Poems By John L. Stoddard Part 26

THE CASCADE

From the mountain gray It has made its way To my garden green and cool, And there, from the edge Of a rocky ledge Leaps down to a crystal pool.

With a plunging flash It falls, to dash That crystal into foam; And then at a bound Slips under ground To the lake,--its final home.

In the morning light, In the silent night, When the moonlight gems the scene, It laughs and sings, And a light spray flings O'er stately walls of green.

For in and out, And round about, Grow flowers, plants, and trees, From the lowly moss To the boughs that toss Their leaves in the pa.s.sing breeze.

On its outer zone Of ma.s.sive stone Two marble statues stand,-- The silver sheen Of the pool between,-- One form on either hand.

One of the pair Is a woman fair, With parted, smiling lips; For her each hour A honied flower, And she the bee that sips.

The other, a faun, From whom is gone The power to frankly smile; For whom each day, As it drags away, Makes life still less worth while.

The face of the one Is like the sun, With its warmth, and light, and cheer; But the faun looks down With ugly frown, And his lips retain a sneer.

Youth and age, Child and sage!

The former with life unknown; The latter burnt By lessons learnt, With a heart now turned to stone.

Yet the torrent speeds, And never heeds The statues' smiles or sneers; They come and go, But the water's flow Has lasted a thousand years.

BIRD SLAUGHTER

Poor, little bird! the chase is ended; No longer hast thou cause for fear; Within these walls thou art befriended; No sportsmen can molest thee here.

Without, they doubtless still await thee, And scan with eager eyes the sky; Sweet, winsome thing! how can they hate thee?

Why should they wish to see thee die?

So limp and helpless! wilt thou never Recover from thy fear and flight?

How breathless was thy last endeavor To reach this shelter, when in sight!

Thou tremblest still, as I approach thee; Do I, too, seem like all the rest?

Thy timid, liquid eyes reproach me ...

Alas! there's blood upon thy breast.

Nay, fear not, birdling! let me gently Uplift and hold thee in my hand; Thou gazest on me so intently, Thou must my motive understand.

Thy downy breast is pierced and bleeding; This wing will never rise again; In vain thy look, so wild and pleading!

I cannot cure or ease thy pain.

Too well the hunters have succeeded; Thy little life is ebbing fast; My presence now is all unheeded; 'Tis over; ... thou art dead at last.

Yet thus, within my garden dying, Thy fate hath caused me less regret Than that of all thy comrades, lying Half dead and mangled in the net!

Where are they all, who crossed so gladly The lofty Alps to seek the sun?

Still lives thy mate, to mourn thee sadly, Or is her life-course also run?

Within the voiceless empyrean No birds are pa.s.sing on the breeze; No songster lifts its joyous paean, And silent stand my empty trees;

For at the base of every mountain, Where southward-moving birds repose, In every grove, at every fountain, Lurk merciless, insatiate foes.

With cruel craft those foes surround them, Ensnaring hundreds in a day, Indifferent if they tear and wound them, Proud only of the heaps they slay.

What care these brutes if songs of rapture From thrush and lark are no more heard?

What matter if their modes of capture Denude the land of every bird?

Whole regions, where they once abounded, Are now as silent as the tomb; The birds have vanished,--slain or wounded, Pursued, by thousands, to their doom.

Meanwhile, since Earth itself is blighted, The Nemesis of Nature wakes; Her flawless balance must be righted; If Ceres gives, ... she also takes!

Still worse, a moral degradation Thus cradled, vitiates the race; Among the rising generation A l.u.s.t for slaughter grows apace.

Even children kill the birds thus captured,-- And, since none censures or withstands, They seize the tiny skulls, enraptured To crush them in their blood-smeared hands!

See yonder lad with tethered linnet, Its frail legs raw from rasping strings!

A carriage comes,--he flings within it The tortured bird ... to sell its wings!

And oft as it may be rejected, The little victim, mad with thirst, Is jerked back, well-nigh vivisected, Till pain and hunger do their worst.

Beware, harsh man and heartless woman!

Beneath you swells a threatening flood; If you and yours remain inhuman, It yet may drown you in your blood.

You smile, and call this sentimental; You will not smile in later times!

For cruelty, so fundamental, Already breeds the worst of crimes.

THE IRON CROWN

On the cla.s.sic sh.o.r.e of Como, 'Neath a headland steep and bold, Which, though leaden at the dawning, In the sunset turns to gold, Nestles beautiful Varenna, Still invested with renown By the legend that connects it With the Lombards' Iron Crown.

Far above it on the mountain Stands the castle, old and gray, With its battlements in ruin And its towers in decay; But a subtle charm still lingers Round that residence sublime, And the beauty of its story Is triumphant over time.

As we trace its ancient pavement, As we tread its roofless halls, How alluring is the figure Which this castle still recalls!

For 'tis Queen Theodelinda Whom its ruined arches frame, And the pa.s.sing breeze seems laden With the music of her name.

As we gaze from ivied ramparts On the storied lake below, We forget the world about us For the world of long ago, When the Lombards had descended From the mountains to the plain, And all Italy lay mourning For the thousands of her slain;

When their brave, ambitious leader, Not content to make his home By these northern lakes of beauty, Had resolved to capture Rome!

For no longer could her legions His resistless course withstand, And the road lay open, southward, To the conquest of the land.

When his valiant host stood ready And impatient for the start, What reversed their king's decision?