Anton Martin Schweigaard
Rome holds to-day in her maternal trust,
An artist army gone to noteless dust,
The tribute of all nations, and they lie,
Their campaign o'er, beneath their favorite sky,
A tranquil brotherhood. How calmly well
They sleep at last in Caesar's citadel —
As it were sweet to fill an urn in this
Earth's mausoleum — Fame's Necropolis!
Only a few brave generals of the field
Have left a name which history will not yield;
But, emulating these, behold to-day
What new recruits still throng the dubious way,
Toiling with hope, as if beneath their tread
Slept not the host of disappointed dead.
And now another joins the aspiring line;
A pilgrim knight, and Rome his Palestine.
Rome was his dream, since in his boyish path
A Fate, or Fury, smiling, or in wrath,
Dropt the light pencil of the limner's art,
Which seen he seized, and loved with all his heart.
Ah me, in sooth, much patient love it needs
To toil and starve, where only one succeeds
Out of the thousand! Yet, he deemed it grand
Even to fail 'mid that devoted band;
To labor toward the ever-flying mart,
Led by the banners of triumphal Art;
Feeling the sweet winds from her pennons flow
Athwart the pallid cheek and fevered brow;
To hear the music, and the steady beat
Of his, and his advancing comrades' feet.
Though hard the fare, and difficult the load,
Yet Beauty smiled on either side the road,
Till it seemed good, in such a land of bloom,
To be at rest beneath a nameless tomb.
Approaching Rome, he climbed the Apennines,
Which round the horizon rolled their billowy lines,
Where sailed his heart of hope, while blood as fleet
As Mercury's pinions, winged his tireless feet.
Sweeter than breath of Fame, the perfumed air
Breathed on his lip, and cooled his sunny hair.
The scene serene; the sky a liquid blue,
Where his wild fancy with the falcon flew.
The mountain goat-herd trolled his shepherd rhyme,
The tinkling bells made chorus with their chime;
Thrilled with the lark, the arching azure rang,
And full of rosy girls the vineyards laughed and sang.
And this was Italy — the glorious goal
Of many a long-gone vision of his soul.
Oh, happy youth — he of the golden hair;
His present bright, his morrow promised fair.
How many a spirit worthy of such bliss,
For such an hour, in such a scene as this,
Would barter half its future! Through his brain
Young Jasper felt the pleasure throb like pain,
Throb like the wings of some glad bird which flies,
Aching from slavery, to his native skies.
To sketch the beauty of a wayside scene,
He turned apart 'twixt rocks and laurels green,
And under chestnut boughs, until he found
A crumbling crag, with toppling turrets crowned.
Fast flies the pencil when the heart directs;
When feeling, quicker than the sight, detects
The line of loveliness. But, hark, the leaves
Are stirred with music, and his eye perceives,
In the deep umber of the neighboring glade,
Figures, whose fiery colors in the shade
Burn like the red light of the setting sun!
One blows upon a rustic pipe; and one,
Who glows the centre of the flaming scene,
Leads their gay footsteps with her tambourine;
Still dancing as she plays, her followers,
With pleasure, more than emulating hers,
And intermingling arms, and songs insane,
Whirl till the green earth whirls with them again.
Thrice round the ring they wheel their dizzy flight,
Then past the ruin, laughing, sweep from sight.
Though swift they came, and though as swift they sped,
The painter caught the vision ere it fled;
But, striving still to fix the flying grace
Of her who led the momentary chase,
He toiled perplexed, till smothered laughter told
He was no more alone: and there, behold!
Close at his side the mirthful maiden stood,
Poised in the action of her wildest mood,
Still as a statue, with the self-same air
O'er which his pencil wrought him such despair;
The backward shoulders, tambourine aloft;
The dark eye full of laughter, large and soft;
The black waves rippling through the caught-up curls,
The crimson lips just parting on the pearls;
The full breasts heaving in their snowy wards.
As in rebellion 'gainst the crimson cords;
Her height perfection; rounded not too much,
A shape, where Nature could not add a touch;
In all, a form to poets seldom shown,
For which the painters sigh, and sculptors seek in stone.
Breathless with wonder, gazed the startled youth,
Before his senses could explain the truth,
Then madly tore the picture he had wrought,
And flung the fragments wide, as worse than naught,
And joined the laughter of the wild-eyed maid,
Who led him prisoner where her comrades strayed.
It was a level space, which once had been
The courtyard of a castle, where was seen
A fountain, choked as is a tomb with dust;
The songless triton, thick with moss and rust;
Dripping green vines where once the waters flowed;
Where ruined arch, and broken column showed
What marble splendor, and what knightly power
Reigned on this mountain in the feudal hour.
