Classic Poem

Introduction.

Since the very God of Numbers
Pallid grew with love's unrest,
Since the laurel round his temples
Token gives of love unblest,

Who can wonder, that but seldom
Shineth out a star benign
O'er the fate of mortal minstrels
Circled with the wreath divine?

That their looks are sad and earnest,
Mournful oft their music's strain;
That of bliss they sing but little,
Much of grief and longings vain?

Loves of minstrels, deep and mournful,
Sung in long-forgotten day,
Let me now, in sombre colours,
Rev'rently your woes pourtray.

1. Rudello.

'Mid Provence's happy valleys
First the " Minnesang " appeared,
Child of Spring and sweet Affection,
(Close companions, long endeared).

Flow'rets' bloom and thrilling voices,
These its father plainly shew;
Warmth of passion, yearnings restless,
These its mother taught to glow.

Sweet Provence's happy valleys,
Aye have ye luxuriant been;
Fairest of thy lovely blossoms
Glowed the " Love-song's " splendid sheen.

Where have knights so brave and comely
Dignified the minstrel-race?
Where have dames of rank and beauty
E'er been praised with happier grace?

Honoured by the race of minstrels,
Worthiest seemed Rudello's name;
When his harp her praises sounded,
Blest indeed the honoured dame!

Yet could none that heard discover
Where the nameless maid was found,
Who with more than mortal sweetness
Made Rudello's song resound.

Only in night's silent watches
Drew she near the minstrel's side,
Touching ne'er the ground beneath her,
Traceless, lithe — as visions glide.

When his arms he stretched to clasp her,
Fled she to the clouds again;
Then, 'mid tears and soft lamentings,
Sweetly rose his plaintive strain.

Sailors, pilgrims, bold crusaders,
All alike the tidings bore,
Saying that the crown of beauty
Tripoli's fair Countess wore.

When Rudello heard the rumour,
Swifter grew his pulse's play;
Soon towards the strand he hastened
Where the ships in order lay.

Sea! uncertain, tost by tempest,
Fathomless and unexpressed!
O'er thy waste and barren billows
Well may wander wild unrest!

Far from Tripoli storm-driven,
Flies the minstrel's vessel fast;
Storm without, and love within him,
Fails Rudello's strength at last.

Strengthless, spent, he lies unmoving,
Eastward still he turns his gaze,
Till, upon the shore, a palace
Rises bright with morning's rays.

Then to the sad minstrel's longings
Smiling heav'n at length is kind;
Into Tripoli's fair haven
Flies the ship with favouring wind.

Scarce had heard the lovely Countess
That a guest so famed had come,
Who, alone, for her sake only
O'er the rolling seas had swum,

Ere, by all her dames attended,
Came she to the level strand,
As with tott'ring step Rudello
Stept upon the steadfast land.

She her hand extends to greet him;
Seems the earth to shake and roll;
Caught by one who stayed his footsteps,
Breathes he out his wounded soul.

She her minstrel duly honours,
Buries him with costly state;
Rears a porphyry column o'er him,
Telling his unhappy fate.

Next she bids his songs be written,
Every letter wrought in gold;
Costly and embellished covers
Round the leaves she bids them fold.

Many an hour she reads the poems,
Reads them oft with grief oppressed,
Till, like his, her soul is smitten
With that nameless, wild unrest.

Parting from the court's gay splendour,
Leaving all companions dear,
Seeks she, in the convent-cloister,
Peace — her wounded soul to cheer.

2. Durand.

Harp in hand, to Balbi's fortress
Young Durand still upward steers;
Sweetest songs his breast are filling —
Lo! the happy goal he nears.

There (he knows) a winsome damsel
Waits, in breathless silence bound;
Waits with downcast eyes, deep blushing,
Listening for his music's sound.

From the court by lindens shaded
Upward now the music streams;
Clear and full, his voice outpoureth
Whatsoe'er he sweetest deems.

From the window high above him,
Friendly flowers towards him bend;
Nowhere can his eyes discover
Her whom all his lays commend.

Slowly strides a man to meet him,
Sad the tones in which he saith —
" Vex not thou the silent sleeper,
Fair Bianca sleeps in death! "

Young Durand, the peerless minstrel,
Word of answer never spake!
Lo! his eyes are dimmed already:
Grief his heart that instant brake.

