Poems (May)/Guido Savelle
GUIDO SAVELLA.
"Oh! to his fancy
Heated and overwrought, its beauty grew
Warm, living, human! And he loved a picture,
Following the wanderings of an erring brain,
His heart went from him, blindly and astray."
Heated and overwrought, its beauty grew
Warm, living, human! And he loved a picture,
Following the wanderings of an erring brain,
His heart went from him, blindly and astray."
Save that with early morn a funeral train
Wound through the gateway, there had reigned all day
Silence unbroken in Savella's house.
The close-drawn curtains hung in motionless folds,
The fountain in the court had ceased to play,
And when eve came, a single lonely taper
Burning through midnight, marked the chamber where
Savella mourned his fair-haired English bride.
Wound through the gateway, there had reigned all day
Silence unbroken in Savella's house.
The close-drawn curtains hung in motionless folds,
The fountain in the court had ceased to play,
And when eve came, a single lonely taper
Burning through midnight, marked the chamber where
Savella mourned his fair-haired English bride.
There had been marks of fetters on her wrists
As they lay crossed in death, and from her brow
Long tresses had been shaven. At her side
There wept a child that from its infancy
Had never known a mother's fostering love;
And they who robed her body for the tomb,
Whispered together of a fatal curse
Entailed upon her high-born race for crimes
Now unrecorded.
'Twas the vintage time,
Winter passed on, and early March outbloomed
The June of colder climes. Savella's halls
Still curtained out the sunshine, though a shade
Seemed fallen from their gloom. For if a breeze
Swept through the vaulted chambers, it would bring
Soft laughter, and a sound of children's steps,
And sometimes through the muffing drapery peered
A boy's small face, and now a baby girl
Half balancing, half guarded by his arm,
Leaned from the deep-cut windows, and for sport,
Shook down the rings of her gold-coloured hair.
As they lay crossed in death, and from her brow
Long tresses had been shaven. At her side
There wept a child that from its infancy
Had never known a mother's fostering love;
And they who robed her body for the tomb,
Whispered together of a fatal curse
Entailed upon her high-born race for crimes
Now unrecorded.
'Twas the vintage time,
Winter passed on, and early March outbloomed
The June of colder climes. Savella's halls
Still curtained out the sunshine, though a shade
Seemed fallen from their gloom. For if a breeze
Swept through the vaulted chambers, it would bring
Soft laughter, and a sound of children's steps,
And sometimes through the muffing drapery peered
A boy's small face, and now a baby girl
Half balancing, half guarded by his arm,
Leaned from the deep-cut windows, and for sport,
Shook down the rings of her gold-coloured hair.
Change followed change; the delicate shades of grief
Blend imperceptibly, and he who watched
His sorrow as a secret trust, felt not
How every day took something from its keenness.
He scarce remembered when he first had paused
To listen to Francesca's pleading tones,
Or smile when Guido with superior wisdom
Schooled his child sister. He would linger now
With a pleased eye before the glowing pictures
Lining his galleries, and now the boy
Rode forth at even by his father's side,
And when Savella paced the palace gardens
Francesca lay upon his breast, her arms
Clasped on his neck, and her ungathered hair
Sweeping the shoulder where her cheek lay pillowed.
Blend imperceptibly, and he who watched
His sorrow as a secret trust, felt not
How every day took something from its keenness.
He scarce remembered when he first had paused
To listen to Francesca's pleading tones,
Or smile when Guido with superior wisdom
Schooled his child sister. He would linger now
With a pleased eye before the glowing pictures
Lining his galleries, and now the boy
Rode forth at even by his father's side,
And when Savella paced the palace gardens
Francesca lay upon his breast, her arms
Clasped on his neck, and her ungathered hair
Sweeping the shoulder where her cheek lay pillowed.
She had an English face, but, oh, not hers
Whose memory yet upon Savella's heart
Lay, a receding shadow! In her glance
There was no changeful light, and her sweet mouth
Smiled even in repose. But Guido seemed
To visibly link the present with the past.
For if he had his father's Roman eye,
His lips were like his mother's, and his voice
Had tones, like hers, unnaturally sweet.
