The Improvisatrice; and Other Poems

Front matter

THE IMPROVISATRICE;

AND

OTHER POEMS.

The Improvisatrice

THE IMPROVISTRICE.

I am a daughter of that land, Where the poet’s lip and the painter’s hand Are most divine,—where the earth and sky, Are picture both and poetry— I am of Florence. ’Mid the chill Of hope and feeling, oh! I still Am proud to think to where I owe My birth, though but the dawn of woe!

My childhood passed ’mid radiant things, Glorious as Hope’s imaginings; Statues but known from shapes of the earth, By being too lovely for mortal birth; Paintings whose colours of life were caught From the fairy tints in the rainbow wrought; Music whose sighs had a spell like those That float on the sea at the evening’s close Language so silvery, that every word Was like the lute’s awakening chord; Skies half sunshine, and half starlight; Flowers whose lives were a breath of delight; Leaves whose green pomp know no withering; Fountains bright as the skies of our Spring; And songs whose wild and passionate line Suited a soul of romance like mine.

My power was but a woman’s power; Yet, in that great and glorious dower Which Genius gives, I had my part: I poured my full and burning heart In song, and on the canvass made My dreams of beauty visible; I knew not which I loved the most— Pencil or lute,—both loved so well.

Oh, yet my pulse throbs to recall, When first upon the gallery’s wall Picture of mine was placed, to share Wonder and praise from each one there. Sad were my shades; methinks they had Almost a tone of prophecy— I ever had, from earliest youth, A feeling what my fate would be.

My first was of a gorgeous hall, Lighted up for festival; Braided tresses, and cheeks of bloom, Diamond agraff, and foam-white plume; Censers of roses, vases of light Like what the moon sheds on a summer night. Youths and maidens with linked hands, Joined in the graceful sarabands, Smiled on the canvass; but apart Was one who leant in silent mood, As revelry to his sick heart Were worse than veriest solitude. Pale, dark-eyed, beautiful, and young, Such as he had shone o’er my slumbers, When I had only slept to dream Over again his magic numbers.

Divinest Petrarch! he whose lyre, Like morning light, half dew, half fire, To Laura and to love was vowed— He looked on one, who with the crowd Mingled, but mixed not; on whose cheek There was a blush, as if she knew Whose look was fixed on her’s. Her eye, Of a spring-sky’s delicious blue, Had not the language of that bloom, But mingling tears, and light, and gloom, Was raised abstractedly to Heaven:— No sign was to her lover given. I painted her with golden tresses, Such as float on the wind’s caresses When the laburnums wildly fling Their sunny blossoms to the spring,

A cheek which had the crimson hue Upon the sun-touched nectarine; A lip of perfume and of dew; A brow like twilight’s darkened line. I strove to catch each charm that long Has lived,—thanks to her lover’s song! Each grace he numbered one by one, That shone in her of Avignon.

I ever thought that poet’s fate Utterly lone and desolate. It is the spirit’s bitterest pain To love, to be beloved again; And yet between a gulf which ever The hearts that burn to meet must sever And he was vowed to one sweet star, Bright yet to him, but bright afar.

O’er some, Love’s shadow may but pass As passes the breath stain o’er glass; And pleasures, cares, and pride combined, Fill up the blank Love leaves behind. But there are some whose love is high, Entire, and sole idolatry; Who, turning from a heartless world, Ask some dear thing, which may renew Affection’s severed links, and be As true as they themselves are true. But Love’s bright fount is never pure; And all his pilgrims must endure All passion’s mighty suffering Ere they may reach the blessed spring. And some who waste their lives to find A prize which they may never win:

Like those who search for Irem’s groves, Which found, they may not enter in. Where is the sorrow but appears In Love’s long catalogue of tears? And some there are who leave the path In agony and fierce disdain; But bear upon each cankered breast The scar that never heals again.

