ON A PORTRAIT OF DANTE BY GIOTTO.
CAN this be thou who, lean and pale, With such immitigable eye
Didst look upon those writhing souls in bale, And note each vengeance, and pass by Unmoved, save when thy heart by chance Cast backward one forbidden glance,
And saw Francesca, with child's glee, Subdue and mount thy wild-horse knee And with proud hands control its fiery prance?
With half-drooped lids, and smooth, round brow, And eye remote, that inly sees Fair Beatrice's spirit wandering now In some sea-lulled Hesperides, Thou movest through the jarring street, Secluded from the noise of feet
By her gift-blossom in thy hand, Thy branch of palm from Holy Land;- No trace is here of ruin's fiery sleet.
Yet there is something round thy lips That prophesies the coming doom, The soft, gray herald-shadow ere the eclipse Notches the perfect disk with gloom ; A something that would banish thee, And thine untamed pursuer be,
From men and their unworthy fates, Though Florence had not shut her gates,
And grief had loosed her clutch and let thee free.
Ah! he who follows fearlessly
The beckonings of a poet-heart
Shall wander, and without the world's decree, A banished man in field and mart; Harder than Florence' walls the bar Which with deaf sternness holds him far From home and friends, till death's release, And makes his only prayer for peace,
Like thine, scarred veteran of a lifelong war!
ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND'S CHILD
DEATH never came so nigh to me before, Nor showed me his mild face: oft had I mused Of calm and peace and deep forgetfulness, Of folded hands, closed eyes, and heart at rest, And slumber sound beneath a flowery turf, Of faults forgotten, and an inner place Kept sacred for us in the heart of friends; But these were idle fancies, satisfied With the mere husk of this great mystery, And dwelling in the outward shows of things. Heaven is not mounted to on wings of dreams, Nor doth the unthankful happiness of youth Aim thitherward, but floats from bloom to bloom, With earth's warm patch of sunshine well content Tis sorrow builds the shining ladder up, Whose golden rounds are our calamities, Whereon our firm feet planting, nearer God The spirit climbs, and hath its eyes unsealed.
True is it that Death's face seems stern and cold, When he is sent to summon those we love, But all God's angels come to us disguised; Sorrow and sickness, poverty and death, One after other lift their frowning masks, And we behold the seraph's face beneath, All radiant with the glory and the calm Of having looked upon the front of God. With every anguish of our earthly part The spirit's sight grows clearer; this was meant Vhen Jesus touched the blind man's lids with clay.
Life is the jailer, Death the angel sent To draw the unwilling bolts and set us free. He flings not ope the ivory gate of Rest, Only the fallen spirit knocks at that,- But to benigner regions beckons us, To destinies of more rewarded toil. In the hushed chamber, sitting by the dead, It grates on us to hear the flood of life
Whirl rustling onward, senseless of our loss. The bee hums on; around the blossomed vine Whirs the light humming-bird; the cricket chirps;
The locust's shrill alarum stings the ear;
Hard by, the cock shouts lustily; from farm t farm,
His cheery brothers, telling of the sun, Answer, till far away the joyance dies: We never knew before how God had filled The summer air with happy living sounds; All round us seems an overplus of life, And yet the one dear heart lies cold and still. It is most strange, when the great miracle
Hath for our sakes been done, when we have had Our inwardest experience of God,
When with his presence still the room expands, And is awed after him, that naught is changed, That Nature's face looks unacknowledging, And the mad world still dances heedless on After its butterflies, and gives no sign. 'Tis hard at first to see it all aright;
In vain Faith blows her trump to summon back Her scattered troop; yet, through the cloude glass
Of our own bitter tears, we learn to look
Undazzled on the kindness of God's face;
Earth is too dark, and Heaven alone shine through.
t is no little thing, when a fresh soul
And a fresh heart, with their unmeasured scope for good, not gravitating earthward yet, But circling in diviner periods,
Are sent into the world,--no little thing, When this unbounded possibility
nto the outer silence is withdrawn.
Ah, in this world, where every guiding thread Ends suddenly in the one sure centre, death, The visionary hand of Might-have-been Alone can fill Desire's cup to the brim!
How changed, dear friend, are thy part and thy child's!
He bends above thy cradle now, or holds
His warning finger out to be thy guide; Thou art the nurseling now; he watches thee slow learning, one by one, the secret things Which are to him used sights of every day; He smiles to see thy wondering glances con The grass and pebbles of the spirit world, To thee miraculous; and he will teach Thy knees their due observances of prayer. Children are God's apostles, day by day jent forth to preach of love, and hope, and peace; Vor hath thy babe his mission left undone. To me, at least, his going hence hath given Serener thoughts and nearer to the skies, And opened a new fountain in my heart For thee, my friend, and all: and, O, if Death More near approaches meditates, and clasps Even now some dearer, more reluctant hand, rod, strengthen thou my faith, that I may see That 'tis thine angel, who, with loving haste, Into the service of the inner shrine Doth waken thy beloved with a kiss !
« ElőzőTovább » |