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Alfred Austin - The Human Tragedy ACT IV
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1 2 3 
Personages:
     Gilbert—
     Miriam—
     Olympia—
     Godfrid.

      Protagonists:
     Love—
     Religion—
     Patriotism—
     Humanity.


Place: Rome—Paris.
Time: August  1870 -Close of May1871 

 And Miriam`s prayer was heard. The hosts of France
 Low in the dust, low in dishonour, lay:
 Broken her tumbrils, blunted was her lance,
 And tinsel Empire vanished in a day.
 The serried tramp of men, the war—steed`s prance,
 Pennon`s proud smile and clarion`s boastful bray,
 Dominion`s madness, glory`s lustful dream,
 Were swept like wrecks down Fate`s unswerving stream.

 For drunk by envy`s ill—fermenting wine,
 And each the other goading `gainst a throne
 Which late by force had proved its right divine,
 And, vassal once, had now a rival grown,
 Monarch and nation towards the peaceful Rhine,
 Journeying through happy vineyards of its own,
 Had urged the wheels of war, and, greedy horde,
 Into the scales of justice flung the sword.

 The sin of ancient years, unhallowed bed,
 When, without love or honour, law or rite,
 Bestial Ambition to the altar led
 A ravished nation, giddy with affright,
 And with vile lips the assenting victim wed,
 Had borne its foul—got brood in all men`s sight;
 A bastard offspring, wearing on their face
 Brand nor success could hide nor pomp displace.

 And these had waxed to ripeness: sly distrust,
 Which covers up its fear with mute assent;
 Curt sneers which sap, base gibes that fret like rust,
 The irksome bond of spurious blandishment,
 Disinclination deepening to disgust,
 Overt reproaches, discord, discontent,
 Divided purpose, longings ne`er the same,
 And, lastly, naked scandal, dead to shame.

 Thus from domestic petulancy grew
 The itch of foreign venture. Vexed at home
 By weak disunion, throne and rabble threw
 Distracting glance athwart the fencing foam.
 Now into tropic seas their banner flew,
 Now flapped forbidding over yearning Rome,
 Now, lured and luring to dismay, unfurled
 Its restless folds against the Western world.

 But bootless all. The blight of failure fell
 On each deft—trained design ere waxed it ripe,
 Which straightway wizened just as it should swell,
 And turned to ashes in the Schemer`s gripe.
 O`erbrooded purpose addled in the shell:
 Kings donned their swords, hearing his peaceful pipe;
 And when he tricked them into strife, One rose
 Colossal o`er a Continent of foes.

 Then, thus confronted, Prince and people wreaked
 Their spite upon each other. Baffled pride
 Recalled that impious night when sobbed and shrieked
 Through smothering hands the violated bride,
 And morrow with her murdered kindred reeked.
 While, thrusting condonation`s pledge aside,
 They who trooped willing slaves at Glory`s heel,
 Clamoured for freedom round its rusted steel.

 Dazed by his dissipated dream, aghast
 At ghosts he had deemed long laid, spurred by the cries
 Of sullen crowds that gathered thick and fast,
 Age in his limbs and death—rheum in his eyes,
 With vacillating hand the rod he passed
 To female counsels, perilous allies,
 And pricked by priests and women blind with hate,
 Passed to his doom through War`s wide—opened gate.

 Then sleek corruption found its issue dire,
 Teaching the obeisant multitude how vain
 Is purple ostentation`s eunuch choir,
 When iron battle tramps the trembling plain,
 Kneads the lithe golden grain to crimson mire,
 And sings thanksgiving over sheaves of slain;
 How forward splendour curlike slinks to heel,
 When sabres clash and wrestling armies reel.

 Servility, which brings the base to front,
 Indiscipline, the mongrel jade that kicks
 Against the whip and to the bit is blunt,
 Yoked with confusion, twin in knavish tricks,
 Loud braggart fear, that tempts then shirks the brunt,
 And fireside luxury, which purrs and licks
 Its velvet paws when wet winds wail without,
 Swelled the loose train of predetermined rout.

 And these, by adulating courtiers led,
 Lagged forth to meet where flattery smirks in vain,
 A phalanxed people, mailed from heel to head,
 And moved by law, as by the moon the main.
 God, King, and Fatherland, the watchwords sped
 From hearth to hearth, as from hill, vale, and plain,
 They trooped to call, and drawn towards one sole aim
 By one sole will, half—conquered ere they came.

 Then Meuse rolled red with blood and dark with shame,
 And Sedan`s bootless battlements concealed
 Pale hosts of jostling fugitives that came
 Clamouring for shelter from its fatal field.
 Blind now to glory, deaf and dead to fame,
 They sought in fear a friend, disgrace a shield,
 And cowering mute in pools of comrades` gore,
 Blessed the kind night that hushed the victors` roar.

