The Poems of Emma Lazarus Volume I Part 19

Down the Park's deserted alleys, Naked elms stand stark and lean.

Dumb the murmur of the fountain, Birds have flown from lawn and hill.

But while yonder star's ascendant, Love triumphal reigneth still.

See the keen flame throb and tremble, Brightening in the darkening night, Breathing like a thing of pa.s.sion, In the sky's smooth chrysolite.

Not beneath the moon, oh lover, Thou shalt gain thy heart's desire.

Speak to-night! The G.o.ds are with thee Burning with a kindred fire.

SPRING LONGING.

What art thou doing here, O Imagination? Go away I entreat thee by the G.o.ds, as thou didst come, for I want thee not. But thou art come according to thy old fas.h.i.+on. I am not angry with thee--only go away.

--Marcus Antoninus

Lilac hazes veil the skies.

Languid sighs Breathes the mild, caressing air.

Pink as coral's branching sprays, Orchard ways With the blossomed peach are fair.

Suns.h.i.+ne, cordial as a kiss, Poureth bliss In this craving soul of mine, And my heart her flower-cup Lifteth up, Thirsting for the draught divine.

Swift the liquid golden flame Through my frame Sets my throbbing veins afire.

Bright, alluring dreams arise, Brim mine eyes With the tears of strong desire.

All familiar scenes anear Disappear-- Homestead, orchard, field, and wold.

Moorish spires and turrets fair Cleave the air, Arabesqued on skies of gold.

Low, my spirit, this May morn, Outward borne, Over seas hath taken wing: Where the mediaeval town, Like a crown, Wears the garland of the Spring.

Light and sound and odors sweet Fill the street; Gypsy girls are selling flowers.

Lean hidalgos turn aside, Amorous-eyed, 'Neath the grim cathedral towers.

Oh, to be in Spain to-day, Where the May Recks no whit of good or evil, Love and only love breathes she!

Oh, to be 'Midst the olive-rows of Seville!

Or on such a day to glide With the tide Of the berylline lagoon, Through the streets that mirror heaven, Crystal paven, In the warm Venetian noon.

At the prow the gondolier May not hear, May not see our furtive kiss; But he lends with cadenced strain The refrain To our ripe and silent bliss.

Golden shadows, silver light, Burnish bright Air and water, domes and skies; As in some ambrosial dream, On the stream Floats our bark in magic wise.

Oh, to float day long just so!

Naught to know Of the trouble, toil, and fret!

This is love, and this is May: Yesterday And to-morrow to forget!

Whither hast thou, Fancy free, Guided me, Wild Bohemian sister dear?

All thy gypsy soul is stirred Since yon bird Warbled that the Spring was here.

Tempt no more! I may not follow, Like the swallow, Gayly on the track of Spring.

Bounden by an iron fate, I must wait, Dream and wonder, yearn and sing.

THE SOUTH.

Night, and beneath star-blazoned summer skies Behold the Spirit of the musky South, A creole with still-burning, languid eyes, Voluptuous limbs and incense-breathing mouth: Swathed in spun gauze is she, From fibres of her own anana tree.

Within these sumptuous woods she lies at ease, By rich night-breezes, dewy cool, caressed: 'Twixt cypresses and slim palmetto trees, Like to the golden oriole's hanging nest, Her airy hammock swings, And through the dark her mocking-bird yet sings.

How beautiful she is! A tulip-wreath Twines round her shadowy, free-floating hair: Young, weary, pa.s.sionate, and sad as death, Dark visions haunt for her the vacant air, While movelessly she lies With lithe, lax, folded hands and heavy eyes.

Full well knows she how wide and fair extend Her groves bright-flowered, her tangled everglades, Majestic streams that indolently wend Through lush savanna or dense forest shades, Where the brown buzzard flies To broad bayou 'neath hazy-golden skies.

Hers is the savage splendor of the swamp, With pomp of scarlet and of purple bloom, Where blow warm, furtive breezes faint and damp, Strange insects whir, and stalking bitterns boom-- Where from stale waters dead Oft looms the great-jawed alligator's head.

Her wealth, her beauty, and the blight on these,-- Of all she is aware: luxuriant woods, Fresh, living, sunlit, in her dream she sees; And ever midst those verdant solitudes The soldier's wooden cross, O'ergrown by creeping tendrils and rank moss.

Was her a dream of empire? was it sin?

And is it well that all was borne in vain?

She knows no more than one who slow doth win, After fierce fever, conscious life again, Too tired, too weak, too sad, By the new light to be stirred or glad.

From rich sea-islands fringing her green sh.o.r.e, From broad plantations where swart freemen bend Bronzed backs in willing labor, from her store Of golden fruit, from stream, from town, ascend Life-currents of pure health: Her aims shall be subserved with boundless wealth.