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."
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.
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. 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.
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. 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.
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. 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. 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. 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. 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.
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!
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!
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.
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!