Complete poetical works of John Hay / [by John Hay] ; with an introd. by Clarence L. Hay [electronic text]

WANDERLIEDER

SUNRISE IN THE PLACE DE LA CONCORDE

(PARIS, AUGUST, 1865)

I STAND at the break of day In the Champs Élysées. The tremulous shafts of dawning As they shoot o'er the Tuileries early, Strike Luxor's cold gray spire, And wild in the light of the morning With their marble manes on fire, Ramp the white Horses of Marly.

But the Place of Concord lies Dead hushed 'neath the ashy skies. And the Cities sit in council With sleep in their wide stone eyes. I see the mystic plain Where the army of spectres slain In the Emperor's life-long war

March on with unsounding tread To trumpets whose voice is dead. Their spectral chief still leads them,— The ghostly flash of his sword Like a comet through mist shines far, — And the noiseless host is poured, For the gendarme never heeds them, Up the long dim road where thundered The army of Italy onward Through the great pale Arch of the Star!

The spectre army fades Far up the glimmering hill, But, vaguely lingering still, A group of shuddering shades Infects the pallid air, Growing dimmer as day invades The hush of the dusky square. There is one that seems a King, As if the ghost of a Crown Still shadowed his jail-bleached hair;

I can hear the guillotine ring, As its regicide note rang there, When he laid his tired life down And grew brave in his last despair. And a woman frail and fair Who weeps at leaving a world Of love and revel and sin In the vast Unknown to be hurled; (For life was wicked and sweet With kings at her small white feet!) And one, every inch a Queen, In life and in death a Queen, Whose blood baptized the place, In the days of madness and fear,— Her shade has never a peer In majesty and grace.

Murdered and murderers swarm; Slayers that slew and were slain, Till the drenched place smoked with the rain That poured in a torrent warm, —

Till red as the Rider's of Edom Were splashed the white garments of Freedom With the wash of the horrible storm!

And Liberty's hands were not clean In the day of her pride unchained, Her royal hands were stained With the life of a King and Queen; And darker than that with the blood Of the nameless brave and good Whose blood in witness clings More damning than Queens' and Kings'.

Has she not paid it dearly? Chained, watching her chosen nation Grinding late and early In the mills of usurpation? Have not her holy tears Flowing through shameful years, Washed the stains from her tortured hands? We thought so when God's fresh breeze,

Blowing over the sleeping lands, In 'Forty-Eight waked the world, And the Burgher-King was hurled From that palace behind the trees.

As Freedom with eyes aglow Smiled glad through her childbirth pain, How was the mother to know That her woe and travail were vain? A smirking servant smiled When she gave him her child to keep; Did she know he would strangle the child As it lay in his arms asleep?

Liberty's cruellest shame! She is stunned and speechless yet. In her grief and bloody sweat Shall we make her trust her blame? The treasure of 'Forty-Eight A lurking jail-bird stole, She can but watch and wait As the swift sure seasons roll.

And when in God's good hour Comes the time of the brave and true, Freedom again shall rise With a blaze in her awful eyes That shall wither this robber-power As the sun now dries the dew. This Place shall roar with the voice Of the glad triumphant people, And the heavens be gay with the chimes Ringing with jubilant noise From every clamorous steeple The coming of better times. And the dawn of Freedom waking Shall fling its splendors far Like the day which now is breaking On the great pale Arch of the Star, And back o'er the town shall fly, While the joy-bells wild are ringing, To crown the Glory springing From the Column of July!

THE SPHINX OF THE TUILERIES

OUT of the Latin Quarter I came to the lofty door Where the two marble Sphinxes guard The Pavilion de Flore. Two Cockneys stood by the gate, and one Observed, as they turned to go, "No wonder He likes that sort of thing, — He's a Sphinx himself, you know."

I thought as I walked where the garden glowed In the sunset's level fire, Of the Charlatan whom the Frenchmen loathe And the Cockneys all admire. They call him a Sphinx, — it pleases him, — And if we narrowly read, We will find some truth in the flunkey's praise, — The man is a Sphinx indeed.

For the Sphinx with breast of woman And face so debonair Had the sleek false paws of a lion, That could furtively seize and tear. So far to the shoulders, — but if you took The Beast in reverse you would find The ignoble form of a craven cur Was all that lay behind.

She lived by giving to simple folk A silly riddle to read, And when they failed she drank their blood In cruel and ravenous greed. But at last came one who knew her word, And she perished in pain and shame, — This bastard Sphinx leads the same base life And his end will be the same.

