diff options
| author | www-data <www-data@mail.pglaf.org> | 2026-04-09 13:21:25 -0700 |
|---|---|---|
| committer | www-data <www-data@mail.pglaf.org> | 2026-04-09 13:21:25 -0700 |
| commit | fc4e7acdb9a47f53aa5801a5861ca6eaacb2b085 (patch) | |
| tree | 844c71c66790083d400dad4b72097f686e8e4c9a /78406-0.txt | |
Diffstat (limited to '78406-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 78406-0.txt | 44417 |
1 files changed, 44417 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/78406-0.txt b/78406-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d440349 --- /dev/null +++ b/78406-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,44417 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78406 *** + + + + + THE POETICAL WORKS + OF + HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. + +[Illustration] + +[Illustration: _Portrait of_ HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.] + + + + + _THE “IMPERIAL” POETS._ + + THE POETICAL WORKS OF + HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. + + REPRINTED FROM THE REVISED AMERICAN EDITION, + =_Including Recent Poems and Illustrated Memoir._= + + [Illustration] + + LONDON: + FREDERICK WARNE AND CO. + BEDFORD STREET, STRAND. + 1889. + + _Morrison and Gibb, Edinburgh, + Printers to Her Majesty’s Stationery Office._ + + + + +PUBLISHERS’ PREFACE. + + +The Publishers have the pleasure of presenting to the Public in this +volume an edition of LONGFELLOW’S POEMS, revised and corrected by +comparison with his last American Edition, in which he made many +emendations; and including his earliest and latest Poems, among which +are several that have not appeared in any other edition of this popular +AUTHOR’S works. + +[Illustration] + + + + +CONTENTS. + + + EARLY POEMS. + PAGE + An April Day 1 + Autumn 2 + Sunrise on the Hills 3 + Woods in Winter 4 + Hymn of the Moravian Nuns of Bethlehem, + at the Consecration of Pulaski’s Banner 4 + Burial of the Minnisink 5 + The Spirit of Poetry 5 + + VOICES OF THE NIGHT. + Prelude 7 + Hymn to the Night 8 + A Psalm of Life 9 + Footsteps of Angels 9 + The Reaper and the Flowers 10 + The Light of Stars 11 + Flowers 11 + The Beleaguered City 13 + L’Envoi 13 + Midnight Mass for the Dying Year 14 + + BALLADS. + The Skeleton in Armour 15 + The Wreck of the _Hesperus_ 17 + + POEMS ON SLAVERY. + To William E. Channing 20 + The Slave’s Dream 20 + The Slave in the Dismal Swamp 21 + The Good Part that shall not be taken away 21 + The Quadroon Girl 22 + The Witnesses 23 + The Warning 23 + The Slave singing at Midnight 24 + + MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. + It is not always May 25 + The Rainy Day 25 + The Village Blacksmith 26 + Endymion 26 + God’s-Acre 27 + To the River Charles 27 + Blind Bartimeus 28 + The Goblet of Life 28 + The Sea-Diver 29 + The Belfry of Bruges 30 + Maidenhood 32 + The Arsenal at Springfield 33 + A Gleam of Sunshine 34 + Nuremberg 35 + The Indian Hunter 37 + The Norman Baron 38 + To a Child 39 + The Occultation of Orion 43 + Rain in Summer 44 + The Bridge 45 + Excelsior 46 + To the Driving Cloud 47 + Curfew 48 + + SONGS. + To an old Danish Song-book 49 + The Arrow and the Song 50 + Walter Von der Vogelweid 50 + The Day is Done 51 + Sea-weed 51 + Drinking Song 52 + The Old Clock on the Stairs 53 + Afternoon in February 54 + + THE SPANISH STUDENT 55 + + EVANGELINE 106 + + THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE. + Dedication 139 + + + BY THE SEASIDE. + The Building of the Ship 140 + Twilight 145 + The Fire of Drift-wood 145 + The Lighthouse 146 + Sir Humphrey Gilbert 147 + The Secret of the Sea 148 + The Evening Star 149 + + BY THE FIRESIDE. + Resignation 149 + The Builders 150 + Sand of the Desert in an Hour-glass 151 + Pegasus in Pound 152 + King Witlaf’s Drinking-horn 153 + Tegner’s Drapa 153 + The Singers 154 + Suspiria 155 + The Open Window 155 + Hymn 155 + Gasper Becerra 156 + + THE GOLDEN LEGEND. + Prologue 157 + The Nativity: A Miracle-Play 197 + Epilogue 249 + + Martin Luther 251 + St. John 253 + + THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 255 + + THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH 314 + + TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. + DAY THE FIRST. + Prelude—The Wayside Inn 338 + The Landlord’s Tale—Paul Revere’s Ride 341 + Interlude 344 + The Student’s Tale—The Falcon of Ser Federigo 345 + Interlude 351 + The Spanish Jew’s Tale—The Legend of + Rabbi Ben Levi 352 + Interlude 353 + The Sicilian’s Tale—King Robert of Sicily 354 + Interlude 358 + The Musician’s Tale—The Saga of King Olaf 359 + I. The Challenge of Thor 359 + II. King Olaf’s Return 359 + III. Thora of Rimol 360 + IV. Queen Sigrid the Haughty 361 + V. The Skerry of Shrieks 363 + VI. The Wraith of Odin 364 + VII. Iron-Beard 366 + VIII. Gudrun 368 + IX. Thangbrand the Priest 368 + X. Raud the Strong 369 + XI. Bishop Sigurd at Salten Fiord 370 + XII. King Olaf’s Christmas 371 + XIII. The Building of the Long Serpent 372 + XIV. The Crew of the Long Serpent 373 + XV. A Little Bird in the Air 374 + XVI. Queen Thyri and the Angelica-stalks 374 + XVII. King Svend of the Forkèd Beard 375 + XVIII. King Olaf and Earl Sigvald 376 + XIX. King Olaf’s War-horns 377 + XX. Einar Tamberskelver 378 + XXI. King Olaf’s Death-drink 378 + XXII. The Nun of Nidaros 379 + Interlude 380 + The Theologian’s Tale—Torquemada 381 + Interlude 386 + The Poet’s Tale—The Birds of Killingworth 386 + Close of First Day 392 + + THE SECOND DAY. + Prelude 392 + The Sicilian’s Tale—The Bell of Atri 394 + Interlude 396 + The Spanish Jew’s Tale—Kambalu 397 + Interlude 399 + The Student’s Tale—The Cobbler of Hagenau 399 + Interlude 402 + The Musician’s Tale—The Ballad of Carmilhan 403 + Interlude 406 + The Poet’s Tale—Lady Wentworth 406 + Interlude 410 + The Theologian’s Tale—The Legend Beautiful 410 + Interlude 412 + The Student’s Second Tale—The Baron of + St. Castine 412 + Finale 419 + + Scanderbeg 419 + The Rhyme of Sir Christopher 421 + Charlemagne 423 + + FLOWER-DE-LUCE. + Beautiful Lily 425 + Palingenesis 426 + Hawthorne 427 + The Bells of Lynn 428 + The Bridge of Cloud 429 + The Wind over the Chimney 429 + Killed at the Ford 430 + Noël 431 + Christmas Bells 432 + + SONNETS + Autumn 434 + Giotto’s Tower 434 + Dante 435 + To-morrow 435 + The Evening Star 435 + Divina Commedia 436 + On Mrs. Kemble’s Readings from Shakespeare 437 + Nature 438 + In the Churchyard at Tarrytown 438 + Eliot’s Oak 438 + The Descent of the Muses 439 + Venice 439 + The Two Rivers 439 + Chaucer 441 + Woodstock Park 441 + St. John’s, Cambridge 441 + Boston 442 + The Burial of the Poet 442 + The Three Silences of Molinos 442 + My Cathedral 443 + To the River Rhone 443 + Wapentake 443 + The Broken Oar 444 + Agassiz 444 + + THE HANGING OF THE CRANE 445 + MORITURI SALUTAMUS 447 + + KÉRAMOS 454 + + BIRDS OF PASSAGE. + FLIGHT THE FIRST. + Prometheus; or, The Poet’s Forethought 459 + The Ladder of St. Augustine 460 + Birds of Passage 460 + The Phantom Ship 461 + The Warden of the Cinque Ports 462 + Haunted Houses 463 + The Emperor’s Bird’s-nest 464 + In the Churchyard at Cambridge 465 + The Two Angels 465 + Oliver Basselin 466 + The Jewish Cemetery at Newport 467 + Victor Galbraith 469 + Daylight and Moonlight 470 + My Lost Youth 470 + The Ropewalk 472 + The Golden Milestone 473 + Catawba Wine 474 + Daybreak 475 + Santa Filomena 476 + The Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz 476 + The Discoverer of the North Cape 477 + Children 478 + Sandalphon 479 + Epimetheus; or, The Poet’s Afterthought 479 + + FLIGHT THE SECOND. + A Day of Sunshine 480 + The Children’s Hour 481 + Enceladus 481 + The Cumberland 482 + Something Left Undone 483 + Weariness 483 + Snow-flakes 484 + + FLIGHT THE THIRD. + Cadenabbia 484 + Charles Sumner 485 + Monte Cassino 485 + Amalfi 487 + A Dutch Picture 488 + The Sermon of St. Francis 489 + Travels by the Fireside 490 + + FLIGHT THE FOURTH. + The Herons of Elmwood 491 + Vittoria Colonna 491 + Song 492 + A Ballad of the French Fleet 492 + Castles in Spain 493 + The White Czar 494 + The Leap of Roushan Beg 495 + Haroun Al Raschid 496 + The Three Kings 496 + King Trisanku 498 + Vox Populi 498 + The Revenge of Rain-in-the-Face 498 + To the