F;: - GRAFFITI D'ITALIA W. W. STORY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS EDINBURGH AND LONDON MDCCCLXVIII ,4 / Riglts of Traislation a,td Reprodtction reser'ed. L,,-." I I .11 , - t 13 y ENTERED AT STATIONERS' HALIL. P RE F A C E. THERE are two statements to be made in regard to this volume. First: many of the poems have been previously published in various magazines, though they are now for the first time collected. Second: all the poems are intended to be dramatic in their character; and, being the utter ances of historical or purely fictitious per sonages, are not to be understood as ex pressing the opinions or sentiments of the Author. CONTENTS. MEDIEVAL. PAGE 3 80 ~. 90 * ~ 99 -. lI9 I30 GINEVRA DA SIENA..... PADRE BANDELLI PROSES.... lEONARDO DA VINCI POETISES... RADICOFANI....... MONSIGNORE DEL FIOCCO...... A CONTEMPORARY CRITICISM ON RAFFAELLE ANTIQUE. CLEOPATRA...... CASSANDRA...... PAN IN LOVE..... MARCUS AURELIUS TO LUCIUS VERUS. A SONG OF ISRAEL.... A PRIMITIVE CHRISTIAN IN ROME ORESTE...... 147 I55 i6o i68 ~.. i72 * I74 I95 CONT'ENTS. TO FORTUNE... PRAXITELES AND PHRYNE. MIARCUS ANTONIUS.. MODERN. GIANNONE...... IL CURATO....... ZIA NICA...... L'ABBATE...... NINA........ GIULIETTA...... IN THE RAIN..... T''HE LILAC.... THE GAUCHO..... SPRING...... AUTUMNIN...... AN ENGLISH HUSBAND TO HIS ITALIAN WIFE IN THE MOONLIGHT..... NEMNESIS..... BLACK EYES...... TrHE SAD COUNTRY..... CASTEL GANDOLFO..... AT PEACE...... WOGGINS....... UNDER THE CYPRESSES.... TO BIANCA....... T'HE PADRE AND T'HE NOVICE UNDER A CLOUD...... vii I99 20I 204 21I 247 257 262 267 273 277 279 282 285 288 293 297 299 302 3o6 308 3I1 313 317 321 323 327 CONTENTS. T'IIE SHADY LANE UNDER THE ILEXES OPHELIA.. THE RIVER OF TIIME RENUNCIATION.. NIGHT-WATCH A LEGEND... IN THE GARDEN. SYMBOLS.. IN THE SHADOW.3 ART ON THE SEA-SHORE THE CHIFFONIER. BLANK QUESTIONINGS. ALPINE SONG.. TWO STARS... EUROPA..~ GIOTTO'S CHAPEL. SCHERZI. BLUE BEARD'S CABINETS SINGING AT TWILIGHT PERSICA.. A MUSICAL BOX.. ROSA HESTl'ERNA. SNOWDROP... viii 332 338 343 345 347 349 351 353 357 359 363 365 368 371 374 377 378 379 383 404 407 408 4II 413 Belli gli es/ivi,,-iorizi a iiie sz ca; Sollo d'Ittila i/ cie/ s~p/e~izido ep /aro, Be//e le sei-e avvo//e ini ve/o scitro C/ce leco jo scorsi iin dolcifave//ari; Pui' be//i anicor, }5ii't do/ci epiiife/ici, P~erc iti sitoz60 siraniiei- vivei~llio aiz'i Sot~to a//'onibra di paivianze con/torte BKicorda C/z'io scrivea la s/ariaz iiies/a Di'ditc c/h'ainor- sos~pinise a ftnz fitnesta, A nizor/e /'z'nz, /'a//;o a pegg-io clie iizor/e! Or qzies/Lz is/o~iai ai Te conzsacrco, 1111 De//'aniziciz-ia fi/Oitt sebbenze inidegnio. RoM',A, i i A.p-ile i S66. MEDIEVAL GINEVRA DA SIENA. "Mleglio e morir che trarre Selvaggia vita in solitudin, dove A niun sei caro e di nessun ti cale." Saul di A lfier-, scena 4, atto I. "Love is a greater lawe (by my pan) Than may be yeven of any erthly man; And therfore positiflawe, and swiche decree Is broken all day for love in eche degree. A man moste nedes love maugre his head. He may not fleen it, though he shuld be ded, All be she maid or widewe or elles wif." CHAUCER: Tie A'oi'hts Tale. So then you've come at last, my own best friend, My youth's friend-never friends like those of youth I had not thought to see your face again, Nor any human face that pitied me. Now let me weep upon your breast; my heart, Dried up within me, seems to swell again At your soft touch of pity-let me weep! My tears so long have burnt me, but these tears, Like rain on withered grass, bring up again GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. The old spring greenness. Oh! at last, at last, This passionate tension of my life gives way. The desolating sand-spout whirled along My desert life, and straining up for years All feelings, thoughts, and hopes, breaks down at last; So, let me weep here-at your very feet; Lift me not up-it soothes and calms me so. See! what a poor, bruised, broken thing am I! But you, dear Nina, knew me ere this brow AVas ruled with wrinkles, ere the thick dark hair Which clustered round it grew so thin and white; One curl at least remains of what it was, And still you wear it in your locket, love. You yet are fair. Stop! let me look at you; How young you are, and I, so old, so old! 'Tis only happiness can keep us young. Then, how should I be young,-imprisoned here In this drear villa, all my turbulent thoughts Storming against my fate, my hopes burnt out, Mv heart the crater where their scoria lie. Yet all keeps young about me-all's the same As I beheld it when a little girl. 4 GINEVRA DA SIENA. These walls are still the same; the sky's the same; The same sad stretches, the same undimmed stars; The olives are not changed; there stand the pines, Murmuring and sighing still; clouds come and go, Just as they did when I was young and gay: And looking on them thus, year after year, So changeless, while'tis all so changed with me, Half maddens me at times. They seem to mock Wlith their perennial youth my vanished joys. Here, in this room, I was so happy once! Here, in this room, I am so wretched now! M\y ghost-a pleasant, laughing, careless ghost Walks down along that terrace. See!'tis there! And yours is with it. Ah! one sees that's yours; But mine-who'd ever dream that once was I? Look now, it beckons, laughs, and flings a flower. Off! off! I hate you; vanish from my sight: There-down the cypresses go-go, I say; Vanish! and never let me see you more. 'Tis gone now-gone-would it were never there! 5 GRAFFITI D ITALIA. Mere fancy, Rosa says-perhaps she's rightSuch tricks things play us. Do not look so strange; Who can avoid all meetings with one's ghost? And yours, does yours come never from the past, From corners dim of olden days and dreams, To whisper words that almost drive you mad? Ah! I forget! You are so happy still, And joy's gay laughter chases ghosts away. Well, we'll not talk of that, nor think of that, Only don't look so sad and shake your head; You know I do not think'twas really there, But then it somehow seemed as if it were Just for a moment's space. Pray bear with me, And if my ways and words to you seem strange, Don't mind them, dearest; living all alone We get fantastic notions, and one's talk Grows wild with too long talking to one's self. But now you come and love me, I am strong; You, with your happy smile, scared from my breast. Well, well-no matter what,-'tis fled away; You see it's gone now-look, there's nothing here. 6 GINEVRA DA SIENA. Let them all go; one leap to other days. My heart is almost light to see your face. Oh! kiss me, dearest, kiss me yet once moreHow it smooths out the tangles in my brain And put your hand in mine: believe me, dear, For years I have not felt so sane and calm. I'll write upon your heart as on a book. If I go over all the old, old days, You'll listen, will you not? I know you will. Let me go back to when I saw you last. Our lives till then had close together lain, Shaped each to each in habit, feeling, thought, Like almonds twinned within a single shell. What thought or hope was mine that was not yours? What joy was mine that was not shared with you? All was so innocent when we were girls; Our little walks the days you spent with me In the old villa-where, with arms loose clasped Around each other's waist we roamed along Among the giant orange-pots that stood 7 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. At every angle of our garden-plot, And told our secrets-while the fountain plashed, And, waving in the breeze, its veil of mist Swept o'er our faces. Think of those long hours We in the arched and open loggia sat Pricking the bright flowers on our broidery frames, And as we chatted, lifting oft our eyes, We gazed at Amiata's purple height, Trembling behind its opal veil'of air; Or on the -nearer slopes through the green lanes, Fenced either side with rich and running vines, Watched the white oxen trail their basket-carts, Or contadine with wide-flapping hats Singing amid the olives, whose old trunks Stood knee-deep in the golden fields of grain. Do you remember the red poppies, too, That glowed amid the tender green of spring The purple larkspur that assumed their place Mid the sheared stubble of the autumn fields The ilex walk-the acacia's fingered twigsThe rose-hued oleanders peeping o'er The terraced wall-the slanting wall that propped 8 GINEVRA DA SIENA. Our garden, from whose clefts the caper plants Spirted their leaves and burst in plumy flowers? All these are still the same-they do not miss The eye that loved them so and yet how oft I wonder if those old magnolia-trees Still feed the air with their great creamy flowers, And show the wind their rusted under-leaf. I wonder if that trumpet flower is dead. Oh heaven! they all should be, I loved them so; Some one has killed them, if they have not died. But you can see the villa any day, And I am wearying you. Yet all these things Are beads upon the rosary of youth, And just to say their names recalls those hours So full of joy-each bead is like a prayer. How many an hour I've sat and dreamed of them. And dear Siena, with its Campo tower That seems to fall against the trooping clouds, And the great Duomo with its pavement rich, Till sick at heart I felt that I must die. People are kneeling there upon it now, 9 GRAFFITI D ITALIA. But I shall never kneel there any more; And bells ring out on happy festivals, And all the pious people flock to mass, But I shall never go there any more. How all these little things come back to me That I shall never see-no, never more! Oh, kiss the pavement, dear, when you go back! Whisper a prayer for me where once I knelt, And tell the dead stones how I love them still. These little things,-ah, suffer, love, like me! You'll know how all these memories live and sting; Even lifeless things, that scarce with conscious sense We gaze upon in sorrow or in joy, Cling to our joy and sorrow close as life. Things, too, at discord with our lifted mood Their trivial figure on the mind will stamp So deep that time can never wipe it out; Yes, even the pattern of the pavement there, Its stones a step apart on which I trod In torturing hours, are printed on my heart 10 GINEVRA DA SIENA. Like some essential part of all I felt; And when the pang comes back, they, too, return. As we two wandered, little ignorant girls, With childish talk and childish wonder then, What did we know of life?-'twas all a play A picture-some few pretty shifting scenes Set in the magic lantern of our youth. What could we know, we little hermits, then? Watched over, tended, gently led along A path with ne'er a stone to trip us up; Reading such innocent books, going to mass, Saying our Aves every morn and eve; Never let go beyond a vigilant eye To watch where danger hovered; caged like birds In our home aviary, where we sang, And fluttered round, but never could get out; Where, though the eagle and the swooping hawk Were ranging round, we were so safe from them. How were we fit, thus nurtured, to be loosed Upon the world? One might as well set free The frail canary, bred within a cage. I I GRAFFITI D ITALIA. Oh! in the storm and buffet of my life My heart has flown so often back again, And beat the bars that could not let me in. Look at the foolish way in which we're trained, And say, how can it fit us for the world? The doctrine and the mass, of course, we're taught; Then comes our first communion in the fold Of some clean convent,'mid the patient nuns, Whose minds and lives are stunted at the best. What can they teach beside hypocrisy, To check the natural currents of our youth? Through their religious panes they show the world All glare and falseness-yet we sigh for it; Then, taken back, we're kept beneath a glass, Like some frail plant that cannot bear the breeze. For home is but a kind of convent, where Our mother is the abbess-we the nuns; We learn our letters, but there's nought to read Save tedious homilies and bloodless books. Life is more real, so we sigh for it Not life on this side marriage, but beyond. I2 GINEVRA DA SIENA. For what is life so-called to us poor girls Embroidery and trivial talk at home, Dressing, a little music on the lute, and then A dull and formal walk on the parade, Where we may learn to smile and bow with ease. Sometimes convoyed into society, Our mother leads us with a careful string, And lets us hop a little way alone; But watching us the while with Argus eyes, And lecturing our manners and our words. Peeps at the world, from under down-dropped lids Of fear and innocence, we catch; we're told TIhat this we must not do-nor that-nor that All that we long for is prohibited. Burn though we may for liberty and joy, In whose fresh air the heart alone expands, With little worldly maxims we are drilled; Calm and reserve alone are maidenly. WAe must not speak unless our mother nods. So life, with all its stern realities To us is vague, as is a blind man's thought Of colours, or a deaf man's dream of sounds. I 3 GRAFFITI D ITALIA. Some day our mother calls us to her room, Count This, Marchese That, has asked our handShe says, "'Tis all arranged for you, my dear; He's rich and young, and of such noble birth, We could not ask or hope a better match; I and your father both are satisfied." "But I," you cry, "'tis I must marry him; And I am yet so young, so happy here. Besides, I've scarcely seen him, know him notHow can I marry if I do not love?" "Love love, of course; first marry, and then love!" Thus marriage opens unto us the door That leads to liberty, if not to love. Wvhen we are married, we at least are free; So, unprepared in ignorant innocence, We rush to marriage just for freedom's sake. What could I hope? My little bark put forth Into the stormy world, and made a wreck, And here I rot-all dashed to pieces here! I,ook at that ghastly hulk there on the beach I4 GINEVRA DA SIENA. That broken, bare-ribbed skeleton that lies Deep sunken in the barred and shelving sand; 'Twas a gay vessel launched in pride and joy, With streaming banners and with music, onceLook at it now! Then turn, and look at me! Are we not both the same sad broken wrecks? Still old thoughts cling, the shells and barnacles Of happy days, when through the southern seas Of youth my keel went rushing joyously, And all my pennons flew, and my white sails Rounded their bosom to the swelling air. You know the Count, the husband that they gave Cold, stern, impassive, like an angled wallSquared to his duties-rigorous, even, hardI beat myself to death against that wall. He married me as he would buy a horse, Then all was over. "Put it in the stall, Caparison it well for gala days, Break it to worldly paces with a curb, And give it best of food and best of straw." Kind treatment this, you say: what would you more? I5 GRAFFITI D ITALIA. Nothing, unless one has a heart and brain; And I, alas! was born with one at least. Ask of the world his character-they'll say, An honourable man formed to respect, Proud of his birth; but who would not be proud? Refined, exact, punctilious; one, in fact, Safely to trust in great and little things. Well, then, I trusted him with all I had. Now, ask of me what was the noble Count? The world's half right; but half right's wholly wrong. Fair was his outward seeming-manners fair A little stiff with' over-courtesy, Like to those rich brocades all sewn in gold; But noble, I agree, and dignified. The apricot is smooth upon the skin, And yet it only has a stone for heart. WAhat education teaches, he had learned; But on a rock you cannot rear a rose. Still, stoniest natures have their sunward side; And there with him his pride and honour grew. I6 I GINEVRA DA SIENA. The shortest line's the straightest'twixt two points, And the frank nature takes it openly. His nature was secretive: on his path, Lead where it would, he loved no human eye; Dark windings, devious ways, he rather chose. Fifty miles round, beyond the sight of man, Rather than one across in open view. His good and bad alike he loved to hide; Spoke little, hated praise-suspected it And yet was flattered by obedient acts. Passions he had, but he had mastered them, And loved and hated in a bloodless way; But never was with generous anger fired, Nor blazed to indignation at a wrong. His impulses he doubted-would not stir To passion's trumpet; but lay long in wait, Ambushed-then struck with slow and proud resolve, And called it justice when he took revenge. His dark impassive face was cold as bronze; His mouth locked up in silence like a chest Whose key is lost, or drawn as it had worn B I7 GRAFFITI D ITALIA. A life-long curb; his forehead full and bare, Where not a wrinkle told what passed within. Sometimes his hands would twitch when he was moved, But not his lips-no, nor his cold round eyes, From which he shut all meaning at his will; While, like an intricate machine, his mind With counter-wheels worked out the simplest act. There is my master! there's the inside man! Why further then dissect? He, proud and cold, Reserved, and hating every show of heart; I, warm, impetuous, urged by impulses Demanding love in words and tones and acts. Could we two live together? Yes; as lives The passionate wave with the affronting cliff, Fretting in quiet seasons, madly dashed With useless violence when roused in storm. How many a time, in longings vast and vain, I rushed towards him-strove to overclimb His walled-up nature, and, forced back again, Fell with a wild lament into myself, Shattered with struggle, in a dull despair. I8 GINEVRA DA SIENA. Wvhen in fierce mood I once o'erstept the line Of rigid prudence, strict punctilio, And in strong language railed against the world, AN'ith all its busy, peeping, prying eyes, He turned with half a smile and half a frown, And used a figure-'twas the first and last He ever used save one:-" You like these tropes Here's one: your sail is larger than your craft; 'Take heed the first gale do not sweep you down." "Better go down," I cried, "on the broad sea, Battling a noble voyage with wind and wave, Than rot inactive, anchored in the port, Fixed stem and stern-a hopeless, helpless, hulk. Wvhat if I vail my spirit-sails in fear And creep to shelter for ignoble rest? The dullest wreck will at its cable strain Wlhen from the outer sea the great swell rolls, And no poor creature with a heart and brain But in the stagnant harbour of routine Feels stormy lifts of longing-pants for life, And strains to grapple with some noble task." I9 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. He smiled half-sneering, and then coldly said, "The noblest task is to command one's self;" And then I knew how huge a fool I was, And locked my life and longings in my heart. But after all'tis love that most we need; Love only satisfies our woman's heart, And even our ambition looks to love; That given, life is light-denied, is death. Man is content to know that he is loved, And tires the constant phrase "I love" to hear; But woman doubts the instrument is broke Unless she daily hear the sweet refrain. Thus life went on for three long weary years. I should have fallen broken to the earth The last sad year, but one hope buoyed me up I was to be a mother. Ah! the thought Of that dear face, long, long before it came, Shone in my thoughts with strange pathetic light, Like the moon shining in a snake-filled dell Something at last to have which I could love! 20 GINEVRA DA SIENA. Oh! how I prayed that it might be a boy, And mediate'twixt that iron heart and mine. Who knew? The sternest natures are not whole; Some vulnerable point there is in all, Where they were held when dipped into the Styx Some mother's touch where you can reach the quick. So with this reed I helped my hope along, And, waiting patient, said, "If'tis a boy 'Twill touch his pride-his pride may touch his love." Our boy was born, and my prophetic heart, Like other prophets, mixed the true and false; His pride was touched-his love was still unborn. In his first joy there seemed a kind of mist About his heart-it passed like breath on steel; At sudden times, as if against his will, Words almost tender from his lips there came, Then chased away as weak and out of place; So with an iron glove one wipes a tear Quickly, as not belonging to a man. Sometimes I held him up unto the Count, 21 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. And, smothering him with kisses, cried aloud, "Is he not lovely? oh, my life in life! My little angel out of paradise! Say, is he not too dear to stay with us?" Then he-" Why always thus exaggerate? An angel? no, a good stout healthy boy; And dear, of course, because he is our child." Yet this I thought was half in awkwardness (Men are so, often, even when they love), And that he could not bring his lips to say Wvhat stirred within; for often ere he rode I heard his steps along the terrace clang, And, through the lattice looking, saw him take Our Angelo, who stretched out both his arms, And crowing strove with aimless hands to clutch The nodding feather streaming from his cap; While he would laugh, and with his black beard brush The little rosy cheek, or with his lips Catch the fat fingers of those dimpled hands; The little creature, not the least afraid, WIould seize his beard, and scream his baby scream, Or pat the cold steel plate above his heart. 22 GINEVRA DA SIENA. Thus far it went-no farther. Love to him Was like the glitter on that cold steel plate; The gleam of pride-not the impassioned ray That warms and glows through all the inner life. I strove to recompense this aching want, This thirsting for a sympathetic soul, WVith thinking of my child and loving him. But childish love is pure and innocent, It cannot answer to the passion's call; And hopeless, with a cruel load at heart, I held my way unhappy and alone. Beat as I would the bars that girt me round, From my stern prison of necessity No outlet opened save into the air; And sitting sorrowing there, my wandering thoughts Fled far and wild, and built ideal dreams, And happy homes made beautiful by love; Yet still the end was, dropping with a groan Down to the same unhappy earth of fact, More wretched for the joys that could not be. 23 GRAFFITI D ITALIA. I linger here-for here there came a change. From this long distance, which is like to height, I see the landscape of my life below. There is its childhood's little garden plot, Its weary marsh of stagnant womanhood, Its one highway of duty-dusty, hard, And leading nowhere. Eagle-like I plane Above its drear Maremma solitudes, Where there is ne'er a bird to sing of love; And, rising far along the horizon's verge, Behold the darkening storm come crowding up, And know the lightnings that are hidden there. Well, let me say it all at once: I loved. My heart, long straining with its strong desires, And hungered with a vague and craving want, Snapt all at once its harsh and formal bands. I stood alone within a clouded wood, When sudden sunlight burst upon my path; A scent of unknown flowers filled all the air The single cymbal with another clashed, And wild triumphant music shook my thoughts. 24 GINEVRA DA SIENA. We met-ah, fatal hour! we met and loved; My heart rushed to him as the tideless lake, Nearing the sheer precipitous abyss, Rushes to ruin, and with one wild burst Of storm and splendour down the rapids whirling, Leaps, white with passion, to the lake below. Vainly the trees along the shadowy shores, Quivering with fear, cry to the rapids, "Stop " Vainly the hillsides strive to hold them back; God's glorious rainbow o'er their terror glowing, They rush to ruin, as we rushed to ours. I was not guilty-guilty then of what? Say, is the aloe guilty when it bursts To its consummate flower, death though it bring? If our two hearts, surcharged like wandering clouds With love's intensest electricity, Borne by the rushing winds from north and south, Sent down the blasting lightnings when they struck In heaven's broad dome, if without will they met, Was it our fault? No; guilt is prearranged, Is wilful-it demands consent at least. 25 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. How could we help it, if we met and loved? If this be guilt, then nature is all guilt. The love I bear my mother and my child, The very hope of heaven itself, is guilt; The very wind that blows, the eye that sees, The heart that beats, are guilty, one and all. What nature works in man and thing alike Is innocent. I could not help but love. My head is troubled by these swarming thoughts, But I have need to speak, so let me speak. Hark! is that he? Oh, save me from that man! Save me' No, no, you shall not strike him here Stab at him through my heart, then, if you will! Oh yes, I see.'Twas but the jarring door, The wind. Oh yes, I see-only the door. 'Tis past. I am not weak; let me go on. No, dearest, no, no, no; let me go on. The tears are in your eyes; I see the tears. Mine are all wept away, years, years ago. 26 GINEVRA DA SIENA. Oh keep your heart wide open; take therein The floods that from grief's open sluices pour, And pity, pity what you cannot change. Give me your sympathy: I have not found For such long years a patient pitying heart, That now I feel that I must speak or die. From fearful nightmares starting suddenly, How sweet to tell the horrors we have passed, Knowing they all have passed: so sweet to me These dreadful passages of life to tell That never, never, will be wholly past. W'e met —we loved. Oh, what a world there lies In those four words!'Twas in the summer days Wvhen first we met-the last'dear day of June, That was the day-and love from bud to flower Rushed with the sudden passion of our clime. You know the shadowy laurel avenue, ANWhere, sheltered fromn the sun, we used to stroll Those summer mornings when we both were girls; And you remember, through the vista seen, How the pomegranate blossoms glowed like fire 27 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Against the old grey wall above the door; 'Twas there, beneath those flowers, I saw him first. There, walking in the avenue alone, I heard the Count, my husband, call my name, And, looking round, just in the shadow there, I saw him standing at my husband's side. "Ginevra," said the Count, "my cousin here Claims you as cousin too, since we are one. I bring him here to you, for I am forced (Against my will, I scarcely need to say) To change a private joy for public care, And leave him for a time in better hands. My kinsman graciously excuses me My forced departure for some hours; till then You'll do the honours of our house for me, And I alone shall suffer all the loss. Ginevra, entertain our noble friend \Vith all that our poor villa can afford, And piece its want out with the best of will." So speaking, in his formal, courteous way, He took his leave, and we were left alone. 28 GINEVRA DA SIENA. You see he left us there; me fair and young I was so young then, and they called me fairHe in the full completed prime of youth, When all the blood runs riot in the veins, And speaks from out the cheeks and lips and eyes. Oh, Count, was this well done to leave us so? He touched my hand, and bore it to his lips. 'Twas but a common courtesy; and yet That touch ran through me like electric fire, Thrilling my every nerve. At once his look, By some peculiar mastery, seemed to seize And to possess me, and I felt within A tremulous movement in my thoughts, as when The needle blindly struggles towards the pole. He too was moved-his colour came and went; We neither were at ease, we knew not why; And so together, side by side, we strayed Through the clipped alleys of the laurel walk, Or'neath the shadow of the cypresses We paused,-or, leaning on the parapet, 29 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. And gazing into purple distances, Mechanically plucked from out its clefts Some tiny flower or weed, or, lingering near The fountain's marble margin, idly watched The gold-fish poising in its basin clear; And while the babbling water gushed and dripped, And reared its silver column in the sun, And, over-weighted, dropped in pearls, our talk Kept centring to our feelings from the range Of outer facts with which it first began. Oh golden morning! there you seem to float Far off in memory, like a sun-flushed cloud, With roseate heights, and tender dove-like shades; No lightning in your bosom hid, no threat Of passion, no remorse and death to come. The air was faint with orange-flowers; the grove Throbbed with the beats and thrills of nightingales Hid in its covert green; along the wall Flamed the pomegranate's fiery flowers; the rich Rose clusters of the oleander bloomed Soft in the violet shadows o'er them cast By the grey villa All the garden seemed 30 GINEVRA DA SIENA. To swarm with happy life; the lizard stole Along the fountain's marge, and stayed to gaze With a shy confidence; the hawk-moth poised Above the roses, thrust his slender trunk Into their honeyed depths; on gauzy wings The long green dragonfly in gleaming mail Kept darting zigzag, hovering to and fro; Hot bees were bustling in the flowers; with soft And aimless flutter, painted butterflies Hung drifting here and there like floating leaves, Or rested on a weed to spread their wings. All nature seemed in quiet happiness To live and move,-and, thoughtless, without fear, I shared that joy in harmony with it. Swiftly the morning passed; and yet if hours By inward change be counted, ere it went Years had gone by, and life completely changed. So as we talked, not owning to ourselves The silent growth of love that was to bear At last a poison-flower, a sudden voice Startled us both. I knew it was the Count's, 3 I GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. And in my ear it sounded like a bell That harshly scares us from a happy dream. "Where are you?" cried he. "Oh, the Count!" I said, And started up, and saw him, cold and proud, Turn the green corner of the laurel hedge, And stand before us. With a formal speech He broke the silence, offering excuse That he had stayed away from ius so long, And asking pardon for disturbing us, And then began to talk in stately way Of what in council had been said and done, As if this world were ours; and then, aghast, I saw the chasm those short hours had rent Between his soul and mine. Like some dull noise I heard him talking as we walked along, While all my thoughts were hurrying within Wildly, and in my breast my fluttering heart Was beating like a prisoned bird. At last We reached the house, and to my room I rushed For silence and for solitude. Once there, I fell upon my bed, burst into tears, 32 GINEVRA DA SIENA. And hid my face; for then I saw my fateSaw it rise up before me like a ghost. Thus for a week our life went on: each day The Count, made blind to everything by pride, And by the vanity of ownership, Left us along the garden walks to stroll, Or in the house for hours alone to talk, Not dreaming that his wife could dare to love; And I was fearless too till every sense Had drunk Love's sweet insidious poison in. He was our guest; my husband day by day Bade me be with him,-and no feigned excuseExcuse that was against my will, and yet Feebly put forth, some barrier to rear 'Twixt love and duty-served to ope his eyes. Hie blindly pushed us down that plane whereon Vainly I sought for stay my course to stop. How then resist? Duty is strong like willPassion like madness! I was wrenched away From all that used to hold me; not a hand C 33 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Reached out to save me. Struggling thus alone, If I but heard the Count's stern voice below It seemed to freeze me; all my soul in arms Started against him. Ah! no help was there. Oh! how confess to him, and ask for help? Then all my soul strained out to find a way Back unto peace at least, if not to joy. Glancing at all my life now left behind, What was there to restrain me? Angelo, My darling Angelo! His little arms, Clasped close around my neck, should hold me back From where my life was sweeping rapidly, Yet all without my will. I grasped at this. Alas! it had no strength to save me then. We walk along with such a fearless trust Through unknown dangers; yet our death may lie Within one drop of poison that the ring On a friend's hand may hold. One whispered word May shake the avalanche down upon our head One moment more or less destroy or save. 34 GINEVRA DA SIENA. The whole vast world without, and that within, Turn on a pivot's point, and, jarred from that, Both universes into ruin rush. 'Twas thus with me: before, at least, secure, And if not happy yet without a fear; And now a word, an hour, had changed my life. A word? an hour? Ah, no! for years and years, The train within my being had been laid. Mly cruel disappointments, broken hopes, And crushed desires-a black and ugly mass, WVere powder to a single spark of love; Oh! bid t,zat, touched by fire, not to explode. Yet ah the bliss of loving and the pain! For I had never lived until I loved; Yet evermore a terror'neath the bliss Constrained it, like some fearful undertow, That dimples the smooth river's sunlit brim, To drag the stoutest swimmer down to death. On, on, my thoughts went-there was no return; One backward step no soul can ever take. 35 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. My life thus far had been as dull and dead As a deserted eagle's nest that hangs In the black shadow of an Alpine cliffThe shining saint-like heights too far above, The humble valley's peace too far below. Wild, gusty, furious, with a moment's wrench The hurricane of passion swept me down, And, swirled along by fierce tumultuous thoughts, Torn from the past, the future all unknown, I hovered'twixt the sky and the abyss. Broken in body, spent in soul, at last I gave myself to Fate. Do what thou wilt, I cried, my strength is gone-I yield to thee; Crush me or save me, I can strive no more. Thus all my sudden passion cried in me; But better thoughts at last with time arose. Perhaps, perhaps, I said, he does not love; 'Twas my own heart that shone upon his face. Oh! if it be so, all may yet be safe, And I will hide my secret from his eyes, And only act and speak as friends may do. 36 GINEVRA DA SIENA. Yes, let me struggle for a while, and then, This visit over, I can die alone. Oh, vain, vain, vain! day after day I saw That love consumed his heart as well as mine. Fate set its face against us from the first. Day after day we could not help but meet. All stay, all resolution formed between Our constant meetings, when we met, gave way. We could not dash the cup down from our lips, Despite the poison that we knew it held. He strove to make excuses to depart, But still he lingered; and in constant fear Each that our love might blaze into an act, Or that a word might make our love a crime, Life rushed along in terrible pretence. But oh, how dear for all their pain they were, Those blissful, fearful days! Left all aloneFor every morning went the Count to town, And Guido sometimes would not brook excuseWe ranged the garden'neath the laurel shade; 37 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Or, where the waving trumpet-flowers outstretched Their red tubes, shaken by the buried bees, We sat together, hiding as we could With veil of words the life that glowed beneath. But even the widest circle of our talk, Strive as we would, drew to one centre-love; And there he told me of his early days, And all his early hopes and joys and pains, And painted his ideal of a life: Oh what a life it was!-but not for us. And then upon the pure stream of his voice Such songs of poets slid into my soul; So sad, too, that they brought the brimming tears: And oft like poplars quivering in the breeze We trembled with the joy we dared not own; And oft we started up on some excuse, And left each other when we could not bear Our overburden-I to weep and pray, And he, dear heart, I think, to do the same. One day we talked of rings as there we satOf Cleopatra's she dissolved and drank, 38 GINEVRA DA SIENA. And of Morone's, whence a devil spake. And I by chance upon my finger wore This which I wear for ever now, when he, Taking my hand and looking at this ring"Give it to me," said, jesting; " I will swear I'll ne'er dissolve it Cleopatra-like; 'Tis but a little thing-for friendship's sake Give it to me, and when I look at it I'll hear an angel, not a devil, speak." I answered, bantering, "Shall I give it you To put upon the first fair lady's hand You fall in love with, or to boast to men Here is a trophy? No, Sir Guido, no; You think you'll keep it, but I know you men." "Now Heaven be witness, never shall it leave This hand of mine if you'll but put it there. Shall I make oath? Then hear me, cousin mine: I swear to keep the ring while life shall last; And lest it fall into unworthy hands, Dying I'll send it back to you again. So when it comes without me, pray for me." 39 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. "So serious," answered I; "then take the ring, And we shall see if man can keep his oath." I knew the inward struggle-loved him more The more I saw him fight against his Fate. His acts were only common courtesies, And ne'er a word betrayed what throbbed within. Yet were words wanting? Ah! we read too well The passion burning in each other's face, That would not be concealed howe'er we strove. If but my scarf would touch his hand, a flush Went like a thrill of music o'er his face, And subtle tones transfigured common words. At last, convulsed, in one wild hour he told His desperate love: he flung him at my feet; His heart cried out, "Oh kill me where I lie, Here where I kiss the print your foot has made Upon the grass! Oh, dearer here to die, Knowing you love me, than to weary out The death of life afar from you, my heaven!" Oh God forgive me! but I loved him so, 4o GINEVRA DA SIENA. That honour for an instant's flash went out. All my resolves burst like a broken dam, And "Up!" I wildly cried; "not at my feet, Here on my heart thy place-here on my heart!" Then all was over; once those rash words said, We never more could meet as we had met; Our souls gazed at each other face to face, And saw in that one look that all was lost. Yet do not think that guilt then stained our souls. Guilty) of love we were-of nothing else; But thus to see him in his agony Was worse than death. I could not even say, Go!