  IF MY VERSES HAD WINGS LIKE A BIRD.AFTER VICTOR HUGO. If my verses had wings like a bird, To thy garden of perfume and light They would flutter with timid delight, If my verses had wings like a bird. If my verses, like fairies, had wings, To thy fireside at eve they would fly, To sparkle and gleam in thine eye, If my verses, like fairies, had wings. Pure pinions around and above, All day would rustle and gleam, They would whisper at night to thy dream, If my verses were wingÈd like Love. ’TWIXT SLEEP AND WAKING.AFTER THE FRENCH OF PROSPER BLANCHEMAIN. Lying alone last night, ’twixt sleep and waking, My cruel mistress passed, with queenly tread, With smile of cold disdain, and haughty head, And scornful eyes, whereat my heart was breaking; The vision was so true in all its seeming, I scarcely could believe that I was dreaming. But when she came, and o’er me lowly bending, Upon me rained the kisses of her mouth, Laden with all the perfume of the South, Murmuring the while of blisses never ending, And in her eyes I saw the love-light gleaming,— Ah! then I knew that I was only dreaming. WHITE SWAN SAILING.FROM THE RUSSIAN. White swan, sailing all the day, Peering in the wave below As thou sailest proud and slow, Round and round, and to and fro, Seekest thou another, say? Seest thou, in vaults below, Through the wave inscrutable, Joy of heaven or woe of hell? Cruel swan, why mock me so? Scornful sailing to and fro, Answering not my questionings, While above thy snowy breast Rises haughty neck and crest. Sure, beneath thy folded wings, Knowledge lies of many things— Secrets that I long to know. Voices of the hollow wave, Whispering as from a grave, Murmur to thy listening ear Secrets that I fain would hear. Lo, I see another crest Mirrored in the wave below, And a bosom white as snow Sails majestical and slow, Unto thine ’tis closely pressed; Face to face and breast to breast, Two white swans majestic go Round and round and to and fro. Peering through the hollow wave As into an open grave, Lo, I see another there; Find the face and form of one, Thought of whom I fain would shun More than all beneath the sun; Find a face already where Time’s inexorable touch Leaveth traces overmuch, And steely fingers soon will tear, Rending cruel furrows there. Peering through the hollow wave, Wistfully as in a grave, Could I see another breast As it was in Long Ago (Or perhaps I dreamed it so), Where my own might hope to rest; Not of mine the counterpart, But a bosom white as snow, Proud, but tender, pressed to mine, As thy double unto thine; Would the rapture slay me, say? Swelling, welling from my heart, Soul and body rend apart? Would the rapture slay me? nay, Such a death were sweeter bliss Than I find in life like this. THE ROSES OF SAADI.AFTER THE FRENCH OF DESBORDES-VALMORE. As I passed through the Valley of Roses to-day I gathered the fairest and sweetest for thee, But my robes were so full that the knots burst away, And all my sweet roses fell into the sea. A wave slowly bore them away from my sight, Flaming forth like a cloud-billow rosy and red; But on me you may breathe all their fragrance to-night, For my bosom is sweet with the odors they shed. ROSE-BUDS.AFTER THE FRENCH OF BÉRANGER. O timid rose-buds, why delay your bloom, The frost of Time is chill upon my hair; Unclose your petals, shed your sweet perfume, Like vesper incense on the evening air. Gladden my withered heart while yet you may, A rock is hid beneath each glowing wave; The ardent sun, wooing your lips to-day, To-morrow’s noon may mock your poet’s grave. And rose-buds, ere their time may pass away; The worm is there, an envious wind may blight; How many rose-buds have I seen decay, While thistles flaunt their colors in the light. I pluck nor buds, nor full-blown roses now, Your tender charms from me have naught to fear; No rosy wreath awaits this wrinkled brow, Let regal youth the crown and sceptre bear. Weary of strife, of cold, vain theorems, Of counting spots upon the sun’s fair face, Would that a bed beneath your friendly stems Were hollowed for my final resting-place. When the Great Reaper comes, let me be found Among the roses, fresh and pure as truth; Their perfume shed above me and around, Whispering