They told how he would steal, when sunset came
To the deep western windows, and there sit,
Leaning his brow upon his outspread palm,
Even as she had done. His smile, his glance,
The wandering gaze that seemed to, fathom distance,
The strange, deep reveries that made his life
Shadowy like a dream, his sudden tears
Flowing uncalled, and his unquiet gladness,—
All this resembled her. His very step,
Sounding along the galleries, and pausing
Before the pictures she had loved, became
A dread to those who listened, and Savella
Hearing its echoes, turned away to sigh.
Save for each other lone, surrounded ever
By shapes of antique beauty, cherishing
Rare birds and blossoms, with the eager care
Of those who have few human things to love,
The orphans grew together.
And their childhood
Passed, but yet slowly, for they lingered long
In its sweet Eden, and when driven forth
Still dwelt beneath the shadow of its trees.
They bore their childish hearts far into youth;
They were alone; and if to Guido's spirit
Came sometimes wild hopes and ambitious thoughts,
They left no withering traces, but sped on,
Even as the shadow of an eagle's wing
Darkens a sunbright valley. Lapse of years
Wrought little change, save that Francesca's brow
Wore the bright seal of girlhood; that she stepped
With its half-conscious grace, and that she curbed
To womanly pride, the laughter that her eyes
Betrayed, how sweetly! Save that from his dreams
The boy was half awaked, and as the breeze
Is tremulous in the tree, life at his heart
Made music. Oh, the calm of earlier days,
To his refining senses, seemed the rest
Of one who sleeps into an April morning
And is awaked by melody and light!
Yet still as the unfolding of a flower
His being's growth; and to the passing eye,
Still Guido was unchanged. For even now,
Under the shadow of the ilex trees,
He would lie dreaming through a summer morn,
Freighting the slow clouds with his indolent fancies.
Or if Francesca with her broidery frame
Stole to his side, would idly mark the grouping
Of leaves and flowers beneath her hand, or listen,
An arm flung o'er his closed lids, while she sang
Love-songs and ballads, else from some old book
Read quaint romances, scraps of passionate verse,
That brought the fire to his lip and eye.
And even now, although no hand reined in
A steed more gallantly, he better loved
Some lone, wild path, where other steps came not,
Than the gay Corso. Now his early dreams
Lay closer to his soul, and he had striven
To give their loveliness a tangible shape;
But youth still held in leash his fiery spirit,
And with the will to do came not the power.
Whose memory yet upon Savella's heart
Lay, a receding shadow! In her glance
There was no changeful light, and her sweet mouth
Smiled even in repose. But Guido seemed
To visibly link the present with the past.
For if he had his father's Roman eye,
His lips were like his mother's, and his voice
Had tones, like hers, unnaturally sweet.
They told how he would steal, when sunset came
To the deep western windows, and there sit,
Leaning his brow upon his outspread palm,
Even as she had done. His smile, his glance,
The wandering gaze that seemed to, fathom distance,
The strange, deep reveries that made his life
Shadowy like a dream, his sudden tears
Flowing uncalled, and his unquiet gladness,—
All this resembled her. His very step,
Sounding along the galleries, and pausing
Before the pictures she had loved, became
A dread to those who listened, and Savella
Hearing its echoes, turned away to sigh.
Save for each other lone, surrounded ever
By shapes of antique beauty, cherishing
Rare birds and blossoms, with the eager care
Of those who have few human things to love,
The orphans grew together.
And their childhood
Passed, but yet slowly, for they lingered long
In its sweet Eden, and when driven forth
Still dwelt beneath the shadow of its trees.
They bore their childish hearts far into youth;
They were alone; and if to Guido's spirit
Came sometimes wild hopes and ambitious thoughts,
They left no withering traces, but sped on,
Even as the shadow of an eagle's wing
Darkens a sunbright valley. Lapse of years
Wrought little change, save that Francesca's brow
Wore the bright seal of girlhood; that she stepped
With its half-conscious grace, and that she curbed
To womanly pride, the laughter that her eyes
Betrayed, how sweetly! Save that from his dreams
The boy was half awaked, and as the breeze
Is tremulous in the tree, life at his heart
Made music. Oh, the calm of earlier days,
To his refining senses, seemed the rest
Of one who sleeps into an April morning
And is awaked by melody and light!
