Alfred Austin - The Human Tragedy ACT IIIAlfred Austin - The Human Tragedy ACT III
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Gods! where the suckling she—wolf`s bosom spurned
The cruel priest`s decision, darkly wise,
The foul hyaena`s bastard litter tugs
At Italy`s breast, poisoning our Mother`s dugs!
``Will ye not, stalwart war—hounds, help me scare
The unclean foster—whelps from such a shrine?—
This brood of Hell, that Heaven`s fair front would wear,
From hearths which, even in ruin, keep divine;
Ruins, your own inheritance? Now swear
By all the godhood in Rome`s royal line,
By the Republic`s virtue, by the brow
Of Empire calm, ye will reclaim them now!
``Lend me your youth, I give to you my years,
The steadfast wisdom of the life that hangs
Upon death`s gaze and calmly waits the shears,
Nor cares o`ermuch when the dark portal clangs.
So that I see the glimmer of your spears
Frighting the foemen`s eyes, and mark your fangs
Fast in the hirelings fleeing from the list
Of final war, then let me be dismissed.
``My task will then be finished. But I waste
In sterile words the sunlight. Now, to arms!
Yon citadel, within whose walls disgraced
A host of motley mercenaries swarms,
The savour of your valour first shall taste.
Now blow the sanguine bugle`s shrill alarms!
Cleansed of its levy of Batavian boors,
Monte Rotondo must, ere dark, be yours!``
Though light their panoply, their valour great.
No Vulcan`s limping thunderbolts delayed
With cumbrous help their impetus elate;
Theirs the straight barrel and the swooping blade,
The fleet advance—the pause—the crouching gait—
The forward rush—the well—seized ambuscade;
Till, in thin trusty lines spread out, they feel
The circled city with a grasp of steel.
Then straight its pulse responded. Loudly bayed
The deep—mouthed cannon from the walls, and woke
The slumbering citadel, which swiftly made
Its mouth a teeming womb whence martial folk,
Born ready—armed, swarmed to the rampart`s aid,
Crested the walls, and glimmered through the smoke
Of sulphurous din, whose war—clouds thundered black
`Gainst the long sinuous hills, that bellowed back.
``Fire me the gate!`` the Chief exclaimed, ``and smoke
These skulking vermin from their darksome holes!
Why waste your breath in many an idle stroke
Against the intangible air? Unearth the moles!
Look! you must break the shell to seize the yolk!
Then fire the gate, ye young and valorous souls!
Swiftly let torch and faggot be their guests,
And burn yourselves an entrance to their breasts!``
Then, under cover of the deepening dusk,
As now the foe, in fancied fastness, drowned
With draughts of cheering wine the homely rusk,
Weening the day with conquering laurels crowned,—
With fascines girt and many a well—dried husk
Of last year`s corn, soft to the gate they wound,
Whose solid jaws, deemed doubly safe till dawn,
Stood grimly clenched, with all the guards withdrawn.
Others too brought, but with like stealthy stride,
Bales of coarse tow in liquid resin steeped,
With kegs of shining pitch, and,—high and wide,
Faggot on straw, straw upon faggot heaped,—
Thrust them between, and then their torches plied.
Swift at the touch the prompt light crackling leaped,
And, darting tongues of fire from quivering frame,
Spread through the loose sere heap its own fierce flame.
Nor till the goodly pile was all ablaze,
Was the alarum raised within; when straight
The slack carousers, smitten with amaze,
Snatching their arms, rushed wildly to the gate.
But those into the darkness, far from gaze,
Softly drew off, instructed well to wait
And pour, with obvious aim that could not fail,
Through its reopening jaws a deadly hail.
And soon, the monstrous bars and bolts drawn back,
The huge gates groaned, then slowly opened wide,
And straight in front uprose the blazing stack,
Though through the gap no foe could be descried.
So `gan they all, emboldened, to attack
The burning barricade, and thrust aside
This fell approach of fire that strove to spread
To their defences its contagion dread.
Thus as they rushed with ardour to undo
The invisible assailants` crafty task,
And with unguarded breasts swarmed full in view
Of those who wore the distance for a mask,
Came sudden such a crashing volley through
The screen of sputtering twig and boiling cask,
That, staggering, back they fell, and, ambushed mesh
Dreading at hand, rolled back the gate afresh.
But ere its ponderous lips could meet and clang,
The fiery mass fell in and choked its jaws.
Then once again a rattling volley rang
Straight through the chasm, and, all unseen the cause,
With deadly aim dealt many a mortal pang.
Then silence came,—a momentary pause,—
Then blinding smoke; and then, all barriers snapped,
The gate, without, within, in flame was wrapped.
The wolfish watch—dogs from uneasy sleep,
As though the moon were up, uprose and bayed,
While the rude herd, slow—roused from slumber deep,
Crept from his hutch and the weird sight surveyed.