my failing heart of Love and Youth. O timid rose-buds, why delay your bloom, The frost of Time is chill upon my hair; Unclose your petals, shed your sweet perfume Like vesper incense on the evening air. THE BIRD I WAIT FOR.AFTER THE FRENCH OF MOREAU. VISIONS.FROM THE FRENCH OF ALFRED DE MUSSET. One midnight when I was a wayward child, I read by stealth a romance weird and wild; My veins were tingling and my cheeks aflame, When suddenly before my vision came Two sad dark eyes appealing wistfully, A child in sable garb who looked like me. A child so like to me in form and face, It seemed a mirror standing in the place. He cast on me one long and earnest look, Then bent with me o’er the forbidden book. A smile mysterious he wore, but never spoke, And vanished from me as the daylight broke. The years sped by; one dreamy autumn day The eager chase had led me far astray; Fantastic shadows thronged the solitude Of the deep mountain forest where I stood, And there appeared beneath a spreading tree, A wanderer dressed in black, who looked like me. He held a quaint old lute and a fresh spray Of eglantine; I gently asked my way. He answered me no word, but took with pride A path straight up the towering mountain side. His parting glance fell on me with a thrill Of meaning so intense it haunts me still. Another year sped by; one night outside The room wherein my sainted mother died I stood alone, and friendless with my grief— Youth’s crushing grief that hopes not for relief,— I oped the door, lo, there on bended knee An orphan dressed in black who looked like me. Kneeling before the sacred ashes there He seemed a radiant angel in despair. His face was bathed in tears, his head was crowned With thorns, his lute was flung upon the ground, And o’er his sable garments flowed a tide Of crimson from the sword that pierced his side. Since then in every crisis I have known, Whether in busy town or desert lone, Angel or demon, whichsoe’er it be, That sable apparition comes to me. I never hear his voice, he stands apart, Yet like a brother twines about my heart. Now, all my idols burned in civil strife, Willing to love or re-create my life, My feet, self-exiled from their natal strand, Gather the dust of many a foreign land; A labyrinthine maze I vainly grope, Seeking the faint, vague vestige of a hope. Still in those moments when life’s pulses go Surging almost to fatal overflow, When the blind, fettered spirit seems at last Ready its fetters and its scales to cast, Before my vision comes, on land or sea, A wanderer, dressed in black, who looks like me. THE FISHERMAN’S BRIDAL.AFTER DELAVIGNE. The sea is high, the night is dark, Sweet son, O why unmoor thy bark Before the morning? On such a night as this last year, I fain had kept thy brother here; O heed the warning. But the fisherman smiling Bounded from shore, His labor beguiling, Bending the oar, Singing, she loveth me, No fear I know, No wave appalleth me, Loving her so. With white wing cleft the inky sky, A sea-bird with a plaintive cry, Saddening the air: The nest I built with so much toil, This night became the tempest’s spoil; Beware, beware! Still the fisherman smiling, Bending the oar, The darkness beguiling, Sang as before: My Nanna calleth me, No fear I know, No wave appalleth me, Loving her so. Faintly arose a sad appeal, Blent with the storm by which his keel Was rudely driven. O brother, ere thy knell shall toll, Pray for thy elder brother’s soul, Who died unshriven. But the message unheeded Its warning bore, As onward he speeded, Bending the oar, Murmuring, she calleth me, No fear I know, No wave appalleth me, Loving her so. Weary at dawn he reached the strand, But lo, there passed a mourning band; For whom? he cried. For whom, O fishermen, that bell That strikes upon my heart its knell? ’Tis for thy bride. Then as if on the shore, Stricken down by a dart, Deep darkness came o’er Him, chilling his heart, Whispering, she calleth me, No fear I know, No wave appalleth me, Loving her so. YOU HAD MY WHOLE HEART.FROM THE FRENCH OF DESBORDES VALMORE. You had my whole heart, I thought I had thine, No beguiling or art, A heart for a heart. Your heart is returned, But alas! where is mine? Your heart is returned, But mine you have