 But when the dark pall parted, and they saw
 The day come forth and reascend the sky,
 Full on them yawned the cannon`s hungry jaw,
 And on them glared its fixed, impassive eye.
 Lo! round their terror moving myriads draw
 The steel—knit network, surely, silently,
 Nor strategy can foil nor valour tear,
 Nor even death, though banded with despair.

 Then foiled Aggression grovelled on the ground,
 And France`s Tricolor waxed deadly white.
 Her legions to the Teuton`s chariot bound,
 Her Caesar`s sword surrendered, not in fight,
 The spoil—clad victor through her vineyards wound,
 Through ransomed towns, past camps too scared to smite,
 On to the harlot City, which in dread
 Whined to the world to save her from their tread.

 Whereat that other City, to the cup
 Of her abominations sacrificed,
 That she of lusts and glories false might sup,
 City in turn of Caesar and of Christ,
 Though now of both long dispossessed, rose up,
 And when Gaul`s darkening flag no more sufficed
 To cover her own bosom, freedom`s sun
 Felt on her face,—and Italy was One!

 Then banned for ever was that bastard thing,
 The regal diadem round priestly brows,
 And a divine divorce decreed `twixt King
 Of carnal conquest and Christ`s spotless spouse.
 And though awhile her old affection cling
 To the unnatural bond and impious vows,
 She yet shall own, her alien banner furled,
 That the soul`s kingdom is not of this world.

 Dragged from the clutches of tenacious death
 By Miriam`s love, who, when weak skill despaired,
 Despaired not, feeding failing breath with breath,
 And screening flickering life till life reflared,
 Like flame that, hand—protected, brighteneth,
 Gilbert, with her, that supreme moment shared,
 When, through the gate Mentana`s captives trod,
 Burst Italy`s flag and Savoy`s kingly rod.

 And Godfrid, too, was there. When first he woke
 From that submerging swoon wherein he sank
 With cry impenitent and raving stroke
 That rent Olympia`s heart, and saw life`s bank
 Once more in reach, round him were stranger folk.
 He knew not whom to question, whom to thank.
 There were no battle—stains his vest upon.
 He looked: but lo! his shattered sword was gone.

 There was a little crucifix instead,
 Of silver upon sandalwood, that lay
 Close to his cheek, half slipping from the bed:
 Which when he reverent would have drawn away,
 He saw `twas fastened by a hempen thread
 Round his own neck, so could not go astray,
 But, as he moved, moved still with him, and kept
 A quiet watch upon him when he slept.

 He lay not now in squalid ruin built
 Of mud and rifled empires. Four white walls,
 Blank, saving where there hung Who for man`s guilt
 Dies always, and in silent anguish calls
 Sin to His feet, soft pillows, smoothened quilt,
 A silence such as reigns in empty halls,
 And by his bed a pot of fragrant flowers,—
 These were his company through the muffled hours.

 But he could hear, in corridor without,
 The sound of swiftly, softly, passing feet,
 That constant to some business moved about,
 But did it without noise, or haste, or heat.
 Sometimes this movement waned, and quite died out;
 And, always then, he could catch voices sweet,
 Just far enough away sick ear to please,
 Chanting plain hymn or singing litanies.

 And none e`er broke the silence of his door
 Save white—cowled sisters, who, with modest speech,
 Asked him if felt he happier than before,
 Resmoothed his bed, placed food within his reach,
 Then glided silently across the floor,
 And left. And each so like was unto each,
 In office like, and all without a name,
 He wondered were they others or the same.

 But one there was who never came, for whom
 He ever looked with quickly—turning cheek
 Whene`er a fresh foot comforted his room,
 For whom he longed, of whom he dared not speak.
 At length, one eve, as twilight`s deepening gloom
 Drove from his wall the sunlight`s farewell streak,
 He asked, ``Where, sister, have I found a home?
 Where am I now?`` She answered him, ``In Rome.`

 Whereat, when she was gone, he wondering lay
 Upon his bed. ``Yes, Rome or Death!`` he mused.
 ``The stern alternative of that lost fray,
 Death, hath missed fire, and destiny refused
 The other doom. But no! Did she not say
 I am in Rome? Thus, thus the Gods amused
 Fulfil the formulas for which we strive.
 I am not dead. Is Italy alive?

 ``And where is Gilbert? Miriam, where? Where, she,
 The maiden mistress of my soul, that knelt
 With darkness, and the howling gusts, and me,
 On that distressful midnight when I felt
 My being like a bark that takes the sea,
 And on known shore beholds dear figures melt
 Into dim distance, and the waves and wind
 Shut out the sense of all we leave behind.