Leaning with hands that neither sow nor reap
On his long crook, there statue—like he stayed,
As one who wondered not, and in whose veins
The instinct flowed of fire and ravaged plains.
Unsheltered kine in unhelped labour lowed,
Coupling their throes with yet more deep dismay;
While stolid oxen, freed from yoke and goad,
Rolled their large eyes, and wondered was it day.
Troops of wild colts, no lord as yet bestrode,
Gathered in clouds, stopped, sniffed, then tore away;
And low—browed buffaloes, into terror lashed,
Through jungled swamp, snorting and bellowing, splashed.
It seemed as though the centuries had rolled
Their sepulchres back, and all the disarmed dead
Were coming forth anon, and, as of old,
Round Rome`s seductive realm of ruin spread,
Would in their coils its feeble walls enfold,
And on its wreck a fresh destruction shed;
That Goth, Gaul, Vandal, Hun, did all conspire
To wrap what yet remained, in final fire!
And still the greedy flames kept crawling round
Monte Rotondo`s ivy—buttressed wall,
Whence gloomy owls, as if from under ground,
Flapped out, and with their melancholy call
Would ever and anon the deepening swound
Of dying ears with fantasies appal,
Vexing their souls with terror as they sank
Through yielding life into the deep dread blank.
Nor till the dappled curtain of the East
Rose on the chorused dawn,—by surfeit choked,
Had the fierce fire from random foray ceased.
But long ere then, their sleepless limbs yet smoked
With grime of battle, and their rage increased
By yestreen`s blood that still their garments soaked,
With bayonet couched and fury—flashing sword,
Through the charred portal had the Red—shirts poured.
And still as they advanced, from thresholds freed
Came forth the exultant populace, and blessed
The arms that brought salvation to its need.
Their blackened hands the trembling grandsire pressed;
The tearful matron brought the welcome meed
Of mother`s kiss; the soft—eyed maid caressed;
Whose brothers swelled their ranks, to lead them where
The routed hirelings clung to central lair.
In a grim palace whose huge entrance seemed
Portcullis more than hospitable gate,
And through whose grim—barred embrasures there streamed
No ray of cheering sunshine soon or late,
Whose hoary walls were but too truly deemed
To boast the dungeon`s thickness,—desperate,
And like to wolves whom baying throats surround,
The cowering foe had final covert found.
But when once more the threat of fire was hurled,
And torch and bavin to their hold were brought,
And round the basement tall the black smoke curled,
Quick from within a parley was besought,
And high o`erhead a small white flag unfurled.
Curt the conditions. These: All who had fought,
Would in the courtyard pile both gun and blade,
And straight across the frontier be conveyed.
So on the morn of that auspicious day,
By valour won, Monte Rotondo fell,
Making fagged limbs with freshening triumph gay,
And sinking hearts with surging hope re—swell
That henceforth neither foe nor fate could stay
Their supreme star and front invincible.
Lo! Yonder column rose, and tower, and dome,
In the blue air! Why not at once to Rome?
But quick the Chief with tranquillising smile
Checked their untimely ardour. ``Not to—day.
Blown with the race of victory, breathe awhile,
Nor tempt too much your yet but mortal clay.
Another morn, and yon cross—crownëd pile,
That glistens in the sun, shall point your way;
Nor shall its dome above the twilight soar,
A second time, ere Rome be God`s once more!``
So wounds were blithely drest, and blood—stains dried,
And, as day broadened, short siestas snatched;
Some, stretched supine on the bare mountain—side,
Some, slumber—shaded under a pine detached.
And some lay gashed and shattered, open—eyed,
On pallet rough in hovel rudely—thatched;
And some, alack! in their last bed were laid,
Nor heard o`erhead the beating of the spade.
But, with the waning of the sultry glare,
About the camp a fitful movement grew.
Here, these prepared the evening meal, and there,
From bellied vats those beaded beakers drew.
Others with busy brows and muscles bare
Rubbed their accoutrements to flashing hue.
Some sang; and oft, a solitary neigh
Shivered the air, then eddying died away.
Scarce a good bowshot from the bustling throng,
A farmstead stood, irregularly built,
Its walls of unhewn stone, yet square and strong,
Held in old days by arquebuse and hilt.
Alone of all the tenements along
Those sparse—clad heights by sunset softly gilt,
Nor strident voice nor desecrating hoof
Filled the apt shelter of its ample roof.
But if a curious eye had cared to scan
Its hidden life, two forms might now be seen,
Busy within; a godlike—statured man,
And grave—browed maiden, moulded like a queen:
A type to show what sovereign Nature can,
When stunting progress cometh not between
Her and her handiwork; a shape unmarred
As, goddess—born, was sung by Scian bard.
And like a queen of old, her fingers fair
Played busily with stuffs of various dyes,
Red, white, and green, of which, with loving care,
She made, when shaped to strips of equal size,
A banner, such as Freedom`s champions bear;
While Gilbert watched her with unmoving eyes,
Leaning against the threshold, while his hands
Smoothed a rough stake, mute slave of her commands.
