Candle and the flame : poems / by George Sylvester Viereck [electronic text]

POEMS FROM PLAYS

THE PRINCESS WITH THE GOLDEN VEIL

FROM "THE VAMPIRE," BY GEORGE SYLVESTER VIERECK AND EDGAR ALLAN WOOLF

FOR MARGARET EDITH HEIN

THUS spake the King to Marygold, His speech was soft with many sighs: "Why, Princess, may not I behold The wonder of your star-lit eyes? Your veil, Beloved, is the cloud Of amber that obscures the sun. Strange is the vow that bids you shroud Your sweetness like a sad-faced nun.

"Perhaps some spirit wrought with guile Around your heart a magic spell. Behind the veil you weep and smile, Perhaps you hate me— who can tell? Your lips are silent as the grave, And with strange fear my cheek is pale; Have mercy on the King, your slave, O Princess with the Golden Veil!

"Thrice hallowed was the glorious hour When through the veil I felt your breath,

More fragrant than a passion flower, Dear as a mother's words at death. Yet the sad thought beyond control Gnaws at my heart, and eats and grips, That I have never known your soul, Or read the secret from your lips.

"And never shall I understand, And men shall hope and strive and fail, Until some Prince from Fairyland Shall kiss your mouth and lift the veil. And, though my heart be black with night, My regal lips that may not quail, Shall smile as Arthur's, when his sight In guiltless hands beheld the Grail — O Princess with the Golden Veil!"

JOAN'S FAREWELL

ENGLISHED FOR MAUDE ADAMS FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER

FAREWELL, ye hills, ye pastures dearly loved, Ye quiet homely valleys, fare ye well! For Joan henceforth shall know your ways no more, Joan to you all must bid a long farewell! Ye meadows I have watered, and ye trees That I have planted, wear your gladsome green! Farewell, ye grottoes, and ye cooling springs! Sweet Echo, thou the valley's lovely voice, Oft though my heart for thy response may yearn, Joan goes, and never —never —shall return!

Dear tranquil scenes of all my joyful days, I leave you now behind forevermore! Poor, foldless lambs, go ye in unknown ways, And walk unherded where the nightbirds soar! For I am called another flock to graze On fields of peril in the battle's roar. I must obey the Spirit's high decree: Earth-born ambition has no part in me.

He that to Moses upon Horeb's height Descended fiery on the bush of flame, Commanding him to stand in Pharaoh's sight; Who once to Israel's pious shepherd came, And made the lad His champion in the fight; Loves to exalt a lowly shepherd's name. He hailed me from the branches of this tree, "Go forth! Thou shalt on earth my witness be!

"Rude brass for garment shall thy soft limbs wear, In clasp of iron shall thy heart be pressed, Ne'er in thine eyes shall seem a man's farce fair Or light the flame of mortal love unblessed! Never the bride-wreath shall adorn thy hair, Nor lovely baby blossom at thy breast, But thou shalt be War's sacrificial bride Above all earthly women glorified!

"When the most brave in battle shall despair, When ruin threatens, and all hope seems vain, Thine arms aloft mine oriflamme shall bear; And, as the skilful reaper fells the grain, Thou shalt mow down our foemen everywhere, And turn Fate's chariot backward by thy rein! Unto all France shalt thou deliverance bring, And, freeing Rheims, in triumph crown the King!"

The Heavenly Spirit promised me a sign, He sends the helmet, for it comes from Him!

Its iron thrills me with the strength divine That fans the courage of the Cherubim; And, as the raging whirlwind whips the brine, It drives me forth to lead the combat grim. The chargers rear and trembling paw the ground, The war-cry thunders and the trumpets sound!

CHANTECLER'S ODE TO THE SUN

(AFTER THE FRENCH OF ROSTAND)

MOTHER, whose great love dries the tears Of every little weed that grows, And makes a living butterfly Of the dead petals of the rose, And of the almond blossoms bright In the fair vale of Rousillon That tremble in the scented breeze Blown downward from the Pyrenees, Lo, I adore thee, Mistress Sun!

Beneath thy kiss the honey ripes, Thy blessing is on every brow; In every flower's little heart, In every hovel, there art thou! The meanest creatures in God's world Share in thy beneficial fire, But, even as a mother's love, Divided, thou art still entire.

With humble pride I chant thy praise, My priesthood thou wilt not disdain,

Hast thou not bathed thy radiant face In water gathered from the rain, Made blue with curious dye, wherein Fine linen is made clean from stain? Thy last farewell is often thrown Upon a lowly window pane.

The yellow sunflower turns to thee Her radiant countenance in prayer, My brother on the steeple boasts Of golden plumes when thou art there; And gliding through the linden tree Thou draw'st strange circles on the ground Too delicate to tread upon, Save for some sprite in silver gowned.

Thou mak'st a rare enamelled thing Of the brown pitcher cracked and old, The common tools of farm and yard Are by thy radiance aureoled. And, where but now a rag was seen, A glorious banner is unrolled, The hayrick and its little mate, The beehive, wear a hood of gold.