River Yvette 499 + The Emperor’s Glove 499 + A Wraith in the Mist 499 + + MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. + The Golden Sunset 500 + From my Arm-chair 500 + The Chamber over the Gate 501 + The Four Lakes of Madison 502 + The Sifting of Peter 503 + Helen of Tyre 503 + The Iron Pen 504 + The Poet and his Songs 504 + Robert Burns 505 + Bayard Taylor 506 + Old St. David’s at Radnor 507 + Jugurtha 508 + Maiden and Weathercock 508 + The Windmill 509 + Via Solitaria 510 + Auf Wiedersehen 511 + Ultima Thule 511 + Hermes Trismegistus 512 + Decoration Day 513 + Mad River 514 + Inscription on the Shanklin Fountain, + Isle of Wight 515 + The Bells of San Blas 516 + President Garfield 517 + + EARLIEST POEMS. + Thanksgiving 518 + Autumnal Nightfall 519 + Italian Scenery 520 + The Lunatic Girl 522 + The Venetian Gondolier 524 + Dirge over a Nameless Grave 525 + A Song of Savoy 525 + Jeckoyva 525 + Musings 527 + Song 528 + + TRANSLATIONS. + TRANSLATIONS FROM THE SPANISH AND PORTUGUESE. + Coplas de Manrique 529 + The Good Shepherd 535 + The Brook 535 + Santa Teresa’s Book-mark 535 + To-morrow 536 + The Native Land 536 + The Image of God 536 + Two Sonnets from Francisco de Medrano 537 + + TRANSLATIONS FROM THE ITALIAN. + The Celestial Pilot 538 + The Terrestrial Paradise 539 + Beatrice 540 + Three Cantos of Dante’s Paradiso 541 + The Old Bridge at Florence 551 + The Nature of Love 552 + To Italy 552 + + TRANSLATIONS FROM THE FRENCH. + Spring 553 + The Child Asleep 553 + Rondel—From Froissard 554 + Rondel—From the Duke of Orleans 554 + Renouveau 555 + Friar Lubin 555 + Death of Archbishop Turpin 556 + To Cardinal Richelieu 557 + Consolation 558 + The Angel and the Child 559 + A Christmas Carol 560 + The Blind Girl of Castèl-Cuillè 560 + My Secret 569 + Barréges 570 + On the Terrace of the Aigalades 570 + + TRANSLATIONS FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON. + The Grave 571 + Beowulf’s Expedition to Heort 571 + The Soul’s Complaint against the Body 573 + + TRANSLATIONS FROM THE SWEDISH. + Frithiof’s Homestead 573 + Frithiof’s Temptation 574 + The Children of the Lord’s Supper 576 + + TRANSLATIONS FROM THE GERMAN. + The Statue over the Cathedral Door 585 + The Hemlock-tree 586 + Annie of Tharaw 586 + The Legend of the Crossbill 588 + Poetic Aphorisms 588 + The Sea hath its Pearls 590 + Song of the Silent Land 590 + Blessed are the Dead 591 + The Wave 591 + The Bird and the Ship 592 + The Happiest Land 593 + Whither? 593 + Beware! 594 + Song of the Bell 594 + The Dead 594 + The Castle by the Sea 595 + Wanderer’s Night-Songs 595 + The Black Knight 595 + Silent Love 596 + The Luck of Edenhall 597 + The Two Locks of Hair 598 + Remorse 599 + + TRANSLATIONS FROM THE DANISH. + King Christian 599 + The Elected Knight 600 + Childhood 602 + + MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. + The Fugitive 603 + To the Stork 604 + The Boy and the Brook 605 + The Siege of Kazan 605 + Columbus 606 + + NOTES 607 + + INDEX OF FIRST LINES 627 + + + + +MEMOIR. + + +Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was born at Portland, Maine, on the 27th of +February, 1807. His father, Mr. Stephen Longfellow, a native of Gorham, +Maine, then a District of Massachusetts, was a descendant of William +Longfellow, of Newbury, in the same state, who was born in Yorkshire, +England, in 1651, and emigrated to America in early youth. He married +Miss Anne Sewell, and after a married life of fourteen years was +drowned at Anticosti, a large desert island in the estuary of the St. +Lawrence. Mr. Stephen Longfellow, a descendant in the fourth generation +of this gentleman, was born in the year in which the colonies declared +their independence of the mother country. He graduated at Harvard +College in his twenty-second year, and devoted himself to the law, +removing to Portland at the beginning of the present century. He was a +good jurist, as the Massachusetts and Maine Reports testify, and was a +member of the national Congress when it was an honour to belong to that +body. He was also the president of the Maine Historical Society. He was +the father of our poet, whose mother was a descendant of John Alden: +who must have been a prolific old Puritan, for his descendants have +produced two American poets, William Cullen Bryant and Henry Wadsworth +Longfellow. + +[Illustration: LONGFELLOW’S DRAWING-ROOM.] + +The first school the young poet attended was kept by a Mrs. Fellows, in +a small house in Spring Street. Later he went to the town school, and +soon after to the private school of Nathaniel H. Carter. Afterwards he +attended the Portland Academy under the same master, and also under the +mastership of Bezaleel Cushman. He entered Bowdoin College at the age +of fourteen. It was a remarkable class in which he found himself for it +contained, among other men who have arrived at eminence in literature, +Nathaniel Hawthorne, George B. Cheever, and J. S. C. Abbott: and he +must have distinguished himself, or he would not have received—as he +did—the appointment of professor of modern languages and literatures, +shortly after he graduated, in 1825. He accepted this appointment, +with the privilege of going abroad for three years, in order to qualify +himself fully for his duties, and the following year saw him travelling +on the Continent. + +During his last years at college, the future professor of modern +literature contributed in a modest way to the poetry of his native +land. There was no American poet at the time worth speaking of, except +Bryant; and there were no periodicals in the states, to which young +aspirants could send their contributions. Attempts had been made to +establish them, but without success, for they either died after a few +months’ struggle, or were merged in others, which were threatened with +dissolution. There was in New York a “Literary Gazette” (for which +Griswold says Sands wrote); then an “Atlantic Monthly”; and then the +“New York Review and Athenæum Magazine,” of which Bryant was the first +editor. This became, by the process of merging, the “New York Literary +Gazette and American Athenæum,” which culminated in the “United States +Literary Gazette.” It was in the pages of this last publication, which +was issued simultaneously in New York and Boston, that the early poems +of the young Bowdoin student were given to the world. + +With rare exceptions, early poems are imitative, either of one or +more poets whom their writers have read and admired, or of what is +most marked in the poetry of the period. A careful reading of the +“United States Literary Gazette” would show, I have no doubt, that +Mr. Longfellow was not the only American singer, young and old, whose +work bore the impress of the Author of “Thanatopsis.” It is legible +in “Autumn,” “Sunrise on the Hills,” and “The Spirit of Poetry” (I +am writing of Mr. Longfellow’s early poems), and it is present, in +suggestion, in “An April Day,” “Woods in Winter,” and “The Burial of +the Minnesink.” Description of nature is the motive of these pieces, +which are written from books rather than from observation. They show +an apt ear for versification, and a sensitive temperament, which makes +its own individuality felt in the midst of alien poetic influences. +Clearly, a new poet had appeared in the “United States Literary +Gazette.” + +European travel was not common among Americans fifty years ago; nor +were the places to be visited always determined beforehand. A certain +amount of originality was allowed to the tourist, and if he wrote a +book about what he saw it was not expected that he should cram it with +information. He could be desultory, scholarly, whimsical,—he might +even be a little dull: what was wanted were his impressions. The time +allotted to Mr. Longfellow by his _alma mater_ was passed in France, +Spain, Italy, Germany, Holland, and England. We have glimpses of what +he saw in the first three of these countries, and, in a measure, of his +studies and meditations therein. He has not enabled us to follow his +itinerary with any certainty. + +Mr. Longfellow returned to America, and to his duties at Brunswick, and +took to himself a wife in his twenty-fourth year. + +His