-for I feared some sudden desperate end. I strove to soothe him-I to soothe him-f Who burned with fiercer flames than martyrs know: uttered bitter comfort-stretched my hand To that poor sufferer burning at my side. And when he cried, "Oh God, forgive me now! And you, Ginevra-oh my fate, my fate!" Though death griped at my heart, and passion's self 4I GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Struggled with duty for my very life, "Patience," I cried, "and God will help us both! Why should we suffer thus who do no wrong?" Then starting up, and pacing to and fro, He madly struck his forehead, crying out, "Oh! were there only something to be done, Not something to be suffered, to be borne." Or bitter accusations of himself He uttered, saying, "I have broken faith Broken my oath to which I swore myself And all is over now. No more dear days, When I at least can see and feel you near. 'Tis over now-ah yes!-all over now. I feel the fire-sword whirling round my head To drive me from you, out of Paradise." "Oh, say not so-we cannot help our love; And though we may not meet as now we meet, A way may yet be shown we cannot see. Now go-oh leave me, Guido, for my heart Is breaking, and there's no more life for me!" I, longing to console his tortured heart, 42 GINEVRA DA SIENA. And scarcely knowing what I meant myself, Uttered these words, and tore myself away. Look at me now-see how I tremble now; Think if the memory can tear me thus, What agony I suffered in that hour. Oh dearest Guido-dearest, dearest heartIt was not sin to love a soul like yours, For you were made to win and wear the best,Not one like me. O cruel, cursed Fate, Wvhy did I ever live beyond that hour! How strange the world looked as I wandered back Into the palace! what a broken heart The nightingale had then, that in the grove Throbbed into song! what spirit-voices sighed And mourned amid the cypresses! how dear The soft blue sky looked, and how peaceful too, As if to soothe me! Even the house looked strange, Like some new place I had not seen before. I walked as in a dream; I could not bear 43 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. The common things-the common speech of life; All that I asked was solitude and tears. For two long weary days I kept my room, Broken in body, sick to death at heart; And as I lay all prostrate on the floor After a sudden agony of tearsOne of those bursts with which the tortured soul Relieves its passion-came a sudden knock; It seemed as Death were knocking at the door. In walked the Count; I started to my feet, I strove to gather my disordered dress, And smooth my face, and wipe away my tears. My soul revolted, and I saw his eye, Dread as a basilisk's, upon me rest; A strange expression, never seen before, Was brandished there. He said, "'Tis very strange Guido is gone, and leaves a note behind, More like a riddle than a note; and you His eyes filled up the gap his speech had left. "Is Guido gone?" I said; I could no more. For as he spoke these words the whole world seemed To slip beneath me-all my world was gone. 44 GINEVRA DA SIENA. Such weight as this upon the suffering heart WAVill show itself, however we may strive; And in an instant all my secret lay Before his gaze, as when a sudden wind Blows wide the closed leaves of a fatal book. He read the page-he never spoke a word, But paused a moment, read it up and down, Then turned and left me, terribly alone. The evening came to that distracting dayThe evening comes at last to every day. Exhausted, in a hopeless lull of life, I watched the burning sunset slowly fade, Till all the clouds from rose had turned to pearl, And in the sky the silver splendour shone Of perfect moonlight; on the shadowy trees The moon looked pitying down, as if it sought To give me consolation from above, And Nature seemed to whisper me, "Come forth." I could not rest, and down the dappled path, Where light and shade their strange mosaic wove, Through the old laurels took my aimless way. 45 GRAFFITI D'ITAI,IA. There, half as in a dream, I wandered on, And, weeping, praying, strove to ease my pain. The laurels murmured, "Ah, we pity you!" The fountain babbled, "Ah, unhappy one!" The nightingale sang out, "My heart, my heart! And all things seemed to weep and pray with me. Hark! did I hear a step upon the grass? Was that a ghost I saw amid the trees? Or Guido's self? or was my brain disturbed? No; in the shadow there was Guido's self; "Oh, heaven!" I cried; "Oh Guido! are you here? Fly fly at once! Oh! wherefore are you here?" He rushed to me-and, oh! that glorious faceSo haggard, worn, and ravaged with its woeHow changed it seemed since I had seen it last! I cried out, "Go!" but all within me strained To clasp him, own him, cling around his neck;I cried out, "Go!" as one in madness cries, "Save me!" and leaps to death in an abyss. A thousand prayers and longings, flinging out Their grasping hands, reached forward after him, 46 GINEVRA DA SIENA. And love, with all its sails blown sudden out, Strained at the cable of my weakened will. "I go-I go!" he cried; "I but returned To kiss again the ground your feet had pressed, To watch your far light in the window shine, To see your wandering shadow there and then Plunge back into my desolated world. But God hath sent you here-He pitied me He saw me grovelling like a tortured worm Crushed in the grass, and reached His hand to me. I see you, hear you, touch you, once againAnd can it only be to say, Adieu?" "Oh, Guido, fly!" I cried, "for I am weak; Fly from me if you love me-I am weak." He stood a moment, wrestling with himself, I gazing at him; then a sudden power Seemed to transform him. "No! I will not go! 'Tis all in vain-I cannot, will not, go! Once I have fled, fleeing from joy, from hope, 47 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. From life, from heaven. Whose hand then drew me back? Who led your footsteps here? Whose hand, I say? Fate gives you me at last! Fate makes you mine!Life is but mockery bereft of you. Fly, fly with me, and in some distant spot, Hid from the world, we may be happy yet." His passion took me as a mighty gale, Crowded with thunder, drives upon the elm, Till all its straining branches groaning cry, And toss their helpless turbulence of leaves, And fall at last in one despairing crash; So, bearing down resolve, and blowing wild All my disordered thoughts, his passion came. Defenceless —weakened, both in strength and willAgainst this new arousing from within, Against this new appealing from without, Vain was resistance: I was in his arms! He seemed to hold me there by heaven's own right. The world was for a moment all forgotThe world! I had the world there in my arms! 48 GINEVRA DA SIENA. Nothing then seemed so right, so pure, as love. Yes, I was his, irrevocably hisCome heaven, come hell, irrevocably his! 'Twas but a moment's madness seized me thenA blank of reason such as comes to one Who, clinging for his life to some sheer cliff, Feels his strength going and his senses swim, And death come swooping down, and longs to drop And end it all: so, for a mnioment's space, I swooned; and then God's voice within me cried "No!" and uprising, and beneath my feet, Trampling rmy love, with gesture stern and quick I pushed the dearest thing in life away. I know not whence I got the strength I had: Some hand —whose hand but God's?-uplifted me. From duty's height I saw the war below Of my own passions as they were not mine. "Oh, Guido, shame!" I cried; "I am not yoursYou mine-but only as we both are God's." That was a height to die on-but I lived; Death always comes too early or too late. D 49 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Life had its claims for penance-so I lived; Nor will I murmur more-perhaps'tis just. Those words of mine, like an electric flash, Broke the strained storm of madness in his sky, And the great shadow and the rain came downShadow as of despair,-yet nobler far, Dearer in his despair than in his pride. The prayers he uttered for forgiveness then Were worst of all to bear, -I hear them still Ring in my ears; that face of his I see Streaming with tears; and those contorted hands, Grasping the air, or torturing themselves, Or wildly flung to heaven, still implore Our dear Madonna's blessing on my headWhat are so terrible as manhood's tears? At last we parted-Heaven alone knows howAnd all was over; I was left aloneAlone? I never more could be alone. The owl screamed near us in the cypress-tree. Half-dead, I saw him go as in a dream, 50 GINEVRA DA SIENA. And heard his footsteps down the gravel die. The gate swung with a clang-" My God! my God! Help me!" I moaned; only the owl replied. I dropped upon the seat-I hid my face Within my hands; all, all the world seemed gone. I longed to rise and call him back again, But my feet failed me. There I sat alone, Like him, half-marble, in the Arabian tale, Charmed by foul magic, when a distant sound Smote on my ears. It was the clash of steel. I started up, with sudden terror fired, And towards the gate I rushed. My flying feet Grating upon the gravel hushed the sound. I stopped to listen; there it was againAnd voices, too-oh, Heaven! Again I fled; Again I only heard my grating steps. I gained the gate-I listened-all was still. The moon broke out behind a cloud, and smote The pale broad palace front, where nothing stirred; Only the tall dark cypresses made moan, And the hoar olives seemed like ghosts to flee 5 I GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Across the hillside, where a whisper ran "'Twas but his sword that jangled on the ground," I said; "for see, how all is hushed to rest! Poor heart of mine, that trembles at a breath, Be calm again, and cast your fear away. But ah! the wretched days before we meetThe sunless days-yet we shall meet again." The far-off bell upon the Campo tower Struck twelve as up the terrace-steps I went: I paused to soothe me with the landscape there. The shadowy earth was turning in its sleep, And winds were whispering over it like dreams; The luminous sky was listening overhead With its full moon, and few great throbbing stars One drowsing like a sick man, sad and dark; One watching like a spirit, pure and bright. All the damp shadow clinging to the ground, Shook, with innumerable tiny bells, Rung by the grilli. In the distant pools Frogs trilled and gurgled; every now and then The plaintive hooting of the owl was heard 52 GINEVRA DA SIENA. Calling her owlets'mid the cypresses; Near by, the fountain spilled, and far away The contadino's watchdog bayed and barked;Yet all these sounds were soothed and harmonised By night's weird hand; and as I listening stood, Leaning against the columned balustrade, By aloe vases crowned, my turbulent thoughts Were calmed-I looked into the sky, and prayed. The Count not yet returned? Then all is safe. I took my lamp, and up the marble stairs My heart jarred to the echoes of my feet; A swinging shutter down the corridor So startled me, I nearly dropped the light. Was I possessed? Almost it seemed to me As if a spirit wandered in my room. I could not feel alone there; through my hair Ran shudders, and a creeping o'er my flesh. I searched the room, but there was nothing there. My silk dress as it rustled on the chair Scared me; the creeping curtain scared me too, And, daring not to move a hand or foot, 53 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. I listened trembling. There was nothing there, Unless it was a ghost I could not see. My nerves were all ajar-the buzzing flies I could not bear; but worse than all, the sense Of something-some one-there within my room. My lamp extinguished, into bed I crept, And hid me'neath the sheets, and wept such tears, And prayed such prayers, as desperate creatures pray. All night the Count returned not to his room; No step I heard, though long I lay awake. 'Twas strange-'twas not his wont. What could it mean? Troubled and overworn, at last I slept, Haunted by dreams that ran in dreadful ruts With weary sameness through my aching brain. The morning came-the Count was absent still. Haunted by vague and agitating fears, I waited almost as one waits for death; And after torturing hours, that seemed like years To my strained sense, I heard a step. The door 54 GINEVRA DA SIENA. Turned on its hinges, and there stood the Count: A cold false smile was on his lips; his look Was strangely calm-not real. Those hard eyes Betrayed a purpose that belied the lipsBelied the courtesy so overstrained. "I fear you did not look for me," he said; "Nor have I tidings that can give you joy. I came a sacred promise to fulfilOne I could not refuse; and, as you know, All promises are sacred that I make. I promised Guido in your hands to place This, which he took from you, and now returns." Saying these words, he on the table laid My ring- the ring that I to Guido gave. Oh what an awful light was in his eyes! Oh what a devil's smile was on his lips! As there he stood, still as a marble man. My heart stopped beating, numbed by hideous fearThere was a silence terrible as death: The terror stunned me, and I could not speak. Speak!-no, I could not feel. There was no sense 55 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. In anything; my very blood was ice. I could not tell an instant if'twere he, My husband, standing there-or if'twere I Who stood before him. Then I reeled and fellI did not swoon; I dropped into my chair Like one knocked down with an invisible blow. He moved not; but an instant after said, Slowly-his words like to the first great drops That tell the storm is coming, forced between His thin white lips-" Your cousin, madam,'s gone; That ring he sent; he said you'd understand." "Oh God! God! God!" I cried, "it is not true! What do you mean by gone?-speak, speak to me! Say'tis but a dream-oh, tell me'tis a jest; Oh yes, it is a jest, or you'd not smile." '-Jest! Do I look, then, like a jesting man? Madam, your lover, after your last kiss, Wiped my dishonour out with his heart's blood. He knew the wrong he did-saw for us two, After such scene as that of yesternight 56 GINEVRA DA SIENA. The world was narrow; so he bravely fell To expiate the cruel wrong he did." "Dead! dead! oh God! oh Guido!-oh my God!" Something like this I shrieked, and moaned and fell. Slowly at last, and after hours, returned My scattered senses; and long days went byEternities of utter reckless woe; With bursts of agony and burning tears, And daring hopes that all might be a lie, Mingled with prayers, half-raving, after death. I almost looked on God, who sent the sun, As heartless. Why should flowers and blossoms grow? Why should all nature look so bright and fair, And birds be singing, and the world be gay, Except to mock me with its happiness? Then came as strong revulsions; ne'er before Knew I what wickedness was in my heart. In the excited tumult of my brain I could not see the right-I felt the wrong; The great black hand of death before my eyes 57 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Darkened my conscience. Oh such savage thoughts As then roused up and ravaged in the dark I could not calm myself to right resolve; Forgiveness seemed impossible to reachStarlike; but vengeance like a devil stood And offered me its sword, and tempted me, And would not let me hear the angel's voice; But still that-sweet persistent voice within Kept calling, till it conquered all at last. I would forgive and crave forgiveness too. So governing the wild and cruel thoughts That growled for vengeance, I awaited him. At last he came; cold, stem, and dignified, That mask of honour came into my room. "Well, sir," I said, "you see me broken, crushed, Ruined-a helpless, wretched, tortured thing. If I have been imprudent, heedless, wrongFor so I was-you are at least avenged: Your foot has trodden on my erring heart, As if I were a worm upon your path. 58 GINEVRA DA SIENA. See how it writhes! Oh, sir! are you content? May God forgive you for your cruel wrong, And help me in my struggles to forgive." "Forgiveness! wrong! Your choice of terms is strange. J crave forgiveness? Let that task be yours; Ask it upon your knees of God and me. Wrong? There's no wrong but what belongs to you. Though I regret what honour made me do, I did my duty; had you done but yours, All would be smooth and happy as it was." "Happy! oh when was happiness for me, Or when again shall happiness be mine? Happy? Where's Guido? Tell me that he lives; You could not speak of happiness to me, If you had killed him for a fault of mine. Say'twas a jest you used to frighten meSay this, and I will never see him more. Oh, I will do my duty with a smile, Bless you, and crave forgiveness-do your will, And fetch and carry for you like a dog." 59 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. "Your duty! Yes, I think you will indeed; I shall take heed of that. Not see him more? For that, too, my security is good,I am not used to do my work by halves." Then the desire of death-my love-his bloodThe pride and cruel calmness of the CountThe taunting smile with which he looked at me, Roused all the evil passions I had quelled. All things will turn when tortured, and I cried, "Oh, kill me then, too, with the self-same sword! Oh how I scorn you! let your passion speak! I loved him-loved him-loved him, do you hear? Out with your sword if you have any heart! Kill me in pity, since you've murdered him." "Murdered! no, hand to hand and point to point, ATith every chance, he fell; he owned his wrong. There lives no man in whom a single spark Of honour burns, that had not done as I; I gave him every chance-he lost, and fell." 6o GINEVRA DA SIENA. "I say I loved him better than my life."' "For that I killed him. He will love no more." "He loves me still, -above as I below. Oh, I am his, he mine, beyond your powerYou do but part us for a little space; And in the future, after life is o'er, My soul shall rush to clasp him closer there, Than could my human arms when here on earth." "Ginevra! do you heed the words you use? You dared not more than let him speak of love? Silent? You leave me then to think the worst." "Think what you choose -do what you choose —I loathe Alike your foul thoughts and your cruel act." "Then my name's blasted and my honour stained, And I have blazoned it to all the world." "Your name, your honour stained! Ay, so it is! 6I GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. But not by me, not by my guiltless loveGuiltless, though fatal. Not a thought for mine Held back your hand. Blindly, through Guido's life, My honour too you struck at, blazoning To the wide world that ours was guilty love." "I would to God that none of this had been!" "Nor had it ever been, except for you. You bound the life of Guido unto mine; You brought him here, you tempted both of us, And now affect surprise to find we loved. Careless of others, centred in yourself, You could not claim a love you never gave. What debt beyond allegiance did I owe?" "What have you ever asked that was not given? My wealth, my name, my rank, my house, were yours, And in return you stain my ancient name, For all the world to point its finger at. A husband's duty I at least have doneAnd honestly, I think. Have you a wife's?" 62 GINEVRA DA SIENA. "I have done all I could. O pity me, And do not urge a desperate creature on. Think what I suffer. Pity and forgive. I own my fault-I ask you to forgive. I was not all to blame; you, too, must bear A portion of the wrong-at least be just." " What was my fault?-what portion of the wrong? Be just, you say. Of course I shall be just." "For this, at least, you were to blame: you swore To love, to honour, and to cherish me For all my life. How did you keep your oath? You left me all defenceless to be prey To solitude, to idleness, to chance. What have I asked, you say, that was not given? Love, love-'twas that I craved; not title, wealth, Or name, but daily acts of tenderness. God knows how long I strove, how earnestly, To patch with duty the great gap of love. It would not do; my nature yearned for more. Well! give a starving wretch upon a wreck 63 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. A golden florin when he cries for bread! Wrill it suffice? No;'tis mere mockery. And so were all your vaunted gifts-no flower In the chill ruin of my hopes you left; By heartless duties, dull routine, you froze My eager nature;-Sudden, like the breath Of southern spring, with all its roses in it, Love breathed across me-all my life broke up Like some great river's ice at touch of spring, And I was borne in one great burst away." "Fine phrases-pretty pictures-nothing morel And did no thought of honour hold you back?" "Honour! ah, honour! wretched mud-built dam! Could that avail to stem the swollen stream? Acts, yes-but nothing else. If I was stunned, Aghast, to feel the formless dreams of love Take passion's tyrannous and threatening shape, What help was there? Oh no, you cannot see! As well the stagnant pool, all creamed with green, Sees why the torrent, shaking its white spray, 64 GINEVRA DA SIENA. And mad with all the tumult of its course, Can pause not on the brink of the abyss. Who put temptation in my very path? You-you who should have held me-dragged me down. What right had you to leave me to such chance?" " It was a fault, I see-it was a fault. But who could think you such a worthless thing As take the first fair apple Satan gave? Curse, curse the hour, oh woman, when you did! His blood is on your hands, and not on mine; WVipe it away, then, if you can, with words. You knew the path you trod led straight to death. You ventured all-your fame-my name-his lifeFor what?-to satisfy a moment's whim. You, like a child that sees a pretty flower That's caught a holding down a precipice, Dared everything to wear it on your breast. Your foot slipped-why, of course, of course it slipped, Weak woman-brain-and down to death you went. Go, wet his grave now with your idle tears; Will they bring back the life you sacrificed?" E 65 GRAFFITI D ITALIA. "Oh, had you loved me this had never been! I sought a flower?-I sought it for a whim?Ah, no! Love tempted with a ripe, rare fruit, A starving creature, who refused the gift, And laid her down to die for honour's sake. I did refuse it-yes, you know I did. Nay, look not on me with that devil's smile; It makes me almost hate you. Not alone 'Tis love you lack, but pity, but remorse, But conscience! Never shall that hand again, Stained by his blood, touch mine-'tis widowed now. Nay, play not with your poniard,-out with it! Strike! there's no thing that wants its death so much. Strike! here I stand. Strike as you struck at him! Strike, soul of honour! Ah! you calculateYour cold blood cannot stir. I see your eyesThey are arranging. No, it will not do To trust an impulse-you must think it out. Oh be a man for once, and dare to strike!" I know I touched him-touched him to the quick; I saw it in the twitching of his hands: 66 GINEVRA DA SIENA. Yet there he stood, with his contemptuous smile That maddened every feeling. All at once A sudden cord within my brain gave way; The pulse's hammers in my temples beat. The last thing that I saw was his black eyesI see them still; then with a cymbal's clash The sunlight shattered to a myriad sparks; And what became of me, God only knows. When to my senses I again returned, I felt myself borne rapidly along In a horse-litter. To my brain confused All the last scene came back again to me; For every word had burned into my soul, But not as aught that really had been, Only an ugly, wild, and hideous dream; And mixed with it a thousand horrid thoughts, That seemed as real as the actual were. I tore the curtains open, and looked out; I asked no question-for, had I been dead, I had not cared less what they did with me; 67 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Life had gone by-'twas just the same as death When on the floor I fainted. Now I woke Into a kind of life that was not mine: The night itself was weird, like all my thoughts; Strange clouds piled wildly all along the sky, And, hurrying to and fro, shut out its light. The earth was swallowed up in heavy dark; Low thunder growled; at sudden fits the sky Winked with white lightnings'neath the black low brows Of clouds along the horizon, and glared out Across the world, and showed the trembling trees Ghastly against it; then the black again Swallowed the world up, and I heard great drops Beat on the leaves. From one low threatening cloud, That rose to meet us, leaped out suddenly A crinkled snake of fire, then darted in; And thunder trampled with tumultuous roar: Or was it rather that the angel flashed His sword of jagged fire that drove me out From Paradise, and God's dread voice I heard Behind the cloud to threaten my lost soul? 68 GINEVRA DA SIENA. All worn and weak, and shattered in my nerves, I could not bear the sight; and back I fell, Only half-conscious; and I seemed to feel The horse's hoofs keep beating on my brain; And now and then a startling thunder-peal. All sense of time was gone. At last I slept, Or swooned-for all things faded into blank. Wvhat happened afterwards I do not know: What first I saw, when any sense came back, Were these four walls, and my old Rosa's face Looking on mine with pity as she bent Above my pillow, and I heard her say, "Oh blessed Virgin!-see, she wakes at last!" From that day fornvard, now for ten long years, Here is my prison; here the sad sun shines, But never shines for me a loving smile. His face, that would have made the dreariest spot A paradise, has gone beyond the world; And he that spared my life and crushed my heart, Since that last day has never looked on me. 69 GRAFFITI D ITALIA. This is his vengeance-he has hid me here, Beyond all hope of change, to waste away, Unloved, uncared for, like an outcast thing, To suck the fever's pestilential air, And see the sad Maremma's lonely waste, And hear the beating of the restless sea; While in its marsh of drear monotony, Life breeds its poison-thoughts, and wastes, and rots. Ah death: death! death! how have I prayed for you! You take the happy, fold them in your arms, And kiss them to the slumber of the blest; But from my path in scorn you turn aside. Oh! think what years they've buried me alive In this drear villa all alone, alone; Long days alone-long, long black nights alone; And I was never over-brave, you know. Imprisoned with the recollected past, Without a future, weak with illness too, I grew to fear my very self (what more 70 GINEVRA DA SIENA. Is there on earth to fear?) My eyes looked strange In these blear mirrors. Through the noiseless night Often I lay and shuddered in the blank Dead waste of darkness, while my great square room Seemed like a shadowy tomb to shut me in; And all the darkness weighed on me like death. Then, straining out into the empty void, My eyes made globes of pale electric fire, That swelled and faded into globes of black, And hours I used to watch them come and go. Nor was it better, when the sad-faced moon Mocked at me in its far-off silentness. Daylight at times was worse: the blazing sun Flashed on the sea that shook its burning plates, And through the shutters' slightest chink peered in To crawl and quiver on the ceiling there. Hide as I would, I felt the fierce white noon Seethe round the house and eat into my room, In busy silence prying to and fro As if in search of me. All was so still, Despite the shrill cicale's saw without, And maddening burring buzz of flies within. 7I GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Even the melancholy wash of waves Broke not the silence-nor the voiceless pines, That always whispered though the breezes slept. Only my echoing feet in the great hall, As to and fro I paced, broke the dead calm. And thus the dreary weary days passed byNo duty to be done, no life to live; For surely what I lived was never life. Was it, then, strange I lost my head at last? But that is over now, and passed away; 'Tis only when the fever comes, my thoughts Dance to discordant music. Then at times They seem to gather to a single point, And, widening, whirl and whirl with buzz and din Till all the world swarms like a spinning mass, And down, down, down, as in a maelstrom's cone, My spirit, worn with struggle, madly goes, Like a lost ship, and all becomes a blank. Thus, helpless, down the vortex borne I reel, Until, the fever gone, a wretched wreck Flung out I find me on the shores of life. 72 GINEVRA DA SIENA. Ah! dearest, Joy unto the spirit is What light is to the flowers-no colour else. Joy is the voice of Good the voice of God; And when my heart was barren of all joy, It sicklied like a plant derived of light. I have been mad-who would not have been mad?And hideous visions have obscured my soul. Long time some dreadful thing I had to hideSome vague and dreadful thing, without a name. Here in the walls it lived and peeped at me; Long lonely nights kept whispering at my blinds, Leaped out of flowers when I had gathered them, And placed them on my bosom; with its laugh Scared the still noon, and would not let me rest. That went at last, though sometimes it returns; And though I know'tis all a hideous dream, Yet through my tangled thoughts so long it trod, It wore a track there that will never go. And for a moment often it returns, And I seem mad because I speak of it; 73 GRAFFITI D ITALIA. But do not think I'm mad, or not more mad Than any human creature kept so long In this wild place alone, and with such things. Wlhen all is dark, on dismal gusty nights, Ghosts wander all around this lonely house, And smothered groans and stifled shrieks I hear, That mingle with the beating of the sea. Sometimes the giant rafters creak and strain, And overhead there rush tumultuous feet, Or slow and heavy steps, with clank of spurs, Stride nearer, nearer up the sounding stairs, Till, wild with fear, I see the shaking door Swing open slowly on its creaking hinge, To let some ghastly unseen horror in. But most I dread to pass that banquet-hall, VWhlere rotting cobwebs flaunt their dusky flags From its black beams-or up the chimney suck, When through its sooty throat the tempest roars; For then fierce spirits seem to hold carouse, And with their hideous revelry and laugh Jar the loose windows; and the shields and swords 74 GINEVRA DA SIENA. Clang on the walls as if they longed for blood. All this, you'll say, is fancy. Live here, then, Through the drear winter all alone, alone, With these wild terrors grasping after you. Oh God! we were not made to live aloneWAe all go mad if we are left alone. My child, too. Ah, my little Angelo! Where are you now?-Oh, tell me where he is! That little rosy face that hid itself Around my neck with both hands clasping it. Oh, such long years since I have felt those hands! How cruel, cruel, from my arms to tear The only thing he gave me that I loved! How many nights I've dreamed that he was here; How many mornings waked, and wept, and wailed To find me here alone-more desolate For the sweet dream that came and went at will. He has grown up to boyhood now, I know. He has forgotten me-my name's a word Banned to his lips-he knows not that I live; Yet in my memory how'alive he is, 75 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. A baby blessing-with those four white teeth Gleaming beneath the little sudden smile, The dimpled elbows and the rosy feet Never at rest-the unformed chirping words Like a bird's language-all the many ways With which he crept into my very heart. Oh!'twas a cruel act, a wicked act, To tear him from me. How has he grown up Without a mother's love? Oh, justice, Count!Your justice-did it soothe his little cries? He has your name, but not, I pray, your heart. One drop of love is worth a well of pride. Why should I cling to life? A hundred times I've pressed this dagger to my throbbing heartA hundred times I have not dared to strike; And yet how blest a thing were death to me! I think at last my time is drawing near. Ah, heaven! I hope'tis drawing near at last, I have so suffered. Even he would strike That sword of his in justice to my heart. 76 GINEVRA DA SIENA. He would relent, I think-I hope he wouldCould he but see me now; even he to whom Mercy is slow to whisper, would forgive. Justice so strained is vengeance, nothing moreAll has so changed, and I was wrong, I know. Yet no! What do I say? he, he forgive? Never! They only can forgive who love. He knows not pity for an erring heart. Justice and honour:-these two are his gods; To them alone his sacrifice is given. Why do I rail at him? Do I forgive? Am I so free from blot? Was I all right? Ah no! we both were wrong, we all were wrong! In these long days reviewing all the past I know and feel how very wrong we were. I plainly see (the passion cleared away) No fit excuse for Guido and for me. Tempted we were beyond our human power; But after marriage-vows, if love come in, Its torture we must own and bear like death. My punishment is just-his too, perhaps; 77 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. But man is not to blame as woman is. Mine was the greater fault: I led him on, He loved me so; and he was all alone. I should have checked his love when it began; I should have bade him go, and turned my thoughts To household duties; but I played with fire, And mine the fault that both were sacrificed. The Count was not so wrong as then he seemed; And from his view his deed was justified. And he has suffered too-and I forgiveYes, as I need forgiveness, I forgive. And so I pray for all, even for the Count; And, looking forward, fix my eyes above, To meet my Guido when this life is past. WVhat matters it?-a few short years, or months, Or weeks, perhaps-or even a few more daysAnd I shall be with him, where love's no crime, And God, who sees the heart, will pity me. Oh, yes! God's law is tenderer than man's. He is not only just-but pity too, 78 GINEVRA DA SIENA. And love, unbounded love, He has for all; And He will make all smooth and right at last. So let me weep upon your breast, dear friendMy only solace for these long long years. God will remember you for this-His arm Is long-His memory will never fail; And He will make all smooth and right at last. 79 PADRE BANDELLI PROSES TO THE DUKE LUDOVICO SFORZA ABOUT LEONARDO DA VINCI. Two steps, your Highness-let me go before, And let some light down this dark corridorSer Leonardo keeps the only key To the main entrance here so jealously, That we must creep in at this secret door If we his great Cenacolo would see. The work shows talent-that I must confess; The heads, too, are expressive, every one; But, with his idling and fastidiousness, I fear his picture never will be done. PADRE BANDELLI. I pray your Highness' pardon for my zealWere it for sake of us poor Frati here, Despite the inconvenience we must feel, Kept out from our refectory now a year And eight long months (though that, of course, for us Whose lives to mortify the flesh are vowed, Even to mention seems ridiculous)Were it for us alone, we all had bowed; But when we see your Highness set at nought, Who ordered this great picture to be wrought, We cannot rest content, for well we know What duty to our gracious prince we owe. And I, the unworthy prior here-(God knows How much I feel my own unworthiness, But Hie hath power the meanest hand to bless; And if our convent prospereth in aught, Not mine, but Hais, the praise, who all bestows) But being the prior and the head, and so Charged to your interests and theirs, I thought My duty-an unpleasant one, in soothWas simply to acquaint you with the truth, F 8i GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. And pray your Highness with your eyes to see How things go on in our refectory; And then your Highness only has to say Unto this painter-" Sir, no more delay!" And all is done, for you he must obey. 'Tis twenty months since first upon the wall This Leonardo smoothed his plaster-then He spent two months ere he began to scrawl His figures, which were scarcely outlined, when Some new fit seized him, and he spoilt them all. As he began the first month that he came, So he went on, month after month the same. At times, when he had worked from morn to night For weeks and weeks on some apostle's head, In one hour, as it were from sudden spite, He'd wipe it out. When I remonstrated, Saying, "Ser Leonardo, you erase More than you leave-that's not the way to paint; Before you finish we shall all be dead;" Smiling he turns (he has a pleasant face, Though he would try the patience of a saint 82 PADRE BANDELLI. With all his wilful ways), and calmly said, "I wiped it out, because it was not right; I wish it had been, for your sake, no less Than for this pious convent's; and indeed, The simple truth, good Padre, to confess, I've not the least objection to succeed: But I must please myself as well as you, Since I must answer for the work I do." There was St John's head, that I verily thought He'd never finish. Twenty times at least I thought it done, but still he wrought and wrought, Defaced, remade, until at last he ceased To work at all-went off and locked the doorWas gone three days-then came and sat before The picture full an hour-then calmly rose And scratched out in a trice the mouth and nose. This is sheer folly, as it seems to me, Or worse than folly. Does your Highness pay A certain sum to him for every day? If so, the reason's very clear to see. No? Then his brain is touched, assuredly. 