Poets of the South Part 15

To have the will to soar, but not the wings, Eyes fixed forever on a starry height, Whence stately shapes of grand imaginings Flash down the splendors of imperial light;

And yet to lack the charm [2] that makes them ours, The obedient va.s.sals of that conquering spell, Whose omnipresent and ethereal powers Encircle Heaven, nor fear to enter h.e.l.l;

This is the doom of Tantalus [3]--the thirst For beauty's balmy fount to quench the fires Of the wild pa.s.sion that our souls have nurst In hopeless promptings--unfulfilled desires.

Yet would I rather in the outward state Of Song's immortal temple lay me down, A beggar basking by that radiant gate, [4]

Than bend beneath the haughtiest empire's crown!

For sometimes, through the bars, my ravished eyes Have caught brief glimpses of a life divine, And seen a far, mysterious rapture rise Beyond the veil [5] that guards the inmost shrine.

MY STUDY [6]

This is my world! within these narrow walls, I own a princely service;[7] the hot care And tumult of our frenzied life are here But as a ghost and echo; what befalls In the far mart to me is less than naught; I walk the fields of quiet Arcadies,[8]

And wander by the brink of h.o.a.ry seas, Calmed to the tendance of untroubled thought; Or if a livelier humor should enhance The slow-time pulse, 'tis not for present strife, The sordid zeal with which our age is rife, Its mammon conflicts crowned by fraud or chance, But gleamings of the lost, heroic life, Flashed through the gorgeous vistas of romance.

AeTHRA [9]

It is a sweet tradition, with a soul Of tenderest pathos! Hearken, love!--for all The sacred undercurrents of the heart Thrill to its cordial music: Once a chief, Philantus, king of Sparta, left the stern And bleak defiles of his unfruitful land-- Girt by a band of eager colonists-- To seek new homes on fair Italian plains.[10]

Apollo's [11] oracle had darkly spoken: _"Where'er from cloudless skies a plenteous shower Outpours, the Fates decree that ye should pause And rear your household deities!"_ Racked by doubt Philantus traversed--with his faithful band Full many a bounteous realm; but still defeat Darkened his banners, and the strong-walled towns His desperate sieges grimly laughed to scorn!

Weighed down by anxious thoughts, one sultry eve The warrior--his rude helmet cast aside-- Rested his weary head upon the lap Of his fair wife, who loved him tenderly; And there he drank a generous draught of sleep.

She, gazing on his brow, all worn with toil, And his dark locks, which pain had silvered over With glistening touches of a frosty rime, Wept on the sudden bitterly; her tears Fell on his face, and, wondering, he woke.

"O blest art thou, my Aethra, _my clear sky_."

He cried exultant, "from whose pitying blue A heart-rain falls to fertilize my fate: Lo! the deep riddle's solved--the G.o.ds spake truth!"

So the next night he stormed Tarentum,[12] took The enemy's host at vantage, and o'erthrew His mightiest captains. Thence with kindly sway He ruled those pleasant regions he had won,-- But dearer even than his rich demesnes The love of her whose gentle tears unlocked The close-shut mystery of the Oracle!

UNDER THE PINE [13]

_To the memory of Henry Timrod_

The same majestic pine is lifted high Against the twilight sky, The same low, melancholy music grieves Amid the topmost leaves,[14]

As when I watched, and mused, and dreamed with him, Beneath these shadows dim.

O Tree! hast thou no memory at thy core Of one who comes no more?

No yearning memory of those scenes that were So richly calm and fair, When the last rays of sunset, s.h.i.+mmering down, Flashed like a royal crown?

And he, with hand outstretched and eyes ablaze, Looked forth with burning [15] gaze, And seemed to drink the sunset like strong wine, Or, hushed in trance divine, Hailed the first shy and timorous glance from far Of evening's virgin star?

O Tree! against thy mighty trunk he laid His weary head; thy shade Stole o'er him like the first cool spell of sleep: It brought a peace _so_ deep The unquiet pa.s.sion died from out his eyes, As lightning from stilled skies.

