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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:17:00 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:17:00 -0700 |
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diff --git a/1365-0.txt b/1365-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..dc97781 --- /dev/null +++ b/1365-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,61745 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1365 *** + +THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF HENRY WADSWORTH COMPLETE WORKS OF LONGFELLOW + + + +(From the PUBLISHER’S NOTE: “The present Household Edition of Mr. +Longfellow’s Poetical Writings . . . contains all his original +verse that he wished to preserve, and all his translations except +the Divina Commedia. The poems are printed as nearly as possible +in chronological order . . . Boston, Autumn, 1902.” Houghton +Mifflin Company.) + + + + +CONTENTS. +VOICES OF THE NIGHT. + Prelude + Hymn to the Night + A Psalm of Life + The Reaper and the Flowers + The Light of Stars + Footsteps of Angels + Flowers + The Beleaguered City + Midnight Mass for the Dying Year +EARLIER POEMS. + An April Day + Autumn + Woods in Winter + Hymn of the Moravian Nuns of Bethlehem + Sunrise on the Hills + The Spirit of Poetry + Burial of the Minnisink + L’Envoi +BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. + The Skeleton in Armor + The Wreck of the Hesperus + The Village Blacksmith + Endymion + It is not Always May + The Rainy Day + God’s-Acre + To the River Charles + Blind Bartimeus + The Goblet of Life + Maidenhood + Excelsior + POEMS ON SLAVERY. + To William E. Channing + The Slave’s Dream + The Good Part, that shall not be taken away + The Slave in the Dismal Swamp + The Slave singing at Midnight + The Witnesses + The Quadroon Girl + The Warning +THE SPANISH STUDENT. +THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS. + Carillon + The Belfry of Bruges + A Gleam of Sunshine + The Arsenal at Springfield + Nuremberg + The Norman Baron + Rain In Summer + To a Child + The Occultation of Orion + The Bridge + To the Driving Cloud + SONGS + The Day Is done + Afternoon in February + To an Old Danish Song-Book + Walter von der Vogelweid + Drinking Song + The Old Clock on the Stairs + The Arrow and the Song + SONNETS + Mezzo Cammin + The Evening Star + Autumn + Dante + Curfew + +EVANGELINE: A TALE OF ACADIE. + +THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE. + Dedication + BY THE SEASIDE. + The Building of the Ship + Seaweed + Chrysaor + The Secret of the Sea + Twilight + Sir Humphrey Gilbert + The Lighthouse + The Fire of Drift-Wood + BY THE FIRESIDE. + Resignation + The Builders + Sand of the Desert In an Hour-Glass + The Open Window + King Witlaf’s Drinking-Horn + Gaspar Becerra + Pegasus in Pound + Tegnér’s Drapa + Sonnet on Mrs. Kemble’s Reading from Shakespeare + The Singers + Suspiria + Hymn for my Brother’s Ordination + +THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. + Introduction + I. The Peace-Pipe + II. The Four Winds + III. Hiawatha’s Childhood + IV. Hiawatha and Mudjekeewis + V. Hiawatha’s Fasting + VI. Hiawatha’s Friends + VII. Hiawatha’s Sailing + VIII. Hiawatha’s Fishing + IX. Hiawatha and the Pearl-Feather + X. Hiawatha’s Wooing + XI. Hiawatha’s Wedding-Feast + XII. The Son of the Evening Star + XIII. Blessing the Cornfields + XIV. Picture-Writing + XV. Hiawatha’s Lamentation + XVI. Pau-Puk-Keewis + XVII. The Hunting of Pau-Puk-Keewis + XVIII. The Death of Kwasind + XIX. The Ghosts + XX. The Famine + XXI. The White Man’s Foot + XXII. Hiawatha’s Departure + <NOTES> + +THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. + I. Miles Standish + II. Love and Friendship + III. The Lover’s Errand + IV. John Alden + V. The Sailing of the May flower + VI. Priscilla + VII. The March of Miles Standish + VIII. The Spinning-Wheel + IX. The Wedding-Day + +BIRDS OF PASSAGE. + FLIGHT THE FIRST. + Birds of Passage + Prometheus, or the Poet’s Forethought + Epimetheus, or the Poet’s Afterthought + The Ladder of St. Augustine + The Phantom Ship + The Warden of the Cinque Ports + Haunted Houses + In the Churchyard at Cambridge + The Emperor’s Bird’s-Nest + The Two Angels + Daylight and Moonlight + The Jewish Cemetery at Newport + Oliver Basselin + Victor Galbraith + My Lost Youth + The Ropewalk + The Golden Mile-Stone + Catawba Wine + Santa Filomena + The Discoverer of the North Cape + Daybreak + The Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz + Children + Sandalphon + FLIGHT THE SECOND. + The Children’s Hour + Enceladus + The Cumberland + Snow-Flakes + A Day of Sunshine + Something left Undone + Weariness + +TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. + Part First + Prelude + The Wayside Inn + The Landlord’s Tale + Paul Revere’s Ride + Interlude + The Student’s Tale + The Falcon of Ser Federigo + Interlude + The Spanish Jew’s Tale + The Legend of Rabbi Ben Levi + Interlude + The Sicilian’s Tale + King Robert of Sicily + Interlude + The Musician’s Tale + The Saga of King Olaf + I. The Challenge of Thor + II. King Olaf’s Return + III. Thora of Rimol + IV. Queen Sigrid the Haughty + V. The Skerry of Shrieks + VI. The Wraith of Odin + VII. Iron-Beard + VIII. Gudrun + IX. Thangbrand the Priest + X. Raud the Strong + XI. Bishop Sigurd at Salten Fiord + XII. King Olaf’s Christmas + XIII. The Building of the Long Serpent + XIV. The Crew of the Long Serpent + XV. A Little Bird in the Air + XVI. Queen Thyri and the Angelica Stalks + XVII. King Svend of the Forked Beard + XVIII. King Olaf and Earl Sigvald + XIX. King Olaf’s War-Horns + XX. Einar Tamberskelver + XXI. King Olaf’s Death-drink + XXII. The Nun of Nidaros + Interlude + The Theologian’s Tale. + Torquemada + Interlude + The Poet’s Tale + The Birds of Killingworth + Finale + PART SECOND. + Prelude + The Sicilian’s Tale + The Bell of Atri + Interlude + The Spanish Jew’s Tale + Kambalu + Interlude + The Student’s Tale + The Cobbler of Hagenau + Interlude + The Musician’s Tale + The Ballad of Carmilhan + Interlude + The Poet’s Tale + Lady Wentworth + Interlude + The Theologian’s Tale + The Legend Beautiful + Interlude + The Student’s Second Tale + The Baron of St. Castine + Finale + PART THIRD. + Prelude + The Spanish Jew’s Tale + Azrael + Interlude + The Poet’s Tale + Charlemagne + Interlude + The Student’s Tale + Emma and Eginhard + Interlude + The Theologian’s Tale + Elizabeth + Interlude + The Sicilian’s Tale + The Monk of Casa-Maggiore + Interlude + The Spanish Jew’s Second Tale + Scanderbeg + Interlude + The Musician’s Tale + The Mother’s Ghost + Interlude + The Landlord’s Tale + The Rhyme of Sir Christopher + Finale + + FLOWER-DE-LUCE. + Flower-de-Luce + Palingenesis + The Bridge of Cloud + Hawthorne + Christmas Bells + The Wind over the Chimney + The Bells of Lynn + Killed at the Ford + Giotto’s Tower + To-morrow + Divina Commedia + Noël + +BIRDS OF PASSAGE + FLIGHT THE THIRD. + Fata Morgana + The Haunted Chamber + The Meeting + Vox Populi + The Castle-Builder + Changed + The Challenge + The Brook and the Wave + Aftermath + + THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. + I. The Workshop of Hephæstus + II. Olympus + III. Tower of Prometheus on Mount Caucasus + IV. The Air + V. The House of Epimetheus + VI. In the Garden + VII. The House of Epimetheus + VIII. In the Garden + + THE HANGING OF THE CRANE + + MORITURI SALUTAMUS + + A BOOK OF SONNETS. + Three Friends of Mine + Chaucer + Shakespeare + Milton + Keats + The Galaxy + The Sound of the Sea + A Summer Day by the Sea + The Tides + A Shadow + A Nameless Grave + Sleep + The Old Bridge at Florence + Il Ponte Vecchio di Firenze + Nature + In the Churchyard at Tarrytown + Eliot’s Oak + The Descent of the Muses + Venice + The Poets + Parker Cleaveland + The Harvest Moon + To the River Rhone + The Three Silences of Molinos + The Two Rivers + Boston + St. John’s, Cambridge + Moods + Woodstock Park + The Four Princesses at Wilna + Holidays + Wapentake + The Broken Oar + The Cross of Snow + + BIRDS OF PASSAGE + FLIGHT THE FOURTH. + Charles Sumner + Travels by the Fireside + Cadenabbia + Monte Cassino + Amalfi + The Sermon of St. Francis + Belisarius + Songo River + + KERAMOS + + BIRDS OF PASSAGE. + FLIGHT THE FIFTH. + The Herons of Elmwood + A Dutch Picture + Castles in Spain + Vittoria Colonna + The Revenge of Rain-in-the-Face + To the River Yvette + The Emperor’s Glove + A Ballad or the French Fleet + The Leap of Roushan Beg + Haroun Al Raschid. + King Trisanku + A Wraith in the Mist + The Three Kings + Song: “Stay, Stay at Home, my Heart, and Rest.” + The White Czar + Delia + +ULTIMA THULE. + Dedication + Poems + Bayard Taylor + The Chamber over the Gate + From my Arm-Chair + Jugurtha + The Iron Pen + Robert Burns + Helen of Tyre + Elegiac + Old St. David’s at Radnor + FOLK-SONGS. + The Sifting of Peter + Maiden and Weathercock + The Windmill + The Tide Rises, the Tide Falls + SONNETS + My Cathedral + The Burial of the Poet + Night + L’ENVOI. + The Poet and his Songs + +IN THE HARBOR. + Becalmed + The Poet’s Calendar + Autumn Within + The Four Lakes of Madison + Victor and Vanquished + Moonlight + The Children’s Crusade + Sundown + Chimes + Four by the Clock + Auf Wiedersehen + Elegiac Verse + The City and the Sea + Memories + Hermes Trismegistus + To the Avon + President Garfield + My Books + Mad River + Possibilities + Decoration Day + A Fragment + Loss and Gain + Inscription on the Shanklin Fountain + The Bells of San Blas + +FRAGMENTS. + “Neglected record of a mind neglected” + “O Faithful, indefatigable tides” + “Soft through the silent air” + “So from the bosom of darkness” + + CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY. + Introitus + PART I. THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. + The First Passover + I. Vox Clamantis + II. Mount Quarantania + III. The Marriage in Cana + IV. In the Cornfields + V. Nazareth + VI. The Sea of Galilee + VII. The Demoniac of Gadara + IX. The Tower of Magdala + X. The House of Simon the Pharisee + The Second Passover + I. Before the Gates of Machaerus + II. Herod’s Banquet-Hall + III. Under the Wall of Machaerus + IV. Nicodemus at Night + V. Blind Bartimeus + VI. Jacob’s Well + VII. The Coasts of Caesarea Philippi + VIII. The Young Ruler + IX. At Bethany + X. Born Blind + XI. Simon Magus and Helen of Tyre + The Third Passover + I. The Entry into Jerusalem + II. Solomon’s Porch + III. Lord, is it I? + IV. The Garden of Gethsemane + V. The Palace of Caiaphas + VI. Pontius Pilate + VII. Barabbas in Prison + VIII. Ecce Homo + IX. Aceldama + X. The Three Crosses + XI. The Two Maries + XII. The Sea of Galilee + Epilogue. Symbolum Apostolorum + First Interlude. The Abbot Joachim + + PART II. THE GOLDEN LEGEND. + Prologue: The Spire of Strasburg Cathedral + I. The Castle of Vautsberg on the Rhine + Courtyard of the Castle + II. A Farm in the Odenwald + A Room in the Farmhouse + Elsie’s Chamber + The Chamber of Gottlieb and Ursula + A Village Church + A Room in the Farmhouse + In the Garden + III. A Street in Strasburg + Square in Front of the Cathedral + In the Cathedral + The Nativity: A Miracle-Play + Introitus + I. Heaven + II. Mary at the Well + III. The Angels of the Seven Planets + IV. The Wise Men of the East + V. The Flight into Egypt + VI. The Slaughter of the Innocents + VII. Jesus at Play with his Schoolmates + VIII. The Village School + IX. Crowned with Flowers + Epilogue + IV. The Road to Hirschau + The Convent of Hirschau in the Black Forest + The Scriptorium + The Cloisters + The Chapel + The Refectory + The Neighboring Nunnery + V. A Covered Bridge at Lucerne + The Devil’s Bridge + The St. Gothard Pass + At the Foot of the Alps + The Inn at Genoa + At Sea + VI. The School of Salerno + The Farm-house in the Odenwald + The Castle of Vautsberg on the Rhine + Epilogue. The Two Recording Angels Ascending + Second Interlude. Martin Luther + + PART III. THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. + John Endicott + Giles Corey of the Salem Farms + Finale. St. John + + JUDAS MACCABAEUS + Act I. The Citadel of Antiochus at Jerusalem + Act II. The Dungeons in the Citadel + Act III. The Battle-field of Beth-Horon + Act IV. The Outer Courts of the Temple at Jerusalem + Act V. The Mountains of Ecbatana + + MICHAEL ANGELO + Dedication + PART FIRST + I. Prologue at Ischia + Monologue : The Last Judgment + II. San Silvestro + III. Cardinal Ippolito + IV. Borgo delle Vergine at Naples + V. Vittoria Colonna + PART SECOND. + I. Monologue + II. Viterbo + III. Michael Angelo and Benvenuto Cellini + IV. Fra Sebastiano del Piombo + V. Palazzo Belvedere + VI. Palazzo Cesarini + PART THIRD. + I. Monologue + II. Vigna di Papa Giulio + III. Bindo Altoviti + IV. In the Coliseum + V. Macello de’ Corvi + VI. Michael Angelo’s Studio + VII. The Oaks of Monte Luca + VIII. The Dead Christ + +TRANSLATIONS. + Prelude + From the Spanish + Coplas de Manrique + Sonnets. + I. The Good Shepherd + II. To-morrow + III. The Native Land + IV. The Image of God + V. The Brook + Ancient Spanish Ballads. + I. Rio Verde, Rio Verde + II. Don Nuno, Count of Lara + III. The peasant leaves his plough afield + Vida de San Millan + San Miguel, the Convent + Song: “She is a maid of artless grace” + Santa Teresa’s Book-Mark + From the Cancioneros + I. Eyes so tristful, eyes so tristful + II. Some day, some day + III. Come, O death, so silent flying + IV. Glove of black in white hand bare + From the Swedish and Danish. + Passages from Frithiof’s Saga + I. Frithiof’s Homestead + II. A Sledge-Ride on the Ice + III. Frithiof’s Temptation + IV. Frithiof’s Farewell + The Children of the Lord’s Supper + King Christian + The Elected Knight + Childhood + From the German. + The Happiest Land + The Wave + The Dead + The Bird and the Ship + Whither? + Beware! + Song of the Bell + The Castle by the Sea + The Black Knight + Song of the Silent Land + The Luck of Edenhall + The Two Locks of Hair + The Hemlock Tree + Annie of Tharaw + The Statue over the Cathedral Door + The Legend of the Crossbill + The Sea hath its Pearls + Poetic Aphorisms + Silent Love + Blessed are the Dead + Wanderer’s Night-Songs + Remorse + Forsaken + Allah + From the Anglo-Saxon. + The Grave + Beowulf’s Expedition to Heort + The Soul’s Complaint against the Body + From the French + Song: Hark! Hark! + Song: “And whither goest thou, gentle sigh” + The Return of Spring + Spring + The Child Asleep + Death of Archbishop Turpin + The Blind Girl of Castel-Cuille + A Christmas Carol + Consolation + To Cardinal Richelieu + The Angel and the Child + On the Terrace of the Aigalades + To my Brooklet + Barréges + Will ever the dear days come back again? + At La Chaudeau + A Quiet Life + The Wine of Jurançon + Friar Lubin + Rondel + My Secret + From the Italian. + The Celestial Pilot + The Terrestrial Paradise + Beatrice + To Italy + Seven Sonnets and a Canzone + I. The Artist + II. Fire. + III. Youth and Age + IV. Old Age + V. To Vittoria Colonna + VI. To Vittoria Colonna + VII. Dante + VIII. Canzone + The Nature of Love + From the Portuguese. + Song: If thou art sleeping, maiden + From Eastern sources. + The Fugitive + The Siege of Kazan + The Boy and the Brook + To the Stork + From the Latin. + Virgils First Eclogue + Ovid in Exile + + + + +VOICES OF THE NIGHT + +Πότνια, πότνια νὺξ, +ὑπνοδότειρα τῶν πολυπόνον βροτῶν, +Ἐρεβόθεν ἴθι μόλε μόλε κατάπτερος +Ἀγαμεμνόνιον ἐπὶ δόμον +ὑπὸ γὰρ ἀλγέων, ὑπὸ τε συμφορᾶς +διοιχόμεθ’, οἰχόμεθα. + +EURIPIDES. + +PRELUDE + +Pleasant it was, when woods were green, + And winds were soft and low, +To lie amid some sylvan scene. +Where, the long drooping boughs between, +Shadows dark and sunlight sheen + Alternate come and go; + +Or where the denser grove receives + No sunlight from above, +But the dark foliage interweaves +In one unbroken roof of leaves, +Underneath whose sloping eaves + The shadows hardly move. + +Beneath some patriarchal tree + I lay upon the ground; +His hoary arms uplifted he, +And all the broad leaves over me +Clapped their little hands in glee, + With one continuous sound;— + +A slumberous sound, a sound that brings + The feelings of a dream, +As of innumerable wings, +As, when a bell no longer swings, +Faint the hollow murmur rings + O’er meadow, lake, and stream. + +And dreams of that which cannot die, + Bright visions, came to me, +As lapped in thought I used to lie, +And gaze into the summer sky, +Where the sailing clouds went by, + Like ships upon the sea; + +Dreams that the soul of youth engage + Ere Fancy has been quelled; +Old legends of the monkish page, +Traditions of the saint and sage, +Tales that have the rime of age, + And chronicles of Eld. + +And, loving still these quaint old themes, + Even in the city’s throng +I feel the freshness of the streams, +That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams, +Water the green land of dreams, + The holy land of song. + +Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings + The Spring, clothed like a bride, +When nestling buds unfold their wings, +And bishop’s-caps have golden rings, +Musing upon many things, + I sought the woodlands wide. + +The green trees whispered low and mild; + It was a sound of joy! +They were my playmates when a child, +And rocked me in their arms so wild! +Still they looked at me and smiled, + As if I were a boy; + +And ever whispered, mild and low, + “Come, be a child once more!” +And waved their long arms to and fro, +And beckoned solemnly and slow; +O, I could not choose but go + Into the woodlands hoar,— + +Into the blithe and breathing air, + Into the solemn wood, +Solemn and silent everywhere +Nature with folded hands seemed there +Kneeling at her evening prayer! + Like one in prayer I stood. + +Before me rose an avenue + Of tall and sombrous pines; +Abroad their fan-like branches grew, +And, where the sunshine darted through, +Spread a vapor soft and blue, + In long and sloping lines. + +And, falling on my weary brain, + Like a fast-falling shower, +The dreams of youth came back again, +Low lispings of the summer rain, +Dropping on the ripened grain, + As once upon the flower. + +Visions of childhood! Stay, O stay! + Ye were so sweet and wild! +And distant voices seemed to say, +“It cannot be! They pass away! +Other themes demand thy lay; + Thou art no more a child! + +“The land of Song within thee lies, + Watered by living springs; +The lids of Fancy’s sleepless eyes +Are gates unto that Paradise, +Holy thoughts, like stars, arise, + Its clouds are angels’ wings. + +“Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be, + Not mountains capped with snow, +Nor forests sounding like the sea, +Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly, +Where the woodlands bend to see + The bending heavens below. + +“There is a forest where the din + Of iron branches sounds! +A mighty river roars between, +And whosoever looks therein +Sees the heavens all black with sin, + Sees not its depths, nor bounds. + +“Athwart the swinging branches cast, + Soft rays of sunshine pour; +Then comes the fearful wintry blast +Our hopes, like withered leaves, fail fast; +Pallid lips say, ‘It is past! + We can return no more!’ + +“Look, then, into thine heart, and write! + Yes, into Life’s deep stream! +All forms of sorrow and delight, +All solemn Voices of the Night, +That can soothe thee, or affright,— + Be these henceforth thy theme.” + + + + +HYMN TO THE NIGHT + + +Ἀσπασίη, τρίλλιστος + +I heard the trailing garments of the Night + Sweep through her marble halls! +I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light + From the celestial walls! + +I felt her presence, by its spell of might, + Stoop o’er me from above; +The calm, majestic presence of the Night, + As of the one I love. + +I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, + The manifold, soft chimes, +That fill the haunted chambers of the Night + Like some old poet’s rhymes. + +From the cool cisterns of the midnight air + My spirit drank repose; +The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,— + From those deep cisterns flows. + +O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear + What man has borne before! +Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, + And they complain no more. + +Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! + Descend with broad-winged flight, +The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, + The best-beloved Night! + + + + +A PSALM OF LIFE. +WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST. + +Tell me not, in mournful numbers, + Life is but an empty dream! +For the soul is dead that slumbers, + And things are not what they seem. + +Life is real! Life is earnest! + And the grave is not its goal; +Dust thou art, to dust returnest, + Was not spoken of the soul. + +Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, + Is our destined end or way; +But to act, that each to-morrow + Find us farther than to-day. + +Art is long, and Time is fleeting, + And our hearts, though stout and brave, +Still, like muffled drums, are beating + Funeral marches to the grave. + +In the world’s broad field of battle, + In the bivouac of Life, +Be not like dumb, driven cattle! + Be a hero in the strife! + +Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant! + Let the dead Past bury its dead! +Act,—act in the living Present! + Heart within, and God o’erhead! + +Lives of great men all remind us + We can make our lives sublime, +And, departing, leave behind us + Footprints on the sands of time;— + +Footprints, that perhaps another, + Sailing o’er life’s solemn main, +A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, + Seeing, shall take heart again. + +Let us, then, be up and doing, + With a heart for any fate; +Still achieving, still pursuing, + Learn to labor and to wait. + + + +THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. + +There is a Reaper, whose name is Death, + And, with his sickle keen, +He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, + And the flowers that grow between. + +"Shall I have naught that is fair?" saith he; + "Have naught but the bearded grain? +Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, + I will give them all back again." + +He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, + He kissed their drooping leaves; +It was for the Lord of Paradise + He bound them in his sheaves. + +"My Lord has need of these flowerets gay," + The Reaper said, and smiled; +"Dear tokens of the earth are they, + Where he was once a child. + +"They shall all bloom in fields of light, + Transplanted by my care, +And saints, upon their garments white, + These sacred blossoms wear." + +And the mother gave, in tears and pain, + The flowers she most did love; +She knew she should find them all again + In the fields of light above. + +O, not in cruelty, not in wrath, + The Reaper came that day; +'T was an angel visited the green earth, + And took the flowers away. + + + +THE LIGHT OF STARS. + +The night is come, but not too soon; + And sinking silently, +All silently, the little moon + Drops down behind the sky. + +There is no light in earth or heaven + But the cold light of stars; +And the first watch of night is given + To the red planet Mars. + +Is it the tender star of love? + The star of love and dreams? +O no! from that blue tent above, + A hero's armor gleams. + +And earnest thoughts within me rise, + When I behold afar, +Suspended in the evening skies, + The shield of that red star. + +O star of strength! I see thee stand + And smile upon my pain; +Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, + And I am strong again. + +Within my breast there is no light + But the cold light of stars; +I give the first watch of the night + To the red planet Mars. + +The star of the unconquered will, + He rises in my breast, +Serene, and resolute, and still, + And calm, and self-possessed. + +And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, + That readest this brief psalm, +As one by one thy hopes depart, + Be resolute and calm. + +O fear not in a world like this, + And thou shalt know erelong, +Know how sublime a thing it is + To suffer and be strong. + + + +FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. + +When the hours of Day are numbered, + And the voices of the Night +Wake the better soul, that slumbered, + To a holy, calm delight; + +Ere the evening lamps are lighted, + And, like phantoms grim and tall, +Shadows from the fitful firelight + Dance upon the parlor wall; + +Then the forms of the departed + Enter at the open door; +The beloved, the true-hearted, + Come to visit me once more; + +He, the young and strong, who cherished + Noble longings for the strife, +By the roadside fell and perished, + Weary with the march of life! + +They, the holy ones and weakly, + Who the cross of suffering bore, +Folded their pale hands so meekly, + Spake with us on earth no more! + +And with them the Being Beauteous, + Who unto my youth was given, +More than all things else to love me, + And is now a saint in heaven. + +With a slow and noiseless footstep + Comes that messenger divine, +Takes the vacant chair beside me, + Lays her gentle hand in mine. + +And she sits and gazes at me + With those deep and tender eyes, +Like the stars, so still and saint-like, + Looking downward from the skies. + +Uttered not, yet comprehended, + Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, +Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, + Breathing from her lips of air. + +Oh, though oft depressed and lonely, + All my fears are laid aside, +If I but remember only + Such as these have lived and died! + + + +FLOWERS. + +Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, + One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, +When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, + Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine. + +Stars they are, wherein we read our history, + As astrologers and seers of eld; +Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery, + Like the burning stars, which they beheld. + +Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, + God hath written in those stars above; +But not less in the bright flowerets under us + Stands the revelation of his love. + +Bright and glorious is that revelation, + Written all over this great world of ours; +Making evident our own creation, + In these stars of earth, these golden flowers. + +And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing, + Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part +Of the self-same, universal being, + Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. + +Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, + Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, +Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining, + Buds that open only to decay; + +Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, + Flaunting gayly in the golden light; +Large desires, with most uncertain issues, + Tender wishes, blossoming at night! + +These in flowers and men are more than seeming; + Workings are they of the self-same powers, +Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming, + Seeth in himself and in the flowers. + +Everywhere about us are they glowing, + Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born; +Others, their blue eyes with tears o'er-flowing, + Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn; + +Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, + And in Summer's green-emblazoned field, +But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing, + In the centre of his brazen shield; + +Not alone in meadows and green alleys, + On the mountain-top, and by the brink +Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys, + Where the slaves of nature stoop to drink; + +Not alone in her vast dome of glory, + Not on graves of bird and beast alone, +But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, + On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone; + +In the cottage of the rudest peasant, + In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, +Speaking of the Past unto the Present, + Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers; + +In all places, then, and in all seasons, + Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, +Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, + How akin they are to human things. + +And with childlike, credulous affection + We behold their tender buds expand; +Emblems of our own great resurrection, + Emblems of the bright and better land. + + + +THE BELEAGUERED CITY. + +I have read, in some old, marvellous tale, + Some legend strange and vague, +That a midnight host of spectres pale + Beleaguered the walls of Prague. + +Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, + With the wan moon overhead, +There stood, as in an awful dream, + The army of the dead. + +White as a sea-fog, landward bound, + The spectral camp was seen, +And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, + The river flowed between. + +No other voice nor sound was there, + No drum, nor sentry's pace; +The mist-like banners clasped the air, + As clouds with clouds embrace. + +But when the old cathedral bell + Proclaimed the morning prayer, +The white pavilions rose and fell + On the alarmed air. + +Down the broad valley fast and far + The troubled army fled; +Up rose the glorious morning star, + The ghastly host was dead. + +I have read, in the marvellous heart of man, + That strange and mystic scroll, +That an army of phantoms vast and wan + Beleaguer the human soul. + +Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, + In Fancy's misty light, +Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam + Portentous through the night. + +Upon its midnight battle-ground + The spectral camp is seen, +And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, + Flows the River of Life between. + +No other voice nor sound is there, + In the army of the grave; +No other challenge breaks the air, + But the rushing of Life's wave. + +And when the solemn and deep churchbell + Entreats the soul to pray, +The midnight phantoms feel the spell, + The shadows sweep away. + +Down the broad Vale of Tears afar + The spectral camp is fled; +Faith shineth as a morning star, + Our ghastly fears are dead. + + + +MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR + +Yes, the Year is growing old, + And his eye is pale and bleared! +Death, with frosty hand and cold, + Plucks the old man by the beard, + Sorely, sorely! + +The leaves are falling, falling, + Solemnly and slow; +Caw! caw! the rooks are calling, + It is a sound of woe, + A sound of woe! + +Through woods and mountain passes + The winds, like anthems, roll; +They are chanting solemn masses, + Singing, "Pray for this poor soul, + Pray, pray!" + +And the hooded clouds, like friars, + Tell their beads in drops of rain, +And patter their doleful prayers; + But their prayers are all in vain, + All in vain! + +There he stands in the foul weather, + The foolish, fond Old Year, +Crowned with wild flowers and with heather, + Like weak, despised Lear, + A king, a king! + +Then comes the summer-like day, + Bids the old man rejoice! +His joy! his last! O, the man gray + Loveth that ever-soft voice, + Gentle and low. + +To the crimson woods he saith, + To the voice gentle and low +Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath, + "Pray do not mock me so! + Do not laugh at me!" + +And now the sweet day is dead; + Cold in his arms it lies; +No stain from its breath is spread + Over the glassy skies, + No mist or stain! + +Then, too, the Old Year dieth, + And the forests utter a moan, +Like the voice of one who crieth + In the wilderness alone, + "Vex not his ghost!" + +Then comes, with an awful roar, + Gathering and sounding on, +The storm-wind from Labrador, + The wind Euroclydon, + The storm-wind! + +Howl! howl! and from the forest + Sweep the red leaves away! +Would, the sins that thou abhorrest, + O Soul! could thus decay, + And be swept away! +For there shall come a mightier blast, + There shall be a darker day; + +And the stars, from heaven down-cast + Like red leaves be swept away! + Kyrie, eleyson! + Christe, eleyson! + +********** + +EARLIER POEMS + +AN APRIL DAY + + When the warm sun, that brings +Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, +'T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springs + The first flower of the plain. + + I love the season well, +When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, +Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell + The coming-on of storms. + + From the earth's loosened mould +The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives; +Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold, + The drooping tree revives. + + The softly-warbled song +Comes from the pleasant woods, and colored wings +Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along + The forest openings. + + When the bright sunset fills +The silver woods with light, the green slope throws +Its shadows in the hollows of the hills, + And wide the upland glows. + + And when the eve is born, +In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far, +Is hollowed out and the moon dips her horn, + And twinkles many a star. + + Inverted in the tide +Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw, +And the fair trees look over, side by side, + And see themselves below. + + Sweet April! many a thought +Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed; +Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, + Life's golden fruit is shed. + + + +AUTUMN + +With what a glory comes and goes the year! +The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingers +Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy +Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread out; +And when the silver habit of the clouds +Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with +A sober gladness the old year takes up +His bright inheritance of golden fruits, +A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene. + + There is a beautiful spirit breathing now +Its mellow richness on the clustered trees, +And, from a beaker full of richest dyes, +Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, +And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds. +Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird, +Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales +The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, +Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life +Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, +And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved, +Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down +By the wayside a-weary. Through the trees +The golden robin moves. The purple finch, +That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds, +A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle, +And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud +From cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird sings, +And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke, +Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail. + + O what a glory doth this world put on +For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth +Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks +On duties well performed, and days well spent! +For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves, +Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings. +He shall so hear the solemn hymn that Death +Has lifted up for all, that he shall go +To his long resting-place without a tear. + + + +WOODS IN WINTER. + +When winter winds are piercing chill, + And through the hawthorn blows the gale, +With solemn feet I tread the hill, + That overbrows the lonely vale. + +O'er the bare upland, and away + Through the long reach of desert woods, +The embracing sunbeams chastely play, + And gladden these deep solitudes. + +Where, twisted round the barren oak, + The summer vine in beauty clung, +And summer winds the stillness broke, + The crystal icicle is hung. + +Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs + Pour out the river's gradual tide, +Shrilly the skater's iron rings, + And voices fill the woodland side. + +Alas! how changed from the fair scene, + When birds sang out their mellow lay, +And winds were soft, and woods were green, + And the song ceased not with the day! + +But still wild music is abroad, + Pale, desert woods! within your crowd; +And gathering winds, in hoarse accord, + Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. + +Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear + Has grown familiar with your song; +I hear it in the opening year, + I listen, and it cheers me long. + + + +HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM + +AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER. + +When the dying flame of day +Through the chancel shot its ray, +Far the glimmering tapers shed +Faint light on the cowled head; +And the censer burning swung, +Where, before the altar, hung +The crimson banner, that with prayer +Had been consecrated there. +And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while, +Sung low, in the dim, mysterious aisle. + + "Take thy banner! May it wave + Proudly o'er the good and brave; + When the battle's distant wail + Breaks the sabbath of our vale. + When the clarion's music thrills + To the hearts of these lone hills, + When the spear in conflict shakes, + And the strong lance shivering breaks. + + "Take thy banner! and, beneath + The battle-cloud's encircling wreath, + Guard it, till our homes are free! + Guard it! God will prosper thee! + In the dark and trying hour, + In the breaking forth of power, + In the rush of steeds and men, + His right hand will shield thee then. + + "Take thy banner! But when night + Closes round the ghastly fight, + If the vanquished warrior bow, + Spare him! By our holy vow, + By our prayers and many tears, + By the mercy that endears, + Spare him! he our love hath shared! + Spare him! as thou wouldst be spared! + + "Take thy banner! and if e'er + Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier, + And the muffled drum should beat + To the tread of mournful feet, + Then this crimson flag shall be + Martial cloak and shroud for thee." + +The warrior took that banner proud, +And it was his martial cloak and shroud! + + + +SUNRISE ON THE HILLS + + I stood upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch +Was glorious with the sun's returning march, +And woods were brightened, and soft gales +Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales. +The clouds were far beneath me; bathed in light, +They gathered mid-way round the wooded height, +And, in their fading glory, shone +Like hosts in battle overthrown. +As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance. +Through the gray mist thrust up its shattered lance, +And rocking on the cliff was left +The dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft. +The veil of cloud was lifted, and below +Glowed the rich valley, and the river's flow +Was darkened by the forest's shade, +Or glistened in the white cascade; +Where upward, in the mellow blush of day, +The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way. + + I heard the distant waters dash, +I saw the current whirl and flash, +And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach, +The woods were bending with a silent reach. +Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell, +The music of the village bell +Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills; +And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills, +Was ringing to the merry shout, +That faint and far the glen sent out, +Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke, +Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle broke. + + If thou art worn and hard beset +With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget, +If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep +Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep, +Go to the woods and hills! No tears +Dim the sweet look that Nature wears. + + + +THE SPIRIT OF POETRY + +There is a quiet spirit in these woods, +That dwells where'er the gentle south-wind blows; +Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade, +The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air, +The leaves above their sunny palms outspread. +With what a tender and impassioned voice +It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought, +When the fast ushering star of morning comes +O'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf; +Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve, +In mourning weeds, from out the western gate, +Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves +In the green valley, where the silver brook, +From its full laver, pours the white cascade; +And, babbling low amid the tangled woods, +Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter. +And frequent, on the everlasting hills, +Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself +In all the dark embroidery of the storm, +And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid +The silent majesty of these deep woods, +Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth, +As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air +Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards +Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades. +For them there was an eloquent voice in all +The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun, +The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way, +Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds, +The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun +Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes, +Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in, +Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale, +The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees, +In many a lazy syllable, repeating +Their old poetic legends to the wind. + + And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill +The world; and, in these wayward days of youth, +My busy fancy oft embodies it, +As a bright image of the light and beauty +That dwell in nature; of the heavenly forms +We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues +That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds +When the sun sets. Within her tender eye +The heaven of April, with its changing light, +And when it wears the blue of May, is hung, +And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair +Is like the summer tresses of the trees, +When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek +Blushes the richness of an autumn sky, +With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath, +It is so like the gentle air of Spring, +As, front the morning's dewy flowers, it comes +Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy +To have it round us, and her silver voice +Is the rich music of a summer bird, +Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence. + + + +BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK + +On sunny slope and beechen swell, +The shadowed light of evening fell; +And, where the maple's leaf was brown, +With soft and silent lapse came down, +The glory, that the wood receives, +At sunset, in its golden leaves. + +Far upward in the mellow light +Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white, +Around a far uplifted cone, +In the warm blush of evening shone; +An image of the silver lakes, +By which the Indian's soul awakes. + +But soon a funeral hymn was heard +Where the soft breath of evening stirred +The tall, gray forest; and a band +Of stern in heart, and strong in hand, +Came winding down beside the wave, +To lay the red chief in his grave. + +They sang, that by his native bowers +He stood, in the last moon of flowers, +And thirty snows had not yet shed +Their glory on the warrior's head; +But, as the summer fruit decays, +So died he in those naked days. + +A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin +Covered the warrior, and within +Its heavy folds the weapons, made +For the hard toils of war, were laid; +The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds, +And the broad belt of shells and beads. + +Before, a dark-haired virgin train +Chanted the death dirge of the slain; +Behind, the long procession came +Of hoary men and chiefs of fame, +With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief, +Leading the war-horse of their chief. + +Stripped of his proud and martial dress, +Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless, +With darting eye, and nostril spread, +And heavy and impatient tread, +He came; and oft that eye so proud +Asked for his rider in the crowd. + +They buried the dark chief; they freed +Beside the grave his battle steed; +And swift an arrow cleaved its way +To his stern heart! One piercing neigh +Arose, and, on the dead man's plain, +The rider grasps his steed again. + + + +L' ENVOI + +Ye voices, that arose +After the Evening's close, +And whispered to my restless heart repose! + +Go, breathe it in the ear +Of all who doubt and fear, +And say to them, "Be of good cheer!" + +Ye sounds, so low and calm, +That in the groves of balm +Seemed to me like an angel's psalm! + +Go, mingle yet once more +With the perpetual roar +Of the pine forest dark and hoar! + +Tongues of the dead, not lost +But speaking from deaths frost, +Like fiery tongues at Pentecost! + +Glimmer, as funeral lamps, +Amid the chills and damps +Of the vast plain where Death encamps! + +**************** + +BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS + +THE SKELETON IN ARMOR + +"Speak! speak I thou fearful guest + Who, with thy hollow breast + Still in rude armor drest, + Comest to daunt me! + Wrapt not in Eastern balms, + Bat with thy fleshless palms + Stretched, as if asking alms, + Why dost thou haunt me?" + +Then, from those cavernous eyes +Pale flashes seemed to rise, +As when the Northern skies + Gleam in December; +And, like the water's flow +Under December's snow, +Came a dull voice of woe + From the heart's chamber. + +"I was a Viking old! +My deeds, though manifold, +No Skald in song has told, + No Saga taught thee! +Take heed, that in thy verse +Thou dost the tale rehearse, +Else dread a dead man's curse; + For this I sought thee. + +"Far in the Northern Land, +By the wild Baltic's strand, +I, with my childish hand, + Tamed the gerfalcon; +And, with my skates fast-bound, +Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, + That the poor whimpering hound +Trembled to walk on. + +"Oft to his frozen lair +Tracked I the grisly bear, +While from my path the hare + Fled like a shadow; +Oft through the forest dark +Followed the were-wolf's bark, +Until the soaring lark + Sang from the meadow. + +"But when I older grew, +Joining a corsair's crew, +O'er the dark sea I flew + With the marauders. +Wild was the life we led; +Many the souls that sped, +Many the hearts that bled, + By our stern orders. + +"Many a wassail-bout +Wore the long Winter out; +Often our midnight shout + Set the cocks crowing, +As we the Berserk's tale +Measured in cups of ale, +Draining the oaken pail, + Filled to o'erflowing. + +"Once as I told in glee +Tales of the stormy sea, +Soft eyes did gaze on me, + Burning yet tender; +And as the white stars shine +On the dark Norway pine, +On that dark heart of mine + Fell their soft splendor. + +"I wooed the blue-eyed maid, +Yielding, yet half afraid, +And in the forest's shade + Our vows were plighted. +Under its loosened vest +Fluttered her little breast +Like birds within their nest + By the hawk frighted. + +"Bright in her father's hall +Shields gleamed upon the wall, +Loud sang the minstrels all, + Chanting his glory; +When of old Hildebrand +I asked his daughter's hand, +Mute did the minstrels stand + To hear my story. + +"While the brown ale he quaffed, +Loud then the champion laughed, +And as the wind-gusts waft + The sea-foam brightly, +So the loud laugh of scorn, +Out of those lips unshorn, +From the deep drinking-horn + Blew the foam lightly. + +"She was a Prince's child, +I but a Viking wild, +And though she blushed and smiled, + I was discarded! +Should not the dove so white +Follow the sea-mew's flight, +Why did they leave that night + Her nest unguarded? + +"Scarce had I put to sea, +Bearing the maid with me, +Fairest of all was she + Among the Norsemen! +When on the white sea-strand, +Waving his armed hand, +Saw we old Hildebrand, + With twenty horsemen. + +"Then launched they to the blast, +Bent like a reed each mast, +Yet we were gaining fast, + When the wind failed us; +And with a sudden flaw +Came round the gusty Skaw, +So that our foe we saw + Laugh as he hailed us. + +"And as to catch the gale +Round veered the flapping sail, +Death I was the helmsman's hail, + Death without quarter! +Mid-ships with iron keel +Struck we her ribs of steel +Down her black hulk did reel + Through the black water! + +"As with his wings aslant, +Sails the fierce cormorant, +Seeking some rocky haunt + With his prey laden, +So toward the open main, +Beating to sea again, +Through the wild hurricane, + Bore I the maiden. + +"Three weeks we westward bore, +And when the storm was o'er, +Cloud-like we saw the shore + Stretching to leeward; +There for my lady's bower +Built I the lofty tower, +Which, to this very hour, + Stands looking seaward. + +"There lived we many years; +Time dried the maiden's tears +She had forgot her fears, + She was a mother. +Death closed her mild blue eyes, +Under that tower she lies; +Ne'er shall the sun arise + On such another! + +"Still grew my bosom then. +Still as a stagnant fen! +Hateful to me were men, + The sunlight hateful! +In the vast forest here, +Clad in my warlike gear, +Fell I upon my spear, + O, death was grateful! + +"Thus, seamed with many scars, +Bursting these prison bars, +Up to its native stars + My soul ascended! +There from the flowing bowl +Deep drinks the warrior's soul, +Skoal! to the Northland! skoal!" + Thus the tale ended. + + + +THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS + +It was the schooner Hesperus, + That sailed the wintry sea; +And the skipper had taken his little daughter, + To bear him company. + +Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, + Her cheeks like the dawn of day, +And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, + That ope in the month of May. + +The skipper he stood beside the helm, + His pipe was in his month, +And he watched how the veering flaw did blow + The smoke now West, now South. + +Then up and spake an old Sailor, + Had sailed to the Spanish Main, +"I pray thee, put into yonder port, + For I fear a hurricane. + +"Last night, the moon had a golden ring, + And to-night no moon we see!" +The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, + And a scornful laugh laughed he. + +Colder and louder blew the wind, + A gale from the Northeast. +The snow fell hissing in the brine, + And the billows frothed like yeast. + +Down came the storm, and smote amain + The vessel in its strength; +She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, + Then leaped her cable's length. + +"Come hither! come hither! my little daughter, + And do not tremble so; +For I can weather the roughest gale + That ever wind did blow." + + +He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat + Against the stinging blast; +He cut a rope from a broken spar, + And bound her to the mast. + +"O father! I hear the church-bells ring, + O say, what may it be?" + "'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"-- + And he steered for the open sea. + +"O father! I hear the sound of guns, + O say, what may it be?" +"Some ship in distress, that cannot live + In such an angry sea!" + +"O father! I see a gleaming light + O say, what may it be?" +But the father answered never a word, + A frozen corpse was he. + +Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, + With his face turned to the skies, +The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow + On his fixed and glassy eyes. + +Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed + That saved she might be; +And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, + On the Lake of Galilee. + +And fast through the midnight dark and drear, + Through the whistling sleet and snow, +Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept + Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe. + +And ever the fitful gusts between + A sound came from the land; +It was the sound of the trampling surf + On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. + +The breakers were right beneath her bows, + She drifted a dreary wreck, +And a whooping billow swept the crew + Like icicles from her deck. + +She struck where the white and fleecy waves + Looked soft as carded wool, +But the cruel rocks, they gored her side + Like the horns of an angry bull. + +Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, + With the masts went by the board; +Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, + Ho! ho! the breakers roared! + +At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, + A fisherman stood aghast, +To see the form of a maiden fair, + Lashed close to a drifting mast. + +The salt sea was frozen on her breast, + The salt tears in her eyes; +And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, + On the billows fall and rise. + +Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, + In the midnight and the snow! +Christ save us all from a death like this, + On the reef of Norman's Woe! + + + +THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH + +Under a spreading chestnut-tree + The village smithy stands; +The smith, a mighty man is he, + With large and sinewy hands; +And the muscles of his brawny arms + Are strong as iron bands. + +His hair is crisp, and black, and long, + His face is like the tan; +His brow is wet with honest sweat, + He earns whate'er he can, +And looks the whole world in the face, + For he owes not any man. + +Week in, week out, from morn till night, + You can hear his bellows blow; +You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, + With measured beat and slow, +Like a sexton ringing the village bell, + When the evening sun is low. + +And children coming home from school + Look in at the open door; +They love to see the flaming forge, + And bear the bellows roar, +And catch the burning sparks that fly + Like chaff from a threshing-floor. + +He goes on Sunday to the church, + And sits among his boys; +He hears the parson pray and preach, + He hears his daughter's voice, +Singing in the village choir, + And it makes his heart rejoice. + +It sounds to him like her mother's voice, + Singing in Paradise! +He needs must think of her once more, + How in the grave she lies; +And with his hard, rough hand he wipes + A tear out of his eyes. + +Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing, + Onward through life he goes; +Each morning sees some task begin, + Each evening sees it close +Something attempted, something done, + Has earned a night's repose. + +Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, +For the lesson thou hast taught! +Thus at the flaming forge of life + Our fortunes must be wrought; +Thus on its sounding anvil shaped + Each burning deed and thought. + + + +ENDYMION + +The rising moon has hid the stars; +Her level rays, like golden bars, + Lie on the landscape green, + With shadows brown between. + +And silver white the river gleams, +As if Diana, in her dreams, + Had dropt her silver bow + Upon the meadows low. + +On such a tranquil night as this, +She woke Endymion with a kiss, + When, sleeping in the grove, + He dreamed not of her love. + +Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought, +Love gives itself, but is not bought; + Nor voice, nor sound betrays + Its deep, impassioned gaze. + +It comes,--the beautiful, the free, +The crown of all humanity,-- + In silence and alone + To seek the elected one. + +It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep +Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep, + And kisses the closed eyes + Of him, who slumbering lies. + +O weary hearts! O slumbering eyes! +O drooping souls, whose destinies + Are fraught with fear and pain, + Ye shall be loved again! + +No one is so accursed by fate, +No one so utterly desolate, + But some heart, though unknown, + Responds unto his own. + +Responds,--as if with unseen wings, +An angel touched its quivering strings; + And whispers, in its song, + "'Where hast thou stayed so long?" + + + +IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY + +No hay pajaros en los nidos de antano. + Spanish Proverb + +The sun is bright,--the air is clear, + The darting swallows soar and sing. +And from the stately elms I hear + The bluebird prophesying Spring. + +So blue you winding river flows, + It seems an outlet from the sky, +Where waiting till the west-wind blows, + The freighted clouds at anchor lie. + +All things are new;--the buds, the leaves, + That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest, + And even the nest beneath the eaves;-- + There are no birds in last year's nest! + +All things rejoice in youth and love, + The fulness of their first delight! + And learn from the soft heavens above + The melting tenderness of night. + +Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme, + Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay; +Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, + For oh, it is not always May! + +Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth, + To some good angel leave the rest; +For Time will teach thee soon the truth, + There are no birds in last year's nest! + + + +THE RAINY DAY + +The day is cold, and dark, and dreary +It rains, and the wind is never weary; +The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, +But at every gust the dead leaves fall, + And the day is dark and dreary. + +My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; +It rains, and the wind is never weary; +My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past, +But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, + And the days are dark and dreary. + +Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; +Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; +Thy fate is the common fate of all, +Into each life some rain must fall, + Some days must be dark and dreary. + + + +GOD'S-ACRE. + +I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls + The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just; +It consecrates each grave within its walls, + And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. + +God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts + Comfort to those, who in the grave have sown +The seed that they had garnered in their hearts, + Their bread of life, alas! no more their own. + +Into its furrows shall we all be cast, + In the sure faith, that we shall rise again +At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast + Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain. + +Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, + In the fair gardens of that second birth; +And each bright blossom mingle its perfume + With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth. + +With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod, + And spread the furrow for the seed we sow; +This is the field and Acre of our God, + This is the place where human harvests grow! + + + +TO THE RIVER CHARLES. + +River! that in silence windest + Through the meadows, bright and free, +Till at length thy rest thou findest + In the bosom of the sea! + +Four long years of mingled feeling, + Half in rest, and half in strife, +I have seen thy waters stealing + Onward, like the stream of life. + +Thou hast taught me, Silent River! + Many a lesson, deep and long; +Thou hast been a generous giver; + I can give thee but a song. + +Oft in sadness and in illness, + I have watched thy current glide, +Till the beauty of its stillness + Overflowed me, like a tide. + +And in better hours and brighter, + When I saw thy waters gleam, +I have felt my heart beat lighter, + And leap onward with thy stream. + +Not for this alone I love thee, + Nor because thy waves of blue +From celestial seas above thee + Take their own celestial hue. + +Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee, + And thy waters disappear, +Friends I love have dwelt beside thee, + And have made thy margin dear. + +More than this;--thy name reminds me + Of three friends, all true and tried; +And that name, like magic, binds me + Closer, closer to thy side. + +Friends my soul with joy remembers! + How like quivering flames they start, +When I fan the living embers + On the hearth-stone of my heart! + +'T is for this, thou Silent River! + That my spirit leans to thee; +Thou hast been a generous giver, + Take this idle song from me. + + + + +BLIND BARTIMEUS + + +Blind Bartimeus at the gates +Of Jericho in darkness waits; +He hears the crowd;—he hears a breath +Say, “It is Christ of Nazareth!” +And calls, in tones of agony, +Ἰησοῦ, ἐλέησόν με! + +The thronging multitudes increase; +Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace! +But still, above the noisy crowd, +The beggar’s cry is shrill and loud; +Until they say, “He calleth thee!” +Θάρσει ἔγειραι, φωνεῖ δε! + +Then saith the Christ, as silent stands +The crowd, “What wilt thou at my hands?” +And he replies, “O give me light! +Rabbi, restore the blind man’s sight.” +And Jesus answers, Ὕπαγε +Ἡ πίστις σου σέσωκέ δε! + +Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see, +In darkness and in misery, +Recall those mighty Voices Three, +Ἰησοῦ, ἐλέησόν με! +Θάρσει ἔγειραι, ὕπαγε! +Ἡ πίστις σου σέσωκέ δε! + + + + +THE GOBLET OF LIFE + + +Filled is Life's goblet to the brim; +And though my eyes with tears are dim, +I see its sparkling bubbles swim, +And chant a melancholy hymn + With solemn voice and slow. + +No purple flowers,--no garlands green, +Conceal the goblet's shade or sheen, +Nor maddening draughts of Hippocrene, +Like gleams of sunshine, flash between + Thick leaves of mistletoe. + +This goblet, wrought with curious art, +Is filled with waters, that upstart, +When the deep fountains of the heart, +By strong convulsions rent apart, + Are running all to waste. + +And as it mantling passes round, +With fennel is it wreathed and crowned, +Whose seed and foliage sun-imbrowned +Are in its waters steeped and drowned, + And give a bitter taste. + +Above the lowly plants it towers, +The fennel, with its yellow flowers, +And in an earlier age than ours +Was gifted with the wondrous powers, + Lost vision to restore. + +It gave new strength, and fearless mood; +And gladiators, fierce and rude, +Mingled it in their daily food; +And he who battled and subdued, + A wreath of fennel wore. + +Then in Life's goblet freely press, +The leaves that give it bitterness, +Nor prize the colored waters less, +For in thy darkness and distress + New light and strength they give! + +And he who has not learned to know +How false its sparkling bubbles show, +How bitter are the drops of woe, +With which its brim may overflow, + He has not learned to live. + +The prayer of Ajax was for light; +Through all that dark and desperate fight +The blackness of that noonday night +He asked but the return of sight, + To see his foeman's face. + +Let our unceasing, earnest prayer +Be, too, for light,--for strength to bear +Our portion of the weight of care, +That crushes into dumb despair + One half the human race. + +O suffering, sad humanity! +O ye afflicted one; who lie +Steeped to the lips in misery, +Longing, and yet afraid to die, + Patient, though sorely tried! + +I pledge you in this cup of grief, +Where floats the fennel's bitter leaf! +The Battle of our Life is brief +The alarm,--the struggle,--the relief, + Then sleep we side by side. + + + +MAIDENHOOD + +Maiden! with the meek, brown eyes, +In whose orbs a shadow lies +Like the dusk in evening skies! + +Thou whose locks outshine the sun, +Golden tresses, wreathed in one, +As the braided streamlets run! + +Standing, with reluctant feet, +Where the brook and river meet, +Womanhood and childhood fleet! + +Gazing, with a timid glance, +On the brooklet's swift advance, +On the river's broad expanse! + +Deep and still, that gliding stream +Beautiful to thee must seem, +As the river of a dream. + +Then why pause with indecision, +When bright angels in thy vision +Beckon thee to fields Elysian? + +Seest thou shadows sailing by, +As the dove, with startled eye, +Sees the falcon's shadow fly? + +Hearest thou voices on the shore, +That our ears perceive no more, +Deafened by the cataract's roar? + +O, thou child of many prayers! +Life hath quicksands,--Life hath snares +Care and age come unawares! + +Like the swell of some sweet tune, +Morning rises into noon, +May glides onward into June. + +Childhood is the bough, where slumbered +Birds and blossoms many-numbered;-- +Age, that bough with snows encumbered. + +Gather, then, each flower that grows, +When the young heart overflows, +To embalm that tent of snows. + +Bear a lily in thy hand; +Gates of brass cannot withstand +One touch of that magic wand. + +Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, +In thy heart the dew of youth, +On thy lips the smile of truth! + +O, that dew, like balm, shall steal +Into wounds that cannot heal, +Even as sleep our eyes doth seal; + +And that smile, like sunshine, dart +Into many a sunless heart, +For a smile of God thou art. + + + +EXCELSIOR + +The shades of night were falling fast, +As through an Alpine village passed +A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, +A banner with the strange device, + Excelsior! + +His brow was sad; his eye beneath, +Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, +And like a silver clarion rung +The accents of that unknown tongue, + Excelsior! + +In happy homes he saw the light +Of household fires gleam warm and bright; +Above, the spectral glaciers shone, +And from his lips escaped a groan, + Excelsior! + +"Try not the Pass!" the old man said: +"Dark lowers the tempest overhead, +The roaring torrent is deep and wide! +And loud that clarion voice replied, + Excelsior! + +"Oh stay," the maiden said, "and rest +Thy weary head upon this breast!" +A tear stood in his bright blue eye, +But still he answered, with a sigh, + Excelsior! + +"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch! +Beware the awful avalanche!" +This was the peasant's last Good-night, +A voice replied, far up the height, + Excelsior! + +At break of day, as heavenward +The pious monks of Saint Bernard +Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, +A voice cried through the startled air, + Excelsior! + +A traveller, by the faithful hound, +Half-buried in the snow was found, +Still grasping in his hand of ice +That banner with the strange device, + Excelsior! + +There in the twilight cold and gray, +Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, +And from the sky, serene and far, +A voice fell, like a falling star, + Excelsior! + + +************** + +POEMS ON SLAVERY. + +[The following poems, with one exception, were written at sea, +in the latter part of October, 1842. I had not then heard of +Dr. Channing's death. Since that event, the poem addressed to +him is no longer appropriate. I have decided, however, to let +it remain as it was written, in testimony of my admiration for +a great and good man.] + + + +TO WILLIAM E. CHANNING + +The pages of thy book I read, + And as I closed each one, +My heart, responding, ever said, + "Servant of God! well done!" + +Well done! Thy words are great and bold; + At times they seem to me, +Like Luther's, in the days of old, + Half-battles for the free. + +Go on, until this land revokes + The old and chartered Lie, +The feudal curse, whose whips and yokes + Insult humanity. + +A voice is ever at thy side + Speaking in tones of might, +Like the prophetic voice, that cried + To John in Patmos, "Write!" + +Write! and tell out this bloody tale; + Record this dire eclipse, +This Day of Wrath, this Endless Wail, + This dread Apocalypse! + + + +THE SLAVE'S DREAM + +Beside the ungathered rice he lay, + His sickle in his hand; +His breast was bare, his matted hair + Was buried in the sand. +Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, + He saw his Native Land. + +Wide through the landscape of his dreams + The lordly Niger flowed; +Beneath the palm-trees on the plain + Once more a king he strode; +And heard the tinkling caravans + Descend the mountain-road. + +He saw once more his dark-eyed queen + Among her children stand; +They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks, + They held him by the hand!-- +A tear burst from the sleeper's lids + And fell into the sand. + +And then at furious speed he rode + Along the Niger's bank; +His bridle-reins were golden chains, + And, with a martial clank, +At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel + Smiting his stallion's flank. + +Before him, like a blood-red flag, + The bright flamingoes flew; +From morn till night he followed their flight, + O'er plains where the tamarind grew, +Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts, + And the ocean rose to view. + +At night he heard the lion roar, + And the hyena scream, +And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds + Beside some hidden stream; +And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums, + Through the triumph of his dream. + +The forests, with their myriad tongues, + Shouted of liberty; +And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud, + With a voice so wild and free, +That he started in his sleep and smiled + At their tempestuous glee. + +He did not feel the driver's whip, + Nor the burning heat of day; +For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep, + And his lifeless body lay +A worn-out fetter, that the soul + Had broken and thrown away! + + + +THE GOOD PART + +THAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN AWAY + +She dwells by Great Kenhawa's side, + In valleys green and cool; +And all her hope and all her pride + Are in the village school. + +Her soul, like the transparent air + That robes the hills above, +Though not of earth, encircles there + All things with arms of love. + +And thus she walks among her girls + With praise and mild rebukes; +Subduing e'en rude village churls + By her angelic looks. + +She reads to them at eventide + Of One who came to save; +To cast the captive's chains aside + And liberate the slave. + +And oft the blessed time foretells + When all men shall be free; +And musical, as silver bells, + Their falling chains shall be. + +And following her beloved Lord, + In decent poverty, +She makes her life one sweet record + And deed of charity. + +For she was rich, and gave up all + To break the iron bands +Of those who waited in her hall, + And labored in her lands. + +Long since beyond the Southern Sea + Their outbound sails have sped, +While she, in meek humility, + Now earns her daily bread. + +It is their prayers, which never cease, + That clothe her with such grace; +Their blessing is the light of peace + That shines upon her face. + + + +THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP + +In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp + The hunted Negro lay; +He saw the fire of the midnight camp, +And heard at times a horse's tramp + And a bloodhound's distant bay. + +Where will-o'-the-wisps and glow-worms shine, + In bulrush and in brake; +Where waving mosses shroud the pine, +And the cedar grows, and the poisonous vine + Is spotted like the snake; + +Where hardly a human foot could pass, + Or a human heart would dare, +On the quaking turf of the green morass +He crouched in the rank and tangled grass, + Like a wild beast in his lair. + +A poor old slave, infirm and lame; + Great scars deformed his face; +On his forehead he bore the brand of shame, +And the rags, that hid his mangled frame, + Were the livery of disgrace. + +All things above were bright and fair, + All things were glad and free; +Lithe squirrels darted here and there, +And wild birds filled the echoing air + With songs of Liberty! + +On him alone was the doom of pain, + From the morning of his birth; +On him alone the curse of Cain +Fell, like a flail on the garnered grain, + And struck him to the earth! + + + +THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT + +Loud he sang the psalm of David! +He, a Negro and enslaved, +Sang of Israel's victory, +Sang of Zion, bright and free. + +In that hour, when night is calmest, +Sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist, +In a voice so sweet and clear +That I could not choose but hear, + +Songs of triumph, and ascriptions, +Such as reached the swart Egyptians, +When upon the Red Sea coast +Perished Pharaoh and his host. + +And the voice of his devotion +Filled my soul with strange emotion; +For its tones by turns were glad, +Sweetly solemn, wildly sad. + +Paul and Silas, in their prison, +Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen, +And an earthquake's arm of might +Broke their dungeon-gates at night. + +But, alas! what holy angel +Brings the Slave this glad evangel? +And what earthquake's arm of might +Breaks his dungeon-gates at night? + + + +THE WITNESSES + +In Ocean's wide domains, + Half buried in the sands, +Lie skeletons in chains, + With shackled feet and hands. + +Beyond the fall of dews, + Deeper than plummet lies, +Float ships, with all their crews, + No more to sink nor rise. + +There the black Slave-ship swims, + Freighted with human forms, +Whose fettered, fleshless limbs + Are not the sport of storms. + +These are the bones of Slaves; + They gleam from the abyss; +They cry, from yawning waves, + "We are the Witnesses!" + +Within Earth's wide domains + Are markets for men's lives; +Their necks are galled with chains, + Their wrists are cramped with gyves. + +Dead bodies, that the kite + In deserts makes its prey; +Murders, that with affright + Scare school-boys from their play! + +All evil thoughts and deeds; + Anger, and lust, and pride; +The foulest, rankest weeds, + That choke Life's groaning tide! + +These are the woes of Slaves; + They glare from the abyss; +They cry, from unknown graves, + "We are the Witnesses! + + + +THE QUADROON GIRL + +The Slaver in the broad lagoon + Lay moored with idle sail; +He waited for the rising moon, + And for the evening gale. + +Under the shore his boat was tied, + And all her listless crew +Watched the gray alligator slide + Into the still bayou. + +Odors of orange-flowers, and spice, + Reached them from time to time, +Like airs that breathe from Paradise + Upon a world of crime. + +The Planter, under his roof of thatch, + Smoked thoughtfully and slow; +The Slaver's thumb was on the latch, + He seemed in haste to go. + +He said, "My ship at anchor rides + In yonder broad lagoon; +I only wait the evening tides, + And the rising of the moon. + +Before them, with her face upraised, + In timid attitude, +Like one half curious, half amazed, + A Quadroon maiden stood. + +Her eyes were large, and full of light, + Her arms and neck were bare; +No garment she wore save a kirtle bright, + And her own long, raven hair. + +And on her lips there played a smile + As holy, meek, and faint, +As lights in some cathedral aisle + The features of a saint. + +"The soil is barren,--the farm is old"; + The thoughtful planter said; +Then looked upon the Slaver's gold, + And then upon the maid. + +His heart within him was at strife + With such accursed gains: +For he knew whose passions gave her life, + Whose blood ran in her veins. + +But the voice of nature was too weak; + He took the glittering gold! +Then pale as death grew the maiden's cheek, + Her hands as icy cold. + +The Slaver led her from the door, + He led her by the hand, +To be his slave and paramour + In a strange and distant land! + + + +THE WARNING + +Beware! The Israelite of old, who tore + The lion in his path,--when, poor and blind, +He saw the blessed light of heaven no more, + Shorn of his noble strength and forced to grind +In prison, and at last led forth to be +A pander to Philistine revelry,-- + +Upon the pillars of the temple laid + His desperate hands, and in its overthrow +Destroyed himself, and with him those who made + A cruel mockery of his sightless woe; +The poor, blind Slave, the scoff and jest of all, +Expired, and thousands perished in the fall! + +There is a poor, blind Samson in this land, + Shorn of his strength and bound in bonds of steel, +Who may, in some grim revel, raise his hand, + And shake the pillars of this Commonweal, +Till the vast Temple of our liberties. +A shapeless mass of wreck and rubbish lies. + + +******************* + +THE SPANISH STUDENT + +DRAMATIS PERSONAE + +VICTORIAN +HYPOLITO Students of Alcala. + +THE COUNT OF LARA +DON CARLOS Gentlemen of Madrid. + +THE ARCHBISHOP OF TOLEDO. +A CARDINAL. +BELTRAN CRUZADO Count of the Gypsies. +BARTOLOME ROMAN A young Gypsy. +THE PADRE CURA OF GUADARRAMA. +PEDRO CRESPO Alcalde. +PANCHO Alguacil. +FRANCISCO Lara's Servant. +CHISPA Victorian's Servant. +BALTASAR Innkeeper. +PRECIOSA A Gypsy Girl. +ANGELICA A poor Girl. +MARTINA The Padre Cura's Niece. +DOLORES Preciosa's Maid. +Gypsies, Musicians, etc. + + +ACT I. + +SCENE I.--The COUNT OF LARA'S chambers. Night. The COUNT in his +dressing-gown, smoking and conversing with DON CARLOS. + + Lara. You were not at the play tonight, Don Carlos; +How happened it? + + Don C. I had engagements elsewhere. +Pray who was there? + + Lara. Why all the town and court. +The house was crowded; and the busy fans +Among the gayly dressed and perfumed ladies +Fluttered like butterflies among the flowers. +There was the Countess of Medina Celi; +The Goblin Lady with her Phantom Lover, +Her Lindo Don Diego; Dona Sol, +And Dona Serafina, and her cousins. + + Don C. What was the play? + + Lara. It was a dull affair; +One of those comedies in which you see, +As Lope says, the history of the world +Brought down from Genesis to the Day of Judgment. +There were three duels fought in the first act, +Three gentlemen receiving deadly wounds, +Laying their hands upon their hearts, and saying, +"O, I am dead!" a lover in a closet, +An old hidalgo, and a gay Don Juan, +A Dona Inez with a black mantilla, +Followed at twilight by an unknown lover, +Who looks intently where he knows she is not! + + Don C. Of course, the Preciosa danced to-night? + + Lara. And never better. Every footstep fell +As lightly as a sunbeam on the water. +I think the girl extremely beautiful. + + Don C. Almost beyond the privilege of woman! +I saw her in the Prado yesterday. +Her step was royal,--queen-like,--and her face +As beautiful as a saint's in Paradise. + + Lara. May not a saint fall from her Paradise, +And be no more a saint? + + Don C. Why do you ask? + + Lara. Because I have heard it said this angel fell, +And though she is a virgin outwardly, +Within she is a sinner; like those panels +Of doors and altar-pieces the old monks +Painted in convents, with the Virgin Mary +On the outside, and on the inside Venus! + + Don C. You do her wrong; indeed, you do her wrong! +She is as virtuous as she is fair. + + Lara. How credulous you are! Why look you, friend, +There's not a virtuous woman in Madrid, +In this whole city! And would you persuade me +That a mere dancing-girl, who shows herself, +Nightly, half naked, on the stage, for money, +And with voluptuous motions fires the blood +Of inconsiderate youth, is to be held +A model for her virtue? + + Don C. You forget +She is a Gypsy girl. + + Lara. And therefore won +The easier. + + Don C. Nay, not to be won at all! +The only virtue that a Gypsy prizes +Is chastity. That is her only virtue. +Dearer than life she holds it. I remember +A Gypsy woman, a vile, shameless bawd, +Whose craft was to betray the young and fair; +And yet this woman was above all bribes. +And when a noble lord, touched by her beauty, +The wild and wizard beauty of her race, +Offered her gold to be what she made others, +She turned upon him, with a look of scorn, +And smote him in the face! + + Lara. And does that prove +That Preciosa is above suspicion? + + Don C. It proves a nobleman may be repulsed +When he thinks conquest easy. I believe +That woman, in her deepest degradation, +Holds something sacred, something undefiled, +Some pledge and keepsake of her higher nature, +And, like the diamond in the dark, retains +Some quenchless gleam of the celestial light! + + Lara. Yet Preciosa would have taken the gold. + + Don C. (rising). I do not think so. + + Lara. I am sure of it. +But why this haste? Stay yet a little longer, +And fight the battles of your Dulcinea. + + Don C. 'T is late. I must begone, for if I stay +You will not be persuaded. + + Lara. Yes; persuade me. + + Don C. No one so deaf as he who will not hear! + + Lara. No one so blind as he who will not see! + + Don C. And so good night. I wish you pleasant dreams, +And greater faith in woman. [Exit. + + Lara. Greater faith! +I have the greatest faith; for I believe +Victorian is her lover. I believe +That I shall be to-morrow; and thereafter +Another, and another, and another, +Chasing each other through her zodiac, +As Taurus chases Aries. + +(Enter FRANCISCO with a casket.) + + Well, Francisco, +What speed with Preciosa? + + Fran. None, my lord. +She sends your jewels back, and bids me tell you +She is not to be purchased by your gold. + + Lara. Then I will try some other way to win her. +Pray, dost thou know Victorian? + + Fran. Yes, my lord; +I saw him at the jeweller's to-day. + + Lara. What was he doing there? + + Fran. I saw him buy +A golden ring, that had a ruby in it. + + Lara. Was there another like it? + + Fran. One so like it +I could not choose between them. + + Lara. It is well. +To-morrow morning bring that ring to me. +Do not forget. Now light me to my bed. + [Exeunt. + + +SCENE II. -- A street in Madrid. Enter CHISPA, followed by +musicians, with a bagpipe, guitars, and other instruments. + + Chispa. Abernuncio Satanas! and a plague on all lovers who +ramble about at night, drinking the elements, instead of +sleeping quietly in their beds. Every dead man to his cemetery, +say I; and every friar to his monastery. Now, here's my master, +Victorian, yesterday a cow-keeper, and to-day a gentleman; +yesterday a student, and to-day a lover; and I must be up later +than the nightingale, for as the abbot sings so must the +sacristan respond. God grant he may soon be married, for then +shall all this serenading cease. Ay, marry! marry! marry! +Mother, what does marry mean? It means to spin, to bear +children, and to weep, my daughter! And, of a truth, there is +something more in matrimony than the wedding-ring. (To the +musicians.) And now, gentlemen, Pax vobiscum! as the ass said to +the cabbages. Pray, walk this way; and don't hang down your +heads. It is no disgrace to have an old father and a ragged +shirt. Now, look you, you are gentlemen who lead the life of +crickets; you enjoy hunger by day and noise by night. Yet, I +beseech you, for this once be not loud, but pathetic; for it is a +serenade to a damsel in bed, and not to the Man in the Moon. +Your object is not to arouse and terrify, but to soothe and bring +lulling dreams. Therefore, each shall not play upon his +instrument as if it were the only one in the universe, but +gently, and with a certain modesty, according with the others. +Pray, how may I call thy name, friend? + + First Mus. Geronimo Gil, at your service. + + Chispa. Every tub smells of the wine that is in it. Pray, +Geronimo, is not Saturday an unpleasant day with thee? + + First Mus. Why so? + + Chispa. Because I have heard it said that Saturday is an +unpleasant day with those who have but one shirt. Moreover, I +have seen thee at the tavern, and if thou canst run as fast as +thou canst drink, I should like to hunt hares with thee. What +instrument is that? + + First Mus. An Aragonese bagpipe. + + Chispa. Pray, art thou related to the bagpiper of Bujalance, +who asked a maravedi for playing, and ten for leaving off? + + First Mus. No, your honor. + + Chispa. I am glad of it. What other instruments have we? + + Second and Third Musicians. We play the bandurria. + + Chispa. A pleasing instrument. And thou? + + Fourth Mus. The fife. + + Chispa. I like it; it has a cheerful, soul-stirring sound, +that soars up to my lady's window like the song of a swallow. +And you others? + + Other Mus. We are the singers, please your honor. + + Chispa. You are too many. Do you think we are going to sing +mass in the cathedral of Cordova? Four men can make but little +use of one shoe, and I see not how you can all sing in one song. +But follow me along the garden wall. That is the way my master +climbs to the lady's window, it is by the Vicar's skirts that the +Devil climbs into the belfry. Come, follow me, and make no +noise. + [Exeunt. + + +SCENE III. -- PRECIOSA'S chamber. She stands at the open window. + + Prec. How slowly through the lilac-scented air +Descends the tranquil moon! Like thistle-down +The vapory clouds float in the peaceful sky; +And sweetly from yon hollow vaults of shade +The nightingales breathe out their souls in song. +And hark! what songs of love, what soul-like sounds, +Answer them from below! + +SERENADE. + +Stars of the summer night! + Far in yon azure deeps, +Hide, hide your golden light! + She sleeps! +My lady sleeps! + Sleeps! + +Moon of the summer night! + Far down yon western steeps, +Sink, sink in silver light! + She sleeps! +My lady sleeps! + Sleeps! + +Wind of the summer night! + Where yonder woodbine creeps, +Fold, fold thy pinions light! + She sleeps! +My lady sleeps! + Sleeps! + +Dreams of the summer night! + Tell her, her lover keeps +Watch! while in slumbers light + She sleeps +My lady sleeps + Sleeps! + +(Enter VICTORIAN by the balcony.) + + Vict. Poor little dove! Thou tremblest like a leaf! + + Prec. I am so frightened! 'T is for thee I tremble! +I hate to have thee climb that wall by night! +Did no one see thee? + + Vict. None, my love, but thou. + + Prec. 'T is very dangerous; and when thou art gone +I chide myself for letting thee come here +Thus stealthily by night. Where hast thou been? +Since yesterday I have no news from thee. + + Vict. Since yesterday I have been in Alcala. +Erelong the time will come, sweet Preciosa, +When that dull distance shall no more divide us; +And I no more shall scale thy wall by night +To steal a kiss from thee, as I do now. + + Prec. An honest thief, to steal but what thou givest. + + Vict. And we shall sit together unmolested, +And words of true love pass from tongue to tongue, +As singing birds from one bough to another. + + Prec. That were a life to make time envious! +I knew that thou wouldst come to me to-night. +I saw thee at the play. + + Vict. Sweet child of air! +Never did I behold thee so attired +And garmented in beauty as to-night! +What hast thou done to make thee look so fair? + + Prec. Am I not always fair? + + Vict. Ay, and so fair +That I am jealous of all eyes that see thee, +And wish that they were blind. + + Prec. I heed them not; +When thou art present, I see none but thee! + + Vict. There's nothing fair nor beautiful, but takes +Something from thee, that makes it beautiful. + + Prec. And yet thou leavest me for those dusty books. + + Vict. Thou comest between me and those books too often! +I see thy face in everything I see! +The paintings in the chapel wear thy looks, +The canticles are changed to sarabands, +And with the leaned doctors of the schools +I see thee dance cachuchas. + + Prec. In good sooth, +I dance with learned doctors of the schools +To-morrow morning. + + Vict. And with whom, I pray? + + Prec. A grave and reverend Cardinal, and his Grace +The Archbishop of Toledo. + + Vict. What mad jest +Is this? + + Prec. It is no jest; indeed it is not. + + Vict. Prithee, explain thyself. + + Prec. Why, simply thus. +Thou knowest the Pope has sent here into Spain +To put a stop to dances on the stage. + + Vict. I have heard it whispered. + + Prec. Now the Cardinal, +Who for this purpose comes, would fain behold +With his own eyes these dances; and the Archbishop +Has sent for me-- + + Vict. That thou mayst dance before them! +Now viva la cachucha! It will breathe +The fire of youth into these gray old men! +'T will be thy proudest conquest! + + Prec. Saving one. +And yet I fear these dances will be stopped, +And Preciosa be once more a beggar. + + Vict. The sweetest beggar that e'er asked for alms; +With such beseeching eyes, that when I saw thee +I gave my heart away! + + Prec. Dost thou remember +When first we met? + + Vict. It was at Cordova, +In the cathedral garden. Thou wast sitting +Under the orange-trees, beside a fountain. + + Prec. 'T was Easter-Sunday. The full-blossomed trees +Filled all the air with fragrance and with joy. +The priests were singing, and the organ sounded, +And then anon the great cathedral bell. +It was the elevation of the Host. +We both of us fell down upon our knees, +Under the orange boughs, and prayed together. +I never had been happy till that moment. + + Vict. Thou blessed angel! + + Prec. And when thou wast gone +I felt an acting here. I did not speak +To any one that day. But from that day +Bartolome grew hateful unto me. + + Vict. Remember him no more. Let not his shadow +Come between thee and me. Sweet Preciosa! +I loved thee even then, though I was silent! + + Prec. I thought I ne'er should see thy face again. +Thy farewell had a sound of sorrow in it. + + Vict. That was the first sound in the song of love! +Scarce more than silence is, and yet a sound. +Hands of invisible spirits touch the strings +Of that mysterious instrument, the soul, +And play the prelude of our fate. We hear +The voice prophetic, and are not alone. + + Prec. That is my faith. Dust thou believe these warnings? + + Vict. So far as this. Our feelings and our thoughts +Tend ever on, and rest not in the Present. +As drops of rain fall into some dark well, +And from below comes a scarce audible sound, +So fall our thoughts into the dark Hereafter, +And their mysterious echo reaches us. + + Prec. I have felt it so, but found no words to say it! +I cannot reason; I can only feel! +But thou hast language for all thoughts and feelings. +Thou art a scholar; and sometimes I think +We cannot walk together in this world! +The distance that divides us is too great! +Henceforth thy pathway lies among the stars; +I must not hold thee back. + + Vict. Thou little sceptic! +Dost thou still doubt? What I most prize in woman +Is her affections, not her intellect! +The intellect is finite; but the affections +Are infinite, and cannot be exhausted. +Compare me with the great men of the earth; +What am I? Why, a pygmy among giants! +But if thou lovest,--mark me! I say lovest, +The greatest of thy sex excels thee not! +The world of the affections is thy world, +Not that of man's ambition. In that stillness +Which most becomes a woman, calm and holy, +Thou sittest by the fireside of the heart, +Feeding its flame. The element of fire +Is pure. It cannot change nor hide its nature, +But burns as brightly in a Gypsy camp +As in a palace hall. Art thou convinced? + + Prec. Yes, that I love thee, as the good love heaven; +But not that I am worthy of that heaven. +How shall I more deserve it? + + Vict. Loving more. + + Prec. I cannot love thee more; my heart is full. + + Vict. Then let it overflow, and I will drink it, +As in the summer-time the thirsty sands +Drink the swift waters of the Manzanares, +And still do thirst for more. + + A Watchman (in the street). Ave Maria +Purissima! 'T is midnight and serene! + + Vict. Hear'st thou that cry? + + Prec. It is a hateful sound, +To scare thee from me! + + Vict. As the hunter's horn +Doth scare the timid stag, or bark of hounds +The moor-fowl from his mate. + + Prec. Pray, do not go! + + Vict. I must away to Alcala to-night. +Think of me when I am away. + + Prec. Fear not! +I have no thoughts that do not think of thee. + + Vict. (giving her a ring). +And to remind thee of my love, take this; +A serpent, emblem of Eternity; +A ruby,--say, a drop of my heart's blood. + + Prec. It is an ancient saying, that the ruby +Brings gladness to the wearer, and preserves +The heart pure, and, if laid beneath the pillow, +Drives away evil dreams. But then, alas! +It was a serpent tempted Eve to sin. + + Vict. What convent of barefooted Carmelites + Taught thee so much theology? + + Prec. (laying her hand upon his mouth). Hush! hush! +Good night! and may all holy angels guard thee! + + Vict. Good night! good night! Thou art my guardian angel! +I have no other saint than thou to pray to! + +(He descends by the balcony.) + + Prec. Take care, and do not hurt thee. Art thou safe? + + Vict. (from the garden). +Safe as my love for thee! But art thou safe? +Others can climb a balcony by moonlight +As well as I. Pray shut thy window close; +I am jealous of the perfumed air of night +That from this garden climbs to kiss thy lips. + + Prec. (throwing down her handkerchief). +Thou silly child! Take this to blind thine eyes. +It is my benison! + + Vict. And brings to me +Sweet fragrance from thy lips, as the soft wind +Wafts to the out-bound mariner the breath +Of the beloved land he leaves behind. + + Prec. Make not thy voyage long. + + Vict. To-morrow night +Shall see me safe returned. Thou art the star +To guide me to an anchorage. Good night! +My beauteous star! My star of love, good night! + + Prec. Good night! + + Watchman (at a distance). Ave Maria Purissima! + + + +Scene IV. -- An inn on the road to Alcala. +BALTASAR asleep on a bench. Enter CHISPA. + + Chispa. And here we are, halfway to Alcala, between cocks and +midnight. Body o' me! what an inn this is! The lights out, and +the landlord asleep. Hola! ancient Baltasar! + + Bal. (waking). Here I am. + + Chispa. Yes, there you are, like a one-eyed Alcalde in a town +without inhabitants. Bring a light, and let me have supper. + + Bal. Where is your master? + + Chispo. Do not trouble yourself about him. We have stopped a +moment to breathe our horses; and, if he chooses to walk up and +down in the open air, looking into the sky as one who hears it +rain, that does not satisfy my hunger, you know. But be quick, +for I am in a hurry, and every man stretches his legs according +to the length of his coverlet. What have we here? + + Bal. (setting a light on the table). Stewed rabbit. + + Chispa (eating). Conscience of Portalegre! Stewed kitten, you +mean! + + Bal. And a pitcher of Pedro Ximenes, with a roasted pear in +it. + + Chispa (drinking). Ancient Baltasar, amigo! You know how to +cry wine and sell vinegar. I tell you this is nothing but Vino +Tinto of La Mancha, with a tang of the swine-skin. + + Bal. I swear to you by Saint Simon and Judas, it is all as I +say. + + Chispa. And I swear to you by Saint Peter and Saint Paul, that +it is no such thing. Moreover, your supper is like the hidalgo's +dinner, very little meat and a great deal of tablecloth. + + Bal. Ha! ha! ha! + + Chispa. And more noise than nuts. + + Bal. Ha! ha! ha! You must have your joke, Master Chispa. But +shall I not ask Don Victorian in, to take a draught of the Pedro +Ximenes? + + Chispa. No; you might as well say, "Don't-you-want-some?" to a +dead man. + + Bal. Why does he go so often to Madrid? + + Chispa. For the same reason that he eats no supper. He is in +love. Were you ever in love, Baltasar? + + Bal. I was never out of it, good Chispa. It has been the +torment of my life. + + Chispa. What! are you on fire, too, old hay-stack? Why, we +shall never be able to put you out. + + Vict. (without). Chispa! + + Chispa. Go to bed, Pero Grullo, for the cocks are crowing. + + Vict. Ea! Chispa! Chispa! + + Chispa. Ea! Senor. Come with me, ancient Baltasar, and bring +water for the horses. I will pay for the supper tomorrow. + [Exeunt. + + + +SCENE V. -- VICTORIAN'S chambers at Alcala. HYPOLITO asleep in +an arm-chair. He awakes slowly. + + Hyp. I must have been asleep! ay, sound asleep! +And it was all a dream. O sleep, sweet sleep +Whatever form thou takest, thou art fair, +Holding unto our lips thy goblet filled +Out of Oblivion's well, a healing draught! +The candles have burned low; it must be late. +Where can Victorian be? Like Fray Carrillo, +The only place in which one cannot find him +Is his own cell. Here's his guitar, that seldom +Feels the caresses of its master's hand. +Open thy silent lips, sweet instrument! +And make dull midnight merry with a song. + + (He plays and sings.) + +Padre Francisco! +Padre Francisco! +What do you want of Padre Francisco? +Here is a pretty young maiden +Who wants to confess her sins! +Open the door and let her come in, +I will shrive her from every sin. + +(Enter VICTORIAN.) + + Vict. Padre Hypolito! Padre Hypolito! + + Hyp. What do you want of Padre Hypolito? + + Vict. Come, shrive me straight; for, if love be a sin, +I am the greatest sinner that doth live. +I will confess the sweetest of all crimes, +A maiden wooed and won. + + Hyp. The same old tale +Of the old woman in the chimney-corner, +Who, while the pot boils, says, "Come here, my child; +I'll tell thee a story of my wedding-day." + + Vict. Nay, listen, for my heart is full; so full +That I must speak. + + Hyp. Alas! that heart of thine +Is like a scene in the old play; the curtain +Rises to solemn music, and lo! enter +The eleven thousand virgins of Cologne! + + Vict. Nay, like the Sibyl's volumes, thou shouldst say; +Those that remained, after the six were burned, +Being held more precious than the nine together. +But listen to my tale. Dost thou remember +The Gypsy girl we saw at Cordova +Dance the Romalis in the market-place? + + Hyp. Thou meanest Preciosa. + + Vict. Ay, the same. +Thou knowest how her image haunted me +Long after we returned to Alcala. +She's in Madrid. + + Hyp. I know it. + + Vict. And I'm in love. + + Hyp. And therefore in Madrid when thou shouldst be +In Alcala. + + Vict. O pardon me, my friend, +If I so long have kept this secret from thee; +But silence is the charm that guards such treasures, +And, if a word be spoken ere the time, +They sink again, they were not meant for us. + + Hyp. Alas! alas! I see thou art in love. +Love keeps the cold out better than a cloak. +It serves for food and raiment. Give a Spaniard +His mass, his olla, and his Dona Luisa-- +Thou knowest the proverb. But pray tell me, lover, +How speeds thy wooing? Is the maiden coy? +Write her a song, beginning with an Ave; +Sing as the monk sang to the Virgin Mary, + + Ave! cujus calcem clare + Nec centenni commendare + Sciret Seraph studio! + + Vict. Pray, do not jest! This is no time for it! +I am in earnest! + + Hyp. Seriously enamored? +What, ho! The Primus of great Alcala +Enamored of a Gypsy? Tell me frankly, +How meanest thou? + + Vict. I mean it honestly. + + Hyp. Surely thou wilt not marry her! + + Vict. Why not? + + Hyp. She was betrothed to one Bartolome, +If I remember rightly, a young Gypsy +Who danced with her at Cordova. + + Vict. They quarrelled, +And so the matter ended. + + Hyp. But in truth +Thou wilt not marry her. + + Vict. In truth I will. +The angels sang in heaven when she was born! +She is a precious jewel I have found +Among the filth and rubbish of the world. +I'll stoop for it; but when I wear it here, +Set on my forehead like the morning star, +The world may wonder, but it will not laugh. + + Hyp. If thou wear'st nothing else upon thy forehead, +'T will be indeed a wonder. + + Vict. Out upon thee +With thy unseasonable jests! Pray tell me, +Is there no virtue in the world? + + Hyp. Not much. +What, think'st thou, is she doing at this moment; +Now, while we speak of her? + + Vict. She lies asleep, +And from her parted lips her gentle breath +Comes like the fragrance from the lips of flowers. +Her tender limbs are still, and on her breast +The cross she prayed to, ere she fell asleep, +Rises and falls with the soft tide of dreams, +Like a light barge safe moored. + + Hyp. Which means, in prose, +She's sleeping with her mouth a little open! + + Vict. O, would I had the old magician's glass +To see her as she lies in childlike sleep! + + Hyp. And wouldst thou venture? + + Vict. Ay, indeed I would! + + Hyp. Thou art courageous. Hast thou e'er reflected +How much lies hidden in that one word, NOW? + + Vict. Yes; all the awful mystery of Life! +I oft have thought, my dear Hypolito, +That could we, by some spell of magic, change +The world and its inhabitants to stone, +In the same attitudes they now are in, +What fearful glances downward might we cast +Into the hollow chasms of human life! +What groups should we behold about the death-bed, +Putting to shame the group of Niobe! +What joyful welcomes, and what sad farewells! +What stony tears in those congealed eyes! +What visible joy or anguish in those cheeks! +What bridal pomps, and what funereal shows! +What foes, like gladiators, fierce and struggling! +What lovers with their marble lips together! + + Hyp. Ay, there it is! and, if I were in love, +That is the very point I most should dread. +This magic glass, these magic spells of thine, +Might tell a tale were better left untold. +For instance, they might show us thy fair cousin, +The Lady Violante, bathed in tears +Of love and anger, like the maid of Colchis, +Whom thou, another faithless Argonaut, +Having won that golden fleece, a woman's love, +Desertest for this Glauce. + + Vict. Hold thy peace! +She cares not for me. She may wed another, +Or go into a convent, and, thus dying, +Marry Achilles in the Elysian Fields. + + Hyp. (rising). And so, good night! Good morning, I should say. + +(Clock strikes three.) + +Hark! how the loud and ponderous mace of Time +Knocks at the golden portals of the day! +And so, once more, good night! We'll speak more largely +Of Preciosa when we meet again. +Get thee to bed, and the magician, Sleep, +Shall show her to thee, in his magic glass, +In all her loveliness. Good night! + [Exit. + + Vict. Good night! +But not to bed; for I must read awhile. + +(Throws himself into the arm-chair which HYPOLITO has left, and +lays a large book open upon his knees.) + +Must read, or sit in revery and watch +The changing color of the waves that break +Upon the idle sea-shore of the mind! +Visions of Fame! that once did visit me, +Making night glorious with your smile, where are ye? +O, who shall give me, now that ye are gone, +Juices of those immortal plants that bloom +Upon Olympus, making us immortal? +Or teach me where that wondrous mandrake grows +Whose magic root, torn from the earth with groans, +At midnight hour, can scare the fiends away, +And make the mind prolific in its fancies! +I have the wish, but want the will, to act! +Souls of great men departed! Ye whose words +Have come to light from the swift river of Time, +Like Roman swords found in the Tagus' bed, +Where is the strength to wield the arms ye bore? +From the barred visor of Antiquity +Reflected shines the eternal light of Truth, +As from a mirror! All the means of action-- +The shapeless masses, the materials-- +Lie everywhere about us. What we need +Is the celestial fire to change the flint +Into transparent crystal, bright and clear. +That fire is genius! The rude peasant sits +At evening in his smoky cot, and draws +With charcoal uncouth figures on the wall. +The son of genius comes, foot-sore with travel, +And begs a shelter from the inclement night. +He takes the charcoal from the peasant's hand, +And, by the magic of his touch at once +Transfigured, all its hidden virtues shine, +And, in the eyes of the astonished clown, +It gleams a diamond! Even thus transformed, +Rude popular traditions and old tales +Shine as immortal poems, at the touch +Of some poor, houseless, homeless, wandering bard, +Who had but a night's lodging for his pains. +But there are brighter dreams than those of Fame, +Which are the dreams of Love! Out of the heart +Rises the bright ideal of these dreams, +As from some woodland fount a spirit rises +And sinks again into its silent deeps, +Ere the enamored knight can touch her robe! +'T is this ideal that the soul of man, +Like the enamored knight beside the fountain, +Waits for upon the margin of Life's stream; +Waits to behold her rise from the dark waters, +Clad in a mortal shape! Alas! how many +Must wait in vain! The stream flows evermore, +But from its silent deeps no spirit rises! +Yet I, born under a propitious star, +Have found the bright ideal of my dreams. +Yes! she is ever with me. I can feel, +Here, as I sit at midnight and alone, +Her gentle breathing! on my breast can feel +The pressure of her head! God's benison +Rest ever on it! Close those beauteous eyes, +Sweet Sleep! and all the flowers that bloom at night +With balmy lips breathe in her ears my name! + +(Gradually sinks asleep.) + + + +ACT II. + +SCENE I. -- PRECIOSA'S chamber. Morning. PRECIOSA and ANGELICA. + + Prec. Why will you go so soon? Stay yet awhile. +The poor too often turn away unheard +From hearts that shut against them with a sound +That will be heard in heaven. Pray, tell me more +Of your adversities. Keep nothing from me. +What is your landlord's name? + + Ang. The Count of Lara. + + Prec. The Count of Lara? O, beware that man! +Mistrust his pity,--hold no parley with him! +And rather die an outcast in the streets +Than touch his gold. + + Ang. You know him, then! + + Prec. As much +As any woman may, and yet be pure. +As you would keep your name without a blemish, +Beware of him! + + Ang. Alas! what can I do? +I cannot choose my friends. Each word of kindness, +Come whence it may, is welcome to the poor. + + Prec. Make me your friend. A girl so young and fair +Should have no friends but those of her own sex. +What is your name? + + Ang. Angelica. + + Prec. That name +Was given you, that you might be an angel +To her who bore you! When your infant smile +Made her home Paradise, you were her angel. +O, be an angel still! She needs that smile. +So long as you are innocent, fear nothing. +No one can harm you! I am a poor girl, +Whom chance has taken from the public streets. +I have no other shield than mine own virtue. +That is the charm which has protected me! +Amid a thousand perils, I have worn it +Here on my heart! It is my guardian angel. + + Ang. (rising). I thank you for this counsel, dearest lady. + + Prec. Thank me by following it. + + Ang. Indeed I will. + + Prec. Pray, do not go. I have much more to say. + + Ang. My mother is alone. I dare not leave her. + + Prec. Some other time, then, when we meet again. +You must not go away with words alone. + +(Gives her a purse.) + +Take this. Would it were more. + + Ang. I thank you, lady. + + Prec. No thanks. To-morrow come to me again. +I dance to-night,--perhaps for the last time. +But what I gain, I promise shall be yours, +If that can save you from the Count of Lara. + + Ang. O, my dear lady! how shall I be grateful +For so much kindness? + + Prec. I deserve no thanks, +Thank Heaven, not me. + + Ang. Both Heaven and you. + + Prec. Farewell. +Remember that you come again tomorrow. + + Ang. I will. And may the Blessed Virgin guard you, +And all good angels. [Exit. + + Prec. May they guard thee too, +And all the poor; for they have need of angels. +Now bring me, dear Dolores, my basquina, +My richest maja dress,--my dancing dress, +And my most precious jewels! Make me look +Fairer than night e'er saw me! I've a prize +To win this day, worthy of Preciosa! + +(Enter BELTRAN CRUZADO.) + + Cruz. Ave Maria! + + Prec. O God! my evil genius! +What seekest thou here to-day? + + Cruz. Thyself,--my child. + + Prec. What is thy will with me? + + Cruz. Gold! gold! + + Prec. I gave thee yesterday; I have no more. + + Cruz. The gold of the Busne,--give me his gold! + + Prec. I gave the last in charity to-day. + + Cruz. That is a foolish lie. + + Prec. It is the truth. + + Cruz. Curses upon thee! Thou art not my child! +Hast thou given gold away, and not to me? +Not to thy father? To whom, then? + + Prec. To one +Who needs it more. + + Cruz. No one can need it more. + + Prec. Thou art not poor. + + Cruz. What, I, who lurk about +In dismal suburbs and unwholesome lanes +I, who am housed worse than the galley slave; +I, who am fed worse than the kennelled hound; +I, who am clothed in rags,--Beltran Cruzado,-- +Not poor! + + Prec. Thou hast a stout heart and strong hands. +Thou canst supply thy wants; what wouldst thou more? + + Cruz. The gold of the Busne! give me his gold! + + Prec. Beltran Cruzado! hear me once for all. +I speak the truth. So long as I had gold, +I gave it to thee freely, at all times, +Never denied thee; never had a wish +But to fulfil thine own. Now go in peace! +Be merciful, be patient, and ere long +Thou shalt have more. + + Cruz. And if I have it not, +Thou shalt no longer dwell here in rich chambers, +Wear silken dresses, feed on dainty food, +And live in idleness; but go with me, +Dance the Romalis in the public streets, +And wander wild again o'er field and fell; +For here we stay not long. + + Prec. What! march again? + + Cruz. Ay, with all speed. I hate the crowded town! +I cannot breathe shut up within its gates +Air,--I want air, and sunshine, and blue sky, +The feeling of the breeze upon my face, +The feeling of the turf beneath my feet, +And no walls but the far-off mountain-tops. +Then I am free and strong,--once more myself, +Beltran Cruzado, Count of the Cales! + + Prec. God speed thee on thy march!--I cannot go. + + Cruz. Remember who I am, and who thou art +Be silent and obey! Yet one thing more. +Bartolome Roman-- + + Prec. (with emotion). O, I beseech thee +If my obedience and blameless life, +If my humility and meek submission +In all things hitherto, can move in thee +One feeling of compassion; if thou art +Indeed my father, and canst trace in me +One look of her who bore me, or one tone +That doth remind thee of her, let it plead +In my behalf, who am a feeble girl, +Too feeble to resist, and do not force me +To wed that man! I am afraid of him! +I do not love him! On my knees I beg thee +To use no violence, nor do in haste +What cannot be undone! + + Cruz. O child, child, child! +Thou hast betrayed thy secret, as a bird +Betrays her nest, by striving to conceal it. +I will not leave thee here in the great city +To be a grandee's mistress. Make thee ready +To go with us; and until then remember +A watchful eye is on thee. [Exit. + + Prec. Woe is me! +I have a strange misgiving in my heart! +But that one deed of charity I'll do, +Befall what may; they cannot take that from me. + + + +SCENE II -- A room in the ARCHBISHOP'S Palace. The ARCHBISHOP +and a CARDINAL seated. + + Arch. Knowing how near it touched the public morals, +And that our age is grown corrupt and rotten +By such excesses, we have sent to Rome, +Beseeching that his Holiness would aid +In curing the gross surfeit of the time, +By seasonable stop put here in Spain +To bull-fights and lewd dances on the stage. +All this you know. + + Card. Know and approve. + + Arch. And further, +That, by a mandate from his Holiness, +The first have been suppressed. + + Card. I trust forever. +It was a cruel sport. + + Arch. A barbarous pastime, +Disgraceful to the land that calls itself +Most Catholic and Christian. + + Card. Yet the people +Murmur at this; and, if the public dances +Should be condemned upon too slight occasion, +Worse ills might follow than the ills we cure. +As Panem et Circenses was the cry +Among the Roman populace of old, +So Pan y Toros is the cry in Spain. +Hence I would act advisedly herein; +And therefore have induced your Grace to see +These national dances, ere we interdict them. + +(Enter a Servant) + + Serv. The dancing-girl, and with her the musicians +Your Grace was pleased to order, wait without. + + Arch. Bid them come in. Now shall your eyes behold +In what angelic, yet voluptuous shape +The Devil came to tempt Saint Anthony. + +(Enter PRECIOSA, with a mantle thrown over her head. She +advances slowly, in modest, half-timid attitude.) + + Card. (aside). O, what a fair and ministering angel +Was lost to heaven when this sweet woman fell! + + Prec. (kneeling before the ARCHBISHOP). +I have obeyed the order of your Grace. +If I intrude upon your better hours, +I proffer this excuse, and here beseech +Your holy benediction. + + Arch. May God bless thee, +And lead thee to a better life. Arise. + + Card. (aside). Her acts are modest, and her words discreet! +I did not look for this! Come hither, child. +Is thy name Preciosa? + + Prec. Thus I am called. + + Card. That is a Gypsy name. Who is thy father? + + Prec. Beltran Cruzado, Count of the Cales. + + Arch. I have a dim remembrance of that man: +He was a bold and reckless character, +A sun-burnt Ishmael! + + Card. Dost thou remember +Thy earlier days? + + Prec. Yes; by the Darro's side +My childhood passed. I can remember still +The river, and the mountains capped with snow +The village, where, yet a little child, +I told the traveller's fortune in the street; +The smuggler's horse, the brigand and the shepherd; +The march across the moor; the halt at noon; +The red fire of the evening camp, that lighted +The forest where we slept; and, further back, +As in a dream or in some former life, +Gardens and palace walls. + + Arch. 'T is the Alhambra, +Under whose towers the Gypsy camp was pitched. +But the time wears; and we would see thee dance. + + Prec. Your Grace shall be obeyed. + + (She lays aside her mantilla. The music of the cachucha is +played, and the dance begins. The ARCHBISHOP and the CARDINAL +look on with gravity and an occasional frown; then make signs to +each other; and, as the dance continues, become more and more +pleased and excited; and at length rise from their seats, throw +their caps in the air, and applaud vehemently as the scene +closes.) + + + +SCENE III. -- The Prado. A long avenue of trees leading to the +gate of Atocha. On the right the dome and spires of a convent. +A fountain. Evening, DON CARLOS and HYPOLITO meeting. + + Don C. Hola! good evening, Don Hypolito. + + Hyp. And a good evening to my friend, Don Carlos. +Some lucky star has led my steps this way. +I was in search of you. + + Don. C. Command me always. + + Hyp. Do you remember, in Quevedo's Dreams, +The miser, who, upon the Day of Judgment, +Asks if his money-bags would rise? + + Don C. I do; +But what of that? + + Hyp. I am that wretched man. + + Don C. You mean to tell me yours have risen empty? + + Hyp. And amen! said my Cid the Campeador. + + Don C. Pray, how much need you? + + Hyp. Some half-dozen ounces, +Which, with due interest-- + + Don C. (giving his purse). What, am I a Jew +To put my moneys out at usury? +Here is my purse. + + Hyp. Thank you. A pretty purse. +Made by the hand of some fair Madrilena; +Perhaps a keepsake. + + Don C. No, 't is at your service. + + Hyp. Thank you again. Lie there, good Chrysostom, +And with thy golden mouth remind me often, +I am the debtor of my friend. + + Don C. But tell me, +Come you to-day from Alcala? + + Hyp. This moment. + + Don C. And pray, how fares the brave Victorian? + + Hyp. Indifferent well; that is to say, not well. +A damsel has ensnared him with the glances +Of her dark, roving eyes, as herdsmen catch +A steer of Andalusia with a lazo. +He is in love. + + Don C. And is it faring ill +To be in love? + + Hyp. In his case very ill. + + Don C. Why so? + + Hyp. For many reasons. First and foremost, +Because he is in love with an ideal; +A creature of his own imagination; +A child of air; an echo of his heart; +And, like a lily on a river floating, +She floats upon the river of his thoughts! + + Don C. A common thing with poets. But who is +This floating lily? For, in fine, some woman, +Some living woman,--not a mere ideal,-- +Must wear the outward semblance of his thought. +Who is it? Tell me. + + Hyp. Well, it is a woman! +But, look you, from the coffer of his heart +He brings forth precious jewels to adorn her, +As pious priests adorn some favorite saint +With gems and gold, until at length she gleams +One blaze of glory. Without these, you know, +And the priest's benediction, 't is a doll. + + Don C. Well, well! who is this doll? + + Hyp. Why, who do you think? + + Don C. His cousin Violante. + + Hyp. Guess again. +To ease his laboring heart, in the last storm +He threw her overboard, with all her ingots. + + Don C. I cannot guess; so tell me who it is. + + Hyp. Not I. + + Don. C. Why not? + + Hyp. (mysteriously). Why? Because Mari Franca +Was married four leagues out of Salamanca! + + Don C. Jesting aside, who is it? + + Hyp. Preciosa. + + Don C. Impossible! The Count of Lara tells me +She is not virtuous. + + Hyp. Did I say she was? +The Roman Emperor Claudius had a wife +Whose name was Messalina, as I think; +Valeria Messalina was her name. +But hist! I see him yonder through the trees, +Walking as in a dream. + + Don C. He comes this way. + + Hyp. It has been truly said by some wise man, +That money, grief, and love cannot be hidden. + +(Enter VICTORIAN in front.) + + Vict. Where'er thy step has passed is holy ground! +These groves are sacred! I behold thee walking +Under these shadowy trees, where we have walked +At evening, and I feel thy presence now; +Feel that the place has taken a charm from thee, +And is forever hallowed. + + Hyp. Mark him well! +See how he strides away with lordly air, +Like that odd guest of stone, that grim Commander +Who comes to sup with Juan in the play. + + Don C. What ho! Victorian! + + Hyp. Wilt thou sup with us? + + Vict. Hola! amigos! Faith, I did not see you. +How fares Don Carlos? + + Don C. At your service ever. + + Vict. How is that young and green-eyed Gaditana +That you both wot of? + + Don C. Ay, soft, emerald eyes! +She has gone back to Cadiz. + + Hyp. Ay de mi! + + Vict. You are much to blame for letting her go back. +A pretty girl; and in her tender eyes +Just that soft shade of green we sometimes see +In evening skies. + + Hyp. But, speaking of green eyes, +Are thine green? + + Vict. Not a whit. Why so? + + Hyp. I think +The slightest shade of green would be becoming, +For thou art jealous. + + Vid. No, I am not jealous. + + Hyp. Thou shouldst be. + + Vict. Why? + + Hyp. Because thou art in love. +And they who are in love are always jealous. +Therefore thou shouldst be. + + + Vict. Marry, is that all? +Farewell; I am in haste. Farewell, Don Carlos. +Thou sayest I should be jealous? + + + Hyp. Ay, in truth +I fear there is reason. Be upon thy guard. +I hear it whispered that the Count of Lara +Lays siege to the same citadel. + + Vict. Indeed! +Then he will have his labor for his pains. + + Hyp. He does not think so, and Don Carlos tells me +He boasts of his success. + + Vict. How's this, Don Carlos? + + Don. C. Some hints of it I heard from his own lips. +He spoke but lightly of the lady's virtue, +As a gay man might speak. + + Vict. Death and damnation! +I'll cut his lying tongue out of his mouth, +And throw it to my dog! But no, no, no! +This cannot be. You jest, indeed you jest. +Trifle with me no more. For otherwise +We are no longer friends. And so, fare well! + [Exit. + + Hyp. Now what a coil is here! The Avenging Child +Hunting the traitor Quadros to his death, +And the Moor Calaynos, when he rode +To Paris for the ears of Oliver, +Were nothing to him! O hot-headed youth! +But come; we will not follow. Let us join +The crowd that pours into the Prado. There +We shall find merrier company; I see +The Marialonzos and the Almavivas, +And fifty fans, that beckon me already. + [Exeunt. + + + +SCENE IV. -- PRECIOSA'S chamber. She is sitting, with a book in +her hand, near a table, on which are flowers. A bird singing in +its cage. The COUNT OF LARA enters behind unperceived. + + Prec. (reads). + All are sleeping, weary heart! + Thou, thou only sleepless art! + +Heigho! I wish Victorian were here. +I know not what it is makes me so restless! + +(The bird sings.) + +Thou little prisoner with thy motley coat, +That from thy vaulted, wiry dungeon singest, +Like thee I am a captive, and, like thee, +I have a gentle jailer. Lack-a-day! + + All are sleeping, weary heart! + Thou, thou only sleepless art! + All this throbbing, all this aching, + Evermore shall keep thee waking, + For a heart in sorrow breaking + Thinketh ever of its smart! + +Thou speakest truly, poet! and methinks +More hearts are breaking in this world of ours +Than one would say. In distant villages +And solitudes remote, where winds have wafted +The barbed seeds of love, or birds of passage +Scattered them in their flight, do they take root, +And grow in silence, and in silence perish. +Who hears the falling of the forest leaf? +Or who takes note of every flower that dies? +Heigho! I wish Victorian would come. +Dolores! + +(Turns to lay down her boot and perceives the COUNT.) + + Ha! + + Lara. Senora, pardon me. + + Prec. How's this? Dolores! + + Lara. Pardon me-- + + Prec. Dolores! + + Lara. Be not alarmed; I found no one in waiting. +If I have been too bold-- + + Prec. (turning her back upon him). You are too bold! +Retire! retire, and leave me! + + Lara. My dear lady, +First hear me! I beseech you, let me speak! +'T is for your good I come. + + Prec. (turning toward him with indignation). Begone! begone! +You are the Count of Lara, but your deeds +Would make the statues of your ancestors +Blush on their tombs! Is it Castilian honor, +Is it Castilian pride, to steal in here +Upon a friendless girl, to do her wrong? +O shame! shame! shame! that you, a nobleman, +Should be so little noble in your thoughts +As to send jewels here to win my love, +And think to buy my honor with your gold! +I have no words to tell you how I scorn you! +Begone! The sight of you is hateful to me! +Begone, I say! + + Lara. Be calm; I will not harm you. + + Prec. Because you dare not. + + Lara. I dare anything! +Therefore beware! You are deceived in me. +In this false world, we do not always know +Who are our friends and who our enemies. +We all have enemies, and all need friends. +Even you, fair Preciosa, here at court +Have foes, who seek to wrong you. + + Prec. If to this +I owe the honor of the present visit, +You might have spared the coming. Raving spoken, +Once more I beg you, leave me to myself. + + Lara. I thought it but a friendly part to tell you +What strange reports are current here in town. +For my own self, I do not credit them; +But there are many who, not knowing you, +Will lend a readier ear. + + Prec. There was no need +That you should take upon yourself the duty +Of telling me these tales. + + Lara. Malicious tongues +Are ever busy with your name. + + Prec. Alas! +I've no protectors. I am a poor girl, +Exposed to insults and unfeeling jests. +They wound me, yet I cannot shield myself. +I give no cause for these reports. I live +Retired; am visited by none. + + Lara. By none? +O, then, indeed, you are much wronged! + + Prec. How mean you? + + Lara. Nay, nay; I will not wound your gentle soul +By the report of idle tales. + + Prec. Speak out! +What are these idle tales? You need not spare me. + + Lara. I will deal frankly with you. Pardon me +This window, as I think, looks toward the street, +And this into the Prado, does it not? +In yon high house, beyond the garden wall,-- +You see the roof there just above the trees,-- +There lives a friend, who told me yesterday, +That on a certain night,--be not offended +If I too plainly speak,--he saw a man +Climb to your chamber window. You are silent! +I would not blame you, being young and fair-- + +(He tries to embrace her. She starts back, and draws a dagger +from her bosom.) + + Prec. Beware! beware! I am a Gypsy girl! +Lay not your hand upon me. One step nearer +And I will strike! + + Lara. Pray you, put up that dagger. +Fear not. + + Prec. I do not fear. I have a heart +In whose strength I can trust. + + Lara. Listen to me +I come here as your friend,--I am your friend,-- +And by a single word can put a stop +To all those idle tales, and make your name +Spotless as lilies are. Here on my knees, +Fair Preciosa! on my knees I swear, +I love you even to madness, and that love +Has driven me to break the rules of custom, +And force myself unasked into your presence. + +(VICTORIAN enters behind.) + + Prec. Rise, Count of Lara! That is not the place +For such as you are. It becomes you not +To kneel before me. I am strangely moved +To see one of your rank thus low and humbled; +For your sake I will put aside all anger, +All unkind feeling, all dislike, and speak +In gentleness, as most becomes a woman, +And as my heart now prompts me. I no more +Will hate you, for all hate is painful to me. +But if, without offending modesty +And that reserve which is a woman's glory, +I may speak freely, I will teach my heart +To love you. + + Lara. O sweet angel! + + Prec. Ay, in truth, +Far better than you love yourself or me. + + Lara. Give me some sign of this,--the slightest token. +Let me but kiss your hand! + + Prec. Nay, come no nearer. +The words I utter are its sign and token. +Misunderstand me not! Be not deceived! +The love wherewith I love you is not such +As you would offer me. For you come here +To take from me the only thing I have, +My honor. You are wealthy, you have friends +And kindred, and a thousand pleasant hopes +That fill your heart with happiness; but I +Am poor, and friendless, having but one treasure, +And you would take that from me, and for what? +To flatter your own vanity, and make me +What you would most despise. O sir, such love, +That seeks to harm me, cannot be true love. +Indeed it cannot. But my love for you +Is of a different kind. It seeks your good. +It is a holier feeling. It rebukes +Your earthly passion, your unchaste desires, +And bids you look into your heart, and see +How you do wrong that better nature in you, +And grieve your soul with sin. + + Lara. I swear to you, +I would not harm you; I would only love you. +I would not take your honor, but restore it, +And in return I ask but some slight mark +Of your affection. If indeed you love me, +As you confess you do, O let me thus +With this embrace-- + + Vict. (rushing forward). Hold! hold! This is too much. +What means this outrage? + + Lara. First, what right have you +To question thus a nobleman of Spain? + + Vict. I too am noble, and you are no more! +Out of my sight! + + Lara. Are you the master here? + + Vict. Ay, here and elsewhere, when the wrong of others +Gives me the right! + + Prec. (to LARA). Go! I beseech you, go! + + Vict. I shall have business with you, Count, anon! + + Lara. You cannot come too soon! + [Exit. + + Prec. Victorian! +O, we have been betrayed! + + Vict. Ha! ha! betrayed! +'T is I have been betrayed, not we!--not we! + + Prec. Dost thou imagine-- + + Vict. I imagine nothing; +I see how 't is thou whilest the time away +When I am gone! + + Prec. O speak not in that tone! +It wounds me deeply. + + Vict. 'T was not meant to flatter. + + Prec. Too well thou knowest the presence of that man +Is hateful to me! + + Vict. Yet I saw thee stand +And listen to him, when he told his love. + + Prec. I did not heed his words. + + Vict. Indeed thou didst, +And answeredst them with love. + + Prec. Hadst thou heard all-- + + Vict. I heard enough. + + Prec. Be not so angry with me. + + Vict. I am not angry; I am very calm. + + Prec. If thou wilt let me speak-- + + Vict. Nay, say no more. +I know too much already. Thou art false! +I do not like these Gypsy marriages! +Where is the ring I gave thee? + + Prec. In my casket. + + Vict. There let it rest! I would not have thee wear it: +I thought thee spotless, and thou art polluted! + + Prec. I call the Heavens to witness-- + + Vict. Nay, nay, nay! +Take not the name of Heaven upon thy lips! +They are forsworn! + + Prec. Victorian! dear Victorian! + + Vict. I gave up all for thee; myself, my fame, +My hopes of fortune, ay, my very soul! +And thou hast been my ruin! Now, go on! +Laugh at my folly with thy paramour, +And, sitting on the Count of Lara's knee, +Say what a poor, fond fool Victorian was! + +(He casts her from him and rushes out.) + + Prec. And this from thee! + +(Scene closes.) + + + +SCENE V. -- The COUNT OF LARA'S rooms. Enter the COUNT. + + Lara. There's nothing in this world so sweet as love, +And next to love the sweetest thing is hate! +I've learned to hate, and therefore am revenged. +A silly girl to play the prude with me! +The fire that I have kindled-- + +(Enter FRANCISCO.) + + Well, Francisco, +What tidings from Don Juan? + + Fran. Good, my lord; +He will be present. + + Lara. And the Duke of Lermos? + + Fran. Was not at home. + + Lara. How with the rest? + + Fran. I've found +The men you wanted. They will all be there, +And at the given signal raise a whirlwind +Of such discordant noises, that the dance +Must cease for lack of music. + + Lara. Bravely done. +Ah! little dost thou dream, sweet Preciosa, +What lies in wait for thee. Sleep shall not close +Thine eyes this night! Give me my cloak and sword. [Exeunt. + + + +SCENE VI. -- A retired spot beyond the city gates. Enter +VICTORIAN and HYPOLITO. + + Vict. O shame! O shame! Why do I walk abroad +By daylight, when the very sunshine mocks me, +And voices, and familiar sights and sounds +Cry, "Hide thyself!" O what a thin partition +Doth shut out from the curious world the knowledge +Of evil deeds that have been done in darkness! +Disgrace has many tongues. My fears are windows, +Through which all eyes seem gazing. Every face +Expresses some suspicion of my shame, +And in derision seems to smile at me! + + Hyp. Did I not caution thee? Did I not tell thee +I was but half persuaded of her virtue? + + Vict. And yet, Hypolito, we may be wrong, +We may be over-hasty in condemning! +The Count of Lara is a cursed villain. + + Hyp. And therefore is she cursed, loving him. + + Vid. She does not love him! 'T is for gold! for gold! + + Hyp. Ay, but remember, in the public streets +He shows a golden ring the Gypsy gave him, +A serpent with a ruby in its mouth. + + Vict. She had that ring from me! God! she is false! +But I will be revenged! The hour is passed. +Where stays the coward? + + Hyp. Nay, he is no coward; +A villain, if thou wilt, but not a coward. +I've seen him play with swords; it is his pastime. +And therefore be not over-confident, +He'll task thy skill anon. Look, here he comes. + +(Enter LARA followed by FRNANCISCO) + + Lara. Good evening, gentlemen. + + Hyp. Good evening, Count. + + Lara. I trust I have not kept you long in waiting. + + Vict. Not long, and yet too long. Are you prepared? + + Lara. I am. + + Hyp. It grieves me much to see this quarrel +Between you, gentlemen. Is there no way +Left open to accord this difference, +But you must make one with your swords? + + Vict. No! none! +I do entreat thee, dear Hypolito, +Stand not between me an my foe. Too long +Our tongues have spoken. Let these tongues of steel +End our debate. Upon your guard, Sir Count. + +(They fight. VICTORIAN disarms the COUNT.) + +Your life is mine; and what shall now withhold me +From sending your vile soul to its account? + + Lara. Strike! strike! + + Vict. You are disarmed. I will not kill you. +I will not murder you. Take up your sword. + +(FRANCISCO hands the COUNT his sword, and HYPOLITO interposes.) + + Hyp. Enough! Let it end here! The Count of Lara +Has shown himself a brave man, and Victorian +A generous one, as ever. Now be friends. +Put up your swords; for, to speak frankly to you, +Your cause of quarrel is too slight a thing +To move you to extremes. + + Lara. I am content, +I sought no quarrel. A few hasty words, +Spoken in the heat of blood, have led to this. + + Vict. Nay, something more than that. + + Lara. I understand you. +Therein I did not mean to cross your path. +To me the door stood open, as to others. +But, had I known the girl belonged to you, +Never would I have sought to win her from you. +The truth stands now revealed; she has been false +To both of us. + + Vict. Ay, false as hell itself! + + Lara. In truth, I did not seek her; she sought me; +And told me how to win her, telling me +The hours when she was oftenest left alone. + + Vict. Say, can you prove this to me? O, pluck out +These awful doubts, that goad me into madness! +Let me know all! all! all! + + Lara. You shall know all. +Here is my page, who was the messenger +Between us. Question him. Was it not so, +Francisco? + + Fran. Ay, my lord. + + Lara. If further proof +Is needful, I have here a ring she gave me. + + Vict. Pray let me see that ring! It is the same! + +(Throws it upon the ground, and tramples upon it.) + +Thus may she perish who once wore that ring! +Thus do I spurn her from me; do thus trample +Her memory in the dust! O Count of Lara, +We both have been abused, been much abused! +I thank you for your courtesy and frankness. +Though, like the surgeon's hand, yours gave me pain, +Yet it has cured my blindness, and I thank you. +I now can see the folly I have done, +Though 't is, alas! too late. So fare you well! +To-night I leave this hateful town forever. +Regard me as your friend. Once more farewell! + + Hyp. Farewell, Sir Count. + + [Exeunt VICTORIAN and HYPOLITO. + + Lara. Farewell! farewell! farewell! +Thus have I cleared the field of my worst foe! +I have none else to fear; the fight is done, +The citadel is stormed, the victory won! + +[Exit with FRANCISCO. + + + +SCENE VII. -- A lane in the suburbs. Night. Enter CRUZADO and +BARTOLOME. + + Cruz. And so, Bartolome, the expedition failed. But where +wast thou for the most part? + + Bart. In the Guadarrama mountains, near San Ildefonso. + + Cruz. And thou bringest nothing back with thee? Didst thou +rob no one? + + Bart. There was no one to rob, save a party of students from +Segovia, who looked as if they would rob us; and a jolly little +friar, who had nothing in his pockets but a missal and a loaf of +bread. + + Cruz. Pray, then, what brings thee back to Madrid? + + Bart. First tell me what keeps thee here? + + Cruz. Preciosa. + + Bart. And she brings me back. Hast thou forgotten thy +promise? + + Cruz. The two years are not passed yet. Wait patiently. The +girl shall be thine. + + Bart. I hear she has a Busne lover. + + Cruz. That is nothing. + + Bart. I do not like it. I hate him,--the son of a Busne +harlot. He goes in and out, and speaks with her alone, and I +must stand aside, and wait his pleasure. + + Cruz. Be patient, I say. Thou shalt have thy revenge. When +the time comes, thou shalt waylay him. + + Bart. Meanwhile, show me her house. + + Cruz. Come this way. But thou wilt not find her. She dances +at the play to-night. + + Bart. No matter. Show me the house. + [Exeunt. + + + +SCENE VIII. -- The Theatre. The orchestra plays the cachucha. +Sound of castanets behind the scenes. The curtain rises, and +discovers PRECIOSA in the attitude of commencing the dance. The +cachucha. Tumult; hisses; cries of "Brava!" and "Afuera!" She +falters and pauses. The music stops. General confusion. +PRECIOSA faints. + + + +SCENE IX. -- The COUNT OF LARA'S chambers. LARA and his friends +at supper. + + Lara. So, Caballeros, once more many thanks! +You have stood by me bravely in this matter. +Pray fill your glasses. + + Don J. Did you mark, Don Luis, +How pale she looked, when first the noise began, +And then stood still, with her large eyes dilated! +Her nostrils spread! her lips apart! Her bosom +Tumultuous as the sea! + + Don L. I pitied her. + + Lara. Her pride is humbled; and this very night +I mean to visit her. + + Don J. Will you serenade her? + + Lara. No music! no more music! + + Don L. Why not music? +It softens many hearts. + + Lara. Not in the humor +She now is in. Music would madden her. + + Don J. Try golden cymbals. + + Don L. Yes, try Don Dinero; +A mighty wooer is your Don Dinero. + + Lara. To tell the truth, then, I have bribed her maid. +But, Caballeros, you dislike this wine. +A bumper and away; for the night wears. +A health to Preciosa. + +(They rise and drink.) + + All. Preciosa. + + Lara. (holding up his glass). +Thou bright and flaming minister of Love! +Thou wonderful magician! who hast stolen +My secret from me, and mid sighs of passion +Caught from my lips, with red and fiery tongue, +Her precious name! O nevermore henceforth +Shall mortal lips press thine; and nevermore +A mortal name be whispered in thine ear. +Go! keep my secret! + +(Drinks and dashes the goblet down.) + + Don J. Ite! missa est! + +(Scene closes.) + + + +SCENE X. -- Street and garden wall. Night. Enter CRUZADO and +BARTOLOME. + + Cruz. This is the garden wall, and above it, yonder, is her +house. The window in which thou seest the light is her window. +But we will not go in now. + + Bart. Why not? + + Cruz. Because she is not at home. + + Bart. No matter; we can wait. But how is this? The gate is +bolted. (Sound of guitars and voices in a neighboring street.) +Hark! There comes her lover with his infernal serenade! Hark! + +SONG. + +Good night! Good night, beloved! + I come to watch o'er thee! +To be near thee,--to be near thee, + Alone is peace for me. + +Thine eyes are stars of morning, + Thy lips are crimson flowers! +Good night! Good night beloved, + While I count the weary hours. + + Cruz. They are not coming this way. + + Bart. Wait, they begin again. + +SONG (coming nearer). + +Ah! thou moon that shinest + Argent-clear above! +All night long enlighten + My sweet lady-love! + Moon that shinest, +All night long enlighten! + + Bart. Woe be to him, if he comes this way! + + Cruz. Be quiet, they are passing down the street. + +SONG (dying away). + +The nuns in the cloister + Sang to each other; +For so many sisters + Is there not one brother! +Ay, for the partridge, mother! +The cat has run away with the partridge! + Puss! puss! puss! + + Bart. Follow that! follow that! +Come with me. Puss! puss! + +(Exeunt. On the opposite side enter the COUNT OF LARA and +gentlemen, with FRANCISCO.) + + Lara. The gate is fast. Over the wall, Francisco, +And draw the bolt. There, so, and so, and over. +Now, gentlemen, come in, and help me scale +Yon balcony. How now? Her light still burns. +Move warily. Make fast the gate, Francisco. + +(Exeunt. Re-enter CRUZADO and BARTOLOME.) + + Bart. They went in at the gate. Hark! I hear them in the +garden. (Tries the gate.) Bolted again! Vive Cristo! Follow me +over the wall. + +(They climb the wall.) + + + +SCENE XI. -- PRECIOSA'S bedchamber. Midnight. She is sleeping in +an armchair, in an undress. DOLORES watching her. + + Dol. She sleeps at last! + +(Opens the window, and listens.) + + All silent in the street, +And in the garden. Hark! + + Prec. (in her sleep). I must go hence! +Give me my cloak! + + Dol. He comes! I hear his footsteps. + + Prec. Go tell them that I cannot dance to-night; +I am too ill! Look at me! See the fever +That burns upon my cheek! I must go hence. +I am too weak to dance. + +(Signal from the garden.) + + Dol. (from the window). Who's there? + + Voice (from below). A friend. + + Dol. I will undo the door. Wait till I come. + + Prec. I must go hence. I pray you do not harm me! +Shame! shame! to treat a feeble woman thus! +Be you but kind, I will do all things for you. +I'm ready now,--give me my castanets. +Where is Victorian? Oh, those hateful lamps! +They glare upon me like an evil eye. +I cannot stay. Hark! how they mock at me! +They hiss at me like serpents! Save me! save me! + +(She wakes.) + +How late is it, Dolores? + + Dol. It is midnight. + + Prec. We must be patient. Smooth this pillow for me. + +(She sleeps again. Noise from the garden, and voices.) + + Voice. Muera! + + Another Voice. O villains! villains! + + Lara. So! have at you! + + Voice. Take that! + + Lara. O, I am wounded! + + Dol. (shutting the window). Jesu Maria! + + + +ACT III. + +SCENE I. -- A cross-road through a wood. In the background a +distant village spire. VICTORIAN and HYPOLITO, as travelling +students, with guitars, sitting under the trees. HYPOLITO plays +and sings. + +SONG. + + Ah, Love! +Perjured, false, treacherous Love! + Enemy +Of all that mankind may not rue! + Most untrue +To him who keeps most faith with thee. + Woe is me! +The falcon has the eyes of the dove. + Ah, Love! +Perjured, false, treacherous Love! + + Vict. Yes, Love is ever busy with his shuttle, +Is ever weaving into life's dull warp +Bright, gorgeous flowers and scenes Arcadian; +Hanging our gloomy prison-house about +With tapestries, that make its walls dilate +In never-ending vistas of delight. + + Hyp. Thinking to walk in those Arcadian pastures, +Thou hast run thy noble head against the wall. + +SONG (continued). + + Thy deceits +Give us clearly to comprehend, + Whither tend +All thy pleasures, all thy sweets! + They are cheats, +Thorns below and flowers above. + Ah, Love! +Perjured, false, treacherous Love! + + Vict. A very pretty song. I thank thee for it. + + Hyp. It suits thy case. + + Vict. Indeed, I think it does. +What wise man wrote it? + + Hyp. Lopez Maldonado. + + Vict. In truth, a pretty song. + + Hyp. With much truth in it. +I hope thou wilt profit by it; and in earnest +Try to forget this lady of thy love. + + Vict. I will forget her! All dear recollections +Pressed in my heart, like flowers within a book, +Shall be torn out, and scattered to the winds! +I will forget her! But perhaps hereafter, +When she shall learn how heartless is the world, +A voice within her will repeat my name, +And she will say, "He was indeed my friend!" +O, would I were a soldier, not a scholar, +That the loud march, the deafening beat of drums, +The shattering blast of the brass-throated trumpet, +The din of arms, the onslaught and the storm, +And a swift death, might make me deaf forever +To the upbraidings of this foolish heart! + + Hyp. Then let that foolish heart upbraid no more! +To conquer love, one need but will to conquer. + + Vict. Yet, good Hypolito, it is in vain +I throw into Oblivion's sea the sword +That pierces me; for, like Excalibar, +With gemmed and flashing hilt, it will not sink. +There rises from below a hand that grasp it, +And waves it in the air; and wailing voices +Are heard along the shore. + + Hyp. And yet at last +Down sank Excalibar to rise no more. +This is not well. In truth, it vexes me. +Instead of whistling to the steeds of Time, +To make them jog on merrily with life's burden, +Like a dead weight thou hangest on the wheels. +Thou art too young, too full of lusty health +To talk of dying. + + Vict. Yet I fain would die! +To go through life, unloving and unloved; +To feel that thirst and hunger of the soul +We cannot still; that longing, that wild impulse, +And struggle after something we have not +And cannot have; the effort to be strong +And, like the Spartan boy, to smile, and smile, +While secret wounds do bleed beneath our cloaks +All this the dead feel not,--the dead alone! +Would I were with them! + + Hyp. We shall all be soon. + + Vict. It cannot be too soon; for I am weary +Of the bewildering masquerade of Life, +Where strangers walk as friends, and friends as strangers; +Where whispers overheard betray false hearts; +And through the mazes of the crowd we chase +Some form of loveliness, that smiles, and beckons, +And cheats us with fair words, only to leave us +A mockery and a jest; maddened,--confused,-- +Not knowing friend from foe. + + Hyp. Why seek to know? +Enjoy the merry shrove-tide of thy youth! +Take each fair mask for what it gives itself, +Nor strive to look beneath it. + + Vict. I confess, +That were the wiser part. But Hope no longer +Comforts my soul. I am a wretched man, +Much like a poor and shipwrecked mariner, +Who, struggling to climb up into the boat, +Has both his bruised and bleeding hands cut off, +And sinks again into the weltering sea, +Helpless and hopeless! + + Hyp. Yet thou shalt not perish. +The strength of thine own arm is thy salvation. +Above thy head, through rifted clouds, there shines +A glorious star. Be patient. Trust thy star! + +(Sound of a village belt in the distance.) + + Vict. Ave Maria! I hear the sacristan +Ringing the chimes from yonder village belfry! +A solemn sound, that echoes far and wide +Over the red roofs of the cottages, +And bids the laboring hind a-field, the shepherd, +Guarding his flock, the lonely muleteer, +And all the crowd in village streets, stand still, +And breathe a prayer unto the blessed Virgin! + + Hyp. Amen! amen! Not half a league from hence +The village lies. + + Vict. This path will lead us to it, +Over the wheat-fields, where the shadows sail +Across the running sea, now green, now blue, +And, like an idle mariner on the main, +Whistles the quail. Come, let us hasten on. + [Exeunt. + + + +SCENE II. -- Public square in the village of Guadarrama. The Ave +Maria still tolling. A crowd of villagers, with their hats in +their hands, as if in prayer. In front, a group of Gypsies. The +bell rings a merrier peal. A Gypsy dance. Enter PANCHO, +followed by PEDRO CRESPO. + + Pancho. Make room, ye vagabonds and Gypsy thieves! +Make room for the Alcalde and for me! + + Pedro C. Keep silence all! I have an edict here +From our most gracious lord, the King of Spain, +Jerusalem, and the Canary Islands, +Which I shall publish in the market-place. +Open your ears and listen! + +(Enter the PADRE CURA at the door of his cottage.) + + Padre Cura, +Good day! and, pray you, hear this edict read. + + Padre C. Good day, and God be with you! Pray, what is it? + + Pedro C. An act of banishment against the Gypsies! + +(Agitation and murmurs in the crowd.) + + Pancho. Silence! + + Pedro C. (reads). "I hereby order and command, +That the Egyptian an Chaldean strangers, +Known by the name of Gypsies, shall henceforth +Be banished from the realm, as vagabonds +And beggars; and if, after seventy days, +Any be found within our kingdom's bounds, +They shall receive a hundred lashes each; +The second time, shall have their ears cut off; +The third, be slaves for life to him who takes them, +Or burnt as heretics. Signed, I, the King." +Vile miscreants and creatures unbaptized! +You hear the law! Obey and disappear! + + Pancho. And if in seventy days you are not gone, +Dead or alive I make you all my slaves. + +(The Gypsies go out in confusion, showing signs of fear and +discontent. PANCHO follows.) + + Padre C. A righteous law! A very righteous law! +Pray you, sit down. + +Pedro C. I thank you heartily. + +(They seat themselves on a bench at the PADRE CURAS door. Sound +of guitars heard at a distance, approaching during the dialogue +which follows.) + +A very righteous judgment, as you say. +Now tell me, Padre Cura,--you know all things, +How came these Gypsies into Spain? + + Padre C. Why, look you; +They came with Hercules from Palestine, +And hence are thieves and vagrants, Sir Alcalde, +As the Simoniacs from Simon Magus, +And, look you, as Fray Jayme Bleda says, +There are a hundred marks to prove a Moor +Is not a Christian, so 't is with the Gypsies. +They never marry, never go to mass, +Never baptize their children, nor keep Lent, +Nor see the inside of a church,--nor--nor-- + + Pedro C. Good reasons, good, substantial reasons all! +No matter for the other ninety-five. +They should be burnt, I see it plain enough, +They should be bunt. + +(Enter VICTORIAN and HYPOLITO playing.) + + Padre C. And pray, whom have we here? + + Pedro C. More vagrants! By Saint Lazarus, more vagrants! + + Hyp. Good evening, gentlemen! Is this Guadarrama? + + Padre C. Yes, Guadarrama, and good evening to you. + + Hyp. We seek the Padre Cura of the village; +And, judging from your dress and reverend mien, +You must be he. + + Padre C. I am. Pray, what's your pleasure? + + Hyp. We are poor students, traveling in vacation. +You know this mark? + +(Touching the wooden spoon in his hat-band. + + Padre C. (joyfully). Ay, know it, and have worn it. + + Pedro C. (aside). Soup-eaters! by the mass! The worst of vagrants! +And there's no law against them. Sir, your servant. + [Exit. + + Padre C. Your servant, Pedro Crespo. + + Hyp. Padre Cura, +Front the first moment I beheld your face, +I said within myself, "This is the man!" +There is a certain something in your looks, +A certain scholar-like and studious something,-- +You understand,--which cannot be mistaken; +Which marks you as a very learned man, +In fine, as one of us. + + Vict. (aside). What impudence! + + Hyp. As we approached, I said to my companion, +"That is the Padre Cura; mark my words!" +Meaning your Grace. "The other man," said I, +Who sits so awkwardly upon the bench, +Must be the sacristan." + + Padre C. Ah! said you so? +Why, that was Pedro Crespo, the alcalde! + + Hyp. Indeed! you much astonish me! His air +Was not so full of dignity and grace +As an alcalde's should be. + + Padre C. That is true. +He's out of humor with some vagrant Gypsies, +Who have their camp here in the neighborhood. +There's nothing so undignified as anger. + + Hyp. The Padre Cura will excuse our boldness, +If, from his well-known hospitality, +We crave a lodging for the night. + + Padre C. I pray you! +You do me honor! I am but too happy +To have such guests beneath my humble roof. +It is not often that I have occasion +To speak with scholars; and Emollit mores, +Nec sinit esse feros, Cicero says. + + Hyp. 'T is Ovid, is it not? + + Padre C. No, Cicero. + + Hyp. Your Grace is right. You are the better scholar. +Now what a dunce was I to think it Ovid! +But hang me if it is not! (Aside.) + + Padre C. Pass this way. +He was a very great man, was Cicero! +Pray you, go in, go in! no ceremony. + [Exeunt. + + +SCENE III. -- A room in the PADRE CURA'S house. Enter the PADRE +and HYPOLITO. + + Padre C. So then, Senor, you come from Alcala. +I am glad to hear it. It was there I studied. + + Hyp. And left behind an honored name, no doubt. +How may I call your Grace? + + Padre C. Geronimo +De Santillana, at your Honor's service. + + Hyp. Descended from the Marquis Santillana? +From the distinguished poet? + + Padre C. From the Marquis, +Not from the poet. + + Hyp. Why, they were the same. +Let me embrace you! O some lucky star +Has brought me hither! Yet once more!--once more! +Your name is ever green in Alcala, +And our professor, when we are unruly, +Will shake his hoary head, and say, "Alas! +It was not so in Santillana's time!" + + Padre C. I did not think my name remembered there. + + Hyp. More than remembered; it is idolized. + + Padre C. Of what professor speak you? + + Hyp. Timoneda. + + Padre C. I don't remember any Timoneda. + + Hyp. A grave and sombre man, whose beetling brow +O'erhangs the rushing current of his speech +As rocks o'er rivers hang. Have you forgotten? + + Padre C. Indeed, I have. O, those were pleasant days, +Those college days! I ne'er shall see the like! +I had not buried then so many hopes! +I had not buried then so many friends! +I've turned my back on what was then before me; +And the bright faces of my young companions +Are wrinkled like my own, or are no more. +Do you remember Cueva? + + Hyp. Cueva? Cueva? + + Padre C. Fool that I am! He was before your time. +You're a mere boy, and I am an old man. + + Hyp. I should not like to try my strength with you. + + Padre C. Well, well. But I forget; you must be hungry. +Martina! ho! Martina! 'T is my niece. + +(Enter MARTINA.) + + Hyp. You may be proud of such a niece as that. +I wish I had a niece. Emollit mores. + (Aside.) +He was a very great man, was Cicero! +Your servant, fair Martina. + + Mart. Servant, sir. + + Padre C. This gentleman is hungry. See thou to it. +Let us have supper. + + Mart. 'T will be ready soon. + + Padre C. And bring a bottle of my Val-de-Penas +Out of the cellar. Stay; I'll go myself. +Pray you. Senor, excuse me. [Exit. + + Hyp. Hist! Martina! +One word with you. Bless me I what handsome eyes! +To-day there have been Gypsies in the village. +Is it not so? + + Mart. There have been Gypsies here. + + Hyp. Yes, and have told your fortune. + + Mart. (embarrassed). Told my fortune? + + Hyp. Yes, yes; I know they did. Give me your hand. +I'll tell you what they said. They said,--they said, +The shepherd boy that loved you was a clown, +And him you should not marry. Was it not? + + Mart. (surprised). How know you that? + + Hyp. O, I know more than that, +What a soft, little hand! And then they said, +A cavalier from court, handsome, and tall +And rich, should come one day to marry you, +And you should be a lady. Was it not! +He has arrived, the handsome cavalier. + +(Tries to kiss her. She runs off. Enter VICTORIAN, with a +letter.) + + Vict. The muleteer has come. + + Hyp. So soon? + + Vict. I found him +Sitting at supper by the tavern door, +And, from a pitcher that he held aloft +His whole arm's length, drinking the blood-red wine. + + Hyp. What news from Court? + + Vict. He brought this letter only. + +(Reads.) + +O cursed perfidy! Why did I let +That lying tongue deceive me! Preciosa, +Sweet Preciosa! how art thou avenged! + + Hyp. What news is this, that makes thy cheek turn pale, +And thy hand tremble? + + Vict. O, most infamous! +The Count of Lara is a worthless villain! + + Hyp. That is no news, forsooth. + + Vict. He strove in vain +To steal from me the jewel of my soul, +The love of Preciosa. Not succeeding, +He swore to be revenged; and set on foot +A plot to ruin her, which has succeeded. +She has been hissed and hooted from the stage, +Her reputation stained by slanderous lies +Too foul to speak of; and, once more a beggar, +She roams a wanderer over God's green earth +Housing with Gypsies! + + Hyp. To renew again +The Age of Gold, and make the shepherd swains +Desperate with love, like Gasper Gil's Diana. +Redit et Virgo! + + Vict. Dear Hypolito, +How have I wronged that meek, confiding heart! +I will go seek for her; and with my tears +Wash out the wrong I've done her! + + Hyp. O beware! +Act not that folly o'er again. + + Vict. Ay, folly, +Delusion, madness, call it what thou wilt, +I will confess my weakness,--I still love her! +Still fondly love her! + +(Enter the PADRE CURA.) + + Hyp. Tell us, Padre Cura, +Who are these Gypsies in the neighborhood? + + Padre C. Beltran Cruzado and his crew. + + Vict. Kind Heaven, +I thank thee! She is found! is found again! + + Hyp. And have they with them a pale, beautiful girl, +Called Preciosa? + + Padre C. Ay, a pretty girl. +The gentleman seems moved. + + Hyp. Yes, moved with hunger, +He is half famished with this long day's journey. + + Padre C. Then, pray you, come this way. The supper waits. + [Exeunt. + + + +SCENE IV. -- A post-house on the road to Segovia, not far from +the village of Guadarrama. Enter CHISPA, cracking a whip, and +singing the cachucha. + + Chispa. Halloo! Don Fulano! Let us have horses, and quickly. +Alas, poor Chispa! what a dog's life dost thou lead! I thought, +when I left my old master Victorian, the student, to serve my +new master Don Carlos, the gentleman, that I, too, should lead the +life of a gentleman; should go to bed early, and get up late. +For when the abbot plays cards, what can you expect of the +friars? But, in running away from the thunder, I have run into +the lightning. Here I am in hot chase after my master and his +Gypsy girl. And a good beginning of the week it is, as he said +who was hanged on Monday morning. + +(Enter DON CARLOS) + + Don C. Are not the horses ready yet? + + Chispa. I should think not, for the hostler seems to be +asleep. Ho! within there! Horses! horses! horses! (He knocks at +the gate with his whip, and enter MOSQUITO, putting on his +jacket.) + + Mosq. Pray, have a little patience. I'm not a musket. + + Chispa. Health and pistareens! I'm glad to see you come on +dancing, padre! Pray, what's the news? + + Mosq. You cannot have fresh horses; because there are none. + + Chispa. Cachiporra! Throw that bone to another dog. Do I look +like your aunt? + + Mosq. No; she has a beard. + + Chispa. Go to! go to! + + Mosq. Are you from Madrid? + + Chispa. Yes; and going to Estramadura. Get us horses. + + Mosq. What's the news at Court? + + Chispa. Why, the latest news is, that I am going to set up a +coach, and I have already bought the whip. + +(Strikes him round the legs.) + + Mosq. Oh! oh! You hurt me! + + Don C. Enough of this folly. Let us have horses. (Gives +money to MOSQUITO.) It is almost dark; and we are in haste. But +tell me, has a band of Gypsies passed this way of late? + + Mosq. Yes; and they are still in the neighborhood. + + Don C. And where? + + Mosq. Across the fields yonder, in the woods near Guadarrama. + [Exit. + + Don C. Now this is lucky. We will visit the Gypsy camp. + + Chispa. Are you not afraid of the evil eye? Have you a stag's +horn with you? + + Don C. Fear not. We will pass the night at the village. + + Chispa. And sleep like the Squires of Hernan Daza, nine under +one blanket. + + Don C. I hope we may find the Preciosa among them. + + Chispa. Among the Squires? + + Don C. No; among the Gypsies, blockhead! + + Chispa. I hope we may; for we are giving ourselves trouble +enough on her account. Don't you think so? However, there is no +catching trout without wetting one's trousers. Yonder come the +horses. + [Exeunt. + + + +SCENE V. -- The Gypsy camp in the forest. Night. Gypsies +working at a forge. Others playing cards by the firelight. + Gypsies (at the forge sing). + +On the top of a mountain I stand, +With a crown of red gold in my hand, +Wild Moors come trooping over the lea +O how from their fury shall I flee, flee, flee? +O how from their fury shall I flee? + + First Gypsy (playing). Down with your John-Dorados, my pigeon. +Down with your John-Dorados, and let us make an end. + +Gypsies (at the forge sing). + + Loud sang the Spanish cavalier, + And thus his ditty ran; + God send the Gypsy lassie here, + And not the Gypsy man. + + First Gypsy (playing). There you are in your morocco! + + Second Gypsy. One more game. The Alcalde's doves against the +Padre Cura's new moon. + + First Gypsy. Have at you, Chirelin. + +Gypsies (at the forge sing). + + At midnight, when the moon began + To show her silver flame, + There came to him no Gypsy man, + The Gypsy lassie came. + +(Enter BELTRAN CRUZADO.) + + Cruz. Come hither, Murcigalleros and Rastilleros; leave work, +leave play; listen to your orders for the night. (Speaking to +the right.) You will get you to the village, mark you, by the +stone cross. + + Gypsies. Ay! + + Cruz. (to the left). And you, by the pole with the hermit's +head upon it. + + Gypsies. Ay! + + Cruz. As soon as you see the planets are out, in with you, and +be busy with the ten commandments, under the sly, and Saint +Martin asleep. D'ye hear? + + Gypsies. Ay! + + Cruz. Keep your lanterns open, and, if you see a goblin or a +papagayo, take to your trampers. Vineyards and Dancing John is +the word. Am I comprehended? + + Gypsies. Ay! ay! + + Cruz. Away, then! + +(Exeunt severally. CRUZADO walks up the stage, and disappears +among the trees. Enter PRECIOSA.) + + Prec. How strangely gleams through the gigantic trees +The red light of the forge! Wild, beckoning shadows +Stalk through the forest, ever and anon +Rising and bending with the flickering flame, +Then flitting into darkness! So within me +Strange hopes and fears do beckon to each other, +My brightest hopes giving dark fears a being +As the light does the shadow. Woe is me +How still it is about me, and how lonely! + +(BARTOLOME rushes in.) + + Bart. Ho! Preciosa! + + Prec. O Bartolome! +Thou here? + + Bart. Lo! I am here. + + Prec. Whence comest thou? + + Bart. From the rough ridges of the wild Sierra, +From caverns in the rocks, from hunger, thirst, +And fever! Like a wild wolf to the sheepfold. +Come I for thee, my lamb. + + Prec. O touch me not! +The Count of Lara's blood is on thy hands! +The Count of Lara's curse is on thy soul! +Do not come near me! Pray, begone from here +Thou art in danger! They have set a price +Upon thy head! + + Bart. Ay, and I've wandered long +Among the mountains; and for many days +Have seen no human face, save the rough swineherd's. +The wind and rain have been my sole companions. +I shouted to them from the rocks thy name, +And the loud echo sent it back to me, +Till I grew mad. I could not stay from thee, +And I am here! Betray me, if thou wilt. + + Prec. Betray thee? I betray thee? + + Bart. Preciosa! +I come for thee! for thee I thus brave death! +Fly with me o'er the borders of this realm! +Fly with me! + + Prec. Speak of that no more. I cannot. +I'm thine no longer. + + Bart. O, recall the time +When we were children! how we played together, +How we grew up together; how we plighted +Our hearts unto each other, even in childhood! +Fulfil thy promise, for the hour has come. +I'm hunted from the kingdom, like a wolf! +Fulfil thy promise. + + Prec. 'T was my father's promise. +Not mine. I never gave my heart to thee, +Nor promised thee my hand! + + Bart. False tongue of woman! +And heart more false! + + Prec. Nay, listen unto me. +I will speak frankly. I have never loved thee; +I cannot love thee. This is not my fault, +It is my destiny. Thou art a man +Restless and violent. What wouldst thou with me, +A feeble girl, who have not long to live, +Whose heart is broken? Seek another wife, +Better than I, and fairer; and let not +Thy rash and headlong moods estrange her from thee. +Thou art unhappy in this hopeless passion, +I never sought thy love; never did aught +To make thee love me. Yet I pity thee, +And most of all I pity thy wild heart, +That hurries thee to crimes and deeds of blood, +Beware, beware of that. + + Bart. For thy dear sake +I will be gentle. Thou shalt teach me patience. + + Prec. Then take this farewell, and depart in peace. +Thou must not linger here. + + Bart. Come, come with me. + + Prec. Hark! I hear footsteps. + + Bart. I entreat thee, come! + + Prec. Away! It is in vain. + + Bart. Wilt thou not come? + + Prec. Never! + + Bart. Then woe, eternal woe, upon thee! +Thou shalt not be another's. Thou shalt die. + [Exit. + + Prec. All holy angels keep me in this hour! +Spirit of her who bore me, look upon me! +Mother of God, the glorified, protect me! +Christ and the saints, be merciful unto me! +Yet why should I fear death? What is it to die? +To leave all disappointment, care, and sorrow, +To leave all falsehood, treachery, and unkindness, +All ignominy, suffering, and despair, +And be at rest forever! O dull heart, +Be of good cheer! When thou shalt cease to beat, +Then shalt thou cease to suffer and complain! + +(Enter VICTORIAN and HYPOLITO behind.) + + Vict. 'T is she! Behold, how beautiful she stands +Under the tent-like trees! + + Hyp. A woodland nymph! + + Vict. I pray thee, stand aside. Leave me. + + Hyp. Be wary. +Do not betray thyself too soon. + + Vict. (disguising his voice). Hist! Gypsy! + + Prec. (aside, with emotion). +That voice! that voice from heaven! O speak again! +Who is it calls? + + Vict. A friend. + + Prec. (aside). 'T is he! 'T is he! +I thank thee, Heaven, that thou hast heard my prayer, +And sent me this protector! Now be strong, +Be strong, my heart! I must dissemble here. +False friend or true? + + Vict. A true friend to the true; +Fear not; come hither. So; can you tell fortunes? + + Prec. Not in the dark. Come nearer to the fire. +Give me your hand. It is not crossed, I see. + + Vict. (putting a piece of gold into her hand). There is the +cross. + + Prec. Is 't silver? + + Vict. No, 't is gold. + + Prec. There's a fair lady at the Court, who loves you, +And for yourself alone. + + Vict. Fie! the old story! +Tell me a better fortune for my money; +Not this old woman's tale! + + Prec. You are passionate; +And this same passionate humor in your blood +Has marred your fortune. Yes; I see it now; +The line of life is crossed by many marks. +Shame! shame! O you have wronged the maid who loved you! +How could you do it? + + Vict. I never loved a maid; +For she I loved was then a maid no more. + + Prec. How know you that? + + Vict. A little bird in the air +Whispered the secret. + + Prec. There, take back your gold! +Your hand is cold, like a deceiver's hand! +There is no blessing in its charity! +Make her your wife, for you have been abused; +And you shall mend your fortunes, mending hers. + + Vict. (aside). How like an angel's speaks the tongue of woman, +When pleading in another's cause her own! +That is a pretty ring upon your finger. +Pray give it me. (Tries to take the ring.) + + Prec. No; never from my hand +Shall that be taken! + + Vict. Why, 't is but a ring. +I'll give it back to you; or, if I keep it, +Will give you gold to buy you twenty such. + + Prec. Why would you have this ring? + + Vict. A traveller's fancy, +A whim, and nothing more. I would fain keep it +As a memento of the Gypsy camp +In Guadarrama, and the fortune-teller +Who sent me back to wed a widowed maid. +Pray, let me have the ring. + + Prec. No, never! never! +I will not part with it, even when I die; +But bid my nurse fold my pale fingers thus, +That it may not fall from them. 'T is a token +Of a beloved friend, who is no more. + + Vict. How? dead? + + Prec. Yes; dead to me; and worse than dead. +He is estranged! And yet I keep this ring. +I will rise with it from my grave hereafter, +To prove to him that I was never false. + + Vict. (aside). Be still, my swelling heart! one moment, still! +Why, 't is the folly of a love-sick girl. +Come, give it me, or I will say 't is mine, +And that you stole it. + + Prec. O, you will not dare +To utter such a falsehood! + + Vict. I not dare? +Look in my face, and say if there is aught +I have not dared, I would not dare for thee! + +(She rushes into his arms.) + + Prec. 'T is thou! 't is thou! Yes; yes; my heart's elected! +My dearest-dear Victorian! my soul's heaven! +Where hast thou been so long? Why didst thou leave me? + + Vict. Ask me not now, my dearest Preciosa. +Let me forget we ever have been parted! + + Prec. Hadst thou not come-- + + Vict. I pray thee, do not chide me! + + Prec. I should have perished here among these Gypsies. + + Vict. Forgive me, sweet! for what I made thee suffer. +Think'st thou this heart could feel a moment's joy, +Thou being absent? O, believe it not! +Indeed, since that sad hour I have not slept, +For thinking of the wrong I did to thee +Dost thou forgive me? Say, wilt thou forgive me? + + Prec. I have forgiven thee. Ere those words of anger +Were in the book of Heaven writ down against thee, +I had forgiven thee. + + Vict. I'm the veriest fool +That walks the earth, to have believed thee false. +It was the Count of Lara-- + + Prec. That bad man +Has worked me harm enough. Hast thou not heard-- + + Vict. I have heard all. And yet speak on, speak on! +Let me but hear thy voice, and I am happy; +For every tone, like some sweet incantation, +Calls up the buried past to plead for me. +Speak, my beloved, speak into my heart, +Whatever fills and agitates thine own. + +(They walk aside.) + + Hyp. All gentle quarrels in the pastoral poets, +All passionate love scenes in the best romances, +All chaste embraces on the public stage, +All soft adventures, which the liberal stars +Have winked at, as the natural course of things, +Have been surpassed here by my friend, the student, +And this sweet Gypsy lass, fair Preciosa! + + Prec. Senor Hypolito! I kiss your hand. +Pray, shall I tell your fortune? + + Hyp. Not to-night; +For, should you treat me as you did Victorian, +And send me back to marry maids forlorn, +My wedding day would last from now till Christmas. + + Chispa (within). What ho! the Gypsies, ho! Beltran Cruzado! +Halloo! halloo! halloo! halloo! + +(Enters booted, with a whip and lantern. + + Vict. What now +Why such a fearful din? Hast thou been robbed? + + Chispa. Ay, robbed and murdered; and good evening to you, +My worthy masters. + + Vict. Speak; what brings thee here? + + CHISPA (to PRECIOSA). +Good news from Court; good news! Beltran Cruzado, +The Count of the Cales, is not your father, +But your true father has returned to Spain +Laden with wealth. You are no more a Gypsy. + + Vict. Strange as a Moorish tale! + + Chispa. And we have all +Been drinking at the tavern to your health, +As wells drink in November, when it rains. + + Vict. Where is the gentlemen? + + Chispa. As the old song says, + His body is in Segovia, + His soul is in Madrid, + + Prec. Is this a dream? O, if it be a dream, +Let me sleep on, and do not wake me yet! +Repeat thy story! Say I'm not deceived! +Say that I do not dream! I am awake; +This is the Gypsy camp; this is Victorian, +And this his friend, Hypolito! Speak! speak! +Let me not wake and find it all a dream! + + Vict. It is a dream, sweet child! a waking dream, +A blissful certainty, a vision bright +Of that rare happiness, which even on earth +Heaven gives to those it loves. Now art thou rich, +As thou wast ever beautiful and good; +And I am now the beggar. + + Prec. (giving him her hand). I have still +A hand to give. + + Chispa (aside). And I have two to take. +I've heard my grandmother say, that Heaven gives almonds +To those who have no teeth. That's nuts to crack, +I've teeth to spare, but where shall I find almonds? + + Vict. What more of this strange story? + + Chispa. Nothing more. +Your friend, Don Carlos, is now at the village +Showing to Pedro Crespo, the Alcalde, +The proofs of what I tell you. The old hag, +Who stole you in your childhood, has confessed; +And probably they'll hang her for the crime, +To make the celebration more complete. + + Vict. No; let it be a day of general joy; +Fortune comes well to all, that comes not late. +Now let us join Don Carlos. + + Hyp. So farewell, +The student's wandering life! Sweet serenades, +Sung under ladies' windows in the night, +And all that makes vacation beautiful! +To you, ye cloistered shades of Alcala, +To you, ye radiant visions of romance, +Written in books, but here surpassed by truth, +The Bachelor Hypolito returns, +And leaves the Gypsy with the Spanish Student. + + + +SCENE VI. -- A pass in the Guadarrama mountains. Early morning. +A muleteer crosses the stage, sitting sideways on his mule and +lighting a paper cigar with flint and steel. + +SONG. + +If thou art sleeping, maiden, + Awake and open thy door, +'T is the break of day, and we must away, + O'er meadow, and mount, and moor. + +Wait not to find thy slippers, + But come with thy naked feet; +We shall have to pass through the dewy grass, + And waters wide and fleet. + +(Disappears down the pass. Enter a Monk. A shepherd appears on +the rocks above.) + + Monk. Ave Maria, gratia plena. Ola! good man! + + Shep. Ola! + + Monk. Is this the road to Segovia? + + Shep. It is, your reverence. + + Monk. How far is it? + + Shep. I do not know. + + Monk. What is that yonder in the valley? + + Shep. San Ildefonso. + + Monk. A long way to breakfast. + + Shep. Ay, marry. + + Monk. Are there robbers in these mountains? + + Shep. Yes, and worse than that. + + Monk. What? + + Shep. Wolves. + + Monk. Santa Maria! Come with me to San Ildefonso, and thou +shalt be well rewarded. + + Shep. What wilt thou give me? + + Monk. An Agnus Dei and my benediction. + +(They disappear. A mounted Contrabandista passes, wrapped in his +cloak, and a gun at his saddle-bow. He goes down the pass +singing.) + +SONG. + +Worn with speed is my good steed, +And I march me hurried, worried; +Onward, caballito mio, +With the white star in thy forehead! +Onward, for here comes the Ronda, +And I hear their rifles crack! +Ay, jaleo! Ay, ay, jaleo! +Ay, jaleo! They cross our track. + +(Song dies away. Enter PRECIOSA, on horseback, attended by +VICTORIAN, HYPOLITO, DON CARLOS, and CHISPA, on foot, and armed.) + + Vict. This is the highest point. Here let us rest. +See, Preciosa, see how all about us +Kneeling, like hooded friars, the misty mountains +Receive the benediction of the sun! +O glorious sight! + + Prec. Most beautiful indeed! + + Hyp. Most wonderful! + + Vict. And in the vale below, +Where yonder steeples flash like lifted halberds, +San Ildefonso, from its noisy belfries, +Sends up a salutation to the morn, +As if an army smote their brazen shields, +And shouted victory! + + Prec. And which way lies Segovia? + + Vict. At a great distance yonder. +Dost thou not see it? + + Prec. No. I do not see it. + + Vict. The merest flaw that dents the horizon's edge. +There, yonder! + + Hyp. 'T is a notable old town, +Boasting an ancient Roman aqueduct, +And an Alcazar, builded by the Moors, +Wherein, you may remember, poor Gil Blas +Was fed on Pan del Rey. O, many a time +Out of its grated windows have I looked +Hundreds of feet plumb down to the Eresma, +That, like a serpent through the valley creeping, +Glides at its foot. + + Prec. O yes! I see it now, +Yet rather with my heart than with mine eyes, +So faint it is. And all my thoughts sail thither, +Freighted with prayers and hopes, and forward urged +Against all stress of accident, as in +The Eastern Tale, against the wind and tide +Great ships were drawn to the Magnetic Mountains, +And there were wrecked, and perished in the sea! +(She weeps.) + + Vict. O gentle spirit! Thou didst bear unmoved +Blasts of adversity and frosts of fate! +But the first ray of sunshine that falls on thee +Melts thee to tears! O, let thy weary heart +Lean upon mine! and it shall faint no more, +Nor thirst, nor hunger; but be comforted +And filled with my affection. + + Prec. Stay no longer! +My father waits. Methinks I see him there, +Now looking from the window, and now watching +Each sound of wheels or footfall in the street, +And saying, "Hark! she comes!" O father! father! + +(They descend the pass. CHISPA remains behind.) + + Chispa. I have a father, too, but he is a dead one. Alas and +alack-a-day. Poor was I born, and poor do I remain. I neither +win nor lose. Thus I was, through the world, half the time on +foot, and the other half walking; and always as merry as a +thunder-storm in the night. And so we plough along, as the fly +said to the ox. Who knows what may happen? Patience, and +shuffle the cards! I am not yet so bald that you can see my +brains; and perhaps, after all, I shall some day go to Rome, and +come back Saint Peter. Benedicite! +[Exit. + +(A pause. Then enter BARTOLOME wildly, as if in pursuit, with a +carbine in his hand.) + + Bart. They passed this way! I hear their horses' hoofs! +Yonder I see them! Come, sweet caramillo, +This serenade shall be the Gypsy's last! + +(Fires down the pass.) + +Ha! ha! Well whistled, my sweet caramillo! +Well whistled!--I have missed her!--O my God! + +(The shot is returned. BARTOLOME falls). + + + + +THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS + + +CARILLON + +In the ancient town of Bruges, +In the quaint old Flemish city, +As the evening shades descended, +Low and loud and sweetly blended, +Low at times and loud at times, +And changing like a poet's rhymes, +Rang the beautiful wild chimes +From the Belfry in the market +Of the ancient town of Bruges. + +Then, with deep sonorous clangor +Calmly answering their sweet anger, +When the wrangling bells had ended, +Slowly struck the clock eleven, +And, from out the silent heaven, +Silence on the town descended. +Silence, silence everywhere, +On the earth and in the air, +Save that footsteps here and there +Of some burgher home returning, +By the street lamps faintly burning, +For a moment woke the echoes +Of the ancient town of Bruges. + +But amid my broken slumbers +Still I heard those magic numbers, +As they loud proclaimed the flight +And stolen marches of the night; +Till their chimes in sweet collision +Mingled with each wandering vision, +Mingled with the fortune-telling +Gypsy-bands of dreams and fancies, +Which amid the waste expanses +Of the silent land of trances +Have their solitary dwelling; +All else seemed asleep in Bruges, +In the quaint old Flemish city. + +And I thought how like these chimes +Are the poet's airy rhymes, +All his rhymes and roundelays, +His conceits, and songs, and ditties, +From the belfry of his brain, +Scattered downward, though in vain, +On the roofs and stones of cities! +For by night the drowsy ear +Under its curtains cannot hear, +And by day men go their ways, +Hearing the music as they pass, +But deeming it no more, alas! +Than the hollow sound of brass. + +Yet perchance a sleepless wight, +Lodging at some humble inn +In the narrow lanes of life, +When the dusk and hush of night +Shut out the incessant din +Of daylight and its toil and strife, +May listen with a calm delight +To the poet's melodies, +Till he hears, or dreams he hears, +Intermingled with the song, +Thoughts that he has cherished long; +Hears amid the chime and singing +The bells of his own village ringing, +And wakes, and finds his slumberous eyes +Wet with most delicious tears. + +Thus dreamed I, as by night I lay +In Bruges, at the Fleur-de-Ble, +Listening with a wild delight +To the chimes that, through the night +Bang their changes from the Belfry +Of that quaint old Flemish city. + + + +THE BELFRY OF BRUGES + +In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown; +Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o'er the +town. + +As the summer morn was breaking, on that lofty tower I stood, +And the world threw off the darkness, like the weeds of widowhood. + +Thick with towns and hamlets studded, and with streams and vapors gray, +Like a shield embossed with silver, round and vast the landscape lay. + +At my feet the city slumbered. From its chimneys, here and there, +Wreaths of snow-white smoke, ascending, vanished, ghost-like, into air. + +Not a sound rose from the city at that early morning hour, +But I heard a heart of iron beating in the ancient tower. + +From their nests beneath the rafters sang the swallows wild and high; +And the world, beneath me sleeping, seemed more distant than the sky. + +Then most musical and solemn, bringing back the olden times, +With their strange, unearthly changes rang the melancholy chimes, + +Like the psalms from some old cloister, when the nuns sing in the choir; +And the great bell tolled among them, like the chanting of a friar. + +Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms filled my brain; +They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again; + +All the Foresters of Flanders,--mighty Baldwin Bras de Fer, +Lyderick du Bucq and Cressy Philip, Guy de Dampierre. + +I beheld the pageants splendid that adorned those days of old; +Stately dames, like queens attended, knights who bore the Fleece of Gold + +Lombard and Venetian merchants with deep-laden argosies; +Ministers from twenty nations; more than royal pomp and ease. + +I beheld proud Maximilian, kneeling humbly on the ground; +I beheld the gentle Mary, hunting with her hawk and hound; + +And her lighted bridal-chamber, where a duke slept with the queen, +And the armed guard around them, and the sword unsheathed between. + +I beheld the Flemish weavers, with Namur and Juliers bold, +Marching homeward from the bloody battle of the Spurs of Gold; + +Saw the light at Minnewater, saw the White Hoods moving west, +Saw great Artevelde victorious scale the Golden Dragon's nest. + +And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land with terror smote; +And again the wild alarum sounded from the tocsin's throat; + +Till the bell of Ghent responded o'er lagoon and dike of sand, +"I am Roland! I am Roland! there is victory in the land!" + +Then the sound of drums aroused me. The awakened city's roar +Chased the phantoms I had summoned back into their graves once more. + +Hours had passed away like minutes; and, before I was aware, +Lo! the shadow of the belfry crossed the sun-illumined square. + + + +A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE + +This is the place. Stand still, my steed, + Let me review the scene, +And summon from the shadowy Past + The forms that once have been. + +The Past and Present here unite + Beneath Time's flowing tide, +Like footprints hidden by a brook, + But seen on either side. + +Here runs the highway to the town; + There the green lane descends, +Through which I walked to church with thee, + O gentlest of my friends! + +The shadow of the linden-trees + Lay moving on the grass; +Between them and the moving boughs, + A shadow, thou didst pass. + +Thy dress was like the lilies, + And thy heart as pure as they: +One of God's holy messengers + Did walk with me that day. + +I saw the branches of the trees + Bend down thy touch to meet, +The clover-blossoms in the grass + Rise up to kiss thy feet, + +"Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, + Of earth and folly born!" +Solemnly sang the village choir + On that sweet Sabbath morn. + +Through the closed blinds the golden sun + Poured in a dusty beam, +Like the celestial ladder seen + By Jacob in his dream. + +And ever and anon, the wind, + Sweet-scented with the hay, +Turned o'er the hymn-book's fluttering leaves + That on the window lay. + +Long was the good man's sermon, + Yet it seemed not so to me; +For he spake of Ruth the beautiful, + And still I thought of thee. + +Long was the prayer he uttered, + Yet it seemed not so to me; +For in my heart I prayed with him, + And still I thought of thee. + +But now, alas! the place seems changed; + Thou art no longer here: +Part of the sunshine of the scene + With thee did disappear. + +Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my heart, + Like pine-trees dark and high, +Subdue the light of noon, and breathe + A low and ceaseless sigh; + +This memory brightens o'er the past, + As when the sun, concealed +Behind some cloud that near us hangs + Shines on a distant field. + + + +THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD + +This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, + Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms; +But front their silent pipes no anthem pealing + Startles the villages with strange alarms. + +Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, + When the death-angel touches those swift keys +What loud lament and dismal Miserere + Will mingle with their awful symphonies + +I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, + The cries of agony, the endless groan, +Which, through the ages that have gone before us, + In long reverberations reach our own. + +On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, + Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song, +And loud, amid the universal clamor, +O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. + +I hear the Florentine, who from his palace + Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din, +And Aztec priests upon their teocallis + Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin; + +The tumult of each sacked and burning village; + The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns; +The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage; + The wail of famine in beleaguered towns; + +The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, + The rattling musketry, the clashing blade; +And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, + The diapason of the cannonade. + +Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, + With such accursed instruments as these, +Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices, + And jarrest the celestial harmonies? + +Were half the power, that fills the world with terror, + Were half the wealth, bestowed on camps and courts, +Given to redeem the human mind from error, + There were no need of arsenals or forts: + +The warrior's name would be a name abhorred! + And every nation, that should lift again +Its hand against a brother, on its forehead + Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain! + +Down the dark future, through long generations, + The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease; +And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, + I hear once more the voice of Christ say, "Peace!" + +Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals + The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies! +But beautiful as songs of the immortals, + The holy melodies of love arise. + + + +NUREMBERG + +In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands +Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient, stands. + +Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song, +Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them throng: + +Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rough and bold, +Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centuries old; + +And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth rhyme, +That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every clime. + +In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron hand, +Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cunigunde's hand; + +On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days +Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximilian's praise. + +Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of Art: +Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the common mart; + +And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone, +By a former age commissioned as apostles to our own. + +In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust, +And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age their trust; + +In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture rare, +Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted air. + +Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, reverent heart, +Lived and labored Albrecht Durer, the Evangelist of Art; + +Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand, +Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better Land. + +Emigravit is the inscription on the tombstone where he lies; +Dead he is not, but departed,--for the artist never dies. + +Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more fair, +That he once has trod its pavement, that he once has breathed its air! + +Through these streets so broad and stately, these obscure and dismal lanes, +Walked of yore the Mastersingers, chanting rude poetic strains. + +From remote and sunless suburbs came they to the friendly guild, +Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in spouts the swallows build. + +As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic rhyme, +And the smith his iron measures hammered to the anvil's chime; + +Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers of poesy bloom +In the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom. + +Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the gentle craft, +Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios sang and laughed. + +But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely sanded floor, +And a garland in the window, and his face above the door; + +Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Puschman's song, +As the old man gray and dove-like, with his great beard white and long. + +And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cark and care, +Quaffing ale from pewter tankard; in the master's antique chair. + +Vanished is the ancient splendor, and before my dreamy eye +Wave these mingled shapes and figures, like a faded tapestry. + +Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the world's regard; +But thy painter, Albrecht Durer, and Hans Sachs thy cobbler-bard. + +Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far away, +As he paced thy streets and court-yards, sang in thought his careless lay: + +Gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a floweret of the soil, +The nobility of labor,--the long pedigree of toil. + + + +THE NORMAN BARON + Dans les moments de la vie ou la reflexion devient plus calme +et plus profonde, ou l'interet et l'avarice parlent moins haut +que la raison, dans les instants de chagrin domestique, de +maladie, et de peril de mort, les nobles se repentirent de +posseder des serfs, comme d'une chose peu agreable a Dieu, qui +avait cree tous les hommes a son image.--THIERRY, Conquete de +l'Angleterre. + +In his chamber, weak and dying, +Was the Norman baron lying; +Loud, without, the tempest thundered + And the castle-turret shook, + +In this fight was Death the gainer, +Spite of vassal and retainer, +And the lands his sires had plundered, + Written in the Doomsday Book. + +By his bed a monk was seated, +Who in humble voice repeated +Many a prayer and pater-noster, + From the missal on his knee; + +And, amid the tempest pealing, +Sounds of bells came faintly stealing, +Bells, that from the neighboring kloster + Rang for the Nativity. + +In the hall, the serf and vassal +Held, that night their Christmas wassail; +Many a carol, old and saintly, + Sang the minstrels and the waits; + +And so loud these Saxon gleemen +Sang to slaves the songs of freemen, +That the storm was heard but faintly, + Knocking at the castle-gates. + +Till at length the lays they chanted +Reached the chamber terror-haunted, +Where the monk, with accents holy, + Whispered at the baron's ear. + +Tears upon his eyelids glistened, +As he paused awhile and listened, +And the dying baron slowly + Turned his weary head to hear. + +"Wassail for the kingly stranger +Born and cradled in a manger! +King, like David, priest, like Aaron, + Christ is born to set us free!" + +And the lightning showed the sainted +Figures on the casement painted, +And exclaimed the shuddering baron, + "Miserere, Domine!" + +In that hour of deep contrition +He beheld, with clearer vision, +Through all outward show and fashion, + Justice, the Avenger, rise. + +All the pomp of earth had vanished, +Falsehood and deceit were banished, +Reason spake more loud than passion, + And the truth wore no disguise. + +Every vassal of his banner, +Every serf born to his manor, +All those wronged and wretched creatures, + By his hand were freed again. + +And, as on the sacred missal +He recorded their dismissal, +Death relaxed his iron features, + And the monk replied, "Amen!" + +Many centuries have been numbered +Since in death the baron slumbered +By the convent's sculptured portal, + Mingling with the common dust: + +But the good deed, through the ages +Living in historic pages, +Brighter grows and gleams immortal, + Unconsumed by moth or rust + + + +RAIN IN SUMMER + +How beautiful is the rain! +After the dust and heat, +In the broad and fiery street, +In the narrow lane, +How beautiful is the rain! + +How it clatters along the roofs, +Like the tramp of hoofs +How it gushes and struggles out +From the throat of the overflowing spout! + +Across the window-pane +It pours and pours; +And swift and wide, +With a muddy tide, +Like a river down the gutter roars +The rain, the welcome rain! + +The sick man from his chamber looks +At the twisted brooks; +He can feel the cool +Breath of each little pool; +His fevered brain +Grows calm again, +And he breathes a blessing on the rain. + +From the neighboring school +Come the boys, +With more than their wonted noise +And commotion; +And down the wet streets +Sail their mimic fleets, +Till the treacherous pool +Ingulfs them in its whirling +And turbulent ocean. + +In the country, on every side, +Where far and wide, +Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide, +Stretches the plain, +To the dry grass and the drier grain +How welcome is the rain! + +In the furrowed land +The toilsome and patient oxen stand; +Lifting the yoke encumbered head, +With their dilated nostrils spread, +They silently inhale +The clover-scented gale, +And the vapors that arise +From the well-watered and smoking soil. +For this rest in the furrow after toil +Their large and lustrous eyes +Seem to thank the Lord, +More than man's spoken word. + +Near at hand, +From under the sheltering trees, +The farmer sees +His pastures, and his fields of grain, +As they bend their tops +To the numberless beating drops +Of the incessant rain. +He counts it as no sin +That he sees therein +Only his own thrift and gain. + +These, and far more than these, +The Poet sees! +He can behold +Aquarius old +Walking the fenceless fields of air; +And from each ample fold +Of the clouds about him rolled +Scattering everywhere +The showery rain, +As the farmer scatters his grain. + +He can behold +Things manifold +That have not yet been wholly told,-- +Have not been wholly sung nor said. +For his thought, that never stops, +Follows the water-drops +Down to the graves of the dead, +Down through chasms and gulfs profound, +To the dreary fountain-head +Of lakes and rivers under ground; +And sees them, when the rain is done, +On the bridge of colors seven +Climbing up once more to heaven, +Opposite the setting sun. + +Thus the Seer, +With vision clear, +Sees forms appear and disappear, +In the perpetual round of strange, +Mysterious change +From birth to death, from death to birth, +From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth; +Till glimpses more sublime +Of things, unseen before, +Unto his wondering eyes reveal +The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel +Turning forevermore +In the rapid and rushing river of Time. + + + +TO A CHILD + +Dear child! how radiant on thy mother's knee, +With merry-making eyes and jocund smiles, +Thou gazest at the painted tiles, +Whose figures grace, +With many a grotesque form and face. +The ancient chimney of thy nursery! +The lady with the gay macaw, +The dancing girl, the grave bashaw +With bearded lip and chin; +And, leaning idly o'er his gate, +Beneath the imperial fan of state, +The Chinese mandarin. + +With what a look of proud command +Thou shakest in thy little hand +The coral rattle with its silver bells, +Making a merry tune! +Thousands of years in Indian seas +That coral grew, by slow degrees, +Until some deadly and wild monsoon +Dashed it on Coromandel's sand! +Those silver bells +Reposed of yore, +As shapeless ore, +Far down in the deep-sunken wells +Of darksome mines, +In some obscure and sunless place, +Beneath huge Chimborazo's base, +Or Potosi's o'erhanging pines +And thus for thee, O little child, +Through many a danger and escape, +The tall ships passed the stormy cape; +For thee in foreign lands remote, +Beneath a burning, tropic clime, +The Indian peasant, chasing the wild goat, +Himself as swift and wild, +In falling, clutched the frail arbute, +The fibres of whose shallow root, +Uplifted from the soil, betrayed +The silver veins beneath it laid, +The buried treasures of the miser, Time. + +But, lo! thy door is left ajar! +Thou hearest footsteps from afar! +And, at the sound, +Thou turnest round +With quick and questioning eyes, +Like one, who, in a foreign land, +Beholds on every hand +Some source of wonder and surprise! +And, restlessly, impatiently, +Thou strivest, strugglest, to be free, +The four walls of thy nursery +Are now like prison walls to thee. +No more thy mother's smiles, +No more the painted tiles, +Delight thee, nor the playthings on the floor, +That won thy little, beating heart before; +Thou strugglest for the open door. + +Through these once solitary halls +Thy pattering footstep falls. +The sound of thy merry voice +Makes the old walls +Jubilant, and they rejoice +With the joy of thy young heart, +O'er the light of whose gladness +No shadows of sadness +From the sombre background of memory start. + +Once, ah, once, within these walls, +One whom memory oft recalls, +The Father of his Country, dwelt. +And yonder meadows broad and damp +The fires of the besieging camp +Encircled with a burning belt. +Up and down these echoing stairs, +Heavy with the weight of cares, +Sounded his majestic tread; +Yes, within this very room +Sat he in those hours of gloom, +Weary both in heart and head. + +But what are these grave thoughts to thee? +Out, out! into the open air! +Thy only dream is liberty, +Thou carest little how or where. +I see thee eager at thy play, +Now shouting to the apples on the tree, +With cheeks as round and red as they; +And now among the yellow stalks, +Among the flowering shrubs and plants, +As restless as the bee. +Along the garden walks, +The tracks of thy small carriage-wheels I trace; +And see at every turn how they efface +Whole villages of sand-roofed tents, +That rise like golden domes +Above the cavernous and secret homes +Of wandering and nomadic tribes of ants. +Ah, cruel little Tamerlane, +Who, with thy dreadful reign, +Dost persecute and overwhelm +These hapless Troglodytes of thy realm! +What! tired already! with those suppliant looks, +And voice more beautiful than a poet's books, +Or murmuring sound of water as it flows. +Thou comest back to parley with repose; +This rustic seat in the old apple-tree, +With its o'erhanging golden canopy +Of leaves illuminate with autumnal hues, +And shining with the argent light of dews, +Shall for a season be our place of rest. +Beneath us, like an oriole's pendent nest, +From which the laughing birds have taken wing, +By thee abandoned, hangs thy vacant swing. +Dream-like the waters of the river gleam; +A sailless vessel drops adown the stream, +And like it, to a sea as wide and deep, +Thou driftest gently down the tides of sleep. + +O child! O new-born denizen +Of life's great city! on thy head +The glory of the morn is shed, +Like a celestial benison! +Here at the portal thou dost stand, +And with thy little hand +Thou openest the mysterious gate +Into the future's undiscovered land. +I see its valves expand, +As at the touch of Fate! +Into those realms of love and hate, +Into that darkness blank and drear, +By some prophetic feeling taught, +I launch the bold, adventurous thought, +Freighted with hope and fear; +As upon subterranean streams, +In caverns unexplored and dark, +Men sometimes launch a fragile bark, +Laden with flickering fire, +And watch its swift-receding beams, +Until at length they disappear, +And in the distant dark expire. + +By what astrology of fear or hope +Dare I to cast thy horoscope! +Like the new moon thy life appears; +A little strip of silver light, +And widening outward into night +The shadowy disk of future years; +And yet upon its outer rim, +A luminous circle, faint and dim, +And scarcely visible to us here, +Rounds and completes the perfect sphere; +A prophecy and intimation, +A pale and feeble adumbration, +Of the great world of light, that lies +Behind all human destinies. + +Ah! if thy fate, with anguish fraught, +Should be to wet the dusty soil +With the hot tears and sweat of toil,-- +To struggle with imperious thought, +Until the overburdened brain, +Weary with labor, faint with pain, +Like a jarred pendulum, retain +Only its motion, not its power,-- +Remember, in that perilous hour, +When most afflicted and oppressed, +From labor there shall come forth rest. + +And if a more auspicious fate +On thy advancing steps await +Still let it ever be thy pride +To linger by the laborer's side; +With words of sympathy or song +To cheer the dreary march along +Of the great army of the poor, +O'er desert sand, o'er dangerous moor. +Nor to thyself the task shall be +Without reward; for thou shalt learn +The wisdom early to discern +True beauty in utility; +As great Pythagoras of yore, +Standing beside the blacksmith's door, +And hearing the hammers, as they smote +The anvils with a different note, +Stole from the varying tones, that hung +Vibrant on every iron tongue, +The secret of the sounding wire. +And formed the seven-chorded lyre. + +Enough! I will not play the Seer; +I will no longer strive to ope +The mystic volume, where appear +The herald Hope, forerunning Fear, +And Fear, the pursuivant of Hope. +Thy destiny remains untold; +For, like Acestes' shaft of old, +The swift thought kindles as it flies, +And burns to ashes in the skies. + + + +THE OCCULTATION OF ORION + +I saw, as in a dream sublime, +The balance in the hand of Time. +O'er East and West its beam impended; +And day, with all its hours of light, +Was slowly sinking out of sight, +While, opposite, the scale of night +Silently with the stars ascended. + +Like the astrologers of eld, +In that bright vision I beheld +Greater and deeper mysteries. +I saw, with its celestial keys, +Its chords of air, its frets of fire, +The Samian's great Aeolian lyre, +Rising through all its sevenfold bars, +From earth unto the fixed stars. +And through the dewy atmosphere, +Not only could I see, but hear, +Its wondrous and harmonious strings, +In sweet vibration, sphere by sphere, +From Dian's circle light and near, +Onward to vaster and wider rings. +Where, chanting through his beard of snows, +Majestic, mournful, Saturn goes, +And down the sunless realms of space +Reverberates the thunder of his bass. + +Beneath the sky's triumphal arch +This music sounded like a march, +And with its chorus seemed to be +Preluding some great tragedy. +Sirius was rising in the east; +And, slow ascending one by one, +The kindling constellations shone. +Begirt with many a blazing star, +Stood the great giant Algebar, +Orion, hunter of the beast! +His sword hung gleaming by his side, +And, on his arm, the lion's hide +Scattered across the midnight air +The golden radiance of its hair. + +The moon was pallid, but not faint; +And beautiful as some fair saint, +Serenely moving on her way +In hours of trial and dismay. +As if she heard the voice of God, +Unharmed with naked feet she trod +Upon the hot and burning stars, +As on the glowing coals and bars, +That were to prove her strength, and try +Her holiness and her purity. + +Thus moving on, with silent pace, +And triumph in her sweet, pale face, +She reached the station of Orion. +Aghast he stood in strange alarm! +And suddenly from his outstretched arm +Down fell the red skin of the lion +Into the river at his feet. +His mighty club no longer beat +The forehead of the bull; but he +Reeled as of yore beside the sea, +When, blinded by Oenopion, +He sought the blacksmith at his forge, +And, climbing up the mountain gorge, +Fixed his blank eyes upon the sun. + +Then, through the silence overhead, +An angel with a trumpet said, +"Forevermore, forevermore, +The reign of violence is o'er!" +And, like an instrument that flings +Its music on another's strings, +The trumpet of the angel cast +Upon the heavenly lyre its blast, +And on from sphere to sphere the words +Re-echoed down the burning chords,-- +"Forevermore, forevermore, +The reign of violence is o'er!" + + + +THE BRIDGE + +I stood on the bridge at midnight, + As the clocks were striking the hour, +And the moon rose o'er the city, + Behind the dark church-tower. + +I saw her bright reflection + In the waters under me, +Like a golden goblet falling + And sinking into the sea. + +And far in the hazy distance + Of that lovely night in June, +The blaze of the flaming furnace + Gleamed redder than the moon. + +Among the long, black rafters + The wavering shadows lay, +And the current that came from the ocean + Seemed to lift and bear them away; + +As, sweeping and eddying through them, +Rose the belated tide, +And, streaming into the moonlight, + The seaweed floated wide. + +And like those waters rushing + Among the wooden piers, +A flood of thoughts came o'er me + That filled my eyes with tears. + +How often, oh, how often, + In the days that had gone by, +I had stood on that bridge at midnight + And gazed on that wave and sky! + +How often, oh, how often, + I had wished that the ebbing tide +Would bear me away on its bosom + O'er the ocean wild and wide! + +For my heart was hot and restless, + And my life was full of care, +And the burden laid upon me + Seemed greater than I could bear. + +But now it has fallen from me, + It is buried in the sea; +And only the sorrow of others + Throws its shadow over me. + +Yet whenever I cross the river + On its bridge with wooden piers, +Like the odor of brine from the ocean + Comes the thought of other years. + +And I think how many thousands + Of care-encumbered men, +Each bearing his burden of sorrow, + Have crossed the bridge since then. + +I see the long procession + Still passing to and fro, +The young heart hot and restless, + And the old subdued and slow! + +And forever and forever, + As long as the river flows, +As long as the heart has passions, + As long as life has woes; + +The moon and its broken reflection + And its shadows shall appear, +As the symbol of love in heaven, + And its wavering image here. + + + +TO THE DRIVING CLOUD + +Gloomy and dark art thou, O chief of the mighty Omahas; +Gloomy and dark as the driving cloud, whose name thou hast taken! +Wrapt in thy scarlet blanket, I see thee stalk through the city's +Narrow and populous streets, as once by the margin of rivers +Stalked those birds unknown, that have left us only their footprints. +What, in a few short years, will remain of thy race but the footprints? + +How canst thou walk these streets, who hast trod the green turf of the prairies! +How canst thou breathe this air, who hast breathed the sweet air of the mountains! +Ah! 't is in vain that with lordly looks of disdain thou dost challenge +Looks of disdain in return, and question these walls and these pavements, +Claiming the soil for thy hunting-grounds, while down-trodden millions +Starve in the garrets of Europe, and cry from its caverns that they, too, +Have been created heirs of the earth, and claim its division! + +Back, then, back to thy woods in the regions west of the Wabash! +There as a monarch thou reignest. In autumn the leaves of the maple +Pave the floors of thy palace-halls with gold, and in summer +Pine-trees waft through its chambers the odorous breath of their branches. +There thou art strong and great, a hero, a tamer of horses! +There thou chasest the stately stag on the banks of the Elkhorn, +Or by the roar of the Running-Water, or where the Omaha +Calls thee, and leaps through the wild ravine like a brave of the +Blackfeet! + +Hark! what murmurs arise from the heart of those mountainous deserts? +Is it the cry of the Foxes and Crows, or the mighty Behemoth, +Who, unharmed, on his tusks once caught the bolts of the thunder, +And now lurks in his lair to destroy the race of the red man? +Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the Crows and the Foxes, +Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the tread of Behemoth, +Lo! the big thunder-canoe, that steadily breasts the Missouri's +Merciless current! and yonder, afar on the prairies, the camp-fires +Gleam through the night; and the cloud of dust in the gray of the daybreak +Marks not the buffalo's track, nor the Mandan's dexterous horse-race; +It is a caravan, whitening the desert where dwell the Camanches! +Ha! how the breath of these Saxons and Celts, like the blast of the east-wind, +Drifts evermore to the west the scanty smokes of thy wigwams! + + + +SONGS + +THE DAY IS DONE + +The day is done, and the darkness + Falls from the wings of Night, +As a feather is wafted downward + From an eagle in his flight. + +I see the lights of the village + Gleam through the rain and the mist, +And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me + That my soul cannot resist: + +A feeling of sadness and longing, + That is not akin to pain, +And resembles sorrow only + As the mist resembles the rain. + +Come, read to me some poem, + Some simple and heartfelt lay, +That shall soothe this restless feeling, + And banish the thoughts of day. + +Not from the grand old masters, + Not from the bards sublime, +Whose distant footsteps echo + Through the corridors of Time. + +For, like strains of martial music, + Their mighty thoughts suggest +Life's endless toil and endeavor; + And to-night I long for rest. + +Read from some humbler poet, + Whose songs gushed from his heart, +As showers from the clouds of summer, + Or tears from the eyelids start; + +Who, through long days of labor, + And nights devoid of ease, +Still heard in his soul the music + Of wonderful melodies. + +Such songs have power to quiet + The restless pulse of care, +And come like the benediction + That follows after prayer. + +Then read from the treasured volume + The poem of thy choice, +And lend to the rhyme of the poet + The beauty of thy voice. + +And the night shall be filled with music + And the cares, that infest the day, +Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, + And as silently steal away. + + + +AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY + +The day is ending, +The night is descending; +The marsh is frozen, +The river dead. + +Through clouds like ashes +The red sun flashes +On village windows +That glimmer red. + +The snow recommences; +The buried fences +Mark no longer +The road o'er the plain; + +While through the meadows, +Like fearful shadows, +Slowly passes +A funeral train. + +The bell is pealing, +And every feeling +Within me responds +To the dismal knell; + +Shadows are trailing, +My heart is bewailing +And tolling within +Like a funeral bell. + + + +TO AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK + +Welcome, my old friend, +Welcome to a foreign fireside, +While the sullen gales of autumn +Shake the windows. + +The ungrateful world +Has, it seems, dealt harshly with thee, +Since, beneath the skies of Denmark, +First I met thee. + +There are marks of age, +There are thumb-marks on thy margin, +Made by hands that clasped thee rudely, +At the alehouse. + +Soiled and dull thou art; +Yellow are thy time-worn pages, +As the russet, rain-molested +Leaves of autumn. + +Thou art stained with wine +Scattered from hilarious goblets, +As the leaves with the libations +Of Olympus. + +Yet dost thou recall +Days departed, half-forgotten, +When in dreamy youth I wandered +By the Baltic,-- + +When I paused to hear +The old ballad of King Christian +Shouted from suburban taverns +In the twilight. + +Thou recallest bards, +Who in solitary chambers, +And with hearts by passion wasted, +Wrote thy pages. + +Thou recallest homes +Where thy songs of love and friendship +Made the gloomy Northern winter +Bright as summer. + +Once some ancient Scald, +In his bleak, ancestral Iceland, +Chanted staves of these old ballads +To the Vikings. + +Once in Elsinore, +At the court of old King Hamlet +Yorick and his boon companions +Sang these ditties. + +Once Prince Frederick's Guard +Sang them in their smoky barracks;-- +Suddenly the English cannon +Joined the chorus! + +Peasants in the field, +Sailors on the roaring ocean, +Students, tradesmen, pale mechanics, +All have sung them. + +Thou hast been their friend; +They, alas! have left thee friendless! +Yet at least by one warm fireside +Art thou welcome. + +And, as swallows build +In these wide, old-fashioned chimneys, +So thy twittering songs shall nestle +In my bosom,-- + +Quiet, close, and warm, +Sheltered from all molestation, +And recalling by their voices +Youth and travel. + + + +WALTER VON DER VOGELWEID + +Vogelweid the Minnesinger, + When he left this world of ours, +Laid his body in the cloister, + Under Wurtzburg's minster towers. + +And he gave the monks his treasures, + Gave them all with this behest: +They should feed the birds at noontide + Daily on his place of rest; + +Saying, "From these wandering minstrels + I have learned the art of song; +Let me now repay the lessons + They have taught so well and long." + +Thus the bard of love departed; + And, fulfilling his desire, +On his tomb the birds were feasted + By the children of the choir. + +Day by day, o'er tower and turret, + In foul weather and in fair, +Day by day, in vaster numbers, + Flocked the poets of the air. + +On the tree whose heavy branches + Overshadowed all the place, +On the pavement, on the tombstone, + On the poet's sculptured face, + +On the cross-bars of each window, + On the lintel of each door, +They renewed the War of Wartburg, + Which the bard had fought before. + +There they sang their merry carols, + Sang their lauds on every side; +And the name their voices uttered + Was the name of Vogelweid. + +Till at length the portly abbot + Murmured, "Why this waste of food? +Be it changed to loaves henceforward + For our tasting brotherhood." + +Then in vain o'er tower and turret, + From the walls and woodland nests, +When the minster bells rang noontide, + Gathered the unwelcome guests. + +Then in vain, with cries discordant, + Clamorous round the Gothic spire, +Screamed the feathered Minnesingers + For the children of the choir. + +Time has long effaced the inscriptions + On the cloister's funeral stones, +And tradition only tells us + Where repose the poet's bones. + +But around the vast cathedral, + By sweet echoes multiplied, +Still the birds repeat the legend, + And the name of Vogelweid. + + + +DRINKING SONG + +INSCRIPTION FOR AN ANTIQUE PITCHER + +Come, old friend! sit down and listen! + From the pitcher, placed between us, +How the waters laugh and glisten + In the head of old Silenus! + +Old Silenus, bloated, drunken, + Led by his inebriate Satyrs; +On his breast his head is sunken, + Vacantly he leers and chatters. + +Fauns with youthful Bacchus follow; + Ivy crowns that brow supernal +As the forehead of Apollo, + And possessing youth eternal. + +Round about him, fair Bacchantes, + Bearing cymbals, flutes, and thyrses, +Wild from Naxian groves, or Zante's + Vineyards, sing delirious verses. + +Thus he won, through all the nations, + Bloodless victories, and the farmer +Bore, as trophies and oblations, + Vines for banners, ploughs for armor. + +Judged by no o'erzealous rigor, + Much this mystic throng expresses: +Bacchus was the type of vigor, + And Silenus of excesses. + +These are ancient ethnic revels, + Of a faith long since forsaken; +Now the Satyrs, changed to devils, + Frighten mortals wine-o'ertaken. + +Now to rivulets from the mountains + Point the rods of fortune-tellers; +Youth perpetual dwells in fountains,-- + Not in flasks, and casks, and cellars. + +Claudius, though he sang of flagons + And huge tankards filled with Rhenish, +From that fiery blood of dragons + Never would his own replenish. + +Even Redi, though he chaunted + Bacchus in the Tuscan valleys, +Never drank the wine he vaunted + In his dithyrambic sallies. + +Then with water fill the pitcher + Wreathed about with classic fables; +Ne'er Falernian threw a richer + Light upon Lucullus' tables. + +Come, old friend, sit down and listen + As it passes thus between us, +How its wavelets laugh and glisten + In the head of old Silenus! + + + +THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS + +L'eternite est une pendule, dont le balancier dit et redit sans +cesse ces deux mots seulement dans le silence des tombeaux: +"Toujours! jamais! Jamais! toujours!"--JACQUES BRIDAINE. + +Somewhat back from the village street +Stands the old-fashioned country-seat. +Across its antique portico +Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw; +And from its station in the hall +An ancient timepiece says to all,-- + "Forever--never! + Never--forever!" + +Half-way up the stairs it stands, +And points and beckons with its hands +From its case of massive oak, +Like a monk, who, under his cloak, +Crosses himself, and sighs, alas! +With sorrowful voice to all who pass,-- + "Forever--never! + Never--forever!" + +By day its voice is low and light; +But in the silent dead of night, +Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, +It echoes along the vacant hall, +Along the ceiling, along the floor, +And seems to say, at each chamber-door,-- + "Forever--never! + Never--forever!" + +Through days of sorrow and of mirth, +Through days of death and days of birth, +Through every swift vicissitude +Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, +And as if, like God, it all things saw, +It calmly repeats those words of awe,-- + "Forever--never! + Never--forever!" + +In that mansion used to be +Free-hearted Hospitality; +His great fires up the chimney roared; +The stranger feasted at his board; +But, like the skeleton at the feast, +That warning timepiece never ceased,-- + "Forever--never! + Never--forever!" + +There groups of merry children played, +There youths and maidens dreaming strayed; +O precious hours! O golden prime, +And affluence of love and time! +Even as a Miser counts his gold, +Those hours the ancient timepiece told,-- + "Forever--never! + Never--forever!" + +From that chamber, clothed in white, +The bride came forth on her wedding night; +There, in that silent room below, +The dead lay in his shroud of snow; +And in the hush that followed the prayer, +Was heard the old clock on the stair,-- + "Forever--never! + Never--forever!" + +All are scattered now and fled, +Some are married, some are dead; +And when I ask, with throbs of pain. +"Ah! when shall they all meet again?" +As in the days long since gone by, +The ancient timepiece makes reply,-- + "Forever--never! + Never--forever!" + +Never here, forever there, +Where all parting, pain, and care, +And death, and time shall disappear,-- +Forever there, but never here! +The horologe of Eternity +Sayeth this incessantly,-- + "Forever--never! + Never--forever!" + + + +THE ARROW AND THE SONG + +I shot an arrow into the air, +It fell to earth, I knew not where; +For, so swiftly it flew, the sight +Could not follow it in its flight. + +I breathed a song into the air, +It fell to earth, I knew not where; +For who has sight so keen and strong, +That it can follow the flight of song? + +Long, long afterward, in an oak +I found the arrow, still unbroke; +And the song, from beginning to end, +I found again in the heart of a friend. + + + +SONNETS + +MEZZO CAMMIN + +Half of my life is gone, and I have let + The years slip from me and have not fulfilled + The aspiration of my youth, to build + Some tower of song with lofty parapet. +Not indolence, nor pleasure, nor the fret + Of restless passions chat would not be stilled, + But sorrow, and a care that almost killed, + Kept me from what I may accomplish yet; +Though, half way up the hill, I see the Past + Lying beneath me with its sounds and sights,-- + A city in the twilight dim and vast, +With smoking roofs, soft bells, and gleaming lights.-- + And hear above me on the autumnal blast + The cataract of Death far thundering from the heights. + + + +THE EVENING STAR + +Lo! in the painted oriel of the West, + Whose panes the sunken sun incarnadines, + Like a fair lady at her casement, shines + The evening star, the star of love and rest! +And then anon she doth herself divest + Of all her radiant garments, and reclines + Behind the sombre screen of yonder pines, + With slumber and soft dreams of love oppressed. +O my beloved, my sweet Hesperus! + My morning and my evening star of love! + My best and gentlest lady! even thus, +As that fair planet in the sky above, + Dost thou retire unto thy rest at night, + And from thy darkened window fades the light. + + + +AUTUMN + +Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain, + With banners, by great gales incessant fanned, + Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand, + And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain! +Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne, + Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal hand + Outstretched with benedictions o'er the land, + Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain! +Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspended + So long beneath the heaven's o'er-hanging eaves; + Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers attended; +Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves; + And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid, + Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden leaves! + + + +DANTE + +Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms of gloom, + With thoughtful pace, and sad, majestic eyes, + Stern thoughts and awful from thy soul arise, + Like Farinata from his fiery tomb. +Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom; + Yet in thy heart what human sympathies, + What soft compassion glows, as in the skies + The tender stars their clouded lamps relume! +Methinks I see thee stand, with pallid cheeks, + By Fra Hilario in his diocese, + As up the convent-walls, in golden streaks, +The ascending sunbeams mark the day's decrease; + And, as he asks what there the stranger seeks, + Thy voice along the cloister whispers, "Peace!" + + + +CURFEW + +I. + +Solemnly, mournfully, + Dealing its dole, +The Curfew Bell + Is beginning to toll. + +Cover the embers, + And put out the light; +Toil comes with the morning, + And rest with the night. + +Dark grow the windows, + And quenched is the fire; +Sound fades into silence,-- + All footsteps retire. + +No voice in the chambers, + No sound in the hall! +Sleep and oblivion + Reign over all! + + +II. + +The book is completed, + And closed, like the day; +And the hand that has written it + Lays it away. + +Dim grow its fancies; + Forgotten they lie; +Like coals in the ashes, + They darken and die. + +Song sinks into silence, + The story is told, +The windows are darkened, + The hearth-stone is cold. + +Darker and darker + The black shadows fall; +Sleep and oblivion + Reign over all. + + +************ + +EVANGELINE + +A TALE OF ACADIE + +This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, +Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, +Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, +Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. +Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean +Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. + + This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it +Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman +Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,-- +Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands, +Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven? +Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed! +Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October +Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean +Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pre. + + Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient, +Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion, +List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest; +List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy. + + + +PART THE FIRST + +I + +In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas, +Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pre +Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward, +Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number. +Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant, +Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the flood-gates +Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows. +West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields +Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the northward +Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains +Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic +Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended +There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village. +Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of hemlock, +Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries. +Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows; and gables projecting +Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway. +There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset +Lighted the village street and gilded the vanes on the chimneys, +Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles +Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden +Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors +Mingled their sound with the whir of the wheels and the songs of the maidens, +Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the children +Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them. +Reverend walked he among them; and up rose matrons and maidens, +Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome. +Then came the laborers home from the field, and serenely the sun sank +Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from the belfry +Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village +Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending, +Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment. +Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers,-- +Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were they free from +Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics. +Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows; +But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of their owners; +There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance. + + Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of Minas, +Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand-Pre, +Dwelt on his goodly acres: and with him, directing his household, +Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village. +Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy winters; +Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow-flakes; +White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the oak-leaves. +Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers. +Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside, +Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses! +Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows. +When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide +Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth was the maiden, +Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret +Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop +Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them, +Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal, +Wearing her Norman cap and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings, +Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heirloom, +Handed down from mother to child, through long generations. +But a celestial brightness--a more ethereal beauty-- +Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession, +Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her. +When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music. + + Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer +Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea; and a shady +Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it. +Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath; and a footpath +Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow. +Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by a penthouse, +Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the roadside, +Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary. +Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss-grown +Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses. +Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns and the farm-yard, +There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the antique ploughs and the harrows; +There were the folds for the sheep; and there, in his feathered seraglio, +Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the selfsame +Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter. +Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village. In each one +Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch; and a staircase, +Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft. +There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and innocent inmates +Murmuring ever of love; while above in the variant breezes +Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation. + + Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of Grand-Pre +Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed his household. +Many a youth, as he knelt in the church and opened his missal, +Fixed his eyes upon her as the saint of his deepest devotion; +Happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her garment! +Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness befriended, +And, as he knocked and waited to hear the sound of her footsteps, +Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of iron; +Or at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the village, +Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance as he whispered +Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the music. +But, among all who came, young Gabriel only was welcome; +Gabriel Lajeunesse, the son of Basil the blacksmith, +Who was a mighty man in the village, and honored of all men; +For, since the birth of time, throughout all ages and nations, +Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the people. +Basil was Benedict's friend. Their children from earliest childhood +Grew up together as brother and sister; and Father Felician, +Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them their letters +Out of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the church and the plain-song. +But when the hymn was sung, and the daily lesson completed, +Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil the blacksmith. +There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to behold him +Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything, +Nailing the shoe in its place; while near him the tire of the cart-wheel +Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders. +Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gathering darkness +Bursting with light seemed the smithy, through every cranny and crevice, +Warm by the forge within they watched the laboring bellows, +And as its panting ceased, and the sparks expired in the ashes, +Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the chapel. +Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of the eagle, +Down the hillside hounding, they glided away o'er the meadow. +Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests on the rafters, +Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the swallow +Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the sight of its fledglings; +Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of the swallow! +Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer were children. +He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the morning, +Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened thought into action. +She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes of a woman. +"Sunshine of Saint Eulalie" was she called; for that was the sunshine +Which, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with apples +She, too, would bring to her husband's house delight and abundance, +Filling it full of love and the ruddy faces of children. + + + +II + +Now had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer, +And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters. +Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, from the ice-bound, +Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical islands, +Harvests were gathered in; and wild with the winds of September +Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the angel. +All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement. +Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded their honey +Till the hives overflowed; and the Indian bunters asserted +Cold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the foxes. +Such was the advent of autumn. Then followed that beautiful season, +Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer of All-Saints! +Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape +Lay as if new-created in all the freshness of childhood. +Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the ocean +Was for a moment consoled. All sounds were in harmony blended. +Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm-yards, +Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons, +All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the great sun +Looked with the eye of love through the golden vapors around him; +While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and yellow, +Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering tree of the forest +Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and +jewels. + + Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness. +Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descending +Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the homestead. +Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each other, +And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of evening. +Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer, +Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her collar, +Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection. +Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the seaside, +Where was their favorite pasture. Behind them followed the watch-dog, +Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct, +Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superbly +Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers; +Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; their protector, +When from the forest at night, through the starry silence, the wolves howled. +Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes, +Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odor. +Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their fetlocks, +While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous saddles, +Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson, +Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms. +Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their udders +Unto the milkmaid's hand; whilst loud and in regular cadence +Into the sounding pails the foaming streamlets descended. +Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the farm-yard, +Echoed back by the barns. Anon they sank into stillness; +Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the barn-doors, +Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent. + + In-doors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly the farmer +Sat in his elbow-chair, and watched how the flames and the smoke-wreaths +Struggled together like foes in a burning city. Behind him, +Nodding and mocking along the wall, with gestures fantastic, +Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into darkness. +Faces, clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his arm-chair +Laughed in the flickering light, and the pewter plates on the dresser +Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sunshine. +Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of Christmas, +Such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers before him +Sang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vineyards. +Close at her father's side was the gentle Evangeline seated, +Spinning flax for the loom, that stood in the corner behind her. +Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent shuttle, +While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the drone of a bagpipe, +Followed the old man's songs and united the fragments together. +As in a church, when the chant of the choir at intervals ceases, +Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the priest at the altar, +So, in each pause of the song, with measured motion the clock clicked. + + Thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, and, suddenly lifted, +Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung back on its hinges. +Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Basil the blacksmith, +And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with him. +"Welcome!" the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused on the threshold. +"Welcome, Basil, my friend! Come, take thy place on the settle +Close by the chimney-side, which is always empty without thee; +Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of tobacco; +Never so much thyself art thou as when through the curling +Smoke of the pipe or the forge thy friendly and jovial face gleams +Round and red as the harvest moon through the mist of the marshes." +Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Basil the blacksmith, +Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fireside:-- +"Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy jest and thy ballad! +Ever in cheerfullest mood art thou, when others are filled with +Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before them. +Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe." +Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evangeline brought him, +And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he slowly continued:-- +"Four days now are passed since the English ships at their anchors +Ride in the Gaspereau's mouth, with their cannon pointed against us. +What their design may be is unknown; but all are commanded +On the morrow to meet in the church, where his Majesty's mandate +Will be proclaimed as law in the land. Alas! in the mean time +Many surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the people." +Then made answer the farmer:--"Perhaps some friendlier purpose +Brings these ships to our shores. Perhaps the harvests in England +By untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted, +And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and children." +"Not so thinketh the folk in the village," said, warmly, the blacksmith, +Shaking his head, as in doubt; then, heaving a sigh, he continued:-- +"Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau Sejour, nor Port Royal. +Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its outskirts, +Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of to-morrow. +Arms have been taken from us, and warlike weapons of all kinds; +Nothing is left but the blacksmith's sledge and the scythe of the mower." +Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer:-- +"Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and our cornfields, +Safer within these peaceful dikes, besieged by the ocean, +Than our fathers in forts, besieged by the enemy's cannon. +Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no shadow of sorrow +Fall on this house and hearth; for this is the night of the contract. +Built are the house and the barn. The merry lads of the village +Strongly have built them and well; and, breaking the glebe round about them, +Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a twelvemonth. +Rene Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers and inkhorn. +Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our children?" +As apart by the window she stood, with her hand in her lover's, +Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her father had spoken, +And, as they died on his lips, the worthy notary entered. + + + +III + +Bent like a laboring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean, +Bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the notary public; +Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the maize, hung +Over his shoulders; his forehead was high; and glasses with horn bows +Sat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom supernal. +Father of twenty children was he, and more than a hundred +Children's children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch tick. +Four long years in the times of the war had he languished a captive, +Suffering much in an old French fort as the friend of the English. +Now, though warier grown, without all guile or suspicion, +Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and childlike. +He was beloved by all, and most of all by the children; +For he told them tales of the Loup-garou in the forest, +And of the goblin that came in the night to water the horses, +And of the white Letiche, the ghost of a child who unchristened +Died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers of children; +And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in the stable, +And how the fever was cured by a spider shut up in a nutshell, +And of the marvellous powers of four-leaved clover and horseshoes, +With whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the village. +Then up rose from his seat by the fireside Basil the blacksmith, +Knocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly extending his right hand, +"Father Leblanc," he exclaimed, "thou hast heard the talk in the village, +And, perchance, canst tell us some news of these ships and their errand." +Then with modest demeanor made answer the notary public,-- +"Gossip enough have I heard, in sooth, yet am never the wiser; +And what their errand may be I know not better than others. +Yet am I not of those who imagine some evil intention +Brings them here, for we are at peace; and why then molest us?" +"God's name!" shouted the hasty and somewhat irascible blacksmith; +"Must we in all things look for the how, and the why, and the wherefore? +Daily injustice is done, and might is the right of the strongest!" +But, without heeding his warmth, continued the notary public,-- +"Man is unjust, but God is just; and finally justice +Triumphs; and well I remember a story, that often consoled me, +When as a captive I lay in the old French fort at Port Royal." +This was the old man's favorite tale, and he loved to repeat it +When his neighbors complained that any injustice was done them. +"Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer remember, +Raised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of Justice +Stood in the public square, upholding the scales in its left hand, +And in its right a sword, as an emblem that justice presided +Over the laws of the land, and the hearts and homes of the people. +Even the birds had built their nests in the scales of the balance, +Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the sunshine above them. +But in the course of time the laws of the land were corrupted; +Might took the place of right, and the weak were oppressed, and the mighty +Ruled with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a nobleman's palace +That a necklace of pearls was lost, and erelong a suspicion +Fell on an orphan girl who lived as maid in the household. +She, after form of trial condemned to die on the scaffold, +Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of Justice. +As to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit ascended, +Lo! o'er the city a tempest rose; and the bolts of the thunder +Smote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left hand +Down on the pavement below the clattering scales of the balance, +And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a magpie, +Into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls was inwoven." +Silenced, but not convinced, when the story was ended, the blacksmith +Stood like a man who fain would speak, but findeth no language; +All his thoughts were congealed into lines on his face, as the vapors +Freeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes in the winter. + + Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table, +Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with home-brewed +Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village of Grand-Pre; +While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and inkhorn, +Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of the parties, +Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep and in cattle. +Orderly all things proceeded, and duly and well were completed, +And the great seal of the law was set like a sun on the margin. +Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw on the table +Three times the old man's fee in solid pieces of silver; +And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and the bridegroom, +Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their welfare. +Wiping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed and departed, +While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside, +Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of its corner. +Soon was the game begun. In friendly contention the old men +Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manoeuver, +Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in the king-row +Meanwhile apart, in the twilight gloom of a window's embrasure, +Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding the moon rise +Over the pallid sea and the silvery mist of the meadows. +Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, +Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels. + + Thus was the evening passed. Anon the bell from the belfry +Rang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and straightway +Rose the guests and departed; and silence reigned in the household. +Many a farewell word and sweet good-night on the door-step +Lingered long in Evangeline's heart, and filled it with gladness. +Carefully then were covered the embers that glowed on the hearth-stone, +And on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of the farmer. +Soon with a soundless step the foot of Evangeline followed. +Up the staircase moved a luminous space in the darkness, +Lighted less by the lamp than the shining face of the maiden. +Silent she passed the hall, and entered the door of her chamber. +Simple that chamber was, with its curtains of white, and its clothes-press +Ample and high, on whose spacious shelves were carefully folded +Linen and woollen stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline woven. +This was the precious dower she would bring to her husband in marriage, +Better than flocks and herds, being proofs of her skill as a housewife. +Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow and radiant moonlight +Streamed through the windows, and lighted the room, till the heart of the maiden +Swelled and obeyed its power, like the tremulous tides of the ocean. +Ah! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she stood with +Naked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of her chamber! +Little she dreamed that below, among the trees of the orchard, +Waited her lover and watched for the gleam of her lamp and her shadow. +Yet were her thoughts of him, and at times a feeling of sadness +Passed o'er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds in the moonlight +Flitted across the floor and darkened the room for a moment. +And, as she gazed from the window, she saw serenely the moon pass +Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her footsteps, +As out of Abraham's tent young Ishmael wandered with Hagar! + + +IV + +Pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the village of Grand-Pre. +Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas, +Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were riding at anchor. +Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous labor +Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the morning. +Now from the country around, from the farms and neighboring hamlets, +Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants. +Many a glad good-morrow and jocund laugh from the young folk +Made the bright air brighter, as up from the numerous meadows, +Where no path could be seen but the track of wheels in the greensward, +Group after group appeared, and joined, or passed on the highway. +Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labor were silenced. +Thronged were the streets with people; and noisy groups at the house-doors +Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together. +Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and feasted; +For with this simple people, who lived like brothers together, +All things were held in common, and what one had was another's. +Yet under Benedict's roof hospitality seemed more abundant: +For Evangeline stood among the guests of her father; +Bright was her face with smiles, and words of welcome and gladness +Fell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup as she gave it. + + Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard, +Stript of its golden fruit, was spread the feast of betrothal. +There in the shade of the porch were the priest and the notary seated; +There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the blacksmith. +Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and the beehives, +Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of hearts and of waistcoats. +Shadow and light from the leaves alternately played on his snow-white +Hair, as it waved in the wind; and the jolly face of the fiddler +Glowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown from the embers. +Gayly the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his fiddle, +Tous les Bourgeois de Chartres, and Le Carillon de Dunkerque, +And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the music. +Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances +Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows; +Old folk and young together, and children mingled among them. +Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict's daughter! +Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the blacksmith! + + So passed the morning away. And lo! with a summons sonorous +Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat. +Thronged erelong was the church with men. Without, in the churchyard, +Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on the headstones +Garlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest. +Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly among them +Entered the sacred portal. With loud and dissonant clangor +Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling and casement,-- +Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portal +Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the soldiers. +Then uprose their commander, and spoke from the steps of the altar, +Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal commission. +"You are convened this day," he said, "by his Majesty's orders. +Clement and kind has he been; but how you have answered his kindness, +Let your own hearts reply! To my natural make and my temper +Painful the task is I do, which to you I know must be grievous. +Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our monarch; +Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all kinds +Forfeited be to the crown; and that you yourselves from this province +Be transported to other lands. God grant you may dwell there +Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people! +Prisoners now I declare you; for such is his Majesty's pleasure!" +As, when the air is serene in the sultry solstice of summer, +Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hailstones +Beats down the farmer's corn in the field and shatters his windows, +Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch from the house-roofs, +Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their enclosures; +So on the hearts of the people descended the words of the speaker. +Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and then rose +Louder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and anger, +And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to the door-way. +Vain was the hope of escape; and cries and fierce imprecations +Rang through the house of prayer; and high o'er the heads of the others +Rose, with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil the blacksmith, +As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the billows. +Flushed was his face and distorted with passion; and wildly he shouted,-- +"Down with the tyrants of England! we never have sworn them allegiance! +Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our homes and our harvests!" +More he fain would have said, but the merciless hand of a soldier +Smote him upon the mouth, and dragged him down to the pavement. + + In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry contention, +Lo! the door of the chancel opened, and Father Felician +Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the altar. +Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into silence +All that clamorous throng; and thus he spake to his people; +Deep were his tones and solemn; in accents measured and mournful +Spake he, as, after the tocsin's alarum, distinctly the clock strikes. +"What is this that ye do, my children? what madness has seized you? +Forty years of my life have I labored among you, and taught you, +Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another! +Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers and privations? +Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and forgiveness? +This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and would you profane it +Thus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with hatred? +Lo! where the crucified Christ from his cross is gazing upon you! +See! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy compassion! +Hark! how those lips still repeat the prayer, 'O Father, forgive them!' +Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked assail us, +Let us repeat it now, and say, 'O Father, forgive them!'" +Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his people +Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the passionate outbreak, +While they repeated his prayer, and said, "O Father, forgive them!" + + Then came the evening service. The tapers gleamed from the altar. +Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest and the people responded, +Not with their lips alone, but their hearts; and the Ave Maria +Sang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls, with devotion translated, +Rose on the ardor of prayer, like Elijah ascending to heaven. + + Meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings of ill, and on all sides +Wandered, wailing, from house to house the women and children. +Long at her father's door Evangeline stood, with her right hand +Shielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, that, descending, +Lighted the village street with mysterious splendor, and roofed each +Peasant's cottage with golden thatch, and emblazoned its windows. +Long within had been spread the snow-white cloth on the table; +There stood the wheaten loaf, and the honey fragrant with wild-flowers; +There stood the tankard of ale, and the cheese fresh brought from the dairy; +And, at the head of the board, the great arm-chair of the farmer. +Thus did Evangeline wait at her father's door, as the sunset +Threw the long shadows of trees o'er the broad ambrosial meadows. +Ah! on her spirit within a deeper shadow had fallen, +And from the fields of her soul a fragrance celestial ascended,-- +Charity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgiveness, and patience! +Then, all-forgetful of self, she wandered into the village, +Cheering with looks and words the mournful hearts of the women, +As o'er the darkening fields with lingering steps they departed, +Urged by their household cares, and the weary feet of their children. +Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapors +Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from Sinai. +Sweetly over the village the bell of the Angelus sounded. + + Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church Evangeline lingered. +All was silent within; and in vain at the door and the windows +Stood she, and listened and looked, till, overcome by emotion, +"Gabriel!" cried she aloud with tremulous voice; but no answer +Came from the graves of the dead, nor the gloomier grave of the living. +Slowly at length she returned to the tenantless house of her father. +Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board was the supper untasted, +Empty and drear was each room, and haunted with phantoms of terror. +Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the floor of her chamber. +In the dead of the night she heard the disconsolate rain fall +Loud on the withered leaves of the sycamore-tree by the window. +Keenly the lightning flashed; and the voice of the echoing thunder +Told her that God was in heaven, and governed the world he created! +Then she remembered the tale she had heard of the justice of Heaven; +Soothed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully slumbered till morning. + + +V + +Four times the sun had risen and set; and now on the fifth day +Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-house. +Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession, +Came from the neighboring hamlets and farms the Acadian women, +Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the sea-shore, +Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings, +Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the woodland. +Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen, +While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings. + + Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried; and there on the sea-beach +Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants. +All day long between the shore and the ships did the boats ply; +All day long the wains came laboring down from the village. +Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting, +Echoed far o'er the fields came the roll of drums from the churchyard. +Thither the women and children thronged. On a sudden the church-doors +Opened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy procession +Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers. +Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their country, +Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and wayworn, +So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descended +Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daughters. +Foremost the young men came; and, raising together their voices, +Sang with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Missions:-- +"Sacred heart of the Saviour! O inexhaustible fountain! +Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and patience!" +Then the old men, as they marched, and the women that stood by the wayside +Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above them +Mingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed. + + Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited in silence, +Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of affliction,-- +Calmly and sadly she waited, until the procession approached her, +And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with emotion. +Team then filled her eyes, and, eagerly running to meet him, +Clasped she his hands, and laid her head on his shoulder, and whispered,-- +"Gabriel! be of good cheer! for if we love one another +Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may happen!" +Smiling she spake these words; then suddenly paused, for her father +Saw she slowly advancing. Alas! how changed was his aspect! +Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the fire from his eye, and his footstep +Heavier seemed with the weight of the heavy heart in his bosom. +But with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck and embraced him, +Speaking words of endearment where words of comfort availed not. +Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mournful procession. + + There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking. +Busily plied the freighted boats; and in the confusion +Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their children +Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties. +So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried, +While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father. +Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilight +Deepened and darkened around; and in haste the refluent ocean +Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beach +Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea-weed. +Farther back in the midst of the household goods and the wagons, +Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle, +All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them, +Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers. +Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean, +Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leaving +Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors. +Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures; +Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk from their udders; +Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farm-yard,-- +Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milkmaid. +Silence reigned in the streets; from the church no Angelus sounded, +Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows. + + But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had been kindled, +Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in the tempest. +Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were gathered, +Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the crying of children. +Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth in his parish, +Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and cheering, +Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita's desolate sea-shore. +Thus he approached the place where Evangeline sat with her father, +And in the flickering light beheld the face of the old man, +Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either thought or emotion, +E'en as the face of a clock from which the hands have been taken. +Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses to cheer him, +Vainly offered him food; yet he moved not, he looked not, he spake not +But, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flickering fire-light. +"Benedicite!" murmured the priest, in tones of compassion. +More he fain would have said, but his heart was full, and his accents +Faltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on a threshold, +Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful presence of sorrow. +Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden, +Raising his tearful eyes to the silent stars that above them +Moved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs and sorrows of mortals. +Then sat he down at her side, and they wept together in silence. + + Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-red +Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizon +Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mountain and meadow, +Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge shadows together. +Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village, +Gleamed on the sky and the sea, and the ships that lay in the roadstead. +Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were +Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of a martyr. +Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and, uplifting, +Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred house-tops +Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled. + + These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the shore and on shipboard. +Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their anguish, +"We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand-Pre!" +Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farm-yards, +Thinking the day had dawned; and anon the lowing of cattle +Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted. +Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping encampments +Far in the western prairies or forests that skirt the Nebraska, +When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of the whirlwind, +Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river. +Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and the horses +Broke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o'er the meadows. + + Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the priest and the maiden +Gazed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened before them; +And as they turned at length to speak to their silent companion, +Lo! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the sea-shore +Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed. +Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and the maiden +Knelt at her father's side, and wailed aloud in her terror. +Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head on his bosom. +Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious slumber; +And when she woke from the trance, she beheld a multitude near her. +Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfully gazing upon her, +Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of saddest compassion. +Still the blaze of the burning village illumined the landscape, +Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the faces around her, +And like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering senses. +Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the people,-- +"Let us bury him here by the sea. When a happier season +Brings us again to our homes from the unknown land of our exile, +Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the churchyard." +Such were the words of the priest. And there in haste by the sea-side, +Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches, +But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of Grand-Pre. +And as the voice of the priest repeated the service of sorrow, +Lo! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast congregation, +Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges. +'T was the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean, +With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying landward. +Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking; +And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out of the harbor, +Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins. + + + +PART THE SECOND + +I + +Many a weary year had passed since the burning of Grand-Pre, +When on the falling tide the freighted vessels departed, +Bearing a nation, with all its household gods, into exile. +Exile without an end, and without an example in story. +Far asunder, on separate coasts, the Acadians landed; +Scattered were they, like flakes of snow, when the wind from the northeast +Strikes aslant through the fogs that darken the Banks of Newfoundland. +Friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandered from city to city, +From the cold lakes of the North to sultry Southern savannas,-- +From the bleak shores of the sea to the lands where the Father of Waters +Seizes the hills in his hands, and drags them down to the ocean, +Deep in their sands to bury the scattered bones of the mammoth. +Friends they sought and homes; and many, despairing, heart-broken, +Asked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a friend nor a fireside. +Written their history stands on tablets of stone in the churchyards. +Long among them was seen a maiden who waited and wandered, +Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffering all things. +Fair was she and young; but, alas! before her extended, +Dreary and vast and silent, the desert of life, with its pathway +Marked by the graves of those who had sorrowed and suffered before her, +Passions long extinguished, and hopes long dead and abandoned, +As the emigrant's way o'er the Western desert is marked by +Camp-fires long consumed, and bones that bleach in the sunshine. +Something there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, unfinished; +As if a morning of June, with all its music and sunshine, +Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly descended +Into the east again, from whence it late had arisen. +Sometimes she lingered in towns, till, urged by the fever within her, +Urged by a restless longing, the hunger and thirst of the spirit, +She would commence again her endless search and endeavor; +Sometimes in churchyards strayed, and gazed on the crosses and tombstones, +Sat by some nameless grave, and thought that perhaps in its bosom +He was already at rest, and she longed to slumber beside him. +Sometimes a rumor, a hearsay, an inarticulate whisper, +Came with its airy hand to point and beckon her forward. +Sometimes she spake with those who had seen her beloved and known him, +But it was long ago, in some far-off place or forgotten. +"Gabriel Lajeunesse!" they said; "yes! we have seen him. +He was with Basil the blacksmith, and both have gone to the prairies; +Coureurs-des-Bois are they, and famous hunters and trappers." +"Gabriel Lajeunesse!" said others; "O yes! we have seen him. +He is a Voyageur in the lowlands of Louisiana." +Then would they say, "Dear child! why dream and wait for him longer? +Are there not other youths as fair as Gabriel? others +Who have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as loyal? +Here is Baptiste Leblanc, the notary's son, who has loved thee +Many a tedious year; come, give him thy hand and be happy! +Thou art too fair to be left to braid St. Catherine's tresses." +Then would Evangeline answer, serenely but sadly, "I cannot! +Whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand, and not elsewhere. +For when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and illumines the pathway, +Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden in darkness." +Thereupon the priest, her friend and father-confessor, +Said, with a smile, "O daughter! thy God thus speaketh within thee! +Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted; +If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returning +Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment; +That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain. +Patience; accomplish thy labor; accomplish thy work of affection! +Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike. +Therefore accomplish thy labor of love, till the heart is made godlike, +Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered more worthy of heaven!" +Cheered by the good man's words, Evangeline labored and waited. +Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of the ocean, +But with its sound there was mingled a voice that whispered, "Despair not?" +Thus did that poor soul wander in want and cheerless discomfort +Bleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns of existence. +Let me essay, O Muse! to follow the wanderer's footsteps;-- +Not through each devious path, each changeful year of existence; +But as a traveller follows a streamlet's course through the valley: +Far from its margin at times, and seeing the gleam of its water +Here and there, in some open space, and at intervals only; +Then drawing nearer its banks, through sylvan glooms that conceal it, +Though he behold it not, he can hear its continuous murmur; +Happy, at length, if he find the spot where it reaches an outlet. + + + +II + +It was the month of May. Far down the Beautiful River, +Past the Ohio shore and past the mouth of the Wabash, +Into the golden stream of the broad and swift Mississippi, +Floated a cumbrous boat, that was rowed by Acadian boatmen. +It was a band of exiles: a raft, as it were, from the shipwrecked +Nation, scattered along the coast, now floating together, +Bound by the bonds of a common belief and a common misfortune; +Men and women and children, who, guided by hope or by hearsay, +Sought for their kith and their kin among the few-acred farmers +On the Acadian coast, and the prairies of fair Opelousas. +With them Evangeline went, and her guide, the Father Felician. +Onward o'er sunken sands, through a wilderness sombre with forests, +Day after day they glided adown the turbulent river; +Night after night, by their blazing fires, encamped on its borders. +Now through rushing chutes, among green islands, where plumelike +Cotton-trees nodded their shadowy crests, they swept with the current, +Then emerged into broad lagoons, where silvery sand-bars +Lay in the stream, and along the wimpling waves of their margin, +Shining with snow-white plumes, large flocks of pelicans waded. +Level the landscape grew, and along the shores of the river, +Shaded by china-trees, in the midst of luxuriant gardens, +Stood the houses of planters, with negro-cabins and dove-cots. +They were approaching the region where reigns perpetual summer, +Where through the Golden Coast, and groves of orange and citron, +Sweeps with majestic curve the river away to the eastward. +They, too, swerved from their course; and, entering the Bayou of Plaquemine, +Soon were lost in a maze of sluggish and devious waters, +Which, like a network of steel, extended in every direction. +Over their heads the towering and tenebrous boughs of the cypress +Met in a dusky arch, and trailing mosses in mid-air +Waved like banners that hang on the walls of ancient cathedrals. +Deathlike the silence seemed, and unbroken, save by the herons +Home to their roasts in the cedar-trees returning at sunset, +Or by the owl, as he greeted the moon with demoniac laughter. +Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and gleamed on the water, +Gleamed on the columns of cypress and cedar sustaining the arches, +Down through whose broken vaults it fell as through chinks in a ruin. +Dreamlike, and indistinct, and strange were all things around them; +And o'er their spirits there came a feeling of wonder and sadness,-- +Strange forebodings of ill, unseen and that cannot be compassed. +As, at the tramp of a horse's hoof on the turf of the prairies, +Far in advance are closed the leaves of the shrinking mimosa, +So, at the hoof-beats of fate, with sad forebodings of evil, +Shrinks and closes the heart, ere the stroke of doom has attained it. +But Evangeline's heart was sustained by a vision, that faintly +Floated before her eyes, and beckoned her on through the moonlight. +It was the thought of her brain that assumed the shape of a phantom. +Through those shadowy aisles had Gabriel wandered before her, +And every stroke of the oar now brought him nearer and nearer. + + Then in his place, at the prow of the boat, rose one of the oarsmen, +And, as a signal sound, if others like them peradventure +Sailed on those gloomy and midnight streams, blew a blast on his bugle. +Wild through the dark colonnades and corridors leafy the blast rang, +Breaking the seal of silence, and giving tongues to the forest. +Soundless above them the banners of moss just stirred to the music. +Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance, +Over the watery floor, and beneath the reverberant branches; +But not a voice replied; no answer came from the darkness; +And, when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence. +Then Evangeline slept; but the boatmen rowed through the midnight, +Silent at times, then singing familiar Canadian boat-songs, +Such as they sang of old on their own Acadian rivers, +While through the night were heard the mysterious sounds of the desert, +Far off,--indistinct,--as of wave or wind in the forest, +Mixed with the whoop of the crane and the roar of the grim alligator. + + Thus ere another noon they emerged from the shades; and before them +Lay, in the golden sun, the lakes of the Atchafalaya. +Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the slight undulations +Made by the passing oars, and, resplendent in beauty, the lotus +Lifted her golden crown above the heads of the boatmen. +Faint was the air with the odorous breath of magnolia blossoms, +And with the heat of noon; and numberless sylvan islands, +Fragrant and thickly embowered with blossoming hedges of roses, +Near to whose shores they glided along, invited to slumber. +Soon by the fairest of these their weary oars were suspended. +Under the boughs of Wachita willows, that grew by the margin, +Safely their boat was moored; and scattered about on the greensward, +Tired with their midnight toil, the weary travellers slumbered. +Over them vast and high extended the cope of a cedar. +Swinging from its great arms, the trumpet-flower and the grapevine +Hung their ladder of ropes aloft like the ladder of Jacob, +On whose pendulous stairs the angels ascending, descending, +Were the swift humming-birds, that flitted from blossom to blossom. +Such was the vision Evangeline saw as she slumbered beneath it. +Filled was her heart with love, and the dawn of an opening heaven +Lighted her soul in sleep with the glory of regions celestial. + + Nearer, ever nearer, among the numberless islands, +Darted a light, swift boat, that sped away o'er the water, +Urged on its course by the sinewy arms of hunters and trappers. +Northward its prow was turned, to the land of the bison and beaver. +At the helm sat a youth, with countenance thoughtful and careworn. +Dark and neglected locks overshadowed his brow, and a sadness +Somewhat beyond his years on his face was legibly written. +Gabriel was it, who, weary with waiting, unhappy and restless, +Sought in the Western wilds oblivion of self and of sorrow. +Swiftly they glided along, close under the lee of the island, +But by the opposite bank, and behind a screen of palmettos, +So that they saw not the boat, where it lay concealed in the willows, +All undisturbed by the dash of their oars, and unseen, were the sleepers, +Angel of God was there none to awaken the slumbering maiden. +Swiftly they glided away, like the shade of a cloud on the prairie. +After the sound of their oars on the tholes had died in the distance, +As from a magic trance the sleepers awoke, and the maiden +Said with a sigh to the friendly priest, "O Father Felician! +Something says in my heart that near me Gabriel wanders. +Is it a foolish dream, an idle and vague superstition? +Or has an angel passed, and revealed the truth to my spirit?" +Then, with a blush, she added, "Alas for my credulous fancy! +Unto ears like thine such words as these have no meaning." +But made answer the reverend man, and he smiled as he answered,-- +"Daughter, thy words are not idle; nor are they to me without meaning. +Feeling is deep and still; and the word that floats on the surface +Is as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the anchor is hidden. +Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illusions. +Gabriel truly is near thee; for not far away to the southward, +On the banks of the Teche, are the towns of St. Maur and St. Martin. +There the long-wandering bride shall be given again to her bridegroom, +There the long-absent pastor regain his flock and his sheepfold. +Beautiful is the land, with its prairies and forests of fruit-trees; +Under the feet a garden of flowers, and the bluest of heavens +Bending above, and resting its dome on the walls of the forest. +They who dwell there have named it the Eden of Louisiana." + + With these words of cheer they arose and continued their journey. +Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizon +Like a magician extended his golden wand o'er the landscape; +Twinkling vapors arose; and sky and water and forest +Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together. +Hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges of silver, +Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on the motionless water. +Filled was Evangeline's heart with inexpressible sweetness. +Touched by the magic spell, the sacred fountains of feeling +Glowed with the light of love, as the skies and waters around her. +Then from a neighboring thicket the mocking-bird, wildest of singers, +Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the water, +Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music, +That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to listen. +Plaintive at first were the tones and sad; then soaring to madness +Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied Bacchantes. +Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lamentation; +Till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad in derision, +As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree-tops +Shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower on the branches. +With such a prelude as this, and hearts that throbbed with emotion, +Slowly they entered the Teche, where it flows through the green Opelousas, +And, through the amber air, above the crest of the woodland, +Saw the column of smoke that arose from a neighboring dwelling;-- +Sounds of a horn they heard, and the distant lowing of cattle. + +III + +Near to the bank of the river, o'ershadowed by oaks, from whose branches +Garlands of Spanish moss and of mystic mistletoe flaunted, +Such as the Druids cut down with golden hatchets at Yule-tide, +Stood, secluded and still, the house of the herdsman. A garden +Girded it round about with a belt of luxuriant blossoms, +Filling the air with fragrance. The house itself was of timbers +Hewn from the cypress-tree, and carefully fitted together. +Large and low was the roof; and on slender columns supported, +Rose-wreathed, vine-encircled, a broad and spacious veranda, +Haunt of the humming-bird and the bee, extended around it. +At each end of the house, amid the flowers of the garden, +Stationed the dove-cots were, as love's perpetual symbol, +Scenes of endless wooing, and endless contentions of rivals. +Silence reigned o'er the place. The line of shadow and sunshine +Ran near the tops of the trees; but the house itself was in shadow, +And from its chimney-top, ascending and slowly expanding +Into the evening air, a thin blue column of smoke rose. +In the rear of the house, from the garden gate, ran a pathway +Through the great groves of oak to the skirts of the limitless prairie, +Into whose sea of flowers the sun was slowly descending. +Full in his track of light, like ships with shadowy canvas +Hanging loose from their spars in a motionless calm in the tropics, +Stood a cluster of trees, with tangled cordage of grapevines. + + Just where the woodlands met the flowery surf of the prairie, +Mounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and stirrups, +Sat a herdsman, arrayed in gaiters and doublet of deerskin. +Broad and brown was the face that from under the Spanish sombrero +Gazed on the peaceful scene, with the lordly look of its master. +Round about him were numberless herds of kine, that were grazing +Quietly in the meadows, and breathing the vapory freshness +That uprose from the river, and spread itself over the landscape. +Slowly lifting the horn that hung at his side, and expanding +Fully his broad, deep chest, he blew a blast, that resounded +Wildly and sweet and far, through the still damp air of the evening. +Suddenly out of the grass the long white horns of the cattle +Rose like flakes of foam on the adverse currents of ocean. +Silent a moment they gazed, then bellowing rushed o'er the prairie, +And the whole mass became a cloud, a shade in the distance. +Then, as the herdsman turned to the house, through the gate of the garden +Saw he the forms of the priest and the maiden advancing to meet him. +Suddenly down from his horse he sprang in amazement, and forward +Rushed with extended arms and exclamations of wonder; +When they beheld his face, they recognized Basil the blacksmith. +Hearty his welcome was, as he led his guests to the garden. +There in an arbor of roses with endless question and answer +Gave they vent to their hearts, and renewed their friendly embraces, +Laughing and weeping by turns, or sitting silent and thoughtful. +Thoughtful, for Gabriel came not; and now dark doubts and misgivings +Stole o'er the maiden's heart; and Basil, somewhat embarrassed, +Broke the silence and said, "If you came by the Atchafalaya, +How have you nowhere encountered my Gabriel's boat on the bayous?" +Over Evangeline's face at the words of Basil a shade passed. +Tears came into her eyes, and she said, with a tremulous accent, +"Gone? is Gabriel gone?" and, concealing her face on his shoulder, +All her o'erburdened heart gave way, and she wept and lamented. +Then the good Basil said,--and his voice grew blithe as he said it,-- +"Be of good cheer, my child; it is only to-day he departed. +Foolish boy! he has left me alone with my herds and my horses. +Moody and restless grown, and tried and troubled, his spirit +Could no longer endure the calm of this quiet existence. +Thinking ever of thee, uncertain and sorrowful ever, +Ever silent, or speaking only of thee and his troubles, +He at length had become so tedious to men and to maidens, +Tedious even to me, that at length I bethought me, and sent him +Unto the town of Adayes to trade for mules with the Spaniards. +Thence he will follow the Indian trails to the Ozark Mountains, +Hunting for furs in the forests, on rivers trapping the beaver. +Therefore be of good cheer; we will follow the fugitive lover; +He is not far on his way, and the Fates and the streams are against him. +Up and away to-morrow, and through the red dew of the morning +We will follow him fast, and bring him back to his prison." + + Then glad voices were heard, and up from the banks of the river, +Borne aloft on his comrades' arms, came Michael the fiddler. +Long under Basil's roof had he lived like a god on Olympus, +Having no other care than dispensing music to mortals. +Far renowned was he for his silver locks and his fiddle. +"Long live Michael," they cried, "our brave Acadian minstrel!" +As they bore him aloft in triumphal procession; and straightway +Father Felician advanced with Evangeline, greeting the old man +Kindly and oft, and recalling the past, while Basil, enraptured, +Hailed with hilarious joy his old companions and gossips, +Laughing loud and long, and embracing mothers and daughters. +Much they marvelled to see the wealth of the cidevant blacksmith, +All his domains and his herds, and his patriarchal demeanor; +Much they marvelled to hear his tales of the soil and the climate, +And of the prairie; whose numberless herds were his who would take them; +Each one thought in his heart, that he, too, would go and do likewise. +Thus they ascended the steps, and, crossing the breezy veranda, +Entered the hall of the house, where already the supper of Basil +Waited his late return; and they rested and feasted together. + + Over the joyous feast the sudden darkness descended. +All was silent without, and, illuming the landscape with silver, +Fair rose the dewy moon and the myriad stars; but within doors, +Brighter than these, shone the faces of friends in the glimmering lamplight. +Then from his station aloft, at the head of the table, the herdsman +Poured forth his heart and his wine together in endless profusion. +Lighting his pipe, that was filled with sweet Natchitoches tobacco, +Thus he spake to his guests, who listened, and smiled as they listened:-- +"Welcome once more, my friends, who long have been friendless and homeless, +Welcome once more to a home, that is better perchance than the old one! +Here no hungry winter congeals our blood like the rivers; +Here no stony ground provokes the wrath of the farmer. +Smoothly the ploughshare runs through the soil, as a keel through the water. +All the year round the orange-groves are in blossom; and grass grows +More in a single night than a whole Canadian summer. +Here, too, numberless herds run wild and unclaimed in the prairies; +Here, too, lands may be had for the asking, and forests of timber +With a few blows of the axe are hewn and framed into houses. +After your houses are built, and your fields are yellow with harvests, +No King George of England shall drive you away from your homesteads, +Burning your dwellings and barns, and stealing your farms and your cattle." +Speaking these words, he blew a wrathful cloud from his nostrils, +While his huge, brown hand came thundering down on the table, +So that the guests all started; and Father Felician, astounded, +Suddenly paused, with a pinch of snuff half-way to his nostrils. +But the brave Basil resumed, and his words were milder and gayer:-- +"Only beware of the fever, my friends, beware of the fever! +For it is not like that of our cold Acadian climate, +Cured by wearing a spider hung round one's neck in a nutshell!" +Then there were voices heard at the door, and footsteps approaching +Sounded upon the stairs and the floor of the breezy veranda. +It was the neighboring Creoles and small Acadian planters, +Who had been summoned all to the house of Basil the Herdsman. +Merry the meeting was of ancient comrades and neighbors: +Friend clasped friend in his arms; and they who before were as strangers, +Meeting in exile, became straightway as friends to each other, +Drawn by the gentle bond of a common country together. +But in the neighboring hall a strain of music, proceeding +From the accordant strings of Michael's melodious fiddle, +Broke up all further speech. Away, like children delighted, +All things forgotten beside, they gave themselves to the maddening +Whirl of the dizzy dance, as it swept and swayed to the music, +Dreamlike, with beaming eyes and the rush of fluttering garments. + + Meanwhile, apart, at the head of the hall, the priest and the herdsman +Sat, conversing together of past and present and future; +While Evangeline stood like one entranced, for within her +Olden memories rose, and loud in the midst of the music +Heard she the sound of the sea, and an irrepressible sadness +Came o'er her heart, and unseen she stole forth into the garden. +Beautiful was the night. Behind the black wall of the forest, +Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the river +Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of the moonlight, +Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious spirit. +Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the garden +Poured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers and confessions +Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian. +Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows and night-dews, +Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the magical moonlight +Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longing; +As, through the garden gate, and beneath the shade of the oak-trees, +Passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless prairie. +Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-flies +Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite numbers. +Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the heavens, +Shone on the eyes of man who had ceased to marvel and worship, +Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that temple, +As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, "Upharsin." +And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the fire-flies, +Wandered alone, and she cried, "O Gabriel! O my beloved! +Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee? +Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach me? +Ah! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie! +Ah! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands around me! +Ah! how often beneath this oak, returning from labor, +Thou hast lain down to rest and to dream of me in thy slumbers! +When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about thee?" +Loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoorwill sounded +Like a flute in the woods; and anon, through the neighboring thickets, +Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence. +"Patience!" whispered the oaks from oracular caverns of darkness: +And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, "To-morrow!" + + Bright rose the sun next day; and all the flowers of the garden +Bathed his shining feet with their tears, and anointed his tresses +With the delicious balm that they bore in their vases of crystal. +"Farewell!" said the priest, as he stood at the shadowy threshold; +"See that you bring us the Prodigal Son from his fasting and famine, +And, too, the Foolish Virgin, who slept when the bridegroom was coming." +"Farewell!" answered the maiden, and, smiling, with Basil descended +Down to the river's brink, where the boatmen already were waiting. +Thus beginning their journey with morning, and sunshine, and gladness, +Swiftly they followed the flight of him who was speeding before them, +Blown by the blast of fate like a dead leaf over the desert. +Not that day, nor the next, nor yet the day that succeeded, +Found they trace of his course, in lake or forest or river, +Nor, after many days, had they found him; but vague and uncertain +Rumors alone were their guides through a wild and desolate Country; +Till, at the little inn of the Spanish town of Adayes, +Weary and worn, they alighted, and learned from the garrulous landlord, +That on the day before, with horses and guides and companions, +Gabriel left the village, and took the road of the prairies. + + + +IV + +Far in the West there lies a desert land, where the mountains +Lift, through perpetual snows, their lofty and luminous summits. +Down from their jagged, deep ravines, where the gorge, like a gateway, +Opens a passage rude to the wheels of the emigrant's wagon, +Westward the Oregon flows and the Walleway and Owyhee. +Eastward, with devious course, among the Wind-river Mountains, +Through the Sweet-water Valley precipitate leaps the Nebraska; +And to the south, from Fontaine-qui-bout and the Spanish sierras, +Fretted with sands and rocks, and swept by the wind of the desert, +Numberless torrents, with ceaseless sound, descend to the ocean, +Like the great chords of a harp, in loud and solemn vibrations. +Spreading between these streams are the wondrous, beautiful prairies, +Billowy bays of grass ever rolling in shadow and sunshine, +Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and purple amorphas. +Over them wandered the buffalo herds, and the elk and the roebuck; +Over them wandered the wolves, and herds of riderless horses; +Fires that blast and blight, and winds that are weary with travel; +Over them wander the scattered tribes of Ishmael's children, +Staining the desert with blood; and above their terrible war-trails +Circles and sails aloft, on pinions majestic, the vulture, +Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaughtered in battle, +By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the heavens. +Here and there rise smokes from the camps of these savage marauders; +Here and there rise groves from the margins of swift-running rivers; +And the grim, taciturn bear, the anchorite monk of the desert, +Climbs down their dark ravines to dig for roots by the brook-side, +And over all is the sky, the clear and crystalline heaven, +Like the protecting hand of God inverted above them. + + Into this wonderful land, at the base of the Ozark Mountains, +Gabriel far had entered, with hunters and trappers behind him. +Day after day, with their Indian guides, the maiden and Basil +Followed his flying steps, and thought each day to o'ertake him. +Sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the smoke of his camp-fire +Rise in the morning air from the distant plain; but at nightfall, +When they had reached the place, they found only embers and ashes. +And, though their hearts were sad at times and their bodies were weary, +Hope still guided them on, as the magic Fata Morgana +Showed them her lakes of light, that retreated and vanished before them. + + Once, as they sat by their evening fire, there silently entered +Into the little camp an Indian woman, whose features +Wore deep traces of sorrow, and patience as great as her sorrow. +She was a Shawnee woman returning home to her people, +From the far-off hunting-grounds of the cruel Camanches, +Where her Canadian husband, a Coureur-des-Bois, had been murdered. +Touched were their hearts at her story, and warmest and friendliest welcome +Gave they, with words of cheer, and she sat and feasted among them +On the buffalo-meat and the venison cooked on the embers. +But when their meal was done, and Basil and all his companions, +Worn with the long day's march and the chase of the deer and the bison, +Stretched themselves on the ground, and slept where the quivering fire-light +Flashed on their swarthy cheeks, and their forms wrapped up in their blankets +Then at the door of Evangeline's tent she sat and repeated +Slowly, with soft, low voice, and the charm of her Indian accent, +All the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and pains, and reverses. +Much Evangeline wept at the tale, and to know that another +Hapless heart like her own had loved and had been disappointed. +Moved to the depths of her soul by pity and woman's compassion, +Yet in her sorrow pleased that one who had suffered was near her, +She in turn related her love and all its disasters. +Mute with wonder the Shawnee sat, and when she had ended +Still was mute; but at length, as if a mysterious horror +Passed through her brain, she spake, and repeated the tale of the Mowis; +Mowis, the bridegroom of snow, who won and wedded a maiden, +But, when the morning came, arose and passed from the wigwam, +Fading and melting away and dissolving into the sunshine, +Till she beheld him no more, though she followed far into the forest. +Then, in those sweet, low tones, that seemed like a weird incantation, +Told she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was wooed by a phantom, +That, through the pines o'er her father's lodge, in the hush of the twilight, +Breathed like the evening wind, and whispered love to the maiden, +Till she followed his green and waving plume through the forest, +And nevermore returned, nor was seen again by her people. +Silent with wonder and strange surprise, Evangeline listened +To the soft flow of her magical words, till the region around her +Seemed like enchanted ground, and her swarthy guest the enchantress. +Slowly over the tops of the Ozark Mountains the moon rose, +Lighting the little tent, and with a mysterious splendor +Touching the sombre leaves, and embracing and filling the woodland. +With a delicious sound the brook rushed by, and the branches +Swayed and sighed overhead in scarcely audible whispers. +Filled with the thoughts of love was Evangeline's heart, but a secret, +Subtile sense crept in of pain and indefinite terror, +As the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the nest of the swallow. +It was no earthly fear. A breath from the region of spirits +Seemed to float in the air of night; and she felt for a moment +That, like the Indian maid, she, too, was pursuing a phantom. +With this thought she slept, and the fear and the phantom had vanished. + + Early upon the morrow the march was resumed; and the Shawnee +Said, as they journeyed along, "On the western slope of these mountains +Dwells in his little village the Black Robe chief of the Mission. +Much he teaches the people, and tells them of Mary and Jesus; +Loud laugh their hearts with joy, and weep with pain, as they hear him." +Then, with a sudden and secret emotion, Evangeline answered, +"Let us go to the Mission, for there good tidings await us!" +Thither they turned their steeds; and behind a spur of the mountains, +Just as the sun went down, they heard a murmur of voices, +And in a meadow green and broad, by the bank of a river, +Saw the tents of the Christians, the tents of the Jesuit Mission. +Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of the village, +Knelt the Black Robe chief with his children. A crucifix fastened +High on the trunk of the tree, and overshadowed by grapevines, +Looked with its agonized face on the multitude kneeling beneath it. +This was their rural chapel. Aloft, through the intricate arches +Of its aerial roof, arose the chant of their vespers, +Mingling its notes with the soft susurrus and sighs of the branches. +Silent, with heads uncovered, the travellers, nearer approaching, +Knelt on the swarded floor, and joined in the evening devotions. +But when the service was done, and the benediction had fallen +Forth from the hands of the priest, like seed from the hands of the sower, +Slowly the reverend man advanced to the strangers, and bade them +Welcome; and when they replied, he smiled with benignant expression, +Hearing the homelike sounds of his mother-tongue in the forest, +And, with words of kindness, conducted them into his wigwam. +There upon mats and skins they reposed, and on cakes of the maize-ear +Feasted, and slaked their thirst from the water-gourd of the teacher. +Soon was their story told; and the priest with solemnity answered:-- +"Not six suns have risen and set since Gabriel, seated +On this mat by my side, where now the maiden reposes, +Told me this same sad tale then arose and continued his journey!" +Soft was the voice of the priest, and he spake with an accent of kindness; +But on Evangeline's heart fell his words as in winter the snow-flakes +Fall into some lone nest from which the birds have departed. +"Far to the north he has gone," continued the priest; "but in autumn, +When the chase is done, will return again to the Mission." +Then Evangeline said, and her voice was meek and submissive, +"Let me remain with thee, for my soul is sad and afflicted." +So seemed it wise and well unto all; and betimes on the morrow, +Mounting his Mexican steed, with his Indian guides and companions. +Homeward Basil returned, and Evangeline stayed at the Mission. + + Slowly, slowly, slowly the days succeeded each other,-- +Days and weeks and months; and the fields of maize that were springing +Green from the ground when a stranger she came, now waving above her, +Lifted their slender shafts, with leaves interlacing, and forming +Cloisters for mendicant crows and granaries pillaged by squirrels. +Then in the golden weather the maize was husked, and the maidens +Blushed at each blood-red ear, for that betokened a lover, +But at the crooked laughed, and called it a thief in the corn-field. +Even the blood-red ear to Evangeline brought not her lover. +"Patience!" the priest would say; "have faith, and thy prayer will be answered! +Look at this vigorous plant that lifts its head from the meadow, +See how its leaves are turned to the north, as true as the magnet; +This is the compass-flower, that the finger of God has planted +Here in the houseless wild, to direct the traveller's journey +Over the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of the desert. +Such in the soul of man is faith. The blossoms of passion, +Gay and luxuriant flowers, are brighter and fuller of fragrance, +But they beguile us, and lead us astray, and their odor is deadly. +Only this humble plant can guide us here, and hereafter +Crown us with asphodel flowers, that are wet with the dews of nepenthe." + + So came the autumn, and passed, and the winter,--yet Gabriel came not; +Blossomed the opening spring, and the notes of the robin and bluebird +Sounded sweet upon wold and in wood, yet Gabriel came not. +But on the breath of the summer winds a rumor was wafted +Sweeter than song of bird, or hue or odor of blossom. +Far to the north and east, it said, in the Michigan forests, +Gabriel had his lodge by the banks of the Saginaw River, +And, with returning guides, that sought the lakes of St. Lawrence, +Saying a sad farewell, Evangeline went from the Mission. +When over weary ways, by long and perilous marches, +She had attained at length the depths of the Michigan forests, +Found she the hunter's lodge deserted and fallen to ruin! + + Thus did the long sad years glide on, and in seasons and places +Divers and distant far was seen the wandering maiden;-- +Now in the Tents of Grace of the meek Moravian Missions, +Now in the noisy camps and the battle-fields of the army, +Now in secluded hamlets, in towns and populous cities. +Like a phantom she came, and passed away unremembered. +Fair was she and young, when in hope began the long journey; +Faded was she and old, when in disappointment it ended. +Each succeeding year stole something away from her beauty, +Leaving behind it, broader and deeper, the gloom and the shadow. +Then there appeared and spread faint streaks of gray o'er her forehead, +Dawn of another life, that broke o'er her earthy horizon, +As in the eastern sky the first faint streaks of the morning. + + + +V + +In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware's waters, +Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the apostle, +Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded. +There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of beauty, +And the streets still re-echo the names of the trees of the forest, +As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose haunts they molested. +There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, an exile, +Finding among the children of Penn a home and a country. +There old Rene Leblanc had died; and when he departed, +Saw at his side only one of all his hundred descendants. +Something at least there was in the friendly streets of the city, +Something that spake to her heart, and made her no longer a stranger; +And her ear was pleased with the Thee and Thou of the Quakers, +For it recalled the past, the old Acadian country, +Where all men were equal, and all were brothers and sisters. +So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed endeavor, +Ended, to recommence no more upon earth, uncomplaining, +Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her thoughts and her footsteps. +As from a mountain's top the rainy mists of the morning +Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape below us, +Sun-illumined, with shining rivers and cities and hamlets, +So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the world far below her, +Dark no longer, but all illumined with love; and the pathway +Which she had climbed so far, lying smooth and fair in the distance. +Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was his image, +Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld him, +Only more beautiful made by his deathlike silence and absence. +Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for it was not. +Over him years had no power; he was not changed, but transfigured; +He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not absent; +Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others, +This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her. +So was her love diffused, but, like to some odorous spices, +Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air with aroma. +Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow +Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour. +Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy; frequenting +Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the city, +Where distress and want concealed themselves from the sunlight, +Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished neglected. +Night after night, when the world was asleep, as the watchman repeated +Loud, through the gusty streets, that all was well in the city, +High at some lonely window he saw the light of her taper. +Day after day, in the gray of the dawn, as slow through the suburbs +Plodded the German farmer, with flowers and fruits for the market, +Met he that meek, pale face, returning home from its watchings. + + Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city, +Presaged by wondrous signs, and mostly by flocks of wild pigeons, +Darkening the sun in their flight, with naught in their craws but an acorn. +And, as the tides of the sea arise in the month of September, +Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads to a lake in the meadow, +So death flooded life, and, o'erflowing its natural margin, +Spread to a brackish lake, the silver stream of existence. +Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm, the oppressor; +But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his anger;-- +Only, alas! the poor, who had neither friends nor attendants, +Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the homeless. +Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and woodlands; +Now the city surrounds it; but still, with its gateway and wicket +Meek, in the midst of splendor, its humble walls seem to echo +Softly the words of the Lord:--"The poor ye always have with you." +Thither, by night and by day, came the Sister of Mercy. The dying +Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold there +Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead with splendor, +Such as the artist paints o'er the brows of saints and apostles, +Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a distance. +Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city celestial, +Into whose shining gates erelong their spirits would enter. + + Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, deserted and silent, +Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of the almshouse. +Sweet on the summer air was the odor of flowers in the garden; +And she paused on her way to gather the fairest among them, +That the dying once more might rejoice in their fragrance and beauty. +Then, as she mounted the stairs to the corridors, cooled by the east-wind, +Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from the belfry of Christ Church, +While, intermingled with these, across the meadows were wafted +Sounds of psalms, that were sung by the Swedes in their church at Wicaco. +Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the hour on her spirit; +Something within her said, "At length thy trials are ended"; +And, with light in her looks, she entered the chambers of sickness. +Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, careful attendants, +Moistening the feverish lip, and the aching brow, and in silence +Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and concealing their faces, +Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of snow by the roadside. +Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered, +Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she passed, for her presence +Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the walls of a prison. +And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the consoler, +Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever. +Many familiar forms had disappeared in the night time; +Vacant their places were, or filled already by strangers. + + Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder, +Still she stood, with her colorless lips apart, while a shudder +Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowerets dropped from her fingers, +And from her eyes and cheeks the light and bloom of the morning. +Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish, +That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows. +On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man. +Long, and thin, and gray were the locks that shaded his temples; +But, as he lay in the in morning light, his face for a moment +Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood; +So are wont to be changed the faces of those who are dying. +Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush of the fever, +As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had besprinkled its portals, +That the Angel of Death might see the sign, and pass over. +Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit exhausted +Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the darkness, +Darkness of slumber and death, forever sinking and sinking. +Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverberations, +Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded +Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like, +"Gabriel! O my beloved!" and died away into silence. +Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood; +Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them, +Village, and mountain, and woodlands; and, walking under their shadow, +As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision. +Tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids, +Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bedside. +Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered +Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would have spoken. +Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him, +Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom. +Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into darkness, +As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement. + + All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow, +All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing, +All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience! +And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom, +Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, "Father, I thank thee!" + + ------------- + +Still stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow, +Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping. +Under the humble walls of the little Catholic churchyard, +In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed. +Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them, +Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and forever, +Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy, +Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their labors, +Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey! + + Still stands the forest primeval; but under the shade of its branches +Dwells another race, with other customs and language. +Only along the shore of the mournful and misty Atlantic +Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers from exile +Wandered back to their native land to die in its bosom. +In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are still busy; +Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of homespun, +And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story, +While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced, neighboring ocean +Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. + + +************** + +THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE + +DEDICATION + +As one who, walking in the twilight gloom, + Hears round about him voices as it darkens, +And seeing not the forms from which they come, + Pauses from time to time, and turns and hearkens; + +So walking here in twilight, O my friends! + I hear your voices, softened by the distance, +And pause, and turn to listen, as each sends + His words of friendship, comfort, and assistance. + +If any thought of mine, or sung or told, + Has ever given delight or consolation, +Ye have repaid me back a thousand-fold, + By every friendly sign and salutation. + +Thanks for the sympathies that ye have shown! + Thanks for each kindly word, each silent token, +That teaches me, when seeming most alone, + Friends are around us, though no word be spoken. + +Kind messages, that pass from land to land; + Kind letters, that betray the heart's deep history, +In which we feel the pressure of a hand,-- + One touch of fire,--and all the rest is mystery! + +The pleasant books, that silently among + Our household treasures take familiar places, +And are to us as if a living tongue + Spice from the printed leaves or pictured faces! + +Perhaps on earth I never shall behold, + With eye of sense, your outward form and semblance; +Therefore to me ye never will grow old, + But live forever young in my remembrance. + +Never grow old, nor change, nor pass away! + Your gentle voices will flow on forever, + When life grows bare and tarnished with decay, + As through a leafless landscape flows a river. + +Not chance of birth or place has made us friends, + Being oftentimes of different tongues and nations, +But the endeavor for the selfsame ends, + With the same hopes, and fears, and aspirations. + +Therefore I hope to join your seaside walk, + Saddened, and mostly silent, with emotion; +Not interrupting with intrusive talk + The grand, majestic symphonies of ocean. + +Therefore I hope, as no unwelcome guest, + At your warm fireside, when the lamps are lighted, +To have my place reserved among the rest, + Nor stand as one unsought and uninvited! + + + +BY THE SEASIDE + +THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP + +"Build me straight, O worthy Master! + Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel, +That shall laugh at all disaster, + And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!" + +The merchant's word +Delighted the Master heard; +For his heart was in his work, and the heart +Giveth grace unto every Art. + +A quiet smile played round his lips, +As the eddies and dimples of the tide +Play round the bows of ships, +That steadily at anchor ride. +And with a voice that was full of glee, +He answered, "Erelong we will launch +A vessel as goodly, and strong, and stanch, +As ever weathered a wintry sea!" +And first with nicest skill and art, +Perfect and finished in every part, +A little model the Master wrought, +Which should be to the larger plan +What the child is to the man, +Its counterpart in miniature; +That with a hand more swift and sure +The greater labor might be brought +To answer to his inward thought. +And as he labored, his mind ran o'er +The various ships that were built of yore, +And above them all, and strangest of all +Towered the Great Harry, crank and tall, +Whose picture was hanging on the wall, +With bows and stern raised high in air, +And balconies hanging here and there, +And signal lanterns and flags afloat, +And eight round towers, like those that frown +From some old castle, looking down +Upon the drawbridge and the moat. +And he said with a smile, "Our ship, I wis, +Shall be of another form than this!" +It was of another form, indeed; +Built for freight, and yet for speed, +A beautiful and gallant craft; +Broad in the beam, that the stress of the blast, +Pressing down upon sail and mast, +Might not the sharp bows overwhelm; +Broad in the beam, but sloping aft +With graceful curve and slow degrees, +That she might be docile to the helm, +And that the currents of parted seas, +Closing behind, with mighty force, +Might aid and not impede her course. + +In the ship-yard stood the Master, + With the model of the vessel, +That should laugh at all disaster, + And with wave and whirlwind wrestle! + +Covering many a rood of ground, +Lay the timber piled around; +Timber of chestnut, and elm, and oak, +And scattered here and there, with these, +The knarred and crooked cedar knees; +Brought from regions far away, +From Pascagoula's sunny bay, +And the banks of the roaring Roanoke! +Ah! what a wondrous thing it is +To note how many wheels of toil +One thought, one word, can set in motion! +There's not a ship that sails the ocean, +But every climate, every soil, +Must bring its tribute, great or small, +And help to build the wooden wall! + +The sun was rising o'er the sea, +And long the level shadows lay, +As if they, too, the beams would be +Of some great, airy argosy. +Framed and launched in a single day. +That silent architect, the sun, +Had hewn and laid them every one, +Ere the work of man was yet begun. +Beside the Master, when he spoke, +A youth, against an anchor leaning, +Listened, to catch his slightest meaning. +Only the long waves, as they broke +In ripples on the pebbly beach, +Interrupted the old man's speech. + +Beautiful they were, in sooth, +The old man and the fiery youth! +The old man, in whose busy brain +Many a ship that sailed the main +Was modelled o'er and o'er again;-- +The fiery youth, who was to be +the heir of his dexterity, +The heir of his house, and his daughter's hand, +When he had built and launched from land +What the elder head had planned. + +"Thus," said he, "will we build this ship! +Lay square the blocks upon the slip, +And follow well this plan of mine. +Choose the timbers with greatest care; +Of all that is unsound beware; +For only what is sound and strong +to this vessel stall belong. +Cedar of Maine and Georgia pine +Here together shall combine. +A goodly frame, and a goodly fame, +And the UNION be her name! +For the day that gives her to the sea +Shall give my daughter unto thee!" + +The Master's word +Enraptured the young man heard; +And as he turned his face aside, +With a look of joy and a thrill of pride, +Standing before +Her father's door, +He saw the form of his promised bride. +The sun shone on her golden hair, +And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair, +With the breath of morn and the soft sea air. +Like a beauteous barge was she, +Still at rest on the sandy beach, +Just beyond the billow's reach; +But he +Was the restless, seething, stormy sea! +Ah, how skilful grows the hand +That obeyeth Love's command! +It is the heart, and not the brain, +That to the highest doth attain, +And he who followeth Love's behest +Far excelleth all the rest! + +Thus with the rising of the sun +Was the noble task begun +And soon throughout the ship-yard's bounds +Were heard the intermingled sounds +Of axes and of mallets, plied +With vigorous arms on every side; +Plied so deftly and so well, +That, ere the shadows of evening fell, +The keel of oak for a noble ship, +Scarfed and bolted, straight and strong +Was lying ready, and stretched along +The blocks, well placed upon the slip. +Happy, thrice happy, every one +Who sees his labor well begun, +And not perplexed and multiplied, +By idly waiting for time and tide! + +And when the hot, long day was o'er, +The young man at the Master's door +Sat with the maiden calm and still. +And within the porch, a little more +Removed beyond the evening chill, +The father sat, and told them tales +Of wrecks in the great September gales, +Of pirates coasting the Spanish Main, +And ships that never came back again, +The chance and change of a sailor's life, +Want and plenty, rest and strife, +His roving fancy, like the wind, +That nothing can stay and nothing can bind, +And the magic charm of foreign lands, +With shadows of palms, and shining sands, +Where the tumbling surf, +O'er the coral reefs of Madagascar, +Washes the feet of the swarthy Lascar, +As he lies alone and asleep on the turf. +And the trembling maiden held her breath +At the tales of that awful, pitiless sea, +With all its terror and mystery, +The dim, dark sea, so like unto Death, +That divides and yet unites mankind! +And whenever the old man paused, a gleam +From the bowl of his pipe would awhile illume +The silent group in the twilight gloom, +And thoughtful faces, as in a dream; +And for a moment one might mark +What had been hidden by the dark, +That the head of the maiden lay at rest, +Tenderly, on the young man's breast! + +Day by day the vessel grew, +With timbers fashioned strong and true, +Stemson and keelson and sternson-knee, +Till, framed with perfect symmetry, +A skeleton ship rose up to view! +And around the bows and along the side +The heavy hammers and mallets plied, +Till after many a week, at length, +Wonderful for form and strength, +Sublime in its enormous bulk, +Loomed aloft the shadowy hulk! +And around it columns of smoke, up-wreathing. +Rose from the boiling, bubbling, seething +Caldron, that glowed, +And overflowed +With the black tar, heated for the sheathing. +And amid the clamors +Of clattering hammers, +He who listened heard now and then +The song of the Master and his men:-- + +"Build me straight, O worthy Master. + Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel, +That shall laugh at all disaster, + And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!" + +With oaken brace and copper band, +Lay the rudder on the sand, +That, like a thought, should have control +Over the movement of the whole; +And near it the anchor, whose giant hand +Would reach down and grapple with the land, +And immovable and fast +Hold the great ship against the bellowing blast! +And at the bows an image stood, +By a cunning artist carved in wood, +With robes of white, that far behind +Seemed to be fluttering in the wind. +It was not shaped in a classic mould, +Not like a Nymph or Goddess of old, +Or Naiad rising from the water, +But modelled from the Master's daughter! +On many a dreary and misty night, +'T will be seen by the rays of the signal light, +Speeding along through the rain and the dark, +Like a ghost in its snow-white sark, +The pilot of some phantom bark, +Guiding the vessel, in its flight, +By a path none other knows aright! +Behold, at last, +Each tall and tapering mast +Is swung into its place; +Shrouds and stays +Holding it firm and fast! + +Long ago, +In the deer-haunted forests of Maine, +When upon mountain and plain +Lay the snow, +They fell,--those lordly pines! +Those grand, majestic pines! +'Mid shouts and cheers +The jaded steers, +Panting beneath the goad, +Dragged down the weary, winding road +Those captive kings so straight and tall, +To be shorn of their streaming hair, +And, naked and bare, +To feel the stress and the strain +Of the wind and the reeling main, +Whose roar +Would remind them forevermore +Of their native forests they should not see again. + +And everywhere +The slender, graceful spars +Poise aloft in the air, +And at the mast-head, +White, blue, and red, +A flag unrolls the stripes and stars. +Ah! when the wanderer, lonely, friendless, +In foreign harbors shall behold +That flag unrolled, +'T will be as a friendly hand +Stretched out from his native land, +Filling his heart with memories sweet and endless! + +All is finished! and at length +Has come the bridal day +Of beauty and of strength. +To-day the vessel shall be launched! +With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched, +And o'er the bay, +Slowly, in all his splendors dight, +The great sun rises to behold the sight. + +The ocean old, +Centuries old, +Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled, +Paces restless to and fro, +Up and down the sands of gold. +His beating heart is not at rest; +And far and wide, +With ceaseless flow, +His beard of snow +Heaves with the heaving of his breast. +He waits impatient for his bride. +There she stands, +With her foot upon the sands, +Decked with flags and streamers gay, +In honor of her marriage day, +Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending, +Round her like a veil descending, +Ready to be +The bride of the gray old sea. + +On the deck another bride +Is standing by her lover's side. +Shadows from the flags and shrouds, +Like the shadows cast by clouds, +Broken by many a sunny fleck, +Fall around them on the deck. + +The prayer is said, +The service read, +The joyous bridegroom bows his head; +And in tear's the good old Master +Shakes the brown hand of his son, +Kisses his daughter's glowing cheek +In silence, for he cannot speak, +And ever faster +Down his own the tears begin to run. +The worthy pastor-- +The shepherd of that wandering flock, +That has the ocean for its wold, +That has the vessel for its fold, +Leaping ever from rock to rock-- +Spake, with accents mild and clear, +Words of warning, words of cheer, +But tedious to the bridegroom's ear. +He knew the chart +Of the sailor's heart, +All its pleasures and its griefs, +All its shallows and rocky reefs, +All those secret currents, that flow +With such resistless undertow, +And lift and drift, with terrible force, +The will from its moorings and its course. +Therefore he spake, and thus said he:-- +"Like unto ships far off at sea, +Outward or homeward bound, are we. +Before, behind, and all around, +Floats and swings the horizon's bound, +Seems at its distant rim to rise +And climb the crystal wall of the skies, +And then again to turn and sink, +As if we could slide from its outer brink. +Ah! it is not the sea, +It is not the sea that sinks and shelves, +But ourselves +That rock and rise +With endless and uneasy motion, +Now touching the very skies, +Now sinking into the depths of ocean. +Ah! if our souls but poise and swing +Like the compass in its brazen ring, +Ever level and ever true +To the toil and the task we have to do, +We shall sail securely, and safely reach +The Fortunate Isles, on whose shining beach +The sights we see, and the sounds we hear, +Will be those of joy and not of fear!" + +Then the Master, +With a gesture of command, +Waved his hand; +And at the word, +Loud and sudden there was heard, +All around them and below, +The sound of hammers, blow on blow, +Knocking away the shores and spurs. +And see! she stirs! +She starts,--she moves,--she seems to feel +The thrill of life along her keel, +And, spurning with her foot the ground, +With one exulting, joyous bound, +She leaps into the ocean's arms! + +And lo! from the assembled crowd +There rose a shout, prolonged and loud, +That to the ocean seemed to say, +"Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray, +Take her to thy protecting arms, +With all her youth and all her charms!" + +How beautiful she is! How fair +She lies within those arms, that press +Her form with many a soft caress +Of tenderness and watchful care! +Sail forth into the sea, O ship! +Through wind and wave, right onward steer! +The moistened eye, the trembling lip, +Are not the signs of doubt or fear. + +Sail forth into the sea of life, +O gentle, loving, trusting wife, +And safe from all adversity +Upon the bosom of that sea +Thy comings and thy goings be! +For gentleness and love and trust +Prevail o'er angry wave and gust; +And in the wreck of noble lives +Something immortal still survives! + +Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State! +Sail on, O UNION, strong and great! +Humanity with all its fears, +With all the hopes of future years, +Is hanging breathless on thy fate! +We know what Master laid thy keel, +What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, +Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, +What anvils rang, what hammers beat, +In what a forge and what a heat +Were shaped the anchors of thy hope! +Fear not each sudden sound and shock, +'T is of the wave and not the rock; +'T is but the flapping of the sail, +And not a rent made by the gale! +In spite of rock and tempest's roar, +In spite of false lights on the shore, +Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea +Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, +Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, +Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, +Are all with thee,--are all with thee! + + + +SEAWEED + +When descends on the Atlantic + The gigantic +Storm-wind of the equinox, +Landward in his wrath he scourges + The toiling surges, +Laden with seaweed from the rocks: + +From Bermuda's reefs; from edges + Of sunken ledges, +In some far-off, bright Azore; +From Bahama, and the dashing, + Silver-flashing +Surges of San Salvador; + +From the tumbling surf, that buries + The Orkneyan skerries, +Answering the hoarse Hebrides; +And from wrecks of ships, and drifting + Spars, uplifting +On the desolate, rainy seas;-- + +Ever drifting, drifting, drifting + On the shifting +Currents of the restless main; +Till in sheltered coves, and reaches + Of sandy beaches, +All have found repose again. + +So when storms of wild emotion + Strike the ocean +Of the poet's soul, erelong +From each cave and rocky fastness, + In its vastness, +Floats some fragment of a song: + +Front the far-off isles enchanted, + Heaven has planted +With the golden fruit of Truth; +From the flashing surf, whose vision + Gleams Elysian +In the tropic clime of Youth; + +From the strong Will, and the Endeavor + That forever +Wrestle with the tides of Fate +From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered, + Tempest-shattered, +Floating waste and desolate;-- + +Ever drifting, drifting, drifting + On the shifting +Currents of the restless heart; +Till at length in books recorded, + They, like hoarded +Household words, no more depart. + + + +CHRYSAOR + +Just above yon sandy bar, + As the day grows fainter and dimmer, +Lonely and lovely, a single star + Lights the air with a dusky glimmer + +Into the ocean faint and far + Falls the trail of its golden splendor, +And the gleam of that single star + Is ever refulgent, soft, and tender. + +Chrysaor, rising out of the sea, + Showed thus glorious and thus emulous, +Leaving the arms of Callirrhoe, + Forever tender, soft, and tremulous. + +Thus o'er the ocean faint and far + Trailed the gleam of his falchion brightly; +Is it a God, or is it a star + That, entranced, I gaze on nightly! + + + +THE SECRET OF THE SEA + +Ah! what pleasant visions haunt me + As I gaze upon the sea! +All the old romantic legends, + All my dreams, come back to me. + +Sails of silk and ropes of sandal, + Such as gleam in ancient lore; +And the singing of the sailors, + And the answer from the shore! + +Most of all, the Spanish ballad + Haunts me oft, and tarries long, +Of the noble Count Arnaldos + And the sailor's mystic song. + +Like the long waves on a sea-beach, + Where the sand as silver shines, +With a soft, monotonous cadence, + Flow its unrhymed lyric lines:-- + +Telling how the Count Arnaldos, + With his hawk upon his hand, +Saw a fair and stately galley, + Steering onward to the land;-- + +How he heard the ancient helmsman + Chant a song so wild and clear, +That the sailing sea-bird slowly + Poised upon the mast to hear, + +Till his soul was full of longing, + And he cried, with impulse strong,-- +"Helmsman! for the love of heaven, + Teach me, too, that wondrous song!" + +"Wouldst thou,"--so the helmsman answered, + "Learn the secret of the sea? +Only those who brave its dangers + Comprehend its mystery!" + +In each sail that skims the horizon, + In each landward-blowing breeze, +I behold that stately galley, + Hear those mournful melodies; + +Till my soul is full of longing + For the secret of the sea, +And the heart of the great ocean + Sends a thrilling pulse through me. + + + +TWILIGHT + +The twilight is sad and cloudy, + The wind blows wild and free, +And like the wings of sea-birds + Flash the white caps of the sea. + +But in the fisherman's cottage + There shines a ruddier light, +And a little face at the window + Peers out into the night. + +Close, close it is pressed to the window, + As if those childish eyes +Were looking into the darkness, + To see some form arise. + +And a woman's waving shadow + Is passing to and fro, +Now rising to the ceiling, + Now bowing and bending low. + +What tale do the roaring ocean, + And the night-wind, bleak and wild, +As they beat at the crazy casement, + Tell to that little child? + +And why do the roaring ocean, + And the night-wind, wild and bleak, +As they beat at the heart of the mother, + Drive the color from her cheek? + + + +SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT + +Southward with fleet of ice + Sailed the corsair Death; +Wild and fast blew the blast, + And the east-wind was his breath. + +His lordly ships of ice + Glisten in the sun; +On each side, like pennons wide, + Flashing crystal streamlets run. + +His sails of white sea-mist + Dripped with silver rain; +But where he passed there were cast + Leaden shadows o'er the main. + +Eastward from Campobello + Sir Humphrey Gilbert sailed; +Three days or more seaward he bore, + Then, alas! the land-wind failed. + +Alas! the land-wind failed, + And ice-cold grew the night; +And nevermore, on sea or shore, + Should Sir Humphrey see the light. + +He sat upon the deck, + The Book was in his hand +"Do not fear! Heaven is as near," + He said, "by water as by land!" + +In the first watch of the night, + Without a signal's sound, +Out of the sea, mysteriously, + The fleet of Death rose all around. + +The moon and the evening star + Were hanging in the shrouds; +Every mast, as it passed, + Seemed to rake the passing clouds. + +They grappled with their prize, + At midnight black and cold! +As of a rock was the shock; + Heavily the ground-swell rolled. + +Southward through day and dark, + They drift in close embrace, +With mist and rain, o'er the open main; + Yet there seems no change of place. + +Southward, forever southward, + They drift through dark and day; +And like a dream, in the Gulf-Stream + Sinking, vanish all away. + + + +THE LIGHTHOUSE + +The rocky ledge runs far into the sea, + And on its outer point, some miles away, +The Lighthouse lifts its massive masonry, + A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day. + +Even at this distance I can see the tides, + Upheaving, break unheard along its base, +A speechless wrath, that rises and subsides + In the white lip and tremor of the face. + +And as the evening darkens, lo! how bright, + Through the deep purple of the twilight air, +Beams forth the sudden radiance of its light + With strange, unearthly splendor in the glare! + +Not one alone; from each projecting cape + And perilous reef along the ocean's verge, +Starts into life a dim, gigantic shape, + Holding its lantern o'er the restless surge. + +Like the great giant Christopher it stands + Upon the brink of the tempestuous wave, +Wading far out among the rocks and sands, + The night-o'ertaken mariner to save. + +And the great ships sail outward and return, + Bending and bowing o'er the billowy swells, +And ever joyful, as they see it burn, + They wave their silent welcomes and farewells. + +They come forth from the darkness, and their sails + Gleam for a moment only in the blaze, +And eager faces, as the light unveils, + Gaze at the tower, and vanish while they gaze. + +The mariner remembers when a child, + On his first voyage, he saw it fade and sink; +And when, returning from adventures wild, + He saw it rise again o'er ocean's brink. + +Steadfast, serene, immovable, the same + Year after year, through all the silent night +Burns on forevermore that quenchless flame, + Shines on that inextinguishable light! + +It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp + The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace; +It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp, + And hold it up, and shake it like a fleece. + +The startled waves leap over it; the storm + Smites it with all the scourges of the rain, +And steadily against its solid form + Press the great shoulders of the hurricane. + +The sea-bird wheeling round it, with the din + Of wings and winds and solitary cries, +Blinded and maddened by the light within, + Dashes himself against the glare, and dies. + +A new Prometheus, chained upon the rock, + Still grasping in his hand the fire of Jove, +It does not hear the cry, nor heed the shock, + But hails the mariner with words of love. + +"Sail on!" it says, "sail on, ye stately ships! + And with your floating bridge the ocean span; +Be mine to guard this light from all eclipse, + Be yours to bring man nearer unto man!" + + + +THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD + +DEVEREUX FARM, NEAR MARBLEHEAD + +We sat within the farm-house old, + Whose windows, looking o'er the bay, +Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold, + An easy entrance, night and day. + +Not far away we saw the port, + The strange, old-fashioned, silent town, +The lighthouse, the dismantled fort, + The wooden houses, quaint and brown. + +We sat and talked until the night, + Descending, filled the little room; +Our faces faded from the sight, + Our voices only broke the gloom. + +We spake of many a vanished scene, + Of what we once had thought and said, +Of what had been, and might have been, + And who was changed, and who was dead; + +And all that fills the hearts of friends, + When first they feel, with secret pain, +Their lives thenceforth have separate ends, + And never can be one again; + +The first slight swerving of the heart, + That words are powerless to express, +And leave it still unsaid in part, + Or say it in too great excess. + +The very tones in which we spake + Had something strange, I could but mark; +The leaves of memory seemed to make + A mournful rustling in the dark. + +Oft died the words upon our lips, + As suddenly, from out the fire +Built of the wreck of stranded ships, + The flames would leap and then expire. + +And, as their splendor flashed and failed, + We thought of wrecks upon the main, +Of ships dismasted, that were hailed + And sent no answer back again. + +The windows, rattling in their frames, + The ocean, roaring up the beach, +The gusty blast, the bickering flames, + All mingled vaguely in our speech. + +Until they made themselves a part + Of fancies floating through the brain, +The long-lost ventures of the heart, + That send no answers back again. + +O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned! + They were indeed too much akin, +The drift-wood fire without that burned, + The thoughts that burned and glowed within. + + + +BY THE FIRESIDE + +RESIGNATION + +There is no flock, however watched and tended, + But one dead lamb is there! +There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, + But has one vacant chair! + +The air is full of farewells to the dying, + And mournings for the dead; +The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, + Will not be comforted! + +Let us be patient! These severe afflictions + Not from the ground arise, +But oftentimes celestial benedictions + Assume this dark disguise. + +We see but dimly through the mists and vapors; + Amid these earthly damps +What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers + May be heaven's distant lamps. + +There is no Death! What seems so is transition; + This life of mortal breath +Is but a suburb of the life elysian, + Whose portal we call Death. + +She is not dead,--the child of our affection,-- + But gone unto that school +Where she no longer needs our poor protection, + And Christ himself doth rule. + +In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, + By guardian angels led, +Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, + She lives, whom we call dead. + +Day after day we think what she is doing + In those bright realms of air; +Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, + Behold her grown more fair. + +Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken + The bond which nature gives, +Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, + May reach her where she lives. + +Not as a child shall we again behold her; + For when with raptures wild +In our embraces we again enfold her, + She will not be a child; + +But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, + Clothed with celestial grace; +And beautiful with all the soul's expansion + Shall we behold her face. + +And though at times impetuous with emotion + And anguish long suppressed, +The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, + That cannot be at rest,-- + +We will be patient, and assuage the feeling + We may not wholly stay; +By silence sanctifying, not concealing, + The grief that must have way. + + + +THE BUILDERS + +All are architects of Fate, + Working in these walls of Time; +Some with massive deeds and great, + Some with ornaments of rhyme. + +Nothing useless is, or low; + Each thing in its place is best; +And what seems but idle show + Strengthens and supports the rest. + +For the structure that we raise, + Time is with materials filled; +Our to-days and yesterdays + Are the blocks with which we build. + +Truly shape and fashion these; + Leave no yawning gaps between; +Think not, because no man sees, + Such things will remain unseen. + +In the elder days of Art, + Builders wrought with greatest care +Each minute and unseen part; + For the Gods see everywhere. + +Let us do our work as well, + Both the unseen and the seen; +Make the house, where Gods may dwell, + Beautiful, entire, and clean. + +Else our lives are incomplete, + Standing in these walls of Time, +Broken stairways, where the feet + Stumble as they seek to climb. + +Build to-day, then, strong and sure, + With a firm and ample base; +And ascending and secure + Shall to-morrow find its place. + +Thus alone can we attain + To those turrets, where the eye +Sees the world as one vast plain, + And one boundless reach of sky. + + + +SAND OF THE DESERT IN AN HOUR-GLASS + +A handful of red sand, from the hot clime + Of Arab deserts brought, +Within this glass becomes the spy of Time, + The minister of Thought. + +How many weary centuries has it been + About those deserts blown! +How many strange vicissitudes has seen, + How many histories known! + +Perhaps the camels of the Ishmaelite + Trampled and passed it o'er, +When into Egypt from the patriarch's sight + His favorite son they bore. + +Perhaps the feet of Moses, burnt and bare, + Crushed it beneath their tread; +Or Pharaoh's flashing wheels into the air + Scattered it as they sped; + +Or Mary, with the Christ of Nazareth + Held close in her caress, +Whose pilgrimage of hope and love and faith + Illumed the wilderness; + +Or anchorites beneath Engaddi's palms + Pacing the Dead Sea beach, +And singing slow their old Armenian psalms + In half-articulate speech; + +Or caravans, that from Bassora's gate + With westward steps depart; +Or Mecca's pilgrims, confident of Fate, + And resolute in heart! + +These have passed over it, or may have passed! + Now in this crystal tower +Imprisoned by some curious hand at last, + It counts the passing hour, + +And as I gaze, these narrow walls expand; + Before my dreamy eye +Stretches the desert with its shifting sand, + Its unimpeded sky. + +And borne aloft by the sustaining blast, + This little golden thread +Dilates into a column high and vast, + A form of fear and dread. + +And onward, and across the setting sun, + Across the boundless plain, +The column and its broader shadow run, + Till thought pursues in vain. + +The vision vanishes! These walls again + Shut out the lurid sun, +Shut out the hot, immeasurable plain; + The half-hour's sand is run! + + + +THE OPEN WINDOW + +The old house by the lindens + Stood silent in the shade, +And on the gravelled pathway + The light and shadow played. + +I saw the nursery windows + Wide open to the air; +But the faces of the children, + They were no longer there. + +The large Newfoundland house-dog + Was standing by the door; +He looked for his little playmates, + Who would return no more. + +They walked not under the lindens, + They played not in the hall; +But shadow, and silence, and sadness + Were hanging over all. + +The birds sang in the branches, + With sweet, familiar tone; +But the voices of the children + Will be heard in dreams alone! + +And the boy that walked beside me, + He could not understand +Why closer in mine, ah! closer, + I pressed his warm, soft hand! + + + +KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN + +Witlaf, a king of the Saxons, + Ere yet his last he breathed, +To the merry monks of Croyland + His drinking-horn bequeathed,-- + +That, whenever they sat at their revels, + And drank from the golden bowl, +They might remember the donor, + And breathe a prayer for his soul. + +So sat they once at Christmas, + And bade the goblet pass; +In their beards the red wine glistened + Like dew-drops in the grass. + +They drank to the soul of Witlaf, + They drank to Christ the Lord, +And to each of the Twelve Apostles, + Who had preached his holy word. + +They drank to the Saints and Martyrs + Of the dismal days of yore, +And as soon as the horn was empty + They remembered one Saint more. + +And the reader droned from the pulpit + Like the murmur of many bees, +The legend of good Saint Guthlac, + And Saint Basil's homilies; + +Till the great bells of the convent, + From their prison in the tower, +Guthlac and Bartholomaeus, + Proclaimed the midnight hour. + +And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney, + And the Abbot bowed his head, +And the flamelets flapped and flickered, + But the Abbot was stark and dead. + +Yet still in his pallid fingers + He clutched the golden bowl, +In which, like a pearl dissolving, + Had sunk and dissolved his soul. + +But not for this their revels + The jovial monks forbore, +For they cried, "Fill high the goblet! + We must drink to one Saint more!" + + + +GASPAR BECERRA + +By his evening fire the artist + Pondered o'er his secret shame; +Baffled, weary, and disheartened, + Still he mused, and dreamed of fame. + +'T was an image of the Virgin + That had tasked his utmost skill; +But, alas! his fair ideal + Vanished and escaped him still. + +From a distant Eastern island + Had the precious wood been brought +Day and night the anxious master + At his toil untiring wrought; + +Till, discouraged and desponding, + Sat he now in shadows deep, +And the day's humiliation + Found oblivion in sleep. + +Then a voice cried, "Rise, O master! + From the burning brand of oak +Shape the thought that stirs within thee!" + And the startled artist woke,-- + +Woke, and from the smoking embers + Seized and quenched the glowing wood; +And therefrom he carved an image, + And he saw that it was good. + +O thou sculptor, painter, poet! + Take this lesson to thy heart: +That is best which lieth nearest; + Shape from that thy work of art. + + +PEGASUS IN POUND + +Once into a quiet village, + Without haste and without heed, +In the golden prime of morning, + Strayed the poet's winged steed. + +It was Autumn, and incessant + Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves, +And, like living coals, the apples + Burned among the withering leaves. + +Loud the clamorous bell was ringing + From its belfry gaunt and grim; +'T was the daily call to labor, + Not a triumph meant for him. + +Not the less he saw the landscape, + In its gleaming vapor veiled; +Not the less he breathed the odors + That the dying leaves exhaled. + +Thus, upon the village common, + By the school-boys he was found; +And the wise men, in their wisdom, + Put him straightway into pound. + +Then the sombre village crier, + Ringing loud his brazen bell, +Wandered down the street proclaiming + There was an estray to sell. + +And the curious country people, + Rich and poor, and young and old, +Came in haste to see this wondrous + Winged steed, with mane of gold. + +Thus the day passed, and the evening + Fell, with vapors cold and dim; +But it brought no food nor shelter, + Brought no straw nor stall, for him. + +Patiently, and still expectant, + Looked he through the wooden bars, +Saw the moon rise o'er the landscape, + Saw the tranquil, patient stars; + +Till at length the bell at midnight + Sounded from its dark abode, +And, from out a neighboring farm-yard + Loud the cock Alectryon crowed. + +Then, with nostrils wide distended, + Breaking from his iron chain, +And unfolding far his pinions, + To those stars he soared again. + +On the morrow, when the village + Woke to all its toil and care, +Lo! the strange steed had departed, + And they knew not when nor where. + +But they found, upon the greensward + Where his straggling hoofs had trod, +Pure and bright, a fountain flowing + From the hoof-marks in the sod. + +From that hour, the fount unfailing + Gladdens the whole region round, +Strengthening all who drink its waters, + While it soothes them with its sound. + + + +TEGNÉR'S DRAPA + +I heard a voice, that cried, +"Balder the Beautiful +Is dead, is dead!" +And through the misty air +Passed like the mournful cry +Of sunward sailing cranes. + +I saw the pallid corpse +Of the dead sun +Borne through the Northern sky. +Blasts from Niffelheim +Lifted the sheeted mists +Around him as he passed. + +And the voice forever cried, +"Balder the Beautiful +Is dead, is dead!" +And died away +Through the dreary night, +In accents of despair. + +Balder the Beautiful, +God of the summer sun, +Fairest of all the Gods! +Light from his forehead beamed, +Runes were upon his tongue, +As on the warrior's sword. + +All things in earth and air +Bound were by magic spell +Never to do him harm; +Even the plants and stones; +All save the mistletoe, +The sacred mistletoe! + +Hoeder, the blind old God, +Whose feet are shod with silence, +Pierced through that gentle breast +With his sharp spear, by fraud +Made of the mistletoe, +The accursed mistletoe! + +They laid him in his ship, +With horse and harness, +As on a funeral pyre. +Odin placed +A ring upon his finger, +And whispered in his ear. + +They launched the burning ship! +It floated far away +Over the misty sea, +Till like the sun it seemed, +Sinking beneath the waves. +Balder returned no more! + +So perish the old Gods! +But out of the sea of Time +Rises a new land of song, +Fairer than the old. +Over its meadows green +Walk the young bards and sing. + +Build it again, +O ye bards, +Fairer than before! +Ye fathers of the new race, +Feed upon morning dew, +Sing the new Song of Love! + +The law of force is dead! +The law of love prevails! +Thor, the thunderer, +Shall rule the earth no more, +No more, with threats, +Challenge the meek Christ. + +Sing no more, +O ye bards of the North, +Of Vikings and of Jarls! +Of the days of Eld +Preserve the freedom only, +Not the deeds of blood! + + + +SONNET + +ON MRS. KEMBLE'S READINGS FROM SHAKESPEARE + +O precious evenings! all too swiftly sped! + Leaving us heirs to amplest heritages + Of all the best thoughts of the greatest sages, + And giving tongues unto the silent dead! +How our hearts glowed and trembled as she read, + Interpreting by tones the wondrous pages + Of the great poet who foreruns the ages, + Anticipating all that shall be said! +O happy Reader! having for thy text + The magic book, whose Sibylline leaves have caught + The rarest essence of all human thought! +O happy Poet! by no critic vext! + How must thy listening spirit now rejoice + To be interpreted by such a voice! + + + +THE SINGERS + +God sent his Singers upon earth +With songs of sadness and of mirth, +That they might touch the hearts of men, +And bring them back to heaven again. + +The first, a youth, with soul of fire, +Held in his hand a golden lyre; +Through groves he wandered, and by streams, +Playing the music of our dreams. + +The second, with a bearded face, +Stood singing in the market-place, +And stirred with accents deep and loud +The hearts of all the listening crowd. + +A gray old man, the third and last, +Sang in cathedrals dim and vast, +While the majestic organ rolled +Contrition from its mouths of gold. + +And those who heard the Singers three +Disputed which the best might be; +For still their music seemed to start +Discordant echoes in each heart, + +But the great Master said, "I see +No best in kind, but in degree; +I gave a various gift to each, +To charm, to strengthen, and to teach. + +"These are the three great chords of might, +And he whose ear is tuned aright +Will hear no discord in the three, +But the most perfect harmony." + + + +SUSPIRIA + +Take them, O Death! and bear away + Whatever thou canst call thine own! +Thine image, stamped upon this clay, + Doth give thee that, but that alone! + +Take them, O Grave! and let them lie + Folded upon thy narrow shelves, +As garments by the soul laid by, + And precious only to ourselves! + +Take them, O great Eternity! + Our little life is but a gust +That bends the branches of thy tree, + And trails its blossoms in the dust! + + + +HYMN + +FOR MY BROTHER'S ORDINATION + +Christ to the young man said: "Yet one thing more; + If thou wouldst perfect be, +Sell all thou hast and give it to the poor, + And come and follow me!" + +Within this temple Christ again, unseen, + Those sacred words hath said, +And his invisible hands to-day have been + Laid on a young man's head. + +And evermore beside him on his way + The unseen Christ shall move, +That he may lean upon his arm and say, + "Dost thou, dear Lord, approve?" + +Beside him at the marriage feast shall be, + To make the scene more fair; +Beside him in the dark Gethsemane + Of pain and midnight prayer. + +O holy trust! O endless sense of rest! + Like the beloved John +To lay his head upon the Saviour's breast, + And thus to journey on! + + +*************** + +THE SONG OF HIAWATHA +<Notes from HIAWATHA follow> + +INTRODUCTION + +Should you ask me, whence these stories? +Whence these legends and traditions, +With the odors of the forest +With the dew and damp of meadows, +With the curling smoke of wigwams, +With the rushing of great rivers, +With their frequent repetitions, +And their wild reverberations +As of thunder in the mountains? + I should answer, I should tell you, +"From the forests and the prairies, +From the great lakes of the Northland, +From the land of the Ojibways, +From the land of the Dacotahs, +From the mountains, moors, and fen-lands +Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, +Feeds among the reeds and rushes. +I repeat them as I heard them +From the lips of Nawadaha, +The musician, the sweet singer." + Should you ask where Nawadaha +Found these songs so wild and wayward, +Found these legends and traditions, +I should answer, I should tell you, +"In the bird's-nests of the forest, +In the lodges of the beaver, +In the hoof-prints of the bison, +In the eyry of the eagle! + "All the wild-fowl sang them to him, +In the moorlands and the fen-lands, +In the melancholy marshes; +Chetowaik, the plover, sang them, +Mahng, the loon, the wild-goose, Wawa, +The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, +And the grouse, the Mushkodasa!" + If still further you should ask me, +Saying, "Who was Nawadaha? +Tell us of this Nawadaha," +I should answer your inquiries +Straightway in such words as follow. + "In the vale of Tawasentha, +In the green and silent valley, +By the pleasant water-courses, +Dwelt the singer Nawadaha. +Round about the Indian village +Spread the meadows and the corn-fields, +And beyond them stood the forest, +Stood the groves of singing pine-trees, +Green in Summer, white in Winter, +Ever sighing, ever singing. + "And the pleasant water-courses, +You could trace them through the valley, +By the rushing in the Spring-time, +By the alders in the Summer, +By the white fog in the Autumn, +By the black line in the Winter; +And beside them dwelt the singer, +In the vale of Tawasentha, +In the green and silent valley. + "There he sang of Hiawatha, +Sang the Song of Hiawatha, +Sang his wondrous birth and being, +How he prayed and how he fasted, +How he lived, and toiled, and suffered, +That the tribes of men might prosper, +That he might advance his people!" + Ye who love the haunts of Nature, +Love the sunshine of the meadow, +Love the shadow of the forest, +Love the wind among the branches, +And the rain-shower and the snow-storm, +And the rushing of great rivers +Through their palisades of pine-trees, +And the thunder in the mountains, +Whose innumerable echoes +Flap like eagles in their eyries;-- +Listen to these wild traditions, +To this Song of Hiawatha! + Ye who love a nation's legends, +Love the ballads of a people, +That like voices from afar off +Call to us to pause and listen, +Speak in tones so plain and childlike, +Scarcely can the ear distinguish +Whether they are sung or spoken;-- +Listen to this Indian Legend, +To this Song of Hiawatha! + Ye whose hearts are fresh and simple, +Who have faith in God and Nature, +Who believe that in all ages +Every human heart is human, +That in even savage bosoms +There are longings, yearnings, strivings +For the good they comprehend not, +That the feeble hands and helpless, +Groping blindly in the darkness, +Touch God's right hand in that darkness +And are lifted up and strengthened;-- +Listen to this simple story, +To this Song of Hiawatha! + Ye, who sometimes, in your rambles +Through the green lanes of the country, +Where the tangled barberry-bushes +Hang their tufts of crimson berries +Over stone walls gray with mosses, +Pause by some neglected graveyard, +For a while to muse, and ponder +On a half-effaced inscription, +Written with little skill of song-craft, +Homely phrases, but each letter +Full of hope and yet of heart-break, +Full of all the tender pathos +Of the Here and the Hereafter;-- +Stay and read this rude inscription, +Read this Song of Hiawatha! + + + +I + +THE PEACE-PIPE + +On the Mountains of the Prairie, +On the great Red Pipe-stone Quarry, +Gitche Manito, the mighty, +He the Master of Life, descending, +On the red crags of the quarry +Stood erect, and called the nations, +Called the tribes of men together. + From his footprints flowed a river, +Leaped into the light of morning, +O'er the precipice plunging downward +Gleamed like Ishkoodah, the comet. +And the Spirit, stooping earthward, +With his finger on the meadow +Traced a winding pathway for it, +Saying to it, "Run in this way!" + From the red stone of the quarry +With his hand he broke a fragment, +Moulded it into a pipe-head, +Shaped and fashioned it with figures; +From the margin of the river +Took a long reed for a pipe-stem, +With its dark green leaves upon it; +Filled the pipe with bark of willow, +With the bark of the red willow; +Breathed upon the neighboring forest, +Made its great boughs chafe together, +Till in flame they burst and kindled; +And erect upon the mountains, +Gitche Manito, the mighty, +Smoked the calumet, the Peace-Pipe, +As a signal to the nations. + And the smoke rose slowly, slowly, +Through the tranquil air of morning, +First a single line of darkness, +Then a denser, bluer vapor, +Then a snow-white cloud unfolding, +Like the tree-tops of the forest, +Ever rising, rising, rising, +Till it touched the top of heaven, +Till it broke against the heaven, +And rolled outward all around it. + From the Vale of Tawasentha, +From the Valley of Wyoming, +From the groves of Tuscaloosa, +From the far-off Rocky Mountains, +From the Northern lakes and rivers +All the tribes beheld the signal, +Saw the distant smoke ascending, +The Pukwana of the Peace-Pipe. + And the Prophets of the nations +Said: "Behold it, the Pukwana! +By the signal of the Peace-Pipe, +Bending like a wand of willow, +Waving like a hand that beckons, +Gitche Manito, the mighty, +Calls the tribes of men together, +Calls the warriors to his council!" + Down the rivers, o'er the prairies, +Came the warriors of the nations, +Came the Delawares and Mohawks, +Came the Choctaws and Camanches, +Came the Shoshonies and Blackfeet, +Came the Pawnees and Omahas, +Came the Mandans and Dacotahs, +Came the Hurons and Ojibways, +All the warriors drawn together +By the signal of the Peace-Pipe, +To the Mountains of the Prairie, +To the great Red Pipe-stone Quarry. + And they stood there on the meadow, +With their weapons and their war-gear, +Painted like the leaves of Autumn, +Painted like the sky of morning, +Wildly glaring at each other; +In their faces stern defiance, +In their hearts the feuds of ages, +The hereditary hatred, +The ancestral thirst of vengeance. + Gitche Manito, the mighty, +The creator of the nations, +Looked upon them with compassion, +With paternal love and pity; +Looked upon their wrath and wrangling +But as quarrels among children, +But as feuds and fights of children! + Over them he stretched his right hand, +To subdue their stubborn natures, +To allay their thirst and fever, +By the shadow of his right hand; +Spake to them with voice majestic +As the sound of far-off waters, +Falling into deep abysses, +Warning, chiding, spake in this wise:-- + "O my children! my poor children! +Listen to the words of wisdom, +Listen to the words of warning, +From the lips of the Great Spirit, +From the Master of Life, who made you! + "I have given you lands to hunt in, +I have given you streams to fish in, +I have given you bear and bison, +I have given you roe and reindeer, +I have given you brant and beaver, +Filled the marshes full of wild-fowl, +Filled the rivers full of fishes: +Why then are you not contented? +Why then will you hunt each other? + "I am weary of your quarrels, +Weary of your wars and bloodshed, +Weary of your prayers for vengeance, +Of your wranglings and dissensions; +All your strength is in your union, +All your danger is in discord; +Therefore be at peace henceforward, +And as brothers live together. + "I will send a Prophet to you, +A Deliverer of the nations, +Who shall guide you and shall teach you, +Who shall toil and suffer with you. +If you listen to his counsels, +You will multiply and prosper; +If his warnings pass unheeded, +You will fade away and perish! + "Bathe now in the stream before you, +Wash the war-paint from your faces, +Wash the blood-stains from your fingers, +Bury your war-clubs and your weapons, +Break the red stone from this quarry, +Mould and make it into Peace-Pipes, +Take the reeds that grow beside you, +Deck them with your brightest feathers, +Smoke the calumet together, +And as brothers live henceforward!" + Then upon the ground the warriors +Threw their cloaks and shirts of deer-skin, +Threw their weapons and their war-gear, +Leaped into the rushing river, +Washed the war-paint from their faces. +Clear above them flowed the water, +Clear and limpid from the footprints +Of the Master of Life descending; +Dark below them flowed the water, +Soiled and stained with streaks of crimson, +As if blood were mingled with it! + From the river came the warriors, +Clean and washed from all their war-paint; +On the banks their clubs they buried, +Buried all their warlike weapons. +Gitche Manito, the mighty, +The Great Spirit, the creator, +Smiled upon his helpless children! + And in silence all the warriors +Broke the red stone of the quarry, +Smoothed and formed it into Peace-Pipes, +Broke the long reeds by the river, +Decked them with their brightest feathers, +And departed each one homeward, +While the Master of Life, ascending, +Through the opening of cloud-curtains, +Through the doorways of the heaven, +Vanished from before their faces, +In the smoke that rolled around him, +The Pukwana of the Peace-Pipe! + + + +II + +The Four Winds + +"Honor be to Mudjekeewis!" +Cried the warriors, cried the old men, +When he came in triumph homeward +With the sacred Belt of Wampum, +From the regions of the North-Wind, +From the kingdom of Wabasso, +From the land of the White Rabbit. + He had stolen the Belt of Wampum +From the neck of Mishe-Mokwa, +From the Great Bear of the mountains, +From the terror of the nations, +As he lay asleep and cumbrous +On the summit of the mountains, +Like a rock with mosses on it, +Spotted brown and gray with mosses. + Silently he stole upon him, +Till the red nails of the monster +Almost touched him, almost scared him, +Till the hot breath of his nostrils +Warmed the hands of Mudjekeewis, +As he drew the Belt of Wampum +Over the round ears, that heard not, +Over the small eyes, that saw not, +Over the long nose and nostrils, +The black muffle of the nostrils, +Out of which the heavy breathing +Warmed the hands of Mudjekeewis. + Then he swung aloft his war-club, +Shouted loud and long his war-cry, +Smote the mighty Mishe-Mokwa +In the middle of the forehead, +Right between the eyes he smote him. + With the heavy blow bewildered, +Rose the Great Bear of the mountains; +But his knees beneath him trembled, +And he whimpered like a woman, +As he reeled and staggered forward, +As he sat upon his haunches; +And the mighty Mudjekeewis, +Standing fearlessly before him, +Taunted him in loud derision, +Spake disdainfully in this wise:-- + "Hark you, Bear! you are a coward; +And no Brave, as you pretended; +Else you would not cry and whimper +Like a miserable woman! +Bear! you know our tribes are hostile, +Long have been at war together; +Now you find that we are strongest, +You go sneaking in the forest, +You go hiding in the mountains! +Had you conquered me in battle +Not a groan would I have uttered; +But you, Bear! sit here and whimper, +And disgrace your tribe by crying, +Like a wretched Shaugodaya, +Like a cowardly old woman!" + Then again he raised his war-club, +Smote again the Mishe-Mokwa +In the middle of his forehead, +Broke his skull, as ice is broken +When one goes to fish in Winter. +Thus was slain the Mishe-Mokwa, +He the Great Bear of the mountains, +He the terror of the nations. + "Honor be to Mudjekeewis!" +With a shout exclaimed the people, +"Honor be to Mudjekeewis! +Henceforth he shall be the West-Wind, +And hereafter and forever +Shall he hold supreme dominion +Over all the winds of heaven. +Call him no more Mudjekeewis, +Call him Kabeyun, the West-Wind!" + Thus was Mudjekeewis chosen +Father of the Winds of Heaven. +For himself he kept the West-Wind, +Gave the others to his children; +Unto Wabun gave the East-Wind, +Gave the South to Shawondasee, +And the North-Wind, wild and cruel, +To the fierce Kabibonokka. + Young and beautiful was Wabun; +He it was who brought the morning, +He it was whose silver arrows +Chased the dark o'er hill and valley; +He it was whose cheeks were painted +With the brightest streaks of crimson, +And whose voice awoke the village, +Called the deer, and called the hunter. + Lonely in the sky was Wabun; +Though the birds sang gayly to him, +Though the wild-flowers of the meadow +Filled the air with odors for him, +Though the forests and the rivers +Sang and shouted at his coming, +Still his heart was sad within him, +For he was alone in heaven. + But one morning, gazing earthward, +While the village still was sleeping, +And the fog lay on the river, +Like a ghost, that goes at sunrise, +He beheld a maiden walking +All alone upon a meadow, +Gathering water-flags and rushes +By a river in the meadow. + Every morning, gazing earthward, +Still the first thing he beheld there +Was her blue eyes looking at him, +Two blue lakes among the rushes. +And he loved the lonely maiden, +Who thus waited for his coming; +For they both were solitary, +She on earth and he in heaven. + And he wooed her with caresses, +Wooed her with his smile of sunshine, +With his flattering words he wooed her, +With his sighing and his singing, +Gentlest whispers in the branches, +Softest music, sweetest odors, +Till he drew her to his bosom, +Folded in his robes of crimson, +Till into a star he changed her, +Trembling still upon his bosom; +And forever in the heavens +They are seen together walking, +Wabun and the Wabun-Annung, +Wabun and the Star of Morning. + But the fierce Kabibonokka +Had his dwelling among icebergs, +In the everlasting snow-drifts, +In the kingdom of Wabasso, +In the land of the White Rabbit. +He it was whose hand in Autumn +Painted all the trees with scarlet, +Stained the leaves with red and yellow; +He it was who sent the snow-flake, +Sifting, hissing through the forest, +Froze the ponds, the lakes, the rivers, +Drove the loon and sea-gull southward, +Drove the cormorant and curlew +To their nests of sedge and sea-tang +In the realms of Shawondasee. + Once the fierce Kabibonokka +Issued from his lodge of snow-drifts +From his home among the icebergs, +And his hair, with snow besprinkled, +Streamed behind him like a river, +Like a black and wintry river, +As he howled and hurried southward, +Over frozen lakes and moorlands. + There among the reeds and rushes +Found he Shingebis, the diver, +Trailing strings of fish behind him, +O'er the frozen fens and moorlands, +Lingering still among the moorlands, +Though his tribe had long departed +To the land of Shawondasee. + Cried the fierce Kabibonokka, +"Who is this that dares to brave me? +Dares to stay in my dominions, +When the Wawa has departed, +When the wild-goose has gone southward, +And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, +Long ago departed southward? +I will go into his wigwam, +I will put his smouldering fire out!" + And at night Kabibonokka, +To the lodge came wild and wailing, +Heaped the snow in drifts about it, +Shouted down into the smoke-flue, +Shook the lodge-poles in his fury, +Flapped the curtain of the door-way. +Shingebis, the diver, feared not, +Shingebis, the diver, cared not; +Four great logs had he for firewood, +One for each moon of the winter, +And for food the fishes served him. +By his blazing fire he sat there, +Warm and merry, eating, laughing, +Singing, "O Kabibonokka, +You are but my fellow-mortal!" + Then Kabibonokka entered, +And though Shingebis, the diver, +Felt his presence by the coldness, +Felt his icy breath upon him, +Still he did not cease his singing, +Still he did not leave his laughing, +Only turned the log a little, +Only made the fire burn brighter, +Made the sparks fly up the smoke-flue. + From Kabibonokka's forehead, +From his snow-besprinkled tresses, +Drops of sweat fell fast and heavy, +Making dints upon the ashes, +As along the eaves of lodges, +As from drooping boughs of hemlock, +Drips the melting snow in spring-time, +Making hollows in the snow-drifts. + Till at last he rose defeated, +Could not bear the heat and laughter, +Could not bear the merry singing, +But rushed headlong through the door-way, +Stamped upon the crusted snow-drifts, +Stamped upon the lakes and rivers, +Made the snow upon them harder, +Made the ice upon them thicker, +Challenged Shingebis, the diver, +To come forth and wrestle with him, +To come forth and wrestle naked +On the frozen fens and moorlands. + Forth went Shingebis, the diver, +Wrestled all night with the North-Wind, +Wrestled naked on the moorlands +With the fierce Kabibonokka, +Till his panting breath grew fainter, +Till his frozen grasp grew feebler, +Till he reeled and staggered backward, +And retreated, baffled, beaten, +To the kingdom of Wabasso, +To the land of the White Rabbit, +Hearing still the gusty laughter, +Hearing Shingebis, the diver, +Singing, "O Kabibonokka, +You are but my fellow-mortal!" + Shawondasee, fat and lazy, +Had his dwelling far to southward, +In the drowsy, dreamy sunshine, +In the never-ending Summer. +He it was who sent the wood-birds, +Sent the robin, the Opechee, +Sent the bluebird, the Owaissa, +Sent the Shawshaw, sent the swallow, +Sent the wild-goose, Wawa, northward, +Sent the melons and tobacco, +And the grapes in purple clusters. + From his pipe the smoke ascending +Filled the sky with haze and vapor, +Filled the air with dreamy softness, +Gave a twinkle to the water, +Touched the rugged hills with smoothness, +Brought the tender Indian Summer +To the melancholy north-land, +In the dreary Moon of Snow-shoes. + Listless, careless Shawondasee! +In his life he had one shadow, +In his heart one sorrow had he. +Once, as he was gazing northward, +Far away upon a prairie +He beheld a maiden standing, +Saw a tall and slender maiden +All alone upon a prairie; +Brightest green were all her garments, +And her hair was like the sunshine. + Day by day he gazed upon her, +Day by day he sighed with passion, +Day by day his heart within him +Grew more hot with love and longing +For the maid with yellow tresses. +But he was too fat and lazy +To bestir himself and woo her; +Yes, too indolent and easy +To pursue her and persuade her; +So he only gazed upon her, +Only sat and sighed with passion +For the maiden of the prairie. + Till one morning, looking northward, +He beheld her yellow tresses +Changed and covered o'er with whiteness, +Covered as with whitest snow-flakes. +"Ah! my brother from the North-land, +From the kingdom of Wabasso, +From the land of the White Rabbit! +You have stolen the maiden from me, +You have laid your hand upon her, +You have wooed and won my maiden, +With your stories of the North-land!" + Thus the wretched Shawondasee +Breathed into the air his sorrow; +And the South-Wind o'er the prairie +Wandered warm with sighs of passion, +With the sighs of Shawondasee, +Till the air seemed full of snow-flakes, +Full of thistle-down the prairie, +And the maid with hair like sunshine +Vanished from his sight forever; +Never more did Shawondasee +See the maid with yellow tresses! + Poor, deluded Shawondasee! +'T was no woman that you gazed at, +'T was no maiden that you sighed for, +'T was the prairie dandelion +That through all the dreamy Summer +You had gazed at with such longing, +You had sighed for with such passion, +And had puffed away forever, +Blown into the air with sighing. +Ah! deluded Shawondasee! + Thus the Four Winds were divided; +Thus the sons of Mudjekeewis +Had their stations in the heavens, +At the corners of the heavens; +For himself the West-Wind only +Kept the mighty Mudjekeewis. + + + +III + +HIAWATHA'S CHILDHOOD + +Downward through the evening twilight, +In the days that are forgotten, +In the unremembered ages, +From the full moon fell Nokomis, +Fell the beautiful Nokomis, +She a wife, but not a mother. + She was sporting with her women, +Swinging in a swing of grape-vines, +When her rival, the rejected, +Full of jealousy and hatred, +Cut the leafy swing asunder, +Cut in twain the twisted grape-vines, +And Nokomis fell affrighted +Downward through the evening twilight, +On the Muskoday, the meadow, +On the prairie full of blossoms. +"See! a star falls!" said the people; +"From the sky a star is falling!" + There among the ferns and mosses, +There among the prairie lilies, +On the Muskoday, the meadow, +In the moonlight and the starlight, +Fair Nokomis bore a daughter. +And she called her name Wenonah, +As the first-born of her daughters. +And the daughter of Nokomis +Grew up like the prairie lilies, +Grew a tall and slender maiden, +With the beauty of the moonlight, +With the beauty of the starlight. + And Nokomis warned her often, +Saying oft, and oft repeating, +"Oh, beware of Mudjekeewis, +Of the West-Wind, Mudjekeewis; +Listen not to what he tells you; +Lie not down upon the meadow, +Stoop not down among the lilies, +Lest the West-Wind come and harm you!" + But she heeded not the warning, +Heeded not those words of wisdom, +And the West-Wind came at evening, +Walking lightly o'er the prairie, +Whispering to the leaves and blossoms, +Bending low the flowers and grasses, +Found the beautiful Wenonah, +Lying there among the lilies, +Wooed her with his words of sweetness, +Wooed her with his soft caresses, +Till she bore a son in sorrow, +Bore a son of love and sorrow. + Thus was born my Hiawatha, +Thus was born the child of wonder; +But the daughter of Nokomis, +Hiawatha's gentle mother, +In her anguish died deserted +By the West-Wind, false and faithless, +By the heartless Mudjekeewis. + For her daughter long and loudly +Wailed and wept the sad Nokomis; +"Oh that I were dead!" she murmured, +"Oh that I were dead, as thou art! +No more work, and no more weeping, +Wahonowin! Wahonowin!" + By the shores of Gitche Gumee, +By the shining Big-Sea-Water, +Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, +Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis. +Dark behind it rose the forest, +Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees, +Rose the firs with cones upon them; +Bright before it beat the water, +Beat the clear and sunny water, +Beat the shining Big-Sea-Water. + There the wrinkled old Nokomis +Nursed the little Hiawatha, +Rocked him in his linden cradle, +Bedded soft in moss and rushes, +Safely bound with reindeer sinews; +Stilled his fretful wail by saying, +"Hush! the Naked Bear will hear thee!" +Lulled him into slumber, singing, +"Ewa-yea! my little owlet! +Who is this, that lights the wigwam? +With his great eyes lights the wigwam? +Ewa-yea! my little owlet!" + Many things Nokomis taught him +Of the stars that shine in heaven; +Showed him Ishkoodah, the comet, +Ishkoodah, with fiery tresses; +Showed the Death-Dance of the spirits, +Warriors with their plumes and war-clubs, +Flaring far away to northward +In the frosty nights of Winter; +Showed the broad white road in heaven, +Pathway of the ghosts, the shadows, +Running straight across the heavens, +Crowded with the ghosts, the shadows. + At the door on summer evenings +Sat the little Hiawatha; +Heard the whispering of the pine-trees, +Heard the lapping of the water, +Sounds of music, words of wonder; +'Minne-wawa!" said the Pine-trees, +Mudway-aushka!" said the water. + Saw the fire-fly, Wah-wah-taysee, +Flitting through the dusk of evening, +With the twinkle of its candle +Lighting up the brakes and bushes, +And he sang the song of children, +Sang the song Nokomis taught him: +"Wah-wah-taysee, little fire-fly, +Little, flitting, white-fire insect, +Little, dancing, white-fire creature, +Light me with your little candle, +Ere upon my bed I lay me, +Ere in sleep I close my eyelids!" + Saw the moon rise from the water +Rippling, rounding from the water, +Saw the flecks and shadows on it, +Whispered, "What is that, Nokomis?" +And the good Nokomis answered: +"Once a warrior, very angry, +Seized his grandmother, and threw her +Up into the sky at midnight; +Right against the moon he threw her; +'T is her body that you see there." + Saw the rainbow in the heaven, +In the eastern sky, the rainbow, +Whispered, "What is that, Nokomis?" +And the good Nokomis answered: +"'T is the heaven of flowers you see there; +All the wild-flowers of the forest, +All the lilies of the prairie, +When on earth they fade and perish, +Blossom in that heaven above us." + When he heard the owls at midnight, +Hooting, laughing in the forest, +"What is that?" he cried in terror, +"What is that," he said, "Nokomis?" +And the good Nokomis answered: +"That is but the owl and owlet, +Talking in their native language, +Talking, scolding at each other." + Then the little Hiawatha +Learned of every bird its language, +Learned their names and all their secrets, +How they built their nests in Summer, +Where they hid themselves in Winter, +Talked with them whene'er he met them, +Called them "Hiawatha's Chickens." + Of all beasts he learned the language, +Learned their names and all their secrets, +How the beavers built their lodges, +Where the squirrels hid their acorns, +How the reindeer ran so swiftly, +Why the rabbit was so timid, +Talked with them whene'er he met them, +Called them "Hiawatha's Brothers." + Then Iagoo, the great boaster, +He the marvellous story-teller, +He the traveller and the talker, +He the friend of old Nokomis, +Made a bow for Hiawatha; +From a branch of ash he made it, +From an oak-bough made the arrows, +Tipped with flint, and winged with feathers, +And the cord he made of deer-skin. + Then he said to Hiawatha: +"Go, my son, into the forest, +Where the red deer herd together, +Kill for us a famous roebuck, +Kill for us a deer with antlers!" + Forth into the forest straightway +All alone walked Hiawatha +Proudly, with his bow and arrows; +And the birds sang round him, o'er him, +"Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!" +Sang the robin, the Opechee, +Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa, +"Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!" + Up the oak-tree, close beside him, +Sprang the squirrel, Adjidaumo, +In and out among the branches, +Coughed and chattered from the oak-tree, +Laughed, and said between his laughing, +"Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!" + And the rabbit from his pathway +Leaped aside, and at a distance +Sat erect upon his haunches, +Half in fear and half in frolic, +Saying to the little hunter, +"Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!" + But he heeded not, nor heard them, +For his thoughts were with the red deer; +On their tracks his eyes were fastened, +Leading downward to the river, +To the ford across the river, +And as one in slumber walked he. + Hidden in the alder-bushes, +There he waited till the deer came, +Till he saw two antlers lifted, +Saw two eyes look from the thicket, +Saw two nostrils point to windward, +And a deer came down the pathway, +Flecked with leafy light and shadow. +And his heart within him fluttered, +Trembled like the leaves above him, +Like the birch-leaf palpitated, +As the deer came down the pathway. + Then, upon one knee uprising, +Hiawatha aimed an arrow; +Scarce a twig moved with his motion, +Scarce a leaf was stirred or rustled, +But the wary roebuck started, +Stamped with all his hoofs together, +Listened with one foot uplifted, +Leaped as if to meet the arrow; +Ah! the singing, fatal arrow, +Like a wasp it buzzed and stung him! + Dead he lay there in the forest, +By the ford across the river; +Beat his timid heart no longer, +But the heart of Hiawatha +Throbbed and shouted and exulted, +As he bore the red deer homeward, +And Iagoo and Nokomis +Hailed his coming with applauses. + From the red deer's hide Nokomis +Made a cloak for Hiawatha, +From the red deer's flesh Nokomis +Made a banquet to his honor. +All the village came and feasted, +All the guests praised Hiawatha, +Called him Strong-Heart, Soan-ge-taha! +Called him Loon-Heart, Mahn-go-taysee! + + + +IV + +HIAWATHA AND MUDJEKEEWIS + +Out of childhood into manhood +Now had grown my Hiawatha, +Skilled in all the craft of hunters, +Learned in all the lore of old men, +In all youthful sports and pastimes, +In all manly arts and labors. + Swift of foot was Hiawatha; +He could shoot an arrow from him, +And run forward with such fleetness, +That the arrow fell behind him! +Strong of arm was Hiawatha; +He could shoot ten arrows upward, +Shoot them with such strength and swiftness, +That the tenth had left the bow-string +Ere the first to earth had fallen! + He had mittens, Minjekahwun, +Magic mittens made of deer-skin; +When upon his hands he wore them, +He could smite the rocks asunder, +He could grind them into powder. +He had moccasins enchanted, +Magic moccasins of deer-skin; +When he bound them round his ankles, +When upon his feet he tied them, +At each stride a mile he measured! + Much he questioned old Nokomis +Of his father Mudjekeewis; +Learned from her the fatal secret +Of the beauty of his mother, +Of the falsehood of his father; +And his heart was hot within him, +Like a living coal his heart was. + Then he said to old Nokomis, +"I will go to Mudjekeewis, +See how fares it with my father, +At the doorways of the West-Wind, +At the portals of the Sunset!" + From his lodge went Hiawatha, +Dressed for travel, armed for hunting; +Dressed in deer-skin shirt and leggings, +Richly wrought with quills and wampum; +On his head his eagle-feathers, +Round his waist his belt of wampum, +In his hand his bow of ash-wood, +Strung with sinews of the reindeer; +In his quiver oaken arrows, +Tipped with jasper, winged with feathers; +With his mittens, Minjekahwun, +With his moccasins enchanted. + Warning said the old Nokomis, +"Go not forth, O Hiawatha! +To the kingdom of the West-Wind, +To the realms of Mudjekeewis, +Lest he harm you with his magic, +Lest he kill you with his cunning!" + But the fearless Hiawatha +Heeded not her woman's warning; +Forth he strode into the forest, +At each stride a mile he measured; +Lurid seemed the sky above him, +Lurid seemed the earth beneath him, +Hot and close the air around him, +Filled with smoke and fiery vapors, +As of burning woods and prairies, +For his heart was hot within him, +Like a living coal his heart was. + So he journeyed westward, westward, +Left the fleetest deer behind him, +Left the antelope and bison; +Crossed the rushing Esconaba, +Crossed the mighty Mississippi, +Passed the Mountains of the Prairie, +Passed the land of Crows and Foxes, +Passed the dwellings of the Blackfeet, +Came unto the Rocky Mountains, +To the kingdom of the West-Wind, +Where upon the gusty summits +Sat the ancient Mudjekeewis, +Ruler of the winds of heaven. + Filled with awe was Hiawatha +At the aspect of his father. +On the air about him wildly +Tossed and streamed his cloudy tresses, +Gleamed like drifting snow his tresses, +Glared like Ishkoodah, the comet, +Like the star with fiery tresses. + Filled with joy was Mudjekeewis +When he looked on Hiawatha, +Saw his youth rise up before him +In the face of Hiawatha, +Saw the beauty of Wenonah +From the grave rise up before him. + "Welcome!" said he, "Hiawatha, +To the kingdom of the West-Wind! +Long have I been waiting for you! +Youth is lovely, age is lonely, +Youth is fiery, age is frosty; +You bring back the days departed, +You bring back my youth of passion, +And the beautiful Wenonah!" + Many days they talked together, +Questioned, listened, waited, answered; +Much the mighty Mudjekeewis +Boasted of his ancient prowess, +Of his perilous adventures, +His indomitable courage, +His invulnerable body. + Patiently sat Hiawatha, +Listening to his father's boasting; +With a smile he sat and listened, +Uttered neither threat nor menace, +Neither word nor look betrayed him, +But his heart was hot within him, +Like a living coal his heart was. + Then he said, "O Mudjekeewis, +Is there nothing that can harm you? +Nothing that you are afraid of?" +And the mighty Mudjekeewis, +Grand and gracious in his boasting, +Answered, saying, "There is nothing, +Nothing but the black rock yonder, +Nothing but the fatal Wawbeek!" + And he looked at Hiawatha +With a wise look and benignant, +With a countenance paternal, +Looked with pride upon the beauty +Of his tall and graceful figure, +Saying, "O my Hiawatha! +Is there anything can harm you? +Anything you are afraid of?" + But the wary Hiawatha +Paused awhile, as if uncertain, +Held his peace, as if resolving, +And then answered, "There is nothing, +Nothing but the bulrush yonder, +Nothing but the great Apukwa!" + And as Mudjekeewis, rising, +Stretched his hand to pluck the bulrush, +Hiawatha cried in terror, +Cried in well-dissembled terror, +"Kago! kago! do not touch it!" +"Ah, kaween!" said Mudjekeewis, +"No indeed, I will not touch it!" + Then they talked of other matters; +First of Hiawatha's brothers, +First of Wabun, of the East-Wind, +Of the South-Wind, Shawondasee, +Of the North, Kabibonokka; +Then of Hiawatha's mother, +Of the beautiful Wenonah, +Of her birth upon the meadow, +Of her death, as old Nokomis +Had remembered and related. + And he cried, "O Mudjekeewis, +It was you who killed Wenonah, +Took her young life and her beauty, +Broke the Lily of the Prairie, +Trampled it beneath your footsteps; +You confess it! you confess it!" +And the mighty Mudjekeewis +Tossed upon the wind his tresses, +Bowed his hoary head in anguish, +With a silent nod assented. + Then up started Hiawatha, +And with threatening look and gesture +Laid his hand upon the black rock, +On the fatal Wawbeek laid it, +With his mittens, Minjekahwun, +Rent the jutting crag asunder, +Smote and crushed it into fragments, +Hurled them madly at his father, +The remorseful Mudjekeewis, +For his heart was hot within him, +Like a living coal his heart was. + But the ruler of the West-Wind +Blew the fragments backward from him, +With the breathing of his nostrils, +With the tempest of his anger, +Blew them back at his assailant; +Seized the bulrush, the Apukwa, +Dragged it with its roots and fibres +From the margin of the meadow, +From its ooze the giant bulrush; +Long and loud laughed Hiawatha! + Then began the deadly conflict, +Hand to hand among the mountains; +From his eyry screamed the eagle, +The Keneu, the great war-eagle, +Sat upon the crags around them, +Wheeling flapped his wings above them. + Like a tall tree in the tempest +Bent and lashed the giant bulrush; +And in masses huge and heavy +Crashing fell the fatal Wawbeek; +Till the earth shook with the tumult +And confusion of the battle, +And the air was full of shoutings, +And the thunder of the mountains, +Starting, answered, "Baim-wawa!" + Back retreated Mudjekeewis, +Rushing westward o'er the mountains, +Stumbling westward down the mountains, +Three whole days retreated fighting, +Still pursued by Hiawatha +To the doorways of the West-Wind, +To the portals of the Sunset, +To the earth's remotest border, +Where into the empty spaces +Sinks the sun, as a flamingo +Drops into her nest at nightfall, +In the melancholy marshes. + "Hold!" at length cried Mudjekeewis, +"Hold, my son, my Hiawatha! +'T is impossible to kill me, +For you cannot kill the immortal. +I have put you to this trial, +But to know and prove your courage; +Now receive the prize of valor! + "Go back to your home and people, +Live among them, toil among them, +Cleanse the earth from all that harms it, +Clear the fishing-grounds and rivers, +Slay all monsters and magicians, +All the Wendigoes, the giants, +All the serpents, the Kenabeeks, +As I slew the Mishe-Mokwa, +Slew the Great Bear of the mountains. + "And at last when Death draws near you, +When the awful eyes of Pauguk +Glare upon you in the darkness, +I will share my kingdom with you, +Ruler shall you be thenceforward +Of the Northwest-Wind, Keewaydin, +Of the home-wind, the Keewaydin." + Thus was fought that famous battle +In the dreadful days of Shah-shah, +In the days long since departed, +In the kingdom of the West-Wind. +Still the hunter sees its traces +Scattered far o'er hill and valley; +Sees the giant bulrush growing +By the ponds and water-courses, +Sees the masses of the Wawbeek +Lying still in every valley. + Homeward now went Hiawatha; +Pleasant was the landscape round him, +Pleasant was the air above him, +For the bitterness of anger +Had departed wholly from him, +From his brain the thought of vengeance, +From his heart the burning fever. + Only once his pace he slackened, +Only once he paused or halted, +Paused to purchase heads of arrows +Of the ancient Arrow-maker, +In the land of the Dacotahs, +Where the Falls of Minnehaha +Flash and gleam among the oak-trees, +Laugh and leap into the valley. + There the ancient Arrow-maker +Made his arrow-heads of sandstone, +Arrow-heads of chalcedony, +Arrow-heads of flint and jasper, +Smoothed and sharpened at the edges, +Hard and polished, keen and costly. + With him dwelt his dark-eyed daughter, +Wayward as the Minnehaha, +With her moods of shade and sunshine, +Eyes that smiled and frowned alternate, +Feet as rapid as the river, +Tresses flowing like the water, +And as musical a laughter; +And he named her from the river, +From the water-fall he named her, +Minnehaha, Laughing Water. + Was it then for heads of arrows, +Arrow-heads of chalcedony, +Arrow-heads of flint and jasper, +That my Hiawatha halted +In the land of the Dacotahs? + Was it not to see the maiden, +See the face of Laughing Water +Peeping from behind the curtain, +Hear the rustling of her garments +From behind the waving curtain, +As one sees the Minnehaha +Gleaming, glancing through the branches, +As one hears the Laughing Water +From behind its screen of branches? + Who shall say what thoughts and visions +Fill the fiery brains of young men? +Who shall say what dreams of beauty +Filled the heart of Hiawatha? +All he told to old Nokomis, +When he reached the lodge at sunset, +Was the meeting with his father, +Was his fight with Mudjekeewis; +Not a word he said of arrows, +Not a word of Laughing Water. + + + +V + +HIAWATHA'S FASTING + +You shall hear how Hiawatha +Prayed and fasted in the forest, +Not for greater skill in hunting, +Not for greater craft in fishing, +Not for triumphs in the battle, +And renown among the warriors, +But for profit of the people, +For advantage of the nations. + First he built a lodge for fasting, +Built a wigwam in the forest, +By the shining Big-Sea-Water, +In the blithe and pleasant Spring-time, +In the Moon of Leaves he built it, +And, with dreams and visions many, +Seven whole days and nights he fasted. + On the first day of his fasting +Through the leafy woods he wandered; +Saw the deer start from the thicket, +Saw the rabbit in his burrow, +Heard the pheasant, Bena, drumming, +Heard the squirrel, Adjidaumo, +Rattling in his hoard of acorns, +Saw the pigeon, the Omeme, +Building nests among the pine-trees, +And in flocks the wild-goose, Wawa, +Flying to the fen-lands northward, +Whirring, wailing far above him. +"Master of Life!" he cried, desponding, +"Must our lives depend on these things?" + On the next day of his fasting +By the river's brink he wandered, +Through the Muskoday, the meadow, +Saw the wild rice, Mahnomonee, +Saw the blueberry, Meenahga, +And the strawberry, Odahmin, +And the gooseberry, Shahbomin, +And the grape-vine, the Bemahgut, +Trailing o'er the alder-branches, +Filling all the air with fragrance! +"Master of Life!" he cried, desponding, +"Must our lives depend on these things?" + On the third day of his fasting +By the lake he sat and pondered, +By the still, transparent water; +Saw the sturgeon, Nahma, leaping, +Scattering drops like beads of wampum, +Saw the yellow perch, the Sahwa, +Like a sunbeam in the water, +Saw the pike, the Maskenozha, +And the herring, Okahahwis, +And the Shawgashee, the crawfish! +"Master of Life!" he cried, desponding, +"Must our lives depend on these things?" + On the fourth day of his fasting +In his lodge he lay exhausted; +From his couch of leaves and branches +Gazing with half-open eyelids, +Full of shadowy dreams and visions, +On the dizzy, swimming landscape, +On the gleaming of the water, +On the splendor of the sunset. + And he saw a youth approaching, +Dressed in garments green and yellow, +Coming through the purple twilight, +Through the splendor of the sunset; +Plumes of green bent o'er his forehead, +And his hair was soft and golden. + Standing at the open doorway, +Long he looked at Hiawatha, +Looked with pity and compassion +On his wasted form and features, +And, in accents like the sighing +Of the South-Wind in the tree-tops, +Said he, "O my Hiawatha! +All your prayers are heard in heaven, +For you pray not like the others; +Not for greater skill in hunting, +Not for greater craft in fishing, +Not for triumph in the battle, +Nor renown among the warriors, +But for profit of the people, +For advantage of the nations. + "From the Master of Life descending, +I, the friend of man, Mondamin, +Come to warn you and instruct you, +How by struggle and by labor +You shall gain what you have prayed for. +Rise up from your bed of branches, +Rise, O youth, and wrestle with me!" + Faint with famine, Hiawatha +Started from his bed of branches, +From the twilight of his wigwam +Forth into the flush of sunset +Came, and wrestled with Mondamin; +At his touch he felt new courage +Throbbing in his brain and bosom, +Felt new life and hope and vigor +Run through every nerve and fibre. + So they wrestled there together +In the glory of the sunset, +And the more they strove and struggled, +Stronger still grew Hiawatha; +Till the darkness fell around them, +And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, +From her nest among the pine-trees, +Gave a cry of lamentation, +Gave a scream of pain and famine. + "'T is enough!" then said Mondamin, +Smiling upon Hiawatha, +"But tomorrow, when the sun sets, +I will come again to try you." +And he vanished, and was seen not; +Whether sinking as the rain sinks, +Whether rising as the mists rise, +Hiawatha saw not, knew not, +Only saw that he had vanished, +Leaving him alone and fainting, +With the misty lake below him, +And the reeling stars above him. + On the morrow and the next day, +When the sun through heaven descending, +Like a red and burning cinder +From the hearth of the Great Spirit, +Fell into the western waters, +Came Mondamin for the trial, +For the strife with Hiawatha; +Came as silent as the dew comes, +From the empty air appearing, +Into empty air returning, +Taking shape when earth it touches, +But invisible to all men +In its coming and its going. + Thrice they wrestled there together +In the glory of the sunset, +Till the darkness fell around them, +Till the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, +From her nest among the pine-trees, +Uttered her loud cry of famine, +And Mondamin paused to listen. + Tall and beautiful he stood there, +In his garments green and yellow; +To and fro his plumes above him, +Waved and nodded with his breathing, +And the sweat of the encounter +Stood like drops of dew upon him. + And he cried, "O Hiawatha! +Bravely have you wrestled with me, +Thrice have wrestled stoutly with me, +And the Master of Life, who sees us, +He will give to you the triumph!" + Then he smiled, and said: "To-morrow +Is the last day of your conflict, +Is the last day of your fasting. +You will conquer and o'ercome me; +Make a bed for me to lie in, +Where the rain may fall upon me, +Where the sun may come and warm me; +Strip these garments, green and yellow, +Strip this nodding plumage from me, +Lay me in the earth, and make it +Soft and loose and light above me. + "Let no hand disturb my slumber, +Let no weed nor worm molest me, +Let not Kahgahgee, the raven, +Come to haunt me and molest me, +Only come yourself to watch me, +Till I wake, and start, and quicken, +Till I leap into the sunshine." + And thus saying, he departed; +Peacefully slept Hiawatha, +But he heard the Wawonaissa, +Heard the whippoorwill complaining, +Perched upon his lonely wigwam; +Heard the rushing Sebowisha, +Heard the rivulet rippling near him, +Talking to the darksome forest; +Heard the sighing of the branches, +As they lifted and subsided +At the passing of the night-wind, +Heard them, as one hears in slumber +Far-off murmurs, dreamy whispers: +Peacefully slept Hiawatha. + On the morrow came Nokomis, +On the seventh day of his fasting, +Came with food for Hiawatha, +Came imploring and bewailing, +Lest his hunger should o'ercome him, +Lest his fasting should be fatal. + But he tasted not, and touched not, +Only said to her, "Nokomis, +Wait until the sun is setting, +Till the darkness falls around us, +Till the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, +Crying from the desolate marshes, +Tells us that the day is ended." + Homeward weeping went Nokomis, +Sorrowing for her Hiawatha, +Fearing lest his strength should fail him, +Lest his fasting should be fatal. +He meanwhile sat weary waiting +For the coming of Mondamin, +Till the shadows, pointing eastward, +Lengthened over field and forest, +Till the sun dropped from the heaven, +Floating on the waters westward, +As a red leaf in the Autumn +Falls and floats upon the water, +Falls and sinks into its bosom. + And behold! the young Mondamin, +With his soft and shining tresses, +With his garments green and yellow, +With his long and glossy plumage, +Stood and beckoned at the doorway. +And as one in slumber walking, +Pale and haggard, but undaunted, +From the wigwam Hiawatha +Came and wrestled with Mondamin. + Round about him spun the landscape, +Sky and forest reeled together, +And his strong heart leaped within him, +As the sturgeon leaps and struggles +In a net to break its meshes. +Like a ring of fire around him +Blazed and flared the red horizon, +And a hundred suns seemed looking +At the combat of the wrestlers. + Suddenly upon the greensward +All alone stood Hiawatha, +Panting with his wild exertion, +Palpitating with the struggle; +And before him breathless, lifeless, +Lay the youth, with hair dishevelled, +Plumage torn, and garments tattered, +Dead he lay there in the sunset. + And victorious Hiawatha +Made the grave as he commanded, +Stripped the garments from Mondamin, +Stripped his tattered plumage from him, +Laid him in the earth, and made it +Soft and loose and light above him; +And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, +From the melancholy moorlands, +Gave a cry of lamentation, +Gave a cry of pain and anguish! + Homeward then went Hiawatha +To the lodge of old Nokomis, +And the seven days of his fasting +Were accomplished and completed. +But the place was not forgotten +Where he wrestled with Mondamin; +Nor forgotten nor neglected +Was the grave where lay Mondamin, +Sleeping in the rain and sunshine, +Where his scattered plumes and garments +Faded in the rain and sunshine. + Day by day did Hiawatha +Go to wait and watch beside it; +Kept the dark mould soft above it, +Kept it clean from weeds and insects, +Drove away, with scoffs and shoutings, +Kahgahgee, the king of ravens. + Till at length a small green feather +From the earth shot slowly upward, +Then another and another, +And before the Summer ended +Stood the maize in all its beauty, +With its shining robes about it, +And its long, soft, yellow tresses; +And in rapture Hiawatha +Cried aloud, "It is Mondamin! +Yes, the friend of man, Mondamin!" + Then he called to old Nokomis +And Iagoo, the great boaster, +Showed them where the maize was growing, +Told them of his wondrous vision, +Of his wrestling and his triumph, +Of this new gift to the nations, +Which should be their food forever. + And still later, when the Autumn +Changed the long, green leaves to yellow, +And the soft and juicy kernels +Grew like wampum hard and yellow, +Then the ripened ears he gathered, +Stripped the withered husks from off them, +As he once had stripped the wrestler, +Gave the first Feast of Mondamin, +And made known unto the people +This new gift of the Great Spirit. + + + +VI + +HIAWATHA'S FRIENDS + +Two good friends had Hiawatha, +Singled out from all the others, +Bound to him in closest union, +And to whom he gave the right hand +Of his heart, in joy and sorrow; +Chibiabos, the musician, +And the very strong man, Kwasind. + Straight between them ran the pathway, +Never grew the grass upon it; +Singing birds, that utter falsehoods, +Story-tellers, mischief-makers, +Found no eager ear to listen, +Could not breed ill-will between them, +For they kept each other's counsel, +Spake with naked hearts together, +Pondering much and much contriving +How the tribes of men might prosper. + Most beloved by Hiawatha +Was the gentle Chibiabos, +He the best of all musicians, +He the sweetest of all singers. +Beautiful and childlike was he, +Brave as man is, soft as woman, +Pliant as a wand of willow, +Stately as a deer with antlers. + When he sang, the village listened; +All the warriors gathered round him, +All the women came to hear him; +Now he stirred their souls to passion, +Now he melted them to pity. + From the hollow reeds he fashioned +Flutes so musical and mellow, +That the brook, the Sebowisha, +Ceased to murmur in the woodland, +That the wood-birds ceased from singing, +And the squirrel, Adjidaumo, +Ceased his chatter in the oak-tree, +And the rabbit, the Wabasso, +Sat upright to look and listen. + Yes, the brook, the Sebowisha, +Pausing, said, "O Chibiabos, +Teach my waves to flow in music, +Softly as your words in singing!" + Yes, the bluebird, the Owaissa, +Envious, said, "O Chibiabos, +Teach me tones as wild and wayward, +Teach me songs as full of frenzy!" + Yes, the robin, the Opechee, +Joyous, said, "O Chibiabos, +Teach me tones as sweet and tender, +Teach me songs as full of gladness!" + And the whippoorwill, Wawonaissa, +Sobbing, said, "O Chibiabos, +Teach me tones as melancholy, +Teach me songs as full of sadness!" + All the many sounds of nature +Borrowed sweetness from his singing; +All the hearts of men were softened +By the pathos of his music; +For he sang of peace and freedom, +Sang of beauty, love, and longing; +Sang of death, and life undying +In the Islands of the Blessed, +In the kingdom of Ponemah, +In the land of the Hereafter. + Very dear to Hiawatha +Was the gentle Chibiabos, +He the best of all musicians, +He the sweetest of all singers; +For his gentleness he loved him, +And the magic of his singing. + Dear, too, unto Hiawatha +Was the very strong man, Kwasind, +He the strongest of all mortals, +He the mightiest among many; +For his very strength he loved him, +For his strength allied to goodness. + Idle in his youth was Kwasind, +Very listless, dull, and dreamy, +Never played with other children, +Never fished and never hunted, +Not like other children was he; +But they saw that much he fasted, +Much his Manito entreated, +Much besought his Guardian Spirit. + "Lazy Kwasind!" said his mother, +"In my work you never help me! +In the Summer you are roaming +Idly in the fields and forests; +In the Winter you are cowering +O'er the firebrands in the wigwam! +In the coldest days of Winter +I must break the ice for fishing; +With my nets you never help me! +At the door my nets are hanging, +Dripping, freezing with the water; +Go and wring them, Yenadizze! +Go and dry them in the sunshine!" + Slowly, from the ashes, Kwasind +Rose, but made no angry answer; +From the lodge went forth in silence, +Took the nets, that hung together, +Dripping, freezing at the doorway; +Like a wisp of straw he wrung them, +Like a wisp of straw he broke them, +Could not wring them without breaking, +Such the strength was in his fingers. + "Lazy Kwasind!" said his father, +"In the hunt you never help me; +Every bow you touch is broken, +Snapped asunder every arrow; +Yet come with me to the forest, +You shall bring the hunting homeward." + Down a narrow pass they wandered, +Where a brooklet led them onward, +Where the trail of deer and bison +Marked the soft mud on the margin, +Till they found all further passage +Shut against them, barred securely +By the trunks of trees uprooted, +Lying lengthwise, lying crosswise, +And forbidding further passage. + "We must go back," said the old man, +"O'er these logs we cannot clamber; +Not a woodchuck could get through them, +Not a squirrel clamber o'er them!" +And straightway his pipe he lighted, +And sat down to smoke and ponder. +But before his pipe was finished, +Lo! the path was cleared before him; +All the trunks had Kwasind lifted, +To the right hand, to the left hand, +Shot the pine-trees swift as arrows, +Hurled the cedars light as lances. + "Lazy Kwasind!" said the young men, +As they sported in the meadow: +"Why stand idly looking at us, +Leaning on the rock behind you? +Come and wrestle with the others, +Let us pitch the quoit together!" + Lazy Kwasind made no answer, +To their challenge made no answer, +Only rose, and slowly turning, +Seized the huge rock in his fingers, +Tore it from its deep foundation, +Poised it in the air a moment, +Pitched it sheer into the river, +Sheer into the swift Pauwating, +Where it still is seen in Summer. + Once as down that foaming river, +Down the rapids of Pauwating, +Kwasind sailed with his companions, +In the stream he saw a beaver, +Saw Ahmeek, the King of Beavers, +Struggling with the rushing currents, +Rising, sinking in the water. + Without speaking, without pausing, +Kwasind leaped into the river, +Plunged beneath the bubbling surface, +Through the whirlpools chased the beaver, +Followed him among the islands, +Stayed so long beneath the water, +That his terrified companions +Cried, "Alas! good-by to Kwasind! +We shall never more see Kwasind!" +But he reappeared triumphant, +And upon his shining shoulders +Brought the beaver, dead and dripping, +Brought the King of all the Beavers. + And these two, as I have told you, +Were the friends of Hiawatha, +Chibiabos, the musician, +And the very strong man, Kwasind. +Long they lived in peace together, +Spake with naked hearts together, +Pondering much and much contriving +How the tribes of men might prosper. + + + +VII + +HIAWATHA'S SAILING + +"Give me of your bark, O Birch-tree! +Of your yellow bark, O Birch-tree! +Growing by the rushing river, +Tall and stately in the valley! +I a light canoe will build me, +Build a swift Cheemaun for sailing, +That shall float on the river, +Like a yellow leaf in Autumn, +Like a yellow water-lily! + "Lay aside your cloak, O Birch-tree! +Lay aside your white-skin wrapper, +For the Summer-time is coming, +And the sun is warm in heaven, +And you need no white-skin wrapper!" + Thus aloud cried Hiawatha +In the solitary forest, +By the rushing Taquamenaw, +When the birds were singing gayly, +In the Moon of Leaves were singing, +And the sun, from sleep awaking, +Started up and said, "Behold me! +Gheezis, the great Sun, behold me!" + And the tree with all its branches +Rustled in the breeze of morning, +Saying, with a sigh of patience, +"Take my cloak, O Hiawatha!" + With his knife the tree he girdled; +Just beneath its lowest branches, +Just above the roots, he cut it, +Till the sap came oozing outward; +Down the trunk, from top to bottom, +Sheer he cleft the bark asunder, +With a wooden wedge he raised it, +Stripped it from the trunk unbroken. + "Give me of your boughs, O Cedar! +Of your strong and pliant branches, +My canoe to make more steady, +Make more strong and firm beneath me!" + Through the summit of the Cedar +Went a sound, a cry of horror, +Went a murmur of resistance; +But it whispered, bending downward, +'Take my boughs, O Hiawatha!" + Down he hewed the boughs of cedar, +Shaped them straightway to a framework, +Like two bows he formed and shaped them, +Like two bended bows together. + "Give me of your roots, O Tamarack! +Of your fibrous roots, O Larch-tree! +My canoe to bind together, +So to bind the ends together +That the water may not enter, +That the river may not wet me!" + And the Larch, with all its fibres, +Shivered in the air of morning, +Touched his forehead with its tassels, +Slid, with one long sigh of sorrow. +"Take them all, O Hiawatha!" + From the earth he tore the fibres, +Tore the tough roots of the Larch-tree, +Closely sewed the bark together, +Bound it closely to the frame-work. + "Give me of your balm, O Fir-tree! +Of your balsam and your resin, +So to close the seams together +That the water may not enter, +That the river may not wet me!" + And the Fir-tree, tall and sombre, +Sobbed through all its robes of darkness, +Rattled like a shore with pebbles, +Answered wailing, answered weeping, +"Take my balm, O Hiawatha!" + And he took the tears of balsam, +Took the resin of the Fir-tree, +Smeared therewith each seam and fissure, +Made each crevice safe from water. + "Give me of your quills, O Hedgehog! +All your quills, O Kagh, the Hedgehog! +I will make a necklace of them, +Make a girdle for my beauty, +And two stars to deck her bosom!" + From a hollow tree the Hedgehog +With his sleepy eyes looked at him, +Shot his shining quills, like arrows, +Saying with a drowsy murmur, +Through the tangle of his whiskers, +"Take my quills, O Hiawatha!" + From the ground the quills he gathered, +All the little shining arrows, +Stained them red and blue and yellow, +With the juice of roots and berries; +Into his canoe he wrought them, +Round its waist a shining girdle, +Round its bows a gleaming necklace, +On its breast two stars resplendent. + Thus the Birch Canoe was builded +In the valley, by the river, +In the bosom of the forest; +And the forest's life was in it, +All its mystery and its magic, +All the lightness of the birch-tree, +All the toughness of the cedar, +All the larch's supple sinews; +And it floated on the river +Like a yellow leaf in Autumn, +Like a yellow water-lily. + Paddles none had Hiawatha, +Paddles none he had or needed, +For his thoughts as paddles served him, +And his wishes served to guide him; +Swift or slow at will he glided, +Veered to right or left at pleasure. + Then he called aloud to Kwasind, +To his friend, the strong man, Kwasind, +Saying, "Help me clear this river +Of its sunken logs and sand-bars." + Straight into the river Kwasind +Plunged as if he were an otter, +Dived as if he were a beaver, +Stood up to his waist in water, +To his arm-pits in the river, +Swam and scouted in the river, +Tugged at sunken logs and branches, +With his hands he scooped the sand-bars, +With his feet the ooze and tangle. + And thus sailed my Hiawatha +Down the rushing Taquamenaw, +Sailed through all its bends and windings, +Sailed through all its deeps and shallows, +While his friend, the strong man, Kwasind, +Swam the deeps, the shallows waded. + Up and down the river went they, +In and out among its islands, +Cleared its bed of root and sand-bar, +Dragged the dead trees from its channel, +Made its passage safe and certain, +Made a pathway for the people, +From its springs among the mountains, +To the waters of Pauwating, +To the bay of Taquamenaw. + + + +VIII + +HIAWATHA'S FISHING + +Forth upon the Gitche Gumee, +On the shining Big-Sea-Water, +With his fishing-line of cedar, +Of the twisted bark of cedar, +Forth to catch the sturgeon Nahma, +Mishe-Nahma, King of Fishes, +In his birch canoe exulting +All alone went Hiawatha. + Through the clear, transparent water +He could see the fishes swimming +Far down in the depths below him; +See the yellow perch, the Sahwa, +Like a sunbeam in the water, +See the Shawgashee, the craw-fish, +Like a spider on the bottom, +On the white and sandy bottom. + At the stern sat Hiawatha, +With his fishing-line of cedar; +In his plumes the breeze of morning +Played as in the hemlock branches; +On the bows, with tail erected, +Sat the squirrel, Adjidaumo; +In his fur the breeze of morning +Played as in the prairie grasses. + On the white sand of the bottom +Lay the monster Mishe-Nahma, +Lay the sturgeon, King of Fishes; +Through his gills he breathed the water, +With his fins he fanned and winnowed, +With his tail he swept the sand-floor. + There he lay in all his armor; +On each side a shield to guard him, +Plates of bone upon his forehead, +Down his sides and back and shoulders +Plates of bone with spines projecting +Painted was he with his war-paints, +Stripes of yellow, red, and azure, +Spots of brown and spots of sable; +And he lay there on the bottom, +Fanning with his fins of purple, +As above him Hiawatha +In his birch canoe came sailing, +With his fishing-line of cedar. + "Take my bait," cried Hiawatha, +Down into the depths beneath him, +"Take my bait, O Sturgeon, Nahma! +Come up from below the water, +Let us see which is the stronger!" +And he dropped his line of cedar +Through the clear, transparent water, +Waited vainly for an answer, +Long sat waiting for an answer, +And repeating loud and louder, +"Take my bait, O King of Fishes!" + Quiet lay the sturgeon, Nahma, +Fanning slowly in the water, +Looking up at Hiawatha, +Listening to his call and clamor, +His unnecessary tumult, +Till he wearied of the shouting; +And he said to the Kenozha, +To the pike, the Maskenozha, +"Take the bait of this rude fellow, +Break the line of Hiawatha!" + In his fingers Hiawatha +Felt the loose line jerk and tighten; +As he drew it in, it tugged so +That the birch canoe stood endwise, +Like a birch log in the water, +With the squirrel, Adjidaumo, +Perched and frisking on the summit. +Full of scorn was Hiawatha +When he saw the fish rise upward, +Saw the pike, the Maskenozha, +Coming nearer, nearer to him, +And he shouted through the water, +"Esa! esa! shame upon you! +You are but the pike, Kenozha, +You are not the fish I wanted, +You are not the King of Fishes!" + Reeling downward to the bottom +Sank the pike in great confusion, +And the mighty sturgeon, Nahma, +Said to Ugudwash, the sun-fish, +To the bream, with scales of crimson, +"Take the bait of this great boaster, +Break the line of Hiawatha!" + Slowly upward, wavering, gleaming, +Rose the Ugudwash, the sun-fish, +Seized the line of Hiawatha, +Swung with all his weight upon it, +Made a whirlpool in the water, +Whirled the birch canoe in circles, +Round and round in gurgling eddies, +Till the circles in the water +Reached the far-off sandy beaches, +Till the water-flags and rushes +Nodded on the distant margins. + But when Hiawatha saw him +Slowly rising through the water, +Lifting up his disk refulgent, +Loud he shouted in derision, +"Esa! esa! shame upon you! +You are Ugudwash, the sun-fish, +You are not the fish I wanted, +You are not the King of Fishes!" + Slowly downward, wavering, gleaming, +Sank the Ugudwash, the sun-fish, +And again the sturgeon, Nahma, +Heard the shout of Hiawatha, +Heard his challenge of defiance, +The unnecessary tumult, +Ringing far across the water. + From the white sand of the bottom +Up he rose with angry gesture, +Quivering in each nerve and fibre, +Clashing all his plates of armor, +Gleaming bright with all his war-paint; +In his wrath he darted upward, +Flashing leaped into the sunshine, +Opened his great jaws, and swallowed +Both canoe and Hiawatha. + Down into that darksome cavern +Plunged the headlong Hiawatha, +As a log on some black river +Shoots and plunges down the rapids, +Found himself in utter darkness, +Groped about in helpless wonder, +Till he felt a great heart beating, +Throbbing in that utter darkness. + And he smote it in his anger, +With his fist, the heart of Nahma, +Felt the mighty King of Fishes +Shudder through each nerve and fibre, +Heard the water gurgle round him +As he leaped and staggered through it, +Sick at heart, and faint and weary. + Crosswise then did Hiawatha +Drag his birch-canoe for safety, +Lest from out the jaws of Nahma, +In the turmoil and confusion, +Forth he might be hurled and perish. +And the squirrel, Adjidaumo, +Frisked and chatted very gayly, +Toiled and tugged with Hiawatha +Till the labor was completed. + Then said Hiawatha to him, +"O my little friend, the squirrel, +Bravely have you toiled to help me; +Take the thanks of Hiawatha, +And the name which now he gives you; +For hereafter and forever +Boys shall call you Adjidaumo, +Tail-in-air the boys shall call you!" + And again the sturgeon, Nahma, +Gasped and quivered in the water, +Then was still, and drifted landward +Till he grated on the pebbles, +Till the listening Hiawatha +Heard him grate upon the margin, +Felt him strand upon the pebbles, +Knew that Nahma, King of Fishes, +Lay there dead upon the margin. + Then he heard a clang and flapping, +As of many wings assembling, +Heard a screaming and confusion, +As of birds of prey contending, +Saw a gleam of light above him, +Shining through the ribs of Nahma, +Saw the glittering eyes of sea-gulls, +Of Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, peering, +Gazing at him through the opening, +Heard them saying to each other, +"'T is our brother, Hiawatha!" + And he shouted from below them, +Cried exulting from the caverns: +"O ye sea-gulls! O my brothers! +I have slain the sturgeon, Nahma; +Make the rifts a little larger, +With your claws the openings widen, +Set me free from this dark prison, +And henceforward and forever +Men shall speak of your achievements, +Calling you Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, +Yes, Kayoshk, the Noble Scratchers!" + And the wild and clamorous sea-gulls +Toiled with beak and claws together, +Made the rifts and openings wider +In the mighty ribs of Nahma, +And from peril and from prison, +From the body of the sturgeon, +From the peril of the water, +They released my Hiawatha. + He was standing near his wigwam, +On the margin of the water, +And he called to old Nokomis, +Called and beckoned to Nokomis, +Pointed to the sturgeon, Nahma, +Lying lifeless on the pebbles, +With the sea-gulls feeding on him. + "I have slain the Mishe-Nahma, +Slain the King of Fishes!" said he; +"Look! the sea-gulls feed upon him, +Yes, my friends Kayoshk, the sea-gulls; +Drive them not away, Nokomis, +They have saved me from great peril +In the body of the sturgeon, +Wait until their meal is ended, +Till their craws are full with feasting, +Till they homeward fly, at sunset, +To their nests among the marshes; +Then bring all your pots and kettles, +And make oil for us in Winter." + And she waited till the sun set, +Till the pallid moon, the Night-sun, +Rose above the tranquil water, +Till Kayoshk, the sated sea-gulls, +From their banquet rose with clamor, +And across the fiery sunset +Winged their way to far-off islands, +To their nests among the rushes. + To his sleep went Hiawatha, +And Nokomis to her labor, +Toiling patient in the moonlight, +Till the sun and moon changed places, +Till the sky was red with sunrise, +And Kayoshk, the hungry sea-gulls, +Came back from the reedy islands, +Clamorous for their morning banquet. + Three whole days and nights alternate +Old Nokomis and the sea-gulls +Stripped the oily flesh of Nahma, +Till the waves washed through the rib-bones, +Till the sea-gulls came no longer, +And upon the sands lay nothing +But the skeleton of Nahma. + + + +IX + +HIAWATHA AND THE PEARL-FEATHER + +On the shores of Gitche Gumee, +Of the shining Big-Sea-Water, +Stood Nokomis, the old woman, +Pointing with her finger westward, +O'er the water pointing westward, +To the purple clouds of sunset. + Fiercely the red sun descending +Burned his way along the heavens, +Set the sky on fire behind him, +As war-parties, when retreating, +Burn the prairies on their war-trail; +And the moon, the Night-sun, eastward, +Suddenly starting from his ambush, +Followed fast those bloody footprints, +Followed in that fiery war-trail, +With its glare upon his features. + And Nokomis, the old woman, +Pointing with her finger westward, +Spake these words to Hiawatha: +"Yonder dwells the great Pearl-Feather, +Megissogwon, the Magician, +Manito of Wealth and Wampum, +Guarded by his fiery serpents, +Guarded by the black pitch-water. +You can see his fiery serpents, +The Kenabeek, the great serpents, +Coiling, playing in the water; +You can see the black pitch-water +Stretching far away beyond them, +To the purple clouds of sunset! + "He it was who slew my father, +By his wicked wiles and cunning, +When he from the moon descended, +When he came on earth to seek me. +He, the mightiest of Magicians, +Sends the fever from the marshes, +Sends the pestilential vapors, +Sends the poisonous exhalations, +Sends the white fog from the fen-lands, +Sends disease and death among us! + "Take your bow, O Hiawatha, +Take your arrows, jasper-headed, +Take your war-club, Puggawaugun, +And your mittens, Minjekahwun, +And your birch-canoe for sailing, +And the oil of Mishe-Nahma, +So to smear its sides, that swiftly +You may pass the black pitch-water; +Slay this merciless magician, +Save the people from the fever +That he breathes across the fen-lands, +And avenge my father's murder!" + Straightway then my Hiawatha +Armed himself with all his war-gear, +Launched his birch-canoe for sailing; +With his palm its sides he patted, +Said with glee, "Cheemaun, my darling, +O my Birch-canoe! leap forward, +Where you see the fiery serpents, +Where you see the black pitch-water!" + Forward leaped Cheemaun exulting, +And the noble Hiawatha +Sang his war-song wild and woful, +And above him the war-eagle, +The Keneu, the great war-eagle, +Master of all fowls with feathers, +Screamed and hurtled through the heavens. + Soon he reached the fiery serpents, +The Kenabeek, the great serpents, +Lying huge upon the water, +Sparkling, rippling in the water, +Lying coiled across the passage, +With their blazing crests uplifted, +Breathing fiery fogs and vapors, +So that none could pass beyond them. + But the fearless Hiawatha +Cried aloud, and spake in this wise: +"Let me pass my way, Kenabeek, +Let me go upon my journey!" +And they answered, hissing fiercely, +With their fiery breath made answer: +"Back, go back! O Shaugodaya! +Back to old Nokomis, Faint-heart!" + Then the angry Hiawatha +Raised his mighty bow of ash-tree, +Seized his arrows, jasper-headed, +Shot them fast among the serpents; +Every twanging of the bow-string +Was a war-cry and a death-cry, +Every whizzing of an arrow +Was a death-song of Kenabeek. + Weltering in the bloody water, +Dead lay all the fiery serpents, +And among them Hiawatha +Harmless sailed, and cried exulting: +"Onward, O Cheemaun, my darling! +Onward to the black pitch-water!" + Then he took the oil of Nahma, +And the bows and sides anointed, +Smeared them well with oil, that swiftly +He might pass the black pitch-water. + All night long he sailed upon it, +Sailed upon that sluggish water, +Covered with its mould of ages, +Black with rotting water-rushes, +Rank with flags and leaves of lilies, +Stagnant, lifeless, dreary, dismal, +Lighted by the shimmering moonlight, +And by will-o'-the-wisps illumined, +Fires by ghosts of dead men kindled, +In their weary night-encampments. + All the air was white with moonlight, +All the water black with shadow, +And around him the Suggema, +The mosquito, sang his war-song, +And the fire-flies, Wah-wah-taysee, +Waved their torches to mislead him; +And the bull-frog, the Dahinda, +Thrust his head into the moonlight, +Fixed his yellow eyes upon him, +Sobbed and sank beneath the surface; +And anon a thousand whistles, +Answered over all the fen-lands, +And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, +Far off on the reedy margin, +Heralded the hero's coming. + Westward thus fared Hiawatha, +Toward the realm of Megissogwon, +Toward the land of the Pearl-Feather, +Till the level moon stared at him, +In his face stared pale and haggard, +Till the sun was hot behind him, +Till it burned upon his shoulders, +And before him on the upland +He could see the Shining Wigwam +Of the Manito of Wampum, +Of the mightiest of Magicians. + Then once more Cheemaun he patted, +To his birch-canoe said, "Onward!" +And it stirred in all its fibres, +And with one great bound of triumph +Leaped across the water-lilies, +Leaped through tangled flags and rushes, +And upon the beach beyond them +Dry-shod landed Hiawatha. + Straight he took his bow of ash-tree, +On the sand one end he rested, +With his knee he pressed the middle, +Stretched the faithful bow-string tighter, +Took an arrow, jasper-headed, +Shot it at the Shining Wigwam, +Sent it singing as a herald, +As a bearer of his message, +Of his challenge loud and lofty: +"Come forth from your lodge, Pearl-Feather! +Hiawatha waits your coming!" + Straightway from the Shining Wigwam +Came the mighty Megissogwon, +Tall of stature, broad of shoulder, +Dark and terrible in aspect, +Clad from head to foot in wampum, +Armed with all his warlike weapons, +Painted like the sky of morning, +Streaked with crimson, blue, and yellow, +Crested with great eagle-feathers, +Streaming upward, streaming outward. + "Well I know you, Hiawatha!" +Cried he in a voice of thunder, +In a tone of loud derision. +"Hasten back, O Shaugodaya! +Hasten back among the women, +Back to old Nokomis, Faint-heart! +I will slay you as you stand there, +As of old I slew her father!" + But my Hiawatha answered, +Nothing daunted, fearing nothing: +"Big words do not smite like war-clubs, +Boastful breath is not a bow-string, +Taunts are not so sharp as arrows, +Deeds are better things than words are, +Actions mightier than boastings!" + Then began the greatest battle +That the sun had ever looked on, +That the war-birds ever witnessed. +All a Summer's day it lasted, +From the sunrise to the sunset; +For the shafts of Hiawatha +Harmless hit the shirt of wampum, +Harmless fell the blows he dealt it +With his mittens, Minjekahwun, +Harmless fell the heavy war-club; +It could dash the rocks asunder, +But it could not break the meshes +Of that magic shirt of wampum. + Till at sunset Hiawatha, +Leaning on his bow of ash-tree, +Wounded, weary, and desponding, +With his mighty war-club broken, +With his mittens torn and tattered, +And three useless arrows only, +Paused to rest beneath a pine-tree, +From whose branches trailed the mosses, +And whose trunk was coated over +With the Dead-man's Moccasin-leather, +With the fungus white and yellow. + Suddenly from the boughs above him +Sang the Mama, the woodpecker: +"Aim your arrows, Hiawatha, +At the head of Megissogwon, +Strike the tuft of hair upon it, +At their roots the long black tresses; +There alone can he be wounded!" + Winged with feathers, tipped with jasper, +Swift flew Hiawatha's arrow, +Just as Megissogwon, stooping, +Raised a heavy stone to throw it. +Full upon the crown it struck him, +At the roots of his long tresses, +And he reeled and staggered forward, +Plunging like a wounded bison, +Yes, like Pezhekee, the bison, +When the snow is on the prairie. + Swifter flew the second arrow, +In the pathway of the other, +Piercing deeper than the other, +Wounding sorer than the other; +And the knees of Megissogwon +Shook like windy reeds beneath him, +Bent and trembled like the rushes. + But the third and latest arrow +Swiftest flew, and wounded sorest, +And the mighty Megissogwon +Saw the fiery eyes of Pauguk, +Saw the eyes of Death glare at him, +Heard his voice call in the darkness; +At the feet of Hiawatha +Lifeless lay the great Pearl-Feather, +Lay the mightiest of Magicians. + Then the grateful Hiawatha +Called the Mama, the woodpecker, +From his perch among the branches +Of the melancholy pine-tree, +And, in honor of his service, +Stained with blood the tuft of feathers +On the little head of Mama; +Even to this day he wears it, +Wears the tuft of crimson feathers, +As a symbol of his service. + Then he stripped the shirt of wampum +From the back of Megissogwon, +As a trophy of the battle, +As a signal of his conquest. +On the shore he left the body, +Half on land and half in water, +In the sand his feet were buried, +And his face was in the water. +And above him, wheeled and clamored +The Keneu, the great war-eagle, +Sailing round in narrower circles, +Hovering nearer, nearer, nearer. + From the wigwam Hiawatha +Bore the wealth of Megissogwon, +All his wealth of skins and wampum, +Furs of bison and of beaver, +Furs of sable and of ermine, +Wampum belts and strings and pouches, +Quivers wrought with beads of wampum, +Filled with arrows, silver-headed. + Homeward then he sailed exulting, +Homeward through the black pitch-water, +Homeward through the weltering serpents, +With the trophies of the battle, +With a shout and song of triumph. + On the shore stood old Nokomis, +On the shore stood Chibiabos, +And the very strong man, Kwasind, +Waiting for the hero's coming, +Listening to his songs of triumph. +And the people of the village +Welcomed him with songs and dances, +Made a joyous feast, and shouted: +"Honor be to Hiawatha! +He has slain the great Pearl-Feather, +Slain the mightiest of Magicians, +Him, who sent the fiery fever, +Sent the white fog from the fen-lands, +Sent disease and death among us!" + Ever dear to Hiawatha +Was the memory of Mama! +And in token of his friendship, +As a mark of his remembrance, +He adorned and decked his pipe-stem +With the crimson tuft of feathers, +With the blood-red crest of Mama. +But the wealth of Megissogwon, +All the trophies of the battle, +He divided with his people, +Shared it equally among them. + + + +X + +HIAWATHA'S WOOING + +"As unto the bow the cord is, +So unto the man is woman; +Though she bends him, she obeys him, +Though she draws him, yet she follows, +Useless each without the other!" + Thus the youthful Hiawatha +Said within himself and pondered, +Much perplexed by various feelings, +Listless, longing, hoping, fearing, +Dreaming still of Minnehaha, +Of the lovely Laughing Water, +In the land of the Dacotahs. + "Wed a maiden of your people," +Warning said the old Nokomis; +"Go not eastward, go not westward, +For a stranger, whom we know not! +Like a fire upon the hearth-stone +Is a neighbor's homely daughter, +Like the starlight or the moonlight +Is the handsomest of strangers!" + Thus dissuading spake Nokomis, +And my Hiawatha answered +Only this: "Dear old Nokomis, +Very pleasant is the firelight, +But I like the starlight better, +Better do I like the moonlight!" + Gravely then said old Nokomis: +"Bring not here an idle maiden, +Bring not here a useless woman, +Hands unskilful, feet unwilling; +Bring a wife with nimble fingers, +Heart and hand that move together, +Feet that run on willing errands!" + Smiling answered Hiawatha: +"In the land of the Dacotahs +Lives the Arrow-maker's daughter, +Minnehaha, Laughing Water, +Handsomest of all the women. +I will bring her to your wigwam, +She shall run upon your errands, +Be your starlight, moonlight, firelight, +Be the sunlight of my people!" + Still dissuading said Nokomis: +"Bring not to my lodge a stranger +From the land of the Dacotahs! +Very fierce are the Dacotahs, +Often is there war between us, +There are feuds yet unforgotten, +Wounds that ache and still may open!" + Laughing answered Hiawatha: +"For that reason, if no other, +Would I wed the fair Dacotah, +That our tribes might be united, +That old feuds might be forgotten, +And old wounds be healed forever!" + Thus departed Hiawatha +To the land of the Dacotahs, +To the land of handsome women; +Striding over moor and meadow, +Through interminable forests, +Through uninterrupted silence. + With his moccasins of magic, +At each stride a mile he measured; +Yet the way seemed long before him, +And his heart outran his footsteps; +And he journeyed without resting, +Till he heard the cataract's laughter, +Heard the Falls of Minnehaha +Calling to him through the silence. +"Pleasant is the sound!" he murmured, +"Pleasant is the voice that calls me!" + On the outskirts of the forests, +'Twixt the shadow and the sunshine, +Herds of fallow deer were feeding, +But they saw not Hiawatha; +To his bow he whispered, "Fail not!" +To his arrow whispered, "Swerve not!" +Sent it singing on its errand, +To the red heart of the roebuck; +Threw the deer across his shoulder, +And sped forward without pausing. + At the doorway of his wigwam +Sat the ancient Arrow-maker, +In the land of the Dacotahs, +Making arrow-heads of jasper, +Arrow-heads of chalcedony. +At his side, in all her beauty, +Sat the lovely Minnehaha, +Sat his daughter, Laughing Water, +Plaiting mats of flags and rushes +Of the past the old man's thoughts were, +And the maiden's of the future. + He was thinking, as he sat there, +Of the days when with such arrows +He had struck the deer and bison, +On the Muskoday, the meadow; +Shot the wild goose, flying southward +On the wing, the clamorous Wawa; +Thinking of the great war-parties, +How they came to buy his arrows, +Could not fight without his arrows. +Ah, no more such noble warriors +Could be found on earth as they were! +Now the men were all like women, +Only used their tongues for weapons! + She was thinking of a hunter, +From another tribe and country, +Young and tall and very handsome, +Who one morning, in the Spring-time, +Came to buy her father's arrows, +Sat and rested in the wigwam, +Lingered long about the doorway, +Looking back as he departed. +She had heard her father praise him, +Praise his courage and his wisdom; +Would he come again for arrows +To the Falls of Minnehaha? +On the mat her hands lay idle, +And her eyes were very dreamy. + Through their thoughts they heard a footstep, +Heard a rustling in the branches, +And with glowing cheek and forehead, +With the deer upon his shoulders, +Suddenly from out the woodlands +Hiawatha stood before them. + Straight the ancient Arrow-maker +Looked up gravely from his labor, +Laid aside the unfinished arrow, +Bade him enter at the doorway, +Saying, as he rose to meet him, +'Hiawatha, you are welcome!" + At the feet of Laughing Water +Hiawatha laid his burden, +Threw the red deer from his shoulders; +And the maiden looked up at him, +Looked up from her mat of rushes, +Said with gentle look and accent, +"You are welcome, Hiawatha!" + Very spacious was the wigwam, +Made of deer-skins dressed and whitened, +With the Gods of the Dacotahs +Drawn and painted on its curtains, +And so tall the doorway, hardly +Hiawatha stooped to enter, +Hardly touched his eagle-feathers +As he entered at the doorway. + Then uprose the Laughing Water, +From the ground fair Minnehaha, +Laid aside her mat unfinished, +Brought forth food and set before them, +Water brought them from the brooklet, +Gave them food in earthen vessels, +Gave them drink in bowls of bass-wood, +Listened while the guest was speaking, +Listened while her father answered, +But not once her lips she opened, +Not a single word she uttered. + Yes, as in a dream she listened +To the words of Hiawatha, +As he talked of old Nokomis, +Who had nursed him in his childhood, +As he told of his companions, +Chibiabos, the musician, +And the very strong man, Kwasind, +And of happiness and plenty +In the land of the Ojibways, +In the pleasant land and peaceful. + "After many years of warfare, +Many years of strife and bloodshed, +There is peace between the Ojibways +And the tribe of the Dacotahs." +Thus continued Hiawatha, +And then added, speaking slowly, +"That this peace may last forever, +And our hands be clasped more closely, +And our hearts be more united, +Give me as my wife this maiden, +Minnehaha, Laughing Water, +Loveliest of Dacotah women!" + And the ancient Arrow-maker +Paused a moment ere he answered, +Smoked a little while in silence, +Looked at Hiawatha proudly, +Fondly looked at Laughing Water, +And made answer very gravely: +"Yes, if Minnehaha wishes; +Let your heart speak, Minnehaha!" + And the lovely Laughing Water +Seemed more lovely as she stood there, +Neither willing nor reluctant, +As she went to Hiawatha, +Softly took the seat beside him, +While she said, and blushed to say it, +"I will follow you, my husband!" + This was Hiawatha's wooing! +Thus it was he won the daughter +Of the ancient Arrow-maker, +In the land of the Dacotahs! + From the wigwam he departed, +Leading with him Laughing Water; +Hand in hand they went together, +Through the woodland and the meadow, +Left the old man standing lonely +At the doorway of his wigwam, +Heard the Falls of Minnehaha +Calling to them from the distance, +Crying to them from afar off, +"Fare thee well, O Minnehaha!" + And the ancient Arrow-maker +Turned again unto his labor, +Sat down by his sunny doorway, +Murmuring to himself, and saying: +"Thus it is our daughters leave us, +Those we love, and those who love us! +Just when they have learned to help us, +When we are old and lean upon them, +Comes a youth with flaunting feathers, +With his flute of reeds, a stranger +Wanders piping through the village, +Beckons to the fairest maiden, +And she follows where he leads her, +Leaving all things for the stranger!" + Pleasant was the journey homeward, +Through interminable forests, +Over meadow, over mountain, +Over river, hill, and hollow. +Short it seemed to Hiawatha, +Though they journeyed very slowly, +Though his pace he checked and slackened +To the steps of Laughing Water. + Over wide and rushing rivers +In his arms he bore the maiden; +Light he thought her as a feather, +As the plume upon his head-gear; +Cleared the tangled pathway for her, +Bent aside the swaying branches, +Made at night a lodge of branches, +And a bed with boughs of hemlock, +And a fire before the doorway +With the dry cones of the pine-tree. + All the travelling winds went with them, +O'er the meadows, through the forest; +All the stars of night looked at them, +Watched with sleepless eyes their slumber; +From his ambush in the oak-tree +Peeped the squirrel, Adjidaumo, +Watched with eager eyes the lovers; +And the rabbit, the Wabasso, +Scampered from the path before them, +Peering, peeping from his burrow, +Sat erect upon his haunches, +Watched with curious eyes the lovers. + Pleasant was the journey homeward! +All the birds sang loud and sweetly +Songs of happiness and heart's-ease; +Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa, +"Happy are you, Hiawatha, +Having such a wife to love you!" +Sang the robin, the Opechee, +"Happy are you, Laughing Water, +Having such a noble husband!" + From the sky the sun benignant +Looked upon them through the branches, +Saying to them, "O my children, +Love is sunshine, hate is shadow, +Life is checkered shade and sunshine, +Rule by love, O Hiawatha!" + From the sky the moon looked at them, +Filled the lodge with mystic splendors, +Whispered to them, "O my children, +Day is restless, night is quiet, +Man imperious, woman feeble; +Half is mine, although I follow; +Rule by patience, Laughing Water!" + Thus it was they journeyed homeward; +Thus it was that Hiawatha +To the lodge of old Nokomis +Brought the moonlight, starlight, firelight, +Brought the sunshine of his people, +Minnehaha, Laughing Water, +Handsomest of all the women +In the land of the Dacotahs, +In the land of handsome women. + + +XI + +HIAWATHA'S WEDDING-FEAST + +You shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis, +How the handsome Yenadizze +Danced at Hiawatha's wedding; +How the gentle Chibiabos, +He the sweetest of musicians, +Sang his songs of love and longing; +How Iagoo, the great boaster, +He the marvellous story-teller, +Told his tales of strange adventure, +That the feast might be more joyous, +That the time might pass more gayly, +And the guests be more contented. + Sumptuous was the feast Nokomis +Made at Hiawatha's wedding; +All the bowls were made of bass-wood, +White and polished very smoothly, +All the spoons of horn of bison, +Black and polished very smoothly. + She had sent through all the village +Messengers with wands of willow, +As a sign of invitation, +As a token of the feasting; +And the wedding guests assembled, +Clad in all their richest raiment, +Robes of fur and belts of wampum, +Splendid with their paint and plumage, +Beautiful with beads and tassels. + First they ate the sturgeon, Nahma, +And the pike, the Maskenozha, +Caught and cooked by old Nokomis; +Then on pemican they feasted, +Pemican and buffalo marrow, +Haunch of deer and hump of bison, +Yellow cakes of the Mondamin, +And the wild rice of the river. + But the gracious Hiawatha, +And the lovely Laughing Water, +And the careful old Nokomis, +Tasted not the food before them, +Only waited on the others +Only served their guests in silence. + And when all the guests had finished, +Old Nokomis, brisk and busy, +From an ample pouch of otter, +Filled the red-stone pipes for smoking +With tobacco from the South-land, +Mixed with bark of the red willow, +And with herbs and leaves of fragrance. + Then she said, "O Pau-Puk-Keewis, +Dance for us your merry dances, +Dance the Beggar's Dance to please us, +That the feast may be more joyous, +That the time may pass more gayly, +And our guests be more contented!" + Then the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis, +He the idle Yenadizze, +He the merry mischief-maker, +Whom the people called the Storm-Fool, +Rose among the guests assembled. + Skilled was he in sports and pastimes, +In the merry dance of snow-shoes, +In the play of quoits and ball-play; +Skilled was he in games of hazard, +In all games of skill and hazard, +Pugasaing, the Bowl and Counters, +Kuntassoo, the Game of Plum-stones. + Though the warriors called him Faint-Heart, +Called him coward, Shaugodaya, +Idler, gambler, Yenadizze, +Little heeded he their jesting, +Little cared he for their insults, +For the women and the maidens +Loved the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis. + He was dressed in shirt of doeskin, +White and soft, and fringed with ermine, +All inwrought with beads of wampum; +He was dressed in deer-skin leggings, +Fringed with hedgehog quills and ermine, +And in moccasins of buck-skin, +Thick with quills and beads embroidered. +On his head were plumes of swan's down, +On his heels were tails of foxes, +In one hand a fan of feathers, +And a pipe was in the other. + Barred with streaks of red and yellow, +Streaks of blue and bright vermilion, +Shone the face of Pau-Puk-Keewis. +From his forehead fell his tresses, +Smooth, and parted like a woman's, +Shining bright with oil, and plaited, +Hung with braids of scented grasses, +As among the guests assembled, +To the sound of flutes and singing, +To the sound of drums and voices, +Rose the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis, +And began his mystic dances. + First he danced a solemn measure, +Very slow in step and gesture, +In and out among the pine-trees, +Through the shadows and the sunshine, +Treading softly like a panther. +Then more swiftly and still swifter, +Whirling, spinning round in circles, +Leaping o'er the guests assembled, +Eddying round and round the wigwam, +Till the leaves went whirling with him, +Till the dust and wind together +Swept in eddies round about him. + Then along the sandy margin +Of the lake, the Big-Sea-Water, +On he sped with frenzied gestures, +Stamped upon the sand, and tossed it +Wildly in the air around him; +Till the wind became a whirlwind, +Till the sand was blown and sifted +Like great snowdrifts o'er the landscape, +Heaping all the shores with Sand Dunes, +Sand Hills of the Nagow Wudjoo! + Thus the merry Pau-Puk-Keewis +Danced his Beggar's Dance to please them, +And, returning, sat down laughing +There among the guests assembled, +Sat and fanned himself serenely +With his fan of turkey-feathers. + Then they said to Chibiabos, +To the friend of Hiawatha, +To the sweetest of all singers, +To the best of all musicians, +"Sing to us, O Chibiabos! +Songs of love and songs of longing, +That the feast may be more joyous, +That the time may pass more gayly, +And our guests be more contented!" + And the gentle Chibiabos +Sang in accents sweet and tender, +Sang in tones of deep emotion, +Songs of love and songs of longing; +Looking still at Hiawatha, +Looking at fair Laughing Water, +Sang he softly, sang in this wise: + "Onaway! Awake, beloved! +Thou the wild-flower of the forest! +Thou the wild-bird of the prairie! +Thou with eyes so soft and fawn-like! + "If thou only lookest at me, +I am happy, I am happy, +As the lilies of the prairie, +When they feel the dew upon them! + "Sweet thy breath is as the fragrance +Of the wild-flowers in the morning, +As their fragrance is at evening, +In the Moon when leaves are falling. + "Does not all the blood within me +Leap to meet thee, leap to meet thee, +As the springs to meet the sunshine, +In the Moon when nights are brightest? + "Onaway! my heart sings to thee, +Sings with joy when thou art near me, +As the sighing, singing branches +In the pleasant Moon of Strawberries! + "When thou art not pleased, beloved, +Then my heart is sad and darkened, +As the shining river darkens +When the clouds drop shadows on it! + "When thou smilest, my beloved, +Then my troubled heart is brightened, +As in sunshine gleam the ripples +That the cold wind makes in rivers. + "Smiles the earth, and smile the waters, +Smile the cloudless skies above us, +But I lose the way of smiling +When thou art no longer near me! + "I myself, myself! behold me! +Blood of my beating heart, behold me! +Oh awake, awake, beloved! +Onaway! awake, beloved!" + Thus the gentle Chibiabos +Sang his song of love and longing; +And Iagoo, the great boaster, +He the marvellous story-teller, +He the friend of old Nokomis, +Jealous of the sweet musician, +Jealous of the applause they gave him, +Saw in all the eyes around him, +Saw in all their looks and gestures, +That the wedding guests assembled +Longed to hear his pleasant stories, +His immeasurable falsehoods. + Very boastful was Iagoo; +Never heard he an adventure +But himself had met a greater; +Never any deed of daring +But himself had done a bolder; +Never any marvellous story +But himself could tell a stranger. + Would you listen to his boasting, +Would you only give him credence, +No one ever shot an arrow +Half so far and high as he had; +Ever caught so many fishes, +Ever killed so many reindeer, +Ever trapped so many beaver! + None could run so fast as he could, +None could dive so deep as he could, +None could swim so far as he could; +None had made so many journeys, +None had seen so many wonders, +As this wonderful Iagoo, +As this marvellous story-teller! + Thus his name became a by-word +And a jest among the people; +And whene'er a boastful hunter +Praised his own address too highly, +Or a warrior, home returning, +Talked too much of his achievements, +All his hearers cried, "Iagoo! +Here's Iagoo come among us!" + He it was who carved the cradle +Of the little Hiawatha, +Carved its framework out of linden, +Bound it strong with reindeer sinews; +He it was who taught him later +How to make his bows and arrows, +How to make the bows of ash-tree, +And the arrows of the oak-tree. +So among the guests assembled +At my Hiawatha's wedding +Sat Iagoo, old and ugly, +Sat the marvellous story-teller. + And they said, "O good Iagoo, +Tell us now a tale of wonder, +Tell us of some strange adventure, +That the feast may be more joyous, +That the time may pass more gayly, +And our guests be more contented!" + And Iagoo answered straightway, +"You shall hear a tale of wonder, +You shall hear the strange adventures +Of Osseo, the Magician, +From the Evening Star descending." + + + +XII + +THE SON OF THE EVENING STAR + +Can it be the sun descending +O'er the level plain of water? +Or the Red Swan floating, flying, +Wounded by the magic arrow, +Staining all the waves with crimson, +With the crimson of its life-blood, +Filling all the air with splendor, +With the splendor of its plumage? + Yes; it is the sun descending, +Sinking down into the water; +All the sky is stained with purple, +All the water flushed with crimson! +No; it is the Red Swan floating, +Diving down beneath the water; +To the sky its wings are lifted, +With its blood the waves are reddened! + Over it the Star of Evening +Melts and trembles through the purple, +Hangs suspended in the twilight. +No; it is a bead of wampum +On the robes of the Great Spirit +As he passes through the twilight, +Walks in silence through the heavens. + This with joy beheld Iagoo +And he said in haste: "Behold it! +See the sacred Star of Evening! +You shall hear a tale of wonder, +Hear the story of Osseo, +Son of the Evening Star, Osseo! + "Once, in days no more remembered, +Ages nearer the beginning, +When the heavens were closer to us, +And the Gods were more familiar, +In the North-land lived a hunter, +With ten young and comely daughters, +Tall and lithe as wands of willow; +Only Oweenee, the youngest, +She the wilful and the wayward, +She the silent, dreamy maiden, +Was the fairest of the sisters. + "All these women married warriors, +Married brave and haughty husbands; +Only Oweenee, the youngest, +Laughed and flouted all her lovers, +All her young and handsome suitors, +And then married old Osseo, +Old Osseo, poor and ugly, +Broken with age and weak with coughing, +Always coughing like a squirrel. + "Ah, but beautiful within him +Was the spirit of Osseo, +From the Evening Star descended, +Star of Evening, Star of Woman, +Star of tenderness and passion! +All its fire was in his bosom, +All its beauty in his spirit, +All its mystery in his being, +All its splendor in his language! + "And her lovers, the rejected, +Handsome men with belts of wampum, +Handsome men with paint and feathers. +Pointed at her in derision, +Followed her with jest and laughter. +But she said: 'I care not for you, +Care not for your belts of wampum, +Care not for your paint and feathers, +Care not for your jests and laughter; +I am happy with Osseo!' + "Once to some great feast invited, +Through the damp and dusk of evening, +Walked together the ten sisters, +Walked together with their husbands; +Slowly followed old Osseo, +With fair Oweenee beside him; +All the others chatted gayly, +These two only walked in silence. + "At the western sky Osseo +Gazed intent, as if imploring, +Often stopped and gazed imploring +At the trembling Star of Evening, +At the tender Star of Woman; +And they heard him murmur softly, +'Ah, showain nemeshin, Nosa! +Pity, pity me, my father!' + "'Listen!' said the eldest sister, +'He is praying to his father! +What a pity that the old man +Does not stumble in the pathway, +Does not break his neck by falling!' +And they laughed till all the forest +Rang with their unseemly laughter. + "On their pathway through the woodlands +Lay an oak, by storms uprooted, +Lay the great trunk of an oak-tree, +Buried half in leaves and mosses, +Mouldering, crumbling, huge and hollow. +And Osseo, when he saw it, +Gave a shout, a cry of anguish, +Leaped into its yawning cavern, +At one end went in an old man, +Wasted, wrinkled, old, and ugly; +From the other came a young man, +Tall and straight and strong and handsome. + "Thus Osseo was transfigured, +Thus restored to youth and beauty; +But, alas for good Osseo, +And for Oweenee, the faithful! +Strangely, too, was she transfigured. +Changed into a weak old woman, +With a staff she tottered onward, +Wasted, wrinkled, old, and ugly! +And the sisters and their husbands +Laughed until the echoing forest +Rang with their unseemly laughter. + "But Osseo turned not from her, +Walked with slower step beside her, +Took her hand, as brown and withered +As an oak-leaf is in Winter, +Called her sweetheart, Nenemoosha, +Soothed her with soft words of kindness, +Till they reached the lodge of feasting, +Till they sat down in the wigwam, +Sacred to the Star of Evening, +To the tender Star of Woman. + "Wrapt in visions, lost in dreaming, +At the banquet sat Osseo; +All were merry, all were happy, +All were joyous but Osseo. +Neither food nor drink he tasted, +Neither did he speak nor listen; +But as one bewildered sat he, +Looking dreamily and sadly, +First at Oweenee, then upward +At the gleaming sky above them. + "Then a voice was heard, a whisper, +Coming from the starry distance, +Coming from the empty vastness, +Low, and musical, and tender; +And the voice said: 'O Osseo! +O my son, my best beloved! +Broken are the spells that bound you, +All the charms of the magicians, +All the magic powers of evil; +Come to me; ascend, Osseo! + "'Taste the food that stands before you: +It is blessed and enchanted, +It has magic virtues in it, +It will change you to a spirit. +All your bowls and all your kettles +Shall be wood and clay no longer; +But the bowls be changed to wampum, +And the kettles shall be silver; +They shall shine like shells of scarlet, +Like the fire shall gleam and glimmer. + "'And the women shall no longer +Bear the dreary doom of labor, +But be changed to birds, and glisten +With the beauty of the starlight, +Painted with the dusky splendors +Of the skies and clouds of evening!' + "What Osseo heard as whispers, +What as words he comprehended, +Was but music to the others, +Music as of birds afar off, +Of the whippoorwill afar off, +Of the lonely Wawonaissa +Singing in the darksome forest. + "Then the lodge began to tremble, +Straight began to shake and tremble, +And they felt it rising, rising, +Slowly through the air ascending, +From the darkness of the tree-tops +Forth into the dewy starlight, +Till it passed the topmost branches; +And behold! the wooden dishes +All were changed to shells of scarlet! +And behold! the earthen kettles +All were changed to bowls of silver! +And the roof-poles of the wigwam +Were as glittering rods of silver, +And the roof of bark upon them +As the shining shards of beetles. + "Then Osseo gazed around him, +And he saw the nine fair sisters, +All the sisters and their husbands, +Changed to birds of various plumage. +Some were jays and some were magpies, +Others thrushes, others blackbirds; +And they hopped, and sang, and twittered, +Perked and fluttered all their feathers, +Strutted in their shining plumage, +And their tails like fans unfolded. + "Only Oweenee, the youngest, +Was not changed, but sat in silence, +Wasted, wrinkled, old, and ugly, +Looking sadly at the others; +Till Osseo, gazing upward, +Gave another cry of anguish, +Such a cry as he had uttered +By the oak-tree in the forest. + "Then returned her youth and beauty, +And her soiled and tattered garments +Were transformed to robes of ermine, +And her staff became a feather, +Yes, a shining silver feather! + "And again the wigwam trembled, +Swayed and rushed through airy currents, +Through transparent cloud and vapor, +And amid celestial splendors +On the Evening Star alighted, +As a snow-flake falls on snow-flake, +As a leaf drops on a river, +As the thistledown on water. + "Forth with cheerful words of welcome +Came the father of Osseo, +He with radiant locks of silver, +He with eyes serene and tender. +And he said: 'My son, Osseo, +Hang the cage of birds you bring there, +Hang the cage with rods of silver, +And the birds with glistening feathers, +At the doorway of my wigwam.' + "At the door he hung the bird-cage, +And they entered in and gladly +Listened to Osseo's father, +Ruler of the Star of Evening, +As he said: 'O my Osseo! +I have had compassion on you, +Given you back your youth and beauty, +Into birds of various plumage +Changed your sisters and their husbands; +Changed them thus because they mocked you +In the figure of the old man, +In that aspect sad and wrinkled, +Could not see your heart of passion, +Could not see your youth immortal; +Only Oweenee, the faithful, +Saw your naked heart and loved you. + "'In the lodge that glimmers yonder, +In the little star that twinkles +Through the vapors, on the left hand, +Lives the envious Evil Spirit, +The Wabeno, the magician, +Who transformed you to an old man. +Take heed lest his beams fall on you, +For the rays he darts around him +Are the power of his enchantment, +Are the arrows that he uses.' + "Many years, in peace and quiet, +On the peaceful Star of Evening +Dwelt Osseo with his father; +Many years, in song and flutter, +At the doorway of the wigwam, +Hung the cage with rods of silver, +And fair Oweenee, the faithful, +Bore a son unto Osseo, +With the beauty of his mother, +With the courage of his father. + "And the boy grew up and prospered, +And Osseo, to delight him, +Made him little bows and arrows, +Opened the great cage of silver, +And let loose his aunts and uncles, +All those birds with glossy feathers, +For his little son to shoot at. + "Round and round they wheeled and darted, +Filled the Evening Star with music, +With their songs of joy and freedom +Filled the Evening Star with splendor, +With the fluttering of their plumage; +Till the boy, the little hunter, +Bent his bow and shot an arrow, +Shot a swift and fatal arrow, +And a bird, with shining feathers, +At his feet fell wounded sorely. + "But, O wondrous transformation! +'T was no bird he saw before him, +'T was a beautiful young woman, +With the arrow in her bosom! + "When her blood fell on the planet, +On the sacred Star of Evening, +Broken was the spell of magic, +Powerless was the strange enchantment, +And the youth, the fearless bowman, +Suddenly felt himself descending, +Held by unseen hands, but sinking +Downward through the empty spaces, +Downward through the clouds and vapors, +Till he rested on an island, +On an island, green and grassy, +Yonder in the Big-Sea-Water. + "After him he saw descending +All the birds with shining feathers, +Fluttering, falling, wafted downward, +Like the painted leaves of Autumn; +And the lodge with poles of silver, +With its roof like wings of beetles, +Like the shining shards of beetles, +By the winds of heaven uplifted, +Slowly sank upon the island, +Bringing back the good Osseo, +Bringing Oweenee, the faithful. + "Then the birds, again transfigured, +Reassumed the shape of mortals, +Took their shape, but not their stature; +They remained as Little People, +Like the pygmies, the Puk-Wudjies, +And on pleasant nights of Summer, +When the Evening Star was shining, +Hand in hand they danced together +On the island's craggy headlands, +On the sand-beach low and level. + "Still their glittering lodge is seen there, +On the tranquil Summer evenings, +And upon the shore the fisher +Sometimes hears their happy voices, +Sees them dancing in the starlight!" + When the story was completed, +When the wondrous tale was ended, +Looking round upon his listeners, +Solemnly Iagoo added: +"There are great men, I have known such, +Whom their people understand not, +Whom they even make a jest of, +Scoff and jeer at in derision. +From the story of Osseo +Let us learn the fate of jesters!" + All the wedding guests delighted +Listened to the marvellous story, +Listened laughing and applauding, +And they whispered to each other: +"Does he mean himself, I wonder? +And are we the aunts and uncles?" + Then again sang Chibiabos, +Sang a song of love and longing, +In those accents sweet and tender, +In those tones of pensive sadness, +Sang a maiden's lamentation +For her lover, her Algonquin. + "When I think of my beloved, +Ah me! think of my beloved, +When my heart is thinking of him, +O my sweetheart, my Algonquin! + "Ah me! when I parted from him, +Round my neck he hung the wampum, +As a pledge, the snow-white wampum, +O my sweetheart, my Algonquin! + "I will go with you, he whispered, +Ah me! to your native country; +Let me go with you, he whispered, +O my sweetheart, my Algonquin! + "Far away, away, I answered, +Very far away, I answered, +Ah me! is my native country, +O my sweetheart, my Algonquin! + "When I looked back to behold him, +Where we parted, to behold him, +After me he still was gazing, +O my sweetheart, my Algonquin! + "By the tree he still was standing, +By the fallen tree was standing, +That had dropped into the water, +O my sweetheart, my Algonquin! + "When I think of my beloved, +Ah me! think of my beloved, +When my heart is thinking of him, +O my sweetheart, my Algonquin!" + Such was Hiawatha's Wedding, +Such the dance of Pau-Puk-Keewis, +Such the story of Iagoo, +Such the songs of Chibiabos; +Thus the wedding banquet ended, +And the wedding guests departed, +Leaving Hiawatha happy +With the night and Minnehaha. + + + +XIII + +BLESSING THE CORNFIELDS + +Sing, O Song of Hiawatha, +Of the happy days that followed, +In the land of the Ojibways, +In the pleasant land and peaceful! +Sing the mysteries of Mondamin, +Sing the Blessing of the Cornfields! + Buried was the bloody hatchet, +Buried was the dreadful war-club, +Buried were all warlike weapons, +And the war-cry was forgotten. +There was peace among the nations; +Unmolested roved the hunters, +Built the birch canoe for sailing, +Caught the fish in lake and river, +Shot the deer and trapped the beaver; +Unmolested worked the women, +Made their sugar from the maple, +Gathered wild rice in the meadows, +Dressed the skins of deer and beaver. + All around the happy village +Stood the maize-fields, green and shining, +Waved the green plumes of Mondamin, +Waved his soft and sunny tresses, +Filling all the land with plenty. +'T was the women who in Spring-time +Planted the broad fields and fruitful, +Buried in the earth Mondamin; +'T was the women who in Autumn +Stripped the yellow husks of harvest, +Stripped the garments from Mondamin, +Even as Hiawatha taught them. + Once, when all the maize was planted, +Hiawatha, wise and thoughtful, +Spake and said to Minnehaha, +To his wife, the Laughing Water: +"You shall bless to-night the cornfields, +Draw a magic circle round them, +To protect them from destruction, +Blast of mildew, blight of insect, +Wagemin, the thief of cornfields, +Paimosaid, who steals the maize-ear! + "In the night, when all is silence, +In the night, when all is darkness, +When the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin, +Shuts the doors of all the wigwams, +So that not an ear can hear you, +So that not an eye can see you, +Rise up from your bed in silence, +Lay aside your garments wholly, +Walk around the fields you planted, +Round the borders of the cornfields, +Covered by your tresses only, +Robed with darkness as a garment. + "Thus the fields shall be more fruitful, +And the passing of your footsteps +Draw a magic circle round them, +So that neither blight nor mildew, +Neither burrowing worm nor insect, +Shall pass o'er the magic circle; +Not the dragon-fly, Kwo-ne-she, +Nor the spider, Subbekashe, +Nor the grasshopper, Pah-puk-keena; +Nor the mighty caterpillar, +Way-muk-kwana, with the bear-skin, +King of all the caterpillars!" + On the tree-tops near the cornfields +Sat the hungry crows and ravens, +Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, +With his band of black marauders. +And they laughed at Hiawatha, +Till the tree-tops shook with laughter, +With their melancholy laughter, +At the words of Hiawatha. +"Hear him!" said they; "hear the Wise Man, +Hear the plots of Hiawatha!" + When the noiseless night descended +Broad and dark o'er field and forest, +When the mournful Wawonaissa +Sorrowing sang among the hemlocks, +And the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin, +Shut the doors of all the wigwams, +From her bed rose Laughing Water, +Laid aside her garments wholly, +And with darkness clothed and guarded, +Unashamed and unaffrighted, +Walked securely round the cornfields, +Drew the sacred, magic circle +Of her footprints round the cornfields. + No one but the Midnight only +Saw her beauty in the darkness, +No one but the Wawonaissa +Heard the panting of her bosom; +Guskewau, the darkness, wrapped her +Closely in his sacred mantle, +So that none might see her beauty, +So that none might boast, "I saw her!" + On the morrow, as the day dawned, +Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, +Gathered all his black marauders, +Crows and blackbirds, jays and ravens, +Clamorous on the dusky tree-tops, +And descended, fast and fearless, +On the fields of Hiawatha, +On the grave of the Mondamin. + "We will drag Mondamin," said they, +"From the grave where he is buried, +Spite of all the magic circles +Laughing Water draws around it, +Spite of all the sacred footprints +Minnehaha stamps upon it!" + But the wary Hiawatha, +Ever thoughtful, careful, watchful, +Had o'erheard the scornful laughter +When they mocked him from the tree-tops. +"Kaw!" he said, "my friends the ravens! +Kahgahgee, my King of Ravens! +I will teach you all a lesson +That shall not be soon forgotten!" + He had risen before the daybreak, +He had spread o'er all the cornfields +Snares to catch the black marauders, +And was lying now in ambush +In the neighboring grove of pine-trees, +Waiting for the crows and blackbirds, +Waiting for the jays and ravens. + Soon they came with caw and clamor, +Rush of wings and cry of voices, +To their work of devastation, +Settling down upon the cornfields, +Delving deep with beak and talon, +For the body of Mondamin. +And with all their craft and cunning, +All their skill in wiles of warfare, +They perceived no danger near them, +Till their claws became entangled, +Till they found themselves imprisoned +In the snares of Hiawatha. + From his place of ambush came he, +Striding terrible among them, +And so awful was his aspect +That the bravest quailed with terror. +Without mercy he destroyed them +Right and left, by tens and twenties, +And their wretched, lifeless bodies +Hung aloft on poles for scarecrows +Round the consecrated cornfields, +As a signal of his vengeance, +As a warning to marauders. + Only Kahgahgee, the leader, +Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, +He alone was spared among them +As a hostage for his people. +With his prisoner-string he bound him, +Led him captive to his wigwam, +Tied him fast with cords of elm-bark +To the ridge-pole of his wigwam. + "Kahgahgee, my raven!" said he, +"You the leader of the robbers, +You the plotter of this mischief, +The contriver of this outrage, +I will keep you, I will hold you, +As a hostage for your people, +As a pledge of good behavior!" + And he left him, grim and sulky, +Sitting in the morning sunshine +On the summit of the wigwam, +Croaking fiercely his displeasure, +Flapping his great sable pinions, +Vainly struggling for his freedom, +Vainly calling on his people! + Summer passed, and Shawondasee +Breathed his sighs o'er all the landscape, +From the South-land sent his ardor, +Wafted kisses warm and tender; +And the maize-field grew and ripened, +Till it stood in all the splendor +Of its garments green and yellow, +Of its tassels and its plumage, +And the maize-ears full and shining +Gleamed from bursting sheaths of verdure. + Then Nokomis, the old woman, +Spake, and said to Minnehaha: +"'T is the Moon when leaves are falling; +All the wild-rice has been gathered, +And the maize is ripe and ready; +Let us gather in the harvest, +Let us wrestle with Mondamin, +Strip him of his plumes and tassels, +Of his garments green and yellow!" + And the merry Laughing Water +Went rejoicing from the wigwam, +With Nokomis, old and wrinkled, +And they called the women round them, +Called the young men and the maidens, +To the harvest of the cornfields, +To the husking of the maize-ear. + On the border of the forest, +Underneath the fragrant pine-trees, +Sat the old men and the warriors +Smoking in the pleasant shadow. +In uninterrupted silence +Looked they at the gamesome labor +Of the young men and the women; +Listened to their noisy talking, +To their laughter and their singing, +Heard them chattering like the magpies, +Heard them laughing like the blue-jays, +Heard them singing like the robins. + And whene'er some lucky maiden +Found a red ear in the husking, +Found a maize-ear red as blood is, +"Nushka!" cried they all together, +"Nushka! you shall have a sweetheart, +You shall have a handsome husband!" +"Ugh!" the old men all responded +From their seats beneath the pine-trees. + And whene'er a youth or maiden +Found a crooked ear in husking, +Found a maize-ear in the husking +Blighted, mildewed, or misshapen, +Then they laughed and sang together, +Crept and limped about the cornfields, +Mimicked in their gait and gestures +Some old man, bent almost double, +Singing singly or together: +"Wagemin, the thief of cornfields! +Paimosaid, who steals the maize-ear!" + Till the cornfields rang with laughter, +Till from Hiawatha's wigwam +Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, +Screamed and quivered in his anger, +And from all the neighboring tree-tops +Cawed and croaked the black marauders. +"Ugh!" the old men all responded, +From their seats beneath the pine-trees! + + + +XIV + +PICTURE-WRITING + +In those days said Hiawatha, +"Lo! how all things fade and perish! +From the memory of the old men +Pass away the great traditions, +The achievements of the warriors, +The adventures of the hunters, +All the wisdom of the Medas, +All the craft of the Wabenos, +All the marvellous dreams and visions +Of the Jossakeeds, the Prophets! + "Great men die and are forgotten, +Wise men speak; their words of wisdom +Perish in the ears that hear them, +Do not reach the generations +That, as yet unborn, are waiting +In the great, mysterious darkness +Of the speechless days that shall be! + "On the grave-posts of our fathers +Are no signs, no figures painted; +Who are in those graves we know not, +Only know they are our fathers. +Of what kith they are and kindred, +From what old, ancestral Totem, +Be it Eagle, Bear, or Beaver, +They descended, this we know not, +Only know they are our fathers. + "Face to face we speak together, +But we cannot speak when absent, +Cannot send our voices from us +To the friends that dwell afar off; +Cannot send a secret message, +But the bearer learns our secret, +May pervert it, may betray it, +May reveal it unto others." + Thus said Hiawatha, walking +In the solitary forest, +Pondering, musing in the forest, +On the welfare of his people. + From his pouch he took his colors, +Took his paints of different colors, +On the smooth bark of a birch-tree +Painted many shapes and figures, +Wonderful and mystic figures, +And each figure had a meaning, +Each some word or thought suggested. + Gitche Manito the Mighty, +He, the Master of Life, was painted +As an egg, with points projecting +To the four winds of the heavens. +Everywhere is the Great Spirit, +Was the meaning of this symbol. + Mitche Manito the Mighty, +He the dreadful Spirit of Evil, +As a serpent was depicted, +As Kenabeek, the great serpent. +Very crafty, very cunning, +Is the creeping Spirit of Evil, +Was the meaning of this symbol. + Life and Death he drew as circles, +Life was white, but Death was darkened; +Sun and moon and stars he painted, +Man and beast, and fish and reptile, +Forests, mountains, lakes, and rivers. + For the earth he drew a straight line, +For the sky a bow above it; +White the space between for daytime, +Filled with little stars for night-time; +On the left a point for sunrise, +On the right a point for sunset, +On the top a point for noontide, +And for rain and cloudy weather +Waving lines descending from it. + Footprints pointing towards a wigwam +Were a sign of invitation, +Were a sign of guests assembling; +Bloody hands with palms uplifted +Were a symbol of destruction, +Were a hostile sign and symbol. + All these things did Hiawatha +Show unto his wondering people, +And interpreted their meaning, +And he said: "Behold, your grave-posts +Have no mark, no sign, nor symbol, +Go and paint them all with figures; +Each one with its household symbol, +With its own ancestral Totem; +So that those who follow after +May distinguish them and know them." + And they painted on the grave-posts +On the graves yet unforgotten, +Each his own ancestral Totem, +Each the symbol of his household; +Figures of the Bear and Reindeer, +Of the Turtle, Crane, and Beaver, +Each inverted as a token +That the owner was departed, +That the chief who bore the symbol +Lay beneath in dust and ashes. + And the Jossakeeds, the Prophets, +The Wabenos, the Magicians, +And the Medicine-men, the Medas, +Painted upon bark and deer-skin +Figures for the songs they chanted, +For each song a separate symbol, +Figures mystical and awful, +Figures strange and brightly colored; +And each figure had its meaning, +Each some magic song suggested. + The Great Spirit, the Creator, +Flashing light through all the heaven; +The Great Serpent, the Kenabeek, +With his bloody crest erected, +Creeping, looking into heaven; +In the sky the sun, that listens, +And the moon eclipsed and dying; +Owl and eagle, crane and hen-hawk, +And the cormorant, bird of magic; +Headless men, that walk the heavens, +Bodies lying pierced with arrows, +Bloody hands of death uplifted, +Flags on graves, and great war-captains +Grasping both the earth and heaven! + Such as these the shapes they painted +On the birch-bark and the deer-skin; +Songs of war and songs of hunting, +Songs of medicine and of magic, +All were written in these figures, +For each figure had its meaning, +Each its separate song recorded. + Nor forgotten was the Love-Song, +The most subtle of all medicines, +The most potent spell of magic, +Dangerous more than war or hunting! +Thus the Love-Song was recorded, +Symbol and interpretation. + First a human figure standing, +Painted in the brightest scarlet; +'T is the lover, the musician, +And the meaning is, "My painting +Makes me powerful over others." + Then the figure seated, singing, +Playing on a drum of magic, +And the interpretation, "Listen! +'T is my voice you hear, my singing!" + Then the same red figure seated +In the shelter of a wigwam, +And the meaning of the symbol, +"I will come and sit beside you +In the mystery of my passion!" + Then two figures, man and woman, +Standing hand in hand together +With their hands so clasped together +That they seemed in one united, +And the words thus represented +Are, "I see your heart within you, +And your cheeks are red with blushes!" + Next the maiden on an island, +In the centre of an island; +And the song this shape suggested +Was, "Though you were at a distance, +Were upon some far-off island, +Such the spell I cast upon you, +Such the magic power of passion, +I could straightway draw you to me!" + Then the figure of the maiden +Sleeping, and the lover near her, +Whispering to her in her slumbers, +Saying, "Though you were far from me +In the land of Sleep and Silence, +Still the voice of love would reach you!" + And the last of all the figures +Was a heart within a circle, +Drawn within a magic circle; +And the image had this meaning: +"Naked lies your heart before me, +To your naked heart I whisper!" + Thus it was that Hiawatha, +In his wisdom, taught the people +All the mysteries of painting, +All the art of Picture-Writing, +On the smooth bark of the birch-tree, +On the white skin of the reindeer, +On the grave-posts of the village. + + + +XV + +HIAWATHA'S LAMENTATION + +In those days the Evil Spirits, +All the Manitos of mischief, +Fearing Hiawatha's wisdom, +And his love for Chibiabos, +Jealous of their faithful friendship, +And