spurned. The leaf and the bloom And the fruit of the same, Leaf, color, and bloom, Sweet flower and perfume. Oh, what hast thou done? My sovereign supreme, Oh, what hast thou done? Beneath the fair sun. An orphan bereft Of mother and home, An orphan bereft, With my grief I am left. Deserted, alone, Through the cold world to roam, Deserted, alone, But heaven hears my moan. One day you will muse, Broken-hearted and old, One day you will muse On the love you refuse. You will seek me one day But you shall not behold; You will call me one day, I shall not obey. You will come to my door With penitent head, A friend, as of yore, You will knock at my door. It will coldly be said, She is gone, she is dead; Her spirit has fled, Will coldly be said. ART.FROM THE FRENCH OF THÉOPHILE GAUTIER. Yes, art with grievous pangs is born From Nature’s most endearing molds; The child is torn, Not wooed, from fierce rebellious folds. Slay not thy art by false constraint, Yet know her rules are stern as Fate; Without complaint The muse should wear a buskin strait. Would’st have thy verse endure, thy muse The common facile forms must shun, The slipshod shoes In which so many feet have run. Sculptor, beware the plastic clay, Changing at every whim’s command From day to day, And marred by every careless hand. Strive with the marbles pure of Greece, Wrested from Paros’ snowy mines, Smite, and release The deep-imprisoned god-like lines. The chisel of Praxiteles Such peerless beauty had not known, If art in Greece Had deigned to use a meaner stone. Let the fierce molten metal fuse Heroic forms and high contours Of Syracuse; Nought but the matchless bronze endures. Upon the agate’s flinty face Apollo’s features high and pure In profile trace, With touches delicate and sure. Beware of water and pastel, Deep on fantastic vase and urn Thy colors frail In seven-fold heated furnace burn. Fashion the writhing, maddening limb Of nymph and goddess; bring once more The monsters grim, Dear to the blazonry of yore. The virgin mother saintly mild, Crowned with her nimbus; on her breast The wondrous child, The globe beneath the cross of Christ. Crowns fall and sceptres pass, robust And radiant art outlives them all. Torso and bust Survive the city’s triple wall. The medal by the ploughman found Reveals the countenance austere, The temples crowned, That filled the antique world with fear. Even the gods wax old and pass From high Olympus; verse alone, Stronger than brass, Preserves to fallen Zeus his throne. The graver guide with care supreme, The chisel smite, fix like a rock Thy floating dream Deep in the stem resisting block. Tongues and religions die, while art, Poised in the lofty realms of thought, Serene, apart, Exults in sempiternal youth. BARCAROLLE.FROM THE SAME. O sun-bright maiden, choose and say, Whither shall we two sail to-day? The rose’s breath is on the gale That softly moves our silken sail; Our masts of gleaming ivory Are strung like harps with yellow hair, That make Æolian music there; A seraph shall our pilot be. O sun-bright maiden, choose and say, Whither shall we two sail to-day? Our pinnace lifts her snowy wing And flutters like a living thing; And from the shore the morning wind Toys with our awning’s purple fold; Our rudder is of beaten gold And leaves a rosy track behind. O sun-bright maiden, choose and say, Whither shall we two sail to-day? Our hold with love-apples is stored, And all strange fruits, a goodly hoard; A wingÈd boy sits at the prow, Pointing our path with beaming eye And smile of deepest mystery; A wreath of myrtle crowns his brow. O sun-bright maiden, choose and say, Whither in Love’s realm shall we stray? Say, shall we seek some storied isle, Where warm Ægean waters smile? Or shall I see the Arctic sun A flood of crimson glories shed At midnight on that golden head, Or sail to seas where pearls are won? O sun-bright maiden, choose and say Whither shall we two sail to-day? Follow the track of Heracles— Seeking the far Hesperides; Or where the South Sea flower expands, Float idly in the moonlight wan; Or sail beneath the rainbow’s span— Bright gateway to Love’s golden lands? O sun-bright maiden, choose and say, There is no one to say thee nay. O seek, she saith, that