The lost chimes, and other poems

THE LOST CHIMES

“Count not the cost, a thousand more or less
Is not the question, but a perfect tone,
A clang as clear as the Italian sky,
As strong and joyful as the victor’s cry,
As deep and mellow as the ocean’s moan,
And tender as a mother’s fond caress.”

“And let there be no stint of pure alloy,
Of bronze and silver, no, not even of gold,
Yea, let this be thy very master-piece,
In all its making,—if it doth me please,
Half of my fortune shall to thee be told,
And to its praise my life I shall employ.”

Thus spake Sordino, noble Florentine,
To one who was renowned for casting bells,
Who now was asked to make a set of chimes,
A task he had accomplished many times,
But this, he thought, the highest skill compels,
And yet the work he promised to begin.

But first for thoughts and dreams he leisure found,
For consecration to the work at hand,
Since this the glory of his life should be,
A grand creation, a sweet symphony
Of human life, which all might understand,
Their souls re-echoed in the liquid sound.

II

He was a man of many changing moods,
Impetuous, like mighty Angelo,
And kindly, like the saintly Raphael,
His patience, like Palissy’s, nought could quell,
In worship, like the good Angelico,
And yet the “fickled Fame” his name excludes.

He nature loved, and wandered oft alone
Mid deep recesses of some shady wood,
And listened to the many varied sounds,
From notes of birds to noise of baying hounds,
And oftentimes as if enraptured stood,
Held by the music of the undertone.

Once had he loved a maiden, in whose eyes
He read the happiness of human life,
And mystery of the immortal soul,
A love to which he gave himself and all,
With but one aim, to win her as his wife,
And realize his dream of Paradise.

But death did also mark her for his own,
With hectic flushes on the pallid cheek,
And growing languor in the sprightly limbs;
And as the day before night’s darkness dims,
So did her youthful buoyancy grow weak,
And like a vision fair, she soon was gone.

And sorrow, with its wintry blast did chill
His manly nature to the very core,
And many months he spent in utter woe;
But, like the flow’r which grows beneath the snow,
A life which he had never known before
Rose from submission to the Higher Will.

These elements did pass into his work,
His love and grief, his dreams and changing moods,
And all he was seemed mingle in the mold
Of molten metal, and was subtly told
By silver tonguÉd bells in solitudes
Of monastery, or of country kirk.

III

As one who summons all the latent pow’r
Within his soul, for one last great attempt
To reach an aim of lifelong beckoning,
Thus did he give himself to this one thing,
Began his task in spotless white, and kempt,
Emerging from the sacramental hour.

He days and nights upon his labor fixed,
Forgetful both of hunger and of sleep,—
His soul reflected in the fiery glow;
And some did say, he let his life-blood flow,
And others, that he sometimes stopped to weep,
And with his blood and tears the metal mixed.

And when at last the chimes were cast, there came
A great collapse of utter weariness
Upon him, and he slept for many days;
The finishing, with all artistic ways,
Was patience’s work, more like a fond caress
Of something born of inspiration’s flame.

The day of testing came, the final test;
Sordino coming early in the morn,
Since eager was his soul to know for sooth,
If its ideal of the highest truth—
Of harmony—incarnate can be born,
And with the works of man itself invest.

And when two skilful hands intoned a hymn,
And gave the chimes a chance for utterance,—
As shining on a scaffold high they hung,—
It seemed to him, it was by angels sung,
So pure, so sweet, it did his soul entrance,
And with the tears of joy his eyes make dim.

The task was done, a work of perfect art;
And handsome was the price Sordino paid,
A fortune to the maker of those bells,
Of whom, henceforth, tradition nothing tells,
We know not where his future course was laid,
Nor when or where from life he did depart.

IV

The chimes found their exalted place within
A high cathedral tow’r, Sordino’s gift
To a beloved fane of Italy,
And that their melodies might always be
Within his hearing, he his home did shift
From country silence to the city’s din.

Where, like some voices from an unseen realm
Their music did announce each fleeting hour
To all the throngs which moved in streets below,
And as their harmonies upon the air did flow,
They seemed to have a superhuman pow’r
O’er listening hearts, yea, even to overwhelm
The meditative mind with such a joy
Of loveliness and beauty, that a tear
Would glisten in the upward look of pray’r;
And they would lif s="i0">And he had none of these to lift and bless
His aimless, dark and love-tormented soul.

He humbly knelt before the ancient altar,
A stranger mid the holy solitude,
But what he said in pray’r must not be told
To all the world, whose cynic smile is cold;
Sufficient that the Saviour on the Rood
Imparted strength to him who seemed to falter.

Just then a clear-tongued bell rang from the tower,
With notes akin to one of his lost chimes,
Reminding him of his neglected quest;
He rose as if by a new zeal possest,
As when a mountaineer, who upward climbs,
Is fascinated by the vision’s power.

