Days and Dreams Part 13

"Sweet Mary's sister and thou my Harry, Her Harry and mine, but mine the weeping: In a month or twain you two will marry-- And I in my grave be sleeping."

Alone among the meadows of millet, Over the stile the stars pursuing, Some tears in her pail as she stoops to fill it-- And love hath a way of doing.

THE ALCALDE'S DAUGHTER.

The times they had kissed and parted That night were over a score; Each time that the cavalier started, Each time she would swear him o'er,

"Thou art going to Barcelona!-- To make Naxera thy bride!

Seduce the Lady Yona!-- And thy lips have lied! have lied!

"I love thee! I love thee, thou knowest!

And thou shalt not give away The love to my life thou owest; And my heart commands thee stay!--

"I say thou hast lied and liest!-- For where is there war in the state?-- Thou goest, by Heaven the highest!

To choose thee a fairer mate.

"Wilt thou go to Barcelona When thy queen in Toledo is?

To wait on the haughty Yona, When thou hast these lips to kiss?"

And they stood in the balcony over The old Toledo square: And weeping she took for her lover A red rose out of her hair.

And they kissed farewell; and higher The moon made amber the air: And she drew for the traitor and liar A stiletto out of her hair....

When the night-watch lounged through the quiet With the stir of halberds and swords, Not a bravo was there to defy it, Not a gallant to brave with words.

One man, at the corner's turning, Quite dead. And they stoop or stand-- In his heart a dagger burning, And a red rose crushed in his hand.

AT THE CORREGIDOR'S.

To Don Odora says Donna De Vine: "I yield to thy long endeavor!-- At my balcony be on the stroke of nine, And, Signor, am thine forever!"

This beauty but once had the Don descried As she quit the confessional; followed; "What a foot for silk! a face for a bride-- Hem--!" the rest Odora swallowed.

And with vows as soft as his oaths were sweet Her heart he barricaded; And pressed this point with a present meet, And that point serenaded.

What else could the enemy do but yield To a handsome importuning!

A gallant blade with a lute for shield All night at her lattice mooning!

"_Que es estrella!_ O lily of girls!

Here's that for thy fierce duenna: A purse of pistoles and a rosary o' pearls And gold as yellow as henna.

"She will drop from thy balcony's rail, my sweet!

My seraph! this silken ladder; And then--sweet then!--my soul at thy feet No lover of lovers gladder!"

And the end of it was!--But I will not say How he won to the room of the lady:-- Ah! to love is life and to live is gay, For the rest--a maravedi!

Now comes her betrothed from the wars, and he, A Count of the Court Castilian, A Don Diabolus, sword at knee, And moustaches--uncivilian.

And his is a jealous love; and--for He marks that this marriage makes sadder-- He watches, and sees a robber to her, Or gallant, ascend a ladder.

So he pushes inquiry unto her room, With his naked sword demanding-- An Alquazil with the face of Doom, Sure of a stout withstanding.

And weapon to weapon they foined and fought; Diabolus' thrusts were vicious; Three thrusts to the floor Odora had brought, A fourth was more malicious,

Through the offered bosom of Donna De Vine-- And this is the Count's condition ...

Was he right, was he wrong? the question is mine, To judge--for the Inquisition.

THE PORTRAIT.

In some quaint Nurnberg _maler-atelier_ Uprummaged. When and where was never clear, Nor yet how he obtained it. When, by whom 'T was painted--who shall say? itself a gloom Resisting inquisition. I opine It is a Durer. Humph?--that touch, this line Are not deniable; distinguished grace In the pure oval of the n.o.ble face; The color badly tarnished. Half in light Extend it, so; incline; the exquisite Expression leaps abruptly: piercing scorn, Imperial beauty; icy, each a thorn Of light--disdainful eyes and ... well! no use!

Effaced and but beheld, a sad abuse Of patience. Often, vaguely visible, The portrait fills each feature, making swell The soul with hope: avoiding face and hair Alive with lively warmth; astonished there "Occult substantial!" you exult, when, ho!

You hold a blur; an undetermined glow Dislimns a daub.--Restore?--ah, I have tried Our best restorers, all! it has defied ...

Storied, mysterious, say, mayhap a ghost Lives in the canvas; hers, some artist lost, A d.u.c.h.ess', haply. Her he worshipped; dared Not tell he worshipped; from his window stared Of Nuremburg one sunny morn when she Pa.s.sed paged to court. Her cold n.o.bility Loved, lived for like a purpose; seized and plied A feverish brush--her face! despaired and died.

The narrow Judenga.s.se; gables frown Around a skinny usurer's, where brown And dirty in a corner long it lay, Heaped in a pile of riff-raff, such as--say, Retables done in tempora and old Panels by Wohlgemuth; stiff paintings cold Of martyrs and apostles, names forgot; Holbeins and Durers, say, a haloed lot Of praying saints, madonnas: such, perchance, Mid wine-stained purples mothed; a whole romance Of crucifixes, rosaries; inlaid Arms Saracen-elaborate; a strayed Niello of Byzantium; rich work In bronze, of Florence; here a delicate dirk, There holy patens.

So, my ancestor, The first De Herancour, esteemed by far This piece most precious, most desirable; Purchased and brought to Paris. It looked well In the dark panelling above the old Hearth of his room. The head's religious gold, The soft severity of the nun face, Made of the room an apostolic place Revered and feared.--

Like some lived scene I see That Gothic room; its Flemish tapestry: Embossed above the aged lintel, shield-- Deep Or-enthistled, in an Argent field Three Sable mallets--arms De Herancour, Carved with the torso of the crest that bore, Outstretched, two mallets. Lozenge-paned, embayed, Its slender cas.e.m.e.nts; on a lectern laid, A vellum volume of black-lettered text; Near by a blinking taper--as if vexed With silken gusts a nervous curtain sends, Behind which, maybe, daggered Murder bends;-- Waxed floors of rosy oak, whereon the red Torchlight of Medicean wrath is shed, Down knightly corridors; a carven couch Sword-slashed; dark velvets of the chairs that crouch, It seems, with fright; clear-clashing near, more near, The stir of searching steel.

What find they here?-- 'T is St. Bartholomew's--a Huguenot Dead in his chair?--dead! violently shot With horror, eyes glued on a portrait there, Coiling his neck one blood line, like a hair Of finest fire; the portrait, like a fiend,-- Looking exalted visitation,--leaned From its black panel; in its eyes a hate Demonic; hair--a glowing auburn, late A dim, enduring golden.

"Just one thread Of the fierce hair around his throat," they said, "Twisting a burning ray, he--staring-dead."

ISMAEL.

Ismael, the Sultan, in the Ramazan, Girdled with guards and many a yataghan, Pachas and amins, viziers wisdom-gray, And holy marabouts, betook his way Through Mekinez.--Written the angel's word, Of Eden's Kauther, reads, "Slay! praying the Lord!

Pray! slaying the victims!" so the Sultan went, The Cruel Sultan, with this good intent,

In white bournouse and sea-green caftan clad First to the mosque. Long each muezzin had Summoned the faithful unto prayer and let The "Allah Akbar!" from each minaret, Call to their thousand lamps of blazing gold.

Prostrated prayed the Sultan. On the old Mosaics of the mosque--whose hollow steamed With aloes-incense--lean ecstatics dreamed On Allah and his Prophet, and how great Is G.o.d, and how unstable man's estate.

Conviction on him, in this chanting low Of Koran texts, the Caliph's pa.s.sion so Exalted rose,--lamps of religious awe, Loud smitings of the everlasting law On unbelievers,--trebly manifest The Faith's anointed sword he feels confessed.