Classic Poem

Oh how beautiful was dawn
On the Styrian mountain lawn,
When the lights and shadows lay
Where the night strove with the day!
From my window did I look
Upon Salza's glimmering brook,
And the valley dark and deep,
And the ponderous woods asleep;
And I saw the little lake
Like a black spot in the brake.
And the silver crescent moon
Of the greenwood month of June,
Hanging o'er a mountain top
Seemed her downward course to stop,
And to look around in wonder
At the landscape brightening under.
In the sky there was a light
Which was not a birth of night,
A stealthy streak, and pearly pale,
Like a white transparent veil;
And there came a chilly breeze,
Like the freshness of the seas,
As though hills and woods on high
Now were breathing heavily;
And among the woodlands wide
Here and there a wild bird cried.
Where the dewy alders grow
I could hear the oxen low;
But the echo that did follow
Was a sound more dead and hollow
Than the leaping voice that fills
Daylight skies and daylight hills.
On the pastures was a light
Which was neither day nor night,
And the dusky frowning wood
Still in moonlight shadows stood.
But a mist o'er Salza's bed
Hovered like a gossamer thread;
And I saw the glorious scene
Every moment grow more green,—
Day encroaching with sweet light
On the fairy-land of night.
I remember well that dawn
On the Styrian mountain lawn.
Blessed be the God who made
Sun and moon, and light and shade,
Balmy wind and pearly shower,
Forest tree and meadow flower,
And the heart to feel and love
All the joys that round us move!
Blessed be the Angels bright,
Ordering the pomp aright,
Ministrants of winds and showers,
Ruddy clouds and sunset hours,
With fair robe and busy wing
The mute figures marshalling,
Like a ceremonial thing!
Blessed be the Cross that draws
From the earth by dreadest laws
Sparkling streams that cleanse and shine,
Making little babes divine,
And the grape's red blood, and bread
Laid upon the Altar dread;
Symbols, more than symbols, urns
Where a Heavenly Presence burns,
Veils that hide from loving eyes
Jesus in His strange disguise,
Making earth to be all rife
With a supernatural life.
Sweet into the morning dim
Rose the happy pilgrim's hymn,
As he caught from distant height,
In the grey uncertain light,
The early flush of summer morning
Upon Mariazell dawning.
From the Salza's shady bed,
From the mountain's rocky head,
From the earthy path that shines
Down the steep and through the pines
From the meadow-lands below
Like a very stream doth flow
The sweet song and plaintive greeting
Of the weary pilgrims meeting;
“All hail in thy sylvan tent,
Mary, fairest Ornament!”
Mother Mary! 'tis a thing
Soothing as the breath of spring,
In the quiet time to hear
This wild region far and near
With the very accents swell
Of the blessed Gabriel.
'Tis a wonder and a grace
In this uncouth pinewood place,
Mid white rocks and gloomy trees
And old Noric fastnesses,
To look forth and calmly listen,
While above the pale stars glisten;
And to hear the grateful song
Of the gentile pilgrim-throng,
The old angelic greeting, given
To the Virgin Queen of Heaven.
What are ages, what is time
To a ritual thus sublime?
How shall distance or decay
Make or mar eternal day?
For a heavenly word once spoken
Is an everlasting token,
Still by time or space unbroken;
And through weary centuries,
Quivering on the very breeze,
Word divine and angel breath
Hover to the ear of faith,
Finding souls which they may win
And meek hearts to enter in.
I see Mary rapture-bound,
And the lily-flowers around,
And the smooth and spotless bed,
And the Angel overhead,
And the open casement where
Blows the fresh and virgin air,
And Our Lady, mute and pale,
Listening to the strange “All Hail.”
And I hear—years hinder not—
Angel accents on the spot;
Hark! the Styrian vale is ringing
With the gentile pilgrims singing.
Breaking on the quiet dell
Slowly swings the heavy bell,
And the organ breathes a sound
Into all the pinewoods round.
What a trouble of delight
There hath been the livelong night!