My next was of a minstrel too. Who proved what woman’s hand might do, When, true to the heart pulse, it woke The harp. Her head was bending down, As if in weariness, and near, But unworn, was a laurel crown. She was not beautiful, if bloom And smiles form beauty; for, like death,

Her brow was ghastly; and her lip Was parched, as fever were its breath. There was a shade upon her dark, Large, floating eyes, as if each spark Of minstrel ecstasy was fled, Yet leaving them no tears to shed; Fixed in their hopelessness of care, And reckless in their great despair. She sat beneath a cypress tree, A little fountain ran beside, And, in the distance, one dark rock Threw its long shadow o’er the tide; And to the west, where the nightfall Was darkening day’s gemm’d coronal, Its white shafts crimsoning in the sky, Arose the sun-god’s sanctuary.

I deemed, that of lyre, life, and love She was a long, last farewell taking;— That, from her pale and parched lips, Her latest, wildest song was breaking.

Sappho’s Song

SAPPHO'S SONG.

Farewell, my lute!—and would that I Had never waked thy burning chords! Poison has been upon thy sigh, And fever has breathed in thy words.

Yet wherefore, wherefore should I blame Thy power, thy spell, my gentlest lute? I should have been the wretch I am, Had every chord of thine been mute.

It was my evil star above, Not my sweet lute, that wrought me wrong;

It was not song that taught me love, But it was love that taught me song.

If song be past, and hope undone, And pulse, and head, and heart, are flame; It is thy work, thou faithless one! But, no!—I will not name thy name!

Sun-god, lute, wreath are vowed to thee! Long be their light upon my grave— My glorious grave—yon deep blue sea: I shall sleep calm beneath its wave!

6

Florence! with what idolatry I ’ve lingered in thy radiant halls, Worshipping, till my dizzy eye Grew dim with gazing on those walls,

Where Time had spared each glorious gift By Genius unto Memory left! And when seen by the pale moonlight, More pure, more perfect, though less bright, What dreams of song flashed on my brain, Till each shade seemed to live again; And then the beautiful, the grand, The glorious of my native land, In every flower that threw its veil Aside, when wooed by the spring gale; In every vineyard, where the sun, His task of summer ripening done, Shone on their clusters, and a song Came lightly from the peasant throng;— In the dim loveliness of night, In fountains with their diamond light,

In aged temple, ruined shrine, And its green wreath of ivy twine;— In every change of earth and sky, Breathed the deep soul of poesy.

As yet I loved not;—but each wild, High thought I nourished raised a pyre For love to light; and lighted once By love, it would be like the fire The burning lava floods that dwell In Etna’s cave unquenchable.

One evening in the lovely June, Over the Arno’s waters gliding, I had been watching the fair moon Amid her court of white clouds riding;—

I had been listening to the gale, Which wafted music from around, (For scarce a lover, at that hour, But waked his mandolin’s light sound),— And odour was upon the breeze, Sweet thefts from rose and lemon trees.

They stole me from my lulling dream, And said they knew that such an hour Had ever influence on my soul, And raised my sweetest minstrel power. I took my lute,—my eye had been Wandering round the lovely scene, Filled with those melancholy tears, Which come when all most bright appears,

And hold their strange and secret power, Even on pleasure’s golden hour. I had been looking on the river, Half-marvelling to think that ever Wind, wave, or sky, could darken where All seemed so gentle and so fair: And mingled with these thoughts there came A tale, just one that Memory keeps— Forgotten music, still some chance Vibrate the chord whereon it sleeps!

A Moorish Romance

A MOORISH ROMANCE.

Softly through the pomegranate groves Came the gentle song of the doves; Shone the fruit in the evening light, Like Indian rubies, blood-red and bright;

Shook the date-trees each tufted head, As the passing wind their green nuts shed; And, like dark columns, amid the sky The giant palms ascended on high: And the mosque’s gilded minaret Glistened and glanced as the daylight set. Over the town a crimson haze Gathered and hung of the evening’s rays; And far beyond, like molten gold, The burning sands of the desert rolled. Far to the left, the sky and sea Mingled their gray immensity; And with flapping sail and idle prow The vessels threw their shades below Far down the beach, where a cypress grove Casts its shade round a little cove,

Darkling and green, with just a space For the stars to shine on the water’s face, A small bark lay, waiting for night And its breeze to waft and hide its flight. Sweet is the burthen, and lovely the freight, For which those furled-up sails await, To a garden, fair as those Where the glory of the rose Blushes, charmed from the decay That wastes other blooms away; Gardens of the fairy tale Told, till the wood-fire grows pale, By the Arab tribes, when night, With its dim and lovely light, And its silence, suiteth well With the magic tales they tell.

