Читать книгу The Sisters' Tragedy, with Other Poems, Lyrical and Dramatic - Aldrich Thomas Bailey - Страница 1

  AGLAE, a widow

  MURIEL, her unmarried sister.

  IT happened once, in that brave land that lies

  For half the twelvemonth wrapt in sombre skies,

  Two sisters loved one man. He being dead,

  Grief loosed the lips of her he had not wed,

  And all the passion that through heavy years

  Had masked in smiles unmasked itself in tears.

  No purer love may mortals know than this,

  The hidden love that guards another's bliss.

  High in a turret's westward-facing room,

  Whose painted window held the sunset's bloom,

  The two together grieving, each to each

  Unveiled her soul with sobs and broken speech.

  Both still were young, in life's rich summer yet;

  And one was dark, with tints of violet

  In hair and eyes, and one was blond as she

  Who rose—a second daybreak—from the sea,

  Gold-tressed and azure-eyed. In that lone place,

  Like dusk and dawn, they sat there face to face.

  She spoke the first whose strangely silvering hair

  No wreath had worn, nor widow's weed might wear,

  And told her blameless love, and knew no shame—

  Her holy love that, like a vestal flame

  Beside the sacred body of some queen

  Within a guarded crypt had burned unseen

  From weary year to year. And she who heard

  Smiled proudly through her tears and said no word,

  But, drawing closer, on the troubled brow

  Laid one long kiss, and that was words enow!

  Be still, my heart! Grown patient with thine ache,

  Thou shouldst be dumb, yet needs must speak, or break.

  The world is empty now that he is gone.

Ay, sweetheart!

                  None was like him, no, not one.

  From other men he stood apart, alone

  In honor spotless as unfallen snow.

  Nothing all evil was it his to know;

  His charity still found some germ, some spark

  Of light in natures that seemed wholly dark.

  He read men's souls; the lowly and the high

  Moved on the self-same level in his eye.

  Gracious to all, to none subservient,

  Without offence he spake the word he meant—

  His word no trick of tact or courtly art,

  But the white flowering of the noble heart.

  Careless he was of much the world counts gain,

  Careless of self, too simple to be vain,

  Yet strung so finely that for conscience-sake

  He would have gone like Cranmer to the stake.

  I saw—how could I help but love? And you—

  At this perfection did I worship too . . .

  'Twas this that stabbed me. Heed not what I say!

  I meant it not, my wits are gone astray,

  With all that is and has been. No, I lie—

  Had he been less perfection, happier I!

  Strange words and wild! 'Tis the distracted mind

  Breathes them, not you, and I no meaning find.

  Yet 'twere as plain as writing on a scroll

  Had you but eyes to read within my soul.—

  How a grief hidden feeds on its own mood,

  Poisons the healthful currents of the blood

  With bitterness, and turns the heart to stone!

  I think, in truth, 'twere better to make moan,

  And so be done with it. This many a year,

  Sweetheart, have I laughed lightly and made cheer,

  Pierced through with sorrow!

                                Then the widowed one

  With sorrowfullest eyes beneath the sun,

  Faltered, irresolute, and bending low

  Her head, half whispered,

                            Dear, how could you know?

  What masks are faces!—yours, unread by me

  These seven long summers; mine, so placidly

  Shielding my woe! No tremble of the lip,

  No cheek's quick pallor let our secret slip!

  Mere players we, and she that played the queen,

  Now in her homespun, looks how poor and mean!

  How shall I say it, how find words to tell

  What thing it was for me made earth a hell

  That else had been my heaven! 'Twould blanch your cheek

  Were I to speak it. Nay, but I will speak,

  Since like two souls at compt we seem to stand,

  Where nothing may be hidden. Hold my hand,

  But look not at me! Noble 'twas, and meet,

  To hide your heart, nor fling it at his feet

  To lie despised there. Thus saved you our pride

  And that white honor for which earls have died.

  You were not all unhappy, loving so!

  I with a difference wore my weight of woe.

  My lord was he. It was my cruel lot,

  My hell, to love him—for he loved me not!