faithful shore Where loving hearts will change no more. Alas, my sails for many a year Have sped through all Love’s wide domain, Seeking that blessed shore in vain: That land is still unknown, my dear. SHADOWS.FROM THE SAME. Be still, my heart, keep silence, O my soul, Thy fierce rebellious transports are in vain, Oblivion’s turbid wave must o’er thee roll. Cease the faint pulsing of the weary brain, Fold up the remnant of thy wings at last, And rot, beneath the inexorable chain. Soon shalt thou be with refuse vile outcast, Flung down the bottomless abyss that still Yawns to the future from the darkling past. Thy hopes are dead, broken thy lofty will, Thy name and memory will be blotted out Before the rattling clods thy grave refill. No marble shaft for thee the heavens will flout, Nor tear-drenched willow shed her graceful spray, No lying epitaph the truth will scout, No choir will chant, no man of God will pray, No tears will silver the funereal pall— Dark cloud that hides thy shame from light of day. The felled tree strangely moves his comrades tall, Waking the echoes of the mountain side, But not a leaf will quiver at thy fall. Like the mute convoy of the suicide, Thou shalt wind down through night to find thy doom: Thy ashes shall be scattered far and wide. No circling rings shall break the sullen gloom Of the dark pool that closes o’er thy head, No widowed soul shall hover o’er thy tomb. For the chaste secrets which thy soul hath wed, With thee the pit shall bury them from view, Fathoms below the deepest deep-sea lead. Our Mother, Nature, hath her favorites too, Like any other dame, spoiled children they; Unwelcome waif, why should they share with you? Upon them fall the myrtle and the bay, E’en in the desert they would find at need Enchanted palaces along their way. Though for the morrow’s morn they take no heed, Yet through their fingers filter golden sands, And at a generous breast they freely feed. Kneading a withered breast with famished hands Their outcast brethren pine, or seek in vain Some kinder bosom in relentless lands. And if for them upon the desert plain Illusive gardens rise, and fountains play, They vanish like the rainbow after rain. Or if by chance a sunbeam gone astray Glints through the gloom that shrouds them evermore, A chilling cloud obscures th’ unwonted ray. The wisest plans but mock their hopes the more, Bringing them to derision and dismay: The sea engulfs them though they hug the shore. The tree shall crush them, hollow with decay, Whose grateful shade invites them to draw nigh: The heart they lean on wins them to betray. A turtle drops upon them from the sky; The tower that has braved a thousand years Falls without warning just as they pass by. The friend who shared their youthful smiles and tears Accuses them of treason to the crown, Sending them to the rack with blows and jeers. Born on the Danube, in the Seine they drown; Poor fools, why fly so far to find the fate That like a slimy monster sucks them down? Why strive with Fate? no jot will he abate; Even the brawny knees of Hercules Must bend or break before him soon or late. They drain a bitter cup with poisonous lees, A life ignoble and a death of shame, And in some potter’s field they find surcease; Or, dying nobly, leave behind no name, While, mounting on their bones, some brazen cheat Reaches the very pinnacle of Fame. Destiny mocks them from her lofty seat, Dipping their sponge in vinegar and gall: Want grinds them in the dust with iron feet. Hard by the accursed sea whose waves appal, A scape-goat lone, beneath the wingless skies, They wander where the ashen apples fall. Night takes for them a thousand baleful eyes, Piercing at once their deepest hiding-place: Straight to their heart each poisoned arrow flies. Thrust out of camp, the scape-goat of their race, Abhorred they live, and dead, the loathing earth Vomits their phantom from the burial-place. Such is thy history, O my soul, from birth; Dark pages with decaying odors rife, A maze of treachery, and pain, and dearth. Yet ’tis the story of a vulgar life; No title casts a glamour o’er its woes, No footlights gild its unromantic strife. Across the web the flying shuttle goes, Weaving with common threads a homely plot, Yet