| |
(Excerpt)
“BOUNDS within bounds, and everlasting bars | |
| Sunk in deep sockets of unyielding stone; | |
| Bars on the seaward face, and these I touch; | |
| The space between,—a Temple of the Winds, | |
| Where eyes, and eyes alone, may venture in, | 5 |
| Set in the castle’s wall, through which I view, | |
| As through the chamber of a telescope, | |
| The seemingly illimitable sea,— | |
| A sight I never tire of,—whose expanse | |
| Is endless in its aspects and its tints; | 10 |
| To-day all crisply curled in clear green waves | |
| Where the blue rolls, above the yellow sands, | |
| And topped with creamy foam and delicate bells | |
| And bubbles of transparent hues, mid which | |
| Float lazily the tangles and brown sheaves | 15 |
| Of kelp that weltering lie beneath the sun,— | |
| The wrecked and scattered harvest of the storm; | |
| Mid these the sea-grape’s clusters idly hang | |
| And sway and waver in the ripple’s light, | |
| As sun-empurpled bunches ’tween sere leaves | 20 |
| On Southern hillsides, swing in balmy air. | |
| O’er these, loud screaming wheels a flight of gulls, | |
| In gradual widening spirals of approach, | |
| With balanced wings, and low-dropped hanging feet | |
| That skim the crystal surface as they pass,— | 25 |
| All glancing sidelong, with keen amber eyes. | |
| Beyond, and yet beyond, lie belts of calm | |
| With milky streaks between; and passing flaws,— | |
| The transient footprints of a vagrant breeze; | |
| There mid broad shadows on the dark blue field | 30 |
| Tacks the tall ship,—the high-sterned caravel,— | |
| The quaint carrack,—the argosy of Ind; | |
| With fisher boats between, whose sails of tan | |
| Glow into golden chestnut in the sun, | |
| Their leaning gunwales hung with dark festoons | 35 |
| Of nets and cordage, corks and tiny buoys. | |
| And last! between us and yon gloomy rock, | |
| Whose brow is garlanded with wind-blown weed, | |
| Starts out our villain prison-barge, whose crew | |
| Pulls a slow, solemn stroke, of hollow sound. | 40 |
| While the sun flashes on the musquetoons | |
| Two listless soldiers bear, but never use. | |
| Thus much the eye takes in,—blue sea, blue sky, | |
| But less of sky than sea, and little land.” * * * * * | |
| So saying, he lay down upon his bed, | 45 |
| Beneath the loop-holed window of the room, | |
| His gray head pillowed on his woven hands, | |
| Each in the other clasped behind his neck, | |
| In mutual help and brotherly support. | |
| And as he lay he slept, and while he slept, | 50 |
| Or seemed to sleep, in that mysterious mood | |
| Which hangs upon the skirts of waking thought | |
| He dreamed. | |
| It was a vivid dream of sunny Cannes, | |
| Cannes on the mainland shore just opposite, | 55 |
| Now near and clear, so late invisible, | |
| Saw jutting towards him, ’tween the twin blue bays | |
| Of Napoule and Jouan,—the Point Croisette, | |
| And Jouan and Napoule sweep grandly thence | |
| In graceful curves, all edged with terraces, | 60 |
| While from their feet hung terraces as fair, | |
| Glassed in the perfect calm of azure seas. | |
| Behind all these uprose gray Gothic towers, | |
| And campanilés tall, whose shapely shafts | |
| Reared up their rosy-wrinkled roofs to heaven, | 65 |
| And long-backed houses with the formal line | |
| Of ridge just gently broken here and there | |
| By knots of chimneys and flag-flaunting staves, | |
| Anon a spire or two,—and windmill arms, | |
| That circled slowly over sweet La Grasse, | 70 |
| Amid the bosky olive yards and groves, | |
| Where the pale citron ripens in the sun, | |
| And vines run riot in luxuriant joy. | |
| O’er this (upon the left) the Esterel | |
| He saw soar heavenward, all her crags and peaks | 75 |
| Cut clear and sharply out against the sky, | |
| While on the right, their summits lost in snow, | |
| The snow half merged in mist, towered up to heaven, | |
| With awful brows those Alps called Maritime. * * * * * | |
| I ’ll venture to be rash, | 80 |
| Creating circumstance, though hazardous, | |
