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FREEDOM
I WOULD be free! For freedom is all fair,And her strong smile is like the smile of God.Her voice rings out like trumpet on the air,And men rise up and follow; though the roadBe all unknown and hard to understand,They tread it gladly, holding Freedom’s hand.I would be free! The little spark of HeavenLet in my soul when life was breathed in meIs like a flame, this way and that way drivenBy ever wavering winds, which ceaselesslyKindle and blow till all my soul is hot.And would consume if liberty were not.I would be free! But what is freedom, then?For widely various are the shapes she wearsIn different ages and to different men;And many titles, many forms she bears, —Riot and revolution, sword and flame,All called in turn by Freedom’s honored name.I would be free! Not free to burn and spoil,To trample down the weak and smite the strong,To seize the larger share of wine and oil,And rob the sun my daylight to prolong,And rob the night of sleep while others wake, —Feast on their famine, basely free to take.I would be free! Free in a dearer way,Free to become all that I may or can;To be my best and utmost self each day,Not held or bound by any chain of man,By dull convention, or by foolish sneer,Or love’s mistaken clasp of feeble fear.Free to be kind and true and faithful; freeTo do the happy thing that makes life good,To grow as grows the goodly forest-tree;By none gainsaid, by none misunderstood,To taste life’s freshness with a child’s delight,And find new joy in every day and night.I would be free! Ah! so may all be free.Then shall the world grow sweet at core and sound.And, moved in blest and ordered circuit, seeThe bright millennial sun rise fair and round,Heaven’s day begin, and Christ, whose service isFreedom all perfect, rule the world as his.THE VISION AND THE SUMMONS
THE trance of golden afternoonLay on the Judæan skies;The trance of vision, like a swoon,Sealed the Apostle’s eyes.Upon the roof he sat and sawAngelic hands let down and drawAgain the mighty vessel fullOf beasts and birds innumerable.Three times the heavenly vision fell,Three times the Lord’s voice spoke;When Peter, loath to break the spell,Roused from his trance, and woke,To hear a common sound and rude,Which jarred and shook his solitude, —A knocking at the doorway near,Where stood the two from Cæsarea.And should he heed, or should he stay?Scarce had the vision fled, —Perchance it might return that day,Perchance more words be saidBy the Lord’s voice? – he rises slow;Again the knocking; he must go;Nor guessed, while going down the stair,That ’twas the Lord who called him there.Had he sat still upon the roof,Wooing the vision long,The Gentile world had missed the truth,And Heaven one “sweet new song.”Souls might have perished in blind pain,And the Lord Christ have died in vainFor them. He knew not what it meant,But Peter rose and Peter went.Oh, souls which sit in upper air,Longing for heavenly sight,Glimpses of truth all fleeting-fair,Set in unearthly light, —Is there no knocking heard below,For which you should arise and go,Leaving the vision, and againBearing its message unto men?Sordid the world were vision not,But fruitless were your stay;So, having seen the sight, and gotThe message, haste away.Though pure and bright thy higher air,And hot the street and dull the stair,Still get thee down, for who shall knowBut ’tis the Lord who knocks below?FORECAST
ALWAYS when the roses bloom most brightly,Some sad heart is sure to presage blight;Always when the breeze is kindliest blowingThere are eyes that look out for a gale;Always when the bosom’s lord sits lightlyComes some croaking proverb to affright,And in sweetest music grieving blindlySits the shadow of a sorrow pale.Though to-day says not a word to sadden,Still to-morrow’s menace fills my ear.Less intent on this than that I hie me,Fearful, eager, all the worst to know,Missing that which might the moment gladden,For the prescience of a far-off fear,Which again and yet again flits by me,Clouding all the sunshine as I go.There is manna for the day’s supplying,There are daily dews and daily balms,Yet I shrink and shudder to rememberAll the desert drought I yet may see.Past the green oasis fare I, sighing,Caring not to rest beneath the palms.All my May is darkened by December,All my laughter by the tears to be.Must my life go on thus to its closing?Lord, hold fast this restless heart of mine;Put thy arm about me when I shiver,Make me feel thy presence all the way.Hope and fear, and travail and reposing,All by thee are cared for, all are thine,Quick to help, sufficient to deliver,Near in sun and shade, in night and day.EARLY TAKEN
