The Poems of Emma Lazarus Volume I Part 22

Not a stain, In the sun-brimmed sapphire cup that is the sky-- Not a ripple on the black translucent lane Of the palace-walled lagoon.

Not a cry As the gondoliers with velvet oar glide by, Through the golden afternoon.

From this height Where the carved, age-yellowed balcony o'erjuts Yonder liquid, marble pavement, see the light s.h.i.+mmer soft beneath the bridge, That abuts On a labyrinth of water-ways and shuts Half their sky off with its ridge.

We shall mark All the pageant from this ivory porch of ours, Masques and jesters, mimes and minstrels, while we hark To their music as they fare.

Scent their flowers Flung from boat to boat in rainbow radiant showers Through the laughter-ringing air.

See! they come, Like a flock of serpent-throated black-plumed swans, With the mandoline, viol, and the drum, Gems afire on arms ungloved, Fluttering fans, Floating mantles like a great moth's streaky vans Such as Veronese loved.

But behold In their midst a white unruffled swan appear.

One strange barge that snowy tapestries enfold, White its ta.s.seled, silver prow.

Who is here?

Prince of Love in masquerade or Prince of Fear, Clad in glittering silken snow?

Cheek and chin Where the mask's edge stops are of the h.o.a.r-frosts hue, And no eyebeams seem to sparkle from within Where the hollow rings have place.

Yon gay crew Seem to fly him, he seems ever to pursue.

'T is our sport to watch the race.

At his side Stands the goldenest of beauties; from her glance, From her forehead, s.h.i.+nes the splendor of a bride, And her feet seem shod with wings, To entrance, For she leaps into a wild and rhythmic dance, Like Salome at the King's.

'T is his aim Just to hold, to clasp her once against his breast, Hers to flee him, to elude him in the game.

Ah, she fears him overmuch!

Is it jest,-- Is it earnest? a strange riddle lurks half-guessed In her horror of his touch.

For each time That his snow-white fingers reach her, fades some ray From the glory of her beauty in its prime; And the knowledge grows upon us that the dance Is no play 'Twixt the pale, mysterious lover and the fay-- But the whirl of fate and chance.

Where the tide Of the broad lagoon sinks plumb into the sea, There the mystic gondolier hath won his bride.

Hark, one helpless, stifled scream!

Must it be?

Mimes and minstrels, flowers and music, where are ye?

Was all Venice such a dream?

AUTUMN SADNESS.

Air and sky are swathed in gold Fold on fold, Light glows through the trees like wine.

Earth, sun-quickened, swoons for bliss 'Neath his kiss, Breathless in a trance divine.

Nature pauses from her task, Just to bask In these lull'd transfigured hours.

The green leaf nor stays nor goes, But it grows Royaler than mid-June's flowers.

Such impa.s.sioned silence fills All the hills Burning with unflickering fire-- Such a blood-red splendor stains The leaves' veins, Life seems one fulfilled desire.

While earth, sea, and heavens s.h.i.+ne, Heart of mine, Say, what art thou waiting for?

Shall the cup ne'er reach the lip, But still slip Till the life-long thirst give o'er?

Shall my soul, no frosts may tame, Catch new flame From the incandescent air?

In this nuptial joy apart, Oh my heart, Whither shall we lonely fare?

Seek some dusky, twilight spot, Quite forgot Of the Autumn's Bacchic fire.

Where soft mists and shadows sleep, There outweep Barren longing's vain desire.

SONNETS.

ECHOES.

Late-born and woman-souled I dare not hope, The freshness of the elder lays, the might Of manly, modern pa.s.sion shall alight Upon my Muse's lips, nor may I cope (Who veiled and screened by womanhood must grope) With the world's strong-armed warriors and recite The dangers, wounds, and triumphs of the fight; Tw.a.n.ging the full-stringed lyre through all its scope.

But if thou ever in some lake-floored cave O'erbrowed by hard rocks, a wild voice wooed and heard, Answering at once from heaven and earth and wave, Lending elf-music to thy harshest word, Misprize thou not these echoes that belong To one in love with solitude and song.

SUCCESS.

Oft have I brooded on defeat and pain, The pathos of the stupid, stumbling throng.

These I ignore to-day and only long To pour my soul forth in one trumpet strain, One clear, grief-shattering, triumphant song, For all the victories of man's high endeavor, Palm-bearing, laureled deeds that live forever, The splendor clothing him whose will is strong.

Hast thou beheld the deep, glad eyes of one Who has persisted and achieved? Rejoice!

On naught diviner s.h.i.+nes the all-seeing sun.

Salute him with free heart and choral voice, 'Midst flippant, feeble crowds of spectres wan, The bold, significant, successful man.

THE NEW COLOSSUS.*