Poems By John L. Stoddard Part 17

Obermais! Obermais!

Charming bit of Paradise, Where the palm and snow are blended, Where life's joys seem never ended, Where the purl of limpid streams Haunts the traveller's deepest dreams; Girt by miles of terraced vines, Birthplace of the purest wines, Sheltered by imposing mountains, Musical from countless fountains, Bathed in suns.h.i.+ne, bright with flowers, Studded with old Roman towers, Castles, convents, shrines and walls, Whose strange history enthralls,-- Jewel of fair South Tyrol, Thou hast won my heart and soul!

CONTENTMENT

Urge me no more! The mid-day toil is ended, And shadows lengthen from the radiant west; The glowing sun, with sumptuous clouds attended, Sinks to its rest.

I too would rest; an Indian-Summer beauty Gilds my life's autumn in a charming vale; No further quest of gold or fame seems duty; Their splendors pale

Tempt me no more! In vain are spread before me New plans of battle and rare hopes of gain; The sweeter airs of love and peace blow o'er me; I will remain.

Gone is the glamour of the heartless city; Hateful its traffic and its ceaseless roar; Slaves of its tyranny, you have my pity; Urge me no more!

Girdled by mountains, in a land of story, Nestles the high-walled garden of my home; Here, book in hand, I feast myself on glory, Nor wish to roam.

Each dawn brings rose-hued snow-peaks to my vision; Each eve's enchanting pageant thrills my soul; Day after day I find yet more elysian Fair South Tyrol.

Urge me no more! The riches of Golconda Could not allure me to the old-time task; Here, till the curtain falls, to live and ponder Is all I ask.

TO MERAN'S NORTHERN MOUNTAINS

Breathe on my soul your everlasting calm, Majestic mountains, pa.s.sionless and cold!

Give to my spirit, drooping 'neath the palm, The rugged strength your changeless summits hold!

So thin the azure veil that floats between My tropic flowers and your arctic snows, That one swift glance reveals to me the sheen Of your white bastions and my blossoming rose.

Yet, though so near, my feet have never pressed Your silvered ramparts, etched along the sky: Untrodden crystal crowns each spotless crest; On virgin snows the sunset colors die.

So near, yet unattainable! Ye seem Like awful deities, at whose command Man's evanescent life,--a fretful stream, One instant murmurs and is lost in sand.

Splendid in suns.h.i.+ne, steadfast under storms, Facing the fiercest tempests with disdain, The blackest clouds that shroud your giant forms, Leave on your glittering panoply no stain.

The setting sun will turn your gray to gold, The dawn will find your icy foreheads bare, And all your glacial armor, as of old, Will s.h.i.+ne resplendent in the upper air.

So from my life may all dark clouds depart!

So may I come unscathed from Fate's worst blows!

Yet with your strength, O Mountains, let my heart Retain, as well, the sweetness of the rose.

AT SUNSET

Belov'd Meran, supremely fair!

With joy I greet thy peaks anew, And quaff again the crystal air That fills thy snow-rimmed bowl of blue.

Once more through miles of trellised vines The purple bloom of vintage glows; Once more amid my palms and pines I breathe the perfume of the rose.

Once more, as snow-crests far and wide Flush crimson in the Alpine glow, I sit and muse at eventide On Roman days of long ago.

Across the valley, steeped in light, Uplifted toward the western skies, And flanked by many a snow-crowned height, The stately "Roman Terrace" lies;

Whose fair expanse hath been a stage Where actors for two thousand years Have played, by turns, in every age Their varying roles of smiles and tears.

Still through its mighty Vintschgau door The sunset streams in floods of gold; Still winding o'er its emerald floor, The river sparkles as of old.

I watch the distant torrent leap From ledge to ledge, yet hear no sound; A ghostly path it seems, whose deep, Swift channel cleaves enchanted ground.

Beside its waves, whose glittering spray Begems the gorge its flood hath worn, Rome's conquering legions made their way A score of years ere Christ was born.

On yonder mound where frowns the wood, And curves the road with steep incline, A temple to Diana stood Before the age of Antonine.

Near Schloss Tyrol's dismantled frame I see the ancient watchtower stand, Whence Caesar's guards with smoke or flame Flashed signals into Switzerland.

And, nearer yet, Forst's stately walls Loom grandly from the darkening moor, Where still a dungeon-keep recalls The last Tyrolean Troubadour.

Belov'd Meran! the splendid dower That Nature gave to South Tyrol Cannot alone explain thy power To captivate both mind and soul;

I love thy suns.h.i.+ne, fruits and flowers, I love thy mountain-peaks sublime, But, best of all, thine aged towers,-- The ivied proteges of Time.

Thus favored, while my sun of life Moves calmly toward a cloudless west, I crave no more the New World's strife And ceaseless turmoil of unrest;

Content, within my garden walls, To let the Present's uproar cease, While on my tranquil spirit falls The Past's sweet benison of peace.

POST NUBES LUX

Sink, sullen rear-guard of the storm, Behind the Laugen's snowy crest!

Already Rotheck's lordly form Stands spotless in the radiant west; Blow, winter wind, and clarify Our crystal air, our sapphire sky!

s.h.i.+ne, Sun G.o.d! Give us life once more!

Too long have clouds concealed thy face; Give to Meran the look she wore, When to her beauty, light, and grace I gladly yielded heart and soul, And made my home in fair Tyrol!

Stupendous source of life and light!

As in thy warmth my pulses thrill, Before thy glory and thy might I feel myself a Pagan still, And in my spirit's inmost shrine I half adore thee as divine.

THE HOME-COMING FROM ROME