SHE seemed so young, so young to die!Life, like a dawning, rosy day,Stretched from her fair young feet away,And beams from the just-risen sunBeckoned and wooed and urged her on.She met the light with happy eyes,Fresh with the dews of Paradise,And held her sweet hands out to graspThe joys that crowded to her clasp,Each a surprise, and all so dear:How could we guess that night was near?She seemed so young, so young to die!When the old go, we sadly say,’Tis Nature’s own appointed way;The ripe grain gathered in must be,The ripe fruit from the laden tree,The sear leaf quit the bare, brown bough;Summer is done, ’tis autumn now,God’s harvest-time; the sheaves among,His angels raise the reaping-song,And though we grieve, we would not stayThe shining sickles on their way.She seemed so young, so young to die!We question wearily and vainWhat never answer shall make plain:“Can it be this the good Lord meantWhich frustrates his benign intent?Why was she planted like a flowerIn mortal sun and mortal shower,And left to grow, and taught to bloom,To gather beauty and perfume;Why were we set to train and tendIf only for this bootless end?”She seemed so young, so young to die!But age and youth, – what do they meanMeasured by the eternal schemeOf God, and sifted out and laidIn his unerring scales and weighed?How may we test their sense or worth, —These poor glib phrases, born of earth,False accents of a long exile, —Or know the angels do not smile,Holding out truth’s immortal gauge,To hear us prate of youth and age?She seemed so young, so young to die!So needed here by every one,Nor there; for heaven has need of none.And yet, how can we tell or say?Heaven is so far, so far away!How do we know its blissful storeIs full and needeth nothing more?It may be that some tiny spaceLacked just that little angel face,Or the full sunshine missed one rayUntil our darling found the way.SOME LOVER’S DEAR THOUGHT
I OUGHT to be kinder always,For the light of his kindly eyes;I ought to be wiser always,Because he is so just and wise;And gentler in all my bearing,And braver in all my daring,For the patience that in him lies.I must be as true as the HeavenWhile he is as true as the day,Nor balance the gift with the given,For he giveth to me alway.And I must be firm and steady;For my Love, he is that already,And I follow him as I may.O dear little golden fetter,You bind me to difficult things;But my soul while it strives grows better,And I feel the stirring of wingsAs I stumble, doubting and dreading,Up the path of his stronger treading,Intent on his beckonings.ASHES
I SAW the gardener bring and strewGray ashes where blush roses grew.The fair, still roses bent them low,Their pink cheeks dimpled all with dew,And seemed to view with pitying airThe dim gray atoms lying there.Ah, bonny rose, all fragrances,And life and hope and quick desires,What can you need or gain from thesePoor ghosts of long-forgotten fires?The rose-tree leans, the rose-tree sighs,And wafts this answer subtly wise:“All death, all life are mixed and blent,Out of dead lives fresh life is sent,Sorrow to these is growth for me,And who shall question God’s decree?”Ah, dreary life, whose gladsome sparkNo longer leaps in song and fire,But lies in ashes gray and stark,Defeated hopes and dead desire,Useless and dull and all bereft, —Take courage, this one thing is left:Some happier life may use thee so,Some flower bloom fairer on its tree,Some sweet or tender thing may growTo stronger life because of thee;Content to play a humble part,Give of the ashes of thy heart,And haply God, whose dear decreesTaketh from those to give to these,Who draws the snow-drop from the snowsMay from those ashes feed a rose.ONE LESSER JOY
WHAT is the dearest happiness of heaven?Ah, who shall say!So many wonders, and so wondrous fair,Await the soul who, just arrivèd thereIn trance of safety, sheltered and forgiven,Opens glad eyes to front the eternal day:Relief from earth’s corroding discontent,Relief from pain,The satisfaction of perplexing fears,Full compensation for the long, hard years,Full understanding of the Lord’s intent,The things that were so puzzling made quite plain;And all astonished joy as, to the spot,From further skies,Crowd our belovèd with white wingèd feet,And voices than the chiming harps more sweet,Faces whose fairness we had half forgot,And outstretched hands, and welcome in their eyes; —Heart cannot image forth the endless storeWe may but guess;But this one lesser joy I hold my own:All shall be known in heaven; at last be knownThe best and worst of me; the less, the more,My own shall know – and shall not love me less.Oh, haunting shadowy dread which underliesAll loving here!We inly shiver as we whisper low,“Oh, if they knew – if they could only know,Could see our naked souls without disguise —How they would shrink from us and pale with fear!”The bitter thoughts we hold in leash withinBut do not kill;The petty anger and the mean desire,The jealousy which burns, – a smouldering fire, —The slimy trail of half-unnoted sin,The sordid wish which daunts the nobler will.We fight each day with foes we dare not name.We fight, we fail!Noiseless the conflict and unseen of men;We rise, are beaten down, and rise again,And all the time we smile, we move, the same,And even to dearest eyes draw close the veil.But in the blessed heaven these wars are past;Disguise is o’er!With new anointed vision, face to face,We shall see all, and clasped in close embraceShall watch the haunting shadow flee at last,And know as we are known, and fear no more.CLOSE AT HAND
“Did you not know Me, my child?” the lips and eyes that were all love seemed to say to her. “You have thought the thoughts that I inspired, you have spoken my words, you set forth to fight on my side in the battle against evil; and yet you forget me, and have often gone near to deny me, while I was standing by your side and giving you the strength to speak and think. Look at me now, and see if I am not better than the images that have hid me from you.” —A Doubting Heart.
