Читать книгу Mae Madden - Mary Murdoch Mason - Страница 5

Table of Contents

I.

We two had been parted, God pity us, when

The stars were unnamed and when heaven was dim;

We two had been parted far back on the rim

And the outermost border of heaven’s red bars:

We two had been parted ere the meeting of men

Or God had set compass on spaces as yet.

We two had been parted ere God had set

His finger to spinning the spaces with stars—

And now, at the last in the gold and set

Of the sun of Venice, we two had met.

II.

Where the lion of Venice, with brows afrown,

With tossed mane tumbled, and teeth in air,

Looks out in his watch o’er the watery town,

With a paw half lifted, with his claws half bare,

By the blue Adriatic, in the edge of the sea,

I saw her. I knew her, but she knew not me.

I had found her at last! Why, I had sailed

The antipodes through, had sought, had hailed

All flags, had climbed where the storm clouds curled,

And called from the awful arched dome of the world.

III.

I saw her one moment, then fell back abashed

And filled full to the throat. … Then I turned me once more

So glad to the sea, while the level sun flashed

On the far, snowy Alps. … Her breast! Why, her breast

Was white as twin pillows that allure you to rest;

Her sloping limbs moved like to melodies, told

As she rose from the sea, and she threw back the gold

Of her glory of hair, and set face to the shore. …

I knew her! I knew her, though we had not met

Since the far stars sang to the sun’s first set.

IV.

How long I had sought her! I had hungered, nor ate

Of any sweet fruits. I had tasted not one

Of all the fair glories grown under the sun.

I had sought only her. Yea, I knew that she

Had come upon earth and stood waiting for me

Somewhere by my way. But the path ways of fate

They had led otherwhere. The round world round,

The far North seas and the near profound

Had failed me for aye. Now I stood by that sea

While a ship drove by, and all dreamily.

V.

I had turned from the lion a time, and when

I looked tow’rd the tide and out on the lea

Of the town where the warm sea tumbled and teemed

With beauty, I saw her. I knew her then,

The tallest, the fairest fair daughter of men.

O, Venice stood full in her glory. She gleamed

In the splendor of sunset and sensuous sea;

Yet I saw but my bride, my affinity,

While the doves hurried home to the dome of Saint Mark

And the brass horses plunged their high manes in the dark,

VI.

Was it well with my love? Was she true? Was she brave

With virtue’s own valor? Was she waiting for me?

O, how fared my love! Had she home? Had she bread?

Had she known but the touch of the warm-tempered wave?

Was she born upon earth with a crown on her head;

Or born like myself, but a dreamer, instead?

So long it had been! So long! Why the sea,

That wrinkled and surly old time-tempered slave,

Had been born, had his revels, grown wrinkled and hoar

Since I last saw my love on that uttermost shore.

VII.

O, how fared my love? Once I lifted my face

And I shook back my hair and looked out on the sea;

I pressed my hot palms as I stood in my place

And cried, “O, I come like a king to your side

Though all hell intervene.” … “Hist! she may be a bride!

A mother at peace, with sweet babes on her knee!

A babe at her breast and a spouse at her side! …

Have I wandered too long, and has destiny

Set mortal between us?” I buried my face

In my hands, and I moaned as I stood in my place.

VIII.

’Twas her year to be young. She was tall, she was fair

Was she pure as the snow on the Alps over there?

’Twas her year to be young. She was fair, she was tall

And I knew she was true as I lifted my face

And saw her press down her rich robe to its place

With a hand white and small as a babe’s with a doll,

And her feet—why, her feet, in the white shining sand,

Were so small they might nest in my one brawny hand.

Then she pushed back her hair with a round hand that shone

And flashed in the light with a white starry stone.

IX.

Then, my love she was rich. My love she was fair.

Was she pure as the snow on the Alps over there?

She was gorgeous with wealth, “Thank God, she has bread,”

I said to myself. Then I humbled my head

In gratitude. Then I questioned me where

Was her palace? her parents? What name did she bear?

What mortal on earth came nearest her heart?

Who touched the small hand till it thrilled to a smart?

’Twas her day to be young. She was proud, she was fair.

Was she pure as the snow on the Alps over there?

X.

