Poems By John L. Stoddard Part 21

TOUT Pa.s.sE

Once more I watch the crystal stream I watched in days gone by; Once more its waves reflect the gleam Of Autumn's sunset sky; Again its banks of gold and green Seem bursting into flame,-- And yet for me the lovely scene Can never be the same.

The waves that gleamed here long ago Have reached a distant sea; The leaves of that first autumn glow Have fallen from the tree; The birds which charmed me with their song Have long since elsewhere flown, And I amid a careless throng Am standing here alone.

This sparkling flood can never quite Replace the stream of old; These radiant leaves, however bright, Wear not the old-time gold; For evening's light can ne'er retain The splendor of the dawn, And naught, alas, can bring again The faces that are gone.

BESIDE LAKE COMO

THE FAUN

Within my garden's silence and seclusion, In pensive beauty gazing toward the dawn, There stands, mid vines and flowers in profusion, A sculptured Faun.

The boughs of stately trees are bending o'er him, The scent of calycanthus fills the air, And on the ivied parapet before him Bloom roses fair.

Beside him laughs the lightly-flowing fountain, Beneath him spreads the lake's enchanting hue, And, opposite, a sun-illumined mountain Meets heaven's blue.

Across Lake Como's silvered undulation The flush of dawn creeps shyly to his face, And crowns his look of dreamful contemplation With tender grace.

And he, like Memnon, thrilled to exultation, As if unable longer to be mute, Has lifted to his lips in adoration His simple flute.

Ah! would that I might hear the music stealing From yonder artless reed upon the air,-- The subtle revelation of his feeling, While standing there!

Perhaps 'tis for the Past that he is sighing, When Como's sh.o.r.e held many a hallowed shrine, Where such as he were wors.h.i.+pped,--none denying Their rights divine.

That Past is gone; its sylvan shrines have crumbled; From lake and grove the gentle fauns have fled; Its myths are scorned, Olympus has been humbled, And Pan is dead.

Yet still he plays,--the coming day adoring, With brow serene, and gladness in his gaze, All past and future happiness ignoring Just for to-day's!

Sweet Faun, whence comes thy power of retaining Through storm and suns.h.i.+ne thine unchanging smile?

Forsaken thus, what comfort, still remaining, Makes life worth while?

Impart to me the secret of discerning The gold of life, with none of its alloy, That I may also satisfy my yearning For perfect joy!

I too would shun those questions, born of sorrow,-- Life's Wherefore, Whence and Whither; I would fill My cup with present bliss, and let to-morrow Bring what it will.

O Spirit of the vanished world elysian, Cast over me the spell of thy control, And give me, for to-day's supernal vision, Thy Pagan soul!

ISOLA COMACINA

(The only Island on Lake Como, the Lake Larius of the Romans)

There sleeps beneath Italian skies A lovely island rich in fame, In days of old a longed-for prize, And bearing still an honored name,-- A spot renowned from age to age, An ancient Roman heritage;

A valued stronghold, for whose sake Unnumbered men have fought and died,-- The Malta of the Larian lake, Forever armed and fortified, To Como's sh.o.r.es the master-key, The guardian of its liberty.

Half hidden in a sheltered bay, Where tiny skiffs at anchor ride, How different is the scene to-day Reflected in its waveless tide, From that which this historic foss Showed mailed soldiers of the Cross!

Yet still, across the narrow strait, Some remnants of the hospice stand, Whose ever hospitable gate Met pilgrims from the Holy Land, Its finely carved, millennial tower Enduring to the present hour.

One gem alone doth Como wear, None other need adorn her breast; 'Tis this, her emerald solitaire, Her unique island of the blest,-- The star beside her crescent sh.o.r.e, A thing of beauty evermore.

On Comacina's peaceful strand The coldest heart is moved to pray, As softly steals o'er lake and land The splendor of departing day, And scores of snowy peaks aspire To sparkle with supernal fire.

Then Lario paints for liquid miles The white-robed monarchs' glittering crowns, Trans.m.u.tes at once to dimpled smiles The sternest of their glacial frowns, And often holds, with subtlest art, Some t.i.tan's likeness to her heart.

Fair Comacina, through whose trees Earth's feathered songsters flit unharmed, Where soft-eyed cattle graze at ease, And every whispering breeze seems charmed, Can it be true that human blood Hath ever stained thy limpid flood?

Alas! too often, drenched with gore, Thy cliffs have witnessed deadly strife, When hostile feet profaned thy sh.o.r.e, And each advancing step cost life, As prince and peasant, side by side, Beat back the Goths' invading tide.

But why disturb the silent past?

Why rouse the island's sleeping ghosts?

Or see in forms by ruins cast The phantoms of those warlike hosts?

For centuries the gentle waves Have rolled oblivion o'er their graves.

And what will now thy future be, Thou pristine refuge of the brave, Which Rome's last heroes fought to free, And vainly gave their lives to save?

Forget not, thou wast once a gem That graced a Caesar's diadem!

Wilt thou fulfil my fondest hopes?

I sometimes long to check the stream Of tourists hurrying by thy slopes, And tell them of my cherished dream,-- To see upon thy storied height A palace worthy of the site;

Not meaningless, not merely vast, Nor crudely modern in design, But something suited to thy past,-- For highest art a hallowed shrine, A cla.s.sic home of long ago, The Tusculum of Cicero.

Then roses, rich in sweet perfume, Shall wreathe with bloom each terraced wall, And, scattered through the leafy gloom Of olive-groves and laurels tall, Shall many a marble nymph and faun Grow lovelier from the flush of dawn.

So let me dream! I may not see That stately palace crown thy brow, Those roses may not bloom for me, But, as thou art, I love thee now, Content thy future to resign To abler portraiture than mine.

Sweet Comacina, fare thee well!

Across the water's placid breast The music of the vesper-bell Invites me to my port of rest; Fair jewel of this inland sea, May all the G.o.ds be good to thee!

THE OLD CARRIER

("Old Lucia", who for many years walked back and forth, every day and in all weathers, between Azzano and Menaggio, a distance of six miles, bearing merchandise of all sorts in a basket on her back, fell to the ground exhausted, as she was nearing her poor home on Christmas Eve, 1907. She died next morning at the age of seventy-three. At the time she fell, she was carrying a load of nearly one hundred pounds!)

Patient toiler on the road, Bending 'neath your heavy load, Worn and furrowed is your face, Slow and tremulous your pace, Yet you still pursue your way, Bearing burdens day by day, With the same pathetic smile, Over many a weary mile, As you bravely come and go To and from Menaggio.

Snowy white, your scanty hair Crowns a forehead seamed with care, And a look of suffering lies In your clear-blue, wistful eyes; While your thin and ashen cheek Tells the tale you will not speak, Of a lodging dark and old, And a hearth so bare and cold That you often hungry go To and from Menaggio.