Passion-Flowers (Howe)/From Newport to Rome
FROM NEWPORT TO ROME.1848.
Ye men and women of the world,Whom purple garments soft enfold;I've moved among you from my youth,Decorous, dutiful, and cold.
God granted me these sober hues,This quiet brow, this pensive face,That inner fires might deeply glow,Unguessed without the frigid vase.
Constrained to learn of you the artsWhich half dishonor, half deceive,I've felt my burning soul flash outAgainst the silken web you weave.
No earnest feeling passes youWithout dilution infinite;No word with frank abruptness breathed,Must vent itself on ears polite.
In your domain, so brilliant all,So fitly jewelled, wreathed and hung,Vocal with music, faint with sweetsFrom living flower-censers swung;
Thronged by fair women, tireless allAs ever-moving streams of light,Yielding their wild electric strengthTo contact, as their bloom to sight;
I wandered, while the flow of soundMade Reason drunken through the ear,Dreaming: 'This is soul-paradise,The tree of knowledge must be here.
'The tree whose fruitage of delightImparts the wisdom of the Gods,Unlike the scanty, seedling growthThat Learning's ploughshare wins from clods.'
'And if that tree be here,' said one,Who read my meaning in mine eyes,'No serpent can so soothly speakAs tempt these women to be wise.'
A sound of fear came wafted in,While these careered in giddy rout.None heeded—I alone could hearThe wailing of the world without.
Mid dreadful symphony of deathAnd hollow echoes from the grave,It was a brother's cry that swept,Unweakened, o'er the Atlantic wave.
It breathed so deep, it rose so high,No other sound seemed there to be;'Oh! do you hear that woeful strain?'I asked of all the company—
They stared, as at a madman struckBeneath the melancholy moon;'We hear the sweetest waltz,' they said,'And not a string is out of tune.'
Then, with one angry leap, I sprangTo where the chief musician stood;I seized his rod of rule, I pushedThe idol from his shrine of wood.
'I've sat among you long enough,Or followed where your music led,I never marred your pleasure yet,But ye shall listen now,' I said:
'I hear the battle-thunder boom,Cannon to cannon answering loud;I hear the whizzing shots that flingTheir handful to the stricken crowd.
'I see the bastions bravely manned,The patriots gathered in the breach;I see the bended brows of menWhom the next deathful sweep must reach;I feel the breath of agony,I hear the thick and hurried speech.
'Before those lurid bursts of flame,Your clustering wax-lights flicker pale;In that condensed and deadly smoke,Your blossoms drop, your perfumes fail.
'Brave blood is shed, whose generous flowQuickens the pulses of the river;He, 'neath his arches, muttering low,'It shall be so, but not forever.'
'I see the dome, so calm, so high,A ghost of Greece, it hangs in air,A Pallas, in the heart of warIt thrones above Life's coward care.
'The walls are stormed, the fort is ta'en,The city's heart with fainter throbReceives its death-stroke—all is lost,And matrons curse, and children sob.
'Woe when the arm, so stalwart late,Tenders the sword-hilt to the foe!Woe when the form that late defied,Prostrate, invites the captor's blow.
'The rich must own the hidden hoard,The brave are butchered where they stand,And maidens seek, at altar shrines,A refuge from the lawless hand.
'Till Death, grown sordid, hunts no moreHis flying quarry through the street,And the grim scaffold, one by one,Flings bloody morsels for his meat.
'Were Death the worst, the patriot's hymnWould ring, triumphant, in mine ears;But pangs more exquisite awaitThose who still eat the bread of tears.
'Pale faces, prest to prison-bars,Grow sick, and agonize with life;And firm lips quiver, when the guardThrusts rudely back some shrieking wife.
'Those women, gathering on the sward,I see them, helpful of each other;The matron soothes the maiden's heart,The girl supports the trembling mother;
'Sad recognitions, frantic prayers,Greetings that sobs and spasms smother;And "Oh my son!" the place resounds,And "Oh my father!' oh my brother!"
'And souls are wed in noblenessThat ne'er shall mingle human breath;Love's seed, in holy purpose sown,Love's hope, in God's and Nature's faith.
'A flag hangs in the InvalidesThat flecks with shame the stately dome;"Ta'en from a Roman whom we slew,Keeping the threshold of his home."
'And ye delight in idle tunes,And are content to jig and dance,When ev'n the holy MarseilliaiseSounds for the treachery of France?
'And not a voice amongst you hereCalls on the traitor wrath and hate?And not a wine-cup that ye raiseIs darkened by the victim's fate?
'Nor one with pious drops bewailsThe anguish of the Mother world?'Oh hush! the waltz is gay,' they said,And all their gauzy wings unfurled.
'Nay, hear me for a moment more,Restrain so long your heedless haste;Hearken how pregnant is the timeYe tear to shreds, and fling to waste.
'Through sluggish centuries of growthThe thoughtless world might vacant wait;But now the busy hours crowd in,And Man is come to man's estate.
'With fuller power, let each avowThe kinship of his human blood;With fuller pulse, let every heartSwell to high pangs of brotherhood.
'With fuller light, let women's eyesEarnest, beneath the Christ-like brow,Strike this deep question home to men,"Thy brothers perish—idlest thou?"
'With warmer breath, let mother's lipsWhisper the boy whom they caress,—"Learn from those arms that circle theeIn love, to succor, shelter, bless."
'For the brave world is given to usFor all the brave in heart to keep,Lest wicked hands should sow the thornsThat bleeding generations reap.
'Oh world! oh time! oh heart of Christ!Oh heart, betrayed and sold anew!Dance on, ye slaves! ay, take your sport,All times are one to such as you.'