Through that cypress avenue, Such a garden meets the view, Filled with flowers—flowers that seem Lighted up by the sunbeam; Fruits of gold and gems, and leaves Green as Hope before it grieves O’er the false and broken-hearted, All with which its youth has parted, Never to return again, Save in memories of pain!

There is a white rose in yon bower, But holds it a yet fairer flower: And music from that cage is breathing, Round which a jasmine braid is wreathing,

A low song from a lonely dove, A song such exiles sing and love, Breathing of fresh fields, summer skies,— Not to be breathed of but in sighs! But fairer smile and sweeter sigh Are near when Leila's step is nigh! With eyes dark as the midnight time, Yet lighted like a summer clime With sun-rays from within; yet now Lingers a cloud upon that brow,— Though never lovelier brow was given To Houri of an Eastern heaven! Her eye is dwelling on that bower, As every leaf and every flower Were being numbered in her heart;— There are no looks like those which dwell

On long-remembered things, which soon Must take our first and last farewell!

Day fades apace; another day, That maiden will be far away, A wanderer o’er the dark-blue sea, And bound for lovely Italy, Her mother’s land! Hence, on her breast The cross beneath a Moorish vest; And hence those sweetest sounds, that seem Like music murmuring in a dream, When in our sleeping ear is ringing The song the nightingale is singing; When by that white and funeral stone, Half-hidden by the cypress gloom,

The hymn the mother taught her child Is sung each evening at her tomb. But quick the twilight time has past, Like one of those sweet calms that last A moment and no more, to cheer The turmoil of our pathway here.

The bark is waiting in the bay, Night darkens round:—Leila, away! Far, ere to-morrow, o’er the tide, Or wait and be—Abdalla's bride!

She touched her lute—never again Her ear will listen to its strain! She took her cage, first kissed the breast— Then freed the white dove prisoned there:

It paused one moment on her hand, Then spread its glad wings to the air. She drank the breath, as it were health, That sighed from very scented blossom; And taking from each one a leaf, Hid them, like spells, upon her bosom. Then sought the sacred path again She once before had traced, when lay A Christian in her father’s chain; And gave him gold, and taught the way To fly. She thought upon the night, When, like an angel of the light, She stood before the prisoner’s sight, And led him to the cypress grove, And showed the bark and hidden cove;

And bade the wandering captive flee, In words he knew from infancy! And then he thought how for her love He had braved slavery and death, That he might only breathe the air Made sweet and sacred by her breath. She reached the grove of cypresses,— Another step is by her side: Another moment, and the bark Bears the fair Moor across the tide!

‘Twas beautiful, by the pale moonlight, To mark her eyes,—now dark, now bright, As now they met, now shrank away, From the gaze that watched and worshipped their day.

They stood on the deck, and the midnight gale Just waved the maiden’s silver veil— Just lifted a curl, as if to show The cheek of rose that was burning below: And never spread a sky of blue More clear for the stars to wander through! And never could their mirror be A calmer or a lovelier sea! For every wave was a diamond gleam: And that light vessel well might seem A fairy ship, and that graceful pair Young Genii, whose home was of light and air!

Another evening came, but dark: The storm clouds hovered round the bark

Of misery:—they just could see The distant shore of Italy, As the dim moon through vapours shone— A few short rays, her light was gone. O’er head a sullen scream was heard, As sought the land a white sea-bird, Her pale wings like a meteor streaming. Upon the waves a light is gleaming— Ill-omened brightness, sent by Death To light the night-black depths beneath. The vessel rolled amid the surge; The winds howled round it, like a dirge Sung by some savage race. Then came The rush of thunder and of flame: It showed two forms upon the deck,— One clasped around the other’s neck,

As there she could not dream of fear— In her lover’s arms could danger be near? He stood and watched her with the eye Of fixed and silent agony. The waves swept on: he felt her heart Beat closer and closer yet to his! They burst upon the ship!—the sea Has closed upon their dream of bliss!