dark and sinister the pattern shows. Why woo so long a world that loves thee not? O soul, whence long have perished hope and faith, Why cling to life, when death is all thy lot? Sweeter than bridal bed the couch of death, More restful far than sleep; the asphodel Is sweeter than the crimson poppy’s breath. King, queen, and harlot, priest and infidel, Heaped up at random peacefully they rest, Commingling in one mighty urn pell-mell. Despairing brother, whose fast chilling breast Nor love, nor wine may warm, descend with me, And burst the shadowy gates an eager guest. Abase thy head, and bend thy stubborn knee; And like a Scythian chief in triumph led, Welcome the agony that sets thee free. One short, fierce agony, and all is said; Beneath the coffin lid, sealed once for all, Compose thy limbs as in a royal bed. Swift as the fleeting shadow on the wall Thy feeble footprints fall along the sand, Nor voice, nor echo will thy song recall. In the Corinthian brass thy feeble hand Can write no name; thy chisel cannot bite The marbles of Carrara pure and grand. He who would climb Fame’s towering mountain height Must have a double gift, a genius rare: Unto a happy star he must unite. Poet, alas! and lover, brethren are; Twins of the soul, each hath his cherished dream, Some saint ideal, worshipped from afar; Some fount of youth, some pure Pactolian stream, Some orb that beams with strange unearthly ray, Some flaming vision potent to redeem. The fount is dry, the vision fades away; The mystic light that led them through the night Dies in a marsh, and leaves them far astray. O God, to tread but once by morning light The alabaster palace of our dreams, Counting its colonnades with waking sight; To greet the lovely images that gleam Athwart the gardens of our revery, And drink the waters of its mystic stream; To make the plunge, piercing triumphantly The crystal vault, bring back the golden vase Long buried with the treasures of the sea. ’Twere fine to feel the thrill of flight through space, Adown the far empyrean to float, Or track the eagle in his headlong chase. To find the deed outstrip the noble thought, To find fit words to mate our passion’s cry, And pour the tide with its full burden fraught. Sailing through unknown seas, to catch the sigh Of mighty rivers, and through night’s eclipse See new worlds heaving upward to the sky; To feel upon the flower of our lips The regal kiss that sometimes hovers there; To find the glen wherein the rainbow dips; To stop the wheel of fortune in the air; To see before us on the glowing page The wavering thoughts our midnight musings bear. Such lots, alas, in this decrepit age Are rare; Polycrates might wear his ring, Nor fear to rouse the avenging goddess’ rage. Seeking the upper chambers where we cling, The cruel wave mounts upward step by step, Mingling its murmur with our revelling, Till slimy phocas, shapes that banish sleep, Gnash foully at our very bedsides there, Belched from the bowels of the nether deep. The church is dark, the altar cold and bare, And rending from their brows the aureole, The saints blaspheming die in their despair. The sun senescent, near his final goal, Casts from his bloodshot eye one baleful glare, Ere yet the heavens vanish like a scroll. Each living thing shall perish foul or fair, The flood will top the tallest mountain chain, For vengeance cometh on and will not spare. For twenty days and nights through wind and rain, The raven’s midnight wing, cleaving the waste, Seeks for a haven where to rest in vain. Headlong she falls, famished and spent at last, And as the widening circles mark the flood, All Earth is but a tomb whence life has passed. A common sepulchre for bad and good, Upon this wave no ark of safety rides, Bitter with tears and red with human blood. No second patriarch his vessel guides, A hive of life; a swelling fountain head, To burst upon Ararat’s rugged sides. Atlas has fallen! hark, O hark! o’erhead The crack of doom, the supports of the world Are snapped like reeds beneath Behemoth’s tread. Our Mother Earth, by storms of chaos whirled, Reels like a drunken harlot down through space, By wanton buffets from her orbit hurled. Unto the lips of an expiring race The Son holds up the cup of