human
Can you write me a poem about lazaretto in the style of Joseph Pennell?
assistant
Sure, here's a poem about lazaretto in the style of Joseph Pennell:
  Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by
These literary chips from the workshop of an arduous profession
foster-mother, a circumstance evidently not forgotten.
--"Just look at those children," said he, nodding his head in the
--"Cousin's, and little Michael's."
The two little girls at this moment came up on to the terrace.
--"Monsieur Gabriel?" asked Josephe, springing forward with this
exclamation.
--"No, no, goose-cap--cousin Dorot and little Michael."
disengaged. An intimacy between herself and Ropars went on,
The difference in their respective ages did not seem to mar the
--"Who knows whether she won't bring you some lodgers for your
lazaretto?"
tenderness, and declaring that they preferred to remain. The
powder-magazine.
excitement of leave-taking, appeared to leeward of Treberon. Her
newly-raised anticipation had in it something so abrupt and so
unexpected, that Francine and Josephe could by no means resign
themselves to it. Desolate was the look that they exchanged, and
Mathieu in the meantime had gone to receive the persons placed in
--"Holy Virgin! what is it?"
--"The yellow fever!"
"I am come here.... If I live, we shall meet.... If I die ...
present this letter to the captain of the _Thetis_ ... and claim
for Josephe ... my large mahogany chest.
powder-magazine."
disappeared in the thickest of the flowering tufts.
--"You see they have," answered Josephe shuddering.
Her sister put her hand upon her lips.
--"You saw it?" asked the child, frightened, yet curious.
--"Ah! I'm certain of it," she exclaimed, confirmed by this very
Hereupon the feverish voice of the child reached their ears.
--"Dry your eyes first," said he, passing his own hand with fond
--"There is a way," he replied cautiously.
--"The powder-magazine skiff?"
--"She's there, you know, to keep guard over the island."
--"But who then can help us?"
--"But not at night," interrupted Genevieve; "not burdened with a
together.
--"Not any more, now," was the low-toned reply.
whispering in her ear,
Francine made an affirmative sign.
The child shuddered.--"I would rather stay," said she, in hurried
understand?"
--"Then you will come?" asked he.
--"Yes," murmured the little girl.
--"And you won't be afraid; you won't say a word?"
desperation of terror.
far-away in the obscurity.
--"The devil take me, if I didn't hear a cry," said the former.
--"Pardieu! it half-woke me up," added the second.
The couple were leaning over the sea, which kept up its gentle
--"Why so?" asked Morvan.
--"Why so?" returned the sailor, who seemed half-afraid and
themselves."
--"Get out, nonsense!" interrupted the first seaman, evidently
Frightened and panting for breath, he swam about without aim,
--"Open the door!" said Mathieu to him in a low voice.
--"Ropars!" cried the sergeant, thunderstruck.
Dorot drew back, exclaiming, "Can it be? in God's name, what has
happened, that you should thus expose your life?"
--"Yes, yes, there, sleep, poor creature of a merciful God!" he
half-muttered; "I will not wake you."
They heartily embraced; then Mathieu went down to the shore, and
Then, as if this idea had awakened in her a sort of terror:
She stopped abruptly, putting up both hands to her forehead.
Her face assumed an expression of ineffable serenity.
She took his hand and looked at him.
--"It shall be done so as you desire, Genevieve," said the
--"Can you follow the bubbling of the sea along the reef?"
These words, or rather these mother's cries, had been so full of
She checked herself with a stifled exclamation.
resignation.
--"Never!" broke in Ropars.
With her hand she silenced him.
--"Enough, Genevieve!" murmured the seaman, choking with emotion.
salvation, I shall fall asleep, at peace, and blessing you."
This death was the last. Like those expiatory victims who, in
dignified and well-bred woman. Silent or talking, it was Mary who
"Then keep a place for me; I'll come."
"Miss Verner, let me present Mr. Cuthbert."
Nearly opposite to us at table sat a Mr. Easton, a young
About this time, too, there began--at which end of the table, I
pleasant time of it.
"Didn't I tell you, you would like my friend Mary Verner?"
Two years later; two years and two months.
Did you ever notice the marked difference between youth and old
colours." Thereupon, a change of plan and passport. Behold me at
Cauterets in France, instead of at Grindelwald in Switzerland!
mountain-monarchs hereabouts.
The fog lifted. I could see to a distance of half a dozen yards.
light-hearted.
The Marchioness was at her toilet. Florine and Aspasia, her two
Three-and-twenty years earlier, his Majesty had held her at the
contrary.
Equerry on foot. He had been amusing himself with quail-shooting,
"Ah, Sire, that wasn't very kind of you."
"You think me so, Sire?"
"I tell you so every day. Oh, what fine oranges!"
"It was the Countess who gave them to me," she continued.
"A trumpery gift, it seems to me, Marchioness."
"I give it up," said the King.
"And do you dabble in politics, Marchioness? Have you a fancy for
"I'll tell you," said the dame. "You know, Sire, that Monsieur de
morning."
"A long time, there's no denying."
"Very well; then marry Monsieur de Menneval."
"Ah, ah! the ambitious man!"
"Then marry Monsieur de Beaugency."
"Just so, Sire. But observe what happens."
"Ah, what does happen?"
"Well, are you willing that I should take part in your game?"
"You, Sire? Ah, what a joke that would be!"
"Excellent! Now, Sire, let's see the result."
"And we more puzzled than ever, Sire?"
"And Monsieur de Menneval? and Monsieur de Beaugency?" said the
Louis XV. began to cogitate.
"And their love is equally strong?"
"I trust so, Sire."
"And I don't believe a word of it."
