THE WORLD'S BEST POETRY

As he strode to the marge of the summit, and gave One glance on the gulf of that merciless main; Lo! the wave that for ever devours the wave, Casts roaringly up the charybdis again; And, as with the swell of the far thunder-boom, Rushes foamingly forth from the heart of the gloom.

And it bubbles and seethes, and it hisses and roars, As when fire is with water commixed and contending; And the spray of its wrath to the welkin up-soars, And flood upon flood hurries on, never ending. And it never will rest, nor from travail be free, Like a sea that is laboring the birth of a sea.

And at last there lay open the desolate realm! Through the breakers that whitened the waste of the swell, Dark—dark yawned a cleft in the midst of the whelm, The path to the heart of that fathomless hell. Round and round whirled the waves—deep and deeper still driven, Like a gorge thro' the mountainous main thunder-riven.

The youth gave his trust to his Maker! Before That path through the riven abyss closed again— Hark! a shriek from the crowd rang aloft from the shore, And, behold! he is whirled in the grasp of the main! And o'er him the breakers mysteriously rolled, And the giant-mouth closed on the swimmer so bold.

O'er the surface grim silence lay dark and profound, But the deep from below murmured hollow and fell; And the crowd, as it shuddered, lamented aloud— "Gallant youth—noble heart—fare-thee-well, fare-thee-well!" And still ever deepening that wail as of woe, More hollow the gulf sent its howl from below.

If thou should'st in those waters thy diadem fling, And cry, "Who may find it shall win it, and wear;" God's wot, though the prize were the crown of a king— A crown at such hazard were valued too dear. For never did lips of the living reveal, What the deeps that howl yonder in terror conceal.

Oh many a ship, to that breast grappled fast, Has gone down to the fearful and fathomless grave; Again crashed together, the keel and the mast, To be seen, tossed aloft in the glee of the wave.— Like the growth of a storm ever louder and clearer, Grows the roar of the gulf rising nearer and nearer.

And it bubbles and seethes, and it hisses and roars, As when fire is with water commixed and contending; And the spray of its wrath to the welkin up-soars, And flood upon flood hurries on, never ending, And, as with the swell of the far thunder-boom, Rushes roaringly forth from the heart of the gloom.

And lo! from the heart of that far-floating gloom, What gleams on the darkness so swanlike and white? Lo! an arm and a neck, glancing up from the tomb!— They battle—the Man with the Element's might. It is he—it is he!—In his left hand behold, As a sign—as a joy! shines the goblet of gold!

And he breathèd deep, and he breathèd long, And he greeted the heavenly delight of the day. They gaze on each other—they shout as they throng— "He lives—lo, the ocean has rendered its prey! And out of the grave where the Hell began, His valor has rescued the living man!"

And he comes with the crowd in their clamor and glee, And the goblet his daring has won from the water, He lifts to the king as he sinks on his knee; And the king from her maidens has beckoned his daughter, And he bade her the wine to his cup-bearer bring, And thus spake the Diver—"Long life to the king!

"Happy they whom the rose-hues of daylight rejoice, The air and the sky that to mortals are given! May the horror below never more find a voice— Nor Man stretch too far the wide mercy of Heaven! Never more—never more may he lift from the mirror, The Veil which is woven with Night and with Terror!

"Quick-brightening like lightning—it tore me along, Down, down, till the gush of a torrent at play In the rocks of its wilderness caught me—and strong As the wings of an eagle, it whirled me away. Vain, vain were my struggles—the circle had won me, Round and round in its dance the wild element spun me.

"And I called on my God, and my God heard my prayer, In the strength of my need, in the gasp of my breath— And showed me a crag that rose up from the lair, And I clung to it, trembling—and baffled the death. And, safe in the perils around me, behold On the spikes of the coral the goblet of gold!