Yonder, in, the fortress-chapel,
Where unnumbered tapers glare,
Where the lifeless damsel resteth
Decked with garlands fresh and fair,

Falls on all a joyous trembling,
Falls a strange and wondrous fear;
Lo! they see the fair Bianca
Rising from her funeral bier!

Naught she knows what things have happened,
Dreamy thoughts still round her cling;
Softly, longingly she asketh,
" Heard I not Durando sing? "

Yes! Durand sang sweetly, clearly,
Nevermore he now shall sing;
He to life the dead hath raised,
Him to life shall no one bring!

In the realms of bliss awaking,
Roams he through its regions fair,
Anxiously he seeks the lov'd one
Whom he deems already there

Far before his sight extended,
Views he the celestial halls;
Through the lonely courts of Eden
Vainly he " Bianca! " calls.

3. The Castellan of Couci.

How the Castellan of Couci
To his side pressed close his hand,
When the beauteous Dame of Fayel
First his wondering glances scanned!

Ever from that happy instant
Through his songs there gently thrilled
Something of the blissful rapture
That his heart had wholly filled.

Ah! his art could little aid him,
Vain his songs, his music sweet!
Never hoped his wildest dreamings
That his heart on hers should beat.

Even though at times she listened
Gladly to a tender song,
Close beside her haughty husband,
Silent, stern, she moved along.

Then the Castellan, despairing,
Clad with coat of steel his breast;
O'er his heart the Cross displaying,
That its beatings soon might rest.

When in Holy Land the warrior
Oft had borne a gallant part,
Flies a shaft thro' Cross and breast-plate,
Piercing through his noble heart.

" Hear me now, my trusty servant,
When this heart no more shall beat,
Bear it to the Dame of Fayel,
Lay it at the lady's feet. "

Buried lay the noble body
'Neath the chilly, sacred soil;
Still his heart, his heart so weary,
Finds as yet no rest from toil.

Soon it lies, 'mid fragrant spices,
Hid within an urn of gold;
Soon the servant climbs on shipboard,
Clasping it with careful hold.

Tempests bluster, waves encounter,
Lightnings flash, the masts are cleft;
Anxiously all hearts are beating,
All — save one of fear bereft.

Brightly shines the sun returning,
Gleams in sight the Gallic shore;
Joyously all hearts are beating,
All — save one that beats no more.

See! through Fayel's darksome forest,
Urn in hand, the servant hies;
Hark! a lusty horn is sounded,
Loud each huntsman's voice replies.

Darts a stag from out the thicket,
Through its heart an arrow flies;
Bounding up — it falls before him,
Stretched before his feet, it dies.

See! the gloomy knight of Fayel,
(His the hand the bow that drew),
Hastens up, by huntsmen followed;
Closely all the stranger view.

Coveting the golden vessel,
Many hands to seize it fly;
But the servant, back recoiling,
Speaks, with hand upraised on high.

" This a minstrel's heart containeth,
Famed for many a daring deed;
'Tis the Castellan's of Couci,
Let this heart in peace proceed;

Dying, this command he gave me,
When this heart hath ceased to beat,
Bear it to the Dame of Fayel,
Lay it at the lady's feet. "

" Well I know that winsome lady " ,
Answer made the huntsman stern,
Quickly from th' astonished servant
Catching up the golden urn.

Bearing it beneath his mantle,
Brooding hate, he rides apart;
To his own, with vengeance boiling,
Clasping close the dead man's heart.

Through the castle-gateway spurring,
Summons he the cooks in haste,
Saying — " When ye dress the ven'son,
Be this heart beside it placed. "

Soon, with garlands gay surrounded,
Borne upon a dish of gold,
At the board where sit together
Knight and Dame, the heart behold!

Gaily to the fair he hands it,
Saying with a smiling air:
" Whatsoe'er mine arrow slayeth,
Thou the heart shalt alway share. "

Scarce the dame the heart had tasted,
Ere, beset by sudden fears,
Seemed she as from sight dissolving
Into founts of streaming tears.

Then the gloomy Knight of Fayel
Speaks with laughter wild, unholy;
" Tis of pigeons' hearts asserted
That they make one melancholy!

How much more, O spouse beloved,
This that now to thee belongs!
'Tis the Castellan's of Couci,
His — that cooed such tender songs! "

When the Knight these words hath spoken,
These and many jests beside,
Proudly then the Dame, uprising,
Slowly, solemnly replied:

" Gross injustice, Knight, you shew me;
Thine was I, nor sought to change;
Yet, of such a heart partaking,
Thoughts o'erwhelm me, new and strange;

Many a thought my soul remembers
Sung by him in earnest tone;
Living, he was aye a stranger,
Dead, he claims me for his own.