 ``Where is my dear Olympia? Dear, too dear!``
 Then, down his cheek, like one last drop of dew
 Hot noon hath spared, trickled a tender tear.
 And when, at early morn, a nun—nurse drew
 To his bedside, ``Who was it brought me here?``
 He asked. She answered: ``One who prays for you,``
 And changed his faded flowers for fresh, and went.
 And he, being gentle, gathered what she meant;

 Nor questioned them again, though still his breast
 Fluttered whenever fresh hand touched his door,
 Fluttering for nought. But when, self—kempt and drest,
 He, all unhelped, could walk across the floor,
 There came a sister older than the rest,
 Who said, ``You are our prisoner no more,
 Who, elsewhere prisoned, would have found release
 Hardly so soon. Now, brother, go in peace.``

 And so he went, the little cross around
 His neck, and silent sadness in his soul.
 And by and by he wrote his thanks profound
 To the good nuns who thus had made him whole,
 And in whose cloister he had shelter found,
 At their own risk, against the prying shoal
 Of victor sbirri, pity their sole creed,—
 And sent them humble gifts for humble need.

 Thence he returned to Capri, like a bird
 That crawls back to its nest with broken wings;
 Lamenting, lonely, with a voice unheard,
 The jar irreconcilable of things,
 How at each other Past and Future gird,
 How each one`s music general discord brings,
 And, with this grief which causeth the world`s moan,
 Blending a kindred sorrow of his own.

 His sole joy seemed to gaze on the bland brow
 Of meditating mountains, and the sight
 Of that serene felicity which now
 Made Gilbert`s years seem few, his memories light,
 Dead bond forgotten in a livelier vow;
 But who still lacked, vicissitudes despite,
 The philosophic vision, which perceives
 Some goodness even in that o`er which it grieves.

 So when the Gallic bayonets that suppressed
 The yearning efforts of parental Rome
 To fold her prosperous children to her breast,
 Answering the cry of Paris, hurried home,
 And Christ`s miscrowned Vicegerent stood confessed
 In his own strength, across the Tyrrhene foam
 Gilbert and Miriam flew with eager breath,
 To swell once more the cry of ``Rome or Death!``

 But Godfrid watched and waited, nor betook
 His footsteps to the mainland till the Flag
 Unto the breeze once more the colours shook
 Which had freed Italy from cape to crag,
 And, kingly still, to screen the Shepherd`s crook
 Now frankly waved. Then no more did he lag,
 But hastened with hot heart past strand and stream,
 To clasp, no vision now, his life`s one dream.

  And thus he shared, with tears of trembling joy,
 That consummating moment: moment rare
 In this begrudging planet, where the boy,
 Too oft, as man, sees high hopes melt in air,
 Or descend earthward, mixed with base alloy;
 Moment admonishing no one to despair,
 And that the nations which will watch and wait,
 May even tire out time and rescind fate.

 Upon the Palatine hill, presumptuous hands
 Have swept and garnished, lending rival wrecks
 Haphazard names, an enclosed space there stands
 Of ruin unreclaimed. No fribbles vex
 The silent surface of time`s drifted sands.
 Untrained, unhindered, Nature hides and decks
 Man`s heaped—up failures. Rarely human tread
 Disturbs this green—grown dust—heap of the dead.

 And here, where desolation`s final tide
 Advanced and scattered, Godfrid musing lay,
 Feeling like one who misses from his side
 Something that ne`er before hath been away,
 Now that the goal was reached whose course untried
 Had filled the blank of many a lonely day,
 And, to replace the past, that kindly friend,
 Stretched an unfancied Future, void of end.

 He ever and anon could catch the burst
 Of paeans popular in far—off street,
 Wherein he too had gladly joined at first;
 And as he mused that it were surely meet
 This barren joy were not too oft rehearsed,
 He heard the sound of slowly—winding feet,
 He feared of strangers, but soon hailed, instead,
 Gilbert`s and Miriam`s ever—welcome tread.

 Straight, seeing them, he rose, that Miriam might
 Choose some smooth seat, though choice in sooth was none.
 But ere she reached the rude stair`s topmost height,
 Halting, she stood; while Gilbert, like to one
 Who, awkward, blurts unwelcome news outright,
 ``We must be gone before the set of sun,``
 Abruptly said: ``We are but here to tell
 Our resolution, and to take farewell.``

 ``Gone before set of sun! And farewell! Why?
 What is this deed I with you may not share?``
 Godfrid exclaimed. But neither made reply,
 And with joint silence paid his wondering stare.
 So he rejoined: ``If it must be, good—bye!
 For I shall miss you. Yet one parting prayer
 Grant me, at least. Oh! do not, insane, break
 This moulded Italy you helped to make.``

 ``Yes, Italy is made!`` cried Gilbert, ``though
 Within its entrails priest and king still lurk;
 And these must one day follow foreign foe.
 This hour is not propitious for the work,
 At least not here; and that is why we go.
 At throat of throne—rid France is Teuton dirk;
 But once by her Republic back are hurled
 These bravo kings, she then will free the world!

 ``The Chief has called us round him now once more,
 Now for one final, universal stroke,
 And Italy shall find on foreign shore
 The means wherewith to snap her native yoke.
 Thus, thus will we avenge Mentana`s gore,
 And coals of fire upon their hearths shall smoke,
 Who, duped by despots, now themselves condemn,
 Denied us freedom we will bring to them!``

 He ceased. But Godfrid made not haste to speak;
 For well he knew that reason`s clearest rays
 Against the mists of passion are wan and weak.
 So for awhile he did but stand and gaze,
 Saying at length, ``If find you what you seek,
 You will be honoured in all coming days.
 The world hath not yet journeyed to its end,
 And he who helps it onward is its friend.

