POEMS.
MADDALENA'S CONFESSION.
The Bride of Christ! oh, at those words there swept
Bright glories through my spirit! I was deaf
To the deep anthem. Prelate and stoled priest,
The dim cathedral walls, the kneeling crowd,
The lattice where the black-robed nuns looked through
All passed away from mine enraptured eyes.
I saw no more thy bowed form, oh, my mother!
Nor his who stood far down the aisle of columns
Hiding his bent brow with his mantle's fold.
Bright glories through my spirit! I was deaf
To the deep anthem. Prelate and stoled priest,
The dim cathedral walls, the kneeling crowd,
The lattice where the black-robed nuns looked through
All passed away from mine enraptured eyes.
I saw no more thy bowed form, oh, my mother!
Nor his who stood far down the aisle of columns
Hiding his bent brow with his mantle's fold.
It seems not long since I, a little child,
Trod yon cathedral floors, and in deep awe,
First crossed my forehead with the holy water.
It seems not long, Jacopo, since we twain
Prayed, kneeling at one shrine, together sent
Our mated voices like paired larks to heaven,
Or, hand in hand, walked where the garden fountains
Cleft the grim lion mouths.
Have patience, father!
For I am worn with fasting and much prayer,
And tears flow readily. How many days
Have I lain prostrate at the altar's foot,
The marble striking death into my heart,
Speaking no word, partaking of no food
Save water and the crust that gave me strength
To move my lips in prayer! How oft till morn,
My forehead pressed against His icy feet
Who hangs upon the cross, have I lain here
With but one grim companion. Even thou,
Symbol of death, gaunt prophet of the tomb,
That in thy cavernous eyes dost hold the night,
Glaring beside my rosary and missal!
Trod yon cathedral floors, and in deep awe,
First crossed my forehead with the holy water.
It seems not long, Jacopo, since we twain
Prayed, kneeling at one shrine, together sent
Our mated voices like paired larks to heaven,
Or, hand in hand, walked where the garden fountains
Cleft the grim lion mouths.
Have patience, father!
For I am worn with fasting and much prayer,
And tears flow readily. How many days
Have I lain prostrate at the altar's foot,
The marble striking death into my heart,
Speaking no word, partaking of no food
Save water and the crust that gave me strength
To move my lips in prayer! How oft till morn,
My forehead pressed against His icy feet
Who hangs upon the cross, have I lain here
With but one grim companion. Even thou,
Symbol of death, gaunt prophet of the tomb,
That in thy cavernous eyes dost hold the night,
Glaring beside my rosary and missal!
Thou knowest well my father was a noble.
That he lived gayly, making his great wealth
The slave of pleasure. I remember still
Revels where wine flowed free, and festal times
That filled our lone, vast palace by the sea
With guests and music. Then, at early twilight,
There ever came a young, bright girl who took
Me, the weak child, within her gentle hold,
Smiling so softly while my faint hands passed
Over the roses in her hair, the pearls
Clasped on her throat and round, pure, dewy arms.
Ginevra! oh, I loved to speak her name!
I loved my nurse to bear me to the window
Where, lying on her shoulder, I could mark
My sister's white robes floating through the trees,
My sister as she spake, or walked, or rode,
Great nobles at her side, who smiled and bent
Their plumed heads to catch her lightest word.
That he lived gayly, making his great wealth
The slave of pleasure. I remember still
Revels where wine flowed free, and festal times
That filled our lone, vast palace by the sea
With guests and music. Then, at early twilight,
There ever came a young, bright girl who took
Me, the weak child, within her gentle hold,
Smiling so softly while my faint hands passed
Over the roses in her hair, the pearls
Clasped on her throat and round, pure, dewy arms.
Ginevra! oh, I loved to speak her name!
I loved my nurse to bear me to the window
Where, lying on her shoulder, I could mark
My sister's white robes floating through the trees,
My sister as she spake, or walked, or rode,
Great nobles at her side, who smiled and bent
Their plumed heads to catch her lightest word.
But this was for a season; many months
The palace was deserted. Then, alone,
We wandered freely through the vacant rooms,
I, and my nurse Giuseppa. She would pause
Sometimes by pictures of worn saints and martyrs,
St. Lawrence in the flames, his lifted face
Full of sublime forgetfulness of pain,
Or Stephen stoned and prone; perchance to mark
Pale hermits watching in their forest caves
With lamp and book, the inner darkness shapen
Into black fiends; or sometimes, oh, my soul!
