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diff --git a/42058-0.txt b/42058-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1a012b3 --- /dev/null +++ b/42058-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10654 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 42058 *** + + ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS + + + + + Macmillan's Pocket American and English Classics + + A Series of English Texts, edited for use in Elementary and + Secondary Schools, with Critical Introductions, Notes, etc. + + 16mo Cloth 25 cents each + + + Addison's Sir Roger de Coverley. + Andersen's Fairy Tales. + Arabian Nights' Entertainments. + Arnold's Sohrab and Rustum. + Austen's Pride and Prejudice. + Bacon's Essays. + Bible (Memorable Passages from). + Blackmore's Lorna Doone. + Browning's Shorter Poems. + Browning, Mrs., Poems (Selected). + Bryant's Thanatopsis, etc. + Bulwer's Last Days of Pompeii. + Bunyan's The Pilgrim's Progress. + Burke's Speech on Conciliation. + Burns' Poems (Selections from). + Byron's Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. + Byron's Shorter Poems. + Carlyle's Essay on Burns. + Carlyle's Heroes and Hero Worship. + Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland (Illustrated). + Chaucer's Prologue and Knight's Tale. + Church's The Story of the Iliad. + Church's The Story of the Odyssey. + Coleridge's The Ancient Mariner. + Cooper's The Deerslayer. + Cooper's The Last of the Mohicans. + Cooper's The Spy. + Dana's Two Years Before the Mast. + Defoe's Robinson Crusoe. + De Quincey's Confessions of an English Opium-Eater. + De Quincey's Joan of Arc, and The English Mail-Coach. + Dickens' A Christmas Carol, and The Cricket on the Hearth. + Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities. + Dryden's Palamon and Arcite. + Early American Orations, 1760-1824. + Edwards' (Jonathan) Sermons. + Eliot's Silas Marner. + Emerson's Essays. + Emerson's Early Poems. + Emerson's Representative Men. + English Narrative Poems. + Epoch-making Papers in U. S. History. + Franklin's Autobiography. + Gaskell's Cranford. + Goldsmith's The Deserted Village, + She Stoops to Conquer, and + The Good-natured Man. + Goldsmith's The Vicar of Wakefield. + Gray's Elegy, etc., and Cowper's John Gilpin, etc. + Grimm's Fairy Tales. + Hawthorne's Grandfather's Chair. + Hawthorne's Mosses from an Old Manse. + Hawthorne's Tanglewood Tales. + Hawthorne's The House of the Seven Gables. + Hawthorne's Twice-told Tales (Selections from). + Hawthorne's Wonder-Book. + Holmes' Poems. + Homer's Iliad (Translated). + Homer's Odyssey (Translated). + Hughes' Tom Brown's School Days. + Huxley's Autobiography and Lay Sermons. + Irving's Life of Goldsmith. + Irving's Knickerbocker. + Irving's The Alhambra. + Irving's Sketch Book. + Irving's Tales of a Traveller. + Keary's Heroes of Asgard. + Kingsley's The Heroes. + Lamb's The Essays of Elia. + Lincoln's Inaugurals and Speeches. + Longfellow's Evangeline. + Longfellow's Hiawatha. + Longfellow's Miles Standish. + Longfellow's Tales of a Wayside Inn. + Lowell's The Vision of Sir Launfal. + Macaulay's Essay on Addison. + Macaulay's Essay on Hastings. + Macaulay's Essay on Lord Clive. + Macaulay's Essay on Milton. + Macaulay's Lays of Ancient Rome. + Macaulay's Life of Samuel Johnson. + Milton's Comus and Other Poems. + Malory's Le Morte Darthur. + Milton's Paradise Lost, Books I. and II. + Old English Ballads. + Old Testament (Selections from). + Out of the Northland. + Palgrave's Golden Treasury. + Parkman's Oregon Trail. + Plutarch's Lives (Cæsar, Brutus, and Mark Antony). + Poe's Poems. + Poe's Prose Tales (Selections from). + Pope's Homer's Iliad. + Pope's The Rape of the Lock. + Ruskin's Sesame and Lilies. + Ruskin's The Crown of Wild Olive and Queen of the Air. + Scott's Ivanhoe. + Scott's Kenilworth. + Scott's Lady of the Lake. + Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel. + Scott's Marmion. + Scott's Quentin Durward. + Scott's The Talisman. + Shakespeare's As You Like It. + Shakespeare's Hamlet. + Shakespeare's Henry V. + Shakespeare's Julius Cæsar. + Shakespeare's King Lear. + Shakespeare's Macbeth. + Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream. + Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice. + Shakespeare's Richard II. + Shakespeare's The Tempest. + Shakespeare's Twelfth Night. + Shelley and Keats: Poems. + Sheridan's The Rivals and The School for Scandal. + Southern Poets: Selections. + Southern Orators: Selections. + Spenser's Faerie Queene, Book I. + Stevenson's Kidnapped. + Stevenson's The Master of Ballantrae. + Stevenson's Travels with a Donkey, and An Inland Voyage. + Stevenson's Treasure Island. + Swift's Gulliver's Travels. + Tennyson's Idylls of the King. + Tennyson's The Princess. + Tennyson's Shorter Poems. + Thackeray's English Humourists. + Thackeray's Henry Esmond. + Thoreau's Walden. + Virgil's Æneid. + Washington's Farewell Address, and + Webster's First Bunker Hill Oration. + Whittier's Snow-Bound and Other Early Poems. + Woolman's Journal. + Wordsworth's Shorter Poems. + + + + + [Illustration] + + THE MACMILLAN COMPANY + + NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO + SAN FRANCISCO + + MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED + LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA + MELBOURNE + + THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD. + TORONTO + + + + + ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS + + SELECTED AND EDITED + BY + CLAUDE M. FUESS + AND + HENRY N. SANBORN + + INSTRUCTORS IN ENGLISH IN PHILLIPS ACADEMY + ANDOVER, MASSACHUSETTS + + New York + THE MACMILLAN COMPANY + 1911 + + _All rights reserved_ + + + + + COPYRIGHT, 1909, + + BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. + + Set up and electrotyped. Published October, 1909. + Reprinted June, 1910; June, 1911. + + + Norwood Press + J. S. Cushing Co.--Berwick & Smith Co. + Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. + + + + + CONTENTS + + + PAGE + INTRODUCTION. ix + + COWPER. + The Diverting History of John Gilpin 1 + + BURNS. + Tam o' Shanter 11 + + SCOTT. + Lochinvar 19 + + WORDSWORTH. + Michael 21 + Lucy Gray 36 + + CAMPBELL. + Hohenlinden 39 + Battle of the Baltic 40 + + WOLFE. + The Burial of Sir John Moore 43 + + BYRON. + The Prisoner of Chillon 45 + Mazeppa 58 + The Destruction of Sennacherib 86 + + KEATS. + The Eve of St. Agnes 88 + + TENNYSON. + Dora 103 + Oenone 108 + Enoch Arden 117 + The Revenge 146 + + BROWNING. + "How they brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix" 154 + Incident of the French Camp 156 + The Pied Piper of Hamelin 158 + Hervé Riel 168 + + ROSSETTI. + The White Ship 175 + + MORRIS. + Atalanta's Race 187 + + LONGFELLOW. + The Wreck of the Hesperus 211 + Paul Revere's Ride 214 + + WHITTIER. + Skipper Ireson's Ride 219 + Barclay of Ury 222 + Barbara Frietchie 226 + + HOLMES. + Grandmother's Story of Bunker Hill Battle 230 + + NOTES 241 + + + + + INTRODUCTION + + +Narrative poetry is distinguished from other types of verse in that it +aims to relate a connected series of events and, therefore, deals +primarily with actions, rather than with thoughts or emotions. This +definition, however, simple as it appears to be in theory, is often +difficult to apply as a test because other matter is blended with the +pure narrative. In any story where the situation is made prominent, +description may be required to make clear the scene and explain +movements to the reader; thus _Enoch Arden_ begins with a word picture +of a sea-coast town. Again it is often necessary to analyze the motives +which actuate certain characters, and so it becomes necessary to +introduce exposition of some sort into the plot. The poems in this +collection serve to enforce the lesson that the four standard rhetorical +forms--narration, description, exposition, and argumentation--are +constantly being combined and welded in a complicated way. In cases +where these various literary elements are apparently in a tangle, a +classification, if it be made at all, must be based on the design of the +poem as a whole, and the emphasis and proportion given to the respective +elements by the author. If the stress is laid on the recounting of the +events which make up a unified action, and if the other factors are made +subordinate and subsidiary to this end, then the poem in question +belongs to the narrative group. + +The antiquity of the narrative as a form of literature is undisputed. +Indeed it has been established with a reasonable degree of certainty +that poetry in its very beginnings was narrative and in its primitive +state must have been a sort of rude, rhythmical chant, originated and +participated in by the tribe as a whole, and telling of the exploits of +gods or legendary heroes. In the course of time there arose the +_minstrel_, who, acting first as chorus leader, became eventually the +representative of the tribe and its own special singer. When we reach a +somewhat more advanced stage of civilization, we find regularly +appointed bards reciting their lays in the hall of the chieftain or +urging on the warriors to battle with rehearsals of past victories. +Originally these bards simply repeated the old oral traditions handed +down as common property, but the opportunity for the display of +individual genius soon induced them to try variations on the current +themes and to compose versions of their own. With this advance of +individualism, poetry became gradually more complex. Various elements, +lyrical, descriptive, and dramatic, assumed some prominence and tended +to develop separate forms. This differentiation, however, did not impair +the vigor of the story-telling spirit, and a constant succession of +narrative poems down to the present day evidences how productive and +characteristic a feature of our literature this form has been. + +Obviously it is impracticable to undertake here even a brief summary of +the history of English narrative poetry and of the influences to which +it has been responsive. Something may, nevertheless, be done to map out +roughly a few divisions which may be of assistance in bringing this +material into orderly shape for the student. Many efforts at systematic +classification have been made, and a few fairly well-marked types have +been defined. In spite of this fact, the task still presents insuperable +obstacles over which there has been futile controversy. One type is +likely to run into another in a way which is uncomfortably baffling. +Then there are numerous nondescript works whose proper place seems +determinable by no law of poetics. The fact is that, here at least, +narrow distinctions are bound to be unsatisfactory. The critic finds it +imperative to avoid dogmatism lest he lay himself open to attack; his +only refuge is in the general statement which may be suggestive even if +it is not exact. + +Of the fixed types, two of the best known, the _Epic_ and the _Ballad_, +were among the earliest to be created. The Epic in its original form was +a long poem of uniform metre, serious in tone and elevated in style, +introducing supernatural or heroic characters and usually dealing with +some significant event in racial or national history. In its first or +primitive shape it was anonymous, a spontaneous outgrowth of popular +feeling, though perhaps arranged and revised at a later date by some +conscious artistic hand. Such a primitive Epic is the old English +_Beowulf_: it is thoroughly objective; in it no clew to definite +authorship can be detected; in it personality is buried in the rush of +incident and the clash of action. When, with the broadening of the scope +of poetry, the individual writer displaced the tribe as the preserver of +folk-lore, the new order of things evolved the so-called artificial Epic +as represented by Milton's _Paradise Lost_. Here the conventional Epic +style and material is kept; the universe is the stage, and the figures +upon it are imposing and grand; but behind the poem is a single +personality whose mood colors and modifies the whole. The Epic is no +longer entirely racial or national, but individual; and we have the +introduction of such passages as Milton's reference to his own blindness +in Book Three. + +Akin to the Epic is the Mock Epic, which appropriates the Epic machinery +and Epic style to use them in dealing with trivialities. In Pope's _The +Rape of the Lock_, the most artistic Mock Epic in English, the theft of +a single lock of hair becomes an act of national and supernatural +interest and a game of cards is described as if it were a mighty battle. + +Almost parallel with and closely resembling the development of the Epic +is that of the _Ballad_. Like the primitive Epic in anonymity and +impersonality, the Ballad was much shorter, had rime and stanzas, and +dealt, as a rule, with incidents of less importance. Not so formal or +pretentious as the Epic, it was easily memorized even by the peasant, +and handed down from generation to generation by word of mouth. Favorite +subjects were the legends of Robin Hood, the misfortunes of nobles, and +the incidents of Border warfare. Mixed in many of them was a tendency +toward superstition, a survival of the belief in ghosts, magicians, and +talking animals. Numerous examples gathered by antiquaries may be found +in the edition of old English Ballads in this series; among the better +known are _The Wife of Usher's Well_ and _Chevy Chase_. Later poets +naturally adapted the Ballad form to their own uses, and so we have the +artificial Ballad, illustrated by Cowper's _The History of John_ +_Gilpin_, Longfellow's _The Wreck of the Hesperus_, and Swinburne's _May +Janet_. In these poems many of the trite expressions so peculiar to the +primitive Ballad are retained; but, like the artificial Epic, the work +is no longer communal, but individual, in origin and bears the stamp of +one mind animated by an artistic purpose. + +In discussing the Epic and the Ballad one is on fairly safe ground, but +between these types one finds a vast amount of poetry, evidently +narrative, which suggests perplexing problems. Much of it may be made to +come under what we term loosely the _Metrical Romance_. This title is +often narrowed by scholars to apply strictly to a poetical _genre_, +arising in the Middle Ages and brought into England by the +Norman-French, which deals in a rambling way with the marvellous +adventures of wandering knights or heroes. Its plot, in which love and +combat are conspicuous features, is enveloped in a kind of glamour, an +atmosphere of unreality. It drew its material from many diverse sources: +from the legends of Troy and the stories of classical and Oriental +antiquity; from the tales of the Frankish Emperor Charlemagne and his +paladins; from the Celtic accounts of King Arthur and the Table Round. +Since its characters, sometimes not without anachronism, embodied the +chivalric ideals of courtesy and loyalty to ladies, hatred of paganism, +and general conduct according to a prescribed but unwritten code, its +appeal was made for the most part to the courtier and the +aristocrat,--though it must be added that many of the robuster +Charlemagne romances acquired currency with the humbler classes and were +sung in the cottage of the peasant. The fact that the greater number of +these Metrical Romances were mere redactions, taken from foreign +models, makes them seem deficient in English interest. Still, several of +the best were of native composition, an excellent example being the +well-known _Sir Gawayne and the Green Knight_. + +But even in spite of a few slight advantages to be gained, it seems +unwise to restrict the Metrical Romance too closely. What we are +accustomed to call, rather vaguely, romance is a persistent quality in +narrative poetry, and is not limited to the literature of any particular +age or rank of society. A cursory examination will disclose many +evidences of the romantic spirit in both the Epic and the Ballad. And +certainly Scott's _The Lay of the Last Minstrel_, Keats's _The Eve of +St. Agnes_, Longfellow's _Evangeline_, and many other poems on similar +themes must remain unclassified unless we designate them broadly as +Metrical Romances. Of course, it is not essential that they should be +pigeon-holed and put away with the right label affixed. However, one or +two observations on the subject-matter with which works of this nature +deal may assist us in avoiding embarrassing confusion. Sometimes the +Metrical Romance (using the term in its broader sense) deals with +authenticated incidents of history. In such cases, the narrative, +founded as it is on matters of fact, is compelled to preserve +substantial accuracy with regard to the events which it uses for a +structure. The fancy is thus partly curbed through the necessity of not +departing radically from the truth. This restraint, logically enough, +does not prevent the introduction of fictitious characters or episodes; +but in the strict historical poem, as in the historical novel, it does +require adherence to chronology and a just representation of the period +in which the action takes place. Occasionally this form approaches a +poetical paraphrase, as in Rossetti's _The White Ship_. The nineteenth +century was singularly prolific in works of this sort; notable among +such works are Scott's _Marmion_, Tennyson's _The Revenge_, and +Longfellow's _Paul Revere's Ride_. If the basis of the poem is +mythological, we have a further species of the Metrical Romance. The +stories clustered around the gods and goddesses of unsophisticated +peoples are perennially attractive and offer a fruitful field to the +poet. In the setting there is frequent opportunity for elaborate +description, and there is often, as in Tennyson's _Oenone_ and William +Morris's _Atalanta's Race_, ornamentation used by the author that is +more than ordinarily remarkable. For such poetry the Greek and Latin +writers furnish a wealth of material for imitation. Nor have the myths +of other races been neglected in recent years. Matthew Arnold's _Balder +Dead_ has its inspiration in the Norse _Eddas_ and has its opening scene +in Valhalla where Odin, father of the gods, presides over the immortals. +William Morris's _Sigurd the Volsing_ is an adaptation of the myths of +the early Germans. + +It is not aside from the point to refer here to the few poems in which +the subject-matter of the Metrical Romance is used, strangely enough, as +a means of teaching moral ideas. Spenser's _Faerie Queene_ presents such +an anomaly. In it conventional chivalric heroes undergo surprising and +impossible adventures, battling and loving as in the legends of +Charlemagne and Arthur. Indeed, in the _Faerie Queene_, Arthur himself +appears as the protagonist. But these knights and ladies are, we learn, +merely animated vices and virtues and are such, because, as Spenser +takes pains to tell us, the poem, though romantic in mood, is +allegorical in intention, its aim being "to fashion a gentleman or noble +person in vertuous and gentle discipline." The author in using his +characters as agents of moral instruction creates a type as much by +itself as _Pilgrim's Progress_ is in prose. Modern examples less +conspicuous for visible allegorical intention are Tennyson's _Idylls of +the King_, in which Arthurian material is once more revived with +something of an ethical purpose. + +There is still to be taken up a large body of poems, usually, though not +always, shorter than the Metrical Romances, which deal with the +situations of common life and with the humbler members of society. By +some authorities the term Metrical Tale has been applied to such +compositions; though it is hardly exact or specific, since the word +"tale" is usually made synonymous with "story" and therefore does not +connote a limited subject-matter. We may accept it in a provisional way +as a convenient technical term for our purposes. The Metrical Tale, +then, as contrasted with the Metrical Romance, attempts a realistic +portrayal of the natural sorrows, losses, or pains which belong to our +everyday experience. The emotions of which it treats are fundamentally +strong and keep the style and versification from becoming +overelaborated. The Metrical Tale may be humorous as in Chaucer's _The +Miller's Tale_, or may be pathetic and tragic as in Tennyson's _Enoch +Arden_ or Wordsworth's _Michael_. In these poems it will be observed +that the diction and phraseology are exceedingly simple. But here, too, +candor requires the admission that the alleged difference between the +Romance and the Tale is likely to bring on a charge of inconsistency. +_Enoch Arden_, just now mentioned, abounds in romantic episodes, though +Enoch and Philip and Annie dwell in a little fishing village. Why, if +Chaucer chose to call his masterpiece the _Canterbury Tales_, should any +one take the liberty of questioning his nomenclature? The query is well +founded; and yet the reader must recognize a wide gulf in tone and +spirit between _The Knight's Tale_ and _The Reeve's Tale_. Call it, if +you will, the distinction between idealism and realism; at any rate it +exists, and ought to be made plain even at the risk of confronting +dilemmas of another sort. + +Having a kind of relationship to what we call arbitrarily the Metrical +Tale is the Beast Fable in verse, in which animals and birds are endowed +with reason and speech. The excuse for the Beast Fable is an ethical +one, and the story, often humorous, is merely a vehicle for +instruction,--a fact evident enough from the so-called moral appended to +most Beast Fables. The best Beast Fables in English are those of John +Gay. + +It is beyond the scope of this introduction to make any but a passing +reference to the forms of versification which have been used in +narrative poetry. In general, the range of metres is wide and varied, +though a few common lines and stanzas occur with much frequency. Blank +Verse, a favorite Epic measure used by Milton in _Paradise Lost_, has +also been effective in the Metrical Romance (Arnold's _Sohrab and +Rustum_) and the Metrical Tale (Wordsworth's _Michael_). It is +peculiarly fitting to longer poems of a serious character. The Heroic +Couplet, made up of two rimed iambic pentameters, was invented by +Chaucer and tried in many of the _Canterbury Tales_. It has since +become very common, being the measure of such widely different poems as +Marlowe's _Hero and Leander_, Pope's _The Rape of the Lock_, and Keats's +_Lamia_. Octosyllabic verse is frequently found,--sometimes in rimed +couplets as in Scott's _Marmion_, less often unrimed as in Longfellow's +_Hiawatha_. In the couplet form it is especially suited to war poetry +where a rapid movement is desirable. The standard four-lined ballad +stanza with rimed alternate lines has continued in popularity with the +artificial ballad writers and has been used in such poems as +Wordsworth's _Lucy Gray_ and Longfellow's _The Wreck of the Hesperus_. +Most complicated of all the narrative stanzaic forms is the Spenserian +stanza, devised by Spenser for his _Faerie Queene_ and imitated by Keats +in _The Eve of St. Agnes_. It has a stateliness which makes it well +adapted to dignified themes. In some few examples there is a metre +wholly irregular and following the movement of the story, as in +Tennyson's _The Revenge_ and Browning's _Hervé Riel_. + +The discussion of narrative methods may be left to the will and +discretion of the teacher. A study of the separate poems here presented +will show that while the four almost indispensable elements of +narration--plot, setting, characters, and motive--may usually be found, +their use and emphasis vary greatly according to the theories and +personalities of the authors. The employment of such arts of +construction as suspense and climax may be discovered by the individual +student, who should also test each poem for its unity, coherence, and +proportion. In a collection such as this there is ample room for +instructive criticism and comparison. But narrative poems may well be +read for the interest they excite. If a narrative poem fails in this +respect, it is all but condemned from the start. It is hoped that these +examples may show the student that _poetry_ is not always dull and +lifeless; that it may possess at times all the features which make +literature attractive as well as inspiring. + +The editors are grateful for assistance rendered them by Mr. A. W. +Leonard and Mr. Archibald Freeman, both instructors in Phillips Academy, +Andover, Massachusetts. + + + + +WILLIAM COWPER + + +THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN + +SHOWING HOW HE WENT FARTHER THAN HE INTENDED, AND CAME HOME SAFE AGAIN + + John Gilpin was a citizen + Of credit and renown, + A trainband captain eke[1] was he + Of famous London town. + + John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear, 5 + "Though wedded we have been + These twice ten tedious years, yet we + No holiday have seen. + + "To-morrow is our wedding day, + And we will then repair 10 + Unto the Bell at Edmonton[2] + All in a chaise and pair. + + "My sister, and my sister's child, + Myself, and children three, + Will fill the chaise; so you must ride 15 + On horseback after we.[3]" + + He soon replied, "I do admire + Of womankind but one, + And you are she, my dearest dear, + Therefore it shall be done. 20 + + "I am a linendraper bold, + As all the world doth know, + And my good friend the calender[4] + Will lend his horse to go." + + Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, "That's well said; 25 + And for that wine is dear, + We will be furnished with our own, + Which is both bright and clear." + + John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife; + O'erjoyed was he to find, 30 + That, though on pleasure she was bent, + She had a frugal mind. + + The morning came, the chaise was brought, + But yet was not allow'd + To drive up to the door, lest all 35 + Should say that she was proud. + + So three doors off the chaise was stay'd, + Where they did all get in; + Six precious souls, and all agog[5] + To dash through thick and thin. 40 + + Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, + Were never folks so glad, + The stones did rattle underneath, + As if Cheapside[6] were mad. + + John Gilpin at his horse's side 45 + Seized fast the flowing mane, + And up he got, in haste to ride, + But soon came down again; + + For saddletree[7] scarce reach'd had he + His journey to begin, 50 + When, turning round his head, he saw + Three customers come in. + + So down he came; for loss of time, + Although it grieved him sore, + Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, 55 + Would trouble him much more. + + 'Twas long before the customers + Were suited to their mind, + When Betty screaming came down stairs, + "The wine is left behind!" 60 + + "Good lack!" quoth he--"yet bring it me, + My leathern belt likewise, + In which I bear my trusty sword + When I do exercise." + + Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!) 65 + Had two stone bottles found, + To hold the liquor that she loved, + And keep it safe and sound. + + Each bottle had a curling ear, + Through which the belt he drew, 70 + And hung a bottle on each side, + To make his balance true. + + Then over all, that he might be + Equipp'd from top to toe, + His long red cloak, well brush'd and neat, 75 + He manfully did throw. + + Now see him mounted once again + Upon his nimble steed, + Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, + With caution and good heed. 80 + + But finding soon a smoother road + Beneath his well shod feet, + The snorting beast began to trot, + Which gall'd him in his seat. + + So, "fair and softly," John he cried, 85 + But John he cried in vain; + That trot became a gallop soon, + In spite of curb and rein. + + So stooping down, as needs he must + Who cannot sit upright, 90 + He grasp'd the mane with both his hands, + And eke with all his might. + + His horse, who never in that sort + Had handled been before, + What thing upon his back had got 95 + Did wonder more and more. + + Away went Gilpin, neck or nought; + Away went hat and wig; + He little dreamt, when he set out, + Of running such a rig. 100 + + The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, + Like streamer long and gay, + Till, loop and button failing both, + At last it flew away. + + Then might all people well discern 105 + The bottles he had slung; + A bottle swinging at each side, + As hath been said or sung. + + The dogs did bark, the children scream'd, + Up flew the windows all; 110 + And every soul cried out, "Well done!" + As loud as he could bawl. + + Away went Gilpin--who but he? + His fame soon spread around, + "He carries weight! he rides a race[8]! 115 + 'Tis for a thousand pound!" + + And still as fast as he drew near, + 'Twas wonderful to view, + How in a trice the turnpike men + Their gates wide open threw. 120 + + And now, as he went bowing down + His reeking head full low, + The bottles twain behind his back + Were shatter'd at a blow. + + Down ran the wine into the road, 125 + Most piteous to be seen, + Which made his horse's flanks to smoke + As they had basted been. + + But still he seem'd to carry weight, + With leathern girdle braced; 130 + For all might see the bottle necks + Still dangling at his waist. + + Thus all through merry Islington[9] + These gambols did he play, + Until he came unto the Wash 135 + Of Edmonton so gay; + + And there he threw the wash about + On both sides of the way, + Just like unto a trundling mop, + Or a wild goose at play. 140 + + At Edmonton his loving wife + From the balcony spied + Her tender husband, wondering much + To see how he did ride. + + "Stop, stop, John Gilpin!--Here's the house," 145 + They all at once did cry; + "The dinner waits, and we are tired:" + Said Gilpin--"So am I!" + + But yet his horse was not a whit + Inclined to tarry there; 150 + For why?--his owner had a house + Full ten miles off, at Ware.[10] + + So like an arrow swift he flew, + Shot by an archer strong; + So did he fly--which brings me to 155 + The middle of my song. + + Away went Gilpin out of breath, + And sore against his will, + Till at his friend the calender's + His horse at last stood still. 160 + + The calender, amazed to see + His neighbor in such trim, + Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, + And thus accosted him: + + "What news? what news? your tidings tell; 165 + Tell me you must and shall-- + Say why bareheaded you are come, + Or why you come at all?" + + Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, + And loved a timely joke; 170 + And thus unto the calender + In merry guise he spoke: + + "I came because your horse would come; + And, if I well forbode, + My hat and wig will soon be here, 175 + They are upon the road." + + The calender, right glad to find + His friend in merry pin,[11] + Return'd him not a single word, + But to the house went in; 180 + + Whence straight he came with hat and wig; + A wig that flow'd behind, + A hat not much the worse for wear, + Each comely in its kind. + + He held them up, and in his turn 185 + Thus show'd his ready wit, + "My head is twice as big as yours, + They therefore needs must fit. + + "But let me scrape the dirt away + That hangs upon your face; 190 + And stop and eat, for well you may + Be in a hungry case." + + Said John, "It is my wedding day, + And all the world would stare, + If wife should dine at Edmonton, 195 + And I should dine at Ware." + + So turning to his horse, he said, + "I am in haste to dine; + 'Twas for your pleasure you came here, + You shall go back for mine." 200 + + Ah luckless speech, and bootless boast! + For which he paid full dear; + For, while he spake, a braying ass + Did sing most loud and clear; + + Whereat his horse did snort, as he 205 + Had heard a lion roar, + And gallop'd off with all his might, + As he had done before. + + Away went Gilpin, and away + Went Gilpin's hat and wig: 210 + He lost them sooner than at first, + For why?--they were too big. + + Now mistress Gilpin, when she saw + Her husband posting down + Into the country far away, 215 + She pull'd out half a crown; + + And thus unto the youth she said, + That drove them to the Bell, + "This shall be yours, when you bring back + My husband safe and well." 220 + + The youth did ride, and soon did meet + John coming back amain[12]; + Whom in a trice he tried to stop, + By catching at his rein; + + But not performing what he meant, 225 + And gladly would have done, + The frighted steed he frighted more, + And made him faster run. + + Away went Gilpin, and away + Went postboy at his heels, 230 + The postboy's horse right glad to miss + The lumbering of the wheels. + + Six gentlemen upon the road, + Thus seeing Gilpin fly, + With postboy scampering in the rear, 235 + They raised the hue and cry[13]:-- + + "Stop thief! stop thief!--a highwayman!" + Not one of them was mute; + And all and each that passed that way + Did join in the pursuit. 240 + + And now the turnpike gates again + Flew open in short space; + The toll-men thinking as before, + That Gilpin rode a race. + + And so he did, and won it too, 245 + For he got first to town; + Nor stopp'd till where he had got up + He did again get down. + + Now let us sing, "Long live the king, + And Gilpin, long live he;" 250 + And when he next doth ride abroad, + May I be there to see! + + + + +ROBERT BURNS + + +TAM O' SHANTER + + "Of brownyis and of bogilis full is this buke." + GAWIN DOUGLAS. + +A TALE + + When chapman billies[14] leave the street, + And drouty[15] neebors, neebors meet, + As market-days are wearing late, + And folk begin to tak the gate[16]; + While we sit bousing at the nappy,[17] 5 + And gettin' fou[18] and unco[19] happy, + We think na on the lang Scots miles. + The mosses, waters, slaps[20] and styles, + That lie between us and our hame, + Where sits our sulky sullen dame, 10 + Gathering her brows like gathering storm, + Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. + + This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, + As he frae[21] Ayr[22] ae night did canter, + (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses 15 + For honest men and bonny lasses.) + + O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise, + As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice! + She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum,[23] + A blethering,[24] blustering, drunken blellum[25]; 20 + That frae November till October, + Ae market-day thou wasna sober; + That ilka[26] melder,[27] wi' the miller, + Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; + That every naig was ca'd[28] a shoe on, 25 + The smith and thee gat roaring fou on; + That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday, + Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday. + She prophesied that, late or soon, + Thou would be found deep drowned in Doon,[29] 30 + Or catched wi' warlocks[30] in the mirk,[31] + By Alloway's[32] auld haunted kirk.[33] + + Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,[34] + To think how monie counsels sweet, + How monie lengthened sage advices, 35 + The husband frae the wife despises! + + But to our tale:--Ae market-night, + Tam had got planted[35] unco right, + Fast by an ingle,[36] bleezing finely, + Wi' reaming swats,[37] that drank divinely; 40 + And at his elbow, Souter[38] Johnny, + His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony; + Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither-- + They had been fou for weeks thegither! + The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter, 45 + And aye the ale was growing better; + The landlady and Tam grew gracious, + Wi' favors secret, sweet, and precious; + The souter tauld his queerest stories, + The landlord's laugh was ready chorus; 50 + The storm without might rair and rustle-- + Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. + + Care, mad to see a man sae happy, + E'en drowned himself amang the nappy! + As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, 55 + The minutes winged their way wi' pleasure: + Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, + O'er a' the ills o' life victorious. + + But pleasures are like poppies spread,-- + You seize the flower, its bloom is shed; 60 + Or like the snowfall in the river,-- + A moment white--then melts forever; + Or like the borealis race, + That flit ere you can point their place; + Or like the rainbow's lovely form, 65 + Evanishing amid the storm. + Nae man can tether time or tide; + The hour approaches Tam maun[39] ride: + That hour, o' night's black arch the keystane, + That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; 70 + And sic a night he taks the road in + As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. + The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; + The rattling showers rose on the blast; + The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed; 75 + Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellowed: + That night, a child might understand, + The Deil[40] had business on his hand. + + Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg, + (A better never lifted leg,) 80 + Tam skelpit[41] on through dub[42] and mire, + Despising wind, and rain, and fire; + Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet, + Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet; + Whiles glowering round wi' prudent cares, 85 + Lest bogles[43] catch him unawares:-- + Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, + Where ghaists and houlets[44] nightly cry. + + By this time he was cross the ford, + Where in the snaw the chapman smoored[45]; 90 + And past the birks[46] and meikle stane,[47] + Where drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane; + And through the whins,[48] and by the cairn,[49] + Where hunters fand the murdered bairn[50]; + And near the thorn, aboon the well, 95 + Where Mungo's mither hanged hersel'. + Before him Doon pours all his floods; + The doubling storm roars through the woods; + The lightnings flash from pole to pole; + Near and more near the thunders roll; 100 + When, glimmering through the groaning trees, + Kirk-Alloway seemed in a bleeze[51]; + Through ilka bore[52] the beams were glancing, + And loud resounded mirth and dancing. + + Inspiring bold John Barleycorn,[53] 105 + What dangers thou canst make us scorn! + Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil; + Wi' usquebae,[54] we'll face the devil!-- + The swats sae reamed in Tammie's noddle, + Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle.[55] 110 + But Maggie stood right sair astonished, + Till, by the heel and hand admonished, + She ventured forward on the light; + And, vow! Tam saw an unco sight! + Warlocks and witches in a dance; 115 + Nae cotillion brent[56] new frae France, + But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys,[57] and reels, + Put life and mettle in their heels. + A winnock-bunker[58] in the east, + There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast; 120 + A towzie tyke,[59] black, grim, and large, + To gie them music was his charge; + He screwed the pipes and gart them skirl,[60] + Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.[61] + Coffins stood round, like open presses, 125 + That shawed the dead in their last dresses; + And by some devilish cantrip slight[62] + Each in its cauld hand held a light: + By which heroic Tam was able + To note upon the haly table, 130 + A murderer's banes in gibbet airns; + Twa span-lang, wee unchristened bairns; + A thief, new-cutted frae the rape, + Wi' his last gasp his gab[63] did gape; + Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted; 135 + Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted; + A garter which a babe had strangled; + A knife, a father's throat had mangled, + Whom his ain son o' life bereft,-- + The gray hairs yet stack to the heft: 140 + Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', + Which even to name wad be unlawfu'! + + As Tammie glow'red, amazed and curious, + The mirth and fun grew fast and furious; + The piper loud and louder blew; 145 + The dancers quick and quicker flew; + They reeled, they set, they crossed, they cleekit,[64] + Till ilka carlin[65] swat and reekit, + And coost her duddies[66] to the wark, + And linket[67] at it in her sark[68]! 150 + + Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans,[69] + A' plump and strappin' in their teens; + Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen,[70] + Been snaw-white seventeen-hunder linen[71]! + Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, 155 + That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, + I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies,[72] + For ae blink o' the bonny burdies[73]! + But withered beldams,[74] auld and droll + Rigwooddie[75] hags wad spean[76] a foal, 160 + Louping and flinging on a cummock,[77] + I wonder didna turn thy stomach. + + But Tam kenned what was what fu' brawlie[78]; + There was ae winsome wench and walie,[79] + That night enlisted in the core,[80] 165 + (Lang after kenned on Carrick shore; + For monie a beast to dead she shot, + And perished monie a bonny boat, + And shook baith meikle corn and bear,[81] + And kept the country-side in fear.) 170 + Her cutty-sark,[82] o' Paisley harn,[83] + That while a lassie she had won, + In longitude though sorely scanty, + It was her best, and she was vauntie.[84] + Ah! little kenned thy reverend grannie 175 + That sark she coft[85] for her wee Nannie, + Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches), + Wad ever graced a dance o' witches! + + But here my Muse her wing maun cour; + Sic flights are far beyond her power;-- 180 + To sing how Nannie lap and flang[86] + (A souple jade she was, and strang), + And how Tam stood like ane bewitched, + And thought his very e'en[87] enriched: + Even Satan glow'red and fidged fu' fain,[88] 185 + And hotched[89] and blew wi' might and main: + Till first ae caper, syne[90] anither, + Tam tint[91] his reason a' thegither, + And roars out: "Weel done, Cutty-sark!" + And in an instant all was dark: 190 + And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, + When out the hellish legion sallied. + As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,[92] + When plundering herds assail their byke[93]; + As open poussie's mortal foes, 195 + When, pop! she starts before their nose; + As eager runs the market-crowd, + When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud; + So Maggie runs, the witches follow, + Wi' monie an eldritch[94] screech and hollow. 200 + + Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get they fairin'[95]! + In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin'! + In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin'; + Kate soon will be a woefu' woman! + Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 205 + And win the keystane o' the brig; + There at them thou thy tail may toss, + A running-stream they darena cross[96]! + But ere the keystane she could make, + The fient a tail she had to shake! 210 + For Nannie, far before the rest, + Hard upon noble Maggie prest, + And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle,[97]-- + But little wist she Maggie's mettle! + Ae spring brought off her master hale, 215 + But left behind her ain gray tail: + The carlin claught her by the rump, + And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. + + Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, + Ilk man and mother's son, take heed! 220 + Whene'er to drink you are inclined, + Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, + Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear,-- + Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare. + + + + +WALTER SCOTT + + +LOCHINVAR + + O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west, + Through all the wide Border[98] his steed was the best; + And, save his good broadsword, he weapons had none, + He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone. + So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, 5 + There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. + + He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone, + He swam the Esk river[99] where ford there was none; + But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, + The bride had consented, the gallant came late: 10 + For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, + Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. + + So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall, + Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all: + Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, 15 + (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,) + "O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, + Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"-- + + "I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied;-- + Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like the tide-- 20 + And now I am come, with this lost love of mine, + To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. + There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, + That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." + + The bride kiss'd the goblet: the knight took it up, 25 + He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup. + She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh, + With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. + He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,-- + "Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar. 30 + + So stately his form, and so lovely her face, + There never a hall such a galliard[100] did grace; + While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, + And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; + And the bride-maidens whisper'd, "'Twere better by far, 35 + To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar." + + One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, + When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near; + So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, + So light to the saddle before her he sprung! 40 + "She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur[101]; + They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar. + + There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; + Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran; + There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie Lee, 45 + But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. + So daring in love, and so dauntless in war. + Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? + + + + +WILLIAM WORDSWORTH + + +MICHAEL + +A PASTORAL POEM + + If from the public way you turn your steps + Up the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll,[102] + You will suppose that with an upright path + Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent + The pastoral mountains front you, face to face. 5 + But courage! for around that boisterous brook + The mountains have all opened out themselves, + And made a hidden valley of their own. + No habitation can be seen; but they + Who journey thither find themselves alone 10 + With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites + That overhead are sailing in the sky. + It is in truth an utter solitude; + Nor should I have made mention of this Dell + But for one object which you might pass by, 15 + Might see and notice not. Beside the brook + Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones! + And to that simple object appertains + A story--unenriched with strange events, + Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, 20 + Or for the summer shade. It was the first + Of those domestic tales that spake to me + Of shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men + Whom I already loved; not verily + For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills 25 + Where was their occupation and abode. + And hence this Tale, while I was yet a boy + Careless of books, yet having felt the power + Of Nature, by the gentle agency + Of natural objects, led me on to feel 30 + For passions that were not my own, and think + (At random and imperfectly indeed) + On man, the heart of man, and human life. + Therefore, although it be a history + Homely and rude, I will relate the same 35 + For the delight of a few natural hearts; + And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake + Of youthful Poets, who among these hills + Will be my second self when I am gone. + Upon the forest side in Grasmere vale 40 + There dwelt a shepherd, Michael was his name; + An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb. + His bodily frame had been from youth to age + Of an unusual strength; his mind was keen, + Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs, 45 + And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt + And watchful more than ordinary men. + Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds, + Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes, + When others heeded not, he heard the South 50 + Make subterraneous music, like the noise + Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills. + The shepherd, at such warning, of his flock + Bethought him, and he to himself would say, + "The winds are now devising work for me!" 55 + And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drives + The traveller to a shelter, summoned him + Up to the mountains: he had been alone + Amid the heart of many thousand mists, + That came to him, and left him, on the heights. 60 + So lived he till his eightieth year was past. + And grossly that man errs who should suppose + That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks, + Were things indifferent to the shepherd's thoughts. + Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed 65 + The common air; hills which with vigorous step + He had so often climbed; which had impressed + So many incidents upon his mind + Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear; + Which, like a book, preserved the memory 70 + Of the dumb animals, whom he had saved, + Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts + The certainty of honorable gain; + Those fields, those hills--what could they less? had laid + Strong hold on his affections, were to him 75 + A pleasurable feeling of blind love, + The pleasure which there is in life itself. + His days had not been passed in singleness. + His Helpmate was a comely matron, old-- + Though younger than himself full twenty years. 