Poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich / [by Thomas Bailey Aldrich] [electronic text]

IV.
FRIAR JEROME'S BEAUTIFUL BOOK, ETC.

FRIAR JEROME'S BEAUTIFUL BOOK, ETC.

FRIAR JEROME'S BEAUTIFUL BOOK.

A.D. 1200.

THE Friar Jerome, for some slight sin, Done in his youth, was struck with woe. "When I am dead," quoth Friar Jerome, " Surely, I think my soul will go Shuddering through the darkened spheres, Down to eternal fires below! I shall not dare from that dread place To lift mine eyes to Jesus' face, Nor Mary's, as she sits adored At the feet of Christ the Lord. Alas! December's all too brief For me to hope to wipe away The memory of my sinful May!" And Friar Jerome was full of grief That April evening, as he lay On the straw pallet in his cell. He scarcely heard the curfew-bell

Calling the brotherhood to prayer; But he arose, for 't was his care Nightly to feed the hungry poor That crowded to the Convent door.

His choicest duty it had been: But this one night it weighed him down. "What work for an immortal soul, To feed and clothe some lazy clown? Is there no action worth my mood, No deed of daring, high and pure, That shall, when I am dead, endure, A well-spring of perpetual good?"

And straight he thought of those great tomes With clamps of gold—the Convent's boast— How they endured, while kings and realms Past into darkness and were lost; How they had stood from age to age, Clad in their yellow vellum-mail, 'Gainst which the Paynim's godless rage, The Vandal's fire, could naught avail: Though heathen sword-blows fell like hail, Though cities ran with Christian blood, Imperishable they had stood! They did not seem like books to him, But Heroes, Martyrs, Saints— themselves The things they told of, not mere books Ranged grimly on the oaken shelves.

To those dim alcoves, far withdrawn, He turned with measured steps and slow, Trimming his lantern as he went; And there, among the shadows, bent Above one ponderous folio, With whose miraculous text were blent Seraphic fates: Angels, crowned With rings of melting amethyst; Mute, patient Martyrs, cruelly bound To blazing fagots; here and there, Some bold, serene Evangelist, Or Mary in her sunny hair; And here and there from out the words A brilliant tropic bird took flight; And through the margins many a vine Went wandering—roses, red and white, Tulip, wind-flower, and columbine Blossomed. To his believing mind These things were real, and the wind, Blown through the mullioned window, took Scent from the lilies in the book.

"Santa Maria!" cried Friar Jerome, "Whatever man illumined this, Though he were steeped heart-deep in sin, Was worthy of unending bliss, And no doubt hath it! Ah! dear Lord, Might I so beautify Thy Word! What sacristan, the convents through, Transcribes with such precision? who

Does such initials as I do?Lo! I will gird me to this work, And save me, ere the one chance slips. On smooth, clean parchment I'll engross The Prophet's fell Apocalypse; And as I write from day to day, Perchance my sins will pass away."

So Friar Jerome began his Book. From break of dawn till curfew-chime He bent above the lengthening page, Like some rapt poet o'er his rhyme. He scarcely paused to tell his beads, Except at night; and then he lay And tost, unrestful, on the straw, Impatient for the coming day— Working like one who feels, perchance, That, ere the longed-for goal be won, Ere Beauty bare her perfect breast, Black Death may pluck him from the sun. At intervals the busy brook, Turning the mill-wheel, caught his ear; And through the grating of the cell He saw the honeysuckles peer, And knew 't was summer, that the sheep In fragrant pastures lay asleep, And felt, that, somehow, God was near. In his green pulpit on the elm, The robin, abbot of that wood, Held forth by times; and Friar Jerome Listened, and smiled, and understood.

While summer wrapt the blissful land What joy it was to labor so, To see the long-tressed Angels grow Beneath the cunning of his hand, Vignette and tail-piece subtly wrought! And little recked he of the poor That missed him at the Convent door; Or, thinking of them, put the thought Aside. "I feed the souls of men Henceforth, and not their bodies! "—yet Their sharp, pinched features, now and then, Stole in between him and his Book, And filled him with a vague regret.

Now on that region fell a blight: The corn grew cankered in its sheath; And from the verdurous uplands rolled A sultry vapor fraught with death— A poisonous mist, that, like a pall, Hung black and stagnant over all. Then came the sickness—the malign, Green-spotted terror called the Pest, That took the light from loving eyes, And made the young bride's gentle breast A fatal pillow. Ah! the woe, The crime, the madness that befell! In one short night that vale became More foul than Dante's inmost hell. Men curst their wives; and mothers left Their nursing babes alone to die,

And wantoned, singing, through the streets, With shameless brow and frenzied eye; And senseless clowns, not fearing God— Such power the spotted fever had— Razed Cragwood Castle on the hill, Pillaged the wine-bins, and went mad. And evermore that dreadful pall Of mist hung stagnant over all: By day, a sickly light broke through The heated fog, on town and field; By night, the moon, in anger, turned Against the earth its mottled shield.

"FRIAR JEROME." Page 116.

Then from the Convent, two and two, The Prior chanting at their head, The monks went forth to shrive the sick, And give the hungry grave its dead— Only Jerome, he went not forth, But hiding in his dusty nook, "Let come what will, I must illume The last ten pages of my Book!" He drew his stool before the desk, And sat him down, distraught and wan, To paint his daring masterpiece, The stately figure of Saint John. He sketched the head with pious care, Laid in the tint, when, powers of Grace! He found a grinning Death's-head there, And not the grand Apostle's face!

Then up he rose with one long cry: "'T is Satan's self does this," cried he, "Because I shut and barred my heart When Thou didst loudest call to me! O Lord, Thou know'st the thoughts of men, Thou know'st that I did yearn to make Thy Word more lovely to the eyes Of sinful souls, for Christ his sake! Nathless, I leave the task undone: I give up all to follow Thee— Even like him who gave his nets To winds and waves by Galilee!"

Which said, he closed the precious Book In silence, with a reverent hand; And drawing his cowl about his face Went forth into the Stricken Land. And there was joy in heaven that day— More joy o'er this forlorn old friar Than over fifty sinless men Who never struggled with desire!

What deeds he did in that dark town, What hearts he soothed with anguish torn, What weary ways of woe he trod, Are written in the Book of God, And shall be read at Judgment Morn. The weeks crept on, when, one still day. God's awful presence filled the sky, And that black vapor floated by,

And lo! the sickness past away. With silvery clang, by thorpe and town, The bells made merry in their spires: O God! to think the Pest is flown! Men kissed each other on the street, And music piped to dancing feet The livelong night, by roaring fires!

Then Friar Jerome, a wasted shape— For he had taken the Plague at last— Rose up, and through the happy town, And through the wintry woodlands, past Into the Convent. What a gloom Sat brooding in each desolate room! What silence in the corridor! For of that long, innumerous train Which issued forth a month before Scarce twenty had come back again!

Counting his rosary step by step, With a forlorn and vacant air, Like some unshriven churchyard thing, The Friar crawled up the mouldy stair To his damp cell, that he might look Once more on his belovéd Book.

And there it lay upon the stand, Open!—he had not left it so. He grasped it, with a cry; for, lo! He saw that some angelic hand,

While he was gone, had finished it! There 't was complete, as he had planned; There, at the end, stood finis, writ And gilded as no man could do— Not even that pious anchoret, Bilfrid, the wonderful, nor yet The miniatore Ethelwold, Nor Durham's Bishop, who of old (England still hoards the priceless leaves) Did the Four Gospels all in gold. And Friar Jerome nor spoke nor stirred, But, with his eyes fixed on that word, He passed from sin and want and scorn; And suddenly the chapel-bells Rang in the holy Christmas-Morn!

In those wild wars which racked the land Since then, and kingdoms rent in twain, The Friar's Beautiful Book was lost—That miracle of hand and brain: Yet, though its leaves were torn and tost, The volume was not writ in vain!

MIANTOWONA.

I.

LONG ere the Pale Face Crossed the Great Water,

MiantowonaPassed, with her beauty, Into a legend Pure as a wild-flower Found in a broken Ledge by the seaside.

Let us revere them— These wildwood legends, Born of the camp-fire. Let them be handed Down to our children— Richest of heirlooms. No land may claim them: They are ours only, Like our grand rivers, Like our vast prairies, Like our dead heroes.

II.

In the pine-forest, Guarded by shadows, Lieth the haunted Pond of the Red Men. Ringed by the emerald Mountains, it lies there Like an untarnished Buckler of silver, Dropped in that valley By the Great Spirit!

Weird are the figures Traced on its margins— Vine-work and leaf-work, Down-drooping fuchsias, Knots of sword-grasses, Moonlight and starlight, Clouds scudding northward. Sometimes an eagle Flutters across it; Sometimes a single Star on its bosom Nestles till morning.

Far in the ages, Miantowona, Rose of the Hurons, Came to these waters. Where the dank greensward Slopes to the pebbles, Miantowona Sat in her anguish. Ice to her maidens, lce to the chieftains, Fire to her lover! Here he had won her, Here they had parted, Here could her tears flow. With unwet eyelash, Miantowona Nursed her old father,

Gray-eyed Tawanda, Oldest of Hurons, Soothed his complainings, Smiled when he chid her Vaguely for nothing— He was so weak now, Like a shrunk cedar White with the hoar-frost. Sometimes she gently Linked arms with maidens, Joined in their dances: Not with her people, Not in the wigwam, Wept for her lover.

Ah! who was like him? Fleet as an arrow, Strong as a bison, Lithe as a panther, Soft as the south-wind, Who was like Wawah? There is one other Stronger and fleeter, Bearing no wampum, Wearing no war-paint, Ruler of councils, Chief of the war-path— Who can gainsay him, Who can defy him? His is the lightning,

His is the whirlwind, Let us be humble, We are but ashes— 'T is the Great Spirit!

