The Poems of Emma Lazarus Volume I Part 23

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, With conquering limbs astride from land to land; Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled ma.s.ses yearning to be free, The wretched refuse of your teeming sh.o.r.e.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

*Written in aid of the Bartholdi Pedestal Fund, 1883.

VENUS OF THE LOUVRE.

Down the long hall she glistens like a star, The foam-born mother of Love, transfixed to stone, Yet none the less immortal, breathing on.

Time's brutal hand hath maimed but could not mar.

When first the enthralled enchantress from afar Dazzled mine eyes, I saw not her alone, Serenely poised on her world-wors.h.i.+pped throne, As when she guided once her dove-drawn car,-- But at her feet a pale, death-stricken Jew, Her life adorer, sobbed farewell to love.

Here Heine wept! Here still we weeps anew, Nor ever shall his shadow lift or move, While mourns one ardent heart, one poet-brain, For vanished h.e.l.las and Hebraic pain.

CHOPIN.

I.

A dream of interlinking hands, of feet Tireless to spin the unseen, fairy woof, Of the entangling waltz. Bright eyebeams meet, Gay laughter echoes from the vaulted roof.

Warm perfumes rise; the soft unflickering glow Of branching lights sets off the changeful charms Of glancing gems, rich stuffs, dazzling snow Of necks unkerchieft, and bare, clinging arms.

Hark to the music! How beneath the strain Of reckless revelry, vibrates and sobs One fundamental chord of constant pain, The pulse-beat of the poet's heart that throbs.

So yearns, though all the dancing waves rejoice, The troubled sea's disconsolate, deep voice.

II.

Who shall proclaim the golden fable false Of Orpheus' miracles? This subtle strain Above our prose-world's sordid loss and gain Lightly uplifts us. With the rhythmic waltz, The lyric prelude, the nocturnal song Of love and languor, varied visions rise, That melt and blend to our enchanted eyes.

The Polish poet who sleeps silenced long, The seraph-souled musician, breathes again Eternal eloquence, immortal pain.

Revived the exalted face we know so well, The illuminated eyes, the fragile frame, Slowly consuming with its inward flame, We stir not, speak not, lest we break the spell.

III.

A voice was needed, sweet and true and fine As the sad spirit of the evening breeze, Throbbing with human pa.s.sion, yet divine As the wild bird's untutored melodies.

A voice for him 'neath twilight heavens dim, Who mourneth for his dead, while round him fall The wan and noiseless leaves. A voice for him Who sees the first green sprout, who hears the call Of the first robin on the first spring day.

A voice for all whom Fate hath set apart, Who, still misprized, must perish by the way, Longing with love, for that they lack the art Of their own soul's expression. For all these Sing the unspoken hope, the vague, sad reveries.

IV.

Then Nature shaped a poet's heart--a lyre From out whose chords the lightest breeze that blows Drew trembling music, wakening sweet desire.

How shall she cherish him? Behold! she throws This precious, fragile treasure in the whirl Of seething pa.s.sions; he is scourged and stung, Must dive in storm-vext seas, if but one pearl Of art or beauty therefrom may be wrung.

No pure-browed pensive nymph his Muse shall be, An amazon of thought with sovereign eyes, Whose kiss was poison, man-brained, worldly-wise, Inspired that elfin, delicate harmony.

Rich gain for us! But with him is it well?

The poet who must sound earth, heaven, and h.e.l.l!

SYMPHONIC STUDIES.

(After Robert Schumann.)

Prelude.

Blue storm-clouds in hot heavens of mid-July Hung heavy, brooding over land and sea: Our hearts, a-tremble, throbbed in harmony With the wild, restless tone of air and sky.

Shall we not call him Prospero who held In his enchanted hands the fateful key Of that tempestuous hour's mystery, And with him to wander by a sun-bright sh.o.r.e, To hear fine, fairy voices, and to fly With disembodied Ariel once more Above earth's wrack and ruin? Far and nigh The laughter of the thunder echoed loud, And harmless lightnings leapt from cloud to cloud.

I.

Floating upon a swelling wave of sound, We seemed to overlook an endless sea: Poised 'twixt clear heavens and glittering surf were we.

We drank the air in flight: we knew no bound To the audacious ventures of desire.

Nigh us the sun was dropping, drowned in gold; Deep, deep below the burning billows rolled; And all the sea sang like a smitten lyre.

Oh, the wild voices of those chanting waves!

The human faces glimpsed beneath the tide!

Familiar eyes gazed from profound sea-caves, And we, exalted, were as we had died.

We knew the sea was Life, the harmonious cry The blended discords of humanity.

II.

Look deeper yet: mark 'midst the wave-blurred ma.s.s, In lines distinct, in colors clear defined, The typic groups and figures of mankind.

Behold within the cool and liquid gla.s.s Bright child-folk sporting with smooth yellow sh.e.l.ls, Astride of dolphins, leaping up to kiss Fair mother-faces. From the vast abyss How joyously their thought-free laughter wells!

Lulled by the overwhelming water's sound, And some make mouths at dragons, undismayed.

Oh dauntless innocence! The gulfs profound Reecho strangely with their ringing glee, And with wise mermaids' plaintive melody.