80 + She was a woman of a stirring life, + Whose heart was in her house: two wheels she had + Of antique form; this large, for spinning wool; + That small, for flax; and if one wheel had rest + It was because the other was at work. 85 + The Pair had but one inmate in their house, + An only Child, who had been born to them + When Michael, telling o'er his years, began + To deem that he was old,--in shepherd's phrase, + With one foot in the grave. This only Son, 90 + With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm, + The one of an inestimable worth, + Made all their household. I may truly say, + That they were as a proverb in the vale + For endless industry. When day was gone, 95 + And from their occupations out of doors + The Son and Father were come home, even then, + Their labor did not cease; unless when all + Turned to the cleanly supper-board, and there, + Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk, 100 + Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes, + And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when the meal + Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was named) + And his old Father both betook themselves + To such convenient work as might employ 105 + Their hands by the fireside; perhaps to card + Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or repair + Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, + Or other implement of house or field. + Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge, 110 + That in our ancient uncouth country style + With huge and black projection overbrowed + Large space beneath, as duly as the light + Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp; + An aged utensil, which had performed 115 + Service beyond all others of its kind. + Early at evening did it burn--and late, + Surviving comrade of uncounted hours, + Which, going by from year to year, had found, + And left, the couple neither gay perhaps 120 + Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes, + Living a life of eager industry. + And now, when Luke had reached his eighteenth year, + There by the light of this old lamp they sate, + Father and Son, while far into the night 125 + The Housewife plied her own peculiar work, + Making the cottage through the silent hours + Murmur as with the sound of summer flies. + This light was famous in its neighborhood, + And was a public symbol of the life 130 + That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced, + Their cottage on a plot of rising ground + Stood single, with large prospect, north and south, + High into Easedale,[103] up to Dunmail-Raise, + And westward to the village near the lake; 135 + And from this constant light, so regular + And so far seen, the House itself, by all + Who dwelt within the limits of the vale, + Both old and young, was named THE EVENING STAR. + Thus living on through such a length of years, 140 + The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs + Have loved his Helpmate; but to Michael's heart + This son of his old age was yet more dear-- + Less from instinctive tenderness, the same + Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all-- 145 + Than that a child, more than all other gifts + That earth can offer to declining man, + Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts, + And stirrings of inquietude, when they + By tendency of nature need must fail. 150 + Exceeding was the love he bare to him, + His heart and his heart's joy! For oftentimes + Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms, + Had done him female service, not alone + For pastime and delight, as is the use 155 + Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced + To acts of tenderness; and he had rocked + His cradle, as with a woman's gentle hand. + And, in a later time, ere yet the boy + Had put on man's attire, did Michael love, 160 + Albeit of a stern unbending mind, + To have the Young-one in his sight, when he + Wrought in the field, or on his shepherd's stool + Sate with a fettered sheep before him stretched + Under the large old oak, that near his door 165 + Stood single, and from matchless depth of shade, + Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun, + Thence in our rustic dialect was called + The Clipping Tree, a name which yet it bears. + There while they two were sitting in the shade, 170 + With others round them, earnest all and blithe + Would Michael exercise his heart with looks + Of fond correction, and reproof bestowed + Upon the child, if he disturbed the sheep + By catching at their legs, or with his shouts 175 + Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears. + And when by Heaven's good grace the boy grew up + A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek + Two steady roses that were five years old; + Then Michael from a winter coppice cut 180 + With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped + With iron, making it throughout in all + Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff, + And gave it to the boy; wherewith equipt + He as a watchman oftentimes was placed 185 + At gate or gap to stem or turn the flock; + And, to his office prematurely called, + There stood the urchin, as you will divine, + Something between a hindrance and a help; + And for this cause not always, I believe, 190 + Receiving from his father hire of praise; + Though nought was left undone which staff, or voice, + Or looks or threatening gestures, could perform. + But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand + Against the mountain blasts; and to the heights, 195 + Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways, + He with his father daily went, and they + Were as companions, why should I relate + That objects which the shepherd loved before + Were dearer now? that from the Boy there came 200 + Feelings and emanations--things which were + Light to the sun and music to the wind; + And that the old Man's heart seemed born again? + Thus in his father's sight the Boy grew up; + And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year, 205 + He was his comfort and his daily hope. + While in this sort the simple household lived + From day to day, to Michael's ear there came + Distressful tidings. Long before the time + Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound 210 + In surety for his brother's son, a man + Of an industrious life, and ample means; + But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly + Had prest upon him; and old Michael now + Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture, 215 + A grievous penalty, but little less + Than half his substance. This unlooked-for claim, + At the first hearing, for a moment took + More hope out of his life than he supposed + That any old man ever could have lost. 220 + As soon as he had armed himself with strength + To look his troubles in the face, it seemed + The Shepherd's sole resource to sell at once + A portion of his patrimonial fields. + Such was his first resolve; he thought again, 225 + And his heart failed him. "Isabel," said he, + Two evenings after he had heard the news, + "I have been toiling more than seventy years, + And in the open sunshine of God's love + Have we all lived; yet if these fields of ours 230 + Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think + That I could not lie quiet in my grave. + Our lot is a hard lot; the sun himself + Has scarcely been more diligent than I; + And I have lived to be a fool at last 235 + To my own family. An evil man + That was, and made an evil choice, if he + Were false to us; and if he were not false, + There are ten thousand to whom loss like this + Had been no sorrow. I forgive him;--but 240 + 'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus. + When I began, my purpose was to speak + Of remedies and of a cheerful hope. + Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land + Shall not go from us, and it shall be free; 245 + He shall possess it, free as is the wind + That passes over it. We have, thou know'st, + Another kinsman--he will be our friend + In this distress. He is a prosperous man, + Thriving in trade--and Luke to him shall go, 250 + And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift + He quickly will repair this loss, and then + He may return to us. If here he stay, + What can be done? Where every one is poor, + What can be gained?" + At this the old Man paused, 255 + And Isabel sat silent, for her mind + Was busy, looking back into past times. + There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself, + He was a parish-boy--at the church-door + They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence 260 + And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbors bought + A basket, which they filled with pedlar's wares; + And, with this basket on his arm, the lad + Went up to London, found a master there, + Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy 265 + To go and overlook his merchandise + Beyond the seas; where he grew wondrous rich, + And left estates and monies to the poor, + And, at his birthplace, built a chapel, floored + With marble which he sent from foreign lands. 270 + These thoughts, and many others of like sort, + Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel, + And her face brightened. The old Man was glad, + And thus resumed:--"Well, Isabel! this scheme + These two days, has been meat and drink to me. 275 + Far more than we have lost is left us yet. + --We have enough--I wish indeed that I + Were younger;--but this hope is a good hope. + --Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best + Buy for him more, and let us send him forth 280 + To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night: + --If he _could_ go, the Boy should go to-night." + Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth + With a light heart. The Housewife for five days + Was restless morn and night, and all day long 285 + Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare + Things needful for the journey of her son. + But Isabel was glad when Sunday came + To stop her in her work: for, when she lay + By Michael's side, she through the last two nights 290 + Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep; + And when they rose at morning she could see + That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon + She said to Luke, while they two by themselves + Were sitting at the door, "Thou must not go: 295 + We have no other Child but thee to lose, + None to remember--do not go away, + For if thou leave thy Father, he will die." + The Youth made answer with a jocund voice; + And Isabel, when she had told her fears, 300 + Recovered heart. That evening her best fare + Did she bring forth, and all together sat + Like happy people round a Christmas fire. + With daylight Isabel resumed her work; + And all the ensuing week the house appeared 305 + As cheerful as a grove in Spring: at length + The expected letter from their kinsman came, + With kind assurances that he would do + His utmost for the welfare of the boy; + To which, requests were added, that forthwith 310 + He might be sent to him. Ten times or more + The letter was read over; Isabel + Went forth to show it to the neighbors round; + Nor was there at that time on English land + A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel 315 + Had to her house returned, the old Man said, + "He shall depart to-morrow." To this word + The Housewife answered, talking much of things + Which, if at such short notice he should go, + Would surely be forgotten. But at length 320 + She gave consent, and Michael was at ease. + Near the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll, + In that deep valley, Michael had designed + To build a Sheepfold; and, before he heard + The tidings of his melancholy loss, 325 + For this same purpose he had gathered up + A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's edge + Lay thrown together, ready for the work. + With Luke that evening thitherward he walked: + And soon as they had reached the place he stopped, 330 + And thus the old man spoke to him:--"My son, + To-morrow thou wilt leave me: with full heart + I look upon thee, for thou art the same + That wert a promise to me ere thy birth, + And all thy life hast been my daily joy. 335 + I will relate to thee some little part + Of our two histories; 'twill do thee good + When thou art from me, even if I should touch + On things thou canst not know of.--After thou + First cam'st into the world--as oft befalls 340 + To new-born infants--thou didst sleep away + Two days, and blessings from thy Father's tongue + Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on, + And still I loved thee with increasing love. + Never to living ear came sweeter sounds 345 + Then when I heard thee by our own fireside + First uttering, without words, a natural tune; + While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy + Sing at thy mother's breast. Month followed month + And in the open fields my life was passed 350 + And on the mountains; else I think that thou + Hadst been brought up upon thy Father's knees. + But we were playmates, Luke: among these hills, + As well thou knowest, in us the old and young + Have played together, nor with me didst thou 355 + Lack any pleasure which a boy can know." + Luke had a manly heart; but at these words + He sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped his hand, + And said, "Nay, do not take it so--I see + That these are things of which I need not speak. 360 + --Even to the utmost I have been to thee + A kind and a good Father: and herein + I but repay a gift which I myself + Received at others' hands; for, though now old + Beyond the common life of man, I still 365 + Remember them who loved me in my youth. + Both of them sleep together: here they lived, + As all their Forefathers had done; and when + At length their time was come, they were not loth + To give their bodies to the family mould. 370 + I wished that thou should'st live the life they lived: + But, 'tis a long time to look back, my Son, + And see so little gain from threescore years. + These fields were burthened when they came to me; + Till I was forty years of age, not more 375 + Than half of my inheritance was mine. + I toiled and toiled; God blessed me in my work, + And till these three weeks past the land was free. + --It looks as if it never could endure + Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke, 380 + If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good + That thou should'st go." + At this the old Man paused; + Then, pointing to the stones near which they stood, + Thus, after a short silence, he resumed: + "This was a work for us; and now, my Son, 385 + It is a work for me. But, lay one stone-- + Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands. + Nay, Boy, be of good hope;--we both may live + To see a better day. At eighty-four + I still am strong and hale;--do thou thy part; 390 + I will do mine.--I will begin again + With many tasks that were resigned to thee: + Up to the heights, and in among the storms, + Will I without thee go again, and do + All works which I was wont to do alone, 395 + Before I knew thy face.--Heaven bless thee, Boy! + Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast + With many hopes; it should be so--yes--yes-- + I knew that thou could'st never have a wish + To leave me, Luke: thou hast been bound to me 400 + Only by links of love: when thou art gone, + What will be left to us!--But, I forget + My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone, + As I requested; and hereafter, Luke, + When thou art gone away, should evil men 405 + Be thy companions, think of me, my Son, + And of this moment; hither turn thy thoughts, + And God will strengthen thee: amid all fear + And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou + May'st bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived, 410 + Who, being innocent, did for that cause + Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well-- + When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt see + A work which is not here: a covenant + 'Twill be between us; but, whatever fate 415 + Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last, + And bear thy memory with me to the grave." + The Shepherd ended here; and Luke stooped down, + And, as his Father had requested, laid + The first stone of the Sheepfold. At the sight 420 + The old Man's grief broke from him; to his heart + He pressed his Son, he kissed him and wept; + And to the house together they returned. + --Hushed was that House in peace, or seeming peace, + Ere the night fell:--with morrow's dawn the Boy 425 + Began his journey, and when he had reached + The public way, he put on a bold face; + And all the neighbors, as he passed their doors, + Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers, + That followed him till he was out of sight. 430 + A good report did from their Kinsman come, + Of Luke and his well-doing: and the Boy + Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news, + Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout + "The prettiest letters that were ever seen." 435 + Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts. + So, many months passed on: and once again + The Shepherd went about his daily work + With confident and cheerful thoughts; and now + Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour 440 + He to that valley took his way, and there + Wrought at the Sheepfold. Meantime Luke began + To slacken in his duty; and, at length, + He in the dissolute city gave himself + To evil courses: ignominy and shame 445 + Fell on him, so that he was driven at last + To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas. + There is a comfort in the strength of love; + 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else + Would overset the brain, or break the heart: 450 + I have conversed with more than one who well + Remember the old Man, and what he was + Years after he had heard this heavy news. + His bodily frame had been from youth to age + Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks 455 + He went, and still looked up to sun and cloud, + And listened to the wind; and, as before, + Performed all kinds of labor for his sheep, + And for the land, his small inheritance. + And to that hollow dell from time to time 460 + Did he repair, to build the Fold of which + His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yet + The pity which was then in every heart + For the old Man--and 'tis believed by all + That many and many a day he thither went, 465 + And never lifted up a single stone. + There, by the Sheepfold, sometimes was he seen + Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog, + Then old, beside him, lying at his feet. + The length of full seven years, from time to time, 470 + He at the building of this Sheepfold wrought, + And left the work unfinished when he died. + Three years, or little more, did Isabel + Survive her Husband: at his death the estate + Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand. 475 + The Cottage which was named the EVENING STAR + Is gone--the ploughshare has been through the ground + On which it stood; great changes have been wrought + In all the neighborhood:--yet the oak is left + That grew beside their door; and the remains 480 + Of the unfinished Sheepfold may be seen + Beside the boisterous brook of Greenhead Ghyll. + + + + +LUCY GRAY; OR SOLITUDE + + Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: + And, when I crossed the wild, + I chanced to see at break of day + The solitary child. + + No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; 5 + She dwelt on a wide moor. + --The sweetest thing that ever grew + Beside a human door! + + You yet may spy the fawn at play, + The hare upon the green; 10 + But the sweet face of Lucy Gray + Will never more be seen. + + "To-night will be a stormy night-- + You to the town must go; + And take a lantern, child, to light 15 + Your mother through the snow." + + "That, Father! will I gladly do: + 'Tis scarcely afternoon-- + The minster-clock has just struck two, + And yonder is the moon!" 20 + + At this the father raised his hook, + And snapped a faggot-band; + He plied his work;--and Lucy took + The lantern in her hand. + + Not blither is the mountain roe: 25 + With many a wanton stroke + Her feet disperse the powdery snow, + That rises up like smoke. + + The storm came on before its time: + She wandered up and down; 30 + And many a hill did Lucy climb, + But never reached the town. + + The wretched parents all that night + Went shouting far and wide; + But there was neither sound nor sight 35 + To serve them for a guide. + + At day-break on a hill they stood + That overlooked the moor; + And thence they saw the bridge of wood, + A furlong from their door. 40 + + They wept--and turning homeward, cried, + "In heaven we all shall meet!" + --When in the snow the mother spied + The print of Lucy's feet. + + Then downwards from the steep hill's edge 45 + They tracked the footprints small; + And through the broken hawthorn hedge, + And by the long stone-wall; + + And then an open field they crossed; + The marks were still the same; 50 + They tracked them on, nor ever lost; + And to the bridge they came. + + They followed from the snowy bank + Those footmarks, one by one, + Into the middle of the plank; 55 + And further there were none! + + --Yet some maintain that to this day + She is a living child; + That you may see sweet Lucy Gray + Upon the lonesome wild. 60 + + O'er rough and smooth she trips along, + And never looks behind; + And sings a solitary song + That whistles in the wind. + + + + +THOMAS CAMPBELL + + +HOHENLINDEN + + On Linden, when the sun was low, + All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, + And dark as winter was the flow + Of Iser,[104] rolling rapidly. + + But Linden saw another sight, 5 + When the drum beat at dead of night, + Commanding fires of death to light + The darkness of her scenery. + + By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, + Each horseman drew his battle blade, 10 + And furious every charger neighed, + To join the dreadful revelry. + + Then shook the hills with thunder riven, + Then rushed the steed to battle driven, + And louder than the bolts of heaven, 15 + Far flashed the red artillery. + + But redder yet that light shall glow, + On Linden's hills of stained snow, + And bloodier yet the torrent flow + Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 20 + + 'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun + Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, + Where furious Frank and fiery Hun + Shout in their sulphurous canopy. + + The combat deepens. On, ye brave, 25 + Who rush to glory, or the grave! + Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave! + And charge with all thy chivalry! + + Few, few shall part where many meet! + The snow shall be their winding-sheet, 30 + And every turf beneath their feet + Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. + + + + +BATTLE OF THE BALTIC + + + I + + Of Nelson and the North, + Sing the glorious day's renown, + When to battle fierce came forth + All the might of Denmark's crown, + And her arms along the deep proudly shone; 5 + By each gun the lighted brand, + In a bold determined hand, + And the Prince of all the land + Led them on. + + + II + + Like leviathans afloat, 10 + Lay their bulwarks on the brine; + While the sign of battle flew + On the lofty British line: + It was ten of April morn by the chime: + As they drifted on their path, 15 + There was silence deep as death; + And the boldest held his breath, + For a time. + + + III + + But the might of England flush'd + To anticipate the scene; 20 + And her van the fleeter rush'd + O'er the deadly space between. + "Hearts of oak!" our captain cried; when each gun + From its adamantine lips + Spread a death-shade round the ships, 25 + Like the hurricane eclipse + Of the sun. + + + IV + + Again! again! again! + And the havoc did not slack, + Till a feeble cheer the Dane 30 + To our cheering sent us back;-- + Their shots along the deep slowly boom:-- + Then ceased--and all is wail, + As they strike the shatter'd sail; + Or, in conflagration pale, 35 + Light the gloom. + + + V + + Out spoke the victor then, + As he hailed them o'er the wave; + "Ye are brothers! ye are men! + And we conquer but to save:-- 40 + So peace instead of death let us bring; + But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, + With the crews, at England's feet + And make submission meet + To our King." 45 + + + VI + + Then Denmark bless'd our chief, + That he gave her wounds repose; + And the sounds of joy and grief + From her people wildly rose, + As Death withdrew his shades from the day, 50 + While the sun looked smiling bright + O'er a wide and woful sight, + Where the fires of funeral light + Died away. + + + VII + + Now joy, Old England, raise! 55 + For the tidings of thy might, + By the festal cities' blaze, + Whilst the wine-cup shines in light; + And yet amidst that joy and uproar, + Let us think of them that sleep, 60 + Full many a fathom deep, + By thy wild and stormy steep, + Elsinore! + + + VIII + + Brave hearts! to Britain's pride + Once so faithful and so true; 65 + On the deck of fame that died;-- + With the gallant good Riou[105]; + Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave + While the billow mournful rolls, + And the mermaid's song condoles, 70 + Singing glory to the souls + Of the brave. + + + + +CHARLES WOLFE + + +THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA[106] + + Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, + As his corse to the rampart we hurried; + Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot + O'er the grave where our hero we buried. + + We buried him darkly at dead of night, 5 + The sods with our bayonets turning; + By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, + And the lantern dimly burning. + + No useless coffin enclosed his breast, + Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; 10 + But he lay like a warrior taking his rest + With his martial cloak around him. + + Few and short were the prayers we said, + And we spoke not a word of sorrow; + But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, 15 + And we bitterly thought of the morrow. + + We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed, + And smoothed down his lonely pillow, + That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, + And we far away on the billow! 20 + + Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, + And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,-- + But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on + In the grave where a Briton has laid him. + + But half of our weary task was done 25 + When the clock struck the hour for retiring; + And we heard the distant and random gun + That the foe was sullenly firing. + + Slowly and sadly we laid him down, + From the field of his fame fresh and gory; 30 + We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone-- + But we left him alone with his glory. + + + + +LORD BYRON + + +THE PRISONER OF CHILLON + +A FABLE + + + I + + My hair is gray, but not with years, + Nor grew it white + In a single night, + As men's have grown from sudden fears.[107] + My limbs are bowed, though not with toil, 5 + But rusted with a vile repose, + For they have been a dungeon's spoil, + And mine has been the fate of those + To whom the goodly earth and air + Are banned, and barred--forbidden fare; 10 + But this was for my father's faith + I suffered chains and courted death; + That father perished at the stake + For tenets he would not forsake; + And for the same his lineal race 15 + In darkness found a dwelling-place; + We were seven--who now are one, + Six in youth, and one in age, + Finished as they had begun, + Proud of Persecution's rage; 20 + One in fire, and two in field, + Their belief with blood have sealed[108]: + Dying as their father died, + For the God their foes denied;-- + Three were in a dungeon cast, 25 + Of whom this wreck is left the last. + + + II + + There are seven[109] pillars of Gothic mould + In Chillon's dungeons deep and old, + There are seven columns massy and gray, + Dim with a dull imprisoned ray, 30 + A sunbeam which hath lost its way, + And through the crevice and the cleft + Of the thick wall is fallen and left: + Creeping o'er the floor so damp, + Like a marsh's meteor lamp[110]: 35 + And in each pillar there is a ring, + And in each ring there is a chain; + That iron is a cankering[111] thing, + For in these limbs its teeth remain, + With marks that will not wear away 40 + Till I have done with this new day, + Which now is painful to these eyes, + Which have not seen the sun so rise + For years--I cannot count them o'er, + I lost their long and heavy score 45 + When my last brother drooped and died, + And I lay living by his side. + + + III + + They chained us each to a column stone, + And we were three--yet, each alone; + We could not move a single pace, 50 + We could not see each other's face, + But with that pale and livid light + That made us strangers in our sight: + And thus together--yet apart, + Fettered in hand, but joined in heart; 55 + 'Twas still some solace, in the dearth + Of the pure elements[112] of earth, + To hearken to each other's speech, + And each turn comforter to each + With some new hope or legend old, 60 + Or song heroically bold; + But even these at length grew cold. + Our voices took a dreary tone, + An echo of the dungeon stone, + A grating sound--not full and free 65 + As they of yore were wont to be; + It might be fancy--but to me + They never sounded like our own. + + + IV + + I was the eldest of the three, + And to uphold and cheer the rest 70 + I ought to do--and did my best-- + And each did well in his degree. + The youngest, whom my father loved, + Because our mother's brow was given + To him--with eyes as blue as heaven, 75 + For him my soul was sorely moved: + And truly might it be distressed + To see such bird in such a nest; + For he was beautiful as day-- + (When day was beautiful to me 80 + As to young eagles being free)-- + A polar day,[113] which will not see + A sunset till its summer's gone, + Its sleepless summer of long light, + The snow-clad offspring of the sun: 85 + And thus he was as pure and bright, + And in his natural spirit gay, + With tears for naught but others' ills, + And then they flowed like mountain rills, + Unless he could assuage the woe 90 + Which he abhorred to view below. + + + V + + The other was as pure of mind, + But formed to combat with his kind; + Strong in his frame, and of a mood + Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, 95 + And perished in the foremost rank + With joy:--but not in chains to pine: + His spirit withered with their clank, + I saw it silently decline-- + And so perchance in sooth[114] did mine: 100 + But yet I forced it on to cheer + Those relics of a home so dear. + He was a hunter of the hills, + Had followed there the deer and wolf; + To him this dungeon was a gulf, 105 + And fettered feet the worst of ills. + + + VI + + Lake Leman[115] lies by Chillon's walls, + A thousand feet in depth below + Its massy waters meet and flow; + Thus much the fathom-line was sent 110 + From Chillon's snow-white battlement, + Which round about the wave inthrals: + A double dungeon wall and wave + Have made--and like a living grave. + Below the surface of the lake 115 + The dark vault lies wherein we lay, + We heard it ripple night and day; + Sounding o'er our heads it knocked + And I have felt the winter's spray + Wash through the bars when winds were high 120 + And wanton in the happy sky; + And then the very rock hath rocked, + And I have felt it shake, unshocked, + Because I could have smiled to see + The death that would have set me free. 125 + + + VII + + I said my nearer brother pined, + I said his mighty heart declined, + He loathed and put away his food; + It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, + For we were used to hunter's fare, 130 + And for the like had little care: + The milk drawn from the mountain goat + Was changed for water from the moat,[116] + Our bread was such as captive's tears + Have moistened many a thousand years, 135 + Since man first pent his fellow-men + Like brutes within an iron den; + But what were these to us or him? + These wasted not his heart or limb; + My brother's soul was of that mould 140 + Which in a palace had grown cold, + Had his free breathing been denied + The range of the steep mountain's side; + But why delay the truth?--he died. + I saw, and could not hold his head, 145 + Nor reach his dying hand--nor dead,-- + Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, + To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. + He died, and they unlocked his chain, + And scooped for him a shallow grave 150 + Even from the cold earth of our cave. + I begged them, as a boon, to lay + His corse in dust whereon the day + Might shine--it was a foolish thought, + But then within my brain it wrought, 155 + That even in death his freeborn breast + In such a dungeon could not rest. + I might have spared my idle prayer-- + They coldly laughed--and laid him there: + The flat and turfless earth above 160 + The being we so much did love; + His empty chain above it leant, + Such murder's fitting monument! + + + VIII + + But he, the favourite and the flower, + Most cherished since his natal hour, 165 + His mother's image in fair face, + The infant love of all his race, + His martyred father's dearest thought, + My latest care, for whom I sought + To hoard my life, that his might be 170 + Less wretched now, and one day free; + He, too, who yet had held untired + A spirit natural or inspired-- + He, too, was struck, and day by day + Was withered on the stalk away. 175 + Oh, God! it is a fearful thing + To see the human soul take wing + In any shape, in any mood:-- + I've seen it rushing forth in blood,[117] + I've seen it on the breaking ocean 180 + Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, + I've seen the sick and ghastly bed + Of Sin delirious with its dread: + But these were horrors--this was woe + Unmixed with such--but sure and slow; 185 + He faded, and so calm and meek, + So softly worn, so sweetly weak, + So tearless, yet so tender--kind, + And grieved for those he left behind; + With all the while a cheek whose bloom 190 + Was as a mockery of the tomb, + Whose tints as gently sunk away + As a departing rainbow's ray-- + An eye of most transparent light, + That almost made the dungeon bright, 195 + And not a word of murmur--not + A groan o'er his untimely lot,-- + A little talk of better days, + A little hope my own to raise, + For I was sunk in silence--lost 200 + In this last loss, of all the most; + And then the sighs he would suppress + Of fainting nature's feebleness, + More slowly drawn, grew less and less: + I listened, but I could not hear-- 205 + I called, for I was wild with fear; + I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread + Would not be thus admonishèd; + I called, and thought I heard a sound-- + I burst my chain with one strong bound, 210 + And rushed to him:--I found him not, + _I_ only stirred in this black spot, + _I_ only lived--_I_ only drew + The accursed breath of dungeon-dew; + The last--the sole--the dearest link 215 + Between me and the eternal brink, + Which bound me to my failing race, + Was broken in this fatal place. + One on the earth, and one beneath-- + My brothers--both had ceased to breathe; 220 + I took that hand which lay so still, + Alas! my own was full as chill; + I had not strength to stir, or strive, + But felt that I was still alive-- + A frantic feeling, when we know 225 + That what we love shall ne'er be so. + I know not why + I could not die, + I had no earthly hope--but faith, + And that forbade a selfish death.[118] 230 + + + IX + + What next befell me then and there + I know not well--I never knew-- + First came the loss of light, and air, + And then of darkness too: + I had no thought, no feeling--none-- 235 + Among the stones I stood a stone, + And was, scarce conscious what I wist,[119] + As shrubless crags within the mist; + For all was blank, and bleak, and gray, + It was not night--it was not day, 240 + It was not even the dungeon-light, + So hateful to my heavy sight, + But vacancy absorbing space, + And fixedness--without a place; + There were no stars--no earth--no time-- 245 + No check--no change--no good--no crime-- + But silence, and a stirless breath + Which neither was of life nor death; + A sea of stagnant idleness, + Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless! 250 + + + X + + A light broke in upon my brain,-- + It was the carol of a bird; + It ceased, and then it came again, + The sweetest song ear ever heard, + And mine was thankful till my eyes 255 + Ran over with the glad surprise, + And they that moment could not see + I was the mate of misery; + But then by dull degrees came back + My senses to their wonted track, 260 + I saw the dungeon walls and floor + Close slowly round me as before, + I saw the glimmer of the sun + Creeping as it before had done, + But through the crevice where it came 265 + That bird was perched, as fond and tame, + And tamer than upon the tree; + A lovely bird, with azure wings, + And song that said a thousand things, + And seemed to say them all for me! 270 + I never saw its like before, + I ne'er shall see its likeness more: + It seemed like me to want a mate, + But was not half so desolate, + And it was come to love me when 275 + None lived to love me so again, + And cheering from my dungeon's brink, + Had brought me back to feel and think. + I know not if it late were free, + Or broke its cage to perch on mine, 280 + But knowing well captivity, + Sweet bird! I could not wish for thine! + Or if it were, in wingèd guise, + A visitant from Paradise; + For--Heaven forgive that thought! the while 285 + Which made me both to weep and smile; + I sometimes deemed that it might be + My brother's soul[120] come down to me; + But then at last away it flew, + And then 'twas mortal--well I knew, 290 + For he would never thus have flown, + And left me twice so doubly lone,-- + Lone--as the corse within its shroud, + Lone--as a solitary cloud,[121] + A single cloud on a sunny day, 295 + While all the rest of heaven is clear, + A frown upon the atmosphere, + That hath no business to appear + When skies are blue, and earth is gay. + + + XI + + A kind of change came in my fate, 300 + My keepers grew compassionate; + I know not what had made them so, + They were inured to sights of woe, + But so it was:--my broken chain + With links unfastened did remain, 305 + And it was liberty to stride + Along my cell from side to side, + And up and down, and then athwart, + And tread it over every part; + And round the pillars one by one, 310 + Returning where my walk begun. + Avoiding only, as I trod, + My brothers' graves without a sod; + For if I thought with heedless tread + My step profaned their lowly bed, 315 + My breath came gaspingly and thick, + And my crushed heart fell blind and sick. + + + XII + + I made a footing in the wall, + It was not therefrom to escape, + For I had buried one and all 320 + Who loved me in a human shape; + And the whole earth would henceforth be + A wider prison unto me: + No child--no sire--no kin had I, + No partner in my misery; 325 + I thought of this, and I was glad, + For thought of them had made me mad; + But I was curious to ascend + To my barred windows, and to bend + Once more, upon the mountains high, 330 + The quiet of a loving eye. + + + XIII + + I saw them--and they were the same, + They were not changed like me in frame; + I saw their thousand years of snow + On high--their wide long lake below, 335 + And the blue Rhone in fullest flow; + I heard the torrents leap and gush + O'er channelled rock and broken bush; + I saw the white-walled distant town, + And whiter sails go skimming down; 340 + And then there was a little isle,[122] + Which in my very face did smile, + The only one in view; + A small green isle it seemed no more, + Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, 345 + But in it there were three tall trees, + And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, + And by it there were waters flowing, + And on it there were young flowers growing, + Of gentle breath and hue. 350 + The fish swam by the castle wall, + And they seemed joyous each and all; + The eagle rode the rising blast, + Methought he never flew so fast + As then to me he seemed to fly, 355 + And then new tears came in my eye, + And I felt troubled--and would fain + I had not left my recent chain; + And when I did descend again, + The darkness of my dim abode 360 + Fell on me as a heavy load; + It was as is a new-dug grave, + Closing o'er one we sought to save,-- + And yet my glance, too much oppressed, + Had almost need of such a rest. 365 + + + XIV + + It might be months, or years, or days, + I kept no count--I took no note, + I had no hope my eyes to raise, + And clear them of their dreary mote; + At last men came to set me free, 370 + I asked not why, and recked not where, + It was at length the same to me, + Fettered or fetterless to be, + I learned to love despair. + And thus when they appeared at last, 375 + And all my bonds aside were cast, + These heavy walls to me had grown + A hermitage--and all my own! + And half I felt as they were come + To tear me from a second home: 380 + With spiders I had friendship made, + And watched them in their sullen trade, + Had seen the mice by moonlight play, + And why should I feel less than they? + We were all inmates of one place, 385 + And I, the monarch of each race, + Had power to kill--yet, strange to tell! + In quiet we had learned to dwell-- + My very chains and I grew friends, + So much a long communion tends 390 + To make us what we are:--even I + Regained my freedom with a sigh.[123] + + + + +MAZEPPA + + + I + + 'Twas after dread Pultowa's[124] day, + When Fortune left the royal Swede. + Around a slaughter'd army lay, + No more to combat and to bleed. + The power and glory of the war, 5 + Faithless as their vain votaries, men, + Had pass'd to the triumphant Czar, + And Moscow's walls were safe again, + Until a day more dark and drear,[125] + And a more memorable year, 10 + Should give to slaughter and to shame + A mightier host and haughtier name; + A greater wreck, a deeper fall, + A shock to one--a thunderbolt to all. + + + II + + Such was the hazard of the die[126]; 15 + The wounded Charles was taught to fly + By day and night through field and flood, + Stain'd with his own and subjects' blood; + For thousands fell that flight to aid; + And not a voice was heard t' upbraid 20 + Ambition in his humbled hour, + When truth had naught to dread from power. + His horse was slain, and Gieta[127] gave + His own--and died the Russians' slave. + This too sinks after many a league 25 + Of well-sustain'd, but vain fatigue; + And in the depth of forests darkling, + The watch-fires in the distance sparkling-- + The beacons of surrounding foes-- + A king must lay his limbs at length. 30 + Are these the laurels and repose + For which the nations strain their strength? + They laid him by a savage tree, + In outworn nature's agony; + His wounds were stiff--his limbs were stark-- 35 + The heavy hour was chill and dark; + The fever in his blood forbade + a transient slumber's fitful aid: + And thus it was; but yet through all, + Kinglike the monarch bore his fall, 40 + And made, in this extreme of ill, + His pangs the vassals of his will: + All silent and subdued were they, + As once the nations round him lay. + + + III + + A band of chiefs!--alas! how few, 45 + Since but the fleeting of a day + Had thinn'd it; but this wreck was true + And chivalrous: upon the clay + Each sate him down, all sad and mute, + Beside his monarch and his steed, 50 + For danger levels man and brute,[128] + And all are fellows in their need. + Among the rest, Mazeppa made + His pillow in an old oak's shade-- + Himself as rough, and scarce less old, 55 + The Ukraine's hetman,[129] calm and bold. + But first, outspent with his long course, + The Cossack prince rubb'd down his horse, + And made for him a leafy bed, + And smooth'd his fetlocks and his mane, 60 + And slack'd his girth, and stripp'd his rein, + And joy'd to see how well he fed; + For until now he had the dread + His wearied courser might refuse + To browse beneath the midnight dews: 65 + But he was hardy as his lord, + And little cared for bed and board; + But spirited and docile too; + Whate'er was to be done, would do. + Shaggy and swift, and strong of limb, 70 + All Tartar-like he carried him; + Obey'd his voice, and came to call, + And knew him in the midst of all: + Though thousands were around,--and Night, + Without a star, pursued her flight,-- 75 + That steed from sunset until dawn + His chief would follow like a fawn. + + + IV + + This done, Mazeppa spread his cloak, + And laid his lance beneath his oak, + Felt if his arms in order good 80 + The long day's march had well withstood-- + If still the powder fill'd the pan, + And flints unloosen'd kept their lock-- + His sabre's hilt and scabbard felt, + And whether they had chafed his belt-- 85 + And next the venerable man, + From out his haversack and can, + Prepared and spread his slender stock; + And to the monarch and his men + The whole or portion offer'd then 90 + With far less of inquietude + Than courtiers at a banquet would. + And Charles of this his slender share + With smiles partook a moment there, + To force of cheer a greater show, 95 + And seem above both wounds and woe;-- + And then he said--"Of all our band, + Though firm of heart and strong of hand, + In skirmish, march, or forage, none + Can less have said or more have done 100 + Than thee, Mazeppa! On the earth + So fit a pain had never birth, + Since Alexander's days till now, + As thy Bucephalus[130] and thou: + All Scythia's[131] fame to thine should yield 105 + For pricking on o'er flood and field." + Mazeppa answer'd--"Ill betide + The school wherein I learn'd to ride!" + Quoth Charles--"Old Hetman, wherefore so, + Since thou hast learn'd the art so well?" 110 + Mazeppa said--"'Twere long to tell; + And we have many a league to go, + With every now and then a blow, + And ten to one at least the foe, + Before our steeds may graze at ease 115 + Beyond the swift Borysthenes[132]; + And, sire, your limbs have need of rest, + And I will be the sentinel + Of this your troop."--"But I request," + Said Sweden's monarch, "thou wilt tell 120 + This tale of thine, and I may reap, + Perchance, from this the boon of sleep; + For at this moment from my eyes + The hope of present slumber flies." + + "Well, sire, with such a hope, I'll track 125 + My seventy years of memory back: + I think 'twas in my twentieth spring-- + Ay, 'twas,--when Casimir was king-- + John Casimir,--I was his page + Six summers, in my earlier age. 130 + A learned monarch, faith! was he, + And most unlike your majesty: + He made no wars, and did not gain + New realms to lose them back again; + And (save debates in Warsaw's diet) 135 + He reign'd in most unseemly quiet; + Not that he had no cares to vex, + He loved the muses and the sex; + And sometimes these so froward are, + They made him wish himself at war; 140 + But soon his wrath being o'er, he took + Another mistress, or new book. + And then he gave prodigious fêtes-- + All Warsaw gather'd round his gates + To gaze upon his splendid court, 145 + And dames, and chiefs, of princely port: + He was the Polish Solomon, + So sung his poets, all but one, + Who, being unpension'd, made a satire, + And boasted that he could not flatter. 150 + It was a court of jousts and mimes,[133] + Where every courtier tried at rhymes; + Even I for once produced some verses, + And sign'd my odes 'Despairing Thyrsis.[134]' + There was a certain Palatine,[135] 155 + A count of far and high descent, + Rich as a salt or silver mine; + And he was proud, ye may divine, + As if from heaven he had been sent. + He had such wealth in blood and ore 160 + As few could match beneath the throne; + And he would gaze upon his store, + And o'er his pedigree would pore, + Until by some confusion led, + Which almost look'd like want of head, 165 + He thought their merits were his own. + His wife was not of his opinion-- + His junior she by thirty years-- + Grew daily tired of his dominion; + And, after wishes, hopes, and fears, 170 + To virtue a few farewell tears, + A restless dream or two, some glances + At Warsaw's youth, some songs, and dances, + Awaited but the usual chances, + (Those happy accidents which render 175 + The coldest dames so very tender,) + To deck her Count with titles given, + 'Tis said, as passports into heaven; + But, strange to say, they rarely boast + Of these, who have deserved them most. 180 + + + V + + "I was a goodly stripling then; + At seventy years I so may say, + That there were few, or boys or men, + Who, in my dawning time of day, + Of vassal or of knight's degree, 185 + Could vie in vanities with me; + For I had strength, youth, gaiety, + A port, not like to this ye see, + But as smooth as all is rugged now; + For time, and care, and war, have plough'd 190 + My very soul from out my brow; + And thus I should be disavow'd + By all my kind and kin, could they + Compare my day and yesterday. + This change was wrought, too, long ere age 195 + Had ta'en my features for his page: + With years, ye know, have not declined + My strength, my courage, or my mind, + Or at this hour I should not be + Telling old tales beneath a tree, 200 + With starless skies my canopy. + But let me on: Theresa's form-- + Methinks it glides before me now, + Between me and yon chestnut's bough, + The memory is so quick and warm; 205 + And yet I find no words to tell + The shape of her I loved so well. + She had the Asiatic eye, + Such as our Turkish neighbourhood, + Hath mingled with our Polish blood, 210 + Dark as above us is the sky; + But through it stole a tender light, + Like the first moonrise of midnight; + Large, dark, and swimming in the stream, + Which seem'd to melt to its own beam; 215 + All love, half languor, and half fire, + Like saints that at the stake expire, + And lift their raptured looks on high + As though it were a joy to die;-- + A brow like a midsummer lake, 220 + Transparent with the sun therein, + When waves no murmur dare to make, + And heaven beholds her face within; + A cheek and lip--but why proceed? + I loved her then--I love her still; 225 + And such as I am, love indeed + In fierce extremes--in good and ill; + But still we love even in our rage, + And haunted to our very age + With the vain shadow of the past, 230 + As is Mazeppa to the last. + + + VI + + "We met--we gazed--I saw, and sigh'd, + She did not speak, and yet replied: + There are ten thousand tones and signs + We hear and see, but none defines-- 235 + Involuntary sparks of thought, + Which strike from out the heart o'erwrought[136] + And form a strange intelligence + Alike mysterious and intense, + Which link the burning chain that binds, 240 + Without their will, young hearts and minds: + Conveying, as the electric wire, + We know not how, the absorbing fire.