed in him by other men, 
 And they speak out of him. He is their voice 
 
214 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Juan's own life he gave once quite away. 
 Pepita's lover sang that song — not Juan. 
 We old, old poets, if we kept our hearts, 
 Should hardly know them from another man's. 
 They shrink to make room for the many more 
 We keep within us. There, now — one more kiss, 
 And then go home again. 
 
 pEPiTA {a little frightened, after letting Juan kiss her). 
 
 You are not wicked ? 
 Juan. 
 Ask your confessor — tell him what I said. 
 
 (Pepita ^^^j-, 7£'////<f Juan thrums his lute again, and sings.) 
 
 Came a pretty maid 
 
 By the moon's pure light. 
 Loved me well, she said, 
 
 Eyes 7vith tears all bright, 
 A pretty maid! 
 
 But too late she strayed, 
 
 Moonlight pu7-e was there ; 
 She was nought but shade 
 
 Hiding the more fair, 
 The heavenly maid! 
 
 A vaulted room all stone. Tlie light shed from a high lamp. 
 
 Wooden chairs^ a desk, bookshelves. The Prior, in white 
 
 frock, a black rosary with a crucifix of ebo7iy and ivory at 
 
 his side, is walking up and down, Jwlding a written paper 
 
 in his ha?ids, zuhich are clasped belwid him. 
 
 What if this witness lies? he says he heard her 
 
 Counting her blasphemies on a rosary, 
 
 And in a bold discourse with Salomo, 
 
 Say that the Host was nought but ill-mixed flour, 
 
 That it was mean to pray — she never prayed. 
 
 I know the man who wrote this for a cur. 
 
 Who follows Don Diego, sees life's good 
 
 In scraps my nephew flings to him. What tljcn ? 
 
 Particular lies may speak a general truth. 
 
 I guess him false, but know her heretic — 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Know her for Satan's instrument, bedecked 
 With heathenish charms, hiring the souls of men 
 To damning trust in good unsanctified. 
 Let her be prisoned — questioned — she will give 
 Witness against herself, that were this false ... 
 
 {He looks at the paper again and reads ^ then again 
 thrusts it behind him ^ 
 
 The matter and the color are not false : 
 The form concerns the witness not the judge: 
 For proof is gathered by the sifting mind, 
 Not given in crude and formal circumstance. 
 Suspicion is a heaven-sent lamp, and I — 
 I, watchman of the Holy Office, bear 
 The lamp in trust. I will keep faithful watch. 
 The holy Inquisition's discipline 
 Is mercy, saving her, if penitent — 
 God grant it ! — else — root up the poison-plant, 
 Though 'twere a lily with a golden heart ! 
 This spotless maiden with her pagan soul 
 Is the arch-enemy's trap : he turns his back 
 On ail the prostitutes, and watches her 
 To see her poison men with false belief 
 In rebel virtues. She has poisoned Silva ; 
 His shifting mind, dangerous in fitfulness, 
 Strong in the contradiction of itself. 
 Carries his young ambitions wearily. 
 As holy vows regretted. Once he seemed 
 The fresh-oped flower of Christian knighthood, born 
 For feats of holy daring ; and I said : 
 " That half of life which I, as monk, renounce. 
 Shall be fulfilled in him : Silva will be 
 That saintly noble, that wise warrior, 
 That blameless excellence in worldly gifts 
 I would have been, had I not asked to live 
 The higher life of man impersonal 
 Who reigns o'er all things by refusing all.'* 
 What is his promise now ? Apostasy 
 From every high intent : — languid, nay, gone, 
 The prompt devoutness of a generous heart. 
 The strong obedience of a reverent will, 
 That breathes the Church's air and sees her light, 
 He peers and strains with feeble questioning. 
 Or else he jests. He thinks I know it not— 
 
 »JS 
 
2i6 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 I who have read the history of his lapse, 
 
 As clear as it is writ in the angel's book. 
 
 He will defy me — flings great words at me — 
 
 Me who have governed all our house's acts, 
 
 Since I, a stripling, ruled his stripling father. 
 
 This maiden is the cause, and if they wed. 
 
 The Holy War may count a captain lost. 
 
 For better he were dead than keep his place, 
 
 And fill it infamously , in God's war 
 
 Slackness is infamy. Shall I stand by 
 
 And let the tempter win ? defraud Christ's cause. 
 
 And blot his banner ? — all for scruples weak 
 
 Of pity towards their young and frolicsome blood | 
 
 Or nice discrimination of the tool 
 
 By which my hand shall work a sacred rescue ? 
 
 The fence of rules is for the purblind crowd ; 
 
 They walk by averaged precepts : sovereign men, 
 
 Seeing by God's light, see the general 
 
 By seeing all the special — own no rule 
 
 But their full vision of the moment's worth. 
 
 'Tis so God governs, using wicked men — 
 
 Nay, scheming fiends, to work his purposes. 
 
 Evil that good may come ? Measure the good 
 
 Before you say what's evil. Perjury ? 
 
 I scorn the prejurer, but I will use him 
 
 To serve the holy truth. There is no lie 
 
 Save in his soul, and let his soul be judged. 
 
 I know the truth, and act upon the truth. 
 
 O God, thou knowest that my will is pure. 
 
 Thy servant owns naught for himself, his wealth 
 
 Is but obedience. And I have sinned 
 
 In keeping small respects of human love — 
 
 Calling it mercy. Mercy ? Where evil is 
 
 True mercy holds a sword. Mercy would save. 
 
 Save whom ? Save serpents, locusts, wolves ? 
 
 Or out of pity let the idiots gorge 
 
 With a famished town ? Or save the gains 
 
 Of men who trade in poison lest they starve ? 
 
 Save all things mean and foul that clog the earth 
 
 Stifling the better ? Save the fools who cling 
 
 For refuge round their hideous idol's limbs, 
 
 So leave the idol grinning unconsumed, 
 
 And save the fools to breed idolaters ? 
 
THE SPANISH G YPS K 217 
 
 O mercy worthy of the licking hound 
 
 That knows no future but its feeding time ! 
 
 Mercy has eyes that pierce the ages — sees 
 
 From heights divine of the eternal purpose 
 
 Far-scattered consequence in its vast sum ; 
 
 Chose to save, but with illumined vision 
 
 Sees that to save is greatly to destroy. 
 
 '7'is so the Holy Inquisition sees : its wrath 
 
 Is fed from the strong heart of wise love. 
 
 For love must needs make hatred. He who loves 
 
 God and his law must hate the foes of God. 
 
 And I have sinned in being merciful : 
 
 Being slack in hate, I have been slack in love. 
 
 (Ife takes the crucifix and Jiolds it up before him.) 
 
 Thou shuddering, bleeding, thirstinp-, dying God, 
 
 Thou Man of Sorrows, scourged and bruised and torn, 
 
 Suffering to save — wilt thou not judge the world ? 
 
 This arm which held the children, this pale hand 
 
 That gently touched the eyelids of the blind, 
 
 And opened passive to the cruel nail. 
 
 Shall one day stretch to leftward of thy throne, 
 
 Charged with the power that makes the lightning strong, 
 
 And hurl thy foes to everlasting hell. 
 
 And thou. Immaculate Mother, Virgin mild. 
 
 Thou sevenfold-pierced, thou pitying, pleading Queen, 
 
 Shalt see and smile, while the black filthy souls 
 
 Sink with foul weight to their eternal place, 
 
 Purging the Holy Light. Yea, I have sinned 
 
 And called it mercy. But I shrink no more. 
 
 To-morrow morn this temptress shall be safe 
 
 Under the Holy Inquisition's key. 
 
 He thinks to wed her, and defy me then. 
 
 She being shielded by our house's name. 
 
 But he shall never wed her I have said. 
 
 The time is come. Ex urge, Domine^ 
 yudica causaJH tuam. Let thy foes 
 Be driven as the smoke before the wind, 
 And melt like wax upon the furnace lip ! 
 
 A large chajnber richly fu7'nished opening 07t a terrace-^ 
 garden, the trees visible through the zvindow in faint 
 moonlight. Flowers hanging about the 2uifidow, lit 
 
2 1 8 THE SPANISH G YFS Y, 
 
 Up by the tapers. The casket of jewels open on a 
 table. The gold necklace lying near. Fedalma, 
 splendidly dressed and adorned with pearls and 
 rubies^ is walking up and down. 
 
 So soft a night was never made for sleep, 
 
 But for the waking of the liner sense 
 
 1 o every murmuring and gentle sound, 
 
 To subtlest odors, pulses, visitings 
 
 That touch our frames with wings too delicate 
 
 To be discerned amid the blare of day. 
 
 {She pauses near the window to gather some j amines \ 
 then walks again.) 
 
 Surely these flowers keep happy watch^their breath 
 
 Is their fond memory of the loving light. 
 
 I often rue the hours I lose in sleep : 
 
 It is a bliss too brief, only to see 
 
 This glorious world, to hear the voice of love, 
 
 To feel the touch of tenderness, 
 
 And then to rest as from a spectacle. 
 
 I need the curtained stillness of the night 
 
 To live through all my happy hours again 
 
 With more selection — cull them quite away 
 
 From blemished moments. Then in loneliness 
 
 The face that bent before me in the day 
 
 Rises in its own light, more vivid seems 
 
 Painted upon the dark, and ceaseless glows 
 
 With sweet solemnity of gazing love, 
 
 Till like the heavenly blue it seems to grow 
 
 Nearer, more kindred, and more cherishing, 
 
 Mingling with all my being. Then the words, 
 
 The tender low-toned words come back again, 
 
 With repetition welcome as the chime 
 
 Of softly hurrying brooks — " My only love — 
 
 My love while lite shall last — my own Fedalma ! " 
 
 Oh it is mine — the joy that once has been ! i 
 
 Poor eager hope is but a stammerer, 'm 
 
 Must listen dumbly to great memor}^, % 
 
 Who makes our bliss the sweeter by her telling. 
 
 {She pauses a 7noment jnusifigly^ 
 
 But that dumb hope is still a sleeping guard 
 Whose quiet rhythmic breath saves me from dread 
 In this fair paradise. For if the earth 
 
THE SPA A'IS/I G YPS Y, 219 
 
 Broke off with flower-fringed edge, visibly sheer, 
 Leaving no footing for my forward step 
 But em^Dty blackness . . . 
 
 Nay, there is no fear — 
 They will renew themselves, day and my joy, 
 And all that past which is securely mine. 
 Will be the hidden root that nourishes 
 Our still unfolding, ever-ripening love ! 
 
 (IVh'ds she is utierhig the last words^a little bird falls 
 softly oji the floor behind her ; she hears the lighi 
 soimd of its fall, and turns round.) 
 
 Did something enter ? . . . . 
 
 Yes, this little bird .... 
 
 {S/ie lifts it.) 
 
 Dead and yet warm ; 'twas seeking sanctuary, 
 
 And died, perhaps of fright, at the altar foot. 
 
 Stay, there is something tied beneath the wing ! 
 
 A strip of linen, streaked with blood — what blood ? 
 
 The streaks are written words — are sent to me — 
 
 O God, are sent to me ! Dear child, Fedalma, 
 
 Be brave, give no alarm — your Father comes / 
 
 {She lets the bird fall again.) 
 
 My Father , . . comes . . . my Father . . . 
 
 (Ske turns in quivering expectation towards the window. 
 There is perfect stillness afeza moments until Zarca 
 appeal's at the window. lie enters quickly and noise- 
 lessly ; tli£n stands still at his full height^ and at a 
 distance f-om Fedalma.) 
 
 Fedalma {in a low distinct tone of terror). 
 
 I said his fate had laid its hold on mine. 
 
 Zarca {advaJtcing a step ur two). 
 Vou know, then, who I am ? 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 The prisoner- 
 He whom I saw in fetters — and this necklace. 
 
 Zarca. 
 Was played with by your fingers when it hung 
 About my neck, full fifteen years ago. 
 
 It is he ! 
 
220 THE SPANISH GYrSY. 
 
 Fedalma {looking at the necklace and handling it^ then sneak- 
 ing, as if unconsciously). 
 Full fifteen years ago 1 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 The very day 
 I lost you, when you wore a tiny gown 
 Of scarlet cloth with golden broidery : 
 'Twas clasped in front by coins — two golden coins. 
 The one upon the left was split in two 
 Across the king's head, right from brow to nape, 
 A dent i' the middle nicking in the cheek. 
 You see I know the little gown by heart. 
 
 Fedalma {growing paler and more tre7nulous). 
 Yes. It is true — I have the gown — the clasps — 
 The braid — sore tarnished : — it is long ago 1 
 
 Zarca. 
 But yesterday to me ; for till to-day 
 I saw you always as that little child. 
 And when they took my necklace from me, still 
 Your fingers played about it on my neek. 
 And still those buds of fingers on your feet 
 Caught in its meshes as you seemed to climb 
 Up to my shoulder. You were not stolen all. 
 You had a double life fed from my heart. . . . 
 
 (Fedalma, /citing fall the necklace, makes an impulsive 
 ptoveme?it towards him, with outstretched hands.) 
 
 The Gypsy father loves his children well. 
 
 Fedalma {shrinking, trembling, and letting fall her hands). 
 How came it that you sought mz — no — [ mean 
 How came it that you knew me — that you lost me ? 
 
 Zarca {standing perfectly still). 
 Poor child ! — I see — your father and his rags 
 Are welcome as the piercing Vv'intry wind 
 Within this silken chamber. It is well. 
 I would not have a child who stooped to feign, 
 And aped a sudden love. Better, true hate. 
 Fedalma {raising her eyes towards him, with a flash of admi- 
 ration, and looking at him fixedly), 
 
 Fa^J-her, how was it that w^e Ic t each other? 
 
 i 
 
THE SPAniSH GYPSY. 221 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 I lost you as a man may lose a gem 
 
 Wherein he has compressed his total wealth, 
 
 Or the right hand whose cunning makes him great: 
 
 I lost you by a trivial accident. 
 
 Marauding Spaniards, sweeping like a storm 
 
 Over a spot within the Moorish bounds, 
 
 Near where our camp lay, doubtless snatched you up, 
 
 When Zind, your nurse, as she confessed, was urged 
 
 By burning thirst to wander toward the stream, 
 
 And leave you on the sand some paces off 
 
 Playing with pebbles, while she dog-like lapped. 
 
 'Twas so I lost you — never saw you more 
 
 Until to-day I saw you danciug ! Saw 
 
 The daughter of the Zincalo make sport 
 
 For those who spit upon her people's name. 
 
 Fedalma iveheviefiily). 
 
 It was not sport. What if the world looked on ? — • 
 I danced for joy — for love of all the world. 
 But when you looked at me my joy was stabbed — 
 Stabbed with your pain. I wondered . . . now I kno\» 
 It was my father's pain. 
 
 {She pauses a moment with eyes bent downward, t tif^g 
 which Zarca examines her face. 2hen sh^ /cjym 
 quickly,) How were you sure 
 
 At once I was your child ? 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 I had witness strong 
 As any Cadi needs, before I saw you ! 
 I fitted all my memories with the chat 
 Of one named Juan — one whose rapid talk 
 Showers like the blossoms from a light-twigged shrub, 
 If you but cough beside it. I learned all 
 The story of your Spanish nurture — all 
 The promise of your fortune. When at last 
 I fronted you, my little maid full-grown. 
 Belief was turned to vision : then I saw 
 That she whom Spaniards called the bright Fedalma— 
 The little red-frocked foundling three years old — 
 Grown to such perfectness the Spanish Duke 
 
2i2 THE SPANISH GYPSY 
 
 Had wooed her for his Duchess — was the child, 
 Sole offspring of my flesh, that Lambra bore 
 One hour before the Christian, hunting us, 
 Hurried her on to death. Therefore 1 sought — 
 Tlierefore I come to claim you — claim my child, 
 Not from the Spaniard, not from him who robbed, 
 But from herself. 
 
 (Fedalma has g7'a dually app7'oached dose to 
 Zarca, and with a low sob safik on her 
 knees befo?'e him. He stoops to kiss her 
 brow^ and lays her hands on her head,) 
 
 Zarca {with solemn tenderness^ 
 Then my child owns her father ? 
 
 Fedalma, 
 
 I will eat dust before I will deny 
 The flesh I spring from. 
 
 Father! yes. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 There my daughter spoke. 
 Away then with these rubies ! 
 
 {He seizes the circlet of rubies and flings it on 
 the ground. Fedalma, starti?ig from the 
 ground laith strong emotion, shrinks back- 
 ward?) 
 
 Such a crown 
 Is infamy around a Zincala's brow. 
 It is her people's blood, decking her shame. 
 
 Fedalma {after a momejit, slowly and distinctly, as if 
 accepting a doojn). 
 
 Then ... I was born , , . a Zincala ? 
 
 Of a blood 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Unmixed as virgin wine-juice. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Of a race 
 More outcast and despised than Moor or Jew } 
 
THE SPAXISU CYVSY. 223 
 
 Zarca. 
 Yes : wanderers whom no God took knowledge of 
 To give them laws, to fight for them, or blight 
 Another race to make them ampler room ; 
 Who have no Whence or Whither in their souls, 
 No dimmest lore of glorious ancestors 
 To make a common hearth for piety. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 A race that lives on prey as foxes do 
 With stealthy, petty rapine : so despised, 
 It is not persecuted, only spurned, 
 Crushed underfoot, warred on by chance like rats, 
 Or swarming flies, or reptiles of the sea 
 Dragged in the net unsought, and flung far off 
 To perish as they may? 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 You paint us well. 
 So abject are the men whose blood we share : 
 Untutored, unbefriended, unendowed ; 
 No favorites of heaven or of men. 
 Therefore I cling to them ! Therefore no lure, 
 Shall draw me to disown them, or forsake 
 The meagre wandering herd that lows for help — 
 And needs me for its guide, to seek my pasture 
 Among the well-fed beeves that graze at will. 
 Because our race has no great memories, 
 I will so live, it shall remember me 
 For deeds of such divine beneficence 
 As rivers have, that teach men what is good 
 By blessing them. 1 have been schooled — havecauglil 
 Lore from the Hebrew, deftness from the Moor — 
 Know the rich heritage, the milder life, 
 Of nations fathered by a mighty Past ; 
 But were our race accursed (as they who make 
 Good luck a god count all unlucky men) 
 I would espouse their curse sooner than take 
 My gifts from brethren naked of all good, 
 And lend them to the rich for usury. 
 
 (Fedalma again advances, and putting forth her 
 right hand grasps Zarca's left. He places 
 his other hand on her shoidder. They stand 
 sOf looking at each other,) 
 
22 4 ^^^ SFANISII GYFSY 
 
 Zarca. 
 And you, my child ? are you of other mind, 
 Choosing forgetfulness, hating the truth 
 That says you are akin to needy men ? 
 Wishing your father were some Christian Duke, 
 Who could hang Gypsies when their task was done, 
 While you, his daughter, were not bound to care ? 
 
 Fedalma {tn a troubled eager voice) 
 No, I should alwaos care — I cared for you — 
 For all, before I dreamed . 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Before you dreamed 
 That you were born a Zincala — your flesh 
 Stamped with your people's faith. 
 
 Fedalma {bitterly). 
 
 The Gypsies' faith ? 
 Men say they have none. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Oh, it is a faith 
 Taught by no priest, but by their beating hearts 
 Faith to each other : the fidelity 
 Of fellow-wanderers in a desert place 
 Who share the same dire thirst, and therefore share 
 The scanty water : the fidelity 
 Of men whose pulses leap with kindred fire. 
 Who in the flash of eyes, the clasp of hands, 
 The speech that even in lying tells the truth 
 Of heritage inevitable as birth, 
 Nay, in the silent bodily presence feel 
 The mystic stirring of a common life 
 Which makes the many one : fidelity 
 To the consecrating oath our sponsor Fate 
 Made through our infant breath when we were born 
 The fellow-heirs of that small island. Life, 
 Where v/e must dig and sow and reap with brothers. 
 Fear thou that oath, my daughter — nay, not fear. 
 But love it ; for the sanctity of oaths 
 Lies not in lightning that avenges them, 
 But in the injury wrought by broken bonds 
 And in the garnered good of human trust. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 225 
 
 And you have sworn — even with your infant breath 
 You too were pledged .... 
 
 Fedalma {letting go Z arc a.^s hand, and sinking backward jn 
 her knees, with bent head, as if before some impending crush- 
 ing weight^. 
 
 To what ? what have I sworn ? 
 
 Zarca. 
 To take the heirship of the Gypsy's child : 
 The child of him who, being chief, will be 
 The saviour of his tribe, or if he fail 
 Will choose to fail rather than basely win 
 The prize of renegades. Nay, will not choose — 
 Is there a choice for strong souls to be weak ? 
 For men erect to crawl like hissing snakes ? 
 I choose not — I am Zarca. Let him choose 
 Who halts and wavers, having appetite 
 To feed on garbage. You, my child — are you 
 Halting and wavering ? 
 
 Fedalma {rasing her head). 
 
 Say what is my task. 
 Zarca. 
 To be the angel of a homeless tribe : 
 To help me bless a race taught by no prophet 
 And make their name, now but a badge of scorn, 
 A glorious banner floating in their midst, 
 Stirring the air they breathe v»dth impulses 
 Of generous pride exalting fellowship 
 Until it soars to magnanimity. 
 I'll guide my brethren forth to their new land. 
 Where they shall plant and sow and reap their own, 
 Serving each other's needs and so be spurred 
 To skill in all the arts that succor life ; 
 Where we may kindle our first altar-fire 
 From settled hearths, and call our Ho'y Place 
 The hearth that binds us in one fanr'ly. 
 That land awaits them : they await their chief — 
 Me who am prisoned. All depends on you. 
 
 Fedalma {i-ising to her full height^ and looking solejnnly ai 
 Zarca). 
 
 Father, your child is ready ! She will not 
 Forsake her kindred : she will brave all scorn 
 
22 6 ^^^^ SFAA7S// GV/'SV. 
 
 Sooner than scorn herself. Let Spaniards all, 
 Christians, Jews, Moors, shoot out the lip and say, 
 *• Lo, the first hero in a tribe of thieves." 
 Is it not written so of them ? They, too, 
 Were slaves, lost, wandering, sunk beneath a curse, 
 Till Moses, Christ, and Mahomet were born, 
 Till beings lonely in their greatness lived, 
 And lived to save their people. Father, listen. 
 The Duke to-morrow weds me secretly : 
 But straight he will present me as his wife 
 To all his household, cavaliers and dames 
 And noble pages. Then I will declare 
 Before them all, " I am his daughter, his, 
 The Gypsy's, owner of this golden badge." 
 Then I shall win your freedom ; then the Duke- 
 Why, he will be your son ! — will send you forth 
 With aid and honors. Then, before all eyes 
 I'll clasp this badge on you, and lift my brow 
 For you to kiss it, saying by that sign, 
 " I glory in my father." This, to-morrow. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 A woman's dream — who thinks by smiling well 
 To ripen figs in frost. What ! marry first, 
 And then proclaim your birth ? Enslave yourself 
 To use your freedom ? Share another's name, 
 Then treat it as you will ? How will that tune 
 Ring in your bridegroom's ears — that sudden song 
 Of triumph in your Gypsy father ? 
 
 Fedalma (discouraged). 
 
 Nay, 
 I meant not so. We marry hastily — 
 Yet there is time — there will be : — in less space 
 Than he can take to look at me, I'll speak 
 And tell him all. Oh, I am not afraid ! 
 His love for me is stronger than all hate ; 
 Nay, stronger than my love, which cannot sway 
 Demons that haunt me — tempt me to rebel. 
 Were he Fedalma and I Silva, he 
 Could love confession, prayers, and tonsured monks 
 If my soul craved them. He will never hate 
 The race that bore him what he loves the most. 
 
THE SPANISH G VFSY. 
 
 227 
 
 I shall but do more strongly what I will, 
 Having his will to help me. And to-morrow, 
 Father, as surely as this heart shall beat, 
 You — every Gypsy chained, shall be set free. 
 
 Zarca {coming nearer to her, and iayi?tg Ins ha7id on her 
 shoulder). 
 
 Too late, too poor a service that, my child ! 
 
 Not so the woman who would save her tribe 
 
 Must help its heroes — not by wordy breath, 
 
 By easy prayers strong in a lover's ear, 
 
 By showering wreaths and sweets and wafted kisses, 
 
 And then, when all the smiling w'ork is done, 
 
 Turning to rest upon her down again, 
 
 And whisper languid pity for her race 
 
 Upon the bosom of her alien spouse. 
 
 Not to such petty mercies as can fall 
 
 'Twixt stitch and stitch of silken broidery, 
 
 Such miracles of m.itred saints who pause 
 
 Beneath their gilded canopy to heal 
 
 A man sun-stricken : not to such trim merit 
 
 As soils its dainty shoes for charity 
 
 And simpers meekly at the pious stain, 
 
 But never trod with naked bleeding feet 
 
 Where no man praised it, and where no Church blessed 
 
 Not to such almsdeeds fit for holidays 
 
 Were you, my daughter, consecrated — bound 
 
 By laws that, breaking, you will dip your bread 
 
 In murdered brother's blood and call it sweet — 
 
 When you were born beneath the dark man's tent, 
 
 And lifted up in sight of all your tribe. 
 
 Who greeted you with shouts of loyal joy. 
 
 Sole offspring of the chief in whom they trust 
 
 As in the oft-tried never-failing flint 
 
 They strike their fire from. Other work is yours. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 What work ? — what is it that you ask of me ? 
 
 Zarca 
 
 A work as pregnant as the act of men 
 
 Who set their ships aflame and spring to land, 
 
 A fatal deed .... 
 
228 THE SPANISH GYPSY, 
 
 Fedalma. 
 Stay ! never utter it! 
 If it can part my lot from his whose love 
 Has chosen me. Talk not of oaths, of birth, 
 Of men as numerous as the dim white stars — 
 As cold and distant, too, for my heart's pulse. 
 No ills on earth, though you should count them up 
 With grains to make a mountain, can outweigh 
 For me, his ill who is my supreme love. 
 All sorrows else are but imagined flames, 
 Making me shudder at an unfelt smart ; 
 But his imagined sorrow is a tire 
 That scorches me. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 I know, I know it well— 
 The first young passionate wail of spirits called 
 To some great destiny. In vain, my daughter ! 
 Lay the young eagle in what nest you will, 
 The cry and swoop of eagles overhead 
 Vibrate prophetic in its kindred frame. 
 And make it spread its wings and poise itself 
 For the eagle's flight. Hear what you have to do. 
 
 (Fedalma stands half averted^ as if she dreaded 
 the effect of his looks and words ^ 
 My comrades even now file off their chains 
 In a low turret by the battlements. 
 Where we were locked with slight and sleepy guard — 
 We who had files hit in our shaggy hair, 
 And possible ropes that waited but our will 
 In half our garments. Oh, the Moorish blood 
 Runs thick and warm to us, though thinned by chrism. 
 I found a friend among our jailers — one 
 Who loves the Gypsy as the Moor's ally. 
 I know the secrets of this fortress. Listen. 
 Hard by yon terrace is a narrow stair. 
 Cut in the living rock, and at one point 
 In its slow straggling course it branches off 
 Towards a low wooden door, that art has bossed 
 To such unevenness, it seems one piece 
 With the rough-hewn rock. Open that door, it leads 
 Through a broad passage burrowed under-ground 
 A good half-mile out to the open plain : 
 Made for escape, in dire extremity 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 229 
 
 From siege or burning, of the house's wealth 
 In women or in gold. To find that door 
 Needs one who knows the number of the steps 
 Just to the turning-point ; to open it, 
 Needs one who knows the secret of the bolt. 
 You have that secret : you will ope that door, 
 And fly with us. 
 
 Fedalma {receding a little^ and gathering herself up in a7i attitude 
 of resolve opposite to Zarca). 
 
 No, I will never fly ! 
 Never forsake that chief half of my soul 
 Where lies my love. I swear to set you free. 
 Ask for no more ; it is not possible. 
 Father, my soul is not too base to ring 
 At touch of your great thoughts ; nay, in my blood 
 There streams the sense unspeakable of kind, 
 As leopard feels at ease with leopard. But — 
 Look at these hands ! you say when they were little 
 They played about the gold upon your neck. 
 I do believe it, for their tiny pulse 
 Made record of it in the inmost coil 
 Of growing memory. But see them now! 
 Oh, they have made fresh record ; twined themselves 
 With other throbbing hands whose pulses feed 
 Not memories only but a blended life — 
 Life that will bleed to death if it be severed. 
 Have pity on me, father ! Wait the morning ; 
 Say you will wait the morning. I will win 
 Your freedom openly : you shall go forth 
 With aid and honors. Silva will deny 
 Naught to my asking . . . 
 
 Zarca {with contemptoiis decision). 
 
 Till you ask him aught 
 Wherein he is powerless. Soldiers even now 
 Murmur against him that he risks the town, 
 And forfeits all the prizes of a foray 
 To get his bridal pleasure with a bride 
 Too low for him. They'll murmur more and louder 
 If captives of our pith and sinew, fit 
 For all the work the Spaniard hates, are freed — 
 Now, too, when Spanish hands are scanty. What, 
 
230 THE SPANISH GYrSY. 
 
 Turn Gypsies loose instead of hanging them ! 
 'Tis flat against the edict. Nay, perchance 
 Murmurs aloud may turn to silent threats 
 Of some well-sharpened dagger ; for your Duke 
 Has to his heir a pious cousin, who deems 
 The Cross were better served if he were Duke. 
 Such good you'll work your lover by your prayerso 
 
 Fedalma. 
 Then, I will free you now ! You shall be safe? 
 Nor he be blamed, save for his love to me. 
 I will declare what I have done r the deed 
 May put our marriage off ... , 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Ay, till the time 
 When you shall be a queen in Africa, 
 And he be prince enough to sue for you. 
 You cannot free us and come back to him. 
 
 And why ? 
 
 You tell me that ? 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Zarca. 
 I would compel you to go forth, 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Yes, for I'd have you choose 5 
 Though, being of the blood you are — my blood — 
 You have no right to choose. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 I only owe 
 A daughter's debt ; I was not born a slave. 
 
