Poems (Dorr)/Valdemar
VALDEMAR
Within a city quaint and old,When reigned King Alcinor the Bold,There dwelt a sculptor whose renownWith pride and wonder filled the town.And yet he had not reached his prime;The first warm glow of summer-timeHad but just touched his radiant face,And moulded to a statelier graceThe stalwart form that trod the earthAs it had been of princely birth.So fair, so strong, so brave was he,With such a sense of mastery,That Alcinor upon his throneNo kinglier gifts from life could ownThan those it brought from near and farTo the young sculptor, Valdemar!Mayhap he was not rich—for Fame,To lend its magic to his name,Had outrun Fortune's swiftest paceAnd conquered in the friendly race.But a fair home was his, where beesHummed in the laden mulberry-trees;Where cyclamens, with rosy flush,Brightened the lingering twilight hush,And the gladiolus' fiery plumeMocked the red rose's brilliant bloom;Where violet and wind-flower hid The acacia's golden gloom amid;Where starry jasmines climbed, and where,Serenely calm, divinely fair,Like a white lily, straight and tall,The loveliest flower among them all,His sweet young wife, Hermione,Sang to the child upon her knee!
Here beauteous visions haunted him,Peopling the shadows soft and dim;Here the old gods around him castThe glamour of their splendors past.Jove thundered from the awful sky;Proud Juno trod the earth once more;Pale Isis, veiled in mystery,Her smile of mystic meaning wore;Apollo joyed in youth divine,And )Bacchus wreathed the fragrant vine,Here chaste Diana, crescent-crowned,With virgin footsteps spurned the ground;Here rose fair Venus from the sea,And that sad ghost, Persephone,Wandered, a very shade of shades,Amid the moonlit myrtle glades.Nor they alone. The Heavenly Child,The Holy Mother, meek and mild,Angels on glad wing soaring free,Pale, praying saints on bended knee,Martyrs with palms, and heroes braveWho for their guerdon won a grave,Earth's laughing children, rosy sweet,And the soul's phantoms, fair and fleet—All these were with him night and day,Charming the happy hours away!Oh, who so rich as Valdemar? What ill his joyous life can mar?With home and glorious visions blest,Glad in the work he loveth best!
But Love's clear eyes are quick to see;And one fair spring, Hermione,Sitting beneath her mulberry-treeWith her young children at her knee,Saw Valdemar from day to day,As one whose thoughts were far away,With folded arms and drooping headPace the green aisles with silent tread;Saw him stand moodily apartWith idle hands and brooding heart,Or gaze at his still forms of clay,Himself as motionless as they!"O Valdemar!" she cried, "you bearSome burden that I do not share!I am your wife, your own true wife;Shut me not out from heart and life!Why brood you thus in silent pain?"As shifts the changing weather-vane,So came the old smile to his face,Saluting her with courtly grace."Nay, nay, Hermione, not so!No secret, bitter grief I know;But, haunting all my dreams by nightAnd thoughts by day, one vision bright,One nameless wonder, near me stands,Claiming its birthright at my hands.It hath your eyes, Hermione,Your tender lips that smile for me;It hath your perfect, stately grace,The matchless beauty of your face.But it hath more! for never yet On brow of earthly mould was setSuch splendor and such light as streamsFrom this rare phantom of my dreams!"
Lightly she turned, and led him throughUnder the jasmines wet with dew,Into a wide, cool room, shut inFrom the great city's whirl and din—Then, smiling, touched a heap of clay."Dear idler, do thy work, I pray!Thy radiant phantom lieth hidThe mould of centuries amid,Waiting till thou shalt bid it riseAnd live beneath the wondering skies!"
Then rose a hot flush to his cheek;His stammering lips were slow to speak."Hermione," he said at length,As one who gathers up his strength,"Hermione, my wife, I goFar from thee on a journey slowAnd long and perilous; for I knowSomewhere upon the earth there isA finer, purer clay than this,From which I'll mould a shape more fairThan ever breathed in earthly air!I go to seek it!"
I go to seek it!""Ah!" she said,With smiling lips, but tearful eyes,Half lifted in a grieved surprise,"How shall I then be comforted?Not always do we find afarThe good we seek, my Valdemar!This common, wayside clay thy hand Hath been most potent to command.Yet I—I will not bid thee stay.Go, if thou must, and find thy clay!"
Then his long journeyings began,And still his hope his steps outran.O'er desert sands he came and went;He crossed a mighty continent;Plunged into forests dark and lone;In jungles heard the panther's moan;Climbed the far mountains' lofty heights;Watched alien stars through weary nights;While more than once, on trackless seas,His white sails caught the eddying breeze.Yet all his labor was for nought,And never found he what he sought,Or far or near. The finer clayBut mocked his eager search alway.