-- + I saw, and sigh'd--in silence wept, + And still reluctant distance kept, 245 + Until I was made known to her, + And we might then and there confer + Without suspicion--then, even then, + I long'd, and was resolved to speak; + But on my lips they died again, 250 + The accents tremulous and weak, + Until one hour.--There is a game, + A frivolous and foolish play, + Wherewith we while away the day; + It is--I have forgot the name-- 255 + And we to this, it seems, were set, + By some strange chance, which I forget: + I reckon'd not if I won or lost, + It was enough for me to be + So near to hear, and oh! to see 260 + The being whom I loved the most. + I watch'd her as a sentinel, + (May ours this dark night watch as well!) + Until I saw, and thus it was, + That she was pensive, nor perceived 265 + Her occupation, nor was grieved + Nor glad to lose or gain; but still + Play'd on for hours, as if her will + Yet bound her to the place, though not + That hers might be the winning lot. 270 + Then through my brain the thought did pass + Even as a flash of lightning there, + That there was something in her air + Which would not doom me to despair; + And on the thought my words broke forth, 275 + All incoherent as they were-- + Their eloquence was little worth, + But yet she listen'd--'tis enough-- + Who listens once will listen twice; + Her heart, be sure, is not of ice, 280 + And one refusal no rebuff. + + + VII + + "I loved, and was beloved again-- + They tell me, sire, you never knew + Those gentle frailties; if 'tis true, + I shorten all my joy or pain; 285 + To you 'twould seem absurd as vain; + But all men are not born to reign, + Or o'er their passions, or as you + Thus o'er themselves and nations too. + I am--or rather _was_--a prince, 290 + A chief of thousands, and could lead + Them on where each would foremost bleed; + But could not o'er myself evince + The like control.--But to resume: + I loved, and was beloved again; 295 + In sooth, it is a happy doom, + But yet where happiest ends in pain.-- + We met in secret, and the hour + Which led me to that lady's bower + Was fiery Expectation's dower. 300 + My days and nights were nothing--all + Except that hour which doth recall + In the long lapse from youth to age + No other like itself--I'd give + The Ukraine back again to live 305 + It o'er once more--and be a page, + The happy page, who was the lord + Of one soft heart and his own sword, + And had no other gem nor wealth + Save nature's gift of youth and health.-- 310 + We met in secret--doubly sweet, + Some say, they find it so to meet; + I know not that--I would have given + My life but to have call'd her mine + In the full view of earth and heaven; 315 + For I did oft and long repine + That we could only meet by stealth. + + + VIII + + "For lovers there are many eyes, + And such there were on us;--the devil + On such occasions should be civil-- 320 + The devil!--I'm loth to do him wrong, + It might be some untoward saint, + Who would not be at rest too long + But to his pious bile gave vent-- + But one fair night, some lurking spies 325 + Surprised and seized us both. + The Count was something more than wroth-- + I was unarm'd; but if in steel, + All cap-à-pie[137] from head to heel, + What 'gainst their numbers could I do?-- 330 + 'Twas near his castle, far away + From city or from succour near, + And almost on the break of day; + I did not think to see another, + My moments seem'd reduced to few; 335 + And with one prayer to Mary Mother, + And, it may be, a saint or two, + As I resign'd me to my fate, + They led me to the castle gate: + Theresa's doom I never knew, 340 + Our lot was henceforth separate-- + An angry man, ye may opine, + Was he, the proud Count Palatine; + And he had reason good to be, + But he was most enraged lest such 345 + An accident should chance to touch + Upon his future pedigree; + Nor less amazed, that such a blot + His noble 'scutcheon[138] should have got, + While he was highest of his line; 350 + Because unto himself he seem'd + The first of men, nor less he deem'd + In others' eyes, and most in mine. + 'Sdeath! with a _page_--perchance a king + Had reconciled him to the thing; 355 + But with a stripling of a page-- + I felt--but cannot paint his rage. + + + IX + + "'Bring forth the horse!'--the horse was brought; + In truth, he was a noble steed, + A Tartar of the Ukraine breed, 360 + Who look'd as though the speed of thought + Were in his limbs; but he was wild, + Wild as the wild deer, and untaught, + With spur and bridle undefined-- + 'Twas but a day he had been caught; 365 + And snorting, with erected mane, + And struggling fiercely, but in vain, + In the full foam of wrath and dread + To me the desert-born was led. + They bound me on, that menial throng, 370 + Upon his back with many a thong; + They loosed him with a sudden lash-- + Away!--away!--and on we dash!-- + Torrents less rapid and less rash. + + + X + + "Away!--away!--My breath was gone-- 375 + I saw not where he hurried on: + 'Twas scarcely yet the break of day, + And on he foam'd--away!--away!-- + The last of human sounds which rose, + As I was darted from my foes, 380 + Was the wild shout of savage laughter, + Which on the wind came roaring after + A moment from that rabble rout: + With sudden wrath I wrench'd my head, + And snapp'd the cord, which to the mane 385 + Had bound my neck in lieu of rein, + And writhing half my form about, + Howl'd back my curse; but 'midst the tread, + The thunder of my courser's speed, + Perchance they did not hear nor heed: 390 + It vexes me--for I would fain + Have paid their insult back again. + I paid it well in after days: + There is not of that castle gate, + Its drawbridge and portcullis' weight, 395 + Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left; + Nor of its fields a blade of grass, + Save what grows on a ridge of wall + Where stood the hearth-stone of the hall; + And many a time ye there might pass, 400 + Nor dream that e'er that fortress was: + I saw its turrets in a blaze, + Their crackling battlements all cleft, + And the hot lead pour down like rain + From off the scorch'd and blackening roof, 405 + Whose thickness was not vengeance-proof. + They little thought that day of pain, + When launch'd, as on the lightning's flash, + They bade me to destruction dash, + That one day I should come again, 410 + With twice five thousand horse, to thank + The Count for his uncourteous ride. + They play'd me then a bitter prank, + When, with the wild horse for my guide, + They bound me to his foaming flank: 415 + At length I play'd them one as frank-- + For time at last sets all things even-- + And if we do but watch the hour, + There never yet was human power + Which could evade, if unforgiven, 420 + The patient search and vigil long + Of him who treasures up a wrong. + + + XI + + "Away, away, my steed and I, + Upon the pinions of the wind. + All human dwellings left behind; 425 + We sped like meteors through the sky, + When with its crackling sound the night + Is chequer'd with the northern light. + Town--village--none were on our track, + But a wild plain of far extent, 430 + And bounded by a forest black; + And, save the scarce seen battlement + On distant heights of some stronghold, + Against the Tartars built of old, + No trace of man: the year before 435 + A Turkish army had march'd o'er; + And where the Spahi's[139] hoof hath trod, + The verdure flies the bloody sod. + The sky was dull, and dim, and gray, + And a low breeze crept moaning by-- 440 + I could have answer'd with a sigh-- + But fast we fled, away, away-- + And I could neither sigh nor pray; + And my cold sweat-drops fell like rain + Upon the courser's bristling mane; 445 + But, snorting still with rage and fear, + He flew upon his far career. + At times I almost thought, indeed, + He must have slacken'd in his speed; + But no--my bound and slender frame 450 + Was nothing to his angry might, + And merely like a spur became: + Each motion which I made to free + My swoln limbs from their agony + Increased his fury and affright: 455 + I tried my voice,--'twas faint and low, + But yet he swerved as from a blow; + And, starting to each accent, sprang + As from a sudden trumpet's clang. + Meantime my cords were wet with gore, 460 + Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o'er; + And in my tongue the thirst became + A something fierier far than flame. + + + XII + + "We near'd the wild wood--'twas so wide, + I saw no bounds on either side; 465 + 'Twas studded with old sturdy trees, + That bent not to the roughest breeze + Which howls down from Siberia's waste + And strips the forest in its haste,-- + But these were few and far between, 470 + Set thick with shrubs more young and green, + Luxuriant with their annual leaves, + Ere strown by those autumnal eves + That nip the forest's foliage dead, + Discolour'd with a lifeless red, 475 + Which stands thereon like stiffen'd gore + Upon the slain when battle's o'er, + And some long winter's night hath shed + Its frost o'er every tombless head, + So cold and stark the raven's beak 480 + May peck unpierced each frozen cheek. + 'Twas a wild waste of underwood, + And here and there a chestnut stood, + The strong oak, and the hardy pine; + But far apart--and well it were, 485 + Or else a different lot were mine-- + The boughs gave way, and did not tear + My limbs; and I found strength to bear + My wounds already scarr'd with cold-- + My bonds forbade to loose my hold. 490 + We rustled through the leaves like wind, + Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind; + By night I heard them on the track, + Their troop came hard upon our back, + With their long gallop which can tire 495 + The hound's deep hate and hunter's fire: + Where'er we flew they follow'd on, + Nor left us with the morning sun; + Behind I saw them, scarce a rood, + At daybreak winding through the wood, 500 + And through the night had heard their feet + Their stealing, rustling step repeat. + Oh! how I wish'd for spear or sword, + At least to die amidst the horde, + And perish--if it must be so-- 505 + At bay, destroying many a foe. + When first my courser's race begun, + I wish'd the goal already won; + But now I doubted strength and speed. + Vain doubt! his swift and savage breed 510 + Had nerved him like the mountain-roe; + Nor faster falls the blinding snow + Which whelms the peasant near the door + Whose threshold he shall cross no more, + Bewilder'd with the dazzling blast, 515 + Than through the forest-paths he past-- + Untired, untamed, and worse than wild; + All furious as a favour'd child + Balk'd of its wish; or fiercer still-- + A woman piqued--who has her will. 520 + + + XIII + + "The wood was past; 'twas more than noon, + But chill the air although in June; + Or it might be my veins ran cold-- + Prolong'd endurance tames the bold; + And I was then not what I seem, 525 + But headlong as a wintry stream, + And wore my feelings out before + I well could count their causes o'er. + And what with fury, fear, and wrath, + The tortures which beset my path, 530 + Cold, hunger, sorrow, shame, distress, + Thus bound in nature's nakedness, + (Sprung from a race whose rising blood + When stirr'd beyond its calmer mood, + And trodden hard upon, is like 535 + The rattlesnake's in act to strike,) + What marvel if this worn-out trunk + Beneath its woes a moment sunk? + The earth gave way, the skies roll'd round, + I seem'd to sink upon the ground; 540 + But err'd, for I was fastly bound. + My heart turn'd sick, my brain grew sore, + And throbb'd awhile, then beat no more; + The skies spun like a mighty wheel; + I saw the trees like drunkards reel, 545 + And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes, + Which saw no farther: he who dies + Can die no more than then I died. + O'ertortured by that ghastly ride, + I felt the blackness come and go, 550 + And strove to wake; but could not make + My senses climb up from below: + I felt as on a plank at sea, + When all the waves that dash o'er thee, + At the same time upheave and whelm, 555 + And hurl thee towards a desert realm. + My undulating life was as + The fancied lights that flitting pass + Our shut eyes in deep midnight, when + Fever begins upon the brain; 560 + But soon it pass'd, with little pain, + But a confusion worse than such: + I own that I should deem it much, + Dying, to feel the same again; + And yet I do suppose we must 565 + Feel far more ere we turn to dust: + No matter; I have bared my brow + Full in Death's face--before--and now. + + + XIV + + "My thoughts came back; where was I? Cold, + And numb, and giddy: pulse by pulse 570 + Life reassumed its lingering hold, + And throb by throb: till grown a pang + Which for a moment would convulse, + My blood reflow'd though thick and chill; + My ear with uncouth[140] noises rang, 575 + My heart began once more to thrill; + My sight return'd, though dim, alas! + And thicken'd, as it were, with glass. + Methought the dash of waves was nigh: + There was a gleam too of the sky, 580 + Studded with stars;--it is no dream; + The wild horse swims the wilder stream! + The bright broad river's gushing tide + Sweeps, winding onward, far and wide, + And we are half-way, struggling o'er 585 + To yon unknown and silent shore. + The waters broke my hollow trance, + And with a temporary strength + My stiffen'd limbs were rebaptized. + My courser's broad breast proudly braves 590 + And dashes off the ascending waves, + And onward we advance! + We reach the slippery shore at length, + A haven I but little prized, + For all behind was dark and drear, 595 + And all before was night and fear. + How many hours of night or day + In those suspended pangs I lay, + I could not tell; I scarcely knew + If this were human breath I drew. 600 + + + XV + + "With glossy skin, and dripping mane, + And reeling limbs, and reeking flank, + The wild steed's sinewy nerves still strain + Up the repelling bank. + We gain the top: a boundless plain 605 + Spreads through the shadow of the night, + And onward, onward, onward, seems, + Like precipices in our dreams, + To stretch beyond the sight; + And here and there a speck of white, 610 + Or scatter'd spot of dusky green, + In masses broke into the light, + As rose the moon upon my right. + But nought distinctly seen + In the dim waste would indicate 615 + The omen of a cottage gate; + No twinkling taper from afar + Stood like a hospitable star; + Not even an ignis-fatuus[141] rose + To make him merry with my woes: 620 + That very cheat had cheer'd me then! + Although detected, welcome still, + Reminding me, through every ill, + Of the abodes of men. + + + XVI + + "Onward we went--but slack and slow; 625 + His savage force at length o'erspent, + The drooping courser, faint and low, + All feebly foaming went. + A sickly infant had had power + To guide him forward in that hour; 630 + But useless all to me. + His new-born tameness nought avail'd-- + My limbs were bound; my force had fail'd, + Perchance, had they been free. + With feeble effort still I tried 635 + To rend the bonds so starkly tied-- + But still it was in vain; + My limbs were only wrung the more, + And soon the idle strife gave o'er, + Which but prolong'd their pain. 640 + The dizzy race seem'd almost done, + Although no goal was nearly won: + Some streaks announced the coming sun-- + How slow, alas! he came! + Methought that mist of dawning gray 645 + Would never dapple into day; + How heavily it roll'd away-- + Before the eastern flame + Rose crimson, and deposed the stars, + And call'd the radiance from their cars, 650 + And filled the earth, from his deep throne, + With lonely lustre, all his own. + + + XVII + + "Up rose the sun; the mists were curl'd + Back from the solitary world + Which lay around--behind--before; 655 + What booted it to traverse o'er + Plain, forest, river? Man nor brute, + Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot, + Lay in the wild luxuriant soil; + No sign of travel--none of toil; 660 + The very air was mute; + And not an insect's shrill small horn, + Nor matin bird's new voice was borne + From herb nor thicket. Many a werst,[142] + Panting as if his heart would burst, 665 + The weary brute still stagger'd on; + And still we were--or seem'd--alone. + At length, while reeling on our way, + Methought I heard a courser neigh + From out yon tuft of blackening firs. 670 + Is it the wind those branches stirs? + No, no! from out the forest prance + A trampling troop; I see them come! + In one vast squadron they advance! + I strove to cry--my lips were dumb. 675 + The steeds rush on in plunging pride; + But where are they the reins to guide? + A thousand horse--and none to ride! + With flowing tail, and flying mane, + Wide nostrils--never stretched by pain, 680 + Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein, + And feet that iron never shod, + And flanks unscarr'd by spur or rod, + A thousand horse, the wild, the free, + Like waves that follow o'er the sea, 685 + Came thickly thundering on, + As if our faint approach to meet. + The sight re-nerved my courser's feet, + A moment staggering, feebly fleet, + A moment, with a faint low neigh, 690 + He answer'd, and then fell; + With gasps and glazing eyes he lay, + And reeking limbs immoveable; + His first and last career is done! + On came the troop--they saw him stoop, 695 + They saw me strangely bound along + His back with many a bloody thong: + They stop--they start--they snuff the air, + Gallop a moment here and there, + Approach, retire, wheel round and round, 700 + Then plunging back with sudden bound, + Headed by one black mighty steed + Who seem'd the patriarch of his breed, + Without a single speck or hair + Of white upon his shaggy hide. 705 + They snort--they foam--neigh--swerve aside, + And backward to the forest fly, + By instinct, from a human eye.-- + They left me there to my despair, + Link'd to the dead and stiffening wretch, 710 + Whose lifeless limbs beneath me stretch, + Relieved from that unwonted weight, + From whence I could not extricate + Nor him nor me--and there we lay + The dying on the dead! 715 + I little deem'd another day + Would see my houseless, helpless head. + + "And there from morn till twilight bound, + I felt the heavy hours toil round, + With just enough of life to see 720 + My last of suns go down on me, + In hopeless certainty of mind, + That makes us feel at length resign'd + To that which our foreboding years + Presents the worst and last of fears 725 + Inevitable--even a boon, + Nor more unkind for coming soon; + Yet shunn'd and dreaded with such care, + As if it only were a snare + That prudence might escape: 730 + At times both wish'd for and implored, + At times sought with self-pointed sword, + Yet still a dark and hideous close + To even intolerable woes, + And welcome in no shape. 735 + And, strange to say, the sons of pleasure, + They who have revell'd beyond measure + In beauty, wassail, wine, and treasure, + Die calm, or calmer oft than he + Whose heritage was misery: 740 + For he who hath in turn run through + All that was beautiful and new, + Hath nought to hope, and nought to leave; + And, save the future (which is view'd + Not quite as men are base or good, 745 + But as their nerves may be endued,) + With nought perhaps to grieve:-- + The wretch still hopes his woes must end, + And Death, whom he should deem his friend, + Appears, to his distemper'd eyes, 750 + Arrived to rob him of his prize, + The tree of his new Paradise. + To-morrow would have given him all, + Repaid his pangs, repair'd his fall; + To-morrow would have been the first 755 + Of days no more deplored or curst, + But bright, and long, and beckoning years, + Seen dazzling through the mist of tears, + Guerdon of many a painful hour; + To-morrow would have given him power 760 + To rule, to shine, to smite, to save-- + And must it dawn upon his grave? + + + XVIII + + "The sun was sinking--still I lay + Chain'd to the chill and stiffening steed; + I thought to mingle there our clay; 765 + And my dim eyes of death had need, + No hope arose of being freed. + I cast my last looks up the sky, + And there between me and the sun + I saw the expecting raven fly, 770 + Who scarce would wait till both should die + Ere his repast begun. + He flew, and perch'd, then flew once more, + And each time nearer than before; + I saw his wing through twilight flit, 775 + And once so near me he alit + I could have smote, but lack'd the strength; + But the slight motion of my hand, + And feeble scratching of the sand, + The exerted throat's faint struggling noise, 780 + Which scarcely could be call'd a voice, + Together scared him off at length.-- + I know no more--my latest dream + Is something of a lovely star + Which fix'd my dull eyes from afar, 785 + And went and came with wandering beam, + And of the cold, dull, swimming, dense + Sensation of recurring sense, + And then subsiding back to death, + And then again a little breath, 790 + A little thrill, a short suspense, + An icy sickness curdling o'er + My heart, and sparks that cross'd my brain-- + A gasp, a throb, a start of pain, + A sigh, and nothing more. 795 + + + XIX + + "I woke--Where was I?--Do I see + A human face look down on me? + And doth a roof above me close? + Do these limbs on a couch repose? + Is this a chamber where I lie? 800 + And is it mortal, yon bright eye + That watches me with gentle glance? + I closed my own again once more, + As doubtful that the former trance + Could not as yet be o'er. 805 + A slender girl, long-hair'd, and tall, + Sate watching by the cottage wall: + The sparkle of her eye I caught, + Even with my first return of thought; + For ever and anon she threw 810 + A prying, pitying glance on me + With her black eyes so wild and free. + I gazed, and gazed, until I knew + No vision it could be,-- + But that I lived, and was released 815 + From adding to the vulture's feast. + And when the Cossack maid beheld + My heavy eyes at length unseal'd, + She smiled--and I essay'd to speak, + But fail'd--and she approach'd, and made 820 + With lip and finger signs that said, + I must not strive as yet to break + The silence, till my strength should be + Enough to leave my accents free; + And then her hand on mine she laid, 825 + And smooth'd the pillow for my head, + And stole along on tiptoe tread, + And gently oped the door, and spake + In whispers--ne'er was voice so sweet! + Even music follow'd her light feet;-- 830 + But those she call'd were not awake, + And she went forth; but, ere she pass'd, + Another look on me she cast, + Another sign she made, to say, + That I had nought to fear, that all 835 + Were near at my command or call, + And she would not delay + Her due return:--while she was gone, + Methought I felt too much alone. + + + XX + + "She came with mother and with sire-- 840 + What need of more?--I will not tire + With long recital of the rest, + Since I became the Cossack's guest. + They found me senseless on the plain-- + They bore me to the nearest hut-- 845 + They brought me into life again-- + Me--one day o'er their realm to reign! + Thus the vain fool who strove to glut + His rage, refining on my pain, + Sent me forth to the wilderness, 850 + Bound, naked, bleeding, and alone, + To pass the desert to a throne,-- + What mortal his own doom may guess?-- + Let none despond, let none despair! + To-morrow the Borysthenes 855 + May see our coursers graze at ease + Upon his Turkish bank,--and never + Had I such welcome for a river + As I shall yield when safely there. + Comrades, good night!"--The Hetman threw 860 + His length beneath the oak-tree shade, + With leafy couch already made, + A bed nor comfortless nor new + To him who took his rest whene'er + The hour arrived, no matter where: 865 + His eyes the hastening slumbers steep. + And if ye marvel Charles forgot + To thank his tale _he_ wonder'd not,-- + The king had been an hour asleep. + + + + +THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB + + + The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, + And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; + And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, + When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. + + Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, 5 + That host with their banners at sunset were seen: + Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, + That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. + + For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, + And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; 10 + And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, + And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still! + + And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, + But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride; + And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 15 + And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. + + And there lay the rider distorted and pale, + With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail, + And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, + The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 20 + + And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, + And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; + And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, + Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord! + + + + +JOHN KEATS + + +THE EVE OF ST. AGNES + + + I + + St. Agnes' Eve--Ah, bitter chill it was! + The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; + The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass, + And silent was the flock in woolly fold: + Numb were the Beadsman's[143] fingers, while he told 5 + His rosary, and while his frosted breath, + Like pious incense from a censer old, + Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death, + Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith. + + + II + + His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man; 10 + Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees + And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan, + Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees: + The sculptured dead, on each side, seem to freeze, + Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails: 15 + Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries, + He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails + To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. + + + III + + Northward he turneth through a little door, + And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue 20 + Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor; + But no--already had his death-bell rung; + The joys of all his life were said and sung: + His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve; + Another way he went, and soon among 25 + Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, + And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve. + + + IV + + That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft; + And so it chanced, for many a door was wide, + From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, 30 + The silver, snarling[144] trumpets 'gan to chide: + The level chambers, ready with their pride, + Were glowing to receive a thousand guests: + The carved angels, ever eager-eyed, + Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests, 35 + With hair blown back, and wings put crosswise on their breasts. + + + V + + At length burst in the argent revelry, + With plume, tiara, and all rich array, + Numerous as shadows haunting fairily + The brain, new-stuff'd, [145]in youth, with triumphs gay 40 + Of old romance. These let us wish away, + And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there, + Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day, + On love, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly care, + As she had heard old dames full many times declare. 45 + + + VI + + They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve,[146] + Young virgins might have visions of delight, + And soft adorings from their loves receive + Upon the honey'd middle of the night, + If ceremonies due they did aright; 50 + As, supperless to bed they must retire, + And couch supine their beauties, lily white; + Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require + Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire. + + + VII + + Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline: 55 + The music, yearning like a God in pain, + She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine, + Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train + Pass by--she heeded not at all: in vain + Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, 60 + And back retired; not cool'd by high disdain, + But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere; + She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year. + + + VIII + + She danced along with vague, regardless eyes, + Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short: 65 + The hallow'd hour was near at hand: she sighs + Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort + Of whisperers in anger, or in sport; + 'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, + Hoodwink'd with faery fancy; all amort,[147] 70 + Save to St. Agnes and her lambs[148] unshorn, + And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. + + + IX + + So, purposing each moment to retire, + She lingered still. Meantime, across the moors, + Had come young Porphyro,[149] with heart on fire 75 + For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, + Buttress'd[150] from moonlight, stands he, and implores + All saints to give him sight of Madeline, + But for one moment in the tedious hours, + That he might gaze and worship all unseen; 80 + Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss--in sooth[151] such + things have been. + + + X + + He ventures in: let no buzz'd whisper tell: + All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords + Will storm his heart, Love's fev'rous citadel: + For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes, 85 + Hyena[152] foemen, and hot-blooded lords, + Whose very dogs would execrations howl + Against his lineage: not one breast affords + Him any mercy, in that mansion foul, + Save one old beldame,[153] weak in body and in soul. 90 + + + XI + + Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came, + Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand, + To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame, + Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond + The sound of merriment and chorus bland: 95 + He startled her; but soon she knew his face, + And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand, + Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place; + They are all here to-night, the whole bloodthirsty race! + + + XII + + "Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish Hildebrand; 100 + He had a fever late, and in the fit + He cursed thee and thine, both house and land: + Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit + More tame for his gray hairs--Alas me! flit! + Flit like a ghost away."--"Ah, Gossip[154] dear, 105 + We're safe enough; here in this armchair sit, + And tell me how"--"Good Saints! not here, not here; + Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier." + + + XIII + + He follow'd through a lowly arched way, + Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume; 110 + And as she mutter'd "Well-a--well-a-day!" + He found him in a little moonlight room, + Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. + "Now tell me where is Madeline," said he, + "O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom[155] 115 + Which none but secret sisterhood may see, + When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously." + + + XIV + + "St. Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes' Eve-- + Yet men will murder upon holy days: + Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve,[156] 120 + And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays, + To venture so: it fills me with amaze + To see thee, Porphyro!--St. Agnes' Eve! + God's help! my lady fair the conjuror plays + This very night: good angels her deceive! 125 + But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle[157] time to grieve." + + + XV + + Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon, + While Porphyro upon her face doth look, + Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone + Who keepeth closed a wond'rous riddlebook, 130 + As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. + But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told + His lady's purpose; and he scarce could brook + Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold, + And Madeline asleep in lap[158] of legends old. 135 + + + XVI + + Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, + Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart + Made purple riot[159]: then doth he propose + A stratagem, that makes the beldame start: + "A cruel man and impious thou art: 140 + Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream + Alone with her good angels, far apart + From wicked men like thee. Go, go! I deem + Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem." + + + XVII + + "I will not harm her, by all saints I swear," 145 + Quoth Porphyro: "O may I ne'er find grace + When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer, + If one of her soft ringlets I displace, + Or look with ruffian passion in her face: + Good Angela, believe me by these tears; 150 + Or I will, even in a moment's space, + Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears, + And beard them, though they be more fang'd than wolves and bears." + + + XVIII + + "Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul? + A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, church-yard thing, 155 + Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll; + Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening, + Were never miss'd." Thus plaining, doth she bring + A gentler speech from burning Porphyro; + So woful, and of such deep sorrowing, 160 + That Angela gives promise she will do + Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe. + + + XIX + + Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy, + Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide + Him in a closet, of such privacy 165 + That he might see her beauty unespied, + And win perhaps that night a peerless bride, + While legion'd fairies paced the coverlet, + And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. + Never on such a night have lovers met, 170 + Since Merlin[160] paid his Demon all the monstrous debt. + + + XX + + "It shall be as thou wishest," said the Dame: + "All cates[161] and dainties shall be stored there + Quickly on this feast-night: by the tambour frame[162] + Her own lute thou wilt see: no time to spare, 175 + For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare + On such a catering trust my dizzy head. + Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in prayer + The while: Ah! thou must needs the lady wed, + Or may I never leave my grave among the dead." 180 + + + XXI + + So saying she hobbled off with busy fear. + The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd; + The Dame return'd, and whisper'd in his ear + To follow her; with aged eyes aghast + From fright of dim espial. Safe at last, 185 + Through many a dusky gallery, they gain + The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd and chaste; + Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain. + His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain. + + + XXII + + Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade, 190 + Old Angela was feeling for the stair, + When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid, + Rose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware: + With silver taper's light, and pious care, + She turn'd, and down the aged gossip led 195 + To a safe level matting. Now prepare, + Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed; + She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove fray'd and fled. + + + XXIII + + Out went the taper as she hurried in; + Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died: 200 + She closed the door, she panted, all akin + To spirits of the air, and visions wide: + No uttered syllable, or, woe betide! + But to her heart, her heart was voluble, + Paining with eloquence her balmy side; 205 + As though a tongueless nightingale should swell + Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled in her dell. + + + XXIV + + A casement high[163] and triple arch'd there was, + All garlanded with carven imag'ries + Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, 210 + And diamonded with panes of quaint device, + Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, + As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings; + And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries,[164] + And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings,[165] 215 + A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings. + + + XXV + + Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, + And threw warm gules[166] on Madeline's fair breast, + As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon; + Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, 220 + And on her silver cross soft amethyst, + And on her hair a glory, like a saint: + She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest, + Save wings, for heaven:--Porphyro grew faint; + She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. 225 + + + XXVI + + Anon his heart revives: her vespers done, + Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees; + Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one; + Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees + Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees: 230 + Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed, + Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees, + In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed, + But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. + + + XXVII + + Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest, 235 + In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay, + Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd + Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away; + Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day; + Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain; 240 + Clasp'd like a missal[167] where swart Paynims pray; + Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, + As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. + + + XXVIII + + Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced, + Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, 245 + And listen'd to her breathing, if it chanced + To wake into a slumberous tenderness; + Which when he heard, that minute did he bless, + And breathed himself: then from the closet crept, + Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness, 250 + And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept, + And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo!--how fast she slept. + + + XXIX + + Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon + Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set + A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon 255 + A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet:-- + O for some drowsy Morphean[168] amulet! + The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion, + The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet, + Affray his ears, though but in dying tone:-- 260 + The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. + + + XXX + + And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,[169] + In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd, + While he from forth the closet brought a heap + Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd; 265 + With jellies soother[170] than the creamy curd, + And lucent[171] syrops, tinct with cinnamon; + Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd + From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one, + From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon. 270 + + + XXXI + + These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand + On golden dishes and in baskets bright + Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand + In the retired quiet of the night, + Filling the chilly room with perfume light.-- 275 + "And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake! + Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite[172]: + Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake, + Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache." + + + XXXII + + Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm 280 + Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream + By the dusk curtains:--'twas a midnight charm + Impossible to melt as iced stream: + The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam; + Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies: 285 + It seem'd he never, never could redeem + From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes; + So mused awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies. + + + XXXIII + + Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,-- + Tumultuous,--and, in chords that tenderest be. 290 + He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute, + In Provence call'd "La belle dame sans mercy:[173]" + Close to her ear touching the melody;-- + Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft moan: + He ceased--she panted quick--and suddenly 295 + Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone: + Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone. + + + XXXIV + + Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, + Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep: + There was a painful change, that nigh expell'd 300 + The blisses of her dream so pure and deep + At which fair Madeline began to weep, + And moan forth witless words with many a sigh; + While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep; + Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye, 305 + Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly. + + + XXXV + + "Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even now + Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear, + Made tuneable with every sweetest vow; + And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear: 310 + How changed thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear! + Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, + Those looks immortal, those complainings dear! + Oh leave me not in this eternal woe, + For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go." 315 + + + XXXVI + + Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far + At these voluptuous accents, he arose, + Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing star + Seen 'mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose; + Into her dream he melted, as the rose 320 + Blendeth its odour with the violet,-- + Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows + Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet + Against the window-panes; St. Agnes' moon hath set. + + + XXXVII + + 'Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet: 325 + "This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!" + 'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat: + "No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine! + Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine.-- + Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring? 330 + I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine, + Though thou forsakest a deceived thing;-- + A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing." + + + XXXVIII + + "My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride! + Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest? 335 + Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and vermeil dyed? + Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest + After so many hours of toil and quest, + A famish'd pilgrim,--saved by miracle. + Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest 340 + Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well + To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. + + + XXXIX + + "Hark! 'tis an elfin storm from faery land, + Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed: + Arise--arise! the morning is at hand:-- 345 + The bloated wassailers[174] will never heed:-- + Let us away, my love, with happy speed; + There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see,-- + Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead: + Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be, 350 + For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee." + + + XL + + She hurried at his words, beset with fears, + For there were sleeping dragons all around, + At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears-- + Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found.-- 355 + In all the house was heard no human sound. + A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door; + The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound, + Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar; + And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. 360 + + + XLI + + They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall; + Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide, + Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl, + With a huge empty flagon by his side: + The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide, 365 + But his sagacious eye an inmate owns: + By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide:-- + The chains lie silent on the footworn stones;-- + The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans; + + + XLII + + And they are gone: aye, ages long ago 370 + These lovers fled away into the storm. + That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe, + And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form + Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm, + Were long be-nightmared. Angela[175] the old 375 + Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform; + The Beadsman, after thousand aves told, + For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold. + + + + +ALFRED TENNYSON + + +DORA + + With farmer Allan at the farm abode + William and Dora. William was his son, + And she his niece. He often looked at them, + And often thought, "I'll make them man and wife." + Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, 5 + And yearn'd towards William; but the youth, because + He had been always with her in the house, + Thought not of Dora. + Then there came a day + When Allan call'd his son, and said, "My son: + I married late, but I would wish to see 10 + My grandchild on my knees before I die: + And I have set my heart upon a match. + Now therefore look to Dora; she is well + To look to; thrifty too beyond her age. + She is my brother's daughter: he and I 15 + Had once hard words, and parted, and he died + In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred + His daughter Dora: take her for your wife; + For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day, + For many years." But William answer'd short: 20 + "I cannot marry Dora; by my life, + I will not marry Dora." Then the old man + Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said: + "You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus! + But in my time a father's word was law, 25 + And so it shall be now for me. Look to it; + Consider, William: take a month to think, + And let me have an answer to my wish; + Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack, + And never more darken my doors again." 30 + But William answer'd madly; bit his lips, + And broke away. The more he look'd at her + The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh; + But Dora bore them meekly. Then before + The month was out he left his father's house, 35 + And hired himself to work within the fields; + And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed + A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison. + Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd + His niece and said: "My girl, I love you well; 40 + But if you speak with him that was my son, + Or change a word with her he calls his wife, + My home is none of yours. My will is law." + And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, + "It cannot be: my uncle's mind will change!" 45 + And days went on, and there was born a boy + To William; then distresses came on him; + And day by day he pass'd his father's gate, + Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not. + But Dora stored what little she could save, 50 + And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know + Who sent it; till at last a fever seized + On William, and in harvest time he died. + Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat + And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought 55 + Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said: + "I have obey'd my uncle until now, + And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me + This evil came on William at the first. + But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone, 60 + And for your sake, the woman that he chose, + And for this orphan, I am come to you: + You know there has not been for these five years + So full a harvest: let me take the boy, + And I will set him in my uncle's eye 65 + Among the wheat; that when his heart is glad + Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, + And bless him for the sake of him that's gone." + And Dora took the child, and went her way + Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound 70 + That was unsown, where many poppies grew. + Far off the farmer came into the field + And spied her not; for none of all his men + Dare tell him Dora waited with the child; + And Dora would have risen and gone to him, 75 + But her heart fail'd her; and the reapers reap'd, + And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. + But when the morrow came, she rose and took + The child once more, and sat upon the mound; + And made a little wreath of all the flowers 80 + That grew about, and tied it round his hat + To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. + Then when the farmer pass'd into the field + He spied her, and he left his men at work, + And came and said: "Where were you yesterday? 