first volume, which was published in Boston, in his twenty-sixth +year (1833), is a translation of the “Coplas de Don Jorge Manrique,” +a thin little twelvemo of eighty-nine pages, which opens with an +“Introductory Essay on the Moral and Devotional Poetry of Spain.” This +scholarly paper contains all that the average reader of forty-five +years ago would care to read in regard to the comprehensive subject +which it discussed. The preface briefly dismissed the original writer +by saying that he followed the profession of arms, as did most Spanish +poets of any eminence; that he fought beneath the banner of his father +Roderigo Manrique, Conde de Parades, and Maestre de Santiago, and that +he died on the field of battle near Cañavete, in the year 1479. This +young soldier has rendered imperishable the memory of his father, in +an ode which is a model of its kind, and which ranks among the world’s +great funeral hymns. It is admirably translated by Mr. Longfellow, +other of whose Spanish studies follow it in the little volume of which +I have spoken in the shape of seven moral and devotional sonnets; +two of which are by Lope de Vega, two by Francisco de Aldana, two by +Francisco de Medrano, the last, “The Brook,” being by an anonymous +poet. The sonnets of Medrano, “Art and Nature,” and “The Two Harvests,” +were omitted in the later editions of Mr. Longfellow’s works, but have +been restored to their proper place in this volume. + +The fruits of Mr. Longfellow’s three years’ residence in Europe were +given to the world two years later. If Bryant had been unconsciously +his model in his early poems he cannot be said to have had a model in +“Outre-Mer.” It has reminded certain English critics of Washington +Irving; I fail to see in what respect. It is more scholarly than “The +Sketch Book,” and the style is sweeter and mellower than obtains +in that famous collection of papers,—the writer warbling, like +Sidney, in poetic prose. France receives the largest share of his +attention, and is most lovingly observed, partly for its old-fashioned +picturesqueness, but more, perhaps, because it happened to hit +his fancy. In the ninth chapter or section, which glances at “The +Trouvères,” we have the first French translations by Mr. Longfellow. +One is a song in praise of “Spring” by Charles d’Orleans, the other is +a copy of verses upon a sleeping child by Clotilde de Surville. They +are elegantly translated, but we feel in reading them that the subtle +aroma of their originals has somehow escaped. They do not suggest the +fifteenth but the nineteenth century. + +“Outre-Mer” is interesting to the student of American literature +as an excellent example of a kind of prose—half essay and half +narrative—which ranks among the things that were. It could not flourish +now, nor can it flourish hereafter, but it delighted a literary and +sympathetic class of readers forty years ago, to whom it was a pleasant +revealment of Old World places, customs, stories, and literatures. It +was quietly humorous, it was prettily pathetic, and it was pensive and +poetical. Sentimental readers were attracted to the little sketch of +“Jacqueline,” humorous readers to “Martin Franc and the Monk of Saint +Anthony,” and “The Notary of Périgueux,” and literary readers to “The +Trouvères,” “Ancient Spanish Ballads,” and “The Devotional Poetry of +Spain.” (The last paper, by the way, was a reprint of the introduction +to the “Coplas de Don Jorge Manrique”) + +The publication of “Outre-Mer,” and his growing reputation as a poet, +pointed out Mr. Longfellow as the successor of Mr. George Ticknor, who +in 1835 resigned his professorship of modern languages and literature +in Harvard College. He was elected to fill the place of the erudite +historian of Spanish Literature, and resigning his chair at Brunswick, +he went abroad a second time in order to complete his studies in the +literature of Northern Europe. He remained abroad a little over a year, +passing the summer in Denmark and Sweden and the autumn and winter in +Germany. The sudden death of his wife at Rotterdam arrested his travel +and his studies until the following spring and summer, which were +spent in the Tyrol and Switzerland. He returned to the United States +in November, 1836, and entered upon his duties at Cambridge which he +discharged for eighteen years. + +[Illustration: THE REAR LAWN LOOKING TOWARD LONGFELLOW’s HOUSE. (ALL +THIS PART OF THE LAWN IS COVERED WITH GIGANTIC ELM-TREES. THE HOUSE IS +NEARLY HIDDEN BY THE TREES AND LILAC BUSHES.)] + +[Illustration: THE AVENUE NORTH OF THE HOUSE.] + +Mr. Longfellow’s house at Cambridge is one of the few American houses +to which pilgrimages will be made in the future. It was surrounded with +historic associations before he entered it, and it is now surrounded +with poetic ones,—a double halo encircling its time-honoured walls. It +is supposed to have been built in the first half of the last century +by Colonel John Vassal, who died in 1747, and whose ashes repose in +the churchyard at Cambridge under a freestone tablet, on which are +sculptured the words _Vas-sol_, and the emblems a goblet and sun. +He left a son John, who lived into Revolutionary times, and was a +royalist, as many of the rich colonists were. The house passed from +his hands, and came into the hands of the provincial government, who +allotted it to General Washington as his head-quarters after the battle +of Bunker’s Hill. Its next occupant was a certain Mr. Thomas Tracy, of +whom tradition says that he was very rich, and that his servants drank +his costly wines from carved pitchers. He appears to have sent out +privateers to scour the seas in the East and West Indies, and to worry +the commerce of England and Spain; though why he should include the +galleons of Spain in his free-booting voyages is not clear. He failed +one day, and the hundred guests who had been accustomed to sit down +at the banquets of Vassal house, were compelled to find other hosts. +Bankrupt Tracy was succeeded by Andrew Craigie, apothecary-general of +the northern provincial army, who amassed a fortune in that office, +which fortune took to itself wings, though not before it had enlarged +Vassal house, and built a bridge over the Charles River connecting +Cambridge with Boston and still bearing his name. + +[Illustration: THE WESTERN ENTRANCE. (FROM THE PIAZZA THERE IS A VIEW +OF THE RIVER CHARLES, BRIGHTON, AND THE DISTANT HILLS.)] + +In the summer of 1837, a studious young gentleman of thirty might have +been seen wending his way down the elm-shaded path which led to the +Craigie house. He lifted the huge knocker, which fell with a brazen +clang, and inquired for Mrs. Craigie. The parlour door was thrown open, +and a tall, erect figure, crowned with a turban, stood before him. It +was the relict of Andrew Craigie, whilome apothecary-general of the +dead and gone northern provincial army. The young gentleman inquired if +there was a room vacant in her house. + +“I lodge students no longer,” she answered gravely. + +“But I am not a student,” he remarked. “I am a professor in the +University.” + +“A professor?” she inquired, as if she associated learning with age. + +“Professor Longfellow,” said the would-be lodger. + +“Ah! that is different. I will show you what there is.” + +She then proceeded to show him several rooms, saying, as she closed +the door of each, “You cannot have that.” At last she opened the door +of the south-east corner room of the second story, and said that he +could have it. “This was General Washington’s chamber.” So Professor +Longfellow became a resident of this old historic house, which had been +occupied before him by Edward Everett and Jared Sparks, and which was +occupied with him by Joseph E. Worcester, the lexicographer. Truly, his +lines had fallen in pleasant places. + +Professor Longfellow’s collegiate duties left him leisure for +literary pursuits, and he turned it to advantage by writing a paper +on “Frithiof’s Saga,” and another on the “Twice-told Tales” of his +fellow-collegian, Hawthorne, whose rare excellence he was among the +first to perceive. These papers were published in the “North American +Review,” in 1837. They