83 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. At last, however, as you see,'tis done All but our Lord's head, and the Judas there. A month ago he finished the St John, And has not touched it since, that I'm aware; And now, he neither seems to think or care About the rest, but wanders up and down The cloistered gallery in his long dark gown, Picking the black stones out to step upon; Or through the garden paces listlessly With eyes fixed on the ground, hour after hour, While now and then he stoops and picks a flower, And smells it, as it were, abstractedly. What he is doing is a plague to me! Sometimes he stands before yon orange-pot, His hands behind him, just as if he saw Some curious thing upon its leaves, and then, With a quick glance, as if a sudden thought Had struck his mind, there, standing on the spot, He takes a little tablet out to draw, Then, muttering to himself, walks on agen. He is the very oddest man of men! 84 PADRE BANDELLI. Brother Anselmo tells me that the book ('Twas left by chance upon the bench one day, And in its leaves our brother got a look) Is scribbled over with all sorts of things, Notes about colours, how to mix and lay, With plans of flying figures, frames for wings, Caricatures and forts and scaffoldings, The skeletons of men and beasts and birds, Engines, and cabalistic signs and words, Some written backwards, notes of music, lyres, And wheels with boilers under them and fires, A sort of lute made of a horse's skull, Sonnets, and other idle scraps of rhyme, Of things like this the book was scribbled full. I pray your Highness, now, is this the way, Instead of painting every day all day, For him to trifle with our precious time? Ah! there he is now-Would your Highness look Behind that pillar in the furthest nook, That is his velvet cap and flowing robe. 85 GRAFFITI D ITALIA. See how he pulls his beard, as up and down He seems to count the stones he treads upon! 'Twould irk the patience of the good man Job To see him idling thus his time away, As if our Lord and Judas both were done, And there was nought to do but muse and stray Along the cloisters. May I dare to pray Your Highness would vouchsafe one word to say; For when I speak he only answers me, "Padre Bandelli, go and say your massThat's what you understand-and let me pass; I am not idle, though I seem to be." "Not idle! then I'm nothing but an ass." Thus once I spoke, for he annoyed me so; At which he answered, smiling, "Oh no, no! Padre, you're very wise, as all men know." I mention this to show what pleasant ways This painter has, and not that I the praise Accepted as at all deserved by me. God save us from vain pride, and help us through Our daily work in due humility! Not mine the praise for what I have, for He 86 PADRE BANDELLI. Hath given all! So I began anew: "Not idle! Well, I know not what you do! You do not paint our picture, that I see." To which he said, "A picture is not wrought By hands alone, good Padre, but by thought. In the interior life it first must start, And grow to form and colour in the soul; There once conceived and rounded to a whole, The rest is but the handicraft of art. While I seem idle, then my soul creates; While I am painting, then my hand translates." Now this, I say, is nonsense, sheer enough, Or else a metaphysical excuse For idleness, and he should not abuse Your Highness by this sort of canting stuff. Look at him, sauntering there in his long dress If he is working, what is idleness? Not there, your Highness,-on the other side Our painter's walking; he you look at now Is a poor brother, pious, void of pride, Who there performs a penitential vow. 87 10 GRAFFITI D ITALIA. He, like Ser Leonardo, does not stroll Idly, but as he walks recites his prayers, And reads his breviary; and he wears A haircloth'neath his serge to save his soul. Ah! weak is man, he falls in many snares; And we with prayer must work, would we control Those idle thoughts where Satan sows his tares. But, as I was observing, there have passed Some twenty long and weary months since he First turned us out of our refectory, And who knows how much longer this may last? Yet if our painter worked there steadily, I could say nothing; but the work stands still, While he goes idling round the cloisters' shade. Pleasant enough for him-but is he paid For idle dreaming thoughts, or work and skill? I crave your pardon; if I speak amiss, Your Highness will, I hope, allowance make' That I have spoken for your Highness' sake, And not that us it inconveniences, 88 PADRE BANDELLI. Although it is a scandal to us all To see this picture half-done on the wall. A word from your most gracious lips, I feel, Would greatly quicken Ser Leonardo's zeal, And we should soon see o'er our daily board, The Judas finished, and our blessed Lord. But he approaches, in his hand the book; Into its pages should your Highness look, They would amuse you by their strange devices. Your gracious presence now he recognises; That smile and bow and lifted cap I see, Are for his Prince and Patron, not for me. 89 LEONARDO DA VINCI POETISES TO THE DUKE IN HIS OWN DEFENCE. PADRE BANDELLI, then, complains of me Because, forsooth, I have not drawn a line Upon the Saviour's head; perhaps, then, he Could without trouble paint that head divine. But think, oh Signor Duca, what should be The pure perfection of our Saviour's face What sorrowing majesty, what noble grace, At that dread moment when He brake the bread, And those submissive words of pathos said, '" By one among you I shall be betrayed," And say if'tis an easy task to find, Even among the best that walk this earth, LEONARDO DA VINCI. The fitting type of that divinest worth, That has its image solely in the mind. Vainly my pencil struggles to express The sorrowing grandeur of such holiness. In patient thought, in ever-seeking prayer, I strive to shape that glorious face within, But the soul's mirror, dulled and dimmed by sin, Reflects not yet the perfect image there. Can the hand do before the soul has wrought? Is not our art the servant of our thought? And Judas, too,-the basest face I see Will not contain his utter infamy; Among the dregs and offal of mankind, Vainly I seek an utter wretch to find. He who for thirty silver coins would sell His Lord, must be the Devil's miracle. Padre Bandelli thinks it easy is To find the type of him who with a kiss Betrayed his Lord. Well, what I can I'll do; And if it please his reverence and you, For Judas' face I'm willing to paint his. 9I GRAFFITI D ITALIA. Padre Bandelli is a sort of man, Joking apart, whose little round of thought Is like his life, the measure of a span. He knows and does the duties he is taught,Prays, preaches, eats, and sleeps in dull content; Does the day's work, and deems it excellent; Says he's a sinner, but we're sinners all, And puts his own sin down to Adam's fall. Christ, at the last day, others may reject,Poor painters, or great dukes with their state cares; But that, with all his masses, fasts, and prayers, A convent's prior should not be elect, Padre Bandelli has not half a doubt'Twere a strange heaven, indeed, with him left out. Him the imagination does not tease With hungry cravings, restless impulses; Him no despairing days the Furies bring, No torturing doubts, no anxious questioning; But day by day his ordered time is spent, In doing over the same things again. How should he know the artist's inward strain, His vexing and fastidious discontent? 92 LEONARDO DA VINCI. Art he considers as a sort of trade, Like laying bricks: If one can lay a yard In one good hour, how can it be so hard In two good hours, that two yards should be laid? But, Signor Duca, you can apprehend The artist's soul-how there is ne'er an end Of climbing fancies, longings, and desires, That burn within him like consuming fires; How, beaten to and fro by joy and pain, He grasps at shadows he can ne'er retain. How sweet and fair the inward vision gleams I How dull and base the painted copy seems! Ie are like Danaus' daughters-all in vain We strive to fill our vases. Human art Through myriad leaks lets out the spirit's part, And nothing but the earthy dregs remain. But who can force the spirit to conceive? Its lofty empire is above our will: Trained though we be, we only can fulfil Its orders, and a joyous welcome give. 93 GRAFFITI D ITALIA. Oft when the music waits, the room is decked, And hope looks out from the expectant breast, Vainly we wait to greet the invited guest. Oft when its presence least our souls expect, Sudden, unsunimoned, there it stands, as Eve Stood before Adam,-as in twilight sky The first young star-half joy, half mystery. The wilful work built by the conscious brain Is but the humble handicraft of art; It has its growth in toil, its birth in pain. The Imagination, silent and apart Above the Will, beyond the conscious eye, Fashions in joyous ease and as in play Its fine creations,-mixing up alway The real and the ideal, heaven and earth, Darkness and sunshine; and then, pushing forth Sudden upon our world of consciousness Its world of wonder, leaves to us the stress, By patient art, to copy its pure grace, And catch the perfect features of its face. 94 I,EONARDO DA VINCI. From hand to spirit must the human chain Be closely linked, and thence to the divine Stretch up, through feeling, its electric line, To draw heaven down, or all our art is vain. For in its loftiest mood the soul obeys A higher power that shapes our thoughts, and sways Their motions, when by love and strong desire We are uplifted. From a source unknown The power descends-with its ethereal fire Inflames us-not possessing but possessed We do its bidding; but we do not own The grace that in those happy hours is given, More than its strings the music of the lyreMore than the shower the rainbow lent by heaven. Nature and man are only organ-keysMere soundless pipes-despite our vaunted skill Till, with its breath, the power above us fill The stops, and touch us to. its harmonies. Oh Signor Duca, as the woman bears Her child, not in a moment nor a day, 95 GRAFFITI D ITALIA. So doth the soul the germ that God doth lay Within it, with as many pains and cares. From the whole being it absorbs and draws Its form and life-on all we are and see It feeds by subtle sympathetic laws; Each sense it stirs, it fires each faculty To hunt the outer world, and thence to seize Food for assimilation. By degrees Perfect it grows at last in every part, And then is born into the world of art. In facile natures fancies quickly grow, But such quick fancies have but little root. Soon the narcissus flowers and dies, but slow The tree whose blossoms shall mature to fruit. Grace is a moment's happy feeling, Power A life's slow growth; and we for many an hour Must strain and toil, and wait and weep, if we The perfect fruit of all we are would see. Therefore I wait. Within my earnest thought For years upon this picture I have wrought, 96 LEONARDO DA VINCI. Yet still it is not ripe; I dare not paint Till all is ordered and matured within. Hand-work and head-work have an earthly taint, But when the soul commands I shall begin. On themes like these I should not dare to dwell With our good Prior-they to him would be Mere nonsense; he must touch and taste and see; And facts, he says, are never mystical. Now, the fact is, our worthy Prior says, The convent is annoyed by my delays; Nor can he see why I for hours and days Should muse and dream and idle here around. I have not made a face he has not found Quite good enough before it was half-done. "Don't bother more," he says, "let it alone." What can one say to such a connoisseur? How could a Prior and a critic err? But, not to be more tedious, I confess I am disturbed to think I so distress G 97 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. The worthy Prior. Yet'twere wholly vain To him an artist's feelings to explain; But, Signor Duca, you will understand, And so I treat on higher themes with you. The work you order I shall strive to do With all my soul, not merely with my hand. 98 RADI COFANI. "Quivi era l'Aretin che dalle braccia Fiere di Ghin di Tacco ebbe la morte." I. THIS is a barren, desolate scene, Grim and grey, with scarce a tree, Gashed with many a wild ravine Far away as the eye can see; Ne'er a home for miles to be found, Save where huddled on some grim peak A village clinging in fear looks round Over the country vast and bleak, As if it had fled from the lower ground, Refuge from horrors there to seek. GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. II. Over the spare and furzy soil With never a waving grain-field sowed, Raggedly winds with weary toil The shining band of dusty road, — Down through the river's rocky bed, That is white and dry with summer's drought, Or climbing some sandy hillock's head, Over and under, in and out, Like a struggling thing by madness led, That wanders along in fear and doubt. III. What are those spots on yon sandy slope Where the green is frayed and tattered with grey? Are they only rocks-or sheep that crop The meagre pasture?-one scarce can say. This seems not a place for flowers-but behold! How the lupine spreads its pink around, And the clustered ginestra squanders its gold As if it loved this barren ground; .e.e.~. IOO RADICOFANI. And surely that bird is over-bold That dares to sing o'er that grave-like mound. IV. It is dead and still in the middle noon; The sand-beds shine with a blending light, The cicali dizzen the air with their tune, And the sunshine seems like a curse to smite; The mountains around their shoulders bare Gather a thin and shadowy veil, And shrink from the fierce and scorching glare And close to the grass so withered and pale Hovering quivers the glassy air, And the lizards pant in their emerald mail. V. Think of this place in the dreary gloom Of an autumn twilight, when the sun Hiding in banks of clouds goes down, And silence and shadow are coming on; White mists crawl-one lurid light Glares from the west through a broken cloud IOI GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Rack hurries above-the dubious night Is creeping along with its spectral crowd; Would it, I ask, be a startling sight To meet a ghost here than in a shroud? VI. One of the thousand murdered men Who have stained the blasted soil with blood? Does the lupine get its colour then From some victim pashed to death in the mud? Has the yellow ginestra the hue of the gold From the traveller here in terror torn? Was yon bird but a sprite, singing so bold, That in life a maiden's form had worn, And at night steals back in its shape of old To haunt the darkness pale and forlorn? VII. Look at that castle whose ruins crown The rocky crest of yonder height, Still frowning over the squalid town, That cowers beneath as if in affright. I02 RADICOFANI. From his eyrie there to glut his beak The robber swooped to his shuddering prey, And the ghosts of the past still haunt the peak Though robber and baron have passed away. And, hark! was that the owl's long shriek, Or a ghost's that flits through the ruins grey? VIII. 'Tis blood and gold wherever I gaze, And tangled brambles, stiff and grey,A scowling, ugly, terrified place, A spot for mn)urder and deadly fray. On such a barren, desolate heath, When shadows were deepening all around, The sisters weird before Macbeth Rising, hovered along the ground, And echoed his inward thought of death, And vanished again behind a mound. IX. Such were the thoughts that filled my breast, Wandering here one lonely night, I03 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. When sudden behind a rock's dark crest Uprose a shape of portentous height. A coal-black plume from his helmet flowed, His eyes in the vizor's shadow gleamed, And here and there a steel-flash showed An outline vague and dim that seemed To hover along the dusky road Like a thing that is neither real nor dreamed. x. In his hand he bore a mighty spear, Tall as a pine and stained with blood. Transfixed in horror and ghastly fear, With knocking knees I before him stood. "Who and what art thou?" I cried, "Monstrous figure, of noiseless tread, That out of the darkness thus dost stride?" The black plume shook on the lofty headA hollow voice from the helm repliedHollow and vague like the voice of the dead. I04 RADICOFANI. XI. "Ghino di Tacco was my name! I come to answer your sneering thought! Start not! Listen before you blame! The fool condemns what he knoweth not. Call me robber or call me knight, But listen to me while my tale I tell. I struck, the oppressed and weak to right: My blows on the strong and cruel fell. For vengeance I struck! If my hand was light Ask Benincasa-down in hell. XII. "On the slopes of Arbia's banks arose The little castle that gave me birth, When my father's strongest, bitterest foes The Santafiori-cursed the earth. Him they hated, for he was brave; Him they hunted, for he was good. The bandit was strong the weak to save, The blows of his heavy sword were rude; Io5 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. But treason dug for him his grave, And the Santafiori bought his blood. XIII. "Ah that wild and terrible night!" Here the spectre his great spear raised; And his coal-like eyes, with angry light, Like a furnace roused by the blast, out blazed. "Screams of women, and groans and sighs, Clashing of steel, a swirl of flame, Mixed with a tumult of savage cries, Woke me. I shouted my father's name: When sudden, before my terrified eyes, Through the smoke a pale shape swiftly came. XIV. "'Twas my mother. She seized me in her arms, And forth she rushed in the stormy night. Her strained eyes glared so in wild alarm, They scared me. I uttered a shriek of fright. 'Silence, my child, for your life!' she said. Then swift we stole down the hillside bare, IO6 RADICOFANI. And up again through the dark wood fled; While the sky was lit by a lurid glare, And the great trees, roaring overhead, Hurtled and heaved in the bleak night air. xv. "To yonder castle that frowns above, By many a devious path we went; And nurtured there with pious love My growing days as a boy were spent. Night by night, when tolled for the dead The great tower-bell, at its solemn call, My mother, in black, with a mournful tread, And with her a lady, dark and tall, My childish fearful footsteps led To a shrine built into the tower's thick wall. XVI. "Before a crucifix there a light Burnt dim and sad in the gloomy shade. And oft, in the solemn silent night, Weeping, they kneeled with me and prayed. Io7 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. One night the lady came alone. ' Where is my mother?' in fear, I cried. Then, with a kiss and a broken tone, 'Poor child!' the lady in black replied. And I knew by her voice my mother was gone, And my heart grew still as it had died. XVII. "Years went on. My wondering heart Strove through the shadowy veil to pierce. I wandered many an hour apart, And my boyish spirit grew dark and fierce. 'Whose,' I cried,' is that heavy spear, And that blood-stained shirt against the wall?' 'Your father's, she said.''Why hang they there?' 'Ask me not now-'twould your heart appal! Wlhen you are able that spear to bear, Vengeance is yours-you shall then know all.' XVIII. "' Vengeance is yours;'-day after day These words in secret I brooded o'er. 0o8 RADICOFANI. They cast their shade on my boyish play, Through my dreams a painful path they wore. I longed for manhood. Within me grew A craving desire the key to gain To this terrible mystery. Muscle and thew I strove to strengthen with might and main; For my father's spear was heavy, I knew, And my boyish attempts to wield it vain. XIX. "Panting, I hacked at the mountain oak, Till it fell with a heavy crash and groan; The gnashing wild-boar felt my stroke By his heels I dragged him home alone; Daily at tilt and sword I tried My growing strength. I laughed at fear. Danger to me was as a bride, The sound of whose voice I leaped to hear. Till at last, with a thrill of manhood's pride, I brandished aloft my father's spear. Io9 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. XX. Fiercely I cried, as its weight I shook, ' Read me the riddle-these arms are strongLonger delay I will not brook; This heart is bold-it has waited long.' That night I started in wild surprise; For a voice cried out, in my dreaming ear, 'Son of a murdered man, arise! The hour is come!''Behold me here!' I answered;-and there, before my eyes, Was the form of the lady standing near. xxI. "Sternly she took me by the hand, And straight to the chapel my steps she led. I saw the spear by the altar stand; The bloody shirt was across it spread. The open Evangel before me stood. 'There,' as she grasped my arm, she cried, 'Are the last red drops of your father's blood, When under the headsman's axe he died. IIO RADICOFANI. For know that he fell not in battle feud, As a soldier falls, at his comrade's side. XXII. ' Vainly he fought in that fearful fray Wihen his castle was stormed; but a faithful few Bore him, senseless and wounded, away, And a bandit's life thenceforth he knew. From lair to lair, o'er the mountains steep, Like a wounded lion, they tracked his way. His sword drank blood;-but in his sleep The Santafiori seized their prey. They dared not kill; but their plot was deep, And a base judge gave him to death for pay. XXIII. "' Ere on the scaffold fell his head, He called a vassal, and said, "This spear, And the shirt my murdered blood makes red, Are the heritage of Ghino dear. When he can bear and wield it well, Tell him the tale of his father's death; I I I GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. How he shall use it his heart will tell. I bless him now with my latest breath. Say to his mother —" His voice here fell Your mother is sleeping this stone beneath. XXIV. "'Struck, as by death, when she heard his fate She fell, for her strength with her hope had fled. On her grave you stand. I, forced to wait, Tell you for her the words of the dead. See! the Evangel is under your hand! Swear to revenge your father's fame! Burn on your heart, as with a brand, Benincasa's accursed name! Seek him in Rome-where the plot was planned That doomed your father to death and shame! Xxv. "' Bind that bloody shirt to your heart! Lift the spear! The bell strikes one The gates are open-at once depart, And never return till your duty's done. I I2 RADICOFANI. This is no longer a home for youYou look like your father standing there, If in your veins his blood runs true You know what there is to do and dare. Go! if this story thrill you through, Swear to revenge your father. Swear! xxvI. "' Go! When that villain's head you bring, Bridge shall fall, and portcullis rise, And the bells of Radicofani ring; But never till then dare meet these eyes.' The light burned dim as thus she spoke; I grasped the spear with a thrill of rage; I struck my clenched hand on the book And swore my oath on the holy page, Never again on the place to look Till his blood my vengeance should assuage. xxvII. "The grinding bridge with a clang went down, T h e tempest roared-the lightning flashed H I I3 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. The wind through the great gate sucked such a groan As my horse's hoofs on its pavement dashed. Four hundred horsemen were at my side One word, and their swift swords left the sheath, And crossed with a clash. Vengeance! they criedTo Rome! Then over the sandy heath Closely we galloped, a long fierce ride To Rome, with the settled purpose of death. XXVIII. "Alone at the Campidoglio's base I stood. The hated shape was there; The Senator's foul and ugly face, That brought my father to his despair; The cursed, livid, hideous head, With flabby mouth, and streamy eyesHe heard in the hall my armed tread. He looked with a leer of cold surprise, And' What do you seek of me?' he said. ' A debt!' I answered,'a bloody prize!' I14 RADICOFANI. XXIX. "He started and trembled in ghastly fright, For a terrible memory on him smote,My father I seemed to his bleary sight. 'Villain,' I said, as I grasped his throat, 'Go down to hell in your despair!' A strangled gasp from his lips there came, ' Save me! oh God!'-' Go! Judas, bear To God your deeds of crime and shame! Turrino di Tacco is waiting there! The mercy you meted to him-reclaim!' XXX. "I plunged my dagger into his heart, His head from his bleeding trunk I hewed, His vassals terrified stood apart As I strode through the gathering multitude, I stuck that head on my father's spear. ' Room!' I cried, as my sword I drew; 'He meets the fate of this villain here Who hinders my path!' They saw and knew I I5 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Death in my eyes. They left me clear My path, and I strode in safety through. XXXI. "Swift to the castle's bridge I sped. ' Down with the drawbridge, men of mine!' High up I lifted the ghastly head. 'Down with the bridge! You know the sign.' Clang went the chains with a clattering din. The castle's lady I found in prayer At the lonely shrine as I entered in. She lifted her eyes.'You, Ghino! where Is the traitor's head?''He died in his sin;' And I flung the head on the pavement there. XXXII. "Then through Siena rose a cry, But the Santafiori strove in vain; From the eyrie of Radicofani I swooped and swept them from hill and plain. Their castles I burned, their lands laid waste, I i6 RADICOFANI. Refuge they sought in the city's wall, Fhe cup they had proffered was theirs to taste; I saw my foes before me fall, But a price on my bandit head was placed. xxxiii. "Yet never, a bandit though I was, Was my sword disgraced by useless crime; With the weak and poor I made my cause, And my deeds were sung in many a rhyme. At my table the beggar found a feast, Though the cruel baron felt my sword; I sheared the ambitious worldly priest, But the ruined peasant his farm restored; Cursed by the proud-by the humble blessed I broke no promise in act or word. Xxxiv. "There rots my castle on yonder height! — MIortal! this promise of you I claim, Tell the story I tell to-night, Whenever you mention Di Tlacco's name." I17 G(;IAFFITI I)'ITALIA. "I promnise," I cried. The figure bowed His lofty stature and clinched his spear, And slow, like the mist of a fading cloud, In the shadow I watched it disappear. And my heart in my bosom beat aloud WTith a feeling of mystery, doubt, and fear. I IS IN THE ANTECHAMBER OF MONSIGNORE DEL FIOCCO. OUR master will be Cardinal ere longIs he not made for one?-so smooth and plump, With those broad jaws, those half-shut peeping eyes, Those ankle-heavy legs and knotty feet, Wvhich only need red stockings. Even now He totters round with the true Cardinal's gait Upon his tender toes, while you behind Demurely follow, scarce an ear-shot off, The pious footsteps of the holy man. How many years have you thus stalked along Behind that broad-brimmed, purple-tasselled hat. GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. In your stiff lace and livery, trained to pause Whene'er he pauses, turning half to fix His Fiffhly on his fingers to some dull Cringing Abbate shuffling at his side? Then, when that point is drilled into his brain (Proving the blessedness of poverty, Or how the devil has no cursed wiles To lure the world to hell like libertyThe only one great good being obedience), Back go the hands beneath the creased black silk That streams behind, and on you march again; While the gilt carriage lumbers in the rear, And the black stallions nod their tufted crests. Yours is a noble station, clinging there Behind it as you clatter through the town, Your white calves shaking with the pavement's jar, The mark and sneer of half the world you meet. Ah, well!'tis wretched business yours and mine; I know not which is worst-but then it pays; The cards are dirty, but what matters dirt To those who win? Though now the stakes are small, I20 MONSIGNORE DEL FIOCCO. We'll hold the court-cards when the suit is red; And so it will be soon; why, even now I seem to see red stockings on his legs;And yesterday I said," Your Eminence," As if I thought he now was Cardinal"Your Eminence," indeed! At that he smiled That oily smile of his, and rubbed his handsThose thick fat hands, on which his emerald ring Flashes ('tis worth at least a thousand crowns)And said, "Good Giacomo, not'Eminence,' I'm but a Monsignor, and that's too much For my deserts." Then I, "Your'Reverence' Ought to be'Eminence,' and will be soon; The tassel's almost old upon your hat." "Sei malto, Giacomo," he said, and smiled. You know those smiles, that glitter falsely o'er His smooth broad cheeks, as if he asked of you, "Am I not kind and good?" and all the while Your soul protests, and calls out "Knave and cheat." But, then, how can one call him by such names, When, even with that smile upon his face, He slips a scudo in one's hand and says, 121 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. "Go, Giacomo, and drink my health with this"? What can one do but bow and try to blush? "Oh-Eminenza-thanks-you are too good." Dear man! sweet man! in all those troublous times Vhat zeal was his!-how earnestly he worked! Who can forget his pure self-sacrifice, His virtuous deeds, above this world's rewardDone for pure Christian duty-done, of course, For Holy Church-all was for Holy Church(Without a notion of this world's reward)All for the good of souls and Holy Church(Ora pro nobis, and that sort of thing)All to bring sinners back again to God, And from the harvest root the devil's taresIn omniaz s(ecula-amen-amen. We don't forget-well! you know whom I mean No need to mention names, though no one's nigh; We don't forget him whose anointed hands Were flayed by order of his Reverence, Ere with his bleeding palms they led him down Into the court-yard, and we, peeping through I22 MONSIGNORE DEL FIOCCO. The half-closed blind, saw him throw up his hands And forward fall upon his face, and writhe, When the sharp volley rang against the walls. Those oily fingers wrote that sentence down! That thick voice, with a hypocritic tone, While both his palms were raised, decreed that doom. Who could help weeping when that pious man, Professing horror at his victim's crime, And bidding him confess and pray to God, And saying, "God would pardon him, perhaps, As he himself would, if the power were his, But, being the instrument of Church and State, No choice was given," with his priestly foot Pushed, you know whom, into a felon's grave? That bloody stain is still upon the walls, Of the same colour as the scarlet hat Our master soon will wear; and, after all, Who more deserves it? If he stained his soul, Is not the labourer worthy of his hire? He shall be raised who doth abase himself! The good and faithful servant shall be made 123 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. The ruler over many! Ah! my friend, He nothing lost by all those deeds of his. He erred in zeal, but zeal is not a vice'Twas all for Holy Church. His secret life, Perhaps, was not quite perfect! Who of you Is without sin let him first cast a stone;No one, you see; so let us think no more Of that. Does any Duchess smile the less At all his compliments and unctuous words As, leaning o'er her chair, his downcast eyes He fixes somewhat lower than her lips,Upon the jewels on her neck, perchance, He is so modest,-and with undertone Whispers, and, deprecating, lifts his hands, While with her fan she covers half her face? He knows as well as any man that lives How far to venture;-covers his foul jokes With honeyed words, so ladies swallow them; Treads on the edge of scandal-not a chance He will fall in; knows all the secret shoals Of innuendo;-in pure earnestness (Oh, nothing more) he seizes their soft hands I24 MONSIGNORE DEL FIOCCO. And holds them-presses them, as to enforce His argument;-for this, our Monsignor, Lifted above temptation, with, of course, No carnal thought, may do before the worldBecause it must be done through innocence. Fie on his foul mouth who should hint'twas wrong! Who'd be more shock'd than he, the pious man? He would go home and pray for that lost soul! And yet, how can a woman pure in heart, Without disgust, accept his compliments, And let him feed on her his gloating eyes? Of course, it's just because she's innocent. Yes! I am lean and dry, a servitor, Not fat and oily like our Monsignor, And so I can't endure his nauseous ways; All right, of course! But yet I sometimes think, Did San Pietro talk to Martha thus, And every night, wearing his fisherman's ring, Show his silk-stocking'd legs in soft saloons, And fish for women with a net like this? I25 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Those soft fat hands-those sweet anointed handsThose hands that wear the glittering emerald ringThose hands whose palms are pressed so oft in prayerThose hands that fondle high-born ladies' handsThose hands that give their blessing to the poorThose hateful, hideous hands are red with blood! Think! Principessa, when you kiss those handsThink! Novice, when those hands upon your head Are laid in consecration-think of this! Stop, Master Giacomo! don't get too warm! When Monsignore gave you yesterday, With those same hateful, hideous, bloody hands, Your scudo, did you take it, sir, or not? Yes! I confess! the world will be the world! One must not ask too much of mortal man, Nor mortal woman neither, Giacomo! But yet we cannot always keep a curb Upon our feelings, school them as we will And I, who bow and cringe and smile all day, Detest at times my very self, and grow So restive'neath my rank hypocrisy, 126 MONSIGNORE DEL FIOCCO. I must break loose and fling out like a horse In useless kicks, or else I should go mad. God knows I hate this man, and so at times, Rather than take him by the throat, I come And pour my passion out in idle words; They ease me. You're my friend; but if I thought A word of this would reach his ears; but, no! We know each other both too well for that. One or two questions I should like to ask, If Monsignor would only answer them, As this-what Sora Lisa says to him At her confession, once a-week at least (For Monsignor, having her soul in charge, Wvhen she don't come to him, must go to her). She used to be so poor, but times are changed, And Sora Lisa keeps her carriage now; And those old gowns, by some "Hey, presto, change," Have turned to rustling silks; and at her ears Diamonds and rubies dangle, which she shows, When she's the mind, in her own opera box. Well! well! that office our good Monsignor I I27 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Gave her poor husband from pure love of him May pay for these; and if it don't, why, then, It don't-what business is it of ours? And then, who knows, some uncle may have died (Uncles are always dying for such folks) And made her rich;-why should we peep and pry? Her soul is safe at least with Monsignor. And this reminds me-did you ever know Nina, that tall, majestic, fierce-eyed girl, With blue-black hair, which, when she loosed it, shook Its crimpled darkness almost to the floor?She that was friend to Monsignor while yet He was a humble Abbe-born indeed In the same town and came to live in Rome? Not know her? She, I mean, who disappeared Some ten years back, and God knows how or why? Well, Nina,-are you sure there's no one near?Nina Per Dio! how his stinging bell Startled my blood, as if the Monsignor Cried out, "You, Giacomo; what, there again I28 MONSIGNORE DEL FIOCCO. At your old trick of talking? Hold your tongue!" And so I will, per Bacco, so I will;Who tells no secrets breaks no confidence. Nature, as Monsignor has often said, Gave us two eyes, two ears, and but one tongue, As if to say, "Tell half you see and hear;" And I'm an ass to let my tongue run on, After such lessons. There he rings again! Vengo-per Dio-Vengo subito. I I29 A CONTEMPORARY CRITICISM: IN WHICH FEDERIGO DI MONTAFELTRO, DUKE OF URBINO, GIVES HIS VIEWS OF RAFFAELLE. [Dedicated ta H. G. W.] OH! I admit his talent,-there's no lack Of facile talent; what in him I blame Is that he travels in his master's track With such a slavish, imitative aim. 'Tis Perugino all, from head to foot: Angels the same, with their affected grace, Playing the lyre with sideway upturned face; Round-faced, small-eyed Madonnas,-all the same. Landscapes mere copies; subjects, branch and root, His master's subjects,-not an arch or shaft A CONTEMPORARY CRITICISM. Of all his architecture, but you see That too is copied. Every little shoot Upon his genius is his master's graft. And yet, through all, there's clear ability. Why will he never grow his special fruit? Lately he's striven to effect a change, But still an imitator he must go, From peaceful Perugino's timid range To the extravagance of Angelo, Behind them both, of course, in both their ways; For, as uncompromising Michael says, "Who follows after, cannot go before." Then why, too, will he try so many things? Instead of sticking to one single art, He must be studying music, twanging strings, And writing sonnets, with their "heart and dart." Lately, he's setting up for architect, And planning palaces; and, as I learn, Has made a statue,-every art in turn,Like Leonardo (and you recollect, I 3I GRAFFITI D ITALIA. How with his many arts even he was wrecked); But if he failed, what can this youth expect? A touch of this same vice his father had: He laid aside the brush to use the pen; And though he praised my deeds,-and I, of men, Should be the last to call the praising bad, Though over-praised,-yet, be the truth confest, No man in more than one art can be best. 