THE day is long, and the day is hard;We are tired of the march and of keeping guard,Tired of the sense of a fight to be won,Of days to live through and of work to be done,Tired of ourselves and of being alone.And all the while, did we only see,We walk in the Lord’s own company;We fight, but ’tis he who nerves our arm,He turns the arrows which else might harm,And out of the storm he brings a calm.The work which we count so hard to do,He makes it easy, for he works too;The days that are long to live are his,A bit of his bright eternities,And close to our need his helping is.O eyes that were holden and blinded quite,And caught no glimpse of the guiding light!O deaf, deaf ears which did not hearThe heavenly garment trailing near!O faithless heart, which dared to fear!ONLY A DREAM
I DREAMED we sat within a shaded place,Where mournful waters fell, and no sun shone;And suddenly, a smile upon his face,There came to us a winged, mysterious one,And said, with pitying eyes: “O mourning souls, arise!“Take up your travelling staves, your sandals lace,And journey to the Northland and the snow,Where wild and leaping Borealis traceFantastic, glistening dances to and fro;Where suns at midnight beam, to fright the sleeper’s dream.“There, in the icy, solitary waste,God’s goodness grants this boon, – that thou shalt see,And hold communion for a little spaceWith that dear child so lately gone from thee.Arise, and haste away; God may not let her stay.”So we arose, and quickly we went forth;How could we slight such all undreamed-of boon?And when we reached the ultimate far North —All in a hush of frozen afternoon,Lit by a dim sun-ray, liker to night than day —There, o’er the white bare feld we saw her come,Our little maid, in the dear guise we knew,With the same look she used to wear at home,The same sweet eyes of deepest, dark-fringed blue;Her steps they made no sound upon the icy ground.She kissed us gently, and she stood and smiled,While close we clasped and questioned her, and stroveTo win some hint or answer from the childThat should appease the hunger of our love,Something to soothe the pain when she must go again.And was she happy, happier than of old?Did heaven fulfil its promises of bliss?And had she seen our other dead, and toldThe story of that loving faithfulnessWhich held them dearly yet and never would forget?To all these questions she made no replies:She only smiled a softly wistful smile,And looked with gentle eyes into our eyes,And kissed us back; and in a little whileShe said, “Now I must go; my Lady told me so.”Then jealously we cried: “What is the nameOf this thy ‘Lady’? Is she good to thee?Has she above all other angels claimTo thine obedience, dear; or can it beThe Mother of our Lord?” She answered not a word!But sighed, and laid her finger on her lips,And kissed us all, and straightway from our sight,As twilight wanes and melts in night’s eclipse,She vanished, and we looked to left and right,And wildly called her name, but, oh! no answer came.And with the anguished call the vision broke,The equal sky of summer shone o’erhead;The earliest birds were singing as I woke. —All was a dream, except that she was dead,And that familiar pain I tasted once again.Thank God, it was a dream! How could we bearTo see her stand with wistful eyes down bent,In the old likeness that she used to wear,And know her sad and only half-content,And shy and puzzled even, as if not used to heaven?Better, far better, not to know or see!O Lord, whose faithfulness all ages prove,We trust the darling of our hearts to thee,Asking no explanations of thy love;Keep thou her safe alway, and give her back some day.AT THE ALTAR
I KNEEL before thine altar, Lord, and fain a gift would bring,But all I have is worthless and unfit for offering;A foolish heart, a foolish dream, a foolish, fruitless pain, —Such are my all; O Love of Love, do not the gift disdain!And even as earthly monarchs do, who take the tribute given,And quick restore, by royal grace increased to seven times seven,So take, O Lord, my offering, and vouchsafe me presently,For emptiness thy fulness, for my hunger thy supply.I lay my heart down at thy feet, that tired heart and old,Whose youthful throb has grown so faint, whose youthful fire so cold;Heart of the world’s heart, Lord of joy, and mighty Lord of pain,Take thou the gift, and quicken it, and give it back again.My foolish dream, so dear, so