Yet still as the unfolding of a flower
His being's growth; and to the passing eye,
Still Guido was unchanged. For even now,
Under the shadow of the ilex trees,
He would lie dreaming through a summer morn,
Freighting the slow clouds with his indolent fancies.
Or if Francesca with her broidery frame
Stole to his side, would idly mark the grouping
Of leaves and flowers beneath her hand, or listen,
An arm flung o'er his closed lids, while she sang
Love-songs and ballads, else from some old book
Read quaint romances, scraps of passionate verse,
That brought the fire to his lip and eye.
And even now, although no hand reined in
A steed more gallantly, he better loved
Some lone, wild path, where other steps came not,
Than the gay Corso. Now his early dreams
Lay closer to his soul, and he had striven
To give their loveliness a tangible shape;
But youth still held in leash his fiery spirit,
And with the will to do came not the power.
The first faint efforts of awakening strength
Revealed in fragments of imperfect song,
Rude shapes, and outlined scenery, on the canvass
Left incomplete by an irresolute hand.
All loved the boy; the contadina turned
To smile her salutation as he passed;
The beggar lounging on the palace stair
Bade Mary bless the glorious, gifted child,
As he went by. These loved him for his beauty,
His pride; for pride becomes a noble spirit
Even as a regal port doth royalty.
Revealed in fragments of imperfect song,
Rude shapes, and outlined scenery, on the canvass
Left incomplete by an irresolute hand.
All loved the boy; the contadina turned
To smile her salutation as he passed;
The beggar lounging on the palace stair
Bade Mary bless the glorious, gifted child,
As he went by. These loved him for his beauty,
His pride; for pride becomes a noble spirit
Even as a regal port doth royalty.
Pass we their dawn of youth. Savella's place
Was empty at the board. The orphans dwelt
Alone in the old palace. The rapt boy
Had made his manhood as an arch of triumph
Spanning a conqueror's path. There was no lip
But named him reverently; for his songs
Had stirred all Italy, and to his canvass
The gods descended. He was changed by time,
Not less by care and toil. His step had left
Its early pride for the calm, conscious power
Of riper years; and there remained no trace,
In the man's grand proportions, of the slight
And flexible outlines of the unformed child.
Men said his brain was overcharged with thought;
The blue veins branched distinctly on his temples,
His lips had lost their fulness, and the blood
Fled with hot haste unsummoned to his brow.
He had grown captious, difficult, unlike
His former self. The daylight parched him now,
The twilight chilled, and sleep to him was fever;
For he would wake half shrieking, and aroused,
Steal mantled forth into the quiet streets,
Shunning the moonbeams, starting in white fear
From the dim, cowering midnight at the base
Of pedestal and column. Early morn
Found him before his easel.
From without,
Through the looped curtains of his studio came
Faintly the stir of life, and far beneath,
The garden with its fountains, and dark groves,
And winding paths, stretched westward. The high walls
Were white and unadorned; the vaulted ceiling
Kept step and voice with a deep roll like thunder.
There were no draperies save those that hung
Over the windows, and before the door
Of a small inner room, and there, low bending,
A statue caught back on her lifted arm
The gathered folds, and finger laid on lip,
Gazed in upon the artist. A Madonna,
Over whose brow a dark blue mantle fell,
Hung in a deep recess.
There was a magic
About the face—a picture may have such—
For on its. down-cast lids the gazer's heart
Dwelt earnestly, and with a passionate wish
To see them rise. Hour after hour, 'twas told,
Guide stood rapt before it, and 'twas whispered
Throughout the household, that when even came,
And he awoke from those strange reveries
To steal forth to the gardens, his faint step
Scarce left its impress on the moistened sod
Girding his favourite fountain. As a cloud
That captures the retreating light of day,
His eye still kept its lustre; but quick pulses
Glanced wavering o'er his temples, and the dew
Came readily to his brow. He would speak low,
Pacing alone, and sometimes in his glance
There crouched an indistinct terror, or awhile
He seemed to sleep, and but remembered, waking,
A light hand in his own, soft lips that touched
His hot veins and they cooled. But this was dreaming;
And when ere long Francesca came, he wound
His arm about her waist, and with a smile
Talked as she loved to hear him, playfully,
Yet mingling wisdom with his sportive words;
Sending athwart the current of deep thought
Fleets of grotesque, capricious fantasies,
As boys float mimic barks across a river.