For an Œdipus-People is coming fast With swelled feet limping on, If they shout his true name once aloud His false foul power is gone.

Afraid to fight and afraid to fly, He cowers in an abject shiver; The people will come to their own at last, — God is not mocked forever.

THE SURRENDER OF SPAIN

I

LAND of unconquered Pelayo! land of the Cid Campeador! Sea-girdled mother of men! Spain, name of glory and power; Cradle of world-grasping Emperors, grave of the reckless invader, How art thou fallen, my Spain! how art thou sunk at this hour!

II

Once thy magnanimous sons trod, victors, the portals of Asia, Once the Pacific waves rushed, joyful thy banners to see; For it was Trajan that carried the battle-flushed eagles to Dacia, Cortés that planted thy flag fast by the uttermost sea.

III

Hast thou forgotten those days illumined with glory and honor, When the far isles of the sea thrilled to the tread of Castile? When every land under Heaven was flecked by the shade of thy banner, — When every beam of the sun flashed on thy conquering steel?

IV

Then through red fields of slaughter, through death and defeat and disaster, Still flared thy banner aloft, tattered, but free from a stain, — Now to the upstart Savoyard thou bendest to beg for a master! How the red flush of her shame mars the proud beauty of Spain!

V

Has the red blood run cold that boiled by the Xenil and Darro? Are the high deeds of the sires sung to the children no more? On the dun hills of the North hast thou heard of no plough-boy Pizarro? Roams no young swine-herd Cortés hid by the Tagus' wild shore?

VI

Once again does Hispania bend low to the yoke of the stranger! Once again will she rise, flinging her gyves in the sea! Princeling of Piedmont! unwitting thou weddest with doubt and with danger, King over men who have learned all that it costs to be free.

THE PRAYER OF THE ROMANS

NOT done, but near its ending, Is the work that our eyes desired; Not yet fulfilled, but near the goal, Is the hope that our worn hearts fired. And on the Alban Mountains, Where the blushes of dawn increase, We see the flash of the beautiful feet Of Freedom and of Peace!

How long were our fond dreams baffled!— Novara's sad mischance, The Kaiser's sword and fetter-lock, And the traitor stab of France; Till at last came glorious Venice, In storm and tempest home; And now God maddens the greedy kings, And gives to her people Rome.

Lame Lion of Caprera! Red-shirts of the lost campaigns! Not idly shed was the costly blood You poured from generous veins. For the shame of Aspromonte, And the stain of Mentana's sod, But forged the curse of kings that sprang From your breaking hearts to God!

We lift our souls to thee, O Lord Of Liberty and of Light! Let not earth's kings pollute the work That was done in their despite; Let not thy light be darkened In the shade of a sordid crown, Nor pampered swine devour the fruit Thou shook'st with an earthquake down!

Let the People come to their birthright, And crosier and crown pass away Like phantasms that flit o'er the marshes At the glance of the clean, white day.

And then from the lava of Ætna To the ice of the Alps let there be One freedom, one faith without fetters, One republic in Italy free!

THE CURSE OF HUNGARY

KING SALOMAN looked from his donjon bars, Where the Danube clamors through sedge and sand, And he cursed with a curse his revolting land,— With a king's deep curse of treason and wars.

He said: "May this false land know no truth! May the good hearts die and the bad ones flourish, And a greed of glory but live to nourish Envy and hate in its restless youth.

"In the barren soil may the ploughshare rust, While the sword grows bright with its fatal labor, And blackens between each man and neighbor The perilous cloud of a vague distrust!

"Be the noble idle, the peasant in thrall, And each to the other as unknown things, That with links of hatred and pride the kings May forge firm fetters through each for all!

"May a king wrong them as they wronged their king! May he wring their hearts as they wrung mine, Till they pour their blood for his revels like wine, And to women and monks their birthright fling!"

The mad king died; but the rushing river Still brawls by the spot where his donjon stands, And its swift waves sigh to the conscious sands That the curse of King Saloman works forever.

For flowing by Pressbourg they heard the cheers Ring out from the leal and cheated hearts That were caught and chained by Theresa's arts,— A man's cool head and a girl's hot tears!

And a star, scarce risen, they saw decline, Where Orsova's hills looked coldly down, As Kossuth buried the Iron Crown And fled in the dark to the Turkish line.

And latest they saw in the summer glare The Magyar nobles in pomp arrayed,

To shout as they saw, with his unfleshed blade, A Hapsburg beating the harmless air.

But ever the same sad play they saw, The same weak worship of sword and crown, The noble crushing the humble down, And moulding Wrong to a monstrous Law.

