The Poems of Emma Lazarus Volume I Part 21

AUGUST MOON.

Look! the round-cheeked moon floats high, In the glowing August sky, Quenching all her neighbor stars, Save the steady flame of Mars.

White as silver shines the sea, Far-off sails like phantoms be, Gliding o'er that lake of light, Vanishing in nether night.

Heavy hangs the ta.s.seled corn, Sighing for the cordial morn; But the marshy-meadows bare, Love this spectral-lighted air, Drink the dews and lift their song, Chirp of crickets all night long; Earth and sea enchanted lie 'Neath that moon-usurped sky.

To the faces of our friends Unfamiliar traits she lends-- Quaint, white witch, who looketh down With a glamour all her own.

Hushed are laughter, jest, and speech, Mute and heedless each of each, In the glory wan we sit, Visions vague before us flit; Side by side, yet worlds apart, Heart becometh strange to heart.

Slowly in a moved voice, then, Ralph, the artist spake again-- "Does not that weird orb unroll Scenes phantasmal to your soul?

As I gaze thereon, I swear, Peopled grows the vacant air, Fables, myths alone are real, White-clad sylph-like figures steal 'Twixt the bushes, o'er the lawn, G.o.ddess, nymph, undine, and faun.

Yonder, see the Willis dance, Faces pale with stony glance; They are maids who died unwed, And they quit their gloomy bed, Hungry still for human pleasure, Here to trip a moonlit measure.

Near the sh.o.r.e the mermaids play, Floating on the cool, white spray, Leaping from the glittering surf To the dark and fragrant turf, Where the frolic trolls, and elves Daintily disport themselves.

All the shapes by poet's brain, Fashioned, live for me again, In this spiritual light, Less than day, yet more than night.

What a world! a waking dream, All things other than they seem, Borrowing a finer grace, From yon golden globe in s.p.a.ce; Touched with wild, romantic glory, Foliage fresh and billows h.o.a.ry, Hollows bathed in yellow haze, Hills distinct and fields of maize, Ancient legends come to mind.

Who would marvel should he find, In the copse or nigh the spring, Summer fairies gamboling Where the honey-bees do suck, Mab and Ariel and Puck?

Ah! no modern mortal sees Creatures delicate as these.

All the simple faith has gone Which their world was builded on.

Now the moonbeams coldly glance On no gardens of romance; To prosaic senses dull, Baldur's dead, the Beautiful, Hark, the cry rings overhead, 'Universal Pan is dead!'"

"Requiescant!" Claude's grave tone Thrilled us strangely. "I am one Who would not restore that Past, Beauty will immortal last, Though the beautiful must die-- This the ages verify.

And had Pan deserved the name Which his votaries misclaim, He were living with us yet.

I behold, without regret, Beauty in new forms recast, Truth emerging from the vast, Bright and orbed, like yonder sphere, Making the obscure air clear.

He shall be of bards the king, Who, in worthy verse, shall sing All the conquests of the hour, Stealing no fict.i.tious power From the cla.s.sic types outworn, But his rhythmic line adorn With the marvels of the real.

He the baseless feud shall heal That estrangeth wide apart Science from her sister Art.

Hold! look through this gla.s.s for me?

Artist, tell me what you see?"

"I!" cried Ralph. "I see in place Of Astarte's silver face, Or veiled Isis' radiant robe, Nothing but a rugged globe Seamed with awful rents and scars.

And below no longer Mars, Fierce, flame-crested G.o.d of war, But a lurid, flickering star, Fashioned like our mother earth, Vexed, belike, with death and birth."

Rapt in dreamy thought the while, With a sphinx-like shadowy smile, Poet Florio sat, but now Spake in deep-voiced accents slow, More as one who probes his mind, Than for us--"Who seeks, shall find-- Widening knowledge surely brings Vaster themes to him who sings.

Was veiled Isis more sublime Than yon frozen fruit of Time, Hanging in the naked sky?

Death's domain--for worlds too die.

Lo! the heavens like a scroll Stand revealed before my soul; And the hieroglyphs are suns-- Changeless change the law that runs Through the flame-inscribed page, World on world and age on age, b.a.l.l.s of ice and orbs of fire, What abides when these expire?

