Read Ebook: Poems by Stoddard John L John Lawson

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Ebook has 541 lines and 23941 words, and 11 pages

"Oswald von Wolkenstein! Last of a gifted line, Years have gone by since we parted in hate; What have they taught to me? This, that all's naught to me Save what you brought to me,-- Love and love's fate. Can you that love forget? Know that I love you yet! If you my passion share, Linger no longer there; Fearless to do and dare, Come, ere too late!

"Near the old Roman Road Up which the legions strode, Where the first vine-covered terraces rise, Stands a grim fortress tall, Which, like a mountain wall, Though scarred by many a ball, Capture defies! 'Forst' is the name it bears; Brilliant the fame it wears; Thither,--our trysting place--, Ride at your swiftest pace; Come to my fond embrace! My love your prize!"

Who could such words suspect? Who could that call reject? Surely not Wolkenstein, ardent of soul! Gone is the pain of years; Vanished his jealous fears; Smiles have replaced his tears; Lost self-control; Slave to his passion's past, Vows to the winds are cast; Faithless, she holds him still; Absent, she sways his will; Traitress, with subtle skill Plays she her role.

Where Etsch and Eisack meet, Mingling their waters fleet, Opens the valley that leads to Meran; As its red cliffs divide, Castles on either side Threaten his plan; Yet, where the shadows sleep Under each dungeon keep, Up through the land of wine, Blest with both palm and pine, Oswald von Wolkenstein Rides to Terlan.

Here falls his gallant horse, Killed by his headlong course; Is it a warning to halt and retreat? Yet who, when passion pleads, Ever such warning heeds? What though a dozen steeds Drop at his feet? Hence, while the peasants stare, Buys he their swiftest mare; And, as the pavement rings With the bright gold he flings, He to the saddle springs, Never so fleet!

Now, lover, pause for breath! Folly may here mean death! Yon gleam the lights of the capital's towers; Here let thy pace be slow; Frederick, thy crafty foe, Plots there to lay thee low, Fearing thy powers; He of the "empty purse", Stung by thy biting verse, Using a woman's hate, Offers a tempting bait; Both thy approach await, Counting the hours!

Dark is the starless night; Only one feeble light Burns at the grating surmounting the door; Has his advance been heard? Was that a whispered word? What in that shadow stirred? Shall he explore? Fie! when a prize so fair Doubtless awaits him there, Shall he now hesitate Here, at Forst's very gate, Fearing to test his fate? No, nevermore!

Barred is the iron door! On the damp dungeon floor Oswald the Troubadour, gifted and strong, Lies in a loathsome cave, Dark as a living grave, No one to care or save, Silenced his song; And while they leave him there, Crushed by profound despair, Princelet and paramour, Knowing their prey secure, Feeling their vengeance sure, Laugh loud and long.

Who can in words relate Oswald's unhappy fate, Left to these monsters, whose hate was ablaze? Both on revenge were bent; He for a menace sent, She for the merriment Caused by his lays. "Dungeon and torture-rack, These shall now pay thee back! Minstrel and poet rare, Rave in thy mad despair, And in that fetid lair Finish thy days!"

Vainly he pleads with her; No prayer succeeds with her; Useless the joys of their past to rehearse; For to increase his woe, Frederick, his jealous foe, Shares in this cruel show,-- Fit for God's curse; Shameless and treacherous, Heartless and lecherous, Sabine with fiendish glee, Deaf to his every plea, Watches his agony, Quoting his verse!

Broken at last his chain! Ended the poet's pain! Freed by a ransom , Humbled by grief and shame, Injured in name and fame, Drags he his crippled frame Back through Tyrol. Then, in a plaintive song Chanting his grievous wrong, Oswald von Wolkenstein, Last of his gifted line, Dies in Schloss Hauenstein; God rest his soul!

AFTER THE VINTAGE

How can my vineyard's charm be told, As it basks in the autumn haze? The Frost King's touch, so light and cold, Like that of the Persian king of old, Hath turned its roof from green to gold, Till the hillside seems ablaze.

Threading its maze of arbors fair Under its saffron bowers, I watch, in the crisp, November air, Through vine-framed openings here and there The ivied walls of castles rare And ruined Roman towers.

Sapphire blue is the cloudless sky, White are the mountain walls, Rainbow-hued are the tints that lie Lavishly spread on the forests high, Where leaves by millions flame and die, As the chill of Autumn falls.

Over the slopes in sun and shade The terraced vines descend, Like stately steps of a broad cascade, Or an amphitheatre's seats, arrayed In folds of sumptuous, gold brocade, Where red and amber blend.

I love to see, from the rising sun Each terrace gain its crown, When the splendid dawn hath just begun, From the crest of the mountain it hath won, To gild the vine-rows one by one, As the mellow glow creeps down.

And when the day's receding light Deserts the vale below, I trace its noiseless, upward flight Through darkening zones of foliage bright, Till all the world is lost in night Save pyramids of snow.

THE PASSING MOON

In my loggia bright I watch to-night The full moon sailing by; From a crystal creek in a glaciered peak It slipped to the open sky, And now rides free in a clear, blue sea, With not an island nigh.

Through pearly haze its light displays Each buttressed mountain side, And softly shines through stately pines Where feudal castles hide, And every height grows dazzling white In the foam of a silver tide.