The donjon stands by the turbid river, But Time is crumbling its battered towers; And the slow light withers a despot's powers, And a mad king's curse is not forever!

THE MONKS OF BASLE

I TORE this weed from the rank, dark soil Where it grew in the monkish time, I trimmed it close and set it again In a border of modern rhyme.

I

Long years ago, when the Devil was loose And faith was sorely tried, Three monks of Basle went out to walk In the quiet eventide.

A breeze as pure as the breath of Heaven Blew fresh through the cloister-shades, A sky as glad as the smile of Heaven Blushed rose o'er the minster-glades.

But scorning the lures of summer and sense, The monks passed on in their walk;

Their eyes were abased, their senses slept, Their souls were in their talk.

In the tough grim talk of the monkish days They hammered and slashed about, — Dry husks of logic, — old scraps of creed, — And the cold gray dreams of doubt, —

And whether Just or Justified Was the Church's mystic Head, — And whether the Bread was changed to God, Or God became the Bread.

But of human hearts outside their walls They never paused to dream, And they never thought of the love of God That smiled in the twilight gleam.

II

As these three monks went bickering on By the foot of a spreading tree,

Out from its heart of verdurous gloom A song burst wild and free, —

A wordless carol of life and love, Of nature free and wild; And the three monks paused in the evening shade, Looked up at each other and smiled.

And tender and gay the bird sang on, And cooed and whistled and trilled, And the wasteful wealth of life and love From his happy heart was spilled.

The song had power on the grim old monks In the light of the rosy skies; And as they listened the years rolled back, And tears came into their eyes.

The years rolled back and they were young, With the hearts and hopes of men, They plucked the daisies and kissed the girls Of dear dead summers again.

III

But the eldest monk soon broke the spell; "'T is sin and shame," quoth he, "To be turned from talk of holy things By a bird's cry from a tree.

"Perchance the Enemy of Souls Hath come to tempt us so. Let us try by the power of the Awful Word If it be he, or no!"

To Heaven the three monks raised their hands. "We charge thee, speak!" they said, "By His dread Name who shall one day come To judge the quick and the dead, —

"Who art thou? Speak!" The bird laughed loud. "I am the Devil," he said. The monks on their faces fell, the bird Away through the twilight sped.

A horror fell on those holy men, (The faithful legends say,) And one by one from the face of earth They pined and vanished away.

IV

So goes the tale of the monkish books, The moral who runs may read, — He has no ears for Nature's voice Whose soul is the slave of creed.

Not all in vain with beauty and love Has God the world adorned; And he who Nature scorns and mocks, By Nature is mocked and scorned.

THE ENCHANTED SHIRT

Fytte the First: wherein it shall be shown how the Truth is too mighty a Drug for such as be of feeble temper

THE King was sick. His cheek was red And his eye was clear and bright; He ate and drank with a kingly zest, And peacefully snored at night.

But he said he was sick, and a king should know, And doctors came by the score. They did not cure him. He cut off their heads And sent to the schools for more.

At last two famous doctors came, And one was as poor as a rat, — He had passed his life in studious toil, And never found time to grow fat.

The other had never looked in a book; His patients gave him no trouble,

If they recovered they paid him well, If they died their heirs paid double.

Together they looked at the royal tongue, As the King on his couch reclined; In succession they thumped his august chest, But no trace of disease could find.

The old sage said, "You're as sound as a nut." "Hang him up," roared the King in a gale, — In a ten-knot gale of royal rage; The other leech grew a shade pale;

But he pensively rubbed his sagacious nose, And thus his prescription ran, — The King will be well, if he sleeps one night In the Shirt of a Happy Man.

Fytte the Second: tells of the search for the Shirt and how it was nigh found but was not, for reasons which are said or sung

Wide o'er the realm the couriers rode, And fast their horses ran,

And many they saw, and to many they spoke, But they found no Happy Man.

They found poor men who would fain be rich, And rich who thought they were poor; And men who twisted their waists in stays, And women that shorthose wore.

They saw two men by the roadside sit, And both bemoaned their lot; For one had buried his wife, he said, And the other one had not.

At last as they came to a village gate, A beggar lay whistling there; He whistled and sang and laughed and rolled On the grass in the soft June air.

The weary couriers paused and looked At the scamp so blithe and gay; And one of them said, "Heaven save you, friend! You seem to be happy to-day."

"Oh, yes, fair sirs," the rascal laughed, And his voice rang free and glad, "An idle man has so much to do That he never has time to be sad."