'Twas but the other day I spoke to him, With earnest hope to make him change his course; I told him he would dissipate his force By following the lead of every whim, And (for I like the youth, and recognise In all his efforts good abilities) I urged upon him not to skip and skim In many arts, but give himself to one, For life was quite too short for everything, And doing all things, nothing gets well done. He thanked me for my kindness, disagreed I32 A CONTEMPORARY CRITICISM. Arith my conclusions in a modest way (He's modest, that'tis only just to say); But in a letter that he sends to-day Here is his answer. Listen, while I read. "M ost noble sir,"-and so on, and so on, "A thousand thanks," - hem - hem, "in one so high," "Learned in art,"-et cetera,-" I shall try " Oh! that's about his picture,-" critic's eye;" "Patron,"-pho, pho-where has the passage gone? Ah! here we come to it at last:-" You thought," He says, "that in too many arts I wrought; And you advised me to stick close to one. Thanks for your gracious counsel, all too kind; And answering, if I chance to speak my mind Too boldly, pardon. Yet it seems to me All arts are one-all branches on one tree, All fingers, as it were, upon one hand. You ask me to be thumb alone; but pray, Reft of the answering fingers Nature planned, Is not the hand deformed for work or play? I33 GRAFFITI D ITALIA. "Or rather take, to illustrate my thought, Music, the only art to science wrought, The ideal art, that underlies the whole, Interprets all, and is of all the soul. Each art is, so to speak, a separate tone; The perfect chord results from all in one. Strike one, and as its last vibrations die, Listen,-from all the other tones a cry WVails forth, half-longing and half-prophecy. So does the complement, the hint, the germ Of every art within the others lie, And in their inner essence all unite; For what is melody but fluid form, Or form, but fixed and stationed melody? Colours are but the silent chords of light, Touched by the painter into tone and key, And harmonised in every changeful hue. So colours live in sound,-the trumpet blows Its scarlet, and the flute its tender blue; The perfect statue, in its pale repose, Has for the soul a melody divine, That lingers dreaming round each subtle line, I34 A CONTEMPORARY CRITICISM. And stills the gazer lest its charm he lose. So rhythmic words, strung by tlie poet, own Music and form and colour-every sense Rhymes with the rest;-'tis in the means alone The various arts receive their difference." Vague, idle talk! such stuff as this I call; Pretty for girls-quite metaphysical, Almost poetic, if you will; but then, For you and me, or any reasoning men, All visionary, vague, impractical. Such silly jargon lacks all common sense; How can he dream it helps him paint, to know The way to tinkle on ten instruments? Or does he fancy writing rhymes assists In laying colours? Bah! he's in the mists. But let's go on. Here's something, I admit, That shows a less deficiency of wit. "Life is too short perfection to attain, We all are maimed; and do the best we can, I35 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Each trade deforms us with the overstrain Of some too favoured faculty or sense, O'er-fostered at the others' vast expense. Yet why should one Art be the others' bane? The perfect artist should be perfect man. Oh! let at least our theory be grand, To make a whole man, not to train a hand; Rearing our temple, let it be our pride Nought to neglect, but build with patient care A perfect temple, finished everywhere, And not a mere facade with one good side." Of course, of course, if we were gods; but then, Life is so short, and we are only men. These youths, these youths -there's really something great In their ambitions. Let our friend but wait, And Time will snuff his dreams out, one by one. I had such dreams once. How they all have gone! " If I the model of a man should seek, Where should I find him? Though the blacksmith's arm I36 A CONTEMPORARY CRITICISM. Is muscled well, his lower limbs are weak, His shoulders curved. The student shall I take? His o'erworked brain has cost his body harm. No; he alone will serve who equal strain Has given each, the body and the brain; One who, like you, most gracious Duke, has known The whole man into consonance to train. Grace from consent of every force is shown, Not where one's loss has been another's gain." Well put, my Raffaelle; it will never do To such an argument to say, "not true." "Besides, the varied tasking of the mind Not only makes us sane, but keeps us strong. The noblest faculty when strained too long Turns to convention,-wearied, seeks to find In repetition solace and repose. 'Tis only the fresh arm that strikes great blows. Fallow and change we need, not constant toil, Not always the same crop on the same soil. To stretch our powers demands an earnest strain, I37 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. And rest, to strengthen what by work we gain. Sleeping, the body grows in thews and brain." That's true, at least-the body must have sleep! I'm glad to find one statement here at last With which I can most cordially agree. Shall I read more, or is your patience past? Oh'-as to his originality, Here are a few words taken from a heap. One moment first,-here's something not to skip. "But please remember, of the famous names, Who is there hath confined him to onie art, Giotto, Da Vinci, or Orcagna? No,Or our great living master, Angelo,They are whole men, whose rounded knowledge shames Our narrow study of a single part; Not merely painters, dwarfed in all their aims, But men who painted, builded, carved, and wrote: Whole diapasons-not a separate note." Now for that other passage,-let us see His thoughts about originality. I38 A CONTEMPORARY CRITICISM. "In one sense no man is original, Borrowers and beggars are we, one and all. Art, science, thought, grow up from age to age, And all are palimpsests upon Time's page. Our loftiest pedestals are tombs;-the seed Sown by the dead and living in us grow; And what we are is tinged by what we know. As from the air our sustenance we draw, So from all thought our private thought we feed, Germs strewn from other minds within us breed, And no one is his own unaided law. Nor from the age alone we take our hue, But by the narrower mould of accident A form and colour to our life is lent; As under blue sky grows the water blue, Or clouds unto the mountain's shape are bent. "Yet each man, following his sympathies, Unto himself assimilating all, Using men's thoughts and forms as steps to rise, Who speaks at last his individual word, The free result of all things seen and heard, I39 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Is in the noblest sense original. Each to himself must be his final rule, Supreme dictator, to reject or use, Employing what he takes but as his tool. But he who, self-sufficient, dares refuse All aid of men, must be a god or fool. "I took Lippino's figure for St Paul: What then? I made it, in the taking, mine, And gave it new life in a new design. I worked in Perugino's style, but all My own my pictures were in every line. By sympathy of feeling and of thought, Not coldly copying, in his forms I wrought. The theme of the Entombment, I admit, Was from an old sarcophagus of stone; But to another purpose using it, Its new expression made it all my own. From all great men and minds I freely learn, Orcagna, Giotto, Michael, each in turn, Thank them for help, and taking what I find, Stamp on their forms the pressure of my mind. I40 A CONTEMPORARY CRITICISM. Well! who that ever lived did not the same? Name me of all the great names but one nameOld Homer? Phidias? Virgil?-and more low In time, not power, Da Vinci? Angelo? 'Tis the small nature dares not to receive, Having no wealth within from which to give. The greatest minds the greatest debts may owe, And by their taking make a thing to live. "Did our Da Vinci scorn, with studious zeal, Massaccio's nature, Lippi's strength to steal? Is Giotto's campanile, soaring there Like music up into our Florence air, Unfathered by an ancestry of towers? Or is the round of great St Peter's dome, That Michael now is swinging over Rome, Without a debt to this grand dome of ours? And Brunelleschi, did he never see The globed Pantheon's massive dignity? These men are copyists, then! But, after all, If these are not, who is original? I4I GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. "Look round upon our Florence-each to each See! how her earnest minds and hearts unite, And buttressed thus in strength attain a height Which none could ever hope alone to reach! Or, like a serried phalanx all inspired By one great hope, and moving to one end, How strength and daring each to each they lend, As on they press, undaunted and untired! Each fighting for the truth, and one for all, With no mean pride to be original." Well! here the true and false are mixed with skill; But let him talk and reason as he will, I'm of the same opinion as before;A man must strive to be original, And give himself to one art, not to all. Besides, the names and facts he numbers o'er Prove but the rule, being exceptions still. But, after all, the subject is a bore; And, Signor Sanzio, you and all your talk (Which, I'll confess, is not entirely ill) Have our permission to withdraw. I42 A CONTEMPORARY CRITICISM. Pray walk Upon the balcony. Is any sight More fair than Florence in this hazy light, Sleeping all silent in the afternoon, Like the enchanted beauty, full of rest, Her bride-like veil spread careless on her breast? Our June this year has been a peerless June. I43 A N T I Q U E K C L E O P A T R A. [Dedicated ta 7. L. M.] HERE, Charmian, take my bracelets, They bar with a purple stain My arms; turn over my pillows They are hot where I have lain: Open the lattice wider, A gauze o'er my bosom throw, And let me inhale the odours That over the garden blow. I dreamed I was with my Antony, And in his arms I lay; Ah, me! the vision has vanished The music has died away. GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. The flame and the perfume have perished As this spiced aromatic pastille That wound the blue smoke of its odour Is now but an ashy hill. Scatter upon me rose-leaves, They cool me after my sleep, And with sandal odours fan me Till into my veins they creep; Reach down the lute, and play me A melancholy tune, To rhyme with the dream that has vanished, And the slumbering afternoon. There, drowsing in golden sunlight, Loiters the slow smooth Nile, Through slender papyri, that cover The wary crocodile. The lotus lolls on the water, And opens its heart of gold, And over its broad leaf-pavement Never a ripple is rolled. I48 CLEOPATRA. The twilight breeze is too lazy Those feathery palms to wave, And yon little cloud is as motionless As a stone above a grave. Ah, me! this lifeless nature Oppresses my heart and brain! Oh! for a storm and thunder For lightning and wild fierce rain! Fling down that lute-I hate it! Take rather his buckler and sword, And crash them and clash them together Till this sleeping world is stirred. Hark! to my Indian beauty My cockatoo, creamy white, AVith roses under his feathers That flashes across the light. Look! listen! as backward and forward To his hoop of gold he clings, How he trembles, with crest uplifted, And shrieks as he madly swings! I49 GRAFFITI D ITALIA. Oh, cockatoo, shriek for Antony! Cry, "Come, my love, come home!" Shriek, "Antony! Antony! Antony!" Till he hears you even in Rome. There-leave me, and take from my chamber That stupid little gazelle, With its bright black eyes so meaningless, And its silly tinkling bell! Take him,-my nerves he vexes The thing without blood or brain,Or, by the body of Isis, I'll snap his thin neck in twain! Leave me to gaze at the landscape Mistily stretching away, Where the afternoon's opaline tremors O'er the mountains quivering play; Fill the fiercer splendour of sunset Pours from the west its fire, And mnelted, as in a crucible, Their earthy forms expire; I50 CLEOPATRA. And the bald blear skull of the desert With glowing mountains is crowned, That burning like molten jewels Circle its temples round. I will lie and dream of the past time, .Eons of thought away, And through the jungle of memory Loosen my fancy to play; When, a smooth and velvety tiger, Ribbed with yellow and black, Supple and cushion-footed I wandered, where never the track Of a human creature had rustled The silence of mighty woods, And, fierce in a tyrannous freedom, I knew but the law of my moods. The elephant, trumpeting, started, When he heard my footstep near, And the spotted giraffes fled wildly In a yellow cloud of fear. I5 I GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. I sucked in the noontide splendour, Quivering along the glade, Or yawning, panting, and dreaming, Basked in the tamarisk shade, Till I heard my wild mate roaring, As the shadows of night came on, To brood in the trees' thick branches And the shadow of sleep was gone; Then I roused, and roared in answer, And unsheathed from my cushioned feet My curving claws, and stretched me, And wandered my mate to greet. WVe toyed in the amber moonlight, Upon the warm flat sand, And struck at each other our massive arms How powerful he was and grand! His yellow eyes flashed fiercely As he crouched and gazed at me, And his quivering tail, like a serpent, Twitched curving nervously. Then like a storm he seized me, WVith a wild triumphant cry, 152 CLEOPATRA. And we met, as two clouds in heaven When the thunders before them fly. We grappled and struggled together, For his love like his rage was rude; And his teeth in the swelling folds of my neck At times, in our play, drew blood. Often another suitor For I was flexile and fairFought for me in the moonlight, While I lay couching there, Till his blood was drained by the desert; And, ruffled with triumph and power, He licked me and lay beside me To breathe him a vast half-hour. Then dowfn to the fountain we loitered, Where the antelopes came to drink; Like a bolt we sprang upon them, Ere they had time to shrink. We drank their blood and crushed them, And tore them limb from limb, I53 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. And the hungriest lion doubted Ere he disputed with him. That was a life to live for! Not this weak human life, With its frivolous bloodless passions, Its poor and petty strife! Come to my arms, my hero, The shadows of twilight grow, And the tiger's ancient fierceness In my veins begins to flow. Come not cringing to sue me! Take me with triumph and power, As a warrior storms a fortress! I will not shrink or cower. Come, as you came in the desert, Ere we were women and men, When the tiger passions were in us, And love as you loved me then! I54 CA S S A N D R A.* [Dedicated to H. C.] WlHY didst thou lift the veil, beloved one, Divine Apollo, from these human eyes? The phantom forms that from the Future rise Appal me; all in vain I seek to shun This fatal knowledge; horror-struck to see The shadowy shapes of coming destiny Steal forth unsummoned fierce with death and hate, But powerless to avert the doom of Fate. Ah! better blindness, better night, dark night! A chronological licence has been taken in this poem, which it is hoped will be pardoned in view of the mythical character of the period. -I GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Better dead loss of that supreme delight, Thy love! better the worst that Time conceals Than all the coming horrors it reveals. Shroud me again in darkness-close the door Of the dread Future-torture me no more With these foul shapes of visionary crimeThese murders that stare through the veil of time, These horrors-drive these fearful sights away, Or give me power the coming crime to stay. Only in ignorance is joy; to rest In blind fond trust upon the Present's breast. 'Tis more than death, far more, to see, to know; Take back the gift! We creatures here below Need all our blindness, need the mortal veil Which shuts the Future out, obscures the sense, And hides us from our Fate. Not too much light May man endure. Pure truth is too intense, It blinds us. Perfect Love at its full height Kills with excess of rapture. We are made With human senses, and we all need here Illusions, veils, a tempering atmosphere, And ignorance to shield us with its shade I56 CASSANDRA. Ye Gods in heaven may see and know, not fear The face of Fate, serene, beyond all care; But when to us poor mortals you appear, Around your glory ye a veil must wear, Or who could look and live? And so to me Divinest of the Gods you came; too bright For all your mortal veil, suffused with light, Radiant with splendours of divinity. Ah! what a price for Love I paid! no more, Since that dread gift, the peace, the tranquil bliss That once in my unburdened heart I bore! No more the careless, thoughtless happiness, The maiden hope, the unreasoning faith, the scent Of vague sweet feelings making redolent The inmost chambers of my life;'tis o'erFled-vanished. The soft veil is rent away. Where'er I set my feet on the soft grass 'Tis stained with blood. The glory of the day Is darkened with foul crimes. The shapes that pass Before my scared and visionary eyes No more are gentle dreams, but ghosts that rise I57 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. And mock and threaten from the unopened tomb Of the black Future, and with voice of doom, Faint, dim, but horrible, dismay my soul. Hark! as I speak-those voices-that fierce jar That murmurous tumult hurrying from afar What means it? Close my eyes, my ears control! They come, still nearer, up the sounding stair. What horror now is brooding o'er this place? What dreadful crime? What does Medea there In that dim chamber? See on her dark face And serpent brow, rage, fury, love, despair! What seeks she? There her children are at play Laughing and talking. Not so fierce, I say, You scare them with that passionate embrace! Hark to those footsteps in the hall-the loud Clear voice of Jason heard above the crowd. Why does she push them now so stern away And listening glance around,-then fixed and mute, Her brow shut down, her mouth irresolute, Her thin hands twitching at her robes the while, As with some fearful purpose does she stand? 158 CASSANDRA. \Why that triumphant glance-that hideous smile That poniard hidden in her mantle there, That through the dropping folds now darts its gleam? Oh Gods! oh, all ye Gods! hold back her hand. Spare them! oh, spare them! oh, Medea, spare! You will not, dare not! ah, that sharp shrill scream! Ah!-the red blood-'tis trickling down the floor! Help! help! oh, hide me! Let me see no more! 159 PAN IN LOVE. STOP running more. You must-indeed you shall. See how your feet are hurt. Your breath comes fast And all in vain. Light as you are, you see I can outrun you, and these briers and brakes That tear your tender feet will never harm My horny hoofs. Why do you fly from me? I mean no ill. Stop. Rest upon this bank, Soft with green mosses, sprinkled with quaint flowers, And listen to me while you get your breath. Bacchus is in the distant vale, so far His cymbals scarcely reach us-far away Silenus and his rout-they'll never hear Though you should scream with all your little voice. PAN IN LOVE. I am a coarse, rough fellow, but I love Such smooth, white-limbed, soft-footed things as you. Wvhat shall I do to make you love me back, And twine those arms around this hairy neck? Wvhat shall I give you for a kiss? Come, sit On these rough shaggy knees, and smooth my cheeks With your soft hands. Bacchus is fairer far; But he, the fickle, vain, conceited god, Loves but himself, and changes every hour For some new fancy. I will be more true, And love for ever. Ah! we ugly gods Alone are constant, and that Venus knew When she preferred to all the dandy crew Stern, black, old Vulcan. Oh! dear little feet! Dear little hands, so rosy, tapering, slight. See, how they look against these hands and hoofs, That never will be tired to work for you. Nay! if you will not sit upon my knee, Lie on that bank, and listen while I play L j6I GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. A sylvan song upon these reedy pipes. In the full moonrise as I lay last night Under the alders on Peneus' banks, Dabbling my hoofs in the cool stream, that welled Wine-dark with gleamy ripples round their roots, I made the song the while I shaped the pipes. 'Tis all of you and love, as you shall hear. The drooping lilies, as I sang it, heaved Upon their broad green leaves, and underneath, Swift silvery fishes, poised on quivering fins, Hung motionless to listen; in the grass The crickets ceased to shrill their tiny bells; And even the nightingale, that all the eve Hid in the grove's deep green, had throbbed and thrilled, Paused in his strain of love to list to mine. Bacchus is handsome, but such songs as this He cannot shape, and better loves the clash Of brazen cymbals than my reedy pipes. Fair as he is without, he's coarse withinGross in his nature, loving noise and wine; And, tipsy, half the time goes reeling round, Leaning on old Silenus' shoulders fat. I62 PAN IN LOVE. But I have scores of songs that no one knows, Not even Apollo, no, nor MercuryTheir strings can never sing like my sweet pipesSome, that will make fierce tigers rub their fur Against the oak-trunks for delight, or stretch Their plump sides for my pillow on the sward. Some, that will make the satyrs' clattering hoofs Leap when they hear, and from their noonday dreams Start up to stamp a wild and frolic dance In the green shadows. Ay! and better songs, Made for the delicate nice ears of nymphs, Which while I sing my pipes shall imitate The droning bass of honey-seeking bees, The tinkling tenor of clear pebbly streams, The breezy alto of the alder's sighs, And all the airy sounds that lull the grove When noon falls fast asleep among the hills. Nor only these,-for I can pipe to you Songs that will make the slippery vipers pause, And stay the stags to gaze with their great eyes; Such songs-and you shall hear them, if you will That Bacchus' self would give his hide to hear. i63 GRAFFITI D ITALIA. If you'll but love me every day I'll bring The coyest flowers, such as you never saw, To deck you with. I know their secret nooksThey cannot hide themselves away from Pan. And you shall have rare garlands; and your bed Of fragrant mosses shall be sprinkled o'er With violets like your eyes-just for a kiss. Love me, and you shall do whate'er you like, And shall be tended wheresoe'er you go, And not a beast shall hurt you-not a toad But at your bidding give his jewel up. The speckled shining snakes shall never sting, But twist like bracelets round your rosy arms, And keep your bosom cool in the hot noon. You shall have berries ripe of every kind, And luscious peaches, and wild nectarines, And sunflecked apricots, and honeyed dates, And wine from bee-stung grapes drunk with the sun (Such wine as Bacchus never tasted yet). And not a poisonous plant shall have the power To tetter your white flesh if you'll love Pan. I64 PAN IN LOVE. And then I'll tell you tales that no one knows; Of what the pines talk in the summer nights When far above you hear them murmuring As they sway whispering to the lifting breezeAnd what the storm shrieks to the struggling oaks As it flies through them hurrying to the sea From mountain crags and cliffs. Or, when you're sad, I'll tell you tales that solemn cypresses Have whispered to me. There's not anything Hid in the woods and dales and dark ravines, Shadowed in dripping caves, or by the shore, Slipping from sight, but I can tell to you. Plump, dull-eared Bacchus, thinking of himself, Never can catch a syllable of this; But with my shaggy ear against the grass I hear the secrets hidden underground, And know how in the inner forge of Earth, The pulse-like hammers of creation beat Old Pan is ugly, rough, and rude to see, But no one knows such secrets as old Pan. What shall I give you for a kiss? I must, i65 GRAFFITI D ITALIA. Will have it. See, these iris-coloured shells, So curiously veined with gleamy pearlRare shells, that Venus covets, and would give A thousand kisses for-shall all be yours;And these great pearls too, and red coral beads, Worn round by the smooth sea, -you shall have all. Strung on your neck, and, rolling there between Your budding breasts, how pretty they will look! Do not refuse old Pan one kiss. By Zeus, How beautiful this soft and waving hair (Not like my bristling curls)!-how it creeps round Your shining shoulders, by the zephyr stirred, As if it loved them! I can scarcely keep My fingers from those shoulders' sweeps and curves. My arms desire to clasp that lithe slight waist. One kiss-one kiss-I will-nay, throw not back That chin and throat, and, with that rosy mouth Laugh as you push me off. I must-I will. You make me mad. My very fingers itch. Come, or I'll butt my head against this tree, And poor old Pan's pipes will be heard no more. I66 PAN IN LOVE. Don't laugh at me, and kick me in the breast With those white feet; I'll bite them if you do! You wilful minx, have pity on old PanHave pity, or I'll seize you round the waist, And, whether you will or not, I'll have my kiss. I67 A U R E L I U S TO LUCIUS VERUS. [Dedicated to the Lady Willianz Russell.] I HAVE received your letter, read it through With careful thought, and, to confess the truth, I deem it timid to a point beyond What suits an Emperor,-timid in a way Unsuited to the temper of the time. You say Avidius hates us; does not stint His jests and sneers at what we are and do; Has no respect for the imperial robes; Says you are an old woman, whose bald talk You deem profound philosophy, while I M A R C U S MARCUS AURELIUS. Am merely a debauched and studious fool. You bear him no ill-will for this, you say, (My noble Lucius, this is worthy you!) But then you add you fear he has designs To do us wrong, and beg me to keep watch, Lest he, by all his wealth and power, at last Compass our ruin. But consider thisIf to Avidius Destiny decree The Empire's purple, all our art is vain! You know the saying of your ancestor, Our austere Trajan, "Never was there prince Wvho killed his own heir;" no man e'er prevailed Him to o'erthrow whom the immortal gods Had marked as his successor: so, as well, He whom the gods oppose must surely fall, Not through our act, but by his destiny, Caught in the inevitable snare of fate. Again, the traitor or the criminal, Though by the clearest proof convicted, stands As'twere at bay; one weak and friendless man Against the State's compacted law and might, 169 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. And thus moves pity-seeming, as it were, From that unequal match to suffer wrong. "Wretched, indeed" (as your grandfather said), "The fate of princes who make good their charge Of purposed murder by their martyrdom, Proving the plot against their life, by death." Domitian'twas, in truth, who spake these words, Yet rather would I call them Hadrian's, Since tyrants' sayings, true howe'er they be, Have not the weight of good and noble men's. As for Avidius, then, let him work out His secret course, being, as you say he is, Austere in discipline, a leader brave, And one the State cannot afford to lose; Let him continue there upon the edge Of Daphnic luxury, near by Antioch, To rein the army in and hold it firm, Secure that Nemesis awaits on him, As on us all, whate'er we are or do: And for my children's interests, and mine, If they can only be subserved by wrong, I70 MARCUS AURELIUS. Perish my children, rather than through wrong They triumph! If Avidius deserve Better than they, and if through him the State Glory and strength superior may gain, Better he live and win the prize he seeks! Better they die and yield to him the State! Please God, that while the imperial robes I wear No blood be shed for me,-for I would fain Be called "The Bloodless," like our Antonine! And if this man have injured me, and shown Ingratitude, that meanest of all sins, At least he cannot rob me of one boon I hold the greatest given by victory, That of forgiveness. Ever since the Fates Placed me upon the throne, two aims have I Kept fixed before my eyes; and they are these:Not to revenge me on my enemies, And not to be ungrateful to my friends. I7I A SONG OF ISRAEL. OUR Christ shall come in glory and in power, Born to command. He shall not weep or pray, or cringe or cower, But with God's lightnings in His hand Tremendous there shall stand. All eyes shall drop before His awful face In doubt and dread; When He shall come, the Saviour of our race, The crown of triumph on His head, Even as the Prophets said. A SONG OF ISRAEL. The sharp sword of His vengeance He shall wield To smite and slay. Justice shall be His weapon and our shield; And all who dare to disobey His breath shall sweep away. His hand shall wipe away their griefs and woes, Who cling to Him. His wrath like chaff shall scatter all their foes; His power shall build Jerusalem With sounding song and hymn. The hand and thought of man shall quail before That shape august; And prostrate every face to earth adore Him in whose balance we are dust, The mighty King-the Just. Then shall the song of triumph once again For us be heard, And Israel's children sound the joyous strain, The Christ has come-the King and Lord The Wonderful-the Word. I73 A PRIMITIVE CHRISTIAN IN ROME. [Dedicated to T. G. A.] IT seems so strange to us of the new faith, Who feel its beauty, joy, and holiness, Rising above this lower Pagan creed, Like morning o'er the dark and dreaming earth; To us who have beheld, known, talked with those Who walked beside our Lord, and heard his voice, And with their own eyes saw his miracles,To hear these Romans, Marcus, Caius-nay, Even Lucius, who is learned, liberal, trained In every school of thought, deny them all: Calling them mere impostures, or at best, Distortions of the facts, half true, half false, With nothing but the false miraculous! A PRIMITIVE CHRISTIAN IN ROME. 175 It makes us grieve, as showing how they lack That sense by which alone the natural man, As Paul says, can receive the things of God. But when had any Roman in all time A spiritual sense?'Tis to the East The power of prophecy is given: alone It shapes religions, has the inner sight That through the matter sees the soul beyond, Is through its faith receptive, not its mind, And nearer unto God, as is the child. The West, immersed in things, is as the man, And joys to fashion governments and laws; It orders facts, it thinks, invents, and works, But blind and deaf to spiritual truth Lives in the Present, builds no infinite bridge Into the Future, hopes not, nor divines. At highest,'tis the world's great intellect, Its understanding, brain, and not its soul. Lucius is of the West; he cannot feel Those finer impulses beyond the sense, Those inward yearnings stretching out of sight, Where reason cannot follow, after truth. GRAFFITI D ITALIA. As far as intellect can lead him on Up the clear path of logic, he will go; The rest is nonsense, and, of course, he likes The well-trod path as being the most safe. And thus he reasons on the miracles: "Of facts like these, conforming to no law, There are a thousand chances of mistake To one in favour of the apparent facts,First, self-deception; strong desire to see Begets the power of seeing; from itself The nervously expectant sense projects Its image, its mirage, or hears returned The outward echo of the inward voice; And while the reason and the judgment drowse, The fancy all alive, sees, hears, accepts. Then come illusions of the senses;-Facts Half seen are wholly false,-scarce facts at all. Let but the fact be strange and new, surprise Destroys the power of scrutiny.-Again, Wonder, the habitual state of many minds, (Those, most of all, religiously inclined), I76 A PRIMITIVE CHRISTIAN IN ROME. 177 Love of the marvellous, a dread to peer Too keenly into that which wears a garb Of holiness, a proneness to revere What others reverence-all lead astray. Belief is passive: it receives, accepts; But doubt is active: it disputes, rejects. You think these wonders, facts. You say that Christ Was holy in his aspect, pure in life, And in his perfectness above mankind. I will not question this: I only say He was a man, at best, and not a god. The Jews could not have crucified a god. No, nor a demigod, like Hercules. "Observe, I do not say as others do, That he was wicked in intent, and sought A kingly crown above his wretched tribe. And if he did, I care not. What he said Was well enough, only it was not new. All that is good is found in Socrates, Or Plato, or the old Philosophies. Had he been born in Greece, he might, perhaps, M GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Have graced the train of one of these great men. But in that dismal Syria,'mid a herd Of ignorant Jews, most of them fishermen, Who worshipped him, he lost all common sense. From what I hear, he grew half-cracked at last, And thought himself a god, and claimed the power Of miracles, like other madmen here. Well, well; he suffered for all that by death, And, I daresay, was better than the most Among that loathsome people. For all that, Touched in his brain he was, you must admit. For what man in his senses ever dreamed He from the dead should rise with pomp and power A kingdom to establish on the earth? "As for his miracles, I do not doubt That some among that herd of credulous fools, On whom he practised, thought they saw these things. But who was there with eyes and mind well trained To sift the facts, to judge the evidence, To question, to examine, to record? Not one; the stupid crowd cried'miracle 178 A PRIMITIVE CHRISTIAN IN ROME. I79 (For everything is miracle to them); The Scribes and Pharisees, the learned men, All stood aloof and scorned him and his works. "And were they true, what prove they?-I-Why, in Rome These wonder-working magians come by scores, Each with his new inspired theogony, Each with his miracle to prove him God! For instance, there is Judas, whom they call The Gaulonite; and his three sons as well; There is Menander, and Cerinthus too, Theudas, and the greatest two of all, Simon of Gitton, named the Magian, And Apollonius of Tyana. Thousands assert for them, as you for Christ, A supernatural power, a gift divine. What shall I say? All surely are not gods! No 1 nor a single one. Some, as I hear, Are scholars versed in Egypt's mystic lore, And by the subtle thought of Greece imbued, With minds enriched by travel and strange tongues, And skilled in writing, teaching, prophecy; GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. 'Tis even said their prophecies prove true; If so, by chance, by happy guess, no more. Yet if I hold these miracles of theirs As mere delusions (and you say they are), How can you ask me to accept on faith Those Christ (a good man, if you will, but yet An untaught Jew of Galilee) performed, Far out of sight, with none to vouch for them Except a ruck of wretched ignorant Jews? As for their doctrines, systems, forms of faith, There is an Eastern likeness in them all, Simon or Christ-'tis nearly the same thing. "And so this magian had the power, you think, To drive out shrieking devils from the breasts Of madmen, and compel them by his will To rush into a herd of guiltless swine; Nay, that he cured the sick, and raised the dead, One Lazarus, four days buried, till he stank; Even more, that he could raise himself to life When crucified and dead, and in his tomb; And all because these awe-struck vulgar Jews I80 A PRIMITIVE CHRISTIAN IN ROME. 181I Saw some one like him, and affirmed'twas he. A woman first, a Mary Magdalene, Set all these stories going. Who was she? A half-mad courtesan, one who had owned Her seven devils-but of her the less You say the better. You'll at least admit The kingdom that he promised on the earth, The pomp, the power, the glory, were all trash. He vanished very swiftly out of sight For all his promises, and left the fools Who trusted him to gape and stare to see Some day the heavens open, as he said, And him with angels coming. When he comes Pray give me notice;- I, too, will believe; Till then, excuse me; on such evidence Of such grave portents, I to change my faith! I would not hang a sparrow on it all." So Lucius thinks, and talks, and never sees How strange a contradiction in him lies; For he believes in all the wildest myths, And miracles, and wonders of his gods, GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Ay, and his demigods as well, and pays To them his reverential sacrifice. Like a good pagan, he believes them all, Though he admits, of course, he never saw, Nor any eyes of any living man; Though all the evidence is far away, Dimmed and obscured by misty centuries; And though these myths are vouched by writings vague Or by tradition only, differing, too, In each tradition. Yet this faith being fixed, Established by long ages of belief, It must be true; and our good Lucius sees In all these variations proofs of truth. The facts remain, he says, despite them all, Coloured by this report or that report, For this is human merely-only shows How various minds are variously impressed; One sees the fact as red, one green, one blue, But all this difference proves the existing fact. But when Christ comes within our very reach, And living crowds behold his miracles, i82 A PRIMITIVE CHRISTIAN IN ROME. 183 Attesting them by strenuous belief, And sudden cries, and life-long change of faith, All were deceived; such strange things cannot be! Yet either they were true or false. If false, How were these crowds impressed to think they saw What never happened? Is not this as strange, As wondrous as the miracles themselves? "Tricks, tricks," he says, "they only thought they saw; Do not a juggler's tricks deceive us all? I have no faith in Apollonius For all the evidence- it must be trick. In ancient times the gods came down to man, Assuming human powers-but that is past; But when a human creature of to-day Assumes their functions, and works miracles Against the laws of nature, and calls up The dead, the best thing is to hold him mad." No! Lucius will not try the old and new By the same test; a kind of mystery shrouds The ancient fact; the current of belief For generations carries him along. GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. The early faith, stamped on his childish mind, Can never be erased-'tis deep as life. The priest, the sacrifice, the daily rites, The formula, the fashion, the old use Possess him, colouring all his life and thought; And we, who in the new, pure faith rejoice, Seem to his eyes, at least, but fools misled, Who only seek his gods to overthrow, And to whom ruin in the end must come. We smile in pity-let us, too, be just. 