The Poems of Emma Lazarus Volume I Part 10

This spiritual Father judged his crime As the mad mischief of a reckless boy, That call for strict, immediate punishment.

But Tannhauser, who felt himself a man, Though base, yet fallen through pa.s.sions and rare gifts Of an exuberant nature rankly rich, And knew his weary head was growing gray With a life's terrible experience, Found his old sense of proper worth revive; But modestly he ended: "Yet I felt, O holy Father, in the church, this morn, A strange security, a peace serene, As though e'en yet the Lord regarded me With merciful compa.s.sion; yea, as though Even so vile a worm as I might work Mine own salvation, through repentant prayers."

"Presumptuous man, it is no easy task To expiate such sin; a s.p.a.ce of prayer That deprecates the anger of the Lord, A pilgrimage through pleasant summer lands, May not atone for years of impious l.u.s.t; Thy heart hath lied to thee in offering hope."

"Is there no hope on earth?" the pilgrim sighed.

"None through thy penance," said the saintly man.

"Yet there may be through mediation, help.

There is a man who by a blameless life Hath won the right to intercede with G.o.d.

No sins of his own flesh hath he to purge,-- The Cardinal Filippo,--he abides, Within the Holy City. Seek him out; This is my only counsel,--through thyself Can be no help and no forgiveness."

How different from the buoyant joy of morn Was this discouraged sense of la.s.situde, The Bishop's words were ringing in his ears, Measured and pitiless, and blent with these, The memory of the G.o.ddess' last wild cry,-- "ONCE BEING MINE, THOU ART FOREVER MINE."

Was it the truth, despite his penitence, And the dedication of his thought to G.o.d, That still some portion of himself was hers, Some l.u.s.t survived, some criminal regret, For her corrupted love? He searched his heart: All was remorse, religious and sincere, And yet her dreadful curse still haunted him; For all men shunned him, and denied him help, Knowing at once in looking on his face, Ploughed with deep lines and prematurely old, That he had struggled with some deadly fiend, And that he was no longer kin to them.

Just past the outskirts of the town, he stopped, To strengthen will and courage to proceed.

The storm had broken o'er the sultry streets, But now the lessening clouds were flying east, And though the gentle shower still wet his face, The west was cloudless while the sun went down, And the bright seven-colored arch stood forth, Against the opposite dull gray. There was A beauty in the mingled storm and peace, Beyond clear suns.h.i.+ne, as the vast, green fields Basked in soft light, though glistening yet with rain.

The roar of all the town was now a buzz Less than the insects' drowsy murmuring That whirred their gauzy wings around his head.

The breeze that follows on the sunsetting Was blowing whiffs of bruised and dripping gra.s.s Into the heated city. But he stood, Disconsolate with thoughts of fate and sin, Still wrestling with his soul to win it back From her who claimed it to eternity.

Then on the delicate air there came to him The intonation of the minster bells, Chiming the vespers, musical and faint.

He knew not what of dear and beautiful There was in those familiar peals, that spake Of his first boyhood and his innocence, Leading him back, with gracious influence, To pleasant thoughts and tender memories, And last, recalling the fair hour of hope He pa.s.sed that morning in the church. Again, The glad a.s.surance of G.o.d's boundless love Filled all his being, and he rose serene, And journeyed forward with a calm content.

Southward he wended, and the landscape took A warmer tone, the sky a richer light.

The gardens of the graceful, festooned with hops, With their slight tendrils binding pole to pole, Gave place to orchards and the trellised grape, The hedges were enwreathed with trailing vines, With cl.u.s.tering, shapely bunches, 'midst the growth Of tangled greenery. The elm and ash Less frequent grew than cactus, cypresses, And golden-fruited or large-blossomed trees.

The far hills took the hue of the dove's breast, Veiled in gray mist of olive groves. No more He pa.s.sed dark, moated strongholds of grim knights, But terraces with marble-paven steps, With fountains leaping in the sunny air, And hanging gardens full of sumptuous bloom.

Then cloisters guarded by their dead gray walls, Where now and then a golden globe of fruit Or full-flushed flower peered out upon the road, Nodding against the stone, and where he heard Sometimes the voices of the chanting monks, Sometimes the laugh of children at their play, Amidst the quaint, old gardens. But these sights Were in the suburbs of the wealthy towns.