prized, baptized in many tears,Loved even as sickly children are, the more for doubts and fears,O Lord, whose word is faithfulness eternal to endure,Take it; and give me, in its stead, the Hope that standeth sure.The pain, that half was baffled will, which could not bear to die,And, stilled by day, would stir by night and wake me with its cry,That pain so close, so intimate, that Death could scarce destroy,I leave it, Lord, before thy feet; give me instead thy joy.All empty-handed came I in, full-handed forth I go;Go thou beside me, Lord of Grace, and keep me ever so.Thanks are poor things for such wide good, but all my life is thine, —Thou who hast turned my stones to bread, my water into wine.ETERNITY
O LITTLE waves, which kiss the sandsWith cool, caressing lips of foam,And murmurs soft, and outstretched hands,Like glad, tired children nearing home,O little waves, so soft, so small,How are you linked, if linked at all,To those mid-ocean billows strong,By fierce winds scourged and driven along,Tossed up to heaven, and then againSucked in black gulfs of whelming main;Never at rest and never spent?Urged by a speeding discontent,A seething strife which knows not ease,Are you akin to such as these?The little waves they flash and rise,And lisp this answer wonderingly,With laughter in their glancing eyes:“They are the sea – we are the sea.”O small, spent waves of surging time,Which break and fall upon life’s shoreWith soft and intermittent chime,A moment seen, then seen no more,How are you linked, if linked you be,To that great dark eternityWhich stretches far beyond our gaze,And rounds our nights and rounds our days?We see its darkling billows flow,But dare not follow where they go,Nor guess what distance dim and vastThey span to find a shore at last.O little waves, what share have yeIn this great dim eternity?The fleet waves answer as they run:“Or near, or far, one name have we,Time and eternity are one;It is the sea – we are the sea.”RESTFULNESS
LONG time my restless wishes fought and strove,Long time I bent me to the heavy taskOf winning such full recompense of loveAs dream could paint, importunate fancy ask.Morning and night a hunger filled my soul;Ever my eager hands went out to sue;And still I sped toward a shifting goal,And still the horizon widened as I flew.There was no joy in love, but jealous wrath;I walked athirst all day, and did not heedThe wayside brooks which followed by my pathAnd held their cooling threadlets to my need.But now, these warring fancies left behind,I sit in clear air with the sun o’erhead,And take my share, repining not, and findPerpetual feast in just such daily bread:Asking no more than what unasked is sent;Freedom is dearer still than love may be;And I, my dearest, am at last content,Content to love thee and to leave thee free.Love me then not, for pity nor for prayer,But as the sunshine loveth and the rain,Which speed them gladly through the upper airBecause the gracious pathway is made plain.And as we watch the slant lines, gold and dun,Bridge heaven’s distance all intent to bless,And cavil not if we or other oneShall have the larger portion or the less,So with unvexèd eye I mark and seeWhere blessed and blessing your sweet days are spent;And though another win more love from thee,Having my share I am therewith content.IN AND ON
On earth as in heaven. —The Lord’s PrayerON earth we take but feeble hold;Joy is not confident or bold;We dare not strike deep roots and stay,Nor trust to-morrow or to-day.We scatter grain beneath frail skies,And note its shoot and watch its rise,And do not know or guess a whitWhat other hands shall garner it.We raise our songs, but fast and soonOur voices unto silence die,And other voices end the tuneWhich, too, shall falter presently.“Forever” is our idle oath;But while the word is on our lipNight falls, and past and future bothOut of our hold and keeping slip.We dare not love as angels may,Lest love should fail us or betray;And life goes on and we go hence,Nor never know continuance.In heaven is safety and sure peace;There is no waning nor decrease.The endless ages ebb and flow,The endless harvests riper grow;Fast in the rich eternal mouldThe heart’s deep roots take hold, take holdWith the strong joy of permanence,Never to be transplanted thence.Sweet songs are sung to very close,Sweet closes recommence and blend;And still as rose-bud answers roseThe new strains grow, the old strains end.Forever means forever there;New joy past sorrow reconciles,And hung in clear and golden airAn undeceiving morrow smiles.While Love the law and Love the sunBlesses and warms and saves each one;And God’s dear will, our earthly prayer,Is made quite plain and perfect there.A DAY-TIME MOON