'Tis hard to root up all one's faith at once; All the old feelings, all the happy dreams, All the sweet customs, the long growth of years. The very superstitions of our youth Have fragrance in them. Underneath the words, We faltered clinging to a mother's hand, A dim, sweet music flows. To that old song No new-writ verse will ever run so smooth. We strike his faith, and whoso strikes our faith We hold as foe-and oft lose sight of Truth Defending dogmas, doctrines, formulas, I84 A PRIMITIVE CHRISTIAN IN ROME. 185 Shells though they be, from which the life has fled. While yet the mind is plastic to a touch, The die of doctrine strikes, deep in, our faith, And age but hardens the impression there. Half our fixed notions are but ancient ruts Of empty words and formulas of thought, Worn in by repetition and long use And easy run the wheels within these ruts. He who assails and goads the mind to think, Or starts it from the grooves of prejudice, We call foul names, we hate, we scorn, we fear; He seems at once a foe to man and God. What will he do? Old superstitious props Hold up our lives; if they be stricken down, What shall befall us? Oh! that way lies death! Old miracles, myths, dogmas, all things old, Are reverent for their age. It is the new We have to fear: as if God did not work With fresh abounding power in our own day, In our own souls; as if dead creeds could hold The living spirit, and these pagan husks For ever feed the soul that starves for Truth. GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. I will not say but in old myths resides Something of good-some tender living germ Of beauty and delight. Though I renounce Their errors for this higher, holier life That Christ has given; still'tis sweet to think Of Aphrodite rising from the sea, The incarnate dream of beauty; of the staid, Calm dignity of wisdom bodied forth In grand Minerva; of the gracious joy, The charm of nature, Bacchus represents; Of Flora scattering flowers and breathing spring; Of all those lovely shapes that lurking gleam Through nature's sunny openings. Ah! I know Reason rejects them for a higher thought, And yet, at times, that old sweet faith returns To tempt me back in its poetic train. At times, the one Eternal Father seems So far away, and this fair world that teemed With airy shapes, so void and cold and bare. But this is folly. Yet if in my heart Old superstitions still possess a charm, I86 A PRIMITIVE CHRISTIAN IN ROME. I87 How harshly blame our Lucius, who remains Fixed in the old-to whom we only seem Rash innovators, bringing in new gods? Of other stuff is our friend Caius made. The folly of this faith he will admit; "And yet," he says, "the system stands our stead Despite its follies-why then cast it down? Truth is impossible; we cannot know; The impenetrable veil of destiny Behind our life, before our life is dropped. All is an idle guess, and this mixed creed Of superstitions has its gleams of truth. It served our fathers; if we cast it down Then chaos comes. Thinking results at last In wretchedness. We cannot hope to know. Only the gods know. Man's mind must be fed With superstitions mixed with truth; pure truth Would merely madden; for as we are made Half mind, half matter, so our thoughts must be. Then let our faith stand where it is; the beams Are rotten here and there, but he who mends GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. May topple down the temple on our heads, And leave us godless. Nay, the parasite Of superstition, like the ivy, knits The old wall's crumbling stones. For higher minds A higher truth, a purer faith-but that Through all these forms, we, who have eyes, can see, The forms themselves the common herd demand. Since all at last is theory, the best Is to be happy, calm, and confident. Wvhat is, is-and we cannot alter it. Then plague me not with revelations new. All things are revelations; every creed Comes from above, from God, from all the gods. Pure sunlight blinds the eye, so comes it veiled With soft suffusion in the ambient air; The sun, itself one speck-the positive Set in an infinite negative of sky, And beauty, offspring of the eternal light, Dimmed to soft hues to suit our mortal sense. "As for your miracles, I heed them not; For all things, in one sense, are miracles. I88 A PRIMITIVE CHRISTIAN IN ROME. 189 Who can explain the simplest fact of life, As how we see, or move our hand, or speak, Or how we think, or what is life or death. By dint of daily doing use wears out All strangeness; and with words which but restate And group the facts, we fancy we explain. Our so-called laws of nature are but rules Drawn by experience from recurrent facts, Which every new phenomenon corrects. Cause and effect are only cheating words; We know no causes, we but see effects. Yet, as in one sense all is miracle, So, in another, no such thing exists. The new, the strange, outside the common rule Of man's experience, seems miraculous, For mortal eyes are dim, and short of sight. But could we through this world's phenomena Pierce to the essence and the life of things, All would arrange itself to perfect lawNo breaches, no exceptions, all pure law." Our Decimus, who hopes to win the rank GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Of tribune, takes a somewhat different view. "Don't talk to me," he says, "of right or wrong, Of true or false, we all must take the world For what it is. Against established things Why run your head, and spoil your chance in life? Christ may have been a god, or he may not, But here in Rome we worship other gods; Better or worse is not the question here. If you would win success, go with the crowd, Nor like a fool against the current strive; What will you gain by warring with the time, And preaching doctrines that the general mind Considers impious? Even were they true, They only raise up foes to tread you down. As for myself, I'm not the babbling fool To utter all I think. I sacrifice With all the rest, perform the common rites, And do the thing that's deemed respectable; And so I win the favour of all men. What care I if the crowd be right or wrong? I use them just to serve my purposes, As steps whereby to rise to place and power. I90 A PRIMITIVE CHRISTIAN IN ROME. One should not be the last to leave the old, Nor yet the first to welcome in the new. The popular belief-that is my faith; My gods are always on the side that wins." Marcus, the augur, whose whole life is spent In omens, auguries, and sacrifice, And service at the temple in white robes, So deep is sunken in the pagan rut He cannot start his mind even to think. Our creed to him is rank impiety, Worthy of death. He to the beasts would throw Whoever dares our doctrines to embrace. His faith is absolute; no shade of doubt Has ever crossed him; he is planted there Firm as a tree, or rather, like a wall; A tree lives, grows, but he is simply dead, Stone upon stone, dull, dead, fixed, like a wall. Thus, buttressed up by custom's honoured props, Established in the faith of centuries, Engraved with mystic lines and Orphean hymns, Old saws and sacred lore of ancient priests, IgI GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. An honest, absolute, stolid wall he stands, Firm to uphold the statues of the gods, And shield them from the assaults of impious men. If I beseech him to consider well And reason on his faith, he cries, amazed, "Reason! what more fallacious guide than that? Reason! with human reason do you dare To explain the gods, and to assail our faith? They in the days of old revealed themselves, Assumed our shapes, ordained the sacrifice Of blood and wine upon our altars poured, Their power attested by miraculous deeds, And still by omens, portents, auguries, Inform and aid us on our human path. You do not understand them? oh, indeed! And so you summon them before your bar, Bid them explain their doings and their laws, And if they fail to meet your views, why, then You judge them and reject them. Oh, I see! The gods must ask leave to be gods from us, And beg our pardon if by ways obscure, Instead of common human ways, they work, I92 A PRIMITIVE CHRISTIAN IN ROME. 193 Or else we will arise and get new gods. Oh, Jupiter! who are these impious men? Wvhence do they come, what do they mean, who thus Set up at Rome their superstitions vile, And with their feeble reason dare oppose The will of heaven? Go, atheist, infidel, Go, and ask pardon of the gods, and learn Obedience, and humility, and fear, Or Jove himself will from his right hand launch His thunderbolt, and sweep you to your fate." At times, this solid, settled faith of his Shakes me with doubt. For what if he be right, And this new faith that so commends itself To all I am and hope, be, at the worst, Temptation and delusion, shall I set My face against the verdict of the world? Shall not the faith that soothed the dying bed Of Socrates-the faith that Plato taught And Cicero avowed, suffice for me? Shall I dare question what such minds affirm? "Obey! Obey!" a voice within me cries N GRAFFITI D'ITAI,IA. ('Tis the old echo of my early faith), And then, "Arouse!" cries out a stronger voice, "Arouse! shake off this torpor! Sink not down In the old creed-easy because'tis old; In the dead faith-so fixed, because'tis dead." Let us go in and speak with Paul again. He is so strong, he braces up our faith, And stiffens all the sinews of the mind. I94 OR E S T E S. How tranquil is the night! how calm and deep This sacred silence! Not an olive-leaf Is stirring on the slopes; all is asleepAll silent, save the distant drowsy streams That down the hillsides murmur in their dreams. The vast sad sky all breathless broods above, And peace and rest this solemn temple steep. Here let us rest-it is the hour of loveForgetting human pain and human grief. But see! half-hidden in the columned shade, WNho panting stands, with hollow eyes dismayed, GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. That glance around as if they feared to see Some dreaded shape pursuing? Can it be Orestes, with those cheeks so trenched and wornThat brow with sorrow seamed, that face forlorn? Ay,'tis Orestes! we are not alone. What human place is free from human groan? Ay,'tis Orestes! In the temple there, Refuge he seeks from horror, from despair. Look! where he listens, dreading still to hear The avenging voices sounding in his ear The awful voices that, by day and night, Pursue relentless his despairing flight. Ah! vain the hope to flee from Nemesis! He starts-again he hears the horrent hiss Of the fierce Furies through the darkness creep. And list! along the aisles the angry sweep, The hurrying rush of trailing robes-as when, Through shivering pines asleep in some dim glen, Fierce Auster whispers. Yes, even here they chase Their haunted victim-even this sacred place Stays not their fatal footsteps. As they come, Behold him with that stricken face of doom I96 ORESTES. Fly to the altar, and there falling prone, Strike with his brow Apollo's feet of stone. "Save me!" he cries; "Apollo! hear and save; Not even the dead will sleep in their dark grave. They come-the Furies! To this tortured breast Not even night, the calm, the peaceful, can give rest. Stretch forth thy hand, great God! and bid them cease. Peace, oh Apollo! give the victim peace!" See! the white arm above him seems to wave, And all at once is silent as the grave, And sleep stoops down with noiseless wings outspread, And brooding hovers o'er Orestes' head; And like a gust that roars along the plain Seaward, and dies far off, so dies the pain, The deep remorse, that long his life hath stung, And he again is guiltless, joyous, young. Again he plays, as in the olden time, Through the cool marble halls, unstained by crime. Hope holds his hands, joy strikes the sounding strings, Love o'er him fluttering shakes his purple wings, 197 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. And sorrow hides her face, and dark death creeps Into the shade, and every Fury sleeps. Sleep! sleep, Orestes! let thy torments cease! Sleep! great Apollo grants thy prayer for peace. Sleep! while the dreams of youth around thee play, And the fierce Furies rest.-Let us away. I98 TO FORTUNE. OH Goddess! fixed and fair and calm, That bearest in thy grasp the palmThat bearest in thy grasp the rodOh voice of Fate! oh smile of God! Be gracious-lend to us thy earBe not too awful, too austere. Against thy will no power avails; Without thy aid all struggle fails. Stayed by thy hand, no reed so spare But, column-like, life's weight will bear; Reft of thy hand our steps to lead, The brazen shaft is like a reed. GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Blow but thy breath across the sea, Our galleys go triumphantly; Avert thy face, though skies are fair We sink and founder in despair. Dear Goddess, turn to us thy face! Not justice we implore, but grace; Give us what none can win or buyThy godlike gift, prosperity. 200 PRAXITELES AND PHRYNE. [Dedicated to R. B.] A THOUSAND silent years ago, The twilight faint and pale WVas drawing o'er the sunset glow Its soft and shadowy veil; When from his work the Sculptor stayed His hand, and turned to one Who stood beside him, half in shade, Said, with a sigh, "'Tis done. "Thus much is saved from chance and change, That waits for me and thee; GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Thus much-how little!-from the range Of Death and Destiny. "Phryne, thy human lips shall pale, Thy rounded limbs decay,Nor love nor prayers can aught avail To bid thy beauty stay; "But there thy smile for centuries On marble lips shall live, — For Art can grant what love denies, And fix the fugitive. "Sad thought! nor age nor death shall fade The youth of this cold bust; When this quick brain and hand that made, And thou and I art dust! "When all our hopes and fears are dead, And both our hearts are cold, And love is like a tune that's played, And Life a tale that's told, 202 PRAXITELES AND PHRYNE. "This senseless stone, so coldly fair, That love nor life can warm, The same enchanting look shall wear, The same enchanting form. "Its peace no sorrow shall destroy; Its beauty age shall spare The bitterness of vanished joy, The wearing waste of care. "And there upon that silent face Shall unborn ages see Perennial youth, perennial grace, And sealed serenity. "And strangers, when we sleep in peace, Shall say, not quite unmoved, So smiled upon Praxiteles The Phryne whom he loved." 203 MARCUS ANTONIUS. [Dedicated to L. C.] 'Tis vain, Fonteus!-As the half-tamed steed, Scenting the desert, lashes madly out, And strains and storms and struggles to be free(ld, Shaking his rattling harness all aboutSo, fiercer for restraint, here in my breast Hot passion rages, firing every thought; For what is honour, prudence, interest To the wild strength of love? Oh best of life, My joy, hope, triumph, glory, my soul's wife, My Cleopatra! I desire thee so That all restraint to the wild winds I throw. MARCUS ANTONIUS. Come what come will, come life, come death, to me 'Tis equal, if again I look on thee. Away, Fonteus! tell her that I rage WAith madness for her. Nothing can assuage The strong desire, the torment, the fierce stress That whirls my thoughts round, and inflames my brain, But her great ardent eyes-dark eyes, that draw My being to them with a subtle law And an almost divine imperiousness. Tell her I do not live until I feel The thrill of her wild touch, that through each vein Electric shoots its lightning; and again Hear those low tones of hers, although they steal As by some serpent-charm my will away, And wreck my manhood. Oh! Octavia, This lying galls me-this poor mean pretence Of love-this putting every word to schoolWhen all at best is blank indifference. Even hate for you is only cold and dull I hate you that I cannot hate you more. Were you but savage, wicked to the core, 205 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Less pious, prudish, prudent, made to rule, I might have loved or hated more; but now Nothing on earth seems half so deadly chill As your insipid smile and placid brow, Your glacial goodness and proprieties. Tell my dear serpent I must see her-fill My eyes with the glad light of her great eyes, Though death, dishonour, anything you will, Stand in the way! Ay, by my soul! disgrace Is better in the sun of Egypt's face Than pomp or power in this detested place. Oh for the wine my queen alone can pour From her rich nature! Let me starve no more On this weak tepid drink that never warms My life-blood: but away with shams and forms' Away with Rome! One hour in Egypt's eyes Is worth a score of Roman centuries. Away, Fonteus! Tell her, till I see Those eyes I do not live-that Rome to me Is hateful,-tell her-oh! I know not what That every thought and feeling, space and spot 206 MARCUS ANTONIUS. Is like an ugly dream, where she is not; All persons plagues; all doing wearisome; All talking empty; all these feasts and friends These slaves and courtiers, princes, palacesThis Caesar, with his selfish aims and ends, His oily ways and sleek hypocrisiesThis Lepidus; and, worse than all by far, This mawkish, pious, prude OctaviaAre bonds and fetters, tedious as disease, Not worth the parings of her finger-nails. Oh for the breath of Egypt!-the soft nights Of the voluptuous East-the dear delights We tasted there-the lotus-perfumed gales That dream along the low shores of the Nile, And softly flutter in the languid sails! Oh for the queen of all!-for the rich smile That glows like autumn over her dark faceFor her large nature-her enchanting grace Her arms, that are away so many a mile! Away, Fonteus!-lose no hour —make sailWeigh anchor on the instant-woo a gale 207 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. To blow you to her. Tell her I shall be Close on your very heels across the sea, Praying that Neptune send me storms as strong As Passion is, to sweep me swift along, Till the white spray sing whistling round my prow, And the waves gurgle'neath the keel's sharp plough. Fly, fly, Fonteus! When I think of her My soul within my body is astir! My wild blood pulses, and my hot cheeks glow! Love with its madness overwhelms me so That I-oh! go, I say! Fonteus, go! 208 MODERN 0 G I A N N O N E. [Dedicated to E. S.] TAKE a cigar-draw up your chair, There's at least a good half-hour to spare Before the Capuchin clock strikes one, And the bell, with a sharp spasmodic tinkle, Rouses the Frati to shuffle to prayer, And the altar candles begin to twinkle In the cheerless chapel, bleak and bare — By Jove! we are better off here than there. And now, as that friend of yours has gone, There's a word I must whisper to you, alone. Friends grow dearer, and hearts draw nearer, Calmed in the silent centre of night; GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. And words we may say, that the full mid-day, If it should hear us, would jeer outright. Day, with its din, for distrust and doubt' Night for confidence, friendship, love! The day's work done, and the world shut out, The streets all silent, the stars above, Pleasant it is to gather about The fire of wood, and muse and dream, And talk of the hopes and joys of youth, And open our hearts and confess the truth, Ceasing to make-believe and seem. Fling another log on the fire, Another log from the Sabine hill, And a heap of those rusty crackling canes That out on the sunny Campagna plains Held on their trellis the grape-hung vine, Whose blood was drained for this purple wine, Our straw-enwoven fiasco to fill. Look! the old tendrils, stiff as wire, Cling to them still with their strong desire, Outlasting death-as our friendship will. 2I2 GIANNONE. How the flame bickers, and quivers, and flickers, DI)arting its eager tongues about! TIhen blazes abroad with genial flashes, Till the sap comes singing and bubbling out. VWild as a Mcenad with myriad fancies, Hither and thither it leaps and dances, Fitful, whimsical, glad, and free, Like a living thing with a heart and soul. Oh, the wood-fire is the fire for me! Away with your heartless mechanical coal, Your vulgar drudge, so sullen and slow, That ne'er with a flame of fancy flashes, But burns with a grim and business glow, And crumbles away to dirty ashes, And smells of the furnace and factory. Talk of the home and hearth! of late Nothing we've had but house and grateNothing in England to warm to the core, Like the vast old chimneys and fires of yore, When the great logs blazed with a genial roar. Hark to that mossy log, whose heart 2 13 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. The contadino has cloven apart, Singing its death-song! How it tells What the cicada chirped in the dells, When it was young, and its leafy pride Shadowed Pan with its branches wide; And what old Auster, bluff and bold, Screamed in its ear while it shivered with cold. Thousands of idyls it has to sing, Of love and summer, of youth and spring; Of the Dryad that slipt with her rustling dress Into its murmurous leafiness; Of the rout of Bacchanals, ivy-crowned, Shaking the air with the cymbal's sound, While the yawning panther's velvet foot Pressed the rank grasses over its root; Of the timorous Naiad, pearled with dew, That fled to the bubbling torrent near, And, hid by the bushes, looked trembling through At the smooth-limbed Bacchus, in love and fear; Of the chance and change of the season's spell, Of musical birds and odorous flowers, Of the storm that swept like a chorded shell 2I4 GIANNONE. The groaning forest-of whispering showers, Of all that, rooted there, it beheld, Since first in its veins the young sap swelled. But what like this has your coal to tell? Black old mummy; what has it known, Since the earth was a bubbling lava-vat, Sunk in its dreary silent tomb, But the earthquake's rumbling sound of doom, Till it leapt to light with a split and groan, With a toad, perhaps, encased in its stone How can you warm your heart at that? How the wood blazes! Fill my glass! This Lacryma Christi goes to the heart, And makes the olden memories start, Like an April rain on last year's grass. How the days go! how the hours pass! Sometimes like a thousand years it seems, And then like a little month of dreams, Since the Odes of Horace you taught me to scan, And helped me over Homeric crevasses, I, stumbling along where you lightly ran, 215 GRAFFITI D ITALIA. By the shores of the Poluphloisboio ThalassesThen how I longed to be a man, Though thrilling with all a boy's joy of the lasses, With my crown just even with your shoulder, Looking with reverence up to youLonging to know the things you knew, You six feet high and six years older, And leaping over with quiet ease What brought me staggering on to my knees. Then I remember you went to Rome, And on the hem of your garment brought Odours back to our quiet home, That ravished with sweetness my boyish thought. How your talk, like an o'erbrimmed cup, Ran over with beauty, my heart drank up; Oranges, olives-tinkling guitars, Skies all throbbing with palpitant stars, Moonlighted terraces, gardens, and groves, Bubbling of nightingales, cooing of dovesPortia's, Laura's, and Juliet's loves, Everything lovely I seemed to see When you were talking of Italy; 2i6 GIANNONE. There you almost seemed to have met Titian, Raffaelle, Tintoret, And felt the grasp of Angelo's hand, And known Da Vinci, so calm and grand, And walked in that glorious company, Wvhose starry names are above us seen Like constellations in the sky; And you in that marble world had been, Where the Grecian and Roman gods still reign, And lord it in Art's serene domain; And behind the veil of talk you wove, Their figures, half-hidden, seemed to move, And, beckoning, smile-to pass away At a single touch of my everyday. Ah! the old dreams-old times-old joys Buried beyond the Present's noise, How still they sleep beneath time's river! All of their sorrows and pains forgot, All of their beauty, without a blot, Living to perfume the memory for ever. 217 GRAFFITI D ITALIA. Well! once you filled my heart with wine, That made me drunk with a life divine; And I pour into yours, as a recompense, Small beer of advice and common sense. You were a poet to me at home, I'll be a preacher to you in Rome. So, to come out of this dreamy land, To the business matter of fact in hand; You know that fellow that just went outBut pray, do you know his business here? How he is living-what he's about, Here in Rome this many a year? Somebody introduced him? He seems A sort of a pious good-natured fool,A convert, they told you, with dreams and schemes For the Church's universal rule? All very well; but what are his means? Faith is lovely, but is not food;The heart has its pulse, but the stomach needs beans, And texts don't do when the appetite's rude. Man's but a poor weak creature at best, 218 GIANNONE. Till the fiend in the belly is lulled to rest. Throw hzim his dose, and the road is free For meditation and sanctity. Now look me, my old friend, straight in the eye Unless appearances grossly lie (I'm as sorry to say it as you to hear, But after midnight one must be sincere), That fellow's only a Government Spy! Of course you're surprised.-There's nothing on earth So base in your eyes as a Government Spy; He's half an Englishman, too, by birth, So the thing is an impossibility. Be calm, my friend, that's the way it looks To us poor sinners; but we mistake: The law is different in his looks;He acts for the Holy Church's sake; And there's nothing so dirty you may not do, With absolution and blessing too Not to speak of the money part If the Church's good you have at heart. Holy fictions are never lies; 'Tis the pious purpose purifies. 2I9 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. And pray distinguish, if you please, Those who, like martyrs, sacrifice Instincts of commonest decencies, Seeking to win an immortal prize From merely common vulgar spies. Spirito Santo's not the same As Aqua Vitze, even in name. Spirito Santo mumbles and prays The while his friend to death he betrays; Aqua Vita is bought and sold, And frankly admits that he works for gold. For, "Bah!" he says, "a man must live, And holes there are in every one's sieve. Nobody's pure as he pretends, And we all eat dirt for our selfish ends. Pride is the ruin of angel and man; All of us do as well as we can; You at my dirty business scoff, But silver spoons are found in the trough. Cheaper than you I am, I'll admit, Because I am poorer, not worse a whit. A beggar's sole chance is to sleep in a ditch; 220 GIANNONE.' I'd be respectable too-were I rich; But calling names don't break any bones, And eggs are eggs, though you call them stones." Talk as vulgar as this your friend Is ready as you to reprehend: For, " Ah!" he says, "we cannot refuse Our crosses and burdens, though hard to bear: The world's always ready to sneer and abuse, But we must answer their scoffs with a prayer: Our duty is not for us to choose. Fallible reason to man is given; The Church alone has the keys to heaven; She only knows what is purest and best, And her servants humbly must do her behest. She doeth a mighty good with a fool, And, using me as a worthless tool, If I mistake, and stumble, and fall, She shall give absolution for all." Now I may be deceived, and I hope I am; But a wolf may borrow the fleece of a laml)b, 22I GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. And I fear your friend is that kind of sham. But listen, I'11 spin a yarn for you, And every thread of it's simply true; And then you can come to your own decision, If I'm right or wrong in my suspicion. 'Tis years, as you know, that I've lived in Rome, Till now it's familiar to me as home; And'tis years ago I knew Giannone, A capital fellow, with great black eyes, And a pleasant smile of frank surprise, And as gentle a pace as a lady's pony, Ready to follow wherever you bid; His oaths were, "Per Bacco!" and "Dio mio " And "Guardi!" he cried to whatever you said; But though not overfreighted with esprit or brio, His heart was better by far than his head. His education was rather scanty; But what on earth could he have done \Vith an education, having one, Unless he chose for the scarlet to run, And study the Fathers and lives of the Santi? 222 GIANNONE. Nevertheless, I know he had read, Because he quoted them, Tasso and Dante; And so often he recommended the prosy Promessi Sposi, I must suppose he Had also achieved that tale of Manzoni; And besides Monte Christo and Uncle Tom, And the history of Italy and Rome, (For he thoroughly knew how Liberty's foot Had been pinched, and maimed, and lamed in her boot), He had studied with zeal the book of the Mass, And Libretti of all the operas. This little learning sufficed for Giannone, And, sooth to say, as little money; Most of the latter he spent upon dress, And his life was neither more nor less Than the difficult problem, day by day, To drive the cursed time away. So having nothing himself to do, He would dawdle away your morning for you. When you were silent to drive him away, 223 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. You missed your man-he would stay and stay, With the same old phrases, the livelong day. And smiling at nothing, and so content He lounged at his ease on your sofa there, Or peeped in your boxes without your consent, Or paced through the room, or, pausing, stood At the glass, and examined himself with care, And arranged his cravat, or mustache, or hair. And so pleased if you threw him a word or two, That you had no heart to be downright rude, And say, "My dear fellow, you really intrude;" Or if at last you were ready to swear, And cried, "I am busy; I've something to do!" Dull as a stone to what you meant, he Would quietly settle himself in his chair, And smiling answer, with fatuous air, "Faccia, senza complimenti." His room was an armoury of swords Some blades scribbled with Koran words, Some long and thin, some short and stout, Some crooked, some straight, some curved about. 224 GIANNONE. He had ancient guns and pistols too, One-barrelled, six-barrelled, old and new, WAVith every species of bore and stock, And every imaginable lock; Daggers, with hilts by Cellini made, Or so at least Giannone said; A savage bludgeon from Southern Seas, A Turkish scimitar's gilded blade, An Indian tomahawk and a creese; Everything murderous, terrible, wild, Pleased this creature, so gentle and mild. On his wall was a head of Rachel, of course, Flanked by two dogs, a stag, and a horse From l,andseer's brush, and, poised on her neat toe, The delicate sylph-like shape of Cerito. On his hearth-rug lay a lion's skin, And a couple of (logs made a terrible din, Yelping and screaming at all that came in. And here he lay, in his Wyarlike den, And made his breakfast on "cafe au lait," The very idlest of idle men, Smoking and gaping the morning away, 1, 225 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. And handling his pistols now and then; Shabby enough in his dressing-gown, With a soiled shirt on, and his slippers down, And a scarlet fez with a tassel blue Perched on his head, not over-new. But as soon as the morning he'd worried by, Thle grub would change to a butterfly Burst from his chrysalis, and appear Like an Englishl milord, with a million a-year; And when his elaborate toilet was done, He really fancied he looked like one. Yet, despite his short bepocketed coat, His mutton-chop whiskers, and well-shaved throat, And English neck-tie, and laced-up boot, He still was Italian from head to foot. By slowly dressing, an hour he killed, And then the serious duty fulfilled Of showing himself all up and down The Corso's length to the lazy town, 226 GIANNONE. Bowing and lifting his glossy hat, Or pausing to air his innocent chat At the carriage of Lady this or that; And to be English out and out, He bought a dog-cart, and drove about, Sitting high, with majestic pride, A tiger behind, and a friend at his side, And a boule-dogue staring between his knees, As like an Englishman as two peas. He thought so at least, if we did not; So, up and down, at a solemn trot, With his reins held tight, as if his steed WNere wild with spirit, blood, and breed (Though, if the simple truth be told, It was eighteen years since he was foaled), He drove, white-gloved, his reverend b)east, And looked like an English Sir Smith at least. At night he went to his opera-stall, W hen there was neither a party nor ball; And, knowing the opera all by rote, He hummed with the tenor, soprano, or bass, 227 GRAFFITI D ITALIA. Keeping ahead by a bar or note, And winning by half a length the race; Or, turning around with an earnest face, He studied the circle from ceiling to floor, With a cheap lorgnette he had hired at the door; Or, wandering about from box to box, With his white cravat and his oily locks, He played with some lady's fan and smiled, And remarked that the weather was cold or mild; Asked when she would receive his call Hoped it would be a gay Carnival; Said Lady X. was a beautiful woman Heard she intended to give a ball; Knew that young American there, The pretty girl with a rose in her hair, The daughter, they say, of Barnum. the showman Would have a million dollars for dot, And half he sighed at his different lot. And with chat like this, that offended no man, Of people and parties and weather and wealth, And asking of everybody's health, He talked like any agreeable Roman. 