Act 3 — FLOWER-DE-LUCE

Beautiful lily, dwelling by still rivers, Or solitary mere, Or where the sluggish meadow-brook delivers Its waters to the weir!

Thou laughest at the mill, the whir and worry Of spindle and of loom, And the great wheel that toils amid the hurry And rushing of the flame.

Born in the purple, born to joy and pleasance, Thou dost not toil nor spin, But makest glad and radiant with thy presence The meadow and the lin.

The wind blows, and uplifts thy drooping banner, And round thee throng and run The rushes, the green yeomen of thy manor, The outlaws of the sun.

The burnished dragon-fly is thine attendant, And tilts against the field, And down the listed sunbeam rides resplendent With steel-blue mail and shield.

Thou art the Iris, fair among the fairest, Who, armed with golden rod And winged with the celestial azure, bearest The message of some God.

Thou art the Muse, who far from crowded cities Hauntest the sylvan streams, Playing on pipes of reed the artless ditties That come to us as dreams.

O flower-de-luce, bloom on, and let the river Linger to kiss thy feet! O flower of song, bloom on, and make forever The world more fair and sweet.

I lay upon the headland-height, and listened To the incessant sobbing of the sea In caverns under me, And watched the waves, that tossed and fled and glistened, Until the rolling meadows of amethyst Melted away in mist.

Then suddenly, as one from sleep, I started; For round about me all the sunny capes Seemed peopled with the shapes Of those whom I had known in days departed, Apparelled in the loveliness which gleams On faces seen in dreams.

A moment only, and the light and glory Faded away, and the disconsolate shore Stood lonely as before; And the wild-roses of the promontory Around me shuddered in the wind, and shed Their petals of pale red.

There was an old belief that in the embers Of all things their primordial form exists, And cunning alchemists Could re-create the rose with all its members From its own ashes, but without the bloom, Without the lost perfume.

Ah me! what wonder-working, occult science Can from the ashes in our hearts once more The rose of youth restore? What craft of alchemy can bid defiance To time and change, and for a single hour Renew this phantom-flower?

"O, give me back," I cried, "the vanished splendors, The breath of morn, and the exultant strife, When the swift stream of life Bounds o'er its rocky channel, and surrenders The pond, with all its lilies, for the leap Into the unknown deep!"

And the sea answered, with a lamentation, Like some old prophet wailing, and it said, "Alas! thy youth is dead! It breathes no more, its heart has no pulsation; In the dark places with the dead of old It lies forever cold!"

Then said I, "From its consecrated cerements I will not drag this sacred dust again, Only to give me pain; But, still remembering all the lost endearments, Go on my way, like one who looks before, And turns to weep no more."

Into what land of harvests, what plantations Bright with autumnal foliage and the glow Of sunsets burning low; Beneath what midnight skies, whose constellations Light up the spacious avenues between This world and the unseen!

Amid what friendly greetings and caresses, What households, though not alien, yet not mine, What bowers of rest divine; To what temptations in lone wildernesses, What famine of the heart, what pain and loss, The bearing of what cross!

I do not know; nor will I vainly question Those pages of the mystic book which hold The story still untold, But without rash conjecture or suggestion Turn its last leaves in reverence and good heed, Until "The End" I read.

Burn, O evening hearth, and waken Pleasant visions, as of old! Though the house by winds be shaken, Safe I keep this room of gold!

Ah, no longer wizard Fancy Builds her castles in the air, Luring me by necromancy Up the never-ending stair!

But, instead, she builds me bridges Over many a dark ravine, Where beneath the gusty ridges Cataracts dash and roar unseen.

And I cross them, little heeding Blast of wind or torrent's roar, As I follow the receding Footsteps that have gone before.

Naught avails the imploring gesture, Naught avails the cry of pain! When I touch the flying vesture, 'T is the gray robe of the rain.

Baffled I return, and, leaning O'er the parapets of cloud, Watch the mist that intervening Wraps the valley in its shroud.

And the sounds of life ascending Faintly, vaguely, meet the ear, Murmur of bells and voices blending With the rush of waters near.

Well I know what there lies hidden, Every tower and town and farm, And again the land forbidden Reassumes its vanished charm.

Well I know the secret places, And the nests in hedge and tree; At what doors are friendly faces, In what hearts are thoughts of me.

Through the mist and darkness sinking, Blown by wind and beaten by shower, Down I fling the thought I'm thinking, Down I toss this Alpine flower.

How beautiful it was, that one bright day In the long week of rain! Though all its splendor could not chase away The omnipresent pain.

The lovely town was white with apple-blooms, And the great elms o'erhead Dark shadows wove on their aerial looms Shot through with golden thread.

Across the meadows, by the gray old manse, The historic river flowed: I was as one who wanders in a trance, Unconscious of his road.