Yet even then the delicate chain of fancy
Would seem to snap asunder, and he sought
Bewildered the lost links. But knowing not
Their mother's history, she who listened deemed
Only that constant toil had vexed his brain,
And smiled, and soothed him, and with earnest wiles
Chased back the gathering gloom. If now they named
Savella's wife, his very lips turned white.
The chamber where her portrait hung was closed,
The key had rusted in the lock. A vail
Hung, like a pall, before the pictured face.
Was empty at the board. The orphans dwelt
Alone in the old palace. The rapt boy
Had made his manhood as an arch of triumph
Spanning a conqueror's path. There was no lip
But named him reverently; for his songs
Had stirred all Italy, and to his canvass
The gods descended. He was changed by time,
Not less by care and toil. His step had left
Its early pride for the calm, conscious power
Of riper years; and there remained no trace,
In the man's grand proportions, of the slight
And flexible outlines of the unformed child.
Men said his brain was overcharged with thought;
The blue veins branched distinctly on his temples,
His lips had lost their fulness, and the blood
Fled with hot haste unsummoned to his brow.
He had grown captious, difficult, unlike
His former self. The daylight parched him now,
The twilight chilled, and sleep to him was fever;
For he would wake half shrieking, and aroused,
Steal mantled forth into the quiet streets,
Shunning the moonbeams, starting in white fear
From the dim, cowering midnight at the base
Of pedestal and column. Early morn
Found him before his easel.
From without,
Through the looped curtains of his studio came
Faintly the stir of life, and far beneath,
The garden with its fountains, and dark groves,
And winding paths, stretched westward. The high walls
Were white and unadorned; the vaulted ceiling
Kept step and voice with a deep roll like thunder.
There were no draperies save those that hung
Over the windows, and before the door
Of a small inner room, and there, low bending,
A statue caught back on her lifted arm
The gathered folds, and finger laid on lip,
Gazed in upon the artist. A Madonna,
Over whose brow a dark blue mantle fell,
Hung in a deep recess.
There was a magic
About the face—a picture may have such—
For on its. down-cast lids the gazer's heart
Dwelt earnestly, and with a passionate wish
To see them rise. Hour after hour, 'twas told,
Guide stood rapt before it, and 'twas whispered
Throughout the household, that when even came,
And he awoke from those strange reveries
To steal forth to the gardens, his faint step
Scarce left its impress on the moistened sod
Girding his favourite fountain. As a cloud
That captures the retreating light of day,
His eye still kept its lustre; but quick pulses
Glanced wavering o'er his temples, and the dew
Came readily to his brow. He would speak low,
Pacing alone, and sometimes in his glance
There crouched an indistinct terror, or awhile
He seemed to sleep, and but remembered, waking,
A light hand in his own, soft lips that touched
His hot veins and they cooled. But this was dreaming;
And when ere long Francesca came, he wound
His arm about her waist, and with a smile
Talked as she loved to hear him, playfully,
Yet mingling wisdom with his sportive words;
Sending athwart the current of deep thought
Fleets of grotesque, capricious fantasies,
As boys float mimic barks across a river.
Yet even then the delicate chain of fancy
Would seem to snap asunder, and he sought
Bewildered the lost links. But knowing not
Their mother's history, she who listened deemed
Only that constant toil had vexed his brain,
And smiled, and soothed him, and with earnest wiles
Chased back the gathering gloom. If now they named
Savella's wife, his very lips turned white.
The chamber where her portrait hung was closed,
The key had rusted in the lock. A vail
Hung, like a pall, before the pictured face.
'Twas sunset, and the mellowed sound of bells,
The lowing of worn cattle driven to drink,
Came from the vineyards and the far Campagna.
'Twas still in Guido's studio; not a sound
Rose from below, but loitered as it came.