 ``But, oftener far, presumption`s hasty hand
 Mars the slow—shaping form it fain would mould.
 Forgive me! Your great Chief for this fair land
 Hath done what long in story shall be told:
 But that he quits her now for foreign strand,
 Will leave me less regretful than consoled.
 The rest she needs, it is not his to give;
 And he might kill whom once he helped to live.

 ``But how of that ambiguous Cause he goes
 To aid, will you the original sin repair?
 I look, but can see only kites and crows
 Fighting for carrion in the empty air.
 Sooth! to be arbiter betwixt such foes!
 Each, thanks to statecraft`s need, hath borne a share
 In Italy`s redemption. She should stand
 Aloof from both, her winnings in her hand.

 ``Republic! Empire! Words that feed no want.
 What are they but authenticated sound,
 Fine names, not virtues, given at the font,
 Affection`s too fond labels? Look around
 At history`s wide horizon! Nay, fie on`t!
 Better, with millstone round one`s neck, be drowned
 In sludge of foul oblivion, than loose seas
 Of blood `gainst seas of blood for feuds like these!

 ``No! France must pay the ransom of the wrong
 Done to herself at first, to others last;
 Nor will just Time take dithyrambic song
 In quittance of the madness of the past.
 Eleutheromaniacs round her rudder throng,
 And wild she drives. Still, if the die be cast,
 May you ne`er sigh, `mid wreck of world—wide hopes,
 For home`s sure weal and Capri`s narrow slopes!``

 Slowly the last words trembled to their close,
 And, trembling still, who uttered them was dumb.
 Dumb, too, were they, unwilling to oppose
 To friendship`s pleading voice the stifling hum
 And heat of passion, better kept for foes.
 So Gilbert said, ``We knew you would not come.
 But we must start forthwith. Say, will you cheer
 Our parting feet, or bid us farewell here?``

 ``Nay, let us hence then,`` Godfrid said, and straight
 Adown the ruins` twisting track they went;
 Nor strove he more to turn them from their fate,
 But only on last offices intent
 Seemed anxious, more than they, they were not late.
 And soon the remnant rapid hours were spent.
 By Tullius` levelled walls they, silent grown,
 Parted, and Godfrid was in Rome alone.

 There he abode, his temperate sword laid by,
 Content to scan, complete, the work it planned;
 With peaceful hand, soft heart, and searching eye
 Tending the needs of his adopted land,
 And paid by its soft tongue and smiling sky:
 All through that long white winter, when the brand
 Of war austere fired Gaul`s luxurious roofs,
 And her sons crouched `neath havoc`s scouring hoofs.

 For all in vain had scrambling tribunes snatched
 From Caesar`s captive hand the sword and flag,
 And against regal victors, fumbling, patched
 The rents of Empire with the ready rag
 Of a Republic, from the gutter scratched.
 In vain the phrase—plumed rhetoricians` brag,
 The strut of hucksters panoplied, the loud
 War—prattle of an armed unmastered crowd.

 Hemmed in by silent steel and the clinched jaws
 Of them that bared its edge, that stronghold lewd,
 Semiramis of cities, whose soft laws
 Make licit the illicit, till, subdued,
 Even genius panders to her self—applause,
 Now with her own sleek self herself at feud,
 Lacked, as she stood effeminate at bay,
 The antlers male to hew herself a way:

 And loudly to her lovers called, to leap
 To arms for her sore sake, that yestertide
 In her delight delighted, and drank deep
 Of her lascivious wine—cups, and but vied
 To share the perfume of her wanton sleep:
 But these had slipped away from her roused side,
 And from far—off beheld the loveless spears
 Couched at her breast and callous to her tears.

 Then wailed she to her kindred, who sate scared
 In innocent plain homes, whose cleanness she
 Had outraged with her harlotries and spared
 Nor scoff nor stain in days when she was free,
 Corrupting to her dainties those she snared,
 And mocking those who wailed her infamy,
 That they would beat the ploughshare to a sword,
 And die for her who had but danced and whored.

 But when, unhelped by gods or men, she saw
 From off her sybaritic tables melt
 The dainties dressed for her voluptuous maw
 In days of fat concubinage, and felt
 Mute hunger her fastidious entrails gnaw,
 Then she, so long unused to kneeling, knelt,
 And, kissing with her unkissed lips the dust,
 Sued to the foe to do what deemed he just.

 And he, because he was just, would have stripped
 The tinsel from her forehead, and torn off
 The mimic steel in which she was equipped,
 Making of Mars a mock, of death a scoff.
 But once more in the dust her brow she dipped,
 And tearfully besought she need not doff
 Her new—found gewgaws, but might peaceful wear
 Spur on her heel and war—plume in her hair.

