The Poems of Emma Lazarus Volume I Part 8

Wors.h.i.+p and wonder,--these befit a man At every hour; and mayhap will the G.o.ds Yet work a miracle for knees that bend And hands that supplicate."

Then all they knew A sudden sense of awe, and bowed their heads Beneath the stripling's gaze: Admetus fell, Crushed by that gentle touch, and cried aloud: "Pardon and pity! I am hard beset."

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There waited at the doorway of the king One grim and ghastly, shadowy, horrible, Bearing the likeness of a king himself, Erect as one who serveth not,--upon His head a crown, within his fleshless hands A sceptre,--monstrous, winged, intolerable.

To him a stranger coming 'neath the trees, Which slid down flakes of light, now on his hair, Close-curled, now on his bared and brawny chest, Now on his flexile, vine-like veined limbs, With iron network of strong muscle thewed, And G.o.dlike brows and proud mouth unrelaxed.

Firm was his step; no superfluity Of indolent flesh impeded this man's strength.

Slender and supple every perfect limb, Beautiful with the glory of a man.

No weapons bare he, neither s.h.i.+eld: his hands Folded upon his breast, his movements free Of all inc.u.mbrance. When his mighty strides Had brought him nigh the waiting one, he paused: "Whose palace this? and who art thou, grim shade?"

"The palace of the King of Thessaly, And my name is not strange unto thine ears; For who hath told men that I wait for them, The one sure thing on earth? Yet all they know, Unasking and yet answered. I am Death, The only secret that the G.o.ds reveal.

But who are thou who darest question me?"

"Alcides; and that thing I dare not do Hath found no name. Whom here awaitest thou?"

"Alcestis, Queen of Thessaly,--a queen Who wooed me as the bridegroom woos the bride, For her life sacrificed will save her lord Admetus, as the Fates decreed. I wait Impatient, eager; and I enter soon, With darkening wing, invisible, a G.o.d, And kiss her lips, and kiss her throbbing heart, And then the tenderest hands can do no more Than close her eyes and wipe her cold, white brow, Inurn her ashes and strew flowers above."

"This woman is a G.o.d, a hero, Death.

In this her sacrifice I see a soul Luminous, starry: earth can spare her not: It is not rich enough in purity To lose this paragon. Save her, O Death!

Thou surely art more gentle than the Fates, Yet these have spared her lord, and never meant That she should suffer, and that this their grace, Beautiful, royal on one side, should turn Sudden and show a fearful, fatal face."

"Nay, have they not? O fond and foolish man, Naught comes unlooked for, unforeseen by them.

Doubt when they favor thee, though thou mayest laugh When they have scourged thee with an iron scourge.

Behold, their smile is deadlier than their sting, And every boon of theirs is double-faced.

Yea, I am gentler unto ye than these: I slay relentless, but when have I mocked With poisoned gifts, and generous hands that smite Under the flowers? for my name is Truth.

Were this fair queen more fair, more pure, more chaste, I would not spare her for your wildest prayer Nor her best virtue. Is the earth's mouth full?

Is the grave satisfied? Discrown me then, For life is lord, and men may mock the G.o.ds With immortality." "I sue no more, But I command thee spare this woman's life, Or wrestle with Alcides." "Wrestle with thee, Thou puny boy!" And Death laughed loud, and swelled To monstrous bulk, fierce-eyed, with outstretched wings, And lightnings round his brow; but grave and firm, Strong as a tower, Alcides waited him, And these began to wrestle, and a cloud Impenetrable fell, and all was dark.

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"Farewell, Admetus and my little son, Eumelus,--O these clinging baby hands!

Thy loss is bitter, for no chance, no fame, No wealth of love, can ever compensate for a dead mother. Thou, O king, fulfill The double duty: love him with my love, And make him bold to wrestle, s.h.i.+ver spears, n.o.ble and manly, Grecian to the bone; And tell him that his mother spake with G.o.ds.

Farewell, farewell! Mine eyes are growing blind: The darkness gathers. O my heart, my heart!"

No sound made answer save the cries of grief From all the mourners, and the suppliance Of strick'n Admetus: "O have mercy, G.o.ds!

O G.o.ds, have mercy, mercy upon us!"

Then from the dying woman's couch again Her voice was heard, but with strange sudden tones: "Lo, I awake--the light comes back to me.

What miracle is this?" And thunders shook The air, and clouds of mighty darkness fell, And the earth trembled, and weird, horrid sounds Were heard of rus.h.i.+ng wings and fleeing feet, And groans; and all were silent, dumb with awe, Saving the king, who paused not in his prayer: "Have mercy, G.o.ds!" and then again, "O G.o.ds, Have mercy!"