"Below, at the foot of that precipice drear, Spread the gloomy, and purple, and pathless obscure! A silence of horror that slept on the ear, That the eye more appalled might the horror endure! Salamander—snake—dragon—vast reptiles that dwell In the deep—coiled about the grim jaws of their hell!

"Dark-crawled—glided dark the unspeakable swarms, Like masses unshapen, made life hideously; Here clung and here bristled the fashionless forms, Here the Hammer-fish darkened the dark of the sea, And with teeth grinning white, and a menacing motion, Went the terrible Shark—the hyena of Ocean.

"There I hung, and the awe gathered icily o'er me, So far from the earth where man's help there was none! The one Human Thing, with the Goblins before me— Alone—in a loneness so ghastly—ALONE! Fathom-deep from man's eye in the speechless profound, With the death of the main and the monsters around.

"Methought, as I gazed through the darkness, that now A hundred-limbed creature caught sight of its prey, And darted.—O God! from the far-flaming bough Of the coral, I swept on the horrible way; And it seized me, the wave with its wrath and its roar, It seized me to save—King, the danger is o'er!"

On the youth gazed the monarch, and marvelled—quoth he, "Bold Diver, the goblet I promised is thine, And this ring will I give, a fresh guerdon to thee, Never jewels more precious shone up from the mine; If thou'll bring me fresh tidings, and venture again, To say what lies hid in the innermost main!"

Then outspake the daughter in tender emotion, "Ah! father, my father, what more can there rest? Enough of this sport with the pitiless ocean— He has served thee as none would, thyself hast confest. If nothing can slake thy wild thirst of desire, Be your knights not, at least, put to shame by the squire!"

The king seized the goblet—he swung it on high, And whirling, it fell in the roar of the tide; "But bring back that goblet again to my eye, And I'll hold thee the dearest that rides by my side, And thine arms shall embrace as thy bride, I decree, The maiden whose pity now pleadeth for thee."

In his heart, as he listened, there leapt the wild joy— And the hope and the love through his eyes spoke in fire, On that bloom, on that blush, gazed, delighted, the boy; The maiden she faints at the feet of her sire! Here the guerdon divine; there the danger beneath; He resolves!—To the strife with the life and the death!

They hear the loud surges sweep back in their swell; Their coming the thunder-sound heralds along! Fond eyes yet are tracking the spot where he fell— They come, the wild waters, in tumult and throng, Rearing up to the cliff—roaring back as before; But no wave ever brought the lost youth to the shore.

From the German of JOHANN C. F. SCHILLER.

GOD'S JUDGMENT ON A WICKED BISHOP.

[Hatto, Archbishop of Mentz, in the year 914, barbarously murdered a number of poor people to prevent their consuming a portion of the food during that year of famine. He was afterwards devoured by rats in his tower on an island in the Rhine.—Old Legend.]

The summer and autumn had been so wet, That in winter the corn was growing yet: 'Twas a piteous sight to see all around The grain lie rotting on the ground.

Every day the starving poor Crowded around Bishop Hatto's door; For he had a plentiful last-year's store, And all the neighborhood could tell His granaries were furnished well.

At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day To quiet the poor without delay; He bade them to his great barn repair, And they should have food for the winter there.

Rejoiced the tidings good to hear, The poor folks flocked from far and near; The great barn was full as it could hold Of women and children, and young and old.

Then, when he saw it could hold no more, Bishop Hatto he made fast the door; And whilst for mercy on Christ they call, He set fire to the barn, and burnt them all.

"I' faith, 'tis an excellent bonfire!" quoth he; "And the country is greatly obliged to me For ridding it, in these times forlorn, Of rats that only consume the corn."

So then to his palace returned he, And he sate down to supper merrily, And he slept that night like an innocent man; But Bishop Hatto never slept again.

In the morning, as he entered the hall, Where his picture hung against the wall, A sweat like death all over him came, For the rats had eaten it out of the frame.