```Tis done,`` she said, and as she said she rose.
``Now to the staff affix me Italy`s flag!
As veers the vane unto the wind that blows,
So, once breeze—fluttered, never shall it lag
Behind the storm that breaks upon our foes,
Lead where it will, and though to death it drag!
Follow this symbol, Gilbert! you will find
Peril in front, but victory hard behind!``
The colours from her fair brave hands he took,
But quick the fair brave hands themselves he pressed,
Drawing them upward, and with touch that shook,
Laid and soft held them on his ample chest.
And as some acorned oak bends low to look
On tender fern that girds its rugged breast,
So he, now bending her fresh form above,
Dropped in her lap the autumn of his love.
``Yes, Miriam! to its flagstaff will I bind
Your banner fast, and follow it as true
As watching vane obeys the wandering wind!
But when our blades have hewn a pathway through
To Rome or Death, then should I chance to find
The better doom, oh! unto me will you
Be as this steadfast pennon to its pole,
To bark its sail, unto the flesh its soul?
``You, Miriam, you! my standard, symbol be,
And I could bear you through a cloud of foes!
The glorious colours you, upborne by me,
From battle`s onset unto victory`s close.``
Then, holding flag and staff asunder, ``See,
What soul or spell hath this apart from those?
But knit them close, and then, its flag unfurled,
Even this sere branch might rouse a slumbering world!
``And yet a humbler, happier fate I crave,
Than to renew such task as brings us here.
Once let yon sky no longer roof a slave
In this fair land, and I our bark would steer
Back o`er that blue and siren—rippled wave,
To me through you, to you through kinship dear,
And, fondly tethered to its narrow isle,
Live in the sunshine of your wifely smile.``
She started at the word, and from his grasp,
Hereto endured, had fain her form withdrawn,
But that he gripped her wrists with tightening clasp,
And to her, helpless as some poor meshed fawn,
Sued with yet bolder lips and quickening gasp:
``Stay near me still, even as to night the dawn!
Fair life, fair love, with no dread gloom o`ercast,
Wherein I drown the darkness of my past!
``Thy land, thy race, is mine, and thy young hopes
Are round my heart entwined, as a fair flower
Scales with its delicate bine and tendrilled ropes
The lonely gaps of some untenanted tower,
Where the bat burrows and the night—owl mopes.
O, be to me a beauty and a dower!
Fill me with light and colour, till men bless
Me, the poor wall, that props thy loveliness.
``Dead in the grave she lies, dead in the grave,
Who should have loved me, but she loved me not.
Pierced through the heart by passion`s glittering glaive,
Thus did she leave me, who were best forgot.
Snowdrops and lilies her lone sepulchre pave,
White as the sheets over some infant`s cot,
Where innocence lies sleeping. She too sleeps;—
Happier than one that wakes, and wants, and weeps.
``I would not wake her, for she was not mine.
Sound be her sleep and sweet; sweet be her dreams!
She will not dream of me. She was divine,
And I am earthly; so at least it seems.
Yet did she pour out all my life like wine,
And leave the goblet empty. O for streams,
Streams of full love that to the heart are wed,
As some deep river to its deeper bed!
``That is not Love which is not loved: `tis nought
But vacancy of pain, unfuelled fire,
A sigh by silence choked, a speechless thought,
Insanity of soul, diseased desire.
And love is won no more than sold or bought;
`Tis a spontaneous giver, whom inspire
The Gods alone, whose promptings we forsook.
The fault was mine. She gave me—what I took.
``Streams roll not back, nor deem that I e`er could
To that dim past revert which was my bane.
I am as one who quits a darksome wood,
And sees before him sunlight—smiling plain,
Thankful to stand no more where late he stood.
Country and kin to me were symbols vain.
Thou art my kindred, and thy land shall be
Land of my love and true nativity.
``But``—and yet tighter, as he spoke, he clenched
His nervous grasp—``by the Enduring Powers,
By all the tears that ever drowned and drenched
The cheek of hopeless love through lonely hours,
Whose parching fire can by no tears be quenched,
By thy sire`s ashes, by the sacred flowers
That roof thy mother`s grave, I thee conjure,
Spare me not now! Strike home; I will endure.
``Strike, but once only! I can nurse that pain;
Nurse it in solitude which doth repair
Even worse wounds than that. But there`s a chain
No mortal twice consentingly would bear,—
The chain which binds with its tormenting strain
Two pulsing lives that one life do not share.
Love me with love that knows nor ebb nor flow,
As I love thee! or, Miriam, bid me go!``
Thereat he loosed her hands, and his own fell,
Mute, to his side; and like some giant stone,
Poised on its base by old enchanter`s spell,
So that it rocks e`en to a touch alone,
So now he stood, mightily movable,
And through the glamour that is all love`s own,
Despite his manhood, ready to be stirred
By the soft touch of her responsive word.