their noble words and actions, +Made at length a league against them, +To molest them and destroy them. + Hiawatha, wise and wary, +Often said to Chibiabos, +"O my brother! do not leave me, +Lest the Evil Spirits harm you!" +Chibiabos, young and heedless, +Laughing shook his coal-black tresses, +Answered ever sweet and childlike, +"Do not fear for me, O brother! +Harm and evil come not near me!" + Once when Peboan, the Winter, +Roofed with ice the Big-Sea-Water, +When the snow-flakes, whirling downward, +Hissed among the withered oak-leaves, +Changed the pine-trees into wigwams, +Covered all the earth with silence,-- +Armed with arrows, shod with snow-shoes, +Heeding not his brother's warning, +Fearing not the Evil Spirits, +Forth to hunt the deer with antlers +All alone went Chibiabos. + Right across the Big-Sea-Water +Sprang with speed the deer before him. +With the wind and snow he followed, +O'er the treacherous ice he followed, +Wild with all the fierce commotion +And the rapture of the hunting. + But beneath, the Evil Spirits +Lay in ambush, waiting for him, +Broke the treacherous ice beneath him, +Dragged him downward to the bottom, +Buried in the sand his body. +Unktahee, the god of water, +He the god of the Dacotahs, +Drowned him in the deep abysses +Of the lake of Gitche Gumee. + From the headlands Hiawatha +Sent forth such a wail of anguish, +Such a fearful lamentation, +That the bison paused to listen, +And the wolves howled from the prairies, +And the thunder in the distance +Starting answered "Baim-wawa!" + Then his face with black he painted, +With his robe his head he covered, +In his wigwam sat lamenting, +Seven long weeks he sat lamenting, +Uttering still this moan of sorrow:-- + "He is dead, the sweet musician! +He the sweetest of all singers! +He has gone from us forever, +He has moved a little nearer +To the Master of all music, +To the Master of all singing! +O my brother, Chibiabos!" + And the melancholy fir-trees +Waved their dark green fans above him, +Waved their purple cones above him, +Sighing with him to console him, +Mingling with his lamentation +Their complaining, their lamenting. + Came the Spring, and all the forest +Looked in vain for Chibiabos; +Sighed the rivulet, Sebowisha, +Sighed the rushes in the meadow. + From the tree-tops sang the bluebird, +Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa, +"Chibiabos! Chibiabos! +He is dead, the sweet musician!" + From the wigwam sang the robin, +Sang the robin, the Opechee, +"Chibiabos! Chibiabos! +He is dead, the sweetest singer!" + And at night through all the forest +Went the whippoorwill complaining, +Wailing went the Wawonaissa, +"Chibiabos! Chibiabos! +He is dead, the sweet musician! +He the sweetest of all singers!" + Then the Medicine-men, the Medas, +The magicians, the Wabenos, +And the Jossakeeds, the Prophets, +Came to visit Hiawatha; +Built a Sacred Lodge beside him, +To appease him, to console him, +Walked in silent, grave procession, +Bearing each a pouch of healing, +Skin of beaver, lynx, or otter, +Filled with magic roots and simples, +Filled with very potent medicines. + When he heard their steps approaching, +Hiawatha ceased lamenting, +Called no more on Chibiabos; +Naught he questioned, naught he answered, +But his mournful head uncovered, +From his face the mourning colors +Washed he slowly and in silence, +Slowly and in silence followed +Onward to the Sacred Wigwam. + There a magic drink they gave him, +Made of Nahma-wusk, the spearmint, +And Wabeno-wusk, the yarrow, +Roots of power, and herbs of healing; +Beat their drums, and shook their rattles; +Chanted singly and in chorus, +Mystic songs like these, they chanted. + "I myself, myself! behold me! +'T is the great Gray Eagle talking; +Come, ye white crows, come and hear him! +The loud-speaking thunder helps me; +All the unseen spirits help me; +I can hear their voices calling, +All around the sky I hear them! +I can blow you strong, my brother, +I can heal you, Hiawatha!" + "Hi-au-ha!" replied the chorus, +"Way-ha-way!" the mystic chorus. + "Friends of mine are all the serpents! +Hear me shake my skin of hen-hawk! +Mahng, the white loon, I can kill him; +I can shoot your heart and kill it! +I can blow you strong, my brother, +I can heal you, Hiawatha!" + "Hi-au-ha!" replied the chorus, +"Way-ha-way!" the mystic chorus. + "I myself, myself! the prophet! +When I speak the wigwam trembles, +Shakes the Sacred Lodge with terror, +Hands unseen begin to shake it! +When I walk, the sky I tread on +Bends and makes a noise beneath me! +I can blow you strong, my brother! +Rise and speak, O Hiawatha!" + "Hi-au-ha!" replied the chorus, +"Way-ha-way!" the mystic chorus. + Then they shook their medicine-pouches +O'er the head of Hiawatha, +Danced their medicine-dance around him; +And upstarting wild and haggard, +Like a man from dreams awakened, +He was healed of all his madness. +As the clouds are swept from heaven, +Straightway from his brain departed +All his moody melancholy; +As the ice is swept from rivers, +Straightway from his heart departed +All his sorrow and affliction. + Then they summoned Chibiabos +From his grave beneath the waters, +From the sands of Gitche Gumee +Summoned Hiawatha's brother. +And so mighty was the magic +Of that cry and invocation, +That he heard it as he lay there +Underneath the Big-Sea-Water; +From the sand he rose and listened, +Heard the music and the singing, +Came, obedient to the summons, +To the doorway of the wigwam, +But to enter they forbade him. + Through a chink a coal they gave him, +Through the door a burning fire-brand; +Ruler in the Land of Spirits, +Ruler o'er the dead, they made him, +Telling him a fire to kindle +For all those that died thereafter, +Camp-fires for their night encampments +On their solitary journey +To the kingdom of Ponemah, +To the land of the Hereafter. + From the village of his childhood, +From the homes of those who knew him, +Passing silent through the forest, +Like a smoke-wreath wafted sideways, +Slowly vanished Chibiabos! +Where he passed, the branches moved not, +Where he trod, the grasses bent not, +And the fallen leaves of last year +Made no sound beneath his footstep. + Four whole days he journeyed onward +Down the pathway of the dead men; +On the dead-man's strawberry feasted, +Crossed the melancholy river, +On the swinging log he crossed it, +Came unto the Lake of Silver, +In the Stone Canoe was carried +To the Islands of the Blessed, +To the land of ghosts and shadows. + On that journey, moving slowly, +Many weary spirits saw he, +Panting under heavy burdens, +Laden with war-clubs, bows and arrows, +Robes of fur, and pots and kettles, +And with food that friends had given +For that solitary journey. + "Ay! why do the living," said they, +"Lay such heavy burdens on us! +Better were it to go naked, +Better were it to go fasting, +Than to bear such heavy burdens +On our long and weary journey!" +Forth then issued Hiawatha, +Wandered eastward, wandered westward, +Teaching men the use of simples +And the antidotes for poisons, +And the cure of all diseases. +Thus was first made known to mortals +All the mystery of Medamin, +All the sacred art of healing. + + + +XVI + +PAU-PUK-KEEWIS + +You shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis, +He, the handsome Yenadizze, +Whom the people called the Storm-Fool, +Vexed the village with disturbance; +You shall hear of all his mischief, +And his flight from Hiawatha, +And his wondrous transmigrations, +And the end of his adventures. + On the shores of Gitche Gumee, +On the dunes of Nagow Wudjoo, +By the shining Big-Sea-Water +Stood the lodge of Pau-Puk-Keewis. +It was he who in his frenzy +Whirled these drifting sands together, +On the dunes of Nagow Wudjoo, +When, among the guests assembled, +He so merrily and madly +Danced at Hiawatha's wedding, +Danced the Beggar's Dance to please them. + Now, in search of new adventures, +From his lodge went Pau-Puk-Keewis, +Came with speed into the village, +Found the young men all assembled +In the lodge of old Iagoo, +Listening to his monstrous stories, +To his wonderful adventures. + He was telling them the story +Of Ojeeg, the Summer-Maker, +How he made a hole in heaven, +How he climbed up into heaven, +And let out the summer-weather, +The perpetual, pleasant Summer; +How the Otter first essayed it; +How the Beaver, Lynx, and Badger +Tried in turn the great achievement, +From the summit of the mountain +Smote their fists against the heavens, +Smote against the sky their foreheads, +Cracked the sky, but could not break it; +How the Wolverine, uprising, +Made him ready for the encounter, +Bent his knees down, like a squirrel, +Drew his arms back, like a cricket. + "Once he leaped," said old Iagoo, +"Once he leaped, and lo! above him +Bent the sky, as ice in rivers +When the waters rise beneath it; +Twice he leaped, and lo! above him +Cracked the sky, as ice in rivers +When the freshet is at highest! +Thrice he leaped, and lo! above him +Broke the shattered sky asunder, +And he disappeared within it, +And Ojeeg, the Fisher Weasel, +With a bound went in behind him!" + "Hark you!" shouted Pau-Puk-Keewis +As he entered at the doorway; +"I am tired of all this talking, +Tired of old Iagoo's stories, +Tired of Hiawatha's wisdom. +Here is something to amuse you, +Better than this endless talking." + Then from out his pouch of wolf-skin +Forth he drew, with solemn manner, +All the game of Bowl and Counters, +Pugasaing, with thirteen pieces. +White on one side were they painted, +And vermilion on the other; +Two Kenabeeks or great serpents, +Two Ininewug or wedge-men, +One great war-club, Pugamaugun, +And one slender fish, the Keego, +Four round pieces, Ozawabeeks, +And three Sheshebwug or ducklings. +All were made of bone and painted, +All except the Ozawabeeks; +These were brass, on one side burnished, +And were black upon the other. + In a wooden bowl he placed them, +Shook and jostled them together, +Threw them on the ground before him, +Thus exclaiming and explaining: +"Red side up are all the pieces, +And one great Kenabeek standing +On the bright side of a brass piece, +On a burnished Ozawabeek; +Thirteen tens and eight are counted." + Then again he shook the pieces, +Shook and jostled them together, +Threw them on the ground before him, +Still exclaiming and explaining: +"White are both the great Kenabeeks, +White the Ininewug, the wedge-men, +Red are all the other pieces; +Five tens and an eight are counted." + Thus he taught the game of hazard, +Thus displayed it and explained it, +Running through its various chances, +Various changes, various meanings: +Twenty curious eyes stared at him, +Full of eagerness stared at him. + "Many games," said old Iagoo, +"Many games of skill and hazard +Have I seen in different nations, +Have I played in different countries. +He who plays with old Iagoo +Must have very nimble fingers; +Though you think yourself so skilful, +I can beat you, Pau-Puk-Keewis, +I can even give you lessons +In your game of Bowl and Counters!" + So they sat and played together, +All the old men and the young men, +Played for dresses, weapons, wampum, +Played till midnight, played till morning, +Played until the Yenadizze, +Till the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis, +Of their treasures had despoiled them, +Of the best of all their dresses, +Shirts of deer-skin, robes of ermine, +Belts of wampum, crests of feathers, +Warlike weapons, pipes and pouches. +Twenty eyes glared wildly at him, +Like the eyes of wolves glared at him. + Said the lucky Pau-Puk-Keewis: +"In my wigwam I am lonely, +In my wanderings and adventures +I have need of a companion, +Fain would have a Meshinauwa, +An attendant and pipe-bearer. +I will venture all these winnings, +All these garments heaped about me, +All this wampum, all these feathers, +On a single throw will venture +All against the young man yonder!" +'T was a youth of sixteen summers, +'T was a nephew of Iagoo; +Face-in-a-Mist, the people called him. + As the fire burns in a pipe-head +Dusky red beneath the ashes, +So beneath his shaggy eyebrows +Glowed the eyes of old Iagoo. +"Ugh!" he answered very fiercely; +"Ugh!" they answered all and each one. + Seized the wooden bowl the old man, +Closely in his bony fingers +Clutched the fatal bowl, Onagon, +Shook it fiercely and with fury, +Made the pieces ring together +As he threw them down before him. + Red were both the great Kenabeeks, +Red the Ininewug, the wedge-men, +Red the Sheshebwug, the ducklings, +Black the four brass Ozawabeeks, +White alone the fish, the Keego; +Only five the pieces counted! + Then the smiling Pau-Puk-Keewis +Shook the bowl and threw the pieces; +Lightly in the air he tossed them, +And they fell about him scattered; +Dark and bright the Ozawabeeks, +Red and white the other pieces, +And upright among the others +One Ininewug was standing, +Even as crafty Pau-Puk-Keewis +Stood alone among the players, +Saying, "Five tens! mine the game is!" + Twenty eyes glared at him fiercely, +Like the eyes of wolves glared at him, +As he turned and left the wigwam, +Followed by his Meshinauwa, +By the nephew of Iagoo, +By the tall and graceful stripling, +Bearing in his arms the winnings, +Shirts of deer-skin, robes of ermine, +Belts of wampum, pipes and weapons. + "Carry them," said Pau-Puk-Keewis, +Pointing with his fan of feathers, +"To my wigwam far to eastward, +On the dunes of Nagow Wudjoo!" + Hot and red with smoke and gambling +Were the eyes of Pau-Puk-Keewis +As he came forth to the freshness +Of the pleasant Summer morning. +All the birds were singing gayly, +All the streamlets flowing swiftly, +And the heart of Pau-Puk-Keewis +Sang with pleasure as the birds sing, +Beat with triumph like the streamlets, +As he wandered through the village, +In the early gray of morning, +With his fan of turkey-feathers, +With his plumes and tufts of swan's down, +Till he reached the farthest wigwam, +Reached the lodge of Hiawatha. + Silent was it and deserted; +No one met him at the doorway, +No one came to bid him welcome; +But the birds were singing round it, +In and out and round the doorway, +Hopping, singing, fluttering, feeding, +And aloft upon the ridge-pole +Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, +Sat with fiery eyes, and, screaming, +Flapped his wings at Pau-Puk-Keewis. + "All are gone! the lodge is empty!" +Thus it was spake Pau-Puk-Keewis, +In his heart resolving mischief;-- +"Gone is wary Hiawatha, +Gone the silly Laughing Water, +Gone Nokomis, the old woman, +And the lodge is left unguarded!" + By the neck he seized the raven, +Whirled it round him like a rattle, +Like a medicine-pouch he shook it, +Strangled Kahgahgee, the raven, +From the ridge-pole of the wigwam +Left its lifeless body hanging, +As an insult to its master, +As a taunt to Hiawatha. + With a stealthy step he entered, +Round the lodge in wild disorder +Threw the household things about him, +Piled together in confusion +Bowls of wood and earthen kettles, +Robes of buffalo and beaver, +Skins of otter, lynx, and ermine, +As an insult to Nokomis, +As a taunt to Minnehaha. + Then departed Pau-Puk-Keewis, +Whistling, singing through the forest, +Whistling gayly to the squirrels, +Who from hollow boughs above him +Dropped their acorn-shells upon him, +Singing gayly to the wood birds, +Who from out the leafy darkness +Answered with a song as merry. + Then he climbed the rocky headlands, +Looking o'er the Gitche Gumee, +Perched himself upon their summit, +Waiting full of mirth and mischief +The return of Hiawatha. + Stretched upon his back he lay there; +Far below him plashed the waters, +Plashed and washed the dreamy waters; +Far above him swam the heavens, +Swam the dizzy, dreamy heavens; +Round him hovered, fluttered, rustled +Hiawatha's mountain chickens, +Flock-wise swept and wheeled about him, +Almost brushed him with their pinions. + And he killed them as he lay there, +Slaughtered them by tens and twenties, +Threw their bodies down the headland, +Threw them on the beach below him, +Till at length Kayoshk, the sea-gull, +Perched upon a crag above them, +Shouted: "It is Pau-Puk-Keewis! +He is slaying us by hundreds! +Send a message to our brother, +Tidings send to Hiawatha!" + + + +XVII + +THE HUNTING OF PAU-PUK-KEEWIS + +Full of wrath was Hiawatha +When he came into the village, +Found the people in confusion, +Heard of all the misdemeanors, +All the malice and the mischief, +Of the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis. + Hard his breath came through his nostrils, +Through his teeth he buzzed and muttered +Words of anger and resentment, +Hot and humming, like a hornet. +"I will slay this Pau-Puk-Keewis, +Slay this mischief-maker!" said he. +"Not so long and wide the world is, +Not so rude and rough the way is, +That my wrath shall not attain him, +That my vengeance shall not reach him!" + Then in swift pursuit departed +Hiawatha and the hunters +On the trail of Pau-Puk-Keewis, +Through the forest, where he passed it, +To the headlands where he rested; +But they found not Pau-Puk-Keewis, +Only in the trampled grasses, +In the whortleberry-bushes, +Found the couch where he had rested, +Found the impress of his body. + From the lowlands far beneath them, +From the Muskoday, the meadow, +Pau-Puk-Keewis, turning backward, +Made a gesture of defiance, +Made a gesture of derision; +And aloud cried Hiawatha, +From the summit of the mountains: +"Not so long and wide the world is, +Not so rude and rough the way is, +But my wrath shall overtake you, +And my vengeance shall attain you!" + Over rock and over river, +Through bush, and brake, and forest, +Ran the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis; +Like an antelope he bounded, +Till he came unto a streamlet +In the middle of the forest, +To a streamlet still and tranquil, +That had overflowed its margin, +To a dam made by the beavers, +To a pond of quiet water, +Where knee-deep the trees were standing, +Where the water lilies floated, +Where the rushes waved and whispered. + On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis, +On the dam of trunks and branches, +Through whose chinks the water spouted, +O'er whose summit flowed the streamlet. +From the bottom rose the beaver, +Looked with two great eyes of wonder, +Eyes that seemed to ask a question, +At the stranger, Pau-Puk-Keewis. + On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis, +O'er his ankles flowed the streamlet, +Flowed the bright and silvery water, +And he spake unto the beaver, +With a smile he spake in this wise: + "O my friend Ahmeek, the beaver, +Cool and pleasant is the water; +Let me dive into the water, +Let me rest there in your lodges; +Change me, too, into a beaver!" + Cautiously replied the beaver, +With reserve he thus made answer: +"Let me first consult the others, +Let me ask the other beavers." +Down he sank into the water, +Heavily sank he, as a stone sinks, +Down among the leaves and branches, +Brown and matted at the bottom. + On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis, +O'er his ankles flowed the streamlet, +Spouted through the chinks below him, +Dashed upon the stones beneath him, +Spread serene and calm before him, +And the sunshine and the shadows +Fell in flecks and gleams upon him, +Fell in little shining patches, +Through the waving, rustling branches. + From the bottom rose the beavers, +Silently above the surface +Rose one head and then another, +Till the pond seemed full of beavers, +Full of black and shining faces. + To the beavers Pau-Puk-Keewis +Spake entreating, said in this wise: +"Very pleasant is your dwelling, +O my friends! and safe from danger; +Can you not, with all your cunning, +All your wisdom and contrivance, +Change me, too, into a beaver?" + "Yes!" replied Ahmeek, the beaver, +He the King of all the beavers, +"Let yourself slide down among us, +Down into the tranquil water." + Down into the pond among them +Silently sank Pau-Puk-Keewis; +Black became his shirt of deer-skin, +Black his moccasins and leggings, +In a broad black tail behind him +Spread his fox-tails and his fringes; +He was changed into a beaver. + "Make me large," said Pau-Puk-Keewis, +"Make me large and make me larger, +Larger than the other beavers." +"Yes," the beaver chief responded, +"When our lodge below you enter, +In our wigwam we will make you +Ten times larger than the others." + Thus into the clear, brown water +Silently sank Pau-Puk-Keewis: +Found the bottom covered over +With the trunks of trees and branches, +Hoards of food against the winter, +Piles and heaps against the famine; +Found the lodge with arching doorway, +Leading into spacious chambers. + Here they made him large and larger, +Made him largest of the beavers, +Ten times larger than the others. +"You shall be our ruler," said they; +"Chief and King of all the beavers." + But not long had Pau-Puk-Keewis +Sat in state among the beavers, +When there came a voice of warning +From the watchman at his station +In the water-flags and lilies, +Saying, "Here Is Hiawatha! +Hiawatha with his hunters!" + Then they heard a cry above them, +Heard a shouting and a tramping, +Heard a crashing and a rushing, +And the water round and o'er them +Sank and sucked away in eddies, +And they knew their dam was broken. + On the lodge's roof the hunters +Leaped, and broke it all asunder; +Streamed the sunshine through the crevice, +Sprang the beavers through the doorway, +Hid themselves in deeper water, +In the channel of the streamlet; +But the mighty Pau-Puk-Keewis +Could not pass beneath the doorway; +He was puffed with pride and feeding, +He was swollen like a bladder. + Through the roof looked Hiawatha, +Cried aloud, "O Pau-Puk-Keewis +Vain are all your craft and cunning, +Vain your manifold disguises! +Well I know you, Pau-Puk-Keewis!" + With their clubs they beat and bruised him, +Beat to death poor Pau-Puk-Keewis, +Pounded him as maize is pounded, +Till his skull was crushed to pieces. + Six tall hunters, lithe and limber, +Bore him home on poles and branches, +Bore the body of the beaver; +But the ghost, the Jeebi in him, +Thought and felt as Pau-Puk-Keewis, +Still lived on as Pau-Puk-Keewis. + And it fluttered, strove, and struggled, +Waving hither, waving thither, +As the curtains of a wigwam +Struggle with their thongs of deer-skin, +When the wintry wind is blowing; +Till it drew itself together, +Till it rose up from the body, +Till it took the form and features +Of the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis +Vanishing into the forest. + But the wary Hiawatha +Saw the figure ere it vanished, +Saw the form of Pau-Puk-Keewis +Glide into the soft blue shadow +Of the pine-trees of the forest; +Toward the squares of white beyond it, +Toward an opening in the forest. +Like a wind it rushed and panted, +Bending all the boughs before it, +And behind it, as the rain comes, +Came the steps of Hiawatha. + To a lake with many islands +Came the breathless Pau-Puk-Keewis, +Where among the water-lilies +Pishnekuh, the brant, were sailing; +Through the tufts of rushes floating, +Steering through the reedy islands. +Now their broad black beaks they lifted, +Now they plunged beneath the water, +Now they darkened in the shadow, +Now they brightened in the sunshine. + "Pishnekuh!" cried Pau-Puk-Keewis, +"Pishnekuh! my brothers!" said he, +"Change me to a brant with plumage, +With a shining neck and feathers, +Make me large, and make me larger, +Ten times larger than the others." + Straightway to a brant they changed him, +With two huge and dusky pinions, +With a bosom smooth and rounded, +With a bill like two great paddles, +Made him larger than the others, +Ten times larger than the largest, +Just as, shouting from the forest, +On the shore stood Hiawatha. + Up they rose with cry and clamor, +With a whir and beat of pinions, +Rose up from the reedy Islands, +From the water-flags and lilies. +And they said to Pau-Puk-Keewis: +"In your flying, look not downward, +Take good heed and look not downward, +Lest some strange mischance should happen, +Lest some great mishap befall you!" + Fast and far they fled to northward, +Fast and far through mist and sunshine, +Fed among the moors and fen-lands, +Slept among the reeds and rushes. + On the morrow as they journeyed, +Buoyed and lifted by the South-wind, +Wafted onward by the South-wind, +Blowing fresh and strong behind them, +Rose a sound of human voices, +Rose a clamor from beneath them, +From the lodges of a village, +From the people miles beneath them. + For the people of the village +Saw the flock of brant with wonder, +Saw the wings of Pau-Puk-Keewis +Flapping far up in the ether, +Broader than two doorway curtains. + Pau-Puk-Keewis heard the shouting, +Knew the voice of Hiawatha, +Knew the outcry of Iagoo, +And, forgetful of the warning, +Drew his neck in, and looked downward, +And the wind that blew behind him +Caught his mighty fan of feathers, +Sent him wheeling, whirling downward! + All in vain did Pau-Puk-Keewis +Struggle to regain his balance! +Whirling round and round and downward, +He beheld in turn the village +And in turn the flock above him, +Saw the village coming nearer, +And the flock receding farther, +Heard the voices growing louder, +Heard the shouting and the laughter; +Saw no more the flocks above him, +Only saw the earth beneath him; +Dead out of the empty heaven, +Dead among the shouting people, +With a heavy sound and sullen, +Fell the brant with broken pinions. + But his soul, his ghost, his shadow, +Still survived as Pau-Puk-Keewis, +Took again the form and features +Of the handsome Yenadizze, +And again went rushing onward, +Followed fast by Hiawatha, +Crying: "Not so wide the world is, +Not so long and rough the way is, +But my wrath shall overtake you, +But my vengeance shall attain you!" + And so near he came, so near him, +That his hand was stretched to seize him, +His right hand to seize and hold him, +When the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis +Whirled and spun about in circles, +Fanned the air into a whirlwind, +Danced the dust and leaves about him, +And amid the whirling eddies +Sprang into a hollow oak-tree, +Changed himself into a serpent, +Gliding out through root and rubbish. + With his right hand Hiawatha +Smote amain the hollow oak-tree, +Rent it into shreds and splinters, +Left it lying there in fragments. +But in vain; for Pau-Puk-Keewis, +Once again in human figure, +Full in sight ran on before him, +Sped away in gust and whirlwind, +On the shores of Gitche Gumee, +Westward by the Big-Sea-Water, +Came unto the rocky headlands, +To the Pictured Rocks of sandstone, +Looking over lake and landscape. + And the Old Man of the Mountain, +He the Manito of Mountains, +Opened wide his rocky doorways, +Opened wide his deep abysses, +Giving Pau-Puk-Keewis shelter +In his caverns dark and dreary, +Bidding Pau-Puk-Keewis welcome +To his gloomy lodge of sandstone. + There without stood Hiawatha, +Found the doorways closed against him, +With his mittens, Minjekahwun, +Smote great caverns in the sandstone, +Cried aloud in tones of thunder, +"Open! I am Hiawatha!" +But the Old Man of the Mountain +Opened not, and made no answer +From the silent crags of sandstone, +From the gloomy rock abysses. + Then he raised his hands to heaven, +Called imploring on the tempest, +Called Waywassimo, the lightning, +And the thunder, Annemeekee; +And they came with night and darkness, +Sweeping down the Big-Sea-Water +From the distant Thunder Mountains; +And the trembling Pau-Puk-Keewis +Heard the footsteps of the thunder, +Saw the red eyes of the lightning, +Was afraid, and crouched and trembled. + Then Waywassimo, the lightning, +Smote the doorways of the caverns, +With his war-club smote the doorways, +Smote the jutting crags of sandstone, +And the thunder, Annemeekee, +Shouted down into the caverns, +Saying, "Where is Pau-Puk-Keewis!" +And the crags fell, and beneath them +Dead among the rocky ruins +Lay the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis, +Lay the handsome Yenadizze, +Slain in his own human figure. + Ended were his wild adventures, +Ended were his tricks and gambols, +Ended all his craft and cunning, +Ended all his mischief-making, +All his gambling and his dancing, +All his wooing of the maidens. + Then the noble Hiawatha +Took his soul, his ghost, his shadow, +Spake and said: "O Pau-Puk-Keewis, +Never more in human figure +Shall you search for new adventures; +Never more with jest and laughter +Dance the dust and leaves in whirlwinds; +But above there in the heavens +You shall soar and sail in circles; +I will change you to an eagle, +To Keneu, the great war-eagle, +Chief of all the fowls with feathers, +Chief of Hiawatha's chickens." + And the name of Pau-Puk-Keewis +Lingers still among the people, +Lingers still among the singers, +And among the story-tellers; +And in Winter, when the snow-flakes +Whirl in eddies round the lodges, +When the wind in gusty tumult +O'er the smoke-flue pipes and whistles, +"There," they cry, "comes Pau-Puk-Keewis; +He is dancing through the village, +He is gathering in his harvest!" + + + +XVIII + +THE DEATH OF KWASIND + +Far and wide among the nations +Spread the name and fame of Kwasind; +No man dared to strive with Kwasind, +No man could compete with Kwasind. +But the mischievous Puk-Wudjies, +They the envious Little People, +They the fairies and the pygmies, +Plotted and conspired against him. + "If this hateful Kwasind," said they, +"If this great, outrageous fellow +Goes on thus a little longer, +Tearing everything he touches, +Rending everything to pieces, +Filling all the world with wonder, +What becomes of the Puk-Wudjies? +Who will care for the Puk-Wudjies? +He will tread us down like mushrooms, +Drive us all into the water, +Give our bodies to be eaten +By the wicked Nee-ba-naw-baigs, +By the Spirits of the water! + So the angry Little People +All conspired against the Strong Man, +All conspired to murder Kwasind, +Yes, to rid the world of Kwasind, +The audacious, overbearing, +Heartless, haughty, dangerous Kwasind! + Now this wondrous strength of Kwasind +In his crown alone was seated; +In his crown too was his weakness; +There alone could he be wounded, +Nowhere else could weapon pierce him, +Nowhere else could weapon harm him. + Even there the only weapon +That could wound him, that could slay him, +Was the seed-cone of the pine-tree, +Was the blue cone of the fir-tree. +This was Kwasind's fatal secret, +Known to no man among mortals; +But the cunning Little People, +The Puk-Wudjies, knew the secret, +Knew the only way to kill him. + So they gathered cones together, +Gathered seed-cones of the pine-tree, +Gathered blue cones of the fir-tree, +In the woods by Taquamenaw, +Brought them to the river's margin, +Heaped them in great piles together, +Where the red rocks from the margin +Jutting overhang the river. +There they lay in wait for Kwasind, +The malicious Little People. + 'T was an afternoon in Summer; +Very hot and still the air was, +Very smooth the gliding river, +Motionless the sleeping shadows: +Insects glistened in the sunshine, +Insects skated on the water, +Filled the drowsy air with buzzing, +With a far resounding war-cry. + Down the river came the Strong Man, +In his birch canoe came Kwasind, +Floating slowly down the current +Of the sluggish Taquamenaw, +Very languid with the weather, +Very sleepy with the silence. + From the overhanging branches, +From the tassels of the birch-trees, +Soft the Spirit of Sleep descended; +By his airy hosts surrounded, +His invisible attendants, +Came the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin; +Like a burnished Dush-kwo-ne-she, +Like a dragon-fly, he hovered +O'er the drowsy head of Kwasind. + To his ear there came a murmur +As of waves upon a sea-shore, +As of far-off tumbling waters, +As of winds among the pine-trees; +And he felt upon his forehead +Blows of little airy war-clubs, +Wielded by the slumbrous legions +Of the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin, +As of some one breathing on him. + At the first blow of their war-clubs, +Fell a drowsiness on Kwasind; +At the second blow they smote him, +Motionless his paddle rested; +At the third, before his vision +Reeled the landscape into darkness, +Very sound asleep was Kwasind. + So he floated down the river, +Like a blind man seated upright, +Floated down the Taquamenaw, +Underneath the trembling birch-trees, +Underneath the wooded headlands, +Underneath the war encampment +Of the pygmies, the Puk-Wudjies. + There they stood, all armed and waiting, +Hurled the pine-cones down upon him, +Struck him on his brawny shoulders, +On his crown defenceless struck him. +"Death to Kwasind!" was the sudden +War-cry of the Little People. + And he sideways swayed and tumbled, +Sideways fell into the river, +Plunged beneath the sluggish water +Headlong, as an otter plunges; +And the birch canoe, abandoned, +Drifted empty down the river, +Bottom upward swerved and drifted: +Nothing more was seen of Kwasind. + But the memory of the Strong Man +Lingered long among the people, +And whenever through the forest +Raged and roared the wintry tempest, +And the branches, tossed and troubled, +Creaked and groaned and split asunder, +"Kwasind!" cried they; "that is Kwasind! +He is gathering in his fire-wood!" + + + +IX + +THE GHOSTS + +Never stoops the soaring vulture +On his quarry in the desert, +On the sick or wounded bison, +But another vulture, watching +From his high aerial look-out, +Sees the downward plunge, and follows; +And a third pursues the second, +Coming from the invisible ether, +First a speck, and then a vulture, +Till the air is dark with pinions. + So disasters come not singly; +But as if they watched and waited, +Scanning one another's motions, +When the first descends, the others +Follow, follow, gathering flock-wise +Round their victim, sick and wounded, +First a shadow, then a sorrow, +Till the air is dark with anguish. + Now, o'er all the dreary North-land, +Mighty Peboan, the Winter, +Breathing on the lakes and rivers, +Into stone had changed their waters. +From his hair he shook the snow-flakes, +Till the plains were strewn with whiteness, +One uninterrupted level, +As if, stooping, the Creator +With his hand had smoothed them over. +Through the forest, wide and wailing, +Roamed the hunter on his snow-shoes; +In the village worked the women, +Pounded maize, or dressed the deer-skin; +And the young men played together +On the ice the noisy ball-play, +On the plain the dance of snow-shoes. + One dark evening, after sundown, +In her wigwam Laughing Water +Sat with old Nokomis, waiting +For the steps of Hiawatha +Homeward from the hunt returning. + On their faces gleamed the firelight, +Painting them with streaks of crimson, +In the eyes of old Nokomis +Glimmered like the watery moonlight, +In the eyes of Laughing Water +Glistened like the sun in water; +And behind them crouched their shadows +In the corners of the wigwam, +And the smoke in wreaths above them +Climbed and crowded through the smoke-flue. + Then the curtain of the doorway +From without was slowly lifted; +Brighter glowed the fire a moment, +And a moment swerved the smoke-wreath, +As two women entered softly, +Passed the doorway uninvited, +Without word of salutation, +Without sign of recognition, +Sat down in the farthest corner, +Crouching low among the shadows. + From their aspect and their garments, +Strangers seemed they in the village; +Very pale and haggard were they, +As they sat there sad and silent, +Trembling, cowering with the shadows. + Was it the wind above the smoke-flue, +Muttering down into the wigwam? +Was it the owl, the Koko-koho, +Hooting from the dismal forest? +Sure a voice said in the silence: +"These are corpses clad in garments, +These are ghosts that come to haunt you, +From the kingdom of Ponemah, +From the land of the Hereafter!" + Homeward now came Hiawatha +From his hunting in the forest, +With the snow upon his tresses, +And the red deer on his shoulders. +At the feet of Laughing Water +Down he threw his lifeless burden; +Nobler, handsomer she thought him, +Than when first he came to woo her, +First threw down the deer before her, +As a token of his wishes, +As a promise of the future. + Then he turned and saw the strangers, +Cowering, crouching with the shadows; +Said within himself, "Who are they? +What strange guests has Minnehaha?" +But he questioned not the strangers, +Only spake to bid them welcome +To his lodge, his food, his fireside. + When the evening meal was ready, +And the deer had been divided, +Both the pallid guests, the strangers, +Springing from among the shadows, +Seized upon the choicest portions, +Seized the white fat of the roebuck, +Set apart for Laughing Water, +For the wife of Hiawatha; +Without asking, without thanking, +Eagerly devoured the morsels, +Flitted back among the shadows +In the corner of the wigwam. + Not a word spake Hiawatha, +Not a motion made Nokomis, +Not a gesture Laughing Water; +Not a change came o'er their features; +Only Minnehaha softly +Whispered, saying, "They are famished; +Let them do what best delights them; +Let them eat, for they are famished." + Many a daylight dawned and darkened, +Many a night shook off the daylight +As the pine shakes off the snow-flakes +From the midnight of its branches; +Day by day the guests unmoving +Sat there silent in the wigwam; +But by night, in storm or starlight, +Forth they went into the forest, +Bringing fire-wood to the wigwam, +Bringing pine-cones for the burning, +Always sad and always silent. + And whenever Hiawatha +Came from fishing or from hunting, +When the evening meal was ready, +And the food had been divided, +Gliding from their darksome corner, +Came the pallid guests, the strangers, +Seized upon the choicest portions +Set aside for Laughing Water, +And without rebuke or question +Flitted back among the shadows. + Never once had Hiawatha +By a word or look reproved them; +Never once had old Nokomis +Made a gesture of impatience; +Never once had Laughing Water +Shown resentment at the outrage. +All had they endured in silence, +That the rights of guest and stranger, +That the virtue of free-giving, +By a look might not be lessened, +By a word might not be broken. + Once at midnight Hiawatha, +Ever wakeful, ever watchful, +In the wigwam, dimly lighted +By the brands that still were burning, +By the glimmering, flickering firelight +Heard a sighing, oft repeated, +Heard a sobbing, as of sorrow. + From his couch rose Hiawatha, +From his shaggy hides of bison, +Pushed aside the deer-skin curtain, +Saw the pallid guests, the shadows, +Sitting upright on their couches, +Weeping in the silent midnight. + And he said: "O guests! why is it +That your hearts are so afflicted, +That you sob so in the midnight? +Has perchance the old Nokomis, +Has my wife, my Minnehaha, +Wronged or grieved you by unkindness, +Failed in hospitable duties?" + Then the shadows ceased from weeping, +Ceased from sobbing and lamenting, +And they said, with gentle voices: +"We are ghosts of the departed, +Souls of those who once were with you. +From the realms of Chibiabos +Hither have we come to try you, +Hither have we come to warn you. + "Cries of grief and lamentation +Reach us in the Blessed Islands; +Cries of anguish from the living, +Calling back their friends departed, +Sadden us with useless sorrow. +Therefore have we come to try you; +No one knows us, no one heeds us. +We are but a burden to you, +And we see that the departed +Have no place among the living. + "Think of this, O Hiawatha! +Speak of it to all the people, +That henceforward and forever +They no more with lamentations +Sadden the souls of the departed +In the Islands of the Blessed. + "Do not lay such heavy burdens +In the graves of those you bury, +Not such weight of furs and wampum, +Not such weight of pots and kettles, +For the spirits faint beneath them. +Only give them food to carry, +Only give them fire to light them. + "Four days is the spirit's journey +To the land of ghosts and shadows, +Four its lonely night encampments; +Four times must their fires be lighted. +Therefore, when the dead are buried, +Let a fire, as night approaches, +Four times on the grave be kindled, +That the soul upon its journey +May not lack the cheerful firelight, +May not grope about in darkness. + "Farewell, noble Hiawatha! +We have put you to the trial, +To the proof have put your patience, +By the insult of our presence, +By the outrage of our actions. +We have found you great and noble. +Fail not in the greater trial, +Faint not in the harder struggle." + When they ceased, a sudden darkness +Fell and filled the silent wigwam. +Hiawatha heard a rustle +As of garments trailing by him, +Heard the curtain of the doorway +Lifted by a hand he saw not, +Felt the cold breath of the night air, +For a moment saw the starlight; +But he saw the ghosts no longer, +Saw no more the wandering spirits +From the kingdom of Ponemah, +From the land of the Hereafter. + + + +XX + +THE FAMINE + +Oh the long and dreary Winter! +Oh the cold and cruel Winter! +Ever thicker, thicker, thicker +Froze the ice on lake and river, +Ever deeper, deeper, deeper +Fell the snow o'er all the landscape, +Fell the covering snow, and drifted +Through the forest, round the village. +Hardly from his buried wigwam +Could the hunter force a passage; +With his mittens and his snow-shoes +Vainly walked he through the forest, +Sought for bird or beast and found none, +Saw no track of deer or rabbit, +In the snow beheld no footprints, +In the ghastly, gleaming forest +Fell, and could not rise from weakness, +Perished there from cold and hunger. + Oh the famine and the fever! +Oh the wasting of the famine! +Oh the blasting of the fever! +Oh the wailing of the children! +Oh the anguish of the women! + All the earth was sick and famished; +Hungry was the air around them, +Hungry was the sky above them, +And the hungry stars in heaven +Like the eyes of wolves glared at them! + Into Hiawatha's wigwam +Came two other guests, as silent +As the ghosts were, and as gloomy, +Waited not to be invited +Did not parley at the doorway +Sat there without word of welcome +In the seat of Laughing Water; +Looked with haggard eyes and hollow +At the face of Laughing Water. + And the foremost said: "Behold me! +I am Famine, Bukadawin!" +And the other said: "Behold me! +I am Fever, Ahkosewin!" + And the lovely Minnehaha +Shuddered as they looked upon her, +Shuddered at the words they uttered, +Lay down on her bed in silence, +Hid her face, but made no answer; +Lay there trembling, freezing, burning +At the looks they cast upon her, +At the fearful words they uttered. + Forth into the empty forest +Rushed the maddened Hiawatha; +In his heart was deadly sorrow, +In his face a stony firmness; +On his brow the sweat of anguish +Started, but it froze and fell not. + Wrapped in furs and armed for hunting, +With his mighty bow of ash-tree, +With his quiver full of arrows, +With his mittens, Minjekahwun, +Into the vast and vacant forest +On his snow-shoes strode he forward. + "Gitche Manito, the Mighty!" +Cried he with his face uplifted +In that bitter hour of anguish, +"Give your children food, O father! +Give us food, or we must perish! +Give me food for Minnehaha, +For my dying Minnehaha!" + Through the far-resounding forest, +Through the forest vast and vacant +Rang that cry of desolation, +But there came no other answer +Than the echo of his crying, +Than the echo of the woodlands, +"Minnehaha! Minnehaha!" + All day long roved Hiawatha +In that melancholy forest, +Through the shadow of whose thickets, +In the pleasant days of Summer, +Of that ne'er forgotten Summer, +He had brought his young wife homeward +From the land of the Dacotahs; +When the birds sang in the thickets, +And the streamlets laughed and glistened, +And the air was full of fragrance, +And the lovely Laughing Water +Said with voice that did not tremble, +"I will follow you, my husband!" + In the wigwam with Nokomis, +With those gloomy guests that watched her, +With the Famine and the Fever, +She was lying, the Beloved, +She, the dying Minnehaha. + "Hark!" she said; "I hear a rushing, +Hear a roaring and a rushing, +Hear the Falls of Minnehaha +Calling to me from a distance!" +"No, my child!" said old Nokomis, +"'T is the night-wind in the pine-trees!" +"Look!" she said; "I see my father +Standing lonely at his doorway, +Beckoning to me from his wigwam +In the land of the Dacotahs!" +"No, my child!" said old Nokomis. +"'T is the smoke, that waves and beckons!" +"Ah!" said she, "the eyes of Pauguk +Glare upon me in the darkness, +I can feel his icy fingers +Clasping mine amid the darkness! +Hiawatha! Hiawatha!" + And the desolate Hiawatha, +Far away amid the forest, +Miles away among the mountains, +Heard that sudden cry of anguish, +Heard the voice of Minnehaha +Calling to him in the darkness, +"Hiawatha! Hiawatha!" + Over snow-fields waste and pathless, +Under snow-encumbered branches, +Homeward hurried Hiawatha, +Empty-handed, heavy-hearted, +Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing: +"Wahonowin! Wahonowin! +Would that I had perished for you, +Would that I were dead as you are! +Wahonowin! Wahonowin!" + And he rushed into the wigwam, +Saw the old Nokomis slowly +Rocking to and fro and moaning, +Saw his lovely Minnehaha +Lying dead and cold before him, +And his bursting heart within him +Uttered such a cry of anguish, +That the forest moaned and shuddered, +That the very stars in heaven +Shook and trembled with his anguish. + Then he sat down, still and speechless, +On the bed of Minnehaha, +At the feet of Laughing Water, +At those willing feet, that never +More would lightly run to meet him, +Never more would lightly follow. + With both hands his face he covered, +Seven long days and nights he sat there, +As if in a swoon he sat there, +Speechless, motionless, unconscious +Of the daylight or the darkness. + Then they buried Minnehaha; +In the snow a grave they made her +In the forest deep and darksome +Underneath the moaning hemlocks; +Clothed her in her richest garments +Wrapped her in her robes of ermine, +Covered her with snow, like ermine; +Thus they buried Minnehaha. + And at night a fire was lighted, +On her grave four times was kindled, +For her soul upon its journey +To the Islands of the Blessed. +From his doorway Hiawatha +Saw it burning in the forest, +Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks; +From his sleepless bed uprising, +From the bed of Minnehaha, +Stood and watched it at the doorway, +That it might not be extinguished, +Might not leave her in the darkness. + "Farewell!" said he, "Minnehaha! +Farewell, O my Laughing Water! +All my heart is buried with you, +All my thoughts go onward with you! +Come not back again to labor, +Come not back again to suffer, +Where the Famine and the Fever +Wear the heart and waste the body. +Soon my task will be completed, +Soon your footsteps I shall follow +To the Islands of the Blessed, +To the Kingdom of Ponemah, +To the Land of the Hereafter!" + + + +XXI + +THE WHITE MAN'S FOOT + +In his lodge beside a river, +Close beside a frozen river, +Sat an old man, sad and lonely. +White his hair was as a snow-drift; +Dull and low his fire was burning, +And the old man shook and trembled, +Folded in his Waubewyon, +In his tattered white-skin-wrapper, +Hearing nothing but the tempest +As it roared along the forest, +Seeing nothing but the snow-storm, +As it whirled and hissed and drifted. + All the coals were white with ashes, +And the fire was slowly dying, +As a young man, walking lightly, +At the open doorway entered. +Red with blood of youth his cheeks were, +Soft his eyes, as stars in Spring-time, +Bound his forehead was with grasses; +Bound and plumed with scented grasses, +On his lips a smile of beauty, +Filling all the lodge with sunshine, +In his hand a bunch of blossoms +Filling all the lodge with sweetness. + "Ah, my son!" exclaimed the old man, +"Happy are my eyes to see you. +Sit here on the mat beside me, +Sit here by the dying embers, +Let us pass the night together, +Tell me of your strange adventures, +Of the lands where you have travelled; +I will tell you of my prowess, +Of my many deeds of wonder." + From his pouch he drew his peace-pipe, +Very old and strangely fashioned; +Made of red stone was the pipe-head, +And the stem a reed with feathers; +Filled the pipe with bark of willow, +Placed a burning coal upon it, +Gave it to his guest, the stranger, +And began to speak in this wise: +"When I blow my breath about me, +When I breathe upon the landscape, +Motionless are all the rivers, +Hard as stone becomes the water!" + And the young man answered, smiling: +"When I blow my breath about me, +When I breathe upon the landscape, +Flowers spring up o'er all the meadows, +Singing, onward rush the rivers!" + "When I shake my hoary tresses," +Said the old man darkly frowning, +"All the land with snow is covered; +All the leaves from all the branches +Fall and fade and die and wither, +For I breathe, and lo! they are not. +From the waters and the marshes, +Rise the wild goose and the heron, +Fly away to distant regions, +For I speak, and lo! they are not. +And where'er my footsteps wander, +All the wild beasts of the forest +Hide themselves in holes and caverns, +And the earth becomes as flintstone!" + "When I shake my flowing ringlets," +Said the young man, softly laughing, +"Showers of rain fall warm and welcome, +Plants lift up their heads rejoicing, +Back into their lakes and marshes +Come the wild goose and the heron, +Homeward shoots the arrowy swallow, +Sing the bluebird and the robin, +And where'er my footsteps wander, +All the meadows wave with blossoms, +All the woodlands ring with music, +All the trees are dark with foliage!" + While they spake, the night departed: +From the distant realms of Wabun, +From his shining lodge of silver, +Like a warrior robed and painted, +Came the sun, and said, "Behold me +Gheezis, the great sun, behold me!" + Then the old man's tongue was speechless +And the air grew warm and pleasant, +And upon the wigwam sweetly +Sang the bluebird and the robin, +And the stream began to murmur, +And a scent of growing grasses +Through the lodge was gently wafted. + And Segwun, the youthful stranger, +More distinctly in the daylight +Saw the icy face before him; +It was Peboan, the Winter! + From his eyes the tears were flowing, +As from melting lakes the streamlets, +And his body shrunk and dwindled +As the shouting sun ascended, +Till into the air it faded, +Till into the ground it vanished, +And the young man saw before him, +On the hearth-stone of the wigwam, +Where the fire had smoked and smouldered, +Saw the earliest flower of Spring-time, +Saw the Beauty of the Spring-time, +Saw the Miskodeed in blossom. + Thus it was that in the North-land +After that unheard-of coldness, +That intolerable Winter, +Came the Spring with all its splendor, +All its birds and all its blossoms, +All its flowers and leaves and grasses. + Sailing on the wind to northward, +Flying in great flocks, like arrows, +Like huge arrows shot through heaven, +Passed the swan, the Mahnahbezee, +Speaking almost as a man speaks; +And in long lines waving, bending +Like a bow-string snapped asunder, +Came the white goose, Waw-be-wawa; +And in pairs, or singly flying, +Mahng the loon, with clangorous pinions, +The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, +And the grouse, the Mushkodasa. + In the thickets and the meadows +Piped the bluebird, the Owaissa, +On the summit of the lodges +Sang the robin, the Opechee, +In the covert of the pine-trees +Cooed the pigeon, the Omemee; +And the sorrowing Hiawatha, +Speechless in his infinite sorrow, +Heard their voices calling to him, +Went forth from his gloomy doorway, +Stood and gazed into the heaven, +Gazed upon the earth and waters. + From his wanderings far to eastward, +From the regions of the morning, +From the shining land of Wabun, +Homeward now returned Iagoo, +The great traveller, the great boaster, +Full of new and strange adventures, +Marvels many and many wonders. + And the people of the village +Listened to him as he told them +Of his marvellous adventures, +Laughing answered him in this wise: +"Ugh! it is indeed Iagoo! +No one else beholds such wonders!" + He had seen, he said, a water +Bigger than the Big-Sea-Water, +Broader than the Gitche Gumee, +Bitter so that none could drink it! +At each other looked the warriors, +Looked the women at each other, +Smiled, and said, "It cannot be so!" +Kaw!" they said, it cannot be so!" + O'er it, said he, o'er this water +Came a great canoe with pinions, +A canoe with wings came flying, +Bigger than a grove of pine-trees, +Taller than the tallest tree-tops! +And the old men and the women +Looked and tittered at each other; +"Kaw!" they said, "we don't believe it!" + From its mouth, he said, to greet him, +Came Waywassimo, the lightning, +Came the thunder, Annemeekee! +And the warriors and the women +Laughed aloud at poor Iagoo; +"Kaw!" they said, "what tales you tell us!" + In it, said he, came a people, +In the great canoe with pinions +Came, he said, a hundred warriors; +Painted white were all their faces +And with hair their chins were covered! +And the warriors and the women +Laughed and shouted in derision, +Like the ravens on the tree-tops, +Like the crows upon the hemlocks. +"Kaw!" they said, "what lies you tell us! +Do not think that we believe them!" + Only Hiawatha laughed not, +But he gravely spake and answered +To their jeering and their jesting: +"True is all Iagoo tells us; +I have seen it in a vision, +Seen the great canoe with pinions, +Seen the people with white faces, +Seen the coming of this bearded +People of the wooden vessel +From the regions of the morning, +From the shining land of Wabun. + "Gitche Manito, the Mighty, +The Great Spirit, the Creator, +Sends them hither on his errand. +Sends them to us with his message. +Wheresoe'er they move, before them +Swarms the stinging fly, the Ahmo, +Swarms the bee, the honey-maker; +Wheresoe'er they tread, beneath them +Springs a flower unknown among us, +Springs the White-man's Foot in blossom. + "Let us welcome, then, the strangers, +Hail them as our friends and brothers, +And the heart's right hand of friendship +Give them when they come to see us. +Gitche Manito, the Mighty, +Said this to me in my vision. + "I beheld, too, in that vision +All the secrets of the future, +Of the distant days that shall be. +I beheld the westward marches +Of the unknown, crowded nations. +All the land was full of people, +Restless, struggling, toiling, striving, +Speaking many tongues, yet feeling +But one heart-beat in their bosoms. +In the woodlands rang their axes, +Smoked their towns in all the valleys, +Over all the lakes and rivers +Rushed their great canoes of thunder. + "Then a darker, drearier vision +Passed before me, vague and cloud-like; +I beheld our nation scattered, +All forgetful of my counsels, +Weakened, warring with each other; +Saw the remnants of our people +Sweeping westward, wild and woful, +Like the cloud-rack of a tempest, +Like the withered leaves of Autumn!" + + + +XXII + +HIAWATHA'S DEPARTURE + +By the shore of Gitche Gumee, +By the shining Big-Sea-Water, +At the doorway of his wigwam, +In the pleasant Summer morning, +Hiawatha stood and waited. +All the air was full of freshness, +All the earth was bright and joyous, +And before him, through the sunshine, +Westward toward the neighboring forest +Passed in golden swarms the Ahmo, +Passed the bees, the honey-makers, +Burning, singing in the sunshine. + Bright above him shone the heavens, +Level spread the lake before him; +From its bosom leaped the sturgeon, +Sparkling, flashing in the sunshine; +On its margin the great forest +Stood reflected in the water, +Every tree-top had its shadow, +Motionless beneath the water. + From the brow of Hiawatha +Gone was every trace of sorrow, +As the fog from off the water, +As the mist from off the meadow. +With a smile of joy and triumph, +With a look of exultation, +As of one who in a vision +Sees what is to be, but is not, +Stood and waited Hiawatha. + Toward the sun his hands were lifted, +Both the palms spread out against it, +And between the parted fingers +Fell the sunshine on his features, +Flecked with light his naked shoulders, +As it falls and flecks an oak-tree +Through the rifted leaves and branches. + O'er the water floating, flying, +Something in the hazy distance, +Something in the mists of morning, +Loomed and lifted from the water, +Now seemed floating, now seemed flying, +Coming nearer, nearer, nearer. + Was it Shingebis the diver? +Or the pelican, the Shada? +Or the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah? +Or the white goose, Waw-be-wawa, +With the water dripping, flashing, +From its glossy neck and feathers? + It was neither goose nor diver, +Neither pelican nor heron, +O'er the water floating, flying, +Through the shining mist of morning, +But a birch canoe with paddles, +Rising, sinking on the water, +Dripping, flashing in the sunshine; +And within it came a people +From the distant land of Wabun, +From the farthest realms of morning +Came the Black-Robe chief, the Prophet, +He the Priest of Prayer, the Pale-face, +With his guides and his companions. + And the noble Hiawatha, +With his hands aloft extended, +Held aloft in sign of welcome, +Waited, full of exultation, +Till the birch canoe with paddles +Grated on the shining pebbles, +Stranded on the sandy margin, +Till the Black-Robe chief, the Pale-face, +With the cross upon his bosom, +Landed on the sandy margin. + Then the joyous Hiawatha +Cried aloud and spake in this wise: +"Beautiful is the sun, O strangers, +When you come so far to see us! +All our town in peace awaits you, +All our doors stand open for you; +You shall enter all our wigwams, +For the heart's right hand we give you. + "Never bloomed the earth so gayly, +Never shone the sun so brightly, +As to-day they shine and blossom +When you come so far to see us! +Never was our lake so tranquil, +Nor so free from rocks, and sand-bars; +For your birch canoe in passing +Has removed both rock and sand-bar. + "Never before had our tobacco +Such a sweet and pleasant flavor, +Never the broad leaves of our cornfields +Were so beautiful to look on, +As they seem to us this morning, +When you come so far to see us!' + And the Black-Robe chief made answer, +Stammered in his speech a little, +Speaking words yet unfamiliar: +"Peace be with you, Hiawatha, +Peace be with you and your people, +Peace of prayer, and peace of pardon, +Peace of Christ, and joy of Mary!" + Then the generous Hiawatha +Led the strangers to his wigwam, +Seated them on skins of bison, +Seated them on skins of ermine, +And the careful old Nokomis +Brought them food in bowls of basswood, +Water brought in birchen dippers, +And the calumet, the peace-pipe, +Filled and lighted for their smoking. + All the old men of the village, +All the warriors of the nation, +All the Jossakeeds, the Prophets, +The magicians, the Wabenos, +And the Medicine-men, the Medas, +Came to bid the strangers welcome; +"It is well", they said, "O brothers, +That you come so far to see us!" + In a circle round the doorway, +With their pipes they sat in silence, +Waiting to behold the strangers, +Waiting to receive their message; +Till the Black-Robe chief, the Pale-face, +From the wigwam came to greet them, +Stammering in his speech a little, +Speaking words yet unfamiliar; +"It is well," they said, "O brother, +That you come so far to see us!" + Then the Black-Robe chief, the Prophet, +Told his message to the people, +Told the purport of his mission, +Told them of the Virgin Mary, +And her blessed Son, the Saviour, +How in distant lands and ages +He had lived on earth as we do; +How he fasted, prayed, and labored; +How the Jews, the tribe accursed, +Mocked him, scourged him, crucified him; +How he rose from where they laid him, +Walked again with his disciples, +And ascended into heaven. + And the chiefs made answer, saying: +"We have listened to your message, +We have heard your words of wisdom, +We will think on what you tell us. +It is well for us, O brothers, +That you come so far to see us!" + Then they rose up and departed +Each one homeward to his wigwam, +To the young men and the women +Told the story of the strangers +Whom the Master of Life had sent them +From the shining land of Wabun. + Heavy with the heat and silence +Grew the afternoon of Summer; +With a drowsy sound the forest +Whispered round the sultry wigwam, +With a sound of sleep the water +Rippled on the beach below it; +From the cornfields shrill and ceaseless +Sang the grasshopper, Pah-puk-keena; +And the guests of Hiawatha, +Weary with the heat of Summer, +Slumbered in the sultry wigwam. + Slowly o'er the simmering landscape +Fell the evening's dusk and coolness, +And the long and level sunbeams +Shot their spears into the forest, +Breaking through its shields of shadow, +Rushed into each secret ambush, +Searched each thicket, dingle, hollow; +Still the guests of Hiawatha +Slumbered in the silent wigwam. + From his place rose Hiawatha, +Bade farewell to old Nokomis, +Spake in whispers, spake in this wise, +Did not wake the guests, that slumbered. + "I am going, O Nokomis, +On a long and distant journey, +To the portals of the Sunset. +To the regions of the home-wind, +Of the Northwest-Wind, Keewaydin. +But these guests I leave behind me, +In your watch and ward I leave them; +See that never harm comes near them, +See that never fear molests them, +Never danger nor suspicion, +Never want of food or shelter, +In the lodge of Hiawatha!" + Forth into the village went he, +Bade farewell to all the warriors, +Bade farewell to all the young men, +Spake persuading, spake in this wise: + "I am going, O my people, +On a long and distant journey; +Many moons and many winters +Will have come, and will have vanished, +Ere I come again to see you. +But my guests I leave behind me; +Listen to their words of wisdom, +Listen to the truth they tell you, +For the Master of Life has sent them +From the land of light and morning!" + On the shore stood Hiawatha, +Turned and waved his hand at parting; +On the clear and luminous water +Launched his birch canoe for sailing, +From the pebbles of the margin +Shoved it forth into the water; +Whispered to it, "Westward! westward!" +And with speed it darted forward. + And the evening sun descending +Set the clouds on fire with redness, +Burned the broad sky, like a prairie, +Left upon the level water +One long track and trail of splendor, +Down whose stream, as down a river, +Westward, westward Hiawatha +Sailed into the fiery sunset, +Sailed into the purple vapors, +Sailed into the dusk of evening: + And the people from the margin +Watched him floating, rising, sinking, +Till the birch canoe seemed lifted +High into that sea of splendor, +Till it sank into the vapors +Like the new moon slowly, slowly +Sinking in the purple distance. + And they said, "Farewell forever!" +Said, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!" +And the forests, dark and lonely, +Moved through all their depths of darkness, +Sighed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!" +And the waves upon the margin +Rising, rippling on the pebbles, +Sobbed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!" +And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, +From her haunts among the fen-lands, +Screamed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!" + Thus departed Hiawatha, +Hiawatha the Beloved, +In the glory of the sunset,. +In the purple mists of evening, +To the regions of the home-wind, +Of the Northwest-Wind, Keewaydin, +To the Islands of the Blessed, +To the Kingdom of Ponemah, +To the Land of the Hereafter! + + + +NOTES +THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. + +This Indian Edda--if I may so call it--is founded on a tradition +prevalent among the North American Indians, of a personage of +miraculous birth, who was sent among them to clear their rivers, +forests, and fishing-grounds, and to teach them the arts of +peace. + +He was known among different tribes by the several names of +Michabou, Chiabo, Manabozo, Tarenyawagon, and Hiawatha. Mr. +Schoolcraft gives an account of him in his Algic Researches, Vol. I. +p. 134; and in his History, Condition, and Prospects of the Indian +Tribes of the United States, Part III. p. 314, may be found the +Iroquois form of the tradition, derived from the verbal narrations +of an Onondaga chief. + +Into this old tradition I have woven other curious Indian legends, +drawn chiefly from the various and valuable writings of Mr. +Schoolcraft, to whom the literary world is greatly indebted for his +indefatigable zeal in rescuing from oblivion so much of the +legendary lore of the Indians. + +The scene of the poem is among the Ojibways on the southern shore of +Lake Superior, in the region between the Pictured Rocks and the +Grand Sable. + +VOCABULARY + +Adjidau'mo, the red squirrel. +Ahdeek', the reindeer. +Ahkose'win, fever. +Ahmeek', the beaver. +Algon'quin, Ojibway. +Annemee'kee, the thunder. +Apuk'wa. a bulrush. +Baim-wa'wa, the sound of the thunder. +Bemah'gut, the grapevine. +Be'na, the pheasant. +Big-Sea-Water, Lake Superior. +Bukada'win, famine. +Chemaun', a birch canoe. +Chetowaik', the plover. +Chibia'bos, a musician; friend of Hiawatha; ruler in the Land of Spirits. +Dahin'da, the bull frog. +Dush-kwo-ne'she or Kwo-ne'she, the dragon fly. +Esa, shame upon you. +Ewa-yea', lullaby. +Ghee'zis, the sun. +Gitche Gu'mee, The Big-Sea-Water, Lake Superior. +Gitche Man'ito, the Great Spirit, the Master of Life. +Gushkewau', the darkness. +Hiawa'tha, the Wise Man, the Teacher, son of Mudjekeewis, the + WestWind and Wenonah, daughter of Nokomis. +Ia'goo, a great boaster and story-teller. +Inin'ewug, men, or pawns in the Game of the Bowl. +Ishkoodah', fire, a comet. +Jee'bi, a ghost, a spirit. +Joss'akeed, a prophet. +Kabibonok'ka, the North-Wind. +Kagh, the hedge-hog. +Ka'go, do not. +Kahgahgee', the raven. +Kaw, no. +Kaween', no indeed. +Kayoshk', the sea-gull. +Kee'go, a fish. +Keeway'din, the Northwest wind, the Home-wind. +Kena'beek, a serpent. +Keneu', the great war-eagle. +Keno'zha, the pickerel. +Ko'ko-ko'ho, the owl. +Kuntasoo', the Game of Plum-stones. +Kwa'sind, the Strong Man. +Kwo-ne'she, or Dush-kwo-ne'she, the dragon-fly. +Mahnahbe'zee, the swan. +Mahng, the loon. +Mahn-go-tay'see, loon-hearted, brave. +Mahnomo'nee, wild rice. +Ma'ma, the woodpecker. +Maskeno'zha, the pike. +Me'da, a medicine-man. +Meenah'ga, the blueberry. +Megissog'won, the great Pearl-Feather, a magician, and the Manito + of Wealth. +Meshinau'wa, a pipe-bearer. +Minjekah'wun, Hiawatha's mittens. +Minneha'ha, Laughing Water; wife of Hiawatha; a water-fall in a +stream running into the Mississippi between Fort Snelling and the + Falls of St. Anthony. +Minne-wa'wa, a pleasant sound, as of the wind in the trees. +Mishe-Mo'kwa, the Great Bear. +Mishe-Nah'ma, the Great Sturgeon. +Miskodeed', the Spring-Beauty, the Claytonia Virginica. +Monda'min, Indian corn. +Moon of Bright Nights, April. +Moon of Leaves, May. +Moon of Strawberries, June. +Moon of the Falling Leaves, September. +Moon of Snow-shoes, November. +Mudjekee'wis, the West-Wind; father of Hiawatha. +Mudway-aush'ka, sound of waves on a shore. +Mushkoda'sa, the grouse. +Nah'ma, the sturgeon. +Nah'ma-wusk, spearmint. +Na'gow Wudj'oo, the Sand Dunes of Lake Superior. +Nee-ba-naw'-baigs, water-spirits. +Nenemoo'sha, sweetheart. +Nepah'win, sleep. +Noko'mis, a grandmother, mother of Wenonah. +No'sa, my father. +Nush'ka, look! look! +Odah'min, the strawberry. +Okahah'wis, the fresh-water herring. +Ome'me, the pigeon. +Ona'gon, a bowl. +Onaway', awake. +Ope'chee, the robin. +Osse'o, Son of the Evening Star. +Owais'sa, the bluebird. +Oweenee', wife of Osseo. +Ozawa'beek, a round piece of brass or copper in the Game of the + Bowl. +Pah-puk-kee'na, the grasshopper. +Pau'guk, death. +Pau-Puk-Kee'wis, the handsome Yenadizze, the son of Storm Fool. +Pauwa'ting, Saut Sainte Marie. +Pe'boan, Winter. +Pem'ican, meat of the deer or buffalo dried and pounded. +Pezhekee', the bison. +Pishnekuh', the brant. +Pone'mah, hereafter. +Pugasaing', Game of the Bowl. +Puggawau'gun, a war-club. +Puk-Wudj'ies, little wild men of the woods; pygmies. +Sah-sah-je'wun, rapids. +Sah'wa, the perch. +Segwun', Spring. +Sha'da, the pelican. +Shahbo'min, the gooseberry. +Shah-shah, long ago. +Shaugoda'ya, a coward. +Shawgashee', the craw-fish. +Shawonda'see, the South-Wind. +Shaw-shaw, the swallow. +Shesh'ebwug, ducks; pieces in the Game of the Bowl. +Shin'gebis, the diver, or grebe. +Showain' neme'shin, pity me. +Shuh-shuh'gah, the blue heron. +Soan-ge-ta'ha, strong-hearted. +Subbeka'she, the spider. +Sugge'me, the mosquito. +To'tem, family coat-of-arms. +Ugh, yes. +Ugudwash', the sun-fish. +Unktahee', the God of Water. +Wabas'so, the rabbit, the North. +Wabe'no, a magician, a juggler. +Wabe'no-wusk, yarrow. +Wa'bun, the East-Wind. +Wa'bun An'nung, the Star of the East, the Morning Star. +Wahono'win, a cry of lamentation. +Wah-wah-tay'see, the fire-fly. +Wam'pum, beads of shell. +Waubewy'on, a white skin wrapper. +Wa'wa, the wild goose. +Waw'beek, a rock. +Waw-be-wa'wa, the white goose. +Wawonais'sa, the whippoorwill. +Way-muk-kwa'na, the caterpillar. +Wen'digoes, giants. +Weno'nah, Hiawatha's mother, daughter of Nokomis. +Yenadiz'ze, an idler and gambler; an Indian dandy. + + +In the Vale of Tawasentha. + +This valley, now called Norman's Kill; is in Albany County, New +York. + + +On the Mountains of the Prairie. + +Mr. Catlin, in his Letters and Notes on the Manners, Customs, and + +Condition of the North American Indians, Vol. II p. 160, gives an +interesting account of the Coteau des Prairies, and the Red +Pipestone Quarry. He says:-- + +"Here (according to their traditions) happened the mysterious birth +of the red pipe, which has blown its fumes of peace and war to the +remotest corners of the continent; which has visited every warrior, +and passed through its reddened stem the irrevocable oath of war and +desolation. And here, also, the peace-breathing calumet was born, +and fringed with the eagle's quills, which has shed its thrilling +fumes over the land, and soothed the fury of the relentless savage. + +"The Great Spirit at an ancient period here called the Indian +nations together, and, standing on the precipice of the red pipe- +stone rock, broke from its wall a piece, and made a huge pipe by +turning it in his hand, which he smoked over them, and to the North, +the South, the East, and the West, and told them that this stone was +red,--that it was their flesh,--that they must use it for their +pipes of peace,--that it belonged to them all, and that the war-club +and scalping-knife must not be raised on its ground. At the last +whiff of his pipe his head went into a great cloud, and the whole +surface of the rock for several miles was melted and glazed; two +great ovens were opened beneath, and two women (guardian spirits of +the place) entered them in a blaze of fire; and they are heard there +yet (Tso-mec-cos-tee aud Tso-me-cos-te-won-dee), answering to the +invocations of the high-priests or medicine-men, who consult them +when they are visitors to this sacred place." + + +Hark you, Bear! you are a coward. + +This anecdote is from Heckewelder. In his account of the Indian +Nations, he describes an Indian hunter as addressing a bear in +nearly these words. "I was present," he says, "at the delivery of +this curious invective; when the hunter had despatched the bear, I +asked him how he thought that poor animal could understand what he +said to it. 'O,' said he in answer, 'the bear understood me very +well; did you not observe how ashamed he looked while I was +upbraiding him?"'--Transactions of the American Philosophical +Society, Vol. I. p. 240. + + +Hush! the Naked Bear will hear thee! + +Heckewelder, in a letter published in the Transactions of the +American Philosophical Society, Vol. IV. p. 260, speaks of this +tradition as prevalent among the Mohicans and Delawares. + +"Their reports," he says, "run thus: that among all animals that had +been formerly in this country, this was the most ferocious; that it +was much larger than the largest of the common bears, and remarkably +long-bodied; all over (except a spot of hair on its back of a white +color) naked. . . . . + +"The history of this animal used to be a subject of conversation +among the Indians, especially when in the woods a hunting. I have +also heard them say to their children when crying: 'Hush! the naked +bear will hear you, be upon you, and devour you,'" + + +Where the Falls of Minnehaha, etc. + +"The scenery about Fort Snelling is rich in beauty. The Falls of +St. Anthony are familiar to travellers, and to readers of Indian +sketches. Between the fort and these falls are the 'Little Falls,' +forty feet in height, on a stream that empties into the Mississippi. +The Indians called them Mine-hah-hah, or 'laughing waters.'" +-- MRS. EASTMAN'S Dacotah, or Legends of the Sioux, Introd., p. ii. + + +Sand Hills of the Nagow Wudjoo. + +A description of the Grand Sable, or great sand-dunes of Lake +Superior, is given in Foster and Whitney's Report on the Geology of +the Lake Superior Land District, Part II. p. 131. + +"The Grand Sable possesses a scenic interest little inferior to that +of the Pictured Rocks. The explorer passes abruptly from a coast of +consolidated sand to one of loose materials; and although in the one +case the cliffs are less precipitous, yet in the other they attain a +higher altitude. He sees before him a long reach of coast, +resembling a vast sand-bank, more than three hundred and fifty feet +in height, without a trace of vegetation. Ascending to the top, +rounded hillocks of blown sand are observed, with occasional clumps +of trees standing out like oases in the desert." + + +Onaway! Awake, beloved! + +The original of this song may be found in Littell's Living Age, +Vol. XXV. p. 45. + + +On the Red Swan floating, flying. + +The fanciful tradition of the Red Swan may be found in Schoolcraft's +Algic Researches, Vol. II. p. 9. Three brothers were hunting on a +wager to see who would bring home the first game. + +"They were to shoot no other animal," so the legend says, "but such +as each was in the habit of killing. They set out different ways: +Odjibwa, the youngest, had not gone far before he saw a bear, an +animal he was not to kill, by the agreement. He followed him close, +and drove an arrow through him, which brought him to the ground. +Although contrary to the bet, he immediately commenced skinning him, +when suddenly something red tinged all the air around him. He +rubbed his eyes, thinking he was perhaps deceived; but without +effect, for the red hue continued. At length he heard a strange +noise at a distance. It first appeared like a human voice, but +after following the sound for some distance, he reached the shores +of a lake, and soon saw the object he was looking for. At a +distance out in the lake sat a most beautiful Red Swan, whose +plumage glittered in the sun, and who would now and then make the +same noise he had heard. He was within long bow-shot, and, pulling +the arrow from the bowstring up to his ear, took deliberate aim and +shot. The arrow took no effect; and he shot and shot again till his +quiver was empty. Still the swan remained, moving round and round, +stretching its long neck and dipping its bill into the water, as if +heedless of the arrows shot at it. Odjibwa ran home, and got all +his own and his brother's arrows and shot them all away. He then +stood and gazed at the beautiful bird. While standing, he +remembered his brother's saying that in their deceased father's +medicine-sack were three magic arrows. Off he started, his anxiety +to kill the swan overcoming all scruples. At any other time, he +would have deemed it sacrilege to open his father's medicine-sack; +but now he hastily seized the three arrows and ran back, leaving the +other contents of the sack scattered over the lodge. The swan was +still there. He shot the first arrow with great precision, and came +very near to it. The second came still closer; as he took the last +arrow, he felt his arm firmer, and, drawing it up with vigor, saw it +pass through the neck of the swan a little above the breast. Still +it did not prevent the bird from flying off, which it did, however, +at first slowly, flapping its wings and rising gradually into the +airs and teen flying off toward the sinking of the sun." +-- pp.10-12. + + +When I think of my beloved. + +The original of this song may be found in Oneota, p. 15. + + +Sing the mysteries of Mondamin. +The Indians hold the maize, or Indian corn, in great veneration. + +"They esteem it so important and divine a grain," says Schoolcraft, +"that their story-tellers invented various tales, in which this idea +is symbolized under the form of a special gift from the Great +Spirit. The Odjibwa-Algonquins, who call it Mon-da-min, that is, +the Spirit's grain or berry, have a pretty story of this kind, in +which the stalk in full tassel is represented as descending from the +sky, under the guise of a handsome youth, in answer to the prayers +of a young man at his fast of virility, or coming to manhood. + +"It is well known that corn-planting and corn-gathering, at least +among all the still uncolonized tribes, are left entirely to the +females and children, and a few superannuated old men. It is not +generally known, perhaps, that this labor is not compulsory, and +that it is assumed by the females as a just equivalent, in their +view, for the onerous and continuous labor of the other sex, in +providing meats, and skins for clothing, by the chase, and in +defending their villages against their enemies, and keeping +intruders off their territories. A good Indian housewife deems this +a part of her prerogative, and prides herself to have a store of +corn to exercise her hospitality, or duly honor her husband's +hospitality, in the entertainment of the lodge guests." +-- Oneota, p. 82. + + +Thus the fields shall be more fruitful. + +"A singular proof of this belief, in both sexes, of the mysterious +influence of the steps of a woman on the vegetable and in sect +creation, is found in an ancient custom, which was related to me, +respecting corn-planting. It was the practice of the hunter's wife, +when the field of corn had been planted, to choose the first dark or +overclouded evening to perform a secret circuit, sans habillement, +around the field. For this purpose she slipped out of the lodge in +the evening, unobserved, to some obscure nook, where she completely +disrobed. Then, taking her matchecota, or principal garment, in one +hand, she dragged it around the field. This was thought to insure a +prolific crop, and to prevent the assaults of insects and worms upon +the grain. It was supposed they could not creep over the charmed +line." -- Oneota, p. 83. + + +With his prisoner-string he bound him. + +"These cords," says Mr. Tanner "are made of the bark of the elm- +tree, by boiling and then immersing it in cold water. . . . The +leader of a war party commonly carries several fastened about his +waist, and if, in the course of the fight, any one of his young men +take a prisoner, it is his duty to bring him immediately to the +chief, to be tied, and the latter is responsible for his safe +keeping." -- Narrative of Captivity and Adventures, p. 412. + + +Wagemin, the thief of cornfields, + Paimosaid, who steals the maize-ear. + +"If one of the young female huskers finds a red ear of corn, it is +typical of a brave admirer, and is regarded as a fitting present to +some young warrior. But if the ear be crooked, and tapering to a +point, no matter what color, the whole circle is set in a roar, and +wa-ge-min is the word shouted aloud. It is the symbol of a thief in +the cornfield. It is considered as the image of an old man stooping +as he enters the lot. Had the chisel of Praxiteles been employed to +produce this image, it could not more vividly bring to the minds of +the merry group the idea of a pilferer of their favorite +mondamin. . . . + +"The literal meaning of the term is, a mass, or crooked ear of +grain; but the ear of corn so called is a conventional type of a +little old man pilfering ears of corn in a cornfield. It is in this +manner that a single word or term, in these curious languages, +becomes the fruitful parent of many ideas. And we can thus perceive +why it is that the word wagemin is alone competent to excite +merriment in the husking circle. + +"This term is taken as the basis of the cereal chorus, or corn song, +as sung by the Northern Algonquin tribes. It is coupled with the +phrase Paimosaid,--a permutative form of the Indian substantive, +made from the verb pim-o-sa, to walk. Its literal meaning is, he +who walks, or the walker; but the ideas conveyed by it are, he who +walks by night to pilfer corn. It offers, therefore, a kind of +parallelism in expression to the preceding term." -- Oneota, p. +254. + + +Pugasaing, with thirteen pieces. + +This Game of the Bowl is the principal game of hazard among the +Northern tribes of Indians. Mr. Schoolcraft gives a particular +account of it in Oneota, p. 85. "This game," he says, "is very +fascinating to some portions of the Indians. They stake at it their +ornaments, weapons, clothing, canoes, horses, everything in fact +they possess; and have been known, it is said, to set up their wives +and children and even to forfeit their own liberty. Of such +desperate stakes I have seen no examples, nor do I think the game +itself in common use. It is rather confined to certain persons, who +hold the relative rank of gamblers in Indian society,--men who are +not noted as hunters or warriors, or steady providers for their +families. Among these are persons who bear the term of Iena-dizze- +wug, that is, wanderers about the country, braggadocios, or fops. +It can hardly be classed with the popular games of amusement, by +which skill and dexterity are acquired. I have generally found the +chiefs and graver men of the tribes, who encouraged the young men to +play ball, and are sure to be present at the customary sports, to +witness, and sanction, and applaud them, speak lightly and +disparagingly of this game of hazard. Yet it cannot be denied that +some of the chiefs, distinguished in war and the chase, at the West, +can be referred to as lending their example to its fascinating power." + +See also his history, Condition, and Prospects of the Indian +Tribes, Part II, p. 72. + + +To the Pictured Rocks of sandstone. + +The reader will find a long description of the Pictured Rocks in +Foster and Whitney's Report on the Geology of the Lake Superior Land +District, Part II. p. 124. From this I make the following extract:-- + +"The Pictured Rocks may be described, in general terms, as a series +of sandstone bluffs extending along the shore of Lake Superior for +about five miles, and rising, in most places, vertically from the +water, without any beach at the base, to a height varying from fifty +to nearly two hundred feet. Were they simply a line of cliffs, they +might not, so far as relates to height or extent, be worthy of a +rank among great natural curiosities, although such an assemblage of +rocky strata, washed by the waves of the great lake, would not, +under any circumstances, be destitute of grandeur. To the voyager, +coasting along their base in his frail canoe, they would, at all +times, be an object of dread; the recoil of the surf, the rock-bound +coast, affording, for miles, no place of refuge,--the lowering sky, +the rising wind,--all these would excite his apprehension, and +induce him to ply a vigorous oar until the dreaded wall was passed. +But in the Pictured Rocks there are two features which communicate +to the scenery a wonderful and almost unique character. These are, +first, the curious manner in which the cliffs have been excavated +and worn away by the action of the lake, which, for centuries, has +dashed an ocean-like surf against their base; and, second, the +equally curious manner in which large portions of the surface have +been colored by bands of brilliant hues. + +"It is from the latter circumstance that the name, by which these +cliffs are known to the American traveller, is derived; while that +applied to them by the French voyageurs ('Les Portails') is derived +from the former, and by far the most striking peculiarity. + +"The term Pictured Rocks has been in use for a great length of time; +but when it was first applied, we have been unable to discover. It +would seem that the first travellers were more impressed with the +novel and striking distribution of colors on the surface than with +the astonishing variety of form into which the cliffs themselves +have been worn. . . . + +"Our voyageurs had many legends to relate of the pranks of the +Menni-bojou in these caverns, and, in answer to our inquiries, +seemed disposed to fabricate stories, without end, of the +achievements of this Indian deity." + + +Toward the Sun his hands were lifted. + +In this manner, and with such salutations, was Father Marquette +received by the Illinois. See his Voyages et Decouvertes, +Section V. + +<END HIAWATHA NOTES> + + +************* + + +THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH + +I + +MILES STANDISH + +In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims, +To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling, +Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan leather, +Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain. +Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and pausing +Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of warfare, +Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber,-- +Cutlass and corselet of steel, and his trusty sword of Damascus, +Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical Arabic sentence, +While underneath, in a corner, were fowling-piece, musket, and matchlock. +Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic, +Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of iron; +Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard was already +Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November. +Near him was seated John Alden, his friend, and household companion, +Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window; +Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion, +Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty thereof, as the captives +Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, "Not Angles, but Angels." +Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the Mayflower. + + Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe interrupting, +Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth. +"Look at these arms," he said, "the warlike weapons that hang here +Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection! +This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders; this breastplate, +Well I remember the day! once saved my life in a skirmish; +Here in front you can see the very dint of the bullet +Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arcabucero. +Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles Standish +Would at this moment be mould, in their grave in the Flemish morasses." +Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his writing: +"Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the bullet; +He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield and our weapon!" +Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling: +"See, how bright they are burnished, as if in an arsenal hanging; +That is because I have done it myself, and not left it to others. +Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent adage; +So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your inkhorn. +Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invincible army, +Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock, +Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and pillage, +And, like Caesar, I know the name of each of my soldiers!" +This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes, as the sunbeams +Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again in a moment. +Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain continued: +"Look! you can see from this window my brazen howitzer planted +High on the roof of the church, a preacher who speaks to the purpose, +Steady, straight-forward, and strong, with irresistible logic, +Orthodox, flashing conviction right into the hearts of the heathen. +Now we are ready, I think, for any assault of the Indians; +Let them come, if they like, and the sooner they try it the better,-- +Let them come if they like, be it sagamore, sachem, or pow-wow, +Aspinet, Samoset, Corbitant, Squanto, or Tokamahamon!" + + Long at the window he stood, and wistfully gazed on the landscape, +Washed with a cold gray mist, the vapory breath of the east-wind, +Forest and meadow and hill, and the steel-blue rim of the ocean, +Lying silent and sad, in the afternoon shadows and sunshine. +Over his countenance flitted a shadow like those on the landscape, +Gloom intermingled with light; and his voice was subdued with emotion, +Tenderness, pity, regret, as after a pause he proceeded: +"Yonder there, on the hill by the sea, lies buried Rose Standish; +Beautiful rose of love, that bloomed for me by the wayside! +She was the first to die of all who came in the Mayflower! +Green above her is growing the field of wheat we have sown there, +Better to hide from the Indian scouts the graves of our people, +Lest they should count them and see how many already have perished!" +Sadly his face he averted, and strode up and down, and was thoughtful. + + Fixed to the opposite wall was a shelf of books, and among them +Prominent three, distinguished alike for bulk and for binding; +Bariffe's Artillery Guide, and the Commentaries of Caesar, +Out of the Latin translated by Arthur Goldinge of London, +And, as if guarded by these, between them was standing the Bible. +Musing a moment before them, Miles Standish paused, as if doubtful +Which of the three he should choose for his consolation and comfort, +Whether the wars of the Hebrews, the famous campaigns of the Romans, +Or the Artillery practice, designed for belligerent Christians. +Finally down from its shelf he dragged the ponderous Roman, +Seated himself at the window, and opened the book, and in silence +Turned o'er the well-worn leaves, where thumb-marks thick on the margin, +Like the trample of feet, proclaimed the battle was hottest. +Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling, +Busily writing epistles important, to go by the Mayflower, +Ready to sail on the morrow, or next day at latest, God willing! +Homeward bound with the tidings of all that terrible winter, +Letters written by Alden, and full of the name of Priscilla, +Full of the name and the fame of the Puritan maiden Priscilla! + + + +II + +LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP + +Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling, +Or an occasional sigh from the laboring heart of the Captain, +Reading the marvellous words and achievements of Julius Caesar. +After a while he exclaimed, as he smote with his hand, palm downwards, +Heavily on the page: "A wonderful man was this Caesar! +You are a writer, and I am a fighter, but here is a fellow +Who could both write and fight, and in both was equally skilful!" +Straightway answered and spake John Alden, the comely, the youthful: +"Yes, he was equally skilled, as you say, with his pen and his weapons. +Somewhere have I read, but where I forget, he could dictate +Seven letters at once, at the same time writing his memoirs." +"Truly," continued the Captain, not heeding or hearing the other, +"Truly a wonderful man was Caius Julius Caesar! +Better be first, he said, in a little Iberian village, +Than be second in Rome, and I think he was right when he said it. +Twice was he married before he was twenty, and many times after; +Battles five hundred he fought, and a thousand cities he conquered; +He, too, fought in Flanders, as he himself has recorded; +Finally he was stabbed by his friend, the orator Brutus! +Now, do you know what he did on a certain occasion in Flanders, +When the rear-guard of his army retreated, the front giving way too, +And the immortal Twelfth Legion was crowded so closely together +There was no room for their swords? Why, he seized a shield from a soldier, +Put himself straight at the head of his troops, and commanded the captains, +Calling on each by his name, to order forward the ensigns; +Then to widen the ranks, and give more room for their weapons; +So he won the day, the battle of something-or-other. +That's what I always say; if you wish a thing to be well done, +You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others!" + + All was silent again; the Captain continued his reading. +Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling +Writing epistles important to go next day by the Mayflower, +Filled with the name and the fame of the Puritan maiden Priscilla; +Every sentence began or closed with the name of Priscilla, +Till the treacherous pen, to which he confided the secret, +Strove to betray it by singing and shouting the name of Priscilla! +Finally closing his book, with a bang of the ponderous cover, +Sudden and loud as the sound of a soldier grounding his musket, +Thus to the young man spake Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth: +"When you have finished your work, I have something important to tell you. +Be not however in haste; I can wait; I shall not be impatient!" +Straightway Alden replied, as he folded the last of his letters, +Pushing his papers aside, and giving respectful attention: +"Speak; for whenever you speak, I am always ready to listen, +Always ready to hear whatever pertains to Miles Standish." +Thereupon answered the Captain, embarrassed, and culling his phrases: +"'T is not good for a man to be alone, say the Scriptures. +This I have said before, and again and again I repeat it; +Every hour in the day, I think it, and feel it, and say it. +Since Rose Standish died, my life has been weary and dreary; +Sick at heart have I been, beyond the healing of friendship. +Oft in my lonely hours have I thought of the maiden Priscilla. +She is alone in the world; her father and mother and brother +Died in the winter together; I saw her going and coming, +Now to the grave of the dead, and now to the bed of the dying, +Patient, courageous, and strong, and said to myself, that if ever +There were angels on earth, as there are angels in heaven, +Two have I seen and known; and the angel whose name is Priscilla +Holds in my desolate life the place which the other abandoned. +Long have I cherished the thought, but never have dared to reveal it, +Being a coward in this, though valiant enough for the most part. +Go to the damsel Priscilla, the loveliest maiden of Plymouth, +Say that a blunt old Captain, a man not of words but of actions, +Offers his hand and his heart, the hand and heart of a soldier. +Not in these words, you know, but this in short is my meaning; +I am a maker of war, and not a maker of phrases. +You, who are bred as a scholar, can say it in elegant language, +Such as you read in your books of the pleadings and wooings of lovers, +Such as you think best adapted to win the heart of a maiden." + + When he had spoken, John Alden, the fair-haired, taciturn stripling, +All aghast at his words, surprised, embarrassed, bewildered, +Trying to mask his dismay by treating the subject with lightness, +Trying to smile, and yet feeling his heart stand still in his bosom, +Just as a timepiece stops in a house that is stricken by lightning, +Thus made answer and spake, or rather stammered than answered: +"Such a message as that, I am sure I should mangle and mar it; +If you would have it well done,--I am only repeating your maxim,-- +You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others!" +But with the air of a man whom nothing can turn from his purpose, +Gravely shaking his head, made answer the Captain of Plymouth: +"Truly the maxim is good, and I do not mean to gainsay it; +But we must use it discreetly, and not waste powder for nothing. +Now, as I said before, I was never a maker of phrases. +I can march up to a fortress and summon the place to surrender, +But march up to a woman with such a proposal, I dare not. +I'm not afraid of bullets, nor shot from the mouth of a cannon, +But of a thundering "No!" point-blank from the mouth of a woman, +That I confess I'm afraid of, nor am I ashamed to confess it! +So you must grant my request, for you are an elegant scholar, +Having the graces of speech, and skill in the turning of phrases." +Taking the hand of his friend, who still was reluctant and doubtful, +Holding it long in his own, and pressing it kindly, he added: +"Though I have spoken thus lightly, yet deep is the feeling that prompts me; +Surely you cannot refuse what I ask in the name of our friendship!" +Then made answer John Alden: "The name of friendship is sacred; +What you demand in that name, I have not the power to deny you!" +So the strong will prevailed, subduing and moulding the gentler, +Friendship prevailed over love, and Alden went on his errand. + + + +III + +THE LOVER'S ERRAND + +So the strong will prevailed, and Alden went on his errand, +Out of the street of the village, and into the paths of the forest, +Into the tranquil woods, where blue-birds and robins were building +Towns in the populous trees, with hanging gardens of verdure, +Peaceful, aerial cities of joy and affection and freedom. +All around him was calm, but within him commotion and conflict, +Love contending with friendship, and self with each generous impulse. +To and fro in his breast his thoughts were heaving and dashing, +As in a foundering ship, with every roll of the vessel, +Washes the bitter sea, the merciless surge of the ocean! +"Must I relinquish it all," he cried with a wild lamentation, +"Must I relinquish it all, the joy, the hope, the illusion? +Was it for this I have loved, and waited, and worshipped in silence? +Was it for this I have followed the flying feet and the shadow +Over the wintry sea, to the desolate shores of New England? +Truly the heart is deceitful, and out of its depths of corruption +Rise, like an exhalation, the misty phantoms of passion; +Angels of light they seem, but are only delusions of Satan. +All is clear to me now; I feel it, I see it distinctly! +This is the hand of the Lord; it is laid upon me in anger, +For I have followed too much the heart's desires and devices, +Worshipping Astaroth blindly, and impious idols of Baal. +This is the cross I must bear; the sin and the swift retribution." + + So through the Plymouth woods John Alden went on his errand; +Crossing the brook at the ford, where it brawled over pebble and shallow, +Gathering still, as he went, the May-flowers blooming around him, +Fragrant, filling the air with a strange and wonderful sweetness, +Children lost in the woods, and covered with leaves in their slumber. +"Puritan flowers," he said, "and the type of Puritan maidens, +Modest and simple and sweet, the very type of Priscilla! +So I will take them to her; to Priscilla the May-flower of Plymouth, +Modest and simple and sweet, as a parting gift will I take them; +Breathing their silent farewells, as they fade and wither and perish, +Soon to be thrown away as is the heart of the giver." +So through the Plymouth woods John Alden went on his errand; +Came to an open space, and saw the disk of the ocean, +Sailless, sombre and cold with the comfortless breath of the east-wind; +Saw the new-built house and people at work in a meadow; +Heard, as he drew near the door, the musical voice of Priscilla +Singing the hundredth Psalm, the grand old Puritan anthem, +Music that Luther sang to the sacred words of the Psalmist, +Full of the breath of the Lord, consoling and comforting many. +Then, as he opened the door, he beheld the form of the maiden +Seated beside her wheel, and the carded wool like a snow-drift +Piled at her knee, her white hands feeding the ravenous spindle, +While with her foot on the treadle she guided the wheel in its motion. +Open wide on her lap lay the well-worn psalm-book of Ainsworth, +Printed in Amsterdam, the words and the music together, +Rough-hewn, angular notes, like stones in the wall of a churchyard, +Darkened and overhung by the running vine of the verses. +Such was the book from whose pages she sang the old Puritan anthem, +She, the Puritan girl, in the solitude of the forest, +Making the humble house and the modest apparel of home-spun +Beautiful with her beauty, and rich with the wealth of her being! +Over him rushed, like a wind that is keen and cold and relentless, +Thoughts of what might have been, and the weight and woe of his errand; +All the dreams that had faded, and all the hopes that had vanished, +All his life henceforth a dreary and tenantless mansion, +Haunted by vain regrets, and pallid, sorrowful faces. +Still he said to himself, and almost fiercely he said it, +"Let not him that putteth his hand to the plough look backwards; +Though the ploughshare cut through the flowers of life to its fountains, +Though it pass o'er the graves of the dead and the hearths of the living, +It is the will of the Lord; and his mercy endureth for ever!" + + So he entered the house: and the hum of the wheel and the singing +Suddenly ceased; for Priscilla, aroused by his step on the threshold, +Rose as he entered, and gave him her hand, in signal of welcome, +Saying, "I knew it was you, when I heard your step in the passage; +For I was thinking of you, as I sat there singing and spinning." +Awkward and dumb with delight, that a thought of him had been mingled +Thus in the sacred psalm, that came from the heart of the maiden, +Silent before her he stood, and gave her the flowers for an answer, +Finding no words for his thought. He remembered that day in the winter, +After the first great snow, when he broke a path from the village, +Reeling and plunging along through the drifts that encumbered the doorway, +Stamping the snow from his feet as he entered the house, and Priscilla +Laughed at his snowy locks, and gave him a seat by the fireside, +Grateful and pleased to know he had thought of her in the snow-storm. +Had he but spoken then! perhaps not in vain had he spoken; +Now it was all too late; the golden moment had vanished! +So he stood there abashed, and gave her the flowers for an answer. + + Then they sat down and talked of the birds and the beautiful Spring-time, +Talked of their friends at home, and the Mayflower that sailed on the morrow. +"I have been thinking all day," said gently the Puritan maiden, +"Dreaming all night, and thinking all day, of the hedge-rows of England,-- +They are in blossom now, and the country is all like a garden; +Thinking of lanes and fields, and the song of the lark and the linnet, +Seeing the village street, and familiar faces of neighbors +Going about as of old, and stopping to gossip together, +And, at the end of the street, the village church, with the ivy +Climbing the old gray tower, and the quiet graves in the churchyard. +Kind are the people I live with, and dear to me my religion; +Still my heart is so sad, that I wish myself back in Old England. +You will say it is wrong, but I cannot help it: I almost +Wish myself back in Old England, I feel so lonely and wretched." + + Thereupon answered the youth:--"Indeed I do not condemn you; +Stouter hearts than a woman's have quailed in this terrible winter. +Yours is tender and trusting, and needs a stronger to lean on; +So I have come to you now, with an offer and proffer of marriage +Made by a good man and true, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth!" + + Thus he delivered his message, the dexterous writer of letters,-- +Did not embellish the theme, nor array it in beautiful phrases, +But came straight to the point, and blurted it out like a schoolboy; +Even the Captain himself could hardly have said it more bluntly. +Mute with amazement and sorrow, Priscilla the Puritan maiden +Looked into Alden's face, her eyes dilated with wonder, +Feeling his words like a blow, that stunned her and rendered her speechless; +Till at length she exclaimed, interrupting the ominous silence: +"If the great Captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me, +Why does he not come himself, and take the trouble to woo me? +If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning!" +Then John Alden began explaining and smoothing the matter, +Making it worse as he went, by saying the Captain was busy,-- +Had no time for such things;--such things! the words grating harshly +Fell on the ear of Priscilla; and swift as a flash she made answer: +"Has he no time for such things, as you call it, before he is married, +Would he be likely to find it, or make it, after the wedding? +That is the way with you men; you don't understand us, you cannot. +When you have made up your minds, after thinking of this one and that one, +Choosing, selecting, rejecting, comparing one with another, +Then you make known your desire, with abrupt and sudden avowal, +And are offended and hurt, and indignant perhaps, that a woman +Does not respond at once to a love that she never suspected, +Does not attain at a bound the height to which you have been climbing. +This is not right nor just: for surely a woman's affection +Is not a thing to be asked for, and had for only the asking. +When one is truly in love, one not only says it, but shows it. +Had he but waited awhile, had he only showed that he loved me, +Even this Captain of yours--who knows?--at last might have won me, +Old and rough as he is; but now it never can happen." + + Still John Alden went on, unheeding the words of Priscilla, +Urging the suit of his friend, explaining, persuading, expanding; +Spoke of his courage and skill, and of all his battles in Flanders, +How with the people of God he had chosen to suffer affliction, +How, in return for his zeal, they had made him Captain of Plymouth; +He was a gentleman born, could trace his pedigree plainly +Back to Hugh Standish of Duxbury Hall, in Lancashire, England, +Who was the son of Ralph, and the grandson of Thurston de Standish; +Heir unto vast estates, of which he was basely defrauded, +Still bore the family arms, and had for his crest a cock argent +Combed and wattled gules, and all the rest of the blazon. +He was a man of honor, of noble and generous nature; +Though he was rough, he was kindly; she knew how during the winter +He had attended the sick, with a hand as gentle as woman's; +Somewhat hasty and hot, he could not deny it, and headstrong, +Stern as a soldier might be, but hearty, and placable always, +Not to be laughed at and scorned, because he was little of stature; +For he was great of heart, magnanimous, courtly, courageous; +Any woman in Plymouth, nay, any woman in England, +Might be happy and proud to be called the wife of Miles Standish! + + But as he warmed and glowed, in his simple and eloquent language, +Quite forgetful of self, and full of the praise of his rival, +Archly the maiden smiled, and, with eyes over-running with laughter, +Said, in a tremulous voice, "Why don't you speak for yourself, John?" + + + +IV + +JOHN ALDEN + +Into the open air John Alden, perplexed and bewildered, +Rushed like a man insane, and wandered alone by the sea-side; +Paced up and down the sands, and bared his head to the east-wind, +Cooling his heated brow, and the fire and fever within him. +Slowly as out of the heavens, with apocalyptical splendors, +Sank the City of God, in the vision of John the Apostle, +So, with its cloudy walls of chrysolite, jasper, and sapphire, +Sank the broad red sun, and over its turrets uplifted +Glimmered the golden reed of the angel who measured the city. + + "Welcome, O wind of the East!" he exclaimed in his wild exultation, +"Welcome, O wind of the East, from the caves of the misty Atlantic! +Blowing o'er fields of dulse, and measureless meadows of sea-grass, +Blowing o'er rocky wastes, and the grottos and gardens of ocean! +Lay thy cold, moist hand on my burning forehead, and wrap me +Close in thy garments of mist, to allay the fever within me!" + + Like an awakened conscience, the sea was moaning and tossing, +Beating remorseful and loud the mutable sands of the sea-shore. +Fierce in his soul was the struggle and tumult of passions contending; +Love triumphant and crowned, and friendship wounded and bleeding, +Passionate cries of desire, and importunate pleadings of duty! +"Is it my fault," he said, "that the maiden has chosen between us? +Is it my fault that he failed,--my fault that I am the victor?" +Then within him there thundered a voice, like the voice of the Prophet: +"It hath displeased the Lord!"--and he thought of David's transgression, +Bathsheba's beautiful face, and his friend in the front of the battle! +Shame and confusion of guilt, and abasement and self-condemnation, +Overwhelmed him at once; and he cried in the deepest contrition: +"It hath displeased the Lord! It is the temptation of Satan!" + + Then, uplifting his head, he looked at the sea, and beheld there +Dimly the shadowy form of the Mayflower riding at anchor, +Rocked on the rising tide, and ready to sail on the morrow; +Heard the voices of men through the mist, the rattle of cordage +Thrown on the deck, the shouts of the mate, and the sailors' "Ay, ay, Sir!" +Clear and distinct, but not loud, in the dripping air of the twilight. +Still for a moment he stood, and listened, and stared at the vessel, +Then went hurriedly on, as one who, seeing a phantom, +Stops, then quickens his pace, and follows the beckoning shadow. +"Yes, it is plain to me now," he murmured; "the hand of the Lord is +Leading me out of the land of darkness, the bondage of error, +Through the sea, that shall lift the walls of its waters around me, +Hiding me, cutting me off, from the cruel thoughts that pursue me. +Back will I go o'er the ocean, this dreary land will abandon, +Her whom I may not love, and him whom my heart has offended. +Better to be in my grave in the green old churchyard in England, +Close by my mother's side, and among the dust of my kindred; +Better be dead and forgotten, than living in shame and dishonor! +Sacred and safe and unseen, in the dark of the narrow chamber +With me my secret shall lie, like a buried jewel that glimmers +Bright on the hand that is dust, in the chambers of silence and darkness,-- +Yes, as the marriage ring of the great espousal hereafter!" + + Thus as he spake, he turned, in the strength of his strong resolution, +Leaving behind him the shore, and hurried along in the twilight, +Through the congenial gloom of the forest silent and sombre, +Till he beheld the lights in the seven houses of Plymouth, +Shining like seven stars in the dusk and mist of the evening. +Soon he entered his door, and found the redoubtable Captain +Sitting alone, and absorbed in the martial pages of Caesar, +Fighting some great campaign in Hainault or Brabant or Flanders. +"Long have you been on your errand," he said with a cheery demeanor, +Even as one who is waiting an answer, and fears not the issue. +"Not far off is the house, although the woods are between us; +But you have lingered so long, that while you were going and coming +I have fought ten battles and sacked and demolished a city. +Come, sit down, and in order relate to me all that has happened." + + Then John Alden spake, and related the wondrous adventure, +From beginning to end, minutely, just as it happened; +How he had seen Priscilla, and how he had sped in his courtship, +Only smoothing a little, and softening down her refusal. +But when he came at length to the words Priscilla had spoken, +Words so tender and cruel: "Why don't you speak for yourself, John?" +Up leaped the Captain of Plymouth, and stamped on the floor, till his armor +Clanged on the wall, where it hung, with a sound of sinister omen. +All his pent-up wrath burst forth in a sudden explosion, +Even as a hand-grenade, that scatters destruction around it. +Wildly he shouted, and loud: "John Alden! you have betrayed me! +Me, Miles Standish, your friend! have supplanted, defrauded, betrayed me! +One of my ancestors ran his sword through the heart of Wat Tyler; +Who shall prevent me from running my own through the heart of a traitor? +Yours is the greater treason, for yours is a treason to friendship! +You, who lived under my roof, whom I cherished and loved as a brother; +You, who have fed at my board, and drunk at my cup, to whose keeping +I have intrusted my honor, my thoughts the most sacred and secret,-- +You too, Brutus! ah woe to the name of friendship hereafter! +Brutus was Caesar's friend, and you were mine, but henceforward +Let there be nothing between us save war, and implacable hatred!" + + So spake the Captain of Plymouth, and strode about in the chamber, +Chafing and choking with rage; like cords were the veins on his temples. +But in the midst of his anger a man appeared at the doorway, +Bringing in uttermost haste a message of urgent importance, +Rumors of danger and war and hostile incursions of Indians! +Straightway the Captain paused, and, without further question or parley, +Took from the nail on the wall his sword with its scabbard of iron, +Buckled the belt round his waist, and, frowning fiercely, departed. +Alden was left alone. He heard the clank of the scabbard +Growing fainter and fainter, and dying away in the distance. +Then he arose from his seat, and looked forth into the darkness, +Felt the cool air blow on his cheek, that was hot with the insult, +Lifted his eyes to the heavens, and, folding his hands as in childhood, +Prayed in the silence of night to the Father who seeth in secret. + + Meanwhile the choleric Captain strode wrathful away to the council, +Found it already assembled, impatiently waiting his coming; +Men in the middle of life, austere and grave in deportment, +Only one of them old, the hill that was nearest to heaven, +Covered with snow, but erect, the excellent Elder of Plymouth. +God had sifted three kingdoms to find the wheat for this planting, +Then had sifted the wheat, as the living seed of a nation; +So say the chronicles old, and such is the faith of the people! +Near them was standing an Indian, in attitude stern and defiant, +Naked down to the waist, and grim and ferocious in aspect; +While on the table before them was lying unopened a Bible, +Ponderous, bound in leather, brass-studded, printed in Holland, +And beside it outstretched the skin of a rattle-snake glittered, +Filled, like a quiver, with arrows; a signal and challenge of warfare, +Brought by the Indian, and speaking with arrowy tongues of defiance. +This Miles Standish beheld, as he entered, and heard them debating +What were an answer befitting the hostile message and menace, +Talking of this and of that, contriving, suggesting, objecting; +One voice only for peace, and that the voice of the Elder, +Judging it wise and well that some at least were converted, +Rather than any were slain, for this was but Christian behavior! +Then out spake Miles Standish, the stalwart Captain of Plymouth, +Muttering deep in his throat, for his voice was husky with anger, +"What! do you mean to make war with milk and the water of roses? +Is it to shoot red squirrels you have your howitzer planted +There on the roof of the church, or is it to shoot red devils? +Truly the only tongue that is understood by a savage +Must be the tongue of fire that speaks from the mouth of the cannon!" +Thereupon answered and said the excellent Elder of Plymouth, +Somewhat amazed and alarmed at this irreverent language: +"Not so thought Saint Paul, nor yet the other Apostles; +Not from the cannon's mouth were the tongues of fire they spake with!" +But unheeded fell this mild rebuke on the Captain, +Who had advanced to the table, and thus continued discoursing: +"Leave this matter to me, for to me by right it pertaineth. +War is a terrible trade; but in the cause that is righteous, +Sweet is the smell of powder; and thus I answer the challenge!" + + Then from the rattlesnake's skin, with a sudden, contemptuous gesture, +Jerking the Indian arrows, he filled it with powder and bullets +Full to the very jaws, and handed it back to the savage, +Saying, in thundering tones: "Here, take it! this is your answer!" +Silently out of the room then glided the glistening savage, +Bearing the serpent's skin, and seeming himself like a serpent, +Winding his sinuous way in the dark to the depths of the forest. + + + +V + +THE SAILING OF THE MAYFLOWER + +Just in the gray of the dawn, as the mists uprose from the meadows, +There was a stir and a sound in the slumbering village of Plymouth; +Clanging and clicking of arms, and the order imperative, "Forward!" +Given in tone suppressed, a tramp of feet, and then silence. +Figures ten, in the mist, marched slowly out of the village. +Standish the stalwart it was, with eight of his valorous army, +Led by their Indian guide, by Hobomok, friend of the white men, +Northward marching to quell the sudden revolt of the savage. +Giants they seemed in the mist, or the mighty men of King David; +Giants in heart they were, who believed in God and the Bible,-- +Ay, who believed in the smiting of Midianites and Philistines. +Over them gleamed far off the crimson banners of morning; +Under them loud on the sands, the serried billows, advancing, +Fired along the line, and in regular order retreated. + + Many a mile had they marched, when at length the village of Plymouth +Woke from its sleep, and arose, intent on its manifold labors. +Sweet was the air and soft; and slowly the smoke from the chimneys +Rose over roofs of thatch, and pointed steadily eastward; +Men came forth from the doors, and paused and talked of the weather, +Said that the wind had changed, and was blowing fair for the Mayflower; +Talked of their Captain's departure, and all the dangers that menaced, +He being gone, the town, and what should be done in his absence. +Merrily sang the birds, and the tender voices of women +Consecrated with hymns the common cares of the household. +Out of the sea rose the sun, and the billows rejoiced at his coming; +Beautiful were his feet on the purple tops of the mountains; +Beautiful on the sails of the Mayflower riding at anchor, +Battered and blackened and worn by all the storms of the winter. +Loosely against her masts was hanging and flapping her canvas, +Rent by so many gales, and patched by the hands of the sailors. +Suddenly from her side, as the sun rose over the ocean, +Darted a puff of smoke, and floated seaward; anon rang +Loud over field and forest the cannon's roar, and the echoes +Heard and repeated the sound, the signal-gun of departure! +Ah! but with louder echoes replied the hearts of the people! +Meekly, in voices subdued, the chapter was read from the Bible, +Meekly the prayer was begun, but ended in fervent entreaty! +Then from their houses in haste came forth the Pilgrims of Plymouth, +Men and women and children, all hurrying down to the sea-shore, +Eager, with tearful eyes, to say farewell to the Mayflower, +Homeward bound o'er the sea, and leaving them here in the desert. + + Foremost among them was Alden. All night he had lain without slumber, +Turning and tossing about in the heat and unrest of his fever. +He had beheld Miles Standish, who came back late from the council, +Stalking into the room, and heard him mutter and murmur, +Sometimes it seemed a prayer, and sometimes it sounded like swearing. +Once he had come to the bed, and stood there a moment in silence; +Then he had turned away, and said: "I will not awake him; +Let him sleep on, it is best; for what is the use of more talking!" +Then he extinguished the light, and threw himself down on his pallet, +Dressed as he was, and ready to start at the break of the morning,-- +Covered himself with the cloak he had worn in his campaigns in Flanders,-- +Slept as a soldier sleeps in his bivouac, ready for action. +But with the dawn he arose; in the twilight Alden beheld him +Put on his corselet of steel, and all the rest of his armor, +Buckle about his waist his trusty blade of Damascus, +Take from the corner his musket, and so stride out of the chamber. +Often the heart of the youth had burned and yearned to embrace him, +Often his lips had essayed to speak, imploring for pardon; +All the old friendship came back, with its tender and grateful emotions; +But his pride overmastered the nobler nature within him,-- +Pride, and the sense of his wrong, and the burning fire of the insult. +So he beheld his friend departing in anger, but spake not, +Saw him go forth to danger, perhaps to death, and he spake not! +Then he arose from his bed, and heard what the people were saying, +Joined in the talk at the door, with Stephen and Richard and Gilbert, +Joined in the morning prayer, and in the reading of Scripture, +And, with the others, in haste went hurrying down to the sea-shore, +Down to the Plymouth Rock, that had been to their feet as a door-step +Into a world unknown,--the corner-stone of a nation! + + There with his boat was the Master, already a little impatient +Lest he should lose the tide, or the wind might shift to the eastward, +Square-built, hearty, and strong, with an odor of ocean about him, +Speaking with this one and that, and cramming letters and parcels +Into his pockets capacious, and messages mingled together +Into his narrow brain, till at last he was wholly bewildered. +Nearer the boat stood Alden, with one foot placed on the gunwale, +One still firm on the rock, and talking at times with the sailors, +Seated erect on the thwarts, all ready and eager for starting. +He too was eager to go, and thus put an end to his anguish, +Thinking to fly from despair, that swifter than keel is or canvas, +Thinking to drown in the sea the ghost that would rise and pursue him. +But as he gazed on the crowd, he beheld the form of Priscilla +Standing dejected among them, unconscious of all that was passing. +Fixed were her eyes upon his, as if she divined his intention, +Fixed with a look so sad, so reproachful, imploring, and patient, +That with a sudden revulsion his heart recoiled from its purpose, +As from the verge of a crag, where one step more is destruction. +Strange is the heart of man, with its quick, mysterious instincts! +Strange is the life of man, and fatal or fated are moments, +Whereupon turn, as on hinges, the gates of the wall adamantine! +"Here I remain!" he exclaimed, as he looked at the heavens above him, +Thanking the Lord whose breath had scattered the mist and the madness, +Wherein, blind and lost, to death he was staggering headlong. +"Yonder snow-white cloud, that floats in the ether above me, +Seems like a hand that is pointing and beckoning over the ocean. +There is another hand, that is not so spectral and ghost-like, +Holding me, drawing me back, and clasping mine for protection. +Float, O hand of cloud, and vanish away in the ether! +Roll thyself up like a fist, to threaten and daunt me; I heed not +Either your warning or menace, or any omen of evil! +There is no land so sacred, no air so pure and so wholesome, +As is the air she breathes, and the soil that is pressed by her footsteps. +Here for her sake will I stay, and like an invisible presence +Hover around her for ever, protecting, supporting her weakness; +Yes! as my foot was the first that stepped on this rock at the landing, +So, with the blessing of God, shall it be the last at the leaving!" + + Meanwhile the Master alert, but with dignified air and important, +Scanning with watchful eye the tide and the wind and the weather, +Walked about on the sands; and the people crowded around him +Saying a few last words, and enforcing his careful remembrance. +Then, taking each by the hand, as if he were grasping a tiller, +Into the boat he sprang, and in haste shoved off to his vessel, +Glad in his heart to get rid of all this worry and flurry, +Glad to be gone from a land of sand and sickness and sorrow, +Short allowance of victual, and plenty of nothing but Gospel! +Lost in the sound of the oars was the last farewell of the Pilgrims. +O strong hearts and true! not one went back in the Mayflower! +No, not one looked back, who had set his hand to this ploughing! + + Soon were heard on board the shouts and songs of the sailors +Heaving the windlass round, and hoisting the ponderous anchor. +Then the yards were braced, and all sails set to the west-wind, +Blowing steady and strong; and the Mayflower sailed from the harbor, +Rounded the point of the Gurnet, and leaving far to the southward +Island and cape of sand, and the Field of the First Encounter, +Took the wind on her quarter, and stood for the open Atlantic, +Borne on the send of the sea, and the swelling hearts of the Pilgrims. + + Long in silence they watched the receding sail of the vessel, +Much endeared to them all, as something living and human; +Then, as if filled with the spirit, and wrapt in a vision prophetic, +Baring his hoary head, the excellent Elder of Plymouth +Said, "Let us pray!" and they prayed, and thanked the Lord and took courage. +Mournfully sobbed the waves at the base of the rock, and above them +Bowed and whispered the wheat on the hill of death, and their kindred +Seemed to awake in their graves, and to join in the prayer that they uttered. +Sun-illumined and white, on the eastern verge of the ocean +Gleamed the departing sail, like a marble slab in a graveyard; +Buried beneath it lay for ever all hope of escaping. +Lo! as they turned to depart, they saw the form of an Indian, +Watching them from the hill; but while they spake with each other, +Pointing with outstretched hands, and saying, "Look!" he had vanished. +So they returned to their homes; but Alden lingered a little, +Musing alone on the shore, and watching the wash of the billows +Round the base of the rock, and the sparkle and flash of the sunshine, +Like the spirit of God, moving visibly over the waters. + + + +VI + +PRISCILLA + +Thus for a while he stood, and mused by the shore of the ocean, +Thinking of many things, and most of all of Priscilla; +And as if thought had the power to draw to itself, like the loadstone, +Whatsoever it touches, by subtile laws of its nature, +Lo! as he turned to depart, Priscilla was standing beside him. + + "Are you so much offended, you will not speak to me?" said she. +"Am I so much to blame, that yesterday, when you were pleading +Warmly the cause of another, my heart, impulsive and wayward, +Pleaded your own, and spake out, forgetful perhaps of decorum? +Certainly you can forgive me for speaking so frankly, for saying +What I ought not to have said, yet now I can never unsay it; +For there are moments in life, when the heart is so full of emotion, +That if by chance it be shaken, or into its depths like a pebble +Drops some careless word, it overflows, and its secret, +Spilt on the ground like water, can never be gathered together. +Yesterday I was shocked, when I heard you speak of Miles Standish, +Praising his virtues, transforming his very defects into virtues, +Praising his courage and strength, and even his fighting in Flanders, +As if by fighting alone you could win the heart of a woman, +Quite overlooking yourself and the rest, in exalting your hero. +Therefore I spake as I did, by an irresistible impulse. +You will forgive me, I hope, for the sake of the friendship between us, +Which is too true and too sacred to be so easily broken!" +Thereupon answered John Alden, the scholar, the friend of Miles Standish: +"I was not angry with you, with myself alone I was angry, +Seeing how badly I managed the matter I had in my keeping." +"No!" interrupted the maiden, with answer prompt and decisive; +"No; you were angry with me, for speaking so frankly and freely. +It was wrong, I acknowledge; for it is the fate of a woman +Long to be patient and silent, to wait like a ghost that is speechless, +Till some questioning voice dissolves the spell of its silence. +Hence is the inner life of so many suffering women +Sunless and silent and deep, like subterranean rivers +Running through caverns of darkness, unheard, unseen, and unfruitful, +Chafing their channels of stone, with endless and profitless murmurs." +Thereupon answered John Alden, the young man, the lover of women: +"Heaven forbid it, Priscilla; and truly they seem to me always +More like the beautiful rivers that watered the garden of Eden, +More like the river Euphrates, through deserts of Havilah flowing, +Filling the land with delight, and memories sweet of the garden!" +"Ah, by these words, I can see," again interrupted the maiden, +"How very little you prize me, or care for what I am saying. +When from the depths of my heart, in pain and with secret misgiving, +Frankly I speak to you, asking for sympathy only and kindness, +Straightway you take up my words, that are plain and direct and in earnest, +Turn them away from their meaning, and answer with flattering phrases. +This is not right, is not just, is not true to the best that is in you; +For I know and esteem you, and feel that your nature is noble, +Lifting mine up to a higher, a more ethereal level. +Therefore I value your friendship, and feel it perhaps the more keenly +If you say aught that implies I am only as one among many, +If you make use of those common and complimentary phrases +Most men think so fine, in dealing and speaking with women, +But which women reject as insipid, if not as insulting." + + Mute and amazed was Alden; and listened and looked at Priscilla, +Thinking he never had seen her more fair, more divine in her beauty. +He who but yesterday pleaded so glibly the cause of another, +Stood there embarrassed and silent, and seeking in vain for an answer. +So the maiden went on, and little divined or imagined +What was at work in his heart, that made him so awkward and speechless. +"Let us, then, be what we are, and speak what we think, and in all things +Keep ourselves loyal to truth, and the sacred professions of friendship. +It is no secret I tell you, nor am I ashamed to declare it: +I have liked to be with you, to see you, to speak with you always. +So I was hurt at your words, and a little affronted to hear you +Urge me to marry your friend, though he were the Captain Miles Standish. +For I must tell you the truth: much more to me is your friendship +Than all the love he could give, were he twice the hero you think him." +Then she extended her hand, and Alden, who eagerly grasped it, +Felt all the wounds in his heart, that were aching and bleeding so sorely, +Healed by the touch of that hand, and he said, with a voice full of feeling: +"Yes, we must ever be friends; and of all who offer you friendship +Let me be ever the first, the truest, the nearest and dearest!" + + Casting a farewell look at the glimmering sail of the Mayflower, +Distant, but still in sight, and sinking below the horizon, +Homeward together they walked, with a strange, indefinite feeling, +That all the rest had departed and left them alone in the desert. +But, as they went through the fields in the blessing and smile of the sunshine, +Lighter grew their hearts, and Priscilla said very archly: +"Now that our terrible Captain has gone in pursuit of the Indians, +Where he is happier far than he would be commanding a household, +You may speak boldly, and tell me of all that happened between you, +When you returned last night, and said how ungrateful you found me." +Thereupon answered John Alden, and told her the whole of the story,-- +Told her his own despair, and the direful wrath of Miles Standish. +Whereat the maiden smiled, and said between laughing and earnest, +"He is a little chimney, and heated hot in a moment!" +But as he gently rebuked her, and told her how much he had suffered,-- +How he had even determined to sail that day in the Mayflower, +And had remained for her sake, on hearing the dangers that threatened,-- +All her manner was changed, and she said with a faltering accent, +"Truly I thank you for this: how good you have been to me always!" + + Thus, as a pilgrim devout, who toward Jerusalem journeys, +Taking three steps in advance, and one reluctantly backward, +Urged by importunate zeal, and withheld by pangs of contrition; +Slowly but steadily onward, receding yet ever advancing, +Journeyed this Puritan youth to the Holy Land of his longings, +Urged by the fervor of love, and withheld by remorseful misgivings. + + + +VII + +THE MARCH OF MILES STANDISH + +Meanwhile the stalwart Miles Standish was marching steadily northward, +Winding through forest and swamp, and along the trend of the sea-shore, +All day long, with hardly a halt, the fire of his anger +Burning and crackling within, and the sulphurous odor of powder +Seeming more sweet to his nostrils than all the scents of the forest. +Silent and moody he went, and much he revolved his discomfort; +He who was used to success, and to easy victories always, +Thus to be flouted, rejected, and laughed to scorn by a maiden, +Thus to be mocked and betrayed by the friend whom most he had trusted! +Ah! 't was too much to be borne, and he fretted and chafed in his armor! + + "I alone am to blame," he muttered, "for mine was the folly. +What has a rough old soldier, grown grim and gray in the harness, +Used to the camp and its ways, to do with the wooing of maidens? +'T was but a dream,--let it pass,--let it vanish like so many others! +What I thought was a flower, is only a weed, and is worthless; +Out of my heart will I pluck it, and throw it away, and henceforward +Be but a fighter of battles, a lover and wooer of dangers!" +Thus he revolved in his mind his sorry defeat and discomfort, +While he was marching by day or lying at night in the forest, +Looking up at the trees, and the constellations beyond them. + + After a three days' march he came to an Indian encampment +Pitched on the edge of a meadow, between the sea and the forest; +Women at work by the tents, and the warriors, horrid with war-paint, +Seated about a fire, and smoking and talking together; +Who, when they saw from afar the sudden approach of the white men, +Saw the flash of the sun on breastplate and sabre and musket, +Straightway leaped to their feet, and two, from among them advancing, +Came to parley with Standish, and offer him furs as a present; +Friendship was in their looks, but in their hearts there was hatred. +Braves of the tribe were these, and brothers gigantic in stature, +Huge as Goliath of Gath, or the terrible Og, king of Bashan; +One was Pecksuot named, and the other was called Wattawamat. +Round their necks were suspended their knives in scabbards of wampum, +Two-edged, trenchant knives, with points as sharp as a needle. +Other arms had they none, for they were cunning and crafty. +"Welcome, English!" they said,--these words they had learned from the traders +Touching at times on the coast, to barter and chaffer for peltries. +Then in their native tongue they began to parley with Standish, +Through his guide and interpreter Hobomok, friend of the white man, +Begging for blankets and knives, but mostly for muskets and powder, +Kept by the white man, they said, concealed, with the plague, in his cellars, +Ready to be let loose, and destroy his brother the red man! +But when Standish refused, and said he would give them the Bible, + +Suddenly changing their tone, they began to boast and to bluster. +Then Wattawamat advanced with a stride in front of the other, +And, with a lofty demeanor, thus vauntingly spake to the Captain: +"Now Wattawamat can see, by the fiery eyes of the Captain, +Angry is he in his heart; but the heart of the brave Wattawamat +Is not afraid at the sight. He was not born of a woman, +But on a mountain, at night, from an oak-tree riven by lightning, +Forth he sprang at a bound, with all his weapons about him, +Shouting, 'Who is there here to fight with the brave Wattawamat?'" +Then he unsheathed his knife, and, whetting the blade on his left hand, +Held it aloft and displayed a woman's face on the handle, +Saying, with bitter expression and look of sinister meaning: +"I have another at home, with the face of a man on the handle; +By and by they shall marry; and there will be plenty of children!" + + Then stood Pecksuot forth, self-vaunting, insulting Miles Standish: +While with his fingers he petted the knife that hung at his bosom, +Drawing it half from its sheath, and plunging it back, as he muttered, +"By and by it shall see; it shall eat; ah, ha! but shall speak not! +This is the mighty Captain the white men have sent to destroy us! +He is a little man; let him go and work with the women!" + + Meanwhile Standish had noted the faces and figures of Indians +Peeping and creeping about from bush to tree in the forest, +Feigning to look for game, with arrows set on their bow-strings, +Drawing about him still closer and closer the net of their ambush. +But undaunted he stood, and dissembled and treated them smoothly; +So the old chronicles say, that were writ in the days of the fathers. +But when he heard their defiance, the boast, the taunt, and the insult, +All the hot blood of his race, of Sir Hugh and of Thurston de Standish, +Boiled and beat in his heart, and swelled in the veins of his temples. +Headlong he leaped on the boaster, and, snatching his knife from its scabbard, +Plunged it into his heart, and, reeling backward, the savage +Fell with his face to the sky, and a fiendlike fierceness upon it. +Straight there arose from the forest the awful sound of the war-whoop, +And, like a flurry of snow on the whistling wind of December, +Swift and sudden and keen came a flight of feathery arrows, +Then came a cloud of smoke, and out of the cloud came the lightning, +Out of the lightning thunder, and death unseen ran before it. +Frightened the savages fled for shelter in swamp and in thicket, +Hotly pursued and beset; but their sachem, the brave Wattawamat, +Fled not; he was dead. Unswerving and swift had a bullet +Passed through his brain, and he fell with both hands clutching the greensward, +Seeming in death to hold back from his foe the land of his fathers. + + There on the flowers of the meadow the warriors lay, and above them, +Silent, with folded arms, stood Hobomok, friend of the white man. +Smiling at length he exclaimed to the stalwart Captain of Plymouth: +"Pecksuot bragged very loud, of his courage, his strength, and his stature,-- +Mocked the great Captain, and called him a little man; but I see now +Big enough have you been to lay him speechless before you!" + + Thus the first battle was fought and won by the stalwart Miles Standish. +When the tidings thereof were brought to the village of Plymouth, +And as a trophy of war the head of the brave Wattawamat +Scowled from the roof of the fort, which at once was a church and a fortress, +All who beheld it rejoiced, and praised the Lord, and took courage. +Only Priscilla averted her face from this spectre of terror, +Thanking God in her heart that she had not married Miles Standish; +Shrinking, fearing almost, lest, coming home from his battles, +He should lay claim to her hand, as the prize and reward of his valor. + + + +VIII + +THE SPINNING-WHEEL + +Month after month passed away, and in Autumn the ships of the merchants +Came with kindred and friends, with cattle and corn for the Pilgrims. +All in the village was peace; the men were intent on their labors, +Busy with hewing and building, with garden-plot and with merestead, +Busy with breaking the glebe, and mowing the grass in the meadows, +Searching the sea for its fish, and hunting the deer in the forest. +All in the village was peace; but at times the rumor of warfare +Filled the air with alarm, and the apprehension of danger. +Bravely the stalwart Miles Standish was scouring the land with his forces, +Waxing valiant in fight and defeating the alien armies, +Till his name had become a sound of fear to the nations. +Anger was still in his heart, but at times the remorse and contrition +Which in all noble natures succeed the passionate outbreak, +Came like a rising tide, that encounters the rush of a river, +Staying its current awhile, but making it bitter and brackish. + + Meanwhile Alden at home had built him a new habitation, +Solid, substantial, of timber rough-hewn from the firs of the forest. +Wooden-barred was the door, and the roof was covered with rushes; +Latticed the windows were, and the window-panes were of paper, +Oiled to admit the light, while wind and rain were excluded. +There too he dug a well, and around it planted an orchard: +Still may be seen to this day some trace of the well and the orchard. +Close to the house was the stall, where, safe and secure from annoyance, +Raghorn, the snow-white steer, that had fallen to Alden's allotment +In the division of cattle, might ruminate in the night-time +Over the pastures he cropped, made fragrant by sweet pennyroyal. + + Oft when his labor was finished, with eager feet would the dreamer +Follow the pathway that ran through the woods to the house of Priscilla, +Led by illusions romantic and subtile deceptions of fancy, +Pleasure disguised as duty, and love in the semblance of friendship. +Ever of her he thought, when he fashioned the walls of his dwelling; +Ever of her he thought, when he delved in the soil of his garden; +Ever of her he thought, when he read in his Bible on Sunday +Praise of the virtuous woman, as she is described in the Proverbs,-- +How the heart of her husband doth safely trust in her always, +How all the days of her life she will do him good, and not evil, +How she seeketh the wool and the flax and worketh with gladness, +How she layeth her hand to the spindle and holdeth the distaff, +How she is not afraid of the snow for herself or her household, +Knowing her household are clothed with the scarlet cloth of her weaving! + + So as she sat at her wheel one afternoon in the Autumn, +Alden, who opposite sat, and was watching her dexterous fingers, +As if the thread she was spinning were that of his life and his fortune, +After a pause in their talk, thus spake to the sound of the spindle. +"Truly, Priscilla," he said, "when I see you spinning and spinning, +Never idle a moment, but thrifty and thoughtful of others, +Suddenly you are transformed, are visibly changed in a moment; +You are no longer Priscilla, but Bertha the Beautiful Spinner." +Here the light foot on the treadle grew swifter and swifter; the spindle +Uttered an angry snarl, and the thread snapped short in her fingers; +While the impetuous speaker, not heeding the mischief, continued: +"You are the beautiful Bertha, the spinner, the queen of Helvetia; +She whose story I read at a stall in the streets of Southampton, +Who, as she rode on her palfrey, o'er valley and meadow and mountain, +Ever was spinning her thread from a distaff fixed to her saddle. +She was so thrifty and good, that her name passed into a proverb. +So shall it be with your own, when the spinning-wheel shall no longer +Hum in the house of the farmer, and fill its chambers with music. +Then shall the mothers, reproving, relate how it was in their childhood, +Praising the good old times, and the days of Priscilla the spinner!" +Straight uprose from her wheel the beautiful Puritan maiden, +Pleased with the praise of her thrift from him whose praise was the sweetest, +Drew from the reel on the table a snowy skein of her spinning, +Thus making answer, meanwhile, to the flattering phrases of Alden: +"Come, you must not be idle; if I am a pattern for housewives, +Show yourself equally worthy of being the model of husbands. +Hold this skein on your hands, while I wind it, ready for knitting; +Then who knows but hereafter, when fashions have changed and the manners, +Fathers may talk to their sons of the good old times of John Alden!" +Thus, with a jest and a laugh, the skein on his hands she adjusted, +He sitting awkwardly there, with his arms extended before him, +She standing graceful, erect, and winding the thread from his fingers, +Sometimes chiding a little his clumsy manner of holding, +Sometimes touching his hands, as she disentangled expertly +Twist or knot in the yarn, unawares--for how could she help it?-- +Sending electrical thrills through every nerve in his body. + + Lo! in the midst of this scene, a breathless messenger entered, +Bringing in hurry and heat the terrible news from the village. +Yes; Miles Standish was dead!--an Indian had brought them the tidings,-- +Slain by a poisoned arrow, shot down in the front of the battle, +Into an ambush beguiled, cut off with the whole of his forces; +All the town would be burned, and all the people be murdered! +Such were the tidings of evil that burst on the hearts of the hearers. +Silent and statue-like stood Priscilla, her face looking backward +Still at the face of the speaker, her arms uplifted in horror; +But John Alden, upstarting, as if the barb of the arrow +Piercing the heart of his friend had struck his own, and had sundered +Once and for ever the bonds that held him bound as a captive, +Wild with excess of sensation, the awful delight of his freedom, +Mingled with pain and regret, unconscious of what he was doing, +Clasped, almost with a groan, the motionless form of Priscilla, +Pressing her close to his heart, as for ever his own, and exclaiming: +"Those whom the Lord hath united, let no man put them asunder!" + + Even as rivulets twain, from distant and separate sources, +Seeing each other afar, as they leap from the rocks, and pursuing +Each one its devious path, but drawing nearer and nearer, +Rush together at last, at their trysting-place in the forest; +So these lives that had run thus far in separate channels, +Coming in sight of each other, then swerving and flowing asunder, +Parted by barriers strong, but drawing nearer and nearer, +Rushed together at last, and one was lost in the other. + + + +IX + +THE WEDDING-DAY + +Forth from the curtain of clouds, from the tent of purple and scarlet, +Issued the sun, the great High-Priest, in his garments resplendent, +Holiness unto the Lord, in letters of light, on his forehead, +Round the hem of his robe the golden bells and pomegranates. +Blessing the world he came, and the bars of vapor beneath him +Gleamed like a grate of brass, and the sea at his feet was a laver! + + This was the wedding morn of Priscilla the Puritan maiden. +Friends were assembled together; the Elder and Magistrate also +Graced the scene with their presence, and stood like the Law and the Gospel, +One with the sanction of earth and one with the blessing of heaven. +Simple and brief was the wedding, as that of Ruth and of Boaz. +Softly the youth and the maiden repeated the words of betrothal, +Taking each other for husband and wife in the Magistrate's presence, +After the Puritan way, and the laudable custom of Holland. +Fervently then, and devoutly, the excellent Elder of Plymouth +Prayed for the hearth and the home, that were founded that day in affection, +Speaking of life and of death, and imploring divine benedictions. + + Lo! when the service was ended, a form appeared on the threshold, +Clad in armor of steel, a sombre and sorrowful figure! +Why does the bridegroom start and stare at the strange apparition? +Why does the bride turn pale, and hide her face on his shoulder? +Is it a phantom of air,--a bodiless, spectral illusion? +Is it a ghost from the grave, that has come to forbid the betrothal? +Long had it stood there unseen, a guest uninvited, unwelcomed; +Over its clouded eyes there had passed at times an expression +Softening the gloom and revealing the warm heart hidden beneath them, +As when across the sky the driving rack of the rain-cloud +Grows for a moment thin, and betrays the sun by its brightness. +Once it had lifted its hand, and moved its lips, but was silent, +As if an iron will had mastered the fleeting intention. +But when were ended the troth and the prayer and the last benediction, +Into the room it strode, and the people beheld with amazement +Bodily there in his armor Miles Standish, the Captain of Plymouth! +Grasping the bridegroom's hand, he said with emotion, "Forgive me! +I have been angry and hurt,--too long have I cherished the feeling; +I have been cruel and hard, but now, thank God! it is ended. +Mine is the same hot blood that leaped in the veins of Hugh Standish, +Sensitive, swift to resent, but as swift in atoning for error. +Never so much as now was Miles Standish the friend of John Alden." +Thereupon answered the bridegroom: "Let all be forgotten between us,-- +All save the dear, old friendship, and that shall grow older and dearer!" +Then the Captain advanced, and, bowing, saluted Priscilla, +Gravely, and after the manner of old-fashioned gentry in England, +Something of camp and of court, of town and of country, commingled, +Wishing her joy of her wedding, and loudly lauding her husband. +Then he said with a smile: "I should have remembered the adage,-- +If you would be well served, you must serve yourself; and moreover, +No man can gather cherries in Kent at the season of Christmas!" + + Great was the people's amazement, and greater yet their rejoicing, +Thus to behold once more the sun-burnt face of their Captain, +Whom they had mourned as dead; and they gathered and crowded about him, +Eager to see him and hear him, forgetful of bride and of bridegroom, +Questioning, answering, laughing, and each interrupting the other, +Till the good Captain declared, being quite overpowered and bewildered, +He had rather by far break into an Indian encampment, +Than come again to a wedding to which he had not been invited. + + Meanwhile the bridegroom went forth and stood with the bride at the doorway, +Breathing the perfumed air of that warm and beautiful morning. +Touched with autumnal tints, but lonely and sad in the sunshine, +Lay extended before them the land of toil and privation; +There were the graves of the dead, and the barren waste of the sea-shore, +There the familiar fields, the groves of pine, and the meadows; +But to their eyes transfigured, it seemed as the Garden of Eden, +Filled with the presence of God, whose voice was the sound of the ocean. + + Soon was their vision disturbed by the noise and stir of departure, +Friends coming forth from the house, and impatient of longer delaying, +Each with his plan for the day, and the work that was left uncompleted. +Then from a stall near at hand, amid exclamations of wonder, +Alden the thoughtful, the careful, so happy, so proud of Priscilla, +Brought out his snow-white steer, obeying the hand of its master, +Led by a cord that was tied to an iron ring in its nostrils, +Covered with crimson cloth, and a cushion placed for a saddle. +She should not walk, he said, through the dust and heat of the noonday; +Nay, she should ride like a queen, not plod along like a peasant. +Somewhat alarmed at first, but reassured by the others, +Placing her hand on the cushion, her foot in the hand of her husband, +Gayly, with joyous laugh, Priscilla mounted her palfrey. +"Nothing is wanting now," he said with a smile, "but the distaff; +Then you would be in truth my queen, my beautiful Bertha!" + + Onward the bridal procession now moved to their new habitation, +Happy husband and wife, and friends conversing together. +Pleasantly murmured the brook, as they crossed the ford in the forest, +Pleased with the image that passed, like a dream of love through its bosom, +Tremulous, floating in air, o'er the depths of the azure abysses. +Down through the golden leaves the sun was pouring his splendors, +Gleaming on purple grapes, that, from branches above them suspended, +Mingled their odorous breath with the balm of the pine and the fir-tree, +Wild and sweet as the clusters that grew in the valley of Eshcol. +Like a picture it seemed of the primitive, pastoral ages, +Fresh with the youth of the world, and recalling Rebecca and Isaac, +Old and yet ever new, and simple and beautiful always, +Love immortal and young in the endless succession of lovers, +So through the Plymouth woods passed onward the bridal procession. + + +************** + +BIRDS OF PASSAGE. + +. . come i gru van cantando lor lai, +Facendo in aer di se lunga riga. -- DANTE + +FLIGHT THE FIRST + +BIRDS OF PASSAGE + +Black shadows fall +From the lindens tall, +That lift aloft their massive wall + Against the southern sky; + +And from the realms +Of the shadowy elms +A tide-like darkness overwhelms + The fields that round us lie. + +But the night is fair, +And everywhere +A warm, soft vapor fills the air, + And distant sounds seem near, + +And above, in the light +Of the star-lit night, +Swift birds of passage wing their flight + Through the dewy atmosphere. + +I hear the beat +Of their pinions fleet, +As from the land of snow and sleet + They seek a southern lea. + +I hear the cry +Of their voices high +Falling dreamily through the sky, + But their forms I cannot see. + +O, say not so! +Those sounds that flow +In murmurs of delight and woe + Come not from wings of birds. + +They are the throngs +Of the poet's songs, +Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, and wrongs, + The sound of winged words. + +This is the cry +Of souls, that high +On toiling, beating pinions, fly, + Seeking a warmer clime, + +From their distant flight +Through realms of light +It falls into our world of night, + With the murmuring sound of rhyme. + + + +PROMETHEUS + +OR THE POET'S FORETHOUGHT + +Of Prometheus, how undaunted + On Olympus' shining bastions +His audacious foot he planted, +Myths are told and songs are chanted, + Full of promptings and suggestions. + +Beautiful is the tradition + Of that flight through heavenly portals, +The old classic superstition +Of the theft and the transmission + Of the fire of the Immortals! + +First the deed of noble daring, + Born of heavenward aspiration, +Then the fire with mortals sharing, +Then the vulture,--the despairing + Cry of pain on crags Caucasian. + +All is but a symbol painted + Of the Poet, Prophet, Seer; +Only those are crowned and sainted +Who with grief have been acquainted, + Making nations nobler, freer. + +In their feverish exultations, + In their triumph and their yearning, +In their passionate pulsations, +In their words among the nations, + The Promethean fire is burning. + +Shall it, then, be unavailing, + All this toil for human culture? +Through the cloud-rack, dark and trailing, +Must they see above them sailing + O'er life's barren crags the vulture? + +Such a fate as this was Dante's, + By defeat and exile maddened; +Thus were Milton and Cervantes, +Nature's priests and Corybantes, + By affliction touched and saddened. + +But the glories so transcendent + That around their memories cluster, +And, on all their steps attendant, +Make their darkened lives resplendent + With such gleams of inward lustre! + +All the melodies mysterious, + Through the dreary darkness chanted; +Thoughts in attitudes imperious, +Voices soft, and deep, and serious, + Words that whispered, songs that haunted! + +All the soul in rapt suspension, + All the quivering, palpitating +Chords of life in utmost tension, +With the fervor of invention, + With the rapture of creating! + +Ah, Prometheus! heaven-scaling! + In such hours of exultation +Even the faintest heart, unquailing, +Might behold the vulture sailing + Round the cloudy crags Caucasian! + +Though to all there is not given + Strength for such sublime endeavor, +Thus to scale the walls of heaven, +And to leaven with fiery leaven + All the hearts of men for ever; + +Yet all bards, whose hearts unblighted + Honor and believe the presage, +Hold aloft their torches lighted, +Gleaming through the realms benighted, + As they onward bear the message! + + + +EPIMETHEUS + +OR THE POET'S AFTERTHOUGHT + + +Have I dreamed? or was it real, + What I saw as in a vision, +When to marches hymeneal +In the land of the Ideal + Moved my thought o'er Fields Elysian? + +What! are these the guests whose glances + Seemed like sunshine gleaming round me? +These the wild, bewildering fancies, +That with dithyrambic dances + As with magic circles bound me? + +Ah! how cold are their caresses! + Pallid cheeks, and haggard bosoms! +Spectral gleam their snow-white dresses, +And from loose dishevelled tresses + Fall the hyacinthine blossoms! + +O my songs! whose winsome measures + Filled my heart with secret rapture! +Children of my golden leisures! +Must even your delights and pleasures + Fade and perish with the capture? + +Fair they seemed, those songs sonorous, + When they came to me unbidden; +Voices single, and in chorus, +Like the wild birds singing o'er us + In the dark of branches hidden. + +Disenchantment! Disillusion! + Must each noble aspiration +Come at last to this conclusion, +Jarring discord, wild confusion, + Lassitude, renunciation? + +Not with steeper fall nor faster, + From the sun's serene dominions, +Not through brighter realms nor vaster, +In swift ruin and disaster, + Icarus fell with shattered pinions! + +Sweet Pandora! dear Pandora! + Why did mighty Jove create thee +Coy as Thetis, fair as Flora, +Beautiful as young Aurora, + If to win thee is to hate thee? + +No, not hate thee! for this feeling + Of unrest and long resistance +Is but passionate appealing, +A prophetic whisper stealing + O'er the chords of our existence. + +Him whom thou dost once enamour, + Thou, beloved, never leavest; +In life's discord, strife, and clamor, +Still he feels thy spell of glamour; + Him of Hope thou ne'er bereavest. + +Weary hearts by thee are lifted, + Struggling souls by thee are strengthened, +Clouds of fear asunder rifted, +Truth from falsehood cleansed and sifted, + Lives, like days in summer, lengthened! + +Therefore art thou ever clearer, + O my Sibyl, my deceiver! +For thou makest each mystery clearer, +And the unattained seems nearer, + When thou fillest my heart with fever! + +Muse of all the Gifts and Graces! + Though the fields around us wither, +There are ampler realms and spaces, +Where no foot has left its traces: + Let us turn and wander thither! + + + +THE LADDER OF ST. AUGUSTINE + +Saint Augustine! well hast thou said, + That of our vices we can frame +A ladder, if we will but tread + Beneath our feet each deed of shame! + +All common things, each day's events, + That with the hour begin and end, +Our pleasures and our discontents, + Are rounds by which we may ascend. + +The low desire, the base design, + That makes another's virtues less; +The revel of the ruddy wine, + And all occasions of excess; + +The longing for ignoble things; + The strife for triumph more than truth; +The hardening of the heart, that brings + Irreverence for the dreams of youth; + +All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds, + That have their root in thoughts of ill; +Whatever hinders or impedes + The action of the nobler will;-- + +All these must first be trampled down + Beneath our feet, if we would gain +In the bright fields of fair renown + The right of eminent domain. + +We have not wings, we cannot soar; + But we have feet to scale and climb +By slow degrees, by more and more, + The cloudy summits of our time. + +The mighty pyramids of stone + That wedge-like cleave the desert airs, +When nearer seen, and better known, + Are but gigantic flights of stairs. + +The distant mountains, that uprear + Their solid bastions to the skies, +Are crossed by pathways, that appear + As we to higher levels rise. + +The heights by great men reached and kept + Were not attained by sudden flight, +But they, while their companions slept, + Were toiling upward in the night. + +Standing on what too long we bore + With shoulders bent and downcast eyes, +We may discern--unseen before-- + A path to higher destinies. + +Nor deem the irrevocable Past, + As wholly wasted, wholly vain, +If, rising on its wrecks, at last + To something nobler we attain. + + + +THE PHANTOM SHIP + +In Mather's Magnalia Christi, + Of the old colonial time, +May be found in prose the legend + That is here set down in rhyme. + +A ship sailed from New Haven, + And the keen and frosty airs, +That filled her sails at parting, + Were heavy with good men's prayers. + +"O Lord! if it be thy pleasure"-- + Thus prayed the old divine-- +"To bury our friends in the ocean, + Take them, for they are thine!" + +But Master Lamberton muttered, + And under his breath said he, +"This ship is so crank and walty + I fear our grave she will be!" + +And the ships that came from England, + When the winter months were gone, +Brought no tidings of this vessel + Nor of Master Lamberton. + +This put the people to praying + That the Lord would let them hear +What in his greater wisdom +He had done with friends so dear. + +And at last their prayers were answered:-- + It was in the month of June, +An hour before the sunset + Of a windy afternoon, + +When, steadily steering landward, + A ship was seen below, +And they knew it was Lamberton, Master, + Who sailed so long ago. + +On she came, with a cloud of canvas, + Right against the wind that blew, +Until the eye could distinguish + The faces of the crew. + +Then fell her straining topmasts, + Hanging tangled in the shrouds, +And her sails were loosened and lifted, + And blown away like clouds. + +And the masts, with all their rigging, + Fell slowly, one by one, +And the hulk dilated and vanished, + As a sea-mist in the sun! + +And the people who saw this marvel + Each said unto his friend, +That this was the mould of their vessel, + And thus her tragic end. + +And the pastor of the village + Gave thanks to God in prayer, +That, to quiet their troubled spirits, + He had sent this Ship of Air. + + + +THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS + +A mist was driving down the British Channel, + The day was just begun, +And through the window-panes, on floor and panel, + Streamed the red autumn sun. + +It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon, + And the white sails of ships; +And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannon + Hailed it with feverish lips. + +Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hithe, and Dover + Were all alert that day, +To see the French war-steamers speeding over, + When the fog cleared away. + +Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions, + Their cannon, through the night, +Holding their breath, had watched, in grim defiance, + The sea-coast opposite. + +And now they roared at drum-beat from their stations + On every citadel; +Each answering each, with morning salutations, + That all was well. + +And down the coast, all taking up the burden, + Replied the distant forts, +As if to summon from his sleep the Warden + And Lord of the Cinque Ports. + +Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure, + No drum-beat from the wall, +No morning gun from the black fort's embrasure, + Awaken with its call! + +No more, surveying with an eye impartial + The long line of the coast, +Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field Marshal + Be seen upon his post! + +For in the night, unseen, a single warrior, + In sombre harness mailed, +Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer, + The rampart wall has scaled. + +He passed into the chamber of the sleeper, + The dark and silent room, +And as he entered, darker grew, and deeper, + The silence and the gloom. + +He did not pause to parley or dissemble, + But smote the Warden hoar; +Ah! what a blow! that made all England tremble + And groan from shore to shore. + +Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited, + The sun rose bright o'erhead; +Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated + That a great man was dead. + + + +HAUNTED HOUSES + +All houses wherein men have lived and died + Are haunted houses. Through the open doors +The harmless phantoms on their errands glide, + With feet that make no sound upon the floors. + +We meet them at the door-way, on the stair, + Along the passages they come and go, +Impalpable impressions on the air, + A sense of something moving to and fro. + +There are more guests at table, than the hosts + Invited; the illuminated hall +Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts, + As silent as the pictures on the wall. + +The stranger at my fireside cannot see + The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear; +He but perceives what is; while unto me + All that has been is visible and clear. + +We have no title-deeds to house or lands; + Owners and occupants of earlier dates +From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands, + And hold in mortmain still their old estates. + +The spirit-world around this world of sense + Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere +Wafts through these earthly mists and vapors dense + A vital breath of more ethereal air. + +Our little lives are kept in equipoise + By opposite attractions and desires; +The struggle of the instinct that enjoys, + And the more noble instinct that aspires. + +These perturbations, this perpetual jar + Of earthly wants and aspirations high, +Come from the influence of an unseen star, + An undiscovered planet in our sky. + +And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud + Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of light, +Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd + Into the realm of mystery and night,-- + +So from the world of spirits there descends + A bridge of light, connecting it with this, +O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends, + Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss. + + + +IN THE CHURCHYARD AT CAMBRIDGE + +In the village churchyard she lies, +Dust is in her beautiful eyes, + No more she breathes, nor feels, nor stirs; +At her feet and at her head +Lies a slave to attend the dead, + But their dust is white as hers. + +Was she a lady of high degree, +So much in love with the vanity + And foolish pomp of this world of ours? +Or was it Christian charity, +And lowliness and humility, + The richest and rarest of all dowers? + +Who shall tell us? No one speaks; +No color shoots into those cheeks, + Either of anger or of pride, +At the rude question we have asked; +Nor will the mystery be unmasked + By those who are sleeping at her side. + +Hereafter?--And do you think to look +On the terrible pages of that Book + To find her failings, faults, and errors? +Ah, you will then have other cares, +In your own short-comings and despairs, + In your own secret sins and terrors! + + + +THE EMPEROR'S BIRD'S-NEST + +Once the Emperor Charles of Spain, + With his swarthy, grave commanders, +I forget in what campaign, +Long besieged, in mud and rain, + Some old frontier town of Flanders. + +Up and down the dreary camp, + In great boots of Spanish leather, +Striding with a measured tramp, +These Hidalgos, dull and damp, + Cursed the Frenchmen, cursed the weather. + +Thus as to and fro they went, + Over upland and through hollow, +Giving their impatience vent, +Perched upon the Emperor's tent, + In her nest, they spied a swallow. + +Yes, it was a swallow's nest, + Built of clay and hair of horses, +Mane, or tail, or dragoon's crest, +Found on hedge-rows east and west, + After skirmish of the forces. + +Then an old Hidalgo said, + As he twirled his gray mustachio, +"Sure this swallow overhead +Thinks the Emperor's tent a shed, + And the Emperor but a Macho!" + +Hearing his imperial name + Coupled with those words of malice, +Half in anger, half in shame, +Forth the great campaigner came + Slowly from his canvas palace. + +"Let no hand the bird molest," + Said he solemnly, "nor hurt her!" +Adding then, by way of jest, +"Golondrina is my guest, + 'Tis the wife of some deserter!" + +Swift as bowstring speeds a shaft, + Through the camp was spread the rumor, +And the soldiers, as they quaffed +Flemish beer at dinner, laughed + At the Emperor's pleasant humor. + +So unharmed and unafraid + Sat the swallow still and brooded, +Till the constant cannonade +Through the walls a breach had made, + And the siege was thus concluded. + +Then the army, elsewhere bent, + Struck its tents as if disbanding, +Only not the Emperor's tent, +For he ordered, ere he went, + Very curtly, "Leave it standing!" + +So it stood there all alone, + Loosely flapping, torn and tattered, +Till the brood was fledged and flown, +Singing o'er those walls of stone + Which the cannon-shot had shattered. + + + +THE TWO ANGELS + +Two angels, one of Life and one of Death, + Passed o'er our village as the morning broke; +The dawn was on their faces, and beneath, + The sombre houses hearsed with plumes of smoke. + +Their attitude and aspect were the same, + Alike their features and their robes of white; +But one was crowned with amaranth, as with flame, + And one with asphodels, like flakes of light. + +I saw them pause on their celestial way; + Then said I, with deep fear and doubt oppressed, +"Beat not so loud, my heart, lest thou betray + The place where thy beloved are at rest!" + +And he who wore the crown of asphodels, + Descending, at my door began to knock, +And my soul sank within me, as in wells + The waters sink before an earthquake's shock. + +I recognized the nameless agony, + The terror and the tremor and the pain, +That oft before had filled or haunted me, + And now returned with threefold strength again. + +The door I opened to my heavenly guest, + And listened, for I thought I heard God's voice; +And, knowing whatsoe'er he sent was best, + Dared neither to lament nor to rejoice. + +Then with a smile, that filled the house with light, + "My errand is not Death, but Life," he said; +And ere I answered, passing out of sight, + On his celestial embassy he sped. + +'T was at thy door, O friend! and not at mine, + The angel with the amaranthine wreath, +Pausing, descended, and with voice divine, + Whispered a word that had a sound like Death. + +Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom, + A shadow on those features fair and thin; +And softly, from that hushed and darkened room, + Two angels issued, where but one went in. + +All is of God! If he but wave his hand, + The mists collect, the rain falls thick and loud, +Till, with a smile of light on sea and land, + Lo! he looks back from the departing cloud. + +Angels of Life and Death alike are his; + Without his leave they pass no threshold o'er; +Who, then, would wish or dare, believing this, + Against his messengers to shut the door? + + + +DAYLIGHT AND MOONLIGHT + +In broad daylight, and at noon, +Yesterday I saw the moon +Sailing high, but faint and white, +As a school-boy's paper kite. + +In broad daylight, yesterday, +I read a Poet's mystic lay; +And it seemed to me at most +As a phantom, or a ghost. + +But at length the feverish day +Like a passion died away, +And the night, serene and still, +Fell on village, vale, and hill. + +Then the moon, in all her pride, +Like a spirit glorified, +Filled and overflowed the night +With revelations of her light. + +And the Poet's song again +Passed like music through my brain; +Night interpreted to me +All its grace and mystery. + + + +THE JEWISH CEMETERY AT NEWPORT + +How strange it seems! These Hebrews in their graves, + Close by the street of this fair seaport town, +Silent beside the never-silent waves, + At rest in all this moving up and down! + +The trees are white with dust, that o'er their sleep + Wave their broad curtains in the south-wind's breath, +While underneath such leafy tents they keep + The long, mysterious Exodus of Death. + +And these sepulchral stones, so old and brown, + That pave with level flags their burial-place, +Seem like the tablets of the Law, thrown down + And broken by Moses at the mountain's base. + +The very names recorded here are strange, + Of foreign accent, and of different climes; +Alvares and Rivera interchange + With Abraham and Jacob of old times. + +"Blessed be God! for he created Death!" + The mourners said, "and Death is rest and peace"; +Then added, in the certainty of faith, + "And giveth Life that never more shall cease." + +Closed are the portals of their Synagogue, + No Psalms of David now the silence break, +No Rabbi reads the ancient Decalogue + In the grand dialect the Prophets spake. + +Gone are the living, but the dead remain, + And not neglected; for a hand unseen, +Scattering its bounty, like a summer rain, + Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green. + +How came they here? What burst of Christian hate, + What persecution, merciless and blind, +Drove o'er the sea--that desert desolate-- + These Ishmaels and Hagars of mankind? + +They lived in narrow streets and lanes obscure, + Ghetto and Judenstrass, in mirk and mire; +Taught in the school of patience to endure + The life of anguish and the death of fire. + +All their lives long, with the unleavened bread + And bitter herbs of exile and its fears, +The wasting famine of the heart they fed, + And slaked its thirst with marah of their tears. + +Anathema maranatha! was the cry + That rang from town to town, from street to street; +At every gate the accursed Mordecai + Was mocked and jeered, and spurned by Christian feet. + +Pride and humiliation hand in hand + Walked with them through the world where'er they went; +Trampled and beaten were they as the sand, + And yet unshaken as the continent. + +For in the background figures vague and vast + Of patriarchs and of prophets rose sublime, +And all the great traditions of the Past + They saw reflected in the coming time. + +And thus for ever with reverted look + The mystic volume of the world they read, +Spelling it backward, like a Hebrew book, + Till life became a Legend of the Dead. + +But ah! what once has been shall be no more! + The groaning earth in travail and in pain +Brings forth its races, but does not restore, + And the dead nations never rise again. + + + +OLIVER BASSELIN + +In the Valley of the Vire + Still is seen an ancient mill, +With its gables quaint and queer, + And beneath the window-sill, + On the stone, + These words alone: +"Oliver Basselin lived here." + +Far above it, on the steep, + Ruined stands the old Chateau; +Nothing but the donjon-keep + Left for shelter or for show. + Its vacant eyes + Stare at the skies, +Stare at the valley green and deep. + +Once a convent, old and brown, + Looked, but ah! it looks no more, +From the neighboring hillside down + On the rushing and the roar + Of the stream + Whose sunny gleam +Cheers the little Norman town. + +In that darksome mill of stone, + To the water's dash and din, +Careless, humble, and unknown, + Sang the poet Basselin + Songs that fill + That ancient mill +With a splendor of its own. + +Never feeling of unrest + Broke the pleasant dream he dreamed; +Only made to be his nest, + All the lovely valley seemed; + No desire + Of soaring higher +Stirred or fluttered in his breast. + +True, his songs were not divine; + Were not songs of that high art, +Which, as winds do in the pine, + Find an answer in each heart; + But the mirth + Of this green earth +Laughed and revelled in his line. + +From the alehouse and the inn, + Opening on the narrow street, +Came the loud, convivial din, + Singing and applause of feet, + The laughing lays + That in those days +Sang the poet Basselin. + +In the castle, cased in steel, + Knights, who fought at Agincourt, +Watched and waited, spur on heel; + But the poet sang for sport + Songs that rang + Another clang, +Songs that lowlier hearts could feel. + +In the convent, clad in gray, + Sat the monks in lonely cells, +Paced the cloisters, knelt to pray, + And the poet heard their bells; + But his rhymes + Found other chimes, +Nearer to the earth than they. + +Gone are all the barons bold, + Gone are all the knights and squires, +Gone the abbot stern and cold, + And the brotherhood of friars; + Not a name + Remains to fame, +From those mouldering days of old! + +But the poet's memory here + Of the landscape makes a part; +Like the river, swift and clear, + Flows his song through many a heart; + Haunting still + That ancient mill, +In the Valley of the Vire. + + + +VICTOR GALBRAITH + +Under the walls of Monterey +At daybreak the bugles began to play, + Victor Galbraith! +In the mist of the morning damp and gray, +These were the words they seemed to say: + "Come forth to thy death, + Victor Galbraith!" + +Forth he came, with a martial tread; +Firm was his step, erect his head; + Victor Galbraith, +He who so well the bugle played, +Could not mistake the words it said: + "Come forth to thy death, + Victor Galbraith!" + +He looked at the earth, he looked at the sky, +He looked at the files of musketry, + Victor Galbraith! +And he said, with a steady voice and eye, +"Take good aim; I am ready to die!" + Thus challenges death + Victor Galbraith. + +Twelve fiery tongues flashed straight and red, +Six leaden balls on their errand sped; + Victor Galbraith +Falls to the ground, but he is not dead; +His name was not stamped on those balls of lead, + And they only scath + Victor Galbraith. + +Three balls are in his breast and brain, +But he rises out of the dust again, + Victor Galbraith! +The water he drinks has a bloody stain; +"O kill me, and put me out of my pain!" + In his agony prayeth + Victor Galbraith. + +Forth dart once more those tongues of flame, +And the bugler has died a death of shame, + Victor Galbraith! +His soul has gone back to whence it came, +And no one answers to the name, + When the Sergeant saith, + "Victor Galbraith!" + +Under the walls of Monterey +By night a bugle is heard to play, + Victor Galbraith! +Through the mist of the valley damp and gray +The sentinels hear the sound, and say, + "That is the wraith + Of Victor Galbraith!" + + + +MY LOST YOUTH + +Often I think of the beautiful town + That is seated by the sea; +Often in thought go up and down +The pleasant streets of that dear old town, + And my youth comes back to me. + And a verse of a Lapland song + Is haunting my memory still: + "A boy's will is the wind's will, +And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." + +I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, + And catch, in sudden gleams, +The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, +And islands that were the Hersperides + Of all my boyish dreams. + And the burden of that old song, + It murmurs and whispers still: + "A boy's will is the wind's will, +And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." + +I remember the black wharves and the slips, + And the sea-tides tossing free; +And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, +And the beauty and mystery of the ships, + And the magic of the sea. + And the voice of that wayward song + Is singing and saying still: + "A boy's will is the wind's will, +And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." + +I remember the bulwarks by the shore, + And the fort upon the hill; +The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar, +The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er, + And the bugle wild and shrill. + And the music of that old song + Throbs in my memory still: + "A boy's will is the wind's will, +And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." + +I remember the sea-fight far away, + How it thundered o'er the tide! +And the dead captains, as they lay +In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay, + Where they in battle died. + And the sound of that mournful song + Goes through me with a thrill: + "A boy's will is the wind's will, +And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." + +I can see the breezy dome of groves, + The shadows of Deering's Woods; +And the friendships old and the early loves +Come back with a sabbath sound, as of doves + In quiet neighborhoods. + And the verse of that sweet old song, + It flutters and murmurs still: + "A boy's will is the wind's will, +And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." + +I remember the gleams and glooms that dart + Across the schoolboy's brain; +The song and the silence in the heart, +That in part are prophecies, and in part + Are longings wild and vain. + And the voice of that fitful song + Sings on, and is never still: + "A boy's will is the wind's will, +And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." + +There are things of which I may not speak; + There are dreams that cannot die; +There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, +And bring a pallor into the cheek, + And a mist before the eye. + And the words of that fatal song + Come over me like a chill: + "A boy's will is the wind's will, +And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." + +Strange to me now are the forms I meet + When I visit the dear old town; +But the native air is pure and sweet, +And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street, + As they balance up and down, + Are singing the beautiful song, + Are sighing and whispering still: + "A boy's will is the wind's will, +And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." + +And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair, + And with joy that is almost pain +My heart goes back to wander there, +And among the dreams of the days that were, + I find my lost youth again. + And the strange and beautiful song, + The groves are repeating it still: + "A boy's will is the wind's will, +And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." + + + +THE ROPEWALK + +In that building, long and low, +With its windows all a-row, + Like the port-holes of a hulk, +Human spiders spin and spin, +Backward down their threads so thin + Dropping, each a hempen bulk. + +At the end, an open door; +Squares of sunshine on the floor + Light the long and dusky lane; +And the whirring of a wheel, +Dull and drowsy, makes me feel + All its spokes are in my brain. + +As the spinners to the end +Downward go and reascend, + Gleam the long threads in the sun; +While within this brain of mine +Cobwebs brighter and more fine + By the busy wheel are spun. + +Two fair maidens in a swing, +Like white doves upon the wing, + First before my vision pass; +Laughing, as their gentle hands +Closely clasp the twisted strands, + At their shadow on the grass. + +Then a booth of mountebanks, +With its smell of tan and planks, + And a girl poised high in air +On a cord, in spangled dress, +With a faded loveliness, + And a weary look of care. + +Then a homestead among farms, +And a woman with bare arms + Drawing water from a well; +As the bucket mounts apace, +With it mounts her own fair face, + As at some magician's spell. + +Then an old man in a tower, +Ringing loud the noontide hour, + While the rope coils round and round +Like a serpent at his feet, +And again, in swift retreat, + Nearly lifts him from the ground. + +Then within a prison-yard, +Faces fixed, and stern, and hard, + Laughter and indecent mirth; +Ah! it is the gallows-tree! +Breath of Christian charity, + Blow, and sweep it from the earth! + +Then a school-boy, with his kite +Gleaming in a sky of light, + And an eager, upward look; +Steeds pursued through lane and field; +Fowlers with their snares concealed; + And an angler by a brook. + +Ships rejoicing in the breeze, +Wrecks that float o'er unknown seas, + Anchors dragged through faithless sand; +Sea-fog drifting overhead, +And, with lessening line and lead, + Sailors feeling for the land. + +All these scenes do I behold, +These, and many left untold, + In that building long and low; +While the wheel goes round and round, +With a drowsy, dreamy sound, + And the spinners backward go. + + + +THE GOLDEN MILE-STONE + +Leafless are the trees; their purple branches +Spread themselves abroad, like reefs of coral, + Rising silent +In the Red Sea of the Winter sunset. + +From the hundred chimneys of the village, +Like the Afreet in the Arabian story, + Smoky columns +Tower aloft into the air of amber. + +At the window winks the flickering fire-light; +Here and there the lamps of evening glimmer, + Social watch-fires +Answering one another through the darkness. + +On the hearth the lighted logs are glowing, +And like Ariel in the cloven pine-tree + For its freedom +Groans and sighs the air imprisoned in them. + +By the fireside there are old men seated, +Seeing ruined cities in the ashes, + Asking sadly +Of the Past what it can ne'er restore them. + +By the fireside there are youthful dreamers, +Building castles fair, with stately stairways, + Asking blindly +Of the Future what it cannot give them. + +By the fireside tragedies are acted +In whose scenes appear two actors only, + Wife and husband, +And above them God the sole spectator. + +By the fireside there are peace and comfort, +Wives and children, with fair, thoughtful faces, + Waiting, watching +For a well-known footstep in the passage. + +Each man's chimney is his Golden Mile-stone; +Is the central point, from which he measures + Every distance +Through the gateways of the world around him. + +In his farthest wanderings still he sees it; +Hears the talking flame, the answering night-wind, + As he heard them +When he sat with those who were, but are not. + +Happy he whom neither wealth nor fashion, +Nor the march of the encroaching city, + Drives an exile +From the hearth of his ancestral homestead. + +We may build more splendid habitations, +Fill our rooms with paintings and with sculptures, + But we cannot +Buy with gold the old associations! + + + +CATAWBA WINE + + This song of mine + Is a Song of the Vine, +To be sung by the glowing embers + Of wayside inns, + When the rain begins +To darken the drear Novembers. + + It is not a song + Of the Scuppernong, +From warm Carolinian valleys, + Nor the Isabel + And the Muscadel +That bask in our garden alleys. + + Nor the red Mustang, + Whose clusters hang +O'er the waves of the Colorado, + And the fiery flood + Of whose purple blood +Has a dash of Spanish bravado. + + For richest and best + Is the wine of the West, +That grows by the Beautiful River; + Whose sweet perfume + Fills all the room +With a benison on the giver. + + And as hollow trees + Are the haunts of bees, +For ever going and coming; + So this crystal hive + Is all alive +With a swarming and buzzing and humming. + + Very good in its way + Is the Verzenay, +Or the Sillery soft and creamy; + But Catawba wine + Has a taste more divine, +More dulcet, delicious, and dreamy. + + There grows no vine + By the haunted Rhine, +By Danube or Guadalquivir, + Nor on island or cape, + That bears such a grape +As grows by the Beautiful River. + + Drugged is their juice + For foreign use, +When shipped o'er the reeling Atlantic, + To rack our brains + With the fever pains, +That have driven the Old World frantic. + + To the sewers and sinks + With all such drinks, +And after them tumble the mixer; + For a poison malign + Is such Borgia wine, +Or at best but a Devil's Elixir. + + While pure as a spring + Is the wine I sing, +And to praise it, one needs but name it; + For Catawba wine + Has need of no sign, +No tavern-bush to proclaim it. + + And this Song of the Vine, + This greeting of mine, +The winds and the birds shall deliver + To the Queen of the West, + In her garlands dressed, +On the banks of the Beautiful River. + + + +SANTA FILOMENA + +Whene'er a noble deed is wrought, +Whene'er is spoken a noble thought, + Our hearts, in glad surprise, + To higher levels rise. + +The tidal wave of deeper souls +Into our inmost being rolls, + And lifts us unawares + Out of all meaner cares. + +Honor to those whose words or deeds +Thus help us in our daily needs, + And by their overflow + Raise us from what is low! + +Thus thought I, as by night I read +Of the great army of the dead, + The trenches cold and damp, + The starved and frozen camp,-- + +The wounded from the battle-plain, +In dreary hospitals of pain, + The cheerless corridors, + The cold and stony floors. + +Lo! in that house of misery +A lady with a lamp I see + Pass through the glimmering gloom, + And flit from room to room. + +And slow, as in a dream of bliss, +The speechless sufferer turns to kiss + Her shadow, as it falls + Upon the darkening walls. + +As if a door in heaven should be +Opened and then closed suddenly, + The vision came and went, + The light shone and was spent. + +On England's annals, through the long +Hereafter of her speech and song, + That light its rays shall cast + From portals of the past. + +A Lady with a Lamp shall stand +In the great history of the land, + A noble type of good, + Heroic womanhood. + +Nor even shall be wanting here +The palm, the lily, and the spear, + The symbols that of yore + Saint Filomena bore. + + + +THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPE + +A LEAF FROM KING ALFRED'S OROSIUS + +Othere, the old sea-captain, + Who dwelt in Helgoland, +To King Alfred, the Lover of Truth, +Brought a snow-white walrus-tooth, + Which he held in his brown right hand. + +His figure was tall and stately, + Like a boy's his eye appeared; +His hair was yellow as hay, +But threads of a silvery gray + Gleamed in his tawny beard. + +Hearty and hale was Othere, + His cheek had the color of oak; +With a kind of laugh in his speech, +Like the sea-tide on a beach, + As unto the King he spoke. + +And Alfred, King of the Saxons, + Had a book upon his knees, +And wrote down the wondrous tale +Of him who was first to sail + Into the Arctic seas. + +"So far I live to the northward, + No man lives north of me; +To the east are wild mountain-chains; +And beyond them meres and plains; + To the westward all is sea. + +"So far I live to the northward, + From the harbor of Skeringes-hale, +If you only sailed by day, +With a fair wind all the way, + More than a month would you sail. + +"I own six hundred reindeer, + With sheep and swine beside; +I have tribute from the Finns, +Whalebone and reindeer-skins, + And ropes of walrus-hide. + +"I ploughed the land with horses, + But my heart was ill at ease, +For the old seafaring men +Came to me now and then, + With their sagas of the seas;-- + +"Of Iceland and of Greenland, + And the stormy Hebrides, +And the undiscovered deep;-- +I could not eat nor sleep + For thinking of those seas. + +"To the northward stretched the desert, + How far I fain would know; +So at last I sallied forth, +And three days sailed due north, + As far as the whale-ships go. + +"To the west of me was the ocean, + To the right the desolate shore, +But I did not slacken sail +For the walrus or the whale, + Till after three days more. + +"The days grew longer and longer, + Till they became as one, +And southward through the haze +I saw the sullen blaze + Of the red midnight sun. + +"And then uprose before me, + Upon the water's edge, +The huge and haggard shape +Of that unknown North Cape, + Whose form is like a wedge. + +"The sea was rough and stormy, + The tempest howled and wailed, +And the sea-fog, like a ghost, +Haunted that dreary coast, + But onward still I sailed. + +"Four days I steered to eastward, + Four days without a night: +Round in a fiery ring +Went the great sun, O King, + With red and lurid light." + +Here Alfred, King of the Saxons, + Ceased writing for a while; +And raised his eyes from his book, +With a strange and puzzled look, + And an incredulous smile. + +But Othere, the old sea-captain, + He neither paused nor stirred, +Till the King listened, and then +Once more took up his pen, + And wrote down every word. + +"And now the land," said Othere, + "Bent southward suddenly, +And I followed the curving shore +And ever southward bore + Into a nameless sea. + +"And there we hunted the walrus, + The narwhale, and the seal; +Ha! 't was a noble game! +And like the lightning's flame + Flew our harpoons of steel. + +"There were six of us all together, + Norsemen of Helgoland; +In two days and no more +We killed of them threescore, + And dragged them to the strand!" + +Here Alfred the Truth-Teller + Suddenly closed his book, +And lifted his blue eyes, +With doubt and strange surmise + Depicted in their look. + +And Othere the old sea-captain + Stared at him wild and weird, +Then smiled, till his shining teeth +Gleamed white from underneath + His tawny, quivering beard. + +And to the King of the Saxons, + In witness of the truth, +Raising his noble head, +He stretched his brown hand, and said, + "Behold this walrus-tooth!" + + + +DAYBREAK + +A wind came up out of the sea, +And said, "O mists, make room for me." + +It hailed the ships, and cried, "Sail on, +Ye mariners, the night is gone." + +And hurried landward far away, +Crying, "Awake! it is the day." + +It said unto the forest, "Shout! +Hang all your leafy banners out!" + +It touched the wood-bird's folded wing, +And said, "O bird, awake and sing." + +And o'er the farms, "O chanticleer, +Your clarion blow; the day is near." + +It whispered to the fields of corn, +"Bow down, and hail the coming morn." + +It shouted through the belfry-tower, +"Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour." + +It crossed the churchyard with a sigh, +And said, "Not yet! in quiet lie." + + + +THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ + +MAY 28, 1857 + +It was fifty years ago + In the pleasant month of May, +In the beautiful Pays de Vaud, + A child in its cradle lay. + +And Nature, the old nurse, took + The child upon her knee, +Saying: "Here is a story-book + Thy Father has written for thee." + +"Come, wander with me," she said, + "Into regions yet untrod; +And read what is still unread + In the manuscripts of God." + +And he wandered away and away + With Nature, the dear old nurse, +Who sang to him night and day + The rhymes of the universe. + +And whenever the way seemed long, + Or his heart began to fail, +She would sing a more wonderful song, + Or tell a more marvellous tale. + +So she keeps him still a child, + And will not let him go, +Though at times his heart beats wild + For the beautiful Pays de Vaud; + +Though at times he hears in his dreams + The Ranz des Vaches of old, +And the rush of mountain streams + From glaciers clear and cold; + +And the mother at home says, "Hark! + For his voice I listen and yearn; +It is growing late and dark, + And my boy does not return!" + + + +CHILDREN + +Come to me, O ye children! + For I hear you at your play, +And the questions that perplexed me + Have vanished quite away. + +Ye open the eastern windows, + That look towards the sun, +Where thoughts are singing swallows + And the brooks of morning run. + +In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine, + In your thoughts the brooklet's flow, +But in mine is the wind of Autumn + And the first fall of the snow. + +Ah! what would the world be to us + If the children were no more? +We should dread the desert behind us + Worse than the dark before. + +What the leaves are to the forest, + With light and air for food, +Ere their sweet and tender juices + Have been hardened into wood,-- + +That to the world are children; + Through them it feels the glow +Of a brighter and sunnier climate + Than reaches the trunks below. + +Come to me, O ye children! + And whisper in my ear +What the birds and the winds are singing + In your sunny atmosphere. + +For what are all our contrivings, + And the wisdom of our books, +When compared with your caresses, + And the gladness of your looks? + +Ye are better than all the ballads + That ever were sung or said; +For ye are living poems, + And all the rest are dead. + + + +SANDALPHON + +Have you read in the Talmud of old, +In the Legends the Rabbins have told + Of the limitless realms of the air,-- +Have you read it,--the marvellous story +Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory, + Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer? + +How, erect, at the outermost gates +Of the City Celestial he waits, + With his feet on the ladder of light, +That, crowded with angels unnumbered, +By Jacob was seen, as he slumbered + Alone in the desert at night? + +The Angels of Wind and of Fire +Chant only one hymn, and expire + With the song's irresistible stress; +Expire in their rapture and wonder, +As harp-strings are broken asunder + By music they throb to express. + +But serene in the rapturous throng, +Unmoved by the rush of the song, + With eyes unimpassioned and slow, +Among the dead angels, the deathless +Sandalphon stands listening breathless + To sounds that ascend from below;-- + +From the spirits on earth that adore, +From the souls that entreat and implore + In the fervor and passion of prayer; +From the hearts that are broken with losses, +And weary with dragging the crosses + Too heavy for mortals to bear. + +And he gathers the prayers as he stands, +And they change into flowers in his hands, + Into garlands of purple and red; +And beneath the great arch of the portal, +Through the streets of the City Immortal + Is wafted the fragrance they shed. + +It is but a legend, I know,-- +A fable, a phantom, a show, + Of the ancient Rabbinical lore; +Yet the old mediaeval tradition, +The beautiful, strange superstition, + But haunts me and holds me the more. + +When I look from my window at night, +And the welkin above is all white, + All throbbing and panting with stars, +Among them majestic is standing +Sandalphon the angel, expanding + His pinions in nebulous bars. + +And the legend, I feel, is a part +Of the hunger and thirst of the heart, + The frenzy and fire of the brain, +That grasps at the fruitage forbidden, +The golden pomegranates of Eden, + To quiet its fever and pain. + + + +FLIGHT THE SECOND + +THE CHILDREN'S HOUR + +Between the dark and the daylight, + When the night is beginning to lower, +Comes a pause in the day's occupations, + That is known as the Children's Hour. + +I hear in the chamber above me + The patter of little feet, +The sound of a door that is opened, + And voices soft and sweet. + +From my study I see in the lamplight, + Descending the broad hall stair, +Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, + And Edith with golden hair. + +A whisper, and then a silence: + Yet I know by their merry eyes +They are plotting and planning together + To take me by surprise. + +A sudden rush from the stairway, + A sudden raid from the hall! +By three doors left unguarded + They enter my castle wall! + +They climb up into my turret + O'er the arms and back of my chair; +If I try to escape, they surround me; + They seem to be everywhere. + +They almost devour me with kisses, + Their arms about me entwine, +Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen + In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine! + +Do you think, o blue-eyed banditti, + Because you have scaled the wall, +Such an old mustache as I am + Is not a match for you all! + +I have you fast in my fortress, + And will not let you depart, +But put you down into the dungeon + In the round-tower of my heart. + +And there will I keep you forever, + Yes, forever and a day, +Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, + And moulder in dust away! + + + +ENCELADUS + +Under Mount Etna he lies, + It is slumber, it is not death; +For he struggles at times to arise, +And above him the lurid skies + Are hot with his fiery breath. + +The crags are piled on his breast, + The earth is heaped on his head; +But the groans of his wild unrest, +Though smothered and half suppressed, + Are heard, and he is not dead. + +And the nations far away + Are watching with eager eyes; +They talk together and say, +"To-morrow, perhaps to-day, + Euceladus will arise!" + +And the old gods, the austere + Oppressors in their strength, +Stand aghast and white with fear +At the ominous sounds they hear, + And tremble, and mutter, "At length!" + +Ah me! for the land that is sown + With the harvest of despair! +Where the burning cinders, blown +From the lips of the overthrown + Enceladus, fill the air. + +Where ashes are heaped in drifts + Over vineyard and field and town, +Whenever he starts and lifts +His head through the blackened rifts + Of the crags that keep him down. + +See, see! the red light shines! + 'T is the glare of his awful eyes! +And the storm-wind shouts through the pines +Of Alps and of Apennines, + "Enceladus, arise!" + + + +THE CUMBERLAND + +At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, + On board of the cumberland, sloop-of-war; +And at times from the fortress across the bay + The alarum of drums swept past, + Or a bugle blast + From the camp on the shore. + +Then far away to the south uprose + A little feather of snow-white smoke, +And we knew that the iron ship of our foes + Was steadily steering its course + To try the force + Of our ribs of oak. + +Down upon us heavily runs, + Silent and sullen, the floating fort; +Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, + And leaps the terrible death, + With fiery breath, + From each open port. + +We are not idle, but send her straight + Defiance back in a full broadside! +As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, + Rebounds our heavier hail + From each iron scale + Of the monster's hide. + +"Strike your flag!" the rebel cries, + In his arrogant old plantation strain. +"Never!" our gallant Morris replies; + "It is better to sink than to yield!" + And the whole air pealed + With the cheers of our men. + +Then, like a kraken huge and black, + She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp! +Down went the Cumberland all a wrack, + With a sudden shudder of death, + And the cannon's breath + For her dying gasp. + +Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, + Still floated our flag at the mainmast head. +Lord, how beautiful was Thy day! + Every waft of the air + Was a whisper of prayer, + Or a dirge for the dead. + +Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas + Ye are at peace in the troubled stream; +Ho! brave land! with hearts like these, + Thy flag, that is rent in twain, + Shall be one again, + And without a seam! + + + +SNOW-FLAKES + +Out of the bosom of the Air, + Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, +Over the woodlands brown and bare, + Over the harvest-fields forsaken, + Silent, and soft, and slow + Descends the snow. + +Even as our cloudy fancies take + Suddenly shape in some divine expression, +Even as the troubled heart doth make + In the white countenance confession, + The troubled sky reveals + The grief it feels. + +This is the poem of the air, + Slowly in silent syllables recorded; +This is the secret of despair, + Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, + Now whispered and revealed + To wood and field. + + + +A DAY OF SUNSHINE + +O gift of God! O perfect day: +Whereon shall no man work, but play; +Whereon it is enough for me, +Not to be doing, but to be! + +Through every fibre of my brain, +Through every nerve, through every vein, +I feel the electric thrill, the touch +Of life, that seems almost too much. + +I hear the wind among the trees +Playing celestial symphonies; +I see the branches downward bent, +Like keys of some great instrument. + +And over me unrolls on high +The splendid scenery of the sky, +Where though a sapphire sea the sun +Sails like a golden galleon, + +Towards yonder cloud-land in the West, +Towards yonder Islands of the Blest, +Whose steep sierra far uplifts +Its craggy summits white with drifts. + +Blow, winds! and waft through all the rooms +The snow-flakes of the cherry-blooms! +Blow, winds! and bend within my reach +The fiery blossoms of the peach! + +O Life and Love! O happy throng +Of thoughts, whose only speech is song! +O heart of man! canst thou not be +Blithe as the air is, and as free? + + + +SOMETHING LEFT UNDONE + +Labor with what zeal we will, + Something still remains undone, +Something uncompleted still + Waits the rising of the sun. + +By the bedside, on the stair, + At the threshold, near the gates, +With its menace or its prayer, + Like a mendicant it waits; + +Waits, and will not go away; + Waits, and will not be gainsaid; +By the cares of yesterday + Each to-day is heavier made; + +Till at length the burden seems + Greater than our strength can bear, +Heavy as the weight of dreams, + Pressing on us everywhere. + +And we stand from day to day, + Like the dwarfs of times gone by, +Who, as Northern legends say, + On their shoulders held the sky. + + + +WEARINESS + +O little feet! that such long years +Must wander on through hopes and fears, + Must ache and bleed beneath your load; +I, nearer to the wayside inn +Where toil shall cease and rest begin, + Am weary, thinking of your road! + +O little hands! that, weak or strong, +Have still to serve or rule so long, + Have still so long to give or ask; +I, who so much with book and pen +Have toiled among my fellow-men, + Am weary, thinking of your task. + +O little hearts! that throb and beat +With such impatient, feverish heat, + Such limitless and strong desires; +Mine that so long has glowed and burned, +With passions into ashes turned + Now covers and conceals its fires. + +O little souls! as pure and white +And crystalline as rays of light + Direct from heaven, their source divine; +Refracted through the mist of years, +How red my setting sun appears, + How lurid looks this soul of mine! + + +**************** + + +TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN + +PART FIRST + +PRELUDE + +THE WAYSIDE INN + +One Autumn night, in Sudbury town, +Across the meadows bare and brown, +The windows of the wayside inn +Gleamed red with fire-light through the leaves +Of woodbine, hanging from the eaves +Their crimson curtains rent and thin. + +As ancient is this hostelry +As any in the land may be, +Built in the old Colonial day, +When men lived in a grander way, +With ampler hospitality; +A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall, +Now somewhat fallen to decay, +With weather-stains upon the wall, +And stairways worn, and crazy doors, +And creaking and uneven floors, +And chimneys huge, and tiled and tall. + +A region of repose it seems, +A place of slumber and of dreams, +Remote among the wooded hills! +For there no noisy railway speeds, +Its torch-race scattering smoke and gleeds; +But noon and night, the panting teams +Stop under the great oaks, that throw +Tangles of light and shade below, +On roofs and doors and window-sills. +Across the road the barns display +Their lines of stalls, their mows of hay, +Through the wide doors the breezes blow, +The wattled cocks strut to and fro, +And, half effaced by rain and shine, +The Red Horse prances on the sign. +Round this old-fashioned, quaint abode +Deep silence reigned, save when a gust +Went rushing down the county road, +And skeletons of leaves, and dust, +A moment quickened by its breath, +Shuddered and danced their dance of death, +And through the ancient oaks o’erhead +Mysterious voices moaned and fled. + +But from the parlor of the inn +A pleasant murmur smote the ear, +Like water rushing through a weir: +Oft interrupted by the din +Of laughter and of loud applause, +And, in each intervening pause, +The music of a violin. +The fire-light, shedding over all +The splendor of its ruddy glow, +Filled the whole parlor large and low; +It gleamed on wainscot and on wall, +It touched with more than wonted grace +Fair Princess Mary’s pictured face; +It bronzed the rafters overhead, +On the old spinet’s ivory keys +It played inaudible melodies, +It crowned the sombre clock with flame, +The hands, the hours, the maker’s name, +And painted with a livelier red +The Landlord’s coat-of-arms again; +And, flashing on the window-pane, +Emblazoned with its light and shade +The jovial rhymes, that still remain, +Writ near a century ago, +By the great Major Molineaux, +Whom Hawthorne has immortal made. + +Before the blazing fire of wood +Erect the rapt musician stood; +And ever and anon he bent +His head upon his instrument, +And seemed to listen, till he caught +Confessions of its secret thought,-- +The joy, the triumph, the lament, +The exultation and the pain; +Then, by the magic of his art, +He soothed the throbbings of its heart, +And lulled it into peace again. + +Around the fireside at their ease +There sat a group of friends, entranced +With the delicious melodies +Who from the far-off noisy town +Had to the wayside inn come down, +To rest beneath its old oak-trees. +The fire-light on their faces glanced, +Their shadows on the wainscot danced, +And, though of different lands and speech, +Each had his tale to tell, and each +Was anxious to be pleased and please. +And while the sweet musician plays, +Let me in outline sketch them all, +Perchance uncouthly as the blaze +With its uncertain touch portrays +Their shadowy semblance on the wall. + +But first the Landlord will I trace; +Grave in his aspect and attire; +A man of ancient pedigree, +A Justice of the Peace was he, +Known in all Sudbury as “The Squire.” +Proud was he of his name and race, +Of old Sir William and Sir Hugh, +And in the parlor, full in view, +His coat-of-arms, well framed and glazed, +Upon the wall in colors blazed; +He beareth gules upon his shield, +A chevron argent in the field, +With three wolf’s heads, and for the crest +A Wyvern part-per-pale addressed +Upon a helmet barred; below +The scroll reads, “By the name of Howe.” +And over this, no longer bright, +Though glimmering with a latent light, +Was hung the sword his grandsire bore +In the rebellious days of yore, +Down there at Concord in the fight. + +A youth was there, of quiet ways, +A Student of old books and days, +To whom all tongues and lands were known +And yet a lover of his own; +With many a social virtue graced, +And yet a friend of solitude; +A man of such a genial mood +The heart of all things he embraced, +And yet of such fastidious taste, +He never found the best too good. +Books were his passion and delight, +And in his upper room at home +Stood many a rare and sumptuous tome, +In vellum bound, with gold bedight, +Great volumes garmented in white, +Recalling Florence, Pisa, Rome. +He loved the twilight that surrounds +The border-land of old romance; +Where glitter hauberk, helm, and lance, +And banner waves, and trumpet sounds, +And ladies ride with hawk on wrist, +And mighty warriors sweep along, +Magnified by the purple mist, +The dusk of centuries and of song. +The chronicles of Charlemagne, +Of Merlin and the Mort d’Arthure, +Mingled together in his brain +With tales of Flores and Blanchefleur, +Sir Ferumbras, Sir Eglamour, +Sir Launcelot, Sir Morgadour, +Sir Guy, Sir Bevis, Sir Gawain. + +A young Sicilian, too, was there; +In sight of Etna born and bred, +Some breath of its volcanic air +Was glowing in his heart and brain, +And, being rebellious to his liege, +After Palermo’s fatal siege, +Across the western seas he fled, +In good King Bomba’s happy reign. +His face was like a summer night, +All flooded with a dusky light; +His hands were small; his teeth shone white +As sea-shells, when he smiled or spoke; +His sinews supple and strong as oak; +Clean shaven was he as a priest, +Who at the mass on Sunday sings, +Save that upon his upper lip +His beard, a good palm’s length least, +Level and pointed at the tip, +Shot sideways, like a swallow’s wings. +The poets read he o’er and o’er, +And most of all the Immortal Four +Of Italy; and next to those, +The story-telling bard of prose, +Who wrote the joyous Tuscan tales +Of the Decameron, that make +Fiesole’s green hills and vales +Remembered for Boccaccio’s sake. +Much too of music was his thought; +The melodies and measures fraught +With sunshine and the open air, +Of vineyards and the singing sea +Of his beloved Sicily; +And much it pleased him to peruse +The songs of the Sicilian muse,-- +Bucolic songs by Meli sung +In the familiar peasant tongue, +That made men say, “Behold! once more +The pitying gods to earth restore +Theocritus of Syracuse!” + +A Spanish Jew from Alicant +With aspect grand and grave was there; +Vender of silks and fabrics rare, +And attar of rose from the Levant. +Like an old Patriarch he appeared, +Abraham or Isaac, or at least +Some later Prophet or High-Priest; +With lustrous eyes, and olive skin, +And, wildly tossed from cheeks and chin, +The tumbling cataract of his beard. +His garments breathed a spicy scent +Of cinnamon and sandal blent, +Like the soft aromatic gales +That meet the mariner, who sails +Through the Moluccas, and the seas +That wash the shores of Celebes. +All stories that recorded are +By Pierre Alphonse he knew by heart, +And it was rumored he could say +The Parables of Sandabar, +And all the Fables of Pilpay, +Or if not all, the greater part! +Well versed was he in Hebrew books, +Talmud and Targum, and the lore +Of Kabala; and evermore +There was a mystery in his looks; +His eyes seemed gazing far away, +As if in vision or in trance +He heard the solemn sackbut play, +And saw the Jewish maidens dance. + +A Theologian, from the school +Of Cambridge on the Charles, was there; +Skilful alike with tongue and pen, +He preached to all men everywhere +The Gospel of the Golden Rule, +The New Commandment given to men, +Thinking the deed, and not the creed, +Would help us in our utmost need. +With reverent feet the earth he trod, +Nor banished nature from his plan, +But studied still with deep research +To build the Universal Church, +Lofty as in the love of God, +And ample as the wants of man. + +A Poet, too, was there, whose verse +Was tender, musical, and terse; +The inspiration, the delight, +The gleam, the glory, the swift flight, +Of thoughts so sudden, that they seem +The revelations of a dream, +All these were his; but with them came +No envy of another’s fame; +He did not find his sleep less sweet +For music in some neighboring street, +Nor rustling hear in every breeze +The laurels of Miltiades. +Honor and blessings on his head +While living, good report when dead, +Who, not too eager for renown, +Accepts, but does not clutch, the crown! + +Last the Musician, as he stood +Illumined by that fire of wood; +Fair-haired, blue-eyed, his aspect blithe. +His figure tall and straight and lithe, +And every feature of his face +Revealing his Norwegian race; +A radiance, streaming from within, +Around his eyes and forehead beamed, +The Angel with the violin, +Painted by Raphael, he seemed. +He lived in that ideal world +Whose language is not speech, but song; +Around him evermore the throng +Of elves and sprites their dances whirled; +The Stromkarl sang, the cataract hurled +Its headlong waters from the height; +And mingled in the wild delight +The scream of sea-birds in their flight, +The rumor of the forest trees, +The plunge of the implacable seas, +The tumult of the wind at night, +Voices of eld, like trumpets blowing, +Old ballads, and wild melodies +Through mist and darkness pouring forth, +Like Elivagar’s river flowing +Out of the glaciers of the North. + +The instrument on which he played +Was in Cremona’s workshops made, +By a great master of the past, +Ere yet was lost the art divine; +Fashioned of maple and of pine, +That in Tyrolian forests vast +Had rocked and wrestled with the blast; +Exquisite was it in design, +Perfect in each minutest part. +A marvel of the lutist’s art; +And in its hollow chamber, thus, +The maker from whose hands it came +Had written his unrivalled name,-- +“Antonius Stradivarius.” + +And when he played, the atmosphere +Was filled with magic, and the ear +Caught echoes of that Harp of Gold, +Whose music had so weird a sound, +The hunted stag forgot to bound, +The leaping rivulet backward rolled, +The birds came down from bush and tree, +The dead came from beneath the sea, +The maiden to the harper’s knee! + +The music ceased; the applause was loud, +The pleased musician smiled and bowed; +The wood-fire clapped its hands of flame, +The shadows on the wainscot stirred, +And from the harpsichord there came +A ghostly murmur of acclaim, +A sound like that sent down at night +By birds of passage in their flight, +From the remotest distance heard. + +Then silence followed; then began +A clamor for the Landlord’s tale,-- +The story promised them of old, +They said, but always left untold; +And he, although a bashful man, +And all his courage seemed to fail, +Finding excuse of no avail, +Yielded; and thus the story ran. + + + + +THE LANDLORD’S TALE. + +PAUL REVERE’S RIDE. + +Listen, my children, and you shall hear +Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, +On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five; +Hardly a man is now alive +Who remembers that famous day and year. + +He said to his friend, “If the British march +By land or sea from the town to-night, +Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch +Of the North Church tower as a signal light,— +One, if by land, and two, if by sea; +And I on the opposite shore will be, +Ready to ride and spread the alarm +Through every Middlesex village and farm +For the country folk to be up and to arm,” + +Then he said, “Good night!” and with muffled oar +Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, +Just as the moon rose over the bay, +Where swinging wide at her moorings lay +The Somerset, British man-of-war; +A phantom ship, with each mast and spar +Across the moon like a prison bar, +And a huge black hulk, that was magnified +By its own reflection in the tide. + +Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street, +Wanders and watches with eager ears, +Till in the silence around him he hears +The muster of men at the barrack door, +The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, +And the measured tread of the grenadiers, +Marching down to their boats on the shore. + +Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church, +By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, +To the belfry-chamber overhead, +And startled the pigeons from their perch +On the sombre rafters, that round him made +Masses and moving shapes of shade,— +By the trembling ladder, steep and tall +To the highest window in the wall, +Where he paused to listen and look down +A moment on the roofs of the town, +And the moonlight flowing over all. + +Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, +In their night-encampment on the hill, +Wrapped in silence so deep and still +That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread, +The watchful night-wind, as it went +Creeping along from tent to tent +And seeming to whisper, “All is well!” +A moment only he feels the spell +Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread +Of the lonely belfry and the dead; +For suddenly all his thoughts are bent +On a shadowy something far away, +Where the river widens to meet the bay,— +A line of black that bends and floats +On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. + +Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, +Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride +On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. +Now he patted his horse’s side, +Now gazed at the landscape far and near, +Then, impetuous, stamped the earth, +And turned and tightened his saddle-girth; +But mostly he watched with eager search +The belfry-tower of the Old North Church, +As it rose above the graves on the hill, +Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. +And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height +A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! +He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, +But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight +A second lamp in the belfry burns! + +A hurry of hoofs in a village street, +A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, +And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark +Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet: +That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light, +The fate of a nation was riding that night; +And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, +Kindled the land into flame with its heat. +He has left the village and mounted the steep, +And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, +Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; +And under the alders, that skirt its edge, +Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, +Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. + +It was twelve by the village clock +When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. +He heard the crowing of the cock, +And the barking of the farmer’s dog, +And felt the damp of the river fog, +That rises after the sun goes down. + +It was one by the village clock, +When he galloped into Lexington. +He saw the gilded weathercock +Swim in the moonlight as he passed, +And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, +Gaze at him with a spectral glare, +As if they already stood aghast +At the bloody work they would look upon. + +It was two by the village clock, +When he came to the bridge in Concord town. +He heard the bleating of the flock, +And the twitter of birds among the trees, +And felt the breath of the morning breeze +Blowing over the meadows brown. +And one was safe and asleep in his bed +Who at the bridge would be first to fall, +Who that day would be lying dead, +Pierced by a British musket-ball. + +You know the rest. In the books you have read, +How the British Regulars fired and fled,— +How the farmers gave them ball for ball, +From behind each fence and farm-yard wall, +Chasing the red-coats down the lane, +Then crossing the fields to emerge again +Under the trees at the turn of the road, +And only pausing to fire and load. + +So through the night rode Paul Revere; +And so through the night went his cry of alarm +To every Middlesex village and farm,— +A cry of defiance and not of fear, +A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, +And a word that shall echo forevermore! +For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, +Through all our history, to the last, +In the hour of darkness and peril and need, +The people will waken and listen to hear +The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, +And the midnight message of Paul Revere. + + + + +INTERLUDE. + +The Landlord ended thus his tale, +Then rising took down from its nail +The sword that hung there, dim with dust +And cleaving to its sheath with rust, +And said, “This sword was in the fight.” +The Poet seized it, and exclaimed, +“It is the sword of a good knight, +Though homespun was his coat-of-mail; +What matter if it be not named +Joyeuse, Colada, Durindale, +Excalibar, or Aroundight, +Or other name the books record? +Your ancestor, who bore this sword +As Colonel of the Volunteers, +Mounted upon his old gray mare, +Seen here and there and everywhere, +To me a grander shape appears +Than old Sir William, or what not, +Clinking about in foreign lands +With iron gauntlets on his hands, +And on his head an iron pot!” + +All laughed; the Landlord’s face grew red +As his escutcheon on the wall; +He could not comprehend at all +The drift of what the Poet said; +For those who had been longest dead +Were always greatest in his eyes; +And he was speechless with surprise +To see Sir William’s plumed head +Brought to a level with the rest, +And made the subject of a jest. +And this perceiving, to appease +The Landlord’s wrath, the others’ fears, +The Student said, with careless ease, +“The ladies and the cavaliers, +The arms, the loves, the courtesies, +The deeds of high emprise, I sing! +Thus Ariosto says, in words +That have the stately stride and ring +Of armed knights and clashing swords. +Now listen to the tale I bring +Listen! though not to me belong +The flowing draperies of his song, +The words that rouse, the voice that charms. +The Landlord’s tale was one of arms, +Only a tale of love is mine, +Blending the human and divine, +A tale of the Decameron, told +In Palmieri’s garden old, +By Fiametta, laurel-crowned, +While her companions lay around, +And heard the intermingled sound +Of airs that on their errands sped, +And wild birds gossiping overhead, +And lisp of leaves, and fountain’s fall, +And her own voice more sweet than all, +Telling the tale, which, wanting these, +Perchance may lose its power to please.” + + + + +THE STUDENT’S TALE + +THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO + +One summer morning, when the sun was hot, +Weary with labor in his garden-plot, +On a rude bench beneath his cottage eaves, +Ser Federigo sat among the leaves +Of a huge vine, that, with its arms outspread, +Hung its delicious clusters overhead. +Below him, through the lovely valley flowed +The river Arno, like a winding road, +And from its banks were lifted high in air +The spires and roofs of Florence called the Fair; +To him a marble tomb, that rose above +His wasted fortunes and his buried love. +For there, in banquet and in tournament, +His wealth had lavished been, his substance spent, +To woo and lose, since ill his wooing sped, +Monna Giovanna, who his rival wed, +Yet ever in his fancy reigned supreme, +The ideal woman of a young man’s dream. + +Then he withdrew, in poverty and pain, +To this small farm, the last of his domain, +His only comfort and his only care +To prune his vines, and plant the fig and pear; +His only forester and only guest +His falcon, faithful to him, when the rest, +Whose willing hands had found so light of yore +The brazen knocker of his palace door, +Had now no strength to lift the wooden latch, +That entrance gave beneath a roof of thatch. +Companion of his solitary ways, +Purveyor of his feasts on holidays, +On him this melancholy man bestowed +The love with which his nature overflowed. + +And so the empty-handed years went round, +Vacant, though voiceful with prophetic sound, +And so, that summer morn, he sat and mused +With folded, patient hands, as he was used, +And dreamily before his half-closed sight +Floated the vision of his lost delight. +Beside him, motionless, the drowsy bird +Dreamed of the chase, and in his slumber heard +The sudden, scythe-like sweep of wings, that dare +The headlong plunge thro’ eddying gulfs of air, +Then, starting broad awake upon his perch, +Tinkled his bells, like mass-bells in a church, +And, looking at his master, seemed to say, +“Ser Federigo, shall we hunt to-day?” + +Ser Federigo thought not of the chase; +The tender vision of her lovely face, +I will not say he seems to see, he sees +In the leaf-shadows of the trellises, +Herself, yet not herself; a lovely child +With flowing tresses, and eyes wide and wild, +Coming undaunted up the garden walk, +And looking not at him, but at the hawk. +“Beautiful falcon!” said he, “would that I +Might hold thee on my wrist, or see thee fly!” +The voice was hers, and made strange echoes start +Through all the haunted chambers of his heart, +As an æolian harp through gusty doors +Of some old ruin its wild music pours. + +“Who is thy mother, my fair boy?” he said, +His hand laid softly on that shining head. +“Monna Giovanna. Will you let me stay +A little while, and with your falcon play? +We live there, just beyond your garden wall, +In the great house behind the poplars tall.” + +So he spake on; and Federigo heard +As from afar each softly uttered word, +And drifted onward through the golden gleams +And shadows of the misty sea of dreams, +As mariners becalmed through vapors drift, +And feel the sea beneath them sink and lift, +And hear far off the mournful breakers roar, +And voices calling faintly from the shore! +Then, waking from his pleasant reveries +He took the little boy upon his knees, +And told him stories of his gallant bird, +Till in their friendship he became a third. + +Monna Giovanna, widowed in her prime, +Had come with friends to pass the summer time +In her grand villa, half-way up the hill, +O’erlooking Florence, but retired and still; +With iron gates, that opened through long lines +Of sacred ilex and centennial pines, +And terraced gardens, and broad steps of stone, +And sylvan deities, with moss o’ergrown, +And fountains palpitating in the heat, +And all Val d’Arno stretched beneath its feet. +Here in seclusion, as a widow may, +The lovely lady whiled the hours away, +Pacing in sable robes the statued hall, +Herself the stateliest statue among all, +And seeing more and more, with secret joy, +Her husband risen and living in her boy, +Till the lost sense of life returned again, +Not as delight, but as relief from pain. +Meanwhile the boy, rejoicing in his strength, +Stormed down the terraces from length to length; +The screaming peacock chased in hot pursuit, +And climbed the garden trellises for fruit. +But his chief pastime was to watch the flight +Of a gerfalcon, soaring into sight, +Beyond the trees that fringed the garden wall, +Then downward stooping at some distant call; +And as he gazed full often wondered he +Who might the master of the falcon be, +Until that happy morning, when he found +Master and falcon in the cottage ground. + +And now a shadow and a terror fell +On the great house, as if a passing-bell +Tolled from the tower, and filled each spacious room +With secret awe, and preternatural gloom; +The petted boy grew ill, and day by day +Pined with mysterious malady away. +The mother’s heart would not be comforted; +Her darling seemed to her already dead, +And often, sitting by the sufferer’s side, +“What can I do to comfort thee?” she cried. +At first the silent lips made no reply, +But moved at length by her importunate cry, +“Give me,” he answered, with imploring tone, +“Ser Federigo’s falcon for my own!” +No answer could the astonished mother make; +How could she ask, e’en for her darling’s sake, +Such favor at a luckless lover’s hand, +Well knowing that to ask was to command? +Well knowing, what all falconers confessed, +In all the land that falcon was the best, +The master’s pride and passion and delight, +And the sole pursuivant of this poor knight. +But yet, for her child’s sake, she could no less +Than give assent to soothe his restlessness, +So promised, and then promising to keep +Her promise sacred, saw him fall asleep. + +The morrow was a bright September morn; +The earth was beautiful as if new-born; +There was that nameless splendor everywhere, +That wild exhilaration in the air, +Which makes the passers in the city street +Congratulate each other as they meet. +Two lovely ladies, clothed in cloak and hood, +Passed through the garden gate into the wood, +Under the lustrous leaves, and through the sheen +Of dewy sunshine showering down between. + +The one, close-hooded, had the attractive grace +Which sorrow sometimes lends a woman’s face; +Her dark eyes moistened with the mists that roll +From the gulf-stream of passion in the soul; +The other with her hood thrown back, her hair +Making a golden glory in the air, +Her cheeks suffused with an auroral blush, +Her young heart singing louder than the thrush. +So walked, that morn, through mingled light and shade, +Each by the other’s presence lovelier made, +Monna Giovanna and her bosom friend, +Intent upon their errand and its end. + +They found Ser Federigo at his toil, +Like banished Adam, delving in the soil; +And when he looked and these fair women spied, +The garden suddenly was glorified; +His long-lost Eden was restored again, +And the strange river winding through the plain +No longer was the Arno to his eyes, +But the Euphrates watering Paradise! + +Monna Giovanna raised her stately head, +And with fair words of salutation said: +“Ser Federigo, we come here as friends, +Hoping in this to make some poor amends +For past unkindness. I who ne’er before +Would even cross the threshold of your door, +I who in happier days such pride maintained, +Refused your banquets, and your gifts disdained, +This morning come, a self-invited guest, +To put your generous nature to the test, +And breakfast with you under your own vine.” +To which he answered: “Poor desert of mine, +Not your unkindness call it, for if aught +Is good in me of feeling or of thought, +From you it comes, and this last grace outweighs +All sorrows, all regrets of other days.” + +And after further compliment and talk, +Among the asters in the garden walk +He left his guests; and to his cottage turned, +And as he entered for a moment yearned +For the lost splendors of the days of old, +The ruby glass, the silver and the gold, +And felt how piercing is the sting of pride, +By want embittered and intensified. +He looked about him for some means or way +To keep this unexpected holiday; +Searched every cupboard, and then searched again, +Summoned the maid, who came, but came in vain; +“The Signor did not hunt to-day,” she said, +“There’s nothing in the house but wine and bread.” + +Then suddenly the drowsy falcon shook +His little bells, with that sagacious look, +Which said, as plain as language to the ear, +“If anything is wanting, I am here!” +Yes, everything is wanting, gallant bird! +The master seized thee without further word. +Like thine own lure, he whirled thee round; ah me! +The pomp and flutter of brave falconry, +The bells, the jesses, the bright scarlet hood, +The flight and the pursuit o’er field and wood, +All these forevermore are ended now; +No longer victor, but the victim thou! + +Then on the board a snow-white cloth he spread, +Laid on its wooden dish the loaf of bread, +Brought purple grapes with autumn sunshine hot, +The fragrant peach, the juicy bergamot; +Then in the midst a flask of wine he placed, +And with autumnal flowers the banquet graced. +Ser Federigo, would not these suffice +Without thy falcon stuffed with cloves and spice? + +When all was ready, and the courtly dame +With her companion to the cottage came, +Upon Ser Federigo’s brain there fell +The wild enchantment of a magic spell! +The room they entered, mean and low and small, +Was changed into a sumptuous banquet-hall, +With fanfares by aerial trumpets blown; +The rustic chair she sat on was a throne; +He ate celestial food, and a divine +Flavor was given to his country wine, +And the poor falcon, fragrant with his spice, +A peacock was, or bird of paradise! + +When the repast was ended, they arose +And passed again into the garden-close. +Then said the lady, “Far too well I know +Remembering still the days of long ago, +Though you betray it not with what surprise +You see me here in this familiar wise. +You have no children, and you cannot guess +What anguish, what unspeakable distress +A mother feels, whose child is lying ill, +Nor how her heart anticipates his will. +And yet for this, you see me lay aside +All womanly reserve and check of pride, +And ask the thing most precious in your sight, +Your falcon, your sole comfort and delight, +Which if you find it in your heart to give, +My poor, unhappy boy perchance may live.” + +Ser Federigo listens, and replies, +With tears of love and pity in his eyes: +“Alas, dear lady! there can be no task +So sweet to me, as giving when you ask. +One little hour ago, if I had known +This wish of yours, it would have been my own. +But thinking in what manner I could best +Do honor to the presence of my guest, +I deemed that nothing worthier could be +Than what most dear and precious was to me, +And so my gallant falcon breathed his last +To furnish forth this morning our repast.” + +In mute contrition, mingled with dismay, +The gentle lady tuned her eyes away, +Grieving that he such sacrifice should make, +And kill his falcon for a woman’s sake, +Yet feeling in her heart a woman’s pride, +That nothing she could ask for was denied; +Then took her leave, and passed out at the gate +With footstep slow and soul disconsolate. + +Three days went by, and lo! a passing-bell +Tolled from the little chapel in the dell; +Ten strokes Ser Federigo heard, and said, +Breathing a prayer, “Alas! her child is dead!” +Three months went by; and lo! a merrier chime +Rang from the chapel bells at Christmas time; +The cottage was deserted, and no more +Ser Federigo sat beside its door, +But now, with servitors to do his will, +In the grand villa, half-way up the hill, +Sat at the Christmas feast, and at his side +Monna Giovanna, his beloved bride, +Never so beautiful, so kind, so fair, +Enthroned once more in the old rustic chair, +High-perched upon the back of which there stood +The image of a falcon carved in wood, +And underneath the inscription, with date, +“All things come round to him who will but wait.” + + + + +INTERLUDE + + +Soon as the story reached its end, +One, over eager to commend, +Crowned it with injudicious praise; +And then the voice of blame found vent, +And fanned the embers of dissent +Into a somewhat lively blaze. + +The Theologian shook his head; +"These old Italian tales," he said, +"From the much-praised Decameron down +Through all the rabble of the rest, +Are either trifling, dull, or lewd; +The gossip of a neighborhood +In some remote provincial town, +A scandalous chronicle at best! +They seem to me a stagnant fen, +Grown rank with rushes and with reeds, +Where a white lily, now and then, +Blooms in the midst of noxious weeds +And deadly nightshade on its banks." + +To this the Student straight replied, +"For the white lily, many thanks! +One should not say, with too much pride, +Fountain, I will not drink of thee! +Nor were it grateful to forget, +That from these reservoirs and tanks +Even imperial Shakespeare drew +His Moor of Venice, and the Jew, +And Romeo and Juliet, +And many a famous comedy." + +Then a long pause; till some one said, +"An Angel is flying overhead!" +At these words spake the Spanish Jew, +And murmured with an inward breath: +"God grant, if what you say be true, +It may not be the Angel of Death!" +And then another pause; and then, +Stroking his beard, he said again: +"This brings back to my memory +A story in the Talmud told, +That book of gems, that book of gold, +Of wonders many and manifold, +A tale that often comes to me, +And fills my heart, and haunts my brain, +And never wearies nor grows old." + + + + +THE SPANISH JEW’S TALE + +THE LEGEND OF RABBI BEN LEVI + + +Rabbi Ben Levi, on the Sabbath, read +A volume of the Law, in which it said, +“No man shall look upon my face and live.” +And as he read, he prayed that God would give +His faithful servant grace with mortal eye +To look upon His face and yet not die. + +Then fell a sudden shadow on the page, +And, lifting up his eyes, grown dim with age +He saw the Angel of Death before him stand, +Holding a naked sword in his right hand. +Rabbi Ben Levi was a righteous man, +Yet through his veins a chill of terror ran. +With trembling voice he said, “What wilt thou here?” +The angel answered, “Lo! the time draws near +When thou must die; yet first, by God’s decree, +Whate’er thou askest shall be granted thee.” +Replied the Rabbi, “Let these living eyes +First look upon my place in Paradise.” + +Then said the Angel, “Come with me and look.” +Rabbi Ben Levi closed the sacred book, +And rising, and uplifting his gray head, +“Give me thy sword,” he to the Angel said, +“Lest thou shouldst fall upon me by the way.” +The angel smiled and hastened to obey, +Then led him forth to the Celestial Town, +And set him on the wall, whence, gazing down, +Rabbi Ben Levi, with his living eyes, +Might look upon his place in Paradise. + +Then straight into the city of the Lord +The Rabbi leaped with the Death-Angel’s sword, +And through the streets there swept a sudden breath +Of something there unknown, which men call death. +Meanwhile the Angel stayed without and cried, +“Come back!” To which the Rabbi’s voice replied, +“No! in the name of God, whom I adore, +I swear that hence I will depart no more!” + +Then all the Angels cried, “O Holy One, +See what the son of Levi here hath done! +The kingdom of Heaven he takes by violence, +And in Thy name refuses to go hence!” +The Lord replied, “My Angels, be not wroth; +Did e’er the son of Levi break his oath? +Let him remain; for he with mortal eye +Shall look upon my face and yet not die.” + +Beyond the outer wall the Angel of Death +Heard the great voice, and said, with panting breath, +“Give back the sword, and let me go my way.” +Whereat the Rabbi paused, and answered, “Nay! +Anguish enough already hath it caused +Among the sons of men.” And while he paused +He heard the awful mandate of the Lord +Resounding through the air, “Give back the sword!” + +The Rabbi bowed his head in silent prayer; +Then said he to the dreadful Angel, “Swear, +No human eye shall look on it again; +But when thou takest away the souls of men, +Thyself unseen, and with an unseen sword, +Thou wilt perform the bidding of the Lord.” +The Angel took the sword again, and swore, +And walks on earth unseen forevermore. + + + + +INTERLUDE + + +He ended: and a kind of spell +Upon the silent listeners fell. +His solemn manner and his words +Had touched the deep, mysterious chords, +That vibrate in each human breast +Alike, but not alike confessed. +The spiritual world seemed near; +And close above them, full of fear, +Its awful adumbration passed, +A luminous shadow, vague and vast. +They almost feared to look, lest there, +Embodied from the impalpable air, +They might behold the Angel stand, +Holding the sword in his right hand. + +At last, but in a voice subdued, +Not to disturb their dreamy mood, +Said the Sicilian: “While you spoke, +Telling your legend marvellous, +Suddenly in my memory woke +The thought of one, now gone from us,— +An old Abate, meek and mild, +My friend and teacher, when a child, +Who sometimes in those days of old +The legend of an Angel told, +Which ran, as I remember, thus.” + + + + +THE SICILIAN’S TALE + +KING ROBERT OF SICILY + +Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane +And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, +Apparelled in magnificent attire, +With retinue of many a knight and squire, +On St. John’s eve, at vespers, proudly sat +And heard the priests chant the Magnificat, +And as he listened, o’er and o’er again +Repeated, like a burden or refrain, +He caught the words, “Deposuit potentes +De sede, et exaltavit humiles;” +And slowly lifting up his kingly head +He to a learned clerk beside him said, +“What mean these words?” The clerk made answer meet, +“He has put down the mighty from their seat, +And has exalted them of low degree.” +Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully, +“’T is well that such seditious words are sung +Only by priests and in the Latin tongue; +For unto priests and people be it known, +There is no power can push me from my throne!” +And leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep, +Lulled by the chant monotonous and deep. + +When he awoke, it was already night; +The church was empty, and there was no light, +Save where the lamps, that glimmered few and faint, +Lighted a little space before some saint. +He started from his seat and gazed around, +But saw no living thing and heard no sound. +He groped towards the door, but it was locked; +He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked, +And uttered awful threatenings and complaints, +And imprecations upon men and saints. +The sounds re-echoed from the roof and walls +As if dead priests were laughing in their stalls. + +At length the sexton, hearing from without +The tumult of the knocking and the shout, +And thinking thieves were in the house of prayer, +Came with his lantern, asking, “Who is there?” +Half choked with rage, King Robert fiercely said, +“Open: ’tis I, the King! Art thou afraid?” +The frightened sexton, muttering, with a curse, +“This is some drunken vagabond, or worse!” +Turned the great key and flung the portal wide; +A man rushed by him at a single stride, +Haggard, half naked, without hat or cloak, +Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke, +But leaped into the blackness of the night, +And vanished like a spectre from his sight. + +Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane +And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, +Despoiled of his magnificent attire, +Bareheaded, breathless, and besprent with mire, +With sense of wrong and outrage desperate, +Strode on and thundered at the palace gate; +Rushed through the courtyard, thrusting in his rage +To right and left each seneschal and page, +And hurried up the broad and sounding stair, +His white face ghastly in the torches’ glare. +From hall to hall he passed with breathless speed; +Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed, +Until at last he reached the banquet-room, +Blazing with light and breathing with perfume. + +There on the dais sat another king, +Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet-ring, +King Robert’s self in features, form, and height, +But all transfigured with angelic light! +It was an Angel; and his presence there +With a divine effulgence filled the air, +An exaltation, piercing the disguise, +Though none the hidden Angel recognize. + +A moment speechless, motionless, amazed, +The throneless monarch on the Angel gazed, +Who met his look of anger and surprise +With the divine compassion of his eyes; +Then said, “Who art thou? and why com’st thou here?” +To which King Robert answered, with a sneer, +“I am the King, and come to claim my own +From an impostor, who usurps my throne!” +And suddenly, at these audacious words, +Up sprang the angry guests, and drew their swords; +The Angel answered, with unruffled brow, +“Nay, not the King, but the King’s Jester, thou +Henceforth shall wear the bells and scalloped cape, +And for thy counsellor shalt lead an ape; +Thou shalt obey my servants when they call, +And wait upon my henchmen in the hall!” + +Deaf to King Robert’s threats and cries and prayers, +They thrust him from the hall and down the stairs; +A group of tittering pages ran before, +And as they opened wide the folding door, +His heart failed, for he heard, with strange alarms, +The boisterous laughter of the men-at-arms, +And all the vaulted chamber roar and ring +With the mock plaudits of “Long live the King!” + +Next morning, waking with the day’s first beam, +He said within himself, “It was a dream!” +But the straw rustled as he turned his head, +There were the cap and bells beside his bed, +Around him rose the bare, discolored walls, +Close by, the steeds were champing in their stalls, +And in the corner, a revolting shape, +Shivering and chattering sat the wretched ape. +It was no dream; the world he loved so much +Had turned to dust and ashes at his touch! + +Days came and went; and now returned again +To Sicily the old Saturnian reign; +Under the Angel’s governance benign +The happy island danced with corn and wine, +And deep within the mountain’s burning breast +Enceladus, the giant, was at rest. + +Meanwhile King Robert yielded to his fate, +Sullen and silent and disconsolate. +Dressed in the motley garb that Jesters wear, +With look bewildered and a vacant stare, +Close shaven above the ears, as monks are shorn, +By courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to scorn, +His only friend the ape, his only food +What others left,—he still was unsubdued. +And when the Angel met him on his way, +And half in earnest, half in jest, would say +Sternly, though tenderly, that he might feel +The velvet scabbard held a sword of steel, +“Art thou the King?” the passion of his woe +Burst from him in resistless overflow, +And, lifting high his forehead, he would fling +The haughty answer back, “I am, I am the King!” + +Almost three years were ended; when there came +Ambassadors of great repute and name +From Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, +Unto King Robert, saying that Pope Urbane +By letter summoned them forthwith to come +On Holy Thursday to his city of Rome. +The Angel with great joy received his guests, +And gave them presents of embroidered vests, +And velvet mantles with rich ermine lined, +And rings and jewels of the rarest kind. +Then he departed with them o’er the sea +Into the lovely land of Italy, +Whose loveliness was more resplendent made +By the mere passing of that cavalcade, +With plumes, and cloaks, and housings, and the stir +Of jewelled bridle and of golden spur. +And lo! among the menials, in mock state, +Upon a piebald steed, with shambling gait, +His cloak of fox-tails flapping in the wind, +The solemn ape demurely perched behind, +King Robert rode, making huge merriment +In all the country towns through which they went. + +The Pope received them with great pomp and blare +Of bannered trumpets, on Saint Peter’s square, +Giving his benediction and embrace, +Fervent, and full of apostolic grace. +While with congratulations and with prayers +He entertained the Angel unawares, +Robert, the Jester, bursting through the crowd, +Into their presence rushed, and cried aloud, +“I am the King! Look, and behold in me +Robert, your brother, King of Sicily! +This man, who wears my semblance to your eyes, +Is an impostor in a king’s disguise. +Do you not know me? does no voice within +Answer my cry, and say we are akin?” +The Pope in silence, but with troubled mien, +Gazed at the Angel’s countenance serene; +The Emperor, laughing, said, “It is strange sport +To keep a mad man for thy Fool at court!” +And the poor, baffled Jester in disgrace +Was hustled back among the populace. + +In solemn state the Holy Week went by, +And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky; +The presence of the Angel, with its light, +Before the sun rose, made the city bright, +And with new fervor filled the hearts of men, +Who felt that Christ indeed had risen again. +Even the Jester, on his bed of straw, +With haggard eyes the unwonted splendor saw, +He felt within a power unfelt before, +And, kneeling humbly on his chamber floor, +He heard the rushing garments of the Lord +Sweep through the silent air, ascending heavenward. + +And now the visit ending, and once more +Valmond returning to the Danube’s shore, +Homeward the Angel journeyed, and again +The land was made resplendent with his train, +Flashing along the towns of Italy +Unto Salerno, and from thence by sea. +And when once more within Palermo’s wall, +And, seated on the throne in his great hall, +He heard the Angelus from convent towers, +As if the better world conversed with ours, +He beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher, +And with a gesture bade the rest retire; +And when they were alone, the Angel said, +“Art thou the King?” Then, bowing down his head, +King Robert crossed both hands upon his breast, +And meekly answered him: “Thou knowest best! +My sins as scarlet are; let me go hence, +And in some cloister’s school of penitence, +Across those stones, that pave the way to heaven, +Walk barefoot, till my guilty soul be shriven!” + +The Angel smiled, and from his radiant face +A holy light illumined all the place, +And through the open window, loud and clear, +They heard the monks chant in the chapel near, +Above the stir and tumult of the street: +“He has put down the mighty from their seat, +And has exalted them of low degree!” +And through the chant a second melody +Rose like the throbbing of a single string: +“I am an Angel, and thou art the King!” + +King Robert, who was standing near the throne, +Lifted his eyes, and lo! he was alone! +But all apparelled as in days of old, +With ermined mantle and with cloth of gold; +And when his courtiers came, they found him there +Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in, silent prayer. + + + + +INTERLUDE + + +And then the blue-eyed Norseman told +A Saga of the days of old. +“There is,” said he, “a wondrous book +Of Legends in the old Norse tongue, +Of the dead kings of Norroway,— +Legends that once were told or sung +In many a smoky fireside nook +Of Iceland, in the ancient day, +By wandering Saga-man or Scald; +Heimskringla is the volume called; +And he who looks may find therein +The story that I now begin.” + +And in each pause the story made +Upon his violin he played, +As an appropriate interlude, +Fragments of old Norwegian tunes +That bound in one the separate runes, +And held the mind in perfect mood, +Entwining and encircling all +The strange and antiquated rhymes +with melodies of olden times; +As over some half-ruined wall, +Disjointed and about to fall, +Fresh woodbines climb and interlace, +And keep the loosened stones in place. + + + + +THE MUSICIAN’S TALE + +THE SAGA OF KING OLAF + + +I + +THE CHALLENGE OF THOR + +I am the God Thor, +I am the War God, +I am the Thunderer! +Here in my Northland, +My fastness and fortress, +Reign I forever! + +Here amid icebergs +Rule I the nations; +This is my hammer, +Miölner the mighty; +Giants and sorcerers +Cannot withstand it! + +These are the gauntlets +Wherewith I wield it, +And hurl it afar off; +This is my girdle; +Whenever I brace it, +Strength is redoubled! + +The light thou beholdest +Stream through the heavens, +In flashes of crimson, +Is but my red beard +Blown by the night-wind, +Affrighting the nations! + +Jove is my brother; +Mine eyes are the lightning; +The wheels of my chariot +Roll in the thunder, +The blows of my hammer +Ring in the earthquake! + +Force rules the world still, +Has ruled it, shall rule it; +Meekness is weakness, +Strength is triumphant, +Over the whole earth +Still is it Thor’s-Day! + +Thou art a God too, +O Galilean! +And thus single-handed +Unto the combat, +Gauntlet or Gospel, +Here I defy thee! + + + + +II + +KING OLAF’S RETURN + +And King Olaf heard the cry, +Saw the red light in the sky, + Laid his hand upon his sword, +As he leaned upon the railing, +And his ships went sailing, sailing + Northward into Drontheim fiord. + +There he stood as one who dreamed; +And the red light glanced and gleamed + On the armor that he wore; +And he shouted, as the rifled +Streamers o’er him shook and shifted, + “I accept thy challenge, Thor!” + +To avenge his father slain, +And reconquer realm and reign, + Came the youthful Olaf home, +Through the midnight sailing, sailing, +Listening to the wild wind’s wailing, + And the dashing of the foam. + +To his thoughts the sacred name +Of his mother Astrid came, + And the tale she oft had told +Of her flight by secret passes +Through the mountains and morasses, + To the home of Hakon old. + +Then strange memories crowded back +Of Queen Gunhild’s wrath and wrack, + And a hurried flight by sea; +Of grim Vikings, and the rapture +Of the sea-fight, and the capture, + And the life of slavery. + +How a stranger watched his face +In the Esthonian market-place, + Scanned his features one by one, +Saying, “We should know each other; +I am Sigurd, Astrid’s brother, + Thou art Olaf, Astrid’s son!” + +Then as Queen Allogia’s page, +Old in honors, young in age, + Chief of all her men-at-arms; +Till vague whispers, and mysterious, +Reached King Valdemar, the imperious, + Filling him with strange alarms. + +Then his cruisings o’er the seas, +Westward to the Hebrides, + And to Scilly’s rocky shore; +And the hermit’s cavern dismal, +Christ’s great name and rites baptismal + in the ocean’s rush and roar. + +All these thoughts of love and strife +Glimmered through his lurid life, + As the stars’ intenser light +Through the red flames o’er him trailing, +As his ships went sailing, sailing, + Northward in the summer night. + +Trained for either camp or court, +Skilful in each manly sport, + Young and beautiful and tall; +Art of warfare, craft of chases, +Swimming, skating, snow-shoe races + Excellent alike in all. + +When at sea, with all his rowers, +He along the bending oars + Outside of his ship could run. +He the Smalsor Horn ascended, +And his shining shield suspended, +On its summit, like a sun. + +On the ship-rails he could stand, +Wield his sword with either hand, + And at once two javelins throw; +At all feasts where ale was strongest +Sat the merry monarch longest, + First to come and last to go. + +Norway never yet had seen +One so beautiful of mien, + One so royal in attire, +When in arms completely furnished, +Harness gold-inlaid and burnished, + Mantle like a flame of fire. + +Thus came Olaf to his own, +When upon the night-wind blown + Passed that cry along the shore; +And he answered, while the rifted +Streamers o’er him shook and shifted, + “I accept thy challenge, Thor!” + + + +III + +THORA OF RIMOL + +"Thora of Rimol! hide me! hide me! +Danger and shame and death betide me! +For Olaf the King is hunting me down +Through field and forest, through thorp and town!" + Thus cried Jarl Hakon + To Thora, the fairest of women. + +Hakon Jarl! for the love I bear thee +Neither shall shame nor death come near thee! +But the hiding-place wherein thou must lie +Is the cave underneath the swine in the sty." + Thus to Jarl Hakon + Said Thora, the fairest of women. + +So Hakon Jarl and his base thrall Karker +Crouched in the cave, than a dungeon darker, +As Olaf came riding, with men in mail, +Through the forest roads into Orkadale, + Demanding Jarl Hakon + Of Thora, the fairest of women. + +"Rich and honored shall be whoever +The head of Hakon Jarl shall dissever!" +Hakon heard him, and Karker the slave, +Through the breathing-holes of the darksome cave. + Alone in her chamber + Wept Thora, the fairest of women. + +Said Karker, the crafty, "I will not slay thee! +For all the king's gold I will never betray thee!" +"Then why dost thou turn so pale, O churl, +And then again black as the earth?" said the Earl. + More pale and more faithful + Was Thora, the fairest of women. + +From a dream in the night the thrall started, saying, +"Round my neck a gold ring King Olaf was laying!" +And Hakon answered, "Beware of the king! +He will lay round thy neck a blood-red ring." + At the ring on her finger + Gazed Thora, the fairest of women. + +At daybreak slept Hakon, with sorrows encumbered, +But screamed and drew up his feet as he slumbered; +The thrall in the darkness plunged with his knife, +And the Earl awakened no more in this life. + But wakeful and weeping + Sat Thora, the fairest of women. + +At Nidarholm the priests are all singing, +Two ghastly heads on the gibbet are swinging; +One is Jarl Hakon's and one is his thrall's, +And the people are shouting from windows and walls; + While alone in her chamber + Swoons Thora, the fairest of women. + + + +IV + +QUEEN SIGRID THE HAUGHTY + +Queen Sigrid the Haughty sat proud and aloft +In her chamber, that looked over meadow and croft. + Heart's dearest, + Why dost thou sorrow so? + +The floor with tassels of fir was besprent, +Filling the room with their fragrant scent. + +She heard the birds sing, she saw the sun shine, +The air of summer was sweeter than wine. + +Like a sword without scabbard the bright river lay +Between her own kingdom and Norroway. + +But Olaf the King had sued for her hand, +The sword would be sheathed, the river be spanned. + +Her maidens were seated around her knee, +Working bright figures in tapestry. + +And one was singing the ancient rune +Of Brynhilda's love and the wrath of Gudrun. + +And through it, and round it, and over it all +Sounded incessant the waterfall. + +The Queen in her hand held a ring of gold, +From the door of Lade's Temple old. + +King Olaf had sent her this wedding gift, +But her thoughts as arrows were keen and swift. + +She had given the ring to her goldsmiths twain, +Who smiled, as they handed it back again. + +And Sigrid the Queen, in her haughty way, +Said, "Why do you smile, my goldsmiths, say?" + +And they answered: "O Queen! if the truth must be told, +The ring is of copper, and not of gold!" + +The lightning flashed o'er her forehead and cheek, +She only murmured, she did not speak: + +"If in his gifts he can faithless be, +There will be no gold in his love to me." + +A footstep was heard on the outer stair, +And in strode King Olaf with royal air. + +He kissed the Queen's hand, and he whispered of love, +And swore to be true as the stars are above. + +But she smiled with contempt as she answered: "O King, +Will you swear it, as Odin once swore, on the ring?" + +And the King: "O speak not of Odin to me, +The wife of King Olaf a Christian must be." + +Looking straight at the King, with her level brows, +She said, "I keep true to my faith and my vows." + +Then the face of King Olaf was darkened with gloom, +He rose in his anger and strode through the room. + +"Why, then, should I care to have thee?" he said,-- +"A faded old woman, a heathenish jade!" + +His zeal was stronger than fear or love, +And he struck the Queen in the face with his glove. + +Then forth from the chamber in anger he fled, +And the wooden stairway shook with his tread. + +Queen Sigrid the Haughty said under her breath, +"This insult, King Olaf, shall be thy death!" + Heart's dearest, + Why dost thou sorrow so? + + + +V + +THE SKERRY OF SHRIEKS + +Now from all King Olaf's farms + His men-at-arms +Gathered on the Eve of Easter; +To his house at Angvalds-ness + Fast they press, +Drinking with the royal feaster. + +Loudly through the wide-flung door + Came the roar +Of the sea upon the Skerry; +And its thunder loud and near + Reached the ear, +Mingling with their voices merry. + +"Hark!" said Olaf to his Scald, + Halfred the Bald, +"Listen to that song, and learn it! +Half my kingdom would I give, + As I live, +If by such songs you would earn it! + +"For of all the runes and rhymes + Of all times, +Best I like the ocean's dirges, +When the old harper heaves and rocks, + His hoary locks +Flowing and flashing in the surges!" + +Halfred answered: "I am called + The Unappalled! +Nothing hinders me or daunts me. +Hearken to me, then, O King, + While I sing +The great Ocean Song that haunts me." + +"I will hear your song sublime + Some other time," +Says the drowsy monarch, yawning, +And retires; each laughing guest + Applauds the jest; +Then they sleep till day is dawning. + +Facing up and down the yard, + King Olaf's guard +Saw the sea-mist slowly creeping +O'er the sands, and up the hill, + Gathering still +Round the house where they were sleeping. + +It was not the fog he saw, + Nor misty flaw, +That above the landscape brooded; +It was Eyvind Kallda's crew + Of warlocks blue +With their caps of darkness hooded! + +Round and round the house they go, + Weaving slow +Magic circles to encumber +And imprison in their ring + Olaf the King, +As he helpless lies in slumber. + +Then athwart the vapors dun + The Easter sun +Streamed with one broad track of splendor! +in their real forms appeared + The warlocks weird, +Awful as the Witch of Endor. + +Blinded by the light that glared, + They groped and stared +Round about with steps unsteady; +From his window Olaf gazed, + And, amazed, +"Who are these strange people?" said he. + +"Eyvind Kallda and his men!" + Answered then +From the yard a sturdy farmer; +While the men-at-arms apace + Filled the place, +Busily buckling on their armor. + +From the gates they sallied forth, + South and north, +Scoured the island coast around them, +Seizing all the warlock band, + Foot and hand +On the Skerry's rocks they bound them. + +And at eve the king again + Called his train, +And, with all the candles burning, +Silent sat and heard once more + The sullen roar +Of the ocean tides returning. + +Shrieks and cries of wild despair + Filled the air, +Growing fainter as they listened; +Then the bursting surge alone + Sounded on;-- +Thus the sorcerers were christened! + +"Sing, O Scald, your song sublime, + Your ocean-rhyme," +Cried King Olaf: "it will cheer me!" +Said the Scald, with pallid cheeks, + "The Skerry of Shrieks +Sings too loud for you to hear me!" + + + +VI + +THE WRAITH OF ODIN + +The guests were loud, the ale was strong, +King Olaf feasted late and long; +The hoary Scalds together sang; +O'erhead the smoky rafters rang. + Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. + +The door swung wide, with creak and din; +A blast of cold night-air came in, +And on the threshold shivering stood +A one-eyed guest, with cloak and hood. + Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. + +The King exclaimed, "O graybeard pale! +Come warm thee with this cup of ale." +The foaming draught the old man quaffed, +The noisy guests looked on and laughed. + Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. + +Then spake the King: "Be not afraid; +Sit here by me." The guest obeyed, +And, seated at the table, told +Tales of the sea, and Sagas old. + Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. + +And ever, when the tale was o'er, +The King demanded yet one more; +Till Sigurd the Bishop smiling said, +"'T is late, O King, and time for bed." + Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. + +The King retired; the stranger guest +Followed and entered with the rest; +The lights were out, the pages gone, +But still the garrulous guest spake on. + Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. + +As one who from a volume reads, +He spake of heroes and their deeds, +Of lands and cities he had seen, +And stormy gulfs that tossed between. + Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. + +Then from his lips in music rolled +The Havamal of Odin old, +With sounds mysterious as the roar +Of billows on a distant shore. + Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. + +"Do we not learn from runes and rhymes +Made by the gods in elder times, +And do not still the great Scalds teach +That silence better is than speech?" + Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. + +Smiling at this, the King replied, +"Thy lore is by thy tongue belied; +For never was I so enthralled +Either by Saga-man or Scald," + Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. + +The Bishop said, "Late hours we keep! +Night wanes, O King! 