As he looked, there came a man from his farm— He had a countenance white with alarm: "My lord, I opened your granaries this morn, And the rats had eaten all your corn."

Another came running presently, And he was pale as pale could be. "Fly! my lord bishop, fly!" quoth he, "Ten thousand rats are coming this way,— The Lord forgive you for yesterday!"

"I'll go to my tower in the Rhine," replied he; "'T is the safest place in Germany,— The walls are high, and the shores are steep, And the tide is strong, and the water deep."

Bishop Hatto fearfully hastened away; And he crossed the Rhine without delay, And reached his tower, and barred with care All the windows, doors, and loop-holes there.

He laid him down and closed his eyes, But soon a scream made him arise; He started, and saw two eyes of flame On his pillow, from whence the screaming came.

He listened and looked,—it was only the cat; But the bishop he grew more fearful for that, For she sate screaming, mad with fear, At the army of rats that were drawing near.

For they have swum over the river so deep, And they have climbed the shores so steep, And now by thousands up they crawl To the holes and the windows in the wall.

Down on his knees the bishop fell, And faster and faster his beads did he tell, As louder and louder, drawing near, The saw of their teeth without he could hear.

And in at the windows, and in at the door, And through the walls, by thousands they pour; And down from the ceiling and up through the floor, From the right and the left, from behind and before, From within and without, from above and below,— And all at once to the bishop they go.

They have whetted their teeth against the stones, And now they pick the bishop's bones; They gnawed the flesh from every limb, For they were sent to do judgment on him!

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

COUNTESS LAURA.

