The Poems of Emma Lazarus Volume I Part 25

CRITIC AND POET.

An Apologue.

("Poetry must be simple, sensuous, or impa.s.sioned; this man is neither simple, sensuous, nor impa.s.sioned; therefore he is not a poet.")

No man had ever heard a nightingale, When once a keen-eyed naturalist was stirred To study and define--what is a bird, To cla.s.sify by rote and book, nor fail To mark its structure and to note the scale Whereon its song might possibly be heard.

Thus far, no farther;--so he spake the word.

When of a sudden,--hark, the nightingale!

Oh deeper, higher than he could divine That all-unearthly, untaught strain! He saw The plain, brown warbler, unabashed. "Not mine"

(He cried) "the error of this fatal flaw.

No bird is this, it soars beyond my line, Were it a bird, 't would answer to my law."

ST. MICHAEL'S CHAPEL.

When the vexed hubbub of our world of gain Roars round about me as I walk the street, The myriad noise of Traffic, and the beat Of Toil's incessant hammer, the fierce strain Of struggle hand to hand and brain to brain, Ofttimes a sudden dream my sense will cheat, The gaudy shops, the sky-piled roofs retreat, And all at once I stand enthralled again Within a marble minster over-seas.

I watch the solemn gold-stained gloom that creeps To kiss an alabaster tomb, where sleeps A lady 'twixt two knights' stone effigies, And every day in dusky glory steeps Their sculptured slumber of five centuries.

LIFE AND ART.

Not while the fever of the blood is strong, The heart throbs loud, the eyes are veiled, no less With pa.s.sion than with tears, the Muse shall bless The poet-soul to help and soothe with song.

Not then she bids his trembling lips express The aching gladness, the voluptuous pain.

Life is his poem then; flesh, sense, and brain One full-stringed lyre attuned to happiness.

But when the dream is done, the pulses fail, The day's illusion, with the day's sun set, He, lonely in the twilight, sees the pale Divine Consoler, featured like Regret, Enter and clasp his hand and kiss his brow.

Then his lips ope to sing--as mine do now.

SYMPATHY.

Therefore I dare reveal my private woe, The secret blots of my imperfect heart, Nor strive to shrink or swell mine own desert, Nor beautify nor hide. For this I know, That even as I am, thou also art.

Thou past heroic forms unmoved shalt go, To pause and bide with me, to whisper low: "Not I alone am weak, not I apart Must suffer, struggle, conquer day by day.

Here is my very cross by strangers borne, Here is my bosom-sun wherefrom I pray Hourly deliverance--this my rose, my thorn.

This woman my soul's need can understand, Stretching o'er silent gulfs her sister hand."

YOUTH AND DEATH.

What hast thou done to this dear friend of mine, Thou cold, white, silent Stranger? From my hand Her clasped hand slips to meet the grasp of thine; Here eyes that flamed with love, at thy command Stare stone-blank on blank air; her frozen heart Forgets my presence. Teach me who thou art, Vague shadow sliding 'twixt my friend and me.

I never saw thee till this sudden hour.

What secret door gave entrance unto thee?

What power in thine, o'ermastering Love's own power?

AGE AND DEATH.

Come closer, kind, white, long-familiar friend, Embrace me, fold me to thy broad, soft breast.

Life has grown strange and cold, but thou dost bend Mild eyes of blessing wooing to my rest.

So often hast thou come, and from my side So many hast thou lured, I only bide Thy beck, to follow glad thy steps divine.

Thy world is peopled for me; this world's bare.

Through all these years my couch thou didst prepare.

Thou art supreme Love--kiss me--I am thine!

CITY VISIONS.

I.

As the blind Milton's memory of light, The deaf Beethoven's phantasy of tone, Wrought joys for them surpa.s.sing all things known In our restricted sphere of sound and sight,-- So while the glaring streets of brick and stone Vex with heat, noise, and dust from morn till night, I will give rein to Fancy, taking flight From dismal now and here, and dwell alone With new-enfranchised senses. All day long, Think ye 't is I, who sit 'twixt darkened walls, While ye chase beauty over land and sea?

Uplift on wings of some rare poet's song, Where the wide billow laughs and leaps and falls, I soar cloud-high, free as the the winds are free.

II.

Who grasps the substance? who 'mid shadows strays?

He who within some dark-bright wood reclines, 'Twixt sleep and waking, where the needled pines Have cus.h.i.+oned all his couch with soft brown sprays?

He notes not how the living water s.h.i.+nes, Trembling along the cliff, a flickering haze, Br.i.m.m.i.n.g a wine-bright pool, nor lifts his gaze To read the ancient wonders and the signs.

Does he possess the actual, or do I, Who paint on air more than his sense receives, The glittering pine-tufts with closed eyes behold, Breathe the strong resinous perfume, see the sky Quiver like azure flame between the leaves, And open unseen gates with key of gold?