Surely theirs is a pleasant sleep, Beneath that ancient cedar tree, Whose solitary stem has stood For years alone beside the sea! The last of a most noble race, That once had there their dwelling-place,

Long past away! Beneath its shade, A soft green couch the turf has made:— And glad the morning sun is shining On those beneath the boughs reclining. Nearer the fisher drew. He saw The dark hair of the Moorish maid, Like a veil, floating o’er the breast, Where tenderly her head was laid:— And yet her lover’s arm was placed Clasping around the graceful waist! But then he marked the youth’s black curls Were dripping wet with foam and blood; And that the maiden’s tresses dark Were heavy with the briny flood! Woe for the wind!—woe for the wave! They sleep the slumber of the grave!

They buried them beneath that tree; It long had been a sacred spot. Soon it was planted round with flowers By many who had not forgot; Or yet lived in those dreams of truth, The Eden birds of early youth, That make the loveliness of love: And called the place “The Maiden's Cove,”— That she who perished in the sea Might thus be kept in memory.

From many a lip came sounds of praise, Like music from sweet voices ringing; For many a boat had gathered round, To list the song I had been singing. There are some moments in our fate That stamp the colour of our days;

As, till then, life had not been felt,— And mine was sealed in the slight gaze Which fixed my eye, and fired my brain, And bowed my heart beneath the chain. ‘Twas a dark and flashing eye, Shadows, too, that tenderly, With almost female softness, came O’er its mingled gloom and flame. His cheek was pale; or toil, or care, Or midnight study, had been there, Making its young colours dull, Yet leaving it most beautiful. Raven curls their shadow threw, Like the twilight’s darkening hue, O’er the pure and mountain snow Of his high and haughty brow;

Lighted by a smile, whose spell Words are powerless to tell. Such a lip!—oh, poured from thence Lava floods of eloquence Would come with fiery energy, Like those words that cannot die. Words the Grecian warrior spoke When the Persian’s chain he broke; Or that low and honey tone, Making woman’s heart his own; Such as should be heard at night, In the dim and sweet starlight; Sounds that haunt a beauty’s sleep, Treasures for her heart to keep. Like the pine of summer tall; Apollo, on his pedestal

In our own gallery, never bent More graceful, more magnificent; Ne’er look’d the hero, or the king, More nobly than the youth who now, As if soul-centred in my song, Was leaning on a galley’s prow. He spoke not when the other spoke, His heart was all too full for praise; But his dark eyes kept fixed on mine, Which sank beneath their burning gaze. Mine sank—but yet I felt the thrill Of that look burning on me still. I heard no words that others said— Heard nothing, save one low-breathed sigh. My hand kept wandering on my lute, In music, but unconsciously

My pulses throbbed, my heart beat high, A flush of dizzy ecstasy Crimsoned my cheek; I felt warm tears Dimming my sight, yet was it sweet, My wild heart’s most bewildering beat, Consciousness, without hopes or fears, Of a new power within me waking, Like light before the morn’s full breaking. I left the boat—the crowd: my mood Made my soul pant for solitude.

Amid my palace halls was once, The most peculiarly my own: The roof was blue and fretted gold, The floor was of the Parian stone, Shining like snow, as only meet For the light tread of fairy feet;

And in the midst, beneath a shade Of clustered rose, a fountain played, Sprinkling its scented waters round, With a sweet and lulling sound,— O’er oranges, like Eastern gold, Half hidden by the dark green fold Of their large leaves;—o’er hyacinth bells, Where every summer odour dwells. And, nestled in the midst, a pair Of white wood-doves, whose home was there: And like an echo to their song, At times a murmur past along; A dying tone, a plaining fall, So sad, so wild, so musical— As the wind swept across the wire, And waked my lone Æolian lyre,

Which lay upon the casement, where The lattice wooed the cold night air, Half hidden by a bridal twine Of jasmine with the emerald vine. And ever as the curtains made A varying light, a changeful shade; As the breeze waved them to and fro, Came on the eye the glorious show Of pictured walls where landscape wild Of wood, and stream, or mountain piled, Or sunny vale, or twilight grove, Or shapes whose every look was love; Saints, whose diviner glance seemed caught From Heaven,—some whose earthlier thought Was yet more lovely,—shone like gleams Of Beauty’s spirit seen in dreams.