  Then came a silence. Suddenly like death

  The truth flashed on them, and each held her breath—

  A flash of light whereby they both were slain,

  She that was loved and she that loved in vain!

  Now there was one who came in later days

  To play at Emperor: in the dead of night

  Stole crown and sceptre, and stood forth to light

  In sudden purple. The dawn's straggling rays

  Showed Paris fettered, murmuring in amaze,

  With red hands at her throat—a piteous sight.

  Then the new Caesar, stricken with affright

  At his own daring, shrunk from public gaze

  In the Elysee, and had lost the day

  But that around him flocked his birds of prey,

  Sharp-beaked, voracious, hungry for the deed.

  'Twixt hope and fear behold great Caesar hang!

  Meanwhile, methinks, a ghostly laughter rang

  Through the rotunda of the Invalides.

  What if the boulevards, at set of sun,

  Reddened, but not with sunset's kindly glow?

  What if from quai and square the murmured woe

  Swept heavenward, pleadingly? The prize was won,

  A kingling made and Liberty undone.

  No Emperor, this, like him awhile ago,

  But his Name's shadow; that one struck the blow

  Himself, and sighted the street-sweeping gun!

  This was a man of tortuous heart and brain,

  So warped he knew not his own point of view—

  The master of a dark, mysterious smile.

  And there he plotted, by the storied Seine

  And in the fairy gardens of St. Cloud,

  The Sphinx that puzzled Europe, for awhile.

  I see him as men saw him once—a face

  Of true Napoleon pallor; round the eyes

  The wrinkled care; mustache spread pinion-wise,

  Pointing his smile with odd sardonic grace

  As wearily he turns him in his place,

  And bends before the hoarse Parisian cries—

  Then vanishes, with glitter of gold-lace

  And trumpets blaring to the patient skies.

  Not thus he vanished later! On his path

  The Furies waited for the hour and man,

  Foreknowing that they waited not in vain.

  Then fell the day, O day of dreadful wrath!

  Bow down in shame, O crimson-girt Sedan!

  Weep, fair Alsace! weep, loveliest Lorraine!

  So mused I, sitting underneath the trees

  In that old garden of the Tuileries,

  Watching the dust of twilight sifting down

  Through chestnut boughs just toucht with autumn's brown—

  Not twilight yet, but that illusive bloom

  Which holds before the deep-etched shadows come;

  For still the garden stood in golden mist,

  Still, like a river of molten amethyst,

  The Seine slipt through its spans of fretted stone,

  And, near the grille that once fenced in a throne,

  The fountains still unbraided to the day

  The unsubstantial silver of their spray.

  A spot to dream in, love in, waste one's hours!

  Temples and palaces, and gilded towers,

  And fairy terraces!—and yet, and yet

  Here in her woe came Marie Antoinette,

  Came sweet Corday, Du Barry with shrill cry,

  Not learning from her betters how to die!

  Here, while the Nations watched with bated breath,

  Was held the saturnalia of Red Death!

  For where that slim Egyptian shaft uplifts

  Its point to catch the dawn's and sunset's drifts

  Of various gold, the busy Headsman stood. . . .

  Place de la Concorde—no, the Place of Blood!

  And all so peaceful now! One cannot bring

  Imagination to accept the thing.

  Lies, all of it! some dreamer's wild romance—

  High-hearted, witty, laughter-loving France!

  In whose brain was it that the legend grew

  Of Maenads shrieking in this avenue,

  Of watch-fires burning, Famine standing guard,

  Of long-speared Uhlans in that palace-yard!

  What ruder sound this soft air ever smote

  Than a bird's twitter or a bugle's note?

  What darker crimson ever splashed these walks

  Than that of rose-leaves dropping from the stalks?

  And yet—what means that charred and broken wall,

  That sculptured marble, splintered, like to fall,

  Looming among the trees there? . . . And you say

  This happened, as it were, but yesterday?

  And here the Commune stretched a barricade,

  And there the final desperate stand was made?

  Such things have been? How all things change and fade!

  How little lasts in this brave world below!