228 GIANNONE. Giannone had but an empty head But then the worst of him is said A better heart, or a readier hand, To help in whatever was plotted and planned, You never would see in our English land. He sang at our parties-was ready to hop In polka, mazurka, schottische, or galopp; Or led the cotillon till all of the girls Had danced in the morning, and danced out their curls, And the tired musicians were ready to drop. He bargained for carriages, horses, and grooms Hired music for balls, sent flowers to your rooms Arranged all the picnics, and fluttered about At every tea-drinking party or rout Talked terrible French, and at times even spoke In English, said "Yas, meese," and thought it a joke. A "guardia nobile" was Giannone, By whicl he earned sufficient money For his gloves, shirt-buttons, boots, and hat, Though it was scarcely enough for that. And splendid he was on a gala-day, 229 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. With his jingling sword and scarlet coat, And his long jack-boots and helmet gay, WThen along the streets he used to trot; And great good-luck it was to meet G(iannone when you wanted a seat 'o hear the chant of the Miserere, Or to get on the balcony high and airy, To see the Papal procession go Over St Peter's pavement below, Streaming along in its gorgeous show. And then at Carnival such bouquets Such beautiful bon-bons, and princely ways Such elegant wavings of hat and hand Such smiles that no one could withstand Such compliments, as made ours seem Like pale skim-milk to his rich cream. (Giannone's dream was always this, To find some beautiful English "Miss," With a pretty face and plenty of money, Wlho should fall in love and marry Giannone. Poor fellow' he met with a different fate, 230 GIANNONE. The manner of which I will now relate, And he caught it just through imitation Of some of the ways of our English nation. Travel as much as we English will, Down to the death we are English stillThe brandy and ale that we have at home, And the sherry and port, we must have in Rome. These thin Italian wines, we think, Are a wishy-washy kind of drink. Travel we must, if only to say Wie are better in England every way; And we honestly think, when we get abroad, That England alone was made by God, While the rest of the earth, though nobly planned, WAas finished by some apprentice's hand. All that's not English in our eyes Is something to sneer at, and jeer, and despise. As for a foreigner, it's our rule To consider him either a knave or fool; And our sense of a kindness by one bestowed, WVeighs on our minds like an awkward load, 231 GRAFFITI D ITALIA. Till we've asked our new acquaintance to dine, And paid off the favour with beef and wine, And introduced him to all our set. So it happened that Hycombe WVycombe Brown, Of the Sussex WVycombes, a man about town, The nephew, you know, of Sir Hycombe Guy, Who was slain at the storming of Alisalih, And left his name to the Gazette, And put our Hycombe quite at his ease With I know not how many lacs of rupees (And he lacked them enough till then, if you please). Well, owing Giannone a kind of debt For buying some horses, or some such work, He sent him a card of defiance one day TIo meet him at point of the knife-and fork, And settle the matter without delay. Giannone accepted of course, and then, As Wycombe's Italian was rather weak, He asked a few of us resident men Wvho knew the language, as seconds, to speak, And among them, slim and sleek and sly, Was your pious friend with his balking eye. 232 GIANNONE. The dinner was good, and all were merry, And plenty there was of champagne and sherry; And the toasts were brisk and the wine was good, And we all took quite as much as we should. Then we went to cards; and depend upon it, TIhough our seasoned brains the drink withstood, There was a bee in Giannone's bonnet; But to play we went-it was only whist, But a little mill answers for little grist, And Giannone was soon cleaned out of all He had saved for bouquets at Carnival, And of course he felt a little vext, Though "Pazienza" was still his text. But playing's dry work, and, I'm sorry to say, Brandy was ordered to whet the play; And Giannone kept drinking, in imitation Of this happy custom of our nation, Till at last his tongue had lost its rein, And the fire had all gone into his brain. So he began to talk quite wild, 233 GRAFFITI D ITALIA. And spoke all his thoughts out like a child And secrets he ought to have kept in his breast Plumped out of his mouth like young birds from their nest; And names he called, and his voice was high As he talked of Italian liberty! And cursed the priests as the root of all evil, And sent the Cardinals all to the devil! And, "Now," he cried, "they have it their way, But every dog must have his day; And the time will come, and that before long, WAhen the weak will rise and drive over the strong, And the Tricolor over the Vatican fly, And vivas be heard for liberty! No more King Stork, and no more Pope l og, Fouling Italy's boot in their bog. Better dig with the bayonet's point our graves, And die to be freemen, than live to be slaves Ah, fight we will! There is nothing good WIhich must not be first baptised in blood. Let us alone, you tricking French, Let us alone, you Austrian sneaks, 234 GIANNONE. And we will purge the Augean stench That in Bomba's and Pius's stable reeks. WNe ask no help from Gascon or Guelph, Italia will do it alone-by herself." WVhen the wine is in, at times the wit To a kindle of savage flame is lit; And Giannone, who in his common mood Thinks more of gloves and perfumes than blood, Now looked and talked like a man inspired, And his thoughts blazed up as if they were fired, And his lamping eyes (as calm as a cow's In his everyday) now seemed to rouse And burn beneath his low black brows. WVe looked at him in amazement then, And said, "These Italians aiifooid are men, Veneered with ignorance though they be, And cowed and imbruted by slavery; Let them be roused by war or love, They are fiercer than any of us, by Jove " But all the while that Giannone let fly 235 GRAFFITI D ITALIA. These arrows of his, with a dead-cold eye Your friend sat playing, and now and then Gleamed up with a glance as sharp as a pen That seemed to write down every word, And then looked away as he had not heard; And whenever he opened his lips, he said Something about the game,-" You've played A heart to my club:-we're one to six; Yours are the honours and ours the tricks." WVe were all Englishmen there, you know, And we English to suspect are slow; But this fellow's air and sneaking look Were something I somehow could not brook; So I watched him well, and at last said I To myself, "The rascal must be a spy." The thought like an arrow of fate struck homeYou know how these sudden conclusions come, Beyond our reason, beyond our will, And, lightening down with electric thrill, Reveal in one clear and perfect flash 236 GIANNONE. A world that before was doubt and gloom. So "Zitto! Zitto! don't be so rash, Giannone," I cried; "who knows what ear May be listening at the door to hear?" And then, with a laugh, and looking straight At this friend of yours, with his face sedate, I added, "Who knows but there may be A spy even here in this company?" If I doubted before the trade of your friend, My doubts in a moment had their end; For a glance came straight up into my eyes From under his lids, half fear, half surprise, As an adder on which you chance to tread Starts up, and darts his tongue from his head, And then slips swiftly into the shade. So turning back with a look demure, And a deprecating, pious air, As much as to say, "W Ve must not care, If our purposes are but high and pure, But quell our passions and our pride, And bear the stigma of human shame, 237 GRAFFITI D ITALIA. Knowing the means are justified By the noble end,"-he slowly said, Speaking, of course, about the game, "The trick is mine-'twas the knave I played." Now the snakes that in Italy's bosom lie Are the twins Suspicion and Jealousy; And the eggs from which they creep and crawl Are hatched in the secret confessional. \Vherever you go you may hear them hiss 'Neath the covert of studied hypocrisies. Truth is dangerous,-eyes will spy, And ears will hear, though nobody's nigh; And the safest thing is to learn to lie. So a daily distrust is engendered and bred, That saps one's faith in the friend most dear, And creeps to sleep in the marriage-bed, Till the dearest and nearest you learn to fear. The Government never forgets the rule That it early learns in the Church's school: D)ivide and conquer-that is the way. 238 GIANNONE. Threaten the weak, the frank betray; Cajole and promise-you needn't pay. Save your children by plying your rods, And give up to Caesar the things that are-God's. And oh! my children, listen and hearWhatever the Church commands, revere; And distrust men's words with a holy fear; And wherever you go, and whatever you see, Worship only the powers that be, And talk no nonsense of liberty. This is the creed that Giannone knew Better by far than I or you; So no sooner the dread word "Spy" I spoke, Than his fine discourse like a pipe-stem broke; But looking around with a startled stare, And seeing we only were English there, His fear dropped off like a snake's old skin, And again with a laugh we heard him begin. "' Ah!" he cried, "there's a dirty trick In the very word that makes me sick; 239 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. You English don't know as well as I The slobber and slime of a Government Spy. "Sir Birichino, permit me now To introduce him-a friend of mine — Smooth, pale, bloodless lips and brow A long black coat, whose rubbed seams shine Spots on his waistcoat of grease and wineA tri-cornered hat all rusty with use Long black coarse stockings and buckled shoes; Ah! so polite with his bows and smiles, And his sickening compliments and wiles, And his little serpent venomous eyes, And his swollen chops of beastly size. Look at the hypocrite! There he stands, WVith the unctuous palms of his dirty hands Folded together breast-high, while he sneaks Cringing behind them wherever he speaks; lie dares not look you straight in the eyes, But, sidling and simpering, askance alway, He oils you over with wheedling lies, As the boa slimes ere he swallows his prey. 240 GIANNONE. Any day you may see him, he haunts Half the cafes and restaurants; His eye on his paper fixed,- his ear Gleaning the talk at the table near. No pride in hzi,z,-he will lick your shoes, Thanks you for kicking him-loves abuse Calls it the natural spirit of youth; Anything's sweet to him but truth. Drop a bad word in that fellow's way, He picks it up as a vulture its prey; Hating whatever is wholesome and good, And living only on carrion food. Ilet him say'rose,' it will stink in his breath. MIany a fellow owes him his death Just for a strong word, spoken may be WNhen the blood was hot and the tongue too free. But at last he reckoned without his host, And in throwing his dirty dice he lost; And one morning they found him taking his rest In the street, with a dagger stuck in his breast. And served him right, say you and I, It was only too easy a death for a Spy." Q 241 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. At this yourfrieztd threw down his card, Saying, "You've won to-night,'tis true, But to-morrow I'll have my revenge on you." And though these words to his friend he spoke, He looked at Giannone so sharp and hard, With such a sinister evil look, That a dark suspicion in me awoke. So the good Giannone's arm I took, And crying, "I'm off-will you go with me?" Took him away from the company; And after a mile of midnight Rome, Left him safe in his den at home. This, you'll say, and I'll confess Was merely suspicion no more nor less; Yet I could not get it out of my head Long after I was warm in my bed, That something might happen by-and-by To prove this fellow was only a Spy. Two days after I went to see Whether Giannone would walk with me 242 GIANNONE. Two sharp bell-pulls at his door; No answer-gone out; then one pull more, And "Ho, Giannone, Giannone,'tis I!" Then slipped a slide back cautiously From a little grated hole-" Chi'e," From a woman's voice-" Che vuole lei?" And a shuffle of slippers when it was known Wlho "I" was, and that I was alone. ' And where is the Signor Padrone?" I cried. "Ash! " with a sort of convulsive groan, The poor old servant, sighing, replied, "Doesn't your Signoria knowSuch times-such times-oime! oibo! The sbirri came here yesterday, And carried the caro padrone away; And they've rifled his desk of letters and all, And taken the pistols and swords from the wall, And locked up the room with a great red seal Put over the door; and they scared me so, With threats if I dared in the chamber to go, That I'm all of a tremble from head to heel; And when the bell rang, I thought it must be 243 GRAFFITI D ITALIA. Some of the sbirri come back for me. WVhat it's about we none of us know, But his mother and sisters are in such a fright, They've been weeping and praying the livelong night. And oh, I fear, Signore dear, There's some dreadful political business here; Ahime!" and she wiped away a tear. The servant's story was all too true; I did, of course, all there was to do, Begged, bribed, and petitioned, but all in vain. From that night I never saw him again. Worse, neither I nor his family knew, Nor will you, unless your friend explain, And Giannone himself is as ignorant tooWVhat was his crime-what done-what said, That drew this punishment down on his head. This one fact alone we know, That since the speech of that famous night Giannone has vanished out of sight, And has gone to pass a year or so, Longer perhaps,-how can one say? In a building where the Government pay 244 GIANNONE. His lodging and board in the kindest way. The lodging perhaps is rather bare, And the boarding is not the best of fare, And the company's queer that's gathered thereI\ade up of fellows with speech more free Than one hears in the best society; And some of whose notions are rather opa(que Of the laws that govern property; So that sometimes they make a mistake In that little distinction'twixt Jicultm and t/11/z, But then, as the Roman laws are in Latin, \vhiclh, even in Rome, one is not pat in, Farther, I mean, than an Ave or Matin, It takes a scholar to read them at all; And supposing one hzas read thoroughly through'ema, There's a slippery space'twixt see'em and do'em, lWhere Grotius himself might trip and fall. WIell,-here in this cheerful company, Where the cushions are not of silk and satin, And on fare one cannot honestly praise, Our poor Giannone passes his days. It is not precisely the place to grow fat in, 245 GRAFFITI D ITALIA. And the library's wanting, as yet, I hear, And I'm told that the view from the window is drear, And the host will never allow a fire, And, besides, has ways that are rather queer Of locking the doors, which interfere With the perfect freedom one might desire. But beggars cannot be choosers, you see, And to look a gift-horse in the mouth would be Such a breach of manners-yet, as for me, I cannot help wishing the end would come Of this public hospitality, And that poor Giannone was free to go home. But when will tiat be? you ask me-Ah! That is the question; Chi lo sa? Whenever it pleases the powers that be, Next month-next year-next century! Now, there are the facts for my suspicion About your friend and his pretty profession; They're as plain to me as two ones in addition, And I put them all into your possession. 246 IL C U RAT O. [Dedicatedi to R. S.] THERE'S our good curate coming down the lane, Taking his evening walk as he is wont: 'Neath the dark ilexes he pauses now And looks across the fields; then turning round. As Spitz salutes me with a sharp high bark, Advising him a stranger's near, he stops, Nods, makes a friendly gesture, and then waits His head a little bent aside, one hand Firm on his cane, the other on his hipAnd ere I speak he greets me cheerily. "A lovely evening, and the well-reaped fields Have given abundant harvest. All around GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. They tell me that the grain is large and full; Peasant and landlord both of them content; And with God's blessing we shall have, they say, An ample vintage; scarcely anywhere Are traces of disease among the grapes; The olives promise well, too, as it seems. Good grain, good wine, good oil-thanks be to God And the Madonna, who give all things good, And only ask from us a thankful heart! "Yes, I have been to take my evening walk Down to the Borgo; for, thank heaven, I still Am stout and strong and hearty, as you see. I still can walk my three good miles as well As when I was but sixty, though, perhaps, A little slower than I used; but then I've turned my eightieth year-I have indeed I Though you would scarce believe it. More than that, I've never lost a tooth-all good and soundLook! not a single one decayed or loose As good to crack a nut as e'er they were. They're the great secret of my health, I think; 248 IL CURATO. Like a good mill they grind the food up well, And keep the stomach and digestion good. "Yes, sir! I've passed the allotted term of man, Threescore-and-ten. I'm fourscore years, all told; But, the Lord help us, how we old men boast! What are our fourscore years or fivescore years (If I should ever reach as far as that) Compared with the eternity beyond? Yet let us praise God for the good he gives; All are not well and strong at fourscore years. There's farmer Lanti with but threescore years, See how he's racked with his rheumatic pains; He scarce can crawl along. Do you take snuff? " Yes, sir!'tis fifty years since first I came As curate to this village-fifty years! When I look back it scarce seems possible, And yet'tis fifty years last May since first I came to live in yonder little house. You see its red-tiled roof and loggia there 249 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Close-barnacled upon the church, that shows Its belfry-tower above the olive-trees. The place is rude and rough, but there I've lived So long, I would not change it if I could. Old things grow dear to us by constant use; Habit is half our nature; and this house Fits all my uses, answers all my needs, Just as an old shoe fits one's foot; and there I sleep as sound with its bare floor and walls As if its bricks were spread with carpets soft, And all the ceilings were with frescoes gay. "But what need I of pictures on my walls? Out of my window every day I see Pictures that God hath painted, better far Than Raffaelle or Razzi-these great slopes Covered with golden grain and waving vines And rows of olives; and then far away Dim purple mountains where cloud-shadows drift Darkening across them; and beyond, the sky, Where morning dawns and twilight lingering dies. And then, again, above my humble roof 250 IL CURATO. The vast night is as deep with all its stars As o'er the proudest palace of the king. "So, sir, my house is good enough for me. I have been happy there for many years, And there's no better riches than content; There I've my little plot of flowers-for flowers Are God's smile on the earth,-I could not do Without my flowers; and there I train my vines, Just for amusement; for the people here, Good, honest creatures, do not let me want For grapes and wine, howe'er the season be; Then I've two trees of apricots, and one Great fig-tree, that beneath my window struck Its roots into a rock-cleft years ago, And of itself, without my care, has grown And thriven, till now it thrusts its leaves and figs Into my very room. Sometimes I think This was a gift of God to me to say, 'Behold I how out of poverty's scant soil A life may bravely grow and bear good fruit, And be a blessing and a help.' May I 25 1 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Be like this fig-tree, by the grace of God! I have one peach-tree, but the fruit this year Is bitter, tasting somewhat of the stone. Our farmers tell me theirs are all the same; I think they may have suffered from the drought, Or from that hail-storm in the early spring. "Yes, sir'tis fifty years in this old house I've lived; and all these years, day after day, Have run as even as a ticking clock, One like another, summer, winter, spring; And ne'er a day I've failed to have my walk Down to the Borgo, spite of wind and rain. WVhile in the valley low the white mist crawls, I'm up to greet the morning's earliest gleam Above the hill-tops. After noon I take An hour's siesta when the birds are still, And the cicale stop, and, as it were, All nature falls asleep. As twilight comes, I take my walk; and, ere the clock strikes ten, Lie snugly in my bed, and sleep as sound And dreamless sleep as when I was a boy. 252 IL CURATO. WNhy should I not? God has been very good, And given me strength and health! Praise be to Him' " Mily life is regular and temperate! Good wine, sir, never hurts a man; it keeps The heart and stomach warm-that is, of course, Unless'tis taken in excess; but then, All things are bad, if taken in excess. I drink my wine more now than once I did; For as old age comes on I need it more But in all things my life is temperate. I take my cup of coffee when I rise; I dine at mid-day, and I sup at seven; I sit upon my log,gia, where the vines Spread their green shadow to keep off the sun, And there I say my offices and prayers, And in my well-thumbed breviary read, Now listening the birds that chirp and sing; Now reading of the martyrdom of saints; Now looking at the peasant in the fields; Now pondering on the patriarchs of old. Then there are daily masses-sometimes come 25 3 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Baptisms, burials, marriages-and so Life slips along its peaceable routine. "My people here are generous and kind; Of all good things they own I have my share, And I, in turn, do what I can to help, And smooth away their cares, compose their strifes, Assuage their sorrows. By kind words alone One may do much, with the Madonna's aid. And then, in my small way, I am of use To cure their ailments: scarce a day goes by But I must, like a doctor, make my calls, And see my patients. After fifty years One must be a physician or a fool. There's a poor creature now in yonder house I've spent an hour beside this afternoon, Holding her hands and whispering words of faith, And saying what I could to ease her soul. I know not if she heard me-haply not, For she is gone almost beyond the reach Of human language-far, far out alone On the dim road we all must tread at last. 254 IL CURATO. "Antonio Bucci keeps his lands here well An honest, frugal, and industrious man; And his four daughters,-healthy, handsome girls: Vittoria is a little wryed, perhaps, By the Count's admiration-and, in truth, She is a striking creature; but all that, You know, is nonsense, and I told her so. Rosa is married, as you know, and makes A sturdy wife. She has one little child, WIith cheeks like apples. And Regina, too, And Fanny-both are good and honest girls. Per Bacco! take them all in all, I think They're better for Antonio than four boys. I see them in the early mists of morn (oing a-field; and listen! there they are, Down in the vineyard, singing, as they tend Those great white oxen at their evening feed. " Vell, Spitz, we must be going now, or else Old Nannat'11 scold us both for being late. Stop barking! Better manners, sir, I say! He's young, you see; the old one died last spring, 255 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. And this one's over frisky for my age (You are-you are! you know you are, you scamp!) But with his foolishness he makes me smile. As he grows older he'll grow more discreet. ('Tis time to have your supper? So it is!) And for mine, too, I think-and so, good night!" So the old curate lifts his hat and smiles, And shakes his cane at Spitz, and walks away, A little stiff with age, but strong and hale, Wvhile Spitz whirls round and round before his path, With volleys of sharp barks, as on they go. And so Good night! you good old man,-good night'! WVith your child's heart, despite your eighty years. I do not ask or care what is your creedYour heart is simple, honest, without guile, Large in its open charity, and prompt To help your fellow-men,-on such as you, Whatever be your creed, God's blessing lies. 256 ZIA NICA. OLD Zia Nica, she had looked through life Its deeps and shoals had sounded-felt the strife Of storms-sailed round its capes and reefs-and known The absolute whole of passion's burning zone. Queen of the osteria there she sat, Half listening, while around her buzzed its chat; Her red-rimmed eyes, all bloodshot from carouse, Half shut, and peering out'neath shaggy brows; And now and then a grim sardonic smile Quivering at some coarse speech across her lips, As up she sharply glanced, and ceased the while To drum the table with her finger-tips. All taste for gracious things was gone; her tongue R GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Craved the sharp whet of savage words, the zest Of some lewd speech, some bitter, biting jest, That like raw brandy for a moment stung. Thus stern she sat, amid her compeers there, Over her sunken cheeks her coarse grey hair Straggling, a wicked sharpness in her look, Like some spent fury. Now and then she struck Sharply her clenched hand on the board, until The glasses rang, and every man was still To listen, as with voice high, harsh, and shrill, She shrieked some savage taunt, or jest so lewd, It seemed to prick the skin and draw the blood; And then with coarse laugh opening wide her jaws (Where, either side the mouth's red-roofed ravine, Two yellow teeth, like ruined piers, were seen), She paused, expectant of the fierce applause. "Bravo, per Bacco! Zia Nica's shot Is in the very bull's-eye-is it not?" If beauty, maidenly reserve, and grace, Once, as they say, in earlier, happier hours, Grassed softly over this volcano's vent, 258 ZIA NICA. The time has long gone by of grass or flowers; Ay, and the passionate and flaming days, They, too, have passed, and all their fury spent, And left but ashes, scori.e, blasted stones, Cast forth by passion, the dead wreck of sin. Yet impotent, low growls, and rumbling moans, And sharp convulsive throes, still stir within; Still the old crater, burnt out at its heart, At times a savage tongue of flame will dart; And Zio Tonio trembles even now, Despite his coward smile, so faint and grimTrembles, as down she shuts her dinted brow, And her eyes, closing, take slow aim at him. And yet not wholly vanished is all grace; One vein of love runs like a singing stream 'TI'hrough all this scoriae; and across her face, Praise but her grandchild, shoots a sudden gleam, As she strokes down his curled and tangled hair. Touch him for harm,-the tiger from her lair Is not more swift to spring, more wild to scream, ,lore fierce with hand and tongue to rend and tear. Come, Zia Nica, then, a brimming glass! 259 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Nay, sit not thus, your hands upon your knees, But drain its red blood down unto the lees. Yours is no heart to strike to an "alas"; Up! while the mandoline and thrummed guitar Ring through the osteria's vaulted wall, And all our glasses jar and voices call Hark to the echoes of the days afar! Hands on your broad hips,-shuffle down the floor A tottering salterello,-pipe once more That old cracked voice,-and while the noisy jar Of Passatello stops, and we who quaff The rich red wine of Tonio's choicest bin, Strike down our tumblers,-shriek out shrill and long The quavering fragment of that wicked song, And let us hear your wild defiant laugh Closing the final strophe of its sin. Then shall the black vault echo to the din, The benches leap, the lumbering tables spring, The brass lucerna's rattling pendants swing, The hanging lamp in quivering circles shake, And o'er the ceiling whirl its gleaming ring, Ay, and the framed Madonna, shuddering, quake. 260 ZIA NICA. Up, Zia Nica! hear you not the strain? Once you could dance. Old Tonio, stand aside. Push back the benches! make the circle wide! The music rouses the old strength again. Ay! when this Tonio took her for his bride, WTas there, of all the maids on hill or plain, One that with this fierce moenad could compare? More firm of waist, with such black eyes and hair? Stand back! there's danger in her eyes; for lo! Upstarting with a sharp shriek from her seat, With arms flung wide, and heavy shuffling feet, Around the cleared space see her circling go. Her trembling hands now twitching at her gown, Now snapped aloft in air,-till, flushed with heat, All reeking, panting, shaking, in her seat, With open mouth, she drops, exhausted, down, Crying-" Old Zia Nica's not dead yet!" To Zia Nica, then, your glasses drain! And let the low room echo to the cryEviva! and eviva! and again Eviva!-may our Zia never die! 26i L'ABBATE. \,AERE it not for that singular smell That seems to the genus priest to belong, Wlhere snuff and incense are mingled well Waith a natural odour quite as strong: Were it not for those little ways Of clasped and deprecating hands; And of raising and lowering his eyes always As if he only waited commands Little there is in him of the priest, WVith only the slightest touch of cant, WVith a simple, guileless heart in his breast, And a mind as honest as ignorant. L'ABBATE. Half a child and half a man, Ripe in the Fathers and green in thought, In his little circle of half a span He thinks he thinks what he was taught. His duty he does to the scruple's weight; Recites his prayers, and mumbles his mass, And without his litanies, early and late Never permits a day to pass. Look at him there in the garden-plots Repeating his office, as to and fro He paces around the orange-pots, Looking about while his quick lips go. His simple pleasure in simple things, His willing spirit that never tires, His trivial jokes and wonderings, His peaceful temper that never fires, His joy over trifles of every day, The feeble poems he loves to quote,Are just like a child, with his heart in his play, Wlhile his duty and lessons are drill and rote. 263 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. WVhat life means he does not think; Reason and thought he has been told Only lead to a perilous brink, Away from Christ and the Church's fold. Therefore he humbly and blindly obeys; Does what he's ordered and reasons not; Performs his prayers, and thinks he prays, And asks not how, or why, or what. Happy in this, why stir his mind, Stagnant in thought although it be? Leave him alone-he is gentle and kind, And blest with a child's simplicity. Thinking would only give him unrest, Struggle, and toil, and inward strain; His heart is right in his thoughtless breast, Why should one wish to torment his brain? Yet out of pastime one evil day I unfolded to him Pythagoras' planHow step by step the soul made its way From sea-anemone up to man, 264 L'ABBATE. How onward to higher grades it went, If its human life had been fair and pure Or if not, to the lower scale was sent, Again to ascend to man, and endure. And so the soul had gleams of the past, And felt in itself dim sympathies With nature, that ended in us at last, And each of whose forms within us lies. He smiled at first, and then by degrees Grew silent and sad, and confessed'twas true, But with spirit so pained and ill at ease, That my foolish work I strove to undo. This thinking's the spawn of Satan, I said, That tempts us into the sea of doubt; And Satan has endless snares to spread, If once with our reason we venture out. Here you are in your Church like a port, Anchored secure, where never a gale Can break your moorings,-nor even in sport Should you weigh your anchor or spread your sail. 265 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. So I got him back to his anchor again, And there in the stagnant harbour he lies; And he looks upon me with a sense of pain As a wild freebooter; for to his eyes Free thinking, free sailing seems to be, A sort of a godless, dangerous thing, Like a pirate's life on a stormy sea And sure at the last damnation to bring. 266 N I N A. [Dcdicafed to M. F. B.] How bright, how glad, how gay, To thee, 0 Nina, dear! Day after day slipped smooth away, Through childhood's simple joy and simple fear. Strained by no adverse force, I,ife, like a clear and placid stream In some delightful clime, Bearing the sky within it like a dream, And all the fair reflected shapes of time, Flowed on its gentle course! How many a time, oppressed with gloom, While sitting in my lonely room, GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. And toiling at my task, Neglected, humble, wan with care, Aspiring, hoping, though I did not dare Fate's laurelled prize to ask, Have I been gladdened by that voice of thine, Singing, perhaps, some trivial song of mine, And listened, and looked up, and felt a thrill Come o'er my heart-as over waters still A light breeze flutters-and almost forgot, Hearing that happy voice, my wretched lot. Years went; the round and rosy face Grew fairer, paler; and as Childhood went, Came Maidenhood's more tender grace And thoughtful sentiment: And when the first soft airs of Spring ANWooed the flowers forth, and with a subtle fire Stirred in the human heart a vague desire For what life cannot bring, Often I watched you moving to and fro The alleys of the garden-plot below, Your white gown'mid the roses fluttering; 268 NINA. And now you paused to train some wandering spray With almost a caress, And now you plucked some last year's leaf away That marred its perfectness; Or where the lilies of the valley grew, Like them as modest, sweet, and pale of hue, You bent to breathe their odour, or to give Almost it seemed as if they must receive From you a sweeter odour than they knew. Sometimes, as lingering there you walked along, Humming half consciously some little song, You paused, looked up, and saw me, mute and still, Gazing upon you from my window-sill; And with a voice, so glad and clear, It rang like music on my ear You cried, "Antonio! look, Antonio, dear!" Ah, happy memories! They bring the burning tears into my eyes. Oh, speak again, and say, "Antonio, dear!" Ah, vanished voice' call to me once again! 269 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Never! ah, never! in this world of pain, No tone like thine my heart will ever thrill. Oft when the spring its perfumed violets strewed Along the greensward,'neath the ilex wood I strolled with you, how many an afternoon, In the perfection of the early JuneNot owning to myself, as there we roved, Not knowing, truly knowing, that I loved; And all the while your pure young thought So deeply in my inmost being wrought, That it became a happy part of meAnd as it were a sweet necessityFrom which I wanted never to be free. Yet never spoke I of my love; so slow, So gently in my heart it grew, That when it fully came I scarcely know Not bursting into rapture strange and new, Splendour and perfume on the air to pour, That from the sense was hidden in the bud A little hour before; 270 NINA. But slowly rising, like a tide to brim M\y being, widening ever more and more, And deepening all my central life with dim Unconscious fulness, till its joy ran o'er. Then, when I knew at last, How very dear thou wast, I dared not trust my tongue to ease the load Of love that lay upon my heart, But lonely, silent, and apart, Of you I dreamed-for you I hourly prayed(;lad of my secret love, but how afraid! 'Twas but a child's affection that you bore For me-a placid feeling-nothing more. Across your heart, so gentle and serene, The burning thrill of love had never been; And childhood scarce had given place To maidenhood's more subtle grace, WIhen Death, who darkly walks along Amid the gentle and the strong, WVhen least we fear to see his face, Paused, gazed at you, and took you for his own, 27I GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. And all the joy from out my life had flown And I was left of all bereft, Too utterly alone. Will earth again renew That simple love for me?-ah, no! Spring comes again-again the roses blow But you-ah, me!-not you! Oh, Nina! in your grassy grave I buried what can never grow again: Life but one perfect joy can have Thai in thy grave is lain! 272 G I U L I E T T A. [Dedicated to G. kV. C.] AH, how still the moonbeams lie On the dreaming meadows! How the fire-flies silently Lighten through the shadows' All the cypress avenue Waves its tops against the blue, As the wind slides whispering through He is late in coming! There's the nightingale again! He alone is waking; Is it joy or is it pain That his heart is breaking? S GRAFFITI D ITALIA. Bliss intense or pain divine? Both of them, oh Love, are thine! And this heart, this heart of mine, With them both is thrilling. From the deep dark orange-grove Odorous airs are streaming, Till my thoughts are faint with love Faint with blissful dreaming. Through the slopes of dewy dells Crickets shake their tiny bells, And the sky's deep bosom swells With an infinite yearning. On my heart the silent weight Of this beauty presses; Midnight, like a solemn Fate, Saddens while it blesses. All alone I cannot bear This still night and odorous air; Dearest, come, its bliss to share, Or I die with longing. 274 GIULIETTA. I have listened at the doors, All are calmly sleeping; I alone for hours and hours In the dark am weeping. Only weeping can express The mysterious deep excess Of my very happiness, Therefore I am weeping. Like a fountain running o'er WAith its too great fulness, I,ike a lightning-shivered shower For the fierce noon's coolness, Like an over-blossomed tree, That the breeze shakes tenderly, Love's too much falls off from me In these tears of gladness. Ah, beloved! there you are! I once more am near you; Walk not on the gravel there, Somebody may hear you. 275 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Step upon the noiseless grass; Oh' if they should hear you pass We are lost, alas! alas! We are lost for ever! Look! the laurels in the light Seem with eyes to glisten; All things peep and peer-and night Holds its breath to listen. Deeper in the shadow move, For the moon looks out above, I am coming to you, love, In a moment coming. 276 IN THE RAIN. I STAND in the cold grey weather, In the white and silvery rain; The great trees huddle together, And sway with the windy strain. I dream of the purple glory Of the roseate mountain-height, And the sweet-to-remember story Of a distant and dear delight. TIhe rain keeps constantly raining, And the sky is cold and grey, And the wind in the trees keeps complaining, TIhat summer has passed away; GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. But the grey and the cold are haunted By a beauty akin to pain,By the sense of a something wanted, That never will come again. 278 THE LILAC. THE lilac-bush is in blossom, It hath the balmy smell Of that dear delicious summer, Of love's first miracle. I feel, as I breathe its fragrance, Trhe old enchanting pain, The sweet insatiate longing, Thrill through my heart and brain. Oh youth! youth! youth! where are you? I call, but you come no more! I weep, but afar you mock me! And you laugh when I implore! GRAFFITI D ITALIA. Yet you hide within the lilac, With an odour you shoot me through, And a whiff of the old you fling me That is better than all the new. How proudly we struggled to leave you, When you implored us to stay! How bitterly grieve to regain you Wvhen once you have fled away. Too late, too late, we love you, And long for your laugh of surprise, And we only truly can see you WAVith manhood's tears in our eyes. You flung your arms around me And pelted me with flowers; You clung to me as we wandered Among those lilac bowers. You kissed me, half laughing, half crying, Beseeching me to remain, But impatient I shook you from m,e And you never will conme again. 