An Ecce Homo with dim eyes upraised,
And red drops trickling from the crown of thorns!
All these Giuseppa scanned with reverent face;
I, in her arms held level with the canvas,
Looked on in childish fear.
There came a message
That said Ginevra, weary of the court,
Returned to us alone.
'Twas early noon.
I, over-wearied, dreamed upon my couch;
And when I woke my sister stood beside me.
Ginevra? no!—ah heaven! was that Ginevra
Who quivered at my fear, and in the sunlight
Stood shivering ere she bent and faintly pressed
Her lips upon my brow!
I never knew
What sorrow like a tearful angel rent
The veil between my sister's heart and God.
Her brow was as the forehead of a saint,
Bearing the marks of thorns, and on her face
None looked except to breathe a sigh that tracked
Some upwinged thought to Heaven. Oh, to my sense,
Her beauty was unreal; whether she prayed
Kneeling beneath the altar lights, a glory
Tremulous in her hair, whether we twain
Paced the long galleries where ranged silver sconces,
Studding the walls, cast down before our feet
Black shades like chasms, whether to her voice
I listened while the stealthy-footed night
Passed by unchallenged! As a captive stands
Vacantly gazing at the world without
Through his barred prison windows, all his heart
Busy with other scenes, so looked the soul
Through her blue holy eyes. I loved her well!
I stopped my play to look if she passed by,
Or if she mused beside the gallery windows
As was her wont, I, stealing to her side,
Stood tiptoe that my arms might clasp her waist,
And sometimes cloistered in her chamber, there
We read and talked till purple twilight stains
Sank through the marble pavement. In that room
There hung a copy of a rare old picture,
The marriage of St. Catherine.
I remember
That she grew farther from me, day by day,
I guessed not wherefore. Over her blue eyes
The lids drooped heavily, as lilies loll
Against the swell of waves. No echo tracked
Her footstep through the vaulty corridors,
And often in the night I saw her rise
To gaze upon St. Catherine's blessed face,
Or prone before the crucifix, lie there
Praying till dawn.
Once more Ginevra stood
Flower-crowned and jewelled, but beneath the light
Of tall cathedral tapers. From the crowd
Quick sobs burst audibly; the very priests
Looked with sad eyes; nuns to the lattice pressed
And blenched away, but she unconscious stood
With folded hands, and looks upcast as though
The vacant space were legible to her gazing.
Then my fair haughty mother cowered for fear,
My father's gay lips whitened.
There are some
Still in these cloisters who remember well
An angel on whose lip meek mortal prayer
Had changed to saintly praise. For week on week,
The searching lamp of the confessional
Shining athwart the fair page of her soul
Showed blot nor blur. They say her Heaven-linked voice
Chanting, the Gloria outsped the choir
So far, the calm-browed nuns, uplifting eyes
Dim with the haze of revery, made her notes
A golden ladder where their souls went up
Into God's presence; and 'twas whispered low,
That when, all through the midnight, from the toll
Of the last Angelus to the hour of prime,
She knelt before the Sacrament, a sound
Of voices pierced the silence. Then, perchance,
The wakeful guardian stationed at her side
Revealed himself.
Joyful, and sorrowful,
And glorious mysteries meekly she had told
Upon her rosary of years, when death
Garnered her sweet soul. Mass nor prayer was said;
For those there be who swear a hovering crown
Rained on her brow faint glory, and around
Crept music and rich odours, while awed priest
And kneeling abbess with rapt upraised looks
Sang the Te Deum Laudamus!
So she passed!
I bear upon my breast the cross that wore
Its outline upon hers.
Thou, earnest, Jacopo,
Playmate and friend!
Do you remember now
How, while you twined the vine leaves in my hair,
I told you saintly legends? When we saw
Fair pictures in the clouds, you made them limn
Chariots and battling horsemen, but to me
Came trooping angels.
Still my sister's chamber
Seemed hallowed by her presence. Crumbling wreaths
Dropped from the crucifix. Her favourite books,
Their pages' blistered by her frequent tears,
Lay open as she left them, marked with flowers,
Or pencilled down the margin by her hand.