For many a day through wildernesses rank, Or marshy, feverous meadow-lands he fared, The fierce sun smiting his close-m.u.f.fled head; Or 'midst the Alpine gorges faced the storm, That drave adown the gullies melted snow And clattering boulders from the mountain-tops.

At times, between the mountains and the sea Fair prospects opened, with the boundless stretch Of restless, tideless water by his side, And their long wash upon the yellow sand.

Beneath this generous sky the country-folk Could lead a freer life,--the fat, green fields Offered rich pasturage, athwart the air Rang tinkling cow-bells and the shepherds' pipes.

The knight met many a strolling troubadour, Bearing his cithern, flute, or dulcimer; And oft beneath some castle's balcony, At night, he heard their mellow voices rise, Blent with stringed instruments or tambourines, Chanting some lay as natural as a bird's.

Then Nature stole with healthy influence Into his thoughts; his love of beauty woke, His Muse inspired dreams as in the past.

But after this came crueler remorse, And he would tighten round his loins the rope, And lie for hours beside some wayside cross, And feel himself unworthy to enjoy The splendid gift and privilege of life.

Then forth he hurried, spurred by his desire To reach the City of the Seven Hills, And gain his absolution. Some leagues more Would bring him to the vast Campagna land, When by a roadside well he paused to rest.

'T was noon, and reapers in the field hard by Lay neath the trees upon the sun-scorched gra.s.s.

But from their midst one came towards the well, Not trudging like a man forespent with toil, But frisking like a child at holiday, With light steps. The pilgrim watched him come, And found him scarcely older than a child, A large-mouthed earthen pitcher in his hand, And a guitar upon his shoulder slung.

A wide straw hat threw all his face in shade, But doffing this, to catch whatever breeze Might stir among the branches, he disclosed A charming head of rippled, auburn hair, A frank, fair face, as lovely as a girls, With great, soft eyes, as mild and grave as kine's.

Above his head he slipped the instrument, And laid it with his hat upon the turf, Lowered his pitcher down the well-head cool, And drew it dripping upward, ere he saw The watchful pilgrim, craving (as he thought) The precious draught. "Your pardon, holy sir, Drink first," he cried, "before I take the jar Unto my father in the reaping-field."

Touched by the cordial kindness of the lad, The pilgrim answered,--"Thanks, my thirst is quenched From mine own palm." The stranger deftly poised The br.i.m.m.i.n.g pitcher on his head, and turned Back to the reaping-folk, while Tannhauser Looked after him across the sunny fields, Clasping each hand about his waist to bear The balanced pitcher; then, down glancing, found The lad's guitar near by, and fell at once To striking its tuned string with wandering hands, And pensive eyes filled full of tender dreams.

"Yea, holy sir, it is a worthless thing, And yet I love it, for I make it speak."

The boy again stood by him and dispelled His train of fantasies half sweet, half sad.

"That was not in my thought," the knight replied.

"Its worth is more than rubies; whoso hath The art to make this speak is raised thereby Above all loneliness or grief or fear."

More to himself than to the lad he spake, Who, understanding not, stood doubtfully At a loss for answer; but the knight went on: "How came it in your hands, and who hath tuned your voice to follow it." "I am unskilled, Good father, but my mother smote its strings To music rare." Diverted from one theme, Pleased with the winsome candor of the boy, The knight encouraged him to confidence; Then his own gift of minstrelsy revealed, And told bright tales of his first wanderings, When in lords' castles and kings' palaces Men still made place for him, for in his land The gift was rare and valued at its worth, And brought great victory and sounding fame.

Thus, in retracing all his pleasant youth, His suffering pa.s.sed as though it had not been.

Wide-eyed and open-mouthed the boy gave ear, His fair face flus.h.i.+ng with the sudden thoughts That went and came,--then, as the pilgrim ceased, Drew breath and spake: "And where now is your lyre?"

The knight with both hands hid his changed, white face, Crying aloud, "Lost! lost! forever lost!"

Then, gathering strength, he bared his face again Unto the frightened, wondering boy, and rose With hasty fear. "Ah, child, you bring me back Unwitting to remembrance of my grief, For which I donned eternal garb of woe; And yet I owe you thanks for one sweet hour Of healthy human intercourse and peace.

'T is not for me to tarry by the way.