 Zarca. 
 No, not a slave ; but you were born to reign. 
 'Tis a compulsion of a higher sort. 
 Whose fetters are the net invisible 
 That hold all life together. Royal deeds 
 May make long destinies for multitudes. 
 And you are called to do them. You belong 
 Not to the petty round of circumstance 
 That makes a woman's lot, but to your tribe, 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 231 
 
 Who trust In me and in my blood with trust 
 That men call blind ; but it is only blind 
 As unyeaned reason is, that grows and stirs 
 Within the womb of superstition. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 No! 
 I belong to him who loves me — whom I love — 
 Who chose me — whom I chose — to whom I pledged 
 A woman's truth. And that is nature too, 
 Issuing a fresher law than laws of birth, 
 
 Zarca. 
 Unmake yourself, then, from a Zincala — 
 Unmake yourself from being child of mine ! 
 Take holy water, cross your dark skin white ; 
 Round your proud eyes to foolish kitten looks ; 
 Walk mincingly, and smirk, and twitch your robe \ 
 Unmake yourself — doff all the eagle plumes 
 And be a parrot, chained to a ring that slips 
 Upon a Spaniard's thumb, at will of his 
 That you should prattle o'er his words again ! 
 Get a small heart that flutters at the smiles 
 Of that plump penitent, that greedy saint 
 Who breaks all treaties in the name of God, 
 Saves souls by confiscation, sends to heaven 
 The altar-fumes of burning heretics, 
 And chaffers with the Levite for the gold \ 
 Holds Gypsies beasts unfit for sacrifice. 
 So sweeps them out like worms alive or dead. 
 Go, trail your gold and velvet in her court ! — 
 A conscious Zincala, smile at your rare luck, 
 While half your brethren .... 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 I am not so vile ! 
 It is not to such mockeries that I cling, 
 Not to the flaring tow of gala-lights ; 
 It is to him — my love — the face of day. 
 
 Zarca. 
 What, will you part him from the air he breathes, 
 Never inhale with him although you kiss him .'* 
 Will you adopt a soul without its thoughts. 
 
232 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Or grasp a life apart from flesh and blood ? 
 Till then you cannot wed a Spanish Duke 
 And not wed shame at mention of your race, 
 And not wed hardness to their miseries — 
 Na)^, wed not murder. Would you save my life 
 Yet stab my purpose ? maim my every limb, 
 Put out my eyes, and turn me loose to feed ? 
 Is that salvation ? rather drink my blood. 
 That child of mine who weds my enemy — 
 Adores a God who took no heed of Gypsies — 
 F'orsakes her people, leaves their poverty 
 To join the luckier crowd that mocks their woes- 
 That child of mine is doubly murderess, 
 Murdering her father's hope, her people's trust. 
 Such draughts are mingled in your cup of love ! 
 And when you have become a thing so poor, 
 Your life is all a fashion without law 
 Save frail conjecture of a clinging wish, 
 Your worshipped sun, your smiling face of day, 
 Will turn to cloudiness, and you will shiver 
 In your thin finery of vain desire. 
 Men call his passion madness ; and he, to, 
 May learn to think it madness : 'tis a thought 
 Of ducal sanity. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 No, he is true ! 
 And if I part from him I part from joy. 
 Oh, it was morning with us — I seemed young. 
 But now I know I am an aged sorrow — 
 My people's sorrow. Father, since I am your's- 
 Since I must walk an unslain sacrifice, 
 Carrying the knife within me, quivering — 
 Put cords upon me, drag me to the doom 
 My birth has laid upon me. See, I kneel : 
 I cannot will to go. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Will then to stay ! 
 Say you will take your better, painted such 
 By blind desire, and choose the hideous worse 
 For thousands who were happier but for you. 
 My thirty followers are assembled now 
 Without this terrace : I your father wait 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY, 233 
 
 That you may lead us forth to liberty — 
 
 Restore me to my tribe — five hundred men 
 
 Whom I alone can save, alone can rule, 
 
 And plant them as a mighty nation's seed. 
 
 Why, vagabonds who cluster round one man, 
 
 Their voice of God, their prophet and their king, 
 
 Twice grew to empire on the teeming shores 
 
 Of Africa, and sent new royalties 
 
 To feed afresh the Arab sway in Spain. 
 
 My vagabonds are a seed more generous. 
 
 Quick as the serpent, loving as the hound. 
 
 And beautiful as disinherited gods. 
 
 They have a promised land beyond the sea : 
 
 There I may lead them, raise my standard, call 
 
 The wandering Zincali to that new home, 
 
 And make a nation — bring light, order, law, 
 
 Instead of chaos. You, my only heir, 
 
 Are called to reign for me when I am gone. 
 
 Now choose your deed : to save or to destroy. 
 
 You, a born Zincala, you, fortunate 
 
 Above your fellows — you hold a curse 
 
 Or blessing in the hollow of your hand — 
 
 Say you will loose that hand from fellowship, 
 
 Let go the rescuing rope, hurl all the tribes, 
 
 Children and countless beings yet to come, 
 
 Down from the upward path of light and joy, 
 
 Back to the dark and marshy wilderness 
 
 Where life is nought but blind tenacity 
 
 Of that which is. Say you will curse your race 
 
 Fedalma {rising and stretching out her ar7ns in deprecation) 
 
 No, no — I will not say it — I will go ! 
 Father, I choose ! I will not take a heaven 
 Haunted by shrieks of far-off misery. 
 This deed and I have ripened with the hours : 
 It is a part of me — a wakened thought 
 That, rising like a giant, masters me. 
 And grows into a doom. O mother life, 
 That seemed to nourish me so tenderly, 
 Even in the womb you vowed me to the fire, 
 Hung on my soul the burden of men's hopes, 
 And pledged me to redeem 1 — I'll pay the debt 
 You gave me strength that I should pour it all 
 
234 ^^^ -5-/'^ iVlSII G VPS Y. 
 
 Into anguish. I can never shrink 
 
 Back into bliss — my heart has grown too big 
 
 With things that might be. Father, I will go, 
 
 I will strip off these gems. Some happier bride 
 
 Shall wear them, since Fedalma would be dowered 
 
 With naught but curses, dowered with misery 
 
 Of men — of women, who have hearts to bleed 
 
 As hers is bleeding. 
 
 {She sinks on a scat^ and begins to take o^ff her jewels?) 
 
 Now, good gems, we part. 
 Speak of me always tenderly to Silva. 
 
 {She pauses tiLrning to Zarca.) 
 
 father, will the women of our tribe 
 Suffer as I do, in the years to come 
 
 When you have made them great in Africa ? 
 
 Redeemed from ignorant ills only to feel 
 
 A conscious woe ? Then — is it worth the pains? 
 
 Were it not better when we reach that shore 
 
 To raise a funeral pile and perish all, 
 
 So closing up a myriad avenues 
 
 To misery yet unwrought t My soul is faint — 
 
 Will these sharp pangs buy any certain good ? 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Nay, never falter : no great deed is done 
 By falterers who ask for certainty. 
 No good IS certain, but the steadfast mind, 
 The undivided v/ill to seek the good : 
 'Tis that compels the elements, and wrings 
 A human music from the indifferent air. 
 The greatest gift the hero leaves his race 
 Is to have been a hero. Say we fail ! — • 
 We feed the high tradition of the world, 
 And leave our spirit in our children's breasts. 
 
 Fedalma {unclasping her jewelled belt, and throwing it dowii\ 
 
 Yes, say that we shall fail ! I will not count 
 On aught but being faithful. I will take 
 This yearning self of mine and strangle it, 
 
 1 will not be half-hearted : never yet 
 Fedalma did aught with a wavering soul. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY, 235 
 
 Die, my young joy — die, all my hungry hopes 
 The milk you cry for from the breast of hfe 
 Is thick with curses. Oh, all fatness here 
 Snatches its meat from leanness — feeds on graves. 
 I will seek nothing but to shun base joy. 
 The saints we.ie cowards who stood by to see 
 Christ crucified : they should have flung themselves 
 Upon the Roman spears, and died in vain — 
 The grandest death, to die in vain — for love 
 Greater than sways the forces of the world ! 
 That death shall be my bridegroom. I will wed 
 The curse that blights my people. Father, come ! 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 No curse has fallen on us till we cease 
 To help each other. You, if you are false 
 To that first fellowship, lay on the curse. 
 But write now to the Spaniard : briefly say 
 That I, your father, came ; that you obeyed 
 The fate which madj you Zincala, as his fate 
 Made him a Spanish duke and Christian knight. 
 He must not think , . . . 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 i^es, I will write, but he — 
 Oh, he would know — he would never think 
 The chain that dragged me from him could be aught 
 But scorching iron entering my soul. 
 
 {She writes?) 
 Silva, sole love — he came — iny father ca77ie, 
 I ajn the daughter of a Gypsy chief 
 Who mea7is to be the Savior of our tribe. 
 He calls on me to live for his great end. 
 To live ? 71 ay, die for it. Fedal77ia dies 
 In leavi7ig Silva : all that lives henceforth 
 Is the poor Zi7icala. (^She rises.} 
 
 Father, now I go 
 To wed my people's lot. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 To wed a crown. 
 Our people's lowly lot we will make royal — 
 Give it a country, homes, and monuments 
 
236 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Held sacred through the lofty memories 
 
 That we shall leave behind us. Come, my Queea ! 
 
 FEDALMAa 
 
 Stay, my betrothal ring ! — one kiss— farewell ! 
 O love, you were my crown. No other crown 
 Is aught but thorns on my poor woman's brow. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY, 
 
 ni 
 
 BOOK ir. 
 
 SiLVA was marching homeward while the moon 
 Still shed mild brightness like the far-off hope 
 Of those pale virgin lives that wait and pray. 
 The stars thin-scattered made the heavens large, 
 Bending in slow procession ; in the east 
 ICmergent from the dark waves of the hills, 
 Seeming a little sister of the moon, 
 Glowed Venus all unquenched. Silva, in haste, 
 Exultant and yet anxious, urged his troop 
 To quick and quicker march : he had delight 
 In forward stretching shadows, in the gleams 
 That travelled on the armor of the van, 
 And in the many-hoofed sound : in all that told 
 Of hurrying movement to o'ertake his thought 
 Already in Bedmar, close to Fedalma, 
 Leading her forth a wedded bride, fast vowed, 
 Defying Father Isidor. His glance 
 Took in with much content the priest who rode 
 Firm in his saddle, stalwart and broad-backed, 
 Crisp-curled, and comfortably secular, 
 Right in the front of him. But by degrees 
 Stealthily faint, disturbing with slow loss 
 That showed not yet full promise of a gain. 
 The light was changing, and the watch intense 
 Of moon and stars seemed weary, shivering: 
 The sharp white brightness from off the rocks 
 Carrying the shadows : beauteous Night lay dead 
 Under the pail of twilight, and the love-star 
 Sickened and sank. The troop was winding now 
 Upward to where a pass between the peaks 
 Seemed like an opened gate — to Silva seemed 
 An outer-gate of heaven, for through that pass 
 They entered his own valley, near Bedman 
 Sudden withhi the pass a horsem.an rose, 
 
238 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY 
 
 One instant dark upon the banner pale 
 
 Of rock-cut sky, the next in motion swift 
 
 With hat and plume high shaken — ominous. 
 
 Silva had dreamed his future, and the dream 
 
 Held not this messenger. A minute more — 
 
 It was his friend Don Aivar whom he saw 
 
 Reining his horse up, face to face vv'ith him, 
 
 Sad as the twilight, all his clothes ill-girt — 
 
 As if he had been roused to see one die. 
 
 And brought the news to him whom death had robbed. 
 
 Silva believed he saw the worst — the town 
 
 Stormed by the infidel — or, could it be 
 
 Fedalma dragged ? — no, there was not yet time. 
 
 But with a marble face, he only said, 
 
 " What evil, Alvar ? " 
 
 " What this paper speaks." 
 It was Fedalma's letter folded close 
 And mute as yet for Silva. But his friend 
 Keeping it still sharp-pinched against his breast, 
 " It will smite hard, my lord : a private grief. 
 I would not have you pause to read it here. 
 Let us ride on — we use the moments best, 
 Reaching the town with speed. The smaller ill 
 Is that our Gypsy prisoners have escaped." 
 " No more. Give me the paper — nay, I know — 
 'Twill make no difference. Bid them march on faster.' 
 Silva pushed forward — held the paper crushed 
 Close in his right. " They have imprisoned her," 
 He said to Alva m low, hard-cut tones. 
 Like a dream-speech of slumbering revenge. 
 " No — when they came to fetch her she was gone.'* 
 Swift as the right touch on a spring, that word 
 Made Silva read the letter. She was gone ! 
 But not into locked darkness — only gone 
 Into free air — where he might find her yet. 
 The bitter loss had triumph in it — what : 
 They would have seized her with their holy claws 
 The Prior's sweet morsel of despotic hate 
 Was snatched from off his lips. This misery 
 Aad yet a taste of joy. 
 
 But she was gone ! 
 The sun had risen, and in the castle walls 
 The light grew strong and stronger. Silva walked 
 Through the long corridor where dimness yet 
 
THE SPANISH CYPSY. 
 
 239 
 
 Cherished a lingering, flickering, dying hope; 
 
 Fedalma still was there — he could not see 
 
 The vacant place that once her presence filled. 
 
 Can we believe that the dear dead are gone ? 
 
 Love in sad weeds forgets the funeral day, 
 
 Opens the chamber door and almost smiles — 
 
 Then sees the sunbeams pierce athwart the bed 
 
 Where the pale face is not. So Silva's joy, 
 
 Like the sweet habit of caressing hands 
 
 That seek the memory of another hand, 
 
 Still lived on fitfully in spite of words. 
 
 And, numbing thought with vague illusion, dulled 
 
 The slow and steadfast beat of certainty. 
 
 But in the rooms inexorable light 
 
 Streamed through the open window where she fled, 
 
 Streamed on the belt and coronet thrown down — 
 
 Mute witnesses — sought out the typic ring 
 
 That sparkled on the crimson, solitary, 
 
 Wounding him like a v;ord. O hateful light 
 
 It filled the chambers with her absence, glared 
 
 On all the motionless things her hand had touched, 
 
 Motionless all — save where old Inez lay 
 
 Sunk on the floor holding her rosary, 
 
 Making its shadow tremble with her fear. 
 
 And Silva passed her by because she grieved : 
 
 It was the lute, the gems, the pictured heads, 
 
 He longed to crush, because they made no sign 
 
 But of insistance that she was not there, 
 
 She who had filled his sight and hidden them. 
 
 He went forth on the terrace tow'rd the stairs, 
 
 Saw the rained petals of the cistus flowers 
 
 Crushed by large feet ; but on one shady spot 
 
 Far down the steps, where dampness made a home, 
 
 He saw a footprint delicate-slippered, small, 
 
 So dear to him, he searched for sister-prints, 
 
 Searched in the rock-hewn passage with a lamp 
 
 For other trace of her, and found a glove ; 
 
 But not Fedalma's. It was Juan's glove, 
 
 Tasselled, perfumed, embroidered with his name, 
 
 A gift of dames. Then Juan, too, was gone t 
 
 Full-mouthed conjecture, hurrying through the town. 
 
 Had spread the tale already : it was he 
 
 That helped the Gypsies' flight. He talked and sang 
 
 Of nothing but the Gypsies and Fedalma. 
 
240 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 He drew the threads together, wove the plan : 
 Had lingered out by moonlight, had been seen 
 Strolling, as was his wont, within the walls, 
 Humming his ditties. So don Alvar told, 
 Conveying outside rumon But the Duke, 
 Making of haughtiness a visor closed, 
 Would show no agitated front in quest 
 Of small disclosures. What her writing bore 
 Had been enough. Ae knew that she was gone, 
 Knew why. 
 
 " The Duke," some said, ** will send a force, 
 Retake the prisoners, and bring back his bride.** 
 But others, winking, *" Nay, her wedding dress 
 Would be the san-henito. 'Tis a fight 
 Between the Duke and Prior. Wise bets will choose 
 The churchman : he's the iron, and the Duke •, . P 
 *' Is a fine piece of pottery," said mine host, 
 Softening the sarcasm with a bland regret. 
 
 77?^/'^ was the thread that in the new-made knot 
 
 Of obstinate circumstance seemed hardest drawn, 
 
 Vexed most the sense of Silva, in these hours 
 
 Of fresh and angry pain — there, in that fight 
 
 Against a foe whose sword was magical. 
 
 His shield invisible terrors — against a foe 
 
 Who stood as if upon the smoking mount 
 
 Ordaining plagues. All else, Fedalma's flight. 
 
 The father's claim, her Gypsy birth disclosed, 
 
 Were momentary crosses, hindrances 
 
 A Spanish noble might despise. This Chief 
 
 Might still be treated with, would not refuse 
 
 A proffered ransom, which would better serve 
 
 Gypsy prosperity, give him more power 
 
 Over his tribe, than any fatherhood : 
 
 Nay, all the father in him must plead loud 
 
 For marriage of his daughter where she loved — 
 
 Her love being placed so high and lustrously. 
 
 The Gypsy chieftain had foreseen a price 
 
 That would be paid him for his daughter's dower — ' 
 
 Might soon give signs. Oh, all his purpose lay 
 
 Face upward. Silva here felt strong, and smiled. 
 
 What could a Spanish noble not command ? 
 
 He only helped the Queen, because he chose ; 
 
 Could war on Spaniards, and could spare the Moor; 
 
241 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Buy justice, or defeat it — if he would : 
 
 Was loyal, not from any weakness but from strength 
 
 Of high resolve to use his birthright well. 
 
 For nobles too are gods, like Emperors, 
 
 Accept perforce their own divinity, 
 
 And wonder at the virtue of their touch, 
 
 Till obstinate resistance shakes their creed, 
 
 Shattering that self whose wholeness is not rounded 
 
 Save in the plastic souls of other men. 
 
 Don Silva had been suckled in that creed 
 
 (A high-taught speculative noble else), 
 
 Held it absurd as foolish argument 
 
 If any failed in deference, was too proud 
 
 Not to be courteous to so poor a knave 
 
 As one who knew not necessary truths 
 
 Of birth and dues of rank; but cross his will, 
 
 The miracle-working will, his rage leaped out 
 
 As by a right divine to rage more fatal 
 
 Than a mere mortal man's. And now that will 
 
 Had met a stronger adversary — strong 
 
 As awful ghosts are whom we cannot touch, 
 
 While they clutch us^ subtly as poisoned air, 
 
 In deep-laid fibres of inherited fear 
 
 That lie below all courajre. 
 
 o 
 
 Silva said, 
 " She is not lost to me, might still be mine 
 But for the Inquisition — the dire hand 
 That waits to clutch her with a hideous grasp 
 As in the death-throe when the human soul 
 Departs and leaves force unrelenting, locked, 
 Not to be loosened save by slow decay 
 That frets the universe. Father Isidor 
 Has willed it so : his phial dropped the oil 
 To catch the air-borne motes of idle slander ; 
 He fed the fascinated gaze that clung 
 Kound all her movements, frank as growths of spring. 
 With the new hateful interest of suspicion. 
 What barrier is this Gypsy? a mere gate 
 I'll find the key for. The one barrier. 
 The tightening cord that winds about my limbs, 
 Is this kind uncle, this imperious saint, 
 He who will saVe me, guard me from myself. 
 And he can work his will : I have no help 
 i6 
 
242 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Save reptile secrecy, and no revenge 
 
 Save that I will do what he schemes to hinder. 
 
 Ay, secrecy, and disobedience — these 
 
 No tyranny can master. Disobey ! 
 
 You may divide the universe with God, 
 
 Keeping your will unbent, and hold a world 
 
 Where he is not supreme. The Prior shall know it ! 
 
 His will shall breed resistance : he shall do 
 
 The thing he would not, further what he hates 
 
 By hardening my resolve." 
 
 But 'neath this speech — 
 Defiant, hectoring, the more passionate voice 
 Of many blended consciousness — there breathed 
 Murmurs of doubt, the weakness of a self 
 That is not one \ denies and yet believes ; 
 Protests with passion, ''This is natural " — • 
 Yet owns the other still were truer, better, 
 Could nature follow it : a self disturbed 
 By budding growths of reason premature 
 That breed disease. With all his outfiung rage 
 Silva half shrank before the steadfast man 
 Whose life was one compacted whole, a realm 
 Where the rule changed not, and the law was strong. 
 Then that reluctant homage stirred new hate, 
 And gave rebellion an intenser will 
 
 But soon this inward strife the slovv'-paced hours 
 
 Slackened ; and the soul sank with hunger-pangs, 
 
 Hunger of love. Debate was swept right down 
 
 By certainty of loss intolerable. 
 
 A little loss ! only a dark-tressed maid 
 
 Who had no heritage save her beauteous being! 
 
 But in the candor of her virgin eyes 
 
 Saying, I love ; and in the mystic charm 
 
 Of her dear presence, Silva found a heaven 
 
 Where faith and hope were drowned as stars in day. 
 
 Fedalma there, each momentary Now 
 
 Seemed a whole blest existence, a full cup 
 
 That, flowing over, asked no pouring hand 
 
 From past to future. All the world was hers. 
 
 Splendor was but the herald trumpet-note 
 
 Of her imperial coming : penury 
 
 Vanished before her as before a gem. 
 
 The pledge of treasuries. Fedalma there, 
 
TIJE SPAKISH GYPSY. 
 
 He thought all loveliness was lovelier, 
 
 She crowning it : all goodness credible, 
 
 Because of that great trust her goodness bred. 
 
 For the strong current of the passionate love 
 
 Which urged his life toward hers, like urgent fioods 
 
 That hurry through the various-mingled earth, 
 
 Carried within its stream all qualities 
 
 Of what it penetrated, and made love 
 
 Only another name, as Silva was, 
 
 For the whole man that breathed within his frame 
 
 And she was gone. Well, goddesses will go ; 
 
 But for a noble there were mortals left 
 
 Shaped just like goddesses — O hateful sweet ! 
 
 O impudent pleasure that should dare to front 
 
 With vulgar visage memories divine ! 
 
 The noble's birthright of miraculous will 
 
 Turning I wouid to must be, spurning all 
 
 Offered as substitute for what it chose, 
 
 Tightened and fixed in strain irrevocable 
 
 The passionate selection of that love 
 
 Which came not first but as all-conquering last. 
 
 Great Love has many attributes, and shrines 
 
 For varied worship, but his force divine 
 
 Shows most its many-named fulness in the man 
 
 Whose nature multitudinously mixed — 
 
 Each ardent impulse grappling with a thought — • 
 
 Resists all easy gladness, all content 
 
 Save mystic rapture, where the questioning soul 
 
 Flooded with consciousness of good that is 
 
 Finds life one bounteous answer. So it was 
 
 In Silva's nature, Love had mastery there, 
 
 Not as a holiday ruler, but as one 
 
 Who quells a tumult in a day of dread, 
 
 A v/elcomed despot. 
 
 O all comforters, 
 All soothing things that bring mild ecstasy. 
 Came with her coming, in her presence lived. 
 Spring afternoons, when delicate shadows fall 
 Pencilled upon the grass ; high summer morns 
 When white light rains upon the quiet sea 
 And corn-fields flush with ripeness : odors soft- 
 Dumb vagrant bliss that seems to seek a home 
 And find it deep within, 'mid stirrings vague 
 
 243 
 
244 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Of far-off moments when our life was fresh ; 
 
 All sweetly-tempered music, gentle change 
 
 Of sound, form, color, as on wide lagoons 
 
 At sunset when from black far-floating prows 
 
 Comes a clear wafted song ; all exquisite joy 
 
 Of a subdued desire, like some strong stream 
 
 Made placid in the fulness of a lake — 
 
 All came with her sweet presence, tor she brought 
 
 The love supreme which gathers to its realm 
 
 All powers of loving. Subtle nature's hand 
 
 Waked with a touch the far-linked harmonies 
 
 In her own manifold work. Fedalma there, 
 
 Fastidiousness became the prelude fine 
 
 For full contentment ; and young melancholy, 
 
 Lost for its origin, seemed but the pain 
 
 Of waiting for that perfect happiness. 
 
 The happiness was gone ! 
 
 He sate alone. 
 Hating companionship that was not hers ; 
 Felt bruised with hopeless longing ; drank, as wine, 
 Illusions of what had been, would have been ; 
 Weary with anger and a strained resolve. 
 Sought passive happiness in waking dreams. 
 It has been so with rulers, emperors. 
 Nay, sages who held secrets of great Time, 
 Sharing his hoary and beneficent life — 
 Men who sate throned among the multitudes — 
 They have sore sickened at the loss of one. 
 Silva sat lonely in her chamber, leaned 
 Where she had leaned, to feel the evening breath 
 Shed from the orange trees ; when suddenly 
 His grief was echoed in a sad young voice 
 Far and yet near, brought by aerial wings. 
 
 The world is great : the birds all fly from me. 
 The stars are golden fruit upon a tree 
 All out of reach : my little sister went^ 
 And lam lonely. 
 
 The woi'ld is great : I tried to 7nount the hill 
 Above the pifies^ where the lightlies so stilly 
 But it rose higher : little Lisa went, 
 And I am lonely. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY, 245 
 
 The woi'Id is great : the 7vind comes rushing hy^ 
 J wonder whe7'e it C077ies fro7n ; sea-birds cry 
 A7id hiu't 77iy heart : i7iy little sister we7it, 
 And I a77i lo7iely. 
 
 The world is g?rat : the people laugh and talk, 
 A7id 77iake loud holiday : how fast they walk / 
 Tm la77ie, they push 77te : little Lisa went, 
 A?id Ia7n lo7iely, 
 
 'Tvvas Pablo, like the wounded spirit of song 
 
 Pouring melodious pain to cheat the hour 
 
 For idle soldiers in the castle court. 
 
 Dreamily Silva heard and hardly felt 
 
 The song was outward, rather felt it part 
 
 Of his own aching, like the lingering day, 
 
 Or slow and mournful cadence of the bell. 
 
 But when the voice had ceased he longed-for it, 
 
 And fretted at the pause, as memory frets 
 
 When words that made its body fall away 
 
 And leave it yearning dumbly. Silva then 
 
 Bethought him whence the voice came, framed perforce 
 
 Some outward image of a life not his 
 
 That made a sorrowful centre to the world : 
 
 A boy lame, melancholy-eyed, who bore 
 
 A viol — yes, that very child he saw 
 
 This morning eating roots by the gateway — saw 
 
 As one fresh-ruined sees and spells a name 
 
 And knows not what he does, yet finds it writ 
 
 Full in the inner record. Hark, again ! 
 
 The voice and viol. Silva called his thought 
 
 To guide his ear and track the travelling sound 
 
 O bird that used to p7'ess 
 
 Thy head agai7ist 77iy cheek 
 
 With touch that see77ied to speak 
 And ask a te7ider ^^yes'' — 
 
 Ay de ini, i7iy bird! 
 
 O te7ider downy breast 
 A7id war7nly beating heart, 
 • That beating see77ted a part 
 Of me who gave it rest — 
 
 Ay de 7ni^ 77iy bird ! 
 
2 46 THE SPA NISH G VPS K 
 
 The western court ! The singer might be seen 
 
 From the upper gallery : quick the Duke was there 
 
 Looking upon the court as on a stage. 
 
 Men eased of armor, stretched upon the ground, 
 
 Gambling by snatches ; shepherds from the hills 
 
 Who brought their bleating friends for slaughter ; grooms 
 
 Shouldering loose harness ; leather-aproned smiths, 
 
 Traders with wares, green-suited serving-men, 
 
 Made a round audience ; and in their midst 
 
 Stood little Pablo, pouring forth his song. 
 
 Just as the Duke had pictured. But the song 
 
 Was strangely companied by Roldan's play 
 
 With the swift gleaming balls, and now was crushed 
 
 By peals of laughter at grave Annibal, 
 
 Who carrying stick and purse o'erturned the pence, 
 
 Making mistake by rule. Silva had thought 
 
 To melt hard bitter grief by fellowship 
 
 With theworld-sorrow trembling in his ear 
 
 In Pablo's voice ; had meant to give command 
 
 For the boy's presence ; but this company. 
 
 This mountebank and monkey, must be — stay ! 
 
 JVot be expected — must be ordered too 
 
 Into his private presence ; they had brought 
 
 Suggestion of a ready shapen tool 
 
 To cut a path between his helpless wish 
 
 And what it imaged. A ready shapen tool ! 
 
 A spy, an envoy whom he might despatch 
 
 In unsuspected secrecy, to find 
 
 The Gypsies' refuge so that none beside 
 
 Might learn it And this juggler could be bribed, 
 
 Would have no fear of Moors — for who would kill 
 
 Dancers and monkeys ? — could pretend a journey 
 
 Back to his home, leaving his boy the while 
 
 To please the Duke with song. Without such chance^ 
 
 An envoy cheap and secret as a mole 
 
 Who could go scatheless, come back for his pay 
 
 And vanish straight, tied by no neighbourhood — 
 
 Without such chance as this poor juggler brought, 
 
 Finding Fedalma was betraying her. 
 
 Short interval betwixt the thought and deed. 
 Roldan was called to private audience 
 With Annibal and Pablo. All the world 
 (By which I mean the score or two who heard) 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 247 
 
 Shrugged high their shoulders, and supposed the Duke 
 
 Would fain beguile the evening and replace 
 
 His lacking happiness, as was the right 
 
 Of nobles, who could pay for any cure, 
 
 And wore naught broken, save a broken limb. 
 
 In truth, at first, the Duke bade Pablo sing, 
 
 But, while he sang, called Roldan wide apart, 
 
 And told him of a mission secret, brief — 
 
 A quest which well performed might earn much gold, 
 
 But, if betrayed, another sort of pay. 
 
 Roldan was ready ; " wished above all for gold 
 
 And never wished to speak ; had worked enough 
 
 At wagging his old tongue and chiming jokes ; 
 
 Thought it was others' turn to play the fool. 
 
 Give him but pence enough, no rabbit, sirs, 
 
 Would eat and start and be more dumb than he. 
 
 Give him his orders." 
 