UP in the shining and sun-lighted blue,Where foam-white clouds sail like a fairy fleet,The pale moon hovers, glimmering wanly through,Like a sad chord in chorus gay and sweet.Frailer than cloud she seems, and torn and frayed;A little wandering fragment, drifting slow,Of that brave golden summer moon which madeMidnight so beautiful awhile ago.Why comes she back at this untimely hour,When noon is nigh and birds are singing clear,And the fierce sun, her rival, burns with power? —What can the poor, the pretty moon want here?Does she feel lonely in the peopled sky,The only moon among a starry host;They all together in brave company,She wandering solitary as a ghost?Or does she grieve that we so soon forgetThe perfect beauty of her tempered ray,Drowsily praising her sweet beams, but yetKeeping our real joyance for the day?Poor, pallid moon, with a reproachful faceShe eyes the humming world as on it moves,Yearning through the vast intervening spaceFor some one who remembers her and loves.And like a homesick spirit, sad at heart,To heaven’s happy ways not wonted yet,She seems to murmur when she strays apart:“I still am faithful; but you all forget.”A MIDNIGHT SUN
FEARFUL of rivalry thou canst not be.How should the pure, pale moon dispute the sun;Or the innumerable companyOf scintillant stars, though banded all as one?One glance of thy hot anger can dismayThe boldest planet till he fades and flees,And hastes to bury his affrighted rayIn far, uncalculated distances.Why linger then to rule the midnight sky,Baffling celestial rule, and vexing menWho watched thy sinking but an hour gone byOnly to see thee turn thy steps again?The drowsy birds are drooping on the trees,The cock’s faint crow but dimly prophesies;The weary peasant slumbers ill at ease,And blinks and winks, half wakes and rubs his eyes.The east it flushes wanly, as in doubt;Foams with unrest the roused and wrathful sea;The scared moon peeped, then turned her round about,And fled across the heavens at sight of thee.Sovereign of day thou art by law divine,None shall thy rulership or sway divide;The dawning and the rosy morn are thine,The busy afternoon and hot noontide.But dusk of breezy twilight firefly-lit,With chirp of drowsy bird and flash of dew,And children clasping sleep while shunning it,And midnight, with its deep, mysterious blue, —These are the properties and appanageOf sovereign Night, thy equal and thy foe;And when she cometh and flings down her gageAnd claims her kingdom, ’tis thy time to go.And when in turn thou comest she must flee.Each has a realm, and each must reign alone;And not for her remains and not for theeTo seize and claim an undivided throne.The sky it loves thee, but it loves the moon;The world it needs thee, but it needs the night.Blind us not, then, with thine inopportune,Bewildering, and unexpected light.Leave us to sleep, and duly take thy rest.Vain is the plea; the king is on his way,And, following his tossing golden crest,Comes the long train of hours, and it is Day.HER VOICE
K. R. JWHERE is the voice gone which so many years,Each year grown sweeter, rose in glorious song,Interpreting to all our hearts and earsEcstasy, passion, pain, the yearning strongOf baffled love, the patience stronger yet,The pang of hope, the sweetness of regret?How should that perish which seemed born of heavenAnd framed to breathe the meaning of the skies?Can music render back such gift once given;Or bear to know some subtlest harmoniesMust evermore go half expressed, perceived,Forever thwarted and forever grieved?Heaven did not need her voice; its courts are fullOf choristers angelic trained for praise.No note is lacking in the wonderfulAccording chorus, which, untired, alwaysSings, “Holy, holy, holy!” round the throne;But earth seems dumb to us now it is gone!God does not grudge us anything of good!And I will dare to fancy when she died,And on the sweet lips which so featly wooedMusic, the guest, to enter and abide,Death laid his hand, and with insistence strongShut in the secret of their power of song, —That the dear voice, thus sadly dispossessedAnd reft of home, sped forth upon its road,And like a lost and lonely child, in questOf shelter, sought another warm abodeIn human shape, – some gentle, new-born thing,Where it might fold its torn and beaten wing.And if, long years from now, we catch a strainWhich has the old, familiar, rapturous thrill,We shall smile, saying, “There it is again!It is not dead, it wakes in music still.Hark! how the lovely accents soar and float,A skylark singing from a woman’s throat!”A FLORENTINE JULIET