Ever at nightfall Miantowona Strayed from the lodges, Passed through the shadows Into the forest: There by the pond-side Spread her black tresses Over her forehead. Sad is the loon's cry Heard in the twilight; Sad is the night-wind, Moaning and moaning; Sadder the stifled Sob of a widow.

Low on the pebbles Murmured the water: Often she fancied It was young Wawah Playing the reed-flute. Sometimes a dry branch Snapped in the forest: Then she rose, startled, Ruddy as sunrise, Warm for his coming!

But when he came not,Back through the darkness, Half broken-hearted, Miantowona Went to her people.

When an old oak dies, First 't is the tree-tops, Then the low branches, Then the gaunt stem goes: So fell Tawanda, Oldest of Hurons, Chief of the chieftains.

MiantowonaWept not, but softly Closed the sad eyelids; With her own fingers Fastened the deer-skin Over his shoulders; Then laid beside him Ash-bow and arrows, Pipe-bowl and wampum, Dried corn and bear-meat— All that was needfulOn the long journey.Thus old Tawanda, Went to the hunting Grounds of the Red Man. Then, as the dirges

Rose from the village, Miantowona Stole from the mourners, Stole through the cornfields, Passed like a phantom Into the shadows Through the pine forest.

One who had watched her— It was Nahoho, Loving her vainly— Saw, as she passed him, That in her features Made his stout heart quail. He could but follow. Quick were her footsteps, Light as a snow-flake, Leaving no traces On the white clover.

Like a trained runner, Winner of prizes, Into the woodlands Plunged the young chieftain. Once he abruptly Halted, and listened; Then he sped forward Faster and faster Toward the bright water. Breathless he reached it.

Why did he crouch then,Stark as a statue? What did he see there Could so appall him? Only a circle Swiftly expanding, Fading before him; But, as he watched it, Up from the centre, Slowly, superbly, Rose a Pond-Lily.

One cry of wonder, Shrill as the loon's call, Rang through the forest, Startling the silence, Startling the mourners Chanting the death-song. Forth from the village, Flocking together Came all the Hurons— Striplings and warriors, Maidens and old men, Squaws with pappooses. No word was spoken: There stood the Hurons On the dank greensward, With their swart faces Bowed in the twilight. What did they see there?

Only a Lily Rocked on the azure Breast of the water.

Then they turned sadly Each to the other, Tenderly murmuring, "Miantowona!" Soft as the dew falls Down through the midnight, Cleaving the starlight, Echo repeated, "Miantowona!"

THE GUERDON.

Vedder, this legend if it had its due, Would not be sung by me, but told by you In colors such as Tintoretto knew.

SOOTHED by the fountain's drowsy murmuring— Or was it by the west-wind's indolent wing?— The grim court-poet fell asleep one day In the lords' chamber, when chance brought that way The Princess Margaret with a merry train Of damozels and ladies—flippant, vain Court-butterflies—midst whom fair Margaret Swayed like a rathe and slender lily set

In rustling leaves, for all her draperyWas green and gold, and lovely as could be.

Midway in hall the fountain rose and fell, Filling a listless Naiad's outstretched shell And weaving rainbows in the shifting light. Upon the carven friezes, left and right, Was pictured Pan asleep beside his reed. In this place all things seemed asleep, indeed— The hook-billed parrot on his pendent ring, Sitting high-shouldered, half forgot to swing; The wind scarce stirred the hangings at the door, And from the silken arras evermore Yawned drowsy dwarfs with satyr's face and hoof.

A forest of gold pillars propped the roof, And like one slim gold pillar overthrown, The sunlight through a great stained window shone And lay across the body of Alain. You would have thought, perchance, the man was slain: As if the checkered column in its fall Had caught and crushed him, he lay dead to all. The parrot's gray bead eye as good as said, Unclosing viciously, "The clown is dead." A dragon-fly in narrowing circles neared, And lit, secure, upon the dead man's beard, Then spread its iris vans in quick dismay, And into the blue summer sped away!

Little was his of outward grace to win The eyes of maids, but white the soul within. Misshaped, and hideous to look upon Was this man, dreaming in the noontide sun, With sunken eyes and winter-whitened hair, And sallow cheeks deep seamed with thought and care. And so the laughing ladies of the court, Coming upon him suddenly, stopped short, And shrunk together with a nameless dread: Some, but fear held them, would have turned and fled, Seeing the uncouth figure lying there. But Princess Margaret, with her heavy hair From out its diamond fillet rippling down, Slipped from the group, and plucking back her gown With white left hand, stole softly to his side—The fair court gossips staring, curious-eyed, Half mockingly. A little while she stood, Finger on lip; then, with the agile blood Climbing her cheek, and silken lashes wet— She scarce knew what vague pity or regret Wet them—she stooped, and for a moment's space Her golden tresses touched the sleeper's face. Then she stood straight, as lily on its stem, But hearing her ladies titter, turned on them Her great queen's eyes, grown black with scornful frown — Great eyes that looked the shallow women down.

"Nay, not for love"— one rosy palm she laidSoftly against her bosom—" as I'm a maid! Full well I know what cruel things you say Of this and that, but hold your peace today. I pray you think no evil thing of this. Nay, not for love's sake did I give the kiss, Not for his beauty who's nor fair nor young, But for the songs which those mute lips have sung!"

That was a right brave princess, one, I hold,Worthy to wear a crown of beaten gold.

THE JEW'S GIFT.

A. D. 1200.

THE Abbot willed it, and it was done. They hanged him high in an iron cage For the spiteful wind and the patient sun To bleach him. Faith, 't was a cruel age! Just for no crime they hanged him there. When one is a Jew, why, one remains A Jew to the end, though he swing in air From year to year in a suit of chains.

'T was May, and the buds into blossom broke, And the apple-boughs were pink and white: What grewsome fruit was that on the oak,

Swaying and swaying day and night! The miller, urging his piebald mare Over the cross-road, stopped and leered; But never an urchin ventured there, For fear of the dead man's long white beard.

A long white beard like carded wool, Reaching down to the very knee— Of a proper sort with which to pull A heretic Jew to the gallows-tree! Piteous women-folk turned away, Having no heart for such a thing; But the blackbirds on the alder-spray For very joy of it seemed to sing.

Whenever a monk went shuffling by To the convent over against the hill, He would lift a pitiless pious eye, And mutter, "The Abbot but did God's will!" And the Abbot himself slept no whit less, But rather the more, for this his deed: And the May moon filled, and the loveliness Of springtide flooded upland and mead.

Then an odd thing chanced. A certain clown, On a certain morning breaking stone By the hill-side, saw, as he glanced down, That the heretic's long white beard was gone— Shaved as clean and close as you choose, As close and clean as his polished pate!

Like wildfire spread the marvellous news,From the ale-house bench to the convent gate.

And the good folk flocked from far and near, And the monks trooped down the rocky height: 'T was a miracle, that was very clear— The Devil had shaved the Israelite! Where is the Abbot? Quick, go tell! Summon him, knave, God's death! straightway! The Devil hath sent his barber from hell, Perchance there will be the devil to pay!

Now a lad that had climbed an alder-tree, The better to overlook the rest, Suddenly gave a shout of glee At finding a wondrous blackbird-nest, Then suddenly flung it from his hand, For lo! it was woven of human hair, Plaited and braided strand upon strand— No marvel the heretic's chin was bare!

Silence fell upon priest and clown, Each stood riveted in his place; The brat that tugged at his mother's gown Caught the terror that blanched her face. Then one, a patriarch, bent and gray, Wise with the grief of years fourscore, Picked up his staff, and took his way By the mountain-path to the Abbot's door—

And bravely told this thing of the nest, How the birds had never touched cheek or eye, But daintily plucked the fleece from the breast To build a home for their young thereby. "Surely, if they were not afeard (God's little choristers, free of guile!) To serve themselves of the Hebrew's beard, It was that he was not wholly vile!

"Perhaps they saw with their keener eyes The grace that we missed, but which God sees: Ah, but He reads all hearts likewise, The good in those, and the guilt in these. Precious is mercy, O my lord!" Humbly the Abbot bowed his head, And, making a gesture of accord— "What would you have? The knave is dead."

"Certes, the man is dead! No doubt Deserved to die; as a Jew, he died; But now he hath served the sentence out (With a dole or two thrown in beside), Suffered all that he may of men— Why not earth him, and no more words?" The Abbot pondered, and smiled, and then— "Well, well! since he gave his beard to the birds!"

TITA'S TEARS.

A FANTASY.

A CERTAIN man of Ischia—it is thus The story runs—one Lydus Claudius, After a life of threescore years and ten, Passed suddenly from out the world of men Into the world of shadows. In a vale Where shoals of spirits against the moonlight pale Surged ever upward, in a wan-lit place Near heaven, he met a Presence face to face— A figure like a carving on a spire, Shrouded in wings and with a fillet of fire About the brows —who stayed him there, and said: "This the gods grant to thee, O newly dead! Whatever thing on earth thou holdest dear Shall, at thy bidding, be transported here, Save wife or child, or any living thing." Then straightway Claudius fell to wondering What he should wish for. Having heaven at hand, His wants were few, as you can understand, Riches and titles, matters dear to us, To him, of course, were now superfluous: But Tita, small brown Tita, his young wife, A two weeks' bride when he took leave of life, What would become of her without his care?