 They were given straight ; 
 Gold for the journey, and to buy a mule 
 Outside the gates through which he was to pass 
 Afoot and carelessly. The boy would stay 
 Within the castle, at the Duke's command, 
 And must have naught but ignorance to betray 
 For threats or coaxing. Once the quest performed, 
 The news delivered with some pledge of truth 
 Safe to the Duke, the juggler should go forth, 
 A fortune in his girdle, take his boy 
 And settle firm as any planted tree 
 In fair Valencia, never more to roam. 
 " Good ! good 1 most worthy of a great hidalgo ! 
 And Roldan was the man ! But Annibal — 
 A monkey like no other, though morose 
 In private character, yet full of tricks — 
 'Twere hard to carry him, yet harder still 
 To leave the boy and him in company 
 And free to slip away. The boy was wild 
 And shy as mountain kid ; once hid himself 
 And tried to run away ; and Annibal, 
 Who always took the lad's side (he was small, 
 And they were nearer of a size, and, sirs, 
 Your monkey has a spite against us men 
 For being bigger) — Annibal went too. 
 Would hardly know himself, were he to lose 
 
248 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Both bey and monkey — and 'twas property, 
 
 The trouble \\q had put in Annibal- 
 
 He didn't choose another man should beat 
 
 His boy and monkey. If they ran away 
 
 Some man would snap them up, and square himself 
 
 And say they were his goods — he'd taught them — no 1 
 
 He Roldan had no mind another man 
 
 Should fatten by his monkey, and the boy 
 
 Should not be kicked by any pair of sticks 
 
 Calling himself a juggler." . . . 
 
 But the Duke, 
 Tired of that hammering, signed that it should cease ; 
 Bade Roldan quit all fears — the boy and ape 
 Should be safe lodged in Abderahman's tower, 
 In keeping of the great physician there, 
 The Duke's most special confidant and friend. 
 One skilled in taming brutes, and always kind. 
 The Duke himself this eve would see them lodged- 
 Roldan must go — spend no more words — but gO; 
 
 The Astrologer* s Study. 
 
 A room high up in Abderahman's tower, 
 
 A window open to the still warm eve. 
 
 And the bright disc of royal Jupiter. 
 
 Lamps burning low make little atmospheres 
 
 Of light amid the dimness ; here and there 
 
 Show books and phials, stones and instruments. 
 
 In carved dark-oaken chair, unpillowed, sleeps 
 
 Right in the rays of Jupiter a small man, 
 
 In skull-cap bordered close with crisp gray curls, 
 
 And loose black gown showing a neck and breast 
 
 Protected by a dim-green amulet ; 
 
 Pale-faced, with finest nostril wont to breathe 
 
 Ethereal passion in a world of thought ; 
 
 Eyebrows jet-black and firm, yet delicate ; 
 
 Beard scant and grizzled ; mouth shut firm, with curves 
 
 So subtly turned to meanings exquisite. 
 
 You seem to read them as you read a word 
 
 Full-vowelled, long-descended, pregnant — rich 
 
 With legacies from long, laborious lives. 
 
 Close by him, like a genius of sleep, 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY, 249 
 
 Purrs the gray cat, bridling, with snowy breast. 
 A loud knock. " Forward ! " in clear vocal ring. 
 Enter the Duke, Pablo, and Annibal. 
 Exit the cat, retreating toward the dark, 
 
 Don Silva. 
 You slept, Sephardo. I am come too soon. 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 Nay, my lord, it was I who slept too long. 
 I go to court among the stars to-night. 
 So bathed my soul beforehand in deep sleep. 
 But who are these ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Small guests, for whom I ask 
 Your hospitality. Their owner comes 
 Some short time hence to claim them. I am pledged 
 To keep them safely ; so I bring them you. 
 Trusting your friendship for small animals. 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 Yea, am not I too a small animal ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 I shall be much beholden to your love 
 If you will be their guardian. I can trust 
 No other man as well as you. The boy 
 Will please you with his singing, touches too 
 The viol wondrously. 
 
 Sephardo, 
 
 They are welcome both. 
 
 Their names are- 
 
 Do n Silva. 
 
 Pablo, this — this Annibal, 
 And yet, I hope, no warrior. 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 We'll make peace. 
 Come, Pablo, let us loosen our friend's chain. 
 
250 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY, 
 
 Deign you, my lord, to sit. Here Pablo, thou — 
 Close to my chair. Now Annibal shall choose. 
 
 [The cautious monkey, in a Moorish dress, 
 
 A tunic white, turban and cimeter. 
 
 Wears these stage garments, nay, his very flesh 
 
 With silent protest ; keeps a neutral air 
 
 As aiming at a metaphysic state 
 
 'Twixt " is " and *' is not ; " lets his chain be loosed 
 
 By sage Sephardo's hands, sits still at first, 
 
 Then trembles out of his neutrality. 
 
 Looks up and leaps into Sephardo's lap, 
 
 And chatters forth his agitated soul. 
 
 Turning to peep at Pablo on the floor.] 
 
 Sephardo. 
 See, he declares we are at amity! 
 
 Don Silva. 
 No brother sage had read your nature t'astcre 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 Why, so he «• a brother sage. Man thinks 
 Brutes have no wisdom, since they know not his : 
 Can we divine their world ? — the hidden life 
 That mirrors us as hideous shapeless power, 
 Cruel supremacy of sharp-edged death, 
 Or fate that leaves a bleeding mother robbed ? 
 Oh, they have long tradition and swift speech, 
 Can tell with touches and sharp darting cries 
 Whole histories of timid races taught 
 To breathe in terror by red-handed man, 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Ah, you denounce my sport with hawk and hound. 
 
 I w^ould not have the angel Gabriel 
 
 As hard as you in noting down my sins. 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 Nay, they are virtues for you warriors — 
 Hawking and hunting ! You are merciful 
 
THE SPANISH G YFS Y. .^^^ 
 
 When 3'ou leave killing men to kill the brutes. 
 But, for the point of wisdom, I would choose 
 To know the mind that stirs between the wdngs 
 Of bees and building wasps, or fills the woods 
 With myriad murmurs of responsive sense 
 And true-aimed impulse, rather than to know 
 The thoughts of warriors. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Yes they are warriors too — 
 Your anima'ic. Your judgment limps, Sephardo : 
 Death is the king of this world ; 'tis his park 
 Where he breeds life to feed him. Cries of pain 
 Are music for his banquet ; and the masque — 
 The last grand masque for his diversion, is 
 The Holy Inquisition. 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 Ay, anon 
 I may chime in with you. But not the less 
 My judgment has firm feet. Though death were king, 
 And cruelty his right-hand minister, 
 Pity insurgent in some human breasts 
 Makes spiritual empire, reigns supreme 
 As persecuted faith in faithful hearts. 
 Your small physician, weighing ninety pounds, 
 A petty morsel for a healthy shark, 
 Will worship mercy throned within his soul 
 Though all the luminous angels of the stars 
 Burst into cruel chorus on his ear, 
 Singing, " We know no mercy." He would cry 
 " I know it " still, and soothe the frightened bird 
 And feed the child a-hungered, walk abreast 
 Of persecuted men, and keep most hate 
 For rational torturers. There I stand firm. 
 But you are bitter, and my speech rolls on 
 Out of your note. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 No, no, 1 follow you. 
 I too have that within which I will worship 
 In spite of . , . Yes, Sephardo, I am bitter. 
 
25^ 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 I need your counsel, foresight, all your aid. 
 
 Lay these small guests to bed, then we will talk. 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 See, they are sleeping now. The boy has made 
 My leg his pillow. For my brother sage, 
 He'll never heed us ; he knit long ago 
 A sound ape-system, wherein men are brutes 
 Emitting doubtful noises. Pray, my lord, 
 Unlade what burthens you : my ear and hand 
 Are servants of a heart much bound to you 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Yes, yours is love that roots in gifts bestowed 
 By you on others, and will thrive the more 
 The more it gives. I have a double want : 
 First a confessor — not a Catholic ; 
 A heart without a livery — naked manhood. 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 My lord, I will be frank ; there's no such thing 
 
 As naked manhood. If the stars look down 
 
 On any mortal of our shape, whose strength 
 
 Is to judge all things without preference, 
 
 He is a monster, not a faithful man. 
 
 While my heartbeats, it shall wear livery — 
 
 My people's livery, whose yellow badge 
 
 Marks them for Christian scorn. I will not say 
 
 Man is first man to me, then Jew or Gentile : 
 
 That suits the rich marranos ; but to me 
 
 My father is first father and then man. 
 
 So much for frankness' sake. But let that pass. 
 
 'Tis true at least, I am no Catholic 
 
 But Salomo Sephardo, a born Jew, 
 
 Willing to serve Don Silva. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Oft you sing 
 Another strain, and melt distinctions down 
 As no more real than the wall of dark 
 Seen by small fishes' eyes, that pierce a span 
 In the wide ocean. Now you league yourself 
 To hem me, hold me prisoner in bonds 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY, 253 
 
 Made, say you — how ? — by God or Demiurge, 
 By spirit or tiesh — I care not ! Love was made 
 Stronger than bonds, and where they press must break 
 
 them. 
 I came to you that I might breathe at large, 
 And now you stifle me with talk of birth, 
 Of race and livery. Yet you knew Fedalma. 
 She was your friend, Sephardo. And you know 
 She is gone from me — know the hounds are loosed 
 To dog me if I seek her. 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 Yes, I know. 
 Forgive me that I used untimely speech, 
 Pressing a bruise. I loved her well, my lord : 
 A woman mixed of such fine elements 
 That were all virtue and religion dead 
 She'd make them newly, being what she was. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 Was ? say not 7aas^ Sephardo ! She still lives — 
 Is, and is mine ; and I will not renounce 
 What heaven, nay, what she gave me. I will sin, 
 If sin I must, to win my life again. 
 The fault lie with those powers who have embroiled 
 The world in hopeless conflict, where all truth 
 Fights manacled with falsehood, and all good 
 Makes but one palpitating life with ill. 
 
 (Don ^iiN a pauses. Sephardo is siknf.) 
 Sephardo, speak ! am I not justified ? 
 You taught my mind to use the wing that soars 
 Above the petty fences of the herd : 
 Now, when I need your doctrine, you are dumb. 
 
 Sephardo. 
 Patience ! Hidalgos want interpreters 
 Of untold dreams and riddles ; they insist 
 On dateless horoscopes, on formulas 
 To raise a possible spirit, nowhere named. 
 Science must be their wishing-cap ; the stars 
 Speak plainer for high largesse. No, my lord! 
 I cannot counsel you to unknown deeds. 
 This much I can divine ; you wish to find 
 Her whom you love — to make a secret search. 
 
254 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY, 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 That is begun already : a messenger 
 Unknown to all has been despatched this night. 
 But forecast must be used, a plan devised, 
 Ready for service when my scout returns. 
 Bringing the invisible thread to guide my steps 
 Toward that lost self my life is aching with. 
 Sephardo, I will go : and I must go 
 Unseen by all save you ; though, at our need, 
 We may trust Alvar. 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 A grave task, my lord. 
 Have you a shapen purpose, or mere will 
 That sees the end alone and not the means? 
 Resolve will melt no rocks. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 But it can scale them. 
 This fortress has two private issues : one. 
 Which served the Gypsies' flight, to me is closed : 
 Our bands must watch the outlet, now betrayed 
 To cunning enemies. Remains one other, 
 Known to no man save me ; a secret left 
 As heirloom in our house : a secret safe 
 Even from him — from Father Isidor. 
 'Tis he who forces me to use it— he : 
 All's virtue that cheats bloodhounds. Hear, Sephardo- 
 Given, my scout returns and brings me news 
 I can straight act on, I shall want your aid. 
 The issue lies below this tower, your fastness, 
 Where, by my charter, you rule absolute. 
 I shall feign illness ; you with mystic air 
 Must speak of treatment asking vigilance 
 (Nay I am ill — my life has half edded out). 
 I shall be v^himsical, devolve command 
 On Don Diego, speak of poisoning. 
 Insist on being lodged within this tower. 
 And rid myself of tendance save from you 
 And perhaps from Alvar. So I shall escape 
 Unseen by spies, shall win the days I need 
 To ransom her and have her safe enshrined. 
 No matter, were my flight disclosed at last: 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 255 
 
 I shall come back as from a duel fought 
 Which no man can undo. Now you know all. 
 Say, can I count on you ? 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 For faithfulness 
 In aught that I may promise, yes, my lord. 
 But — for a pledge of faithfulness — this warning. 
 I will betray naught for your personal harm : 
 I love you. But note this — I am a Jew j 
 And while the Christian persecutes my race, 
 I'll turn at need even the Christian's trust 
 Into a weapon and a shield for Jews. 
 Shall Cruelty crowned — wielding the savage force 
 Of multitudes, and calling savageness God 
 Who gives it victory — upbraid deceit 
 And ask for faithfulness ? I love you well. 
 You are my friend. But yet you are a Christian, 
 Whose birth has bound you to the Catholic kings. 
 There may come moments when to share my joy 
 Would make you traitor, when to share your grief 
 Would make me other than a Jew .... 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 What need 
 To urge that now, Sephardo ? I am one 
 Of many Spanish nobles who detest 
 The roaring bigotry of the herd, would fain 
 Dash from the lips of king and queen the cup 
 Filled with besotting venom, half infused 
 By avarice and half by priests. And now — 
 Now when the cruelty you flout me with 
 Pierces me too in the apple of my eye, 
 Now when my kinship scorches me like hate 
 Flashed from a mother's eye, you choose this time 
 To talk of birth as of inherited rage 
 Deep-down, volcanic, fatal, bursting forth 
 From under hard-taught reason ? Wondrous friend i 
 My uncle Isidor's echo, mocking me, 
 From the opposing quarter of the heavens, 
 With iteration of the thing I know, 
 That I'm a Christian knight and Spanish duke ! 
 
256 
 
 THE SPANISH GVrSY. 
 
 The consequence? Why, that I know. It lies 
 In my own hands and not on raven tongues. 
 The knight and noble shall not wear the chain 
 Of false-linked thoughts in brains of other men. 
 What question was there 'twixt us two, of aught 
 That makes division ? When I come to you 
 I come for other doctrine than the Prior's. 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 My lord, you are o'erwrought by pain. My wordSj 
 
 That carried innocent meaning, do but float 
 
 Like little emptied cups upon the flood 
 
 Your mind brings with it. I but answered you 
 
 With regular proviso, such as stands 
 
 In testaments and charters^ to forefend 
 
 A possible case which none deem likelihood ; 
 
 Just turned my sleeve, and pointed to the brand 
 
 Of brotherhood that limits every pledge. 
 
 Superfluous nicety — the student's trick, 
 
 Who will not drink until he can define 
 
 What water is and is not. But enough. 
 
 My will to serve you now knows no division 
 
 Save the alternate beat of love and fear. 
 
 There's danger in this quest — name, honor, life — 
 
 My lord, the stake is great, and are you sure . . . , 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 No, I am sure of naught but this, Sephardo, 
 That I will go. Prudence is but conceit 
 Hoodwinked by ignorance. There's nought exists 
 "That is not dangerous and holds not death 
 For souls or bodies. Prudence turns its helm 
 To flee the storm and lands 'mid pestilence. 
 Wisdom would end by throwing dice with folly 
 But for dire passion which alone makes choice. 
 And I have chosen as the lion robbed 
 Chooses to turn upon the ravisher. 
 If love were slack, the Prior's imperious will 
 Would move it to outmatch him. But, Sephardo, 
 Were all else mute, all passive as sea-calm, 
 My soul is one great hunger — I must see her. 
 Now you are smiling. Oh, you merciful men 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 257 
 
 Pick up coarse griefs and fling them in the face 
 Of us whom Hfe with long descent has trained 
 To subtler pains, mocking your ready balms. 
 You smile at my soul's hunger. 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 Science smiles 
 And sways our lips in spite of us, my lord. 
 When thought weds fact — when maiden prophecy 
 Waiting, believing, sees the bridal torch. 
 I use not vulgar measures for your grief, 
 My pity keeps no cruel feasts ; but thought 
 Has joys apart, even in blackest woe, 
 And seizing some fine thread of verity 
 Knows momentary godhead. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 And your thought? 
 
 Sephardo. 
 Seized on the close agreement of your words 
 With what is written in your horoscope. 
 
 Don SilvAo 
 Reach it me now. 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 By your leave, Annibal. 
 {He places Annibal on Pablo's lap and rises. The 
 boy moves without ivaking^ and his head falls 
 on the opposite side. SEPHARDOj^/f/^^j" a cushion 
 and lays Pablo's head gently down upon it, 
 then goes to reach the parchment from a cabinet. 
 Annibal, having waked up in alarm^ shuts 
 his eyes quickly again and pretends to sleep?) 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 I wish, by new appliance of your skill, 
 Reading afresh the records of the sky. 
 You could detect more special augury. 
 Such chance oft happens, for all characters 
 Must shrink or widen, as our wine-skins do, 
 For more or less that we can pour in them \ 
 And added years give ever a new key 
 To fixed prediction. 
 
 17 
 
258 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Sephardo {j-etimiing with the parchment and 
 reseating himself). 
 
 True ; our growing thought 
 Makes growing revelation. But demand not 
 Specific augury, as of sure success 
 In meditated projects, or of ends 
 To be foreknown by peeping in God's scroll. 
 I say — nay, Ptolemy said it, but wise books 
 For half the truths they hold are honored tombs — 
 Prediction is contingent of effects 
 Where causes and concomitants are mixed 
 To seeming wealth of possibilities 
 Beyond our reckoning. Who will pretend 
 To tell the adventures of each single fish 
 Within the Syrian Sea? Show me a fish, 
 I'll weigh him, tell his kind, what he devoured, 
 What would have devoured him — but for one Bias 
 Who netted him instead ; nay, could I tell 
 That had Bias missed him, he would have died 
 Of poisonous mud, and so made carrion. 
 Swept off at last by some sea-scavenger? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Ay, now you talk of fishes, you get hard. 
 I note you merciful men : you can endure 
 Torture of fishes and hidalgos. Follows? 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 By how much, then, the fortunes of a man 
 
 Are made of elements refined and mixed 
 
 Beyond a tunny's, what our science tells 
 
 Of a star's influence hath contingency 
 
 In special issues. Thus, the loadstone draws, 
 
 Acts like a will to make the iron submiss j 
 
 But garlic rubbing it, that chief effect 
 
 Lies in suspense ; the iron keeps at large, 
 
 And garlic is controller of the stone. 
 
 And so, my lord, your horoscope declares 
 
 Not absolutely of your sequent lot, 
 
 But, by our lore's authentic rules, sets forth 
 
 What gifts, what dispositions, likelihoods 
 
 The aspects of the heavens conspired to fuse 
 
 With your incorporate soul. Aught more than this 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 25-) 
 
 Is vulgar doctrine. For the ambient, 
 Though a cause regnant, is not absolute, 
 But suffers a determining restraint 
 From action of the subject qualities 
 In proximate motion. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Yet you smiled just now 
 At some close fitting of my horoscope 
 With present fact — with this resolve of mine 
 To quit the fortress ? 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 Nay, not so ; I smiled, 
 Observing how the temper of your soul 
 Sealed long tradition of the influence shed 
 By the heavenly spheres. Here is j^our horoscope i 
 The aspects of the Moon with Mars conjunct, 
 Of Venus and the Sun with Saturn, lord 
 Of the ascendant, make symbolic speech 
 Whereto your words gave running paraphrase. 
 
 Don Silva {impatiently). 
 
 What did I say ? 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 You spoke as oft you did 
 When I was schooling you at Cordova, 
 And lessons on the noun and verb were drowned 
 With sudden stream of general debate 
 On things and actions. Always in that stream 
 I saw the play of babbling currents, saw 
 A nature o'er-endowed with opposites 
 Making a self alternate, where each hour 
 Was critic of the last, each mood too strong 
 For tolerance of its fellow in close yoke. 
 The ardent planets stationed as supreme, 
 Potent in action, suffer light malign 
 From luminaries large and coldly bright 
 Inspiring meditative doubt, which straight 
 Doubts of itself, by interposing act 
 Of Jupiter in the fourth house fortified 
 
■2 So THE SPANISH GYPSY, 
 
 With power ancestral. So, my lord, I read 
 The changeless in the changing ; so I read 
 The constant action of celestial powers 
 Mixed into waywardness of mortal men, 
 Whereof no sage's eye can trace the course 
 And see the close. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Fruitful result, O sage ! 
 Certain uncertainty. 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 Yea, a result 
 Fruitful as seeded earth, where certainty 
 Would be as barren as a globe of gold. 
 I love you, and would serve you well, my lord. 
 Your rashness vindicates itself too much, 
 Puts harness on of cobweb theory 
 While rushing like a cataract. Be warned. 
 Resolve with you is a fire breathing steed. 
 But it sees visions, and may feel the air 
 Impassable with thoughts that come too late, 
 Rising from out the grave of murdered honor. 
 Look at your image in your horoscope : 
 
 {Laying the horoscope before Don Silva.) 
 You are so mixed, my lord, that each to-day 
 May seem a maniac to its morrow. 
 
 Don Silva {pushing away the horoscope, rising and 
 turning to look out at the open windotv). 
 
 No! 
 No morrow e'er v/ill say that I am mad 
 Not to renounce her. Risks ! I know them all. 
 I've dodged each lurking, ambushed consequence. 
 I've handled every chance to know its shape 
 As blind men handle bolts. Oh, I'm too sane ! 
 I see the Prior's nets. He does my deed ; 
 For he has narrowed all my life to this — 
 That I must find her by some hidden means. 
 
 {^He turns and stands close infro7it of Sephardo.) 
 One word, Sephardo — leave that horoscope. 
 Which is but iteration of myself. 
 And give me promise. Shall I count on you 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 26 1 
 
 To act upon my signal ? Kings of Spain 
 Like me have found their refuge in a Jew, 
 And trusted in his counsel. You will help me ? 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 Yes, my lord, I will help you. Israel 
 Is to the nations as the body's heart; 
 Thus writes our poet Jehuda. I will act 
 So that no man may ever say through me 
 '^ Your Israel is naught," and make my deeds 
 The mud they fling upon my brethren. 
 I will not fail you, save — you know the terms : 
 I am a Jew, and not that infamous life 
 That takes on bastard}^, will know no father, 
 So shrouds itself in the pale abstract, Man. 
 You should be sacrificed to Israel 
 If Israel need it. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 I fear not that. 
 I am no friend of fines and banishment, 
 Or flames that, fed on heretics, still gape, 
 And must have heretics made to feed them still, 
 I take your terms, and for the rest, your love 
 Will not forsake me. 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 'Tis hard Roman love, 
 That looks away and stretches forth the sword 
 Bared for its master's breast to run upon, 
 But you will have it so. Love shall obey. 
 
 (Don Silva turns to the window again, and is 
 silent for afcw moments, iooki?ig at the skj.) 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 See now, Sephardo, you would keep no faith 
 To smooth the path of aruelty. Confess, 
 The deed I would not do, save for the strait 
 Another brings me to (quit my command. 
 Resign it for brief space, I mean no more) — 
 Were that deed branded, then the brand should fir 
 On him who urged me. 
 
262 THE SPANISH GYPSY, 
 
 Sephardo. 
 Will it, though, my lord ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 I speak not of the fact but of the right. 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 My lord, you said but now you were resolved. 
 
 Question not if the world will be unjust 
 
 Branding your deed. If conscience has two courts 
 
 With differing verdicts, where shall lie the appeal ? 
 
 Our law must be without us or within. 
 
 The Highest speaks through all our people's voice, 
 
 Custom, tradition, and old sanctities ; 
 
 Or he reveals himself by new decrees 
 
 Of inward certitude. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 My love for her 
 Makes highest law, must be the voice of God. 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 I thought, but now, you seem to make excuse, 
 And plead as in some court where Spanish knights 
 And tried by other laws than those of love. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 *Twas momentary. I shall dare it all. 
 How the great planet glows, and looks at me, 
 And seems to pierce me with his effluence 1 
 Were he a living God, these rays that stir 
 In me the pulse of wonder were in him 
 Fulness of knowledge. Are you certified, 
 Sephardo, that the astral science shrinks 
 To such pale ashes, dead symbolic forms 
 For that congenital mixture of effects 
 Which life declares without the aid of lore ? 
 If there are times propitious or malign 
 To our first framing, then must all events 
 Have favoring periods : you cull your plants 
 By signal of the heavens, then why not trace 
 As others would by astrologic rule 
 Times of good augury for momentous acts, — 
 As secret journeys ? 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 ■63 
 
 Oh, my lord, the stars 
 Act not as withcraft or as muttered spells, 
 I said before they are not absolute, 
 And tell no fortunes. I adhere alone 
 To such tradition of their agencies 
 As reason fortifies. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 A barren science ! 
 Some argue now 'tis folly. 'Twere as well 
 Be of their mind. If those bright stars had will — 
 But they are fatal fires, and know no love. 
 Of old, I think, the world was happier 
 With many gods, who held a struggling life 
 As mortals do, and helped men in the straits 
 Of forced misdoing. I doubt that horoscope. 
 
 (Don Silva turns from the window and reseats 
 himself opposite Sephardo.) 
 I am most self-contained, and strong to bear. 
 No man save you has seen my trembling lip 
 Utter 1 e" name, since she was lost to me. 
 I'll face the progeny of all my deeds. 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 May they be fair ! No horoscope makes slaves. 
 'Tis but a mirror, shows one image forth, 
 And leaves the future dark with endless "ifs." 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 I marvel, my Sephardo, you can pinch 
 
 With confident selection these few grains, 
 
 And call them verity, from out the dust 
 
 Of crumbling error. Surely such thought creeps, 
 
 With insect exploration of the world. 
 
 Were I a Hebrew, now, I would be bold. 
 
 Why should you fear, not being Catholic ? 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 Lo ! you yourself, my lord, mix subtleties 
 With gross belief ; by momentary lapse 
 Conceive, vv'ith all the vulgar, that we Jews 
 
264 ^-^^^ SPAXISII GYPSY. 
 
 Must hold ourselves God's outlaws, and defy 
 All good with blasphemy, because we hold 
 Your good is evil ; think we must turn pale 
 To see our portraits painted in your hell, 
 And sin the more for knowing we are lost. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Read not my words with malice. I but meant, 
 My temper hates an over-cautious march. 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 The Unnameable made not the search for truth 
 
 To suit hidalgos' temper. I abide 
 
 By that wise spirit of listening reverence 
 
 Which marks the boldest doctors of our race. 
 
 For Truth, to us, is like a living child 
 
 Born of two parents : if the parents part 
 
 And will divide the child, how shall it live? 
 
 Or, I will rather say ; Two angels guide 
 
 The path of man, both aged and yet young, 
 
 As angels are, ripening through endless years. 
 
 On one he leans : some call her Memory, 
 
 And some. Tradition ; and her voice is sweet, 
 
 With deep mysterious accords : the other, 
 
 Floating above, holds down a lamp which streams 
 
 A light divine and searching on the earth, 
 
 Compelling eyes and footsteps. Memory yields, 
 
 Yet clings with loving check, and shines anew 
 
 Reflecting all the rays of that bright lamp 
 
 Our angel Reason holds. We had not walked 
 
 But for Tradition ; we walk evermore 
 
 To higher paths, by brightening Reason's lamp. 
 
 Still we are purblind, tottering. I hold less 
 
 Than Aben-Ezra, of that aged lore 
 
 Brought by lon.g centuries from Chaldean plains ; 
 
 The Jew-taught Florentine rejects it all. 
 
 For still the light is measured by the eye. 
 
 And the weak organ fails. I may see' ill; 
 
 But over all belief is faithfulness, 
 
 Which fulfills vision with obedience. 
 
 So, I must grasp my morsels ; truth is oft 
 
 Scattered in fragments round a stately pile 
 
 Built half of error ; and the eye's defect 
 
265 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 May breed too much denial. But, my lord, 
 
 I weary your sick soul. Go now with me 
 
 Into the turret. We will watch the spheres, 
 
 And see the constellations bend and plunge 
 
 Into a depth of being where our eyes 
 
 Hold them no more. We'll quit ourselves and be 
 
 The red Aldebaran or bright Sirius, 
 
 And sail as in a solemn voyage, bound 
 
 On some great quest we know not. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Let us go. 
 
 She may be watching too, and thought of her 
 Sways me, as if she knew, to every act 
 Of pure allegiance. 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 That is love's perfection — 
 Tuning the soul to all her harmonies 
 So that no chord can jar. Now we will mount. 
 
 A large hall in the Castle ^ of Moorish architecture. On the side 
 where the windows are, an outer gallery. Pages and other 
 young gentkfnen attached to Don Silva's household, gath- 
 ered chiefly at one end of the hall. So77ie are jnoving about ; 
 others are lounging on the carved benches, others, half 
 stretched on pieces of matting a?id carpet, are gambling. 
 Arias, a stripling of fifteen, sings by snatches in a boyish 
 treble, as he walks up and down, and tosses back the nuts 
 which another youth fli?zgs towards him. In the middle 
 Don Amador, a gau?it, gray-haired soldier, in a haJidsome 
 uniforjn, sits in a marble red-cushioned chair, with a large 
 book spread out on his knees, from which he is reading 
 aloud, while his voice is half drowned by the talk that is 
 goijig 071 around Jwn, fi7'st 07ie voice a7id then another surg* 
 ing above the hu7n. 
 
 Arias (si7igi7ig). 
 
 There was c holy her7nit 
 
 Who coMited all thi7igs loss 
 For Ch7'ist his Master's glory : 
 
 He i7iadc an ivory cross, 
 
o(55 THE SPANISH GYPSY, 
 
 And as he hielt before it 
 
 And wept his murdered Lord.^ 
 
 The ivory tjirned to iron, 
 The cross becaiiie a sword. 
 
 Jose {from theflooj-). 
 I say, twenty cruzados ! thy Galician wit can never count. 
 
 Hernando (also frojn theftoor). 
 And thy Sevillian wit always counts double. 
 
 Arias {singing) 
 
 The tears that fell upon it, 
 
 They turned to red, red rust. 
 The tears that fell from off it 
 
 Made writing in the dust. 
 The holy her7nit, gazing^ 
 
 Saw words upon the ground : 
 *' 2he sword be red forever 
 
 With the blood of false Mahound.'* 
 
 Don Amador {looking up from his book, and raising his voiced, 
 Wh at, gentlemen ! Our Glorious Lady defend us 1 
 
 Enriquez {from the benches^. 
 
 Serves the infidels right ! They have sold Christians 
 enough to people half the towns in Paradise. If the Queen, 
 now, had divided the pretty damsels of Malaga among the 
 Castilians who have been helping in the holy war, and not 
 sent half of them to Naples , . . 
 
 Arias {singing agahi). 
 
 At the battle of Clavijo 
 In the days of King Ramiro, 
 Help us, Allah I cried the Moslem, 
 Cried the Spaniard, Heaven's chosen, 
 
 God and Santiago I 
 
 Fabian. 
 Oh, the very tail of our chance has vanished. The royal 
 army is breaking up— going home for the winter. The Grand 
 Master sticks to his own border. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 267 
 
 Arias {singing). 
 
