The Sisters Tragedy | Page 5

steel,
For me let hap what may;?I might make shift upon the keel
Until the break o' day.
"But he, he is so weak and small,
So young, scarce learned to stand--?O pitying Father of us all,
I trust him in Thy hand!
"For Thou, who markest from on high
A sparrow's fall--each one!--?Surely, O Lord, thou'lt have an eye
On Alec Yeaton's son!"
Then, helm hard-port; right straight he sailed
Towards the headland light:?The wind it moaned, the wind it wailed,
And black, black fell the night.
Then burst a storm to make one quail
Though housed from winds and waves--?They who could tell about that gale
Must rise from watery graves!
Sudden it came, as sudden went;
Ere half the night was sped,?The winds were hushed, the waves were spent,
And the stars shone overhead.
Now, as the morning mist grew thin,
The folk on Gloucester shore?Saw a little figure floating in
Secure, on a broken oar!
Up rose the cry, "A wreck! a wreck!
Pull, mates, and waste no breath!"--?They knew it, though 'twas but a speck
Upon the edge of death!
Long did they marvel in the town
At God his strange decree,?That let the stalwart skipper drown
And the little child go free!
AT THE FUNERAL OF A MINOR POET
[One of the Bearers soliloquizes:]
. . . Room in your heart for him, O Mother Earth,?Who loved each flower and leaf that made you fair,?And sang your praise in verses manifold?And delicate, with here and there a line?From end to end in blossom like a bough?The May breathes on, so rich it was. Some thought?The workmanship more costly than the thing?Moulded or carved, as in those ornaments?Found at Mycaene. And yet Nature's self?Works in this wise; upon a blade of grass,?Or what small note she lends the woodland thrush,?Lavishing endless patience. He was born?Artist, not artisan, which some few saw?And many dreamed not. As he wrote no odes?When Croesus wedded or Maecenas died,?And gave no breath to civic feasts and shows,?He missed the glare that gilds more facile men--?A twilight poet, groping quite alone,?Belated, in a sphere where every nest?Is emptied of its music and its wings.?Not great his gift; yet we can poorly spare?Even his slight perfection in an age?Of limping triolets and tame rondeaux.?He had at least ideals, though unreached,?And heard, far off, immortal harmonies,?Such as fall coldly on our ear to-day.?The mighty Zolaistic Movement now?Engrosses us--a miasmatic breath?Blown from the slums. We paint life as it is,?The hideous side of it, with careful pains,?Making a god of the dull Commonplace.?For have we not the old gods overthrown?And set up strangest idols? We could clip?Imagination's wing and kill delight,?Our sole art being to leave nothing out?That renders art offensive. Not for us?Madonnas leaning from their starry thrones?Ineffable, nor any heaven-wrought dream?Of sculptor or of poet; we prefer?Such nightmare visions as in morbid brains?Take shape and substance, thoughts that taint the air?And make all life unlovely. Will it last??Beauty alone endures from age to age,?From age to age endures, handmaid of God.?Poets who walk with her on earth go hence?Bearing a talisman. You bury one,?With his hushed music, in some Potter's Field;?The snows and rains blot out his very name,?As he from life seems blotted: through Time's glass?Slip the invisible and magic sands?That mark the century, then falls a day?The world is suddenly conscious of a flower,?Imperishable, ever to be prized,?Sprung from the mould of a forgotten grave.?'Tis said the seeds wrapt up among the balms?And hieroglyphics of Egyptian kings?Hold strange vitality, and, planted, grow?After the lapse of thrice a thousand years.?Some day, perchance, some unregarded note?Of our poor friend here--some sweet minor chord?That failed to lure our more accustomed ear--?May witch the fancy of an unborn age.?Who knows, since seeds have such tenacity??Meanwhile he's dead, with scantiest laurel won?And little of our Nineteenth Century gold.?So, take him, Earth, and this his mortal part,?With that shrewd alchemy thou hast, transmute?To flower and leaf in thine unending Springs!
BATUSCHKA.<1>
From yonder gilded minaret?Beside the steel-blue Neva set,?I faintly catch, from time to time,?The sweet, aerial midnight chime--
"God save the Tsar!"
Above the ravelins and the moats?Of the white citadel it floats;?And men in dungeons far beneath?Listen, and pray, and gnash their teeth--
"God save the Tsar!"
The soft reiterations sweep?Across the horror of their sleep,
<1> "Little Father," or "Dear Little Father,"?a term of endearment applied?to the Tsar in Russian folk-song.?As if some daemon in his glee?Were mocking at their misery--
"God save the Tsar!"
In his Red Palace over there,?Wakeful, he needs must hear the prayer.?How can it drown the broken cries?Wrung from his children's agonies?--
"God save the Tsar!"
Father they called him from of old--?Batuschka! . . . How his heart is cold!?Wait till a million scourged men?Rise in their awful might, and then--
God save the Tsar!
ACT V
[Midnight.]
First, two white arms that held him very close,?And ever closer as he drew him back?Reluctantly, the loose gold-colored hair?A thousand delicate fibres reaching out?Still to detain him; then some twenty steps?Of iron