A moment mute remained she, with her head
Bent on its stem, like some dark crimson rose
When winds have been too rough, which, since, have fled.
But soon, like bud that to the sunlight blows,
Her face she lifted to his gaze, and said,
``Did he not tell you? For indeed he knows.
He wrung my secret from me on the day
Our joyous war—bark bounded o`er the bay.``
``What!`` he exclaimed, as future, present, past,
Confusedly before him `gan to swim;
``What! Godfrid! Comes he then once more to blast
My burgeoning hopes? Oh! how love`s sight is dim!``
``O, thou mistak`st me quite!`` she cried, aghast;
``For thee he pleaded, and I answered him,
Straight from my soul, as now I answer thee:—
Love me, and I will listen,—when Rome is free!
``Till then,—but hark!`` And ere one grateful word
Could from his bosom burst to ease his joy,
Out through the threshold, like a startled bird,
She flew, he following like an eager boy.
And lo! the camp with some strange news was stirred,
And, as a flock of wild—fowl to decoy,
Skimming the reedy pool, are blindly urged
On instant wing, toward one spot converged.
Thither, too, Miriam, Gilbert at her side,
Straight made with breathless eagerness her way,
The rush of supple striplings opening wide
To let them pass athwart the armed array.
``See the brave band returned from Rome,`` one cried.
``Then Godfrid`s back!`` and he could hear her say,
With murmuring lips, as low as breathing shell,
The rapid prayer, ``Pray Heaven! alive and well!``
Soon was all doubt dispelled; for toward the crest
Of the steep range whose face towards Rome is set,
A handful stood, by thirsty march distressed,
Hot, haggard, silent, dashed with gore and sweat;
And in their midst, towering o`er all the rest,
As, `mong tall fir—trees, tall pine tops them yet,
Stood Godfrid, gloomy, dark with dust and smoke,
And to the gathering crowd thus curtly spoke:
``Yes, we are back, or those at least you see,
A remnant, safe; the best are left behind:
Of freedom reft that others might be free,
Or dead, that worse than dead fresh life might find.
Cairoli fell o`erborne, one against three,
But not till two of three first fed the wind.
His Spartan dam may smile; one son remains;
Not here,—but wounded, captive, and in chains.
``What did I hear you ask? Doth Rome not rise?
Who rises with the heel upon his neck,
Or greets the dawn with joyfulness, whose eyes,
Long shorn of sight, the greedy vultures peck?
Alas! Of heaven—fed Freedom`s lusty cries,
What can emasculated serflings reck?
Rome rise? Yes,—when you raise her. Not till then.
Shall she long wait you? Not if ye are men!``
With which, the keen—eared group aside he ploughed,
And, greeting Miriam with fraternal speech,
Passed, linked with her and Gilbert, from the crowd
To that lone dwelling placed beyond the reach
Of the camp`s tumult. Then, like storm—charged cloud,
The black news circled, each one questioning each,
And vowing deep, as swift the story spread,
To rouse the living and avenge the dead.
But when with morn the heights and slopes began
To prick and burgeon into armëd life,
The dense red ranks spread out like gaudy fan,
To bass—toned drum and treble—fluted fife.
From mouth to mouth the gladsome rumour ran,
The hour was here to kiss the lips of strife,
With battle`s breast to blend embrace and breath,
And rush, delirious, on to Rome or Death!
And as they gazed, and every bosom rose,
High—leavened with the thought of combat nigh,
Far off they saw, as when a ground—mist grows,
Or distant copse shows feathery to the eye
When first the early—budding sallow blows,
About the walls a haze ambiguous lie,
Which, when it once had shape and substance ta`en,
Rolled itself out, and crept along the plain.
Shortly the moving mist began to gleam
And glitter as when dawn`s returning rays
Strike on the ripples of a shadeless stream,
Until it glowed one scintillating blaze,
Flickering and flashing in each morning beam.
And then they knew it was no vaporous haze,
But foe come forth,—bayonet, and blade, and gun,—
Shining and shimmering in the cloudless sun.
Swift through their lines a thrill electric ran,
And, as it died, girt by that faithful few
Whose spendthrift lives had still been in the van
Since first his banner of redemption flew,
`Mid men heroic looking more than man,
Serenely strong, the Chief came full in view;
While through the ranks, with sabre—sounding clang,
A shout of welcome and defiance rang.
``Hail, noble champions of a noble Cause!``
Flashing them back their greeting, thus he spake.
``See, Fortune smiles. The beast whose greedy claws
Ye have come to clip, doth from his covert break,
And, spurred by desperate terror, hither draws.
Now in your hands your shafts avenging take,
And bide his onset! We will wait him here,
And let the rash fool rush upon the spear.
``Then shall his lair be yours. Gods! what a lair!