85 + Whose child is that? What are you doing here?" + So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, + And answer'd softly, "This is William's child!" + "And did I not," said Allan, "did I not + Forbid you, Dora?" Dora said again: 90 + "Do with me as you will, but take the child, + And bless him for the sake of him that's gone!" + And Allan said, "I see it is a trick + Got up betwixt you and the woman there. + I must be taught my duty, and by you! 95 + You knew my word was law, and yet you dared + To slight it. Well--for I will take the boy; + But go you hence, and never see me more." + So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud + And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell 100 + At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands, + And the boy's cry came to her from the field, + More and more distant. She bow'd down her head, + Remembering the day when first she came, + And all the things that had been. She bow'd down 105 + And wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd, + And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. + Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood + Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy + Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise 110 + To God, that help'd her in her widowhood. + And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy; + But, Mary, let me live and work with you: + He says that he will never see me more." + Then answer'd Mary, "This shall never be, 115 + That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself: + And, now I think, he shall not have the boy, + For he will teach him hardness, and to slight + His mother; therefore thou and I will go, + And I will have my boy, and bring him home; 120 + And I will beg of him to take thee back: + But if he will not take thee back again, + Then thou and I will live within one house, + And work for William's child, until he grows + Of age to help us." + So the women kiss'd 125 + Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm. + The door was off the latch: they peep'd, and saw + The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, + Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, + And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, 130 + Like one that loved him: and the lad stretch'd out + And babbled for the golden seal, that hung + From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire. + Then they came in: but when the boy beheld + His mother, he cried out to come to her: 135 + And Allan set him down, and Mary said: + "O Father!--if you let me call you so-- + I never came a-begging for myself, + Or William, or this child; but now I come + For Dora: take her back; she loves you well. 140 + O Sir, when William died, he died at peace + With all men; for I ask'd him, and he said, + He could not ever rue his marrying me-- + I had been a patient wife: but, Sir, he said + That he was wrong to cross his father thus: 145 + 'God bless him!' he said, 'and may he never know + The troubles I have gone thro'!' Then he turn'd + His face and pass'd--unhappy that I am! + But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you + Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight 150 + His father's memory; and take Dora back, + And let all this be as it was before." + So Mary said, and Dora hid her face + By Mary. There was silence in the room; + And all at once the old man burst in sobs:-- 155 + "I have been to blame--to blame. I have kill'd my son. + I have kill'd him--but I loved him--my dear son. + May God forgive me!--I have been to blame. + Kiss me, my children." + Then they clung about + The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times 160 + And all the man was broken with remorse; + And all his love came back a hundredfold; + And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child, + Thinking of William. + So those four abode + Within one house together; and as years 165 + Went forward, Mary took another mate; + But Dora lived unmarried till her death. + + + + + OENONE--1832 + + + There lies a vale in Ida,[176] lovelier + Than all the valleys of Ionian[177] hills. + The swimming vapour slopes athwart the glen, + Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine, + And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand 5 + The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down + Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars + The long brook falling thro' the clov'n ravine + In cataract after cataract to the sea. + Behind the valley topmost Gargarus[178] 10 + Stands up and takes the morning: but in front + The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal + Troas[179] and Ilion's[180] column'd citadel, + The crown of Troas. + Hither came at noon + Mournful Oenone, wandering forlorn 15 + Of Paris,[181] once her playmate on the hills. + Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck + Floated her hair or seem'd to float in rest. + She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine, + Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shade 20 + Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff. + + "O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, + Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. + For now the noonday quiet holds the hill: + The grasshopper is silent in the grass: 25 + The lizard, with his shadow on the stone, + Rests like a shadow, and the winds are dead. + The purple flower droops: the golden bee + Is lily-cradled: I alone awake. + My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love, 30 + My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim, + And I am all aweary of my life. + + "O mother Ida, many-fountained Ida, + Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. + Hear me, O Earth, hear me, O Hills, O Caves 35 + That house the cold crown'd snake! O mountain brooks, + I am the daughter of a River-God,[182] + Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all + My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls + Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed,[183] 40 + A cloud that gather'd shape: for it may be + That, while I speak of it, a little while + My heart may wander from its deeper woe. + + "O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, + Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 45 + I waited underneath the dawning hills, + Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy-dark, + And dewy-dark aloft the mountain pine: + Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, + Leading a jet-black goat white-horn'd, white hooved, 50 + Came up from reedy Simois[184] all alone. + + "O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. + Far-off the torrent call'd me from the cleft: + Far up the solitary morning smote + The streaks of virgin snow. With down-dropt eyes 55 + I sat alone: white-breasted like a star + Fronting the dawn he moved; a leopard skin + Droop'd from his shoulder, but his sunny hair + Cluster'd about his temples like a God's: + And his cheek brightened as the foam-bow brightens 60 + When the wind blows the foam, and all my heart + Went forth to embrace him coming ere he came. + + "Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. + He smiled, and opening out his milk-white palm + Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian[185] gold, 65 + That smelt ambrosially,[186] and while I look'd + And listen'd, the full-flowing river of speech + Came down upon my heart. + + "'My own Oenone, + Beautiful-brow'd Oenone, my own soul, + Behold this fruit whose gleaming rind ingrav'n 70 + "For the most fair," would seem to award it thine + As lovelier than whatever Oread[187] haunt + The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace + Of movement and the charm of married brows.' + + "Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 75 + He prest the blossom of his lips to mine, + And added, 'This was cast upon the board, + When all the full-faced presence of the Gods + Ranged in the halls of Peleus[188]; whereupon + Rose feud, with question unto whom 'twere due: 80 + But light-foot Iris[189] brought it yester-eve, + Delivering, that to me, by common voice + Elected umpire, Herè[190] comes to-day, + Pallas[191] and Aphroditè,[192] claiming each + This meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave 85 + Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, + Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheard + Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods.' + + "Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. + It was the deep midnoon: one silvery cloud 90 + Had lost his way between the piney sides + Of this long glen. Then to the bower they came, + Naked they came to that smooth-swarded bower. + And at their feet the crocus brake like fire, + Violet, amaracus,[193] and asphodel,[194] 95 + Lotos and lilies: and a wind arose, + And overhead the wandering ivy and vine, + This way and that, in many a wild festoon + Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs + With bunch and berry and flower thro' and thro'. 100 + + "O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. + On the tree-tops a crested peacock[195] lit, + And o'er him flow'd a golden cloud, and lean'd + Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant dew. + Then first I heard the voice of her, to whom 105 + Coming thro' heaven like a light that grows + Larger and clearer, with one mind the Gods + Rise up for reverence. She to Paris made + Proffer of royal power, ample rule + Unquestion'd, overflowing revenue 110 + Wherewith to embellish state, 'from many a vale, + And river-sunder'd champaign clothed with corn, + Or labour'd mine undrainable of ore. + Honour,' she said, 'and homage, tax and toll, + From many an inland town and haven large, 115 + Mast-throng'd beneath her shadowing citadel + In glassy bays among her tallest towers.' + + "O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. + Still she spake on and still she spake of power, + 'Which in all action is the end of all; 120 + Power fitted to the season; wisdom-bred + And throned of wisdom--from all neighbour crowns + Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand + Fail from the sceptre-staff. Such boon from me, + From me, Heaven's Queen, Paris, to thee, king-born, 125 + A shepherd all thy life but yet king-born, + Should come most welcome, seeing men, in power + Only, are likest gods, who have attain'd + Rest in a happy place and quiet seats + Above the thunder, with undying bliss 130 + In knowledge of their own supremacy.' + + "Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. + She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit + Out at arm's-length, so much the thought of power + Flatter'd his spirit; but Pallas where she stood 135 + Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbs + O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear + Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold, + The while, above, her clear and earnest eye + Over her snow-cold breast and angry cheek 140 + Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply. + + "'Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control, + These three alone lead life to sovereign power. + Yet not for power (power of herself + Would come uncall'd for) but to live by law, 145 + Acting the law we live by without fear; + And, because right is right, to follow right + Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.' + + "Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. + Again she said: 'I woo thee not with gifts. 150 + Sequel of guerdon[196] could not alter me + To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am, + So shalt thou find me fairest. + Yet indeed, + If gazing on divinity disrobed + Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge, of fair, 155 + Unbias'd by self-profit, oh! rest thee sure, + That I shall love thee well and cleave to thee, + So that my vigour wedded to thy blood, + Shall strike within thy pulses, like a God's + To push thee forward thro' a life of shocks, 160 + Dangers, and deeds, until endurance grow + Sinew'd with action, and the full-grown will, + Circled thro' all experiences, pure law, + Commeasure perfect freedom.' + 'Here she ceas'd, + And Paris ponder'd, and I cried, 'O Paris, 165 + Give it to Pallas!' but he heard me not, + Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me! + + "O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, + Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. + Idalian[197] Aphroditè beautiful, 170 + Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian[198] wells, + With rosy slender fingers backward drew + From her warm brows and bosom her deep hair + Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat + And shoulder: from the violets her light foot 175 + Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded form + Between the shadows of the vine-bunches + Floated the glowing sunlights as she moved. + + "Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. + She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes, 180 + The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh + Half-whisper'd in his ear, 'I promise thee + The fairest and most loving wife in Greece.' + She spoke and laugh'd: I shut my sight for fear: + But when I look'd, Paris had raised his arm, 185 + And I beheld great Herè's angry eyes, + As she withdrew into the golden cloud, + And I was left alone within the bower; + And from that time to this I am alone, + And I shall be alone until I die. 190 + + "Yet, mother Ida, hearken ere I die. + Fairest--why fairest wife? am I not fair? + My love hath told me so a thousand times. + Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday, + When I past by, a wild and wanton pard,[199] 195 + Eyed like the evening star, with playful tail + Crouch'd fawning in the weed. Most loving is she? + Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my arms + Were wound about thee, and my hot lips prest + Close, close to thine in that quick-falling dew 200 + Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains + Flash in the pools of whirling Simois. + + "O mother, hear me yet before I die. + They came, they cut away my tallest pines, + My tall dark pines, that plumed the craggy ledge 205 + High over the blue gorge, and all between + The snowy peak and snow-white cataract + Foster'd the callow eaglet--from beneath + Whose thick mysterious boughs in the dark morn + The panther's roar came muffled, while I sat 210 + Low in the valley. Never, never more + Shall lone Oenone see the morning mist + Sweep thro' them; never see them overlaid + With narrow moon-lit slips of silver cloud, + Between the loud stream and the trembling stars. 215 + + "O mother, hear me yet before I die. + I wish that somewhere in the ruin'd folds, + Among the fragments tumbled from the glens, + Or the dry thickets, I could meet with her + The Abominable,[200] that uninvited came 220 + Into the fair Peleïan banquet-hall, + And cast the golden fruit upon the board, + And bred this change; that I might speak my mind, + And tell her to her face how much I hate + Her presence, hated both of Gods and men. 225 + + "O mother, hear me yet before I die. + Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times, + In this green valley, under this green hill, + Ev'n on this hand, and sitting on this stone? + Seal'd it with kisses? water'd it with tears? 230 + O happy tears, and how unlike to these! + O happy Heaven, how canst thou see my face? + O happy earth, how canst thou bear my weight? + O death, death, death, thou ever-floating cloud, + There are enough unhappy on this earth; 235 + Pass by the happy souls, that love to live; + I pray thee, pass before my light of life, + And shadow all my soul, that I may die. + Thou weighest heavy on the heart within, + Weigh heavy on my eyelids: let me die. 240 + + "O mother, hear me yet before I die. + I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts + Do shape themselves within me, more and more, + Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear + Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills, 245 + Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see + My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother + Conjectures of the features of her child + Ere it is born: her child!--a shudder comes + Across me: never child be born of me, 250 + Unblest, to vex me with his father's eyes! + + "O mother, hear me yet before I die. + Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone, + Lest their shrill happy laughter come to me + Walking the cold and starless road of death 255 + Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love + With the Greek woman.[201] I will rise and go + Down into Troy, and ere the stars come forth + Talk with the wild Cassandra,[202] for she says + A fire dances before her, and a sound 260 + Rings ever in her ears of armed men. + What this may be I know not, but I know + That, wheresoe'er I am by night and day, + All earth and air seem only burning fire." + + + + +ENOCH ARDEN + + + Long lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm; + And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands; + Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf + In cluster; then a moulder'd church; and higher + A long street climbs to one tall-tower'd mill; 5 + And high in heaven behind it a gray down + With Danish barrows[203]; and a hazelwood, + By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes + Green in a cuplike hollow of the down. + + Here on this beach a hundred years ago, 10 + Three children, of three houses, Annie Lee, + The prettiest little damsel in the port, + And Philip Ray, the miller's only son, + And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad + Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, play'd 15 + Among the waste and lumber of the shore, + Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets, + Anchors of rusty fluke,[204] and boats updrawn; + And built their castles of dissolving sand + To watch them overflow'd, or following up 20 + And flying the white breaker, daily left + The little footprint daily wash'd away. + + A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff; + In this the children play'd at keeping house. + Enoch was host one day, Philip the next, 25 + While Annie still was mistress; but at times + Enoch would hold possession for a week: + "This is my house and this my little wife." + "Mine too," said Philip, "turn and turn about:" + When, if they quarrell'd, Enoch stronger made 30 + Was master: then would Philip, his blue eyes + All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears, + Shriek out, "I hate you, Enoch," and at this + The little wife would weep for company, + And pray them not to quarrel for her sake, 35 + And say she would be little wife to both.[205] + + But when the dawn of rosy childhood past, + And the new warmth of life's ascending sun + Was felt by either, either fixt his heart + On that one girl; and Enoch spoke his love, 40 + But Philip loved in silence; and the girl + Seem'd kinder unto Philip than to him; + But she loved Enoch: tho' she knew it not, + And would if ask'd deny it. Enoch set + A purpose evermore before his eyes, 45 + To hoard all savings to the uttermost, + To purchase his own boat, and make a home + For Annie: and so prosper'd that at last + A luckier or a bolder fisherman, + A carefuller in peril, did not breathe 50 + For leagues along that breaker-beaten coast + Than Enoch. Likewise had he served a year + On board a merchantman, and made himself + Full sailor; and he thrice had pluck'd a life + From the dread sweep of the down-streaming seas: 55 + And all men look'd upon him favorably: + And ere he touch'd his one-and-twentieth May + He purchased his own boat, and made a home + For Annie, neat and nestlike, halfway up + The narrow street that clamber'd toward the mill. 60 + + Then, on a golden autumn eventide, + The younger people making holiday, + With bag and sack and basket, great and small, + Went nutting to the hazels. Philip stay'd + (His father lying sick and needing him) 65 + An hour behind; but as he climb'd the hill, + Just where the prone edge of the wood began + To feather toward the hollow, saw the pair, + Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in-hand, + His large gray eyes and weather-beaten face 70 + All-kindled by a still and sacred fire, + That burn'd as on an altar. Philip look'd, + And in their eyes and faces read his doom; + Then, as their faces drew together, groan'd, + And slipt aside, and like a wounded life 75 + Crept down into the hollows of the wood; + There, while the rest were loud in merrymaking, + Had his dark hour unseen, and rose and past + Bearing a lifelong hunger in his heart. + + So these were wed, and merrily rang the bells, 80 + And merrily ran the years, seven happy years, + Seven happy years of health and competence, + And mutual love and honorable toil; + With children; first a daughter. In him woke, + With his first babe's first cry, the noble wish 85 + To save all earnings to the uttermost, + And give his child a better bringing-up + Than his had been, or hers; a wish renew'd, + When two years after came a boy to be + The rosy idol of her solitudes, 90 + While Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas, + Or often journeying landward; for in truth + Enoch's white horse, and Enoch's ocean-spoil + In ocean-smelling osier,[206] and his face, + Rough-redden'd with a thousand winter gales, 95 + Not only to the market-cross were known, + But in the leafy lanes behind the down, + Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp[207] + And peacock-yewtree[208] of the lonely Hall, + Whose Friday fare was Enoch's ministering. 100 + + Then came a change, as all things human change. + Ten miles to northward of the narrow port + Open'd a larger haven: thither used + Enoch at times to go by land or sea; + And once when there, and clambering on a mast 105 + In harbor, by mischance he slipt and fell: + A limb was broken when they lifted him; + And while he lay recovering there, his wife + Bore him another son, a sickly one: + Another hand crept too across his trade 110 + Taking her bread and theirs: and on him fell, + Altho' a grave and staid God-fearing man, + Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and gloom. + He seem'd, as in a nightmare of the night, + To see his children leading evermore 115 + Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth, + And her he loved, a beggar: then he pray'd + "Save them from this, whatever comes to me." + And while he pray'd, the master of that ship + Enoch had served in, hearing his mischance, 120 + Came, for he knew the man and valued him, + Reporting of his vessel China-bound, + And wanting yet a boatswain. Would he go? + There yet were many weeks before she sail'd, + Sail'd from this port. Would Enoch have the place? 125 + And Enoch all at once assented to it, + Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer. + + So now that shadow of mischance appear'd + No graver than as when some little cloud + Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun, 130 + And isles a light in the offing: yet the wife-- + When he was gone--the children--what to do? + Then Enoch lay long-pondering on his plans; + To sell the boat--and yet he loved her well-- + How many a rough sea had he weather'd in her! 135 + He knew her, as a horseman knows his horse-- + And yet to sell her--then with what she brought + Buy goods and stores--set Annie forth in trade + With all that seamen needed or their wives-- + So might she keep the house while he was gone. 140 + Should he not trade himself out yonder? go + This voyage more than once? yea, twice or thrice-- + As oft as needed--last, returning rich, + Become the master of a larger craft, + With fuller profits lead an easier life, 145 + Have all his pretty young ones educated, + And pass his days in peace among his own. + + Thus Enoch in his heart determined all: + Then moving homeward came on Annie pale, + Nursing the sickly babe, her latest-born. 150 + Forward she started with a happy cry, + And laid the feeble infant in his arms; + Whom Enoch took, and handled all his limbs, + Appraised his weight and fondled father-like, + But had no heart to break his purposes 155 + To Annie, till the morrow, when he spoke. + + Then first since Enoch's golden ring had girt + Her finger, Annie fought against his will: + Yet not with brawling opposition she, + But manifold entreaties, many a tear, 160 + Many a sad kiss by day by night renew'd + (Sure that all evil would come out of it) + Besought him, supplicating, if he cared + For her or his dear children, not to go. + He not for his own self caring but her, 165 + Her and her children, let her plead in vain; + So grieving held his will, and bore it thro'. + + For Enoch parted with his old sea-friend, + Bought Annie goods and stores, and set his hand + To fit their little streetward sitting-room 170 + With shelf and corner for the goods and stores. + So all day long till Enoch's last at home, + Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and axe, + Auger and saw, while Annie seem'd to hear + Her own death-scaffold raising, shrill'd and rang, 175 + Till this was ended, and his careful hand,-- + The space was narrow,--having order'd all + Almost as neat and close as Nature packs + Her blossom or her seedling, paused; and he, + Who needs would work for Annie to the last, 180 + Ascending tired, heavily slept till morn. + + And Enoch faced this morning of farewell + Brightly and boldly. All his Annie's fears, + Save as his Annie's, were a laughter to him. + Yet Enoch as a brave God-fearing man 185 + Bow'd himself down, and in that mystery + Where God-in-man is one with man-in-God, + Pray'd for a blessing on his wife and babes, + Whatever came to him: and then he said + "Annie, this voyage by the grace of God 190 + Will bring fair weather yet to all of us. + Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire for me, + For I'll be back, my girl, before you know it." + Then lightly rocking baby's cradle, "and he, + This pretty, puny, weakly little one,-- 195 + Nay--for I love him all the better for it-- + God bless him, he shall sit upon my knees + And I will tell him tales of foreign parts, + And make him merry, when I come home again. + Come, Annie, come, cheer up before I go." 200 + + Him running on thus hopefully she heard, + And almost hoped herself; but when he turn'd + The current of his talk to graver things, + In sailor fashion roughly sermonizing + On providence and trust in Heaven, she heard, 205 + Heard and not heard him; as the village girl, + Who sets her pitcher underneath the spring, + Musing on him that used to fill it for her, + Hears and not hears, and lets it overflow. + + At length she spoke, "O Enoch, you are wise; 210 + And yet for all your wisdom well know I + That I shall look upon your face no more." + + "Well then," said Enoch, "I shall look on yours.[209] + Annie, the ship I sail in passes here + (He named the day), get you a seaman's glass, 215 + Spy out my face, and laugh at all your fears." + + But when the last of those last moments came, + "Annie, my girl, cheer up, be comforted, + Look to the babes, and till I come again, + Keep everything shipshape, for I must go. 220 + And fear no more for me; or if you fear + Cast all your cares on God; that anchor holds. + Is He not yonder in those uttermost + Parts of the morning? if I flee to these + Can I go from him? and the sea is His, 225 + The sea is His: He made it." + + Enoch rose, + Cast his strong arms about his drooping wife, + And kiss'd his wonder-stricken little ones; + But for the third, the sickly one, who slept + After a night of feverous wakefulness, 230 + When Annie would have raised him Enoch said, + "Wake him not; let him sleep; how should the child + Remember this?" and kiss'd him in his cot. + But Annie from her baby's forehead clipt + A tiny curl, and gave it: this he kept 235 + Thro' all his future; but now hastily caught + His bundle, waved his hand, and went his way. + + She, when the day, that Enoch mention'd, came, + Borrow'd a glass, but all in vain: perhaps + She could not fix the glass to suit her eye; 240 + Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremulous; + She saw him not: and while he stood on deck + Waving, the moment and the vessel past. + + Ev'n to the last dip of the vanishing sail + She watch'd it, and departed weeping for him; 245 + Then, tho' she mourn'd his absence as his grave, + Set her sad will no less to chime with his, + But throve not in her trade, not being bred + To barter, nor compensating the want + By shrewdness, neither capable of lies, 250 + Nor asking overmuch and taking less, + And still foreboding "what would Enoch say?" + For more than once, in days of difficulty + And pressure, had she sold her wares for less + Than what she gave in buying what she sold: 255 + She fail'd and sadden'd knowing it; and thus, + Expectant of that news which never came, + Gain'd for her own a scanty sustenance, + And lived a life of silent melancholy. + + Now the third child was sickly-born and grew 260 + Yet sicklier, tho' the mother cared for it + With all a mother's care: nevertheless, + Whether her business often call'd her from it, + Or thro' the want of what it needed most, + Or means to pay the voice who best could tell 265 + What most it needed--howsoe'er it was, + After a lingering,--ere she was aware,-- + Like the caged bird escaping suddenly, + The little innocent soul flitted away. + + In that same week when Annie buried it, 270 + Philip's true heart, which hunger'd for her peace + (Since Enoch left he had not look'd upon her), + Smote him, as having kept aloof so long. + "Surely," said Philip, "I may see her now, + May be some little comfort;" therefore went, 275 + Past thro' the solitary room in front, + Paused for a moment at an inner door, + Then struck it thrice, and, no one opening, + Enter'd; but Annie, seated with her grief, + Fresh from the burial of her little one, 280 + Cared not to look on any human face, + But turn'd her own toward the wall and wept. + Then Philip standing up said falteringly, + "Annie, I came to ask a favor of you." + + He spoke; the passion in her moan'd reply, 285 + "Favor from one so sad and so forlorn + As I am!" half abash'd him; yet unask'd, + His bashfulness and tenderness at war, + He set himself beside her, saying to her: + + "I came to speak to you of what he wish'd, 290 + Enoch, your husband: I have ever said + You chose the best among us--a strong man: + For where he fixt his heart he set his hand + To do the thing he will'd, and bore it thro'. + And wherefore did he go this weary way, 295 + And leave you lonely? not to see the world-- + For pleasure?--nay, but for the wherewithal + To give his babes a better bringing-up + Than his had been, or yours: that was his wish. + And if he come again, vext will he be 300 + To find the precious morning hours were lost. + And it would vex him even in his grave, + If he could know his babes were running wild + Like colts about the waste. So, Annie, now-- + Have we not known each other all our lives?-- 305 + I do beseech you by the love you bear + Him and his children not to say me nay-- + For, if you will, when Enoch comes again, + Why then he shall repay me--if you will, + Annie--for I am rich and well-to-do. 310 + Now let me put the boy and girl to school: + This is the favor that I came to ask." + + Then Annie with her brows against the wall + Answer'd, "I cannot look you in the face; + I seem so foolish and so broken down. 315 + When you came in my sorrow broke me down; + And now I think your kindness breaks me down; + But Enoch lives; that is borne in on me; + He will repay you: money can be repaid; + Not kindness such as yours." + And Philip ask'd 320 + "Then you will let me, Annie?" + There she turn'd, + She rose, and fixt her swimming eyes upon him, + And dwelt a moment on his kindly face, + Then calling down a blessing on his head + Caught at his hand, and wrung it passionately, 325 + And past into the little garth[210] beyond. + So lifted up in spirit he moved away. + + Then Philip put the boy and girl to school, + And bought them needful books, and every way, + Like one who does his duty by his own, 330 + Made himself theirs; and tho' for Annie's sake, + Fearing the lazy gossip of the port, + He oft denied his heart his dearest wish, + And seldom crost her threshold, yet he sent + Gifts by the children, garden-herbs and fruit, 335 + The late and early roses from his wall, + Or conies[211] from the down, and now and then, + With some pretext of fineness in the meal + To save the offence of charitable, flour + From his tall mill that whistled on the waste. 340 + + But Philip did not fathom Annie's mind: + Scarce could the woman when he came upon her, + Out of full heart and boundless gratitude + Light on a broken word to thank him with. + But Philip was her children's all-in-all; 345 + From distant corners of the street they ran + To greet his hearty welcome heartily; + Lords of his house and of his mill were they; + Worried his passive ear with petty wrongs + Or pleasures, hung upon him, play'd with him, 350 + And call'd him Father Philip. Philip gain'd + As Enoch lost; for Enoch seem'd to them + Uncertain as a vision or a dream, + Faint as a figure seen in early dawn + Down at the far end of an avenue, 355 + Going we know not where: and so ten years, + Since Enoch left his hearth and native land, + Fled forward, and no news of Enoch came. + + It chanced one evening Annie's children long'd + To go with others nutting to the wood, 360 + And Annie would go with them; then they begg'd + For Father Philip (as they call'd him) too: + Him, like the working bee in blossom-dust, + Blanch'd with his mill, they found; and saying to him, + "Come with us, Father Philip," he denied; 365 + But when the children pluck'd at him to go, + He laugh'd, and yielded readily to their wish, + For was not Annie with them? and they went. + + But after scaling half the weary down, + Just where the prone edge of the wood began[212] 370 + To feather toward the hollow, all her force + Fail'd her; and sighing, "Let me rest," she said: + So Philip rested with her well-content; + While all the younger ones with jubilant cries + Broke from their elders, and tumultuously 375 + Down thro' the whitening hazels made a plunge + To the bottom, and dispersed, and bent or broke + The lithe reluctant boughs to tear away + Their tawny clusters, crying to each other + And calling, here and there, about the wood. 380 + + But Philip sitting at her side forgot + Her presence, and remember'd one dark hour + Here in this wood, when like a wounded life + He crept into the shadow: at last he said, + Lifting his honest forehead, "Listen, Annie, 385 + How merry they are down yonder in the wood. + Tired, Annie?" for she did not speak a word. + "Tired?" but her face had fall'n upon her hands; + At which, as with a kind of anger in him, + "The ship was lost," he said, "the ship was lost! 390 + No more of that! why should you kill yourself + And make them orphans quite?" And Annie said + "I thought not of it: but--I know not why-- + Their voices make me feel so solitary." + + Then Philip coming somewhat closer spoke. 395 + "Annie, there is a thing upon my mind, + And it has been upon my mind so long, + That tho' I know not when it first came there, + I know that it will out at last. Oh, Annie, + It is beyond all hope, against all chance, 400 + That he who left you ten long years ago + Should still be living; well then--let me speak: + I grieve to see you poor and wanting help: + I cannot help you as I wish to do + Unless--they say that women are so quick-- 405 + Perhaps you know what I would have you know-- + I wish you for my wife. I fain would prove + A father to your children: I do think + They love me as a father: I am sure + That I love them as if they were mine own; 410 + And I believe, if you were fast my wife, + That after all these sad uncertain years, + We might be still as happy as God grants + To any of His creatures. Think upon it: + For I am well-to-do--no kin, no care, 415 + No burthen, save my care for you and yours: + And we have known each other all our lives, + And I have loved you longer than you know." + + Then answer'd Annie; tenderly she spoke: + "You have been as God's good angel in our house. 420 + God bless you for it, God reward you for it, + Philip, with something happier than myself. + Can one love twice? can you be ever loved + As Enoch was? what is it that you ask?" + "I am content," he answer'd, "to be loved 425 + A little after Enoch." "Oh," she cried, + Scared as it were, "dear Philip, wait a while: + If Enoch comes--but Enoch will not come-- + Yet wait a year, a year is not so long: + Surely I shall be wiser in a year: 430 + Oh, wait a little!" Philip sadly said, + "Annie, as I have waited all my life + I well may wait a little." "Nay," she cried, + "I am bound: you have my promise--in a year; + Will you not bide your year as I bide mine?" 435 + And Philip answer'd, "I will bide my year." + + Here both were mute, till Philip glancing up + Beheld the dead flame of the fallen day + Pass from the Danish barrow overhead; + Then, fearing night and chill for Annie, rose, 440 + And sent his voice beneath him thro' the wood. + Up came the children laden with their spoil; + Then all descended to the port, and there + At Annie's door he paused and gave his hand, + Saying gently, "Annie, when I spoke to you, 445 + That was your hour of weakness. I was wrong. + I am always bound to you, but you are free." + Then Annie weeping answered, "I am bound." + + She spoke; and in one moment as it were, + While yet she went about her household ways, 450 + Ev'n as she dwelt upon his latest words, + That he had loved her longer than she knew, + That autumn into autumn flash'd again, + And there he stood once more before her face, + Claiming her promise. "Is it a year?" she ask'd. 455 + "Yes, if the nuts," he said, "be ripe again: + Come out and see." But she--she put him off-- + So much to look to--such a change--a month-- + Give her a month--she knew that she was bound-- + A month--no more. Then Philip with his eyes 460 + Full of that lifelong hunger, and his voice + Shaking a little like a drunkard's hand, + "Take your own time, Annie, take your own time." + And Annie could have wept for pity of him; + And yet she held him on delayingly 465 + With many a scarce-believable excuse, + Trying his truth and his long-sufferance, + Till half another year had slipped away. + + By this the lazy gossips of the port, + Abhorrent of a calculation crost, 470 + Began to chafe as at a personal wrong. + Some thought that Philip did but trifle with her; + Some that she but held off to draw him on; + And others laughed at her and Philip too, + As simple folk that knew not their own minds; 475 + And one in whom all evil fancies clung + Like serpent's eggs together, laughingly + Would hint at worse in either. Her own son + Was silent, tho' he often look'd his wish; + But evermore the daughter prest upon her 480 + To wed the man so dear to all of them + And lift the household out of poverty; + And Philip's rosy face contracting grew + Careworn and wan; and all these things fell on him + Sharp as reproach. + At last one night it chanced 485 + That Annie could not sleep, but earnestly + Pray'd for a sign, "my Enoch, is he gone?" + Then compass'd round by the blind wall of night + Brook'd not the expectant terror of her heart, + Started from bed, and struck herself a light, 490 + Then desperately seized the holy Book, + Suddenly set it wide to find a sign, + Suddenly put her finger on the text, + "Under the palm-tree.[213]" That was nothing to her: + No meaning there: she closed the Book and slept: 495 + When lo! her Enoch sitting on a height, + Under a palm-tree, over him the Sun: + "He is gone," she thought, "he is happy, he is singing + Hosanna in the highest: yonder shines + The Sun of Righteousness, and these be palms 500 + Whereof the happy people strowing cried + 'Hosanna in the highest!'" Here she woke, + Resolved, sent for him and said wildly to him, + "There is no reason why we should not wed." + "Then for God's sake," he answer'd, "both our sakes, 505 + So you will wed me, let it be at once." + + So these were wed and merrily rang the bells, + Merrily rang the bells and they were wed. + But never merrily beat Annie's heart. + A footstep seem'd to fall beside her path, 510 + She knew not whence; a whisper on her ear, + She knew not what; nor loved she to be left + Alone at home, nor ventured out alone. + What ail'd her then, that ere she enter'd, often, + Her hand dwelt lingeringly on the latch, 515 + Fearing to enter: Philip thought he knew: + Such doubts and fears were common to her state, + Being with child: but when her child was born, + Then her new child was as herself renew'd, + Then the new mother came about her heart, 520 + Then her good Philip was her all-in-all, + And that mysterious instinct wholly died. + + And where was Enoch? prosperously sail'd + The ship Good Fortune, tho' at setting forth + The Biscay,[214] roughly ridging eastward, shook 525 + And almost overwhelm'd her, yet unvext + She slipt across the summer of the world,[215] + Then after a long tumble about the Cape + And frequent interchange of foul and fair, + She passing thro' the summer world again, 530 + The breath of heaven came continually + And sent her sweetly by the golden isles, + Till silent in her oriental haven. + + There Enoch traded for himself, and bought + Quaint monsters for the market of those times, 535 + A gilded dragon, also, for the babes. + + Less lucky her home-voyage: at first indeed + Thro' many a fair sea-circle, day by day, + Scarce-rocking her full-busted figure-head + Stared o'er the ripple feathering from her bows: 540 + Then follow'd calms, and then winds variable, + Then baffling, a long course of them; and last + Storm, such as drove her under moonless heavens + Till hard upon the cry of "breakers" came + The crash of ruin, and the loss of all 545 + But Enoch and two others. Half the night, + Buoy'd upon floating tackle and broken spars, + These drifted, stranding on an isle at morn + Rich, but the loneliest in a lonely sea. + + No want was there of human sustenance, 550 + Soft fruitage, mighty nuts, and nourishing roots; + Nor save for pity was it hard to take + The helpless life so wild that it was tame. + There in a seaward-gazing mountain-gorge + They built, and thatch'd with leaves of palm, a hut, 555 + Half hut, half native cavern. So the three, + Set in this Eden of all plenteousness, + Dwelt with eternal summer, ill-content. + + For one, the youngest, hardly more than boy, + Hurt in that night of sudden ruin and wreck, 560 + Lay lingering out a five-years' death-in-life. + They could not leave him. After he was gone, + The two remaining found a fallen stem[216]; + And Enoch's comrade, careless of himself, + Fire-hollowing this in Indian fashion, fell 565 + Sun-stricken, and that other lived alone. + In those two deaths he read God's warning, "Wait." + + The mountain wooded to the peak, the lawns + And winding glades high up like ways to Heaven, + The slender coco's drooping crown of plumes, 570 + The lightning flash of insect and of bird, + The lustre of the long convolvuluses[217] + That coil'd around the stately stems, and ran + Ev'n to the limit of the land, the glows + And glories of the broad belt of the world,[218] 575 + All these he saw; but what he fain had seen + He could not see, the kindly human face, + Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard + The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fowl, + The league-long roller thundering on the reef, 580 + The moving whisper of huge trees that branch'd + And blossom'd in the zenith, or the sweep + Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave, + As down the shore he ranged, or all day long + Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge, 585 + A shipwreck'd sailor, waiting for a sail: + No sail from day to day, but every day + The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts + Among the palms and ferns and precipices; 590 + The blaze upon the waters to the east: + The blaze upon his island overhead; + The blaze upon the waters to the west; + Then the great stars that globed themselves in Heaven, + The hollower-bellowing ocean, and again + The scarlet shafts of sunrise--but no sail. 595 + + There often as he watch'd or seem'd to watch, + So still, the golden lizard on him paused, + A phantom made of many phantoms moved + Before him, haunting him, or he himself + Moved haunting people, things and places, known 600 + Far in a darker isle beyond the line; + The babes, their babble, Annie, the small house, + The climbing street, the mill, the leafy lanes, + The peacock-yewtree and the lonely Hall, + The horse he drove, the boat he sold, the chill 605 + November dawns and dewy-glooming downs, + The gentle shower, the smell of dying leaves, + And the low moan of leaden-color'd seas. + + Once likewise, in the ringing of his ears, + Tho' faintly, merrily--far and far away-- 610 + He heard the pealing of his parish bells; + Then, tho' he knew not wherefore, started up + Shuddering, and when the beauteous hateful isle + Return'd upon him, had not his poor heart + Spoken with That, which being everywhere 615 + Lets none who speaks with Him seem all alone, + Surely the man had died of solitude. + + Thus over Enoch's early-silvering head + The sunny and rainy seasons came and went + Year after year. His hopes to see his own, 620 + And pace the sacred old familiar fields, + Not yet had perish'd, when his lonely doom + Came suddenly to an end. Another ship + (She wanted water) blown by baffling winds, + Like the Good Fortune, from her destined course, 625 + Stay'd by this isle, not knowing where she lay: + For since the mate had seen at early dawn + Across a break on the mist-wreathen isle + The silent water slipping from the hills, + They sent a crew that landing burst away 630 + In search of stream or fount, and fill'd the shores + With clamor. Downward from his mountain gorge[219] + Stept the long-hair'd, long-bearded solitary, + Brown, looking hardly human, strangely clad, + Muttering and mumbling, idiot-like it seem'd, 635 + With inarticulate rage, and making signs + They knew not what: and yet he led the way + To where the rivulets of sweet water ran; + And ever as he mingled with the crew, + And heard them talking, his long-bounden tongue 640 + Was loosen'd, till he made them understand; + Whom, when their casks were fill'd they took aboard + And there the tale he utter'd brokenly, + Scarce-credited at first but more and more, + Amazed and melted all who listen'd to it; 645 + And clothes they gave him and free passage home; + But oft he work'd among the rest and shook + His isolation from him. None of these + Came from his county, or could answer him, + If question'd, aught of what he cared to know. 650 + And dull the voyage was with long delays, + The vessel scarce sea-worthy; but evermore + His fancy fled before the lazy wind + Returning, till beneath a clouded moon + He like a lover down thro' all his blood 655 + Drew in the dewy meadowy morning-breath + Of England, blown across her ghostly wall: + And that same morning officers and men + Levied a kindly tax upon themselves, + Pitying the lonely man, and gave him it: 660 + Then moving up the coast they landed him, + Ev'n in that harbor whence he sail'd before. + + There Enoch spoke no word to any one, + But homeward--home--what home? had he a home? + His home, he walk'd. Bright was that afternoon, 665 + Sunny but chill; till drawn thro' either chasm, + Where either haven open'd on the deeps, + Roll'd a sea-haze and whelm'd the world in gray; + Cut off the length of highway on before, + And left but narrow breadth to left and right 670 + Of wither'd holt[220] or tilth[221] or pasturage. + On the nigh-naked tree the robin piped + Disconsolate, and thro' the dripping haze + The dead weight of the dead leaf bore it down: + Thicker the drizzle grew, deeper the gloom; 675 + Last, as it seem'd, a great mist-blotted light + Flared on him, and he came upon the place. + + Then down the long street having slowly stolen, + His heart foreshadowing all calamity, + His eyes upon the stones, he reach'd the home 680 + Where Annie lived and loved him, and his babes + In those far-off seven happy years were born; + But finding neither light nor murmur there + (A bill of sale gleam'd thro' the drizzle) crept + Still downward thinking, "dead, or dead to me!" 685 + + Down to the pool and narrow wharf he went, + Seeking a tavern which of old he knew, + A front of timber-crost antiquity, + So propt, worm-eaten, ruinously old, + He thought it must have gone; but he was gone 690 + Who kept it; and his widow, Miriam Lane, + With daily-dwindling profits held the house; + A haunt of brawling seamen once, but now + Stiller, with yet a bed for wandering men. + There Enoch rested silent many days. 695 + + But Miriam Lane was good and garrulous, + Nor let him be, but often breaking in, + Told him, with other annals of the port, + Not knowing--Enoch was so brown, so bow'd, + So broken--all the story of his house. 