But most I loved the picture of St. Catherine,
She kneeling, while the holy child whose touch
The Virgin guided, on her finger placed
The marriage ring, his face in lovely wonder
Raised questioning to his mother's.
To that place
I crept at noonday. There I treasured all
Linked with Ginevra's memory. 'Twas now
A garland we had woven, now a kerchief
That kept the faint rose odour she had loved.
I vexed my childish brain with pondering o'er
The books she prized; these, histories of Saints,
Temptations, miracles, and martyrdoms.
I peopled all the dark nooks of the palace
With phantoms of their raising. There, concealed
All through the slumberous noontide, first I read
Of Augustine, who heard the voice of God
Speak to him in the garden; and of her,
Holy Teresa, who stood face to face
With Mary's Son, and carried to the tomb
Remembrance of the vision. When I read
How, laying down love, wealth, the pride of birth,
Bowing her shoulders for the cross, this one
Frail Nun obtained a Saint's repute, becoming
Founder of monasteries, and of a host
The spiritual mother, all my soul
Thrilled with the rapturous history. I could dream
Only of mysteries; or, if light shapes
Beckoned me to the world, there slid between
Visions of her who o'er, an open book
Hung pondering steadfastly; one pale, fair hand
Outspread upon the page, and one that held
Her brow within its hollow. Womanhood
Came, and my heart's betraying echoes scarce
Answered her loitering footfall. Life grew vague.
Nothing approached me nearly.
The first star
Was a true prophet of thy step, Jacopo!
My visions fled when up the flinty paths
His courser's hoof struck flashes. With a smile
My father greeted him; my mother gave
Her white hand freely, while her laughter mixed
With their gay talk; and I, a space apart,
Smiled him glad welcome, with my every pulse
Answering the cordial music of his voice.
Oh, he was changed! I dared no longer chide
If his bold mirth trod heedlessly too close
To holy things. I stood with eyes abased;
Rebuke awed into silence. He had sprung
Suddenly to full manhood. In his words
There was an athlete's sinew, though they played
With great things carelessly, as a fresh wind
Provokes the sea to laughter, and his pride
Ever seemed well placed, like a castle set
Upon a mountain. All my womanhood
Did homage to his strength. The life that coiled
Lazily at my heart, leapt through my veins
With crest uplift, if mid the halls I heard
His footfall ring. Oh, father, when he left,
Gone was the smile from sweet St. Catherine's lip!
And the grave saints frowned on me; and my thoughts,
Shapen to prayer, put on unholy guise,
Mocking my vain devotion! Marvel not!
I was a child. Ginevra fled the 'world,
Like a chased dove that calms its panting heart
Under green forest boughs. Life stood unmasked,
And pleasure mocked her, like a garland twined
Round a drained wine cup. As a vine that grows
Over some marble urn, a bird that builds
Under the cornice of some shattered temple,
Making its ruin echo with delight,
So to her heart, rent, filled with bitter dust;
Came one bright hope. Alas! my thrilling soul
Still quivered in the bended bow of life!
Youth was too mighty. I grew faint. My heart
Leapt at a quick word, and light tremors ran
Painfully through my limbs. My brain waxed dizzy
Over my books, and I would ponder hours
Ere I could wrest its meaning from the page
I strove to read. Or, if I knelt to pray,
My aimless thoughts went wandering blindly on,
The prayer I said suspended. Outward things
Unchallenged touched my senses, that dull stupor
Muffled like sleep.
I stood within St. Peter's,
And heard the Miserere. Through the twilight
Burned thirteen starry tapers. One by one,
Amid the chanting of the Lamentations,
These vanished, till the last and brightest, Christ,
Sank into darkness. With that Hope's extinction,
Like a retreating wave, the chant withdrew
Beneath the cave-like shadows. Rippling echoes
Tracked it to silence. Father, on my lips
The stillness pressed as a remorseless hand!
Above, the gray-winged twilight, like a moth
Clung to the arches. I did strive to pray,
And through my soul the slow-paced, cloistered thoughts
Trod, saying "Miserere!" Deep the pause
That from the shores of that hushed music stretched
Like a black-throated chasm. I grew sick
Hearing the echoes sound it! While I gasped,
As 'twere a bird borne over an abyss
On one bruised wing, athwart the chapel roof
Fluttered a voice so sad, my panting heart
Breathed in one gush of tears. I doubt not, Priest!