280 THE LILAC. Your lilacs are ever blooming In happy gardens of play, But they love you not who have you, And fainii would they flee away. Fhey long for the fields of freedom Where the fruit of ambition grows, And for manhood's heights, that are lifted Against a sky of rose. 281 THE GAUCHO. OVER the lonely, desolate Pampas, A sinewy horse my flying throne, Coiled at my saddle-bow the lasso, In my belt a knife that reaches the bone. I am the Gaucho,-riding, hiding, Whirling the bolas, wielding the knife, Over the prairies of Buenos Ayres, Let him who would take me look out for his life! Ne'er a tide but the fleeting seasons Sweeps o'er the inland sea of grass; Roaring herds, like clouds of thunder, Over its lonely levels pass. THE GAUCHO. Jaguars yell; and, striding, hiding, Ostriches rush for they fear the knife Over the prairies of Buenos Ayres, Let him who pursues me look out for his life! ANith my tongues of cows and gourd of yerba, And the cigaritos smoke on my hearth, I laugh at your houses; my saddle's my pillow, My chamber a thousand miles of earth. With the stars above me gliding, hiding, I lie at ease, as I grasp my knife. On the wide prairies of Buenos Ayres, Let him who awakes me look out for his life! Look! in the distance a cloud is rising; In with the spur! fling loose the rein! Sharp sings the lasso's loop as it whizzes, And the bellowing bull drops on the plain. Out from my saddle sliding, gliding, Deep in his throat my flashing knife. O'er the wide prairies of Buenos Ayres, Let him who pursues me look out for his life! 283 GRAFFITI D ITAL1A. Keep your dragoons at home-I warn you! For the Gaucho writes his laws in blood; The bolas are ready; coiled is the lasso; And this white dust can be red mud. You for the crows, and, riding, riding, I for the Andes with my knife. Over the prairies of Buenos Ayres, Let him who would take me look out for his life! 2s4 S P R I N G. DOVES on the sunny eaves are cooing, 'he chip-bird trills from the apple-tree, Blossoms are bursting, and leaves renewing, And the crocus darts up, the Spring to see. Spring has come with a smile of blessing, Kissing the earth with her soft warm breath Till it blushes in flowers at her gentle caressing, And wakes from the winter's dream of death. Spring has come! the rills as they glisten Sing to the pebbles and greening grass, GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Under the sward the violets listen, And dream of the sky as they hear her pass. Coyest of roses feel her coming, Swelling their buds with a promise to her, And the wild bee hears her, around them humming, And booms about with a joyous stir. Oaks, that the bark of a century covers, Feel ye the spell as ye groan and sigh? Say, does the spirit that round you hovers Whisper of youth and love gone by? Windows are open; the pensive maiden Leans o'er the sill with a wistful sigh, Her heart with tender longings o'erladen, And a happy sadness she knows not why. For we and the trees are brothers in nature; We feel in our veins the season's thrill, In hopes, that reach to a higher stature, In blind dim longings beyond our will. 286 SPRING. Whence dost thou come, oh joyous spirit? From realms beyond this human ken, To paint with beauty the earth we inherit, And soften to love the hearts of men? Dear angel! that blowest with breath of gladness The trump to waken the year in its grave, Shall we not hear after death's deep sadness A voice as tender to gladden and save? Dost thou not sing a constant promise, That joy shall follow that other voice,That nothing of good shall be taken from us, But all who hear it shall rise to rejoice? 287 A U T U M N. [Dedicated to 7. R. L.] THESE Autumn winds are growing chill, They wvander wailing o'er the hill, And at the close-shut window cry That summer opened lovingly; But we can let them in no more, And all the eve my heart is sore My heart is sore, I know not why. They seem to say, The summer day Has past away, And life goes with it silently. AUTUMN. Still o'er the mountain's darkening bar We watch the new-born evening star, That throbs and quivers in the sea Of amber light-and musingly We let our shaping fancy play With those soft clouds of pearly grey, That float along the silvery sky. Ah woe! ah woe! WAVe all must go, The chill winds blow, And summer's gone like a passing sigh. These Autumn morns when we may stray Through chestnut woods, where glancing play The checkered light and shadow thrown O'er trunk, and grass, and mossy stone, And lie beneath some spreading tree And feel our own felicity, How sweet if they would never fly But no! ah no! 'Tis never so! All good things go, And thought pursues them with a sigh. T 289 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. All day the woods are redolent And saddened with the steamy scent The dewy rotting leaves exhale That heap the hollows in the vale; Then through the bonfire's quivering gas The landscape shakes as it would pass, And all is sad, we know not why; All seems to say The summer day Is past away, Why linger ye to say Good-bye? No more the fierce cicala shrills, Only the hearthstone-cricket trills,The hemp-stalks pile their bleaching bones In pyramids of skeletons, Or clacking cradles break them where The peasant shakes their silvery hair, And flings them on the grass to dry. The summer's flown, The leaves are strewn, And we alone Are lingering here to say Good-bye. 290 AUTUMN. The cyclamen, alive with fears, Smoothes trembling back its harelike ears; The frost-touched creepers bleeding fall, And drip in crimson o'er the wall; The rusted chestnuts shivering spill Their bursting spine-burrs on the hill; TIhe day is short, soon comes the night, And damp and chill Along the hill The dews distil Under the harvest-moon's great light. Louder at eve the river roars She fringed acacia paves with showers Of golden leaves our summer path, And all the world about us hath A feel of sorrow-we must go; Alas! I would not have it so, But all things vanish from us here, And still we sigh, Ah why, ah why, So swiftly fly, Ye days that were so glad and dear? 29I GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. 'Tis lovely still; but yet a sense Of sadness and impermanence Disturbs me-and this flushing grace That mantles over Autumn's face Is but the hectic hue, beneath Whose beauty steals the thought of death,And this it is that makes us sigh. Ah! bitter word Too often heard, What thoughts are stirred Whene'er we whisper thee-Good-bye! Death walks along my shrouded thought; I feel him though I see him not: His step is on the joys that grew And waved this lovely summer through. I fear, for life is all too fair, And trembling ask, Ah! when? and where? And this it is that makes me sigh; Too sweet to last, Ah! golden past That fled so fast, No future owns such witchery. 292 AN ENGLISH HUSBAND TO HIS ITALIAN WIFE. WHAT a constant jealousy gnaws your heart It tires me out; day after day Some little worry from nothing you start Something's hidden in what I say, Something's hidden in what I do; That heart of yours is never still, It cannot be sure that I am true, But spies and pries about for ill. Frankly I speak the whole of my mind Once for all-let it serve or not: I am not one of that showy kind, Fair outside with an inward rot. GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. I love you! will not that suffice? No! I must say it again and again, And embroider it over with flatteries, Or all I have said and done is vain. Trust me' trust my simple love! If you suspect me, that love will die. I cannot bear to be forced to prove Every moment its honesty. Ah' you say, I'm so still and cold! WBell! I cannot be other than what I am; I cannot squander my lump of gold As I could a little tinsel sham. You your jewels must always wear; WThat is their use if they are not shown? I keep mine with a miser's care, And love to count them over alone. I cannot abide that the world should observe. WThat it thinks is nothing to me; I was born with a sense of reserve That is shocked by love's publicity. 294 AN ENGLISH HUSBAND, ETC. You have a richer heart, if you will, That scatters about its wide largess; Your Jlove a keeping like mine would kill, All that you feel you must express. Your love seeks for the light and sun, And gives its perfume to every breeze; The bees get its honey-every one Its beauty whoever passes sees. Mine, like a well, is still and deep: Cold, you say it is, like a well; But though like a brook it will not leap And joy for ever one tale to tell, It still is real; and when the year Hath silenced the brook with its shallow laugh The well's cool waters will still be clear, Where those who trusted may surely quaff. I cannot, like Sarto, publish your face In every Madonna, Sibyl, and Saint, Or praise to the world your beauty and grace In a thousand sonnets sweet and faint. 295 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. But this is the head's work more than the heart's: Skill and genius they show, no doubt; But the painter and poet may give to their Arts What they leave their lady, perhaps, without. Trust me, dear, with your eyes so black And full of passion,-these eyes of blue, Though your excess of expression they lack, Are not the less sincere and true. I cannot fondle you every hour WVith many a pretty and gallant phrase, Rain out my love as a cloud its shower,But trust me, and leave me my English ways. 296 IN THE MOONLIGHT. WE sat in the perfect moonlight; The stars were dim and rare, And above us the elm-trees rustled In the waves of the cool night-air. From the olives and vineyard near us The kiou-owl plaintively cried, And away o'er the misty hollows Its mate with a wail replied. The peasant sang in the distance, The watchdog barked at the star, GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. And the clack of the cradles beating the hemp Came faint from the farms afar. WTe talked of the times of our childhood, Of the days for ever flown, Of their games and their jests and their sorrows, And the playmates we had known; And then there came o'er us a silence, While the cypresses sighed overhead, And dreaming we sat and listened To the voices of the dead. 298 N E M E S I S. [Dedicated to E. B. H.] OPPRESSED by pain, by grief subdued, I closed at night mny weary eyes, WVhen, in the dubious twilight dim Betwixt reality and dream, The awful shape of Nemesis T he absolute-before me stood. Her hands within her robes involved, And folded square upon her breast, Immovable, in perfect rest, From sight of human eyes concealed The dread decree of Fate she held, B3y time and death to be resolved. I GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Severe was she in mood and mien, Like one who never saw surprise; Who, deaf alike to love or hate, Or joy or fear, impassionate Decreed the doom-decreed the prizeInexorable, yet serene. "Oh! what hast thou for me in store This side the shadow of the tomb? Pronounce!" I cried, "or what shall be The stern decree of destiny When life and death alike are o'er?" 'Time is of destiny the womb," She answered. "Seek not to explore What the eternal powers above Conceal, in pity and in love, Behind the Future's darkened door. "Content within the present live! Do the great duty of to-day! Minute by minute the gods give, 300 NEMESIS. Each unto each for man to layNot to be scorned-nor thrown away. "With love and justice build them close By strenuous act and earnest will! Nor let your wandering wishes loose To anxious hopes or fears of illSo will you best time's task fulfil! "Pile not with vain regrets the grave Of the irrevocable past! Seize opportunity-enslave The living moments while they last! For Fortune meets half-way the brave." She ceased; and starting from my sleep, I heard the roaring thunder, thrown Far down from mountain steep to steep, And dying in a distant groan,And waking, found myself alone. 301 BLACK EYES. THOSE black eyes I once so praised, Now are hard and sharp and cold; Where's the love that through them blazed? Where's the tenderness of old? All is gone-how utterly From its stem the flower has dropped. Ah! how ugly Life can be After Love from it is lopped! Do we hate each other now, While we call each other dear? On that faultless mouth and brow To the world does change appear? BLACK EYES. No! your smile is just as sweet, Just as fair your outward grace; But I look in vain to greet The dear ghost behind the face. That is gone! I look on you As a corpse from which has fled All that once I loved and knew, All that once I thought to wed. 'T is not your fault,'tis not mine; Yet I still recall a dream Of a joy almost divine'Twas an image in a stream. Nothing can be sour and sharp As a love that has decayed On the loose strings of the harp Only discord can be made. Cold this common friendship seems After love's auroral glow; On the broken stem of dreams Only disappointments grow. 303 I GRAFFITI D' I'FALIA. Do I hate you? No! Not hate? Hate's a word far too intense, Too alive, to speak a state Of supreme indifference. Once, behind your eyes I thought Worlds of love and life to see; Now I see behind them nought But a soulless vacancy. Out and out I know you now; There's no issue of your heart Where my soul with you may go To a beauty all apart, Where the world can never come. 'Tis a little narrow placeFriendship there might find a home; Love would die-for want of space. So we live! The world still says, "What expression in her eyes! What sweet manners-graceful ways!" How it would the world surprise 3o4 BLACK EYES. If I said, "This woman's soul Made for love you think, but try; Plunge therein-how clear and shoal! You might drown there-so can't I?" U 305 THE SAD COUNTRY. THERE is a sad, sad country, Where often I go to see A little child that for all my love Will never come back to me. There smiles he serenely on me With a look that makes me cry; And he prattling runs beside me Till I wish that I could die. That country is dim and dreary, Yet I cannot keep away, THE SAD COUNTRY. Though the shadows there are heavy and dark, And the sunlight sadder than they. And there, in a ruined garden, WAhich once was gay with flowers, I sit by a broken fountain, And weep and pray for hours. 307 CASTEL GANDOLFO. [Dedicated to L. C.] THE fountain on the moonlight plays, And old Castello's turrets rise Darkly against the silvery skies, And voices laugh along the ways. The moonlight sleeps upon the square; And from the castellated town The sharp dark blocks of shadow thrown Lie cut out in the whiteness there. Among the trees the luccioli Show fitfully their wandering light, CASTEL GANDOLFO. And far away across the night The owl prolongs his dreary cry. How still! how exquisitely still! No sound disturbs the silentness Save the untiring cricket's stress, And the continuous fountain's spill. The weeds along the old grey wall Hang moveless, casting spots of shade; And all is beautified, and made More perfect where the moonbeams fall. What magic light that thus can hide The ravages of time, and grace The commonest and meanest place, And veil the earth as'twere a bride! On such a night Diana kissed Endymion's brow the while he slept, As noiselessly to him she crept Enshrouded in a silver mist. 309 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Oh' pass not, perfect night, from us, But stay with us and crown our love! Sing, from the shadowy ilex groveSing, nightingale, for ever thus! 3Io AT PEA C E. 'Tis twilight! the murmurous voices Of maidens that stroll with their lovers Beneath the dark ilex's shadows Come faint to my ear. No cloud in the soft azure heaven Is floating-the moon in its fulness Looks down with a mild face of pity, And night holds its breath. Innumerous under the grasses The grilli are ceaselessly chirping, GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Above them the luccioli lighten, And all is at peace! At peace! ay, the peace of the desert! The silence, the deep desolation, That comes when the blast has swept o'er us And buried our hopes. At peace! when the music that thrilled us, The hand that its harmonies wakened, The voice that was soul to the singing, Alike are at rest! At peace! ay, the peace of the ocean, When past is the storm where we foundered, And morning looks o'er the blank waters, And hears but their moan! 312 WO GG I N S. SINGING little artless snatches, Words and music all her own, While her dolls she tends and dresses, By herself, but not alone, Round from room to room she wanders, Through the hall, and up the stairs, And her sunny buoyant spirit Knows but trivial shades and cares. Now upon the stair she's singing; Now, in corners of the rooms, Self-involved, her little household Patronising she assumes. GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. What a teeming world of fiction Out of nothing she creates! Fancy, childhood's gentle fairy, With her wand upon her waits. Little scraps of worthless paper, Scribbled o'er with crooked lines, She interprets into landscapes Where an endless sunlight shines. Conversations wise and serious With her painted dolls she holds; And the good ones she caresses, And the naughty ones she scolds. Now she brings her book of pictures, And with large and wondering eyes, On my knee she sits and listens With a smile of young surprise, While I tell the same old stories I have told her o'er and o'er Scores of times, yet when I finish, With a shout she cries, "Tell more!" 314 WOGGINS. Knowledge, that the mind encumbers, Cares, that after-years harass, Are to her but misty sun-showers, Rainbow traps that come and pass. All the world is as a plaything WNhen it wearies, thrown away, As from new to new she ranges In the imagination's play. Wisdom such as thine I covet, Happy childhood! Work and toil, Plans that never reach enjoyment, But the present's beauty spoil, Are not made for thee; contented With the present, from each day But its juice of joy thou pressest, Fling'st the bitter rind away. Not till man through toil and labour Onward pass to joyous ease, Not till knowing rhyme with loving, Nature will give up its keys. 315 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. All is shut to poet, artist, Till he be a child again; And in play shall be created What was never born of pain. 316 UNDER THE CYPRESSES. HERE I stand in the cypress lane; I see the light in her window shine; Ah, God! can this love be all in vain, And shall she never be mine? There stays her shadow against the walls; There moves on the ceiling to and fro: She does not think of the heart that calls So loud in the dark below. Wvhy should she think of a fool like me, Though I'd give my life to save her a pain? GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. The stars might as well look down to see The fire-flies in the lane. I am too low for her to love; And I would not give her the pain to say That a love like mine could only prove A shadow upon her way. So I stand in the cypress shade and weep I weep, for my heart is sick with love; And I pray for strength my vow to keep, As I gaze on the sky above. Is it wrong to gaze at her window-sill, WThere she sits like an angel in a shrine, While my heart cries out, despite my will, "Ah, heaven! were she but mine?" Heart of mine, I could tear you out! Am I so weak and faint of will That the fair dear serpent coiled about My purpose I cannot kill? 3I8 UNDER THE CYPRESSES. Where is my vaunted manhood fled? Come, my pride-my pride, come back! Serve me and prompt me a while, instead Of all I so sadly lack! Vain! ah, vain! all day and night One thought, like a ghost, I cannot lay, Ranges my life and haunts my sight, And never will pass away. It mocks nie and beckons at my work, It lures me away from joy and ease; Where shall I flee that it does not lurk, This shadow no hand can seize? Give me something to meet and grasp! I faint with fighting this thing of air! I die despairing in its clasp! Its presence I cannot bear! Oh, give me strength, my God, to endure! Let rne not writhe to death in the grass! 319 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Send me, ye stars, from your chambers pure, Some ease, as ye coldly pass! Look at this poor mad wretch that lies Beating his brain that is all afire! Pity him here as he grovelling dies In the flames of his vain desire! 320 TO B I A N C A. "Tu ne qusesieris, scire nefas." CEASE to peer into the future, nor torture yourself with care Of fancied delights or troubles that never may fall to your share' The present alone is ours; in that let us live content, Enjoying the daily blessings the gods for the moment have lent. And cease to torment your spirit with that which has passed away, The love that has vanished, the passion, the folly that led you astray; x 322 GRAFFITI D'ITAT,IA. Not hoping too much, not regretting-for what is more vain than regret?And, never the gladness forgetting, the pain and the sorrow forget. Take, oh Bianca, the beauty and joy of the world to thy heart! For the power to enjoy is not only a blessing,-'tis also an art. And be glad for the gifts that are granted, nor envy what cannot be thine; For the life, that with Fate is in balance, is peaceful, and, so far, divine. THE PADRE AND THE NOVICE. [Dedicated to R. L.] I. Do you hear, Lorenzo? I say these wishes and vague desires WAill all of them pass away, though now they seem so bright; They are will-o'-the-wisps that breed uncertain treacher ous fires: No real lamps that lead the traveller through the night. II. My youth has gone like a song. You heed not an old man's words. Yet once, like you, I was young. Alas! I know it all; 324 GRAFFITI D ITALIA. And often my memory smites my thoughts, and awakens chords Of far and dim delights, that I tremble as I recall. III. I loved! Ah' yes, I loved with a love that maddened my mind WVith a passion that reason reproved-I loved, as I pray to God You never may love, my boy; and the storm came down, and the wind, And my hope was crushed, and my joy —as you crush these flowers in the sod. IV. I awoke-as a man may wake from a wild and feverish dreamUseless and helpless-a wreck,-with scarcely the wish or power On the spars of life to drift,-and a fierce regret that the stream, Sweeping to death so swift, had flung me aside for an hour. THE PADRE AND THE NOVICE. V. Slowly the world came back; but oh! how changed and drear! The serpent was on its track —my spirit was bitter and dark. I rushed to battle;-Death passed me, shaking his sword and spear, And, scornful, aside he cast me, making the happy his mark. VI. But the savage hate of life died down like a fading flame; And weary and worn with strife, and broken and spent with care, Writh a spirit inly stirred, to the convent grate I came, And God in His mercy heard,-and peace returned with prayer. VII. Th-ere is peace, that nothing taints, in the life that to God is givenTo Christ, and the holy saints-that minister unto man; 325 326 GRAFFITI D ITALIA. For the world is a snare and a lure that leads us away from heaven, And Love is a demon impure, that tears us whenever it can. VIII. Ah! flee from the coils it spreads. Oh yield not unto its snare! Gilded at first its threads, in torture at last they end And Love, like the Sphinx of old, with its bosom and face so fair, Hath arms of the tiger to hold, and claws of the tiger to rend. IX. Look not back-be advised on the path you have chosen so well. The Church is the fold of Christ: the world is the devil's den. Hark!'tis the Angelus, ringing afar from the convent bellAve Maria sanctissima, ora pro nobis.-Amen. UNDER A CLOUD. AH me! I'm so ill and weary, I wish I could only die For here all alone and dreary, As hour after hour I lie, I think it all over and over, And see no issue of peace; No way the lost joy to recover, If death do not give me release. I know not what change may come after, But tMia) I take upon trust; Perhaps no more weeping nor laughter Only a handful of dust. GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Perhaps a glory and gladness We never have dreamt of here, Wvhere love has no shadow of sadness, And joy has no shudder of fear. At least I shall no more sorrow, And suffer such helpless pain, With no hope for the coming morrow, No hope to behold him again. And that terrible longing and craving Again in his arms to be, Will cease in my heart to be raving And tearing me inwardly. But then, perhaps, I shall lose him Anid here, if I strive and stay, Since God is so good, if one sues Him, Perhaps he will open a way Some way through this tangle of anguish To a joy beyond our sight, Nor leave as to linger and languish, Like creatures lost in the night. 328 UNDER A CLOUD. Here, as I lie, I go over The dear departed days, When my love I began to discover, Till my thoughts are all in a craze; And the vines on the sunny terrace, Through the windows again I see; And the room with the quaint old arras, Where he whispered his love to me. But what is the use of thinking? 'Tis all like a sleepless pain, That keeps tramping, tramping, and clinking In the treadmill of my brain. 'Tis like hearing the music for ever Going on to the dancers' tread, WNhile I'm fainting and dying with fever, And helpless to lift my head. I am getting so old with fretting, Perhaps he will love me no more; And I sometimes fear his forgetting, And this makes my heart so sore. 329 GRAFFITI D ITALIA. And before the stone that is lying Across my path is removed, Who knows but that he may be dying, To make it vain that we loved. Oh Nannie, you soon will be strewing The flowers on the bed where I lie! Last week I thought I was going! But oh,'tis so hard to die! Life beat in my bosom so slowly, Though a fever was in my brainAnd everything went from me wholly, Save a numb, dull sense of pain. In body and mind I seemed doubled; And one was so tired and weak, And the other was dead and untroubled T'oo dead to feel or to speak. And the tired body kept praying, "Make me, too, cold and numb." "Let me sleep, let me sleep," it kept saying But sleep would never come. 33O UNDER A CLOUD. Oh God! that it all were over, For life is not worth its cost; And I know I can never recover The joy and the peace that are lost. Death only can break the fetter, Death only can set things straight; And death, after all, is better Than a lifelong struggle with fate. Tell George he must try and forgive me, For my struggle, though vain, was sore; And beg him in quiet to leave me, And scold and reproach me no more. I was weak-but'tis useless to chide me, Let him leave me alone to God; And bury my sins beside me, When he lays me under the sod. 33I THE SHADY LANE. I WAITED for him in the shady lane, For I knew he would pass there late at night; And that leaf-strewn wood I swore to stain WTith his blood or mine, for I hated his sight. There I waited and listened alone, \With a tumult of rage in my heart and brain; And I swore to myself the deed should be done To-night, as he passed the lane. Was I not right? He had stolen her heart Afy heart, that more than my life was dear; Had poisoned her mind with his treacherous art, And his vile love breathed in her ear. THE SHADY LANE. He, the contemptible trivial fool, With never a scruple or doubt or fear Of his exquisite self-to make her the tool Of his flatteries insincere! Why did she blush as she heard him speak, Flushing all over as red as a rose When he touched her hand? and tremble, as weak As a reed when a light wind blows. What was there, I say, in that empty face, In that empty head, and emptier heart, TIhat gave him the power her name to disgrace, And my darling from me to part? I knew his step, as gaily he came, Swinging his stick as he strode alongHate lightened along my nerves like flame, I was mad to hear him singing that song. Before him I leaped with a single bound, Face to face in the pale moonlight"No words," I cried; "blows, blows, you hound; One of us two must die to-night." 333 GRAFFITI D ITALIA. Aghast he stood, but not with fear, Most with the suddenness of the thing As one when the sky is bright and clear Starts at the lightning's sudden sting. "You!" he cried. "Back; let me pass! Back, I say; are you drunk or mad?" "Both," I cried. "You have ruined the lass; And your blood shall answer, my lad." WVe fought together there in the shade, As a madman and his keeper fight; He for his life, that love had made So sweet, and I for his death, that night. That love!-a fire was in my brain, The strength of a fiend was in my hand, And at last he dropped in the shady lane, And his blood oozed out on the sand. "My life! don't murder me," he said, As I clenched him there-when suddenly The struggling body lay heavy and dead, And I felt above me the moon's great eye. 334 THE SHADY LANE. There, alone, where a moment before Two were struggling, was only one! "Thank God!" I cried, "he will love no more, And deceive no more-'tis done!" The hate that had blazed so fierce calmed down Slowly, until of its raging glow Only the ashes were left. The frown Cleared away from my knotted brow. In the trough of my passion's swell I lay, And a sickening calm across me crept, As the satiate passions slank away Drunk with revenge, and slept. The deed was done! but an ugly fear Came over me now to touch this thing. There was nothing to struggle against me here In this lifeless heap; I wished it would spring And grasp me, and strike at me as it did Only a moment or two before. I lifted the head, but it dropped and slid From my grasp to its bed of gore. 335 GRAFFITI D ITALIA. Coward!'tis but a carcass that's dead! Lift it; drag it along the wood! No one is looking-carefully spread Dry leaves over the stains of blood! Hark!-ah!'tis but the rustling leaves, As the freshening night-wind lifts and dies; 'Tis but the wind that sighs and grieves No eye sees but the starry eyes! What will you do with this horrible thing? Down! and grub a grave in the ground! Grub with your nails! If you choose, you may sing That song of his. Don't start and look round! 'Tis but a corpse you are burying now Surely that is a Christian deedHow she would thank you -clear your brow What else do you ask or need? Dig!-how terribly slow you are! The dawn in the east begins to grow; The birds are all chirping-bury there That body at once, and for God's sake go! 336 THE SHADY LANE. The world will be up in less than an hour, And rattle and ring along the roadDig for your life!-ah, well! that's o'er! And he lies in his last abode. Speed o'er the country, slink to your room, Happy at last that the deed is done! Why do you look so?-surely the gloom That clouded so long your life has gone! Why do you shrink from the open street? Why should you hide from the gaze of men? Go! tell her your night's work when you meet, And surely she'll kiss you and love you then. N' 337 UNDER THE ILEXES. [Dedicated to A. I. T.] DARK ilexes above, dry sward below, O'er which the flickering sunglobes come and go; Beyond, the swooping valley roughed by lines Ruled by the plough between the rows of vines; O'er yellow sunburnt slopes the olives grey Casting their rounded shadows; far away A stately parliament of poised stone-pines; Dark cypresses with golden balls bestrewn, Each rocking to the breeze its solemn cone Dim mountains, veiled in dreamy mystery, Sleeping upon the pale and tender sky; And near, with softened shades of purple brown, By distance hushed, the peaceful mellowed town, UNDER THE ILEXES. Domes, roofs, and towers all sleeping tranced and still A painted city on a painted hill. Here let me lie and my siesta take, And gaze about me, dreaming, half awake. Wvhat peace is here! what rapt tranquillity!The far-off voices seem to lull the sense; The cock's clear crow sounds faint and drowsily; The sharp fly buzzing round the leafy fence; The burning wasp, the bees that droning hum Along the shining spires of withered grass; The far cathedral bell's half-buried boom; The leaves that whisper as the breezes come, And talk a moment with them as they pass, Break not the calm;-with half-shut dreaming eyes I watch them, while my idle fancies stray, Even as these noiseless yellow butterflies, That poise on grass or flower, and drift away Like wavering leaves in their perpetual play. And all these sounds come vague to me and seem Drowned in the air, like voices in a dream. 339 GRAFFITI D ITALIA. Look at this ilex-trunk's mosaic bark, With all its myriad cracks, and seams, and squares! See with what patient pains and happy cares 'Tis painted o'er with lichens light and dark, Rich brown, pale grey, and softest malachite, And every hue that can the eye delight! This moss of golden green that round it clings, Is a vast forest filled with noiseless things, That'neath its jungle make their secret lairs. Here the black ant may hunt as in a park, Here hosts of beetles come in burnished mail, On secret errands bent from underground; Some with vermilion corselets on their back, Marked with black crosses, some with gold em browned, Some bronzed with shadowy green, some ribbed and black, Splendid as mortal knight was never found. Here creeps the torpid locust from his cell, Deep at its roots, to shed his silvery shell, Breaks the thin crust, and spreads his gauzy wings, And in the shade his praise of summer sings. 34O UNDER THE ILEXES. Here, in the centre of his woven wheel, That dimly glistening in the shadow shakes, Hangs the fat spider, ready and aware, Round the fierce fly that pertinacious there Darts to and fro, his silvery coil to reel. Here the slim dragon-fly her visit makes On glassy vans that gleam with opal hues, And waves her tail of green enamelled rings. Here the black grillo burrows all day long; And peeping forth when fall the twilight dews, Trills to the night its little simmering song. Here creep among the grass, at work, or game, Swarms of strange life that scarcely own a name; Here live, and love, and fight, and sleep, and die, Plagued by no dreams of immortality. WNorld within world, the deeper that we gaze, Life widens, death recedes, the mass inert Moves into being; all this mould and dirt Is living in its own mysterious ways. VlWhich shall we dare most wonderful to call, The infinite great, or not less infinite small? 341 GRAFFITI I)'ITALIA. Puzzled I gaze upon this spiring grass That'neath me lies, and ask,-can aught surpass The wonder of this life minute that moves Beneath my hand, and struggles, suffers, loves? Are the vast worlds that darkness shows to night, Or day enshrouds in its abyss of light, More strange than this that hides from human eye In the minuteness of its mystery? No more! the shadows shrink; the prying sun Hath found me out. The morning's gone-how soon! The far cathedral bell is striking noon. This sketch, dear Annie, is for you-half done. 342 O P HE L IA. THE rising wind o'er wold and hill Blows dreary, leadening all the lake; And all the whitened willows shake, And twilight closes blear and chill. The mist hangs thickening o'er the sea, A spectral light is in the sky, And all the branches creak and sigh, And my heart sighs with them drearily. Oh where is love that once was mine? Speak, oh my heart, and tell me where! Tell me, oh wind! whose wild despair Is wrestling with the straining pine! GRAFFITI D ITALIA. I rock its corpse so cold and pale, I braid its hair and kiss its eyes, And deck it with sweet memories; Yet what can tears and moans avail? Oh call it back to life again, WAVith all its tones of youth and spring; Or break at once the throbbing string That jars so wildly in my brain. The past is past,-with sullen moan, Oh dreary wind, I hear you cry! And all the struggling trees reply, Alone, alone, alone, alone. 344 THE RIVER OF TIME. OH! the river that runs for ever, The rapid river of time! The silent river, that pauses never, Nor ceases its solemn rhyme! How swift by the flowery banks it rushes, Where love and joy are at play, And stretch out their hands with laughter and blushes, And beg it in vain to stay! How slow through the sullen marsh of sorrow It creeps with a lingering pain; When night comes down and we long for the morrow, And longing is all in vain! GRAFFITI D ITALIA. O'er sparkling shoals of glittering folly, O'er deeps of dreadful crime, O'er gladness and madness and melancholy, Through fears and hopes sublime, Ruthlessly on in waking or sleeping, Unheeding our wish or will, Through loving and laughing, and wailing and weeping, It bears us for good or ill Bears us down with a fearful motion, In a current no eye can see, Down to the vast mysterious ocean WVe call eternity. 346 RE N UN C I ATION. OH no! you shall not catch me in the snare I will not love, I say! Life might become a terror, a despair, If you were ta'en away. Nothing is given here,'tis only lent, I will not, dare not, trust: For joy might strike at once his heaven-built tent, And leave me but its dust. What horror, after all my life was given, Adventured in one bark, If that should go, even to the joy of heaven, And I left in the dark! GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Left on a wreck of sorrow, with no power My losses to repair; WVith death denied, and every torturing hour By memory made a snare. Left with the dregs of life, its wine poured out; Left to the past a prey; From its sad ghosts that haunt my heart about, Helpless to flee away. No! I renounce life's bliss-love's perfect flower, Sweet though it be! I choose The lower, lasting lot, and keep the power, Without a pang, to lose. 348 N IGHT-WAT CH. [Dedicated to 7. O. S.] NIGHT the mysterious, silent, solemn night, Broods over all! Time, sweeping onward to the infinite, No sound lets fall. WNe hear alone its heavy lifting breath Of deep repose, As turning slowly in its dream of death The great earth goes. Above, below, is silence! In the deep Of the vast sky, In the low hollows where the white mists heap And shroud-like lie, GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. On the far plains where ghostlike in the shade Dim olives dwell, O'er slumbering city, forest, sea, is laid Night's secret spell. Tranced in the silence of this mystery, An awe intense Of all that is, and was, and is to be, Weighs on the sense; And shapeless thoughts and disembodied dreams That end in sighs, Sad memories, longings vague, and vanished schemes, Before me rise. Cease, ye wild thoughts! In duty's narrow bound Alone is peace! Oh infinite sea! that plummet cannot sound, In thy abyss Of wild conjecture we but sink and drown. The awful breath That blows from out the future bears us down To fear,-to death. 