Gloucester Moors and Other Poems Part 7

For listen, there is his voice again, Wistful and clear and piercing sweet.

Where did the boy find such a strain To make a dead heart beat?

And how in the name of care can he bear To jet such a fountain into the air In this gray gulch of a street?

Tuscan slopes or the Piedmontese?

Umbria under the Apennine?

South, where the terraced lemon-trees Round rich Sorrento s.h.i.+ne?

Venice moon on the smooth lagoon?-- Where have I heard that aching tune, That boyish throat divine?

Beyond my roofs and chimney pots A rag of sunset crumbles gray; Below, fierce radiance hangs in clots O'er the streams that never stay.

Shrill and high, newsboys cry The worst of the city's infamy For one more sordid day.

But my desire has taken sail For lands beyond, soft-horizoned: Down languorous leagues I hold the trail, From Marmalada, steeply throned Above high pastures washed with light, Where dolomite by dolomite Looms sheer and spectral-coned,

To purple vineyards looking south On reaches of the still Tyrrhene; Virgilian headlands, and the mouth Of Tiber, where that s.h.i.+p put in To take the dead men home to G.o.d, Whereof Casella told the mode To the great Florentine.

Up stairways blue with flowering weed I climb to hill-hung Bergamo; All day I watch the thunder breed Golden above the springs of Po, Till the voice makes sure its wavering lure, And by a.s.sisi's portals pure I stand, with heart bent low.

O hear, how it blooms in the blear dayfall, That flower of pa.s.sionate wistful song!

How it blows like a rose by the iron wall Of the city loud and strong.

How it cries "Nay, nay" to the worldling's way, To the heart's clear dream how it whispers, "Yea; Time comes, though the time is long."

Beyond my roofs and chimney piles Sunset crumbles, ragged, dire; The roaring street is hung for miles With fierce electric fire.

Shrill and high, newsboys cry The gross of the planet's destiny Through one more sullen gyre.

Stolidly the town flings down Its l.u.s.t by day for its nightly l.u.s.t; Who does his given stint, 't is known, Shall have his mug and crust.-- Too base of mood, too harsh of blood, Too stout to seize the grosser good, Too hungry after dust!

O hark! how it blooms in the falling dark, That flower of mystical yearning song: Sad as a hermit thrush, as a lark Uplifted, glad, and strong.

Heart, we have chosen the better part!

Save sacred love and sacred art Nothing is good for long.

II

AT a.s.sISI

Before St. Francis' burg I wait, Frozen in spirit, faint with dread; His presence stands within the gate, Mild splendor rings his head.

Gently he seems to welcome me: Knows he not I am quick, and he Is dead, and priest of the dead?

I turn away from the gray church pile; I dare not enter, thus undone: Here in the roadside gra.s.s awhile I will lie and watch for the sun.

Too purged of earth's good glee and strife, Too drained of the honied l.u.s.ts of life, Was the peace these old saints won!

And lo! how the laughing earth says no To the fear that mastered me; To the blood that aches and clamors so How it whispers "Verily."

Here by my side, marvelous-dyed, Bold stray-away from the courts of pride, A poppy-bell flaunts free.

St. Francis sleeps upon his hill, And a poppy flower laughs down his creed; Triumphant light her petals spill, His shrines are dim indeed.

Men build and plan, but the soul of man, Coming with haughty eyes to scan, Feels richer, wilder need.

How long, old builder Time, wilt bide Till at thy thrilling word Life's crimson pride shall have to bride The spirit's white accord, Within that gate of good estate Which thou must build us soon or late, h.o.a.r workman of the Lord?

HOW THE MEAD-SLAVE WAS SET FREE

Nay, move not! Sit just as you are, Under the carved wings of the chair.

The hearth-glow sifting through your hair Turns every dim pearl to a star Dawn-drowned in floods of brightening air.

I have been thinking of that night When all the wide hall burst to blaze With spears caught up, thrust fifty ways To find my throat, while I lay white And sick with joy, to think the days

I dragged out in your hateful North-- A slave, constrained at banquet's need To fill the black bull's horns with mead For drunken sea-thieves--were henceforth Cast from me as a poison weed,

While Death thrust roses in my hands!

But you, who knew the flowers he had Were no such roses ripe and glad As nod in my far southern lands, But pallid things to make men sad,

Put back the spears with one calm hand, Raised on your knee my wondering head, Wiped off the trickling drops of red From my torn forehead with a strand Of your bright loosened hair, and said:

"Sea-rovers! would you kill a skald?

This boy has hearkened Odin sing Unto the clang and winnowing Of raven's wings. His heart is thralled To music, as to some strong king;

"And this great thraldom works disdain Of lesser serving. Once release These bonds he bears, and he may please To give you guerdon sweet as rain To sailors calmed in thirsty seas."

Then, having soothed their rage to rest, You led me to old Skagi's throne, Where yellow gold rims in the stone; And in my arms, against my breast, Thrust his great harp of walrus bone.

How they came crowding, tunes on tunes!

How good it was to touch the strings And feel them thrill like happy things That flutter from the gray coc.o.o.ns On hedge rows, in your gradual springs!

All grew a blur before my sight, As when the stealthy white fog slips At noonday on the staggering s.h.i.+ps; I saw one single spot of light, Your white face, with its eager lips--

And so I sang to that. O thou Who liftedst me from out my shame!

Wert thou content when Skagi came, Put his own chaplet on my brow, And bent and kissed his own harp-frame?

A DIALOGUE IN PURGATORY

_Poi disse un altro.... "Io son Buonconte: Giovanna o altri non ha di me cura; Per ch' io vo tra costor con ba.s.sa fronte."_

_Seguito il terzo spirito al secondo, "Ricorditi di me, che son la Pia; Siena mi fe, disfecemi Maremma.

Salsi colui che inannellata pria Disposata m' avea colla sua gemma."_

PURGATORIO, CANTO V.

I