The very cradle of your name and race;
To Roman loins where Sabine women bare
A lusty birth from violent embrace:
Sons sternly strong, daughters divinely fair,
Celestial those in force as these in face,
Who, not unmindful of their getting, curled
Their sinewy arms around a ravished world!
``Look! where your sires, disarmed by love`s decree,
To their consenting brides at length were wed,
The Gallic harlot, fetched across the sea,
With venal limbs fouls your ancestral bed!
Your home, your hearth, your very nursery,
Where Roman babes on Roman tales were fed,
Hath grown a den defiled, a place of shame,
Barbarians mock, and patriots blush to name!
``Where trod the Jove—crowned conquerors of earth,
The stealthy shaveling slipshod creeps along;
Where rang the echoes of triumphant mirth,
The trembling monk mumbles his drowsy song.
On the twin hill where Empire took its birth,
And the victorious eagles used to throng,
A spurious Caesar drills his legions foul,
And flings his aegis o`er each crouching cowl!
``And do ye live and breathe? Now live no more,
Save ye can purge the palace and the fane
Of prince and priest who barter grace for gore,
And God`s and Caesar`s name alike profane.
Is Italy so fair, their native shore
Bounds their barbarian appetite in vain?
Vainly the Alps arise, vain rolls the wave?
Then sate their greed of soil.—Give them a grave!``
Then with brief words, and indicating hand,
Along the heights and broken slopes he spread
The little cohorts of his clustered band.
Some in the shrunken streamlet`s stony bed
He showed to crouch, and others bade to stand
Behind the waving ridge`s sheltering head,
Watching, with eye alert and firelock low,
To deal prompt death on the presumptuous foe.
And where the gray—trunked olive`s purpling beads
Glistened among its shifting—coloured sprays,
He dotted children of the mountain—meads,
Who mark the chamois with unerring gaze
On track that only to the snow—line leads;
While others in the down—cut corn and maize,
Cut but unstacked, he bade in ambush wait,
Patient as vengeance, pitiless as fate!
Hark! the sharp challenge of a rifle rings
Shrill through the air! then all again is still;
Save where its eddying echo faintly clings
To the deep hollows of some distant hill.
But soon the breeze a fuller message brings,
Another,—and another yet,—until
A fitful musket—rattle spreads around,
And silence seems but waiting upon sound.
Awhile from hill and slope no answer came;
Though many a sharp—fanged messenger of death
Tore through the leafy vine—stem`s tender frame,
Scorched the gray trunks with its malignant breath,
And set the shocks of ripened maize aflame.
But as when long a storm—cloud lingereth,
And, since it loometh black, men wonder why
Its threatening javelins linger in the sky;
But when at length it bursteth overhead,
It bursteth all at once, and serried hail
Flashes and rattles on the torrent`s bed,
And beats the corn as doth the thresher`s flail;
So now, at lagging signal swiftly spread,
The scowling muzzles pointing toward the vale
Hurled on the foe a hurricane of steel,
That made the foremost fall, the hindmost reel.
``Now must be craven bolts, winged from afar,
Exchanged for bristling weapons, face to face,
And this too distant dalliance of war
Discarded for the grip of close embrace.
So, Latin lads! show of what strain ye are,
And prove the unslacked mettle of your race
Against these mongrels of a lineage lewd,
The bastard sons of sires your sires subdued!``
Thus through the hush of momentary truce
Rang the Chief`s clarion voice. But from his lips
Scarce had the words been fledged, than, as a sluice
Opens and quick its pent—up water slips,
Was all the volume of assault let loose,
And, wave on wave, the flashing bayonet—tips
Came streaming on, an ever—broadening ring,
Crested with banners of the Pontiff—King.
Wave upon wave: As, when on some long shore
The tide comes rolling in, in ridgy sheets,
Surge after surge, with hollow—bosomed roar,
Plunges and breaks, then hurriedly retreats,
And the stunned strand stands solid as before,
But swift a fresh on—coming billow meets
The flying foam, and carries it along,
Back to the assault, with volume doubly strong;
So, endless, rolled the ridges of attack,
Line after line, valour at valour`s heel;
Surged, roared, rushed, broke, then fell in fragments back,
Shattered and shivered on that shore of steel.
Yet waxed not then the tide of onset slack,
But as each ruined rank was seen to reel,
Another,—longer,—stronger,—onwards dashed,
And o`er the flying eddies curled and crashed.
Then forth from copse and vineyard, orchard, grove,
Farmstead and stony torrent`s shielding bank,
And deep—set pool where the tall cane—stems wove
For ambushed feet a cover dense and dank,
Rushing and trampling came a mighty drove,
That swiftly formed in many a hornëd rank,
And, swarming on each open crest and crown,
Paused for the word to speed their valour down.
Not fiercer, blacker, sweeps the Alpine storm,
When gorges howl and the fir—forests crash;
Not louder, ocean, when the dun waves form
Their monstrous heads, and rocks and breakers clash;
Not straighter doth the avalanche enorm
Its jaggëd path through crackling pine—masts gash,
Than swept the impulse of their gathered will,—
At once wind, wave, and lauwine,—down the hill.