Tita, so rich, so thoughtless, and so fair! At present crushed with sorrow, to be sure— But by and by? What earthly griefs endure? They pass like joys. A year, three years at most, And would she mourn her lord, so quickly lost? With fine, prophetic ear, he heard afar The tinkling of some horrible guitar Under her balcony. "Such thing could be," Sighed Claudius; "I would she were with me, Safe from all harm." But as that wish was vain, He let it drift from out his troubled brain (His highly trained austerity was such That self-denial never cost him much), And strove to think what object he might name Most closely linked with the bereavéd dame. Her wedding ring?—'t would be too small to wear; Perhaps a ringlet of her raven hair? If not, her portrait, done in cameo, Or on a background of pale gold? But no, Such trifles jarred with his severity. At length he thought: "The thing most meet for me Would be that antique flask wherein my bride Let fall her heavy tears the night I died." (It was a custom of that simple day To have one's tears sealed up and laid away, As everlasting tokens of regret— They find the bottles in Greek ruins yet.) For this he wished, then.

Swifter than a thoughtThe Presence vanished, and the flask was brought— Slender, bell-mouthed, and painted all around With jet-black tulips on a saffron ground; A tiny jar, of porcelain if you will, Which twenty tears would rather more than fill. With careful fingers Claudius broke the seal When, suddenly, a well-known merry peal Of laughter leapt from out the vial's throat, And died, as dies the wood-bird's distant note. Claudius stared; then, struck with strangest fears, Reversed the flask— Alas, for Tita's tears!

THE LADY OF CASTELNORE.

A. D. 1700.

1.

BRÉTAGNE had not her peer. In the Province far or near There were never such brown tresses, such a faultless hand; She had youth, and she had gold, she had jewels all untold, And many a lover bold wooed the Lady of the Land.

2.

But she, with queenliest grace, bent low her pallid face, And "Woo me not, for Jesus' sake, fair gentlemen," she said. If they woo'd, then—with a frown she would strike their passion down: She might have wed a crown to the ringlets on her head.

3.

From the dizzy castle-tips, hour by hour she watched the ships, Like sheeted phantoms coming and going evermore, While the twilight settled down on the sleepy sea-port town, On the gables peaked and brown, that had sheltered kings of yore.

4.

Dusky belts of cedar-wood partly claspt the widening flood; Like a knot of daisies lay the hamlets on the hill; In the hostelry below sparks of light would come and go, And faint voices, strangely low, from the garrulous old mill.

5.

Here the land in grassy swells gently broke; there sunk in dells With mosses green and purple, and prongs of rock and peat; Here, in statue-like repose, an old wrinkled mountain rose, With its hoary head in snows, and wild-roses at its feet.

6.

And so oft she sat alone in the turret of gray stone, And looked across the moorland, so woful, to the sea, That there grew a village-cry, how her cheek did lose its dye, As a ship, once, sailing by, faded on the sapphire lea.

7.

Her few walks led all one way, and all ended at the gray And ragged, jagged rocks that fringe the lonely beach; There she would stand, the Sweet! with the white surf at her feet, While above her wheeled the fleet sparrow-hawk with startling screech.

8.

And she ever loved the sea, with its haunting mystery, Its whispering weird voices, its never-ceasing roar: And 't was well that, when she died, they made her a grave beside The blue pulses of the tide, by the towers of Castelnore.

9.

Now, one chill November morn, many russet autumns gone, A strange ship with folded wings lay dozing off the lea; It had lain throughout the night with its wings of murky white Folded, after weary flight—the worn nursling of the sea.

10.

Crowds of peasants flocked the sands; there were tears and clasping hands; And a sailor from the ship stalked through the church-yard gate. Then amid the grass that crept, fading, over her who slept, How he hid his face and wept, crying, Late, alas! too late!

11.

And they called her cold. God knows... Underneath the winter snows The invisible hearts of flowers grow ripe for blossoming! And the lives that look so cold, if their stories could be told, Would seem cast in gentler mould, would seem full of love and spring.

IN AN ATELIER.

I PRAY you, do not turn your head; And let your hands lie folded, so. It was a dress like this, wine-red, That Dante liked so, long ago. You don't know Dante? Never mind. He loved a lady wondrous fair— His model? Something of the kind. I wonder if she had your hair!

I wonder if she looked so meek, And was not meek at all (my dear, I want that side light on your cheek). He loved her, it is very clear, And painted her, as I paint you, But rather better, on the whole

(Depress your chin; yes, that will do): He was a painter of the soul!

(And painted portraits, too, I think, In the INFERNO—devilish good! I'd make some certain critics blink If I'd his method and his mood.) Her name was (Fanny, let your glance Rest there, by that majolica tray)— Was Beatrice; they met by chance— They met by chance, the usual way.

(As you and I met, months ago, Do you remember? How your feet Went crinkle-crinkle on the snow Along the bleak gas-lighted street! An instant in the drug-store's glare You stood as in a golden frame, And then I swore it, then and there, To hand your sweetness down to fame.)

They met, and loved, and never wed (All this was long before our time), And though they died, they are not dead—Such endless youth gives mortal rhyme! Still walks the earth, with haughty mien, Great Dante, in his soul's distress; And still the lovely Florentine Goes lovely in her wine-red dress.

You do not understand at all?He was a poet; on his page He drew her; and, though kingdoms fall, This lady lives from age to age: A poet— that means painter too, For words are colors, rightly laid; And they outlast our brightest hue, For varnish cracks and crimsons fade.

The poets —they are lucky ones! When we are thrust upon the shelves, Our works turn into skeletons Almost as quickly as ourselves; For our poor canvas peels at length, At length is prized— when all is bare: "What grace!" the critics cry, "what strength!" When neither strength nor grace is there.

Ah, Fanny, I am sick at heart, It is so little one can do; We talk our jargon—live for Art! I'd much prefer to live for you. How dull and lifeless colors are! You smile, and all my picture lies: I wish that I could crush a star To make a pigment for your eyes.

Yes, child, I know I'm out of tune; The light is bad; the sky is gray: I paint no more this afternoon,

So lay your royal gear away. Besides, you're moody—chin on hand— I know not what— not in the vein— Not like Anne Bullen, sweet and bland: You sit there smiling in disdain.

Not like Bluff Harry's radiant Queen, Unconscious of the coming woe, But rather as she might have been, Preparing for the headsman's blow. I see! I've put you in a miff— Sitting bolt-upright, wrist on wrist. How should you look? Why, dear, as if— Somehow— as if you'd just been kissed!

THE TRAGEDY.

LA DAME AUX CAMÉLIAS.

La Dame aux Camélias— I think that was the play; The house was packed from pit to dome With the gallant and the gay, Who had come to see the Tragedy, And while the hours away.

There was the ruined Spendthrift, And Beauty in her prime;

There was the grave Historian, And there the man of Rhyme, And the surly Critic, front to front, To see the play of crime.

And there was pompous Ignorance, And Vice in flowers and lace; Sir Crœsus and Sir Pandarus— And the music played apace. But of all that crowd I only saw A single, single face!

That of a girl whom I had known In the summers long ago, When her breath was like the new-mown hay, Or the sweetest flowers that grow; When her heart was light, and her soul was white As the winter's driven snow.

And there she sat with her great brown eyes, They wore a troubled look; And I read the history of her life As it were an open book; And saw her Soul, like a slimy thing In the bottom of a brook.

There she sat in her rustling silk, With diamonds on her wrist, And on her brow a gleaming thread Of pearl and amethyst.

"A cheat, a gilded grief!" I said, And my eyes were filled with mist.

I could not see the players play: I heard the music moan; It moaned like a dismal autumn wind, That dies in the woods alone; And when it stopped I heard it still— The mournful monotone!

What if the Count were true or false? I did not care, not I; What if Camille for Armand died? I did not see her die. There sat a woman opposite With piteous lip and eye!

The great green curtain fell on all, On laugh, and wine, and woe, Just as death some day will fall 'Twixt us and life, I know! The play was done, the bitter play, And the people turned to go.

And did they see the Tragedy? They saw the painted scene; They saw Armand, the jealous fool, And the sick Parisian queen: But they did not see the Tragedy—The one I saw, I mean!

They did not see that cold-cut face,That furtive look of care; Or, seeing her jewels, only said, "The lady's rich and fair." But I tell you, 't was the Play of Life, And that woman played Despair!

PEPITA.

SCARCELY sixteen years old Is Pepita! (You understand, A breath of this sunny land Turns green fruit into gold:

A maiden's conscious blood In the cheek of girlhood glows; A bud slips into a rose Before it is quite a bud!)

And I in Seville—sedate, An American, with an eye For that strip of indigo sky Half-glimpsed through a Moorish gate—

I see her, sitting up there, With tortoise-shell comb and fan; Red-lipped, but a trifle wan, Because of her coal-black hair;

And the hair a trifle dull, Because of the eyes beneath, And the radiance of her teeth When her smile is at its full!

Against the balcony rail She leans, and looks on the street; Her lashes, long and discreet, Shading her eyes like a veil.

Held by a silver dart, The mantilla's delicate lace Falls each side of her face And crosswise over her heart.

This is Pepita—this Her hour for taking her ease: A lover under the trees In the calle were not amiss!

Well, I must needs pass by, With a furtive glance, be it said, At the dusk Murillo head And the Andalusian eye!

In the Plaza I hear the sounds Of guitar and castanet; Although it is early yet, The dancers are on their rounds.

Softly the sunlight fallsOn the slim Giralda tower, That now peals forth the hour O'er broken ramparts and walls.

Ah, what glory and gloom In this Arab-Spanish town! What masonry, golden-brown, And hung with tendril and bloom!

Place of forgotten kings!— With fountains that never play, And gardens where day by day The lonely cicada sings!

Traces are everywhere Of the dusky race that came, And passed, like a sudden flame, Leaving their sighs in the air!

Taken with things like these, Pepita fades out of my mind: Pleasure enough I find In Moorish column and frieze.

And yet I have my fears, If this had been long ago, I might... well, I do not know... She with her sixteen years!

