A painter painted a picture for me,
I know not whether with color or words,
Whether on canvas or air it might be—
Whether I saw the vision or heard.
A picture it was, both wide and high.
Nine-tenths of the world had a place therein:
The light was all in the rifted sky—
Beneath, were the shadows of Want and Sin.
I saw — ah I what did I not see there
That would sadden the soul to feel and know?
All bodily anguish and heart despair—
And, far the worst, was the Spirit's woe:—
The baby who pined for milk and bread—
The mother who watched it with tearless eyes—
The father who plotted first crimes in his head—
The sister who fell when she thought to rise:
The laborer eating his mouldy crust
In many a strange and dreary place.
Now by the roadside, crouched in the dust,
Now in the mine, with a hueless face:
The widow dead at her daily work.
With none to see but her wailing child—
Beggars that in odd corners lurk—
And slender maidens with faces wild:
Young men, whose dreams of greatness burst
Their garret walls with their narrow scope,
Who drowned their hunger and cold and thirst
In the brimming wine of a thrilling hope—
All had a place in this picture strange:—
I shuddered, yet could not choose but look,
While ever and ever the picture changed
Like turning the leaves of a solemn book.
Vast shadows over the landscape crept,
Blending the country and town in one;
Shapeless dread in the darkness slept—
Even the sky was dull and dun.
Save that a pencil of silver light
Slid through the heavy and choking air.
Suddenly touching with beauty bright
Some pale face lifted in patient prayer.
The darkness drifted like wind and rain—
I seemed to listen as well as look,
While gusts went by that were loud with pain,
And the air with sobs of sorrow shook
To a strange, continuous undertone
Of tears that were falling many and fast:—
Ah, the wind that over the sea doth moan
Had never so wild a sound as this last!
Ever through space the picture grew.
Bearing me on with its thronging train;—
This tempest of human sorrow blew
And beat on the world its drenching rain.
"What painter hath done this work?" I cried—
"Hath painted this picture wild and dim?"
"Selfishness wrought it!" a voice replied,
"For a prize of Gold that was offered him."
I said:—"Oh let the vision pass!"
The scene, like mist, was drifted away!
A light wind ran through the rippling grass,
A golden glow on the world did lay;
The dimpled foot of the happy child
On moss and velvet violets trod;
With the joy of flowers the fields were wild.
And perfumes rose from the grateful sod.
The mother's breast was full and fair.
She laughed as she nursed her rosy boy.
And shook the curls of her careless hair
To vex him with a gay annoy:
The girl her simple labor sped.
Mocking with songs the birds and streams,—
Then rested 'neath the rose-vine red,
Her cheeks flushed crimson with her dreams;
The laborer feasted at his ease
On the rich fruits his toil had won;—
The peach and purple grape were his—
The wheat gold-tinted by the sun:
The young man with a step elate.
Walked proudly on th' admiring Earth,
His ideas grown to actions great—
Success commensurate with his worth:
The splendor of the boundless sky
Was of so soft and fine a hue,
No daintiest critic-taste could cry
"There was too much of gold or blue!"
"Who painted this," I said, "must be
Of Art, the master and the lord:"
"Love wrought it!" some one answered me,
"And Beauty was his sole reward."
"But when shall Love, the Artist, stand
Most honored in the world's esteem,
And these sweet visions from his hand
Be more than a delightful dream?"
I asked ; and still the voice replies—
"When Beauty is of higher worth
Than Gold, in men's far-seeing eyes,
Then Love shall paint for all the Earth."
It covers the ancient castle
Over all its southern wall;
It makes for itself a trestle
Of arch and battlement tall;
It waves from the lofty turret —
It swings from the stately tower —
It curtains the grim old castle
As fair as a lady's bower.
At the time of the midnight wassail,
At the time of mirth and wine,
I seek no other pleasure
Than to look on the royal vine —
It brims my soul with the measure
Of a happiness divine.
I sit without, in the meadow;
The trees sing low and sweet,
The tremulous light and shadow
Play all around my feet;
I am full of summer fancies,
I breathe the breath of flowers,
I see the river that glances
Beneath the castle-towers;
I hear the wild-bee's story,
I see the roses twine —
But the crown of all, and the glory,
Is the Honeysuckle-vine!
'Tis the type and ideal of summer.
Tropical, brilliant, serene!
It shehers the light-winged comer
In a cool and Avavy screen;
It is full of vague, soft noises,
Sweeter than sweetest rhymes,
Than insects' murmurous voices,
Finer than fairy-bell chimes;
It is the queen and the wonder
Of all the vines that grow.
And the stately elms stand under.
Surprised to see it so.
It floats in the yellow sunshine —
It swims in the rosy light —
It dreams in the mellow moonshine
Through all the August night.
It is still when the breeze is quiet.
It moves not leaf nor limb —
And oh, what a wild, sweet riot
It holds along with him!
They dance together proudly
A gay, ethereal dance.
And the happy breeze laughs loudly
As its garments rustle and glance!
I cannot tell the fancies
Which crowd my brain at times,
Nor the soft, delicious trances
Beguiling my thought to rhymes:—
If I love the Honeysuckle,
I have rivals many and true;
The bee his belt doth buckle
And sharpen his small-sword, too.—
He will sting me if I go nearer—
He will swear he has kissed her lips—
That nectar never was clearer
Than the honey-dew he sips.