 Straight out-Jiushing like the rainbow^ 
 See hivi co7ne, celestial Baron^ 
 Mounted knight, with ■red-c?-ossed banner^ 
 Plunging earthward to the battle, 
 
 Glorious Santiago / 
 
 HURTADO. 
 
 Yes, yes, through the pass of By-and-by, you go to the 
 valley of Never. We might have done a great feat, if the 
 Marquis of Cadiz. 
 
 Arias (sings). 
 
 As the flame before the swift wind. 
 See, he fires us, we burn with hi?n f 
 Plash our swords, dash Pagans backward — 
 Victory he ! pale fear is Allah ! 
 
 God with Santiago / 
 
 Don Amador {raising his voice to a cry). 
 
 Sangre de Dios, gentlemen ! 
 
 {He shuts the book, and lets it fall with a bang on 
 the floor. There is instant silence.) 
 
 To what good end is it that I, who studied at Salamanca, 
 and can write verses agreeable to the Glorious Lady with the 
 point of a sword which hath done harder service, am reading 
 aloud in a clerkly manner from a book which hath been culled 
 from the flowers of all books, to instruct you in the knowledge 
 befitting those who would be knights and worthy hidalgos ? 
 I had as lief be reading in a belfry. And gambling too ! As 
 if it were a time when we needed not the help of God and the 
 saints ! Surely for the space of one hour ye might subdue 
 your tongues to your ears, that so your tongues might learn 
 somewhat of civility and modesty. Wherefore am I master 
 of the Duke's retinue, if my voice is to run along like a gutter 
 in a storm 1 
 
 HuRTADO {lifting up the book, a?id respectfully presenting 
 it to Don Amador). 
 
 Pardon, Don Amador ! The air is so commoved by your 
 voice, that it stirs our tongues in spite of us. 
 
2 68 THE SPANISH G VPS V, 
 
 Don Amador {rcope?img the book). 
 
 Confess, now, it is a goose-beaded trick, that when rational 
 sounds are made for your edification, you find nought in it 
 but an occasion for purposeless gabble. I will report it to 
 tha Duke, and the reading-time shall be doubled, and my 
 office of reader shall be handed over to Fray Domingo. 
 
 ( IV/iile Don Amador 7ias been speakm^DoN Silva, 
 w/t/i Don Alvar, /las appeared zvalking in the 
 outer gallery on which the windows are ope?ied). 
 
 All {in concert). 
 No, no, no. 
 
 Don Amador. 
 
 Are ye ready, then, to listen, if I finish the wholesome ex- 
 tract from the Seven Parts, wherein the wise King Alfonso 
 hath set down the reason why knights should be of gentle 
 birth ? Will ye now be silent ? 
 
 All. 
 
 Yes, silent. 
 
 Don Amador. 
 
 But when I pause, and look up, I give any leave to speak, 
 if he hath aught pertinent to say. 
 {Reads?) 
 " And this nobility cometh in three ways : Ji?'sf, by line- 
 age, secondly, by science, and thirdly, by valor and worthy be- 
 havior. Now, although they who gain nobility through 
 science or good deeds are rightfully called noble and gentle; 
 nevertheless, they are with the highest fitness so called who 
 are noble by ancient lineage, and lead a worthy life as by in- 
 heritance from afar ; and hence are more bound and con- 
 strained to act well, and guard themselves from error and 
 wrong-doing ; for in their case it is more true that by evil- 
 doing they bring injury and shame not only on themselves, 
 but also on those from whom they are derived." 
 
 Don Amador {placing his forefinger for a mark on the 
 ^age, and looking up, while he keeps his voice raised, 
 as wishing Don Silva to overhear him itt the judi' 
 cious discharge of his function). 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 269 
 
 Hear ye that, young gentlemen ? See ye not that if ye 
 have but bad manners even, they disgrace you more than 
 gross misdoings disgrace the low-born ? Think you, Anas, 
 it becomes the son of your house irreverently to sing and 
 fling nuts, to the interruption of your elders ? 
 
 Arias {sitting on the floor, and leaning hackiuard on his elbows?) 
 
 Nay, Don Amador ; King Alfonso, they say, was a here- 
 tic, and I think that is not true writing. For noble birth 
 gives us more leave to do ill if we like. 
 
 Don Amador {lifting his brows), 
 hat bold and blasphemous talk is this ? 
 
 Arias. 
 
 Why, nobles are only punished now and then, in a grand 
 way, and have their heads cut off, like the Grand Constable. 
 I shouldn't mind that. 
 
 Jose. 
 
 Nonsense, Arias ! nobles have their heads cut off because 
 their crimes are noble, If they did what was unknightly, 
 they would come to shame. Is not that true. Don Amador ? 
 
 Don Amador. 
 
 Arias is a contumacious puppy, who will bring dishonor 
 on his parentage. Pray, sirrah, whom did you ever hear 
 speak as you have spoken t 
 
 Arias. 
 
 Nay, I speak out of my own head. I shall go and ask 
 the Duke. 
 
 HURTADO. 
 
 Now, now / you are too bold, Arias. 
 
 Arias. 
 
 Oh, he is never angry with me, — {Dropping his voice) 
 because the Lady Fedalma liked me. She said I was a good 
 boy, and pretty, and that is what you are not, Hurtado. 
 
2 70 THE SPA NISH G VPS K 
 
 HURTADO. 
 
 Girl-face ! See now, if you dare ask the Duke, 
 
 (Don Silva is just entering the hall from the gallery^ 
 with Don Alvar behind hi?n, intending to pass 
 out at the other end. All rise with hofnage, Don 
 Silva bo7as coldly and abstractedly. Arias ad- 
 vaiices from the groups and goes up to Don Silva.) 
 
 Arias. 
 
 My lord, is it true that a noble is more dishonored than 
 other men if he does aught dishonorable? 
 
 Don Silva (^ first blushing deeply^ a fid grasping his 
 sword, then raising his hand and giving Arias a 
 bloiv on the ear), 
 Yarlet ! 
 
 Arias. 
 My lord, I am a gentleman. 
 (Don ^iijw a pushes him azvay, and passes on hurriedly). 
 Don Alvar {following and turning to speak). 
 
 Go, go ! you should not speak to the Duke when you are 
 not called upon. He is ill and much distempered, 
 
 (Arias retires, flushed with tears in his eyes. His com- 
 pa?iions look too much surpised to triufnph, Don 
 Amador remains silent and confused.) 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY, 
 
 271 
 
 The Fla^a Santiago during busy inarJzet-time. Mules and 
 asses laden with fruits and vegetables. Stalls aitd 
 booths filled 7vith wares of all sorts. A crowd of 
 buyers and sellers. A stalwart woman, with keen 
 eyes, leaning over the panniers of a mule laden with 
 apples, watches Lorenzo, 7vho is lounging through the 
 market. As he approaches her, he is met by Blasco. 
 
 Lorenzo. 
 Well met, friend. 
 
 Blasco. 
 
 Ay, for we are soon to part 
 And I would see ycu at the hostelry, 
 To take my reckoning. I go forth to-day. 
 
 Lorenzo. 
 
 'Tis grievous parting with good company. 
 I would I had the gold to pay such guests 
 For all my pleasure in their talk. 
 
 Blasco. 
 
 Why, yes ; 
 A solid-headed man of Aragon 
 Has matter in him that 3^ou Southerners lack. 
 You like my company — 'tis natural. 
 But, look you, I have done my business well. 
 Have sold and ta'en commissions, I come straight 
 From — you know who — I like not naming him. 
 I'm a thick man : you reach not my backbone 
 With any tooth-pick ; but I tell you this : 
 He reached it with his eye, right to the marrow. 
 It gave me heart that I had plate to sell, 
 For, saint or no saint, a good silversmith 
 Is wanted for God's service ; and my plate — 
 He judged it well — bought nobly. 
 
 Lorenzo. 
 And holy ! 
 
 A great man, 
 
2 72 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Blasco. 
 
 Yes, I'm glad I leave to-day. 
 For there are stories give a sort of smell — 
 One's nose has fancies. A good trader, sir, 
 Likes not this plague of lapsing in the air, 
 Most caught by men with funds. And they do say 
 There's a great terror here in Moors and Jews, 
 I would say. Christians of unhappy blood. 
 'Tis monstrous, sure, that men of substance lapse, 
 And risk their property. I know I'm sound. 
 No heresy was ever bait to me. Whate'er 
 Is the right faith, that I believe — nought else. 
 
 Lorenzo. 
 
 Ay, truly, for the flavor of true faith 
 
 Once known must sure be sweetest to the taste. 
 
 But an uneasy mood is now abroad 
 
 Within the town ; partly, for that the Duke 
 
 Being sorely sick, has yielded the command 
 
 To Don Diego, a most valiant man. 
 
 More Catholic than the Holy Father's self, 
 
 Half chiding God that He will tolerate 
 
 A Jew or Arab \ though 'tis plain they're made 
 
 For profit of good Christians. And weak heads — 
 
 Panic will knit all disconnected facts — 
 
 Draw hence belief in evil auguries, 
 
 Rumors of accusation and arrest. 
 
 All air-begotten. Sir, you need not go. 
 
 But if it must be so, I'll follow you 
 
 In fifteen minutes — finish marketing, 
 
 Then be at home to speed you on your way. 
 
 Blasco. 
 
 Do so. I'll back to Saragossa straight. 
 
 The court and nobles are retiring now 
 
 And wending northward. There'll be fresh demand 
 
 For bells and images against the Spring, 
 
 When doubtless our great Catholic sovereigns 
 
 Will move to conquest of these eastern parts, 
 
 And cleanse Granada from the infidel. 
 
 Sta^', sir, v>'ith God, until we meet again 1 
 
THE SPANISH G YPS Y. 273 
 
 Lorenzo. 
 Qo^ sir, with God, until I follow you ! 
 
 {Exit Blasco, Lorenzo passes on towards tht 
 market-2(J0?jian, who^ as he approaches^ rises 
 herself from her leaning attitude?) 
 
 Lorenzo. 
 
 Good day, my mistress. How's your merchandise ? 
 
 Fit for a host to buy ? Your apples now, 
 
 They have fair cheeks j how are they at the core ? 
 
 Market-Woman. 
 
 Good, good, sir ! Taste and try. See, here is one 
 Weighs a man's head. The best are bound with tow: 
 They're worth the pains, lo keep the peel from splits. 
 
 {She takes out an apple bound with tow, and^ as 
 she puts it into Lorenzo's hand, speaks in 
 a lower tone.) 
 
 'Tis called the Miracle. You open it, 
 And find it full of speech. 
 
 Lorenzo. 
 
 Ay, give it me, 
 I'll take it to tne Doctor in the tower. 
 He feeds on fruit, and if he likes the sort 
 I'll buy them for him. Meanwhile, drive your ass 
 Round to my hostelry. I'll straight be there. 
 You'll not refuse some barter ? 
 
 Market-Woman. 
 
 No; not I. 
 
 Feathers and skins. 
 
 Lorenzo. 
 
 Good, till we meet again. 
 
 (Lorenzo, after smelling at the apple, puts it into 
 a pouch-like basket which hangs before him, 
 and zualks away. The woman drives off 
 the fnule.) 
 
274 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 A Letter. 
 
 " Zarca, the chieftain of the Gypsies, greets 
 
 The King El Zagal. Let the force be sent 
 
 With utmost swiftness to the Pass of Luz. 
 
 A good live hundred added to my bands 
 
 Will master all the garrison : the town 
 
 Is half with us, and will not lift an arm 
 
 Save on our side. My scouts have found a way 
 
 Where once we thought the fortress most secure : 
 
 Spying a man upon the height, they traced, 
 
 By keen conjecture piercing broken sight, 
 
 His downward path, and found its issue. There 
 
 A file of us can mount, surprise the fort 
 
 And give the signal to our friends within 
 
 To ope the gates for our confederate bands, 
 
 Who will lie eastward ambushed by the rocks, 
 
 Waiting the night. Enough ; give me command, 
 
 Bedmar is yours. Chief Zarca will redeem 
 
 His pledge of highest service to the Moor : 
 
 Let the Moor too be faithful and repay 
 
 The Gypsy w^ith the furtherance he needs 
 
 To lead his people over Bahr el Scham 
 
 And plant them on the shore of Africa. 
 
 So may the King El Zagal live as one 
 
 Who, trusting Allah will be true to him, 
 
 Maketh himself as Allah true to friends." 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY, 
 
 275 
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 Quit now the town, and with a journeying dream 
 
 Swift as the wings of sound yet seeming slow 
 
 Through multitudinous pulsing of stored sense 
 
 And spiritual space, see wall and towers 
 
 Lie in the silent whiteness of a trance, 
 
 Giving no sign of that warm life within 
 
 That moves and murmurs through their hidden heart. 
 
 Pass o'er the mountain, wind in sombre shade, 
 
 Then wind into the light and see the town 
 
 Shrunk to white crust upon the darker rock. 
 
 Turn east and south, descend, then rise anew 
 
 'Mid smaller mountains ebbing towards the plain : 
 
 Scent the fresh breath of the height-loving herbs 
 
 That, trodden by the pretty parted hoofs 
 
 Of nimble goats, sigh at the innocent bruise, 
 
 And with a mingled difference exquisite 
 
 Pour a sweet burthen on the buoyant air. 
 
 Pause now and be all ear. Far from the south, 
 
 Seeking the listening silence of the heights. 
 
 Comes a slow-dying sound — the Moslems' call 
 
 To prayer in afternoon. Bright in the sun 
 
 Like tall white sails on a green shadowy sea 
 
 Stand Moorish watch-towers : 'neath that eastern sky 
 
 Couches unseen the strength of Moorish Baza ; 
 
 Where the meridian bends lies Guadix, hold 
 
 Of brave El Zagal. This is Moorish land. 
 
 Where Allah lives unconquered in dark breasts 
 
 And blesses still the many-nourishing earth 
 
 With dark-armed industry. See from the steep 
 
 The scattered olives hurry in gray throngs 
 
 Down towards the valley, where the little stream 
 
 Parts a green hollow 'twixt the gentler slopes ; 
 
 And in that hollow, dwellings : not white homes 
 
!76 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY, 
 
 Of building Moors, but little swarthy tents 
 
 Such as of old perhaps on Asian plains. 
 
 Or wending westward past the Caucasus, 
 
 Our fathers raised to rest in. Close they sv/arm 
 
 About two taller tents, and viewed afar 
 
 Might seem a dark-robed crowd in penitence 
 
 That silent kneel ; but come now in their midst 
 
 And watch a busy, bright-eyed, sportive life ! 
 
 Tall maidens bend to feed the tethered goat, 
 
 The ragged kirtie fringing at the knee 
 
 Above the living curves, the shoulder's smoothness 
 
 Parting the torrent strong of ebon hair. 
 
 Women with babes, the wild and neutral glance 
 
 Swayed now to sweet desire of mother's eyes. 
 
 Rock their strong cradling arms and chant low strains 
 
 Taught by monotonous and soothing winds 
 
 That fall at night-time on the dozing ear. 
 
 The crones plait reeds, or shred the vivid herbs 
 
 Into the caldron : tiny urchins crawl 
 
 Or sit and gurgle forth their infant joy. 
 
 Lads lying sphynx-like with uplifted breast 
 
 Propped on their elbows, their black manes tossed back, 
 
 Fling up the coin and watch its fatal fall, 
 
 Dispute and scramble, run and wrestle fierce, 
 
 Then fall to play and fellowship again ; 
 
 Or in a thieving swarm they run to plague 
 
 The grandsires, who return with rabbits slung. 
 
 And with the mules fruit-laden from the fields. 
 
 Some striplings choose the smooth stones from the brook 
 
 To serve the slingers, cut the twigs for snares, 
 
 Or trim the hazel-wands, or at the bark 
 
 Of some exploring dog they dart away 
 
 With swift precision towards a moving speck. 
 
 These are the brood of Zarca's Gypsy tribe ; 
 
 Most like an earth-born race bred by the Sun 
 
 On some rich tropic soil, the father's light 
 
 Flashing in coal-black eyes, the mother's blood 
 
 With bounteous elements feeding their young limbs. 
 
 The stalwart men and youths are at the wars 
 
 Following their chief, all save a trusty band 
 
 Who keep strict watch along the northern heights. 
 
 But see, upon a pleasant spot removed 
 
 From the camp's hubbub, where the thicket strong 
 
THE SPANISH GVrSY, 
 
 Of huge-eared cactus makes a bordering curve 
 And casts a shadow, lies a sleeping man 
 With Spanish hat screening his upturned face, 
 His doublet loose, his right arm backward flung, 
 His left caressing close the long-necked lute 
 That seems to sleep too, leaning tow'rds its lord. 
 He draws deep breath secure but not unwatched. 
 Moving a-tiptoe, silent as the elves. 
 As mischievous too, trip three bare-footed girls 
 Not opened yet to womanhood — dark flowers 
 In slim long buds : some paces farther off 
 Gathers a little white-teethed shaggy group, 
 A grinning chorus to the merry play. 
 The tripping girls have robbed the sleeping man 
 Of all his ornaments. Hita is decked 
 With an embroidered scarf across her rags ; 
 Tralla, with thorns for pins, sticks two rosettes 
 Upon her threadbare woollen : Hinda now, 
 Prettiest and boldest, tucks her kirtle up 
 As wallet for the stolen buttons — then 
 Bends with her knife to cut from off the hat 
 The aigrette and long feather ; deftly cuts, 
 Yjt wakes the sleeper, who with sudden start 
 Shakes off the masking hat and shows the fac^ 
 Of Juan : Hinda swift as thought leaps back, 
 But carries off the spoil triumphantly. 
 And leads the chorus of a happy laugh, 
 Running with all the naked-footed imps, 
 Till with safe survey all can face about 
 And watch for signs of stimulating chase. 
 While Hinda ties long grass around her brow 
 To stick the feather in with majesty. 
 Juan still sits contemplative, with looks 
 Alternate at the spoilers and their work. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Ah, you marauding kite — my feather gone ! 
 My belt, my scarf, my buttons and rosettes I 
 This is to be a brother of your tribe ! 
 The fiery-blooded children cf the Sun — 
 So says chief Zarca — children of the Sun ! 
 Ay, ay, the black and stinging flies he breeds 
 To plague the decent body of mankind. 
 ' Orpheus, professor of the gai saber. 
 
 277 
 
278 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Made all the brutes polite by dint of song." 
 Pregnant — but as a guide in daily life 
 Delusive. For if song and music cure 
 Tbe barbarous trick of thieving, 'tis a cure 
 That works as slowly as old Doctor Time 
 In curing folly. Why, the minxes there 
 Have rhythm in their toes, and music rings 
 As readily from them as from little bells 
 Swung by the breeze. Well, I will try the physic. 
 
 {He touches his lute.) 
 Hem ! taken rightly, any single thing, 
 The Rabbis say, implies ^11 other things. 
 A knotty task, though, the unravelling 
 Meu7n and Tuum from a saraband : 
 It needs a subtle logic, nay, perhaps 
 A good large property, to see the thread. 
 
 {He touches the lute again.) 
 There's more of odd than even in this world, 
 Else pretty sinners would not be let off 
 Sooner than ugly ; for if honeycombs 
 Are to be got by stealing, they should go 
 Where life is bitterest on the tongue. And yet — 
 Because this minx has pretty ways I wink 
 At all her tricks, though if a flat-faced lass 
 With eyes askew, were half as bold as she, 
 I should chastise her with a hazel switch. 
 I'm a plucked peacock — even my voice and wit 
 Without a tail ! — why, any fool detects 
 The absence of your tail, but twenty fools 
 May not detect the presence of your wit. 
 
 {He touches his lute again. 
 Well, I must coax my tail back cunningly, 
 For to run after these brown lizards — ah ! 
 I think the lizards lift their ears at this. 
 
 {As he thrums his lute the lads and girls gradually 
 approach : he touches it more briskly, and 
 HiNDA, advaJtcing, begins to move arms and 
 legs with an ifiitiatory dancing movement, smil- 
 ing coaxingly at Juan. He suddenly stops, lays 
 down his lute and folds his arms.) 
 
 Juan. 
 What, you expect a tune to dance to, eh ? 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 279 
 
 HiNDA, HiTA, TrALLA, AND THE REST 
 
 {clapping their hands). 
 Vqs, yes, a tune, a tune ! 
 
 Juan. 
 But that is what you cannot have, my sweet brothers and 
 sisters. The tunes are all dead — dead as the tunes of the 
 lark when you have plucked his w'mgs off ; dead as the song 
 of the grasshopper when the ass has swallowed him. I can 
 play and sing no more. Hinda has killed my tunes. 
 (Ail cry out in consternation. Hinda gives a 
 wail and tries to examine the lute.) 
 
 Juan (jaaving her off) 
 
 Understand, Senora Hinda, that the tunes are in me ; 
 they are not in the lute till I put them there. And if you 
 cross my humor, I shall be as tuneless as a bag of wool. If 
 the tunes are to be brought to life again, I must have my 
 feather back. 
 
 (Hinda kisses his hands and feet coaxingly?) 
 
 No, no ! not a note will come for coaxing. The feather, 
 ( say, the feather ! 
 
 (Hinda sorrowfully takes off the feather, and 
 gives it to Juan.) 
 
 Ah, now let us see. Perhaps a tune will come. 
 {He plays a measure, and the th7-ee gii'ls begin 
 to dance ; then he suddenly stops.) 
 
 Juan. 
 
 No, the tune will not come : it wants the aigrette {point' 
 0ig to it on Hinda' s 7ieck). 
 
 (Hinda, zvith rather less hesitation, hut again sorrow- 
 fully, takes off the aigrette, and gives it to him.) 
 
 Juan 
 
 Ha ! {He plays again, but, after rather a longer time, again 
 stops.) No, no ; 'tis the buttons are wanting, Hinda, the 
 buttons. This tune feeds chiefly on buttons — a greedy tune. 
 It wants one, two, three, four, five, six. Good ! 
 
 {After Hinda has given 7ip the buttons^ and Juan has 
 
28o THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 laid them down one by one, he begins to play agai?t^ 
 going 071 lojtger than before, so that the dancers be- 
 €01716 excited by the 77ioveme7it. Then he stops.) 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Ah, Hita, it is the belt, and Tralla, the rosettes — both are 
 wanting. I see the tune will not go on without them. 
 
 (Hita and Tralla take off the belt a7id rosettes, a7id lay 
 the77i dow7i quickly, bei7ig fired by the danci7ig, and 
 eager for the iniisic. All the ai'ticles tie by Juan's 
 side on the g7vu7id.) 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Good, good, my docile wild-cats ! Now I think the tunes 
 are all alive again. Now you may dance and sing too. Hin- 
 da, my little screamer, lead off with the song I taught you, 
 and let us see if the tune will go right on from beginning to 
 end. 
 
 (Z^ plays. The da7ice begi7is again, Hinda si7igi7ig. 
 All the other boys and gi7is Join in the cho7'HS. end 
 all at last da7ice wildly?) 
 
 SONG. 
 
 All things jou7-7iey : sun a7id inoo7iy 
 Mo7'7iing, 710071, a7id afternoo7i, 
 
 Night a7id all her stars : 
 ^Twixt the east and weste7'n bars 
 
 Rou7id they jou7-7iey, 
 Co7ne and go / 
 
 We go with the7n I 
 For to 7'oa77i a7id ever roa77i 
 Is the Zincairs loved hoi7ie. 
 
 Ea7^th is good, the hillside b7'eak 
 By the ashen roots and makes 
 
 Himg7y 7wstrils glad : 
 27ien we run till tve are i7iad, 
 
 Like the horses. 
 And we cry, 
 
 No7ie shall catch us 
 Sivift 7vinds wing us — ivea7-efre€'^- 
 Drink the air — 7ve Zi7icaU I 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 281 
 
 Falls the snmv : the pifie-hraJich split, 
 Call the fire out, see it flit, 
 
 Through the dry leaves rim, 
 Spread and gloza, and make a sim 
 
 In the dark tent : 
 O warm dark : 
 
 Wanii as conies / 
 Strong fire loves us, we are 2uarjn / 
 Who the Zincali shall harm ? 
 
 Onward journey ; fires are spent; 
 Sunward, sunward I lift tlu the ten f. 
 
 Run before the rain, 
 Through the pass, along the plain^ 
 
 Hurty, hm^ry. 
 
 Lift us, wind 2 
 
 Like the horses, 
 For to roain and ever roam 
 Ls the Zincali s loved hojue. 
 
 (^When the dance is at its height, Hinda breaks away 
 from the7'est, and dances round Juan, 7vho is now 
 standing. As he turns a little to watch her move- 
 ment, some of the boys skip towards the feather, aig- 
 rette, d^c, s? latch them up, and run away, swiftly 
 follo7ved by Hita, Tralla, and the rest. Hinda, 
 as she turns again, sees them, screams, and falls in 
 her whirling ; but ijnmediately gets up, and rushes 
 after them, still screaming with rage.) 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Santiago! these imps gets bolder. Haha ! Senora Hinda, 
 this finishes your lesson in ethics. You have seen the advan- 
 tage of giving up stolen goods. Now you see the ugliness of 
 thieving when practised by others. That fable of mine about 
 the tunes was excellently devised. I feel like an ancient 
 sage instructing our lisping ancestors. My memory will 
 descend as the Orpheus of Gypsies. But I must prepare a 
 rod for those rascals. I'll bastinado them with prickly pears. 
 It seems to me these needles will have a sound moral teach- 
 ing in them. 
 
 ( While Juan takes a knife from his belt, and surveys a 
 bush of the prickly pear, Hinda returns^ 
 
282 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Pray, Senora, why do you fume ? Did you want to steal 
 my ornaments again yourself ? 
 
 Hind A (sobbing). 
 No j I thought you would give them me back again. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 What, did you want the tunes to die again ? Do you like 
 finery better than dancing ? 
 
 HiNDA. 
 
 Oh, that was a tale ! I shall tell tales too, when I want to 
 get anything I can't steal. And I know what I will do. I 
 shall tell the boys I've found some little foxes, and I will 
 never say where they are till they give me back the feather ! 
 
 {She rims off' again.) 
 
 Juan. 
 Hem ! the disciple seems to seize the mode sooner than 
 the master. Teaching virtue with this prickly pear may only 
 teach the youngsters to use a new weapon ; as your teaching 
 orthodoxy with faggots may only bring up a fashion of roast- 
 ing. Dios! my remarks grow too pregnant — my wits get a 
 plethora by solitary feeding on the produce of my own 
 wisdom. 
 
 {As he puts up his knife again, Hinda C07nes running 
 hack, and crying, " Our Queen / our Queen I " 
 Juan adjusts his garinents and his lute, while 
 Hinda turns to meet Fedalma, who wears a Moor- 
 ish dress, her black hair hanging round her in plaits, 
 a 7vhite turban on her head, a dagger by her side. 
 She carries a scarf on her left arm, which she holds 
 up as a shade.) 
 
 Fedalma {patting Hinda's head). 
 
 How now, wild one ? You are hot and panting. Go to 
 my tent, and help Nouna to plait reeds. 
 
 (Hinda kisses Fedalma's ha7id, and runs off. Fedalma 
 advances towards Juan, who kneels to take up tht 
 edge of her cymar and kisses it.) 
 
 Juan. 
 How is it with you, lady ? You look sad. 
 
THE SPANISH GVrSY. jg^ 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Oh, I am sick at heart. The eye of day, 
 
 The insistent summer sun, seems pitiless, 
 
 Shining in all the barren crevices 
 
 Of weary life, leaving no shade, no dark, 
 
 Where I may dream that hidden waters lie 
 
 As pitiless as to some shipwrecked man, 
 
 Who gazing from his narrow shoal of sand 
 
 On the wide unspecked round of blue and blue 
 
 Sees that full light is errorless despair. 
 
 The insects' hum that slurs the silent dark 
 
 Startles and seems to cheat me, as the tread 
 
 Of coming footsteps cheats the midnight watcher 
 
 Who holds her heart and waits to hear them pause, 
 
 And hears them never pause, but pass and die. 
 
 Music sweeps by me as a messenger 
 
 Carrying a message that is not for me. 
 
 The very sameness of the hills and sky 
 
 Is obdurac)^ and the lingering hours 
 
 Wait round me dumbly, like superfluous slaves, 
 
 Of whom I want nought but the secret news 
 
 They are forbid to tell. And, Juan, you — 
 
 You, too, are cruel — would be over-wise 
 
 In judging your friend's needs, and chose to hide 
 
 Something I crave to know. 
 
 Juan. 
 Fedalma. 
 
 I, lady? 
 You. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 I never had the virtue to hide aught, 
 
 Save what a man is whipped for publishing. 
 
 I'm no more reticent than the voluble air — 
 
 Dote on disclosure — never could contain 
 
 The latter half of all my sentences. 
 
 But for the need to utter the beginning. 
 
 My lust to tell is so importunate 
 
 That it abridges every other vice, 
 
 And makes me temperate for want of time. 
 
 I dull sensation in the haste to say 
 
 *Tis this or that, and choke report with surmise. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY, 
 
 Judge, then, dear lady, if I could be mute 
 When but a glance of yours had bid me speak. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Nay, sing such falsities ! — you mock me worse 
 
 By speech that gravely seems to ask belief. 
 
 You are but babbling in a part you play 
 
 To please my father. Oh, 'tis well meant, say you- 
 
 Pity for woman's weakness. Take my thanks. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Thanks angrily bestowed are red-hot coin 
 Burning your servant's palm. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Deny it not, 
 You know how many leagues this camp of ours 
 Lies from Bedmar — what mountains lie between— 
 Could tell me if you would about the Duke — 
 That he is comforted, sees how he gains 
 Losing the Zincala, finds now how slight 
 The thread Fedalma made in that rich web, 
 A Spanish noble's life. No, that is false ! 
 He never would think lightly of our love. 
 Some evil has befallen him— he's slain — 
 Has sought for danger and has beckoned death 
 Because I made all life seem treachery. 
 Tell me the worst — be merciful — no worst, 
 Against the hideous painting of my fear. 
 Would not show like a better. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 If I speak. 
 Will you believe your slave ? For truth is scant ; 
 And where the appetite is still to hear 
 And not believe, falsehood would stint it less. 
 How say you ? Does your hunger's fancy choose 
 The meagre fact ? 
 
 Fedalma {seating herself on the ground). 
 
 Yes, yes, the truth, dear Juan. 
 Sit now, and tell me all. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 285 
 
 Juan. 
 