THE LEGEND OF ARA-CŒLI.

I.

LOOKING at Fra Gervasio, Wrinkled and withered and old and gray, A dry Franciscan from crown to toe, You would never imagine, by any chance, That, in the convent garden one day, He spun this thread of golden romance.

Romance to me, but to him, indeed, 'T was a matter that did not hold a doubt; A miracle, nothing more nor less. Did I think it strange that, in our need, Leaning from Heaven to our distress, The Virgin brought such things about— Gave mute things speech, made dead things move?— Mother of Mercy, Lady of Love! Besides, I might, if I wished, behold The Bambino's self in his cloth of gold And silver tissue, lying in state In the Sacristy. Would the signor wait?

Whoever will go to Rome may see, In the chapel of the Sacristy Of Ara-Cœli, the Sainted Child— Garnished from throat to foot with rings And brooches and precious offerings,

And its little nose kissed quite away By dying lips. At Epiphany, If the holy winter day prove mild, It is shown to the wondering, gaping crowd On the church's steps—held high aloft— While every sinful head is bowed, And the music plays, and the censers' soft White breath ascends like silent prayer.

Many a beggar kneeling there, Tattered and hungry, without a home, Would not envy the Pope of Rome, If he, the beggar, had half the care Bestowed on him that falls to the share Of yonder Image—for you must know It has its minions to come and go, Its perfumed chamber, remote and still, Its silken couch, and its jewelled throne, And a special carriage of its own To take the air in, when it will; And though it may neither drink nor eat, By a nod to its ghostly seneschal It could have of the choicest wine and meat. Often some princess, brown and tall, Comes, and unclasping from her arm The glittering bracelet, leaves it, warm With her throbbing pulse, at the Baby's feet. Ah, he is loved by high and low, Adored alike by simple and wise. The people kneel to him in the street.

What a felicitous lot is his— To lie in the light of ladies' eyes, Petted and pampered, and never to know The want of a dozen soldi or so! And what does he do for all of this? What does the little Bambino do? It cures the sick, and, in fact, 't is said Can almost bring life back to the dead. Who doubts it? Not Fra Gervasio. When one falls ill, it is left alone For a while with one— and the fever's gone!

At least, 't was once so; but to-day It is never permitted, unattended By monk or priest, to work its lure At sick folks' beds—all that was ended By one poor soul whose feeble clay Satan tempted and made secure.

It was touching this very point the friar Told me the legend, that afternoon, In the cloisteral garden all on fire With scarlet poppies and golden stalks. Here and there on the sunny walks, Startled by some slight sound we made, A lizard, awaking from its swoon, Shot like an arrow into the shade. I can hear the fountain's languorous tune, (How it comes back, that hour in June When just to exist was joy enough!)

I can see the olives, silvery-gray, The carven masonry rich with stains, The gothic windows with lead-set panes, The flag-paved cortile, the convent grates, And Fra Gervasio holding his snuff In a squirrel-like meditative way 'Twixt finger and thumb. But the Legend waits.

II.

It was long ago (so long ago That Fra Gervasio did not know What year of our Lord), there came to Rome Across the Campagna's flaming red, A certain Filippo and his wife— Peasants, and very newly wed. In the happy spring and blossom of life, When the light heart chirrups to lovers' calls, These two, like a pair of birds, had come And built their nest 'gainst the city's walls.

He, with his scanty garden-plots, Raised flowers and fruit for the market-place, Where she, with her pensile, flower-like face— Own sister to her forget-me-nots—Played merchant: and so they thrived apace, In humble content, with humble cares, And modest longings, till, unawares, Sorrow crept on them; for to their nest Had come no little ones, and at last When six or seven summers had past,

Seeing no baby at her breast, The husband brooded, and then grew cold; Scolded and fretted over this— Who would tend them when they were old, And palsied, maybe, sitting alone, Hungry, beside the cold hearth-stone? Not to have children, like the rest! It cankered the very heart of bliss.

Then he fell into indolent ways, Neglecting the garden for days and days, Playing at mora, drinking wine, With this and that one — letting the vine Run riot and die for want of care, And the choke-weeds gather; for it was spring, When everything needed nurturing. But he would drowse for hours in the sun, Or sit on the broken step by the shed, Like a man whose honest toil is done, Sullen, with never a word to spare, Or a word that were better all unsaid. And Nina, so light of thought before, Singing about the cottage door In her mountain dialect—sang no more; But came and went, sad-faced and shy, Wishing, at times, that she might die, Brooding and fretting in her turn. Often, in passing along the street, Her basket of flowers poised, peasant-wise, On a lustrous braided coil of her hair,

She would halt, and her dusky cheek would burn Like a poppy, beholding at her feet Some stray little urchin, dirty and bare. And sudden tears would spring to her eyes That the tiny waif was not her own, To fondle, and kiss, and teach to pray. Then she passed onward, making moan. Sometimes she would stand in the sunny square, Like a slim bronze statue of Despair, Watching the children at their play.

In the broad piazza was a shrine, With Our Lady holding on her knee A small nude waxen effigy. Nina passed by it every day, And morn and even, in rain or shine, Repeated an ave there. "Divine Mother," she'd cry, as she turned away, "Sitting in paradise, undefiled, O, have pity on my distress!" Then glancing back at the rosy Child, She would cry to it, in her helplessness, "Pray her to send the like to me!"

Now once as she knelt before the saint, Lifting her hands in silent pain, She paled, and her heavy heart grew faint At a thought which flashed across her brain—The blinding thought that, perhaps if she Had lived in the world's miraculous morn

God might have chosen her to be The mother—O heavenly ecstasy!— Of the little babe in the manger born! She, too, was a peasant girl, like her, The wife of the lowly carpenter! Like Joseph's wife, a peasant girl!

Her strange little head was in a whirl As she rose from her knees to wander home, Leaving her basket at the shrine; So dazed was she, she scarcely knew The old familiar streets of Rome, Nor whither she wished to go, in fine; But wandered on, now crept, now flew, In the gathering twilight, till she came Breathless, bereft of sense and sight, To the gloomy Arch of Constantine, And there they found her, late that night, With her cheeks like snow and her lips like flame!

Many a time from day to day, She heard, as if in a troubled dream, Footsteps around her, and some one saying—Was it Filippo? —"Is she dead?" Then it was some one near her praying, And she was drifting— drifting away From saints and martyrs in endless glory! She seemed to be floating down a stream, Yet knew she was lying in her bed. The fancy held her that she had died,

And this was her soul in purgatory, Until, one morning, two holy men From the convent came, and laid at her side The Bambino. Blessed Virgin! then Nina looked up, and laughed, and wept, And folded it close to her heart, and slept.

Slept such a soft, refreshing sleep, That when she awoke her eyes had taken The hyaline lustre, dewy, deep, Of violets when they first awaken; And the half-unravelled, fragile thread Of life was knitted together again. But she shrunk with sudden, strange new pain, And seemed to droop like a flower, the day The Capuchins came, with solemn tread, To carry the Miracle Child away!

III.

Ere spring in the heart of pansies burned, Or the buttercup had loosed its gold, Nine was busy as ever of old With fireside cares; but was not the same, For from the hour when she had turned To clasp the Image the fathers brought To her dying-bed, a single thought Had taken possession of her brain: A purpose, as steady as the flame Of a lamp in some cathedral crypt, Had lighed her on her bed of pain;

The thirst and the fever, they had slipt Away like visions, but this had stayed— To have the Bambino brought again, To have it, and keep it for her own! That was the secret dream which made Life for her now—in the streets, alone, At night, and morning, and when she prayed.

How should she wrest it from the hand Of the jealous Church? How keep the Child? Flee with it into some distant land— Like mother Mary from Herod's ire? Ah, well, she knew not; she only knew It was written down in the Book of Fate That she should have her heart's desire, And very soon now, for of late, In a dream, the little thing had smiled Up in her face, with one eye's blue Peering from underneath her breast, Which the baby fingers had softly prest Aside, to look at her! Holy one! But that should happen ere all was done.

Lying dark in the woman's mind— Unknown, like a seed in fallow ground—Was the germ of a plan, confused and blind At first, but which, as the weeks rolled round, Reached light, and flowered,—a subtile flower, Deadly as nightshade. In that same hour She sought the husband and said to him,

With crafty tenderness in her eyes And treacherous archings of her brows, "Filippo, mio, thou lov'st me well? Truly? Then get thee to the house Of the long-haired Jew Ben Raphaim— Seller of curious tapestries, (Ah, he hath everything to sell!) The cunning carver of images— And bid him to carve thee to the life A bambinetto like that they gave In my arms, to hold me from the grave When the fever pierced me like a knife. Perhaps, if we set the image there By the Cross, the saints would hear the prayer Which in all these years they have not heard."

Then the husband went, without a word, To the crowded Ghetto; for since the days Of Nina's illness, the man had been A tender husband—with lover's ways Striving, as best he might, to wean The wife from her sadness, and to bring Back to the home whence it had fled The happiness of that laughing spring When they, like a pair of birds, had wed.

The image! It was a woman's whim— They were full of whims. But what to him Were a dozen pieces of silver spent, If it made her happy? And so he went

To the house of the Jew Ben Raphaim. And the carver heard, and bowed, and smiled, And fell to work as if he had known The thought that lay in the woman's brain, And somehow taken it for his own: For even before the month was flown He had carved a figure so like the Child Of Ara-Cœli, you'd not have told, Had both been decked with jewel and chain And dressed alike in a dress of gold, Which was the true one of the twain.