Through the open cas.e.m.e.nt poured Bright floods of sunny light; the air was soft, Clear, delicate as though a summer storm Had pa.s.sed away; and those there standing saw, Afar upon the plain, Death fleeing thence, And at the doorway, weary, well-nigh spent, Alcides, flushed with victory.

TANNHAUSER.

To my mother. May, 1870.

The Landgrave Hermann held a gathering Of minstrels, minnesingers, troubadours, At Wartburg in his palace, and the knight, Sir Tannhauser of France, the greatest bard, Inspired with heavenly visions, and endowed With apprehension and rare utterance Of n.o.ble music, fared in thoughtful wise Across the Horsel meadows. Full of light, And large repose, the peaceful valley lay, In the late splendor of the afternoon, And level sunbeams lit the serious face Of the young knight, who journeyed to the west, Towards the precipitous and rugged cliffs, Scarred, grim, and torn with savage rifts and chasms, That in the distance loomed as soft and fair And purple as their shadows on the gra.s.s.

The tinkling chimes ran out athwart the air, Proclaiming sunset, ushering evening in, Although the sky yet glowed with yellow light.

The ploughboy, ere he led his cattle home, In the near meadow, reverently knelt, And doffed his cap, and duly crossed his breast, Whispering his "Ave Mary," as he heard The pealing vesper-bell. But still the knight, Unmindful of the sacred hour announced, Disdainful or unconscious, held his course.

"Would that I also, like yon stupid wight, Could kneel and hail the Virgin and believe!"

He murmured bitterly beneath his breath.

"Were I a pagan, riding to contend For the Olympic wreath, O with what zeal, What fire of inspiration, would I sing The praises of the G.o.ds! How may my lyre Glorify these whose very life I doubt?

The world is governed by one cruel G.o.d, Who brings a sword, not peace. A pallid Christ, Unnatural, perfect, and a virgin cold, They give us for a heaven of living G.o.ds, Beautiful, loving, whose mere names were song; A creed of suffering and despair, walled in On every side by brazen boundaries, That limit the soul's vision and her hope To a red h.e.l.l or and unpeopled heaven.

Yea, I am lost already,--even now Am doomed to flaming torture for my thoughts.

O G.o.ds! O G.o.ds! where shall my soul find peace?"

He raised his wan face to the faded skies, Now shadowing into twilight; no response Came from their sunless heights; no miracle, As in the ancient days of answering G.o.ds.

With a long, shuddering sigh he glanced to earth, Finding himself among the Horsel cliffs.

Gray, sullen, gaunt, they towered on either side; Scant shrubs sucked meagre life between the rifts Of their huge crags, and made small darker spots Upon their wrinkled sides; the jaded horse Stumbled upon loose, rattling, fallen stones, Amidst the gathering dusk, and blindly fared Through the weird, perilous pa.s.s. As darkness waxed, And an oppressive mystery enwrapped The roadstead and the rocks, Sir Tannhauser Fancied he saw upon the mountain-side The fluttering of white raiment. With a sense Of wild joy and horror, he gave pause, For his sagacious horse that reeked of sweat, Trembling in every limb, confirmed his thought, That nothing human scaled that haunted cliff.

The white thing seemed descending,--now a cloud It looked, and now a rag of drifted mist, Torn in the jagged gorge precipitous, And now an apparition clad in white, Shapely and real,--then he lost it quite, Gazing on nothing with blank, foolish face.

As with wide eyes he stood, he was aware Of a strange splendor at his very side, A presence and a majesty so great, That ere he saw, he felt it was divine.

He turned, and, leaping from his horse, fell p.r.o.ne, In speechless adoration, on the earth, Before the matchless G.o.ddess, who appeared With no less freshness of immortal youth Than when first risen from foam of Paphian seas.

He heard delicious strains of melody, Such as his highest muse had ne'er attained, Float in the air, while in the distance rang, Harsh and discordant, jarring with those tones, The gallop of his frightened horse's hoofs, Clattering in sudden freedom down the pa.s.s.

A voice that made all music dissonance Then thrilled through heart and flesh of that p.r.o.ne knight, Triumphantly: "The G.o.ds need but appear, And their usurped thrones are theirs again!"

Then tenderly: "Sweet knight, I pray thee, rise; Wors.h.i.+p me not, for I desire thy love.

Look on me, follow me, for I am fain Of thy fair, human face." He rose and looked, Stirred by that heavenly flattery to the soul.

