The Poems of Emma Lazarus Volume I Part 9

With blandishment divine she changed for him, Each hour, her mood; a very woman now, Fantastic, voluble, affectionate, And jealous of the vague, unbodied air, Exacting, penitent, and pacified, All in a breath. And often she appeared Majestic with celestial wrath, with eyes That shot forth fire, and a heavy brow, Portentous as the lowering front of heaven, When the reverberant, sullen thunder rolls Among the echoing clouds. Thus she denounced Her ancient, fickle wors.h.i.+ppers, who left Her altars desecrate, her fires unfed, Her name forgotten. "But I reign, I reign!"

She would shrill forth, triumphant; "yea, I reign.

Men name me not, but wors.h.i.+p me unnamed, Beauty and Love within their heart of hearts; Not with bent knees and empty breath of words, But with devoted sacrifice of lives."

Then melting in a moment, she would weep Ambrosial tears, pathetic, full of guile, Accusing her own base ingrat.i.tude, In craving wors.h.i.+p, when she had his heart, Her priceless knight, her peerless paladin, Her Tannhauser; then, with an artful glance Of lovely helplessness, entreated him Not to desert her, like the faithless world, For these unbeautiful and barbarous G.o.ds, Or she would never cease her prayers to Jove, Until he took from her the heavy curse Of immortality. With closer vows, The knight then sealed his wors.h.i.+p and forswore All other aims and deeds to serve her cause.

Thus pa.s.sed unnoted seven barren years Of reckless pa.s.sion and voluptuous sloth, Undignified by any lofty thought In his degraded mind, that sometime was Endowed with n.o.ble capability.

From revelry to revelry he pa.s.sed, Craving more pungent pleasure momently, And new intoxications, and each hour The siren G.o.ddess answered his desires.

Once when she left him with a weary sense Of utter la.s.situde, he sat alone, And, raising listless eyes, he saw himself In a great burnished mirror, wrought about With cunning imagery of twisted vines.

He scarcely knew those sunken, red-rimmed eyes, For his who in the flush of manhood rode Among the cliffs, and followed up the crags The flying temptress; and there fell on him A horror of her beauty, a disgust For his degenerate and corrupted life, With irresistible, intense desire, To feel the breath of heaven on his face.

Then as Fate willed, who rules above the G.o.ds, He saw, within the gla.s.s, behind him glide The form of Venus. Certain of her power, She had laid by, in fond security, The enchanted cestus, and Sir Tannhauser, With surfeited regard, beheld her now, No fairer than the women of the earth, Whom with serenity and health he left, Duped by a lovely witch. Before he moved, She knew her destiny; and when he turned, He seemed to drop a mask, disclosing thus An alien face, and eyes with vision true, That for long time with glamour had been blind.

Hiding the hideous rage within her breast, With girlish simpleness of folded hands, Auroral blushes, and sweet, shamefast mien, She spoke: "Behold, my love, I have cast forth All magic, blandishments and sorcery, For I have dreamed a dream so terrible, That I awoke to find my pillow stained With tears as of real woe. I thought my belt, By Vulcan wrought with matchless skill and power, Was the sole bond between us; this being doffed, I seemed to thee an old, unlovely crone, Wrinkled by every year that I have seen.

Thou turnedst from me with a brutal sneer, So that I woke with weeping. Then I rose, And drew the glittering girdle from my zone, Jealous thereof, yet full of fears, and said, 'If it be this he loves, then let him go!

I have no solace as a mortal hath, No hope of change or death to comfort me Through all eternity; yet he is free, Though I could hold him fast with heavy chains, Bound in perpetual imprisonment.'

Tell me my vision was a baseless dream; See, I am kneeling, and kiss thy hands,-- In pity, look on me, before thy word Condemns me to immortal misery!"

As she looked down, the infernal influence Worked on his soul again; for she was fair Beyond imagination, and her brow Seemed luminous with high self-sacrifice.

He bent and kissed her head, warm, s.h.i.+ning, soft, With its close-curling gold, and love revived.

But ere he spoke, he heard the distant sound Of one sweet, smitten lyre, and a gleam Of violent anger flashed across the face Upraised to his in feigned simplicity And singleness of purpose. Then he sprang, Well-nigh a G.o.d himself, with sudden strength to vanquish and resist, beyond her reach, Crying, "My old Muse calls me, and I hear!

Thy fateful vision is no baseless dream; I will be gone from this accursed hall!"

