THE CHAPLET OF BRONZE.
"Oh, could I melt my spirit into song
And dying triumph!" The slow silvery notes
Rose from her lips as smoke rings from a censer.
Gay dames and gallants whispered, the young nobles
Stood with averted eyes, and the rude crowd
Aped their indifference. Holding with her looks
The scorn that coiled to spring, she sang, and drave
Melody to the utmost bounds of sound,
Marcia, the Florentine. The orchestra
Pealed forth its loudest, but triumphantly
As the white sea-bird skims the waves, her voice
Outrode the storm of music.
Suddenly,
A note shot upward, and suspended hung
As if on poised wings. A single voice
Cried "Bravo!" as slow dropped from that great height
It seemed to fathom silence. Then upborne
By music, like a bird that's swung to rest
By the lulled waves, the singer's voice kept on
Swelling and falling with the sound that bare it.
Low bent the lover to his lady's ear,
And she sat trifling with her gilded fan.
All through the indifferent crowd, above, below,
Only averted faces met her eye
"Who had been wont to hold the multitude
By her sweet voice as in a silver leash.
With scarce a bend of her white neck she turned
And passed out from their sight.
The painted curtain
Swept to the footlamps, and the orchestra
Thundered again. But to and fro the crowd
Swayed with mute restlessness. Some one cried out
"Amalia!" and a thousand voices joined,
"Amalia!" to the gilded ceiling, slow,
Crept back the screen of drapery.
There were fountains,
Green groves, and arbours, in the scene before them,
With what seemed moonlight shimmering over all.
And through one avenue that pierced the distance
A single note came floating.
'Twas a child
That, up the aisle advancing, to the footlamps
Drew near, and with her hands locked carelessly
Sang with a fearless joyfulness. Her voice
Was fresh as May-winds, wilder than the lark
That swoops and circles in its upward flight,
Delirious with music. Scarce the ear
Marked how through labyrinths of song it held
One clue of melody; its notes like pearls
Strung on the silken thread they half concealed.
Her voice was but the sail her happy spirit
Urged to its utmost through the waves of song;
When Marcia sang, each silver arrow sped
True to the mark, but these seemed flung at random;
No bird that sings amid the summer leaves
E'er voiced his spirit with such deep delight;
And when she ceased, and the loud orchestra
Took up the strain, the multitude o'erwhelmed it
With a continuous thunder.
Soft, a voice!
And through the distant scenery came a form
That paused midway, arid with white, lifted arms
Held up what seemed a crown of woven leaves.
Then "Marcia! Marcia!" fled from lip to lip,
And with the tempest of her shouted name
The high walls trembled. Her magnificent head
Bent to the crowd's applauses, as the prow
Of some grand vessel sinks to meet the waves;
And lifting high the wreath, she cried, " Come hither!
Hither, Amalia!"
With meek folded arms,
Low bent the singer.
Yet suspended hung
Over her brow the fatal type of fame,
The laurel crown, till Marcia smiled. It fell,—
Not fluttering slow, but with a sudden quickness.
And as it dropped, loud thunders of applause
Blent with the crash of music. Some stood still;
For through the tumult a prolonged wild shriek
Rose, faintly audible. 'Twas but a fancy!
Still Marcia smiled, and still Amalia bent.
The smile seemed graven upon Marcia's lip.
And now Amalia, sinking to her knee,
Bent lower, lower, lower, till her brow
Pressed down the border of the robes that swept
Prom Marcia's zone, and Marcia had no rival!
And dying triumph!" The slow silvery notes
Rose from her lips as smoke rings from a censer.
Gay dames and gallants whispered, the young nobles
Stood with averted eyes, and the rude crowd
Aped their indifference. Holding with her looks
The scorn that coiled to spring, she sang, and drave
Melody to the utmost bounds of sound,
Marcia, the Florentine. The orchestra
Pealed forth its loudest, but triumphantly
As the white sea-bird skims the waves, her voice
Outrode the storm of music.
Suddenly,
A note shot upward, and suspended hung
As if on poised wings. A single voice
Cried "Bravo!" as slow dropped from that great height
It seemed to fathom silence. Then upborne
By music, like a bird that's swung to rest
By the lulled waves, the singer's voice kept on
Swelling and falling with the sound that bare it.
Low bent the lover to his lady's ear,
And she sat trifling with her gilded fan.
All through the indifferent crowd, above, below,
Only averted faces met her eye
"Who had been wont to hold the multitude
By her sweet voice as in a silver leash.
With scarce a bend of her white neck she turned
And passed out from their sight.
The painted curtain
Swept to the footlamps, and the orchestra
Thundered again. But to and fro the crowd
Swayed with mute restlessness. Some one cried out
"Amalia!" and a thousand voices joined,
"Amalia!" to the gilded ceiling, slow,
Crept back the screen of drapery.
There were fountains,
Green groves, and arbours, in the scene before them,
With what seemed moonlight shimmering over all.
And through one avenue that pierced the distance
A single note came floating.
'Twas a child
That, up the aisle advancing, to the footlamps
Drew near, and with her hands locked carelessly
Sang with a fearless joyfulness. Her voice
Was fresh as May-winds, wilder than the lark
That swoops and circles in its upward flight,
Delirious with music. Scarce the ear
Marked how through labyrinths of song it held
One clue of melody; its notes like pearls
Strung on the silken thread they half concealed.
Her voice was but the sail her happy spirit
Urged to its utmost through the waves of song;
When Marcia sang, each silver arrow sped
True to the mark, but these seemed flung at random;
No bird that sings amid the summer leaves
E'er voiced his spirit with such deep delight;
And when she ceased, and the loud orchestra
Took up the strain, the multitude o'erwhelmed it
With a continuous thunder.
Soft, a voice!
And through the distant scenery came a form
That paused midway, arid with white, lifted arms
Held up what seemed a crown of woven leaves.
Then "Marcia! Marcia!" fled from lip to lip,
And with the tempest of her shouted name
The high walls trembled. Her magnificent head
Bent to the crowd's applauses, as the prow
Of some grand vessel sinks to meet the waves;
And lifting high the wreath, she cried, " Come hither!
Hither, Amalia!"
With meek folded arms,
Low bent the singer.
Yet suspended hung
Over her brow the fatal type of fame,
The laurel crown, till Marcia smiled. It fell,—
Not fluttering slow, but with a sudden quickness.
And as it dropped, loud thunders of applause
Blent with the crash of music. Some stood still;
For through the tumult a prolonged wild shriek
Rose, faintly audible. 'Twas but a fancy!
Still Marcia smiled, and still Amalia bent.
The smile seemed graven upon Marcia's lip.
And now Amalia, sinking to her knee,
Bent lower, lower, lower, till her brow
Pressed down the border of the robes that swept
Prom Marcia's zone, and Marcia had no rival!