"This is our man," the courier said; "Our luck has led us aright. I will give you a hundred ducats, friend, For the loan of your shirt to-night."

The merry blackguard lay back on the grass, And laughed till his face was black; "I would do it, God wot," and he roared with the fun, "But I haven't a shirt to my back."

Fytte the Third: shewing how His Majesty the King came at last to sleep in a Happy Man his Shirt

Each day to the King the reports came in Of his unsuccessful spies, And the sad panorama of human woes Passed daily under his eyes.

And he grew ashamed of his useless life, And his maladies hatched in gloom; He opened his windows and let the air Of the free heaven into his room.

And out he went in the world and toiled In his own appointed way; And the people blessed him, the land was glad, And the King was well and gay.

A WOMAN'S LOVE

A SENTINEL angel sitting high in glory Heard this shrill wail ring out from Purgatory: "Have mercy, mighty angel, hear my story!

"I loved, — and, blind with passionate love, I fell. Love brought me down to death, and death to Hell. For God is just, and death for sin is well.

"I do not rage against his high decree, Nor for myself do ask that grace shall be; But for my love on earth who mourns for me.

"Great Spirit! Let me see my love again And comfort him one hour, and I were fain To pay a thousand years of fire and pain."

Then said the pitying angel, "Nay, repent That wild vow! Look, the dial-finger's bent Down to the last hour of thy punishment!"

But still she wailed, "I pray thee, let me go! I cannot rise to peace and leave him so. Oh, let me soothe him in his bitter woe!"

The brazen gates ground sullenly ajar, And upward, joyous, like a rising star, She rose and vanished in the ether far.

But soon adown the dying sunset sailing, And like a wounded bird her pinions trailing, She fluttered back, with broken-hearted wailing.

She sobbed, "I found him by the summer sea Reclined, his head upon a maiden's knee, — She curled his hair and kissed him. Woe is me!"

She wept, "Now let my punishment begin! I have been fond and foolish. Let me in To expiate my sorrow and my sin."

The angel answered, "Nay, sad soul, go higher! To be deceived in your true heart's desire Was bitterer than a thousand years of fire!"

ON PITZ LANGUARD

I STOOD on the top of Pitz Languard, And heard three voices whispering low, Where the Alpine birds in their circling ward Made swift dark shadows upon the snow.

FIRST VOICE

I loved a girl with truth and pain, She loved me not. When she said good-by She gave me a kiss to sting and stain My broken life to a rosy dye.

SECOND VOICE

I loved a woman with love well tried, — And I swear I believe she loves me still. But it was not I who stood by her side When she answered the priest and said "I will."

THIRD VOICE

I loved two girls, one fond, one shy, And I never divined which one loved me. One married, and now, though I can't tell why, Of the four in the story I count but three.

The three weird voices whispered low Where the eagles swept in their circling ward; But only one shadow scarred the snow As I clambered down from Pitz Languard.

BOUDOIR PROPHECIES

ONE day in the Tuileries, When a southwest Spanish breeze Brought scandalous news of the Queen, The fair proud Empress said, "My good friend loses her head; If matters go on this way, I shall see her shopping, some day, In the Boulevard des Capucines."

The saying swiftly went To the Place of the Orient, And the stout Queen sneered, "Ah, well! You are proud and prude, ma belle! But I think I will hazard a guess I shall see you one day playing chess With the Curé of Carabanchel."

Both ladies, though not over-wise, Were lucky in prophecies.

For the Boulevard shopmen well Know the form of stout Isabel As she buys her modes de Paris; And after Sedan in despair The Empress prude and fair Went to visit Madame sa Mère In her villa at Carabanchel — But the Queen was not there to see.

A TRIUMPH OF ORDER

A SQUAD of regular infantry In the Commune's closing days, Had captured a crowd of rebels By the wall of Père-la-Chaise.

There were desperate men, wild women, And dark-eyed Amazon girls, And one little boy, with a peach-down cheek And yellow clustering curls.

The captain seized the little waif, And said, "What dost thou here?" "Sapristi, Citizen captain! I'm a Communist, my dear!"

"Very well! Then you die with the others!" —"Very well! That's my affair; But first let me take to my mother, Who lives by the wine-shop there,

"My father's watch. You see it; A gay old thing, is it not? It would please the old lady to have it, Then I'll come back here, and be shot."

"That is the last we shall see of him," The grizzled captain grinned, As the little man skimmed down the hill, Like a swallow down the wind.

For the joy of killing had lost its zest In the glut of those awful days, And Death writhed, gorged like a greedy snake, From the Arch to Père-la-Chaise.