White angels standing in God's presence then
Leant on their harps and wept! The low notes failed
Exhaustedly, But as they ceased, oh Heaven!
As 'twere a scimitar quick bared, a shaft
Hurled by a giant, a prolonged, loud shriek
Leapt through the gloom, and like a dart rebounding
Fell, shivered into echoes! Holy Mary!
My every pulse thrilled with a separate pain!
All through the crowd a light electric shiver
Passed like a link. All dimly from mine eyes
Fled the dark forms of priest and cardinal
And Heaven's vicegerent in his pontiff robes!
I must have fallen, but for one steadfast arrd
Girding my waist like iron. Scarce I marked
How the whole choir, with thick, sore sobs, bewailed
Christ's death. I know not what of sudden brightness
Rushed o'er my dazzled sense. Dispute it not!
I saw the darkness cloven by wings that took
Light like a prism, and when the rifted gloom
Closed on their upward flight, my senses, prone,
Met its returning pressure.
This was April,
And ere my dumb soul spoke again, the grape
Was purple on the hills. Oh, I was weak
As a young child! Jacopo in his arms,
Would bear me to the sea-shore, where I sat
Long, vacant hours, numbering the waves,
Counting the drifting clouds. They sang me songs.
The music pleased me, but the married words
My dull ear noted not. Yet every day
Lifted my prostrate faculties. At last
The old life came to me again, and I
Lived with my books and memories.
Yet, oh heaven!
The dense gloom of the Roman chapel seemed
Stifling my soul. A horror brooded o'er me.
To my weak brain most dark forebodings came,
As night-birds haunt a ruin. As one left
In a dense labyrinth seeks in vain the outlet
As a lost bird that beats its wings against
The black roof of a cavern, so my thought,
Conscious of light, pursued it. Pleasure came,
And Fear uplifting with unsteady hand
Her wan lamp, by its shifting rays transformed
The siren to a spectre. Did I stoop
To pluck a joy that seemed to common eyes
Dewy with innocence, lo, underneath,
There coiled some black temptation! The wide world
Was all a paradise where every tree
Held fruit forbidden. Whither could I fly?
Into dim solitudes, through trooping crowds,
Horror pursued me with extended arms.
Trembling I lingered in Ginevra's chamber,
There forcibly impelled, there paralyzed
By the cold, haunting presence of the dead.
Oh, God! I heard her footsteps track the floor!
Oh, God! I wakened from my sleep to feel
That I had scared away some brooding thing!
And once—believe it, father!—in the moonlight
I saw her in her death-robes stand and point
Her white, still finger to the pictured bridal!
The palace was deserted. Then, alone,
We wandered freely through the vacant rooms,
I, and my nurse Giuseppa. She would pause
Sometimes by pictures of worn saints and martyrs,
St. Lawrence in the flames, his lifted face
Full of sublime forgetfulness of pain,
Or Stephen stoned and prone; perchance to mark
Pale hermits watching in their forest caves
With lamp and book, the inner darkness shapen
Into black fiends; or sometimes, oh, my soul!
An Ecce Homo with dim eyes upraised,
And red drops trickling from the crown of thorns!
All these Giuseppa scanned with reverent face;
I, in her arms held level with the canvas,
Looked on in childish fear.
There came a message
That said Ginevra, weary of the court,
Returned to us alone.
'Twas early noon.
I, over-wearied, dreamed upon my couch;
And when I woke my sister stood beside me.
Ginevra? no!—ah heaven! was that Ginevra
Who quivered at my fear, and in the sunlight
Stood shivering ere she bent and faintly pressed
Her lips upon my brow!
I never knew
What sorrow like a tearful angel rent
The veil between my sister's heart and God.
