The Poems of Emma Lazarus Volume I Part 11

Cleanse me from l.u.s.t and bitterness and pride, Have mercy in accordance with my faith."

Long time he lay upon the scorching gra.s.s, With his face buried in the tangled weeds.

Ah! who can tell the struggles of his soul Against its demons in that sacred hour, The solitude, the anguish, the remorse?

When shadows long and thin lay on the ground, Shivering with fever, helpless he arose, But with a face divine, ineffable, Such as we dream the face of Israel, When the Lord's wrestling angel, at gray dawn, Blessed him, and disappeared.

Upon the marsh, All night, he wandered, striving to emerge From the wild, pathless plain,--now limitless And colorless beneath the risen moon; Outstretching like a sea, with landmarks none, Save broken aqueducts and parapets, And ruined columns glinting 'neath the moon.

His dress was dank and clinging with the dew; A thousand insects fluttered o'er his head, With buzz and drone; unseen cicadas chirped Among the long, rank gra.s.s, and far and near The fire-flies flickered through the summer air.

Vague thoughts and gleams prophetic filled his brain.

"Ah, fool!" he mused, "to look for help from men.

Had they the will to aid, they lack the power.

In mine own flesh and soul the sin had birth, Through mine own anguish it must be atoned.

Our saviours are not saints and ministers, But tear-strung women, children soft of heart, Or fellow-sufferers, who, by some chance word, Some glance of comfort, save us from despair.

These I have found, thank heaven! to strengthen trust In mine own kind, when all the world grew dark.

Make me not proud in spirit, O my G.o.d!

Yea, in thy sight I am one ma.s.s of sin, One black and foul corruption, yet I know My frailty is exceeded by thy love.

Neither is this the slender straw of hope, Whereto I, drowning, cling, but firm belief, That fills my inmost soul with vast content.

As surely as the hollow faiths of old Shriveled to dust before one ray of Truth, So will these modern temples pa.s.s away, Piled upon rotten doctrines, baseless forms, And man will look in his own breast for help, Yea, search for comfort his own inward reins, Revere himself, and find the G.o.d within.

Patience and patience!" Through the sleepless night He held such thoughts; at times before his eyes Flashed glimpses of the Church that was to be, Sublimely simple in the light serene Of future ages; then the vision changed To the Pope's hall, thronged with high priests, who hurled Their curses on him. Staggering, he awoke Unto the truth, and found himself alone, Beneath the awful stars. When dawn's first chill Crept though the shivering gra.s.s and heavy leaves, Giddy and overcome, he fell and slept Upon the dripping weeds, nor dreamed nor stirred, Until the wide plain basked in noon's broad light.

He dragged his weary frame some paces more, Unto a solitary herdsman's hut, Which, in the vagueness of the moonlit night, Was touched with lines of beauty, till it grew Fair as the ruined works of ancient art, Now squat and hideous with its wattled roof, Decaying timbers, and loose door wide oped, Half-fallen from the hinge. A drowsy man, Bearded and burnt, in shepherd habit lay, Stretched on the floor, slow-munching, half asleep, His frugal fare; for thus, at blaze of noon, The shepherds sought a shelter from the sun, Leaving their vigilant dogs beside their flock.

The knight craved drink and bread, and with respect For pilgrim weeds, the Roman herdsman stirred His lazy length, and shared with him his meal.

Refreshed and calm, Sir Tannhauser pa.s.sed forth, Yearning with morbid fancy once again To see the kind face of the minstrel boy He met beside the well. At set of sun He reached the place; the reaping-folk were gone, The day's toil over, yet he took his seat.

A milking-girl with laden buckets full, Came slowly from the pasture, paused and drank.

From a near cottage ran a ragged boy, And filled his wooden pail, and to his home Returned across the fields. A herdsman came, And drank and gave his dog to drink, and pa.s.sed, Greeting the holy man who sat there still, Awaiting. But his feeble pulse beat high When he descried at last a youthful form, Crossing the field, a pitcher on his head, Advancing towards the well. Yea, this was he, The same grave eyes, and open, girlish face.

But he saw not, amidst the landscape brown, The knight's brown figure, who, to win his ear, Asked the lad's name. "My name is Salvator, To serve you, sir," he carelessly replied, With eyes and hands intent upon his jar, Br.i.m.m.i.n.g and bubbling. Then he cast one glance Upon his questioner, and left the well, Crying with keen and sudden sympathy, "Good Father, pardon me, I knew you not.

Ah! you have travelled overmuch: your feet Are grimed with mud and wet, your face is changed, Your hands are dry with fever." But the knight: "Nay, as I look on thee, I think the Lord Wills not that I should suffer any more."

"Then you have suffered much," sighed Salvator, With wondering pity. "You must come with me; My father knows of you, I told him all.

A knight and minstrel who cast by his lyre, His health and fame, to give himself to G.o.d,-- Yours is a life indeed to be desired!

If you will lie with us this night, our home Will verily be blessed." By kindness crushed, Wandering in sense and words, the broken knight Resisted naught, and let himself be led To the boy's home. The outcast and accursed Was welcomed now by kindly human hands; Once more his blighted spirit was revived By contact with refreshing innocence.