And in that calm he loved to rest, and hear The soft wind-angels, clear And sweet, among the uppermost branches sighing: Voices he heard replying (Or so he dreamed) far up the mystic height, And pinions rustling light.

O Tree! have not his poet-touch, his dreams So full of heavenly gleams, Wrought through the folded dullness of thy bark, And all thy nature dark Stirred to slow throbbings, and the fluttering fire Of faint, unknown desire?

At least to me there sweeps no rugged ring That girds the forest king, No immemorial stain, or awful rent (The mark of tempest spent), No delicate leaf, no lithe bough, vine-o'ergrown, No distant, flickering cone,

But speaks of him, and seems to bring once more The joy, the love of yore; But most when breathed from out the sunset-land The sunset airs are bland, That blow between the twilight and the night, Ere yet the stars are bright;

For then that quiet eve comes back to me, When deeply, thrillingly, He spake of lofty hopes which vanquish Death; And on his mortal breath A language of immortal meanings hung, That fired his heart and tongue.

For then unearthly breezes stir and sigh, Murmuring, "Look up! 'tis I: Thy friend is near thee! Ah, thou canst not see!"

And through the sacred tree Pa.s.ses what seems a wild and sentient thrill-- Pa.s.ses, and all is still!--

Still as the grave which holds his tranquil form, Hushed after many a storm,-- Still as the calm that crowns his marble brow, No pain can wrinkle now,-- Still as the peace--pathetic peace of G.o.d-- That wraps the holy sod,

Where every flower from our dead minstrel's dust Should bloom, a type of trust,-- That faith which waxed to wings of heavenward might To bear his soul from night,-- That faith, dear Christ! whereby we pray to meet His spirit at G.o.d's feet!

CLOUD PICTURES [16]

Here in these mellow gra.s.ses, the whole morn, I love to rest; yonder, the ripening corn Rustles its greenery; and his blithesome horn

Windeth the frolic breeze o'er field and dell, Now pealing a bold stave with l.u.s.ty swell, Now falling to low breaths ineffable

Of whispered joyance. At calm length I lie, Fronting the broad blue s.p.a.ces of the sky, Covered with cloud-groups, softly journeying by:

An hundred shapes, fantastic, beauteous, strange, Are theirs, as o'er yon airy waves they range At the wind's will, from marvelous change to change;

Castles, with guarded roof, and turret tall, Great sloping archway, and majestic wall, Sapped by the breezes to their noiseless fall!

PaG.o.das vague! above whose towers outstream Banners that wave with motions of a dream-- Rising, or drooping in the noontide gleam;

Gray lines of Orient pilgrims: a gaunt band On famished camels, o'er the desert sand Plodding towards their prophet's Holy Land;

Mid-ocean,--and a shoal of whales at play, Lifting their monstrous frontlets to the day, Thro' rainbow arches of sun-smitten spray;

Followed by splintered icebergs, vast and lone, Set in swift currents of some arctic zone, Like fragments of a t.i.tan's world o'erthrown;

Next, measureless breadths of barren, treeless moor, Whose vaporous verge fades down a glimmering sh.o.r.e, Round which the foam-capped billows toss and roar!

Calms of bright water--like a fairy's wiles, Wooing with ripply cadence and soft smiles, The golden sh.o.r.e-slopes of Hesperian Isles;

Their inland plains rife with a rare increase Of plumed grain! and many a snowy fleece s.h.i.+ning athwart the dew-lit hills of peace;

Wrecks of gigantic cities--to the tune Of some wise air-G.o.d built!--o'er which the noon Seems shuddering; caverns, such as the wan Moon

Shows in her desolate bosom; then, a crowd Of awed and reverent faces, palely bowed O'er a dead queen, laid in her ashy shroud--

A queen of eld--her pallid brow impearled By gems barbaric! her strange beauty furled In mystic cerements of the antique world.

Weird pictures, fancy-gendered!--one by one, 'Twixt blended beams and shadows, gold and dun, These transient visions vanish in the sun.