Her brow was as the forehead of a saint,
Bearing the marks of thorns, and on her face
None looked except to breathe a sigh that tracked
Some upwinged thought to Heaven. Oh, to my sense,
Her beauty was unreal; whether she prayed
Kneeling beneath the altar lights, a glory
Tremulous in her hair, whether we twain
Paced the long galleries where ranged silver sconces,
Studding the walls, cast down before our feet
Black shades like chasms, whether to her voice
I listened while the stealthy-footed night
Passed by unchallenged! As a captive stands
Vacantly gazing at the world without
Through his barred prison windows, all his heart
Busy with other scenes, so looked the soul
Through her blue holy eyes. I loved her well!
I stopped my play to look if she passed by,
Or if she mused beside the gallery windows
As was her wont, I, stealing to her side,
Stood tiptoe that my arms might clasp her waist,
And sometimes cloistered in her chamber, there
We read and talked till purple twilight stains
Sank through the marble pavement. In that room
There hung a copy of a rare old picture,
The marriage of St. Catherine.
I remember
That she grew farther from me, day by day,
I guessed not wherefore. Over her blue eyes
The lids drooped heavily, as lilies loll
Against the swell of waves. No echo tracked
Her footstep through the vaulty corridors,
And often in the night I saw her rise
To gaze upon St. Catherine's blessed face,
Or prone before the crucifix, lie there
Praying till dawn.
Once more Ginevra stood
Flower-crowned and jewelled, but beneath the light
Of tall cathedral tapers. From the crowd
Quick sobs burst audibly; the very priests
Looked with sad eyes; nuns to the lattice pressed
And blenched away, but she unconscious stood
With folded hands, and looks upcast as though
The vacant space were legible to her gazing.
Then my fair haughty mother cowered for fear,
My father's gay lips whitened.
There are some
Still in these cloisters who remember well
An angel on whose lip meek mortal prayer
Had changed to saintly praise. For week on week,
The searching lamp of the confessional
Shining athwart the fair page of her soul
Showed blot nor blur. They say her Heaven-linked voice
Chanting, the Gloria outsped the choir
So far, the calm-browed nuns, uplifting eyes
Dim with the haze of revery, made her notes
A golden ladder where their souls went up
Into God's presence; and 'twas whispered low,
That when, all through the midnight, from the toll
Of the last Angelus to the hour of prime,
She knelt before the Sacrament, a sound
Of voices pierced the silence. Then, perchance,
The wakeful guardian stationed at her side
Revealed himself.
Joyful, and sorrowful,
And glorious mysteries meekly she had told
Upon her rosary of years, when death
Garnered her sweet soul. Mass nor prayer was said;
For those there be who swear a hovering crown
Rained on her brow faint glory, and around
Crept music and rich odours, while awed priest
And kneeling abbess with rapt upraised looks
Sang the Te Deum Laudamus!
So she passed!
I bear upon my breast the cross that wore
Its outline upon hers.
Thou, earnest, Jacopo,
Playmate and friend!
Do you remember now
How, while you twined the vine leaves in my hair,
I told you saintly legends? When we saw
Fair pictures in the clouds, you made them limn
Chariots and battling horsemen, but to me
Came trooping angels.
Still my sister's chamber
Seemed hallowed by her presence. Crumbling wreaths
Dropped from the crucifix. Her favourite books,
Their pages' blistered by her frequent tears,
Lay open as she left them, marked with flowers,
Or pencilled down the margin by her hand.
But most I loved the picture of St. Catherine,
She kneeling, while the holy child whose touch
The Virgin guided, on her finger placed
The marriage ring, his face in lovely wonder
Raised questioning to his mother's.
To that place
I crept at noonday. There I treasured all
Linked with Ginevra's memory. 'Twas now
A garland we had woven, now a kerchief
That kept the faint rose odour she had loved.
I vexed my childish brain with pondering o'er
The books she prized; these, histories of Saints,
Temptations, miracles, and martyrdoms.
I peopled all the dark nooks of the palace
With phantoms of their raising. There, concealed
All through the slumberous noontide, first I read
Of Augustine, who heard the voice of God
Speak to him in the garden; and of her,
Holy Teresa, who stood face to face
With Mary's Son, and carried to the tomb
Remembrance of the vision. When I read
How, laying down love, wealth, the pride of birth,
Bowing her shoulders for the cross, this one
Frail Nun obtained a Saint's repute, becoming
Founder of monasteries, and of a host
The spiritual mother, all my soul
Thrilled with the rapturous history. I could dream
Only of mysteries; or, if light shapes
Beckoned me to the world, there slid between
Visions of her who o'er, an open book
Hung pondering steadfastly; one pale, fair hand
Outspread upon the page, and one that held
Her brow within its hollow. Womanhood
Came, and my heart's betraying echoes scarce
Answered her loitering footfall. Life grew vague.