Now she turned, reached a hand; then a tall gondolier

That had leaned on his oar, like a long lifted spear,

Shot sudden and swift and all silently

And drew to her side as she turned from the tide …

It was odd, such a thing, and I counted it queer

That a princess like this, whether virgin or bride,

Should abide thus apart, and should bathe in that sea;

And I shook back my hair, and so unsatisfied.

Then I fluttered the doves that were perched close about,

As I strode up and down in dismay and in doubt.

XI.

Then she stood in the boat on the borders of night

As a goddess might stand on that far wonder land

Of eternal sweet life, which men have named Death.

I turned to the sea and I caught at my breath,

As she drew from the boat through her white baby hand

Her vestment of purple imperial, and white.

Then the gondola shot! swift, sharp from the shore.

There was never the sound of a song or of oar

But the doves hurried home in white clouds to Saint Mark,

And the lion loomed high o’er the sea in the dark.

XII.

Then I cried, “Quick! Follow her. Follow her. Fast!

Come! Thrice double fare if you follow her true

To her own palace door.” There was plashing of oar

And rattle of rowlock. … I sat leaning low

Looking far in the dark, looking out as we sped

With my soul all alert, bending down, leaning low.

But only the oaths of the men as we passed

When we jostled them sharp as we sudden shot thro’

The watery town. Then a deep, distant roar—

The rattle of rowlock, the rush of the oar.

XIII.

Then an oath. Then a prayer! Then a gust that made rents

Through the yellow sailed fishers. Then suddenly

Came sharp forked fire! Then far thunder fell

Like the great first gun! Ah, then there was route

Of ships like the breaking of regiments

And shouts as if hurled from an upper hell.

Then tempest! It lifted, it spun us about,

Then shot us ahead through the hills of the sea

As if a great arrow shot shoreward in wars—

Then heaven split open till we saw the blown stars.

XIV.

On! On! Through the foam, through the storm, through the town,

She was gone. She was lost in the wilderness

Of palaces lifting their marbles of snow.

I stood in my gondola. Up and all down

I pushed through the surge of the salt-flood street

Above me, below … Twas only the beat

Of the sea’s sad heart … Then I heard below

The water-rat building, but nothing but that;

Not even the sea bird screaming distress,

As she lost her way in that wilderness.

XV.

I listened all night. I caught at each sound;

I clutched and I caught as a man that drown’d. …

Only the sullen low growl of the sea

Far out the flood street at the edge of the ships.

Only the billow slow licking his lips,

Like a dog that lay crouching there watching for me;

Growling and showing white teeth all the night,

Reaching his neck and as ready to bite—

Only the waves with their salt flood tears

Fawning white stones of a thousand years.

XVI.

Only the birds in the wilderness

Of column and dome and of glittering spire

That thrust to heaven and held the fire

Of the thunder still: The bird’s distress

As he struck his wings in that wilderness,

On marbles that speak and thrill and inspire …

The night below and the night above;

The water-rat building, the startled white dove,

The wide-winged, dolorous sea bird’s call

The water-rat building, but that was all.

XVII.

Lo! pushing the darkness from pillar to post,

The morning came silent and gray like a ghost

Slow up the canal. I leaned from the prow

And listened. Not even the bird in distress

Screaming above through the wilderness;

Not even the stealthy old water-rat now.

Only the bell in the fisherman’s tower

Slow tolling a-sea and telling the hour

To kneel to their sweet Santa Barbara

For tawny fishers a-sea and pray.

* * * * * *

XVIII.

My dream it is ended, the curtain withdrawn.

The night that lay hard on the breast of earth,

Deep and heavy as a horrid nightmare,

Moves by, and I look to the rosy dawn. … .

I shall leave you here, with a leader fair;

One gentle, with faith and fear of her worth.

She shall lead you on through that Italy

That the gods have loved; and may it be

A light-hearted hour that, hand in hand,

You wander the warm and the careless love-land.

XIX.

By the windy waters of the Michigan

She invokes the gods. … Be it bright or dim,

Who does his endeavor as best he can

Does bravely, indeed. The rest is with Him.

Let a new star dance in the Occident

Till it shakes through the gossamer floors of God

And shines, o’er Chicago … The Orient

Is hoar with glories. Let Illini sod

Bear glory as well as the gleaming grain,

And engines smoking along her plain.

JOAQUIN MILLER.

CHICAGO, NOV., 1875.