Ofttimes he came, with weary feet,Back to the home so still and sweetWhere his fair wife, Hermione,Dwelt with her children at her knee;But never once his eager handThrilled the mute clay with high command.One day she spoke: "O Valdemar,Cease from your wanderings wide and far!Life is not long. Why waste it, then,Chasing false fires through marsh and fen?Mould your fair statue while you may;High purpose sanctifies the clay."
He answered her, "My dream must wait,Fortune will aid me, soon or late!Perhaps the clay I may not find— But a strange tale is in the windOf an old man whose life has beenShut up wild solitudes within.On Alpine mountains. He has found.What I have sought the world around.A learned, godly man, he knows.How the full tide of being flows;And he, in some mysterious way,Makes, if he cannot find, the clay.He will his secret share with me—I go to him, Hermione!"
"But, Valdemar," she cried, "time flies,And while you dream, the vision dies!And look! Our children suffer lack;There is no coat for Claudio's back;Theresa's little feet, unshod,Are torn by shards on which they trod;And Marcius cried but yesterdayWhen the lads mocked him at their play.The very house is crumbling down;The broken hearth-stone needs repair;The roof is open to the air—It wakes the laughter of the town!O Valdemar! if you must goUp to those trackless fields of snow,Mould first from yonder common claySomething to keep the wolf away—A Virgin for some humble shrine,A soldier clad in armor fine,Or even such toys as AndrefelsTo laughing, wondering children sells."
"Now murmur not, Hermione,But be thou patient," answered he. "Why mind the laughter of the town?It cannot shake my fair renown!A touch of hardship, now and then,Will never harm our little men;And as for this old, crumbling roof,Let rude winds put it to the proof,And fierce heats gnaw the hearth-stone! ISurely the Land of Promise spy,Where the fair vision of my dreams,Clothed in transcendent beauty, gleams!In its white hand it holdeth upFor us, my love, a brimming cupWhere wealth and fame and joy divineMingle in life's most sparkling wine.Bid me God-speed, Hermione,And kiss me, ere I go from thee!"
So on he sped, from day to day—Past wheat-fields yellowing in the sun,Where scarlet-coated poppies run,Gay soldiers ready for the fray—Past vineyards purpling on the hills,Past sleeping lakes and dancing rills,And homes like dovecotes nestling highMidway between the earth and sky!Then on he passed through valleys dimCrowded with shadows gaunt and grim,Up towering heights whence glaciers launchTheir swift-winged ships for seaward flight,Or where, dread messenger of fright,Sweeps down the awful avalanche!And still upon the mountain sideTo every man he met he cried,"Where shall I find, oh! tell me where,The hermit of this upper air, Who Nature's inmost secret knows?"And, pointing to the eternal snows,Each man replied, with wagging head,"Up yonder, somewhere, it is said."
At length one day, as sank the sun,He reached a low hut, dark and dun,And, entering unbidden, foundAn old man stretched upon the ground:A white-haired, venerable man,Whose eyes had hardly light to scanThe face that, blanched with awful fear,Bent down, his failing breath to hear."Pax vobiscum," he murmured low,"Shrive me, O brother, ere I go!"
"No priest am I," cried Valdemar."Alas! alas! I came from farTo learn thy secret of the clay—Speak to me, sire, while yet you may!"But while he wet the parchèd lips,The dull eyes closed in death's eclipse;And the old seer in silence lay,Himself a thing of pallid clay,With all his secrets closely hidAs Ramses' in the pyramid.
Long time within that lonely placeValdemar lived, but found no traceIn learned book or parchment scroll(The ink scarce dry upon the roll)Of aught the stars had taught to him.Within the wide horizon's rim,Nor earth, nor sky, nor winds at play,Knew the lost secret of the clay.
Then sought he, after journeyings hard,The holy monks of St. Bernard.But they—ah, yes!—they knew him well,A man not ruled by book and bell.Godly, perhaps—but much inclinedSome newer road to heaven to find.And was he dead? God rest his soul,After this life of toil and dole!
And that was all! O Valdemar!Fly to thy desolate home afar,Where wasted, worn, Hermione,With her pale children at her knee,Beside the broken hearth-stone weeps!
He finds her, smiling as she sleeps,For night more tender is than day,And softly wipes our tears away."Oh, wake, Hermione!" he cries,As one whose spirit inly dies;"Hear me confess that I have beenFalse to thee in my pride and sin!God give me grace from this blest dayTo do His work in common clay!"
Next morn, in humble, sweet content,Into his studio he went,Eager to test his willing hand,And rule the clay with wise command.But no fair wonder first he wrought,No marvel of creative thought,Not even a Virgin for a shrine,Or soldier clad in armor fine—Only such toys as AndrefelsTo laughing, wondering children sells! One day he knelt him gravely downBeside the hearth-stone, rent and brown."And now, my patient wife," said he,"What can be done with this, we'll see."With straining arm and crimsoned faceHe pried the mortar from its place,Lifted the heavy stone aside,And left a cavern yawning wide.Oh, wondrous tale! At set of sunThe guerdon of his search was won;And where his broken hearth-stone lavHe found at last the perfect clay!