Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE BIRD AND THE BELL, by CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH Poet's Biography First Line: Twas earliest morning in the early spring Last Line: Light, love, henceforth shall reign forever and alone! | ||||||||
I. 'T was earliest morning in the early spring, In Florence. Winter, dark and damp and chill; Had yielded to the fruit-trees' blossoming, Though sullen rains swept from the mountains still. The tender green scarce seemed to have a will To peep above the sod and greet the sky, -- Like an o'er-timid child who dreads a stranger's eye. II. The city slumbered in the dawning day; -- Old towers and domes and roof-tiles looming dim, Bridges and narrow streets and cloisters gray, And sculptured churches, where the Latin hymn By lamplight called to mass. As o'er a limb The spells of witchcraft strong but noiseless full, The shadows of the Past reigned silent over all. III. Waking from sleep, I heard, but knew not where, A bird, that sang alone its early song. The quick, clear warble leaping through the air, -- The voice of spring, that all the winter long Had slept,--now burst in melodies as strong And tremulous as Love's first pure delight; -- I could not choose but bless a song so warm and bright. IV. Sweet bird! the fresh, clear sprinkle of thy voice Came quickening all the springs of trust and love. What heart could hear such joy, and not rejoice? Thou blithe remembrancer of field and grove, Dropping thy fairy flute-notes from above, Fresh message from the Beauty Infinite That clasps the world around and fills it with delight! V. It bore me to the breeze-swept banks of bloom, To trees and falling waters, and the rush Of south-winds sifting through the pine-grove's gloom; Home-gardens filled with roses, and the gush Of insect-trills in grass and roadside bush; And apple-orchards flushed with blossoms sweet; And all that makes the round of nature most complete. VI. It sang of freedom, dimmed by no alloy; Peace, unpossessed upon our troubled sphere, Some long Arcadian day of love and joy, Unsoiled by fogs of superstitious fear; A world of noble beings born to cheer The wilderness of life, and prove the fact Of human grandeur in each thought and word and act. VII. What was it jarred the vision and the spell, And brought the reflux of the day and place? Athwart the bird's song clanged a brazen bell. Nature's improvisations could not face That domineering voice; and in the race Of rival tongues the Bell outrang the Bird, -- The swinging, clamoring brass which all the city heard. VIII. Santa Maria Novella's Church, hard by, Calling its worshippers to morning prayer, From its old Campanile lifted high In the dull dampness of the clouded air, Poured out its monotones, and did not spare Its ringing shocks of unremitting sound, That soon my warbler's notes were swept away and drowned. IX. Down from the time-stained belfry clanged the bell, Joined in a moment by a hundred more. Had I not heard the bird, I might have well Floated on that sonorous flood that bore Away all living voices, as with roar Of deep vibrations, grand, monastic, bold, Through street and stately square the metal music rolled. X. Oft have I listened in the dead of night, When all those towers like chanting priests have prayed; And the weird tones seemed tangled in the height Of palaces, -- as though all Florence made One great ghost-organ, and the pipes that played Were the dark channelled streets, pouring along In beats and muffled swells the deep resounding song. XI. So now the incessant peal filled all the air, And the sweet bird-voice, utterly forced away, Ceased. And it seemed as if some spirit fair Were hurled into oblivion; and the day Grew suddenly more darkly, grimly gray, Like a vast mort-cloth stretched from south to north, While that tyrannic voice still rang its mandates forth. XII. And so I mused upon the things that were, And those that should be, or that might have been; And felt a life and freedom in the air, And in the sprouting of the early green, I could not match with man, who builds his screen Darkening the sun, and in his own light stands, And casts the shadow of himself along the lands. XIII. For him who haunts the temples of the Past, And shapes his fond ideals by its rules; Whose creed, whose labors, are but thoughts recast In worn and shrunken moulds of antique schools, -- Copies of copies, wrought with others' tools; For whom law stands for justice, Church for God, Symbol for fact, for right divine the tyrant's rod; -- XIV. Who fears to utter what his reason bids, Unless it wears the colors of a sect; Who hardly dares to lift his heavy lids, And greet the coming Day with head erect, But apes each general posture and defect Entailed by time, -- alert in others' tracks, Like owls that build in some time-mantled ruin's cracks; -- XV. For him yon clanging Bell a symbol bears, That deadens every natural voice of spring. Fitter for him the croaking chant, the prayers, The torch, the cross, the censer's golden swing, The organ-fugue, -- a prisoned eagle's wing Beating the frescoed dome, -- the empty feast Where at his tinselled altar stands the gay-robed priest. XVI. O mighty Church! who, old, but still adorned With jewels of thy youth, -- a wrinkled bride Affianced to the blind, -- so long hast scorned The rising of the inevitable tide That swells and