There round Hibernia's fabled realm he coasted, Where the old saint had left the holy cave, Sought for the famous virtue that it boasted To purge the sinful visitor and save.

Thence back returning over land and wave, Ruggiero came where the blue currents flow, The sh.o.r.es of Lesser Brittany to lave, And, looking down while sailing to and fro, He saw Angelica chained to the rock below.

'Twas on the Island of Complaint--well named, For there to that inhospitable sh.o.r.e, A savage people, cruel and untamed, Brought the rich prize of many a hateful war.

To feed a monster that bestead them sore, They of fair ladies those that loveliest shone, Of tender maidens they the tenderest bore, And, drowned in tears and making piteous moan, Left for that ravening beast, chained on the rocks alone.

Thither transported by enchanter's art, Angelica from dreams most innocent (As the tale mentioned in another part) Awoke, the victim for that sad event.

Beauty so rare, nor birth so excellent, Nor tears that make sweet Beauty lovelier still, Could turn that people from their harsh intent.

Alas, what temper is conceived so ill But, Pity moving not, Love's soft enthralment will?

On the cold granite at the ocean's rim These folk had chained her fast and gone their way; Fresh in the softness of each delicate limb The pity of their bruising violence lay.

Over her beauty, from the eye of day To hide its pleading charms, no veil was thrown.

Only the fragments of the salt sea-spray Rose from the churning of the waves, wind-blown, To dash upon a whiteness creamier than their own.

Carved out of candid marble without flaw, Or alabaster blemishless and rare, Ruggiero might have fancied what he saw, For statue-like it seemed, and fastened there By craft of cunningest artificer; Save in the wistful eyes Ruggiero thought A teardrop gleamed, and with the rippling hair The ocean breezes played as if they sought In its loose depths to hide that which her hand might not.

Pity and wonder and awakening love Strove in the bosom of the Moorish Knight.

Down from his soaring in the skies above He urged the tenor of his courser's flight.

Fairer with every foot of lessening height Shone the sweet prisoner. With tightening reins He drew more nigh, and gently as he might: "O lady, worthy only of the chains With which his bounden slaves the G.o.d of Love constrains,

"And least for this or any ill designed, Oh, what unnatural and perverted race Could the sweet flesh with flushing stricture bind, And leave to suffer in this cold embrace That the warm arms so hunger to replace?"

Into the damsel's cheeks such color flew As by the alchemy of ancient days If whitest ivory should take the hue Of coral where it blooms deep in the liquid blue.

Nor yet so tightly drawn the cruel chains Clasped the slim ankles and the wounded hands, But with soft, cringing att.i.tudes in vain She strove to shield her from that ardent glance.

So, clinging to the walls of some old manse, The rose-vine strives to shield her tender flowers, When the rude wind, as autumn weeks advance, Beats on the walls and whirls about the towers And spills at every blast her pride in piteous showers.

And first for choking sobs she might not speak, And then, "Alas!" she cried, "ah, woe is me!"

And more had said in accents faint and weak, Pleading for succor and sweet liberty.

But hark! across the wide ways of the sea Rose of a sudden such a fierce affray That any but the brave had turned to flee.

Ruggiero, turning, looked. To his dismay, Lo, where the monster came to claim his quivering prey!

On a Theme in the Greek Anthology

Thy petals yet are closely curled, Rose of the world, Around their scented, golden core; Nor yet has Summer purpled o'er Thy tender cl.u.s.ters that begin To swell within The dewy vine-leaves' early screen Of sheltering green.

O hearts that are Love's helpless prey, While yet you may, Fly, ere the shaft is on the string!

The fire that now is smouldering Shall be the conflagration soon Whose paths are strewn With torment of blanched lips and eyes That agonize.

After an Epigram of Clement Marot

The lad I was I longer now Nor am nor shall be evermore.

Spring's lovely blossoms from my brow Have shed their petals on the floor.

Thou, Love, hast been my lord, thy shrine Above all G.o.ds' best served by me.

Dear Love, could life again be mine How bettered should that service be!

Last Poems

1916

The Aisne (1914-15)

We first saw fire on the tragic slopes Where the flood-tide of France's early gain, Big with wrecked promise and abandoned hopes, Broke in a surf of blood along the Aisne.

The charge her heroes left us, we a.s.sumed, What, dying, they reconquered, we preserved, In the chill trenches, harried, sh.e.l.led, entombed, Winter came down on us, but no man swerved.

Winter came down on us. The low clouds, torn In the stark branches of the riven pines, Blurred the white rockets that from dusk till morn Traced the wide curve of the close-grappling lines.

In rain, and fog that on the withered hill Froze before dawn, the lurking foe drew down; Or light snows fell that made forlorner still The ravaged country and the ruined town;

Or the long clouds would end. Intensely fair, The winter constellations blazing forth -- Perseus, the Twins, Orion, the Great Bear -- Gleamed on our bayonets pointing to the north.

And the lone sentinel would start and soar On wings of strong emotion as he knew That kinship with the stars that only War Is great enough to lift man's spirit to.

And ever down the curving front, aglow With the pale rockets' intermittent light, He heard, like distant thunder, growl and grow The rumble of far battles in the night, --

Rumors, reverberant, indistinct, remote, Borne from red fields whose martial names have won The power to thrill like a far trumpet-note, -- Vic, Vailly, Soupir, Hurtelise, Craonne . . .

Craonne, before thy cannon-swept plateau, Where like sere leaves lay strewn September's dead, I found for all dear things I forfeited A recompense I would not now forego.

For that high fellowship was ours then With those who, championing another's good, More than dull Peace or its poor votaries could, Taught us the dignity of being men.

There we drained deeper the deep cup of life, And on sublimer summits came to learn, After soft things, the terrible and stern, After sweet Love, the majesty of Strife;

There where we faced under those frowning heights The blast that maims, the hurricane that kills; There where the watchlights on the winter hills Flickered like balefire through inclement nights;

There where, firm links in the unyielding chain, Where fell the long-planned blow and fell in vain -- Hearts worthy of the honor and the trial, We helped to hold the lines along the Aisne.

Champagne (1914-15)