The faces of familiar friends seemed strange; Their voices I could hear, And yet the words they uttered seemed to change Their meaning to my ear.

For the one face I looked for was not there, The one low voice was mute; Only an unseen presence filled the air, And baffled my pursuit.

Now I look back, and meadow, manse, and stream Dimly my thought defines; I only see—a dream within a dream— The hill-top hearsed with pines.

I only hear above his place of rest Their tender undertone, The infinite longings of a troubled breast, The voice so like his own.

There in seclusion and remote from men The wizard hand lies cold, Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen, And left the tale half told.

Ah! who shall lift that wand of magic power, And the lost clew regain? The unfinished window in Aladdin's tower Unfinished must remain!

I heard the bells on Christmas Day Their old, familiar carols play, And wild and sweet The words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come, The belfries of all Christendom Had rolled along The unbroken song Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till, ringing, singing on its way, The world revolved from night to day, A voice, a chime, A chant sublime Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth The cannon thundered in the South, And with the sound The carols drowned Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent The hearth-stones of a continent, And made forlorn The households born Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head; "There is no peace on earth," I said: "For hate is strong, And mocks the song Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: "God is not dead; nor doth he sleep! The Wrong shall fail, The Right prevail, With peace on earth, good-will to men!"

See, the fire is sinking low, Dusky red the embers glow, While above them still I cower, While a moment more I linger, Though the clock, with lifted finger, Points beyond the midnight hour.

Sings the blackened log a tune Learned in some forgotten June From a school-boy at his play, When they both were young together, Heart of youth and summer weather Making all their holiday.

And the night-wind rising, hark! How above there in the dark, In the midnight and the snow, Ever wilder, fiercer, grander, Like the trumpets of Iskander, All the noisy chimneys blow!

Every quivering tongue of flame Seems to murmur some great name, Seems to say to me, "Aspire!" But the night-wind answers, "Hollow Are the visions that you follow, Into darkness sinks your fire!"

Then the flicker of the blaze Gleams on volumes of old days, Written by masters of the art, Loud through whose majestic pages Rolls the melody of ages, Throb the harp-strings of the heart.

And again the tongues of flame Start exulting and exclaim: "These are prophets, bards, and seers; In the horoscope of nations, Like ascendant constellations, They control the coming years."

But the night-wind cries: "Despair! Those who walk with feet of air Leave no long-enduring marks; At God's forges incandescent Mighty hammers beat incessant, These are but the flying sparks.

"Dust are all the hands that wrought; Books are sepulchres of thought; The dead laurels of the dead Rustle for a moment only, Like the withered leaves in lonely Churchyards at some passing tread."

Suddenly the flame sinks down; Sink the rumors of renown; And alone the night-wind drear Clamors louder, wilder, vaguer,— "'T is the brand of Meleager Dying on the hearth-stone here!"

And I answer,—"Though it be, Why should that discomfort me? No endeavor is in vain; Its reward is in the doing, And the rapture of pursuing Is the prize the vanquished gain."

How many lives, made beautiful and sweet By self-devotion and by self-restraint, Whose pleasure is to run without complaint On unknown errands of the Paraclete, Wanting the reverence of unshodden feet, Fail of the nimbus which the artists paint Around the shining forehead of the saint, And are in their completeness incomplete! In the old Tuscan town stands Giotto's tower, The lily of Florence blossoming in stone,— A vision, a delight, and a desire,— The builder's perfect and centennial flower, That in the night of ages bloomed alone, But wanting still the glory of the spire.

'T is late at night, and in the realm of sleep My little lambs are folded like the flocks; From room to room I hear the wakeful clocks Challenge the passing hour, like guards that keep Their solitary watch on tower and steep; Far off I hear the crowing of the cocks, And through the opening door that time unlocks Feel the fresh breathing of To-morrow creep. To-morrow! the mysterious, unknown guest, Who cries to me: "Remember Barmecide, And tremble to be happy with the rest." And I make answer: "I am satisfied; I dare not ask; I know not what is best; God hath already said what shall betide."

Oft have I seen at some cathedral door A laborer, pausing in the dust and heat, Lay down his burden, and with reverent feet Enter, and cross himself, and on the floor Kneel to repeat his paternoster o'er; Far off the noises of the world retreat; The loud vociferations of the street Become an undistinguishable roar. So, as I enter here from day to day, And leave my burden at this minster gate, Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to pray, The tumult of the time disconsolate To inarticulate murmurs dies away, While the eternal ages watch and wait.