 And he, in part for scorn, in part that he
 Knew she against herself would quickly turn
 Her braggart weapons, once her limbs were free,
 Bade her retain them, but with visage stern
 Told her go find and fetch unto his knee
 Ransom of gold she in the days could earn
 When all men bought her pleasure, and until
 She forfeit paid, his sword should guard her still.

 This, from afar, foreseen with certain ken,
 Had Godfrid watched, in Rome abiding still,
 Through that lone winter, until Spring again,
 That hastens nor delays for good or ill
 Or aught that haps the fitful fate of men,
 Came in her blushing beauty o`er the hill,
 Kissing to softness air and earth and skies,
 Youth`s candid coyness laughing in her eyes.

 Tidings the while had fitful reached him there
 Of Gilbert and of Miriam: lines at first
 Written in hope`s free hand and symbols fair,
 Then by a pen in dubious thoughts immersed,
 And, finally, disfigured by despair,
 That more betrayed than plain bespoke the worst;
 Blent with recrimination, rage, distrust,
 Which railed at all, and paused not to be just.

 Now Earth, now Heaven, now kings, now crowds, were taxed
 With burden of the failure. France itself,
 And its too prosperous sons, had craven waxed,
 But caring furtively to count their pelf.
 It was the Purple Robe that had relaxed
 Their fibre, narrowing to the well—stocked shelf
 Their vile affections. Last, they were betrayed
 By their own Chiefs. And where was Europe`s aid?

 Then Godfrid wrote: ``Come back, and be at peace.
 You have done all it befits man to do,—
 Fought for the faith that`s in you. But now, cease.
 With Miriam quick recross the waters blue,
 And we will back, ere yet the years decrease,
 Which once seemed many, that now seem so few,
 To our dear island home, and there remain,
 Loving the land we bled for not in vain.``

 But still they came not; though the timid Spring
 Grew confident, and all the snows were gone,
 Even from the clefts. Louder the birds did sing,
 Louder the streams; the sun more broadly shone,
 And life was more like life with everything.
 But still they came not; and the weeks went on,
 And still they came not: till—afoot,—abed,—
 Godfrid began to feel a shapeless dread.

 It was the season of the year when he
 Felt Reason`s reasons useless, and when most
 His heart, suffused with sensibility,
 Owned fortitude the unproved stoic`s boast.
 For `twas the season when he first did see
 The face of Olive, mute unwalking ghost
 That slept in Florence, but still came between
 His thoughts and peace, like waves that sound unseen.

 But, more than this, than all that e`er had been,
 Or e`er could be, it was the season bland
 When, flying from a world of noise and sin,
 His feet had found Spiaggiascura`s strand,
 Beheld Madonna`s chapel, sought to win
 Olympia`s love, ta`en with her, hand in hand,
 That sweet sad journey, then with speechless pain
 Left her betwixt the mountains and the main.

 Once in the winter, as the time came round
 To send his yearly gift of gratitude
 To those with whom he life and shelter found
 After Mentana dire, he thought he would
 Be his own envoy. Through moist streets he wound,
 And soon before the Convent portal stood,
 With half—owned hope to find, within, some clue
 To her, withal he never must pursue.

 He rang, and loud through corridor unseen
 Echoed the peal; making him wince the while
 To think that cloister sheltered and serene
 He with unbidden clamour should defile.
 But quick a novice peeped through grated screen,
 Then opened; saying, with a settled smile,
 Not on her lips or lids, but, as it were,
 All o`er her face, ``How can we serve you, sir?``

 ``May I the Mother Abbess see?`` he said.
 ``Will it please you, sir, to enter?`` And she straight
 Into a spacious whitewashed chamber led,
 Where hung but Christ, and left him there to wait.
 And by and by the door was openëd,
 And came to him with gravely cheerful gait
 That Sister reverend who, when erst did cease
 His wounds and weakness, bade him go in peace.

 After obeisance, ``Mother,`` he began,
 ``What hitherto I sent I here have brought,
 To recognise—repay I never can,—
 All that you did for me in days distraught.``
 ``My son,`` she said, ``to succour suffering man
 Is our dear duty, and you owe us nought.
 I take it for our Lord, to Whom we owe
 All things. And it may soothe some sufferer`s woe.``

 Then all seemed said, and he was fain to go,
 Though loth; when, taking courage from his fear,
 ``Forgive me, Mother! if it be that so
 I `chance transgress; but have you sister here
 Men call Olympia, whom I once did know?``
 ``We have,`` she said; ``a sister very dear.``
 ``And is she well and happy? Tell me true!``
 ``She is, my son, and daily prays for you.``

 And then he knew that he must ask no more,
 But go; and with obeisance fresh he went,
 Feeling more lone and restless than before,
 And more than ever sundered from content.
 And whensoe`er he spied a form that wore
 That convent`s habit, straight his steps he bent,
 And, unobserved, glanced quick, in hopes he should
 Find her mourned face beneath the modest hood.

