Classic Poem

SCENE III.

The summit of a high mountain, looking Westward.—Time, Sunset.

LORENZO .

Come, let us rest awhile, since we have gained
The summit of the mountain. See, the sun
Is disappearing through the western wave,
Like a strong diver going down for pearls,
Or a young bridegroom eloquent with joy,
Seeking the chamber where his soul's beloved
Sits in her bridal robes. A moment more
He will have canopied some other clime
With his rich tent of gold, and drawn aside
The sable curtains of polluted Night
From some fair country that we wot not of.

BERTRAM .

But what has this to do with our journey
Hither? And where is the surprise you had
In store for me? I will be getting lonely,
And insist on returning ere the night
Sets in.

LORENZO .

Impossible! You cannot find
Your way. The path is rough and intricate
By which we came; and to return by that,
You would require a guide, to whom these wilds
Had grown familiar, to conduct you safely
To the plain. Stay for a little moment here.
We will return together. Hark! the thunder.

BERTRAM .

There are no clouds above us, yet I hear
The thunder rolling in tremendous volleys,
But muffled, as if passing through the hills.

LORENZO .

Let us approach the mountain's edge, and look
Upon the storm.
Observe the passionate clouds,
Struggling like giant wrestling-groups in all
The grandeur of an elemental strife!
See how yon mass of fiery vapour writhes
In agony, like a flame-enveloped fiend,
And bursts asunder with a fearful crash,
That fills the pitying heavens with alarm,
And shakes the massive crag on which we stand.
Mark well the conflict—nay, you need not shrink,
Methought I saw you tremble as you gazed;
There is no danger here. The eagle builds
Its solid eyrie far above the storm,
And round about us sits the Roman bird,
Watching the air-drawn battle, as when perched
Upon the flaunting standards once upraised
On Carthagenian fields. The storm is far
Beneath us. I can call to mind the time—
The very day—the heaven-pilfered hour,
When my young soul first left its body-load,
And made it wings and mingled with the storm,
Ev'n as the headlong warrior leaps in
Where dangers threaten, thick as summer rain,
Each charged with death. A sublime awe swept o'er me;
I trembled with delight; shouted for joy;
The lightning's kiss was hot upon my cheek;
The thunder pealed its anthems in my ears,—
Deep, sublime melodies! and my spirit felt
Ethereal, as if a veil of light,
By angels borne from God's remotest home,
Had clothed it ready for a joy eterne.
Awed by the fervency of my wild thoughts,
I knelt, and with uplifted hands poured out
My unspoken prayers to God. My thankful soul
Was filled with an unstudied eloquence,
Which my lips dared not utter. The profound
And many-voicéd thunder; the red waves,
That spewed forth lightning, as a furnace fire;
The charging squadrons of impatient clouds,
Those burning steeds and riders of the storm,
That neighed in thunder and breathed breaths of flame,
Conspired to fill me with intense delight,
As boundless as the rapture of the winds,
Seated at midnight on the tempest car,
When heaven lifts her white hands to her face
To hide her eyes. Upon this very spot
I stood with vacant, greedy looks, and watched
The mighty conflict going on below:
And yet, thou'dst rather dance a tiresome measure
To a crack'd violin, than read the precious truths
Of these romantic wilds. Are they not lonely?
These mountain summits and deep forests, where
You seem to catch the echoings of strains
That were rehearsed in heaven at the birth
Of the old world, of which this earth, mayhap,
Is but a fragment. Oh! those glorious songs!
Their echoes cannot die, but seem to float,
Like vapours, through the air for evermore.
The poet seizes oft their wondrous plaint,
And ever after earth has one voice more
To magnify the Author of all Good.

BERTRAM .

Old man, you mock me. I can now discern
How such a soul as thine is elevated
Above the world and its ephemeral pleasures.
Henceforward I'll participate with thee
In these ethereal blessings. I'll be all
That thou couldst wish for in an amateur;
And you will find me a devoted pupil,
If you will lead me in the way to wisdom.
Oft have I heard of a discreet old man,
With whom the peasants had conversed, who lived,
Or rather had been seen, upon the mountain.
I wondered how their kindly hearts did warm,
And they grew eloquent, in praise of thee;
But now my doubts are gone, and I can well
Appreciate the generosity—
For such I deemed it—of these simple rustics.
If I become a ready listener
To the immortal truths that thou canst teach me,
Must I relinquish all the harmless pleasures
That I had previously indulged in?

LORENZO .