When Nina beheld it first, her heart Stood still with wonder. The skilful Jew Had given the eyes the tender blue, And the cheeks the delicate olive hue, And the form almost the curve and line Of the Image the good Apostle made Immortal with his miraculous art, What time the sculptor1 1.1 dreamed in the shade Under the skies of Palestine. The bright new coins that clinked in the palm Of the carver in wood were blurred and dim Compared with the eyes that looked at him From the low sweet brows, so seeming calm; Then he went his way, and her joy broke free,

And Filippo smiled to hear Nina singIn the old, old fashion— carolling Like a very thrush, with many a trill And long-drawn, flute-like, honeyed note, Till the birds in the farthest mulberry, Each outstretching its amber bill, Answered her with melodious throat.

Thus sped two days; but on the third Her singing ceased, and there came a change As of death on Nina; her talk grew strange, Then she sunk in a trance, nor spoke nor stirred; And the husband, wringing his hands dismayed, Watched by the bed; but she breathed no word That night, nor until the morning broke, When she roused from the spell, and feebly laid Her hand on Filippo's arm, and spoke: "Quickly, Filippo! get thee gone To the holy fathers, and beg them send The Bambino hither" —her cheeks were wan And her eyes like coals— "O, go, my friend, Or all is said!" Through the morning's gray Filippo hurried, like one distraught, To the monks, and told his tale; and they, Straight after matins, came and brought The Miracle Child, and went their way.

Once more in her arms was the Infant laid, After these weary months, once more! Yet the woman seemed like a thing of stone

While the dark-robed fathers knelt and prayed; But the instant the holy friars were gone She arose, and took the broidered gown From the Baby Christ, and the yellow crown And the votive brooches and rings it wore, Till the little figure, so gay before In its princely apparel, stood as bare As your ungloved hand. With tenderest care, At her feet, 'twixt blanket and counterpane, She hid the Babe; and then, reaching down To the coffer wherein the thing had lain, Drew forth Ben Raphaim's manikin In haste, and dressed it in robe and crown, With lace and bawble and diamond-pin. This finished, she turned to stone again, And lay as one would have thought quite dead, If it had not been for a spot of red Upon either cheek. At the close of day The Capuchins came, with solemn tread, And carried the false bambino away!

Over the vast Campagna's plain, At sunset, a wind began to blow (From the Apennines it came, they say), Softly at first, and then to grow— As the twilight gathered and hurried by—To a gale, with sudden tumultuous rain And thunder muttering far away. When the night was come, from the blackened sky The spear-tongued lightning slipped like a snake,

And the great clouds clashed, and seemed to shake The earth to its centre. Then swept down Such a storm as was never seen in Rome By any one living in that day. Not a soul dared venture from his home, Not a soul in all the crowded town. Dumb beasts dropped dead, with terror, in stall; Great chimney-stacks were overthrown, And about the streets the tiles were blown Like leaves in autumn. A fearful night, With ominous voices in the air! Indeed, it seemed like the end of all. In the convent, the monks for very fright Went not to bed, but each in his cell Counted his beads by the taper's light, Quaking to hear the dreadful sounds, And shrivelling in the lightning's glare. It appeared as if the rivers of Hell Had risen, and overleaped their bounds.

In the midst of this, at the convent door, Above the tempest's raving and roar Came a sudden knocking! Mother of Grace, What a desperate wretch was forced to face Such a night as that was out-of-doors? Across the echoless, stony floors Into the windy corridors The monks came flocking, and down the stair, Silently, glancing each at each, As if they had lost the power of speech.

Yes—it was some one knocking there! And then— strange thing!—untouched by a soul The bell of the convent 'gan to toll! It curdled the blood beneath their hair. Reaching the court, the brothers stood Huddled together, pallid and mute, By the massive door of iron-clamped wood, Till one old monk, more resolute Than the others—a man of pious will— Stepped forth, and letting his lantern rest On the pavement, crouched upon his breast And peeped through a chink there was between The cedar door and the sunken sill. At the instant a flash of lightning came, Seeming to wrap the world in flame. He gave but a glance, and straight arose With his face like a corpse's. What had he seen? Two dripping, little pink-white toes! Then, like a man gone suddenly wild, He tugged at the bolts, flung down the chain, And there, in the night and wind and rain— Shivering, piteous, and forlorn, And naked as ever it was born—On the threshold stood the SAINTED CHILD!

"LEGEND OF ARA-CŒLI." Page 163.

" Since then," said Fra Gervasio, "We have never let the Bambino go Unwatched—no, not by a prince's bed. Ah, signor, it made a dreadful stir." "And the woman—Nina—what of her?

Had she no story?" He bowed his head,And knitting his meagre fingers, so— "In that night of wind and wrath," said he, "There was wrought in Rome a mystery. What know I, signor? They found her dead!"

JUDITH.

I.
JUDITH IN THE TOWER.

NOW Holofernes with his barbarous hordes Crost the Euphrates, laying waste the land To Esdraelon, and, falling on the town Of Bethulîa, stormed it night and day Incessant, till within the leaguered walls The boldest captains faltered; for at length The wells gave out, and then the barley failed, And Famine, like a murderer masked and cloaked, Stole in among the garrison. The air Was filled with lamentations, women's moans And cries of children; and at night there came A fever, parching as a fierce simoom. Yet Holofernes could not batter down The brazen gates, nor make a single breach With beam or catapult in those tough walls: And white with rage among the tents he strode, Among the squalid Tartar tents he strode, And curst the gods that gave him not his will,

And curst his captains, curst himself, and all; Then, seeing in what strait the city was, Withdrew his men hard by the fated town Amid the hills, and with a grim-set smile Waited, aloof, until the place should fall. All day the house-top lay in sweltering heat, All night the watch-fires flared upon the towers; And day and night with Israelitish spears The ramparts bristled.

In a tall square Tower, Full-fronting on the vile Assyrian camp, Sat Judith, pallid as the cloudy moon That hung half-faded in the dreary sky; And ever and anon she turned her eyes To where, between two vapor-haunted hills, The dreadful army liked a caldron seethed. She heard, far off, the camels' gurgling groan, The clank of arms, the stir and buzz of camps; Beheld the camp-fires, flaming fiends of night That leapt, and with red hands clutched at the dark; And now and then, as some mailed warrior stalked Athwart the fires, she saw his armor gleam. Beneath her stretched the temples and the tombs, The city sickening of its own thick breath, And over all the sleepless Pleiades.

A star-like face, with floating clouds of hair— Merari's daughter, dead Manasses' wife,

Who (since the barley-harvest when he died),By holy charities, and prayers, and fasts, And kept her pure in honor of the dead. But dearer to her bosom than the dead Was Israel, its Prophets and its God: And that dread midnight in the Tower alone,Believing He would hear her from afar, She lifted up the voices of her soul Above the wrangling voices of the world:

"Oh, are we not Thy children who of old Trod the Chaldean idols in the dust, And built our altars only unto Thee? Didst Thou not lead us unto Canaan For love of us, because we spurned the gods? Didst Thou not bless us that we worshipped Thee? And when a famine covered a!l the land, And drove us unto Egypt, where the King Did persecute Thy chosen to the death— Didst Thou not smite the swart Egyptians then, And guide us through the bowels of the deep That swallowed up their horsemen and their King? For saw we not, as in a wondrous dream, The up-tost javelins, the plunging steeds The chariots sinking in the wild Red Sea? O Lord, Thou hast been with us in our woe, And from Thy bosom Thou hast cast us forth, And to Thy bosom taken us again: For we have built our temples in the hills

By Sinai, and on Jordan's flowery banks, And in Jerusalem we worship Thee. O Lord, look down and help us. Stretch Thy hand And free Thy people. Make us pure in faith, And draw us nearer, nearer unto Thee."

As when a harp-string trembles at a touch, And music runs through all its quivering length,And does not die, but seems to float away, A silvery mist uprising from the string— So Judith's prayer rose tremulous in the night, And floated upward unto other spheres; And Judith loosed the hair about her brows, And bent her head, and wept for Israel.

Now while she wept, bowed like a lotus-flower That watches its own shadow in the Nile, A stillness seemed to fall upon the land, As if from out the calyx of a cloud, That blossomed suddenly 'twixt the earth and moon, It fell—and presently there came a sound Of many pinions rustling in the dark, And voices mingling, far and near, and strange As sea-sounds on some melancholy coast When first the equinox unchains the Storm. And Judith started, and with one quick hand Brushed back the plenteous tresses from a cheek That whitened like a lily and so stood, Nor breathed nor moved, but listened with her soul;

And at her side, invisible, there leaned An Angel mantled in his folded wings— To her invisible, but other eyes Beheld the saintly countenance; for, lo! Great clouds of spirits swoopt about the Tower And drifted in the eddies of the wind. The Angel stoopt, and from his radiant brow, And from the gleaming amaranth in his hair, A splendor fell on Judith, and she grew, From her black tresses to her archéd feet, Fairer than morning in Arabia. Then silently the Presence spread his vans, And rose —a luminous shadow in the air— And through the zodiac, a white star, shot.

As one that wakens from a trance, she turned And heard the twilight twitterings of birds, The wind in the turret, and from far below;Camp-sounds of pawing hoof and clinking steel;And in the East she saw the early dawn Breaking the night's enchantment; saw the Moon, Like some wan sorceress, vanish in mid-heaven, Leaving a moth-like glimmer where she died.

And Judith rose, and down the spiral stairs Descended to the garden of the Tower, Where, at the gate, lounged Achior, lately fled From Holofernes; as she past she spoke: "The Lord be with thee, Achior, all thy days." And Achior saw the Spirit of the Lord

Had been with her, and, in a single night, Worked such a miracle of form and face As left her lovelier than all womankind Who was before the fairest in Judæa. But she, unconscious of God's miracle, Moved swiftly on among a frozen group Of statues that with empty, slim-necked urns Taunted the thirsty Seneschal, until She came to where, beneath the spreading palms, Sat Chabris with Ozias and his friend Charmis, governors of the leaguered town. They saw a glory shining on her face Like daybreak, and they marvelled as she stood Bending before them with humility. And wrinkled Charmis murmured through his beard: "This woman walketh in the smile of God."