It was a dreary day in Padua. The Countess Laura, for a single year Fernando's wife, upon her bridal bed, Like an uprooted lily on the snow, The withered outcast of a festival, Lay dead. She died of some uncertain ill, That struck her almost on her wedding day, And clung to her, and dragged her slowly down, Thinning her cheeks and pinching her full lips, Till in her chance, it seemed that with a year Full half a century was overpast. In vain had Paracelsus taxed his art, And feigned a knowledge of her malady; In vain had all the doctors, far and near, Gathered around the mystery of her bed, Draining her veins, her husband's treasury, And physic's jargon, in a fruitless quest For causes equal to the dread result. The Countess only smiled when they were gone, Hugged her fair body with her little hands, And turned upon her pillows wearily, As though she fain would sleep no common sleep, But the long, breathless slumber of the grave. She hinted nothing. Feeble as she was, The rack could not have wrung her secret out. The Bishop, when he shrived her, coming forth, Cried, in a voice of heavenly ecstasy, "O blessed soul! with nothing to confess Save virtues and good deeds, which she mistakes— So humble is she—for our human sins!" Praying for death, she tossed upon her bed Day after day; as might a shipwrecked bark That rocks upon one billow, and can make No onward motion towards her port of hope. At length, one morn, when those around her said, "Surely the Countess mends, so fresh a light Beams from her eyes and beautifies her face,"— One morn in spring, when every flower of earth Was opening to the sun, and breathing up Its votive incense, her impatient soul Opened itself, and so exhaled to heaven. When the Count heard it, he reeled back a pace; Then turned with anger on the messenger; Then craved his pardon, and wept out his heart Before the menial; tears, ah me! such tears As love sheds only, and love only once. Then he bethought him, "Shall this wonder die, And leave behind no shadow? not a trace Of all the glory that environed her, That mellow nimbus circling round my star?" So, with his sorrow glooming in his face, He paced along his gallery of art, And strode among the painters, where they stood, With Carlo, the Venetian, at their head, Studying the Masters by the dawning light Of his transcendent genius. Through the groups Of gayly vestured artists moved the Count, As some lone cloud of thick and leaden hue, Packed with the secret of a coming storm, Moves through the gold and crimson evening mists, Deadening their splendor. In a moment still Was Carlo's voice, and still the prattling crowd; And a great shadow overwhelmed them all, As their white faces and their anxious eyes Pursued Fernando in his moody walk. He paused, as one who balances a doubt, Weighing two courses, then burst out with this: "Ye all have seen the tidings in my face; Or has the dial ceased to register The workings of my heart? Then hear the bell, That almost cracks its frame in utterance; The Countess,—she is dead!" "Dead!" Carlo groaned. And if a bolt from middle heaven had struck His splendid features full upon the brow, He could not have appeared more scathed and blanched. "Dead!—dead!" He staggered to his easel-frame, And clung around it, buffeting the air With one wild arm, as though a drowning man Hung to a spar and fought against the waves. The Count resumed: "I came not here to grieve, Nor see my sorrow in another's eyes. Who'll paint the Countess, as she lies to-night In state within the chapel? Shall it be That earth must lose her wholly? that no hint Of her gold tresses, beaming eyes, and lips That talked in silence, and the eager soul That ever seemed outbreaking through her clay, And scattering glory round it,—shall all these Be dull corruption's heritage, and we, Poor beggars, have no legacy to show That love she bore us? That were shame to love, And shame to you, my masters." Carlo stalked Forth from his easel stiffly as a thing Moved by mechanic impulse. His thin lips, And sharpened nostrils, and wan, sunken cheeks, And the cold glimmer in his dusky eyes, Made him a ghastly sight. The throng drew back As though they let a spectre through. Then he, Fronting the Count, and speaking in a voice Sounding remote and hollow, made reply: "Count, I shall paint the Countess. 'T is my fate,— Not pleasure,—no, nor duty." But the Count, Astray in woe, but understood assent, Not the strange words that bore it; and he flung His arm round Carlo, drew him to his breast, And kissed his forehead. At which Carlo shrank; Perhaps 't was at the honor. Then the Count, A little reddening at his public state,— Unseemly to his near and recent loss,— Withdrew in haste between the downcast eyes That did him reverence as he rustled by. Night fell on Padua. In the chapel lay The Countess Laura at the altar's foot. Her coronet glittered on her pallid brows; A crimson pall, weighed down with golden work, Sown thick with pearls, and heaped with early flowers, Draped her still body almost to the chin; And over all a thousand candles flamed Against the winking jewels, or streamed down The marble aisle, and flashed along the guard Of men-at-arms that slowly wove their turns, Backward and forward, through the distant gloom. When Carlo