Farewell!" The impetuous, remorseful boy, Seeing sharp pain on that kind countenance, Fell at his feet and cried, "Forgive my words, Witless but innocent, and leave me not Without a blessing." Moved unutterably, The pilgrim kissed with trembling lips his head, And muttered, "At this moment would to G.o.d That I were worthy!" Then waved wasted hands Over the youth in act of blessing him, But faltered, "Cleanse me through his innocence, O heavenly Father!" and with quickening steps Hastened away upon the road to Rome.

The noon was past, the reapers drew broad swaths With scythes sun-smitten 'midst the ripened crop.

Thin shadows of the afternoon slept soft On the green meadows as the knight pa.s.sed forth.

He trudged amidst the sea of poisonous flowers On the Campagna's undulating plain, With Rome, the many-steepled, many-towered, Before him regnant on her throne of hills.

A thick blue cloud of haze o'erhung the town, But the fast-sinking sun struck fiery light From s.h.i.+ning crosses, roofs, and flas.h.i.+ng domes.

Across his path an arching bridge of stone Was raised above a shrunken yellow stream, Hurrying with the light on every wave Towards the great town and outward to the sea.

Upon the bridge's crest he paused, and leaned Against the barrier, throwing back his cowl, And gazed upon the dull, unlovely flood That was the Tiber. Quaggy banks lay bare, Muddy and miry, glittering in the sun, And myriad insects hovered o'er the reeds, Whose lithe, moist tips by listless airs were stirred.

When the low sun had dropped behind the hills, He found himself within the streets of Rome, Walking as in a sleep, where naught seemed real.

The chattering hubbub of the market-place Was over now; but voices smote his ear Of garrulous citizens who jostled past.

Loud cries, gay laughter, s.n.a.t.c.hes of sweet song, The tinkling fountains set in gardens cool About the pillared palaces, and blent With trickling of the conduits in the squares, The noisy teams within the narrow streets,-- All these the stranger heard and did not hear, While ringing bells pealed out above the town, And calm gray twilight skies stretched over it.

Wide open stood the doors of every church, And through the porches pressed a streaming throng.

Vague wonderment perplexed him, at the sight Of broken columns raised to Jupiter Beside the cross, immense cathedrals reared Upon a dead faith's ruins; all the whirl And eager bustle of the living town Filling the storied streets, whose very stones Were solemn monuments, and spake of death.

Although he wrestled with himself, the thought Of that poor, past religion smote his heart With a huge pity and deep sympathy, Beyond the fervor which the Church inspired.

Where was the n.o.ble race who ruled the world, Moulded of purest elements, and stuffed With sternest virtues, every man a king, Wearing the purple native in his heart?

These lounging beggars, stealthy monks and priests, And womanish patricians filled their place.

Thus Tannhauser, still half an infidel, Pagan through mind and Christian through the heart, Fared thoughtfully with wandering, aimless steps, Till in the dying glimmer of the day He raised his eyes and found himself alone Amid the ruined arches, broken shafts, And huge arena of the Coliseum.

He did not see it as it was, dim-lit By something less than day and more than night, With wan reflections of the rising moon Rather divined than seen on ivied walls, And crumbled battlements, and topless columns-- But by the light of all the ancient days, Ringed with keen eager faces, living eyes, Fixed on the circus with a savage joy, Where brandished swords flashed white, and human blood Streamed o'er the thirsty dust, and Death was king.

He started, shuddering, and drew breath to see The foul pit choked with weeds and tumbled stones, The cross raised midmost, and the peaceful moon s.h.i.+ning o'er all; and fell upon his knees, Restored to faith in one wise, loving G.o.d.

Day followed day, and still he bode in Rome, Waiting his audience with the Cardinal, And from the gates, on pretext frivolous, Pa.s.sed daily forth,--his Eminency slept,-- Again, his Eminency was fatigued By tedious sessions of the Papal court, And thus the patient pilgrim was referred Unto a later hour. At last the page Bore him a missive with Filippo's seal, That in his name commended Tannhauser Unto the Pope. The worn, discouraged knight Read the brief scroll, then sadly forth again, Along the bosky alleys of the park, Pa.s.sed to the glare and noise of summer streets.

"Good G.o.d!" he muttered, "Thou hast ears for all, And sendest help and comfort; yet these men, Thy saintly ministers, must deck themselves With arrogance, and from their large delight In all the beauty of the beauteous earth, And peace of indolent, untempted souls, Deny the hungry outcast a bare word."