Mariazell! thou hast seen
Sleepers few this night, I ween.
One by one the pilgrims throng,
Coming in with plaintive song;
And in many a gaudy shed
Beads and Crosses are outspread.
Like the stars that one by one
Come to shine when day is done,
Still they flock with merry din,
From the valley of the Inn,
From the Ennsland green and deep,
And the rough Carinthian steep,
From the two lakes of the Save,
And the blythe rich banks of Drave,
And the Mur's rock-shadowed floods,
That shy hunter of the woods,
From the low Dalmatian sea,
And the sea-like Hungary,
And where Danube's waters pass
By Belgrade through the morass,
From Bavaria's sandy dells,
And the smooth Bohemian fells,
From Würzburg and from Ratisbon,
Linz and Passau they have gone;
And St. John of Prague hath sent
Worshippers to Mary's tent,
Where she waits her serfs to bless
In the Styrian wilderness.
Still they pass unheeded by;
From the village every eye
Goes with eager anxious look
Up the Salza's tumbling brook:
No white banners yet have showed
On the great Vienna road;
In the pauses of the ringing
They can hear no far-off singing,
And the signal hath not fired,
And the youthful groups are tired.
Yet 'twas whispered overnight
They'd leave Annaberg ere light.
Pomp of crowds and festal noise
Are not numbered in my joys;
So I sought the little lake
And the lonely pinewood brake.
The sweet day was clouded over,
And the thunder seemed to hover
O'er the dark, unruffled flood,
And the silent neighborhood.
Scarce a creature seemed to stir
In that wilderness of fir.
Not a note of singing bird
In the tangled dell was heard:
And the forest lands did wear
A dark robe of lurid air.
On the mountains there did press
A grim dullhearted silentness.
Peace was round me, and a calm,
Yet without the soothing balm
Shed on us by earth and sea
In their true tranquillity.
Swarms of moths from out the brake
Fluttered all across the lake,
And the leaping fishes made
Dreary splashes in the shade,
Where an ancient pinetree throws
O'er the pool its drooping boughs.
Where the marge was strewn all over
With a tapestry of clover,
The dull skies appeared to lower
On the mute and blameless flower;
All the soft and pleasant brightness
Like a breath passed from its whiteness;
As the soul of man whose beauty
Fades, when the timid sense of duty
Passes forth with hasty wing,
Like a wronged and banished thing.
From the ragged trees on high,
From the mirky, swaying sky,
From the summit, white and tall,
With its black pine coronal,
A darksome power of gloom did fall,
Weighing on the little lake,
Hushing all the pinewood brake,
Tarnishing each radiant sight,
Sheathing all the gay green light,
Deadening every summer sound,
To a drowsy tingling bound.
Beauty strove, and strove again,
And the summer strove in vain.
Over lake and pines and all
Was a very funeral pall.
Can it be a curse doth lurk
In the heart of earth at work?
Yet in that translucent deep,
Furtive beauty seems to creep,
Like a stealthy sunbeam winding
Through the ocean-depths, and finding
Creatures in them, meek and bright,
Whom to gladden with its light.
Thus doth earth for ever bless
True hearts with her loveliness,
Stealing to them in the storm
With some fair and happy form,
Uttering still some joyous sound
In a bleak and joyless ground,
Planting moss and brilliant grass
In the heart of a morass.
Light within the lake doth move
When there is no light above.
And the sunshine which should glow
In the blue skies, work below,
As far down as eye can follow
In the green transparent hollow,
Streaking it with silvery shoot,
As though sunbeams could take root
In the lake with lawless mirth,
And so shine upwards to the earth.
Thou alone, dear earth! of all
Art a blameless prodigal!
When the heaven above is dull,
And thy yearning heart is full
Of a wish to solace one
Who into thy fields hath gone
To take comfort from thy gladness
Or courage from thy patient sadness.—
When the cheerless heaven above
Will not aid thee in thy love,
Thou some inner light canst win
As though from a heaven within.
