Kitabı oku: «Complete Poetical Works», sayfa 11

A LEGEND OF COLOGNE

 
             Above the bones
             St. Ursula owns,
     And those of the virgins she chaperons;
             Above the boats,
             And the bridge that floats,
     And the Rhine and the steamers' smoky throats;
         Above the chimneys and quaint-tiled roofs,
         Above the clatter of wheels and hoofs;
         Above Newmarket's open space,
         Above that consecrated place
     Where the genuine bones of the Magi seen are,
     And the dozen shops of the real Farina;
         Higher than even old Hohestrasse,
         Whose houses threaten the timid passer,—
             Above them all,
             Through scaffolds tall,
     And spires like delicate limbs in splinters,
             The great Cologne's
             Cathedral stones
     Climb through the storms of eight hundred winters.
 
 
             Unfinished there,
             In high mid-air
         The towers halt like a broken prayer;
             Through years belated,
             Unconsummated,
         The hope of its architect quite frustrated.
             Its very youth
             They say, forsooth,
         With a quite improper purpose mated;
             And every stone
             With a curse of its own
         Instead of that sermon Shakespeare stated,
             Since the day its choir,
             Which all admire,
         By Cologne's Archbishop was consecrated.
 
 
             Ah! THAT was a day,
             One well might say,
     To be marked with the largest, whitest stone
     To be found in the towers of all Cologne!
             Along the Rhine,
             From old Rheinstein,
     The people flowed like their own good wine.
             From Rudesheim,
             And Geisenheim,
     And every spot that is known to rhyme;
     From the famed Cat's Castle of St. Goarshausen,
     To the pictured roofs of Assmannshausen,
             And down the track,
             From quaint Schwalbach
         To the clustering tiles of Bacharach;
             From Bingen, hence
             To old Coblentz:
     From every castellated crag,
     Where the robber chieftains kept their "swag,"
     The folk flowed in, and Ober-Cassel
     Shone with the pomp of knight and vassal;
         And pouring in from near and far,
         As the Rhine to its bosom draws the Ahr,
         Or takes the arm of the sober Mosel,
         So in Cologne, knight, squire, and losel,
         Choked up the city's gates with men
         From old St. Stephen to Zint Marjen.
 
 
         What had they come to see?  Ah me!
         I fear no glitter of pageantry,
             Nor sacred zeal
             For Church's weal,
     Nor faith in the virgins' bones to heal;
         Nor childlike trust in frank confession
         Drew these, who, dyed in deep transgression,
             Still in each nest
             On every crest
     Kept stolen goods in their possession;
             But only their gout
             For something new,
     More rare than the "roast" of a wandering Jew;
             Or—to be exact—
             To see—in fact—
         A Christian soul, in the very act
         Of being damned, secundum artem,
         By the devil, before a soul could part 'em.
 
 
             For a rumor had flown
             Throughout Cologne
     That the church, in fact, was the devil's own;
             That its architect
             (Being long "suspect")
     Had confessed to the Bishop that he had wrecked
         Not only his OWN soul, but had lost
         The VERY FIRST CHRISTIAN SOUL that crossed
         The sacred threshold: and all, in fine,
         For that very beautiful design
             Of the wonderful choir
             They were pleased to admire.
         And really, he must be allowed to say—
         To speak in a purely business way—
         That, taking the ruling market prices
         Of souls and churches, in such a crisis
             It would be shown—
             And his Grace must own—
         It was really a BARGAIN for Cologne!
 
 
             Such was the tale
             That turned cheeks pale
     With the thought that the enemy might prevail,
             And the church doors snap
             With a thunderclap
     On a Christian soul in that devil's trap.
             But a wiser few,
             Who thought that they knew
     Cologne's Archbishop, replied, "Pooh, pooh!
             Just watch him and wait,
             And as sure as fate,
     You'll find that the Bishop will give checkmate."
 
 
             One here might note
             How the popular vote,
     As shown in all legends and anecdote,
             Declares that a breach
             Of trust to o'erreach
     The devil is something quite proper for each.
             And, really, if you
             Give the devil his due
     In spite of the proverb—it's something you'll rue.
             But to lie and deceive him,
             To use and to leave him,
     From Job up to Faust is the way to receive him,
             Though no one has heard
             It ever averred
     That the "Father of Lies" ever yet broke HIS word,
             But has left this position,
             In every tradition,
     To be taken alone by the "truth-loving" Christian!
             Bom! from the tower!
             It is the hour!
     The host pours in, in its pomp and power
             Of banners and pyx,
             And high crucifix,
     And crosiers and other processional sticks,
             And no end of Marys
             In quaint reliquaries,
     To gladden the souls of all true antiquaries;
             And an Osculum Pacis
             (A myth to the masses
     Who trusted their bones more to mail and cuirasses)—
             All borne by the throng
             Who are marching along
     To the square of the Dom with processional song,
             With the flaring of dips,
             And bending of hips,
     And the chanting of hundred perfunctory lips;
             And some good little boys
             Who had come up from Neuss
     And the Quirinuskirche to show off their voice:
             All march to the square
             Of the great Dom, and there
     File right and left, leaving alone and quite bare
             A covered sedan,
             Containing—so ran
     The rumor—the victim to take off the ban.
 