The echoes caged within the dome-like ceiling
Slept upon folded wings. A picture stood
Half finished on the easel, but the artist
Grown weary had gone forth.
Light steps ascended
The marble stair, the drapery looped back
Upon the nymph's white arm, waved, and Francesca
Lifting its folds, passed through. The polished floor
Imaged her feet like water as she passed;
She paused before the easel. On the canvass,
New-limned, a woman in the Roman garb
Sat by a fount and watched gray oxen drinking.
Her hands lay clasped upon the marble rim,
Her veiled eyes were cast down, and at her feet
A contadino, stretched upon the grass,
Pillowed his head upon his folded arms.
With ripe lips dropped apart, Francesca gazed
Smiling upon her beauty's counterpart;
Then with a sudden impulse, from the peasant
Whose lids were darkly outlined on her cheek,
Turned to the pictured Virgin, and first saw
How like her own Madonna's features were!
She started, and with finger laid on lip,
Pondered a space; then, pausing not to question
If there were aught irreverent in her thought,
Stepped upon tiptoe through the room, and vanished.
The lowing of worn cattle driven to drink,
Came from the vineyards and the far Campagna.
'Twas still in Guido's studio; not a sound
Rose from below, but loitered as it came.
The echoes caged within the dome-like ceiling
Slept upon folded wings. A picture stood
Half finished on the easel, but the artist
Grown weary had gone forth.
Light steps ascended
The marble stair, the drapery looped back
Upon the nymph's white arm, waved, and Francesca
Lifting its folds, passed through. The polished floor
Imaged her feet like water as she passed;
She paused before the easel. On the canvass,
New-limned, a woman in the Roman garb
Sat by a fount and watched gray oxen drinking.
Her hands lay clasped upon the marble rim,
Her veiled eyes were cast down, and at her feet
A contadino, stretched upon the grass,
Pillowed his head upon his folded arms.
With ripe lips dropped apart, Francesca gazed
Smiling upon her beauty's counterpart;
Then with a sudden impulse, from the peasant
Whose lids were darkly outlined on her cheek,
Turned to the pictured Virgin, and first saw
How like her own Madonna's features were!
She started, and with finger laid on lip,
Pondered a space; then, pausing not to question
If there were aught irreverent in her thought,
Stepped upon tiptoe through the room, and vanished.
The curtains were drawn close when Guido entered.
Through their large flutes the tempered light came in
As through a wave. Arch, wall, and glassy column
Stood like translucent amber. Guido paused,
Besting upon the threshold. He had risen,
That morn to a new being; to the sound
Of rhythms sweeter than the mirth of brooks;
To the low voice of songs that thrilled for flight,
To the light trip of dreams like trooping zephyrs.
And every thought sang, jubilant, as it rose,
And every dream its gossamer wings unfolding,
Warmed in his spirit's sunshine. Like a band
Of nymphs that dance to music, all his fancies
Came with a twin-born melody. For rhythm
Seemed his soul's natural language, and it flowed
Effortless as the harmonies of a bird.
And so the poet's day passed vision-like,
Filled with the bright confusion of a dream.
Now worn and fever-flushed, he would have called
His wild thoughts to their nests, and bade sweet peace
Descend like dew at evening. But in vain.
Wearily crept the sunshine to his eye;
The fall of footsteps down the narrow street,
Each varied tone in the great city's voice,
Fell like a pang on nerves the lightest touch
Now thrilled to painfulness. The windless air
Pressed on his forehead like a steadfast hand,
And still resolving rest, he still thought on,
Wearied to pain.
The cool, half-mystical light
Was pleasant to his senses. With bent head
He paced the room. He looked not towards Madonna,
With eyes cast downward steadfastly, he seemed
To wrestle with wild thoughts. Thus for a space.
He paused, turned suddenly, and looked up. A cry
At his heart's threshold died. He stood transfixed.
With lips blanched white with terror.
Through their large flutes the tempered light came in
As through a wave. Arch, wall, and glassy column
Stood like translucent amber. Guido paused,
Besting upon the threshold. He had risen,
That morn to a new being; to the sound
Of rhythms sweeter than the mirth of brooks;
To the low voice of songs that thrilled for flight,
To the light trip of dreams like trooping zephyrs.