were followed during the next year by other +papers: among them one on “Anglo-Saxon Literature,” and another on +“Paris in the Seventeenth Century,” which were contributions to the +same periodical. + +[Illustration: THE STUDY.] + +The papers mentioned, or some of them, were written in the chamber +which Washington had occupied, as well as a series of papers of which +European travel in Germany and Switzerland, and European experience +and legend, were the chief themes. Through these, like a silken string +through a rosary of beads, ran a slight personal narrative which may +have been real, and may have been imaginary, but which was probably +both. This narrative concerned itself with the life-history of Paul +Flemming, a tender-hearted and rather shadowy young gentleman who +had lost the friend of his youth, and who had gone abroad that the +sea might be between him and the grave. “Alas, between him and his +sorrow there could be no sea, but that of time!” He wandered from +place to place,—noting what struck his sensitive fancy and discoursing +of men and books,—student at once and pilgrim. The hand that penned +“Outre-Mer” was visible on every page of “Hyperion,” but the hand had +grown firmer in the Craigie house than it was at Brunswick; and the +scholarly sympathies of the writer had embraced a richer literature +than that of old Spain and old France. Dismissing the romantic element +of “Hyperion” for what it is worth (and there must have been genuine +worth in it, for it was the cause of its immediate popularity), the +chief and permanent value of the book lay in the new element which +it introduced into American literature—the element of German fantasy +and romanticism. It would have come in time, no doubt, but to Mr. +Longfellow belongs the honour of having hastened the time, and ushered +in the dawn. He was the herald of German poetry in the New World. The +second book of “Hyperion” contains Mr. Longfellow’s first published +translation from the German poets—the “Whither?” of Müller (“I heard +a brooklet gushing”); the third book contains the “Song of the Bell” +(“Bell, thou soundest merrily!”); “The Black Knight” (“’Twas Pentecost, +the Feast of Gladness”); “The Castle by the Sea” (“Hast thou seen that +lordly castle?”); “The Song of the Silent Land” (“Into the Silent +Land”), and “Beware!” (“I know a maiden fair to see”). Besides these +translations in verse, there is, in the first book, a dissertation or +chapter on “Jean Paul, the Only One,” and in the second book a chapter +on “Goethe,” whom Mr. Paul Flemming, by the way, does not greatly +admire. His friend the Baron defends the old heathen by saying that he +is an artist and copies nature. “So did the artists who made the bronze +lamps of Pompeii. Would you hang one of those in your hall? To say that +a man is an artist and copies nature is not enough. There are two great +schools of art, the imitative and the imaginative. The latter is the +more noble and the more enduring.” + +The dignity of the literary profession was earnestly maintained by +Mr. Longfellow. “I do not see,” remarked the Baron in one of his +conversations with Paul Flemming, “I do not see why a successful book +is not as great an event as a successful campaign, only different +in kind, and not easily compared.” The lives of literary men are +melancholy pictures of man’s strength and weakness, and, on that very +account, he thought were profitable for encouragement, consolation, +and warning. “The lesson of such lives,” continued Flemming, “is told +in a single word—wait! Therefore should every man wait—should bide +his time. Not in listless idleness, not in useless pastime, not in +querulous dejection; but in constant, steady, cheerful endeavours, +always willing, and fulfilling and accomplishing his task, that, when +the occasion comes, he may be equal to the occasion. And if it never +comes, what matters it? What matters it to the world whether I or you +or another man did such a deed, or wrote such a bock, so that the +deed and book were well done? It is the part of an indiscreet and +troublesome ambition to care too much about fame—about what the world +says of us; to be always looking in the faces of others for approval; +to be always anxious for the effect of what we do and say; to be +always shouting, to hear the echo of our own voices.” “Believe me,” he +concluded, “the talent of success is nothing more than doing what you +can do well, and doing well whatever you do, without a thought of fame. +If it come at all, it will come because it is deserved, and not because +it is sought after. And, moreover, there will be no misgivings, no +disappointment, no hasty, feverish, exhausting excitement.” + +If fame comes because it is deserved, it certainly comes to some men +much sooner than to others; why, their contemporaries and rivals do not +perceive as clearly as those who come after them. Mr. Edgar Allan Poe, +for example, could never understand why Mr. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow +was a more successful writer than himself. + +We hardly know how to characterize the seed which Mr. Longfellow began +to sow in “The Voices of the Night.” Romanticism does not describe +it, for there is nothing romantic in “The Hymn to the Night,” nor +does morality describe it, except, perhaps, as it bourgeoned in “A +Psalm of Life.” The lesson of the poem last named and of “The Light +of Stars,” was the lesson of endurance and patience and cheerfulness. +It had been taught by other poets, but not as this one taught it, not +inverse that set itself to music in the memory of thousands, and in +words that were pictures. The young man who wrote “A Psalm of Life” +possessed the art of saying rememberable things, and a very rare art +it is. Shakespeare possessed it in a supreme degree, and Pope and +Gray in a greater measure than greater poets. Merciless critics have +pointed out flaws in the literary workmanship of “A Psalm of Life,” +but its readers never saw them, or, seeing them, never cared for them. +They found it a hopeful, helpful poem. “Footsteps of Angels” is to us +the most satisfactory of all these “Voices of the Night.” There is an +indescribable tenderness in it, and the vision of the poet’s dead wife +gliding into his chamber with noiseless footsteps, taking a vacant +chair beside him, and laying her hand in his, is very pathetic. “The +Beleaguered City” is a product of poetic artifice of which there are +but few examples in English poetry. It appears to have been compounded +after a recipe which called for equal parts of outward fact and inward +meaning. Given a material city, a river, a fog, and so on, the poet +sets his wits to work to discover what corresponds, or can be made to +correspond, with them spiritually. If he is skilful, he constructs an +ingenious poem, of doubtful intellectual value. “Midnight Mass for +the Dying Year” is a medley of mediæval suggestion and Shakespearean +remembrance, which demands a large and imaginative appreciation. The +Shakespearean element appears somewhat out of place, though it adds +to the impressiveness and effectiveness as a whole. It is a medley, +however, and it must be judged by its own fantastic laws. Whatever +faults disfigured “The Voices of the Night” were lost sight of or +forgiven for the sake of their beauties and the admirable poetic spirit +which they displayed. A healthful poet was singing, and his song had +many tones. + +[Illustration: VIEW FROM THE REAR PIAZZA. (THE OPEN GATE-WAY LEADS TO +THE LAWN, A BROAD AND SPLENDID STRETCH RUNNING TOWARD THE NORTH.)] + +“Hyperion” and “The Voices of the Night,” which were published in the +same year (1839), established the reputation of Mr. Longfellow as a +graceful prose writer, and a poet who resembled no poet of the time, +either in America or England. His scholarship was evident in both, and +was not among the least of the charms which they exercised over their +readers. + +Mr. Bryant was the only American poet of any note who had enriched +the literature of his native land with translations. They showed his +familiarity with other languages, and were well thought of by scholars, +but they added nothing to his fame, for