XXII CARNIVAL
VOICE FROM THE PALACE
Couldst thou, O north wind, coming
From the deep bosom of the moaning valley,
Or, wandering in the aisles of songful pines,
Or through a lonely cloister's corridors,
Chant to me in a thousand sounds—
The piping of reeds, the roaring of wild beasts,
And cries of human woe!
That would be my delight, the while I know
On yon cold height there lies the winter's snow.
A shower of white darkness
Fills all the sleepy air; the snowy plain
Fades into the horizon far away.
Meanwhile, the sun's great disk grows faintly red
As wearily it sinks behind the clouds,
Staring as 'twere a lidless human eye.
No breeze, no breath among the hills is stirred,
Nor traveller's voice, nor song of children heard,
But the loud crash of branches
Too heavily bent by burden of the snow,
And sharp explosions of the cracking ice,
Arcadia sing and Zephyrus invite
To your sweet company in meadows fair.
Now nature's mute and haughty horror doth
Add zest to pleasure! Come, Eurilla, make
The drowsy coals a livelier sparkle take!
On me let them be casting
A light serenely flashing, such as spring
Doth carry with her wheresoever she goeth.
The mouthing actor
No more the boxes heed, when 'mid the sight
Of all that crowded brilliancy and beauty,
And perfumed tresses, and enwreathéd flowers,
There comes the scent of April's fruitful showers.
VOICE FROM THE HOVEL
O if, with living blood
From my heart streaming, I could thee restore,
Poor, frozen body of my little son!
But my heart dies within me,
And feeble is the hold of my embraces,
And man is deaf and God above too high.
Lay, my poor little one, thy tear-wet cheek
Close to thy mother's whilst I with thee speak.
Not so thy brother lay;
Hardly he drew amid the stifling snow
His failing breath, as on his way he crept.
After the toilsome day,
Beneath a heavy load, his little steps
Failed to keep even pace with th' hurrying men,
While the rough path and the night's stormy frown
Conspired with man to drag his courage down.
The gusts of whirling snow
Beat through his ragged clothes, his wearied limbs.
He falls, and, bleeding, tries to lift himself,
But 'tis in vain; and hunger
Now drains his little strength, and at the end
Of the dolorous way he gives the struggle over;
Then pious Death comes down and looks upon
The bruiséd form; and from its grave of snow
Home to the mother's roof they bring it so.
Alas! with better reason
The eagle flies for refuge from the blast
Unto her eyrie on the jagged cliff,
And the aged beast to his cave.
A kennel warm protects the mastiff's sleep,
Full fed, within the palace there, near by
To where, O child, born of love's mightier breath,
An icy hand leads thee away to death.
VOICE FROM THE BANQUET
Pour! and keep on pouring,
The vintage which the ancient Rhine doth yield,
Crowned with her hundred castles!
Let it foam and bubble
Forth to our sight, and then deep in the breast
Tell what rare treasure hath the sun matured
Within the hills which well may England crave,
And France, land of good wines and heroes brave!
Then let the maddening dance
Whirl thee away! O what a waving sea
Of tresses blond and dark all proudly blending!
O the hot breath that mingles
Itself with thine! O roses quickly faded!
O eyes that know to exchange the hasty flash
The while, of a thousand mingled notes the strain
Pours forth the sigh of pleasure acute to pain!
O sweet deflowering
Of burning cheeks, and pressure of hand in hand,
The hurried beating of the breast near breast,
The cunning strategy,
Now in the ear to lodge the precious secret,
The little parleys carried on by smiles,
The sweet imagining of joys that hide
'Neath her shy glance one presses at his side.
See how from these our feasts
The common people get the benefit,
And civil charity finds large increase!
Thanks to the heavenly power
That ill and good allots, a judgment stern
Has easement in a graceful piety;
And we the happy progeny of mirth,
Shed like the sun a radiance o'er the earth!
VOICE FROM THE GARRET.
The bread gave out, the work
Fell off on which did hang our life,
And trembling sat before the fireless hearth
My mother, and watched me.
Pale was the face and mute with some great fear
The while she watched: until, as if pursued
By that mute stare, after the long, long day
I could endure no more, and stole away.
Down through the winter's mist
Poured the high moon a livid radiance
Above the muddy alley, then disappeared
Behind the clouds. So did
The light of youth but shine to disappear
Upon the sorrow-mingled pathway of my life.
A hand touched me. I felt a foul glance fall
Upon me, and words that did my heart appal.
Appal! but more appalling
The hunger, O ye proud ones, that did drive me,
And the old mother's mute and maddening stare!
And so it came that I took bread to her!
But all desire for me her fast had stilled.
Hardly on me she raised her heavy eyes,
While I on my poor mother's breast would claim
A place where I might hide my face and shame.
Adieu, O tearful visions
Of a once holy love and you, the fond
Companions of a maiden most unhappy!
For you may shine the whiteness
Of that pure veil the mother, weeping, binds!
For you the thought that to the cradle turns;—
I, to my sin abandoned, keep me near
The track of darkness and, so, disappear.
VOICE FROM BENEATH.
Be still, thou maiden sad,
Be still, O grieving mother, and thou, child,
Found starving, when shut down the night's great gloom!
Behold! what festive lights
Gleam in the palace windows, where unite
The ruling orders of our favoured land,
And magistrates and soldiers of renown,
And doctors, mix with merchants of the town.
The bloom of thy best years
Thou spoilest, girl, while thou dost pine in vain
For that sweet love and life that all desire.
Laugh rather, and be gay,
In dazzling robes of silk and gold held up
By hand fair as a countess's, while you haste
To join the dance! Then weep and wait—what for?
The garb of shame that's waiting at thy door!
As if the tears had frozen
Between the eyelids of the dying boy
Whom thou couldst not revive, O wretched mother,
And turned to precious gems,
So shines the fillet in the dame's black hair,
With whom the economist, gallant and suave,
Holds speech! His lips a smile do wear,
As if a kiss each honied word did bear.
Seize and enjoy your triumph,
O Masks! so happy and so powerful.
And when the coming dawn drives folk to work,
Go out and show yourselves,
Belching your ill-digested orgies forth;
Flaunting your pomp before their humble fast;
Nor dream the day when, at your gilded gate,
Grim Hunger and his brother Death shall wait.
Levia Gravia.