entered, his unsteady feet Scarce bore him to the altar, and his head Drooped down so low that all his shining curls Poured on his breast, and veiled his countenance. Upon his easel a half-finished work, The secret labor of his studio, Said from the canvas, so that none might err, "I am the Countess Laura." Carlo kneeled, And gazed upon the picture; as if thus, Through those clear eyes, he saw the way to heaven. Then he arose; and as a swimmer comes Forth from the waves, he shook his locks aside, Emerging from his dream, and standing firm Upon a purpose with his sovereign will. He took his palette, murmuring, "Not yet!" Confidingly and softly to the corpse, And as the veriest drudge, who plies his art Against his fancy, he addressed himself With stolid resolution to his task, Turning his vision on his memory, And shutting out the present, till the dead, The gilded pall, the lights, the pacing guard, And all the meaning of that solemn scene Became as nothing, and creative Art Resolved the whole to chaos, and reformed The elements according to her law: So Carlo wrought, as though his eye and hand Were Heaven's unconscious instruments, and worked The settled purpose of Omnipotence. And it was wondrous how the red, the white, The ochre, and the umber, and the blue, From mottled blotches, hazy and opaque, Grew into rounded forms and sensuous lines; How just beneath the lucid skin the blood Glimmered with warmth; the scarlet lips apart Bloomed with the moisture of the dews of life; How the light glittered through and underneath The golden tresses, and the deep, soft eyes Became intelligent with conscious thought, And somewhat troubled underneath the arch Of eyebrows but a little too intense For perfect beauty; how the pose and poise Of the lithe figure on its tiny foot Suggested life just ceased from motion; so That any one might cry, in marvelling joy, "That creature lives,—has senses, mind, a soul To win God's love or dare hell's subtleties!" The artist paused. The ratifying "Good!" Trembled upon his lips. He saw no touch To give or soften. "It is done," he cried,— "My task, my duty! Nothing now on earth Can taunt me with a work left unfulfilled!" The lofty flame, which bore him up so long, Died in the ashes of humanity; And the mere man rocked to and fro again Upon the centre of his wavering heart. He put aside his palette, as if thus He stepped from sacred vestments, and assumed A mortal function in the common world. "Now for my rights!" he muttered, and approached The noble body. "O lily of the world! So withered, yet so lovely! what wast thou To those who came thus near thee—for I stood Without the pale of thy half-royal rank— When thou wast budding, and the streams of life Made eager struggles to maintain thy bloom, And gladdened heaven dropped down in gracious dews On its transplanted darling? Hear me now! I say this but in justice, not in pride, Not to insult thy high nobility, But that the poise of things in God's own sight May be adjusted; and hereafter I May urge a claim that all the powers of heaven Shall sanction, and with clarions blow abroad.— Laura you loved me! Look not so severe, With your cold brows, and deadly, close-drawn lips! You proved it, Countess, when you died for it,— Let it consume you in the wearing strife It fought with duty in your ravaged heart. I knew it ever since that summer day I painted Lilla, the pale beggar's child, At rest beside the fountain; when I felt— O Heaven!—the warmth and moisture of your breath Blow through my hair, as with your eager soul— Forgetting soul and body go as one— You leaned across my easel till our cheeks— Ah me! 't was not your purpose—touched, and clung! Well, grant 't was genius; and is genius naught? I ween it wears as proud a diadem— Here, in this very world—as that you wear. A king has held my palette, a grand-duke Has picked my brush up, and a pope has begged The favor of my presence in his Rome. I did not go; I put my fortune by. I need not ask you why: you knew too well. It was but natural, it was no way strange, That I should love you. Everything that saw, Or had its other senses, loved you, sweet, And I among them. Martyr, holy saint,— I see the halo curving round your head,— I loved you once; but now I worship you, For the great deed that held my love aloof, And killed you in the action! I absolve Your soul from any taint. For from the day Of that encounter by the fountain-side Until this moment, never turned on me Those tender eyes, unless they did a wrong To nature by the cold, defiant glare With which they chilled me. Never heard I word Of softness spoken by those gentle lips; Never received a bounty from that hand Which gave to all the world. I know the cause. You did your duty,—not for honor's sake, Nor to save sin, or suffering, or remorse, Or all the ghosts that haunt a woman's shame, But for the sake of that pure, loyal love Your husband bore you. Queen, by grace of God, I bow before the lustre of your throne! I kiss the edges of your garment-hem, And hold myself ennobled! Answer me,— If I had wronged you, you would answer me Out of the dusty porches of the tomb:— Is this a dream, a falsehood? or have I Spoken the very truth?" "The very truth!" A voice replied; and at his side he saw A form, half shadow