The Call of the Mountains Part 3

The Master of the Marionettes

'Twas at the fair of Epinetz, And all the country-side was there.

Each booth gave out its blatant strains, And grinning came the sheepish swains, Who greeted with approving stare The movements of the marionettes, While from his place well hid from sight The master laboured, faint and white.

A villain dark, with cloak and plume, Through two acts of imbroglio, Pursued a maid of laughing mien Who played a ribboned tambourine And loved a gay incognito, By whom the villain met his doom, While Pierrot, in a comic part, Danced to conceal a breaking heart.

'Twas late. The snow fell thick and still The market place in silence lay.

The master, tired and overwrought, For troupe and self a lodging sought.

The inn was full. He went his way Across the heath; beyond the hill Dawn found him wrapped from head to feet In winter's snowy winding-sheet.

And as he sank in deadly sleep, His spirit, like a floating haze, Wavered a moment o'er the snow, A valediction to bestow.

And solemnly, with wistful gaze, The puppets bowed in reverence deep, Speeding with farewells and regrets The master of the Marionettes.

Love's Counterfeit

Old as mankind, yet with immortal youth: Unyielding, ardent, sinuous and bold, Alluring ever in the guise of truth.

Where is the fire that warmed me yesterday?

And where the flame that will to-morrow blaze To leave me s.h.i.+vering by its ashes gray?

The wind that sweetly sings in ocean caves, Then dallies with the wallflowers on the tower May fan a.s.sa.s.sins and sweep over graves.

What pleasure has a kiss that fever brings?

Or one grown cold with satisfied desire?

The love that on the senses fiercely plays, Comes like a wind and pa.s.ses like a fire.

The Most Precious Thing

What do men rate at the highest in life?

Diamonds that glow, The finest in water, In colour and form: Such as an eastern king's favourite wife Wears strung in a row, Or, as those that in slaughter, In sack or in storm Of a citadel's heights, Are torn from a Khalifah slain in the strife?

No. Diamonds decline when Love claims his own, And freely are bartered for kisses alone.

Some say that virtue is prized more than all, Virtue that scorns The baseness and ill The decalogue cites And sternly forbids to great and to small.

But when on the horns Of dilemma, men kill Compunction, whose lights Die in darkness profound, Where mortals are fated to stumble and fall, Renouncing for kisses the wisdom of time To find in the sacrifice something sublime.

Rank, Riches and Fame have, each in their way, A hold on the mind That we think is supreme, And sweep man along To sated ambition's omnipotent sway: Till one day we find They are vain as a dream, Or a beautiful song Evanescently grand: And the value we see of the brave display Of Riches and Fame and Rank at their best, Is far below kisses when put to the test.

Autumn

A light mist creeps across the downs: A gleam through clouds is faintly seen: The gra.s.s is wet with heavy dew: Sear are the leaves that once were green.

I walk at midday when the sun Throws still some welcome warmth and light: A chill comes with the afternoon, And icy is the air at night.

Summer is dead. Its shrouded form Lies on the logs that make its pyre, And fancy sees its ghost ascend, A shadowy wraith above the fire.

To L

Just at this time of great content Old memories come between the lights To chasten with their whispers faint The pa.s.sing Christmas merriment.

Yet through it all, one constant note Chimes with the season's higher sense, Love's influence unchanged remains, Fragrant and sweet as frankincense.

Duty

What is a year that comes and goes Unless it mark a n.o.ble deed?

We sow the seed Of flower or weed: Thrice happy he who leaves a rose.

What is a life in vainness spent, That will not bear the common test, When, laid to rest In earth's cold breast, We sleep at last, insentient?

What is a gift bestowed on man, Unless he spreads abroad its light And turns its might To aid the right And strives to do the best he can?

What matters it if all your toil Thankless for ever must remain?

When by your pain One soul will gain Somewhat to calm its mortal coil.

Sonnets

Glas...o...b..ry

Beacon of Christian truth! across the years Thy flame undying glows in Faith's clear sight, As once the Holy Grail's effulgence bright Shone on the pure in heart, the Saints' compeers, Who knew no more life's bitterness and fears But dwelt thenceforth upon a n.o.bler height, Rapt in the radiance of Redemption's light That still to the elect of G.o.d appears.

Each Christmas sees, before thy ancient shrine, Its sacred thorn burst into glorious flower, Of Heaven's immortal life a constant sign, Shown to mankind in graciousness benign, To make eternal with enlightening power The revelation of a truth divine.

Galileo

The medieval pomp and civic pride Which once made Pisa famous, long have lain Forgotten with her pageants brief and vain That flashed inconstant on the Arno's tide.

But, toned to softened hues, her walls abide, Enclosing baptistery, tower, and fane Wherein yet swings the lamp with brazen chain That marked the pendulum's time-measured stride And though the centuries, in lengthening roll, Show ever fainter through perspective time The fame depicted in the mouldering scroll, They cannot dim the s.h.i.+ning aureole Around Galileo's name. Each hourly chime Proclaims the law that swung the girandole.