Poems (May)/The chaplet of bronze
THE CHAPLET OF BRONZE.
"Oh, could I melt my spirit into song And dying triumph!" The slow silvery notes Rose from her lips as smoke rings from a censer. Gay dames and gallants whispered, the young nobles Stood with averted eyes, and the rude crowd Aped their indifference. Holding with her looks The scorn that coiled to spring, she sang, and drave Melody to the utmost bounds of sound, Marcia, the Florentine. The orchestra Pealed forth its loudest, but triumphantly As the white sea-bird skims the waves, her voice Outrode the storm of music. Suddenly, A note shot upward, and suspended hung As if on poised wings. A single voice Cried "Bravo!" as slow dropped from that great height It seemed to fathom silence. Then upborne By music, like a bird that's swung to rest By the lulled waves, the singer's voice kept on Swelling and falling with the sound that bare it. Low bent the lover to his lady's ear,And she sat trifling with her gilded fan. All through the indifferent crowd, above, below,Only averted faces met her eye "Who had been wont to hold the multitude By her sweet voice as in a silver leash. With scarce a bend of her white neck she turned And passed out from their sight. The painted curtain Swept to the footlamps, and the orchestra Thundered again. But to and fro the crowd Swayed with mute restlessness. Some one cried out "Amalia!" and a thousand voices joined, "Amalia!" to the gilded ceiling, slow,Crept back the screen of drapery. There were fountains, Green groves, and arbours, in the scene before them, With what seemed moonlight shimmering over all. And through one avenue that pierced the distance A single note came floating. 'Twas a child That, up the aisle advancing, to the footlamps Drew near, and with her hands locked carelessly Sang with a fearless joyfulness. Her voice Was fresh as May-winds, wilder than the lark That swoops and circles in its upward flight, Delirious with music. Scarce the ear Marked how through labyrinths of song it held One clue of melody; its notes like pearls Strung on the silken thread they half concealed. Her voice was but the sail her happy spirit Urged to its utmost through the waves of song; When Marcia sang, each silver arrow sped True to the mark, but these seemed flung at random; No bird that sings amid the summer leaves E'er voiced his spirit with such deep delight; And when she ceased, and the loud orchestra Took up the strain, the multitude o'erwhelmed it With a continuous thunder. Soft, a voice! And through the distant scenery came a form That paused midway, arid with white, lifted arms Held up what seemed a crown of woven leaves. Then "Marcia! Marcia!" fled from lip to lip, And with the tempest of her shouted name The high walls trembled. Her magnificent head Bent to the crowd's applauses, as the prow Of some grand vessel sinks to meet the waves; And lifting high the wreath, she cried, " Come hither! Hither, Amalia!" With meek folded arms, Low bent the singer. Yet suspended hung Over her brow the fatal type of fame,The laurel crown, till Marcia smiled. It fell,—Not fluttering slow, but with a sudden quickness. And as it dropped, loud thunders of applause Blent with the crash of music. Some stood still; For through the tumult a prolonged wild shriek Rose, faintly audible. 'Twas but a fancy! Still Marcia smiled, and still Amalia bent. The smile seemed graven upon Marcia's lip. And now Amalia, sinking to her knee, Bent lower, lower, lower, till her brow Pressed down the border of the robes that swept Prom Marcia's zone, and Marcia had no rival!