Love or Fame; and Other Poems Part 11

Irene.

The years are slowly creeping on Beneath the summer sun; Yet, still in silent love and peace Our lives serenely run.

Beyond the mist that veils the coming years I see no gathering clouds, nor falling tears.

Beside life's river we have stood And lingered side by side; Where royal roses bloomed and blushed And gleamed the lily's pride, And happily there we've plucked the sweet wild flowers while heedless pa.s.sed away the sunny hours.

Irene, thy sunny face is lit With all the hope of youth; G.o.d grant thy heart may never know Aught but the purest truth.

Keep in thy soul its faith and trusting love Until they e'en must bloom in heaven above.

Beside the river still we stay And swift the hours fly by; While low upon the fragrant banks The flowers silent lie.

Yet, far beyond the mist, our longing eyes Still seek the gleaming walls of paradise.

Unrecorded.

The splendors of a southern sun Caress the glowing sky; O'er crested waves, the colors glance And gleaming, softly die.

A gentle calm from heaven falls And weaves a mystic spell; A glowing grace that charms the soul-- Whose glory none can tell.

Oh, warm sweet treasures of a sun Of endless fire and love; Those dying embers are the flames From heavenly fires above.

Unto the water's edge they creep And bathe the seas in red; Then die like shadows on the deep With glory cold and dead.

A s.h.i.+p--a lone, dark wanderer Upon the southern seas, Speeds like a white-faced messenger Before the dying breeze.

Her masts are tipped with amethyst, A splendor all untold; A crimson mantle wraps her round, Her sails are made of gold.

The light wind dies--she slowly drifts, Then stops--an idle thing; While sunset clouds around her prow A dreamy grandeur fling.

And eyes upon her deck look forth With looks of longing pain; A hundred sunsets they would give Dear home to see again.

But see! a shadow as of night Spreads o'er the crimson sky; Like doomed and lifeless forms of earth The clouds in heaven lie.

A silence falls--the s.h.i.+p stands still, A fated thing of earth; Then like a child of sin and wrong The storm is given birth.

Oh! struggle well ye gallant crew With storm and wind and wave; For there are helpless women here And children, too, to save.

Quick--sailors do your duty well-- And man the life-boats, too; For soon the rocks will strand the s.h.i.+p, And pierce her through and through.

See! like a woman turned to stone A weeping mother stands; Her heart seems like seems like some frozen thing-- She wrings her trembling hands; Within her arms she holds a child With frightened wond'ring eyes; Below--the waters pitiless-- Above--the angry skies.

Beside her stands a fair young girl With eyes that flash and quiver; They are the only ones still left, These three that moan and s.h.i.+ver.

But soon a voice shouts back the words-- Through all the deaf'ning roar:-- A strong hand grasps the trembling girl, "There's room for just one more."

"Stay, stay," she cries with whitened face "Why should I fear to die?

Oh, take this woman by my side, Nor stay to question why.

She has a dear one 'mongst your crew, She is a mother, too; I am alone--I fear not death, If this you'll only do."

The sailor grasped the mother's hand, She turned and kissed the maid; The tears of pity filled her eyes Yet not one word she said.

The maiden stood with outstretched hands, All hope indeed was gone; And yet she stood with fearless heart, Undaunted and alone.

"Oh, G.o.d, the heart that knows your love Will never need to fear; A priceless gem lies on my face, The mother's grateful tear."

The lightnings swept across the s.h.i.+p, The darkness wrapped her round; Above the thunder of the storm, There came no other sound.

The morning broke--the storm had fled, The wreck was washed away; And calmly now as yesterday The sea in splendor lay.

The n.o.ble heart that throbbed with life Lay fathoms deep below: And what lies buried in that heart The waves alone can know.

Beatrice Cenci.

O beautiful woman, too well we know The terrible weight of thy woman's woe, So great that the world, in its careless way, Remembered thy beauty for more than a day.

In the name of the truth from thy brow is torn The crown of redemption thou long hast worn, And into the valley of sin thou art hurled To be trampled anew by the feet of the world.

The beautiful picture is thine no more That hangs in the palace on Italy's sh.o.r.e; The tear-stained eyes where the shadow lies, Like a darksome cloud in the summer skies, Will tell thy story to men no more, For all untrue is the tale of yore; And the far-famed picture that hangs on the wall Is a painter's fancy--that is all.

Italia's sh.o.r.e is a land of light Where the sunlight of day drowns the shadows of night; And the great warm sun with his golden rays Imprisons the light of eternal days; But the tale of thy woes is a shadow there That fills with its horror the perfumed air.

By day and by night in the palace there, Thy picture has hung with its face so fair; Beguiling the travelers come from afar With its sad, sweet grace, like some voiceless star, Till the hears that shuddered before thy sin Recalled not the shadow that lay within, But remembered only with pitying grace The hopeless grief on the child-like face.

The rosy dawn with its misty light, Shone fair on thy brow in the morning bright; And the glittering noon with its rays of gold Imprisoned thy soul in its jeweled hold.

Oh, fair was the picture at early dawn, With the matchless beauty that Guido had drawn; And fair was the face in the noon of gold, Touched with a glory that never grew old.

But lovelier still in the shadowed eyes Lay the burning sunset of Italy's skies; And the beautiful face with its voiceless woe Grew fair as a saint's in the crimson glow.

No wonder the poets grew wild at the sight, And sung of thy beauty with mad delight, Till the fame of the picture spread over the land, Revealing the touch of its master-hand.

The fair Madonna with saint-like face, Creation of Raphael's exquisite grace, Is scarcely more famed than the child-like head Of thou to whom sorrow forever is wed.

O beautiful woman, the world with its scorn Will mock at the glory thou long hast worn, And rend aside in the name of the truth The veil of mercy that hides thy youth.

But the romance that clings to the wondrous face Will fall on our hearts with a softened grace, And the fair young sinner on Italy's sh.o.r.e Will be loved and pitied forevermore.

Under the Stars.