and half substance, stand, Or, rather, rest; for on the solid earth It had no footing, more than some dense mist That waves o'er the surface of the ground It scarcely touches. With a reverent look The shadow's waste and wretched face was bent Above the picture; as though greater awe Subdued its awful being, and appalled, With memories of terrible delight And fearful wonder, its devouring gaze. "You make what God makes,—beauty," said the shape. "And might not this, this second Eve, console The emptiest heart? Will not this thing outlast The fairest creature fashioned in the flesh? Before that figure, Time, and Death himself, Stand baffled and disarmed. What would you ask More than God's power, from nothing to create?" The artist gazed upon the boding form, And answered: "Goblin, if you had a heart, That were an idle question. What to me Is my creative power, bereft of love? Or what to God would be that self-same power, If so bereaved?" "And yet the love, thus mourned, You calmly forfeited. For had you said To living Laura—in her burning ears— One half that you professed to Laura dead, She would have been your own. These contraries Sort not with my intelligence. But speak, Were Laura living, would the same stale play Of raging passion tearing out its heart Upon the rock of duty be performed?" "The same, O phantom, while the heart I bear Trembled, but turned not its magnetic faith From God's fixed centre." "If I wake for you This Laura,—give her all the bloom and glow Of that midsummer day you hold so dear,— The smile, the motion, the impulsive soul, The love of genius,—yea, the very love, The mortal, hungry, passionate, hot love, She bore you, flesh to flesh,—would you receive That gift, in all its glory, at my hands?" A smile of malice curled the tempter's lips, And glittered in the caverns of his eyes, Mocking the answer. Carlo paled and shook; A woful spasm went shuddering through his frame, Curdling his blood, and twisting his fair face With nameless torture. But he cried aloud, Out of the clouds of anguish, from the smoke Of very martyrdom, "O God, she is thine! Do with her at thy pleasure!" Something grand, And radiant as a sunbeam, touched the head. He bent in awful sorrow. "Mortal, see—" "Dare not! As Christ was sinless, I abjure These vile abominations! Shall she bear Life's burden twice, and life's temptations twice, While God is justice?" "Who has made you judge Of what you call God's good, and what you think God's evil? One to him, the source of both, The God of good and of permitted ill. Have you no dream of days that might have been, Had you and Laura filled another fate?— Some cottage on the sloping Apennines, Roses and lilies, and the rest all love? I tell you that this tranquil dream may be Filled to repletion. Speak, and in the shade Of my dark pinions I shall bear you hence, And land you where the mountain-goat himself Struggles for footing." He outspread his wings, And all the chapel darkened, as though hell Had swallowed up the tapers; and the air Grew thick, and, like a current sensible, Flowed round the person, with a wash and dash, As of the waters of a nether sea. Slowly and calmly through the dense obscure, Dove-like and gentle, rose the artist's voice: "I dare not bring her spirit to that shame! Know my full meaning,—I who neither fear Your mystic person nor your dreadful power. Nor shall I now invoke God's potent name For my deliverance from your toils. I stand Upon the founded structure of his law, Established from the first, and thence defy Your arts, reposing all my trust in that!" The darkness eddied off; and Carlo saw The figure gathering, as from outer space, Brightness on brightness; and his former shape Fell from him, like the ashes that fall off, And show a core of mellow fire within. Adown his wings there poured a lambent flood, That seemed as molten gold, which plashing fell Upon the floor, enringing him with flame; And o'er the tresses of his beaming head Arose a stream of many-colored light, Like that which crowns the morning. Carlo stood Steadfast, for all the splendor, reaching up The outstretched palms of his untainted soul Towards heaven for strength. A moment thus; then asked, With reverential wonder quivering through His sinking voice, "Who, spirit, and what, art thou?" "I am that blessing which men fly from,—Death." "Then take my hand, if so God orders it; For Laura waits me." "But, bethink thee, man, What the world loses in the loss of thee! What wondrous art will suffer with eclipse! What unwon glories are in store for thee! What fame, outreaching time and temporal shocks, Would shine upon the letters of thy name Graven in marble, or the brazen height Of columns wise with memories of thee!" "Take me! If I outlived the Patriarchs, I could but paint those features o'er and o'er: Lo! that is done." A smile of pity lit The seraph's features, as he looked to heaven, With deep inquiry in his tender eyes. The mandate came. He touched with downy wing The sufferer lightly on his aching heart; And gently, as the skylark settles down Upon the clustered treasures of her nest, So Carlo softly slid along the prop Of his tall easel, nestling at the foot As though he slumbered; and the morning broke In silver whiteness over Padua.

GEORGE HENRY BOKER.