There led the maiden; and the traveller saw
Groups of wild men, who, disregarding law,
Dwell in such covert places, making bold
With others' goods, as doubtless did of old
The early masters of these castled heights,
When robbers were not thieves, but gallant knights;
And Europe still permits the old disgrace —
The boldest robber holding highest place.
As witness, — nay, I dare not thrust it home,
I hear the usurper's guard patrolling Rome.
They leaned, or sat, or lay in open air,
Most lazily making pictures unaware —
The true Italian fashion. Here a troop
Drained the red flask, and sang. And there a group
Passed the wild story; many a curious tale,
Worthy Boccaccio. Some there were lay prone
And dead in sleep, like statues overthrown,
Half buried in the grass. But when came in
The maiden with the captive, all the din
Of song and story was no longer heard;
They ceased like feathered singers, when a bird
Of foreign plumage fills their eyes with doubt.
The sudden silence, like their leader's shout,
Brought all the sleepers to their feet, and they
Waited the word to charge, or stand at bay.
" Behold! " the maiden cried, and clapt her hands;
" See my first captive; how demure he stands,
And offering no resistance. All his gold
Is mine if I demand it! And I hold
His life within my palm. " Then Pietro cried,
(Pietro, who held her his affianced bride,
And he the captain, — comeliest of the crew):
" Take you the gold, it is your rightful due,
But let his life remain as so much weight
Of dull, red copper, a most cumbrous freight
To barks which fly the chasing sloops of State.
Make fast your prize, fair pirate, and then lift
The precious bales aboard, and let him drift. "
Then uprose one, who looked as she might be
A mountain Borgia, full of majesty;
Her black hair touched with gray; her cheeks with brown —
The tan of forty summers: her swift frown
Was like a summer cloud, and lit
With fearful lightnings; yet, when she deemed fit,
The smile could melt across those features wild
With all the sweetness of a guileless child.
" Nay, Pietro, nay! Though he, whose place you hold
As head of this, our band, was bad and bold;
My master, yes, and thine; he was too brave
To bid the hand he loved do what the knave,
The cut-throat at his side could do as well!
The child is innocent, and so shall dwell,
While I remain her mother and her guard. "
" Come, come, good mistress; pray you, not so hard! "
Gay Pietro answered. " It were sport to see
The young hawk pluck the heron! Would not he
Much rather feel those dimpled fingers lurk
About his breast, than hands for rougher work.
But, be it as you will. There, Jocco, you
Try what your art on our new friend can do. "
The robber slave strode forward, then recoiled;
Though not accustomed to be checked or foiled,
Nor easily daunted; but the maiden's look
Had something in it which he dared not brook.
Then seized she the spadino from her hair,
Which fell a storm of tresses, and the glare
Of the bright weapon glittering in the sun,
Flashed like her eye of anger. Every one
Cried, " Brava, brava! " even, as at play,
Clapping their loud applause, till, far away
Among the rocks, the aerial robber bands
Of echoes answered back with merry tongues and hands.
Thrice round the throng she sped her fiery glance,
Which glittered like a bright, defiant lance,
And held her threatening posture till she saw
They all approved, and owned her will was law.
Then, confidently, in the stranger's hand
She placed her own, and said, " Let all the band
Show hospitality, and none offend
In word, or look, or deed, my artist friend!
Have you not heard the Roman painters tell
(You, who are models, know the story well),
How wild Salvator, in a mountain cave,
Lived with the robbers; how they freely gave
Their bread and wine, and shelter; and that he
Conceived there those great pictures which you see
On palace walls; and which the princes hold
More precious than thick tablets of pure gold?
So was it once; and let it now be shown
That we can have a Rosa of our own. "
Give us, God, to Thee now turning,
Fullness of joy, tears full and burning,
Of will the full refining fire!
Hear our prayer o'er his inurning:
His will was one , the whole discerning,
His whole soul would to it aspire.
Yes, give us yet again,
With power to lead, great men, —
Power in counsel our folk to lead,
Our folk in deed,
Our folk in gladness and in need!
Thou, O God, our want preventest;
To raise the temple him Thou lentest,
A spirit bright and pure and great.
When Thou from time to call him meantest,
Her tender soul to him Thou sentest
Who went before to heaven's gate.
When Thou didst set him free,
An epoch ceased to be.
Men then marveled, the while they said:
" Living and dead,
O'er all our land he beauty spread. "
Help us, God, to wiser waring,
When to our land Thou light art bearing,
That we Thy dayspring then may know.
God, our future Thou 'rt preparing,
Oh, give us longing, honor's daring,
That we the great may not forego!
Thou sentest many out, —
Cease not, our God, nor doubt!
Let us follow Thy way, Thy call,
Men, words, and all!
Thy mercies shall our North enwall!
