Classic Poem

On field and wood and sea the noontide sun
Unpitying pours his batteries of fire.
Along the low horizon, dusky clouds
Fade swift, a phantom army, while afar
Looms a red haze, like smoke from pillaged homes
Burnt and beleaguered. From the bay-trees tall
The long, weird moss, in shadowy, gray festoons
Droops prone, as in a picture. Motionless
The feathery weesatch spreads its tent of lace;
Like an enchantress, o'er the chaparral dense
The love-vine weaves her net, and climbing far
From branch to branch her amber necklace flings.
Past the dark forest's thick and tangled fringe.
Of shrub and clambering brier, the dusty road
Writhes like a serpent in the glaring heat,
And all is silent, save, in some lagoon,
The gray crane's hollow trumpet.

In her arms
Clasping a sleeping child, a wanderer treads
The hot and dusty highway. Hour by hour
Her slender feet have trudged since yesterday;
Those tender feet, so lately resting soft
On velvet cushions; careless now of toil
Or heat or fear or danger, so they fly
From that dread city where carousing mirth
Mocks at disease and death; where gasping groans
Gurgle through parching throats that vainly beg
For water, in the festering dens of want;
While reckless revellers in saloon and hall
Scatter life's priceless jewel-hours away
Like children tossing pearls into the sea
Unmindful of their worth.

She has come forth,
But not in fear of pestilence, though the Plague
Stalks with his noiseless shoon from door to door.
Her hand was readiest the hot brow to bathe,
The feverish lip to cool; her voice to breathe
Kind solace in the failing ear, beneath
Death's hammer deadening. But there is a blight
More fearful than the fever of the South;
A wilder sorrow than the helpless cries
Of motherless children sobbing in the night;
A look more terrible than the spirit's gaze
Striving to pierce the death-film: The gray mould
That settles on the wrung heart's tattered robes;
The moan of faith slow perishing amidst
The trampled flowers of promise; and the look
Stony and cold, which, like a jagged flint,
Is struck into the soul from eyes that once
Sent forth the silver shafts of love alone;
From these she flies, with trembling, pallid lips
Stammering a prayer for peace. Oh for one voice,
One faithful voice of breeze or bird or stream,
To breathe its benediction!

Dim, afar,
On the horizon's dusky line, arise
The roofs and chimneys of her native town.
She sees Saint Saviour's dark asylum towers
Midst gardens belted by a crystal stream,
Where witless, woeful creatures restless flit
Or aimless stand beneath the embowering trees.
O changing years! whose flowers have bloomed but twice,
But twice, since from yon belfry on the height
Pealed the glad marriage-bell; since, bright with hope,
A joyous escort led a joyous bride
Along the hill-side path, while, crowding close
Behind Saint Saviour's hedge, the wretched ones
Smiled on her, tendering thus their broken thanks
For many a gentle kindness at her hands.
The sunlight glancing from the chapel spire
Pierces her like a sword; she hurries on;
When, near the asylum grounds, a haggard face
Rivets her flying feet. Beside the gate,
A jabbering figure in a faded gown,
Wearing upon her head a threadbare scarf
Fantastic wound, sits rocking to and fro,
And muttering in the sun, while through her long
And bony fingers busily she sifts
The ashen dust, repeating now and then,
With low and senseless laughter, the refrain
La Belle Justine.

Her own, her household name,
Woven into rhymes of compliment and set
To the soft measure of a Tuscan tune;
La Belle Justine , a lay of love and faith
And twilight peace and calm, babbled and mouthed
By this poor drivelling thing! She knows it now,
The story rumour whispered long ago
Of a young girl who dwelt in peace beside
The pebble-paved Amite, the one sole ray
Brightening a widowed mother's humble cot,
Till a light summer traveller who had come
From the gay capital to drink the strength
Of the great pine-woods and the simple health
Of sylvan people, set her innocent pulse
Aflame with songs of passion; and with gifts —
Quaint ear-rings wrought of beaten Mexican gold,
Chains for her throat and amber for her hair —
Used all a robber's wiles to steal from her
The priceless pearl of honour. She had wept
Over this story of a bad man's craft,
Nor dreamed 'twas he who sung, in after-years,
La Belle Justine beside her own low porch,
And won her from her home, a lawful bride,
Only to find in his, though princely fair,
A Tophet of despair.

Transfixed she stands
Beside the lone dementate; but again
With quickened pace she hurries on her way.
Why should she linger? Balm nor aconite
Can soothe that fatal sickness, nor kind words
Awaken in that soul's discordant strings
One vibrant echo. So, while tremors chill
Like serpents creep along her tottering limbs,
She turns aside into a lonely path
And with a shudder lifts her startled face
In thankfulness to heaven that she has still
The light of reason left.

The breathless night
Broods like an incantation as she sits
Beside the deep, dark river. Sobbing low
Beneath the sombre arches of the bridge,
The waters moan, as if they felt the shame
That stays her feet from crossing; bitter shame,
The bitterer for her innocence! Yonder lies
The home which, in her dreary wanderings,
Drew, like a magnet, her wild feet at first,
Then changed into a terror, as she neared
Its peaceful quiet; so we writhe and shrink
When Memory on the tablets of the soul
Electrotypes her contrasts.

To the sky
Again she turns bewildered. In the south
The advancing Archer draws his burnished bow,
Crafty and silent; glittering Scorpio coils
Beside the crouching Wolf; while, fold on fold,
Through the star-meadows blossoming with light
Trails the huge Serpent. Must the very heavens
Scoff at her wretchedness with symbols dire,
And mock her with suggestions?

Closer still
She clasps her babe, and shuddering sees the night
Come darkening down; when lo! the child awakes
Transfigured, and with smile and prattle looks
Up to the brightening sky. Her tearless eyes
Instinctive follow his. High overhead
Vibrates the golden Lyre; on soaring wings
The Eagle bears Antinous; through the boughs
Of the dark orange-trees the rising moon
Shows her bright shield, while o'er the waters dark
Shine the soft evening lamps, and flute-like floats
A woman's silvery treble, singing sweet,
" Keep us, O King of kings! "

The compline bell
Rings from Saint Saviour's tower. Her baby sleeps
Safe nestled in the old familiar room;
And resting on her mother's heart, Justine
Hears the brown oriole twittering to the moon
Beneath the green veranda's bamboo shade;
She sees the white mists stealing from the sea,
While round the dagger-trees the fire-flies gleam
And o'er the dewy terrace, incense-like,
Sweet garden scents arise.

O King of kings!
Inscrutable! whose hand alike doth guide
Beetle and bird, alike doth trim the lamps
Of Lyra and the glow-worm, bid the night
Teach her its blessed lesson: That each leaf
And shrub and flower that trembles in the air,
Each cloud and star and insect silver-winged,
Unto the sorrowing and blighted breathes
Its silent pax vobiscum; and although
The crawling reptile treachery has left
Its slime upon the blossoms of her life,
And the sharp javelins of a destiny
Cruel and unrelenting have been thrust
Into her spirit, Thou hast power to give
Strength like the eagle's to her broken wing,
Till, taught in Nature's temple, she shall reach
The shining heights where mildews blight no more
And sorrow's wailing minor key is changed
To the full anthem of the seraphim.