XV

That night he had a dream, in which he heard
The music of his bells across the seas,
Whose notes came clearly from a purple haze,
And wandered with the breeze from place to place,
A-dancing with the billows’ wild caprice,
And mingled with the cries of many a bird.

And floated round a many-colored sail,
Half-hoisted, flapping, listening between,
And eager to depart for that fair land,
Whence came the music, on whose purple strand
The ocean shifted from the dazzling sheen,
To emerald and amethystine pale.

And in the stern the smiling Stella stood,
A-beckoning to come with her away,
And he did hasten to the rocky shore,
But as he reached it, she was there no more,
The ship had carried her far out the bay,
And in its wake the waves were red as blood.

Then did he weep, until a gentle hand
Was laid upon his head, now bending low,
And looking up, a stranger met his eye,
Who said: “Why art thou here, why dost thou cry?
The melodies which o’er the waters go,
Proceed from chimes made in thy native land;
Thy own they are, go seek them till thou findest,
Then is thy journey ended, and the strife,
Then shalt thou know the joy which heaven will give,
So overwhelming that thou canst not live;
Now, henceforth thou must sacrifice thy life,
To those who bear the cross our God is kindest.”

When from his dream he woke, he pondered long
Its meaning, and at last waxed confident,
It was an angel that had spoken thus;
For calling in distress, God heareth us,
His unseen ministers to us are sent,
To give us light, and weeping change to song.

He also felt assured, his chimes had found
A place across the seas, though not in France,
May be in England or some British isle,—
This thought provoked a melancholy smile,
For Richard’s fame and knightly lance,
And Blondel’s song were with it bound.

And he determined to depart full soon,
Yet one thing did his heart desire to see,—
The face of Stella, which both night and day
Did follow him, where-e’er he turned his way,
Her beck’ning in his dream might mean to be
A change of mind, before another moon.

Yea, might he but behold those eyes once more,
Receive again one look of kindliness,
And feast his famished heart upon her beauty,
And hear her speak, as once, forgetting duty,
And give him one adieu of hope to bless,
Then would he seek his chimes on any shore.

XVI

How man is ever living by illusions!
The more the better, why then shatter them?
Why kill the birds of Paradise with science?
Why meet old Superstition with defiance,
Since in the past her very garments’ hem
Gave from life’s guiltiness sweet absolution?

Why not let lore of Middle Ages reign,
The lore of fairy—and of elfin-land?
A world of strange, imaginary things,
Which gave to human mind its soaring wings,
And bore the simplest to a golden strand,
Where he forgot his poverty and pain.

What are your knowledge and inventions worth,
If they destroy man’s fleeting happiness,—
Illusion’s chiefest offspring, and life’s goal?
Far better then the hut and back-log coal
Than mansions lighted by the magic press,
But without fairies and a glowing hearth.

Sordino’s age was not like ours—of engines;
No Kipling to bid romance a farewell,
No wonders in the realm of rods and wheels,
No squeaking phonographs and Chaplin reels,
No railroads, autos, and, what was as well,
No Zeppelins, no bombs and submarines.

His was the vanished day of simple living,
Of child-like faith in man, and things unseen,
When next God’s footstool poet, prophet stood,
And told that all which makes man glad is good,
That ever Eden’s Tree of Life is green,
And to the world its leaves of healing giving.

And such a leaf was any happy dream,—
An omen or a message from beyond,
As truly as in good Hellenic days,
When at the Sibyl’s cave men found their ways,—
And to Sordino its illusion fond
Became a prophecy, a guiding gleam.

XVII

A Catholic he was and had his passport,
And did not fear to take a ship for London,
Though rumor owned it, things were lively there,
And travellers had better take a care,
Where “Bloody Mary” ruled with fierce abandon,
Suspecting strangers to be of the base sort.

To which a voice arose, as from the deep:
“It is a lubber straying from his croft.”

But then, ere long, there was a splash of oar,
And muffled talking twixt two drowsy tars,
The boy took heart, since rescue was at hand;
But when he found himself pushed out from land,
And lifted to a deck of lofty spars,
He kind of wished himself back to the shore.

The sailors showed him to a bunk for rest.
“Yea, in the morn the fog may lifted be,
So you can find your way,” thus cheered they him;
But as of old the halfbaked Ephraim
Howled on his bed, so would now even he,
Had not submission been for him the best.

XXVIII

The fog grew lighter with the dawn of day,
As did the boy’s heart after night of weeping,
He early ’rose, and would have left the ship,
But since for boatswain he possessed no tip,
He dared not rouse him from his pleasant sleeping,
And distance from the shore compelled his stay.

