Mazelli, and Other Poems Part 7

Werner.

A goodly shape, More fit to string and strike Apollo's lyre, Than bear the s.h.i.+eld or wield the sword of Mars!

A broken harp, suspended at his side, A faded garland, wreathed about his brow, Tell what he was, and still employ his care.

With thin white hand, that trembles at its task, In vain he strives to bind the broken chords, And to their primal melody attune them;-- In vain,--for to his efforts still replies A boding strain of harsh, discordant sound.

And then, with hot tears coursing down his cheeks, He lifts his faded wreath from his pale brow, And gazing on its withered leaves, exclaims,-- "For earthly fame I sung the songs of earth, Forgetful of all higher, holier themes,-- 'Tis meet the meed I won should perish thus."

Is not the justice which confines him here Akin to cruelty? for his sad heart Seems, as his earthly strains were, full of softness.

Spirit.

Each thought, and word, and deed of mortal man, Is but a moral seed, which, in due season, Must bring forth fruit according to its kind.

The soil wherein those seeds are sown is Time,--

Death is the reaper of the ripened harvest,-- The fruits are garnered in Eternity, To be, or good or bad, the spirit's food!

If then our thoughts, and words, and deeds have been Of corrupt tendency, or evil nature,-- What marvel if we feed on bitterness?-- What shadow next appears?

Werner.

An aged man, Lean-framed and haggard-visaged, bowed beneath The weight of years, or worldly cares that press Still heavier than the iron hand of time.

His tottering form is fearful to behold!

If the fierce scourge which men on earth call famine, Could incarnate itself, methinks 'twould choose Just such a shape, so worn and grim and gaunt, And wo-begone of aspect. Groping round He gathers from the burning floor of h.e.l.l Some s.h.i.+ning pebbles, which his fond conceit Trans.m.u.tes to gold, and these with constant care He watches, counting and recounting them, Till suddenly a whirlwind, sweeping by, Bears with it all his fancied h.o.a.rds away, Leaving him to renew his bootless task, Which ever he renews with this complaint,-- "Alas! how speedily may wealth take wing."

And on his front his name is written, "Avarice."

Spirit.

There yet is, in this shadowy land of shades, One form which I would have thee look upon.

Behold it cometh! mark and scan it well.

Werner.

Never before in all my wanderings Through earth, or other regions, where abide Things now no more of earth, have I beheld Aught so profoundly mournful or so lone!

So dark a cloud o'erhangs his haggard brow, That where he turns a dunner, murkier gloom Prevails along h.e.l.l's blasting atmosphere!

Surrounded by some goodly forms he moves, Forms bright as his is dark, who each in turn Woo his acceptance of the gifts they proffer.

Love stretches out his dimpled band, wherein He holds his emblematic rose, and Hope, Bright Hope, that might renew again the pulse Of life within the frozen veins of Death!

Beckons him to the future,--and calm Faith Kindles beneath his eye her beacon blaze; Yet, with such anguish as h.e.l.l only holds, He turns him from all these, and will not take Love's proffered rose, lest 'neath its blus.h.i.+ng leaves Should lurk the stinging thorn of sly deceit.

Hope's smile to him is disappointment's signal,-- And the bright beacon Faith so kindly lights To guide us o'er the treacherous sea of life, To him is but a cheat, a mockery, An ignis fatuus, kindled to mislead.

And yet he seems as one who in his life Had nursed bright dreams, and cherished lofty aims,-- Had dreamed of love, or wooed Ambition's smiles, Or to the sway of empires had aspired, Or, higher still, the sway of human hearts!

Why gazest thou on me and not on him?

Spirit.

To mark if in thine aspect I might not Detect a consciousness that I thy own soul Claimed brotherhood with his! Thou too hast scoffed At human love, and hope, and faith, and truth, Nursing within thy bosom pride, and scorn, And rankling hate, I till these at length became Fiends which thou could'st not master! Thou art warned, Be wise and heed the warning. Let us now Return unto thy far off, native orb, O'er which the rosy smile of morn is breaking, Waking its teeming millions to renew Their daily rounds of toil and strife and crime.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

Scene I. A peak of the Alps. Werner alone. Time, morning.

Werner.

How gloriously beautiful is earth!

In these her quiet, unfrequented haunts, To which, except the timid chamois' foot, Or venturous hunter's, or the eagle's wing, Naught from beneath ascends. As yet the sun But darts his earliest rays of golden light Upon the summits of the tallest peaks, Which robed in clouds and capped with glittering ice, Soar proudly up, and beam and blaze aloft, As if they would claim kindred with the stars!

And they may claim such kindred, for there is Within, around, and over them, the same Supreme, eternal, all-creating spirit Which glows and burns in every beaming orb That circles in immeasurable s.p.a.ce!

