What so changed the warlord's heart?

'Twas the pa.s.sionate entreaty Of his wife,--a Christian queen; 'Twas the conquest of the pagan By the lowly Nazarene.

Through her prayers Rome's aged Pontiff From the threatened doom was freed; By her aid the Church was strengthened As the king professed its creed; And Saint Peter's great successor, Thus preserved from grievous loss, Gave to her, his faithful daughter, A true relic of the Cross.

What to pious Theodelinda Could be recompense more sweet Than the nail, forever sacred, That once pierced her Saviour's feet?

Which, when rounded to a circlet, (To fine wire beaten down,) Then became the precious basis Of the Lombards' Iron Crown.

Through the ages that have followed What a line of the Renowned Have been proud to wear this emblem, As they, each in turn, were crowned!

Charlemagne, Charles Fifth, Napoleon, German Kaisers by the score, And at last poor King Umberto, Basely slain at Monza's door!

Since that coronet was fashioned Fifteen centuries have pa.s.sed O'er the castle by Lake Como, Where the good queen breathed her last; But the Crown is still at Monza, And its iron basic line Tells the world of human glory And the death of the Divine.

CONTRASTS

The wind is roaring down the lake, The clear, cold moon rides high, The mountains, crystal to their crests, Indent the starlit sky; The wild sea beats my garden-wall, And all its peace transforms; Dear Heart, how different is the lake When swept by Alpine storms!

My soul to-night is dark and sad From proofs of hate displayed, From envy and rapacity, And kindness ill-repaid; The baseness of humanity Hath spoiled a cherished dream; Dear Heart, how different is the lake When Evil reigns supreme!

The gale hath blown itself to rest, The sun turns all to gold, Once more the crystal mountain-sides A waveless plain enfold; And some will laugh, and lightly say The storm hath left no stain, But in my park one perfect rose Will never bloom again!

IN MY PERGOLA

Beyond the blue-robed, sleeping lake, I watch the flush of morning rise, While birds and flowers once more wake, To share with me my paradise.

Within this waveless bay of rest The Alpine winds contend no more, But skim, like gulls, its dimpled breast, And sink to silence on its sh.o.r.e.

The breath of dawn descends the hills, And round me, as I greet the day, I hear the lilt of laughing rills And songs of fountains at their play.

Tall, whispering trees their shadows fling Athwart the trellised path I tread, And incense-breathing roses swing Their pendent censers o'er my head.

What Moorish ceiling e'er excelled This arbor, roofed with cups of gold?

What Eastern casket ever held The perfume which their leaves unfold?

Fair chalices of bloom, swing low, And touch my lips with odors sweet!

Enfold me in your ardent glow, While petals flutter to my feet!

Let, for to-day, the dream remain That life is rose-hued, like this aisle,-- A fragrant pathway, free from pain, With every sun-kissed flower a smile!

EVANESCENCE

Pa.s.sing ships! Pa.s.sing ships!

The white foam sparkling at your lips And countless jewels in your wake Proclaim your progress o'er the lake, While on your decks a smiling throng Surveys this realm of sun and song.

Slipping by! Slipping by!

O'er waves that duplicate the sky I watch you daily come and go, But rarely is there one I know Of all who at your railings stand, To view with joy this storied land.

On ye pa.s.s! On ye pa.s.s!

At times I follow through my gla.s.s Your silent course from sunset light To meet the dusky veil of night, As swiftly round the curving sh.o.r.e Glide faces I shall see no more.

Sailing on! Sailing on!

The transient voyagers now are gone; Yet though the hills their features hide, One memory of them will abide,-- The thought of their enraptured gaze In this the gem of Larian bays.

Gliding by! Gliding by!

Why is it that I look, ... and sigh?

What makes my heart thus vaguely yearn For strangers who will ne'er return?

I would not really have them stay, Yet grieve to see them fade away.

Hail-farewell! Hail-farewell!

Those pa.s.sing steamers seem to tell That all ships, whether slow or fast, Will cross life's little bay at last, While we who linger on the strand Must daily mourn some vanished hand.

LAKE COMO IN AUTUMN

From Como's curving base of blue, To where the snow lies cold and clear, Ascends in steps of varied hue The pageant of the pa.s.sing year, As scores of mountain-sides unfold Their gorgeous robes of red and gold.

Meanwhile, where sh.o.r.e and lake unite, I see, projected far below, A counterpart in colors bright, Of snows that gleam and woods that glow,-- Two pictures of an ideal land, Divided by a single strand.

O matchless view, thus doubly fair, Impress thy beauty on my heart, That, when no longer really there, I still may see thee as thou art!

Alas, that they should ever go,-- Those steps of light, those thrones of snow!

The day declines, the colors pale, The peaks will soon be ashen gray; Yet, though the shades of night prevail, The darkness hath not come to stay; And if no leaves of gold remain, The sun will bring the Spring again.

TO THE PORTRAIT OF NAPOLEON, AS FIRST CONSUL

Painted by Andrea Appiani, in 1803, and at present in the Villa Melzi, Bellagio.

Brilliant as Lucifer, Son of the Morning, Rises this reincarnation of Mars!

Youth at its apogee, precedent scorning, Genius ascending its path toward the stars!

Never was Bonaparte's Consular glory Treated by Art so superbly as here; Never a phase of his marvellous story Handled more deftly, or rendered more clear.

Italy's effigy lies 'neath his fingers, Lombardy rests in the fold of his hand, While on his lips an expression still lingers, Stamped by a character born to command.

Hero of history, what art thou scheming, Spanning thus easily so much of Earth, Holding tenaciously, too, in thy dreaming Wave-beaten Corsica, isle of thy birth?