Except in my one dream upon the rock
That leans, athirst, above the brimming stream.
The soldier, when he goes to meet the foe,
May darkly understand that death is near,
Yet bravely marches on to destiny.
I too behold a shadow in my path;
I too go on, nor waver in my way.
THE PREMONITION.
I.
Far off, across the turbulence of waves,
I seem to see a wife upon her knees,
Her supplicating hands outstretched to one
Who strikes her with coarse blows on cheek and breast.
He is her husband, and he leaves her there,
And takes her jewels and her only purse,
And in a ship embarks for other shores.
His is the face that I have seen to-day-
A handsome face whatever be its sins:
A firm mouth, with large wandering black eyes,
A bearded under-lip, and snowy teeth;
Long, fine black hair, which idly falls about
Shoulders that stoop from labor over books;
Withal a high and intellectual brow,
Not broad enough to hold a generous soul.
II.
I see the farm-house where my Grace abides;
The afternoon is clear, the grass is green;
And Grace comes forth and walks toward the brook.
Beside its bank, which is a slope of moss,
I see the face intent upon the scene.
Now Grace draws near, and starting back to find
A stranger in the dell she loves the most,
Is half attracted by his cultured mien,
And half repelled by inconsistent fears.
He rises, bowing low, and begs to speak:
He has not seen such beauty in his life;
He craves to touch a finger of her hand,
To judge if she be of the earth, or one
Upon some holy mission from that land
Whereto, with fastings and with many prayers,
Through God's good grace he hopes yet to attain.
Then John Bernard, who has been working near,
Seeding the furrows for his empty barns,
This stranger and my Grace puts hand in hand.
I see her smile in answer to his smiles.
She makes her ears his cells for honeyed speech;
And yet she seems to fear him for some cause.
Now, as the slow sun tarries on the hills,
I see them parting at the farm-house door-
The wide half-door which now is opened half-
And as he passes down the bordered path,
His kiss still lingering upon her hand,
She leans out from the door, and watches him
Until he vanishes between the trees.
I seem to see her face, a trouble sweet
Dwelling upon it, even though the light
Sets it in glory, with a slender ring
Above the white brow and the golden hair.
III.
I see them riding down the village street:
He on a horse as black and strong as iron,
She on her snowy palfrey, robed in green,
Slack reins in hand; the horses side by side.
Even as I see and write, my heart grows cold-
Cold as a bird that on a winter's day
Breasts the bleak wind, high in the biting air.
IV.
I see a city with a concourse vast
Of gas-lit streets and buildings, and above,
Its dear face buried in its cloudy hands,
The Night bends over, weeping. In the street
I see the face again I saw to-day.
I see him writing in a narrow room.
I read the words:
To-night I end my life.
The river says "Embrace, I offer rest."
The world and I have grappled in fair fight,
And I am beaten. Having found defeat,
I long to go down to its lowest depths.
I only ask, that those who find these words,
Will send them to my people past the sea;
To-night I cross a wider: so, adieu.
MICHAEL GIANNI.
This is his true name,
And afterward he writes his wife's address.
He leaves the paper foldless on a stand,
And then goes forth; but not to end his life.
He dreams that now his life is but begun.
He sees my Grace in all his coming days;
He sees the large old farm-house where she dwells,
And therein hopes to happily pass the years,
Living in peace and plenty till he dies.
Most human calculations end in loss,
And every one who has a plan devised,
Is like a foolish walker on a rope,
First balancing on this side, then on that,
Hazarding much to gain a paltry end;
And if the rope of calculation breaks,
Or if the foot slip, added to mishap
Come the world's jeers and gibes; and so 'tis best.
Should half men's schemings find success at last,
I fear God's plans would have but narrow room.
(Michael Gianni, now I know your name,
This premonition gives the hint to me
To trip you in your studied subtleties.
You will not win my Grace, who loves me still;
You will not dare to kiss her hand again.)
V.
Beneath a rustic arbor, near her house,
Linked with sweet converse, sit two shadowed forms.
The new sword moon against the violet sky
Is held aloft, by one white arm of cloud
Raised from the sombre shoulder of a hill.
My Grace and I are sitting in the bower,
And down upon my breast and girdling arm
Is strewn pure gold-no alloy mixes it-
The pure ore of her lovable gold hair.
The cunning weavers of Arabia,
Who seek to shuttle sunshine in their silk,
Would give its weight in diamonds for this hair,
Whereof to make a fabric for their king.
I see the trees that skirt the yonder vale,
And where the road dents down between their arms,
I see a figure passing to and fro.
Now he comes near, and striding up the path
Enters the arbor, and discovers us.
It is Gianni; to his flashing eyes
A fierce deep hatred leaps up from his heart,
As lightning, which forebodes the nearing storm,
Leaps luridly above the midnight hills.
With some excuse Gianni passes on,
While Grace, with sweetly growing confidence,
Whispers with lips which slightly touch my ear,
"I never loved him, I was always yours."
VI.
I see the parlor that my Grace adorns
With flowers and with her presence, which is far
Above the fragrant presence of all flowers.
Grace sits at her piano; on her lips
A song of twilight and the evening star.
There as the shadows slowly gather round,
Gianni comes, and stops a moody hour;
She, ice to his approaches; he, despair;
But ere he goes, he places in her hand
A large ripe orange, fresh from Sicily,
And begs her to accept it for his sake.
She bows him from the room, and puts the fruit
Before her on her music, once again
Dreaming of me, and singing some wild song
Of Pan, who, by the river straying down,
Cut reeds, and blew upon them with such power,
He charmed the lilies and the dragon-flies.
Now while the song is swaying to its close,
I seem to come myself into the room,
And clasp true arms about my darling Grace;
She lays Gianni's orange in my hand,
And says that I must eat it; she would not
Have taken it, but that she did not wish
To cross him with refusal. So I say,
"Surely this stranger has peculiar taste
To bring an orange to you-only one.
Perhaps there is more in it than we know."
VII.
I seem to have this orange in my room,
And in the light of morning turn it round.
I find no flaw in it on any side.
A goodly orange, ripe, with tender coat
Of that deep reddish yellow, like fine gold.
Perhaps the tree had wrapped its roots about
A chest of treasure, and had drawn the wealth
Into its heart to spend it on its fruit.
But while I slowly turn the orange round,