At last both crew and passengers awoke,
And all gazed at the lad, some with a smile,
When of his rescue told, some poked their fun;
But ’mongst the passengers his eye met one,
Who read the trouble of a homesick child,
And in strange accents kindly to him spoke.

She seemed to him the fairest he had seen,
A spirit, from the silv’ry mist emerged,
A gleam of light, strayed from the hidden sun,
Enlivening the sodden scene and dun,
A Venus from the foam where billows surged,
Born to be worshiped, or to be a queen.

But what she said to him was quite Egyptian,
It mattered not, since he could understand
The sympathy and goodness of her heart,
A thing much better than linguistic art
In any woman, yea, in any man,—
Though speech is fine, the deed is much more Christian.

She gave him food and wine and cheered his soul,
Then left him to himself, an hour or so,
When came the captain and thus to him spake:
“Art thou a stranger here, or canst thou make
Thy way alone and knowest where to go,
When lifted is the fog’s distressing pall?”

To which the lad replied: “I know the town,
When I can see its street and thoroughfare,
And now can find my way up to the inn,
Where dwells my master; oh, it was a sin,
That I deserted him, since he may care!
I will return to him;—please let me down!”

To which the captain said: “We have on board
Two passengers who wish an inn to find,
And canst thou guide them to such place, my son?
That lovely lady, whom you met, is one,
The other is her father, noble, kind,
A foreign scholar, and methinks, a lord.”

The boy responded readily to this,
As mid-day drew on clear, became their guide,
Up to that quite pretentious hostelry,
Half glad, half ’fraid his master there to see,
But ignorant how fate strode by his side,
And how it seldom seems to go amiss.

XXIX

That afternoon Sordino sought his place
Among the garden-trees, a rustic seat,
Which during gloomy days had stood alone,
But now again the sun so brightly shone,
Inviting him to this belov’d retreat,
Though it had lost the summer’s tender grace.

And whom should here his pensive eyes behold,
But one of whom he at that moment thought,
And as he met her quite astonished gaze,
Surprise brought strong emotions to his face,
He knew not what strange magic this had wrought,
His heart beat fast, his hands grew clammy cold.

She smiled, and greeted him in his own tongue,
Then wist he that it was no mere illusion,
But Stella, yea, the Stella of his dreams,
So strange, so sweetly strange, it ever seems
To lonely lovers such a rapt confusion,
When that which separates aside is flung.

And yet it did not give to him the joy
Of one who knows why his beloved came;
He wondered much, but did not dare to ask,
His self-control became a subtle mask,
Which hid the raging of the inward flame,
That might again a newborn hope destroy.

A woman’s eye can look through lover’s feint,
Behind his mask she sees the naked soul,
And laughs with mingled sympathy and scorn,
She suffers not because he is forlorn,
And rather likes to see him prostrate fall
Before her feet, as if she were a saint.

And Stella knew, it racked Sordino’s mind
Why she was there, but only this she told:
“My father and myself last night arrived
In London harbor, but the fog contrived
To keep us captives in the vessel’s hold,
Until this morn, when we this place did find.”

“How found ye it?” Sordino dared to question.
“A lad who said his master’s lodging here,
Did guide us, and, methinks I see him there.”
Sordino turned and saw the boy’s despair,
And called him in a tone that felled his fear,
He came, and was forgiv’n without confession.

And Stella took his hand and stroked his head,
Sordino wishing that he was the lad,
He found a coin and told him to be gone,
And like the earth from which the fog was blown,
The boy felt in his heart relieved and glad,
XL

Sordino’s mind sank into gloomy night,
As time grew heavy with a voyage long;
He brooded on the past, and as he did,
It seemed that shadows all its sunshine hid;
And sickness, too, did make the man, once strong,
Feel aged, worthless, and in awful plight.

The story by the midshipman did linger
Upon his heart, increasing spectral-like,
Awaking sympathy, for he did see
In Mary’s life the gathered misery
Of many storms which ’gainst her soul did strike,
And on a dark and hopeless deep did bring her.

The greatest souls must bear the greatest pain,
And sometimes sweetness turns to bitterness,
And they who for the heights have been appointed,
And by the gods or fates have been anointed,
Must know the “Welt-smertz” of the vintage press,
And tread it all alone, may be in vain.

Thus did he meditate, and pleasure found
In philosophic musings, day by day;
But this was unknown to the hardy crew,
Who melancholy with their laughter slew,
They liked him not, and wished him out of way,—
Well that he had the captain to him bound.

Alas, to him the Chimes of life were lost!
And that they ever rang seemed but a dream;
The boist’rous elements of sea and air
Enveloped him, but little did he care,
Since death itself a friend to him did seem,—
Of all things weary, sick and tempest-tost.

But in such hours, whene’er the boy drew near,
Whom he did love, a light shone in his eyes,
And he did speak to him so tenderly
As any parent, which did set him free
From painful broodings and the low’ring skies,
And mid the deepest darkness brought him cheer.