 That all is nought. 
 I can unleash my fancy if you wish 
 And hunt for phantoms : shoot an airy guess 
 And bring down airy likelihood — some lie 
 Masked cunnmgly to look like royal truth 
 And cheat the shooter, while King Fact goes free % 
 Or else some image of reality 
 That doubt will handle and reject as false. 
 As for conjecture — I can thread the sky 
 Like any swallow, but if you insist 
 On knowledge that would guide a pair of feet 
 Right to Bedmlr, across the Moorish bounds, 
 A mule that dreams of stumbling over stones 
 Is better stored. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 And you have gathered nought 
 About the border wars ? No news, no hint 
 Of any rumors that concern the Duke — 
 Rumors kept from me by my father ? 
 
 Juan. 
 
 None. 
 Your father trusts no secret to the echoes. 
 Of late his movements have been hid from all 
 Save those few hundred chosen Gypsy breasts 
 He carries with him. Think you he's a man 
 To let his projects slip from out his belt, 
 Then whisper him who haps to find tliem strayed 
 To be so kind as keep his counsel well ? 
 Why, if he found me knowing auglit too much, 
 He would straight gag or strangle me, and say, 
 " Poor hound ! it was a pity that his bark 
 Could chance to mar niy plans : he loved my 
 
 daughter — 
 The idle hound had nought to do but love, 
 So followed to the battle and got crushed." 
 
 Fedalma {holding out her hajtd, which Juan kisses). 
 
 Good Juan, I could have no nobler friend. 
 You'd ope your veins and let your life-blood out 
 To save another's pain, yet hide the deed 
 
2?6 THE SPANISH GYPSY- 
 
 With jesting — say, 'twas merest accident, 
 A sportive scratch tliat went by chance too deep— • 
 And die content with men's slight thoughts of yoUj 
 Finding your glory in another's joy, 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Dub not ray likings virtues, lest they get 
 A drug-like taste^ and breed a nausea. 
 Honey's not sweet, commended as cathartic. 
 Such names are parchment labels upon gems 
 Hiding their color. What is lovely seen 
 Priced in a tarif ? — lapis lazuli. 
 Such bulk, so many drachmas : amethysts 
 Quoted at so much ; sapphires higher still. 
 The stone like solid heaven in its blueness 
 Is what I care for, not its name or price. 
 So, if I live or die to serve my friend, 
 'Tis for my love — 'tis for my friend alone, 
 And not for any rate that friendship bears 
 In heaven or on earth. Nay, I romance — 
 I talk of Roland and the ancient peers. 
 In me 'tis hardly friendship, only lack 
 Of a substantial self that holds a weight ; 
 So I kiss larger things and roll with them 
 
 Fedalma. 
 Oh, you will never hide your soul from me ; 
 I've seen the jewel's flash, and know 'tis there. 
 Muffle it as you will. That foam-like talk 
 Will not wash out a fear which blots the good 
 Your presence brings me. Oft I'm pierced afresh 
 Through all the pressure of ray selfish griefs 
 By thought of you. It was a rash resolve 
 Made you disclose yourself when you kept watch 
 About the terrace wall : — your pity leaped. 
 Seeing alone my ills and not your loss. 
 Self-doomed to exile. Juan, you must repent. 
 'Tis not in nature that resolve, which feeds 
 On strenuous actions, should not pine and die 
 In these long days of empty listlessness. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Repent ? Not I. Repentance is the weight 
 Of indigested meals ta'en yesterday. 
 
'J HE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 *Tis for large animals that gorge on prey, 
 
 Not for a honey-sipping butterfly. 
 
 I am a thing of rhythm and redondillas — 
 
 The momentary rainbow on the spray 
 
 Made by the thundering torrent of men's lives: 
 
 No matter whether I am here or there ; 
 
 I still catch sunbeams. And in Africa, 
 
 Where melons and all fruits, they say, grow large, 
 
 Fables are real, and the apes polite, 
 
 A poet, too, may prosper past belief: 
 
 I shall grow epic, like the Florentine, 
 
 And sing the founding of our infant state, 
 
 Sing the new Gypsy Carthage. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Africa 
 Would we were there ! Under another heaven, 
 In lands where neither love nor memory 
 Can plant a selfish hope — in lands so far 
 I should not seem to see the outstretched arms 
 That seek me, or to hear the voice that calls. 
 I should feel distance only and despair ; 
 So rest forever from the thought of bliss, 
 And wear my weight of life's great chain unstruggling. 
 Juan, if I could know he would forget — 
 Nay, not forget, forgive me — be content 
 That I forsook him for no joy, but sorrow, 
 For sorrow chosen rather than a joy 
 That destiny made base ! Then he would taste 
 No bitterness in sweet, sad memory, 
 And I should live unblemished in his thought, 
 Hallowed like her who dies an unwed bride. 
 Our words have wings, but fly not where we would. 
 Could mine but reach him, Juan ! 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Speak the wish— 
 My feet have wings — I'll be your Mercury. 
 I fear no shadowed perils by the way. 
 No man will wear the sharpness of his sword 
 On me. Nay, I'm a herald of the Muse, 
 Sacred for Moors and Spaniards. I will go- 
 Will fetch you tidings for an amulet. 
 
 28/ 
 
288 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 But stretch not hope too strongly towards that mark 
 
 As issue of my wandering. Given, I cross 
 
 Safely the Moorish border, reach Bedmar: 
 
 Fresh counsels may prevail there, and the Duke 
 
 Being absent in the field, I may be trapped. 
 
 Men who are sour at missing larger game 
 
 May wing a chattering sparrow for revenge. 
 
 It is a chance no further worth the note 
 
 Than as a warning, lest you feared worse ill 
 
 If my return were stayed. I might be caged ; 
 
 They would not harm me else. Untimely death, 
 
 The red auxiliary of the skeleton, 
 
 Has too much work on hand to think of me : 
 
 Or, if he cares to slay me, I shall fall 
 
 Choked with a grape-stone for economy. 
 
 The likelier chance is that I go and come, 
 
 Bringing you comfort back. 
 
 Fedalma {starts froin her seat and walks to a little distance^ 
 standing a few moments with her back towards ]vh.ii^ then 
 s/ie turns round quickly^ and goes towards him. 
 
 No, Juan, no 
 Those yearning words came from a soul infirm, 
 Crying and struggling at the pain of bonds 
 Which yet it would not loosen. He knows all — 
 All that he needs to know : I said farewell : 
 I stepped across the cracking earth and knew 
 'Twould yawn behind me. I must walk right on 
 No, I will not win aught by risking you : 
 That risk would poison my poor hope. Besides, 
 'Twere treachery in me ; my father wills 
 That we — all here — should rest within this camp. 
 If I can never live, like him, on faith 
 In glorious morrows, I am resolute. 
 While he treads painfully with stillest step 
 And beady brow, pressed 'neath the weight of arms, 
 Shall I, to ease my fevered restlessness. 
 Raise peevish moans, shattering that fragile silence ? 
 No 1 On the close-thronged spaces of the earth 
 A battle rages : Fate has carried me 
 'Mid the thick arrows : I will keep my stand^- 
 Not shrink and let the shaft pass by my breast 
 To pierce another. Oh, 'tis written large 
 The thing I have to do, But you, dear Juan 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 289 
 
 Renounce, endure, are brave, unurged by aught 
 Save the sweet overflow of your good will. 
 
 {She seats herself again, 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Nay, I endure nought worse than napping sheep 
 
 When nimble birds uproot a fleecy lock 
 
 To line their nest with. See ! your bondsman. 
 
 Queen, 
 The minstrel of your court, is featherless ; 
 Deforms your presence by a moulting garb ; 
 Shows like a roadside bush culled of its buds. 
 Yet, if your graciousness will not disdain 
 A poor plucked songster — shall he sing to you ? 
 Some lay of afternoons — some ballad strain 
 Of those who ached once but are sleeping now 
 Under the sun-warmed flowers ? 'Twill cheat the time. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 Thanks, Juan — later, when this hour is past. 
 My soul is clogged with self : it could not float 
 On with the pleasing sadness of your song. 
 Leave me in this green spot, but come again,-^ 
 Come with the lengthening shadows. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Then your slave 
 Will go to chase the robbers. Queen, farewell I 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Best friend, my well-spring in the wilderness ! 
 [While Juan shed along the stream, there came 
 From the dark tents a ringing joyous shout 
 That thrilled Fedalma with a summons grave 
 Yet welcome, too. Straightway she rose and stood, 
 All languor banished, with a soul suspense, 
 Like one who waits high presence, listening. 
 Was it a message, or her father's self 
 That made the camp so glad ? 
 
 It was himself! 
 She saw him now advancing, girt with arms 
 That seemed like idle trophies hung for show 
 Beside the weight and fire of living strength 
 That made his frame. He glanced with absent triumph. 
 
290 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY, 
 
 As one who conquers in some field afar 
 And bears off unseen spoil. But nearing her, 
 His terrible eyes intense sent forth new rays — 
 A sudden sunshine where the lightning was 
 'Twixt meeting dark. All tenderly he laid 
 His hand upon her shoulder ; tenderly 
 His kiss upon her brow. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 My royal daughter 1 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Father I joy to see your safe return. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Nay, I but stole the time, as hungry men 
 
 Steal from the morrow's meal, made a forced march. 
 
 Left Hassen as my watchdog, all to see 
 
 My daughter, and to feed her famished hope 
 
 With news of promise. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Is the task achieved 
 That was to be the herald of our flight ? 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Not outwardly, but to my inward vision 
 
 Things are achieved when they are well begun. 
 
 The perfect archer calls the deer his own 
 
 While yet the shaft is whistling. His keen eye 
 
 Never sees failure, sees the mark alone. 
 
 You have heard nought, then — had no messenger? 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 I, father ? no : each quiet day has fled 
 
 Like the same moth, returning with slow wing, 
 
 And pausing in the sunshine. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 It is well. 
 You shall not long court days in weariness. 
 Ere the full moon has waned again to new, 
 We shall reach Almeria ; Berber ships 
 Will take ns for their freight, and we shall go 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 20 1 
 
 With plenteous spoil, not stolen, bravely won 
 By service done on Spaniards. Do you shrink ? 
 Are you aught less than a true Zincala ? 
 
 Fedalma. 
 No ; but I am more. The Spaniards fostered me. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 They stole you first, and reared you for the flames. 
 I found you, rescued you, that you might live 
 A Zincala's life ; I saved you from their doom. 
 Your bridal bed had been the rack. 
 
 Fedalma {in a low tone?) 
 
 They meant— 
 To seize me ? — ere he came ? 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Yes, I know all. 
 They found your chamber empty. 
 
 Fedalma (eagerly). 
 
 Then you know— 
 
 (checking herself?) 
 
 Father, my soul would be less laggard, fed 
 With fuller trust, 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 My daughter, I must keep 
 The Arab's secret. Arabs are our friends, 
 Grappling for life with Christians who lay waste 
 Granada's valleys, and with devilish hoofs 
 Trample the young green corn, with devilish play 
 Fell blossomed trees, and tear up well-pruned vines : 
 Cruel as tigers to the vanquished brave. 
 They wring out gold by oaths they mean to break ; 
 Take pay for pity and are pitiless ; 
 Then tinkle bells above the desolate earth 
 And praise their monstrous gods, supposed to love 
 The flattery of liars. I will strike 
 The full-gorged dragon. You, my child, must watch 
 The battle with a heart, not fluttering 
 
igz 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY, 
 
 But duteous, firm-weighted by resolve, 
 Choosing between two lives, like her who holds 
 A dagger which must pierce one of two breasts, 
 And one of them her father's. You divine — 
 I speak not closely, but in parables ; 
 Put one for many. 
 
 Fedalma (collecting Iierself and looking firmly at 
 Zarca). 
 
 That I ask nothing ? 
 
 Then it is your will 
 
 Zarca. 
 You shall know enough 
 
 To trace the sequence of the seed and flower. 
 El Zagal trusts me, rates my counsel high : 
 He, knowing I have won a grant of lands 
 Within the Berber's realm, wills me to be 
 The tongue of his good cause in Africa, 
 So gives us furtherance in our pilgrimage 
 For service hoped, as well as service done 
 In that great feat of which I am the eye. 
 And my five hundred Gypsies the best arm. 
 More, I am charged by other noble Moors 
 With messages of weight to Telemsan. 
 Ha, your eye flashes. Are you glad ? 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Yes, glad 
 That men can greatly trust a Zincalo. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Why, fighting for dear life men choose their swords 
 For cutting only, not for ornament. 
 What nought but Nature gives, man takes perforce 
 Where she bestows it, though in vilest place. 
 Can he compress invention out of pride, 
 Make heirship do the work of muscle, sail 
 Towards great discoveries with a pedigree } 
 Sick men ask cures, and Nature serves not hers 
 Daintily as a feast. A blacksmith once 
 Founded a d3'-nasty, and raised on high 
 The leathern apron over armies spread 
 Between the mountains like a lake of steel. 
 
TIJE SPANISH GYPSY. 293 
 
 Fedalma {bitterly). 
 
 To be contemned, then, is fair augury. 
 That pledge of future good at least is ours. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Let men contemn us : 'tis such blind contempt 
 
 That leaves the winged broods to thrive in warmth 
 
 Unheeded, till they fill the air like storms 
 
 So we shall thrive — still darkly shall draw force 
 
 Into a new and multitudinous life 
 
 That likeness fashions to communit}'', 
 
 Mother divine of customs, faith and laws. 
 
 'Tis ripeness, 'tis fame's zenith that kills hope. 
 
 Huge oaks are dying, forests yet to come 
 
 Lie in the twigs and rotten-seeming seeds. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 And our wild Zincali ? 'Neath their rough husk 
 Can you discern such seed ? You said our band 
 Was the best arm of some hard enterprise ; 
 They give out sparks of virtue, then, and show 
 There's metal in their earth ? 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Ay, metal fine 
 In my brave Gypsies. Not the lithest Moor 
 Has lither limbs for scaling, keener eye 
 To mark the meaning of the furthest speck 
 That tells of change ; and they are disciplined 
 By faith in me, to such obedience 
 As needs no spy. My scalers and my scouts 
 Are to the Moorish force they're leagued withal 
 As bow-string to the bow ; while I their chief 
 Command the enterprise and guide the will 
 Of Moorish captains, as tfee pilot guides 
 With eye-instructed hand the passive helm. 
 For high device is still the highest force, 
 And he who holds the secret of the wheel 
 May make the rivers do what work he would. 
 With thoughts impalpable we clutch men's souls, 
 Weaken the joints of armies, make them fly 
 Like dust and leaves before the viewless wind. 
 Tell me what's mirrored in the tiger's heart, 
 I'll rule that too. 
 
294 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Fedalma {wrought to a glow of adjniratioii) 
 
 O my imiDerial father ! 
 'Tis where there breathes a mighty soul like yours 
 That men's contempt is of good augury. 
 
 Zarca {seizing both Fedalma's hajids, and looking 
 at her searchingly). 
 
 And you, my daughter, what are you — if not 
 
 The Zincalo's child ? Say, does not his great hope 
 
 Thrill in your veins like shouts of victory? 
 
 'Tis a vile life that like a garden pool 
 
 Lies stagnant in the round of personal loves ; 
 
 That has no ear save for the tickling lute 
 
 Set to small measures — deaf to all the beats 
 
 Of that large music rolling o'er the world ; 
 
 A miserable, petty, low-roofed life, 
 
 That knows the mighty orbits of the skies 
 
 Through nought save light or dark in its own cabin. 
 
 The very brutes will feel the force of kind 
 
 And move together, gathering a new soul — 
 
 The soul of multitudes. Say now, my child, 
 
 You will not falter, not look back and long 
 
 For unfledged ease in some soft alien nest. 
 
 The crane with outspread wing that heads the file 
 
 Pauses not, feels no backward impulses : 
 
 Behind it summer was, and is no more ; 
 
 Before it lies the summer it will reach 
 
 Or perish in mid ocean. You no less 
 
 Must feel the force sublime of growing life. 
 
 New thoughts are urgent as the growth of wings ; 
 
 The widening vision is imperious 
 
 As higher members bursting the worm's sheath : 
 
 You cannot grovel in the worm's delights \ 
 
 You must take winged pleasures, winged pains. 
 
 Are you not steadfast ? Will you live or die 
 
 For aught below your royal heritage .? 
 
 To him who holds the flickering brief torch 
 
 That lights a beacon for the perishing, 
 
 Aught else is crime. Would you let drop the torch ? 
 
 Fedalma. 
 Father my soul is weak, the mist of tears 
 Still rises to my eyes, and hides the goal 
 Which to vour undimmed si<zht is fixed and clear. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 But if I cannot plant resolve on hope, 
 
 It will stand firm on certainty of woe. 
 
 I choose the ill that is most like to end 
 
 With my poor being. Hopes have precarious life. 
 
 They are oft blighted, withered, snajoped sheer off 
 
 In vigorous growth and turned to rottenness. 
 
 But faithfulness can feed on suffering, 
 
 And knows no disappointment. Trust in me 1 
 
 If it were needed, this poor trembling hand 
 
 Should grasp the torch — strive not to let it fall 
 
 Though it were burning down close to my flesh, 
 
 No beacon lighted yet : through the damp dark 
 
 I should still hear the cry of gasping swimmers. 
 
 Father, I will be true ! 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 I trust that word. 
 And, for your sadness — you are young — the bruise 
 Will leave no mark. The worst of misery 
 Is when a nature framed for noblest things 
 Condemns itself in youth to petty joys, 
 And, sore athirst for air, breathes scanty life 
 Gasping from out the shallows. You are saved 
 From such poor doubleness. The life we choose 
 Breathes high, and sees a full-arched firmament. 
 Our dee/is shall speak like rock-hewn messages, 
 Teaching great purpose to the distant time. 
 Now I must hasten back. I shall but speak 
 To Nadar of the order he must keep 
 In setting watch and victualling. The stars 
 And the 3^oung moon must see me at my post. 
 Nay, rest you here. Farewell, my younger self — 
 Strong-hearted daughter ! Shall I live in you 
 When the earth covers me ? 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 My father, death 
 Should give your will divineness, make it strong 
 With the beseechings of a mighty soul 
 That left its work unfinished. Kiss me now : 
 
 {They embrace^ and she adds tremulously as 
 they part,) 
 And when you see fair hair, be pitiful. 
 
 [Ejcit Zarca. 
 
 29s 
 
29 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 (Fedalma seats herself on the bajik, leans her head for- 
 ward^ and covers her face with her drapery. While 
 she is seated thus ^ Hinda comes from the bank ^ with 
 a branch of vnisk roses in her hand. Seeirig Fe- 
 dalma with head bent and covered^ she pauses^ and 
 begins to move on tiptoe?) 
 
 Hinda. 
 Our Queen ! Can she be crying ? There she sits 
 As I did every day when my dog Saad 
 Sickened and yelled, and seemed to yell so loud 
 After we buried him, I oped his grave. 
 
 (She comes forward on tiptoe^ kneels at Fedalma's feet^ 
 and embraces them. Fedalma u?icovers her head.) 
 
 Hinda \ what is it ? 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Hinda. 
 
 Queen, a branch of roses — 
 So sweet, you'll love to smell them. 'Twas the last. 
 I climbed the bank to get it before Tralla, 
 And slipped and scratched my arm. But I don't mind. 
 You love the roses — so do I. I wish 
 The sky would rain down roses, as they rain 
 From off the shaken bush. Why will it not ? 
 Then all the "valley would be pink and white 
 And soft to tread on. They would fall as light 
 As feathers, smelling sweet; and it would be 
 Like sleeping and yet waking, all at once ! 
 Over the sea, Queen, where we soon shall go, 
 Will it rain roses ? 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 No, my prattler, no I 
 It never will rain roses : when we want 
 To have more roses we must plant more trees. 
 But you want nothing, little one — the world 
 Just suits you as it suits the tawny squirrels. 
 Come, you want nothing. 
 
 Hinda. 
 
 Yes, I want more berries- 
 Red ones — to wind about my neck and arms 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 297 
 
 "^-Vhen I am married — on my ankles too 
 
 I want to wind red berries, and on my head. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 Who is it you are fond of ? Tell me, now. 
 
 HiNDA. 
 
 O Qoeen, you know ! It could be no one else 
 
 But Ismael. He catches all the birds, 
 
 Knows where the speckled fish are, scales the rocks. 
 
 And sings and dances with me when I like. 
 
 How should I marry and not marry him? 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Should you have loved him, had he been a Moor^ 
 Or white Castilian ? 
 
 HiNDA {starting to her feet, then kneeling again). 
 Are you angry, Queen ? 
 Say why you will think shame of your poor Hinda ?- 
 She'd sooner be a rat and hang on thorns 
 To parch until the wind had scattered her, 
 Than be an outcast, spit at by her tribe. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 I think no evil — am not angry, child. 
 But would you part from Ism'ael ? leave him nov/ 
 If your chief bade you— said it was for good 
 To all your tribe that you must part from him ? 
 
 Hinda {giving a sharp cry). 
 Ah, will he say so ? 
 
 Fedalma {almost fierce in her earnest7iess), 
 
 ^ , , , ^ Nay, child, answer me. 
 
 Could you leave Ismael ? get into a boat 
 And see the waters widen 'twixt you two 
 Till all was water and you saw him not, 
 And knew that you would never see him more ? 
 If 'twas your chief's command, and if he said 
 Your tribe would be all slaughtered, die of plague 
 Of famine— madly drink each other's blood . . . 
 
298 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 HiNDA {trembling), 
 
 Queen, if it is so, tell Ismael. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 You would obey, then ? part from him forever ? 
 
 HlNDA. 
 
 How could we live else ? With our brethren lost ?— » 
 No marriage feast ? The day would turn to dark. 
 A Zincala cannot live without her tribe. 
 
 1 must obey ! Poor Ismael — poor Hinda ! 
 But will it ever be so cold and dark ? 
 
 Oh, I would sit upon the roc^s and cry, 
 And cry so long that I could cry no more : 
 Then 1 should go to sleep. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 No, Hinda, no I 
 Thou never shalt be called to part from him. 
 I will have berries for thee, red and black, 
 And I will be so glad to see thee glad. 
 That eaith will seem to hold enough of joy 
 To outweigh all the pangs of those who part. 
 Be comforted, bright eyes. See, I will tie 
 These roses in a crown, for thee to wear. 
 
 Hinda {clapping her hands, while Y^t>mmx puts the 
 
 roses on her head) . 
 
 Oh, I'm as glad as many little foxes — 
 1 will find Ismael, and tell him all. 
 
 {She runs off.) 
 
 Fedalma {alone). 
 She has the strength I lack. Within her world 
 The diiil has not stirred since first she woke : 
 No changing light has made the shadows die. 
 And taught her trusting soul sad difference. 
 For her, good, right, and law are all summed up 
 In what is possible : life is one web 
 Where love, joy, kindred, and obedience 
 Lie fast and even, in one warp and woof 
 With thirst and drinking, hunger, food, and sleep. 
 She knows no struggles, sees no double path : 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 299 
 
 Her fate is freedom, for her will is one 
 With her own people's law, the only law 
 She ever knew. For me — I have fire within, 
 But on my will there falls the chilling snow 
 Of thoughts that come as subtly as soft flakes, 
 Yet press at last with hard and icy weight. 
 I could be firm, could give myself the wrench 
 And walk erect, hiding my life-long wound, 
 If I but saw the fruit of all my pain 
 With that strong vision which commands the son!. 
 And makes great awe the monarch of desire. 
 But now I totter, seeing no far goal : 
 I tread the rocky pass, and pause and grasp, 
 Guided by flashes. When my fatker comes, 
 And breathes into my soul his generous hope — 
 By his own greatness making life seem great, 
 As the clear heavens bring sublimit}^, 
 And show earth larger, spanned by that blue vast- 
 Resolve is strong : I can embrace my sorrow, 
 Nor nicely weigh the fruit ; possessed with need 
 Solely to do the noblest, though it failed — 
 Though lava streamed upon my breathing deed 
 And buried it in night and barrenness. 
 But soon the glpw dies out, the trumpet strain 
 That vibrated as strength through all my limbs 
 Is heard no longer ; over the wide scene 
 There's nought but chill gray silence, or the hum 
 And fitful discord of a vulgar world. 
 Then I sink helpless — sink into the arms 
 Of all sweet memories, and dream of bliss : 
 See looks that penetrate like tones ; hear tones 
 That flash looks with them. Even now I feel 
 Soft airs enwrap me, as if yearning rays 
 Of some far presence touched me with their v/armth 
 And brought a tender murmuring . . . 
 
 [While she mused, 
 A figure came from out the olive trees 
 That bent close-whispering 'twixt the parted hills 
 Beyond the crescent of thick cactus : paused 
 At sight of her ; then slowly forward moved 
 With careful steps, and gently said, " Fedalma ! " 
 Fearing lest fancy had enslaved her sense, 
 She quivered, rose, but turned not. Soon again : 
 
300 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 •* Fedalma, it is SiLVA ! " Then she turned. 
 He, with bared head and arms entreating, beamed 
 Like morning on her. Vision held her still 
 One moment, then with gliding motion swift. 
 Inevitable as the melting stream's. 
 She found her rest within his circling arms.] 
 
 Fedalma, 
 O love, you are living, and believe in me 1 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Once more we are together. Wishing dies — 
 Stifled with bliss. 
 
 Fedalma, 
 
 You did not hate me, then- 
 Think me an ingrate — think my love was small 
 That I forsook you ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Dear, I trusted you 
 As holy men trust God. You could do nought 
 That was not pure and loving — though the deed 
 Might pierce me unto death. You had less trust, 
 Since you suspected mine, 'Twas wicked doubt. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Na)^ when T saw you hating me, the fault 
 Seemed in my lot — my bitter birthrig^ht — hers 
 On whom you lavished all your wealth of love 
 As price of nought but sorrow. Then I said, 
 *' 'Tis better so. He will be happier! " 
 But soon that thought, struggling to be a hope, 
 Would end in tears, 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 It was a cruel thought. 
 Happier ! True misery is not begun 
 Until I cease to love thee, 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Silva! 
 
301 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY, 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Mine ! 
 {They stand a moment or two in sileiue^ 
 
 Fedalma, 
 
 I thought I had so much to tell you, love — 
 Long eloquent stories — how it all befell — 
 1'he solemn message, calling me away 
 To awful spousals, where my own dead joy, 
 A conscious ghost, looked on and saw me wed. 
 
 Don Silva, 
 
 Oh, that grave speech would cumber our quick souls 
 Like bells that waste the moments with their loudness. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 And if it all were said, 'twould end in this, 
 That I still loved you when I fled away. 
 'Tis no more wisdom than the little birds 
 Make known by their soft twitter when they feel 
 Each other's heart beat. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 All the deepest things 
 We now say with our eyes and meeting pulse : 
 Our voices need but prattle. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 I forget 
 All the drear days of thirst in this one draught. 
 
 {Again they a?'e silent for a few momei2ts^ 
 But tell me how you came ? Where are your guards ? 
 Is there no risk ? And now I look at you, 
 This garb is strange . . . 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 I came alone. 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Alon 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Yes — fled in secret. There was no way else 
 To find you safely. 
 
302 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Fedalma {letting one hand fall and moving a little 
 from him with a look of sudden terror^ while 
 he clasps her more finnly by the other arm, 
 
 Silva ! 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 It is nought. 
 Enough that I am here. Now we will cling. 
 What power shall hinder us t You left me once 
 To set your father free, That task is done, 
 And you are mine again. I have braved all 
 That I might find you, see your father, win 
 Kis furtherance in bearing you away 
 To some safe refuge. Are we not betrothed 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Oh, I am trembling 'neath the rush of thoughts 
 That come like griefs at morning — look at me 
 With awful faces, from the vanishing haze 
 That momently had hidden them. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 What thoughts 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Forgotten burials. There lies a grave 
 Between this visionary present and the past. 
 Our joy is dead, and only smiles on us 
 A loving shade from out the place of tombs. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Your love is faint, else aught that parted us 
 Would seem but superstition. Love supreme 
 Defies dream-terrors — risks avenging fires. 
 I have risked all things. But your love is faint. 
 
 Fedalma {j-etrcating a little^ hut keeping his hand), 
 
 Silva, if now between us came a sword. 
 Severed my arm, and left our two hands clasped, 
 This poor maimed arm would feel the clasp till death. 
 What parts us is a sword . . . 
 
 (Zarca has been adva?icing in the background. 
 He has drawn his sword, and now thrusts 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 303 
 
 the naJzed blade between them. Don Silva 
 lets go Fedalma's hand, and grasps his 
 sword, Fedalma, startled at first., stands 
 fi^rmly., as if prepared to inteipose between 
 her Father and the Duke.) 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Ay, 'tis a swoiJ 
 That parts the Spaniard and the Zincala : 
 A sword that was baptized in Christian Blood, 
 When once a band, cloaking with Spanish law 
 Their brutal rapine, would have butchered us, 
 And outraged then our women. 
 
 {^Resting the point of his sword on the ground^ 
 
 My lord Duke, 
 I was a guest within your fortress once 
 Against my will ; had entertainment too — 
 Much like a galley-slave's. Pray have you sought 
 The Zincala's camp, to find a fit return 
 For that Castilian courtesy? or rather 
 To make amends for all our prisoned toil 
 By free bestowal of your presence here ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Chief, I have brought no scorn to meet your scorn. 
 I came because love urged me — that deep love 
 I bear to her whom you call daughter — her 
 Whom I reclaim as my betrothed bride. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Doubtless you bring for final argument 
 
 Your men-at-arms who will escort your bride ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 I came alone. The only force I bring 
 Is tenderness. Nay, I will trust besides 
 In all the pleadings of a father's care 
 To wed his daughter as her nurture bids. 
 And for your tribe — whatever purposed good 
 Your thoughts may cherish, I will make secure 
 With the strong surety of a noble's power : 
 IMy wealth shall be your treasury. 
 
3^4 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Zarca (with i7'ony). 
 
 My thanks I 
 To me you offer liberal price ; for her 
 Your love's beseeching will be force supreme. 
 She will go with you as a willing slave, 
 Will give a word of parting to her father, 
 Wave farewells to her tribe, then turn and say, 
 ^ Now, my lord, I am nothing but your bride ; 
 I am quite culled, have neither root nor trunk, 
 Now wear me with your plume ! " 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Yours is the wrong 
 Feigning in me one thought of her below 
 The highest homage. I would make my rank 
 The pedestal of her worth ; a noble's sword, 
 A noble's honor, her defence ; his love 
 The life-long sanctuary of her womanhood. 
 