 But never found he the one face he sought,
 Though more than once he seemed to recognise
 Those who, when lay he as their guest, had brought
 Food to his need and comfort to his sighs.
 Had he forgotten how she looked? he thought;
 Or was he duped by her austere disguise?
 Then would he smile, as men, ta`en unawares,
 Smile at a thought they had which was not theirs.

 But as he thus more solitary grew,
 And anxious more to learn how it might fare
 With Gilbert and with Miriam, rumours new
 Began to flock and hover in the air,
 That what the wise foresaw was coming true,
 And that the harlot city, in despair
 At her own degradation, up had leapt,
 And turned against herself the arms she kept.

 Thence, before long, authentic tidings came,
 Written with Gilbert`s hand, and thus they ran:
 ``Lo! Paris tolls the knell of human shame,
 Knell for which time hath yearned since time began.
 Not now for kings, priests, soldiers, country, fame,—
 Vampires or vainest shadows,—but for Man,
 Man too long gaoler of himself, we shake
 The wearied limbs of War, and bid them wake.

 ``Paris hath been cajoled, betrayed, by chiefs
 That kept one foot in the foe`s camp and held
 Parley with kings, for fear the People`s griefs
 Should by her kingless triumph be dispelled.
 Their season now hath vanished like the leaf`s,
 Their sceptre like the rotten trunk lies felled;
 Their sycophantic pomp hath joined the dead,
 And every crawling parasite hath fled.

 ``What! back to Capri now! now that the hour
 Of centuries` gestation waits its birth!
 When Freedom, born in panoply of power,
 With godlike brain shall renovate the earth,
 And Light, and Right, and all fair things, shall flower!
 No! Godfrid! Burst, yourself, convention`s girth,
 And shed the tatters worn traditions wind
 Around the bareness of your shivering mind!

 ``You want a Faith. Behold the Faith that feeds
 The hunger of the heart all else but starves!
 Faith that shall dispossess usurping creeds,
 Incense, and train of priests, and fatted calves,
 Vain supplications for phantasmal needs!—
 Faith in Mankind: not faith that feels by halves,
 But faith complete, whose dogmas shall redeem
 Humanity from its distempered dream!

 ``Fling off the loose impeding folds of doubt,
 Standing, tight—mailed, in arms of confidence,
 And put the pale Past`s gibbering ghosts to rout
 That fool you with their shadowy pretence,
 And shut the Future`s dawning daylight out!``
 More still there was, but ever in this sense;
 And just one word from Miriam, which but said:
 ``Come to us, Godfrid, and no more live dead!``

 Still walking, as he read it line by line,
 Through undistracting Rome, his feet had strayed,
 When it was ended, to the Esquiline,
 Where, at its summit, the fair Mother—Maid,
 Spouse of the Spirit, hath her chiefest shrine,
 And on Corinthian column undecayed,
 From fane long vanished, with soft—victor shoon
 Stands in the hollow of a crescent moon.

 `Twas the last day of March, midway between
 Noon and slant eve. The air, the sky, was bland,
 Even as She, Protectress of the scene.
 Around, beyond, afar as near at hand,
 Lopped arch and jaggëd wall with mantle green,
 Calm wrecks of world—wide conquest and command,—
 These the dumb comment, as his eyes he raised
 From Gilbert`s sanguine page, and round him gazed.

 ``Mankind! Faith! Future!`` mournfully he cried,
 Folding the letter; ``Who shall build new faith
 `Mid ruins such as these! The Gods have died,
 The beautiful grand Gods, and but their wraith
 Haunts the forsaken spot they sanctified.
 Empire, Religion, Truth,—all perisheth.
 Caesar hath gone, and Christ seems following fast:
 Only our wants and weak deceptions last.``

 So musing, toward the marble steps he walked
 Of the Basilica, and sate him down;
 Where past his mind the long procession stalked
 Of vestals, shepherds, wearers of the Crown,
 Tribunes and senators, and consuls baulked
 Of regal gewgaws by the People`s frown,
 Pontiffs, and Emperors that mighty were—
 Mere voices wailing in the unechoing air.

 There sate he, as the sunshine slowly died,
 While ever and anon, behind his back,
 Some one the heavy curtain thrust aside,
 And, past him, down the steps took homeward track:
 Happier, that they before the Babe Who cried
 In Bethlehem had laid life`s heavy pack;
 Monk, peasant, mendicant, the halt, the hale,
 But all sad—burthened with some human tale.

 ``I too must go,`` he murmured. ``Unlike those
 Who have passed onward, I can nowhere cast
 The burden of my weakness and my woes,
 Which I, unhelped, must carry to the last.``
 Just then, once more the heavy curtain rose
 Behind him, and adown the steps there passed,
 Slowly, the figure of a nun who wore
 The habit dear to him for evermore.