"So walk we all," spoke Judith. "Evermore His light envelops us, and only those Who turn aside their faces droop and die In utter midnight. If we faint we die, O, is it true, Ozias, thou hast swornTo yield our people to their enemies After five days, unless the Lord shall stoop From heaven to help us?"

And Ozias said: "Our young men die upon the battlements; Our wives and children by the empty tanks Lie down and perish."

"If we faint we die.The weak heart builds its palace on the sand, The flood-tide eats the palace of a fool: But whoso trusts in God, as Jacob did, Though suffering greatly even to the end, Dwells in a citadel upon a rock That wind nor wave nor fire shall topple down."

"Our young men die upon the battlements," Answered Ozias; "by the dusty wells Our wives and children."

"They shall go and dwell With Seers and Prophets in eternal joy! Is there no God?"

"One only," Chabris spoke "But now His face is darkened in a cloud. He sees not Israel."

"Is His mercy less Than Holofernes'? Shall we place our faith In this fierce bull of Assur? are we mad That we so tear our throats with our own hands?" And Judith's eyes flashed Battle on the three, Though all the woman quivered at her lip Struggling with tears.

"In God we place our trust Said old Ozias, "yet for five days more."

"Ah! His time is not man's time," Judith cried, "And why should we, the dust about His feet, Decide the hour of our deliverance, Saying to Him, Thus shalt Thou do, and so?"

Then gray Ozias bowed his head, abashed That eighty winters had not made him wise, For all the drifted snow of his long beard: "This woman speaketh wisely. We were wrong That in our anguish mocked the Lord our God, The staff, the scrip, the stream whereat we drink." And then to Judith: "Child, what wouldst thou have?"

"I know and know not. Something I know not Makes music in my bosom; as I move A presence goes before me, and I hear New voices mingling in the upper air; Within my hand there seems another hand Close-prest, that leads me to yon dreadful camp; While in my brain the fragments of a dream Lie like a broken string of diamonds, The choicest missing. Ask no more. I know And know not....See! the very air is white With fingers pointing. Where they point I go."

She spoke and paused: the three old men looked up And saw a sudden motion in the air Of white hands waving; and they dared not speak, But muffled their thin faces in their robes,

And sat like those grim statues which the windNear some unpeopled city in the East From foot to forehead wraps in desert dust.

"Ere thrice the shadow of the temple slants Across the fountain, I shall come again." Thus Judith softly: then a gleam of light Played through the silken lashes of her eyes, As lightning through the purple of a cloud On some still tropic evening, when the breeze Lifts not a single blossom from the bough: "What lies in that unfolded flower of time No man may know. The thing I can I will, Leaning on God, remembering how He loved Jacob in Syria when he fed the flocks Of Laban, and what miracles He did For Abraham and for Isaac at their need. Wait thou the end; and, till I come, keep thou The sanctuaries." And Ozias swore By those weird fingers pointing in the air, And by the soul of Abraham gone to rest, To keep the sanctuaries, though she came And found the bat sole tenant of the Tower, And all the people bleaching on the walls, And no voice left. Then Judith moved away, Her head bowed on her bosom, like to one That moulds some subtle purpose in a dream, And in his passion rises up and walks Through labyrinths of slumber to the dawn.

"JUDITH." Page 173.

When she had gained her chamber she threw off The livery of sorrow for her lord, The cruel sackcloth that begirt her limbs, And from those ashen colors issuing forth, Seemed like a golden butterfly new-slipt From its dull chrysalis. Then, after bath, She braided in the darkness of her hair A thread of opals; on her rounded breast Spilt precious ointment; and put on the robes Whose rustling made her pause, half-garmented, To dream a moment of her bridal morn. Of snow-white silk stuff were the robes, and rich With delicate branch-work, silver-frosted star, And many a broidered lily-of-the-vale. These things became her as the scent the rose, For fairest things are beauty's natural dower. The sun that through the jealous casement stole Fawned on the Hebrew woman as she stood, Toyed with the oval pendant at her ear, And, like a lover, stealing to her lips Taught them a deeper crimson; then slipt down The tremulous lilies to the sandal straps That bound her snowy ankles.

Forth she went, A glittering wonder, through the crowded streets, Her handmaid, like a shadow, following on. And as in summer when the beaded wheat Leans all one way, and with a longing look Marks the quick convolutions of the wind,

So all eyes went with Judith as she moved,All hearts leaned to her with a weight of love. A starving woman lifted ghostly hands And blest her for old charities; a child Smiled on her through its tears; and one gaunt chief Threw down his battle-axe and doffed his helm, As if some bright Immortal swept him by.

So forth she fared, the only thing of light In that dark city, thridding tortuous ways By gloomy arch and frowning barbacan, Until she reached a gate of triple brass That opened at her coming, and swung to With horrid clangor and a ring of bolts. And there, outside the city of her love, The warm blood at her pulses, Judith paused And drank the morning; then with silent prayers Moved on through flakes of sunlight, through wood To Holofernes and his barbarous hordes.

II.
THE CAMP OF ASSUR.

AS on the house-tops of a seaport town, After a storm has lashed the dangerous coast, The people crowd to watch some hopeless ship Tearing its heart upon the unseen reef, And strain their sight to catch the tattered sail That comes and goes, and glimmers, till at last

No eye can find it, and a sudden awe Falls on the people, and no soul may speak: So, from the windy parapets and roofs Of the embattled city, anxious groups Watched the faint flutter of a woman's dress— Judith, who, toiling up a distant hill, Seemed but a speck against the sunny green; Yet ever as the wind drew back her robes, They saw her from the towers, until she reached The crest, and past into the azure sky. Then, each one gazing on his neighbor's face, Speechless, descended to the level world.

Before his tent, stretched on a leopard-skin, Lay Holofernes, ringed by his dark lords— Himself the prince of darkness. At his side His iron helmet poured upon the grass Its plume of horsehair; on his ponderous spear, The flinty barb thrust half its length in earth, As if some giant had flung it, hung his shield And on the burnished circuit of the shield A sinewy dragon, rampant, silver-fanged, Glared horrible with sea-green emerald eyes; And, as the sunshine struck across it, writhed, And seemed a type of those impatient lords Who, in the loud war-council here convened, Gave voice for battle, and with fiery words Opposed the cautious wisdom of their peers. So seemed the restless dragon on the shield.

Baleful and sullen as a sulphurous cloudPacked with the lightning, Holofernes lay, Brooding upon the diverse arguments, Himself not arguing, but listening most To the curt phrases of the gray-haired chiefs. And some said: "Take the city by assault, And grind it into atoms at a blow." And some said: "Wait. There's that within the walls Shall gnaw its heart out—hunger. Let us wait." To which the younger chieftains: "If we wait, Ourselves shall starve. Like locusts we have fed Upon the land till there is nothing left, Nor grass, nor grain, nor any living thing. And if at last we take a famished town With fifty thousand ragged skeletons, What boots it? We shall hunger all the same. Now, by great Baäl, we'd rather die at once Than languish, scorching, on these sun-baked hills!" At which the others called them "fretful girls," And scoffed at them: "Ye should have stayed at home, And decked your hair with sunny butterflies, Like King Arphaxad's harlots. Know ye not Patience and valor are the head and heart Of warriors? Who lacks in either, fails. Have we not hammered with our catapults Those stubborn gates? Have we not hurled our men Against the angry torrent of their spears? Mark how those birds that wheel above yon wood,

In clanging columns, settle greedily down Upon the unearthed bodies of our dead. See where they rise, red-beaked and surfeited! Has it availed? Let us be patient, then, And bide the sovran pleasure of the gods." "And when," quoth one, "our stores of meat are gone, We'll even feed upon the tender fleshOf these tame girls, who, though they dress in steel, Like more the dulcet tremors of a lute Than the shrill whistle of an arrow-head."

At this a score of falchions leapt in air, And hot-breathed words took flight from bearded lips, And they had slain each other in their heat, These savage captains, quick with bow and spear, But that dark Holofernes started up To his full height, and speaking not a word, With anger-knitted forehead glared at them. As they shrunk back, their passion and their shame Gave place to wonder, finding in their midst A woman whose exceeding radiance Of brow and bosom made her garments seem Threadbare and lustreless, yet whose attire Outshone the purples of a Persian queen.

For Judith, who knew all the mountain paths As one may know the delicate azure veins, Each crossing each, on his belovéd's wrist,

Had stolen between the archers in the woodAnd gained the straggling outskirts of the camp, And seeing the haughty gestures of the chiefs, Halted, with fear, and knew not where to turn; Then taking heart, had silently approached, And stood among them, until then unseen. And in the air, like numerous swarms of bees, Arose the wondering murmurs of her throng, Which checking, Holofernes turned and cried, "Who breaks upon our councils?" angrily, But drinking then the beauty of her eyes, And seeing the rosy magic of her mouth, And all the fragrant summer of her hair Blown sweetly round her forehead, stood amazed; And in the light of her pure modestyHis voice took gentler accent unawares: "Whence come ye?" "From yon city." "By our life, We thought the phantom of some murdered queen Had risen from dead summers at our feet! If these Judæan women are so shaped, Daughters of goddesses, let none be slain. What seek ye, woman, in the hostile camps Of Assur?" "Holofernes." "This is he."

" O good my lord," cried Judith, "if indeed Thou art that Holofernes whom I seek,

And seeking dread to find, low at thy feet Behold thy handmaid, who in fear has flown From a doomed people." "Wherein thou wert wise Beyond the usual measure of thy sex, And shalt have such observance as a king Gives to his mistress, though our enemy. As for thy people, they shall rue the hour That brought not tribute to the lord of all, Nabuchodonosor. But thou shalt live."