WHAT is it, my Renzo? What is thy desire?To hear my story, hear the whole of it?And with a shamefaced air and reddened cheekThat “others know it all, and why not thou?”Who has been talking to thee of me, then;Setting thee on to question and suspect?Ah, boy, with eyes still full of childish dreams,And yet with manhood on the firm young lip,’Tis a hard thing to ask me, and a strange!A woman does not easily lay bareHer history, which is her very heart,Even to that piece of her she calls her son!Son he may be, but still he is a man,And she, though mother, is a woman still;And men and women are made different,And vainly ’gainst the barrier of sexThey beat and beat, – all their lives long they beat,And never pass, never quite understand!Yet must I do this hard thing for thy sake,Since who shall do it for thee, if not I?Thy father, who had else more fitly told,Is at the wars, the weary, wasting wars; —Long years ago he sailed unto the wars,And, dead or living, comes not back to us.Unhappy is the son who, woman-bred,Knows not the firm feel of a father’s hand;And I, widow or wife, I know not which,Wofulest widow, still more woful wife!Must frame my faltering tongue to tell the tale,And snatch my thoughts back from their present painTo the old days, the hard and cruel days,Full of sharp hatred and stern vengeances,Which yet were beautiful to him and meWho lived and loved each other and were young;But unto thee, born in a softer hour,Come as dim echoes of some warlike peal.Thou bearest an honorable name, my son,Two mighty houses meet and blend in thee;For I, thy mother, of the warlike lineOf Bardi, lords of Florence in past time,Was daughter, and thy sire IppolitoSprang from the Buondelmonti, their sworn foes;For we were Guelph and they were Ghibelline,And centuries of wrong, and seas of blood,And old traditional hatreds sundered us.Even in my babyhood I heard the nameOf Buondelmonti uttered ’twixt set teethAnd coupled with a curse, and I would pout,And knit my brows, and clench my tiny fistAnd whimper at the very sound of it;Whereat my father, stout Amérigo,Would catch me up and toss me overhead,And swear I was best Bardi of them all;And if his sons but matched his only maidThey’d make quick work of the black GhibellinesAnd of the Buondelmonti!So I grewTo woman’s stature, and men called me fair,And suitors, like a flight of bees, beganTo hum and cluster wheresoe’er I moved;And then there came the day, – that fateful day,When little Gian, my father’s latest born,Was carried for chrism to the baptistery;And standing, all unaware, beside the font,I looked across the dim and crowded churchAnd saw a face – a dazzling, youthful face!A face that smote my vision like a star;With golden locks, and eyes divinely brightLike San Michele in the picture there —Fixed upon mine.Had any whispered thenIt was Ippolito, our foeman’s son,At whom I gazed, I should have turned away,My father’s daughter sure had turned away.But nothing warned me, nothing hindered him;We looked upon each other, Fate so willed,And with our eyes our hearts met!“Cursed cur,”My brother muttered, fingering at his sword,“I’ll teach you to ogle us when this is done!”“Who is it, then?” I whispered, and he told;And with the name I felt my heart like leadTurn cold and cold and suddenly sink down.And still that tender, radiant gaze wooed mine,And still I felt the enchantment burn and burn,But would not turn my head or look again;And all that night I lay and felt those eyes,And day by day they seemed to follow me,Like unknown planets of some strange new heavenWhose depths I dared not question or explore;And love and hate so strove for masteryWithin my girl’s heart, made their battle-field,That all my forces failed and life grew faint.He, for his part, set forth with heart afireTo learn my name, – sad knowledge, easy gained,Leaving the learner stricken with a chill!And after that, whenever I might goTo ball