XLI

’Tis not our aim to tell of voyage long,
Of storms and struggles on the wintry seas,
Of harbourage and waiting in its course,
Mid sheltered inlets upon Ireland’s shores,
Though full of hardship, yet it would not please,
And we must draw to close our lengthy song.

But I have seen full many a ship depart,
Receding into dimness gray and cold,
Then slip away, lost in a mighty void;—
And in my musings I have tugged and toyed
With memories of friends, or what they told,
In words that strayed from an unguarded heart.

For “wise words” are, sometimes, but foolish mumbling,
And critic’s arrogance a dark conceit,
While silence often has the truest depth;
But when the child, which in thy bosom slept,
Awakes to speak, a morning light doth greet
The restless trav’ler in his painful stumbling.

For there are seas, and many a distant shore,
And life is but a journey and a fight,
Amid the mighty elements at war;—
But by-and-by the pilgrimage is o’er,
And when the peaceful harbor is in sight,
Love’s word alone can ope the Palace-door.

XLII

Upon an April morn the ship emerged
From fitful seas into the placid pool
Of Limerick. The day was clear and calm,
And nature drew the breath of spring, its balm
Was tempering the breezes, somewhat cool,
From western realms, where ocean-billows surged.

The woods and lanes stood draped in flimsy veil,
Of hues most delicate; a purple shade
Uniting with a tender touch of green,
While here and there a golden glint was seen
Of butter-cups upon the sloping glade,
Or round the ponds, where fleecy clouds did sail.

The skylark, lavishing its melody
Upon the freedom of the airy height,
Did carol from the lofty blue so long,
That not of earth but heaven seemed its song,
An Ariel amid the dazzling light,
Who thrilled the heart of man with ecstasy.

Sordino harkened to this happy flood
Of music, and he saw his servant boy
Gaze upward, like the holy men that day,
When Christ ascended, for it did allay
His sorrows, and like theirs, restore his joy,
Since skylark song is in the English blood.

For have not Wordsworth and great Shelley proven
That none it stirs just like the British heart,
To whom the lark gave immortality,
When it inspired them with its poesy,
And made their odes the acme of their art,
Creations from Apollo’s texture woven?

Sordino’s mind, however, at that hour,
Lacked the repose which was on land and sea;
And without mood no music doth arrest,—
For by an eagerness he was possest,
To know in truth if this the shore might be,
Which held his treasure in Cathedral tower.

The fire of his Italian blood awoke,
Though he had aged so much upon this journey,
He longed to leave the ship, and pass along
The river, which was famous made in song,
By the immortal Moore, and quaint Mahoney,
Whose “Shannon Bells” remain a master-stroke.

Sordino’s wish, to be the first to land,
Was granted, and a boat placed to his service,
Manned by two sailors and the monk and page,
The former only did the oars engage;
Sordino, in the stern, sat like a dervise,
In musings deep, with head posed on his hand.

No finer vista could itself unfold
Than that which burst upon his dreamy eye,
As full in view the city did appear,
A sight which drew from weary hearts a tear,—
A city glimmering twixt sea and sky,
With citadels and shrines, even then, so old.

The sailors left off rowing and gave way
To dreaming on the scene, until a spell
Possest them all, and silent did they rest
Upon the river’s calm, translucent breast,
When all at once the clear tone of a bell
Came floating softly o’er the tranquil bay.

And then a hymn of praise rose up to heaven
From bells whose tongues had notes beyond compare,
Sordino’s chimes—when on his ears they fell,
He knew such happiness which none can tell,
And angel hands to Paradise did bear
The soul who for true harmony had striven.

As riveted he sat with empty stare,
Even when the soul had from its temple fled;
The boy did note it first and gave a cry,
It was to him as if his sire did die;
The monk did say a prayer o’er the dead,
And bid the sailors to the city fare.

They buried him within the hallowed pale
Of the Cathedral, that the Chimes might sound
Their daily dirge above the master’s grave,
Who for their music life and fortune gave,
Who with their mystery his fate had bound,
A lonely pilgrim through a gloomy vale.

His sacrifice, howe’er, was not in vain,
And not amiss his oft belittled quest,
His poet’s mantle fell upon the lad,
To whom his substance he bequeathÉd had,—
A singer he became, among the best,
With cadence of the Chimes in lyric strain.

And through his faith the faithless was restored,
The quondam monk became a godly priest,
Who humbly made the message of the bells,
A life of peace where discord often dwells,
To tell of this strange man he never ceast,
Since he his name and memory adored.

And on the Danube, in her father’s hall,
Sat Stella, sorrowing her youth away,
The people said, it was for her dead lover;
But none did know, and none did e’er discover
The secret of her heart, until one day,
Her father heard her on Sordino call.

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