No,
Not one of them. Use them in moderation.
Devote some moments of thy little life
To learning what may be of benefit
To thee hereafter. But I would not ask
That thou shouldst ape the moody devotee,
And live apart from all thy fellow men.
Far rather would I have thee still remain
A trifling mortal, pleased with empty show,
And gilded vanity, than encourage thee
To be a soulless hermit. There are times
When gaiety is useful to the wisest;
And cheerfulness is fraught with many blessings,
If we survey it rightly. See! the storm
Is over, and the heavens are bent down
Beneath the weight of their bejewelled robes.
The moon, like to a royal traveller,
Her silver chariot axle-deep in stars,
Rides the burning labyrinth of worlds,
A queen amongst her subjects; while the sea
Beyond us is irradiated with
The silver sparkles from her eloquent eyes,
That make a path of light from heaven to earth.
The solemn glories of the sun and moon,
The silver-dappled heavens, the huge sea—
These thou must learn to study, for their wealth
Of earnest truth, sublimity and love,
When I initiate thee into all
My plans of happiness. Now for the surprise.
Look at the Old Man now.

BERTRAM .

My friend Lorenzo!

LORENZO .

Thy youthful friend, whom thou didst call a bookworm,
Because he would not always be a trifler,
And loved to ponder on the intrinsic lore
Of poets and philosophers. I am
The solitary Hermit of the Hills,
As these warm-hearted peasants choose to call me;
And I would have thee be a hermit, too,
Occasionally. Thou shalt come with me,
And see the free-born mountaineers at eve,
Offering up their earnest, heart-felt thanks,
To the Supreme Intelligence of Heaven;
Shalt hear their old men read the sacred Word;
Their manly youths, and rosy-featured maidens,
Blending their voices in an evening hymn;
Shall see the happiest mortals upon earth,
And learn to imitate them—if thou wilt.
 See yonder cottage in the dreamy vale,
On which the moonlight, like the smile of God,
So sweetly rests. There dwells a Poet-soul;
One who has pass'd through stern Affliction's blaze,
And had his great heart purified by pain.
He was a Monarch in the Halls of Love.
Love crowned him as a nation crowns a King.
His queen, a rural beauty, by his side,
What wonder if he looked from his high throne
Upon the world, and claimed it as his own?
She loved him for his uncoined wealth of words,
That lay in the rich mine of his brain, like pearls
That hoard their lustre in a cave o' the sea.
He had great soul-thoughts floating in his eyes,
Like ships gem-laden on an Indian ocean,
And soft-voiced messengers, with gentle wings,
Soared through his mind, and made him rich in fancies,
As is a miser o'er his wealth of gold.
She loved to mark the lightning of his eye,
And list the mighty thunder of his speech,
That followed the electric fancy-storm,
Even as loves the hardy mountaineer,
Trained amid God's glory-haunted hills,
To trace the storm that rides the Appenines,
And bursts in fearful splendor at his feet.
She hung upon his lips, as hangs the bee
Upon the trembling rose-bud, flushed with sweets,
Like Beauty leaning forward for the kiss,
Of some impassioned lover, nectar-wild,
Quaffing his honied breath. Her fingers toyed
With his long locks of gold, that lay like waves
Of yellow sun-curls dancing on the lea,
Decking the bust of evening: and in each,
With true-love's spiritual, dreamy eyes,
She seemed to trace some intellectual thought,
Some beauteous reflex of his glowing soul,
In which his Prophet-spirit, Titan-like,
Loomed up majestic, clothed with Virtue's robes,
And he, the Adam of her Eve-like heart,
To her eyes, seemed the embodiment of all
The sterling mental manhood of the time,
A golden mouthed Chrysostum, brimmed with Truth,
And revelations of a coming age
Replete with saving glory and deep Love.
These Alpine heights were his, for he had struck
From out their flinty sides a flame of song,
That burned within the breasts of mountaineers,
And made them love their country more and more.
But while he sung, triumphant as the lark,
The tongue of Slander struck his spirit dumb—
For these young Poets are as sensitive
To pain, as the warm morning cloudlets are
To the consuming splendor of the sun.
Curs'd be the tongue that hurled the sland'rous shaft!
Withered the lips that spake the sland'rous tale!
For then his mind was strong, and in its strength
He gloried, as a giant o'er the thew
And sinew of his limbs. The sland'rer spake,
And, lo! the stately man became a child!
His mind, once full of bright imaginings,
Became as gloomy as the murkiest eye
That ever mingled with November's fog.
Thoughts that had ransacked heaven fell to earth,
Enfeebled with the fall. The eye that look'd
Fearlessly on the virtuous of the world,
That gazed admiringly upon the stars,
And drank their wondrous beauty in deep draughts,
Till it was drunken with delight, now quailed,
And sought the ground. And yet the tale was false.