Whereat the ranks that fenced the Triple Crown,
And, too unmindful of rebuke divine,
Drew Peter`s sword afresh, soon as the frown
Of grim assault drew near in line on line
Of smoke and steel, flung blade and rifle down,
And, scattering wide o`er dip and steep incline,
Their faces set where safety led the way,
And fled in wildered flakes of loose dismay.
Then all seemed won; and victory`s course that, first,
Steadied by curbing discipline had rolled,
Soon as it felt resistance` barriers burst,
Asunder swept and spread out uncontrolled;
Dispersing as the fugitives dispersed,
By the wild rout made hazardously bold,
Till in the exultant lines,—left, centre, right,—
Pursuit had waxed disorderly as flight.
When lo! though nought as yet could they descry
Save friends behind and fleeing foes before,
Upon them weapons new began to ply,
New and unseen, that hushed the cannon`s roar.
So thick came bullets now, they scanned the sky
To see if Heaven itself perchance did pour
The hellish missiles down, and foully mar
With unfair stroke the hard—got spoils of war.
As thus awhile they halted, and with eyes
Of wonder and of terror gazed around,
They saw the flying rout melt phantomwise,
And sudden, in its stead, as from the ground,
A new and unsuspected host arise,
Bearing the Tricolor with eagle crowned;
Advancing not, but stemming their advance,
With the famed chassepots of Imperial France.
Then rage seized every breast; and once again,
By warlike instinct ordered, swift they shrank,
Rallying each other both with voice and ken,
Into close file and steady marshalled rank;
Though faster, thicker, rained upon them then
The lethal hail, and many a brave brow sank,
To rise no more, on which, a moment gone,
The upward light of dawning victory shone.
In vain or force or feint, courage or skill,
Against a foe that seemed to multiply,
By some miraculous arm, its strength at will,
And, scattering death, never itself to die.
Maddened by pain, no more they cared to fill
The widening gaps, but with a desperate cry
Rushed in disordered valour, singly brave,
If not to make, at least to find, a grave.
Then many fled, and those who fled not fell;
And, from that moment, Miriam `mong the erect
Nor Gilbert saw nor Godfrid. In the swell
And surf of carnage lay their valour wrecked.
And ere she could descend and rush to well
Her love in dying ears,—unruled, unchecked,
The tide of flight came on, and as the spray
Lifts the light seaweed, swept her steps away.
The last she saw was a mute patient steer
Join its yoke—fellow in death`s darkened stall,
Where it may slumber peaceful all the year,
Dreading no bondsman`s stroke, no master`s call.
The rest was like the tumult in the ear
Of waters o`er the drowning, or the pall
That falls on fainting eyes when pulses reel,
And even the living brain forgets to feel.
Into sparse wattled sheep—pens many crept,
And by the rude but pitying herd were hid
Among his flock, that, all inhuman, slept.
But their bedfellows closed not weary lid,
And when pursuit`s fierce waves had past them swept,
Up from the strange, warm, throbbing couch they slid,
And to their host, beneath the starlight pale,
With sobs of fury stammered out their tale.
They told him how the day dawned bright with hope,
How noon had seen the hirelings` onset foiled,
How they, triumphant, bounded down the slope,
And then,—with lips that faltered, blood that boiled,—
How their spent strength had with new foes to cope,
And Italy`s dream, touching its goal, was spoiled.
Then, speech engulfed in surges of the breast,
Aghast they stood, and, silent, looked the rest.
Till one just mustered stertorous breath to tell
The shepherd son of Romulus who those were
That with their hellish sorcery broke the spell.
Whereat the hind shook his thick matted hair,
Unto their curses joined his curses fell;
And bringing down his crook, high poised in air,
Sharp to the ground, as though it were a spear,
Called on the avenging gods below to hear!
Into Mentana`s squalid ways,—for there
A little band, at daybreak left behind,
Still kept unbroken front,—the wounded bare
The dying, fain some pillow`s prop to find
For these, oblivious of their own despair.
And soon the church with pallets rude was lined,
By which Franciscan priests soft—sandalled stole,
And sped with patriot prayers each parting soul.
Just as the twilight faded into dark,
Voices were heard without; and striplings four,
Who had escaped the foeman`s deadly mark,
Into the nave a goodly body bore,
Stretched on a litter, seeming stiff and stark,
Whose torn red shirt was steeped in redder gore,
And to whose beard and hair of iron gray
The death—dews clung, like frost to wintry spray.
Behind them close walked Miriam, on whose brow
Black thunder—sorrow brooded, but who dropped
No tear of feeble anguish even now.
Slow at the sight each prostrate sufferer propped
His head upon his hand, and breathed a vow
Of dying love towards her. She nor stopped,
Nor looked on either side, but followed pale
The mournful convoy to the altar rail.