or feast, I saw him, only him!And while the other cavaliers pressed roundTo praise my face or dress, or hold my fan,Or bid me to the dance, he stood aloofWith passionate eyes, but never might draw near.For still my brother Piero or my sireWere close behind, with dark set brows intentTo watch him that he did not dare to speak.Only his eyes met mine, and in my cheeksI felt the guilty color grow and grow;And once, when all were masqued, amid the crowdA hand touched mine, and oh, I knew ’twas his!At last, with baffling of his heart-sick hopeAnd long suspense and sorrow, he fell ill;And in a moment when life’s tide ran lowHe told his mother all; she, loving him wellAnd loath to see him perish thus forlorn,Became his ally, spoke him words of cheer,And with my cousin Contessa, her sworn friend,She counsel took; and so, betwixt the two,It came about that on a day of springWhen almond blossoms whitened the brown boughsAnd olives were in bud and all birds sang,We met, – a meeting cunningly contrived,In an old villa garden past the walls.My mother had led me thither, knowing naught,And I, naught knowing, had wandered for a spaceAmong the boskage and the fragrant vines,And, standing by a water-fount of stoneListening the tinkle and the cool, wet splashOf the thin drip, and thinking still of him(For I went thinking of him all the day),I heard the soft throb of a mandolin,And next a voice, divinely sweet it seemed,A voice unheard till then, and yet I knewThe voice for his; and this the song it sang: —“Ah, thorns so sharp, so strong!Ah, path so hard, so long!What do I care? Thither I fare!My Rose is there!“Ah, life so dear, so brief!Ah, death, the end of grief!All I can bear, all will I dare!My Rose is there!”The music ceased, the while spell-bound I stayed;Then came a rustle, – he was at my feet!Few moments might we stay, and few words speak;But love is swift of tongue! all was arranged, —The plan of our escape, the hour, the place,And that Ippolito, next night but two,With a rope-ladder hidden ’neath his cloak,Should stand beneath my window. Once on groundA priest should wait to bind us quickly one.Then a mad gallop, ere the dawn of day,Would set us safely forth beyond the ruleOf the Black Lily. Next, as hand in handWe stood, our lips met in a first long kiss,And then we parted.With his vanishingThe thing grew like a dream, and as in dreamI seemed to walk the next day and the next;For all my thoughts were of that coming night,And all my fear was lest it should not come.And all the old-time animosities,And all the hates bred in me from a child,And feudal faiths and loyalties were dead, —I was no more a Bardi; Love ruled all.It came, the night, and on the stroke of twelveI stood at casement, wrapped in veil, with maskAnd muffling cloak laid ready close beside;And there I stood and watched, and heard the bellsStrike one, two, three, and saw the rose of dawnDeepen to day, and still my love came not.Then, fearing to be spied, I crept to bed;And lying in a weary trance, half sleep,Heard shouts and cries and noise of joyful stirRun through the palace, and quick echoing feet,And little Cosmo thundering at my door.“Wake, Dianora, here is glorious news!Ippolito, our foeman’s only son,Is caught red-handed on some midnight raid,Taken with a rope-ladder ’neath his cloak,Bound for some theft or felony, no doubt;And as he offers neither excuse nor plea,He is to suffer at the hour of noon,In spite of his proud father’s threats and cries.All that the criminal asks by way of boonIs he may pass our palace as he goesUnto the scaffold. A queer fancy that!But all the better sport it makes for us,And we need neither pity nor deny!So rise, sweet sister, don your bravest gear,For all the household on the balconyWill sit to jeer the fellow as he wends,And in the midst of us one Bardi RoseMust be to grace and enjoy the spectacle,The best that ever Florence saw!”My boy,Look not so startled! Those were bitter days,I said, and blood had flowed and hearts grown hard,And hatred is contagious as disease.Cosmo, my brother, was but as the rest.He died at nine, ere ever thou wast born,And I have paid for masses for his soul, —For many, many masses have I paid;Heaven will not be hard with a babe like that,The Frate tells me so, and I am sure.What was I saying? So I rose that dayA traitor unsuspected mid his foes,Who were my friends, hiding ’neath feignèd smilesA purpose desperate as was my hope.I rose, and let them deck me as they would,Put on my jewels, star my hair with pearls,And all the while a voice like funeral dirgeSang in my half-crazed ears, or seemed to sing,The fragment and the cadence of a song.