 
             They have left it alone,
             They have sprinkled each stone
     Of the porch with a sanctified Eau de Cologne,
             Guaranteed in this case
             To disguise every trace
     Of a sulphurous presence in that sacred place.
             Two Carmelites stand
             On the right and left hand
     Of the covered sedan chair, to wait the command
             Of the prelate to throw
             Up the cover and show
     The form of the victim in terror below.
             There's a pause and a prayer,
             Then the signal, and there—
     Is a WOMAN!—by all that is good and is fair!
 
 
             A woman! and known
             To them all—one must own
     TOO WELL KNOWN to the many, to-day to be shown
             As a martyr, or e'en
             As a Christian!  A queen
     Of pleasance and revel, of glitter and sheen;
             So bad that the worst
             Of Cologne spake up first,
     And declared 'twas an outrage to suffer one curst,
             And already a fief
             Of the Satanic chief,
     To martyr herself for the Church's relief.
             But in vain fell their sneer
             On the mob, who I fear
     On the whole felt a strong disposition to cheer.
 
 
             A woman! and there
             She stands in the glare
     Of the pitiless sun and their pitying stare,—
             A woman still young,
             With garments that clung
     To a figure, though wasted with passion and wrung
             With remorse and despair,
             Yet still passing fair,
     With jewels and gold in her dark shining hair,
             And cheeks that are faint
             'Neath her dyes and her paint.
     A woman most surely—but hardly a saint!
 
 
             She moves.  She has gone
             From their pity and scorn;
             She has mounted alone
             The first step of stone,
     And the high swinging doors she wide open has thrown,
             Then pauses and turns,
             As the altar blaze burns
     On her cheeks, and with one sudden gesture she spurns
             Archbishop and Prior,
             Knight, ladye, and friar,
     And her voice rings out high from the vault of the choir.
 
 
             "O men of Cologne!
             What I WAS ye have known;
     What I AM, as I stand here, One knoweth alone.
             If it be but His will
             I shall pass from Him still,
     Lost, curst, and degraded, I reckon no ill;
             If still by that sign
             Of His anger divine
     One soul shall be saved, He hath blessed more than mine.
             O men of Cologne!
             Stand forth, if ye own
     A faith like to this, or more fit to atone,
             And take ye my place,
             And God give you grace
     To stand and confront Him, like me, face to face!"
 
 
             She paused.  Yet aloof
             They all stand.  No reproof
     Breaks the silence that fills the celestial roof.
             One instant—no more—
             She halts at the door,
     Then enters!… A flood from the roof to the floor
             Fills the church rosy red.
             She is gone!
                           But instead,
     Who is this leaning forward with glorified head
             And hands stretched to save?
             Sure this is no slave
     Of the Powers of Darkness, with aspect so brave!
 
 
             They press to the door,
             But too late!  All is o'er.
     Naught remains but a woman's form prone on the floor;
             But they still see a trace
             Of that glow in her face
     That they saw in the light of the altar's high blaze
             On the image that stands
             With the babe in its hands
     Enshrined in the churches of all Christian lands.
 
 
             A Te Deum sung,
             A censer high swung,
     With praise, benediction, and incense wide-flung,
             Proclaim that the CURSE
             IS REMOVED—and no worse
     Is the Dom for the trial—in fact, the REVERSE;
             For instead of their losing
             A soul in abusing
     The Evil One's faith, they gained one of his choosing.
 
 
             Thus the legend is told:
             You will find in the old
     Vaulted aisles of the Dom, stiff in marble or cold
             In iron and brass,
             In gown and cuirass,
     The knights, priests, and bishops who came to that Mass;
             And high o'er the rest,
             With her babe at her breast,
     The image of Mary Madonna the blest.
             But you look round in vain,
             On each high pictured pane,
     For the woman most worthy to walk in her train.
 
 
             Yet, standing to-day
             O'er the dust and the clay,
     'Midst the ghosts of a life that has long passed away,
             With the slow-sinking sun
             Looking softly upon
     That stained-glass procession, I scarce miss the one
             That it does not reveal,
             For I know and I feel
     That these are but shadows—the woman was real!
 