  Love dies; hate cools; the Caesars come and go;

  Gaunt Hunter fattens, and the weak grow strong.

  Even Republics are not here for long!

  Ah, who can tell what hour may bring the doom,

  The lighted torch, the tocsin's heavy boom!

  TREAD softly here; the sacredest of tombs

  Are those that hold your Poets. Kings and queens

  Are facile accidents of Time and Chance.

  Chance sets them on the heights, they climb not there!

  But he who from the darkling mass of men

  Is on the wing of heavenly thought upborne

  To finer ether, and becomes a voice

  For all the voiceless, God anointed him:

  His name shall be a star, his grave a shrine.

  Tread softly here, in silent reverence tread.

  Beneath those marble cenotaphs and urns

  Lies richer dust than ever nature hid

  Packed in the mountain's adamantine heart,

  Or slyly wrapt in unsuspected sand—

  The dross men toil for, and oft stain the soul.

  How vain and all ignoble seems that greed

  To him who stands in this dim claustral air

  With these most sacred ashes at his feet!

  This dust was Chaucer, Spenser, Dryden this—

  The spark that once illumed it lingers still.

  O ever-hallowed spot of English earth!

  If the unleashed and happy spirit of man

  Have option to revisit our dull globe,

  What august Shades at midnight here convene

  In the miraculous sessions of the moon,

  When the great pulse of London faintly throbs,

  And one by one the stars in heaven pale!

  The wind it wailed, the wind it moaned,

     And the white caps flecked the sea;

  "An' I would to God," the skipper groaned,

     "I had not my boy with me!"

  Snug in the stern-sheets, little John

     Laughed as the scud swept by;

  But the skipper's sunburnt cheek grew wan

     As he watched the wicked sky.

  "Would he were at his mother's side!"

     And the skipper's eyes were dim.

  "Good Lord in heaven, if ill betide,

     What would become of him!

  "For me—my muscles are as steel,

     For me let hap what may;

  I might make shift upon the keel

     Until the break o' day.

  "But he, he is so weak and small,

     So young, scarce learned to stand—

  O pitying Father of us all,

     I trust him in Thy hand!

  "For Thou, who markest from on high

     A sparrow's fall—each one!—

  Surely, O Lord, thou'lt have an eye

     On Alec Yeaton's son!"

  Then, helm hard-port; right straight he sailed

     Towards the headland light:

  The wind it moaned, the wind it wailed,

     And black, black fell the night.

  Then burst a storm to make one quail

     Though housed from winds and waves—

  They who could tell about that gale

     Must rise from watery graves!

  Sudden it came, as sudden went;

     Ere half the night was sped,

  The winds were hushed, the waves were spent,

     And the stars shone overhead.

  Now, as the morning mist grew thin,

     The folk on Gloucester shore

  Saw a little figure floating in

     Secure, on a broken oar!

  Up rose the cry, "A wreck! a wreck!

     Pull, mates, and waste no breath!"—

  They knew it, though 'twas but a speck

     Upon the edge of death!

  Long did they marvel in the town

     At God his strange decree,

  That let the stalwart skipper drown

     And the little child go free!

  . . . Room in your heart for him, O Mother Earth,

  Who loved each flower and leaf that made you fair,

  And sang your praise in verses manifold

  And delicate, with here and there a line

  From end to end in blossom like a bough

  The May breathes on, so rich it was. Some thought

  The workmanship more costly than the thing

  Moulded or carved, as in those ornaments

  Found at Mycaene. And yet Nature's self

  Works in this wise; upon a blade of grass,

  Or what small note she lends the woodland thrush,

  Lavishing endless patience. He was born

  Artist, not artisan, which some few saw

  And many dreamed not. As he wrote no odes

  When Croesus wedded or Maecenas died,

  And gave no breath to civic feasts and shows,

  He missed the glare that gilds more facile men—

  A twilight poet, groping quite alone,

  Belated, in a sphere where every nest

  Is emptied of its music and its wings.

  Not great his gift; yet we can poorly spare

  Even his slight perfection in an age