Through slow cycles they revolve, Yet at last like clouds dissolve.

Jove, Osiris, Brahma pa.s.s, Races wither like the gra.s.s.

Must not mortals be as G.o.ds To embrace such periods?

Yet at Nature's heart remains One who waxes not nor wanes.

And our crowning glory still Is to have conceived his will."

SUNRISE.

September 26, 1881.

Weep for the martyr! Strew his bier With the last roses of the year; Shadow the land with sables; knell The harsh-tongued, melancholy bell; Beat the dull m.u.f.fled drum, and flaunt The drooping banner; let the chant Of the deep-throated organ sob-- One voice, one sorrow, one heart-throb, From land to land, from sea to sea-- The huge world quires his elegy.

Tears, love, and honor he shall have, Through ages keeping green his grave.

Too late approved, too early lost, His story is the people's boast.

Tough-sinewed offspring of the soil, Of peasant lineage, reared to toil, In Europe he had been a thing To the glebe tethered--here a king!

Crowned not for some transcendent gift, Genius of power that may lift A Caesar or a Bonaparte Up to the starred goal of his heart; But that he was the epitome Of all the people aim to be.

Were they his dying trust? He was No less their model and their gla.s.s.

In him the daily traits were viewed Of the undistinguished mult.i.tude.

Brave as the silent myriads are, Crushed by the juggernaut world-car; Strong with the people's strength, yet mild, Simple and tender as a child; Wise with the wisdom of the heart, Able in council, field, and mart; Nor lacking in the lambent gleam, The great soul's final stamp--the beam Of genial fun, the humor sane Wherewith the hero sports with pain.

His virtues hold within the span Of his obscurest fellow-man.

To live without reproach, to die Without a fear--in these words lie His highest aims, for none too high.

No triumph his beyond the reach Of patient courage, kindly speech; And yet so brave the soul outbreathed, The great example he bequeathed, Were all to follow, we should see A universal chivalry.

His trust, the People! They respond From Maine to Florida, beyond The sea-walled continent's broad scope, Honor his pledge, confirm his hope.

Hark! over seas the echo hence, The nations do him reverence.

An Empress lays her votive wreath Where peoples weep with bated breath.

The world-clock strikes a fateful hour, Bright with fair portents, big with power,-- The first since history's course has run, When kings' and peoples' cause is one; Those mourn a brother--these a son!

O how he loved them! That gray morn, When his wound-wasted form was borne North, from the White House to the sea, Lifting his tired lids thankfully, "How good," he murmured in his pain, "To see the people once again!"

Oh, how they loved him! They stood there, Thronging the road, the street, the square, With hushed lips locked in silent prayer, Uncovered heads and streaming eyes, Breathless as when a father dies.

The records of the ghostly ride, Past town and field at morning-tide.

When life's full stream is wont to gush Through all its ways with boisterous rush, --The records note that once a hound Had barked, and once was heard the sound Of cart-wheels rumbling on the stones-- And once, mid stifled sobs and groans, One man dared audibly lament, And cried, "G.o.d bless the president!"

Always the waiting crowds to send A G.o.d-speed to his journey's end-- The anxious whisper, brow of gloom, As in a sickness-sacred room, Till his ear drank with ecstasy The rhythmic thunders of the sea.

Tears for the smitten fatherless, The wife's, the mother's life-distress, To whom the million-throated moan From throne and hut, may not atone For one hushed voice, one empty chair, One presence missing everywhere.

But only words of joy and sheer, The people from his grave shall hear.

Were they not worthy of his trust, From whose seed sprang the sacred dust?

He broke the bars that separate The humble from the high estate.

And heirs of empire round his bed Mourn with the "disinherited."

Oh, toil-worn, patient Heart that bleeds, Whose martyrdom even his exceeds, Wronged, cursed, despised, misunderstood-- Oh, all-enduring mult.i.tude, Rejoice! amid you tears, rejoice!

There issues from this grave a voice, Proclaiming your long night is o'er, Your day-dawn breaks from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e.

You have redeemed his pledge, remained Secure, erect, and self-sustained, Holding more dear one thing alone, Even than the blood of dearest son, Revering with religious awe The inviolable might of Law.

A MASQUE OF VENICE.

(A Dream.)