Love Letters of a Violinist and Other Poems Part 33

I strike the lyre, I sound the hollow sh.e.l.l; And why? For comfort, when my thoughts rebel, And when I count the woes that must ensue.

But for this reason, and no other one, I dare to look thy way, and bow my head To thy sweet name, as sunflower to the sun, Though, peradventure, not so wisely fed With garden fancies. Tears must now be shed, Unnumber'd tears, till life or love be done!

XIII.

A THUNDERSTORM AT NIGHT.

The lightning is the shorthand of the storm That tells of chaos; and I read the same As one may read the writing of a name,-- As one in h.e.l.l may see the sudden form Of G.o.d's fore-finger pointed as in blame.

How weird the scene! The Dark is sulphur-warm With hints of death; and in their vault enorme The reeling stars coagulate in flame.

And now the torrents from their mountain-beds Roar down uncheck'd; and serpents shaped of mist Writhe up to Heaven with unforbidden heads; And thunder-clouds, whose lightnings intertwist, Rack all the sky, and tear it into shreds, And shake the air like t.i.tians that have kiss'd!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

XIV.

IN TUSCANY.

Dost thou remember, friend of vanish'd days, How in the golden land of love and song, We met in April in the crowded ways Of that fair city where the soul is strong, Aye! strong as fate, for good or evil praise?

And how the lord whom all the world obeys,-- The lord of light to whom the stars belong,-- Illumed the track that led thee through the throng?

Dost thou remember, in the wooded dale, Beyond the town of Dante the Divine, How all the air was flooded as with wine?

And how the lark, to drown the nightingale, Peal'd out sweet notes? I live to tell the tale.

But thou? Oblivion signs thee with a sign!

XV.

A HERO.

The warrior knows how fitful is the fight,-- How sad to live,--how sweet perchance to die.

Is Fame his joy? He meets her on the height, And when he falls he shouts his battle-cry; His eyes are wet; our own will not be dry.

Nor shall we stint his praise, or our delight, When he survives to serve his Land aright And make his fame the watchword of the sky.

In all our hopes his love is with us still; He tends our faith, he soothes us when we grieve.

His acts are just; his word we must believe, And none shall spurn him, though his blood they spill To pierce the heart whose pride they cannot kill.-- Death dies for him whose fame is his reprieve!

XVI.

REMORSE.

Go, get thee gone. I love thee not, I swear; And if I lov'd thee well in days gone by, And if I kiss'd, and trifled with thy hair, And crown'd my love, to prove the same a lie, My doom is this: my joy was quick to die.

The chain of custom in the drowsy lair Of some slain vision, is a weight to bear, And both abhorr'd it,--thou as well as I.

Ah, G.o.d! 'tis tearful true; and I repent; And like a dead, live man I live for this:-- To stand, unvalued, on a dream's abyss, And be my own most piteous monument.

What! did I rob thee, Lady, of a kiss?

There, take it back; and frown; and be content!

XVII.

THE MISSION OF THE BARD.

He is a seer. He wears the wedding-ring Of Art and Nature; and his voice is bold.

He should be quicker than the birds to sing, And fill'd with frenzy like the men of old Who sang their songs for country and for king.

Nothing should daunt him, though the news were told By fiends from h.e.l.l! He should be swift to hold And swift to part with truth, as from a spring.

He should discourse of war and war's alarm, And deeds of peace, and garlands to be sought, And love, and lore, and death, and beauty's charm, And warlike men subdued by tender thought, And grief dismiss'd, and hatred set at nought, And Freedom shielded by his strong right arm!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

XVIII.

DEATH.

It is the joy, it is the zest of life, To know that Death, ungainly to the vile, Is not a traitor with a reckless knife, And not a serpent with a look of guile, But one who greets us with a seraph's smile,-- An angel--guest to tend us after strife, And keep us true to G.o.d when fears are rife, And sceptic thought would daunt us or defile.

He walks the world as one empower'd to fill The fields of s.p.a.ce for Father and for Son.

He is our friend, though morbidly we shun His tender touch,--a cure for every ill.

He is the king of peace, when all is done.

Earth and the air are moulded to his will.

XIX.

TO ONE I LOVE.

Oh, let me plead with thee to have a nook, A garden nook, not far from thy domain, That there, with harp, and voice, and poet-book, I may be true to thee, and, pa.s.sion-fain, Rehea.r.s.e the songs of nature once again:-- The songs of Cynthia wandering by the brook To soothe the raptures of a lover's pain, And those of Phyllis with her shepherd's crook!

I die to serve thee, and for this alone,-- To be thy bard-elect, from day to day,-- I would forego the right to fill a throne.

I would consent to be the famine-prey Of some fierce pard, if ere the night were flown I could subdue thy spirit to my sway.