"Both of them?"
"And what is the price, Sire?"
"And then, Sire?"
"And in the end?"
"What is your intention, Sire?" asked the Marchioness.
"I conceal myself like the kings of Persia, from the eyes of my
subjects," replied Louis XV. "Hush, Marchioness."
A few moments later, and Monsieur de Beaugency entered the room.
"Decidedly, I believe that the test is useless; it is Monsieur de
But after this "aside," the Marchioness resumed her gracious and
"A week? why, you were here yesterday!"
"Then I must have counted the hours for ages."
"You are hard upon me, Marchioness."
"Perhaps so, ... it comes naturally ... I am tired."
"That would, at least, be wearisome."
"Say a word, Madam, one single word, and my fortune, my future
prospects, my ambition!"--
"You are still then as ambitious as ever?"
"More than ever, since I have been in love with you."
"Is that necessary?"
"You may be right."
"I may be right, Marchioness! Listen to me, my fair lady-love."
"I am all attention, sir."
"Ah!" said the Marchioness, "you think so?"
"With my whole soul, Marchioness!"
"Are you prepared to make every sacrifice?"
"Every one, Madam."
"Oh, speak! Must a throne be conquered?"
"By no means, sir. You must only call to mind that you own a fine
"Pooh!" said Monsieur de Beaugency, "a shed."
"For what purpose?"
"A singular whim, Marchioness; but I submit to it."
"Very well. We will set out this evening.... Ah! I forgot."
"Before starting, you will send in your resignation to the King."
Monsieur de Beaugency almost bounded from his seat.
"Do you dream of that, Marchioness?"
"And on returning?"
"We will not return."
"Nowhere. We will remain at Courlac."
"All the winter?"
"And you will not emerge from your retreat?"
mysterious tones of a harp, sounding at eve from the light bark
He trembled, as he entered the Marchioness's boudoir. He remained
And as he spoke, the Marchioness sighed, and said within herself:
"All that man can do."
"I am ambitious," said the widow.
"Ah!" replied Monsieur de Menneval, sorrowfully.
"I will try so to do, if you wish it."
"Ah!" said Monsieur de Menneval, with indifference.
"I shall be prettily embarrassed, if Monsieur de Beaugency should
Thereupon, the King removed the screen and reappeared.
His Majesty stepped quietly to the round table, whereupon he had
replaced the oranges, and took up one of them.
"But, Sire, what are you doing?" was her eager inquiry.
"You see that I am eating the orange."
"It was of no manner of use to us."
"You have decided then?"
"That is not quite certain yet; let us wait."
The widow opened the note, and read:
"I have been making three persons happy: the Marchioness, whose
There was not a curtain of any kind over the window.
And anon it was the Arctic summer--and the blue waters peeped at
deliverance.
The remainder of my dream came upon me in snatches.
I, too, who knew more than they did, how I longed to see the
meeting--but no, no, 'twere better that it should be sacred.
"Is this resignation or fatuity?"
"That is my secret."
"Well, then," she said, "most learned doctor of conjugal arts and
"Even a kiss?"
"Oh! I have twenty times gained 'Iadeste' in that way," said she,
"Will you not be bestowing a treasure? I owe you already so many
"'I listen, my gazelle,' said the Arabian, seating himself upon a
"'Mr. Philosopher, don't forgot to insert this trick in your
collection.'"
scarcely be pronounced successful.
restless one, while yet his ear and eye are unsated!
interest. Caiques from Stamboul and gondolas from Venice shall be
acknowledged were not my original conception.
incontinently take morphine.
At that period, the steamers bound from Bombay to Suez touched at
For although we had persuaded Mr. Barrot, Don Pablo and their
Mahommedan sand was not in itself the essential duty of a plain
Seven--no, six--Sleepers.
mountaineers, or to _ci-devant jeunes hommes_ anxious to test the
In the second place, if--passing your life amid prairies or
savannahs--you are sometimes puzzled to comprehend allusions to
The artist bowed, with an air of respectful condolence.
The artist bowed again.
The widow raised her arm, and pointed despairingly to a splendid
likeness by Amaury Duval.
original."
"Take away this portrait! carry off my only consolation! my sole
remaining comfort! never! never!"
contemplating that will I pass the remainder of a miserable and
sorrowful existence."
require, who could apply himself to it forthwith."
Several letters echoed these injunctions, during the few days
immediately following the interview.
"Madam," said he, "I am entirely at your service."
"Into my bed-room? For what?"
"To look at the portrait again."
"Would you like, Madam, to look at the design for the monument?"
"You begged me to spare no expense."
"Certainly it would."
"So let it be, then--just the statue alone."
The artist brought with him a little model of his statue, done in
"What do you think of the likeness?" he inquired of the widow.
"Really? well, then, I can correct my work by the portrait."
"Excuse me, but I am particular about likenesses."
"If you absolutely must--"
"It is in the drawing-room, yonder, is it not? I'll go in there."
"Baptiste," said she to the servant who came in, "bring down the
portrait of your master."
"The portrait that you sent up to the garret, last week, Madam?"
"It is the model of a statue for my husband's tomb."
"Do you think so?"
"It is only great men who are thus cut out of marble, and at full
"In fact, his bust would be sufficient."
"Just as you please, Madam," said the sculptor.
"Well, let it be a bust, that's--determined!"
If the bust had not been completed, it would willingly have been
We were in the Arena at Arles. It was a splendid day--barring the
performance.
consequences by a run, a dodge, or a jump. The fence, which was a
Of the regular sights set down in the hand-books, and explored by
respectively. I have said that the bronze entirely satisfied my
A smile only--not a grunt of indignation--is elicited by another
scapegrace pupil who ran counter to those special attributes.