I threw me on a couch to rest, Loosely I flung my long black hair; It seemed to soothe my troubled breast To drink the quiet evening air. I looked upon the deep-blue sky, And it was all hope and harmony. Afar I could see the Arno’s stream Glorying in the clear moonbeam; And the shadowy city met my gaze, Like the dim memory of other days; And the distant wood’s black coronal Was like oblivion, that covereth all. I know not why my soul felt sad; I touch’d my lute,—it would not waken, Save to old songs of sorrowing— Of hope betrayed—of hearts forsaken:

Each lay of lighter feeling slept, I sang, but, as I sang, I wept.

The Charmed Cup

THE CHARMED CUP.

And fondly round his neck she clung; Her long black tresses round him flung, Love chains, which would not let him part; And he could feel her beating heart, The pulses of her small white hand, The tears she could no more command, The lip which trembled, though near his, The sigh that mingled with her kiss;— Yet parted he from that embrace. He cast one glance upon her face: His very soul felt sick to see Its look of utter misery;

Yet turned he not; one moment’s grief, One pang, like lightning, fierce and brief, One thought, half pity, half remorse, Passed o’er him. On he urged his horse; Hill, ford, and valley spurred he by, And when his castle gate was nigh, White foam was on his ‘broider’d rein, And each spur had a blood-red stain. But soon he entered that fair hall: His laugh was loudest there of all; And the cup that wont one name to bless, Was drained for its forgetfulness. The ring, once next his heart, was broken; The gold chain kept another token. Where is the curl he used to wear— The raven tress of silken hair?

The winds have scattered it. A braid Of the first Spring day’s golden shade, Waves with the dark plumes on his crest. Fresh colours are upon his breast: The slight blue scarf, of simplest fold, Is changed for one of woven gold. And he is by a maiden’s side, Whose gems of price, and robes of pride, Would suit the daughter of a king; And diamonds are glistening Upon her arm. There’s not one curl Unfastened by a loop of pearl. And he is whispering in her ear Soft words that ladies love to hear.

Alas!—the tale is quickly told— His love hath felt the curse of gold!

And he is bartering his heart For that in which it hath no part. There’s many an ill that clings to love; But this is one all else above;— For love to bow before the name Of this world’s treasure: shame! oh, shame! Love, be thy wings as light as those That waft the zephyr from the rose,— This may be pardoned—something rare In loveliness has been thy snare! But how, fair Love, canst thou become A thing of mines—a sordid gnome?

And she whom Julian left—she stood A cold white statue; as the blood Had, when in vain her last wild prayer, Flown to her heart, and frozen there.

Upon her temple, each dark vein Swelled in its agony of pain. Chill, heavy damps were on her brow; Her arms were stretched at length, though now Their clasp was on the empty air: A funeral pall—her long black hair Fell over her; herself the tomb Of her own youth, and breath, and bloom.

Alas! that man should ever win So sweet a shrine to shame and sin As woman’s heart!—and deeper woe For her fond weakness, not to know That yielding all but breaks the chain That never reunites again!

It was a dark and tempest night— No pleasant moon, no blest starlight; But meteors glancing o’er the way, Only to dazzle and betray. And who is she that, ‘mid the storm, Wraps her slight mantle round her form? Her hair is wet with rain and sleet, And blood is on her small snow feet. She has been forced a way to make Through prickly weed and thorned brake, Up rousing from its coil the snake; And stirring from their damp abode The slimy worm and loathsome toad: And shuddered as she heard the gale Shriek like an evil spirit’s wail;

When followed, like a curse, the crash Of the pines in the lightning flash:— A place of evil and of fear— Oh! what can Julian’s love do here?

On, on the pale girl went. At last The gloomy forest depths are past, And she has reached the wizard’s den, Accursed by God and shunned by men. And never had a ban been laid Upon a more unwholesome shade. There grew dank elders, and the yew Its thick sepulchral shadow threw; And brooded there each bird most foul, The gloomy bat and sullen owl.

But Ida entered in the cell, Where dwelt the wizard of the dell. Her heart lay dead, her life-blood froze To look upon the shape which rose To bar her entrance. On that face Was scarcely left a single trace Of human likeness: the parched skin Showed each discoloured bone within; And, but for the most evil stare Of the wild eyes’ unearthly glare, It was a corpse, you would have said, From which life’s freshness long had fled. Yet Ida knelt her down and prayed To that dark sorcerer for his aid. He heard her prayer with withering look; Then from unholy herbs he took

A drug, and said it would recover The lost heart of her faithless lover. She trembled as she turned to see His demon sneer’s malignity; And every step was winged with dread, To hear the curse howled as she fled.

