Proud cities, wrapped in fire and flame, Have challenged all the slumbering land; Yet neither Time nor Change has touched These few bright grains of sand!
VALDEMAR
Within a city quaint and old, When reigned King Alcinor the Bold, There dwelt a sculptor whose renown With pride and wonder filled the town. And yet he had not reached his prime; The first warm glow of summer-time Had but just touched his radiant face, And moulded to a statelier grace The stalwart form that trod the earth As it had been of princely birth. So fair, so strong, so brave was he, With such a sense of mastery, That Alcinor upon his throne No kinglier gifts from life could own Than those it brought from near and far To the young sculptor, Valdemar! Mayhap he was not rich—for Fame, To lend its magic to his name, Had outrun Fortune’s swiftest pace And conquered in the friendly race. But a fair home was his, where bees Hummed in the laden mulberry-trees; Where cyclamens, with rosy flush, Brightened the lingering twilight hush, And the gladiolus’ fiery plume Mocked the red rose’s brilliant bloom; Where violet and wind-flower hid The acacia’s golden gloom amid; Where starry jasmines climbed, and where, Serenely calm, divinely fair, Like a white lily, straight and tall, The loveliest flower among them all, His sweet young wife, Hermione, Sang to the child upon her knee!
Here beauteous visions haunted him, Peopling the shadows soft and dim; Here the old gods around him cast The glamour of their splendors past. Jove thundered from the awful sky; Proud Juno trod the earth once more; Pale Isis, veiled in mystery, Her smile of mystic meaning wore; Apollo joyed in youth divine, And Bacchus wreathed the fragrant vine. Here chaste Diana, crescent-crowned, With virgin footsteps spurned the ground; Here rose fair Venus from the sea, And that sad ghost, Persephone, Wandered, a very shade of shades, Amid the moonlit myrtle glades. Nor they alone. The Heavenly Child, The Holy Mother, meek and mild, Angels on glad wing soaring free, Pale, praying saints on bended knee, Martyrs with palms, and heroes brave Who for their guerdon won a grave, Earth’s laughing children, rosy sweet, And the soul’s phantoms, fair and fleet— All these were with him night and day, Charming the happy hours away! Oh, who so rich as Valdemar? What ill his joyous life can mar? With home and glorious visions blest, Glad in the work he loveth best!
But Love’s clear eyes are quick to see; And one fair spring, Hermione. Sitting beneath her mulberry-tree With her young children at her knee, Saw Valdemar from day to day, As one whose thoughts were far away, With folded arms and drooping head Pace the green aisles with silent tread; Saw him stand moodily apart With idle hands and brooding heart, Or gaze at his still forms of clay, Himself as motionless as they! “O Valdemar!” she cried, “you bear Some burden that I do not share! I am your wife, your own true wife; Shut me not out from heart and life! Why brood you thus in silent pain?” As shifts the changing weather-vane, So came the old smile to his face, Saluting her with courtly grace. “Nay, nay, Hermione, not so! No secret, bitter grief I know; But, haunting all my dreams by night And thoughts by day, one vision bright, One nameless wonder, near me stands, Claiming its birthright at my hands. It hath your eyes, Hermione, Your tender lips that smile for me; It hath your perfect, stately grace, The matchless beauty of your face. But it hath more! for never yet On brow of earthly mould was set Such splendor and such light as streams From this rare phantom of my dreams!”
Lightly she turned, and led him through Under the jasmines wet with dew, Into a wide, cool room, shut in From the great city’s whirl and din— Then, smiling, touched a heap of clay. “Dear idler, do thy work, I pray! Thy radiant phantom lieth hid The mould of centuries amid, Waiting till thou shalt bid it rise And live beneath the wondering skies!”
Then rose a hot flush to his cheek; His stammering lips were slow to speak. “Hermione,” he said at length, As one who gathers up his strength, “Hermione, my wife, I go Far from thee on a journey slow And long and perilous; for I know Somewhere upon the earth there is A finer, purer clay than this, From which I’ll mould a shape more fair Than ever breathed in earthly air! I go to seek it!”
“Ah!” she said, With smiling lips, but tearful eyes, Half lifted in a grieved surprise, “How shall I then be comforted? Not always do we find afar The good we seek, my Valdemar! This common, way-side clay thy hand Hath been most potent to command. Yet I—I will not bid thee stay. Go, if thou must, and find thy clay!”
Then his long journeyings began, And still his hope his steps outran. O’er desert sands he came and went; He crossed a mighty continent; Plunged into forests dark and lone; In jungles heard the panther’s moan; Climbed the far mountains’ lofty heights; Watched alien stars through weary nights; While more than once, on trackless seas, His white sails caught the eddying breeze. Yet all his labor was for nought, And never found he what he sought, Or far or near. The finer clay But mocked his eager search alway.
Ofttimes he came, with weary feet, Back to the home so still and sweet Where his fair wife, Hermione, Dwelt with her children at her knee; But never once his eager hand Thrilled the mute clay with high command. One day she spoke: “O Valdemar, Cease from your wanderings wide and far! Life is not long. Why waste it, then, Chasing false fires through marsh and fen? Mould your fair statue while you may; High purpose sanctifies the clay.”