't is time for sleep!" +Then slept the King, and when he woke +The guest was gone, the morning broke. + Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. + +They found the doors securely barred, +They found the watch-dog in the yard, +There was no footprint in the grass, +And none had seen the stranger pass. + Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. + +King Olaf crossed himself and said: +"I know that Odin the Great is dead; +Sure is the triumph of our Faith, +The one-eyed stranger was his wraith." + Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. + + + +VII + +IRON-BEARD + + Olaf the King, one summer morn, + Blew a blast on his bugle-horn, +Sending his signal through the land of Drontheim. + + And to the Hus-Ting held at Mere + Gathered the farmers far and near, +With their war weapons ready to confront him. + + Ploughing under the morning star, + Old Iron-Beard in Yriar +Heard the summons, chuckling with a low laugh. + + He wiped the sweat-drops from his brow, + Unharnessed his horses from the plough, +And clattering came on horseback to King Olaf. + + He was the churliest of the churls; + Little he cared for king or earls; +Bitter as home-brewed ale were his foaming passions. + + Hodden-gray was the garb he wore, + And by the Hammer of Thor he swore; +He hated the narrow town, and all its fashions. + + But he loved the freedom of his farm, + His ale at night, by the fireside warm, +Gudrun his daughter, with her flaxen tresses. + + He loved his horses and his herds, + The smell of the earth, and the song of birds, +His well-filled barns, his brook with its water-cresses. + + Huge and cumbersome was his frame; + His beard, from which he took his name, +Frosty and fierce, like that of Hymer the Giant. + + So at the Hus-Ting he appeared, + The farmer of Yriar, Iron-Beard, +On horseback, in an attitude defiant. + + And to King Olaf he cried aloud, + Out of the middle of the crowd, +That tossed about him like a stormy ocean: + + "Such sacrifices shalt thou bring; + To Odin and to Thor, O King, +As other kings have done in their devotion!" + + King Olaf answered: "I command + This land to be a Christian land; +Here is my Bishop who the folk baptizes! + + "But if you ask me to restore + Your sacrifices, stained with gore, +Then will I offer human sacrifices! + + "Not slaves and peasants shall they be, + But men of note and high degree, +Such men as Orm of Lyra and Kar of Gryting!" + + Then to their Temple strode he in, + And loud behind him heard the din +Of his men-at-arms and the peasants fiercely fighting. + + There in the Temple, carved in wood, + The image of great Odin stood, +And other gods, with Thor supreme among them. + + King Olaf smote them with the blade + Of his huge war-axe, gold inlaid, +And downward shattered to the pavement flung them. + + At the same moment rose without, + From the contending crowd, a shout, +A mingled sound of triumph and of wailing. + + And there upon the trampled plain + The farmer iron-Beard lay slain, +Midway between the assailed and the assailing. + + King Olaf from the doorway spoke. + "Choose ye between two things, my folk, +To be baptized or given up to slaughter!" + + And seeing their leader stark and dead, + The people with a murmur said, +"O King, baptize us with thy holy water"; + + So all the Drontheim land became + A Christian land in name and fame, +In the old gods no more believing and trusting. + + And as a blood-atonement, soon + King Olaf wed the fair Gudrun; +And thus in peace ended the Drontheim Hus-Ting! + + + +VIII + +GUDRUN + +On King Olaf's bridal night +Shines the moon with tender light, +And across the chamber streams + Its tide of dreams. + +At the fatal midnight hour, +When all evil things have power, +In the glimmer of the moon + Stands Gudrun. + +Close against her heaving breast +Something in her hand is pressed +Like an icicle, its sheen + Is cold and keen. + +On the cairn are fixed her eyes +Where her murdered father lies, +And a voice remote and drear + She seems to hear. + +What a bridal night is this! +Cold will be the dagger's kiss; +Laden with the chill of death + Is its breath. + +Like the drifting snow she sweeps +To the couch where Olaf sleeps; +Suddenly he wakes and stirs, + His eyes meet hers. + +"What is that," King Olaf said, +"Gleams so bright above thy head? +Wherefore standest thou so white + In pale moonlight?" + +"'T is the bodkin that I wear +When at night I bind my hair; +It woke me falling on the floor; + 'T is nothing more." + +"Forests have ears, and fields have eyes; +Often treachery lurking lies +Underneath the fairest hair! + Gudrun beware!" + +Ere the earliest peep of morn +Blew King Olaf's bugle-horn; +And forever sundered ride + Bridegroom and bride! + + + +IX + +THANGBRAND THE PRIEST + +Short of stature, large of limb, + Burly face and russet beard, +All the women stared at him, + When in Iceland he appeared. + "Look!" they said, + With nodding head, +"There goes Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest." + +All the prayers he knew by rote, + He could preach like Chrysostome, +From the Fathers he could quote, + He had even been at Rome, + A learned clerk, + A man of mark, +Was this Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest, + +He was quarrelsome and loud, + And impatient of control, +Boisterous in the market crowd, + Boisterous at the wassail-bowl, + Everywhere + Would drink and swear, +Swaggering Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest + +In his house this malcontent + Could the King no longer bear, +So to Iceland he was sent + To convert the heathen there, + And away + One summer day +Sailed this Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. + +There in Iceland, o'er their books + Pored the people day and night, +But he did not like their looks, + Nor the songs they used to write. + "All this rhyme + Is waste of time!" +Grumbled Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. + +To the alehouse, where he sat + Came the Scalds and Saga-men; +Is it to be wondered at, + That they quarrelled now and then, + When o'er his beer + Began to leer +Drunken Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest? + +All the folk in Altafiord + Boasted of their island grand; +Saying in a single word, + "Iceland is the finest land + That the sun + Doth shine upon!" +Loud laughed Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. + +And he answered: "What's the use + Of this bragging up and down, +When three women and one goose + Make a market in your town!" + Every Scald + Satires scrawled +On poor Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. + +Something worse they did than that; + And what vexed him most of all +Was a figure in shovel hat, + Drawn in charcoal on the wall; + With words that go + Sprawling below, +"This is Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest." + +Hardly knowing what he did, + Then he smote them might and main, +Thorvald Veile and Veterlid + Lay there in the alehouse slain. + "To-day we are gold, + To-morrow mould!" +Muttered Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. + +Much in fear of axe and rope, + Back to Norway sailed he then. +"O, King Olaf! little hope + Is there of these Iceland men!" + Meekly said, + With bending head, +Pious Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. + + +X + +RAUD THE STRONG + +"All the old gods are dead, +All the wild warlocks fled; +But the White Christ lives and reigns, +And throughout my wide domains +His Gospel shall be spread!" + On the Evangelists + Thus swore King Olaf. + +But still in dreams of the night +Beheld he the crimson light, +And heard the voice that defied +Him who was crucified, +And challenged him to the fight. + To Sigurd the Bishop + King Olaf confessed it. + +And Sigurd the Bishop said, +"The old gods are not dead, +For the great Thor still reigns, +And among the Jarls and Thanes +The old witchcraft still is spread." + Thus to King Olaf + Said Sigurd the Bishop. + +"Far north in the Salten Fiord, +By rapine, fire, and sword, +Lives the Viking, Raud the Strong; +All the Godoe Isles belong +To him and his heathen horde." + Thus went on speaking + Sigurd the Bishop. + +"A warlock, a wizard is he, +And lord of the wind and the sea; +And whichever way he sails, +He has ever favoring gales, +By his craft in sorcery." + Here the sign of the cross + Made devoutly King Olaf. + +"With rites that we both abhor, +He worships Odin and Thor; +So it cannot yet be said, +That all the old gods are dead, +And the warlocks are no more," + Flushing with anger + Said Sigurd the Bishop. + +Then King Olaf cried aloud: +"I will talk with this mighty Raud, +And along the Salten Fiord +Preach the Gospel with my sword, +Or be brought back in my shroud!" + So northward from Drontheim + Sailed King Olaf! + + + +XI + +BISHOP SIGURD AT SALTEN FIORD + +Loud the angry wind was wailing +As King Olaf's ships came sailing +Northward out of Drontheim haven + To the mouth of Salten Fiord. + +Though the flying sea-spray drenches +Fore and aft the rowers' benches, +Not a single heart is craven + Of the champions there on board. + +All without the Fiord was quiet +But within it storm and riot, +Such as on his Viking cruises + Raud the Strong was wont to ride. + +And the sea through all its tide-ways +Swept the reeling vessels sideways, +As the leaves are swept through sluices, + When the flood-gates open wide. + +"'T is the warlock! 't is the demon +Raud!" cried Sigurd to the seamen; +"But the Lord is not affrighted + By the witchcraft of his foes." + +To the ship's bow he ascended, +By his choristers attended, +Round him were the tapers lighted, + And the sacred incense rose. + +On the bow stood Bishop Sigurd, +In his robes, as one transfigured, +And the Crucifix he planted + High amid the rain and mist. + +Then with holy water sprinkled +All the ship; the mass-bells tinkled; +Loud the monks around him chanted, + Loud he read the Evangelist. + +As into the Fiord they darted, +On each side the water parted; +Down a path like silver molten + Steadily rowed King Olaf's ships; + +Steadily burned all night the tapers, +And the White Christ through the vapors +Gleamed across the Fiord of Salten, + As through John's Apocalypse,-- + +Till at last they reached Raud's dwelling +On the little isle of Gelling; +Not a guard was at the doorway, + Not a glimmer of light was seen. + +But at anchor, carved and gilded, +Lay the dragon-ship he builded; +'T was the grandest ship in Norway, + With its crest and scales of green. + +Up the stairway, softly creeping, +To the loft where Raud was sleeping, +With their fists they burst asunder + Bolt and bar that held the door. + +Drunken with sleep and ale they found him, +Dragged him from his bed and bound him, +While he stared with stupid wonder, + At the look and garb they wore. + +Then King Olaf said: "O Sea-King! +Little time have we for speaking, +Choose between the good and evil; + Be baptized, or thou shalt die! + +But in scorn the heathen scoffer +Answered: "I disdain thine offer; +Neither fear I God nor Devil; + Thee and thy Gospel I defy!" + +Then between his jaws distended, +When his frantic struggles ended, +Through King Olaf's horn an adder, + Touched by fire, they forced to glide. + +Sharp his tooth was as an arrow, +As he gnawed through bone and marrow; +But without a groan or shudder, + Raud the Strong blaspheming died. + +Then baptized they all that region, +Swarthy Lap and fair Norwegian, +Far as swims the salmon, leaping, + Up the streams of Salten Fiord. + +In their temples Thor and Odin +Lay in dust and ashes trodden, +As King Olaf, onward sweeping, + Preached the Gospel with his sword. + +Then he took the carved and gilded +Dragon-ship that Raud had builded, +And the tiller single-handed, + Grasping, steered into the main. + +Southward sailed the sea-gulls o'er him, +Southward sailed the ship that bore him, +Till at Drontheim haven landed + Olaf and his crew again. + + + + +XII + +KING OLAF'S CHRISTMAS + +At Drontheim, Olaf the King +Heard the bells of Yule-tide ring, + As he sat in his banquet-hall, +Drinking the nut-brown ale, +With his bearded Berserks hale + And tall. + +Three days his Yule-tide feasts +He held with Bishops and Priests, + And his horn filled up to the brim; +But the ale was never too strong, +Nor the Saga-man's tale too long, + For him. + +O'er his drinking-horn, the sign +He made of the cross divine, +As he drank, and muttered his prayers; +But the Berserks evermore +Made the sign of the Hammer of Thor + Over theirs. + +The gleams of the fire-light dance +Upon helmet and hauberk and lance, + And laugh in the eyes of the King; +And he cries to Halfred the Scald, +Gray-bearded, wrinkled, and bald, + "Sing!" + +"Sing me a song divine, +With a sword in every line, + And this shall be thy reward." +And he loosened the belt at his waist, +And in front of the singer placed + His sword. + +"Quern-biter of Hakon the Good, +Wherewith at a stroke he hewed + The millstone through and through, +And Foot-breadth of Thoralf the Strong, +Were neither so broad nor so long, + Nor so true." + +Then the Scald took his harp and sang, +And loud though the music rang + The sound of that shining word; +And the harp-strings a clangor made, +As if they were struck with the blade + Of a sword. + +And the Berserks round about +Broke forth into a shout + That made the rafters ring: +They smote with their fists on the board, +And shouted, "Long live the Sword, + And the King!" + +But the King said, "O my son, +I miss the bright word in one + Of thy measures and thy rhymes." +And Halfred the Scald replied, +"In another 't was multiplied + Three times." + +Then King Olaf raised the hilt +Of iron, cross-shaped and gilt, + And said, "Do not refuse; +Count well the gain and the loss, +Thor's hammer or Christ's cross: + Choose!" + +And Halfred the Scald said, "This +In the name of the Lord I kiss, + Who on it was crucified!" +And a shout went round the board, +"In the name of Christ the Lord, + Who died!" + +Then over the waste of snows +The noonday sun uprose, + Through the driving mists revealed, +Like the lifting of the Host, +By incense-clouds almost + Concealed. + +On the shining wall a vast +And shadowy cross was cast + From the hilt of the lifted sword, +And in foaming cups of ale +The Berserks drank "Was-hael! + To the Lord!" + + + +XIII + +THE BUILDING OF THE LONG SERPENT + +Thorberg Skafting, master-builder, + In his ship-yard by the sea, +Whistling, said, "It would bewilder +Any man but Thorberg Skafting, + Any man but me!" + +Near him lay the Dragon stranded, + Built of old by Raud the Strong, +And King Olaf had commanded +He should build another Dragon, + Twice as large and long. + +Therefore whistled Thorberg Skafting, + As he sat with half-closed eyes, +And his head turned sideways, drafting +That new vessel for King Olaf + Twice the Dragon's size. + +Round him busily hewed and hammered + Mallet huge and heavy axe; +Workmen laughed and sang and clamored; +Whirred the wheels, that into rigging + Spun the shining flax! + +All this tumult heard the master,-- + It was music to his ear; +Fancy whispered all the faster, +"Men shall hear of Thorberg Skafting + For a hundred year!" + +Workmen sweating at the forges + Fashioned iron bolt and bar, +Like a warlock's midnight orgies +Smoked and bubbled the black caldron + With the boiling tar. + +Did the warlocks mingle in it, + Thorberg Skafting, any curse? +Could you not be gone a minute +But some mischief must be doing, + Turning bad to worse? + +'T was an ill wind that came wafting, + From his homestead words of woe +To his farm went Thorberg Skafting, +Oft repeating to his workmen, + Build ye thus and so. + +After long delays returning + Came the master back by night +To his ship-yard longing, yearning, +Hurried he, and did not leave it + Till the morning's light. + +"Come and see my ship, my darling" + On the morrow said the King; +"Finished now from keel to carling; +Never yet was seen in Norway + Such a wondrous thing!" + +In the ship-yard, idly talking, + At the ship the workmen stared: +Some one, all their labor balking, +Down her sides had cut deep gashes, + Not a plank was spared! + +"Death be to the evil-doer!" + With an oath King Olaf spoke; +"But rewards to his pursuer +And with wrath his face grew redder + Than his scarlet cloak. + +Straight the master-builder, smiling, + Answered thus the angry King: +"Cease blaspheming and reviling, +Olaf, it was Thorberg Skafting + Who has done this thing!" + +Then he chipped and smoothed the planking, + Till the King, delighted, swore, +With much lauding and much thanking, +"Handsomer is now my Dragon + Than she was before!" + +Seventy ells and four extended + On the grass the vessel's keel; +High above it, gilt and splendid, +Rose the figure-head ferocious + With its crest of steel. + +Then they launched her from the tressels, + In the ship-yard by the sea; +She was the grandest of all vessels, +Never ship was built in Norway + Half so fine as she! + +The Long Serpent was she christened, + 'Mid the roar of cheer on cheer! +They who to the Saga listened +Heard the name of Thorberg Skafting + For a hundred year! + + + +XIV + +THE CREW OF THE LONG SERPENT + +Safe at anchor in Drontheim bay +King Olaf's fleet assembled lay, + And, striped with white and blue, +Downward fluttered sail and banner, +As alights the screaming lanner; +Lustily cheered, in their wild manner, + The Long Serpent's crew + +Her forecastle man was Ulf the Red, +Like a wolf's was his shaggy head, + His teeth as large and white; +His beard, of gray and russet blended, +Round as a swallow's nest descended; +As standard-bearer he defended + Olaf's flag in the fight. + +Near him Kolbiorn had his place, +Like the King in garb and face, + So gallant and so hale; +Every cabin-boy and varlet +Wondered at his cloak of scarlet; +Like a river, frozen and star-lit, + Gleamed his coat of mail. + +By the bulkhead, tall and dark, +Stood Thrand Rame of Thelemark, +A figure gaunt and grand; +On his hairy arm imprinted +Was an anchor, azure-tinted; +Like Thor's hammer, huge and dinted +Was his brawny hand. + +Einar Tamberskelver, bare +To the winds his golden hair, + By the mainmast stood; +Graceful was his form, and slender, +And his eyes were deep and tender +As a woman's, in the splendor + Of her maidenhood. + +In the fore-hold Biorn and Bork +Watched the sailors at their work: + Heavens! how they swore! +Thirty men they each commanded, +Iron-sinewed, horny-handed, +Shoulders broad, and chests expanded. + Tugging at the oar. + +These, and many more like these, +With King Olaf sailed the seas, + Till the waters vast +Filled them with a vague devotion, +With the freedom and the motion, +With the roll and roar of ocean + And the sounding blast. + +When they landed from the fleet, +How they roared through Drontheim's street, + Boisterous as the gale! +How they laughed and stamped and pounded, +Till the tavern roof resounded, +And the host looked on astounded + As they drank the ale! + +Never saw the wild North Sea +Such a gallant company + Sail its billows blue! +Never, while they cruised and quarrelled, +Old King Gorm, or Blue-Tooth Harald, +Owned a ship so well apparelled, + Boasted such a crew! + + + +XV + +A LITTLE BIRD IN THE AIR + +A little bird in the air +Is singing of Thyri the fair, + The sister of Svend the Dane; +And the song of the garrulous bird +In the streets of the town is heard, + And repeated again and again. + Hoist up your sails of silk, + And flee away from each other. + +To King Burislaf, it is said, +Was the beautiful Thyri wed, + And a sorrowful bride went she; +And after a week and a day, +She has fled away and away, + From his town by the stormy sea. + Hoist up your sails of silk, + And flee away from each other. + +They say, that through heat and through cold, +Through weald, they say, and through wold, + By day and by night, they say, +She has fled; and the gossips report +She has come to King Olaf's court, + And the town is all in dismay. + Hoist up your sails of silk, + And flee away from each other. + +It is whispered King Olaf has seen, + Has talked with the beautiful Queen; + And they wonder how it will end; +For surely, if here she remain, +It is war with King Svend the Dane, + And King Burislaf the Vend! + Hoist up your sails of silk, + And flee away from each other. + +O, greatest wonder of all! +It is published in hamlet and hall, + It roars like a flame that is fanned! +The King--yes, Olaf the King-- +Has wedded her with his ring, + And Thyri is Queen in the land! + Hoist up your sails of silk, + And flee away from each other. + + + +XVI + +QUEEN THYRI AND THE ANGELICA STALKS + +Northward over Drontheim, +Flew the clamorous sea-gulls, +Sang the lark and linnet + From the meadows green; + +Weeping in her chamber, +Lonely and unhappy, +Sat the Drottning Thyri, + Sat King Olaf's Queen. + +In at all the windows +Streamed the pleasant sunshine, +On the roof above her + Softly cooed the dove; + +But the sound she heard not, +Nor the sunshine heeded, +For the thoughts of Thyri + Were not thoughts of love, + +Then King Olaf entered, +Beautiful as morning, +Like the sun at Easter + Shone his happy face; + +In his hand he carried +Angelicas uprooted, +With delicious fragrance + Filling all the place. + +Like a rainy midnight +Sat the Drottning Thyri, +Even the smile of Olaf + Could not cheer her gloom; + +Nor the stalks he gave her +With a gracious gesture, +And with words as pleasant + As their own perfume. + +In her hands he placed them, +And her jewelled fingers +Through the green leaves glistened + Like the dews of morn; + +But she cast them from her, +Haughty and indignant, +On the floor she threw them + With a look of scorn. + +"Richer presents," said she, +"Gave King Harald Gormson +To the Queen, my mother, + Than such worthless weeds; + +"When he ravaged Norway, +Laying waste the kingdom, +Seizing scatt and treasure + For her royal needs. + +"But thou darest not venture +Through the Sound to Vendland, +My domains to rescue + From King Burislaf; + +"Lest King Svend of Denmark, +Forked Beard, my brother, +Scatter all thy vessels + As the wind the chaff." + +Then up sprang King Olaf, +Like a reindeer bounding, +With an oath he answered + Thus the luckless Queen: + +"Never yet did Olaf +Fear King Svend of Denmark; +This right hand shall hale him + By his forked chin!" + +Then he left the chamber, +Thundering through the doorway, +Loud his steps resounded + Down the outer stair. + +Smarting with the insult, +Through the streets of Drontheim +Strode he red and wrathful, + With his stately air. + +All his ships he gathered, +Summoned all his forces, +Making his war levy + In the region round; + +Down the coast of Norway, +Like a flock of sea-gulls, +Sailed the fleet of Olaf + Through the Danish Sound. + +With his own hand fearless, +Steered he the Long Serpent, +Strained the creaking cordage, + Bent each boom and gaff; + +Till in Venland landing, +The domains of Thyri +He redeemed and rescued + From King Burislaf. + +Then said Olaf, laughing, +"Not ten yoke of oxen +Have the power to draw us + Like a woman's hair! + +"Now will I confess it, +Better things are jewels +Than angelica stalks are + For a Queen to wear." + + + +XVII + +KING SVEND OF THE FORKED BEAR + +Loudly the sailors cheered +Svend of the Forked Beard, +As with his fleet he steered + Southward to Vendland; +Where with their courses hauled +All were together called, +Under the Isle of Svald + Near to the mainland. + +After Queen Gunhild's death, +So the old Saga saith, +Plighted King Svend his faith + To Sigrid the Haughty; +And to avenge his bride, +Soothing her wounded pride, +Over the waters wide + King Olaf sought he. + +Still on her scornful face, +Blushing with deep disgrace, +Bore she the crimson trace + Of Olaf's gauntlet; +Like a malignant star, +Blazing in heaven afar, +Red shone the angry scar + Under her frontlet. + +Oft to King Svend she spake, +"For thine own honor's sake +Shalt thou swift vengeance take + On the vile coward!" +Until the King at last, +Gusty and overcast, +Like a tempestuous blast + Threatened and lowered. + +Soon as the Spring appeared, +Svend of the Forked Beard +High his red standard reared, + Eager for battle; +While every warlike Dane, +Seizing his arms again, +Left all unsown the grain, + Unhoused the cattle. + +Likewise the Swedish King +Summoned in haste a Thing, +Weapons and men to bring + In aid of Denmark; +Erie the Norseman, too, +As the war-tidings flew, +Sailed with a chosen crew + From Lapland and Finmark. + +So upon Easter day +Sailed the three kings away, +Out of the sheltered bay, + In the bright season; +With them Earl Sigvald came, +Eager for spoil and fame; +Pity that such a name + Stooped to such treason! + +Safe under Svald at last, +Now were their anchors cast, +Safe from the sea and blast, + Plotted the three kings; +While, with a base intent, +Southward Earl Sigvald went, +On a foul errand bent, + Unto the Sea-kings. + +Thence to hold on his course, +Unto King Olaf's force, +Lying within the hoarse + Mouths of Stet-haven; +Him to ensnare and bring, +Unto the Danish king, +Who his dead corse would fling + Forth to the raven! + + + +XVIII + +KING OLAF AND EARL SIGVALD + +On the gray sea-sands +King Olaf stands, +Northward and seaward +He points with his hands. + +With eddy and whirl +The sea-tides curl, +Washing the sandals +Of Sigvald the Earl. + +The mariners shout, +The ships swing about, +The yards are all hoisted, +The sails flutter out. + +The war-horns are played, +The anchors are weighed, +Like moths in the distance +The sails flit and fade. + +The sea is like lead +The harbor lies dead, +As a corse on the sea-shore, +Whose spirit has fled! + +On that fatal day, +The histories say, +Seventy vessels +Sailed out of the bay. + +But soon scattered wide +O'er the billows they ride, +While Sigvald and Olaf +Sail side by side. + +Cried the Earl: "Follow me! +I your pilot will be, +For I know all the channels +Where flows the deep sea!" + +So into the strait +Where his foes lie in wait, +Gallant King Olaf +Sails to his fate! + +Then the sea-fog veils +The ships and their sails; +Queen Sigrid the Haughty, +Thy vengeance prevails! + + + +XIX + +KING OLAF'S WAR-HORNS + +"Strike the sails!" King Olaf said; +"Never shall men of mine take flight; +Never away from battle I fled, +Never away from my foes! + Let God dispose +Of my life in the fight!" + +"Sound the horns!" said Olaf the King; +And suddenly through the drifting brume +The blare of the horns began to ring, +Like the terrible trumpet shock + Of Regnarock, +On the Day of Doom! + +Louder and louder the war-horns sang +Over the level floor of the flood; +All the sails came down with a clang, +And there in the mist overhead + The sun hung red +As a drop of blood. + +Drifting down on the Danish fleet +Three together the ships were lashed, +So that neither should turn and retreat; +In the midst, but in front of the rest + The burnished crest +Of the Serpent flashed. + +King Olaf stood on the quarter-deck, +With bow of ash and arrows of oak, +His gilded shield was without a fleck, +His helmet inlaid with gold, + And in many a fold +Hung his crimson cloak. + +On the forecastle Ulf the Red +Watched the lashing of the ships; +"If the Serpent lie so far ahead, +We shall have hard work of it here, + Said he with a sneer +On his bearded lips. + +King Olaf laid an arrow on string, +"Have I a coward on board?" said he. +"Shoot it another way, O King!" +Sullenly answered Ulf, + The old sea-wolf; +"You have need of me!" + +In front came Svend, the King of the Danes, +Sweeping down with his fifty rowers; +To the right, the Swedish king with his thanes; +And on board of the Iron Beard + Earl Eric steered +To the left with his oars. + +"These soft Danes and Swedes," said the King, +"At home with their wives had better stay, +Than come within reach of my Serpent's sting: +But where Eric the Norseman leads + Heroic deeds +Will be done to-day!" + +Then as together the vessels crashed, +Eric severed the cables of hide, +With which King Olaf's ships were lashed, +And left them to drive and drift + With the currents swift +Of the outward tide. + +Louder the war-horns growl and snarl, +Sharper the dragons bite and sting! +Eric the son of Hakon Jarl +A death-drink salt as the sea + Pledges to thee, +Olaf the King! + + + +XX + +EINAR TAMBERSKELVER + +It was Einar Tamberskelver + Stood beside the mast; +From his yew-bow, tipped with silver, + Flew the arrows fast; +Aimed at Eric unavailing, + As he sat concealed, +Half behind the quarter-railing, + Half behind his shield. + +First an arrow struck the tiller, + Just above his head; +"Sing, O Eyvind Skaldaspiller," + Then Earl Eric said. +"Sing the song of Hakon dying, + Sing his funeral wail!" +And another arrow flying + Grazed his coat of mail. + +Turning to a Lapland yeoman, + As the arrow passed, +Said Earl Eric, "Shoot that bowman + Standing by the mast." +Sooner than the word was spoken + Flew the yeoman's shaft; +Einar's bow in twain was broken, + Einar only laughed. + +"What was that?" said Olaf, standing + On the quarter-deck. +"Something heard I like the stranding + Of a shattered wreck." +Einar then, the arrow taking + From the loosened string, +Answered, "That was Norway breaking + From thy hand, O King!" + +"Thou art but a poor diviner," + Straightway Olaf said; +"Take my bow, and swifter, Einar, + Let thy shafts be sped." +Of his bows the fairest choosing, + Reached he from above; +Einar saw the blood-drops oozing + Through his iron glove. + +But the bow was thin and narrow; + At the first assay, +O'er its head he drew the arrow, + Flung the bow away; +Said, with hot and angry temper + Flushing in his cheek, +"Olaf! for so great a Kamper + Are thy bows too weak!" + +Then, with smile of joy defiant + On his beardless lip, +Scaled he, light and self-reliant, + Eric's dragon-ship. +Loose his golden locks were flowing, + Bright his armor gleamed; +Like Saint Michael overthrowing + Lucifer he seemed. + + + +XXI + +KING OLAF'S DEATH-DRINK + +All day has the battle raged, +All day have the ships engaged, +But not yet is assuaged + The vengeance of Eric the Earl. + +The decks with blood are red, +The arrows of death are sped, +The ships are filled with the dead, + And the spears the champions hurl. + +They drift as wrecks on the tide, +The grappling-irons are plied, +The boarders climb up the side, + The shouts are feeble and few. + +Ah! never shall Norway again +See her sailors come back o'er the main; +They all lie wounded or slain, + Or asleep in the billows blue! + +On the deck stands Olaf the King, +Around him whistle and sing +The spears that the foemen fling, + And the stones they hurl with their hands. + +In the midst of the stones and the spears, +Kolbiorn, the marshal, appears, +His shield in the air he uprears, + By the side of King Olaf he stands. + +Over the slippery wreck +Of the Long Serpent's deck +Sweeps Eric with hardly a check, + His lips with anger are pale; + +He hews with his axe at the mast, +Till it falls, with the sails overcast, +Like a snow-covered pine in the vast + Dim forests of Orkadale. + +Seeking King Olaf then, +He rushes aft with his men, +As a hunter into the den + Of the bear, when he stands at bay. + +"Remember Jarl Hakon!" he cries; +When lo! on his wondering eyes, +Two kingly figures arise, + Two Olaf's in warlike array! + +Then Kolbiorn speaks in the ear +Of King Olaf a word of cheer, +In a whisper that none may hear, + With a smile on his tremulous lip; + +Two shields raised high in the air, +Two flashes of golden hair, +Two scarlet meteors' glare, + And both have leaped from the ship. + +Earl Eric's men in the boats +Seize Kolbiorn's shield as it floats, +And cry, from their hairy throats, + "See! it is Olaf the King!" + +While far on the opposite side +Floats another shield on the tide, +Like a jewel set in the wide + Sea-current's eddying ring. + +There is told a wonderful tale, +How the King stripped off his mail, +Like leaves of the brown sea-kale, + As he swam beneath the main; + +But the young grew old and gray, +And never, by night or by day, +In his kingdom of Norroway + Was King Olaf seen again! + + + +XXII + +THE NUN OF NIDAROS + +In the convent of Drontheim, +Alone in her chamber +Knelt Astrid the Abbess, +At midnight, adoring, +Beseeching, entreating +The Virgin and Mother. + +She heard in the silence +The voice of one speaking, +Without in the darkness, +In gusts of the night-wind +Now louder, now nearer, +Now lost in the distance. + +The voice of a stranger +It seemed as she listened, +Of some one who answered, +Beseeching, imploring, +A cry from afar off +She could not distinguish. + +The voice of Saint John, +The beloved disciple, +Who wandered and waited +The Master's appearance. +Alone in the darkness, +Unsheltered and friendless. + +"It is accepted +The angry defiance +The challenge of battle! +It is accepted, +But not with the weapons +Of war that thou wieldest! + +"Cross against corselet, +Love against hatred, +Peace-cry for war-cry! +Patience is powerful; +He that o'ercometh +Hath power o'er the nations! + +"As torrents in summer, +Half dried in their channels, +Suddenly rise, though the +Sky is still cloudless, +For rain has been falling +Far off at their fountains; + +So hearts that are fainting +Grow full to o'erflowing, +And they that behold it +Marvel, and know not +That God at their fountains +Far off has been raining! + +"Stronger than steel +Is the sword of the Spirit; +Swifter than arrows +The light of the truth is, +Greater than anger +Is love, and subdueth! + +"Thou art a phantom, +A shape of the sea-mist, +A shape of the brumal +Rain, and the darkness +Fearful and formless; +Day dawns and thou art not! + +"The dawn is not distant, +Nor is the night starless; +Love is eternal! +God is still God, and +His faith shall not fail us +Christ is eternal!" + + + + +INTERLUDE + +A strain of music closed the tale, +A low, monotonous, funeral wail, +That with its cadence, wild and sweet, +Made the long Saga more complete. + +"Thank God," the Theologian said, +"The reign of violence is dead, +Or dying surely from the world; +While Love triumphant reigns instead, +And in a brighter sky o'erhead +His blessed banners are unfurled. +And most of all thank God for this: +The war and waste of clashing creeds +Now end in words, and not in deeds, +And no one suffers loss, or bleeds, +For thoughts that men call heresies. + +"I stand without here in the porch, +I hear the bell's melodious din, +I hear the organ peal within, +I hear the prayer, with words that scorch +Like sparks from an inverted torch, +I hear the sermon upon sin, +With threatenings of the last account. +And all, translated in the air, +Reach me but as our dear Lord's Prayer, +And as the Sermon on the Mount. + +"Must it be Calvin, and not Christ? +Must it be Athanasian creeds, +Or holy water, books, and beads? +Must struggling souls remain content +With councils and decrees of Trend? +And can it be enough for these +The Christian Church the year embalms +With evergreens and boughs of palms, +And fills the air with litanies? + +"I know that yonder Pharisee +Thanks God that he is not like me; +In my humiliation dressed, +I only stand and beat my breast, +And pray for human charity. + +"Not to one church alone, but seven, +The voice prophetic spake from heaven; +And unto each the promise came, +Diversified, but still the same; +For him that overcometh are +The new name written on the stone, +The raiment white, the crown, the throne, +And I will give him the Morning Star! + +"Ah! to how many Faith has been +No evidence of things unseen, +But a dim shadow, that recasts +The creed of the Phantasiasts, +For whom no Man of Sorrows died, +For whom the Tragedy Divine +Was but a symbol and a sign, +And Christ a phantom crucified! + +"For others a diviner creed +Is living in the life they lead. +The passing of their beautiful feet +Blesses the pavement of the street +And all their looks and words repeat +Old Fuller's saying, wise and sweet, +Not as a vulture, but a dove, +The Holy Ghost came from above. + +"And this brings back to me a tale +So sad the hearer well may quail, +And question if such things can be; +Yet in the chronicles of Spain +Down the dark pages runs this stain, +And naught can wash them white again, +So fearful is the tragedy." + + + +THE THEOLOGIAN'S TALE + +TORQUEMADA + +In the heroic days when Ferdinand +And Isabella ruled the Spanish land, +And Torquemada, with his subtle brain, +Ruled them, as Grand Inquisitor of Spain, +In a great castle near Valladolid, +Moated and high and by fair woodlands hid, +There dwelt as from the chronicles we learn, +An old Hidalgo proud and taciturn, +Whose name has perished, with his towers of stone, +And all his actions save this one alone; +This one, so terrible, perhaps 't were best +If it, too, were forgotten with the rest; +Unless, perchance, our eyes can see therein +The martyrdom triumphant o'er the sin; +A double picture, with its gloom and glow, +The splendor overhead, the death below. + +This sombre man counted each day as lost +On which his feet no sacred threshold crossed; +And when he chanced the passing Host to meet, +He knelt and prayed devoutly in the street; +Oft he confessed; and with each mutinous thought, +As with wild beasts at Ephesus, he fought. +In deep contrition scourged himself in Lent, +Walked in processions, with his head down bent, +At plays of Corpus Christi oft was seen, +And on Palm Sunday bore his bough of green. +His sole diversion was to hunt the boar +Through tangled thickets of the forest hoar, +Or with his jingling mules to hurry down +To some grand bull-fight in the neighboring town, +Or in the crowd with lighted taper stand, +When Jews were burned, or banished from the land. +Then stirred within him a tumultuous joy; +The demon whose delight is to destroy +Shook him, and shouted with a trumpet tone, +Kill! kill! and let the Lord find out his own!" + +And now, in that old castle in the wood, +His daughters, in the dawn of womanhood, +Returning from their convent school, had made +Resplendent with their bloom the forest shade, +Reminding him of their dead mother's face, +When first she came into that gloomy place,-- +A memory in his heart as dim and sweet +As moonlight in a solitary street, +Where the same rays, that lift the sea, are thrown +Lovely but powerless upon walls of stone. +These two fair daughters of a mother dead +Were all the dream had left him as it fled. +A joy at first, and then a growing care, +As if a voice within him cried, "Beware +A vague presentiment of impending doom, +Like ghostly footsteps in a vacant room, +Haunted him day and night; a formless fear +That death to some one of his house was near, +With dark surmises of a hidden crime, +Made life itself a death before its time. +Jealous, suspicious, with no sense of shame, +A spy upon his daughters he became; +With velvet slippers, noiseless on the floors, +He glided softly through half-open doors; +Now in the room, and now upon the stair, +He stood beside them ere they were aware; +He listened in the passage when they talked, +He watched them from the casement when they walked, +He saw the gypsy haunt the river's side, +He saw the monk among the cork-trees glide; +And, tortured by the mystery and the doubt +Of some dark secret, past his finding out, +Baffled he paused; then reassured again +Pursued the flying phantom of his brain. +He watched them even when they knelt in church; +And then, descending lower in his search, +Questioned the servants, and with eager eyes +Listened incredulous to their replies; +The gypsy? none had seen her in the wood! +The monk? a mendicant in search of food! + +At length the awful revelation came, +Crushing at once his pride of birth and name; +The hopes his yearning bosom forward cast, +And the ancestral glories of the vast, +All fell together, crumbling in disgrace, +A turret rent from battlement to base. +His daughters talking in the dead of night +In their own chamber, and without a light, +Listening, as he was wont, he overheard, +And learned the dreadful secret, word by word; +And hurrying from his castle, with a cry +He raised his hands to the unpitying sky, +Repeating one dread word, till bush and tree +Caught it, and shuddering answered, "Heresy!" + +Wrapped in his cloak, his hat drawn o'er his face, +Now hurrying forward, now with lingering pace, +He walked all night the alleys of his park, +With one unseen companion in the dark, +The Demon who within him lay in wait, +And by his presence turned his love to hate, +Forever muttering in an undertone, +"Kill! kill! and let the Lord find out his own!" + +Upon the morrow, after early Mass, +While yet the dew was glistening on the grass, +And all the woods were musical with birds, +The old Hidalgo, uttering fearful words, +Walked homeward with the Priest, and in his room +Summoned his trembling daughters to their doom. +When questioned, with brief answers they replied, +Nor when accused evaded or denied; +Expostulations, passionate appeals, +All that the human heart most fears or feels, +In vain the Priest with earnest voice essayed; +In vain the father threatened, wept, and prayed; +Until at last he said, with haughty mien, +"The Holy Office, then, must intervene!" + +And now the Grand Inquisitor of Spain, +With all the fifty horsemen of his train, +His awful name resounding, like the blast +Of funeral trumpets, as he onward passed, +Came to Valladolid, and there began +To harry the rich Jews with fire and ban. +To him the Hidalgo went, and at the gate +Demanded audience on affairs of state, +And in a secret chamber stood before +A venerable graybeard of fourscore, +Dressed in the hood and habit of a friar; +Out of his eyes flashed a consuming fire, +And in his hand the mystic horn he held, +Which poison and all noxious charms dispelled. +He heard in silence the Hidalgo's tale, +Then answered in a voice that made him quail: +"Son of the Church! when Abraham of old +To sacrifice his only son was told, +He did not pause to parley nor protest +But hastened to obey the Lord's behest. +In him it was accounted righteousness; +The Holy Church expects of thee no less!" + +A sacred frenzy seized the father's brain, +And Mercy from that hour implored in vain. +Ah! who will e'er believe the words I say? +His daughters he accused, and the same day +They both were cast into the dungeon's gloom, +That dismal antechamber of the tomb, +Arraigned, condemned, and sentenced to the flame, +The secret torture and the public shame. + +Then to the Grand Inquisitor once more +The Hidalgo went, more eager than before, +And said: "When Abraham offered up his son, +He clave the wood wherewith it might be done. +By his example taught, let me too bring +Wood from the forest for my offering!" +And the deep voice, without a pause, replied: +"Son of the Church! by faith now justified, +Complete thy sacrifice, even as thou wilt; +The Church absolves thy conscience from all guilt!" + +Then this most wretched father went his way +Into the woods, that round his castle lay, +Where once his daughters in their childhood played +With their young mother in the sun and shade. +Now all the leaves had fallen; the branches bare +Made a perpetual moaning in the air, +And screaming from their eyries overhead +The ravens sailed athwart the sky of lead. +With his own hands he lopped the boughs and bound +Fagots, that crackled with foreboding sound, +And on his mules, caparisoned and gay +With bells and tassels, sent them on their way. + +Then with his mind on one dark purpose bent, +Again to the Inquisitor he went, +And said: "Behold, the fagots I have brought, +And now, lest my atonement be as naught, +Grant me one more request, one last desire,-- +With my own hand to light the funeral fire!" +And Torquemada answered from his seat, +"Son of the Church! Thine offering is complete; +Her servants through all ages shall not cease +To magnify thy deed. Depart in peace!" + +Upon the market-place, builded of stone +The scaffold rose, whereon Death claimed his own. +At the four corners, in stern attitude, +Four statues of the Hebrew Prophets stood, +Gazing with calm indifference in their eyes +Upon this place of human sacrifice, +Round which was gathering fast the eager crowd, +With clamor of voices dissonant and loud, +And every roof and window was alive +With restless gazers, swarming like a hive. + +The church-bells tolled, the chant of monks drew near, +Loud trumpets stammered forth their notes of fear, +A line of torches smoked along the street, +There was a stir, a rush, a tramp of feet, +And, with its banners floating in the air, +Slowly the long procession crossed the square, +And, to the statues of the Prophets bound, +The victims stood, with fagots piled around. +Then all the air a blast of trumpets shook, +And louder sang the monks with bell and book, +And the Hidalgo, lofty, stern, and proud, +Lifted his torch, and, bursting through the crowd, +Lighted in haste the fagots, and then fled, +Lest those imploring eyes should strike him dead! + +O pitiless skies! why did your clouds retain +For peasants' fields their floods of hoarded rain? +O pitiless earth! why open no abyss +To bury in its chasm a crime like this? + +That night a mingled column of fire and smoke +Prom the dark thickets of the forest broke, +And, glaring o'er the landscape leagues away, +Made all the fields and hamlets bright as day. +Wrapped in a sheet of flame the castle blazed, +And as the villagers in terror gazed, +They saw the figure of that cruel knight +Lean from a window in the turret's height, +His ghastly face illumined with the glare, +His hands upraised above his head in prayer, +Till the floor sank beneath him, and he fell +Down the black hollow of that burning well. + +Three centuries and more above his bones +Have piled the oblivious years like funeral stones; +His name has perished with him, and no trace +Remains on earth of his afflicted race; +But Torquemada's name, with clouds o'ercast, +Looms in the distant landscape of the Past, +Like a burnt tower upon a blackened heath, +Lit by the fires of burning woods beneath! + + + +INTERLUDE + +Thus closed the tale of guilt and gloom, +That cast upon each listener's face +Its shadow, and for some brief space +Unbroken silence filled the room. +The Jew was thoughtful and distressed; +Upon his memory thronged and pressed +The persecution of his race, +Their wrongs and sufferings and disgrace; +His head was sunk upon his breast, +And from his eyes alternate came +Flashes of wrath and tears of shame. + +The student first the silence broke, +As one who long has lain in wait +With purpose to retaliate, +And thus he dealt the avenging stroke. +"In such a company as this, +A tale so tragic seems amiss, +That by its terrible control +O'ermasters and drags down the soul +Into a fathomless abyss. +The Italian Tales that you disdain, +Some merry Night of Straparole, +Or Machiavelli's Belphagor, +Would cheer us and delight us more, +Give greater pleasure and less pain +Than your grim tragedies of Spain!" + +And here the Poet raised his hand, +With such entreaty and command, +It stopped discussion at its birth, +And said: "The story I shall tell +Has meaning in it, if not mirth; +Listen, and hear what once befell +The merry birds of Killingworth!" + + + +THE POET'S TALE + +THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH + +It was the season, when through all the land + The merle and mavis build, and building sing +Those lovely lyrics, written by His hand, + Whom Saxon Caedmon calls the Blitheheart King; +When on the boughs the purple buds expand, + The banners of the vanguard of the Spring, +And rivulets, rejoicing, rush and leap, +And wave their fluttering signals from the steep. + +The robin and the bluebird, piping loud, + Filled all the blossoming orchards with their glee; +The sparrows chirped as if they still were proud + Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned be; +And hungry crows assembled in a crowd, + Clamored their piteous prayer incessantly, +Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and said: +"Give us, O Lord, this day our daily bread!" + +Across the Sound the birds of passage sailed, + Speaking some unknown language strange and sweet +Of tropic isle remote, and passing hailed + The village with the cheers of all their fleet; +Or quarrelling together, laughed and railed + Like foreign sailors, landed in the street +Of seaport town, and with outlandish noise +Of oaths and gibberish frightening girls and boys. + +Thus came the jocund Spring in Killingworth, + In fabulous day; some hundred years ago; +And thrifty farmers, as they tilled the earth, + Heard with alarm the cawing of the crow, +That mingled with the universal mirth, + Cassandra-like, prognosticating woe; +They shook their heads, and doomed with dreadful words +To swift destruction the whole race of birds. + +And a town-meeting was convened straightway + To set a price upon the guilty heads +Of these marauders, who, in lieu of pay, + Levied black-mail upon the garden beds +And cornfields, and beheld without dismay + The awful scarecrow, with his fluttering shreds; +The skeleton that waited at their feast, +Whereby their sinful pleasure was increased. + +Then from his house, a temple painted white, + With fluted columns, and a roof of red, +The Squire came forth, august and splendid sight! + Slowly descending, with majestic tread, +Three flights of steps, nor looking left nor right, + Down the long street he walked, as one who said, +"A town that boasts inhabitants like me +Can have no lack of good society!" + +The Parson, too, appeared, a man austere, + The instinct of whose nature was to kill; +The wrath of God he preached from year to year, + And read, with fervor, Edwards on the Will; +His favorite pastime was to slay the deer + In Summer on some Adirondac hill; +E'en now, while walking down the rural lane, +He lopped the wayside lilies with his cane. + +From the Academy, whose belfry crowned + The hill of Science with its vane of brass, +Came the Preceptor, gazing idly round, + Now at the clouds, and now at the green grass, +And all absorbed in reveries profound + Of fair Almira in the upper class, +Who was, as in a sonnet he had said, +As pure as water, and as good as bread. + +And next the Deacon issued from his door, + In his voluminous neck-cloth, white as snow; +A suit of sable bombazine he wore; + His form was ponderous, and his step was slow; +There never was so wise a man before; + He seemed the incarnate "Well, I told you so!" +And to perpetuate his great renown +There was a street named after him in town. + +These came together in the new town-hall, + With sundry farmers from the region round. +The Squirt presided, dignified and tall, + His air impressive and his reasoning sound; +Ill fared it with the birds, both great and small; + Hardly a friend in all that crowd they found, +But enemies enough, who every one +Charged them with all the crimes beneath the sun. + +When they had ended, from his place apart, + Rose the Preceptor, to redress the wrong, +And, trembling like a steed before the start, + Looked round bewildered on the expectant throng; +Then thought of fair Almira, and took heart + To speak out what was in him, clear and strong, +Alike regardless of their smile or frown, +And quite determined not to be laughed down. + +"Plato, anticipating the Reviewers, + From his Republic banished without pity +The Poets; in this little town of yours, + You put to death, by means of a Committee, +The ballad-singers and the Troubadours, + The street-musicians of the heavenly city, +The birds, who make sweet music for us all +In our dark hours, as David did for Saul. + +"The thrush that carols at the dawn of day + From the green steeples of the piny wood; +The oriole in the elm; the noisy jay, + Jargoning like a foreigner at his food; +The bluebird balanced on some topmost spray, + Flooding with melody the neighborhood; +Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throng +That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song. + +"You slay them all! and wherefore! for the gain + Of a scant handful more or less of wheat, +Or rye, or barley, or some other grain, + Scratched up at random by industrious feet, +Searching for worm or weevil after rain! + Or a few cherries, that are not so sweet +As are the songs these uninvited guests, +Sing at their feast with comfortable breasts. + +"Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these? + Do you ne'er think who made them and who taught +The dialect they speak, where melodies + Alone are the interpreters of thought? +Whose household words are songs in many keys, + Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught! +Whose habitations in the tree-tops even +Are half-way houses on the road to heaven! + +"Think, every morning when the sun peeps through + The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove, +How jubilant the happy birds renew + Their old, melodious madrigals of love! +And when you think of this, remember too + 'T is always morning somewhere, and above +The awakening continent; from shore to shore, +Somewhere the birds are singing evermore. + +"Think of your woods and orchards without birds! + Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beams +As in an idiot's brain remembered words + Hang empty 'mid the cobwebs of his dreams! +Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of herds + Make up for the lost music, when your teams +Drag home the stingy harvest, and no more +The feathered gleaners follow to your door? + +"What! would you rather see the incessant stir + Of insects in the windrows of the hay, +And hear the locust and the grasshopper + Their melancholy hurdy-gurdies play? +Is this more pleasant to you than the whir + Of meadow-lark, and her sweet roundelay, +Or twitter of little field-fares, as you take +Your nooning in the shade of bush and brake? + +"You call them thieves and pillagers; but know, + They are the winged wardens of your farms, +Who from the cornfields drive the insidious foe, + And from your harvests keep a hundred harms; +Even the blackest of them all, the crow, + Renders good service as your man-at-arms, +Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail, +And crying havoc on the slug and snail. + +"How can I teach your children gentleness, + And mercy to the weak, and reverence +For Life, which, in its weakness or excess, + Is still a gleam of God's omnipotence, +Or Death, which, seeming darkness, is no less + The selfsame light, although averted hence, +When by your laws, your actions, and your speech, +You contradict the very things I teach?" + +With this he closed; and through the audience went + A murmur, like the rustle of dead leaves; +The farmers laughed and nodded, and some bent + Their yellow heads together like their sheaves; +Men have no faith in fine-spun sentiment + Who put their trust in bullocks and in beeves. +The birds were doomed; and, as the record shows, +A bounty offered for the heads of crows. + +There was another audience out of reach, + Who had no voice nor vote in making laws, +But in the papers read his little speech, + And crowned his modest temples with applause; +They made him conscious, each one more than each, + He still was victor, vanquished in their cause. +Sweetest of all the applause he won from thee, +O fair Almira at the Academy! + +And so the dreadful massacre began; + O'er fields and orchards, and o'er woodland crests, +The ceaseless fusillade of terror ran. + Dead fell the birds, with blood-stains on their breasts, +Or wounded crept away from sight of man, + While the young died of famine in their nests; +A slaughter to be told in groans, not words, +The very St. Bartholomew of Birds! + +The Summer came, and all the birds were dead; + The days were like hot coals; the very ground +Was burned to ashes; in the orchards fed + Myriads of caterpillars, and around +The cultivated fields and garden beds + Hosts of devouring insects crawled, and found +No foe to check their march, till they had made +The land a desert without leaf or shade. + +Devoured by worms, like Herod, was the town, + Because, like Herod, it had ruthlessly +Slaughtered the Innocents. From the trees spun down + The canker-worms upon the passers-by, +Upon each woman's bonnet, shawl, and gown, + Who shook them off with just a little cry +They were the terror of each favorite walk, +The endless theme of all the village talk. + +The farmers grew impatient but a few + Confessed their error, and would not complain, +For after all, the best thing one can do + When it is raining, is to let it rain. +Then they repealed the law, although they knew + It would not call the dead to life again; +As school-boys, finding their mistake too late, +Draw a wet sponge across the accusing slate. + +That year in Killingworth the Autumn came + Without the light of his majestic look, +The wonder of the falling tongues of flame, + The illumined pages of his Doom's-Day book. +A few lost leaves blushed crimson with their shame, + And drowned themselves despairing in the brook, +While the wild wind went moaning everywhere, +Lamenting the dead children of the air! + +But the next Spring a stranger sight was seen, + A sight that never yet by bard was sung, +As great a wonder as it would have been + If some dumb animal had found a tongue! +A wagon, overarched with evergreen, + Upon whose boughs were wicker cages hung, +All full of singing birds, came down the street, +Filling the air with music wild and sweet. + +From all the country round these birds were brought, + By order of the town, with anxious quest, +And, loosened from their wicker prisons, sought + In woods and fields the places they loved best, +Singing loud canticles, which many thought + Were satires to the authorities addressed, +While others, listening in green lanes, averred +Such lovely music never had been heard! + +But blither still and louder carolled they + Upon the morrow, for they seemed to know +It was the fair Almira's wedding-day, + And everywhere, around, above, below, +When the Preceptor bore his bride away, + Their songs burst forth in joyous overflow, +And a new heaven bent over a new earth +Amid the sunny farms of Killingworth. + + + +FINALE + +The hour was late; the fire burned low, +The Landlord's eyes were closed in sleep, +And near the story's end a deep +Sonorous sound at times was heard, +As when the distant bagpipes blow. +At this all laughed; the Landlord stirred, +As one awaking from a swound, +And, gazing anxiously around, +Protested that he had not slept, +But only shut his eyes, and kept +His ears attentive to each word. + +Then all arose, and said "Good Night." +Alone remained the drowsy Squire +To rake the embers of the fire, +And quench the waning parlor light. +While from the windows, here and there, +The scattered lamps a moment gleamed, +And the illumined hostel seemed +The constellation of the Bear, +Downward, athwart the misty air, +Sinking and setting toward the sun, +Far off the village clock struck one. + + + +PART SECOND + +PRELUDE + +A cold, uninterrupted rain, +That washed each southern window-pane, +And made a river of the road; +A sea of mist that overflowed +The house, the barns, the gilded vane, +And drowned the upland and the plain, +Through which the oak-trees, broad and high, +Like phantom ships went drifting by; +And, hidden behind a watery screen, +The sun unseen, or only seen +As a faint pallor in the sky;-- +Thus cold and colorless and gray, +The morn of that autumnal day, +As if reluctant to begin, +Dawned on the silent Sudbury Inn, +And all the guests that in it lay. + +Full late they slept. They did not hear +The challenge of Sir Chanticleer, +Who on the empty threshing-floor, +Disdainful of the rain outside, +Was strutting with a martial stride, +As if upon his thigh he wore +The famous broadsword of the Squire, +And said, "Behold me, and admire!" + +Only the Poet seemed to hear, +In drowse or dream, more near and near +Across the border-land of sleep +The blowing of a blithesome horn, +That laughed the dismal day to scorn; +A splash of hoofs and rush of wheels +Through sand and mire like stranding keels, +As from the road with sudden sweep +The Mail drove up the little steep, +And stopped beside the tavern door; +A moment stopped, and then again +With crack of whip and bark of dog +Plunged forward through the sea of fog, +And all was silent as before,-- +All silent save the dripping rain. + +Then one by one the guests came down, +And greeted with a smile the Squire, +Who sat before the parlor fire, +Reading the paper fresh from town. +First the Sicilian, like a bird, +Before his form appeared, was heard +Whistling and singing down the stair; +Then came the Student, with a look +As placid as a meadow-brook; +The Theologian, still perplexed +With thoughts of this world and the next; +The Poet then, as one who seems +Walking in visions and in dreams; +Then the Musician, like a fair +Hyperion from whose golden hair +The radiance of the morning streams; +And last the aromatic Jew +Of Alicant, who, as he threw +The door wide open, on the air +Breathed round about him a perfume +Of damask roses in full bloom, +Making a garden of the room. + +The breakfast ended, each pursued +The promptings of his various mood; +Beside the fire in silence smoked +The taciturn, impassive Jew, +Lost in a pleasant revery; +While, by his gravity provoked, +His portrait the Sicilian drew, +And wrote beneath it "Edrehi, +At the Red Horse in Sudbury." + +By far the busiest of them all, +The Theologian in the hall +Was feeding robins in a cage,-- +Two corpulent and lazy birds, +Vagrants and pilferers at best, +If one might trust the hostler's words, +Chief instrument of their arrest; +Two poets of the Golden Age, +Heirs of a boundless heritage +Of fields and orchards, east and west, +And sunshine of long summer days, +Though outlawed now and dispossessed!-- +Such was the Theologian's phrase. + +Meanwhile the Student held discourse +With the Musician, on the source +Of all the legendary lore +Among the nations, scattered wide +Like silt and seaweed by the force +And fluctuation of the tide; +The tale repeated o'er and o'er, +With change of place and change of name, +Disguised, transformed, and yet the same +We've heard a hundred times before. + +The Poet at the window mused, +And saw, as in a dream confused, +The countenance of the Sun, discrowned, +And haggard with a pale despair, +And saw the cloud-rack trail and drift +Before it, and the trees uplift +Their leafless branches, and the air +Filled with the arrows of the rain, +And heard amid the mist below, +Like voices of distress and pain, +That haunt the thoughts of men insane, +The fateful cawings of the crow. + +Then down the road, with mud besprent, +And drenched with rain from head to hoof, +The rain-drops dripping from his mane +And tail as from a pent-house roof, +A jaded horse, his head down bent, +Passed slowly, limping as he went. + +The young Sicilian--who had grown +Impatient longer to abide +A prisoner, greatly mortified +To see completely overthrown +His plans for angling in the brook, +And, leaning o'er the bridge of stone, +To watch the speckled trout glide by, +And float through the inverted sky, +Still round and round the baited hook-- +Now paced the room with rapid stride, +And, pausing at the Poet's side, +Looked forth, and saw the wretched steed, +And said: "Alas for human greed, +That with cold hand and stony eye +Thus turns an old friend out to die, +Or beg his food from gate to gate! +This brings a tale into my mind, +Which, if you are not disinclined +To listen, I will now relate." + +All gave assent; all wished to hear, +Not without many a jest and jeer, +The story of a spavined steed; +And even the Student with the rest +Put in his pleasant little jest +Out of Malherbe, that Pegasus +Is but a horse that with all speed +Bears poets to the hospital; +While the Sicilian, self-possessed, +After a moment's interval +Began his simple story thus. + + + +THE SICILIAN'S TALE + +THE BELL OF ATRI + +At Atri in Abruzzo, a small town +Of ancient Roman date, but scant renown, +One of those little places that have run +Half up the hill, beneath a blazing sun, +And then sat down to rest, as if to say, +"I climb no farther upward, come what may,"-- +The Re Giovanni, now unknown to fame, +So many monarchs since have borne the name, +Had a great bell hung in the market-place +Beneath a roof, projecting some small space, +By way of shelter from the sun and rain. +Then rode he through the streets with all his train, +And, with the blast of trumpets loud and long, +Made proclamation, that whenever wrong +Was done to any man, he should but ring +The great bell in the square, and he, the King, +Would cause the Syndic to decide thereon. +Such was the proclamation of King John. + +How swift the happy days in Atri sped, +What wrongs were righted, need not here be said. +Suffice it that, as all things must decay, +The hempen rope at length was worn away, +Unravelled at the end, and, strand by strand, +Loosened and wasted in the ringer's hand, +Till one, who noted this in passing by, +Mended the rope with braids of briony, +So that the leaves and tendrils of the vine +Hung like a votive garland at a shrine. + +By chance it happened that in Atri dwelt +A knight, with spur on heel and sword in belt, +Who loved to hunt the wild-boar in the woods, +Who loved his falcons with their crimson hoods, +Who loved his hounds and horses, and all sports +And prodigalities of camps and courts;-- +Loved, or had loved them; for at last, grown old, +His only passion was the love of gold. + +He sold his horses, sold his hawks and hounds, +Rented his vineyards and his garden-grounds, +Kept but one steed, his favorite steed of all, +To starve and shiver in a naked stall, +And day by day sat brooding in his chair, +Devising plans how best to hoard and spare. + +At length he said: "What is the use or need +To keep at my own cost this lazy steed, +Eating his head off in my stables here, +When rents are low and provender is dear? +Let him go feed upon the public ways; +I want him only for the holidays." +So the old steed was turned into the heat +Of the long, lonely, silent, shadeless street; +And wandered in suburban lanes forlorn, +Barked at by dogs, and torn by brier and thorn. + +One afternoon, as in that sultry clime +It is the custom in the summer time, +With bolted doors and window-shutters closed, +The inhabitants of Atri slept or dozed; +When suddenly upon their senses fell +The loud alarum of the accusing bell! +The Syndic started from his deep repose, +Turned on his couch, and listened, and then rose +And donned his robes, and with reluctant pace +Went panting forth into the market-place, +Where the great bell upon its cross-beam swung +Reiterating with persistent tongue, +In half-articulate jargon, the old song: +"Some one hath done a wrong, hath done a wrong!" + +But ere he reached the belfry's light arcade +He saw, or thought he saw, beneath its shade, +No shape of human form of woman born, +But a poor steed dejected and forlorn, +Who with uplifted head and eager eye +Was tugging at the vines of briony. +"Domeneddio!" cried the Syndie straight, +"This is the Knight of Atri's steed of state! +He calls for justice, being sore distressed, +And pleads his cause as loudly as the best." + +Meanwhile from street and lane a noisy crowd +Had rolled together like a summer cloud, +And told the story of the wretched beast +In five-and-twenty different ways at least, +With much gesticulation and appeal +To heathen gods, in their excessive zeal. +The Knight was called and questioned; in reply +Did not confess the fact, did not deny; +Treated the matter as a pleasant jest, +And set at naught the Syndic and the rest, +Maintaining, in an angry undertone, +That he should do what pleased him with his own. + +And thereupon the Syndic gravely read +The proclamation of the King; then said: +"Pride goeth forth on horseback grand and gay, +But cometh back on foot, and begs its way; +Fame is the fragrance of heroic deeds, +Of flowers of chivalry and not of weeds! +These are familiar proverbs; but I fear +They never yet have reached your knightly ear. +What fair renown, what honor, what repute +Can come to you from starving this poor brute? +He who serves well and speaks not, merits more +Than they who clamor loudest at the door. +Therefore the law decrees that as this steed +Served you in youth, henceforth you shall take heed +To comfort his old age, and to provide +Shelter in stall an food and field beside." + +The Knight withdrew abashed; the people all +Led home the steed in triumph to his stall. +The King heard and approved, and laughed in glee +And cried aloud: "Right well it pleaseth me! +Church-bells at best but ring us to the door; +But go not in to mass; my bell doth more: +It cometh into court and pleads the cause +Of creatures dumb and unknown to the laws; +And this shall make, in every Christian clime, +The Bell of Atri famous for all time." + + + +INTERLUDE + +"Yes, well your story pleads the cause +Of those dumb mouths that have no speech, +Only a cry from each to each +In its own kind, with its own laws; +Something that is beyond the reach +Of human power to learn or teach,-- +An inarticulate moan of pain, +Like the immeasurable main +Breaking upon an unknown beach." + +Thus spake the Poet with a sigh; +Then added, with impassioned cry, +As one who feels the words he speaks, +The color flushing in his cheeks, +The fervor burning in his eye: +"Among the noblest in the land, +Though he may count himself the least, +That man I honor and revere +Who without favor, without fear, +In the great city dares to stand +The friend of every friendless beast, +And tames with his unflinching hand +The brutes that wear our form and face, +The were-wolves of the human race!" +Then paused, and waited with a frown, +Like some old champion of romance, +Who, having thrown his gauntlet down, +Expectant leans upon his lance; +But neither Knight nor Squire is found +To raise the gauntlet from the ground, +And try with him the battle's chance. + +"Wake from your dreams, O Edrehi! +Or dreaming speak to us, and make +A feint of being half awake, +And tell us what your dreams may be. +Out of the hazy atmosphere +Of cloud-land deign to reappear +Among us in this Wayside Inn; +Tell us what visions and what scenes +Illuminate the dark ravines +In which you grope your way. Begin!" + +Thus the Sicilian spake. The Jew +Made no reply, but only smiled, +As men unto a wayward child, +Not knowing what to answer, do. +As from a cavern's mouth, o'ergrown +With moss and intertangled vines, +A streamlet leaps into the light +And murmurs over root and stone +In a melodious undertone; +Or as amid the noonday night +Of sombre and wind-haunted pines, +There runs a sound as of the sea; +So from his bearded lips there came +A melody without a name, +A song, a tale, a history, +Or whatsoever it may be, +Writ and recorded in these lines. + + + +THE SPANISH JEW'S TALE + +KAMBALU + +Into the city of Kambalu, +By the road that leadeth to Ispahan, +At the head of his dusty caravan, +Laden with treasure from realms afar, +Baldacca and Kelat and Kandahar, +Rode the great captain Alau. + +The Khan from his palace-window gazed, +And saw in the thronging street beneath, +In the light of the setting sun, that blazed +Through the clouds of dust by the caravan raised, +The flash of harness and jewelled sheath, +And the shining scymitars of the guard, +And the weary camels that bared their teeth, +As they passed and passed through the gates unbarred +Into the shade of the palace-yard. + +Thus into the city of Kambalu +Rode the great captain Alau; +And he stood before the Khan, and said: +"The enemies of my lord are dead; +All the Kalifs of all the West +Bow and obey thy least behest; +The plains are dark with the mulberry-trees, +The weavers are busy in Samarcand, +The miners are sifting the golden sand, +The divers plunging for pearls in the seas, +And peace and plenty are in the land. + +"Baldacca's Kalif, and he alone, +Rose in revolt against thy throne: +His treasures are at thy palace-door, +With the swords and the shawls and the jewels he wore; +His body is dust o'er the desert blown. + +"A mile outside of Baldacca's gate +I left my forces to lie in wait, +Concealed by forests and hillocks of sand, +And forward dashed with a handful of men, +To lure the old tiger from his den +Into the ambush I had planned. +Ere we reached the town the alarm was spread, +For we heard the sound of gongs from within; +And with clash of cymbals and warlike din +The gates swung wide; and we turned and fled; +And the garrison sallied forth and pursued, +With the gray old Kalif at their head, +And above them the banner of Mohammed: +So we snared them all, and the town was subdued. + +"As in at the gate we rode, behold, +A tower that is called the Tower of Gold! +For there the Kalif had hidden his wealth, +Heaped and hoarded and piled on high, +Like sacks of wheat in a granary; +And thither the miser crept by stealth +To feel of the gold that gave him health, +And to gaze and gloat with his hungry eye +On jewels that gleamed like a glow-worm's spark, +Or the eyes of a panther in the dark. + +"I said to the Kalif: 'Thou art old, +Thou hast no need of so much gold. +Thou shouldst not have heaped and hidden it here, +Till the breath of battle was hot and near, +But have sown through the land these useless hoards +To spring into shining blades of swords, +And keep thine honor sweet and clear. +These grains of gold are not grains of wheat; +These bars of silver thou canst not eat; +These jewels and pearls and precious stones +Cannot cure the aches in thy bones, +Nor keep the feet of Death one hour +From climbing the stairways of thy tower!' + +"Then into his dungeon I locked the drone, +And left him to feed there all alone +In the honey-cells of his golden hive: +Never a prayer, nor a cry, nor a groan +Was heard from those massive walls of stone, +Nor again was the Kalif seen alive! + +"When at last we unlocked the door, +We found him dead upon the floor; +The rings had dropped from his withered hands, +His teeth were like bones in the desert sands: +Still clutching his treasure he had died; +And as he lay there, he appeared +A statue of gold with a silver beard, +His arms outstretched as if crucified." + +This is the story, strange and true, +That the great captain Alau +Told to his brother the Tartar Khan, +When he rode that day into Kambalu +By the road that leadeth to Ispahan. + + + +INTERLUDE + +"I thought before your tale began," +The Student murmured, "we should have +Some legend written by Judah Rav +In his Gemara of Babylon; +Or something from the Gulistan,-- +The tale of the Cazy of Hamadan, +Or of that King of Khorasan +Who saw in dreams the eyes of one +That had a hundred years been dead +Still moving restless in his head, +Undimmed, and gleaming with the lust +Of power, though all the rest was dust. + +"But lo! your glittering caravan +On the road that leadeth to Ispahan +Hath led us farther to the East +Into the regions of Cathay. +Spite of your Kalif and his gold, +Pleasant has been the tale you told, +And full of color; that at least +No one will question or gainsay. +And yet on such a dismal day +We need a merrier tale to clear +The dark and heavy atmosphere. +So listen, Lordlings, while I tell, +Without a preface, what befell +A simple cobbler, in the year -- +No matter; it was long ago; +And that is all we need to know." + + + +THE STUDENT'S TALE + +THE COBBLER OF HAGENAU + +I trust that somewhere and somehow +You all have heard of Hagenau, +A quiet, quaint, and ancient town +Among the green Alsatian hills, +A place of valleys, streams, and mills, +Where Barbarossa's castle, brown +With rust of centuries, still looks down +On the broad, drowsy land below,-- +On shadowy forests filled with game, +And the blue river winding slow +Through meadows, where the hedges grow +That give this little town its name. + +It happened in the good old times, +While yet the Master-singers filled +The noisy workshop and the guild +With various melodies and rhymes, +That here in Hagenau there dwelt +A cobbler,--one who loved debate, +And, arguing from a postulate, +Would say what others only felt; +A man of forecast and of thrift, +And of a shrewd and careful mind +In this world's business, but inclined +Somewhat to let the next world drift. + +Hans Sachs with vast delight he read, +And Regenbogen's rhymes of love, +For their poetic fame had spread +Even to the town of Hagenau; +And some Quick Melody of the Plough, +Or Double Harmony of the Dove, +Was always running in his head. +He kept, moreover, at his side, +Among his leathers and his tools, +Reynard the Fox, the Ship of Fools, +Or Eulenspiegel, open wide; +With these he was much edified: +He thought them wiser than the Schools. + +His good wife, full of godly fear, +Liked not these worldly themes to hear; +The Psalter was her book of songs; +The only music to her ear +Was that which to the Church belongs, +When the loud choir on Sunday chanted, +And the two angels carved in wood, +That by the windy organ stood, +Blew on their trumpets loud and clear, +And all the echoes, far and near, +Gibbered as if the church were haunted. +Outside his door, one afternoon, +This humble votary of the muse +Sat in the narrow strip of shade +By a projecting cornice made, +Mending the Burgomaster's shoes, +And singing a familiar tune:-- + + "Our ingress into the world + Was naked and bare; + Our progress through the world + Is trouble and care; + Our egress from the world + Will be nobody knows where; + But if we do well here + We shall do well there; + And I could tell you no more, + Should I preach a whole year!" + +Thus sang the cobbler at his work; +And with his gestures marked the time +Closing together with a jerk +Of his waxed thread the stitch and rhyme. +Meanwhile his quiet little dame +Was leaning o'er the window-sill, +Eager, excited, but mouse-still, +Gazing impatiently to see +What the great throng of folk might be +That onward in procession came, +Along the unfrequented street, +With horns that blew, and drums that beat, +And banners flying, and the flame +Of tapers, and, at times, the sweet +Voices of nuns; and as they sang +Suddenly all the church-bells rang. + +In a gay coach, above the crowd, +There sat a monk in ample hood, +Who with his right hand held aloft +A red and ponderous cross of wood, +To which at times he meekly bowed. +In front three horsemen rode, and oft, +With voice and air importunate, +A boisterous herald cried aloud: +"The grace of God is at your gate!" +So onward to the church they passed. + +The cobbler slowly tuned his last, +And, wagging his sagacious head, +Unto his kneeling housewife said: +"'Tis the monk Tetzel. I have heard +The cawings of that reverend bird. +Don't let him cheat you of your gold; +Indulgence is not bought and sold." + +The church of Hagenau, that night, +Was full of people, full of light; +An odor of incense filled the air, +The priest intoned, the organ groaned +Its inarticulate despair; +The candles on the altar blazed, +And full in front of it upraised +The red cross stood against the glare. +Below, upon the altar-rail +Indulgences were set to sale, +Like ballads at a country fair. +A heavy strong-box, iron-bound +And carved with many a quaint device, +Received, with a melodious sound, +The coin that purchased Paradise. + +Then from the pulpit overhead, +Tetzel the monk, with fiery glow, +Thundered upon the crowd below. +"Good people all, draw near!" he said; +"Purchase these letters, signed and sealed, +By which all sins, though unrevealed +And unrepented, are forgiven! +Count but the gain, count not the loss +Your gold and silver are but dross, +And yet they pave the way to heaven. +I hear your mothers and your sires +Cry from their purgatorial fires, +And will ye not their ransom pay? +O senseless people! when the gate +Of heaven is open, will ye wait? +Will ye not enter in to-day? +To-morrow it will be too late; +I shall be gone upon my way. +Make haste! bring money while ye may!' + +The women shuddered, and turned pale; +Allured by hope or driven by fear, +With many a sob and many a tear, +All crowded to the altar-rail. +Pieces of silver and of gold +Into the tinkling strong-box fell +Like pebbles dropped into a well; +And soon the ballads were all sold. +The cobbler's wife among the rest +Slipped into the capacious chest +A golden florin; then withdrew, +Hiding the paper in her breast; +And homeward through the darkness went +Comforted, quieted, content; +She did not walk, she rather flew, +A dove that settles to her nest, +When some appalling bird of prey +That scared her has been driven away. + +The days went by, the monk was gone, +The summer passed, the winter came; +Though seasons changed, yet still the same +The daily round of life went on; +The daily round of household care, +The narrow life of toil and prayer. +But in her heart the cobbler's dame +Had now a treasure beyond price, +A secret joy without a name, +The certainty of Paradise. +Alas, alas! Dust unto dust! +Before the winter wore away, +Her body in the churchyard lay, +Her patient soul was with the Just! +After her death, among the things +That even the poor preserve with care,-- +Some little trinkets and cheap rings, +A locket with her mother's hair, +Her wedding gown, the faded flowers +She wore upon her wedding day,-- +Among these memories of past hours, +That so much of the heart reveal, +Carefully kept and put away, +The Letter of Indulgence lay +Folded, with signature and seal. + +Meanwhile the Priest, aggrieved and pained, +Waited and wondered that no word +Of mass or requiem he heard, +As by the Holy Church ordained; +Then to the Magistrate complained, +That as this woman had been dead +A week or more, and no mass said, +It was rank heresy, or at least +Contempt of Church; thus said the Priest; +And straight the cobbler was arraigned. + +He came, confiding in his cause, +But rather doubtful of the laws. +The Justice from his elbow-chair +Gave him a look that seemed to say: +"Thou standest before a Magistrate, +Therefore do not prevaricate!" +Then asked him in a business way, +Kindly but cold: "Is thy wife dead?" +The cobbler meekly bowed his head; +"She is," came struggling from his throat +Scarce audibly. The Justice wrote +The words down in a book, and then +Continued, as he raised his pen: +"She is; and hath a mass been said +For the salvation of her soul? +Come, speak the truth! confess the whole!" +The cobbler without pause replied: +"Of mass or prayer there was no need; +For at the moment when she died +Her soul was with the glorified!" +And from his pocket with all speed +He drew the priestly title-deed, +And prayed the Justice he would read. + +The Justice read, amused, amazed; +And as he read his mirth increased; +At times his shaggy brows he raised, +Now wondering at the cobbler gazed, +Now archly at the angry Priest. +"From all excesses, sins, and crimes +Thou hast committed in past times +Thee I absolve! And furthermore, +Purified from all earthly taints, +To the communion of the Saints +And to the sacraments restore! +All stains of weakness, and all trace +Of shame and censure I efface; +Remit the pains thou shouldst endure, +And make thee innocent and pure, +So that in dying, unto thee +The gates of heaven shall open be! +Though long thou livest, yet this grace +Until the moment of thy death +Unchangeable continueth!" + +Then said he to the Priest: "I find +This document is duly signed +Brother John Tetzel, his own hand. +At all tribunals in the land +In evidence it may be used; +Therefore acquitted is the accused." +Then to the cobbler turned: "My friend, +Pray tell me, didst thou ever read +Reynard the Fox?"--"O yes, indeed!"-- +"I thought so. Don't forget the end." + + + +INTERLUDE + +"What was the end? I am ashamed +Not to remember Reynard's fate; +I have not read the book of late; +Was he not hanged?" the Poet said. +The Student gravely shook his head, +And answered: "You exaggerate. +There was a tournament proclaimed, +And Reynard fought with Isegrim +The Wolf, and having vanquished him, +Rose to high honor in the State, +And Keeper of the Seals was named!" + +At this the gay Sicilian laughed: +"Fight fire with fire, and craft with craft; +Successful cunning seems to be +The moral of your tale," said he. +"Mine had a better, and the Jew's +Had none at all, that I could see; +His aim was only to amuse." + +Meanwhile from out its ebon case +His violin the Minstrel drew, +And having tuned its strings anew, +Now held it close in his embrace, +And poising in his outstretched hand +The bow, like a magician's wand, +He paused, and said, with beaming face: +"Last night my story was too long; +To-day I give you but a song, +An old tradition of the North; +But first, to put you in the mood, +I will a little while prelude, +And from this instrument draw forth +Something by way of overture." + +He played; at first the tones were pure +And tender as a summer night, +The full moon climbing to her height, +The sob and ripple of the seas, +The flapping of an idle sail; +And then by sudden and sharp degrees +The multiplied, wild harmonies +Freshened and burst into a gale; +A tempest howling through the dark, +A crash as of some shipwrecked bark. +A loud and melancholy wail. + +Such was the prelude to the tale +Told by the Minstrel; and at times +He paused amid its varying rhymes, +And at each pause again broke in +The music of his violin, +With tones of sweetness or of fear, +Movements of trouble or of calm, +Creating their own atmosphere; +As sitting in a church we hear +Between the verses of the psalm +The organ playing soft and clear, +Or thundering on the startled ear. + + + +THE MUSICIAN'S TALE + +THE BALLAD OF CARMILHAN + +I + +At Stralsund, by the Baltic Sea, + Within the sandy bar, +At sunset of a summer's day, +Ready for sea, at anchor lay + The good ship Valdemar. + +The sunbeams danced upon the waves, + And played along her side; +And through the cabin windows streamed +In ripples of golden light, that seemed + The ripple of the tide. + +There sat the captain with his friends, + Old skippers brown and hale, +Who smoked and grumbled o'er their grog, +And talked of iceberg and of fog, + Of calm and storm and gale. + +And one was spinning a sailor's yarn + About Klaboterman, +The Kobold of the sea; a spright +Invisible to mortal sight, + Who o'er the rigging ran. + +Sometimes he hammered in the hold, + Sometimes upon the mast, +Sometimes abeam, sometimes abaft, +Or at the bows he sang and laughed, + And made all tight and fast. + +He helped the sailors at their work, + And toiled with jovial din; +He helped them hoist and reef the sails, +He helped them stow the casks and bales, + And heave the anchor in. + +But woe unto the lazy louts, + The idlers of the crew; +Them to torment was his delight, +And worry them by day and night, + And pinch them black and blue. + +And woe to him whose mortal eyes + Klaboterman behold. +It is a certain sign of death!-- +The cabin-boy here held his breath, + He felt his blood run cold. + + + +II + +The jolly skipper paused awhile, + And then again began; +"There is a Spectre Ship," quoth he, +"A ship of the Dead that sails the sea, + And is called the Carmilhan. + +"A ghostly ship, with a ghostly crew, + In tempests she appears; +And before the gale, or against the gale, +She sails without a rag of sail, + Without a helmsman steers. + +"She haunts the Atlantic north and south, + But mostly the mid-sea, +Where three great rocks rise bleak and bare +Like furnace-chimneys in the air, + And are called the Chimneys Three. + +"And ill betide the luckless ship + That meets the Carmilhan; +Over her decks the seas will leap, +She must go down into the deep, + And perish mouse and man." + +The captain of the Valdemar + Laughed loud with merry heart. +"I should like to see this ship," said he; +"I should like to find these Chimneys Three, + That are marked down in the chart. + +"I have sailed right over the spot," he said + "With a good stiff breeze behind, +When the sea was blue, and the sky was clear,-- +You can follow my course by these pinholes here,-- + And never a rock could find." + +And then he swore a dreadful oath, + He swore by the Kingdoms Three, +That, should he meet the Carmilhan, +He would run her down, although he ran + Right into Eternity! + +All this, while passing to and fro, + The cabin-boy had heard; +He lingered at the door to hear, +And drank in all with greedy ear, + And pondered every word. + +He was a simple country lad, + But of a roving mind. +"O, it must be like heaven," thought he, +"Those far-off foreign lands to see, + And fortune seek and find!" + +But in the fo'castle, when he heard + The mariners blaspheme, +He thought of home, he thought of God, +And his mother under the churchyard sod, + And wished it were a dream. + +One friend on board that ship had he; + 'T was the Klaboterman, +Who saw the Bible in his chest, +And made a sign upon his breast, + All evil things to ban. + + + +III + +The cabin windows have grown blank + As eyeballs of the dead; +No more the glancing sunbeams burn +On the gilt letters of the stern, + But on the figure-head; + +On Valdemar Victorious, + Who looketh with disdain +To see his image in the tide +Dismembered float from side to side, + And reunite again. + +"It is the wind," those skippers said, + "That swings the vessel so; +It is the wind; it freshens fast, +'T is time to say farewell at last + 'T is time for us to go." + +They shook the captain by the hand, + "Goodluck! goodluck!" they cried; +Each face was like the setting sun, +As, broad and red, they one by one + Went o'er the vessel's side. + +The sun went down, the full moon rose, + Serene o'er field and flood; +And all the winding creeks and bays +And broad sea-meadows seemed ablaze, + The sky was red as blood. + +The southwest wind blew fresh and fair, + As fair as wind could be; +Bound for Odessa, o'er the bar, +With all sail set, the Valdemar + Went proudly out to sea. + +The lovely moon climbs up the sky + As one who walks in dreams; +A tower of marble in her light, +A wall of black, a wall of white, + The stately vessel seems. + +Low down upon the sandy coast + The lights begin to burn; +And now, uplifted high in air, +They kindle with a fiercer glare, + And now drop far astern. + +The dawn appears, the land is gone, + The sea is all around; +Then on each hand low hills of sand +Emerge and form another land; + She steereth through the Sound. + +Through Kattegat and Skager-rack + She flitteth like a ghost; +By day and night, by night and day, +She bounds, she flies upon her way + Along the English coast. + +Cape Finisterre is drawing near, + Cape Finisterre is past; +Into the open ocean stream +She floats, the vision of a dream + Too beautiful to last. + +Suns rise and set, and rise, and yet + There is no land in sight; +The liquid planets overhead +Burn brighter now the moon is dead, + And longer stays the night. + + + +IV + +And now along the horizon's edge + Mountains of cloud uprose, +Black as with forests underneath, +Above their sharp and jagged teeth + Were white as drifted snows. + +Unseen behind them sank the sun, + But flushed each snowy peak +A little while with rosy light +That faded slowly from the sight + As blushes from the cheek. + +Black grew the sky,--all black, all black; + The clouds were everywhere; +There was a feeling of suspense +In nature, a mysterious sense + Of terror in the air. + +And all on board the Valdemar + Was still as still could be; +Save when the dismal ship-bell tolled, +As ever and anon she rolled, + And lurched into the sea. + +The captain up and down the deck + Went striding to and fro; +Now watched the compass at the wheel, +Now lifted up his hand to feel + Which way the wind might blow. + +And now he looked up at the sails, + And now upon the deep; +In every fibre of his frame +He felt the storm before it came, + He had no thought of sleep. + +Eight bells! and suddenly abaft, + With a great rush of rain, +Making the ocean white with spume, +In darkness like the day of doom, + On came the hurricane. + +The lightning flashed from cloud to cloud, + And rent the sky in two; +A jagged flame, a single jet +Of white fire, like a bayonet + That pierced the eyeballs through. + +Then all around was dark again, + And blacker than before; +But in that single flash of light +He had beheld a fearful sight, + And thought of the oath he swore. + +For right ahead lay the Ship of the Dead, + The ghostly Carmilhan! +Her masts were stripped, her yards were bare, +And on her bowsprit, poised in air, + Sat the Klaboterman. + +Her crew of ghosts was all on deck + Or clambering up the shrouds; +The boatswain's whistle, the captain's hail, +Were like the piping of the gale, + And thunder in the clouds. + +And close behind the Carmilhan + There rose up from the sea, +As from a foundered ship of stone, +Three bare and splintered masts alone: + They were the Chimneys Three. + +And onward dashed the Valdemar + And leaped into the dark; +A denser mist, a colder blast, +A little shudder, and she had passed + Right through the Phantom Bark. + +She cleft in twain the shadowy hulk, + But cleft it unaware; +As when, careering to her nest, +The sea-gull severs with her breast + The unresisting air. + +Again the lightning flashed; again + They saw the Carmilhan, +Whole as before in hull and spar; +But now on board of the Valdemar + Stood the Klaboterman. + +And they all knew their doom was sealed; + They knew that death was near; +Some prayed who never prayed before, +And some they wept, and some they swore, + And some were mute with fear. + +Then suddenly there came a shock, + And louder than wind or sea +A cry burst from the crew on deck, +As she dashed and crashed, a hopeless wreck, + Upon the Chimneys Three. + +The storm and night were passed, the light + To streak the east began; +The cabin-boy, picked up at sea, +Survived the wreck, and only he, + To tell of the Carmilhan. + + + +INTERLUDE + +When the long murmur of applause +That greeted the Musician's lay +Had slowly buzzed itself away, +And the long talk of Spectre Ships +That followed died upon their lips +And came unto a natural pause, +"These tales you tell are one and all +Of the Old World," the Poet said, +"Flowers gathered from a crumbling wall, +Dead leaves that rustle as they fall; +Let me present you in their stead +Something of our New England earth, +A tale which, though of no great worth, +Has still this merit, that it yields +A certain freshness of the fields, +A sweetness as of home-made bread." + +The Student answered: "Be discreet; +For if the flour be fresh and sound, +And if the bread be light and sweet, +Who careth in what mill 't was ground, +Or of what oven felt the heat, +Unless, as old Cervantes said, +You are looking after better bread +Than any that is made of wheat? +You know that people nowadays +To what is old give little praise; +All must be new in prose and verse: +They want hot bread, or something worse, +Fresh every morning, and half baked; +The wholesome bread of yesterday, +Too stale for them, is thrown away, +Nor is their thirst with water slaked. + +As oft we see the sky in May +Threaten to rain, and yet not rain, +The Poet's face, before so gay, +Was clouded with a look of pain, +But suddenly brightened up again; +And without further let or stay +He told his tale of yesterday. + + + +THE POET'S TALE + +LADY WENTWORTH. + +One hundred years ago, and something more, +In Queen Street, Portsmouth, at her tavern door, +Neat as a pin, and blooming as a rose, +Stood Mistress Stavers in her furbelows, +Just as her cuckoo-clock was striking nine. +Above her head, resplendent on the sign, +The portrait of the Earl of Halifax, +In scarlet coat and periwig of flax, +Surveyed at leisure all her varied charms, +Her cap, her bodice, her white folded arms, +And half resolved, though he was past his prime, +And rather damaged by the lapse of time, +To fall down at her feet and to declare +The passion that had driven him to despair. +For from his lofty station he had seen +Stavers, her husband, dressed in bottle-green, +Drive his new Flying Stage-coach, four in hand, +Down the long lane, and out into the land, +And knew that he was far upon the way +To Ipswich and to Boston on the Bay! + +Just then the meditations of the Earl +Were interrupted by a little girl, +Barefooted, ragged, with neglected hair, +Eyes full of laughter, neck and shoulders bare, +A thin slip of a girl, like a new moon, +Sure to be rounded into beauty soon, +A creature men would worship and adore, +Though now in mean habiliments she bore +A pail of water, dripping, through the street +And bathing, as she went her naked feet. + +It was a pretty picture, full of grace,-- +The slender form, the delicate, thin face; +The swaying motion, as she hurried by; +The shining feet, the laughter in her eye, +That o'er her face in ripples gleamed and glanced, +As in her pail the shifting sunbeam danced: +And with uncommon feelings of delight +The Earl of Halifax beheld the sight. +Not so Dame Stavers, for he heard her say +These words, or thought he did, as plain as day: +"O Martha Hilton! Fie! how dare you go +About the town half dressed, and looking so!" +At which the gypsy laughed, and straight replied: +"No matter how I look; I yet shall ride +In my own chariot, ma'am." And on the child +The Earl of Halifax benignly smiled, +As with her heavy burden she passed on, +Looked back, then turned the corner, and was gone. + +What next, upon that memorable day, +Arrested his attention was a gay +And brilliant equipage, that flashed and spun, +The silver harness glittering in the sun, +Outriders with red jackets, lithe and lank, +Pounding the saddles as they rose and sank, +While all alone within the chariot sat +A portly person with three-cornered hat, +A crimson velvet coat, head high in air, +Gold-headed cane, and nicely powdered hair, +And diamond buckles sparkling at his knees, +Dignified, stately, florid, much at ease. +Onward the pageant swept, and as it passed, +Fair Mistress Stavers courtesied low and fast; +For this was Governor Wentworth, driving down +To Little Harbor, just beyond the town, +Where his Great House stood looking out to sea, +A goodly place, where it was good to be. + +It was a pleasant mansion, an abode +Near and yet hidden from the great high-road, +Sequestered among trees, a noble pile, +Baronial and colonial in its style; +Gables and dormer-windows everywhere, +And stacks of chimneys rising high in air,-- +Pandaean pipes, on which all winds that blew +Made mournful music the whole winter through. +Within, unwonted splendors met the eye, +Panels, and floors of oak, and tapestry; +Carved chimney-pieces, where on brazen dogs +Revelled and roared the Christmas fires of logs; +Doors opening into darkness unawares, +Mysterious passages, and flights of stairs; +And on the walls, in heavy gilded frames, +The ancestral Wentworths with Old-Scripture names. + +Such was the mansion where the great man dwelt. +A widower and childless; and he felt +The loneliness, the uncongenial gloom, +That like a presence haunted ever room; +For though not given to weakness, he could feel +The pain of wounds, that ache because they heal. + +The years came and the years went,--seven in all, +And passed in cloud and sunshine o'er the Hall; +The dawns their splendor through its chambers shed, +The sunsets flushed its western windows red; +The snow was on its roofs, the wind, the rain; +Its woodlands were in leaf and bare again; +Moons waxed and waned, the lilacs bloomed and died, +In the broad river ebbed and flowed the tide, +Ships went to sea, and ships came home from sea, +And the slow years sailed by and ceased to be. + +And all these years had Martha Hilton served +In the Great House, not wholly unobserved: +By day, by night, the silver crescent grew, +Though hidden by clouds, her light still shining through; +A maid of all work, whether coarse or fine, +A servant who made service seem divine! +Through her each room was fair to look upon; +The mirrors glistened, and the brasses shone, +The very knocker on the outer door, +If she but passed, was brighter than before. + +And now the ceaseless turning of the mill +Of Time, that never for an hour stands still, +Ground out the Governor's sixtieth birthday, +And powdered his brown hair with silver-gray. +The robin, the forerunner of the spring, +The bluebird with his jocund carolling, +The restless swallows building in the eaves, +The golden buttercups, the grass, the leaves, +The lilacs tossing in the winds of May, +All welcomed this majestic holiday! +He gave a splendid banquet served on plate, +Such as became the Governor of the State, +Who represented England and the King, +And was magnificent in everything. +He had invited all his friends and peers,-- +The Pepperels, the Langdons, and the Lears, +The Sparhawks, the Penhallows, and the rest; +For why repeat the name of every guest? +But I must mention one, in bands and gown, +The rector there, the Reverend Arthur Brown +Of the Established Church; with smiling face +He sat beside the Governor and said grace; +And then the feast went on, as others do, +But ended as none other I e'er knew. + +When they had drunk the King, with many a cheer, +The Governor whispered in a servant's ear, +Who disappeared and presently there stood +Within the room, in perfect womanhood, +A maiden, modest and yet self-possessed, +Youthful and beautiful, and simply dressed. +Can this be Martha Hilton? It must be! +Yes, Martha Hilton, and no other she! +Dowered with the beauty of her twenty years, +How ladylike, how queenlike she appears; +The pale, thin crescent of the days gone by +Is Dian now in all her majesty! +Yet scarce a guest perceived that she was there, +Until the Governor, rising from his chair, +Played slightly with his ruffles, then looked down, +And said unto the Reverend Arthur Brown: +"This is my birthday: it shall likewise be +My wedding-day; and you shall marry me!" + +The listening guests were greatly mystified, +None more so than the rector, who replied: +"Marry you? Yes, that were a pleasant task, +Your Excellency; but to whom? I ask." +The Governor answered: "To this lady here" +And beckoned Martha Hilton to draw near. +She came and stood, all blushes, at his side. +The rector paused. The impatient Governor cried: +"This is the lady; do you hesitate? +Then I command you as Chief Magistrate." +The rector read the service loud and clear: +"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here," +And so on to the end. At his command +On the fourth finger of her fair left hand +The Governor placed the ring; and that was all: +Martha was Lady Wentworth of the Hall! + + + +INTERLUDE. + +Well pleased the audience heard the tale. +The Theologian said: "Indeed, +To praise you there is little need; +One almost hears the farmers flail +Thresh out your wheat, nor does there fail +A certain freshness, as you said, +And sweetness as of home-made bread. +But not less sweet and not less fresh +Are many legends that I know, +Writ by the monks of long-ago, +Who loved to mortify the flesh, +So that the soul might purer grow, +And rise to a diviner state; +And one of these--perhaps of all +Most beautiful--I now recall, +And with permission will narrate; +Hoping thereby to make amends +For that grim tragedy of mine, +As strong and black as Spanish wine, +I told last night, and wish almost +It had remained untold, my friends; +For Torquemada's awful ghost +Came to me in the dreams I dreamed, +And in the darkness glared and gleamed +Like a great lighthouse on the coast." + +The Student laughing said: "Far more +Like to some dismal fire of bale +Flaring portentous on a hill; +Or torches lighted on a shore +By wreckers in a midnight gale. +No matter; be it as you will, +Only go forward with your tale." + + + +THE THEOLOGIAN'S TALE + +THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL + +"Hads't thou stayed, I must have fled!" +That is what the Vision said. + +In his chamber all alone, +Kneeling on the floor of stone, +Prayed the Monk in deep contrition +For his sins of indecision, +Prayed for greater self-denial +In temptation and in trial; +It was noonday by the dial, +And the Monk was all alone. + +Suddenly, as if it lightened, +An unwonted splendor brightened +All within him and without him +In that narrow cell of stone; +And he saw the Blessed Vision +Of our Lord, with light Elysian +Like a vesture wrapped about him, +Like a garment round him thrown. + +Not as crucified and slain, +Not in agonies of pain, +Not with bleeding hands and feet, +Did the Monk his Master see; +But as in the village street, +In the house or harvest-field, +Halt and lame and blind he healed, +When he walked in Galilee. + +In an attitude imploring, +Hands upon his bosom crossed, +Wondering, worshipping, adoring, +Knelt the Monk in rapture lost. +Lord, he thought, in heaven that reignest, +Who am I, that thus thou deignest +To reveal thyself to me? +Who am I, that from the centre +Of thy glory thou shouldst enter +This poor cell, my guest to be? + +Then amid his exaltation, +Loud the convent bell appalling, +From its belfry calling, calling, +Rang through court and corridor +With persistent iteration +He had never heard before. +It was now the appointed hour +When alike in shine or shower, +Winter's cold or summer's heat, +To the convent portals came +All the blind and halt and lame, +All the beggars of the street, +For their daily dole of food +Dealt them by the brotherhood; +And their almoner was he +Who upon his bended knee, +Rapt in silent ecstasy +Of divinest self-surrender, +Saw the Vision and the Splendor. + +Deep distress and hesitation +Mingled with his adoration; +Should he go, or should he stay? +Should he leave the poor to wait +Hungry at the convent gate, +Till the Vision passed away? +Should he slight his radiant guest, +Slight this visitant celestial, +For a crowd of ragged, bestial +Beggars at the convent gate? +Would the Vision there remain? +Would the Vision come again? +Then a voice within his breast +Whispered, audible and clear +As if to the outward ear: +"Do thy duty; that is best; +Leave unto thy Lord the rest!" + +Straightway to his feet he started, +And with longing look intent +On the Blessed Vision bent, +Slowly from his cell departed, +Slowly on his errand went. + +At the gate the poor were waiting, +Looking through the iron grating, +With that terror in the eye +That is only seen in those +Who amid their wants and woes +Hear the sound of doors that close, +And of feet that pass them by; +Grown familiar with disfavor, +Grown familiar with the savor +Of the bread by which men die! +But to-day, they knew not why, +Like the gate of Paradise +Seemed the convent sate to rise, +Like a sacrament divine +Seemed to them the bread and wine. +In his heart the Monk was praying, +Thinking of the homeless poor, +What they suffer and endure; +What we see not, what we see; +And the inward voice was saying: +"Whatsoever thing thou doest +To the least of mine and lowest, +That thou doest unto me!" + +Unto me! but had the Vision +Come to him in beggar's clothing, +Come a mendicant imploring, +Would he then have knelt adoring, +Or have listened with derision, +And have turned away with loathing. + +Thus his conscience put the question, +Full of troublesome suggestion, +As at length, with hurried pace, +Towards his cell he turned his face, +And beheld the convent bright +With a supernatural light, +Like a luminous cloud expanding +Over floor and wall and ceiling. + +But he paused with awe-struck feeling +At the threshold of his door, +For the Vision still was standing +As he left it there before, +When the convent bell appalling, +From its belfry calling, calling, +Summoned him to feed the poor. +Through the long hour intervening +It had waited his return, +And he felt his bosom burn, +Comprehending all the meaning, +When the Blessed Vision said, +"Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!" + + + +INTERLUDE. + +All praised the Legend more or less; +Some liked the moral, some the verse; +Some thought it better, and some worse +Than other legends of the past; +Until, with ill-concealed distress +At all their cavilling, at last +The Theologian gravely said: +"The Spanish proverb, then, is right; +Consult your friends on what you do, +And one will say that it is white, +And others say that it is red." +And "Amen!" quoth the Spanish Jew. + +"Six stories told! We must have seven, +A cluster like the Pleiades, +And lo! it happens, as with these, +That one is missing from our heaven. +Where is the Landlord? Bring him here; +Let the Lost Pleiad reappear." + +Thus the Sicilian cried, and went +Forthwith to seek his missing star, +But did not find him in the bar, +A place that landlords most frequent, +Nor yet beside the kitchen fire, +Nor up the stairs, nor in the hall; +It was in vain to ask or call, +There were no tidings of the Squire. + +So he came back with downcast head, +Exclaiming: "Well, our bashful host +Hath surely given up the ghost. +Another proverb says the dead +Can tell no tales; and that is true. +It follows, then, that one of you +Must tell a story in his stead. +You must," he to the Student said, +"Who know so many of the best, +And tell them better than the rest." +Straight by these flattering words beguiled, +The Student, happy as a child +When he is called a little man, +Assumed the double task imposed, +And without more ado unclosed +His smiling lips, and thus began. + + + +THE STUDENT'S SECOND TALE + +THE BARON OF ST. CASTINE + +Baron Castine of St. Castine +Has left his chateau in the Pyrenees, +And sailed across the western seas. +When he went away from his fair demesne +The birds were building, the woods were green; +And now the winds of winter blow +Round the turrets of the old chateau, +The birds are silent and unseen, +The leaves lie dead in the ravine, +And the Pyrenees are white with snow. + +His father, lonely, old, and gray, +Sits by the fireside day by day, +Thinking ever one thought of care; +Through the southern windows, narrow and tall, +The sun shines into the ancient hall, +And makes a glory round his hair. +The house-dog, stretched beneath his chair, +Groans in his sleep as if in pain +Then wakes, and yawns, and sleeps again, +So silent is it everywhere,-- +So silent you can hear the mouse +Run and rummage along the beams +Behind the wainscot of the wall; +And the old man rouses from his dreams, +And wanders restless through the house, +As if he heard strange voices call. + +His footsteps echo along the floor +Of a distant passage, and pause awhile; +He is standing by an open door +Looking long, with a sad, sweet smile, +Into the room of his absent son. +There is the bed on which he lay, +There are the pictures bright and gay, +Horses and hounds and sun-lit seas; +There are his powder-flask and gun, +And his hunting-knives in shape of a fan; +The chair by the window where he sat, +With the clouded tiger-skin for a mat, +Looking out on the Pyrenees, +Looking out on Mount Marbore +And the Seven Valleys of Lavedan. +Ah me! he turns away and sighs; +There is a mist before his eyes. + +At night whatever the weather be, +Wind or rain or starry heaven, +Just as the clock is striking seven, +Those who look from the windows see +The village Curate, with lantern and maid, +Come through the gateway from the park +And cross the courtyard damp and dark,-- +A ring of light in a ring of shade. + +And now at the old man's side he stands, +His voice is cheery, his heart expands, +He gossips pleasantly, by the blaze +Of the fire of fagots, about old days, +And Cardinal Mazarin and the Fronde, +And the Cardinal's nieces fair and fond, +And what they did, and what they said, +When they heard his Eminence was dead. + +And after a pause the old man says, +His mind still coming back again +To the one sad thought that haunts his brain, +"Are there any tidings from over sea? +Ah, why has that wild boy gone from me?" +And the Curate answers, looking down, +Harmless and docile as a lamb, +"Young blood! young blood! It must so be!" +And draws from the pocket of his gown +A handkerchief like an oriflamb, +And wipes his spectacles, and they play +Their little game of lansquenet +In silence for an hour or so, +Till the clock at nine strikes loud and clear +From the village lying asleep below, +And across the courtyard, into the dark +Of the winding pathway in the park, +Curate and lantern disappear, +And darkness reigns in the old chateau. + +The ship has come back from over sea, +She has been signalled from below, +And into the harbor of Bordeaux +She sails with her gallant company. +But among them is nowhere seen +The brave young Baron of St. Castine; +He hath tarried behind, I ween, +In the beautiful land of Acadie! + +And the father paces to and fro +Through the chambers of the old chateau, +Waiting, waiting to hear the hum +Of wheels on the road that runs below, +Of servants hurrying here and there, +The voice in the courtyard, the step on the stair, +Waiting for some one who doth not come! +But letters there are, which the old man reads +To the Curate, when he comes at night +Word by word, as an acolyte +Repeats his prayers and tells his beads; +Letters full of the rolling sea, +Full of a young man's joy to be +Abroad in the world, alone and free; +Full of adventures and wonderful scenes +Of hunting the deer through forests vast +In the royal grant of Pierre du Gast; +Of nights in the tents of the Tarratines; +Of Madocawando the Indian chief, +And his daughters, glorious as queens, +And beautiful beyond belief; +And so soft the tones of their native tongue, +The words are not spoken, they are sung! + +And the Curate listens, and smiling says: +"Ah yes, dear friend! in our young days +We should have liked to hunt the deer +All day amid those forest scenes, +And to sleep in the tents of the Tarratines; +But now it is better sitting here +Within four walls, and without the fear +Of losing our hearts to Indian queens; +For man is fire and woman is tow, +And the Somebody comes and begins to blow." +Then a gleam of distrust and vague surmise +Shines in the father's gentle eyes, +As fire-light on a window-pane +Glimmers and vanishes again; +But naught he answers; he only sighs, +And for a moment bows his head; +Then, as their custom is, they play +Their little gain of lansquenet, +And another day is with the dead. + +Another day, and many a day +And many a week and month depart, +When a fatal letter wings its way +Across the sea, like a bird of prey, +And strikes and tears the old man's heart. +Lo! the young Baron of St. Castine, +Swift as the wind is, and as wild, +Has married a dusky Tarratine, +Has married Madocawando's child! + +The letter drops from the father's hand; +Though the sinews of his heart are wrung, +He utters no cry, he breathes no prayer, +No malediction falls from his tongue; +But his stately figure, erect and grand, +Bends and sinks like a column of sand +In the whirlwind of his great despair. +Dying, yes, dying! His latest breath +Of parley at the door of death +Is a blessing on his wayward son. +Lower and lower on his breast +Sinks his gray head; he is at rest; +No longer he waits for any one; + +For many a year the old chateau +Lies tenantless and desolate; +Rank grasses in the courtyard grow, +About its gables caws the crow; +Only the porter at the gate +Is left to guard it, and to wait +The coming of the rightful heir; +No other life or sound is there; +No more the Curate comes at night, +No more is seen the unsteady light, +Threading the alleys of the park; +The windows of the hall are dark, +The chambers dreary, cold, and bare! + +At length, at last, when the winter is past, +And birds are building, and woods are green, +With flying skirts is the Curate seen +Speeding along the woodland way, +Humming gayly, "No day is so long +But it comes at last to vesper-song." +He stops at the porter's lodge to say +That at last the Baron of St. Castine +Is coming home with his Indian queen, +Is coming without a week's delay; +And all the house must be swept and clean, +And all things set in good array! +And the solemn porter shakes his head; +And the answer he makes is: "Lackaday! +We will see, as the blind man said!" + +Alert since first the day began, +The cock upon the village church +Looks northward from his airy perch, +As if beyond the ken of man +To see the ships come sailing on, +And pass the isle of Oleron, +And pass the Tower of Cordouan. + +In the church below is cold in clay +The heart that would have leaped for joy-- +O tender heart of truth and trust!-- +To see the coming of that day; +In the church below the lips are dust; +Dust are the hands, and dust the feet, +That would have been so swift to meet +The coming of that wayward boy. + +At night the front of the old chateau +Is a blaze of light above and below; +There's a sound of wheels and hoofs in the street, +A cracking of whips, and scamper of feet, +Bells are ringing, and horns are blown, +And the Baron hath come again to his own. +The Curate is waiting in the hall, +Most eager and alive of all +To welcome the Baron and Baroness; +But his mind is full of vague distress, +For he hath read in Jesuit books +Of those children of the wilderness, +And now, good, simple man! he looks +To see a painted savage stride +Into the room, with shoulders bare, +And eagle feathers in her hair, +And around her a robe of panther's hide. + +Instead, he beholds with secret shame +A form of beauty undefined, +A loveliness with out a name, +Not of degree, but more of kind; +Nor bold nor shy, nor short nor tall, +But a new mingling of them all. +Yes, beautiful beyond belief, +Transfigured and transfused, he sees +The lady of the Pyrenees, +The daughter of the Indian chief. + +Beneath the shadow of her hair +The gold-bronze color of the skin +Seems lighted by a fire within, +As when a burst of sunlight shines +Beneath a sombre grove of pines,-- +A dusky splendor in the air. +The two small hands, that now are pressed +In his, seem made to be caressed, +They lie so warm and soft and still, +Like birds half hidden in a nest, +Trustful, and innocent of ill. +And ah! he cannot believe his ears +When her melodious voice he hears +Speaking his native Gascon tongue; +The words she utters seem to be +Part of some poem of Goudouli, +They are not spoken, they are sung! +And the Baron smiles, and says, "You see, +I told you but the simple truth; +Ah, you may trust the eyes of youth!" + +Down in the village day by day +The people gossip in their way, +And stare to see the Baroness pass +On Sunday morning to early Mass; +And when she kneeleth down to pray, +They wonder, and whisper together, and say, +"Surely this is no heathen lass!" +And in course of time they learn to bless +The Baron and the Baroness. + +And in course of time the Curate learns +A secret so dreadful, that by turns +He is ice and fire, he freezes and burns. +The Baron at confession hath said, +That though this woman be his wife, +He bath wed her as the Indians wed, +He hath bought her for a gun and a knife! +And the Curate replies: "O profligate, +O Prodigal Son! return once more +To the open arms and the open door +Of the Church, or ever it be too late. +Thank God, thy father did not live +To see what he could not forgive; +On thee, so reckless and perverse, +He left his blessing, not his curse. +But the nearer the dawn the darker the night, +And by going wrong all things come right; +Things have been mended that were worse, +And the worse, the nearer they are to mend. +For the sake of the living and the dead, +Thou shalt be wed as Christians wed, +And all things come to a happy end." + +O sun, that followest the night, +In yon blue sky, serene and pure, +And pourest thine impartial light +Alike on mountain and on moor, +Pause for a moment in thy course, +And bless the bridegroom and the bride! +O Gave, that from thy hidden source +In you mysterious mountain-side +Pursuest thy wandering way alone, +And leaping down its steps of stone, +Along the meadow-lands demure +Stealest away to the Adour, +Pause for a moment in thy course +To bless the bridegroom and the bride! + +The choir is singing the matin song, +The doors of the church are opened wide, +The people crowd, and press, and throng +To see the bridegroom and the bride. +They enter and pass along the nave; +They stand upon the father's grave; +The bells are ringing soft and slow; +The living above and the dead below +Give their blessing on one and twain; +The warm wind blows from the hills of Spain, +The birds are building, the leaves are green, +And Baron Castine of St. Castine +Hath come at last to his own again. + + + +FINALE + +"Nunc plaudite!" the Student cried, +When he had finished; "now applaud, +As Roman actors used to say +At the conclusion of a play"; +And rose, and spread his hands abroad, +And smiling bowed from side to side, +As one who bears the palm away. +And generous was the applause and loud, +But less for him than for the sun, +That even as the tale was done +Burst from its canopy of cloud, +And lit the landscape with the blaze +Of afternoon on autumn days, +And filled the room with light, and made +The fire of logs a painted shade. + +A sudden wind from out the west +Blew all its trumpets loud and shrill; +The windows rattled with the blast, +The oak-trees shouted as it passed, +And straight, as if by fear possessed, +The cloud encampment on the hill +Broke up, and fluttering flag and tent +Vanished into the firmament, +And down the valley fled amain +The rear of the retreating rain. + +Only far up in the blue sky +A mass of clouds, like drifted snow +Suffused with a faint Alpine glow, +Was heaped together, vast and high, +On which a shattered rainbow hung, +Not rising like the ruined arch +Of some aerial aqueduct, +But like a roseate garland plucked +From an Olympian god, and flung +Aside in his triumphal march. + +Like prisoners from their dungeon gloom, +Like birds escaping from a snare, +Like school-boys at the hour of play, +All left at once the pent-up room, +And rushed into the open air; +And no more tales were told that day. + + + +PART THIRD + +PRELUDE + +The evening came; the golden vane +A moment in the sunset glanced, +Then darkened, and then gleamed again, +As from the east the moon advanced +And touched it with a softer light; +While underneath, with flowing mane, +Upon the sign the Red Horse pranced, +And galloped forth into the night. + +But brighter than the afternoon +That followed the dark day of rain, +And brighter than the golden vane +That glistened in the rising moon, +Within the ruddy fire-light gleamed; +And every separate window-pane, +Backed by the outer darkness, showed +A mirror, where the flamelets gleamed +And flickered to and fro, and seemed +A bonfire lighted in the road. + +Amid the hospitable glow, +Like an old actor on the stage, +With the uncertain voice of age, +The singing chimney chanted low +The homely songs of long ago. + +The voice that Ossian heard of yore, +When midnight winds were in his hall; +A ghostly and appealing call, +A sound of days that are no more! +And dark as Ossian sat the Jew, +And listened to the sound, and knew +The passing of the airy hosts, +The gray and misty cloud of ghosts +In their interminable flight; +And listening muttered in his beard, +With accent indistinct and weird, +"Who are ye, children of the Night?" + +Beholding his mysterious face, +"Tell me," the gay Sicilian said, +"Why was it that in breaking bread +At supper, you bent down your head +And, musing, paused a little space, +As one who says a silent grace?" + +The Jew replied, with solemn air, +"I said the Manichaean's prayer. +It was his faith,--perhaps is mine,-- +That life in all its forms is one, +And that its secret conduits run +Unseen, but in unbroken line, +From the great fountain-head divine +Through man and beast, through grain and grass. +Howe'er we struggle, strive, and cry, +From death there can be no escape, +And no escape from life, alas +Because we cannot die, but pass +From one into another shape: +It is but into life we die. + +"Therefore the Manichaean said +This simple prayer on breaking bread, +Lest he with hasty hand or knife +Might wound the incarcerated life, +The soul in things that we call dead: +'I did not reap thee, did not bind thee, +I did not thrash thee, did not grind thee, +Nor did I in the oven bake thee! +It was not I, it was another +Did these things unto thee, O brother; +I only have thee, hold thee, break thee!'" + +"That birds have souls I can concede," +The poet cried, with glowing cheeks; +"The flocks that from their beds of reed +Uprising north or southward fly, +And flying write upon the sky +The biforked letter of the Greeks, +As hath been said by Rucellai; +All birds that sing or chirp or cry, +Even those migratory bands, +The minor poets of the air, +The plover, peep, and sanderling, +That hardly can be said to sing, +But pipe along the barren sands,-- +All these have souls akin to ours; +So hath the lovely race of flowers: +Thus much I grant, but nothing more. +The rusty hinges of a door +Are not alive because they creak; +This chimney, with its dreary roar, +These rattling windows, do not speak!" +"To me they speak," the Jew replied; +"And in the sounds that sink and soar, +I hear the voices of a tide +That breaks upon an unknown shore!" + +Here the Sicilian interfered: +"That was your dream, then, as you dozed +A moment since, with eyes half-closed, +And murmured something in your beard." + +The Hebrew smiled, and answered, "Nay; +Not that, but something very near; +Like, and yet not the same, may seem +The vision of my waking dream; +Before it wholly dies away, +Listen to me, and you shall hear." + + + +THE SPANISH JEW'S TALE + +AZRAEL + +King Solomon, before his palace gate +At evening, on the pavement tessellate +Was walking with a stranger from the East, +Arrayed in rich attire as for a feast, +The mighty Runjeet-Sing, a learned man, +And Rajah of the realms of Hindostan. +And as they walked the guest became aware +Of a white figure in the twilight air, +Gazing intent, as one who with surprise +His form and features seemed to recognize; +And in a whisper to the king he said: +"What is yon shape, that, pallid as the dead, +Is watching me, as if he sought to trace +In the dim light the features of my face?" + +The king looked, and replied: "I know him well; +It is the Angel men call Azrael, +'T is the Death Angel; what hast thou to fear?" +And the guest answered: "Lest he should come near, +And speak to me, and take away my breath! +Save me from Azrael, save me from death! +O king, that hast dominion o'er the wind, +Bid it arise and bear me hence to Ind." + +The king gazed upward at the cloudless sky, +Whispered a word, and raised his hand on high, +And lo! the signet-ring of chrysoprase +On his uplifted finger seemed to blaze +With hidden fire, and rushing from the west +There came a mighty wind, and seized the guest +And lifted him from earth, and on they passed, +His shining garments streaming in the blast, +A silken banner o'er the walls upreared, +A purple cloud, that gleamed and disappeared. +Then said the Angel, smiling: "If this man +Be Rajah Runjeet-Sing of Hindostan, +Thou hast done well in listening to his prayer; +I was upon my way to seek him there." + + + +INTERLUDE. + +"O Edrehi, forbear to-night +Your ghostly legends of affright, +And let the Talmud rest in peace; +Spare us your dismal tales of death +That almost take away one's breath; +So doing, may your tribe increase." + +Thus the Sicilian said; then went +And on the spinet's rattling keys +Played Marianina, like a breeze +From Naples and the Southern seas, +That brings us the delicious scent +Of citron and of orange trees, +And memories of soft days of ease +At Capri and Amalfi spent. + +"Not so," the eager Poet said; +"At least, not so before I tell +The story of my Azrael, +An angel mortal as ourselves, +Which in an ancient tome I found +Upon a convent's dusty shelves, +Chained with an iron chain, and bound +In parchment, and with clasps of brass, +Lest from its prison, some dark day, +It might be stolen or steal away, +While the good friars were singing mass. + +"It is a tale of Charlemagne, +When like a thunder-cloud, that lowers +And sweeps from mountain-crest to coast, +With lightning flaming through its showers, +He swept across the Lombard plain, +Beleaguering with his warlike train +Pavia, the country's pride and boast, +The City of the Hundred Towers." +Thus heralded the tale began, +And thus in sober measure ran. + + + +THE POET'S TALE + +CHARLEMAGNE + +Olger the Dane and Desiderio, +King of the Lombards, on a lofty tower +Stood gazing northward o'er the rolling plains, +League after league of harvests, to the foot +Of the snow-crested Alps, and saw approach +A mighty army, thronging all the roads +That led into the city. And the King +Said unto Olger, who had passed his youth +As hostage at the court of France, and knew +The Emperor's form and face "Is Charlemagne +Among that host?" And Olger answered: "No." + +And still the innumerable multitude +Flowed onward and increased, until the King +Cried in amazement: "Surely Charlemagne +Is coming in the midst of all these knights!" +And Olger answered slowly: "No; not yet; +He will not come so soon." Then much disturbed +King Desiderio asked: "What shall we do, +if he approach with a still greater army!" +And Olger answered: "When he shall appear, +You will behold what manner of man he is; +But what will then befall us I know not." + +Then came the guard that never knew repose, +The Paladins of France; and at the sight +The Lombard King o'ercome with terror cried: +"This must be Charlemagne!" and as before +Did Olger answer: "No; not yet, not yet." + +And then appeared in panoply complete +The Bishops and the Abbots and the Priests +Of the imperial chapel, and the Counts +And Desiderio could no more endure +The light of day, nor yet encounter death, +But sobbed aloud and said: "Let us go down +And hide us in the bosom of the earth, +Far from the sight and anger of a foe +So terrible as this!" And Olger said: +"When you behold the harvests in the fields +Shaking with fear, the Po and the Ticino +Lashing the city walls with iron waves, +Then may you know that Charlemagne is come. +And even as he spake, in the northwest, +Lo! there uprose a black and threatening cloud, +Out of whose bosom flashed the light of arms +Upon the people pent up in the city; +A light more terrible than any darkness; +And Charlemagne appeared;--a Man of Iron! + +His helmet was of iron, and his gloves +Of iron, and his breastplate and his greaves +And tassets were of iron, and his shield. +In his left hand he held an iron spear, +In his right hand his sword invincible. +The horse he rode on had the strength of iron, +And color of iron. All who went before him +Beside him and behind him, his whole host, +Were armed with iron, and their hearts within them +Were stronger than the armor that they wore. +The fields and all the roads were filled with iron, +And points of iron glistened in the sun +And shed a terror through the city streets. + +This at a single glance Olger the Dane +Saw from the tower, and turning to the King +Exclaimed in haste: "Behold! this is the man +You looked for with such eagerness!" and then +Fell as one dead at Desiderio's feet. + + + +INTERLUDE + +Well pleased all listened to the tale, +That drew, the Student said, its pith +And marrow from the ancient myth +Of some one with an iron flail; +Or that portentous Man of Brass +Hephæstus made in days of yore, +Who stalked about the Cretan shore, +And saw the ships appear and pass, +And threw stones at the Argonauts, +Being filled with indiscriminate ire +That tangled and perplexed his thoughts; +But, like a hospitable host, +When strangers landed on the coast, +Heated himself red-hot with fire, +And hugged them in his arms, and pressed +Their bodies to his burning breast. + +The Poet answered: "No, not thus +The legend rose; it sprang at first +Out of the hunger and the thirst +In all men for the marvellous. +And thus it filled and satisfied +The imagination of mankind, +And this ideal to the mind +Was truer than historic fact. +Fancy enlarged and multiplied +The tenors of the awful name +Of Charlemagne, till he became +Armipotent in every act, +And, clothed in mystery, appeared +Not what men saw, but what they feared. +Besides, unless my memory fail, +Your some one with an iron flail +Is not an ancient myth at all, +But comes much later on the scene +As Talus in the Faerie Queene, +The iron groom of Artegall, +Who threshed out falsehood and deceit, +And truth upheld, and righted wrong, +As was, as is the swallow, fleet, +And as the lion is, was strong." + +The Theologian said: "Perchance +Your chronicler in writing this +Had in his mind the Anabasis, +Where Xenophon describes the advance +Of Artaxerxes to the fight; +At first the low gray cloud of dust, +And then a blackness o'er the fields +As of a passing thunder-gust, +Then flash of brazen armor bright, +And ranks of men, and spears up-thrust, +Bowmen and troops with wicker shields, +And cavalry equipped in white, +And chariots ranged in front of these +With scythes upon their axle-trees." + +To this the Student answered: "Well, +I also have a tale to tell +Of Charlemagne; a tale that throws +A softer light, more tinged with rose, +Than your grim apparition cast +Upon the darkness of the past. +Listen, and hear in English rhyme +What the good Monk of Lauresheim +Gives as the gossip of his time, +In mediaeval Latin prose." + + + +THE STUDENT'S TALE + +EMMA AND EGINHARD + +When Alcuin taught the sons of Charlemagne, +In the free schools of Aix, how kings should reign, +And with them taught the children of the poor +How subjects should be patient and endure, +He touched the lips of some, as best befit, +With honey from the hives of Holy Writ; +Others intoxicated with the wine +Of ancient history, sweet but less divine; +Some with the wholesome fruits of grammar fed; +Others with mysteries of the stars o'er-head, +That hang suspended in the vaulted sky +Like lamps in some fair palace vast and high. + +In sooth, it was a pleasant sight to see +That Saxon monk, with hood and rosary, +With inkhorn at his belt, and pen and book, +And mingled lore and reverence in his look, +Or hear the cloister and the court repeat +The measured footfalls of his sandaled feet, +Or watch him with the pupils of his school, +Gentle of speech, but absolute of rule. + +Among them, always earliest in his place. +Was Eginhard, a youth of Frankish race, +Whose face was bright with flashes that forerun +The splendors of a yet unrisen sun. +To him all things were possible, and seemed +Not what he had accomplished, but had dreamed, +And what were tasks to others were his play, +The pastime of an idle holiday. + +Smaragdo, Abbot of St. Michael's, said, +With many a shrug and shaking of the head, +Surely some demon must possess the lad, +Who showed more wit than ever schoolboy had, +And learned his Trivium thus without the rod; +But Alcuin said it was the grace of God. + +Thus he grew up, in Logic point-device, +Perfect in Grammar, and in Rhetoric nice; +Science of Numbers, Geometric art, +And lore of Stars, and Music knew by heart; +A Minnesinger, long before the times +Of those who sang their love in Suabian rhymes. + +The Emperor, when he heard this good report +Of Eginhard much buzzed about the court, +Said to himself, "This stripling seems to be +Purposely sent into the world for me; +He shall become my scribe, and shall be schooled +In all the arts whereby the world is ruled." +Thus did the gentle Eginhard attain +To honor in the court of Charlemagne; +Became the sovereign's favorite, his right hand, +So that his fame was great in all the land, +And all men loved him for his modest grace +And comeliness of figure and of face. +An inmate of the palace, yet recluse, +A man of books, yet sacred from abuse +Among the armed knights with spur on heel, +The tramp of horses and the clang of steel; +And as the Emperor promised he was schooled +In all the arts by which the world is ruled. +But the one art supreme, whose law is fate, +The Emperor never dreamed of till too late. + +Home from her convent to the palace came +The lovely Princess Emma, whose sweet name, +Whispered by seneschal or sung by bard, +Had often touched the soul of Eginhard. +He saw her from his window, as in state +She came, by knights attended through the gate; +He saw her at the banquet of that day, +Fresh as the morn, and beautiful as May; +He saw her in the garden, as she strayed +Among the flowers of summer with her maid, +And said to him, "O Eginhard, disclose +The meaning and the mystery of the rose"; +And trembling he made answer: "In good sooth, +Its mystery is love, its meaning youth!" + +How can I tell the signals and the signs +By which one heart another heart divines? +How can I tell the many thousand ways +By which it keeps the secret it betrays? + +O mystery of love! O strange romance! +Among the Peers and Paladins of France, +Shining in steel, and prancing on gay steeds, +Noble by birth, yet nobler by great deeds, +The Princess Emma had no words nor looks +But for this clerk, this man of thought and books. + +The summer passed, the autumn came; the stalks +Of lilies blackened in the garden walks; +The leaves fell, russet-golden and blood-red, +Love-letters thought the poet fancy-led, +Or Jove descending in a shower of gold +Into the lap of Danae of old; +For poets cherish many a strange conceit, +And love transmutes all nature by its heat. + +No more the garden lessons, nor the dark +And hurried meetings in the twilight park; +But now the studious lamp, and the delights +Of firesides in the silent winter nights, +And watching from his window hour by hour +The light that burned in Princess Emma's tower. + +At length one night, while musing by the fire, +O'ercome at last by his insane desire,-- +For what will reckless love not do and dare?-- +He crossed the court, and climbed the winding stair, +With some feigned message in the Emperor's name; +But when he to the lady's presence came +He knelt down at her feet, until she laid +Her hand upon him, like a naked blade, +And whispered in his ear: "Arise, Sir Knight, +To my heart's level, O my heart's delight." + +And there he lingered till the crowing cock, +The Alectryon of the farmyard and the flock, +Sang his aubade with lusty voice and clear, +To tell the sleeping world that dawn was near. +And then they parted; but at parting, lo! +They saw the palace courtyard white with snow, +And, placid as a nun, the moon on high +Gazing from cloudy cloisters of the sky. +"Alas!" he said, "how hide the fatal line +Of footprints leading from thy door to mine, +And none returning!" Ah, he little knew +What woman's wit, when put to proof, can do! + +That night the Emperor, sleepless with the cares +And troubles that attend on state affairs, +Had risen before the dawn, and musing gazed +Into the silent night, as one amazed +To see the calm that reigned o'er all supreme, +When his own reign was but a troubled dream. +The moon lit up the gables capped with snow, +And the white roofs, and half the court below, +And he beheld a form, that seemed to cower +Beneath a burden, come from Emma's tower,-- +A woman, who upon her shoulders bore +Clerk Eginhard to his own private door, +And then returned in haste, but still essayed +To tread the footprints she herself had made; +And as she passed across the lighted space, +The Emperor saw his daughter Emma's face! + +He started not; he did not speak or moan, +But seemed as one who hath been turned to stone; +And stood there like a statue, nor awoke +Out of his trance of pain, till morning broke, +Till the stars faded, and the moon went down, +And o'er the towers and steeples of the town +Came the gray daylight; then the sun, who took +The empire of the world with sovereign look, +Suffusing with a soft and golden glow +All the dead landscape in its shroud of snow, +Touching with flame the tapering chapel spires, +Windows and roofs, and smoke of household fires, +And kindling park and palace as he came; +The stork's nest on the chimney seemed in flame. +And thus he stood till Eginhard appeared, +Demure and modest with his comely beard +And flowing flaxen tresses, come to ask, +As was his wont, the day's appointed task. + +The Emperor looked upon him with a smile, +And gently said: "My son, wait yet awhile; +This hour my council meets upon some great +And very urgent business of the state. +Come back within the hour. On thy return +The work appointed for thee shalt thou learn. + +Having dismissed this gallant Troubadour, +He summoned straight his council, and secure +And steadfast in his purpose, from the throne +All the adventure of the night made known; +Then asked for sentence; and with eager breath +Some answered banishment, and others death. + +Then spake the king: "Your sentence is not mine; +Life is the gift of God, and is divine; +Nor from these palace walls shall one depart +Who carries such a secret in his heart; +My better judgment points another way. +Good Alcuin, I remember how one day +When my Pepino asked you, 'What are men?' +You wrote upon his tablets with your pen, +'Guests of the grave and travellers that pass!' +This being true of all men, we, alas! +Being all fashioned of the selfsame dust, +Let us be merciful as well as just; +This passing traveller, who hath stolen away +The brightest jewel of my crown to-day, +Shall of himself the precious gem restore; +By giving it, I make it mine once more. +Over those fatal footprints I will throw +My ermine mantle like another snow." + +Then Eginhard was summoned to the hall, +And entered, and in presence of them all, +The Emperor said: "My son, for thou to me +Hast been a son, and evermore shalt be, +Long hast thou served thy sovereign, and thy zeal +Pleads to me with importunate appeal, +While I have been forgetful to requite +Thy service and affection as was right. +But now the hour is come, when I, thy Lord, +Will crown thy love with such supreme reward, +A gift so precious kings have striven in vain +To win it from the hands of Charlemagne." + +Then sprang the portals of the chamber wide, +And Princess Emma entered, in the pride +Of birth and beauty, that in part o'er-came +The conscious terror and the blush of shame. +And the good Emperor rose up from his throne, +And taking her white hand within his own +Placed it in Eginhard's, and said: "My son +This is the gift thy constant zeal hath won; +Thus I repay the royal debt I owe, +And cover up the footprints in the snow." + + + +INTERLUDE + +Thus ran the Student's pleasant rhyme +Of Eginhard and love and youth; +Some doubted its historic truth, +But while they doubted, ne'ertheless +Saw in it gleams of truthfulness, +And thanked the Monk of Lauresheim. + +This they discussed in various mood; +Then in the silence that ensued +Was heard a sharp and sudden sound +As of a bowstring snapped in air; +And the Musician with a bound +Sprang up in terror from his chair, +And for a moment listening stood, +Then strode across the room, and found +His dear, his darling violin +Still lying safe asleep within +Its little cradle, like a child +That gives a sudden cry of pain, +And wakes to fall asleep again; +And as he looked at it and smiled, +By the uncertain light beguiled, +Despair! two strings were broken in twain. + +While all lamented and made moan, +With many a sympathetic word +As if the loss had been their own, +Deeming the tones they might have heard +Sweeter than they had heard before, +They saw the Landlord at the door, +The missing man, the portly Squire! +He had not entered, but he stood +With both arms full of seasoned wood, +To feed the much-devouring fire, +That like a lion in a cage +Lashed its long tail and roared with rage. + +The missing man! Ah, yes, they said, +Missing, but whither had he fled? +Where had he hidden himself away? +No farther than the barn or shed; +He had not hidden himself, nor fled; +How should he pass the rainy day +But in his barn with hens and hay, +Or mending harness, cart, or sled? +Now, having come, he needs must stay +And tell his tale as well as they. + +The Landlord answered only: "These +Are logs from the dead apple-trees +Of the old orchard planted here +By the first Howe of Sudbury. +Nor oak nor maple has so clear +A flame, or burns so quietly, +Or leaves an ash so clean and white"; +Thinking by this to put aside +The impending tale that terrified; +When suddenly, to his delight, +The Theologian interposed, +Saying that when the door was closed, +And they had stopped that draft of cold, +Unpleasant night air, he proposed +To tell a tale world-wide apart +From that the Student had just told; +World-wide apart, and yet akin, +As showing that the human heart +Beats on forever as of old, +As well beneath the snow-white fold +Of Quaker kerchief, as within +Sendal or silk or cloth of gold, +And without preface would begin. + +And then the clamorous clock struck eight, +Deliberate, with sonorous chime +Slow measuring out the march of time, +Like some grave Consul of old Rome +In Jupiter's temple driving home +The nails that marked the year and date. +Thus interrupted in his rhyme, +The Theologian needs must wait; +But quoted Horace, where he sings +The dire Necessity of things, +That drives into the roofs sublime +Of new-built houses of the great +The adamantine nails of Fate. + +When ceased the little carillon +To herald from its wooden tower +The important transit of the hour, +The Theologian hastened on, +Content to be all owed at last +To sing his Idyl of the Past. + + + +THE THEOLOGIAN'S TALE + +ELIZABETH + +I + +"Ah, how short are the days! How soon the night overtakes us! +In the old country the twilight is longer; but here in the forest +Suddenly comes the dark, with hardly a pause in its coming, +Hardly a moment between the two lights, the day and the lamplight; +Yet how grand is the winter! How spotless the snow is, and perfect!" + + Thus spake Elizabeth Haddon at nightfall to Hannah the housemaid, +As in the farm-house kitchen, that served for kitchen and parlor, +By the window she sat with her work, and looked on a landscape +White as the great white sheet that Peter saw in his vision, +By the four corners let down and descending out of the heavens. +Covered with snow were the forests of pine, and the fields and the meadows. +Nothing was dark but the sky, and the distant Delaware flowing +Down from its native hills, a peaceful and bountiful river. + + Then with a smile on her lips made answer Hannah the housemaid: +"Beautiful winter! yea, the winter is beautiful, surely, +If one could only walk like a fly with one's feet on the ceiling. +But the great Delaware River is not like the Thames, as we saw it +Out of our upper windows in Rotherhithe Street in the Borough, +Crowded with masts and sails of vessels coming and going; +Here there is nothing but pines, with patches of snow on their branches. +There is snow in the air, and see! it is falling already; +All the roads will be blocked, and I pity Joseph to-morrow, +Breaking his way through the drifts, with his sled and oxen; and then, too, +How in all the world shall we get to Meeting on First-Day?" + + But Elizabeth checked her, and answered, mildly reproving: +"Surely the Lord will provide; for unto the snow he sayeth, +Be thou on the earth, the good Lord sayeth; he is it +Giveth snow like wool, like ashes scatters the hoar-frost." +So she folded her work and laid it away in her basket. + + Meanwhile Hannah the housemaid had closed and fastened the shutters, +Spread the cloth, and lighted the lamp on the table, and placed there +Plates and cups from the dresser, the brown rye loaf, and the butter +Fresh from the dairy, and then, protecting her hand with a holder, +Took from the crane in the chimney the steaming and simmering kettle, +Poised it aloft in the air, and filled up the earthen teapot, +Made in Delft, and adorned with quaint and wonderful figures. + + Then Elizabeth said, "Lo! Joseph is long on his errand. +I have sent him away with a hamper of food and of clothing +For the poor in the village. A good lad and cheerful is Joseph; +In the right place is his heart, and his hand is ready and willing." + + Thus in praise of her servant she spake, and Hannah the housemaid +Laughed with her eyes, as she listened, but governed her tongue, and was silent, +While her mistress went on: "The house is far from the village; +We should be lonely here, were it not for Friends that in passing +Sometimes tarry o'ernight, and make us glad by their coming." + + Thereupon answered Hannah the housemaid, the thrifty, the frugal: +"Yea, they come and they tarry, as if thy house were a tavern; +Open to all are its doors, and they come and go like the pigeons +In and out of the holes of the pigeon-house over the hayloft, +Cooing and smoothing their feathers and basking themselves in the sunshine." + + But in meekness of spirit, and calmly, Elizabeth answered: +"All I have is the Lord's, not mine to give or withhold it; +I but distribute his gifts to the poor, and to those of his people +Who in journeyings often surrender their lives to his service. +His, not mine, are the gifts, and only so far can I make them +Mine, as in giving I add my heart to whatever is given. +Therefore my excellent father first built this house in the clearing; +Though he came not himself, I came; for the Lord was my guidance, +Leading me here for this service. We must not grudge, then, to others +Ever the cup of cold water, or crumbs that fall from our table." + + Thus rebuked, for a season was silent the penitent housemaid; +And Elizabeth said in tones even sweeter and softer: +"Dost thou remember, Hannah, the great May-Meeting in London, +When I was still a child, how we sat in the silent assembly, +Waiting upon the Lord in patient and passive submission? +No one spake, till at length a young man, a stranger, John Estaugh, +Moved by the Spirit, rose, as if he were John the Apostle, +Speaking such words of power that they bowed our hearts, as a strong wind +Bends the grass of the fields, or grain that is ripe for the sickle. +Thoughts of him to-day have been oft borne inward upon me, +Wherefore I do not know; but strong is the feeling within me +That once more I shall see a face I have never forgotten." + + +II + +E'en as she spake they heard the musical jangle of sleigh-bells, +First far off, with a dreamy sound and faint in the distance, +Then growing nearer and louder, and turning into the farmyard, +Till it stopped at the door, with sudden creaking of runners. +Then there were voices heard as of two men talking together, +And to herself, as she listened, upbraiding said Hannah the housemaid, +"It is Joseph come back, and I wonder what stranger is with him?" + + Down from its nail she took and lighted the great tin lantern +Pierced with holes, and round, and roofed like the top of a lighthouse, +And went forth to receive the coming guest at the doorway, +Casting into the dark a network of glimmer and shadow +Over the falling snow, the yellow sleigh, and the horses, +And the forms of men, snow-covered, looming gigantic. +Then giving Joseph the lantern, she entered the house with the stranger. +Youthful he was and tall, and his cheeks aglow with the night air; +And as he entered, Elizabeth rose, and, going to meet him, +As if an unseen power had announced and preceded his presence, +And he had come as one whose coming had long been expected, +Quietly gave him her hand, and said, "Thou art welcome, John Estaugh." +And the stranger replied, with staid and quiet behavior, +"Dost thou remember me still, Elizabeth? After so many +Years have passed, it seemeth a wonderful thing that I find thee. +Surely the hand of the Lord conducted me here to thy threshold. +For as I journeyed along, and pondered alone and in silence +On his ways, that are past finding out, I saw in the snow-mist, +Seemingly weary with travel, a wayfarer, who by the wayside +Paused and waited. Forthwith I remembered Queen Candace's eunuch, +How on the way that goes down from Jerusalem unto Gaza, +Reading Esaias the Prophet, he journeyed, and spake unto Philip, +Praying him to come up and sit in his chariot with him. +So I greeted the man, and he mounted the sledge beside me, +And as we talked on the way he told me of thee and thy homestead, +How, being led by the light of the Spirit, that never deceiveth, +Full of zeal for the work of the Lord, thou hadst come to this country. +And I remembered thy name, and thy father and mother in England, +And on my journey have stopped to see thee, Elizabeth Haddon. +Wishing to strengthen thy hand in the labors of love thou art doing." + + And Elizabeth answered with confident voice, and serenely +Looking into his face with her innocent eyes as she answered, +"Surely the hand of the Lord is in it; his Spirit hath led thee +Out of the darkness and storm to the light and peace of my fireside." + + Then, with stamping of feet, the door was opened, and Joseph +Entered, bearing the lantern, and, carefully blowing the light out, +Rung it up on its nail, and all sat down to their supper; +For underneath that roof was no distinction of persons, +But one family only, one heart, one hearth and one household. + + When the supper was ended they drew their chairs to the fireplace, +Spacious, open-hearted, profuse of flame and of firewood, +Lord of forests unfelled, and not a gleaner of fagots, +Spreading its arms to embrace with inexhaustible bounty +All who fled from the cold, exultant, laughing at winter! +Only Hannah the housemaid was busy in clearing the table, +Coming and going, and hustling about in closet and chamber. + + Then Elizabeth told her story again to John Estaugh, +Going far back to the past, to the early days of her childhood; +How she had waited and watched, in all her doubts and besetments +Comforted with the extendings and holy, sweet inflowings +Of the spirit of love, till the voice imperative sounded, +And she obeyed the voice, and cast in her lot with her people +Here in the desert land, and God would provide for the issue. + + Meanwhile Joseph sat with folded hands, and demurely +Listened, or seemed to listen, and in the silence that followed +Nothing was heard for a while but the step of Hannah the housemaid +Walking the floor overhead, and setting the chambers in order. +And Elizabeth said, with a smile of compassion, "The maiden +Hath a light heart in her breast, but her feet are heavy and awkward." +Inwardly Joseph laughed, but governed his tongue, and was silent. + + Then came the hour of sleep, death's counterfeit, nightly rehearsal +Of the great Silent Assembly, the Meeting of shadows, where no man +Speaketh, but all are still, and the peace and rest are unbroken! +Silently over that house the blessing of slumber descended. +But when the morning dawned, and the sun uprose in his splendor, +Breaking his way through clouds that encumbered his path in the heavens, +Joseph was seen with his sled and oxen breaking a pathway +Through the drifts of snow; the horses already were harnessed, +And John Estaugh was standing and taking leave at the threshold, +Saying that he should return at the Meeting in May; while above them +Hannah the housemaid, the homely, was looking out of the attic, +Laughing aloud at Joseph, then suddenly closing the casement, +As the bird in a cuckoo-clock peeps out of its window, +Then disappears again, and closes the shutter behind it. + + + +III + +Now was the winter gone, and the snow; and Robin the Redbreast, +Boasted on bush and tree it was he, it was he and no other +That had covered with leaves the Babes in the Wood, and blithely +All the birds sang with him, and little cared for his boasting, +Or for his Babes in the Wood, or the Cruel Uncle, and only +Sang for the mates they had chosen, and cared for the nests they were building. +With them, but more sedately and meekly, Elizabeth Haddon +Sang in her inmost heart, but her lips were silent and songless. +Thus came the lovely spring with a rush of blossoms and music, +Flooding the earth with flowers, and the air with melodies vernal. + + Then it came to pass, one pleasant morning, that slowly +Up the road there came a cavalcade, as of pilgrims +Men and women, wending their way to the Quarterly Meeting +In the neighboring town; and with them came riding John Estaugh. +At Elizabeth's door they stopped to rest, and alighting +Tasted the currant wine, and the bread of rye, and the honey +Brought from the hives, that stood by the sunny wall of the garden; +Then remounted their horses, refreshed, and continued their journey, +And Elizabeth with them, and Joseph, and Hannah the housemaid. +But, as they started, Elizabeth lingered a little, and leaning +Over her horse's neck, in a whisper said to John Estaugh +"Tarry awhile behind, for I have something to tell thee, +Not to be spoken lightly, nor in the presence of others; +Them it concerneth not, only thee and me it concerneth." +And they rode slowly along through the woods, conversing together. +It was a pleasure to breathe the fragrant air of the forest; +It was a pleasure to live on that bright and happy May morning! + + Then Elizabeth said, though still with a certain reluctance, +As if impelled to reveal a secret she fain would have guarded: +"I will no longer conceal what is laid upon me to tell thee; +I have received from the Lord a charge to love thee, John Estaugh." + + And John Estaugh made answer, surprised by the words she had spoken, +"Pleasant to me are thy converse, thy ways, thy meekness of spirit; +Pleasant thy frankness of speech, and thy soul's immaculate whiteness, +Love without dissimulation, a holy and inward adorning. +But I have yet no light to lead me, no voice to direct me. +When the Lord's work is done, and the toil and the labor completed +He hath appointed to me, I will gather into the stillness +Of my own heart awhile, and listen and wait for his guidance." + + Then Elizabeth said, not troubled nor wounded in spirit, +"So is it best, John Estaugh. We will not speak of it further. +It hath been laid upon me to tell thee this, for to-morrow +Thou art going away, across the sea, and I know not +When I shall see thee more; but if the Lord hath decreed it, +Thou wilt return again to seek me here and to find me." +And they rode onward in silence, and entered the town with the others. + + + +IV + +Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing, +Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness; +So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another, +Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence. + + Now went on as of old the quiet life of the homestead. +Patient and unrepining Elizabeth labored, in all things +Mindful not of herself, but bearing the burdens of others, +Always thoughtful and kind and untroubled; and Hannah the housemaid +Diligent early and late, and rosy with washing and scouring, +Still as of old disparaged the eminent merits of Joseph, +And was at times reproved for her light and frothy behavior, +For her shy looks, and her careless words, and her evil surmisings, +Being pressed down somewhat like a cart with sheaves overladen, +As she would sometimes say to Joseph, quoting the Scriptures. + + Meanwhile John Estaugh departed across the sea, and departing +Carried hid in his heart a secret sacred and precious, +Filling its chambers with fragrance, and seeming to him in its sweetness +Mary's ointment of spikenard, that filled all the house with its odor. +O lost days of delight, that are wasted in doubting and waiting! +O lost hours and days in which we might have been happy! +But the light shone at last, and guided his wavering footsteps, +And at last came the voice, imperative, questionless, certain. + + Then John Estaugh came back o'er the sea for the gift that was offered, +Better than houses and lands, the gift of a woman's affection. +And on the First-Day that followed, he rose in the Silent Assembly, +Holding in his strong hand a hand that trembled a little, +Promising to be kind and true and faithful in all things. +Such were the marriage-rites of John and Elizabeth Estaugh. + + And not otherwise Joseph, the honest, the diligent servant, +Sped in his bashful wooing with homely Hannah the housemaid; +For when he asked her the question, she answered, "Nay"; and then added +"But thee may make believe, and see what will come of it, Joseph." + + + +INTERLUDE + +"A pleasant and a winsome tale," +The Student said, "though somewhat pale +And quiet in its coloring, +As if it caught its tone and air +From the gray suits that Quakers wear; +Yet worthy of some German bard, +Hebel, or Voss, or Eberhard, +Who love of humble themes to sing, +In humble verse; but no more true +Than was the tale I told to you." + +The Theologian made reply, +And with some warmth, "That I deny; +'T is no invention of my own, +But something well and widely known +To readers of a riper age, +Writ by the skilful hand that wrote +The Indian tale of Hobomok, +And Philothea's classic page. +I found it like a waif afloat +Or dulse uprooted from its rock, +On the swift tides that ebb and flow +In daily papers, and at flood +Bear freighted vessels to and fro, +But later, when the ebb is low, +Leave a long waste of sand and mud." + +"It matters little," quoth the Jew; +"The cloak of truth is lined with lies, +Sayeth some proverb old and wise; +And Love is master of all arts, +And puts it into human hearts +The strangest things to say and do." + +And here the controversy closed +Abruptly, ere 't was well begun; +For the Sicilian interposed +With, "Lordlings, listen, every one +That listen may, unto a tale +That's merrier than the nightingale; +A tale that cannot boast, forsooth, +A single rag or shred of truth; +That does not leave the mind in doubt +As to the with it or without; +A naked falsehood and absurd +As mortal ever told or heard. +Therefore I tell it; or, maybe, +Simply because it pleases me." + + + +THE SICILIAN'S TALE + +THE MONK OF CASAL-MAGGIORE + +Once on a time, some centuries ago, + In the hot sunshine two Franciscan friars +Wended their weary way with footsteps slow + Back to their convent, whose white walls and spires +Gleamed on the hillside like a patch of snow; + Covered with dust they were, and torn by briers, +And bore like sumpter-mules upon their backs +The badge of poverty, their beggar's sacks. + +The first was Brother Anthony, a spare + And silent man, with pallid cheeks and thin, +Much given to vigils, penance, fasting, prayer, + Solemn and gray, and worn with discipline, +As if his body but white ashes were, + Heaped on the living coals that glowed within; +A simple monk, like many of his day, +Whose instinct was to listen and obey. + +A different man was Brother Timothy, + Of larger mould and of a coarser paste; +A rubicund and stalwart monk was he, + Broad in the shoulders, broader in the waist, +Who often filled the dull refectory + With noise by which the convent was disgraced, +But to the mass-book gave but little heed, +By reason he had never learned to read. + +Now, as they passed the outskirts of a wood, + They saw, with mingled pleasure and surprise, +Fast tethered to a tree an ass, that stood + Lazily winking his large, limpid eyes. +The farmer Gilbert of that neighborhood + His owner was, who, looking for supplies +Of fagots, deeper in the wood had strayed, +Leaving his beast to ponder in the shade. + +As soon as Brother Timothy espied + The patient animal, he said: "Good-lack! +Thus for our needs doth Providence provide; + We'll lay our wallets on the creature's back." +This being done, he leisurely untied + From head and neck the halter of the jack, +And put it round his own, and to the tree +Stood tethered fast as if the ass were he. + +And, bursting forth into a merry laugh, + He cried to Brother Anthony: "Away! +And drive the ass before you with your staff; + And when you reach the convent you may say +You left me at a farm, half tired and half + Ill with a fever, for a night and day, +And that the farmer lent this ass to bear +Our wallets, that are heavy with good fare." + +Now Brother Anthony, who knew the pranks + Of Brother Timothy, would not persuade +Or reason with him on his quirks and cranks, + But, being obedient, silently obeyed; +And, smiting with his staff the ass's flanks, + Drove him before him over hill and glade, +Safe with his provend to the convent gate, +Leaving poor Brother Timothy to his fate. + +Then Gilbert, laden with fagots for his fire, + Forth issued from the wood, and stood aghast +To see the ponderous body of the friar + Standing where he had left his donkey last. +Trembling he stood, and dared not venture nigher, + But stared, and gaped, and crossed himself full fast; +For, being credulous and of little wit, +He thought it was some demon from the pit. + +While speechless and bewildered thus he gazed, + And dropped his load of fagots on the ground, +Quoth Brother Timothy: "Be not amazed + That where you left a donkey should be found +A poor Franciscan friar, half-starved and crazed, + Standing demure and with a halter bound; +But set me free, and hear the piteous story +Of Brother Timothy of Casal-Maggiore. + +"I am a sinful man, although you see + I wear the consecrated cowl and cape; +You never owned an ass, but you owned me, + Changed and transformed from my own natural shape +All for the deadly sin of gluttony, + From which I could not otherwise escape, +Than by this penance, dieting on grass, +And being worked and beaten as an ass. + +"Think of the ignominy I endured; + Think of the miserable life I led, +The toil and blows to which I was inured, + My wretched lodging in a windy shed, +My scanty fare so grudgingly procured, + The damp and musty straw that formed my bed! +But, having done this penance for my sins, +My life as man and monk again begins." + +The simple Gilbert, hearing words like these, + Was conscience-stricken, and fell down apace +Before the friar upon his bended knees, + And with a suppliant voice implored his grace; +And the good monk, now very much at ease, + Granted him pardon with a smiling face, +Nor could refuse to be that night his guest, +It being late, and he in need of rest. + +Upon a hillside, where the olive thrives, + With figures painted on its white-washed walls, +The cottage stood; and near the humming hives + Made murmurs as of far-off waterfalls; +A place where those who love secluded lives + Might live content, and, free from noise and brawls, +Like Claudian's Old Man of Verona here +Measure by fruits the slow-revolving year. + +And, coming to this cottage of content + They found his children, and the buxom wench +His wife, Dame Cicely, and his father, bent + With years and labor, seated on a bench, +Repeating over some obscure event + In the old wars of Milanese and French; +All welcomed the Franciscan, with a sense +Of sacred awe and humble reverence. + +When Gilbert told them what had come to pass, + How beyond question, cavil, or surmise, +Good Brother Timothy had been their ass, + You should have seen the wonder in their eyes; +You should have heard them cry, "Alas! alas! + Have heard their lamentations and their sighs! +For all believed the story, and began +To see a saint in this afflicted man. + +Forthwith there was prepared a grand repast, + To satisfy the craving of the friar +After so rigid and prolonged a fast; + The bustling housewife stirred the kitchen fire; +Then her two barnyard fowls, her best and last, + Were put to death, at her express desire, +And served up with a salad in a bowl, +And flasks of country wine to crown the whole. + +It would not be believed should I repeat + How hungry Brother Timothy appeared; +It was a pleasure but to see him eat, + His white teeth flashing through his russet beard, +His face aglow and flushed with wine and meat, + His roguish eyes that rolled and laughed and leered! +Lord! how he drank the blood-red country wine +As if the village vintage were divine! + +And all the while he talked without surcease, + And told his merry tales with jovial glee +That never flagged, but rather did increase, + And laughed aloud as if insane were he, +And wagged his red beard, matted like a fleece, + And cast such glances at Dame Cicely +That Gilbert now grew angry with his guest, +And thus in words his rising wrath expressed. + +"Good father," said he, "easily we see + How needful in some persons, and how right, +Mortification of the flesh may be. + The indulgence you have given it to-night, +After long penance, clearly proves to me + Your strength against temptation is but slight, +And shows the dreadful peril you are in +Of a relapse into your deadly sin. + +"To-morrow morning, with the rising sun, + Go back unto your convent, nor refrain +From fasting and from scourging, for you run + Great danger to become an ass again, +Since monkish flesh and asinine are one; + Therefore be wise, nor longer here remain, +Unless you wish the scourge should be applied +By other hands, that will not spare your hide." + +When this the monk had heard, his color fled + And then returned, like lightning in the air, +Till he was all one blush from foot to head, + And even the bald spot in his russet hair +Turned from its usual pallor to bright red! + The old man was asleep upon his chair. +Then all retired, and sank into the deep +And helpless imbecility of sleep. + +They slept until the dawn of day drew near, + Till the cock should have crowed, but did not crow, +For they had slain the shining chanticleer + And eaten him for supper, as you know. +The monk was up betimes and of good cheer, + And, having breakfasted, made haste to go, +As if he heard the distant matin bell, +And had but little time to say farewell. + +Fresh was the morning as the breath of kine; + Odors of herbs commingled with the sweet +Balsamic exhalations of the pine; + A haze was in the air presaging heat; +Uprose the sun above the Apennine, + And all the misty valleys at its feet +Were full of the delirious song of birds, +Voices of men, and bells, and low of herds. + +All this to Brother Timothy was naught; + He did not care for scenery, nor here +His busy fancy found the thing it sought; + But when he saw the convent walls appear, +And smoke from kitchen chimneys upward caught + And whirled aloft into the atmosphere, +He quickened his slow footsteps, like a beast +That scents the stable a league off at least. + +And as he entered though the convent gate + He saw there in the court the ass, who stood +Twirling his ears about, and seemed to wait, + Just as he found him waiting in the wood; +And told the Prior that, to alleviate + The daily labors of the brotherhood, +The owner, being a man of means and thrift, +Bestowed him on the convent as a gift. + +And thereupon the Prior for many days + Revolved this serious matter in his mind, +And turned it over many different ways, + Hoping that some safe issue he might find; +But stood in fear of what the world would say, + If he accepted presents of this kind, +Employing beasts of burden for the packs, +That lazy monks should carry on their backs. + +Then, to avoid all scandal of the sort, + And stop the mouth of cavil, he decreed +That he would cut the tedious matter short, + And sell the ass with all convenient speed, +Thus saving the expense of his support, + And hoarding something for a time of need. +So he despatched him to the neighboring Fair, +And freed himself from cumber and from care. + +It happened now by chance, as some might say, + Others perhaps would call it destiny, +Gilbert was at the Fair; and heard a bray, + And nearer came, and saw that it was he, +And whispered in his ear, "Ah, lackaday! + Good father, the rebellious flesh, I see, +Has changed you back into an ass again, +And all my admonitions were in vain." + +The ass, who felt this breathing in his ear, + Did not turn round to look, but shook his head, +As if he were not pleased these words to hear, + And contradicted all that had been said. +And this made Gilbert cry in voice more clear, + "I know you well; your hair is russet-red; +Do not deny it; for you are the same +Franciscan friar, and Timothy by name." + +The ass, though now the secret had come out, + Was obstinate, and shook his head again; +Until a crowd was gathered round about + To hear this dialogue between the twain; +And raised their voices in a noisy shout + When Gilbert tried to make the matter plain, +And flouted him and mocked him all day long +With laughter and with jibes and scraps of song. + +"If this be Brother Timothy," they cried, + "Buy him, and feed him on the tenderest grass; +Thou canst not do too much for one so tried + As to be twice transformed into an ass." +So simple Gilbert bought him, and untied + His halter, and o'er mountain and morass +He led him homeward, talking as he went +Of good behavior and a mind content. + +The children saw them coming, and advanced, + Shouting with joy, and hung about his neck,-- +Not Gilbert's, but the ass's,--round him danced, + And wove green garlands where-withal to deck +His sacred person; for again it chanced + Their childish feelings, without rein or check, +Could not discriminate in any way +A donkey from a friar of Orders Gray. + +"O Brother Timothy," the children said, + "You have come back to us just as before; +We were afraid, and thought that you were dead, + And we should never see you any more." +And then they kissed the white star on his head, + That like a birth-mark or a badge he wore, +And patted him upon the neck and face, +And said a thousand things with childish grace. + +Thenceforward and forever he was known + As Brother Timothy, and led alway +A life of luxury, till he had grown + Ungrateful being stuffed with corn and hay, +And very vicious. Then in angry tone, + Rousing himself, poor Gilbert said one day +"When simple kindness is misunderstood +A little flagellation may do good." + +His many vices need not here be told; + Among them was a habit that he had +Of flinging up his heels at young and old, + Breaking his halter, running off like mad +O'er pasture-lands and meadow, wood and wold, + And other misdemeanors quite as bad; +But worst of all was breaking from his shed +At night, and ravaging the cabbage-bed. + +So Brother Timothy went back once more + To his old life of labor and distress; +Was beaten worse than he had been before. + And now, instead of comfort and caress, +Came labors manifold and trials sore; + And as his toils increased his food grew less, +Until at last the great consoler, Death, +Ended his many sufferings with his breath. + +Great was the lamentation when he died; + And mainly that he died impenitent; +Dame Cicely bewailed, the children cried, + The old man still remembered the event +In the French war, and Gilbert magnified + His many virtues, as he came and went, +And said: "Heaven pardon Brother Timothy, +And keep us from the sin of gluttony." + + + +INTERLUDE + +"Signor Luigi," said the Jew, +When the Sicilian's tale was told, +"The were-wolf is a legend old, +But the were-ass is something new, +And yet for one I think it true. +The days of wonder have not ceased +If there are beasts in forms of men, +As sure it happens now and then, +Why may not man become a beast, +In way of punishment at least? + +"But this I will not now discuss, +I leave the theme, that we may thus +Remain within the realm of song. +The story that I told before, +Though not acceptable to all, +At least you did not find too long. +I beg you, let me try again, +With something in a different vein, +Before you bid the curtain fall. +Meanwhile keep watch upon the door, +Nor let the Landlord leave his chair, +Lest he should vanish into air, +And thus elude our search once more." + +Thus saying, from his lips he blew +A little cloud of perfumed breath, +And then, as if it were a clew +To lead his footsteps safely through, +Began his tale as followeth. + + + +THE SPANISH JEW'S SECOND TALE + +SCANDERBEG + +The battle is fought and won +By King Ladislaus the Hun, +In fire of hell and death's frost, +On the day of Pentecost. +And in rout before his path +From the field of battle red +Flee all that are not dead +Of the army of Amurath. + +In the darkness of the night +Iskander, the pride and boast +Of that mighty Othman host, +With his routed Turks, takes flight +From the battle fought and lost +On the day of Pentecost; +Leaving behind him dead +The army of Amurath, +The vanguard as it led, +The rearguard as it fled, +Mown down in the bloody swath +Of the battle's aftermath. + +But he cared not for Hospodars, +Nor for Baron or Voivode, +As on through the night he rode +And gazed at the fateful stars, +That were shining overhead +But smote his steed with his staff, +And smiled to himself, and said; +"This is the time to laugh." + +In the middle of the night, +In a halt of the hurrying flight, +There came a Scribe of the King +Wearing his signet ring, +And said in a voice severe: +"This is the first dark blot +On thy name, George Castriot! +Alas why art thou here, +And the army of Amurath slain, +And left on the battle plain?" + +And Iskander answered and said: +"They lie on the bloody sod +By the hoofs of horses trod; +But this was the decree +Of the watchers overhead; +For the war belongeth to God, +And in battle who are we, +Who are we, that shall withstand +The wind of his lifted hand?" + +Then he bade them bind with chains +This man of books and brains; +And the Scribe said: "What misdeed +Have I done, that, without need, +Thou doest to me this thing?" +And Iskander answering +Said unto him: "Not one +Misdeed to me hast thou done; +But for fear that thou shouldst run +And hide thyself from me, +Have I done this unto thee. + +"Now write me a writing, O Scribe, +And a blessing be on thy tribe! +A writing sealed with thy ring, +To King Amurath's Pasha +In the city of Croia, +The city moated and walled, +That he surrender the same +In the name of my master, the King; +For what is writ in his name +Can never be recalled." + +And the Scribe bowed low in dread, +And unto Iskander said: +"Allah is great and just, +But we are as ashes and dust; +How shall I do this thing, +When I know that my guilty head +Will be forfeit to the King?" + +Then swift as a shooting star +The curved and shining blade +Of Iskander's scimetar +From its sheath, with jewels bright, +Shot, as he thundered: "Write!" +And the trembling Scribe obeyed, +And wrote in the fitful glare +Of the bivouac fire apart, +With the chill of the midnight air +On his forehead white and bare, +And the chill of death in his heart. + +Then again Iskander cried: +"Now follow whither I ride, +For here thou must not stay. +Thou shalt be as my dearest friend, +And honors without end +Shall surround thee on every side, +And attend thee night and day." +But the sullen Scribe replied +"Our pathways here divide; +Mine leadeth not thy way." + +And even as he spoke +Fell a sudden scimetar-stroke, +When no one else was near; +And the Scribe sank to the ground, +As a stone, pushed from the brink +Of a black pool, might sink +With a sob and disappear; +And no one saw the deed; +And in the stillness around +No sound was heard but the sound +Of the hoofs of Iskander's steed, +As forward he sprang with a bound. + +Then onward he rode and afar, +With scarce three hundred men, +Through river and forest and fen, +O'er the mountains of Argentar; +And his heart was merry within, +When he crossed the river Drin, +And saw in the gleam of the morn +The White Castle Ak-Hissar, +The city Croia called, +The city moated and walled, +The city where he was born,-- +And above it the morning star. + +Then his trumpeters in the van +On their silver bugles blew, +And in crowds about him ran +Albanian and Turkoman, +That the sound together drew. +And he feasted with his friends, +And when they were warm with wine, +He said: "O friends of mine, +Behold what fortune sends, +And what the fates design! +King Amurath commands +That my father's wide domain, +This city and all its lands, +Shall be given to me again." + +Then to the Castle White +He rode in regal state, +And entered in at the gate +In all his arms bedight, +And gave to the Pasha +Who ruled in Croia +The writing of the King, +Sealed with his signet ring. +And the Pasha bowed his head, +And after a silence said: +"Allah is just and great! +I yield to the will divine, +The city and lands are thine; +Who shall contend with fate?" + +Anon from the castle walls +The crescent banner falls, +And the crowd beholds instead, +Like a portent in the sky, +Iskander's banner fly, +The Black Eagle with double head; +And a shout ascends on high, +For men's souls are tired of the Turks, +And their wicked ways and works, +That have made of Ak-Hissar +A city of the plague; +And the loud, exultant cry +That echoes wide and far +Is: "Long live Scanderbeg!" + +It was thus Iskander came +Once more unto his own; +And the tidings, like the flame +Of a conflagration blown +By the winds of summer, ran, +Till the land was in a blaze, +And the cities far and near, +Sayeth Ben Joshua Ben Meir, +In his Book of the Words of the Days, +"Were taken as a man +Would take the tip of his ear." + + + +INTERLUDE + +"Now that is after my own heart," +The Poet cried; "one understands +Your swarthy hero Scanderbeg, +Gauntlet on hand and boot on leg, +And skilled in every warlike art, +Riding through his Albanian lands, +And following the auspicious star +That shone for him o'er Ak-Hissar." + +The Theologian added here +His word of praise not less sincere, +Although he ended with a jibe; +"The hero of romance and song +Was born," he said, "to right the wrong; +And I approve; but all the same +That bit of treason with the Scribe +Adds nothing to your hero's fame." + +The Student praised the good old times +And liked the canter of the rhymes, +That had a hoofbeat in their sound; +But longed some further word to hear +Of the old chronicler Ben Meir, +And where his volume might he found. +The tall Musician walked the room +With folded arms and gleaming eyes, +As if he saw the Vikings rise, +Gigantic shadows in the gloom; +And much he talked of their emprise, +And meteors seen in Northern skies, +And Heimdal's horn, and day of doom +But the Sicilian laughed again; +"This is the time to laugh," he said, +For the whole story he well knew +Was an invention of the Jew, +Spun from the cobwebs in his brain, +And of the same bright scarlet thread +As was the Tale of Kambalu. + +Only the Landlord spake no word; +'T was doubtful whether he had heard +The tale at all, so full of care +Was he of his impending fate, +That, like the sword of Damocles, +Above his head hung blank and bare, +Suspended by a single hair, +So that he could not sit at ease, +But sighed and looked disconsolate, +And shifted restless in his chair, +Revolving how he might evade +The blow of the descending blade. + +The Student came to his relief +By saying in his easy way +To the Musician: "Calm your grief, +My fair Apollo of the North, +Balder the Beautiful and so forth; +Although your magic lyre or lute +With broken strings is lying mute, +Still you can tell some doleful tale +Of shipwreck in a midnight gale, +Or something of the kind to suit +The mood that we are in to-night +For what is marvellous and strange; +So give your nimble fancy range, +And we will follow in its flight." + +But the Musician shook his head; +"No tale I tell to-night," he said, +"While my poor instrument lies there, +Even as a child with vacant stare +Lies in its little coffin dead." + +Yet, being urged, he said at last: +"There comes to me out of the Past +A voice, whose tones are sweet and wild, +Singing a song almost divine, +And with a tear in every line; +An ancient ballad, that my nurse +Sang to me when I was a child, +In accents tender as the verse; +And sometimes wept, and sometimes smiled +While singing it, to see arise +The look of wonder in my eyes, +And feel my heart with tenor beat. +This simple ballad I retain +Clearly imprinted on my brain, +And as a tale will now repeat" + + + +THE MUSICIAN'S TALE + +THE MOTHER'S GHOST + +Svend Dyring he rideth adown the glade; + I myself was young! +There he hath wooed him so winsome a maid; + Fair words gladden so many a heart. + +Together were they for seven years, +And together children six were theirs. + +Then came Death abroad through the land, +And blighted the beautiful lily-wand. + +Svend Dyring he rideth adown the glade, +And again hath he wooed him another maid, + +He hath wooed him a maid and brought home a bride, +But she was bitter and full of pride. + +When she came driving into the yard, +There stood the six children weeping so hard. + +There stood the small children with sorrowful heart; +From before her feet she thrust them apart. + +She gave to them neither ale nor bread; +"Ye shall suffer hunger and hate," she said. + +She took from them their quilts of blue, +And said: "Ye shall lie on the straw we strew." + +She took from them the great waxlight; +"Now ye shall lie in the dark at night." + +In the evening late they cried with cold; +The mother heard it under the mould. + +The woman heard it the earth below: +"To my little children I must go." + +She standeth before the Lord of all: +"And may I go to my children small?" + +She prayed him so long, and would not cease, +Until he bade her depart in peace. + +"At cock-crow thou shalt return again; +Longer thou shalt not there remain!" + +She girded up her sorrowful bones, +And rifted the walls and the marble stones. + +As through the village she flitted by, +The watch-dogs howled aloud to the sky. + +When she came to the castle gate, +There stood her eldest daughter in wait. + +"Why standest thou here, dear daughter mine? +How fares it with brothers and sisters thine?" + +"Never art thou mother of mine, +For my mother was both fair and fine. + +"My mother was white, with cheeks of red, +But thou art pale, and like to the dead." + +"How should I be fair and fine? +I have been dead; pale cheeks are mine. + +"How should I be white and red, +So long, so long have I been dead?" + +When she came in at the chamber door, +There stood the small children weeping sore. + +One she braided, another she brushed, +The third she lifted, the fourth she hushed. + +The fifth she took on her lap and pressed, +As if she would suckle it at her breast. + +Then to her eldest daughter said she, +"Do thou bid Svend Dyring come hither to me." + +Into the chamber when he came +She spake to him in anger and shame. + +"I left behind me both ale and bread; +My children hunger and are not fed. + +"I left behind me quilts of blue; +My children lie on the straw ye strew. + +"I left behind me the great waxlight; +My children lie in the dark at night. + +"If I come again unto your hall, +As cruel a fate shall you befall! + +"Now crows the cock with feathers red; +Back to the earth must all the dead. + +"Now crows the cock with feathers swart; +The gates of heaven fly wide apart. + +"Now crows the cock with feathers white; +I can abide no longer to-night." + +Whenever they heard the watch-dogs wail, +They gave the children bread and ale. + +Whenever they heard the watch-dogs bay, +They feared lest the dead were on their way. + +Whenever they heard the watch-dogs bark; + I myself was young! +They feared the dead out there in the dark. + Fair words gladden so many a heart. + + + +INTERLUDE + +Touched by the pathos of these rhymes, +The Theologian said: "All praise +Be to the ballads of old times +And to the bards of simple ways, +Who walked with Nature hand in hand, +Whose country was their Holy Land, +Whose singing robes were homespun brown +From looms of their own native town, +Which they were not ashamed to wear, +And not of silk or sendal gay, +Nor decked with fanciful array +Of cockle-shells from Outre-Mer." + +To whom the Student answered: "Yes; +All praise and honor! I confess +That bread and ale, home-baked, home-brewed, +Are wholesome and nutritious food, +But not enough for all our needs; +Poets--the best of them--are birds +Of passage; where their instinct leads +They range abroad for thoughts and words, +And from all climes bring home the seeds +That germinate in flowers or weeds. +They are not fowls in barnyards born +To cackle o'er a grain of corn; +And, if you shut the horizon down +To the small limits of their town, +What do you but degrade your bard +Till he at last becomes as one +Who thinks the all-encircling sun +Rises and sets in his back yard?" + +The Theologian said again: +"It may be so; yet I maintain +That what is native still is best, +And little care I for the rest. +'T is a long story; time would fail +To tell it, and the hour is late; +We will not waste it in debate, +But listen to our Landlord's tale." + +And thus the sword of Damocles +Descending not by slow degrees, +But suddenly, on the Landlord fell, +Who blushing, and with much demur +And many vain apologies, +Plucking up heart, began to tell +The Rhyme of one Sir Christopher. + + + +THE LANDLORD'S TALE + +THE RHYME OF SIR CHRISTOPHER + +It was Sir Christopher Gardiner, +Knight of the Holy Sepulchre, +From Merry England over the sea, +Who stepped upon this continent +As if his august presence lent +A glory to the colony. + +You should have seen him in the street +Of the little Boston of Winthrop's time, +His rapier dangling at his feet +Doublet and hose and boots complete, +Prince Rupert hat with ostrich plume, +Gloves that exhaled a faint perfume, +Luxuriant curls and air sublime, +And superior manners now obsolete! + +He had a way of saying things +That made one think of courts and kings, +And lords and ladies of high degree; +So that not having been at court +Seemed something very little short +Of treason or lese-majesty, +Such an accomplished knight was he. + +His dwelling was just beyond the town, +At what he called his country-seat; +For, careless of Fortune's smile or frown, +And weary grown of the world and its ways, +He wished to pass the rest of his days +In a private life and a calm retreat. + +But a double life was the life he led, +And, while professing to be in search +Of a godly course, and willing, he said, +Nay, anxious to join the Puritan church, +He made of all this but small account, +And passed his idle hours instead +With roystering Morton of Merry Mount, +That pettifogger from Furnival's Inn, +Lord of misrule and riot and sin, +Who looked on the wine when it was red. + +This country-seat was little more +Than a cabin of log's; but in front of the door +A modest flower-bed thickly sown +With sweet alyssum and columbine +Made those who saw it at once divine +The touch of some other hand than his own. +And first it was whispered, and then it was known, +That he in secret was harboring there +A little lady with golden hair, +Whom he called his cousin, but whom he had wed +In the Italian manner, as men said, +And great was the scandal everywhere. + +But worse than this was the vague surmise, +Though none could vouch for it or aver, +That the Knight of the Holy Sepulchre +Was only a Papist in disguise; +And the more to imbitter their bitter lives, +And the more to trouble the public mind, +Came letters from England, from two other wives, +Whom he had carelessly left behind; +Both of them letters of such a kind +As made the governor hold his breath; +The one imploring him straight to send +The husband home, that he might amend; +The other asking his instant death, +As the only way to make an end. + +The wary governor deemed it right, +When all this wickedness was revealed, +To send his warrant signed and sealed, +And take the body of the knight. +Armed with this mighty instrument, +The marshal, mounting his gallant steed, +Rode forth from town at the top of his speed, +And followed by all his bailiffs bold, +As if on high achievement bent, +To storm some castle or stronghold, +Challenge the warders on the wall, +And seize in his ancestral hall +A robber-baron grim and old. + +But when though all the dust and heat +He came to Sir Christopher's country-seat, +No knight he found, nor warder there, +But the little lady with golden hair, +Who was gathering in the bright sunshine +The sweet alyssum and columbine; +While gallant Sir Christopher, all so gay, +Being forewarned, through the postern gate +Of his castle wall had tripped away, +And was keeping a little holiday +In the forests, that bounded his estate. + +Then as a trusty squire and true +The marshal searched the castle through, +Not crediting what the lady said; +Searched from cellar to garret in vain, +And, finding no knight, came out again +And arrested the golden damsel instead, +And bore her in triumph into the town, +While from her eyes the tears rolled down +On the sweet alyssum and columbine, +That she held in her fingers white and fine. + +The governor's heart was moved to see +So fair a creature caught within +The snares of Satan and of sin, +And he read her a little homily +On the folly and wickedness of the lives +Of women, half cousins and half wives; +But, seeing that naught his words availed, +He sent her away in a ship that sailed +For Merry England over the sea, +To the other two wives in the old countree, +To search her further, since he had failed +To come at the heart of the mystery. + +Meanwhile Sir Christopher wandered away +Through pathless woods for a month and a day, +Shooting pigeons, and sleeping at night +With the noble savage, who took delight +In his feathered hat and his velvet vest, +His gun and his rapier and the rest. +But as soon as the noble savage heard +That a bounty was offered for this gay bird, +He wanted to slay him out of hand, +And bring in his beautiful scalp for a show, +Like the glossy head of a kite or crow, +Until he was made to understand +They wanted the bird alive, not dead; +Then he followed him whithersoever he fled, +Through forest and field, and hunted him down, +And brought him prisoner into the town. + +Alas! it was a rueful sight, +To see this melancholy knight +In such a dismal and hapless case; +His hat deformed by stain and dent, +His plumage broken, his doublet rent, +His beard and flowing locks forlorn, +Matted, dishevelled, and unshorn, +His boots with dust and mire besprent; +But dignified in his disgrace, +And wearing an unblushing face. +And thus before the magistrate +He stood to hear the doom of fate. +In vain he strove with wonted ease +To modify and extenuate +His evil deeds in church and state, +For gone was now his power to please; +And his pompous words had no more weight +Than feathers flying in the breeze. + +With suavity equal to his own +The governor lent a patient ear +To the speech evasive and highflown, +In which he endeavored to make clear +That colonial laws were too severe +When applied to a gallant cavalier, +A gentleman born, and so well known, +And accustomed to move in a higher sphere. + +All this the Puritan governor heard, +And deigned in answer never a word; +But in summary manner shipped away, +In a vessel that sailed from Salem bay, +This splendid and famous cavalier, +With his Rupert hat and his popery, +To Merry England over the sea, +As being unmeet to inhabit here. + +Thus endeth the Rhyme of Sir Christopher, +Knight of the Holy Sepulchre, +The first who furnished this barren land +With apples of Sodom and ropes of sand. + + + +FINALE + +These are the tales those merry guests +Told to each other, well or ill; +Like summer birds that lift their crests +Above the borders of their nests +And twitter, and again are still. + +These are the tales, or new or old, +In idle moments idly told; +Flowers of the field with petals thin, +Lilies that neither toil nor spin, +And tufts of wayside weeds and gorse +Hung in the parlor of the inn +Beneath the sign of the Red Horse. + +And still, reluctant to retire, +The friends sat talking by the fire +And watched the smouldering embers burn +To ashes, and flash up again +Into a momentary glow, +Lingering like them when forced to go, +And going when they would remain; +For on the morrow they must turn +Their faces homeward, and the pain +Of parting touched with its unrest +A tender nerve in every breast. + +But sleep at last the victory won; +They must be stirring with the sun, +And drowsily good night they said, +And went still gossiping to bed, +And left the parlor wrapped in gloom. +The only live thing in the room +Was the old clock, that in its pace +Kept time with the revolving spheres +And constellations in their flight, +And struck with its uplifted mace +The dark, unconscious hours of night, +To senseless and unlistening ears. + +Uprose the sun; and every guest, +Uprisen, was soon equipped and dressed +For journeying home and city-ward; +The old stage-coach was at the door, +With horses harnessed, long before +The sunshine reached the withered sward +Beneath the oaks, whose branches hoar +Murmured: "Farewell forevermore." + +"Farewell!" the portly Landlord cried; +"Farewell!" the parting guests replied, +But little thought that nevermore +Their feet would pass that threshold o'er; +That nevermore together there +Would they assemble, free from care, +To hear the oaks' mysterious roar, +And breathe the wholesome country air. + +Where are they now? What lands and skies +Paint pictures in their friendly eyes? +What hope deludes, what promise cheers, +What pleasant voices fill their ears? +Two are beyond the salt sea waves, +And three already in their graves. +Perchance the living still may look +Into the pages of this book, +And see the days of long ago +Floating and fleeting to and fro, +As in the well-remembered brook +They saw the inverted landscape gleam, +And their own faces like a dream +Look up upon them from below. + + + + +FLOWER-DE-LUCE + + +FLOWER-DE-LUCE + +Beautiful lily, dwelling by still rivers, + Or solitary mere, +Or where the sluggish meadow-brook delivers + Its waters to the weir! + +Thou laughest at the mill, the whir and worry + Of spindle and of loom, +And the great wheel that toils amid the hurry + And rushing of the flame. + +Born in the purple, born to joy and pleasance, + Thou dost not toil nor spin, +But makest glad and radiant with thy presence + The meadow and the lin. + +The wind blows, and uplifts thy drooping banner, + And round thee throng and run +The rushes, the green yeomen of thy manor, + The outlaws of the sun. + +The burnished dragon-fly is thine attendant, + And tilts against the field, +And down the listed sunbeam rides resplendent + With steel-blue mail and shield. + +Thou art the Iris, fair among the fairest, + Who, armed with golden rod +And winged with the celestial azure, bearest + The message of some God. + +Thou art the Muse, who far from crowded cities + Hauntest the sylvan streams, +Playing on pipes of reed the artless ditties + That come to us as dreams. + +O flower-de-luce, bloom on, and let the river + Linger to kiss thy feet! +O flower of song, bloom on, and make forever + The world more fair and sweet. + + + +PALINGENESIS + +I lay upon the headland-height, and listened +To the incessant sobbing of the sea + In caverns under me, +And watched the waves, that tossed and fled and glistened, +Until the rolling meadows of amethyst + Melted away in mist. + +Then suddenly, as one from sleep, I started; +For round about me all the sunny capes + Seemed peopled with the shapes +Of those whom I had known in days departed, +Apparelled in the loveliness which gleams + On faces seen in dreams. + +A moment only, and the light and glory +Faded away, and the disconsolate shore + Stood lonely as before; +And the wild-roses of the promontory +Around me shuddered in the wind, and shed + Their petals of pale red. + +There was an old belief that in the embers +Of all things their primordial form exists, + And cunning alchemists +Could re-create the rose with all its members +From its own ashes, but without the bloom, + Without the lost perfume. + +Ah me! what wonder-working, occult science +Can from the ashes in our hearts once more + The rose of youth restore? +What craft of alchemy can bid defiance +To time and change, and for a single hour + Renew this phantom-flower? + +"O, give me back," I cried, "the vanished splendors, +The breath of morn, and the exultant strife, + When the swift stream of life +Bounds o'er its rocky channel, and surrenders +The pond, with all its lilies, for the leap + Into the unknown deep!" + +And the sea answered, with a lamentation, +Like some old prophet wailing, and it said, + "Alas! thy youth is dead! +It breathes no more, its heart has no pulsation; +In the dark places with the dead of old + It lies forever cold!" + +Then said I, "From its consecrated cerements +I will not drag this sacred dust again, + Only to give me pain; +But, still remembering all the lost endearments, +Go on my way, like one who looks before, + And turns to weep no more." + +Into what land of harvests, what plantations +Bright with autumnal foliage and the glow + Of sunsets burning low; +Beneath what midnight skies, whose constellations +Light up the spacious avenues between + This world and the unseen! + +Amid what friendly greetings and caresses, +What households, though not alien, yet not mine, + What bowers of rest divine; +To what temptations in lone wildernesses, +What famine of the heart, what pain and loss, + The bearing of what cross! + +I do not know; nor will I vainly question +Those pages of the mystic book which hold + The story still untold, +But without rash conjecture or suggestion +Turn its last leaves in reverence and good heed, + Until "The End" I read. + + + +THE BRIDGE OF CLOUD + +Burn, O evening hearth, and waken + Pleasant visions, as of old! +Though the house by winds be shaken, + Safe I keep this room of gold! + +Ah, no longer wizard Fancy + Builds her castles in the air, +Luring me by necromancy + Up the never-ending stair! + +But, instead, she builds me bridges + Over many a dark ravine, +Where beneath the gusty ridges + Cataracts dash and roar unseen. + +And I cross them, little heeding + Blast of wind or torrent's roar, +As I follow the receding + Footsteps that have gone before. + +Naught avails the imploring gesture, + Naught avails the cry of pain! +When I touch the flying vesture, + 'T is the gray robe of the rain. + +Baffled I return, and, leaning + O'er the parapets of cloud, +Watch the mist that intervening + Wraps the valley in its shroud. + +And the sounds of life ascending + Faintly, vaguely, meet the ear, +Murmur of bells and voices blending + With the rush of waters near. + +Well I know what there lies hidden, + Every tower and town and farm, +And again the land forbidden + Reassumes its vanished charm. + +Well I know the secret places, + And the nests in hedge and tree; +At what doors are friendly faces, + In what hearts are thoughts of me. + +Through the mist and darkness sinking, + Blown by wind and beaten by shower, +Down I fling the thought I'm thinking, + Down I toss this Alpine flower. + + + +HAWTHORNE + +MAY 23, 1864 + +How beautiful it was, that one bright day + In the long week of rain! +Though all its splendor could not chase away + The omnipresent pain. + +The lovely town was white with apple-blooms, + And the great elms o'erhead +Dark shadows wove on their aerial looms + Shot through with golden thread. + +Across the meadows, by the gray old manse, + The historic river flowed: +I was as one who wanders in a trance, + Unconscious of his road. + +The faces of familiar friends seemed strange; + Their voices I could hear, +And yet the words they uttered seemed to change + Their meaning to my ear. + +For the one face I looked for was not there, + The one low voice was mute; +Only an unseen presence filled the air, + And baffled my pursuit. + +Now I look back, and meadow, manse, and stream + Dimly my thought defines; +I only see--a dream within a dream-- + The hill-top hearsed with pines. + +I only hear above his place of rest + Their tender undertone, +The infinite longings of a troubled breast, + The voice so like his own. + +There in seclusion and remote from men + The wizard hand lies cold, +Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen, + And left the tale half told. + +Ah! who shall lift that wand of magic power, + And the lost clew regain? +The unfinished window in Aladdin's tower + Unfinished must remain! + + + +CHRISTMAS BELLS + +I heard the bells on Christmas Day +Their old, familiar carols play, + And wild and sweet + The words repeat +Of peace on earth, good-will to men! + +And thought how, as the day had come, +The belfries of all Christendom + Had rolled along + The unbroken song +Of peace on earth, good-will to men! + +Till, ringing, singing on its way, +The world revolved from night to day, + A voice, a chime, + A chant sublime +Of peace on earth, good-will to men! + +Then from each black, accursed mouth +The cannon thundered in the South, + And with the sound + The carols drowned +Of peace on earth, good-will to men! + +It was as if an earthquake rent +The hearth-stones of a continent, + And made forlorn + The households born +Of peace on earth, good-will to men! + +And in despair I bowed my head; +"There is no peace on earth," I said: + "For hate is strong, + And mocks the song +Of peace on earth, good-will to men!" + +Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: +"God is not dead; nor doth he sleep! + The Wrong shall fail, + The Right prevail, +With peace on earth, good-will to men!" + + + +THE WIND OVER THE CHIMNEY + +See, the fire is sinking low, +Dusky red the embers glow, + While above them still I cower, +While a moment more I linger, +Though the clock, with lifted finger, + Points beyond the midnight hour. + +Sings the blackened log a tune +Learned in some forgotten June + From a school-boy at his play, +When they both were young together, +Heart of youth and summer weather + Making all their holiday. + +And the night-wind rising, hark! +How above there in the dark, + In the midnight and the snow, +Ever wilder, fiercer, grander, +Like the trumpets of Iskander, + All the noisy chimneys blow! + +Every quivering tongue of flame +Seems to murmur some great name, + Seems to say to me, "Aspire!" +But the night-wind answers, "Hollow +Are the visions that you follow, + Into darkness sinks your fire!" + +Then the flicker of the blaze +Gleams on volumes of old days, + Written by masters of the art, +Loud through whose majestic pages +Rolls the melody of ages, + Throb the harp-strings of the heart. + +And again the tongues of flame +Start exulting and exclaim: + "These are prophets, bards, and seers; +In the horoscope of nations, +Like ascendant constellations, + They control the coming years." + +But the night-wind cries: "Despair! +Those who walk with feet of air + Leave no long-enduring marks; +At God's forges incandescent +Mighty hammers beat incessant, + These are but the flying sparks. + +"Dust are all the hands that wrought; +Books are sepulchres of thought; + The dead laurels of the dead +Rustle for a moment only, +Like the withered leaves in lonely + Churchyards at some passing tread." + +Suddenly the flame sinks down; +Sink the rumors of renown; + And alone the night-wind drear +Clamors louder, wilder, vaguer,-- +"'T is the brand of Meleager + Dying on the hearth-stone here!" + +And I answer,--"Though it be, +Why should that discomfort me? + No endeavor is in vain; +Its reward is in the doing, +And the rapture of pursuing + Is the prize the vanquished gain." + + + +THE BELLS OF LYNN + +HEARD AT NAHANT + +O curfew of the setting sun! O Bells of Lynn! +O requiem of the dying day! O Bells of Lynn! + +From the dark belfries of yon cloud-cathedral wafted, +Your sounds aerial seem to float, O Bells of Lynn! + +Borne on the evening wind across the crimson twilight, +O'er land and sea they rise and fall, O Bells of Lynn! + +The fisherman in his boat, far out beyond the headland, +Listens, and leisurely rows ashore, O Bells of Lynn! + +Over the shining sands the wandering cattle homeward +Follow each other at your call, O Bells of Lynn! + +The distant lighthouse hears, and with his flaming signal +Answers you, passing the watchword on, O Bells of Lynn! + +And down the darkening coast run the tumultuous surges, +And clap their hands, and shout to you, O Bells of Lynn! + +Till from the shuddering sea, with your wild incantations, +Ye summon up the spectral moon, O Bells of Lynn! + +And startled at the sight like the weird woman of Endor, +Ye cry aloud, and then are still, O Bells of Lynn! + + + +KILLED AT THE FORD. + +He is dead, the beautiful youth, +The heart of honor, the tongue of truth, +He, the life and light of us all, +Whose voice was blithe as a bugle-call, +Whom all eyes followed with one consent, +The cheer of whose laugh, and whose pleasant word, +Hushed all murmurs of discontent. + +Only last night, as we rode along, +Down the dark of the mountain gap, +To visit the picket-guard at the ford, +Little dreaming of any mishap, +He was humming the words of some old song: +"Two red roses he had on his cap, +And another he bore at the point of his sword." + +Sudden and swift a whistling ball +Came out of a wood, and the voice was still; +Something I heard in the darkness fall, +And for a moment my blood grew chill; +I spake in a whisper, as he who speaks +In a room where some one is lying dead; +But he made no answer to what I said. + +We lifted him up to his saddle again, +And through the mire and the mist and the rain +Carried him back to the silent camp, +And laid him as if asleep on his bed; +And I saw by the light of the surgeon's lamp +Two white roses upon his cheeks, +And one, just over his heart, blood-red! + +And I saw in a vision how far and fleet +That fatal bullet went speeding forth, +Till it reached a town in the distant North, +Till it reached a house in a sunny street, +Till it reached a heart that ceased to beat +Without a murmur, without a cry; +And a bell was tolled, in that far-off town, +For one who had passed from cross to crown, +And the neighbors wondered that she should die. + + + +GIOTTO'S TOWER + +How many lives, made beautiful and sweet + By self-devotion and by self-restraint, + Whose pleasure is to run without complaint + On unknown errands of the Paraclete, +Wanting the reverence of unshodden feet, + Fail of the nimbus which the artists paint + Around the shining forehead of the saint, + And are in their completeness incomplete! +In the old Tuscan town stands Giotto's tower, + The lily of Florence blossoming in stone,-- + A vision, a delight, and a desire,-- +The builder's perfect and centennial flower, + That in the night of ages bloomed alone, + But wanting still the glory of the spire. + + + +TO-MORROW + +'T is late at night, and in the realm of sleep + My little lambs are folded like the flocks; + From room to room I hear the wakeful clocks + Challenge the passing hour, like guards that keep +Their solitary watch on tower and steep; + Far off I hear the crowing of the cocks, + And through the opening door that time unlocks + Feel the fresh breathing of To-morrow creep. +To-morrow! the mysterious, unknown guest, + Who cries to me: "Remember Barmecide, + And tremble to be happy with the rest." +And I make answer: "I am satisfied; + I dare not ask; I know not what is best; + God hath already said what shall betide." + + + +DIVINA COMMEDIA + +I + +Oft have I seen at some cathedral door + A laborer, pausing in the dust and heat, + Lay down his burden, and with reverent feet + Enter, and cross himself, and on the floor +Kneel to repeat his paternoster o'er; + Far off the noises of the world retreat; + The loud vociferations of the street + Become an undistinguishable roar. +So, as I enter here from day to day, + And leave my burden at this minster gate, + Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to pray, +The tumult of the time disconsolate + To inarticulate murmurs dies away, + While the eternal ages watch and wait. + + +II + +How strange the sculptures that adorn these towers! + This crowd of statues, in whose folded sleeves + Birds build their nests; while canopied with leaves + Parvis and portal bloom like trellised bowers, +And the vast minster seems a cross of flowers! + But fiends and dragons on the gargoyled eaves + Watch the dead Christ between the living thieves, + And, underneath, the traitor Judas lowers! +Ah! from what agonies of heart and brain, + What exultations trampling on despair, + What tenderness, what tears, what hate of wrong, +What passionate outcry of a soul in pain, + Uprose this poem of the earth and air, + This medieval miracle of song! + + +III + +I enter, and I see thee in the gloom + Of the long aisles, O poet saturnine! + And strive to make my steps keep pace with thine. + The air is filled with some unknown perfume; +The congregation of the dead make room + For thee to pass; the votive tapers shine; + Like rooks that haunt Ravenna's groves of pine + The hovering echoes fly from tomb to tomb. +From the confessionals I hear arise + Rehearsals of forgotten tragedies, + And lamentations from the crypts below; +And then a voice celestial, that begins + With the pathetic words, "Although your sins + As scarlet be," and ends with "as the snow." + + +IV + +With snow-white veil and garments as of flame, + She stands before thee, who so long ago + Filled thy young heart with passion and the woe + From which thy song and all its splendors came; +And while with stern rebuke she speaks thy name, + The ice about thy heart melts as the snow + On mountain height; and in swift overflow + Comes gushing from thy lips in sobs of shame. +Thou makest full confession; and a gleam, + As of the dawn on some dark forest cast, + Seems on thy lifted forehead to increase; +Lethe and Eunoe--the remembered dream + And the forgotten sorrow--bring at last + That perfect pardon which is perfect peace. + + +V + +I lift mine eyes, and all the windows blaze + With forms of saints and holy men who died, + Here martyred and hereafter glorified; + And the great Rose upon its leaves displays +Christ's Triumph, and the angelic roundelays, + With splendor upon splendor multiplied; + And Beatrice again at Dante's side + No more rebukes, but smiles her words of praise. +And then the organ sounds, and unseen choirs + Sing the old Latin hymns of peace and love, + And benedictions of the Holy Ghost; +And the melodious bells among the spires + O'er all the house-tops and through heaven above + Proclaim the elevation of the Host! + + +VI + +O star of morning and of liberty! + O bringer of the light, whose splendor shines + Above the darkness of the Apennines, + Forerunner of the day that is to be! +The voices of the city and the sea, + The voices of the mountains and the pines, + Repeat thy song, till the familiar lines + Are footpaths for the thought of Italy! +Thy fame is blown abroad from all the heights, + Through all the nations, and a sound is heard, + As of a mighty wind, and men devout, +Strangers of Rome, and the new proselytes, + In their own language hear thy wondrous word, + And many are amazed and many doubt. + + + +NOËL. + +ENVOYE A M. AGASSIZ, LA VEILLE DE NOËL 1864, +AVEC UN PANIER DE VINS DIVERS + +L'Academie en respect, +Nonobstant l'incorrection +A la faveur du sujet, + Ture-lure, +N'y fera point de rature; +Noël! ture-lure-lure. + -- Gui Barozai + +Quand les astres de Noël +Brillaient, palpitaient au ciel, +Six gaillards, et chacun ivre, +Chantaient gaiment dans le givre, + "Bons amis, +Allons donc chez Agassiz!" + +Ces illustres Pelerins +D'Outre-Mer adroits et fins, +Se donnant des airs de pretre, +A l'envi se vantaient d'etre + "Bons amis, +De Jean Rudolphe Agassiz!" + +Oeil-de-Perdrix, grand farceur, +Sans reproche et sans pudeur, +Dans son patois de Bourgogne, +Bredouillait comme un ivrogne, + "Bons amis, +J'ai danse chez Agassiz!" + +Verzenay le Champenois, +Bon Francais, point New-Yorquois, +Mais des environs d'Avize, +Fredonne a mainte reprise, + "Bons amis, +J'ai chante chez Agassiz!" + +A cote marchait un vieux +Hidalgo, mais non mousseux; +Dans le temps de Charlemagne +Fut son pere Grand d'Espagne! + "Bons amis, +J'ai dine chez Agassiz!" + +Derriere eux un Bordelais, +Gascon, s'il en fut jamais, +Parfume de poesie +Riait, chantait, plein de vie, + "Bons amis, +J'ai soupe chez Agassiz!" + +Avec ce beau cadet roux, +Bras dessus et bras dessous, +Mine altiere et couleur terne, +Vint le Sire de Sauterne; + "Bons amis, +J'ai couche chez Agassiz!" + +Mais le dernier de ces preux, +Etait un pauvre Chartreux, +Qui disait, d'un ton robuste, +"Benedictions sur le Juste! + Bons amis, +Benissons Pere Agassiz!" + +Ils arrivent trois a trois, +Montent l'escalier de bois +Clopin-clopant! quel gendarme +Peut permettre ce vacarme, + Bons amis, +A la porte d'Agassiz! + +"Ouvrer donc, mon bon Seigneur, +Ouvrez vite et n'ayez peur; +Ouvrez, ouvrez, car nous sommes +Gens de bien et gentilshommes, + Bons amis +De la famille Agassiz!" + +Chut, ganaches! taisez-vous! +C'en est trop de vos glouglous; +Epargnez aux Philosophes +Vos abominables strophes! + Bons amis, +Respectez mon Agassiz! + + +************** + +BIRDS OF PASSAGE + +FLIGHT THE THIRD + +FATA MORGANA + +O sweet illusions of Song, + That tempt me everywhere, +In the lonely fields, and the throng + Of the crowded thoroughfare! + +I approach, and ye vanish away, + I grasp you, and ye are gone; +But ever by nigh an day, + The melody soundeth on. + +As the weary traveller sees + In desert or prairie vast, +Blue lakes, overhung with trees, + That a pleasant shadow cast; + +Fair towns with turrets high, + And shining roofs of gold, +That vanish as he draws nigh, + Like mists together rolled,-- + +So I wander and wander along, + And forever before me gleams +The shining city of song, + In the beautiful land of dreams. + +But when I would enter the gate + Of that golden atmosphere, +It is gone, and I wander and wait + For the vision to reappear. + + + +THE HAUNTED CHAMBER + +Each heart has its haunted chamber, + Where the silent moonlight falls! +On the floor are mysterious footsteps, + There are whispers along the walls! + +And mine at times is haunted + By phantoms of the Past +As motionless as shadows + By the silent moonlight cast. + +A form sits by the window, + That is not seen by day, +For as soon as the dawn approaches + It vanishes away. + +It sits there in the moonlight + Itself as pale and still, +And points with its airy finger + Across the window-sill. + +Without before the window, + There stands a gloomy pine, +Whose boughs wave upward and downward + As wave these thoughts of mine. + +And underneath its branches + Is the grave of a little child, +Who died upon life's threshold, + And never wept nor smiled. + +What are ye, O pallid phantoms! + That haunt my troubled brain? +That vanish when day approaches, + And at night return again? + +What are ye, O pallid phantoms! + But the statues without breath, +That stand on the bridge overarching + The silent river of death? + + + +THE MEETING + +After so long an absence + At last we meet again: +Does the meeting give us pleasure, + Or does it give us pain? + +The tree of life has been shaken, + And but few of us linger now, +Like the Prophet's two or three berries + In the top of the uppermost bough. + +We cordially greet each other + In the old, familiar tone; +And we think, though we do not say it, + How old and gray he is grown! + +We speak of a Merry Christmas + And many a Happy New Year +But each in his heart is thinking + Of those that are not here. + +We speak of friends and their fortunes, + And of what they did and said, +Till the dead alone seem living, + And the living alone seem dead. + +And at last we hardly distinguish + Between the ghosts and the guests; +And a mist and shadow of sadness + Steals over our merriest jests. + + + +VOX POPULI + +When Mazarvan the Magician, + Journeyed westward through Cathay, +Nothing heard he but the praises + Of Badoura on his way. + +But the lessening rumor ended + When he came to Khaledan, +There the folk were talking only + Of Prince Camaralzaman, + +So it happens with the poets: + Every province hath its own; +Camaralzaman is famous + Where Badoura is unknown. + + + +THE CASTLE-BUILDER + +A gentle boy, with soft and silken locks + A dreamy boy, with brown and tender eyes, +A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks, + And towers that touch imaginary skies. + +A fearless rider on his father's knee, + An eager listener unto stories told +At the Round Table of the nursery, + Of heroes and adventures manifold. + +There will be other towers for thee to build; + There will be other steeds for thee to ride; +There will be other legends, and all filled + With greater marvels and more glorified. + +Build on, and make thy castles high and fair, + Rising and reaching upward to the skies; +Listen to voices in the upper air, + Nor lose thy simple faith in mysteries. + + + +CHANGED + +From the outskirts of the town + Where of old the mile-stone stood. +Now a stranger, looking down +I behold the shadowy crown + Of the dark and haunted wood. + +Is it changed, or am I changed? + Ah! the oaks are fresh and green, +But the friends with whom I ranged +Through their thickets are estranged + By the years that intervene. + +Bright as ever flows the sea, + Bright as ever shines the sun, +But alas! they seem to me +Not the sun that used to be, + Not the tides that used to run. + + + +THE CHALLENGE + +I have a vague remembrance + Of a story, that is told +In some ancient Spanish legend + Or chronicle of old. + +It was when brave King Sanchez + Was before Zamora slain, +And his great besieging army + Lay encamped upon the plain. + +Don Diego de Ordonez + Sallied forth in front of all, +And shouted loud his challenge + To the warders on the wall. + +All the people of Zamora, + Both the born and the unborn, +As traitors did he challenge + With taunting words of scorn. + +The living, in their houses, + And in their graves, the dead! +And the waters of their rivers, + And their wine, and oil, and bread! + +There is a greater army, + That besets us round with strife, +A starving, numberless army, + At all the gates of life. + +The poverty-stricken millions + Who challenge our wine and bread, +And impeach us all as traitors, + Both the living and the dead. + +And whenever I sit at the banquet, + Where the feast and song are high, +Amid the mirth and the music + I can hear that fearful cry. + +And hollow and haggard faces + Look into the lighted hall, +And wasted hands are extended + To catch the crumbs that fall. + +For within there is light and plenty, + And odors fill the air; +But without there is cold and darkness, + And hunger and despair. + +And there in the camp of famine, + In wind and cold and rain, +Christ, the great Lord of the army, + Lies dead upon the plain! + + + +THE BROOK AND THE WAVE + +The brooklet came from the mountain, + As sang the bard of old, +Running with feet of silver + Over the sands of gold! + +Far away in the briny ocean + There rolled a turbulent wave, +Now singing along the sea-beach, + Now howling along the cave. + +And the brooklet has found the billow + Though they flowed so far apart, +And has filled with its freshness and sweetness + That turbulent bitter heart! + + + +AFTERMATH + +When the summer fields are mown, +When the birds are fledged and flown, + And the dry leaves strew the path; +With the falling of the snow, +With the cawing of the crow, +Once again the fields we mow + And gather in the aftermath. + +Not the sweet, new grass with flowers +Is this harvesting of ours; + Not the upland clover bloom; +But the rowen mired with weeds, +Tangled tufts from marsh and meads, +Where the poppy drops its seeds + In the silence and the gloom. + + + +THE MASQUE OF PANDORA + +I + +THE WORKSHOP OF HEPHÆSTUS + +HEPHÆSTUS (standing before the statue of Pandora.) +Not fashioned out of gold, like Hera's throne, +Nor forged of iron like the thunderbolts +Of Zeus omnipotent, or other works +Wrought by my hands at Lemnos or Olympus, +But moulded in soft clay, that unresisting +Yields itself to the touch, this lovely form +Before me stands, perfect in every part. +Not Aphrodite's self appeared more fair, +When first upwafted by caressing winds +She came to high Olympus, and the gods +Paid homage to her beauty. Thus her hair +Was cinctured; thus her floating drapery +Was like a cloud about her, and her face +Was radiant with the sunshine and the sea. + +THE VOICE OF ZEUS. +Is thy work done, Hephæstus? + +HEPHÆSTUS. +It is finished! + +THE VOICE. +Not finished till I breathe the breath of life +Into her nostrils, and she moves and speaks. + +HEPHÆSTUS. +Will she become immortal like ourselves? + +THE VOICE. +The form that thou hast fashioned out of clay +Is of the earth and mortal; but the spirit, +The life, the exhalation of my breath, +Is of diviner essence and immortal. +The gods shall shower on her their benefactions, +She shall possess all gifts: the gift of song, +The gift of eloquence, the gift of beauty, +The fascination and the nameless charm +That shall lead all men captive. + +HEPHÆSTUS. +Wherefore? wherefore? + +(A wind shakes the house.) + +I hear the rushing of a mighty wind +Through all the halls and chambers of my house! +Her parted lips inhale it, and her bosom +Heaves with the inspiration. As a reed +Beside a river in the rippling current +Bends to and fro, she bows or lifts her head. +She gazes round about as if amazed; +She is alive; she breathes, but yet she speaks not! + +(PANDORA descends from the pedestal.) + + +CHORUS OF THE GRACES + +AGLAIA. +In the workshop of Hephæstus + What is this I see? +Have the Gods to four increased us + Who were only three? +Beautiful in form and feature, + Lovely as the day, +Can there be so fair a creature + Formed of common clay? + +THALIA. +O sweet, pale face! O lovely eyes of azure, + Clear as the waters of a brook that run + Limpid and laughing in the summer sun! + O golden hair that like a miser's treasure +In its abundance overflows the measure! + O graceful form, that cloudlike floatest on + With the soft, undulating gait of one + Who moveth as if motion were a pleasure! +By what name shall I call thee? Nymph or Muse, + Callirrhoe or Urania? Some sweet name + Whose every syllable is a caress +Would best befit thee; but I cannot choose, + Nor do I care to choose; for still the same, + Nameless or named, will be thy loveliness. + +EUPHROSYNE. +Dowered with all celestial gifts, + Skilled in every art +That ennobles and uplifts + And delights the heart, +Fair on earth shall be thy fame + As thy face is fair, +And Pandora be the name + Thou henceforth shalt bear. + + +II + +OLYMPUS. + +HERMES (putting on his sandals.) +Much must he toil who serves the Immortal Gods, +And I, who am their herald, most of all. +No rest have I, nor respite. I no sooner +Unclasp the winged sandals from my feet, +Than I again must clasp them, and depart +Upon some foolish errand. But to-day +The errand is not foolish. Never yet +With greater joy did I obey the summons +That sends me earthward. I will fly so swiftly +That my caduceus in the whistling air +Shall make a sound like the Pandaean pipes, +Cheating the shepherds; for to-day I go, +Commissioned by high-thundering Zeus, to lead +A maiden to Prometheus, in his tower, +And by my cunning arguments persuade him +To marry her. What mischief lies concealed +In this design I know not; but I know +Who thinks of marrying hath already taken +One step upon the road to penitence. +Such embassies delight me. Forth I launch +On the sustaining air, nor fear to fall +Like Icarus, nor swerve aside like him +Who drove amiss Hyperion's fiery steeds. +I sink, I fly! The yielding element +Folds itself round about me like an arm, +And holds me as a mother holds her child. + + +III + +TOWER OF PROMETHEUS ON MOUNT CAUCASUS + +PROMETHEUS. +I hear the trumpet of Alectryon +Proclaim the dawn. The stars begin to fade, +And all the heavens are full of prophecies +And evil auguries. Blood-red last night +I saw great Kronos rise; the crescent moon +Sank through the mist, as if it were the scythe +His parricidal hand had flung far down +The western steeps. O ye Immortal Gods, +What evil are ye plotting and contriving? + +(HERMES and PANDORA at the threshold.) + +PANDORA. +I cannot cross the threshold. An unseen +And icy hand repels me. These blank walls +Oppress me with their weight! + +PROMETHEUS. +Powerful ye are, +But not omnipotent. Ye cannot fight +Against Necessity. The Fates control you, +As they do us, and so far we are equals! + +PANDORA. +Motionless, passionless, companionless, +He sits there muttering in his beard. His voice +Is like a river flowing underground! + +HERMES. +Prometheus, hail! + +PROMETHEUS. +Who calls me? + +HERMES. +It is I. +Dost thou not know me? + +PROMETHEUS. +By thy winged cap +And winged heels I know thee. Thou art Hermes, +Captain of thieves! Hast thou again been stealing +The heifers of Admetus in the sweet +Meadows of asphodel? or Hera's girdle? +Or the earth-shaking trident of Poseidon? + +HERMES. +And thou, Prometheus; say, hast thou again +Been stealing fire from Helios' chariot-wheels +To light thy furnaces? + +PROMETHEUS. +Why comest thou hither +So early in the dawn? + +HERMES. +The Immortal Gods +Know naught of late or early. Zeus himself +The omnipotent hath sent me. + +PROMETHEUS. +For what purpose? + +HERMES. +To bring this maiden to thee. + +PROMETHEUS. +I mistrust +The Gods and all their gifts. If they have sent her +It is for no good purpose. + +HERMES. +What disaster +Could she bring on thy house, who is a woman? + +PROMETHEUS. +The Gods are not my friends, nor am I theirs. +Whatever comes from them, though in a shape +As beautiful as this, is evil only. +Who art thou? + +PANDORA. +One who, though to thee unknown, +Yet knoweth thee. + +PROMETHEUS. +How shouldst thou know me, woman? + +PANDORA. +Who knoweth not Prometheus the humane? + +PROMETHEUS. +Prometheus the unfortunate; to whom +Both Gods and men have shown themselves ungrateful. +When every spark was quenched on every hearth +Throughout the earth, I brought to man the fire +And all its ministrations. My reward +Hath been the rock and vulture. + +HERMES. +But the Gods +At last relent and pardon. + +PROMETHEUS. +They relent not; +They pardon not; they are implacable, +Revengeful, unforgiving! + +HERMES. +As a pledge +Of reconciliation they have sent to thee +This divine being, to be thy companion, +And bring into thy melancholy house +The sunshine and the fragrance of her youth. + +PROMETHEUS. +I need them not. I have within myself +All that my heart desires; the ideal beauty +Which the creative faculty of mind +Fashions and follows in a thousand shapes +More lovely than the real. My own thoughts +Are my companions; my designs and labors +And aspirations are my only friends. + +HERMES. +Decide not rashly. The decision made +Can never be recalled. The Gods implore not, +Plead not, solicit not; they only offer +Choice and occasion, which once being passed +Return no more. Dost thou accept the gift? + +PROMETHEUS. +No gift of theirs, in whatsoever shape +It comes to me, with whatsoever charm +To fascinate my sense, will I receive. +Leave me. + +PANDORA. +Let us go hence. I will not stay. + +HERMES. +We leave thee to thy vacant dreams, and all +The silence and the solitude of thought, +The endless bitterness of unbelief, +The loneliness of existence without love. + + +CHORUS OF THE FATES + +CLOTHO. +How the Titan, the defiant, +The self-centred, self-reliant, +Wrapped in visions and illusions, +Robs himself of life's best gifts! +Till by all the storm-winds shaken, +By the blast of fate o'ertaken, +Hopeless, helpless, and forsaken, +In the mists of his confusions +To the reefs of doom he drifts! + +LACHESIS. +Sorely tried and sorely tempted, +From no agonies exempted, +In the penance of his trial, +And the discipline of pain; +Often by illusions cheated, +Often baffled and defeated +In the tasks to be completed, +He, by toil and self-denial, +To the highest shall attain. + +ATROPOS. +Tempt no more the noble schemer; +Bear unto some idle dreamer +This new toy and fascination, +This new dalliance and delight! +To the garden where reposes +Epimetheus crowned with roses, +To the door that never closes +Upon pleasure and temptation, +Bring this vision of the night! + + +IV + +THE AIR + +HERMES (returning to Olympus.) +As lonely as the tower that he inhabits, +As firm and cold as are the crags about him, +Prometheus stands. The thunderbolts of Zeus +Alone can move him; but the tender heart +Of Epimetheus, burning at white heat, +Hammers and flames like all his brother's forges! +Now as an arrow from Hyperion's bow, +My errand done, I fly, I float, I soar +Into the air, returning to Olympus. +O joy of motion! O delight to cleave +The infinite realms of space, the liquid ether, +Through the warm sunshine and the cooling cloud, +Myself as light as sunbeam or as cloud! +With one touch of my swift and winged feet, +I spurn the solid earth, and leave it rocking +As rocks the bough from which a bird takes wing. + + +V + +THE HOUSE OF EPIMETHEUS + +EPIMETHEUS. +Beautiful apparition! go not hence! +Surely thou art a Goddess, for thy voice +Is a celestial melody, and thy form +Self-poised as if it floated on the air! + +PANDORA. +No Goddess am I, nor of heavenly birth, +But a mere woman fashioned out of clay +And mortal as the rest. + +EPIMETHEUS. +Thy face is fair; +There is a wonder in thine azure eyes +That fascinates me. Thy whole presence seems +A soft desire, a breathing thought of love. +Say, would thy star like Merope's grow dim +If thou shouldst wed beneath thee? + +PANDORA. +Ask me not; +I cannot answer thee. I only know +The Gods have sent me hither. + +EPIMETHEUS. +I believe, +And thus believing am most fortunate. +It was not Hermes led thee here, but Eros, +And swifter than his arrows were thine eyes +In wounding me. There was no moment's space +Between my seeing thee and loving thee. +O, what a telltale face thou hast! Again +I see the wonder in thy tender eyes. + +PANDORA. +They do but answer to the love in thine, +Yet secretly I wonder thou shouldst love me. +Thou knowest me not. + +EPIMETHEUS. +Perhaps I know thee better +Than had I known thee longer. Yet it seems +That I have always known thee, and but now +Have found thee. Ah, I have been waiting long. + +PANDORA. +How beautiful is this house! The atmosphere +Breathes rest and comfort, and the many chambers +Seem full of welcomes. + +EPIMETHEUS. +They not only seem, +But truly are. This dwelling and its master +Belong to thee. + +PANDORA. +Here let me stay forever! +There is a spell upon me. + +EPIMETHEUS. +Thou thyself +Art the enchantress, and I feel thy power +Envelop me, and wrap my soul and sense +In an Elysian dream. + +PANDORA, +O, let me stay. +How beautiful are all things round about me, +Multiplied by the mirrors on the walls! +What treasures hast thou here! Yon oaken chest, +Carven with figures and embossed with gold, +Is wonderful to look upon! What choice +And precious things dost thou keep hidden in it? + +EPIMETHEUS. +I know not. 