And every thought sang, jubilant, as it rose,
And every dream its gossamer wings unfolding,
Warmed in his spirit's sunshine. Like a band
Of nymphs that dance to music, all his fancies
Came with a twin-born melody. For rhythm
Seemed his soul's natural language, and it flowed
Effortless as the harmonies of a bird.
And so the poet's day passed vision-like,
Filled with the bright confusion of a dream.
Now worn and fever-flushed, he would have called
His wild thoughts to their nests, and bade sweet peace
Descend like dew at evening. But in vain.
Wearily crept the sunshine to his eye;
The fall of footsteps down the narrow street,
Each varied tone in the great city's voice,
Fell like a pang on nerves the lightest touch
Now thrilled to painfulness. The windless air
Pressed on his forehead like a steadfast hand,
And still resolving rest, he still thought on,
Wearied to pain.
The cool, half-mystical light
Was pleasant to his senses. With bent head
He paced the room. He looked not towards Madonna,
With eyes cast downward steadfastly, he seemed
To wrestle with wild thoughts. Thus for a space.
He paused, turned suddenly, and looked up. A cry
At his heart's threshold died. He stood transfixed.
With lips blanched white with terror.
What stood there.
Within the columned niche? Madonna's picture
Was gone, an empty frame hung in its place!
What stood with folded hands? A mantle fell
Squarely across the brow, and dark blue folds
Trailed to the pavement!
Within the columned niche? Madonna's picture
Was gone, an empty frame hung in its place!
What stood with folded hands? A mantle fell
Squarely across the brow, and dark blue folds
Trailed to the pavement!
Softly! so! the echoes
Are listening from above! His step scarce roused them.
Nearer, with hushed heart! In the uncertain light
He thought to see it vanish, but, unchanged,
The veiled shape stood like marble. O'er his eyes
He passed his burning hand. Another step!
One more. Ah, heaven, the robe stirred on her bosom!
Now could he mark the rosy line dividing
The palms together laid. His breath, came fast.
Thus stood she in his dreams!
Are listening from above! His step scarce roused them.
Nearer, with hushed heart! In the uncertain light
He thought to see it vanish, but, unchanged,
The veiled shape stood like marble. O'er his eyes
He passed his burning hand. Another step!
One more. Ah, heaven, the robe stirred on her bosom!
Now could he mark the rosy line dividing
The palms together laid. His breath, came fast.
Thus stood she in his dreams!
Lo, the fringed lids
Rose slowly, and eyes filled with love and laughter
Turned to his own! He bent, with outstretched arms.
A smile mocked from the lip, then rapid blushes
Burned, and grew pale, as if in terror sprang
The veiled shape to his side, and flinging back
The mantle, clinging to his breast, cried "Guido!
Dear Guido!'" and in hollow echoes died
Over the vaulted ceiling, "Guido! Guido!"
He bent her light form backward o'er his arm,
And looked into her face. Like a crushed serpent,
Under his firm teeth writhed the nether lip.
His grasp was iron. With her pleading eyes
She watched him silently. He flung her off,
And, tossing a wild hand to heaven, rushed forth.
She heard his fleet step echo through the halls,
And shrieking followed.
Rose slowly, and eyes filled with love and laughter
Turned to his own! He bent, with outstretched arms.
A smile mocked from the lip, then rapid blushes
Burned, and grew pale, as if in terror sprang
The veiled shape to his side, and flinging back
The mantle, clinging to his breast, cried "Guido!
Dear Guido!'" and in hollow echoes died
Over the vaulted ceiling, "Guido! Guido!"
He bent her light form backward o'er his arm,
And looked into her face. Like a crushed serpent,
Under his firm teeth writhed the nether lip.
His grasp was iron. With her pleading eyes
She watched him silently. He flung her off,
And, tossing a wild hand to heaven, rushed forth.
She heard his fleet step echo through the halls,
And shrieking followed.
Still Savella's house
Stands in. the seven-hilled city. There, together,
Dwell twain alone, a brother and a sister.
These hold no revels and receive no guest.