"serve to show,
How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below."
A comparison of the following lines, with the original American
Declaration of Independence, will show that the earnest and
When, in their course, human events compel
One people to dissolve the social bands
That linked them with another, and to take
Among the powers of the Earth that station,
Equal and separate, to which the laws
Of Nature and of Nature's God, by right,
Entitle them--respect to the opinions
Of fellow men calls on them to declare
The causes, which have rendered necessary
Such separation.
We, then, hold these truths
To be self-evident: That all mankind
Are equal, and endowed by their Creator
With certain unalienable rights:
That amongst these are Life, and Liberty,
And the Pursuit of Happiness: That men,
To make these rights available and safe,
Have instituted Governments, deriving
Their lawful power from the free consent
Of those they govern: That when any form
Of Government is proved to be destructive
Of these their ends, it is the People's right
To alter, or abolish it, and found
A Government anew, with principles
So laid for its foundation, and with powers
In such form organized, as shall to them
Seem most conducive to their happiness
And safety.
Prudence will, indeed, dictate
That long-established Governments should not
Be changed for any light or transient cause:
And all experience, accordingly,
Hath shown that men are more disposed to suffer,
So long as evils are endurable,
Than to assert their rights, and throw aside
Their customary forms. But when abuses
And usurpations, in a lengthened train,
Pursue an object steadfastly, evincing
A firm design to bow them down beneath
Absolute despotism, it is their right,
It is their bounden duty, to throw off
Such Government, and to provide new guards
For their security in future.
Has been the patient sufferance of these
Our Colonies, and such is now the need,
That forces them to change their present systems
Of Government. Great Britain's present King
Hath made his history the history
Of usurpation, and of injuries
Often repeated, and directly tending
To the establishment of Tyranny
Over these States: to prove this, let the World
In candour listen to undoubted facts.
He has refused to give assent to laws,
Wholesome, and needful for the public good.
He has denied his Governors the power
To sanction laws of pressing urgency,
Unless suspended in their operation,
Till his assent should be obtained; and when
Suspended thus, he has failed wilfully
To give them further thought. He has refused
To sanction other laws, deemed advantageous
To districts thickly peopled, unless they,
Who dwelt therein, would basely throw away
Their right to representatives--a right
Inestimable, to themselves and only
To Tyrants formidable. In the hope
To weary them into a weak compliance
With his obnoxious measures, he has summoned
The Legislative Bodies to assemble
At places inconvenient, and unusual,
And whence their public records were remote.
He has repeatedly dissolved the Houses
Of Representatives for interfering
With manly firmness, when he has invaded
The People's rights. Long time he has refused,
After such dissolutions, to convene
Others in lieu of them; whereby, the powers
Of Legislation, since they might not be
Annihilated, have for exercise
Been forced upon the body of the people;
Leaving, meanwhile, the unprotected State
To dangers of invasion from without,
And inward anarchy. He has endeavoured
To check the population of these States,
Thwarting the laws for naturalization
Of foreigners, withholding his assent
From other laws, that might encourage them
In immigrating hither, and enhancing
The price of new allotments of the soil.
He has obstructed the administration
Of Justice, by his veto on the laws
Establishing judiciary powers
He has made Judges on his will alone
Dependent, for the tenure of their office,
For the amount, and for the proper payment
Of their emoluments. He has erected
New offices in multitudes, and sent
Swarms of his officers to harass us,
And to eat out our substance. He has kept,
In times of peace, among us, standing armies,
Without the sanction of our Legislatures.
His aim has been to place the military
Above the civil power, and beyond
Its just control. He has combined with others
To make us subject to a jurisdiction,
In spirit foreign to our Constitution,
And unacknowledged by our laws; assenting
To acts, that they have passed with semblance only
Of legislation: Acts for quartering
Among us bodies of armed troops: For shielding,
By a mock trial, those their instruments
From punishment for any murders done
On our inhabitants: For cutting off
Our trade with every quarter of the world--
For laying on us taxes not approved
By our consent: For oft-times robbing us
Of any benefit that might attend
Trial by jury: For transporting us
Beyond the seas, to answer for offences,
Imputed to us: For abolishing,
Within a neighbouring province, the free system
Of English laws; establishing therein
An arbitrary power; and enlarging
Its boundaries, to render it at once
The fit example, and the instrument
For bringing into these our Colonies
The same despotic rule: For taking from us
Our Charters; and abolishing our laws
Most valued; changing thus, in principle,
Our forms of Government: And for suspending
Our Legislatures, with the declaration
That they, themselves, in each and every case,
Were vested with supreme authority
To legislate for us.
He has laid down
His sway, by holding us without the pale
Of his protection, and by waging war
Against us. He has plundered on our seas;
Ravaged our coasts; our cities burnt; and taken
Our people's lives. He is transporting hither
Armies composed of foreign mercenaries,
To end the works of death, and desolation,
And tyranny, begun with circumstances
Of cruelty and perfidy unequalled
In the most barbarous ages, and unworthy
The Ruler of a nation civilized.
He has constrained our fellow-citizens,
On the high seas made captive, to bear arms
Against their country, and of friends and brothers
To be the executioners, or fall
Beneath his creatures' hands. He has excited
Amongst ourselves domestic insurrection;
And sought to bring on the inhabitants
Of our frontier the savage Indian,
Whose code of warfare, merciless and sure,
Spares not, in undistinguished massacre,
Age, sex, condition.
We, in every stage
Of these oppressions, have in humblest terms
Petitioned for redress. To our petitions,
Though oft repeated, there has been _one_ answer--
Repeated injury.