surges up against thy pride, -- Thou, less the artist's than the tyrant's nurse, Blight of philosophy, false star of poet's verse! -- XVII. What though thy forms be picturesque and old, And, clustered round thee, works of noblest art Hallow thy temples! Once they may have told Profound emotions of the inmost heart; Now shadowed by a faith that stands apart, And scowls against the sunlight shared abroad, Burning in altar-nooks its candles to its god! XVIII. The saints who toiled to help the world's distress; The noble lords of thought and speech divine; The prophets crying through Time's wilderness; The vast discoveries, the inventions fine That stamped upon the centuries a sign Of grandeur, -- all, like music thundered down By stern cathedral bells, were silenced by thy frown. XIX. Chained to Madonnas and ascetic saints, Even Art itself felt thy all-narrowing force. The painter saw thee peeping o'er his paints; The sculptor's thought was fettered from its source; Thy gloomy cloisters shaped the builder's course; Thy organ drowned the shepherd's festive flute With penitential groans, as though God's love were mute. XX. And yet, because there lurked some element Of truth within the doctrine, -- to man's need Some fitness in the form; since more was meant And more expressed than in the accepted creed, -- The artist's genius giving far less heed To formulas than to his own ideal, -- The hand and heart wrought works the world has stamped as real. XXI. What didst thou for the already teeming soil Of souls like Dante, Raphael, Angelo, Save to suggest a theme or pay their toil? While they o'erlooked their prison walls, and so Caught from the skies above and earth below Splendors wherewith they lit thy tarnished crown, And clothed thee with a robe thou claimest as thine own. XXII. Names that in any age would have been great, Works that to all time speak, and so belong, Claim not as thine; nor subsidize the fate That gave them to the nations for a long, Unceasing heritage. Amid a throng Of starry lights they live. Thy clanging bells Can never drown their song, nor break their mighty spells. XXIII. No mother thou of Genius, but the nurse. Seek not to stamp a vulgar name upon The sons of Morning. Take the Poet's verse, But not the Poet. He is not thy son. Enough for thee, if sometimes he hath gone Into thy narrow fold from pastures wide, Where through immortal flowers God pours the living tide. XXIV. Enough if he hath decked thee with the wealth Of his heaven-nurtured spirit, -- showering gems Of thought and fancy, coining youth and health To gild with fame thy papal diadems; Plucking life's roses with their roots and stems To wreathe an altar which returned him naught But the poor patronage of some suspected thought. XXV. What didst thou for the studious sage who saw Through nature's veils the great organic force, -- Who sought and found the all-pervading law That holds the rolling planets in their course? When didst thou fail to check the flowing source Of truths whose waters needs must inundate The theologic dikes that guarded thy estate? XXVI. Is there a daring thought thou hast not crushed? Is there a generous faith thou hast not cursed? Is there a whisper, howe'er low and hushed, Breathed for the future, but thou wast the first To silence with thy tortures, -- thou the worst Of antichrists, and cunningest of foes That ever against God and man's great progress rose? XXVII. Yet life was in thee once. Thy earlier youth Was flushed with blossoms of a heavenly bloom. Thy blight began, when o'er God's common truth And man's nobility thou didst assume The dread prerogative of life and doom; And creeds which served as swaddling-bands were bound Like grave-clothes round the limbs laid living under ground. XXVIII. When man grows wiser than his creed allows, And nobler than the church he has outgrown; When that which was his old familiar house No longer is a home, but all alone, Alone with God, he dares to lift the stone From off the skylight between heaven and him, -- Then shines a grander day, then fade the spectres grim. XXIX. And never yet was growth, save when it broke The letter of the dead scholastic form. The bark drops off, and leaves the expanding oak To stretch his giant arms through sun and storm. The idols that upon his breast lay warm The sage throws down, and breaks their hallowed shrine, And follows the great hand that points to light divine. XXX. But thou, O Church! didst steal the mother's mask, The counterfeit of Heaven, -- so to enfold Thy flock around thee. None looked near, to ask "Art thou our mother, truly?" None so bold As lift thy veils, and show how hard and cold Those eyes of tyranny, that mouth of guile, That low and narrow brow, the witchcraft of that smile, -- XXXI. That subtle smile, deluding while it warmed; That arrogant, inquisitorial nod; That hand that stabbed, like Herod, the new-formed And childlike life which drew its breath from God, And, for that star by which the Magi trod The road to Bethlehem, the Good Shepherd's home, Lit lurid idol-fires on thy seven hills of Rome. XXXII. Rome, paralyzed and dumb, -- who sat a queen Among the nations, now thy abject slave; Yet muttering in her cell, where gaunt and lean Thy priests have kept her pining! Who shall save And lift the captive from her living grave? Is there no justice left to avert her doom, Where monarchs sit and play their