Ride to the Lady | Page 4

at morn;?There, crowning all the wide champaign,?Siena stood, where she was born.
Siena stands, and still shall stand;?She ne'er shall see or town or tower.?Warm life and beauty, hand in hand,?Steal farther from her hour by hour.?Yet forth she leans, with trembling knees,?And northward will she stare and stare?Through that thick wall of cypress-trees,?And sigh adown the stirless air:
"Shall no remembrance in Siena linger?Of me, once fair, whom slow Maremma slays??As well he knows, whose ring upon my finger?Hath sealed for his alone mine earthly days!"
From wilds where shudders through the weeds?The dull, mean-headed, silent snake,?Like voiceless doubt that creeps and breeds;?From swamps where sluggish waters take,?As lives unblest a passing love,?The flag-flower's image in the spring,?Or seem, when flits the bird above,?To stir within with shadowed wing,
A Presence mounts in pallid mist?To fold her close: she breathes its breath;?She waxes wan, by Fever kissed,?Who weds her for his master, Death,?Aside are set her dimmed hopes all,?She counts no more the uncurrent hoard;?On gray Death's neck she fain would fall,?To own him for her proper lord.
She minds the journey here by night:?When some red sudden torch would blaze,?She saw by fits, with childish fright,?The cork-trees twist beside the ways.?Like dancing demon shapes they showed,?With malice drunk; the bat beat by,?The owlet sobbed; on, on they rode,?She knew not where, she knows not why.
For Nello--when in piteous wise?She lifted up her look to ask,?Except the ever-burning eyes?His face was like a marble mask.?And so it always meets her now;?The tomb wherein at last he lies?Shall bear such carven lips and brow,?All save the ever-burning eyes.
Perchance it is his form alone?Doth stroke his hound, at meat doth sit,?And, for the soul that was his own,?A fiend awhile inhabits it;?While he sinks through the fiery throng,?Down, to fill an evil bond,?Since false conceit of others' wrong?Hath wrought him to a sin beyond.
But she--if when her years were glad?Vain fluttering thoughts were hers, that hid?Behind that gracious fame she had;?If e'er observance hard she did?That sinful men might call her saint,--?White-handed Pia, dovelike-eyed,--?The sick blank hours shall yet acquaint?Her heart with all her blameful pride.
And Death shall find her kneeling low,?And lift her to the porphyry stair,?And she from ledge to ledge shall go,?Stayed by the staff of that last prayer,?Until the high, sweet-singing wood?Whence folk are rapt to heaven, she win;?Therein the unpardoned never stood,?Nor may one Sorrow nest therein.
But through the Tuscan land shall beat?Her Sorrow, like a wounded bird;?And if her suit at Mary's feet?Avail, its moan shall yet be heard?By some just poet, who shall shed,?Whate'er the theme that leads his rhyme?Bright words like tears above her, dead,?Entreating of the after time:
"Among you let her mournful memory linger!?Siena bare her, whom Maremma slew;?And this dark lord, who gave her maiden finger?His ancient gem, the secret only knew."
TWO MOODS OF FAILURE
I
THE LAST CUP OF CANARY
Sir Harry Lovelock, 1645
So, the powder's low, and the larder's clean,?And surrender drapes, with its black impending,?All the stage for a sorry and sullen scene:?Yet indulge me my whim of a madcap ending!
Let us once more fill, ere the final chill,?Every vein with the glow of the rich canary!?Since the sweet hot liquor of life's to spill,?Of the last of the cellar what boots be chary?
Then hear the conclusion: I'll yield my breath,?But my leal old house and my good blade never!?Better one bitter kiss on the lips of Death?Than despoiled Defeat as a wife forever!
Let the faithful fire hold the walls in ward?Till the roof-tree crash! Be the smoke once riven?While we flash from the gate like a single sword,?True steel to the hilt, though in dull earth driven!
Do you frown, Sir Richard, above your ruff,?In the Holbein yonder? My deed ensures you!?For the flame like a fencer shall give rebuff?To your blades that blunder, you Roundhead boors, you!
And my ladies, a-row on the gallery wall,?Not a sing-song sergeant or corporal sainted?Shall pierce their breasts with his Puritan ball,?To annul the charms of the flesh, though painted!
I have worn like a jewel the life they gave;?As the ring in mine ear I can lightly lose it,?If my days be done, why, my days were brave!?If the end arrive, I as master choose it!
Then fill to the brim, and a health, I say,?To our liege King Charles, and I pray God bless him!?'T would amend worse vintage to drink dismay?To the clamorous mongrel pack that press him!
And a health to the fair women, past recall,?That like birds astray through the heart's hall flitted;?To the lean devil Failure last of all,?And the lees in his beard for a fiend outwitted!
II
THE YOUNG MAN CHARLES STUART REVIEWETH THE TROOPS ON BLACKHEATH
(Private Constant-in-Tribulation Joyce, May, 1660)
We were still as a wood without wind; as 't were set by a spell Stayed the gleam on the steel cap, the glint on the slant