Fathoms deep beneath the seas Lie the ancient wharves and quays, Swallowed by the engulfing waves;Silent streets and vacant halls, Ruined roofs and towers and walls;Hidden from all mortal eyes Deep the sunken city lies:
Even cities have their graves!
This is an enchanted land!
Round the headlands far away Sweeps the blue Salernian bay With its sickle of white sand:
Further still and furthermost On the dim discovered coast Paestum with its ruins lies, And its roses all in bloom Seem to tinge the fatal skies Of that lonely land of doom.
On his terrace, high in air, Nothing doth the good monk care For such worldly themes as these, From the garden just below Little puffs of perfume blow, And a sound is in his ears Of the murmur of the bees In the shining chestnut-trees;Nothing else he heeds or hears.
All the landscape seems to swoon In the happy afternoon;Slowly o'er his senses creep The encroaching waves of sleep, And he sinks as sank the town, Unresisting, fathoms down, Into caverns cool and deep!
Walled about with drifts of snow, Hearing the fierce north-wind blow, Seeing all the landscape white, And the river cased in ice, Comes this memory of delight, Comes this vision unto me Of a long-lost Paradise In the land beyond the sea.
THE SERMON OF ST.FRANCIS
Up soared the lark into the air, A shaft of song, a winged prayer, As if a soul, released from pain, Were flying back to heaven again.
St.Francis heard; it was to him An emblem of the Seraphim;The upward motion of the fire, The light, the heat, the heart's desire.
Around Assisi's convent gate The birds, God's poor who cannot wait, From moor and mere and darksome wood Came flocking for their dole of food.
"O brother birds," St.Francis said, "Ye come to me and ask for bread, But not with bread alone to-day Shall ye be fed and sent away.
"Ye shall be fed, ye happy birds, With manna of celestial words;Not mine, though mine they seem to be, Not mine, though they be spoken through me.
"O, doubly are ye bound to praise The great Creator in your lays;He giveth you your plumes of down, Your crimson hoods, your cloaks of brown.
"He giveth you your wings to fly And breathe a purer air on high, And careth for you everywhere, Who for yourselves so little care!"With flutter of swift wings and songs Together rose the feathered throngs, And singing scattered far apart;Deep peace was in St.Francis' heart.
He knew not if the brotherhood His homily had understood;He only knew that to one ear The meaning of his words was clear.
BELISARIUS
I am poor and old and blind;
The sun burns me, and the wind Blows through the city gate And covers me with dust From the wheels of the august Justinian the Great.
It was for him I chased The Persians o'er wild and waste, As General of the East;Night after night I lay In their camps of yesterday;Their forage was my feast.
For him, with sails of red, And torches at mast-head, Piloting the great fleet, I swept the Afric coasts And scattered the Vandal hosts, Like dust in a windy street.
For him I won again The Ausonian realm and reign, Rome and Parthenope;And all the land was mine From the summits of Apennine To the shores of either sea.
For him, in my feeble age, I dared the battle's rage, To save Byzantium's state, When the tents of Zabergan, Like snow-drifts overran The road to the Golden Gate.
And for this, for this, behold!
Infirm and blind and old, With gray, uncovered head, Beneath the very arch Of my triumphal march, I stand and beg my bread!
Methinks I still can hear, Sounding distinct and near, The Vandal monarch's cry, As, captive and disgraced, With majestic step he paced,--"All, all is Vanity!"
Ah! vainest of all things Is the gratitude of kings;The plaudits of the crowd Are but the clatter of feet At midnight in the street, Hollow and restless and loud.
But the bitterest disgrace Is to see forever the face Of the Monk of Ephesus!
The unconquerable will This, too, can bear;--I still Am Belisarius!
SONGO RIVER
Nowhere such a devious stream, Save in fancy or in dream, Winding slow through bush and brake Links together lake and lake.
Walled with woods or sandy shelf, Ever doubling on itself Flows the stream, so still and slow That it hardly seems to flow.
Never errant knight of old, Lost in woodland or on wold, Such a winding path pursued Through the sylvan solitude.
Never school-boy in his quest After hazel-nut or nest, Through the forest in and out Wandered loitering thus about.
In the mirror of its tide Tangled thickets on each side Hang inverted, and between Floating cloud or sky serene.
Swift or swallow on the wing Seems the only living thing, Or the loon, that laughs and flies Down to those reflected skies.
Silent stream! thy Indian name Unfamiliar is to fame;For thou hidest here alone, Well content to be unknown.
But thy tranquil waters teach Wisdom deep as human speech, Moving without haste or noise In unbroken equipoise.
Though thou turnest no busy mill, And art ever calm and still, Even thy silence seems to say To the traveller on his way:--"Traveller, hurrying from the heat Of the city, stay thy feet!
Rest awhile, nor longer waste Life with inconsiderate haste!
"Be not like a stream that brawls Loud with shallow waterfalls, But in quiet self-control Link together soul and soul"************
KERAMOS
Turn, turn, my wheel? Turn round and round Without a pause, without a sound:
So spins the flying world away!
This clay, well mixed with marl and sand, Follows the motion of my hand;Far some must follow, and some command, Though all are made of clay!
Thus sang the Potter at his task Beneath the blossoming hawthorn-tree, While o'er his features, like a mask, The quilted sunshine and leaf-shade Moved, as the boughs above him swayed, And clothed him, till he seemed to be A figure woven in tapestry, So sumptuously was he arrayed In that magnificent attire Of sable tissue flaked with fire.
Like a magician he appeared, A conjurer without book or beard;And while he plied his magic art--
For it was magical to me--