'T is a mystery. + +PANDORA. +Hast thou never +Lifted the lid? + +EPIMETHEUS. +The oracle forbids. +Safely concealed there from all mortal eyes +Forever sleeps the secret of the Gods. +Seek not to know what they have hidden from thee, +Till they themselves reveal it. + +PANDORA. +As thou wilt. + +EPIMETHEUS. +Let us go forth from this mysterious place. +The garden walks are pleasant at this hour; +The nightingales among the sheltering boughs +Of populous and many-nested trees +Shall teach me how to woo thee, and shall tell me +By what resistless charms or incantations +They won their mates. + +PANDORA. +Thou dost not need a teacher. + +(They go out.) + + +CHORUS OF THE EUMENIDES. +What the Immortals +Confide to thy keeping, +Tell unto no man; +Waking or sleeping, +Closed be thy portals +To friend as to foeman. + +Silence conceals it; +The word that is spoken +Betrays and reveals it; +By breath or by token +The charm may be broken. + +With shafts of their splendors +The Gods unforgiving +Pursue the offenders, +The dead and the living! +Fortune forsakes them, +Nor earth shall abide them, +Nor Tartarus hide them; +Swift wrath overtakes them! + +With useless endeavor, +Forever, forever, +Is Sisyphus rolling +His stone up the mountain! +Immersed in the fountain, +Tantalus tastes not +The water that wastes not! +Through ages increasing +The pangs that afflict him, +With motion unceasing +The wheel of Ixion +Shall torture its victim! + + +VI + +IN THE GARDEN + +EPIMETHEUS. +Yon snow-white cloud that sails sublime in ether +Is but the sovereign Zeus, who like a swan +Flies to fair-ankled Leda! + +PANDORA. +Or perchance +Ixion's cloud, the shadowy shape of Hera, +That bore the Centaurs. + +EPIMETHEUS. +The divine and human. + +CHORUS OF BIRDS. +Gently swaying to and fro, +Rocked by all the winds that blow, +Bright with sunshine from above +Dark with shadow from below, +Beak to beak and breast to breast +In the cradle of their nest, +Lie the fledglings of our love. + +ECHO. +Love! love! + +EPIMETHEUS. +Hark! listen! Hear how sweetly overhead +The feathered flute-players pipe their songs of love, +And echo answers, love and only love. + +CHORUS OF BIRDS. +Every flutter of the wing, +Every note of song we sing, +Every murmur, every tone, +Is of love and love alone. + +ECHO. +Love alone! + +EPIMETHEUS. +Who would not love, if loving she might be +Changed like Callisto to a star in heaven? + +PANDORA. +Ah, who would love, if loving she might be +Like Semele consumed and burnt to ashes? + +EPIMETHEUS. +Whence knowest thou these stories? + +PANDORA. +Hermes taught me; +He told me all the history of the Gods. + +CHORUS OF REEDS. +Evermore a sound shall be +In the reeds of Arcady, +Evermore a low lament +Of unrest and discontent, +As the story is retold +Of the nymph so coy and cold, +Who with frightened feet outran +The pursuing steps of Pan. + +EPIMETHEUS. +The pipe of Pan out of these reeds is made, +And when he plays upon it to the shepherds +They pity him, so mournful is the sound. +Be thou not coy and cold as Syrinx was. + +PANDORA. +Nor thou as Pan be rude and mannerless. + +PROMETHEUS (without). +Ho! Epimetheus! + +EPIMETHEUS. +'T is my brother's voice; +A sound unwelcome and inopportune +As was the braying of Silenus' ass, +Once heard in Cybele's garden. + +PANDORA. +Let me go. +I would not be found here. I would not see him. + +(She escapes among the trees.) + +CHORUS OF DRYADES. +Haste and hide thee, +Ere too late, +In these thickets intricate; +Lest Prometheus +See and chide thee, +Lest some hurt +Or harm betide thee, +Haste and hide thee! + +PROMETHEUS (entering.) +Who was it fled from here? I saw a shape +Flitting among the trees. + +EPIMETHEUS. +It was Pandora. + +PROMETHEUS. +O Epimetheus! Is it then in vain +That I have warned thee? Let me now implore. +Thou harborest in thy house a dangerous guest. + +EPIMETHEUS. +Whom the Gods love they honor with such guests. + +PROMETHEUS. +Whom the Gods would destroy they first make mad. + +EPIMETHEUS. +Shall I refuse the gifts they send to me? + +PROMETHEUS. +Reject all gifts that come from higher powers. + +EPIMETHEUS. +Such gifts as this are not to be rejected. + +PROMETHEUS. +Make not thyself the slave of any woman. + +EPIMETHEUS. +Make not thyself the judge of any man. + +PROMETHEUS. +I judge thee not; for thou art more than man; +Thou art descended from Titanic race, +And hast a Titan's strength, and faculties +That make thee godlike; and thou sittest here +Like Heracles spinning Omphale's flax, +And beaten with her sandals. + +EPIMETHEUS. +O my brother! +Thou drivest me to madness with thy taunts. + +PROMETHEUS. +And me thou drivest to madness with thy follies. +Come with me to my tower on Caucasus: +See there my forges in the roaring caverns, +Beneficent to man, and taste the joy +That springs from labor. Read with me the stars, +And learn the virtues that lie hidden in plants, +And all things that are useful. + +EPIMETHEU5. +O my brother! +I am not as thou art. Thou dost inherit +Our father's strength, and I our mother's weakness: +The softness of the Oceanides, +The yielding nature that cannot resist. + +PROMETHEUS. +Because thou wilt not. + +EPIMETHEUS. +Nay; because I cannot. + +PROMETHEUS. +Assert thyself; rise up to thy full height; +Shake from thy soul these dreams effeminate, +These passions born of indolence and ease. +Resolve, and thou art free. But breathe the air +Of mountains, and their unapproachable summits +Will lift thee to the level of themselves. + +EPIMETHEUS. +The roar of forests and of waterfalls, +The rushing of a mighty wind, with loud +And undistinguishable voices calling, +Are in my ear! + +PROMETHEUS. +O, listen and obey. + +EPIMETHEUS. +Thou leadest me as a child, I follow thee. + +(They go out.) + +CHORUS OF OREADES. +Centuries old are the mountains; +Their foreheads wrinkled and rifted +Helios crowns by day, +Pallid Selene by night; +From their bosoms uptossed +The snows are driven and drifted, +Like Tithonus' beard +Streaming dishevelled and white. + +Thunder and tempest of wind +Their trumpets blow in the vastness; +Phantoms of mist and rain, +Cloud and the shadow of cloud, +Pass and repass by the gates +Of their inaccessible fastness; +Ever unmoved they stand, +Solemn, eternal, and proud, + +VOICES OF THE WATERS. +Flooded by rain and snow +In their inexhaustible sources, +Swollen by affluent streams +Hurrying onward and hurled +Headlong over the crags, +The impetuous water-courses, +Rush and roar and plunge +Down to the nethermost world. + +Say, have the solid rocks +Into streams of silver been melted, +Flowing over the plains, +Spreading to lakes in the fields? +Or have the mountains, the giants, +The ice-helmed, the forest-belted, +Scattered their arms abroad; +Flung in the meadows their shields? + +VOICES OF THE WINDS. +High on their turreted cliffs +That bolts of thunder have shattered, +Storm-winds muster and blow +Trumpets of terrible breath; +Then from the gateways rush, +And before them routed and scattered +Sullen the cloud-rack flies, +Pale with the pallor of death. + +Onward the hurricane rides, +And flee for shelter the shepherds; +White are the frightened leaves, +Harvests with terror are white; +Panic seizes the herds, +And even the lions and leopards, +Prowling no longer for prey, +Crouch in their caverns with fright. + +VOICES OF THE FOREST. +Guarding the mountains around +Majestic the forests are standing, +Bright are their crested helms, +Dark is their armor of leaves; +Filled with the breath of freedom +Each bosom subsiding, expanding, +Now like the ocean sinks, +Now like the ocean upheaves. + +Planted firm on the rock, +With foreheads stern and defiant, +Loud they shout to the winds, +Loud to the tempest they call; +Naught but Olympian thunders, +That blasted Titan and Giant, +Them can uproot and o'erthrow, +Shaking the earth with their fall. + +CHORUS OF OREADES. +These are the Voices Three +Of winds and forests and fountains, +Voices of earth and of air, +Murmur and rushing of streams, +Making together one sound, +The mysterious voice of the mountains, +Waking the sluggard that sleeps, +Waking the dreamer of dreams. + +These are the Voices Three, +That speak of endless endeavor, +Speak of endurance and strength, +Triumph and fulness of fame, +Sounding about the world, +An inspiration forever, +Stirring the hearts of men, +Shaping their end and their aim. + + +VII + +THE HOUSE OF EPIMETHEUS + +PANDORA. +Left to myself I wander as I will, +And as my fancy leads me, through this house, +Nor could I ask a dwelling more complete +Were I indeed the Goddess that he deems me. +No mansion of Olympus, framed to be +The habitation of the Immortal Gods, +Can be more beautiful. And this is mine +And more than this, the love wherewith he crowns me. +As if impelled by powers invisible +And irresistible, my steps return +Unto this spacious hall. All corridors +And passages lead hither, and all doors +But open into it. Yon mysterious chest +Attracts and fascinates me. Would I knew +What there lies hidden! But the oracle +Forbids. Ah me! The secret then is safe. +So would it be if it were in my keeping. +A crowd of shadowy faces from the mirrors +That line these walls are watching me. I dare not +Lift up the lid. A hundred times the act +Would be repeated, and the secret seen +By twice a hundred incorporeal eyes. + +(She walks to the other side of the hall.) + +My feet are weary, wandering to and fro, +My eyes with seeing and my heart with waiting. +I will lie here and rest till he returns, +Who is my dawn, my day, my Helios. + +(Throws herself upon a couch, and falls asleep.) + +ZEPHYRUS. +Come from thy caverns dark and deep. +O son of Erebus and Night; +All sense of hearing and of sight +Enfold in the serene delight +And quietude of sleep! + +Set all the silent sentinels +To bar and guard the Ivory Gate, +And keep the evil dreams of fate +And falsehood and infernal hate +Imprisoned in their cells. + +But open wide the Gate of Horn, +Whence, beautiful as planets, rise +The dreams of truth, with starry eyes, +And all the wondrous prophecies +And visions of the morn. + +CHORUS OF DREAMS FROM THE IVORY GATE. + Ye sentinels of sleep, + It is in vain ye keep +Your drowsy watch before the Ivory Gate; + Though closed the portal seems, + The airy feet of dreams +Ye cannot thus in walls incarcerate. + + We phantoms are and dreams + Born by Tartarean streams, +As ministers of the infernal powers; + O son of Erebus + And Night, behold! we thus +Elude your watchful warders on the towers! + + From gloomy Tartarus + The Fates have summoned us +To whisper in her ear, who lies asleep, + A tale to fan the fire + Of her insane desire +To know a secret that the Gods would keep. + + This passion, in their ire, + The Gods themselves inspire, +To vex mankind with evils manifold, + So that disease and pain + O'er the whole earth may reign, +And nevermore return the Age of Gold. + +PANDORA (waking). +A voice said in my sleep: "Do not delay: +Do not delay; the golden moments fly! +The oracle hath forbidden; yet not thee +Doth it forbid, but Epimetheus only!" +I am alone. These faces in the mirrors +Are but the shadows and phantoms of myself; +They cannot help nor hinder. No one sees me, +Save the all-seeing Gods, who, knowing good +And knowing evil, have created me +Such as I am, and filled me with desire +Of knowing good and evil like themselves. + +(She approaches the chest.) + +I hesitate no longer. Weal or woe, +Or life or death, the moment shall decide. + +(She lifts the lid. A dense mist rises from +the chest, and fills the room. PANDORA +falls senseless on the floor. Storm without.) + +CHORUS OF DREAMS FROM THE GATE OF HORN. +Yes, the moment shall decide! +It already hath decided; +And the secret once confided +To the keeping of the Titan +Now is flying far and wide, +Whispered, told on every side, +To disquiet and to frighten. + +Fever of the heart and brain, +Sorrow, pestilence, and pain, +Moans of anguish, maniac laughter, +All the evils that hereafter +Shall afflict and vex mankind, +All into the air have risen +From the chambers of their prison; +Only Hope remains behind. + + +VIII + +IN THE GARDEN + +EPIMETHEUS. +The storm is past, but it hath left behind it +Ruin and desolation. All the walks +Are strewn with shattered boughs; the birds are silent; +The flowers, downtrodden by the wind, lie dead; +The swollen rivulet sobs with secret pain, +The melancholy reeds whisper together +As if some dreadful deed had been committed +They dare not name, and all the air is heavy +With an unspoken sorrow! Premonitions, +Foreshadowings of some terrible disaster +Oppress my heart. Ye Gods, avert the omen! + +PANDORA (coming from the house). +O Epimetheus, I no longer dare +To lift mine eyes to thine, nor hear thy voice, +Being no longer worthy of thy love. + +EPIMETHEUS. +What hast thou done? + +PANDORA. +Forgive me not, but kill me. + +EPIMETHEUS. +What hast thou done? + +PANDORA. +I pray for death, not pardon. + +EPIMETHEUS. +What hast thou done? + +PANDORA. +I dare not speak of it. + +EPIMETHEUS. +Thy pallor and thy silence terrify me! + +PANDORA. +I have brought wrath and ruin on thy house! +My heart hath braved the oracle that guarded +The fatal secret from us, and my hand +Lifted the lid of the mysterious chest! + +EPIMETHEUS. +Then all is lost! I am indeed undone. + +PANDORA. +I pray for punishment, and not for pardon. + +EPIMETHEUS. +Mine is the fault not thine. On me shall fall +The vengeance of the Gods, for I betrayed +Their secret when, in evil hour, I said +It was a secret; when, in evil hour, +I left thee here alone to this temptation. +Why did I leave thee? + +PANDORA. +Why didst thou return? +Eternal absence would have been to me +The greatest punishment. To be left alone +And face to face with my own crime, had been +Just retribution. Upon me, ye Gods, +Let all your vengeance fall! + +EPIMETHEUS. +On thee and me. +I do not love thee less for what is done, +And cannot be undone. Thy very weakness +Hath brought thee nearer to me, and henceforth +My love will have a sense of pity in it, +Making it less a worship than before. + +PANDORA. +Pity me not; pity is degradation. +Love me and kill me. + +EPIMETHEUS. +Beautiful Pandora! +Thou art a Goddess still! + +PANDORA. +I am a woman; +And the insurgent demon in my nature, +That made me brave the oracle, revolts +At pity and compassion. Let me die; +What else remains for me? + +EPIMETHEUS. +Youth, hope, and love: +To build a new life on a ruined life, +To make the future fairer than the past, +And make the past appear a troubled dream. +Even now in passing through the garden walks +Upon the ground I saw a fallen nest +Ruined and full of rain; and over me +Beheld the uncomplaining birds already +Busy in building a new habitation. + +PANDORA. +Auspicious omen! + +EPIMETHEUS. +May the Eumenides +Put out their torches and behold us not, +And fling away their whips of scorpions +And touch us not. + +PANDORA. +Me let them punish. +Only through punishment of our evil deeds, +Only through suffering, are we reconciled +To the immortal Gods and to ourselves. + + +CHORUS OF THE EUMENIDES. + Never shall souls like these + Escape the Eumenides, +The daughters dark of Acheron and Night! + Unquenched our torches glare, + Our scourges in the air +Send forth prophetic sounds before they smite. + + Never by lapse of time + The soul defaced by crime +Into its former self returns again; + For every guilty deed + Holds in itself the seed +Of retribution and undying pain. + + Never shall be the loss + Restored, till Helios +Hath purified them with his heavenly fires; + Then what was lost is won, + And the new life begun, +Kindled with nobler passions and desires. + + + +THE HANGING OF THE CRANE + +I + + +The lights are out, and gone are all the guests +That thronging came with merriment and jests + To celebrate the Hanging of the Crane +In the new house,--into the night are gone; +But still the fire upon the hearth burns on, + And I alone remain. + + O fortunate, O happy day, + When a new household finds its place + Among the myriad homes of earth, + Like a new star just sprung to birth, + And rolled on its harmonious way + Into the boundless realms of space! + +So said the guests in speech and song, +As in the chimney, burning bright, +We hung the iron crane to-night, +And merry was the feast and long. + + +II + +And now I sit and muse on what may be, +And in my vision see, or seem to see, + Through floating vapors interfused with light, +Shapes indeterminate, that gleam and fade, +As shadows passing into deeper shade + Sink and elude the sight. + +For two alone, there in the hall, +As spread the table round and small; +Upon the polished silver shine +The evening lamps, but, more divine, +The light of love shines over all; +Of love, that says not mine and thine, +But ours, for ours is thine and mine. + +They want no guests, to come between +Their tender glances like a screen, +And tell them tales of land and sea, +And whatsoever may betide +The great, forgotten world outside; +They want no guests; they needs must be +Each other's own best company. + + +III + +The picture fades; as at a village fair +A showman's views, dissolving into air, + Again appear transfigured on the screen, +So in my fancy this; and now once more, +In part transfigured, through the open door + Appears the selfsame scene. + +Seated, I see the two again, +But not alone; they entertain +A little angel unaware, +With face as round as is the moon; +A royal guest with flaxen hair, +Who, throned upon his lofty chair, +Drums on the table with his spoon, +Then drops it careless on the floor, +To grasp at things unseen before. + +Are these celestial manners? these +The ways that win, the arts that please? +Ah yes; consider well the guest, +And whatsoe'er he does seems best; +He ruleth by the right divine +Of helplessness, so lately born +In purple chambers of the morn, +As sovereign over thee and thine. +He speaketh not; and yet there lies +A conversation in his eyes; +The golden silence of the Greek, +The gravest wisdom of the wise, +Not spoken in language, but in looks +More legible than printed books, +As if he could but would not speak. +And now, O monarch absolute, +Thy power is put to proof; for, lo! +Resistless, fathomless, and slow, +The nurse comes rustling like the sea, +And pushes back thy chair and thee, +And so good night to King Canute. + + +IV + +As one who walking in a forest sees +A lovely landscape through the parted frees, + Then sees it not, for boughs that intervene +Or as we see the moon sometimes revealed +Through drifting clouds, and then again concealed, + So I behold the scene. + +There are two guests at table now; +The king, deposed and older grown, +No longer occupies the throne,-- +The crown is on his sister's brow; +A Princess from the Fairy Isles, +The very pattern girl of girls. +All covered and embowered in curls, +Rose-tinted from the Isle of Flowers, +And sailing with soft, silken sails +From far-off Dreamland into ours. +Above their bowls with rims of blue +Four azure eyes of deeper hue +Are looking, dreamy with delight; +Limpid as planets that emerge +Above the ocean's rounded verge, +Soft-shining through the summer night. +Steadfast they gaze, yet nothing see +Beyond the horizon of their bowls; +Nor care they for the world that rolls +With all its freight of troubled souls +Into the days that are to be. + + +V + +Again the tossing boughs shut out the scene, +Again the drifting vapors intervene, + And the moon's pallid disk is hidden quite; +And now I see the table wider grown, +As round a pebble into water thrown + Dilates a ring of light. + +I see the table wider grown, +I see it garlanded with guests, +As if fair Ariadne's Crown +Out of the sky had fallen down; +Maidens within whose tender breasts +A thousand restless hopes and fears, +Forth reaching to the coming years, +Flutter awhile, then quiet lie +Like timid birds that fain would fly, +But do not dare to leave their nests;-- +And youths, who in their strength elate +Challenge the van and front of fate, +Eager as champions to be +In the divine knight-errantry +Of youth, that travels sea and land +Seeking adventures, or pursues, +Through cities, and through solitudes +Frequented by the lyric Muse, +The phantom with the beckoning hand, +That still allures and still eludes. +O sweet illusions of the brain! +O sudden thrills of fire and frost! +The world is bright while ye remain, +And dark and dead when ye are lost! + + +VI + +The meadow-brook, that seemeth to stand still, +Quickens its current as it nears the mill; + And so the stream of Time that lingereth +In level places, and so dull appears, +Runs with a swifter current as it nears + The gloomy mills of Death. + +And now, like the magician's scroll, +That in the owner's keeping shrinks +With every wish he speaks or thinks, +Till the last wish consumes the whole, +The table dwindles, and again +I see the two alone remain. +The crown of stars is broken in parts; +Its jewels, brighter than the day, +Have one by one been stolen away +To shine in other homes and hearts. +One is a wanderer now afar +In Ceylon or in Zanzibar, +Or sunny regions of Cathay; +And one is in the boisterous camp +Mid clink of arms and horses' tramp, +And battle's terrible array. +I see the patient mother read, +With aching heart, of wrecks that float +Disabled on those seas remote, +Or of some great heroic deed +On battle-fields where thousands bleed +To lift one hero into fame. +Anxious she bends her graceful head +Above these chronicles of pain, +And trembles with a secret dread +Lest there among the drowned or slain +She find the one beloved name. + + +VII + +After a day of cloud and wind and rain +Sometimes the setting sun breaks out again, + And touching all the darksome woods with light, +Smiles on the fields, until they laugh and sing, +Then like a ruby from the horizon's ring + Drops down into the night. + +What see I now? The night is fair, +The storm of grief, the clouds of care, +The wind, the rain, have passed away; +The lamps are lit, the fires burn bright, +The house is full of life and light: +It is the Golden Wedding day. +The guests come thronging in once more, +Quick footsteps sound along the floor, +The trooping children crowd the stair, +And in and out and everywhere +Flashes along the corridor +The sunshine of their golden hair. +On the round table in the hall +Another Ariadne's Crown +Out of the sky hath fallen down; +More than one Monarch of the Moon +Is drumming with his silver spoon; +The light of love shines over all. + +O fortunate, O happy day! +The people sing, the people say. +The ancient bridegroom and the bride, +Smiling contented and serene +Upon the blithe, bewildering scene, +Behold, well pleased, on every side +Their forms and features multiplied, +As the reflection of a light +Between two burnished mirrors gleams, +Or lamps upon a bridge at night +Stretch on and on before the sight, +Till the long vista endless seems. + + + +MORITURI SALUTAMUS + +POEM FOR THE FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF THE CLASS OF 1825 +IN BOWDOIN COLLEGE + +Tempora labuntur, tacitisque senescimus annis, +Et fugiunt freno non remorante dies.--OVID, Fastorum, Lib. vi. + + +"O Caesar, we who are about to die +Salute you!" was the gladiators' cry +In the arena, standing face to face +With death and with the Roman populace. + +O ye familiar scenes,--ye groves of pine, +That once were mine and are no longer mine,-- +Thou river, widening through the meadows green +To the vast sea, so near and yet unseen,-- +Ye halls, in whose seclusion and repose +Phantoms of fame, like exhalations, rose +And vanished,--we who are about to die +Salute you; earth and air and sea and sky, +And the Imperial Sun that scatters down +His sovereign splendors upon grove and town. + +Ye do not answer us! ye do not hear! +We are forgotten; and in your austere +And calm indifference, ye little care +Whether we come or go, or whence or where. +What passing generations fill these halls, +What passing voices echo front these walls, +Ye heed not; we are only as the blast, +A moment heard, and then forever past. + +Not so the teachers who in earlier days +Led our bewildered feet through learning's maze; +They answer us--alas! what have I said? +What greetings come there from the voiceless dead? +What salutation, welcome, or reply? +What pressure from the hands that lifeless lie? +They are no longer here; they all are gone +Into the land of shadows,--all save one. +Honor and reverence, and the good repute +That follows faithful service as its fruit, +Be unto him, whom living we salute. + +The great Italian poet, when he made +His dreadful journey to the realms of shade, +Met there the old instructor of his youth, +And cried in tones of pity and of ruth: +"O, never from the memory of my heart +Your dear, paternal image shall depart, +Who while on earth, ere yet by death surprised, +Taught me how mortals are immortalized; +How grateful am I for that patient care +All my life long my language shall declare." + +To-day we make the poet's words our own +And utter them in plaintive undertone; +Nor to the living only be they said, +But to the other living called the dead, +Whose dear, paternal images appear +Not wrapped in gloom, but robed in sunshine here; +Whose simple lives, complete and without flaw, +Were part and parcel of great Nature's law; +Who said not to their Lord, as if afraid +"Here is thy talent in a napkin laid," +But labored in their sphere, as men who live +In the delight that work alone can give. +Peace be to them; eternal peace and rest, +And the fulfilment of the great behest: +"Ye have been faithful over a few things, +Over ten cities shall ye reign as kings." + +And ye who fill the places we once filled, +And follow in the furrows that we tilled, +Young men, whose generous hearts are beating high, +We who are old, and are about to die, +Salute you; hail you; take your hands in ours, +And crown you with our welcome as with flowers! +How beautiful is youth! how bright it gleams +With its illusions, aspirations, dreams! +Book of Beginnings, Story without End, +Each maid a heroine, and each man a friend! +Aladdin's Lamp, and Fortunatus' Purse, +That holds the treasures of the universe! +All possibilities are in its hands, +No danger daunts it, and no foe withstands; +In its sublime audacity of faith, +"Be thou removed!" it to the mountain saith, +And with ambitious feet, secure and proud, +Ascends the ladder leaning on the cloud! + +As ancient Priam at the Scaean gate +Sat on the walls of Troy in regal state +With the old men, too old and weak to fight, +Chirping like grasshoppers in their delight +To see the embattled hosts, with spear and shield, +Of Trojans and Achaians in the field; +So from the snowy summits of our years +We see you in the plain, as each appears, +And question of you; asking, "Who is he +That towers above the others? Which may be +Atreides, Menelaus, Odysseus, +Ajax the great, or bold Idomeneus?" + +Let him not boast who puts his armor on +As he who puts it off, the battle done. +Study yourselves; and most of all note well +Wherein kind Nature meant you to excel. +Not every blossom ripens into fruit; +Minerva, the inventress of the flute, +Flung it aside, when she her face surveyed +Distorted in a fountain as she played; +The unlucky Marsyas found it, and his fate +Was one to make the bravest hesitate. + +Write on your doors the saying wise and old, +"Be bold! be bold!" and everywhere--"Be bold; +Be not too bold!" Yet better the excess +Than the defect; better the more than less; +Better like Hector in the field to die, +Than like a perfumed Paris turn and fly, + +And now, my classmates; ye remaining few +That number not the half of those we knew, +Ye, against whose familiar names not yet +The fatal asterisk of death is set, +Ye I salute! The horologe of Time +Strikes the half-century with a solemn chime, +And summons us together once again, +The joy of meeting not unmixed with pain. + +Where are the others? Voices from the deep +Caverns of darkness answer me: "They sleep!" +I name no names; instinctively I feel +Each at some well-remembered grave will kneel, +And from the inscription wipe the weeds and moss, +For every heart best knoweth its own loss. +I see their scattered gravestones gleaming white +Through the pale dusk of the impending night; +O'er all alike the impartial sunset throws +Its golden lilies mingled with the rose; +We give to each a tender thought, and pass +Out of the graveyards with their tangled grass, +Unto these scenes frequented by our feet +When we were young, and life was fresh and sweet. + +What shall I say to you? What can I say +Better than silence is? When I survey +This throng of faces turned to meet my own, +Friendly and fair, and yet to me unknown, +Transformed the very landscape seems to be; +It is the same, yet not the same to me. +So many memories crowd upon my brain, +So many ghosts are in the wooded plain, +I fain would steal away, with noiseless tread, +As from a house where some one lieth dead. +I cannot go;--I pause;--I hesitate; +My feet reluctant linger at the gate; +As one who struggles in a troubled dream +To speak and cannot, to myself I seem. + +Vanish the dream! Vanish the idle fears! +Vanish the rolling mists of fifty years! +Whatever time or space may intervene, +I will not be a stranger in this scene. +Here every doubt, all indecision, ends; +Hail, my companions, comrades, classmates, friends! + +Ah me! the fifty years since last we met +Seem to me fifty folios bound and set +By Time, the great transcriber, on his shelves, +Wherein are written the histories of ourselves. +What tragedies, what comedies, are there; +What joy and grief, what rapture and despair! +What chronicles of triumph and defeat, +Of struggle, and temptation, and retreat! +What records of regrets, and doubts, and fears +What pages blotted, blistered by our tears! +What lovely landscapes on the margin shine, +What sweet, angelic faces, what divine +And holy images of love and trust, +Undimmed by age, unsoiled by damp or dust! + +Whose hand shall dare to open and explore +These volumes, closed and clasped forevermore? +Not mine. With reverential feet I pass; +I hear a voice that cries, "Alas! alas! +Whatever hath been written shall remain, +Nor be erased nor written o'er again; +The unwritten only still belongs to thee: +Take heed, and ponder well what that shall be." + +As children frightened by a thundercloud +Are reassured if some one reads aloud +A tale of wonder, with enchantment fraught, +Or wild adventure, that diverts their thought, +Let me endeavor with a tale to chase +The gathering shadows of the time and place, +And banish what we all too deeply feel +Wholly to say, or wholly to conceal. + +In mediaeval Rome, I know not where, +There stood an image with its arm in air, +And on its lifted finger, shining clear, +A golden ring with the device, "Strike here!" +Greatly the people wondered, though none guessed +The meaning that these words but half expressed, +Until a learned clerk, who at noonday +With downcast eyes was passing on his way, +Paused, and observed the spot, and marked it well, +Whereon the shadow of the finger fell; +And, coming back at midnight, delved, and found +A secret stairway leading under ground. +Down this he passed into a spacious hall, +Lit by a flaming jewel on the wall; +And opposite in threatening attitude +With bow and shaft a brazen statue stood. +Upon its forehead, like a coronet, +Were these mysterious words of menace set: +"That which I am, I am; my fatal aim +None can escape, not even yon luminous flame!" + +Midway the hall was a fair table placed, +With cloth of gold, and golden cups enchased +With rubies, and the plates and knives were gold, +And gold the bread and viands manifold. +Around it, silent, motionless, and sad, +Were seated gallant knights in armor clad, +And ladies beautiful with plume and zone, +But they were stone, their hearts within were stone; +And the vast hall was filled in every part +With silent crowds, stony in face and heart. + +Long at the scene, bewildered and amazed +The trembling clerk in speechless wonder gazed; +Then from the table, by his greed made bold, +He seized a goblet and a knife of gold, +And suddenly from their seats the guests upsprang, +The vaulted ceiling with loud clamors rang, +The archer sped his arrow, at their call, +Shattering the lambent jewel on the wall, +And all was dark around and overhead;-- +Stark on the door the luckless clerk lay dead! + +The writer of this legend then records +Its ghostly application in these words: +The image is the Adversary old, +Whose beckoning finger points to realms of gold; +Our lusts and passions are the downward stair +That leads the soul from a diviner air; +The archer, Death; the flaming jewel, Life; +Terrestrial goods, the goblet and the knife; +The knights and ladies, all whose flesh and bone +By avarice have been hardened into stone; +The clerk, the scholar whom the love of pelf +Tempts from his books and from his nobler self. + +The scholar and the world! The endless strife, +The discord in the harmonies of life! +The love of learning, the sequestered nooks, +And all the sweet serenity of books; +The market-place, the eager love of gain, +Whose aim is vanity, and whose end is pain! + +But why, you ask me, should this tale be told +To men grown old, or who are growing old? +It is too late! Ah, nothing is too late +Till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate. +Cato learned Greek at eighty; Sophocles +Wrote his grand Oedipus, and Simonides +Bore off the prize of verse from his compeers, +When each had numbered more than fourscore years, +And Theophrastus, at fourscore and ten, +Had but begun his Characters of Men. +Chaucer, at Woodstock with the nightingales, +At sixty wrote the Canterbury Tales; +Goethe at Weimar, toiling to the last, +Completed Faust when eighty years were past. +These are indeed exceptions; but they show +How far the gulf-stream of our youth may flow +Into the arctic regions of our lives. +Where little else than life itself survives. + +As the barometer foretells the storm +While still the skies are clear, the weather warm, +So something in us, as old age draws near, +Betrays the pressure of the atmosphere. +The nimble mercury, ere we are aware, +Descends the elastic ladder of the air; +The telltale blood in artery and vein +Sinks from its higher levels in the brain; +Whatever poet, orator, or sage +May say of it, old age is still old age. +It is the waning, not the crescent moon; +The dusk of evening, not the blaze of noon: +It is not strength, but weakness; not desire, +But its surcease; not the fierce heat of fire, +The burning and consuming element, +But that of ashes and of embers spent, +In which some living sparks we still discern, +Enough to warm, but not enough to burn. + +What then? Shall we sit idly down and say +The night hath come; it is no longer day? +The night hath not yet come; we are not quite +Cut off from labor by the failing light; +Something remains for us to do or dare; +Even the oldest tree some fruit may bear; +Not Oedipus Coloneus, or Greek Ode, +Or tales of pilgrims that one morning rode +Out of the gateway of the Tabard inn, +But other something, would we but begin; +For age is opportunity no less +Than youth itself, though in another dress, +And as the evening twilight fades away +The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day. + + + +A BOOK OF SONNETS + +THREE FRIENDS OF MINE + +I + +When I remember them, those friends of mine, + Who are no longer here, the noble three, + Who half my life were more than friends to me, + And whose discourse was like a generous wine, +I most of all remember the divine + Something, that shone in them, and made us see + The archetypal man, and what might be + The amplitude of Nature's first design. +In vain I stretch my hands to clasp their hands; + I cannot find them. Nothing now is left + But a majestic memory. They meanwhile +Wander together in Elysian lands, + Perchance remembering me, who am bereft + Of their dear presence, and, remembering, smile. + + +II + +In Attica thy birthplace should have been, + Or the Ionian Isles, or where the seas + Encircle in their arms the Cyclades, + So wholly Greek wast thou in thy serene +And childlike joy of life, O Philhellene! + Around thee would have swarmed the Attic bees; + Homer had been thy friend, or Socrates, + And Plato welcomed thee to his demesne. +For thee old legends breathed historic breath; + Thou sawest Poseidon in the purple sea, + And in the sunset Jason's fleece of gold! +O, what hadst thou to do with cruel Death, + Who wast so full of life, or Death with thee, + That thou shouldst die before thou hadst grown old! + + +III + +I stand again on the familiar shore, + And hear the waves of the distracted sea + Piteously calling and lamenting thee, + And waiting restless at thy cottage door. +The rocks, the sea-weed on the ocean floor, + The willows in the meadow, and the free + Wild winds of the Atlantic welcome me; + Then why shouldst thou be dead, and come no more? +Ah, why shouldst thou be dead, when common men + Are busy with their trivial affairs, + Having and holding? Why, when thou hadst read +Nature's mysterious manuscript, and then + Wast ready to reveal the truth it bears, + Why art thou silent! Why shouldst thou be dead? + + +IV + +River, that stealest with such silent pace + Around the City of the Dead, where lies + A friend who bore thy name, and whom these eyes + Shall see no more in his accustomed place, +Linger and fold him in thy soft embrace + And say good night, for now the western skies + Are red with sunset, and gray mists arise + Like damps that gather on a dead man's face. +Good night! good night! as we so oft have said + Beneath this roof at midnight in the days + That are no more, and shall no more return. +Thou hast but taken thy lamp and gone to bed; + I stay a little longer, as one stays + To cover up the embers that still burn. + + +V + +The doors are all wide open; at the gate + The blossomed lilacs counterfeit a blaze, + And seem to warm the air; a dreamy haze + Hangs o'er the Brighton meadows like a fate, +And on their margin, with sea-tides elate, + The flooded Charles, as in the happier days, + Writes the last letter of his name, and stays + His restless steps, as if compelled to wait. +I also wait; but they will come no more, + Those friends of mine, whose presence satisfied + The thirst and hunger of my heart. Ah me! +They have forgotten the pathway to my door! + Something is gone from nature since they died, + And summer is not summer, nor can be. + + + +CHAUCER + +An old man in a lodge within a park; + The chamber walls depicted all around + With portraitures of huntsman, hawk, and hound. + And the hurt deer. He listeneth to the lark, +Whose song comes with the sunshine through the dark + Of painted glass in leaden lattice bound; + He listeneth and he laugheth at the sound, + Then writeth in a book like any clerk. +He is the poet of the dawn, who wrote + The Canterbury Tales, and his old age + Made beautiful with song; and as I read +I hear the crowing cock, I hear the note + Of lark and linnet, and from every page + Rise odors of ploughed field or flowery mead. + + + +SHAKESPEARE + +A vision as of crowded city streets, + With human life in endless overflow; + Thunder of thoroughfares; trumpets that blow + To battle; clamor, in obscure retreats, +Of sailors landed from their anchored fleets; + Tolling of bells in turrets, and below + Voices of children, and bright flowers that throw + O'er garden-walls their intermingled sweets! +This vision comes to me when I unfold + The volume of the Poet paramount, + Whom all the Muses loved, not one alone;-- +Into his hands they put the lyre of gold, + And, crowned with sacred laurel at their fount, + Placed him as Musagetes on their throne. + + + +MILTON + +I pace the sounding sea-beach and behold + How the voluminous billows roll and run, + Upheaving and subsiding, while the sun + Shines through their sheeted emerald far unrolled, +And the ninth wave, slow gathering fold by fold + All its loose-flowing garments into one, + Plunges upon the shore, and floods the dun + Pale reach of sands, and changes them to gold. +So in majestic cadence rise and fall + The mighty undulations of thy song, + O sightless bard, England's Maeonides! +And ever and anon, high over all + Uplifted, a ninth wave superb and strong, + Floods all the soul with its melodious seas. + + + +KEATS + +The young Endymion sleeps Endymion's sleep; + The shepherd-boy whose tale was left half told! + The solemn grove uplifts its shield of gold + To the red rising moon, and loud and deep +The nightingale is singing from the steep; + It is midsummer, but the air is cold; + Can it be death? Alas, beside the fold + A shepherd's pipe lies shattered near his sheep. +Lo! in the moonlight gleams a marble white, + On which I read: "Here lieth one whose name + Was writ in water." And was this the meed +Of his sweet singing? Rather let me write: + "The smoking flax before it burst to flame + Was quenched by death, and broken the bruised reed." + + + +THE GALAXY + +Torrent of light and river of the air, + Along whose bed the glimmering stars are seen + Like gold and silver sands in some ravine + Where mountain streams have left their channels bare! +The Spaniard sees in thee the pathway, where + His patron saint descended in the sheen + Of his celestial armor, on serene + And quiet nights, when all the heavens were fair. +Not this I see, nor yet the ancient fable + Of Phaeton's wild course, that scorched the skies + Where'er the hoofs of his hot coursers trod; +But the white drift of worlds o'er chasms of sable, + The star-dust that is whirled aloft and flies + From the invisible chariot-wheels of God. + + + +THE SOUND OF THE SEA + +The sea awoke at midnight from its sleep, + And round the pebbly beaches far and wide + I heard the first wave of the rising tide + Rush onward with uninterrupted sweep; +A voice out of the silence of the deep, + A sound mysteriously multiplied + As of a cataract from the mountain's side, + Or roar of winds upon a wooded steep. +So comes to us at times, from the unknown + And inaccessible solitudes of being, + The rushing of the sea-tides of the soul; +And inspirations, that we deem our own, + Are some divine foreshadowing and foreseeing + Of things beyond our reason or control. + + + +A SUMMER DAY BY THE SEA + +The sun is set; and in his latest beams + Yon little cloud of ashen gray and gold, + Slowly upon the amber air unrolled, + The falling mantle of the Prophet seems. +From the dim headlands many a lighthouse gleams, + The street-lamps of the ocean; and behold, + O'erhead the banners of the night unfold; + The day hath passed into the land of dreams. +O summer day beside the joyous sea! + O summer day so wonderful and white, + So full of gladness and so full of pain! +Forever and forever shalt thou be + To some the gravestone of a dead delight, + To some the landmark of a new domain. + + + +THE TIDES + +I saw the long line of the vacant shore, + The sea-weed and the shells upon the sand, + And the brown rocks left bare on every hand, + As if the ebbing tide would flow no more. +Then heard I, more distinctly than before, + The ocean breathe and its great breast expand, + And hurrying came on the defenceless land + The insurgent waters with tumultuous roar. +All thought and feeling and desire, I said, + Love, laughter, and the exultant joy of song + Have ebbed from me forever! Suddenly o'er me +They swept again from their deep ocean bed, + And in a tumult of delight, and strong + As youth, and beautiful as youth, upbore me. + + + +A SHADOW + +I said unto myself, if I were dead, + What would befall these children? What would be + Their fate, who now are looking up to me + For help and furtherance? Their lives, I said, +Would be a volume wherein I have read + But the first chapters, and no longer see + To read the rest of their dear history, + So full of beauty and so full of dread. +Be comforted; the world is very old, + And generations pass, as they have passed, + A troop of shadows moving with the sun; +Thousands of times has the old tale been told; + The world belongs to those who come the last, + They will find hope and strength as we have done. + + + +A NAMELESS GRAVE + +"A soldier of the Union mustered out," + Is the inscription on an unknown grave + At Newport News, beside the salt-sea wave, + Nameless and dateless; sentinel or scout +Shot down in skirmish, or disastrous rout + Of battle, when the loud artillery drave + Its iron wedges through the ranks of brave + And doomed battalions, storming the redoubt. +Thou unknown hero sleeping by the sea + In thy forgotten grave! with secret shame + I feel my pulses beat, my forehead burn, +When I remember thou hast given for me + All that thou hadst, thy life, thy very name, + And I can give thee nothing in return. + + + +SLEEP + +Lull me to sleep, ye winds, whose fitful sound + Seems from some faint Aeolian harp-string caught; + Seal up the hundred wakeful eyes of thought + As Hermes with his lyre in sleep profound +The hundred wakeful eyes of Argus bound; + For I am weary, and am overwrought + With too much toil, with too much care distraught, + And with the iron crown of anguish crowned. +Lay thy soft hand upon my brow and cheek, + O peaceful Sleep! until from pain released + I breathe again uninterrupted breath! +Ah, with what subtile meaning did the Greek + Call thee the lesser mystery at the feast + Whereof the greater mystery is death! + + + +THE OLD BRIDGE AT FLORENCE + +Taddeo Gaddi built me. I am old, + Five centuries old. I plant my foot of stone + Upon the Arno, as St. Michael's own + Was planted on the dragon. Fold by fold +Beneath me as it struggles. I behold + Its glistening scales. Twice hath it overthrown + My kindred and companions. Me alone + It moveth not, but is by me controlled, +I can remember when the Medici + Were driven from Florence; longer still ago + The final wars of Ghibelline and Guelf. +Florence adorns me with her jewelry; + And when I think that Michael Angelo + Hath leaned on me, I glory in myself. + + + +IL PONTE VECCHIO DI FIRENZE + +Gaddi mi fece; il Ponte Vecchio sono; + Cinquecent' anni gia sull' Arno pianto + Il piede, come il suo Michele Santo + Pianto sul draco. Mentre ch' io ragiono +Lo vedo torcere con flebil suono + Le rilucenti scaglie. Ha questi affranto + Due volte i miei maggior. Me solo intanto + Neppure muove, ed io non l' abbandono. +Io mi rammento quando fur cacciati + I Medici; pur quando Ghibellino + E Guelfo fecer pace mi rammento. +Fiorenza i suoi giojelli m' ha prestati; + E quando penso ch' Agnolo il divino + Su me posava, insuperbir mi sento. + + + +NATURE + +As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, + Leads by the hand her little child to bed, + Half willing, half reluctant to be led, + And leave his broken playthings on the floor, +Still gazing at them through the open door, + Nor wholly reassured and comforted + By promises of others in their stead, + Which, though more splendid, may not please him more; +So Nature deals with us, and takes away + Our playthings one by one, and by the hand + Leads us to rest so gently, that we go +Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, + Being too full of sleep to understand + How far the unknown transcends the what we know. + + + +IN THE CHURCHYARD AT TARRYTOWN + +Here lies the gentle humorist, who died + In the bright Indian Summer of his fame! + A simple stone, with but a date and name, + Marks his secluded resting-place beside +The river that he loved and glorified. + Here in the autumn of his days he came, + But the dry leaves of life were all aflame + With tints that brightened and were multiplied. +How sweet a life was his; how sweet a death! + Living, to wing with mirth the weary hours, + Or with romantic tales the heart to cheer; +Dying, to leave a memory like the breath + Of summers full of sunshine and of showers, + A grief and gladness in the atmosphere. + + + +ELIOT'S OAK + +Thou ancient oak! whose myriad leaves are loud + With sounds of unintelligible speech, + Sounds as of surges on a shingly beach, + Or multitudinous murmurs of a crowd; +With some mysterious gift of tongues endowed, + Thou speakest a different dialect to each; + To me a language that no man can teach, + Of a lost race, long vanished like a cloud. +For underneath thy shade, in days remote, + Seated like Abraham at eventide + Beneath the oaks of Mamre, the unknown +Apostle of the Indians, Eliot, wrote + His Bible in a language that hath died + And is forgotten, save by thee alone. + + + +THE DESCENT OF THE MUSES + +Nine sisters, beautiful in form and face, + Came from their convent on the shining heights + Of Pierus, the mountain of delights, + To dwell among the people at its base. +Then seemed the world to change. All time and space, + Splendor of cloudless days and starry nights, + And men and manners, and all sounds and sights, + Had a new meaning, a diviner grace. +Proud were these sisters, but were not too proud + To teach in schools of little country towns + Science and song, and all the arts that please; +So that while housewives span, and farmers ploughed, + Their comely daughters, clad in homespun gowns, + Learned the sweet songs of the Pierides. + + + +VENICE + +White swan of cities, slumbering in thy nest + So wonderfully built among the reeds + Of the lagoon, that fences thee and feeds, + As sayeth thy old historian and thy guest! +White water-lily, cradled and caressed + By ocean streams, and from the silt and weeds + Lifting thy golden filaments and seeds, + Thy sun-illumined spires, thy crown and crest! +White phantom city, whose untrodden streets + Are rivers, and whose pavements are the shifting + Shadows of palaces and strips of sky; +I wait to see thee vanish like the fleets + Seen in mirage, or towers of cloud uplifting + In air their unsubstantial masonry. + + + +THE POETS + +O ye dead Poets, who are living still + Immortal in your verse, though life be fled, + And ye, O living Poets, who are dead + Though ye are living, if neglect can kill, +Tell me if in the darkest hours of ill, + With drops of anguish falling fast and red + From the sharp crown of thorns upon your head, + Ye were not glad your errand to fulfil? +Yes; for the gift and ministry of Song + Have something in them so divinely sweet, + It can assuage the bitterness of wrong; +Not in the clamor of the crowded street, + Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, + But in ourselves, are triumph and defeat. + + + +PARKER CLEAVELAND + +WRITTEN ON REVISITING BRUNSWICK IN THE SUMMER OF 1875 + +Among the many lives that I have known, + None I remember more serene and sweet, + More rounded in itself and more complete, + Than his, who lies beneath this funeral stone. +These pines, that murmur in low monotone, + These walks frequented by scholastic feet, + Were all his world; but in this calm retreat + For him the Teacher's chair became a throne. +With fond affection memory loves to dwell + On the old days, when his example made + A pastime of the toil of tongue and pen; +And now, amid the groves he loved so well + That naught could lure him from their grateful shade, + He sleeps, but wakes elsewhere, for God hath said, Amen! + + + +THE HARVEST MOON + +It is the Harvest Moon! On gilded vanes + And roofs of villages, on woodland crests + And their aerial neighborhoods of nests + Deserted, on the curtained window-panes +Of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes + And harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests! + Gone are the birds that were our summer guests, + With the last sheaves return the laboring wains! +All things are symbols: the external shows + Of Nature have their image in the mind, + As flowers and fruits and falling of the leaves; +The song-birds leave us at the summer's close, + Only the empty nests are left behind, + And pipings of the quail among the sheaves. + + + +TO THE RIVER RHONE + +Thou Royal River, born of sun and shower + In chambers purple with the Alpine glow, + Wrapped in the spotless ermine of the snow + And rocked by tempests!--at the appointed hour +Forth, like a steel-clad horseman from a tower, + With clang and clink of harness dost thou go + To meet thy vassal torrents, that below + Rush to receive thee and obey thy power. +And now thou movest in triumphal march, + A king among the rivers! On thy way + A hundred towns await and welcome thee; +Bridges uplift for thee the stately arch, + Vineyards encircle thee with garlands gay, + And fleets attend thy progress to the sea! + + + +THE THREE SILENCES OF MOLINOS + +TO JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER + +Three Silences there are: the first of speech, + The second of desire, the third of thought; + This is the lore a Spanish monk, distraught + With dreams and visions, was the first to teach. +These Silences, commingling each with each, + Made up the perfect Silence, that he sought + And prayed for, and wherein at times he caught + Mysterious sounds from realms beyond our reach. +O thou, whose daily life anticipates + The life to come, and in whose thought and word + The spiritual world preponderates. +Hermit of Amesbury! thou too hast heard + Voices and melodies from beyond the gates, + And speakest only when thy soul is stirred! + + + +THE TWO RIVERS + +I + +Slowly the hour-hand of the clock moves round; + So slowly that no human eye hath power + To see it move! Slowly in shine or shower + The painted ship above it, homeward bound, +Sails, but seems motionless, as if aground; + Yet both arrive at last; and in his tower + The slumberous watchman wakes and strikes the hour, + A mellow, measured, melancholy sound. +Midnight! the outpost of advancing day! + The frontier town and citadel of night! + The watershed of Time, from which the streams +Of Yesterday and To-morrow take their way, + One to the land of promise and of light, + One to the land of darkness and of dreams! + +II + +O River of Yesterday, with current swift + Through chasms descending, and soon lost to sight, + I do not care to follow in their flight + The faded leaves, that on thy bosom drift! +O River of To-morrow, I uplift + Mine eyes, and thee I follow, as the night + Wanes into morning, and the dawning light + Broadens, and all the shadows fade and shift! +I follow, follow, where thy waters run + Through unfrequented, unfamiliar fields, + Fragrant with flowers and musical with song; +Still follow, follow; sure to meet the sun, + And confident, that what the future yields + Will be the right, unless myself be wrong. + +III + +Yet not in vain, O River of Yesterday, + Through chasms of darkness to the deep descending, + I heard thee sobbing in the rain, and blending + Thy voice with other voices far away. +I called to thee, and yet thou wouldst not stay, + But turbulent, and with thyself contending, + And torrent-like thy force on pebbles spending, + Thou wouldst not listen to a poet's lay. +Thoughts, like a loud and sudden rush of wings, + Regrets and recollections of things past, + With hints and prophecies of things to be, +And inspirations, which, could they be things, + And stay with us, and we could hold them fast, + Were our good angels,--these I owe to thee. + +IV + +And thou, O River of To-morrow, flowing + Between thy narrow adamantine walls, + But beautiful, and white with waterfalls, + And wreaths of mist, like hands the pathway showing; +I hear the trumpets of the morning blowing, + I hear thy mighty voice, that calls and calls, + And see, as Ossian saw in Morven's halls, + Mysterious phantoms, coming, beckoning, going! +It is the mystery of the unknown + That fascinates us; we are children still, + Wayward and wistful; with one hand we cling +To the familiar things we call our own, + And with the other, resolute of will, + Grope in the dark for what the day will bring. + + + +BOSTON + +St. Bototlph's Town! Hither across the plains + And fens of Lincolnshire, in garb austere, + There came a Saxon monk, and founded here + A Priory, pillaged by marauding Danes, +So that thereof no vestige now remains; + Only a name, that, spoken loud and clear, + And echoed in another hemisphere, + Survives the sculptured walls and painted panes. +St. Botolph's Town! Far over leagues of land + And leagues of sea looks forth its noble tower, + And far around the chiming bells are heard; +So may that sacred name forever stand + A landmark, and a symbol of the power, + That lies concentred in a single word. + + + +ST. JOHN'S, CAMBRIDGE + +I stand beneath the tree, whose branches shade + Thy western window, Chapel of St. John! + And hear its leaves repeat their benison + On him, whose hand if thy stones memorial laid; +Then I remember one of whom was said + In the world's darkest hour, "Behold thy son!" + And see him living still, and wandering on + And waiting for the advent long delayed. +Not only tongues of the apostles teach + Lessons of love and light, but these expanding + And sheltering boughs with all their leaves implore, +And say in language clear as human speech, + "The peace of God, that passeth understanding, + Be and abide with you forevermore!" + + + +MOODS + +Oh that a Song would sing itself to me + Out of the heart of Nature, or the heart + Of man, the child of Nature, not of Art, + Fresh as the morning, salt as the salt sea, +With just enough of bitterness to be + A medicine to this sluggish mood, and start + The life-blood in my veins, and so impart + Healing and help in this dull lethargy! +Alas! not always doth the breath of song + Breathe on us. It is like the wind that bloweth + At its own will, not ours, nor tarries long; +We hear the sound thereof, but no man knoweth + From whence it comes, so sudden and swift and strong, + Nor whither in its wayward course it goeth. + + + +WOODSTOCK PARK + +Here in a little rustic hermitage + Alfred the Saxon King, Alfred the Great, + Postponed the cares of king-craft to translate + The Consolations of the Roman sage. +Here Geoffrey Chaucer in his ripe old age + Wrote the unrivalled Tales, which soon or late + The venturous hand that strives to imitate + Vanquished must fall on the unfinished page. +Two kings were they, who ruled by right divine, + And both supreme; one in the realm of Truth, + One in the realm of Fiction and of Song. +What prince hereditary of their line, + Uprising in the strength and flush of youth, + Their glory shall inherit and prolong? + + + +THE FOUR PRINCESSES AT WILNA + +A PHOTOGRAPH + +Sweet faces, that from pictured casements lean + As from a castle window, looking down + On some gay pageant passing through a town, + Yourselves the fairest figures in the scene; +With what a gentle grace, with what serene + Unconsciousness ye wear the triple crown + Of youth and beauty and the fair renown + Of a great name, that ne'er hath tarnished been! +From your soft eyes, so innocent and sweet, + Four spirits, sweet and innocent as they, + Gaze on the world below, the sky above; +Hark! there is some one singing in the street; + "Faith, Hope, and Love! these three," he seems to say; + "These three; and greatest of the three is Love." + + + +HOLIDAYS + +The holiest of all holidays are those + Kept by ourselves in silence and apart; + The secret anniversaries of the heart, + When the full river of feeling overflows;-- +The happy days unclouded to their close; + The sudden joys that out of darkness start + As flames from ashes; swift desires that dart + Like swallows singing down each wind that blows! +White as the gleam of a receding sail, + White as a cloud that floats and fades in air, + White as the whitest lily on a stream, +These tender memories are;--a Fairy Tale + Of some enchanted land we know not where, + But lovely as a landscape in a dream. + + + +WAPENTAKE + +TO ALFRED TENNYSON + +Poet! I come to touch thy lance with mine; + Not as a knight, who on the listed field + Of tourney touched his adversary's shield + In token of defiance, but in sign +Of homage to the mastery, which is thine, + In English song; nor will I keep concealed, + And voiceless as a rivulet frost-congealed, + My admiration for thy verse divine. +Not of the howling dervishes of song, + Who craze the brain with their delirious dance, + Art thou, O sweet historian of the heart! +Therefore to thee the laurel-leaves belong, + To thee our love and our allegiance, + For thy allegiance to the poet's art. + + + +THE BROKEN OAR +Once upon Iceland's solitary strand + A poet wandered with his book and pen, + Seeking some final word, some sweet Amen, + Wherewith to close the volume in his hand. +The billows rolled and plunged upon the sand, + The circling sea-gulls swept beyond his ken, + And from the parting cloud-rack now and then + Flashed the red sunset over sea and land. +Then by the billows at his feet was tossed + A broken oar; and carved thereon he read, + "Oft was I weary, when I toiled at thee"; +And like a man, who findeth what was lost, + He wrote the words, then lifted up his head, + And flung his useless pen into the sea. + + + +THE CROSS OF SNOW + +In the long, sleepless watches of the night, + A gentle face--the face of one long dead-- + Looks at me from the wall, where round its head + The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light. +Here in this room she died; and soul more white + Never through martyrdom of fire was led + To its repose; nor can in books be read + The legend of a life more benedight. +There is a mountain in the distant West + That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines + Displays a cross of snow upon its side. +Such is the cross I wear upon my breast + These eighteen years, through all the changing scenes + And seasons, changeless since the day she died. + + +************** + +BIRDS OF PASSAGE + +FLIGHT THE FOURTH + +CHARLES SUMNER + + Garlands upon his grave, + And flowers upon his hearse, +And to the tender heart and brave + The tribute of this verse. + + His was the troubled life, + The conflict and the pain, +The grief, the bitterness of strife, + The honor without stain. + + Like Winkelried, he took + Into his manly breast +The sheaf of hostile spears, and broke + A path for the oppressed. + + Then from the fatal field + Upon a nation's heart +Borne like a warrior on his shield!-- + So should the brave depart. + + Death takes us by surprise, + And stays our hurrying feet; +The great design unfinished lies, + Our lives are incomplete. + + But in the dark unknown + Perfect their circles seem, +Even as a bridge's arch of stone + Is rounded in the stream. + + Alike are life and death, + When life in death survives, +And the uninterrupted breath + Inspires a thousand lives. + + Were a star quenched on high, + For ages would its light, +Still travelling downward from the sky, + Shine on our mortal sight. + + So when a great man dies, + For years beyond our ken, +The light he leaves behind him lies + Upon the paths of men. + + + +TRAVELS BY THE FIRESIDE + +The ceaseless rain is falling fast, + And yonder gilded vane, +Immovable for three days past, + Points to the misty main, + +It drives me in upon myself + And to the fireside gleams, +To pleasant books that crowd my shelf, + And still more pleasant dreams, + +I read whatever bards have sung + Of lands beyond the sea, +And the bright days when I was young + Come thronging back to me. + +In fancy I can hear again + The Alpine torrent's roar, +The mule-bells on the hills of Spain, + The sea at Elsinore. + +I see the convent's gleaming wall + Rise from its groves of pine, +And towers of old cathedrals tall, + And castles by the Rhine. + +I journey on by park and spire, + Beneath centennial trees, +Through fields with poppies all on fire, + And gleams of distant seas. + +I fear no more the dust and heat, + No more I feel fatigue, +While journeying with another's feet + O'er many a lengthening league. + +Let others traverse sea and land, + And toil through various climes, +I turn the world round with my hand + Reading these poets' rhymes. + +From them I learn whatever lies + Beneath each changing zone, +And see, when looking with their eyes, + Better than with mine own. + + + +CADENABBIA + +LAKE OF COMO + +No sound of wheels or hoof-beat breaks + The silence of the summer day, +As by the loveliest of all lakes + I while the idle hours away. + +I pace the leafy colonnade + Where level branches of the plane +Above me weave a roof of shade + Impervious to the sun and rain. + +At times a sudden rush of air + Flutters the lazy leaves o'erhead, +And gleams of sunshine toss and flare + Like torches down the path I tread. + +By Somariva's garden gate + I make the marble stairs my seat, +And hear the water, as I wait, + Lapping the steps beneath my feet. + +The undulation sinks and swells + Along the stony parapets, +And far away the floating bells + Tinkle upon the fisher's nets. + +Silent and slow, by tower and town + The freighted barges come and go, +Their pendent shadows gliding down + By town and tower submerged below. + +The hills sweep upward from the shore, + With villas scattered one by one +Upon their wooded spurs, and lower + Bellaggio blazing in the sun. + +And dimly seen, a tangled mass + Of walls and woods, of light and shade, +Stands beckoning up the Stelvio Pass + Varenna with its white cascade. + +I ask myself, Is this a dream? + Will it all vanish into air? +Is there a land of such supreme + And perfect beauty anywhere? + +Sweet vision! Do not fade away; + Linger until my heart shall take +Into itself the summer day, + And all the beauty of the lake. + +Linger until upon my brain + Is stamped an image of the scene, +Then fade into the air again, + And be as if thou hadst not been. + + + +MONTE CASSINO + +TERRA DI LAVORO + +Beautiful valley! through whose verdant meads + Unheard the Garigliano glides along;-- +The Liris, nurse of rushes and of reeds, + The river taciturn of classic song. + +The Land of Labor and the Land of Rest, + Where mediaeval towns are white on all +The hillsides, and where every mountain's crest + Is an Etrurian or a Roman wall. + +There is Alagna, where Pope Boniface + Was dragged with contumely from his throne; +Sciarra Colonna, was that day's disgrace + The Pontiff's only, or in part thine own? + +There is Ceprano, where a renegade + Was each Apulian, as great Dante saith, +When Manfred by his men-at-arms betrayed + Spurred on to Benevento and to death. + +There is Aquinum, the old Volscian town, + Where Juvenal was born, whose lurid light +Still hovers o'er his birthplace like the crown + Of splendor seen o'er cities in the night. + +Doubled the splendor is, that in its streets + The Angelic Doctor as a school-boy played, +And dreamed perhaps the dreams, that he repeats + In ponderous folios for scholastics made. + +And there, uplifted, like a passing cloud + That pauses on a mountain summit high, +Monte Cassino's convent rears its proud + And venerable walls against the sky. + +Well I remember how on foot I climbed + The stony pathway leading to its gate; +Above, the convent bells for vespers chimed, + Below, the darkening town grew desolate. + +Well I remember the low arch and dark, + The court-yard with its well, the terrace wide, +From which, far down, the valley like a park + Veiled in the evening mists, was dim descried. + +The day was dying, and with feeble hands + Caressed the mountain-tops; the vales between +Darkened; the river in the meadowlands + Sheathed itself as a sword, and was not seen. + +The silence of the place was like a sleep, + So full of rest it seemed; each passing tread +Was a reverberation from the deep + Recesses of the ages that are dead. + +For, more than thirteen centuries ago, + Benedict fleeing from the gates of Rome, +A youth disgusted with its vice and woe, + Sought in these mountain solitudes a home. + +He founded here his Convent and his Rule + Of prayer and work, and counted work as prayer; +The pen became a clarion, and his school + Flamed like a beacon in the midnight air. + +What though Boccaccio, in his reckless way, + Mocking the lazy brotherhood, deplores +The illuminated manuscripts, that lay + Torn and neglected on the dusty floors? + +Boccaccio was a novelist, a child + Of fancy and of fiction at the best! +This the urbane librarian said, and smiled + Incredulous, as at some idle jest. + +Upon such themes as these, with one young friar + I sat conversing late into the night, +Till in its cavernous chimney the woodfire + Had burnt its heart out like an anchorite. + +And then translated, in my convent cell, + Myself yet not myself, in dreams I lay, +And, as a monk who hears the matin bell, + Started from sleep; already it was day. + +From the high window I beheld the scene + On which Saint Benedict so oft had gazed,-- +The mountains and the valley in the sheen + Of the bright sun,--and stood as one amazed. + +Gray mists were rolling, rising, vanishing; + The woodlands glistened with their jewelled crowns; +Far off the mellow bells began to ring + For matins in the half-awakened towns. + +The conflict of the Present and the Past, + The ideal and the actual in our life, +As on a field of battle held me fast, + Where this world and the next world were at strife. + +For, as the valley from its sleep awoke, + I saw the iron horses of the steam +Toss to the morning air their plumes of smoke, + And woke, as one awaketh from a dream. + + + +AMALFI + +Sweet the memory is to me +Of a land beyond the sea, +Where the waves and mountains meet, +Where, amid her mulberry-trees +Sits Amalfi in the heat, +Bathing ever her white feet +In the tideless summer seas. + +In the middle of the town, +From its fountains in the hills, +Tumbling through the narrow gorge, +The Canneto rushes down, +Turns the great wheels of the mills, +Lifts the hammers of the forge. + +'T is a stairway, not a street, +That ascends the deep ravine, +Where the torrent leaps between +Rocky walls that almost meet. +Toiling up from stair to stair +Peasant girls their burdens bear; +Sunburnt daughters of the soil, +Stately figures tall and straight, +What inexorable fate +Dooms them to this life of toil? + +Lord of vineyards and of lands, +Far above the convent stands. +On its terraced walk aloof +Leans a monk with folded hands, +Placid, satisfied, serene, +Looking down upon the scene +Over wall and red-tiled roof; +Wondering unto what good end +All this toil and traffic tend, +And why all men cannot be +Free from care and free from pain, +And the sordid love of gain, +And as indolent as he. + +Where are now the freighted barks +From the marts of east and west? +Where the knights in iron sarks +Journeying to the Holy Land, +Glove of steel upon the hand, +Cross of crimson on the breast? +Where the pomp of camp and court? +Where the pilgrims with their prayers? +Where the merchants with their wares, +And their gallant brigantines +Sailing safely into port +Chased by corsair Algerines? + +Vanished like a fleet of cloud, +Like a passing trumpet-blast, +Are those splendors of the past, +And the commerce and the crowd! +Fathoms deep beneath the seas +Lie the ancient wharves and quays, +Swallowed by the engulfing waves; +Silent streets and vacant halls, +Ruined roofs and towers and walls; +Hidden from all mortal eyes +Deep the sunken city lies: +Even cities have their graves! + +This is an enchanted land! +Round the headlands far away +Sweeps the blue Salernian bay +With its sickle of white sand: +Further still and furthermost +On the dim discovered coast +Paestum with its ruins lies, +And its roses all in bloom +Seem to tinge the fatal skies +Of that lonely land of doom. + +On his terrace, high in air, +Nothing doth the good monk care +For such worldly themes as these, +From the garden just below +Little puffs of perfume blow, +And a sound is in his ears +Of the murmur of the bees +In the shining chestnut-trees; +Nothing else he heeds or hears. +All the landscape seems to swoon +In the happy afternoon; +Slowly o'er his senses creep +The encroaching waves of sleep, +And he sinks as sank the town, +Unresisting, fathoms down, +Into caverns cool and deep! + +Walled about with drifts of snow, +Hearing the fierce north-wind blow, +Seeing all the landscape white, +And the river cased in ice, +Comes this memory of delight, +Comes this vision unto me +Of a long-lost Paradise +In the land beyond the sea. + + + +THE SERMON OF ST. FRANCIS + +Up soared the lark into the air, +A shaft of song, a winged prayer, +As if a soul, released from pain, +Were flying back to heaven again. + +St. Francis heard; it was to him +An emblem of the Seraphim; +The upward motion of the fire, +The light, the heat, the heart's desire. + +Around Assisi's convent gate +The birds, God's poor who cannot wait, +From moor and mere and darksome wood +Came flocking for their dole of food. + +"O brother birds," St. Francis said, +"Ye come to me and ask for bread, +But not with bread alone to-day +Shall ye be fed and sent away. + +"Ye shall be fed, ye happy birds, +With manna of celestial words; +Not mine, though mine they seem to be, +Not mine, though they be spoken through me. + +"O, doubly are ye bound to praise +The great Creator in your lays; +He giveth you your plumes of down, +Your crimson hoods, your cloaks of brown. + +"He giveth you your wings to fly +And breathe a purer air on high, +And careth for you everywhere, +Who for yourselves so little care!" + +With flutter of swift wings and songs +Together rose the feathered throngs, +And singing scattered far apart; +Deep peace was in St. Francis' heart. + +He knew not if the brotherhood +His homily had understood; +He only knew that to one ear +The meaning of his words was clear. + + + +BELISARIUS + +I am poor and old and blind; +The sun burns me, and the wind + Blows through the city gate +And covers me with dust +From the wheels of the august + Justinian the Great. + +It was for him I chased +The Persians o'er wild and waste, + As General of the East; +Night after night I lay +In their camps of yesterday; + Their forage was my feast. + +For him, with sails of red, +And torches at mast-head, + Piloting the great fleet, +I swept the Afric coasts +And scattered the Vandal hosts, + Like dust in a windy street. + +For him I won again +The Ausonian realm and reign, + Rome and Parthenope; +And all the land was mine +From the summits of Apennine + To the shores of either sea. + +For him, in my feeble age, +I dared the battle's rage, + To save Byzantium's state, +When the tents of Zabergan, +Like snow-drifts overran + The road to the Golden Gate. + +And for this, for this, behold! +Infirm and blind and old, + With gray, uncovered head, +Beneath the very arch +Of my triumphal march, + I stand and beg my bread! + +Methinks I still can hear, +Sounding distinct and near, + The Vandal monarch's cry, +As, captive and disgraced, +With majestic step he paced,-- + "All, all is Vanity!" + +Ah! vainest of all things +Is the gratitude of kings; + The plaudits of the crowd +Are but the clatter of feet +At midnight in the street, + Hollow and restless and loud. + +But the bitterest disgrace +Is to see forever the face + Of the Monk of Ephesus! +The unconquerable will +This, too, can bear;--I still + Am Belisarius! + + + +SONGO RIVER + +Nowhere such a devious stream, +Save in fancy or in dream, +Winding slow through bush and brake +Links together lake and lake. + +Walled with woods or sandy shelf, +Ever doubling on itself +Flows the stream, so still and slow +That it hardly seems to flow. + +Never errant knight of old, +Lost in woodland or on wold, +Such a winding path pursued +Through the sylvan solitude. + +Never school-boy in his quest +After hazel-nut or nest, +Through the forest in and out +Wandered loitering thus about. + +In the mirror of its tide +Tangled thickets on each side +Hang inverted, and between +Floating cloud or sky serene. + +Swift or swallow on the wing +Seems the only living thing, +Or the loon, that laughs and flies +Down to those reflected skies. + +Silent stream! thy Indian name +Unfamiliar is to fame; +For thou hidest here alone, +Well content to be unknown. + +But thy tranquil waters teach +Wisdom deep as human speech, +Moving without haste or noise +In unbroken equipoise. + +Though thou turnest no busy mill, +And art ever calm and still, +Even thy silence seems to say +To the traveller on his way:-- + +"Traveller, hurrying from the heat +Of the city, stay thy feet! +Rest awhile, nor longer waste +Life with inconsiderate haste! + +"Be not like a stream that brawls +Loud with shallow waterfalls, +But in quiet self-control +Link together soul and soul" + + +************ + +KERAMOS + +Turn, turn, my wheel? Turn round and round +Without a pause, without a sound: + So spins the flying world away! +This clay, well mixed with marl and sand, +Follows the motion of my hand; +Far some must follow, and some command, + Though all are made of clay! + +Thus sang the Potter at his task +Beneath the blossoming hawthorn-tree, +While o'er his features, like a mask, +The quilted sunshine and leaf-shade +Moved, as the boughs above him swayed, +And clothed him, till he seemed to be +A figure woven in tapestry, +So sumptuously was he arrayed +In that magnificent attire +Of sable tissue flaked with fire. +Like a magician he appeared, +A conjurer without book or beard; +And while he plied his magic art-- +For it was magical to me-- +I stood in silence and apart, +And wondered more and more to see +That shapeless, lifeless mass of clay +Rise up to meet the master's hand, +And now contract and now expand, +And even his slightest touch obey; +While ever in a thoughtful mood +He sang his ditty, and at times +Whistled a tune between the rhymes, +As a melodious interlude. + +Turn, turn, my wheel! All things must change +To something new, to something strange; + Nothing that is can pause or stay; +The moon will wax, the moon will wane, +The mist and cloud will turn to rain, +The rain to mist and cloud again, + To-morrow be to-day. + +Thus still the Potter sang, and still, +By some unconscious act of will, +The melody and even the words +Were intermingled with my thought +As bits of colored thread are caught +And woven into nests of birds. +And thus to regions far remote, +Beyond the ocean's vast expanse, +This wizard in the motley coat +Transported me on wings of song, +And by the northern shores of France +Bore me with restless speed along. +What land is this that seems to be +A mingling of the land and sea? +This land of sluices, dikes, and dunes? +This water-net, that tessellates +The landscape? this unending maze +Of gardens, through whose latticed gates +The imprisoned pinks and tulips gaze; +Where in long summer afternoons +The sunshine, softened by the haze, +Comes streaming down as through a screen; +Where over fields and pastures green +The painted ships float high in air, +And over all and everywhere +The sails of windmills sink and soar +Like wings of sea-gulls on the shore? + +What land is this? Yon pretty town +Is Delft, with all its wares displayed; +The pride, the market-place, the crown +And centre of the Potter's trade. +See! every house and room is bright +With glimmers of reflected light +From plates that on the dresser shine; +Flagons to foam with Flemish beer, +Or sparkle with the Rhenish wine, +And pilgrim flasks with fleurs-de-lis, +And ships upon a rolling sea, +And tankards pewter topped, and queer +With comic mask and musketeer! +Each hospitable chimney smiles +A welcome from its painted tiles; +The parlor walls, the chamber floors, +The stairways and the corridors, +The borders of the garden walks, +Are beautiful with fadeless flowers, +That never droop in winds or showers, +And never wither on their stalks. + +Turn, turn, my wheel! All life is brief; +What now is bud wilt soon be leaf, + What now is leaf will soon decay; +The wind blows east, the wind blows west; +The blue eyes in the robin's nest +Will soon have wings and beak and breast, + And flutter and fly away. + +Now southward through the air I glide, +The song my only pursuivant, +And see across the landscape wide +The blue Charente, upon whose tide +The belfries and the spires of Saintes +Ripple and rock from side to side, +As, when an earthquake rends its walls, +A crumbling city reels and falls. + +Who is it in the suburbs here, +This Potter, working with such cheer, +In this mean house, this mean attire, +His manly features bronzed with fire, +Whose figulines and rustic wares +Scarce find him bread from day to day? +This madman, as the people say, +Who breaks his tables and his chairs +To feed his furnace fires, nor cares +Who goes unfed if they are fed, +Nor who may live if they are dead? +This alchemist with hollow cheeks +And sunken, searching eyes, who seeks, +By mingled earths and ores combined +With potency of fire, to find +Some new enamel, hard and bright, +His dream, his passion, his delight? + +O Palissy! within thy breast +Burned the hot fever of unrest; +Thine was the prophets vision, thine +The exultation, the divine +Insanity of noble minds, +That never falters nor abates, +But labors and endures and waits, +Till all that it foresees it finds, +Or what it cannot find creates! + +Turn, turn, my wheel! This earthen jar +A touch can make, a touch can mar; + And shall it to the Potter say, +What makest thou. Thou hast no hand? +As men who think to understand +A world by their Creator planned, + Who wiser is than they. + +Still guided by the dreamy song, +As in a trance I float along +Above the Pyrenean chain, +Above the fields and farms of Spain, +Above the bright Majorcan isle, +That lends its softened name to art,-- +A spot, a dot upon the chart, +Whose little towns, red-roofed with tile, +Are ruby-lustred with the light +Of blazing furnaces by night, +And crowned by day with wreaths of smoke. +Then eastward, wafted in my flight +On my enchanter's magic cloak, +I sail across the Tyrrhene Sea +Into the land of Italy, +And o'er the windy Apennines, +Mantled and musical with pines. + +The palaces, the princely halls, +The doors of houses and the walls +Of churches and of belfry towers, +Cloister and castle, street and mart, +Are garlanded and gay with flowers +That blossom in the fields of art. +Here Gubbio's workshops gleam and glow +With brilliant, iridescent dyes, +The dazzling whiteness of the snow, +The cobalt blue of summer skies; +And vase and scutcheon, cup and plate, +In perfect finish emulate +Faenza, Florence, Pesaro. + +Forth from Urbino's gate there came +A youth with the angelic name +Of Raphael, in form and face +Himself angelic, and divine +In arts of color and design. +From him Francesco Xanto caught +Something of his transcendent grace, +And into fictile fabrics wrought +Suggestions of the master's thought. +Nor less Maestro Giorgio shines +With madre-perl and golden lines +Of arabesques, and interweaves +His birds and fruits and flowers and leaves +About some landscape, shaded brown, +With olive tints on rock and town. +Behold this cup within whose bowl, +Upon a ground of deepest blue +With yellow-lustred stars o'erlaid, +Colors of every tint and hue +Mingle in one harmonious whole! +With large blue eyes and steadfast gaze, +Her yellow hair in net and braid, +Necklace and ear-rings all ablaze +With golden lustre o'er the glaze, +A woman's portrait; on the scroll, +Cana, the Beautiful! A name +Forgotten save for such brief fame +As this memorial can bestow,-- +A gift some lover long ago +Gave with his heart to this fair dame. + +A nobler title to renown +Is thine, O pleasant Tuscan town, +Seated beside the Arno's stream; +For Lucca della Robbia there +Created forms so wondrous fair, +They made thy sovereignty supreme. +These choristers with lips of stone, +Whose music is not heard, but seen, +Still chant, as from their organ-screen, +Their Maker's praise; nor these alone, +But the more fragile forms of clay, +Hardly less beautiful than they, +These saints and angels that adorn +The walls of hospitals, and tell +The story of good deeds so well +That poverty seems less forlorn, +And life more like a holiday. + +Here in this old neglected church, +That long eludes the traveller's search, +Lies the dead bishop on his tomb; +Earth upon earth he slumbering lies, +Life-like and death-like in the gloom; +Garlands of fruit and flowers in bloom +And foliage deck his resting place; +A shadow in the sightless eyes, +A pallor on the patient face, +Made perfect by the furnace heat; +All earthly passions and desires +Burnt out by purgatorial fires; +Seeming to say, "Our years are fleet, +And to the weary death is sweet." + +But the most wonderful of all +The ornaments on tomb or wall +That grace the fair Ausonian shores +Are those the faithful earth restores, +Near some Apulian town concealed, +In vineyard or in harvest field,-- +Vases and urns and bas-reliefs, +Memorials of forgotten griefs, +Or records of heroic deeds +Of demigods and mighty chiefs: +Figures that almost move and speak, +And, buried amid mould and weeds, +Still in their attitudes attest +The presence of the graceful Greek,-- +Achilles in his armor dressed, +Alcides with the Cretan bull, +And Aphrodite with her boy, +Or lovely Helena of Troy, +Still living and still beautiful. + +Turn, turn, my wheel! 'T is nature's plan +The child should grow into the man, + The man grow wrinkled, old, and gray; +In youth the heart exults and sings, +The pulses leap, the feet have wings; +In age the cricket chirps, and brings + The harvest home of day. + +And now the winds that southward blow, +And cool the hot Sicilian isle, +Bear me away. I see below +The long line of the Libyan Nile, +Flooding and feeding the parched land +With annual ebb and overflow, +A fallen palm whose branches lie +Beneath the Abyssinian sky, +Whose roots are in Egyptian sands, +On either bank huge water-wheels, +Belted with jars and dripping weeds, +Send forth their melancholy moans, +As if, in their gray mantles hid, +Dead anchorites of the Thebaid +Knelt on the shore and told their beads, +Beating their breasts with loud appeals +And penitential tears and groans. + +This city, walled and thickly set +With glittering mosque and minaret, +Is Cairo, in whose gay bazaars +The dreaming traveller first inhales +The perfume of Arabian gales, +And sees the fabulous earthen jars, +Huge as were those wherein the maid +Morgiana found the Forty Thieves +Concealed in midnight ambuscade; +And seeing, more than half believes +The fascinating tales that run +Through all the Thousand Nights and One, +Told by the fair Scheherezade. + +More strange and wonderful than these +Are the Egyptian deities, +Ammonn, and Emeth, and the grand +Osiris, holding in his hand +The lotus; Isis, crowned and veiled; +The sacred Ibis, and the Sphinx; +Bracelets with blue enamelled links; +The Scarabee in emerald mailed, +Or spreading wide his funeral wings; +Lamps that perchance their night-watch kept +O'er Cleopatra while she slept,-- +All plundered from the tombs of kings. + +Turn, turn, my wheel! The human race, +Of every tongue, of every place, + Caucasian, Coptic, or Malay, +All that inhabit this great earth, +Whatever be their rank or worth, +Are kindred and allied by birth, + And made of the same clay. + +O'er desert sands, o'er gulf and bay, +O'er Ganges and o'er Himalay, +Bird-like I fly, and flying sing, +To flowery kingdoms of Cathay, +And bird-like poise on balanced wing +Above the town of King-te-tching, +A burning town, or seeming so,-- +Three thousand furnaces that glow +Incessantly, and fill the air +With smoke uprising, gyre on gyre +And painted by the lurid glare, +Of jets and flashes of red fire. + +As leaves that in the autumn fall, +Spotted and veined with various hues, +Are swept along the avenues, +And lie in heaps by hedge and wall, +So from this grove of chimneys whirled +To all the markets of the world, +These porcelain leaves are wafted on,-- +Light yellow leaves with spots and stains +Of violet and of crimson dye, +Or tender azure of a sky +Just washed by gentle April rains, +And beautiful with celadon. + +Nor less the coarser household wares,-- +The willow pattern, that we knew +In childhood, with its bridge of blue +Leading to unknown thoroughfares; +The solitary man who stares +At the white river flowing through +Its arches, the fantastic trees +And wild perspective of the view; +And intermingled among these +The tiles that in our nurseries +Filled us with wonder and delight, +Or haunted us in dreams at night. + +And yonder by Nankin, behold! +The Tower of Porcelain, strange and old, +Uplifting to the astonished skies +Its ninefold painted balconies, +With balustrades of twining leaves, +And roofs of tile, beneath whose eaves +Hang porcelain bells that all the time +Ring with a soft, melodious chime; +While the whole fabric is ablaze +With varied tints, all fused in one +Great mass of color, like a maze +Of flowers illumined by the sun. + +Turn, turn, my wheel! What is begun +At daybreak must at dark be done, + To-morrow will be another day; +To-morrow the hot furnace flame +Will search the heart and try the frame, +And stamp with honor or with shame + These vessels made of clay. + +Cradled and rocked in Eastern seas, +The islands of the Japanese +Beneath me lie; o'er lake and plain +The stork, the heron, and the crane +Through the clear realms of azure drift, +And on the hillside I can see +The villages of Imari, +Whose thronged and flaming workshops lift +Their twisted columns of smoke on high, +Cloud cloisters that in ruins lie, +With sunshine streaming through each rift, +And broken arches of blue sky. + +All the bright flowers that fill the land, +Ripple of waves on rock or sand, +The snow on Fusiyama's cone, +The midnight heaven so thickly sown +With constellations of bright stars, +The leaves that rustle, the reeds that make +A whisper by each stream and lake, +The saffron dawn, the sunset red, +Are painted on these lovely jars; +Again the skylark sings, again +The stork, the heron, and the crane +Float through the azure overhead, +The counterfeit and counterpart +Of Nature reproduced in Art. + +Art is the child of Nature; yes, +Her darling child, in whom we trace +The features of the mother's face, +Her aspect and her attitude, +All her majestic loveliness +Chastened and softened and subdued +Into a more attractive grace, +And with a human sense imbued. +He is the greatest artist, then, +Whether of pencil or of pen, +Who follows Nature. Never man, +As artist or as artisan, +Pursuing his own fantasies, +Can touch the human heart, or please, +Or satisfy our nobler needs, +As he who sets his willing feet +In Nature's footprints, light and fleet, +And follows fearless where she leads. + +Thus mused I on that morn in May, +Wrapped in my visions like the Seer, +Whose eyes behold not what is near, +But only what is far away, +When, suddenly sounding peal on peal, +The church-bell from the neighboring town +Proclaimed the welcome hour of noon. +The Potter heard, and stopped his wheel, +His apron on the grass threw down, +Whistled his quiet little tune, +Not overloud nor overlong, +And ended thus his simple song: + +Stop, stop, my wheel! Too soon, too soon +The noon will be the afternoon, + Too soon to-day be yesterday; +Behind us in our path we cast +The broken potsherds of the past, +And all are ground to dust a last, + And trodden into clay! + +************* + + +BIRDS OF PASSAGE + +FLIGHT THE FIFTH + +THE HERONS OF ELMWOOD + +Warm and still is the summer night, + As here by the river's brink I wander; +White overhead are the stars, and white + The glimmering lamps on the hillside yonder. + +Silent are all the sounds of day; + Nothing I hear but the chirp of crickets, +And the cry of the herons winging their way + O'er the poet's house in the Elmwood thickets. + +Call to him, herons, as slowly you pass + To your roosts in the haunts of the exiled thrushes, +Sing him the song of the green morass; + And the tides that water the reeds and rushes. + +Sing him the mystical Song of the Hern, + And the secret that baffles our utmost seeking; +For only a sound of lament we discern, + And cannot interpret the words you are speaking. + +Sing of the air, and the wild delight + Of wings that uplift and winds that uphold you, +The joy of freedom, the rapture of flight + Through the drift of the floating mists that infold you. + +Of the landscape lying so far below, + With its towns and rivers and desert places; +And the splendor of light above, and the glow + Of the limitless, blue, ethereal spaces. + +Ask him if songs of the Troubadours, + Or of Minnesingers in old black-letter, +Sound in his ears more sweet than yours, + And if yours are not sweeter and wilder and better. + +Sing to him, say to him, here at his gate, + Where the boughs of the stately elms are meeting, +Some one hath lingered to meditate, + And send him unseen this friendly greeting; + +That many another hath done the same, + Though not by a sound was the silence broken; +The surest pledge of a deathless name + Is the silent homage of thoughts unspoken. + + + +A DUTCH PICTURE + +Simon Danz has come home again, + From cruising about with his buccaneers; +He has singed the beard of the King of Spain, +And carried away the Dean of Jaen + And sold him in Algiers. + +In his house by the Maese, with its roof of tiles, + And weathercocks flying aloft in air, +There are silver tankards of antique styles, +Plunder of convent and castle, and piles + Of carpets rich and rare. + +In his tulip-garden there by the town, + Overlooking the sluggish stream, +With his Moorish cap and dressing-gown, +The old sea-captain, hale and brown, + Walks in a waking dream. + +A smile in his gray mustachio lurks +Whenever he thinks of the King of Spain, +And the listed tulips look like Turks, +And the silent gardener as he works + Is changed to the Dean of Jaen. + +The windmills on the outermost + Verge of the landscape in the haze, +To him are towers on the Spanish coast, +With whiskered sentinels at their post, + Though this is the river Maese. + +But when the winter rains begin, + He sits and smokes by the blazing brands, +And old seafaring men come in, +Goat-bearded, gray, and with double chin, + And rings upon their hands. + +They sit there in the shadow and shine + Of the flickering fire of the winter night; +Figures in color and design +Like those by Rembrandt of the Rhine, + Half darkness and half light. + +And they talk of ventures lost or won, + And their talk is ever and ever the same, +While they drink the red wine of Tarragon, +From the cellars of some Spanish Don, + Or convent set on flame. + +Restless at times with heavy strides + He paces his parlor to and fro; +He is like a ship that at anchor rides, +And swings with the rising and falling tides, + And tugs at her anchor-tow. + +Voices mysterious far and near, + Sound of the wind and sound of the sea, +Are calling and whispering in his ear, +"Simon Danz! Why stayest thou here? + Come forth and follow me!" + +So he thinks he shall take to the sea again + For one more cruise with his buccaneers, +To singe the beard of the King of Spain, +And capture another Dean of Jaen + And sell him in Algiers. + + + +CASTLES IN SPAIN + +How much of my young heart, O Spain, + Went out to thee in days of yore! +What dreams romantic filled my brain, +And summoned back to life again +The Paladins of Charlemagne + The Cid Campeador! + +And shapes more shadowy than these, + In the dim twilight half revealed; +Phoenician galleys on the seas, +The Roman camps like hives of bees, +The Goth uplifting from his knees + Pelayo on his shield. + +It was these memories perchance, + From annals of remotest eld, +That lent the colors of romance +To every trivial circumstance, +And changed the form and countenance + Of all that I beheld. + +Old towns, whose history lies hid + In monkish chronicle or rhyme, +Burgos, the birthplace of the Cid, +Zamora and Valladolid, +Toledo, built and walled amid + The wars of Wamba's time; + +The long, straight line of the high-way, + The distant town that seems so near, +The peasants in the fields, that stay +Their toil to cross themselves and pray, +When from the belfry at midday + The Angelus they hear; + +White crosses in the mountain pass, + Mules gay with tassels, the loud din +Of muleteers, the tethered ass +That crops the dusty wayside grass, +And cavaliers with spurs of brass + Alighting at the inn; + +White hamlets hidden in fields of wheat, + White cities slumbering by the sea, +White sunshine flooding square and street, +Dark mountain-ranges, at whose feet +The river-beds are dry with heat,-- + All was a dream to me. + +Yet something sombre and severe + O'er the enchanted landscape reigned; +A terror in the atmosphere +As if King Philip listened near, +Or Torquemada, the austere, + His ghostly sway maintained. + +The softer Andalusian skies + Dispelled the sadness and the gloom; +There Cadiz by the seaside lies, +And Seville's orange-orchards rise, +Making the land a paradise + Of beauty and of bloom. + +There Cordova is hidden among + The palm, the olive, and the vine; +Gem of the South, by poets sung, +And in whose Mosque Ahmanzor hung +As lamps the bells that once had rung + At Compostella's shrine. + +But over all the rest supreme, + The star of stars, the cynosure, +The artist's and the poet's theme, +The young man's vision, the old man's dream,-- +Granada by its winding stream, + The city of the Moor! + +And there the Alhambra still recalls + Aladdin's palace of delight; +Allah il Allah! through its halls +Whispers the fountain as it falls, +The Darro darts beneath its walls, + The hills with snow are white. + +Ah yes, the hills are white with snow, + And cold with blasts that bite and freeze; +But in the happy vale below +The orange and pomegranate grow, +And wafts of air toss to and fro + The blossoming almond-trees. + +The Vega cleft by the Xenil, + The fascination and allure +Of the sweet landscape chains the will; +The traveller lingers on the hill, +His parted lips are breathing still + The last sigh of the Moor. + +How like a ruin overgrown + With flower's that hide the rents of time, +Stands now the Past that I have known, +Castles in Spain, not built of stone +But of white summer clouds, and blown + Into this little mist of rhyme! + + + +VITTORIA COLONNA. + +VITTORIA COLONNA, on the death of her hushand, the Marchese di +Pescara, retired to her castle at Ischia (Inarime), and there +wrote the Ode upon his death, which gained her the title of +Divine. + +Once more, once more, Inarime, + I see thy purple hills!--once more +I hear the billows of the bay + Wash the white pebbles on thy shore. + +High o'er the sea-surge and the sands, + Like a great galleon wrecked and cast +Ashore by storms, thy castle stands, + A mouldering landmark of the Past. + +Upon its terrace-walk I see + A phantom gliding to and fro; +It is Colonna,--it is she + Who lived and loved so long ago. + +Pescara's beautiful young wife, + The type of perfect womanhood, +Whose life was love, the life of life, + That time and change and death withstood. + +For death, that breaks the marriage band + In others, only closer pressed +The wedding-ring upon her hand + And closer locked and barred her breast. + +She knew the life-long martyrdom, + The weariness, the endless pain +Of waiting for some one to come + Who nevermore would come again. + +The shadows of the chestnut-trees, + The odor of the orange blooms, +The song of birds, and, more than these, + The silence of deserted rooms; + +The respiration of the sea, + The soft caresses of the air, +All things in nature seemed to be + But ministers of her despair; + +Till the o'erburdened heart, so long + Imprisoned in itself, found vent +And voice in one impassioned song + Of inconsolable lament. + +Then as the sun, though hidden from sight, + Transmutes to gold the leaden mist, +Her life was interfused with light, + From realms that, though unseen, exist, + +Inarime! Inarime! + Thy castle on the crags above +In dust shall crumble and decay, + But not the memory of her love. + + + +THE REVENGE OF RAIN-IN-THE-FACE + +In that desolate land and lone, +Where the Big Horn and Yellowstone + Roar down their mountain path, +By their fires the Sioux Chiefs +Muttered their woes and griefs + And the menace of their wrath. + +"Revenge!" cried Rain-in-the-Face, +"Revenue upon all the race + Of the White Chief with yellow hair!" +And the mountains dark and high +From their crags re-echoed the cry + Of his anger and despair. + +In the meadow, spreading wide +By woodland and riverside + The Indian village stood; +All was silent as a dream, +Save the rushing a of the stream + And the blue-jay in the wood. + +In his war paint and his beads, +Like a bison among the reeds, + In ambush the Sitting Bull +Lay with three thousand braves + Crouched in the clefts and caves, + Savage, unmerciful! + +Into the fatal snare +The White Chief with yellow hair + And his three hundred men +Dashed headlong, sword in hand; +But of that gallant band + Not one returned again. + +The sudden darkness of death +Overwhelmed them like the breath + And smoke of a furnace fire: +By the river's bank, and between +The rocks of the ravine, + They lay in their bloody attire. + +But the foemen fled in the night, +And Rain-in-the-Face, in his flight + Uplifted high in air +As a ghastly trophy, bore +The brave heart, that beat no more, + Of the White Chief with yellow hair. + +Whose was the right and the wrong? +Sing it, O funeral song, + With a voice that is full of tears, +And say that our broken faith +Wrought all this ruin and scathe, + In the Year of a Hundred Years. + + + +TO THE RIVER YVETTE + +O lovely river of Yvette! + O darling river! like a bride, +Some dimpled, bashful, fair Lisette, + Thou goest to wed the Orge's tide. + +Maincourt, and lordly Dampierre, + See and salute thee on thy way, +And, with a blessing and a prayer, + Ring the sweet bells of St. Forget. + +The valley of Chevreuse in vain + Would hold thee in its fond embrace; +Thou glidest from its arms again + And hurriest on with swifter pace. + +Thou wilt not stay; with restless feet + Pursuing still thine onward flight, +Thou goest as one in haste to meet + Her sole desire, her head's delight. + +O lovely river of Yvette! + O darling stream! on balanced wings +The wood-birds sang the chansonnette + That here a wandering poet sings. + + + +THE EMPEROR'S GLOVE + +"Combien faudrait-il de peaux d'Espagne pour faire un gant de +cette grandeur?" A play upon the words gant, a glove, and Gand, +the French for Ghent. + +On St. Baron's tower, commanding + Half of Flanders, his domain, +Charles the Emperor once was standing, +While beneath him on the landing + Stood Duke Alva and his train. + +Like a print in books of fables, + Or a model made for show, +With its pointed roofs and gables, +Dormer windows, scrolls and labels, + Lay the city far below. + +Through its squares and streets and alleys + Poured the populace of Ghent; +As a routed army rallies, +Or as rivers run through valleys, + Hurrying to their homes they went + +"Nest of Lutheran misbelievers!" + Cried Duke Alva as he gazed; +"Haunt of traitors and deceivers, +Stronghold of insurgent weavers, + Let it to the ground be razed!" + +On the Emperor's cap the feather + Nods, as laughing he replies: +"How many skins of Spanish leather, +Think you, would, if stitched together + Make a glove of such a size?" + + + +A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH FLEET + +OCTOBER, 1746 + +MR. THOMAS PRINCE loquitur. + +A fleet with flags arrayed + Sailed from the port of Brest, +And the Admiral's ship displayed + The signal: "Steer southwest." +For this Admiral D'Anville + Had sworn by cross and crown +To ravage with fire and steel + Our helpless Boston Town. + +There were rumors in the street, + In the houses there was fear +Of the coming of the fleet, + And the danger hovering near. +And while from mouth to mouth + Spread the tidings of dismay, +I stood in the Old South, + Saying humbly: "Let us pray! + +"O Lord! we would not advise; + But if in thy Providence +A tempest should arise + To drive the French fleet hence, +And scatter it far and wide, + Or sink it in the sea, +We should be satisfied, + And thine the glory be." + +This was the prayer I made, + For my soul was all on flame, +And even as I prayed + The answering tempest came; +It came with a mighty power, + Shaking the windows and walls, +And tolling the bell in the tower, + As it tolls at funerals. + +The lightning suddenly + Unsheathed its flaming sword, +And I cried: "Stand still, and see + The salvation of the Lord!" +The heavens were black with cloud, + The sea was white with hail, +And ever more fierce and loud + Blew the October gale. + +The fleet it overtook, + And the broad sails in the van +Like the tents of Cushan shook, + Or the curtains of Midian. +Down on the reeling decks + Crashed the o'erwhelming seas; +Ah, never were there wrecks + So pitiful as these! + +Like a potter's vessel broke + The great ships of the line; +They were carried away as a smoke, + Or sank like lead in the brine. +O Lord! before thy path + They vanished and ceased to be, +When thou didst walk in wrath + With thine horses through the sea! + + + +THE LEAP OF ROUSHAN BEG + +Mounted on Kyrat strong and fleet, +His chestnut steed with four white feet, + Roushan Beg, called Kurroglou, +Son of the road and bandit chief, +Seeking refuge and relief, + Up the mountain pathway flew. + +Such was Kyrat's wondrous speed, +Never yet could any steed + Reach the dust-cloud in his course. +More than maiden, more than wife, +More than gold and next to life + Roushan the Robber loved his horse. + +In the land that lies beyond +Erzeroum and Trebizond, + Garden-girt his fortress stood; +Plundered khan, or caravan +Journeying north from Koordistan, + Gave him wealth and wine and food. + +Seven hundred and fourscore +Men at arms his livery wore, + Did his bidding night and day. +Now, through regions all unknown, +He was wandering, lost, alone, + Seeking without guide his way. + +Suddenly the pathway ends, +Sheer the precipice descends, + Loud the torrent roars unseen; +Thirty feet from side to side +Yawns the chasm; on air must ride + He who crosses this ravine. + +Following close in his pursuit, +At the precipice's foot, + Reyhan the Arab of Orfah +Halted with his hundred men, +Shouting upward from the glen, + "La Illah illa Allah!" + +Gently Roushan Beg caressed +Kyrat's forehead, neck, and breast; + Kissed him upon both his eyes; +Sang to him in his wild way, +As upon the topmost spray + Sings a bird before it flies. + +"O my Kyrat, O my steed, +Round and slender as a reed, + Carry me this peril through! +Satin housings shall be thine, +Shoes of gold, O Kyrat mine, + O thou soul of Kurroglou! + +"Soft thy skin as silken skein, +Soft as woman's hair thy mane, + Tender are thine eyes and true; +All thy hoofs like ivory shine, +Polished bright; O, life of mine, + Leap, and rescue Kurroglou!" + +Kyrat, then, the strong and fleet, +Drew together his four white feet, + Paused a moment on the verge, +Measured with his eye the space, +And into the air's embrace + Leaped as leaps the ocean surge. + +As the ocean surge o'er sand +Bears a swimmer safe to land, + Kyrat safe his rider bore; +Rattling down the deep abyss +Fragments of the precipice + Rolled like pebbles on a shore. + +Roushan's tasselled cap of red +Trembled not upon his head, + Careless sat he and upright; +Neither hand nor bridle shook, +Nor his head he turned to look, + As he galloped out of sight. + +Flash of harness in the air, +Seen a moment like the glare + Of a sword drawn from its sheath; +Thus the phantom horseman passed, +And the shadow that he cast + Leaped the cataract underneath. + +Reyhan the Arab held his breath +While this vision of life and death + Passed above him. "Allahu!" +Cried he. "In all Koordistan +Lives there not so brave a man + As this Robber Kurroglou!" + + + +HAROUN AL RASCHID + +One day, Haroun Al Raschid read +A book wherein the poet said:-- + +"Where are the kings, and where the rest +Of those who once the world possessed? + +"They're gone with all their pomp and show, +They're gone the way that thou shalt go. + +"O thou who choosest for thy share +The world, and what the world calls fair, + +"Take all that it can give or lend, +But know that death is at the end!" + +Haroun Al Raschid bowed his head: +Tears fell upon the page he read. + + + +KING TRISANKU + +Viswamitra the Magician, + By his spells and incantations, +Up to Indra's realms elysian + Raised Trisanku, king of nations. + +Indra and the gods offended + Hurled him downward, and descending +In the air he hung suspended, + With these equal powers contending. + +Thus by aspirations lifted, + By misgivings downward driven, +Human hearts are tossed and drifted + Midway between earth and heaven. + + + +A WRAITH IN THE MIST + + "Sir, I should build me a fortification, if I +came to live here." --BOSWELL'S Johnson. + +On the green little isle of Inchkenneth, + Who is it that walks by the shore, +So gay with his Highland blue bonnet, + So brave with his targe and claymore? + +His form is the form of a giant, + But his face wears an aspect of pain; +Can this be the Laird of Inchkenneth? + Can this be Sir Allan McLean? + +Ah, no! It is only the Rambler, + The Idler, who lives in Bolt Court, +And who says, were he Laird of Inchkenneth, + He would wall himself round with a fort. + + + +THE THREE KINGS + +Three Kings came riding from far away, + Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar; +Three Wise Men out of the East were they, +And they travelled by night and they slept by day, + For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star. + +The star was so beautiful, large, and clear, + That all the other stars of the sky +Became a white mist in the atmosphere, +And by this they knew that the coming was near + Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy. + +Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows, + Three caskets of gold with golden keys; +Their robes were of crimson silk with rows +Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows, + Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees. + +And so the Three Kings rode into the West, + Through the dusk of night, over hill and dell, +And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast +And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest, + With the people they met at some wayside well. + +"Of the child that is born," said Baltasar, + "Good people, I pray you, tell us the news; +For we in the East have seen his star, +And have ridden fast, and have ridden far, + To find and worship the King of the Jews." + +And the people answered, "You ask in vain; + We know of no king but Herod the Great!" +They thought the Wise Men were men insane, +As they spurred their horses across the plain, + Like riders in haste, and who cannot wait. + +And when they came to Jerusalem, + Herod the Great, who had heard this thing, +Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them; +And said, "Go down unto Bethlehem, + And bring me tidings of this new king." + +So they rode away; and the star stood still, + The only one in the gray of morn +Yes, it stopped, it stood still of its own free will, +Right over Bethlehem on the hill, + The city of David where Christ was born. + +And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard, + Through the silent street, till their horses turned +And neighed as they entered the great inn-yard; +But the windows were closed, and the doors were barred, + And only a light in the stable burned. + +And cradled there in the scented hay, + In the air made sweet by the breath of kine, +The little child in the manger lay, +The child, that would be king one day + Of a kingdom not human but divine. + +His mother Mary of Nazareth + Sat watching beside his place of rest, +Watching the even flow of his breath, +For the joy of life and the terror of death + Were mingled together in her breast. + +They laid their offerings at his feet: + The gold was their tribute to a King, +The frankincense, with its odor sweet, +Was for the Priest, the Paraclete, + The myrrh for the body's burying. + +And the mother wondered and bowed her head, + And sat as still as a statue of stone; +Her heart was troubled yet comforted, +Remembering what the Angel had said + Of an endless reign and of David's throne. + +Then the Kings rode out of the city gate, + With a clatter of hoofs in proud array; +But they went not back to Herod the Great, +For they knew his malice and feared his hate, + And returned to their homes by another way. + + + +SONG + +Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest; +Home-keeping hearts are happiest, +For those that wander they know not where +Are full of trouble and full of care; + To stay at home is best. + +Weary and homesick and distressed, +They wander east, they wander west, +And are baffled and beaten and blown about +By the winds of the wilderness of doubt; + To stay at home is best. + +Then stay at home, my heart, and rest; +The bird is safest in its nest; +O'er all that flutter their wings and fly +A hawk is hovering in the sky; + To stay at home is best. + + + +THE WHITE CZAR + +The White Czar is Peter the Great. Batyushka, Father dear, and +Gosudar, Sovereign, are titles the Russian people are fond of +giving to the Czar in their popular songs. + +Dost thou see on the rampart's height +That wreath of mist, in the light +Of the midnight moon? O, hist! +It is not a wreath of mist; +It is the Czar, the White Czar, + Batyushka! Gosudar! + +He has heard, among the dead, +The artillery roll o'erhead; +The drums and the tramp of feet +Of his soldiery in the street; +He is awake! the White Czar, + Batyushka! Gosudar! + +He has heard in the grave the cries +Of his people: "Awake! arise!" +He has rent the gold brocade +Whereof his shroud was made; +He is risen! the White Czar, + Batyushka! Gosudar! + +From the Volga and the Don +He has led his armies on, +Over river and morass, +Over desert and mountain pass; +The Czar, the Orthodox Czar, + Batyushka! Gosudar! + +He looks from the mountain-chain +Toward the seas, that cleave in twain +The continents; his hand +Points southward o'er the land +Of Roumili! O Czar, + Batyushka! Gosudar! + +And the words break from his lips: +"I am the builder of ships, +And my ships shall sail these seas +To the Pillars of Hercules! +I say it; the White Czar, + Batyushka! Gosudar! + +"The Bosphorus shall be free; +It shall make room for me; +And the gates of its water-streets +Be unbarred before my fleets. +I say it; the White Czar, + Batyushka! Gosudar! + +"And the Christian shall no more +Be crushed, as heretofore, +Beneath thine iron rule, +O Sultan of Istamboul! +I swear it; I the Czar, + Batyushka! Gosudar!" + + + +DELIA + +Sweet as the tender fragrance that survives, +When martyred flowers breathe out their little lives, +Sweet as a song that once consoled our pain, +But never will be sung to us again, +Is thy remembrance. Now the hour of rest +Hath come to thee. Sleep, darling; it is best. + + + +ULTIMA THULE + +DEDICATION + +TO G.W.G. + +With favoring winds, o'er sunlit seas, +We sailed for the Hesperides, +The land where golden apples grow; +But that, ah! that was long ago. + +How far, since then, the ocean streams +Have swept us from that land of dreams, +That land of fiction and of truth, +The lost Atlantis of our youth! + +Whither, oh, whither? Are not these +The tempest-haunted Hebrides, +Where sea gulls scream, and breakers roar, +And wreck and sea-weed line the shore? + +Ultima Thule! Utmost Isle! +Here in thy harbors for a while +We lower our sails; a while we rest +From the unending, endless quest. + + + +POEMS + +BAYARD TAYLOR + +Dead he lay among his books! +The peace of God was in his looks. + +As the statues in the gloom +Watch o'er Maximilian's tomb, + +So those volumes from their shelves +Watched him, silent as themselves. + +Ah! his hand will nevermore +Turn their storied pages o'er; + +Nevermore his lips repeat +Songs of theirs, however sweet. + +Let the lifeless body rest! +He is gone, who was its guest; + +Gone, as travellers haste to leave +An inn, nor tarry until eve. + +Traveller! in what realms afar, +In what planet, in what star, + +In what vast, aerial space, +Shines the light upon thy face? + +In what gardens of delight +Rest thy weary feet to-night? + +Poet! thou, whose latest verse +Was a garland on thy hearse; + +Thou hast sung, with organ tone, +In Deukalion's life, thine own; + +On the ruins of the Past +Blooms the perfect flower at last. + +Friend! but yesterday the bells +Rang for thee their loud farewells; + +And to-day they toll for thee, +Lying dead beyond the sea; + +Lying dead among thy books, +The peace of God in all thy looks! + + + +THE CHAMBER OVER THE GATE + +Is it so far from thee +Thou canst no longer see, +In the Chamber over the Gate, +That old man desolate, +Weeping and wailing sore +For his son, who is no more? + O Absalom, my son! + +Is it so long ago +That cry of human woe +From the walled city came, +Calling on his dear name, +That it has died away +In the distance of to-day? + O Absalom, my son! + +There is no far or near, +There is neither there nor here, +There is neither soon nor late, +In that Chamber over the Gate, +Nor any long ago +To that cry of human woe, + O Absalom, my son! + +From the ages that are past +The voice sounds like a blast, +Over seas that wreck and drown, +Over tumult of traffic and town; +And from ages yet to be +Come the echoes back to me, + O Absalom, my son! + +Somewhere at every hour +The watchman on the tower +Looks forth, and sees the fleet +Approach of the hurrying feet +Of messengers, that bear +The tidings of despair. + O Absalom, my son! + +He goes forth from the door +Who shall return no more. +With him our joy departs; +The light goes out in our hearts; +In the Chamber over the Gate +We sit disconsolate. + O Absalom, my son! + +That 't is a common grief +Bringeth but slight relief; +Ours is the bitterest loss, +Ours is the heaviest cross; +And forever the cry will be +"Would God I had died for thee, + O Absalom, my son!" + + + +FROM MY ARM-CHAIR + +TO THE CHILDREN OF CAMBRIDGE + +Who presented to me on my Seventy-second Birth-day, February 27, +1879, this Chair, made from the Wood of the Village Blacksmith's +Chestnut Tree. + +Am I a king, that I should call my own + This splendid ebon throne? +Or by what reason, or what right divine, + Can I proclaim it mine? + +Only, perhaps, by right divine of song + It may to me belong; +Only because the spreading chestnut tree + Of old was sung by me. + +Well I remember it in all its prime, + When in the summer-time +The affluent foliage of its branches made + A cavern of cool shade. + +There, by the blacksmith's forge, beside the street, + Its blossoms white and sweet +Enticed the bees, until it seemed alive, + And murmured like a hive. + +And when the winds of autumn, with a shout, + Tossed its great arms about, +The shining chestnuts, bursting from the sheath, + Dropped to the ground beneath. + +And now some fragments of its branches bare, + Shaped as a stately chair, +Have by my hearthstone found a home at last, + And whisper of the past. + +The Danish king could not in all his pride + Repel the ocean tide, +But, seated in this chair, I can in rhyme + Roll back the tide of Time. + +I see again, as one in vision sees, + The blossoms and the bees, +And hear the children's voices shout and call, + And the brown chestnuts fall. + +I see the smithy with its fires aglow, + I hear the bellows blow, +And the shrill hammers on the anvil beat + The iron white with heat! + +And thus, dear children, have ye made for me + This day a jubilee, +And to my more than three-score years and ten + Brought back my youth again. + +The heart hath its own memory, like the mind, + And in it are enshrined +The precious keepsakes, into which is wrought + The giver's loving thought. + +Only your love and your remembrance could + Give life to this dead wood, +And make these branches, leafless now so long, + Blossom again in song. + + + +JUGURTHA + +How cold are thy baths, Apollo! + Cried the African monarch, the splendid, +As down to his death in the hollow + Dark dungeons of Rome he descended, + Uncrowned, unthroned, unattended; +How cold are thy baths, Apollo! + +How cold are thy baths, Apollo! + Cried the Poet, unknown, unbefriended, +As the vision, that lured him to follow, + With the mist and the darkness blended, + And the dream of his life was ended; +How cold are thy baths, Apollo! + + + +THE IRON PEN + +Made from a fetter of Bonnivard, the Prisoner of Chillon; the +handle of wood from the Frigate Constitution, and bound with a +circlet of gold, inset with three precious stones from Siberia, +Ceylon, and Maine. + +I thought this Pen would arise +From the casket where it lies-- + Of itself would arise and write +My thanks and my surprise. + +When you gave it me under the pines, +I dreamed these gems from the mines + Of Siberia, Ceylon, and Maine +Would glimmer as thoughts in the lines; + +That this iron link from the chain +Of Bonnivard might retain + Some verse of the Poet who sang +Of the prisoner and his pain; + +That this wood from the frigate's mast +Might write me a rhyme at last, + As it used to write on the sky +The song of the sea and the blast. + +But motionless as I wait, +Like a Bishop lying in state + Lies the Pen, with its mitre of gold, +And its jewels inviolate. + +Then must I speak, and say +That the light of that summer day + In the garden under the pines +Shall not fade and pass away. + +I shall see you standing there, +Caressed by the fragrant air, + With the shadow on your face, +And the sunshine on your hair. + +I shall hear the sweet low tone +Of a voice before unknown, + Saying, "This is from me to you-- +From me, and to you alone." + +And in words not idle and vain +I shall answer and thank you again + For the gift, and the grace of the gift, +O beautiful Helen of Maine! + +And forever this gift will be +As a blessing from you to me, + As a drop of the dew of your youth +On the leaves of an aged tree. + + + +ROBERT BURNS + +I see amid the fields of Ayr +A ploughman, who, in foul and fair, + Sings at his task +So clear, we know not if it is +The laverock's song we hear, or his, + Nor care to ask. + +For him the ploughing of those fields +A more ethereal harvest yields + Than sheaves of grain; +Songs flush with Purple bloom the rye, +The plover's call, the curlew's cry, + Sing in his brain. + +Touched by his hand, the wayside weed +Becomes a flower; the lowliest reed + Beside the stream +Is clothed with beauty; gorse and grass +And heather, where his footsteps pass, + The brighter seem. + +He sings of love, whose flame illumes +The darkness of lone cottage rooms; + He feels the force, +The treacherous undertow and stress +Of wayward passions, and no less + The keen remorse. + +At moments, wrestling with his fate, +His voice is harsh, but not with hate; + The brushwood, hung +Above the tavern door, lets fall +Its bitter leaf, its drop of gall + Upon his tongue. + +But still the music of his song +Rises o'er all elate and strong; + Its master-chords +Are Manhood, Freedom, Brotherhood, +Its discords but an interlude + Between the words. + +And then to die so young and leave +Unfinished what he might achieve! + Yet better sure +Is this, than wandering up and down +An old man in a country town, + Infirm and poor. + +For now he haunts his native land +As an immortal youth; his hand + Guides every plough; +He sits beside each ingle-nook, +His voice is in each rushing brook, + Each rustling bough. + +His presence haunts this room to-night, +A form of mingled mist and light + From that far coast. +Welcome beneath this roof of mine! +Welcome! this vacant chair is thine, + Dear guest and ghost! + + + +HELEN OF TYRE + +What phantom is this that appears +Through the purple mist of the years, + Itself but a mist like these? +A woman of cloud and of fire; +It is she; it is Helen of Tyre, + The town in the midst of the seas. + +O Tyre! in thy crowded streets +The phantom appears and retreats, + And the Israelites that sell +Thy lilies and lions of brass, +Look up as they see her pass, + And murmur "Jezebel!" + +Then another phantom is seen +At her side, in a gray gabardine, + With beard that floats to his waist; +It is Simon Magus, the Seer; +He speaks, and she pauses to hear + The words he utters in haste. + +He says: "From this evil fame, +From this life of sorrow and shame, + I will lift thee and make thee mine; +Thou hast been Queen Candace, +And Helen of Troy, and shalt be + The Intelligence Divine!" + +Oh, sweet as the breath of morn, +To the fallen and forlorn + Are whispered words of praise; +For the famished heart believes +The falsehood that tempts and deceives, + And the promise that betrays. + +So she follows from land to land +The wizard's beckoning hand, + As a leaf is blown by the gust, +Till she vanishes into night. +O reader, stoop down and write + With thy finger in the dust. + +O town in the midst of the seas, +With thy rafts of cedar trees, + Thy merchandise and thy ships, +Thou, too, art become as naught, +A phantom, a shadow, a thought, + A name upon men's lips. + + + +ELEGIAC + +Dark is the morning with mist; in the narrow mouth of the harbor + Motionless lies the sea, under its curtain of cloud; +Dreamily glimmer the sails of ships on the distant horizon, + Like to the towers of a town, built on the verge of the sea. + +Slowly and stately and still, they sail forth into the ocean; + With them sail my thoughts over the limitless deep, +Farther and farther away, borne on by unsatisfied longings, + Unto Hesperian isles, unto Ausonian shores. + +Now they have vanished away, have disappeared in the ocean; + Sunk are the towers of the town into the depths of the sea! +AU have vanished but those that, moored in the neighboring +roadstead, + Sailless at anchor ride, looming so large in the mist. + +Vanished, too, are the thoughts, the dim, unsatisfied longings; + Sunk are the turrets of cloud into the ocean of dreams; +While in a haven of rest my heart is riding at anchor, + Held by the chains of love, held by the anchors of trust! + + + +OLD ST. DAVID'S AT RADNOR + +What an image of peace and rest + Is this little church among its graves! +All is so quiet; the troubled breast, +The wounded spirit, the heart oppressed, + Here may find the repose it craves. + +See, how the ivy climbs and expands + Over this humble hermitage, +And seems to caress with its little hands +The rough, gray stones, as a child that stands + Caressing the wrinkled cheeks of age! + +You cross the threshold; and dim and small + Is the space that serves for the Shepherd's Fold; +The narrow aisle, the bare, white wall, +The pews, and the pulpit quaint and tall, + Whisper and say: "Alas! we are old." + +Herbert's chapel at Bemerton + Hardly more spacious is than this; +But Poet and Pastor, blent in one, +Clothed with a splendor, as of the sun, + That lowly and holy edifice. + +It is not the wall of stone without + That makes the building small or great +But the soul's light shining round about, +And the faith that overcometh doubt, + And the love that stronger is than hate. + +Were I a pilgrim in search of peace, + Were I a pastor of Holy Church, +More than a Bishop's diocese +Should I prize this place of rest, and release + From farther longing and farther search. + +Here would I stay, and let the world + With its distant thunder roar and roll; +Storms do not rend the sail that is furled; +Nor like a dead leaf, tossed and whirled + In an eddy of wind, is the anchored soul. + + + +FOLK SONGS + +THE SIFTING OF PETER + +In St. Luke's Gospel we are told +How Peter in the days of old + Was sifted; +And now, though ages intervene, +Sin is the same, while time and scene + Are shifted. + +Satan desires us, great and small, +As wheat to sift us, and we all + Are tempted; +Not one, however rich or great, +Is by his station or estate + Exempted. + +No house so safely guarded is +But he, by some device of his, + Can enter; +No heart hath armor so complete +But he can pierce with arrows fleet + Its centre. + +For all at last the cock will crow, +Who hear the warning voice, but go + Unheeding, +Till thrice and more they have denied +The Man of Sorrows, crucified + And bleeding. + +One look of that pale suffering face +Will make us feel the deep disgrace + Of weakness; +We shall be sifted till the strength +Of self-conceit be changed at length + To meekness. + +Wounds of the soul, though healed will ache; +The reddening scars remain, and make + Confession; +Lost innocence returns no more; +We are not what we were before + Transgression. + +But noble souls, through dust and heat, +Rise from disaster and defeat + The stronger, +And conscious still of the divine +Within them, lie on earth supine + No longer. + + + +MAIDEN AND WEATHERCOCK + +MAIDEN +O weathercock on the village spire, +With your golden feathers all on fire, +Tell me, what can you see from your perch +Above there over the tower of the church? + +WEATHERCOCK. +I can see the roofs and the streets below, +And the people moving to and fro, +And beyond, without either roof or street, +The great salt sea, and the fisherman's fleet. + +I can see a ship come sailing in +Beyond the headlands and harbor of Lynn, +And a young man standing on the deck, +With a silken kerchief round his neck. + +Now he is pressing it to his lips, +And now he is kissing his finger-tips, +And now he is lifting and waving his hand +And blowing the kisses toward the land. + +MAIDEN. +Ah, that is the ship from over the sea, +That is bringing my lover back to me, +Bringing my lover so fond and true, +Who does not change with the wind like you. + +WEATHERCOCK. +If I change with all the winds that blow, +It is only because they made me so, +And people would think it wondrous strange, +If I, a Weathercock, should not change. + +O pretty Maiden, so fine and fair, +With your dreamy eyes and your golden hair, +When you and your lover meet to-day +You will thank me for looking some other way. + + + +THE WINDMILL + +Behold! a giant am I! + Aloft here in my tower, + With my granite jaws I devour +The maize, and the wheat, and the rye, + And grind them into flour. + +I look down over the farms; + In the fields of grain I see + The harvest that is to be, +And I fling to the air my arms, + For I know it is all for me. + +I hear the sound of flails + Far off, from the threshing-floors + In barns, with their open doors, +And the wind, the wind in my sails, + Louder and louder roars. + +I stand here in my place, + With my foot on the rock below, + And whichever way it may blow +I meet it face to face, + As a brave man meets his foe. + +And while we wrestle and strive + My master, the miller, stands + And feeds me with his hands; +For he knows who makes him thrive, + Who makes him lord of lands. + +On Sundays I take my rest; + Church-going bells begin + Their low, melodious din; +I cross my arms on my breast, + And all is peace within. + + + +THE TIDE RISES, THE TIDE FALLS + +The tide rises, the tide falls, +The twilight darkens, the curlew calls; +Along the sea-sands damp and brown +The traveller hastens toward the town, + And the tide rises, the tide falls. + +Darkness settles on roofs and walls, +But the sea in the darkness calls and calls; +The little waves, with their soft, white hands, +Efface the footprints in the sands, + And the tide rises, the tide falls. + +The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls +Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls; +The day returns, but nevermore +Returns the traveller to the shore, + And the tide rises, the tide falls. + + + +SONNETS + +MY CATHEDRAL + +Like two cathedral towers these stately pines + Uplift their fretted summits tipped with cones; + The arch beneath them is not built with stones, + Not Art but Nature traced these lovely lines, +And carved this graceful arabesque of vines; + No organ but the wind here sighs and moans, + No sepulchre conceals a martyr's bones. + No marble bishop on his tomb reclines. +Enter! the pavement, carpeted with leaves, + Gives back a softened echo to thy tread! + Listen! the choir is singing; all the birds, +In leafy galleries beneath the eaves, + Are singing! listen, ere the sound be fled, + And learn there may be worship with out words. + + + +THE BURIAL OF THE POET + +RICHARD HENRY DANA + +In the old churchyard of his native town, + And in the ancestral tomb beside the wall, + We laid him in the sleep that comes to all, + And left him to his rest and his renown. +The snow was falling, as if Heaven dropped down + White flowers of Paradise to strew his pall;-- + The dead around him seemed to wake, and call + His name, as worthy of so white a crown. +And now the moon is shining on the scene, + And the broad sheet of snow is written o'er + With shadows cruciform of leafless trees, +As once the winding-sheet of Saladin + With chapters of the Koran; but, ah! more + Mysterious and triumphant signs are these. + + + +NIGHT + +Into the darkness and the hush of night + Slowly the landscape sinks, and fades away, + And with it fade the phantoms of the day, + The ghosts of men and things, that haunt the light, +The crowd, the clamor, the pursuit, the flight, + The unprofitable splendor and display, + The agitations, and the cares that prey + Upon our hearts, all vanish out of sight. +The better life begins; the world no more + Molests us; all its records we erase + From the dull common-place book of our lives, +That like a palimpsest is written o'er + With trivial incidents of time and place, + And lo! the ideal, hidden beneath, revives. + + + +L'ENVOI + +THE POET AND HIS SONGS + +As the birds come in the Spring, + We know not from where; +As the stars come at evening + From depths of the air; + +As the rain comes from the cloud, + And the brook from the ground; +As suddenly, low or loud, + Out of silence a sound; + +As the grape comes to the vine, + The fruit to the tree; +As the wind comes to the pine, + And the tide to the sea; + +As come the white sails of ships + O'er the ocean's verge; +As comes the smile to the lips, + The foam to the surge; + +So come to the Poet his songs, + All hitherward blown +From the misty realm, that belongs + To the vast unknown. + +His, and not his, are the lays + He sings; and their fame +Is his, and not his; and the praise + And the pride of a name. + +For voices pursue him by day, + And haunt him by night, +And he listens, and needs must obey, + When the Angel says: "Write!" + + +*********** + +IN THE HARBOR + +BECALMED + +Becalmed upon the sea of Thought, +Still unattained the land it sought, +My mind, with loosely-hanging sails, +Lies waiting the auspicious gales. + +On either side, behind, before, +The ocean stretches like a floor,-- +A level floor of amethyst, +Crowned by a golden dome of mist. + +Blow, breath of inspiration, blow! +Shake and uplift this golden glow! +And fill the canvas of the mind +With wafts of thy celestial wind. + +Blow, breath of song! until I feel +The straining sail, the lifting keel, +The life of the awakening sea, +Its motion and its mystery! + + + +THE POET'S CALENDAR + +JANUARY + +Janus am I; oldest of potentates; + Forward I look, and backward, and below +I count, as god of avenues and gates, + The years that through my portals come and go. +I block the roads, and drift the fields with snow; +I chase the wild-fowl from the frozen fen; +My frosts congeal the rivers in their flow, +My fires light up the hearths and hearts of men. + + +FEBRUARY + +I am lustration, and the sea is mine. + I wash the sands and headlands with my tide; +My brow is crowned with branches of the pine; + Before my chariot-wheels the fishes glide. +By me all things unclean are purified, + By me the souls of men washed white again; +E'en the unlovely tombs of those who died + Without a dirge, I cleanse from every stain. + + +MARCH + +I Martius am! Once first, and now the third! + To lead the Year was my appointed place; +A mortal dispossessed me by a word, + And set there Janus with the double face. +Hence I make war on all the human race; + I shake the cities with my hurricanes; +I flood the rivers and their banks efface, + And drown the farms and hamlets with my rains. + + +APRIL + +I open wide the portals of the Spring + To welcome the procession of the flowers, +With their gay banners, and the birds that sing + Their song of songs from their aerial towers. +I soften with my sunshine and my showers + The heart of earth; with thoughts of love I glide +Into the hearts of men; and with the Hours + Upon the Bull with wreathed horns I ride. + + +MAY + +Hark! The sea-faring wild-fowl loud proclaim + My coming, and the swarming of the bees. +These are my heralds, and behold! my name + Is written in blossoms on the hawthorn-trees. +I tell the mariner when to sail the seas; + I waft o'er all the land from far away +The breath and bloom of the Hesperides, + My birthplace. I am Maia. I am May. + + +JUNE + +Mine is the Month of Roses; yes, and mine + The Month of Marriages! All pleasant sights +And scents, the fragrance of the blossoming vine, + The foliage of the valleys and the heights. +Mine are the longest days, the loveliest nights; + The mower's scythe makes music to my ear; +I am the mother of all dear delights; + I am the fairest daughter of the year. + + +JULY + +My emblem is the Lion, and I breathe + The breath of Libyan deserts o'er the land; +My sickle as a sabre I unsheathe, + And bent before me the pale harvests stand. +The lakes and rivers shrink at my command, + And there is thirst and fever in the air; +The sky is changed to brass, the earth to sand; + I am the Emperor whose name I bear. + + +AUGUST + +The Emperor Octavian, called the August, + I being his favorite, bestowed his name +Upon me, and I hold it still in trust, + In memory of him and of his fame. +I am the Virgin, and my vestal flame + Burns less intensely than the Lion's rage; +Sheaves are my only garlands, and I claim + The golden Harvests as my heritage. + + +SEPTEMBER + +I bear the Scales, where hang in equipoise + The night and day; and when unto my lips +I put my trumpet, with its stress and noise + Fly the white clouds like tattered sails of ships; +The tree-tops lash the air with sounding whips; + Southward the clamorous sea-fowl wing their flight; +The hedges are all red with haws and hips, + The Hunter's Moon reigns empress of the night. + + +OCTOBER + +My ornaments are fruits; my garments leaves, + Woven like cloth of gold, and crimson dyed; +I do not boast the harvesting of sheaves, + O'er orchards and o'er vineyards I preside. +Though on the frigid Scorpion I ride, + The dreamy air is full, and overflows +With tender memories of the summer-tide, + And mingled voices of the doves and crows. + +NOVEMBER + +The Centaur, Sagittarius, am I, + Born of Ixion's and the cloud's embrace; +With sounding hoofs across the earth I fly, + A steed Thessalian with a human face. +Sharp winds the arrows are with which I chase + The leaves, half dead already with affright; +I shroud myself in gloom; and to the race + Of mortals bring nor comfort nor delight. + + +DECEMBER + +Riding upon the Goat, with snow-white hair, + I come, the last of all. This crown of mine +Is of the holly; in my hand I bear + The thyrsus, tipped with fragrant cones of pine. +I celebrate the birth of the Divine, + And the return of the Saturnian reign;-- +My songs are carols sung at every shrine, + Proclaiming "Peace on earth, good will to men." + + + +AUTUMN WITHIN + +It is autumn; not without, + But within me is the cold. +Youth and spring are all about; + It is I that have grown old. + +Birds are darting through the air, + Singing, building without rest; +Life is stirring everywhere, + Save within my lonely breast. + +There is silence: the dead leaves + Fall and rustle and are still; +Beats no flail upon the sheaves + Comes no murmur from the mill. + + + +THE FOUR LAKES OF MADISON + +Four limpid lakes,--four Naiades +Or sylvan deities are these, + In flowing robes of azure dressed; +Four lovely handmaids, that uphold +Their shining mirrors, rimmed with gold, + To the fair city in the West. + +By day the coursers of the sun +Drink of these waters as they run + Their swift diurnal round on high; +By night the constellations glow +Far down the hollow deeps below, + And glimmer in another sky. + +Fair lakes, serene and full of light, +Fair town, arrayed in robes of white, + How visionary ye appear! +All like a floating landscape seems +In cloud-land or the land of dreams, + Bathed in a golden atmosphere! + + + +VICTOR AND VANQUISHED + +As one who long hath fled with panting breath + Before his foe, bleeding and near to fall, + I turn and set my back against the wall, + And look thee in the face, triumphant Death, +I call for aid, and no one answereth; + I am alone with thee, who conquerest all; + Yet me thy threatening form doth not appall, + For thou art but a phantom and a wraith. +Wounded and weak, sword broken at the hilt, + With armor shattered, and without a shield, + I stand unmoved; do with me what thou wilt; +I can resist no more, but will not yield. + This is no tournament where cowards tilt; + The vanquished here is victor of the field. + + + +MOONLIGHT + +As a pale phantom with a lamp + Ascends some ruin's haunted stair, +So glides the moon along the damp + Mysterious chambers of the air. + +Now hidden in cloud, and now revealed, + As if this phantom, full of pain, +Were by the crumbling walls concealed, + And at the windows seen again. + +Until at last, serene and proud + In all the splendor of her light, +She walks the terraces of cloud, + Supreme as Empress of the Night. + +I look, but recognize no more + Objects familiar to my view; +The very pathway to my door + Is an enchanted avenue. + +All things are changed. One mass of shade, + The elm-trees drop their curtains down; +By palace, park, and colonnade + I walk as in a foreign town. + +The very ground beneath my feet + Is clothed with a diviner air; +White marble paves the silent street + And glimmers in the empty square. + +Illusion! Underneath there lies + The common life of every day; +Only the spirit glorifies + With its own tints the sober gray. + +In vain we look, in vain uplift + Our eyes to heaven, if we are blind, +We see but what we have the gift + Of seeing; what we bring we find. + + + +THE CHILDREN'S CRUSADE + +[A FRAGMENT.] + +I + +What is this I read in history, +Full of marvel, full of mystery, +Difficult to understand? +Is it fiction, is it truth? +Children in the flower of youth, +Heart in heart, and hand in hand, +Ignorant of what helps or harms, +Without armor, without arms, +Journeying to the Holy Land! + +Who shall answer or divine? +Never since the world was made +Such a wonderful crusade +Started forth for Palestine. +Never while the world shall last +Will it reproduce the past; +Never will it see again +Such an army, such a band, +Over mountain, over main, +Journeying to the Holy Land. + +Like a shower of blossoms blown +From the parent trees were they; +Like a flock of birds that fly +Through the unfrequented sky, +Holding nothing as their own, +Passed they into lands unknown, +Passed to suffer and to die. + +O the simple, child-like trust! +O the faith that could believe +What the harnessed, iron-mailed +Knights of Christendom had failed, +By their prowess, to achieve, +They the children, could and must? + +Little thought the Hermit, preaching +Holy Wars to knight and baron, +That the words dropped in his teaching, +His entreaty, his beseeching, +Would by children's hands be gleaned, +And the staff on which he leaned +Blossom like the rod of Aaron. + +As a summer wind upheaves +The innumerable leaves +In the bosom of a wood,-- +Not as separate leaves, but massed +All together by the blast,-- +So for evil or for good +His resistless breath upheaved +All at once the many-leaved, +Many-thoughted multitude. + +In the tumult of the air +Rock the boughs with all the nests +Cradled on their tossing crests; +By the fervor of his prayer +Troubled hearts were everywhere +Rocked and tossed in human breasts. + +For a century, at least, +His prophetic voice had ceased; +But the air was heated still +By his lurid words and will, +As from fires in far-off woods, +In the autumn of the year, +An unwonted fever broods +In the sultry atmosphere. + + +II + +In Cologne the bells were ringing, +In Cologne the nuns were singing +Hymns and canticles divine; +Loud the monks sang in their stalls, +And the thronging streets were loud +With the voices of the crowd;-- +Underneath the city walls +Silent flowed the river Rhine. + +From the gates, that summer day, +Clad in robes of hodden gray, +With the red cross on the breast, +Azure-eyed and golden-haired, +Forth the young crusaders fared; +While above the band devoted +Consecrated banners floated, +Fluttered many a flag and streamer, +And the cross o'er all the rest! +Singing lowly, meekly, slowly, +"Give us, give us back the holy +Sepulchre of the Redeemer!" +On the vast procession pressed, +Youths and maidens. . . . + + +III + +Ah! what master hand shall paint +How they journeyed on their way, +How the days grew long and dreary, +How their little feet grew weary, +How their little hearts grew faint! + +Ever swifter day by day +Flowed the homeward river; ever +More and more its whitening current +Broke and scattered into spray, +Till the calmly-flowing river +Changed into a mountain torrent, +Rushing from its glacier green +Down through chasm and black ravine. +Like a phoenix in its nest, +Burned the red sun in the West, +Sinking in an ashen cloud; +In the East, above the crest +Of the sea-like mountain chain, +Like a phoenix from its shroud, +Came the red sun back again. + +Now around them, white with snow, +Closed the mountain peaks. Below, +Headlong from the precipice +Down into the dark abyss, +Plunged the cataract, white with foam; +And it said, or seemed to say: +"Oh return, while yet you may, +Foolish children, to your home, +There the Holy City is!" + +But the dauntless leader said: +"Faint not, though your bleeding feet +O'er these slippery paths of sleet +Move but painfully and slowly; +Other feet than yours have bled; +Other tears than yours been shed +Courage! lose not heart or hope; +On the mountains' southern slope +Lies Jerusalem the Holy!" + +As a white rose in its pride, +By the wind in summer-tide +Tossed and loosened from the branch, +Showers its petals o'er the ground, +From the distant mountain's side, +Scattering all its snows around, +With mysterious, muffled sound, +Loosened, fell the avalanche. +Voices, echoes far and near, +Roar of winds and waters blending, +Mists uprising, clouds impending, +Filled them with a sense of fear, +Formless, nameless, never ending. + +. . . . . . . . . . + + + +SUNDOWN + +The summer sun is sinking low; +Only the tree-tops redden and glow: +Only the weathercock on the spire +Of the neighboring church is a flame of fire; + All is in shadow below. + +O beautiful, awful summer day, +What hast thou given, what taken away? +Life and death, and love and hate, +Homes made happy or desolate, + Hearts made sad or gay! + +On the road of life one mile-stone more! +In the book of life one leaf turned o'er! +Like a red seal is the setting sun +On the good and the evil men have done,-- + Naught can to-day restore! + + + +CHIMES + +Sweet chimes! that in the loneliness of night + Salute the passing hour, and in the dark + And silent chambers of the household mark + The movements of the myriad orbs of light! +Through my closed eyelids, by the inner sight, + I see the constellations in the arc + Of their great circles moving on, and hark! + I almost hear them singing in their flight. +Better than sleep it is to lie awake + O'er-canopied by the vast starry dome + Of the immeasurable sky; to feel +The slumbering world sink under us, and make + Hardly an eddy,--a mere rush of foam + On the great sea beneath a sinking keel. + + + +FOUR BY THE CLOCK. + +"NAHANT, September 8, 1880, +Four o'clock in the morning." + +Four by the clock! and yet not day; +But the great world rolls and wheels away, +With its cities on land, and its ships at sea, +Into the dawn that is to be! + +Only the lamp in the anchored bark +Sends its glimmer across the dark, +And the heavy breathing of the sea +Is the only sound that comes to me. + + + +AUF WIEDERSEHEN. + +IN MEMORY OF J.T.F. + +Until we meet again! That is the meaning +Of the familiar words, that men repeat + At parting in the street. +Ah yes, till then! but when death intervening +Rends us asunder, with what ceaseless pain + We wait for the Again! + +The friends who leave us do not feel the sorrow +Of parting, as we feel it, who must stay + Lamenting day by day, +And knowing, when we wake upon the morrow, +We shall not find in its accustomed place + The one beloved face. + +It were a double grief, if the departed, +Being released from earth, should still retain + A sense of earthly pain; +It were a double grief, if the true-hearted, +Who loved us here, should on the farther shore + Remember us no more. + +Believing, in the midst of our afflictions, +That death is a beginning, not an end, + We cry to them, and send +Farewells, that better might be called predictions, +Being fore-shadowings of the future, thrown + Into the vast Unknown. + +Faith overleaps the confines of our reason, +And if by faith, as in old times was said, + Women received their dead +Raised up to life, then only for a season +Our partings are, nor shall we wait in vain + Until we meet again! + + + +ELEGIAC VERSE + +I + +Peradventure of old, some bard in Ionian Islands, + Walking alone by the sea, hearing the wash of the waves, +Learned the secret from them of the beautiful verse elegiac, + Breathing into his song motion and sound of the sea. + +For as the wave of the sea, upheaving in long undulations, + Plunges loud on the sands, pauses, and turns, and retreats, +So the Hexameter, rising and singing, with cadence sonorous, + Falls; and in refluent rhythm back the Pentameter flows? + +II + +Not in his youth alone, but in age, may the heart of the poet + Bloom into song, as the gorse blossoms in autumn and spring. + +III + +Not in tenderness wanting, yet rough are the rhymes of our poet; + Though it be Jacob's voice, Esau's, alas! are the hands. + +IV + +Let us be grateful to writers for what is left in the inkstand; + When to leave off is an art only attained by the few. + +V + +How can the Three be One? you ask me; I answer by asking, + Hail and snow and rain, are they not three, and yet one? + +VI + +By the mirage uplifted the land floats vague in the ether, + Ships and the shadows of ships hang in the motionless air; +So by the art of the poet our common life is uplifted, + So, transfigured, the world floats in a luminous haze. + +VII + +Like a French poem is Life; being only perfect in structure + When with the masculine rhymes mingled the feminine are. + +VIII + +Down from the mountain descends the brooklet, rejoicing in +freedom; + Little it dreams of the mill hid in the valley below; +Glad with the joy of existence, the child goes singing and +laughing, + Little dreaming what toils lie in the future concealed. + +IX + +As the ink from our pen, so flow our thoughts and our feelings + When we begin to write, however sluggish before. + +X + +Like the Kingdom of Heaven, the Fountain of Youth is within us; + If we seek it elsewhere, old shall we grow in the search. + +XI + +If you would hit the mark, you must aim a little above it; + Every arrow that flies feels the attraction of earth. + +XII + +Wisely the Hebrews admit no Present tense in their language; + While we are speaking the word, it is is already the Past. + +XIII + +In the twilight of age all things seem strange and phantasmal, + As between daylight and dark ghost-like the landscape appears. + +XIV + +Great is the art of beginning, but greater the art is of ending; + Many a poem is marred by a superfluous verse. + + + +THE CITY AND THE SEA + +The panting City cried to the Sea, +"I am faint with heat,--O breathe on me!" + +And the Sea said, "Lo, I breathe! but my breath +To some will be life, to others death!" + +As to Prometheus, bringing ease +In pain, come the Oceanides, + +So to the City, hot with the flame +Of the pitiless sun, the east wind came. + +It came from the heaving breast of the deep, +Silent as dreams are, and sudden as sleep. + +Life-giving, death-giving, which will it be; +O breath of the merciful, merciless Sea? + + + +MEMORIES + +Oft I remember those whom I have known + In other days, to whom my heart was led + As by a magnet, and who are not dead, + But absent, and their memories overgrown +With other thoughts and troubles of my own, + As graves with grasses are, and at their head + The stone with moss and lichens so o'erspread, + Nothing is legible but the name alone. +And is it so with them? After long years, + Do they remember me in the same way, + And is the memory pleasant as to me? +I fear to ask; yet wherefore are my fears? + Pleasures, like flowers, may wither and decay, + And yet the root perennial may be. + + + +HERMES TRISMEGISTUS + +As Seleucus narrates, Hermes describes the principles that rank +as wholes in two myriads of books; or, as we are informed by +Manetho, he perfectly unfolded these principles in three myriads +six thousand five hundred and twenty-five volumes. . . . + . . . Our ancestors dedicated the inventions of their wisdom to +this deity, inscribing all their own writings with the name of +Hermes.--IAMBLICUS. + +Still through Egypt's desert places + Flows the lordly Nile, +From its banks the great stone faces + Gaze with patient smile. +Still the pyramids imperious + Pierce the cloudless skies, +And the Sphinx stares with mysterious, + Solemn, stony eyes. + +But where are the old Egyptian + Demi-gods and kings? +Nothing left but an inscription + Graven on stones and rings. +Where are Helios and Hephæstus, + Gods of eldest eld? +Where is Hermes Trismegistus, + Who their secrets held? + +Where are now the many hundred + Thousand books he wrote? +By the Thaumaturgists plundered, + Lost in lands remote; +In oblivion sunk forever, + As when o'er the land +Blows a storm-wind, in the river + Sinks the scattered sand. + +Something unsubstantial, ghostly, + Seems this Theurgist, +In deep meditation mostly + Wrapped, as in a mist. +Vague, phantasmal, and unreal + To our thought he seems, +Walking in a world ideal, + In a land of dreams. + +Was he one, or many, merging + Name and fame in one, +Like a stream, to which, converging + Many streamlets run? +Till, with gathered power proceeding, + Ampler sweep it takes, +Downward the sweet waters leading + From unnumbered lakes. + +By the Nile I see him wandering, + Pausing now and then, +On the mystic union pondering + Between gods and men; +Half believing, wholly feeling, + With supreme delight, +How the gods, themselves concealing, + Lift men to their height. + +Or in Thebes, the hundred-gated, + In the thoroughfare +Breathing, as if consecrated, + A diviner air; +And amid discordant noises, + In the jostling throng, +Hearing far, celestial voices + Of Olympian song. + +Who shall call his dreams fallacious? + Who has searched or sought +All the unexplored and spacious + Universe of thought? +Who, in his own skill confiding, + Shall with rule and line +Mark the border-land dividing + Human and divine? + +Trismegistus! three times greatest! + How thy name sublime +Has descended to this latest + Progeny of time! +Happy they whose written pages + Perish with their lives, +If amid the crumbling ages + Still their name survives! + +Thine, O priest of Egypt, lately + Found I in the vast, +Weed-encumbered sombre, stately, + Grave-yard of the Past; +And a presence moved before me + On that gloomy shore, +As a waft of wind, that o'er me + Breathed, and was no more. + + + +TO THE AVON + +Flow on, sweet river! like his verse +Who lies beneath this sculptured hearse +Nor wait beside the churchyard wall +For him who cannot hear thy call. + +Thy playmate once; I see him now +A boy with sunshine on his brow, +And hear in Stratford's quiet street +The patter of his little feet. + +I see him by thy shallow edge +Wading knee-deep amid the sedge; +And lost in thought, as if thy stream +Were the swift river of a dream. + +He wonders whitherward it flows; +And fain would follow where it goes, +To the wide world, that shall erelong +Be filled with his melodious song. + +Flow on, fair stream! That dream is o'er; +He stands upon another shore; +A vaster river near him flows, +And still he follows where it goes. + + + +PRESIDENT GARFIELD + +"E venni dal martirio a questa pace." + +These words the poet heard in Paradise, + Uttered by one who, bravely dying here, + In the true faith was living in that sphere + Where the celestial cross of sacrifice +Spread its protecting arms athwart the skies; + And set thereon, like jewels crystal clear, + The souls magnanimous, that knew not fear, + Flashed their effulgence on his dazzled eyes. +Ah me! how dark the discipline of pain, + Were not the suffering followed by the sense + Of infinite rest and infinite release! +This is our consolation; and again + A great soul cries to us in our suspense, + "I came from martyrdom unto this peace!" + + + +MY BOOKS + +Sadly as some old mediaeval knight + Gazed at the arms he could no longer wield, + The sword two-handed and the shining shield + Suspended in the hall, and full in sight, +While secret longings for the lost delight + Of tourney or adventure in the field + Came over him, and tears but half concealed + Trembled and fell upon his beard of white, +So I behold these books upon their shelf, + My ornaments and arms of other days; + Not wholly useless, though no longer used, +For they remind me of my other self, + Younger and stronger, and the pleasant ways + In which I walked, now clouded and confused. + + + +MAD RIVER + +IN THE WHITE MOUNTAINS + +TRAVELLER +Why dost thou wildly rush and roar, + Mad River, O Mad River? +Wilt thou not pause and cease to pour +Thy hurrying, headlong waters o'er + This rocky shelf forever? + +What secret trouble stirs thy breast? + Why all this fret and flurry? +Dost thou not know that what is best +In this too restless world is rest + From over-work and worry? + +THE RIVER +What wouldst thou in these mountains seek, + O stranger from the city? +Is it perhaps some foolish freak +Of thine, to put the words I speak + Into a plaintive ditty? + +TRAVELLER +Yes; I would learn of thee thy song, + With all its flowing number; +And in a voice as fresh and strong +As thine is, sing it all day long, + And hear it in my slumbers. + +THE RIVER +A brooklet nameless and unknown + Was I at first, resembling +A little child, that all alone +Comes venturing down the stairs of stone, + Irresolute and trembling. + +Later, by wayward fancies led, + For the wide world I panted; +Out of the forest dark and dread +Across the open fields I fled, + Like one pursued and haunted. + +I tossed my arms, I sang aloud, + My voice exultant blending +With thunder from the passing cloud, +The wind, the forest bent and bowed, + The rush of rain descending. + +I heard the distant ocean call, + Imploring and entreating; +Drawn onward, o'er this rocky wall +I plunged, and the loud waterfall + Made answer to the greeting. + +And now, beset with many ills, + A toilsome life I follow; +Compelled to carry from the hills +These logs to the impatient mills + Below there in the hollow. + +Yet something ever cheers and charms + The rudeness of my labors; +Daily I water with these arms +The cattle of a hundred farms, + And have the birds for neighbors. + +Men call me Mad, and well they may, + When, full of rage and trouble, +I burst my banks of sand and clay, +And sweep their wooden bridge away, + Like withered reeds or stubble. + +Now go and write thy little rhyme, + As of thine own creating. +Thou seest the day is past its prime; +I can no longer waste my time; + The mills are tired of waiting. + + + +POSSIBILITIES + +Where are the Poets, unto whom belong + The Olympian heights; whose singing shafts were sent + Straight to the mark, and not from bows half bent, + But with the utmost tension of the thong? +Where are the stately argosies of song, + Whose rushing keels made music as they went + Sailing in search of some new continent, + With all sail set, and steady winds and strong? +Perhaps there lives some dreamy boy, untaught + In schools, some graduate of the field or street, + Who shall become a master of the art, +An admiral sailing the high seas of thought, + Fearless and first and steering with his fleet + For lands not yet laid down in any chart. + + + +DECORATION DAY + +Sleep, comrades, sleep and rest + On this Field of the Grounded Arms, +Where foes no more molest, + Nor sentry's shot alarms! + +Ye have slept on the ground before, + And started to your feet +At the cannon's sudden roar, + Or the drum's redoubling beat. + +But in this camp of Death + No sound your slumber breaks; +Here is no fevered breath, + No wound that bleeds and aches. + +All is repose and peace, + Untrampled lies the sod; +The shouts of battle cease, + It is the Truce of God! + +Rest, comrades, rest and sleep! + The thoughts of men shall be +As sentinels to keep + Your rest from danger free. + +Your silent tents of green + We deck with fragrant flowers; +Yours has the suffering been, + The memory shall be ours. + + + +A FRAGMENT + +Awake! arise! the hour is late! + Angels are knocking at thy door! +They are in haste and cannot wait, + And once departed come no more. + +Awake! arise! the athlete's arm + Loses its strength by too much rest; +The fallow land, the untilled farm + Produces only weeds at best. + + + +LOSS AND GAIN + When I compare +What I have lost with what I have gained, +What I have missed with what attained, + Little room do I find for pride. + + I am aware +How many days have been idly spent; +How like an arrow the good intent + Has fallen short or been turned aside. + + But who shall dare +To measure loss and gain in this wise? +Defeat may be victory in disguise; + The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide. + + + +INSCRIPTION ON THE SHANKLIN FOUNTAIN + +O traveller, stay thy weary feet; +Drink of this fountain, pure and sweet; + It flows for rich and poor the same. +Then go thy way, remembering still +The wayside well beneath the hill, + The cup of water in His name. + + + +THE BELLS OF SAN BLAS + +What say the Bells of San Blas +To the ships that southward pass + From the harbor of Mazatlan? +To them it is nothing more +Than the sound of surf on the shore,-- + Nothing more to master or man. + +But to me, a dreamer of dreams, +To whom what is and what seems + Are often one and the same,-- +The Bells of San Blas to me +Have a strange, wild melody, + And are something more than a name. + +For bells are the voice of the church; +They have tones that touch and search + The hearts of young and old; +One sound to all, yet each +Lends a meaning to their speech, + And the meaning is manifold. + +They are a voice of the Past, +Of an age that is fading fast, + Of a power austere and grand, +When the flag of Spain unfurled +Its folds o'er this western world, + And the Priest was lord of the land. + +The chapel that once looked down +On the little seaport town + Has crumbled into the dust; +And on oaken beams below +The bells swing to and fro, + And are green with mould and rust. + +"Is, then, the old faith dead," +They say, "and in its stead + Is some new faith proclaimed, +That we are forced to remain +Naked to sun and rain, + Unsheltered and ashamed? + +"Once, in our tower aloof, +We rang over wall and roof + Our warnings and our complaints; +And round about us there +The white doves filled the air, + Like the white souls of the saints. + +"The saints! Ah, have they grown +Forgetful of their own? + Are they asleep, or dead, +That open to the sky +Their ruined Missions lie, + No longer tenanted? + +"Oh, bring us back once more +The vanished days of yore, + When the world with faith was filled; +Bring back the fervid zeal, +The hearts of fire and steel, + The hands that believe and build. + +"Then from our tower again +We will send over land and main + Our voices of command, +Like exiled kings who return +To their thrones, and the people learn + That the Priest is lord of the land!" + +O Bells of San Blas in vain +Ye call back the Past again; + The Past is deaf to your prayer! +Out of the shadows of night +The world rolls into light; + It is daybreak everywhere. + + +************* + + +FRAGMENTS + +October 22, 1838. + +Neglected record of a mind neglected, +Unto what "lets and stops" art thou subjected! +The day with all its toils and occupations, +The night with its reflections and sensations, +The future, and the present, and the past,-- +All I remember, feel, and hope at last, +All shapes of joy and sorrow, as they pass,-- +Find but a dusty image in this glass. + +August 18, 1847. + +O faithful, indefatigable tides, +That evermore upon God's errands go,-- +Now seaward bearing tidings of the land,-- +Now landward bearing tidings of the sea,-- +And filling every frith and estuary, +Each arm of the great sea, each little creek, +Each thread and filament of water-courses, +Full with your ministration of delight! +Under the rafters of this wooden bridge +I see you come and go; sometimes in haste +To reach your journey's end, which being done +With feet unrested ye return again +And recommence the never-ending task; +Patient, whatever burdens ye may bear, +And fretted only by the impeding rocks. + +December 18, 1847. + +Soft through the silent air descend the feathery snow-flakes; +White are the distant hills, white are the neighboring fields; +Only the marshes are brown, and the river rolling among them +Weareth the leaden hue seen in the eyes of the blind. + +August 4, 1856. + +A lovely morning, without the glare of the sun, the sea in great +commotion, chafing and foaming. + +So from the bosom of darkness our days come roaring and gleaming, + Chafe and break into foam, sink into darkness again. +But on the shores of Time each leaves some trace of its passage, + Though the succeeding wave washes it out from the sand. + + +******** + + +CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY + +INTROITUS + +The ANGEL bearing the PROPHET HABAKKUK through the air. + +PROPHET. +Why dost thou bear me aloft, +O Angel of God, on thy pinions +O'er realms and dominions? +Softly I float as a cloud +In air, for thy right hand upholds me, +Thy garment enfolds me! + +ANGEL. +Lo! as I passed on my way +In the harvest-field I beheld thee, +When no man compelled thee, +Bearing with thine own hands +This food to the famishing reapers, +A flock without keepers! + +The fragrant sheaves of the wheat +Made the air above them sweet; +Sweeter and more divine +Was the scent of the scattered grain, +That the reaper's hand let fall +To be gathered again +By the hand of the gleaner! +Sweetest, divinest of all, +Was the humble deed of thine, +And the meekness of thy demeanor! + +PROPHET. +Angel of Light, +I cannot gainsay thee, +I can but obey thee! + +ANGEL. +Beautiful was it in the lord's sight, +To behold his Prophet +Feeding those that toil, +The tillers of the soil. +But why should the reapers eat of it +And not the Prophet of Zion +In the den of the lion? +The Prophet should feed the Prophet! +Therefore I thee have uplifted, +And bear thee aloft by the hair +Of thy head, like a cloud that is drifted +Through the vast unknown of the air! +Five days hath the Prophet been lying +In Babylon, in the den +Of the lions, death-defying, +Defying hunger and thirst; +But the worst +Is the mockery of men! +Alas! how full of fear +Is the fate of Prophet and Seer! +Forevermore, forevermore, +It shall be as it hath been heretofore; +The age in which they live +Will not forgive +The splendor of the everlasting light, +That makes their foreheads bright, +Nor the sublime +Fore-running of their time! + +PROPHET. +Oh tell me, for thou knowest, +Wherefore and by what grace, +Have I, who am least and lowest, +Been chosen to this place, +To this exalted part? + +ANGEL. +Because thou art +The Struggler; and from thy youth +Thy humble and patient life +Hath been a strife +And battle for the Truth; +Nor hast thou paused nor halted, +Nor ever in thy pride +Turned from the poor aside, +But with deed and word and pen +Hast served thy fellow-men; +Therefore art thou exalted! + +PROPHET. +By thine arrow's light +Thou goest onward through the night, +And by the clear +Sheen of thy glittering spear! +When will our journey end? + +ANGEL. +Lo, it is ended! +Yon silver gleam +Is the Euphrates' stream. +Let us descend +Into the city splendid, +Into the City of Gold! + +PROPHET. +Behold! +As if the stars had fallen from their places +Into the firmament below, +The streets, the gardens, and the vacant spaces +With light are all aglow; +And hark! +As we draw near, +What sound is it I hear +Ascending through the dark? + +ANGEL. +The tumultuous noise of the nations, +Their rejoicings and lamentations, +The pleadings of their prayer, +The groans of their despair, +The cry of their imprecations, +Their wrath, their love, their hate! + +PROPHET. +Surely the world doth wait +The coming of its Redeemer! + +ANGEL. +Awake from thy sleep, O dreamer? +The hour is near, though late; +Awake! write the vision sublime, +The vision, that is for a time, +Though it tarry, wait; it is nigh; +In the end it will speak and not lie. + + + +PART ONE + +THE DIVINE TRAGEDY + +THE FIRST PASSOVER + +I + +VOX CLAMANTIS + +JOHN THE BAPTIST. +Repent! repent! repent! +For the kingdom of God is at hand, +And all the land +Full of the knowledge of the Lord shall be +As the waters cover the sea, +And encircle the continent! + +Repent! repent! repent! +For lo, the hour appointed, +The hour so long foretold +By the Prophets of old, +Of the coming of the Anointed, +The Messiah, the Paraclete, +The Desire of the Nations, is nigh! +He shall not strive nor cry, +Nor his voice be heard in the street; +Nor the bruised reed shall He break, +Nor quench the smoking flax; +And many of them that sleep +In the dust of earth shall awake, +On that great and terrible day, +And the wicked shall wail and weep, +And be blown like a smoke away, +And be melted away like wax. +Repent! repent! repent! + +O Priest, and Pharisee, +Who hath warned you to flee +From the wrath that is to be? +From the coming anguish and ire? +The axe is laid at the root +Of the trees, and every tree +That bringeth not forth good fruit +Is hewn down and cast into the fire! + +Ye Scribes, why come ye hither? +In the hour that is uncertain, +In the day of anguish and trouble, +He that stretcheth the heavens as a curtain +And spreadeth them out as a tent, +Shall blow upon you, and ye shall wither, +And the whirlwind shall take you away as stubble! +Repent! repent! repent! + +PRIEST. +Who art thou, O man of prayer! +In raiment of camel's hair, +Begirt with leathern thong, +That here in the wilderness, +With a cry as of one in distress, +Preachest unto this throng? +Art thou the Christ? + +JOHN. +Priest of Jerusalem, +In meekness and humbleness, +I deny not, I confess +I am not the Christ! + +PRIEST. +What shall we say unto them +That sent us here? Reveal +Thy name, and naught conceal! +Art thou Elias? + +JOHN. + No! + +PRIEST. +Art thou that Prophet, then, +Of lamentation and woe, +Who, as a symbol and sign +Of impending wrath divine +Upon unbelieving men, +Shattered the vessel of clay +In the Valley of Slaughter? + +JOHN. + Nay. +I am not he thou namest! + +PRIEST. +Who art thou, and what is the word +That here thou proclaimest? + +JOHN. +I am the voice of one +Crying in the wilderness alone: +Prepare ye the way of the Lord; +Make his paths straight +In the land that is desolate! + +PRIEST. +If thou be not the Christ, +Nor yet Elias, nor he +That, in sign of the things to be, +Shattered the vessel of clay +In the Valley of Slaughter, +Then declare unto us, and say +By what authority now +Baptizest thou? + +JOHN. +I indeed baptize you with water +Unto repentance; but He, +That cometh after me, +Is mightier than I and higher; +The latchet of whose shoes +I an not worthy to unloose; +He shall baptize you with fire, +And with the Holy Ghost! +Whose fan is in his hand; +He will purge to the uttermost +His floor, and garner his wheat, +But will burn the chaff in the brand +And fire of unquenchable heat! +Repent! repent! repent! + + +II + +MOUNT QUARANTANIA + + +I + +LUCIFER. +Not in the lightning's flash, nor in the thunder, +Not in the tempest, nor the cloudy storm, + Will I array my form; +But part invisible these boughs asunder, +And move and murmur as the wind upheaves + And whispers in the leaves. + +Not as a terror and a desolation, +Not in my natural shape, inspiring fear + And dread, will I appear; +But in soft tones of sweetness and persuasion, +A sound as of the fall of mountain streams, + Or voices heard in dreams. + +He sitteth there in silence, worn and wasted +With famine, and uplifts his hollow eyes + To the unpitying skies; +For forty days and nights he hath not tasted +Of food or drink, his parted lips are pale, + Surely his strength must fail. + +Wherefore dost thou in penitential fasting +Waste and consume the beauty of thy youth. + Ah, if thou be in truth +The Son of the Unnamed, the Everlasting, +Command these stones beneath thy feet to be + Changed into bread for thee! + +CHRISTUS. +'T is written! Man shall not live by bread alone, +But by each word that from God's mouth proceedeth! + + +II + +LUCIFER. +Too weak, alas! too weak is the temptation +For one whose soul to nobler things aspires + Than sensual desires! +Ah, could I, by some sudden aberration, +Lend and delude to suicidal death + This Christ of Nazareth! + +Unto the holy Temple on Moriah, +With its resplendent domes, and manifold + Bright pinnacles of gold, +Where they await thy coming, O Messiah! +Lo, I have brought thee! Let thy glory here + Be manifest and clear. + +Reveal thyself by royal act and gesture +Descending with the bright triumphant host + Of all the hithermost +Archangels, and about thee as a vesture +The shining clouds, and all thy splendors show + Unto the world below! + +Cast thyself down, it is the hour appointed; +And God hath given his angels charge and care + To keep thee and upbear +Upon their hands his only Son, the Anointed, +Lest he should dash his foot against a stone + And die, and be unknown. + +CHRISTUS. +'T is written: Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God! + + +III + +LUCIFER. +I cannot thus delude him to perdition! +But one temptation still remains untried, + The trial of his pride, +The thirst of power, the fever of ambition! +Surely by these a humble peasant's son + At last may be undone! + +Above the yawning chasms and deep abysses, +Across the headlong torrents, I have brought + Thy footsteps, swift as thought; +And from the highest of these precipices, +The Kingdoms of the world thine eyes behold. + Like a great map unrolled. + +From far-off Lebanon, with cedars crested, +To where the waters of the Asphalt Lake + On its white pebbles break, +And the vast desert, silent, sand-invested, +These kingdoms all are mine, and thine shall be, + If thou wilt worship me! + +CHRISTUS. +Get thee behind me, Satan! thou shalt worship +The Lord thy God; Him only shalt thou serve! + +ANGELS MINISTRANT. +The sun goes down; the evening shadows lengthen, +The fever and the struggle of the day + Abate and pass away; +Thine Angels Miniatrant, we come to strengthen +And comfort thee, and crown thee with the palm, + The silence and the calm. + + + +III + +THE MARRIAGE IN CANA + +THE MUSICIANS. +Rise up, my love, my fair one, +Rise up, and come away, +For lo! the winter is past, +The rain is over and gone, +The flowers appear on the earth, +The time of the singing of birds is come, +And the voice of the turtle is heard in our land. + +THE BRIDEGROOM. +Sweetly the minstrels sing the Song of Songs! +My heart runs forward with it, and I say: +Oh set me as a seal upon thine heart, +And set me as a seal upon thine arm; +For love is strong as life, and strong as death, +And cruel as the grave is jealousy! + +THE MUSICIANS. +I sleep, but my heart awaketh; +'T is the voice of my beloved +Who knocketh, saying: Open to me, +My sister, my love, my dove, +For my head is filled with dew, +My locks with the drops of the night! + +THE BRIDE. +Ah yes, I sleep, and yet my heart awaketh. +It is the voice of my beloved who knocks. + +THE BRIDEGROOM. +O beautiful as Rebecca at the fountain, +O beautiful as Ruth among the sheaves! +O fairest among women! O undefiled! +Thou art all fair, my love, there's no spot in thee! + +THE MUSICIANS. +My beloved is white and ruddy, +The chiefest among ten thousand +His locks are black as a raven, +His eyes are the eyes of doves, +Of doves by the rivers of water, +His lips are like unto lilies, +Dropping sweet-smelling myrrh. + +ARCHITRICLINUS. +Who is that youth with the dark azure eyes, +And hair, in color like unto the wine, +Parted upon his forehead, and behind +Falling in flowing locks? + +PARANYMPHUS. + The Nazarene +Who preacheth to the poor in field and village +The coming of God's Kingdom. + +ARCHITRICLINUS. + How serene +His aspect is! manly yet womanly. + +PARANYMPHUS. +Most beautiful among the sons of men! +Oft known to weep, but never known to laugh. + +ARCHITRICLINUS. +And tell me, she with eyes of olive tint, +And skin as fair as wheat, and pale brown hair, +The woman at his side? + +PARANYMPHUS. + His mother, Mary. + +ARCHITRICLINUS. +And the tall figure standing close behind them, +Clad all in white, with lace and beard like ashes, +As if he were Elias, the White Witness, +Come from his cave on Carmel to foretell +The end of all things? + +PARANYMPHUS. + That is Manahem +The Essenian, he who dwells among the palms +Near the Dead Sea. + +ARCHITRICLINUS. + He who foretold to Herod +He should one day be King? + +PARANYMPHUS. + The same. + +ARCHITRICLINUS. + Then why +Doth he come here to sadden with his presence +Our marriage feast, belonging to a sect +Haters of women, and that taste not wine? + +THE MUSICIANS. +My undefiled is but one, +The only one of her mother, +The choice of her that bare her; +The daughters saw her and blessed her; +The queens and the concubines praised her; +Saying, Lo! who is this +That looketh forth as the morning? + +MANAHEM aside. +The Ruler of the Feast is gazing at me, +As if he asked, why is that old man here +Among the revellers? And thou, the Anointed! +Why art thou here? I see as in a vision +A figure clothed in purple, crowned with thorns; +I see a cross uplifted in the darkness, +And hear a cry of agony, that shall echo +Forever and forever through the world! + +ARCHITRICLINUS. +Give us more wine. These goblets are all empty. + +MARY to CHRISTUS. +They have no wine! + +CHRISTUS. + O woman, what have I +To do with thee? Mine hour is not yet come. + +MARY to the servants. +Whatever he shall say to you, that do. + +CHRISTUS. +Fill up these pots with water. + +THE MUSICIANS. +Come, my beloved, +Let us go forth into the field, +Let us lodge in the villages; +Let us get up early to the vineyards, +Let us see if the vine flourish, +Whether the tender grape appear, +And the pomegranates bud forth. + +CHRISTUS. + Draw out now +And bear unto the Ruler of the Feast. + +MANAHEM aside. +O thou, brought up among the Essenians, +Nurtured in abstinence, taste not the wine! +It is the poison of dragons from the vineyards +Of Sodom, and the taste of death is in it! + +ARCHITRICLINUS to the BRIDEGROOM. +All men set forth good wine at the beginning, +And when men have well drunk, that which is worse; +But thou hast kept the good wine until now. + +MANAHEM aside. + +The things that have been and shall be no more, +The things that are, and that hereafter shall he, +The things that might have been, and yet were not, +The fading twilight of great joys departed, +The daybreak of great truths as yet unrisen, +The intuition and the expectation +Of something, which, when come, is not the same, +But only like its forecast in men's dreams, +The longing, the delay, and the delight, +Sweeter for the delay; youth, hope, love, death, +And disappointment which is also death, +All these make up the sum of human life; +A dream within a dream, a wind at night +Howling across the desert in despair, +Seeking for something lost it cannot find. +Fate or foreseeing, or whatever name +Men call it, matters not; what is to be +Hath been fore-written in the thought divine +From the beginning. None can hide from it, +But it will find him out; nor run from it, +But it o'ertaketh him! The Lord hath said it. + +THE BRIDEGROOM to the BRIDE, on the balcony. +When Abraham went with Sarah into Egypt, +The land was all illumined with her beauty; +But thou dost make the very night itself +Brighter than day! Behold, in glad procession, +Crowding the threshold of the sky above us, +The stars come forth to meet thee with their lamps; +And the soft winds, the ambassadors of flowers, +From neighboring gardens and from fields unseen, +Come laden with odors unto thee, my Queen! + +THE MUSICIANS. +Awake, O north-wind, +And come, thou wind of the South. +Blow, blow upon my garden, +That the spices thereof may flow out. + + +IV + +IN THE CORNFIELDS + +PHILIP. +Onward through leagues of sun-illumined corn, +As if through parted seas, the pathway runs, +And crowned with sunshine as the Prince of Peace +Walks the beloved Master, leading us, +As Moses led our fathers in old times +Out of the land of bondage! We have found +Him of whom Moses and the Prophets wrote, +Jesus of Nazareth, the Son of Joseph. + +NATHANAEL. +Can any good come out of Nazareth? +Can this be the Messiah? + +PHILIP. + Come and see. + +NATHANAEL. +The summer sun grows hot: I am anhungered. +How cheerily the Sabbath-breaking quail +Pipes in the corn, and bids us to his Feast +Of Wheat Sheaves! How the bearded, ripening ears +Toss in the roofless temple of the air; +As if the unseen hand of some High-Priest +Waved them before Mount Tabor as an altar! +It were no harm, if we should pluck and eat. + +PHILIP. +How wonderful it is to walk abroad +With the Good Master! Since the miracle +He wrought at Cana, at the marriage feast, +His fame hath gone abroad through all the land, +And when we come to Nazareth, thou shalt see +How his own people will receive their Prophet, +And hail him as Messiah! See, he turns +And looks at thee. + +CHRISTUS. + Behold an Israelite +In whom there is no guile. + +NATHANAEL. + Whence knowest thou me? + +CHRISTUS. +Before that Philip called thee, when thou wast +Under the fig-tree, I beheld thee. + +NATHANAEL. + Rabbi! +Thou art the Son of God, thou art the King +Of Israel! + +CHRISTUS. + Because I said I saw thee +Under the fig-tree, before Philip called thee, +Believest thou? Thou shalt see greater things. +Hereafter thou shalt see the heavens unclosed, +The angels of God ascending and descending +Upon the Son of Man! + +PHAIRISEES, passing. + Hail, Rabbi! + +CHRISTUS. + Hail! + +PHARISEES. +Behold how thy disciples do a thing +Which is not lawful on the Sabbath-day, +And thou forbiddest them not! + +CHRISTUS. + Have ye not read +What David did when he anhungered was, +And all they that were with him? How he entered +Into the house of God, and ate the shew-bread, +Which was not lawful, saving for the priests? +Have ye not read, how on the Sabbath-days +The priests profane the Sabbath in the Temple, +And yet are blameless? But I say to you, +One in this place is greater than the Temple! +And had ye known the meaning of the words, +I will have mercy and not sacrifice, +The guiltless ye would not condemn. The Sabbath +Was made for man, and not man for the Sabbath. + +Passes on with the disciples. + +PHARISEES. +This is, alas! some poor demoniac +Wandering about the fields, and uttering +His unintelligible blasphemies +Among the common people, who receive +As prophecies the words they comprehend not! +Deluded folk! The incomprehensible +Alone excites their wonder. There is none +So visionary, or so void of sense, +But he will find a crowd to follow him! + + +V + +NAZARETH + +CHRISTUS, reading in the Synagogue. +The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me. +He hath anointed me to preach good tidings +Unto the poor; to heal the broken-hearted; +To comfort those that mourn, and to throw open +The prison doors of captives, and proclaim +The Year Acceptable of the Lord, our God! + +He closes the book and sits down. + +A PHARISEE. +Who is this youth? He hath taken the Teacher's seat! +Will he instruct the Elders? + +A PRIEST. + Fifty years +Have I been Priest here in the Synagogue, +And never have I seen so young a man +Sit in the Teacher's seat! + +CHRISTUS. + Behold, to-day +This scripture is fulfilled. One is appointed +And hath been sent to them that mourn in Zion, +To give them beauty for ashes, and the oil +Of joy for mourning! They shall build again +The old waste-places; and again raise up +The former desolations, and repair +The cities that are wasted! As a bridegroom +Decketh himself with ornaments; as a bride +Adorneth herself with jewels, so the Lord +Hath clothed me with the robe of righteousness! + +A PRIEST. +He speaks the Prophet's words; but with an air +As if himself had been foreshadowed in them! + +CHRISTUS. +For Zion's sake I will not hold my peace, +And for Jerusalem's sake I will not rest +Until its righteousness be as a brightness, +And its salvation as a lamp that burneth! +Thou shalt be called no longer the Forsaken, +Nor any more thy land the Desolate. +The Lord hath sworn, by his right hand hath sworn, +And by his arm of strength: I will no more +Give to thine enemies thy corn as meat; +The sons of strangers shall not drink thy wine. +Go through, go through the gates! Prepare a way +Unto the people! Gather out the stones! +Lift up a standard for the people! + +A PRIEST. + Ah! +These are seditious words! + +CHRISTUS. + And they shall call them +The holy people; the redeemed of God! +And thou, Jerusalem, shalt be called Sought out, +A city not forsaken! + +A PHARISEE. + Is not this +The carpenter Joseph's son? Is not his mother +Called Mary? and his brethren and his sisters +Are they not with us? Doth he make himself +To be a Prophet? + +CHRISTUS. + No man is a Prophet +In his own country, and among his kin. +In his own house no Prophet is accepted. +I say to you, in the land of Israel +Were many widows in Elijah's day, +When for three years and more the heavens were shut, +And a great famine was throughout the land; +But unto no one was Elijah sent +Save to Sarepta, to a city of Sidon, +And to a woman there that was a widow. +And many lepers were then in the land +Of Israel, in the time of Eliseus +The Prophet, and yet none of them was cleansed, +Save Naaman the Syrian! + +A PRIEST. + Say no more! +Thou comest here into our Synagogue +And speakest to the Elders and the Priests, +As if the very mantle of Elijah +Had fallen upon thee! Are thou not ashamed? + +A PHARISEE. +We want no Prophets here! Let him be driven +From Synagogue and city! Let him go +And prophesy to the Samaritans! + +AN ELDER. +The world is changed. We Elders are as nothing! +We are but yesterdays, that have no part +Or portion in to-day! Dry leaves that rustle, +That make a little sound, and then are dust! + +A PHARISEE. +A carpenter's apprentice! a mechanic, +Whom we have seen at work here in the town +Day after day; a stripling without learning, +Shall he pretend to unfold the Word of God +To men grown old in study of the Law? + +CHRISTUS is thrust out. + + +VI + +THE SEA OF GALILEE. + +PETER and ANDREW mending their nets. + +PETER. +Never was such a marvellous draught of fishes +Heard of in Galilee! The market-places +Both of Bethsaida and Capernaum +Are full of them! Yet we had toiled all night +And taken nothing, when the Master said: +Launch out into the deep, and cast your nets; +And doing this, we caught such multitudes, +Our nets like spiders' webs were snapped asunder, +And with the draught we filled two ships so full +That they began to sink. Then I knelt down +Amazed, and said: O Lord, depart from me, +I am a sinful man. And he made answer: +Simon, fear not; henceforth thou shalt catch men! +What was the meaning of those words? + +ANDREW. + I know not. +But here is Philip, come from Nazareth. +He hath been with the Master. Tell us, Philip, +What tidings dost thou bring? + +PHILIP. + Most wonderful! +As we drew near to Nain, out of the gate +Upon a bier was carried the dead body +Of a young man, his mother's only son, +And she a widow, who with lamentation +Bewailed her loss, and the much people with her; +And when the Master saw her he was filled +With pity; and he said to her: Weep not +And came and touched the bier, and they that bare it +Stood still; and then he said: Young man, arise! +And he that had been dead sat up, and soon +Began to speak; and he delivered him +Unto his mother. And there came a fear +On all the people, and they glorified +The Lord, and said, rejoicing: A great Prophet +Is risen up among us! and the Lord +Hath visited his people! + +PETER. + A great Prophet? +Ay, greater than a Prophet: greater even +Than John the Baptist! + +PHILIP. + Yet the Nazarenes +Rejected him. + +PETER. + The Nazarenes are dogs! +As natural brute beasts, they growl at things +They do not understand; and they shall perish, +Utterly perish in their own corruption. +The Nazarenes are dogs! + +PHILIP. + They drave him forth +Out of their Synagogue, out of their city, +And would have cast him down a precipice, +But, passing through the midst of them, he vanished +Out of their hands. + +PETER. + Wells are they without water, +Clouds carried with a tempest, unto whom +The mist of darkness is reserved forever. + +PHILIP. +Behold, he cometh. There is one man with him +I am amazed to see! + +ANDREW. + What man is that? + +PHILIP. +Judas Iscariot; he that cometh last, +Girt with a leathern apron. No one knoweth +His history; but the rumor of him is +He had an unclean spirit in his youth. +It hath not left him yet. + +CHRISTUS, passing. + Come unto me, +All ye that labor and are heavy laden, +And I will give you rest! Come unto me, +And take my yoke upon you and learn of me, +For I am meek, and I am lowly in heart, +And ye shall all find rest unto your souls! + +PHILIP. +Oh, there is something in that voice that reaches +The innermost recesses of my spirit! +I feel that it might say unto the blind: +Receive your sight! and straightway they would see! +I feel that it might say unto the dead, +Arise! and they would hear it and obey! +Behold, he beckons to us! + +CHRISTUS to PETER and ANDREW. + Follow me! + +PETER. +Master, I will leave all and follow thee. + + +VII + +THE DEMONIAC OF GADARA + +A GADARENE. +He hath escaped, hath plucked his chains asunder, +And broken his fetters; always night and day +Is in the mountains here, and in the tombs, +Crying aloud, and cutting himself with stones, +Exceeding fierce, so that no man can tame him! + +THE DEMONIAC from above, unseen. +O Aschmedai! O Aschmedai, have pity! + +A GADARENE. +Listen! It is his voice! Go warn the people +Just landing from the lake! + +THE DEMONIAC. + O Aschmedai! +Thou angel of the bottomless pit, have pity! +It was enough to hurl King Solomon, +On whom be peace! two hundred leagues away +Into the country, and to make him scullion +In the kitchen of the King of Maschkemen! +Why dost thou hurl me here among these rocks, +And cut me with these stones? + +A GADARENE. + He raves and mutters +He knows not what. + +THE DEMONIAC, appearing from a tomb among the rocks. + The wild cock Tarnegal +Singeth to me, and bids me to the banquet, +Where all the Jews shall come; for they have slain +Behemoth the great ox, who daily cropped +A thousand hills for food, and at a draught +Drank up the river Jordan, and have slain +The huge Leviathan, and stretched his skin +Upon the high walls of Jerusalem, +And made them shine from one end of the world +Unto the other; and the fowl Barjuchne, +Whose outspread wings eclipse the sun, and make +Midnight at noon o'er all the continents! +And we shall drink the wine of Paradise +From Adam's cellars. + +A GADARENE. + O thou unclean spirit! + +THE DEMONIAC, hurling down a stone. +This is the wonderful Barjuchne's egg, +That fell out of her nest, and broke to pieces +And swept away three hundred cedar-trees, +And threescore villages!--Rabbi Eliezer, +How thou didst sin there in that seaport town +When thou hadst carried safe thy chest of silver +Over the seven rivers for her sake! +I too have sinned beyond the reach of pardon. +Ye hills and mountains, pray for mercy on me! +Ye stars and planets, pray for mercy on me! +Ye sun and moon, oh pray for mercy on me! + +CHRISTUS and his disciples pass. + +A GADARENE. +There is a man here of Decapolis, +Who hath an unclean spirit; so that none +Can pass this way. He lives among the tombs +Up there upon the cliffs, and hurls down stones +On those who pass beneath. + +CHRISTUS. + Come out of him, +Thou unclean spirit! + +THE DEMONIAC. + What have I to do +With thee, thou Son of God? Do not torment us. + +CHRISTUS. +What is thy name? + +THE DEMONIAC. + Legion; for we are many. +Cain, the first murderer; and the King Belshazzar, +And Evil Merodach of Babylon, +And Admatha, the death-cloud, prince of Persia +And Aschmedai the angel of the pit, +And many other devils. We are Legion. +Send us not forth beyond Decapolis; +Command us not to go into the deep! +There is a herd of swine here in the pastures, +Let us go into them. + +CHRISTUS. + Come out of him, +Thou unclean spirit! + +A GADARENE. + See how stupefied, +How motionless he stands! He cries no more; +He seems bewildered and in silence stares +As one who, walking in his sleep, awakes +And knows not where he is, and looks about him, +And at his nakedness, and is ashamed. + +THE DEMONIAC. +Why am I here alone among the tombs? +What have they done to me, that I am naked? +Ah, woe is me! + +CHRISTUS. + Go home unto thy friends +And tell them how great things the Lord hath done +For thee, and how He had compassion on thee! + +A SWINEHERD, running. +The herds! the herd! O most unlucky day! +They were all feeding quiet in the sun, +When suddenly they started, and grew savage +As the wild boars of Tabor, and together +Rushed down a precipice into the sea! +They are all drowned! + +PETER. + Thus righteously are punished +The apostate Jews, that eat the flesh of swine, +And broth of such abominable things! + +GREEKS OF GADARA. +We sacrifice a sow unto Demeter +At the beginning of harvest and another +To Dionysus at the vintage-time. +Therefore we prize our herds of swine, and count them +Not as unclean, but as things consecrate +To the immortal gods. O great magician, +Depart out of our coasts; let us alone, +We are afraid of thee. + +PETER. + Let us depart; +For they that sanctify and purify +Themselves in gardens, eating flesh of swine. +And the abomination, and the mouse, +Shall be consumed together, saith the Lord! + + +VIII + +TALITHA CUMI + +JAIRUS at the feet of CHRISTUS. +O Master! I entreat thee! I implore thee! +My daughter lieth at the point of death; +I pray thee come and lay thy hands upon her, +And she shall live! + +CHRISTUS. + Who was it touched my garments? + +SIMON PETER. +Thou seest the multitude that throng and press thee, +And sayest thou: Who touched me? 'T was not I. + +CHRISTUS. +Some one hath touched my garments; I perceive +That virtue is gone out of me. + +A WOMAN. + O Master! +Forgive me! For I said within myself, +If I so much as touch his garment's hem, +I shall be whole. + +CHRISTUS. + Be of good comfort, daughter! +Thy faith hath made thee whole. Depart in peace. + +A MESSENGER from the house. +Why troublest thou the Master? Hearest thou not +The flute players, and the voices of the women +Singing their lamentation? She is dead! + +THE MINSTRELS AND MOURNERS. +We have girded ourselves with sackcloth! +We have covered our heads with ashes! +For our young men die, and our maidens +Swoon in the streets of the city; +And into their mother's bosom +They pour out their souls like water! + +CHRISTUS, going in. +Give place. Why make ye this ado, and weep? +She is not dead, but sleepeth. + +THE MOTHER, from within. + Cruel Death! +To take away front me this tender blossom! +To take away my dove, my lamb, my darling! + +THE MINSTRELS AND MOURNERS. +He hath led me and brought into darkness, +Like the dead of old in dark places! +He hath bent his bow, and hath set me +Apart as a mark for his arrow! +He hath covered himself with a cloud, +That our prayer should not pass through and reach him! + +THE CROWD. +He stands beside her bed! He takes her hand! +Listen, he speaks to her! + +CHRISTUS, within. + Maiden, arise! + +THE CROWD. +See, she obeys his voice! She stirs! She lives! +Her mother holds her folded in her arms! +O miracle of miracles! O marvel! + + +IX + +THE TOWER OF MAGDALA + +MARY MAGDALENE. +Companionless, unsatisfied, forlorn, +I sit here in this lonely tower, and look +Upon the lake below me, and the hills +That swoon with heat, and see as in a vision +All my past life unroll itself before me. +The princes and the merchants come to me, +Merchants of Tyre and Princes of Damascus. +And pass, and disappear, and are no more; +But leave behind their merchandise and jewels, +Their perfumes, and their gold, and their disgust. +I loathe them, and the very memory of them +Is unto me as thought of food to one +Cloyed with the luscious figs of Dalmanutha! +What if hereafter, in the long hereafter +Of endless joy or pain, or joy in pain, +It were my punishment to be with them +Grown hideous and decrepit in their sins, +And hear them say: Thou that hast brought us here, +Be unto us as thou hast been of old! +I look upon this raiment that I wear, +These silks, and these embroideries, and they seem +Only as cerements wrapped about my limbs! +I look upon these rings thick set with pearls, +And emerald and amethyst and jasper, +And they are burning coals upon my flesh! +This serpent on my wrist becomes alive! +Away, thou viper! and away, ye garlands, +Whose odors bring the swift remembrance back +Of the unhallowed revels in these chambers! +But yesterday,--and yet it seems to me +Something remote, like a pathetic song +Sung long ago by minstrels in the street,-- +But yesterday, as from this tower I gazed, +Over the olive and the walnut trees +Upon the lake and the white ships, and wondered +Whither and whence they steered, and who was in them, +A fisher's boat drew near the landing-place +Under the oleanders, and the people +Came up from it, and passed beneath the tower, +Close under me. In front of them, as leader, +Walked one of royal aspect, clothed in white, +Who lifted up his eyes, and looked at me, +And all at once the air seemed filled and living +With a mysterious power, that streamed from him, +And overflowed me with an atmosphere +Of light and love. As one entranced I stood, +And when I woke again, lo! he was gone; +So that I said: Perhaps it is a dream. +But from that very hour the seven demons +That had their habitation in this body +Which men call beautiful, departed from me! + +This morning, when the first gleam of the dawn +Made Lebanon a glory in the air, +And all below was darkness, I beheld +An angel, or a spirit glorified, +With wind-tossed garments walking on the lake. +The face I could not see, but I distinguished +The attitude and gesture, and I knew +'T was he that healed me. And the gusty wind +Brought to mine ears a voice, which seemed to say: +Be of good cheer! 