A prince, whose life
And conduct thus are marked by every act
That may define a Tyrant, is unfit
To rule o'er Freemen.
Neither have we failed
In due attention to our British brethren.
From time to time, we have admonished them
Of efforts, by their Legislature made,
Unwarrantably to extend to us
Their jurisdiction. How we emigrated,
And settled here, we have reminded them.
We to their native justice have appealed
And magnanimity; and have conjured them,
By common kindred ties, to disavow
These usurpations, which, inevitably,
Would mar our intercourse and friendship. They
Have also turned a deaf ear to the voice
So must we yield to the necessity
Which forces us to separate, and hold them--
As we do hold the rest of human kind--
Our enemies in War, in Peace our friends.
We, therefore, who are here to represent
In General Congress met, for rectitude
Of our intentions to the Judge Supreme
Of all things here in confidence appealing,
Do, in the name, and by authority
Of the good people of these Colonies,
Solemnly publish and declare, that these
United Colonies are, and of right
That from allegiance to the British Crown
They are absolved: That all connecting ties
Of policy between them and Great Britain
Are, as they should be, totally dissolved:
And that, as Free and Independent States,
They have full power to levy war, conclude
Peace, and contract alliances, establish
Commerce, and do all other acts and things
Which Independent States of right may do.
This is our Declaration: to support it,
With firm reliance on Divine protection,
We to each other mutually pledge
Our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honour.
Browning, whose household gods were planted
Beside the banks of classic Arno,
Once, in a dainty ballad, chanted
The lady of the _bella mano_.
Pass from the Arno to the Tiber,
From Tuscan to a Roman lady;
And let a humbler bard describe her--
This fair one of the _bel piede_.
To Roman dame, as I and you know,
Is rarely given a foot symmetrical;
No Cinderellas--many a Juno--
Upon the Pincian we can yet recall.
Those were the days when bonnets did not
Expose the face to every starer;
When skirts, worn short and airy, hid not
The foot and ankle of the wearer.
With high arched instep, narrow, tapering,
Divinely booted--none could beat hers--
The foot, that set my young heart capering,
Came down the broad steps of St. Peter's.
Her long black veil, the crowd around me,
Her swift landau, my swift emotion--
She came: her fairy foot spell-bound me;
She went: which way, I had no notion.
Haunting all public haunts was fruitless,
Mid solemn pomps, on festal hey-day;
Search for those glorious boots was bootless:
Rome showed no more my _bel piede_.
In Paris next enchained it held me,
Through redowa, waltz, all sorts of dances;
But mask and domino repelled me--
She moved, but I made no advances.
Again she passed--no trace behind her--
I sought, enquired, left nothing undone;
But all was vain: I could not find her,
And, in despair, set off for London.
The sea between Boulogne and Dover
Was, as it always is, terrific;
Against that awful passage over,
Why not invent some smooth specific?
Cloaked, muffled, shawled, a form was leaning
Across the gunwale, keeping shady;
I recked not what might be its meaning--
I thought not, then, of _bel piede_.
Sudden, a lurch, a shriek, a splashing!
I knew the shriek was from a lady;
But horror through my brain went crashing--
I saw, heels up, my _bel piede_!
She sank. No more! But O ye mermaids,
Of whose long tails we've had a surfeit,
If ye were worthy to be her maids,
You'd cut your tails, and copy her feet!
A Spanish writer once decided,
In flippant song,
That woman's lip, or tongue, or eye did
All that went wrong.
Nay, that the true mode of unmasking
Her wiles would be,
On all occasions simply asking--
Pray, who is she?
Now, why must woman's petticoats
Aye be the blamables?
How is't Quevedo never quotes
Mankind's unnamables?
He rates the sex, and certes for it he
Makes a good plea;
But can't I, on as good authority,
Quevedo swears that Eve and Helen
Wrought dire mishaps:
That Adam and the Trojans fell in
Their deep-laid traps.
Eve?--why Diabolus beguiled her;
You know't, Quevedo!
Helen?--that rascal Paris wiled her:
That's Homer's _credo_!
Trust me, man causes woman's failing;
And, on my life,
He's always wantonly assailing
Maid, widow, wife.
Beneath the surface let the gazer
Look deep--he'll see
Some stronger vessel that betrays her:
Just ask--who's he?
Is it a milk-maid drops her pailful?--
Lubin's love-making:
Is her fate scandalous or baleful?--
Lubin's been raking!
The school-girl loaths her bread and butter,
Pouts o'er her tea,
Mumbles her lessons in a flutter--
Despite experience, what can set
The widow hoping?
Why are wives sometimes gadding met,
And sometimes moping?
Don't talk of widows' amorous bump,
Of wives too free;
But pop the question to them, plump--
We're mighty prompt to throw the blame on
The weaker fair sex;
When justice ought to fix the shame on
Ours--not on their sex.
Ours the seduction and the fooling,
If such there be:
Come; your exception to this ruling--
The old and hump-backed ply their battery
Well-knit young fellows deal in flattery,
Dance, song, oaths, duels.
So, to conclude, I'll take my oath, sir,
That to blame one--in place of both, sir,--
Is a gross libel!
Were I to tell thee, ne'ertheless, that, troth, I love thee well,
Were I to tell thee that, beneath six months of silence crushed,
Long-hidden torments I have borne, and vows insensate hushed;
Ninon, despite thy careless air, thou hast a searching eye,
That, like a Fairy's, ere it come, what's coming can espy:
"I know it all, I know it all," thou would'st perchance reply.