700 + His baby's death, her growing poverty, + How Philip put her little ones to school, + And kept them in it, his long wooing her, + Her slow consent, and marriage, and the birth + Of Philip's child: and o'er his countenance 705 + No shadow past, nor motion: any one, + Regarding, well had deem'd he felt the tale + Less than the teller; only when she closed, + "Enoch, poor man, was cast away and lost," + He, shaking his gray head pathetically, 710 + Repeated muttering, "cast away and lost;" + Again in deeper inward whispers, "lost!" + + But Enoch yearned to see her face again; + "If I might look on her sweet face again + And know that she is happy." So the thought 715 + Haunted and harass'd him, and drove him forth, + At evening when the dull November day + Was growing duller twilight, to the hill. + There he sat down gazing on all below; + There did a thousand memories roll upon him, 720 + Unspeakable for sadness. By and by + The ruddy square of comfortable light, + Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house, + Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures + The bird of passage, till he madly strikes 725 + Against it, and beats out his weary life. + + For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street, + The latest[222] house to landward; but behind, + With one small gate that open'd on the waste, + Flourish'd a little garden square and wall'd: 730 + And in it throve an ancient evergreen, + A yewtree, and all round it ran a walk + Of shingle,[223] and a walk divided it: + But Enoch shunn'd the middle walk and stole + Up by the wall, behind the yew; and thence 735 + That which he better might have shunn'd, if griefs + Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw. + + For cups and silver on the burnish'd board + Sparkled and shone; so genial was the hearth: + And on the right hand of the hearth he saw 740 + Philip, the slighted suitor of old times, + Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees; + And o'er her second father stoopt a girl, + A later but a loftier Annie Lee, + Fair-hair'd and tall, and from her lifted hand, 745 + Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring + To tempt the babe, who rear'd his creasy[224] arms, + Caught at, and ever miss'd it, and they laugh'd: + And on the left hand of the hearth he saw + The mother glancing often toward her babe, 750 + But turning now and then to speak with him, + Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong, + And saying that which pleased him, for he smiled. + + Now when the dead man come to life beheld + His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe 755 + Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee, + And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness, + And his own children tall and beautiful, + And him, that other, reigning in his place, + Lord of his rights and of his children's love,-- 760 + Then he, tho' Miriam Lane had told him all, + Because things seen are mightier than things heard, + Stagger'd and shook, holding the branch, and fear'd + To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry, + Which in one moment, like the blast of doom, 765 + Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth. + + He therefore turning softly like a thief, + Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot, + And feeling all along the garden wall, + Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found, 770 + Crept to the gate, and open'd it, and closed, + As lightly as a sick man's chamber-door, + Behind him, and came out upon the waste. + + And there he would have knelt, but that his knees + Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug 775 + His fingers into the wet earth, and pray'd. + + "Too hard to bear! why did they take me thence? + O God Almighty, blessed Saviour, Thou + That didst uphold me on my lonely isle, + Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness 780 + A little longer! aid me, give me strength + Not to tell her, never to let her know. + Help me not to break in upon her peace. + My children too! must I not speak to these? + They know me not. I should betray myself. 785 + Never: no father's kiss for me--the girl + So like her mother, and the boy, my son." + + There speech and thought and nature fail'd a little + And he lay tranced; but when he rose and paced + Back toward his solitary home again, 790 + All down the long and narrow street he went + Beating it in upon his weary brain, + As tho' it were the burthen of a song, + "Not to tell her, never to let her know." + + He was not all unhappy. His resolve 795 + Upbore him, and firm faith, and evermore + Prayer from a living source within the will, + And beating up thro' all the bitter world, + Like fountains of sweet water in the sea, + Kept him a living soul. "This miller's wife," 800 + He said to Miriam, "that you spoke about, + Has she no fear that her first husband lives?" + "Ay, ay, poor soul," said Miriam, "fear enow! + If you could tell her you had seen him dead, + Why, that would be her comfort;" and he thought 805 + "After the Lord has call'd me she shall know, + I wait His time;" and Enoch set himself, + Scorning an alms, to work whereby to live. + Almost to all things could he turn his hand. + Cooper he was and carpenter, and wrought 810 + To make the boatmen fishing-nets, or help'd + At lading and unlading the tall barks, + That brought the stinted commerce of those days; + Thus earn'd a scanty living for himself: + Yet since he did but labor for himself, 815 + Work without hope, there was not life in it + Whereby the man could live; and as the year + Roll'd itself round again to meet the day + When Enoch had return'd, a languor came + Upon him, gentle sickness, gradually 820 + Weakening the man, till he could do no more, + But kept the house, his chair, and last his bed. + And Enoch bore his weakness cheerfully. + For sure no gladlier does the stranded wreck + See thro' the gray skirts of a lifting squall 825 + The boat that bears the hope of life approach + To save the life despair'd of, than he saw + Death dawning on him, and the close of all. + + For thro' that dawning gleam'd a kindlier hope + On Enoch thinking, "after I am gone, 830 + Then may she learn I lov'd her to the last." + He call'd aloud for Miriam Lane and said, + "Woman, I have a secret--only swear, + Before I tell you--swear upon the book + Not to reveal it, till you see me dead." 835 + "Dead," clamor'd the good woman, "hear him talk; + I warrant, man, that we shall bring you round." + "Swear," added Enoch sternly, "on the book." + And on the book, half-frighted, Miriam swore. + Then Enoch rolling his gray eyes upon her, 840 + "Did you know Enoch Arden of this town?" + "Know him?" she said, "I knew him far away. + Ay, ay, I mind him coming down the street; + Held his head high, and cared for no man, he." + Slowly and sadly Enoch answer'd her: 845 + "His head is low, and no man cares for him. + I think I have not three days more to live; + I am the man." At which the woman gave + A half-incredulous, half-hysterical cry. + "You Arden, you! nay,--sure he was a foot 850 + Higher than you be." Enoch said again, + "My God has bow'd me down to what I am; + My grief and solitude have broken me; + Nevertheless, know you that I am he + Who married--but that name has twice been changed-- 855 + I married her who married Philip Ray. + Sit, listen." Then he told her of his voyage, + His wreck, his lonely life, his coming back, + His gazing in on Annie, his resolve, + And how he kept it. As the woman heard, 860 + Fast flow'd the current of her easy tears, + While in her heart she yearn'd incessantly + To rush abroad all round the little haven, + Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his woes; + But awed and promise-bounden she forbore, 865 + Saying only, "See your bairns before you go! + Eh, let me fetch 'em, Arden," and arose + Eager to bring them down, for Enoch hung + A moment on her words, but then replied: + + "Woman, disturb me not now at the last, 870 + But let me hold my purpose till I die. + Sit down again; mark me and understand, + While I have power to speak. I charge you now + When you shall see her, tell her that I died + Blessing her, praying for her, loving her; 875 + Save for the bar between us, loving her + As when she lay her head beside my own. + And tell my daughter Annie, whom I saw + So like her mother, that my latest breath + Was spent in blessing her and praying for her. 880 + And tell my son that I died blessing him. + And say to Philip that I blest him too; + He never meant us any thing but good. + But if my children care to see me dead, + Who hardly knew me living, let them come, 885 + I am their father; but she must not come, + For my dead face would vex her after-life. + And now there is but one of all my blood, + Who will embrace me in the world-to-be: + This hair is his: she cut it off and gave it, 890 + And I have borne it with me all these years, + And thought to bear it with me to my grave; + But now my mind is changed, for I shall see him, + My babe in bliss: wherefore when I am gone, + Take, give her this, for it may comfort her: 895 + It will moreover be a token to her, + That I am he." + + He ceased; and Miriam Lane + Made such a voluble answer promising all, + That once again he roll'd his eyes upon her + Repeating all he wish'd, and once again 900 + She promised. + + Then the third night after this, + While Enoch slumber'd motionless and pale, + And Miriam watch'd and dozed at intervals, + There came so loud a calling of the sea, + That all the houses in the haven rang. 905 + He woke, he rose, he spread his arms abroad, + Crying with a loud voice "A sail! a sail! + I am saved;" and so fell back and spoke no more. + + So past the strong heroic soul away. + And when they buried him the little port 910 + Had seldom seen a costlier funeral. + + + + +THE REVENGE + + +A BALLAD OF THE FLEET + + + I + + At Flores in the Azores[225] Sir Richard Grenville lay, + And a pinnace like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far away: + 'Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!' + Then sware Lord Thomas Howard[226]: 'Fore God I am no coward; + But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear, 5 + And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick. + We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?' + + + II + + Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: 'I know you are no coward; + You fly them for a moment to fight with them again. + But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore. 10 + I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard, + To these Inquisition[227] dogs and the devildoms of Spain.' + + + III + + So Lord Howard passed away with five ships of war that day, + Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven; + But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land 15 + Very carefully and slow, + Men of Bideford[228] in Devon, + And we laid them on the ballast down below; + For we brought them all aboard, + And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to + Spain, 20 + To the thumbscrew[229] and the stake[230] for the glory of the + Lord. + + + IV + + He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight + And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight, + With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow. + 'Shall we fight or shall we fly? 25 + Good Sir Richard, tell us now, + For to fight is but to die! + There'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set.' + And Sir Richard said again, 'We be all good English men. + Let us bang these dogs of Seville,[231] the children of the + devil, 30 + For I never turn'd my back upon Don[232] or devil yet.' + + + V + + Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a hurrah, and so + The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the foe, + With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below; + For half of her fleet to the right and half to the left were + seen, 35 + And the little Revenge ran on thro' the long sea-lane between. + + + VI + + Thousands of their soldiers look'd down from their decks and + laugh'd, + Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft + Running on and on, till delay'd + By their mountain-like San Philip that, of fifteen hundred + tons, 40 + And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns, + Took the breath from our sails, and we stay'd. + + + VII + + And while now the great San Philip hung above us like a cloud + Whence the thunderbolt will fall Long and loud, 45 + Four galleons[233] drew away + From the Spanish fleet that day, + And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay, + And the battle-thunder broke from them all. + + + VIII + + But anon the great San Philip, she bethought herself and went 50 + Having that within her womb that had left her ill content; + And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us hand to hand, + For a dozen times they came with their pikes and musqueteers, + And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that shakes his ears + When he leaps from the water to the land. 55 + + + IX + + And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over + the summer sea, + But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and + the fifty-three. + Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built + galleons came, + Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder + and flame; + Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with + her dead and her shame. 60 + For some were sunk and many were shatter'd, and so + could fight us no more-- + God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world + before? + + + X + + For he said, 'Fight on! fight on!' + Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck; + And it chanced that, when half of the short summer night was + gone, 65 + With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck, + But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead, + And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head, + And he said 'Fight on! fight on!' + + + XI + + And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far + over the summer sea, 70 + And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all + in a ring; + But they dared not touch us again, for they fear'd that + we still could sting, + So they watch'd what the end would be. + And we had not fought them in vain, + But in perilous plight were we, 75 + Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, + And half of the rest of us maim'd for life + In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife; + And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and + cold, + And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder + was all of it spent; 80 + And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side; + But Sir Richard cried in his English pride, + 'We have fought such a fight for a day and a night + As may never be fought again! + We have won great glory, my men! 85 + And a day less or more + At sea or ashore, + We die--does it matter when? + Sink me the ship, Master Gunner--sink her, split her in twain! + Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain!' 90 + + + XII + + And the gunner said 'Ay, ay,' but the seamen made reply: + 'We have children, we have wives, + And the Lord hath spared our lives. + We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go; + We shall live to fight again and to strike another blow.' 95 + And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe. + + + XIII + + And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then + Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last, + And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign + grace; + But he rose upon their decks, and he cried: 100 + 'I have fought for Queen and Faith like a gallant man and true; + I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do: + With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard Grenville die!' + And he fell upon their decks, and he died. + + + XIV + + And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and + true, 105 + And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap + That he dared her with one little ship and his English few; + Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew, + But they sank his body with honour down in the deep, + And they mann'd the Revenge with a swarthy alien crew, 110 + And away she sail'd with her loss and long'd for her own; + When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke from sleep, + And the water began to heave and the weather to moan, + And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew, + And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake + grew, 115 + Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their + masts and their flags, + And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter'd navy + of Spain, + And the little Revenge herself went down by the island crags + To be lost evermore in the main. + + + + +ROBERT BROWNING + +"HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX." + + +[16--] + + I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; + I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; + "Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew; + "Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through; + Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, 5 + And into the midnight we galloped abreast. + + Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace + Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; + I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, + Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique[234] right, 10 + Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, + Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. + + 'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near + Lokeren,[235] the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear; + At Boom,[236] a great yellow star came out to see; 15 + At Düffeld,[237] 'twas morning as plain as could be; + And from Mecheln[238] church-steeple we heard the half-chime, + So Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!" + + At Aershot,[239] up leaped of a sudden the sun, + And against him the cattle stood black every one, 20 + To stare through the mist at us galloping past, + And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, + With resolute shoulders, each butting away + The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray: + + And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back 25 + For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; + And one eye's black intelligence,--ever that glance + O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance! + And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon + His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. 30 + + By Hasselt,[240] Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur! + Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, + We'll remember at Aix"--for one heard the quick wheeze + Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, + And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, 35 + As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. + + So, we were left galloping, Joris and I, + Past Looz[241] and past Tongres,[242] no cloud in the sky; + The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, + 'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; 40 + Till over by Dalhem[243] a dome-spire sprang white, + And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!" + + "How they'll greet us!"--and all in a moment his roan + Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; + And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight 45 + Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,[244] + With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, + And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. + + Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall. + Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, 50 + Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, + Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; + Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, + Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. + And all I remember is--friends flocking round 55 + As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground; + And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, + As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, + Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) + Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent. 60 + + + + +INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP + + You know, we French stormed Ratisbon: + A mile or so away, + On a little mound, Napoleon + Stood on our storming-day; + With neck out-thrust,[245] you fancy how, 5 + Legs wide, arms locked behind, + As if to balance the prone brow + Oppressive with its mind. + + Just as perhaps he mused[246] "My plans + That soar, to earth may fall, 10 + Let once my army-leader Lannes[247] + Waver at yonder wall,"-- + Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew + A rider, bound on bound + Full-galloping; nor bridle drew 15 + Until he reached the mound. + + Then off there flung in smiling joy, + And held himself erect + By just his horse's mane, a boy: + You hardly could suspect-- 20 + (So tight he kept his lips compressed, + Scarce any blood came through) + You looked twice ere you saw his breast + Was all but shot in two. + + "Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace 25 + We've got you Ratisbon! + The Marshal's in the market-place, + And you'll be there anon + To see your flag-bird[248] flap his vans + Where I, to heart's desire, 30 + Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans + Soared up again like fire. + + The chief's eye flashed; but presently + Softened itself, as sheathes + A film the mother-eagle's eye 35 + When her bruised eaglet breathes; + "You're wounded!" "Nay," the soldier's pride + Touched to the quick, he said: + "I'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside, + Smiling the boy fell dead. 40 + + + + +THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN + +A CHILD'S STORY + +(Written for, and inscribed to, W. M. the Younger) + + + I + + Hamelin[249] Town's in Brunswick, + By famous Hanover city; + The river Weser, deep and wide, + Washes its wall on the southern side; + A pleasanter spot you never spied; 5 + But when begins my ditty, + Almost five hundred years ago, + To see the townsfolk suffer so + From vermin, was a pity. + + + II + + Rats! 10 + They fought the dogs and killed the cats, + And bit the babies in the cradles, + And ate the cheeses out of the vats, + And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles, + Split open the kegs of salted sprats, 15 + Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, + And even spoiled the women's chats + By drowning their speaking + With shrieking and squeaking + In fifty different sharps and flats. 20 + + + III + + At last the people in a body + To the Town Hall came flocking: + "'Tis clear," cried they, "our Mayor's a noddy; + And as for our Corporation--shocking + To think we buy gowns lined with ermine 25 + For dolts that can't or won't determine + What's best to rid us of our vermin! + You hope, because you're old and obese, + To find in the furry civic robe ease? + Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking 30 + To find the remedy we're lacking, + Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!" + At this the Mayor and Corporation + Quaked with a mighty consternation. + + + IV + + An hour they sat in council; 35 + At length the Mayor broke silence: + "For a guilder[250] I'd my ermine gown sell, + I wish I were a mile hence! + It's easy to bid one rack one's brain-- + I'm sure my poor head aches again, 40 + I've scratched it so, and all in vain. + O for a trap, a trap, a trap!" + Just as he said this, what should hap + At the chamber-door but a gentle tap? + "Bless us," cried the Mayor, "what's that?" 45 + (With the Corporation as he sat, + Looking little though wondrous fat; + Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister + Than a too-long-opened oyster, + Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous 50 + For a plate of turtle green and glutinous) + "Only a scraping of shoes on the mat? + Anything like the sound of a rat + Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!" + + + V + + "Come in!" the Mayor cried, looking bigger: 55 + And in did come the strangest figure! + His queer long coat from heel to head + Was half of yellow and half of red, + And he himself was tall and thin, + With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, 60 + And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin, + No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin, + But lips where smiles went out and in; + There was no guessing his kith and kin: + And nobody could enough admire 65 + The tall man and his quaint attire. + Quoth one: "It's as my great grandsire, + Starting up at the Trump of Doom's[251] tone, + Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!" + + + VI + + He advanced to the council-table: 70 + And, "Please your honors," said he, "I'm able, + By means of a secret charm, to draw + All creatures living beneath the sun, + That creep or swim or fly or run, + After me so as you never saw! 75 + And I chiefly use my charm + On creatures that do people harm, + The mole and toad and newt and viper; + And people call me the Pied Piper."[252] + (And here they noticed round his neck 80 + A scarf of red and yellow stripe, + To match with his coat of the self-same cheque; + And at the scarf's end hung a pipe; + And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying + As if impatient to be playing 85 + Upon this pipe, as low it dangled + Over his vesture so old-fangled.) + "Yet," said he, "poor piper as I am, + In Tartary I freed the Cham,[253] + Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats; 90 + I eased in Asia the Nizam[254] + Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats: + And as for what your brain bewilders, + If I can rid your town of rats + Will you give me a thousand guilders?" 95 + "One? fifty thousand!"--was the exclamation + Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation. + + + VII + + Into the street the Piper stept, + Smiling first a little smile, + As if he knew what magic slept 100 + In his quiet pipe the while; + Then, like a musical adept, + To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, + And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, + Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled; 105 + And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, + You heard as if an army muttered; + And the muttering grew to a grumbling; + And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; + And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. 110 + Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, + Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats, + Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, + Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, + Cocking tails and pricking whiskers, 115 + Families by tens and dozens, + Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives-- + Followed the Piper for their lives. + From street to street he piped advancing, + And step by step they followed dancing, 120 + Until they came to the river Weser, + Wherein all plunged and perished! + --Save one who, stout as Julius Cæsar,[255] + Swam across and lived to carry + (As he, the manuscript he cherished) 125 + To rat-land home his commentary[256]: + Which was, "At the first shrill notes of the pipe, + I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, + And putting apples, wondrous ripe, + Into a cider-press's gripe: 130 + And a moving away of pickle-tub boards, + And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, + And a drawing the corks of train-oil flasks, + And a breaking the hoops of butter casks: + And it seemed as if a voice 135 + (Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery + Is breathed) called out, 'O rats, rejoice! + The world is grown to one vast drysaltery! + So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, + Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!' 140 + And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, + Already staved, like a great sun shone + Glorious scarce an inch before me, + Just as methought it said, 'Come, bore me!' + --I found the Weser rolling o'er me." 145 + + + VIII + + You should have heard the Hamelin people + Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple. + "Go," cried the Mayor, "and get long poles, + Poke out the nests and block up the holes! + Consult with carpenters and builders, 150 + And leave in our town not even a trace + Of the rats!"--when suddenly, up the face + Of the Piper perked in the market-place, + With a, "First, if you please, my thousand guilders!" + + + IX + + A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue; 155 + So did the Corporation too. + For council dinners made rare havoc + With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock; + And half the money would replenish + Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish. 160 + To pay this sum to a wandering fellow + With a gypsy coat of red and yellow! + "Beside," quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink, + "Our business was done at the river's brink; + We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, 165 + And what's dead can't come to life, I think. + So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink + From the duty of giving you something for drink, + And a matter of money to put in your poke[257]; + But as for the guilders, what we spoke 170 + Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. + Beside, our losses have made us thrifty. + A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!" + + + X + + The Piper's face fell, and he cried; + "No trifling! I can't wait, beside! 175 + I've promised to visit by dinner time + Bagdat, and accept the prime + Of the Head-Cook's pottage, all he's rich in, + For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen, + Of a nest of scorpions no survivor: 180 + With him I proved no bargain-driver, + With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver[258]! + And folks who put me in a passion + May find me pipe after another fashion." + + + XI + + "How?" cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I brook 185 + Being worse treated than a Cook? + Insulted by a lazy ribald + With idle pipe and vesture piebald[259]? + You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst, + Blow your pipe there till you burst!" 190 + + + XII + + Once more he stept into the street, + And to his lips again + Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane; + And ere he blew three notes (such sweet + Soft notes as yet musician's cunning 195 + Never gave the enraptured air) + There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling + Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling; + Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, + Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering, 200 + And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering, + Out came the children running. + All the little boys and girls, + With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, + And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, 205 + Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after + The wonderful music with shouting and laughter. + + + XIII + + The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood + As if they were changed into blocks of wood, + Unable to move a step, or cry 210 + To the children merrily skipping by, + --Could only follow with the eye + That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. + But how the Mayor was on the rack, + And the wretched Council's bosoms beat, 215 + As the Piper turned from the High Street + To where the Weser rolled its waters + Right in the way of their sons and daughters! + However, he turned from South to West, + And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, 220 + And after him the children pressed; + Great was the joy in every breast. + "He never can cross that mighty top! + He's forced to let the piping drop, + And we shall see our children stop!" 225 + When, lo, as they reached the mountain-side, + A wondrous portal opened wide, + As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; + And the Piper advanced and the children followed, + And when all were in to the very last, 230 + The door in the mountain-side shut fast. + Did I say, all? No! One was lame, + And could not dance the whole of the way; + And in after years, if you would blame + His sadness, he was used to say,-- 235 + "It's dull in our town since my playmates left! + I can't forget that I'm bereft + Of all the pleasant sights they see, + Which the Piper also promised me. + For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, 240 + Joining the town and just at hand, + Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew + And flowers put forth a fairer hue, + And everything was strange and new; + The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, 245 + And their dogs outran our fallow deer, + And honey-bees had lost their stings, + And horses were born with eagles' wings: + And just as I became assured + My lame foot would be speedily cured, 250 + The music stopped and I stood still, + And found myself outside the hill, + Left alone against my will, + To go now limping as before, + And never hear of that country more!" 255 + + + XIV + + Alas, alas! for Hamelin! + There came into many a burgher's pate + A text which says that heaven's gate + Opes to the rich at as easy rate + As the needle's eye[260] takes a camel in! 260 + The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South, + To offer the Piper, by word of mouth, + Wherever it was men's lot to find him, + Silver and gold to his heart's content, + If he'd only return the way he went, 265 + And bring the children behind him. + But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavor, + And Piper and dancers were gone forever, + They made a decree that lawyers never + Should think their records dated duly 270 + If, after the day of the month and year, + These words did not as well appear, + "And so long after what happened here + On the Twenty-second of July, + Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:" 275 + And the better in memory to fix + The place of the children's last retreat, + They called it the Pied Piper's Street-- + Where any one playing on pipe or tabor + Was sure for the future to lose his labor. 280 + Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern + To shock with mirth a street so solemn; + But opposite the place of the cavern + They wrote the story on a column, + And on the great church-window painted 285 + The same, to make the world acquainted + How their children were stolen away, + And there it stands to this very day. + And I must not omit to say + That in Transylvania there's a tribe 290 + Of alien people who ascribe + The outlandish ways and dress + On which their neighbors lay such stress, + To their fathers and mothers having risen + Out of some subterraneous prison 295 + Into which they were trepanned + Long time ago in a mighty band + Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land, + But how or why, they don't understand. + + + XV + + So, Willy, let me and you be wipers 300 + Of scores out with all men--especially pipers! + And, whether they pipe us free fróm rats or fróm mice, + If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise! + + + + +HERVÉ RIEL + + + I + + On the sea and at the Hogue,[260] sixteen hundred ninety-two, + Did the English fight the French,--woe to France! + And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue, + Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, + Came crowding ship on ship to Saint Malo on the Rance,[261] 5 + With the English fleet in view. + + + II + + 'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase; + First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville. + Close on him fled, great and small, + Twenty-two good ships in all; 10 + And they signalled to the place + "Help the winners of a race! + Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick--or, quicker + still, + Here's the English can and will!" + + + III + + Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board; 15 + "Why, what hope or chance have ships like these + to pass?" laughed they: + "Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and + scored, + Shall the 'Formidable' here with her twelve and eighty guns + Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, + Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, 20 + And with flow at full beside? + Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide. + Reach the mooring? Rather say, + While rock stands or water runs, + Not a ship will leave the bay!" 25 + + + IV + + Then was called a council straight, + Brief and bitter the debate: + "Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow + All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, + For a prize to Plymouth Sound[262]? 30 + Better run the ships aground!" + (Ended Damfreville his speech.) + "Not a minute more to wait! + Let the Captains all and each + Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach! 35 + France must undergo her fate. + + + V + + "Give the word!" But no such word + Was ever spoke or heard; + For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these + --A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate--first, second, third? 40 + No such man of mark, and meet + With his betters to compete! + But a simple Breton sailor pressed[263] by Tourville[264] + for the fleet, + A poor coasting-pilot he, Hervé Riel the Croisickese.[265] + + + VI + + And "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Hervé Riel: 45 + "Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues? + Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell + On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell, + 'Twixt the offing here and Grève where the river disembogues? + Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for? 50 + Morn and eve, night and day, + Have I piloted your bay, + Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor. + Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty + Hogues! + Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe + me there's a way! 55 + Only let me lead the line, + Have the biggest ship to steer, + Get this 'Formidable' clear, + Make the others follow mine, + And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well, 60 + Right to Solidor past Grève, + And there lay them safe and sound; + And if one ship misbehave, + --Keel so much as grate the ground, + Why, I've nothing but my life,--here's my head!" cries + Hervé Riel. 65 + + + VII + + Not a minute more to wait. + "Steer us in, then, small and great! + Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried its + chief. + Captains, give the sailor place! + He is Admiral, in brief. 70 + Still the north-wind, by God's grace! + See the noble fellow's face + As the big ship, with a bound, + Clears the entry like a hound, + Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's + profound! 75 + See, safe through shoal and rock, + How they follow in a flock, + Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, + Not a spar that comes to grief! + The peril, see, is past, 80 + All are harbored to the last, + And just as Hervé Riel hollas "Anchor!"--sure as fate, + Up the English come--too late! + + + VIII + + So, the storm subsides to calm: + They see the green trees wave 85 + On the heights o'erlooking Grève. + Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. + "Just our rapture to enhance, + Let the English rake the bay, + Gnash their teeth and glare askance 90 + As they cannonade away! + 'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!" + How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's countenance! + Out burst all with one accord, + "This is Paradise for Hell! 95 + Let France, let France's King + Thank the man that did the thing!" + What a shout, and all one word, + "Hervé Riel!" + As he stepped in front once more, 100 + Not a symptom of surprise + In the frank blue Breton eyes, + Just the same man as before. + + + IX + + Then said Damfreville, "My friend, + I must speak out at the end, 105 + Though I find the speaking hard. + Praise is deeper than the lips: + You have saved the King his ships, + You must name your own reward. + 'Faith, our sun was near eclipse! 110 + Demand whate'er you will, + France remains your debtor still. + Ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not Damfreville." + + + X + + Then a beam of fun outbroke + On the bearded mouth that spoke, 115 + As the honest heart laughed through + Those frank eyes of Breton blue: + "Since I needs must say my say, + Since on board the duty's done, + And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but + a run?-- 120 + Since 'tis ask and have, I may-- + Since the others go ashore-- + Come! A good whole holiday! + Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!" + That he asked and that he got,--nothing more. 125 + + + XI + + Name and deed alike are lost: + Not a pillar nor a post + In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; + Not a head in white and black + On a single fishing smack, 130 + In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack + All that France saved from the fight whence England bore + the bell. + Go to Paris: rank on rank + Search the heroes flung pell-mell + On the Louvre, face and flank! 135 + You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé Riel. + So, for better and for worse, + Hervé Riel, accept my verse! + In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once more + Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife the + Belle Aurore! 140 + + + + +DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI + + +THE WHITE SHIP + +Henry I[266] of England--25th Nov., 1120 + + By none but me can the tale be told, + The butcher of Rouen,[267] poor Berold. + (_Lands are swayed by a king on a throne._) + 'Twas a royal train put forth to sea, + Yet the tale can be told by none but me. 5 + (_The sea hath no king but God alone._) + + King Henry held it as life's whole gain + That after his death his son should reign. + + 'Twas so in my youth I heard men say, + And my old age calls it back to-day. 10 + + King Henry of England's realm was he, + And Henry Duke of Normandy. + + The times had changed when on either coast + "Clerkly Harry" was all his boast.[268] + + Of ruthless[269] strokes full many an one 15 + He had struck to crown himself and his son; + And his elder brother's eyes were gone.[270] + + And when to the chase his court would crowd, + The poor flung ploughshares on his road, + And shrieked: "Our cry is from King to God!" 20 + + But all the chiefs of the English land + Had knelt and kissed the Prince's hand. + + And next with his son he sailed to France + To claim the Norman allegiance: + + And every baron in Normandy 25 + Had taken the oath of fealty.[271] + + 'Twas sworn and sealed, and the day had come + When the King and the Prince might journey home: + + For Christmas cheer is to home hearts dear, + And Christmas now was drawing near. 30 + + Stout Fitz-Stephen came to the King,-- + A pilot famous in seafaring; + + And he held to the King in all men's sight, + A mark of gold for his tribute's right. + + "Liege[272] Lord! my father guided the ship 35 + From whose boat your father's[273] foot did slip + When he caught the English soil in his grip, + + "And cried: 'By this clasp I claim command + O'er every rood[274] of English land!' + + "He was borne to the realm you rule o'er now 40 + In that ship with the archer carved at her prow: + + "And thither I'll bear an' it be my due, + Your father's son and his grandson too. + + "The famed White Ship is mine in the bay; + From Harfleur's harbor[275] she sails to-day, 45 + + "With masts fair-pennoned as Norman spears + And with fifty well-tried mariners." + + Quoth the King: "My ships are chosen each one, + But I'll not say nay to Stephen's son. + + "My son and daughter and fellowship 50 + Shall cross the water in the White Ship." + + The King set sail with the eve's south wind, + And soon he left that coast behind. + + The Prince and all his, a princely show, + Remained in the good White Ship to go. 55 + + With noble knights and with ladies fair, + With courtiers and sailors gathered there, + Three hundred living souls we were: + + And I Berold was the meanest hind[276] + In all that train to the Prince assign'd. 60 + + The Prince was a lawless shameless youth; + From his father's loins he sprang without ruth: + + Eighteen years till then had he seen, + And the devil's dues in him were eighteen. + + And now he cried: "Bring wine from below; 65 + Let the sailors revel ere yet they row: + + "Our speed shall o'ertake my father's flight + Though we sail from the harbor at midnight." + + The rowers made good cheer without check; + The lords and ladies obeyed his beck; 70 + The night was light and they danced on the deck. + + But at midnight's stroke they cleared the bay, + And the White Ship furrowed the water-way. + + The sails were set, and the oars kept tune + To the double flight of the ship and the moon: 75 + + Swifter and swifter the White Ship sped + Till she flew as the spirit flies from the dead: + + As white as a lily glimmered she + Like a ship's fair ghost upon the sea. + + And the Prince cried, "Friends, 'tis the hour to sing! 80 + Is a songbird's course so swift on the wing?" + + And under the winter stars' still throng, + From brown throats, white throats, merry and strong, + The knights and the ladies raised a song. + + A song,--nay, a shriek that rent the sky, 85 + That leaped o'er the deep!--the grievous cry + Of three hundred living that now must die. + + An instant shriek that sprang to the shock + As the ship's keel felt the sunken rock. + + 'Tis said that afar--a shrill strange sigh-- 90 + The King's ships heard it and knew not why. + + Pale Fitz-Stephen stood by the helm + 'Mid all those folk that the waves must whelm. + + A great King's heir for the waves to whelm + And the helpless pilot pale at the helm! 95 + + The ship was eager and sucked athirst, + By the stealthy stab of the sharp reef pierced, + + And like the moil[277] round a sinking cup, + The waters against her crowded up. + + A moment the pilot's senses spin,-- 100 + The next he snatched the Prince 'mid the din, + Cut the boat loose, and the youth leaped in. + + A few friends leaped with him, standing near. + "Row! the sea's smooth and the night is clear!" + + "What! none to be saved but these and I?" 105 + "Row, row as you'd live! All here must die!" + + Out of the churn of the choking ship, + Which the gulf grapples and the waves strip, + They struck with the strained oars' flash and dip. + + 'Twas then o'er the splitting bulwarks' brim 110 + The Prince's sister screamed to him. + + He gazed aloft still rowing apace, + And through the whirled surf he knew her face. + + To the toppling decks clave one and all + As a fly cleaves to a chamber-wall. 115 + + I Berold was clinging anear; + I prayed for myself and quaked with fear, + But I saw his eyes as he looked at her. + + He knew her face and he heard her cry, + And he said, "Put back! she must not die!" 120 + + And back with the current's force they reel + Like a leaf that's drawn to a water-wheel. + + 'Neath the ship's travail they scarce might float, + But he rose and stood in the rocking boat. + + Low the poor ship leaned on the tide: 125 + O'er the naked keel as she best might slide, + The sister toiled to the brother's side. + + He reached an oar to her from below, + And stiffened his arms to clutch her so. 130 + And "Saved!" was the cry from many a throat. + + And down to the boat they leaped and fell: + It turned as a bucket turns in a well, + And nothing was there but the surge and swell. + + The Prince that was and the King to come, 135 + There in an instant gone to his doom, + + In spite of all England's bended knee + And maugre[278] the Norman fealty! + + He was a Prince of lust and pride; + He showed no grace till the hour he died. 140 + + When he should be king, he oft would vow, + He'd yoke the peasant to his own plough. + O'er him the ships score their furrows now. + + God only knows where his soul did wake, + But I saw him die for his sister's sake. 145 + + By none but me can the tale be told, + The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold. + (_Lands are swayed by a king on a throne._) + + 'Twas a royal train put forth to sea, + Yet the tale can be told by none but me. 150 + (_The sea hath no king but God alone._) + + And now the end came o'er the waters' womb + Like the last great Day that's yet to come. + + With prayers in vain and curses in vain, + The White Ship sundered on the mid-main: 155 + + And what were men and what was a ship + Were toys and splinters in the sea's grip. + + I Berold was down in the sea; + And passing strange though the thing may be, + Of dreams then known I remember me. 160 + + Blithe is the shout on Harfleur's strand + When morning lights the sails to land: + + And blithe is Honfleur's[279] echoing gloam + When mothers call the children home: + + And high do the bells of Rouen beat 165 + When the Body of Christ[280] goes down the street. + + These things and the like were heard and shown + In a moment's trance 'neath the sea alone; + + And when I rose, 'twas the sea did seem, + And not these things, to be all a dream. 