THE TALE OF A PONY

 
     Name of my heroine, simply "Rose;"
     Surname, tolerable only in prose;
     Habitat, Paris,—that is where
     She resided for change of air;
     Aetat twenty; complexion fair;
     Rich, good looking, and debonnaire;
     Smarter than Jersey lightning.  There!
     That's her photograph, done with care.
 
 
     In Paris, whatever they do besides,
EVERY LADY IN FULL DRESS RIDES!
     Moire antiques you never meet
     Sweeping the filth of a dirty street
     But every woman's claim to ton
         Depends upon
     The team she drives, whether phaeton,
     Landau, or britzka.  Hence it's plain
     That Rose, who was of her toilet vain,
     Should have a team that ought to be
     Equal to any in all Paris!
 
 
     "Bring forth the horse!"  The commissaire
     Bowed, and brought Miss Rose a pair
     Leading an equipage rich and rare.
     Why doth that lovely lady stare?
     Why?  The tail of the off gray mare
     Is bobbed, by all that's good and fair!
     Like the shaving-brushes that soldiers wear,
     Scarcely showing as much back hair
     As Tam O'Shanter's "Meg,"—and there,
     Lord knows, she'd little enough to spare.
 
 
     That stare and frown the Frenchman knew,
     But did as well-bred Frenchmen do:
     Raised his shoulders above his crown,
     Joined his thumbs with the fingers down,
     And said, "Ah, Heaven!"—then, "Mademoiselle,
     Delay one minute, and all is well!"
     He went—returned; by what good chance
     These things are managed so well in France
     I cannot say, but he made the sale,
     And the bob-tailed mare had a flowing tail.
 
 
     All that is false in this world below
     Betrays itself in a love of show;
     Indignant Nature hides her lash
     In the purple-black of a dyed mustache;
     The shallowest fop will trip in French,
     The would-be critic will misquote Trench;
     In short, you're always sure to detect
     A sham in the things folks most affect;
     Bean-pods are noisiest when dry,
     And you always wink with your weakest eye:
     And that's the reason the old gray mare
     Forever had her tail in the air,
     With flourishes beyond compare,
         Though every whisk
         Incurred the risk
     Of leaving that sensitive region bare.
     She did some things that you couldn't but feel
     She wouldn't have done had her tail been real.
 
 
     Champs Elysees: time, past five.
     There go the carriages,—look alive!
     Everything that man can drive,
     Or his inventive skill contrive,—
     Yankee buggy or English "chay,"
     Dog-cart, droschky, and smart coupe,
     A desobligeante quite bulky
     (French idea of a Yankee sulky);
     Band in the distance playing a march,
     Footman standing stiff as starch;
     Savans, lorettes, deputies, Arch-
     Bishops, and there together range
     Sous-lieutenants and cent-gardes (strange
     Way these soldier-chaps make change),
     Mixed with black-eyed Polish dames,
     With unpronounceable awful names;
     Laces tremble and ribbons flout,
     Coachmen wrangle and gendarmes shout—
     Bless us! what is the row about?
     Ah! here comes Rosy's new turnout!
     Smart!  You bet your life 'twas that!
     Nifty! (short for magnificat).
     Mulberry panels,—heraldic spread,—
     Ebony wheels picked out with red,
     And two gray mares that were thoroughbred:
     No wonder that every dandy's head
     Was turned by the turnout,—and 'twas said
     That Caskowhisky (friend of the Czar),
     A very good whip (as Russians are),
     Was tied to Rosy's triumphal car,
     Entranced, the reader will understand,
     By "ribbons" that graced her head and hand.
 
 
     Alas! the hour you think would crown
     Your highest wishes should let you down!
     Or Fate should turn, by your own mischance,
     Your victor's car to an ambulance,
     From cloudless heavens her lightnings glance!
     (And these things happen, even in France.)
     And so Miss Rose, as she trotted by,
     The cynosure of every eye,
     Saw to her horror the off mare shy,
     Flourish her tail so exceedingly high
     That, disregarding the closest tie,
     And without giving a reason why,
     She flung that tail so free and frisky
     Off in the face of Caskowhisky.
 
 
       Excuses, blushes, smiles: in fine,
       End of the pony's tail, and mine!
 

ON A CONE OF THE BIG TREES

(SEQUOIA GIGANTEA)

 
     Brown foundling of the Western wood,
       Babe of primeval wildernesses!
     Long on my table thou hast stood
       Encounters strange and rude caresses;
     Perchance contented with thy lot,
       Surroundings new, and curious faces,
     As though ten centuries were not
       Imprisoned in thy shining cases.
 