But before the last platoon had fired, The child's shrill voice was heard; "Houp-là! the old girl made such a row I feared I should break my word."

Against the bullet-pitted wall He took his place with the rest,

A button was lost from his ragged blouse, Which showed his soft white breast.

"Now blaze away, my children! With your little one-two-three!" The Chassepots tore the stout young heart, And saved Society.

ERNST OF EDELSHEIM

I'LL tell the story, kissing This white hand for my pains: No sweeter heart, nor falser E'er filled such fine, blue veins.

I'll sing a song of true love, My Lilith dear! to you; Contraria contrariis — The rule is old and true.

The happiest of all lovers Was Ernst of Edelsheim; And why he was the happiest, I'll tell you in my rhyme.

One summer night he wandered Within a lonely glade, And, couched in moss and moonlight, He found a sleeping maid.

The stars of midnight sifted Above her sands of gold; She seemed a slumbering statue, So fair and white and cold.

Fair and white and cold she lay Beneath the starry skies; Rosy was her waking Beneath the Ritter's eyes.

He won her drowsy fancy, He bore her to his towers, And swift with love and laughter Flew morning's purpled hours.

But when the thickening sunbeams Had drunk the gleaming dew, A misty cloud of sorrow Swept o'er her eyes' deep blue.

She hung upon the Ritter's neck, She wept with love and pain,

She showered her sweet, warm kisses Like fragrant summer rain.

"I am no Christian soul," she sobbed, As in his arms she lay; "I'm half the day a woman, A serpent half the day.

"And when from yonder bell-tower Rings out the noonday chime, Farewell! farewell forever, Sir Ernst of Edelsheim!"

"Ah! not farewell forever!" The Ritter wildly cried, "I will be saved or lost with thee, My lovely Will-Bride!"

Loud from the lordly bell-tower Rang out the noon of day, And from the bower of roses A serpent slid away.

But when the mid-watch moonlight Was shimmering through the grove, He clasped his bride thrice dowered With beauty and with love.

The happiest of all lovers Was Ernst of Edelsheim — His true love was a serpent Only half the time!

MY CASTLE IN SPAIN

THERE was never a castle seen So fair as mine in Spain: It stands embowered in green, Crowning the gentle slope Of a hill by the Xenil's shore, And at eve its shade flaunts o'er The storied Vega plain, And its towers are hid in the mists of Hope; And I toil through years of pain Its glimmering gates to gain.

In visions wild and sweet Sometimes its courts I greet: Sometimes in joy its shining halls I tread with favored feet; But never my eyes in the light of day Were blest with its ivied walls,

Where the marble white and the granite gray Turn gold alike when the sunbeams play, When the soft day dimly falls.

I know in its dusky rooms Are treasures rich and rare; The spoil of Eastern looms, And whatever of bright and fair Painters divine have caught and won From the vault of Italy's air: White gods in Phidian stone. People the haunted glooms; And the song of immortal singers Like a fragrant memory lingers, I know, in the echoing rooms.

But nothing of these, my soul! Nor castle, nor treasures, nor skies, Nor the waves of the river that roll With a cadence faint and sweet In peace by its marble feet —

Nothing of these is the goal For which my whole heart sighs. 'T is the pearl gives worth to the shell — The pearl I would die to gain; For there does my lady dwell, My love that I love so well — The Queen whose gracious reign Makes glad my Castle in Spain.

Her face so pure and fair Sheds light in the shady places, And the spell of her girlish graces Holds charmed the happy air. A breath of purity Forever before her flies, And ill things cease to be In the glance of her honest eyes. Around her pathway flutter, Where her dear feet wander free In youth's pure majesty, The wings of the vague desires;

But the thought that love would utter In reverence expires.

Not yet! not yet shall I see That face which shines like a star O'er my storm-swept life afar, Transfigured with love for me. Toiling, forgetting, and learning With labor and vigils and prayers, Pure heart and resolute will, At last I shall climb the hill And breathe the enchanted airs Where the light of my life is burning Most lovely and fair and free, Where alone in her youth and beauty, And bound by her fate's sweet duty, Unconscious she waits for me.

SISTER SAINT LUKE

SHE lived shut in by flowers and trees And shade of gentle bigotries. On this side lay the trackless sea, On that the great world's mystery; But all unseen and all unguessed They could not break upon her rest. The world's far splendors gleamed and flashed, Afar the wild seas foamed and dashed; But in her small, dull Paradise, Safe housed from rapture or surprise, Nor day nor night had power to fright The peace of God that filled her eyes.