170 + + The ship was gone and the crowd was gone, + And the deep shuddered and the moon shone: + + And in a strait grasp my arms did span + The mainyard rent from the mast where it ran; + And on it with me was another man. 175 + + Where lands were none 'neath the dim sea-sky, + We told our names, that man and I. + + "O I am Godefroy l'Aigle hight,[281] + And son I am to a belted knight." + + "And I am Berold the butcher's son 180 + Who slays the beasts in Rouen town." + + Then cried we upon God's name, as we + Did drift on the bitter winter sea. + + But lo! a third man rose o'er the wave, + And we said, "Thank God! us three may He save!" 185 + + He clutched to the yard with panting stare, + And we looked and knew Fitz-Stephen there. + + He clung, and "What of the Prince?" quoth he. + "Lost, lost!" we cried. He cried, "Woe on me!" + And loosed his hold and sank through the sea. 190 + + And soul with soul again in that space + We two were together face to face: + + And each knew each, as the moment sped, + Less for one living than for one dead: + + And every still star overhead 195 + Seemed an eye that knew we were but dead. + + And the hours passed; till the noble's son + Sighed, "God be thy help! my strength's foredone[282]! + + "O farewell, friend, for I can no more!" + "Christ take thee!" I moaned; and his life was o'er. 200 + + Three hundred souls were all lost but one, + And I drifted over the sea alone. + + At last the morning rose on the sea + Like an angel's wing that beat tow'ds me. + + Sore numbed I was in my sheepskin coat; 205 + Half dead I hung, and might nothing note, + Till I woke sun-warmed in a fisher-boat. + + The sun was high o'er the eastern brim + As I praised God and gave thanks to Him. + + That day I told my tale to a priest, 210 + Who charged me, till the shrift[283] were releas'd, + That I should keep it in mine own breast. + + And with the priest I thence did fare + To King Henry's court at Winchester.[284] + + We spoke with the King's high chamberlain, 215 + And he wept and mourned again and again, + As if his own son had been slain: + + And round us ever there crowded fast + Great men with faces all aghast: + + And who so bold that might tell the thing 220 + Which now they knew to their lord the King? + Much woe I learned in their communing. + + The King had watched with a heart sore stirred + For two whole days, and this was the third: + + And still to all his court would he say, 225 + "What keeps my son so long away?" + + And they said: "The ports lie far and wide + That skirt the swell of the English tide; + + "And English cliffs are not more white + Than her women are, and scarce so light 230 + Her skies as their eyes are blue and bright; + + "And in some port that he reached from France + The Prince has lingered for his pleasaunce."[285] + + But once the King asked: "What distant cry + Was that we heard 'twixt the sea and sky?" 235 + + And one said: "With suchlike shouts, pardie[286] + Do the fishers fling their nets at sea." + + And one: "Who knows not the shrieking quest + When the sea-mew misses its young from its nest?" + + 'Twas thus till now they had soothed his dread 240 + Albeit they knew not what they said: + + But who should speak to-day of the thing + That all knew there except the King? + + Then pondering much they found a way, + And met round the King's high seat that day. 245 + + And the King sat with a heart sore stirred, + And seldom he spoke and seldom heard. + + 'Twas then through the hall the King was 'ware + Of a little boy with golden hair, + + As bright as the golden poppy is 250 + That the beach breeds for the surf to kiss: + + Yet pale his cheek as the thorn in Spring, + And his garb black like the raven's wing. + + Nothing heard but his foot through the hall, + For now the lords were silent all. 255 + + And the King wondered, and said, "Alack! + Who sends me a fair boy dressed in black? + + "Why, sweet heart, do you pace through the hall + As though my court were a funeral?" + + Then lowly knelt the child at the dais,[287] 260 + And looked up weeping in the King's face. + + "O wherefore black, O King, ye may say, + For white is the hue of death to-day. + + "Your son and all his fellowship + Lie low in the sea with the White Ship." 265 + + King Henry fell as a man struck dead; + And speechless still he stared from his bed + When to him next day my rede[288] I read. + + There's many an hour must needs beguile + A King's high heart that he should smile,-- 270 + + Full many a lordly hour, full fain + Of his realm's rule and pride of his reign:-- + + But this King never smiled again. + + By none but me can the tale be told, + The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold. 275 + (_Lands are swayed by a king on a throne._) + 'Twas a royal train put forth to sea, + Yet the tale can be told by none but me. + (_The sea hath no king but God alone._) + + + + +WILLIAM MORRIS + + +ATALANTA'S RACE + +ARGUMENT + + Atalanta, daughter of King Schoeneus, not willing to lose + her virgin's estate, made it a law to all suitors that + they should run a race with her in the public place, and + if they failed to overcome her should die unrevenged; and + thus many brave men perished. At last came Milanion, the + son of Amphidamas, who, outrunning her with the help of + Venus, gained the virgin and wedded her. + + Through thick Arcadian[289] woods a hunter went, + Following the beasts up, on a fresh spring day; + But since his horn-tipped bow, but seldom bent, + Now at the noon-tide naught had happed to slay, + Within a vale he called his hounds away, 5 + Hearkening the echoes of his lone voice cling + About the cliffs and through the beech-trees ring. + + But when they ended, still awhile he stood, + And but the sweet familiar thrush could hear, + And all the day-long noises of the wood, 10 + And o'er the dry leaves of the vanished year + His hounds' feet pattering as they drew anear, + And heavy breathing from their heads low hung, + To see the mighty cornel[290] bow unstrung. + + Then smiling did he turn to leave the place, 15 + But with his first step some new fleeting thought + A shadow cast across his sunburnt face; + I think the golden net that April brought + From some warm world his wavering soul had caught; + For, sunk in vague sweet longing, did he go 20 + Betwixt the trees with doubtful steps and slow. + + Yet howsoever slow he went, at last + The trees grew sparser, and the wood was done; + Whereon one farewell, backward look he cast, + Then, turning round to see what place was won, 25 + With shaded eyes looked underneath the sun, + And o'er green meads and new-turned furrows brown + Beheld the gleaming of King Schoeneus'[291] town. + + So thitherward he turned, and on each side + The folk were busy on the teeming land, 30 + And man and maid from the brown furrows cried, + Or midst the newly blossomed vines did stand, + And as the rustic weapon pressed the hand + Thought of the nodding of the well-filled ear, + Or how the knife the heavy bunch should shear. 35 + + Merry it was: about him sung the birds, + The spring flowers bloomed along the firm dry road, + The sleek-skinned mothers of the sharp-horned herds + Now for the barefoot milking-maidens lowed; + While from the freshness of his blue abode, 40 + Glad his death-bearing arrows to forget, + The broad sun blazed, nor scattered plagues as yet. + + Through such fair things unto the gates he came, + And found them open, as though peace were there; + Wherethrough, unquestioned of his race or name, 45 + He entered, and along the streets 'gan fare, + Which at the first of folk were wellnigh bare; + But pressing on, and going more hastily, + Men hurrying too he 'gan at last to see. + + Following the last of these, he still pressed on, 50 + Until an open space he came unto, + Where wreaths of fame had oft been lost and won, + For feats of strength folk there were wont to do. + And now our hunter looked for something new, + Because the whole wide space was bare, and stilled 55 + The high seats were, with eager people filled. + + There with the others to a seat he gat, + Whence he beheld a broidered canopy, + 'Neath which in fair array King Schoeneus sat + Upon his throne with councillors thereby; 60 + And underneath this well-wrought seat and high, + He saw a golden image of the sun,[292] + A silver image of the Fleet-foot One.[293] + + A brazen altar stood beneath their feet + Whereon a thin flame flickered in the wind; 65 + Nigh this a herald clad in raiment meet + Made ready even now his horn to wind, + By whom a huge man held a sword, intwined + With yellow flowers; these stood a little space + From off the altar, nigh the starting-place. 70 + + And there two runners did the sign abide + Foot set to foot,--a young man slim and fair, + Crisp-haired, well-knit, with firm limbs often tried + In places where no man his strength may spare; + Dainty his thin coat was, and on his hair 75 + A golden circlet of renown he wore, + And in his hand an olive garland bore. + + But on this day with whom shall he contend? + A maid stood by him like Diana[294] clad + When in the woods she lists[295] her bow to bend, 80 + Too fair for one to look on and be glad, + Who scarcely yet has thirty summer's had, + If he must still behold her from afar; + Too fair to let the world live free from war. + + She seemed all earthly matters to forget; 85 + Of all tormenting lines her face was clear, + Her wide gray eyes upon the goal were set + Calm and unmoved as though no soul were near, + But her foe trembled as a man in fear; + Nor from her loveliness one moment turned 90 + His anxious face with fierce desire that burned. + + Now through the hush there broke the trumpet's clang + Just as the setting sun made eventide. + Then from light feet a spurt of dust there sprang, + And swiftly were they running side by side; 95 + But silent did the thronging folk abide + Until the turning-post was reached at last, + And round about it still abreast they passed. + + But when the people saw how close they ran, + When half-way to the starting-point they were, 100 + A cry of joy broke forth, whereat the man + Headed the white-foot runner, and drew near + Unto the very end of all his fear; + And scarce his straining feet the ground could feel, + And bliss unhoped for o'er his heart 'gan steal. 105 + + But midst the loud victorious shouts he heard + Her footsteps drawing nearer, and the sound + Of fluttering raiment, and thereat afeard + His flushed and eager face he turned around, + And even then he felt her past him bound 110 + Fleet as the wind, but scarcely saw her there + Till on the goal she laid her fingers fair. + + There stood she breathing like a little child + Amid some warlike clamor laid asleep, + For no victorious joy her red lips smiled; 115 + Her cheek its wonted freshness did but keep; + No glance lit up her clear gray eyes and deep, + Though some divine thought softened all her face + As once more rang the trumpet through the place. + + But her late foe stopped short amidst his course, 120 + One moment gazed upon her piteously, + Then with a groan his lingering feet did force + To leave the spot whence he her eyes could see; + And, changed like one who knows his time must be + But short and bitter, without any word 125 + He knelt before the bearer of the sword; + + Then high rose up the gleaming deadly blade, + Bared of its flowers, and through the crowded place + Was silence how, and midst of it the maid + Went by the poor wretch at a gentle pace, 130 + And he to hers upturned his sad white face; + Nor did his eyes behold another sight + Ere on his soul there fell eternal night. + + * * * * * + + So was the pageant ended, and all folk, + Talking of this and that familiar thing 135 + In little groups from that sad concourse broke, + For now the shrill bats were upon the wing, + And soon dark night would slay the evening, + And in dark gardens sang the nightingale + Her little-heeded, oft-repeated tale. 140 + + And with the last of all the hunter went, + Who, wondering at the strange sight he had seen, + Prayed an old man to tell him what it meant, + Both why the vanquished man so slain had been, + And if the maiden were an earthly queen, 145 + Or rather what much more she seemed to be, + No sharer in the world's mortality. + + "Stranger," said he, "I pray she soon may die + Whose lovely youth has slain so many an one! + King Schoeneus' daughter is she verily, 150 + Who when her eyes first looked upon the sun + Was fain to end her life but new begun, + For he had vowed to leave but men alone + Sprung from his loins when he from earth was gone. + + "Therefore he bade one leave her in the wood, 155 + And let wild things deal with her as they might, + But this being done, some cruel god thought good + To save her beauty in the world's despite: + Folk say that her, so delicate and white + As now she is, a rough, root-grubbing bear 160 + Amidst her shapeless cubs at first did rear. + + "In course of time the woodfolk slew her nurse, + And to their rude abode the youngling brought, + And reared her up to be a kingdom's curse, + Who grown a woman, of no kingdom thought, 165 + But armed and swift, 'mid beasts destruction wrought, + Nor spared two shaggy centaur kings to slay, + To whom her body seemed an easy prey. + + "So to this city, led by fate, she came + Whom known by signs, whereof I cannot tell, 170 + King Schoeneus for his child at last did claim, + Nor otherwise since that day doth she dwell, + Sending too many a noble soul to hell.-- + What! thine eyes glisten! what then, thinkest thou + Her shining head unto the yoke to bow? 175 + + "Listen, my son, and love some other maid, + For she the saffron gown[296] will never wear, + And on no flower-strewn couch shall she be laid, + Nor shall her voice make glad a lover's ear: + Yet if of Death thou hast not any fear, 180 + Yea, rather, if thou lovest him utterly, + Thou still may'st woo her ere thou comest to die, + + "Like him that on this day thou sawest lie dead; + For, fearing as I deem the sea-born one,[297] + The maid has vowed e'en such a man to wed 185 + As in the course her swift feet can outrun, + But whoso fails herein, his days are done: + He came the nighest that was slain to-day, + Although with him I deem she did but play. + + "Behold, such mercy Atalanta gives 190 + To those that long to win her loveliness; + Be wise! be sure that many a maid there lives + Gentler than she, of beauty little less, + Whose swimming eyes thy loving words shall bless, + When in some garden, knee set close to knee, 195 + Thou sing'st the song that love may teach to thee." + + So to the hunter spake that ancient man, + And left him for his own home presently: + But he turned round, and through the moonlight wan + Reached the thick wood, and there, 'twixt tree and tree 200 + Distraught he passed the long night feverishly, + 'Twixt sleep and waking, and at dawn arose + To wage hot war against his speechless foes. + + There to the hart's flank seemed his shaft to grow, + As panting down the broad green glades he flew, 205 + There by his horn the Dryads[298] well might know + His thrust against the bear's heart had been true, + And there Adonis' bane[299] his javelin slew, + But still in vain through rough and smooth he went, + For none the more his restlessness was spent. 210 + + So wandering, he to Argive[300] cities came, + And in the lists with valiant men he stood, + And by great deeds he won him praise and fame, + And heaps of wealth for little-valued blood; + But none of all these things, or life, seemed good 215 + Unto his heart, where still unsatisfied + A ravenous longing warred with fear and pride. + + Therefore it happed when but a month had gone + Since he had left King Schoeneus' city old, + In hunting-gear again, again alone 220 + The forest-bordered meads did he behold, + Where still mid thoughts of August's quivering gold + Folk hoed the wheat, and clipped the vine in trust + Of faint October's purple-foaming must.[301] + + And once again he passed the peaceful gate, 225 + While to his beating heart his lips did lie, + That, owning not victorious love and fate, + Said, half aloud, "And here too must I try, + To win of alien men the mastery, + And gather for my head fresh meed of fame, 230 + And cast new glory on my father's name." + + In spite of that, how beat his heart, when first + Folk said to him, "And art thou come to see + That which still makes our city's name accurst + Among all mothers for its cruelty? 235 + Then know indeed that fate is good to thee + Because to-morrow a new luckless one + Against the whitefoot maid is pledged to run." + + So on the morrow with no curious eyes + As once he did, that piteous sight he saw, 240 + Nor did that wonder in his heart arise + As toward the goal the conquering maid 'gan draw, + Nor did he gaze upon her eyes with awe, + Too full the pain of longing filled his heart + For fear or wonder there to have a part. 245 + + But O, how long the night was ere it went! + How long it was before the dawn begun + Showed to the wakening birds the sun's intent + That not in darkness should the world be done! + And then, and then, how long before the sun 250 + Bade silently the toilers of the earth + Get forth to fruitless cares or empty mirth! + + And long it seemed that in the market-place + He stood and saw the chaffering folk go by, + Ere from the ivory throne King Schoeneus' face 255 + Looked down upon the murmur royally, + But then came trembling that the time was nigh + When he midst pitying looks his love must claim, + And jeering voices must salute his name. + + But as the throng he pierced to gain the throne, 260 + His alien face distraught and anxious told + What hopeless errand he was bound upon, + And, each to each, folk whispered to behold + His godlike limbs; nay, and one woman old + As he went by must pluck him by the sleeve 265 + And pray him yet that wretched love to leave. + + For sidling up she said, "Canst thou live twice, + Fair son? canst thou have joyful youth again, + That thus goest to the sacrifice, + Thyself the victim? nay then, all in vain, 270 + Thy mother bore her longing and her pain, + And one more maiden on the earth must dwell + Hopeless of joy, nor fearing death and hell. + + "O fool, thou knowest not the compact then + That with the three-formed goddess she has made 275 + To keep her from the loving lips of men, + And in no saffron gown to be arrayed, + And therewithal with glory to be paid, + And love of her the moonlit river sees + White 'gainst the shadow of the formless trees. 280 + + "Come back, and I myself will pray for thee + Unto the sea-born framer of delights, + To give thee her who on the earth may be + The fairest stirrer-up to death and fights, + To quench with hopeful days and joyous nights 285 + The flame that doth thy youthful heart consume: + Come back, nor give thy beauty to the tomb." + + How should he listen to her earnest speech? + Words, such as he not once or twice had said + Unto himself, whose meaning scarce could reach 290 + The firm abode of that sad hardihead-- + He turned about, and through the market stead + Swiftly he passed, until before the throne + In the cleared space he stood at last alone. + + Then said the King, "Stranger, what dost thou here? 295 + Have any of my folk done ill to thee? + Or art thou of the forest men in fear? + Or art thou of the sad fraternity + Who still will strive my daughter's mates to be, + Staking their lives to win to earthly bliss, 300 + The lonely maid, the friend of Artemis?" + + "O King," he said, "thou sayest the word indeed; + Nor will I quit the strife till I have won + My sweet delight, or death to end my need. + And know that I am called Milanion, 305 + Of King Amphidamas the well-loved son: + So fear not that to thy old name, O King, + Much loss or shame my victory will bring." + + "Nay, Prince," said Schoeneus, "welcome to this land + Thou wert indeed, if thou wert here to try 310 + Thy strength 'gainst some one mighty of his hand; + Nor would we grudge thee well-won mastery. + But now, why wilt thou come to me to die, + And at my door lay down thy luckless head, + Swelling the band of the unhappy dead, 315 + + "Whose curses even now my heart doth fear? + Lo, I am old, and know what life can be, + And what a bitter thing is death anear. + O Son! be wise, and hearken unto me, + And if no other can be dear to thee, 320 + At least as now, yet is the world full wide, + And bliss in seeming hopeless hearts may hide: + + "But if thou losest life, then all is lost." + "Nay, King," Milanion said, "thy words are vain. + Doubt not that I have counted well the cost. 325 + But say, on what day will thou that I gain + Fulfilled delight, or death to end my pain? + Right glad were I if it could be to-day, + And all my doubts at rest forever lay." + + "Nay," said King Schoeneus, "thus it shall not be, + But rather shalt thou let a month go by, 331 + And weary with thy prayers for victory + What god thou know'st the kindest and most nigh. + So doing, still perchance thou shalt not die: + And with my good-will wouldst thou have the maid, 335 + For of the equal gods I grow afraid. + + "And until then, O Prince, be thou my guest, + And all these troublous things awhile forget." + "Nay," said he, "couldst thou give my soul good rest, + And on mine head a sleepy garland set, 340 + Then had I 'scaped the meshes of the net, + Nor shouldst thou hear from me another word; + But now, make sharp thy fearful heading sword. + + "Yet will I do what son of man may do, + And promise all the gods may most desire, 345 + That to myself I may at least be true; + And on that day my heart and limbs so tire, + With utmost strain and measureless desire, + That, at the worst, I may but fall asleep + When in the sunlight round that sword shall sweep." 350 + + He went with that, nor anywhere would bide, + But unto Argos[302] restlessly did wend; + And there, as one who lays all hope aside, + Because the leech has said his life must end, + Silent farewell he bade to foe and friend, 355 + And took his way unto the restless sea, + For there he deemed his rest and help might be. + + * * * * * + + Upon the shore of Argolis there stands + A temple to the goddess that he sought, + That, turned unto the lion-bearing lands, 360 + Fenced from the east, of cold winds hath no thought, + Though to no homestead there the sheaves are brought, + No groaning press torments the close-clipped murk, + Lonely the fane stands, far from all men's work. + + Pass through a close, set thick with myrtle-trees, 365 + Through the brass doors that guard the holy place, + And entering, hear the washing of the seas + That twice a day rise high above the base, + And with the southwest urging them, embrace + The marble feet of her that standeth there, 370 + That shrink not, naked though they be and fair. + + Small is the fane through which the sea-wind sings + About Queen Venus'[303] well-wrought image white, + But hung around are many precious things, + The gifts of those who, longing for delight, 375 + Have hung them there within the goddess' sight, + And in return have taken at her hands + The living treasures of the Grecian lands. + + And thither now has come Milanion, + And showed unto the priests' wide-open eyes 380 + Gifts fairer than all those that there have shown, + Silk cloths, inwrought with Indian fantasies, + And bowls inscribed with sayings of the wise + Above the deeds of foolish living things, + And mirrors fit to be the gifts of kings. 385 + + And now before the Sea-born One he stands, + By the sweet veiling smoke made dim and soft, + And while the incense trickles from his hands, + And while the odorous smoke-wreaths hang aloft, + Thus doth he pray to her: "O Thou, who oft 390 + Hast holpen[304] man and maid in their distress, + Despise me not for this my wretchedness! + + "O goddess, among us who dwell below, + Kings and great men, great for a little while, + Have pity on the lowly heads that bow, 395 + Nor hate the hearts that love them without guile; + Wilt thou be worse than these, and is thy smile + A vain device of him who set thee here, + An empty dream of some artificer? + + "O great one, some men love, and are ashamed; 400 + Some men are weary of the bonds of love; + Yea, and by some men lightly art thou blamed, + That from thy toils their lives they cannot move, + And 'mid the ranks of men their manhood prove. + Alas! O goddess, if thou slayest me 405 + What new immortal can I serve but thee? + + "Think then, will it bring honor to thy head + If folk say, 'Everything aside he cast + And to all fame and honor was he dead, + And to his one hope now is dead at last, 410 + Since all unholpen he is gone and past: + Ah, the gods love not man, for certainly, + He to his helper did not cease to cry." + + "Nay, but thou wilt help; they who died before + Not single-hearted as I deem came here, 415 + Therefore unthanked they laid their gifts before + Thy stainless feet, still shivering with their fear, + Lest in their eyes their true thought might appear, + Who sought to be the lords of that fair town, + Dreaded of men and winners of renown. 420 + + "O Queen, thou knowest I pray not for this: + O, set us down together in some place + Where not a voice can break our heaven of bliss, + Where naught but rocks and I can see her face, + Softening beneath the marvel of thy grace, 425 + Where not a foot our vanished steps can track,-- + The golden age, the golden age come back! + + "O fairest, hear me now, who do thy will, + Plead for thy rebel that she be not slain, + But live and love and be thy servant still: 430 + Ah, give her joy and take away my pain, + And thus two long-enduring servants gain. + An easy thing this is to do for me, + What need of my vain words to weary thee! + + "But none the less this place will I not leave 435 + Until I needs must go my death to meet, + Or at thy hands some happy sign receive + That in great joy we twain may one day greet + Thy presence here and kiss thy silver feet, + Such as we deem thee, fair beyond all words, 440 + Victorious o'er our servants and our lords." + + Then from the altar back a space he drew, + But from the Queen turned not his face away, + But 'gainst a pillar leaned, until the blue + That arched the sky, at ending of the day, 445 + Was turned to ruddy gold and changing gray, + And clear, but low, the nigh-ebbed windless sea + In the still evening murmured ceaselessly. + + And there he stood when all the sun was down, + Nor had he moved, when the dim golden light, 450 + Like the far lustre of a godlike town, + Had left the world to seeming hopeless night, + Nor would he move the more when wan moonlight + Streamed through the pillars for a little while, + And lighted up the white Queen's changeless smile. 455 + + Naught noted he the shallow flowing sea + As step by step it set the wrack a-swim, + The yellow torchlight nothing noted he + Wherein with fluttering gown and half-bared limb + The temple damsels sung their midnight hymn, 460 + And naught the doubled stillness of the fane + When they were gone and all was hushed again. + + But when the waves had touched the marble base, + And steps the fish swim over twice a day, + The dawn beheld him sunken in his place 465 + Upon the floor; and sleeping there he lay, + Not heeding aught the little jets of spray + The roughened sea brought nigh, across him cast, + For as one dead all thought from him had passed. + + Yet long before the sun had showed his head, 470 + Long ere the varied hangings on the wall + Had gained once more their blue and green and red, + He rose as one some well-known sign doth call + When war upon the city's gates doth fall, + And scarce like one fresh risen out of sleep, 475 + He 'gan again his broken watch to keep. + + Then he turned round; not for the sea-gull's cry + That wheeled above the temple in his flight, + Not for the fresh south-wind that lovingly + Breathed on the new-born day and dying night, 480 + But some strange hope 'twixt fear and great delight + Drew round his face, now flushed, now pale and wan, + And still constrained his eyes the sea to scan. + + Now a faint light lit up the southern sky, + Not sun or moon, for all the world was gray, 485 + But this a bright cloud seemed, that drew anigh, + Lighting the dull waves that beneath it lay + As toward the temple still it took its way, + And still grew greater, till Milanion + Saw naught for dazzling light that round him shone. 490 + + But as he staggered with his arms outspread, + Delicious unnamed odors breathed around, + For languid happiness he bowed his head, + And with wet eyes sank down upon the ground, + Nor wished for aught, nor any dream he found 495 + To give him reason for that happiness, + Or make him ask more knowledge of his bliss. + + At last his eyes were cleared, and he could see + Through happy tears the goddess face to face + With that faint image of Divinity, 500 + Whose well-wrought smile and dainty changeless grace + Until that morn so gladdened all the place; + Then he unwitting cried aloud her name, + And covered up his eyes for fear and shame. + + But through the stillness he her voice could hear 505 + Piercing his heart with joy scarce bearable, + That said, "Milanion, wherefore dost thou fear? + I am not hard to those who love me well; + List to what I a second time will tell, + And thou mayest hear perchance, and live to save 510 + The cruel maiden from a loveless grave. + + "See, by my feet three golden apples lie-- + Such fruit among the heavy roses falls, + Such fruit my watchful damsels carefully + Store up within the best loved of my walls, 515 + Ancient Damascus,[305] where the lover calls + Above my unseen head, and faint and light + The rose-leaves flutter round me in the night. + + "And note, that these are not alone most fair + With heavenly gold, but longing strange they bring 520 + Unto the hearts of men, who will not care, + Beholding these, for any once-loved thing + Till round the shining sides their fingers cling. + And thou shalt see thy well-girt swiftfoot maid + By sight of these amid her glory stayed. 525 + + "For bearing these within a scrip with thee, + When first she heads thee from the starting-place + Cast down the first one for her eyes to see, + And when she turns aside make on apace, + And if again she heads thee in the race 530 + Spare not the other two to cast aside + If she not long enough behind will bide. + + "Farewell, and when has come the happy time + That she Diana's raiment must unbind + And all the world seems blessed with Saturn's[306] clime, 535 + And thou with eager arms about her twined + Beholdest first her gray eyes growing kind, + Surely, O trembler, thou shalt scarcely then + Forget the Helper of unhappy men." + + Milanion raised his head at this last word, 540 + For now so soft and kind she seemed to be + No longer of her Godhead was he feared; + Too late he looked, for nothing could he see + But the white image glimmering doubtfully + In the departing twilight cold and gray, 545 + And those three apples on the steps that lay. + + These then he caught up quivering with delight, + Yet fearful lest it all might be a dream, + And though aweary with the watchful night, + And sleepless nights of longing, still did deem 550 + He could not sleep; but yet the first sunbeam + That smote the fane across the heaving deep + Shone on him laid in calm untroubled sleep. + + But little ere the noontide did he rise, + And why he felt so happy scarce could tell 555 + Until the gleaming apples met his eyes. + Then, leaving the fair place where this befell, + Oft he looked back as one who loved it well, + Then homeward to the haunts of men 'gan wend + To bring all things unto a happy end. 560 + + * * * * * + + Now has the lingering month at last gone by, + Again are all folk round the running-place, + Nor other seems the dismal pageantry + Than heretofore, but that another face + Looks o'er the smooth course ready for the race, 565 + For now, beheld of all, Milanion + Stands on the spot he twice has looked upon. + + But yet--what change is this that holds the maid? + Does she indeed see in his glittering eye + More than disdain of the sharp shearing blade, 570 + Some happy hope of help and victory? + The others seemed to say, "We come to die, + Look down upon us for a little while, + That, dead, we may bethink us of thy smile." + + But he--what look of mastery was this 575 + He cast on her? why were his lips so red? + Why was his face so flushed with happiness? + So looks not one who deems himself but dead, + E'en if to death he bows a willing head; + So rather looks a god well pleased to find 580 + Some earthly damsel fashioned to his mind. + + Why must she drop her lids before his gaze, + And even as she casts adown her eyes + Redden to note his eager glance of praise, + And wish that she were clad in other guise? 585 + Why must the memory to her heart arise + Of things unnoticed when they first were heard, + Some lover's song, some answering maiden's word? + + What makes these longings, vague, without a name, + And this vain pity never felt before, 590 + This sudden languor, this contempt of fame, + This tender sorrow for the time past o'er, + These doubts that grow each minute more and more? + Why does she tremble as the time grows near, + And weak defeat and woful victory fear? 595 + + But while she seemed to hear her beating heart, + Above their heads the trumpet blast rang out, + And forth they sprang; and she must play her part; + Then flew her white feet, knowing not a doubt, + Though, slackening once, she turned her head about, 600 + But then she cried aloud and faster fled + Than e'er before, and all men deemed him dead. + + But with no sound he raised aloft his hand, + And thence what seemed a ray of light there flew + And past the maid rolled on along the sand; 605 + Then trembling she her feet together drew, + And in her heart a strong desire there grew + To have the toy; some god she thought had given + That gift to her, to make of earth a heaven. + + Then from the course with eager steps she ran, 610 + And in her odorous bosom laid the gold. + But when she turned again, the great-limbed man + Now well ahead she failed not to behold, + And, mindful of her glory waxing cold, + Sprang up and followed him in hot pursuit, 615 + Though with one hand she touched the golden fruit. + + Note, too, the bow that she was wont to bear + She laid aside to grasp the glittering prize, + And o'er her shoulder from the quiver fair + Three arrows fell and lay before her eyes 620 + Unnoticed, as amidst the people's cries + She sprang to head the strong Milanion, + Who now the turning-post had well-nigh won. + + But as he set his mighty hand on it + White fingers underneath his own were laid, 625 + And white limbs from his dazzled eyes did flit; + Then he the second fruit cast by the maid, + But she ran on awhile, then as afraid + Wavered and stopped, and turned and made no stay, + Until the globe with its bright fellow lay. 630 + + Then, as a troubled glance she cast around, + Now far ahead the Argive could she see, + And in her garment's hem one hand she wound + To keep the double prize, and strenuously + Sped o'er the course, and little doubt had she 635 + To win the day, though now but scanty space + Was left betwixt him and the winning-place. + + Short was the way unto such winged feet, + Quickly she gained upon him, till at last + He turned about her eager eyes to meet 640 + And from his hand the third fair apple cast. + She wavered not, but turned and ran so fast + After the prize that should her bliss fulfil, + That in her hand it lay ere it was still. + + Nor did she rest, but turned about to win, 645 + Once more, an unblest woful victory-- + And yet--and yet--why does her breath begin + To fail her, and her feet drag heavily? + Why fails she now to see if far or nigh + The goal is? why do her gray eyes grow dim? 650 + Why do these tremors run through every limb? + + She spreads her arms abroad some stay to find, + Else must she fall, indeed, and findeth this, + A strong man's arms about her body twined. + Nor may she shudder now to feel his kiss, 655 + So wrapped she is in new unbroken bliss: + Made happy that the foe the prize hath won, + She weeps glad tears for all her glory done. + + * * * * * + + Shatter the trumpet, hew adown the posts! + Upon the brazen altar break the sword, 660 + And scatter incense to appease the ghosts + Of those who died here by their own award. + Bring forth the image of the mighty Lord, + And her who unseen o'er the runners hung, + And did a deed forever to be sung. 665 + + Here are the gathered folk, make no delay, + Open King Schoeneus' well-filled treasury, + Bring out the gifts long hid from light of day, + The golden bowls o'erwrought with imagery, + Gold chains, and unguents brought from over sea, 670 + The saffron gown the old Phoenician[307] brought, + Within the temple of the Goddess wrought. + + O ye, O damsels, who shall never see + Her, that Love's servant bringeth now to you, + Returning from another victory, 675 + In some cool bower do all that now is due! + Since she in token of her service new + Shall give to Venus offerings rich enow, + Her maiden zone, her arrows, and her bow. + + + + +HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW + + +THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS + + It was the schooner Hesperus, + That sailed the wintry sea; + And the skipper had taken his little daughtèr, + To bear him company. + + Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, 5 + 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 mouth, 10 + And he watched how the veering flaw did blow + The smoke now West, now South. + + Then up and spake an old sailòr, + Had sailed the Spanish Main, + "I pray thee, put into yonder port, 15 + 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. 20 + + 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, 25 + 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 daughtèr, + And do not tremble so; 30 + 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, 35 + 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. 40 + + "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, 45 + 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, 50 + The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow + On his fixed and glassy eyes. + + Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed + That savèd she might be; + And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, + On the Lake of Galilee. 56 + + And fast through the midnight dark and drear, + Through the whistling sleet and snow, + Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept + Towards the reef of Norman's Woe. 60 + + 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, 65 + 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, 70 + 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, 75 + 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. 80 + + 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, 85 + In the midnight and the snow! + Christ save us all from a death like this, + On the reef of Norman's Woe! + + + + +PAUL REVERE'S RIDE + + Listen, my children, and you shall hear + Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,[308] + On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five; + Hardly a man is now alive + Who remembers that famous day and year. 5 + + 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[309] tower as a signal light,-- + One, if by land, and two, if by sea; 10 + 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 arm." + + Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oar 15 + 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 20 + 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, 25 + 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. 30 + + Then he climbed to the tower of the church, + Up 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 35 + Masses and moving shapes of shade,-- + Up 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, 40 + 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, 45 + 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 50 + 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 55 + 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, 60 + 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, 65 + 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, 70 + 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 75 + 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. 80 + + 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, 85 + Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. + + It was twelve by the village clock + When he crossed the bridge into Medford[310] town. + He heard the crowing of the cock, + And the barking of the farmer's dog, 90 + 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 95 + 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. 100 + + It was two by the village clock, + When he came to the bridge in Concord[311] town. + He heard the bleating of the flock, + And the twitter of birds among the trees, + And felt the breath of the morning breeze 105 + 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. 110 + + 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 farmyard wall, + Chasing the red-coats down the lane, 115 + 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 120 + 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, 125 + 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. 130 + + + + +JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER + + +SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE + + Of all the rides since the birth of time, + Told in story or sung in rhyme,-- + On Apuleius's Golden Ass,[312] + Or one-eyed Calender's horse of brass,[313] + Witch astride of a human back, 5 + Islam's prophet on Al-Borák,[314]-- + The strangest ride that ever was sped + Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead! + Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, + Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart 10 + By the women of Marblehead! + + Body of turkey, head of owl, + Wings a-droop like a rained-on fowl, + Feathered and ruffled in every part, + Skipper Ireson stood in the cart. 15 + Scores of women, old and young, + Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue, + Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane, + Shouting and singing the shrill refrain: + "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, 20 + Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt + By the women o' Morble'ead!" + + Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips, + Girls in bloom of cheek and lips, + Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase 25 + Bacchus[315] round some antique vase, + Brief of skirt, with ankles bare, + Loose of kerchief and loose of hair, + With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns' twang, + Over and over the Mænads[316] sang: 30 + "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, + Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt + By the women o' Morble'ead!" + + Small pity for him!--He sailed away + From a leaking ship in Chaleur Bay,[317]-- 35 + Sailed away from a sinking wreck, + With his own town's-people on her deck! + "Lay by! lay by!" they called to him. + Back he answered, "Sink or swim! + Brag of your catch of fish again!" 40 + And off he sailed through the fog and rain! + Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, + Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart + By the women of Marblehead! + + Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur 45 + That wreck shall lie forevermore. + Mother and sister, wife and maid, + Looked from the rocks of Marblehead + Over the moaning and rainy sea,-- + Looked for the coming that might not be! 50 + What did the winds and the sea-birds say + Of the cruel captain who sailed away?-- + Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, + Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart + By the women of Marblehead! 55 + + Through the street, on either side, + Up flew windows, doors swung wide; + Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray, + Treble lent the fish-horn's bray. + Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound, 60 + Hulks of old sailors run aground, + Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane, + And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain: + "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, + Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt 65 + By the women o' Morble'ead!" + + Sweetly along the Salem road + Bloom of orchard and lilac showed. + Little the wicked skipper knew + Of the fields so green and the sky so blue. 70 + Riding there in his sorry trim, + Like an Indian idol glum and grim, + Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear + Of voices shouting, far and near: + "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, 75 + Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt + By the women o' Morble'ead!" + + "Hear me, neighbors!" at last he cried,-- + "What to me is this noisy ride? + What is the shame that clothes the skin 80 + To the nameless horror that lives within? + Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck, + And hear a cry from a reeling deck! + Hate me and curse me,--I only dread + The hand of God and the face of the dead!" 85 + Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, + Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart + By the women of Marblehead! + + Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea + Said, "God has touched him! why should we?" 90 + Said an old wife mourning her only son, + "Cut the rogue's tether and let him run!" + So with soft relentings and rude excuse, + Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose, + And gave him a cloak to hide him in, 95 + And left him alone with his shame and sin. + Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, + Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart + By the women of Marblehead! + + + + +BARCLAY OF URY + + Up the streets of Aberdeen[318] + By the kirk[319] and college green + Rode the Laird[320] of Ury. + Close behind him, close beside, + Foul of mouth and evil-eyed, 5 + Pressed the mob in fury. + + Flouted him the drunken churl, + Jeered at him the serving-girl, + Prompt to please her master; + And the begging carlin,[321] late 10 + Fed and clothed at Ury's gate, + Cursed him as he passed her. + + Yet, with calm and stately mien, + Up the streets of Aberdeen + Came he slowly riding; 15 + And, to all he saw and heard, + Answering not with bitter word, + Turning not for chiding. + + Came a troop with broadswords swinging, + Bits and bridles sharply ringing, 20 + Loose and free and froward; + Quoth the foremost, 'Ride him down! + Push him! prick him! through the town + Drive the Quaker coward!' + + But from out the thickening crowd 25 + Cried a sudden voice and loud: + 'Barclay! Ho! a Barclay!' + And the old man at his side + Saw a comrade, battle tried, + Scarred and sunburned darkly, 30 + + Who with ready weapon bare, + Fronting to the troopers there, + Cried aloud: 'God save us, + Call ye coward him who stood + Ankle deep in Lützen's[322] blood, 35 + With the brave Gustavus?' + + 'Nay, I do not need thy sword, + Comrade mine,' said Ury's lord; + 'Put it up, I pray thee: + Passive to his holy will, 40 + Trust I in my Master still, + Even though He slay me. + + 'Pledges of thy love and faith, + Proved on many a field of death, + Not by me are needed.' 45 + Marvelled much that henchman bold, + That his laird, so stout of old, + Now so meekly pleaded. + + 'Woe's the day!' he sadly said, + With a slowly shaking head, 50 + And a look of pity; + 'Ury's honest lord reviled, + Mock of knave and sport of child, + In his own good city! + + 'Speak the word, and, master mine, 55 + As we charged on Tilly's[323] line, + And his Walloon[324] lancers, + Smiting through their midst we'll teach + Civil look and decent speech + To these boyish prancers!' 60 + + 'Marvel not, mine ancient friend, + Like beginning, like the end,' + Quoth the Laird of Ury; + 'Is the sinful servant more + Than his gracious Lord who bore 65 + Bonds and stripes in Jewry? + + 'Give me joy that in his name + I can bear, with patient frame, + All these vain ones offer; + While for them He suffereth long, 70 + Shall I answer wrong with wrong, + Scoffing with the scoffer? + + 'Happier I, with loss of all, + Hunted, outlawed, held in thrall, + With few friends to greet me, 75 + Than when reeve and squire were seen, + Riding out from Aberdeen, + With bared heads to meet me. + + 'When each goodwife, o'er and o'er, + Blessed me as I passed her door; 80 + And the snooded[325] daughter, + Through her casement glancing down, + Smiled on him who bore renown + From red fields of slaughter. + + 'Hard to feel the stranger's scoff, 85 + Hard the old friend's falling off, + Hard to learn forgiving; + But the Lord his own rewards, + And his love with theirs accords, + Warm and fresh and living. 90 + + 'Through this dark and stormy night + Faith beholds a feeble light + Up the blackness streaking; + Knowing God's own time is best, + In a patient hope I rest 95 + For the full day-breaking!' + + So the Laird of Ury said, + Turning slow his horse's head + Towards the Tolbooth[326] prison, + Where, through iron gates, he heard 100 + Poor disciples of the Word + Preach of Christ arisen! + + Not in vain, Confessor old, + Unto us the tale is told + Of thy day of trial; 105 + Every age on him who strays + From its broad and beaten ways + Pours its seven-fold vial. + + Happy he whose inward ear, + Angel comfortings can hear, 110 + O'er the rabble's laughter; + And while Hatred's fagots burn, + Glimpses through the smoke discern + Of the good hereafter. + + Knowing this, that never yet 115 + Share of Truth was vainly set + In the world's wide fallow[327]; + After hands shall sow the seed, + After hands from hill and mead + Reap the harvests yellow. 120 + + Thus, with somewhat of the Seer, + Must the moral pioneer + From the Future borrow; + Clothe the waste with dreams of grain, + And, on midnight's sky of rain, 125 + Paint the golden morrow! + + + + +BARBARA FRIETCHIE + + Up from the meadows rich with corn, + Clear in the cool September morn, + + The clustered spires of Frederick stand + Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. + + Round about them orchards sweep, 5 + Apple and peach tree fruited deep, + + Fair as the garden of the Lord + To the eyes of the famished rebel horde, + + On that pleasant morn of the early fall + When Lee marched over the mountain-wall; 10 + + Over the mountains winding down, + Horse and foot, into Frederick town. + + Forty flags with their silver stars, + Forty flags with their crimson bars, + + Flapped in the morning wind: the sun 15 + Of noon looked down, and saw not one. + + Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, + Bowed with her fourscore years and ten; + + Bravest of all in Frederick town, + She took up the flag the men hauled down; 20 + + In her attic window the staff she set, + To show that one heart was loyal yet. + + Up the street came the rebel tread, + Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. + + Under his slouched hat left and right 25 + He glanced; the old flag met his sight. + + 'Halt!'--the dust-brown ranks stood fast. + 'Fire!'