Poems By John L. Stoddard Part 18

Make haste! There is but one more turning!

The horses cannot go too fast, So eagerly our hearts are yearning To see the longed-for home at last!

Here is the shrine, the lamp still burning, Beside the vineyard's ma.s.sive wall; And see, to welcome our returning, The banners on the flagstaffs tall!

Before the gate, our servants, wearing Their brightest smiles, together stand, In quaint, Tyrolean style preparing To kiss respectfully the hand.

Now, too, the dogs perceive their master, And rush to meet our carriage wheels; The loyal Leo first and faster, The dackels close upon his heels!

How wild the joy, how loud the chorus Our old, familiar tones excite!

Dear, faithful creatures that adore us, How genuine their keen delight!

The door is pa.s.sed, the hall is entered!

How true it is, where'er we roam, That here alone our hearts are centered, That no place hath the charm of Home!

Here smile the pictures ranged above us; Here stand our books, the best of friends; Here those we love and those who love us Are happy that our absence ends.

We prize the intellectual treasures On History's famous sites ama.s.sed; And precious are the varied pleasures From Art's great glories of the past;

But well we know, when once more seated Within these rooms with volumes lined, That,--now the journey is completed--, The best of Rome is in the mind.

MY GARDEN

Sweet garden, wreathed in fruits and flowers, And domed by blue Tyrolean skies, Within thy rose-encircled bowers, Secluded from all curious eyes, I find a peaceful paradise.

Without, the world's fierce strife and yearning In floods of pa.s.sion ebb and flow; Within, as in a shrine, is burning,-- Reflecting fires of long ago,-- A stormy life's calm afterglow.

How sumptuous is the golden splendor Thy yellow roses give my walls!

Like yonder glow, so sweet and tender, That o'er the snow at sunset falls, And by its spell the soul enthralls.

How swiftly pa.s.s the happy hours Beside thy palms, beneath thy pines, As through the fountain's crystal showers I watch the sunlight gild thy vines Against the snow-peaks' silvered lines!

I lean upon my loggia's railing And view the vineyard's saffron sheen,-- Its amber leaves in glory veiling The purpling grapes, that hang between Its long arcades of gold and green.

And at the sight my heart is beating With rapture hitherto unknown, As with delight I keep repeating In love's triumphant undertone,-- "All this is mine, my very own"!

Then with a chill, like that which steals Across the vale at set of sun, A solemn thought the truth reveals,-- How transient is the prize thus won!

How short a time my lease can run!

Before I thought this garden fair And from its beauty rapture drew, How many others breathed its air, And, glorying in its matchless view, Had plucked its roses wet with dew!

Where now my vines and violets grow, And fill the breeze with odors sweet, Two thousand years and more ago Some Roman had his loved retreat, And watched the sun and snow-peak meet.

Rome fell; but, Maia still remaining, Both Goth and Frank the slope desired, Through two millenniums still retaining The longing for what all admired, The love which ownership inspired.

I sometimes fancy that I see Those masters of an earlier age,-- A ghostly line preceding me Across this corner of life's stage,-- The Pagan, Christian, bard and sage.

Each one in turn called thee his own, And deemed thee his submissive slave; But, when a few short years had flown, Of all thy wealth what could he save?

At most thou gavest him a grave!

Ephemeral creatures of a day, We move like insects on thy soil, And wear our little lives away In fleeting pleasures or in toil; But naught our destiny can foil.

A few more Springs thy buds shall quicken, A few more Summers bring thy bloom, A few more Autumn suns shall thicken The cl.u.s.ters ripening in thy gloom,-- When I for strangers must make room!

When other eyes shall see the vision Of Rotheck's pyramid of snow, And watch the roseate hues elysian Creep over it at evening's glow, As o'er its crest the sun sinks low.

Another then will pluck the flowers Whose seeds my loving hand hath sown; Another, through the mid-day hours, Will hear the honey bee's dull drone Where other roses shall have blown.

These mountains then will still be lifting Their ice-crowned summits to the sky; The fleecy clouds will still be drifting Above their peaks and pastures high; But they will heed not where I lie.

Even thou wilt never miss thy master!

Thy vines and flowers will bloom the same, The season's round will move no faster, No bud will quench its torch of flame, And naught will change here but a name.

Yet all who shall with joy succeed me In their turn must thy charms resign, When, as to all who now precede me, Death shall have made the fatal sign To join the ever-lengthening line.

We "owners," then, are but thy tenants Despite our purchase and our pride; To thee what is our transient presence?

Thou carest not if we abide Among thy roses, or have died.

Hence, let me drain in fullest measure Thy cup of pure Tyrolean wine!

To-day at least I hold thy treasure; To-day with truth I call thee mine; To-morrow's sun may never shine.

THE MOUNTAINS OF MERAN AT SUNRISE

Like snow-white tents, their tapering forms Indent the western sky: The jewelled gifts of countless storms Upon their summits lie.

The sinking moon, with fading scars, Hath touched their frosty spires; Around them pale the wearied stars, Like waning bivouac fires.

Stray cloudlets, reddening one by one, Like rose leaves half unfurled, Announce the coming of the sun To an awakening world.

The chief peak now hath caught the glow, And, soft, o'er sloping walls And b.u.t.tresses of dazzling snow, The flood of splendor falls;

While miles of tender pink and gold Incrust the blue of s.p.a.ce, And bands of amethyst enfold Each mountain's ma.s.sive base.

Gone are the tents that pierced the skies; But in their place, more fair, Transfigured flowers of Paradise Bloom in the crystal air.

OSWALD, THE MINNESINGER

A Legend of Schloss Forst, near Meran

PROLOGUE