famous he was from the day he +published “Thanatopsis.” It was otherwise with the translations of +Mr. Longfellow, which brought him many laurels, and were in as great +demand as his original poems. There were twenty-three of them in the +little volume which contained “The Voices of the Night,” culled from +“Hyperion,” “Outre-Mer,” his review articles, not forgetting the +great ode of Don Jorge Manrique, and they represented six different +languages. They were well chosen, with the exception of the two +versions from the French; the subjects being in themselves poetical, +and the words in which they were clothed, characteristic of the +originals. The highest compliment that can be paid to Mr. Longfellow is +to say that they read like original poems. The most felicitous among +them are “The Castle by the Sea,” “Whither?” “The Bird and the Ship,” +and the exquisite fragment entitled “The Happiest Land.” Nearly forty +years have passed since they were collected in “The Voices of the +Night,” and these years have seen no translator equal to Mr. Longfellow. + +Mr. Longfellow’s second poetical venture, “Ballads and Other Poems,” +determined his character as a poet. It was more mature, not to say more +robust, than “The Voices of the Night,” and its readers felt sure of +its author hereafter, for he felt sure of himself. The opening ballad, +“The Skeleton in Armour,” was the most vigorous poem that he had yet +written,—a striking conception embodied in picturesque language, +and in a measure which had fallen into disuse for more than two +centuries—the measure of Drayton’s “Ballad of Agincourt.” I do not see +that a line or a word could be spared. There were two elements in this +collection not previously seen in Mr. Longfellow’s poetry, one being +the power of beautifying common things, the other, the often renewed +experiment of hexameter verse. What I mean by beautifying common things +is the making a village blacksmith a theme, and a legitimate theme, +too, for poetry. Mr. Longfellow has certainly done this. More purely +poetical than “The Village Blacksmith” is “Endymion” and “Maidenhood.” +The sentiment of the last is very refined and spirited. “It is not +always May,” “The Rainy Day,” and “God’s Acre,” are each perfect of its +kind, and the kinds are very different. “The Rainy Day,” for instance, +is in the manner of “The Beleaguered City,” which for once has produced +a good poem,—I suspect, because it is a short one. “To the River +Charles” is a pleasant glimpse of Mr. Longfellow’s early Cambridge +life, and the art of it is perfect. + +[Illustration: CHARLES RIVER.] + +The most popular poem in Mr. Longfellow’s second +collection—“Excelsior”—has more moral than poetical value. The +conception of a young man carrying a banner up a mountain, suggests +a set scene in a drama, and the end of this imaginary person does +not affect us as it should, his attempt to excel being so fool-hardy. +That he would be frozen to death was a foregone conclusion. The most +important of the translations here (all of which are excellent) was +“The Children of the Lord’s Supper,” from the Swedish of Tegnér. It +renewed, as I have said, the often baffled attempt to naturalize +hexameters in English poetry,—an attempt which Mr. Longfellow had +made four years before, in his paper on “Frithiof’s Saga,” when he +translated the description of Frithiof’s ancestral estate at Framnäs +into this measure. The poets and poetasters of the Elizabethan era +tried in vain to revive it. Gabriel Harvey, the friend of Spenser, +projected a reform of English poetry,—a reform which, if it had +succeeded, would have caused “a general surceasing of rhyme” and a +return to certain, or uncertain, rules of quantity. “Spenser suffered +himself to be drawn into this foolish scheme,” says Professor Child, +“and for a year worked away at hexameters and iambic trimeters quite +seriously.” (The year in question, I take it, was 1580.) Harvey’s +project was taken up with zeal by a coterie over which Sidney and +Dyer presided; but the wits, notably Nash, ridiculed it, the latter +saying (in substance) that the hexameter was a gentleman of an ancient +house, but that the English language was too craggy for him to run +his long plough in it. And Ascham wrote of it, about fifteen years +before, that it rather trotted and hobbled than ran smoothly “in our +English tong.” So thought not Master Abraham Fraunce, who, in 1587, +published a translation of the “Aminta” of Tasso, in hexameters, and +in the following year a work entitled “Lawier’s Logicke,” wherein +he stowed away a version of Virgil’s Eclogue of Alexis, in the same +measure. Less than a century from this date, Edward Phillips, the +nephew of Milton, paid his respects and disrespects to the ancient +and modern poets in his “Theatrum Poetarum” (1675),—a curious little +book, which is thought to reflect the opinions of his illustrious +uncle. He sums up the unlucky translator of Tasso in a few lines: +“Abraham Fraunce, a versifier of Queen Elizabeth’s time, who, imitating +Latin measure in English verse, wrote his ‘Ivy Church’ and some other +things in hexameter, some also in hexameter and pentameter; nor was +he altogether singular in this way of writing for Sir Philip Sidney, +in the pastoral interludes of his ‘Arcadia,’ uses not only those, but +all other sorts of Latin measure, in which no wonder he is followed +by so few, since they neither become the English nor any other modern +language.” Winstanley expressed the same unfavourable opinion of +Fraunce’s hexameters twelve years later (1687), stealing the very words +of Phillips for that purpose. + +Langbaine, in his “Account of the English Dramatick Poets” (1691), +adds four separate works, not mentioned by Winstanley and Phillips, +to the list of Fraunce’s productions (all in hexameters), and records +the disuse of quantitive experiments in English versification. +“Notwithstanding Mr. Chapman in his translation of Homer, and Sir +Philip Sydney in his Eclogues, have practised this way of writing, yet +this way of imitating the Latin measures of verses, particularly the +hexameter, is now laid aside, and the verse of ten syllables, which +we style heroic verse, is most in use.” The next attempt to revive +hexameters on any scale was made by that metrical experimentalist, +Southey, in his “Vision of Judgment,” in 1821,—a piece of obsequious +profanity which richly deserved the ridicule that Byron cast upon it. +Such, so far as I know, is the history of this alien measure in English +poetry. Mr. Longfellow thought well of it, as we have seen, and was +justified in so thinking by the excellence of his own practice therein. +“The Children of the Lord’s Supper” is a charming poem, to which its +antique setting is very becoming. + +Mr. Longfellow made a third voyage to Europe after publishing his +“Ballads and other Poems,” and passed the summer on the Rhine. He +returned after a few months, bringing with him a number of poems which +were written at sea, and in which he expressed his detestation of +slavery. “Poems on Slavery” were published in 1843, and dedicated to +W. E. Channing, who did not live to read the poet’s admiration of his +character and his work. This dedication, which is spirited, contains a +noble stanza: + + “Well done! Thy words are great and bold, + At times they seem to me + Like Luther’s, in the days of old, + Half battles for the free.” + +“The Slave’s Dream” is one of the few rememberable poems of which +the “peculiar institution” was the inspiration. It is exceedingly +picturesque, and its versification is masterly. The harmony of sound +and sense,—the movement of the fourth stanza is very fine: + + “And then at furious speed he rode + Along the Niger’s bank, + His bridle-reins were golden chains, + And, with a martial clank, + At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel + Smiting his stallion’s flank.” + +The fertility of Mr. Longfellow’s mind, and the variety of his powers, +were manifested in his thirty-sixth year, when he published the “Poems +on Slavery,” of which I have just spoken, and “The Spanish Student,”—a +dramatic poem, the actors in which were the antipodes of the dusky +figures which preceded them. Judged by the laws of its construction, +and by the intention of its creator, “The Spanish Student” is a +beautiful production. It should be read for what it is,—a poem, and +without the slightest thought of the stage, which was not in the mind +of the author when he wrote it. So read, it will be found radiant with +poetry, not of a passionate or profound kind, which would be out of +place; for the plot is in no sense a tragic one, but of a kind that +suggests the higher walks of serious poetic comedy. The characters +of the different actors in this little closet play are sketched with +sufficient distinctness, and the conversation, which is lively and +bustling, is suited to the speakers and their station in life. The +gipsy dancing girl, Preciosa, is a lovely creation of the poet’s fancy. + +In 1843, Mr. Longfellow was married for the second time, and became +the possessor of the Craigie house. Three years later he published +“The Belfry of Bruges and other Poems.” Traces of his early manner, +as unsuccessfully manifested in “The Beleaguered City,” appear in +“Carillon,” the prologue to the volume, and in “The Arrow and the +Song,” which is perhaps the most perfect of all his smaller pieces. +“The Belfry of Bruges” is a picturesque description of that quaint +old city, as seen from the belfry-tower in the market-place one +summer morning, and an imaginative remembrance of its past history, +which passes like a pageant before the eyes of the poet. Everything +is clearly conceived and in orderly succession, and in no poem that +he had previously written had the hand of the artist been so firm. +“Nuremberg,” a companion-piece in the same measure, is distinguished +by the same precision of touch and the same broad excellence. There is +an indescribable charm, a grace allied to melancholy, in “A Gleam of +Sunshine,” which is one of the few poems that refuse to be forgotten. +“The Arsenal at Springfield” is in a certain sense didactic, I suppose, +but I do not quite see how it could be otherwise, and be a poem at all. +A poet should be a poet first, but he should also be a man, and a man +who concerns himself with the joys and sorrows of his fellow-creatures. +There was a great lesson in the burnished arms at Springfield, and a +lesser poet than Mr. Longfellow would not have guessed it. + + “Were half the power that fills the world with terror, + Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts, + Given to redeem the human mind from error, + There were no need of arsenals and forts: + The warrior’s name would be a name abhorred, + And every nation that should lift again + Its hand against a brother, on its forehead + Should wear for evermore the curse of Cain!” + +“The Norman Baron” is a study of the mediæval age, and “Rain in +Summer,” a fresh and offhand description of a country shower. + +Not many English-writing poets, good fathers as most of them were, +have addressed poems to their children. Ben Jonson wrote some lines +about his first daughter, who died in infancy. Coleridge sang a +serious cradle-song over his son Hartley, in “Frost at Midnight.” +Shelley bewailed the early death of his son William; and Leigh Hunt +celebrated two of his children in two characteristic poems, the most +natural of which he inscribed to his son John, “A Nursery Song for a +Four-Year-Old Romp.” These are some of the best-known English poets, to +whom childhood was a source of inspiration. Mr. Longfellow distanced +all of them, and apparently without an effort, in the volume under +consideration. His poem “To my Child,” has no superior of its kind in +the language. We have a glimpse of the poet’s house for the first time +in verse, and of the chamber in which he wrote so many of his poems, +which had now become the child’s nursery. Its chimney was adorned with +painted tiles, among which he enumerates: + + “The lady with the gay macaw, + The dancing girl, the grave bashaw + With bearded lip and chin; + And, leaning idly o’er his gate, + Beneath the imperial fan of state, + The Chinese mandarin.” + +[Illustration: VIEW ACROSS THE LAWN, NORTH-WEST OF THE HOUSE.] + +The child shakes his coral rattle with its silver bells, and is content +for the moment with its merry tune. The poet listens to other bells +than these, and they tell him that the coral was growing thousands +of years in the Indian seas, and that the bells once reposed as +shapeless ore in darksome mines, beneath the base of Chimborazo or the +overhanging pines of Potosi. + + “And thus for thee, O little child. + Through many a danger and escape, + The tall ships passed the stormy cape; + For thee, in foreign lands remote, + Beneath a burning, tropic clime, + The Indian peasant, chasing the wild goat, + Himself as swift and wild, + In falling, clutched the frail arbute, + The fibres of whose shallow root, + Uplifted from the soil, betrayed + The silver veins beneath it laid + The buried treasures of the miser Time.” + +He turns from the child to the memory of one who formerly dwelt within +the walls of his historic mansion: + + “Up and down these echoing stairs + Heavy with the weight of cares, + Sounded his majestic tread: + Yes, within this very room + Sat he, in those hours of gloom, + Weary both in heart and head.” + +These grave thoughts are succeeded by pictures of the child at play, +now in the orchard and now in the garden-walks, where his little +carriage-wheels efface whole villages of sand-roofed tents that rise +above the secret homes of nomadic tribes of ants. But, tired already, +he comes back to parley with repose, and, seated with his father on a +rustic seat in an old apple-tree, they see the waters of the river, and +a sailless vessel dropping down the stream: + + “And like it, to a sea as wide and deep, + Thou driftest gently down the tides of sleep.” + +[Illustration: THE OLD WILLOW.] + +The poet speculates gravely on the future of his child, and bids him +remember that if his fate is an untoward one, even in the perilous hour + + “When most afflicted and oppressed + From labour there shall come forth rest.” + +In this poem, and in “The Occultation of Orion,” Mr. Longfellow has +reached a table-land of imagination not hitherto attained by his Muse. +“The Bridge” is a revealment of his personality, and a phase of his +genius which has never ceased to charm the majority of his readers. The +train of thought which it suggests is not new, but what thought that +embraces mankind is new? Enough that it is natural, and sympathetic, +and tender. The lines to “The Driving Cloud” are an admirable specimen +of hexameters, and a valuable addition to America’s scanty store of +aboriginal poetry—the forerunner of an immortal contribution not yet +transmuted into verse. + +[Illustration: “THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.”] + +Under the head of “Songs” we have eight poems, two of which are +modelled after a fashion that Mr. Longfellow had succeeded in making +his own. I refer to “Sea-weed” and “The Arrow and the Song,” two +charming fantasies in which the doctrine of poetic correspondence (if I +may be allowed the phrase) works out a triumphant excuse for its being. +“The Day is Done” belongs to a class of poems which depend for their +success upon the human element they contain, or suggest, and to which +they appeal. “The Old Clock on the Stairs” is an illustration of what I +mean, and as good a one as can be found in the writings of any modern +poet. The humanities (to adapt a phrase) were never long absent from +Mr. Longfellow’s thoughts. We feel their presence in “The Old Clock on +the Stairs,” in “The Bridge,” and in the unrhymed stanzas “To an Old +Danish Song-book.” This volume introduced Mr. Longfellow in a species +of composition in which we have not hitherto seen him—the sonnet, of +which there are three specimens here, neither of the strictest Italian +form; the best, perhaps, being the one on “Dante,” of whom, by the way, +we had three translations, all from the “Purgatorio,” in the “Voices of +the Night.” + +Mr. Longfellow’s next volume was, in a certain sense, the gift of +Hawthorne, to whom he was indebted for its theme. It is stated briefly +in the first