It is the purple twilight’s hour, And Julian is in Ida’s bower. He has brought gold, as gold could bless His work of utter desolateness! He has brought gems, as if Despair Had any pride in being fair! But Ida only wept, and wreathed Her white arms round his neck; then breathed

Those passionate complaints that wring A woman’s heart, yet never bring Redress. She called upon each tree To witness her lone constancy! She called upon the silent boughs, The temple of her Julian’s vows Of happiness too dearly bought! Then wept again. At length she thought Upon the forest sorcerer’s gift— The last, lone hope that love had left! She took the cup and kissed the brim; Mixed the dark spell, and gave it him To pledge his once dear Ida’s name! He drank it. Instantly the flame Ran through his veins: one fiery throb Of bitter pain—one gasping sob

Of agony—the cold death sweat Is on his face—his teeth are set— His bursting eyes are glazed and still: The drug has done its work of ill. Alas! for her who watched each breath, The cup her love had mixed bore—death!

Lorenzo!—when next morning came For the first time I heard thy name! Lorenzo!—how each ear-pulse drank The more than music of that tone! Lorenzo!—how I sighed that name, As breathing it, made it mine own!

I sought the gallery: I was wont To pass the noontide there, and trace Some Statue’s shape of loveliness— Some Saint, or Nymph, or Muse’s face. There in my rapture I could throw My pencil and its hues aside, And, as the vision past me, pour My song of passion, joy, and pride. And he was there,—Lorenzo there! How soon the morning past away, With finding beauties in each thing Neither had seen before that day! Spirit of Love! soon thy rose-plumes wear The weight and the sully of canker and care: Falsehood is round thee; Hope leads thee on, Till every hue from thy pinion is gone.

But one bright moment is all thine own, The one ere thy visible presence is known; When, like the wind of the South, thy power, Sunning the heavens, sweetening the flower, Is felt, but not seen. Thou art sweet and calm As the sleep of a child, as the dew-fall of balm. Fear has not darkened thee; Hope has not made The blossoms expand, it but opens to fade. Nothing is known of those wearing fears Which will shadow the light of thy after-years. Then art thou bliss:—but once throw by The veil which shrouds thy divinity; Stand confessed,—and thy quiet is fled! Wild flashes of rapture may come instead, But pain will be with them. What may restore The gentle happiness known before?

I owned not to myself I loved,— No word of love Lorenzo breathed; But I lived in a magic ring, Of every pleasant flower wreathed. A bright blue was on the sky, A sweeter breath in music’s sigh; The orange shrubs all seemed to bear Fruit more rich, and buds more fair. There was a glory on the noon, A beauty in the crescent moon, A lulling stillness in the night, A feeling in the pale starlight. There was a charmed note on the wind, A spell in Poetry’s deep store— Heart-uttered words, passionate thoughts, Which I had never marked before.

‘Twas as my heart’s full happiness Poured over all its own excess.

One night there was a gorgeous feast For maskers in Count Leon’s hall; And all of gallant, fair, and young, Were bidden to the festival. I went, garbed as a Hindoo girl; Upon each arm and amulet, And by my side a little lute Of sandal-wood with gold beset. And shall I own that I was proud To hear, amid the gazing crowd, A murmur of delight, when first My mask and veil I threw aside? For well my conscious cheek betrayed Whose eye was gazing on me too!

And never yet had praise been dear, As on that evening, to mine ear, Lorenzo! I was proud to be Worshipped and flattered but for thee!

The Indian Bride

THE HINDOO GIRL'S SONG.

Playful and wild as the fire-flies' light, This moment hidden, the next moment bright; Like the foam on the dark-green sea, Is the spell that is laid on my lover by me. Were your sigh as sweet as the sumbal's sigh, When the wind of the evening is nigh; Were your smile like that glorious light, Seen when the stars gem the deep midnight; Were that sigh and that smile for ever the same— They were shadows, not fuel, to love's dull'd flame.