Then she, too, rose, dilating over him, And sullen clouds veiled all her rosy limbs, Unto her girdle, and her head appeared Refulgent, and her voice rang wrathfully: "Have I cajoled and flattered thee till now, To lose thee thus! How wilt thou make escape?

ONCE BEING MINE THOU ART FOREVER MINE: Yea, not my love, but my poor slave and fool."

But he, with both hands pressed upon his eyes, Against that blinding l.u.s.tre, heeded not Her thundered words, and cried in sharp despair, "Help me, O Virgin Mary! and thereat, The very bases of the hall gave way, The roof was rived, the G.o.ddess disappeared, And Tannhauser stood free upon the cliff, Amidst the morning suns.h.i.+ne and fresh air.

Around him were the tumbled blocks and crags, Huge ridges and sharp juts of flinty peaks, Black caves, and ma.s.ses of the grim, bald rock.

The ethereal, unfathomable sky, Hung over him, the valley lay beneath, Dotted with yellow hayricks, that exhaled Sweet, healthy odors to the mountain-top.

He breathed intoxicate the infinite air, And plucked the heather blossoms where they blew, Reckless with light and dew, in crannies green, And scarcely saw their darling bells for tears.

No sounds of labor reached him from the farms And hamlets trim, nor from the furrowed glebe; But a serene and sabbath stillness reigned, Till broken by the faint, melodious chimes Of the small village church that called to prayer.

He hurried down the rugged, scarped cliff, And swung himself from shelving granite slopes To narrow foot-holds, near wide-throated chasms, Tearing against the sharp stones his bleeding hands, With long hair flying from his dripping brow, Uncovered head, and white, exalted face.

No memory had he of his smooth ascent, No thought of fear upon those dreadful hills; He only heard the bell, inviting him To satisfy the craving of his heart, For wors.h.i.+p 'midst his fellow men. He reached The beaten, dusty road, and pa.s.sed thereon The pious peasants faring towards the church, And scarce refrained from greeting them like friends Dearly beloved, after long absence met.

How more than fair the sunburnt wenches looked, In their rough, homespun gowns and coifs demure, After the beauty of bare, rosy limbs, And odorous, loose hair! He noted not Suspicious glances on his garb uncouth, His air extravagant and face distraught, With bursts of laughter from the red-cheeked boys, And prudent crossings of the women's b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

He pa.s.sed the flowering close about the church, And trod the well worn-path, with throbbing heart, The little heather-bell between his lips, And his eyes fastened on the good green gra.s.s.

Thus entered he the sanctuary, lit With frequent tapers, and with sunbeams stained Through painted gla.s.s. How pure and innocent The waiting congregation seemed to him, Kneeling, or seated with calm brows upraised!

With faltering strength, he cowered down alone, And held sincere communion with the Lord, For one brief moment, in a sudden gush Of blessed tears. The minister of G.o.d Rose to invoke a blessing on his flock, And then began the service,--not in words To raise the lowly, and to heal the sick, But an alien tongue, with phrases formed, And meaningless observances. The knight, Unmoved, yet thirsting for the simple word That might have moved him, held his bitter thoughts, But when in his own speech a new priest spake, Looked up with hope revived, and heard the text: "Go, preach the Gospel unto all the world.

He that believes and is baptized, is saved.

He that believeth not, is d.a.m.ned in h.e.l.l!"

He sat with neck thrust forth and staring eyes; The crowded congregation disappeared; He felt alone in some black sea of h.e.l.l, While a great light smote one exalted face, Vivid already with prophetic fire, Whose fatal mouth now thundered forth his doom.

He longed in that void circle to cry out, With one clear shriek, but sense and voice seemed bound, And his parched tongue clave useless to his mouth.

As the last words resounded through the church, And once again the pastor blessed his flock, Who, serious and subdued, pa.s.sed slowly down The arrow aisle, none noted, near the wall, A fallen man with face upon his knees, A heap of huddled garments and loose hair, Unconscious 'mid the rustling, murmurous stir, 'Midst light and rural smell of gra.s.s and flowers, Let in athwart the doorway. One lone priest, Darkening the altar lights, moved noiselessly, Now with the yellow glow upon his face, Now a black shadow gliding farther on, Amidst the smooth, slim pillars of hewn ash.

But from the vacant aisles he heard at once A hollow sigh, heaved from a depth profound.

Upholding his last light above his head, And peering eagerly amidst the stalls, He cried, "Be blest who cometh in G.o.d's name."

Then the gaunt form of Tannhauser arose.