| Wherewith to play my play. Shrewd written words. | |
| Silvern the tablet be,—the stylus steel, | |
| The tablet this bright dish,—my pocket-knife | |
| A stylus to my hand. | 85 |
| And now, to grave my name,—my qualities, | |
| My kingly parentage,—my prison-house, | |
| My living burial, and my inner tomb. | |
| Come!” Thus he cried, and drew the dish to him, | |
| And laid the grapes and vine-leaves on a shelf | 90 |
| That jutted from the wall above his couch, | |
| And, taking up the burnished piece of plate | |
| That bore the crest and impress of St. Mars, | |
| Wrote words upon ’t (as ’t were a tablet made | |
| Just for his purpose) with his knife, the style, | 95 |
| Six lines exact, and then his signature, | |
| All written clear and rapidly,—the point | |
| Smoothly and flowingly defining sense, | |
| In spun-out flourishes of silver thread: | |
| “Here, in this castle of Ste. Marguerite, wastes | 100 |
| His weary life away (close prisoner), | |
| The brother, passing Frenchman! of thy king. | |
| In God’s name help! shall not my people save? | |
| Help! ere I fade and rot, and pass away, | |
| Unchallenged, to oblivion, past the tomb.” | 105 |
| Then pausing for an instant, slowly signed | |
| “Philippe” (the name they gave him in their fraud), | |
| Thereby confounding him with Philippe born | |
| To Louis and to Ann, but after him; | |
| So that if news of prisoned Philippe flew | 110 |
| Forth from the donjon to the world beyond, | |
| The world should wag its head and wink and laugh, | |
| Saying “Prince Philippe hunted yesterday, | |
| Or rode a-hawking with his gentlemen | |
| This very morn.” And then again, “We know | 115 |
| But one Prince Philippe, brother to the king.” * * * * * | |
| He held the dish before him like a glass, | |
| Which flashed the sun-rays back upon his mask, | |
| And turned to diamond both the piercing eyes, | |
| That beamed like starlight through two gaping rifts, | 120 |
| Then setting it on edge, like one who spins | |
| A coin, or hurls a discus through the air, | |
| Sent it loud-ringing down the stony slope | |
| That floored the loop-hole, through a vista formed | |
| Of upright iron bars, not grazing one! | 125 |
| And now with one gay bound it seaward sprang | |
| Out o’er the window-ledge,—one blaze of light, | |
| And struck, in falling, on a corbel, or | |
| Mayhap some course of masonry that stood | |
| Projected past its fellows,—like the bulk | 130 |
| Of some grim giant’s eyebrow, knit in gloom, | |
| Clashed on ’t like cymbal, and with blaring jar | |
| Of sudden stricken silver, trembling rang | |
| Sweetly sonorous,—leapt again,—and sang | |
| A pæan-song mid-air, which tranced the bees | 135 |
| That thronged the blooming ivy on the wall, | |
| Tranced them,—then died away. * * * * * | |
| Much wash of waters on the rocky shore, | |
| Faint cries of passing seamen swung mid-air, | |
| Like birds amid a forestry of spars, | 140 |
| And cobwebbed crossings of a corded maze. | |
| These sounds, and those of feet, as swift the “Mask” | |
| Paced the cold flagstones muttering to himself,— | |
| These were what most prevailed. But—hark! again, | |
| What sudden noise is this? | 145 |
| An earnest stranger comes, and loudly knocks | |
| With ruddy knuckles on the postern door, | |
| Jarring the massy oak and ponderous bolts | |
| Which groan and rattle ’neath the lusty fist, | |
| Rousing the guard within. | 150 |
| A burly fisher-youth, and roughly clad, | |
| But yet with golden ear-rings in his ears; | |
| Bare-legged, bare-armed, bare-breasted, and who wore | |
| (Askew) a sailor’s cap, of scarlet wool. | |
| This pulled ’most to his eyes,—whose frolic fire | 155 |
| Lighted the clear bronze-olive of a cheek | |
| The salt breeze netted o’er with crossed red veins. | |
| Two musqueteers conducting him, he came | |
| Into the presence-chamber of St. Mars, | |
| Bearing a silver dish beneath his arm, | 160 |
| Which he hugged closely to his bosom warm,— | |
| His treasure-trove, expectant of reward. * * * * * | |
| |