Were I to tell thee that I roam in sweet, delirious dream,
Haunting thy footsteps so that I thy very shadow seem;
A tinge of sadness on thy cheek, a quick, mistrustful glance,--
Ninon, thou knowest well that these thy loveliness enhance:
And thus, that thou believest not, thou would'st reply perchance.
Were I to tell thee that my soul hoards up the lightest word,
That falling from thy lips at eve in our discourse I've heard;
Lady, thou know'st that, when aroused to anger or disdain,
Were I to tell thee that by night I wake and think of thee,
And that by day for thee I pray, and weep on bended knee,
Ah! Ninon, when thou laugh'st, the bee, as well thou art aware,
But nothing shalt thou know of this. I venture, all untold,
Calmly to sit beneath thy lamp, and converse with thee hold.
I hear the murmur of thy voice, thy balmy breath inhale;
By stealth at times, in secret joy, mysterious flowers I glean,
When o'er thy harpsichord at eve enraptured I can lean,
And list from thy harmonious hands what fairy accents flow;
Or in voluptuous waltz, as round with flying feet we go,
I feel thee in mine arms, a reed, that's waving to and fro.
When from thy side I have been kept by thronged saloons at night,
A thousand reminiscences I seize upon, and hold
In jealous grasp; and there, alone, like miser o'er his gold,
To Heaven my heart, all full of thee, with greedy joy unfold.
I love; and I have learned to speak in cool and careless tone.
I love; nought tells of it. I love; who knows it?--I alone!
Dear is my secret, dear the pain with which I am oppressed;
And I have sworn to love, without a hope on which to rest;
But not without a taste of joy--I see thee, and am blest.
No! not for me! I was not born such bliss supreme to meet:
To die within thy arms, or live contented at thy feet.
Alas! all proves it--e'en the grief that fain I would dispel.
Were I to tell thee, ne'ertheless, that, troth, I love thee well:
The incident, which the following stanzas attempt to describe, is
Ye, who have the ruins seen
Of the Coliseum's walls,
Think ye, what the sight hath been
Of Rome's highest festivals!
If your fancy can restore
Crumbled arch and corridor,
Call forth the dead;
Bid them fill again the seats,
Where now Echo only greets
The stranger's tread.
Fourteen hundred years are past,
Rome hath fallen in her pride,
Since the gladiator last
In the Coliseum died.
Fourteen hundred years ago,
Tens of thousands thronged the show,
In joyous guise,
On the struggle and the strife,
And the pangs of parting life,
Feasting their eyes.
Then ye might have heard the roar
Of the noble beasts of prey,
As they fought and bled, before
Men less noble far than they.
Strength is useless, courage vain,
Beauty saves not--they are slain,
The forest race;
Whilst the still unsated crowd
For new victims shout aloud,
To fill their place.
Hark! the Praetor's stern command
Costlier sacrifice proclaims;
Lo! the gladiatorial band,
As they enter, man by man,
Shape and size the people scan
With eager glance;
And of each ill-fated pair,
That await the signal there,
Foretell the chance.
Hark! the trumpet's sudden sound;
Lo! the work of death begun:
Seas of blood shall drench the ground,
Ere that deadly work be done.
Ha! a moment of delay?
What the lifted hand can stay?
Is there a fear
Of Pompeii's fiery shower?
Or, doth Earthquake's giant power
Make havoc here?
No--for Nature with a smile
Looks upon her outraged laws,
Man's indignant voice the while
Bidding man in pity pause.
See!--a monk, obscure, unknown,
Christ's disciple, treads alone
The arena's sand,
Foe from foe intent to part,
Striving with a zealous heart,
But feeble hand.
Would ye seek to know his fate?
Listen to that savage yell!
Scorn, derision, fury, hate,
Doomed his death--the martyr fell.
Record there is none to show,
Whose the hand that dealt the blow
That laid him there;
Men who gazed, and men who fought,
All alike to madness wrought,
The guilt must share.
Whether stoned to death, or slain
By the sword, or by the spear,
Little recks it--it were vain
Through the mists of time to peer.
This we know--the martyr died;
Nor without success had plied
His work of peace,
Since, to expiate that deed,
Rome's Imperial Lord decreed,
The Games should cease.
Rome obeyed her Lord's commands;
Never were those Games renewed:
Now the priest of Jesus stands
Where the gladiator stood.
Thanks, Telemachus, to thee,
Sainted martyr, now we see
Altars around;
And the spot, where thou of yore
Did'st thy life-blood nobly pour,
Is hallowed ground.
At Salem Meeting-House, one summer day,
Two lovers, Abby Purkis and John Cole,
Were joined in holy wedlock. Off they started
To spend the honey-moon, gregarious,
Reaching this last-named wonder of the world,
They went the usual round; mounted the tower
That overlooks the cataract; stood and watched
The eddying Rapids, and the whirling Pool;
Nor on thy deck, O daring "_Maid of the Mist_,"
Failed they to buffet the tumultuous roar,
The drenching spray, the seeming perilous plunge
Beneath the Horse-Shoe. Every where, throughout,
Abby was brave; nay, on John's stalwart arm
Leaning, was confident.
At last they reached
The Cavern of the Winds. Then changed her bearing.
Trembling, she paused. In truth, the howling blasts,
And gusty moans as of imprisoned spirits,
Struck the bride's soul with terror. All aghast,
She stood before the entrance, and refused,
Firmly refused to trust herself within.
John urged--she would not; coaxed--'twas all in vain;
Laughed at, and called her "little fool"--she would not.
Nay more, she prayed him by the love he bore her
Not to set foot himself within a place
So fraught with peril. John was ungallant,
And only laughed the more. Not he the man
To flinch from fisticuffs with Aeolus!