But there was one who did believe it true;
One who had leaned upon his heart of hearts,
Like Innocence on Love. She thought it true.
And he was left alone with his crush'd heart,
To crawl mind-wounded through a cheerless world,
Like a lost planet through infinity,
Tortured with its unrest. He could have borne
The curses of the world, and borne them well;
He could have grasped his troubles by the heel,
And hurled them from him; but for that one thought,
That he was deemed unworthy of her love.
But there are sunbeams in the icicles,
Caloric in snow, and animalculæ
In the hard rock; and in one single germ
Lie all creation's works in miniature:
So in his heart one pulse of hope still beat,
One solitary spark still burned beneath
The ashes of his grief—her woman's love
Had merely flickered in the world's foul breath.
And knowing this, his heart was up again,
Like a stout wrestler whom some sinewy arm
Had humbled to his knees. The tale was false,
And he had proved it in the sland'rer's teeth
To be an upas offshoot, that had sprung
From the fierce cravings of a jealous mind,
And well nigh poisoned all their mutual hopes.
As leaps the sun above the clouded morn,
So rose the Poet-spirit of my friend
Once more into the hopeful skies of day,
From out the night of his intense despair.
And there they live, content, in yonder vale;
Their dwelling is an altar reared to Faith;
'T is built upon the spot which witnessed first
The sweet reünion of their steadfast love.
 Again, seest thou yon distant roof-top peer
Above the cedars on the mountain side?
Thence soared a noble soul unto his rest,
While the strong throes of hope and future fame
Passed through his mind like summer o'er the earth.
To live, until the heart is warmed with youth,
And then, like to a suddenly blasted flower
In summer-time, to die and pass away—
Oh! 't is a bitter and a solemn thought!
What glowing hopes lay folded in the breast,
Like honey in the fair, expanding bud!
What burning thoughts leap through the throbbing brain,
Like lightnings hidden in the noon-day cloud!
So passed my student-friend unto his rest,
In the warm summer of his manly youth.
His springtime had been rich in blossoming,
Giving great promise of his harvest days,
When, with a vigorous will, and mind matured,
The golded fruitage of his well-spent hours
Would have been gathered in. Not his the fate
That buffets with the stern and iron world,
And winneth length of days; that wrests from fame
The guerdon that awaits the victor-mind;
That wrestles with great truths, till they become
The ministers of his Titanic will;
The buoyant wave that laves some fair, green isle,
And passing on, strands on a granite rock,
Flinging its wealth of pearl into the air,—
This, rather was his doom. But he had won
The meed of praise that waits the studious soul,
Won the fond friendship of his fellow peers.
He was a Man, in all that constitutes
The truest Manhood, in its strictest sense—
A Man in the full stature of his mind.
Religion was a well-spring in his breast,
Whose waters were as pure as waves of light
Rolling in volumes from the gleaming stars.
His thoughts soared ever upward towards God,
As soars the purifying flame to heaven.
Philosophy, and heaven descended poesy,
Within the sunny chambers of his mind
Met, like fair handmaids, who had come to stay,
And by their presence keep his spirit pure,
And meet for the high calling unto which
He would have given all his earthly days.
But in the midst of Life, the spoiler, Death,
Like a stern tyrant on his heartless round,
Struck down the noble youth, and robbed his friends
And fellow Students of their store of hopes.
Far from his home he died.—No parent's eye
Saw the last struggle of his manly breast;
No sister's voice into his closing ears
Poured the sad music of a last farewell.
But there were loving hands to close his eyes;
And there were loving hearts around, to feel
The grief that enters at the door of death;
And there were loving lips to pour the balm
Of consolation on his chastened mind.
He died, as dies the summer's crimson eve,
When the rich sunset hangs its banners out
Above its palaces of cloud and sky—
A death upon whose brow a radiant life
Sits crowned,—the white-winged messenger of hope,
Whose path is flashing with a sheen of gold.

BERTRAM .

I am ashamed to think you've caught me thus.
You're an accomplished trapper.

LORENZO .

When I please.
But not a word upon the subject now;
The secret shall be kept. We will return:
There is a merry-making at the village,
At which I must be present; and to-morrow,
You will commence your schooling, and become
My fellow-student. Nature for our guide,
Depend upon it we will learn far more
Than any pair of beardling adepts did
In those cold, formal universities,
Where young men's heads are crammed like Christmas turkeys,
Making them passive as a sweating group
Of listless Dutchmen o'er their meerschaum pipes
That deaden all their faculties of mind.