Yes! to death am I devoted,
Never meal henceforth I eat;
Since this heart I now have tasted,
Other food were all unmeet.

May to thee the Judge Eternal
Pardon at the last impart. " —
See! how much of pain and sorrow
Sprung from out a poet's heart!

4. Don Massias.

Don Massias of Gallicia
Named " the Passionate " in song,
Sat in Arjonilla's fortress,
Mourning her he loved so long.

To a Count, renowned and wealthy,
Wedded was the beauteous maid;
Far from her the minstrel languished,
Banished, and in prison laid.

Sadly at the lattice singing,
Oft he made the wanderer stay;
Oft from thence fell rustling downward
Leaves that bore some tender lay.

Whether by some wanderer's message
Or by winds the tale was borne,
Well the dame he loved so fondly
Knew he never ceased to mourn.

Jealously her husband watched her,
Chafing, to himself he said:
" Shall a minstrel prove my terror
Even when in dungeon laid? "

Hastily he leapt on horseback,
Armed as if for battle-hour;
Rode to fair Granada's frontier,
Rode to Arjonilla's tower.

Don Massias, passion-stricken,
Close behind the lattice stood,
Sweetly sang his fair one's praises,
Struck the strings in rapt'rous mood.

In the stirrups rose his foeman,
Hurled his lance with effort strong;
Pierced is Don Massias' bosom,
Swanlike — he expired in song.

Then the Count, assured of conquest,
Hastens to Gallicia's shore;
Vain the thought — though dead the minstrel,
Live his ballads more and more!

Far through every Spanish province
Fly his tuneful lays of love;
Nightingales they seem to others,
Harpies dire to one they prove.

Often at the festive banquet
Suddenly they wound his ear;
Often from his midnight slumbers
Wakes he with a start of fear.

In the street, and in the garden,
Plaintive tones are heard around;
Yea! like wailing ghostly voices,
Don Massias' songs resound.

5. Dante.

Was it but the gate of Florence,
Was't the gate of Paradise,
Whence, upon a fair May morning,
Poured a troop in festal guise?

Children, fair as troops of angels,
Richly dight with garlands gay,
Hastened tow'rd the vale of roses,
There to join in dance and play.

Dante, who nine years had numbered,
Stood beneath a laurel's shade;
Straight his glance discerned an angel
In the loveliest youthful maid.

Rustled not the laurel's branches
When the Zephyr caught the grove?
Trembled not young Dante's spirit,
Breathed on by the breath of love?

Yes! within his heart that instant
Forth the fount of music brake;
Soon in Canzonets and Sonnets
Tenderly his love outspake.

When once more she met the poet
In her prime of maidenhood,
Like a tree that raineth blossoms,
Firm and fair his glory stood.

See! from out the gates of Florence
Pours once more a num'rous train;
Slowly, mournfully, it issues
To a sad and plaintive strain.

'Neath a pall of sable velvet
Which a silver cross doth wear,
Plucked by Death in bloom of beauty,
Beatrice forth they bear.

Dante in his chamber rested
Lonely, still, till sunlight failed,
Heard afar the death-bell booming;
Silently his face he veiled.

Through the forest's deepest shadow
Paced the noble bard alone;
Like the death-bell's distant booming,
Sounded then his music's tone.

But within that dreary desert
Full to him of grief and fear,
From the band of souls departed
Came a God-sent messenger,

Who his steps securely guided
Far through Hell's remotest gloom;
Where his earthly grief was silenced,
Seeing souls fulfil their doom.

Soon, his gloomy path pursuing,
Came he to the blessed light;
Then, from Heav'n's wide-opened portals
Came his love, to greet his sight.

Far through Heav'n's delightful regions
Soared on high the favoured ones;
She , with eyes intent, unblinded,
Gazing on the Sun of Suns;

He , with eyes aside directed
Tow'rds his loved one's countenance,
Which, all-glorious, like a mirror,
Shewed him the Eternal's glance.

Shrined in an immortal poem
Is the splendid vision shewn,
Written with such fiery traces
As the lightning writes on stone.

Rightly was this poet honoured
With the title — " the Divine " —
Dante, who could earthly passion
To celestial love refine.