There with arresting hand she bade them pause,
And on the altar step to lay him down,
And to a servant of dear Christ`s sweet laws
Who wore the saintly Francis` habit brown,
Beckoned; and as distressful beauty draws
Even the heart that wears the chaste cold crown,
He hastened towards her and said lovingly,
``My daughter dear, what can I do for thee?``
``Wed me,`` she said, ``dear father, to this man;
Wed me this hour, ere he be man no more.
See! though his eyes be closed, his cheek be wan,
And though he soon will tread the heavenly floor,
He lives—he breathes! his sinking bosom can
Receive the vow I long therein to pour,
Ere he shall leave me but a deaf—eared clod,
And go to claim me at the Throne of God!``
The monk bent over the mute, hueless face,
And laid his ear against the blood—stained breast;
Then turned to her, and said: ``Fair child of grace,
`Tis true that life hath not yet left its nest,
But even now for its true dwelling—place
Its wing it lifts, to fly away to rest.
`Twould be as though you wed a corpse, to wear
Eternal widowhood on your young hair.``
``O yes, I know!`` she only could repeat,
In hurrying words that burst through sorrow`s dam,
``Father, I know! But wed us, I entreat,
That I may plead, through him, before the Lamb,
For our wronged land! It, corpse—like at my feet,
I ne`er can be more widowed than I am.
I,—I will live to plot, he die to pray,
That Heaven with Earth conspire to avenge this day!``
The trembling friar took up the clammy hand,
Whose pulse beat faint, and laid it within hers,
While she repeated, at his grave command,
The solemn pledge which deathless bond avers.
And, on the instant,—o`er a silent land
As a faint breeze sometimes in summer stirs,
Then drops,—so Gilbert, for a moment`s space,
Opened blue eyes, and smiled into her face.
Then grief had all its way, and wild she flung
Her body on his body, and loud wept;—
Wept with the loosened nerves, late overstrung,
And with the passion that too long had slept.
A sympathetic horror stole among
The close—packed pallets: some from out them crept
Near her to kneel; and those who could not stir,
Died, weeping blood for Italy and her!
Now far and wide the sterile—rolling plain
Lay in the shadow of the passing night,
Whose ebon wings, outstretched o`er land and main,
Move on,—slow,—silent,—none may mark their flight:
O`er stiff cold limbs for ever dead to pain,
O`er writhing forms whose cries still scared the kite,
Calling for aid from those that, happier, slept,
On, on, unhalting, pitiless, it swept.
There is a tall but crumbling tower that stands
Amid the lone Campagna`s gloomiest waste,
Whose depths were dug by those Cyclopean hands
Which famed Cortona`s massive circuit traced.
Above, its walls, like wrecks on littered strands,
Heaped more than built, rise up. Each age has traced
Its record on the masonry. Wouldst compare
Republic, Empire, ruin?—Scan them there!
Its corner—stones are waifs from submerged fanes,
Its mortar, marble gods. Urn, statue, bust,
All that of porphyry temple yet remains,
Tumbled and trampled, shattered, ground to dust,
Chipped, splintered, fouled, besmeared with wintry stains,
Into its chinks and crannies have been thrust.
Religions, dynasties, to patch a rent
In its rude mail, their sepulchres have lent.
The feudal bandit, flying from the proof
Of bloody deed,—a later, fiercer Goth,—
Oft to its shelter came with glowing hoof,
There fortress found, and braved a Pontiff`s wrath.
Foxes and wolves have littered `neath its roof.
But now alone, to sup his darnel broth,
And warm his agued limbs within its walls,
Thither at times the stricken shepherd crawls.
To—night there shone a feeble light within,
And, in the one sole chamber time had spared,
Upon a pallet rough and mattress thin,
Was stretched a wounded man. His throat was bared,
But on his still—clad form was thrown a skin
Such as Rome`s minstrels wear,—rude, shaggy—haired,—
That served for coverlet; beneath his head,
A sheaf of straw for pillow had been spread.
Soundly he slept, though ever and anon,
As though he would awake, he groaned and gasped;
But still a stout sword—hilt, from which was gone
One—half its blade, his right hand tightly grasped.
A little way aloof, with face that shone
With fervent prayer, and palms intently clasped
Before a crucifix, herself had laid
Against the wall, a wimpled Sister prayed.
And, save these two, for many a league around,
No living mortal was: only the dead.
He, pierced and gashed, and plunged in sleep profound,
She, with her pure white veil around her head,
Between her God divided and each sound
That reached her from the slumbering sufferer`s bed:
Her vigil`s sole companion, one small lamp,
Such as you find in sepulchres old and damp.
Sudden he woke, and with a battle—cry,
Raising his body upright in the bed,
Brandished the bright dismembered blade on high,
Struck at the foe, and rallied friends that fled.
He saw as yet with but half—waking eye,
And, bridging the abyss between the dread
Dark hour he fell and life`s returning light,
Fancied himself erect in thick of fight.