Nothing approached me nearly.
The first star
Was a true prophet of thy step, Jacopo!
My visions fled when up the flinty paths
His courser's hoof struck flashes. With a smile
My father greeted him; my mother gave
Her white hand freely, while her laughter mixed
With their gay talk; and I, a space apart,
Smiled him glad welcome, with my every pulse
Answering the cordial music of his voice.
Oh, he was changed! I dared no longer chide
If his bold mirth trod heedlessly too close
To holy things. I stood with eyes abased;
Rebuke awed into silence. He had sprung
Suddenly to full manhood. In his words
There was an athlete's sinew, though they played
With great things carelessly, as a fresh wind
Provokes the sea to laughter, and his pride
Ever seemed well placed, like a castle set
Upon a mountain. All my womanhood
Did homage to his strength. The life that coiled
Lazily at my heart, leapt through my veins
With crest uplift, if mid the halls I heard
His footfall ring. Oh, father, when he left,
Gone was the smile from sweet St. Catherine's lip!
And the grave saints frowned on me; and my thoughts,
Shapen to prayer, put on unholy guise,
Mocking my vain devotion! Marvel not!
I was a child. Ginevra fled the 'world,
Like a chased dove that calms its panting heart
Under green forest boughs. Life stood unmasked,
And pleasure mocked her, like a garland twined
Round a drained wine cup. As a vine that grows
Over some marble urn, a bird that builds
Under the cornice of some shattered temple,
Making its ruin echo with delight,
So to her heart, rent, filled with bitter dust;
Came one bright hope. Alas! my thrilling soul
Still quivered in the bended bow of life!
Youth was too mighty. I grew faint. My heart
Leapt at a quick word, and light tremors ran
Painfully through my limbs. My brain waxed dizzy
Over my books, and I would ponder hours
Ere I could wrest its meaning from the page
I strove to read. Or, if I knelt to pray,
My aimless thoughts went wandering blindly on,
The prayer I said suspended. Outward things
Unchallenged touched my senses, that dull stupor
Muffled like sleep.
I stood within St. Peter's,
And heard the Miserere. Through the twilight
Burned thirteen starry tapers. One by one,
Amid the chanting of the Lamentations,
These vanished, till the last and brightest, Christ,
Sank into darkness. With that Hope's extinction,
Like a retreating wave, the chant withdrew
Beneath the cave-like shadows. Rippling echoes
Tracked it to silence. Father, on my lips
The stillness pressed as a remorseless hand!
Above, the gray-winged twilight, like a moth
Clung to the arches. I did strive to pray,
And through my soul the slow-paced, cloistered thoughts
Trod, saying "Miserere!" Deep the pause
That from the shores of that hushed music stretched
Like a black-throated chasm. I grew sick
Hearing the echoes sound it! While I gasped,
As 'twere a bird borne over an abyss
On one bruised wing, athwart the chapel roof
Fluttered a voice so sad, my panting heart
Breathed in one gush of tears. I doubt not, Priest!
White angels standing in God's presence then
Leant on their harps and wept! The low notes failed
Exhaustedly, But as they ceased, oh Heaven!
As 'twere a scimitar quick bared, a shaft
Hurled by a giant, a prolonged, loud shriek
Leapt through the gloom, and like a dart rebounding
Fell, shivered into echoes! Holy Mary!
My every pulse thrilled with a separate pain!
All through the crowd a light electric shiver
Passed like a link. All dimly from mine eyes
Fled the dark forms of priest and cardinal
And Heaven's vicegerent in his pontiff robes!
I must have fallen, but for one steadfast arrd
Girding my waist like iron. Scarce I marked
How the whole choir, with thick, sore sobs, bewailed
Christ's death. I know not what of sudden brightness
Rushed o'er my dazzled sense. Dispute it not!
I saw the darkness cloven by wings that took
Light like a prism, and when the rifted gloom
Closed on their upward flight, my senses, prone,
Met its returning pressure.