Glory to thee upon the fields, And glory on the vineyards high! Thrice blessed thou art upon the door, Thrice blessed on herb and grass and sky.

I bless thee in the lizard's eyes, And on the pinions of the swan. Thou speak'st to us in little things As in the vastness of the dawn.

Thy mandate, Sun, has called to life, The sombre sister of the light Who humbly cowers at the feet Of all things shining, all things bright. For thou hast given unto them A shadow, dancing like an elf, That often seems unto the eye More lovely than the thing itself.

I worship thee: thy holy light Charms lilies from the crusty sod, Thy presence sanctifies the brook, In every bush thou show'st us God! Thy splendor makes the tree divine, And lends new wonder to the star, Save for thy love, O Mother Sun, All things would seem but what they are!

THE BREEZE

(AFTER THE FRENCH OF ZAMAÇOIS)

THE breeze that stirs in yonder tree And the young roses rocks to sleep, Wafts to my mind the memory Of a young Zephyr who would sweep Across the land with fellows gay, Winged with the wind like them, and bent On fond adventure, who one May (O wine of spring, O golden day!) Traversed a castle's battlement, And on the terrace, spinning there, He found a child divinely fair, (O lovely maid with sun-kissed hair!) Swift drawing from an ivory loom A thread more soft than gossamer. Her eyes were bluer in his sight Than the enchanted azure mere Which on that morning in his flight His wings had grazed, and crystal-clear.

And as he loosed a golden strand From her dear head, she raised a hand And looked and laughed, and brushed it back

So sweet, so chaste, so debonair, That the young Breeze, who had no lack Of conquests in the heights above Among the damsels of the air, And danced a pirouette with Love, Felt that his heart was held for e'er By that sweet child divinely fair, (O sea-blue eyes, O sun-kissed hair!) Whose lily hands were spinning there A weft more soft than gossamer.

Surely no tale beneath the sun More dainty could or stranger be, Than how that maid a lover won Whose countenance she could not see. He was content unknown to stir About the spinner and the loom, And, as he could not bring to her The trees and flowers all abloom, He wafted shoals of butterflies With wings of silver to her room. Blue, red and golden butterflies He blew into her hair, and then When she caressed them with her eyes, In fury drove them out again. The scent of new-mown hay he brought That peasants garner in the fields, And marjoram and meadow-sweet And every fair the garden yields

In all the pleasant realm of France: Forget-me-nots and rosemary And orange-blossoms from Provence. These and full many perfumes rare He ravished from the summer air For his young love divinely fair, (O sea-blue eyes, O sun-kissed hair!) Smiling, and spinning at the wheel The weft more soft than gossamer.

Full beakers of the sunshine gold He dashed in winter on her cheeks; And, in the sultry summer night, Cool snow-drifts from the mountain peaks. When over courtly tale she pored By pious monk or poet sage, He stood behind the lady's chair, Unbeckoned oft, to turn her page. And, when the lovely maiden slept Within her satin-curtained bed, He would caress her honeyed locks And call sweet blessings on her head. And in the watches of the night Once, in an ecstasy of bliss, He breathed upon her dimpled mouth The thing that mortals call a kiss. Alas! One day from Aquitaine, Upon an ebon-colored mare,

Rode proudly to the castle's gate A gallant noble, young and fair. And he was smitten with great love (O sea-blue eyes, O sun-kissed hair!) When he beheld the lady there Spinning a bridal gown more white And softer still than gossamer.

He gave her pearls her throat to grace, And bracelets for her tender wrist; How can the sweetest breeze prevail O'er ruby ring and amethyst? When it was known that she would wed The fair young lord from Aquitaine, The Zephyr lashed the castle wall, And day and night he sobbed in pain.He murdered every rose there bloomed That none might deck her bridal train. When came that office most divine He beat, in impotent despair, Against the chapel's holy shrine, And from the chalice drank the wine. When for the bride divinely fair (O sea-blue eyes, O sun-kissed hair!) In rich brocade and satin shoon And veils more soft than gossamer, The bells intoned a marriage rune, He flew into the sexton's faceUntil they jangled out of tune.

Then to the desert wild he sped, Heart-broken, anguished and alone. Before his rage the camels fled, The turbaned merchants feared his moan. He raced across the glacial seas With the great cyclones of the world; And, ever waxing, angrily. Both beast and bird before him whirled. At last, still panting from the race, Back to fair France he turned his face To break the castle's granite tower, And of its splendor leave no trace. But lo! within the creaking walls That he had entered to destroy, He found, more frail than any flower And fairer far, a baby boy. Infinities of love and trust Within the mother's eyes he read, And trembled lest he harm one hair Upon the infant's golden head. He pined away in one sweet breath, Content to find both peace and death Beside the mother still more fair, (O sea-blue eyes, O sun-kissed hair!) Patiently smiling, spinning there A baby's gown of gossamer.