"O good my lord," spoke Judith, "as thou wilt,So would thy handmaid; and I pray thee now Let those that listen stand awhile aloof, For I have that for thine especial ear Most precious to thee." Then the crowd fell back, Muttering, and half reluctantly, because Her beauty drew them as the moon the sea— Fell back and lingered, leaning on their shields Under the trees, some couchant in the grass, Broad-throated, large-lunged Titans overthrown, Eying the Hebrew woman, whose sweet looks Brought them a sudden vision of their wives And longings for them: and her presence there Was as a spring that in Sahara's wastes, Taking the thirsty traveller by surprise, Loosens its silver music at his feet. Then Judith, modest, with down-drooping eyes:

"My lord, if yet thou holdest in thy thought The words which Achior the Ammonite

Once spake to thee concerning Israel,O treasure them, for in them was no guile. True is it, master, that our people kneel To an unseen but not an unknown God: By day and night He watches over us, And while we worship Him we cannot die, Our tabernacles shall be unprofaned, Our spears invincible; but if we sin, If we transgress the law by which we live, Our temples shall be desecrate, our tribes Thrust forth into the howling wilderness, Scourged and accurséd. Therefore, O my lord, Seeing this nation wander from the faith Taught of the Prophets, I have fled dismayed, For fear the towers might crush me as they fall. Heed, Holofernes, what I speak this day, And if the thing I tell thee prove not true Ere thrice the sun goes down beyond those peaks, Then straightway plunge thy falchion in my breast, For 't were not meet that thy handmaid should live, Having deceived the crown and flower of men.

She spoke and paused: and sweeter on his ear Were Judith's words than ever seemed to him The wanton laughter of the Assyrian girls In the bazaars; and listening he heard not The never-ceasing murmurs of the camp, The neighing of the awful battle-steeds, Nor the vain wind among the drowsy palms. The tents that straggled up the hot hillsides,

The warriors lying in the tangled grass, The fanes and turrets of the distant town, And all that was, dissolved and past away, Save this one woman with her twilight eyes And the miraculous cadence of her voice.

Then Judith, catching at the broken thread Of her discourse, resumed, to closer draw The silken net about the foolish prince; And as she spoke, from time to time her gaze Dwelt on his massive stature, and she saw That he was shapely, knitted like a god, A tower beside the men of her own land.

"Heed, Holofernes, what I speak this day, And thou shalt rule not only Bethulîa, Rich with its hundred altars' crusted gold, But Cades-Barne, Jerusalem, and all The vast hill-country even to the sea: For I am come to give unto thy hands The key of Israel,—Israel now no more, Since she disowns her Prophets and her God. Know then, O lord, it is our yearly use To lay aside the first fruit of the grain, And so much oil, so many skins of wine, Which, being sanctified, are kept intact For the High Priests who serve before our God In the great temple at Jerusalem. This holy food—which even to touch is death— The rulers, sliding from their ancient faith,

Would fain lay hands on, being wellnigh starved; And they have sent a runner to the Priests (The Jew Ben Raphaim, who, at dead of night, Shot like a javelin between thy guards), Bearing a parchment begging that the Church Yield them permit to eat the sacred corn. But 't is not lawful they should do this thing, Yet will they do it. Then shalt thou behold The archers tumbling headlong from the walls, Their strength gone from them; thou shalt see the spears Splitting like reeds within the spearmen's hands, And the pale captains tottering like old men Stricken with palsy. Then, O glorious prince, Then with thy trumpets blaring doleful dooms, And thy silk banners flapping in the wind, With squares of men and eager clouds of horse Thou shalt swoop down on them, and strike them dead! But now, my lord, before this come to pass, Three days must wane, for they touch not the food Until the Jew Ben Raphaim shall return With the Priests' message. Here among thy hosts, O Holofernes, will I dwell the while,Asking but this, that I and my handmaid Each night, at the twelfth hour, may egress have Unto the valley, there to weep and pray That God forsake this nation in its sin. And as my prophecy prove true or false, So be it with me."

Judith ceased, and stood, Her hands across her bosom, as in prayer; And Holofernes answered: "Be it so. And if, O pearl of women, the event Prove not a dwarf beside the prophecy, Then there's no woman like thee—no, not one. Thy name shall be renownéd through the world, Music shall wait on thee, thou shalt have crowns, And jewel-chests of costly camphor-wood, And robes as glossy as the ring-dove's neck, And milk-white mares, and chariots, and slaves: And thou shalt dwell with me in Nineveh, In Nineveh, the City of the Gods!"

At which the Jewish woman bowed her head Humbly, that Holofernes might not see How blanched her cheek grew. "Even as thou wilt, So would thy servant." At a word the slaves Brought meat and wine, and placed them in a tent, A silk pavilion, wrought with arabesques, That stood apart, for Judith and her maid. But Judith ate not, saying: "Master, no. It is not lawful that we taste of these; My maid has brought a pouch of parchéd corn, And bread, and figs, and wine of our own land, Which shall not fail us." Holofernes said, "So let it be," and lifting up the screen Past out, and left them sitting in the tent.

That day he mixt not with the warriors As was his wont, nor watched them at their games In the wide shadow of the terebinth-trees; But up and down within a lonely grove Paced slowly, brooding on her perfect face, Saying her smooth words over to himself, Heedless of time, till he looked up and saw The spectre of the Twilight on the hills.

The fame of Judith's loveliness had flown From lip to lip throughout the canvas town, And as the evening deepened, many cameFrom neighboring camps, with frivolous excuse, To pass the green pavilion—long-haired chiefs That dwelt by the Hydaspe, and the sons Of the Elymeans, and slim Tartar youths; But saw not her, who, shut from common air, Basked in the twilight of the tapestries.

But when night came, and all the camp was still, And nothing moved beneath the icy stars In their blue bourns, except some stealthy guard, A shadow among shadows, Judith rose, Calling her servant, and the sentinel Drew back, and let her pass beyond the lines Into the valley. And her heart was full, Seeing the watch-fires burning on the towers Of her own city: and she knelt and prayed For it and them that dwelt within its walls, And was refreshed— such balm there lies in prayer

For those who know God listens. Straightway then The two returned, and all the camp was still.

One cresset twinkled dimly in the tent Of Holofernes, and Bagoas, his slave, Lay prone across the matting at the door, Drunk with the wine of slumber; but his lord Slept not, or, sleeping, rested not for thought Of Judith's beauty. Two large lucent eyes, Tender and full as moons, dawned on his sleep; And when he woke, they filled the vacant dusk With an unearthly splendor. All night long A stately figure glided through his dream; Sometimes a queenly diadem weighed down Its braided tresses, and sometimes it came Draped only in a misty cloud of veils, Like the King's dancing-girls at Nineveh. And once it bent above him in the gloom, And touched his forehead with most hungry lips. Then Holofernes turned upon his couch, And, yearning for the daybreak, slept no more.

III.
THE FLIGHT.

IN the far east, as viewless tides of time Drew on the drifting shallop of the Dawn, A fringe of gold went rippling up the gray, And breaking rosily on cliff and spur,

Still left the vale in shadow. While the fogFolded the camp of Assur, and the dew Yet shook in clusters on the new green leaf, And not a bird had dipt a wing in air, The restless captain, haggard with no sleep, Stept over the curved body of his slave, And thridding moodily the dingy tents, Hives packed with sleepers, stood within the grove, And in the cool, gray twilight gave his thought Wings; but however wide his fancies flew, They circled still the figure of his dream.

He sat: before him rose the fluted domes Of Nineveh, his city, and he heard The clatter of the merchants in the booths Selling their merchandise: and now he breathed The airs of a great river, sweeping down Past carven pillars, under tamarisk boughs, To where the broad sea sparkled: then he groped In a damp catacomb, he knew not where, By torchlight, hunting for his own grim name On some sarcophagus: and as he mused, From out the ruined kingdom of the Past Glided the myriad women he had wronged, The half-forgotten passions of his youth; Dark-browed were some, with haughty, sultry eyes, Imperious and most ferocious loves; And some, meek blondes with lengths of flaxen hair— Daughters of Sunrise, shaped of fire and snow,

And Holofernes smiled a bitter smile Seeing these spectres in his revery, When suddenly one face among the train Turned full upon him—such a piteous face, Blanched with such anguish, looking such reproach So sunken-eyed and awful in its woe, His heart shook in his bosom, and he rose As if to smite it, and before him stood Bagoas, the bondsman, bearing in his arms A jar of water, while the morning broke In dewy splendor all about the grove.

Then Holofernes, vext that he was cowed By his own fantasy, strode back to camp, Bagoas following, sullen, like a hound That takes the color of his master's mood. And with the troubled captain went the shapes Which even the daylight could not exorcise.

"Go, fetch me wine, and let my soul make cheer, For I am sick with visions of the night. Some strangest malady of breast and brain Hath so unnerved me that a rustling leaf Sets my pulse leaping. 'T is a family flaw, A flaw in men else flawless, this dark spell: I do remember when my grandsire died, He thought a lying Ethiop he had slain Was strangling him; and, later, my own sire Went mad with dreams the day before his death.

And I, too? Slave! go fetch me seas of wine, That I may drown these fantasies— no, stay! Ransack the camps for choicest flesh and fruit, And spread a feast within my tent this night, And hang the place with garlands of new flowers; Then bid the Hebrew woman, yea or nay, To banquet with us. As thou lov'st the light, Bring her; and if indeed the gods have called, The gods shall find me sitting at my feast Consorting with a daughter of the gods!"