chess-games on her tomb? XXXIII. And thou, too, Venice, moaning by the sea, Which moans and chafes with thee, on Lido's beach, -- Thou, almost in despair lest there should be In Europe's life no life within thy reach, No respite from thy tyrant, -- thou shalt teach Thy Austrian despot yet what hoarded hate And sudden strength can do to change thy sad estate! XXXIV. For, lo, the fires are kindled. Hark! afar, At last the thunders mutter under ground, The northern lights flash cimeters of war, Sardinia's trumpets to the battle sound. See Florence, Parma, Modena, unbound, Leap to their feet, -- and stout Romagna brave The Cardinal's frown, and swear to cower no more a slave! XXXV. See Sicily, whose blood is AEtna's veins Of sleepless fire, heave with volcanic pants, Seething, a restless surge of hearts and brains, Till Garibaldi's quick Ithuriel lance Wakes the whole South from its long, troubled trance, And Naples, catching the contagious flame, Welcomes her hero in with blessings on his name! XXXVI. The nations that in darkness sat have seen The light. The blind receive their sight again. The querulous old man who stands between His children and their hopes, with threats insane, Trembles, as though an earthquake split in twain The crumbling rock beneath Saint Peter's dome; And the last hiding-place of tyranny -- is Rome. XXXVII. For Italy, long pining, sad, and crushed, Has hurled her royal despots from the land. Back to her wasted heart the blood has gushed. Her wan cheek blooms, and her once nerveless hand Guides with firm touch the purpose she has planned. Thank God! thank generous France! the battle smoke Lifts from her bloody fields. See, at her feet her yoke! XXXVIII. Not like a maddened anarch does she rise: The torch she holds is no destroying flame, But a clear beacon, -- like her own clear eyes Straining across the war-clouds; and the shame Of wild misrule has never stained her name. Calm and determined, politic yet bold, She comes to take her place, -- the Italy of old. XXXIX. She asks no boon, except to stand enrolled Among the nations. Give her space and air, Our Sister. She has pined in dungeons cold. A little sunshine for our Sister fair, A little hope to cover past despair. God's blessing on the long-lost, the unbound! The earth has waited long; the heavens now answer -- "Found!" XL. The nations greet her as some lovely guest Arriving late, where friends pour out the wine. Ay, press around, and pledge her in the best Your table yields, and in her praise combine! And ye who love her most, press near, and twine Her locks with wreaths, and in her large dark eyes See all her sorrowing past, and her great future rise! XLI. But thou who claim'st the keys of God's own heaven, And who wouldst fain usurp the keys of earth, -- Thou, leagued with priests and tyrants who have given Their hands, and pledged their oaths to blight the birth Of thine own children's rights, -- for scorn and mirth One day shalt stand, thy juggling falsehoods named, Thy plots and wiles unmasked, thy heaven-high titles shamed! XLII. Look to the proud tiara on thy brow! Its gems shall crush thee down like leaden weights. Thy alchemy is dead; and wouldst thou now Thunder anathemas against the states Whose powers are Time's irrefragable fates? Look to thy glories! they must shrink away, -- With meaner pomp must fall, and sink into decay. XLIII. Lo, thou art numbered with the things that were, Soon to be laid upon the dusty shelves Of antiquaries, -- once so strong and fair, Now classed with spells of magic, midnight elves, And all half-lies, that pass away themselves When once a people rises to the light Of primal truths and comprehends its heaven-born right. XLIV. Toil on; but little canst thou do to-day. The sun is risen. The daylight dims thy shrines. The age outstrips thee, marching on its way, And overflowing all thy boundary lines. How art thou fallen, O star! How lurid shines Thy taper underneath the glowing sky! How feeble grows thy voice, how lustreless thine eye! XLV. Like some huge shell left by the ebbing tide, In which once dwelt some wonder of the sea, Thou liest, and men know not that thy pride Of place outlives thy earlier potency, But, coming nearer to thy mystery, Might call thee lovely, did not thy decay And death-like odor drive them in contempt away. XLVI. So perish like thee all lies stereotyped By human power or devilish artifice, -- Dark blot on Christ's pure shield, soon to be wiped Away, and leave it fair for Heaven's free kiss; So perish like thee, drowned in Time's abyss, All that hath robbed strong Genius of its youth, All that hath ever barred the struggling soul from truth! XLVII. And yet we need not boast our larger scope In this broad land, if creeds of later stamp Still cast their gloom o'er manhood's dearest hope, Still quench the heavenward flame of Reason's lamp, And dogmas shamed by science still can cramp The aspiring soul in dungeons scarce less drear Than those of older times, when faith was one with fear. XLVIII. Nor dream that here the inquisitorial chair Is but a byword, though we flush and weep In honest indignation, when we hear Chains clank in Rome, and wonder how the cheap And common truth of Heaven must cringe, and creep, And mask its face, lest Mother Church disown The rebel thought that flouts the apostolic throne! XLIX. If we indeed are sure our faith is best, Then may