One is a man with vacant, wandering eyes,
Whose face is like a boy's; his hair's linked rings
Fall to his bosom; one, calm-browed and pale,
A woman on whose laughter-moulded lip
Joy lies asleep. Her life seems blent with his.
She hath no thought but for her mute companion.
And if he walks, her shoulder is his prop;
If he would sleep, she charms his weary lids
With singing, or, reclining at his side,
Under the ilex boughs, reads scraps of song
Whose musical rhymes are pleasant to his ear,
Their sense, alas, unheeded! And, the while,
He will beat slow time with his hand, or echo
Her low words softly, as a child repeats
Its teacher's accents. His is not the gloom
That blinds a common mind. His soul shines forth
Like starlight o'er the ruins of a Rome;
Like a pale moon through tempests, sending gleams
Over the waste of madness, and still feebly
Ruling its tides. Still, nature hath a charm
For his dim sense, and still unconsciously
He freights the bird's song and the blossom's fragrance
With his heart's rich thanksgiving. Flower and herb
He cherishes with strange love. He will not crush
The meanest weed that flings its pendulous spray
Over his path—and all things gentle love him,
From the grave hound that guards him, to the birds
That, from low boughs, the while he flings them bounty,
Eye him askance. His pencil still beguiles
Long hours, grotesquely on the canvass blending
Weird, goblin fancies with half-grasped conceptions,
Gloriously fair. The very words he speaks
Are chosen for their beauty, and the rhythms
He loved, seem ever lingering on his lips.
Thought gleams in faint Auroras, and hope calls
Their light day's luminous herald. Oh! the flame
Burns low upon the altar, Memory clasps
Her blazoned missal, and the priest-like voice
Of Reason dies in silence! There are heard
No more amid her aisles fast-crowding thoughts,
No more the noble anthems of her worship;
And Guide's soul is like some dim cathedral
That keeps with faint, sweet light the hush of prayer
After the prayer hath ceased; the breath of incense
Burned upon shrines, the solemn, deep vibrations
Of music that falls trembling into stillness!
Stands in. the seven-hilled city. There, together,
Dwell twain alone, a brother and a sister.
These hold no revels and receive no guest.
One is a man with vacant, wandering eyes,
Whose face is like a boy's; his hair's linked rings
Fall to his bosom; one, calm-browed and pale,
A woman on whose laughter-moulded lip
Joy lies asleep. Her life seems blent with his.
She hath no thought but for her mute companion.
And if he walks, her shoulder is his prop;
If he would sleep, she charms his weary lids
With singing, or, reclining at his side,
Under the ilex boughs, reads scraps of song
Whose musical rhymes are pleasant to his ear,
Their sense, alas, unheeded! And, the while,
He will beat slow time with his hand, or echo
Her low words softly, as a child repeats
Its teacher's accents. His is not the gloom
That blinds a common mind. His soul shines forth
Like starlight o'er the ruins of a Rome;
Like a pale moon through tempests, sending gleams
Over the waste of madness, and still feebly
Ruling its tides. Still, nature hath a charm
For his dim sense, and still unconsciously
He freights the bird's song and the blossom's fragrance
With his heart's rich thanksgiving. Flower and herb
He cherishes with strange love. He will not crush
The meanest weed that flings its pendulous spray
Over his path—and all things gentle love him,
From the grave hound that guards him, to the birds
That, from low boughs, the while he flings them bounty,
Eye him askance. His pencil still beguiles
Long hours, grotesquely on the canvass blending
Weird, goblin fancies with half-grasped conceptions,
Gloriously fair. The very words he speaks
Are chosen for their beauty, and the rhythms
He loved, seem ever lingering on his lips.
Thought gleams in faint Auroras, and hope calls
Their light day's luminous herald. Oh! the flame
Burns low upon the altar, Memory clasps
Her blazoned missal, and the priest-like voice
Of Reason dies in silence! There are heard
No more amid her aisles fast-crowding thoughts,
No more the noble anthems of her worship;
And Guide's soul is like some dim cathedral
That keeps with faint, sweet light the hush of prayer
After the prayer hath ceased; the breath of incense
Burned upon shrines, the solemn, deep vibrations
Of music that falls trembling into stillness!