An artist army gone to noteless dust,
The tribute of all nations, and they lie,
Their campaign o'er, beneath their favorite sky,
A tranquil brotherhood. How calmly well
They sleep at last in Caesar's citadel —
As it were sweet to fill an urn in this
Earth's mausoleum — Fame's Necropolis!
Only a few brave generals of the field
Have left a name which history will not yield;
But, emulating these, behold to-day
What new recruits still throng the dubious way,
Toiling with hope, as if beneath their tread
Slept not the host of disappointed dead.
And now another joins the aspiring line;
A pilgrim knight, and Rome his Palestine.
Rome was his dream, since in his boyish path
A Fate, or Fury, smiling, or in wrath,
Dropt the light pencil of the limner's art,
Which seen he seized, and loved with all his heart.
Ah me, in sooth, much patient love it needs
To toil and starve, where only one succeeds
Out of the thousand! Yet, he deemed it grand
Even to fail 'mid that devoted band;
To labor toward the ever-flying mart,
Led by the banners of triumphal Art;
Feeling the sweet winds from her pennons flow
Athwart the pallid cheek and fevered brow;
To hear the music, and the steady beat
Of his, and his advancing comrades' feet.
Though hard the fare, and difficult the load,
Yet Beauty smiled on either side the road,
Till it seemed good, in such a land of bloom,
To be at rest beneath a nameless tomb.
Approaching Rome, he climbed the Apennines,
Which round the horizon rolled their billowy lines,
Where sailed his heart of hope, while blood as fleet
As Mercury's pinions, winged his tireless feet.
Sweeter than breath of Fame, the perfumed air
Breathed on his lip, and cooled his sunny hair.
The scene serene; the sky a liquid blue,
Where his wild fancy with the falcon flew.
The mountain goat-herd trolled his shepherd rhyme,
The tinkling bells made chorus with their chime;
Thrilled with the lark, the arching azure rang,
And full of rosy girls the vineyards laughed and sang.
And this was Italy — the glorious goal
Of many a long-gone vision of his soul.
Oh, happy youth — he of the golden hair;
His present bright, his morrow promised fair.
How many a spirit worthy of such bliss,
For such an hour, in such a scene as this,
Would barter half its future! Through his brain
Young Jasper felt the pleasure throb like pain,
Throb like the wings of some glad bird which flies,
Aching from slavery, to his native skies.
To sketch the beauty of a wayside scene,
He turned apart 'twixt rocks and laurels green,
And under chestnut boughs, until he found
A crumbling crag, with toppling turrets crowned.
Fast flies the pencil when the heart directs;
When feeling, quicker than the sight, detects
The line of loveliness. But, hark, the leaves
Are stirred with music, and his eye perceives,
In the deep umber of the neighboring glade,
Figures, whose fiery colors in the shade
Burn like the red light of the setting sun!
One blows upon a rustic pipe; and one,
Who glows the centre of the flaming scene,
Leads their gay footsteps with her tambourine;
Still dancing as she plays, her followers,
With pleasure, more than emulating hers,
And intermingling arms, and songs insane,
Whirl till the green earth whirls with them again.
Thrice round the ring they wheel their dizzy flight,
Then past the ruin, laughing, sweep from sight.
Though swift they came, and though as swift they sped,
The painter caught the vision ere it fled;
But, striving still to fix the flying grace
Of her who led the momentary chase,
He toiled perplexed, till smothered laughter told
He was no more alone: and there, behold!
Close at his side the mirthful maiden stood,
Poised in the action of her wildest mood,
Still as a statue, with the self-same air
O'er which his pencil wrought him such despair;
The backward shoulders, tambourine aloft;
The dark eye full of laughter, large and soft;
The black waves rippling through the caught-up curls,
The crimson lips just parting on the pearls;
The full breasts heaving in their snowy wards.
As in rebellion 'gainst the crimson cords;
Her height perfection; rounded not too much,
A shape, where Nature could not add a touch;
In all, a form to poets seldom shown,
For which the painters sigh, and sculptors seek in stone.
Breathless with wonder, gazed the startled youth,
Before his senses could explain the truth,
Then madly tore the picture he had wrought,
And flung the fragments wide, as worse than naught,
And joined the laughter of the wild-eyed maid,
Who led him prisoner where her comrades strayed.
It was a level space, which once had been
The courtyard of a castle, where was seen
A fountain, choked as is a tomb with dust;
The songless triton, thick with moss and rust;
Dripping green vines where once the waters flowed;
Where ruined arch, and broken column showed
What marble splendor, and what knightly power
Reigned on this mountain in the feudal hour.