--out blazed the rifle-blast. + + It shivered the window, pane and sash; + It rent the banner with seam and gash. 30 + + Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff + Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf. + + She leaned far out on the window-sill, + And shook it forth with a royal will. + + 'Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, 35 + But spare your country's flag,' she said. + + A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, + Over the face of the leader came; + + The nobler nature within him stirred + To life at that woman's deed and word; 40 + + 'Who touches a hair of yon gray head + Dies like a dog! March on!' he said. + + All day long through Frederick street + Sounded the tread of marching feet: + + All day long that free flag tost 45 + Over the heads of the rebel host. + + Ever its torn folds rose and fell + On the loyal winds that loved it well; + + And through the hill-gaps sunset light + Shone over it with a warm good-night. 50 + + Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, + And the Rebel rides on his raids no more. + + Honor to her! and let a tear + Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. + + Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, 55 + Flag of Freedom and Union, wave! + + Peace and order and beauty draw + Round thy symbol of light and law; + + And ever the stars above look down + On thy stars below in Frederick town! 60 + + + + +OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES + + +GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER HILL BATTLE + +AS SHE SAW IT FROM THE BELFRY + + 'Tis like stirring living embers when, at eighty, one remembers + All the achings and the quakings of "the times that + tried men's souls[328];" + When I talk of _Whig_ and _Tory_,[329] when I tell the + _Rebel_ story, + To you the words are ashes, but to me they're burning coals. + + I had heard the muskets' rattle of the April running + battle[330]; 5 + Lord Percy's hunted soldiers, I can see their red coats still; + But a deadly chill comes o'er me, as the day looms up before me, + When a thousand men lay bleeding on the slopes of Bunker's Hill. + + 'Twas a peaceful summer's morning, when the first thing + gave us warning. + Was the booming of the cannon from the river and the shore: 10 + "Child," says grandma, "what's the matter, what is all + this noise and clatter? + Have those scalping Indian devils come to murder us once more?" + + Poor old soul! my sides were shaking in the midst of all my + quaking, + To hear her talk of Indians when the guns began to roar: + She had seen the burning village, and the slaughter and + the pillage, 15 + When the Mohawks[331] killed her father with their bullets + through his door. + + Then I said, "Now, dear old granny, don't you fret and worry any, + For I'll soon come back and tell you whether this is work or + play; + There can't be mischief in it, so I won't be gone a minute"-- + For a minute then I started. I was gone the livelong day. 20 + + No time for bodice-lacing or for looking-glass grimacing; + Down my hair went as I hurried, tumbling half-way to my heels; + God forbid your ever knowing, when there's blood around her + flowing, + How the lonely, helpless daughter of a quiet household feels! + + In the street I heard a thumping; and I knew it was the + stumping 25 + Of the Corporal, our old neighbor, on the wooden leg he wore, + With a knot of women round him,--it was lucky I had found him, + So I followed with the others, and the Corporal marched before. + + They were making for the steeple,--the old soldier and his + people; + The pigeons circled round us as we climbed the creaking stair, 30 + Just across the narrow river--Oh, so close it made me shiver!-- + Stood a fortress on the hill-top that but yesterday was bare. + + Not slow our eyes to find it; well we knew who stood behind it, + Though the earthwork hid them from us, and the stubborn walls + were dumb: + Here were sister, wife, and mother, looking wild upon each + other, 35 + And their lips were white with terror as they said, + THE HOUR HAS COME! + + The morning slowly wasted, not a morsel had we tasted, + And our heads were almost splitting with the cannons' deafening + thrill, + When a figure tall and stately round the rampart strode sedately; + It was PRESCOTT, one since told me; he commanded on + the hill. 40 + + Every woman's heart grew bigger when we saw his manly figure, + With the banyan[332] buckled round it, standing up so straight + and tall; + Like a gentleman of leisure who is strolling out for pleasure, + Through the storm of shells and cannon-shot he walked around + the wall. + + At eleven the streets were swarming, for the red-coats' + ranks were forming; 45 + At noon in marching order they were moving to the piers; + How the bayonets gleamed and glistened, as we looked far down, + and listened + To the trampling and the drum-beat of the belted grenadiers! + + At length the men have started, with a cheer (it seemed + faint-hearted), + In their scarlet regimentals, with their knapsacks on + their backs, 50 + And the reddening, rippling water, as after a sea-fight's + slaughter, + Round the barges gliding onward blushed like blood along their + tracks. + + So they crossed to the other border, and again they formed in + order; + And the boats came back for soldiers, came for soldiers, + soldiers still: + The time seemed everlasting to us women faint and fasting,-- 55 + At last they're moving, marching, marching proudly up the hill. + + We can see the bright steel glancing all along the lines + advancing-- + Now the front rank fires a volley--they have thrown away their + shot; + For behind their earthwork lying, all the balls above them + flying, + Our people need not hurry; so they wait and answer not. 60 + + Then the Corporal, our old cripple (he would swear sometimes + and tipple),-- + He had heard the bullets whistle (in the old French war) + before,-- + Calls out in words of jeering, just as if they all were + hearing,-- + And his wooden leg thumps fiercely on the dusty belfry floor:-- + + "Oh! fire away, ye villains, and earn King George's shillin's, 65 + But ye'll waste a ton of powder afore a 'rebel' falls; + You may bang the dirt and welcome, they're as safe as + Dan'l Malcolm[333] + Ten foot beneath the gravestone that you've splintered with + your balls!" + + In the hush of expectation, in the awe and trepidation + Of the dread approaching moment, we are well-nigh breathless + all; 70 + Though the rotten bars are failing on the rickety belfry railing, + We are crowding up against them like the waves against a wall. + + Just a glimpse (the air is clearer), they are nearer,--nearer, + --nearer, + When a flash--a curling smoke-wreath--then a crash--the steeple + shakes-- + The deadly truce is ended; the tempest's shroud is rended; 75 + Like a morning mist is gathered, like a thunder-cloud it breaks! + + O the sight our eyes discover as the blue-black smoke blows over! + The red-coats stretched in windrows as a mower rakes his hay; + Here a scarlet heap is lying, there a headlong crowd is flying + Like a billow that has broken and is shivered into spray. 80 + + Then we cried, "The troops are routed! they are beat--it + can't be doubted! + God be thanked, the fight is over!"--Ah! the grim old soldier's + smile! + "Tell us, tell us why you look so?" (we could hardly speak we + shook so),-- + "Are they beaten? _Are_ they beaten? ARE they + beaten?"--"Wait a while." + + O the trembling and the terror! for too soon we saw our error: 85 + They are baffled, not defeated; we have driven them back in vain; + And the columns that were scattered, round the colors that + were tattered, + Toward the sullen silent fortress turn their belted breasts again. + + All at once, as we were gazing, lo! the roofs of Charlestown + blazing! + They have fired the harmless village; in an hour it will be + down! 90 + The Lord in Heaven confound them, rain his fire and + brimstone round them,-- + The robbing, murdering red-coats, that would burn a peaceful town! + + They are marching, stern and solemn; we can see each massive + column + As they near the naked earth-mound with the slanting walls + so steep. + Have our soldiers got faint-hearted, and in noiseless + haste departed? 95 + Are they panic-struck and helpless? Are they palsied or asleep? + + Now! the walls they're almost under! scarce a rod the foes + asunder! + Not a firelock flashed against them! up the earthwork they will + swarm! + But the words have scarce been spoken when the ominous calm is + broken, + And a bellowing crash has emptied all the vengeance + of the storm! 100 + + So again, with murderous slaughter, pelted backwards to the + water, + Fly Pigot's running heroes and the frightened braves of Howe; + And we shout, "At last they're done for, it's their + barges they have run for: + They are beaten, beaten, beaten; and the battle's over now!" + + And we looked, poor timid creatures, on the rough old + soldier's features, 105 + Our lips afraid to question, but he knew what we would ask: + "Not sure," he said; "keep quiet,--once more, I guess, they'll + try it-- + Here's damnation to the cut-throats!" then he handed me his flask, + + Saying, "Gal, you're looking shaky; have a drop of Old Jamaiky; + I'm afeared there'll be more trouble afore the job is done;" 110 + So I took one scorching swallow; dreadful faint I felt and + hollow, + Standing there from early morning when the firing was begun. + + All through those hours of trial I had watched a calm clock dial, + As the hands kept creeping, creeping,--they were creeping round + to four, + When the old man said, "They're forming with their bayonets + fixed for storming: 115 + It's the death-grip that's a-coming,--they will try the works + once more." + + With brazen trumpets blaring, the flames behind them glaring, + The deadly wall before them, in close array they come; + Still onward, upward toiling, like a dragon's fold uncoiling,-- + Like the rattlesnake's shrill warning the reverberating drum! 120 + + Over heaps all torn and gory--shall I tell the fearful story, + How they surged above the breastwork, as a sea breaks over a deck; + How, driven, yet scarce defeated, our worn-out men retreated, + With their powder-horns all emptied, like the swimmers from + a wreck? + + It has all been told and painted; as for me, they say I + fainted, 125 + And the wooden-legged old Corporal stumped with me down the + stair: + When I woke from dreams affrighted the evening lamps were + lighted,-- + On the floor a youth was lying; his bleeding breast was bare. + + And I heard through all the flurry, "Send for Warren! hurry! + hurry! + Tell him here's a soldier bleeding, and he'll come and dress + his wound!" 130 + Ah, we knew not till the morrow told its tale of death and + sorrow, + How the starlight found him stiffened on the dark and + bloody ground. + + Who the youth was, what his name was, where the place from + which he came was, + Who had brought him from the battle, and had left him at + our door, + He could not speak to tell us; but 'twas one of our + brave fellows, 135 + As the homespun plainly showed us which the dying soldier wore. + + For they all thought he was dying, as they gathered round him + crying,-- + And they said, "Oh, how they'll miss him!" and, + "What _will_ his mother do?" + Then, his eyelids just unclosing like a child's that has been + dozing, + He faintly murmured, "Mother!"--and--I saw his eyes were + blue. 140 + + --"Why, grandma, how you're winking!"--Ah, my child, it sets + me thinking + Of a story not like this one. Well, he somehow lived along; + So we came to know each other, and I nursed him like a--mother, + Till at last he stood before me, tall, and rosy-cheeked, + and strong. + + And we sometimes walked together in the pleasant + summer weather; 145 + --"Please to tell us what his name was?"--Just your own, + my little dear. + There's his picture Copley[334] painted: we became so well + acquainted, + That,--in short, that's why I'm grandma, and you children are + all here!" + + + + +NOTES + + +WILLIAM COWPER + +William Cowper was born at Great Berkhamstead, Hertfordshire, England, +in 1731. He was educated first at a private school and afterwards at +Westminster in London. He studied law, but his progress in the +profession was blocked because of an attack of insanity brought on in +1763 by nervousness over an oral examination for a clerkship in the +House of Commons. After fifteen months he recovered and went to live at +Huntingdon, where he met the Unwin family and began what was to be a +lifelong friendship with Mrs. Unwin. Upon Mr. Unwin's death in 1767, +Cowper moved with Mrs. Unwin to Olney, passing a secluded life there +until 1786. In 1773 he suffered a second attack of melancholia, which +lasted sixteen months. Soon after his recovery he coöperated with the +Rev. John Newton in writing the well-known _Olney Hymns_ (1779). In 1782 +he published his first volume of poems, and a second volume followed in +1785, containing _The Task_, _Tirocinium_, and the ballad of _John +Gilpin_. A translation of Homer was completed in 1791. After 1791 his +reason became hopelessly deranged, and he passed the time until his +death in 1800 in utter misery. + +Cowper was a man of kind and gentle character, a lover of nature in her +milder aspects, and especially fond of animals. As one of the +forerunners of the so-called Romantic movement in English poetry, his +name is significant. Though at his best in work of a descriptive or +satiric kind, he was also gifted with a subtle humor which appears +frequently in many short tales and ballads. A good biography of Cowper +is that by Goldwin Smith in the English Men of Letters Series. + + +THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN (Page 1) + +The story of John Gilpin was told to Cowper by his friend, Lady Austen, +who had heard it when a child. The poet, upon whom the tale made a deep +impression, eventually turned it into this ballad, which was first +published anonymously in the _Public Advertiser_ for November 14, 1782. +It became popular at once, and is to-day probably the most widely known +of the author's works. It is written in the conventional ballad metre, +and preserves many expressions characteristic of the primitive English +ballad style. + +[1] 3. =Eke=; also. + +[2] 11. =Edmonton= is a suburb a few miles directly north of London. + +[3] 16. =After we.= John Gilpin's wife does not hesitate to sacrifice +grammar for the sake of rime. + +[4] 23. =Calender=; one who operates a calender, a machine for giving +cloth or paper a smooth, glossy surface. + +[5] 39. =Agog=; eager. + +[6] 44. =Cheapside= was one of the most important of the old London +streets. + +[7] 49. The =saddletree= is the frame of the saddle. + +[8] 115. =Carries weight.= The bottles seem to resemble the weights +carried in horse races by the jockeys. + +[9] 133. =Islington=, now part of London, was then one of its suburbs. + +[10] 152. =Ware= is a town about fifteen miles north of London. + +[11] 178. =Pin=; mood. + +[12] 222. =Amain=; at full speed. + +[13] 236. =The hue and cry=; a term used to describe the rousing of the +people in pursuit of a rogue. + + +ROBERT BURNS + +Robert Burns was born of peasant parentage near Ayr, Scotland, on +January 25, 1759. Up to the time when he was twenty-five years old he +lived and worked on his father's farm, except for two short absences in +near-by towns. While he was very young, he formed bad habits, from which +he could never free himself, and which eventually wrecked his career. He +was frequently in love, and many of the resulting entanglements brought +him little but sorrow. In 1786, as a result of an unfortunate affair +with Jean Armour, he determined to sail for America, and in order to +raise the necessary money, published a volume of poems for which he was +paid twenty pounds. The book was received with enthusiasm and so elated +Burns with his success, that he decided to remain in Scotland. He +accepted an invitation to Edinburgh, where he was entertained royally by +literary circles. However, he was compelled to return to farming, and +after marrying Jean Armour took a tenancy at Ellisland in 1788. A little +later he was appointed exciseman, but his convivial tendencies were +undermining his health, and he found his duties hard to attend to. He +moved to Dumfries, where he died in poverty in 1796. + +Burns as a writer of songs, especially of love lyrics, is unsurpassed. +He touched the depths of human passion as few have ever done, and has +made his poetry live in the hearts of the people. He is also the poet of +Scottish peasant life, the enemy of oppression and tyranny, and the +supporter of patriotism. Failure though he was from a worldly point of +view, he was more unfortunate than culpable, and deserves our pity +rather than our censure. + +Carlyle's _Essay on Burns_ gives an excellent idea of the character and +work of the poet. + + +TAM O'SHANTER (Page 11) + +Written in 1790 in a single day and first published in 1791 as a +contribution to Grose's _Antiquities of Scotland_, it has been called "a +masterpiece of Scottish character, Scottish humor, Scottish witch-lore, +and Scottish imagination." Burns himself considered it to be his finest +poem. + +[14] 1. =Chapman billies=; pedlar fellows. + +[15] 2. =Drouthy=; thirsty. + +[16] 4. =Tak the gate=; take the road. + +[17] 5. =Nappy=; liquor. + +[18] 6. =Fou=; tipsy. + +[19] 6. =Unco=; very. + +[20] 8. =Slaps=; gates in fences. + +[21] 14. =Frae=; from. + +[22] 14. =Ayr=; a town in Ayrshire, Scotland, on the west coast about +thirty miles south of Glasgow. Near it is the birthplace of Burns. + +[23] 19. =Skellum=; ne'er-do-well. + +[24] 20. =Blethering=; talking nonsense. + +[25] 20. =Blellum=; babbler. + +[26] 23. =Ilka=; every. + +[27] 23. =Melder=; corn or grain sent to the mill to be ground. + +[28] 25. =Ca'd=; driven. + +[29] 30. =Doon=; a river near Ayr immortalized in Burns's song, "Ye +banks and braes of bonny Doon." + +[30] 31. =Warlocks=; wizards. + +[31] 31. =Mirk=; dark. + +[32] 32. =Alloway=; a small town near Ayr, Scotland. + +[33] 32. =Kirk=; church. + +[34] 33. =Gars me greet=; makes me weep. + +[35] 38. =Planted=; fixed. + +[36] 39. =Ingle=; fireside. + +[37] 40. =Reaming swats=; foaming new ale. + +[38] 41. =Souter=; shoemaker. + +[39] 68. =Maun=; must. + +[40] 78. =The Deil=; the Devil. + +[41] 81. =Skelpit=; hurried. + +[42] 81. =Dub=; puddle. + +[43] 86. =Bogles=; bogies or goblins. + +[44] 88. =Houlets=; owls. + +[45] 90. =Smoored=; smothered. + +[46] 91. =Birks=; birches. + +[47] 91. =Meikle stane=; huge stone. + +[48] 93. =Whins=; furze bushes. + +[49] 93. =Cairn=; pile of stones. + +[50] 94. =Bairn=; child. + +[51] 102. =Bleeze=; blaze. + +[52] 103. =Bore=; hole. + +[53] 105. =John Barleycorn=; a Scotch term for whiskey. + +[54] 108. =Usquebae=; whiskey. + +[55] 110. =Boddle=; farthing. + +[56] 116. =Brent=; brought. + +[57] 117. =Strathspeys.= The strathspey was a Scottish dance. + +[58] 119. =Winnock-bunker=; window-seat. + +[59] 121. =Towzie tyke=; shaggy dog. + +[60] 123. =Gart them skirl=; made them shriek. + +[61] 124. =Dirl=; ring. + +[62] 127. =Cantrip slight=; magic charm. + +[63] 134. =Gab=; throat. + +[64] 147. =Cleekit=; took hold. + +[65] 148. =Carlin=; witch. + +[66] 149. =Coost her duddies=; threw off her clothes. + +[67] 150. =Linket=; tripped. + +[68] 150. =Sark=; shirt. + +[69] 151. =Queans=; young women. + +[70] 153. =Creeshie flannen=; greasy flannel. + +[71] 154. =Seventeen-hunder linen=; fine linen. Technical weaving terms +were familiar to the hand-loom workers of Burns's district. + +[72] 157. =Hurdies=; hips. + +[73] 158. =Burdies=; maidens. + +[74] 159. =Beldams=; hags. + +[75] 160. =Rigwoodie=; ancient. + +[76] 160. =Spean=; wean. + +[77] 161. =Crummock=; a short staff. + +[78] 163. =Brawlie=; perfectly. + +[79] 164. =Walie=; large. + +[80] 165. =Core=; corps. + +[81] 169. =Bear=; barley. + +[82] 171. =Cutty-sark=; short shirt. + +[83] 171. =Paisley harn=; a coarse cloth, made in Paisley, a Scotch town +famous for its cloth-making industry. + +[84] 174. =Vauntie=; proud. + +[85] 176. =Coft=; bought. + +[86] 181. =Lap and flang=; leapt and capered. + +[87] 184. =E'en=; eyes. + +[88] 185. =Fidged fu' fain=; fidgeted with eagerness. + +[89] 186. =Hotched=; jerked his arm while playing the bagpipe. + +[90] 187. =Syne=; then. + +[91] 188. =Tint=; lost. + +[92] 193. =Fyke=; fret. + +[93] 194. =Byke=; hive. + +[94] 200. =Eldritch=; unearthly. + +[95] 201. =Fairin'=; reward. + +[96] 208. According to an old superstition, witches are unable to pursue +their victims over running water. Compare the story of the Headless +Horseman in Irving's _The Legend of Sleepy Hollow_. + +[97] 213. =Ettle=; aim. + + +WALTER SCOTT + +Walter Scott was born in Edinburgh, Scotland, in 1771, of an old Border +family. Up to the age of four he was rather feeble, an attack of fever +having left him with a shrunken right leg. This disability, though it +did not prevent his becoming a strong, sturdy man, still gave him ample +leisure for wide reading while he was young. In high school and at the +University of Edinburgh he was not known as a scholar, though he was +popular with his companions, especially as a storyteller. In obedience +to his father's wishes he took up law and toiled unenthusiastically at +this profession for some years. Some trips of his into the Scotch +Highlands led him to make a collection of old ballads, published in +_Border Minstrelsy_ (1802). From this time on he devoted himself +exclusively to literature. His first important original poem, _The Lay +of the Last Minstrel_, came out in 1805, followed by _Marmion_ (1808), +_The Lady of the Lake_ (1810), _The Vision of Don Roderick_ (1811), and +others of less merit. He had about this time become a silent partner in +the printing firm of Ballantyne Brothers, contributing largely to the +capital. In 1812 he purchased a farm on the river Tweed and built the +famous house Abbotsford. The estate was an unprofitable investment, as +it led him into extravagances apparently justified by an increasing +income but really based on a false optimism. + +In 1814 Scott wrote _Waverley_, the first of the long series of novels +which made him distinguished as a prose-writer. From this time on his +major work was in prose. He recognized without envy that Byron was +beating him on his own ground in poetry, and accordingly changed to a +field where success was surer. He was apparently prospering financially +when, in 1827, the firm of which he was a member went into bankruptcy, +largely because of poor business management, and he was left shouldered +with a debt of about $600,000. Undaunted he set to work at the age of +fifty-five to satisfy his creditors, and book after book poured from his +pen until in four years he had paid off $270,000. The effort, however, +was too much for his health; he broke down, and, after a short visit to +Italy, died at Abbotsford in 1832. + +Scott's character was almost wholly admirable. He was manly, +courageous, faithful, and generous. Always popular, he was a lavish +entertainer in his prosperous days. He did his work cheerfully and bore +up without complaint against misfortune and suffering such as few men +are called upon to endure. + +As a poet he was fluent, vigorous, and spirited, but usually paid little +attention to form and polish. He made no effort to become a careful +writer; but this is sometimes compensated for by a certain robustness +which most of his verses possess. His poetical genius is best shown in +narrative, where the movement is rapid and the action full of exciting +moments. If his poems lack intense passion and deep meditation, they are +at least picturesque and interesting. + +J. G. Lockhart, Scott's son-in-law, is the author of the most complete +biography. A good shorter life is that by R. H. Hutton in the English +Men of Letters Series. + + +LOCHINVAR (Page 19) + +Published first in _Marmion_ (1808) as "Lady Heron's Song." + +[98] 2. =Border=; the country on the border between England and +Scotland, a region of warfare and strife for many centuries. + +[99] 8. The =Esk= River is in southwest Scotland, and flows into Solway +Firth. + +[100] 32. =Galliard=; a lively dance of the period. + +[101] 41. =Scaur=; a steep bank of rock. + + +WILLIAM WORDSWORTH + +William Wordsworth was born in 1770 at Cockermouth on the borders of the +beautiful English lake country. During a boyhood spent largely out of +doors, rowing, walking, and skating, he imbibed a love for nature which +had a broader manifestation in his later life and poetry. After a short +period at Hawkshead School, he entered St. John's College, Cambridge, +where he took a degree in 1791. He then resided for a time in France; +but was driven from there in 1793 by the Reign of Terror, and passed a +few years in a rather idle way in the vicinity of London. His real +poetic awakening came in 1797, when he and Coleridge lived near each +other at Alfoxden among the Quantock Hills in Somerset. Here, in 1798, +the two young men published _Lyrical Ballads_, a collection of poems +written for the most part by Wordsworth, though Coleridge contributed +_The Rime of the Ancient Mariner_ and a few others. This book, +especially in its treatment of nature, was a reaction against the +stilted formalism which had characterized much of the English poetry of +the eighteenth century, and as such it was the real stimulus for the +revival of Romanticism which followed its appearance. After a year in +Germany with his sister Dorothy, Wordsworth returned to the lake region +now associated with his name, living at Grasmere until 1813, and after +that at Rydal Mount. He married his cousin, Mary Hutchinson, in 1802. +Among his later important works were _The Prelude_ (1805), _The +Excursion_ (1814), and many shorter poems and sonnets. He was made +poet-laureate in 1843, and died seven years after in 1850. + +Wordsworth, though a radical in his youth, became more conservative in +later years. He was a man of quiet tastes, and deliberately chose to +live where he could be among simple people. As a poet, he was first of +all an interpreter of nature, endowed with extraordinary keenness of +observation and delighting in all her phases. In humanity, too, he had a +sympathetic interest, especially in the everyday emotions and +occupations of the plain men and women around him. And influencing his +attitude toward both nature and humanity was a sort of religious +mysticism which conceived the spirit of God as permeating all things, +flowers and trees as well as the human heart. + + +MICHAEL (Page 21) + +Written in 1800 and published in the same year. Wordsworth's own note on +the poem is as follows: "Written at Town-end, Grasmere, about the same +time as 'The Brothers.' The Sheepfold, on which so much of the poem +turns, remains, or rather the ruins of it. The character and +circumstances of Luke were taken from a family to whom had belonged, +many years before, the house we lived in at Town-end, along with some +fields and woodlands on the eastern shore of Grasmere. The name of the +Evening Star was not in fact given to this house, but to another on the +same side of the valley, more to the north." + +[102] 2. =Greenhead Ghyll=; a ravine near Grasmere. + +[103] 134. =Easedale=; a small lake near Grasmere. + + +LUCY GRAY; OR, SOLITUDE (Page 36) + +Written in 1799 and published first in 1800. Wordsworth says of it: +"Written at Goslar in Germany. It was founded on a circumstance told me +by my Sister, of a little girl, who, not far from Halifax, in Yorkshire, +was bewildered in a snowstorm. Her footsteps were traced by her parents +to the middle of the lock of a canal, and no other vestige of her, +backward or forward, could be traced. The body, however, was found in +the canal." + + +THOMAS CAMPBELL + +Thomas Campbell was born at Glasgow, Scotland, July 27, 1777. He was +educated at the University of Glasgow, where he made somewhat of a +reputation as a versifier and translator. After some desultory attempts +at tutoring, he published in 1799, _The Pleasures of Hope_, a long +didactic poem which brought him real fame and a considerable financial +reward. Soon after he travelled on the continent, where many of his war +ballads were written. In his later days he was a figure in literary +circles and was given a pension by the crown. He died in 1844 and was +buried in Westminster Abbey. + +Much of Campbell's longer poetic work is dull and unequal. However, in +his own field of the vigorous patriotic ballad, he is without a rival. +Saintsbury says of him, "He holds the place of best singer of war in a +race and language which are those of the best singers, and not the worst +fighters, in the history of the world." + + +HOHENLINDEN (Page 39) + +Written in 1800, after the author had visited the battlefield. + +In the battle of Hohenlinden (December 3, 1800), the French under +General Moreau defeated the Austrians and compelled the Austrian Emperor +to sue for peace. The treaty of Luneville, which followed, extended +French territory to the Rhine. + +[104] 4. The =Iser= is a river rising in northern Switzerland and +flowing into the Danube. + + +BATTLE OF THE BALTIC (Page 40) + +Written in 1809. + +The battle of the Baltic took place in the Baltic Sea before Copenhagen, +April 2, 1801, between the English and the Danish fleets. England had +accepted a declaration of the Armed Neutrality League (Russia, Denmark, +and Sweden) as being really in the interests of her enemy, France, and +the English fleet under Lord Parker was sent to the Baltic. Under Lord +Nelson, the second in command, a decisive victory was gained, largely +through the fact that Nelson refused to obey the orders of his superior +officer. + +[105] 67. =Riou= was one of Nelson's officers. + + +CHARLES WOLFE + +Charles Wolfe was born at Dublin, Ireland, in 1791 and died at +Queenstown in 1823. He graduated at Trinity College, Dublin, in 1814 and +became curate of Donoughmore, Ireland. His _Remains_, with a brief +memoir, were published in 1825. + +His only poem of any distinction is the one here printed, _The Burial of +Sir John Moore_. + + +THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA (Page 43) + +First published in the _Newry Telegraph_, an Irish paper, in 1817, under +the initials C. W. + +Sir John Moore (1761-1809) was commander of an English army of +twenty-four thousand men in Spain against a French force of eighty +thousand under Soult. At the battle of Corunna, January 16, 1809, the +English army won a doubtful victory in which their leader was killed. +After burying him at dead of night, the English troops embarked for +their own country. + +[106] =Corunna= is a city in northwest Spain. + + +BYRON + +George Gordon, Lord Byron, was born in London, January 22, 1788, and +died at Missolonghi, April 19, 1824, at the age of thirty-six. Byron's +father, a captain in the guards, after a romantic first marriage, wedded +Catharine Gordon, a wealthy girl, of Aberdeenshire, whom, after +squandering her fortune, he deserted shortly after young Byron's birth. +Byron's mother was a quick-tempered, impulsive woman, ill-fitted to +bring up a son who had a temperament almost exactly like her own. Once +when a companion said to Byron, "Your mother's a fool," the boy +answered, "I know it." + +As a boy at school Byron formed passionate attachments, entered into the +games he played with an unusual fierceness of spirit, and exhibited that +sensitive pride which was the cause of much of his posing there and in +later life. He was club-footed, a deformity about which he was extremely +sensitive. Before entering Trinity College, Cambridge, in 1805, he had +attended Harrow for five years. At Cambridge he remained less than three +years, but in that time made some close friends and took an active part +in all sorts of sports, especially riding and swimming. His vacations he +spent at London or Southwell, generally quarrelling violently with his +mother. + +His first published poetry was _Hours of Idleness_, which appeared in +1807, and which was attacked by the _Edinburgh Review_ so strenuously +that Byron replied in 1809 with _English Bards and Scotch Reviewers_. In +the same year he took his seat in the House of Lords, but he had no +interest in politics, and, accordingly, left England for two years' +travel on the continent. This tour was the occasion of the first two +cantos of _Childe Harold_. This poem was received so warmly that Byron +remarked that "he awoke one morning to find himself famous." From now +till the separation from his wife in 1816, after a year of wedded life, +he was the lion of British society, but society took sides on this +family difference, and as most of them sympathized with Lady Byron, +Byron himself left England. He spent some time on Lake Geneva, where the +Castle of Chillon is situated. He then went to Italy, where, amid his +usual life of dissipation, he became interested in the Italian +Insurrection. Among his friends and companions in Italy were Shelley +and Leigh Hunt. In 1823, becoming attracted by the attempts of the +Greeks to overthrow Turkish rule, he went to Greece as a leader, but he +contracted a fever at Missolonghi, where he died, April 19, 1824. + +As a poet Byron appeals especially to youth. His tales are so +interesting that Scott made the remark that Byron beat him at his own +game. Rapidity and force of movement, intensity and passion, excellent +description, and a great, though not fine, command of poetic sound are +the chief characteristics of his poetry. The romantic tale, _Childe +Harold_, and the satire, _Don Juan_, are perhaps his best-known works. + + +THE PRISONER OF CHILLON (Page 45) + +The castle of Chillon is situated near Montreux at the opposite end of +Lake Geneva from the city of Geneva. It is a large castle, built on an +isolated rock twenty-two yards from the shore of the lake. Beneath this +castle, but some nine or ten feet above the surface of the lake, +supported by seven detached pillars and one semi-detached, is a vaulted +chamber, which was formerly used as a prison. Here, from 1530 to 1536, +was imprisoned Francis Bonnivard. + +Bonnivard, the son of the Lord of Lune, was born in 1496. When sixteen +years old, he inherited from his uncle the priory of St. Victor, near +Geneva. Later he allied himself with this city against the Duke of +Savoy, but was captured and imprisoned for two years in Grolée. In 1530 +he again fell into the hands of the Duke of Savoy, who this time +confined him for six years in Chillon castle. At the end of this period +he was liberated by the Bernese and Genevese and returned to Geneva to +live a brilliant but wild life until 1570. + +Byron takes no pains to stick to the facts of Bonnivard's imprisonment +or life, or even to the facts about the prison itself. Notice, however, +that he calls the poem "A Fable." + +Byron and Shelley made a visit to Chillon in June, 1816, and while +delayed for two days at Ouchy, a village on Lake Geneva, Byron wrote +this poem. + +Byron and Shelley belonged to a group of poets who were influenced by +the French Revolution. Byron's love of freedom was so great that he +aided Italy, and finally died from a fever contracted at Missolonghi, +where he had gone to aid the Greek revolutionists. The following sonnet, +which was prefixed to _The Prisoner of Chillon_, gives an idea of +Byron's love of liberty. + + +SONNET OF CHILLON + + "Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind! + Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art, + For there thy habitation is the heart-- + The heart which love of thee alone can bind; + And when thy sons to fetters are consigned-- + To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, + Their country conquers with their martyrdom, + And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. + + "Chillon! thy prison is a holy place, + And thy sad floor an altar--for 'twas trod, + Until his very steps have left a trace + Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, + By Bonnivard!--May none those marks efface! + For they appeal from tyranny to God." + + +[107] 4. =Sudden fears.= Marie Antoinette's hair has been said to have +turned gray on the return from Varennes to Paris. It certainly turned +gray very quickly during the anxiety of the Revolution. + +[108] 22. =Sealed.= How? + +[109] 27.----------- + +[110] 35. =Marsh's meteor lamp=; will o' the wisp. + +[111] 38. =Cankering thing.= What does canker do? + +[112] 57. The =elements= are fire, air, earth, and water. + +[113] 82. =Polar day.= What is the length of the day near the poles? + +[114] 100. =Sooth=; truth. + +[115] 107. =Lake Leman=; another name for Lake Geneva. + +[116] 133. The =moat= was the ditch which surrounded a castle. The moat +of Chillon Castle, however, was the part of the lake which separated the +rock from the shore. + +[117] 179. =Rushing forth in blood.= Byron is said to have been fond of +the symptoms of violent death. He, a year after writing this poem, saw +three robbers guillotined, taking careful notice of his own and their +actions. Goethe, the German poet, even thought that Byron must have +committed murder, he seemed so interested in sudden death. + +[118] 230. =Selfish death=; suicide. + +[119] 237. =Wist=; the imperfect tense of _wit_, _to be aware of_, _to +know_. + +[120] 288. =Brother's.= It was a Mohammedan belief that the souls of the +blessed inhabited green birds in paradise. + +[121] 294. =Solitary cloud.= This line is one of several very close +similarities in this poem to Wordsworth; cf.:-- + + "I wandered lonely as a cloud + That floats on high o'er vales and hills." + +[122] 341. The =little isle= referred to is Ile de Peilz, an islet on +which a century ago were planted three elms. + +[123] 392. =With a sigh.= It is not unheard of for men long imprisoned +to lose all desire for freedom, and even to return to their place of +confinement after being set free. + + +MAZEPPA (Page 58) + +The following extract from Voltaire's _History of Charles XII_ was +prefixed to the first edition of _Mazeppa_ as the "Advertisement":-- + +"The man who then filled this position [Hetman of Ukraine] was a Polish +gentleman, named Mazeppa, who had been born in the Palatinate of +Podolia. He had been brought up as a page to John Casimir, at whose +court he had taken on some of the color of learning. An intrigue which +he had in his youth with the wife of a Polish gentleman having been +discovered, the husband had him bound, all naked, upon a wild horse, and +in this condition let go. The horse, which was from the country of +Ukraine, returned and brought there Mazeppa, half-dead with weariness +and hunger. Some peasants helped him: he remained a long time among them +and distinguished himself in several expeditions against the Tartars. +The superiority of his wisdom brought him great consideration among the +Cossacks. His reputation increased day by day, until the Czar was +obliged to make him Prince of Ukraine." + +The real life of Mazeppa was as follows: Ivan Stepánovitch Mazeppa was +born in 1645, of Cossack origin and of the lesser nobility of Volhynia. +When fifteen years old, he became the page to John Casimir V of Poland, +and, while holding this office, learned Latin and much about +statesmanship. Later, however, being banished on account of a quarrel, +he returned home to his mother in Volhynia. While here, to pass the +time, he fell in love with the wife of a neighbor, Lord Falbouski. This +lord, or pane, discovering his wife and her lover, caused Mazeppa to be +stripped and bound to his own horse. The horse, enraged by lashes and +pistol shots and then let loose, ran immediately to Mazeppa's own +courtyard. + +Mazeppa, later, after holding various secretaryships, was made hetman, +or prince, over all of Ukraine, and for nearly twenty years he was the +ally of Peter the Great. Afterwards, however, he offered his services to +Stanislaus of Poland, and finally to Charles XII of Sweden. "Pultowa's +Day," July 8, 1709, when Charles was defeated by the Russians and put +to flight, was the last of Mazeppa's power. He fled with Charles across +the river Borysthenes and received protection from the Turks. He died a +year later at Varnitza on the Dneister, just in time to escape being +delivered over to Peter. + +[124] 1. =Pultowa.= See Introductory Note. + +[125] 9. =Day were dark and drear=; Napoleon's famous defeat, and +retreat from Moscow, October, 1815. + +[126] 15. =Die.= What is the plural? + +[127] 23. =Gieta= was a colonel in the king of Sweden's army. + +[128] 51. =Levels man and brute.= Burke says in his _Speech on +Conciliation with America_, "Public calamity is a mighty leveller." + +[129] 56. =Hetman.= See Introductory Note. Mazeppa was sixty-four years +old. + +[130] 104. =Bucephalus=; the horse of Alexander the Great. Alexander, +when a boy, was the first to tame this horse, thereby, in fulfilment of +the oracle, proving his right to the throne. + +[131] 105. =Scythia= was a country, north and northeast of the Black +Sea, which was inhabited by nomadic people. It was noted for its horses. + +[132] 116. =Borysthenes=; another name for the Dnieper River. + +[133] 151. A =Mime= was a sort of farce, travestying real persons or +events. + +[134] 154. =Thyrsis= was one of the names commonly used for shepherds in +the Greek and Latin pastoral poets, as Theocritus, Bion, Virgil. The +names were conventionally used by modern imitators of these poets. + +[135] 155. =Palatine= (from _palatium_, meaning palace) was a name given +to a count, or ruler of a district, who had almost regal power. + +[136] 237. =O'erwrought=; the past participle of _overwork_. Cf. +_wheelwright_, _wainwright_, etc. + +[137] 329. =Cap-à-pie=; from head to foot. + +[138] 349. ='Scutcheon=, or escutcheon, is the shield-shaped surface +upon which the armorial bearings are charged. + +[139] 437. =Spahi's=; the name of a Turkish corps of irregular cavalry. + +[140] 575. =Uncouth=; literally, unknown. + +[141] 618. =Ignis-fatuus=; will-o-the-wisp, Jack-o'-lantern. + +[142] 664. =Werst=; a Russian measure equal to about two-thirds of a +mile. + + +THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB (Page 86) + +Read _2 Chronicles_, chapter 32, and _Isaiah_, chapters 36 and 37. + + +JOHN KEATS + +John Keats was born October, 1795, and died on the 23d of February, +1821. He was the son of a livery-stable keeper, who had married his +former proprietor's daughter. The parents had wished to educate Keats +and his two brothers, but before Keats was fifteen, both his father and +mother had died. He was then apprenticed to a surgeon at Edmonton, under +whom he remained four years, and then went up to London to complete his +training for a medical degree. This he received in due time and began to +practise, but he found literature so much more attractive that, in about +a year, he gave up his attempt to practise medicine. At about this time +he became acquainted with Leigh Hunt, who had a good deal of influence +upon Keats's literary beginnings. His first volume of poetry, which +appeared in 1817, shows this influence strongly. A year later his +_Endymion_ was published and was so severely criticised by _Blackwood's_ +and especially by the _Quarterly_ that Keats took it much to heart; some +have supposed that this attack very much hastened his death. His +brother George had moved to America in 1818, and his brother Tom was now +dying with consumption. Keats nursed him faithfully until his death. +Immediately after this sorrow, he fell deeply in love, but his health +was so greatly impaired that he found it necessary, in 1820, to take a +trip to Italy. He did not grow stronger, however, but died at Rome on +the 23d of February, 1821. + +Keats's poetry is noted especially for its sensuous beauty, its +descriptions, and its remarkable reproduction of the Greek and romantic +spirits. + + +THE EVE OF ST. AGNES (Page 88) + +Around St. Agnes' Eve, which is the night before the Feast of St. Agnes +on January 21, and which corresponds to the Scotch "Hallowe'en," there +grew up the superstition that a maiden could, by observing certain +traditional precautions, have in her sleep a vision of her future +husband. Perhaps the most common way to obtain this vision was for the +girl to go to sleep on her back with her hands behind her head; then at +midnight she would dream that her lover came and kissed her. This is the +superstition that Keats has made use of in _The Eve of St. Agnes_. + +St. Agnes was a Roman girl, who at thirteen was loved by the son of a +Roman prefect, but, however, being like her parents a Christian and +having vowed virginity, she told her lover that she was already +betrothed. The youth, thinking he had some earthly rival, as a result +fell so very sick that his father tried to intercede with the girl's +parents. When he found these people were Christians, he tried to compel +Agnes to become a vestal virgin or marry his son. Agnes, because she +refused to do either of these things, was dragged to the altar, but +because here, by her prayers, she restored to her lover the sight which +he had lost, she was set free by the Prefect. The people, however, tried +to burn her, but were themselves consumed in the fire, until finally one +of their number slew her with his sword. A few days after her death, her +parents had a vision of her, surrounded by angels and accompanied by a +lamb (Agnus Dei). After her canonization it was customary to sacrifice +on St. Agnes' Day, during the singing, two lambs whose wool the next day +was woven by the nuns into pallia for the archbishops. (Cf. I. 115, +117.) Cf. _Agnus_ and _Agnes_. + +[143] 5. =Beadsman.= =Bead= originally meant prayer; hence "to say one's +beads." A beadsman was an inmate of an almshouse who was bound to pray +for the founders of the house. In Shakespeare the word is used to denote +one who prays for another. + +[144] 31. =Snarling.= Does this verse resemble the sound described? What +is the name of this figure? + +[145] 40. =New-stuffed.= What does this mean here? + +[146] 46. =St. Agnes' Eve.= See Introductory Note. + +[147] 70. =Amort= (Fr. à la mort); lifeless, spiritless. + +[148] 71. =Lambs.= See Introductory Note. + +[149] 75. =Porphyro= (Gr. _porphyro_ = a purple fish, purple). Why did +Keats choose this name instead of Lionel, as he first intended? + +[150] 77. =Buttress'd= means supported, but here it must mean protected +from; _i.e._ Porphyro was in the shadow of the buttress. + +[151] 81. =Sooth=; truth. Cf. _soothsayer_. + +[152] 86. =Hyena.= Find out the characteristics of this animal, and see +what the force of the epithet is here. + +[153] 90. =Beldame= (_bel + dame_) originally meant a fair lady, then +grandmother and, in general, old woman or hag. + +[154] 105. =Gossip= originally meant a sponsor at baptism (_God-sib_), +then a boon companion, and finally a tattler. + +[155] 115. =Holy loom.= See Introductory Note. + +[156] 120. =Witch's sieve.= This refers to the superstition that witches +could hold water in sieves and could sail in them. Cf. _Macbeth_, I. 3. +1, 8:-- + + "But in a sieve I'll thither sail, + And, like a rat without a tail, + I'll do, I'll do, and I'll do." + +[157] 126. =Mickle=; much. + +[158] 135. =Lap.= "Madeline is asleep in her bed; but she is also asleep +in accordance with the legends of the season; and therefore the bed +becomes their lap as well as sleep's." + + --LEIGH HUNT. + +[159] 138. How make =purple riot= in his heart? + +[160] 171. =Merlin= was the sorcerer in Arthur's court. Vivien succeeded +in getting from him a secret by which she shut him up in a hollow tree. +See Tennyson's _Merlin and Vivien_. Malory has another version of the +story. + +[161] 173. =Cates=; provisions,--especially rich, luxurious provisions. +Cf. _cater_, _caterer_. + +[162] 174. =Tambour frame.= Tambour is a kind of drum; cf. _tambourine_. +A tambour frame is a round frame for holding material which is to be +embroidered. + +[163] 208. =Casement high....= On these next three stanzas Keats spent +much time. They are considered beautiful description. Why? + +[164] 214. =Heraldries= are coats of arms. + +[165] 215. =Emblazonings=; colored heraldries. + +[166] 218. =Gules=; the tincture red. In a shield without color gules is +indicated by vertical parallel lines. + +[167] 241. =Missal=; a mass book for the year. What is the meaning of +this line? =Paynims=; pagans. + +[168] 257. =Morphean.= Morpheus was the god of sleep. + +[169] 262. =Azure-lidded sleep.