Act 3 — BIRDS OF PASSAGE

O sweet illusions of Song, That tempt me everywhere, In the lonely fields, and the throng Of the crowded thoroughfare!

I approach, and ye vanish away, I grasp you, and ye are gone; But ever by nigh an day, The melody soundeth on.

As the weary traveller sees In desert or prairie vast, Blue lakes, overhung with trees, That a pleasant shadow cast;

Fair towns with turrets high, And shining roofs of gold, That vanish as he draws nigh, Like mists together rolled,—

So I wander and wander along, And forever before me gleams The shining city of song, In the beautiful land of dreams.

But when I would enter the gate Of that golden atmosphere, It is gone, and I wander and wait For the vision to reappear.

Each heart has its haunted chamber, Where the silent moonlight falls! On the floor are mysterious footsteps, There are whispers along the walls!

And mine at times is haunted By phantoms of the Past As motionless as shadows By the silent moonlight cast.

A form sits by the window, That is not seen by day, For as soon as the dawn approaches It vanishes away.

It sits there in the moonlight Itself as pale and still, And points with its airy finger Across the window-sill.

Without before the window, There stands a gloomy pine, Whose boughs wave upward and downward As wave these thoughts of mine.

And underneath its branches Is the grave of a little child, Who died upon life's threshold, And never wept nor smiled.

What are ye, O pallid phantoms! That haunt my troubled brain? That vanish when day approaches, And at night return again?

What are ye, O pallid phantoms! But the statues without breath, That stand on the bridge overarching The silent river of death?

After so long an absence At last we meet again: Does the meeting give us pleasure, Or does it give us pain?

The tree of life has been shaken, And but few of us linger now, Like the Prophet's two or three berries In the top of the uppermost bough.

We cordially greet each other In the old, familiar tone; And we think, though we do not say it, How old and gray he is grown!

We speak of a Merry Christmas And many a Happy New Year But each in his heart is thinking Of those that are not here.

We speak of friends and their fortunes, And of what they did and said, Till the dead alone seem living, And the living alone seem dead.

And at last we hardly distinguish Between the ghosts and the guests; And a mist and shadow of sadness Steals over our merriest jests.

When Mazarvan the Magician, Journeyed westward through Cathay, Nothing heard he but the praises Of Badoura on his way.

But the lessening rumor ended When he came to Khaledan, There the folk were talking only Of Prince Camaralzaman,

So it happens with the poets: Every province hath its own; Camaralzaman is famous Where Badoura is unknown.

A gentle boy, with soft and silken locks A dreamy boy, with brown and tender eyes, A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks, And towers that touch imaginary skies.

A fearless rider on his father's knee, An eager listener unto stories told At the Round Table of the nursery, Of heroes and adventures manifold.

There will be other towers for thee to build; There will be other steeds for thee to ride; There will be other legends, and all filled With greater marvels and more glorified.

Build on, and make thy castles high and fair, Rising and reaching upward to the skies; Listen to voices in the upper air, Nor lose thy simple faith in mysteries.

From the outskirts of the town Where of old the mile-stone stood. Now a stranger, looking down I behold the shadowy crown Of the dark and haunted wood.

Is it changed, or am I changed? Ah! the oaks are fresh and green, But the friends with whom I ranged Through their thickets are estranged By the years that intervene.

Bright as ever flows the sea, Bright as ever shines the sun, But alas! they seem to me Not the sun that used to be, Not the tides that used to run.

I have a vague remembrance Of a story, that is told In some ancient Spanish legend Or chronicle of old.

It was when brave King Sanchez Was before Zamora slain, And his great besieging army Lay encamped upon the plain.

Don Diego de Ordonez Sallied forth in front of all, And shouted loud his challenge To the warders on the wall.

All the people of Zamora, Both the born and the unborn, As traitors did he challenge With taunting words of scorn.

The living, in their houses, And in their graves, the dead! And the waters of their rivers, And their wine, and oil, and bread!

There is a greater army, That besets us round with strife, A starving, numberless army, At all the gates of life.

The poverty-stricken millions Who challenge our wine and bread, And impeach us all as traitors, Both the living and the dead.

And whenever I sit at the banquet, Where the feast and song are high, Amid the mirth and the music I can hear that fearful cry.

And hollow and haggard faces Look into the lighted hall, And wasted hands are extended To catch the crumbs that fall.

For within there is light and plenty, And odors fill the air; But without there is cold and darkness, And hunger and despair.

And there in the camp of famine, In wind and cold and rain, Christ, the great Lord of the army, Lies dead upon the plain!

The brooklet came from the mountain, As sang the bard of old, Running with feet of silver Over the sands of gold!

Far away in the briny ocean There rolled a turbulent wave, Now singing along the sea-beach, Now howling along the cave.

And the brooklet has found the billow Though they flowed so far apart, And has filled with its freshness and sweetness That turbulent bitter heart!

When the summer fields are mown, When the birds are fledged and flown, And the dry leaves strew the path; With the falling of the snow, With the cawing of the crow, Once again the fields we mow And gather in the aftermath.

Not the sweet, new grass with flowers Is this harvesting of ours; Not the upland clover bloom; But the rowen mired with weeds, Tangled tufts from marsh and meads, Where the poppy drops its seeds In the silence and the gloom.