Now who can tell me if this dream of mine
Will prove a sombre prophecy? I pray
That if, for art's sake, life's consummate wine,
True love, must be for ever thrown away,
I may not see to-morrow's sunset beam !
'For what is life without a love that swells
Its currents with the rivulets of bliss ?
And what is art without a love that dwells
Within its purpose, nor will let it miss
Its highest level, its divinest aim?
For what for me could life possess of joy,
If, losing love, I gained eternal fame?
Can art a loveless life for good employ?
Nay, at the very thought my soul rebels !'
He paused; before the prince he bowed his head,
Upon Manol with kindly look, and said:
'Our hearts within our bosoms fiercely burned
To hear thee sing the ecstasy of love,
O builder of our palaces; and now,
To show we prize thy confidence above
All else, we freely make a sacred vow,
And swear it, by the noble sainted dead,-
'To keep thy dream as secret as the grave:
Let all who hear obey! Good architect,
Get hence: love thou thy Flora, and be brave:
Let not thy life by devil's wiles be wrecked.
Build thou so strong the new cathedral wall
That it may stand for ever and a day,
And if new dreams thy senses should appal,
Believe them not, but without ceasing pray!
So mayst thou Love and Art together save!'
Then homeward went Manol, as still in dream :
He stumbled at a shadow on the sand;
And when he reached the border of the stream
Near where the great cathedral was to stand,
He seemed to walk with spirits, and converse
With shapes invisible; nor did he see
The knots of shepherds in affright disperse,
Nor heard he note of bird, nor hum of bee.
Like one who sees the future did he seem.
Long sat he musing, till the sun was high. Each peasant hid beneath his humble thatch, O'er which the friendly stork began to fly; Each sought a brief repose at noon to snatch.
The cattle panted in the shade; the sheep
In nooks along the slopes began to hide;
The shepherds and their dogs were half asleep;
And million insect echoes, multiplied
By millions, made a restful lullaby.
Far off, across the vasty stretch of plain,
The waggoners beside their oxen slept ;
Or to a well a faint and dusty train.
Of footsore travellers with longing crept;
Or here a brawny man-at-arms, or there
A monk beneath a bush sat down to rest;
Each trembled at the sun's offensive glare,
Which every living thing with heat opprest,
Save sad Manol, whose dream absorbed his brain.
He thought of Flora, as he saw her stand,
A maiden, at a fountain, on the day
When Radu Negru, with his valiant band,
Fell on the plains where once the Goths held sway; When stern Wallachian legions overran
The vales from which their fathers were expelled:
When they anew their history began:
When every sturdy warrior rebelled
Against the fate which long had cursed his land.
That day was festival in every town.
The shepherds blew upon their pipes in glee : his crown,
For Radu Negru swore, upon
To make the re-born nation great and free;
And all the maidens filled their hands with flowers, And strewed them wheresoe'er the soldiers came; And danced within the perfumed rustic bowers Until their olive faces seemed aflame,
And oosened glorious tresses tumbled down.
But Flora of the Fields, a flower so rare,
That rustics never dared approach her near,
Seemed not for village jollity to care,
Nor to the prince would lend a listening ear
When he entreated her to grace his feast,
Held on the plain hard by her father's cot;
Nor would her virginal reserve have ceased,
Had it not been Manol's delightful lot
By one swift loving glance her heart to snare.
No lustrous rose of hot voluptuous noon
Was Flora, but a lily of the morn:
No tropic blossom doomed to wither soon,
But firm in beauty; fitted to adorn
The altar of a chapel; stately, pure
As mountain air, and dainty as a sprite.
Manol of happiness for e'er felt sure,
As in her gentle eyes he saw the light
Of love, more maddening than the light of moon.
And when he knew he loved her, there awoke
Within his spirit such inspiring joy,
That stern ambition of true manhood broke
The hesitating purpose of the boy.
From youthful dreamer who aspired to build,
He grew into an architect of might;
And all his days and all his nights were filled
With richest meditation and delight.
Love touched his lips, and then his genius spoke.
His love was consecrated by the priest,
And Flora filled with song his simple home.
Each year, by greater work his fame increased,
In broader circuits o'er the plains did roam,
And up the mountain sides began to crawl;
For here he built a font, or there a tomb,
Or wrought upon a monastery wall
Rich arabesques, that lightened up the gloom,
As dawn makes bright the portals of the East.
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