'T is I! Be not afraid! +And from the darkness, scarcely heard, the answer: +If it be thou, bid me come unto thee +Upon the water! And the voice said: Come! +And then I heard a cry of fear: Lord, save me! +As of a drowning man. And then the voice: +Why didst thou doubt, O thou of little faith! +At this all vanished, and the wind was hushed, +And the great sun came up above the hills, +And the swift-flying vapors hid themselves +In caverns among the rocks! Oh, I must find him +And follow him, and be with him forever! + +Thou box of alabaster, in whose walls +The souls of flowers lie pent, the precious balm +And spikenard of Arabian farms, the spirits +Of aromatic herbs, ethereal natures +Nursed by the sun and dew, not all unworthy +To bathe his consecrated feet, whose step +Makes every threshold holy that he crosses; +Let us go forth upon our pilgrimage, +Thou and I only! Let us search for him +Until we find him, and pour out our souls +Before his feet, till all that's left of us +Shall be the broken caskets that once held us! + + +X + +THE HOUSE OF SIMON THE PHARISEE + +A GUEST at table. +Are ye deceived? Have any of the Rulers +Believed on him? or do they know indeed +This man to be the very Christ? Howbeit +We know whence this man is, but when the Christ +Shall come, none knoweth whence he is. + +CHRISTUS. +Whereunto shall I liken, then, the men +Of this generation? and what are they like? +They are like children sitting in the markets, +And calling unto one another, saying: +We have piped unto you, and ye have not danced +We have mourned unto you, and ye have not wept! +This say I unto you, for John the Baptist +Came neither eating bread nor drinking wine +Ye say he hath a devil. The Son of Man +Eating and drinking cometh, and ye say: +Behold a gluttonous man, and a wine-bibber; +Behold a friend of publicans and sinners! + +A GUEST aside to SIMON. +Who is that woman yonder, gliding in +So silently behind him? + +SIMON. + It is Mary, +Who dwelleth in the Tower of Magdala. + +THE GUEST. +See, how she kneels there weeping, and her tears +Fall on his feet; and her long, golden hair +Waves to and fro and wipes them dry again. +And now she kisses them, and from a box +Of alabaster is anointing them +With precious ointment, filling all the house +With its sweet odor! + +SIMON, aside, + Oh, this man, forsooth, +Were he indeed a Prophet, would have known +Who and what manner of woman this may be +That toucheth him! would know she is a sinner! + +CHRISTUS. +Simon, somewhat have I to say to thee. + +SIMON. +Master, say on. + +CHRISTUS. + A certain creditor +Had once two debtors; and the one of them +Owed him five hundred pence; the other, fifty. +They having naught to pay withal, he frankly +Forgave them both. Now tell me which of them +Will love him most? + +SIMON. + He, I suppose to whom +He most forgave. + +CHRISTUS. + Yea, thou hast rightly judged. +Seest thou this woman? When thine house I entered, +Thou gavest me no water for my feet, +But she hath washed them with her tears, and wiped them +With her own hair. Thou gavest me no kiss; +This woman hath not ceased, since I came in, +To kiss my feet. My head with oil didst thou +Anoint not; but this woman hath anointed +My feet with ointment. Hence I say to thee, +Her sins, which have been many, are forgiven, +For she loved much. + +THE GUESTS. + Oh, who, then, is this man +That pardoneth also sins without atonement? + +CHRISTUS. +Woman, thy faith hath saved thee! Go in peace! + + + +THE SECOND PASSOVER. + +I + +BEFORE THE GATES OF MACHAERUS + +MANAHEM. +Welcome, O wilderness, and welcome, night +And solitude, and ye swift-flying stars +That drift with golden sands the barren heavens, +Welcome once more! The Angels of the Wind +Hasten across the desert to receive me; +And sweeter than men's voices are to me +The voices of these solitudes; the sound +Of unseen rivulets, and the far-off cry +Of bitterns in the reeds of water-pools. +And lo! above me, like the Prophet's arrow +Shot from the eastern window, high in air +The clamorous cranes go singing through the night. +O ye mysterious pilgrims of the air, +Would I had wings that I might follow you! + +I look forth from these mountains, and behold +The omnipotent and omnipresent night, +Mysterious as the future and the fate +That hangs o'er all men's lives! I see beneath me +The desert stretching to the Dead Sea shore, +And westward, faint and far away, the glimmer +Of torches on Mount Olivet, announcing +The rising of the Moon of Passover. +Like a great cross it seems, on which suspended, +With head bowed down in agony, I see +A human figure! Hide, O merciful heaven, +The awful apparition from my sight! + +And thou, Machaerus, lifting high and black +Thy dreadful walls against the rising moon, +Haunted by demons and by apparitions, +Lilith, and Jezerhara, and Bedargon, +How grim thou showest in the uncertain light, +A palace and a prison, where King Herod +Feasts with Herodias, while the Baptist John +Fasts, and consumes his unavailing life! +And in thy court-yard grows the untithed rue, +Huge as the olives of Gethsemane, +And ancient as the terebinth of Hebron, +Coeval with the world. Would that its leaves +Medicinal could purge thee of the demons +That now possess thee, and the cunning fox +That burrows in thy walls, contriving mischief! + +Music is heard from within. + +Angels of God! Sandalphon, thou that weavest +The prayers of men into immortal garlands, +And thou, Metatron, who dost gather up +Their songs, and bear them to the gates of heaven, +Now gather up together in your hands +The prayers that fill this prison, and the songs +That echo from the ceiling of this palace, +And lay them side by side before God's feet! + +He enters the castle. + + +II + +HEROD'S BANQUET-HALL + +MANAHEM. +Thou hast sent for me, O King, and I am here. + +HEROD. +Who art thou? + +MANAHEM. + Manahem, the Essenian. + +HEROD. +I recognize thy features, but what mean +These torn and faded garments? On thy road +Have demons crowded thee, and rubbed against thee, +And given thee weary knees? A cup of wine! + +MANAHEM. +The Essenians drink no wine. + +HEROD. + What wilt thou, then? + +MANAHEM. +Nothing. + +HEROD. + Not even a cup of water? + +MANAHEM. + Nothing. +Why hast thou sent for me? + +HEROD. + Dost thou remember +One day when I, a schoolboy in the streets +Of the great city, met thee on my way +To school, and thou didst say to me: Hereafter +Thou shalt be king? + +MANAHEM. + Yea, I remember it. + +HEROD. +Thinking thou didst not know me, I replied: +I am of humble birth; whereat thou, smiling, +Didst smite me with thy hand, and saidst again: +Thou shalt be king; and let the friendly blows +That Manahem hath given thee on this day +Remind thee of the fickleness of fortune. + +MANAHEM. +What more? + +HEROD. + No more. + +MANAHEM. + Yea, for I said to thee: +It shall be well with thee if thou love justice +And clemency towards thy fellow-men. +Hast thou done this, O King? + +HEROD. + Go, ask my people. + +MANAHEM. +And then, foreseeing all thy life, I added: +But these thou wilt forget; and at the end +Of life the Lord will punish thee. + +HEROD. + The end! +When will that come? For this I sent to thee. +How long shall I still reign? Thou dost not answer! +Speak! shall I reign ten years? + +MANAHEM. + Thou shalt reign twenty, +Nay, thirty years. I cannot name the end. + +HEROD. +Thirty? I thank thee, good Essenian! +This is my birthday, and a happier one +Was never mine. We hold a banquet here. +See, yonder are Herodias and her daughter. + +MANAHEM, aside. +'T is said that devils sometimes take the shape +Of ministering angels, clothed with air. +That they may be inhabitants of earth, +And lead man to destruction. Such are these. + +HEROD. +Knowest thou John the Baptist? + +MANAHEM. + Yea, I know him; +Who knows him not? + +HEROD. + Know, then, this John the Baptist +Said that it was not lawful I should marry +My brother Philip's wife, and John the Baptist +Is here in prison. In my father's time +Matthias Margaloth was put to death +For tearing the golden eagle from its station +Above the Temple Gate,--a slighter crime +Than John is guilty of. These things are warnings +To intermeddlers not to play with eagles, +Living or dead. I think the Essenians +Are wiser, or more wary, are they not? + +MANAHEM. +The Essenians do not marry. + +HEROD. + Thou hast given +My words a meaning foreign to my thought. + +MANAHEM. +Let me go hence, O King! + +HEROD. + Stay yet awhile, +And see the daughter of Herodias dance. +Cleopatra of Jerusalem, my mother, +In her best days, was not more beautiful. + +Music. THE DAUGHTER OP HERODIAS dances. + +HEROD. +Oh, what was Miriam dancing with her timbrel, +Compared to this one? + +MANAHEM, aside. + O thou Angel of Death, +Dancing at funerals among the women, +When men bear out the dead! The air is hot +And stifles me! Oh for a breath of air! +Bid me depart, O King! + +HEROD. + Not yet. Come hither, +Salome, thou enchantress! Ask of me +Whate'er thou wilt; and even unto the half +Of all my kingdom, I will give it thee, +As the Lord liveth! + +DAUGHTER OF HERODIAS, kneeling. + Give me here the head +Of John the Baptist on this silver charger! + +HEROD. +Not that, dear child! I dare not; for the people +Regard John as a prophet. + +DAUGHTER OF HERODIAS. + Thou hast sworn it. + +HEROD. +For mine oath's sake, then. Send unto the prison; +Let him die quickly. Oh, accursed oath! + +MANAHEM. +Bid me depart, O King! + +HEROD. + Good Manahem, +Give me thy hand. I love the Essenians. +He's gone and hears me not! The guests are dumb, +Awaiting the pale face, the silent witness. +The lamps flare; and the curtains of the doorways +Wave to and fro as if a ghost were passing! +Strengthen my heart, red wine of Ascalon! + + +III + +UNDER THE WALLS OF MACHAERUS + +MANAHEM, rushing out. +Away from this Palace of sin! +The demons, the terrible powers +Of the air, that haunt its towers +And hide in its water-spouts, +Deafen me with the din +Of their laughter and their shouts +For the crimes that are done within! +Sink back into the earth, +Or vanish into the air, +Thou castle of despair! +Let it all be but a dream +Of the things of monstrous birth, +Of the things that only seem! +White Angel of the Moon, +Onafiel! be my guide +Out of this hateful place +Of sin and death, nor hide +In you black cloud too soon +Thy pale and tranquil face! + +A trumpet is blown from the walls. + +Hark! hark! It is the breath +Of the trump of doom and death, +From the battlements overhead +Like a burden of sorrow cast +On the midnight and the blast, +A wailing for the dead, +That the gusts drop and uplift! +O Herod, thy vengeance is swift! +O Herodias, thou hast been +The demon, the evil thing, +That in place of Esther the Queen, +In place of the lawful bride, +Hast lain at night by the side +Of Ahasuerus the king! + +The trumpet again. + +The Prophet of God is dead! +At a drunken monarch's call, +At a dancing-woman's beck, +They have severed that stubborn neck +And into the banquet-hall +Are bearing the ghastly head! + +A body is thrown from the tower. + +A torch of red +Lights the window with its glow; +And a white mass as of snow +Is hurled into the abyss +Of the black precipice, +That yawns for it below! +O hand of the Most High, +O hand of Adonai! +Bury it, hide it away +From the birds and beasts of prey, +And the eyes of the homicide, +More pitiless than they, +As thou didst bury of yore +The body of him that died +On the mountain of Peor! +Even now I behold a sign, +A threatening of wrath divine, +A watery, wandering star, +Through whose streaming hair, and the white +Unfolding garments of light, +That trail behind it afar, +The constellations shine! +And the whiteness and brightness appear +Like the Angel bearing the Seer +By the hair of his head, in the might +And rush of his vehement flight. +And I listen until I hear +From fathomless depths of the sky +The voice of his prophecy +Sounding louder and more near! + +Malediction! malediction! +May the lightnings of heaven fall +On palace and prison wall, +And their desolation be +As the day of fear and affliction, +As the day of anguish and ire, +With the burning and fuel of fire, +In the Valley of the Sea! + + +IV + +NICODEMUS AT NIGHT + +NICODEMUS. +The streets are silent. The dark houses seem +Like sepulchres, in which the sleepers lie +Wrapped in their shrouds, and for the moment dead. +The lamps are all extinguished; only one +Burns steadily, and from the door its light +Lies like a shining gate across the street. +He waits for me. Ah, should this be at last +The long-expected Christ! I see him there +Sitting alone, deep-buried in his thought, +As if the weight of all the world were resting +Upon him, and thus bowed him down. O Rabbi, +We know thou art a Teacher come from God, +For no man can perform the miracles +Thou dost perform, except the Lord be with him. +Thou art a Prophet, sent here to proclaim +The Kingdom of the Lord. Behold in me +A Ruler of the Jews, who long have waited +The coming of that kingdom. Tell me of it. + +CHRISTUS. +Verily, verily I say unto thee, +Except a man be born again, he cannot +Behold the Kingdom of God! + +NICODEMUS. + Be born again? +How can a man be born when he is old? +Say, can he enter for a second time +Into his mother's womb, and so be born? + +CHRISTUS. +Verily I say unto thee, except +A man be born of water and the spirit, +He cannot enter into the Kingdom of God. +For that which of the flesh is born, is flesh; +And that which of the spirit is born, is spirit. + +NICODEMUS. +We Israelites from the Primeval Man +Adam Ahelion derive our bodies; +Our souls are breathings of the Holy Ghost. +No more than this we know, or need to know. + +CHRISTUS. +Then marvel not, that I said unto thee +Ye must be born again. + +NICODEMUS. + The mystery +Of birth and death we cannot comprehend. + +CHRISTUS. +The wind bloweth where it listeth, and we hear +The sound thereof, but know not whence it cometh, +Nor whither it goeth. So is every one +Born of the spirit! + +NICODEMUS, aside. + How can these things be? +He seems to speak of some vague realm of shadows, +Some unsubstantial kingdom of the air! +It is not this the Jews are waiting for, +Nor can this be the Christ, the Son of David, +Who shall deliver us! + +CHRISTUS. + Art thou a master +Of Israel, and knowest not these things? +We speak that we do know, and testify +That we have seen, and ye will not receive +Our witness. If I tell you earthly things, +And ye believe not, how shall ye believe, +If I should tell you of things heavenly? +And no man hath ascended up to heaven, +But he alone that first came down from heaven, +Even the Son of Man which is in heaven! + +NICODEMUS, aside. +This is a dreamer of dreams; a visionary, +Whose brain is overtasked, until he deems +The unseen world to be a thing substantial, +And this we live in, an unreal vision! +And yet his presence fascinates and fills me +With wonder, and I feel myself exalted +Into a higher region, and become +Myself in part a dreamer of his dreams, +A seer of his visions! + +CHRISTUS. + And as Moses +Uplifted the serpent in the wilderness, +So must the Son of Man be lifted up; +That whosoever shall believe in Him +Shall perish not, but have eternal life. +He that believes in Him is not condemned; +He that believes not, is condemned already. + +NICODEMUS, aside. +He speaketh like a Prophet of the Lord! + +CHRISTUS. +This is the condemnation; that the light +Is come into the world, and men loved darkness +Rather than light, because their deeds are evil! + +NICODEMUS, aside. +Of me he speaketh! He reproveth me, +Because I come by night to question him! + +CHRISTUS. +For every one that doeth evil deeds +Hateth the light, nor cometh to the light +Lest he should be reproved. + +NICODEMUS, aside. + Alas, how truly +He readeth what is passing in my heart! + +CHRISTUS. +But he that doeth truth comes to the light, +So that his deeds may be made manifest, +That they are wrought in God. + +NICODEMUS. + Alas! alas! + + +V + +BLIND BARTIMEUS + +BARTIMEUS. +Be not impatient, Chilion; it is pleasant +To sit here in the shadow of the walls +Under the palms, and hear the hum of bees, +And rumor of voices passing to and fro, +And drowsy bells of caravans on their way +To Sidon or Damascus. This is still +The City of Palms, and yet the walls thou seest +Are not the old walls, not the walls where Rahab +Hid the two spies, and let them down by cords +Out of the window, when the gates were shut, +And it was dark. Those walls were overthrown +When Joshua's army shouted, and the priests +Blew with their seven trumpets. + +CHILION. + When was that? + +BARTIMEUS. +O my sweet rose of Jericho, I know not +Hundreds of years ago. And over there +Beyond the river, the great prophet Elijah +Was taken by a whirlwind up to heaven +In chariot of fire, with fiery horses. +That is the plain of Moab; and beyond it +Rise the blue summits of Mount Abarim, +Nebo and Pisgah and Peor, where Moses +Died, whom the Lord knew face to face? and whom +He buried in a valley, and no man +Knows of his sepulchre unto this day. + +CHILION. +Would thou couldst see these places, as I see them. + +BARTIMEUS. +I have not seen a glimmer of the light +Since thou wast born. I never saw thy face, +And yet I seem to see it; and one day +Perhaps shall see it; for there is a Prophet +In Galilee, the Messiah, the Son of David, +Who heals the blind, if I could only find him. +I hear the sound of many feet approaching, +And voices, like the murmur of a crowd! +What seest thou? + +CHILION. + A young man clad in white +Is coming through the gateway, and a crowd +Of people follow. + +BARTIMEUS. + Can it be the Prophet! +O neighbors, tell me who it is that passes? + +ONE OF THE CROWD. +Jesus of Nazareth. + +BARTIMEUS, crying. + O Son of David! +Have mercy on me! + +MANY OP THE CROWD. + Peace. Blind Bartimeus! +Do not disturb the Master. + +BARTIMEUS, crying more vehemently. + Son of David, +Have mercy on me! + +ONE OF THE CROWD. + See, the Master stops. +Be of good comfort; rise, He calleth thee! + +BARTIMEUS, casting away his cloak. +Chilion! good neighbors! lead me on. + +CHRISTUS. + What wilt thou +That I should do to thee? + +BARTIMEUS. + Good Lord! my sight-- +That I receive my sight! + +CHRISTUS. + Receive thy sight! +Thy faith hath made thee whole! + +THE CROWD. + He sees again! + +CHRISTUS passes on, The crowd gathers round BARTIMEUS. + +BARTIMEUS. +I see again; but sight bewilders me! +Like a remembered dream, familiar things +Come back to me. I see the tender sky +Above me, see the trees, the city walls, +And the old gateway, through whose echoing arch +I groped so many years; and you, my neighbors; +But know you by your friendly voices only. +How beautiful the world is! and how wide! +Oh, I am miles away, if I but look! +Where art thou, Chilion? + +CHILION. + Father, I am here. + +BARTIMEUS. +Oh let me gaze upon thy face, dear child! +For I have only seen thee with my hands! +How beautiful thou art! I should have known thee; +Thou hast her eyes whom we shall see hereafter! +O God of Abraham! Elion! Adonai! +Who art thyself a Father, pardon me +If for a moment I have thee postponed +To the affections and the thoughts of earth, +Thee, and the adoration that I owe thee, +When by thy power alone these darkened eyes +Have been unsealed again to see thy light! + + +VI + +JACOB'S WELL + +A SAMARITAN WOMAN. +The sun is hot; and the dry east-wind blowing +Fills all the air with dust. The birds are silent; +Even the little fieldfares in the corn +No longer twitter; only the grasshoppers +Sing their incessant song of sun and summer. +I wonder who those strangers were I met +Going into the city? Galileans +They seemed to me in speaking, when they asked +The short way to the market-place. Perhaps +They are fishermen from the lake; or travellers, +Looking to find the inn. And here is some one +Sitting beside the well; another stranger; +A Galilean also by his looks. +What can so many Jews be doing here +Together in Samaria? Are they going +Up to Jerusalem to the Passover? +Our Passover is better here at Sychem, +For here is Ebal; here is Gerizim, +The mountain where our father Abraham +Went up to offer Isaac; here the tomb +Of Joseph,--for they brought his bones Egypt +And buried them in this land, and it is holy. + +CHRISTUS. +Give me to drink. + +SAMARITAN WOMAN. + How can it be that thou, +Being a Jew, askest to drink of me +Which am a woman of Samaria? +You Jews despise us; have no dealings with us; +Make us a byword; call us in derision +The silly folk of Sychar. Sir, how is it +Thou askest drink of me? + +CHRISTUS. + If thou hadst known +The gift of God, and who it is that sayeth +Give me to drink, thou wouldst have asked of Him; +He would have given thee the living water. + +SAMARITAN WOMAN. +Sir, thou hast naught to draw with, and the well +Is deep! Whence hast thou living water? +Say, art thou greater than our father Jacob, +Which gave this well to us, and drank thereof +Himself, and all his children and his cattle? + +CHRISTUS. +Ah, whosoever drinketh of this water +Shall thirst again; but whosoever drinketh +The water I shall give him shall not thirst +Forevermore, for it shall be within him +A well of living water, springing up +Into life everlasting. + +SAMARITAN WOMAN. + Every day +I must go to and fro, in heat and cold, +And I am weary. Give me of this water, +That I may thirst not, nor come here to draw. + +CHRISTUS. +Go call thy husband, woman, and come hither. + +SAMARITAN WOMAN. +I have no husband, Sir. + +CHRISTUS. + Thou hast well said +I have no husband. Thou hast had five husbands; +And he whom now thou hast is not thy husband. + +SAMARITAN WOMAN. +Surely thou art a Prophet, for thou readest +The hidden things of life! Our fathers worshipped +Upon this mountain Gerizim; and ye say +The only place in which men ought to worship +Is at Jerusalem. + +CHRISTUS. + Believe me, woman, +The hour is coming, when ye neither shall +Upon this mount, nor at Jerusalem, +Worship the Father; for the hour is coming, +And is now come, when the true worshippers +Shall worship the Father in spirit and in truth! +The Father seeketh such to worship Him. +God is a spirit; and they that worship Him +Must worship Him in spirit and in truth. + +SAMARITAN WOMAN. +Master, I know that the Messiah cometh, +Which is called Christ; and he will tell us all things. + +CHRISTUS. +I that speak unto thee am He! + +THE DISCIPLES, returning. + Behold, +The Master sitting by the well, and talking +With a Samaritan woman! With a woman +Of Sychar, the silly people, always boasting +Of their Mount Ebal, and Mount Gerizim, +Their Everlasting Mountain, which they think +Higher and holier than our Mount Moriah! +Why, once upon the Feast of the New Moon, +When our great Sanhedrim of Jerusalem +Had all its watch-fires kindled on the hills +To warn the distant villages, these people +Lighted up others to mislead the Jews, +And make a mockery of their festival! +See, she has left the Master; and is running +Back to the city! + +SAMARITAN WOMAN. + Oh, come see a man +Who hath told me all things that I ever did! +Say, is not this the Christ? + +THE DISCIPLES. + Lo, Master, here +Is food, that we have brought thee from the city. +We pray thee eat it. + +CHRISTUS. + I have food to eat +Ye know not of. + +THE DISCIPLES, to each other. + Hath any man been here, +And brought Him aught to eat, while we were gone? + +CHRISTUS. +The food I speak of is to do the will +Of Him that sent me, and to finish his work. +Do ye not say, Lo! there are yet four months +And cometh, harvest? I say unto you, +Lift up your eyes, and look upon the fields, +For they are white already unto harvest! + + +VII + +THE COASTS OF CAESAREA PHILIPPI + +CHRISTUS, going up the mountain. +Who do the people say I am? + +JOHN. + Some say +That thou art John the Baptist; some, Elias; +And others Jeremiah. + +JAMES. + Or that one +Of the old Prophets is risen again. + +CHRISTUS. +But who say ye I am? + +PETER. + Thou art the Christ? +Thou art the Son of God! + +CHRISTUS. + Blessed art thou, +Simon Barjona! Flesh and blood hath not +Revealed it unto thee, but even my Father, +Which is in Heaven. And I say unto thee +That thou art Peter; and upon this rock +I build my Church, and all the gates of Hell +Shall not prevail against it. But take heed +Ye tell no man that I am the Christ. +For I must go up to Jerusalem, +And suffer many things, and be rejected +Of the Chief Priests, and of the Scribes and Elders, +And must be crucified, and the third day +Shall rise again! + +PETER. + Be it far from thee, Lord! +This shall not be! + +CHRISTUS. + Get thee behind me, Satan! +Thou savorest not the things that be of God, +But those that be of men! If any will +Come after me, let him deny himself, +And daily take his cross, and follow me. +For whosoever will save his life shall lose it, +And whosoever will lose his life shall find it. +For wherein shall a man be profited +If he shall gain the whole world, and shall lose +Himself or be a castaway? + +JAMES, after a long pause. + Why doth +The Master lead us up into this mountain? + +PETER. +He goeth up to pray. + +JOHN. + See where He standeth +Above us on the summit of the hill! +His face shines as the sun! and all his raiment +Exceeding white as snow, so as no fuller +On earth can white them! He is not alone; +There are two with him there; two men of eld, +Their white beards blowing on the mountain air, +Are talking with him. + +JAMES. + I am sore afraid! + +PETER. +Who and whence are they? + +JOHN. + Moses and Elias! + +PETER. +O Master! it is good for us to be here! +If thou wilt, let us make three tabernacles; +For thee one, and for Moses and Elias! + +JOHN. +Behold a bright cloud sailing in the sun! +It overshadows us. A golden mist +Now hides them from us, and envelops us +And all the mountains in a luminous shadow! +I see no more. The nearest rocks are hidden. + +VOICE from the cloud. +Lo! this is my beloved Son! Hear Him! + +PETER. +It is the voice of God. He speaketh to us, +As from the burning bush He spake to Moses! + +JOHN. +The cloud-wreaths roll away. The veil is lifted; +We see again. Behold! He is alone. +It was a vision that our eyes beheld, +And it hath vanished into the unseen. + +CHRISTUS, coming down from the mountain. +I charge ye, tell the vision unto no one, +Till the Son of Man is risen from the dead! + +PETER, aside. +Again He speaks of it! What can it mean, +This rising from the dead? + +JAMES. + Why say the Scribe! +Elias must first come? + +CHRISTUS. + He cometh first, +Restoring all things. But I say to you, +That this Elias is already come. +They knew him not, but have done unto him +Whate'er they listed, as is written of him. + +PETER, aside. +It is of John the Baptist He is speaking. + +JAMES. +As we descend, see, at the mountain's foot, +A crowd of people; coming, going, thronging +Round the disciples, that we left behind us, +Seeming impatient, that we stay so long. + +PETER. +It is some blind man, or some paralytic +That waits the Master's coming to be healed. + +JAMES. +I see a boy, who struggles and demeans him +As if an unclean spirit tormented him! + +A CERTAIN MAN, running forward. +Lord! I beseech thee, look upon my son. +He is mine only child; a lunatic, +And sorely vexed; for oftentimes he falleth +Into the fire and oft into the water. +Wherever the dumb spirit taketh him +He teareth him. He gnasheth with his teeth, +And pines away. I spake to thy disciples +That they should cast him out, and they could not. + +CHRISTUS. +O faithless generation and perverse! +How long shall I be with you, and suffer you? +Bring thy son hither. + +BYSTANDERS. + How the unclean spirit +Seizes the boy, and tortures him with pain! +He falleth to the ground and wallows, foaming! +He cannot live. + +CHRISTUS. + How long is it ago +Since this came unto him? + +THE FATHER. + Even of a child. +Oh, have compassion on us, Lord, and help us, +If thou canst help us. + +CHRISTUS. + If thou canst believe. +For unto him that verily believeth, +All things are possible. + +THE FATHER. + Lord, I believe! +Help thou mine unbelief! + +CHRISTUS. + Dumb and deaf spirit, +Come out of him, I charge thee, and no more +Enter thou into him! + +The boy utters a loud cry of pain, and then lies still. + +BYSTANDERS. + How motionless +He lieth there. No life is left in him. +His eyes are like a blind man's, that see not. +The boy is dead! + +OTHERS. + Behold! the Master stoops, +And takes him by the hand, and lifts him up. +He is not dead. + +DISCIPLES. + But one word from those lips, +But one touch of that hand, and he is healed! +Ah, why could we not do it? + +THE FATHER. + My poor child! +Now thou art mine again. The unclean spirit +Shall never more torment thee! Look at me! +Speak unto me! Say that thou knowest me! + +DISCIPLES to CHRISTUS departing. +Good Master, tell us, for what reason was it +We could not cast him out? + +CHRISTUS. + Because of your unbelief! + + +VIII + +THE YOUNG RULER + +CHRISTUS. +Two men went up into the temple to pray. +The one was a self-righteous Pharisee, +The other a Publican. And the Pharisee +Stood and prayed thus within himself: O God, +I thank thee I am not as other men, +Extortioners, unjust, adulterers, +Or even as this Publican. I fast +Twice in the week, and also I give tithes +Of all that I possess! The Publican, +Standing afar off, would not lift so much +Even as his eyes to heaven, but smote his breast, +Saying: God be merciful to me a sinner! +I tell you that this man went to his house +More justified than the other. Every one +That doth exalt himself shall be abased, +And he that humbleth himself shall be exalted! + +CHILDREN, among themselves. +Let us go nearer! He is telling stories! +Let us go listen to them. + +AN OLD JEW. + Children, children! +What are ye doing here? Why do ye crowd us? +It was such little vagabonds as you +That followed Elisha, mucking him and crying: +Go up, thou bald-head! But the bears--the bears +Came out of the wood, and tare them! + +A MOTHER. + Speak not thus! +We brought them here, that He might lay his hands +On them, and bless them. + +CHRISTUS. + Suffer little children +To come unto me, and forbid them not; +Of such is the kingdom of heaven; and their angels +Look always on my Father's face. + +Takes them in his arms and blesses them. + +A YOUNG RULER, running. + Good Master! +What good thing shall I do, that I may have +Eternal life? + +CHRISTUS. + Why callest thou me good? +There is none good but one, and that is God. +If thou wilt enter into life eternal, +Keep the commandments. + +YOUNG RULER. + Which of them? + +CHRISTUS. + Thou shalt not +Commit adultery; thou shalt not kill; +Thou shalt not steal; thou shalt not bear false witness; +Honor thy father and thy mother; and love +Thy neighbor as thyself. + +YOUNG RULER. + From my youth up +All these things have I kept. What lack I yet? + +JOHN. +With what divine compassion in his eyes +The Master looks upon this eager youth, +As if he loved him! + +CHRISTUS. + Wouldst thou perfect be, +Sell all thou hast, and give it to the poor, +And come, take up thy cross, and follow me, +And thou shalt have thy treasure in the heavens. + +JOHN. +Behold, how sorrowful he turns away! + +CHRISTUS. +Children! how hard it is for them that trust +In riches to enter into the kingdom of God! +'T is easier for a camel to go through +A needle's eye, than for the rich to enter +The kingdom of God! + +JOHN. + Ah, who then can be saved? + +CHRISTUS. +With men this is indeed impossible, +But unto God all things are possible! + +PETER. +Behold, we have left all, and followed thee. +What shall we have therefor? + +CHRISTUS. + Eternal life. + + +IX + +AT BETHANY + +MARTHA busy about household affairs. +MARY sitting at the feet of CHRISTUS. + +MARTHA. +She sitteth idly at the Master's feet. +And troubles not herself with household cares. +'T is the old story. When a guest arrives +She gives up all to be with him; while I +Must be the drudge, make ready the guest-chamber, +Prepare the food, set everything in order, +And see that naught is wanting in the house. +She shows her love by words, and I by works. + +MARY. +O Master! when thou comest, it is always +A Sabbath in the house. I cannot work; +I must sit at thy feet; must see thee, hear thee! +I have a feeble, wayward, doubting heart, +Incapable of endurance or great thoughts, +Striving for something that it cannot reach, +Baffled and disappointed, wounded, hungry; +And only when I hear thee am I happy, +And only when I see thee am at peace! +Stronger than I, and wiser, and far better +In every manner, is my sister Martha. +Thou seest how well she orders everything +To make thee welcome; how she comes and goes, +Careful and cumbered ever with much serving, +While I but welcome thee with foolish words! +Whene'er thou speakest to me, I am happy; +When thou art silent, I am satisfied. +Thy presence is enough. I ask no more. +Only to be with thee, only to see thee, +Sufficeth me. My heart is then at rest. +I wonder I am worthy of so much. + +MARTHA. +Lord, dost thou care not that my sister Mary +Hath left me thus to wait on thee alone? +I pray thee, bid her help me. + +CHRISTUS. + Martha, Martha, +Careful and troubled about many things +Art thou, and yet one thing alone is needful! +Thy sister Mary hath chosen that good part, +Which never shall be taken away from her! + + +X + + +BORN BLIND + +A JEW. +Who is this beggar blinking in the sun? +Is it not he who used to sit and beg +By the Gate Beautiful? + +ANOTHER. + It is the same. + +A THIRD. +It is not he, but like him, for that beggar +Was blind from birth. It cannot be the same. + +THE BEGGAR. +Yea, I am he. + +A JEW. + How have thine eyes been opened? + +THE BEGGAR. +A man that is called Jesus made a clay +And put it on mine eyes, and said to me: +Go to Siloam's Pool and wash thyself. +I went and washed, and I received my sight. + +A JEW. +Where is he? + +THE BEGGAR. + I know not. + +PHARISEES. + What is this crowd +Gathered about a beggar? What has happened? + +A JEW. +Here is a man who hath been blind from birth, +And now he sees. He says a man called Jesus +Hath healed him. + +PHARISEES. + As God liveth, the Nazarene! +How was this done? + +THE BEGGAR. + Rabboni, he put clay +Upon mine eyes; I washed, and now I see. + +PHARISEES. +When did he this? + +THE BEGGAR. + Rabboni, yesterday. + +PHARISEES. +The Sabbath day. This man is not of God, +Because he keepeth not the Sabbath day! + +A JEW. +How can a man that is a sinner do +Such miracles? + +PHARISEES. + What dost thou say of him +That hath restored thy sight? + +THE BEGGAR. + He is a Prophet. + +A JEW. +This is a wonderful story, but not true, +A beggar's fiction. He was not born blind, +And never has been blind! + +OTHERS. + Here are his parents. +Ask them. + +PHARISEES. + Is this your son? + +THE PARENTS. + Rabboni, yea; +We know this is our son. + +PHARISEES. + Was he born blind? + +THE PARENTS. +He was born blind. + +PHARISEES. + Then how doth he now see? + +THE PARENTS, aside. +What answer shall we make? If we confess +It was the Christ, we shall be driven forth +Out of the Synagogue! + We know, Rabboni, +This is our son, and that he was born blind; +But by what means he seeth, we know not, +Or who his eyes hath opened, we know not. +He is of age; ask him; we cannot say; +He shall speak for himself. + +PHARISEES. + Give God the praise! +We know the man that healed thee is a sinner! + +THE BEGGAR. +Whether He be a sinner, I know not; +One thing I know; that whereas I was blind, +I now do see. + +PHARISEES. + How opened he thine eyes? +What did he do? + +THE BEGGAR. + I have already told you. +Ye did not hear: why would ye hear again? +Will ye be his disciples? + +PHARISEES. + God of Moses! +Are we demoniacs, are we halt or blind, +Or palsy-stricken, or lepers, or the like, +That we should join the Synagogue of Satan, +And follow jugglers? Thou art his disciple, +But we are disciples of Moses; and we know +That God spake unto Moses; but this fellow, +We know not whence he is! + +THE BEGGAR. + Why, herein is +A marvellous thing! Ye know not whence he is, +Yet he hath opened mine eyes! We know that God +Heareth not sinners; but if any man +Doeth God's will, and is his worshipper, +Him doth he hear. Oh, since the world began +It was not heard that any man hath opened +The eyes of one that was born blind. If He +Were not of God, surely he could do nothing! + +PHARISEES. +Thou, who wast altogether born in sins +And in iniquities, dost thou teach us? +Away with thee out of the holy places, +Thou reprobate, thou beggar, thou blasphemer! + +THE BEGGAR is cast out. + + +XI + +SIMON MAGUS AND HELEN OF TYRE + +On the house-top at Endor. Night. A lighted lantern on a table. + +SIMON. +Swift are the blessed Immortals to the mortal +That perseveres! So doth it stand recorded +In the divine Chaldaean Oracles +Of Zoroaster, once Ezekiel's slave, +Who in his native East betook himself +To lonely meditation, and the writing +On the dried skins of oxen the Twelve Books +Of the Avesta and the Oracles! +Therefore I persevere; and I have brought thee +From the great city of Tyre, where men deride +The things they comprehend not, to this plain +Of Esdraelon, in the Hebrew tongue +Called Armageddon, and this town of Endor, +Where men believe; where all the air is full +Of marvellous traditions, and the Enchantress +That summoned up the ghost of Samuel +Is still remembered. Thou hast seen the land; +Is it not fair to look on? + +HELEN. + It is fair, +Yet not so fair as Tyre. + +SIMON. + Is not Mount Tabor +As beautiful as Carmel by the Sea? + +HELEN. +It is too silent and too solitary; +I miss the tumult of the street; the sounds +Of traffic, and the going to and fro +Of people in gay attire, with cloaks of purple, +And gold and silver jewelry! + +SIMON. + Inventions +Of Abriman, the spirit of the dark, +The Evil Spirit! + +HELEN. + I regret the gossip +Of friends and neighbors at the open door +On summer nights. + +SIMON. + An idle waste of time. + +HELEN. +The singing and the dancing, the delight +Of music and of motion. Woe is me, +To give up all these pleasures, and to lead +The life we lead! + +SIMON. + Thou canst not raise thyself +Up to the level of my higher thought, +And though possessing thee, I still remain +Apart from thee, and with thee, am alone +In my high dreams. + +HELEN. + Happier was I in Tyre. +Oh, I remember how the gallant ships +Came sailing in, with ivory, gold, and silver, +And apes and peacocks; and the singing sailors, +And the gay captains with their silken dresses, +Smelling of aloes, myrrh, and cinnamon! + +SIMON. +But the dishonor, Helen! Let the ships +Of Tarshish howl for that! + +HELEN. + And what dishonor? +Remember Rahab, and how she became +The ancestress of the great Psalmist David; +And wherefore should not I, Helen of Tyre, +Attain like honor? + +SIMON. + Thou art Helen of Tyre, +And hast been Helen of Troy, and hast been Rahab, +The Queen of Sheha, and Semiramis, +And Sara of seven husbands, and Jezebel, +And other women of the like allurements; +And now thou art Minerva, the first Aeon, +The Mother of Angels! + +HELEN. + And the concubine +Of Simon the Magician! Is it honor +For one who has been all these noble dames, +To tramp about the dirty villages +And cities of Samaria with a juggler? +A charmer of serpents? + +SIMON. + He who knows himself +Knows all things in himself. I have charmed thee, +Thou beautiful asp: yet am I no magician, +I am the Power of God, and the Beauty of God! +I am the Paraclete, the Comforter! + +HELEN. +Illusions! Thou deceiver, self-deceived! +Thou dost usurp the titles of another; +Thou art not what thou sayest. + +SIMON. + Am I not? +Then feel my power. + +HELEN. +Would I had ne'er left Tyre! + +He looks at her, and she sinks into a deep sleep. + +SIMON. +Go, see it in thy dreams, fair unbeliever! +And leave me unto mine, if they be dreams, +That take such shapes before me, that I see them; +These effable and ineffable impressions +Of the mysterious world, that come to me +From the elements of Fire and Earth and Water, +And the all-nourishing Ether! It is written, +Look not on Nature, for her name is fatal! +Yet there are Principles, that make apparent +The images of unapparent things, +And the impression of vague characters +And visions most divine appear in ether. +So speak the Oracles; then wherefore fatal? +I take this orange-bough, with its five leaves, +Each equidistant on the upright stem; +And I project them on a plane below, +In the circumference of a circle drawn +About a centre where the stem is planted, +And each still equidistant from the other, +As if a thread of gossamer were drawn +Down from each leaf, and fastened with a pin. +Now if from these five points a line be traced +To each alternate point, we shall obtain +The Pentagram, or Solomon's Pentangle, +A charm against all witchcraft, and a sign, +Which on the banner of Antiochus +Drove back the fierce barbarians of the North, +Demons esteemed, and gave the Syrian King +The sacred name of Soter, or of Savior. +Thus Nature works mysteriously with man; +And from the Eternal One, as from a centre, +All things proceed, in fire, air, earth, and water, +And all are subject to one law, which, broken +Even in a single point, is broken in all; +Demons rush in, and chaos comes again. +By this will I compel the stubborn spirits, +That guard the treasures, hid in caverns deep +On Gerizim, by Uzzi the High-Priest, +The ark and holy vessels, to reveal +Their secret unto me, and to restore +These precious things to the Samaritans. +A mist is rising from the plain below me, +And as I look, the vapors shape themselves +Into strange figures, as if unawares +My lips had breathed the Tetragrammaton, +And from their graves, o'er all the battlefields +Of Armageddon, the long-buried captains +Had started, with their thousands, and ten thousands, +And rushed together to renew their wars, +Powerless, and weaponless, and without a sound! +Wake, Helen, from thy sleep! The air grows cold; +Let us go down. + +HELEN, awaking. + Oh, would I were at home! + +SIMON. +Thou sayest that I usurp another's titles. +In youth I saw the Wise Men of the East, +Magalath and Pangalath and Saracen, +Who followed the bright star, but home returned +For fear of Herod by another way. +O shining worlds above me! in what deep +Recesses of your realms of mystery +Lies hidden now that star? and where are they +That brought the gifts of frankincense and myrrh? + +HELEN. +The Nazarene still liveth. + +SIMON. + We have heard +His name in many towns, but have not seen Him. +He flits before us; tarries not; is gone +When we approach, like something unsubstantial, +Made of the air, and fading into air. +He is at Nazareth, He is at Nain, +Or at the Lovely Village on the Lake, +Or sailing on its waters. + +HELEN. + So say those +Who do not wish to find Him. + +SIMON. + Can this be +The King of Israel, whom the Wise Men worshipped? +Or does He fear to meet me? It would seem so. +We should soon learn which of us twain usurps +The titles of the other, as thou sayest. + +They go down. + + + +THE THIRD PASSOVER + +I + +THE ENTRY INTO JERUSALEM + +THE SYRO-PHOENICIAN WOMAN and her DAUGHTER +on the house-top at Jerusalem. + +THE DAUGHTER, singing. +Blind Bartimeus at the gates +Of Jericho in darkness waits; +He hears the crowd;—he hears a breath +Say, “It is Christ of Nazareth!” +And calls, in tones of agony, +Ἰησοῦ, ἐλέησόν με! + +The thronging multitudes increase; +Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace! +But still, above the noisy crowd, +The beggar’s cry is shrill and loud; +Until they say, “He calleth thee!” +Θάρσει ἔγειραι, φωνεῖ δε! + +Then saith the Christ, as silent stands +The crowd, “What wilt thou at my hands?” +And he replies, “O give me light! +Rabbi, restore the blind man’s sight.” +And Jesus answers, Ὕπαγε +Ἡ πίστις σου σέσωκέ δε! + +Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see, +In darkness and in misery, +Recall those mighty Voices Three, +Ἰησοῦ, ἐλέησόν με! +Θάρσει ἔγειραι, ὕπαγε! +Ἡ πίστις σου σέσωκέ δε! + +THE MOTHER. +Thy faith hath saved thee! Ah, how true that is! +For I had faith; and when the Master came +Into the coasts of Tyre and Sidon, fleeing +From those who sought to slay him, I went forth +And cried unto Him, saying: Have mercy on me, +O Lord, thou Son of David! for my daughter +Is grievously tormented with a devil. +But he passed on, and answered not a word. +And his disciples said, beseeching Him: +Send her away! She crieth after us! +And then the Master answered them and said: +I am not sent but unto the lost sheep +Of the House of Israel! Then I worshipped Him, +Saying: Lord help me! And He answered me, +It is not meet to take the children's bread +And cast it unto dogs! Truth, Lord, I said; +And yet the dogs may eat the crumbs which fall +From off their master's table; and he turned, +And answered me; and said to me: O woman, +Great is thy faith; then be it unto thee +Even as thou wilt. And from that very hour +Thou wast made whole, my darling! my delight! + +THE DAUGHTER. +There came upon my dark and troubled mind +A calm, as when the tumult of the City +Suddenly ceases, and I lie and hear +The silver trumpets of the Temple blowing +Their welcome to the Sabbath. Still I wonder, +That one who was so far away from me +And could not see me, by his thought alone +Had power to heal me. Oh that I could see Him! + +THE MOTHER. +Perhaps thou wilt; for I have brought thee here +To keep the holy Passover, and lay +Thine offering of thanksgiving on the altar. +Thou mayst both see and hear Him. Hark! + +VOICES afar off. + Hosanna! + +THE DAUGHTER. +A crowd comes pouring through the city gate! +O mother, look! + +VOICES in the street. + Hosanna to the Son +Of David! + +THE DAUGHTER. + A great multitude of people +Fills all the street; and riding on an ass +Comes one of noble aspect, like a king! +The people spread their garments in the way, +And scatter branches of the palm-trees! + +VOICES. + Blessed +Is he that cometh in the name of the Lord! +Hosanna in the highest! + +OTHER VOICES. + Who is this? + +VOICES. +Jesus of Nazareth! + +THE DAUGHTER. + Mother, it is he! + +VOICES. +He hath called Lazarus of Bethany +Out of his grave, and raised him from the dead! +Hosanna in the highest! + +PHARISEES. + Ye perceive +That nothing we prevail. Behold, the world +Is all gone after him! + +THE DAUGHTER. + What majesty, +What power is in that care-worn countenance! +What sweetness, what compassion! I no longer +Wonder that he hath healed me! + +VOICES. + Peace in heaven, +And glory in the highest! + +PHARISEES. + Rabbi! Rabbi! +Rebuke thy followers! + +CHRISTUS. + Should they hold their peace +The very stones beneath us would cry out! + +THE DAUGHTER. +All hath passed by me like a dream of wonder! +But I have seen Him, and have heard his voice, +And I am satisfied! I ask no more! + + +II + +SOLOMON'S PORCH + +GAMALIEL THE SCRIBE. +When Rabban Simeon--upon whom be peace!-- +Taught in these Schools, he boasted that his pen +Had written no word that he could call his own, +But wholly and always had been consecrated +To the transcribing of the Law and Prophets. +He used to say, and never tired of saying, +The world itself was built upon the Law. +And ancient Hillel said, that whosoever +Gains a good name gains something for himself, +But he who gains a knowledge of the Law +Gains everlasting life. And they spake truly. +Great is the Written Law; but greater still +The Unwritten, the Traditions of the Elders, +The lovely words of Levites, spoken first +To Moses on the Mount, and handed down +From mouth to mouth, in one unbroken sound +And sequence of divine authority, +The voice of God resounding through the ages. + +The Written Law is water; the Unwritten +Is precious wine; the Written Law is salt, +The Unwritten costly spice; the Written Law +Is but the body; the Unwritten, the soul +That quickens it and makes it breathe and live. +I can remember, many years ago, +A little bright-eyed school-boy, a mere stripling, +Son of a Galilean carpenter, +From Nazareth, I think, who came one day +And sat here in the Temple with the Scribes, +Hearing us speak, and asking many questions, +And we were all astonished at his quickness. +And when his mother came, and said: Behold +Thy father and I have sought thee, sorrowing; +He looked as one astonished, and made answer, +How is it that ye sought me? Wist ye not +That I must be about my Father's business? +Often since then I see him here among us, +Or dream I see him, with his upraised face +Intent and eager, and I often wonder +Unto what manner of manhood he hath grown! +Perhaps a poor mechanic like his father, +Lost in his little Galilean village +And toiling at his craft, to die unknown +And he no more remembered among men. + +CHRISTUS, in the outer court. +The Scribes and Pharisees sit in Moses' seat; +All, therefore, whatsoever they command you, +Observe and do; but follow not their works +They say and do not. They bind heavy burdens +And very grievous to be borne, and lay them +Upon men's shoulders, but they move them not +With so much as a finger! + +GAMALIEL, looking forth. + Who is this +Exhorting in the outer courts so loudly? + +CHRISTUS. +Their works they do for to be seen of men. +They make broad their phylacteries, and enlarge +The borders of their garments, and they love +The uppermost rooms at feasts, and the chief seats +In Synagogues, and greetings in the markets, +And to be called of all men Rabbi, Rabbi! + +GAMALIEL. +It is that loud and turbulent Galilean, +That came here at the Feast of Dedication, +And stirred the people up to break the Law! + +CHRISTUS. +Woe unto you, ye Scribes and Pharisees, +Ye hypocrites! for ye shut up the kingdom +Of heaven, and neither go ye in yourselves +Nor suffer them that are entering to go in! + +GAMALIEL. +How eagerly the people throng and listen, +As if his ribald words were words of wisdom! + +CHRISTUS. +Woe unto you, ye Scribes and Pharisees, +Ye hypocrites! for ye devour the houses +Of widows, and for pretence ye make long prayers; +Therefore shall ye receive the more damnation. + +GAMALIEL. +This brawler is no Jew,--he is a vile +Samaritan, and hath an unclean spirit! + +CHRISTUS. +Woe unto you, ye Scribes and Pharisees, +Ye hypocrites! ye compass sea and land +To make one proselyte, and when he is made +Ye make him twofold more the child of hell +Than you yourselves are! + +GAMALIEL. + O my father's father! +Hillel of blessed memory, hear and judge! + +CHRISTUS. +Woe unto you, ye Scribes and Pharisees, +Ye hypocrites! for ye pay tithe of mint, +Of anise, and of cumin, and omit +The weightier matters of the law of God, +Judgment and faith and mercy; and all these +Ye ought to have done, nor leave undone the others! + +GAMALIEL. +O Rabban Simeon! how must thy bones +Stir in their grave to hear such blasphemies! + +CHRISTUS. +Woe unto you, ye Scribes, and Pharisees, +Ye hypocrites! for ye make clean and sweet +The outside of the cup and of the platter, +But they within are full of all excess! + +GAMALIEL. +Patience of God! canst thou endure so long? +Or art thou deaf, or gone upon a journey? + +CHRISTUS. +Woe unto you, ye Scribes and Pharisees, +Ye hypocrites! for ye are very like +To whited sepulchres, which indeed appear +Beautiful outwardly, but are within +Filled full of dead men's bones and all uncleanness! + +GAMALIEL. +Am I awake? Is this Jerusalem? +And are these Jews that throng and stare and listen? + +CHRISTUS. +Woe unto you, ye Scribes and Pharisees, +Ye hypocrites! because ye build the tombs +Of prophets, and adorn the sepulchres +Of righteous men, and say: if we had lived +When lived our fathers, we would not have been +Partakers with them in the blood of Prophets. +So ye be witnesses unto yourselves, +That ye are children of them that killed the Prophets! +Fill ye up then the measure of your fathers. +I send unto you Prophets and Wise Men, +And Scribes, and some ye crucify, and some +Scourge in your Synagogues, and persecute +From city to city; that on you may come +The righteous blood that hath been shed on earth, +From the blood of righteous Abel to the blood +Of Zacharias, son of Barachias, +Ye slew between the Temple and the altar! + +GAMALIEL. +Oh, had I here my subtle dialectician, +My little Saul of Tarsus, the tent-maker, +Whose wit is sharper than his needle's point, +He would delight to foil this noisy wrangler! + +CHRISTUS. +Jerusalem! Jerusalem! O thou +That killest the Prophets, and that stonest them +Which are sent unto thee, how often would I +Have gathered together thy children, as a hen +Gathereth her chickens underneath her wing, +And ye would not! Behold, your house is left +Unto you desolate! + +THE PEOPLE. + This is a Prophet! +This is the Christ that was to come! + +GAMALIEL. + Ye fools! +Think ye, shall Christ come out of Galilee? + + +III + +LORD, IS IT I? + + +CHRISTUS. +One of you shall betray me. + +THE DISCIPLES. + Is it I? +Lord, is it I? + +CHRISTUS. + One of the Twelve it is +That dippeth with me in this dish his hand; +He shall betray me. Lo, the Son of Man +Goeth indeed as it is written of Him; +But woe shall be unto that man by whom +He is betrayed! Good were it for that man +If he had ne'er been born! + +JUDAS ISCARIOT. + Lord, is it I? + +CHRISTUS. +Ay, thou hast said. And that thou doest, do quickly. + +JUDAS ISCARIOT, going out. +Ah, woe is me! + +CHRISTUS. + All ye shall be offended +Because of me this night; for it is written: +Awake, O sword, against my shepherd! Smite +The shepherd, saith the Lord of hosts, and scattered +Shall be the sheep!--But after I am risen +I go before you into Galilee. + +PETER. +O Master! though all men shall be offended +Because of thee, yet will not I be! + +CHRISTUS. + Simon, +Behold how Satan hath desired to have you, +That he may sift you as one sifteth wheat! +Whither I go thou canst not follow me-- +Not now; but thou shalt follow me hereafter. + +PETER. +Wherefore can I not follow thee? I am ready +To go with thee to prison and to death. + +CHRISTUS. +Verily I say unto thee, this night, +Ere the cock crow, thou shalt deny me thrice! + +PETER. +Though I should die, yet will I not deny thee. + +CHRISTUS. +When first I sent you forth without a purse, +Or scrip, or shoes, did ye lack anything? + +THE DISCIPLES. +Not anything. + +CHRISTUS. + But he that hath a purse, +Now let him take it, and likewise his scrip; +And he that hath no sword, let him go sell +His clothes and buy one. That which hath been written +Must be accomplished now: He hath poured out +His soul even unto death; he hath been numbered +With the transgressors, and himself hath borne +The sin of many, and made intercession +For the transgressors. And here have an end +The things concerning me. + +PETER. + Behold, O Lord, +Behold here are two swords! + +CHRISTUS. + It is enough. + + + +IV + +THE GARDEN OF GETHSEMANE + +CHRISTUS. +My spirit is exceeding sorrowful +Even unto death! Tarry ye here and watch. + +He goes apart. + +PETER. +Under this ancient olive-tree, that spreads +Its broad centennial branches like a tent, +Let us lie down and rest. + +JOHN. + What are those torches, +That glimmer on Brook Kedron there below us? + +JAMES. +It is some marriage feast; the joyful maidens +Go out to meet the bridegroom. + +PETER. + I am weary. +The struggles of this day have overcome me. + +They sleep. + +CHRISTUS, falling on his face. +Father! all things are possible to thee,-- +Oh let this cup pass from me! Nevertheless +Not as I will, but as thou wilt, be done! + +Returning to the Disciples. + +What! could ye not watch with me for one hour? +Oh watch and pray, that ye may enter not +Into temptation. For the spirit indeed +Is willing, but the flesh is weak! + +JOHN. + Alas! +It is for sorrow that our eyes are heavy.-- +I see again the glimmer of those torches +Among the olives; they are coming hither. + +JAMES. +Outside the garden wall the path divides; +Surely they come not hither. + +They sleep again. + +CHRISTUS, as before. + O my Father! +If this cup may not pass away from me, +Except I drink of it, thy will be done. + +Returning to the Disciples. + +Sleep on; and take your rest! + +JOHN. + Beloved Master, +Alas! we know not what to answer thee! +It is for sorrow that our eves are heavy.-- +Behold, the torches now encompass us. + +JAMES. +They do but go about the garden wall, +Seeking for some one, or for something lost. + +They sleep again. + +CHRISTUS, as before. +If this cup may not pass away from me, +Except I drink of it, thy will be done. + +Returning to the Disciples. + +It is enough! Behold, the Son of Man +Hath been betrayed into the hands of sinners! +The hour is come. Rise up, let us be going; +For he that shall betray me is at hand. + +JOHN. +Ah me! See, from his forehead, in the torchlight, +Great drops of blood are falling to the ground! + +PETER. +What lights are these? What torches glare and glisten +Upon the swords and armor of these men? +And there among them Judas Iscariot! + +He smites the servant of the High-Priest with his sword. + +CHRISTUS. +Put up thy sword into its sheath; for they +That take the sword shall perish with the sword. +The cup my Father hath given me to drink, +Shall I not drink it? Think'st thou that I cannot +Pray to my Father, and that he shall give me +More than twelve legions of angels presently! + +JUDAS to CHRISTUS, kissing him. +Hail, Master! hail! + +CHRISTUS. + Friend, wherefore art thou come? +Whom seek ye? + +CAPTAIN OF THE TEMPLE. + Jesus of Nazareth. + +CHRISTUS. + I am he. +Are ye come hither as against a thief, +With swords and staves to take me? When I daily +Was with you in the Temple, ye stretched forth +No hands to take me! But this is your hour, +And this the power of darkness. If ye seek +Me only, let these others go their way. + +The Disciples depart. CHRISTUS is bound and led away. A certain +young man follows him, having a linen cloth cast about his +body. They lay hold of him, and the young man flees from them +naked. + + +V + +THE PALACE OF CAIAPHAS + + +PHARISEES. +What do we? Clearly something must we do, +For this man worketh many miracles. + +CAIAPHAS. +I am informed that he is a mechanic; +A carpenter's son; a Galilean peasant, +Keeping disreputable company. + +PHARISEES. +The people say that here in Bethany +He hath raised up a certain Lazarus, +Who had been dead three days. + +CAIAPHAS. + Impossible! +There is no resurrection of the dead; +This Lazarus should be taken, and put to death +As an impostor. If this Galilean +Would be content to stay in Galilee, +And preach in country towns, I should not heed him. +But when he comes up to Jerusalem +Riding in triumph, as I am informed, +And drives the money-changers from the Temple, +That is another matter. + +PHARISEES. + If we thus +Let him alone, all will believe on him, +And then the Romans come and take away +Our place and nation. + +CAIAPHAS. + Ye know nothing at all. +Simon Ben Camith, my great predecessor, +On whom be peace! would have dealt presently +With such a demagogue. I shall no less. +The man must die. Do ye consider not +It is expedient that one man should die, +Not the whole nation perish? What is death? +It differeth from sleep but in duration. +We sleep and wake again; an hour or two +Later or earlier, and it matters not, +And if we never wake it matters not; +When we are in our graves we are at peace, +Nothing can wake us or disturb us more. +There is no resurrection. + +PHARISEES, aside. + O most faithful +Disciple of Hircanus Maccabaeus, +Will nothing but complete annihilation +Comfort and satisfy thee? + +CAIAPHAS. + While ye are talking +And plotting, and contriving how to take him, +Fearing the people, and so doing naught, +I, who fear not the people, have been acting; +Have taken this Prophet, this young Nazarene, +Who by Beelzebub the Prince of devils +Casteth out devils, and doth raise the dead, +That might as well be dead, and left in peace. +Annas my father-in-law hath sent him hither. +I hear the guard. Behold your Galilean! + +CHRISTUS is brought in bound. + +SERVANT, in the vestibule. +Why art thou up so late, my pretty damsel? + +DAMSEL. +Why art thou up so early, pretty man? +It is not cock-crow yet, and art thou stirring? + +SERVANT. +What brings thee here? + +DAMSEL. + What brings the rest of you? + +SERVANT. +Come here and warm thy hands. + +DAMSEL to PETER. + Art thou not +One of this man's also disciples? + +PETER. + I am not. + +DAMSEL. +Now surely thou art also one of them; +Thou art a Galilean, and thy speech +Betrayeth thee. + +PETER. +Woman, I know him not! + +CAIAPHAS to CHRISTUS, in the Hall. +Who art thou? Tell us plainly of thyself +And of thy doctrines, and of thy disciples. + +CHRISTUS. +Lo, I have spoken openly to the world, +I have taught ever in the Synagogue, +And in the Temple, where the Jews resort +In secret have said nothing. Wherefore then +Askest thou me of this? Ask them that heard me +What I have said to them. Behold, they know +What I have said! + +OFFICER, striking him, + What, fellow! answerest thou +The High-Priest so? + +CHRISTUS. + If I have spoken evil, +Bear witness of the evil; but if well, +Why smitest thou me? + +CAIAPHAS. + Where are the witnesses? +Let them say what they know. + +THE TWO FALSE WITNESSES. + We heard him say: +I will destroy this Temple made with hands, +And will within three days build up another +Made without hands. + +SCRIBES and PHARISEES. + He is o'erwhelmed with shame +And cannot answer! + +CAIAPHAS. + Dost thou answer nothing? +What is this thing they witness here against thee? + +SCRIBES and PHARISEES. +He holds his peace. + +CAIAPHAS. + Tell us, art thou the Christ? +I do adjure thee by the living God, +Tell us, art thou indeed the Christ? + +CHRISTUS. + I am. +Hereafter shall ye see the Son of Man +Sit on the right hand of the power of God, +And come in clouds of heaven! + +CAIAPHAS, rending his clothes. + It is enough. +He hath spoken blasphemy! What further need +Have we of witnesses? Now ye have heard +His blasphemy. What think ye? Is he guilty? + +SCRIBES and PHARISEES. +Guilty of death! + +KINSMAN OF MALCHUS to PETER in the vestibule. + Surely I know thy face, +Did I not see thee in the garden with him? + +PETER. +How couldst thou see me? I swear unto thee +I do not know this man of whom ye speak! + +The cock crows. + +Hark! the cock crows! That sorrowful, pale face +Seeks for me in the crowd, and looks at me, +As if He would remind me of those words: +Ere the cock crow thou shalt deny me thrice! + +Goes out weeping. CHRISTUS is blindfolded and buffeted. + +AN OFFICER, striking him with his palm. +Prophesy unto us, thou Christ, thou Prophet! +Who is it smote thee? + +CAIAPHAS. + Lead him unto Pilate! + + +VI + +PONTIUS PILATE + +PILATE. +Wholly incomprehensible to me, +Vainglorious, obstinate, and given up +To unintelligible old traditions, +And proud, and self-conceited are these Jews! +Not long ago, I marched the legions +Down from Caesarea to their winter-quarters +Here in Jerusalem, with the effigies +Of Caesar on their ensigns, and a tumult +Arose among these Jews, because their Law +Forbids the making of all images! +They threw themselves upon the ground with wild +Expostulations, bared their necks, and cried +That they would sooner die than have their Law +Infringed in any manner; as if Numa +Were not as great as Moses, and the Laws +Of the Twelve Tables as their Pentateuch! + +And then, again, when I desired to span +Their valley with an aqueduct, and bring +A rushing river in to wash the city +And its inhabitants,--they all rebelled +As if they had been herds of unwashed swine! +Thousands and thousands of them got together +And raised so great a clamor round my doors, +That, fearing violent outbreak, I desisted, +And left them to their wallowing in the mire. + +And now here comes the reverend Sanhedrim +Of lawyers, priests, and Scribes and Pharisees, +Like old and toothless mastiffs, that can bark +But cannot bite, howling their accusations +Against a mild enthusiast, who hath preached +I know not what new doctrine, being King +Of some vague kingdom in the other world, +That hath no more to do with Rome and Caesar +Than I have with the patriarch Abraham! +Finding this man to be a Galilean +I sent him straight to Herod, and I hope +That is the last of it; but if it be not, +I still have power to pardon and release him, +As is the custom at the Passover, +And so accommodate the matter smoothly, +Seeming to yield to them, yet saving him, +A prudent and sagacious policy +For Roman Governors in the Provinces. + +Incomprehensible, fanatic people! +Ye have a God, who seemeth like yourselves +Incomprehensible, dwelling apart, +Majestic, cloud-encompassed, clothed in darkness! +One whom ye fear, but love not; yet ye have +No Goddesses to soften your stern lives, +And make you tender unto human weakness, +While we of Rome have everywhere around us +Our amiable divinities, that haunt +The woodlands, and the waters, and frequent +Our households, with their sweet and gracious presence! +I will go in, and, while these Jews are wrangling, +Read my Ovidius on the Art of Love. + + +VII + +BARABBAS IN PRISON + +BARABBAS, to his fellow-prisoners +Barabbas is my name, +Barabbas, the Son of Shame, + Is the meaning, I suppose; +I'm no better than the best, +And whether worse than the rest + Of my fellow-men, who knows? + +I was once, to say it in brief, +A highwayman, a robber-chief, + In the open light of day. +So much I am free to confess; +But all men, more or less, + Are robbers in their way. + +From my cavern in the crags, +From my lair of leaves and flags, + I could see, like ants, below, +The camels with their load +Of merchandise, on the road + That leadeth to Jericho. + +And I struck them unaware, +As an eagle from the air + Drops down upon bird or beast; +And I had my heart's desire +Of the merchants of Sidon and Tyre, + And Damascus and the East. + +But it is not for that I fear; +It is not for that I am here + In these iron fetters bound; +Sedition! that is the word +That Pontius Pilate heard, + And he liketh not the sound. + +What think ye, would he care +For a Jew slain here or there, + Or a plundered caravan? +But Caesar!--ah, that is a crime, +To the uttermost end of time + Shall not be forgiven to man. + +Therefore was Herod wroth +With Matthias Margaloth, + And burned him for a show! +Therefore his wrath did smite +Judas the Gaulonite, + And his followers, as ye know. + +For that cause and no more, +Am I here, as I said before; + For one unlucky night, +Jucundus, the captain of horse, +Was upon us with all his force, + And I was caught in the flight, + +I might have fled with the rest, +But my dagger was in the breast + Of a Roman equerry, +As we rolled there in the street, +They bound me, hands and feet + And this is the end of me. + +Who cares for death? Not I! +A thousand times I would die, + Rather than suffer wrong! +Already those women of mine +Are mixing the myrrh and the wine; + I shall not be with you long. + + +VIII + +ECCE HOMO + +PILATE, on the tessellated pavement in front of his palace. +Ye have brought unto me this man, as one +Who doth pervert the people; and behold! +I have examined him, and found no fault +Touching the things whereof ye do accuse him. +No, nor yet Herod; for I sent you to him, +And nothing worthy of death he findeth in him. +Ye have a custom at the Passover; +That one condemned to death shall be released. +Whom will ye, then, that I release to you? +Jesus Barabbas, called the Son of Shame, +Or Jesus, Son of Joseph, called the Christ? + +THE PEOPLE, shouting. +Not this man, but Barabbas! + +PILATE. + What then will ye +That I should do with him that is called Christ? + +THE PEOPLE. +Crucify him! + +PILATE. + Why, what evil hath he done? +Lo, I have found no cause of death in him; +I will chastise him, and then let him go. + +THE PEOPLE, more vehemently. +Crucify him! crucify him! + +A MESSENGER, to PILATE. + Thy wife sends +This message to thee,--Have thou naught to do +With that just man; for I this day in dreams +Have suffered many things because of him. + +PILATE, aside. +The Gods speak to us in our dreams! I tremble +At what I have to do! O Claudia, +How shall I save him? Yet one effort more, +Or he must perish! + +Washes his hands before them. + + I am innocent +Of the blood of this just person; see ye to it! + +THE PEOPLE. +Let his blood be on us and on our children! + +VOICES, within the palace. +Put on thy royal robes; put on thy crown, +And take thy sceptre! Hail, thou King of the Jews! + +PILATE. +I bring him forth to you, that ye may know +I find no fault in him. Behold the man! + +CHRISTUS is led in with the purple robe and crown of thorns. + +CHIEF PRIESTS and OFFICERS. +Crucify him! crucify him! + +PILATE. + Take ye him; +I find no fault in him. + +CHIEF PRIESTS. + We have a Law, +And by our Law he ought to die; because +He made himself to be the Son of God. + +PILATE, aside. +Ah! there are Sons of God, and demigods +More than ye know, ye ignorant High-Priests! + +To CHRISTUS. +Whence art thou? + +CHIEF PRIESTS. + Crucify him! crucify him! + +PILATE, to CHRISTUS. +Dost thou not answer me? Dost thou not know +That I have power enough to crucify thee? +That I have also power to set thee free? + +CHRISTUS. +Thou couldst have no power at all against me +Except that it were given thee from above; +Therefore hath he that sent me unto thee +The greater sin. + +CHIEF PRIESTS. + If thou let this man go, +Thou art not Caesar's friend. For whosoever +Maketh himself a King, speaks against Caesar. + +PILATE. +Ye Jews, behold your King! + +CHIEF PRIESTS. + Away with him! +Crucify him! + +PILATE. + Shall I crucify your King? + +CHIEF PRIESTS. +We have no King but Caesar! + +PILATE. + Take him, then, +Take him, ye cruel and bloodthirsty priests, +More merciless than the plebeian mob, +Who pity and spare the fainting gladiator +Blood-stained in Roman amphitheatres,-- +Take him, and crucify him if ye will; +But if the immortal Gods do ever mingle +With the affairs of mortals, which I doubt not, +And hold the attribute of justice dear, +They will commission the Eumenides +To scatter you to the four winds of heaven, +Exacting tear for tear, and blood for blood. +Here, take ye this inscription, Priests, and nail it +Upon the cross, above your victim's head: +Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews. + +CHIEF PRIESTS. +Nay, we entreat! write not, the King of the Jews! +But that he said: I am the King of the Jews! + +PILATE. +Enough. What I have written, I have written. + + +IX + +ACELDAMA + +JUDAS ISCARIOT. +Lost! Lost! Forever lost! I have betrayed +The innocent blood! O God! if thou art love, +Why didst thou leave me naked to the tempter? +Why didst thou not commission thy swift lightning +To strike me dead? or why did I not perish +With those by Herod slain, the innocent children, +Who went with playthings in their little hands +Into the darkness of the other world, +As if to bed? Or wherefore was I born, +If thou in thy foreknowledge didst perceive +All that I am, and all that I must be? +I know I am not generous, am not gentle, +Like other men; but I have tried to be, +And I have failed. I thought by following him +I should grow like him; but the unclean spirit +That from my childhood up hath tortured me +Hath been too cunning and too strong for me, +Am I to blame for this? Am I to blame +Because I cannot love, and ne'er have known +The love of woman or the love of children? +It is a curse and a fatality, +A mark that hath been set upon my forehead, +That none shall slay me, for it were a mercy +That I were dead, or never had been born. + +Too late! too late! I shall not see Him more +Among the living. That sweet, patient face +Will never more rebuke me, nor those lips +Repeat the words: One of you shall betray me! +It stung me into madness. How I loved, +Yet hated Him: But in the other world! +I will be there before Him, and will wait +Until he comes, and fall down on my knees +And kiss his feet, imploring pardon, pardon! + +I heard Him say: All sins shall be forgiven, +Except the sin against the Holy Ghost. +That shall not be forgiven in this world, +Nor in the world to come. Is that my sin? +Have I offended so there is no hope +Here nor hereafter? That I soon shall know. +O God, have mercy! Christ have mercy on me! + +Throws himself headlong from the cliff. + + +X + +THE THREE CROSSES + +MANAHEM, THE ESSENIAN. +Three crosses in this noonday night uplifted, +Three human figures that in mortal pain +Gleam white against the supernatural darkness; +Two thieves, that writhe in torture, and between them +The Suffering Messiah, the Son of Joseph, +Ay, the Messiah Triumphant, Son of David! +A crown of thorns on that dishonored head! +Those hands that healed the sick now pierced with nails, +Those feet that wandered homeless through the world +Now crossed and bleeding, and at rest forever! +And the three faithful Maries, overwhelmed +By this great sorrow, kneeling, praying weeping! +O Joseph Caiaphas, thou great High-Priest +How wilt thou answer for this deed of blood? + +SCRIBES and ELDERS. +Thou that destroyest the Temple, and dost build it +In three days, save thyself; and if thou be +The Son of God, come down now from the cross. + +CHIEF PRIESTS. +Others he saved, himself he cannot save! +Let Christ the King of Israel descend +That we may see and believe! + +SCRIBES and ELDERS. + In God he trusted; +Let Him deliver him, if He will have him, +And we will then believe. + +CHRISTUS. + Father! forgive them; +They know not what they do. + +THE IMPENITENT THIEF. + If thou be Christ, +Oh save thyself and us! + +THE PENITENT THIEF. + Remember me, +Lord, when thou comest into thine own kingdom. + +CHRISTUS. +This day shalt thou be with me in Paradise. + +MANAHEN. +Golgotha! Golgotha! Oh the pain and darkness! +Oh the uplifted cross, that shall forever +Shine through the darkness, and shall conquer pain +By the triumphant memory of this hour! + +SIMON MAGUS. +O Nazarene! I find thee here at last! +Thou art no more a phantom unto me! +This is the end of one who called himself +The Son of God! Such is the fate of those +Who preach new doctrines. 'T is not what he did, +But what he said, hath brought him unto this. +I will speak evil of no dignitaries. +This is my hour of triumph, Nazarene! + +THE YOUNG RULER. +This is the end of him who said to me: +Sell that thou hast, and give unto the poor! +This is the treasure in heaven he promised me! + +CHRISTUS. +Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani! + +A SOLDIER, preparing the hyssop. +He calleth for Elias! + +ANOTHER. + Nay, let be! +See if Elias will now come to save him! + +CHRISTUS. +I thirst. + +A SOLDIER. + Give him the wormwood! + +CHRISTUS, with a loud cry, bowing his head. + It is finished! + + +XI + +THE TWO MARIES + +MARY MAGDALENE. +We have risen early, yet the sun +O'ertakes us ere we reach the sepulchre, +To wrap the body of our blessed Lord +With our sweet spices. + +MARY, MOTHER OF JAMES. + Lo, this is the garden, +And yonder is the sepulchre. But who +Shall roll away the stone for us to enter? + +MARY MAGDALENE. +It hath been rolled away! The sepulchre +Is open! Ah, who hath been here before us, +When we rose early, wishing to be first? + +MARY, MOTHER OF JAMES. +I am affrighted! + +MARY MAGDALENE. + Hush! I will stoop down +And look within. There is a young man sitting +On the right side, clothed in a long white garment! +It is an angel! + +THE ANGEL. + Fear not; ye are seeking +Jesus of Nazareth, which was crucified. +Why do ye seek the living among the dead? +He is no longer here; He is arisen! +Come see the place where the Lord lay! Remember +How He spake unto you in Galilee, +Saying: The Son of Man must be delivered +Into the hands of sinful men; by them +Be crucified, and the third day rise again! +But go your way, and say to his disciples, +He goeth before you into Galilee; +There shall ye see Him as He said to you. + +MARY, MOTHER OF JAMES. +I will go swiftly for them. + +MARY MAGDALENE, alone, weeping. + They have taken +My Lord away from me, and now I know not +Where they have laid Him! Who is there to tell me? +This is the gardener. Surely he must know. + +CHRISTUS. +Woman, why weepest thou? Whom seekest thou? + +MARY MAGDALENE. +They have taken my Lord away; I cannot find Him. +O sir, if thou have borne Him hence, I pray thee +Tell me where thou hast laid Him. + +CHRISTUS. + Mary! + +MARY MAGDALENE. + Rabboni! + + + +XII + +THE SEA OF GALILEE + +NATHANIEL, in the ship. +All is now ended. + +JOHN. + Nay, He is arisen, +I ran unto the tomb, and stooping down +Looked in, and saw the linen grave-clothes lying, +Yet dared not enter. + +PETER. + I went in, and saw +The napkin that had been about his head, +Not lying with the other linen clothes, +But wrapped together in a separate place. + +THOMAS. +And I have seen Him. I have seen the print +Of nails upon his hands, and thrust my hands +Into his side. I know He is arisen; +But where are now the kingdom and the glory +He promised unto us? We have all dreamed +That we were princes, and we wake to find +We are but fishermen. + +PETER. + Who should have been +Fishers of men! + +JOHN. + We have come back again +To the old life, the peaceful life, among +The white towns of the Galilean lake. + +PETER. +They seem to me like silent sepulchres +In the gray light of morning! The old life, +Yea, the old life! for we have toiled all night +And have caught nothing. + +JOHN. + Do ye see a man +Standing upon the beach and beckoning? +'T is like an apparition. He hath kindled +A fire of coals, and seems to wait for us. +He calleth. + +CHRISTUS, from the shore. + Children, have ye any meat? + +PETER. +Alas! We have caught nothing. + +CHRISTUS. + Cast the net +On the right side of the ship, and ye shall find. + +PETER. +How that reminds me of the days gone by, +And one who said: Launch out into the deep, +And cast your nets! + +NATHANAEL. + We have but let them down +And they are filled, so that we cannot draw them! + +JOHN. +It is the Lord! + +PETER, girding his fisher's coat about him. + He said: When I am risen +I will go before you into Galilee! + +He casts himself into the lake. + +JOHN. +There is no fear in love; for perfect love +Casteth out fear. Now then, if ye are men, +Put forth your strength; we are not far from shore; +The net is heavy, but breaks not. All is safe. + +PETER, on the shore. +Dear Lord! I heard thy voice and could not wait. +Let me behold thy face, and kiss thy feet! +Thou art not dead, thou livest! Again I see thee. +Pardon, dear Lord! I am a sinful man; +I have denied thee thrice. Have mercy on me! + +THE OTHERS, coming to land. +Dear Lord! stay with us! cheer us! comfort us! +Lo! we again have found thee! Leave us not! + +CHRISTUS. +Bring hither of the fish that ye have caught, +And come and eat! + +JOHN. + Behold! He breaketh bread +As He was wont. From his own blessed hands +Again we take it. + +CHRISTUS. + Simon, son of Jonas, +Lovest thou me, more than these others? + +PETER. + Yea, +More, Lord, than all men, even more than these. +Thou knowest that I love thee. + +CHRISTUS. + Feed my lambs. + +THOMAS, aside. +How more than we do? He remaineth ever +Self-confident and boastful as before. +Nothing will cure him. + +CHRISTUS. + Simon, son of Jonas, +Lovest thou me? + +PETER. + Yea, dearest Lord, I love thee. +Thou knowest that I love thee. + +CHRISTUS. + Feed my sheep. + +THOMAS, aside. +Again, the selfsame question, and the answer +Repeated with more vehemence. Can the Master +Doubt if we love Him? + +CHRISTUS. + Simon, son of Jonas, +Lovest thou me? + +PETER, grieved. + Dear Lord, thou knowest all things. +Thou knowest that I love thee. + +CHRISTUS. + Feed my sheep. +When thou wast young thou girdedst thyself, and walkedst +Whither thou wouldst; but when thou shalt be old, +Thou shalt stretch forth thy hands, and other men +Shall gird and carry thee whither thou wouldst not. +Follow thou me! + +JOHN, aside. + It is a prophecy +Of what death he shall die. + +PETER, pointing to JOHN. + Tell me, O Lord, +And what shall this man do? + +CHRISTUS. + And if I will +He tarry till I come, what is it to thee? +Follow thou me! + +PETER. +Yea, I will follow thee, dear Lord and Master! +Will follow thee through fasting and temptation, +Through all thine agony and bloody sweat, +Thy cross and passion, even unto death! + + + +EPILOGUE + +SYMBOLUM APOSTOLORUM + +PETER. +I believe in God the Father Almighty; + +JOHN. +Maker of heaven and Earth; + +JAMES. +And in Jesus Christ his only Son, our Lord; + +ANDREW. +Who was conceived by the Holy Ghost, born of the Virgin Mary; + +PHILIP. +Suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, dead, and buried; + +THOMAS. +And the third day He rose again from the dead; + +BARTHOLOMEW. +He ascended into Heaven, and sitteth on the right hand of God, +the Father Almighty; + +MATTHEW. +From thence He shall come to judge the quick and the dead. + +JAMES, THE SON OF ALFHEUS. +I believe in the Holy Ghost; the holy Catholic Church; + +SIMON ZELOTES. +The communion of Saints; the forgiveness of sins; + +JUDE. +The resurrection of the body; + +MATTHIAS. +And the Life Everlasting. + + + +FIRST INTERLUDE + +THE ABBOT JOACHIM + +A ROOM IN THE CONVENT OF FLORA IN CALABRIA. NIGHT. + +JOACHIM. +The wind is rising; it seizes and shakes +The doors and window-blinds and makes +Mysterious moanings in the halls; +The convent-chimneys seem almost +The trumpets of some heavenly host, +Setting its watch upon our walls! +Where it listeth, there it bloweth; +We hear the sound, but no man knoweth +Whence it cometh or whither it goeth, +And thus it is with the Holy Ghost. +O breath of God! O my delight +In many a vigil of the night, +Like the great voice in Patmos heard +By John, the Evangelist of the Word, +I hear thee behind me saying: Write +In a book the things that thou hast seen, +The things that are, and that have been, +And the things that shall hereafter be! + +This convent, on the rocky crest +Of the Calabrian hills, to me +A Patmos is wherein I rest; +While round about me like a sea +The white mists roll, and overflow +The world that lies unseen below +In darkness and in mystery. +Here in the Spirit, in the vast +Embrace of God's encircling arm, +Am I uplifted from all harm +The world seems something far away, +Something belonging to the Past, +A hostelry, a peasant's farm, +That lodged me for a night or day, +In which I care not to remain, +Nor, having left, to see again. + +Thus, in the hollow of Gods hand +I dwelt on sacred Tabor's height, +When as a simple acolyte +I journeyed to the Holy Land, +A pilgrim for my master's sake, +And saw the Galilean Lake, +And walked through many a village street +That once had echoed to his feet. +There first I heard the great command, +The voice behind me saying: Write! +And suddenly my soul became +Illumined by a flash of flame, +That left imprinted on my thought +The image I in vain had sought, +And which forever shall remain; +As sometimes from these windows high, +Gazing at midnight on the sky +Black with a storm of wind and rain, +I have beheld a sudden glare +Of lightning lay the landscape bare, +With tower and town and hill and plain +Distinct and burnt into my brain, +Never to be effaced again! + +And I have written. These volumes three, +The Apocalypse, the Harmony +Of the Sacred Scriptures, new and old, +And the Psalter with Ten Strings, enfold +Within their pages, all and each, +The Eternal Gospel that I teach. +Well I remember the Kingdom of Heaven +Hath been likened to a little leaven +Hidden in two measures of meal, +Until it leavened the whole mass; +So likewise will it come to pass +With the doctrines that I here conceal. + +Open and manifest to me +The truth appears, and must be told; +All sacred mysteries are threefold; +Three Persons in the Trinity, +Three ages of Humanity, +And holy Scriptures likewise three, +Of Fear, of Wisdom, and of Love; +For Wisdom that begins in Fear +Endeth in Love; the atmosphere +In which the soul delights to be +And finds that perfect liberty +Which cometh only from above. + +In the first Age, the early prime +And dawn of all historic time, +The Father reigned; and face to face +He spake with the primeval race. +Bright Angels, on his errands sent, +Sat with the patriarch in his tent; +His prophets thundered in the street; +His lightnings flashed, his hailstorms beat; +In earthquake and in flood and flame, +In tempest and in cloud He came! +The fear of God is in his Book; +The pages of the Pentateuch +Are full of the terror of his name. + +Then reigned the Son; his Covenant +Was peace on earth, good-will to man; +With Him the reign of Law began. +He was the Wisdom and the Word, +And sent his Angels Ministrant, +Unterrified and undeterred, +To rescue souls forlorn and lost, +The troubled, tempted, tempest-tost +To heal, to comfort, and to teach. +The fiery tongues of Pentecost +His symbols were, that they should preach +In every form of human speech +From continent to continent. +He is the Light Divine, whose rays +Across the thousand years unspent +Shine through the darkness of our days, +And touch with their celestial fires +Our churches and our convent spires. +His Book is the New Testament. + +These Ages now are of the Past; +And the Third Age begins at last. +The coming of the Holy Ghost, +The reign of Grace, the reign of Love +Brightens the mountain-tops above, +And the dark outline of the coast. +Already the whole land is white +With Convent walls, as if by night +A snow had fallen on hill and height! +Already from the streets and marts +Of town and traffic, and low cares, +Men climb the consecrated stairs +With weary feet, and bleeding hearts; +And leave the world and its delights, +Its passions, struggles, and despairs, +For contemplation and for prayers +In cloister-cells of coenobites. + +Eternal benedictions rest +Upon thy name, Saint Benedict! +Founder of convents in the West, +Who built on Mount Cassino's crest +In the Land of Labor, thine eagle's nest! +May I be found not derelict +In aught of faith or godly fear, +If I have written, in many a page, +The Gospel of the coming age, +The Eternal Gospel men shall hear. +Oh may I live resembling thee, +And die at last as thou hast died; +So that hereafter men may see, +Within the choir, a form of air, +Standing with arms outstretched in prayer, +As one that hath been crucified! +My work is finished; I am strong +In faith and hope and charity; +For I have written the things I see, +The things that have been and shall be, +Conscious of right, nor fearing wrong; +Because I am in love with Love, +And the sole thing I hate is Hate; +For Hate is death; and Love is life, +A peace, a splendor from above; +And Hate, a never-ending strife, +A smoke, a blackness from the abyss +Where unclean serpents coil and hiss! +Love is the Holy Ghost within +Hate the unpardonable sin! +Who preaches otherwise than this +Betrays his Master with a kiss! + + + +PART TWO + +THE GOLDEN LEGEND + +PROLOGUE + +THE SPIRE OF STRASBURG CATHEDRAL + +Night and storm. LUCIFER, with the Powers of the Air, trying to +tear down the Cross. + +LUCIFER. +Hasten! hasten! +O ye spirits! +From its station drag the ponderous +Cross of iron, that to mock us +Is uplifted high in air! + +VOICES. +Oh, we cannot! +For around it +All the Saints and Guardian Angels +Throng in legions to protect it; +They defeat us everywhere! + +THE BELLS. + Laudo Deum verum! + Plebem voco! + Congrego clerum! + +LUCIFER. +Lower! lower! +Hover downward! +Seize the loud, vociferous bells, and +Clashing, clanging to the pavement, +Hurl them from their windy tower. + +VOICES. +All thy thunders +Here are harmless! +For these bells have been anointed, +And baptized with holy water! +They defy our utmost power. + +THE BELLS. + Defunctos ploro! + Pestem fugo! + Festa decoro! + +LUCIFER. +Shake the casements! +Break the painted +Panes, that flame with gold and crimson; +Scatter them like leaves of Autumn, +Swept away before the blast! + +VOICES. +Oh, we cannot! +The Archangel +Michael flames from every window, +With the sword of fire that drove us +Headlong, out of heaven, aghast! + +THE BELLS. + Funera plango! + Fulgura frango! + Sabbata pango! + +LUCIFER. +Aim your lightnings +At the oaken, +Massive, iron-studded portals! +Sack the house of God, and scatter +Wide the ashes of the dead! + +VOICES. +Oh, we cannot! +The Apostles +And the Martyrs, wrapped in mantles, +Stand as warders at the entrance, +Stand as sentinels o'erhead! + +THE BELLS. + Excito lentos! + Dissipo ventos! + Paco cruentos! + +LUCIFER. +Baffled! baffled! +Inefficient, +Craven spirits! leave this labor +Unto time, the great Destroyer! +Come away, ere night is gone! + +VOICES. +Onward! onward! +With the night-wind, +Over field and farm and forest, +Lonely homestead, darksome hamlet, +Blighting all we breathe upon! + +They sweep away. Organ and Gregorian Chant. + +CHOIR. +Nocte surgentes +Vigilemus omnes! + + +I + +THE CASTLE OF VAUTSBERG ON THE RHINE + +A chamber in a tower. PRINCE HENRY sitting alone, ill and +restless. +Midnight. + +PRINCE HENRY. +I cannot sleep! my fervid brain +Calls up the vanished Past again, +And throws its misty splendors deep +Into the pallid realms of sleep! +A breath from that far-distant shore +Comes freshening ever more and more, +And wafts o'er intervening seas +Sweet odors from the Hesperides! +A wind, that through the corridor +Just stirs the curtain, and no more, +And, touching the aolian strings, +Faints with the burden that it brings! +Come back! ye friendships long departed! +That like o'erflowing streamlets started, +And now are dwindled, one by one, +To stony channels in the sun! +Come back! ye friends, whose lives are ended, +Come back, with all that light attended, +Which seemed to darken and decay +When ye arose and went away! + +They come, the shapes of joy and woe, +The airy crowds of long ago, +The dreams and fancies known of yore, +That have been, and shall be no more. +They change the cloisters of the night +Into a garden of delight; +They make the dark and dreary hours +Open and blossom into flowers! +I would not sleep! I love to be +Again in their fair company; +But ere my lips can bid them stay, +They pass and vanish quite away! +Alas! our memories may retrace +Each circumstance of time and place, +Season and scene come back again, +And outward things unchanged remain; +The rest we cannot reinstate; +Ourselves we can not re-create; +Nor set our souls to the same key +Of the remembered harmony! + +Rest! rest! Oh, give me rest and peace! +The thought of life that ne'er shall cease +Has something in it like despair, +A weight I am too weak to bear! +Sweeter to this afflicted breast +The thought of never-ending rest! +Sweeter the undisturbed and deep +Tranquillity of endless sleep! + +A flash of lightning, out of which LUCIFER appears, in the garb +of a travelling Physician. + +LUCIFER. +All hail, Prince Henry! + +PRINCE HENRY, starting. + Who is it speaks? +Who and what are you? + +LUCIFER. + One who seeks +A moment's audience with the Prince. + +PRINCE HENRY. +When came you in? + +LUCIFER. + A moment since. +I found your study door unlocked, +And thought you answered when I knocked. + +PRINCE HENRY. +I did not hear you. + +LUCIFER. + You heard the thunder; +It was loud enough to waken the dead. +And it is not a matter of special wonder +That, when God is walking overhead, +You should not hear my feeble tread. + +PRINCE HENRY. +What may your wish or purpose be? + +LUCIFER. +Nothing or everything, as it pleases +Your Highness. You behold in me +Only a travelling Physician; +One of the few who have a mission +To cure incurable diseases, +Or those that are called so. + +PRINCE HENRY. + Can you bring +The dead to life? + +LUCIFER. + Yes; very nearly. +And, what is a wiser and better thing, +Can keep the living from ever needing +Such an unnatural, strange proceeding, +By showing conclusively and clearly +That death is a stupid blunder merely, +And not a necessity of our lives. +My being here is accidental; +The storm, that against your casement drives, +In the little village below waylaid me. +And there I heard, with a secret delight, +Of your maladies physical and mental, +Which neither astonished nor dismayed me. +And I hastened hither, though late in the night, +To proffer my aid! + +PRINCE HENRY, ironically. + For this you came! +Ah, how can I ever hope to requite +This honor from one so erudite? + +LUCIFER. +The honor is mine, or will be when +I have cured your disease. + +PRINCE HENRY. + But not till then. + +LUCIFER. +What is your illness? + +PRINCE HENRY. + It has no name. +A smouldering, dull, perpetual flame, +As in a kiln, burns in my veins, +Sending up vapors to the head; +My heart has become a dull lagoon, +Which a kind of leprosy drinks and drains; +I am accounted as one who is dead, +And, indeed, I think that I shall be soon. + +LUCIFER. +And has Gordonius the Divine, +In his famous Lily of Medicine,-- +I see the book lies open before you,-- +No remedy potent enough to restore you? + +PRINCE HENRY. +None whatever! + +LUCIFER. + The dead are dead, +And their oracles dumb, when questioned +Of the new diseases that human life +Evolves in its progress, rank and rife. +Consult the dead upon things that were, +But the living only on things that are. +Have you done this, by the appliance +And aid of doctors? + +PRINCE HENRY. + Ay, whole schools +Of doctors, with their learned rules; +But the case is quite beyond their science. +Even the doctors of Salern +Send me back word they can discern +No cure for a malady like this, +Save one which in its nature is +Impossible and cannot be! + +LUCIFER. +That sounds oracular! + +PRINCE HENRY. + Unendurable! + +LUCIFER. +What is their remedy? + +PRINCE HENRY. + You shall see; +Writ in this scroll is the mystery. + +LUCIFER, reading. +"Not to be cured, yet not incurable! +The only remedy that remains +Is the blood that flows from a maiden's veins, +Who of her own free will shall die, +And give her life as the price of yours!" + +That is the strangest of all cures, +And one, I think, you will never try; +The prescription you may well put by, +As something impossible to find +Before the world itself shall end! +And yet who knows? One cannot say +That into some maiden's brain that kind +Of madness will not find its way. +Meanwhile permit me to recommend, +As the matter admits of no delay, +My wonderful Catholicon, +Of very subtile and magical powers! + +PRINCE HENRY. +Purge with your nostrums and drugs infernal +The spouts and gargoyles of these towers, +Not me! My faith is utterly gone +In every power but the Power Supernal! +Pray tell ne, of what school are you? + +LUCIFER. +Both of the Old and of the New! +The school of Hermes Trismegistus, +Who uttered his oracles sublime +Before the Olympiads, in the dew +Of the early dusk and dawn of time, +The reign of dateless old Hephæstus! +As northward, from its Nubian springs, +The Nile, forever new and old, +Among the living and the dead, +Its mighty mystic stream has rolled; +So, starting from its fountain-head +Under the lotus-leaves of Isis, +From the dead demigods of eld, +Through long unbroken lines of kings +Its course the sacred art has held, +Unchecked, unchanged by man's devices. +This art the Arabian Geber taught, +And in alembics, finely wrought, +Distilling herbs and flowers, discovered +The secret that so long had hovered +Upon the misty verge of Truth, +The Elixir of Perpetual Youth, +Called Alcohol, in the Arab speech! +Like him, this wondrous lore I teach! + +PRINCE HENRY. +What! an adept? + +LUCIFFR. + Nor less, nor more! + +PRINCE HENRY. +I am a reader of your books, +A lover of that mystic lore! +With such a piercing glance it looks +Into great Nature's open eye, +And sees within it trembling lie +The portrait of the Deity! +And yet, alas! with all my pains, +The secret and the mystery +Have baffled and eluded me, +Unseen the grand result remains! + +LUCIFER, showing a flask. +Behold it here! this little flask +Contains the wonderful quintessence, +The perfect flower and efflorescence, +Of all the knowledge man can ask! +Hold it up thus against the light! + +PRINCE HENRY. +How limpid, pure, and crystalline, +How quick, and tremulous, and bright +The little wavelets dance and shine, +As were it the Water of Life in sooth! + +LUCIFER. +It is! It assuages every pain, +Cures all disease, and gives again +To age the swift delights of youth. +Inhale its fragrance. + +PRINCE HENRY. + It is sweet. +A thousand different odors meet +And mingle in its rare perfume, +Such as the winds of summer waft +At open windows through a room! + +LUCIFER. +Will you not taste it? + +PRINCE HENRY. + Will one draught +Suffice? + +LUCIFER. + If not, you can drink more. + +PRINCE HENRY. +Into this crystal goblet pour +So much as safely I may drink, + +LUCIFER, pouring. +Let not the quantity alarm you; +You may drink all; it will not harm you. + +PRINCE HENRY. +I am as one who on the brink +Of a dark river stands and sees +The waters flow, the landscape dim +Around him waver, wheel, and swim, +And, ere he plunges, stops to think +Into what whirlpools he may sink; +One moment pauses, and no more, +Then madly plunges from the shore! +Headlong into the mysteries +Of life and death I boldly leap, +Nor fear the fateful current's sweep, +Nor what in ambush lurks below! +For death is better than disease! + +An ANGEL with an æolian harp hovers in the air. + +ANGEL. +Woe! woe! eternal woe! +Not only the whispered prayer +Of love, +But the imprecations of hate, +Reverberate +For ever and ever through the air +Above! +This fearful curse +Shakes the great universe! + +LUCIFER, disappearing. +Drink! drink! +And thy soul shall sink +Down into the dark abyss, +Into the infinite abyss, +From which no plummet nor rope +Ever drew up the silver sand of hope! + +PRINCE HENRY, drinking. +It is like a draught of fire! +Through every vein +I feel again +The fever of youth, the soft desire; +A rapture that is almost pain +Throbs in my heart and fills my brain +O joy! O joy! I feel +The band of steel +That so long and heavily has pressed +Upon my breast +Uplifted, and the malediction +Of my affliction +Is taken from me, and my weary breast +At length finds rest. + +THE ANGEL. +It is but the rest of the fire, from which the air has been +taken! +It is but the rest of the sand, when the hour-glass is not +shaken! +It is but the rest of the tide between the ebb and the flow! +It is but the rest of the wind between the flaws that blow! +With fiendish laughter, +Hereafter, +This false physician +Will mock thee in thy perdition. + +PRINCE HENRY. +Speak! speak! +Who says that I am ill? +I am not ill! I am not weak! +The trance, the swoon, the dream, is o'er! +I feel the chill of death no more! +At length, +I stand renewed in all my strength +Beneath me I can feel +The great earth stagger and reel, +As if the feet of a descending God +Upon its surface trod, +And like a pebble it rolled beneath his heel! +This, O brave physician! this +Is thy great Palingenesis! + +Drinks again. + +THE ANGEL. +Touch the goblet no more! +It will make thy heart sore +To its very core! +Its perfume is the breath +Of the Angel of Death, +And the light that within it lies +Is the flash of his evil eyes. +Beware! Oh, beware! +For sickness, sorrow, and care +All are there! + +PRINCE HENRY, sinking back. +O thou voice within my breast! +Why entreat me, why upbraid me, +When the steadfast tongues of truth +And the flattering hopes of youth +Have all deceived me and betrayed me? +Give me, give me rest, oh rest! +Golden visions wave and hover, +Golden vapors, waters streaming, +Landscapes moving, changing, gleaming! +I am like a happy lover, +Who illumines life with dreaming! +Brave physician! Rare physician! +Well hast thou fulfilled thy mission! + +His head falls on his book. + +THE ANGEL, receding. +Alas! alas! +Like a vapor the golden vision +Shall fade and pass, +And thou wilt find in thy heart again +Only the blight of pain, +And bitter, bitter, bitter contrition! + + +COURT-YARD OF THE CASTLE + +HUBERT standing by the gateway. + +HUBERT. +How sad the grand old castle looks! +O'erhead, the unmolested rooks +Upon the turret's windy top +Sit, talking of the farmer's crop +Here in the court-yard springs the grass, +So few are now the feet that pass; +The stately peacocks, bolder grown, +Come hopping down the steps of stone, +As if the castle were their own; +And I, the poor old seneschal, +Haunt, like a ghost, the banquet-hall. +Alas! the merry guests no more +Crowd through the hospitable door; +No eyes with youth and passion shine, +No cheeks glow redder than the wine; +No song, no laugh, no jovial din +Of drinking wassail to the pin; +But all is silent, sad, and drear, +And now the only sounds I hear +Are the hoarse rooks upon the walls, +And horses stamping in their stalls! + +A horn sounds. + +What ho! that merry, sudden blast +Reminds me of the days long past! +And, as of old resounding, grate +The heavy hinges of the gate, +And, clattering loud, with iron clank, +Down goes the sounding bridge of plank, +As if it were in haste to greet +The pressure of a traveller's feet! + +Enter WALTER the Minnesinger. + +WALTER. +How now, my friend! This looks quite lonely! +No banner flying from the walls, +No pages and no seneschals, +No warders, and one porter only! +Is it you, Hubert? + +HUBERT. + Ah! Master Walter! + +WALTER. +Alas! how forms and faces alter! +I did not know you. You look older! +Your hair has grown much grayer and thinner, +And you stoop a little in the shoulder! + +HUBERT. +Alack! I am a poor old sinner, +And, like these towers, begin to moulder; +And you have been absent many a year! + +WALTER. +How is the Prince? + +HUBERT. + He is not here; +He has been ill: and now has fled. + +WALTER. +Speak it out frankly: say he's dead! +Is it not so? + +HUBERT. + No; if you please, +A strange, mysterious disease +Fell on him with a sudden blight. +Whole hours together he would stand +Upon the terrace in a dream, +Resting his head upon his hand, +Best pleased when he was most alone, +Like Saint John Nepomuck in stone, +Looking down into a stream. +In the Round Tower, night after night, +He sat and bleared his eyes with books; +Until one morning we found him there +Stretched on the floor, as if in a swoon +He had fallen from his chair. +We hardly recognized his sweet looks! + +WALTER. +Poor Prince! + +HUBERT. + I think he might have mended; +And he did mend; but very soon +The priests came flocking in, like rooks, +With all their crosiers and their crooks, +And so at last the matter ended. + +WALTER. +How did it end? + +HUBERT. + Why, in Saint Rochus +They made him stand and wait his doom; +And, as if he were condemned to the tomb, +Began to mutter their hocus-pocus. +First, the Mass for the Dead they chanted, +Then three times laid upon his head +A shovelful of churchyard clay, +Saying to him, as he stood undaunted, +"This is a sign that thou art dead, +So in thy heart be penitent!" +And forth from the chapel door he went +Into disgrace and banishment, +Clothed in a cloak of hodden gray, +And hearing a wallet, and a bell, +Whose sound should be a perpetual knell +To keep all travellers away. + +WALTER. +Oh, horrible fate! Outcast, rejected, +As one with pestilence infected! + +HUBERT. +Then was the family tomb unsealed, +And broken helmet, sword, and shield +Buried together, in common wreck, +As is the custom when the last +Of any princely house has passed, +And thrice, as with a trumpet-blast, +A herald shouted down the stair +The words of warning and despair,-- +"O Hoheneck! O Hoheneck!" + +WALTER. +Still in my soul that cry goes on,-- +Forever gone! forever gone! +Ah, what a cruel sense of loss, +Like a black shadow, would fall across +The hearts of all, if he should die! +His gracious presence upon earth +Was as a fire upon a hearth; +As pleasant songs, at morning sung, +The words that dropped from his sweet tongue +Strengthened our hearts; or heard at night +Made all our slumbers soft and light. +Where is he? + +HUBERT. + In the Odenwald. +Some of his tenants, unappalled +By fear of death, or priestly word,-- +A holy family, that make +Each meal a Supper of the Lord,-- +Have him beneath their watch and ward, +For love of him, and Jesus' sake! +Pray you come in. For why should I +With out-door hospitality +My prince's friend thus entertain? + +WALTER. +I would a moment here remain. +But you, good Hubert, go before, +Fill me a goblet of May-drink, +As aromatic as the May +From which it steals the breath away, +And which he loved so well of yore; +It is of him that I would think. +You shall attend me, when I call, +In the ancestral banquet-hall. +Unseen companions, guests of air, +You cannot wait on, will be there; +They taste not food, they drink not wine, +But their soft eyes look into mine, +And their lips speak to me, and all +The vast and shadowy banquet-hall +Is full of looks and words divine! + +Leaning over the parapet. + +The day is done; and slowly from the scene +The stooping sun up-gathers his spent shafts, +And puts them back into his golden quiver! +Below me in the valley, deep and green +As goblets are, from which in thirsty draughts +We drink its wine, the swift and mantling river +Flows on triumphant through these lovely regions, +Etched with the shadows of its sombre margent, +And soft, reflected clouds of gold and argent! +Yes, there it flows, forever, broad and still +As when the vanguard of the Roman legions +First saw it from the top of yonder hill! +How beautiful it is! Fresh fields of wheat, +Vineyard and town, and tower with fluttering flag, +The consecrated chapel on the crag, +And the white hamlet gathered round its base, +Like Mary sitting at her Saviour's feet, +And looking up at his beloved face! +O friend! O best of friends! Thy absence more +Than the impending night darkens the landscape o'er! + + +II + +A FARM IN THE ODENWALD + +A garden; morning; PRINCE HENRY seated, with a book. +ELSIE at a distance gathering flowers. + +PRINCE HENRY, reading. +One morning, all alone, +Out of his convent of gray stone, +Into the forest older, darker, grayer, +His lips moving, as if in prayer, +His head sunken upon his breast +As in a dream of rest, +Walked the Monk Felix. All about +The broad, sweet sunshine lay without, +Filling the summer air; +And within the woodlands as he trod, +The dusk was like the truce of God +With worldly woe and care; +Under him lay the golden moss; +And above him the boughs of hoary trees +Waved, and made the sign of the cross, +And whispered their Benedicites; +And from the ground +Rose an odor sweet and fragrant +Of the wild-flowers and the vagrant +Vines that wandered, +Seeking the sunshine, round and round. + +These he heeded not, but pondered +On the volume in his hand, +Wherein amazed he read: +"A thousand years in thy sight +Are but as yesterday when it is past, +And as a watch in the night!" +And with his eyes downcast +In humility he said: +"I believe, O Lord, +What is written in thy Word, +But alas! I do not understand!" + +And lo! he heard +The sudden singing of a bird, +A snow-white bird, that from a cloud +Dropped down, +And among the branches brown +Sat singing, +So sweet, and clear, and loud, +It seemed a thousand harp-strings ringing. +And the Monk Felix closed his book, +And long, long, +With rapturous look, +He listened to the song, +And hardly breathed or stirred, +Until he saw, as in a vision, +The land Elysian, +And in the heavenly city heard +Angelic feet +Fall on the golden flagging of the street +And he would fain +Have caught the wondrous bird, +But strove in vain; +For it flew away, away, +Far over hill and dell, +And instead of its sweet singing +He heard the convent bell +Suddenly in the silence ringing +For the service of noonday. +And he retraced +His pathway sadly and in haste. + +In the convent there was a change! +He looked for each well-known face, +But the faces were new and strange; +New figures sat in the oaken stalls, +New voices chanted in the choir; +Yet the place was the same place, +The same dusky walls +Of cold, gray stone, +The same cloisters and belfry and spire. + +A stranger and alone +Among that brotherhood +The Monk Felix stood. +"Forty years," said a Friar, +"Have I been Prior +Of this convent in the wood, +But for that space +Never have I beheld thy face!" + +The heart of the Monk Felix fell +And he answered, with submissive tone, +This morning after the hour of Prime, +I left my cell, +And wandered forth alone, +Listening all the time +To the melodious singing +Of a beautiful white bird, +Until I heard +The bells of the convent ringing +Noon from their noisy towers. +It was as if I dreamed; +For what to me had seemed +Moments only, had been hours!" + +"Years!" said a voice close by. +It was an aged monk who spoke, +From a bench of oak +Fastened against the wall;-- +He was the oldest monk of all. +For a whole century +Had he been there, +Serving God in prayer, +The meekest and humblest of his creatures. +He remembered well the features +Of Felix, and he said, +Speaking distinct and slow: +"One hundred years ago, +When I was a novice in this place, +There was here a monk, full of God's grace, +Who bore the name +Of Felix, and this man must be the same." + +And straightway +They brought forth to the light of day +A volume old and brown, +A huge tome, bound +In brass and wild-boar's hide, +Wherein were written down +The names of all who had died +In the convent, since it was edified. +And there they found, +Just as the old monk said, +That on a certain day and date, +One hundred years before, +Had gone forth from the convent gate +The Monk Felix, and never more +Had entered that sacred door. +He had been counted among the dead! +And they knew, at last, +That, such had been the power +Of that celestial and immortal song, +A hundred years had passed, +And had not seemed so long +As a single hour! + +ELSIE comes in with flowers. + +ELSIE. +Here are flowers for you, +But they are not all for you. +Some of them are for the Virgin +And for Saint Cecilia. + +PRINCE HENRY. +As thou standest there, +Thou seemest to me like the angel +That brought the immortal roses +To Saint Cecilia's bridal chamber. + +ELSIE. +But these will fade. + +PRINCE HENRY. +Themselves will fade, +But not their memory, +And memory has the power +To re-create them from the dust. +They remind me, too, +Of martyred Dorothea, +Who from Celestial gardens sent +Flowers as her witnesses +To him who scoffed and doubted. + +ELSIE. +Do you know the story +Of Christ and the Sultan's daughter! +That is the prettiest legend of them all. + +PRINCE HENRY. +Then tell it to me. +But first come hither. +Lay the flowers down beside me, +And put both thy hands in mine. +Now tell me the story. + +ELSIE. +Early in the morning +The Sultan's daughter +Walked in her father's garden, +Gathering the bright flowers, +All full of dew. + +PRINCE HENRY. +Just as thou hast been doing +This morning, dearest Elsie. + +ELSIE. +And as she gathered them +She wondered more and more +Who was the Master of the Flowers, +And made them grow +Out of the cold, dark earth. +"In my heart," she said, +"I love him; and for him +Would leave my father's palace, +To labor in his garden." + +PRINCE HENRY. +Dear, innocent child! +How sweetly thou recallest +The long-forgotten legend. +That in my early childhood +My mother told me! +Upon my brain +It reappears once more, +As a birth-mark on the forehead +When a hand suddenly +Is raised upon it, and removed! + +ELSIE. +And at midnight, +As she lay upon her bed, +She heard a voice +Call to her from the garden, +And, looking forth from her window, +She saw a beautiful youth +Standing among the flowers. +It was the Lord Jesus; +And she went down to Him, +And opened the door for Him; +And He said to her, "O maiden! +Thou hast thought of me with love, +And for thy sake +Out of my Father's kingdom +Have I come hither: +I am the Master of the Flowers. +My garden is in Paradise, +And if thou wilt go with me, +Thy bridal garland +Shall be of bright red flowers." +And then He took from his finger +A golden ring, +And asked the Sultan's daughter +If she would be his bride. +And when she answered Him with love, +His wounds began to bleed, +And she said to Him, +"O Love! how red thy heart is, +And thy hands are full of roses." +"For thy sake," answered He, +"For thy sake is my heart so red, +For thee I bring these roses; +I gathered them at the cross +Whereon I died for thee! +I Come, for my Father calls. +Thou art my elected bride!" +And the Sultan's daughter +Followed Him to his Father's garden. + +PRINCE HENRY. +Wouldst thou have done so, Elsie? + +ELSIE. +Yes, very gladly. + +PRINCE HENRY. +Then the Celestial Bridegroom +Will come for thee also. +Upon thy forehead He will place, +Not his crown of thorns, +But a crown of roses. +In thy bridal chamber, +Like Saint Cecilia, +Thou shalt hear sweet music, +And breathe the fragrance +Of flowers immortal! +Go now and place these flowers +Before her picture. + + +A ROOM IN THE FARM-HOUSE + +Twilight. URSULA Spinning. GOTTLIEB asleep in his chair. + +URSULA. +Darker and darker! Hardly a glimmer +Of light comes in at the window-pane; +Or is it my eyes are growing dimmer? +I cannot disentangle this skein, +Nor wind it rightly upon the reel. +Elsie! + +GOTTLIER, starting. +The stopping of thy wheel +Has awakened me out of a pleasant dream. +I thought I was sitting beside a stream, +And heard the grinding of a mill, +When suddenly the wheels stood still, +And a voice cried "Elsie," in my ear! +It startled me, it seemed so near. + +URSULA. +I was calling her: I want a light. +I cannot see to spin my flax. +Bring the lamp, Elsie. Dost thou hear? + +ELSIE, within. +In a moment! + +GOTTLIEB. + Where are Bertha and Max? + +URSULA. +They are sitting with Elsie at the door. +She is telling them stories of the wood, +And the Wolf, and little Red Ridinghood. + +GOTTLIEB. +And where is the Prince? + +URSULA. + In his room overhead; +I heard him walking across the floor, +As he always does, with a heavy tread. + +ELSIE comes in with a lamp. MAX and BERTHA follow her; and they +all sing the Evening Song on the lighting of the lamps. + + +EVENING SONG + +O gladsome light +Of the Father Immortal, +And of the celestial +Sacred and blessed +Jesus, our Saviour! + +Now to the sunset +Again hast thou brought us; +And seeing the evening +Twilight, we bless thee! +Praise thee, adore thee! + +Father omnipotent! +Son, the Life-giver! +Spirit, the Comforter! +Worthy at all times +Of worship and wonder! + + +PRINCE HENRY, at the door, +Amen! + +URSULA. + Who was it said Amen? + +ELSIE. +It was the Prince: he stood at the door, +And listened a moment, as we chanted +The evening song. He is gone again. +I have often seen him there before. + +URSULA. +Poor Prince! + +GOTTLIEB. + I thought the house was haunted! +Poor Prince, alas! and yet as mild +And patient as the gentlest child! + +MAX. +I love him because he is so good, +And makes me such fine bows and arrows, +To shoot at the robins and the sparrows, +And the red squirrels in the wood! + +BERTHA. +I love him, too! + +GOTTLIEB. + Ah, yes! we all +Love him from the bottom of our hearts; +He gave us the farm, the house, and the grange, +He gave us the horses and the carts, +And the great oxen in the stall, +The vineyard, and the forest range! +We have nothing to give him but our love! + +BERTHA. +Did he give us the beautiful stork above +On the chimney-top, with its large, round nest? + +GOTTLIEB. +No, not the stork; by God in heaven, +As a blessing, the dear white stork was given, +But the Prince has given us all the rest. +God bless him, and make him well again. + +ELSIE. +Would I could do something for his sake, +Something to cure his sorrow and pain! + +GOTTLIEB. +That no one can; neither thou nor I, +Nor any one else. + +ELSIE. + And must he die? + +URSULA. +Yes; if the dear God does not take +Pity upon him in his distress, +And work a miracle! + +GOTTLIEB. + Or unless +Some maiden, of her own accord, +Offers her life for that of her lord, +And is willing to die in his stead. + +ELSIE. + I will! + +URSULA. +Prithee, thou foolish child, be still! +Thou shouldst not say what thou dost not mean! + +ELSIE. +I mean it truly! + +MAX. +O father! this morning, +Down by the mill, in the ravine, +Hans killed a wolf, the very same +That in the night to the sheepfold came, +And ate up my lamb, that was left outside. + +GOTTLIEB. +I am glad he is dead. It will be a warning +To the wolves in the forest, far and wide. + +MAX. +And I am going to have his hide! + +BERTHA. +I wonder if this is the wolf that ate +Little Red Ridinghood! + +URSULA. + Oh, no! +That wolf was killed a long while ago. +Come, children, it is growing late. + +MAX. +Ah, how I wish I were a man, +As stout as Hans is, and as strong! +I would do nothing else, the whole day long, +But just kill wolves. + +GOTTLIEB. + Then go to bed, +And grow as fast as a little boy can. +Bertha is half asleep already. +See how she nods her heavy head, +And her sleepy feet are so unsteady +She will hardly be able to creep upstairs. + +URSULA. +Goodnight, my children. Here's the light. +And do not forget to say your prayers +Before you sleep. + +GOTTLIEB. + Good night! + +MAX and BERTHA. + Good night! + +They go out with ELSIE. + +URSULA, spinning. +She is a strange and wayward child, +That Elsie of ours. She looks so old, +And thoughts and fancies weird and wild +Seem of late to have taken hold +Of her heart, that was once so docile and mild! + +GOTTLIEB. +She is like all girls. + +URSULA. + Ah no, forsooth! +Unlike all I have ever seen. +For she has visions and strange dreams, +And in all her words and ways, she seems +Much older than she is in truth. +Who would think her but fifteen? +And there has been of late such a change! +My heart is heavy with fear and doubt +That she may not live till the year is out. +She is so strange,--so strange,--so strange! + +GOTTLIEB. +I am not troubled with any such fear; +She will live and thrive for many a year. + + +ELSIE'S CHAMBER + +Night. ELSIE praying. + +ELSIE. +My Redeemer and my Lord, +I beseech thee, I entreat thee, +Guide me in each act and word, +That hereafter I may meet thee, +Watching, waiting, hoping, yearning, +With my lamp well trimmed and burning! + +Interceding +With these bleeding +Wounds upon thy hands and side, +For all who have lived and erred +Thou hast suffered, thou hast died, +Scourged, and mocked, and crucified, +And in the grave hast thou been buried! + +If my feeble prayer can reach thee, +O my Saviour, I beseech thee, +Even as thou hast died for me, +More sincerely +Let me follow where thou leadest, +Let me, bleeding as thou bleedest, +Die, if dying I may give +Life to one who asks to live, +And more nearly, +Dying thus, resemble thee! + + +THE CHAMBER OF GOTTLIEB AND URSULA + +Midnight. ELSIE standing by their bedside, weeping. + +GOTTLIEB. +The wind is roaring; the rushing rain +Is loud upon roof and window-pane, +As if the Wild Huntsman of Rodenstein, +Boding evil to me and mine, +Were abroad to-night with his ghostly train! +In the brief lulls of the tempest wild, +The dogs howl in the yard; and hark! +Some one is sobbing in the dark, +Here in the chamber! + +ELSIE. + It is I. + +URSULA. +Elsie! what ails thee, my poor child? + +ELSIE. +I am disturbed and much distressed, +In thinking our dear Prince must die; +I cannot close mine eyes, nor rest, + +GOTTLIEB. +What wouldst thou? In the Power Divine +His healing lies, not in our own; +It is in the hand of God alone, + +ELSIE. +Nay, He has put it into mine, +And into my heart! + +GOTTLIEB. + Thy words are wild! + +URSULA. +What dost thou mean? my child! My child! + +ELSIE. +That for our dear Prince Henry's sake +I will myself the offering make, +And give my life to purchase his. + +URSULA. +Am I still dreaming, or awake? +Thou speakest carelessly of death, +And yet thou knowest not what it is. + +ELSIE. +'T is the cessation of our breath. +Silent and motionless we lie; +And no one knoweth more than this. +I saw our little Gertrude die; +She left off breathing, and no more +I smoothed the pillow beneath her head. +She was more beautiful than before. +Like violets faded were her eyes; +By this we knew that she was dead. +Through the open window looked the skies +Into the chamber where she lay, +And the wind was like the sound of wings, +As if angels came to bear her away. +Ah! when I saw and felt these things, +I found it difficult to stay; +I longed to die, as she had died, +And go forth with her, side by side. +The Saints are dead, the Martyrs dead +And Mary, and our Lord; and I +Would follow in humility +The way by them illumined! + +URSULA. +My child! my child! thou must not die! + +ELSIE. +Why should I live? Do I not know +The life of woman is full of woe? +Toiling on and on and on, +With breaking heart, and tearful eyes, +And silent lips, and in the soul +The secret longings that arise, +Which this world never satisfies! +Some more, some less, but of the whole +Not one quite happy, no, not one! + +URSULA. +It is the malediction of Eve! + +ELSIE. +In place of it, let me receive +The benediction of Mary, then. + +GOTTLIEB. +Ah, woe is me! Ah, woe is me! +Most wretched am I among men! + +URSULA. +Alas! that I should live to see +Thy death, beloved, and to stand +Above thy grave! Ah, woe the day! + +ELSIE. +Thou wilt not see it. I shall lie +Beneath the flowers of another land, +For at Salerno, far away +Over the mountains, over the sea, +It is appointed me to die! +And it will seem no more to thee +Than if at the village on market-day +I should a little longer stay +Than I am wont. + +URSULA. + Even as thou sayest! +And how my heart beats, when thou stayest! +I cannot rest until my sight +Is satisfied with seeing thee, +What, then, if thou wert dead? + +GOTTLIEB. + Ah me! +Of our old eyes thou art the light! +The joy of our old hearts art thou! +And wilt thou die? + +URSULA. + Not now! not now! + +ELSIE. +Christ died for me, and shall not! +Be willing for my Prince to die? +You both are silent; you cannot speak +This said I at our Saviour's feast +After confession, to the priest, +And even he made no reply. +Does he not warn us all to seek +The happier, better land on high, +Where flowers immortal never wither; +And could he forbid me to go thither? + +GOTTLIEB. +In God's own time, my heart's delight! +When He shall call thee, not before! + +ELSIE. +I heard Him call. When Christ ascended +Triumphantly, from star to star, +He left the gates of heaven ajar. +I had a vision in the night, +And saw Him standing at the door +Of his Father's mansion, vast and splendid, +And beckoning to me from afar. +I cannot stay! + +GOTTLIEB. + She speaks almost +As if it were the Holy Ghost +Spake through her lips, and in her stead: +What if this were of God? + +URSULA. + Ah, then +Gainsay it dare we not. + +GOTTLIEB. + Amen! +Elsie! the words that thou hast said +Are strange and new for us to hear, +And fill our hears with doubt and fear. +Whether it be a dark temptation +Of the Evil One, or God's inspiration, +We in our blindness cannot say. +We must think upon it, and pray; +For evil and good it both resembles. +If it be of God, his will be done! +May He guard us from the Evil One! +How hot thy hand is! how it trembles! +Go to thy bed, and try to sleep. + +URSULA. +Kiss me. Good night; and do not weep! + +ELSIE goes out. + +Ah, what an awful thing is this! +I almost shuddered at her kiss, +As if a ghost had touched my cheek, +I am so childish and so weak! +As soon as I see the earliest gray +Of morning glimmer in the east, +I will go over to the priest, +And hear what the good man has to say. + + +A VILLAGE CHURCH + +A woman kneeling at the confessional. + +THE PARISH PRIEST, from within. +Go, sin no more! Thy penance o'er, +A new and better life begin! +God maketh thee forever free +From the dominion of thy sin! +Go, sin no more! He will restore +The peace that filled thy heart before, +And pardon thine iniquity! + +The woman goes out. The Priest comes forth, and walks +slowly up and down the church. + +O blessed Lord! how much I need +Thy light to guide me on my way! +So many hands, that, without heed, +Still touch thy wounds and make them bleed! +So many feet, that, day by day, +Still wander from thy fold astray! +Unless thou fill me with thy light, +I cannot lead thy flock aright; +Nor without thy support can bear +The burden of so great a care, +But am myself a castaway! + +A pause. + +The day is drawing to its close; +And what good deeds, since first it rose, +Have I presented, Lord, to thee, +As offsprings of my ministry? +What wrong repressed, what right maintained, +What struggle passed, what victory gained, +What good attempted and attained? +Feeble, at best, is my endeavor! +I see, but cannot reach, the height +That lies forever in the light; +And yet forever and forever, +When seeming just within my grasp, +I feel my feeble hands unclasp, +And sink discouraged into night! +For thine own purpose, thou hast sent +The strife and the discouragement! + +A pause. + +Why stayest thou, Prince of Hoheneck? +Why keep me pacing to and fro +Amid these aisles of sacred gloom, +Counting my footsteps as I go, +And marking with each step a tomb? +Why should the world for thee make room, +And wait thy leisure and thy beck? +Thou comest in the hope to hear +Some word of comfort and of cheer. +What can I say? I cannot give +The counsel to do this and live; +But rather, firmly to deny +The tempter, though his power be strong, +And, inaccessible to wrong, +Still like a martyr live and die! + +A pause. + +The evening air grows dusk and brown; +I must go forth into the town, +To visit beds of pain and death, +Of restless limbs, and quivering breath, +And sorrowing hearts, and patient eyes +That see, through tears, the sun go down, +But never more shall see it rise. +The poor in body and estate, +The sick and the disconsolate, +Must not on man's convenience wait. + +Goes out. + +Enter LUCIFER, as a Priest. + +LUCIFER, with a genuflexion, mocking. +This is the Black Pater-noster. +God was my foster, +He fostered me +Under the book of the Palm-tree! +St. Michael was my dame. +He was born at Bethlehem, +He was made of flesh and blood. +God send me my right food, +My right food, and shelter too, +That I may to yon kirk go, +To read upon yon sweet book +Which the mighty God of heaven shook +Open, open, hell's gates! +Shut, shut, heaven's gates! +All the devils in the air +The stronger be, that hear the Black Prayer! + +Looking round the church. + +What a darksome and dismal place! +I wonder that any man has the face +To call such a hole the House of the Lord, +And the gate of Heaven,--yet such is the word. +Ceiling, and walls, and windows old, +Covered with cobwebs, blackened with mould; +Dust on the pulpit, dust on the stairs, +Dust on the benches, and stalls, and chairs! +The pulpit, from which such ponderous sermons +Have fallen down on the brains of the Germans, +With about as much real edification +As if a great Bible, bound in lead, +Had fallen, and struck them on the head; +And I ought to remember that sensation! +Here stands the holy-water stoup! +Holy-water it may be to many, +But to me, the veriest Liquor Gehennae! +It smells like a filthy fast-day soup! +Near it stands the box for the poor, +With its iron padlock, safe and sure. +I and the priest of the parish know +Whither all these charities go; +Therefore, to keep up the institution, +I will add my little contribution! + +He puts in money. + +Underneath this mouldering tomb, +With statue of stone, and scutcheon of brass, +Slumbers a great lord of the village. +All his life was riot and pillage, +But at length, to escape the threatened doom +Of the everlasting penal fire, +He died in the dress of a mendicant friar, +And bartered his wealth for a daily mass. +But all that afterwards came to pass, +And whether he finds it dull or pleasant, +Is kept a secret for the present, +At his own particular desire. + +And here, in a corner of the wall, +Shadowy, silent, apart from all, +With its awful portal open wide, +And its latticed windows on either side, +And its step well worn by the beaded knees +Of one or two pious centuries, +Stands the village confessional! +Within it, as an honored guest, +I will sit down awhile and rest! + +Seats himself in the confessional. + +Here sits the priest; and faint and low, +Like the sighing of an evening breeze, +Comes through these painted lattices +The ceaseless sound of human woe; +Here, while her bosom aches and throbs +With deep and agonizing sobs, +That half are passion, half contrition, +The luckless daughter of perdition +Slowly confesses her secret shame! +The time, the place, the lover's name! +Here the grim murderer, with a groan, +From his bruised conscience rolls the stone, +Thinking that thus he can atone +For ravages of sword and flame! + +Indeed, I marvel, and marvel greatly, +How a priest can sit here so sedately, +Reading, the whole year out and in, +Naught but the catalogue of sin, +And still keep any faith whatever +In human virtue! Never! never! + +I cannot repeat a thousandth part +Of the horrors and crimes and sins and woes +That arise, when with palpitating throes +The graveyard in the human heart +Gives up its dead, at the voice of the priest, +As if he were an archangel, at least. +It makes a peculiar atmosphere, +This odor of earthly passions and crimes, +Such as I like to breathe, at times, +And such as often brings me here +In the hottest and most pestilential season. +To-day, I come for another reason; +To foster and ripen an evil thought +In a heart that is almost to madness wrought, +And to make a murderer out of a prince, +A sleight of hand I learned long since! +He comes. In the twilight he will not see +The difference between his priest and me! +In the same net was the mother caught! + +PRINCE HENRY, entering and kneeling at the confessional. +Remorseful, penitent, and lowly, +I come to crave, O Father holy, +Thy benediction on my head. + +LUCIFER. +The benediction shall be said +After confession, not before! +'T is a God-speed to the parting guest, +Who stands already at the door, +Sandalled with holiness, and dressed +In garments pure from earthly stain. +Meanwhile, hast thou searched well thy breast? +Does the same madness fill thy brain? +Or have thy passion and unrest +Vanished forever from thy mind? + +PRINCE HENRY. +By the same madness still made blind, +By the same passion still possessed, +I come again to the house of prayer, +A man afflicted and distressed! +As in a cloudy atmosphere, +Through unseen sluices of the air, +A sudden and impetuous wind +Strikes the great forest white with fear, +And every branch, and bough, and spray, +Points all its quivering leaves one way, +And meadows of grass, and fields of rain, +And the clouds above, and the slanting rain, +And smoke from chimneys of the town, +Yield themselves to it, and bow down, +So does this dreadful purpose press +Onward, with irresistible stress, +And all my thoughts and faculties, +Struck level by the strength of this, +From their true inclination turn +And all stream forward to Salem! + +LUCIFER. +Alas! we are but eddies of dust, +Uplifted by the blast, and whirled +Along the highway of the world +A moment only, then to fall +Back to a common level all, +At the subsiding of the gust! + +PRINCE HENRY. +O holy Father! pardon in me +The oscillation of a mind +Unsteadfast, and that cannot find +Its centre of rest and harmony! +For evermore before mine eyes +This ghastly phantom flits and flies, +And as a madman through a crowd, +With frantic gestures and wild cries, +It hurries onward, and aloud +Repeats its awful prophecies! +Weakness is wretchedness! To be strong +Is to be happy! I am weak, +And cannot find the good I seek, +Because I feel and fear the wrong! + +LUCIFER. +Be not alarmed! The church is kind, +And in her mercy and her meekness +She meets half-way her children's weakness, +Writes their transgressions in the dust! +Though in the Decalogue we find +The mandate written, "Thou shalt not kill!" +Yet there are cases when we must. +In war, for instance, or from scathe +To guard and keep the one true faith +We must look at the Decalogue in the light +Of an ancient statute, that was meant +For a mild and general application, +To be understood with the reservation +That in certain instances the Right +Must yield to the Expedient! +Thou art a Prince. If thou shouldst die +What hearts and hopes would prostrate lie! +What noble deeds, what fair renown, +Into the grave with thee go down! +What acts of valor and courtesy +Remain undone, and die with thee! +Thou art the last of all thy race! +With thee a noble name expires, +And vanishes from the earth's face +The glorious memory of thy sires! +She is a peasant. In her veins +Flows common and plebeian blood; +It is such as daily and hourly stains +The dust and the turf of battle plains, +By vassals shed, in a crimson flood, +Without reserve and without reward, +At the slightest summons of their lord! +But thine is precious; the fore-appointed +Blood of kings, of God's anointed! +Moreover, what has the world in store +For one like her, but tears and toil? +Daughter of sorrow, serf of the soil, +A peasant's child and a peasant's wife, +And her soul within her sick and sore +With the roughness and barrenness of life! +I marvel not at the heart's recoil +From a fate like this, in one so tender, +Nor at its eagerness to surrender +All the wretchedness, want, and woe +That await it in this world below, +For the unutterable splendor +Of the world of rest beyond the skies. +So the Church sanctions the sacrifice: +Therefore inhale this healing balm, +And breathe this fresh life into thine; +Accept the comfort and the calm +She offers, as a gift divine; +Let her fall down and anoint thy feet +With the ointment costly and most sweet +Of her young blood, and thou shalt live. + +PRINCE HENRY. +And will the righteous Heaven forgive? +No action, whether foal or fair, +Is ever done, but it leaves somewhere +A record, written by fingers ghostly, +As a blessing or a curse, and mostly +In the greater weakness or greater strength +Of the acts which follow it, till at length +The wrongs of ages are redressed, +And the justice of God made manifest! + +LUCIFER. +In ancient records it is stated +That, whenever an evil deed is done, +Another devil is created +To scourge and torment the offending one! +But evil is only good perverted, +And Lucifer, the bearer of Light, +But an angel fallen and deserted, +Thrust from his Father's house with a curse +Into the black and endless night. + +PRINCE HENRY. +If justice rules the universe, +From the good actions of good men +Angels of light should be begotten. +And thus the balance restored again. + +LUCIFER. +Yes; if the world were not so rotten, +And so given over to the Devil! + +PRINCE HENRY. +But this deed, is it good or evil? +Have I thine absolution free +To do it, and without restriction? + +LUCIFER. +Ay; and from whatsoever sin +Lieth around it and within, +From all crimes in which it may involve thee, +I now release thee and absolve thee! + +PRINCE HENRY. +Give me thy holy benediction. + +LUCIFER, stretching forth his hand and muttering. + Maledictione perpetua + Maledicat vos + Pater eternus! + +THE ANGEL, with the æolian harp. +Take heed! take heed! +Noble art thou in thy birth, +By the good and the great of earth +Hast thou been taught! +Be noble in every thought +And in every deed! +Let not the illusion of thy senses +Betray thee to deadly offences, +Be strong! be good! be pure! +The right only shall endure, +All things else are but false pretences. +I entreat thee, I implore, +Listen no more +To the suggestions of an evil spirit, +That even now is there, +Making the foul seem fair, +And selfishness itself a virtue and a merit! + + +A ROOM IN THE FARM-HOUSE + +GOTTLIEB. +It is decided! For many days, +And nights as many, we have had +A nameless terror in our breast, +Making us timid, and afraid +Of God, and his mysterious ways! +We have been sorrowful and sad; +Much have we suffered, much have prayed +That He would lead us as is best, +And show us what his will required. +It is decided; and we give +Our child, O Prince, that you may live! + +URSULA. +It is of God. He has inspired +This purpose in her: and through pain, +Out of a world of sin and woe, +He takes her to Himself again. +The mother's heart resists no longer; +With the Angel of the Lord in vain +It wrestled, for he was the stronger. + +GOTTLIEB. +As Abraham offered long ago +His son unto the Lord, and even +The Everlasting Father in heaven +Gave his, as a lamb unto the slaughter, +So do I offer up my daughter! + +URSULA hides her face. + +ELSIE. + My life is little, + Only a cup of water, + But pure and limpid. + Take it, O my Prince! + Let it refresh you, + Let it restore you. + It is given willingly, + It is given freely; + May God bless the gift! + +PRINCE HENRY, +And the giver! + +GOTTLIEB. +Amen! + +PRINCE HENRY. +I accept it! + +GOTTLIEB. +Where are the children? + +URSULA. +They are already asleep. + +GOTTLIEB. +What if they were dead? + + +IN THE GARDEN + +ELSIE. +I have one thing to ask of you. + +PRINCE HENRY. + What is it? +It is already granted. + +ELSIE. + Promise me, +When we are gone from here, and on our way +Are journeying to Salerno, you will not, +By word or deed, endeavor to dissuade me +And turn me from my purpose; but remember +That as a pilgrim to the Holy City +Walks unmolested, and with thoughts of pardon +Occupied wholly, so would I approach +The gates of Heaven, in this great jubilee, +With my petition, putting off from me +All thoughts of earth, as shoes from off my feet. +Promise me this. + +PRINCE HENRY. +Thy words fall from thy lips +Like roses from the lips of Angelo: and angels +Might stoop to pick them up! + +ELSIE. + Will you not promise? + +PRINCE HENRY. +If ever we depart upon this journey, +So long to one or both of us, I promise. + +ELSIE. +Shall we not go, then? Have you lifted me +Into the air, only to hurl me back +Wounded upon the ground? and offered me +The waters of eternal life, to bid me +Drink the polluted puddles of the world? + +PRINCE HENRY. +O Elsie! what a lesson thou dost teach me! +The life which is, and that which is to come, +Suspended hang in such nice equipoise +A breath disturbs the balance; and that scale +In which we throw our hearts preponderates, +And the other, like an empty one, flies up, +And is accounted vanity and air! +To me the thought of death is terrible, +Having such hold on life. To thee it is not +So much even as the lifting of a latch; +Only a step into the open air +Out of a tent already luminous +With light that shines through its transparent walls! +O pure in heart! from thy sweet dust shall grow +Lilies, upon whose petals will be written +"Ave Maria" in characters of gold! + + + +III + +A STREET IN STRASBURG + +Night. PRINCE HENRY wandering alone, wrapped in a cloak. + +PRINCE HENRY. +Still is the night. The sound of feet +Has died away from the empty street, +And like an artisan, bending down +His head on his anvil, the dark town +Sleeps, with a slumber deep and sweet. +Sleepless and restless, I alone, +In the dusk and damp of these walls of stone, +Wander and weep in my remorse! + +CRIER OF THE DEAD, ringing a bell. + Wake! wake! + All ye that sleep! + Pray for the Dead! + Pray for the Dead! + +PRINCE HENRY. +Hark! with what accents loud and hoarse +This warder on the walls of death +Sends forth the challenge of his breath! +I see the dead that sleep in the grave! +They rise up and their garments wave, +Dimly and spectral, as they rise, +With the light of another world in their eyes! + +CRIER OF THE DEAD. + Wake! wake! + All ye that sleep! + Pray for the Dead! + Pray for the Dead! + +PRINCE HENRY, +Why for the dead, who are at rest? +Pray for the living, in whose breast +The struggle between right and wrong +Is raging terrible and strong, +As when good angels war with devils! +This is the Master of the Revels, +Who, at Life's flowing feast, proposes +The health of absent friends, and pledges, +Not in bright goblets crowned with roses, +And tinkling as we touch their edges, +But with his dismal, tinkling bell. +That mocks and mimics their funeral knell. + +CRIER OP THE DEAD. + Wake! wake! + All ye that sleep! + Pray for the Dead! + Pray for the Dead! + +PRINCE HENRY. +Wake not, beloved! be thy sleep +Silent as night is, and as deep! +There walks a sentinel at thy gate +Whose heart is heavy and desolate, +And the heavings of whose bosom number +The respirations of thy slumber, +As if some strange, mysterious fate +Had linked two hearts in one, and mine +Went madly wheeling about thine, +Only with wider and wilder sweep! + +CRIER OP THE DEAD, at a distance. + Wake! wake! + All ye that sleep! + Pray for the Dead! + Pray for the Dead! + +PRINCE HENRY. +Lo! with what depth of blackness thrown +Against the clouds, far up the skies +The walls of the cathedral rise, +Like a mysterious grove of stone, +With fitful lights and shadows blending, +As from behind, the moon ascending, +Lights its dim aisles and paths unknown! +The wind is rising; but the boughs +Rise not and fall not with the wind, +That through their foliage sobs and soughs; +Only the cloudy rack behind, +Drifting onward, wild and ragged, +Gives to each spire and buttress jagged +A seeming motion undefined. +Below on the square, an armed knight, +Still as a statue and as white, +Sits on his steed, and the moonbeams quiver +Upon the points of his armor bright +As on the ripples of a river. +He lifts the visor from his cheek, +And beckons, and makes as he would speak. + +WALTER the Minnesinger. +Friend! can you tell me where alight +Thuringia's horsemen for the night? +For I have lingered in the rear, +And wander vainly up and down. + +PRINCE HENRY. +I am a stranger in the town. +As thou art; but the voice I hear +Is not a stranger to mine ear. +Thou art Walter of the Vogelweid! + +WALTER. +Thou hast guessed rightly; and thy name +Is Henry of Hoheneck! + +PRINCE HENRY. + Ay, the same. + +WALTER, embracing him. +Come closer, closer to my side! +What brings thee hither? What potent charm +Has drawn thee from thy German farm +Into the old Alsatian city? + +PRINCE HENRY. +A tale of wonder and of pity! +A wretched man, almost by stealth +Dragging my body to Salem, +In the vain hope and search for health, +And destined never to return. +Already thou hast heard the rest. +But what brings thee, thus armed and dight +In the equipments of a knight? + +WALTER. +Dost thou not see upon my breast +The cross of the Crusaders shine? +My pathway leads to Palestine. + +PRINCE HENRY. +Ah, would that way were also mine! +O noble poet! thou whose heart +Is like a nest of singing-birds +Rocked on the topmost bough of life, +Wilt thou, too, from our sky depart, +And in the clangor of the strife +Mingle the music of thy words? + +WALTER. +My hopes are high, my heart is proud, +And like a trumpet long and loud, +Thither my thoughts all clang and ring! +My life is in my hand, and lo! +I grasp and bend it as a bow, +And shoot forth from its trembling string +An arrow, that shall be, perchance, +Like the arrow of the Israelite king +Shot from the window towards the east. +That of the Lord's deliverance! + +PRINCE HENRY. +My life, alas! is what thou seest! +O enviable fate! to be +Strong, beautiful, and armed like thee +With lyre and sword, with song and steel; +A hand to smite, a heart to feel! +Thy heart, thy hand, thy lyre, thy sword, +Thou givest all unto thy Lord; +While I, so mean and abject grown, +Am thinking of myself alone, + +WALTER. +Be patient; Time will reinstate +Thy health and fortunes. + +PRINCE HENRY. + 'T is too late! +I cannot strive against my fate! + +WALTER. +Come with me; for my steed is weary; +Our journey has been long and dreary, +And, dreaming of his stall, he dints +With his impatient hoofs the flints. + +PRINCE HENRY, aside. +I am ashamed, in my disgrace, +To look into that noble face! +To-morrow, Walter, let it be. + +WALTER. +To-morrow, at the dawn of day, +I shall again be on my way. +Come with me to the hostelry, +For I have many things to say. +Our journey into Italy +Perchance together we may make; +Wilt thou not do it for my sake? + +PRINCE HENRY. +A sick man's pace would but impede +Thine eager and impatient speed. +Besides, my pathway leads me round +To Hirsehau, in the forest's bound, +Where I assemble man and steed, +And all things for my journey's need. + +They go out. + +LUCIFER, flying over the city. +Sleep, sleep, O city! till the light +Wake you to sin and crime again, +Whilst on your dreams, like dismal rain, +I scatter downward through the night +My maledictions dark and deep. +I have more martyrs in your walls +Than God has; and they cannot sleep; +They are my bondsmen and my thralls; +Their wretched lives are full of pain, +Wild agonies of nerve and brain; +And every heart-beat, every breath, +Is a convulsion worse than death! +Sleep, sleep, O city! though within +The circuit of your walls there be +No habitation free from sin, +And all its nameless misery; +The aching heart, the aching head, +Grief for the living and the dead, +And foul corruption of the time, +Disease, distress, and want, and woe, +And crimes, and passions that may grow +Until they ripen into crime! + + +SQUARE IN FRONT OF THE CATHEDRAL + +Easter Sunday. FRIAR CUTHBERT preaching to the crowd from a +pulpit in the open air. PRINCE HENRY and Elsie crossing the +square. + +PRINCE HENRY. +This is the day, when from the dead +Our Lord arose; and everywhere, +Out of their darkness and despair, +Triumphant over fears and foes, +The hearts of his disciples rose, +When to the women, standing near, +The Angel in shining vesture said, +"The Lord is risen; he is not here!" +And, mindful that the day is come, +On all the hearths in Christendom +The fires are quenched, to be again +Rekindled from the sun, that high +Is dancing in the cloudless sky. +The churches are all decked with flowers, +The salutations among men +Are but the Angel's words divine, +"Christ is arisen!" and the bells +Catch the glad murmur, as it swells, +And chant together in their towers. +All hearts are glad; and free from care +The faces of the people shine. +See what a crowd is in the square, +Gayly and gallantly arrayed! + +ELSIE. +Let us go back; I am afraid! + +PRINCE HENRY. +Nay, let us mount the church-steps here, +Under the doorway's sacred shadow; +We can see all things, and be freer +From the crowd that madly heaves and presses! + +ELSIE. +What a gay pageant! what bright dresses! +It looks like a flower-besprinkled meadow. +What is that yonder on the square? + +PRINCE HENRY. +A pulpit in the open air, +And a Friar, who is preaching to the crowd +In a voice so deep and clear and loud, +That, if we listen, and give heed, +His lowest words will reach the ear. + +FRIAR CUTHBERT, gesticulating and cracking a postilion's whip. +What ho! good people! do you not hear? +Dashing along at the top of his speed, +Booted and spurred, on his jaded steed, +A courier comes with words of cheer. +Courier! what is the news, I pray? +"Christ is arisen!" Whence come you? "From court." +Then I do not believe it; you say it in sport. + +Cracks his whip again. + +Ah, here comes another, riding this way; +We soon shall know what he has to say. +Courier! what are the tidings to-day? +"Christ is arisen!" Whence come you? "From town." +Then I do not believe it; away with you, clown. + +Cracks his whip more violently. + +And here comes a third, who is spurring amain; +What news do you bring, with your loose-hanging rein, +Your spurs wet with blood, and your bridle with foam? +"Christ is arisen!" Whence come you? "From Rome." +Ah, now I believe. He is risen, indeed. +Ride on with the news, at the top of your speed! + +Great applause among the crowd. + +To come back to my text! When the news was first spread +That Christ was arisen indeed from the dead, +Very great was the joy of the angels in heaven; +And as great the dispute as to who should carry +The tidings thereof to the Virgin Mary, +Pierced to the heart with sorrows seven. +Old Father Adam was first to propose, +As being the author of all our woes; +But he was refused, for fear, said they, +He would stop to eat apples on the way! +Abel came next, but petitioned in vain, +Because he might meet with his brother Cain! +Noah, too, was refused, lest his weakness for wine +Should delay him at every tavern-sign; +And John the Baptist could not get a vote, +On account of his old-fashioned camel's-hair coat; +And the Penitent Thief, who died on the cross, +Was reminded that all his bones were broken! +Till at last, when each in turn had spoken, +The company being still at loss, +The Angel, who rolled away the stone, +Was sent to the sepulchre, all alone. +And filled with glory that gloomy prison, +And said to the Virgin, "The Lord is arisen!" + +The Cathedral bells ring. + +But hark! the bells are beginning to chime; +And I feel that I am growing hoarse. +I will put an end to my discourse, +And leave the rest for some other time. +For the bells themselves are the best of preachers; +Their brazen lips are learned teachers, +From their pulpits of stone, in the upper air, +Sounding aloft, without crack or flaw, +Shriller than trumpets under the Law, +Now a sermon, and now a prayer. +The clangorous hammer is the tongue, +This way, that way, beaten and swung, +That from mouth of brass, as from Month of Gold, +May be taught the Testaments, New and Old, +And above it the great cross-beam of wood +Representeth the Holy Rood, +Upon which, like the bell, our hopes are hung. +And the wheel wherewith it is swayed and rung +Is the mind of man, that round and round +Sways, and maketh the tongue to sound! +And the rope, with its twisted cordage three, +Denoteth the Scriptural Trinity +Of Morals, and Symbols, and History; +And the upward and downward motion show +That we touch upon matters high and low; +And the constant change and transmutation +Of action and of contemplation, +Downward, the Scripture brought from on high, +Upward, exalted again to the sky; +Downward, the literal interpretation, +Upward, the Vision and Mystery! + +And now, my hearers, to make an end, +I have only one word more to say; +In the church, in honor of Easter day +Will be presented a Miracle Play; +And I hope you will have the grace to attend. +Christ bring us at last to his felicity! +Pax vobiscum! et Benedicite! + + +IN THE CATHEDRAL + +CHANT. +Kyrie Eleison +Christe Eleison! + +ELSIE. +I am at home here in my Father's house! +These paintings of the Saints upon the walls +Have all familiar and benignant faces. + +PRINCE HENRY. +The portraits of the family of God! +Thine own hereafter shall be placed among them. + +ELSIE. +How very grand it is and wonderful! +Never have I beheld a church so splendid! +Such columns, and such arches, and such windows, +So many tombs and statues in the chapels, +And under them so many confessionals. +They must be for the rich. I should not like +To tell my sins in such a church as this. +Who built it? + +PRINCE HENRY. + A great master of his craft, +Erwin von Steinbach; but not he alone, +For many generations labored with him. +Children that came to see these Saints in stone, +As day by day out of the blocks they rose, +Grew old and died, and still the work went on, +And on, and on, and is not yet completed. +The generation that succeeds our own +Perhaps may finish it. The architect +Built his great heart into these sculptured stones, +And with him toiled his children, and their lives +Were builded, with his own, into the walls, +As offerings unto God. You see that statue +Fixing its joyous, but deep-wrinkled eyes +Upon the Pillars of the Angels yonder. +That is the image of the master, carved +By the fair hand of his own child, Sabina. + +ELSIE. +How beautiful is the column that he looks at! + +PRINCE HENRY. +That, too, she sculptured. At the base of it +Stand the Evangelists; above their heads +Four Angels blowing upon marble trumpets, +And over them the blessed Christ, surrounded +By his attendant ministers, upholding +The instruments of his passion. + +ELSIE. + O my Lord! +Would I could leave behind me upon earth +Some monument to thy glory, such as this! + +PRINCE HENRY. +A greater monument than this thou leavest +In thine own life, all purity and love! +See, too, the Rose, above the western portal +Resplendent with a thousand gorgeous colors, +The perfect flower of Gothic loveliness! + +ELSIE. +And, in the gallery, the long line of statues, +Christ with his twelve Apostles watching us! + +A Bishop in armor, booted and spurred, passes with his train. + +PRINCE HENRY. +But come away; we have not time to look, +The crowd already fills the church, and yonder +Upon a stage, a herald with a trumpet, +Clad like the Angel Gabriel, proclaims +The Mystery that will now be represented. + + + +THE NATIVITY + +A MIRACLE-PLAY + +INTROITUS + +PRAECO. +Come, good people, all and each, +Come and listen to our speech! +In your presence here I stand, +With a trumpet in my hand, +To announce the Easter Play, +Which we represent to-day! +First of all we shall rehearse, +In our action and our verse, +The Nativity of our Lord, +As written in the old record +Of the Protevangelion, +So that he who reads may run! + +Blows his trumpet. + + +I. HEAVEN. + +MERCY, at the feet of God. +Have pity, Lord! be not afraid +To save mankind, whom thou hast made, +Nor let the souls that were betrayed + Perish eternally! + +JUSTICE. +It cannot be, it must not be! +When in the garden placed by thee, +The fruit of the forbidden tree + He ate, and he must die! + +MERCY. +Have pity, Lord! let penitence +Atone for disobedience, +Nor let the fruit of man's offence + Be endless misery! + +JUSTICE. +What penitence proportionate +Can e'er be felt for sin so great? +Of the forbidden fruit he ate, + And damned must he be! + +GOD. +He shall be saved, if that within +The bounds of earth one free from sin +Be found, who for his kith and kin + Will suffer martyrdom. + +THE FOUR VIRTUES. +Lord! we have searched the world around, +From centre to the utmost bound, +But no such mortal can be found; + Despairing, back we come. + +WISDOM. +No mortal, but a God-made man, +Can ever carry out this plan, +Achieving what none other can, + Salvation unto all! + +GOD. +Go, then, O my beloved Son! +It can by thee alone be done; +By thee the victory shall be won + O'er Satan and the Fall! + +Here the ANGEL GABRIEL shall leave Paradise and fly towards the +earth; the jaws of hell open below, and the Devils walk about, +making a great noise. + + +II. MARY AT THE WELL + +MARY. +Along the garden walk, and thence +Through the wicket in the garden fence + I steal with quiet pace, +My pitcher at the well to fill, +That lies so deep and cool and still + In this sequestered place. + +These sycamores keep guard around; +I see no face, I hear no sound, + Save bubblings of the spring, +And my companions, who, within, +The threads of gold and scarlet spin, + And at their labor sing. + +THE ANGEL GABRIEL. +Hail, Virgin Mary, full of grace! + +Here MARY looketh around her, trembling, and then saith: + +MARY. +Who is it speaketh in this place, + With such a gentle voice? + +GABRIEL. +The Lord of heaven is with thee now! +Blessed among all women thou, + Who art his holy choice! + +MARY, setting down the pitcher. +What can this mean? No one is near, +And yet, such sacred words I hear, + I almost fear to stay. + +Here the ANGEL, appearing to her, shall say: + +GABRIEL. +Fear not, O Mary! but believe! +For thou, a Virgin, shalt conceive + A child this very day. + +Fear not, O Mary! from the sky +The Majesty of the Most High + Shall overshadow thee! + +MARY. +Behold the handmaid of the Lord! +According to thy holy word, + So be it unto me! + +Here the Devils shall again make a great noise, under the stage. + + +III. THE ANGELS OF THE SEVEN PLANETS, BEARING THE STAR OF +BETHLEHEM + +THE ANGELS. +The Angels of the Planets Seven, +Across the shining fields of heaven + The natal star we bring! +Dropping our sevenfold virtues down +As priceless jewels in the crown + Of Christ, our new-born King. + +RAPHAEL. +I am the Angel of the Sun, +Whose flaming wheels began to run + When God Almighty's breath +Said to the darkness and the Night, +Let there he light! and there was light! + I bring the gift of Faith. + +ONAFIEL. +I am the Angel of the Moon, +Darkened to be rekindled soon + Beneath the azure cope! +Nearest to earth, it is my ray +That best illumes the midnight way; + I bring the gift of Hope! + +ANAEL. +The Angel of the Star of Love, +The Evening Star, that shines above + The place where lovers be, +Above all happy hearths and homes, +On roofs of thatch, or golden domes, + I give him Charity! + +ZOBIACHEL. +The Planet Jupiter is mine! +The mightiest star of all that shine, + Except the sun alone! +He is the High Priest of the Dove, +And sends, from his great throne above, + Justice, that shall atone! + +MICHAEL. +The Planet Mercury, whose place +Is nearest to the sun in space, + Is my allotted sphere! +And with celestial ardor swift +I hear upon my hands the gift + Of heavenly Prudence here! + +URIEL. +I am the Minister of Mars, +The strongest star among the stars! + My songs of power prelude +The march and battle of man's life, +And for the suffering and the strife, + I give him Fortitude! + +ORIFEL. +The Angel of the uttermost +Of all the shining, heavenly host, + From the far-off expanse +Of the Saturnian, endless space +I bring the last, the crowning grace, + The gift of Temperance! + +A sudden light shines from the windows of the stable in the +village below. + + +IV. THE WISE MEN OF THE EAST + +The stable of the Inn. The VIRGIN and CHILD. Three Gypsy Kings, +GASPAR, MELCHIOR, and BELSHAZZAR, shall come in. + +GASPAR. +Hail to thee, Jesus of Nazareth! +Though in a manger thou draw breath, +Thou art greater than Life and Death, + Greater than Joy or Woe! +This cross upon the line of life +Portendeth struggle, toil, and strife, +And through a region with peril rife + In darkness shalt thou go! + +MELCHIOR. +Hail to thee, King of Jerusalem! +Though humbly born in Bethlehem, +A sceptre and a diadem + Await thy brow and hand! +The sceptre is a simple reed, +The crown will make thy temples bleed, +And in thine hour of greatest need, + Abashed thy subjects stand! + +BELSHAZZAR. +Hail to thee, Christ of Christendom! +O'er all the earth thy kingdom come! +From distant Trebizond to Rome + Thy name shall men adore! +Peace and good-will among all men, +The Virgin has returned again, +Returned the old Saturnian reign + And Golden Age once more. + +THE CHILD CHRIST. +Jesus, the Son of God, am I, +Born here to suffer and to die +According to the prophecy, + That other men may live! + +THE VIRGIN. +And now these clothes, that wrapped Him, take +And keep them precious, for his sake; +Our benediction thus we make, + Naught else have we to give. + +She gives them swaddling-clothes and they depart. + + +V. THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT + +Here JOSEPH shall come in, leading an ass, on which are seated +MARY and the CHILD. + +MARY. +Here will we rest us, under these +O'erhanging branches of the trees, +Where robins chant their Litanies + And canticles of joy. + +JOSEPH. +My saddle-girths have given way +With trudging through the heat to-day; +To you I think it is but play + To ride and hold the boy. + +MARY. +Hark! how the robins shout and sing, +As if to hail their infant King! +I will alight at yonder spring + To wash his little coat. + +JOSEPH. +And I will hobble well the ass, +Lest, being loose upon the grass, +He should escape; for, by the mass, + He's nimble as a goat. + +Here MARY shall alight and go to the spring. + +MARY. +O Joseph! I am much afraid, +For men are sleeping in the shade; +I fear that we shall be waylaid, + And robbed and beaten sore! + +Here a band of robbers shall be seen sleeping, two of whom shall +rise and come forward. + +DUMACHUS. +Cock's soul! deliver up your gold! + +JOSEPH. +I pray you, sirs, let go your hold! +You see that I am weak and old, + Of wealth I have no store. + +DUMACHUS. +Give up your money! + +TITUS. + Prithee cease. +Let these people go in peace. + +DUMACHUS. +First let them pay for their release, + And then go on their way. + +TITUS. +These forty groats I give in fee, +If thou wilt only silent be. + +MARY. +May God be merciful to thee + Upon the Judgment Day! + +JESUS. +When thirty years shall have gone by, +I at Jerusalem shall die, +By Jewish hands exalted high + On the accursed tree, +Then on my right and my left side, +These thieves shall both be crucified, +And Titus thenceforth shall abide + In paradise with me. + +Here a great rumor of trumpets and horses, like the noise of a +king with his army, and the robbers shall take flight. + + +VI. THE SLAUGHTER OF THE INNOCENTS + +KING HEROD. +Potz-tausend! Himmel-sacrament! +Filled am I with great wonderment + At this unwelcome news! +Am I not Herod? Who shall dare +My crown to take, my sceptre bear, + As king among the Jews? + +Here he shall stride up and down and flourish his sword. + +What ho! I fain would drink a can +Of the strong wine of Canaan! + The wine of Helbon bring +I purchased at the Fair of Tyre, +As red as blood, as hot as fire, +And fit for any king! + +He quaffs great goblets of wine. + +Now at the window will I stand, +While in the street the armed band + The little children slay; +The babe just born in Bethlehem +Will surely slaughtered be with them, + Nor live another day! + +Here a voice of lamentation shall be heard in the street. + +RACHEL. +O wicked king! O cruel speed! +To do this most unrighteous deed! + My children all are slain! + +HEROD. +Ho, seneschal! another cup! +With wine of Sorek fill it up! + I would a bumper drain! + +RAHAB. +May maledictions fall and blast +Thyself and lineage to the last + Of all thy kith and kin! + +HEROD. +Another goblet! quick! and stir +Pomegranate juice and drops of myrrh + And calamus therein! + +SOLDIERS, in the street. +Give up thy child into our hands! +It is King Herod who commands + That he should thus be slain! + +THE NURSE MEDUSA. +O monstrous men! What have ye done! +It is King Herod's only son + That ye have cleft in twain! + +HEROD. +Ah, luckless day! What words of fear +Are these that smite upon my ear + With such a doleful sound! +What torments rack my heart and head! +Would I were dead! would I were dead, + And buried in the ground! + +He falls down and writhes as though eaten by worms. Hell opens, +and SATAN and ASTAROTH come forth and drag him down. + + +VII. JESUS AT PLAY WITH HIS SCHOOLMATES + +JESUS. +The shower is over. Let us play, +And make some sparrows out of clay, + Down by the river's side. + +JUDAS. +See, how the stream has overflowed +Its banks, and o'er the meadow road + Is spreading far and wide! + +They draw water out of the river by channels and form little +pools. JESUS makes twelve sparrows of clay, and the other boys do +the same. + +JESUS. +Look! look how prettily I make +These little sparrows by the lake + Bend down their necks and drink! +Now will I make them sing and soar +So far, they shall return no more + Unto this river's brink. + +JUDAS. +That canst thou not! They are but clay, +They cannot sing, nor fly away + Above the meadow lands! + +JESUS. +Fly, fly! ye sparrows! you are free! +And while you live, remember me, + Who made you with my hands. + +Here JESUS shall clap his hands, and the sparrows shall fly away, +chirruping. + +JUDAS. +Thou art a sorcerer, I know; +Oft has my mother told me so, + I will not play with thee! + +He strikes JESUS in the right side. + +JESUS. +Ah, Judas! thou hast smote my side, +And when I shall be crucified, + There shall I pierced be! + +Here JOSEPH shall come in and say: + +JOSEPH. +Ye wicked boys! why do ye play, +And break the holy Sabbath day? +What, think ye, will your mothers say + To see you in such plight! +In such a sweat and such a heat, +With all that mud upon your feet! +There's not a beggar in the street + Makes such a sorry sight! + + +VIII. THE VILLAGE SCHOOL + +The RABBI BEN ISRAEL, sitting on a high stool, with a long beard, +and a rod in his hand. + +RABBI. +I am the Rabbi Ben Israel, +Throughout this village known full well, +And, as my scholars all will tell, + Learned in things divine; +The Cabala and Talmud hoar +Than all the prophets prize I more, +For water is all Bible lore, + But Mishna is strong wine. + +My fame extends from West to East, +And always, at the Purim feast, +I am as drunk as any beast + That wallows in his sty; +The wine it so elateth me, +That I no difference can see +Between "Accursed Haman be!" + And "Blessed be Mordecai!" + +Come hither, Judas Iscariot; +Say, if thy lesson thou hast got +From the Rabbinical Book or not. + Why howl the dogs at night? + +JUDAS. +In the Rabbinical Book, it saith +The dogs howl, when with icy breath +Great Sammael, the Angel of Death, + Takes through the town his flight! + +RABBI. +Well, boy! now say, if thou art wise, +When the Angel of Death, who is full of eyes, +Comes where a sick man dying lies, + What doth he to the wight? + +JUDAS. +He stands beside him, dark and tall, +Holding a sword, from which doth fall +Into his mouth a drop of gall, + And so he turneth white. + +RABBI. +And now, my Judas, say to me +What the great Voices Four may be, +That quite across the world do flee, + And are not heard by men? + +JUDAS. +The Voice of the Sun in heaven's dome, +The Voice of the Murmuring of Rome, +The Voice of a Soul that goeth home, + And the Angel of the Rain! + +RABBI. +Right are thine answers every one! +Now, little Jesus, the carpenter's son, +Let us see how thy task is done; + Canst thou thy letters say? + +JESUS. +Aleph. + +RABBI. + What next? Do not stop yet! +Go on with all the alphabet. +Come, Aleph, Beth; dost thou forget? + Cock's soul! thou'dst rather play! + +JESUS. +What Aleph means I fain would know +Before I any farther go! + +RABBI. +Oh, by Saint Peter! wouldst thou so? + Come hither, boy, to me. +As surely as the letter Jod +Once cried aloud, and spake to God, +So surely shalt thou feel this rod, + And punished shalt thou be! + +Here RABBI BEN ISRAEL shall lift up his rod to strike Jesus, and +his right arm shall be paralyzed. + + +IX. CROWNED WITH FLOWERS + +JESUS sitting among his playmates, crowned with flowers as their +King. + +BOYS. +We spread our garments on the ground! +With fragrant flowers thy head is crowned +While like a guard we stand around, + And hail thee as our King! +Thou art the new King of the Jews! +Nor let the passers-by refuse +To bring that homage which men use + To majesty to bring. + +Here a traveller shall go by, and the boys shall lay hold of his +garments and say: + +BOYS. +Come hither I and all reverence pay +Unto our monarch, crowned to-day! +Then go rejoicing on your way, + In all prosperity! + +TRAVELLER. +Hail to the King of Bethlehem, +Who weareth in his diadem +The yellow crocus for the gem + Of his authority! + +He passes by; and others come in, bearing on a litter a sick +child. + +BOYS. +Set down the litter and draw near! +The King of Bethlehem is here! +What ails the child, who seems to fear + That we shall do him harm? + +THE BEARERS. +He climbed up to the robin's nest, +And out there darted, from his rest, +A serpent with a crimson crest, + And stung him in the arm. + +JESUS. +Bring him to me, and let me feel +The wounded place; my touch can heal +The sting of serpents, and can steal + The poison from the bite! + +He touches the wound, and the boy begins to cry. + +Cease to lament! I can foresee +That thou hereafter known shalt be, +Among the men who follow me, + As Simon the Canaanite! + +EPILOGUE + In the after part of the day + Will be represented another play, + Of the Passion of our Blessed Lord, + Beginning directly after Nones! + At the close of which we shall accord, + By way of benison and reward, + The sight of a holy Martyr's bones! + + +IV + +THE ROAD TO HIRSCHAU + +PRINCE HENRY and ELSIE, with their attendants on horseback. + +ELSIE. +Onward and onward the highway runs to the distant city, + impatiently bearing +Tidings of human joy and disaster, of love and of hate, + of doing and daring! + +PRINCE HENRY. +This life of ours is a wild æolian harp of many + a joyous strain, +But under them all there runs a loud perpetual wail, + as of souls in pain. + +ELSIE. +Faith alone can interpret life, and the heart + that aches and bleeds with the stigma +Of pain, alone bears the likeness of Christ, + and can comprehend its dark enigma. + +PRINCE HENRY. +Man is selfish, and seeketh pleasure with little care + of what may betide, +Else why am I travelling here beside thee, + a demon that rides by an angel's side? + +ELSIE. +All the hedges are white with dust, and the great dog + under the creaking wain +Hangs his head in the lazy heat, while onward + the horses toil and strain. + +PRINCE HENRY. +Now they stop at the wayside inn, and the wagoner laughs + with the landlord's daughter, +While out of the dripping trough the horses + distend their leathern sides with water. + +ELSIE. +All through life there are wayside inns, + where man may refresh his soul with love; +Even the lowest may quench his thirst + at rivulets fed by springs from above. + +PRINCE HENRY. +Yonder, where rises the cross of stone, + our journey along the highway ends, +And over the fields, by a bridle path, + down into the broad green valley descends. + +ELSIE. +I am not sorry to leave behind the beaten road + with its dust and heat +The air will be sweeter far, and the turf will be softer + under our horses' feet. + +They turn down a green lane. + +ELSIE. +Sweet is the air with the budding haws, + and the valley stretching for miles below +Is white with blossoming cherry-trees, + as if just covered with lightest snow. + +PRINCE HENRY. +Over our heads a white cascade is gleaming + against the distant hill; +We cannot hear it, nor see it move, but it hangs + like a banner when winds are still. + +ELSIE. +Damp and cool is this deep ravine, and cool + the sound of the brook by our side! +What is this castle that rises above us, + and lords it over a land so wide? + +PRINCE HENRY. +It is the home of the Counts of Calva; + well have I known these scenes of old, +Well I remember each tower and turret, remember the brooklet, + the wood, and the wold. + +ELSIE. +Hark! from the little village below us the bells + of the church are ringing for rain! +Priests and peasants in long procession come forth + and kneel on the arid plain. + +PRINCE HENRY. +They have not long to wait, for I see in the south + uprising a little cloud, +That before the sun shall be set will cover + the sky above us as with a shroud. + +They pass on. + + +THE CONVENT OF HIRSCHAU IN THE BLACK FOREST. + +The Convent cellar. FRIAR CLAUS comes in with a light and a +basket of empty flagons. + +FRIAR CLAUS. +I always enter this sacred place +With a thoughtful, solemn, and reverent pace, +Pausing long enough on each stair +To breathe an ejaculatory prayer, +And a benediction on the vines +That produce these various sorts of wines! +For my part, I am well content +That we have got through with the tedious Lent! +Fasting is all very well for those +Who have to contend with invisible foes; +But I am quite sure it does not agree +With a quiet, peaceable man like me, +Who am not of that nervous and meagre kind, +That are always distressed in body and mind! +And at times it really does me good +To come down among this brotherhood, +Dwelling forever underground, +Silent, contemplative, round and sound; +Each one old, and brown with mould, +But filled to the lips with the ardor of youth, +With the latent power and love of truth, +And with virtues fervent and manifold. + +I have heard it said, that at Easter-tide, +When buds are swelling on every side, +And the sap begins to move in the vine, +Then in all cellars, far and wide, +The oldest as well as the newest wine +Begins to stir itself, and ferment, +With a kind of revolt and discontent +At being so long in darkness pent, +And fain would burst from its sombre tun +To bask on the hillside in the sun; +As in the bosom of us poor friars, +The tumult of half-subdued desires +For the world that we have left behind +Disturbs at times all peace of mind! +And now that we have lived through Lent, +My duty it is, as often before, +To open awhile the prison-door, +And give these restless spirits vent. + +Now here is a cask that stands alone, +And has stood a hundred years or more, +Its beard of cobwebs, long and hoar, +Trailing and sweeping along the floor, +Like Barbarossa, who sits in his cave, +Taciturn, sombre, sedate, and grave, +Till his beard has grown through the table of stone! +It is of the quick and not of the dead! +In its veins the blood is hot and red, +And a heart still beats in those ribs of oak +That time may have tamed, but has not broke! +It comes from Bacharach on the Rhine, +Is one of the three best kinds of wine, +And costs some hundred florins the ohm; +But that I do not consider dear, +When I remember that every year +Four butts are sent to the Pope of Rome. +And whenever a goblet thereof I drain, +The old rhyme keeps running in my brain; + + At Bacharach on the Rhine, + At Hochheim on the Main, + And at Wurzburg on the Stein, + Grow the three best kinds of wine! + +They are all good wines, and better far +Than those of the Neckar, or those of the Ahr. +In particular, Wurzburg well may boast +Of its blessed wine of the Holy Ghost, +Which of all wines I like the most. +This I shall draw for the Abbot's drinking, +Who seems to be much of my way of thinking. + +Fills a flagon. + +Ah! how the streamlet laughs and sings! +What a delicious fragrance springs +From the deep flagon, while it fills, +As of hyacinths and daffodils! +Between this cask and the Abbot's lips +Many have been the sips and slips; +Many have been the draughts of wine, +On their way to his, that have stopped at mine; +And many a time my soul has hankered +For a deep draught out of his silver tankard, +When it should have been busy with other affairs, +Less with its longings and more with its prayers. +But now there is no such awkward condition, +No danger of death and eternal perdition; +So here's to the Abbot and Brothers all, +Who dwell in this convent of Peter and Paul! + +He drinks. + +O cordial delicious! O soother of pain! +It flashes like sunshine into my brain! +A benison rest on the Bishop who sends +Such a fudder of wine as this to his friends! +And now a flagon for such as may ask +A draught from the noble Bacharach cask, +And I will be gone, though I know full well +The cellar's a cheerfuller place than the cell. +Behold where he stands, all sound and good, +Brown and old in his oaken hood; +Silent he seems externally +As any Carthusian monk may be; +But within, what a spirit of deep unrest! +What a seething and simmering in his breast! +As if the heaving of his great heart +Would burst his belt of oak apart! +Let me unloose this button of wood, +And quiet a little his turbulent mood. + +Sets it running. + +See! how its currents gleam and shine, +As if they had caught the purple hues +Of autumn sunsets on the Rhine, +Descending and mingling with the dews; +Or as if the grapes were stained with the blood +Of the innocent boy, who, some years back, +Was taken and crucified by the Jews, +In that ancient town of Bacharach! +Perdition upon those infidel Jews, +In that ancient town of Bacharach! +The beautiful town, that gives us wine +With the fragrant odor of Muscadine! +I should deem it wrong to let this pass +Without first touching my lips to the glass, +For here in the midst of the current I stand +Like the stone Pfalz in the midst of the river, +Taking toll upon either hand, +And much more grateful to the giver. + +He drinks. + +Here, now, is a very inferior kind, +Such as in any town you may find, +Such as one might imagine would suit +The rascal who drank wine out of a boot. +And, after all, it was not a crime, +For he won thereby Dorf Huffelsheim. +A jolly old toper! who at a pull +Could drink a postilion's jack-boot full, +And ask with a laugh, when that was done, +If the fellow had left the other one! +This wine is as good as we can afford +To the friars who sit at the lower board, +And cannot distinguish bad from good, +And are far better off than if they could, +Being rather the rude disciples of beer, +Than of anything more refined and dear! + +Fills the flagon and departs. + + +THE SCRIPTORIUM + +FRIAR PACIFICUS transcribing and illuminating. + +FRIAR PACIFICUS. +It is growing dark! Yet one line more, +And then my work for to-day is o'er. +I come again to the name of the Lord! +Ere I that awful name record, +That is spoken so lightly among men, +Let me pause awhile and wash my pen; +Pure from blemish and blot must it be +When it writes that word of mystery! + +Thus have I labored on and on, +Nearly through the Gospel of John. +Can it be that from the lips +Of this same gentle Evangelist, +That Christ himself perhaps has kissed, +Came the dread Apocalypse! +It has a very awful look, +As it stands there at the end of the book, +Like the sun in an eclipse. +Ah me! when I think of that vision divine, +Think of writing it, line by line, +I stand in awe of the terrible curse, +Like the trump of doom, in the closing verse! +God forgive me! if ever I +Take aught from the book of that Prophecy, +Lest my part too should be taken away +From the Book of Life on the Judgment Day. +This is well written, though I say it! +I should not be afraid to display it +In open day, on the selfsame shelf +With the writings of St. Thecla herself, +Or of Theodosius, who of old +Wrote the Gospels in letters of gold! +That goodly folio standing yonder, +Without a single blot or blunder, +Would not bear away the palm from mine, +If we should compare them line for line. + +There, now, is an initial letter! +Saint Ulric himself never made a better! +Finished down to the leaf and the snail, +Down to the eyes on the peacock's tail! +And now, as I turn the volume over, +And see what lies between cover and cover, +What treasures of art these pages hold, +All ablaze with crimson and gold, +God forgive me! I seem to feel +A certain satisfaction steal +Into my heart, and into my brain, +As if my talent had not lain +Wrapped in a napkin, and all in vain. +Yes, I might almost say to the Lord, +Here is a copy of thy Word, +Written out with much toil and pain; +Take it, O Lord, and let it be +As something I have done for thee! + +He looks from the window. + +How sweet the air is! how fair the scene! +I wish I had as lovely a green +To paint my landscapes and my leaves! +How the swallows twitter under the eaves! +There, now, there is one in her nest; +I can just catch a glimpse of her head and breast, +And will sketch her thus, in her quiet nook +For the margin of my Gospel book. + +He makes a sketch. + +I can see no more. Through the valley yonder +A shower is passing; I hear the thunder +Mutter its curses in the air, +The devil's own and only prayer! +The dusty road is brown with rain, +And, speeding on with might and main, +Hitherward rides a gallant train. +They do not parley, they cannot wait, +But hurry in at the convent gate. +What a fair lady! and beside her +What a handsome, graceful, noble rider! +Now she gives him her hand to alight; +They will beg a shelter for the night. +I will go down to the corridor, +And try to see that face once more; +It will do for the face of some beautiful Saint, +Or for one of the Maries I shall paint. + +Goes out. + + +THE CLOISTERS + +The ABBOT ERNESTUS pacing to and fro. + +ABBOT. + Slowly, slowly up the wall + Steals the sunshine, steals the shade; + Evening damps begin to fall, + Evening shadows are displayed. + Round me, o'er me, everywhere, + All the sky is grand with clouds, + And athwart the evening air + Wheel the swallows home in crowds. + Shafts of sunshine from the west + Paint the dusky windows red; + Darker shadows, deeper rest, + Underneath and overhead. + Darker, darker, and more wan, + In my breast the shadows fall; + Upward steals the life of man, + As the sunshine from the wall. + From the wall into the sky, + From the roof along the spire; + Ah, the souls of those that die + Are but sunbeams lifted higher. + +Enter PRINCE HENRY. + +PRINCE HENRY. +Christ is arisen! + +ABBOT. + Amen! He is arisen! +His peace be with you! + +PRINCE HENRY. + Here it reigns forever! +The peace of God, that passeth understanding, +Reigns in these cloisters and these corridors. +Are you Ernestus, Abbot of the convent? + +ABBOT. +I am. + +PRINCE HENRY. + And I Prince Henry of Hoheneck, +Who crave your hospitality to-night. + +ABBOT. +You are thrice welcome to our humble walls. +You do us honor; and we shall requite it, +I fear, but poorly, entertaining you +With Paschal eggs, and our poor convent wine, +The remnants of our Easter holidays. + +PRINCE HENRY. +How fares it with the holy monks of Hirschau? +Are all things well with them? + +ABBOT. + All things are well. + +PRINCE HENRY. +A noble convent! I have known it long +By the report of travellers. I now see +Their commendations lag behind the truth. +You lie here in the valley of the Nagold +As in a nest: and the still river, gliding +Along its bed, is like an admonition +How all things pass. Your lands are rich and ample, +And your revenues large. God's benediction +Rests on your convent. + +ABBOT. + By our charities +We strive to merit it. Our Lord and Master, +When He departed, left us in his will, +As our best legacy on earth, the poor! +These we have always with us; had we not, +Our hearts would grow as hard as are these stones. + +PRINCE HENRY. +If I remember right, the Counts of Calva +Founded your convent. + +ABBOT. + Even as you say. + +PRINCE HENRY. +And, if I err not, it is very old. + +ABBOT. +Within these cloisters lie already buried +Twelve holy Abbots. Underneath the flags +On which we stand, the Abbot William lies, +Of blessed memory. + +PRINCE HENRY. + And whose tomb is that, +Which bears the brass escutcheon? + +ABBOT. + A benefactor's. +Conrad, a Count of Calva, he who stood +Godfather to our bells. + +PRINCE HENRY. + Your monks are learned +And holy men, I trust. + +ABBOT. + There are among them +Learned and holy men. Yet in this age +We need another Hildebrand, to shake +And purify us like a mighty wind. +The world is wicked, and sometimes I wonder +God does not lose his patience with it wholly, +And shatter it like glass! Even here, at times, +Within these walls, where all should be at peace, +I have my trials. Time has laid his hand +Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it, +But as a harper lays his open palm +Upon his harp to deaden its vibrations, +Ashes are on my head, and on my lips +Sackcloth, and in my breast a heaviness +And weariness of life, that makes me ready +To say to the dead Abbots under us, +"Make room for me!" Ony I see the dusk +Of evening twilight coming, and have not +Completed half my task; and so at times +The thought of my shortcomings in this life +Falls like a shadow on the life to come. + +PRINCE HENRY. +We must all die, and not the old alone; +The young have no exemption from that doom. + +ABBOT. +Ah, yes! the young may die, but the old must! +That is the difference. + +PRINCE HENRY. + I have heard much laud +Of your transcribers, Your Scriptorium +Is famous among all; your manuscripts +Praised for their beauty and their excellence. + +ABBOT. +That is indeed our boast. If you desire it +You shall behold these treasures. And meanwhile +Shall the Refectorarius bestow +Your horses and attendants for the night. + +They go in. The Vesper-bell rings. + + +THE CHAPEL + +Vespers: after which the monks retire, a chorister leading an old +monk who is blind. + +PRINCE HENRY. +They are all gone, save one who lingers, +Absorbed in deep and silent prayer. +As if his heart could find no rest, +At times he beats his heaving breast +With clenched and convulsive fingers, +Then lifts them trembling in the air. +A chorister, with golden hair, +Guides hitherward his heavy pace. +Can it be so? Or does my sight +Deceive me in the uncertain light? +Ah no! I recognize that face +Though Time has touched it in his flight, +And changed the auburn hair to white. +It is Count Hugo of the Rhine, +The deadliest foe of all our race, +And hateful unto me and mine! + +THE BLIND MONK. +Who is it that doth stand so near +His whispered words I almost hear? + +PRINCE HENRY. +I am Prince Henry of Hoheneck, +And you, Count Hugo of the Rhine! +I know you, and I see the scar, +The brand upon your forehead, shine +And redden like a baleful star! + +THE BLIND MONK. +Count Hugo once, but now the wreck +Of what I was. O Hoheneck! +The passionate will, the pride, the wrath +That bore me headlong on my path, +Stumbled and staggered into fear, +And failed me in my mad career, +As a tired steed some evil-doer, +Alone upon a desolate moor, +Bewildered, lost, deserted, blind, +And hearing loud and close behind +The o'ertaking steps of his pursuer. +Then suddenly from the dark there came +A voice that called me by my name, +And said to me, "Kneel down and pray!" +And so my terror passed away, +Passed utterly away forever. +Contrition, penitence, remorse, +Came on me, with o'erwhelming force; +A hope, a longing, an endeavor, +By days of penance and nights of prayer, +To frustrate and defeat despair! +Calm, deep, and still is now my heart, +With tranquil waters overflowed; +A lake whose unseen fountains start, +Where once the hot volcano glowed. +And you, O Prince of Hoheneck! +Have known me in that earlier time, +A man of violence and crime, +Whose passions brooked no curb nor check. +Behold me now, in gentler mood, +One of this holy brotherhood. +Give me your hand; here let me kneel; +Make your reproaches sharp as steel; +Spurn me, and smite me on each cheek; +No violence can harm the meek, +There is no wound Christ cannot heal! +Yes; lift your princely hand, and take +Revenge, if 't is revenge you seek; +Then pardon me, for Jesus' sake! + +PRINCE HENRY. +Arise, Count Hugo! let there be +No further strife nor enmity +Between us twain; we both have erred +Too rash in act, too wroth in word, +From the beginning have we stood +In fierce, defiant attitude, +Each thoughtless of the other's right, +And each reliant on his might. +But now our souls are more subdued; +The hand of God, and not in vain, +Has touched us with the fire of pain. +Let us kneel down and side by side +Pray till our souls are purified, +And pardon will not be denied! + +They kneel. + + +THE REFECTORY + +Gaudiolum of Monks at midnight. LUCIFER disguised as a Friar. + +FRIAR PAUL sings. + Ave! color vini clari, + Dulcis potus, non amari, + Tua nos inebriari + Digneris potentia! + +FRIAR CUTHBERT. +Not so much noise, my worthy freres, +You'll disturb the Abbot at his prayers. + +FRIAR PAUL sings. + O! quam placens in colore! + O! quam fragrans in odore! + O! quam sapidum in ore! + Dulce linguae vinculum! + +FRIAR CUTHBERT. +I should think your tongue had broken its chain! + +FRIAR PAUL sings. + Felix venter quem intrabis! + Felix guttur quod rigabis! + Felix os quod tu lavabis! + Et beata labia! + +FRIAR CUTHBERT. +Peace! I say, peace! +Will you never cease! +You will rouse up the Abbot, I tell you again! + +FRIAR JOHN. +No danger! to-night he will let us alone, +As I happen to know he has guests of his own. + +FRIAR CUTHBERT. +Who are they? + +FRIAR JOHN. +A German Prince and his train, +Who arrived here just before the rain. +There is with him a damsel fair to see, +As slender and graceful as a reed! +When she alighted from her steed, +It seemed like a blossom blown from a tree. + +FRIAR CUTHBERT. +None of your pale-faced girls for me! +None of your damsels of high degree! + +FRIAR JOHN. +Come, old fellow, drink down to your peg! +But do not drink any further, I beg! + +FRIAR PAUL sings. + In the days of gold, + The days of old, + Crosier of wood + And bishop of gold! + +FRIAR CUTHBERT. +What an infernal racket and riot! +Can you not drink your wine in quiet? +Why fill the convent with such scandals, +As if we were so many drunken Vandals? + +FRIAR PAUL continues. + Now we have changed + That law so good + To crosier of gold + And bishop of wood! + +FRIAR CUTHBERT. +Well, then, since you are in the mood +To give your noisy humors vent, +Sing and howl to your heart's content! + +CHORUS OF MONKS. + Funde vinum, funde! + Tanquam sint fluminis undae, + Nec quaeras unde, + Sed fundas semper abunde! + +FRIAR JOHN. +What is the name of yonder friar, +With an eye that glows like a coal of fire, +And such a black mass of tangled hair? + +FRIAR PAUL. +He who is sitting there, +With a rollicking, +Devil may care, +Free and easy look and air, +As if he were used to such feasting and frolicking? + +FRIAR JOHN. +The same. + +FRIAR PAUL. +He's a stranger. You had better ask his name, +And where he is going and whence he came. + +FRIAR JOHN. +Hallo! Sir Friar! + +FRIAR PAUL. +You must raise your voice a little higher, +He does not seem to hear what you say. +Now, try again! He is looking this way. + +FRIAR JOHN. +Hallo! Sir Friar, +We wish to inquire +Whence you came, and where you are going, +And anything else that is worth the knowing. +So be so good as to open your head. + +LUCIFER. +I am a Frenchman born and bred, +Going on a pilgrimage to Rome. +My home +Is the convent of St. Gildas de Rhuys, +Of which, very like, you never have heard. + +MONKS. +Never a word. + +LUCIFER. +You must know, then, it is in the diocese +Called the Diocese of Vannes, +In the province of Brittany. +From the gray rocks of Morbihan +It overlooks the angry sea; +The very sea-shore where, +In his great despair, +Abbot Abelard walked to and fro, +Filling the night with woe, +And wailing aloud to the merciless seas +The name of his sweet Heloise, +Whilst overhead +The convent windows gleamed as red +As the fiery eyes of the monks within, +Who with jovial din +Gave themselves up to all kinds of sin! +Ha! that is a convent! that is an abbey! +Over the doors, +None of your death-heads carved in wood, +None of your Saints looking pious and good, +None of your Patriarchs old and shabby! +But the heads and tusks of boars, +And the cells +Hung all round with the fells +Of the fallow-deer. +And then what cheer! +What jolly, fat friars, +Sitting round the great, roaring fires, +Roaring louder than they, +With their strong wines, +And their concubines, +And never a bell, +With its swagger and swell, +Calling you up with a start of affright +In the dead of night, +To send you grumbling down dark stairs, +To mumble your prayers; +But the cheery crow +Of cocks in the yard below, +After daybreak, an hour or so, +And the barking of deep-mouthed hounds, +These are the sounds +That, instead of bells, salute the ear. +And then all day +Up and away +Through the forest, hunting the deer! +Ah, my friends, I'm afraid that here +You are a little too pious, a little too tame, +And the more is the shame. +'T is the greatest folly +Not to be jolly; +That's what I think! +Come, drink, drink, +Drink, and die game! + +MONKS. +And your Abbot What's-his-name? + +LUCIFER. +Abelard! + +MONKS. +Did he drink hard? + +LUCIFER. +Oh, no! Not he! +He was a dry old fellow, +Without juice enough to get thoroughly mellow. +There he stood, +Lowering at us in sullen mood, +As if he had come into Brittany +Just to reform our brotherhood! + +A roar of laughter. + +But you see +It never would do! +For some of us knew a thing or two, +In the Abbey of St. Gildas de Rhuys! +For instance, the great ado +With old Fulbert's niece, +The young and lovely Heloise. + +FRIAR JOHN. +Stop there, if you please, +Till we drink so the fair Heloise. + +ALL, drinking and shouting. +Heloise! Heloise! + +The Chapel-bell tolls. + +LUCIFER, starting. +What is that bell for! Are you such asses +As to keep up the fashion of midnight masses? + +FRIAR CUTHBERT. +It is only a poor unfortunate brother, +Who is gifted with most miraculous powers +Of getting up at all sorts of hours, +And, by way of penance and Christian meekness, +Of creeping silently out of his cell +To take a pull at that hideous bell; +So that all monks who are lying awake +May murmur some kind of prayer for his sake, +And adapted to his peculiar weakness! + +FRIAR JOHN. +From frailty and fall-- + +ALL. +Good Lord, deliver us all! + +FRIAR CUTHBERT. +And before the bell for matins sounds, +He takes his lantern, and goes the rounds, +Flashing it into our sleepy eyes, +Merely to say it is time to arise. +But enough of that. Go on, if you please, +With your story about St. Gildas de Rhuys. + +LUCIFER. +Well, it finally came to pass +That, half in fun and half in malice, +One Sunday at Mass +We put some poison into the chalice. +But, either by accident or design, +Peter Abelard kept away +From the chapel that day, +And a poor young friar, who in his stead +Drank the sacramental wine, +Fell on the steps of the altar, dead! +But look! do you see at the window there +That face, with a look of grief and despair, +That ghastly face, as of one in pain? + +MONKS. +Who? where? + +LUCIFER. +As I spoke, it vanished away again. + +FRIAR CUTHBERT. +It is that nefarious +Siebald the Refectorarius, +That fellow is always playing the scout, +Creeping and peeping and prowling about; +And then he regales +The Abbot with scandalous tales. + +LUCIFER. +A spy in the convent? One of the brothers +Telling scandalous tales of the others? +Out upon him, the lazy loon! +I would put a stop to that pretty soon, +In a way he should rue it. + +MONKS. +How shall we do it! + +LUCIFER. +Do you, brother Paul, +Creep under the window, close to the wall, +And open it suddenly when I call. +Then seize the villain by the hair, +And hold him there, +And punish him soundly, once for all. + +FRIAR CUTHBERT. +As Saint Dunstan of old, +We are told, +Once caught the Devil by the nose! + +LUCIFER. +Ha! ha! that story is very clever, +But has no foundation whatsoever. +Quick! for I see his face again +Glaring in at the window-pane; +Now! now! and do not spare your blows. + +FRIAR PAUL opens the window suddenly, and seizes SIEBALD. +They beat him. + +FRIAR SIEBALD. +Help! help! are you going to slay me? + +FRIAR PAUL. +That will teach you again to betray me! + +FRIAR SIEBALD. +Mercy! mercy! + +FRIAR PAUL, shouting and beating. + + Rumpas bellorum lorum + Vim confer amorum + Morum verorum rorum + Tu plena polorum! + +LUCIFER. +Who stands in the doorway yonder, +Stretching out his trembling hand, +Just as Abelard used to stand, +The flash of his keen, black eyes +Forerunning the thunder? + +THE MONKS, in confusion. +The Abbot! the Abbot! + +FRIAR CUTHBERT. + And what is the wonder! +He seems to have taken you by surprise. + +FRIAR FRANCIS. +Hide the great flagon +From the eyes of the dragon! + +FRIAR CUTHBERT. +Pull the brown hood over your face! +This will bring us into disgrace! + +ABBOT. +What means this revel and carouse? +Is this a tavern and drinking-house? +Are you Christian monks, or heathen devils, +To pollute this convent with your revels? +Were Peter Damian still upon earth, +To be shocked by such ungodly mirth, +He would write your names, with pen of gall, +In his Book of Gomorrah, one and all! +Away, you drunkards! to your cells, +And pray till you hear the matin-bells; +You, Brother Francis, and you, Brother Paul! +And as a penance mark each prayer +With the scourge upon your shoulders bare; +Nothing atones for such a sin +But the blood that follows the discipline. +And you, Brother Cuthbert, come with me +Alone into the sacristy; +You, who should be a guide to your brothers, +And are ten times worse than all the others, +For you I've a draught that has long been brewing, +You shall do a penance worth the doing! +Away to your prayers, then, one and all! +I wonder the very convent wall +Does not crumble and crush you in its fall! + + +THE NEIGHBORING NUNNERY + +The ABBESS IRMINGARD Sitting with ELSIE in the moonlight. + +IRMINGARD. +The night is silent, the wind is still, +The moon is looking from yonder hill +Down upon convent, and grove, and garden; +The clouds have passed away from her face, +Leaving behind them no sorrowful trace, +Only the tender and quiet grace +Of one whose heart has been healed with pardon! + +And such am I. My soul within +Was dark with passion and soiled with sin. +But now its wounds are healed again; +Gone are the anguish, the terror, and pain; +For across that desolate land of woe, +O'er whose burning sands I was forced to go, +A wind from heaven began to blow; +And all my being trembled and shook, +As the leaves of the tree, or the grass of the field, +And I was healed, as the sick are healed, +When fanned by the leaves of the Holy Book! + +As thou sittest in the moonlight there, +Its glory flooding thy golden hair, +And the only darkness that which lies +In the haunted chambers of thine eyes, +I feel my soul drawn unto thee, +Strangely, and strongly, and more and more, +As to one I have known and loved before; +For every soul is akin to me +That dwells in the land of mystery! +I am the Lady Irmingard, +Born of a noble race and name! +Many a wandering Suabian bard, +Whose life was dreary, and bleak, and hard, +Has found through me the way to fame. + +Brief and bright were those days, and the night +Which followed was full of a lurid light. +Love, that of every woman's heart +Will have the whole, and not a part, +That is to her, in Nature's plan, +More than ambition is to man, +Her light, her life, her very breath, +With no alternative but death, +Found me a maiden soft and young, +Just from the convent's cloistered school, +And seated on my lowly stool, +Attentive while the minstrels sung. + +Gallant, graceful, gentle, tall, +Fairest, noblest, best of all, +Was Walter of the Vogelweid; +And, whatsoever may betide, +Still I think of him with pride! +His song was of the summer-time, +The very birds sang in his rhyme; +The sunshine, the delicious air, +The fragrance of the flowers, were there; +And I grew restless as I heard, +Restless and buoyant as a bird, +Down soft, aerial currents sailing, +O'er blossomed orchards and fields in bloom, +And through the momentary gloom, +Of shadows o'er the landscape trailing, +Yielding and borne I knew not where, +But feeling resistance unavailing. + +And thus, unnoticed and apart, +And more by accident than choice, +I listened to that single voice +Until the chambers of my heart +Were filled with it by night and day. +One night,--it was a night in May,-- +Within the garden, unawares, +Under the blossoms in the gloom, +I heard it utter my own name +With protestations and wild prayers; +And it rang through me, and became +Like the archangel's trump of doom, +Which the soul hears, and must obey; +And mine arose as from a tomb. +My former life now seemed to me +Such as hereafter death may be, +When in the great Eternity +We shall awake and find it day. + +It was a dream, and would not stay; +A dream, that in a single night +Faded and vanished out of sight. +My father's anger followed fast +This passion, as a freshening blast +Seeks out and fans the fire, whose rage +It may increase, but not assuage. +And he exclaimed: "No wandering bard +Shall win thy hand, O Irmingard! +For which Prince Henry of Hoheneck +By messenger and letter sues." + +Gently, but firmly, I replied: +"Henry of Hoheneck I discard! +Never the hand of Irmingard +Shall lie in his as the hand of a bride! +This said I, Walter, for thy sake +This said I, for I could not choose. +After a pause, my father spake +In that cold and deliberate tone +Which turns the hearer into stone, +And seems itself the act to be +That follows with such dread certainty +"This or the cloister and the veil!" +No other words than these he said, +But they were like a funeral wail; +My life was ended, my heart was dead. + +That night from the castle-gate went down +With silent, slow, and stealthy pace, +Two shadows, mounted on shadowy steeds, +Taking the narrow path that leads +Into the forest dense and brown. +In the leafy darkness of the place, +One could not distinguish form nor face, +Only a bulk without a shape, +A darker shadow in the shade; +One scarce could say it moved or stayed. +Thus it was we made our escape! +A foaming brook, with many a bound, +Followed us like a playful hound; +Then leaped before us, and in the hollow +Paused, and waited for us to follow, +And seemed impatient, and afraid +That our tardy flight should be betrayed +By the sound our horses' hoof-beats made. +And when we reached the plain below, +We paused a moment and drew rein +To look back at the castle again; +And we saw the windows all aglow +With lights, that were passing to and fro; +Our hearts with terror ceased to beat; +The brook crept silent to our feet; +We knew what most we feared to know. +Then suddenly horns began to blow; +And we heard a shout, and a heavy tramp, +And our horses snorted in the damp +Night-air of the meadows green and wide, +And in a moment, side by side, +So close, they must have seemed but one, +The shadows across the moonlight run, +And another came, and swept behind, +Like the shadow of clouds before the wind! + +How I remember that breathless flight +Across the moors, in the summer night! +How under our feet the long, white road +Backward like a river flowed, +Sweeping with it fences and hedges, +Whilst farther away and overhead, +Paler than I, with fear and dread, +The moon fled with us as we fled +Along the forest's jagged edges! + +All this I can remember well; +But of what afterwards befell +I nothing further can recall +Than a blind, desperate, headlong fall; +The rest is a blank and darkness all. +When I awoke out of this swoon, +The sun was shining, not the moon, +Making a cross upon the wall +With the bars of my windows narrow and tall; +And I prayed to it, as I had been wont to pray +From early childhood, day by day, +Each morning, as in bed I lay! +I was lying again in my own room! +And I thanked God, in my fever and pain, +That those shadows on the midnight plain +Were gone, and could not come again! +I struggled no longer with my doom! + +This happened many years ago. +I left my father's home to come +Like Catherine to her martyrdom, +For blindly I esteemed it so. +And when I heard the convent door +Behind me close, to ope no more, +I felt it smite me like a blow. +Through all my limbs a shudder ran, +And on my bruised spirit fell +The dampness of my narrow cell +As night-air on a wounded man, +Giving intolerable pain. + +But now a better life began. +I felt the agony decrease +By slow degrees, then wholly cease, +Ending in perfect rest and peace! +It was not apathy, nor dulness, +That weighed and pressed upon my brain, +But the same passion I had given +To earth before, now turned to heaven +With all its overflowing fulness. + +Alas! the world is full of peril! +The path that runs through the fairest meads, +On the sunniest side of the valley, leads +Into a region bleak and sterile! +Alike in the high-born and the lowly, +The will is feeble, and passion strong. +We cannot sever right from wrong; +Some falsehood mingles with all truth; +Nor is it strange the heart of youth +Should waver and comprehend but slowly +The things that are holy and unholy! +But in this sacred, calm retreat, +We are all well and safely shielded +From winds that blow, and waves that beat, +From the cold, and rain, and blighting heat, +To which the strongest hearts have yielded. +Here we stand as the Virgins Seven, +For our celestial bridegroom yearning; +Our hearts are lamps forever burning, +With a steady and unwavering flame, +Pointing upward, forever the same, +Steadily upward toward the heaven! + +The moon is hidden behind a cloud; +A sudden darkness fills the room, +And thy deep eyes, amid the gloom, +Shine like jewels in a shroud. +On the leaves is a sound of falling rain; +A bird, awakened in its nest, +Gives a faint twitter of unrest, +Then smooths its plumes and sleeps again. +No other sounds than these I hear; +The hour of midnight must be near. +Thou art o'erspent with the day's fatigue +Of riding many a dusty league; +Sink, then, gently to thy slumber; +Me so many cares encumber, +So many ghosts, and forms of fright, +Have started from their graves to-night, +They have driven sleep from mine eyes away: +I will go down to the chapel and pray. + + +V. + +A COVERED BRIDGE AT LUCERNE + +PRINCE HENRY. +God's blessing on the architects who build +The bridges o'er swift rivers and abysses +Before impassable to human feet, +No less than on the builders of cathedrals, +Whose massive walls are bridges thrown across +The dark and terrible abyss of Death. +Well has the name of Pontifex been given +Unto the Church's head, as the chief builder +And architect of the invisible bridge +That leads from earth to heaven. + +ELSIE. + How dark it grows! +What are these paintings on the walls around us? + +PRINCE HENRY. +The Dance Macaber! + +ELSIE. + What? + +PRINCE HENRY. + The Dance of Death! +All that go to and fro must look upon it, +Mindful of what they shall be, while beneath, +Among the wooden piles, the turbulent river +Rushes, impetuous as the river of life, +With dimpling eddies, ever green and bright, +Save where the shadow of this bridge falls on it. + +ELSIE. +Oh yes! I see it now! + +PRINCE HENRY. + The grim musician +Leads all men through the mazes of that dance, +To different sounds in different measures moving; +Sometimes he plays a lute, sometimes a drum, +To tempt or terrify. + +ELSIE. + What is this picture? + +PRINCE HENRY. +It is a young man singing to a nun, +Who kneels at her devotions, but in kneeling +Turns round to look at him; and Death, meanwhile, +Is putting out the candles on the altar! + +ELSIE. +Ah, what a pity 't is that she should listen +Unto such songs, when in her orisons +She might have heard in heaven the angels singing! + +PRINCE HENRY. +Here he has stolen a jester's cap and bells +And dances with the Queen. + +ELSIE. + A foolish jest! + +PRINCE HENRY. +And here the heart of the new-wedded wife, +Coming from church with her beloved lord, +He startles with the rattle of his drum. + +ELSIE. +Ah, that is sad! And yet perhaps 't is best +That she should die, with all the sunshine on her, +And all the benedictions of the morning, +Before this affluence of golden light +Shall fade into a cold and clouded gray, +Then into darkness! + +PRINCE HENRY. + Under it is written, +"Nothing but death shall separate thee and me!" + +ELSIE. +And what is this, that follows close upon it? + +PRINCE HENRY. +Death playing on a dulcimer. Behind him, +A poor old woman, with a rosary, +Follows the sound, and seems to wish her feet +Were swifter to o'ertake him. Underneath, +The inscription reads, "Better is Death than Life." + +ELSIE. +Better is Death than Life! Ah yes! to thousands +Death plays upon a dulcimer, and sings +That song of consolation, till the air +Rings with it, and they cannot choose but follow +Whither he leads. And not the old alone, +But the young also hear it, and are still. + +PRINCE HENRY. +Yes, in their sadder moments. 'T is the sound +Of their own hearts they hear, half full of tears, +Which are like crystal cups, half filled with water, +Responding to the pressure of a finger +With music sweet and low and melancholy. +Let us go forward, and no longer stay +In this great picture-gallery of Death! +I hate it! ay, the very thought of it! + +ELSIE. +Why is it hateful to you? + +PRINCE HENRY. + For the reason +That life, and all that speaks of life, is lovely, +And death, and all that speaks of death, is hateful. + +ELSIE. +The grave itself is but a covered bridge, +Leading from light to light, through a brief darkness! + +PRINCE HENRY, emerging from the bridge. +I breathe again more freely! Ah, how pleasant +To come once more into the light of day, +Out of that shadow of death! To hear again +The hoof-beats of our horses on firm ground, +And not upon those hollow planks, resounding +With a sepulchral echo, like the clods +On coffins in a churchyard! Yonder lies +The Lake of the Four Forest-Towns, apparelled +In light, and lingering, like a village maiden, +Hid in the bosom of her native mountains +Then pouring all her life into another's, +Changing her name and being! Overhead, +Shaking his cloudy tresses loose in air, +Rises Pilatus, with his windy pines. + +They pass on. + + +THE DEVIL'S BRIDGE + +PRINCE HENRY and ELSIE crossing with attendants. + +GUIDE. +This bridge is called the Devil's Bridge. +With a single arch, from ridge to ridge, +It leaps across the terrible chasm +Yawning beneath us, black and deep, +As if, in some convulsive spasm, +The summits of the hills had cracked, +And made a road for the cataract +That raves and rages down the steep! + +LUCIFER, under the bridge. +Ha! ha! + +GUIDE. +Never any bridge but this +Could stand across the wild abyss; +All the rest, of wood or stone, +By the Devil's hand were overthrown. +He toppled crags from the precipice, +And whatsoe'er was built by day +In the night was swept away; +None could stand but this alone. + +LUCIFER, under the bridge. +Ha! ha! + +GUIDE. +I showed you in the valley a bowlder +Marked with the imprint of his shoulder; +As he was bearing it up this way, +A peasant, passing, cried, "Herr Je! +And the Devil dropped it in his fright, +And vanished suddenly out of sight! + +LUCIFER, under the bridge. +Ha! ha! + +GUIDE. +Abbot Giraldus of Einsiedel, +For pilgrims on their way to Rome, +Built this at last, with a single arch, +Under which, on its endless march, +Runs the river, white with foam, +Like a thread through the eye of a needle. +And the Devil promised to let it stand, +Under compact and condition +That the first living thing which crossed +Should be surrendered into his hand, +And be beyond redemption lost. + +LUCIFER, under the bridge. +Ha! ha! perdition! + +GUIDE. +At length, the bridge being all completed, +The Abbot, standing at its head, +Threw across it a loaf of bread, +Which a hungry dog sprang after; +And the rocks re-echoed with the peals of laughter, +To see the Devil thus defeated! + +They pass on. + +LUCIFER, under the bridge. +Ha! ha! defeated! +For journeys and for crimes like this +I let the bridge stand o'er the abyss! + + +THE ST. GOTHARD PASS + +PRINCE HENRY. +This is the highest point. Two ways the rivers +Leap down to different seas, and as they roll +Grow deep and still, and their majestic presence +Becomes a benefaction to the towns +They visit, wandering silently among them, +Like patriarchs old among their shining tents. + +ELSIE. +How bleak and bare it is! Nothing but mosses +Grow on these rocks. + +PRINCE HENRY. + Yet are they not forgotten; +Beneficent Nature sends the mists to feed them. + +ELSIE. +See yonder little cloud, that, borne aloft +So tenderly by the wind, floats fast away +Over the snowy peaks! It seems to me +The body of St. Catherine, borne by angels! + +PRINCE HENRY. +Thou art St. Catherine, and invisible angels +Bear thee across these chasms and precipices, +Lest thou shouldst dash thy feet against a stone! + +ELSIE. +Would I were borne unto my grave, as she was, +Upon angelic shoulders! Even now +I seem uplifted by them, light as air! +What sound is that? + +PRINCE HENRY. + The tumbling avalanches! + +ELSIE. +How awful, yet how beautiful! + +PRINCE HENRY. + These are +The voices of the mountains! Thus they ope +Their snowy lips, and speak unto each other, +In the primeval language, lost to man. + +ELSIE. +What land is this that spreads itself beneath us? + +PRINCE HENRY. +Italy! Italy! + +ELSIE. + Land of the Madonna! +How beautiful it is! It seems a garden +Of Paradise! + +PRINCE HENRY. + Nay, of Gethsemane +To thee and me, of passion and of prayer! +Yet once of Paradise. Long years ago +I wandered as a youth among its bowers, +And never from my heart has faded quite +Its memory, that, like a summer sunset, +Encircles with a ring of purple light +All the horizon of my youth. + +GUIDE. + O friends! +The days are short, the way before us long: +We must not linger, if we think to reach +The inn at Belinzona before vespers! + +They pass on. + + +AT THE FOOT OF THE ALPS + +A halt under the trees at noon. + +PRINCE HENRY. +Here let us pause a moment in the trembling +Shadow and sunshine of the roadside trees, +And, our tired horses in a group assembling, +Inhale long draughts of this delicious breeze. +Our fleeter steeds have distanced our attendants; +They lag behind us with a slower pace; +We will await them under the green pendants +Of the great willows in this shady place. +Ho, Barbarossa! how thy mottled haunches +Sweat with this canter over hill and glade! +Stand still, and let these overhanging branches +Fan thy hot sides and comfort thee with shade! + +ELSIE. +What a delightful landscape spreads before us, +Marked with a whitewashed cottage here and there! +And, in luxuriant garlands drooping o'er us, +Blossoms of grape-vines scent the sunny air. + +PRINCE HENRY. +Hark! what sweet sounds are those, whose accents holy +Fill the warm noon with music sad and sweet! + +ELSIE. +It is a band of pilgrims, moving slowly +On their long journey, with uncovered feet. + +PILGRIMS, chanting the Hymn of St. Hildebert. + Me receptet Sion illa, + Sion David, urbs tranquilla, + Cujus faber auctor lucis, + Cujus portae lignum crucis, + Cujus claves lingua Petri, + Cujus cives semper laeti, + Cujus muri lapis vivus, + Cujus custos rex festivus! + +LUCIFER, as a Friar in the procession. +Here am I, too, in the pious band, +In the garb of a barefooted Carmelite dressed! +The soles of my feet are as hard and tanned +As the conscience of old Pope Hildebrand, +The Holy Satan, who made the wives +Of the bishops lead such shameful lives, +All day long I beat my breast, +And chant with a most particular zest +The Latin hymns, which I understand +Quite as well, I think, as the rest. +And at night such lodging in barns and sheds, +Such a hurly-burly in country inns, +Such a clatter of tongues in empty heads, +Such a helter-skelter of prayers and sins! +Of all the contrivances of the time +For sowing broadcast the seeds of crime, +There is none so pleasing to me and mine +As a pilgrimage to some far-off shrine! + +PRINCE HENRY. +If from the outward man we judge the inner, +And cleanliness is godliness, I fear +A hopeless reprobate, a hardened Sinner, +Must be that Carmelite now passing near. + +LUCIFER. +There is my German Prince again, +Thus far on his journey to Salern, +And the lovesick girl, whose heated brain +Is sowing the cloud to reap the rain; +But it's a long road that has no turn! +Let them quietly hold their way, +I have also a part in the play. +But first I must act to my heart's content +This mummery and this merriment, +And drive this motley flock of sheep +Into the fold, where drink and sleep +The jolly old friars of Benevent. +Of a truth, it often provokes me to laugh +To see these beggars hobble along, +Lamed and maimed, and fed upon chaff, +Chanting their wonderful puff and paff, +And, to make up for not understanding the song, +Singing it fiercely, and wild, and strong! +Were it not for my magic garters and staff, +And the goblets of goodly wine I quaff, +And the mischief I make in the idle throng, +I should not continue the business long. + +PILGRIMS, chanting. + In hac urbe, lux solennis, + Ver aeternum, pax perennis; + In hac odor implens caelos, + In hac semper festum melos! + +PRINCE HENRY. +Do you observe that monk among the train, +Who pours from his great throat the roaring bass, +As a cathedral spout pours out the rain, +And this way turns his rubicund, round face? + +ELSIE. +It is the same who, on the Strasburg square, +Preached to the people in the open air. + +PRINCE HENRY. +And he has crossed o'er mountain, field, and fell, +On that good steed, that seems to bear him well, +The hackney of the Friars of Orders Gray, +His own stout legs! He, too, was in the play, +Both as King Herod and Ben Israel. +Good morrow, Friar! + +FRIAR CUTHBERT. + Good morrow, noble Sir! + +PRINCE HENRY. +I speak in German, for, unless I err, +You are a German. + +FRIAR CUTHBERT. + I cannot gainsay you. +But by what instinct, or what secret sign, +Meeting me here, do you straightway divine +That northward of the Alps my country lies? + +PRINCE HENRY. +Your accent, like St. Peter's, would betray you, +Did not your yellow beard and your blue eyes. +Moreover, we have seen your face before, +And heard you preach at the Cathedral door +On Easter Sunday, in the Strasburg square. +We were among the crowd that gathered there, +And saw you play the Rabbi with great skill, +As if, by leaning o'er so many years +To walk with little children, your own will +Had caught a childish attitude from theirs, +A kind of stooping in its form and gait, +And could no longer stand erect and straight. +Whence come you now? + +FRIAR CUTHBERT. + From the old monastery +Of Hirschau, in the forest; being sent +Upon a pilgrimage to Benevent, +To see the image of the Virgin Mary, +That moves its holy eyes, and sometimes speaks, +And lets the piteous tears run down its cheeks, +To touch the hearts of the impenitent. + +PRINCE HENRY. +Oh, had I faith, as in the days gone by, +That knew no doubt, and feared no mystery! + +LUCIFER, at a distance. +Ho, Cuthbert! Friar Cuthbert! + +FRIAR CUTHBERT. + Fare well, Prince; +I cannot stay to argue and convince. + +PRINCE HENRY. +This is indeed the blessed Mary's land, +Virgin and mother of our dear redeemer! +All hearts are touched and softened at her name, +Alike the bandit, with the bloody hand, +The priest, the prince, the scholar, and the peasant, +The man of deeds, the visionary dreamer, +Pay homage to her as one ever present! +And even as children, who have much offended +A too indulgent father, in great shame, +Penitent, and yet not daring unattended +To go into his presence, at the gate +Speak with their sister, and confiding wait +Till she goes in before and intercedes; +So men, repenting of their evil deeds, +And yet not venturing rashly to draw near +With their requests an angry father's ear, +Offer to her their prayers and their confession, +And she for them in heaven makes intercession. +And if our faith had given us nothing more +Than this example of all womanhood, +So mild, so merciful, so strong, so good, +So patient, peaceful, loyal, loving, pure, +This were enough to prove it higher and truer +Than all the creeds the world had known before. + +PILGRIMS, chanting afar off. + Urbs coelestis, urbs beata, + Supra petram collocata, + Urbs in portu satis tuto + De longinquo te saluto, + Te saluto, te suspiro, + Te affecto, te requiro! + + +THE INN AT GENOA + +A terrace overlooking the sea. Night. + +PRINCE HENRY. +It is the sea, it is the sea, +In all its vague immensity, +Fading and darkening in the distance! +Silent, majestical, and slow, +The white ships haunt it to and fro, +With all their ghostly sails unfurled, +As phantoms from another world +Haunt the dim confines of existence! +But ah! how few can comprehend +Their signals, or to what good end +From land to land they come and go! +Upon a sea more vast and dark +The spirits of the dead embark, +All voyaging to unknown coasts. +We wave our farewells from the shore, +And they depart, and come no more, +Or come as phantoms and as ghosts. + +Above the darksome sea of death +Looms the great life that is to be, +A land of cloud and mystery, +A dim mirage, with shapes of men +Long dead and passed beyond our ken, +Awe-struck we gaze, and hold our breath +Till the fair pageant vanisheth, +Leaving us in perplexity, +And doubtful whether it has been +A vision of the world unseen, +Or a bright image of our own +Against the sky in vapors thrown. + +LUCIFER, singing from the sea. +Thou didst not make it, thou canst not mend it, +But thou hast the power to end it! +The sea is silent, the sea is discreet, +Deep it lies at thy very feet; +There is no confessor like unto Death! +Thou canst not see him, but he is near; +Thou needst not whisper above thy breath, +And he will hear; +He will answer the questions, +The vague surmises and suggestions, +That fill thy soul with doubt and fear! + +PRINCE HENRY. +The fisherman, who lies afloat, +With shadowy sail, in yonder boat, +Is singing softly to the Night! +But do I comprehend aright +The meaning of the words he sung +So sweetly in his native tongue? +Ah yes! the sea is still and deep. +All things within its bosom sleep! +A single step, and all is o'er; +A plunge, a bubble an no more; +And thou, dear Elsie, wilt be free +From martyrdom and agony. + +ELSIE, coming from her chamber upon the terrace. +The night is calm and cloudless, +And still as still can be, +And the stars come forth to listen +To the music of the sea. +They gather, and gather, and gather, +Until they crowd the sky, +And listen, in breathless silence, +To the solemn litany. +It begins in rocky caverns, +As a voice that chants alone +To the pedals of the organ +In monotonous undertone; +And anon from shelving beaches, +And shallow sands beyond, +In snow-white robes uprising +The ghostly choirs respond. +And sadly and unceasing +The mournful voice sings on, +And the snow-white choirs still answer +Christe eleison! + +PRINCE HENRY. +Angel of God! thy finer sense perceives +Celestial and perpetual harmonies! +Thy purer soul, that trembles and believes, +Hears the archangel's trumpet in the breeze, +And where the forest rolls, or ocean heaves, +Cecilia's organ sounding in the seas, +And tongues of prophets speaking in the leaves. +But I hear discord only and despair, +And whispers as of demons in the air! + + +AT SEA + +IL PADRONE. +The wind upon our quarter lies, +And on before the freshening gale, +That fills the snow-white lateen sail, +Swiftly our light felucca flies, +Around the billows burst and foam; +They lift her o'er the sunken rock, +They beat her sides with many a shock, +And then upon their flowing dome +They poise her, like a weathercock! +Between us and the western skies +The hills of Corsica arise; +Eastward in yonder long blue line, +The summits of the Apennine, +And southward, and still far away, +Salerno, on its sunny bay. +You cannot see it, where it lies. + +PRINCE HENRY. +Ah, would that never more mine eyes +Might see its towers by night or day! + +ELSIE. +Behind us, dark and awfully, +There comes a cloud out of the sea, +That bears the form of a hunted deer, +With hide of brown, and hoofs of black +And antlers laid upon its back, +And fleeing fast and wild with fear, +As if the hounds were on its track! + +PRINCE HENRY. +Lo! while we gaze, it breaks and falls +In shapeless masses, like the walls +Of a burnt city. Broad and red +The flies of the descending sun +Glare through the windows, and o'erhead, +Athwart the vapors, dense and dun, +Long shafts of silvery light arise, +Like rafters that support the skies! + +ELSIE. +See! from its summit the lurid levin +Flashes downward without warning, +As Lucifer, son of the morning, +Fell from the battlements of heaven! + +IL PADRONE. +I must entreat you, friends, below! +The angry storm begins to blow, +For the weather changes with the moon. +All this morning, until noon, +We had baffling winds, and sudden flaws +Struck the sea with their cat's-paws. +Only a little hour ago +I was whistling to Saint Antonio +For a capful of wind to fill our sail, +And instead of a breeze he has sent a gale. +Last night I saw St. Elmo's stars, +With their glimmering lanterns, all at play +On the tops of the masts and the tips of the spars, +And I knew we should have foul weather to-day. +Cheerily, my hearties! yo heave ho! +Brail up the mainsail, and let her go +As the winds will and Saint Antonio! + +Do you see that Livornese felucca, +That vessel to the windward yonder, +Running with her gunwale under? +I was looking when the wind o'ertook her, +She had all sail set, and the only wonder +Is that at once the strength of the blast +Did not carry away her mast. +She is a galley of the Gran Duca, +That, through the fear of the Algerines, +Convoys those lazy brigantines, +Laden with wine and oil from Lucca. +Now all is ready, high and low; +Blow, blow, good Saint Antonio! + +Ha! that is the first dash of the rain, +With a sprinkle of spray above the rails, +Just enough to moisten our sails, +And make them ready for the strain. +See how she leaps, as the blasts o'ertake her, +And speeds away with a bone in her mouth! +Now keep her head toward the south, +And there is no danger of bank or breaker. +With the breeze behind us, on we go; +Not too much, good Saint Antonio! + + +VI + +THE SCHOOL OF SALERNO + +A travelling Scholastic affixing his Theses to the gate of the +College. + +SCHOLASTIC. +There, that is my gauntlet, my banner, my shield, +Hung up as a challenge to all the field! +One hundred and twenty-five propositions, +Which I will maintain with the sword of the tongue +Against all disputants, old and young. +Let us see if doctors or dialecticians +Will dare to dispute my definitions, +Or attack any one of my learned theses. +Here stand I; the end shall be as God pleases. +I think I have proved, by profound researches, +The error of all those doctrines so vicious +Of the old Areopagite Dionysius, +That are making such terrible work in the churches, +By Michael the Stammerer sent from the East, +And done into Latin by that Scottish beast, +Johannes Duns Scotus, who dares to maintain, +In the face of the truth, the error infernal, +That the universe is and must be eternal; +At first laying down, as a fact fundamental, +That nothing with God can be accidental; +Then asserting that God before the creation +Could not have existed, because it is plain +That, had He existed, He would have created; +Which is begging the question that should be debated, +And moveth me less to anger than laughter. +All nature, he holds, is a respiration +Of the Spirit of God, who, in breathing, hereafter +Will inhale it into his bosom again, +So that nothing but God alone will remain. +And therein he contradicteth himself; +For he opens the whole discussion by stating, +That God can only exist in creating. +That question I think I have laid on the shelf! + +He goes out. Two Doctors come in disputing, and followed by +pupils. + +DOCTOR SERAFINO. +I, with the Doctor Seraphic, maintain, +That a word which is only conceived in the brain +Is a type of eternal Generation; +The spoken word is the Incarnation. + +DOCTOR CHERUBINO. +What do I care for the Doctor Seraphic, +With all his wordy chaffer and traffic? + +DOCTOR SERAFINO. +You make but a paltry show of resistance; +Universals have no real existence! + +DOCTOR CHERUBINO. +Your words are but idle and empty chatter; +Ideas are eternally joined to matter! + +DOCTOR SERAFINO. +May the Lord have mercy on your position, +You wretched, wrangling culler of herbs! + +DOCTOR CHERUBINO. +May he send your soul to eternal perdition, +For your Treatise on the Irregular verbs! + +They rush out fighting. Two Scholars come in. + +FIRST SCHOLAR. +Monte Cassino, then, is your College. +What think you of ours here at Salern? + +SECOND SCHOLAR. +To tell the truth, I arrived so lately, +I hardly yet have had time to discern. +So much, at least, I am bound to acknowledge: +The air seems healthy, the buildings stately, +And on the whole I like it greatly. + +FIRST SCHOLAR. +Yes, the air is sweet; the Calabrian hills +Send us down puffs of mountain air; +And in summer-time the sea-breeze fills +With its coolness cloister, and court, and square. +Then at every season of the year +There are crowds of guests and travellers here; +Pilgrims, and mendicant friars, and traders +From the Levant, with figs and wine, +And bands of wounded and sick Crusaders, +Coming back from Palestine. + +SECOND SCHOLAR. +And what are the studies you pursue? +What is the course you here go through? + +FIRST SCHOLAR. +The first three years of the college course +Are given to Logic alone, as the source +Of all that is noble, and wise, and true. + +SECOND SCHOLAR. +That seems rather strange, I must confess, +In a Medical School; yet, nevertheless, +You doubtless have reasons for that. + +FIRST SCHOLAR. + Oh yes +For none but a clever dialectician +Can hope to become a great physician; +That has been settled long ago. +Logic makes an important part +Of the mystery of the healing art; +For without it how could you hope to show +That nobody knows so much as you know? +After this there are five years more +Devoted wholly to medicine, +With lectures on chirurgical lore, +And dissections of the bodies of swine, +As likest the human form divine. + +SECOND SCHOLAR. +What are the books now most in vogue? + +FIRST SCHOLAR. +Quite an extensive catalogue; +Mostly, however, books of our own; +As Gariopontus' Passionarius, +And the writings of Matthew Platearius; +And a volume universally known +As the Regimen of the School of Salern, +For Robert of Normandy written in terse +And very elegant Latin verse. +Each of these writings has its turn. +And when at length we have finished these +Then comes the struggle for degrees, +Will all the oldest and ablest critics; +The public thesis and disputation, +Question, and answer, and explanation +Of a passage out of Hippocrates, +Or Aristotle's Analytics. +There the triumphant Magister stands! +A book is solemnly placed in his hands, +On which he swears to follow the rule +And ancient forms of the good old School; +To report if any confectionarius +Mingles his drugs with matters various, +And to visit his patients twice a day, +And once in the night, if they live in town, +And if they are poor, to take no pay. +Having faithfully promised these, +His head is crowned with a laurel crown; +A kiss on his cheek, a ring on his hand, +The Magister Artium et Physices +Goes forth from the school like a lord of the land. +And now, as we have the whole morning before us, +Let us go in, if you make no objection, +And listen awhile to a learned prelection +On Marcus Aurelius Cassioderus. + +They go in. Enter Lucifer as a Doctor. + +LUCIFER. +This is the great School of Salern! +A land of wrangling and of quarrels, +Of brains that seethe, and hearts that burn, +Where every emulous scholar hears, +In every breath that comes to his ears, +The rustling of another's laurels! +The air of the place is called salubrious; +The neighborhood of Vesuvius lends it +Au odor volcanic, that rather mends it, +And the building's have an aspect lugubrious, +That inspires a feeling of awe and terror +Into the heart of the beholder. +And befits such an ancient homestead of error, +Where the old falsehoods moulder and smoulder, +And yearly by many hundred hands +Are carried away in the zeal of youth, +And sown like tares in the field of truth, +To blossom and ripen in other lands. + +What have we here, affixed to the gate? +The challenge of some scholastic wight, +Who wishes to hold a public debate +On sundry questions wrong or right! +Ah, now this is my great delight! +For I have often observed of late +That such discussions end in a fight. +Let us see what the learned wag maintains +With such a prodigal waste of brains. + +Reads. + +"Whether angels in moving from place to place +Pass through the intermediate space. +Whether God himself is the author of evil, +Or whether that is the work of the Devil. +When, where, and wherefore Lucifer fell, +And whether he now is chained in hell." +I think I can answer that question well! +So long as the boastful human mind +Consents in such mills as this to grind, +I sit very firmly upon my throne! +Of a truth it almost makes me laugh, +To see men leaving the golden grain +To gather in piles the pitiful chaff +That old Peter Lombard thrashed with his brain, +To have it caught up and tossed again +On the horns of the Dumb Ox of Cologne! + +But my guests approach! there is in the air +A fragrance, like that of the Beautiful Garden +Of Paradise, in the days that were! +An odor of innocence and of prayer, +And of love, and faith that never fails, +Such as the fresh young heart exhales +Before it begins to wither and harden! +I cannot breathe such an atmosphere! +My soul is filled with a nameless fear, +That after all my trouble and pain, +After all my restless endeavor, +The youngest, fairest soul of the twain, +The most ethereal, most divine, +Will escape from my hands for ever and ever. +But the other is already mine! +Let him live to corrupt his race, +Breathing among them, with every breath, +Weakness, selfishness, and the base +And pusillanimous fear of death. +I know his nature, and I know +That of all who in my ministry +Wander the great earth to and fro, +And on my errands come and go, +The safest and subtlest are such as he. + +Enter PRINCE HENRY and ELSIE, with attendants. + +PRINCE HENRY. +Can you direct us to Friar Angelo? + +LUCIFER. +He stands before you. + +PRINCE HENRY. + Then you know our purpose. +I am Prince Henry of Hoheneck, and this +The maiden that I spake of in my letters. + +LUCIFER. +It is a very grave and solemn business! +We must nor be precipitate. Does she +Without compulsion, of her own free will, +Consent to this? + +PRINCE HENRY. + Against all opposition, +Against all prayers, entreaties, protestations, +She will not be persuaded. + +LUCIFER. + That is strange! +Have you thought well of it? + +ELSIE. + I come not here +To argue, but to die. Your business is not +To question, but to kill me. I am ready, +I am impatient to be gone from here +Ere any thoughts of earth disturb again +The spirit of tranquillity within me. + +PRINCE HENRY. +Would I had not come here! Would I were dead, +And thou wert in thy cottage in the forest, +And hadst not known me! Why have I done this? +Let me go back and die. + +ELSIE. + It cannot be; +Not if these cold, flat stones on which we tread +Were coulters heated white, and yonder gateway +Flamed like a furnace with a sevenfold heat. +I must fulfil my purpose. + +PRINCE HENRY. + I forbid it! +Not one step further. For I only meant +To put thus far thy courage to the proof. +It is enough. I, too, have strength to die, +For thou hast taught me! + +ELSIE. + O my Prince! remember +Your promises. Let me fulfil my errand. +You do not look on life and death as I do. +There are two angels, that attend unseen +Each one of us, and in great books record +Our good and evil deeds. He who writes down +The good ones, after every action closes +His volume, and ascends with it to God. +The other keeps his dreadful day-book open +Till sunset, that we may repent; which doing, +The record of the action fades away, +And leaves a line of white across the page. +Now if my act be good, as I believe, +It cannot be recalled. It is already +Sealed up in heaven, as a good deed accomplished. +The rest is yours. Why wait you? I am ready. + +To her attendants. +Weep not, my friends! rather rejoice with me. +I shall not feel the pain, but shall be gone, +And you will have another friend in heaven. +Then start not at the creaking of the door +Through which I pass. I see what lies beyond it. + +To PRINCE HENRY. +And you, O Prince! bear back my benison +Unto my father's house, and all within it. +This morning in the church I prayed for them, +After confession, after absolution, +When my whole soul was white, I prayed for them. +God will take care of them, they need me not. +And in your life let my remembrance linger, +As something not to trouble and disturb it, +But to complete it, adding life to life. +And if at times beside the evening fire, +You see my face among the other faces, +Let it not be regarded as a ghost +That haunts your house, but as a guest that loves you. +Nay, even as one of your own family, +Without whose presence there were something wanting. +I have no more to say. Let us go in. + +PRINCE HENRY. +Friar Angelo! I charge you on your life, +Believe not what she says, for she is mad, +And comes here not to die, but to be healed. + +ELSIE. +Alas! Prince Henry! + +LUCIFER. + Come with me; this way. + +ELSIE goes in with LUCIFER, who thrusts PRINCE HENRY back and +closes the door. + +PRINCE HENRY. +Gone! and the light of all my life gone with her! +A sudden darkness falls upon the world! +Oh, what a vile and abject thing am I +That purchase length of days at such a cost! +Not by her death alone, but by the death +Of all that's good and true and noble in me +All manhood, excellence, and self-respect, +All love, and faith, and hope, and heart are dead! +All my divine nobility of nature +By this one act is forfeited forever. +I am a Prince in nothing but in name! + +To the attendants. +Why did you let this horrible deed be done? +Why did you not lay hold on her, and keep her +From self destruction? Angelo! murderer! + +Struggles at the door, but cannot open it. + +ELSIE, within. +Farewell, dear Prince! farewell! + +PRINCE HENRY. + Unbar the door! + +LUCIFER. +It is too late! + +PRINCE HENRY. + It shall not be too late. + +They burst the door open and rush in. + + +THE FARM-HOUSE IN THE ODENWALD + +URSULA spinning. A summer afternoon. A table spread. + +URSULA. +I have marked it well,--it must be true,-- +Death never takes one alone, but two! +Whenever he enters in at a door, +Under roof of gold or roof of thatch, +He always leaves it upon the latch, +And comes again ere the year is o'er. +Never one of a household only! +Perhaps it is a mercy of God, +Lest the dead there under the sod, +In the land of strangers, should be lonely! +Ah me! I think I am lonelier here! +It is hard to go,--but harder to stay! +Were it not for the children, I should pray +That Death would take me within the year! +And Gottlieb!