Poems By John L. Stoddard Part 23

That prayer which rises like a sigh From every sorrow-laden breast, When twilight dims the garish sky, And day is dying in the west.

Ave Maria! we who miss A mother's love, a mother's care, Implore thee, bring us to that bliss We fondly hope with thee to share!

How sweet and clear, how soft and low Those vesper orisons are sung, In Rome's grand speech of long ago, Forever old, forever young!

And those who chant,--that exiled band, Expelled from France with scorn and hate, How fare they in this foreign land?

Is life for them disconsolate?

Have they escaped the sight of pain, Of social strife, of hopeless tears?

Does life's dark problem grow more plain, As pa.s.s in prayer the tranquil years?

I know not; dare not ask of them; Their souls are read by G.o.d alone; But he who would their lives condemn, Should pause before he cast a stone.

So full is life of hate and greed, So vain the world's poor tinselled show, What wonder that some souls have need To flee from all its sin and woe?

I would not join them; yet, in truth, I feel, in leaving them at prayer, That something precious of my youth, Long lost to me, is treasured there.

THE POSTERN GATE

I chose me a lovely garden, Beneath whose ivied wall A lake's blue wavelets murmur As evening shadows fall,--

A garden, whose leafy windows Frame visions of Alpine snow On peaks that burn to crimson In sunset's afterglow.

And there, in its sweet seclusion, I built me a mansion fair, With many a cla.s.sic statue And Eastern relic rare,

And volumes, whose precious pages Hold all that the wise have said,-- The latest among the living, The greatest among the dead.

And I sat in those fragrant arbors Of laurel and palm and pine, And held in the tranquil twilight My darling's hand in mine;

And said "We will here be happy, And let the mad world go; Its gold no longer tempts us, Still less do its pomp and show;

"No more shall its cares annoy us, And under these stately trees With Nature and Art and Letters Our souls shall take their ease."

But a brood of griefs pursued us, Like evil birds of prey; They lodged in the trees' tall branches, They shadowed the cloudless day;

They flew to the darkened cas.e.m.e.nt, And beat on the wind-swept shade, And oft in the sleepless midnight We listened and were afraid;

And daily came the tidings Of folly and crime and woe, And one by one kept dying The friends of long ago.

For the Past is ever one's master, And Memory mocks at s.p.a.ce, And Trouble travels with us, However swift our pace;

And envy is always envy, Though called by a foreign name, And perfidy, greed, and malice Are everywhere the same.

I thought I had left behind me That gloomy realm of care, But really one never leaves it, Its shadow is everywhere.

So I learned at last the lesson That walls, and gates, and keys Can never exclude life's sorrows; They enter as they please.

And if we ever acquire The perfect life we crave, A subtle warning tells us Its background is the grave.

Perhaps I have almost reached it, For when I am walking late, I see a shrouded stranger Beside my postern gate;

And a sudden chill creeps o'er me At sight of that figure grim, For I fancy that he is waiting For me in the twilight dim;

And I know he will one day beckon With gesture of command, And I shall follow him mutely.

Away to the Silent Land,

And all that I here have treasured In fountain, and tree, and stone Will pa.s.s to the hands of others, Whom I have never known.

Hence over his sombre features There flickers a ghostly smile, As if he would say, "What matter?

Your cares are not worth while;

"The trouble which gives you anguish, The woes o'er which you weep, Will all be soon forgotten In my long, dreamless sleep.

"Enjoy the fleeting moment; I cannot always wait, And the glow of the coming sunset Is gilding the postern gate."

UNDINE

Spirit of Como, whose rhythmical call Murmurs caressingly under my wall, Why are thy feet, though the hour be late, Mounting the moon-silvered steps of my gate?

What is the cause of this pa.s.sionate strain, Voiced by thy wavelets again and again?

Near to the lake, and surmounting the lawn, Sculptured Undine sits facing the dawn; White, on the rocks of the fountain below, Glistens her form, like a statue of snow; Smiling, she listens, entranced, to the call, Sung so alluringly under my wall.

Leaf-woven ladders of ivy-wreathed vines Fall from the rampart in undulant lines; Silken and slender, they swing in the breeze, Tempting the lover to clamber with ease Up to the garden, to woo and to take Lovely Undine away to the lake.

Boldly Love's wavelets now leap to the land, Swiftly they scale every tremulous strand, Lightly they sway with the wavering screen, White gleam their feet on its background of green; Yet the old parapet, mossy and gray, Never is reached by their glittering spray.

Hear you that music, half song and half sigh?

Sylph-like Undine is making reply:-- "Though I so motionless sit here above, I am not deaf to thy pleadings of love; Others regard me as pa.s.sionless stone, Only to thee shall my nature be known.

"Men who behold me, praise merely my art, Never suspecting I too have a heart; Under the marble the world cannot see All I am keeping there only for thee; Secrets of love are of all the most sweet; Mine I will whisper to thee when we meet.

"Under the wall thou hast bravely a.s.sailed, Under the vines, where thy wavelets have failed, Pa.s.ses this fountain; though cradled in snows, Straight to thy waters it secretly flows; Leaving my cold, marble counterpart here, On that swift current I come to thee, dear!"

Hushed is the lover's importunate call; Silence and mystery brood over all; Still my Undine sits facing the dawn; 'Tis but a mask, for her spirit is gone,-- Gone on that crystalline path to the deep, Lured there to ecstasy, lulled there to sleep.

JANUARY IN THE TREMEZZINA

Day by day, As if in May, We sail Azzano's beautiful bay; High and low The mountains show Luminous fields of stainless snow, But the air is soft, and the sun is warm, And the lake is free from wind and storm.

Far and nigh, Deep and high, The Alps invade both lake and sky; Base to base Their forms we trace, These in water, those in s.p.a.ce,-- Duplicate peaks on single sh.o.r.es, As shadow sinks, and substance soars.