Her hair, unbraided and unfilleted, Rained in a glittering shower to the ground, And cast forth l.u.s.tre. Round her zone was clasped The scintillant cestus, stiff with flaming gold, Thicker with restless gems than heaven with stars.

She might have flung the enchanted wonder forth; Her eyes, her slightest gesture would suffice To bind all men in blissful slavery.

She sprang upon the mountain's dangerous side, With feet that left their print in flowers divine,-- Flushed amaryllis and blue hyacinth, Impurpled amaranth and asphodel, Dewy with nectar, and exhaling scents Richer than all the roses of mid-June.

The knight sped after her, with wild eyes fixed Upon her brightness, as she lightly leapt From crag to crag, with flying auburn hair, Like a gold cloud, that lured him ever on, Higher and higher up the haunted cliff.

At last amidst a grove of pines she paused, Until he reached her, breathing hard with haste, Delight, and wonder. Then upon his hand She placed her own, and all his blood at once Tingled and hotly rushed to brow and cheek, At the supreme caress; but the mere touch Infused fresh life, and when she looked at him With gracious tenderness, he felt himself Strong suddenly to bear the blinding light Of those great eyes. "Dear knight," she murmured low, "For love of me, wilt thou accord this boon,-- To grace my weary home in banishment?"

His hungry eyes gave answer ere he spoke, In tones abrupt that startled his own ears With their strange harshness; but with thanks profuse She guided him, still holding his cold hand In her warm, dainty palm, unto a cave, Whence a rare glory issued, and a smell Of spice and roses, frankincense and balm.

They entering stood within a marble hall, With straight, slim pillars, at whose farther end The G.o.ddess led him to a spiral flight Of stairs, descending always 'midst black gloom Into the very bowels of the earth.

Down these, with fearful swiftness, they made way, The knight's feet touching not the solid stair, But sliding down as in a vexing dream, Blind, feeling but that hand divine that still Empowered him to walk on empty air.

Then he was dazzled by a sudden blaze, In vast palace filled with reveling folk.

Cunningly pictured on the ivory walls Were rolling hills, cool lakes, and boscage green, And all the summer landscape's various pomp.

The precious canopy aloft was carved In semblance of the pleached forest trees, Enameled with the liveliest green, wherethrough A light pierced, more resplendent than the day.

O'er the pale, polished jasper of the floor Of burnished metal, fretted and embossed With all the marvelous story of her birth Painted in prodigal splendor of rich tincts, And carved by heavenly artists,--crystal seas, And long-haired Nereids in their pearly sh.e.l.ls, And all the wonder of her lucent limbs Sphered in a vermeil mist. Upon the throne She took her seat, the knight beside her still, Singing on couches of fresh asphodel, And the dance ceased, and the flushed revelers came In glittering phalanx to adore their queen.

Beautiful girls, with s.h.i.+ning delicate heads, Crested with living jewels, fanned the air With flickering wings from naked shoulders soft.

Then with preluding low, a thousand harps, And citherns, and strange nameless instruments, Sent through the fragrant air sweet symphonies, And the winged dancers waved in mazy rounds, With changing l.u.s.tres like a summer sea.

Fair boys, with charming yellow hair crisp-curled, And frail, effeminate beauty, the knight saw, But of strong, stalwart men like him were none.

He gazed thereon bewitched, until the hand Of Venus, erst withdrawn, now fell again Upon his own, and roused him from his trance.

He looked on her, and as he looked, a cloud Auroral, flaming as at sunrising, Arose from nothing, floating over them In luminous folds, like that vermilion mist Penciled upon the throne, and as it waxed In density and brightness, all the throng Of festal dancers, less and less distinct, Grew like pale spirits in a vague, dim dream, And vanished altogether; and these twain, Shut from the world in that ambrosial cloud, Now with a glory inconceivable, Vivid and conflagrant, looked each on each.

All hours came laden with their own delights In that enchanted place, wherein Time Knew no divisions harsh of night and day, But light was always, and desire of sleep Was satisfied at once with slumber soft, Desire of food with magical repast, By unseen hands on golden tables spread.

But these the knight accepted like a G.o.d, All less was lost in that excess of joy, The crowning marvel of her love for him, a.s.suring him of his divinity.

Meanwhile remembrance of the earth appeared Like the vague trouble of a transient dream,-- The doubt, the scruples, the remorse for thoughts Beyond his own control, the constant thirst For something fairer than his life, more real Than airy revelations of his Muse.

Here was his soul's desire satisfied.

All n.o.bler pa.s.sions died; his lyre he flung Recklessly forth, with vows to dedicate His being to herself. She knew and seized The moment of her mastery, and conveyed The lyre beyond his sight and memory.