Could I think that still at work
The primal curse in thee did lurk?
Shall a thought of curse come nigh,
When I hear that Christian cry?
Hark! at last the joyous song
Of Vienna's pilgrim throng:
“All hail in thy sylvan tent,
Mary, fairest Ornament!”
Tarries the procession still?
See! it winds along the hill,
Like a snake of green and gold
In the sunshine all unrolled,
Or coiling round a mossy tree,
Fearful and yet fair to see.
Thus the bright and bending throng
Slowly draws itself along,
Swayed by modulating song.
Mitred prelates at its head
Upon flowers and sweet flags tread.
Gifts from kings of foreign lands,
Banners worked by royal hands,
And a hundred shining things,
Peer's or peasant's offerings,
Move along the uneven ground,
While the distant thunders sound.
'Ere I reached them I could hear,
Filling all the forest near,
“Mariazell! schönste Zier!”—
Plaintive burden, that will quiver
In my spell-bound ear for ever.
My dear land! I thought of thee;
And I thought how scantily,
In what thrifty rivulets,
Faith's weak tide among us sets.
And I looked with tearful eyes,
With an envious surprise,
Upon that huge wave that passed,
On the Styrian highlands cast
With a mighty, sea-like fall
From the Austrian capital.
O'er twelve hundred kneelers there
Hangs a veil of odorous air,
Rising up in twin blue spires
From the swinging censer-fires.
And through all the gloomy pile,
Like a river down each aisle,
With a strong and heavy flowing
Are the pealing organs blowing;
And the banners rich and brave
On the current lightly wave,
Like the willow bough that quivers
On the bosom of the rivers.
While the mighty hymns were swelling
I passed from out the sacred dwelling,
With full heart and burning thought;
So much had the ritual wrought,
That I scarcely could control
The strong impulse of my soul
To fall down and weep outright
At the great and solemn sight.
When from that full house of prayer
I passed into the open air,
Ah! did ever sweet surprise
From old objects so arise
With a strange, bewildering power,
As in that most thrilling hour?
In the western porch I stood
Amid mountain wastes and wood,
And the hollow tolling thunder,
And the misty valleys under,
Cloud-strewn forests with stray gleams,
And the alder-belted streams,
In the rain the pinewoods singing,
With a rustling whisper ringing,—
Nature filling all the senses
With her blameless influences.
For the rocky foaming floods
And the wet and dripping woods
Fresher and more fragrant are
Than the incense-loaded air.
Mid this glory I am free,
Mother-Maid! to think of thee,
And with fervent faith to trace,
In this dusky sylvan place,
Footprints of true miracle
Wrought within the savage dell,
And the work, blest Mother Mary!
Of thine ancient missionary.
When the crowd have left the shrine,
Then the season shall be mine;
Then shall silent Aves swell
In a heart that loves thee well,
A heart that owes its life to thee
A slave whom Mary hath set free.
I cannot pray amidst a crowd,
Nor with organs pealing loud,
Nor with chains upon my sense
From ritual magnificence.
Ever fair forms like tyrants bind
With spells the currents of my mind.
Sweet sighs and sounds my spirit fill,
And ritual beauty leads me still
A passive victim at its will.
The creature of all outward shows,
My heart into the pageant throws
Its ardent self, and dreamily
Floats out as on a sunny sea.
When the Church with functions bright
Wraps calmer spirits in delight,
I am rather proud of God,
Than humbly at His footstool bowed;
And mid the beautiful display
I feel and love but cannot pray.
I would fain be lone with God,
Else are all my thoughts abroad.
Quiet altars, Jesus there,
Mary's image meek and fair,
Silent whispering twilight round,—
These make consecrated ground!
Better still with holy poor
Scattered on the wide church-floor.
With the tinkling beads they tell,
And whispers scarcely audible.
Shame on myself! upon my breast
So lightly doth God's presence rest,
So little inward turned my soul,
So much beneath the eye's control,
That holy pomp and pageant rare
Only make poetry spoil prayer.