volume of his “American Note-books,” in a cluster of +memoranda written between October 24th, 1838, and January 4th, 1839. +_Voilá_: “H. L. C—— heard from a French Canadian a story of a young +couple in Acadie. On their marriage day, all the men of the province +were summoned to assemble in the church to hear a proclamation. When +assembled, they were all seized and shipped off to be distributed +through New England, among them the new bridegroom. His bride set off +in search of him, wandered about New England all her lifetime, and at +last, when she was old, she found her bridegroom on his death-bed. +The shock was so great that it killed her likewise.” This forcible +deportation of a whole people occurred in 1755, when the French, to the +extent of eighteen thousand souls, were seized by the English, in the +manner stated. History, which excuses so much, has perhaps excused the +act; but humanity never can. It is as indefensible as the Inquisition. + +“Evangeline,” which was published in 1847, disputed the palm with “The +Princess,” which was published in the same year. The two volumes are so +unlike that no comparison can, or should, be made between them. Each +shows its writer at his best, as a story-teller, and if the mediæval +medley surpasses the modern pastoral in richness of colouring, it +is surpassed, in turn, by the tender human interest of the latter. +Evangeline, loving, patient, sorrowful wanderer, has taken a permanent +place, I think, among the heroines of English song; but, whether +the picturesque hexameters in which her pathetic story is told will +hereafter rank among the standard measures of the language, can only be +conjectured. That the poets have fancied them is certain, for the year +after the publication of “Evangeline” saw Clough writing them in “The +Bothie of Tober-na-Vuolich,” and ten years later saw Kingsley writing +them in his “Andromeda.” Matthew Arnold maintains that the hexameter is +the only proper measure in which to translate Homer; and already two +versions of the Iliad in this measure have been made, one by Herschel +(1866) and another by Cochrane (1867). + +[Illustration: A CORNER OF THE STUDY] + +Two years before the publication of “Evangeline” (1845), Mr. Longfellow +conferred a scholarly obligation upon the admirers of foreign poetry +by editing “The Poets of Europe,” a closely printed octavo of nearly +eight hundred pages, containing specimens of European poets in ten +different languages, representing the labours of upward of one hundred +translators, including himself. Four years later (1849) he published a +tale, entitled “Kavanagh.” It has no plot to speak of, but its sketches +of character are bright and amusing, and its glimpses of New England +village life are pleasantly authentic. + +The five years which included the publication of the next three volumes +of his poetical writings—“The Seaside and the Fireside” (1850), “The +Golden Legend” (1851), and “The Song of Hiawatha” (1855),—added largely +to his reputation as a man of varied attainments, to whom poetry was an +art in which he was perpetually discovering new possibilities. There +are twenty-three poems in “The Seaside and the Fireside” (including the +dedication and the translations), no two of which are alike, though +they all disclose the skilful hand by which they were wrought. The +most important of them, as a work of art, is the best poem, of which +Schiller’s “Song of the Bell” was the model—“The Building of the Ship.” + +“The Golden Legend” transports us back to the Middle Ages, of which we +have had transitory gleams in the earlier writings of Mr. Longfellow. +The poetic atmosphere of that remote period envelops a lovely story, +which turns, like that of “Evangeline,” upon the love and devotion of +woman, that in this instance is happily rewarded. + +The figure of Elsie, the peasant girl, who determines to sacrifice +her life to restore her prince to happiness, is worthy of an exalted +place in any poet’s dream of fair women. The charm of the poem, apart +from its poetry, is the thorough and easy scholarship of the writer, +who contrives to conceal the evidences of his reading,—an art which +few poets have possessed in an equal degree, and which Moore did not +possess at all. Mr. Ruskin reflected, I think, the judgment of most +scholarly readers of this poem, when he wrote in his “Modern Painters” +that its author had entered more closely into the temper of the monk, +for good and for evil, than ever yet theological writer or historian, +though they may have given their life’s labour to the analysis. + +[Illustration: WEST SIDE OF LONGFELLOW’S HOUSE. (TAKEN FROM A POINT +NEAR THE OLD WILLOW.)] + +That there was a poetic element in the North American Indian several +American poets had believed, and, so believing, had striven to quicken +their verse with its creative energies. Sands and Eastburn wrote +together the ponderous poem of “Yamoyden.” Hoffmann wrote a “Vigil +of Faith;” Seba Smith a “Powhattan;” Street a “Frontenac.” They were +unanimous in one thing,—they all failed to interest their readers. The +cause of this was not far to seek, we can see, since success has been +achieved, but it demanded a vision which was not theirs, and which, it +seemed, only one American poet had. He saw that the Indian himself, +as he figures in our history, was not capable of being made a poetic +hero, but he saw that there might be a poetic side to him, and that it +existed in his legends, if he had any. That he had many, and that they +were remarkable for a certain primitive imagination, was well known. +They were brought to light by the late Henry R. Schoolcraft who heard +of their existence among the Odjibwa Nation, inhabiting the region +about Lake Superior in 1822. + +Specimens of these aboriginal fictions were published by Mr Schoolcraft +in his “Travels in the Central Portions of the Mississippi Valley” +(1825), and his “Narrative of the Expedition to Itaska Lake” (1834), +but they were not given to the world in their entirety until 1839 in +his “Algic Researches.” They were as good as manuscript for the next +sixteen years, though one American poet had mastered them thoroughly. +This was Mr. Longfellow, who, in 1855, turned this Indian Edda, as +he happily called it, into “The Song of Hiawatha.” The great and +immediate success of this poem, and the increase of reputation which +it brought its author, recalled the early years of the present century +when Scott and Byron were sure of thousands of readers whenever it +pleased them to write a metrical romance. It was eagerly read by all +classes, who suddenly found themselves interested in the era of flint +arrow-heads, earthen pots, and skin clothes, and in its elemental +inhabitants, who, dead centuries ago, if they ever existed, were now +living the everlasting life of poetry. Everybody read “The Song of +Hiawatha,” which passed through many editions. Its intellectual value +was universally admitted, but its form was questioned, as all new forms +are sure to be. For the form was new to most readers, though not to +scholars in the literatures of Northern Europe. It is original with +Mr. Longfellow, his friends declared. No, his enemies answered, he +has borrowed it from the Finnish epic, “The Kalewala.” The temporary +novelty of its form led to innumerable parodies, but to nothing +serious, that I remember; which I take to be a silent verdict against +its permanency in English versification. + +Mr. Longfellow added, three years later, to the laurels he had won +by “Evangeline,” by a second narrative poem in hexameters,—“The +Courtship of Miles Standish.” It lacks the pathetic interest which +is the charm of the earlier poem, but it possesses the same merit of +picturesqueness, and a firmer power of delineating character. Priscilla +is a very vital little Puritan maiden, who sees no impropriety in +asking the man she loves why he does not speak for himself, and not +for Miles Standish, who might find time to attend to his own wooing. +The Puritan atmosphere here is as perfect of its kind as the Catholic +atmosphere of “Evangeline,” and is thoroughly in keeping with the grim +old days in which the story is