35O A LEGEND. HIGH noon in Acre blazed, and all the throng Had sought the shade, when striding stern along The burning street, and through the open square, With feet unsandalled and dishevelled hair, Was seen a figure strange, mysterious, tall, With face uncovered, yet unknown to all. Round her she gazed with wild impassioned look, And in one hand a flaming torch she shook High o'er her head, and in the other bore A jar with water brimmed and running o'er,And with a high clear voice she cried, "Behold! I will burn heaven up with this torch I hold, GRAFFITI D ITALIA. And with this jar of water I, as well, Will quench for ever all the fires of hell, So that when heaven and hell alike are gone, Man may love God, for God's own sake alone." 352 IN THE GARDEN. SUMMIER is dying, slowly dying She fades with every passing day; In the garden alleys she wanders, sighing, And pauses to grieve at the sad decay. The flowers that came with the spring's first swallow, When March crept timidly over the hill, And slept at noon in the sunny hollow The snowdrop, the crocus, the daffodil, The lily, white for an angel to carry, The violet, faint with its spirit-breath, The passion-flower, and the fleeting, airy Anemone-all have been struck by death. z GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Autumn the leaves is staining and strewing, And spreading a veil o'er the landscape rare; The glory and gladness of summer are going, And a feeling of sadness is in the air. The purple hibiscus is shrivelled and withered, And languid lolls its furry tongue; The burning pomegranates are ripe to be gathered; The grilli their last farewell have sung; The fading oleander is showing Its last rose-clusters over the wall, And the tubes of the trumpet-flower are strewing The gravel-walks as they loosen and fall; The crocketed spire of the hollyhock towers, For the sighing breeze to rock and swing; On its top is the last of its bell-like flowers, For the wandering bee its knell to ring. In their earthen vases the lemons yellow, The sun-drunk grapes grow lucent and thin, 354 IN THE GARDEN. The pears on the sunny espalier mellow, And the fat figs swell in their purple skin; The petals have dropped from the spicy carnation; And the heartless dahlia, formal and proud, Like a worldly lady of lofty station, Loveless stares at the humble crowd. And the sunflower, too, looks boldly around her; While the bella-donna, so wickedly fair, Shorn of the purple flowers that crowned her, Is telling her Borgian beads in despair. See! by the fountain that softly bubbles, Spilling its rain in the lichened vase, Summer pauses!-her tender troubles Shadowing over her pensive face. The lizard stops on its brim to listen, l'he butterfly wavers dreamily near, And the dragon-flies in their green mail glisten, And watch her, as pausing she drops a tear 355 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Not as she stood in her August perfection! Not as she looked in the freshness of June! But gazing around with a tender dejection, And a weary face like the morning moon. The breeze through the leafy garden quivers, Dying away with a sigh and moan: A shade o'er the darkening fountain shivers, And Summer, ghost-like, hath vanished and gone. 356 S Y M B O L S. [Dedicated to E. M. S.] STILL hearts, whose passions never stir, At times I envy your repose! Smooth lakes, where coyest wild-fowl whir, Ye feel no troublous ebbs and flows! Yet, tropic hearts, your fiercer play Of sun and storm, of noon and night, Is dearer than perpetual day In Arctic summer's glacial light. Great clouds, which bear upon your backs The sunshine, in your breasts the storm GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Alps of the air, whose pathless tracks Ye course with ever-changing form; By morning touched with aureole light; At sunset stranded-firing far Your dull distress-guns-or at night Raced through by many a startled star — Ye are the types that Genius loves! So, moulded by an inward stress, A shade, a storm, it o'er us moves, A power to threaten or to bless. 358 IN THE SHADOW. AND can it be that all is o'er That I shall never see you more? Or is it but a dream of night, That soon will pass with morning's light? Oh! is the joy I used to own So lost, beyond the power to save; And can it be that you are gone, And in the grave? Not young, perhaps, as others see, Yet ever young you seemed to me; The same sweet smile and tender art Remained, that first beguiled my heart; GRAFFITI D'ITALI,IA. The same dear look and gentle tone That ever its fresh welcome gaveAnd can it be that you are gone, And in the grave? Some silver lines were in your hair, But yet I never saw them there: The years went on to you and me So gently and so evenly, That scarce it seemed a week had flown Since first to me your love you gaveAnd can it be that you are gone, And in the grave? Something I miss at every turn Something for which I blankly yearn; And still some question to decide I turn as you were at my sideI turn and think-ah! she alone Will give the counsel that I crave! And then I feel that you are gone, And in the grave! 360 IN THE SHADOW. Henceforth, I know, at close of day, When I return the old, old way, The voice that greeted me before, Soon as my hand was on the door, No more will greet me with the tone Of gentle welcome once it gaveFor oh! I feel that you are gone, And in the grave. Others such grief as mine have borne, And I, like them, shall live and mourn,It nought avails to grieve or sigh For what has gone so utterly! And yet, how can I help to moan For what no love had power to saveFor oh! I feel that you are gone, And in the grave. Courage! the heavy hand of Fate Has laid on me its cruel weight, And all these coming years of care And sorrow I alone must bear; 36I GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Yes! I must strive to bear alone, Without the help that once you gave; For you, my love, my joy, are gone, And in the grave. 362 ART. [Dedicated to G. H.] Is this the stately shape I saw In Greece a thousand years ago; Who ruled the world by Beauty's law, And used among the gods to go? Who, wheresoe'er she turned her eyes, Below her saw a reverent throng; Whose praise was taken as a prize; Who made immortal with a song? Now, scant in garb, a mendicant, She stretches forth her prayerful palms, GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. And wealth, in pity for her want, Contemptuous tosses her its alms. This gift is not for charity, But love, that at thy feet I lay. Oh, take my heart that throbs for thee! And smile as in the ancient day. 364 ON THE SEA-SHORE. THE sky is grey, with lowering clouds of lead, And scarce a break of blue, Here pencilled down with rain, and overhead WVith silver gleams shot through. Upon the rocky shore I sit alone; The dark-green sullen sea, Along the shore makes a perpetual moan, And struggles restlessly. Noiseless as pictures, on their wings of white The distant vessels glide GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. By purple islands veiled in dreamy light, That silent there abide. Across the purple shoals of sunken rocks The toppling racers break, And suck, and roar, and beat with ceaseless shocks The worn cliff's weedy base. Heaved by the lifting swell, the long green flag Of sea-weed floats and falls, And down their shelf the raking pebbles drag, As back the surf-wave crawls. I sit as in a dream, and hear, and see, With senses lulled away, And what the ocean says or sings to me I strive in vain to say. Something there is beneath that constant moan That utterance seeks in vain; Like some dim memory, some hidden tone, That, helpless, haunts the brain. 366 ON THE SEA-SHORE. But all my thoughts, like sea-weed, swing and sway, The sport of fantasy; And visions pass before me far away, Like vessels out at sea, Pass through my mind with an ideal freight, And softly move alongA sweet procession, without care or weight, Like disembodied song. 367 THE CHIFFONIER. I AM. a poor Chiffonier! i seek what others cast away! In refuse-heaps the world throws by, Despised of man, my trade I ply; And oft I rake them o'er and o'er, And fragments broken, stained, and torn, I gather up, and make my store Of things that dogs and beggars scorn. I am the poor Chiffonier! You see me in the dead of night Peering along with pick and light, THE CHIFFONIER. And while the world in darkness sleeps, Waking to rake its refuse-heaps; I scare the dogs that round them prowl, And light amid the rubbish throw, For precious things are hid by foul Where least we heed and least we know. I am the poor Chiffonier! No wretched and rejected pile, No tainted mound of offal vile, No drain or gutter I despise, For there may lie the richest prize; And oft amid the litter thrown, A silver coin-a golden ring Which holdeth still its precious stone, Some happy chance to me may bring. I am the poor Chiffonier! These tattered rags, so soiled and frayed, Were in a loom of wonder made, And beautiful and free from shame When from the master's hand they came. 2 A 369 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. The reckless world that threw them off Now heeds them only to despise; Yet, ah! despite its jeer and scoff, What virtue still within them lies! I am the poor Chiffonier! Yes! all these shreds so spoiled and torn, These ruined rags you pass in scorn, This refuse by the highway tost, I seek that they may not be lost; And, cleansed from filth that on them lies, And purified and purged from stain, Renewed in beauty they shall rise To wear a spotless form again. I am the poor Chiffonier! 37O BLANK QUESTIONINGS. WHAT is this vague, dim world before, We vainly struggle to explore With outstretched wishes, hopes, and thoughts, That fail before they reach the shore? What is this startling, sudden change, That in a moment from the range Of every sense takes life away To regions dim and strange? Dear friend! my earnest following thought Thy track into that world hath sought GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. In vain; no word nor silent sign Of what, and where thou art, is brought. And yet I seem to feel that thou Beholdest me more nearly now, And all my soul, like some clear book, Readest, I see not how. And knowing, now that life has fled, Thou, silent and unseen, may'st thread The dim, still chambers of my soul I feel, as with a holy dread, How full of love it ought to be, How pure of thought, how clean and free From any stain and soil of sense, Which thy dear eyes could see. Come, then, when I am sad and low, And through those chambers softly blow The fragrance of thy love around, And seeds of purer purpose sow. 372 BLANK QUESTIONINGS. Come! find the secret memories That are not seen of human eyesThe thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, that dwell In inmost privacies. And if thou findest, entering there, Some nooks that are not wholly bare Of love, forgive them for that love, The evil and unfair. 373 ALPINE SONG. WITH alpenstock and knapsack light I wander o'er hill and valley, I climb the snow-peak's flashing height And sleep in the sheltered chalet,Free in heart-happy and freeThis is the summer life for me. The city's dust I leave behind For the keen, sweet air of the mountain, The grassy path by the wild rose lined, The gush of the living fountain,Free in heart-happy and freeThis is the summer life for me. ALPINE SONG. High above me snow-clouds rise In the early morning gleaming; And the patterned valley beneath me lies Softly in sunshine dreaming,Free in heart-happy and freeThis is the summer life for me. The bells of wandering herds I list Chiming in upland meadows; How sweet they sound, as I lie at rest Under the dark pine shadows!Glad in heart-happy and freeThis is the summer life for me. The thundering lawine's roar I hear, And the torrent's foamy bounding; And the steep crag's answer sweet and clear, When the alpine horn is sounding,Glad in heart-happy and free, This is the summer life for me. 375 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. A good stout alpenstock in hand, A flask from my shoulder swinging, And a rose in my hat, o'er the Oberland I wander for ever singing,Glad in heart-happy and free, This is the summer life for me. 376 TWO STARS. LOOK! love, into the sky, and say, When I am gone beyond the sea, What stars of all the many stars Shall shine for you and me. See! there above, in Charles's Wain, Those two, that close together shine, One bright and large-that shall be yours The little faint one, mine. The little one, that has no praise From all who look-the satelliteI know not if it have a name, It shrinks so out of sight. EUROPA. A PICTURE BY PAUL VERONESE. ZEPhIYR is wandering here with gentle sound The first fresh fragrance of the spring to seek; The milk-white steer, whose budding horns are crowned With flowery garlands, kneeling on the ground Receives his burden fair, and turns his sleek Mild head around, her sandalled foot to lick; Luxuriant, joyous, fresh, with roses bound About her sunny head, and on her cheek The glow of morm, Europa mounts the steer. * One handmaid clasps her girdle, and one calls The hovering loves to bring their garlands near. From her full breast the loosened drapery falls, As borne by Love o'er slope and lea she goes, Glad with exuberant life-fresh as a new-blown rose. GIOTTO'S CHAPEL, PADUA. How sweet the mild retirement of this spot! This area, where the gladiator bled, With turf and flowers is softly carpeted; These girdling walls where later knighthood fought Now draped with ivy stand, remembering not Their scenes of former life. But here, instead, The artist's steps in pilgrimage are led To seek the shrine by Giotto's genius wrought. Here, dedicate to art and piety, His simple chapel stands; and painted here Upon its walls a pictured life I see, Inspired by feeling, earnest and sincere. What faith, what simple dignity and grace Art since hath lost, are in this cloistered place! SCH E RZ I BLUE BEARD'S CABINETS. [Dedicalcd to E. B. H.] W o.tEN are curious, one and all, we know,Eve was, and so is every woman since. All other virtues unto you are given Except to close your eyes and curb your tongue. Nor should I dare, dear Fatima, to you, 3Best of your sex, to trust this single key, Forbidding you to turn it in the lock; You p)out, say no' and shake your pretty headVainly-I know'twTould never let you rest. Since mother Eve, a thing prohibited 'I'ortutres your sex till it is known and trie(l. G(;RAFFITI I)'ITAI,IA. Just try you?'Tis a shame to say stuch wiords. AWhat have you ever done? WNhen trust is gone, Love follow-s soon- and are those really tears? Tears? and we married only two short months Smile, dearest, once again, and take the key' Take it! there's nothing better in the wvorld Than curiosity. It is the spur Of knowNledge. Pray, forgive me, Fatima' Take it-I meant to leave you all the rest, For these two months have slipped so swift away (Joy flies so fast,'tis only grief that halts) In this our Spanish castle, that in truth I had forgotten all the curious things In the old cabinets;-but now, constrained To leave you for a week, Annie and you May hunt them through to while the hours away. Here are the keys-each opes a cabinet AVhere all of rare my ancestors have found, Wvhether in travel through the broad domain Of fact, or fancy, or romance, are ranged. 384 BLUE BEARD'S CABINETS. Each has its number. Enter! open all! Stay! just to show how false is tongue of man, Let me prohibit one! I will not say What it contains. Thank you for that proud smile! Think you I fear lest you should enter there; No, by my love! You need not promise me. I only say, This opes the door of death Beyond the hall of dreams. You look surprised! Curious, of course, you're not! There is the key! These nine-and-ninety keys ope worlds enough For one short week; and in the hall of death Sooner or later all of us shall look. Meanwhile, the others may suffice you. Stop! Let me point out some curious cabinets That will amuse you most, and mark the keys. This, turned within its wards, will show you gems Of wondrous beauty and strange rarity. Red trees of branching coral, found beneath The Elysian isles, and by the shining scales Of mermaids polished, over-roof the hall; 2 B 385 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. And dragons, gleaming in enamelled mail, WVith eyes of diamond, in the corners crouch. In frieze of beaten gold, along the wall, Struggle fierce centaurs clasped by Lapithae. And round the pavement whirls a chariot race, With foaming steeds and naked outstretched arms MIosaic'd on a band of marble black. The ceiling's panels are in ivory carved, Each with a lotus or magnolia spread, And all the solid beams are massive gold. Here, round the walls, in ebon cabinets With ivory intarsia storied o'er, And faced with flawless crystal, you may see My stores of curious gems;-clear crystal balls, Concealing in their depths a magic life, Where steal the pale reflections of time's ghosts; Cat eyes, whose iris circles glare and shift; Opals, alive within with quivering fires; Smooth globes of garnets like rich jelly-drops; And mystic onyxes with figures strange Carved on their facets by Egyptian priests; 386 BLUE BEARD'S CABINETS. Vases of jasper red and sardonyx, Beryl and topaz, jacinth, amethyst, And orient alabaster; and all stones That sun-struck Africa, of dark and veined, Blood-streaked and solemn, in her caves conceals; The great carbuncle, sought for centuries, Here blazes like a sun; and at its side Note, too, a common stone, a pebble vile, Hung near a pure and perfect chrysolite (Smooth as a mirror, flawless as the sky); It scarce would take your eye, it seems so vile, Yet touched by it the filthiest dross grows gold, And Europe for that stone would sell its soul. Here is the pearl the Egyptian queen dissolved, What time with Anthony in revels wild She toyed and feasted; and beside it lies The royal asp, her bracelet, where she kept Her death, her freedom, in one poison-drop. Pass not the Gracchi jewels, famed so long, Two great cornelians, and beyond all price; Nor the vast diamond Polyphemus wore Fixed to his forehead, called by men his eye. 387 GRAFFITI D ITALIA. Here hangs a curtain; draw it back it runs On rings that from the field of Canna: cameBehind it other curious rings you'll find Morone's, whence a prisoned devil spoke; Aboukir's, gifted with a lightning sword, Which, when his hand waved, sheared his foeman's head; Joudar's, which owned its black tremendous slave; The Samian's lucky ring he could not lose; And Pyrrhus's, whose figures nature carved; And that which Gyges wore; and Solomon's, Whose mystic stamp sealed in his sunken vase The cloud-vast Afrite'neath the Arabian lake; There is the ring with which my ancestor Married the Adriatic-one sea-green Aqua marina, jutting forth in points Of starry brilliants; and beside it lies The poison-ring the gold-haired Borgia wore; And that Elizabeth to Essex gave. This iron key, with lines of silver veined, Opens a cabinet more curious yet. 388 BLUE BEARD'S CABINETS. Ultramarine the roof, one mighty block, Besprinkled with a thousand golden stars. Panelled in Afric marbles are the walls, All pictured o'er with wild and mystic shapes Of every varying hue,-from purpling lakes And crimson carmines unto Stygian black. Two sombre columns carved with stories strange Of Asian magic in the centre standThe capital's red gold a band of skulls. As the vast door you push, a thunderous sound Of mournful music groans along the vault, And lightnings, flashing, cross their jagged swords. Be undismayed and enter! On the floor A charm is written; in the circle stand And say "Geheimniss!" Music then will rain Soft as a summer shower to soothe the sense, And hands invisible will lead you round. Here you will find the wondrous planisphere Of Abdelsamad, in whose depths were seen All regions of the earth-that smote with fire The nations at its owner's wrathful nod. 389 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Here I have ranged a thousand curious things Found in my travels into distant lands;Among them is a hydra's snaky head;And (for I'm curious in hair) you'll find, Bound in a single braid, and closely clasped By a dried Harpy-claw, one Gorgon lock From the Medusa's head, entwined with one Torn from Megaera and Tisiphone, And from Alecto one-while in and out A golden tress that on the Borgia's brow Meandered once, slips gleaming here and there. Here are some relics which from over sea The Flying Dutchman brought from classic lands. Among them is Pandora's opened box, The Attic cynic's lantern and his tub, A shrieking branch from the Eneid grove, Arion's harp and Hermes' wand; the bag Of Eolus, Ulysses' wax, the flute That Orpheus played; a soft half-melted plume Dropped from the waxen wings of Icarus, The sword suspended by a single hair.... 390 BLUE BEARD'S CABINETS. And underneath this last a skull I've placed One that was brought to me from Golgotha. Here from the vaguer regions of Romance Are various objects, and beyond all price: Such as the cap which Fortunatus wore, The bowl in which the men of Gotham sailed, The bodkin that Amina used to pick Her grains of rice before her fouler feast,Agrippa's glass and that of Schemseddin, The King of Thule's goblet, with a tinge Of the red wine that wet his noble beard, Poor Schlemihl's shadow, and the Roc's huge egg, Aladdin's lamp, and Circe's magic cup. Here in one corner of the room you'll find A medley of all sorts of oddities: There's a wise saw, that shows its teeth to fools, An ancient augur (famous as a bore), A modern screw, a rod in pickle kept, A pair of ruined breaches made by Time, And in them tares the enemy hath sown. 39I GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Here is the crystal luck of Eden hall, In which some flowers of rhetoric are placedThe snowy plume of Henry of Navarre, With Conachar's white feather at its sideHere is a tune that from Munchausen's horn Was taken ere it thawed, and fragments rare Of frozen music sent me by De Stael,Being choice bits of fluting round the drum Of Kubla Khan's majestic pleasure dome You'll know the spot by looking on the floor, Where I have caused a pattern to be worked In coloured jewels, after a design From the Mosaic dispensation drawnWhile from the ceiling o'er it like a lamp Hangs the lost Pleiad, which the wandering Jew Found on the topmost peak of Ararat. This my menagerie will ope, and here Along the walls are pictured various lands: While columns with alternate ebon bands Winding with ivory spirals stand between Here Asian deserts, idly vast, outstretch, 392 BLUE BEARD'S CABINETS. And black Nigritia scowls, and naked girls Dance in the shade of Abyssinian palmsHere shakes the tinkling life of the Chinese 'Neath Altai mountains in Mongolia; While on the other side the slim canoe Through Polynesian waters swiftly glides; And the great banyan darkens down the shore. Along the northern wall the iceberg sails, TIoppling and crashing through white fields of ice, Where the bear souses in his Arctic bath. Close by, beneath the Uralian avalanche, Siberia spreads her dark platoons of pines. All lands are here-all quarters of the earth Venetian splendours of her gorgeous days The savage life afar in western wildsThe babbling glitter of the Boulevards The lonely Kaffir's hut-the middle sea, WVith roaring billows plunging all alone. Here range my wondrous animals, and here The great white elephant of Siam walks 393 GRAFFITI D ITALIA. Beside the magic steed that swam the air, And Pegasus with both his wings tied down. Here is Androcles' lion; at his side Chimoera and three-headed Cerberus; And near the dragon with a hundred heads, That watched the Hesperian gardens day and night, Couches the sad Sphinx with her silent face. Strange converse hold they in a wondrous tongue, And many a tale of ancient days they tell, Of Orpheus, Hercules, Bellerophon, Growling a laugh the while from ruddy maws. Rouse them from sleep! for now with habits changed And wearied with the sleepless hours of eld They slumber much. But not to pause with these, Look at my Attic hive. Hymettus' flowers Are blooming round it. There is Rhaicus' bee, And one that Sappho caught on Cupid's lips, WAhich stung her to a luscious epigram. Here in sheep's clothing wanders AEsop's wolf, With Reineke the diplomatic fox, 394 BLUE BEARD'S CABINETS. And Monsieur Frog who burst with vanity. Here too's the cow that vaulted o'er the moon, The famous clock the mouse ran up, the cat That owned the fiddle, the small dog that laughed When crafty dish with silly spoon eloped, And mother Hubbard's still more famous dog. Here is the goose that laid the golden egg, The camel through the needle's eye that passed, Quarles' friendly monkey, Beauty's gentle beast, The tortoise with the hare that ran a race, And that which crushed the skull of Aschylus. Here in a pleasant group you may behold The Austrian eagle with its double head, The Scottish unicorn and Gallic cock, Discussing politics and talking wise Of European balances of power. And here in pleasant conversation meet Two long-eared friends, who hold a wise discourse With longer-horned companions scarce so dull As many a human party we have known. There Balaam's social beast, and at his side His crony, Apuleius' golden ass, 395 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. May yet be seen talking with Myron's cow, Or the red cow that told such wondrous tales Of her interior knowledge of Tom Thumb; While standing near and listening, you may see A group of bulls among them he who pulled Cock Robin's knell, and he whom Phaleris Begat in brass, and one from Ireland sent, And from the Vatican one Papal bull. And here at last, to end my catalogue, Which merely hints a creature here and there, My rarest wonders from the East, you'll see Two vampires and a red-lipped female Ghoule. Tired of these, if you should wish to read, Look in my library. This curious key A serpent issuing from an ivory skull And twisting round its handle-opens it. Here are dim alcoves framed in ebony And lit by softly-blazoned diamond panes, Where glow and move as if endowed with life The painted history of glorious men. Each pane is magic; at a simple sign 396 BLUE BEARD'S CABINETS. The life of him whose name is writ beneath Will glide in mute procession o'er its face. The room is deaf to sound; a moth-like veil Like woven twilight o'er the ceiling floats. And from the centre hangs a crystal globe: Touch it but once, a Marid answers it, And at your nod brings all your wish may shape. Noiseless he moves, and comes and goes like air, Waving Arabian odour from his wings. Would you behold the furthest wildest spot Hid in the secret'st corner of the earth, Twirl the globe thrice and in its depths it lives. Fixed in the wall a magic mirror shines Oblong and veined with myriad wavering lines: That's the time-table of the centuriesName but the number of a year, day, hour, And then a place-the deed there done, and then, Will start at once to picture in the glass And move, as you request it, on in time. Within these cabinets are curious books, Among a myriad which I will not name, 397 GRAFFITI D ITALIA. Which now the world supposes to be lost The Sibyl's books are there, the two she burnt, There Dante's rhyme, with Angelo's designs, There Raffaelle's hundred sonnets fairly writ, There Sappho's songs, complete, and Shakespeare's life, And the lost tragedies of AEschylus. The famous distich of Callicrates WVrit on a seed of sesamum is there, With the whole Iliad in a nutshell closed. There is the music of the Song of songs, Great books of drawings by Philostrates, And all the poems Coleridge meant to write. In the far corner towering over all Chryselephantine sits the Phidian Zeus, And on the walls Da Vinci's great cartoon Beside its rival hangs intact and fresh; And there alone upon a sombre stand, Tempting the touch to open its great leaves, Where no one ever read but wept, is placed The sad black-letter Book of Destiny. This key my great conservatory opes, 398 BLUE BEARD'S CABINETS. Where you will find some rare and curious fruits There are the sour grapes-but within your reachTaste them if you desire! There too you'll see The apple Paris to the fairest gave; And that which tempted Eve, in it her teeth You'll see imprinted; also that which grows Upon the Dead Sea's margin, with the three That from the Hesperian gardens Atlas stole. There is the date-stone by the merchant thrown Against the Afrite o'er the garden-wall; The pear that caused the sleeper's nose to grow; The Lotus fruit that brings oblivion; A date-tree with the dates of everything; And the unripening fruit of our desires. This opes the silent cabinet of dreams'Tis vague and empty when you enter first! A mystery floats around, like music dim For which the ear keeps straining-sounds so fine That all the soul must listen, leaning out Upon the furthest verge of sense to hear. Out of the dark emerge, by slow degrees, 399 'k GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Vague things that come and go-great ghostly shapes Like shadows on a curtain when it swings; Dear smiles gleam there that made the joy of life, And hopes burst forth to their consummate flower That faded long ago to death and dust In our young hearts. Ambition there holds up Its splendid gifts, and in our hands we grasp The prize we covet dearer than our life. There, lips are kissed that drown the soul with love, And voices whisper us to heavenly trance, And wishes reach their goal. There you may find The cabala on which is fairly writ The squaring of the circle-the receipt For alchemists to make the wondrous stone, And to achieve perpetual motion. There Are faultless pictures, statues, poems, songs, That sternest critics strive in vain to blame. One cabinet contains, placed side by side, A pair of shabby, little, worn-out shoes, A golden locket with an auburn curl, A dry dead rose, the yellow page whereon The drawing of a childish hand is seen, 4OO BLUE BEARD'S CABINETS. And a love-letter stained with blots of tearsAh! touch them not, for they will make you weep! There is a box crammed full of broken hopes And childish joys we careless threw away And never could recover, though lifelong We prayed the truants to return again. Here for a time, while sleep's dim door is shut, What waking life denies, in dreams is given. Here, sleeping, you may quaff the drink of gods, And in a moment know perennial youth. Nor this alone-but through the wilds of space, Borne to the universe's verge, may rush Up to the gates of heaven, and see below In endless swarming all the fiery spheres Flash through the solemn depths of silent night. Pass through this room-'tis but a vestibule That opens to a vaster drearier hall Where horrent dreams steal noiselessly about, And opiate shapes of sick delirium swarm, And nightmares wander. There the Marids dwell 2 C 40I i'll GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. And Ghouls, and Ginns, and Afrites huge and black, And forms so faint that they elude the eye. These, as you look upon them, shift and change, Mow, mock, and threaten, and pursue your steps As, wild with fear, you strive with leaden feet To flee their presence. There, in awe and dread, Vague horrors creep that have no name on earth, Found in the fevered dreams of wicked souls, And sent me from the East. There upward stretch, Leading to nowhere, monstrous galleries, Wlhere slipping, sliding, goes the'wildered thought Up endless convolutions into heights So vast we totter in a vague dismay Or drop to blankness. There huge caverns gape, Dripping with terrors, into which we slip Despite our death-like graspings for support. There whirl a million dizzy wheels of thought, And spin to madness. With your waking steps You need not fear them-they're unreal all. Here stay your feet; nor curious seek to pass The massive door that opens out beyond. 402 BLUE BEARD'S CABINETS. ANWhat lies behind, your eyes must never see Never without the charm to keep you safe, For there lies death, unless the charm you own. "Give it to me," you cry so curious, then? If you insist, of course; and you'll admit Eve is your mother. Never say again That women have no curiosity. Ah! now you frown, and with a look of pride Reject my offer. So, love, let it be. I'll keep the charm, and say'tis just as sure That you are curious as that I'm unkind. Both false-and here's the key, dear Fatima; And pray obey my warning-never look Into the Cabinet of Death, for there A step were fatal if without the charm. So fare you well.-Ah! I forgot to say The key's a fairy that will tell me all. Don't shake your finger at me, and curl up That pretty lip with scorn. Better a kiss! Perhaps I'd better leave the charm-no! no! Not one word more-only a kiss-farewell! 4o3 SINGING AT TWILIGHT. You sang the olden songs, and, sadly dreaming, I lay and listened, while you thought I slept; And if the tears were from my eyelids streaming, You saw them not, and so I freely wept. Round us the silent, shadowy night was stealing; You were a voice alone within the dark; And from life's hardened crust a tender feeling Broke, like a blossom, through the rugged bark. You were again a young and blushing maiden, Who leaned upon my breast and breathed your love, SINGING AT TWILIGHT. And I, no more with disappointments laden, Seemed, as of yore, beside you in the grove. The sky above us was serenely tender, The moon shone softly gleaming through the trees; Clasped heart to heart in Love's complete surrender, Life seemed an island in enchanted seas. Dim longings, vague desires, like breaths from heaven, Thrilled all our being with a strange unrest; And all the finest strings that God hath given Trembled to voiceless music in the breast. Your hand's electric fire again ran through me, I breathed the hyacinth odour of your hair; Your soul in long sweet kisses clung unto me, And filled me with a rapturous despair. Your voice had ceased; yet still around me fluttered The visions that your songs had raised in me; When-" Mr Jones," cried Jeames-" Curse Jones," I muttered, And you-" Bring in the lights;'tis time for tea." 405 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. I was again an old hard-hearted sinner, And you were fifty, and you wore a cap; Laughing, you said to Jones, "After his dinner You see the old man likes to take his nap." 4o6 P E R S I C A. OH Persica, Persica, pale and fair, With a ripe blush on your cheek, How pretty-how very pretty you are, Until you begin to speak! As for a heart and soul, my dear, You have not enough to sin; Outside so fair, like a peach you are, With a stone for a heart within. A MUSICAL BOX. I KNOW her, the thing of laces, and silk, And ribbons, and gauzes, and crinoline, With her neck and shoulders as white as milk, And her doll-like face and conscious mien. A lay-figure fashioned to fit a dress, All stuffed within with straw and bran; Is that a woman to love, to caress? Is that a creature to charm a man? Only listen! how charmingly she talks Of your dress and hers-of the Paris modeOf the coming ball-of the opera-box Of jupons, and flounces, and fashions abroad. A MUSICAL BOX. Not a bonnet in church but she knows it well, And Fashion she worships with downcast eyes; A miarchande de modes is her oracle, And Paris her earthly paradise. She's perfect to whirl with in a waltz; And her shoulders show well on a soft divan, As she lounges at night and spreads her silks, And plays with her bracelets and flirts her fan; With a little laugh at whatever you say, And rounding her "No" with a look of surprise, And lisping her "Yes," with an air distrait, And a pair of aimless, wandering eyes. Her duty this Christian never omits! She makes her calls, and she leaves her cards, And enchants a circle of half-fledged wits, And slim attache's and six-fbot Guards. Her talk is of people, who're nasty or nice, And she likes little bon-bons of compliments; While she seasons their sweetness by way of spice, By some witless scandal she often invents. 4o9 GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Is this the thing for a mother or wife? Could love ever grow on such barren rocks? Is this a companion to take for a wife? One might as well marry a musical box. You exhaust in a day her full extent; 'Tis the same little tinkle of tunes always; You must wind her up with a compliment, To be bored with the only airs she plays. 4IO ROSA HESTERNA. YES, my love, it was fresh and glowing, Blooming and beautiful,-yesterday! Now its odour is sickly, its petals are going, Its beauty is vanished-throw it away! Pray, don't thrust it under my nose! Wvho can endure a yesterday's rose? I cannot deny your pretty sayings "It gave its life, and died in your hand," And "There are no deaths without decayings;" But the dying of roses who can stand? The sweeter the odour the worse the decay; And a yesterday's rose!-oh, throw it away! GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. Gratitude, -pity,-sense of duty? Oh, my dear, don't talk such prose! If duty don't rhyme, as you say, to beauty, Does yesterday's odour haunt yesterday's rose? To-morrow, perhaps, I shall throw you away! Perhaps, to-morrow, but not to-day. Now, while your lips are fresh as roses, Kiss me, for preaching becomes you not! Time for his wisdom his penance imposes; When things are ripe they begin to rot. And our loves and our roses, when they decay, However we sigh, must be thrown away. 4I2 SN O W D RO P. WHEN, full of warm and eager love, I clasp you in my fond embrace, You gently push me back and say, "Take care, my dear, you'll spoil my lace." You kiss me just as you would kiss Some woman friend you chanced to see; You call me "dearest."-All love's forms Are yours, not its reality. Oh Annie! cry, and storm, and rave! Do anything with passion in it! Hate me an hour, and then turn round And love me truly, just one minute. PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS; EDINBURGH.