But when the air resisted not, nor stroke
Of quick—retorting sword attested fray,
Slowly to complete consciousness he woke,
Stared wildly round, and wondered where he lay.
He saw the bare blank walls, the nun`s dark cloak,
The little oil—fed lamp`s ascetic ray;
Then on his broken blade and bloody vest
Looking,—half he recalled, and read the rest.
The pale—faced Sister, startled by his cries
`Mid her mute prayer, rose promptly from her knees,
And, with celestial pity in her eyes,
Stole toward the pallet, soft as steals a breeze
Through open casement when the sunset dies.
``Brother,`` she said, ``I come to bring you ease,
To nurse your wound and speed your parting soul.
Forget the fight: for Heaven is now your goal.``
Her eyes were cast down meekly, and she seemed
As one who saw yet saw not. On her brow
And round her mouth a tranquil radiance beamed.
Yet surely, surely not again, not now,
Not now,—as but a moment gone,—he dreamed
An empty dream? That face, that voice, avow
Herself, her soul! ``Olympia!`` loud he cried;
But on his lips all other language died.
She started, and flung up her arms, like one
By bullet through the brain in battle shot,
Or fearful tidings suddenly undone.
``O Godfrid! Godfrid! Tell me it is not,
Not thou, not Godfrid! whom at rise of sun,
At noon, at night, I never have forgot
In my poor prayers! not thou, the once adored,
I see with shattered, sacrilegious sword!
``Yes, it is thou, sole vision of my heart,
Ere dearer Christ espoused me to His breast!
I must behold thee, even as thou art,—
His foe, His executioner confessed,
Stained with His blood. When we were forced to part
On that smooth shore by smoother sea caressed,
How could I dream that we should meet as now,
A worse than brand of Cain upon your brow!
``Did all avail you nothing? Not the morn
When first we met, and you with gentle speech
Dissevered from the Maytime—blossoming thorn
The snow—white branch, I, feeble, could not reach?
Oh! did you ne`er recall, in hours forlorn,
The sunny shrine I tended on the beach,
Nor that all—trustful tenderness which made
Your alien presence welcome as I prayed?
``Did you forget my little chapel quite?
And did Madonna`s statue, which your hand
Helped me to deck, as swiftly fade from sight
As morning`s footstep from the evening`s sand?
Did you bethink you never of that night
Of raging tempest on a blackened strand,
When you did seek my face, and I did weep
To hear your woe, then, blessing, bade you sleep?
``You have forgotten it all. Our journey dear,
Our simple mid—day meal, our evening halt,
The tumbling cataracts, the sheep—bells clear,
The tall black pine—wood scaling Heaven`s vault,—
Tell me how soon did these all disappear,
How soon was hateful memory sown with salt?
When, when did cold oblivion begin?
And when was all as though it ne`er had been?
``Well might my prayers, sin—weighted as they be,
Not reach the Throne of Grace. But thou, O thou!
Thou mightst at least have not been deaf to me,
And, for my sake, have reverenced the brow,
Mangled with thorns, of Him who died for thee!
Though you believe not, was it hard to bow
To the remembrance of the words I spoke,
The tears I shed, the hoping heart you broke?
``No! all was vain. Shore, mountain, sea, and stream,
Milan`s cathedral, Spiaggiascura`s shrine,
The silent grief that worse than speech did seem,
To me so sacred, since it half was thine,
Then when we parted,—these were but a dream!
Alas! I dream not. Waking woe is mine,
Waking reproach. Forgive, O loving Lord!
That I once kissed the hand that grasps that sword!``
Thus as she spoke, he neither word nor sign
Let fall, nor muscle moved, nor eyelid dropped,
But, with lips parted, gaze slow—dimmed with brine,
Intently gazed and listened, till she stopped.
Then, one hand still to hilt he held divine
Clinging, his head upon the other propped,
Grave, he began: ``With reverence have not you
Been heard, Olympia? Reverent, hear me too.
``You are the bride of Heaven, and I, alas!
Earthy; but, even as you are heavenly, hear!
O, since that bitter parting came to pass,
Never an hour hath been, in year on year,
Whether the hills were hoar, or green the grass,
Or dimpling corn uplifted playful spear,
Or mellow bunches drooped from branch and wall,
I had not sped to you, had you deigned to call.
``Forgot that morn! forgot that dewy spot,
Where Heaven, it seemed, dawned full upon my gaze!
Forgot the little chapel! and forgot
Madonna`s statue, at whose flowery base
With you I knelt, my doubts remembered not!
Nay, if oblivion from my brain shall raze
Record of these, then back may Mercy roll
Her opening gates, and clang them on my soul!
``Bear with me still, Olympia, to the end!
Full well I know `tis not your love, your wrongs,
With which you now reproach me, or that rend
The heart which henceforth but to God belongs.
Vainly I now should call you more than friend;
Source
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