 He had not seen her face, her aspect, ought
 Men would call hers. But he had staked his soul
 It was Olympia! and, as quick as thought,
 Sprang forward, and forgetful of control,
 Clutched at her robe. ``O you whom I have sought
 Along lone course that seemed to have no goal,
 Speak to me! Let me see your face, and hold
 Your hand in mine once more, ere mine grows cold!``

 ``Godfrid!`` And paler than the smooth white hood,
 Worn where once gleamed her undulating hair,
 Glued to the spot by memory, she stood:
 She looked into his face, she murmured prayer,
 Quick, then exclaimed, as though `twas all she could,
 ``Have you the cross?`` ``I have,`` he said, ```tis there!``
 His left hand pressed against his heart, his right
 Creeping the while near hers, clenched close and tight.

 ``I knew it was your hand, Olympia! placed
 The cord and cross around my neck; and hence,
 `Mid all beside discarded or effaced,
 It ne`er hath been, shall ne`er be lifted thence.
 But, tell me: from the lone Campagna`s waste,
 When I lay reft of sword, and strength, and sense,
 How did you move and carry me to Rome,
 And how conceal me in your Convent home?``

 ``Ah! if you knew Madonna, would you ask?
 When the day dawned, and still you, breathing, slept,
 Then I, by her inspired, began to task
 My brain to rescue you; and as I stepped
 Into the morning air, upon a cask
 Of wine—cart from Correse that slow crept
 Along the track of the Nomentan way,
 Romeward, a half—waked contadino lay.

 ``He murmured a good—morrow, and I prayed
 That he would halt a moment; and he did.
 Whereat I said he would be only paid
 By Heaven in doing the task that I should bid.
 There was a wounded man must be conveyed
 Straightway to Rome, and in his cart be hid.
 I too should go, and on the wain would sit,
 And, for the rest, that I would see to it.``

 Hereat she paused; and he was mute, for woe,
 Gazing upon her with blent love and awe.
 Her nun`s tale told she simply, even as though
 Nun she had ever been. But he,—he saw
 The free—born girl, that like the bounding roe
 Glanced o`er the down or flitted through the shaw,
 Beneath whose garb reserved still lurked the wild
 Prompt helpful instinct of the mountains` child.

 ``Yes, dear?`` he said, to end the pause. ``And then?``
 ``Well, then I got upon the wain, whilst he
 Walked by his mules to ease their load, and when
 None was in sight, I used to peep and see
 If still you slept, nor looked like dying men,
 And, when I dared, your head and chest left free,
 Lifting the straw and sheepskin; though, for fear,
 Oft I replaced them when was no one near.

 ``Thus slowly crept we on, the heavy wain
 Jolting and swaying on the rough—hewn stones,
 Making me wince in terror of your pain,
 And fancy that I caught your waking groans.
 But you lay hushed; and when to the good swain
 Fresh groups of soldiers spoke in cheery tones,
 Returning his salute or proffering theirs,
 I knew Madonna smiled upon my prayers.

 ```See now,` I said to him, `is nought to fear;
 And you your charity will never rue.`
 He answered, `Mary grant it! Yet `tis clear
 These harm me not because they reverence you.
 Ha! I can tell you, if you were not here,
 I should have had to broach for not a few.
 But when we reach the Gate, how then? For there,
 Excise—dogs nose and rummage everywhere.`

 ``Thus did he warn me in his homely way,
 As we drew nearer, nearer still to Rome,
 While I could only quiet sit, and pray.
 But when the last ascent of all we clomb
 That hides the city, and lo! there it lay
 Before us plain, crowned by Saint Peter`s dome,
 My heart grew most of me, and I began,
 Wavering in faith, to frame some human plan.

 ``But ere I could devise one, there we were,
 There at the Gate! and, round, a prying band.
 Then prompt the peasant said, `Look here, good sir!`
 Addressing him that seemed to have command,
 `What must I pay? There`s nothing, I aver,
 Save wine—casks,—you can count them with your hand,—
 That pays the tax. I have the money here:
 Take it, I beg, and give us passage clear.

 ```The sister sitting on the cart is pressed
 To reach her home. To help her on her way,
 Who helps us others, I my mules distressed,
 That have not had or bite or sup to—day,
 And crawl half—dead for want of food and rest.
 So pray you let us on without delay.`
 The which he said with such a simple air,
 I did not think they could refuse his prayer.

 ``Withal, the rest began the cart to scale,
 While he addressed came over to my side.
 `Is it true, good sister? And will you go bail
 For this rough yokel`s word?` I quick replied,
 `Yes, he hath told you, sir, an honest tale.
 Upon his wine—cart he hath let me ride
 Straight from Mentana; and his wine`s the whole
 Of what it bears on which you levy toll.`

 ``Then through the city safe we went. But see,
 My sisters I was waiting for come out
 Of the Basilica.`` He turned; and three
 Who wore Olympia`s garb, demure, devout,
 The steps descended, two of whom could he
 Recall as being of those who moved about
 The room where he had helpless lain for hours,
 Brought food, smoothed sheet, and changed his faded flowers.