"Father, I am a sinner, and I seek Forgiveness and help, by whatso means I can regain the joy of peace with G.o.d."

"The Lord hath mercy on the penitent.

'Although thy sins be scarlet,' He hath said, 'Will I not make them white as wool?' Confess, And I will shrive you." Thus the good priest moved Towards the remorseful knight and pressed his hand.

But shrinking down, he drew his fingers back From the kind palm, and kissed the friar's feet.

"Thy pure hand is anointed, and can heal.

The cool, calm pressure brings back sanity, And what serene, past joys! yet touch me not, My contact is pollution,--hear, O hear, While I disburden my charged soul." He lay, Casting about for words and strength to speak.

"O father, is there help for such a one,"

In tones of deep abas.e.m.e.nt he began, "Who hath rebelled against the laws of G.o.d, With pride no less presumptuous than his Who lost thereby his rank in heaven?" "My son, There is atonement for all sins,--or slight Or difficult, proportioned to the crime.

Though this may be the staining of thy hands With blood of kinsmen or of fellow-men."

"My hands are white,--my crime hath found no name, This side of h.e.l.l; yet though my heart-strings snap To live it over, let me make the attempt.

I was a knight and bard, with such a gift Of revelation that no hour of life Lacked beauty and adornment, in myself The seat and centre of all happiness.

What inspiration could my lofty Muse Draw from those common and familiar themes, Painted upon the windows and the walls Of every church,--the mother and her child, The miracle and mystery of the birth, The death, the resurrection? Fool and blind!

That saw not symbols of eternal truth In that grand tragedy and victory, Significant and infinite as life.

What tortures did my skeptic soul endure, At war against herself and all mankind!

The restless nights of feverish sleeplessness, With balancing of reasons nicely weighed; The dawn that brought no hope nor energy, The blasphemous arraignment of the Lord, Taxing His glorious divinity With all the grief and folly of the world.

Then came relapses into abject fear, And hollow prayer and praise from craven heart.

Before a sculptured Venus I would kneel, Crown her with flowers, wors.h.i.+p her, and cry, 'O large and n.o.ble type of our ideal, At least my heart and prayer return to thee, Amidst a faithless world of proselytes.

Madonna Mary, with her virgin lips, And eyes that look perpetual reproach, Insults and is a blasphemy on youth.

Is she to claim the wors.h.i.+p of a man Hot with the first rich flush of ripened life?'

Realities, like phantoms, glided by, Unnoted 'midst the torment and delights Of my conflicting spirit, and I doffed the modest Christian weeds of charity And fit humility, and steeled myself In pagan panoply of stoicism And self-sufficing pride. Yet constantly I gained men's charmed attention and applause, With the wild strains I smote from out my lyre, To me the native language of my soul, To them attractive and miraculous, As all things whose solution and whose source Remain a mystery. Then came suddenly The summons to attend the gathering Of minstrels at the Landgrave Hermann's court.

Resolved to publish there my pagan creed In harmonies so high and beautiful That all the world would share my zeal and faith, I journeyed towards the haunted Horsel cliffs.

O G.o.d! how may I tell you how SHE came, The temptress of a hundred centuries, Yet fresh as April? She bewitched my sense, Poisoned my judgment with sweet flatteries, And for I may not guess how many years Held me a captive in degrading bonds.

There is no sin of l.u.s.t so lewd and foul, Which I learned not in that alluring h.e.l.l, Until this morn, I snapped the ign.o.ble tie, By calling on the Mother of our Lord.

O for the power to stand again erect, And look men in the eyes! What penitence, What scourging of the flesh, what rigid fasts, What terrible privations may suffice To cleanse me in the sight of G.o.d and man?"

Ill-omened silence followed his appeal.

Patient and motionless he lay awhile, Then sprang unto his feet with sudden force, Confronting in his breathless vehemence, With palpitating heart, the timid priest.

"Answer me, as you hope for a response, One day, at the great judgment seat yourself."

"I cannot answer," said the timid priest, "I have not understood." "Just G.o.d! is this The curse Thou layest upon me? I outstrip The sympathy and brotherhood of men, So far removed is my experience From their clean innocence. Inspire me, Prompt me to words that bring me near to them!

Father," in gentler accents he resumed, "Thank Heaven at your every orison That sin like mine you cannot apprehend.

More than the truth perchance I have confessed, But I have sinned, and darkly,--this is true; And I have suffered, and am suffering now.

Is there no help in your great Christian creed Of liberal charity, for such a one?"