Had he not harpooned whales in Arctic seas?
Were not typhoon, white squall, and hurricane
His some time playmates? It was her turn now
To coax, and urge, and crave--and be denied.
Chafed that her will was not a law to John,
Abby was woman still, and sorely grieved
That he should run such risks. She kissed him fondly,
And bade him tread with care, and hasten back.
Her voice was choked with sobs. Her latest words
Were scarcely audible, though through them breathed
Salem's sound training. "John," she faltered forth,
"We know not what may happen: dear, dear John,
"Were it not well that you--should--leave--with--me--
Down by the side of a sweet clover-stack,
On a summer night, I lie on my back.
Clear space is above me; and there, as I lie,
I look straight up to the stars in the sky.
Once, when the King was dethroned by the mob,
They swarmed to his palace, to stare or to rob,
And the frightened lackies flung open the doors,
And clouted shoes scraped along polished floors.
Then it was I caught sight of his Majesty's bed,
With its canopy, gilded and carved, overhead;--
If his Majesty wishes the stars to behold,
And looks up, he can see but the carving and gold!
Some night, should my soul be unbound as I sleep,
And downward an Angel in search of it sweep,
No bar, no obstruction, would hinder his flight;--
With a wave of his wings, by my corpse he would light.
But what, if the soul to be loosed were the King's?
Could an Angel reach that by the poise of his wings?
Could he easily cleave through a palace his way?
Through ceilings bedizened, through floors in decay--
Through gorgeous apartments and bare attic rooms,
For lords and for ladies, for valets and grooms--
Through a quaint peaked roof rising high o'er the whole--
Could he enter, and tenderly waft off the soul?
Better, then, is the bed by the sweet clover-stack,
With the stars full in view, and the clear Angel's track!
And though much be not mine of this world's pleasant things,
I should care not to barter my couch for the King's!
"Say, who art thou, with more than mortal air,
Endowed by Heaven with gifts and graces rare,
Whom restless, winged feet for ever onward bear?"--
"I am Occasion--known to few, at best;
And since one foot upon a wheel I rest,
Constant my movements are--they cannot be repressed.
"Not the swift eagle in his swiftest flight
Can equal me in speed. My wings are bright;
And man, who sees them waved, is dazzled by the sight.
"My thick and flowing locks, before me thrown,
Conceal my form--nor face, nor breast is shown,
That thus, as I approach, my coming be not known.
"Behind my head, no single lock of hair
Invites the hand, that fain would it grasp there;
But he, who lets me pass, to seize me may despair."
"Whom, then, so close behind thee do I see?"--
"Her name is Penitence; and Heaven's decree
Hath made all those her prey, who profit not by me.
"And thou, O mortal, who dost vainly ply
These curious questions, thou dost not descry,
That now thy time is lost--for I am passing by."
Captain Semmes is on a cruise
O'er the track that skippers use;
From the Western Isles, to those
Near Nantucket shoals, he goes.
Letters to the merchants tell
Who into his clutches fell;
'Tis the talk of all the town;
News-boys call it up and down
Straight the sons of Commerce came
To their Chamber, crying shame
For the tidings they had learned,
For their ships and cargoes burned.
Up and spake a merchant prince:
"Friends, our city well may wince,
For you have, alas! to know
Of a most disastrous blow!
"All is sunk beneath the waves,
Breadstuffs, lard, tobacco, staves;
Chained have been our Captains bold
In the 'Alabama's' hold!
"Lawless, too, is Captain Semmes;
Neutral shipments he condemns.
Useless is it to appeal
To Consul's signature and seal.
"But there's worse than this behind;
Treacherous friends this blow designed.
Great as is the corsair's guilt,
Greater theirs his ship who built!
"Neutral money, neutral skill,
Wrought us this outrageous ill;
Neutral engines, neutral guns,
Aid him as he fights or runs.
"Sons of Commerce, men of worth,
Let these words of mine go forth!
Let the British monarch know
That to her all this we owe!"
So the warning words went forth
To England, from the angered North,
Passed along from mouth to mouth,
"No more dealings with the South!"
"You may sell to this our land
All we want of contraband;
But have a care that nothing goes,
From you, a neutral, to our foes!"
Now Heaven preserve us all in peace,
And let these ugly squabbles cease!
So fighters all, and standers-by,
Shall nevermore have cause to cry,
Man was saying: "How can we,
In our little boats at sea,
Pass the guarda-costas by?"--
"Row!" said Woman in reply.
Man was saying: "How forget
Perils that our lives beset,
Strife, and Poverty's low cry?"--
"Sleep!" said Woman in reply.
Man was saying: "How be sure
Beauty's favour to secure,
Nor the subtle philtre try?"--
"Love!" said Woman in reply.
A Summer's dawn and a tranquil sea;
But lurid all with smoke:
For a bark was burning furiously,
What time the morning broke.
Terrible? ay, but risk there was none,
For stern the Captain's sway;
And when he spoke, each mother's son
Could not but choose obey.
"Man the boats!"--the boats were manned,
In order, one by one;
To pull a hundred miles to land,
All under the Summer's sun.
Four stalwart rowers bend to their oars:
Four sitters at the stern--
Three men and a woman--silent sit,
Watching the vessel burn.
They were no tremblers: each had known
Perils by land and deep;
But the woman alone would gently moan,
And at times, perforce, would weep.
Yet soon the sun was high in heaven,
And the sea was a-glow: and then
The temper of those men peered out--
Of those three fearless men.
One thought his white hand by the sun would be tanned;
One felt they were wrong to risk it,
In sweltering heat, with nothing to eat
But a bit of dry ship-biscuit.