 ``This, sister, is the wounded brother who,
 Three years ago, was in our Convent nursed.``
 ``O yes, I well remember, do not you?``
 Softly replied the nun addressed the first.
 ``Yes, perfectly,`` the second; ``he that through
 The chest was gashed, and could not sleep for thirst.``
 Then both put questions tenderly, the while
 The third looked on with blandly holy smile.

 Answering, he strove to thank them; feeling, though,
 Helpless the while, as feel we when we strive
 To bless Heaven for good things. ``You doubtless know,
 Although I warrant in your useful hive
 You work without much buzzing, that I owe
 To this sweet Sister I am still alive.
 And, never having seen her since that day,
 I had so much to ask, so much to say.``

 ``We love her very dearly,`` said the nun
 Who had as yet been silent. ``Yes, and now,
 She is to leave us,`` added quick the one
 That first had spoken. ``Leave you! Leave you how?``
 Godfrid exclaimed. ``To work elsewhere, my son,``
 Rejoined the third. ``She but obeys her vow,
 And goes where our dear Lady wants her aid
 For suffering man. For her, be not afraid.

 ``They need more help in Paris, now that there
 Men fight anew, and many die, `tis said.
 She is the only sister we can spare,
 And but awaits an escort. She had led
 Hither our steps, to say one parting prayer
 Where Mary`s worthiest temple rears its head.
 But, sir, we must be going. In the sky
 Ave Maria is fast drawing nigh.``

 So he was fain, though loth, to let them go,
 Olympia with them; touching not her hand,
 But speeding all alike with reverence low:
 Feeling like one who lately thought to stand
 Within that Gate where Virgins white as snow
 Follow the Lamb through the celestial Land,
 And then sits dark without, and sees alone
 His sinful self, and hears the silence moan.

 But when the morrow flushed the summits topped
 With statue or with stone—pine, and in street
 The noise grew steadier, swift he sped, nor stopped
 Till once more at the Convent paused his feet.
 There, the same novice the same curtsey dropped,
 Led to the same room with same welcome sweet,
 Where, at same interval, there crossed the door
 The selfsame reverend figure as before.

 ``Mother!`` he said, ``I haply yester—eve
 Your daughter saw, whom men Olympia call.``
 ``I know you did, my son, with Heaven`s good leave,
 As told me she herself, who tells me all.
 Your interview was timely; for I grieve—
 Though in our life such partings oft befall,—
 To think she quits us shortly, and but waits
 An escort unto France, to leave our gates.``

 ``Mother!`` he gravely said, ``why not let me,
 Me be her escort? I have close friends twain
 In Paris, whom I fain would go and see,
 And, be it not too late, snatch back, insane,
 From maelstrom into which, no longer free,
 Foolish and wise alike seem swirled amain.
 Can I not take her, since our bourne is one,
 Leaving her where you will, the journey done?

 ``I shall remain your debtor to the end,
 And thanks must be my ransom. But intrust
 To me this treasure, it will I defend
 From hurt, as I would keep my sword from rust.
 From morn to eve will I her steps attend
 As faithfully yet distantly as must
 Some dim meek satellite its unreached star,
 Following her orbit fondly, but afar!``

 ``My son!`` she said, ``so be it. Nothing loth,
 I will commit this jewel without flaw
 To you, to her, to Him Who died for both;
 Hoping thereby her heavenly track may draw,
 Not by the force of wavering human troth,
 But by a steadier and diviner law,
 The erratic course of your unguided soul
 Into its own, and thence to God, its goal.

 ``I know each prayer she breathes, each gift doth make
 Of her own will before the Throne of Grace,
 Each sacrifice of self, each act, each ache,
 Each flood of tears before Christ`s wounded face,
 She breathes, she makes, she offers for your sake.
 For you she works; she puts you in the place
 Of her own soul; as though, so linked your lot,
 She too must perish if she saves you not!``

 He strove to speak, but spake not. Tears, not words,
 Choked up the mortal avenues of sense;
 And so he silent stood, as one that girds
 Will against weakness. ``Come then, three days hence.
 And since our claustral matins, like the birds`,
 Are chanted early, come betimes; though whence
 You start, or which the road you take, content
 To you I leave.`` ``I will,`` he said, and went.

 And soon the twain were journeying on the sea,
 Hearing no more discordant tongues of men,
 But only ocean`s plastic melody,
 With wave attuned to wave, attuned again
 To wave, where every wave withal was free.
 And, there, before them zigzagged, full in ken,
 The road they traversed, in the final stage,
 Long years agone, of their vain pilgrimage.

 Full many a little town they could descry,
 Passed through of old, and sometimes catch the peal
 Of church—bell ringing between slope and sky.
 Lo! there the spot where took they mid—day meal,
 And yonder where they did the first night lie.
 But up the hills as dusk began to steal,
 They saw no more, though sorely did he long
 To note where once she sang her even—song.

 But when dawn purpled wave and hill once more,
 He found Olympia kneeling on the deck,
 With gaze intently fastened on the shore,
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