There, when the morning broke upon the world, The humble hosts no longer knew their guest.

His fleshly weeds of sin forever doffed, Tannhauser lay and smiled, for in the night The angel came who brings eternal peace.

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Far into Wartburg, through all Italy, In every town the Pope sent messengers, Riding in furious haste; among them, one Who bore a branch of dry wood burst in bloom; The pastoral rod had borne green shoots of spring, And leaf and blossom. G.o.d is merciful.

Note.--In spite of my unwillingness to imply any possible belief of mine that the preceding unrhymed narratives can enter into compet.i.tion with the elaborate poems of the author of "The Earthly Paradise," yet the similarity of subjects, and the imputation of plagiarism already made in private circles, induce me to remark that "Admetus" was completed before the publication of the "Love of Alcestis," and "Tannhauser" before the "Hill of Venus."

Emma Lazarus.

LINKS.

The little and the great are joined in one By G.o.d's great force. The wondrous golden sun Is linked unto the glow-worm's tiny spark; The eagle soars to heaven in his flight; And in those realms of s.p.a.ce, all bathed in light, Soar none except the eagle and the lark.

MATINS.

Gray earth, gray mist, gray sky: Through vapors hurrying by, Larger than wont, on high Floats the horned, yellow moon.

Chill airs are faintly stirred, And far away is heard, Of some fresh-awakened bird, The querulous, shrill tune.

The dark mist hides the face Of the dim land: no trace Of rock or river's place In the thick air is drawn; But dripping gra.s.s smells sweet, And rustling branches meet, And sounding water greet The slow, sure, sacred dawn.

Past is the long black night, With its keen lightnings white, Thunder and floods: new light The glimmering low east streaks.

The dense clouds part: between Their jagged rents are seen Pale reaches blue and green, As the mirk curtain breaks.

Above the shadowy world, Still more and more unfurled, The gathered mists upcurled Like phantoms melt and pa.s.s.

In clear-obscure revealed, Brown wood, gray stream, dark field: Fresh, healthy odors yield Wet furrows, flowers, and gra.s.s.

The sudden, splendid gleam Of one thin, golden beam Shoots from the feathered rim Of yon hill crowned with woods.

Down its embowered side, As living waters slide, So the great morning tide Follows in sunny floods.

From bush and hedge and tree Joy, unrestrained and free, Breaks forth in melody, Twitter and chirp and song: Alive the festal air With gauze-winged creatures fair, That flicker everywhere, Dart, poise, and flash along.

The shining mists are gone, Slight films of gold swift-blown Before the strong, bright sun Or the deep-colored sky: A world of life and glow Sparkles and basks below, Where the soft meads a-row, h.o.a.ry with dew-fall, lie.

Does not the morn break thus, Swift, bright, victorious, With new skies cleared for us, Over the soul storm-tost?

Her night was long and deep, Strange visions vexed her sleep, Strange sorrows bade her weep: Her faith in dawn was lost.

No halt, no rest for her, The immortal wanderer From sphere to higher sphere, Toward the pure source of day.

The new light shames her fears, Her faithlessness, her tears, As the new sun appears To light her G.o.dlike way.

SAINT ROMUALDO.

I give G.o.d thanks that I, a lean old man, Wrinkled, infirm, and crippled with keen pains By austere penance and continuous toil, Now rest in spirit, and possess "the peace Which pa.s.seth understanding." Th' end draws nigh, Though the beginning is yesterday, And a broad lifetime spreads 'twixt this and that-- A favored life, though outwardly the b.u.t.t Of ignominy, malice, and affront, Yet lighted from within by the clear star Of a high aim, and graciously prolonged To see at last its utmost goal attained.

I speak not of mine Order and my House, Here founded by my hands and filled with saints-- A white society of snowy souls, Swayed by my voice, by mine example led; For this is but the natural harvest reaped From labors such as mine when blessed by G.o.d.

Though I rejoice to think my spirit still Will work my purposes, through worthy hands, After my bones are shriveled into dust, Yet have I gleaned a finer, sweeter fruit Of holy satisfaction, sure and real, Though subtler than the tissue of the air-- The power completely to detach the soul From her companion through this life, the flesh; So that in blessed privacy of peace, Communing with high angels, she can hold, Serenely rapt, her solitary course.

Ye know, O saints of heaven, what I have borne Of discipline and scourge; the twisted lash Of knotted rope that striped my shrinking limbs; Vigils and fasts protracted, till my flesh Wasted and crumbled from mine aching bones, And the last skin, one woof of pain and sores, Thereto like yellow parchment loosely clung; Exposure to the fever and the frost, When 'mongst the hollows of the hills I lurked From persecution of misguided folk, Accustoming my spirit to ignore The burden of the cross, while picturing The bliss of disembodied souls, the grace Of holiness, the lives of sainted men, And entertaining all exalted thoughts, That nowise touched the trouble of the hour, Until the grief and pain seemed far less real Than the creations of my brain inspired.