The third brooded over his handful of freight
Going down, uninsured, to the deep:
But the woman alone would gently moan,
And at times, perforce, would weep;
Till a sense of shame the three o'ercame,
And a curious wish to know
Why, still unfearing, she gave way
To her uncomplaining woe.
"Ah, Sirs!"--she faltered in reply--
"The danger is easily braved:
But my husband may hear that the ship is burnt--
And not that we are saved!"
He seemed to shiver, for the wind was keen.
'Twas a poor statue underneath a mass
Of leafless branches, with a blackened back
And green foot--an old isolated Faun
In old deserted park, who, bending forward,
Half merged himself in the entangled boughs,
Half in his marble settings. He was there,
Pensive, and bound to the earth; and, as all things,
Devoid of movement, he was there--forgotten.
Trees were around him, whipped by the icy blasts--
Gigantic chestnuts, without leaf or bird,
And, like himself, grown old in that same place.
Through the dark network of their undergrowth,
Pallid his aspect; and the earth was brown.
Starless and moonless, a rough winter's night
Was letting down her lappets o'er the mist.
Trees more remote, with sombre shafts upreared,
Each other crossed; and trees remoter still,
By distance blurred, threw up to the grey sky
Their thousand twigs sharp-pointed, intricate;
And posed themselves around; and through the fog
Took, on the horizon's verge, the shadowy form
Of mighty porcupines in countless herd.
This--nothing more: old Faun, dull sky, dark wood.
Piercing the mist, perchance there might be seen
A distant terrace--its long layers of stone
Tinted with slimy green; or group of Nymphs,
Dimly defined beside a wide-spread basin,
And shrinking--fitly in this desolate park--
As once from gazers, from neglect to-day.
The old Faun was laughing. In their dubious haze
Leaving the shamed Nymphs and their dreary basin--
The old Faun was laughing--'twas to him I came
Moved to compassion, for these sculptors all
Are pitiless ever, and, content with praise,
Doom Nymphs to shame, condemn the Fauns to laughter.
Poor helpless marble, how I've pitied it
Less often man--the harder of the two.
So then, without a word that might offend
His ear difformed--for well the marble hears
The voice of thought--I said to him: "You hail
From the gay amorous age; O Faun, what saw you,
When you were happy? Were you of the Court?
Did you take part in fetes?--For your diversion
These Nymphs were fashioned. In this wood, for you,
Capable hands mingled the gods of Greece
With Roman Caesars; made rare vases peer
Into clear waters; and this garden vext
With tortuous labyrinths. When you were happy,
O Faun, what saw you? All the secrets tell
Of that too vain yet captivating past,
Thick set with prudent love-makers, a past
In which great poets jostled mighty Kings.
How fresh your memory--you are laughing still!
Speak to me, comely Faun, as you would speak
To tree, or zephyr, or untrodden grass.
From end to end of this well-shaded alley,
When near you, with the handsome Lautrec, passed
The soft-eyed Marguerite, the Bearnaise Queen,
Have you, O Greek, O mocker of old days,
Have you not sometimes with that oblique eye
In cave as it were of foliage green and moist,
Have you, O Faun, considerately turned
From side to side when counsel-seekers came,
And now advised as shepherd; now as satyr?
Have you sometimes upon this very bench
Seen at mid-day, Vincent de Paul instilling
Grace into Gondi?--Have you ever thrown
That searching glance on Louis with Fontange,
On Anne with Buckingham; and did they not
Start, with flushed cheeks, to hear your laugh ring forth
From corner of the wood?--Was your advice
As to the thyrsis or the ivy asked,
When, the grand ballet of fantastic form,
God Phoebus, or god Pan, and all his court
Turned the fair head of the fair Montespan,
Flying the courtiers' ears of stone, came he,
Tears in his eyelids, to reveal to you
The sorrows of his Nymphs of Vaux?--What said
Boileau to you, to you, O lettered Faun,
Who once with Virgil, in the Eclogue, held
That charming dialogue, and deftly made--
Couched on the turf--the heavy spondee dance
To the light dactyl's step?--Say, have you seen
Young beauties sporting on the sward: Chevreuse
Of the swimming eyes, Thiange of airs superb?
Have they sometimes, in rosy-tinted group,
Girt you so fondly round, that all at once
A straggling sunbeam on a fluttering bosom
Marked your lascivious profile?--Has your tree
Received beneath the quiet of its shade
Pale Mazarin's scarlet winding sheet?--Have you
Been honoured with a sight of Moliere
In dreamy mood? Has he perchance at times,
Dropping at random a melodious verse,
In tone familiar--as is the wont
'Twixt demi-gods--addressed you?--When at eve
Homeward hereby the thinker went, has he
Who--seeing souls all naked--could not fear
Your nudity, in his enquiring mind
Confronted you with Man? And did he deem
You, spectral cynic, the less sad, less cold,
Less wicked, less ironical--comparing
Your laugh in marble with our human laugh?"
Under the thickly tangled branches, thus
Did I speak to him; he no answer gave--
Not even a murmur. On the pedestal
Leaning, I listened; but the past stirred not.
The Satyr, motionless, was vaguely blanched
By the wan glimmer of the dying day.
To see him there, sinister, half drawn out
From his dark framing, and by damp discoloured,
Brought to one's mind the handle of a sword
In torso chiselled--an old rusty sword,
Left for long years neglected in its sheath.
I shook my head, and moved myself away.
Then, from the copses, from the dried up boughs
Pendent above him, from secret caves
Hid in the wood, methought a ghostly voice
Came forth and woke an echo in my soul,
As in the hollow of an amphora.