Far as the eye can trace the mountain's crest On either hand, a gorgeous, varied ma.s.s Of glowing, cloud-formed ranges are at rest, Reflecting back in every hue and tint,

Purple and crimson, orange and bright gold, The sunny smile with which Morn hails the world.

Beneath me all is quiet yet and calm, For the dim shadow of the silent night Still rests upon the valley, still the flock Sleeps undisturbed within the guarded fold, The lark yet slumbers in her lowly nest, The dew hangs heavy upon leaf and blade, The gray mist still o'erveils the unruffled lake, And all is tranquil as an infant's sleep; Tranquil around me, but not so within, For in my breast a thousand restless thoughts Conflict in wild, chaotical confusion.

Thoughts of long bygone years, and things that were But are no more, and thoughts that sternly strive To grapple with the mysteries I late Have looked upon; for I, since yesternight, Have traversed the wide sea of s.p.a.ce that rolls Between the sh.o.r.es of this and other worlds; Have gazed upon and scanned those worlds, or shades That wear the lineaments of such; have seen The d.a.m.ned in their own place, and marked the deep, Terrific retribution Error brings To such as are her votaries in life.

And now I feel how baseless was my hope That Peace, the solitary boon I crave, Might spring from knowledge. Tis a fatal tree, Which ever hath borne bitter fruit, since first 'Twas set in Paradise. But I must seek The cottage of some honest mountaineer, Who may afford me nurture and repose, For I am weary, both in mind and frame.

[Exit.

Scene II. A chamber in the cottage of Manuel. Albert asleep.

Rebecca standing by his couch.

Rebecca.

My boy! my beautiful, my dearest hope!

The garner where my trust of future joy Is treasured. Heaven bless thee! May thy life, If it seem good to Him who gave it, be Blest to the fulness of a mother's prayer!

[She stoops to kiss him, and continues.

How well his sleep portrays a quiet mind, The embodied image of a sunny day, A day without a cloud, whose only voices Arise from sighing airs, and whispering leaves, And tell-tale brooks that of their banks beseech A gift, a wreath of their sweet flowers, wherewith To soothe the angry Geni of the deep!

And free, glad birds that flit from bough to bough, And ring their songs of love in the clear air, Till heaven is filled with gus.h.i.+ng melody, And the all-glowing horizon becomes A thing of life, whose breath is sweetest music!

[Kisses him again, and continues.

His brow to me is as a spotless page, Whereon is traced the story of my first And only love, the bright and holy dream That stole into my bosom, when beside The crystal stream that threads a neighbouring vale, I and his father watched our fathers' flocks, And he would lay aside his shepherd's pipe, And in low words, far sweeter than its music, Talk of the sun and stars and gentle moon, The earth and all its loveliness, the trees And shrubs and flowers; how these were all pervaded And quickened by the spirit of deep love; Till, by the frequent blush that tinged my cheek, The light that would break from my downcast eyes, And the quick beat of my too happy heart, Emboldened, he poured out his own pure pa.s.sion, On my enchanted ear! Since then my life Has had no eras,--days, and months, and years, Have all gone by uncounted, in the full, Deep, fervent, soul-sufficing happiness, Of all I prayed for, panted for, obtained!

But I must rouse him, it is time his flock Should leave the fold, and--

[The boy starts and murmurs in his sleep.

Down by yonder stream, Where the green willows cl.u.s.ter thickest, there They dwell. 'Tis scarce so far as I could cast A pebble from my sling. Seek it, and they Will minister to thee what thou mayest need.

[He awakes, and recognising his mother, exclaims--

Ah, mother! I have dreamed so strange a dream, So strange, and yet so palpable, that I Believed it a reality. Methought As closely followed by my bleating flock, I climbed the rugged mountain side where spring Our greenest pastures, singing as I went, I met a lonely wanderer in my way, Of brow so pale, and eye so darkly sad, That my own heart, to sadness little used, Grew heavy at the sight; and he seemed worn And very weary, not so much with toil As by some hidden, inward strife of soul, Which even then seemed raging in his breast.

He stayed to question me where he might find The cottage of some honest mountaineer, Where he might crave the boons of rest and food,-- And mindful of the lesson taught by thee, To give the hungry bread, the weary rest, I pointed him to where our cottage stands, a.s.suring him that thou and my sweet sister,-- Fair as aught earthly, and as pure as fair,-- Would entertain him as a welcome guest: And so we parted.

Rebecca.

Thou didst well to mind The lesson I so often have repeated.

It is our first of duties to give aid To those who beg for succour at our hands; For we ourselves, whatever we possess, Are but the stewards of the bounteous Lord Who giveth to his creatures all good gifts.

But it is time that thou shouldst seek the hills, So take thy crook and pipe and hie away.

[Exeunt.