How strange the sculptures that adorn these towers! This crowd of statues, in whose folded sleeves Birds build their nests; while canopied with leaves Parvis and portal bloom like trellised bowers, And the vast minster seems a cross of flowers! But fiends and dragons on the gargoyled eaves Watch the dead Christ between the living thieves, And, underneath, the traitor Judas lowers! Ah! from what agonies of heart and brain, What exultations trampling on despair, What tenderness, what tears, what hate of wrong, What passionate outcry of a soul in pain, Uprose this poem of the earth and air, This medieval miracle of song!

I enter, and I see thee in the gloom Of the long aisles, O poet saturnine! And strive to make my steps keep pace with thine. The air is filled with some unknown perfume; The congregation of the dead make room For thee to pass; the votive tapers shine; Like rooks that haunt Ravenna's groves of pine The hovering echoes fly from tomb to tomb. From the confessionals I hear arise Rehearsals of forgotten tragedies, And lamentations from the crypts below; And then a voice celestial, that begins With the pathetic words, "Although your sins As scarlet be," and ends with "as the snow."

With snow-white veil and garments as of flame, She stands before thee, who so long ago Filled thy young heart with passion and the woe From which thy song and all its splendors came; And while with stern rebuke she speaks thy name, The ice about thy heart melts as the snow On mountain height; and in swift overflow Comes gushing from thy lips in sobs of shame. Thou makest full confession; and a gleam, As of the dawn on some dark forest cast, Seems on thy lifted forehead to increase; Lethe and Eunoe—the remembered dream And the forgotten sorrow—bring at last That perfect pardon which is perfect peace.

I lift mine eyes, and all the windows blaze With forms of saints and holy men who died, Here martyred and hereafter glorified; And the great Rose upon its leaves displays Christ's Triumph, and the angelic roundelays, With splendor upon splendor multiplied; And Beatrice again at Dante's side No more rebukes, but smiles her words of praise. And then the organ sounds, and unseen choirs Sing the old Latin hymns of peace and love, And benedictions of the Holy Ghost; And the melodious bells among the spires O'er all the house-tops and through heaven above Proclaim the elevation of the Host!

O star of morning and of liberty! O bringer of the light, whose splendor shines Above the darkness of the Apennines, Forerunner of the day that is to be! The voices of the city and the sea, The voices of the mountains and the pines, Repeat thy song, till the familiar lines Are footpaths for the thought of Italy! Thy fame is blown abroad from all the heights, Through all the nations, and a sound is heard, As of a mighty wind, and men devout, Strangers of Rome, and the new proselytes, In their own language hear thy wondrous word, And many are amazed and many doubt.

L'Academie en respect, Nonobstant l'incorrection A la faveur du sujet, Ture-lure, N'y fera point de rature; Noël! ture-lure-lure. — Gui Barozai

Quand les astres de Noël Brillaient, palpitaient au ciel, Six gaillards, et chacun ivre, Chantaient gaiment dans le givre, "Bons amis, Allons donc chez Agassiz!"

Ces illustres Pelerins D'Outre-Mer adroits et fins, Se donnant des airs de pretre, A l'envi se vantaient d'etre "Bons amis, De Jean Rudolphe Agassiz!"

Oeil-de-Perdrix, grand farceur, Sans reproche et sans pudeur, Dans son patois de Bourgogne, Bredouillait comme un ivrogne, "Bons amis, J'ai danse chez Agassiz!"

Verzenay le Champenois, Bon Francais, point New-Yorquois, Mais des environs d'Avize, Fredonne a mainte reprise, "Bons amis, J'ai chante chez Agassiz!"

A cote marchait un vieux Hidalgo, mais non mousseux; Dans le temps de Charlemagne Fut son pere Grand d'Espagne! "Bons amis, J'ai dine chez Agassiz!"

Derriere eux un Bordelais, Gascon, s'il en fut jamais, Parfume de poesie Riait, chantait, plein de vie, "Bons amis, J'ai soupe chez Agassiz!"

Avec ce beau cadet roux, Bras dessus et bras dessous, Mine altiere et couleur terne, Vint le Sire de Sauterne; "Bons amis, J'ai couche chez Agassiz!"

Mais le dernier de ces preux, Etait un pauvre Chartreux, Qui disait, d'un ton robuste, "Benedictions sur le Juste! Bons amis, Benissons Pere Agassiz!"

Ils arrivent trois a trois, Montent l'escalier de bois Clopin-clopant! quel gendarme Peut permettre ce vacarme, Bons amis, A la porte d'Agassiz!

"Ouvrer donc, mon bon Seigneur, Ouvrez vite et n'ayez peur; Ouvrez, ouvrez, car nous sommes Gens de bien et gentilshommes, Bons amis De la famille Agassiz!"

Chut, ganaches! taisez-vous! C'en est trop de vos glouglous; Epargnez aux Philosophes Vos abominables strophes! Bons amis, Respectez mon Agassiz!