The humming-bird, he will tell me
He has lain in her breast for hours;
The butterfly seeks to repel me
With his wings like living flowers.
And the bright sun doth adore her—
He is my rival brave;
He bows his torch before her
Like some gay-appareled slave.
He lights the million tapers
Which burn upon her shrine,
He dries the morning vapors
Which will not let them shine.
Her praise to heaven she renders
With golden lamps all trimmed ;
They blaze with crimson splendors,
By even the day undimmed.
These are not tapers, clearly
That burn upon the vine —
I see them now more nearly
As beakers full of wine !
They are goblets, rich and golden,
Ruby and garnet-rimmed,
By all its branches holden
And with royal nectar brimmed.
Ah ! filled with juices amber.
Which ripen in the flower,
For which bright insects clamber
To the turret and the tower.
The wild-bee swims in blisses,
The small bird drinks his fill —
They vow and sigh — "Oh, this is
The draught the gods distill!
They distill it out of heaven
Into these goblets fine —
Let us drink from morn till even —
Let us madden us with wine,
The ambrosial, the divine!"
It covers the ancient castle
Over all its southern wall ;
It makes for itself a trestle
Of arch and battlement tall ;
It is rooted deep with the basement,
It rises high with the tower.
It curtains a certain casement —
And there is my lady's bower !
With a graceful, sweeping motion
There parteth the leafy screen —
In its wavy and murmurous ocean
Like a pearl is my lady seen.
No wonder the vine drops amber
Which the honey-bees love to hive !
It was planted to shade the chamber
Of the fairest creature alive
Its holy and blissful duty —
The sweetest that ever was done —
Is to shadow her virgin beauty
From the eye of the amorous sun.
I know why the birds crowd thither
To sing and exult all day.
While the roses and violets wither,
Unsung, in the gardens, away.
I know why the bees are drunken—
In pleasure lapped and rolled,—
Why the humming-birds' breasts are sunken
So deep in those cups of gold!
It's not that they hold their wassail
In the crimson, nectarine flower —
They see the pearl of the castle.
They peer in her maiden bower!
Oh, toss your flowers in the sunlight I
Distill your honey-wine!
Wave, wave your limbs in the moonlight.
Glorious, aspiring vine!
Yours is the coveted pleasure
Of guarding the costly shrine —
But the bitter, bitter measure
Of idle envy is mine.
I lie in the oak-tree shadow
The drowsy, summer day.
In the rippling grass of the meadow
I idle my time away.
The wine and feast are untasted.
The labor never is done —
With heart and body wasted,
I lie in the shade and sun.
Like a bird in its leafy covering,
She flits about her room ;
I see her fair form hovering
Between the light and gloom :
She comes to the window, singing.
She plucks a peeping flower —
Through all my being is ringing
Her song's unconscious power.
She shakes the saucy butterfly
From off the fragrant bough —
And I am conquered utterly,
By the mirth which dimples now
Her rosy mouth and cheek,
And brightens over her brow.
Oh, would I dared to speak!
Oh, would I were the blossom
That waves so near her hair—
She might pluck me for her bosom
And let me perish there!
I am mad with too much longing—
And wild with too much thought!
Bless'd birds, around her thronging,
Sing on, I heed you not!
Oh, why was I born human.
With a man's spirit and mind,
And she, a peerless woman,
The queen of all her kind?
Those woody fibers feel not
The thrill of nerves on fire—
Those veins of nectar reel not
With love, hope, or desire!
Yet I can see them yearning
To hear her careless speech,
And I can see them turning
Her loveliest cheeks to reach!
Oh, twine thou over the castle!
In wreaths and masses twine!
I am only a stupid vassal
To lie in the grass and pine
And wish my fate were thine,
Thou happy, royal Vine!
Ben Adam had a golden coin one day.
Which he put out at interest with a Jew ;
Year after year, awaiting him, it lay,
Until the doubled coin two pieces grew,
And these two, four — so on, till people said
"How rich Ben Adam is!" and bowed
the servile head.
Ben Selim had a golden coin that day,
Which to a stranger, asking alms, he gave,
Who went, rejoicing, on his unknown way.
Ben Selim died, too poor to own a grave ;
But when his soul reached heaven, angels, with pride,
Showed him the wealth to which his
coin had multiplied.
Love is not taught. Queen Oene, 'tis a gift
Mysterious as life, and more divine;
The congregated glories of this cave,
With all its jeweled lamps and sparkling roof,
Could never purchase one of its small joys.
Love, in exchange, takes nothing but itself;
Power cannot claim it — fear cannot command:—
It is a tribute Queens cannot exact.
The humblest peasant singing in her hut
Is often richer than the proudest Prince:
It is the gift God left the human race
To keep them from despair, when sin and shame.
Pain, poverty and death, and madness came
Among the people. When a youthful pair
Look in each other's eyes and say, "We love!"
The common earth grows to a heavenly world.
Singing of birds, shining of summer suns,
Blooming of flowers and brightness of the moon
Have a new charm to their elated sense ;
They hear the music of the Universe
Walking, with light feet, to the harmony ;
Careless of care and disbelieving pain,
Grateful for life — and all, because they love!