 Zarca. 
 I tell you, were you king of Aragon, 
 And won my daughter's hand, your higher rank 
 Would blacken her dishonor. 'Twere excuse 
 If you were beggared, homeless, spit upon, 
 And so made even with her people's lot ; 
 For then she would be lured by want, not wealth 
 To be a wife amongst an alien race 
 To whom her tribe owes curses. 
 
 Don Silva 
 
 Such blmd hate 
 Is fit for beasts of prey, but not for men. 
 My hostile acts against you, should but count 
 As ignorant strokes against a friend unknown ; 
 And for the wrongs inflicted on your tribe 
 By Spanish edicts or the cruelty 
 Of Spanish vassals, am I criminal ? 
 Love comes to cancel all ancestral hate^ 
 Subdues all heritage, proves that in mankind 
 Union is deeper than division. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Ay, 
 Such love is common : I have seen it oft — 
 Seen many women rend the sacred ties 
 
THB: SPANISH GYPSY. 305 
 
 That bind them in high fellowship with men, 
 Making them mothers of a people's virtue : 
 Seen them so levelled to a handsome steed 
 That yesterday was Moorish property, 
 To-day is Christian — wears new-fashioned gear. 
 Neighs to new feeders, and will prance alike 
 Under all banners, so the banner be 
 A master's who caresses. Such light change 
 You call conversion ; but we Zincali call 
 Conversion infamy. Our people's faith 
 Is faithfulness ; not the rote-learned belief 
 That we are heaven's highest favorites, 
 But the resolve that being most forsaken 
 Among the sons of men, we will be true 
 Each to the other, and our common lot. 
 You Christians burn men for their heresy : 
 Our vilest heretic is that Zincali 
 Who, choosing ease, forsakes her people's woes. 
 The dowry of my daughter is to be 
 Chief woman of her tribe, and rescue it. 
 A bride with such a dowry has no match 
 Among the subjects of that Catholic Queen 
 Who would have Gypsies swept into the sea 
 Or else would have them gibbeted. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 And you, 
 Fedalma's father — you who claim the dues 
 Of fatherhood — will offer up her youth 
 To mere grim idols of your phantasy i 
 Worse than all Pagans, with no oracle ^ 
 To bid you murder, no sure good to win, 
 W^ill sacrifice your daughter — to no god, 
 But to a ravenous fire within your soul. 
 Mad hopes, blind hate, that like possessing fiends 
 Shriek at a name ! This sweetest virgin, reared 
 As garden flowers, to give the sordid world 
 Glimpses of perfectness, you snatch and thrust 
 On dreary wilds ; in visions mad, proclaim 
 Semiramis of Gypsy wanderers ; 
 Doom, with a broken arrow in her heart. 
 To wait for death 'mid squalid savages : 
 For what ? You would be saviour of your tribe ; 
 So said Fedalma's letter j rather say- 
 
3o6 THE SPANISH GYPSY, 
 
 You have the will to save by ruling men, 
 But first to rule ; and with that flinty will 
 You cut your way, though the first cut you give 
 Gash your child's bosom. 
 
 {While Don Silva has been speakings with groW' 
 ifig passion, Fedalma has placed herself be- 
 him and her father^ 
 
 Zarca {with calm irony). 
 
 You are loud, my lord 
 You only are the reasonable man ; 
 You have a heart, I none. Fedalma's good 
 Is what you see, you care for ; while I seek 
 No good, not even my own, urged on by nought 
 But hellish hunger, which must still be fed 
 Though in the feeding it I suffer throes. 
 Fume at your own opinion as you will : 
 I speak not now to you, but to my daughter. 
 If she still calls it good to mate with you, 
 To be a Spanish duchess, kneel at court. 
 And hope her beauty is excuse to men 
 When women whisper, " A mere Zincala ? " 
 If she still calls it good to take a lot 
 That measures joy for her as she forgets 
 Her kindred and her kindred's misery, 
 Nor feels the softness of her downy couch 
 Marred by remembrance that she once forsook 
 The place that she was born to — let her go ! 
 If life for her still lies in alien love, 
 That forces her to shut her soul from truth 
 As men in shameful p^.^asures shut out day ; 
 And death, for her, is to do rarest deeds, 
 Which, even failing, leave new faith to men, 
 The faith in human hearts — then, let her go ! 
 She is my only offspring ; in her veins 
 She bears the bloocl her tribe has trusted in ; 
 Her heritage is their obedience. 
 And if I died, she might still lead them forth 
 To plant the race her lover now reviles 
 Where they may make a nation, and may rise 
 To grander manhood than his race can show t 
 Then live a goddess, sanctifying oaths, 
 
 Enforcing right, and ruling consciences, 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 307 
 
 By law deep-graven in exalting deeds, 
 
 Through the long ages of her people's life. 
 
 If she can leave that lot for silken shame, 
 
 For kisses honeyed by oblivion — 
 
 The bliss of drunkards or the blank of fools — 
 
 Then let her go ! You Spanish Catholics, 
 
 When you are cruel, base, and treacherous, 
 
 For ends not pious, tender gifts to God, 
 
 And for men's wounds offer much oil to churches : 
 
 We have no altars for such healing gifts 
 
 As soothe the heavens for outrage done on earth. 
 
 We have no priesthood and no creed to teach 
 
 That she — the Zincala — who might save her race 
 
 And yet abandons it, may cleanse that blot, 
 
 And mend the curse her life has been to men. 
 
 By saving her own soul. Her one base choice 
 
 Is wrong unchangeable, is poison shed 
 
 Where men must drink, shed by her poisoning will 
 
 Now choose, Fedalma ! 
 
 [But her choice was inade. 
 Slowly, while yet her father spoke, she moved 
 From where oblique with deprecating arms 
 She stood between the two who swayed her heart : 
 Slowly she moved to choose sublimer pain ; 
 Yearning, yet shrinking; wrought upon by awe, 
 Her own brief life seeming a little isle 
 Remote through visions of a wider world 
 With fates close-crowded ; firm to slay her joy 
 That cut her heart with smiles beneath the knife. 
 Like a sweet babe foredoomed by prophecy. 
 She stood apart, yet near her father : stood 
 Hand clutching hand, her limbs all tense with will 
 That strove 'gainst anguish, eyes that seemed a soul 
 Yearning in death towards him she loved and left. 
 He faced her, pale with passion and a will 
 Fierce to resist whatever might seem strong 
 And ask him to submit : he saw one end — 
 He must be conqueror ; monarch of his lot 
 And not its tributary. But she spoke 
 Tenderly, pleadingly.] 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 My lord, farewell ! 
 'Twas well we met once more ; now we must part. 
 
3o8 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 I think we had the chief of all love's joys 
 Only in knowing that we loved each other. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 I thought we loved with love that clings till death, 
 Clings as brute mothers bleeding to their young, 
 Still sheltering, clutching it, though it were dead ; 
 Taking the death-wound sooner than divide. 
 I thought we loved so. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Silva, it is fate. 
 Great Fate has made me heiress of this woe 
 You must forgive Fedalma all her debt : 
 She is quite beggared : if she gave herself, 
 'Twould be a self corrupt with stiHed thoughts 
 Of a forsaken better. It is truth 
 My father speaks : the Spanish noble's wife 
 Were a false Zincala. No ! I will bear 
 The heavy trust of my inheritance. 
 See, 'twas my people's life that throbbed in me : 
 An unknown need stirred darkly in my soul. 
 And made me restless even in my bliss. 
 Oh, all my bliss was in our love; but now 
 I may not taste it : some deep energy 
 Compels me to choose hunger. Dear, farewell ! 
 I must go with my people. 
 
 [She stretched forth 
 Her tender hands, that oft had lain in his, 
 The hands he knew so w^ell that sight of them 
 Seemed like their touch. But he stood still as death 
 Locked motionless by forces opposite : 
 His frustrate hopes still battled with despair; 
 His will was prisoner to the double grasp 
 Of rage and hesitancy. All the way 
 Behind him he had trodden confident, 
 Ruling munificently in his thought 
 This Gypsy father. Now the father stood 
 Present and silent and unchangeable 
 As a celestial portent. Backward lay 
 The traversed road, the town's forsaken wall, 
 The risk, the daring ; all around him now 
 Was obstacle, save where the rising flood 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Of love CxOse pressed by anguish of denial 
 Was sweeping him resistless ; save where she 
 Gazing stretched forth her tender hands, that hurt 
 Like parting kisses. Then at last he spoke.J 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 No I can never take those hands in mine 
 Then let them go forever ! 
 
 Fedal^ia. 
 
 It must be. 
 We may not make this world a paradise 
 By walking it together hand in hand, 
 With eyes that meeting feed a double strength. 
 We must be only joined by pains divine 
 Of spirits blent in mutual memories. 
 Silva, our joy is dead. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 But love still lives, 
 And has a safer guard in wretchedness. 
 Fedalma, woman know no perfect love : 
 Loving the strong, they can forsake the strong ; 
 Man clings because the being whom he loves 
 Is weak and needs him. I can never turn 
 And leave you to your difficult wandering ; 
 Know that you tread the desert, bear the storm, 
 Shed tears, see terrors, faint with weariness, 
 Yet live away from you. I should feel nought 
 But your imagined pains : in my own steps 
 See your feet bleeding, taste your silent tears, 
 And feel no presence but your loneliness. 
 No, I will never leave you ! 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 My lord Duke, 
 have been patient, given room for speech, 
 Bent not to move my daughter by command, 
 Save that of her own faithfulness. But now, 
 All further words are idle elegies 
 Unfitting times of action. You are here 
 With the safe-conduct of that trust you showed 
 Coming unguarded to the Gypsy's camp. 
 
 309 
 
3IO 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY, 
 
 I would fain meet all trust with courtesy 
 
 As well as honor ; but my utmost power 
 
 Is to afford you Gypsy guard to night 
 
 Within the tents that keep the northward lines, 
 
 And for the morrow, escort on your way 
 
 Back to the Moorish bounds. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 What if my words 
 vVere mOant for deeds, decisive as a leap 
 Into the current ? It is not my wont 
 To utter hollow words, and speak resolves 
 Like verses bandied in a madrigal. 
 I spoke in action first : I faced all risks 
 To find Fedalma. Action speaks again 
 When I, a Spanish noble, here declare 
 That I abide with her, adopt her lot, 
 Claiming alone fulfilment of her vows 
 As my betrothed wife. 
 
 Fedalma {wresting herself from him, and standing oppositt 
 with a look of terror^. 
 
 Nay, Silva, nay ! 
 You could not live so — spring from your high place . , 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Yes, I have said it. And you, chief, are bound 
 By her strict vows, no stronger fealty 
 Being left to cancel them. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Strong words, my lord ! 
 Sounds fatal as the hammer-strokes that shape 
 The glowing metal : they must shape your life. 
 That you will claim my daughter is to say 
 That you will leave your Spanish dignities. 
 Your home, your wealth, your people, to becom 
 Wholly a Zincalo : share our wanderings, 
 And be a match meet for my daughter's dower 
 By living for her tribe ; take the deep oath 
 That binds you to us ; rest within our camp, 
 Nevermore hold command of Spanish men, 
 And keep my orders. See, my lord, you lock 
 A many-winding chain — a heavy chain. 
 
HE SPANISH GYPSY. ^H 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 I have but one resolve : let the rest follow. 
 
 What is my rank ? To-morrow it will be filled 
 
 By one who eyes it like a carrion bird, 
 
 Waiting for death. I shall be no more missed 
 
 Than waves are missed that leaping on the rock 
 
 Find there a bed and rest. Life's a vast sea 
 
 That does its mighty errand without fail, 
 
 Panting in unchanged strength though waves are changing. 
 
 And I have said it : she shall be my people, 
 
 And where she gives her life I will give mine. 
 
 She shall not live alone, nor die alone. 
 
 I will elect my deeds, and be the liege 
 
 Not of my birth, but of that good alone 
 
 I have discerned and chosen. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Our poor faiih 
 Allows not rightful choice, save of the right 
 Our birth has made for us. And you, my lord, 
 Can still defer your choice, for some days' space. 
 I march perforce to-night ; you, if you will, 
 Under a Gypsy guard, can keep the heights 
 With silent Time that slowly opes the scroll 
 Of change inevitable — take no oath 
 I'ill my accomplished task leave me at large 
 To see you keep your purpose or renounce it. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Chief, do I hear amiss, or does your speech 
 Ring with a doubleness which I had held 
 Most alien to you ? You would put me off, 
 And cloak evasion with allowance t ^ No ! 
 We will complete our pledges. I will take 
 That oath which binds not me alone, but you, 
 To join my life forever with Fedalma's. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 I wrangle not — time presses. But the oath 
 Will leave you that same post upon the heights; 
 Pledged to remain there while my absence lasts. 
 Vou are agreed, my lord ? 
 
Z12 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Agreed to all 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Then I will give the summons to our camp. 
 We will adopt you as a brother now, 
 After our wonted fashion. 
 
 {Exit Zarca. 
 (Silva takes Fedalma's ha?ids.) 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 O my lord ! 
 I think the earth is trembling : nought is firm. 
 Some terror chills me with a shadowy grasp. 
 Am I about to wake, or do you breathe 
 Here in this valley ? Did the outer air 
 Vibrate to fatal words, or did they shake 
 Only my dreaming soul ? You — ^join — our tribe? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Is then your love too faint to raise belief 
 Up to that height ? 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Silva, had you but said 
 That you would die — that were an easy task 
 For you who oft have fronted death in war. 
 But so to live for me — you, used to rule — 
 You could not breathe the air my father breathes : 
 His presence is subjection. Go, my lord ! 
 Fly, while there yet is time. Wait not to speak. 
 I will declare that I refused your love — 
 Would keep no vows to you . . . 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Is is too late. 
 You shall not thrust me back to seek a good 
 Apart from you. And what good ? Why, to face 
 Your absence — all the want that drove me forth— 
 To work the will of a more tyrannous friend 
 Than any uncowled father. Life at least 
 Gives choice of ills ; forces me to defy 
 But shall not force me to a weak defiance. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY, 
 
 The power that threatened you, to master me, 
 
 That scorches like a cave-hid dragon's breath, 
 
 Sure of its victor}^ in spite of hate, 
 
 Is what I last will bend to — most defy. 
 
 Your father has a chieftain's ends, befitting 
 
 A soldier's eye and arm : were he as strong 
 
 As the Moor's prophet, yet the prophet too 
 
 Had younger captains of illustrious fame 
 
 Among the infidels. Let him command, 
 
 For when your father speaks, I shall hear you. 
 
 I.if3 were no gain if you were lost to me : 
 
 I would straight go and seek the Moorish walls, 
 
 Challenge their bravest, and embrace swift death. 
 
 The glorious Mother and her pitying Son 
 
 Are net Inquisitors, else their heaven were hell. 
 
 Perhaps they hate their cruel worshippers. 
 
 And let them feed on lies. I'll rather trust 
 
 They Icve you and have sent me to defend you. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 I made m.y creed so, just to suit my mood 
 And smooth all hardship, till my father came 
 And taught my soul by ruling it. Since then 
 I cannot weave a dreaming happy creed 
 Where our love's happiness is not accursed. 
 My father shook my soul awake. And you — 
 The bonds Fedalma may not break for you, 
 I cannot joy that you should break for her. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Oh, Spanish men are not a petty band 
 Where one deserter makes a fatal breach. 
 Men, even nobles, are more plenteous 
 Then steeds and armor ; and my weapons left 
 Will find new hands to wield them. Arrogance 
 Makes itself champion of mankind, and holds 
 God's purpose maimed for one hidalgo lost. 
 
 See Vv'here your father comes and brings a crowd 
 Of witnesses to hear my oath of love ; 
 The low red sun glows on them like a fire. 
 This seems a valley in some strange new world, 
 Where we have found each other, my Fedalma, 
 
 313 
 
^14 
 
 THE SPANISH G VFSY, 
 
 BOOK IV, 
 
 Now twice the day had sunk from off the hills 
 
 While Silva kept his watch there, with the band 
 
 Of stalwart Gypsies. When the sun was high 
 
 He slept ; then, waking, strained impatient eyes 
 
 To catch the promise of some moving form 
 
 That might be Juan — Juan who went and came 
 
 To soothe two hearts, and claimed nought for his own 
 
 Friend more divine than all divinities, 
 
 Quenching his human thirst in others' joy. 
 
 All through the lingering nights and pale chill dawns 
 
 Juan had hovered near ; with delicate sense, 
 
 As of some breath from every changing mood, 
 
 Had spoken or kept silence ; touched his lute 
 
 To hint of melody, or poured brief strains 
 
 That seemed to make all sorrows natural. 
 
 Hardly worth weeping for, since life was short. 
 
 And shared by loving souls. Such pity welled 
 
 Within the minstrel's heart of light-tongued Juan 
 
 For this doomed man, who with dream-shrouded eyes 
 
 Had stepped into a torrent as a brook, 
 
 Thinking to ford it and return at will. 
 
 And now waked helpless in the eddying flood, 
 
 Hemmed by its raging hurry. Once that thought, 
 
 How easy wandering is, how hard and strict 
 
 The homeward way, had slipped from reverie 
 
 Into low-murmured song ; — (brief Spanish song 
 
 *Scaped him as sighs escape from other men). 
 
 FusJi off the ho at J 
 Quit, quit the shore, 
 
 The stars will guide us hack : — 
 O gathering cloud, 
 O wide, wide sea, 
 
 O luaves that keeps no track I 
 
THE SPANISH GYrSY. 313 
 
 On through the pines f 
 The pilla?rd ivoods, 
 
 Where silence breathes sweet breath .•— 
 O labyrinth^ 
 O sunless glooj7i^ 
 
 27ie other side of death / 
 
 Such plaintive song had seemed to please the Duke — 
 
 Had seemed to melt all voices of reproach 
 
 To sympathetic sadness ; but his moods 
 
 Had grown more fitful with the growing hours, 
 
 And this soft murmur had the iterant voice 
 
 Of neartless Echo, whom no pain can move 
 
 To say aught else than we have said to her. 
 
 He spoke, impatient : " Juan, cease thy song. 
 
 Our whimpering poesy and small-paced tunes 
 
 Have no more utterance than the cricket's chirp 
 
 For souls that carry heaven and hell within." 
 
 Then Juan, lightly ; "True, my lord, I chirp 
 
 For lack of soul ; some hungry poets chirp 
 
 For lack of bread. 'Twere wiser to sit down 
 
 And count the star-seed, till I fell asleep 
 
 With the cheap v^'ine of pure stupidity." 
 
 And Silva, checked by courtesy : " Nay, Juan, 
 
 Were speech once good, thy song were best of speech. 
 
 I meant, all life is but poor mockery : 
 
 Action, place, power, the visible wide world 
 
 Are tattered masquerading of this self. 
 
 This pulse of conscious mystery : all change, 
 
 Whether to high or low, is change of rags. 
 
 But for her love, I would not take a good 
 
 Save to burn out in battle, in a flame 
 
 Of madness that would feel no mangled limbs. 
 
 And die not knowing death, but passing straight 
 
 — Well, well, to other flames — in purgatory." 
 
 Keen Juan's ear caught the self-discontent 
 
 That vibrated beneath the changing tones 
 
 Of life-contemning scorn. Gently he said : 
 
 " But with her love, my lord, the world deserves 
 
 A higher rate ; were it but masquerade, 
 
 The rags were surely worth the wearing ? '* 
 
 No misery shall force me to repent 
 
 That I have loved her." 
 
5i6 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 So with wilful talk, 
 Fencing the wounded soul from beating winds 
 Of truth that came unasked, companionship 
 Made the hours lighter. And the Gypsy guard, 
 Trusting familiar Juan, were content, 
 At friendly hint from him, to still their songs 
 And busy jargon round the nightly fires. 
 Such sounds, the quick-conceiving poet knew 
 Would strike on Silva's agitated soul 
 Like mocking repetition of the oath 
 That bound him in strange clanship with the tribe 
 Of human panthers, flame-eyed, lithe-limbed, fierce, 
 Unrecking of time-woven subtleties 
 And high tribunals of a phantom-world. 
 
 But the third day, though Silva southward gazed 
 TiL all the shadows slanted towards him, gazed 
 Till all the shadows died, no Juan came. 
 Now in his stead came loneliness, and Thought 
 Inexorable, fastening with firm chain 
 What is to what hath been. Now awful Night, 
 The prime ancestral mystery, came down 
 Past all the generations of the stars, 
 And visited his soul with touch more close 
 Than when he kept that younger, briefer watch 
 Under the church's roof beside his arms. 
 And won his knighthood. 
 
 Well, this solitude, 
 This company with the enduring universe. 
 Whose mighty silence carrying all the past 
 Absorbs our history as with a breath. 
 Should give him more assurance, make him strong 
 In all contempt of that poor circumstance 
 Called human life — customs and bonds and laws 
 Wherewith men make a better or a worse. 
 Like children playing on a barren mound 
 Feigning a thing to strive for or avoid. 
 Thus Silva argued with his many-voiced self, 
 Whcse thwarted needs, ike angry multitudes, 
 L'.*;e , fr m the home that nurtured them to strength 
 Made loud insurgence, Thus he called on Thought, 
 On dexterous Thought, with its swift alchemy 
 To change all forms, dissolve all prejudice 
 
THE SPANISH GSPSY. 
 
 317 
 
 Of man's long heritage, and yield him up 
 
 A crude fused world to fashion as he would. 
 
 Thought played him double ; seemed to wear the 
 
 Of sovereign passion in the noon-day height 
 
 Of passion's prevalence ; but served anon 
 
 As tribune to the larger soul which brought 
 
 Loud-mingled cries from every human need 
 
 That ages had instructed into life. 
 
 He could not grasp Night's black blank mystery 
 
 And wear it for a spiritual garb 
 
 Creed-proof : he shuddered at its passionless touch. 
 
 On solitary souls, the universe 
 
 Looks down inhospitable ; the human heart 
 
 Finds nowhere shelter but in human kind. 
 
 He yearned towards images that had breath in them, 
 
 That sprang warm palpitant with memories 
 
 From streets and altars, from ancestral homes, 
 
 Banners and trophies and the cherishing rays 
 
 Of shame and honor in the eyes of man. 
 
 These made the speech articulate of his soul 
 
 That could not move to utterance of scorn 
 
 Save in words bred by fellowship ; could not feel 
 
 Resolve of hardest constancy to love 
 
 The firmer for the sorrows of the loved, 
 
 Save by concurrent energies high-wrought 
 
 To sensibilities transcending sense 
 
 Through close communit}^, and long-shared pains 
 
 Of far-oif generations. AH in vain 
 
 He sought the outlaw's strength, and made a right 
 
 Contending that hereditary right 
 
 Which held dim habitations in his frame, 
 
 Mysterious haunts of echoes old and far. 
 
 The voice divine of human loyalty. 
 
 At home, among his people, he had played 
 
 In skeptic ease with saints and litanies. 
 
 And thunders of the Church that deadened fell 
 
 Through screens of priests plethoric. Awe, unscathed 
 
 By deeper trespass, slept without a dream. 
 
 But for such trespass as made outcasts, still 
 
 The ancient Furies lived with faces new 
 
 And lurked with lighter slumber than of old 
 
 O'er Catholic Spain, the land of sacred oaths 
 
 That mi2:ht be broken. 
 
3 1 8 THE SPANISH G YPS Y. 
 
 Now the former life 
 Of close-linked fellowship, the life that made 
 His full-formed self, as the impregnate sap 
 Of years successive frames the full-branched tree- 
 Was present in one whole ; and that great trust 
 His deed had broken turned reproach on him 
 From faces of all witnesses who heard 
 His uttered pledges ; saw him hold high place 
 Centring reliance ; use rich privilege 
 That bound him like a victim-nourished god 
 By tacit covenant to shield and bless ; 
 Assume the Cross and take his knightly oath 
 Mature, deliberate : faces human all, 
 And some divine as well as human : His 
 Who hung supreme, the suffering Man divine 
 About the altar ; Hers, the Mother pure 
 Whose glance informed his masculine tenderness 
 Wilh deepest reverence; the Archangel armed, 
 Trampling man's enemy : all heroic forms 
 That fill the world of faith with voices, hearts, 
 And high companionship, to Silva now 
 Made but one inward and insistent world 
 With faces of his peers, with court and hall 
 And deference, and reverent vassalage, 
 And filial pieties — one current strong, 
 The warmly mingled life-blood of his mind, 
 Sustaining him even when he idly played 
 With rules, beliefs, charges, and ceremonies 
 As arbitrary fooling. Such revenge 
 Is wrought by the long travail of mankind 
 On him who scorns it, and would shape his life 
 Without obedience. 
 
 But his warrior's pride 
 Would take no wounds save on the breast. He faced 
 The fatal crowd : " I never shall repent ! 
 If I have sinned, my sin was made for me 
 By men's perverseness. There's no blameless life 
 Save for the passionless, no sanctities 
 But have the self-same roof and props with crime, 
 Or have their roots close interlaced with wrong. 
 If I had loved her less, been more a craven, 
 I had kept my place and won the easy praise 
 Of a true Spanish noble. But I loved, 
 
THE SrAXISH GYPSY. 
 
 And, loving, dared — not Death the warrior 
 
 But Infamy that binds and strips, and holds 
 
 The brand and hash. I have dared all for her 
 
 She was my good — what other men call heaven, 
 
 And for the sake of it bear penances ; 
 
 Nay, some of old were baited, tortured, flayed 
 
 To win their heaven. Heaven was their good, 
 
 She, mine. And I have braved for her all fires 
 
 Certain or threatened ; for I go away 
 
 Beyond the reach of expiation — far away 
 
 From sacramental blessing. Does God bless 
 
 No outlaw? Shut his absolution fast 
 
 In human breath 'i Is there no God for me 
 
 Save him whose cross I have forsaken t — Well, 
 
 I am for ever exiled — but with her ! 
 
 She is dragged out into the wilderness ; 
 
 I, with my love, will be her providence. 
 
 I have a right to chose my good or ill, 
 
 A right to damn myself ! The ill is mine. 
 
 I never will repent ! " . . . 
 
 Thus Silva, inwardly debating, all his ear 
 
 Turned into audience of a twofold mind ; 
 
 For even in tumult full-fraught consciousness 
 
 Had plenteous being for a self aloof 
 
 That gazed and listened, like a soul in dreams 
 
 Weaving the wondrous tale it marvels at. 
 
 But oft the conflict slackened, oft strong Love 
 
 W^ith tidal energy returning laid 
 
 All other restlessness : Fedalma came 
 
 And with her visionary presence brought 
 
 What seemed a waking in the warm spring morn 
 
 He still was pacing on the stony earth 
 
 Under the deepening night \ the fresh-lit fires 
 
 Were flickering on dark forms and eyes that met 
 
 His forward and his backward tread ; but she, 
 
 She was within him, making his whole self 
 
 Mere correspondence with her image : sense, 
 
 In all its deep recesses where it keeps 
 
 The mystic stores of ecstasy, was turned 
 
 To memory that killed the hour, like wine. 
 
 Then Silva said, " She, by herself, is life. 
 
 What was my joy before I loved her — what 
 
 Shall heaven lure us with, love being lost ? "— 
 
 For he was young. 
 
 319 
 
THE SPANISH GYFSY, 
 
 But now around the fires 
 The Gypsy band felt freer; Juan's song 
 Was no more there, nor Juan's friendly ways 
 For links of amity 'twixt their wild mood 
 And this strange brother, this pale Spanish duke, 
 Who with their Gypsy badge upon his breast 
 Took readier place within their alien hearts 
 As a marked captive, who would fain escape. 
 And Nadar, who commanded them, had known 
 The prison in Bedrndr. So now, in talk 
 Foreign to Spanish ears, they said their minds, 
 Discussed their chief's intent, the lot marked out 
 For this new brother. Would he wed their queen ? 
 And some denied, saying their queen would wed 
 Only a Gypsy duke — one who would join 
 Their bands in Telemsan. But others thoua:ht 
 Young Hassan was to wed her ; said their chief 
 Would never trust this noble of Castile, 
 Who in his very swearing was forsworn. 
 And then one fell to chanting, in wild notes 
 Recurrent like the moan of outshut winds, 
 The adjuration they were wont to use 
 To any Spaniard who would join their tribe : 
 Words of plain Spanish, lately stirred anew 
 And ready at new impulse. Soon the rest, 
 Drawn to the stream of sound, made unison 
 Higher and lower, till the tidal sweep 
 Seemed to assail the Duke and close him round 
 With force daemonic. All debate till now 
 'Had wrestled with the urgence of that oath 
 Already broken ; now the newer oath 
 Thrust its loud presence on him. He stood still, 
 Close baited by loud-barking thoughts — fierce hour;d3 
 Of that Supreme, the irreversible Past 
 
 The ZiNCALi sing. 
 
 Brother^ hear and take the curse. 
 Curse of soul's and body's throes^ 
 If you hate not all ourfoes, 
 Cli/ig not fast to all our zvoeSy 
 Turn false Zincalo / 
 
 May you he a canst 
 J3y hunger and by tJilrst 
 
THE SPANISH G VPS V, 3 2 j 
 
 By spiked pangs, 
 Starvation' s fangs 
 Clutching yon alone 
 Wlien none but peering vultuixs hear you moan. 
 Curst by burning hands. 
 Curst by aching brow, 
 When on sea-ivide sands 
 
 Fever lays you low ; 
 By the maddened brain 
 When the running water glistens. 
 And the deaf ear listens, liste7is. 
 Prisoned fire within the vein, 
 On the tongue and on the lip 
 
 Not a sip 
 From the earth or skies ; 
 Hot the desert lies 
 Pressed into you>' anguish, 
 Narroiving earth and 7iarro7ving sky 
 Into lonely misery. 
 
 Lonely may you languish 
 Through the day and through the flight, 
 Hate the darkness, hate the lights 
 Pray and find 710 ear. 
 Feel no brother 7iear, 
 Till on death yoit cry. 
 Death who passes by, 
 And anew you groan, 
 Scarifig the vultures all to leave you living lone: 
 Curst by soul's and body's throes 
 If you love the dark meti^s foes, 
 CliJig 7iotfast to all the dark 7?ie7i's woes, 
 Tur 71 false Zi7icalo ! 
 Swear to hate the C7'uel cross. 
 