Thus Holofernes, turning on his heel Impatiently; and straight Bagoas went And spoiled the camps of viands for the feast, And hung the place with flowers, as he was bid; And seeing Judith's servant at the well, Gave his lord's message, to which answer came: "O what am I that should gainsay my lord?"And Holofernes smiled within, and thought: "Or life or death, if I should have her not In spite of all, my mighty name would be A word for laughter among womankind."

"So soon!" thought Judith. "Flying pulse, be still! O Thou who lovest Israel, give me strengthAnd cunning such as never woman had, That my deceit may be his stripe and scar, My kisses his destruction. This for thee, My city, Bethulîa, this for thee!"

And thrice that day she prayed within her heart, Bowed down among the cushions of the tent In shame and wretchedness; and thus she prayed: "O save me from him, Lord! but save me most From mine own sinful self: for, lo! this man, Though viler than the vilest thing that walks, A worshpper of fire and senseless stone, Slayer of children, enemy of God— He, even he, O Lord, forgive my sin, Hath by his heathen beauty moved me more Than should a daughter of Judæa be moved, Save by the noblest. Clothe me with Thy love, And rescue me, and let me trample down All evil thought, and from my baser self Climb up to Thee, that aftertimes may say: She tore the guilty passion from her soul,— Judith the pure, the faithful unto death."

Half seen behind the forehead of a crag The evening-star grew sharp against the dusk, As Judith lingered by the curtained door Of her pavilion, waiting for Bagoas: Erewhile he came, and led her to the tent Of Holofernes; and she entered in, And knelt before him in the cresset's glare Demurely, like a slave girl at the feet Of her new master, while the modest blood Makes protest to the eyelids; and he leaned Graciously over her, and bade her rise And sit beside him on the leopard-skins.

But Judith would not, yet with gentlest graceWould not; and partly to conceal her blush, Partly to quell the riot in her breast, She turned, and wrapt her in her fleecy scarf, And stood aloof, nor looked as one that breathed, But rather like some jewelled deity Taken by a conqueror from its sacred niche, And placed among the trappings of his tent— So pure was Judith.

For a moment's space She stood, then stealing softly to his side, Knelt down by him, and with uplifted face, Whereon the red rose blossomed with the white: "This night, my lord, no other slave than I Shall wait on thee with fruits and flowers and wine. So subtle am I, I shall know thy wish Ere thou canst speak it. Let Bagoas go Among his people: let me wait and serve, More happy as thy handmaid than thy guest."

Thereat he laughed, and, humoring her mood, Gave the black bondsman freedom for the night. Then Judith moved, obsequious, and placed The meats before him, and poured out the wine, Holding the golden goblet while he ate, Nor ever past it empty; and the wine Seemed richer to him for those slender hands. So Judith served, and Holofernes drank,

Until the lamps that glimmered round the tent In mad processions danced before his gaze.

Without, the moon dropt down behind the sky; Within, the odors of the heavy flowers, And the aromas of the mist that curled From swinging cressets, stole into the air; And through the mist he saw her come and go, Now showing a faultless arm against the light, And now a dainty sandal set with gems. At last he knew not in what place he was. For as a man who, softly held by sleep, Knows that he dreams, yet knows not true from false, Perplext between the margins of two worlds, So Holofernes, flushed with the red wine.

Like a bride's eyes, the eyes of Judith shone, As ever bending over him with smiles She filled the generous chalice to the edge; And half he shrunk from her, and knew not why, Then wholly loved her for her loveliness, And drew her close to him, and breathed her breath; And once he thought the Hebrew woman sang A wine-song, touching on a certain king Who, dying of strange sickness, drank, and past Beyond the touch of mortal agony— A vague tradition of the cunning sprite That dwells within the circle of the grape. And thus he heard, or fancied that he heard:—

The small green grapes in countless clusters grew, Feeding on mystic moonlight and white dew And mellow sunshine, the long summer through;

Till, with faint tremor in her veins, the Vine Felt the delicious pulses of the wine; And the grapes ripened in the year's decline.

And day by day the Virgins watched their charge; And when, at last, beyond the horizon's marge, The harvest-moon droopt beautiful and large,

The subtle spirit in the grape was caught, And to the slowly dying Monarch brought, In a great cup fantastically wrought,

Whereof he drank; then straightway from his brain Went the weird malady, and once again He walked the Palace, free of scar or pain—

But strangely changed, for somehow he had lost Body and voice: the courtiers, as he crost The royal chambers, whispered—The King's Ghost!

"A potent medicine for kings and men," Thus Holofernes; "he was wise to drink. Be thou as wise, fair Judith." As he spoke, He stoopt to kiss the treacherous soft hand That rested like a snow-flake on his arm,

But stooping reeled, and from the place he sat Toppled, and fell among the leopard-skins: There lay, nor stirred; and ere ten beats of heart, The tawny giant slumbered.

Judith knelt And gazed upon him, and her thoughts were dark; For half she longed to bid her purpose die— To stay, to weep, to fold him in her arms, To let her long hair loose upon his face, As on a mountain-top some amorous cloud Lets down its sombre tresses of fine rain. For one wild instant in her burning arms She held him sleeping; then grew wan as death, Relaxed her hold, and starting from his side As if an asp had stung her to the quick, Listened; and listening, she heard the moans Of little children moaning in the streets Of Bethulîa, saw famished women pass, Wringing their hands, and on the broken walls The flower of Israel dying.

With quick breath Judith blew out the tapers, all save one, And from his twisted girdle loosed the sword, And grasping the huge hilt with her two hands, Thrice smote the Prince of Assur as he lay, Thrice on his neck she smote him as he lay, And from the brawny shoulders rolled the head Winking and ghastly in the cresset's light;

Which done, she fled into the yawning dark,There met her maid, who, stealing to the tent, Pulled down the crimson arras on the corse, And in her mantle wrapt the brazen head, And brought it with her; and a great gong boomed Twelve, as the women glided past the guard With measured footstep: but outside the camp, Terror seized on them, and they fled like wraiths Through the hushed midnight into the black woods, Where, from gnarled roots and ancient, palsied trees, Dread shapes, upstarting, clutched at them; and once A nameless bird in branches overhead Screeched, and the blood grew cold about their hearts. By mouldy caves, the hooded viper's haunt, Down perilous steeps, and through the desolate gorge, Onward they flew, with madly streaming hair, Bearing their hideous burden, till at last, Wild with the pregnant horrors of the night, They dashed themselves against the City's gate.

The hours dragged by, and in the Assur camp The pulse of life was throbbing languidly, When from the outer waste an Arab scout Rushed pale and breathless on the morning watch With a strange story of a Head that hung High in the air above the City's wall— A livid Head, with knotted, snake-like curls— And how the face was like a face he knew, And how it turned and twisted in the wind,

And how it stared upon him with fixt orbs, Till it was not in mortal man to stay; And how he fled, and how he thought the Thing Came bowling through the wheat-fields after him. And some that listened were appalled, and some Derided him; but not the less they threw A furtive glance toward the shadowy wood.

Bagoas, among the idlers, heard the man, And quick to bear the tidings to his lord, Ran to the tent, and called, "My lord, awake! Awake, my lord!" and lingered for reply. But answer came there none. Again he called, And all was still. Then, laughing in his heart To think how deeply Holofernes slept Wrapt in soft arms, he lifted up the screen, And marvelled, finding no one in the tent Save Holofernes, buried to the waist, Head foremost in the canopies. He stoopt, And drawing back the damask folds beheld His master, the grim giant, lying dead.

As in some breathless wilderness at night A leopard, pinioned by a falling tree, Shrieks, and the echoes, mimicking the cry, Repeat it in a thousand different keys By lonely heights and unimagined caves, So shrieked Bagoas, and so his cry was caught And voiced along the vast Assyrian lines, And buffeted among the hundred hills.

Then ceased the tumult sudden as it rose,And a great silence fell upon the camps, And all the people stood like blocks of stone In some deserted quarry; then a voice Blown through a trumpet clamored: He is dead! The Prince is dead! The Hebrew witch hath slain Prince Holofernes! Fly, Assyrians, fly!

As from its lair the mad tornado leaps, And, seizing on the yellow desert sands, Hurls them in swirling masses, cloud on cloud, So, at the sounding of that baleful voice, A panic seized the mighty Assur hosts, And flung them from their places. With wild shouts Across the hills in pale dismay they fled, Trampling the sick and wounded under foot, Leaving their tents, their camels, and their arms, Their horses, and their gilded chariots. Then with a dull metallic clang the gates Of Bethulîa opened, and from each A sea of spears surged down the arid hills And broke remorseless on the flying foe—Now hemmed them in upon a river's bank, Now drove them shrieking down a precipice, Now in the mountain-passes slaughtered them. Until the land, for many a weary league, Was red, as in the sunset, with their blood. And other cities, when they saw the rout Of Holofernes, burst their gates, and joined

With trump and banner in the mad pursuit. Three days before those unrelenting spears The cohorts fled, but on the fourth they past Beyond Damascus into their own land.

So, by God's grace and this one woman's hand, The tombs and temples of the Just were saved; And evermore throughout fair Israel The name of Judith meant all noblest things In thought and deed; and Judith's life was rich With that content the world takes not away. And far-off kings, enamored of her fame, Bluff princes, dwellers by the salt sea-sands, Sent caskets most laboriously carved Of ivory, and papyrus scrolls, whereon Was writ their passion; then themselves did come With spicy caravans, in purple state, To seek regard from her imperial eyes. But she remained unwed, and to the end Walked with the angels in her widow's weeds.

Notes

• 1 1.1

  According to a monastic legend, the Santissimo Bambino was carved by a pilgrim, out of a tree which grew on the Mount of Olives, and painted by St. Luke while the pilgrim was sleeping over his work.