= Note the different senses appealed to +in these next stanzas. Keats is called one of our most sensuous poets. + +[170] 266. =Soother=; used here for _more soothing_. + +[171] 267. What are =lucent syrops=? Note derivation. + +[172] 277. =Eremite=; hermit. + +[173] 292. Keats wrote a poem about this time called _La Belle Dame sans +Merci_. + +[174] 346. =Wassailers= was a term originally used for men drinking each +other's health with the words _wes h[=a]l_, be whole. + +[175] 375. Angela. Have the deaths of Angela and the Beadsman been +foretold? + + +ALFRED TENNYSON + +Alfred Tennyson was born in Somersby, Lincolnshire, England, on August +6, 1809, and died at Aldworth in Surrey in 1892. He was the third of +twelve brothers and sisters, several of whom later showed evidences of +genius. As early as 1827 he and his brother Charles published _Poems by +Two Brothers_, for which they received ten pounds. At Trinity College, +Cambridge, which he entered in 1828, he won the chancellor's gold medal +for a prize poem _Timbuctoo_. On the death of his father in 1831 he left +Cambridge without a degree. Before this in 1830 he had published _Poems, +chiefly Lyrical_, and two years later in 1832 a new volume appeared +which was severely criticised, though it contained much excellent work. +The death of his close friend, Arthur Henry Hallam, in 1833 was a +terrible blow to Tennyson and one from which it took him many years to +recover. It was, however, the inspiration for his elegy _In Memoriam_, +written for the most part during the period when the loss was felt most +keenly. For some time after, Tennyson lived quietly, gaining in power +and expression, and busy training himself for the future. The product of +this seclusion came in two volumes of poetry, printed in 1842, which +were enthusiastically greeted. In 1845 Wordsworth wrote, "Tennyson is +decidedly the first of our living poets." _The Princess; A Medley_, +appeared in 1847, and three years later he gave to the world the +completed _In Memoriam_. This same year (1850) is also notable for his +marriage with Miss Emily Sellwood and his appointment as poet-laureate +in place of Wordsworth, who had just died. + +From this time on his place in literature was secured, and he lived a +happy life, making occasional short trips in England and on the +continent, but remaining for the most part quietly at his estate on the +Isle of Wight. Among his later works are _Maud_ (1855), _Enoch Arden_ +(1864), _Idylls of the King_ (finished 1872), a group of _Ballads, and +Other Poems_ (1880), and several dramas. He accepted a peerage in 1883. +Nine years later he died and was buried in Westminster Abbey. + +Tennyson, in the range and scope of his work, in the variety of his +interests, and in the versatility of his art, is the most representative +poet of the nineteenth century. He tried many kinds of poetry and met +with some success in all. He learned versification as Stevenson did his +prose style, by long-continued study and practice, with the result that +he became eventually a supreme literary artist, a master of melody in +words. His diction is admirably precise and exact, and he is easy to +read and understand. While he is rarely profound or searching, like +Browning, neither is he overintellectual; but he embeds sane and safe +thought in a mould of beauty. He was a national poet in his patriotism +and fondness for English scenery. Finally he was an apostle of religious +optimism, ready to combat the morbid beliefs which were disturbing +contemporary philosophy. + + +DORA (Page 103) + +Published in 1842. + +The clearness and simplicity of this exquisite pastoral make any +explanatory notes superfluous. Regarding it, Wordsworth once said to +Tennyson, "I have been endeavoring all my life to write a pastoral like +your Dora and have not yet succeeded." + + +OeNONE (Page 108) + +Most of this poem was written in 1830 while Tennyson was travelling in +the Pyrenees Mountains with his friend, Arthur Henry Hallam. The +descriptions of scenery belong, therefore, to that district, and not to +the vicinity of ancient Troy. _Oenone_ was first published in 1832, +but was afterward frequently revised; it appears here in the final form +approved by Tennyson himself. + +[176] 1. =Ida= is a mountain in northwest Asia Minor near the site of +Troy. + +[177] 2. =Ionian=; Grecian. + +[178] 10. Gargarus is the highest peak of Mount Ida. + +[179] 13. =Troas= is the district in northwest Asia Minor in which was +located the city of Troy. + +[180] 13. =Ilion= was the Greek name for Troy. + +[181] 16. =Paris= was the son of Priam, king of Troy, and his wife +Hecuba. + +[182] 37. =River-God=; Cebren, the god of a small river near Troas. + +[183] 40. =Rose slowly.= According to tradition, Neptune, the god of the +sea, was the founder of Troy, but was assisted by Apollo, who raised the +walls to the music of his lyre. + +[184] 51. =Simois=; a river having its source in Mount Ida. + +[185] 65. =Hesperian gold.= The apples of Hesperides were made of pure +gold. They were given to Herè as a wedding present, and thereafter +guarded night and day by a dragon. Hercules finally secured three of +them through a stratagem. + +[186] 66. =Ambrosially.= Ambrosia was the food of the gods. + +[187] 72. =Oread.= The Oreads were nymphs who were supposed to guide +travellers through dangerous places on the mountains. + +[188] 79. =Peleus=; a king of Phitia who married Thetis, a sea-nymph. To +the wedding feast all the immortals were invited except Eris, goddess of +discord. In revenge, she cast a golden apple on the banquet table before +the gods and goddesses, with an inscription awarding it to the most +beautiful among them. The strife which followed resulted in the choosing +of Paris as judge in the matter. + +[189] 81. =Iris= was the messenger and attendant of Juno. She frequently +appeared in the form of a rainbow. + +[190] 83. =Herè= (Roman Juno) was the wife and sister of Zeus (Roman +Jupiter), and therefore Queen of Heaven. + +[191] 84. =Pallas= (Roman Minerva) was the goddess of wisdom. + +[192] 84. =Aphroditè= (Roman Venus) was the goddess of beauty and love. + +[193] 95. =Amaracus=; a fragrant flower. + +[194] 95. =Asphodel=; supposed to have been a variety of Narcissus. + +[195] 102. The =peacock= was a bird sacred to Herè. + +[196] 151. =Guerdon=; reward. + +[197] 170. =Idalian=; so-called from Idalium, a town in Cyprus sacred to +Aphroditè. + +[198] 171. =Paphian=; a reference to Paphos in Cyprus where Aphroditè +first set foot after her birth from sea foam. + +[199] 195. =Pard=; leopard. + +[200] 220. =The Abominable=; Eris, the goddess already referred to. + +[201] 257. =The Greek woman=; Helen, wife of Menelaus, king of Sparta. +She was the wife promised to Paris by Aphroditè as his reward for his +decision. Paris stole her from her husband through the direction of +Aphroditè, and carried her back to Troy. As a result of this act, the +Greeks, under Menelaus and his brother Agamemnon, joined in an attack on +Troy which ended, after ten years, in the capture of that city. In the +course of the siege Paris was killed. + +[202] 259. =Cassandra=; the daughter of Priam, and hence the sister of +Paris. She was condemned by Apollo to utter prophesies which, though +true, would never be believed. + +The conclusion of the story of Oenone and Paris may be read in +Tennyson's own _Death of Oenone_ or in William Morris's _Death of +Paris_. + + +ENOCH ARDEN (Page 117) + +This poem was written in 1862, its actual composition taking only two +weeks, although the poet had been considering the theme for some time. +It was first printed in 1864 and became popular at once, sixty thousand +copies being sold in a very short period. + +[203] 7. =Danish barrows= are burial mounds supposed to have been left +by the early Danish invaders of England. + +[204] 18. The =fluke= is the part of the anchor which fastens in the +ground. + +[205] 36. =Wife to both.= This line is a prophecy of future events in +the story. + +[206] 94. =Osier.= The reference is to baskets made of osier, a kind of +willow. + +[207] 98. The =lion-whelp= was evidently a heraldic device over the +gateway to the hall. + +[208] 99. =Peacock-yewtree=; a yewtree cut, after the fashion of the old +landscape gardeners, into the shape of a peacock. + +[209] 213. =Look on yours.= This is another prophetic line. + +[210] 326. =Garth=; a yard or garden. + +[211] 337. =Conies=; rabbits. + +[212] 370. =Just ... begun=; notice here the repetition of line 67: each +of the two lines introduces a crisis in the life of Philip. Several +other such repetitions may be found in the poem. + +[213] 494. =Under the palm-tree=; found in _Judges_ iv. 5. + +[214] 525. The =Bay of Biscay= is off the west coast of France and north +of Spain. + +[215] 527. =Summer of the world=; the equator. + +[216] 563. =Stem=; the trunk of a tree. + +[217] 573. =Convolvuluses=; plants with twining stems. + +[218] 575. =The broad belt of the world.= The ancients considered the +ocean to be a body of water completely surrounding the land. + +[219] 633. This description may be compared with that of Ben Gunn in +Stevenson's _Treasure Island_. + +[220] 671. A =holt= is a piece of woodland. + +[221] 671. A =tilth= is a name for land which is tilled. + +[222] 728. =Latest=; last. + +[223] 733. =Shingle=; coarse gravel or small stones. + +[224] 747. =Creasy=; full of creases. + + +THE REVENGE (Page 146) + +Published first in the _Nineteenth Century_, March, 1878. Reprinted in +_Ballads, and other Poems_, 1880. + +_The Revenge_ deals with an incident of the war between England and +Spain during the latter half of the sixteenth century. Sir Richard +Grenville, the hero, came from a long line of fighters and was one of +the most famous naval commanders of the period. He had led, in 1585, the +first English colony to Virginia, and had been in charge of the Devon +coast defence at the time of the _Armada_ (1588) when that great Spanish +fleet, organized to deal a crushing blow to England, was defeated and +almost entirely destroyed by English ships and seamen under Lord Howard +and Sir Francis Drake. In 1591 he was given command of the _Revenge_, a +second-rate ship of five hundred tons' burden and carrying a crew of +two hundred and fifty men, and sent to the Azores to intercept a Spanish +treasure fleet. While there, he was cut off from his own squadron and +left with two alternatives: to turn his back on the enemy, or to sail +through the fifty-three Spanish vessels opposed to him. He refused to +retreat, and the terrible battle described in the ballad was the result. + +Grenville was a somewhat haughty and tyrannical leader, though +noble-minded, loyal, and patriotic. In Charles Kingsley's _Westward Ho!_ +which gives a vivid portrayal of English national feeling and character +during these stirring times, he is made to take an important part, and +is idealized as "a truly heroic personage--a steadfast, God-fearing, +chivalrous man, conscious (as far as a soul so healthy could be +conscious) of the pride of beauty, and strength, and valour, and +wisdom." Froude calls him "a goodly and gallant gentleman." Perhaps the +best comment on him is found in his own dying words: "Here die I, +Richard Grenville, with a joyful and quiet mind: for that I have ended +my life as true soldier ought to do, that hath fought for his country, +Queen, religion, and honour. Whereby my soul most joyfully departeth out +of this body, and shall always leave behind it an everlasting fame of a +valiant and true soldier; that hath done his dutie as he was bound to +do." + +_The Revenge_ is styled by Stevenson (the _English Admirals_) "one of +the noblest ballads in the English language." Indeed, in vigor of +spirit, and in patriotic feeling, there are few poems which surpass it. + +[225] 1. The =Azores= (here pronounced _A-zo-res_) are a group of +islands in the North Atlantic Ocean. The island of _Flores_ (pronounced +_Flo-res_) is the most westerly of the group. + +[226] 4. =Lord Thomas Howard= was admiral of the fleet to which the +_Revenge_ belonged. + +[227] 12. =The Inquisition= was a system of tribunals formed in the +thirteenth century by the Roman Catholic Church to investigate and +punish cases of religious unbelief. In the sixteenth century the +Inquisition became infamous in Spain because of the cruelty of its +persecutions, many people suffering terrible tortures and dying the most +painful deaths, through its instrumentality. + +[228] 17. =Bideford= in Devon was the birthplace of Sir Richard +Grenville. In the sixteenth century it was one of England's chief +seaports and sent seven vessels to fight the Armada. It is described in +the opening chapter of _Westward Ho!_ + +[229] 21. The =thumbscrew= was an instrument of torture employed by the +Inquisition. + +[230] 21. Victims of the Inquisition were sometimes tied to a =stake= +and burned alive. + +[231] 30. =Seville= is a city in southwestern Spain. It is here to be +pronounced with the accent on the first syllable. + +[232] 31. =Don=; a Spanish title of rank, here used to designate any +Spaniard. + +[233] 46. =Galleon=; a name applied to sailing vessels of the fifteenth +and sixteenth centuries. + + +ROBERT BROWNING + +Robert Browning was born at Camberwell, May 7, 1812, and died at Venice, +December 12, 1889. Browning's father, as his grandfather had been, was +employed in the Bank of England. Mr. Browning, who was an indulgent +father, decided that his son's education should be under private tutors. +This lack of being educated with other boys is sometimes supposed to +have been one of the causes why Browning found difficulty in expressing +his thoughts clearly to other people. It was at first planned that +Browning should become a lawyer, but as he had no taste for this, his +father agreed to allow his son to adopt literature as a profession. +When Browning had made his choice, he read Johnson's Dictionary for +preparation. _Pauline_, his first published poem, attracted almost no +attention, but Browning kept on writing, regardless of inattention. The +actor, Macready, with whom he became friendly, turned Browning's +attention to the writing of plays, but he was never successful as a +writer for the stage. On his return from his second visit to Italy, in +1844, he read Miss Elizabeth Barrett's _Lady Geraldine's Courtship_ and +expressed so much appreciation of this poem that, on the suggestion of a +common friend, he wrote to tell Miss Barrett how much he liked her work. +This was the beginning of one of the famous literary love affairs of the +world. Although Miss Barrett was several years older than Browning and a +great invalid, they were married, against family opposition, in 1846, +and went immediately to Italy. Mrs. Browning's health was now much +improved, and she lived till 1861. On her death, Browning, greatly +overcome, returned to England. Gradually he went more and more into +society, and as his popularity as a poet increased, he became a +well-known figure in public. He continued writing throughout his life. +He died at his son's house in Venice in 1889. + + +HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX (Page 154) + +Browning wrote concerning this poem: "There is no sort of historical +foundation about _Good News from Ghent_. I wrote it under the bulwark of +a vessel off the African coast, after I had been at sea long enough to +appreciate even the fancy of a gallop on the back of a certain good +horse 'York' then in my stable at home. It was written in pencil on the +fly-leaf of Bartoli's _Simboli_, I remember." Such an incident might, +of course, have happened at the "Pacification of Ghent," a treaty of +union between Holland, Zealand, and southern Netherlands under William +of Orange, against Philip II of Spain. The distance between Ghent and +Aix as mapped out in this poem is something more than ninety miles. Do +you think a horse could gallop that distance? Notice that the verse +gives the effect of galloping. + +[234] 10. =Pique=; seems to be the pommel. + +[235] 14 ff. =Lokeren=, =Boom=, =Düffeld=, =Mecheln=, =Aerschot=, +=Hasselt=, =Looz=, =Tongres=, =Dalhem=; towns varying from seven to +twenty-five miles apart on the route taken from Ghent to Aix. + +[236] See Note 235 above. + +[237] See Note 235 above. + +[238] See Note 235 above. + +[239] See Note 235 above. + +[240] See Note 235 above. + +[241] See Note 235 above. + +[242] See Note 235 above. + +[243] See Note 235 above. + +[244] 46. =Save Aix.= Notice that this is the first we know of the +purpose of this ride. Is this an advantage or a disadvantage? + + +INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP (Page 156) + +Ratisbon (German Regensburg), which has been besieged seventeen times +since the eighteenth century, was stormed by Napoleon, May, 1809, during +his Austrian campaign. Mrs. Sutherland Orr, the biographer of Browning, +says this incident actually happened, except that the hero was a man and +not a boy. + +[245] 5. =Neck out-thrust.= Notice how Browning gives the well-known +attitude of Napoleon. + +[246] 9. =Mused.= What effect has this supposed soliloquy of Napoleon? + +[247] 11. =Lannes=; a general of Napoleon's, and the Duke of Montebello. + +[248] 29. =Flag-bird.= What bird was on Napoleon's flag? + + +THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN (Page 158) + +There are many versions of this story which Browning might have used. He +is said to have used directly the account in _The Wonders of the Little +World; or a General History of Man_, written by Nathaniel Wanley and +published in 1678. This poem, however, from whatever source the story +was taken, was deservedly popular long before Browning himself was. It +was written to amuse, during a sickness, the son of William Macready, +the most prominent English actor of his time and a close friend of +Browning's. + +[249] 1. =Hamelin=; a town near Hanover, the capital of the province of +Brunswick, Prussia. + +[250] 37. =Guilder=; a Dutch coin worth about forty cents. + +[251] 68. =Trump of Doom.= The Archangel Gabriel was to blow his trumpet +to summon the dead on the Day of Judgment. + +[252] 79. =Pied Piper.= _Pied_ means variegated like a magpie. Cf. +_piebald_. + +[253] 89. =Cham.= The Great Cham, or Khan, was the ruler of Tartary. +Marco Polo, the Venetian traveller, gives an account of him. Dr. Johnson +was called the Great Cham of literature. + +[254] 91. =Nizam=; a native ruler of Hyderabad, India. + +[255] 123, 126. =Julius Cæsar and his Commentary.= Julius Cæsar, the +great Roman general and dictator, who wrote his _Commentaries_ on his +wars in Gaul and Britain. + +[256] 169. =Poke=; pocket. + +[257] 182. =Stiver=; a small Dutch coin. + +[258] 188. =Piebald.= Cf. _pied_, line 79. + +[259] 260. =Needle's eye.= Cf. _Matthew_ xix. 24; _Mark_ x. 25; _Luke_ +xviii. 25. + + +HERVÉ RIEL (Page 168) + +[260] 1. =Hogue.= Cape La Hogue, on the east side of the same peninsula +as Cape La Hague, was the scene, in 1692, of the defeat of the French by +the united English and Dutch fleets. + +[261] 5. =Saint Malo on the Rance=; a town on a small island near the +shore of France. The entrance to its fine harbor is very narrow and +filled with rocks. At high tide there is forty-five to fifty feet of +water, but at low tide this channel is dry. + +[262] 30. =Plymouth Sound.= Plymouth is on the southwestern coast of +England. + +[263] 43. =Pressed=; forced into military or naval service. + +[264] 43. =Tourville=; the famous French admiral, who commanded at La +Hogue. + +[265] 44. =Croisickese=; La Croisic, a small fishing village near the +mouth of the Loire, which Browning often visited. + + +DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI + +Dante Gabriel Rossetti was born in London, of Italian parentage, in +1828. He was educated at King's College School, but became very early a +student of painting, in which art he attained considerable prominence. +He was a member of the famous pre-Raphaelite group of artists and +authors, and was largely responsible for the movement started by them. +In 1861 he published _The Early Italian Poets_, a volume of +translations; in 1870, _Poems_; and in 1881, _Ballads and Sonnets_. His +last days were unhappy, his death in 1882 being hastened by +overindulgence in narcotics. + +Rossetti's painting had a marked effect upon his poetry, chiefly in +giving him the faculty of vivid and ornate description. Though +essentially a lyric poet, he revived old English ballad forms with much +success, and his narrative poems are vigorous and spirited. A good short +life of Rossetti is that by Joseph Knight in the Great Writers Series. + + +THE WHITE SHIP (Page 175) + +First published in 1881 in the volume called _Ballads and Sonnets_. + +Henry the First, the third son of William the Conqueror had, on the +death of his brother William the Second (William Rufus) in 1100, seized +the crown of England by force from his other elder brother, Robert, Duke +of Normandy. In 1106, after overthrowing Robert at Tenchebray, he became +also Duke of Normandy, thus uniting under himself the two nations. This +bond of union he further strengthened by marrying Mathilda, an English +princess. His reign, which lasted until 1135, marked a revival in +English national feeling, and a long step was taken toward the +assimilation of the victorious Normans by the people whom they had +conquered. + +Henry and Mathilda had only one son, William, who was born in 1103. The +following account of his death is given by William of Malmesbury (edited +by J. C. Giles): "Giving orders for returning to England, the king set +sail from Barfleur just before twilight on the seventh before the +kalends of December; and the breeze which filled his sails conducted him +safely to his kingdom and extensive fortunes. But the young prince, who +was now somewhat more than seventeen years of age, and, by his father's +indulgence, possessed everything but the name of king, commanded another +vessel to be prepared for himself; almost all the young nobility +flocking around him, from similarity of youthful pursuits. The sailors, +too, immoderately filled with wine, with that seaman's hilarity which +their cups excited, exclaimed, that those who were now ahead must soon +be left astern; for the ship was of the best construction and recently +fitted with new materials. When, therefore, it was now dark night, these +imprudent youths, overwhelmed with liquor, launched the vessel from the +shore.... The carelessness of the intoxicated crew drove her on a rock +which rose above the waves not far from shore.... The oars, dashing, +horribly crashed against the rock, and her battered prow hung immovably +fixed. Now, too, the water washed some of the crew overboard, and, +entering the chinks, drowned others; when the boat having been launched, +the young prince was received into it, and might certainly have been +saved by reaching the shore, had not his illegitimate sister, the +Countess of Perche, now struggling with death in the larger vessel, +implored her brother's assistance. Touched with pity, he ordered the +boat to return to the ship, that he might rescue his sister; and thus +the unhappy youth met his death through excess of affection; for the +skiff, overcharged by the multitudes who leaped into her, sank, and +buried all indiscriminately in the deep. One rustic alone escaped; who, +floating all night upon the mast, related in the morning the dismal +catastrophe of the tragedy." + +[266] Henry never recovered from the shock of this disaster; and +although he married again, he left at his death no direct male heir to +the throne. + +[267] 2. =Rouen=; a city in northwest France on the river Seine. + +[268] 14. =Clerkly Henry.= In his youth Henry had been a student and +scholar--hence his early nickname "Henry Beauclerc." + +[269] 15. =Ruthless=; pitiless. + +[270] 17. =Eyes were gone.= According to a legend, which, however, has +no historical foundation, Henry had put out the eyes of his brother +Robert. + +[271] 26. =Fealty.= Under the feudal system each vassal or dependant was +required to take an oath of allegiance to his overlord. + +[272] 35. =Liege=; having the right to allegiance. + +[273] 36. =Father's foot.= William the Conqueror, Henry's father, +defeated Harold, the English king, at Hastings in 1066 and thus became +master of England. + +[274] 39. =Rood=; the fourth part of an acre. + +[275] 45. =Harfleur's harbor.= Harfleur is a seaport town on the north +bank of the outlet of the river Seine in northwest France. + +[276] 59. =Hind=; servant. + +[277] 98. =Moil=; wet. + +[278] 138. =Maugre=; notwithstanding. + +[279] 163. =Honfleur=; a town on the south bank of the outlet of the +river Seine, opposite Harfleur. + +[280] 166. =Body of Christ=; the procession of the Holy Communion. + +[281] 178. =Hight=; called. + +[282] 198. =Foredone=; gone. + +[283] 211. =Shrift=; the confession made to a priest. + +[284] 214. =Winchester=; a cathedral city in southern England, the +ancient capital of the country. + +[285] 233. =Pleasaunce=; pleasure. + +[286] 236. =Pardie=; certainly or surely. It was originally an oath from +the French _par Dieu_. + +[287] 260. =Dais=; the platform on which was the king's throne. + +[288] 268. =Rede=; story. + + +WILLIAM MORRIS + +William Morris was born in 1834 in Walthamstead, Essex, England, and +died in London in 1896. He went to Exeter College, Oxford, in 1853, +where he formed a close friendship with Edward Burne-Jones, the future +artist. A little later he came under the influence of Rossetti, who +induced him to attempt painting, an art which he followed with no great +success. In 1858 he published _The Defence of Guinevere, and Other +Poems_. This volume was followed by _The Life and Death of Jason_ +(1867), _The Earthly Paradise_ (finished 1872), and _Sigurd the Volsung_ +(1876). In 1863 he became a manufacturer of wall paper and artistic +furniture, branching out afterwards into weaving, dyeing, and other +crafts. After 1885 he was a confirmed Socialist, speaking frequently at +laborers' meetings and pouring forth a steady stream of leaflets and +pamphlets in support of his radical beliefs. His death was probably due +to overwork. + +Morris was by instinct a lover of the beautiful and harmonious. A fluent +versifier, he delighted especially in the composition of narrative +poetry, which he adorned with ornate description and superb decoration. +This very richness sometimes cloys the taste and tends to arouse a +feeling of monotony. His longest work, _The Earthly Paradise_, is +modelled somewhat on Chaucer's _Canterbury Tales_, and contains +twenty-four stories, twelve mediæval and twelve classic in origin. + +A satisfactory short life is that by Alfred Noyes in the English Men of +Letters Series. + + +ATALANTA'S RACE (Page 187) + +Published in 1868 as the first story in the collection called _The +Earthly Paradise_. The episode was a favorite with Greek and Latin +writers, and has been used occasionally in modern times. The metre in +this version is the antiquated Rime Royal. + +[289] 1. =Arcadia= was a province of the Grecian peninsula. + +[290] 14. =Cornel= is a kind of wood of great hardness used for making +bows. + +[291] 28. =King Schoenus=; a Boeotian king, the son of Athamas. Most +other versions of the story name Iasius as Atalanta's father. + +[292] 62. =Image of the sun=; a statue of Phoebus Apollo, the sun-god. + +[293] 63. =The Fleet-foot One=; Mercury (Hermes), the messenger of the +gods. + +[294] 79. =Diana=; the daughter of Jupiter and Latona, and the sister of +Apollo. She was the goddess of the moon and of the hunt. She was also +the protector of chastity. See Guerber, _Myths of Greece and Rome_, +Chapter VI. + +[295] 80. =Lists=; desires. + +[296] 177. =Saffron gown=; the orange-yellow dress indicative of the +bride. + +[297] 184. =The sea-born one=; Aphrodite (Venus). See page 266. + +[298] 206. The =Dryads= were wood-nymphs who were supposed to watch over +vegetation. + +[299] 208. =Adonis' bane=; the wild boar. Adonis was a beautiful youth +who was passionately loved by Venus, though he did not return her +affection. He was mortally wounded at a hunt by a wild boar, and died in +the arms of the goddess. + +[300] 211. =Argive=; Grecian. + +[301] 224. =Must=; the juice of the grape before fermentation. + +[302] 353. =Argos=; a city in Argolis, a province in the northeast part +of the Peloponnesian peninsula in Greece. + +[303] 373. =Queen Venus.= It was to Venus, the goddess of love, that +unhappy lovers were accustomed to turn for aid. + +[304] 391. =Holpen=; the old past participle of the word help. + +[305] 516. =Damascus=; the chief city of Syria. + +[306] 535. =Saturn= (Cronus or Time) was the father of Jupiter. Under +his rule came the so-called Golden Age of the world. + +[307] 671. =Phoenician.= The Phoenicians lived on the eastern shore +of the Mediterranean Sea, and were famous for their commerce and trade. + + +HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW + +Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was born in Portland, Maine, on February 27, +1807. He entered Bowdoin College at the early age of fifteen, graduating +there in 1825. He then spent about three years abroad preparing himself +for a position, as Professor of Modern Languages at Bowdoin, which he +took on his return. There he remained six years, leaving in 1834 to +become a professor in Harvard College. His first book of poems, _Voices +of the Night_, appeared in 1839, and two years later he published +_Ballads and other Poems_. Both volumes were received cordially and had +a wide circulation. Other important later works were _Evangeline_ +(1847), _Hiawatha_ (1855), _The Courtship of Miles Standish_ (1858), and +_Tales of a Wayside Inn_ (finished 1873). In 1854 he left off teaching +and settled down to a quiet literary life. During a trip to Europe in +1868 he was given honorary degrees by both Oxford and Cambridge. He died +in Boston in 1882. It is a testimonial to his popularity in England that +his bust was placed in the Poets' Corner of Westminster Abbey, the only +memorial to an American author there. + +Longfellow was a scholarly and cultured poet, influenced much by foreign +literatures and proficient in translation. His verse is rarely +impassioned, but is usually simple, smooth, and polished. America has +had no finer narrative poet; and it is unquestionable that this form of +poetry was well adapted to his genius, which was fluent, but not often +strongly emotional. + + +THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS (Page 211) + +Longfellow's diary for the date December 17, 1839, contains the +following entry: "News of shipwrecks horrible on the coast. Twenty +bodies washed ashore near Gloucester, one lashed to a piece of wreck. +There is a reef called Norman's Woe, where many of these took place; +among others the schooner Hesperus--I must write a ballad upon this." +Two weeks later he wrote: "I sat last evening till twelve o'clock by my +fire, smoking, when suddenly it came into my mind to write the 'Ballad +of the Schooner Hesperus,' which I accordingly did. Then I went to bed, +but I could not sleep. New thoughts were running in my mind, and I got +up to add them to the ballad. It was three by the clock. I then went to +bed and fell asleep. I feel pleased with the ballad. It hardly cost me +an effort. It did not come into my mind by lines, but by stanzas." + +Published first in 1841 in _Ballads and Other Poems_. + + +PAUL REVERE'S RIDE (Page 214) + +Published in 1863 as _The Landlord's Tale_ in the first series of _Tales +of a Wayside Inn_. + +General Gage, commander of the British forces in Boston and vicinity, +despatched, on the night of April 18, 1775, a body of troops to seize +stores said to be concealed at Concord. According to the story, Paul +Revere spread the warning throughout the surrounding country, and when +the British arrived at Lexington they found a small body of militia +lined up to oppose them. A skirmish ensued in which the first blood of +the war was spilled, several being killed and others wounded. + +[308] 2. =Paul Revere= (1735-1818) was a goldsmith and engraver who +became one of the most active of the colonial patriots. + +[309] 9. =North Church.= There is some dispute as to what church is +referred to here. A tablet on the front of Christ Church, Salem Street, +Boston, points that out as the church from which the lanterns were hung. +Other good authorities, however, support the claims of the North Church, +formerly standing in North Square, but now torn down. + +[310] 88. =Medford= is on the Mystic River about five miles northwest of +Boston. + +[311] 102. =Concord= is about nineteen miles northwest of Boston. + + +JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER + +John Greenleaf Whittier was born in Haverhill, Massachusetts, December +17, 1807, and died at Hampton Falls, New Hampshire, September 7, 1892. +Whittier's ancestors for several generations had been New England +farmers on the same farm where the original Whittier immigrant had +settled. The family was too poor to give Whittier an education, so that +two terms at Haverhill Academy, the tuition for which he paid by +shoemaking and school teaching, completed his school training. He early +became interested in journalism, and was employed in editorial work in +Boston and in Hartford. When abolition became an agitation, Whittier +became one of the leaders. He was instrumental in bringing the English +Abolitionist, George Thompson, to America; and, while on a tour with +him, was stoned and shot at by a mob in Concord, New Hampshire. Later, +when he was editor of the _Philadelphia Freeman_, his office was burned +by a mob. During this period he wrote many anti-slavery poems, such as +the _Ballads_, _Anti-Slavery Poems_, etc., of 1838 and the _Voices of +Freedom_ of 1841. In spite of his interest in politics, for he was twice +elected to the Massachusetts legislature, Whittier led a very simple +life in accordance with his Quaker beliefs. He never married, partly, it +seems, because he had the care of his mother and sister Elizabeth, until +the latter's death in 1864. The latter part of his life he lived at +Amesbury and Danvers, Massachusetts. + +Whittier's poetry is of three kinds. He is at times more thoroughly than +any other writer the poet of New England country life; again he is +essentially an anti-slavery poet; and, finally, he has written many +religious poems. His best-known poem is _Snow-Bound_, which gives an +admirable picture of a farmer's life in the hard storms of a New England +winter. + + +SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE (Page 219) + +[312] 3. =Apuleius's Golden Ass.= Apuleius was a Roman satirist who +lived in the first half of the second century. His most celebrated work +was _Metamorphoses, or the Golden Ass_, a satirical romance to ridicule +Christianity. + +[313] 4. =Calender's horse of brass.= See the story in the _Arabian +Nights_. + +[314] 6. =Islam's prophet on Al-Borák.= Mohammed was believed to make +his journeys between heaven and earth upon a creature, which some say +was a camel, named Al-Borák. (The word signifies lightning.) + +[315] 26. =Bacchus=; the god of wine and revelry. A Bacchanalian revel +was a common subject for decorations. + +[316] 30. =Mænads=; women who attended Bacchus, the god of wine, waving, +as they danced and sang, the thyrsus, a wand entwined with ivy and +surmounted by a pine cone. + +[317] 35. =Chaleur Bay=; an inlet of the Gulf of St. Lawrence, between +Gaspé and New Brunswick. It is a great resort for mackerel fishing. + + +BARCLAY OF URY (Page 222) + +"Among the earliest converts to the doctrines of the Friends in Scotland +was Barclay of Ury, an old and distinguished soldier, who had fought +under Gustavus Adolphus, in Germany. As a Quaker, he became the object +of persecution and abuse at the hands of the magistrates and populace. +None bore the indignities of the mob with greater patience and nobleness +of soul than this once proud gentleman and soldier. One of his friends, +on an occasion of uncommon rudeness, lamented that he should be treated +so harshly in his old age who had been so honored before. 'I find more +satisfaction,' said Barclay, 'as well as honor, in being thus insulted +for my religious principles, than when, a few years ago, it was usual +for the magistrates, as I passed the city of Aberdeen, to meet me on the +road and conduct me to public entertainment in their hall, and then +escort me out again, to gain my favor.'"--WHITTIER. + +[318] 1. =Aberdeen=; a city in northeastern Scotland. + +[319] 2. =Kirk=; the Scotch word for church. + +[320] 3. =Laird=; lord. + +[321] 10. =Carlin=; Scotch word for old woman. + +[322] 35. =Lützen=; a town in Saxony, province of Prussia. + +[323] 56. =Tilly.= "The barbarities of Count de Tilly after the siege of +Magdeburg made such an impression upon our forefathers that the phrase +'like old Tilly' is still heard sometimes in New England of any piece of +special ferocity."--WHITTIER. + +[324] 57. =Walloon=; from certain provinces of Belgium. + +[325] 81. =Snooded.= The snood was a band which a Scottish maiden wore +in her hair as a sign of her maidenhood. + +[326] 99. =Tolbooth=; a name commonly applied to a Scottish prison. + +[327] 117. =Fallow=; ploughed but unsown land. + + +BARBARA FRIETCHIE (Page 226) + +"This poem was written in strict conformity to the account of the +incident as I had it from respectable and trustworthy sources. It has +since been the subject of a good deal of conflicting testimony, and the +story was probably incorrect in some of its details. It is admitted by +all that Barbara Frietchie was no myth, but a worthy and highly esteemed +gentlewoman, intensely loyal and a hater of the Slavery Rebellion, +holding her Union flag sacred and keeping it with her Bible; that when +the Confederates halted before her house, and entered her dooryard, she +denounced them in vigorous language, shook her cane in their faces, and +drove them out; and when General Burnside's troops followed close upon +Jackson's, she waved her flag and cheered them. It is stated that May +Quantrell, a brave and loyal lady in another part of the city, did wave +her flag in sight of the Confederates. It is possible that there has +been a blending of the two incidents."--WHITTIER. + + +OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES + +Oliver Wendell Holmes was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, in 1809. He +studied at Phillips Academy, Andover, and later at Harvard College, +where he graduated in the famous class of 1829. He tried law for a year, +but gave this up for medicine. In 1833 he went abroad, returning in 1835 +for a medical degree at Harvard. He at once began the active practice of +his profession, but accepted a professorship at Dartmouth in 1838. He +remained there only a short time, coming back again to Boston, where he +married and resumed his work as a physician. In 1847 he became Parkman +Professor of Anatomy and Physiology at Harvard, and held this position +until 1882. In 1857, through the influence of James Russell Lowell, he +began to contribute regularly to the _Atlantic Monthly_. After 1882 he +devoted himself almost exclusively to writing and lecturing. He died in +1894 in Boston. + +While Holmes is best known as the author of _The Autocrat of the +Breakfast Table_ and other prose works, he published numerous poems, +most of them humorous in tone. Many of them were written for specific +occasions, and as such are distinguished for their wit and cleverness +rather than for strong emotion or profound thought. + + +GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER HILL BATTLE (Page 230) + +First published in 1875 at the time of the centennial of the battle of +Bunker Hill. + +The so-called battle of Bunker Hill was the first important engagement +of the Revolutionary War. On June 17, 1775, five thousand British +soldiers under Howe, Clinton, and Pigott attacked a smaller number of +Americans then stationed on Breed's Hill near Boston, under Colonel +William Prescott. They were twice beaten back, but captured the hill on +their third charge. The British loss was about twelve hundred men, while +the Americans lost only four hundred, among them, however, being the +patriot, Dr. Joseph Warren. + +[328] 2. =Times that tried men's souls=; a quotation from the first of a +series of tracts called _The Crisis_ by Thomas Paine, 1776. + +[329] 3. =Whig and Tory.= In the Colonies the Whigs were the +Revolutionists, while the Tories were the supporters of the King. The +Whigs were also called Rebels. + +[330] 5. =April running battle=; the fight at Lexington and Concord, +April 19, 1775, when the British forces were led by Lord Percy. + +[331] 16. =Mohawks=; one of the tribes of the Six Nations notorious for +their cruelty in the French and Indian War. + +[332] 42. =Banyan=; a colored morning-gown. + +[333] 67. =Dan'l Malcolm=; an allusion to an inscription on a gravestone +in Copp's Hill Burial Ground, Boston. The inscription is as follows:-- + + "Here lies buried in a + Stone Grave 10 feet deep + Capt. Daniel Malcolm Mercht + Who departed this Life + October 23, 1769, + Aged 44 years, + A true son of Liberty, + A Friend to the Publick, + An Enemy to oppression, + And one of the foremost + In opposing the Revenue Acts + On America." + +[334] 147. =J. S. Copley= (1737-1815) was a distinguished American +portrait-painter. + + + + + Macmillan's + + Pocket Series of English Classics + + Cloth _Uniform In Size and Binding_ 25 cents each + + + =Addison's Sir Roger de Coverley.= Edited by ZELMA GRAY, East + Side High School, Saginaw, Mich. + + =Andersen's Fairy Tales.= Translated from the Danish by + CAROLINE PEACHEY and Dr. H. W. DULCKEN. With biographical + notes and introduction by SARAH C. BROOKS, Training School, + Baltimore, Md. + + =Arabian Nights.= Edited by CLIFTON JOHNSON. + + =Arnold's Sohrab and Rustum and other Poems.= Edited by JUSTUS + COLLINS CASTLEMAN, Bloomington High School, Bloomington, + Ind. + + =Bacon's Essays.= Edited by Professor GEORGE HERBERT CLARKE, + Mercer University, Macon, Ga. + + =Blackmore's Lorna Doone.= Edited by ALBERT L. BARBOUR, + Superintendent of Schools, Natick, Mass. + + =Browning's Shorter Poems.= Edited by FRANKLIN T. BAKER, + Teachers College, New York City. + + =Mrs. Browning's Poems= (Selections from). Edited by HELOISE E. + HERSHEY. + + =Bryant's Thanatopsis, Sella, and other Poems.= Edited by J. H. + Castleman, Michigan Military Academy, Orchard Lake, Mich. + + =Bulwer-Lytton's Last Days of Pompeii.= Edited by J. H. + CASTLEMAN. + + =Bunyan's The Pilgrim's Progress.= Edited by Professor HUGH + MOFFATT, Central High School, Philadelphia, Pa. + + =Burke's Speech on Conciliation.= Edited by S. C. NEWSOM, + Manual Training High School, Indianapolis, Ind. + + =Burns' Poems and Songs.= Selected by P. M. BUCK, JR. + + =Byron's Shorter Poems.= Edited by RALPH HARTT BOWLES, + Instructor in English in The Phillips Exeter Academy, + Exeter, N.H. + + =Carlyle's Essay on Burns=, with Selections. Edited by WILLARD + C. GORE, Armour Institute, Chicago, Ill. + + =Carlyle's Heroes and Hero Worship.= Edited by Mrs. ANNIE + RUSSELL MARBLE. + + =Carroll's Alice in Wonderland.= Edited by CHARLES A. MCMURRY. + + =Chaucer's Prologue to the Book of the Tales of Canterbury, the + Knight's Tale, and the Nun's Priest's Tale.= Edited by + ANDREW INGRAHAM. + + =Church's The Story of the Iliad.= + + =Church's The Story of the Odyssey.= + + =Coleridge's The Ancient Mariner.= Edited by T. F. HUNTINGTON, + Leland Stanford Junior University. + + =Cooper's Last of the Mohicans.= Edited by W. K. WICKES, + Principal of the High School, Syracuse, N.Y. + + =Cooper's The Deerslayer.= + + =Cooper's The Spy.= Edited by SAMUEL THURBER, JR. + + =Dana's Two Years before the Mast.= Edited by HOMER E. KEYES, + Dartmouth College. + + =Defoe's Robinson Crusoe.= Edited by CLIFTON JOHNSON. + + =De Quincey's Confessions of an English Opium-Eater.= Edited by + ARTHUR BEATTY, University of Wisconsin. + + =De Quincey's Joan of Arc and The English Mail-Coach.= Edited + by CAROL M. NEWMAN, Virginia Polytechnic Institute. + + =Dickens's A Christmas Carol and The Cricket on the Hearth. = + Edited by JAMES M. SAWIN, with the collaboration of IDA M. + THOMAS. + + =Dickens's A Tale of Two Cities.= Edited by H. G. BUEHLER, + Hotchkiss School, Lakeville, Conn., and L. MASON. + + =Dryden's Palamon and Arcite.= Edited by PERCIVAL CHUBB, + Vice-Principal Ethical Culture Schools, New York City. + + =Early American Orations, 1760-1824.= Edited by LOUIE R. + HELLER, Instructor in English in the De Witt Clinton High + School, New York City. + + =Edwards's (Jonathan) Sermons (Selections).= Edited by H. N. + GARDINER, Professor of Philosophy, Smith College. + + =Emerson's Earlier Poems.= Edited by O. C. GALLAGHER. + + =Emerson's Essays (Selected).= Edited by EUGENE D. HOLMES. + + =Emerson's Representative Men.= Edited by PHILO MELVYN BUCK, + JR., William McKinley High School, St. Louis, Mo. + + =Epoch-making Papers in United States History.= Edited by M. S. + BROWN, New York University. + + =Franklin's Autobiography.= + + =Mrs. Gaskell's Cranford.= Edited by Professor MARTIN W. + SAMPSON, Indiana University. + + =George Eliot's Silas Marner.= Edited by E. L. GULICK, + Lawrenceville School, Lawrenceville, N.J. + + =Goldsmith's The Deserted Village and The Traveller.= Edited by + ROBERT N. WHITEFORD, High School, Peoria, Ill. + + =Goldsmith's Vicar of Wakefield.= Edited by H. W. BOYNTON, + Phillips Academy, Andover, Mass. + + =Gray's Elegy.= Edited by J. H. CASTLEMAN. + + =Grimm's Fairy Tales.= Edited by JAMES H. FASSETT, + Superintendent of Schools, Nashua, N.H. + + =Hawthorne's Grandfather's Chair.= Edited by H. H. KINGSLEY, + Superintendent of Schools, Evanston, Ill. + + =Hawthorne's The House of the Seven Gables.= Edited by CLYDE + FURST, Secretary of Teachers College, Columbia University. + + =Hawthorne's Mosses from an Old Manse.= Edited by C. E. + BURBANK. + + =Hawthorne's Tanglewood Tales.= Edited by R. H. BEGGS. + + =Hawthorne's Twice-Told Tales.= Edited by C. R. GASTON. + + =Hawthorne's The Wonder-Book.= Edited by L. E. WOLFE, + Superintendent of Schools, San Antonio, Texas. + + =Homer's Iliad.= Translated by LANG, LEAF, and MYERS. + + =Homer's Odyssey.= Translated by BUTCHER and LANG. + + =Hughes' Tom Brown's School Days.= Edited by CHARLES S. THOMAS. + + =Irving's Alhambra.= Edited by ALFRED M. HITCHCOCK, Public High + School, Hartford, Conn. + + =Irving's Knickerbocker History of New York.= Edited by Prof. + E. A. GREENLAW, Adelphi College, New York City. + + =Irving's Life of Goldsmith.= Edited by GILBERT SYKES BLAKELY, + Teacher of English in the Morris High School, New York + City. + + =Irving's Sketch Book.= + + =Keary's Heroes of Asgard.= Edited by CHARLES H. MORSS. + + =Kingsley's The Heroes: Greek Fairy Tales.= Edited by CHARLES + A. MCMURRY, Ph.D. + + =Lamb's Essays of Elia.= Edited by HELEN J. ROBINS. + + =Lamb's Tales from Shakespeare.= Edited by A. AINGER. + + =Longfellow's Courtship of Miles Standish.= Edited by HOMER P. + LEWIS. + + =Longfellow's Courtship of Miles Standish, and Minor Poems.= + Edited by W. D. HOWE, Butler College, Indianapolis, Ind. + + =Longfellow's Evangeline.= Edited by LEWIS B. SEMPLE, + Commercial High School, Brooklyn, N.Y. + + =Longfellow's Tales of a Wayside Inn.= Edited by J. H. + CASTLEMAN. + + =Longfellow's The Song of Hiawatha.= Edited by ELIZABETH J. + FLEMING, Teachers' Training School, Baltimore, Md. + + =Lowell's Vision of Sir Launfal.= Edited by HERBERT E. BATES, + Manual Training High School, Brooklyn, N.Y. + + =Macaulay's Essay on Addison.= Edited by C. W. FRENCH, + Principal of Hyde Park High School, Chicago, Ill. + + =Macaulay's Essay on Clive.= Edited by J. W. PEARCE, Assistant + Professor of English in Tulane University. + + =Macaulay's Essay on Johnson.= Edited by WILLIAM SCHUYLER, + Assistant Principal of the St. Louis High School. + + =Macaulay's Essay on Milton.= Edited by C. W. FRENCH. + + =Macaulay's Essay on Warren Hastings.= Edited by Mrs. M. J. + FRICK, Los Angeles, Cal. + + =Macaulay's Lays of Ancient Rome, and other Poems.= Edited by + FRANKLIN T. BAKER, Teachers College, Columbia University. + + =Malory's Morte d'Arthur (Selections).= Edited by _D. W. + Swiggett_. + + =Memorable Passages from the Bible (Authorized Version).= + Selected and edited by FRED NEWTON SCOTT, Professor of + Rhetoric in the University of Michigan. + + =Milton's Paradise Lost, Books I and II.= Edited by W. I. + CRANE. + + =Old English Ballads.= Edited by WILLIAM D. ARMES, of the + University of California. + + =Out of the Northland.= Edited by EMILIE KIP BAKER. + + =Palgrave's Golden Treasury of Songs and Lyrics.= + + =Plutarch's Lives of Cæsar, Brutus, and Antony.= Edited by + MARTHA BRIER, Polytechnic High School, Oakland, Cal. + + =Poe's Poems.= Edited by CHARLES W. KENT, University of + Virginia. + + =Poe's Prose Tales (Selections from).= + + =Pope's Homer's Iliad.= Edited by ALBERT SMYTH, Head Professor + of English Language and Literature, Central High School, + Philadelphia, Pa. + + =Pope's The Rape of the Lock.= Edited by ELIZABETH M. KING. + + =Ruskin's Sesame and Lilies and The King of the Golden River.= + Edited by HERBERT E. BATES. + + =Scott's Ivanhoe.= Edited by ALFRED M. HITCHCOCK. + + =Scott's Kenilworth.= Edited by J. H. CASTLEMAN, Editor of + Gray's Elegy, Longfellow's Tales of a Wayside Inn, Bryant's + Thanatopsis, etc. + + =Scott's Lady of the Lake.= Edited by ELIZABETH A. PACKARD. + + =Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel.= Edited by RALPH H. BOWLES. + + =Scott's Marmion.= Edited by GEORGE B. AITON, State Inspector + of High Schools for Minnesota. + + =Scott's Quentin Durward.= Edited by ARTHUR LLEWELLYN ENO, + Instructor in the University of Illinois. + + =Scott's The Talisman.= Edited by FREDERICK TREUDLEY, State + Normal College, Ohio University. + + Shakespeare's As You Like It. Edited by CHARLES ROBERT GASTON. + + =Shakespeare's Hamlet.= Edited by L. A. SHERMAN, Professor of + English Literature in the University of Nebraska. + + =Shakespeare's Henry V.= Edited by RALPH HARTT BOWLES, Phillips + Exeter Academy, Exeter, N.H. + + =Shakespeare's Julius Cæsar.= Edited by GEORGE W. HUFFORD and + LOIS G. HUFFORD, High School, Indianapolis, Ind. + + =Shakespeare's Macbeth.= Edited by C. W. FRENCH. + + =Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice.= Edited by CHARLOTTE W. + UNDERWOOD, Lewis Institute, Chicago, Ill. + + =Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's Dream.= Edited by E. C. NOYES. + + =Shakespeare's Richard II.= Edited by JAMES HUGH MOFFATT. + + =Shakespeare's The Tempest.= Edited by S. C. NEWSOM. + + =Shakespeare's Twelfth Night.= Edited by EDWARD P. MORTON. + + =Shelley and Keats (Selections from).= Edited by S. C. NEWSOM. + + =Sheridan's The Rivals, and The School for Scandal.= Edited by + W. D. HOWE. + + =Southern Poets (Selections from).= Edited by W. L. WEBER. + + =Spenser's Faerie Queene, Book I.= Edited by GEORGE ARMSTRONG + WAUCHOPE, Professor of English in the South Carolina + College. + + =Stevenson's Kidnapped.= Edited by JOHN THOMPSON BROWN. + + =Stevenson's Master of Ballantrae.= Edited by H. A. WHITE. + + =Stevenson's Treasure Island.= Edited by _H. A. Vance_, + Professor of English in the University of Nashville. + + =Swift's Gulliver's Travels.= Edited by CLIFTON JOHNSON. + + =Tennyson's Shorter Poems.= Edited by CHARLES READ NUTTER. + + =Tennyson's The Princess.= Edited by WILSON FARRAND. + + =Thackeray's Henry Esmond.= Edited by JOHN BELL HENNEMAN, + Universityof the South, Sewanee, Tenn. + + =Washington's Farewell Address, and Webster's First Bunker Hill + Oration.= Edited by WILLIAM T. PECK. + + =John Woolman's Journal.= + + =Wordsworth's Shorter Poems.= Edited by EDWARD FULTON. + + THE MACMILLAN COMPANY + 64-66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK + + + [** Transcriber's Note: + + - [=a] stands for an "a" with a bar over it + - [oe] ligatures replaced with simply "oe" + - in LOCHNIVAR, l.34, changed bridgroom to bridegroom + - in HOHENLINDEN, l.89, changed "." to "," + - in ENOCH ARDEN corrected line number to 355 from 455 + - in ending advert, changed Lambs' to Lamb's + **] + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of English Narrative Poems, by Various + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 42058 *** |