 The silver cross ! 
 Glitteri7ig, lauglimg at the blood 
 Shed below it i7i a flood 
 When it glitters over Moorish porches; 
 
 Laughing at the sce7it of flesh 
 When it glitters where the faggot scorches^ 
 Biir7ii7ig life's mysterious 77iesh : 
 Blood of iva7ideri7ig Israel, 
 Blood of wande7'i7ig Is77iael. 
 Blood, the d7-ink of Christian scorn, 
 Blood of wa7ide}'crs, sons of morn 
 
322 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Where the life of men began : 
 Swear to hate the cross I — 
 Sign of all the wanderers^ foes ^ 
 Sign of all the wanderer'' s woes — • 
 
 Else its curse light on yon I 
 Else the curse upon you light 
 Of its sharp red-swordcd might. 
 May it lie a hlood-7-ed blight 
 On all things within your sight : 
 On the white haze of the 77wrn, 
 On the meadows and the corn^ 
 On the sun a?id on the moon^ 
 On the clearness of the 7ioon, 
 On the da?'kness of the night. 
 May it fill your aching sight — 
 Red-cross sword and sword blood-red-^ 
 Till it press upon your head, 
 Till it lie 7a it h in your brain. 
 Piercing sharp, a cross of pain, 
 Till it lie upon your heart. 
 
 Burning hot, a cross of fire, 
 Till from sense in every part 
 Pains have clustered like a stinging swarm 
 
 In the cross's for?n, 
 And you see nought but the cross of blood, 
 And you feel nought but the cross of fire: 
 Cu7'st by all the cross'' s throes 
 If you hate 7iot all our foes, 
 Cl'uig 7iot fast to all our 7voes, 
 Tu7'n false Zi7tcalo I 
 
 A fierce delight was in the Gypsies' chant : 
 They thought no more of Silva, only felt 
 Like those broad-chested rovers of the night 
 Who pour exuberant strength upon the air. 
 To him it seemed as if the hellish rhythm, 
 Revolving in long curves that slackened now, 
 Now hurried, sv/eeping round again to slackness. 
 Would cease no more. What use to raise his voice, 
 Or grasp his weapon ? He was powerless now, 
 With these new comrades of his future — he 
 Who had be^en wont to have his wishes feared 
 And guessed at as a hidden law for men. 
 Even the passive silence of the night 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 323 
 
 That left these howlers masteiy, even the moon, 
 Rising and staring v/ilh a helpless face, 
 Angered him. He was ready now to fly 
 At some loud throat, and give the signal so 
 For butchery of himself. 
 
 But suddenly 
 The sounds that travelled towards no foreseen close 
 Were torn right off and fringed into the night ; 
 Sharp Gypsy ears had caught the onward strain 
 Of kindred voices joining in the chant. 
 All started to their feet and mustered close. 
 Auguring long-waited summons. It was come : 
 The summons to set forth and join their chief. 
 Fedalma had been called, and she v/as gone 
 Under safe escort, Juan lollowing her: 
 The camp — the women, children, and old men — 
 Were moving slowly southward on the way 
 To Almeria. Silva learned no more. 
 He marched perforce ; what other goal was his 
 Than where Fedalma was ? And so he marched 
 Through the dim passes and o'er rising hills, 
 Not knowing whither, till the morning came. 
 
324 ^^^-^ SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 The Moorish hall in the castle at Bedmdr. The morni?ig twilight 
 dimly shows stains of blood on the lohite 77iarble fioor ; yet 
 there has been a careful 7-estoratioJi of order among the sparse 
 objects of fur?iitiire. Stretched on 7nats lie three co7'pses, the 
 faces bare^ the bodies covered with 7nantlcs. A little way off^^ 
 with 7'olled 7natti7igfor a pillozv^ lies Zarca, sleepi7ig. His 
 chest a7id ar77is are ba7'e ; his weapons^ turba?t, 7)tail-shirt, 
 and other upper garfne7its lie on the floor beside hi7n. In 
 the outer galle7y Zincali a7'e pacings at intervals^ past the 
 arched openings. 
 
 Zarca (Jialf rising and 7'esting his elbow on the pillow while he 
 looks roimd'). 
 
 Th morning ! I have slept for full three hours ; 
 
 Slept without dreams, save of my daughter's face. 
 
 Its sadr.ess waked me. Soon she will be here, 
 
 Soon must outlive the w^orst of all the pains. 
 
 Bred by false nurture in an alien home — 
 
 As if a lion in fangless infancy 
 
 Learned love of creatures that with fatal growth 
 
 It scents as natural prey, and grasps and tears, 
 
 Yet with heart-hunger yearns for, missing them. 
 
 She is a lioness. And they — the race 
 
 That robbed me of her — reared her to this pain. 
 
 He will be crushed and torn. There was no help. 
 
 But she, my child, will bear it. For strong souls 
 
 Live like fire-hearted suns to spend their strength 
 
 In farthest striving action ; breathe more free 
 
 In mighty anguish than in trivial ease. 
 
 Her sad face waked me. I shall meet it soon 
 
 Waking . . . 
 
 (He rises a7id stands looki7ig at the corpses.^ 
 i^s now I look on these pale dead, 
 These blossoming branches crushed beneath the fall 
 Of that broad trunk to which I laid my axe 
 With fullest foresight. So will I ever face 
 In thought beforehand to its utmost reach 
 The consequences of my conscious deeds ; 
 So face them after, bring them to my bed, 
 And never drug my soul to sleep with lies. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY, 325 
 
 If they are cruel, they shall be arraigned 
 
 By that true name ; they shall be justified 
 
 By my high purpose, by the clear-seen good 
 
 That grew into my vision as I grew, 
 
 And nmkes my nature's function, the full pulse 
 
 Of inbred kingship. Catholics, 
 
 Arabs, and Hebrews, have their god apiece 
 
 To fight and conquer for them, or be bruised, 
 
 Like Allah now, yet keep avenging stores 
 
 Of patient wrath. The Zincali have no God 
 
 Who speaks to them and calls them his, unless 
 
 I, Zarca, carry living in my frame 
 
 The power divine that chooses them and saves. 
 
 " Life and more life unto the chosen, death 
 
 To all things living that would stifle them ! " 
 
 So speaks each god that makes a nation strong ; 
 
 Burns trees and brutes and slays all hindering men. 
 
 The Spaniards boast their god the strongest now ; 
 
 They win most towns by treachery, make most slaves 
 
 Burn the most vines and men, and rob the most. 
 
 I fight against that strength, and in my turn 
 
 Slay these brave young who duteously strove. 
 
 Cruel ? ay, it is cruel. But, how else ? 
 
 To save, we kill ; each blow we strike at guilt 
 
 Hurts innocence with its shock. Men might well seek 
 
 For purifying rites ; even pious deeds 
 
 Need washing. But my cleansing waters flow 
 
 Solely from my intent. 
 
 (^He turns away from the bodies to where his 
 garments lie^ hut does not lift them.) 
 
 And she must suffer ! 
 But she has seen the unchangeable and bowed 
 Her head beneath the yoke. And she will walk 
 No more in chilling twilight, for to-day 
 Rises our sun. The difficult night is past ; 
 We keep the bridge no more, but cross it ; march 
 Forth to a land where all our wars shall be 
 With greedy obstinate plants that will not yield 
 Fruit for their nurture. All our race shall come 
 From north, west, east, a kindred multitude. 
 And make large fellowship, and raise inspired 
 The shout divine, the unison of resolve. 
 So I, so she, will see our race rcdeem.ed. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 And their keen love of family and tribe 
 
 Shall no more thrive on cunning, hide and lurk 
 
 In petty arts of abject hunted life 
 
 But grow heroic in the sanctioning light, 
 
 And feed with ardent blood a nation's heart. 
 
 That is my work : and it is well begun. 
 
 On to achievement ! 
 
 {He takes up the 77iail-shirt, and looks at then 
 th?-ows it down again.) 
 
 No, I'll none of 3^ou ! 
 To-day there'll be no fighting. A few hours, 
 And I shall doff these garments of the Moor : 
 Till then I will walk lightly and breathe high. 
 
 Sephardo. {appearing at the archway leading into 
 the outer gallery.) 
 You bade me wake you . . . 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Welcome, Doctor j see, 
 With that small task I did but beckon you 
 To graver work. You know these corpses } 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 Yes. 
 I would they were not corpses. Storms will lay 
 The fairest trees and leave the withered stumps. 
 This Alvar and the Duke were of one age, 
 And very loving friends. I minded not 
 The sight of Don Diego's corpse, for death 
 Gave him some gentleness, and had he lived 
 I had still hated him. But this young Alvar 
 Was doubly noble, as a gem that holds 
 Rare virtues in its lustre ; and his death 
 Will pierce Don Silva with a poisoned dart. 
 This fair and curly youth was Arias, 
 A son of the Pachecos ; this dark face 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Enough ! you know their names. I had divined 
 That they were near the Duke, most like had served 
 My daughter, were her friends ; so rescued them 
 From being flung upon the heap of slain. 
 
THE SPANISH G YPS V. 327 
 
 Beseech you, Doctor, if you owe me aught 
 
 As having served your people, take the pains 
 
 To see these bodies buried decently. 
 
 And let their names be writ above their graves. 
 
 As those of brave young Spaniards who died well 
 
 I needs must bear this womanhood in my heart — 
 
 Bearing my daughter there. For once she prayed — - 
 
 'Twas at our parting — " When you see fair hair 
 
 Be pitiful." And I am forced to look 
 
 On fair heads living and be pitiless. 
 
 Your service, Doctor, will be done to her. 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 A service doubly dear. For these young dead, 
 And one less happy Spaniard who still lives, 
 Are offerings which I wrenched from out my heait, 
 Constrained by cries of Israel : while my hands 
 Rendered the victims at command, my eyes 
 Closed themselves vainly, as if vision lay* 
 Through those poor loopholes only. I will go 
 And see the graves dug by some cypresses. 
 
 Zarca. 
 Meanwhile the bodies shall rest here. Farewell. 
 
 (£:xif Sephardo.) 
 Nay, 'tis no mockery. She keeps me so 
 From hardening with the hardness of my acts. 
 This Spaniard shrouded in her love — I would 
 He lay here too that I mio-ht pity him. 
 
328 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY 
 
 Morning. — The Plafa Santiago in Bcdmdr. A cro7vd of towns- 
 men forming an outer circle : within., Zincali and Moorish 
 soldiers draivji np round the ce?itral space. On the higher 
 ground in front of the church a stake with faggots heaped, 
 and at a little distance a gibbet. Moorish 7nusic. Zarca 
 enters, wearing his gold necklace with the Gypsy badge of 
 the flaming torch over the dress of a Moorish Captain., ac- 
 cojnpanied by a small band of armed Zincali, who fall aside 
 and range themselves with the other soldiers while he takes 
 his stand in front of the stake and gibbet. The jnusic ceases^ 
 and there is expectant silence. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Men of Beclmar, well-wishers, and allies, 
 
 "Whether of Moorish or of Hebrew blood, 
 
 Who, being galled by the hard Spaniard's yoke, 
 
 Have welcomed our quick conquest as release, 
 
 I Zarca, chief of Spanish Gypsies, hold 
 
 By delegation of the Moorish King 
 
 Supreme command within this town and fort. 
 
 Nor will I with false show of modesty, 
 
 Profess myself unworthy of this post. 
 
 For so I should but tax the giver's choice. 
 
 And, as ye know, while I was prisoner here, 
 
 Forging the bullets meant for Moorish hearts, 
 
 But likely now to reach another mark, 
 
 I learned the secrets of the town's defence. 
 
 Caught the loud whispers of your discontent, 
 
 And so could serve the purpose of the Moor 
 
 As the edge'j keenness serves the weapon's weight. 
 
 My Zincali, lynx-eyed and lithe of limbs. 
 
 Tracked out the high Sierra's hidden path, 
 
 Guided the hard ascent, and were the first 
 
 To scale the walls and brave the showering stones. 
 
 In brief, I reach this rank through service done 
 
 By thought of mine and valor of my tribe, 
 
 Yet hold it but in trust, with readiness 
 
 To lay it down ; for we — the Zincali — 
 
 Will never pitch out tents again on land 
 
 The Spaniard grudges us : we seek a home 
 
 Where we may spread and ripen like the corn 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 By blessing of the sun and spacious earth. 
 Ye with us well, I think, and are our friends ? 
 
 Crowd. 
 Long life to Zarca and his Zincali ! 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Now, for the cause of our asssenibling here. 
 
 'Twas my command that rescued from your hands 
 
 That Spanish Prior and Inquisitor 
 
 Whom in fierce retribution you had bound 
 
 And meant to burn, tied to a planted cross. 
 
 1 rescued him with promise that his death 
 
 Should be more signal in its justice — made 
 
 Public in fullest sense, and orderly, 
 
 Here then, you see the stake — slow death by fire ^ 
 
 And there a gibbet — swift death by the cord. 
 
 Now hear me, Moors and Hebrews of Bedmar. 
 
 Our kindred by the warmth of Eastern blood ! 
 
 Punishing cruel wrong by cruelty 
 
 We copy Christian crime. Vengeance is just : 
 
 Justly we rid the earth of human fiends 
 
 Who carry hell for pattern in their souls. 
 
 But in high vengeance there is noble scorn : 
 
 It tortures not the torturer, nor gives 
 
 Iniquitous payment for iniquity. 
 
 The great avenging angel does not crawl 
 
 To kill the serpent with a mimic fang ; 
 
 He stands erect, with sword of keenest edge 
 
 That slays like lightning. So too we will slay 
 
 The cruel man ; sia^y '-.:m because he works 
 
 Woe to mankind. And I have given command 
 
 To pile these faggots, not to burn quick flesh, 
 
 But for a sign of that dire wrong to men 
 
 Which arms our wrath with justice. While, to show 
 
 This Christian worshipper that we ooey 
 
 A better law than his, he shall be led 
 
 Straight to the gibbet and to swiftest death. 
 
 For I, the chieftain of the Gypsies, will. 
 
 My people shed no blood but what is shed 
 
 In heat of battle or in judgment strict 
 
 With calm deliberation on the right. 
 
 Such is my will, and if it please you — well. 
 
 329 
 
230 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Crowd. 
 It pleases us. Long life to Zarca ! 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Hark! 
 The bell is striking, and they bring even now 
 The prisoner from the fort. What, Nadar ? 
 Nadar {Jias appeared^ cutting the crowd^ and advancmg toward 
 Zarca //// he is near e?ioiigh to speak in an imder-tone). 
 
 Chief, 
 I have obeyed your word, have followed it 
 As water does the furrow in the rock. 
 
 Your band is here ? 
 
 *Twas so I ordered. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Nadar. 
 Yes, and the Spaniard too. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Nadar. 
 
 Ay, but this sleek hound, 
 Who slipped his coiiar off to join the wolves, 
 Has still a heart for none but kennelled brutes. 
 He raises at the takinsf of the tov/n, 
 Says all his friends are butchered ; and one corpse 
 He stumbled on — well, I would sooner be 
 A murdered Gypsy's dog, and howl for him. 
 Than be this Spaniard. Rage has made him whiter. 
 One townsman taunted him with his escape, 
 And thanked him for so favoring us. . . . 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Enougli, 
 
 You gave him my command that he should wait 
 Within the castle, till I saw him ? 
 
 Nadar. 
 
 Yes. 
 But he defied me, broke away, ran loose 
 I know not whither; he may soon be here. 
 I came to warn you, lest he work us harm. 
 
 •o 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Fear not, I know the road I travel by : 
 
 Its turns are no surprises. He who rules 
 
 Must humor full as much as he commands; 
 
 Must let men vow impossibilities ; 
 
 Grant folly's prayers that hinder folly's wish 
 
 j\nd serve the ends of wisdom. Ah, he comes I 
 
 ^Sweeping like some pale herald from the dead 
 Whose shadow-nurtured e3^es, dazed by full light, 
 See nought without, but give reverted sense 
 To the soul's imagery, Silva came, 
 The wondering people parting wide to get 
 Continuous sight of him as he passed on — 
 This high hidalgo, who through blooming years 
 Had shone on men with planetary calm, 
 Believed-in with all sacred images 
 And saints that must be taken as they were. 
 Though rendering meagre service for men's praise: 
 Bareheaded now, carrying an unsheathed sword, 
 And on his breast, where late he bore the cross, 
 Wearing the Gypsy badge ; his form aslant. 
 Driven, it seemed, by some invisible chase. 
 Right to the front of Zarca. There he paused.] 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Chief, you are treacherous, cruel, devilish ! — 
 Relentless as a curse that once let loose 
 From lips of wrath, lives bodiless to destroy, 
 And darkly traps a man in nets of guilt 
 Which could not weave themselves in open day 
 Before his eyes. Oh, it was bitter wrong 
 To hold this knowledge locked within your mind, 
 To stand with waking eyes in broadest light, 
 And see me, dreaming, shed my kindred's blood. 
 'Tis horrible that men with hearts and hands 
 Should smile in silence like the firmament 
 And see a fellow-mortal draw a lot 
 On which themselves have written agony ! 
 Such injury has no redress, no healing 
 Save what may lie in stemming further ill. 
 Poor balm for maiming ! Yet I come to claim it. 
 
 331 
 
332 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 First prove your wrongs, and I will hear your claim. 
 
 Mind, you are not commander of Bedmar, 
 
 Nor duke, nor knight, nor anything for me, 
 
 Save a sworn Gypsy, subject with my tribe, 
 
 Over whose deeds my will is absolute. 
 
 You chose that lot, and would have railed at me 
 
 Had I refused it you : I warned you first 
 
 What oaths you had to take ... 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 You never warned me 
 That you had linked yourself with Moorish men 
 To take this town and fortress of Bedmar — 
 Slay my near kinsman, him who held my place. 
 Our house's heir and guardian — slay my friend, 
 My chosen brother — desecrate the church 
 Where once my mother held me in her arms. 
 Making the holy chrism holier 
 With tears of joy that fell upon my brow ! 
 You never warned . . . 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 I warned you of your oath. 
 You shrank not, were resolved, were sure your place 
 Would never miss you, and you had your will. 
 I am no priest, and keep no consciences : 
 I keep my own place and my own command. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 I said my place would never miss me — yes ! 
 
 A thousand Spaniards died on that same day 
 
 And were not missed ; their garments clothed the backs 
 
 That else were bare. . . . 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 But you were just the one 
 Above the thousand, had you known the die 
 That fate was throwing then. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 You knew it — you I 
 With fiendish knowledge, smiling at the end. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. m 
 
 You knew what snares had made my flying steps 
 Murderous ; you let me lock my soul with oaths 
 Which your acts made a hellish sacrament. 
 I say, you knew this as a fiend would know it, 
 And let me damn myself. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 The deed was done 
 Before you took your oath, or reached our camp,— 
 Done when you slipped in secret from the post 
 "Fwas yours to keep, and not to meditate 
 If others might not fill it. For your oath. 
 What man is he who brandishes a sword 
 In darkness, kills his friends, and rages then 
 Against the night that kept him ignorant ? 
 Should I, for one unstable Spaniard, quit 
 My steadfast ends as father and as chief ; 
 Renounce my daughter and my people's hope, 
 Lest a deserter should be made ashamed ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Your daughter — O great God ! I vent but madness, 
 
 The past will never change. I come to stem 
 
 Harm that may yet be hindered. Chief — this stake — 
 
 Tell me who is to die ! Are you not bound 
 
 Yourself to him you took in fellowship ? 
 
 The town is yours ; let me but save the blood 
 
 That still is warm in men who w^ere my . . . 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Peace ! 
 They bring the prisoner. 
 
 [Zarca waved his arm 
 With head averse, in peremptory sign 
 That 'twixt them now there should be space and silence. 
 Most eyes had turned to where the prisoner 
 Advanced among his guards ; and Silva too 
 Turned eagerly, all other striving quelled 
 By striving with the dread lest he should see 
 His thought outside him. And he sawit there. 
 The prisoner w^as Father Isidor : 
 The man whom once he fiercely had accused 
 
334 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 As author of his misdeeds — whose designs 
 
 Had forced him into fatal secrecy. 
 
 The imperious and inexorable Will 
 
 Was yoked, and he who had been pitiless 
 
 To Silva's love, was led to pitiless death. 
 
 O hateful victory of blind wishes — prayers 
 
 Which hell had overheard and swift fulfilled ? 
 
 The triumph was a torture, turning all 
 
 The strength of passion into strength of pain. 
 
 Remorse was born within him, that dire birth 
 
 Which robs all else of nurture — cancerous, 
 
 Forcing each pulse to feed its anguish, turning 
 
 All sweetest residues of healthy life 
 
 To fibrous clutches of slow misery. 
 
 Silva had but rebelled — he was not free ; 
 
 And all the subtle cords that bound his soul 
 
 Where tightened hy the strain of one rash leap 
 
 Made in defiance. He accused no more. 
 
 But dumbly shrank before accus'ng throngs 
 
 Of thoughts, the impetuous recurrent rush 
 
 Of all his past-created, unchanged self. 
 
 The Father came bareheaded, frocked, a rope 
 
 Around his neck, — but clad with majesty, 
 
 The strength of resolute undivided souls 
 
 Who, owning law, obey it. In his hand 
 
 He bore a crucifix, and praying, gazed 
 
 Solely on that white image. But his guards 
 
 Parted in front, and paused as they approached 
 
 The centre where the stake was. Isidor 
 
 Lifted his eyes to look around him — calm. 
 
 Prepared to speak last words of willingness 
 
 To meet his death — last words of faith unchanged, 
 
 That, working for Christ's kingdom, he had wrought 
 
 Righteously. But his glance met Silva's eyes 
 
 And drew him. Even images of stone 
 
 Look living with reproach on him who maims, 
 
 Profanes, defiles them. Silva penitent 
 
 Moved forward, would have knelt before the man 
 
 Who still w^as one with all the sacred things 
 
 That came back on him in their sacredness. 
 
 Kindred, and oaths, and awe, and mystery. 
 
 But at the sight, the Father thrust the cross 
 
 With deprecating act before him, and his face 
 
 Pale-quivering, flashed out horror like white light 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. oy 
 
 Flashed from the angel's sword that dooming drave 
 Ihe sinner to the wilderness. He spoke,] 
 
 Fa-^iier Isidor. 
 
 Back from me, traitors and accursed man ! 
 Defile not me, who grasp the holiest. 
 With touch or breath ? Thou foulest murderer ! 
 Fouler than Cain who struck his brother down 
 In jealous rage, thou for thy base delight 
 Hast oped the gate for wolves to come and tear 
 Uncounted brethren, w^eak and strong alike, 
 The helpless priest, the warrior all unarmed 
 Against a faithless leader : on thy head 
 Will rest the sacrilege, on thy soul the blood. 
 These blind barbarians, misbelievers. Moors, 
 Are but as Pilate and his soldiery ; 
 Thou, Judas, weighted with that heaviest crime 
 Which deepens hell ! I warned 3^ou of this end. 
 A traitorous leader, false to God and man, 
 A knight apostate, you shall soon behold 
 Above your people's blood the light of flames 
 Kindled by you to burn me — burn the flesh 
 Twin with your father's, O most wretched man ! 
 Whose memory shall be of broked oaths — 
 Broken for lust — I turn away mine eyes 
 Forever from you. See, the stake is ready 
 And I am ready too. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 It shall not be ! 
 {Raising his s7vord, /le rus/ies ift front of ihe guards 
 
 who are advanci?ig, and impedes them.) 
 If you are human, Chief, hear my demand ! 
 Stretch not my soul upon the endless rack 
 Of this man's torture ! 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Stand aside, my lord I 
 Put up your sword. You vowed obedience 
 To me, your chief. It was your latest vow. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 No ! hew me from the spot, or fasten me 
 Amid the faggots too, if he must burn. 
 
336 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 What should befall that persecutuig monk 
 
 Was fixed before you came : no cruelty, 
 
 No nicely measured torture, weight for weight 
 
 Of injury, no luscious-toothed revenge 
 
 That justifies the injurer by its joy : 
 
 I seek but rescue and security 
 
 For harmless men, and such security 
 
 Means death to vipers and inquisitors. 
 
 These faggots shall but innocently blaze 
 
 In sign of gladness, when this man is dead, 
 
 That one more torturer has left the earth. 
 
 'Tis not for infidels to burn live men 
 
 And ape the rules of Christian piety. 
 
 This hard oppressor shall not die by fire : 
 
 He mounts the gibbet, dies a speedy death, 
 
 That, like a transfixed dragon, he may cease 
 
 To vex mankind. Quick, guards, and clear the path ! 
 
 [As well-trained hounds that hold their fleetness tense 
 
 In watchful, loving fixity of dark eyes. 
 
 And move with movement of their master's will, 
 
 The Gypsies with a wavelike swiftness met 
 
 Around the Father, and in wheeling course 
 
 Passed beyond Silva to the gibbet's foot. 
 
 Behind their chieftain. Sudden left alone 
 
 With weapon bare, the multitude aloof, 
 
 Silva was mazed in doubtful consciousness, 
 
 As one who slumbering in the day awakes 
 
 From striving into freedom, and yet feels 
 
 His sense half captive to intangible things ; 
 
 Then with a flush of new decision sheathed 
 
 His futile naked weapon, and strode quick 
 
 To Zarca, speaking with a voice new-toned, 
 
 The struggling soul's hoarse, suffocated cry 
 
 Beneath the grappling anguish of despair.] 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 You, Zincalo, devil, blackest infidel ! 
 You cannot hate that man as you hate me 1 
 Finish your torture — take me — lift me up 
 And let the crowd spit at me — every Moor 
 Shoot reeds at me, and kill me with slow death 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Beneath the mid-day fervor of the sun — 
 
 Or crucify me with a thriving hound — 
 
 Slake your hate so, and I will thank it : spare me 
 
 Only this man ! 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Madman, I hate you not. 
 But if I did, my hate were poorly served 
 By my device, if I should strive to mix 
 A bitterer misery for you than to taste 
 With leisure of a soul in unharmed limbs 
 The flavor of your folly. For my course, 
 It has a goal, and takes no truant path 
 Because of you. I am your chief : to me 
 You're nought more than a Zincalo in revolt. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 No, I'm not Zincalo ! I here disown 
 The name I took in madness. Here I tear 
 This badge away. I am a Catholic knight, 
 A Spaniard who will die a Spaniard's death ! 
 
 [Hark ! while he casts the badge upon the ground 
 
 And tramples on it, Silva hears a shout : 
 
 Was it a shout that threatened him ? He looked 
 
 From out the dizzying flames of his own rage 
 
 In hope of adversaries — and he saw above 
 
 The form of Father Isidor upswung 
 
 Convulsed with martyr throes ; and knew the shout 
 
 For wonted exultation of the crowd 
 
 When malefactors die — or saints, or heroes. 
 
 And now to him that white-frocked murdered form 
 
 Which hanging judged him as its murderer. 
 
 Turned to a symbol of his guilt, and stirred 
 
 Tremors till then unwaked. With sudden snatch 
 
 At something hidden in his breast, he strode 
 
 Right upon Zarca : at the instant, down 
 
 Fell the great Chief, and Silva, staggering back. 
 
 Head not the G3^psies' shriek, felt not the fangs 
 
 Of their fierce grasp — heard, felt but Zarca's words 
 
 Which seemed his soul outleaping in a cry 
 
 And urging men to run like rival waves 
 
 Whose rivalry is but obedience.] 
 
 337 
 
338 THE SPAN/SH GYPSY. 
 
 Zarca {as he falls). 
 My daughter ! call her ! Call my daughter ! 
 
 Nadar {supporting Zarca and crying to the 
 Gypsies tvho have clutched Silva). 
 
 Stay ! 
 Tear not the Spaniard, tie him to the stake : 
 Hear what the Chief shall bid us — there is time ! 
 
 [Swiftly they tied him, pleasing vengeance so 
 
 With promise that would leave them free to watch 
 
 Their stricken good, their Chief stretched helplessly 
 
 Pillowed upon the strength of loving limbs. 
 
 He heaved low groans, but would not spend his breath 
 
 In useless words: he waited till x//^came, 
 
 Keeping his life within the citadel 
 
 Of one great hope. And now around him closed 
 
 (But in wide circle, checked by loving fear) 
 
 His people all, holding their wails suppressed 
 
 Lest Death believed-in should be over-bold : 
 
 All life hung on their Chief — he would not die \ 
 
 His image gone, there were no wholeness left 
 
 To make a world of for the Zfncali's thought 
 
 Eager they stood, but hushed ; the outer crowd 
 
 Spoke only in low murmurs, and some climbed 
 
 And clung with legs and arms on perilous coigns, 
 
 Striving to see where that colossal life 
 
 Lay panting — lay a Titan struggling still 
 
 To hold and give the precious hidden fire 
 
 Before the stronger grappled him. Above 
 
 The young bright morning cast athwart white walls 
 
 Her shadows blue, and with their clear-cut line, 
 
 Mildly relentless as the dial-hand's, 
 
 Measured the shrinking future of an hour 
 
 Which held a shrinking hope. And all the while 
 
 The silent beat of time in each man's soul 
 
 Made aching pulses. 
 
 But the cry, '' She comes ! " 
 Parted the crowd like waters : and she came. 
 Swiftly as once before, inspired with joy. 
 She flashed across the space and made new light, 
 Glowing upon the glow of evening. 
 So swiftly now she came, inspired with woe. 
 Strong with the strength of all her father's pain, 
 
THE SPA NISH G YFS Y. 33^ 
 
 Thrilling her as with fire of rage divine 
 And battling energy. She knew — saw all : 
 The stake with Silva bound — her father pierced — 
 To this siie had been born : a second time 
 Her father called her to the task of life. 
 
 She knelt beside him. Then he raised himself, 
 
 And on her face there flashed from his the light 
 
 As of a star that waned, but flames anew 
 
 In mighty dissolution : 'twas the flame 
 
 Of a surviving trust, in agony. 
 
 He spoke the parting prayer that was command, 
 
 Must sway her will, and reign invisibly.] 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 My daughter, you have promised — you will live 
 
 To save our people. In my garments here 
 
 I carry written pledges from the Moor : 
 
 He will keep faith in Spain and Africa. 
 
 Your weakness may be stronger than my strength, 
 
 Winning more love. ... I cannot tell the end. . 
 
 I held my people's good within my breast. 
 
 Behold, now I deliver it to you. 
 
 See, it still breaths unstrangled — if it dies, 
 
 Let not your failing will be murderer. . . . 
 
 Rise, tell our people now I wait in pain . . . 
 
