Mother and Poet 3327 MOTHER AND POET TURIN, AFTER NEWS FROM GAETA, 1861 DEAD! One of them shot by the sea in the east, Yet I was a poetess only last year, And good at my art, for a woman, men said; -The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head What art can a woman be good at? Oh, vain! What art is she good at, but hurting her breast With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain? Ah boys, how you hurt! you were strong as you pressed, And I proud, by that test. What art's for a woman! To hold on her knees Both darlings! to feel all their arms round her throat Cling, strangle a little! to sew by degrees And 'broider the long-clothes and neat little coat; To dream and to dote. To teach them... It stings there! I made them indeed Speak plain the word "country." I taught them, no doubt, That a country's a thing men should die for at need. I prated of liberty, rights, and about The tyrant cast out. And when their eyes flashed . . . O my beautiful eyes! . . I exulted; nay, let them go forth at the wheels Of the guns, and denied not. When one sits quite alone! kneels! God! how the house feels! But then the surprise Then one weeps, then one At first, happy news came, in gay letters moiled With my kisses,-of camp-life and glory, and how They both loved me; and, soon coming home to be spoiled, In return would fan off every fly from my brow With their green laurel-bough. Then was triumph at Turin: "Ancona was free!" I bore it; friends soothed me; my grief looked sublime To be leant on and walked with, recalling the time When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained And letters still came, shorter, sadder, more strong, Who forbids our complaint." My Nanni would add, "he was safe, and aware Of a presence that turned off the balls . . . was impressed It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear, And how 'twas impossible, quite dispossessed, To live on for the rest." On which, without pause, up the telegraph-line Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta:-Shot. Tell his mother. Ah, ah, "his," "their" mother;-not "mine," No voice says "My mother" again to me. What! Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with Heaven, Mother and Poet 3329 O Christ of the five wounds, who look'dst through the dark To the face of thy mother! consider, I pray, How we common mothers stand desolate, mark, Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turned away, And no last word to say! Both boys dead? but that's out of nature. We all Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one. 'Twere imbecile, hewing out roads to a wall; And when Italy's made, for what end is it done Ah, ah, ah! when Gaeta's taken, what then? When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out of men? When the guns of Cavalli with final retort Have cut the game short? When Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee, When your flag takes all heaven for its white, green and red, When you have your country from mountain to sea, When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head, (And I have my Dead)— What then? Do not mock me. And burn your lights faintly! Ah, ring your bells low, My country is there, Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow: Forgive me. Some women bear children in strength, When the man-child is born. Dead! One of them shot by the sea in the east, Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861] A MOTHER IN EGYPT "About midnight will I go out into the midst of Egypt: and all the first-born in the land of Egypt shall die, from the first-born of Pharaoh that sitteth upon his throne, even unto the first-born of the maid-servant that is behind the mill." Is the noise of grief in the palace over the river For this silent one at my side? There came a hush in the night, and he rose with his hands a-quiver Like lotus petals adrift on the swing of the tide. O small cold hands, the day groweth old for sleeping! O small still feet, rise up, for the hour is late! Rise up, my son, for I hear them mourning and weeping In the temple down by the gate! Hushed is the face that was wont to brighten with laughter When I sang at the mill; And silence unbroken shall greet the sorrowful dawns hereafter, The house shall be still. Voice after voice takes up the burden of wailing— Do you heed, do you hear?-in the high priest's house by the wall. But mine is the grief, and their sorrow is all unavailing. Will he wake at their call? Something I saw of the broad dim wings half folding The passionless brow. Something I saw of the sword that the shadowy hands were holding, What matters it now? I held you close, dear face, as I knelt and harkened To the wind that cried last night like a soul in sin, When the broad bright stars dropped down and the soft sky darkened And the presence moved therein. I have heard men speak in the market-place of the city, Of a God who is stronger than ours, and who knows not changing nor pity, Whose anger is death. The Dark Road Nothing I know of the lords of the outland races, But Amun is gentle and Hathor the mother is mild, 3331 And who would descend from the light of the Peaceful Places To war on a child? Yet here he lies, with a scarlet pomegranate petal Blown down on his cheek. The slow sun sinks to the sand like a shield of some burnished metal, But he does not speak. I have called, I have sung, but he neither will hear nor waken; So lightly, so whitely, he lies in the curve of my arm, Like a feather let fall from the bird that the arrow hath taken, Who could see him, and harm? "The swallow flies home to her sleep in the eaves of the altar, And the crane to her nest." So do we sing o'er the mill, and why, ah, why should I falter, Since he goes to his rest? Does he play in their flowers as he played among these with his mother? Do the gods smile downward and love him and give him their care? Guard him well, O ye gods, till I come; lest the wrath of that Other Should reach to him there. Marjorie L. C. Pickthail [18 THE DARK ROAD THERE is no light in any path of Heaven, Every star is folded in dark sleep; The clouds hang heavily, the moon is hidden, She did not ask for heavenly palaces, A little human home was her desire; |