"Imprudent poet," thus it seemed to say,
"What dost thou here? Leave the forsaken Fauns
In peace beneath their trees! Dost thou not know,
Poet, that ever it is impious deemed,
In desert spots where drowsy shades repose--
Though love itself might prompt thee--to shake down
The moss that hangs from ruined centuries,
And, with the vain noise of thine ill-timed words,
To mar the recollections of the dead?"
Then to the gardens all enwrapped in mist
I hurried, dreaming of the vanished days.
And still the tree-tops were with mystery rife;
And still, behind me--hieroglyph obscure
Of antique alphabet--the lonely Faun
Held to his laughter, through the falling night.
I went my way; but yet--in saddened spirit
Pondering on all that had my vision crossed,
Floating in air or scattered under foot,
Confused and blent, beauty and spring and morn,
Leaves of old summers, fair ones of old time--
Through all, at distance would my fancy see,
In the woods, statues; shadows in the past!
Look from the prow of thine anchored bark--
Anchored by classic shore--and mark,
Down fathoms-deep in the purple sea,
How Time and the waters have dealt on me
Art lost in the moonless and starless night?
Far-away looming, a light! a light!
Fearlessly steer, for on me 'tis placed,
To guide thy bark o'er the trackless waste
Earth knows me, too; and will heave and quake
Where my subterranean course I take:
And none so aghast at my ravages then,
As they whose type was the Sire of men.
But not ever thus; at times I'm seen
On the cheek or the neck of Beauty's queen;
Or (to favoured mortal alone confest)
Tinging the snow upon Beauty's breast.
So, whether above the waves, or below,
Or beneath the Earth, or on breast of snow,
Linked with the past, or alive to-day,
Tell who I am--if tell ye may.
My lady calls; my First obeys--
Nor less his lord's behest:
In bower and hall, in olden days,
My First was in request.
Yet 'tis my First that tells us now
What then my First was doing;
How he went forth to war, and how
He prospered in his wooing.
A wise King bade the lazy fool
Observe my Second's ways,
And notice--as it were in school--
The wisdom she displays.
Yet hers is a devouring race,
And might--though strange it be--
Eat up, in given time and place,
My First, or you, or me.
As for my whole--in every age
Mankind must have its show;
In actual life, on mimic stage,
In peace, war, joy, or woe.
Now 'tis a wedding, now a death,
A gathering, or a play;
It comes, but, like a passing breath,
Full soon 'tis swept away.
In arms the Paynim sought,
I of his panoply was part,
And, wielding me, he fought.
When ladies on a different field
With men their skill essay,
I am the weapon that they wield
If they would gain the day.
When cooks in certain dishes show
Their culinary art,
I am on hand--the masters know
What flavour I impart.
I'm a word of one syllable. Look you for me
Mid Niagara's roar; in the turbulent sea;
Where the winds and the waters are wildest at play,
And fling off their laughter in volumes of spray.
I'm a noun of five letters; but throw one aside--
I'm a verb; with the noun I'm no longer allied.
I'm a grave, solemn verb; nay, I truly might say,
Those who follow my precept do nothing but pray.
But again; let two letters be dropped--there's a change;
As a noun--and by no means a grave one--I range.
Now I'm here; now I'm there; seen by night and by day,
For in short, I'm a beam, or a flash, or a ray.
Thus a verb and two nouns packed together you see,
In a word of one syllable.--What can it be?
There are some words, that in a double sense
Must be interpreted; of these am I.
Your housemaid, thus, wilt know me literally
Better than you do; but, with all respect
For Betty's carefulness, she scarce can catch
My finer meaning. I'm, with her, a thing
For brush and duster; in me, you behold
A symbol. So much for me as I stand.
Now cut my head off--I'm another word
Of narrow and of wide significance,
Handful of dust, the very world itself.
Cut off my tail--the effect is still the same;
I'm yet another of those duplex words:
Mental and bodily, an essential part
Of all mankind, without which no one lives,
Nay, not an animal, though you may swear,
And truly too, that I have no existence,
And never had, in certain men and women.
Enough: it is not difficult to find
Three words, six meanings, in one syllable.
Well may I call myself cosmopolite,
Being of all lands and times. Barbaric tribes
Know me, and honour. In the gentler world,
Scholars have studied me, and poets sung,
And painters painted, and musicians hymned.
Nor from Religion have I held myself
Apart. In Pagan and in savage rites
Largely I mingle; and some Saints at least,
Worshipped among us, owe me much. In short,
Theme, inspiration, puzzle--I am all.
As to my form, it may not be defined;
Yet this is certain: were I rent in twain
And of one half bereft, I should not have
A leg to stand on--of the other half
Equally mulcted, I should endless be.
In me, as the scholar saith,
Is exhaustion, wasting, death.
But--so close do grave and gay
Touch, in this our world--you may,
By a change of accent made,
Change the meaning I conveyed;
Change me so that I proclaim
Victory won, and spoils, and fame!
My first's a French noun; and, without it, stands not
Church, palace, or hospital, villa, or cot.
My Second no feature distinctive can claim;
It but echoes my First--'t is precisely the same.
Yet my Whole to French parentage makes no pretence;
It is plain Anglo-Saxon, in sound as in sense;
Nor more widely asunder does pole lie from pole,
Than my Gallican parts and my Anglican whole.
Impalpable, it--solid, tangible, they;
They may last, for long ages--it passes away!
Now a sign of approval, a token of scorn;
Sometimes of the wind or the waves it is born;
Though its presence at intervals surely you'll trace
Where my First and my Second have stablished their place;
Where King hath his dwelling or Trade hath her marts--
A whole evanescent, material parts!