 I cannot die until I hear them say 
 
 They will obey you. 
 
 [Meek, she pressed her lips 
 With slow solemnity upon his brow, 
 Sealing her pledges. Firmly then she rose, 
 And met her people's eyes with kindred gaze, 
 Dark-flashing, fired by efforts strenuous 
 Trampling on pain.] 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Ye Zincali all, who hear I 
 Your Chief is dying : I his daughter live 
 To do his dying will. He asks you now 
 To promise me obedience as your Queen, 
 That we may seek the land he won for us. 
 And live the better life for which he toiled. 
 Speak now, and fill my fatlier's dying ear 
 
340 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY, ' 
 
 With promise that you will obey him dead, 
 Obeying me his child. 
 
 [Straightway arose 
 A shout of promise, sharpening into cries 
 That seemed to plead desparingly with death.] 
 
 The Zincali. 
 
 We will obey ! Our Chief shall never die! 
 We will obey him — will obey our Queen ! 
 
 [The shout unanimous, the concurrent rush 
 
 Of many voices, quiring shook the air 
 
 With multitudinous wave : now rose, now fell, 
 
 Then rose again, the echoes following slow, 
 
 As if the scattered brethren of the tribe 
 
 Had caught afar and joined the ready vow. 
 
 Then some could hold no longer, but must rush 
 
 To kiss his dying feet, and some to kiss 
 
 The hem of their Queen's garment. But she raised 
 
 Her hand to hush them. " Hark ! your Chief may speak 
 
 Another wish." Quickly she kneeled again. 
 
 While they upon the ground kept motionless. 
 
 With head outstretched. They heard his words ; for now, 
 
 Grasping at Nadar's arm, he spoke more loud, 
 
 As one who, having fought and conquered, hurls 
 
 His strength away with hurling off his shield.] 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Let loose the Spaniard ! give him back his sword ; 
 He cannot move to any vengeance more — 
 His soul is locked 'twixt two opposing crimes. 
 I charge you let him go unharmed and free 
 Now through your midst. . . . 
 
 [With that he sank again — 
 His breast heaved strongly tow'rd sharp sudden falls. 
 And all his life seemed needed for each breath : 
 Yet once he spoke] 
 
 My daughter, lay your arm 
 Beneath my head . . . so . . . bend and breathe on me. 
 I cannot see you more . . . the night is come. 
 Be strong . . . remember ... I can only . . . die. 
 
THE SPANISH G VPS Y. ,41 
 
 [His voice went into silence, but his breast 
 
 Heaved long and moaned : its broad strength kept a life 
 
 That heard naught, saw naught, save what once had been, 
 
 And what might be in days and realms afar — 
 
 Which now in pale procession faded on 
 
 Toward the thick darkness. And she bent above 
 
 In sacramental watch to see great Death, 
 
 Companion of her future, who would wear 
 
 For ever in her eyes her father's form. 
 
 And yet she knew that hurrying feet had gone 
 
 To do the Chief's behest, and in her soul 
 
 He who was once its lord was being jarred 
 
 With loosening of cords, that would not loose 
 
 The tightening torture of his anguish. This — 
 
 Oh, she knew it ! — knew it as martyrs knew 
 
 The prongs that tore their flesh, while yet their tongues 
 
 Refused the ease of lies. In moments high 
 
 Space widens in the soul. And so she knelt, 
 
 Clinging with piety and awed resolve 
 
 Beside this altar of her father's life. 
 
 Seeing long travel under solemn suns 
 
 Stretchinr beyond it ; never turned her eyes, 
 
 Yet felt that Silva passed ; beheld his face 
 
 Pale, vivid, all alone, imploring her 
 
 Across black waters fathomless. 
 
 And he passed. 
 The Gypsies made wide pathway, shrank aloof 
 As those who feared to touch the thing they hate, 
 Lest hate triumphant, mastering all the limbs, 
 Should tear, bite, crush, in spite of hindering will. 
 Slowly he walked, reluctant to be safe 
 And bear dishonoured life which none assailed ; 
 Walked hesitatingly, all his frame instinct 
 With high-born spirit, never used to dread 
 Or crouch for smiles, yet stung, yet quivering 
 With helpless strength, and in his soul convulsed 
 By visions where pale horror held a lamp 
 Over wide-reaching crime. Silence hung round : 
 It seemed the Placa hushed itself to hear 
 His footsteps and the Chief's deep dying breath. 
 Eyes quickened in the stillness, and the light 
 Seemed one clear gaze upon his misery. 
 
342 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY, 
 
 And yet he could not pass her without pause : 
 
 One instant he must pause and look at her ; 
 
 But with that glance at her averted head, 
 
 New-urged by pain he turned away and went, 
 
 Carrying forever with him what he fled — 
 
 Her murdered love — her love, a dear wronged ghost, 
 
 Facing him, beauteous, 'mid the throngs of hell. 
 
 O fallen and forsaken ! were no hearts 
 Amid that crowd, mindful of what had been ? — 
 Hearts such as wait on beggared royalty, 
 Or silent watch by sinners who despair ? 
 
 Silva had vanished. That dismissed revenge 
 Made larger room for sorrow in fierce hearts ; 
 And sorrow filled them. Eor the Chief was dead 
 The mighty breast subsided slow to calm. 
 Slow from the face the etheral spirit waned. 
 As wanes the parting glory from the heights, 
 And leaves them in their pallid majesty. 
 Fedajma kissed the marble lips, and said, 
 " He* breaths no more." And then a long loud wail, 
 Poured out upon the morning, made her light 
 Ghastly as smiles on some fair maniac's face 
 Smiling unconscious o'er her bridegroom's corse. 
 The wailing men in eager press closed round, 
 And made a shadowing pall beneath the sun. 
 They lifted reverent the prostrate strength. 
 Sceptred anew by death. Fedalma walked 
 Tearless, erect, following the dead — her cries 
 Deep smothering in her breast, as one who guides 
 Her children through the wilds, and sees and knows 
 Of danger more than they, and feels more pangs, 
 Yet shrinks not, groans not, bearing in her heart 
 Their ignorant misery and their trust in her. 
 
THE SPAiXISII GYPSY. ^^^' 
 
 B O O K V. 
 
 The eastward rocks of Almen'a's bay 
 
 Answer long farewells of the travelling sun 
 
 With softest glow as from an inward pulse 
 
 Changing and flushing : all the Moorish ships 
 
 Seem conscious too, and shoot out sudden shadows ; 
 
 Their black hulls snatch a glory, and their sails 
 
 Show variegated radiance, gently stirred 
 
 Like broad wings poised. Two galleys moored apart 
 
 Show decks as busy as a home of ants 
 
 Storing new forage : from their sides the boats, 
 
 Slowly pushed off, anon with flashing oar 
 
 Make transit to the quay's smooth-quarried edge, 
 
 Where thronging Gypsies are in haste to lade 
 
 Each as it comes with grandames, babes, and wires. 
 
 Or with dust-tinted goods, the company 
 
 Of wandering years. Naught seems to lie unmoved, 
 
 For 'mid the throng the lights and shadows play, 
 
 And make all surface eager, while the boats 
 
 Sway restless as a horse that heard the shouts 
 
 And surging hum incessant. Naked limbs 
 
 With beauteous ease bend, lift, and throw, or raise 
 
 High signalling hands. The black-haired mother steps 
 
 Athwart the boat's edge, and with open arms, 
 
 A wandering I sis outcast from the gods. 
 
 Leans towards her lifted little one. The boat 
 
 Full-laden cuts the waves, and dirge-like cries 
 
 Rise and then fall within it as it moves 
 
 From high to lower and from bright to dark. 
 
 Higher and thither, grave white-turbaned Moors 
 
 Moove helpfully, and some bring welcome gifts, 
 
 Bright stuffs and cutlery, and bags of seed 
 
 To make new waving crops in Africa. 
 
 Others aloof with folded arms slow-eyed 
 
 Surv^ey man's labor, saying, '' God is great ;" 
 
344 ^-^^ SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Or seek with question deep the Gypsies' root, 
 
 And whether their false faith, being small, will prove 
 
 Less damning than the copious false creeds 
 
 Of Jews and Christians : Moslem subtlety 
 
 Found balanced reasons, warranting suspense 
 
 As to whose hell was deepest — 'twas enough 
 
 That there was room for all. Thus the sedate. 
 
 The younger heads were busy with the tale 
 
 Of that great Chief whose exploits helped the Moor. 
 
 And, talking still, they shouldered past their friends 
 
 Following some lure which held their distant gaze 
 
 To eastward of the quay, where yet remained 
 
 A low black tent close guarded all around 
 
 By well-armed Gypsies. Fronting it above, 
 
 Raised by stone steps that sought a jutting strand, 
 
 Fedalma stood and marked with anxious watch 
 
 Each laden boat the remnant lessening 
 
 Of cargo on the shore, or traced the course 
 
 Of Nadar to and fro in hard command 
 
 Of noisy tumult ; imaging oft anew 
 
 How much of labor still deferred the hour 
 
 When they must lift the boat and bear away 
 
 Her father's coffin, and her feet must quit 
 
 This shore forever. Motionless she stood. 
 
 Black-crowned with wreaths of many-shadowed hair; 
 
 Black-robed, but bearing wide upon her breast 
 
 Her father's golden necklace and his badge. 
 
 Her limbs were motionless, but in her eyes 
 
 And in her breathing lip's soft tremulous curve 
 
 Was intense motion as of prisoned fire 
 
 Escaping subtly in outleaping thought. 
 
 She watches anxiously, and yet she dreams : 
 The busy moments now expand, now shrink 
 To narrowing swarms within the refluent space 
 Of changeful consciousness. For in her thought 
 Already she has left the fading shore. 
 Sails with her people, seeks an unknown land, 
 And bears the burning length of weary days 
 That parching fall upon her father's hope, 
 Which she must plant and see it wither only— 
 Wither and die. She saw the end begun. 
 The Gypsy hearts were not unfaithful : she 
 Was centre to the savage loyalty 
 
THE SPANISH G YPS K 34^ 
 
 Which vowed obedience to Zarca dead. 
 
 But soon their natures missed the constant stress 
 
 Of his command, that, while it fired, restrained 
 
 By urgency supreme, and left no play 
 
 To fickle impulse scattering desire. 
 
 They loved their Queen, trusted in Zarca's child, 
 
 Would bear her o'er the desert on their arms 
 
 And think the weight a gladsome victory ; 
 
 But that great force which knit them into one, 
 
 The invisible passion of her father's soul, 
 
 That wrought them visibly into its will, 
 
 And would have bound their lives with permanence, 
 
 Was gone. Already Hassan and two bands, 
 
 Drawn by fresh baits of gain, had newly sold 
 
 Their service to the Moors, despite her call, 
 
 Known as the echo of her father's will, 
 
 To all the tribe, that they should pass with her 
 
 Straightway to Telemsan. They were not moved 
 
 By worse rebellion than the wilful wish 
 
 To fashion their own service ; they still meant 
 
 To come when it should suit them. But she said, 
 
 This is the cloud no bigger than a hand. 
 
 Sure-threatening. In a little while, the tribe 
 
 That was to be the ensign of the race, 
 
 And draw it into conscious union. 
 
 Itself would break in small and scattered bands 
 
 That, living on scant prey, would still disperse 
 
 And propagate forgetfulness. Brief years. 
 
 And that great purpose fed with vital fire 
 
 That might have glowed for half a century. 
 
 Subduing, quickening, shaping, like a sun — 
 
 Would be a faint tradition, flickering low 
 
 In dying memories, fringing with dim light 
 
 The nearer dark. 
 
 Far, far the future stretched 
 Beyond that busy present on the quay, 
 Far her straight path beyond it. Yet she watched 
 To mark the growing hour, and yet in dream 
 Alternate she beheld another track. 
 And felt herself unseen pursuing it 
 Close to a wanderer, who with haggard gaze 
 Looked out on loneliness. The backward years— 
 Oh, she would not forget them — would not drink 
 Of waters that brought rest, while he far off 
 
346 THE SPANISH GYPSY, 
 
 Remembered. "Father, I renounced the joy; 
 You must forgive the sorrow." 
 
 So she stood, 
 Her struggHng Hfe compressed into that hour, 
 Yearning, resolving, conquering ; though she seemed 
 Still as a tutelary image sent 
 To guard her people and to be the strength 
 Of some rock-citadel. 
 
 Below her sat 
 Slim mischievous Hinda, happy, red-bedecked 
 With rows of berries, grinning, nodding oft. 
 And shaking high her small dark arm and hand 
 Responsive to the black-maned Ismael, 
 Who held aloft his spoil, and clad in skins 
 Seemed the Boy-prophet of the wilderness 
 Escaped from tasks prophetic. But anon 
 Hinda would backward turn upon her knees, 
 And like a pretty loving hound would bend 
 To fondle her Queen's feet, then lift her head 
 Hoping to feel the gently pressing palm 
 Which touched the deeper sense. Fendalma knew — 
 From out the black robe stretched her speaking hand 
 And shared the girl's content. 
 
 So the dire hours 
 Burthened with destiny — the death of hopes 
 Darkening long generations, or the birth 
 Of thoughts undying — such hours sweep along 
 In their aerial ocean measureless 
 Myriads of little joys, that ripen sweet 
 And soothe the sorrowful spirit of the world. 
 Groaning and travailing with the painful birth 
 Of slow redemption. 
 
 But emerging now 
 From eastward fringing lines of idling men 
 Quick Juan lightly sought the upward steps 
 Behind Fedalma, and two paces off, 
 With head uncovered, said in gentle tones, 
 " Lady Fedalma ! " — (Juan's password now 
 Used by no other), and Fedalma turned, 
 Knowing who sought her. He advanced a step, 
 And meeting straight her large calm questioning gaze, 
 Warned her of some grave purport by a face 
 That told of trouble. Lower still he spoke. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 2>M 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Look from i^ie, lady, towards a moving form 
 
 That quits liie crowd and seel<s tlie lonelier strand — 
 
 A tall and gray-clad pilgrim. . . . 
 
 [Solemnly 
 His low tones fell on her, as if she passed 
 Into religious dimness among tombs, 
 And trod on names in everlasting rest. 
 Lingeringly she looked, and then with voice 
 Deep and yet soft, like notes from some long chord 
 Responsive to thrilled air, said—] 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 It is he I 
 
 [Juan kept silence for a little space, 
 With reverent caution, lest his lighter grief 
 Might seem a wanton touch upon her pain. 
 But time was urging him with visible flight, 
 Changing the shadows : he must utter all.] 
 
 Juan. 
 
 That man was young when last I pressed his hand — 
 
 In that dread moment when he left Bedmar. 
 
 He has aged since : the week has made him gray. 
 
 And yet I knew him — knew the white-streaked hair 
 
 Before I saw his face, as I should know 
 
 The tear-dimmed writing of a friend. See now — 
 
 Does he not linger — pause.? perhaps expect . .- , 
 
 [Juan pled timidly : Fedalma's eyes 
 
 Flashed ; and through all her frame there ran the shock 
 
 Of some sharp-wounding joy, like his who hastes 
 
 And dreads to come too late, and comes in time 
 
 To press a loved hand dying. She was mute 
 
 And made no gesture : all her being paused 
 
 In resolution, as some leonine wave 
 
 That makes a moment's silence ere it leaps.] 
 
 Juan. 
 He came from Carthagena, in a boat 
 Too slight for safety ; yon small two-oared boat 
 Below the rock ; the fisher-boy within 
 Awaits his signal. But the pilgrim v/aits. . . . 
 
348 77j^^ SPANISH GYPSY, 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Yes, I will go ! — Father, I owe him this, 
 
 For loving me made all his misery. 
 
 And we will look once more — will say farewell 
 
 As in a solemn rite to strengthen us 
 
 For our eternal parting, Juan, stay 
 
 Here in my place, to warn me, were there need. 
 
 And, Hinda, follow me 1 
 
 [All men who watched 
 Lost her regretfully, then drew content 
 From thought that she must quickly come again, 
 And filled the time with striving to be near. 
 
 She, down the steps, along the sandy brink 
 
 To where he stood, walked firm ; with quickened step 
 
 The moment when each felt the other saw. 
 
 He moved at sight of her: their glances met ; 
 
 It seemed they could no more remain aloof 
 
 Than nearing waters hurrying into one. 
 
 Yet their steps slackened and they paused apart, 
 
 Pressed backward by the force of memories 
 
 Which reigned supreme as death above desire. 
 
 Tv/o paces off they stood and silently 
 
 Looked at each other. Was it well to speak ? 
 
 Could speech be clearer, stronger, tell them more 
 
 Than that long gaze of their renouncing love ? 
 
 They passed from silence hardly knowing how ; 
 
 It seemed they heard each other's thought before.] 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 I go to be absolved, to have my life 
 
 W^ashed into fitness for an offering 
 
 To injured Spain. But I have naught to give 
 
 For that last injury to her I loved 
 
 Better than I loved Spain. I am accurst 
 
 Above all sinners, being made the curse 
 
 Of her I sinned for. Pardon ? Penitence ? 
 
 When they have done their utmost, still beyond 
 
 Out of their reach stands Injury unchanged 
 
 And changeless. I should see it still in heaven — 
 
 Out of my reach, for ever in my sight : 
 
 Wearing your grief, 'tv/ould hide the smiling seraphs, 
 
349 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 I bring no puling prayer, Fedalma — ask 
 Go balm of pardon that may soothe my soul 
 For others' bleeding wounds : I am not come 
 To say, " Forgive me : " you must not forgive, 
 For you must see me ever as I am — 
 Your father's . . . 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Speak it not I Calamity 
 Comes like a deluge and o'erfloods our crimes, 
 Till sin is hidden in woe. You — I — we two. 
 Grasping we knew not what, that seemed delight. 
 Opened the sluices of that deep. 
 
 Don Silva. " 
 
 We two ? — 
 
 Fedalma, you were blameless, helpless. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 No! 
 
 It shall not be that you did aught alone. 
 For when we loved I willed to reign in you. 
 And I was jealous even of the day 
 If it could gladden you apart from me. 
 And so, it must be that I shared each deed 
 Our love was root of. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Dear ! you share the woe — 
 Nay, the worst part of vengeance fell on you. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Vengeance ! She does but sweep us with her skirts- 
 She takes large space, and lies a baleful light 
 Revolving with long years — sees children's children. 
 Blights them in their prime. . . . Oh, if two lovers leane 
 To breathe one air and spread a pestilence, 
 They would but lie two livid victims dead 
 Amid the city of the dying. We 
 With our poor petty lives have strangled one 
 That ages watch for vainly. 
 
35 o THE SPANISH G YPS K 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Deep despair 
 Fills all your tones as with slow agony. 
 Speak words that narrow anguish to some shaoc • 
 Tell me what dread is close before you ? 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 None. 
 No dread, but clear assurance of the end. 
 My father held within his mighty frame 
 A people's life : great futures died with him 
 Never to rise, until the time shall ripe 
 Some other hero with the will to save 
 The outcast Zincali. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 And yet their shout — 
 I heard it — sounded as the plenteous rush 
 Of full-fed sources, shaking their wild souls 
 With power that promised swa3% 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Ah yes, that shout 
 Came from full hearts : they meant obedience. 
 But they are orphaned : their poor childish feet 
 Are vagabond in spite of love, and stray 
 Forgetful after little lures. For me — 
 I am but as the funeral urn that bears 
 The ashes of a leader. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 O great God ! 
 What am I but a miserable brand 
 Lit by mysterious wrath t I lie cast down 
 A blackened branch upon the desolate ground 
 Where once I kindled ruin. I shall drink 
 No cup of purest water but will taste 
 Bitter with thy lone hopelessness, Fedalma. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Nay, Silva, think of me as one who sees 
 A light serene and strong on one sole path 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 3^1 
 
 Which she will tread till death . . . 
 
 He trusted me, and I will keep his trust: 
 
 My life shall be its temple. I will plant 
 
 His sacred hope within the sanctuary 
 
 And die its priestess — though I die alone, 
 
 A hoary woman on the altar-step, 
 
 Cold 'mid cold ashes. That is my chief good* 
 
 The deepest hunger of a faithful heart 
 
 Is faithfulness. Wish me naught else. And )-ou— ■ 
 
 You too will live. . . . 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 I go to Rome, to seek 
 The right to use my knightly sword again ; 
 The right to fill my place and live or die 
 So that all Spaniards shall not curse my name. 
 1 sate one hour upon the barren rock 
 And longed to kill myself; but then I said, 
 I will not leave my name in infamy, 
 I will not be perpetual rottenness 
 Upon the Spaniard's air. If I must sink 
 At last to hell, I will not take my stand 
 Among the coward crew who could not bear 
 The harm themselves had done, which others bor& 
 My young life yet Liiy fill some fatal breach, 
 And I will take no pardon, not my own, 
 Not God's — no pardon idly on my knees ; 
 But it shall come to me upon my feet 
 And in the thick of action, and each deed 
 That carried shame and wrong shall be the sting 
 That drives me higher up the steep of honor 
 In deeds of duteous service to that Spain 
 Who nourished me on her expectant breast, 
 The heir of highest gifts. I will not fling 
 My earthly being down for carrion 
 To fill the air with loathing : I will be 
 The living prey of some fierce noble death 
 That leaps upon me while I move. Aloud 
 I said, "I will redeem my name," and then— 
 I know not if aloud : I felt the words 
 Drinking up all my senses — " She still lives. 
 I v/ould not quit the dear familiar earth 
 Where both of us behold the self-same sun, 
 Where there can be no strangeness 'twixt our thoughts 
 
352 
 
 THE SPANISH GYFSY. 
 
 So deep as their communion." Resolute 
 1 rose and walked, — Fedalma, think of me 
 As one who will regain the only life 
 Where he is other than apostate — one 
 Who seeks but to renew and keep the vows 
 Of Spanish knight and noble. But the breach- 
 Outside those vows — the fatal second breach — 
 Lies a dark gulf where I have naught to cast, 
 Not even expiation — poor pretence, 
 Which changes naught but what survives the past^ 
 And raises not the dead. That deep dark gulf 
 Divide us. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Yes, forever. We must walk 
 Apart unto the end. Cur marriage rite 
 Is our resolve that we will each be true 
 To high allegiance, higher than our love. 
 Our dear young love — its breath was happiness \ 
 But it had grown upon a larger life 
 Which tore its roots asunder. We rebelled — 
 The larger life subdued us. Yet we are wed ; 
 For we shall carry each the pressure deep 
 Of the other's soul. I soon shall leave the shore. 
 The winds to-night will bear me far away 
 My lord, farewell 1 
 
 He did not say " Farewell. 
 But neither knew that he was silent. She, 
 For one long moment, moved not. They knew naught 
 Save that they parted ; for their mutual gaze 
 As with their soul's full speech forbade their hands 
 To seek each other — those oft-clasping hands 
 Which had a memory of their own, and went 
 W^idowed of one dear touch for evermore. 
 At last she turned and with swift movement passed, 
 Beckoning to Hinda, who was bending low 
 And lingered still to wash her shells, but soon 
 Leaping and scampering followed, while her Queen 
 Mounted the steps again and took her place, 
 Which Juan rendered silently. 
 
 And now 
 The press upon the quay was thinned ; the ground 
 Was cleared of cumbering heaps., the eager shouls 
 
THE SPANISH CVrSY. 353 
 
 Had sunk, and left a murmur miore restrained 
 By common purpose. All the men ashore 
 Were gathering into ordered companies, 
 And with less clamor filled the waiting boats, 
 As if the speaking light commanded them 
 To quiet speed : for now the farewell glow 
 Was on the topmost heights, and where far ships 
 Were southward tending, tranquil, slow, and white 
 Upon the luminous meadow toward the verge. 
 The quay was in still shadow, and the boats 
 Went sombrely upon the sombre waves. 
 Fedalma watched again ; but now her gaze 
 Takes in the eastward bay, where that small bark 
 Which held the fisher-boy floats weightier 
 With one mere life, that rests upon the oar 
 Watching with her. He would not go away 
 Till she was gone ; he would not turn his face 
 Away from her at parting : but the sea 
 Should widen slowly 'twixt their seeking eyes. 
 
 The time was coming. Nadar had approached. 
 Was the Queen ready ? Would she follow now 
 Her father's body.? For the largest boat 
 Was waiting at the quay, the last strong band 
 Of Zincali had ranged themselves in lines 
 To guard her passage and to follow her. 
 *'Yes, I am ready ;" and with action prompt 
 They cast aside the Gypsy's wandering tomb, 
 And fenced the space from curious Moors who pressed 
 To see Chief Zarca's coffin as it lay. 
 They raised it slowly, holding it aloft 
 On shoulders proud to bear the heavy load. 
 Bound on the coffin lay the chieftain's arms, 
 His Gypsjf garments and his coat of mail. 
 Fedalma saw the burthen lifted high, 
 And then descending followed. All was still. 
 The Moors aloof could hear the struggling steps 
 Beneath the lowered burthen at the boat — 
 The struggling calls subdued, till safe released 
 It lay within, the space around it filled 
 By black-haired Gypsies. Then Fedalma stepped 
 From off the shore and saw it flee away — 
 The land that bred her helping the resolve 
 Which exiled her for ever. 
 2% 
 
354 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 It was night 
 Before the ships weighed anchor and gave sail : 
 Fresh Night emergent in her clearness, lit 
 By the large crescent moon, with Hesperus, 
 And those great stars that lead the eager host. 
 Fedalma stood and watched the little bark 
 Lying jet-black upon moon-whitened waves. 
 Silva v/as standing too. He too divined 
 A steadfast form that held him with its thought, 
 And eyes that sought him vanishing : he saw 
 The waters widen slowly, till at last 
 Straining he gazed, and knew not if he gazed 
 On aught but blackness overhung by stars. 
 
 4^ii- 
 
 RECEIVED. '% 
 
iSS 
 
 NOTES 
 
 r. 53. Castas. 
 
 The Indian fig [Opiintia], like the other Caciacece, is believed to have 
 been introduced into Europe from South America ; but every one who 
 has been in the south of Spain will understand why the anachronism has 
 been chosen. 
 
 P. 195. Marranos. 
 
 The name give by the Spanish Jews to the multitudes of their race 
 converted to Christianity at the end of the fourteenth century and begin- 
 ning of the fifteenth. The lofty derivation from Maran-atha, the Lord 
 Cometh, seems hardly called for seeing that viarrano is Spanish iox pig. 
 The " old Christians " learned to use the word as a term of contempt 
 for the " new Christians," or converted Jews and their descendants; but 
 not too monotonously, for they often interchanged it with the fine old 
 crusted opprobrium of the name Je-v. Still, many Marranos held the 
 highest secular and ecclesiastical prizes in Spain, and were respected ac- 
 cordingly. 
 
 P. 220. Celestial Baron. 
 
 The Spaniards conceived their patron Santiago (St. James), the great 
 captain of their armies, as a knight and baron : to them, the incongruity 
 would have lain in conceiving him simply as a Galilean fisherman. And 
 their legend was adopted with respect by devout mediaeval minds generally. 
 Dante, in an elevated passage of the Paradiso — the memorable opening 
 of Canto XXV. — choose to introduce the Apostle James as il barone. 
 
 Indi si mosse ui lume verso noi 
 
 Di quel la schiera, ond 'usci la primizia 
 
 Che lascio Cristo de' vicari suoi. 
 
 E la mia Donna plena de letizia 
 
 Mi disse : Mira, mira, ecco '1 barone 
 
 Per cui laggiu si visita Galizia." 
 
 P. 223. The Seven Parts. 
 
 Las Sietc Partidas (The Seven Parts) is the title given to the co(3e 01 
 laws compiled under Alfonso the Tenth, who reigned in the latter half of 
 the thirteenth century — 1 252-1 284. The passage in the text is translated 
 from Partida 11.^ Leg II. The whole preamble is worth citing in its old 
 Spanish : — 
 
 " Coino deb en ser escogidos los caballeros,'* 
 
35^ 
 
 NOTES OF THE SFAAISH GYPSY. 
 
 *' Antiguam'cnte para facer caballeros escoglen de los venadores de 
 monte,que son homes que sufren grande laceria,et carpinteros, et ferreros,et 
 pedreros, porque usan mucho a ferir et son f uerte de manos ; et otrosi de 
 los carniceros, por razon que usan matar las cosas vivas et esparcer la sangre 
 dellas : et aun cataban otra cosa en escogiendolos que fuesen bien fac- 
 cionadas de membros para ser recios, et f uertes et ligeros. Et esta manera 
 de escoger usaron los antiguos muy grant tiempo ; mas porque despues 
 vieron muchas vegadas que estos atales nonhabiendo verguenza olvidaban 
 todas estas cosas sobredichas, et en logar de vincer sus enemigos venci- 
 ense ellos, tovieron por bien los sabidores destas cosas que catasen homes 
 para esto que hobiesen naturalmiente en si verguenza. Et sobresto dixo 
 un sabio que habie nombre Vegecio que fablo de orden de caballeria, 
 que la verguenza vieda al caballero que non fuya de la batalla, et por 
 ende ella le face ser vencedor ; ca mucho tovieron que era mejor el homo 
 flaco et sofridor, que el fuerte et ligero para foir. Et por esto sobre todas 
 las otras cosas cataron que fuesen homes porque se guardasen de facer 
 cosa por que podiesen caer en verguenza : et porque estos fueron escogi- 
 dos de buenos logares et algo, que quiere tanto decir en lenguage de 
 Espana como bien, por eso los llamaron fijosdalgo, que muestra atanto 
 como fijos de bien. Et en algunos otros logares los llamaron gentiles, et 
 tomaron este nombre de gentileza que muestra atanto ccmo nobleza de 
 bondat, porque los gentiles fueron nobles homes et buenos, et vevieron 
 mas ordenadamente que las otras gentes. Et esta gentileza aviene en tres 
 maneras ; la una por linage, la segundapor saber, et la tercera por bondat 
 de armas et de costumbres et de maneras. Et comoquier que etos que la 
 ganan por su sabidoria 6 por su bondat, son con derecho llamados nobles et 
 gentiles, mayormiente lo son aquellos que la han por linage antiguami- 
 ente, et facen buena vida porque les viene de luene como por heredat ; et 
 por ende son mas encargados de facer bien et guardarse de yerro et de 
 malestanza ; ci non tan solamiente quando lo facen rescibeu dano et 
 vergUenza ellos mismos, ma aun aquellos onde ellos vienen." 
 
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 J^O 
 
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 justed. 
 
 No books issued 
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