Poems By John L. Stoddard Part 22

Never know you days of rest; Ceaseless is your humble quest Of the pittance that you ask For your arduous daily task.

Every morning sees your form Pa.s.s through suns.h.i.+ne or through storm; Every evening hears your feet Trudging up the darkened street; For your gait is always slow, Coming from Menaggio.

Once your dull eyes gleamed with light; Once those arms were round and white; And the feet, now roughly shod, Lightly danced upon the sod, As to womanhood you grew And a lover's rapture knew; For you once were fair, 'tis said, Early wooed and early wed, And your husband long ago Died in old Menaggio.

Children? Aye, but not one cares How the poor old mother fares!

You must struggle on alone; They have children of their own, And for them, devoid of shame, All your scanty earnings claim!

Can you walk? Then go you must, Plodding on through rain and dust, Summer heat and winter's snow To and from Menaggio!

Christmas Eve! Through glistening green Gleams a merry, festive scene; Trees, with candles burning bright, Wake in children's hearts delight.

Where such peace and comfort reign, None observes the window-pane, Where your wan face sadly peers Through a mist of falling tears At a joy you never know, Carrier from Menaggio!

Much that makes those children gay You have brought them day by day, Thankful that you thus could earn Wood to make your hearthstone burn.

Not for you such food and light, Clothing warm and candles bright!

You are grateful, if you gain Bread to stifle hunger's pain.

Ah! it was not always so In old-time Menaggio!

She has turned to climb the hill.

Stay! why lies she there so still?

Have her old limbs failed at last In the chilling wintry blast?

Since for threescore years and ten She has done the work of men, 'Tis not strange that she should fall Weak and helpless by the wall, Nevermore to come and go To and from Menaggio.

Gently lift her old gray head!

Bear her homeward! She is dead.

Fallen, like a faithful horse At the limit of its course; Fallen on the stony road, Uncomplaining, 'neath her load; And the heart within her breast For the first time finds its rest,-- Rest that it could never know Coming from Menaggio!

Sound again, O Christmas bells!

"Peace on Earth" your song foretells.

It has come, in truth, to one Whose long pilgrimage is done.

Merciful her quick release, Blessed her eternal peace!

Yet I know that, day by day, As she no more comes my way, I shall miss her, as I go To and from Menaggio.

EVENING ON LAKE COMO

Beside my garden's ivied wall, Enwreathed in vines of gold and green, I stand, as evening shadows fall, And marvel at the matchless scene, While wavelets make, with rhythmic beat, Perpetual music at my feet.

The year grows old,--yet on the breeze Still floats the perfume of the rose; Still gleams the gold of orange trees, Regardless of the Alpine snows; For while, above, Frost reigns as king, Below prevails the warmth of Spring.

In Tremezzina's sheltered bay The wintry storms forget to rave; Without,--the white caps and the spray, Within,--a sh.o.r.e with scarce a wave,-- A favored spot where tempests cease, And Heaven whispers, "Here is Peace."

Across the water's purple bloom Bellagio, bathed in sunset light, Surmounts the twilight's gathering gloom With glistening walls of pink and white,-- The wraith of some celestial strand, The fringe of an enchanted land.

My sweet-voiced fountain softly sings Its good-night lyric to the lake; A skiff glides by on slender wings With scarce a ripple in its wake; And pleasure-boats, their canvas furled, Float idly in an ideal world.

The swan-like steamers come and go; The ruffled water finds its rest; The snow-peaks catch a ruddy glow From crimsoned cloudlets in the west; And, trembling on the tranquil air, Steals forth the vesper-call to prayer.

Oh, peerless strand! I yearn no more To mingle with the maddened throng; Enough for me this wave-kissed sh.o.r.e, The vesper-bell, the fountain's song, The sunlit sail, the Alpine glow, And storied towers of long ago.

Between me and the world's unrest The lake's broad leagues of water lie; Above my wave-protected nest Serenely bends a cloudless sky; And homeward from life's stormy sea The dreams of youth come back to me.

DELIO PATRI

(Inscription on an altar-fragment, found on the Island of Lake Como, 1910, and belonging formerly to a temple of Delian Apollo,--the "Delian Father,"--which no doubt existed there.)

Once more Lake Como's storied isle Reveals the Roman past!

Again a stone of cla.s.sic style The spade hath upward cast; How can such relics thus endure Two thousand years of sepulture?

More eagerly than those who toil For nuggets of mere gold, We seize and rescue from the soil This monument of old,-- An altar-fragment, much defaced, Yet on whose surface words are traced.

With reverent hands we cleanse from grime The legend chiselled there, Which now, triumphant over time, Still proves the sculptor's care, Engraved when on this wave-girt hill The Pagan G.o.ds were potent still.

'As on their own peculiar page The fingers of the blind Decipher truths of every age, As mind communes with mind, So, one by one, these letters spell A name the ancient world knew well.

For "Delio Patri" heads the lines Inscribed upon this stone, And instantly the mind divines What, else, had been unknown, Since that familiar name makes clear Apollo once was wors.h.i.+pped here;

Perhaps because the spot suggests That other tiny isle, Upon whose sh.o.r.e forever rests The Sun-G.o.d's tender smile,-- Fair Delos, where, one fabled morn, Both he and Artemis were born.

Beneath, the donor's name is placed, And lower still we read In characters, now half effaced, The motive for his deed;-- "Onesimus this altar reared To One he gratefully revered."

Faith, grateful reverence,--these are traits Worth more than rank or fame, And what this brief inscription states Does honor to his name, And makes us wish still more to know Of him who built here long ago.

"And is this all?" the cynic sneers, "The remnant of a shrine?"

Alas for him who never hears Or heeds the world divine And in this fragment fails to see A stepping-stone to Deity!

The Sun-G.o.d's shrines in ruins lie, But not the glorious sun!

A thousand transient faiths may die.

All prototypes of One, Since under every form and name Their essence still remains the same.

ACQUA FREDDA

By Acqua Fredda's cloister-wall I pause to feel the mountain breeze, And watch the shadows eastward fall From immemorial cypress trees.

Like arms outstretched to bless and pray, Those dusky phantoms downward creep To where, by Lenno's curving bay, The peaceful village seems to sleep;

While mirrored peaks of stainless snow Turn crimson 'neath the farther sh.o.r.e, And here and there the sunset glow Threads diamonds on a dripping oar.

But now a tremor breaks the spell, And stirs to life the languid air,-- It is the convent's vesper-bell,-- The plaintive call to evening prayer;