Yet even as he nourished bitter thoughts, He felt a depth of clear serenity, Unruffled in his heart beneath it all.

No outward object now had farther power To wound him there, for the brooding o'er those deeps Of vast contrition was boundless hope.

Yet not to leave a human chance untried, He sought the absolution of the Pope.

In a great hall with airy galleries, Thronged with high dignitaries of the Church, He took his seat amidst the humblest friars.

Through open windows came sweet garden smells, Bright morning light, and twittered song of birds.

Around the hall flashed gold and sunlit gems, And splendid wealth of color,--white-stoled priests, And scarlet cardinals, and bishops clad In violet vestments,--while beneath the shade Of the high gallery huddled dusky shapes, With faded, travel-tattered, sombre smocks, And shaven heads, and girdles of coa.r.s.e hemp; Some, pilgrims penitent like Tannhauser; Some, devotees to kiss the sacred feet.

The bra.s.sy blare of trumpets smote the air, Shrill pipes and horns with swelling clamor came, And through the doorway's wide-stretched tapestries Pa.s.sed the Pope's trumpeters and mace-bearers, His vergers bearing slender silver wands, Then mitred bishops, red-clad cardinals, The stalwart Papal Guard with halberds raised, And then, with white head crowned with gold ingemmed, The vicar of the lowly Galilean, Holding his pastoral rod of smooth-hewn wood, With censer swung before and peac.o.c.k fans Waved constantly by pages, either side.

Attended thus, they bore him to his throne, And priests and laymen fell upon their knees.

Then, after pause of brief and silent prayer, The pilgrims singly through the hall defiled, To kiss the borders of the papal skirts, Smiting their foreheads on the paven stone; Some silent, abject, some accusing them Of venial sins in accents of remorse, Craving his grace, and pa.s.sing pardoned forth.

Sir Tannhauser came last, no need for him To cry "Peccavi," and crook suppliant knees.

His gray head rather crushed than bowed, his face Livid and wasted, his deep thoughtful eyes, His tall gaunt form in those unseemly weeds, Spake more than eloquence. His hollow voice Brake silence, saying, "I am Tannhauser.

For seven years I lived apart from men, Within the Venusberg." A horror seized The a.s.sembled folk; some turbulently rose; Some clamored, "From the presence cast him forth!"

But the knight never ceased his steady gaze Upon the Pope. At last,--"I have not spoken To be condemned," he said, "by such as these.

Thou, spiritual Father, answer me.

Look thou upon me with the eyes of Christ.

Can I through expiation gain my shrift, And work mine own redemption?" "Insolent man!"

Thundered the outraged Pope, "is this the tone Wherewith thou dost parade thy loathsome sin?

Down on thy knees, and wallow on the earth!

Nay, rather go! there is no ray of hope, No gleam, through cycles of eternity, For the redemption of a soul like thine.

Yea, sooner shall my pastoral rod branch forth In leaf and blossom, and green shoots of spring, Than Christ will pardon thee." And as he spoke, He struck the rod upon the floor with force That gave it entrance 'twixt two loosened tiles, So that it stood, fast-rooted and alone.

The knight saw naught, he only heard his judge Ring forth his curses, and the court cry out "Anathema!" and loud, and blent therewith, Derisive laughter in the very hall, And a wild voice that thrilled through flesh and heart: "ONCE BEING MINE, THOU ART FOREVER MINE!"

Half-mad he clasped both hands upon his brow, Amidst the storm of voices, till they died, And all was silence, save the reckless song Of a young bird upon a twig without.

Then a defiant, ghastly face he raised, And shrieked, "'T is false! I am no longer thine!"

And through the windows open to the park, Rushed forth, beyond the sight and sound of men.

By church nor palace paused he, till he pa.s.sed All squares and streets, and crossed the bridge of stone, And stood alone amidst the broad expanse Of the Campagna, twinkling in the heat.

He knelt upon a knoll of turf, and snapped The cord that held the cross about his neck, And far from him the leaden burden flung.

"O G.o.d! I thank Thee, that my faith in Thee Subsists at last, through all discouragements.

Between us must no type nor symbol stand, No mediator, were he more divine Than the incarnate Christ. All forms, all priests, I part aside, and hold communion free Beneath the empty sky of noon, with naught Between my nothingness and thy high heavens-- Spirit with spirit. O, have mercy, G.o.d!