--he is at work all day, +In the sunny field, or the forest murk, +But I know that his thoughts are far away, +I know that his heart is not in his work! +And when he comes home to me at night +He is not cheery, but sits and sighs, +And I see the great tears in his eyes, +And try to be cheerful for his sake. +Only the children's hearts are light. +Mine is weary, and ready to break. +God help us! I hope we have done right; +We thought we were acting for the best! + +Looking through the open door. + +Who is it coming under the trees? +A man, in the Prince's livery dressed! +He looks about him with doubtful face, +As if uncertain of the place. +He stops at the beehives;--now he sees +The garden gate;--he is going past! +Can he be afraid of the bees? +No; he is coming in at last! +He fills my heart with strange alarm! + +Enter a Forester. + +FORESTER. +Is this the tenant Gottlieb's farm? + +URSULA. +This is his farm, and I his wife. +Pray sit. What may your business be? + +FORESTER. +News from the Prince! + +URSULA. + Of death or life? + +FORESTER. +You put your questions eagerly! + +URSULA. +Answer me, then! How is the Prince? + +FORESTER. +I left him only two hours since +Homeward returning down the river, +As strong and well as if God, the Giver, +Had given him back his youth again. + +URSULA, despairing. +Then Elsie, my poor child, is dead! + +FORESTER. +That, my good woman, I have not said. +Don't cross the bridge till you come to it, +Is a proverb old, and of excellent wit. + +URSULA. +Keep me no longer in this pain! + +FORESTER. +It is true your daughter is no more;-- +That is, the peasant she was before. + +URSULA. +Alas! I am simple and lowly bred, +I am poor, distracted, and forlorn. +And it is not well that you of the court +Should mock me thus, and make a sport +Of a joyless mother whose child is dead, +For you, too, were of mother born! + +FORESTER. +Your daughter lives, and the Prince is well! +You will learn erelong how it all befell. +Her heart for a moment never failed; +But when they reached Salerno's gate, +The Prince's nobler self prevailed, +And saved her for a noble fate. +And he was healed, in his despair, +By the touch of St. Matthew's sacred bones; +Though I think the long ride in the open air, +That pilgrimage over stocks and stones, +In the miracle must come in for a share. + +URSULA. +Virgin! who lovest the poor and lowly, +If the loud cry of a mother's heart +Can ever ascend to where thou art, +Into thy blessed hands and holy +Receive my prayer of praise and thanksgiving! +Let the hands that bore our Saviour bear it +Into the awful presence of God; +For thy feet with holiness are shod, +And if thou hearest it He will hear it. +Our child who was dead again is living! + +FORESTER. +I did not tell you she was dead; +If you thought so 't was no fault of mine; +At this very moment while I speak, +They are sailing homeward down the Rhine, +In a splendid barge, with golden prow, +And decked with banners white and red +As the colors on your daughter's cheek. +They call her the Lady Alicia now; +For the Prince in Salerno made a vow +That Elsie only would he wed. + +URSULA. +Jesu Maria! what a change! +All seems to me so weird and strange! + +FORESTER. +I saw her standing on the deck, +Beneath an awning cool and shady; +Her cap of velvet could not hold +The tresses of her hair of gold, +That flowed and floated like the stream, +And fell in masses down her neck. +As fair and lovely did she seem +As in a story or a dream +Some beautiful and foreign lady. +And the Prince looked so grand and proud, +And waved his hand thus to the crowd +That gazed and shouted from the shore, +All down the river, long and loud. + +URSULA. +We shall behold our child once more; +She is not dead! She is not dead! +God, listening, must have overheard +The prayers, that, without sound or word, +Our hearts in secrecy have said! +Oh, bring me to her; for mine eyes +Are hungry to behold her face; +My very soul within me cries; +My very hands seem to caress her, +To see her, gaze at her, and bless her; +Dear Elsie, child of God and grace! + +Goes out toward the garden. + +FORESTER. +There goes the good woman out of her head; +And Gottlieb's supper is waiting here; +A very capacious flagon of beer, +And a very portentous loaf of bread. +One would say his grief did not much oppress him. +Here's to the health of the Prince, God bless him! + +He drinks. + +Ha! it buzzes and stings like a hornet! +And what a scene there, through the door! +The forest behind and the garden before, +And midway an old man of threescore, +With a wife and children that caress him. +Let me try still further to cheer and adorn it +With a merry, echoing blast of my cornet! + +Goes out blowing his horn. + + +THE CASTLE OF VAUTSBERG ON THE RHINE + +PRINCE HENRY and ELSIE standing on the terrace at evening. + +The sound of tells heard from a distance. + +PRINCE HENRY. +We are alone. The wedding guests +Ride down the hill, with plumes and cloaks, +And the descending dark invests +The Niederwald, and all the nests +Among its hoar and haunted oaks. + +ELSIE. +What bells are those, that ring so slow, +So mellow, musical, and low? + +PRINCE HENRY. +They are the bells of Geisenheim, +That with their melancholy chime +Ring out the curfew of the sun. + +ELSIE. +Listen, beloved. + +PRINCE HENRY. + They are done! +Dear Elsie! many years ago +Those same soft bells at eventide +Rang in the ears of Charlemagne, +As, seated by Fastrada's side +At Ingelheim, in all his pride +He heard their sound with secret pain. + +ELSIE. +Their voices only speak to me +Of peace and deep tranquillity, +And endless confidence in thee! + +PRINCE HENRY. +Thou knowest the story of her ring, +How, when the court went back to Aix, +Fastrada died; and how the king +Sat watching by her night and day, +Till into one of the blue lakes, +Which water that delicious land, +They cast the ring, drawn from her hand: +And the great monarch sat serene +And sad beside the fated shore, +Nor left the land forevermore. + +ELSIE. +That was true love. + +PRINCE HENRY. + For him the queen +Ne'er did what thou hast done for me. + +ELSIE. +Wilt thou as fond and faithful be? +Wilt thou so love me after death? + +PRINCE HENRY. +In life's delight, in death's dismay, +In storm and sunshine, night and day, +In health, in sickness, in decay, +Here and hereafter, I am thine! +Thou hast Fastrada's ring. Beneath +the calm, blue waters of thine eyes, +Deep in thy steadfast soul it lies, +And, undisturbed by this world's breath, +With magic light its jewels shine! +This golden ring, which thou hast worn +Upon thy finger since the morn, +Is but a symbol and a semblance, +An outward fashion, a remembrance, +Of what thou wearest within unseen, +O my Fastrada, O my queen! +Behold! the hill-trips all aglow +With purple and with amethyst; +While the whole valley deep below +Is filled, and seems to overflow, +With a fast-rising tide of mist. +The evening air grows damp and chill; +Let us go in. + +ELSIE. + Ah, not so soon. +See yonder fire! It is the moon +Slow rising o'er the eastern hill. +It glimmers on the forest tips +And through the dewy foliage drips +In little rivulets of light, +And makes the heart in love with night. + +PRINCE HENRY. +Oft on this terrace, when the day +Was closing, have I stood and gazed, +And seen the landscape fade away, +And the white vapors rise and drown +Hamlet and vineyard, tower and town, +While far above the hill-tops blazed. +But then another hand than thine +Was gently held and clasped in mine; +Another head upon my breast +Was laid, as thine is now, at rest. +Why dost thou lift those tender eyes +With so much sorrow and surprise? +A minstrel's, not a maiden's hand, +Was that which in my own was pressed, +A manly form usurped thy place, +A beautiful, but bearded face, +That now is in the Holy Land, +Yet in my memory from afar +Is shining on us like a star. +But linger not. For while I speak, +A sheeted spectre white and tall, +The cold mist climbs the castle wall, +And lays his hand upon thy cheek! + +They go in. + + + +EPILOGUE + +THE TWO RECORDING ANGELS ASCENDING + +THE ANGEL OF GOOD DEEDS, with closed book. +God sent his messenger the rain, +And said unto the mountain brook, +"Rise up, and from thy caverns look +And leap, with naked, snow-white feet, +From the cool hills into the heat +Of the broad, arid plain. + +God sent his messenger of faith, +And whispered in the maiden's heart, +"Rise up and look from where thou art, +And scatter with unselfish hands +Thy freshness on the barren sands +And solitudes of Death." + +O beauty of holiness, +Of self-forgetfulness, of lowliness! +O power of meekness, +Whose very gentleness and weakness +Are like the yielding, but irresistible air! +Upon the pages +Of the sealed volume that I bear, +The deed divine +Is written in characters of gold, +That never shall grow old, +But through all ages +Burn and shine, +With soft effulgence! +O God! it is thy indulgence +That fills the world with the bliss +Of a good deed like this! + +THE ANGEL OF EVIL DEEDS, with open book. +Not yet, not yet +Is the red sun wholly set, +But evermore recedes, +While open still I bear +The Book of Evil Deeds, +To let the breathings of the upper air +Visit its pages and erase +The records from its face! +Fainter and fainter as I gaze +In the broad blaze +The glimmering landscape shines, +And below me the black river +Is hidden by wreaths of vapor! +Fainter and fainter the black lines +Begin to quiver +Along the whitening surface of the paper; +Shade after shade +The terrible words grow faint and fade, +And in their place +Runs a white space! + +Down goes the sun! +But the soul of one, +Who by repentance +hath escaped the dreadful sentence, +Shines bright below me as I look. +It is the end! +With closed Book +To God do I ascend. +Lo! over the mountain steeps +A dark, gigantic shadow sweeps +Beneath my feet; +A blackness inwardly brightening +With sullen heat, +As a storm-cloud lurid with lightning. +And a cry of lamentation, +Repeated and again repeated, +Deep and loud +As the reverberation +Of cloud answering unto cloud, +Swells and rolls away in the distance, +As if the sheeted +Lightning retreated. +Baffled and thwarted by the wind's resistance. + +It is Lucifer, +The son of mystery; +And since God suffers him to be, +He, too, is God's minister. +And labors for some good +By us not understood! + + + +SECOND INTERLUDE + +MARTIN LUTHER + + +A CHAMBER IN THE WARTBURG. MORNING. MARTIN LUTHER WRITING. + +MARTIN LUTHER. + Our God, a Tower of Strength is He, + A goodly wall and weapon; + From all our need He helps us free, + That now to us doth happen. + The old evil foe + Doth in earnest grow, + In grim armor dight, + Much guile and great might; + On earth there is none like him. + +Oh yes; a tower of strength indeed, +A present help in all our need, +A sword and buckler is our God. +Innocent men have walked unshod +O'er burning ploughshares, and have trod +Unharmed on serpents in their path, +And laughed to scorn the Devil's wrath! + +Safe in this Wartburg tower I stand +Where God hath led me by the hand, +And look down, with a heart at ease, +Over the pleasant neighborhoods, +Over the vast Thuringian Woods, +With flash of river, and gloom of trees, +With castles crowning the dizzy heights, +And farms and pastoral delights, +And the morning pouring everywhere +Its golden glory on the air. +Safe, yes, safe am I here at last, +Safe from the overwhelming blast +Of the mouths of Hell, that followed me fast, +And the howling demons of despair +That hunted me like a beast to his lair. + + Of our own might we nothing can; + We soon are unprotected: + There fighteth for us the right Man, + Whom God himself elected. + Who is He; ye exclaim? + Christus is his name, + Lord of Sabaoth, + Very God in troth; + The field He holds forever. + +Nothing can vex the Devil more +Than the name of him whom we adore. +Therefore doth it delight me best +To stand in the choir among the rest, +With the great organ trumpeting +Through its metallic tubes, and sing: +Et verbum caro factum est! +These words the devil cannot endure, +For he knoweth their meaning well! +Him they trouble and repel, +Us they comfort and allure, +And happy it were, if our delight +Were as great as his affright! + +Yea, music is the Prophet's art; +Among the gifts that God hath sent, +One of the most magnificent! +It calms the agitated heart; +Temptations, evil thoughts, and all +The passions that disturb the soul, +Are quelled by its divine control, +As the evil spirit fled from Saul, +And his distemper was allayed, +When David took his harp and played. + + This world may full of Devils be, + All ready to devour us; + Yet not so sore afraid are we, + They shall not overpower us. + This World's Prince, howe'er + Fierce he may appear, + He can harm us not, + He is doomed, God wot! + One little word can slay him! + +Incredible it seems to some +And to myself a mystery, +That such weak flesh and blood as we, +Armed with no other shield or sword, +Or other weapon than the Word, +Should combat and should overcome +A spirit powerful as he! +He summons forth the Pope of Rome +With all his diabolic crew, +His shorn and shaven retinue +Of priests and children of the dark; +Kill! kill! they cry, the Heresiarch, +Who rouseth up all Christendom +Against us; and at one fell blow +Seeks the whole Church to overthrow! +Not yet; my hour is not yet come. + +Yesterday in an idle mood, +Hunting with others in the wood, +I did not pass the hours in vain, +For in the very heart of all +The joyous tumult raised around, +Shouting of men, and baying of hound, +And the bugle's blithe and cheery call, +And echoes answering back again, +From crags of the distant mountain chain,-- +In the very heart of this, I found +A mystery of grief and pain. +It was an image of the power +Of Satan, hunting the world about, +With his nets and traps and well-trained dogs, +His bishops and priests and theologues, +And all the rest of the rabble rout, +Seeking whom he may devour! +Enough I have had of hunting hares, +Enough of these hours of idle mirth, +Enough of nets and traps and gins! +The only hunting of any worth +Is where I can pierce with javelins +The cunning foxes and wolves and bears, +The whole iniquitous troop of beasts, +The Roman Pope and the Roman priests +That sorely infest and afflict the earth! +Ye nuns, ye singing birds of the air! +The fowler hath caught you in his snare, +And keeps you safe in his gilded cage, +Singing the song that never tires, +To lure down others from their nests; +How ye flutter and heat your breasts, +Warm and soft with young desires, +Against the cruel, pitiless wires, +Reclaiming your lost heritage! +Behold! a hand unbars the door, +Ye shall be captives held no more. + + The Word they shall perforce let stand, + And little thanks they merit! + For He is with us in the land, + With gifts of his own Spirit! + Though they take our life, + Goods, honors, child and wife, + Lot these pass away, + Little gain have they; + The Kingdom still remaineth! + +Yea, it remaineth forevermore, +However Satan may rage and roar, +Though often be whispers in my ears: +What if thy doctrines false should be? +And wrings from me a bitter sweat. +Then I put him to flight with jeers, +Saying: Saint Satan! pray for me; +If thou thinkest I am not saved yet! + +And my mortal foes that lie in wait +In every avenue and gate! +As to that odious monk John Tetzel, +Hawking about his hollow wares +Like a huckster at village fairs, +And those mischievous fellows, Wetzel, +Campanus, Carlstadt, Martin Cellarius, +And all the busy, multifarious +Heretics, and disciples of Arius, +Half-learned, dunce-bold, dry and hard, +They are not worthy of my regard, +Poor and humble as I am. + +But ah! Erasmus of Rotterdam, +He is the vilest miscreant +That ever walked this world below +A Momus, making his mock and mow, +At Papist and at Protestant, +Sneering at St. John and St. Paul, +At God and Man, at one and all; +And yet as hollow and false and drear, +As a cracked pitcher to the ear, +And ever growing worse and worse! +Whenever I pray, I pray for a curse +On Erasmus, the Insincere! + +Philip Melanethon! thou alone +Faithful among the faithless known, +Thee I hail, and only thee! +Behold the record of us three! + Res et verba Philippus, + Res sine verbis Lutherus; + Erasmus verba sine re! + +My Philip, prayest thou for me? +Lifted above all earthly care, +From these high regions of the air, +Among the birds that day and night +Upon the branches of tall trees +Sing their lauds and litanies, +Praising God with all their might, +My Philip, unto thee I write, + +My Philip! thou who knowest best +All that is passing in this breast; +The spiritual agonies, +The inward deaths, the inward hell, +And the divine new births as well, +That surely follow after these, +As after winter follows spring; +My Philip, in the night-time sing +This song of the Lord I send to thee; +And I will sing it for thy sake, +Until our answering voices make +A glorious antiphony, +And choral chant of victory! + + + +PART THREE + +THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES + + +JOHN ENDICOTT + + +DRAMATIS PERSONAE. + +JOHN ENDICOTT Governor. +JOHN ENDICOTT His son. +RICHARD BELLINGHAM Deputy Governor. +JOHN NORTON Minister of the Gospel. +EDWARD BUTTER Treasurer. +WALTER MERRY Tithing-man. +NICHOLAS UPSALL An old citizen. +SAMUEL COLE Landlord of the Three Mariners. + +SIMON KEMPTHORN +RALPH GOLDSMITH Sea-Captains. + +WENLOCK CHRISTISON +EDITH, his daughter +EDWARD WHARTON Quakers + Assistants, Halberdiers, Marshal, etc. + + The Scene is in Boston in the year 1665. + + +PROLOGUE. + +To-night we strive to read, as we may best, +This city, like an ancient palimpsest; +And bring to light, upon the blotted page, +The mournful record of an earlier age, +That, pale and half effaced, lies hidden away +Beneath the fresher writing of to-day. + +Rise, then, O buried city that hast been; +Rise up, rebuilded in the painted scene, +And let our curious eyes behold once more +The pointed gable and the pent-house door, +The Meeting-house with leaden-latticed panes, +The narrow thoroughfares, the crooked lanes! + +Rise, too, ye shapes and shadows of the Past, +Rise from your long-forgotten graves at last; +Let us behold your faces, let us hear +The words ye uttered in those days of fear +Revisit your familiar haunts again,-- +The scenes of triumph, and the scenes of pain +And leave the footprints of your bleeding feet +Once more upon the pavement of the street! + +Nor let the Historian blame the Poet here, +If he perchance misdate the day or year, +And group events together, by his art, +That in the Chronicles lie far apart; +For as the double stars, though sundered far, +Seem to the naked eye a single star, +So facts of history, at a distance seen, +Into one common point of light convene. + +"Why touch upon such themes?" perhaps some friend +May ask, incredulous; "and to what good end? +Why drag again into the light of day +The errors of an age long passed away?" +I answer: "For the lessons that they teach: +The tolerance of opinion and of speech. +Hope, Faith, and Charity remain,--these three; +And greatest of them all is Charity." + +Let us remember, if these words be true, +That unto all men Charity is due; +Give what we ask; and pity, while we blame, +Lest we become copartners in the shame, +Lest we condemn, and yet ourselves partake, +And persecute the dead for conscience' sake. + +Therefore it is the author seeks and strives +To represent the dead as in their lives, +And lets at times his characters unfold +Their thoughts in their own language, strong and bold; +He only asks of you to do the like; +To hear hint first, and, if you will, then strike. + + +ACT I. + +SCENE I. -- Sunday afternoon. The interior of the Meeting-house. + +On the pulpit, an hour-glass; below, a box for contributions. +JOHN NORTON in the pulpit. GOVERNOR ENDICOTT in a canopied seat, +attended by four halberdiers. The congregation singing. + + The Lord descended from above, + And bowed the heavens high; + And underneath his feet He cast + The darkness of the sky. + + On Cherubim and Seraphim + Right royally He rode, + And on the wings of mighty winds + Came flying all abroad. + +NORTON (rising and turning the hourglass on the pulpit). +I heard a great voice from the temple saying +Unto the Seven Angels, Go your ways; +Pour out the vials of the wrath of God +Upon the earth. And the First Angel went +And poured his vial on the earth; and straight +There fell a noisome and a grievous sore +On them which had the birth-mark of the Beast, +And them which worshipped and adored his image. +On us hath fallen this grievous pestilence. +There is a sense of terror in the air; +And apparitions of things horrible +Are seen by many; from the sky above us +The stars fall; and beneath us the earth quakes! +The sound of drums at midnight from afar, +The sound of horsemen riding to and fro, +As if the gates of the invisible world +Were opened, and the dead came forth to warn us,-- +All these are omens of some dire disaster +Impending over us, and soon to fall, +Moreover, in the language of the Prophet, +Death is again come up into our windows, +To cut off little children from without, +And young men from the streets. And in the midst +Of all these supernatural threats and warnings +Doth Heresy uplift its horrid head; +A vision of Sin more awful and appalling +Than any phantasm, ghost, or apparition, +As arguing and portending some enlargement +Of the mysterious Power of Darkness! + +EDITH, barefooted, and clad in sackcloth, with her hair hanging +loose upon her shoulders, walks slowly up the aisle, followed by +WHARTON and other Quakers. The congregation starts up in +confusion. + +EDITH (to NORTON, raising her hand). + Peace! + +NORTON. +Anathema maranatha! The Lord cometh! + +EDITH. +Yea, verily He cometh, and shall judge +The shepherds of Israel who do feed themselves, +And leave their flocks to eat what they have trodden +Beneath their feet. + +NORTON. + Be silent, babbling woman! +St. Paul commands all women to keep silence +Within the churches. + +EDITH. + Yet the women prayed +And prophesied at Corinth in his day; +And, among those on whom the fiery tongues +Of Pentecost descended, some were women! + +NORTON. +The Elders of the Churches, by our law, +Alone have power to open the doors of speech +And silence in the Assembly. I command you! + +EDITH. +The law of God is greater than your laws! +Ye build your church with blood, your town with crime; +The heads thereof give judgment for reward; +The priests thereof teach only for their hire; +Your laws condemn the innocent to death; +And against this I bear my testimony! + +NORTON. +What testimony? + +EDITH. + That of the Holy Spirit, +Which, as your Calvin says, surpasseth reason. + +NORTON. +The laborer is worthy of his hire. + +EDITH. +Yet our great Master did not teach for hire, +And the Apostles without purse or scrip +Went forth to do his work. Behold this box +Beneath thy pulpit. Is it for the poor? +Thou canst not answer. It is for the Priest +And against this I bear my testimony. + +NORTON. +Away with all these Heretics and Quakers! +Quakers, forsooth! Because a quaking fell +On Daniel, at beholding of the Vision, +Must ye needs shake and quake? Because Isaiah +Went stripped and barefoot, must ye wail and howl? +Must ye go stripped and naked? must ye make +A wailing like the dragons, and a mourning +As of the owls? Ye verify the adage +That Satan is God's ape! Away with them! + +Tumult. The Quakers are driven out with violence, EDITH +following slowly. The congregation retires in confusion. + +Thus freely do the Reprobates commit +Such measure of iniquity as fits them +For the intended measure of God's wrath +And even in violating God's commands +Are they fulfilling the divine decree! +The will of man is but an instrument +Disposed and predetermined to its action +According unto the decree of God, +Being as much subordinate thereto +As is the axe unto the hewer's hand! + +He descends from the pulpit, and joins GOVERNOR ENDICOTT, who +comes forward to meet him. + +The omens and the wonders of the time, +Famine, and fire, and shipwreck, and disease, +The blast of corn, the death of our young men, +Our sufferings in all precious, pleasant things, +Are manifestations of the wrath divine, +Signs of God's controversy with New England. +These emissaries of the Evil One, +These servants and ambassadors of Satan, +Are but commissioned executioners +Of God's vindictive and deserved displeasure. +We must receive them as the Roman Bishop +Once received Attila, saying, I rejoice +You have come safe, whom I esteem to be +The scourge of God, sent to chastise his people. +This very heresy, perchance, may serve +The purposes of God to some good end. +With you I leave it; but do not neglect +The holy tactics of the civil sword. + +ENDICOTT. +And what more can be done? + +NORTON. + The hand that cut +The Red Cross from the colors of the king +Can cut the red heart from this heresy. +Fear not. All blasphemies immediate +And heresies turbulent must be suppressed +By civil power. + +ENDICOTT. + But in what way suppressed? + +NORTON. +The Book of Deuteronomy declares +That if thy son, thy daughter, or thy wife, +Ay, or the friend which is as thine own soul, +Entice thee secretly, and say to thee, +Let us serve other gods, then shalt thine eye +Not pity him, but thou shalt surely kill him, +And thine own hand shall be the first upon him +To slay him. + +ENDICOTT. + Four already have been slain; +And others banished upon pain of death. +But they come back again to meet their doom, +Bringing the linen for their winding-sheets. +We must not go too far. In truth, I shrink +From shedding of more blood. The people murmur +At our severity. + +NORTON. + Then let them murmur! +Truth is relentless; justice never wavers; +The greatest firmness is the greatest mercy; +The noble order of the Magistracy +Cometh immediately from God, and yet +This noble order of the Magistracy +Is by these Heretics despised and outraged. + +ENDICOTT. +To-night they sleep in prison. If they die, +They cannot say that we have caused their death. +We do but guard the passage, with the sword +Pointed towards them; if they dash upon it, +Their blood will be on their own heads, not ours. + +NORTON. +Enough. I ask no more. My predecessor +Coped only with the milder heresies +Of Antinomians and of Anabaptists. +He was not born to wrestle with these fiends. +Chrysostom in his pulpit; Augustine +In disputation; Timothy in his house! +The lantern of St. Botolph's ceased to burn +When from the portals of that church he came +To be a burning and a shining light +Here in the wilderness. And, as he lay +On his death-bed, he saw me in a vision +Ride on a snow-white horse into this town. +His vision was prophetic; thus I came, +A terror to the impenitent, and Death +On the pale horse of the Apocalypse +To all the accursed race of Heretics! + [Exeunt. + + +SCENE II. -- A street. On one side, NICHOLAS UPSALL's house; on +the other, WALTER MERRY's, with a flock of pigeons on the roof. +UPSALL seated in the porch of his house. + +UPSALL. +O day of rest! How beautiful, how fair, +How welcome to the weary and the old! +Day of the Lord! and truce to earthly cares! +Day of the Lord, as all our days should be! +Ah, why will man by his austerities +Shut out the blessed sunshine and the light, +And make of thee a dungeon of despair! + +WALTER MERRY (entering and looking round him). +All silent as a graveyard! No one stirring; +No footfall in the street, no sound of voices! +By righteous punishment and perseverance, +And perseverance in that punishment, +At last I have brought this contumacious town +To strict observance of the Sabbath day. +Those wanton gospellers, the pigeons yonder, +Are now the only Sabbath-breakers left. +I cannot put them down. As if to taunt me, +They gather every Sabbath afternoon +In noisy congregation on my roof, +Billing and cooing. Whir! take that, ye Quakers. + +Throws a stone at the pigeons. Sees UPSALL. + +Ah! Master Nicholas! + +UPSALL. + Good afternoon, +Dear neighbor Walter. + +MERRY. + Master Nicholas, +You have to-day withdrawn yourself from meeting. + +UPSALL. +Yea, I have chosen rather to worship God +Sitting in silence here at my own door. + +MERRY. +Worship the Devil! You this day have broken +Three of our strictest laws. First, by abstaining +From public worship. Secondly, by walking +Profanely on the Sabbath. + +UPSALL. + Not one step. +I have been sitting still here, seeing the pigeons +Feed in the street and fly about the roofs. + +MERRY. +You have been in the street with other intent +Than going to and from the Meeting-house. +And, thirdly, you are harboring Quakers here. +I am amazed! + +UPSALL. + Men sometimes, it is said, +Entertain angels unawares. + +MERRY. + Nice angels! +Angels in broad-brimmed hats and russet cloaks, +The color of the Devil's nutting-bag. They came +Into the Meeting-house this afternoon +More in the shape of devils than of angels. +The women screamed and fainted; and the boys +Made such an uproar in the gallery +I could not keep them quiet. + +UPSALL. + Neighbor Walter, +Your persecution is of no avail. + +MERRY. +'T is prosecution, as the Governor says, +Not persecution. + +UPSALL. + Well, your prosecution; +Your hangings do no good. + +MERRY. + The reason is, +We do not hang enough. But, mark my words, +We'll scour them; yea, I warrant ye, we'll scour them! +And now go in and entertain your angels, +And don't be seen here in the street again +Till after sundown! There they are again! + +Exit UPSALL. MERRY throws another stone at the pigeons, and then +goes into his house. + + +SCENE III. -- A room in UPSALL'S house. Night. EDITH, WHARTON, +and other Quakers seated at a table. UPSALL seated near them, +Several books on the table. + +WHARTON. +William and Marmaduke, our martyred brothers, +Sleep in untimely graves, if aught untimely +Can find place in the providence of God, +Where nothing comes too early or too late. +I saw their noble death. They to the scaffold +Walked hand in hand. Two hundred armed men +And many horsemen guarded them, for fear +Of rescue by the crowd, whose hearts were stirred. + +EDITH. +O holy martyrs! + +WHARTON. + When they tried to speak, +Their voices by the roll of drums were drowned. +When they were dead they still looked fresh and fair, +The terror of death was not upon their faces. +Our sister Mary, likewise, the meek woman, +Has passed through martyrdom to her reward; +Exclaiming, as they led her to her death, +"These many days I've been in Paradise." +And, when she died, Priest Wilson threw the hangman +His handkerchief, to cover the pale face +He dared not look upon. + +EDITH. + As persecuted, +Yet not forsaken; as unknown, yet known; +As dying, and behold we are alive; +As sorrowful, and yet rejoicing always; +As having nothing, yet possessing all! + +WHARTON. +And Leddra, too, is dead. But from his prison, +The day before his death, he sent these words +Unto the little flock of Christ: "What ever +May come upon the followers of the Light,-- +Distress, affliction, famine, nakedness, +Or perils in the city or the sea, +Or persecution, or even death itself,-- +I am persuaded that God's armor of Light, +As it is loved and lived in, will preserve you. +Yea, death itself; through which you will find entrance +Into the pleasant pastures of the fold, +Where you shall feed forever as the herds +That roam at large in the low valleys of Achor. +And as the flowing of the ocean fills +Each creek and branch thereof, and then retires, +Leaving behind a sweet and wholesome savor; +So doth the virtue and the life of God +Flow evermore into the hearts of those +Whom He hath made partakers of His nature; +And, when it but withdraws itself a little, +Leaves a sweet savor after it, that many +Can say they are made clean by every word +That He hath spoken to them in their silence." + +EDITH (rising and breaking into a kind of chant). +Truly we do but grope here in the dark, +Near the partition-wall of Life and Death, +At every moment dreading or desiring +To lay our hands upon the unseen door! +Let us, then, labor for an inward stillness,-- +An inward stillness and an inward healing; +That perfect silence where the lips and heart +Are still, and we no longer entertain +Our own imperfect thoughts and vain opinions, +But God alone speaks in us, and we wait +In singleness of heart, that we may know +His will, and in the silence of our spirits, +That we may do His will, and do that only! + +A long pause, interrupted by the sound of a drum approaching; +then shouts in the street, and a loud knocking at the door. + +MARSHAL. +Within there! Open the door! + +MERRY. + Will no one answer? + +MARSHAL. +In the King's name! Within there! + +MERRY. + Open the door! + +UPSALL (from the window). +It is not barred. Come in. Nothing prevents you. +The poor man's door is ever on the latch. +He needs no bolt nor bar to shut out thieves; +He fears no enemies, and has no friends +Importunate enough to need a key. + +Enter JOHN ENDICOTT, the MARSHAL, MERRY, and a crowd. Seeing the +Quakers silent and unmoved, they pause, awe-struck. ENDICOTT +opposite EDITH. + +MARSHAL. +In the King's name do I arrest you all! +Away with them to prison. Master Upsall, +You are again discovered harboring here +These ranters and disturbers of the peace. +You know the law. + +UPSALL. + I know it, and am ready +To suffer yet again its penalties. + +EDITH (to ENDICOTT). +Why dost thou persecute me, Saul of Tarsus? + + + +ACT II. + +SCENE I. -- JOHN ENDICOTT's room. Early morning. + +JOHN ENDICOTT. +"Why dost thou persecute me, Saul of Tarsus?" +All night these words were ringing in mine ears! +A sorrowful sweet face; a look that pierced me +With meek reproach; a voice of resignation +That had a life of suffering in its tone; +And that was all! And yet I could not sleep, +Or, when I slept, I dreamed that awful dream! +I stood beneath the elm-tree on the Common, +On which the Quakers have been hanged, and heard +A voice, not hers, that cried amid the darkness, +"This is Aceldama, the field of blood! +I will have mercy, and not sacrifice!" + +Opens the window and looks out. + +The sun is up already; and my heart +Sickens and sinks within me when I think +How many tragedies will be enacted +Before his setting. As the earth rolls round, +It seems to me a huge Ixion's wheel, +Upon whose whirling spokes we are bound fast, +And must go with it! Ah, how bright the sun +Strikes on the sea and on the masts of vessels, +That are uplifted, in the morning air, +Like crosses of some peaceable crusade! +It makes me long to sail for lands unknown, +No matter whither! Under me, in shadow, +Gloomy and narrow, lies the little town, +Still sleeping, but to wake and toil awhile, +Then sleep again. How dismal looks the prison, +How grim and sombre in the sunless street,-- +The prison where she sleeps, or wakes and waits +For what I dare not think of,--death, perhaps! +A word that has been said may be unsaid: +It is but air. But when a deed is done +It cannot be undone, nor can our thoughts +Reach out to all the mischiefs that may follow. +'T is time for morning prayers. I will go down. +My father, though severe, is kind and just; +And when his heart is tender with devotion,-- +When from his lips have fallen the words, "Forgive us +As we forgive,"--then will I intercede +For these poor people, and perhaps may save them. + [Exit. + + +SCENE II. -- Dock Square. On one side, the tavern of the Three +Mariners. In the background, a quaint building with gables; and, +beyond it, wharves and shipping. CAPTAIN KEMPTHORN and others +seated at a table before the door. SAMUEL COLE standing near +them. + +KEMPTHORN. +Come, drink about! Remember Parson Melham, +And bless the man who first invented flip! + +They drink. + +COLE. +Pray, Master Kempthorn, where were you last night? + +KEMPTHORN. +On board the Swallow, Simon Kempthorn, master, +Up for Barbadoes, and the Windward Islands. + +COLE. +The town was in a tumult. + +KEMPTHORN. + And for what? + +COLE. +Your Quakers were arrested. + +KEMPTHORN. + How my Quakers? + +COLE. +These you brought in your vessel from Barbadoes. +They made an uproar in the Meeting-house +Yesterday, and they're now in prison for it. +I owe you little thanks for bringing them +To the Three Mariners. + +KEMPTHORN. + They have not harmed you. +I tell you, Goodman Cole, that Quaker girl +Is precious as a sea-bream's eye. I tell you +It was a lucky day when first she set +Her little foot upon the Swallow's deck, +Bringing good luck, fair winds, and pleasant weather. + +COLE. +I am a law-abiding citizen; +I have a seat in the new Meeting-house, +A cow-right on the Common; and, besides, +Am corporal in the Great Artillery. +I rid me of the vagabonds at once. + +KEMPTHORN. +Why should you not have Quakers at your tavern +If you have fiddlers? + +COLE. + Never! never! never! +If you want fiddling you must go elsewhere, +To the Green Dragon and the Admiral Vernon, +And other such disreputable places. +But the Three Mariners is an orderly house, +Most orderly, quiet, and respectable. +Lord Leigh said he could be as quiet here +As at the Governor's. And have I not +King Charles's Twelve Good Rules, all framed and glazed, +Hanging in my best parlor? + +KEMPTHORN. + Here's a health +To good King Charles. Will you not drink the King? +Then drink confusion to old Parson Palmer. + +COLE. +And who is Parson Palmer? I don't know him. + +KEMPTHORN. +He had his cellar underneath his pulpit, +And so preached o'er his liquor, just as you do. + +A drum within. + +COLE. +Here comes the Marshal. + +MERRY (within). + Make room for the Marshal. + +KEMPTHORN. +How pompous and imposing he appears! +His great buff doublet bellying like a mainsail, +And all his streamers fluttering in the wind. +What holds he in his hand? + +COLE. + A proclamation. + +Enter the MARSHAL, with a proclamation; and MERRY, with a +halberd. They are preceded by a drummer, and followed by the +hangman, with an armful of books, and a crowd of people, among +whom are UPSALL and JOHN ENDICOTT. A pile is made of the books. + +MERRY. +Silence, the drum! Good citizens, attend +To the new laws enacted by the Court. + +MARSHAL (reads). +"Whereas a cursed sect of Heretics +Has lately risen, commonly called Quakers, +Who take upon themselves to be commissioned +Immediately of God, and furthermore +Infallibly assisted by the Spirit +To write and utter blasphemous opinions, +Despising Government and the order of God +In Church and Commonwealth, and speaking evil +Of Dignities, reproaching and reviling +The Magistrates and Ministers, and seeking +To turn the people from their faith, and thus +Gain proselytes to their pernicious ways;-- +This Court, considering the premises, +And to prevent like mischief as is wrought +By their means in our land, doth hereby order, +That whatsoever master or commander +Of any ship, bark, pink, or catch shall bring +To any roadstead, harbor, creek, or cove +Within this Jurisdiction any Quakers, +Or other blasphemous Heretics, shall pay +Unto the Treasurer of the Commonwealth +One hundred pounds, and for default thereof +Be put in prison, and continue there +Till the said sum be satisfied and paid." + +COLE. +Now, Simon Kempthorn, what say you to that? + +KEMPTHORN. +I pray you, Cole, lend me a hundred pounds! + +MARSHAL (reads). +"If any one within this Jurisdiction +Shall henceforth entertain, or shall conceal +Quakers or other blasphemous Heretics, +Knowing them so to be, every such person +Shall forfeit to the country forty shillings +For each hour's entertainment or concealment, +And shall be sent to prison, as aforesaid, +Until the forfeiture be wholly paid!" + +Murmurs in the crowd. + +KEMPTHORN. +Now, Goodman Cole, I think your turn has come! + +COLE. +Knowing them so to be! + +KEMPTHORN. + At forty shillings +The hour, your fine will be some forty pounds! + +COLE. +Knowing them so to be! That is the law. + +MARSHAL (reads). +"And it is further ordered and enacted, +If any Quaker or Quakers shall presume +To come henceforth into this Jurisdiction, +Every male Quaker for the first offence +Shall have one ear cut off; and shall be kept +At labor in the Workhouse, till such time +As he be sent away at his own charge. +And for the repetition of the offence +Shall have his other ear cut off, and then +Be branded in the palm of his right hand. +And every woman Quaker shall be whipt +Severely in three towns; and every Quaker, +Or he or she, that shall for a third time +Herein again offend, shall have their tongues +Bored through with a hot iron, and shall be +Sentenced to Banishment on pain of Death." + +Loud murmurs. The voice of CHRISTISON in the crowd. + +O patience of the Lord! How long, how long, +Ere thou avenge the blood of Thine Elect? + +MERRY. +Silence, there, silence! Do not break the peace! + +MARSHAL (reads). +"Every inhabitant of this Jurisdiction +Who shall defend the horrible opinions +Of Quakers, by denying due respect +To equals and superiors, and withdrawing +From Church Assemblies, and thereby approving +The abusive and destructive practices +Of this accursed sect, in opposition +To all the orthodox received opinions +Of godly men shall be forthwith commit ted +Unto close prison for one month; and then +Refusing to retract and to reform +The opinions as aforesaid, he shall be +Sentenced to Banishment on pain of Death. +By the Court. Edward Rawson, Secretary." +Now, hangman, do your duty. Burn those books. + +Loud murmurs in the crowd. The pile of books is lighted. + +UPSALL. +I testify against these cruel laws! +Forerunners are they of some judgment on us; +And, in the love and tenderness I bear +Unto this town and people, I beseech you, +O Magistrates, take heed, lest ye be found +As fighters against God! + +JOHN ENDICOTT (taking UPSALL'S hand). +Upsall, I thank you +For speaking words such as some younger man, +I, or another, should have said before you. +Such laws as these are cruel and oppressive; +A blot on this fair town, and a disgrace +To any Christian people. + +MERRY (aside, listening behind them). + Here's sedition! +I never thought that any good would come +Of this young popinjay, with his long hair +And his great boots, fit only for the Russians +Or barbarous Indians, as his father says! + +THE VOICE. +Woe to the bloody town! And rightfully +Men call it the Lost Town! The blood of Abel +Cries from the ground, and at the final judgment +The Lord will say, "Cain, Cain! Where is thy brother?" + +MERRY. +Silence there in the crowd! + +UPSALL (aside). + 'T is Christison! + +THE VOICE. +O foolish people, ye that think to burn +And to consume the truth of God, I tell you +That every flame is a loud tongue of fire +To publish it abroad to all the world +Louder than tongues of men! + +KEMPTHORN (springing to his feet). + Well said, my hearty! +There's a brave fellow! There's a man of pluck! +A man who's not afraid to say his say, +Though a whole town's against him. Rain, rain, rain, +Bones of St. Botolph, and put out this fire! + +The drum beats. Exeunt all but MERRY, KEMPTHORN, and COLE. + +MERRY. +And now that matter's ended, Goodman Cole, +Fetch me a mug of ale, your strongest ale. + +KEMPTHORN (sitting down). +And me another mug of flip; and put +Two gills of brandy in it. + [Exit COLE. + +MERRY. + No; no more. +Not a drop more, I say. You've had enough. + +KEMPTHORN. +And who are you, sir? + +MERRY. + I'm a Tithing-man, +And Merry is my name. + +KEMPTHORN. + A merry name! +I like it; and I'll drink your merry health +Till all is blue. + +MERRY. + And then you will be clapped +Into the stocks, with the red letter D +Hung round about your neck for drunkenness. +You're a free-drinker,--yes, and a free-thinker! + +KEMPTHORN. +And you are Andrew Merry, or Merry Andrew. + +MERRY. +My name is Walter Merry, and not Andrew. + +KEMPTHORN. +Andrew or Walter, you're a merry fellow; +I'll swear to that. + +MERRY. + No swearing, let me tell you. +The other day one Shorthose had his tongue +Put into a cleft stick for profane swearing. + +COLE brings the ale. + +KEMPTHORN. +Well, where's my flip? As sure as my name's Kempthorn-- + +MERRY. +Is your name Kempthorn? + +KEMPTHORN. + That's the name I go by. + +MERRY. +What, Captain Simon Kempthorn of the Swallow? + +KEMPTHORN. +No other. + +MERRY (touching him on the shoulder). + Then you're wanted. I arrest you +In the King's name. + +KEMPTHORN. + And where's your warrant? + +MERRY (unfolding a paper, and reading). + Here. +Listen to me. "Hereby you are required, +In the King's name, to apprehend the body +Of Simon Kempthorn, mariner, and him +Safely to bring before me, there to answer +All such objections as are laid to him, +Touching the Quakers." Signed, John Endicott. + +KEMPTHORN. +Has it the Governor's seal? + +MERRY. + Ay, here it is. + +KEMPTHORN. +Death's head and cross-bones. That's a pirate's flag! + +MERRY. +Beware how you revile the Magistrates; +You may be whipped for that. + +KEMPTHORN. + Then mum's the word. + +Exeunt MERRY and KEMPTHORN. + +COLE. +There's mischief brewing! Sure, there's mischief brewing. +I feel like Master Josselyn when he found +The hornet's nest, and thought it some strange fruit, +Until the seeds came out, and then he dropped it. + [Exit. + + +Scene III. -- A room in the Governor's house, Enter GOVERNOR +ENDICOTT and MERRY. + +ENDICOTT. +My son, you say? + +MERRY. + Your Worship's eldest son. + +ENDICOTT. +Speaking against the laws? + +MERRY. + Ay, worshipful sir. + +ENDICOTT. +And in the public market-place? + +MERRY. + I saw him +With my own eyes, heard him with my own ears. + +ENDICOTT. +Impossible! + +MERRY. + He stood there in the crowd +With Nicholas Upsall, when the laws were read +To-day against the Quakers, and I heard him +Denounce and vilipend them as unjust, +And cruel, wicked, and abominable. + +ENDICOTT. +Ungrateful son! O God! thou layest upon me +A burden heavier than I can bear! +Surely the power of Satan must be great +Upon the earth, if even the elect +Are thus deceived and fall away from grace! + +MERRY. +Worshipful sir! I meant no harm-- + +ENDICOTT. + 'T is well. +You've done your duty, though you've done it roughly, +And every word you've uttered since you came +Has stabbed me to the heart! + +MERRY. + I do beseech +Your Worship's pardon! + +ENDICOTT. + He whom I have nurtured +And brought up in the reverence of the Lord! +The child of all my hopes and my affections! +He upon whom I leaned as a sure staff +For my old age! It is God's chastisement +For leaning upon any arm but His! + +MERRY. +Your Worship!-- + +ENDICOTT. + And this comes from holding parley +With the delusions and deceits of Satan. +At once, forever, must they be crushed out, +Or all the land will reek with heresy! +Pray, have you any children? + +MERRY. + No, not any. + +ENDICOTT. +Thank God for that. He has delivered you +From a great care. Enough; my private griefs +Too long have kept me from the public service. + +Exit MERRY, ENDICOTT seats himself at the table and arranges his +papers. + +The hour has come; and I am eager now +To sit in judgment on these Heretics. + +A knock. + +Come in. Who is it? (Not looking up). + +JOHN ENDICOTT. + It is I. + +ENDICOTT (restraining himself). + Sit down! + +JOHN ENDICOTT (sitting down). +I come to intercede for these poor people +Who are in prison, and await their trial. + +ENDICOTT. +It is of them I wished to speak with you. +I have been angry with you, but 't is passed. +For when I hear your footsteps come or go, +See in your features your dead mother's face, +And in your voice detect some tone of hers, +All anger vanishes, and I remember +The days that are no more, and come no more, +When as a child you sat upon my knee, +And prattled of your playthings, and the games +You played among the pear trees in the orchard! + +JOHN ENDICOTT. +Oh, let the memory of my noble mother +Plead with you to be mild and merciful! +For mercy more becomes a Magistrate +Than the vindictive wrath which men call justice! + +ENDICOTT. +The sin of heresy is a deadly sin. +'T is like the falling of the snow, whose crystals +The traveller plays with, thoughtless of his danger, +Until he sees the air so full of light +That it is dark; and blindly staggering onward, +Lost and bewildered, he sits down to rest; +There falls a pleasant drowsiness upon him, +And what he thinks is sleep, alas! is death. + +JOHN ENDICOTT. +And yet who is there that has never doubted? +And doubting and believing, has not said, +"Lord, I believe; help thou my unbelief"? + +ENDICOTT. +In the same way we trifle with our doubts, +Whose shining shapes are like the stars descending; +Until at last, bewildered and dismayed, +Blinded by that which seemed to give us light, +We sink to sleep, and find that it is death, + +Rising. + +Death to the soul through all eternity! +Alas that I should see you growing up +To man's estate, and in the admonition +And nurture of the law, to find you now +Pleading for Heretics! + +JOHN ENDICOTT (rising). + In the sight of God, +Perhaps all men are Heretics. Who dares +To say that he alone has found the truth? +We cannot always feel and think and act +As those who go before us. Had you done so, +You would not now be here. + +ENDICOTT. + Have you forgotten +The doom of Heretics, and the fate of those +Who aid and comfort them? Have you forgotten +That in the market-place this very day +You trampled on the laws? What right have you, +An inexperienced and untravelled youth, +To sit in judgment here upon the acts +Of older men and wiser than yourself, +Thus stirring up sedition in the streets, +And making me a byword and a jest? + +JOHN ENDICOTT. +Words of an inexperienced youth like me +Were powerless if the acts of older men +Were not before them. 'T is these laws themselves +Stir up sedition, not my judgment of them. + +ENDICOTT. +Take heed, lest I be called, as Brutus was, +To be the judge of my own son. Begone! +When you are tired of feeding upon husks, +Return again to duty and submission, +But not till then. + +JOHN ENDICOTT. + I hear and I obey! + [Exit. +ENDICOTT. +Oh happy, happy they who have no children! +He's gone! I hear the hall door shut behind him. +It sends a dismal echo through my heart, +As if forever it had closed between us, +And I should look upon his face no more! +Oh, this will drag me down into my grave,-- +To that eternal resting-place wherein +Man lieth down, and riseth not again! +Till the heavens be no more, he shall not wake, +Nor be roused from his sleep; for Thou dost change +His countenance and sendest him away! + [Exit. + + + +ACT III. + +SCENE I. -- The Court of Assistants, ENDICOTT, BELLINGHAM, +ATHERTON, and other magistrates. KEMPTHORN, MERRY, and +constables. Afterwards WHARTON, EDITH, and CHRISTISON. + +ENDICOTT. +Call Captain Simon Kempthorn. + +MERRY. + Simon Kempthorn, +Come to the bar! + +KEMPTHORN comes forward. + +ENDICOTT. + You are accused of bringing +Into this Jurisdiction, from Barbadoes, +Some persons of that sort and sect of people +Known by the name of Quakers, and maintaining +Most dangerous and heretical opinions, +Purposely coming here to propagate +Their heresies and errors; bringing with them +And spreading sundry books here, which contain +Their doctrines most corrupt and blasphemous, +And contrary to the truth professed among us. +What say you to this charge? + +KEMPTHORN. + + I do acknowledge, +Among the passengers on board the Swallow +Were certain persons saying Thee and Thou. +They seemed a harmless people, mostways silent, +Particularly when they said their prayers. + +ENDICOTT. +Harmless and silent as the pestilence! +You'd better have brought the fever or the plague +Among us in your ship! Therefore, this Court, +For preservation of the Peace and Truth, +Hereby commands you speedily to transport, +Or cause to be transported speedily, +The aforesaid persons hence unto Barbadoes, +From whence they came; you paying all the charges +Of their imprisonment. + +KEMPTHORN. + Worshipful sir, +No ship e'er prospered that has carried Quakers +Against their will! I knew a vessel once-- + +ENDICOTT. +And for the more effectual performance +Hereof you are to give security +In bonds amounting to one hundred pounds. +On your refusal, you will be committed +To prison till you do it. + +KEMPTHORN. + But you see +I cannot do it. The law, sir, of Barbadoes +Forbids the landing Quakers on the island. + +ENDICOTT. +Then you will be committed. Who comes next? + +MERRY. +There is another charge against the Captain. + +ENDICOTT. +What is it? + +MERRY. +Profane swearing, please your Worship. +He cursed and swore from Dock Square to the Court-house, + +ENDICOTT. +Then let him stand in the pillory for one hour. + +[Exit KEMPTHORN with constable. + +Who's next? + +MERRY. + The Quakers. + +ENDICOTT. + Call them. + +MERRY. + Edward Wharton, +Come to the bar! + +WHARTON. + Yea, even to the bench. + +ENDICOTT. +Take off your hat. + +WHARTON. + My hat offendeth not. +If it offendeth any, let him take it; +For I shall not resist. + +ENDICOTT. + Take off his hat. +Let him be fined ten shillings for contempt. + +MERRY takes off WHARTON'S hat. + +WHARTON. +What evil have I done? + +ENDICOTT. + Your hair's too long; +And in not putting off your hat to us +You've disobeyed and broken that commandment +Which sayeth "Honor thy father and thy mother." + +WHARTON. +John Endicott, thou art become too proud; +And loved him who putteth off the hat, +And honoreth thee by bowing of the body, +And sayeth "Worshipful sir!" 'T is time for thee +To give such follies over, for thou mayest +Be drawing very near unto thy grave. + +ENDICOTT. +Now, sirrah, leave your canting. Take the oath. + +WHARTON. +Nay, sirrah me no sirrahs! + +ENDICOTT. + Will you swear? + +WHARTON. +Nay, I will not. + +ENDICOTT. + You made a great disturbance +And uproar yesterday in the Meeting-house, +Having your hat on. + +WHARTON. + I made no disturbance; +For peacefully I stood, like other people. +I spake no words; moved against none my hand; +But by the hair they haled me out, and dashed +Their hooks into my face. + +ENDICOTT. + You, Edward Wharton, +On pain of death, depart this Jurisdiction +Within ten days. Such is your sentence. Go. + +WHARTON. +John Endicott, it had been well for thee +If this day's doings thou hadst left undone +But, banish me as far as thou hast power, +Beyond the guard and presence of my God +Thou canst not banish me. + +ENDICOTT. + Depart the Court; +We have no time to listen to your babble. +Who's next? [Exit WHARTON. + +MERRY. + This woman, for the same offence. + +EDITH comes forward. + +ENDICOTT. +What is your name? + +EDITH. + 'T is to the world unknown, +But written in the Book of Life. + +ENDICOTT. + Take heed +It be not written in the Book of Death! +What is it? + +EDITH. + Edith Christison. + +ENDICOTT (with eagerness). + The daughter +Of Wenlock Christison? + +EDITH. + I am his daughter. + +ENDICOTT. +Your father hath given us trouble many times. +A bold man and a violent, who sets +At naught the authority of our Church and State, +And is in banishment on pain of death. +Where are you living? + +EDITH. + In the Lord. + +ENDICOTT. + Make answer +Without evasion. Where? + +EDITH. + My outward being +Is in Barbadoes. + +ENDICOTT. + Then why come you here? + +EDITH. +I come upon an errand of the Lord. + +ENDICOTT. +'Tis not the business of the Lord you're doing; +It is the Devil's. Will you take the oath? +Give her the Book. + +MERRY offers the Book. + +EDITH. + You offer me this Book +To swear on; and it saith, "Swear not at all, +Neither by heaven, because it is God's Throne, +Nor by the earth, because it is his footstool!" +I dare not swear. + +ENDICOTT. + You dare not? Yet you Quakers +Deny this book of Holy Writ, the Bible, +To be the Word of God. + +EDITH (reverentially). + Christ is the Word, +The everlasting oath of God. I dare not. + +ENDICOTT. +You own yourself a Quaker,--do you not? + +EDITH. +I own that in derision and reproach +I am so called. + +ENDICOTT. + Then you deny the Scripture +To be the rule of life. + +EDITH. + Yea, I believe +The Inner Light, and not the Written Word, +To be the rule of life. + +ENDICOTT. + And you deny +That the Lord's Day is holy. + +EDITH. + Every day +Is the Lords Day. It runs through all our lives, +As through the pages of the Holy Bible, +"Thus saith the Lord." + +ENDICOTT. + You are accused of making +An horrible disturbance, and affrighting +The people in the Meeting-house on Sunday. +What answer make you? + +EDITH. + I do not deny +That I was present in your Steeple-house +On the First Day; but I made no disturbance. + +ENDICOTT. +Why came you there? + +EDITH. + Because the Lord commanded. +His word was in my heart, a burning fire +Shut up within me and consuming me, +And I was very weary with forbearing; +I could not stay. + +ENDICOTT. + 'T was not the Lord that sent you; +As an incarnate devil did you come! + +EDITH. +On the First Day, when, seated in my chamber, +I heard the bells toll, calling you together, +The sound struck at my life, as once at his, +The holy man, our Founder, when he heard +The far-off bells toll in the Vale of Beavor. +It sounded like a market bell to call +The folk together, that the Priest might set +His wares to sale. And the Lord said within me, +"Thou must go cry aloud against that Idol, +And all the worshippers thereof." I went +Barefooted, clad in sackcloth, and I stood +And listened at the threshold; and I heard +The praying and the singing and the preaching, +Which were but outward forms, and without power. +Then rose a cry within me, and my heart +Was filled with admonitions and reproofs. +Remembering how the Prophets and Apostles +Denounced the covetous hirelings and diviners, +I entered in, and spake the words the Lord +Commanded me to speak. I could no less. + +ENDICOTT. +Are you a Prophetess? + +EDITH. + Is it not written, +"Upon my handmaidens will I pour out +My spirit, and they shall prophesy"? + +ENDICOTT. + Enough; +For out of your own mouth are you condemned! +Need we hear further? + +THE JUDGES. + We are satisfied. + +ENDICOTT. +It is sufficient. Edith Christison, +The sentence of the Court is, that you be +Scourged in three towns, with forty stripes save one, +Then banished upon pain of death! + +EDITH. + Your sentence +Is truly no more terrible to me +Than had you blown a feather into the the air, +And, as it fell upon me, you had said, +Take heed it hurt thee not! God's will he done! + +WENLOCK CHRISTISON (unseen in the crowd). +Woe to the city of blood! The stone shall cry +Out of the wall; the beam from out the timber +Shall answer it! Woe unto him that buildeth +A town with blood, and stablisheth a city +By his iniquity! + +ENDICOTT. + Who is it makes +Such outcry here? + +CHRISTISON (coming forward). + I, Wenlock Christison! + +ENDICOTT. +Banished on pain of death, why come you here? + +CHRISTISON. +I come to warn you that you shed no more +The blood of innocent men! It cries aloud +For vengeance to the Lord! + +ENDICOTT. + Your life is forfeit +Unto the law; and you shall surely die, +And shall not live. + +CHRISTISON. + Like unto Eleazer, +Maintaining the excellence of ancient years +And the honor of his gray head, I stand before you; +Like him disdaining all hypocrisy, +Lest, through desire to live a little longer, +I get a stain to my old age and name! + +ENDICOTT. +Being in banishment, on pain of death, +You come now in among us in rebellion. + +CHRISTISON. +I come not in among you in rebellion, +But in obedience to the Lord of heaven. +Not in contempt to any Magistrate, +But only in the love I bear your souls, +As ye shall know hereafter, when all men +Give an account of deeds done in the body! +God's righteous judgments ye cannot escape. + +ONE OF THE JUDGES. +Those who have gone before you said the same, +And yet no judgment of the Lord hath fallen +Upon us. + +CHRISTISON. + He but waiteth till the measure +Of your iniquities shall be filled up, +And ye have run your race. Then will his wrath +Descend upon you to the uttermost! +For thy part, Humphrey Atherton, it hangs +Over thy head already. It shall come +Suddenly, as a thief doth in the night, +And in the hour when least thou thinkest of it! + +ENDICOTT. +We have a law, and by that law you die. + +CHRISTISON. +I, a free man of England and freeborn, +Appeal unto the laws of mine own nation! + +ENDICOTT. +There's no appeal to England from this Court! +What! do you think our statutes are but paper? +Are but dead leaves that rustle in the wind? +Or litter to be trampled under foot? +What say ye, Judges of the Court,--what say ye? +Shall this man suffer death? Speak your opinions. + +ONE OF THE JUDGES. +I am a mortal man, and die I must, +And that erelong; and I must then appear +Before the awful judgment-seat of Christ, +To give account of deeds done in the body. +My greatest glory on that day will be, +That I have given my vote against this man. + +CHRISTISON. +If, Thomas Danforth, thou hast nothing more +To glory in upon that dreadful day +Than blood of innocent people, then thy glory +Will be turned into shame! The Lord hath said it! + +ANOTHER JUDGE. +I cannot give consent, while other men +Who have been banished upon pain of death +Are now in their own houses here among us. + +ENDICOTT. +Ye that will not consent, make record of it. +I thank my God that I am not afraid +To give my judgment. Wenlock Christison, +You must be taken back from hence to prison, +Thence to the place of public execution, +There to be hanged till you be dead--dead,--dead. + +CHRISTISON. +If ye have power to take my life from me,-- +Which I do question,--God hath power to raise +The principle of life in other men, +And send them here among you. There shall be +No peace unto the wicked, saith my God. +Listen, ye Magistrates, for the Lord hath said it! +The day ye put his servitors to death, +That day the Day of your own Visitation, +The Day of Wrath shall pass above your heads, +And ye shall be accursed forevermore! + +To EDITH, embracing her. + +Cheer up, dear heart! they have not power to harm us. + +[Exeunt CHRISTISON and EDITH guarded. The Scene closes. + + + +SCENE II. -- A street. Enter JOHN ENDICOTT and UPSALL. + +JOHN ENDICOTT. +Scourged in three towns! and yet the busy people +Go up and down the streets on their affairs +Of business or of pleasure, as if nothing +Had happened to disturb them or their thoughts! +When bloody tragedies like this are acted, +The pulses of a nation should stand still +The town should be in mourning, and the people +Speak only in low whispers to each other. + +UPSALL. +I know this people; and that underneath +A cold outside there burns a secret fire +That will find vent and will not be put out, +Till every remnant of these barbarous laws +Shall be to ashes burned, and blown away. + +JOHN ENDICOTT. +Scourged in three towns! It is incredible +Such things can be! I feel the blood within me +Fast mounting in rebellion, since in vain +Have I implored compassion of my father! + +UPSALL. +You know your father only as a father; +I know him better as a Magistrate. +He is a man both loving and severe; +A tender heart; a will inflexible. +None ever loved him more than I have loved him. +He is an upright man and a just man +In all things save the treatment of the Quakers. + +JOHN ENDICOTT. +Yet I have found him cruel and unjust +Even as a father. He has driven me forth +Into the street; has shut his door upon me, +With words of bitterness. I am as homeless +As these poor Quakers are. + +UPSALL. + Then come with me. +You shall be welcome for your father's sake, +And the old friendship that has been between us. +He will relent erelong. A father's anger +Is like a sword without a handle, piercing +Both ways alike, and wounding him that wields it +No less than him that it is pointed at. + [Exeunt. + + +SCENE III. -- The prison. Night. EDITH reading the Bible by a +lamp. + + +EDITH. +"Blessed are ye when men shall persecute you, +And shall revile you, and shall say against you +All manner of evil falsely for my sake! +Rejoice, and be exceeding glad, for great +Is your reward in heaven. For so the prophets, +Which were before you, have been persecuted." + +Enter JOHN ENDICOTT. + +JOHN ENDICOTT. +Edith! + +EDITH. + Who is it that speaketh? + +JOHN ENDICOTT. + Saul of Tarsus: +As thou didst call me once. + +EDITH (coming forward). + Yea, I remember. +Thou art the Governor's son. + +JOHN ENDICOTT. + I am ashamed +Thou shouldst remember me. + +EDITH. + Why comest thou +Into this dark guest-chamber in the night? +What seekest thou? + +JOHN ENDICOTT. + Forgiveness! + +EDITH. + I forgive +All who have injured me. What hast thou done? + +JOHN ENDICOTT. +I have betrayed thee, thinking that in this +I did God service. Now, in deep contrition, +I come to rescue thee. + +EDITH. + From what? + +JOHN ENDICOTT. + From prison. +EDITH. +I am safe here within these gloomy walls. + +JOHN ENDICOTT. +From scourging in the streets, and in three towns! + +EDITH. +Remembering who was scourged for me, I shrink not +Nor shudder at the forty stripes save one. + +JOHN ENDICOTT. +Perhaps from death itself! + +EDITH. + I fear not death, +Knowing who died for me. + +JOHN ENDICOTT (aside). + Surely some divine +Ambassador is speaking through those lips +And looking through those eyes! I cannot answer! + +EDITH. +If all these prison doors stood opened wide +I would not cross the threshold,--not one step. +There are invisible bars I cannot break; +There are invisible doors that shut me in, +And keep me ever steadfast to my purpose. + +JOHN ENDICOTT. +Thou hast the patience and the faith of Saints! + +EDITH. +Thy Priest hath been with me this day to save me, +Not only from the death that comes to all, +But from the second death! + +JOHN ENDICOTT. + The Pharisee! +My heart revolts against him and his creed! +Alas! the coat that was without a seam +Is rent asunder by contending sects; +Each bears away a portion of the garment, +Blindly believing that he has the whole! + +EDITH. +When Death, the Healer, shall have touched our eyes +With moist clay of the grave, then shall we see +The truth as we have never yet beheld it. +But he that overcometh shall not be +Hurt of the second death. Has he forgotten +The many mansions in our father's house? + +JOHN ENDICOTT. +There is no pity in his iron heart! +The hands that now bear stamped upon their palms +The burning sign of Heresy, hereafter +Shall be uplifted against such accusers, +And then the imprinted letter and its meaning +Will not be Heresy, but Holiness! + +EDITH. +Remember, thou condemnest thine own father! + +JOHN ENDICOTT. +I have no father! He has cast me off. +I am as homeless as the wind that moans +And wanders through the streets. Oh, come with me! +Do not delay. Thy God shall be my God, +And where thou goest I will go. + +EDITH. + I cannot. +Yet will I not deny it, nor conceal it; +From the first moment I beheld thy face +I felt a tenderness in my soul towards thee. +My mind has since been inward to the Lord, +Waiting his word. It has not yet been spoken. + +JOHN ENDICOTT. +I cannot wait. Trust me. Oh, come with me! + +EDITH. +In the next room, my father, an old man, +Sitteth imprisoned and condemned to death, +Willing to prove his faith by martyrdom; +And thinkest thou his daughter would do less? + +JOHN ENDICOTT. +Oh, life is sweet, and death is terrible! + +EDITH. +I have too long walked hand in hand with death +To shudder at that pale familiar face. +But leave me now. I wish to be alone. + +JOHN ENDICOTT. +Not yet. Oh, let me stay. + +EDITH. + Urge me no more. + +JOHN ENDICOTT. +Alas! good-night. I will not say good-by! + +EDITH. +Put this temptation underneath thy feet. +To him that overcometh shall be given +The white stone with the new name written on it, +That no man knows save him that doth receive it, +And I will give thee a new name, and call thee +Paul of Damascus, and not Saul of Tarsus. + +[Exit ENDICOTT. EDITH sits down again to read the Bible. + + +ACT IV. + +SCENE I. -- King Street, in front of the town-house. KEMPTHORN +in the pillory. MERRY and a crowd of lookers-on. + +KEMPTHORN (sings). + The world is full of care, + Much like unto a bubble; + Women and care, and care and women, + And women and care and trouble. + +Good Master Merry, may I say confound? + +MERRY. +Ay, that you may. + +KEMPTHORN. + Well, then, with your permission, +Confound the Pillory! + +MERRY. + That's the very thing +The joiner said who made the Shrewsbury stocks. +He said, Confound the stocks, because they put him +Into his own. He was the first man in them. + +KEMPTHORN. +For swearing, was it? + +MERRY. + No, it was for charging; +He charged the town too much; and so the town, +To make things square, set him in his own stocks, +And fined him five pounds sterling,--just enough +To settle his own bill. + +KEMPTHORN. + And served him right; +But, Master Merry, is it not eight bells? + +MERRY. +Not quite. + +KEMPTHORN. + For, do you see? I'm getting tired +Of being perched aloft here in this cro' nest +Like the first mate of a whaler, or a Middy +Mast-headed, looking out for land! Sail ho! +Here comes a heavy-laden merchant-man +With the lee clews eased off and running free +Before the wind. A solid man of Boston. +A comfortable man, with dividends, +And the first salmon, and the first green peas. + +A gentleman passes. + +He does not even turn his head to look. +He's gone without a word. Here comes another, +A different kind of craft on a taut bow-line,-- +Deacon Giles Firmin the apothecary, +A pious and a ponderous citizen, +Looking as rubicund and round and splendid +As the great bottle in his own shop window! + +DEACON FIRMIN passes. + +And here's my host of the Three Mariners, +My creditor and trusty taverner, +My corporal in the Great Artillery! +He's not a man to pass me without speaking. + +COLE looks away and passes. + +Don't yaw so; keep your luff, old hypocrite! +Respectable, ah yes, respectable, +You, with your seat in the new Meeting-house, +Your cow-right on the Common! But who's this? +I did not know the Mary Ann was in! +And yet this is my old friend, Captain Goldsmith, +As sure as I stand in the bilboes here. +Why, Ralph, my boy! + +Enter RALPH GOLDSMITH. + +GOLDSMITH. + Why, Simon, is it you? +Set in the bilboes? + +KEMPTHORN. + Chock-a-block, you see, +And without chafing-gear. + +GOLDSMITH. + And what's it for? + +KEMPTHORN. +Ask that starbowline with the boat-hook there, +That handsome man. + +MERRY (bowing). + For swearing. + +KEMPTHORN. + + In this town +They put sea-captains in the stocks for swearing, +And Quakers for not swearing. So look out. + +GOLDSMITH. +I pray you set him free; he meant no harm; +'T is an old habit he picked up afloat. + +MERRY. +Well, as your time is out, you may come down, +The law allows you now to go at large +Like Elder Oliver's horse upon the Common. + +KEMPTHORN. +Now, hearties, bear a hand! Let go and haul. + +KEMPTHORN is set free, and comes forward, shaking GOLDSMITH'S +hand. + +KEMPTHORN. +Give me your hand, Ralph. Ah, how good it feels! +The hand of an old friend. + +GOLDSMITH. + God bless you, Simon! + +KEMPTHORN. +Now let us make a straight wake for the tavern +Of the Three Mariners, Samuel Cole commander; +Where we can take our ease, and see the shipping, +And talk about old times. + +GOLDSMITH. + First I must pay +My duty to the Governor, and take him +His letters and despatches. Come with me. + +KEMPTHORN. +I'd rather not. I saw him yesterday. + +GOLDSMITH. +Then wait for me at the Three Nuns and Comb. + +KEMPTHORN. +I thank you. That's too near to the town pump. +I will go with you to the Governor's, +And wait outside there, sailing off and on; +If I am wanted, you can hoist a signal. + +MERRY. +Shall I go with you and point out the way? + +GOLDSMITH. +Oh no, I thank you. I am not a stranger +Here in your crooked little town. + +MERRY. + How now, sir? +Do you abuse our town? [Exit. + +GOLDSMITH. + Oh, no offence. + +KEMPTHORN. +Ralph, I am under bonds for a hundred pound. + +GOLDSMITH. +Hard lines. What for? + +KEMPTHORN. + To take some Quakers back +I brought here from Barbadoes in the Swallow. +And how to do it I don't clearly see, +For one of them is banished, and another +Is sentenced to be hanged! What shall I do? + +GOLDSMITH. +Just slip your hawser on some cloudy night; +Sheer off, and pay it with the topsail, Simon! + [Exeunt. + + +SCENE II. -- Street in front of the prison. In the background a +gateway and several flights of steps leading up terraces to the +Governor's house. A pump on one side of the street. JOHN +ENDICOTT, MERRY, UPSALL, and others. A drum beats. + + +JOHN ENDICOTT. +Oh shame, shame, shame! + +MERRY. + Yes, it would be a shame +But for the damnable sin of Heresy! + +JOHN ENDICOTT. +A woman scourged and dragged about our streets! + +MERRY. +Well, Roxbury and Dorchester must take +Their share of shame. She will be whipped in each! +Three towns, and Forty Stripes save one; that makes +Thirteen in each. + +JOHN ENDICOTT. + And are we Jews or Christians? +See where she comes, amid a gaping crowd! +And she a child. Oh, pitiful! pitiful! +There's blood upon her clothes, her hands, her feet! + +Enter MARSHAL and a drummer. EDITH, stripped to the waist, +followed by the hangman with a scourge, and a noisy crowd. + +EDITH. +Here let me rest one moment. I am tired. +Will some one give me water? + +MERRY. + At his peril. + +UPSALL. +Alas! that I should live to see this day! + +A WOMAN. +Did I forsake my father and my mother +And come here to New England to see this? + +EDITH. +I am athirst. Will no one give me water? + +JOHN ENDICOTT (making his way through the crowd with water). +In the Lord's name! + +EDITH (drinking. + + In his name I receive it! +Sweet as the water of Samaria's well +This water tastes. I thank thee. Is it thou? +I was afraid thou hadst deserted me. + +JOHN ENDICOTT. +Never will I desert thee, nor deny thee. +Be comforted. + +MERRY. + O Master Endicott, +Be careful what you say. + +JOHN ENDICOTT. + Peace, idle babbler! + +MERRY. +You'll rue these words! + +JOHN ENDICOTT. + Art thou not better now? + +EDITH. +They've struck me as with roses. + +JOHN ENDICOTT. + Ah, these wounds! +These bloody garments! + +EDITH. + It is granted me +To seal my testimony with my blood. + +JOHN ENDICOTT. +O blood-red seal of man's vindictive wrath! +O roses in the garden of the Lord! +I, of the household of Iscariot, +I have betrayed in thee my Lord and Master. + +WENLOCK CHRISTISON appears above, at the window of the prison, +stretching out his hands through the bars. + +CHRISTISON. +Be of good courage, O my child! my child! +Blessed art thou when men shall persecute thee! +Fear not their faces, saith the Lord, fear not, +For I am with thee to deliver thee. + +A CITIZEN. +Who is it crying from the prison yonder. + +MERRY. +It is old Wenlock Christison. + +CHRISTISON. + Remember +Him who was scourged, and mocked, and crucified! +I see his messengers attending thee. +Be steadfast, oh, be steadfast to the end! + +EDITH (with exultation). +I cannot reach thee with these arms, O father! +But closely in my soul do I embrace thee +And hold thee. In thy dungeon and thy death +I will be with thee, and will comfort thee. + +MARSHAL. +Come, put an end to this. Let the drum beat. + +The drum beats. Exeunt all but JOHN ENDICOTT, UPSALL, and MERRY. + +CHRISTISON. +Dear child, farewell! Never shall I behold +Thy face again with these bleared eyes of flesh; +And never wast thou fairer, lovelier, dearer +Than now, when scourged and bleeding, and insulted +For the truth's sake. O pitiless, pitiless town! +The wrath of God hangs over thee; and the day +Is near at hand when thou shalt be abandoned +To desolation and the breeding of nettles. +The bittern and the cormorant shall lodge +Upon thine upper lintels, and their voice +Sing in thy windows. Yea, thus saith the Lord! + +JOHN ENDICOTT. +Awake! awake! ye sleepers, ere too late, +And wipe these bloody statutes from your books! + [Exit. + +MERRY. +Take heed; the walls have ears! + +UPSALL. + At last, the heart +Of every honest man must speak or break! + +Enter GOVERNOR ENDICOTT with his halberdiers. + +ENDICOTT. +What is this stir and tumult in the street? + +MERRY. +Worshipful sir, the whipping of a girl, +And her old father howling from the prison. + +ENDICOTT (to his halberdiers). +Go on. + +CHRISTISON. + Antiochus! Antiochus! +O thou that slayest the Maccabees! The Lord +Shall smite thee with incurable disease, +And no man shall endure to carry thee! + +MERRY. +Peace, old blasphemer! + +CHRISTISON. + I both feel and see +The presence and the waft of death go forth +Against thee, and already thou dost look +Like one that's dead! + +MERRY (pointing). + And there is your own son, +Worshipful sir, abetting the sedition. + +ENDICOTT. +Arrest him. Do not spare him. + +MERRY (aside). + His own child! +There is some special providence takes care +That none shall be too happy in this world! +His own first-born. + +ENDICOTT. + O Absalom, my son! + +[Exeunt; the Governor with his halberdiers ascending the steps of +his house. + + +SCENE III. -- The Governor's private room. Papers upon the +table. + +ENDICOTT and BELLINGHAM + +ENDICOTT. +There is a ship from England has come in, +Bringing despatches and much news from home, +His majesty was at the Abbey crowned; +And when the coronation was complete +There passed a mighty tempest o'er the city, +Portentous with great thunderings and lightnings. + +BELLINGHAM. +After his father's, if I well remember, +There was an earthquake, that foreboded evil. + +ENDICOTT. +Ten of the Regicides have been put to death! +The bodies of Cromwell, Ireton, and Bradshaw +Have been dragged from their graves, and publicly +Hanged in their shrouds at Tyburn. + +BELLINGHAM. + Horrible! + +ENDICOTT. +Thus the old tyranny revives again. +Its arm is long enough to reach us here, +As you will see. For, more insulting still +Than flaunting in our faces dead men's shrouds, +Here is the King's Mandamus, taking from us, +From this day forth, all power to punish Quakers. + +BELLINGHAM. +That takes from us all power; we are but puppets, +And can no longer execute our laws. + +ENDICOTT. +His Majesty begins with pleasant words, +"Trusty and well-beloved, we greet you well;" +Then with a ruthless hand he strips from me +All that which makes me what I am; as if +From some old general in the field, grown gray +In service, scarred with many wounds, +Just at the hour of victory, he should strip +His badge of office and his well-gained honors, +And thrust him back into the ranks again. + +Opens the Mandamus and hands it to BELLINGHAM; and, while he is +reading, ENDICOTT walks up and down the room. + +Here, read it for yourself; you see his words +Are pleasant words--considerate--not reproachful-- +Nothing could be more gentle--or more royal; +But then the meaning underneath the words, +Mark that. He says all people known as Quakers +Among us, now condemned to suffer death +Or any corporal punishment whatever, +Who are imprisoned, or may be obnoxious +To the like condemnation, shall be sent +Forthwith to England, to be dealt with there +In such wise as shall be agreeable +Unto the English law and their demerits. +Is it not so? + +BELLINGHAM (returning the paper). + Ay, so the paper says. + +ENDICOTT. +It means we shall no longer rule the Province; +It means farewell to law and liberty, +Authority, respect for Magistrates, +The peace and welfare of the Commonwealth. +If all the knaves upon this continent +Can make appeal to England, and so thwart +The ends of truth and justice by delay, +Our power is gone forever. We are nothing +But ciphers, valueless save when we follow +Some unit; and our unit is the King! +'T is he that gives us value. + +BELLINGHAM. + I confess +Such seems to be the meaning of this paper, +But being the King's Mandamus, signed and sealed, +We must obey, or we are in rebellion. + +ENDICOTT. +I tell you, Richard Bellingham,--I tell you, +That this is the beginning of a struggle +Of which no mortal can foresee the end. +I shall not live to fight the battle for you, +I am a man disgraced in every way; +This order takes from me my self-respect +And the respect of others. 'T is my doom, +Yes, my death-warrant, but must be obeyed! +Take it, and see that it is executed +So far as this, that all be set at large; +But see that none of them be sent to England +To bear false witness, and to spread reports +That might be prejudicial to ourselves. + [Exit BELLINGHAM. + +There's a dull pain keeps knocking at my heart, +Dolefully saying, "Set thy house in order, +For thou shalt surely die, and shalt not live! +For me the shadow on the dial-plate +Goeth not back, but on into the dark! + [Exit. + + +SCENE IV. -- The street. A crowd, reading a placard on the door +of the Meeting-house. NICHOLAS UPSALL among them. Enter John +Norton. + +NORTON. +What is this gathering here? + +UPSALL. + One William Brand, +An old man like ourselves, and weak in body, +Has been so cruelly tortured in his prison, +The people are excited, and they threaten +To tear the prison down. + +NORTON. + What has been done? + +UPSALL. +He has been put in irons, with his neck +And heels tied close together, and so left +From five in the morning until nine at night. + +NORTON. +What more was done? + +UPSALL. + He has been kept five days +In prison without food, and cruelly beaten, +So that his limbs were cold, his senses stopped. + +NORTON. +What more? + +UPSALL. + And is this not enough? + +NORTON. + Now hear me. +This William Brand of yours has tried to beat +Our Gospel Ordinances black and blue; +And, if he has been beaten in like manner, +It is but justice, and I will appear +In his behalf that did so. I suppose +That he refused to work. + +UPSALL. + He was too weak. +How could an old man work, when he was starving? + +NORTON. +And what is this placard? + +UPSALL. + The Magistrates, +To appease the people and prevent a tumult, +Have put up these placards throughout the town, +Declaring that the jailer shall be dealt with +Impartially and sternly by the Court. + +NORTON (tearing down the placard). +Down with this weak and cowardly concession, +This flag of truce with Satan and with Sin! +I fling it in his face! I trample it +Under my feet! It is his cunning craft, +The masterpiece of his diplomacy, +To cry and plead for boundless toleration. +But toleration is the first-born child +Of all abominations and deceits. +There is no room in Christ's triumphant army +For tolerationists. And if an Angel +Preach any other gospel unto you +Than that ye have received, God's malediction +Descend upon him! Let him be accursed! + [Exit. + +UPSALL. +Now, go thy ways, John Norton, go thy ways, +Thou Orthodox Evangelist, as men call thee! +But even now there cometh out of England, +Like an o'ertaking and accusing conscience, +An outraged man, to call thee to account +For the unrighteous murder of his son! + [Exit. + + +SCENE V. -- The Wilderness. Enter EDITH. + +EDITH. +How beautiful are these autumnal woods! +The wilderness doth blossom like the rose, +And change into a garden of the Lord! +How silent everywhere! Alone and lost +Here in the forest, there comes over me +An inward awfulness. I recall the words +Of the Apostle Paul: "In journeyings often, +Often in perils in the wilderness, +In weariness, in painfulness, in watchings, +In hunger and thirst, in cold and nakedness;" +And I forget my weariness and pain, +My watchings, and my hunger and my thirst. +The Lord hath said that He will seek his flock +In cloudy and dark days, and they shall dwell +Securely in the wilderness, and sleep +Safe in the woods! Whichever way I turn, +I come back with my face towards the town. +Dimly I see it, and the sea beyond it. +O cruel town! I know what waits me there, +And yet I must go back; for ever louder +I hear the inward calling of the Spirit, +And must obey the voice. O woods that wear +Your golden crown of martyrdom, blood-stained, +From you I learn a lesson of submission, +And am obedient even unto death, +If God so wills it. [Exit. + +JOHN ENDICOTT (within). + Edith! Edith! Edith! + +He enters. + +It is in vain! I call, she answers not; +I follow, but I find no trace of her! +Blood! blood! The leaves above me and around me +Are red with blood! The pathways of the forest, +The clouds that canopy the setting sun +And even the little river in the meadows +Are stained with it! Where'er I look, I see it! +Away, thou horrible vision! Leave me! leave me! +Alas! you winding stream, that gropes its way +Through mist and shadow, doubling on itself, +At length will find, by the unerring law +Of nature, what it seeks. O soul of man, +Groping through mist and shadow, and recoiling +Back on thyself, are, too, thy devious ways +Subject to law? and when thou seemest to wander +The farthest from thy goal, art thou still drawing +Nearer and nearer to it, till at length +Thou findest, like the river, what thou seekest? + [Exit. + + +ACT V. + +SCENE I. -- Daybreak. Street in front of UPSALL's house. A light +in the window. Enter JOHN ENDICOTT. + +JOHN ENDICOTT. +O silent, sombre, and deserted streets, +To me ye 're peopled with a sad procession, +And echo only to the voice of sorrow! +O houses full of peacefulness and sleep, +Far better were it to awake no more +Than wake to look upon such scenes again! +There is a light in Master Upsall's window. +The good man is already risen, for sleep +Deserts the couches of the old. + +Knocks at UPSALL's door. + +UPSALL (at the window). + Who's there? + +JOHN ENDICOTT. +Am I so changed you do not know my voice? + +UPSALL. +I know you. Have you heard what things have happened? + +JOHN ENDICOTT. +I have heard nothing. + +UPSALL. + Stay; I will come down. + +JOHN ENDICOTT. +I am afraid some dreadful news awaits me! +I do not dare to ask, yet am impatient +To know the worst. Oh, I am very weary +With waiting and with watching and pursuing! + +Enter UPSALL. + +UPSALL. +Thank God, you have come back! I've much to tell you. +Where have you been? + +JOHN ENDICOTT. + You know that I was seized, +Fined, and released again. You know that Edith, +After her scourging in three towns, was banished +Into the wilderness, into the land +That is not sown; and there I followed her, +But found her not. Where is she? + +UPSALL. + She is here. + +JOHN ENDICOTT. +Oh, do not speak that word, for it means death! + +UPSALL. +No, it means life. She sleeps in yonder chamber. +Listen to me. When news of Leddra's death +Reached England, Edward Burroughs, having boldly +Got access to the presence of the King, +Told him there was a vein of innocent blood +Opened in his dominions here, which threatened +To overrun them all. The King replied. +"But I will stop that vein!" and he forthwith +Sent his Mandamus to our Magistrates, +That they proceed no further in this business. +So all are pardoned, and all set at large. + +JOHN ENDICOTT. +Thank God! This is a victory for truth! +Our thoughts are free. They cannot be shut up +In prison wall, nor put to death on scaffolds! + +UPSALL. +Come in; the morning air blows sharp and cold +Through the damp streets. + +JOHN ENDICOTT. + It is the dawn of day +That chases the old darkness from our sky, +And tills the land with liberty and light. + [Exeunt. + + +SCENE II. -- The parlor of the Three Mariners. Enter KEMPTHORN. + +KEMPTHORN. +A dull life this,--a dull life anyway! +Ready for sea; the cargo all aboard, +Cleared for Barbadoes, and a fair wind blowing +From nor'-nor'-west; and I, an idle lubber, +Laid neck and heels by that confounded bond! +I said to Ralph, says I, "What's to be done?" +Says he: "Just slip your hawser in the night; +Sheer off, and pay it with the topsail, Simon." +But that won't do; because, you see, the owners +Somehow or other are mixed up with it. +Here are King Charles's Twelve Good Rules, that Cole +Thinks as important as the Rule of Three. + +Reads. + +"Make no comparisons; make no long meals." +Those are good rules and golden for a landlord +To hang in his best parlor, framed and glazed! +"Maintain no ill opinions; urge no healths." +I drink to the King's, whatever he may say +And, as to ill opinions, that depends. +Now of Ralph Goldsmith I've a good opinion, +And of the bilboes I've an ill opinion; +And both of these opinions I'll maintain +As long as there's a shot left in the locker. + +Enter EDWARD BUTTER, with an ear-trumpet. + +BUTTER. +Good morning, Captain Kempthorn. + +KEMPTHORN. + Sir, to you. +You've the advantage of me. I don't know you. +What may I call your name? + +BUTTER. + That's not your name? + +KEMPTHORN. +Yes, that's my name. What's yours? + +BUTTER. + My name is Butter. +I am the treasurer of the Commonwealth. + +KEMPTHORN. +Will you be seated? + +BUTTER. + What say? Who's conceited? + +KEMPTHORN. + +Will you sit down? + +BUTTER. + Oh, thank you. + +KEMPTHORN. + Spread yourself +Upon this chair, sweet Butter. + +BUTTER (sitting down). + A fine morning. + +KEMPTHORN. +Nothing's the matter with it that I know of. +I have seen better, and I have seen worse. +The wind's nor'west. That's fair for them that sail. + +BUTTER. +You need not speak so loud; I understand you. +You sail to-day. + +KEMPTHORN. + No, I don't sail to-day. +So, be it fair or foul, it matters not. +Say, will you smoke? There's choice tobacco here. + +BUTTER. +No, thank you. It's against the law to smoke. + +KEMPTHORN. +Then, will you drink? There's good ale at this inn. + +BUTTER. +No, thank you. It's against the law to drink. + +KEMPTHORN. +Well, almost everything's against the law +In this good town. Give a wide berth to one thing, +You're sure to fetch up soon on something else. + +BUTTER. +And so you sail to-day for dear Old England. +I am not one of those who think a sup +Of this New England air is better worth +Than a whole draught of our Old England's ale. + +KEMPTHORN. +Nor I. Give me the ale and keep the air. +But, as I said, I do not sail to-day. + +BUTTER. +Ah yes; you sail today. + +KEMPTHORN. + I'm under bonds +To take some Quakers back to the Barbadoes; +And one of them is banished, and another +Is sentenced to be hanged. + +BUTTER. + No, all are pardoned, +All are set free by order of the Court; +But some of them would fain return to England. +You must not take them. Upon that condition +Your bond is cancelled. + +KEMPTHORN. + Ah, the wind has shifted! +I pray you, do you speak officially? + +BUTTER. +I always speak officially. To prove it, +Here is the bond. + +Rising and giving a paper. + +KEMPTHORN. + And here's my hand upon it, +And look you, when I say I'll do a thing +The thing is done. Am I now free to go? + +BUTTER. +What say? + +KEMPTHORN. + I say, confound the tedious man +With his strange speaking-trumpet! Can I go? + +BUTTER. +You're free to go, by order of the Court. +Your servant, sir. + [Exit. + +KEMPTHORN (shouting from the window). + Swallow, ahoy! Hallo! +If ever a man was happy to leave Boston, +That man is Simon Kempthorn of the Swallow! + +Re-enter BUTTER. + +BUTTER. +Pray, did you call? + +KEMPTHORN. + Call! Yes, I hailed the Swallow. + +BUTTER. +That's not my name. My name is Edward Butter. +You need not speak so loud. + +KEMPTHORN (shaking hands). + Good-by! Good-by! + +BUTTER. +Your servant, sir. + +KEMPTHORN. + And yours a thousand times! + [Exeunt. + + +SCENE III. -- GOVERNOR ENDICOTT'S private room. An open window. + +ENDICOTT seated in an arm-chair. BELLINGHAM standing near. + +ENDICOTT. +O lost, O loved! wilt thou return no more? +O loved and lost, and loved the more when lost! +How many men are dragged into their graves +By their rebellious children! I now feel +The agony of a father's breaking heart +In David's cry, "O Absalom, my son!" + +BELLINGHAM. +Can you not turn your thoughts a little while +To public matters? There are papers here +That need attention. + +ENDICOTT. + Trouble me no more! +My business now is with another world, +Ah, Richard Bellingham! I greatly fear +That in my righteous zeal I have been led +To doing many things which, left undone, +My mind would now be easier. Did I dream it, +Or has some person told me, that John Norton +Is dead? + +BELLINGHAM. + You have not dreamed it. He is dead, +And gone to his reward. It was no dream. + +ENDICOTT. +Then it was very sudden; for I saw him +Standing where you now stand, not long ago. + +BELLINGHAM. +By his own fireside, in the afternoon, +A faintness and a giddiness came o'er him; +And, leaning on the chimney-piece, he cried, +"The hand of God is on me!" and fell dead. + +ENDICOTT. +And did not some one say, or have I dreamed it, +That Humphrey Atherton is dead? + +BELLINGHAM. + Alas! +He too is gone, and by a death as sudden. +Returning home one evening, at the place +Where usually the Quakers have been scourged, +His horse took fright, and threw him to the ground, +So that his brains were dashed about the street. + +ENDICOTT. +I am not superstitions, Bellingham, +And yet I tremble lest it may have been +A judgment on him. + +BELLINGHAM. + So the people think. +They say his horse saw standing in the way +The ghost of William Leddra, and was frightened. +And furthermore, brave Richard Davenport, +The captain of the Castle, in the storm +Has been struck dead by lightning. + +ENDICOTT. + Speak no more. +For as I listen to your voice it seems +As if the Seven Thunders uttered their voices, +And the dead bodies lay about the streets +Of the disconsolate city! Bellingham, +I did not put those wretched men to death. +I did but guard the passage with the sword +Pointed towards them, and they rushed upon it! +Yet now I would that I had taken no part +In all that bloody work. + +BELLINGHAM. + The guilt of it +Be on their heads, not ours. + +ENDICOTT. + Are all set free? + +BELLINGHAM. +All are at large. + +ENDICOTT. + And none have been sent back +To England to malign us with the King? + +BELLINGHAM. +The ship that brought them sails this very hour, +But carries no one back. + +A distant cannon. + +ENDICOTT. + What is that gun? + +BELLINGHAM. +Her parting signal. Through the window there, +Look, you can see her sails, above the roofs, +Dropping below the Castle, outward bound. + +ENDICOTT. +O white, white, white! Would that my soul had wings +As spotless as those shining sails to fly with! +Now lay this cushion straight. I thank you. Hark! +I thought I heard the hall door open and shut! +I thought I beard the footsteps of my boy! + +BELLINGHAM. +It was the wind. There's no one in the passage. + +ENDICOTT. +O Absalom, my son! I feel the world +Sinking beneath me, sinking, sinking, sinking! +Death knocks! I go to meet him! Welcome, Death! + +Rises, and sinks back dead; his head failing aside upon his +shoulder. + +BELLINGHAM. +O ghastly sight! Like one who has been hanged! +Endicott! Endicott! He makes no answer! + +Raises Endicott's head. + +He breathes no more! How bright this signet-ring +Glitters upon his hand, where he has worn it +Through such long years of trouble, as if Death +Had given him this memento of affection, +And whispered in his ear, "Remember me!" +How placid and how quiet is his face, +Now that the struggle and the strife are ended +Only the acrid spirit of the times +Corroded this true steel. Oh, rest in peace, +Courageous heart! Forever rest in peace! + + + +GILES COREY OF THE SALEM FARMS + +DRAMATIS PERSONAE. + +GILES COREY Farmer. +JOHN HATHORNE Magistrate. +COTTON MATHER Minister of the Gospel. +JONATHAN WALCOT A youth. +RICHARD GARDNER Sea-Captain. +JOHN GLOYD Corey's hired man. +MARTHA Wife of Giles Corey. +TITUBA An Indian woman. +MARY WALCOT One of the Afflicted. + + +The Scene is in Salem in the year 1692. + +PROLOGUE. + +Delusions of the days that once have been, +Witchcraft and wonders of the world unseen, +Phantoms of air, and necromantic arts +That crushed the weak and awed the stoutest hearts,-- +These are our theme to-night; and vaguely here, +Through the dim mists that crowd the atmosphere, +We draw the outlines of weird figures cast +In shadow on the background of the Past, + +Who would believe that in the quiet town +Of Salem, and, amid the woods that crown +The neighboring hillsides, and the sunny farms +That fold it safe in their paternal arms,-- +Who would believe that in those peaceful streets, +Where the great elms shut out the summer heats, +Where quiet reigns, and breathes through brain and breast +The benediction of unbroken rest,-- +Who would believe such deeds could find a place +As these whose tragic history we retrace? + +'T was but a village then; the goodman ploughed +His ample acres under sun or cloud; +The goodwife at her doorstep sat and spun, +And gossiped with her neighbors in the sun; +The only men of dignity and state +Were then the Minister and the Magistrate, +Who ruled their little realm with iron rod, +Less in the love than in the fear of God; +And who believed devoutly in the Powers +Of Darkness, working in this world of ours, +In spells of Witchcraft, incantations dread, +And shrouded apparitions of the dead. + +Upon this simple folk "with fire and flame," +Saith the old chronicle, "the Devil came; +Scattering his firebrands and his poisonous darts, +To set on fire of Hell all tongues and hearts! +And 't is no wonder; for, with all his host, +There most he rages where he hateth most, +And is most hated; so on us he brings +All these stupendous and portentous things!" + +Something of this our scene to-night will show; +And ye who listen to the Tale of Woe, +Be not too swift in casting the first stone, +Nor think New England bears the guilt alone, +This sudden burst of wickedness and crime +Was but the common madness of the time, +When in all lands, that lie within the sound +Of Sabbath bells, a Witch was burned or drowned. + + +ACT I. + + +SCENE I. -- The woods near Salem Village. Enter TITUBA, with a +basket of herbs. + +TITUBA. +Here's monk's-hood, that breeds fever in the blood; +And deadly nightshade, that makes men see ghosts; +And henbane, that will shake them with convulsions; +And meadow-saffron and black hellebore, +That rack the nerves, and puff the skin with dropsy; +And bitter-sweet, and briony, and eye-bright, +That cause eruptions, nosebleed, rheumatisms; +I know them, and the places where they hide +In field and meadow; and I know their secrets, +And gather them because they give me power +Over all men and women. Armed with these, +I, Tituba, an Indian and a slave, +Am stronger than the captain with his sword, +Am richer than the merchant with his money, +Am wiser than the scholar with his books, +Mightier than Ministers and Magistrates, +With all the fear and reverence that attend them! +For I can fill their bones with aches and pains, +Can make them cough with asthma, shake with palsy, +Can make their daughters see and talk with ghosts, +Or fall into delirium and convulsions; +I have the Evil Eye, the Evil Hand; +A touch from me and they are weak with pain, +A look from me, and they consume and die. +The death of cattle and the blight of corn, +The shipwreck, the tornado, and the fire,-- +These are my doings, and they know it not. +Thus I work vengeance on mine enemies +Who, while they call me slave, are slaves to me! + +Exit TITUBA. Enter MATHER, booted and spurred, with a +riding-whip in his hand. + +MATHER. +Methinks that I have come by paths unknown +Into the land and atmosphere of Witches; +For, meditating as I journeyed on, +Lo! I have lost my way! If I remember +Rightly, it is Scribonius the learned +That tells the story of a man who, praying +For one that was possessed by Evil Spirits, +Was struck by Evil Spirits in the face; +I, journeying to circumvent the Witches, +Surely by Witches have been led astray. +I am persuaded there are few affairs +In which the Devil doth not interfere. +We cannot undertake a journey even, +But Satan will be there to meddle with it +By hindering or by furthering. He hath led me +Into this thicket, struck me in the face +With branches of the trees, and so entangled +The fetlocks of my horse with vines and brambles, +That I must needs dismount, and search on foot +For the lost pathway leading to the village. + +Re-enter TITUBA. + +What shape is this? What monstrous apparition, +Exceeding fierce, that none may pass that way? +Tell me, good woman, if you are a woman-- + +TITUBA. +I am a woman, but I am not good, +I am a Witch! + +MATHER. + Then tell me, Witch and woman, +For you must know the pathways through this wood, +Where lieth Salem Village? + +TITUBA. + Reverend sir, +The village is near by. I'm going there +With these few herbs. I'll lead you. Follow me. + +MATHER. +First say, who are you? I am loath to follow +A stranger in this wilderness, for fear +Of being misled, and left in some morass. +Who are you? + +TITUBA. + I am Tituba the Witch, +Wife of John Indian. + +MATHER. + You are Tituba? +I know you then. You have renounced the Devil, +And have become a penitent confessor, +The Lord be praised! Go on, I'll follow you. +Wait only till I fetch my horse, that stands +Tethered among the trees, not far from here. + +TITUBA. +Let me get up behind you, reverend sir. + +MATHER. +The Lord forbid! What would the people think, +If they should see the Reverend Cotton Mather +Ride into Salem with a Witch behind him? +The Lord forbid! + +TITUBA. + I do not need a horse! +I can ride through the air upon a stick, +Above the tree-tops and above the houses, +And no one see me, no one overtake me. + [Exeunt. + + +SCENE II. -- A room at JUSTICE HATHORNE'S. A clock in the +corner. +Enter HATHORNE and MATHER. + +HATHORNE. +You are welcome, reverend sir, thrice welcome here +Beneath my humble roof. + +MATHER. + I thank your Worship. + +HATHORNE. +Pray you be seated. You must be fatigued +With your long ride through unfrequented woods. + +They sit down. + +MATHER. +You know the purport of my visit here,-- +To be advised by you, and counsel with you, +And with the Reverend Clergy of the village, +Touching these witchcrafts that so much afflict you; +And see with mine own eyes the wonders told +Of spectres and the shadows of the dead, +That come back from their graves to speak with men. + +HATHORNE. +Some men there are, I have known such, who think +That the two worlds--the seen and the unseen, +The world of matter and the world of spirit-- +Are like the hemispheres upon our maps, +And touch each other only at a point. +But these two worlds are not divided thus, +Save for the purposes of common speech, +They form one globe, in which the parted seas +All flow together and are intermingled, +While the great continents remain distinct. + +MATHER. +I doubt it not. The spiritual world +Lies all about us, and its avenues +Are open to the unseen feet of phantoms +That come and go, and we perceive them not, +Save by their influence, or when at times +A most mysterious Providence permits them +To manifest themselves to mortal eyes. + +HATHORNE. +You, who are always welcome here among us, +Are doubly welcome now. We need your wisdom, +Your learning in these things to be our guide. +The Devil hath come down in wrath upon us, +And ravages the land with all his hosts. + +MATHER. +The Unclean Spirit said, "My name is Legion!" +Multitudes in the Valley of Destruction! +But when our fervent, well-directed prayers, +Which are the great artillery of Heaven, +Are brought into the field, I see them scattered +And driven like autumn leaves before the wind. + +HATHORNE. +You as a Minister of God, can meet them +With spiritual weapons: but, alas! +I, as a Magistrate, must combat them +With weapons from the armory of the flesh. + +MATHER. +These wonders of the world invisible,-- +These spectral shapes that haunt our habitations,-- +The multiplied and manifold afflictions +With which the aged and the dying saints +Have their death prefaced and their age imbittered,-- +Are but prophetic trumpets that proclaim +The Second Coming of our Lord on earth. +The evening wolves will be much more abroad, +When we are near the evening of the world. + +HATHORNE. +When you shall see, as I have hourly seen, +The sorceries and the witchcrafts that torment us, +See children tortured by invisible spirits, +And wasted and consumed by powers unseen, +You will confess the half has not been told you. + +MATHER. +It must be so. The death-pangs of the Devil +Will make him more a Devil than before; +And Nebuchadnezzar's furnace will be heated +Seven times more hot before its putting out. + +HATHORNE. +Advise me, reverend sir. I look to you +For counsel and for guidance in this matter. +What further shall we do? + +MATHER. + Remember this, +That as a sparrow falls not to the ground +Without the will of God, so not a Devil +Can come down from the air without his leave. +We must inquire. + +HATHORNE. + Dear sir, we have inquired; +Sifted the matter thoroughly through and through, +And then resifted it. + +MATHER. + If God permits +These Evil Spirits from the unseen regions +To visit us with surprising informations, +We must inquire what cause there is for this, +But not receive the testimony borne +By spectres as conclusive proof of guilt +In the accused. + +HATHORNE. + Upon such evidence +We do not rest our case. The ways are many +In which the guilty do betray themselves. + +MATHER. +Be careful. Carry the knife with such exactness, +That on one side no innocent blood be shed +By too excessive zeal, and on the other +No shelter given to any work of darkness. + +HATHORNE. +For one, I do not fear excess of zeal. +What do we gain by parleying with the Devil? +You reason, but you hesitate to act! +Ah, reverend sir! believe me, in such cases +The only safety is in acting promptly. +'T is not the part of wisdom to delay +In things where not to do is still to do +A deed more fatal than the deed we shrink from. +You are a man of books and meditation, +But I am one who acts. + +MATHER. + God give us wisdom +In the directing of this thorny business, +And guide us, lest New England should become +Of an unsavory and sulphurous odor +In the opinion of the world abroad! + +The clock strikes. + +I never hear the striking of a clock +Without a warning and an admonition +That time is on the wing, and we must quicken +Our tardy pace in journeying Heavenward, +As Israel did in journeying Canaan-ward! + +They rise. + +HATHORNE. +Then let us make all haste; and I will show you +In what disguises and what fearful shapes +The Unclean Spirits haunt this neighborhood, +And you will pardon my excess of zeal. + +MATHER. +Ah, poor New England! He who hurricanoed +The house of Job is making now on thee +One last assault, more deadly and more snarled +With unintelligible circumstances +Than any thou hast hitherto encountered! + [Exeunt. + + +SCENE III. -- A room in WALCOT'S House. MARY WALCOT seated in an +arm-chair. TITUBA with a mirror. + +MARY. +Tell me another story, Tituba. +A drowsiness is stealing over me +Which is not sleep; for, though I close mine eyes, +I am awake, and in another world. +Dim faces of the dead and of the absent +Come floating up before me,--floating, fading, +And disappearing. + +TITUBA. + Look into this glass. +What see you? + +MARY. + Nothing but a golden vapor. +Yes, something more. An island, with the sea +Breaking all round it, like a blooming hedge. +What land is this? + +TITUBA. + It is San Salvador, +Where Tituba was born. What see you now? + +MARY. +A man all black and fierce. + +TITUBA. + That is my father. +He was an Obi man, and taught me magic,-- +Taught me the use of herbs and images. +What is he doing? + +MARY. + Holding in his hand +A waxen figure. He is melting it +Slowly before a fire. + +TITUBA. + And now what see you? + +MARY. +A woman lying on a bed of leaves, +Wasted and worn away. Ah, she is dying! + +TITUBA. +That is the way the Obi men destroy +The people they dislike! That is the way +Some one is wasting and consuming you. + +MARY. +You terrify me, Tituba! Oh, save me +From those who make me pine and waste away! +Who are they? Tell me. + +TITUBA. + That I do not know, +But you will see them. They will come to you. + +MARY. +No, do not let them come! I cannot bear it! +I am too weak to bear it! I am dying. + +Fails into a trance. + +TITUBA. +Hark! there is some one coming! + +Enter HATHORNE, MATHER, and WALCOT. + +WALCOT. + There she lies, +Wasted and worn by devilish incantations! +O my poor sister! + +MATHER. + Is she always thus? + +WALCOT. +Nay, she is sometimes tortured by convulsions. + +MATHER. +Poor child! How thin she is! How wan and wasted! + +HATHORNE. +Observe her. She is troubled in her sleep. + +MATHER. +Some fearful vision haunts her. + +HATHORNE. + You now see +With your own eyes, and touch with your own hands, +The mysteries of this Witchcraft. + +MATHER. + One would need +The hands of Briareus and the eyes of Argus +To see and touch them all. + +HATHORNE. + You now have entered +The realm of ghosts and phantoms,--the vast realm +Of the unknown and the invisible, +Through whose wide-open gates there blows a wind +From the dark valley of the shadow of Death, +That freezes us with horror. + +MARY (starting). + Take her hence! +Take her away from me. I see her there! +She's coming to torment me! + +WALCOT (taking her hand. + O my sister! +What frightens you? She neither hears nor sees me. +She's in a trance. + +MARY. + Do you not see her there? + +TITUBA. +My child, who is it? + +MARY. + Ah, I do not know, +I cannot see her face. + +TITUBA. + How is she clad? + +MARY. +She wears a crimson bodice. In her hand +She holds an image, and is pinching it +Between her fingers. Ah, she tortures me! +I see her face now. It is Goodwife Bishop! +Why does she torture me? I never harmed her! +And now she strikes me with an iron rod! +Oh, I am beaten! + +MATHER. + This is wonderful!. +I can see nothing! Is this apparition +Visibly there, and yet we cannot see it? + +HATHORNE. +It is. The spectre is invisible +Unto our grosser senses, but she sees it. + +MARY. +Look! look! there is another clad in gray! +She holds a spindle in her hand, and threatens +To stab me with it! It is Goodwife Corey! +Keep her away! Now she is coming at me! +Oh, mercy! mercy! + +WALCOT (thrusting with his sword. + There is nothing there! + +MATHER to HATHORNE. +Do you see anything? + +HATHORNE. + The laws that govern +The spiritual world prevent our seeing +Things palpable and visible to her. +These spectres are to us as if they were not. +Mark her; she wakes. + +TITUBA touches her, and she awakes. + +MARY. + Who are these gentlemen? + +WALCOT. +They are our friends. Dear Mary, are you better? + +MARY. +Weak, very weak. + +Taking a spindle from her lap, and holding it up. + + How came this spindle here? + +TITUBA. +You wrenched it from the hand of Goodwife Corey +When she rushed at you. + +HATHORNE. + Mark that, reverend sir! + +MATHER. +It is most marvellous, most inexplicable! + +TITUBA. (picking up a bit of gray cloth from the floor). +And here, too, is a bit of her gray dress, +That the sword cut away. + +MATHER. + Beholding this, +It were indeed by far more credulous +To be incredulous than to believe. +None but a Sadducee, who doubts of all +Pertaining to the spiritual world, +Could doubt such manifest and damning proofs! + +HATHORNE. +Are you convinced? + +MATHER to MARY. + Dear child, be comforted! +Only by prayer and fasting can you drive +These Unclean Spirits from you. An old man +Gives you his blessing. God be with you, Mary! + + +ACT II + +SCENE I. -- GILES COREY's farm. Morning. Enter COREY, with a +horseshoe and a hammer. + +COREY. +The Lord hath prospered me. The rising sun +Shines on my Hundred Acres and my woods +As if he loved them. On a morn like this +I can forgive mine enemies, and thank God +For all his goodness unto me and mine. +My orchard groans with russets and pearmains; +My ripening corn shines golden in the sun; +My barns are crammed with hay, my cattle thrive +The birds sing blithely on the trees around me! +And blither than the birds my heart within me. +But Satan still goes up and down the earth; +And to protect this house from his assaults, +And keep the powers of darkness from my door, +This horseshoe will I nail upon the threshold. + +Nails down the horseshoe. + +There, ye night-hags and witches that torment +The neighborhood, ye shall not enter here!-- +What is the matter in the field?--John Gloyd! +The cattle are all running to the woods!-- +John Gloyd! Where is the man? + +Enter JOHN GLOYD. + Look there! +What ails the cattle? Are they all bewitched? +They run like mad. + +GLOYD. + They have been overlooked. + +COREY. +The Evil Eye is on them sure enough. +Call all the men. Be quick. Go after them! + +Exit GLOYD and enter MARTHA. + +MARTHA. +What is amiss? + +COREY. + The cattle are bewitched. +They are broken loose and making for the woods. + +MARTHA. +Why will you harbor such delusions, Giles? +Bewitched? Well, then it was John Gloyd bewitched them; +I saw him even now take down the bars +And turn them loose! They're only frolicsome. + +COREY. +The rascal! + +MARTHA. + I was standing in the road, +Talking with Goodwife Proctor, and I saw him. + +COREY. +With Proctor's wife? And what says Goodwife Proctor? + +MARTHA. +Sad things indeed; the saddest you can hear +Of Bridget Bishop. She's cried out upon! + +COREY. +Poor soul! I've known her forty year or more. +She was the widow Wasselby, and then +She married Oliver, and Bishop next. +She's had three husbands. I remember well +My games of shovel-board at Bishop's tavern +In the old merry days, and she so gay +With her red paragon bodice and her ribbons! +Ah, Bridget Bishop always was a Witch! + +MARTHA. +They'll little help her now,--her caps and ribbons, +And her red paragon bodice and her plumes, +With which she flaunted in the Meeting-house! +When next she goes there, it will be for trial. + +COREY. +When will that be? + +MARTHA. + This very day at ten. + +COREY. +Then get you ready. We'll go and see it. +Come; you shall ride behind me on the pillion. + +MARTHA. +Not I. You know I do not like such things. +I wonder you should. I do not believe +In Witches nor in Witchcraft. + +COREY. + Well, I do. +There's a strange fascination in it all. +That draws me on and on. I know not why. + +MARTHA. +What do we know of spirits good or ill, +Or of their power to help us or to harm us? + +COREY. +Surely what's in the Bible must be true. +Did not an Evil Spirit come on Saul? +Did not the Witch of Endor bring the ghost +Of Samuel from his grave? The Bible says so. + +MARTHA. +That happened very long ago. + +COREY. + With God +There is no long ago. + +MARTHA. + There is with us. + +COREY. +And Mary Magdalene had seven devils, +And he who dwelt among the tombs a legion! + +MARTHA. +God's power is infinite. I do not doubt it. +If in His providence He once permitted +Such things to be among the Israelites, +It does not follow He permits them now, +And among us who are not Israelites. +But we will not dispute about it, Giles. +Go to the village if you think it best, +And leave me here; I'll go about my work. + [Exit into the house. + +COREY. +And I will go and saddle the gray mare. +The last word always. That is woman's nature. +If an old man will marry a young wife, +He must make up his mind to many things. +It's putting new cloth into an old garment, +When the strain comes, it is the old gives way. + +Goes to the door. + +Oh, Martha! I forgot to tell you something. +I've had a letter from a friend of mine, +A certain Richard Gardner of Nantucket, +Master and owner of a whaling-vessel; +He writes that he is coming down to see us. +I hope you'll like him. + +MARTHA. + I will do my best. + +COREY. +That's a good woman. Now I will be gone. +I've not seen Gardner for this twenty year; +But there is something of the sea about him,-- +Something so open, generous, large; and strong, +It makes me love him better than a brother. + [Exit. + +MARTHA comes to the door. + +MARTHA. +Oh these old friends and cronies of my husband, +These captains from Nantucket and the Cape, +That come and turn my house into a tavern +With their carousing! Still, there's something frank +In these seafaring men that makes me like them. +Why, here's a horseshoe nailed upon the doorstep! +Giles has done this to keep away the Witches. +I hope this Richard Gardner will bring him +A gale of good sound common-sense to blow +The fog of these delusions from his brain! + +COREY (within). +Ho! Martha! Martha! + +Enter COREY. + Have you seen my saddle? + +MARTHA. +I saw it yesterday. + +COREY. + Where did you see it? + +MARTHA. +On a gray mare, that somebody was riding +Along the village road. + +COREY. + Who was it? Tell me. + +MARTHA. +Some one who should have stayed at home. + +COREY (restraining himself). + I see! +Don't vex me, Martha. Tell me where it is. + +MARTHA. +I've hidden it away. + +COREY. + Go fetch it me. + +MARTHA. +Go find it. + +COREY. + No. I'll ride down to the village +Bareback; and when the people stare and say, +"Giles Corey, where's your saddle?" I will answer, +"A Witch has stolen it." How shall you like that! + +MARTHA. +I shall not like it. + +COREY. + Then go fetch the saddle. + [Exit MARTHA. + +If an old man will marry a young wife, +Why then--why then--why then--he must spell Baker! + +Enter MARTHA with the saddle, which she throws down. + +MARTHA. +There! There's the saddle. + +COREY. + Take it up. + +MARTHA. I won't! + +COREY. +Then let it lie there. I'll ride to the village, +And say you are a Witch. + +MARTHA. + No, not that, Giles. + +She takes up the saddle. + +COREY. +Now come with me, and saddle the gray mare +With your own hands; and you shall see me ride +Along the village road as is becoming +Giles Corey of the Salem Farms, your husband! + [Exeunt. + + +SCENE II. -- The Green in front of the Meeting-house in Salem +village. People coming and going. Enter GILES COREY. + +COREY. +A melancholy end! Who would have thought +That Bridget Bishop e'er would come to this? +Accused, convicted, and condemned to death +For Witchcraft! And so good a woman too! + +A FARMER. +Good morrow, neighbor Corey. + +COREY (not hearing him). + Who is safe? +How do I know but under my own roof +I too may harbor Witches, and some Devil +Be plotting and contriving against me? + +FARMER. +He does not hear. Good morrow, neighbor Corey! + +COREY +Good morrow. + +FARMER. + Have you seen John Proctor lately? + +COREY. +No, I have not. + +FARMER. + Then do not see him, Corey. + +COREY. +Why should I not? + +FARMER. + Because he's angry with you. +So keep out of his way. Avoid a quarrel. + +COREY. +Why does he seek to fix a quarrel on me? + +FARMER. +He says you burned his house. + +COREY. + I burn his house? +If he says that, John Proctor is a liar! +The night his house was burned I was in bed, +And I can prove it! Why, we are old friends! +He could not say that of me. + +FARMER. + He did say it. +I heard him say it. + +COREY. + Then he shall unsay it. + +FARMER. +He said you did it out of spite to him +For taking part against you in the quarrel +You had with your John Gloyd about his wages. +He says you murdered Goodell; that you trampled +Upon his body till he breathed no more. +And so beware of him; that's my advice! + [Exit. + +COREY. +By heaven! this is too much! I'll seek him out, +And make him eat his words, or strangle him. +I'll not be slandered at a time like this, +When every word is made an accusation, +When every whisper kills, and every man +Walks with a halter round his neck! + +Enter GLOYD in haste. + + What now? +GLOYD. +I came to look for you. The cattle-- + +COREY. + Well, +What of them? Have you found them? + +GLOYD. + They are dead. +I followed them through the woods, across the meadows; +Then they all leaped into the Ipswich River, +And swam across, but could not climb the bank, +And so were drowned. + +COREY. + You are to blame for this; +For you took down the bars, and let them loose. + +GLOYD. +That I deny. They broke the fences down. +You know they were bewitched. + +COREY. + Ah, my poor cattle! +The Evil Eye was on them; that is true. +Day of disaster! Most unlucky day! +Why did I leave my ploughing and my reaping +To plough and reap this Sodom and Gomorrah? +Oh, I could drown myself for sheer vexation! + [Exit. + +GLOYD. +He's going for his cattle. He won't find them. +By this time they have drifted out to sea. +They will not break his fences any more, +Though they may break his heart. And what care I? + [Exit. + + +SCENE III. -- COREY's kitchen. A table with supper. MARTHA +knitting. + +MARTHA. + +He's come at last. I hear him in the passage. +Something has gone amiss with him today; +I know it by his step, and by the sound +The door made as he shut it. He is angry. + +Enter COREY with his riding-whip. As he speaks he takes off his +hat and gloves and throws them down violently. + +COREY. +I say if Satan ever entered man +He's in John Proctor! + +MARTHA. + Giles, what is the matter? +You frighten me. + +COREY. + I say if any man +Can have a Devil in him, then that man +Is Proctor,--is John Proctor, and no other! + +MARTHA. +Why, what has he been doing? + +COREY. + Everything! +What do you think I heard there in the village? + +MARTHA. +I'm sure I cannot guess. What did you hear? + +COREY. +He says I burned his house! + +MARTHA. + Does he say that? + +COREY. +He says I burned his house. I was in bed +And fast asleep that night; and I can prove it. + +MARTHA. +If he says that, I think the Father of Lies +Is surely in the man. + +COREY. + He does say that +And that I did it to wreak vengeance on him +For taking sides against me in the quarrel +I had with that John Gloyd about his wages. +And God knows that I never bore him malice +For that, as I have told him twenty times + +MARTHA. +It is John Gloyd has stirred him up to this. +I do not like that Gloyd. I think him crafty, +Not to be trusted, sullen and untruthful. +Come, have your supper. You are tired and hungry. + +COREY. +I'm angry, and not hungry. + +MARTHA. + Do eat something. +You'll be the better for it. + +COREY (sitting down). + I'm not hungry. + +MARTHA. +Let not the sun go down upon your wrath. + +COREY. +It has gone down upon it, and will rise +To-morrow, and go down again upon it. +They have trumped up against me the old story +Of causing Goodell's death by trampling on him. + +MARTHA. +Oh, that is false. I know it to be false. + +COREY. +He has been dead these fourteen years or more. +Why can't they let him rest? Why must they drag him +Out of his grave to give me a bad name? +I did not kill him. In his bed he died, +As most men die, because his hour had come. +I have wronged no man. Why should Proctor say +Such things bout me? I will not forgive him +Till he confesses he has slandered me. +Then, I've more trouble. All my cattle gone. + +MARTHA. +They will come back again. + +COREY. + Not in this world. +Did I not tell you they were overlooked? +They ran down through the woods, into the meadows, +And tried to swim the river, and were drowned. +It is a heavy loss. + +MARTHA. + I'm sorry for it. + +COREY. +All my dear oxen dead. I loved them, Martha, +Next to yourself. I liked to look at them, +And watch the breath come out of their wide nostrils, +And see their patient eyes. Somehow I thought +It gave me strength only to look at them. +And how they strained their necks against the yoke +If I but spoke, or touched them with the goad! +They were my friends; and when Gloyd came and told me +They were all drowned, I could have drowned myself +From sheer vexation; and I said as much +To Gloyd and others. + +MARTHA. + Do not trust John Gloyd +With anything you would not have repeated. + +COREY. +As I came through the woods this afternoon, +Impatient at my loss, and much perplexed +With all that I had heard there in the village, +The yellow leaves lit up the trees about me +Like an enchanted palace, and I wished +I knew enough of magic or of Witchcraft +To change them into gold. Then suddenly +A tree shook down some crimson leaves upon me, +Like drops of blood, and in the path before me +Stood Tituba the Indian, the old crone. + +MARTHA. +Were you not frightened? + +COREY. + No, I do not think +I know the meaning of that word. Why frightened? +I am not one of those who think the Lord +Is waiting till He catches them some day +In the back yard alone! What should I fear? +She started from the bushes by the path, +And had a basket full of herbs and roots +For some witch-broth or other,--the old hag. + +MARTHA. +She has been here to-day. + +COREY. + With hand outstretched +She said: "Giles Corey, will you sign the Book?" +"Avaunt!" I cried: "Get thee behind me, Satan!" +At which she laughed and left me. But a voice +Was whispering in my ear continually: +"Self-murder is no crime. The life of man +Is his, to keep it or to throw away!" + +MARTHA. +'T was a temptation of the Evil One! +Giles, Giles! why will you harbor these dark thoughts? + +COREY (rising). +I am too tired to talk. I'll go to bed. + +MARTHA. +First tell me something about Bridget Bishop. +How did she look? You saw her? You were there? + +COREY. +I'll tell you that to-morrow, not to-night. +I'll go to bed. + +MARTHA. + First let us pray together. + +COREY. +I cannot pray to-night. + +MARTHA. + Say the Lord's Prayer, +And that will comfort you. + +COREY. + I cannot say, +"As we forgive those that have sinned against us," +When I do not forgive them. + +MARTHA (kneeling on the hearth). + God forgive you! + +COREY. +I will not make believe! I say to-night +There's something thwarts me when I wish to pray, +And thrusts into my mind, instead of prayers, +Hate and revenge, and things that are not prayers. +Something of my old self,--my old, bad life,-- +And the old Adam in me rises up, +And will not let me pray. I am afraid +The Devil hinders me. You know I say +Just what I think, and nothing more nor less, +And, when I pray, my heart is in my prayer. +I cannot say one thing and mean another. +If I can't pray, I will not make believe! + +[Exit COREY. MARTHA continues kneeling. + + +ACT III. + +SCENE I. -- GILES COREY'S kitchen. Morning. COREY and MARTHA +sitting at the breakfast-table. + +COREY (rising). +Well, now I've told you all I saw and heard +Of Bridget Bishop; and I must be gone. + +MARTHA. +Don't go into the village, Giles, to-day. +Last night you came back tired and out of humor. + +COREY. +Say, angry; say, right angry. I was never +In a more devilish temper in my life. +All things went wrong with me. + +MARTHA. + You were much vexed; +So don't go to the village. + +COREY (going). + No, I won't. +I won't go near it. We are going to mow +The Ipswich meadows for the aftermath, +The crop of sedge and rowens. + +MARTHA. + Stay a moment, +I want to tell you what I dreamed last night. +Do you believe in dreams? + +COREY. + Why, yes and no. +When they come true, then I believe in them +When they come false, I don't believe in them. +But let me hear. What did you dream about? + +MARTHA. +I dreamed that you and I were both in prison; +That we had fetters on our hands and feet; +That we were taken before the Magistrates, +And tried for Witchcraft, and condemned to death! +I wished to pray; they would not let me pray; +You tried to comfort me, and they forbade it. +But the most dreadful thing in all my dream +Was that they made you testify against me! +And then there came a kind of mist between us; +I could not see you; and I woke in terror. +I never was more thankful in my life +Than when I found you sleeping at my side! + +COREY (with tenderness). +It was our talk last night that made you dream. +I'm sorry for it. I'll control myself +Another time, and keep my temper down! +I do not like such dreams.--Remember, Martha, +I'm going to mow the Ipswich River meadows; +If Gardner comes, you'll tell him where to find me. + [Exit. + +MARTHA. +So this delusion grows from bad to worse +First, a forsaken and forlorn old woman, +Ragged and wretched, and without a friend; +Then something higher. Now it's Bridget Bishop; +God only knows whose turn it will be next! +The Magistrates are blind, the people mad! +If they would only seize the Afflicted Children, +And put them in the Workhouse, where they should be, +There'd be an end of all this wickedness. + [Exit. + + +SCENE II. -- A street in Salem Village. Enter MATHER and +HATHORNE. + +MATHER. +Yet one thing troubles me. + +HATHORNE. + And what is that? + +MATHER. +May not the Devil take the outward shape +Of innocent persons? Are we not in danger, +Perhaps, of punishing some who are not guilty? + +HATHORNE. +As I have said, we do not trust alone +To spectral evidence. + +MATHER. + And then again, +If any shall be put to death for Witchcraft, +We do but kill the body, not the soul. +The Unclean Spirits that possessed them once +Live still, to enter into other bodies. +What have we gained? Surely, there's nothing gained. + +HATHORNE. +Doth not the Scripture say, "Thou shalt not suffer +A Witch to live"? + +MATHER. + The Scripture sayeth it, +But speaketh to the Jews; and we are Christians. +What say the laws of England? + +HATHORNE. + They make Witchcraft +Felony without the benefit of Clergy. +Witches are burned in England. You have read-- +For you read all things, not a book escapes you-- +The famous Demonology of King James? + +MATHER. +A curious volume. I remember also +The plot of the Two Hundred, with one Fian, +The Registrar of the Devil, at their head, +To drown his Majesty on his return +From Denmark; how they sailed in sieves or riddles +Unto North Berwick Kirk in Lothian, +And, landing there, danced hand in hand, and sang, +"Goodwife, go ye before! good wife, go ye! +If ye'll not go before, goodwife, let me!" +While Geilis Duncan played the Witches' Reel +Upon a jews-harp. + +HATHORNE. + Then you know full well +The English law, and that in England Witches, +When lawfully convicted and attainted, +Are put to death. + +MATHER. + When lawfully convicted; +That is the point. + +HATHORNE. + You heard the evidence +Produced before us yesterday at the trial +Of Bridget Bishop. + +MATHER. + One of the Afflicted, +I know, bore witness to the apparition +Of ghosts unto the spectre of this Bishop, +Saying, "You murdered us!" of the truth whereof +There was in matter of fact too much Suspicion. + +HATHORNE. +And when she cast her eyes on the Afflicted, +They were struck down; and this in such a manner +There could be no collusion in the business. +And when the accused but laid her hand upon them, +As they lay in their swoons, they straight revived, +Although they stirred not when the others touched them. + + +MATHER. +What most convinced me of the woman's guilt +Was finding hidden in her cellar wall +Those poppets made of rags, with headless pins +Stuck into them point outwards, and whereof +She could not give a reasonable account. + +HATHORNE. +When you shall read the testimony given +Before the Court in all the other cases, +I am persuaded you will find the proof +No less conclusive than it was in this. +Come, then, with me, and I will tax your patience +With reading of the documents so far +As may convince you that these sorcerers +Are lawfully convicted and attainted. +Like doubting Thomas, you shall lay your hand +Upon these wounds, and you will doubt no more. + {Exeunt. + + +SCENE III. -- A room in COREY's house. MARTHA and two Deacons of +the church. + + +MARTHA. +Be seated. I am glad to see you here. +I know what you are come for. You are come +To question me, and learn from my own lips +If I have any dealings with the Devil; +In short, if I'm a Witch. + +DEACON (sitting down). + Such is our purpose. +How could you know beforehand why we came? + +MARTHA. +'T was only a surmise. + +DEACON. + We came to ask you, +You being with us in church covenant, +What part you have, if any, in these matters. + +MARTHA. +And I make answer, No part whatsoever. +I am a farmer's wife, a working woman; +You see my spinning-wheel, you see my loom, +You know the duties of a farmer's wife, +And are not ignorant that my life among you +Has been without reproach until this day. +Is it not true? + +DEACON. + So much we're bound to own, +And say it frankly, and without reserve. + +MARTHA. +I've heard the idle tales that are abroad; +I've heard it whispered that I am a Witch; +I cannot help it. I do not believe +In any Witchcraft. It is a delusion. + +DEACON. +How can you say that it is a delusion, +When all our learned and good men believe it,-- +Our Ministers and worshipful Magistrates? + +MARTHA. +Their eyes are blinded and see not the truth. +Perhaps one day they will be open to it. + +DEACON. +You answer boldly. The Afflicted Children +Say you appeared to them. + +MARTHA. + And did they say +What clothes I came in? + +DEACON. + No, they could not tell. +They said that you foresaw our visit here, +And blinded them, so that they could not see +The clothes you wore. + +MARTHA. + The cunning, crafty girls! +I say to you, in all sincerity, +I never have appeared to anyone +In my own person. If the Devil takes +My shape to hurt these children, or afflict them, +I am not guilty of it. And I say +It's all a mere delusion of the senses. + +DEACON. +I greatly fear that you will find too late +It is not so. + +MARTHA (rising). + They do accuse me falsely. +It is delusion, or it is deceit. +There is a story in the ancient Scriptures +Which I much wonder comes not to your minds. +Let me repeat it to you. + +DEACON. + We will hear it. + +MARTHA. +It came to pass that Naboth had a vineyard +Hard by the palace of the King called Ahab. +And Ahab, King of Israel, spake to Naboth, +And said to him, Give unto me thy vineyard, +That I may have it for a garden of herbs, +And I will give a better vineyard for it, +Or, if it seemeth good to thee, its worth +In money. And then Naboth said to Ahab, +The Lord forbid it me that I should give +The inheritance of my fathers unto thee. +And Ahab came into his house displeased +And heavy at the words which Naboth spake, +And laid him down upon his bed, and turned +His face away; and he would eat no bread. +And Jezebel, the wife of Ahab, came +And said to him, Why is thy spirit sad? +And he said unto her, Because I spake +To Naboth, to the Jezreelite, and said, +Give me thy vineyard; and he answered, saying, +I will not give my vineyard unto thee. +And Jezebel, the wife of Ahab, said, +Dost thou not rule the realm of Israel? +Arise, eat bread, and let thy heart be merry; +I will give Naboth's vineyard unto thee. +So she wrote letters in King Ahab's name, +And sealed them with his seal, and sent the letters +Unto the elders that were in his city +Dwelling with Naboth, and unto the nobles; +And in the letters wrote, Proclaim a fast; +And set this Naboth high among the people, +And set two men, the sons of Belial, +Before him, to bear witness and to say, +Thou didst blaspheme against God and the King; +And carry him out and stone him, that he die! +And the elders and the nobles in the city +Did even as Jezebel, the wife of Ahab, +Had sent to them and written in the letters. + +And then it came to pass, when Ahab heard +Naboth was dead, that Ahab rose to go +Down unto Naboth's vineyard, and to take +Possession of it. And the word of God +Came to Elijah, saying to him, Arise, +Go down to meet the King of Israel +In Naboth's vineyard, whither he hath gone +To take possession. Thou shalt speak to him, +Saying, Thus saith the Lord! What! hast thou killed +And also taken possession? In the place +Wherein the dogs have licked the blood of Naboth +Shall the dogs lick thy blood,--ay, even thine! + +Both of the Deacons start from their seats. + +And Ahab then, the King of Israel, +Said, Hast thou found me, O mine enemy? +Elijah the Prophet answered, I have found thee! +So will it be with those who have stirred up +The Sons of Belial here to bear false witness +And swear away the lives of innocent people; +Their enemy will find them out at last, +The Prophet's voice will thunder, I have found thee! + [Exeunt. + + +SCENE IV. -- Meadows on Ipswich River, COREY and his men mowing; +COREY in advance. + +COREY. +Well done, my men. You see, I lead the field! +I'm an old man, but I can swing a scythe +Better than most of you, though you be younger. + +Hangs his scythe upon a tree. + +GLOYD (aside to the others). +How strong he is! It's supernatural. +No man so old as he is has such strength. +The Devil helps him! + +COREY (wiping his forehead). + Now we'll rest awhile, +And take our nooning. What's the matter with you? +You are not angry with me,--are you, Gloyd? +Come, come, we will not quarrel. Let's be friends. +It's an old story, that the Raven said, +"Read the Third of Colossians and fifteenth." + +GLOYD. +You're handier at the scythe, but I can beat you +At wrestling. + +COREY. + Well, perhaps so. I don't know. +I never wrestled with you. Why, you're vexed! +Come, come, don't bear a grudge. + +GLOYD. + You are afraid. + +COREY. +What should I be afraid of? All bear witness +The challenge comes from him. Now, then, my man. + +They wrestle, and GLOYD is thrown. + +ONE OF THE MEN. +That's a fair fall. + +ANOTHER. + 'T was nothing but a foil! + +OTHERS. +You've hurt him! + +COREY (helping GLOYD rise). + No; this meadow-land is soft. +You're not hurt,--are you, Gloyd? + +GLOYD (rising). + No, not much hurt. + +COREY. +Well, then, shake hands; and there's an end of it. +How do you like that Cornish hug, my lad? +And now we'll see what's in our basket here. + +GLOYD (aside). +The Devil and all his imps are in that man! +The clutch of his ten fingers burns like fire! + +COREY (reverentially taking off his hat). +God bless the food He hath provided for us, +And make us thankful for it, for Christ's sake! + +He lifts up a keg of cider, and drinks from it. + +GLOYD. +Do you see that? Don't tell me it's not Witchcraft +Two of us could not lift that cask as he does! + +COREY puts down the keg, and opens a basket. A voice is heard +calling. + +VOICE. +Ho! Corey, Corey! + +COREY. + What is that? I surely +Heard some one calling me by name! + +VOICE. + Giles Corey! + +Enter a boy, running, and out of breath. + +BOY. +Is Master Corey here? + +COREY. + Yes, here I am. +BOY. +O Master Corey! + +COREY. + Well? + +BOY. + Your wife--your wife-- + +COREY. +What's happened to my wife? + +BOY. + She's sent to prison! + +COREY. +The dream! the dream! O God, be merciful! + +BOY. +She sent me here to tell you. + +COREY (putting on his jacket). + Where's my horse? +Don't stand there staring, fellows. +Where's my horse? + [Exit COREY. + +GLOYD. +Under the trees there. Run, old man, run, run! +You've got some one to wrestle with you now +Who'll trip your heels up, with your Cornish hug. +If there's a Devil, he has got you now. +Ah, there he goes! His horse is snorting fire! + +ONE OF THE MEN. +John Gloyd, don't talk so! It's a shame to talk so! +He's a good master, though you quarrel with him. + +GLOYD. +If hard work and low wages make good masters, +Then he is one. But I think otherwise. +Come, let us have our dinner and be merry, +And talk about the old man and the Witches. +I know some stories that will make you laugh. + +They sit down on the grass, and eat. + +Now there are Goody Cloyse and Goody Good, +Who have not got a decent tooth between them, +And yet these children--the Afflicted Children-- +Say that they bite them, and show marks of teeth +Upon their arms! + +ONE OF THE MEN. + That makes the wonder greater. +That's Witchcraft. Why, if they had teeth like yours, +'T would be no wonder if the girls were bitten! + +GLOYD. +And then those ghosts that come out of their graves +And cry, "You murdered us! you murdered us!" + +ONE OF THE MEN. +And all those Apparitions that stick pins +Into the flesh of the Afflicted Children! + +GLOYD. +Oh those Afflicted Children! They know well +Where the pins come from. I can tell you that. +And there's old Corey, he has got a horseshoe +Nailed on his doorstep to keep off the Witches, +And all the same his wife has gone to prison. + +ONE OF THE MEN. +Oh, she's no Witch. I'll swear that Goodwife Corey +Never did harm to any living creature. +She's a good woman, if there ever was one. + +GLOYD. +Well, we shall see. As for that Bridget Bishop, +She has been tried before; some years ago +A negro testified he saw her shape +Sitting upon the rafters in a barn, +And holding in its hand an egg; and while +He went to fetch his pitchfork, she had vanished. +And now be quiet, will you? I am tired, +And want to sleep here on the grass a little. + +They stretch themselves on the grass. + +ONE OF THE MEN. +There may be Witches riding through the air +Over our heads on broomsticks at this moment, +Bound for some Satan's Sabbath in the woods +To be baptized. + +GLOYD. + I wish they'd take you with them, +And hold you under water, head and ears, +Till you were drowned; and that would stop your talking, +If nothing else will. Let me sleep, I say. + + +ACT IV + +SCENE I. -- The Green in front of the village Meeting-house. An +excited crowd gathering. Enter JOHN GLOYD. + +A FARMER. +Who will be tried to-day? + +A SECOND. + I do not know. +Here is John Gloyd. Ask him; he knows. + +FARMER. + John Gloyd, +Whose turn is it to-day? + +GLOYD. + It's Goodwife Corey's. + +FARMER. +Giles Corey's wife? + +GLOYD. + The same. She is not mine. +It will go hard with her with all her praying. +The hypocrite! She's always on her knees; +But she prays to the Devil when she prays. +Let us go in. + +A trumpet blows. + +FARMER. + Here come the Magistrates. + +SECOND FARMER. +Who's the tall man in front? + +GLOYD. + Oh, that is Hathorne, +A Justice of the Court, and a Quarter-master +In the Three County Troop. He'll sift the matter. +That's Corwin with him; and the man in black +Is Cotton Mather, Minister of Boston. + +Enter HATHORNE and other Magistrates on horseback, followed by +the Sheriff, constables, and attendants on foot. The Magistrates +dismount, and enter the Meeting-house, with the rest. + +FARMER. + +The Meeting-house is full. I never saw +So great a crowd before. + +GLOYD. + No matter. Come. +We shall find room enough by elbowing +Our way among them. Put your shoulder to it. + +FARMER. +There were not half so many at the trial +Of Goodwife Bishop. + +GLOYD. + Keep close after me. +I'll find a place for you. They'll want me there. +I am a friend of Corey's, as you know, +And he can't do without me just at present. + [Exeunt. + + +SCENE II. -- Interior of the Meeting-house. MATHER and the +Magistrates seated in front of the pulpit. Before them a raised +platform. MARTHA in chains. COREY near her. MARY WALCOT in a +chair. A crowd of spectators, among them GLOYD. Confusion and +murmurs during the scene. + +HATHORNE. +Call Martha Corey. + +MARTHA. + I am here. + +HATHORNE. + Come forward. + +She ascends the platform. + +The Jurors of our Sovereign Lord and Lady +The King and Queen, here present, do accuse you +Of having on the tenth of June last past, +And divers other times before and after, +Wickedly used and practised certain arts +Called Witchcrafts, Sorceries, and Incantations, +Against one Mary Walcot, single woman, +Of Salem Village; by which wicked arts +The aforesaid Mary Walcot was tormented, +Tortured, afflicted, pined, consumed, and wasted, +Against the peace of our Sovereign Lord and Lady +The King and Queen, as well as of the Statute +Made and provided in that case. What say you? + +MARTHA. +Before I answer, give me leave to pray. + +HATHORNE. +We have not sent for you, nor are we here, +To hear you pray, but to examine you +In whatsoever is alleged against you. +Why do you hurt this person? + +MARTHA. + I do not. +I am not guilty of the charge against me. + +MARY. +Avoid, she-devil! You may torment me now! +Avoid, avoid, Witch! + +MARTHA. + I am innocent. +I never had to do with any Witchcraft +Since I was born. I am a gospel woman. + +MARY. +You are a gospel Witch! + +MARTHA (clasping her hands). + Ah me! ah me! +Oh, give me leave to pray! + +MARY (stretching out her hands). + She hurts me now. +See, she has pinched my hands! + +HATHORNE. + Who made these marks +Upon her hands? + +MARTHA. + I do not know. I stand +Apart from her. I did not touch her hands. + +HATHORNE. +Who hurt her then? + +MARTHA. + I know not. + +HATHORNE. + Do you think +She is bewitched? + +MARTHA. + Indeed I do not think so. +I am no Witch, and have no faith in Witches. + +HATHORNE. +Then answer me: When certain persons came +To see you yesterday, how did you know +Beforehand why they came? + +MARTHA. + I had had speech; +The children said I hurt them, and I thought +These people came to question me about it. + +HATHORNE. +How did you know the children had been told +To note the clothes you wore? + +MARTHA. + My husband told me +What others said about it. + +HATHORNE. + Goodman Corey, +Say, did you tell her? + +COREY. + I must speak the truth; +I did not tell her. It was some one else. + +HATHORNE. +Did you not say your husband told you so? +How dare you tell a lie in this assembly? +Who told you of the clothes? Confess the truth. + +MARTHA bites her lips, and is silent. + +You bite your lips, but do not answer me! + +MARY. +Ah, she is biting me! Avoid, avoid! + +HATHORNE. +You said your husband told you. + +MARTHA. + Yes, he told me +The children said I troubled them. + +HATHORNE. + Then tell me, +Why do you trouble them? + +MARTHA. + I have denied it. + +MARY. +She threatened me; stabbed at me with her spindle; +And, when my brother thrust her with his sword, +He tore her gown, and cut a piece away. +Here are they both, the spindle and the cloth. + +Shows them. + +HATHORNE. +And there are persons here who know the truth +Of what has now been said. What answer make you? + +MARTHA. +I make no answer. Give me leave to pray. + +HATHORNE. +Whom would you pray to? + +MARTHA. + To my God and Father. + +HATHORNE. +Who is your God and Father? + +MARTHA. + The Almighty! + +HATHORNE. +Doth he you pray to say that he is God? +It is the Prince of Darkness, and not God. + +MARY. +There is a dark shape whispering in her ear. + +HATHORNE. +What does it say to you? + +MARTHA. + I see no shape. + +HATHORNE. +Did you not hear it whisper? + +MARTHA. + I heard nothing. + +MARY. +What torture! Ah, what agony I suffer! + +Falls into a swoon. + +HATHORNE. +You see this woman cannot stand before you. +If you would look for mercy, you must look +In God's way, by confession of your guilt. +Why does your spectre haunt and hurt this person? + +MARTHA. +I do not know. He who appeared of old +In Samuel's shape, a saint and glorified, +May come in whatsoever shape he chooses. +I cannot help it. I am sick at heart! + +COREY. +O Martha, Martha! let me hold your hand. + +HATHORNE. +No; stand aside, old man. + +MARY (starting up). + Look there! Look there! +I see a little bird, a yellow bird +Perched on her finger; and it pecks at me. +Ah, it will tear mine eyes out! + +MARTHA. + I see nothing. + +HATHORNE. +'T is the Familiar Spirit that attends her. + +MARY. +Now it has flown away. It sits up there +Upon the rafters. It is gone; is vanished. + +MARTHA. +Giles, wipe these tears of anger from mine eyes. +Wipe the sweat from my forehead. I am faint. + +She leans against the railing. + +MARY. +Oh, she is crushing me with all her weight! + +HATHORNE. +Did you not carry once the Devil's Book +To this young woman? + +MARTHA. + Never. + +HATHORNE. + Have you signed it, +Or touched it? + +MARTHA. + No; I never saw it. + +HATHORNE. +Did you not scourge her with an iron rod? + +MARTHA. +No, I did not. If any Evil Spirit +Has taken my shape to do these evil deeds, +I cannot help it. I am innocent. + +HATHORNE. +Did you not say the Magistrates were blind? +That you would open their eyes? + +MARTHA (with a scornful laugh). + Yes, I said that; +If you call me a sorceress, you are blind! +If you accuse the innocent, you are blind! +Can the innocent be guilty? + +HATHORNE. + Did you not +On one occasion hide your husband's saddle +To hinder him from coming to the sessions? + +MARTHA. +I thought it was a folly in a farmer +To waste his time pursuing such illusions. + +HATHORNE. +What was the bird that this young woman saw +Just now upon your hand? + +MARTHA. + I know no bird. + +HATHORNE. +Have you not dealt with a Familiar Spirit? + +MARTHA. +No, never, never! + +HATHORNE. + What then was the Book +You showed to this young woman, and besought her +To write in it? + +MARTHA. + Where should I have a book? +I showed her none, nor have none. + +MARY. + The next Sabbath +Is the Communion Day, but Martha Corey +Will not be there! + +MARTHA. + Ah, you are all against me. +What can I do or say? + +HATHORNE. + You can confess. + +MARTHA. +No, I cannot, for I am innocent. + +HATHORNE. +We have the proof of many witnesses +That you are guilty. + +MARTHA. + Give me leave to speak. +Will you condemn me on such evidence,-- +You who have known me for so many years? +Will you condemn me in this house of God, +Where I so long have worshipped with you all? +Where I have eaten the bread and drunk the wine +So many times at our Lord's Table with you? +Bear witness, you that hear me; you all know +That I have led a blameless life among you, +That never any whisper of suspicion +Was breathed against me till this accusation. +And shall this count for nothing? Will you take +My life away from me, because this girl, +Who is distraught, and not in her right mind, +Accuses me of things I blush to name? + +HATHORNE. +What! is it not enough? Would you hear more? +Giles Corey! + +COREY. + I am here. + +HATHORNE. + Come forward, then. + +COREY ascends the platform. + +Is it not true, that on a certain night +You were impeded strangely in your prayers? +That something hindered you? and that you left +This woman here, your wife, kneeling alone +Upon the hearth? + +COREY. + Yes; I cannot deny it. + +HATHORNE. +Did you not say the Devil hindered you? + +COREY. +I think I said some words to that effect. + +HATHORNE. +Is it not true, that fourteen head of cattle, +To you belonging, broke from their enclosure +And leaped into the river, and were drowned? + +COREY. +It is most true. + +HATHORNE. + And did you not then say +That they were overlooked? + +COREY. + So much I said. +I see; they're drawing round me closer, closer, +A net I cannot break, cannot escape from! (Aside). + +HATHORNE. +Who did these things? + +COREY. + I do not know who did them. + +HATHORNE. +Then I will tell you. It is some one near you; +You see her now; this woman, your own wife. + +COREY. +I call the heavens to witness, it is false! +She never harmed me, never hindered me +In anything but what I should not do. +And I bear witness in the sight of heaven, +And in God's house here, that I never knew her +As otherwise than patient, brave, and true, +Faithful, forgiving, full of charity, +A virtuous and industrious and good wife! + +HATHORNE. +Tut, tut, man; do not rant so in your speech; +You are a witness, not an advocate! +Here, Sheriff, take this woman back to prison. + +MARTHA. +O Giles, this day you've sworn away my life! + +MARY. +Go, go and join the Witches at the door. +Do you not hear the drum? Do you not see them? +Go quick. They're waiting for you. You are late. +[Exit MARTHA; COREY following. + +COREY. +The dream! the dream! the dream! + +HATHORNE. + What does he say? +Giles Corey, go not hence. You are yourself +Accused of Witchcraft and of Sorcery +By many witnesses. Say, are you guilty? + +COREY. +I know my death is foreordained by you, +Mine and my wife's. Therefore I will not answer. + +During the rest of the scene he remains silent. + +HATHORNE. +Do you refuse to plead?--'T were better for you +To make confession, or to plead Not Guilty.-- +Do you not hear me?--Answer, are you guilty? +Do you not know a heavier doom awaits you, +If you refuse to plead, than if found guilty? +Where is John Gloyd? + +GLOYD (coming forward). + Here am I. + +HATHORNE. + Tell the Court +Have you not seen the supernatural power +Of this old man? Have you not seen him do +Strange feats of strength? + +GLOYD. + I've seen him lead the field, +On a hot day, in mowing, and against +Us younger men; and I have wrestled with him. +He threw me like a feather. I have seen him +Lift up a barrel with his single hands, +Which two strong men could hardly lift together, +And, holding it above his head, drink from it. + +HATHORNE. +That is enough; we need not question further. +What answer do you make to this, Giles Corey? + +MARY. +See there! See there! + +HATHORNE. + What is it? I see nothing. + +MARY. +Look! Look! It is the ghost of Robert Goodell, +Whom fifteen years ago this man did murder +By stamping on his body! In his shroud +He comes here to bear witness to the crime! + +The crowd shrinks back from COREY in horror. + +HATHORNE. +Ghosts of the dead and voices of the living +Bear witness to your guilt, and you must die! +It might have been an easier death. Your doom +Will be on your own head, and not on ours. +Twice more will you be questioned of these things; +Twice more have room to plead or to confess. +If you are contumacious to the Court, +And if, when questioned, you refuse to answer, +Then by the Statute you will be condemned +To the peine forte et dure! To have your body +Pressed by great weights until you shall be dead! +And may the Lord have mercy on your soul! + + +ACT V. + +SCENE I. -- COREy's farm as in Act II., Scene I. Enter RICHARD +GARDNER, looking round him. + +GARDNER. +Here stands the house as I remember it. +The four tall poplar-trees before the door; +The house, the barn, the orchard, and the well, +With its moss-covered bucket and its trough; +The garden, with its hedge of currant-bushes; +The woods, the harvest-fields; and, far beyond, +The pleasant landscape stretching to the sea. +But everything is silent and deserted! +No bleat of flocks, no bellowing of herds, +No sound of flails, that should be beating now; +Nor man nor beast astir. What can this mean? + +Knocks at the door. + +What ho! Giles Corey! Hillo-ho! Giles Corey!-- +No answer but the echo from the barn, +And the ill-omened cawing of the crow, +That yonder wings his flight across the fields, +As if he scented carrion in the air. + +Enter TITUBA with a basket. + +What woman's this, that, like an apparition, +Haunts this deserted homestead in broad day? +Woman, who are you? + +TITUBA. + I'm Tituba. +I am John Indian's wife. I am a Witch. + +GARDNER. +What are you doing here? + +TITUBA. + I am gathering herbs,-- +Cinquefoil, and saxifrage, and pennyroyal. + +GARDNER (looking at the herbs). +This is not cinquefoil, it is deadly nightshade! +This is not saxifrage, but hellebore! +This is not pennyroyal, it is henbane! +Do you come here to poison these good people? + +TITUBA. +I get these for the Doctor in the Village. +Beware of Tituba. I pinch the children; +Make little poppets and stick pins in them, +And then the children cry out they are pricked. +The Black Dog came to me and said, "Serve me!" +I was afraid. He made me hurt the children. + +GARDNER. +Poor soul! She's crazed, with all these Devil's doings. + +TITUBA. +Will you, sir, sign the book? + +GARDNER. + No, I'll not sign it. +Where is Giles Corey? Do you know Giles Corey! + +TITUBA. +He's safe enough. He's down there in the prison. + +GARDNER. +Corey in prison? What is he accused of? + +TITURA. +Giles Corey and Martha Corey are in prison +Down there in Salem Village. Both are witches. +She came to me and whispered, "Kill the children!" +Both signed the Book! + +GARDNER. + + Begone, you imp of darkness! +You Devil's dam! + +TITUBA. + Beware of Tituba! + [Exit. + +GARDNER. +How often out at sea on stormy nights, +When the waves thundered round me, and the wind +Bellowed, and beat the canvas, and my ship +Clove through the solid darkness, like a wedge, +I've thought of him upon his pleasant farm, +Living in quiet with his thrifty housewife, +And envied him, and wished his fate were mine! +And now I find him shipwrecked utterly, +Drifting upon this sea of sorceries, +And lost, perhaps, beyond all aid of man! + [Exit. + + +SCENE II.. -- The prison. GILES COREY at a table on which are +some papers. + +COREY. +Now I have done with earth and all its cares; +I give my worldly goods to my dear children; +My body I bequeath to my tormentors, +And my immortal soul to Him who made it. +O God! who in thy wisdom dost afflict me +With an affliction greater than most men +Have ever yet endured or shall endure, +Suffer me not in this last bitter hour +For any pains of death to fall from Thee! + +MARTHA is heard singing. + Arise, O righteous Lord! + And disappoint my foes; + They are but thine avenging sword, + Whose wounds are swift to close. + +COREY. +Hark, hark! it is her voice! She is not dead! +She lives! I am not utterly forsaken! + +MARTHA, singing. + By thine abounding grace, + And mercies multiplied, + I shall awake, and see thy face; + I shall be satisfied. + +COREY hides his face in his hands. Enter the JAILER, followed by +RICHARD GARDNER. + +JAILER. +Here's a seafaring man, one Richard Gardner, +A friend of yours, who asks to speak with you. + +COREY rises. They embrace. + +COREY. +I'm glad to see you, ay, right glad to see you. + +GARDNER. +And I am most sorely grieved to see you thus. + +COREY. +Of all the friends I had in happier days, +You are the first, ay, and the only one, +That comes to seek me out in my disgrace! +And you but come in time to say farewell, +They've dug my grave already in the field. +I thank you. There is something in your presence, +I know not what it is, that gives me strength. +Perhaps it is the bearing of a man +Familiar with all dangers of the deep, +Familiar with the cries of drowning men, +With fire, and wreck, and foundering ships at sea! + +GARDNER. +Ah, I have never known a wreck like yours! +Would I could save you! + +COREY. + Do not speak of that. +It is too late. I am resolved to die. + +GARDNER. +Why would you die who have so much to live for?-- +Your daughters, and-- + +COREY. + You cannot say the word. +My daughters have gone from me. They are married; +They have their homes, their thoughts, apart from me; +I will not say their hearts,--that were too cruel. +What would you have me do? + +GARDNER. + Confess and live. +COREY. +That's what they said who came here yesterday +To lay a heavy weight upon my conscience +By telling me that I was driven forth +As an unworthy member of their church. + +GARDNER. +It is an awful death. + +COREY. + 'T is but to drown, +And have the weight of all the seas upon you. + +GARDNER. +Say something; say enough to fend off death +Till this tornado of fanaticism +Blows itself out. Let me come in between you +And your severer self, with my plain sense; +Do not be obstinate. + +COREY. + I will not plead. +If I deny, I am condemned already, +In courts where ghosts appear as witnesses, +And swear men's lives away. If I confess, +Then I confess a lie, to buy a life +Which is not life, but only death in life. +I will not bear false witness against any, +Not even against myself, whom I count least. + +GARDNER (aside). +Ah, what a noble character is this! + +COREY. +I pray you, do not urge me to do that +You would not do yourself. I have already +The bitter taste of death upon my lips; +I feel the pressure of the heavy weight +That will crush out my life within this hour; +But if a word could save me, and that word +Were not the Truth; nay, if it did but swerve +A hair's-breadth from the Truth, I would not say it! + +GARDNER (aside). +How mean I seem beside a man like this! + +COREY. +As for my wife, my Martha and my Martyr,-- +Whose virtues, like the stars, unseen by day, +Though numberless, do but await the dark +To manifest themselves unto all eyes,-- +She who first won me from my evil ways, +And taught me how to live by her example, +By her example teaches me to die, +And leads me onward to the better life! + +SHERIFF (without). +Giles Corey! Come! The hour has struck! + +COREY. + I come! +Here is my body; ye may torture it, +But the immortal soul ye cannot crush! + [Exeunt. + + +SCENE III-- A street in the Village. Enter GLOYD and others. + +GLOYD. +Quick, or we shall be late! + +A MAN. + That's not the way. +Come here; come up this lane. + +GLOYD. + I wonder now +If the old man will die, and will not speak? +He's obstinate enough and tough enough +For anything on earth. + +A bell tolls. + + Hark! What is that? + +A MAN. +The passing bell. He's dead! + +GLOYD. + We are too late. + [Exeunt in haste. + + +SCENE IV. -- A field near the graveyard, GILES COREY lying dead, +with a great stone on his breast. The Sheriff at his head, +RICHARD GARDNER at his feet. A crowd behind. The bell tolling. +Enter HATHORNE and MATHER. + +HATHORNE. +This is the Potter's Field. Behold the fate +Of those who deal in Witchcrafts, and, when questioned, +Refuse to plead their guilt or innocence, +And stubbornly drag death upon themselves. + +MATHER. +O sight most horrible! In a land like this, +Spangled with Churches Evangelical, +Inwrapped in our salvations, must we seek +In mouldering statute-books of English Courts +Some old forgotten Law, to do such deeds? +Those who lie buried in the Potter's Field +Will rise again, as surely as ourselves +That sleep in honored graves with epitaphs; +And this poor man, whom we have made a victim, +Hereafter will be counted as a martyr! + + + +FINALE + +SAINT JOHN + +SAINT JOHN wandering over the face of the Earth. + +SAINT JOHN. +The Ages come and go, +The Centuries pass as Years; +My hair is white as the snow, +My feet are weary and slow, +The earth is wet with my tears +The kingdoms crumble, and fall +Apart, like a ruined wall, +Or a bank that is undermined +By a river's ceaseless flow, +And leave no trace behind! +The world itself is old; +The portals of Time unfold +On hinges of iron, that grate +And groan with the rust and the weight, +Like the hinges of a gate +That hath fallen to decay; +But the evil doth not cease; +There is war instead of peace, +Instead of Love there is hate; +And still I must wander and wait, +Still I must watch and pray, +Not forgetting in whose sight, +A thousand years in their flight +Are as a single day. + +The life of man is a gleam +Of light, that comes and goes +Like the course of the Holy Stream. +The cityless river, that flows +From fountains no one knows, +Through the Lake of Galilee, +Through forests and level lands, +Over rocks, and shallows, and sands +Of a wilderness wild and vast, +Till it findeth its rest at last +In the desolate Dead Sea! +But alas! alas for me +Not yet this rest shall be! + +What, then! doth Charity fail? +Is Faith of no avail? +Is Hope blown out like a light +By a gust of wind in the night? +The clashing of creeds, and the strife +Of the many beliefs, that in vain +Perplex man's heart and brain, +Are naught but the rustle of leaves, +When the breath of God upheaves +The boughs of the Tree of Life, +And they subside again! +And I remember still +The words, and from whom they came, +Not he that repeateth the name, +But he that doeth the will! + +And Him evermore I behold +Walking in Galilee, +Through the cornfield's waving gold, +In hamlet, in wood, and in wold, +By the shores of the Beautiful Sea. +He toucheth the sightless eyes; +Before Him the demons flee; +To the dead He sayeth: Arise! +To the living: Follow me! +And that voice still soundeth on +From the centuries that are gone, +To the centuries that shall be! +From all vain pomps and shows, +From the pride that overflows, +And the false conceits of men; +From all the narrow rules +And subtleties of Schools, +And the craft of tongue and pen; +Bewildered in its search, +Bewildered with the cry, +Lo, here! lo, there, the Church! +Poor, sad Humanity +Through all the dust and heat +Turns back with bleeding feet, +By the weary road it came, +Unto the simple thought +By the great Master taught, +And that remaineth still: +Not he that repeateth the name, +But he that doeth the will! + + + +******** + + +JUDAS MACCABAEUS. + + +ACT I. + +The Citadel of Antiochus at Jerusalem. + +SCENE I. -- ANTIOCHUS; JASON. + +ANTIOCHUS. +O Antioch, my Antioch, my city! +Queen of the East! my solace, my delight! +The dowry of my sister Cleopatra +When she was wed to Ptolemy, and now +Won back and made more wonderful by me! +I love thee, and I long to be once more +Among the players and the dancing women +Within thy gates, and bathe in the Orontes, +Thy river and mine. O Jason, my High-Priest, +For I have made thee so, and thou art mine, +Hast thou seen Antioch the Beautiful? + +JASON. +Never, my Lord. + +ANTIOCHUS. +Then hast thou never seen +The wonder of the world. This city of David +Compared with Antioch is but a village, +And its inhabitants compared with Greeks +Are mannerless boors. + +JASON. +They are barbarians, +And mannerless. + +ANTIOCHUS. +They must be civilized. +They must be made to have more gods than one; +And goddesses besides. + +JASON. +They shall have more. + +ANTIOCHUS. +They must have hippodromes, and games, and baths, +Stage-plays and festivals, and most of all +The Dionysia. + +JASON. +They shall have them all. + +ANTIOCHUS. +By Heracles! but I should like to see +These Hebrews crowned with ivy, and arrayed +In skins of fawns, with drums and flutes and thyrsi, +Revel and riot through the solemn streets +Of their old town. Ha, ha! It makes me merry +Only to think of it!--Thou dost not laugh. + +JASON. +Yea, I laugh inwardly. + +ANTIOCHUS. +The new Greek leaven +Works slowly in this Israelitish dough! +Have I not sacked the Temple, and on the altar +Set up the statue of Olympian Zeus +To Hellenize it? + +JASON. +Thou hast done all this. + +ANTIOCHUS. +As thou wast Joshua once and now art Jason, +And from a Hebrew hast become a Greek, +So shall this Hebrew nation be translated, +Their very natures and their names be changed, +And all be Hellenized. + +JASON. +It shall be done. + +ANTIOCHUS. +Their manners and their laws and way of living +Shall all be Greek. They shall unlearn their language, +And learn the lovely speech of Antioch. +Where hast thou been to-day? Thou comest late. + +JASON. +Playing at discus with the other priests +In the Gymnasium. + +ANTIOCHUS. +Thou hast done well. +There's nothing better for you lazy priests +Than discus-playing with the common people. +Now tell me, Jason, what these Hebrews call me +When they converse together at their games. + +JASON. +Antiochus Epiphanes, my Lord; +Antiochus the Illustrious. + +ANTIOCHUS. +O, not that; +That is the public cry; I mean the name +They give me when they talk among themselves, +And think that no one listens; what is that? + +JASON. +Antiochus Epimanes, my Lord! + +ANTIOCHUS. +Antiochus the Mad! Ay, that is it. +And who hath said it? Who hath set in motion +That sorry jest? + +JASON. +The Seven Sons insane +Of a weird woman, like themselves insane. + +ANTIOCHUS. +I like their courage, but it shall not save them. +They shall be made to eat the flesh of swine, +Or they shall die. Where are they? + +JASON. +In the dungeons +Beneath this tower. + +ANTIOCHUS. +There let them stay and starve, +Till I am ready to make Greeks of them, +After my fashion. + +JASON. +They shall stay and starve.-- +My Lord, the Ambassadors of Samaria +Await thy pleasure. + +ANTIOCHUS. +Why not my displeasure? +Ambassadors are tedious. They are men +Who work for their own ends, and not for mine +There is no furtherance in them. Let them go +To Apollonius, my governor +There in Samaria, and not trouble me. +What do they want? + +JASON. +Only the royal sanction +To give a name unto a nameless temple +Upon Mount Gerizim. + +ANTIOCHUS. +Then bid them enter. +This pleases me, and furthers my designs. +The occasion is auspicious. Bid them enter. + + + +SCENE II. -- ANTIOCHUS; JASON; THE SAMARITAN AMBASSADORS. + +ANTIOCHUS. +Approach. Come forward; stand not at the door +Wagging your long beards, but demean yourselves +As doth become Ambassadors. What seek ye? + +AN AMBASSADOR. +An audience from the King. + +ANTIOCHUS. +Speak, and be brief. +Waste not the time in useless rhetoric. +Words are not things. + +AMBASSADOR (reading). "To King Antiochus, +The God, Epiphanes; a Memorial +From the Sidonians, who live at Sichem." + +ANTIOCHUS. +Sidonians? + +AMBASSADOR. +Ay, my Lord. + +ANTIOCHUS. +Go on, go on! +And do not tire thyself and me with bowing! + +AMBASSADOR (reading). +"We are a colony of Medes and Persians." + +ANTIOCHUS. +No, ye are Jews from one of the Ten Tribes; +Whether Sidonians or Samaritans +Or Jews of Jewry, matters not to me; +Ye are all Israelites, ye are all Jews. +When the Jews prosper, ye claim kindred with them; +When the Jews suffer, ye are Medes and Persians: +I know that in the days of Alexander +Ye claimed exemption from the annual tribute +In the Sabbatic Year, because, ye said, +Your fields had not been planted in that year. + +AMBASSADOR (reading). +"Our fathers, upon certain frequent plagues, +And following an ancient superstition, +Were long accustomed to observe that day +Which by the Israelites is called the Sabbath, +And in a temple on Mount Gerizim +Without a name, they offered sacrifice. +Now we, who are Sidonians, beseech thee, +Who art our benefactor and our savior, +Not to confound us with these wicked Jews, +But to give royal order and injunction +To Apollonius in Samaria. +Thy governor, and likewise to Nicanor, +Thy procurator, no more to molest us; +And let our nameless temple now be named +The Temple of Jupiter Hellenius." + +ANTIOCHUS. +This shall be done. Full well it pleaseth me +Ye are not Jews, or are no longer Jews, +But Greeks; if not by birth, yet Greeks by custom. +Your nameless temple shall receive the name +Of Jupiter Hellenius. Ye may go! + + +SCENE III. -- ANTIOCHUS; JASON. + +ANTIOCHUS. +My task is easier than I dreamed. These people +Meet me half-way. Jason, didst thou take note +How these Samaritans of Sichem said +They were not Jews? that they were Medes and Persians, +They were Sidonians, anything but Jews? +'T is of good augury. The rest will follow +Till the whole land is Hellenized. + +JASON. +My Lord, +These are Samaritans. The tribe of Judah +Is of a different temper, and the task +Will be more difficult. + +ANTIOCHUS. +Dost thou gainsay me? + +JASON. +I know the stubborn nature of the Jew. +Yesterday, Eleazer, an old man, +Being fourscore years and ten, chose rather death +By torture than to eat the flesh of swine. + +ANTIOCHUS. +The life is in the blood, and the whole nation +Shall bleed to death, or it shall change its faith! + +JASON. +Hundreds have fled already to the mountains +Of Ephraim, where Judas Maccabaeus +Hath raised the standard of revolt against thee. + +ANTIOCHUS. +I will burn down their city, and will make it +Waste as a wilderness. Its thoroughfares +Shall be but furrows in a field of ashes. +It shall be sown with salt as Sodom is! +This hundred and fifty-third Olympiad +Shall have a broad and blood-red sea upon it, +Stamped with the awful letters of my name, +Antiochus the God, Epiphanes!-- +Where are those Seven Sons? + +JASON. +My Lord, they wait +Thy royal pleasure. + +ANTIOCHUS. +They shall wait no longer! + + +ACT II. + +The Dungeons in the Citadel. + +SCENE I. -- THE MOTHER of the SEVEN SONS alone, listening. + + +THE MOTHER. +Be strong, my heart! +Break not till they are dead, +All, all my Seven Sons; then burst asunder, +And let this tortured and tormented soul +Leap and rush out like water through the shards +Of earthen vessels broken at a well. +O my dear children, mine in life and death, +I know not how ye came into my womb; +I neither gave you breath, nor gave you life, +And neither was it I that formed the members +Of every one of you. But the Creator, +Who made the world, and made the heavens above us, +Who formed the generation of mankind, +And found out the beginning of all things, +He gave you breath and life, and will again +Of his own mercy, as ye now regard +Not your own selves, but his eternal law. +I do not murmur, nay, I thank thee, God, +That I and mine have not been deemed unworthy +To suffer for thy sake, and for thy law, +And for the many sins of Israel. +Hark! I can hear within the sound of scourges! +I feel them more than ye do, O my sons! +But cannot come to you. I, who was wont +To wake at night at the least cry ye made, +To whom ye ran at every slightest hurt, +I cannot take you now into my lap +And soothe your pain, but God will take you all +Into his pitying arms, and comfort you, +And give you rest. + +A VOICE (within). +What wouldst thou ask of us? +Ready are we to die, but we will never +Transgress the law and customs of our fathers. + +THE MOTHER. +It is the Voice of my first-born! O brave +And noble boy! Thou hast the privilege +Of dying first, as thou wast born the first. + +THE SAME VOICE (within). +God looketh on us, and hath comfort in us; +As Moses in his song of old declared, +He in his servants shall be comforted. + +THE MOTHER. +I knew thou wouldst not fail!--He speaks no more, +He is beyond all pain! + +ANTIOCHUS. (within). +If thou eat not +Thou shalt be tortured throughout all the members +Of thy whole body. Wilt thou eat then? + +SECOND VOICE. (within). +No. + +THE MOTHER. +It is Adaiah's voice. I tremble for him. +I know his nature, devious as the wind, +And swift to change, gentle and yielding always. +Be steadfast, O my son! + +THE SAME VOICE (within). +Thou, like a fury, +Takest us from this present life, but God, +Who rules the world, shall raise us up again +Into life everlasting. + +THE MOTHER. +God, I thank thee +That thou hast breathed into that timid heart +Courage to die for thee. O my Adaiah, +Witness of God! if thou for whom I feared +Canst thus encounter death, I need not fear; +The others will not shrink. + +THIRD VOICE (within). +Behold these hands +Held out to thee, O King Antiochus, +Not to implore thy mercy, but to show +That I despise them. He who gave them to me +Will give them back again. + +THE MOTHER. +O Avilan, +It is thy voice. For the last time I hear it; +For the last time on earth, but not the last. +To death it bids defiance and to torture. +It sounds to me as from another world, +And makes the petty miseries of this +Seem unto me as naught, and less than naught. +Farewell, my Avilan; nay, I should say +Welcome, my Avilan; for I am dead +Before thee. I am waiting for the others. +Why do they linger? + +FOURTH VOICE (within). +It is good, O King, +Being put to death by men, to look for hope +From God, to be raised up again by him. +But thou--no resurrection shalt thou have +To life hereafter. + +THE MOTHER. +Four! already four! +Three are still living; nay, they all are living, +Half here, half there. Make haste, Antiochus, +To reunite us; for the sword that cleaves +These miserable bodies makes a door +Through which our souls, impatient of release, +Rush to each other's arms. + +FIFTH VOICE (within). +Thou hast the power; +Thou doest what thou wilt. Abide awhile, +And thou shalt see the power of God, and how +He will torment thee and thy seed. + +THE MOTHER. +O hasten; +Why dost thou pause? Thou who hast slain already +So many Hebrew women, and hast hung +Their murdered infants round their necks, slay me, +For I too am a woman, and these boys +Are mine. Make haste to slay us all, +And hang my lifeless babes about my neck. + +SIXTH VOICE (within). +Think not, +Antiochus, that takest in hand +To strive against the God of Israel, +Thou shalt escape unpunished, for his wrath +Shall overtake thee and thy bloody house. + +THE MOTHER. +One more, my Sirion, and then all is ended. +Having put all to bed, then in my turn +I will lie down and sleep as sound as they. +My Sirion, my youngest, best beloved! +And those bright golden locks, that I so oft +Have curled about these fingers, even now +Are foul with blood and dust, like a lamb's fleece, +Slain in the shambles.--Not a sound I hear. +This silence is more terrible to me +Than any sound, than any cry of pain, +That might escape the lips of one who dies. +Doth his heart fail him? Doth he fall away +In the last hour from God? O Sirion, Sirion, +Art thou afraid? I do not hear thy voice. +Die as thy brothers died. Thou must not live! + + +SCENE II. -- THE MOTHER; ANTIOCHUS; SIRION, + +THE MOTHER. +Are they all dead? + +ANTIOCHUS. +Of all thy Seven Sons +One only lives. Behold them where they lie +How dost thou like this picture? + +THE MOTHER. +God in heaven! +Can a man do such deeds, and yet not die +By the recoil of his own wickedness? +Ye murdered, bleeding, mutilated bodies +That were my children once, and still are mine, +I cannot watch o'er you as Rispah watched +In sackcloth o'er the seven sons of Saul, +Till water drop upon you out of heaven +And wash this blood away! I cannot mourn +As she, the daughter of Aiah, mourned the dead, +From the beginning of the barley-harvest +Until the autumn rains, and suffered not +The birds of air to rest on them by day, +Nor the wild beasts by night. For ye have died +A better death, a death so full of life +That I ought rather to rejoice than mourn.-- +Wherefore art thou not dead, O Sirion? +Wherefore art thou the only living thing +Among thy brothers dead? Art thou afraid? + +ANTIOCHUS. +O woman, I have spared him for thy sake, +For he is fair to look upon and comely; +And I have sworn to him by all the gods +That I would crown his life with joy and honor, +Heap treasures on him, luxuries, delights, +Make him my friend and keeper of my secrets, +If he would turn from your Mosaic Law +And be as we are; but he will not listen. + +THE MOTHER. +My noble Sirion! + +ANTIOCHUS. +Therefore I beseech thee, +Who art his mother, thou wouldst speak with him, +And wouldst persuade him. I am sick of blood. + +THE MOTHER. +Yea, I will speak with him and will persuade him. +O Sirion, my son! have pity on me, +On me that bare thee, and that gave thee suck, +And fed and nourished thee, and brought thee up +With the dear trouble of a mother's care +Unto this age. Look on the heavens above thee, +And on the earth and all that is therein; +Consider that God made them out of things +That were not; and that likewise in this manner +Mankind was made. Then fear not this tormentor +But, being worthy of thy brethren, take +Thy death as they did, that I may receive thee +Again in mercy with them. + +ANTIOCHUS. +I am mocked, +Yea, I am laughed to scorn. + +SIRION. +Whom wait ye for? +Never will I obey the King's commandment, +But the commandment of the ancient Law, +That was by Moses given unto our fathers. +And thou, O godless man, that of all others +Art the most wicked, be not lifted up, +Nor puffed up with uncertain hopes, uplifting +Thy hand against the servants of the Lord, +For thou hast not escaped the righteous judgment +Of the Almighty God, who seeth all things! + +ANTIOCHUS. +He is no God of mine; I fear him not. + +SIRION. +My brothers, who have suffered a brief pain, +Are dead; but thou, Antiochus, shalt suffer +The punishment of pride. I offer up +My body and my life, beseeching God +That he would speedily be merciful +Unto our nation, and that thou by plagues +Mysterious and by torments mayest confess +That he alone is God. + +ANTIOCHUS. +Ye both shall perish +By torments worse than any that your God, +Here or hereafter, hath in store for me. + +THE MOTHER. +My Sirion, I am proud of thee! + +ANTIOCHUS. +Be silent! +Go to thy bed of torture in yon chamber, +Where lie so many sleepers, heartless mother! +Thy footsteps will not wake them, nor thy voice, +Nor wilt thou hear, amid thy troubled dreams, +Thy children crying for thee in the night! + +THE MOTHER. +O Death, that stretchest thy white hands to me, +I fear them not, but press them to my lips, +That are as white as thine; for I am Death, +Nay, am the Mother of Death, seeing these sons +All lying lifeless.--Kiss me, Sirion. + + + +ACT III. + +The Battle-field of Beth-horon. + +SCENE I. -- JUDAS MACCABAEUS in armor before his tent. + +JUDAS. +The trumpets sound; the echoes of the mountains +Answer them, as the Sabbath morning breaks +Over Beth-horon and its battle-field, +Where the great captain of the hosts of God, +A slave brought up in the brick-fields of Egypt, +O'ercame the Amorites. There was no day +Like that, before or after it, nor shall be. +The sun stood still; the hammers of the hail +Beat on their harness; and the captains set +Their weary feet upon the necks of kings, +As I will upon thine, Antiochus, +Thou man of blood!--Behold the rising sun +Strikes on the golden letters of my banner, +Be Elohim Yehovah! Who is like +To thee, O Lord, among the gods!--Alas! +I am not Joshua, I cannot say, +"Sun, stand thou still on Gibeon, and thou Moon, +In Ajalon!" Nor am I one who wastes +The fateful time in useless lamentation; +But one who bears his life upon his hand +To lose it or to save it, as may best +Serve the designs of Him who giveth life. + + + +SCENE II -- JUDAS MACCABAEUS; JEWISH FUGITIVES. + +JUDAS. +Who and what are ye, that with furtive steps +Steal in among our tents? + +FUGITIVES. +O Maccabaeus, +Outcasts are we, and fugitives as thou art, +Jews of Jerusalem, that have escaped +From the polluted city, and from death. + +JUDAS. +None can escape from death. Say that ye come +To die for Israel, and ye are welcome. +What tidings bring ye? + +FUGITIVES. +Tidings of despair. +The Temple is laid waste; the precious vessels, +Censers of gold, vials and veils and crowns, +And golden ornaments, and hidden treasures, +Have all been taken from it, and the Gentiles +With revelling and with riot fill its courts, +And dally with harlots in the holy places. + +JUDAS. +All this I knew before. + +FUGITIVES. +Upon the altar +Are things profane, things by the law forbidden; +Nor can we keep our Sabbaths or our Feasts, +But on the festivals of Dionysus +Must walk in their processions, bearing ivy +To crown a drunken god. + +JUDAS. +This too I know. +But tell me of the Jews. How fare the Jews? + +FUGITIVES. +The coming of this mischief hath been sore +And grievous to the people. All the land +Is full of lamentation and of mourning. +The Princes and the Elders weep and wail; +The young men and the maidens are made feeble; +The beauty of the women hath been changed. + +JUDAS. +And are there none to die for Israel? +'T is not enough to mourn. Breastplate and harness +Are better things than sackcloth. Let the women +Lament for Israel; the men should die. + +FUGITIVES. +Both men and women die; old men and young: +Old Eleazer died: and Mahala +With all her Seven Sons. + +JUDAS. +Antiochus, +At every step thou takest there is left +A bloody footprint in the street, by which +The avenging wrath of God will track thee out! +It is enough. Go to the sutler's tents; +Those of you who are men, put on such armor +As ye may find; those of you who are women, +Buckle that armor on; and for a watchword +Whisper, or cry aloud, "The Help of God." + + +SCENE III. -- JUDAS MACCABAEUS; NICANOR. + +NICANOR. +Hail, Judas Maccabaeus! + +JUDAS. +Hail!--Who art thou +That comest here in this mysterious guise +Into our camp unheralded? + +NICANOR. +A herald +Sent from Nicanor. + +JUDAS. +Heralds come not thus. +Armed with thy shirt of mail from head to heel, +Thou glidest like a serpent silently +Into my presence. Wherefore dost thou turn +Thy face from me? A herald speaks his errand +With forehead unabashed. Thou art a spy sent by Nicanor. + +NICANOR. +No disguise avails! +Behold my face; I am Nicanor's self. + +JUDAS. +Thou art indeed Nicanor. I salute thee. +What brings thee hither to this hostile camp +Thus unattended? + +NICANOR. +Confidence in thee. +Thou hast the nobler virtues of thy race, +Without the failings that attend those virtues. +Thou canst be strong, and yet not tyrannous, +Canst righteous be and not intolerant. +Let there be peace between us. + +JUDAS. +What is peace? +Is it to bow in silence to our victors? +Is it to see our cities sacked and pillaged, +Our people slain, or sold as slaves, or fleeing +At night-time by the blaze of burning towns; +Jerusalem laid waste; the Holy Temple +Polluted with strange gods? Are these things peace? + +NICANOR. +These are the dire necessities that wait +On war, whose loud and bloody enginery +I seek to stay. Let there be peace between +Antiochus and thee. + +JUDAS. +Antiochus? +What is Antiochus, that he should prate +Of peace to me, who am a fugitive? +To-day he shall be lifted up; to-morrow +Shall not be found, because he is returned +Unto his dust; his thought has come to nothing. +There is no peace between us, nor can be, +Until this banner floats upon the walls +Of our Jerusalem. + +NICANOR. +Between that city +And thee there lies a waving wall of tents, +Held by a host of forty thousand foot, +And horsemen seven thousand. What hast thou +To bring against all these? + +JUDAS. +The power of God, +Whose breath shall scatter your white tents abroad, +As flakes of snow. + +NICANOR. +Your Mighty One in heaven +Will not do battle on the Seventh Day; +It is his day of rest. + +JUDAS. +Silence, blasphemer. +Go to thy tents. + +NICANOR. +Shall it be war or peace? + +JUDAS. +War, war, and only war. Go to thy tents +That shall be scattered, as by you were scattered +The torn and trampled pages of the Law, +Blown through the windy streets. + +NICANOR. +Farewell, brave foe! + +JUDAS. +Ho, there, my captains! Have safe-conduct given +Unto Nicanor's herald through the camp, +And come yourselves to me.--Farewell, Nicanor! + + + +SCENE IV. -- JUDAS MACCABAEUS; CAPTAINS AND SOLDIERS. + +JUDAS. +The hour is come. Gather the host together +For battle. Lo, with trumpets and with songs +The army of Nicanor comes against us. +Go forth to meet them, praying in your hearts, +And fighting with your hands. + +CAPTAINS. +Look forth and see! +The morning sun is shining on their shields +Of gold and brass; the mountains glisten with them, +And shine like lamps. And we who are so few +And poorly armed, and ready to faint with fasting, +How shall we fight against this multitude? + +JUDAS. +The victory of a battle standeth not +In multitudes, but in the strength that cometh +From heaven above. The Lord forbid that I +Should do this thing, and flee away from them. +Nay, if our hour be come, then let us die; +Let us not stain our honor. + +CAPTAINS. +'T is the Sabbath. +Wilt thou fight on the Sabbath, Maccabaeus? + +JUDAS. +Ay; when I fight the battles of the Lord, +I fight them on his day, as on all others. +Have ye forgotten certain fugitives +That fled once to these hills, and hid themselves +In caves? How their pursuers camped against them +Upon the Seventh Day, and challenged them? +And how they answered not, nor cast a stone, +Nor stopped the places where they lay concealed, +But meekly perished with their wives and children, +Even to the number of a thousand souls? +We who are fighting for our laws and lives +Will not so perish. + +CAPTAINS. +Lead us to the battle! + +JUDAS. +And let our watchword be, "The Help of God!" +Last night I dreamed a dream; and in my vision +Beheld Onias, our High-Priest of old, +Who holding up his hands prayed for the Jews. +This done, in the like manner there appeared +An old man, and exceeding glorious, +With hoary hair, and of a wonderful +And excellent majesty. And Onias said: +"This is a lover of the Jews, who prayeth +Much for the people and the Holy City,-- +God's prophet Jeremias." And the prophet +Held forth his right hand and gave unto me +A sword of gold; and giving it he said: +"Take thou this holy sword, a gift from God, +And with it thou shalt wound thine adversaries." + +CAPTAINS. +The Lord is with us! + +JUDAS. +Hark! I hear the trumpets +Sound from Beth-horon; from the battle-field +Of Joshua, where he smote the Amorites, +Smote the Five Kings of Eglon and of Jarmuth, +Of Hebron, Lachish, and Jerusalem, +As we to-day will smite Nicanor's hosts +And leave a memory of great deeds behind us. + +CAPTAINS and SOLDIERS. +The Help of God! + +JUDAS. +Be Elohim Yehovah! +Lord, thou didst send thine Angel in the time +Of Esekias, King of Israel, +And in the armies of Sennacherib +Didst slay a hundred fourscore and five thousand. +Wherefore, O Lord of heaven, now also send +Before us a good angel for a fear, +And through the might of thy right arm let those +Be stricken with terror that have come this day +Against thy holy people to blaspheme! + + + +ACT IV. + +The outer Courts of the Temple at Jerusalem. + +SCENE I. -- JUDAS MACCABAEUS; CAPTAINS; JEWS. + +JUDAS. +Behold, our enemies are discomfited. +Jerusalem is fallen; and our banners +Float from her battlements, and o'er her gates +Nicanor's severed head, a sign of terror, +Blackens in wind and sun. + +CAPTAINS. +O Maccabaeus, +The citadel of Antiochus, wherein +The Mother with her Seven Sons was murdered, +Is still defiant. + +JUDAS. +Wait. + +CAPTAINS. +Its hateful aspect +Insults us with the bitter memories +Of other days. + +JUDAS. +Wait; it shall disappear +And vanish as a cloud. First let us cleanse +The Sanctuary. See, it is become +Waste like a wilderness. Its golden gates +Wrenched from their hinges and consumed by fire; +Shrubs growing in its courts as in a forest; +Upon its altars hideous and strange idols; +And strewn about its pavement at my feet +Its Sacred Books, half burned and painted o'er +With images of heathen gods. + +JEWS. +Woe! woe! +Our beauty and our glory are laid waste! +The Gentiles have profaned our holy places! + +(Lamentation and alarm of trumpets.) + +JUDAS. +This sound of trumpets, and this lamentation, +The heart-cry of a people toward the heavens, +Stir me to wrath and vengeance. Go, my captains; +I hold you back no longer. Batter down +The citadel of Antiochus, while here +We sweep away his altars and his gods. + + +SCENE II. -- JUDAS MACCABAEUS; JASON; JEWS, + + +JEWS. +Lurking among the ruins of the Temple, +Deep in its inner courts, we found this man, +Clad as High-Priest. + +JUDAS. +I ask not who thou art. +I know thy face, writ over with deceit +As are these tattered volumes of the Law +With heathen images. A priest of God +Wast thou in other days, but thou art now +A priest of Satan. Traitor, thou art Jason. + +JASON. +I am thy prisoner, Judas Maccabaeus, +And it would ill become me to conceal +My name or office. + +JUDAS. +Over yonder gate +There hangs the head of one who was a Greek. +What should prevent me now, thou man of sin, +From hanging at its side the head of one +Who born a Jew hath made himself a Greek? + +JASON. +Justice prevents thee. + +JUDAS. +Justice? Thou art stained +With every crime against which the Decalogue +Thunders with all its thunder. + +JASON. +If not Justice, +Then Mercy, her handmaiden. + +JUDAS. +When hast thou +At any time, to any man or woman, +Or even to any little child, shown mercy? + +JASON. +I have but done what King Antiochus +Commanded me. + +JUDAS. +True, thou hast been the weapon +With which he struck; but hast been such a weapon, +So flexible, so fitted to his hand, +It tempted him to strike. So thou hast urged him +To double wickedness, thine own and his. +Where is this King? Is he in Antioch +Among his women still, and from his windows +Throwing down gold by handfuls, for the rabble +To scramble for? + +JASON. +Nay, he is gone from there, +Gone with an army into the far East. + +JUDAS. +And wherefore gone? + +JASON. +I know not. For the space +Of forty days almost were horsemen seen +Running in air, in cloth of gold, and armed +With lances, like a band of soldiery; +It was a sign of triumph. + +JUDAS. +Or of death. +Wherefore art thou not with him? + +JASON. +I was left +For service in the Temple. + +JUDAS. +To pollute it, +And to corrupt the Jews; for there are men +Whose presence is corruption; to be with them +Degrades us and deforms the things we do. + +JASON. +I never made a boast, as some men do, +Of my superior virtue, nor denied +The weakness of my nature, that hath made me +Subservient to the will of other men. + +JUDAS. +Upon this day, the five and twentieth day +Of the month Caslan, was the Temple here +Profaned by strangers,--by Antiochus +And thee, his instrument. Upon this day +Shall it be cleansed. Thou, who didst lend thyself +Unto this profanation, canst not be +A witness of these solemn services. +There can be nothing clean where thou art present. +The people put to death Callisthenes, +Who burned the Temple gates; and if they find thee +Will surely slay thee. I will spare thy life +To punish thee the longer. Thou shalt wander +Among strange nations. Thou, that hast cast out +So many from their native land, shalt perish +In a strange land. Thou, that hast left so many +Unburied, shalt have none to mourn for thee, +Nor any solemn funerals at all, +Nor sepulchre with thy fathers.--Get thee hence! + +(Music. Procession of Priests and people, +with citherns, harps, and cymbals. JUDAS +MACCABAEUS puts himself at their +head, and they go into the inner courts.) + + +SCENE III. -- JASON, alone. + +JASON. +Through the Gate Beautiful I see them come +With branches and green boughs and leaves of palm, +And pass into the inner courts. Alas! +I should be with them, should be one of them, +But in an evil hour, an hour of weakness, +That cometh unto all, I fell away +From the old faith, and did not clutch the new, +Only an outward semblance of belief; +For the new faith I cannot make mine own, +Not being born to it. It hath no root +Within me. I am neither Jew nor Greek, +But stand between them both, a renegade +To each in turn; having no longer faith +In gods or men. Then what mysterious charm, +What fascination is it chains my feet, +And keeps me gazing like a curious child +Into the holy places, where the priests +Have raised their altar?--Striking stones together, +They take fire out of them, and light the lamps +In the great candlestick. They spread the veils, +And set the loaves of showbread on the table. +The incense burns; the well-remembered odor +Comes wafted unto me, and takes me back +To other days. I see myself among them +As I was then; and the old superstition +Creeps over me again!--A childish fancy!-- +And hark! they sing with citherns and with cymbals, +And all the people fall upon their faces, +Praying and worshipping!--I will away +Into the East, to meet Antiochus +Upon his homeward journey, crowned with triumph. +Alas! to-day I would give everything +To see a friend's face, or to hear a voice +That had the slightest tone of comfort in it! + + + +ACT V. + +The Mountains of Ecbatana. + +SCENE I. -- ANTIOCHUS; PHILIP; ATTENDANTS. + +ANTIOCHUS. +Here let us rest awhile. Where are we, Philip? +What place is this? + +PHILIP. +Ecbatana, my Lord; +And yonder mountain range is the Orontes. + +ANTIOCHUS. +The Orontes is my river at Antioch. +Why did I leave it? Why have I been tempted +By coverings of gold and shields and breastplates +To plunder Elymais, and be driven +From out its gates, as by a fiery blast +Out of a furnace? + +PHILIP. +These are fortune's changes. + +ANTIOCHUS. +What a defeat it was! The Persian horsemen +Came like a mighty wind, the wind Khamaseen, +And melted us away, and scattered us +As if we were dead leaves, or desert sand. + +PHILIP. +Be comforted, my Lord; for thou hast lost +But what thou hadst not. + +ANTIOCHUS. +I, who made the Jews +Skip like the grasshoppers, am made myself +To skip among these stones. + +PHILIP. +Be not discouraged. +Thy realm of Syria remains to thee; +That is not lost nor marred. + +ANTIOCHUS. +O, where are now +The splendors of my court, my baths and banquets? +Where are my players and my dancing women? +Where are my sweet musicians with their pipes, +That made me merry in the olden time? +I am a laughing-stock to man and brute. +The very camels, with their ugly faces, +Mock me and laugh at me. + +PHILIP. +Alas! my Lord, +It is not so. If thou wouldst sleep awhile, +All would be well. + +ANTIOCHUS. +Sleep from mine eyes is gone, +And my heart faileth me for very care. +Dost thou remember, Philip, the old fable +Told us when we were boys, in which the bear +Going for honey overturns the hive, +And is stung blind by bees? I am that beast, +Stung by the Persian swarms of Elymais. + +PHILIP. +When thou art come again to Antioch +These thoughts will be as covered and forgotten +As are the tracks of Pharaoh's chariot-wheels +In the Egyptian sands. + +ANTIOCHUS. +Ah! when I come +Again to Antioch! When will that be? +Alas! alas! + + +SCENE II -- ANTIOCHUS; PHILIP; A MESSENGER + +MESSENGER. +May the King live forever! + +ANTIOCHUS. +Who art thou, and whence comest thou? + +MESSENGER. +My Lord, +I am a messenger from Antioch, +Sent here by Lysias. + +ANTIOCHUS. +A strange foreboding +Of something evil overshadows me. +I am no reader of the Jewish Scriptures; +I know not Hebrew; but my High-Priest Jason, +As I remember, told me of a Prophet +Who saw a little cloud rise from the sea +Like a man's hand and soon the heaven was black +With clouds and rain. Here, Philip, read; I cannot; +I see that cloud. It makes the letters dim +Before mine eyes. + +PHILIP (reading). +"To King Antiochus, +The God, Epiphanes." + +ANTIOCHUS. +O mockery! +Even Lysias laughs at me!--Go on, go on. + +PHILIP (reading). +"We pray thee hasten thy return. The realm +Is falling from thee. Since thou hast gone from us +The victories of Judas Maccabaeus +Form all our annals. First he overthrew +Thy forces at Beth-horon, and passed on, +And took Jerusalem, the Holy City. +And then Emmaus fell; and then Bethsura; +Ephron and all the towns of Galaad, +And Maccabaeus marched to Carnion." + +ANTIOCHUS. +Enough, enough! Go call my chariot-men; +We will drive forward, forward, without ceasing, +Until we come to Antioch. My captains, +My Lysias, Gorgias, Seron, and Nicanor, +Are babes in battle, and this dreadful Jew +Will rob me of my kingdom and my crown. +My elephants shall trample him to dust; +I will wipe out his nation, and will make +Jerusalem a common burying-place, +And every home within its walls a tomb! + +(Throws up his hands, and sinks into the +arms of attendants, who lay him upon +a bank.) + +PHILIP. +Antiochus! Antiochus! Alas, +The King is ill! What is it, O my Lord? + +ANTIOCHUS. +Nothing. A sudden and sharp spasm of pain, +As if the lightning struck me, or the knife +Of an assassin smote me to the heart. +'T is passed, even as it came. Let us set forward. + +PHILIP. +See that the chariots be in readiness +We will depart forthwith. + +ANTIOCHUS. +A moment more. +I cannot stand. I am become at once +Weak as an infant. Ye will have to lead me. +Jove, or Jehovah, or whatever name +Thou wouldst be named,--it is alike to me,-- +If I knew how to pray, I would entreat +To live a little longer. + +PHILIP. +O my Lord, +Thou shalt not die; we will not let thee die! + +ANTIOCHUS. +How canst thou help it, Philip? O the pain! +Stab after stab. Thou hast no shield against +This unseen weapon. God of Israel, +Since all the other gods abandon me, +Help me. I will release the Holy City. +Garnish with goodly gifts the Holy Temple. +Thy people, whom I judged to be unworthy +To be so much as buried, shall be equal +Unto the citizens of Antioch. +I will become a Jew, and will declare +Through all the world that is inhabited +The power of God! + +PHILIP. +He faints. It is like death. +Bring here the royal litter. We will bear him +In to the camp, while yet he lives. + +ANTIOCHUS. +O Philip, +Into what tribulation am I come! +Alas! I now remember all the evil +That I have done the Jews; and for this cause +These troubles are upon me, and behold +I perish through great grief in a strange land. + +PHILIP. +Antiochus! my King! + +ANTIOCHUS. +Nay, King no longer. +Take thou my royal robes, my signet-ring, +My crown and sceptre, and deliver them +Unto my son, Antiochus Eupator; +And unto the good Jews, my citizens, +In all my towns, say that their dying monarch +Wisheth them joy, prosperity, and health. +I who, puffed up with pride and arrogance, +Thought all the kingdoms of the earth mine own, +If I would but outstretch my hand and take them, +Meet face to face a greater potentate, +King Death--Epiphanes--the Illustrious! + [Dies. + + +***** + + + +MICHAEL ANGELO + +Michel, piu che mortal, Angel divino. -- ARIOSTO. + +Similamente operando all' artista +ch' a l'abito dell' arte e man che trema. -- DANTE, Par. xiii., +st. 77. + + + +DEDICATION. + +Nothing that is shall perish utterly, + But perish only to revive again + In other forms, as clouds restore in rain + The exhalations of the land and sea. +Men build their houses from the masonry + Of ruined tombs; the passion and the pain + Of hearts, that long have ceased to beat, remain + To throb in hearts that are, or are to be. +So from old chronicles, where sleep in dust + Names that once filled the world with trumpet tones, + I build this verse; and flowers of song have thrust +Their roots among the loose disjointed stones, + Which to this end I fashion as I must. + Quickened are they that touch the Prophet's bones. + + +PART FIRST. + +I. + +PROLOGUE AT ISCHIA + +The Castle Terrace. VITTORIA COLONNA, and JULIA GONZAGA. + +VITTORIA. +Will you then leave me, Julia, and so soon, +To pace alone this terrace like a ghost? + +JULIA. +To-morrow, dearest. + +VITTORIA. + Do not say to-morrow. +A whole month of to-morrows were too soon. +You must not go. You are a part of me. + +JULIA. +I must return to Fondi. + +VITTORIA. + The old castle +Needs not your presence. No one waits for you. +Stay one day longer with me. They who go +Feel not the pain of parting; it is they +Who stay behind that suffer. I was thinking +But yesterday how like and how unlike +Have been, and are, our destinies. Your husband, +The good Vespasian, an old man, who seemed +A father to you rather than a husband, +Died in your arms; but mine, in all the flower +And promise of his youth, was taken from me +As by a rushing wind. The breath of battle +Breathed on him, and I saw his face no more, +Save as in dreams it haunts me. As our love +Was for these men, so is our sorrow for them. +Yours a child's sorrow, smiling through its tears; +But mine the grief of an impassioned woman, +Who drank her life up in one draught of love. + +JULIA. +Behold this locket. This is the white hair +Of my Vespasian. This is the flower-of-love, +This amaranth, and beneath it the device +Non moritura. Thus my heart remains +True to his memory; and the ancient castle, +Where we have lived together, where he died, +Is dear to me as Ischia is to you. + +VITTORIA. +I did not mean to chide you. + +JULIA. + Let your heart +Find, if it can, some poor apology +For one who is too young, and feels too keenly +The joy of life, to give up all her days +To sorrow for the dead. While I am true +To the remembrance of the man I loved +And mourn for still, I do not make a show +Of all the grief I feel, nor live secluded +And, like Veronica da Gambara, +Drape my whole house in mourning, and drive forth +In coach of sable drawn by sable horses, +As if I were a corpse. Ah, one to-day +Is worth for me a thousand yesterdays. + +VITTORIA. +Dear Julia! Friendship has its jealousies +As well as love. Who waits for you at Fondi? + +JULIA. +A friend of mine and yours; a friend and friar. +You have at Naples your Fra Bernadino; +And I at Fondi have my Fra Bastiano, +The famous artist, who has come from Rome +To paint my portrait. That is not a sin. + +VITTORIA. +Only a vanity. + +JULIA. + He painted yours. + +VITTORIA. +Do not call up to me those days departed +When I was young, and all was bright about me, +And the vicissitudes of life were things +But to be read of in old histories, +Though as pertaining unto me or mine +Impossible. Ah, then I dreamed your dreams, +And now, grown older, I look back and see +They were illusions. + +JULIA. + Yet without illusions +What would our lives become, what we ourselves? +Dreams or illusions, call them what you will, +They lift us from the commonplace of life +To better things. + +VITTORIA. + Are there no brighter dreams, +No higher aspirations, than the wish +To please and to be pleased? + +JULIA. + For you there are; +I am no saint; I feel the world we live in +Comes before that which is to be here after, +And must be dealt with first. + +VITTORIA. + But in what way? + +JULIA. +Let the soft wind that wafts to us the odor +Of orange blossoms, let the laughing sea +And the bright sunshine bathing all the world, +Answer the question. + +VITTORIA. + And for whom is meant +This portrait that you speak of? + +JULIA. + For my friend +The Cardinal Ippolito. + +VITTORIA. + For him? + +JULIA +Yes, for Ippolito the Magnificent. +'T is always flattering to a woman's pride +To be admired by one whom all admire. + +VITTORIA. +Ah, Julia, she that makes herself a dove +Is eaten by the hawk. Be on your guard, +He is a Cardinal; and his adoration +Should be elsewhere directed. + +JULIA. + You forget +The horror of that night, when Barbarossa, +The Moorish corsair, landed on our coast +To seize me for the Sultan Soliman; +How in the dead of night, when all were sleeping, +He scaled the castle wall; how I escaped, +And in my night-dress, mounting a swift steed, +Fled to the mountains, and took refuge there +Among the brigands. Then of all my friends +The Cardinal Ippolito was first +To come with his retainers to my rescue. +Could I refuse the only boon he asked +At such a time, my portrait? + +VITTORIA. + I have heard +Strange stories of the splendors of his palace, +And how, apparelled like a Spanish Prince, +He rides through Rome with a long retinue +Of Ethiopians and Numidians +And Turks and Tartars, in fantastic dresses, +Making a gallant show. Is this the way +A Cardinal should live? + +JULIA. + He is so young; +Hardly of age, or little more than that; +Beautiful, generous, fond of arts and letters, +A poet, a musician, and a scholar; +Master of many languages, and a player +On many instruments. In Rome, his palace +Is the asylum of all men distinguished +In art or science, and all Florentines +Escaping from the tyranny of his cousin, +Duke Alessandro. + +VITTORIA. + I have seen his portrait, +Painted by Titian. You have painted it +In brighter colors. + +JULIA. + And my Cardinal, +At Itri, in the courtyard of his palace, +Keeps a tame lion! + +VITTORIA. + And so counterfeits +St. Mark, the Evangelist! + +JULIA. + Ah, your tame lion +Is Michael Angelo. + +VITTORIA. + You speak a name +That always thrills me with a noble sound, +As of a trumpet! Michael Angelo! +A lion all men fear and none can tame; +A man that all men honor, and the model +That all should follow; one who works and prays, +For work is prayer, and consecrates his life +To the sublime ideal of his art, +Till art and life are one; a man who holds +Such place in all men's thoughts, that when they speak +Of great things done, or to be done, his name +Is ever on their lips. + +JULIA. + You too can paint +The portrait of your hero, and in colors +Brighter than Titian's; I might warn you also +Against the dangers that beset your path; +But I forbear. + +VITTORIA. + If I were made of marble, +Of Fior di Persico or Pavonazzo, +He might admire me: being but flesh and blood, +I am no more to him than other women; +That is, am nothing. + +JULIA. + Does he ride through Rome +Upon his little mule, as he was wont, +With his slouched hat, and boots of Cordovan, +As when I saw him last? + +VITTORIA. + Pray do not jest. +I cannot couple with his noble name +A trivial word! Look, how the setting sun +Lights up Castel-a-mare and Sorrento, +And changes Capri to a purple cloud! +And there Vesuvius with its plume of smoke, +And the great city stretched upon the shore +As in a dream! + +JULIA. + Parthenope the Siren! + +VITTORIA. +And yon long line of lights, those sunlit windows +Blaze like the torches carried in procession +To do her honor! It is beautiful! + +JULIA. +I have no heart to feel the beauty of it! +My feet are weary, pacing up and down +These level flags, and wearier still my thoughts +Treading the broken pavement of the Past, +It is too sad. I will go in and rest, +And make me ready for to-morrow's journey. + +VITTORIA. +I will go with you; for I would not lose +One hour of your dear presence. 'T is enough +Only to be in the same room with you. +I need not speak to you, nor hear you speak; +If I but see you, I am satisfied. + [They go in. + + + +MONOLOGUE: THE LAST JUDGMENT + +MICHAEL ANGELO's Studio. He is at work on the cartoon of the +Last Judgment. + + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +Why did the Pope and his ten Cardinals +Come here to lay this heavy task upon me? +Were not the paintings on the Sistine ceiling +Enough for them? They saw the Hebrew leader +Waiting, and clutching his tempestuous beard, +But heeded not. The bones of Julius +Shook in their sepulchre. I heard the sound; +They only heard the sound of their own voices. + +Are there no other artists here in Rome +To do this work, that they must needs seek me? +Fra Bastian, my Era Bastian, might have done it; +But he is lost to art. The Papal Seals, +Like leaden weights upon a dead man's eyes, +Press down his lids; and so the burden falls +On Michael Angelo, Chief Architect +And Painter of the Apostolic Palace. +That is the title they cajole me with, +To make me do their work and leave my own; +But having once begun, I turn not back. +Blow, ye bright angels, on your golden trumpets +To the four corners of the earth, and wake +The dead to judgment! Ye recording angels, +Open your books and read? Ye dead awake! +Rise from your graves, drowsy and drugged with death, +As men who suddenly aroused from sleep +Look round amazed, and know not where they are! + +In happy hours, when the imagination +Wakes like a wind at midnight, and the soul +Trembles in all its leaves, it is a joy +To be uplifted on its wings, and listen +To the prophetic voices in the air +That call us onward. Then the work we do +Is a delight, and the obedient hand +Never grows weary. But how different is it +En the disconsolate, discouraged hours, +When all the wisdom of the world appears +As trivial as the gossip of a nurse +In a sick-room, and all our work seems useless, + +What is it guides my hand, what thoughts possess me, +That I have drawn her face among the angels, +Where she will be hereafter? O sweet dreams, +That through the vacant chambers of my heart +Walk in the silence, as familiar phantoms +Frequent an ancient house, what will ye with me? +'T is said that Emperors write their names in green +When under age, but when of age in purple. +So Love, the greatest Emperor of them all, +Writes his in green at first, but afterwards +In the imperial purple of our blood. +First love or last love,--which of these two passions +Is more omnipotent? Which is more fair, +The star of morning or the evening star? +The sunrise or the sunset of the heart? +The hour when we look forth to the unknown, +And the advancing day consumes the shadows, +Or that when all the landscape of our lives +Lies stretched behind us, and familiar places +Gleam in the distance, and sweet memories +Rise like a tender haze, and magnify +The objects we behold, that soon must vanish? + +What matters it to me, whose countenance +Is like the Laocoon's, full of pain; whose forehead +Is a ploughed harvest-field, where three-score years +Have sown in sorrow and have reaped in anguish; +To me, the artisan, to whom all women +Have been as if they were not, or at most +A sudden rush of pigeons in the air, +A flutter of wings, a sound, and then a silence? +I am too old for love; I am too old +To flatter and delude myself with visions +Of never-ending friendship with fair women, +Imaginations, fantasies, illusions, +In which the things that cannot be take shape, +And seem to be, and for the moment are. + [Convent bells ring. + +Distant and near and low and loud the bells, +Dominican, Benedictine, and Franciscan, +Jangle and wrangle in their airy towers, +Discordant as the brotherhoods themselves +In their dim cloisters. The descending sun +Seems to caress the city that he loves, +And crowns it with the aureole of a saint. +I will go forth and breathe the air a while. + + +II. + +SAN SILVESTRO + +A Chapel in the Church of San Silvestra on Monte Cavallo. + +VITTORIA COLONNA, CLAUDIO TOLOMMEI, and others. + +VITTORIA. +Here let us rest a while, until the crowd +Has left the church. I have already sent +For Michael Angelo to join us here. + +MESSER CLAUDIO. +After Fra Bernardino's wise discourse +On the Pauline Epistles, certainly +Some words of Michael Angelo on Art +Were not amiss, to bring us back to earth. + +MICHAEL ANGELO, at the door. +How like a Saint or Goddess she appears; +Diana or Madonna, which I know not! +In attitude and aspect formed to be +At once the artist's worship and despair! + +VITTORIA. +Welcome, Maestro. We were waiting for you. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +I met your messenger upon the way, +And hastened hither. + +VITTORIA. + It is kind of you +To come to us, who linger here like gossips +Wasting the afternoon in idle talk. +These are all friends of mine and friends of yours. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +If friends of yours, then are they friends of mine. +Pardon me, gentlemen. But when I entered +I saw but the Marchesa. + +VITTORIA. + Take this seat +Between me and Ser Claudio Tolommei, +Who still maintains that our Italian tongue +Should be called Tuscan. But for that offence +We will not quarrel with him. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Eccellenza-- + +VITTORIA. +Ser Claudio has banished Eccellenza +And all such titles from the Tuscan tongue. + +MESSER CLAUDIO. +'T is the abuse of them and not the use +I deprecate. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + The use or the abuse +It matters not. Let them all go together, +As empty phrases and frivolities, +And common as gold-lace upon the collar +Of an obsequious lackey. + +VITTORIA. + That may be, +But something of politeness would go with them; +We should lose something of the stately manners +Of the old school. + +MESSER CLAUDIO. + Undoubtedly. + +VITTORlA. + But that +Is not what occupies my thoughts at present, +Nor why I sent for you, Messer Michele. +It was to counsel me. His Holiness +Has granted me permission, long desired, +To build a convent in this neighborhood, +Where the old tower is standing, from whose top +Nero looked down upon the burning city. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +It is an inspiration! + +VITTORIA. + I am doubtful +How I shall build; how large to make the convent, +And which way fronting. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Ah, to build, to build! +That is the noblest art of all the arts. +Painting and sculpture are but images, +Are merely shadows cast by outward things +On stone or canvas, having in themselves +No separate existence. Architecture, +Existing in itself, and not in seeming +A something it is not, surpasses them +As substance shadow. Long, long years ago, +Standing one morning near the Baths of Titus, +I saw the statue of Laocoon +Rise from its grave of centuries, like a ghost +Writhing in pain; and as it tore away +The knotted serpents from its limbs, I heard, +Or seemed to hear, the cry of agony +From its white, parted lips. And still I marvel +At the three Rhodian artists, by whose hands +This miracle was wrought. Yet he beholds +Far nobler works who looks upon the ruins +Of temples in the Forum here in Rome. +If God should give me power in my old age +To build for Him a temple half as grand +As those were in their glory, I should count +My age more excellent than youth itself, +And all that I have hitherto accomplished +As only vanity. + +VITTORIA. + I understand you. +Art is the gift of God, and must be used +Unto His glory. That in art is highest +Which aims at this. When St. Hilarion blessed +The horses of Italicus, they won +The race at Gaza, for his benediction +O'erpowered all magic; and the people shouted +That Christ had conquered Marnas. So that art +Which bears the consecration and the seal +Of holiness upon it will prevail +Over all others. Those few words of yours +Inspire me with new confidence to build. +What think you? The old walls might serve, perhaps, +Some purpose still. The tower can hold the bells. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +If strong enough. + +VITTORIA. + If not, it can be strengthened. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +I see no bar nor drawback to this building, +And on our homeward way, if it shall please you, +We may together view the site. + +VITTORIA. + I thank you. +I did not venture to request so much. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +Let us now go to the old walls you spake of, +Vossignoria-- + +VITTORIA. + What, again, Maestro? + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +Pardon me, Messer Claudio, if once more +I use the ancient courtesies of speech. +I am too old to change. + + +III. + +CARDINAL IPPOLITO. + +A richly furnished apartment in the Palace of CARDINAL IPPOLITO. +Night. + +JACOPO NARDI, an old man, alone. + +NARDI. +I am bewildered. These Numidian slaves, +In strange attire; these endless ante-chambers; +This lighted hall, with all its golden splendors, +Pictures, and statues! Can this be the dwelling +Of a disciple of that lowly Man +Who had not where to lay his head? These statues +Are not of Saints; nor is this a Madonna, +This lovely face, that with such tender eyes +Looks down upon me from the painted canvas. +My heart begins to fail me. What can he +Who lives in boundless luxury at Rome +Care for the imperilled liberties of Florence, +Her people, her Republic? Ah, the rich +Feel not the pangs of banishment. All doors +Are open to them, and all hands extended, +The poor alone are outcasts; they who risked +All they possessed for liberty, and lost; +And wander through the world without a friend, +Sick, comfortless, distressed, unknown, uncared for. + +Enter CARDINAL HIPPOLITO, in Spanish cloak and slouched hat. + +IPPOLITO. +I pray you pardon me that I have kept you +Waiting so long alone. + +NARDI. + I wait to see +The Cardinal. + +IPPOLITO. + I am the Cardinal. +And you? + +NARDI. + Jacopo Nardi. + +IPPOLITO. + You are welcome +I was expecting you. Philippo Strozzi +Had told me of your coming. + +NARDI. + 'T was his son +That brought me to your door. + +IPPOLITO. + Pray you, be seated. +You seem astonished at the garb I wear, +But at my time of life, and with my habits, +The petticoats of a Cardinal would be-- +Troublesome; I could neither ride nor walk, +Nor do a thousand things, if I were dressed +Like an old dowager. It were putting wine +Young as the young Astyanax into goblets +As old as Priam. + +NARDI. + Oh, your Eminence +Knows best what you should wear. + +IPPOLITO. + Dear Messer Nardi, +You are no stranger to me. I have read +Your excellent translation of the books +Of Titus Livius, the historian +Of Rome, and model of all historians +That shall come after him. It does you honor; +But greater honor still the love you bear +To Florence, our dear country, and whose annals +I hope your hand will write, in happier days +Than we now see. + +NARDI. + Your Eminence will pardon +The lateness of the hour. + +IPPOLITO. + The hours I count not +As a sun-dial; but am like a clock, +That tells the time as well by night as day. +So no excuse. I know what brings you here. +You come to speak of Florence. + +NARDI. + And her woes. + +IPPOLITO. +The Duke, my cousin, the black Alessandro, +Whose mother was a Moorish slave, that fed +The sheep upon Lorenzo's farm, still lives +And reigns. + +NARDI. + Alas, that such a scourge +Should fall on such a city! + +IPPOLITO. + When he dies, +The Wild Boar in the gardens of Lorenzo, +The beast obscene, should be the monument +Of this bad man. + +NARDI. + He walks the streets at night +With revellers, insulting honest men. +No house is sacred from his lusts. The convents +Are turned by him to brothels, and the honor +Of women and all ancient pious customs +Are quite forgotten now. The offices +Of the Priori and Gonfalonieri +Have been abolished. All the magistrates +Are now his creatures. Liberty is dead. +The very memory of all honest living +Is wiped away, and even our Tuscan tongue +Corrupted to a Lombard dialect. + +IPPOLITO. +And worst of all his impious hand has broken +The Martinella,--our great battle bell, +That, sounding through three centuries, has led +The Florentines to victory,--lest its voice +Should waken in their souls some memory +Of far-off times of glory. + +NARDI. + What a change +Ten little years have made! We all remember +Those better days, when Niccola Capponi, +The Gonfaloniere, from the windows +Of the Old Palace, with the blast of trumpets, +Proclaimed to the inhabitants that Christ +Was chosen King of Florence; and already +Christ is dethroned, and slain, and in his stead +Reigns Lucifer! Alas, alas, for Florence! + +IPPOLITO. +Lilies with lilies, said Savonarola; +Florence and France! But I say Florence only, +Or only with the Emperor's hand to help us +In sweeping out the rubbish. + +NARDI. + Little hope +Of help is there from him. He has betrothed +His daughter Margaret to this shameless Duke. +What hope have we from such an Emperor? + +IPPOLITO. +Baccio Valori and Philippo Strozzi, +Once the Duke's friends and intimates are with us, +And Cardinals Salvati and Ridolfi. +We shall soon see, then, as Valori says, +Whether the Duke can best spare honest men, +Or honest men the Duke. + +NARDI. + We have determined +To send ambassadors to Spain, and lay +Our griefs before the Emperor, though I fear +More than I hope. + +IPPOLITO. + The Emperor is busy +With this new war against the Algerines, +And has no time to listen to complaints +From our ambassadors; nor will I trust them, +But go myself. All is in readiness +For my departure, and to-morrow morning +I shall go down to Itri, where I meet +Dante da Castiglione and some others, +Republicans and fugitives from Florence, +And then take ship at Gaeta, and go +To join the Emperor in his new crusade +Against the Turk. I shall have time enough +And opportunity to plead our cause. + +NARDI, rising. +It is an inspiration, and I hail it +As of good omen. May the power that sends it +Bless our beloved country, and restore +Its banished citizens. The soul of Florence +Is now outside its gates. What lies within +Is but a corpse, corrupted and corrupting. +Heaven help us all, I will not tarry longer, +For you have need of rest. Good-night. + +IPPOLITO. + Good-night. + +Enter FRA SEBASTIANO; Turkish attendants. + +IPPOLITO. +Fra Bastiano, how your portly presence +Contrasts with that of the spare Florentine +Who has just left me! + +FRA SEBASTIANO. + As we passed each other, +I saw that he was weeping. + +IPPOLITO. + Poor old man! + +FRA SEBASTIANO. +Who is he? + +IPPOLITO. + Jacopo Nardi. A brave soul; +One of the Fuoruseiti, and the best +And noblest of them all; but he has made me +Sad with his sadness. As I look on you +My heart grows lighter. I behold a man +Who lives in an ideal world, apart +From all the rude collisions of our life, +In a calm atmosphere. + +FRA SEBASTIANO. + Your Eminence +Is surely jesting. If you knew the life +Of artists as I know it, you might think +Far otherwise. + +IPPOLITO. + But wherefore should I jest? +The world of art is an ideal world,-- +The world I love, and that I fain would live in; +So speak to me of artists and of art, +Of all the painters, sculptors, and musicians +That now illustrate Rome. + +FRA SEBASTIANO. + Of the musicians, +I know but Goudimel, the brave maestro +And chapel-master of his Holiness, +Who trains the Papal choir. + +IPPOLITO. + In church this morning, +I listened to a mass of Goudimel, +Divinely chanted. In the Incarnatus, +In lieu of Latin words, the tenor sang +With infinite tenderness, in plain Italian, +A Neapolitan love-song. + +FRA SEBASTIANO. + You amaze me. +Was it a wanton song? + +IPPOLITO. + Not a divine one. +I am not over-scrupulous, as you know, +In word or deed, yet such a song as that. +Sung by the tenor of the Papal choir, +And in a Papal mass, seemed out of place; +There's something wrong in it. + +FRA SEBASTIANO. + There's something wrong +In everything. We cannot make the world +Go right. 'T is not my business to reform +The Papal choir. + +IPPOLITO. + Nor mine, thank Heaven. +Then tell me of the artists. + +FRA SEBASTIANO. + Naming one +I name them all; for there is only one. +His name is Messer Michael Angelo. +All art and artists of the present day +Centre in him. + +IPPOLITO. + You count yourself as nothing! + +FRA SEBASTIANO. +Or less than nothing, since I am at best +Only a portrait-painter; one who draws +With greater or less skill, as best he may, +The features of a face. + +IPPOLITO. + And you have had +The honor, nay, the glory, of portraying +Julia Gonzaga! Do you count as nothing +A privilege like that? See there the portrait +Rebuking you with its divine expression. +Are you not penitent? He whose skilful hand +Painted that lovely picture has not right +To vilipend the art of portrait-painting. +But what of Michael Angelo? + +FRA SEBASTIANO. + But lately +Strolling together down the crowded Corso, +We stopped, well pleased, to see your Eminence +Pass on an Arab steed, a noble creature, +Which Michael Angelo, who is a lover +Of all things beautiful, especially +When they are Arab horses, much admired, +And could not praise enough. + +IPPOLITO, to an attendant. + Hassan, to-morrow, +When I am gone, but not till I am gone,-- +Be careful about that,--take Barbarossa +To Messer Michael Angelo, the sculptor, +Who lives there at Macello dei Corvi, +Near to the Capitol; and take besides +Some ten mule-loads of provender, and say +Your master sends them to him as a present. + +FRA SEBASTIANO. +A princely gift. Though Michael Angelo +Refuses presents from his Holiness, +Yours he will not refuse. + +IPPOLITO. + You think him like +Thymoetes, who received the wooden horse +Into the walls of Troy. That book of Virgil +Have I translated in Italian verse, +And shall, some day, when we have leisure for it, +Be pleased to read you. When I speak of Troy +I am reminded of another town +And of a lovelier Helen, our dear Countess +Julia Gonzaga. You remember, surely, +The adventure with the corsair Barbarossa, +And all that followed? + +FRA SEBASTIANO. + A most strange adventure; +A tale as marvellous and full of wonder +As any in Boccaccio or Sacchetti; +Almost incredible! + +IPPOLITO. + Were I a painter +I should not want a better theme than that: +The lovely lady fleeing through the night +In wild disorder; and the brigands' camp +With the red fire-light on their swarthy faces. +Could you not paint it for me? + +FRA SEBASTIANO. + No, not I. +It is not in my line. + +IPPOLITO. + Then you shall paint +The portrait of the corsair, when we bring him +A prisoner chained to Naples: for I feel +Something like admiration for a man +Who dared this strange adventure. + +FRA SEBASTIANO. + I will do it. +But catch the corsair first. + +IPPOLITO. + You may begin +To-morrow with the sword. Hassan, come hither; +Bring me the Turkish scimitar that hangs +Beneath the picture yonder. Now unsheathe it. +'T is a Damascus blade; you see the inscription +In Arabic: La Allah illa Allah,-- +There is no God but God. + +FRA SEBASTIANO. + How beautiful +In fashion and in finish! It is perfect. +The Arsenal of Venice can not boast +A finer sword. + +IPPOLITO. + You like it? It is yours. + +FRA SEBASTIANO. +You do not mean it. + +IPPOLITO. + I am not a Spaniard, +To say that it is yours and not to mean it. +I have at Itri a whole armory +Full of such weapons. When you paint the portrait +Of Barbarossa, it will be of use. +You have not been rewarded as you should be +For painting the Gonzaga. Throw this bauble +Into the scale, and make the balance equal. +Till then suspend it in your studio; +You artists like such trifles. + +FRA SEBASTIANO. + I will keep it +In memory of the donor. Many thanks. + +IPPOLITO. +Fra Bastian, I am growing tired of Rome, +The old dead city, with the old dead people; +Priests everywhere, like shadows on a wall, +And morning, noon, and night the ceaseless sound +Of convent bells. I must be gone from here; +Though Ovid somewhere says that Rome is worthy +To be the dwelling-place of all the Gods, +I must be gone from here. To-morrow morning +I start for Itri, and go thence by sea +To join the Emperor, who is making war +Upon the Algerines; perhaps to sink +Some Turkish galleys, and bring back in chains +The famous corsair. Thus would I avenge +The beautiful Gonzaga. + +FRA SEBASTIANO. + An achievement +Worthy of Charlemagne, or of Orlando. +Berni and Ariosto both shall add +A canto to their poems, and describe you +As Furioso and Innamorato. +Now I must say good-night. + +IPPOLITO. + You must not go; +First you shall sup with me. My seneschal +Giovan Andrea dal Borgo a San Sepolcro,-- +I like to give the whole sonorous name, +It sounds so like a verse of the Aeneid,-- +Has brought me eels fresh from the Lake of Fondi, +And Lucrine oysters cradled in their shells: +These, with red Fondi wine, the Caecu ban +That Horace speaks of, under a hundred keys +Kept safe, until the heir of Posthumus +Shall stain the pavement with it, make a feast +Fit for Lucullus, or Fra Bastian even; +So we will go to supper, and be merry. + +FRA SEBASTIANO. +Beware! I Remember that Bolsena's eels +And Vernage wine once killed a Pope of Rome! + +IPPOLITO. +'T was a French Pope; and then so long ago; +Who knows?--perhaps the story is not true. + + + +IV. + +BORGO DELLE VERGINE AT NAPLES + +Room in the Palace of JULIA GONZAGA. Night. + +JULIA GONZAGA, GIOVANNI VALDESSO. + +JULIA. +Do not go yet. + +VALDESSO. + The night is far advanced; +I fear to stay too late, and weary you +With these discussions. + +JULIA. + I have much to say. +I speak to you, Valdesso, with that frankness +Which is the greatest privilege of friendship.-- +Speak as I hardly would to my confessor, +Such is my confidence in you. + +VALDESSO. + Dear Countess +If loyalty to friendship be a claim +Upon your confidence, then I may claim it. + +JULIA. +Then sit again, and listen unto things +That nearer are to me than life itself. + +VALDESSO. +In all things I am happy to obey you, +And happiest then when you command me most. + +JULIA. +Laying aside all useless rhetoric, +That is superfluous between us two, +I come at once unto the point and say, +You know my outward life, my rank and fortune; +Countess of Fondi, Duchess of Trajetto, +A widow rich and flattered, for whose hand +In marriage princes ask, and ask it only +To be rejected. All the world can offer +Lies at my feet. If I remind you of it, +It is not in the way of idle boasting, +But only to the better understanding +Of what comes after. + +VALDESSO. + God hath given you also +Beauty and intellect; and the signal grace +To lead a spotless life amid temptations, +That others yield to. + +JULIA. + But the inward life,-- +That you know not; 't is known but to myself, +And is to me a mystery and a pain. +A soul disquieted, and ill at ease, +A mind perplexed with doubts and apprehensions, +A heart dissatisfied with all around me, +And with myself, so that sometimes I weep, +Discouraged and disgusted with the world. + +VALDESSO. +Whene'er we cross a river at a ford, +If we would pass in safety, we must keep +Our eyes fixed steadfast on the shore beyond, +For if we cast them on the flowing stream, +The head swims with it; so if we would cross +The running flood of things here in the world, +Our souls must not look down, but fix their sight +On the firm land beyond. + +JULIA. + I comprehend you. +You think I am too worldly; that my head +Swims with the giddying whirl of life about me. +Is that your meaning? + +VALDESSO. + Yes; your meditations +Are more of this world and its vanities +Than of the world to come. + +JULIA. + Between the two +I am confused. + +VALDESSO. + Yet have I seen you listen +Enraptured when Fra Bernardino preached +Of faith and hope and charity. + +JULIA. + I listen, +But only as to music without meaning. +It moves me for the moment, and I think +How beautiful it is to be a saint, +As dear Vittoria is; but I am weak +And wayward, and I soon fall back again +To my old ways, so very easily. +There are too many week-days for one Sunday. + +VALDESSO. +Then take the Sunday with you through the week, +And sweeten with it all the other days. + +JULIA. +In part I do so; for to put a stop +To idle tongues, what men might say of me +If I lived all alone here in my palace, +And not from a vocation that I feel +For the monastic life, I now am living +With Sister Caterina at the convent +Of Santa Chiara, and I come here only +On certain days, for my affairs, or visits +Of ceremony, or to be with friends. +For I confess, to live among my friends +Is Paradise to me; my Purgatory +Is living among people I dislike. +And so I pass my life in these two worlds, +This palace and the convent. + +VALDESSO. + It was then +The fear of man, and not the love of God, +That led you to this step. Why will you not +Give all your heart to God? + +JULIA. + If God commands it, +Wherefore hath He not made me capable +Of doing for Him what I wish to do +As easily as I could offer Him +This jewel from my hand, this gown I wear, +Or aught else that is mine? + +VALDESSO. + The hindrance lies +In that original sin, by which all fell. + +JULIA. +Ah me, I cannot bring my troubled mind +To wish well to that Adam, our first parent, +Who by his sin lost Paradise for us, +And brought such ills upon us. + +VALDESSO. + We ourselves, +When we commit a sin, lose Paradise, +As much as he did. Let us think of this, +And how we may regain it. + +JULIA. + Teach me, then, +To harmonize the discord of my life, +And stop the painful jangle of these wires. + +VALDESSO. +That is a task impossible, until +You tune your heart-strings to a higher key +Than earthly melodies. + +JULIA. + How shall I do it? +Point out to me the way of this perfection, +And I will follow you; for you have made +My soul enamored with it, and I cannot +Rest satisfied until I find it out. +But lead me privately, so that the world +Hear not my steps; I would not give occasion +For talk among the people. + +VALDESSO. + Now at last +I understand you fully. Then, what need +Is there for us to beat about the bush? +I know what you desire of me. + +JULIA. + What rudeness! +If you already know it, why not tell me? + +VALDESSO. +Because I rather wait for you to ask it +With your own lips. + +JULIA. + Do me the kindness, then, +To speak without reserve; and with all frankness, +If you divine the truth, will I confess it. + +VALDESSO. +I am content. + +JULIA. + Then speak. + +VALDESSO. + You would be free +From the vexatious thoughts that come and go +Through your imagination, and would have me +Point out some royal road and lady-like +Which you may walk in, and not wound your feet; +You would attain to the divine perfection, +And yet not turn your back upon the world; +You would possess humility within, +But not reveal it in your outward actions; +You would have patience, but without the rude +Occasions that require its exercise; +You would despise the world, but in such fashion +The world should not despise you in return; +Would clothe the soul with all the Christian graces, +Yet not despoil the body of its gauds; +Would feed the soul with spiritual food, +Yet not deprive the body of its feasts; +Would seem angelic in the sight of God, +Yet not too saint-like in the eyes of men; +In short, would lead a holy Christian life +In such a way that even your nearest friend +Would not detect therein one circumstance +To show a change from what it was before. +Have I divined your secret? + +JULIA. + You have drawn +The portrait of my inner self as truly +As the most skilful painter ever painted +A human face. + +VALDESSO. + This warrants me in saying +You think you can win heaven by compromise, +And not by verdict. + +JULIA + You have often told me +That a bad compromise was better even +Than a good verdict. + +VALDESSO. + Yes, in suits at law; +Not in religion. With the human soul +There is no compromise. By faith alone +Can man be justified. + +JULIA. + Hush, dear Valdesso; +That is a heresy. Do not, I pray you, +Proclaim it from the house-top, but preserve it +As something precious, hidden in your heart, +As I, who half believe and tremble at it. + +VALDESSO. +I must proclaim the truth. + +JULIA. + Enthusiast! +Why must you? You imperil both yourself +And friends by your imprudence. Pray, be patient. +You have occasion now to show that virtue +Which you lay stress upon. Let us return +To our lost pathway. Show me by what steps +I shall walk in it. + [Convent bells are heard. + +VALDESSO. + Hark! the convent bells +Are ringing; it is midnight; I must leave you. +And yet I linger. Pardon me, dear Countess, +Since you to-night have made me your confessor, +If I so far may venture, I will warn you +Upon one point. + +JULIA. + What is it? Speak, I pray you, +For I have no concealments in my conduct; +All is as open as the light of day. +What is it you would warn me of? + +VALDESSO. + Your friendship +With Cardinal Ippolito. + +JULIA. + What is there +To cause suspicion or alarm in that, +More than in friendships that I entertain +With you and others? I ne'er sat with him +Alone at night, as I am sitting now +With you, Valdesso. + +VALDESSO. + Pardon me; the portrait +That Fra Bastiano painted was for him. +Is that quite prudent? + +JULIA. + That is the same question +Vittoria put to me, when I last saw her. +I make you the same answer. That was not +A pledge of love, but of pure gratitude. +Recall the adventure of that dreadful night +When Barbarossa with two thousand Moors +Landed upon the coast, and in the darkness +Attacked my castle. Then, without delay, +The Cardinal came hurrying down from Rome +To rescue and protect me. Was it wrong +That in an hour like that I did not weigh +Too nicely this or that, but granted him +A boon that pleased him, and that flattered me? + +VALDESSO. +Only beware lest, in disguise of friendship +Another corsair, worse than Barbarossa, +Steal in and seize the castle, not by storm +But strategy. And now I take my leave. + +JULIA. +Farewell; but ere you go look forth and see +How night hath hushed the clamor and the stir +Of the tumultuous streets. The cloudless moon +Roofs the whole city as with tiles of silver; +The dim, mysterious sea in silence sleeps; +And straight into the air Vesuvius lifts +His plume of smoke. How beautiful it is! + [Voices in the street. + +GIOVAN ANDREA. +Poisoned at Itri. + +ANOTHER VOICE. + Poisoned? Who is poisoned? + +GIOVAN ANDREA. +The Cardinal Ippolito, my master. +Call it malaria. It was sudden. + [Julia swoons. + + + +V. + +VITTORIA COLONNA + +A room in the Torre Argentina. + +VITTORIA COLONNA and JULIA GONZAGA. + +VITTORIA. +Come to my arms and to my heart once more; +My soul goes out to meet you and embrace you, +For we are of the sisterhood of sorrow. +I know what you have suffered. + +JULIA. + Name it not. +Let me forget it. + +VITTORIA. + I will say no more. +Let me look at you. What a joy it is +To see your face, to hear your voice again! +You bring with you a breath as of the morn, +A memory of the far-off happy days +When we were young. When did you come from Fondi? + +JULIA. +I have not been at Fondi since-- + +VITTORIA. + Ah me! +You need not speak the word; I understand you. + +JULIA. +I came from Naples by the lovely valley +The Terra di Lavoro. + +VITTORIA. + And you find me +But just returned from a long journey northward. +I have been staying with that noble woman +Renee of France, the Duchess of Ferrara. + +JULIA. +Oh, tell me of the Duchess. I have heard +Flaminio speak her praises with such warmth +That I am eager to hear more of her +And of her brilliant court. + +VITTORIA. + You shall hear all +But first sit down and listen patiently +While I confess myself. + +JULIA. + What deadly sin +Have you committed? + +VITTORIA. + Not a sin; a folly +I chid you once at Ischia, when you told me +That brave Fra Bastian was to paint your portrait. + +JULIA +Well I remember it. + +VITTORIA. + Then chide me now, +For I confess to something still more strange. +Old as I am, I have at last consented +To the entreaties and the supplications +Of Michael Angelo-- + +JULIA + To marry him? + +VITTORIA. +I pray you, do not jest with me! You now, +Or you should know, that never such a thought +Entered my breast. I am already married. +The Marquis of Pescara is my husband, +And death has not divorced us. + +JULIA. + Pardon me. +Have I offended you? + +VITTORIA. + No, but have hurt me. +Unto my buried lord I give myself, +Unto my friend the shadow of myself, +My portrait. It is not from vanity, +But for the love I bear him. + +JULIA. + I rejoice +To hear these words. Oh, this will be a portrait +Worthy of both of you! [A knock. + +VITTORIA. + Hark! He is coming. + +JULIA. +And shall I go or stay? + +VITTORIA. + By all means, stay. +The drawing will be better for your presence; +You will enliven me. + +JULIA. + I shall not speak; +The presence of great men doth take from me +All power of speech. I only gaze at them +In silent wonder, as if they were gods, +Or the inhabitants of some other planet. + +Enter MICHAEL ANGELO. + +VITTORIA. +Come in. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + I fear my visit is ill-timed; +I interrupt you. + +VITTORIA. + No; this is a friend +Of yours as well as mine,--the Lady Julia, +The Duchess of Trajetto. + +MICHAEL ANGELO to JULIA. + I salute you. +'T is long since I have seen your face, my lady; +Pardon me if I say that having seen it, +One never can forget it. + +JULIA. + You are kind +To keep me in your memory. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + It is +The privilege of age to speak with frankness. +You will not be offended when I say +That never was your beauty more divine. + +JULIA. +When Michael Angelo condescends to flatter +Or praise me, I am proud, and not offended. + +VITTORIA. +Now this is gallantry enough for one; +Show me a little. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Ah, my gracious lady, +You know I have not words to speak your praise. +I think of you in silence. You conceal +Your manifold perfections from all eyes, +And make yourself more saint-like day by day. +And day by day men worship you the wore. +But now your hour of martyrdom has come. +You know why I am here. + +VITTORIA. + Ah yes, I know it, +And meet my fate with fortitude. You find me +Surrounded by the labors of your hands: +The Woman of Samaria at the Well, +The Mater Dolorosa, and the Christ +Upon the Cross, beneath which you have written +Those memorable words of Alighieri, +"Men have forgotten how much blood it costs." + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +And now I come to add one labor more, +If you will call that labor which is pleasure, +And only pleasure. + +VITTORIA. + How shall I be seated? + +MICHAEL ANGELO, opening his portfolio. + +Just as you are. The light falls well upon you. + +VITTORIA. +I am ashamed to steal the time from you +That should be given to the Sistine Chapel. +How does that work go on? + +MICHAEL ANGELO, drawing. + But tardily. +Old men work slowly. Brain and hand alike +Are dull and torpid. To die young is best, +And not to be remembered as old men +Tottering about in their decrepitude. + +VITTORIA. +My dear Maestro! have you, then, forgotten +The story of Sophocles in his old age? + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +What story is it? + +VITTORIA. + When his sons accused him, +Before the Areopagus, of dotage, +For all defence, he read there to his Judges +The Tragedy of Oedipus Coloneus,-- +The work of his old age. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + 'T is an illusion +A fabulous story, that will lead old men +Into a thousand follies and conceits. + +VITTORIA. +So you may show to cavilers your painting +Of the Last Judgment in the Sistine Chapel. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +Now you and Lady Julia shall resume +The conversation that I interrupted. + +VITTORIA. +It was of no great import; nothing more +Nor less than my late visit to Ferrara, +And what I saw there in the ducal palace. +Will it not interrupt you? + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Not the least. + +VITTORIA. +Well, first, then, of Duke Ercole: a man +Cold in his manners, and reserved and silent, +And yet magnificent in all his ways; +Not hospitable unto new ideas, +But from state policy, and certain reasons +Concerning the investiture of the duchy, +A partisan of Rome, and consequently +Intolerant of all the new opinions. + +JULIA. +I should not like the Duke. These silent men, +Who only look and listen, are like wells +That have no water in them, deep and empty. +How could the daughter of a king of France +Wed such a duke? + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + The men that women marry +And why they marry them, will always be +A marvel and a mystery to the world. + +VITTORIA. +And then the Duchess,--how shall I describe her, +Or tell the merits of that happy nature, +Which pleases most when least it thinks of pleasing? +Not beautiful, perhaps, in form and feature, +Yet with an inward beauty, that shines through +Each look and attitude and word and gesture; +A kindly grace of manner and behavior, +A something in her presence and her ways +That makes her beautiful beyond the reach +Of mere external beauty; and in heart +So noble and devoted to the truth, +And so in sympathy with all who strive +After the higher life. + +JULIA. +She draws me to her +As much as her Duke Ercole repels me. + +VITTORIA. +Then the devout and honorable women +That grace her court, and make it good to be there; +Francesca Bucyronia, the true-hearted, +Lavinia della Rovere and the Orsini, +The Magdalena and the Cherubina, +And Anne de Parthenai, who sings so sweetly; +All lovely women, full of noble thoughts +And aspirations after noble things. + +JULIA. +Boccaccio would have envied you such dames. + +VITTORIA. +No; his Fiammettas and his Philomenas +Are fitter company for Ser Giovanni; +I fear he hardly would have comprehended +The women that I speak of. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Yet he wrote +The story of Griselda. That is something +To set down in his favor. + +VITTORIA. + With these ladies +Was a young girl, Olympia Morate, +Daughter of Fulvio, the learned scholar, +Famous in all the universities. +A marvellous child, who at the spinning wheel, +And in the daily round of household cares, +Hath learned both Greek and Latin; and is now +A favorite of the Duchess and companion +Of Princess Anne. This beautiful young Sappho +Sometimes recited to us Grecian odes +That she had written, with a voice whose sadness +Thrilled and o'ermastered me, and made me look +Into the future time, and ask myself +What destiny will be hers. + +JULIA. + A sad one, surely. +Frost kills the flowers that blossom out of season; +And these precocious intellects portend +A life of sorrow or an early death. + +VITTORIA. +About the court were many learned men; +Chilian Sinapius from beyond the Alps, +And Celio Curione, and Manzolli, +The Duke's physician; and a pale young man, +Charles d'Espeville of Geneva, whom the Duchess +Doth much delight to talk with and to read, +For he hath written a book of Institutes +The Duchess greatly praises, though some call it +The Koran of the heretics. + +JULIA. + And what poets +Were there to sing you madrigals, and praise +Olympia's eyes and Cherubina's tresses? + +VITTORIA. +No; for great Ariosto is no more. +The voice that filled those halls with melody +Has long been hushed in death. + +JULIA. + You should have made +A pilgrimage unto the poet's tomb, +And laid a wreath upon it, for the words +He spake of you. + +VITTORIA. + And of yourself no less, +And of our master, Michael Angelo. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +Of me? + +VITTORIA. + Have you forgotten that he calls you +Michael, less man than angel, and divine? +You are ungrateful. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + A mere play on words. +That adjective he wanted for a rhyme, +To match with Gian Bellino and Urbino. + +VITTORIA. +Bernardo Tasso is no longer there, +Nor the gay troubadour of Gascony, +Clement Marot, surnamed by flatterers +The Prince of Poets and the Poet of Princes, +Who, being looked upon with much disfavor +By the Duke Ercole, has fled to Venice. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +There let him stay with Pietro Aretino, +The Scourge of Princes, also called Divine. +The title is so common in our mouths, +That even the Pifferari of Abruzzi, +Who play their bag-pipes in the streets of Rome +At the Epiphany, will bear it soon, +And will deserve it better than some poets. + +VITTORIA. +What bee hath stung you? + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + One that makes no honey; +One that comes buzzing in through every window, +And stabs men with his sting. A bitter thought +Passed through my mind, but it is gone again; +I spake too hastily. + +JULIA. + I pray you, show me +What you have done. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Not yet; it is not finished. + + + +PART SECOND + +I + +MONOLOGUE + + +A room in MICHAEL ANGELO'S house. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +Fled to Viterbo, the old Papal city +Where once an Emperor, humbled in his pride, +Held the Pope's stirrup, as his Holiness +Alighted from his mule! A fugitive +From Cardinal Caraffa's hate, who hurls +His thunders at the house of the Colonna, +With endless bitterness!--Among the nuns +In Santa Catarina's convent hidden, +Herself in soul a nun! And now she chides me +For my too frequent letters, that disturb +Her meditations, and that hinder me +And keep me from my work; now graciously +She thanks me for the crucifix I sent her, +And says that she will keep it: with one hand +Inflicts a wound, and with the other heals it. +[Reading. + +"Profoundly I believed that God would grant you +A supernatural faith to paint this Christ; +I wished for that which I now see fulfilled +So marvellously, exceeding all my wishes. +Nor more could be desired, or even so much. +And greatly I rejoice that you have made +The angel on the right so beautiful; +For the Archangel Michael will place you, +You, Michael Angelo, on that new day +Upon the Lord's right hand! And waiting that, +How can I better serve you than to pray +To this sweet Christ for you, and to beseech you +To hold me altogether yours in all things." + +Well, I will write less often, or no more, +But wait her coming. No one born in Rome +Can live elsewhere; but he must pine for Rome, +And must return to it. I, who am born +And bred a Tuscan and a Florentine, +Feel the attraction, and I linger here +As if I were a pebble in the pavement +Trodden by priestly feet. This I endure, +Because I breathe in Rome an atmosphere +Heavy with odors of the laurel leaves +That crowned great heroes of the sword and pen, +In ages past. I feel myself exalted +To walk the streets in which a Virgil walked, +Or Trajan rode in triumph; but far more, +And most of all, because the great Colonna +Breathes the same air I breathe, and is to me +An inspiration. Now that she is gone, +Rome is no longer Rome till she return. +This feeling overmasters me. I know not +If it be love, this strong desire to be +Forever in her presence; but I know +That I, who was the friend of solitude, +And ever was best pleased when most alone, +Now weary grow of my own company. +For the first time old age seems lonely to me. + [Opening the Divina Commedia. +I turn for consolation to the leaves +Of the great master of our Tuscan tongue, +Whose words, like colored garnet-shirls in lava, +Betray the heat in which they were engendered. +A mendicant, he ate the bitter bread +Of others, but repaid their meagre gifts +With immortality. In courts of princes +He was a by-word, and in streets of towns +Was mocked by children, like the Hebrew prophet, +Himself a prophet. I too know the cry, +Go up, thou bald head! from a generation +That, wanting reverence, wanteth the best food +The soul can feed on. There's not room enough +For age and youth upon this little planet. +Age must give way. There was not room enough +Even for this great poet. In his song +I hear reverberate the gates of Florence, +Closing upon him, never more to open; +But mingled with the sound are melodies +Celestial from the gates of paradise. +He came, and he is gone. The people knew not +What manner of man was passing by their doors, +Until he passed no more; but in his vision +He saw the torments and beatitudes +Of souls condemned or pardoned, and hath left +Behind him this sublime Apocalypse. + +I strive in vain to draw here on the margin +The face of Beatrice. It is not hers, +But the Colonna's. Each hath his ideal, +The image of some woman excellent, +That is his guide. No Grecian art, nor Roman, +Hath yet revealed such loveliness as hers. + + +II + +VITERBO + +VITTORIA COLONNA at the convent window. + +VITTORIA. +Parting with friends is temporary death, +As all death is. We see no more their faces, +Nor hear their voices, save in memory; +But messages of love give us assurance +That we are not forgotten. Who shall say +That from the world of spirits comes no greeting, +No message of remembrance? It may be +The thoughts that visit us, we know not whence, +Sudden as inspiration, are the whispers +Of disembodied spirits, speaking to us +As friends, who wait outside a prison wall, +Through the barred windows speak to those within. + [A pause. + +As quiet as the lake that lies beneath me, +As quiet as the tranquil sky above me, +As quiet as a heart that beats no more, +This convent seems. Above, below, all peace! +Silence and solitude, the soul's best friends, +Are with me here, and the tumultuous world +Makes no more noise than the remotest planet. +O gentle spirit, unto the third circle +Of heaven among the blessed souls ascended, +Who, living in the faith and dying for it, +Have gone to their reward, I do not sigh +For thee as being dead, but for myself +That I am still alive. Turn those dear eyes, +Once so benignant to me, upon mine, +That open to their tears such uncontrolled +And such continual issue. Still awhile +Have patience; I will come to thee at last. +A few more goings in and out these doors, +A few more chimings of these convent bells, +A few more prayers, a few more sighs and tears, +And the long agony of this life will end, +And I shall be with thee. If I am wanting +To thy well-being, as thou art to mine, +Have patience; I will come to thee at last. +Ye minds that loiter in these cloister gardens, +Or wander far above the city walls, +Bear unto him this message, that I ever +Or speak or think of him, or weep for him. + +By unseen hands uplifted in the light +Of sunset, yonder solitary cloud +Floats, with its white apparel blown abroad, +And wafted up to heaven. It fades away, +And melts into the air. Ah, would that I +Could thus be wafted unto thee, Francesco, +A cloud of white, an incorporeal spirit! + + + +III + +MICHAEL ANGELO AND BENVENUTO CELLINI + +MICHAEL ANGELO, BENVENUTO CELLINI in gay attire. + +BENVENUTO. +A good day and good year to the divine +Maestro Michael Angelo, the sculptor! + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +Welcome, my Benvenuto. + +BENVENUTO. + That is what +My father said, the first time he beheld +This handsome face. But say farewell, not welcome. +I come to take my leave. I start for Florence +As fast as horse can carry me. I long +To set once more upon its level flags +These feet, made sore by your vile Roman pavements. +Come with me; you are wanted there in Florence. +The Sacristy is not finished. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Speak not of it! +How damp and cold it was! How my bones ached +And my head reeled, when I was working there! +I am too old. I will stay here in Rome, +Where all is old and crumbling, like myself, +To hopeless ruin. All roads lead to Rome. + +BENVENUTO. +And all lead out of it. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + There is a charm, +A certain something in the atmosphere, +That all men feel, and no man can describe. + +BENVENUTO. +Malaria? + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Yes, malaria of the mind, +Out of this tomb of the majestic Past! +The fever to accomplish some great work +That will not let us sleep. I must go on +Until I die. + +BENVENUTO. +Do you ne'er think of Florence? + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Yes; whenever +I think of anything beside my work, +I think of Florence. I remember, too, +The bitter days I passed among the quarries +Of Seravezza and Pietrasanta; +Road-building in the marshes; stupid people, +And cold and rain incessant, and mad gusts +Of mountain wind, like howling dervishes, +That spun and whirled the eddying snow about them +As if it were a garment; aye, vexations +And troubles of all kinds, that ended only +In loss of time and money. + +BENVENUTO. + True; Maestro, +But that was not in Florence. You should leave +Such work to others. Sweeter memories +Cluster about you, in the pleasant city +Upon the Arno. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + In my waking dreams +I see the marvellous dome of Brunelleschi, +Ghiberti's gates of bronze, and Giotto's tower; +And Ghirlandajo's lovely Benci glides +With folded hands amid my troubled thoughts, +A splendid vision! Time rides with the old +At a great pace. As travellers on swift steeds +See the near landscape fly and flow behind them, +While the remoter fields and dim horizons +Go with them, and seem wheeling round to meet them, +So in old age things near us slip away, +And distant things go with as. Pleasantly +Come back to me the days when, as a youth, +I walked with Ghirlandajo in the gardens +Of Medici, and saw the antique statues, +The forms august of gods and godlike men, +And the great world of art revealed itself +To my young eyes. Then all that man hath done +Seemed possible to me. Alas! how little +Of all I dreamed of has my hand achieved! + +BENVENUTO. +Nay, let the Night and Morning, let Lorenzo +And Julian in the Sacristy at Florence, +Prophets and Sibyls in the Sistine Chapel, +And the Last Judgment answer. Is it finished? + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +The work is nearly done. But this Last Judgment +Has been the cause of more vexation to me +Than it will be of honor. Ser Biagio, +Master of ceremonies at the Papal court, +A man punctilious and over nice, +Calls it improper; says that those nude forms, +Showing their nakedness in such shameless fashion, +Are better suited to a common bagnio, +Or wayside wine-shop, than a Papal Chapel. +To punish him I painted him as Minos +And leave him there as master of ceremonies +In the Infernal Regions. What would you +Have done to such a man? + +BENVENUTO. + I would have killed him. +When any one insults me, if I can +I kill him, kill him. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Oh, you gentlemen, +Who dress in silks and velvets, and wear swords, +Are ready with your weapon; and have all +A taste for homicide. + +BENVENUTO. + I learned that lesson +Under Pope Clement at the siege of Rome, +Some twenty years ago. As I was standing +Upon the ramparts of the Campo Santo +With Alessandro Bene, I beheld +A sea of fog, that covered all the plain, +And hid from us the foe; when suddenly, +A misty figure, like an apparition, +Rose up above the fog, as if on horseback. +At this I aimed my arquebus, and fired. +The figure vanished; and there rose a cry +Out of the darkness, long and fierce and loud, +With imprecations in all languages. +It was the Constable of France, the Bourbon, +That I had slain. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Rome should be grateful to you. + +BENVENUTO. +But has not been; you shall hear presently. +During the siege I served as bombardier, +There in St. Angelo. His Holiness, +One day, was walking with his Cardinals +On the round bastion, while I stood above +Among my falconets. All thought and feeling, +All skill in art and all desire of fame, +Were swallowed up in the delightful music +Of that artillery. I saw far off, +Within the enemy's trenches on the Prati, +A Spanish cavalier in scarlet cloak; +And firing at him with due aim and range, +I cut the gay Hidalgo in two pieces. +The eyes are dry that wept for him in Spain. +His Holiness, delighted beyond measure +With such display of gunnery, and amazed +To see the man in scarlet cut in two, +Gave me his benediction, and absolved me +From all the homicides I had committed +In service of the Apostolic Church, +Or should commit thereafter. From that day +I have not held in very high esteem +The life of man. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + And who absolved Pope Clement? +Now let us speak of Art. + +BENVENUTO. + Of what you will. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +Say, have you seen our friend Fra Bastian lately, +Since by a turn of fortune he became +Friar of the Signet? + +BENVENUTO. + Faith, a pretty artist +To pass his days in stamping leaden seals +On Papal bulls! + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +He has grown fat and lazy, +As if the lead clung to him like a sinker. +He paints no more, since he was sent to Fondi +By Cardinal Ippolito to paint +The fair Gonzaga. Ah, you should have seen him +As I did, riding through the city gate, +In his brown hood, attended by four horsemen, +Completely armed, to frighten the banditti. +I think he would have frightened them alone, +For he was rounder than the O of Giotto. + +BENVENUTO. +He must have looked more like a sack of meal +Than a great painter. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Well, he is not great +But still I like him greatly. Benvenuto +Have faith in nothing but in industry. +Be at it late and early; persevere, +And work right on through censure and applause, +Or else abandon Art. + +BENVENUTO. + No man works harder +Then I do. I am not a moment idle. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +And what have you to show me? + +BENVENUTO. + This gold ring, +Made for his Holiness,--my latest work, +And I am proud of it. A single diamond +Presented by the Emperor to the Pope. +Targhetta of Venice set and tinted it; +I have reset it, and retinted it +Divinely, as you see. The jewellers +Say I've surpassed Targhetta. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Let me see it. +A pretty jewel. + +BENVENUTO. + That is not the expression. +Pretty is not a very pretty word +To be applied to such a precious stone, +Given by an Emperor to a Pope, and set +By Benvenuto! + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Messer Benvenuto, +I lose all patience with you; for the gifts +That God hath given you are of such a kind, +They should be put to far more noble uses +Than setting diamonds for the Pope of Rome. +You can do greater things. + +BENVENUTO. + The God who made me +Knows why he made me what I am,--a goldsmith, +A mere artificer. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Oh no; an artist +Richly endowed by nature, but who wraps +His talent in a napkin, and consumes +His life in vanities. + +BENVENUTO. + Michael Angelo +May say what Benvenuto would not bear +From any other man. He speaks the truth. +I know my life is wasted and consumed +In vanities; but I have better hours +And higher aspirations than you think. +Once, when a prisoner at St. Angelo, +Fasting and praying in the midnight darkness, +In a celestial vision I beheld +A crucifix in the sun, of the same substance +As is the sun itself. And since that hour +There is a splendor round about my head, +That may be seen at sunrise and at sunset +Above my shadow on the grass. And now +I know that I am in the grace of God, +And none henceforth can harm me. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + None but one,-- +None but yourself, who are your greatest foe. +He that respects himself is safe from others; +He wears a coat of mail that none can pierce. + +BENVENUTO. +I always wear one. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + O incorrigible! +At least, forget not the celestial vision. +Man must have something higher than himself +To think of. + +BENVENUTO. + That I know full well. Now listen. +I have been sent for into France, where grow +The Lilies that illumine heaven and earth, +And carry in mine equipage the model +Of a most marvellous golden salt-cellar +For the king's table; and here in my brain +A statue of Mars Armipotent for the fountain +Of Fontainebleau, colossal, wonderful. +I go a goldsmith, to return a sculptor. +And so farewell, great Master. Think of me +As one who, in the midst of all his follies, +Had also his ambition, and aspired +To better things. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Do not forget the vision. + +[Sitting down again to the Divina Commedia. + +Now in what circle of his poem sacred +Would the great Florentine have placed this man? +Whether in Phlegethon, the river of blood, +Or in the fiery belt of Purgatory, +I know not, but most surely not with those +Who walk in leaden cloaks. Though he is one +Whose passions, like a potent alkahest, +Dissolve his better nature, he is not +That despicable thing, a hypocrite; +He doth not cloak his vices, nor deny them. +Come back, my thoughts, from him to Paradise. + + +IV. + +FRA SEBASTIANO DEL PIOMBO + +MICHAEL ANGELO; FRA SEBASTIANO DEL PIOMBO. + +MICHAEL ANGELO, not turning round. +Who is it? + +FRA SEBASTIANO. + Wait, for I am out of breath +In climbing your steep stairs. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Ah, my Bastiano, +If you went up and down as many stairs +As I do still, and climbed as many ladders, +It would be better for you. Pray sit down. +Your idle and luxurious way of living +Will one day take your breath away entirely. +And you will never find it. + +FRA SEBASTIANO. + Well, what then? +That would be better, in my apprehension, +Than falling from a scaffold. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + That was nothing +It did not kill me; only lamed me slightly; +I am quite well again. + +FRA SEBASTIANO. + But why, dear Master, +Why do you live so high up in your house, +When you could live below and have a garden, +As I do? + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + From this window I can look +On many gardens; o'er the city roofs +See the Campagna and the Alban hills; +And all are mine. + +FRA SEBASTIANO. + Can you sit down in them, +On summer afternoons, and play the lute +Or sing, or sleep the time away? + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + I never +Sleep in the day-time; scarcely sleep at night. +I have not time. Did you meet Benvenuto +As you came up the stair? + +FRA SEBASTIANO. + He ran against me +On the first landing, going at full speed; +Dressed like the Spanish captain in a play, +With his long rapier and his short red cloak. +Why hurry through the world at such a pace? +Life will not be too long. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + It is his nature,-- +A restless spirit, that consumes itself +With useless agitations. He o'erleaps +The goal he aims at. Patience is a plant +That grows not in all gardens. You are made +Of quite another clay. + +FRA SEBASTIANO. + And thank God for it. +And now, being somewhat rested, I will tell you +Why I have climbed these formidable stairs. +I have a friend, Francesco Berni, here, +A very charming poet and companion, +Who greatly honors you and all your doings, +And you must sup with us. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Not I, indeed. +I know too well what artists' suppers are. +You must excuse me. + +FRA SEBASTIANO. + I will not excuse you. +You need repose from your incessant work; +Some recreation, some bright hours of pleasure. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +To me, what you and other men call pleasure +Is only pain. Work is my recreation, +The play of faculty; a delight like that +Which a bird feels in flying, or a fish +In darting through the water,--nothing more. +I cannot go. The Sibylline leaves of life +Grow precious now, when only few remain. +I cannot go. + +FRA SEBASTIANO. + Berni, perhaps, will read +A canto of the Orlando Inamorato. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +That is another reason for not going. +If aught is tedious and intolerable, +It is a poet reading his own verses, + +FRA SEBASTIANO. +Berni thinks somewhat better of your verses +Than you of his. He says that you speak things, +And other poets words. So, pray you, come. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +If it were now the Improvisatore, +Luigia Pulci, whom I used to hear +With Benvenuto, in the streets of Florence, +I might be tempted. I was younger then +And singing in the open air was pleasant. + +FRA SEBASTIANO. +There is a Frenchman here, named Rabelais, +Once a Franciscan friar, and now a doctor, +And secretary to the embassy: +A learned man, who speaks all languages, +And wittiest of men; who wrote a book +Of the Adventures of Gargantua, +So full of strange conceits one roars with laughter +At every page; a jovial boon-companion +And lover of much wine. He too is coming. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +Then you will not want me, who am not witty, +And have no sense of mirth, and love not wine. +I should be like a dead man at your banquet. +Why should I seek this Frenchman, Rabelais? +And wherefore go to hear Francesco Berni, +When I have Dante Alighieri here. +The greatest of all poets? + +FRA SEBASTIANO. + And the dullest; +And only to be read in episodes. +His day is past. Petrarca is our poet. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +Petrarca is for women and for lovers +And for those soft Abati, who delight +To wander down long garden walks in summer, +Tinkling their little sonnets all day long, +As lap dogs do their bells. + +FRA SEBASTIANO. + I love Petrarca. +How sweetly of his absent love he sings +When journeying in the forest of Ardennes! +"I seem to hear her, hearing the boughs and breezes +And leaves and birds lamenting, and the waters +Murmuring flee along the verdant herbage." + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +Enough. It is all seeming, and no being. +If you would know how a man speaks in earnest, +Read here this passage, where St. Peter thunders +In Paradise against degenerate Popes +And the corruptions of the church, till all +The heaven about him blushes like a sunset. +I beg you to take note of what he says +About the Papal seals, for that concerns +Your office and yourself. + +FRA SEBASTIANO, reading. + Is this the passage? +"Nor I be made the figure of a seal +To privileges venal and mendacious, +Whereat I often redden and flash with fire!"-- +That is not poetry. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + What is it, then? + +FRA SEBASTIANO. +Vituperation; gall that might have spirited +From Aretino's pen. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Name not that man! +A profligate, whom your Francesco Berni +Describes as having one foot in the brothel +And the other in the hospital; who lives +By flattering or maligning, as best serves +His purpose at the time. He writes to me +With easy arrogance of my Last Judgment, +In such familiar tone that one would say +The great event already had occurred, +And he was present, and from observation +Informed me how the picture should be painted. + +FRA SEBASTIANO. +What unassuming, unobtrusive men +These critics are! Now, to have Aretino +Aiming his shafts at you brings back to mind +The Gascon archers in the square of Milan, +Shooting their arrows at Duke Sforza's statue, +By Leonardo, and the foolish rabble +Of envious Florentines, that at your David +Threw stones at night. But Aretino praised you. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +His praises were ironical. He knows +How to use words as weapons, and to wound +While seeming to defend. But look, Bastiano, +See how the setting sun lights up that picture! + +FRA SEBASTIANO. +My portrait of Vittoria Colonna. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +It makes her look as she will look hereafter, +When she becomes a saint! + +FRA SEBASTIANO. + A noble woman! + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +Ah, these old hands can fashion fairer shapes +In marble, and can paint diviner pictures, +Since I have known her. + +FRA SEBASTIANO. + And you like this picture. +And yet it is in oil; which you detest. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +When that barbarian Jan Van Eyck discovered +The use of oil in painting, he degraded +His art into a handicraft, and made it +Sign-painting, merely, for a country inn +Or wayside wine-shop. 'T is an art for women, +Or for such leisurely and idle people +As you, Fra Bastiano. Nature paints not +In oils, but frescoes the great dome of heaven +With sunset; and the lovely forms of clouds +And flying vapors. + +FRA SEBASTIANO. + And how soon they fade! +Behold yon line of roofs and belfries painted +Upon the golden background of the sky, +Like a Byzantine picture, or a portrait +Of Cimabue. See how hard the outline, +Sharp-cut and clear, not rounded into shadow. +Yet that is nature. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + She is always right. +The picture that approaches sculpture nearest +Is the best picture. + +FRA SEBASTIANO. + Leonardo thinks +The open air too bright. We ought to paint +As if the sun were shining through a mist. +'T is easier done in oil than in distemper. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +Do not revive again the old dispute; +I have an excellent memory for forgetting, +But I still feel the hurt. Wounds are not healed +By the unbending of the bow that made them. + +FRA SEBASTIANO. +So say Petrarca and the ancient proverb. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +But that is past. Now I am angry with you, +Not that you paint in oils, but that grown fat +And indolent, you do not paint at all. + +FRA SEBASTIANO. +Why should I paint? Why should I toil and sweat, +Who now am rich enough to live at ease, +And take my pleasure? + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + When Pope Leo died, +He who had been so lavish of the wealth +His predecessors left him, who received +A basket of gold-pieces every morning, +Which every night was empty, left behind +Hardly enough to pay his funeral. + +FRA SEBASTIANO. +I care for banquets, not for funerals, +As did his Holiness. I have forbidden +All tapers at my burial, and procession +Of priests and friars and monks; and have provided +The cost thereof be given to the poor! + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +You have done wisely, but of that I speak not. +Ghiberti left behind him wealth and children; +But who to-day would know that he had lived, +If he had never made those gates of bronze +In the old Baptistery,--those gates of bronze, +Worthy to be the gates of Paradise. +His wealth is scattered to the winds; his children +Are long since dead; but those celestial gates +Survive, and keep his name and memory green. + +FRA SEBASTIANO. +But why should I fatigue myself? I think +That all things it is possible to paint +Have been already painted; and if not, +Why, there are painters in the world at present +Who can accomplish more in two short months +Than I could in two years; so it is well +That some one is contented to do nothing, +And leave the field to others. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + O blasphemer! +Not without reason do the people call you +Sebastian del Piombo, for the lead +Of all the Papal bulls is heavy upon you, +And wraps you like a shroud. + +FRA SEBASTIANO. + Misericordia! +Sharp is the vinegar of sweet wine, and sharp +The words you speak, because the heart within you +Is sweet unto the core. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + How changed you are +From the Sebastiano I once knew, +When poor, laborious, emulous to excel, +You strove in rivalry with Badassare +And Raphael Sanzio. + +FRA SEBASTIANO. + Raphael is dead; +He is but dust and ashes in his grave, +While I am living and enjoying life, +And so am victor. One live Pope is worth +A dozen dead ones. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Raphael is not dead; +He doth but sleep; for how can he be dead +Who lives immortal in the hearts of men? +He only drank the precious wine of youth, +The outbreak of the grapes, before the vintage +Was trodden to bitterness by the feet of men. +The gods have given him sleep. We never were +Nor could be foes, although our followers, +Who are distorted shadows of ourselves, +Have striven to make us so; but each one worked +Unconsciously upon the other's thought; +Both giving and receiving. He perchance +Caught strength from me, and I some greater sweetness +And tenderness from his more gentle nature. +I have but words of praise and admiration +For his great genius; and the world is fairer +That he lived in it. + +FRA SEBASTIANO. + We at least are friends; +So come with me. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + No, no; I am best pleased +When I'm not asked to banquets. I have reached +A time of life when daily walks are shortened, +And even the houses of our dearest friends, +That used to be so near, seem far away. + +FRA SEBASTIANO. +Then we must sup without you. We shall laugh +At those who toil for fame, and make their lives +A tedious martyrdom, that they may live +A little longer in the mouths of men! +And so, good-night. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Good-night, my Fra Bastiano. + +[Returning to his work. + +How will men speak of me when I am gone, +When all this colorless, sad life is ended, +And I am dust? They will remember only +The wrinkled forehead, the marred countenance, +The rudeness of my speech, and my rough manners, +And never dream that underneath them all +There was a woman's heart of tenderness. +They will not know the secret of my life, +Locked up in silence, or but vaguely hinted +In uncouth rhymes, that may perchance survive +Some little space in memories of men! +Each one performs his life-work, and then leaves it; +Those that come after him will estimate +His influence on the age in which he lived. + + + +V + +PALAZZO BELVEDERE + +TITIAN'S studio. A painting of Danae with a curtain before it. +TITIAN, +MICHAEL ANGELO, and GIORGIO VASARI. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +So you have left at last your still lagoons, +Your City of Silence floating in the sea, +And come to us in Rome. + +TITIAN. + I come to learn, +But I have come too late. I should have seen +Rome in my youth, when all my mind was open +To new impressions. Our Vasari here +Leads me about, a blind man, groping darkly +Among the marvels of the past. I touch them, +But do not see them. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + There are things in Rome +That one might walk bare-footed here from Venice +But to see once, and then to die content. + +TITIAN. +I must confess that these majestic ruins +Oppress me with their gloom. I feel as one +Who in the twilight stumbles among tombs, +And cannot read the inscriptions carved upon them. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +I felt so once; but I have grown familiar +With desolation, and it has become +No more a pain to me, but a delight. + +TITIAN. +I could not live here. I must have the sea, +And the sea-mist, with sunshine interwoven +Like cloth of gold; must have beneath my windows +The laughter of the waves, and at my door +Their pattering footsteps, or I am not happy. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +Then tell me of your city in the sea, +Paved with red basalt of the Paduan hills. +Tell me of art in Venice. Three great names, +Giorgione, Titian, and the Tintoretto, +Illustrate your Venetian school, and send +A challenge to the world. The first is dead, +But Tintoretto lives. + +TITIAN. + And paints with fires +Sudden and splendid, as the lightning paints +The cloudy vault of heaven. + +GIORGIO. + Does he still keep +Above his door the arrogant inscription +That once was painted there,--"The color of Titian, +With the design of Michael Angelo"? + +TITIAN. +Indeed, I know not. 'T was a foolish boast, +And does no harm to any but himself. +Perhaps he has grown wiser. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + When you two +Are gone, who is there that remains behind +To seize the pencil falling from your fingers? + +GIORGIO. +Oh there are many hands upraised already +To clutch at such a prize, which hardly wait +For death to loose your grasp,--a hundred of them; +Schiavone, Bonifazio, Campagnola, +Moretto, and Moroni; who can count them, +Or measure their ambition? + +TITIAN. + When we are gone +The generation that comes after us +Will have far other thoughts than ours. Our ruins +Will serve to build their palaces or tombs. +They will possess the world that we think ours, +And fashion it far otherwise. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + I hear +Your son Orazio and your nephew Marco +Mentioned with honor. + +TITIAN. + Ay, brave lads, brave lads. +But time will show. There is a youth in Venice, +One Paul Cagliari, called the Veronese, +Still a mere stripling, but of such rare promise +That we must guard our laurels, or may lose them. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +These are good tidings; for I sometimes fear +That, when we die, with us all art will die. +'T is but a fancy. Nature will provide +Others to take our places. I rejoice +To see the young spring forward in the race, +Eager as we were, and as full of hope +And the sublime audacity of youth. + +TITIAN. +Men die and are forgotten. The great world +Goes on the same. Among the myriads +Of men that live, or have lived, or shall live +What is a single life, or thine or mime, +That we should think all nature would stand still +If we were gone? We must make room for others. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +And now, Maestro, pray unveil your picture +Of Danae, of which I hear such praise. + +TITIAN, drawing hack the curtain. + +What think you? + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + That Acrisius did well +To lock such beauty in a brazen tower +And hide it from all eyes. + +TITIAN. + The model truly +Was beautiful. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +And more, that you were present, +And saw the showery Jove from high Olympus +Descend in all his splendor. + +TITIAN. + From your lips +Such words are full of sweetness. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + You have caught +These golden hues from your Venetian sunsets. + +TITIAN. +Possibly. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Or from sunshine through a shower +On the lagoons, or the broad Adriatic. +Nature reveals herself in all our arts. +The pavements and the palaces of cities +Hint at the nature of the neighboring hills. +Red lavas from the Euganean quarries +Of Padua pave your streets; your palaces +Are the white stones of Istria, and gleam +Reflected in your waters and your pictures. +And thus the works of every artist show +Something of his surroundings and his habits. +The uttermost that can be reached by color +Is here accomplished. Warmth and light and softness +Mingle together. Never yet was flesh +Painted by hand of artist, dead or living, +With such divine perfection. + +TITIAN. + I am grateful +For so much praise from you, who are a master; +While mostly those who praise and those who blame +Know nothing of the matter, so that mainly +Their censure sounds like praise, their praise like censure. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +Wonderful! wonderful! The charm of color +Fascinates me the more that in myself +The gift is wanting. I am not a painter. + +GIORGIO. +Messer Michele, all the arts are yours, +Not one alone; and therefore I may venture +To put a question to you. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Well, speak on. + +GIORGIO. +Two nephews of the Cardinal Farnese +Have made me umpire in dispute between them +Which is the greater of the sister arts, +Painting or sculpture. Solve for me the doubt. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +Sculpture and painting have a common goal, +And whosoever would attain to it, +Whichever path he take, will find that goal +Equally hard to reach. + +GIORGIO. + No doubt, no doubt; +But you evade the question. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + When I stand +In presence of this picture, I concede +That painting has attained its uttermost; +But in the presence of my sculptured figures +I feel that my conception soars beyond +All limit I have reached. + +GIORGIO. + You still evade me. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +Giorgio Vasari, I have often said +That I account that painting as the best +Which most resembles sculpture. Here before us +We have the proof. Behold those rounded limbs! +How from the canvas they detach themselves, +Till they deceive the eye, and one would say, +It is a statue with a screen behind it! + +TITIAN. +Signori, pardon me; but all such questions +Seem to me idle. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Idle as the wind. +And now, Maestro, I will say once more +How admirable I esteem your work, +And leave you, without further interruption. + +TITIAN. +Your friendly visit hath much honored me. + +GIOROIO. +Farewell. + +MICHAEL ANGELO to GIORGIO, going out. + + If the Venetian painters knew +But half as much of drawing as of color, +They would indeed work miracles in art, +And the world see what it hath never seen. + + + +VI + +PALAZZO CESARINI + +VITTORIA COLONNA, seated in an armchair; JULIA GONZAGA, standing +near her. + +JULIA. +It grieves me that I find you still so weak +And suffering. + +VITTORIA. + No, not suffering; only dying. +Death is the chillness that precedes the dawn; +We shudder for a moment, then awake +In the broad sunshine of the other life. +I am a shadow, merely, and these hands, +These cheeks, these eyes, these tresses that my husband +Once thought so beautiful, and I was proud of +Because he thought them so, are faded quite,-- +All beauty gone from them. + +JULIA. + Ah, no, not that. +Paler you are, but not less beautiful. + +VITTORIA. +Hand me the mirror. I would fain behold +What change comes o'er our features when we die. +Thank you. And now sit down beside me here +How glad I am that you have come to-day, +Above all other days, and at the hour +When most I need you! + +JULIA. + Do you ever need me? + +VICTORIA. + +Always, and most of all to-day and now. +Do you remember, Julia, when we walked, +One afternoon, upon the castle terrace +At Ischia, on the day before you left me? + +JULIA. +Well I remember; but it seems to me +Something unreal, that has never been,-- +Something that I have read of in a book, +Or heard of some one else. + +VITTORIA. + Ten years and more +Have passed since then; and many things have happened +In those ten years, and many friends have died: +Marco Flaminio, whom we all admired +And loved as our Catullus; dear Valldesso, +The noble champion of free thought and speech; +And Cardinal Ippolito, your friend. + +JULIA. +Oh, do not speak of him! His sudden death +O'ercomes me now, as it o'ercame me then. +Let me forget it; for my memory +Serves me too often as an unkind friend, +And I remember things I would forget, +While I forget the things I would remember. + +VITTORIA. +Forgive me; I will speak of him no more, +The good Fra Bernardino has departed, +Has fled from Italy, and crossed the Alps, +Fearing Caraffa's wrath, because he taught +That He who made us all without our help +Could also save us without aid of ours. +Renee of France, the Duchess of Ferrara, +That Lily of the Loire, is bowed by winds +That blow from Rome; Olympia Morata +Banished from court because of this new doctrine. +Therefore be cautious. Keep your secret thought +Locked in your breast. + +JULIA. + I will be very prudent +But speak no more, I pray; it wearies you. + +VITTORIA. +Yes, I am very weary. Read to me. + +JULIA. +Most willingly. What shall I read? + +VITTORIA. + Petrarca's +Triumph of Death. The book lies on the table; +Beside the casket there. Read where you find +The leaf turned down. 'T was there I left off reading. + +JULIA, reads. + +"Not as a flame that by some force is spent, + But one that of itself consumeth quite, + Departed hence in peace the soul content, +In fashion of a soft and lucent light + Whose nutriment by slow gradation goes, + Keeping until the end its lustre bright. +Not pale, but whiter than the sheet of snows + That without wind on some fair hill-top lies, + Her weary body seemed to find repose. +Like a sweet slumber in her lovely eyes, + When now the spirit was no longer there, + Was what is dying called by the unwise. +E'en Death itself in her fair face seemed fair"-- + +Is it of Laura that he here is speaking?-- +She doth not answer, yet is not asleep; +Her eyes are full of light and fixed on something +Above her in the air. I can see naught +Except the painted angels on the ceiling. +Vittoria! speak! What is it? Answer me!-- +She only smiles, and stretches out her hands. + +[The mirror falls and breaks. + +VITTORIA. +Not disobedient to the heavenly vision! +Pescara! my Pescara! [Dies. + +JULIA. + Holy Virgin! +Her body sinks together,--she is dead! + +[Kneels and hides her face in Vittoria's lap. + +Enter MICHAEL ANGELO. + +JULIA. +Hush! make no noise. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + How is she? + +JULIA. + Never better. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +Then she is dead! + +JULIA. + Alas! yes, she is dead! +Even death itself in her fair face seems fair. +How wonderful! The light upon her face +Shines from the windows of another world. +Saint only have such faces. Holy Angels! +Bear her like sainted Catherine to her rest! + +[Kisses Vittoria's hand. + + + +PART THIRD + +I + +MONOLOGUE + +Macello de' Corvi. A room in MICHAEL ANGELO'S house. MICHAEL +ANGELO, standing before a model of St. Peter's. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +Better than thou I cannot, Brunelleschi, +And less than thou I will not! If the thought +Could, like a windlass, lift the ponderous stones +And swing them to their places; if a breath +Could blow this rounded dome into the air, +As if it were a bubble, and these statues +Spring at a signal to their sacred stations, +As sentinels mount guard upon a wall. +Then were my task completed. Now, alas! +Naught am I but a Saint Sebaldus, holding +Upon his hand the model of a church, +As German artists paint him; and what years, +What weary years, must drag themselves along, +Ere this be turned to stone! What hindrances +Must block the way; what idle interferences +Of Cardinals and Canons of St. Peter's, +Who nothing know of art beyond the color +Of cloaks and stockings, nor of any building +Save that of their own fortunes! And what then? +I must then the short-coming of my means +Piece out by stepping forward, as the Spartan +Was told to add a step to his short sword. + +[A pause. + +And is Fra Bastian dead? Is all that light +Gone out, that sunshine darkened; all that music +And merriment, that used to make our lives +Less melancholy, swallowed up in silence +Like madrigals sung in the street at night +By passing revellers? It is strange indeed +That he should die before me. 'T is against +The laws of nature that the young should die, +And the old live; unless it be that some +Have long been dead who think themselves alive, +Because not buried. Well, what matters it, +Since now that greater light, that was my sun, +Is set, and all is darkness, all is darkness! +Death's lightnings strike to right and left of me, +And, like a ruined wall, the world around me +Crumbles away, and I am left alone. +I have no friends, and want none. My own thoughts +Are now my sole companions,--thoughts of her, +That like a benediction from the skies +Come to me in my solitude and soothe me. +When men are old, the incessant thought of Death +Follows them like their shadow; sits with them +At every meal; sleeps with them when they sleep; +And when they wake already is awake, +And standing by their bedside. Then, what folly +It is in us to make an enemy +Of this importunate follower, not a friend! +To me a friend, and not an enemy, +Has he become since all my friends are dead. + + + +II + +VIGNA DI PAPA GIULIO + +POPE JULIUS III. seated by the Fountain of Acqua Vergine, +surrounded by Cardinals. + +JULIUS. +Tell me, why is it ye are discontent, +You, Cardinals Salviati and Marcello, +With Michael Angelo? What has he done, +Or left undone, that ye are set against him? +When one Pope dies, another is soon made; +And I can make a dozen Cardinals, +But cannot make one Michael Angelo. + +CARDINAL SALVIATI. +Your Holiness, we are not set against him; +We but deplore his incapacity. +He is too old. + +JULIUS. + You, Cardinal Salviati, +Are an old man. Are you incapable? +'T is the old ox that draws the straightest furrow. + +CARDINAL MARCELLO. +Your Holiness remembers he was charged +With the repairs upon St. Mary's bridge; +Made cofferdams, and heaped up load on load +Of timber and travertine; and yet for years +The bridge remained unfinished, till we gave it +To Baccio Bigio. + +JULIUS. + Always Baccio Bigio! +Is there no other architect on earth? +Was it not he that sometime had in charge +The harbor of Ancona. + +CARDINAL MARCELLO. + Ay, the same. + +JULIUS. +Then let me tell you that your Baccio Bigio +Did greater damage in a single day +To that fair harbor than the sea had done +Or would do in ten years. And him you think +To put in place of Michael Angelo, +In building the Basilica of St. Peter! +The ass that thinks himself a stag discovers +His error when he comes to leap the ditch. + +CARDINAL MARCELLO. +He does not build; he but demolishes +The labors of Bramante and San Gallo. + +JULIUS. +Only to build more grandly. + +CARDINAL MARCELLO. + But time passes: +Year after year goes by, and yet the work +Is not completed. Michael Angelo +Is a great sculptor, but no architect. +His plans are faulty. + +JULIUS. + I have seen his model, +And have approved it. But here comes the artist. +Beware of him. He may make Persians of you, +To carry burdens on your backs forever. + + +SCENE II. + +The same: MICHAEL ANGELO. + +JULIUS. +Come forward, dear Maestro! In these gardens +All ceremonies of our court are banished. +Sit down beside me here. + +MICHAEL ANGELO, sitting down. + How graciously +Your Holiness commiserates old age +And its infirmities! + +JULIUS. + Say its privileges. +Art I respect. The building of this palace +And laying out these pleasant garden walks +Are my delight, and if I have not asked +Your aid in this, it is that I forbear +To lay new burdens on you at an age +When you need rest. Here I escape from Rome +To be at peace. The tumult of the city +Scarce reaches here. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + How beautiful it is, +And quiet almost as a hermitage! + +JULIUS. +We live as hermits here; and from these heights +O'erlook all Rome and see the yellow Tiber +Cleaving in twain the city, like a sword, +As far below there as St. Mary's bridge. +What think you of that bridge? + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + I would advise +Your Holiness not to cross it, or not often +It is not safe. + +JULIUS. + It was repaired of late. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +Some morning you will look for it in vain; +It will be gone. The current of the river +Is undermining it. + +JULIUS. + But you repaired it. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +I strengthened all its piers, and paved its road +With travertine. He who came after me +Removed the stone, and sold it, and filled in +The space with gravel. + +JULIUS. + Cardinal Salviati +And Cardinal Marcello, do you listen? +This is your famous Nanni Baccio Bigio. + +MICHAEL ANGELO, aside. +There is some mystery here. These Cardinals +Stand lowering at me with unfriendly eyes. + +JULIUS. +Now let us come to what concerns us more +Than bridge or gardens. Some complaints are made +Concerning the Three Chapels in St. Peter's; +Certain supposed defects or imperfections, +You doubtless can explain. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + This is no longer +The golden age of art. Men have become +Iconoclasts and critics. They delight not +In what an artist does, but set themselves +To censure what they do not comprehend. +You will not see them bearing a Madonna +Of Cimabue to the church in triumph, +But tearing down the statue of a Pope +To cast it into cannon. Who are they +That bring complaints against me? + +JULIUS. + Deputies +Of the commissioners; and they complain +Of insufficient light in the Three Chapels. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +Your Holiness, the insufficient light +Is somewhere else, and not in the Three Chapels. +Who are the deputies that make complaint? + +JULIUS. +The Cardinals Salviati and Marcello, +Here present. + +MICHAEL ANGELO, rising. + With permission, Monsignori, +What is it ye complain of? + +CARDINAL MARCELLO, + We regret +You have departed from Bramante's plan, +And from San Gallo's. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Since the ancient time +No greater architect has lived on earth +Than Lazzari Bramante. His design, +Without confusion, simple, clear, well-lighted. +Merits all praise, and to depart from it +Would be departing from the truth. San Gallo, +Building about with columns, took all light +Out of this plan; left in the choir dark corners +For infinite ribaldries, and lurking places +For rogues and robbers; so that when the church +Was shut at night, not five and twenty men +Could find them out. It was San Gallo, then, +That left the church in darkness, and not I. + +CARDINAL MARCELLO. +Excuse me; but in each of the Three Chapels +Is but a single window. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Monsignore, +Perhaps you do not know that in the vaulting +Above there are to go three other windows. + +CARDINAL SALVIATI. +How should we know? You never told us of it. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +I neither am obliged, nor will I be, +To tell your Eminence or any other +What I intend or ought to do. Your office +Is to provide the means, and see that thieves +Do not lay hands upon them. The designs +Must all be left to me. + +CARDINAL MARCELLO. + Sir architect, +You do forget yourself, to speak thus rudely +In presence of his Holiness, and to us +Who are his cardinals. + +MICHAEL ANGELO, putting on his hat. + I do not forget +I am descended from the Counts Canossa, +Linked with the Imperial line, and with Matilda, +Who gave the Church Saint Peter's Patrimony. +I, too, am proud to give unto the Church +The labor of these hands, and what of life +Remains to me. My father Buonarotti +Was Podesta of Chiusi and Caprese. +I am not used to have men speak to me +As if I were a mason, hired to build +A garden wall, and paid on Saturdays +So much an hour. + +CARDINAL SALVIATI, aside. + No wonder that Pope Clement +Never sat down in presence of this man, +Lest he should do the same; and always bade him +Put on his hat, lest he unasked should do it! + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +If any one could die of grief and shame, +I should. This labor was imposed upon me; +I did not seek it; and if I assumed it, +'T was not for love of fame or love of gain, +But for the love of God. Perhaps old age +Deceived me, or self-interest, or ambition; +I may be doing harm instead of good. +Therefore, I pray your Holiness, release me; +Take off from me the burden of this work; +Let me go back to Florence. + +JULIUS. + Never, never, +While I am living. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Doth your Holiness +Remember what the Holy Scriptures say +Of the inevitable time, when those +Who look out of the windows shall be darkened, +And the almond-tree shall flourish? + +JULIUS. + That is in +Ecclesiastes. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + And the grasshopper +Shall be a burden, and desire shall fail, +Because man goeth unto his long home. +Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher; all +Is vanity. + +JULIUS. + Ah, were to do a thing +As easy as to dream of doing it, +We should not want for artists. But the men +Who carry out in act their great designs +Are few in number; ay, they may be counted +Upon the fingers of this hand. Your place +Is at St. Peter's. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + I have had my dream, +And cannot carry out my great conception, +And put it into act. + +JULIUS. + Then who can do it? +You would but leave it to some Baccio Bigio +To mangle and deface. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Rather than that +I will still bear the burden on my shoulders +A little longer. If your Holiness +Will keep the world in order, and will leave +The building of the church to me, the work +Will go on better for it. Holy Father, +If all the labors that I have endured, +And shall endure, advantage not my soul, +I am but losing time. + +JULIUS, laying his hands on MICHAEL ANGELO'S shoulders. + You will be gainer +Both for your soul and body. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Not events +Exasperate me, but the funest conclusions +I draw from these events; the sure decline +Of art, and all the meaning of that word: +All that embellishes and sweetens life, +And lifts it from the level of low cares +Into the purer atmosphere of beauty; +The faith in the Ideal; the inspiration +That made the canons of the church of Seville +Say, "Let us build, so that all men hereafter +Will say that we were madmen." Holy Father, +I beg permission to retire from here. + +JULIUS. +Go; and my benediction be upon you. + +[Michael Angelo goes out. + +My Cardinals, this Michael Angelo +Must not be dealt with as a common mason. +He comes of noble blood, and for his crest +Bear two bull's horns; and he has given us proof +That he can toss with them. From this day forth +Unto the end of time, let no man utter +The name of Baccio Bigio in my presence. +All great achievements are the natural fruits +Of a great character. As trees bear not +Their fruits of the same size and quality, +But each one in its kind with equal ease, +So are great deeds as natural to great men +As mean things are to small ones. By his work +We know the master. Let us not perplex him. + + + +III + +BINDO ALTOVITI + +A street in Rome. BINDO ALTOVITI, standing at the door of his +house. + +MICHAEL ANGELO, passing. + +BINDO. +Good-morning, Messer Michael Angelo! + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +Good-morning, Messer Bindo Altoviti! + +BINDO. +What brings you forth so early? + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + The same reason +That keeps you standing sentinel at your door,-- +The air of this delicious summer morning. +What news have you from Florence? + +BINDO. + Nothing new; +The same old tale of violence and wrong. +Since the disastrous day at Monte Murlo, +When in procession, through San Gallo's gate, +Bareheaded, clothed in rags, on sorry steeds, +Philippo Strozzi and the good Valori +Were led as prisoners down the streets of Florence, +Amid the shouts of an ungrateful people, +Hope is no more, and liberty no more. +Duke Cosimo, the tyrant, reigns supreme. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +Florence is dead: her houses are but tombs; +Silence and solitude are in her streets. + +BINDO. +Ah yes; and often I repeat the words +You wrote upon your statue of the Night, +There in the Sacristy of San Lorenzo: +"Grateful to me is sleep; to be of stone +More grateful, while the wrong and shame endure; +To see not, feel not, is a benediction; +Therefore awake me not; oh, speak in whispers." + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +Ah, Messer Bindo, the calamities, +The fallen fortunes, and the desolation +Of Florence are to me a tragedy +Deeper than words, and darker than despair. +I, who have worshipped freedom from my cradle, +Have loved her with the passion of a lover, +And clothed her with all lovely attributes +That the imagination can conceive, +Or the heart conjure up, now see her dead, +And trodden in the dust beneath the feet +Of an adventurer! It is a grief +Too great for me to bear in my old age. + +BINDO. +I say no news from Florence: I am wrong, +For Benvenuto writes that he is coming +To be my guest in Rome. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Those are good tidings. +He hath been many years away from us. + +BINDO. +Pray you, come in. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + I have not time to stay, +And yet I will. I see from here your house +Is filled with works of art. That bust in bronze +Is of yourself. Tell me, who is the master +That works in such an admirable way, +And with such power and feeling? + +BINDO. + Benvenuto. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +Ah? Benvenuto? 'T is a masterpiece! +It pleases me as much, and even more, +Than the antiques about it; and yet they +Are of the best one sees. But you have placed it +By far too high. The light comes from below, +And injures the expression. Were these windows +Above and not beneath it, then indeed +It would maintain its own among these works +Of the old masters, noble as they are. +I will go in and study it more closely. +I always prophesied that Benvenuto, +With all his follies and fantastic ways, +Would show his genius in some work of art +That would amaze the world, and be a challenge +Unto all other artists of his time. + +[They go in. + + +IV + +IN THE COLISEUM + +MICHAEL ANGELO and TOMASO DE CAVALIERI + +CAVALIERI. +What have you here alone, Messer Michele? + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +I come to learn. + +CAVALIERI. + You are already master, +And teach all other men. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Nay, I know nothing; +Not even my own ignorance, as some +Philosopher hath said. I am a schoolboy +Who hath not learned his lesson, and who stands +Ashamed and silent in the awful presence +Of the great master of antiquity +Who built these walls cyclopean. + +CAVALIERI. + Gaudentius +His name was, I remember. His reward +Was to be thrown alive to the wild beasts +Here where we now are standing. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Idle tales. + +CAVALIERI. +But you are greater than Gaudentius was, +And your work nobler. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Silence, I beseech you. + +CAVALIERI. +Tradition says that fifteen thousand men +Were toiling for ten years incessantly +Upon this amphitheatre. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Behold +How wonderful it is! The queen of flowers, +The marble rose of Rome! Its petals torn +By wind and rain of thrice five hundred years; +Its mossy sheath half rent away, and sold +To ornament our palaces and churches, +Or to be trodden under feet of man +Upon the Tiber's bank; yet what remains +Still opening its fair bosom to the sun, +And to the constellations that at night +Hang poised above it like a swarm of bees. + +CAVALIERI. +The rose of Rome, but not of Paradise; +Not the white rose our Tuscan poet saw, +With saints for petals. When this rose was perfect +Its hundred thousand petals were not Saints, +But senators in their Thessalian caps, +And all the roaring populace of Rome; +And even an Empress and the Vestal Virgins, +Who came to see the gladiators die, +Could not give sweetness to a rose like this. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +I spake not of its uses, but its beauty. + +CAVALIERI. +The sand beneath our feet is saturate +With blood of martyrs; and these rifted stones +Are awful witnesses against a people +Whose pleasure was the pain of dying men. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +Tomaso Cavalieri, on my word, +You should have been a preacher, not a painter! +Think you that I approve such cruelties, +Because I marvel at the architects +Who built these walls, and curved these noble arches? +Oh, I am put to shame, when I consider +How mean our work is, when compared with theirs! +Look at these walls about us and above us! +They have been shaken by earthquake; have been made +A fortress, and been battered by long sieges; +The iron clamps, that held the stones together, +Have been wrenched from them; but they stand erect +And firm, as if they had been hewn and hollowed +Out of the solid rock, and were a part +Of the foundations of the world itself. + +CAVALIERI. +Your work, I say again, is nobler work, +In so far as its end and aim are nobler; +And this is but a ruin, like the rest. +Its vaulted passages are made the caverns +Of robbers, and are haunted by the ghosts +Of murdered men. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + A thousand wild flowers bloom +From every chink, and the birds build their nests +Among the ruined arches, and suggest +New thoughts of beauty to the architect, +Now let us climb the broken stairs that lead +Into the corridors above, and study +The marvel and the mystery of that art +In which I am a pupil, not a master. +All things must have an end; the world itself +Must have an end, as in a dream I saw it. +There came a great hand out of heaven, and touched +The earth, and stopped it in its course. The seas +Leaped, a vast cataract, into the abyss; +The forests and the fields slid off, and floated +Like wooded islands in the air. The dead +Were hurled forth from their sepulchres; the living +Were mingled with them, and themselves were dead,-- +All being dead; and the fair, shining cities +Dropped out like jewels from a broken crown. +Naught but the core of the great globe remained, +A skeleton of stone. And over it +The wrack of matter drifted like a cloud, +And then recoiled upon itself, and fell +Back on the empty world, that with the weight +Reeled, staggered, righted, and then headlong plunged +Into the darkness, as a ship, when struck +By a great sea, throws off the waves at first +On either side, then settles and goes down +Into the dark abyss, with her dead crew. + +CAVALIERI. +But the earth does not move. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Who knows? who knowst? +There are great truths that pitch their shining tents +Outside our walls, and though but dimly seen +In the gray dawn, they will be manifest +When the light widens into perfect day. +A certain man, Copernicus by name, +Sometime professor here in Rome, has whispered +It is the earth, and not the sun, that moves. +What I beheld was only in a dream, +Yet dreams sometimes anticipate events, +Being unsubstantial images of things +As yet unseen. + + +V + +MACELLO DE' CORVI + +MICHAEL ANGELO, BENVENUTO CELLINI. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +So, Benvenuto, you return once more +To the Eternal City. 'T is the centre +To which all gravitates. One finds no rest +Elsewhere than here. There may be other cities +That please us for a while, but Rome alone +Completely satisfies. It becomes to all +A second native land by predilection, +And not by accident of birth alone. + +BENVENUTO. +I am but just arrived, and am now lodging +With Bindo Altoviti. I have been +To kiss the feet of our most Holy Father, +And now am come in haste to kiss the hands +Of my miraculous Master. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + And to find him +Grown very old. + +BENVENUTO. + You know that precious stones +Never grow old. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Half sunk beneath the horizon, +And yet not gone. Twelve years are a long while. +Tell me of France. + +BENVENUTO. + It were too long a tale +To tell you all. Suffice in brief to say +The King received me well, and loved me well; +Gave me the annual pension that before me +Our Leonardo had, nor more nor less, +And for my residence the Tour de Nesle, +Upon the river-side. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + A princely lodging. + +BENVENUTO. +What in return I did now matters not, +For there are other things, of greater moment, +I wish to speak of. First of all, the letter +You wrote me, not long since, about my bust +Of Bindo Altoviti, here in Rome. You said, +"My Benvenuto, I for many years +Have known you as the greatest of all goldsmiths, +And now I know you as no less a sculptor." +Ah, generous Master! How shall I e'er thank you +For such kind language? + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + By believing it. +I saw the bust at Messer Bindo's house, +And thought it worthy of the ancient masters, +And said so. That is all. + +BENVENUTO. + It is too much; +And I should stand abashed here in your presence, +Had I done nothing worthier of your praise +Than Bindo's bust. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + What have you done that's better? + +BENVENUTO. +When I left Rome for Paris, you remember +I promised you that if I went a goldsmith +I would return a sculptor. I have kept +The promise I then made. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Dear Benvenuto, +I recognized the latent genius in you, +But feared your vices. + +BENVENUTO. + I have turned them all +To virtues. My impatient, wayward nature, +That made me quick in quarrel, now has served me +Where meekness could not, and where patience could not, +As you shall hear now. I have cast in bronze +A statue of Perseus, holding thus aloft +In his left hand the head of the Medusa, +And in his right the sword that severed it; +His right foot planted on the lifeless corse; +His face superb and pitiful, with eyes +Down-looking on the victim of his vengeance. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +I see it as it should be. + +BENVENUTO. + As it will be +When it is placed upon the Ducal Square, +Half-way between your David and the Judith +Of Donatello. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Rival of them both! + +BENVENUTO. +But ah, what infinite trouble have I had +With Bandinello, and that stupid beast, +The major-domo of Duke Cosimo, +Francesco Ricci, and their wretched agent +Gorini, who came crawling round about me +Like a black spider, with his whining voice +That sounded like the buzz of a mosquito! +Oh, I have wept in utter desperation, +And wished a thousand times I had not left +My Tour do Nesle, nor e'er returned to Florence, +Or thought of Perseus. What malignant falsehoods +They told the Grand Duke, to impede my work, +And make me desperate! + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + The nimble lie +Is like the second-hand upon a clock; +We see it fly; while the hour-hand of truth +Seems to stand still, and yet it moves unseen, +And wins at last, for the clock will not strike +Till it has reached the goal. + +BENVENUTO. + My obstinacy +Stood me in stead, and helped me to o'ercome +The hindrances that envy and ill-will +Put in my way. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + When anything is done +People see not the patient doing of it, +Nor think how great would be the loss to man +If it had not been done. As in a building +Stone rests on stone, and wanting the foundation +All would be wanting, so in human life +Each action rests on the foregone event, +That made it possible, but is forgotten +And buried in the earth. + +BENVENUTO. + Even Bandinello, +Who never yet spake well of anything, +Speaks well of this; and yet he told the Duke +That, though I cast small figures well enough, +I never could cast this. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + But you have done it, +And proved Ser Bandinello a false prophet. +That is the wisest way. + +BENVENUTO. + And ah, that casting +What a wild scene it was, as late at night, +A night of wind and rain, we heaped the furnace +With pine of Serristori, till the flames +Caught in the rafters over us, and threatened +To send the burning roof upon our heads; +And from the garden side the wind and rain +Poured in upon us, and half quenched our fires. +I was beside myself with desperation. +A shudder came upon me, then a fever; +I thought that I was dying, and was forced +To leave the work-shop, and to throw myself +Upon my bed, as one who has no hope. +And as I lay there, a deformed old man +Appeared before me, and with dismal voice, +Like one who doth exhort a criminal +Led forth to death, exclaimed, "Poor Benvenuto, +Thy work is spoiled! There is no remedy!" +Then, with a cry so loud it might have reached +The heaven of fire, I bounded to my feet, +And rushed back to my workmen. They all stood +Bewildered and desponding; and I looked +Into the furnace, and beheld the mass +Half molten only, and in my despair +I fed the fire with oak, whose terrible heat +Soon made the sluggish metal shine and sparkle. +Then followed a bright flash, and an explosion, +As if a thunderbolt had fallen among us. +The covering of the furnace had been rent +Asunder, and the bronze was flowing over; +So that I straightway opened all the sluices +To fill the mould. The metal ran like lava, +Sluggish and heavy; and I sent my workmen +To ransack the whole house, and bring together +My pewter plates and pans, two hundred of them, +And cast them one by one into the furnace +To liquefy the mass, and in a moment +The mould was filled! I fell upon my knees +And thanked the Lord; and then we ate and drank +And went to bed, all hearty and contented. +It was two hours before the break of day. +My fever was quite gone. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + A strange adventure, +That could have happened to no man alive +But you, my Benvenuto. + +BENVENUTO. + As my workmen said +To major-domo Ricci afterward, +When he inquired of them: "'T was not a man, +But an express great devil." + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + And the statue? + +BENVENUTO. +Perfect in every part, save the right foot +Of Perseus, as I had foretold the Duke. +There was just bronze enough to fill the mould; +Not a drop over, not a drop too little. +I looked upon it as a miracle +Wrought by the hand of God. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + And now I see +How you have turned your vices into virtues. + +BENVENUTO. +But wherefore do I prate of this? I came +To speak of other things. Duke Cosimo +Through me invites you to return to Florence, +And offers you great honors, even to make you +One of the Forty-Eight, his Senators. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +His Senators! That is enough. Since Florence +Was changed by Clement Seventh from a Republic +Into a Dukedom, I no longer wish +To be a Florentine. That dream is ended. +The Grand Duke Cosimo now reigns supreme; +All liberty is dead. Ah, woe is me! +I hoped to see my country rise to heights +Of happiness and freedom yet unreached +By other nations, but the climbing wave +Pauses, lets go its hold, and slides again +Back to the common level, with a hoarse +Death rattle in its throat. I am too old +To hope for better days. I will stay here +And die in Rome. The very weeds, that grow +Among the broken fragments of her ruins, +Are sweeter to me than the garden flowers +Of other cities; and the desolate ring +Of the Campagna round about her walls +Fairer than all the villas that encircle +The towns of Tuscany. + +BENVENUTO. + But your old friends! + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +All dead by violence. Baccio Valori +Has been beheaded; Guicciardini poisoned; +Philippo Strozzi strangled in his prison. +Is Florence then a place for honest men +To flourish in? What is there to prevent +My sharing the same fate? + +BENVENUTO. + Why this: if all +Your friends are dead, so are your enemies. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +Is Aretino dead? + +BENVENUTO. + He lives in Venice, +And not in Florence. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + 'T is the same to me +This wretched mountebank, whom flatterers +Call the Divine, as if to make the word +Unpleasant in the mouths of those who speak it +And in the ears of those who hear it, sends me +A letter written for the public eye, +And with such subtle and infernal malice, +I wonder at his wickedness. 'T is he +Is the express great devil, and not you. +Some years ago he told me how to paint +The scenes of the Last Judgment. + +BENVENUTO. + I remember. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +Well, now he writes to me that, as a Christian, +He is ashamed of the unbounded freedom +With which I represent it. + +BENVENUTO. + Hypocrite! + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +He says I show mankind that I am wanting +In piety and religion, in proportion +As I profess perfection in my art. +Profess perfection? Why, 't is only men +Like Bugiardini who are satisfied +With what they do. I never am content, +But always see the labors of my hand +Fall short of my conception. + +BENVENUTO. + I perceive +The malice of this creature. He would taint you +With heresy, and in a time like this! +'T is infamous! + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + I represent the angels +Without their heavenly glory, and the saints +Without a trace of earthly modesty. + +BENVENUTO. +Incredible audacity! + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + The heathen +Veiled their Diana with some drapery, +And when they represented Venus naked +They made her by her modest attitude, +Appear half clothed. But I, who am a Christian, +Do so subordinate belief to art +That I have made the very violation +Of modesty in martyrs and in virgins +A spectacle at which all men would gaze +With half-averted eyes even in a brothel. + +BENVENUTO. +He is at home there, and he ought to know +What men avert their eyes from in such places; +From the Last Judgment chiefly, I imagine. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +But divine Providence will never leave +The boldness of my marvellous work unpunished; +And the more marvellous it is, the more +'T is sure to prove the ruin of my fame! +And finally, if in this composition +I had pursued the instructions that he gave me +Concerning heaven and hell and paradise, +In that same letter, known to all the world, +Nature would not be forced, as she is now, +To feel ashamed that she invested me +With such great talent; that I stand myself +A very idol in the world of art. +He taunts me also with the Mausoleum +Of Julius, still unfinished, for the reason +That men persuaded the inane old man +It was of evil augury to build +His tomb while he was living; and he speaks +Of heaps of gold this Pope bequeathed to me, +And calls it robbery;--that is what he says. +What prompted such a letter? + +BENVENUTO. + Vanity. +He is a clever writer, and he likes +To draw his pen, and flourish it in the face +Of every honest man, as swordsmen do +Their rapiers on occasion, but to show +How skilfully they do it. Had you followed +The advice he gave, or even thanked him for it, +You would have seen another style of fence. +'T is but his wounded vanity, and the wish +To see his name in print. So give it not +A moment's thought; it soon will be forgotten. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +I will not think of it, but let it pass +For a rude speech thrown at me in the street, +As boys threw stones at Dante. + +BENVENUTO. + And what answer +Shall I take back to Grand Duke Cosimo? +He does not ask your labor or your service; +Only your presence in the city of Florence, +With such advice upon his work in hand +As he may ask, and you may choose to give. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +You have my answer. Nothing he can offer +Shall tempt me to leave Rome. My work is here, +And only here, the building of St. Peter's. +What other things I hitherto have done +Have fallen from me, are no longer mine; +I have passed on beyond them, and have left them +As milestones on the way. What lies before me, +That is still mine, and while it is unfinished +No one shall draw me from it, or persuade me, +By promises of ease, or wealth, or honor, +Till I behold the finished dome uprise +Complete, as now I see it in my thought. + +BENVENUTO. +And will you paint no more? + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + No more. + +BENVENUTO. + 'T is well. +Sculpture is more divine, and more like Nature, +That fashions all her works in high relief, +And that is sculpture. This vast ball, the Earth, +Was moulded out of clay, and baked in fire; +Men, women, and all animals that breathe +Are statues, and not paintings. Even the plants, +The flowers, the fruits, the grasses, were first sculptured, +And colored later. Painting is a lie, +A shadow merely. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Truly, as you say, +Sculpture is more than painting. It is greater +To raise the dead to life than to create +Phantoms that seem to live. The most majestic +Of the three sister arts is that which builds; +The eldest of them all, to whom the others +Are but the hand-maids and the servitors, +Being but imitation, not creation. +Henceforth I dedicate myself to her. + +BENVENUTO. +And no more from the marble hew those forms +That fill us all with wonder? + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Many statues +Will there be room for in my work. Their station +Already is assigned them in my mind. +But things move slowly. There are hindrances, +Want of material, want of means, delays +And interruptions, endless interference +Of Cardinal Commissioners, and disputes +And jealousies of artists, that annoy me. +But twill persevere until the work +Is wholly finished, or till I sink down +Surprised by death, that unexpected guest, +Who waits for no man's leisure, but steps in, +Unasked and unannounced, to put a stop +To all our occupations and designs. +And then perhaps I may go back to Florence; +This is my answer to Duke Cosimo. + + +VI + +MICHAEL ANGELO'S STUDIO + +MICHAEL ANGELO and URBINO. + +MICHAEL ANGELO, pausing in his work. +Urbino, thou and I are both old men. +My strength begins to fail me. + +URBINO. + Eccellenza. +That is impossible. Do I not see you +Attack the marble blocks with the same fury +As twenty years ago? + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + 'T is an old habit. +I must have learned it early from my nurse +At Setignano, the stone-mason's wife; +For the first sounds I heard were of the chisel +chipping away the stone. + +URBINO. + At every stroke +You strike fire with your chisel. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Ay, because +The marble is too hard. + +URBINO. + It is a block +That Topolino sent you from Carrara. +He is a judge of marble. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + I remember. +With it he sent me something of his making,-- +A Mercury, with long body and short legs, +As if by any possibility +A messenger of the gods could have short legs. +It was no more like Mercury than you are, +But rather like those little plaster figures +That peddlers hawk about the villages +As images of saints. But luckily +For Topolino, there are many people +Who see no difference between what is best +And what is only good, or not even good; +So that poor artists stand in their esteem +On the same level with the best, or higher. + +URBINO. +How Eccellenza laughed! + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Poor Topolino! +All men are not born artists, nor will labor +E'er make them artists. + +URBINO. + No, no more +Than Emperors, or Popes, or Cardinals. +One must be chosen for it. I have been +Your color-grinder six and twenty years, +And am not yet an artist. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Some have eyes +That see not; but in every block of marble +I see a statue,--see it as distinctly +As if it stood before me shaped and perfect +In attitude and action. I have only +To hew away the stone walls that imprison +The lovely apparition, and reveal it +To other eyes as mine already see it. +But I grow old and weak. What wilt thou do +When I am dead, Urbino? + +URBINO. + Eccellenza, +I must then serve another master. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Never! +Bitter is servitude at best. Already +So many years hast thou been serving me; +But rather as a friend than as a servant. +We have grown old together. Dost thou think +So meanly of this Michael Angelo +As to imagine he would let thee serve, +When he is free from service? Take this purse, +Two thousand crowns in gold. + +URBINO. + Two thousand crowns! + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +Ay, it will make thee rich. Thou shalt not die +A beggar in a hospital. + +URBINO. + Oh, Master! + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +I cannot have them with me on the journey +That I am undertaking. The last garment +That men will make for me will have no pockets. + +URBINO, kissing the hand of MICHAEL ANGELO. +My generous master! + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Hush! + +URBINO. + My Providence! + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +Not a word more. Go now to bed, old man. +Thou hast served Michael Angelo. Remember, +Henceforward thou shalt serve no other master. + + + +VII + +THE OAKS OF MONTE LUCA + +MICHAEL ANGELO, alone in the woods. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +How still it is among these ancient oaks! +Surges and undulations of the air +Uplift the leafy boughs, and let them fall +With scarce a sound. Such sylvan quietudes +Become old age. These huge centennial oaks, +That may have heard in infancy the trumpets +Of Barbarossa's cavalry, deride +Man's brief existence, that with all his strength +He cannot stretch beyond the hundredth year. +This little acorn, turbaned like the Turk, +Which with my foot I spurn, may be an oak +Hereafter, feeding with its bitter mast +The fierce wild boar, and tossing in its arms +The cradled nests of birds, when all the men +That now inhabit this vast universe, +They and their children, and their children's children, +Shall be but dust and mould, and nothing more. +Through openings in the trees I see below me +The valley of Clitumnus, with its farms +And snow-white oxen grazing in the shade +Of the tall poplars on the river's brink. +O Nature, gentle mother, tender nurse! +I who have never loved thee as I ought, +But wasted all my years immured in cities, +And breathed the stifling atmosphere of streets, +Now come to thee for refuge. Here is peace. +Yonder I see the little hermitages +Dotting the mountain side with points of light, +And here St. Julian's convent, like a nest +Of curlews, clinging to some windy cliff. +Beyond the broad, illimitable plain +Down sinks the sun, red as Apollo's quoit, +That, by the envious Zephyr blown aside, +Struck Hyacinthus dead, and stained the earth +With his young blood, that blossomed into flowers. +And now, instead of these fair deities +Dread demons haunt the earth; hermits inhabit +The leafy homes of sylvan Hamadryads; +And jovial friars, rotund and rubicund, +Replace the old Silenus with his ass. + +Here underneath these venerable oaks, +Wrinkled and brown and gnarled like them with age, +A brother of the monastery sits, +Lost in his meditations. What may be +The questions that perplex, the hopes that cheer him? +Good-evening, holy father. + +MONK. + God be with you. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +Pardon a stranger if he interrupt +Your meditations. + +MONK. + It was but a dream,-- +The old, old dream, that never will come true; +The dream that all my life I have been dreaming, +And yet is still a dream. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + All men have dreams: +I have had mine; but none of them came true; +They were but vanity. Sometimes I think +The happiness of man lies in pursuing, +Not in possessing; for the things possessed +Lose half their value. Tell me of your dream. + +MONK. +The yearning of my heart, my sole desire, +That like the sheaf of Joseph stands up right, +While all the others bend and bow to it; +The passion that torments me, and that breathes +New meaning into the dead forms of prayer, +Is that with mortal eyes I may behold +The Eternal City. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Rome? + +MONK. + There is but one; +The rest are merely names. I think of it +As the Celestial City, paved with gold, +And sentinelled with angels. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Would it were. +I have just fled from it. It is beleaguered +By Spanish troops, led by the Duke of Alva. + +MONK. +But still for me 't is the Celestial City, +And I would see it once before I die. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +Each one must bear his cross. + +MONK. + Were it a cross +That had been laid upon me, I could bear it, +Or fall with it. It is a crucifix; +I am nailed hand and foot, and I am dying! + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +What would you see in Rome? + +MONK. + His Holiness. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +Him that was once the Cardinal Caraffa? +You would but see a man of fourscore years, +With sunken eyes, burning like carbuncles, +Who sits at table with his friends for hours, +Cursing the Spaniards as a race of Jews +And miscreant Moors. And with what soldiery +Think you he now defends the Eternal City? + +MONK. +With legions of bright angels. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + So he calls them; +And yet in fact these bright angelic legions +Are only German Lutherans. + +MONK, crossing himself. + Heaven protect us? + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +What further would you see? + +MONK. + The Cardinals, +Going in their gilt coaches to High Mass. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +Men do not go to Paradise in coaches. + +MONK. +The catacombs, the convents, and the churches; +The ceremonies of the Holy Week +In all their pomp, or, at the Epiphany, +The Feast of the Santissima Bambino +At Ara Coeli. But I shall not see them. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +These pompous ceremonies of the Church +Are but an empty show to him who knows +The actors in them. Stay here in your convent, +For he who goes to Rome may see too much. +What would you further? + +MONK. + I would see the painting +of the Last Judgment in the Sistine Chapel. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +The smoke of incense and of altar candles +Has blackened it already. + +MONK. + Woe is me! +Then I would hear Allegri's Miserere, +Sung by the Papal choir. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + A dismal dirge! +I am an old, old man, and I have lived +In Rome for thirty years and more, and know +The jarring of the wheels of that great world, +Its jealousies, its discords, and its strife. +Therefore I say to you, remain content +Here in your convent, here among your woods, +Where only there is peace. Go not to Rome. +There was of old a monk of Wittenberg +Who went to Rome; you may have heard of him; +His name was Luther; and you know what followed. + +[The convent bell rings. + +MONK, rising. +It is the convent bell; it rings for vespers. +Let us go in; we both will pray for peace. + + + +VIII + +THE DEAD CHRIST. + +MICHAEL ANGELO'S studio. MICHAEL ANGELO, with a light, +working upon the Dead Christ. Midnight. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. +O Death, why is it I cannot portray +Thy form and features? Do I stand too near thee? +Or dost thou hold my hand, and draw me back, +As being thy disciple, not thy master? +Let him who knows not what old age is like +Have patience till it comes, and he will know. +I once had skill to fashion Life and Death +And Sleep, which is the counterfeit of Death; +And I remember what Giovanni Strozzi +Wrote underneath my statue of the Night +In San Lorenzo, ah, so long ago! + +Grateful to me is sleep! More grateful now +Than it was then; for all my friends are dead; +And she is dead, the noblest of them all. +I saw her face, when the great sculptor Death, +Whom men should call Divine, had at a blow +Stricken her into marble; and I kissed +Her cold white hand. What was it held me back +From kissing her fair forehead, and those lips, +Those dead, dumb lips? Grateful to me is sleep! + +Enter GIORGIO VASARI. + +GIORGIO. +Good-evening, or good-morning, for I know not +Which of the two it is. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + How came you in? + +GIORGIO. +Why, by the door, as all men do. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Ascanio +Must have forgotten to bolt it. + +GIORGIO. + Probably. +Am I a spirit, or so like a spirit, +That I could slip through bolted door or window? +As I was passing down the street, I saw +A glimmer of light, and heard the well-known chink +Of chisel upon marble. So I entered, +To see what keeps you from your bed so late. + +MICHAEL ANGELO, coming forward with the lamp. +You have been revelling with your boon companions, +Giorgio Vasari, and you come to me +At an untimely hour. + +GIORGIO. + The Pope hath sent me. +His Holiness desires to see again +The drawing you once showed him of the dome +Of the Basilica. + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + We will look for it. + +GIORGIO. +What is the marble group that glimmers there +Behind you? + +MICHAEL ANGELO. + Nothing, and yet everything,-- +As one may take it. It is my own tomb, +That I am building. + +GIORGIO. + Do not hide it from me. +By our long friendship and the love I bear you, +Refuse me not! + +MICHAEL ANGELO, letting fall the lamp. + Life hath become to me +An empty theatre,--its lights extinguished, +The music silent, and the actors gone; +And I alone sit musing on the scenes +That once have been. I am so old that Death +Oft plucks me by the cloak, to come with him +And some day, like this lamp, shall I fall down, +And my last spark of life will be extinguished. +Ah me! ah me! what darkness of despair! +So near to death, and yet so far from God! + + + +***** + + + +TRANSLATIONS + +PRELUDE + +As treasures that men seek, + Deep-buried in sea-sands, +Vanish if they but speak, + And elude their eager hands, + +So ye escape and slip, + O songs, and fade away, +When the word is on my lip + To interpret what ye say. + +Were it not better, then, + To let the treasures rest +Hid from the eyes of men, + Locked in their iron chest? + +I have but marked the place, + But half the secret told, +That, following this slight trace, + Others may find the gold. + + +FROM THE SPANISH + +COPLAS DE MANRIQUE + +O let the soul her slumbers break, +Let thought be quickened, and awake; +Awake to see +How soon this life is past and gone, +And death comes softly stealing on, +How silently! + +Swiftly our pleasures glide away, +Our hearts recall the distant day +With many sighs; +The moments that are speeding fast +We heed not, but the past,--the past, +More highly prize. + +Onward its course the present keeps, +Onward the constant current sweeps, +Till life is done; +And, did we judge of time aright, +The past and future in their flight +Would be as one. + +Let no one fondly dream again, +That Hope and all her shadowy train +Will not decay; +Fleeting as were the dreams of old, +Remembered like a tale that's told, +They pass away. + +Our lives are rivers, gliding free +To that unfathomed, boundless sea, +The silent grave! +Thither all earthly pomp and boast +Roll, to be swallowed up and lost +In one dark wave. + +Thither the mighty torrents stray, +Thither the brook pursues its way, +And tinkling rill, +There all are equal; side by side +The poor man and the son of pride +Lie calm and still. + +I will not here invoke the throng +Of orators and sons of song, +The deathless few; +Fiction entices and deceives, +And, sprinkled o'er her fragrant leaves, +Lies poisonous dew. + +To One alone my thoughts arise, +The Eternal Truth, the Good and Wise, +To Him I cry, +Who shared on earth our common lot, +But the world comprehended not +His deity. + +This world is but the rugged road +Which leads us to the bright abode +Of peace above; +So let us choose that narrow way, +Which leads no traveller's foot astray +From realms of love, + +Our cradle is the starting-place, +Life is the running of the race, +We reach the goal +When, in the mansions of the blest, +Death leaves to its eternal rest +The weary soul. + +Did we but use it as we ought, +This world would school each wandering thought +To its high state. +Faith wings the soul beyond the sky, +Up to that better world on high, +For which we wait. + +Yes, the glad messenger of love, +To guide us to our home above, +The Saviour came; +Born amid mortal cares and fears. +He suffered in this vale of tears +A death of shame. + +Behold of what delusive worth +The bubbles we pursue on earth, +The shapes we chase, +Amid a world of treachery! +They vanish ere death shuts the eye, +And leave no trace. + +Time steals them from us, chances strange, +Disastrous accident, and change, +That come to all; +Even in the most exalted state, +Relentless sweeps the stroke of fate; +The strongest fall. + +Tell me, the charms that lovers seek +In the clear eye and blushing cheek, +The hues that play +O'er rosy lip and brow of snow, +When hoary age approaches slow, +Ah; where are they? + +The cunning skill, the curious arts, +The glorious strength that youth imparts +In life's first stage; +These shall become a heavy weight, +When Time swings wide his outward gate +To weary age. + +The noble blood of Gothic name, +Heroes emblazoned high to fame, +In long array; +How, in the onward course of time, +The landmarks of that race sublime +Were swept away! + +Some, the degraded slaves of lust, +Prostrate and trampled in the dust, +Shall rise no more; +Others, by guilt and crime, maintain +The scutcheon, that without a stain, +Their fathers bore. + +Wealth and the high estate of pride, +With what untimely speed they glide, +How soon depart! +Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay, +The vassals of a mistress they, +Of fickle heart. + +These gifts in Fortune's hands are found; +Her swift revolving wheel turns round, +And they are gone! +No rest the inconstant goddess knows, +But changing, and without repose, +Still hurries on. + +Even could the hand of avarice save +Its gilded baubles till the grave +Reclaimed its prey, +Let none on such poor hopes rely; +Life, like an empty dream, flits by, +And where are they? + +Earthly desires and sensual lust +Are passions springing from the dust, +They fade and die; +But in the life beyond the tomb, +They seal the immortal spirits doom +Eternally! + +The pleasures and delights, which mask +In treacherous smiles life's serious task, +What are they, all, +But the fleet coursers of the chase, +And death an ambush in the race, +Wherein we fall? + +No foe, no dangerous pass, we heed, +Brook no delay, but onward speed +With loosened rein; +And, when the fatal snare is near, +We strive to check our mad career, +But strive in vain. + +Could we new charms to age impart, +And fashion with a cunning art +The human face, +As we can clothe the soul with light, +And make the glorious spirit bright +With heavenly grace, + +How busily each passing hour +Should we exert that magic power, +What ardor show, +To deck the sensual slave of sin, +Yet leave the freeborn soul within, +In weeds of woe! + +Monarchs, the powerful and the strong, +Famous in history and in song +Of olden time, +Saw, by the stern decrees of fate, +Their kingdoms lost, and desolate +Their race sublime. + +Who is the champion? who the strong? +Pontiff and priest, and sceptred throng? +On these shall fall +As heavily the hand of Death, +As when it stays the shepherd's breath +Beside his stall. + +I speak not of the Trojan name, +Neither its glory nor its shame +Has met our eyes; +Nor of Rome's great and glorious dead, +Though we have heard so oft, and read, +Their histories. + +Little avails it now to know +Of ages passed so long ago, +Nor how they rolled; +Our theme shall be of yesterday, +Which to oblivion sweeps away, +Like day's of old. + +Where is the King, Don Juan? Where +Each royal prince and noble heir +Of Aragon? +Where are the courtly gallantries? +The deeds of love and high emprise, +In battle done? + +Tourney and joust, that charmed the eye, +And scarf, and gorgeous panoply, +And nodding plume, +What were they but a pageant scene? +What but the garlands, gay and green, +That deck the tomb? + +Where are the high-born dames, and where +Their gay attire, and jewelled hair, +And odors sweet? +Where are the gentle knights, that came +To kneel, and breathe love's ardent flame, +Low at their feet? + +Where is the song of Troubadour? +Where are the lute and gay tambour +They loved of yore? +Where is the mazy dance of old, +The flowing robes, inwrought with gold, +The dancers wore? + +And he who next the sceptre swayed, +Henry, whose royal court displayed +Such power and pride; +O, in what winning smiles arrayed, +The world its various pleasures laid +His throne beside! + +But O how false and full of guile +That world, which wore so soft a smile +But to betray! +She, that had been his friend before, +Now from the fated monarch tore +Her charms away. + +The countless gifts, the stately walls, +The loyal palaces, and halls +All filled with gold; +Plate with armorial bearings wrought, +Chambers with ample treasures fraught +Of wealth untold; + +The noble steeds, and harness bright, +And gallant lord, and stalwart knight, +In rich array, +Where shall we seek them now? Alas! +Like the bright dewdrops on the grass, +They passed away. + +His brother, too, whose factious zeal +Usurped the sceptre of Castile, +Unskilled to reign; +What a gay, brilliant court had he, +When all the flower of chivalry +Was in his train! + +But he was mortal; and the breath, +That flamed from the hot forge of Death, +Blasted his years; +Judgment of God! that flame by thee, +When raging fierce and fearfully, +Was quenched in tears! + +Spain's haughty Constable, the true +And gallant Master, whom we knew +Most loved of all; +Breathe not a whisper of his pride, +He on the gloomy scaffold died, +Ignoble fall! + +The countless treasures of his care, +His villages and villas fair, +His mighty power, +What were they all but grief and shame, +Tears and a broken heart, when came +The parting hour? + +His other brothers, proud and high, +Masters, who, in prosperity, +Might rival kings; +Who made the bravest and the best +The bondsmen of their high behest, +Their underlings; + +What was their prosperous estate, +When high exalted and elate +With power and pride? +What, but a transient gleam of light, +A flame, which, glaring at its height, +Grew dim and died? + +So many a duke of royal name, +Marquis and count of spotless fame, +And baron brave, +That might the sword of empire wield, +All these, O Death, hast thou concealed +In the dark grave! + +Their deeds of mercy and of arms, +In peaceful days, or war's alarms, +When thou dost show. +O Death, thy stern and angry face, +One stroke of thy all-powerful mace +Can overthrow. + +Unnumbered hosts, that threaten nigh, +Pennon and standard flaunting high, +And flag displayed; +High battlements intrenched around, +Bastion, and moated wall, and mound, +And palisade, + +And covered trench, secure and deep, +All these cannot one victim keep, +O Death, from thee, +When thou dost battle in thy wrath, +And thy strong shafts pursue their path +Unerringly. + +O World! so few the years we live, +Would that the life which thou dost give +Were life indeed! +Alas! thy sorrows fall so fast, +Our happiest hour is when at last +The soul is freed. + +Our days are covered o'er with grief, +And sorrows neither few nor brief +Veil all in gloom; +Left desolate of real good, +Within this cheerless solitude +No pleasures bloom. + +Thy pilgrimage begins in tears, +And ends in bitter doubts and fears, +Or dark despair; +Midway so many toils appear, +That he who lingers longest here +Knows most of care. + +Thy goods are bought with many a groan, +By the hot sweat of toil alone, +And weary hearts; +Fleet-footed is the approach of woe, +But with a lingering step and slow +Its form departs. + +And he, the good man's shield and shade, +To whom all hearts their homage paid, +As Virtue's son, +Roderic Manrique, he whose name +Is written on the scroll of Fame, +Spain's champion; + +His signal deeds and prowess high +Demand no pompous eulogy. +Ye saw his deeds! +Why should their praise in verse be sung? +The name, that dwells on every tongue, +No minstrel needs. + +To friends a friend; how kind to all +The vassals of this ancient hall +And feudal fief! +To foes how stern a foe was he! +And to the valiant and the free +How brave a chief! + +What prudence with the old and wise: +What grace in youthful gayeties; +In all how sage! +Benignant to the serf and slave, +He showed the base and falsely brave +A lion's rage. + +His was Octavian's prosperous star, +The rush of Caesar's conquering car +At battle's call; +His, Scipio's virtue; his, the skill +And the indomitable will +Of Hannibal. + +His was a Trajan's goodness, his +A Titus' noble charities +And righteous laws; +The arm of Hector, and the might +Of Tully, to maintain the right +In truth's just cause; + +The clemency of Antonine, +Aurelius' countenance divine, +Firm, gentle, still; +The eloquence of Adrian, +And Theodosius' love to man, +And generous will; + +In tented field and bloody fray, +An Alexander's vigorous sway +And stern command; +The faith of Constantine; ay, more, +The fervent love Camillus bore +His native land. + +He left no well-filled treasury, +He heaped no pile of riches high, +Nor massive plate; +He fought the Moors, and, in their fall, +City and tower and castled wall +Were his estate. + +Upon the hard-fought battle-ground, +Brave steeds and gallant riders found +A common grave; +And there the warrior's hand did gain +The rents, and the long vassal train, +That conquest gave. + +And if, of old, his halls displayed +The honored and exalted grade +His worth had gained, +So, in the dark, disastrous hour, +Brothers and bondsmen of his power +His hand sustained. + +After high deeds, not left untold, +In the stern warfare, which of old +'T was his to share, +Such noble leagues he made, that more +And fairer regions, than before, +His guerdon were. + +These are the records, half effaced, +Which, with the hand of youth, he traced +On history's page; +But with fresh victories he drew +Each fading character anew +In his old age. + +By his unrivalled skill, by great +And veteran service to the state, +By worth adored, +He stood, in his high dignity, +The proudest knight of chivalry, +Knight of the Sword. + +He found his cities and domains +Beneath a tyrant's galling chains +And cruel power; +But by fierce battle and blockade, +Soon his own banner was displayed +From every tower. + +By the tried valor of his hand, +His monarch and his native land +Were nobly served; +Let Portugal repeat the story, +And proud Castile, who shared the glory +His arms deserved. + +And when so oft, for weal or woe, +His life upon the fatal throw +Had been cast down; +When he had served, with patriot zeal, +Beneath the banner of Castile, +His sovereign's crown; + +And done such deeds of valor strong, +That neither history nor song +Can count them all; +Then, on Ocana's castled rock, +Death at his portal came to knock, +With sudden call, + +Saying, "Good Cavalier, prepare +To leave this world of toil and care +With joyful mien; +Let thy strong heart of steel this day +Put on its armor for the fray, +The closing scene. + +"Since thou hast been, in battle-strife, +So prodigal of health and life, +For earthly fame, +Let virtue nerve thy heart again; +Loud on the last stern battle-plain +They call thy name. + +"Think not the struggle that draws near +Too terrible for man, nor fear +To meet the foe; +Nor let thy noble spirit grieve, +Its life of glorious fame to leave +On earth below. + +"A life of honor and of worth +Has no eternity on earth, +'T is but a name; +And yet its glory far exceeds +That base and sensual life, which leads +To want and shame. + +"The eternal life, beyond the sky, +Wealth cannot purchase, nor the high +And proud estate; +The soul in dalliance laid, the spirit +Corrupt with sin, shall not inherit +A joy so great. + +"But the good monk, in cloistered cell, +Shall gain it by his book and bell, +His prayers and tears; +And the brave knight, whose arm endures +Fierce battle, and against the Moors +His standard rears. + +"And thou, brave knight, whose hand has poured +The life-blood of the Pagan horde +O'er all the land, +In heaven shalt thou receive, at length, +The guerdon of thine earthly strength +And dauntless hand. + +"Cheered onward by this promise sure, +Strong in the faith entire and pure +Thou dost profess, +Depart, thy hope is certainty, +The third, the better life on high +Shalt thou possess." + +"O Death, no more, no more delay; +My spirit longs to flee away, +And be at rest; +The will of Heaven my will shall be, +I bow to the divine decree, +To God's behest. + +"My soul is ready to depart, +No thought rebels, the obedient heart +Breathes forth no sigh; +The wish on earth to linger still +Were vain, when 't is God's sovereign will +That we shall die. + +"O thou, that for our sins didst take +A human form, and humbly make +Thy home on earth; +Thou, that to thy divinity +A human nature didst ally +By mortal birth, + +"And in that form didst suffer here +Torment, and agony, and fear, +So patiently; +By thy redeeming grace alone, +And not for merits of my own, +O, pardon me!" + +As thus the dying warrior prayed, +Without one gathering mist or shade +Upon his mind; +Encircled by his family, +Watched by affection's gentle eye +So soft and kind; + +His soul to Him, who gave it, rose; +God lead it to its long repose, +Its glorious rest! +And, though the warrior's sun has set, +Its light shall linger round us yet, +Bright, radiant, blest. + + + + +SONNETS + +I + +THE GOOD SHEPHERD + +(EL BUEN PASTOR) + +BY LOPE DE VEGA + +Shepherd! who with thine amorous, sylvan song + Hast broken the slumber that encompassed me, + Who mad'st thy crook from the accursed tree, + On which thy powerful arms were stretched so long! +Lead me to mercy's ever-flowing fountains; + For thou my shepherd, guard, and guide shalt be; + I will obey thy voice, and wait to see + Thy feet all beautiful upon the mountains. +Hear, Shepherd! thou who for thy flock art dying, + O, wash away these scarlet sins, for thou + Rejoicest at the contrite sinner's vow. +O, wait! to thee my weary soul is crying, + Wait for me! Yet why ask it, when I see, + With feet nailed to the cross, thou 'rt waiting still for me! + + +II + +TO-MORROW + +(MANANA) + +BY LOPE DE VEGA + +Lord, what am I, that with unceasing care, + Thou didst seek after me, that thou didst wait + Wet with unhealthy dews, before my gate, + And pass the gloomy nights of winter there? +O strange delusion! that I did not greet + Thy blest approach, and O, to Heaven how lost, + If my ingratitude's unkindly frost + Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon thy feet. +How oft my guardian angel gently cried, + "Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt see + How he persists to knock and wait for thee!" +And, O! how often to that voice of sorrow, + "To-morrow we will open," I replied, + And when the morrow came I answered still "To-morrow." + + +III + +THE NATIVE LAND + +(EL PATRIO CIELO) + + BY FRANCISCO DE ALDANA + +Clear fount of light! my native land on high, + Bright with a glory that shall never fade! + Mansion of truth! without a veil or shade, + Thy holy quiet meets the spirit's eye. +There dwells the soul in its ethereal essence, + Gasping no longer for life's feeble breath; + But, sentinelled in heaven, its glorious presence + With pitying eye beholds, yet fears not, death. +Beloved country! banished from thy shore, + A stranger in this prison-house of clay, + The exiled spirit weeps and sighs for thee! +Heavenward the bright perfections I adore + Direct, and the sure promise cheers the way, + That, whither love aspires, there shall my dwelling be. + + +IV + +THE IMAGE OF GOD + +(LA IMAGEN DE DIOS) + +BY FRANCISCO DE ALDANA + +O Lord! who seest, from yon starry height, + Centred in one the future and the past, + Fashioned in thine own image, see how fast + The world obscures in me what once was bright! +Eternal Sun! the warmth which thou hast given, + To cheer life's flowery April, fast decays; + Yet in the hoary winter of my days, + Forever green shall be my trust in Heaven. +Celestial King! O let thy presence pass + Before my spirit, and an image fair + Shall meet that look of mercy from on high, +As the reflected image in a glass + Doth meet the look of him who seeks it there, + And owes its being to the gazer's eye. + + +V + +THE BROOK + +(A UN ARROYUELO) + +ANONYMOUS + +Laugh of the mountain!--lyre of bird and tree! + Pomp of the meadow! mirror of the morn! + The soul of April, unto whom are born + The rose and jessamine, leaps wild in thee! +Although, where'er thy devious current strays, + The lap of earth with gold and silver teems, + To me thy clear proceeding brighter seems + Than golden sands, that charm each shepherd's gaze. +How without guile thy bosom, all transparent + As the pure crystal, lets the curious eye + Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, round pebbles count! +How, without malice murmuring, glides thy current! + O sweet simplicity of days gone by! + Thou shun'st the haunts of man, to dwell in limpid fount! + + + + +ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. + +In the chapter with this title in Outre-Mer, besides Illustrations +from Byron and Lockhart are the three following examples, +contributed by Mr. Longfellow. + + +I + +Rio Verde, Rio Verde! + Many a corpse is bathed in thee, +Both of Moors and eke of Christians, + Slain with swords most cruelly. + +And thy pure and crystal waters + Dappled are with crimson gore; +For between the Moors and Christians + Long has been the fight and sore. + +Dukes and Counts fell bleeding near thee, + Lords of high renown were slain, +Perished many a brave hidalgo + Of the noblemen of Spain. + + +II + +"King Alfonso the Eighth, having exhausted his treasury in war, +wishes to lay a tax of five farthings upon each of the Castillan +hidalgos, in order to defray the expenses of a journey from +Burgos to Cuenca. This proposition of the king was met with +disdain by the noblemen who had been assembled on the occasion." + + +Don Nuno, Count of Lara, + In anger and in pride, +Forgot all reverence for the king, + And thus in wrath replied: + +"Our noble ancestors," quoth he, + "Ne'er such a tribute paid; +Nor shall the king receive of us + What they have once gainsaid. + +"The base-born soul who deems it just + May here with thee remain; +But follow me, ye cavaliers, + Ye noblemen of Spain." + +Forth followed they the noble Count, + They marched to Glera's plain; +Out of three thousand gallant knights + Did only three remain. + +They tied the tribute to their spears, + They raised it in the air, +And they sent to tell their lord the king + That his tax was ready there. + +"He may send and take by force," said they, + "This paltry sum of gold; +But the goodly gift of liberty + Cannot be bought and sold." + + +III + +"One of the finest of the historic ballads is that which describes +Bernardo's march to Roncesvalles. He sallies forth 'with three +thousand Leonese and more,' to protect the glory and freedom of +his native land. From all sides, the peasantry of the land flock +to the hero's standard." + + +The peasant leaves his plough afield, + The reaper leaves his hook, +And from his hand the shepherd-boy. + Lets fall the pastoral crook. + +The young set up a shout of joy, + The old forget their years, +The feeble man grows stout of heart. + No more the craven fears. + +All rush to Bernard's standard, + And on liberty they call; +They cannot brook to wear the yoke, + When threatened by the Gaul. + +"Free were we born," 't is thus they cry + "And willingly pay we +The duty that we owe our king + By the divine decree. + +"But God forbid that we obey + The laws of foreign knaves, +Tarnish the glory of our sires, + And make our children slaves. + +"Our hearts have not so craven grown, + So bloodless all our veins, +So vigorless our brawny arms, + As to submit to chains. + +"Has the audacious Frank, forsooth, + Subdued these seas and lands? +Shall he a bloodless victory have? +No, not while we have hands. + +"He shall learn that the gallant Leonese + Can bravely fight and fall, +But that they know not how to yield; + They are Castilians all. + +"Was it for this the Roman power + Of old was made to yield +Unto Numantia's valiant hosts + On many a bloody field? + +"Shall the bold lions that have bathed + Their paws in Libyan gore, +Crouch basely to a feebler foe, + And dare the strife no more? + +"Let the false king sell town and tower, + But not his vassals free; +For to subdue the free-born soul + No royal power hath he!" + + + +VIDA DE SAN MILLAN + +BY GONZALO DE BERCEO + +And when the kings were in the field,--their squadrons in array,-- +With lance in rest they onward pressed to mingle in the fray; +But soon upon the Christians fell a terror of their foes,-- +These were a numerous army,--a little handful those. + +And while the Christian people stood in this uncertainty, +Upward to heaven they turned their eyes, and fixed their thoughts on high; +And there two figures they beheld, all beautiful and bright, +Even than the pure new-fallen snow their garments were more white. + +They rode upon two horses more white than crystal sheen, +And arms they bore such as before no mortal man had seen; +The one, he held a crosier,--a pontiff's mitre wore; +The other held a crucifix,--such man ne'er saw before. + +Their faces were angelical, celestial forms had they,-- +And downward through the fields of air they urged their rapid way; +They looked upon the Moorish host with fierce and angry look, +And in their hands, with dire portent, their naked sabres shook. + +The Christian host, beholding this, straightway take heart again; +They fall upon their bended knees, all resting on the plain, +And each one with his clenched fist to smite his breast begins, +And promises to God on high he will forsake his sins. + +And when the heavenly knights drew near unto the battle-ground, +They dashed among the Moors and dealt unerring blows around; +Such deadly havoc there they made the foremost ranks along, +A panic terror spread unto the hindmost of the throng. + +Together with these two good knights, the champions of the sky, +The Christians rallied and began to smite full sore and high; +The Moors raised up their voices and by the Koran swore +That in their lives such deadly fray they ne'er had seen before. + +Down went the misbelievers,--fast sped the bloody fight,-- +Some ghastly and dismembered lay, and some half dead with fright: +Full sorely they repented that to the field they came, +For they saw that from the battle they should retreat with shame. + +Another thing befell them,--they dreamed not of such woes,-- +The very arrows that the Moors shot front their twanging bows +Turned back against them in their flight and wounded them full sore, +And every blow they dealt the foe was paid in drops of gore. + + . . . . . . . . . + +Now he that bore the crosier, and the papal crown had on, +Was the glorified Apostle, the brother of Saint John; +And he that held the crucifix, and wore the monkish hood, +Was the holy San Millan of Cogolla's neighborhood. + + + +SAN MIGUEL, THE CONVENT + +(SAN MIGUEL DE LA TUMBA) + +BY GONZALO DE BERCEO + + +San Miguel de la Tumba is a convent vast and wide; +The sea encircles it around, and groans on every side: +It is a wild and dangerous place, and many woes betide +The monks who in that burial-place in penitence abide. + +Within those dark monastic walls, amid the ocean flood, +Of pious, fasting monks there dwelt a holy brotherhood; +To the Madonna's glory there an altar high was placed, +And a rich and costly image the sacred altar graced. + +Exalted high upon a throne, the Virgin Mother smiled, +And, as the custom is, she held within her arms the Child; +The kings and wise men of the East were kneeling by her side; +Attended was she like a queen whom God had sanctified. + + . . . . . . . . . + +Descending low before her face a screen of feathers hung,-- +A moscader, or fan for flies, 'tis called in vulgar tongue; +From the feathers of the peacock's wing 't was fashioned bright and fair, +And glistened like the heaven above when all its stars are there. + +It chanced that, for the people's sins, fell the lightning's blasting stroke: +Forth from all four the sacred walls the flames consuming broke; +The sacred robes were all consumed, missal and holy book; +And hardly with their lives the monks their crumbling walls forsook. + + . . . . . . . . . + + +But though the desolating flame raged fearfully and wild, +It did not reach the Virgin Queen, it did not reach the Child; +It did not reach the feathery screen before her face that shone, +Nor injure in a farthing's worth the image or the throne. + +The image it did not consume, it did not burn the screen; +Even in the value of a hair they were not hurt, I ween; +Not even the smoke did reach them, nor injure more the shrine +Than the bishop hight Don Tello has been hurt by hand of mine. + + . . . . . . . . . + + +SONG + +She is a maid of artless grace, +Gentle in form, and fair of face, + +Tell me, thou ancient mariner, + That sailest on the sea, +If ship, or sail or evening star + Be half so fair as she! + +Tell me, thou gallant cavalier, + Whose shining arms I see, +If steel, or sword, or battle-field + Be half so fair as she! + +Tell me, thou swain, that guard'st thy flock + Beneath the shadowy tree, +If flock, or vale, or mountain-ridge + Be half so fair as she! + + +SANTA TERESA'S BOOK-MARK + +(LETRILLA QUE LLEVABA POR REGISTRO EN SU BREVIARIO) + +BY SANTA TERESA DE AVILA + +Let nothing disturb thee, +Nothing affright thee; +All things are passing; +God never changeth; +Patient endurance +Attaineth to all things; +Who God possesseth +In nothing is wanting; +Alone God sufficeth. + + + +FROM THE CANCIONEROS + +I + +EYES SO TRISTFUL, EYES SO TRISTFUL + +(OJOS TRISTES, OJOS TRISTES) + +BY DIEGO DE SALDANA + +Eyes so tristful, eyes so tristful, +Heart so full of care and cumber, +I was lapped in rest and slumber, +Ye have made me wakeful, wistful! + +In this life of labor endless +Who shall comfort my distresses? +Querulous my soul and friendless +In its sorrow shuns caresses. +Ye have made me, ye have made me +Querulous of you, that care not, +Eyes so tristful, yet I dare not +Say to what ye have betrayed me. + + +II + +SOME DAY, SOME DAY + +(ALGUNA VEZ) + +BY CRISTOBAL DE GASTILLOJO + +Some day, some day +O troubled breast, +Shalt thou find rest. + +If Love in thee +To grief give birth, +Six feet of earth +Can more than he; +There calm and free +And unoppressed +Shalt thou find rest. + +The unattained +In life at last, +When life is passed, +Shall all be gained; +And no more pained, +No more distressed, +Shalt thou find rest. + + +III + +COME, O DEATH, SO SILENT FLYING + +(VEN, MUERTE TAN ESCONDIDA) + +BY EL COMMENDADOR ESCRIVA + +Come, O Death, so silent flying +That unheard thy coming be, +Lest the sweet delight of dying +Bring life back again to me. +For thy sure approach perceiving, +In my constancy and pain +I new life should win again, +Thinking that I am not living. +So to me, unconscious lying, +All unknown thy coming be, +Lest the sweet delight of dying +Bring life back again to me. +Unto him who finds thee hateful, +Death, thou art inhuman pain; +But to me, who dying gain, +Life is but a task ungrateful. +Come, then, with my wish complying, +All unheard thy coming be, +Lest the sweet delight of dying +Bring life back again to me. + + +IV + +GLOVE OF BLACK IN WHITE HAND BARE + +Glove of black in white hand bare, +And about her forehead pale +Wound a thin, transparent veil, +That doth not conceal her hair; +Sovereign attitude and air, +Cheek and neck alike displayed +With coquettish charms arrayed, +Laughing eyes and fugitive;-- +This is killing men that live, +'T is not mourning for the dead. + + + +FROM THE SWEDISH AND DANISH + + +PASSAGES FROM FRITHIOF'S SAGA + +BY ESAIAS TEGNÉR + +I + +FRITHIOF'S HOMESTEAD + +Three miles extended around the fields of the homestead, on three sides +Valleys and mountains and hills, but on the fourth side was the ocean. +Birch woods crowned the summits, but down the slope of the hillsides +Flourished the golden corn, and man-high was waving the rye-field. +Lakes, full many in number, their mirror held up for the mountains, +Held for the forests up, in whose depths the high-horned reindeers +Had their kingly walk, and drank of a hundred brooklets. +But in the valleys widely around, there fed on the greensward +Herds with shining hides and udders that longed for the milk-pail. +'Mid these scattered, now here and now there, were numberless flocks of +Sheep with fleeces white, as thou seest the white-looking stray clouds, +Flock-wise spread o'er the heavenly vault when it bloweth in springtime. +Coursers two times twelve, all mettlesome, fast fettered storm-winds, +Stamping stood in the line of stalls, and tugged at their fodder. +Knotted with red were their manes, and their hoofs all white with steel shoes. +Th' banquet-hall, a house by itself, was timbered of hard fir. +Not five hundred men (at ten times twelve to the hundred) +Filled up the roomy hall, when assembled for drinking, at Yule-tide. +Through the hall, as long as it was, went a table of holm-oak, +Polished and white, as of steel; the columns twain of the High-seat +Stood at the end thereof, two gods carved out of an elm-tree: +Odin with lordly look, and Frey with the sun on his frontlet. +Lately between the two, on a bear-skin (the skin it was coal-black, +Scarlet-red was the throat, but the paws were shodden with silver), +Thorsten sat with his friends, Hospitality sitting with Gladness. +Oft, when the moon through the cloudrack flew, related the old man +Wonders from distant lands he had seen, and cruises of Vikings +Far away on the Baltic, and Sea of the West and the White Sea. +Hushed sat the listening bench, and their glances hung on the graybeard's +Lips, as a bee on the rose; but the Scald was thinking of Brage, +Where, with his silver beard, and runes on his tongue, he is seated +Under the leafy beech, and tells a tradition by Mimer's +Ever-murmuring wave, himself a living tradition. +Midway the floor (with thatch was it strewn) burned ever the fire-flame +Glad on its stone-built hearth; and thorough the wide-mouthed smoke-flue +Looked the stars, those heavenly friends, down into the great hall. +Round the walls, upon nails of steel, were hanging in order +Breastplate and helmet together, and here and there among them +Downward lightened a sword, as in winter evening a star shoots. +More than helmets and swords the shields in the hall were resplendent, +White as the orb of the sun, or white as the moon's disk of silver. +Ever and anon went a maid round the hoard, and filled up the drink-horns, +Ever she cast down her eyes and blushed; in the shield her reflection +Blushed, too, even as she; this gladdened the drinking champions. + + +II + +A SLEDGE-RIDE ON THE ICE + +King Ring with his queen to the banquet did fare, +On the lake stood the ice so mirror-clear, + +"Fare not o'er the ice," the stranger cries; +"It will burst, and full deep the cold bath lies." + +"The king drowns not easily," Ring outspake; +"He who's afraid may go round the lake." + +Threatening and dark looked the stranger round, +His steel shoes with haste on his feet he bound, + +The sledge-horse starts forth strong and free; +He snorteth flames, so glad is he. + +"Strike out," screamed the king, "my trotter good, +Let us see if thou art of Sleipner's blood." + +They go as a storm goes over the lake. +No heed to his queen doth the old man take. + +But the steel-shod champion standeth not still, +He passeth them by as swift as he will. + +He carves many runes in the frozen tide, +Fair Ingeborg o'er her own name doth glide. + + +III + +FRITHIOF'S TEMPTATION + +Spring is coming, birds are twittering, forests leaf, and smiles the sun, +And the loosened torrents downward, singing, to the ocean run; +Glowing like the cheek of Freya, peeping rosebuds 'gin to ope, +And in human hearts awaken love of life, and joy, and hope. + +Now will hunt the ancient monarch, and the queen shall join the sport: +Swarming in its gorgeous splendor, is assembled all the Court; +Bows ring loud, and quivers rattle, stallions paw the ground alway, +And, with hoods upon their eyelids, scream the falcons for their prey. + +See, the Queen of the Chase advances! Frithiof, gaze not at the sight! +Like a star upon a spring-cloud sits she on her palfrey white. +Half of Freya, half of Rota, yet more beauteous than these two, +And from her light hat of purple wave aloft the feathers blue. + +Gaze not at her eyes' blue heaven, gaze not at her golden hair! +Oh beware! her waist is slender, full her bosom is, beware! +Look not at the rose and lily on her cheek that shifting play, +List not to the voice beloved, whispering like the wind of May. + +Now the huntsman's band is ready. Hurrah! over hill and dale! +Horns ring, and the hawks right upward to the hall of Odin sail. +All the dwellers in the forest seek in fear their cavern homes, +But, with spear outstretched before her, after them the Valkyr comes. + + . . . . . . . . . . + +Then threw Frithiof down his mantle, and upon the greensward spread, +And the ancient king so trustful laid on Frithiof's knee his head, +Slept as calmly as the hero sleepeth, after war's alarm, +On his shield, or as an infant sleeps upon its mother's arm. + +As he slumbers, hark! there sings a coal-black bird upon the bough; +"Hasten, Frithiof, slay the old man, end your quarrel at a blow: +Take his queen, for she is thine, and once the bridal kiss she gave, +Now no human eye beholds thee, deep and silent is the grave," + +Frithiof listens; hark! there sings a snow-white bird upon the bough: +"Though no human eye beholds thee, Odin's eye beholds thee now. +Coward! wilt thou murder sleep, and a defenceless old man slay! +Whatsoe'er thou winn'st, thou canst not win a hero's fame this way." + +Thus the two wood-birds did warble: Frithiof took his war-sword good, +With a shudder hurled it from him, far into the gloomy wood. +Coal-black bird flies down to Nastrand, but on light, unfolded wings, +Like the tone of harps, the other, sounding towards the sun, upsprings. + +Straight the ancient king awakens. "Sweet has been my sleep," he said; +"Pleasantly sleeps one in the shadow, guarded by a brave man's blade. +But where is thy sword, O stranger? Lightning's brother, where is he? +Who thus parts you, who should never from each other parted be?" + +"It avails not," Frithiof answered; "in the North are other swords: +Sharp, O monarch! is the sword's tongue, and it speaks not peaceful words; +Murky spirits dwell in steel blades, spirits from the Niffelhem; +Slumber is not safe before them, silver locks but anger them." + + +IV + +FRITHIOF'S FAREWELL + +No more shall I see +In its upward motion +The smoke of the Northland. Man is a slave: +The fates decree. +On the waste of the ocean +There is my fatherland, there is my grave. + +Go not to the strand, +Ring, with thy bride, +After the stars spread their light through the sky. +Perhaps in the sand, +Washed up by the tide, +The bones of the outlawed Viking may lie. + +Then, quoth the king, +"'T is mournful to hear +A man like a whimpering maiden cry. +The death-song they sing +Even now in mine ear, +What avails it? He who is born must die." + + +***** + + +THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER + +BY ESAIAS TEGNÉR + +Pentecost, day of rejoicing, had come. The church of the village +Gleaming stood in the morning's sheen. + On the spire of the bell +Decked with a brazen cock, the friendly flames of the Spring-sun +Glanced like the tongues of fire, beheld by Apostles aforetime. +Clear was the heaven and blue, and May, with her cap crowned with roses, +Stood in her holiday dress in the fields, and the wind and the brooklet +Murmured gladness and peace, God's-peace! with lips rosy-tinted +Whispered the race of the flowers, and merry on balancing branches +Birds were singing their carol, a jubilant hymn to the Highest. +Swept and clean was the churchyard. Adorned like a leaf-woven arbor +Stood its old-fashioned gate; and within upon each cross of iron +Hung was a fragrant garland, new twined by the hands of affection. +Even the dial, that stood on a mound among the departed, +(There full a hundred years had it stood,) was embellished with blossoms +Like to the patriarch hoary, the sage of his kith and the hamlet, +Who on his birthday is crowned by children and children's children, +So stood the ancient prophet, and mute with his pencil of iron +Marked on the tablet of stone, and measured the time and its changes, +While all around at his feet, an eternity slumbered in quiet. +Also the church within was adorned, for this was the season +When the young, their parents' hope, and the loved-ones of heaven, +Should at the foot of the altar renew the vows of their baptism. +Therefore each nook and corner was swept and cleaned, and the dust was +Blown from the walls and ceiling, and from the oil-painted benches. +There stood the church like a garden; the Feast of the Leafy Pavilions +Saw we in living presentment. From noble arms on the church wall +Grew forth a cluster of leaves, and the preacher's pulpit of oak-wood +Budded once more anew, as aforetime the rod before Aaron. +Wreathed thereon was the Bible with leaves, and the dove, washed with silver +Under its canopy fastened, had on it a necklace of wind-flowers. +But in front of the choir, round the altar-piece painted by Horberg, +Crept a garland gigantic; and bright-curling tresses of angels +Peeped, like the sun from a cloud, from out of the shadowy leaf-work. +Likewise the lustre of brass, new-polished, blinked from the ceiling, +And for lights there were lilies of Pentecost set in the sockets. + + Loud rang the bells already; the thronging crowd was assembled +Far from valleys and hills, to list to the holy preaching. +Hark! then roll forth at once the mighty tones of the organ, +Hover like voices from God, aloft like invisible spirits. +Like as Elias in heaven, when he cast from off him his mantle, +So cast off the soul its garments of earth; and with one voice +Chimed in the congregation, and sang an anthem immortal +Of the sublime Wallin, of David's harp in the North-land +Tuned to the choral of Luther; the song on its mighty pinions +Took every living soul, and lifted it gently to heaven, +And each face did shine like the Holy One's face upon Tabor. +Lo! there entered then into the church the Reverend Teacher. +Father he hight and he was in the parish; a Christianly plainness +Clothed from his head to his feet the old man of seventy winters. +Friendly was he to behold, and glad as the heralding angel +Walked he among the crowds, but still a contemplative grandeur +Lay on his forehead as clear as on moss-covered gravestone a sunbeam. +As in his inspiration (an evening twilight that faintly +Gleams in the human soul, even now, from the day of creation) +Th' Artist, the friend of heaven, imagines Saint John when in Patmos, +Gray, with his eyes uplifted to heaven, so seemed then the old man: +Such was the glance of his eye, and such were his tresses of silver. +All the congregation arose in the pews that were numbered. +But with a cordial look, to the right and the left hand, the old man +Nodding all hail and peace, disappeared in the innermost chancel. + + Simply and solemnly now proceeded the Christian service, +Singing and prayer, and at last an ardent discourse from the old man. +Many a moving word and warning, that out of the heart came, +Fell like the dew of the morning, like manna on those in the desert. +Then, when all was finished, the Teacher re-entered the chancel +Followed therein by the young. The boys on the right had their places, +Delicate figures, with close-curling hair and cheeks rosy-blooming. +But on the left of these there stood the tremulous lilies, +Tinged with the blushing light of the dawn, the diffident maidens,-- +Folding their hands in prayer, and their eyes cast down on the pavement +Now came, with question and answer, the catechism. In the beginning +Answered the children with troubled and faltering voice, but the old man's +Glances of kindness encouraged them soon, and the doctrines eternal +Flowed, like the waters of fountains, so clear from lips unpolluted. +Each time the answer was closed, and as oft as they named the Redeemer, +Lowly louted the boys, and lowly the maidens all courtesied. +Friendly the Teacher stood, like an angel of light there among them. +And to the children explained the holy, the highest, in few words, +Thorough, yet simple and clear, for sublimity always is simple, +Both in sermon and song, a child can seize on its meaning. +E'en as the green-growing bud unfolds when Springtide approaches. +Leaf by leaf puts forth, and warmed, by the radiant sunshine, +Blushes with purple and gold, till at last the perfected blossom +Opens its odorous chalice, and rocks with its crown in the breezes, +So was unfolded here the Christian lore of salvation, +Line by line from the soul of childhood. The fathers and mothers +Stood behind them in tears, and were glad at the well-worded answer. + + Now went the old man up to the altar;--and straightway transfigured +(So did it seem unto me) was then the affectionate Teacher. +Like the Lord's Prophet sublime, and awful as Death and as Judgment +Stood he, the God-commissioned, the soul-searcher, earthward descending +Glances, sharp as a sword, into hearts that to him were transparent +Shot he; his voice was deep, was low like the thunder afar off. +So on a sudden transfigured he stood there, lie spake and he questioned. + + "This is the faith of the Fathers, the faith the Apostles delivered, +This is moreover the faith whereunto I baptized you, while still ye +Lay on your mothers' breasts, and nearer the portals of heaven, +Slumbering received you then the Holy Church in its bosom; +Wakened from sleep are ye now, and the light in its radiant splendor +Downward rains from the heaven;--to-day on the threshold of childhood +Kindly she frees you again, to examine and make your election, +For she knows naught of compulsion, and only conviction desireth. +This is the hour of your trial, the turning-point of existence, +Seed for the coming days; without revocation departeth +Now from your lips the confession; Bethink ye, before ye make answer! +Think not, O think not with guile to deceive the questioning Teacher. +Sharp is his eye to-day, and a curse ever rests upon falsehood. +Enter not with a lie on Life's journey; the multitude hears you, +Brothers and sisters and parents, what dear upon earth is and holy +Standeth before your sight as a witness; the Judge everlasting +Looks from the sun down upon you, and angels in waiting beside him +Grave your confession in letters of fire upon tablets eternal. +Thus, then,--believe ye in God, in the Father who this world created? +Him who redeemed it, the Son, and the Spirit where both are united? +Will ye promise me here, (a holy promise!) to cherish +God more than all things earthly, and every man as a brother? +Will ye promise me here, to confirm your faith by your living, +Th' heavenly faith of affection! to hope, to forgive, and to suffer, +Be what it may your condition, and walk before God in uprightness? +Will ye promise me this before God and man?"--With a clear voice +Answered the young men Yes! and Yes! with lips softly-breathing +Answered the maidens eke. Then dissolved from the brow of the Teacher +Clouds with the lightnings therein, and lie spake in accents more gentle, +Soft as the evening's breath, as harps by Babylon's rivers. + + "Hail, then, hail to you all! To the heirdom of heaven be ye welcome! +Children no more from this day, but by covenant brothers and sisters! +Yet,--for what reason not children? Of such is the kingdom of heaven. +Here upon earth an assemblage of children, in heaven one Father, +Ruling them all as his household,--forgiving in turn and chastising, +That is of human life a picture, as Scripture has taught us. +Blest are the pure before God! Upon purity and upon virtue +Resteth the Christian Faith: she herself from on high is descended. +Strong as a man and pure as a child, is the sum of the doctrine, +Which the Divine One taught, and suffered and died on the cross for +Oh, as ye wander this day from childhood's sacred asylum +Downward and ever downward, and deeper in Age's chill valley, +Oh, how soon will ye come,--too soon!--and long to turn backward +Up to its hill-tops again, to the sun-illumined, where Judgment +Stood like a father before you, and Pardon, clad like a mother, +Gave you her hand to kiss, and the loving heart was for given +Life was a play and your hands grasped after the roses of heaven! +Seventy years have I lived already; the Father eternal +Gave rue gladness and care; but the loveliest hours of existence, +When I have steadfastly gazed in their eyes, I have instantly known them, +Known them all again;--the were my childhood's acquaintance. +Therefore take from henceforth, as guides in the paths of existence, +Prayer, with her eyes raised to heaven, and Innocence, bride of man's childhood +Innocence, child beloved, is a guest from the world of the blessed, +Beautiful, and in her hand a lily; on life's roaring billows +Swings she in safety, she heedeth them not in the ship she is sleeping. +Calmly she gazes around in the turmoil of men; in the desert +Angels descend and minister unto her; she herself knoweth +Naught of her glorious attendance; but follows faithful and humble, +Follows so long as she may her friend; oh do not reject her, +For she cometh from God and she holdeth the keys of the heavens. +Prayer is Innocence' friend; and willingly flieth incessant +'Twixt the earth and the sky, the carrier-pigeon of heaven, +Son of Eternity, fettered in Time, and an exile, the Spirit +Tugs at his chains evermore, and struggles like flame ever upward. +Still he recalls with emotion his Father's manifold mansions, +Thinks of the land of his fathers, where blossomed more freshly the flowerets, +Shone a more beautiful sun, and he played with the winged angels. +Then grows the earth too narrow, too close; and homesick for heaven +Longs the wanderer again; and the Spirit's longings are worship; +Worship is called his most beautiful hour, and its tongue is entreaty. +Aid when the infinite burden of life descendeth upon us, +Crushes to earth our hope, and, under the earth, in the graveyard, +Then it is good to pray unto God; for his sorrowiug children +Turns he ne'er from his door, but he heals and helps and consoles them, +Yet is it better to pray when all things are prosperous with us, +Pray in fortunate days, for life's most beautiful Fortune +Kneels before the Eternal's throne; and with hands interfolded, +Praises thankful and moved the only giver of blessings. +Or do ye know, ye children, one blessing that comes not from Heaven? +What has mankind forsooth, the poor! that it has not received? +Therefore, fall in the dust and pray! The seraphs adoring +Cover with pinions six their face in the glory of him who +Hung his masonry pendent on naught, when the world be created. +Earth declareth his might, and the firmament utters his glory. +Races blossom and die, and stars fall downward from heaven, +Downward like withered leaves; at the last stroke of midnight, millenniums +Lay themselves down at his feet, and he sees them, but counts them as nothing +Who shall stand in his presence? The wrath of the judge is terrific, +Casting the insolent down at a glance. When he speaks in his anger +Hillocks skip like the kid, and mountains leap like the roebuck. +Yet,--why are ye afraid, ye children? This awful avenger, +Ah! is a merciful God! God's voice was not in the earthquake, +Not in the fire, nor the storm, but it was in the whispering breezes. +Love is the root of creation; God's essence; worlds without number +Lie in his bosom like children; he made them for this purpose only. +Only to love and to be loved again, he breathed forth his spirit +Into the slumbering dust, and upright standing, it laid its +Hand on its heart, and felt it was warm with a flame out of heaven. +Quench, oh quench not that flame! It is the breath of your being. +Love is life, but hatred is death. Not father, nor mother +Loved you, as God has loved you; for 't was that you may be happy +Gave he his only Son. When he bowed down his head in the death-hour +Solemnized Love its triumph; the sacrifice then was completed. +Lo! then was rent on a sudden the veil of the temple, dividing +Earth and heaven apart, and the dead from their sepulchres rising +Whispered with pallid lips and low in the ears of each other +Th' answer, but dreamed of before, to creation's enigma,--Atonement! +Depths of Love are Atonement's depths, for Love is Atonement. +Therefore, child of mortality, love thou the merciful Father; +Wish what the Holy One wishes, and not from fear, but affection +Fear is the virtue of slaves; but the heart that loveth is willing +Perfect was before God, and perfect is Love, and Love only. +Lovest thou God as thou oughtest, then lovest thou likewise thy brethren: +One is the sun in heaven, and one, only one, is Love also. +Bears not each human figure the godlike stamp on his forehead +Readest thou not in his face thou origin? Is he not sailing +Lost like thyself on an ocean unknown, and is he not guided +By the same stars that guide thee? Why shouldst thou hate then thy brother? +Hateth he thee, forgive! For 't is sweet to stammer one letter +Of the Eternal's language;--on earth it is called Forgiveness! +Knowest thou Him, who forgave, with the crown of thorns on his temples? +Earnestly prayed for his foes, for his murderers? Say, dost thou know him? +Ah! thou confessest his name, so follow likewise his example, +Think of thy brother no ill, but throw a veil over his failings, +Guide the erring aright; for the good, the heavenly shepherd +Took the lost lamb in his arms, and bore it back to its mother. +This is the fruit of Love, and it is by its fruits that we know it. +Love is the creature's welfare, with God; but Love among mortals +Is but an endless sigh! He longs, and endures, and stands waiting, +Suffers and yet rejoices, and smiles with tears on his eyelids. +Hope,--so is called upon earth, his recompense, Hope, the befriending, +Does what she can, for she points evermore up to heaven, and faithful +Plunges her anchor's peak in the depths of the grave, and beneath it +Paints a more beautiful world, a dim, but a sweet play of shadows! +Races, better than we, have leaned on her wavering promise, +Having naught else but Hope. Then praise we our Father in heaven, +Him, who has given us more; for to us has Hope been transfigured, +Groping no longer in night; she is Faith, she is living assurance. +Faith is enlightened Hope; she is light, is the eye of affection, +Dreams of the longing interprets, and carves their visions in marble. +Faith is the sun of life; and her countenance shines like the Hebrew's, +For she has looked upon God; the heaven on its stable foundation +Draws she with chains down to earth, and the New Jerusalem sinketh +Splendid with portals twelve in golden vapors descending. +There enraptured she wanders. and looks at the figures majestic, +Fears not the winged crowd, in the midst of them all is her homestead. +Therefore love and believe; for works will follow spontaneous +Even as day does the sun; the Right from the Good is an offspring, +Love in a bodily shape; and Christian works are no more than +Animate Love and faith, as flowers are the animate Springtide. +Works do follow us all unto God; there stand and bear witness +Not what they seemed,--but what they were only. Blessed is he who +Hears their confession secure; they are mute upon earth until death's hand +Opens the mouth of the silent. Ye children, does Death e'er alarm you? +Death is the brother of Love, twin-brother is he, and is only +More austere to behold. With a kiss upon lips that are fading +Takes he the soul and departs, and, rocked in the arms of affection, +Places the ransomed child, new born, 'fore the face of its father. +Sounds of his coming already I hear,--see dimly his pinions, +Swart as the night, but with stars strewn upon them! I fear not before him. +Death is only release, and in mercy is mute. On his bosom +Freer breathes, in its coolness, my breast; and face to face standing +Look I on God as he is, a sun unpolluted by vapors; +Look on the light of the ages I loved, the spirits majestic, +Nobler, better than I; they stand by the throne all transfigured, +Vested in white, and with harps of gold, and are singing an anthem, +Writ in the climate of heaven, in the language spoken by angels. +You, in like manner, ye children beloved, he one day shall gather, +Never forgets he the weary;--then welcome, ye loved ones, hereafter! +Meanwhile forget not the keeping of vows, forget not the promise, +Wander from holiness onward to holiness; earth shall ye heed not +Earth is but dust and heaven is light; I have pledged you to heaven. +God of the universe, hear me! thou fountain of Love everlasting, +Hark to the voice of thy servant! I send up my prayer to thy heaven! +Let me hereafter not miss at thy throne one spirit of all these, +Whom thou hast given me here! I have loved them all like a father. +May they bear witness for me, that I taught them the way of salvation, +Faithful, so far as I knew, of thy word; again may they know me, +Fall on their Teacher's breast, and before thy face may I place them, +Pure as they now are, but only more tried, and exclaiming with gladness, +Father, lo! I am here, and the children, whom thou hast given me!" + + Weeping he spake in these words; and now at the beck of the old man +Knee against knee they knitted a wreath round the altar's enclosure. +Kneeling he read then the prayers of the consecration, and softly +With him the children read; at the close, with tremulous accents, +Asked he the peace of Heaven, a benediction upon them. +Now should have ended his task for the day; the following Sunday +Was for the young appointed to eat of the Lord's holy Supper. +Sudden, as struck from the clouds, stood the Teacher silent and laid his +Hand on his forehead, and cast his looks upward; while thoughts high and holy, +Flew through the midst of his soul, and his eyes glanced with wonderful brightness. +"On the next Sunday, who knows! perhaps I shall rest in the graveyard! +Some one perhaps of yourselves, a lily broken untimely, +Bow down his head to the earth; why delay I? the hour is accomplished, +Warm is the heart;--I will! for to-day grows the harvest of heaven. +What I began accomplish I now; what failing therein is +I, the old man, will answer to God and the reverend father. +Say to me only, ye children, ye denizens new-come in heaven, +Are ye ready this day to eat of the bread of Atonement? +What it denoteth, that know ye full well, I have told it you often. +Of the new covenant symbol it is, of Atonement a token, +Stablished between earth and heaven. Man by his sins and transgressions +Far has wandered from God, from his essence. 'T was in the beginning +Fast by the Tree of Knowledge he fell, and it hangs its crown o'er the +Fall to this day; in the Thought is the Fall; in the Heart the Atonement. +Infinite is the fall,--the Atonement infinite likewise. +See! behind me, as far as the old man remembers, and forward, +Far as Hope in her flight can reach with her wearied pinions, +Sin and Atonement incessant go through the lifetime of mortals. +Sin is brought forth full-grown; but Atonement sleeps in our bosoms +Still as the cradled babe; and dreams of heaven and of angels, +Cannot awake to sensation; is like the tones in the harp's strings, +Spirits imprisoned, that wait evermore the deliverer's finger. +Therefore, ye children beloved, descended the Prince of Atonement, +Woke the slumberer from sleep, and she stands now with eyes all resplendent. +Bright as the vault of the sky, and battles with Sin and o'ercomes her. +Downward to earth he came and, transfigured, thence reascended, +Not from the heart in like wise, for there he still lives in the Spirit, +Loves and atones evermore. So long as Time is, is Atonement. +Therefore with reverence take this day her visible token. +Tokens are dead if the things live not. The light everlasting +Unto the blind is not, but is born of the eye that has vision. +Neither in bread nor in wine, but in the heart that is hallowed +Lieth forgiveness enshrined; the intention alone of amendment +Fruits of the earth ennobles to heavenly things, and removes all +Sin and the guerdon of sin. Only Love with his arms wide extended, +Penitence wee ping and praying; the Will that is tried, and whose gold flows +Purified forth from the flames; in a word, mankind by Atonement +Breaketh Atonement's bread, and drinketh Atonement's wine-cup. +But he who cometh up hither, unworthy, with hate in his bosom, +Scoffing at men and at God, is guilty of Christ's blessed body, +And the Redeemer's blood! To himself he eateth and drinketh +Death and doom! And from this, preserve us, thou heavenly Father! +Are ye ready, ye children, to eat of the bread of Atonement?" +Thus with emotion he asked, and together answered the children, +"Yes!" with deep sobs interrupted. Then read he the due supplications, +Read the Form of Communion, and in chimed the organ and anthem: +"O Holy Lamb of God, who takest away our transgressions, +Hear us! give us thy peace! have mercy, have mercy upon us!" +Th' old man, with trembling hand, and heavenly pearls on his eyelids, +Filled now the chalice and paten, and dealt round the mystical symbols. +Oh, then seemed it to me as if God, with the broad eye of midday, +Clearer looked in at the windows, and all the trees in the church yard +Bowed down their summits of green, and the grass on the graves 'gan to shiver +But in the children (I noted it well; I knew it) there ran a +Tremor of holy rapture along through their ice-cold members. +Decked like an altar before them, there stood the green earth, and above it +Heaven opened itself, as of old before Stephen; they saw there +Radiant in glory the Father, and on his right hand the Redeemer. +Under them hear they the clang of harpstrings, and angels from gold clouds +Beckon to them like brothers, and fan with their pinions of purple. + + Closed was the Teacher's task, and with heaven in their hearts and their faces, +Up rose the children all, and each bowed him, weeping full sorely, +Downward to kiss that reverend hand, but all of them pressed he +Moved to his bosom, and laid, with a prayer, his hands full of blessings, +Now on the holy breast, and now on the innocent tresses. + + +******* + + +KING CHRISTIAN + +A NATIONAL SONG OF DENMARK + +King Christian stood by the lofty mast + In mist and smoke; +His sword was hammering so fast, +Through Gothic helm and brain it passed; +Then sank each hostile hulk and mast, + In mist and smoke. +"Fly!" shouted they, "fly, he who can! +Who braves of Denmark's Christian + The stroke?" + +Nils Juel gave heed to the tempest's roar, + Now is the hour! +He hoisted his blood-red flag once more, +And smote upon the foe full sore, +And shouted Loud, through the tempest's roar, + "Now is the hour!" +"Fly!" shouted they, "for shelter fly! +Of Denmark's Juel who can defy + The power?" + +North Sea! a glimpse of Wessel rent + Thy murky sky! +Then champions to thine arms were sent; +Terror and Death glared where he went; +From the waves was heard a wail, that + rent + Thy murky sky! +From Denmark, thunders Tordenskiol', +Let each to Heaven commend his soul, + And fly! + +Path of the Dane to fame and might! + Dark-rolling wave! +Receive thy friend, who, scorning flight +Goes to meet danger with despite, +Proudly as thou the tempest's might + Dark-rolling wave! +And amid pleasures and alarm; +And war and victory, be thine arms + My grave! + + + +THE ELECTED KNIGHT + +Sir Oluf he rideth over the plain, + Full seven miles broad and seven miles wide, +But never, ah never can meet with the man + A tilt with him dare ride. + +He saw under the hillside + A Knight full well equipped; +His steed was black, his helm was barred; + He was riding at full speed. + +He wore upon his spurs + Twelve little golden birds; +Anon he spurred his steed with a clang, + And there sat all the birds and sang. + +He wore upon his mail + Twelve little golden wheels; +Anon in eddies the wild wind blew, + And round and round the wheels they flew. + +He wore before his breast + A lance that was poised in rest; +And it was sharper than diamond-stone, + It made Sir Oluf's heart to groan. + +He wore upon his helm + A wreath of ruddy gold; +And that gave him the Maidens Three, + The youngest was fair to behold. + +Sir Oluf questioned the Knight eftsoon + If he were come from heaven down; +"Art thou Christ of Heaven," quoth he, + "So will I yield me unto thee." + +"I am not Christ the Great, + Thou shalt not yield thee yet; +I am an Unknown Knight, + Three modest Maidens have me bedight." + +"Art thou a Knight elected, + And have three Maidens thee bedight +So shalt thou ride a tilt this day, + For all the Maidens' honor!" + +The first tilt they together rode + They put their steeds to the test, +The second tilt they together rode, + They proved their manhood best. + +The third tilt they together rode, + Neither of them would yield; +The fourth tilt they together rode, + They both fell on the field. + +Now lie the lords upon the plain, + And their blood runs unto death; +Now sit the Maidens in the high tower, + The youngest sorrows till death. + + + +CHILDHOOD + +BY JENS IMMANUEL BAGGESEN + +There was a time when I was very small, + When my whole frame was but an ell in height; +Sweetly, as I recall it, tears do fall, + And therefore I recall it with delight. + +I sported in my tender mother's arms, + And rode a-horseback on best father's knee; +Alike were sorrows, passions and alarms, + And gold, and Greek, and love, unknown to me, + +Then seemed to me this world far less in size, + Likewise it seemed to me less wicked far; +Like points in heaven, I saw the stars arise, + And longed for wings that I might catch a star. + +I saw the moon behind the island fade, + And thought, "Oh, were I on that island there, +I could find out of what the moon is made, + Find out how large it is, how round, how fair!" + +Wondering, I saw God's sun, through western skies, + Sink in the ocean's golden lap at night, +And yet upon the morrow early rise, + And paint the eastern heaven with crimson light; + +And thought of God, the gracious Heavenly Father, + Who made me, and that lovely sun on high, +And all those pearls of heaven thick-strung together, + Dropped, clustering, from his hand o'er all the sky. + +With childish reverence, my young lips did say + The prayer my pious mother taught to me: +"O gentle God! oh, let me strive alway + Still to be wise, and good, and follow Thee!" + +So prayed I for my father and my mother, + And for my sister, and for all the town; +The king I knew not, and the beggar-brother, + Who, bent with age, went, sighing, up and down. + +They perished, the blithe days of boyhood perished, + And all the gladness, all the peace I knew! +Now have I but their memory, fondly cherished;-- + God! may I never lose that too! + + + + +FROM THE GERMAN + +THE HAPPIEST LAND + +There sat one day in quiet, + By an alehouse on the Rhine, +Four hale and hearty fellows, + And drank the precious wine. + +The landlord's daughter filled their cups, + Around the rustic board +Then sat they all so calm and still, + And spake not one rude word. + +But, when the maid departed, + A Swabian raised his hand, +And cried, all hot and flushed with wine, + "Long live the Swabian land! + +"The greatest kingdom upon earth + Cannot with that compare +With all the stout and hardy men + And the nut-brown maidens there. + +"Ha!" cried a Saxon, laughing, + And dashed his heard with wine; +"I had rather live in Laplaud, + Than that Swabian land of thine! + +"The goodliest land on all this earth, + It is the Saxon land +There have I as many maidens + As fingers on this hand!" + +"Hold your tongues! both Swabian + and Saxon!" + A bold Bohemian cries; +"If there's a heaven upon this earth, + In Bohemia it lies. + +"There the tailor blows the flute, + And the cobbler blows the horn, +And the miner blows the bugle, + Over mountain gorge and bourn." +. . . . . . . . . . . . . . +And then the landlord's daughter + Up to heaven raised her hand, +And said, "Ye may no more contend,-- + There lies the happiest land!" + + + +THE WAVE + +BY CHRISTOPH AUGUST TIEDGE + + "Whither, thou turbid wave? +Whither, with so much haste, +As if a thief wert thou?" + + "I am the Wave of Life, +Stained with my margin's dust; +From the struggle and the strife +Of the narrow stream I fly +To the Sea's immensity, +To wash from me the slime +Of the muddy banks of Time." + + + +THE DEAD + +BY ERNST STOCKMANN + + How they so softly rest, + All they the holy ones, + Unto whose dwelling-place + Now doth my soul draw near! + How they so softly rest, + All in their silent graves, + Deep to corruption + Slowly don-sinking! + + And they no longer weep, + Here, where complaint is still! + And they no longer feel, + Here, where all gladness flies! + And, by the cypresses + Softly o'ershadowed + Until the Angel + Calls them, they slumber! + + + +THE BIRD AND THE SHIP + +BY WILHELM MULLER + + "The rivers rush into the sea, + By castle and town they go; +The winds behind them merrily + Their noisy trumpets blow. + + "The clouds are passing far and high, + We little birds in them play; +And everything, that can sing and fly, + Goes with us, and far away. + + "I greet thee, bonny boat! Whither, + or whence, + With thy fluttering golden band?"-- + "I greet thee, little bird! To the wide sea + I haste from the narrow land. + + "Full and swollen is every sail; + I see no longer a hill, +I have trusted all to the sounding gale, + And it will not let me stand still. + + "And wilt thou, little bird, go with us? + Thou mayest stand on the mainmast tall, +For full to sinking is my house + With merry companions all."-- + + "I need not and seek not company, + Bonny boat, I can sing all alone; +For the mainmast tall too heavy am I, + Bonny boat, I have wings of my own. + +"High over the sails, high over the mast, + Who shall gainsay these joys? +When thy merry companions are still, at last, + Thou shalt hear the sound of my voice. + + "Who neither may rest, nor listen may, + God bless them every one! +I dart away, in the bright blue day, + And the golden fields of the sun. + +"Thus do I sing my merry song, + Wherever the four winds blow; +And this same song, my whole life long, + Neither Poet nor Printer may know.' + + + +WHITHER? + +BY WILHELM MULLER + + I heard a brooklet gushing + From its rocky fountain near, +Down into the valley rushing, + So fresh and wondrous clear. + + I know not what came o'er me, + Nor who the counsel gave; + But I must hasten downward, + All with my pilgrim-stave; + +Downward, and ever farther, + And ever the brook beside; +And ever fresher murmured, + And ever clearer, the tide. + +Is this the way I was going? + Whither, O brooklet, say I +Thou hast, with thy soft murmur, + Murmured my senses away. + +What do I say of a murmur? + That can no murmur be; +'T is the water-nymphs, that are singing + Their roundelays under me. + +Let them sing, my friend, let them murmur, + And wander merrily near; +The wheels of a mill are going + In every brooklet clear. + + + +BEWARE! + +(HUT DU DICH!) + +I know a maiden fair to see, + Take care! +She can both false and friendly be, + Beware! Beware! + Trust her not, +She is fooling thee! + +She has two eyes, so soft and brown, + Take care! +She gives a side-glance and looks down, + Beware! Beware! + Trust her not, +She is fooling thee! + +And she has hair of a golden hue, + Take care! +And what she says, it is not true, + Beware! Beware! + Trust her not, +She is fooling thee! + +She has a bosom as white as snow, + Take care! +She knows how much it is best to show, + Beware! Beware! + Trust her not, +She is fooling thee! + +She gives thee a garland woven fair, + Take care! +It is a fool's-cap for thee to wear, + Beware! Beware! + Trust her not, +She is fooling thee! + + + +SONG OF THE BELL + +Bell! thou soundest merrily, +When the bridal party + To the church doth hie! +Bell! thou soundest solemnly. +When, on Sabbath morning, + Fields deserted lie! + +Bell! thou soundest merrily; +Tellest thou at evening, + Bed-time draweth nigh! +Bell! thou soundest mournfully. +Tellest thou the bitter + Parting hath gone by! + +Say! how canst thou mourn? +How canst thou rejoice? + Thou art but metal dull! +And yet all our sorrowings, +And all our rejoicings, + Thou dost feel them all! + +God hath wonders many, +Which we cannot fathom, + Placed within thy form! +When the heart is sinking, +Thou alone canst raise it, + Trembling in the storm! + + + +THE CASTLE BY THE SEA + +BY JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND + + "Hast thou seen that lordly castle, + That Castle by the Sea? +Golden and red above it + The clouds float gorgeously. + + "And fain it would stoop downward + To the mirrored wave below; +And fain it would soar upward + In the evening's crimson glow." + + "Well have I seen that castle, + That Castle by the Sea, +And the moon above it standing, + And the mist rise solemnly." + + "The winds and the waves of ocean, + Had they a merry chime? +Didst thou hear, from those lofty chambers, + The harp and the minstrel's rhyme?" + + "The winds and the waves of ocean, + They rested quietly, +But I heard on the gale a sound of wail, + And tears came to mine eye." + + "And sawest thou on the turrets + The King and his royal bride? +And the wave of their crimson mantles? + And the golden crown of pride? + + "Led they not forth, in rapture, + A beauteous maiden there? +Resplendent as the morning sun, + Beaming with golden hair?" + + "Well saw I the ancient parents, + Without the crown of pride; +They were moving slow, in weeds of woe, + No maiden was by their side!" + + + +THE BLACK KNIGHT + +BY JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND + +'T was Pentecost, the Feast of Gladness, +When woods and fields put off all sadness. + Thus began the King and spake: + "So from the halls +Of ancient hofburg's walls, + A luxuriant Spring shall break." + +Drums and trumpets echo loudly, +Wave the crimson banners proudly, + From balcony the King looked on; +In the play of spears, +Fell all the cavaliers, + Before the monarch's stalwart son. + +To the barrier of the fight +Rode at last a sable Knight. + "Sir Knight! your name and scutcheon, say!" +"Should I speak it here, +Ye would stand aghast with fear; + I am a Prince of mighty sway!" + +When he rode into the lists, +The arch of heaven grew black with mists, + And the castle 'gan to rock; +At the first blow, +Fell the youth from saddle-bow, + Hardly rises from the shock. + +Pipe and viol call the dances, +Torch-light through the high halls glances; + Waves a mighty shadow in; +With manner bland +Doth ask the maiden's hand, + Doth with her the dance begin. + +Danced in sable iron sark, +Danced a measure weird and dark, + Coldly clasped her limbs around; +From breast and hair +Down fall from her the fair + Flowerets, faded, to the ground. + +To the sumptuous banquet came +Every Knight and every Dame, + 'Twixt son and daughter all distraught, +With mournful mind +The ancient King reclined, + Gazed at them in silent thought. + +Pale the children both did look, +But the guest a beaker took: + "Golden wine will make you whole!" +The children drank, +Gave many a courteous thank: + "O, that draught was very cool!" + +Each the father's breast embraces, +Son and daughter; and their faces + Colorless grow utterly; +Whichever way +Looks the fear-struck father gray, + He beholds his children die. + +"Woe! the blessed children both +Takest thou in the joy of youth; + Take me, too, the joyless father!" +Spake the grim Guest, +From his hollow, cavernous breast; + "Roses in the spring I gather!" + + + +SONG OF THE SILENT LAND + +BY JOHAN GAUDENZ VON SALISSEEWIS + +Into the Silent Land! +Ah! who shall lead us thither? +Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, +And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand. +Who leads us with a gentle hand +Thither, O thither, +Into the Silent Land? + +Into the Silent Land! +To you, ye boundless regions +Of all perfection! Tender morning-visions +Of beauteous souls! The Future's pledge and band! +Who in Life's battle firm doth stand, +Shall bear Hope's tender blossoms +Into the Silent Land! + +O Land! O Land! +For all the broken-hearted +The mildest herald by our fate allotted, +Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand +To lead us with a gentle hand +To the land of the great Departed, +Into the Silent Land! + + + +THE LUCK OF EDENHALL + +BY JOHAN LUDWIG UHLAND + +OF Edenhall, the youthful Lord +Bids sound the festal trumpet's call; +He rises at the banquet board, +And cries, 'mid the drunken revellers all, +"Now bring me the Luck of Edenhall!" + +The butler hears the words with pain, +The house's oldest seneschal, +Takes slow from its silken cloth again +The drinking-glass of crystal tall; +They call it The Luck of Edenhall. + +Then said the Lord: "This glass to praise, +Fill with red wine from Portugal!" +The graybeard with trembling hand obeys; +A purple light shines over all, +It beams from the Luck of Edenhall. + +Then speaks the Lord, and waves it light: +"This glass of flashing crystal tall +Gave to my sires the Fountain-Sprite; +She wrote in it, If this glass doth fall, +Farewell then, O Luck of Edenhall! + +"'T was right a goblet the Fate should be +Of the joyous race of Edenhall! +Deep draughts drink we right willingly: +And willingly ring, with merry call, +Kling! klang! to the Luck of Edenhall!" + +First rings it deep, and full, and mild, +Like to the song of a nightingale +Then like the roar of a torrent wild; +Then mutters at last like the thunder's fall, +The glorious Luck of Edenhall. + +"For its keeper takes a race of might, +The fragile goblet of crystal tall; +It has lasted longer than is right; +King! klang!--with a harder blow than all +Will I try the Luck of Edenhall!" + +As the goblet ringing flies apart, +Suddenly cracks the vaulted hall; +And through the rift, the wild flames start; +The guests in dust are scattered all, +With the breaking Luck of Edenhall! + +In storms the foe, with fire and sword; +He in the night had scaled the wall, +Slain by the sword lies the youthful Lord, +But holds in his hand the crystal tall, +The shattered Luck of Edenhall. + +On the morrow the butler gropes alone, +The graybeard in the desert hall, +He seeks his Lord's burnt skeleton, +He seeks in the dismal ruin's fall +The shards of the Luck of Edenhall. + +"The stone wall," saith he, "doth fall aside, +Down must the stately columns fall; +Glass is this earth's Luck and Pride; +In atoms shall fall this earthly ball +One day like the Luck of Edenhall!" + + + +THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR + +BY GUSTAV PFIZER + +A youth, light-hearted and content, + I wander through the world +Here, Arab-like, is pitched my tent + And straight again is furled. + +Yet oft I dream, that once a wife + Close in my heart was locked, +And in the sweet repose of life + A blessed child I rocked. + +I wake! Away that dream,--away! + Too long did it remain! +So long, that both by night and day + It ever comes again. + +The end lies ever in my thought; + To a grave so cold and deep +The mother beautiful was brought; + Then dropt the child asleep. + +But now the dream is wholly o'er, + I bathe mine eyes and see; +And wander through the world once more, + A youth so light and free. + +Two locks--and they are wondrous fair-- + Left me that vision mild; +The brown is from the mother's hair, + The blond is from the child. + +And when I see that lock of gold, + Pale grows the evening-red; +And when the dark lock I behold, + I wish that I were dead. + + + +THE HEMLOCK TREE. + +O hemlock tree! O hemlock tree! how faithful are thy branches! + Green not alone in summer time, + But in the winter's frost and rime! +O hemlock tree! O hemlock tree! how faithful are thy branches! + +O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is thy bosom! + To love me in prosperity, + And leave me in adversity! +O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is thy bosom! + +The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak'st for thine example! + So long as summer laughs she sings, + But in the autumn spreads her wings. +The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak'st for thine example! + +The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror of thy falsehood! + It flows so long as falls the rain, + In drought its springs soon dry again. +The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror of thy falsehood! + + + +ANNIE OF THARAW + +BY SIMON DACH + +Annie of Tharaw, my true love of old, +She is my life, and my goods, and my gold. + +Annie of Tharaw, her heart once again +To me has surrendered in joy and in pain. + +Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my good, +Thou, O my soul, my flesh, and my blood! + +Then come the wild weather, come sleet or come snow, +We will stand by each other, however it blow. + +Oppression, and sickness, and sorrow, and pain +Shall be to our true love as links to the chain. + +As the palm-tree standeth so straight and so tall, +The more the hail beats, and the more the rains fall,-- + +So love in our hearts shall grow mighty and strong, +Through crosses, through sorrows, through manifold wrong. + +Shouldst thou be torn from me to wander alone +In a desolate land where the sun is scarce known,-- + +Through forests I'll follow, and where the sea flows, +Through ice, and through iron, through armies of foes, + +Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun, +The threads of our two lives are woven in one. + +Whate'er I have bidden thee thou hast obeyed, +Whatever forbidden thou hast not gainsaid. + +How in the turmoil of life can love stand, +Where there is not one heart, and one mouth, and one hand? + +Some seek for dissension, and trouble, and strife; +Like a dog and a cat live such man and wife. + +Annie of Tharaw, such is not our love; +Thou art my lambkin, my chick, and my dove. + +Whate'er my desire is, in thine may be seen; +I am king of the household, and thou art its queen. + +It is this, O my Annie, my heart's sweetest rest, +That makes of us twain but one soul in one breast. + +This turns to a heaven the hut where we dwell; +While wrangling soon changes a home to a hell. + + + +THE STATUE OVER THE CATHEDRAL DOOR + +BY JULIUS MOSEN + +Forms of saints and kings are standing + The cathedral door above; +Yet I saw but one among them + Who hath soothed my soul with love. + +In his mantle,--wound about him, + As their robes the sowers wind,-- +Bore he swallows and their fledglings, + Flowers and weeds of every kind. + +And so stands he calm and childlike, + High in wind and tempest wild; +O, were I like him exalted, + I would be like him, a child! + +And my songs,--green leaves and blossoms,-- + To the doors of heaven would hear, +Calling even in storm and tempest, + Round me still these birds of air. + + + +THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL + +BY JULIUS MOSEN + +On the cross the dying Saviour + Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm, +Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling + In his pierced and bleeding palm. + +And by all the world forsaken, + Sees he how with zealous care +At the ruthless nail of iron + A little bird is striving there. + +Stained with blood and never tiring, + With its beak it doth not cease, +From the cross 't would free the Saviour, + Its Creator's Son release. + +And the Saviour speaks in mildness: + "Blest be thou of all the good! +Bear, as token of this moment, + Marks of blood and holy rood!" + +And that bird is called the crossbill; + Covered all with blood so clear, +In the groves of pine it singeth + Songs, like legends, strange to hear. + + + +THE SEA HATH ITS PEARLS + +BY HEINRICH HEINE + +The sea hath its pearls, + The heaven hath its stars; +But my heart, my heart, + My heart hath its love. + +Great are the sea and the heaven; + Yet greater is my heart, +And fairer than pearls and stars + Flashes and beams my love. + +Thou little, youthful maiden, + Come unto my great heart; +My heart, and the sea, and the heaven + Are melting away with love! + + + +POETIC APHORISMS + +FROM THE SINNGEDICHTE OF FRIEDRICH VON LOGAU + +MONEY + +Whereunto is money good? +Who has it not wants hardihood, +Who has it has much trouble and care, +Who once has had it has despair. + + +THE BEST MEDICINES + +Joy and Temperance and Repose +Slam the door on the doctor's nose. + + +SIN + +Man-like is it to fall into sin, +Fiend-like is it to dwell therein, +Christ-like is it for sin to grieve, +God-like is it all sin to leave. + + +POVERTY AND BLINDNESS + +A blind man is a poor man, and blind a poor man is; +For the former seeth no man, and the latter no man sees. + + +LAW OF LIFE + +Live I, so live I, +To my Lord heartily, +To my Prince faithfully, +To my Neighbor honestly. +Die I, so die I. + + +CREEDS + +Lutheran, Popish, Calvinistic, all these creeds and doctrines three +Extant are; but still the doubt is, where Christianity may be. + + +THE RESTLESS HEART + +A millstone and the human heart are driven ever round; +If they have nothing else to grind, they must themselves be ground. + + +CHRISTIAN LOVE + +Whilom Love was like a tire, and warmth and comfort it bespoke; +But, alas! it now is quenched, and only bites us, like the smoke. + + +ART AND TACT + +Intelligence and courtesy not always are combined; +Often in a wooden house a golden room we find. + + +RETRIBUTION + +Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small; +Though with patience he stands waiting, with exactness grinds he all. + + +TRUTH + +When by night the frogs are croaking, kindle but a torch's fire, +Ha! how soon they all are silent! Thus Truth silences the liar. + + +RHYMES + +If perhaps these rhymes of mine should sound not well in strangers' ears, +They have only to bethink them that it happens so with theirs; +For so long as words, like mortals, call a fatherland their own, +They will be most highly valued where they are best and longest known. + + +SILENT LOVE + +Who love would seek, + Let him love evermore +And seldom speak; + For in love's domain + Silence must reign; +Or it brings the heart + Smart + And pain. + + + +BLESSED ARE THE DEAD + +BY SIMON DACH + +Oh, how blest are ye whose toils are ended! +Who, through death, have unto God ascended! +Ye have arisen +From the cares which keep us still in prison. + +We are still as in a dungeon living, +Still oppressed with sorrow and misgiving; +Our undertakings +Are but toils, and troubles, and heart-breakings. + +Ye meanwhile, are in your chambers sleeping, +Quiet, and set free from all our weeping; +No cross nor trial +Hinders your enjoyments with denial. + +Christ has wiped away your tears for ever; +Ye have that for which we still endeavor. +To you are chanted +Songs which yet no mortal ear have haunted. + +Ah! who would not, then, depart with gladness, +To inherit heaven for earthly sadness? +Who here would languish +Longer in bewailing and in anguish? + +Come, O Christ, and loose the chains that bind us! +Lead us forth, and cast this world behind us! +With Thee, the Anointed, +Finds the soul its joy and rest appointed. + + + + +WANDERER'S NIGHT-SONGS + +BY JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE + +I + +Thou that from the heavens art, +Every pain and sorrow stillest, +And the doubly wretched heart +Doubly with refreshment fillest, +I am weary with contending! +Why this rapture and unrest? +Peace descending +Come, ah, come into my breast! + + +II + +O'er all the hill-tops +Is quiet now, +In all the tree-tops +Hearest thou +Hardly a breath; +The birds are asleep in the trees: +Wait; soon like these +Thou too shalt rest. + + + +REMORSE + +BY AUGUST VON PLATEN + +How I started up in the night, in the night, + Drawn on without rest or reprieval! +The streets, with their watchmen, were lost to my sight, + As I wandered so light + In the night, in the night, +Through the gate with the arch mediaeval. + +The mill-brook rushed from the rocky height, + I leaned o'er the bridge in my yearning; +Deep under me watched I the waves in their flight, + As they glided so light + In the night, in the night, +Yet backward not one was returning. + +O'erhead were revolving, so countless and bright, + The stars in melodious existence; +And with them the moon, more serenely bedight;-- + They sparkled so light + In the night, in the night, +Through the magical, measureless distance. + +And upward I gazed in the night, in the night, + And again on the waves in their fleeting; +Ah woe! thou hast wasted thy days in delight, + Now silence thou light, + In the night, in the night, +The remorse in thy heart that is beating. + + + +FORSAKEN. + +Something the heart must have to cherish, + Must love and joy and sorrow learn, +Something with passion clasp or perish, + And in itself to ashes burn. + +So to this child my heart is clinging, + And its frank eyes, with look intense, +Me from a world of sin are bringing + Back to a world of innocence. + +Disdain must thou endure forever; + Strong may thy heart in danger be! +Thou shalt not fail! but ah, be never + False as thy father was to me. + +Never will I forsake thee, faithless, + And thou thy mother ne'er forsake, +Until her lips are white and breathless, + Until in death her eyes shall break. + + + +ALLAH + +BY SIEGFRIED AUGUST MAHLMANN + +Allah gives light in darkness, + Allah gives rest in pain, +Cheeks that are white with weeping + Allah paints red again. + +The flowers and the blossoms wither, + Years vanish with flying fleet; +But my heart will live on forever, + That here in sadness beat. + +Gladly to Allah's dwelling + Yonder would I take flight; +There will the darkness vanish, + There will my eyes have sight. + + +********** + + +FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON + +THE GRAVE + +For thee was a house built +Ere thou wast born, +For thee was a mould meant +Ere thou of mother camest. +But it is not made ready, +Nor its depth measured, +Nor is it seen +How long it shall be. +Now I bring thee +Where thou shalt be; +Now I shall measure thee, +And the mould afterwards. + + Thy house is not +Highly timbered, +It is unhigh and low; +When thou art therein, +The heel-ways are low, +The side-ways unhigh. +The roof is built +Thy breast full nigh, +So thou shalt in mould +Dwell full cold, +Dimly and dark. + + Doorless is that house, +And dark it is within; +There thou art fast detained +And Death hath the key. +Loathsome is that earth-house, +And grim within to dwell. +There thou shalt dwell, +And worms shall divide thee. + Thus thou art laid, + +And leavest thy friends +Thou hast no friend, +Who will come to thee, +Who will ever see +How that house pleaseth thee; +Who will ever open +The door for thee, +And descend after thee; +For soon thou art loathsome +And hateful to see. + + + +BEOWULF'S EXPEDITION TO HEORT. + +Thus then, much care-worn, +The son of Healfden +Sorrowed evermore, +Nor might the prudent hero +His woes avert. +The war was too hard, +Too loath and longsome, +That on the people came, +Dire wrath and grim, +Of night-woes the worst. +This from home heard +Higelac's Thane, +Good among the Goths, +Grendel's deeds. +He was of mankind +In might the strongest, +At that day +Of this life, +Noble and stalwart. +He bade him a sea-ship, +A goodly one, prepare. +Quoth he, the war-king, +Over the swan's road, +Seek he would +The mighty monarch, +Since he wanted men. +For him that journey +His prudent fellows +Straight made ready, +Those that loved him. +They excited their souls, +The omen they beheld. +Had the good-man +Of the Gothic people +Champions chosen, +Of those that keenest +He might find, +Some fifteen men. +The sea-wood sought he. +The warrior showed, +Sea-crafty man! +The land-marks, +And first went forth. +The ship was on the waves, +Boat under the cliffs. +The barons ready +To the prow mounted. +The streams they whirled +The sea against the sands. +The chieftains bore +On the naked breast +Bright ornaments, +War-gear, Goth-like. +The men shoved off, +Men on their willing way, +The bounden wood. + Then went over the sea-waves, +Hurried by the wind, +The ship with foamy neck, +Most like a sea-fowl, +Till about one hour +Of the second day +The curved prow +Had passed onward +So that the sailors +The land saw, +The shore-cliffs shining, +Mountains steep, +And broad sea-noses. +Then was the sea-sailing +Of the Earl at an end. + Then up speedily +The Weather people +On the land went, +The sea-bark moored, +Their mail-sarks shook, +Their war-weeds. +God thanked they, +That to them the sea-journey +Easy had been. + Then from the wall beheld +The warden of the Scyldings, +He who the sea-cliffs +Had in his keeping, +Bear o'er the balks +The bright shields, +The war-weapons speedily. +Him the doubt disturbed +In his mind's thought, +What these men might be. + Went then to the shore, +On his steed riding, +The Thane of Hrothgar. +Before the host he shook +His warden's-staff in hand, +In measured words demanded: + "What men are ye +War-gear wearing, +Host in harness, +Who thus the brown keel +Over the water-street +Leading come +Hither over the sea? + I these boundaries +As shore-warden hold, +That in the Land of the Danes +Nothing loathsome +With a ship-crew +Scathe us might. . . . +Ne'er saw I mightier +Earl upon earth +Than is your own, +Hero in harness. +Not seldom this warrior +Is in weapons distinguished; +Never his beauty belies him, +His peerless countenance! +Now would I fain +Your origin know, +Ere ye forth +As false spies +Into the Land of the Danes +Farther fare. +Now, ye dwellers afar-off! +Ye sailors of the sea! +Listen to my +One-fold thought. +Quickest is best +To make known +Whence your coming may be." + + + +THE SOUL'S COMPLAINT AGAINST THE BODY + +FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON + +Much it behoveth +Each one of mortals, +That he his soul's journey +In himself ponder, +How deep it may be. +When Death cometh, +The bonds he breaketh +By which were united +The soul and the body. + +Long it is thenceforth +Ere the soul taketh +From God himself +Its woe or its weal; +As in the world erst, +Even in its earth-vessel, +It wrought before. + +The soul shall come +Wailing with loud voice, +After a sennight, +The soul, to find +The body +That it erst dwelt in;-- +Three hundred winters, +Unless ere that worketh +The Eternal Lord, +The Almighty God, +The end of the world. + +Crieth then, so care-worn, +With cold utterance, +And speaketh grimly, +The ghost to the dust: +"Dry dust! thou dreary one! +How little didst thou labor for me! +In the foulness of earth +Thou all wearest away +Like to the loam! +Little didst thou think +How thy soul's journey +Would be thereafter, +When from the body +It should be led forth." + + + +FROM THE FRENCH + +SONG + +FROM THE PARADISE OF LOVE + + Hark! hark! + Pretty lark! +Little heedest thou my pain! +But if to these longing arms +Pitying Love would yield the charms + Of the fair + With smiling air, +Blithe would beat my heart again. + + + Hark! hark! + Pretty lark! +Little heedest thou my pain! +Love may force me still to bear, +While he lists, consuming care; + But in anguish + Though I languish, +Faithful shall my heart remain. + + Hark! hark! + Pretty lark! +Little heedest thou my pain! +Then cease, Love, to torment me so; +But rather than all thoughts forego + Of the fair + With flaxen hair, +Give me back her frowns again. + + Hark! hark! + Pretty lark! +Little heedest thou my pain! + + + +SONG + +And whither goest thou, gentle sigh, + Breathed so softly in my ear? + Say, dost thou bear his fate severe +To Love's poor martyr doomed to die? +Come, tell me quickly,--do not lie; + What secret message bring'st thou here? +And whither goest thou, gentle sigh, + Breathed so softly in my ear? +May heaven conduct thee to thy will + And safely speed thee on thy way; + This only I would humbly pray,-- +Pierce deep,--but oh! forbear to kill. +And whither goest thou, gentle sigh, + Breathed so softly in my ear? + + +THE RETURN OF SPRING + +BY CHARLES D'ORLEANS + +Now Time throws off his cloak again +Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain, +And clothes him in the embroidery +Of glittering sun and clear blue sky. +With beast and bird the forest rings, +Each in his jargon cries or sings; +And Time throws off his cloak again. +Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain. + +River, and fount, and tinkling brook +Wear in their dainty livery +Drops of silver jewelry; +In new-made suit they merry look; +And Time throws off his cloak again +Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain. + + + +SPRING + +BY CHARLES D'ORLEANS + +Gentle Spring! in sunshine clad, + Well dost thou thy power display! +For Winter maketh the light heart sad, + And thou, thou makest the sad heart gay. +He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train, +The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the rain; +And they shrink away, and they flee in fear, + When thy merry step draws near. +Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so old, + Their beards of icicles and snow; +And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold, + We must cower over the embers low; +And, snugly housed from the wind and weather, +Mope like birds that are changing feather. +But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear, + When thy merry step draws near. +Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky + Wrap him round with a mantle of cloud; +But, Heaven be praised, thy step is nigh; + Thou tearest away the mournful shroud, +And the earth looks bright, and Winter surly, +Who has toiled for naught both late and early, +Is banished afar by the new-born year, + When thy merry step draws near. + + + +THE CHILD ASLEEP + +BY CLOTILDE DE SURVILLE + +Sweet babe! true portrait of thy father's face, + Sleep on the bosom that thy lips have pressed! +Sleep, little one; and closely, gently place + Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's breast. +Upon that tender eye, my little friend, + Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to me! +I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend; + 'T is sweet to watch for thee, alone for thee! +His arms fall down; sleep sits upon his brow; + His eye is closed; he sleeps, nor dreams of harm. +Wore not his cheek the apple's ruddy glow, + Would you not say he slept on Death's cold arm? + +Awake, my boy! I tremble with affright! + Awake, and chase this fatal thought! Unclose +Thine eye but for one moment on the light! + Even at the price of thine, give me repose! +Sweet error! he but slept, I breathe again; + Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep beguile! +O, when shall he, for whom I sigh in vain, + Beside me watch to see thy waking smile? + + + +DEATH OF ARCHBISHOP TURPIN + +FROM THE CHANSON DE ROLAND + +The Archbishop, whom God loved in high degree, +Beheld his wounds all bleeding fresh and free; +And then his cheek more ghastly grew and wan, +And a faint shudder through his members ran. +Upon the battle-field his knee was bent; +Brave Roland saw, and to his succor went, +Straightway his helmet from his brow unlaced, +And tore the shining hauberk from his breast. +Then raising in his arms the man of God, +Gently he laid him on the verdant sod. +"Rest, Sire," he cried,--"for rest thy suffering needs." +The priest replied, "Think but of warlike deeds! +The field is ours; well may we boast this strife! +But death steals on,--there is no hope of life; +In paradise, where Almoners live again, +There are our couches spread, there shall we rest from pain." + +Sore Roland grieved; nor marvel I, alas! +That thrice he swooned upon the thick green grass. +When he revived, with a loud voice cried he, +"O Heavenly Father! Holy Saint Marie! +Why lingers death to lay me in my grave! +Beloved France! how have the good and brave +Been torn from thee, and left thee weak and poor!" +Then thoughts of Aude, his lady-love, came o'er +His spirit, and he whispered soft and slow, +"My gentle friend!--what parting full of woe! +Never so true a liegeman shalt thou see;-- +Whate'er my fate, Christ's benison on thee! +Christ, who did save from realms of woe beneath, +The Hebrew Prophets from the second death." +Then to the Paladins, whom well he knew, +He went, and one by one unaided drew +To Turpin's side, well skilled in ghostly lore;-- +No heart had he to smile, but, weeping sore, +He blessed them in God's name, with faith that He +Would soon vouchsafe to them a glad eternity. + +The Archbishop, then, on whom God's benison rest, +Exhausted, bowed his head upon his breast;-- +His mouth was full of dust and clotted gore, +And many a wound his swollen visage bore. +Slow beats his heart, his panting bosom heaves, +Death comes apace,--no hope of cure relieves. +Towards heaven he raised his dying hands and prayed +That God, who for our sins was mortal made, +Born of the Virgin, scorned and crucified, +In paradise would place him by His side. + +Then Turpin died in service of Charlon, +In battle great and eke great orison;-- +'Gainst Pagan host alway strong champion; +God grant to him His holy benison. + + + +THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL CUILLE + +BY JACQUES JASMIN + +Only the Lowland tongue of Scotland might +Rehearse this little tragedy aright; +Let me attempt it with an English quill; +And take, O Reader, for the deed the will. + +I + + At the foot of the mountain height + Where is perched Castel Cuille, +When the apple, the plum, and the almond tree + In the plain below were growing white, + This is the song one might perceive +On a Wednesday morn of Saint Joseph's Eve: + +"The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom, +So fair a bride shall leave her home! +Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, +So fair a bride shall pass to-day!" + +This old Te Deum, rustic rites attending, + Seemed from the clouds descending; + When lo! a merry company +Of rosy village girls, clean as the eye, + Each one with her attendant swain, +Came to the cliff, all singing the same strain; +Resembling there, so near unto the sky, +Rejoicing angels, that kind Heaven has sent +For their delight and our encouragement. + Together blending, + And soon descending + The narrow sweep + Of the hillside steep, + They wind aslant + Towards Saint Amant, + Through leafy alleys + Of verdurous valleys + With merry sallies + Singing their chant: + +"The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom, +So fair a bride shall leave her home! +Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, +So fair a bride shall pass to-day! + +It is Baptiste, and his affianced maiden, +With garlands for the bridal laden! + +The sky was blue; without one cloud of gloom, + The sun of March was shining brightly, +And to the air the freshening wind gave lightly + Its breathings of perfume. + +When one beholds the dusky hedges blossom, +A rustic bridal, oh! how sweet it is! + To sounds of joyous melodies, +That touch with tenderness the trembling bosom, + A band of maidens + Gayly frolicking, + A band of youngsters + Wildly rollicking! + Kissing, + Caressing, + With fingers pressing, + Till in the veriest + Madness of mirth, as they dance, + They retreat and advance, + Trying whose laugh shall be loudest and merriest; + While the bride, with roguish eyes, +Sporting with them, now escapes and cries: + "Those who catch me + Married verily + This year shall be!" + + And all pursue with eager haste, + And all attain what they pursue, +And touch her pretty apron fresh and new, + And the linen kirtle round her waist. + + Meanwhile, whence comes it that among + These youthful maidens fresh and fair, + So joyous, with such laughing air, + Baptiste stands sighing, with silent tongue? + And yet the bride is fair and young! +Is it Saint Joseph would say to us all, +That love, o'er-hasty, precedeth a fall? + O no! for a maiden frail, I trow, + Never bore so lofty a brow! +What lovers! they give not a single caress! +To see them so careless and cold to-day, + These are grand people, one would say. +What ails Baptiste? what grief doth him oppress? + + It is, that half-way up the hill, + In yon cottage, by whose walls + Stand the cart-house and the stalls, + Dwelleth the blind orphan still, + Daughter of a veteran old; + And you must know, one year ago, + That Margaret, the young and tender, + Was the village pride and splendor, + And Baptiste her lover bold. + Love, the deceiver, them ensnared; + For them the altar was prepared; + But alas! the summer's blight, + The dread disease that none can stay, + The pestilence that walks by night, + Took the young bride's sight away. + +All at the father's stern command was changed; +Their peace was gone, but not their love estranged. +Wearied at home, erelong the lover fled; + Returned but three short days ago, + The golden chain they round him throw, + He is enticed, and onward led + To marry Angela, and yet + Is thinking ever of Margaret. + + Then suddenly a maiden cried, + "Anna, Theresa, Mary, Kate! +Here comes the cripple Jane!" And by a fountain's side + A woman, bent and gray with years, + Under the mulberry-trees appears, + And all towards her run, as fleet + As had they wings upon their feet. + + It is that Jane, the cripple Jane, + Is a soothsayer, wary and kind. +She telleth fortunes, and none complain. + She promises one a village swain, + Another a happy wedding-day, + And the bride a lovely boy straightway. + All comes to pass as she avers; + She never deceives, she never errs. + + But for this once the village seer + Wears a countenance severe, +And from beneath her eyebrows thin and white + Her two eyes flash like cannons bright + Aimed at the bridegroom in waistcoat blue, + Who, like a statue, stands in view; + Changing color as well he might, + When the beldame wrinkled and gray + Takes the young bride by the hand, + And, with the tip of her reedy wand + Making the sign of the cross, doth say:-- + "Thoughtless Angela, beware! + Lest, when thou weddest this false bridegroom, + Thou diggest for thyself a tomb!" +And she was silent; and the maidens fair +Saw from each eye escape a swollen tear; +But on a little streamlet silver-clear, + What are two drops of turbid rain? + Saddened a moment, the bridal train + Resumed the dance and song again; +The bridegroom only was pale with fear;-- + And down green alleys + Of verdurous valleys, + With merry sallies, + They sang the refrain:-- + +"The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom, +So fair a bride shall leave her home! +Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, +So fair a bride shall pass to-day!" + + +II + +And by suffering worn and weary, +But beautiful as some fair angel yet, +Thus lamented Margaret, +In her cottage lone and dreary;-- + + "He has arrived! arrived at last! +Yet Jane has named him not these three days past; + Arrived! yet keeps aloof so far! +And knows that of my night he is the star! +Knows that long months I wait alone, benighted, +And count the moments since he went away! +Come! keep the promise of that happier day, +That I may keep the faith to thee I plighted! +What joy have I without thee? what delight? +Grief wastes my life, and makes it misery; +Day for the others ever, but for me + Forever night! forever night! +When he is gone 't is dark! my soul is sad! +I suffer! O my God! come, make me glad. +When he is near, no thoughts of day intrude; +Day has blue heavens, but Baptiste has blue eyes! +Within them shines for me a heaven of love, +A heaven all happiness, like that above, + No more of grief! no more of lassitude! +Earth I forget,--and heaven, and all distresses, +When seated by my side my hand he presses; + But when alone, remember all! +Where is Baptiste? he hears not when I call! +A branch of ivy, dying on the ground, + I need some bough to twine around! +In pity come! be to my suffering kind! +True love, they say, in grief doth more abound! + What then--when one is blind? + + "Who knows? perhaps I am forsaken! +Ah! woe is me! then bear me to my grave! + O God! what thoughts within me waken! +Away! he will return! I do but rave! + He will return! I need not fear! + He swore it by our Saviour dear; + He could not come at his own will; + Is weary, or perhaps is ill! + Perhaps his heart, in this disguise, + Prepares for me some sweet surprise! +But some one comes! Though blind, my heart can see! +And that deceives me not! 't is he! 't is he!" + + And the door ajar is set, + And poor, confiding Margaret +Rises, with outstretched arms, but sightless eyes; +'T is only Paul, her brother, who thus cries:-- + "Angela the bride has passed! + I saw the wedding guests go by; +Tell me, my sister, why were we not asked? + For all are there but you and I!" + + "Angela married! and not send + To tell her secret unto me! + O, speak! who may the bridegroom be?" + "My sister, 't is Baptiste, thy friend!" + +A cry the blind girl gave, but nothing said; +A milky whiteness spreads upon her cheeks; + An icy hand, as heavy as lead, + Descending, as her brother speaks, + Upon her heart, that has ceased to beat, + Suspends awhile its life and heat. +She stands beside the boy, now sore distressed, +A wax Madonna as a peasant dressed. + + At length, the bridal song again + Brings her back to her sorrow and pain. + + "Hark! the joyous airs are ringing! + Sister, dost thou hear them singing? + How merrily they laugh and jest! + Would we were bidden with the rest! + I would don my hose of homespun gray, + And my doublet of linen striped and gay; + Perhaps they will come; for they do not wed + Till to-morrow at seven o'clock, it is said!" + + "I know it!" answered Margaret; +Whom the vision, with aspect black as jet, + Mastered again; and its hand of ice +Held her heart crushed, as in a vice! + "Paul, be not sad! 'T is a holiday; + To-morrow put on thy doublet gay! + But leave me now for a while alone." + Away, with a hop and a jump, went Paul, + And, as he whistled along the hall, + Entered Jane, the crippled crone. + + "Holy Virgin! what dreadful heat! + I am faint, and weary, and out of breath! + But thou art cold,--art chill as death; + My little friend! what ails thee, sweet?" +"Nothing! I heard them singing home the bride; + And, as I listened to the song, + I thought my turn would come erelong, + Thou knowest it is at Whitsuntide. + Thy cards forsooth can never lie, + To me such joy they prophesy, + Thy skill shall be vaunted far and wide + When they behold him at my side. + And poor Baptiste, what sayest thou? +It must seem long to him;--methinks I see him now!" + Jane, shuddering, her hand doth press: + "Thy love I cannot all approve; +We must not trust too much to happiness;-- +Go, pray to God, that thou mayst love him less!" + "The more I pray, the more I love! +It is no sin, for God is on my side!" +It was enough; and Jane no more replied. + +Now to all hope her heart is barred and cold; + But to deceive the beldame old + She takes a sweet, contented air; + Speak of foul weather or of fair, + At every word the maiden smiles! + Thus the beguiler she beguiles; +So that, departing at the evening's close, + She says, "She may be saved! she nothing knows!" + + Poor Jane, the cunning sorceress! +Now that thou wouldst, thou art no prophetess! +This morning, in the fulness of thy heart, + Thou wast so, far beyond thine art! + + +III + +Now rings the bell, nine times reverberating, +And the white daybreak, stealing up the sky, +Sees in two cottages two maidens waiting, + How differently! + +Queen of a day, by flatterers caressed, + The one puts on her cross and crown, + Decks with a huge bouquet her breast, + And flaunting, fluttering up and down, + Looks at herself, and cannot rest, + The other, blind, within her little room, + Has neither crown nor flower's perfume; +But in their stead for something gropes apart, + That in a drawer's recess doth lie, +And, 'neath her bodice of bright scarlet dye, + Convulsive clasps it to her heart. + + The one, fantastic, light as air, + 'Mid kisses ringing, + And joyous singing, + Forgets to say her morning prayer! + +The other, with cold drops upon her brow, + Joins her two hands, and kneels upon the floor, +And whispers, as her brother opes the door, + "O God! forgive me now!" + + And then the orphan, young and blind, + Conducted by her brother's hand, + Towards the church, through paths unscanned, + With tranquil air, her way doth wind. +Odors of laurel, making her faint and pale, + Round her at times exhale, +And in the sky as yet no sunny ray, + But brumal vapors gray. + + Near that castle, fair to see, +Crowded with sculptures old, in every part, + Marvels of nature and of art, + And proud of its name of high degree, + A little chapel, almost bare + At the base of the rock, is builded there; + All glorious that it lifts aloof, + Above each jealous cottage roof, +Its sacred summit, swept by autumn gales, + And its blackened steeple high in air, + Round which the osprey screams and sails. + + "Paul, lay thy noisy rattle by!" +Thus Margaret said. "Where are we? we ascend!" + "Yes; seest thou not our journey's end? +Hearest not the osprey from the belfry cry? +The hideous bird, that brings ill luck, we know! +Dost thou remember when our father said, + The night we watched beside his bed, + 'O daughter, I am weak and low; +Take care of Paul; I feel that I am dying!' +And thou, and he, and I, all fell to crying? +Then on the roof the osprey screamed aloud; +And here they brought our father in his shroud. +There is his grave; there stands the cross we set; +Why dost thou clasp me so, dear Margaret? + Come in! The bride will be here soon: +Thou tremblest! O my God! thou art going to swoon!" + +She could no more,--the blind girl, weak and weary! +A voice seemed crying from that grave so dreary, +"What wouldst thou do, my daughter?"--and she started, + And quick recoiled, aghast, faint-hearted; +But Paul, impatient, urges evermore + Her steps towards the open door; +And when, beneath her feet, the unhappy maid +Crushes the laurel near the house immortal, +And with her head, as Paul talks on again, + Touches the crown of filigrane + Suspended from the low-arched portal, + No more restrained, no more afraid, + She walks, as for a feast arrayed, +And in the ancient chapel's sombre night + They both are lost to sight. + + At length the bell, + With booming sound, + Sends forth, resounding round. +Its hymeneal peal o'er rock and down the dell. + It is broad day, with sunshine and with rain; + And yet the guests delay not long, + For soon arrives the bridal train, + And with it brings the village throng. + +In sooth, deceit maketh no mortal gay, +For lo! Baptiste on this triumphant day, +Mute as an idiot, sad as yester-morning, +Thinks only of the beldame's words of warning. + +And Angela thinks of her cross, I wis; +To be a bride is all! The pretty lisper +Feels her heart swell to hear all round her whisper, +"How beautiful! how beautiful she is!". + + But she must calm that giddy head, + For already the Mass is said; + At the holy table stands the priest; +The wedding ring is blessed; Baptiste receives it; +Ere on the finger of the bride he leaves it, + He must pronounce one word at least! +'T is spoken; and sudden at the grooms-man's side +"'T is he!" a well-known voice has cried. +And while the wedding guests all hold their breath, +Opes the confessional, and the blind girl, see! +"Baptiste," she said, "since thou hast wished my death, +As holy water be my blood for thee!" +And calmly in the air a knife suspended! +Doubtless her guardian angel near attended, + For anguish did its work so well, + That, ere the fatal stroke descended, + Lifeless she fell! + + At eve instead of bridal verse, + The De Profundis filled the air; + Decked with flowers a simple hearse + To the churchyard forth they bear; + Village girls in robes of snow + Follow, weeping as they go; + Nowhere was a smile that day, +No, ah no! for each one seemed to say:-- + +"The road should mourn and be veiled in gloom, +So fair a corpse shall leave its home! +Should mourn and should weep, ah, well-away! +So fair a corpse shall pass to-day!" + + + +A CHRISTMAS CAROL + +FROM THE NOEI BOURGUIGNON DE GUI BAROZAI + + I hear along our street + Pass the minstrel throngs; + Hark! they play so sweet, +On their hautboys, Christmas songs! + Let us by the fire + Ever higher +Sing them till the night expire! + + In December ring + Every day the chimes; + Loud the gleemen sing +In the streets their merry rhymes. + Let us by the fire + Ever higher +Sing them till the night expire. + + Shepherds at the grange, + Where the Babe was born, + Sang, with many a change, +Christmas carols until morn. + Let us by the fire + Ever higher +Sing them till the night expire! + + These good people sang + Songs devout and sweet; + While the rafters rang, +There they stood with freezing feet. + Let us by the fire + Ever higher +Sing them till the night expire. + + Nuns in frigid veils + At this holy tide, + For want of something else, +Christmas songs at times have tried. + Let us by the fire + Ever higher +Sing them fill the night expire! + + Washerwomen old, + To the sound they beat, + Sing by rivers cold, +With uncovered heads and feet. + Let us by the fire + Ever higher +Sing them till the night expire. + + Who by the fireside stands + Stamps his feet and sings; + But he who blows his hands +Not so gay a carol brings. + Let us by the fire + Ever higher +Sing them till the night expire! + + +CONSOLATION + +To M. Duperrier, Gentleman of Aix in Provence, on the +Death of his Daughter. + +BY FRANCOISE MALHERBE + +Will then, Duperrier, thy sorrow be eternal? + And shall the sad discourse +Whispered within thy heart, by tenderness paternal, + Only augment its force? + +Thy daughter's mournful fate, into the tomb descending + By death's frequented ways, +Has it become to thee a labyrinth never ending, + Where thy lost reason strays? + +I know the charms that made her youth a benediction: + Nor should I be content, +As a censorious friend, to solace thine affliction + By her disparagement. + +But she was of the world, which fairest things exposes + To fates the most forlorn; +A rose, she too hath lived as long as live the roses, + The space of one brief morn. + + * * * * * + +Death has his rigorous laws, unparalleled, unfeeling; + All prayers to him are vain; +Cruel, he stops his ears, and, deaf to our appealing, + He leaves us to complain. + +The poor man in his hut, with only thatch for cover, + Unto these laws must bend; +The sentinel that guards the barriers of the Louvre + Cannot our kings defend. + +To murmur against death, in petulant defiance, + Is never for the best; +To will what God doth will, that is the only science + That gives us any rest. + + + +TO CARDINAL RICHELIEU + +BY FRANCOIS DE MALHERBE + +Thou mighty Prince of Church and State, +Richelieu! until the hour of death, +Whatever road man chooses, Fate +Still holds him subject to her breath. +Spun of all silks, our days and nights +Have sorrows woven with delights; +And of this intermingled shade +Our various destiny appears, +Even as one sees the course of years +Of summers and of winters made. + +Sometimes the soft, deceitful hours +Let us enjoy the halcyon wave; +Sometimes impending peril lowers +Beyond the seaman's skill to save, +The Wisdom, infinitely wise, +That gives to human destinies +Their foreordained necessity, +Has made no law more fixed below, +Than the alternate ebb and flow +Of Fortune and Adversity. + + +THE ANGEL AND THE CHILD + +BY JEAN REBOUL, THE BAKER OF NISMES + +An angel with a radiant face, + Above a cradle bent to look, +Seemed his own image there to trace, + As in the waters of a brook. + +"Dear child! who me resemblest so," + It whispered, "come, O come with me! +Happy together let us go, + The earth unworthy is of thee! + +"Here none to perfect bliss attain; + The soul in pleasure suffering lies; +Joy hath an undertone of pain, + And even the happiest hours their sighs. + +"Fear doth at every portal knock; + Never a day serene and pure +From the o'ershadowing tempest's shock + Hath made the morrow's dawn secure. + +"What then, shall sorrows and shall fears + Come to disturb so pure a brow? +And with the bitterness of tears + These eyes of azure troubled grow? + +"Ah no! into the fields of space, + Away shalt thou escape with me; +And Providence will grant thee grace + Of all the days that were to be. + +"Let no one in thy dwelling cower, + In sombre vestments draped and veiled; +But let them welcome thy last hour, + As thy first moments once they hailed. + +"Without a cloud be there each brow; + There let the grave no shadow cast; +When one is pure as thou art now, + The fairest day is still the last." + +And waving wide his wings of white, + The angel, at these words, had sped +Towards the eternal realms of light!-- + Poor mother! see, thy son is dead! + + +ON THE TERRACE OF THE AIGALADES + +BY JOSEPH MERY + +From this high portal, where upsprings +The rose to touch our hands in play, +We at a glance behold three things-- +The Sea, the Town, and the Highway. + +And the Sea says: My shipwrecks fear; +I drown my best friends in the deep; +And those who braved icy tempests, here +Among my sea-weeds lie asleep! + +The Town says: I am filled and fraught +With tumult and with smoke and care; +My days with toil are overwrought, +And in my nights I gasp for air. + +The Highway says: My wheel-tracks guide +To the pale climates of the North; +Where my last milestone stands abide +The people to their death gone forth. + +Here, in the shade, this life of ours, +Full of delicious air, glides by +Amid a multitude of flowers +As countless as the stars on high; + +These red-tiled roofs, this fruitful soil, +Bathed with an azure all divine, +Where springs the tree that gives us oil, +The grape that giveth us the wine; + +Beneath these mountains stripped of trees, +Whose tops with flowers are covered o'er, +Where springtime of the Hesperides +Begins, but endeth nevermore; + +Under these leafy vaults and walls, +That unto gentle sleep persuade; +This rainbow of the waterfalls, +Of mingled mist and sunshine made; + +Upon these shores, where all invites, +We live our languid life apart; +This air is that of life's delights, +The festival of sense and heart; + +This limpid space of time prolong, +Forget to-morrow in to-day, +And leave unto the passing throng +The Sea, the Town, and the Highway. + + +TO MY BROOKLET + +BY JEAN FRANCOIS DUCIS + +Thou brooklet, all unknown to song, +Hid in the covert of the wood! +Ah, yes, like thee I fear the throng, +Like thee I love the solitude. + +O brooklet, let my sorrows past +Lie all forgotten in their graves, +Till in my thoughts remain at last +Only thy peace, thy flowers, thy waves. + +The lily by thy margin waits;-- +The nightingale, the marguerite; +In shadow here he meditates +His nest, his love, his music sweet. + +Near thee the self-collected soul +Knows naught of error or of crime; +Thy waters, murmuring as they roll, +Transform his musings into rhyme. + +Ah, when, on bright autumnal eves, +Pursuing still thy course, shall I +Lisp the soft shudder of the leaves, +And hear the lapwing's plaintive cry? + + + +BARRÉGES + +BY LEFRANC DE POMPIGNAN + +I leave you, ye cold mountain chains, +Dwelling of warriors stark and frore! +You, may these eyes behold no more, +Rave on the horizon of our plains. + +Vanish, ye frightful, gloomy views! +Ye rocks that mount up to the clouds! +Of skies, enwrapped in misty shrouds, +Impracticable avenues! + +Ye torrents, that with might and main +Break pathways through the rocky walls, +With your terrific waterfalls +Fatigue no more my weary brain! + +Arise, ye landscapes full of charms, +Arise, ye pictures of delight! +Ye brooks, that water in your flight +The flowers and harvests of our farms! + +You I perceive, ye meadows green, +Where the Garonne the lowland fills, +Not far from that long chain of hills, +With intermingled vales between. + +You wreath of smoke, that mounts so high, +Methinks from my own hearth must come; +With speed, to that beloved home, +Fly, ye too lazy coursers, fly! + +And bear me thither, where the soul +In quiet may itself possess, +Where all things soothe the mind's distress, +Where all things teach me and console. + + +WILL EVER THE DEAR DAYS COME BACK AGAIN? + +Will ever the dear days come back again, + Those days of June, when lilacs were in bloom, + And bluebirds sang their sonnets in the gloom + Of leaves that roofed them in from sun or rain? +I know not; but a presence will remain + Forever and forever in this room, + Formless, diffused in air, like a perfume,-- + A phantom of the heart, and not the brain. +Delicious days! when every spoken word + Was like a foot-fall nearer and more near, + And a mysterious knocking at the gate +Of the heart's secret places, and we heard + In the sweet tumult of delight and fear + A voice that whispered, "Open, I cannot wait!" + + +AT LA CHAUDEAU + +BY XAVIER MARMIER + +At La Chaudeau,--'t is long since then: +I was young,--my years twice ten; +All things smiled on the happy boy, +Dreams of love and songs of joy, +Azure of heaven and wave below, + At La Chaudeau. + +At La Chaudeau I come back old: +My head is gray, my blood is cold; +Seeking along the meadow ooze, +Seeking beside the river Seymouse, +The days of my spring-time of long ago + At La Chaudeau. + +At La Chaudeau nor heart nor brain +Ever grows old with grief and pain; +A sweet remembrance keeps off age; +A tender friendship doth still assuage +The burden of sorrow that one may know + At La Chaudeau. + +At La Chaudeau, had fate decreed +To limit the wandering life I lead, +Peradventure I still, forsooth, +Should have preserved my fresh green youth, +Under the shadows the hill-tops throw + At La Chaudeau. + +At La Chaudeau, live on, my friends, +Happy to be where God intends; +And sometimes, by the evening fire, +Think of him whose sole desire +Is again to sit in the old chateau + At La Chaudeau. + + + +A QUIET LIFE. + +Let him who will, by force or fraud innate, + Of courtly grandeurs gain the slippery height; + I, leaving not the home of my delight, + Far from the world and noise will meditate. +Then, without pomps or perils of the great, + I shall behold the day succeed the night; + Behold the alternate seasons take their flight, + And in serene repose old age await. +And so, whenever Death shall come to close + The happy moments that my days compose, + I, full of years, shall die, obscure, alone! +How wretched is the man, with honors crowned, + Who, having not the one thing needful found, + Dies, known to all, but to himself unknown. + + + +THE WINE OF JURANÇON + +BY CHARLES CORAN + +Little sweet wine of Jurançon, + You are dear to my memory still! +With mine host and his merry song, + Under the rose-tree I drank my fill. + +Twenty years after, passing that way, + Under the trellis I found again +Mine host, still sitting there au frais, + And singing still the same refrain. + +The Jurançon, so fresh and bold, + Treats me as one it used to know; +Souvenirs of the days of old + Already from the bottle flow, + +With glass in hand our glances met; + We pledge, we drink. How sour it is +Never Argenteuil piquette + Was to my palate sour as this! + +And yet the vintage was good, in sooth; + The self-same juice, the self-same cask! +It was you, O gayety of my youth, + That failed in the autumnal flask! + + + +FRIAR LUBIN + +BY CLEMENT MAROT + +To gallop off to town post-haste, + So oft, the times I cannot tell; +To do vile deed, nor feel disgraced,-- + Friar Lubin will do it well. +But a sober life to lead, + To honor virtue, and pursue it, +That's a pious, Christian deed,-- + Friar Lubin can not do it. + +To mingle, with a knowing smile, + The goods of others with his own, +And leave you without cross or pile, + Friar Lubin stands alone. +To say 't is yours is all in vain, + If once he lays his finger to it; +For as to giving back again, + Friar Lubin cannot do it. + +With flattering words and gentle tone, + To woo and win some guileless maid, +Cunning pander need you none,-- + Friar Lubin knows the trade. +Loud preacheth he sobriety, + But as for water, doth eschew it; +Your dog may drink it,--but not he; + Friar Lubin cannot do it. + + ENVOY + When an evil deed 's to do + Friar Lubin is stout and true; + Glimmers a ray of goodness through it, + Friar Lubin cannot do it. + + + +RONDEL + +BY JEAN FROISSART + +Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine? + Naught see I fixed or sure in thee! +I do not know thee,--nor what deeds are thine: +Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine? + Naught see I fixed or sure in thee! + +Shall I be mute, or vows with prayers combine? + Ye who are blessed in loving, tell it me: +Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine? + Naught see I permanent or sure in thee! + + + +MY SECRET + +BY FELIX ARVERS + +My soul its secret has, my life too has its mystery, +A love eternal in a moment's space conceived; +Hopeless the evil is, I have not told its history, +And she who was the cause nor knew it nor believed. +Alas! I shall have passed close by her unperceived, +Forever at her side, and yet forever lonely, +I shall unto the end have made life's journey, only +Daring to ask for naught, and having naught received. +For her, though God has made her gentle and endearing, +She will go on her way distraught and without hearing +These murmurings of love that round her steps ascend, +Piously faithful still unto her austere duty, +Will say, when she shall read these lines full of her beauty, +"Who can this woman be?" and will not comprehend. + + + +FROM THE ITALIAN + +THE CELESTIAL PILOT + +PURGATORIO II. 13-51. + +And now, behold! as at the approach of morning, + Through the gross vapors, Mars grows fiery red + Down in the west upon the ocean floor +Appeared to me,--may I again behold it! + A light along the sea, so swiftly coming, + Its motion by no flight of wing is equalled. +And when therefrom I had withdrawn a little + Mine eyes, that I might question my conductor, + Again I saw it brighter grown and larger. +Thereafter, on all sides of it, appeared + I knew not what of white, and underneath, + Little by little, there came forth another. +My master yet had uttered not a word, + While the first whiteness into wings unfolded; + But, when he clearly recognized the pilot, +He cried aloud: "Quick, quick, and bow the knee! + Behold the Angel of God! fold up thy hands! + Henceforward shalt thou see such officers! +See, how he scorns all human arguments, + So that no oar he wants, nor other sail + Than his own wings, between so distant shores! +See, how he holds them, pointed straight to heaven, + Fanning the air with the eternal pinions, + That do not moult themselves like mortal hair!" +And then, as nearer and more near us came + The Bird of Heaven, more glorious he appeared, + So that the eye could not sustain his presence, +But down I cast it; and he came to shore + With a small vessel, gliding swift and light, + So that the water swallowed naught thereof. +Upon the stern stood the Celestial Pilot! + Beatitude seemed written in his face! + And more than a hundred spirits sat within. +"In exitu Israel de Aegypto!" + Thus sang they all together in one voice, + With whatso in that Psalm is after written. +Then made he sign of holy rood upon them, + Whereat all cast themselves upon the shore, + And he departed swiftly as he came. + + +THE TERRESTRIAL PARADISE + +PURGATORIO XXVIII. 1-33. + +Longing already to search in and round + The heavenly forest, dense and living-green, + Which tempered to the eyes the newborn day, +Withouten more delay I left the bank, + Crossing the level country slowly, slowly, + Over the soil, that everywhere breathed fragrance. +A gently-breathing air, that no mutation + Had in itself, smote me upon the forehead, + No heavier blow, than of a pleasant breeze, +Whereat the tremulous branches readily + Did all of them bow downward towards that side + Where its first shadow casts the Holy Mountain; +Yet not from their upright direction bent + So that the little birds upon their tops + Should cease the practice of their tuneful art; +But with full-throated joy, the hours of prime + Singing received they in the midst of foliage + That made monotonous burden to their rhymes, +Even as from branch to branch it gathering swells, + Through the pine forests on the shore of Chiassi, + When Aeolus unlooses the Sirocco. +Already my slow steps had led me on + Into the ancient wood so far, that I + Could see no more the place where I had entered. +And lo! my further course cut off a river, + Which, tow'rds the left hand, with its little waves, + Bent down the grass, that on its margin sprang. +All waters that on earth most limpid are, + Would seem to have within themselves some mixture, + Compared with that, which nothing doth conceal, +Although it moves on with a brown, brown current, + Under the shade perpetual, that never + Ray of the sun lets in, nor of the moon. + + + +BEATRICE. + +PURGATORIO XXX. 13-33, 85-99, XXXI. 13-21. + +Even as the Blessed, at the final summons, + Shall rise up quickened, each one from his grave, + Wearing again the garments of the flesh, +So, upon that celestial chariot, + A hundred rose ad vocem tanti senis, + Ministers and messengers of life eternal. +They all were saying, "Benedictus qui venis," + And scattering flowers above and round about, + "Manibus o date lilia plenis." +Oft have I seen, at the approach of day, + The orient sky all stained with roseate hues, + And the other heaven with light serene adorned, +And the sun's face uprising, overshadowed, + So that, by temperate influence of vapors, + The eye sustained his aspect for long while; +Thus in the bosom of a cloud of flowers, + Which from those hands angelic were thrown up, + And down descended inside and without, +With crown of olive o'er a snow-white veil, + Appeared a lady, under a green mantle, + Vested in colors of the living flame. + . . . . . . +Even as the snow, among the living rafters + Upon the back of Italy, congeals, + Blown on and beaten by Sclavonian winds, +And then, dissolving, filters through itself, + Whene'er the land, that loses shadow, breathes, + Like as a taper melts before a fire, +Even such I was, without a sigh or tear, + Before the song of those who chime forever + After the chiming of the eternal spheres; +But, when I heard in those sweet melodies + Compassion for me, more than had they said, + "O wherefore, lady, dost thou thus consume him?" +The ice, that was about my heart congealed, + To air and water changed, and, in my anguish, + Through lips and eyes came gushing from my breast. + . . . . . . +Confusion and dismay, together mingled, + Forced such a feeble "Yes!" out of my mouth, + To understand it one had need of sight. +Even as a cross-bow breaks, when 't is discharged, + Too tensely drawn the bow-string and the bow, + And with less force the arrow hits the mark; +So I gave way beneath this heavy burden, + Gushing forth into bitter tears and sighs, + And the voice, fainting, flagged upon its passage. + + + +TO ITALY + +BY VINCENZO DA FILICAJA + +Italy! Italy! thou who'rt doomed to wear + The fatal gift of beauty, and possess + The dower funest of infinite wretchedness + Written upon thy forehead by despair; +Ah! would that thou wert stronger, or less fair. + That they might fear thee more, or love thee less, + Who in the splendor of thy loveliness + Seem wasting, yet to mortal combat dare! +Then from the Alps I should not see descending + Such torrents of armed men, nor Gallic horde + Drinking the wave of Po, distained with gore, +Nor should I see thee girded with a sword + Not thine, and with the stranger's arm contending, + Victor or vanquished, slave forever more. + + + +SEVEN SONNETS AND A CANZONE +[The following translations are from the poems of Michael Angelo +as revised by his nephew Michael Angelo the Younger, and were +made before the publication of the original text by Guasti.] + +I + +THE ARTIST + +Nothing the greatest artist can conceive + That every marble block doth not confine + Within itself; and only its design + The hand that follows intellect can achieve. +The ill I flee, the good that I believe, + In thee, fair lady, lofty and divine, + Thus hidden lie; and so that death be mine + Art, of desired success, doth me bereave. +Love is not guilty, then, nor thy fair face, + Nor fortune, cruelty, nor great disdain, + Of my disgrace, nor chance, nor destiny, +If in thy heart both death and love find place + At the same time, and if my humble brain, + Burning, can nothing draw but death from thee. + +II + +FIRE + +Not without fire can any workman mould + The iron to his preconceived design, + Nor can the artist without fire refine + And purify from all its dross the gold; +Nor can revive the phoenix, we are told, + Except by fire. Hence if such death be mine + I hope to rise again with the divine, + Whom death augments, and time cannot make old. +O sweet, sweet death! O fortunate fire that burns + Within me still to renovate my days, + Though I am almost numbered with the dead! +If by its nature unto heaven returns + This element, me, kindled in its blaze, + Will it bear upward when my life is fled. + + +III + +YOUTH AND AGE + +Oh give me back the days when loose and free + To my blind passion were the curb and rein, + Oh give me back the angelic face again, + With which all virtue buried seems to be! +Oh give my panting footsteps back to me, + That are in age so slow and fraught with pain, + And fire and moisture in the heart and brain, + If thou wouldst have me burn and weep for thee! +If it be true thou livest alone, Amor, + On the sweet-bitter tears of human hearts, + In an old man thou canst not wake desire; +Souls that have almost reached the other shore + Of a diviner love should feel the darts, + And be as tinder to a holier fire. + + +IV + +OLD AGE + +The course of my long life hath reached at last, + In fragile bark o'er a tempestuous sea, + The common harbor, where must rendered be + Account of all the actions of the past. +The impassioned phantasy, that, vague and vast, + Made art an idol and a king to me, + Was an illusion, and but vanity + Were the desires that lured me and harassed. +The dreams of love, that were so sweet of yore, + What are they now, when two deaths may be mine,-- + One sure, and one forecasting its alarms? +Painting and sculpture satisfy no more + The soul now turning to the Love Divine, + That oped, to embrace us, on the cross its arms. + + +V + +TO VITTORIA COLONNA + +Lady, how can it chance--yet this we see + In long experience--that will longer last + A living image carved from quarries vast + Than its own maker, who dies presently? +Cause yieldeth to effect if this so be, + And even Nature is by Art at surpassed; + This know I, who to Art have given the past, + But see that Time is breaking faith with me. +Perhaps on both of us long life can I + Either in color or in stone bestow, + By now portraying each in look and mien; +So that a thousand years after we die, + How fair thou wast, and I how full of woe, + And wherefore I so loved thee, may be seen. + + +VI + +TO VITTORIA COLONNA + +When the prime mover of my many sighs + Heaven took through death from out her earthly place, + Nature, that never made so fair a face, + Remained ashamed, and tears were in all eyes. +O fate, unheeding my impassioned cries! + O hopes fallacious! O thou spirit of grace, + Where art thou now? Earth holds in its embrace + Thy lovely limbs, thy holy thoughts the skies. +Vainly did cruel death attempt to stay + The rumor of thy virtuous renown, + That Lethe's waters could not wash away! +A thousand leaves, since he hath stricken thee down, + Speak of thee, nor to thee could Heaven convey, + Except through death, a refuge and a crown. + + + +VII + +DANTE + +What should be said of him cannot be said; + By too great splendor is his name attended; + To blame is easier those who him offended, + Than reach the faintest glory round him shed. +This man descended to the doomed and dead + For our instruction; then to God ascended; + Heaven opened wide to him its portals splendid, + Who from his country's, closed against him, fled. +Ungrateful land! To its own prejudice + Nurse of his fortunes; and this showeth well, + That the most perfect most of grief shall see. +Among a thousand proofs let one suffice, + That as his exile hath no parallel, + Ne'er walked the earth a greater man than he. + + + +VIII + +CANZONE + +Ah me! ah me! when thinking of the years, +The vanished years, alas, I do not find +Among them all one day that was my own! +Fallacious hope; desires of the unknown, +Lamenting, loving, burning, and in tears +(For human passions all have stirred my mind), +Have held me, now I feel and know, confined +Both from the true and good still far away. +I perish day by day; +The sunshine fails, the shadows grow more dreary, +And I am near to fail, infirm and weary. + + + +THE NATURE OF LOVE + +BY GUIDO GUINIZELLI + +To noble heart Love doth for shelter fly, +As seeks the bird the forest's leafy shade; +Love was not felt till noble heart beat high, +Nor before love the noble heart was made. + Soon as the sun's broad flame +Was formed, so soon the clear light filled the air; + Yet was not till he came: +So love springs up in noble breasts, and there + Has its appointed space, +As heat in the bright flames finds its allotted place. +Kindles in noble heart the fire of love, +As hidden virtue in the precious stone: +This virtue comes not from the stars above, +Till round it the ennobling sun has shone; + But when his powerful blaze +Has drawn forth what was vile, the stars impart + Strange virtue in their rays; +And thus when Nature doth create the heart + Noble and pure and high, +Like virtue from the star, love comes from woman's eye. + + + +FROM THE PORTUGUESE + +SONG + +BY GIL VICENTE + +If thou art sleeping, maiden, + Awake and open thy door, +'T is the break of day, and we must away, + O'er meadow, and mount, and moor. + +Wait not to find thy slippers, + But come with thy naked feet; +We shall have to pass through the dewy grass, + And waters wide and fleet. + + + +FROM EASTERN SOURCES + +THE FUGITIVE + +A TARTAR SONG + +I + +"He is gone to the desert land +I can see the shining mane +Of his horse on the distant plain, +As he rides with his Kossak band! + +"Come back, rebellious one! +Let thy proud heart relent; +Come back to my tall, white tent, +Come back, my only son! + +"Thy hand in freedom shall +Cast thy hawks, when morning breaks, +On the swans of the Seven Lakes, +On the lakes of Karajal. + +"I will give thee leave to stray +And pasture thy hunting steeds +In the long grass and the reeds +Of the meadows of Karaday. + +"I will give thee my coat of mail, +Of softest leather made, +With choicest steel inlaid; +Will not all this prevail?" + + +II + +"This hand no longer shall +Cast my hawks, when morning breaks, +On the swans of the Seven Lakes, +On the lakes of Karajal. + +"I will no longer stray +And pasture my hunting steeds +In the long grass and the reeds +Of the meadows of Karaday. + +"Though thou give me thy coat of mall, +Of softest leather made, +With choicest steel inlaid, +All this cannot prevail. + +"What right hast thou, O Khan, +To me, who am mine own, +Who am slave to God alone, +And not to any man? + +"God will appoint the day +When I again shall be +By the blue, shallow sea, +Where the steel-bright sturgeons play. + +"God, who doth care for me, +In the barren wilderness, +On unknown hills, no less +Will my companion be. + +"When I wander lonely and lost +In the wind; when I watch at night +Like a hungry wolf, and am white +And covered with hoar-frost; + +"Yea, wheresoever I be, +In the yellow desert sands, +In mountains or unknown lands, +Allah will care for me!" + + +III + +Then Sobra, the old, old man,-- +Three hundred and sixty years +Had he lived in this land of tears, +Bowed down and said, "O Khan! + +"If you bid me, I will speak. +There's no sap in dry grass, +No marrow in dry bones! Alas, +The mind of old men is weak! + +"I am old, I am very old: +I have seen the primeval man, +I have seen the great Gengis Khan, +Arrayed in his robes of gold. + +"What I say to you is the truth; +And I say to you, O Khan, +Pursue not the star-white man, +Pursue not the beautiful youth. + +"Him the Almighty made, +And brought him forth of the light, +At the verge and end of the night, +When men on the mountain prayed. + +"He was born at the break of day, +When abroad the angels walk; +He hath listened to their talk, +And he knoweth what they say. + +"Gifted with Allah's grace, +Like the moon of Ramazan +When it shines in the skies, O Khan, +Is the light of his beautiful face. + +"When first on earth he trod, +The first words that he said +Were these, as he stood and prayed, +There is no God but God! + +"And he shall be king of men, +For Allah hath heard his prayer, +And the Archangel in the air, +Gabriel, hath said, Amen!" + + + +THE SIEGE OF KAZAN + +Black are the moors before Kazan, + And their stagnant waters smell of blood: +I said in my heart, with horse and man, + I will swim across this shallow flood. + +Under the feet of Argamack, + Like new moons were the shoes he bare, +Silken trappings hung on his back, + In a talisman on his neck, a prayer. + +My warriors, thought I, are following me; + But when I looked behind, alas! +Not one of all the band could I see, + All had sunk in the black morass! + +Where are our shallow fords? and where + The power of Kazan with its fourfold gates? +From the prison windows our maidens fair + Talk of us still through the iron grates. + +We cannot hear them; for horse and man + Lie buried deep in the dark abyss! +Ah! the black day hath come down on Kazan! + Ah! was ever a grief like this? + + + +THE BOY AND THE BROOK + +Down from yon distant mountain height + The brooklet flows through the village street; +A boy comes forth to wash his hands, +Washing, yes washing, there he stands, + In the water cool and sweet. + +Brook, from what mountain dost thou come, + O my brooklet cool and sweet! +I come from yon mountain high and cold, +Where lieth the new snow on the old, + And melts in the summer heat. + +Brook, to what river dost thou go? + O my brooklet cool and sweet! +I go to the river there below +Where in bunches the violets grow, + And sun and shadow meet. + +Brook, to what garden dost thou go? + O my brooklet cool and sweet! +I go to the garden in the vale +Where all night long the nightingale + Her love-song doth repeat. + +Brook, to what fountain dost thou go? + O my brooklet cool and sweet! +I go to the fountain at whose brink +The maid that loves thee comes to drink, +And whenever she looks therein, +I rise to meet her, and kiss her chin, + And my joy is then complete. + + + +TO THE STORK + +Welcome, O Stork! that dost wing + Thy flight from the far-away! +Thou hast brought us the signs of Spring, + Thou hast made our sad hearts gay. + +Descend, O Stork! descend + Upon our roof to rest; +In our ash-tree, O my friend, + My darling, make thy nest. + +To thee, O Stork, I complain, + O Stork, to thee I impart +The thousand sorrows, the pain + And aching of my heart. + +When thou away didst go, + Away from this tree of ours, +The withering winds did blow, + And dried up all the flowers. + +Dark grew the brilliant sky, + Cloudy and dark and drear; +They were breaking the snow on high, + And winter was drawing near. + +From Varaca's rocky wall, + From the rock of Varaca unrolled, +the snow came and covered all, + And the green meadow was cold. + +O Stork, our garden with snow + Was hidden away and lost, +Mid the rose-trees that in it grow + Were withered by snow and frost. + + + +FROM THE LATIN + +VIRGIL'S FIRST ECLOGUE + + +MELIBOEUS. +Tityrus, thou in the shade of a spreading beech-tree reclining, +Meditatest, with slender pipe, the Muse of the woodlands. +We our country's bounds and pleasant pastures relinquish, +We our country fly; thou, Tityrus, stretched in the shadow, +Teachest the woods to resound with the name of the fair Amaryllis. + +TITYRUS. +O Meliboeus, a god for us this leisure created, +For he will be unto me a god forever; his altar +Oftentimes shall imbue a tender lamb from our sheepfolds. +He, my heifers to wander at large, and myself, as thou seest, +On my rustic reed to play what I will, hath permitted. + +MELIBOEUS. +Truly I envy not, I marvel rather; on all sides +In all the fields is such trouble. Behold, my goats I am driving, +Heartsick, further away; this one scarce, Tityrus, lead I; +For having here yeaned twins just now among the dense hazels, +Hope of the flock, ah me! on the naked flint she hath left them. +Often this evil to me, if my mind had not been insensate, +Oak-trees stricken by heaven predicted, as now I remember; +Often the sinister crow from the hollow ilex predicted, +Nevertheless, who this god may be, O Tityrus, tell me. + +TITYRUS. +O Meliboeus, the city that they call Rome, I imagined, +Foolish I! to be like this of ours, where often we shepherds +Wonted are to drive down of our ewes the delicate offspring. +Thus whelps like unto dogs had I known, and kids to their mothers, +Thus to compare great things with small had I been accustomed. +But this among other cities its head as far hath exalted +As the cypresses do among the lissome viburnums. + +MELIBOEUS. +And what so great occasion of seeing Rome hath possessed thee? + +TITYRUS. +Liberty, which, though late, looked upon me in my inertness, +After the time when my beard fell whiter front me in shaving,-- +Yet she looked upon me, and came to me after a long while, +Since Amaryllis possesses and Galatea hath left me. +For I will even confess that while Galatea possessed me +Neither care of my flock nor hope of liberty was there. +Though from my wattled folds there went forth many a victim, +And the unctuous cheese was pressed for the city ungrateful, +Never did my right hand return home heavy with money. + +MELIBOEUS. +I have wondered why sad thou invokedst the gods, Amaryllis, +And for whom thou didst suffer the apples to hang on the branches! +Tityrus hence was absent! Thee, Tityrus, even the pine-trees, +Thee, the very fountains, the very copses were calling. + +TITYRUS. +What could I do? No power had I to escape from my bondage, +Nor had I power elsewhere to recognize gods so propitious. +Here I beheld that youth, to whom each year, Meliboeus, +During twice six days ascends the smoke of our altars. +Here first gave he response to me soliciting favor: +"Feed as before your heifers, ye boys, and yoke up your bullocks." + +MELIBOEUS. +Fortunate old man! So then thy fields will be left thee, +And large enough for thee, though naked stone and the marish +All thy pasture-lands with the dreggy rush may encompass. +No unaccustomed food thy gravid ewes shall endanger, +Nor of the neighboring flock the dire contagion inject them. +Fortunate old man! Here among familiar rivers, +And these sacred founts, shalt thou take the shadowy coolness. +On this side, a hedge along the neighboring cross-road, +Where Hyblaean bees ever feed on the flower of the willow, +Often with gentle susurrus to fall asleep shall persuade thee. +Yonder, beneath the high rock, the pruner shall sing to the breezes, +Nor meanwhile shalt thy heart's delight, the hoarse wood-pigeons, +Nor the turtle-dove cease to mourn from aerial elm-trees. + +TITYRUS. +Therefore the agile stags shall sooner feed in the ether, +And the billows leave the fishes bare on the sea-shore. +Sooner, the border-lands of both overpassed, shall the exiled +Parthian drink of the Soane, or the German drink of the Tigris, +Than the face of him shall glide away from my bosom! + +MELIBOEUS. +But we hence shall go, a part to the thirsty Afries, +Part to Scythia come, and the rapid Cretan Oaxes, +And to the Britons from all the universe utterly sundered. +Ah, shall I ever, a long time hence, the bounds of my country +And the roof of my lowly cottage covered with greensward +Seeing, with wonder behold,--my kingdoms, a handful of wheat-ears! +Shall an impious soldier possess these lands newly cultured, +And these fields of corn a barbarian? Lo, whither discord +Us wretched people hath brought! for whom our fields we have planted! +Graft, Meliboeus, thy pear-trees now, put in order thy vine-yards. +Go, my goats, go hence, my flocks so happy aforetime. +Never again henceforth outstretched in my verdurous cavern +Shall I behold you afar from the bushy precipice hanging. +Songs no more shall I sing; not with me, ye goats, as your shepherd, +Shall ye browse on the bitter willow or blooming laburnum. + +TITYRUS. +Nevertheless, this night together with me canst thou rest thee +Here on the verdant leaves; for us there are mellowing apples, +Chestnuts soft to the touch, and clouted cream in abundance; +And the high roofs now of the villages smoke in the distance, +And from the lofty mountains are falling larger the shadows. + + + +OVID IN EXILE + +AT TOMIS, IN BESSARABIA, NEAR THE MOUTHS OF THE DANUBE. + +TRISTIA, Book III., Elegy X. + +Should any one there in Rome remember Ovid the exile, + And, without me, my name still in the city survive; + +Tell him that under stars which never set in the ocean + I am existing still, here in a barbarous land. + +Fierce Sarmatians encompass me round, and the Bessi and Getae; + Names how unworthy to be sung by a genius like mine! + +Yet when the air is warm, intervening Ister defends us: + He, as he flows, repels inroads of war with his waves. + +But when the dismal winter reveals its hideous aspect, + When all the earth becomes white with a marble-like frost; + +And when Boreas is loosed, and the snow hurled under Arcturus, + Then these nations, in sooth, shudder and shiver with cold. + +Deep lies the snow, and neither the sun nor the rain can dissolve it; + Boreas hardens it still, makes it forever remain. + +Hence, ere the first ha-s melted away, another succeeds it, + And two years it is wont, in many places, to lie. + +And so great is the power of the Northwind awakened, it levels + Lofty towers with the ground, roofs uplifted bears off. + +Wrapped in skins, and with trousers sewed, they contend with the weather, + And their faces alone of the whole body are seen. + +Often their tresses, when shaken, with pendent icicles tinkle, + And their whitened beards shine with the gathering frost. + +Wines consolidate stand, preserving the form of the vessels; + No more draughts of wine,--pieces presented they drink. + +Why should I tell you how all the rivers are frozen and solid, + And from out of the lake frangible water is dug? + +Ister,--no narrower stream than the river that bears the papyrus,-- + Which through its many mouths mingles its waves with the deep; + +Ister, with hardening winds, congeals its cerulean waters, + Under a roof of ice, winding its way to the sea. + +There where ships have sailed, men go on foot; and the billows, + Solid made by the frost, hoof-beats of horses indent. + +Over unwonted bridges, with water gliding beneath them, + The Sarmatian steers drag their barbarian carts. + +Scarcely shall I be believed; yet when naught is gained by a falsehood, + Absolute credence then should to a witness be given. + +I have beheld the vast Black Sea of ice all compacted, + And a slippery crust pressing its motionless tides. + +'T is not enough to have seen, I have trodden this indurate ocean; + Dry shod passed my foot over its uppermost wave. + +If thou hadst had of old such a sea as this is, Leander! + Then thy death had not been charged as a crime to the Strait. + +Nor can the curved dolphins uplift themselves from the water; + All their struggles to rise merciless winter prevents; + +And though Boreas sound with roar of wings in commotion, + In the blockaded gulf never a wave will there be; + +And the ships will stand hemmed in by the frost, as in marble, + Nor will the oar have power through the stiff waters to cleave. + +Fast-bound in the ice have I seen the fishes adhering, + Yet notwithstanding this some of them still were alive. + +Hence, if the savage strength of omnipotent Boreas freezes + Whether the salt-sea wave, whether the refluent stream,-- + +Straightway,--the Ister made level by arid blasts of the North-wind,-- + Comes the barbaric foe borne on his swift-footed steed; + +Foe, that powerful made by his steed and his far-flying arrows, + All the neighboring land void of inhabitants makes. + +Some take flight, and none being left to defend their possessions, + Unprotected, their goods pillage and plunder become; + +Cattle and creaking carts, the little wealth of the country, + And what riches beside indigent peasants possess. + +Some as captives are driven along, their hands bound behind them, + Looking backward in vain toward their Lares and lands. + +Others, transfixed with barbed arrows, in agony perish, + For the swift arrow-heads all have in poison been dipped. + +What they cannot carry or lead away they demolish, + And the hostile flames burn up the innocent cots. + +Even when there is peace, the fear of war is impending; + None, with the ploughshare pressed, furrows the soil any more. + +Either this region sees, or fears a foe that it sees not, + And the sluggish land slumbers in utter neglect. + +No sweet grape lies hidden here in the shade of its vine-leaves, + No fermenting must fills and o'erflows the deep vats. + +Apples the region denies; nor would Acontius have found here + Aught upon which to write words for his mistress to read. + +Naked and barren plains without leaves or trees we behold here,-- + Places, alas! unto which no happy man would repair. + +Since then this mighty orb lies open so wide upon all sides, + Has this region been found only my prison to be? + + + +TRISTIA, Book III., Elegy XII. + +Now the zephyrs diminish the cold, and the year being ended, + Winter Maeotian seems longer than ever before; + +And the Ram that bore unsafely the burden of Helle, + Now makes the hours of the day equal with those of the night. + +Now the boys and the laughing girls the violet gather, + Which the fields bring forth, nobody sowing the seed. + +Now the meadows are blooming with flowers of various colors, + And with untaught throats carol the garrulous birds. + +Now the swallow, to shun the crime of her merciless mother, + Under the rafters builds cradles and dear little homes; + +And the blade that lay hid, covered up in the furrows of Ceres, + Now from the tepid ground raises its delicate head. + +Where there is ever a vine, the bud shoots forth from the tendrils, + But from the Getic shore distant afar is the vine! + +Where there is ever a tree, on the tree the branches are swelling, + But from the Getic land distant afar is the tree! + +Now it is holiday there in Rome, and to games in due order + Give place the windy wars of the vociferous bar. + +Now they are riding the horses; with light arms now they are playing, + Now with the ball, and now round rolls the swift-flying hoop: + +Now, when the young athlete with flowing oil is anointed, + He in the Virgin's Fount bathes, over-wearied, his limbs. + +Thrives the stage; and applause, with voices at variance, thunders, + And the Theatres three for the three Forums resound. + +Four times happy is he, and times without number is happy, + Who the city of Rome, uninterdicted, enjoys. + +But all I see is the snow in the vernal sunshine dissolving, + And the waters no more delved from the indurate lake. + +Nor is the sea now frozen, nor as before o'er the Ister + Comes the Sarmatian boor driving his stridulous cart. + +Hitherward, nevertheless, some keels already are steering, + And on this Pontic shore alien vessels will be. + +Eagerly shall I run to the sailor, and, having saluted, + Who he may be, I shall ask; wherefore and whence he hath come. + +Strange indeed will it be, if he come not from regions adjacent, + And incautious unless ploughing the neighboring sea. + +Rarely a mariner over the deep from Italy passes, + Rarely he comes to these shores, wholly of harbors devoid. + +Whether he knoweth Greek, or whether in Latin he speaketh, + Surely on this account he the more welcome will be. + +Also perchance from the mouth of the Strait and the waters Propontic, + Unto the steady South-wind, some one is spreading his sails. + +Whosoever he is, the news he can faithfully tell me, + Which may become a part and an approach to the truth. + +He, I pray, may be able to tell me the triumphs of Caesar, + Which he has heard of, and vows paid to the Latian Jove; + +And that thy sorrowful head, Germania, thou, the rebellious, + Under the feet, at last, of the Great Captain hast laid. + +Whoso shall tell me these things, that not to have seen will afflict me, + Forthwith unto my house welcomed as guest shall he be. + +Woe is me! Is the house of Ovid in Scythian lands now? + And doth punishment now give me its place for a home? + +Grant, ye gods, that Caesar make this not my house and my homestead, + But decree it to be only the inn of my pain. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1365 *** |