 
     Thou bring'st me back the halcyon days
       Of grateful rest, the week of leisure,
     The journey lapped in autumn haze,
       The sweet fatigue that seemed a pleasure,
     The morning ride, the noonday halt,
       The blazing slopes, the red dust rising,
     And then the dim, brown, columned vault,
       With its cool, damp, sepulchral spicing.
 
 
     Once more I see the rocking masts
       That scrape the sky, their only tenant
     The jay-bird, that in frolic casts
       From some high yard his broad blue pennant.
     I see the Indian files that keep
       Their places in the dusty heather,
     Their red trunks standing ankle-deep
       In moccasins of rusty leather.
 
 
     I see all this, and marvel much
       That thou, sweet woodland waif, art able
     To keep the company of such
       As throng thy friend's—the poet's—table:
     The latest spawn the press hath cast,—
       The "modern popes," "the later Byrons,"—
     Why, e'en the best may not outlast
       Thy poor relation—Sempervirens.
 
 
     Thy sire saw the light that shone
       On Mohammed's uplifted crescent,
     On many a royal gilded throne
       And deed forgotten in the present;
     He saw the age of sacred trees
       And Druid groves and mystic larches;
     And saw from forest domes like these
       The builder bring his Gothic arches.
 
 
     And must thou, foundling, still forego
       Thy heritage and high ambition,
     To lie full lowly and full low,
       Adjusted to thy new condition?
     Not hidden in the drifted snows,
       But under ink-drops idly spattered,
     And leaves ephemeral as those
       That on thy woodland tomb were scattered?
 
 
     Yet lie thou there, O friend! and speak
       The moral of thy simple story:
     Though life is all that thou dost seek,
       And age alone thy crown of glory,
     Not thine the only germs that fail
       The purpose of their high creation,
     If their poor tenements avail
       For worldly show and ostentation.
 

LONE MOUNTAIN

(CEMETERY, SAN FRANCISCO)

 
     This is that hill of awe
     That Persian Sindbad saw,—
         The mount magnetic;
     And on its seaward face,
     Scattered along its base,
         The wrecks prophetic.
 
 
     Here come the argosies
     Blown by each idle breeze,
         To and fro shifting;
     Yet to the hill of Fate
     All drawing, soon or late,—
         Day by day drifting;
 
 
     Drifting forever here
     Barks that for many a year
         Braved wind and weather;
     Shallops but yesterday
     Launched on yon shining bay,—
         Drawn all together.
 
 
     This is the end of all:
     Sun thyself by the wall,
         O poorer Hindbad!
     Envy not Sindbad's fame:
     Here come alike the same
         Hindbad and Sindbad.
 

ALNASCHAR

 
     Here's yer toy balloons!  All sizes!
     Twenty cents for that.  It rises
     Jest as quick as that 'ere, Miss,
     Twice as big.  Ye see it is
     Some more fancy.  Make it square
     Fifty for 'em both.  That's fair.
 
 
     That's the sixth I've sold since noon.
     Trade's reviving.  Just as soon
     As this lot's worked off, I'll take
     Wholesale figgers.  Make or break,—
     That's my motto!  Then I'll buy
     In some first-class lottery
     One half ticket, numbered right—
     As I dreamed about last night.
 
 
     That'll fetch it.  Don't tell me!
     When a man's in luck, you see,
     All things help him.  Every chance
     Hits him like an avalanche.
     Here's your toy balloons, Miss.  Eh?
     You won't turn your face this way?
     Mebbe you'll be glad some day.
     With that clear ten thousand prize
     This 'yer trade I'll drop, and rise
     Into wholesale.  No!  I'll take
     Stocks in Wall Street.  Make or break,—
     That's my motto!  With my luck,
     Where's the chance of being stuck?
     Call it sixty thousand, clear,
     Made in Wall Street in one year.
 
 
     Sixty thousand!  Umph!  Let's see!
     Bond and mortgage'll do for me.
     Good!  That gal that passed me by
     Scornful like—why, mebbe I
     Some day'll hold in pawn—why not?—
     All her father's prop.  She'll spot
     What's my little game, and see
     What I'm after's HER.  He! he!
 
 
     He! he!  When she comes to sue—
     Let's see!  What's the thing to do?
     Kick her?  No!  There's the perliss!
     Sorter throw her off like this.
     Hello!  Stop!  Help!  Murder!  Hey!
     There's my whole stock got away,
     Kiting on the house-tops!  Lost!
     All a poor man's fortin!  Cost?
     Twenty dollars!  Eh!  What's this?
     Fifty cents!  God bless ye, Miss!