This was April,
And ere my dumb soul spoke again, the grape
Was purple on the hills. Oh, I was weak
As a young child! Jacopo in his arms,
Would bear me to the sea-shore, where I sat
Long, vacant hours, numbering the waves,
Counting the drifting clouds. They sang me songs.
The music pleased me, but the married words
My dull ear noted not. Yet every day
Lifted my prostrate faculties. At last
The old life came to me again, and I
Lived with my books and memories.
Yet, oh heaven!
The dense gloom of the Roman chapel seemed
Stifling my soul. A horror brooded o'er me.
To my weak brain most dark forebodings came,
As night-birds haunt a ruin. As one left
In a dense labyrinth seeks in vain the outlet
As a lost bird that beats its wings against
The black roof of a cavern, so my thought,
Conscious of light, pursued it. Pleasure came,
And Fear uplifting with unsteady hand
Her wan lamp, by its shifting rays transformed
The siren to a spectre. Did I stoop
To pluck a joy that seemed to common eyes
Dewy with innocence, lo, underneath,
There coiled some black temptation! The wide world
Was all a paradise where every tree
Held fruit forbidden. Whither could I fly?
Into dim solitudes, through trooping crowds,
Horror pursued me with extended arms.
Trembling I lingered in Ginevra's chamber,
There forcibly impelled, there paralyzed
By the cold, haunting presence of the dead.
Oh, God! I heard her footsteps track the floor!
Oh, God! I wakened from my sleep to feel
That I had scared away some brooding thing!
And once—believe it, father!—in the moonlight
I saw her in her death-robes stand and point
Her white, still finger to the pictured bridal!
They said that I grew like her, like the novice
Some still remembered; she who smiled farewell,
Thrusting her white hands through the convent grating!
Like the pale saint who, with the crucifix
Betwixt her palms, spake softly as she trod
The solitary chambers, with her prayers
Coupling the moments; not like her, the bright
Aurora of my childhood, on whose knee
I have lain listless, through my fingers slipping
Pearl chains for rosaries!
Still if I walked,
One step kept pace with mine; or if reclining
Mid the cleft rocks, I heard the sea rehearse
Its ancient song of chaos, every wave
Rhyming its fellow, still my heart took note
Of a timed footfall on the upper shore
Advancing and retreating. If I read,
And from my book glanced suddenly, I thrilled,
Knowing who stood apart, and on my face
Looked with a strange intentness.
Oh, thou world!
Thy warm arms clave to me, thy painted lips
Cheated my senses! To my sleep came fiends
That mocked me with his smile, put on his shape,
Spake with his voice, till, starting from my couch,
Thy name, Jacopo, first upon my lip,
I feared to speak God's after! Then came prayers,
Fasts, and harsh penances. There was a chamber
Ginevra loved; a dim, square, lofty room,
Crossed and re-crossed by arches, paven with marbles
Stained in sea hues. One silver shining lamp
That burned behind a column, brake the night
"With its still radiance. There, when midnight came,
Crept I as stealthily, with naked feet
Treading the corridors. There my faint soul
Staggered beneath its cross! The niched saints, only,
Might hear my heart shriek as I walled it in!
The marble where my forehead lay kept not
Count of my tears;—and there, when fasts prolonged
Vanquished my sense, while life, the jailor, slept,
Came angels that unlocked the prison doors
And bade my soul go free. Athwart my brain
Flash and withdraw into the cloud of sense
That holds them captive, memories too bright
For human keeping, dumb, sweet dreams that passed
With finger laid on lip. Oh, gracious father,
Great is my faith in penance, that chains down
The senses in their cells, scourges the passions
Into meek virtues, and converts the house
Where worldly guests held revel, to a cloister
Trod by pure visions and up-glancing prayers!
Some still remembered; she who smiled farewell,
Thrusting her white hands through the convent grating!
Like the pale saint who, with the crucifix
Betwixt her palms, spake softly as she trod
The solitary chambers, with her prayers
Coupling the moments; not like her, the bright
Aurora of my childhood, on whose knee
I have lain listless, through my fingers slipping
Pearl chains for rosaries!