From the eastern side of the valley wide To its snow-capped western rim It will hold its way, till the dawning day Shall have made its disk grow dim; Then, leaving the blue, will drop from view Behind the mountain's brim.

Whence did it climb on its path sublime, Ere it left that icy height? And where will it go, when yonder snow Is reached in the morning light? Will its face elsewhere be just as fair, When here it is lost to sight?

Why should I ask? 'Tis a fruitless task; Enough that its splendor falls On me to-night in my loggia bright, Till the scene my soul enthralls; 'Tis a long time yet, ere the moon will set Behind those glittering walls.

And even when it sinks again Below that stainless crest, It will seem at last to have safely passed To a haven of peace and rest, Like a happy soul that hath reached its goal In the kingdom of the blest.

I also know not where I go, Nor whence I came, or why, Nor can I guess what happiness Or strange, new world may lie Beyond the vale through which I sail, Beneath another sky;

But as the moon, which all too soon Sinks down the west for me, To other eyes appears to rise And glide on fair and free, So the frail boat in which I float, Though tempest-worn it be, May cross life's brink, and seem to sink, Yet sail another sea.

AUTUMN IN MERAN

The vintage time is gone, but not its glory; The grapes are garnered from their leafy gloom; Yet miles of vineyards, story crowning story, Cover the hillsides with a golden bloom.

The vine-clad terraces descend the mountains Like cascades rippling with resplendent gold; Steeped in the sun, and fed by sweet-voiced fountains, Tyrolean slopes a paradise unfold.

Above the vines the mountain sides are blending The oaks' and maples' multicolored glow, In variegated zones their hues ascending From radiant roses to eternal snow.

Now here, now there, through brilliant foliage peeping, A ruined castle seeks its walls to hide,-- High on some lonely crag in silence sleeping, Left centuries since by history's ebbing tide.

In sparkling foam the beryl-colored river Laughs in the sunshine between tinted walls; While on the cliffs the scarlet creepers shiver, Chilled by the breeze, as sunset's shadow falls.

Still in the valley Summer reigns victorious, Though Winter's silvery sheen creeps slowly down; Land of the vine and snow, at all times glorious, In Autumn wearest thou thy fairest crown.

THE STATUE OF THE EMPRESS ELIZABETH. MERAN

At her feet are beds of flowers, Overhead are stately trees Whose protecting branches murmur With the passing of the breeze; Though her hand retains a volume, From its page her glances stray, For her thoughts are with the ocean, As the river flows away.

As I view her chastened features, I can feel the rising tears At the thought of all her anguish Through a martyrdom of years; For her joys were writ in water,-- Too impermanent to stay, And were swept toward sorrow's ocean, Ere her youth had passed away.

She was captured in the morning Of her childhood's careless age, And imprisoned in a palace Like a linnet in a cage; And its gilded bars confined her To a Court's prescribed display, Which her simple nature hated, As the slow years crept away.

Hence her marble face seems troubled, As she gazes down the stream, Like an angel who hath wakened From a fearful, earth-born dream; She is waiting for the sunset Of her tempest-darkened day, But her soul is with the ocean, Where all rivers wend their way.

THE OUTCASTS

The smile of God was in the air; Enwreathed in veils of silvery hue, The valley lay, divinely fair, Beneath a cloudless vault of blue; And singing, like a bird set free, The river hurried to the sea.

Through Alpine ether, crystal clear, The genial sun of South Tyrol Diffused its bless?d warmth and cheer, Enriching body, mind and soul, While music floated o'er the stream, And made such beauty seem a dream.

Enraptured with the sun's caress And windless warmth 'mid peaks of snow, In careless quest of happiness The gay world sauntered to and fro, Or, seated on the well-kept strand, Enjoyed the music of the band.

Upon a bench, remote from those Whose dress betokened rank or wealth, Sat two poor waifs, whose weary pose Betrayed a fruitless search for health,-- An ag?d couple, near their end, United, yet without a friend.

But still they bravely tried to smile, --So warm the sun, so fair the scene!-- They could be happy yet a while, Ere death's cold shadow crept between; And music's softly rhythmic flow Recalled their youth of long ago.

"Begone!" a watchman's voice exclaimed; "Your rustic garb is much too poor; How comes it, you are not ashamed In such a place to play the boor? From company like this withdraw! Obey the mandate of the law!"

The startled strangers meekly rose And moved away with downcast eyes, Too wonted to such cruel blows To manifest the least surprise; Too humbled to inquire why; Too timid to attempt reply.

Poor outcasts from that joyous stage Where well-dressed hundreds strolled at ease, With faltering steps, and bowed with age, They vanished slowly 'neath the trees; But neither scanned the other's face, For fear a falling tear to trace.

Farewell, sweet, music-laden air, And sunshine on the sheltered strand! I follow where that outcast pair Are walking sadly, hand in hand; For me your vaunted charm hath fled, While they remain uncomforted.

HEIMWEH

I dwell in a region of valleys fair, Of stately forests and mountains bold, Of churches filled with treasures rare, And storied castles centuries old; But now and then, when the sun sinks low, And the vesper bell is softly rung, I think of the days of long ago, And yearn for the land where I was young.

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