we dare to leave it large and free, Nor fear to bring the creed to reason's test; For best is strongest, fearing not to see As well as feel. Then welcome, Liberty! Down with the scaffolding the priest demands! Let Truth stand free, alone, a house not built with hands! L. Down with the useless and the rotting props That only cumber and deface each wall! Off with the antiquated cloth that drops Moth-eaten draperies round the columns tall. Nor needs the heavenly Architect our small Superfluous tricks of ornament and gilt, To deck the royal courts his wisdom planned and built. LI. He wills a temple beautiful and wide As man and nature, -- not a cloister dim, Nor strange pagoda of barbaric pride Scrawled o'er with hieroglyph and picture grim Of saint and fiend. Why seek to honor him By crusting o'er with gold of Palestine The simple, stainless dome whose builder is divine? LII. Thanks to the Central Good, the inflowing Power, The Primal Life in which we live and move, -- The aroma of the soul, the passion-flower We bear upon our hearts, the deathless love Of right, outlives device, and floats above All human creeds, though armed with power to brave The scholar's daring thought, and make the world their slave. LIII. The music of the soul can ne'er be mute. What though the brazen clang of antique form Stop for a hundred years the angel's lute, The angel smiles, and when the deafening storm Has pealed along the ages, with the warm Touch the immortals own, he sings again, Clearer and sweeter, like the sunshine after rain. LIV. He sings the song no tyrant long resists; He sings the song the world perforce must join, Though ages stand as notes. For he insists With such sweet emphasis, such chords divine, That, soon or late, along the living line Of hearts that form Humanity, there thrills A sympathetic nerve no time or custom kills. LV. Humanity must answer when God speaks, As sure as echo to the human voice. And every grand o'ertopping lie which breaks With furious flood and century-deafening noise In the eternal symphony that joys Along, is but some baser pipe or chord That shall be tuned again when Reason sits as lord. LVI. Eternal Truth shines on o'er Error's cloud, Therefore, though the true bard may sing aloud His soul-song in the unreceptive night, His words -- swift, arrowy fires -- must fly and light, Sooner or later, kindling south and north, Till skulking Falsehood from her den be hunted forth. LVII. Work on, O fainting hearts! Through storm and drought, Somewhere your winged heart-seeds will be blown, And plant a living grove; -- from mouth to mouth, O'er oceans, into speech and lands unknown, Even till the long-foreseen result be grown To ripeness, filled like fruit with other seed, Which Time shall sow anew, and reap when men shall need. LVIII. There is no death, but only change on change. The life-force of all forms, in tree and flower, In rocks and rivers, and in clouds that range Through heaven, in grazing beasts, and in the power Of mind, goes forth forever, an unspent dower, Glowing and flashing through the universe, Kindling the light of stars, and joy of poet's verse! LIX. Each hour and second is the marriage-morn Of spirit-life and matter; as when kings Wed peasants, and their simple charms adorn With Oriental gems and sparkling rings And diadems, and with all royal things Making their eyes familiar, -- so, with tones Sweet and unheard before, conduct them to their thrones. LX. One mighty circle God in heaven hath set, Woven of myriad links, -- lives, deaths unknown, -- Where all beginnings and all ends are met To follow and serve each other, -- Nature's zone And zodiac, round whose seamless arc are strewn A million and a million hues of light That blend and glow and burn, beyond our realm of night. LXI. O ye who pined in dungeons for the sake Of truths which tyrants shadowed with their hate; Whose only crime was that ye were awake Too soon, or that your brothers slept too late, -- Mountainous minds! upon whose tops the great Sunrise of knowledge came, long ere its glance Fell on the foggy swamps of fear and ignorance, -- LXII. The time shall come when from your heights serene Beyond the dark, ye will look back and smile To see the sterile earth all growing green, Where Science, Art, and Love repeat Heaven's style In crowded city and on desert isle, Till Eden blooms where martyr-fires have burned, And to the Lord of Life all hearts and minds are turned. LXIII. The seeds are planted, and the spring is near. Ages of blight are but a fleeting frost. Truth circles into truth. Each mote is dear To God. No drop of ocean e'er is lost, No leaf forever dry and tempest-tossed. Life centres deathless underneath decay, And no true word or deed can ever pass away. LXIV. And ye, O Seraphs in the morn of time! Birds whose entrancing voices in the spring Of primal Truth and Beauty, were the chime Of heaven and earth! still we may hear you sing. No clang of hierarchal bells shall ring, To drown your carol, in the airs that move And stir the dawning age of Liberty and Love! LXV. Light, -- light breaks on the century's farthest round; Light in the sky, light in the humblest home. The unebbing tides of God, where errors drowned Sink down to fathomless destruction, come Swelling amain. Truth builds her eternal dome Vast as the sky. Nations are linked in one. 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