“Ah, death, the end of grief, what do I care?”Then I stood up among my tiring-maids,And saw myself in the long Venice glassA vision of pale splendor, as I movedTo take my station on the balcony,In the mid place, the very front of all,Set like a bride in festival array,Among the laughing, chattering, peering throng,To see the hated foeman of our raceLed past the palace on his way to die!My love, my husband, my Ippolito,Led past our palace on his way to die!Long time we waited, till the fear beganTo stir that some mischance had marred the plan,And the procession by another streetMight pass, and so we miss the spectacle,This was their fear, and my fear was the same;And still I sat and smiled, and while the bellsTolled, and they talked and buzzed, I only prayed.“How if he did not come? Saints, let him come!O pitying Virgin, only grant he come!”They came at last, the Bargello and his troop,And in the midst my love with hands fast tied,And golden locks uncurled and face all wan,But still with gallant bearing, and his eyesFixed upon mine, – me, for whose sake he died,For whose sweet honor’s sake he silent died.There was a little halt, and then a cryOf fierce joy rang from out our balcony.Now was my time; all sudden sprang I up,And while the astonished crowd kept silence deep,And they, my kin, amazed, sat silent too,I loudly told our tale, our woful tale,And made avowal that ’twas for my sakeIppolito his noble silence kept!Then, while my brother strove to stop my mouth,And fierce hands clutched my gown and seized my arms,I clung and pleaded: “Find the holy Friar,Good people, only send to find the Friar, —Find him, for pity’s sake! He will confirmAll I have said, and prove my truth and his,And save my dear Love, slain for love of me.”Then a great cry arose, some this way ran,Some that, and suddenly amid the pressA cowl was seen, and Fra Domenico,Breathless with haste, just conscious of our need,Ran in the midst, and then, I know not what, —For all was tumult, – but my love stood free!Free and unbound! and all the populaceShouted our twofold names, “IppolitoAnd Dianora,” and the bells broke out,And with the bells the sun and all the airSeemed full of interlaced and tangled sounds, —Cries and glad pealings and our blended namesOn one side; on the other stormy words,Reproach, and curses.Then the PodestáAnd many great lords came, and all passed in,And up the stairs, and filled the palace full;And high and low joined in an equal pleaThat the long feud be stanched, and as a pledgeOf lasting peace we two be wedded straight.But still my father frowned and closed his ears,And still my brothers fumbled at their swords;But when Count Buondelmonti, aged and gray,And shattered with the horror just escapedSuspense and heavy sickness, hurried in,And kissed my hands, and knelt before my feetAnd blessèd me, the savior of his son,While with redoubled zeal the PodestáUrged, and the noble lords, – Heaven touched their hearts, —They gave consent; and so the feud was healed,And the next day my Love and I were wed.And twenty glad years came and fleetly sped.Each like a separate rose which buds and fallsDuly and fragrantly and is not missed.’Twas then he carved as a memorialOn the façade of the old Sta. MariaSopr’ Arno, “Fuccio mi fecé” and the date —“I made myself a robber;” and he laughed,And said I was the treasure that he stole;Ah me! and then he sailed unto the wars,And all the years that have gone by since thenAre as sad night shades steeped in deadly dews.Death hath been busy with us, as thou knowest;Thou art the youngest of my six fair sons,Thou art the only one to close my eyesWhen time shall come and puzzles be explained.How did the old song run? “My Rose is there.”If I shall wake in Paradise one dayAnd find him safe, and safely still my own,Not won away from me by some new face,And see his eyes with the old steadfast look,Why, that will be enough, that will be heaven!But if, instead, I find another thereClose to his side where once I used to rest,No matter who it be, angel or saint,I must cry “Shame!” whate’er the penalty.God will not need to send me down to fires,But only bid me stay in heaven and look!