There led the maiden; and the traveller saw
Groups of wild men, who, disregarding law,
Dwell in such covert places, making bold
With others' goods, as doubtless did of old
The early masters of these castled heights,
When robbers were not thieves, but gallant knights;
And Europe still permits the old disgrace —
The boldest robber holding highest place.
As witness, — nay, I dare not thrust it home,
I hear the usurper's guard patrolling Rome.
They leaned, or sat, or lay in open air,
Most lazily making pictures unaware —
The true Italian fashion. Here a troop
Drained the red flask, and sang. And there a group
Passed the wild story; many a curious tale,
Worthy Boccaccio. Some there were lay prone
And dead in sleep, like statues overthrown,
Half buried in the grass. But when came in
The maiden with the captive, all the din
Of song and story was no longer heard;
They ceased like feathered singers, when a bird
Of foreign plumage fills their eyes with doubt.
The sudden silence, like their leader's shout,
Brought all the sleepers to their feet, and they
Waited the word to charge, or stand at bay.
" Behold! " the maiden cried, and clapt her hands;
" See my first captive; how demure he stands,
And offering no resistance. All his gold
Is mine if I demand it! And I hold
His life within my palm. " Then Pietro cried,
(Pietro, who held her his affianced bride,
And he the captain, — comeliest of the crew):
" Take you the gold, it is your rightful due,
But let his life remain as so much weight
Of dull, red copper, a most cumbrous freight
To barks which fly the chasing sloops of State.
Make fast your prize, fair pirate, and then lift
The precious bales aboard, and let him drift. "
Then uprose one, who looked as she might be
A mountain Borgia, full of majesty;
Her black hair touched with gray; her cheeks with brown —
The tan of forty summers: her swift frown
Was like a summer cloud, and lit
With fearful lightnings; yet, when she deemed fit,
The smile could melt across those features wild
With all the sweetness of a guileless child.
" Nay, Pietro, nay! Though he, whose place you hold
As head of this, our band, was bad and bold;
My master, yes, and thine; he was too brave
To bid the hand he loved do what the knave,
The cut-throat at his side could do as well!
The child is innocent, and so shall dwell,
While I remain her mother and her guard. "
" Come, come, good mistress; pray you, not so hard! "
Gay Pietro answered. " It were sport to see
The young hawk pluck the heron! Would not he
Much rather feel those dimpled fingers lurk
About his breast, than hands for rougher work.
But, be it as you will. There, Jocco, you
Try what your art on our new friend can do. "
The robber slave strode forward, then recoiled;
Though not accustomed to be checked or foiled,
Nor easily daunted; but the maiden's look
Had something in it which he dared not brook.
Then seized she the spadino from her hair,
Which fell a storm of tresses, and the glare
Of the bright weapon glittering in the sun,
Flashed like her eye of anger. Every one
Cried, " Brava, brava! " even, as at play,
Clapping their loud applause, till, far away
Among the rocks, the aerial robber bands
Of echoes answered back with merry tongues and hands.
Thrice round the throng she sped her fiery glance,
Which glittered like a bright, defiant lance,
And held her threatening posture till she saw
They all approved, and owned her will was law.
Then, confidently, in the stranger's hand
She placed her own, and said, " Let all the band
Show hospitality, and none offend
In word, or look, or deed, my artist friend!
Have you not heard the Roman painters tell
(You, who are models, know the story well),
How wild Salvator, in a mountain cave,
Lived with the robbers; how they freely gave
Their bread and wine, and shelter; and that he
Conceived there those great pictures which you see
On palace walls; and which the princes hold
More precious than thick tablets of pure gold?
So was it once; and let it now be shown
That we can have a Rosa of our own. "
Give us, God, to Thee now turning,
Fullness of joy, tears full and burning,
Of will the full refining fire!
Hear our prayer o'er his inurning:
His will was one , the whole discerning,
His whole soul would to it aspire.
Yes, give us yet again,
With power to lead, great men, —
Power in counsel our folk to lead,
Our folk in deed,
Our folk in gladness and in need!
Thou, O God, our want preventest;
To raise the temple him Thou lentest,
A spirit bright and pure and great.
When Thou from time to call him meantest,
Her tender soul to him Thou sentest
Who went before to heaven's gate.
When Thou didst set him free,
An epoch ceased to be.
Men then marveled, the while they said:
" Living and dead,
O'er all our land he beauty spread. "
Help us, God, to wiser waring,
When to our land Thou light art bearing,
That we Thy dayspring then may know.
God, our future Thou 'rt preparing,
Oh, give us longing, honor's daring,
That we the great may not forego!
Thou sentest many out, —
Cease not, our God, nor doubt!
Let us follow Thy way, Thy call,
Men, words, and all!
Thy mercies shall our North enwall!
Translation:
Language:
Reviews
No reviews yet.