"My son," the priest replied, "your speech distraught Hath quite bewildered me. I fain would hope That Christ's large charity can reach your sin, But I know naught. I cannot but believe That the enchantress who first tempted you Must be the Evil one,--your early doubt Was the possession of your soul by him.

Travel across the mountain to the town, The first cathedral town upon the road That leads to Rome,--a sage and reverend priest, The Bishop Adrian, bides there. Say you have come From his leal servant, Friar Lodovick; He hath vast lore and great authority, And may absolve you freely of your sin."

Over the rolling hills, through summer fields, By noisy villages and lonely lanes, Through glowing days, when all the landscape stretched s.h.i.+mmering in the heat, a pilgrim fared Towards the cathedral town. Sir Tannhauser Had donned the mournful sackcloth, girt his loins With a coa.r.s.e rope that ate into his flesh, m.u.f.fled a cowl about his shaven head, Hung a great leaden cross around his neck; And bearing in his hands a knotty staff, With swollen, sandaled feet he held his course.

He s.n.a.t.c.hed scant rest at twilight or at dawn, When his forced travel was least difficult.

But most he journeyed when the sky, o'ercast, Uprolled its threatening clouds of dusky blue, And angry thunder grumbled through the hills, And earth grew dark at noonday, till the flash Of the thin lightning through the wide sky leapt.

And tumbling showers scoured along the plain.

Then folk who saw the pilgrim penitent, Drenched, weird, and hastening as as to some strange doom, Swore that the wandering Jew had crossed their land, And the Lord Christ had sent the deadly bolt Harmless upon his cursed, immortal head.

At length the hill-side city's spires and roofs, With all its western windows smitten red By a rich sunset, and with ma.s.sive towers Of its cathedral overtopping all, greeted his sight. Some weary paces more, And as the twilight deepened in the streets, He stood within the minster. How serene, In sculptured calm of centuries, it seemed!

How cool and s.p.a.cious all the dim-lit aisles, Still hazy with fumes of frankincense!

The vesper had been said, yet here and there A wrinkled beldam, or mourner veiled, Or burly burgher on the cold floor knelt, And still the organist, with wandering hands, Drew from the keys mysterious melodies, And filled the church with flying waifs of song, That with ethereal beauty moved the soul To a more tender prayer and gentler faith Than choral anthems and the solemn ma.s.s.

A thousand memories, sweet to bitterness, Rushed on the knight and filled his eyes with tears; Youth's blamelessness and faith forever lost, The love of his neglected lyre, his art, Revived by these aerial harmonies.

He was unworthy now to touch the strings, Too base to stir men's soul to ecstasy And high resolves, as in the days agone; And yet, with all his spirit's earnestness, He yearned to feel the lyre between his hands, To utter all the trouble of his life Unto the Muse who understands and helps.

Outworn with travel, soothed to drowsiness By dying music and sweet-scented air, His limbs relaxed, and sleep possessed his frame.

Auroral light the eastern oriels touched, When with delicious sense of rest he woke, Amidst the cast and silent empty aisles.

"G.o.d's peace hath fallen upon me in this place; This is my Bethel; here I feel again A holy calm, if not of innocence, Yet purest after that, the calm serene Of expiation and forgiveness."

He spake, and pa.s.sed with staff and wallet forth Through the tall portal to the open square, And turning, paused to look upon the pile.

The northern front against the crystal sky Loomed dark and heavy, full of sombre shade, With each projecting b.u.t.tress, carven cross, Gable and mullion, tipped with laughing light By the slant sunbeams of the risen morn.

The noisy swallows wheeled above their nests, Builded in hidden nooks about the porch.

No human life was stirring in the square, Save now and then a rumbling market-team, Fresh from the fields and farms without the town.

He knelt upon the broad cathedral steps, And kissed the moistened stone, while overhead The circling swallows sang, and all around The mighty city lay asleep and still.

To stranger's ears must yet again be made The terrible confession; yet again A deathly chill, with something worse than fear, Seized the knight's heart, who knew his every word Widened the gulf between his kind and him.

The Bishop sat with pomp of mitred head, In pride of proven virtue, hearkening to all With cold, official apathy, nor made A sign of pity nor encouragement.

The friar understood the pilgrim's grief, The language of his eyes; his speech alone Was alien to these kind, untutored ears.

But this was truly to be misconstrued, To tear each palpitating word alive From out the depths of his remorseful soul, And have it weighed with the precision cool And the nice logic of a reasoning mind.