Still if I walked,
One step kept pace with mine; or if reclining
Mid the cleft rocks, I heard the sea rehearse
Its ancient song of chaos, every wave
Rhyming its fellow, still my heart took note
Of a timed footfall on the upper shore
Advancing and retreating. If I read,
And from my book glanced suddenly, I thrilled,
Knowing who stood apart, and on my face
Looked with a strange intentness.
Oh, thou world!
Thy warm arms clave to me, thy painted lips
Cheated my senses! To my sleep came fiends
That mocked me with his smile, put on his shape,
Spake with his voice, till, starting from my couch,
Thy name, Jacopo, first upon my lip,
I feared to speak God's after! Then came prayers,
Fasts, and harsh penances. There was a chamber
Ginevra loved; a dim, square, lofty room,
Crossed and re-crossed by arches, paven with marbles
Stained in sea hues. One silver shining lamp
That burned behind a column, brake the night
"With its still radiance. There, when midnight came,
Crept I as stealthily, with naked feet
Treading the corridors. There my faint soul
Staggered beneath its cross! The niched saints, only,
Might hear my heart shriek as I walled it in!
The marble where my forehead lay kept not
Count of my tears;—and there, when fasts prolonged
Vanquished my sense, while life, the jailor, slept,
Came angels that unlocked the prison doors
And bade my soul go free. Athwart my brain
Flash and withdraw into the cloud of sense
That holds them captive, memories too bright
For human keeping, dumb, sweet dreams that passed
With finger laid on lip. Oh, gracious father,
Great is my faith in penance, that chains down
The senses in their cells, scourges the passions
Into meek virtues, and converts the house
Where worldly guests held revel, to a cloister
Trod by pure visions and up-glancing prayers!
There came release. 'Twas midnight, and I seemed
In dreams to kneel as kneels the Bride of Christ.
Yet, not Madonna, but my sister guided
The hand that placed the marriage ring on mine.
While yet I slept, a sound of many wings
Filled all the air, and at my ear a voice
Chanted a cradle-hymn. Then I awoke
And heard the echoes keep one lingering note!
In dreams to kneel as kneels the Bride of Christ.
Yet, not Madonna, but my sister guided
The hand that placed the marriage ring on mine.
While yet I slept, a sound of many wings
Filled all the air, and at my ear a voice
Chanted a cradle-hymn. Then I awoke
And heard the echoes keep one lingering note!
They told me 'twas a dream, but felt I not
The constant pressure of the bridal ring?
And knew I not, though dim to human eyes,
How bright 'twould shine hereafter? Up to God
I sped my fresh hopes, that, wing-wearied, turned
To earth's most blessed shelter. Priest, as pure
As Catherine, the first nun, I wedded Heaven!
The tresses they have shorn were ne'er unbound
By love's light hand; the beauty that I laid,
As 'twere a blossom, on His holy shrine,
Kept sacred, all, from love's profaning touch!
The constant pressure of the bridal ring?
And knew I not, though dim to human eyes,
How bright 'twould shine hereafter? Up to God
I sped my fresh hopes, that, wing-wearied, turned
To earth's most blessed shelter. Priest, as pure
As Catherine, the first nun, I wedded Heaven!
The tresses they have shorn were ne'er unbound
By love's light hand; the beauty that I laid,
As 'twere a blossom, on His holy shrine,
Kept sacred, all, from love's profaning touch!
Last fled I here. With many tears, my mother,
Wouldst thou have stayed me, and Jacopo,—nay,
I was appalled to look on his white lips!
Once, I remember, in my brief novitiate
When by the convent wall, I paused to mark
The singing of a bird, and from above
There dropped a written scroll. Oh saints, what wild,
Idolatrous words defaced its blotted page!
I dared not look upon the writer's name.
'Twas sin to read, I know, for all the morn
There was that ringing through my unquiet soul
That outvoiced organ, chorister, and priest!
Wouldst thou have stayed me, and Jacopo,—nay,
I was appalled to look on his white lips!
Once, I remember, in my brief novitiate
When by the convent wall, I paused to mark
The singing of a bird, and from above
There dropped a written scroll. Oh saints, what wild,
Idolatrous words defaced its blotted page!
I dared not look upon the writer's name.
'Twas sin to read, I know, for all the morn
There was that ringing through my unquiet soul
That outvoiced organ, chorister, and priest!