human woes; The Father sees with coldly sneering face. When will our crucifixion cease? still flows The ruddy current from our open side, And red drops cluster on our pallid brows. Enough of tears and blood; O turn aside The poisoned chalice; doth not this suffice? That Thy dear Son upon the cross has died? He died for naught; man still must pay the price Unless a newer Christ rise from the dead: The Pontiff asks a fresher sacrifice. For nigh two thousand years the Lamb hath bled; His empty veins leave not the faintest stain Upon the priestly knife that gleams o’erhead. Messiah cometh not, we watch in vain; The veil is rent, broken the altar stone, The worshippers are slain, the church o’erthrown. SONNET: OU VONT ILS?FROM THE FRENCH OF SULLY PRUDHOMME. To what strange land gather the slain of Love? Heaven were no world for them, it hath no bliss To match the raptures that they knew in this; No summer night, no dark secluded grove, Or deep ravine with sheltering boughs above; Nor can the foul fiends of the dread abyss So rend a soul as the fierce agonies Of Love’s disdain, the doubts and fears thereof. Tame were the joys of the bright sphere above To which the saints so ardently aspire, And vain the anguish of eternal fire To him who knows the martyrdom of Love. For souls consumed and dead there is no room In heaven or hell: oblivion is their doom. THE GAY CASHIER.ADAPTED FROM THE FRENCH. Two gallant burglars, who for many a day Had laid their plans, at last had made their way Into a bank upon a stormy night; Then with what fond, what rapturous delight Unto the vault they flew to seize the swag! O cruel joke, there was no swag at all: That night the gay cashier, a heartless wag, With all the funds had skipped for Montreal. THE RAVAGES OF TIME.SCARRON. The monuments of human pride and power, Engulfed by ocean wave or desert sand, And crushed by time’s inexorable hand, Built for eternity, last but an hour. Where are the hanging gardens and the towers Of Babylon? the marbles tall and grand That stood like gods on the Ægean strand? Fallen and crumbled. So shall crumble ours. Time slays or withers all on which we dote; His swift, remorseless touches ne’er relent, Destroying marble, mortar, and cement. Then why should I repine because my coat Is threadbare on the seams with three years’ wear, Out at the elbows, and beyond repair? HALLUCINATION.FROM THE FRENCH. I.Last night, or did I dream? my lady led Me to a wall I oft had passed before, And opened there a curious secret door Made by some cunning workmen ages dead. We entered furtively, and as our tread Resounded on the long untrodden floor, Back swung the portal with a clanging roar. Fleeing like startled children on we sped, And found an inner chamber, where was spread A board with gold and crystal, and a store Of fruits and flowers from every unknown shore, And curious flasks, whose contents gleaming red A ruddy radiance o’er my lady shed, And flung fantastic flames upon the floor. II.Bathed in the amber of an unseen flame, A royal couch with silken curtains fair Gleamed like a jewel in the alcove there; A dreamy languor stole through all my frame, Sweet beyond power of language to declare; A breath of perfume moved the swooning air, Stirring the golden ringlets of my dame; And while we faltered, lo, a small voice came: “O happy pair, with rosy forms aglow, Here lie within the temple’s deep alcove Sweet mysteries that I pant to have you know; Wine that hath stained the trampling feet of Love, And fruit that ripened in the sacred grove: Break every seal, and let the purple flow.” III.I turned to seek my lady’s eyes, when lo! The vision vanished, and I stood alone Without the temple walls, whose cold gray stone Mocked my endeavor, rising row on row. I called my lady’s name, fearful and low. No answer, save the hoot-owl’s jeering tone, And the pale mocking moon that coldly shone. Now, sadly round the temple walls I go, Whose deepest mysteries I thought to know. I thought its inmost chamber mine; fond fool, I only stood within some vestibule, Where all men’s feet may wander to and fro, And saw, reflected from some mirror there, My own imaginings too warm and fair. IV. |
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