laid. The versification of the poem is +more vigorous than that of the sister poem, the hexameters having a +sort of martial movement about them. + +We do not see that the poetry of Mr. Longfellow has changed much in +the last twenty years, except that it has become graver in its tone +and more serious in its purpose. Its technical excellence has steadily +increased. He has more than held his own against all English-writing +poets, and in no walk of poetry so positively as that of telling a +story. In an age of story-tellers he stands at their head, not only +in the narrative poems I have mentioned, but in the lesser stories +included in his “Tales of a Wayside Inn,” for which he has laid all the +literatures of the world under contribution. + +The most distinctive of Mr. Longfellow’s poems are probably those which +he entitles “Birds of Passage,” and which he has from time to time +published as portions of separate volumes. They were inspired by many +literatures, and are in many measures, among which, however, that of +“The Song of Hiawatha” does not reappear, though the hexameter does. +He has the art of finding unwritten poems in the most out-of-the-way +books, and in every-day occurrences. A great man dies,—the Duke of +Wellington, for example,—and he hymns his departure in “The Warden +of the Cinque Ports,” which many prefer to the Laureate’s scholarly +ode. His good friend Hawthorne dies, and he embalms his memory and his +unfinished romance in imperishable verse. + + “Ah! who shall lift that wand of magic power, + And the lost clew regain? + The unfinished window in Aladdin’s tower + Unfinished must remain!” + +Sumner dies, and he drops a melodious tear upon his grave. + + “Were a star quenched on high, + For ages would its light, + Still travelling downward from the sky, + Shine on our mortal sight. + “So when a great man dies, + For years beyond our ken, + The light he leaves behind him lies + Upon the paths of men.” + +And again he bids him farewell in a touching sonnet, with a pathetic +and unexpected ending: + + “Good-night! good-night! as we so oft have said + Beneath this roof at midnight, in the days + That are no more, and shall no more return. + Thou hast but taken thy lamp and gone to bed: + I stay a little longer, as one stays + To cover up the embers that still burn.” + +A child is born to him, and his friend Lowell’s wife dies on the same +night, and he commemorates both in “The Two Angels,” one of his perfect +poems. + +Mr. Longfellow published few translations while he was writing his +more important works, such as the “Tales of a Wayside Inn” and “The +Story of Hiawatha.” That he had not forgotten his cunning, however, was +evident in his “Three Books of Song” (1872), where he printed several +translations of Eastern Songs, and in “Keramos, and other Poems,” which +contains two hexameter translations from Virgil and Ovid, and twelve +translations from French, German, and Italian poets. The volume last +mentioned is remarkable in many ways. It not only shows no diminution +of mental vigour, which one might naturally expect in a poet whose +years have exceeded the allotted age of man, but it recalls the young +poet who wrote “The Skeleton in Armour,” and “The Slave’s Dream.” +I know not where to look for more fire than I find in “The Leap of +Roushan Beg,” nor more delicious picturesqueness than in “Castles in +Spain.” “Keramos” belongs to the same class of poems as “The Building +of the Ship,” and is as perfect a piece of poetic art as that exquisite +poem. That the making of pottery could be so effectively handled in +verse reminds us of what Stella said of Swift, viz. that he could write +beautifully about a broom-stick. + +Mr. Longfellow’s friendliness, not to say generosity, to his brother +authors, is not the least among his poetic virtues. He sends a greeting +to Lowell in “The Herons of Elmwood,” and honours the memory of Irving +in a tender sonnet, “In the Churchyard at Tarrytown.” In “The Three +Silences of Molinos” (which are those of Speech, Desire, and Thought), +he recognizes the excellence of the poet whom New England delights to +honour next to himself: + + “O thou, whose daily life anticipates + The world to come, and in whose thought and word + The spiritual world preponderates, + Hermit of Amesbury! thou too hast heard + Voices and melodies from beyond the gates, + And speakest only when thy soul is stirred.” + +If there was any doubt before that Mr. Longfellow was the first +of living sonneteers it is settled by “A Book of Sonnets” in this +collection, the workmanship of which is simply perfect. + +Mr. Longfellow’s translation of Dante’s “Divina Commedia” is highly +thought of by scholarly readers. I state, however, as a fact, that he +was not engaged upon it over twenty-five years, as we are told in the +“Life and Letters of George Ticknor”; nor more than thirty years, as +we are told in Richardson’s “Primer of American Literature.” It was +executed in less than two years. + +It has not been given to many poets to carry out the ideal of a poetic +life as he has done, and to win a great reputation at an early age,—a +reputation which has not lessened or suffered from any fluctuation of +public taste. The singer of “Keramos” addresses a different public +from the one that welcomed “The Voices of the Night,” but he holds it +nevertheless. In looking back upon his long literary career, one can +see that he has been true to himself as he was manifested to us in his +early prose and verse; that he has fulfilled his scholarly intentions; +and that he has created and satisfied a taste for a literature which +did not exist in America until he began to write,—a literature drawn +from the different languages of Europe, now in the shape of direct +translation, and now in the shape of suggestions, alien to the mass +of English and American readers, but gladly received by both as +new intellectual possessions. He has broadened American culture in +completing his own, and has enlarged American sympathies until they +embrace all other peoples,—the sturdy Norseman, the simple Swede, the +patient Acadien, and the marvel-believing red man of prehistoric times. + +Cardinal Wiseman delivered a lecture some years ago on the “Home +Education of the Poor.” In the course of this lecture he commented upon +the fact that England has no poet who is to its labouring classes what +Goethe is to the peasant of Germany, and said: “There is one writer +who approaches nearer than any other to this standard, and he has +already gained such a hold on our hearts that it is almost unnecessary +for me to mention his name. Our hemisphere cannot claim the honour of +having brought him forth, but he still belongs to us, for his works +have become as household words wherever the English language is spoken. +And whether we are charmed by his imagery, or soothed by his melodious +versification, or elevated by the high moral teachings of his pure +muse, or follow with sympathetic hearts the wanderings of Evangeline, I +am sure that all who hear my voice will join with me in the tribute I +desire to pay to the genius of Longfellow.” + +The Rev. Lyman Abbott, also recently in the “Christian Union,” remarks +that “There are many persons who regard Christianity as a new form +or a new philosophy, and one might read Longfellow’s songs ‘from +beginning to end,’ and not guess with what form he worshipped or of +what philosophy he is a disciple. But if the Master knew aright His own +mission, He came that we might have life, and have it more abundantly; +and if Paul comprehended the tenour of that life aright, its fruits +are ‘love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, +meekness, temperance.’ This life pulsates through all Longfellow’s +words; of these fruits the orchard of his song is full indeed. I do +not recall a single hymn of his which has become a favourite voice +of worship in our churches; but worship has gone up from thousands +of hearts, lowlier and holier for his singing. He does not swing the +censer, but he fills it with his aromatic incense.” ... “Submission +never sang a sweeter song in the night than ‘Resignation;’ devout love +to God never breathed a more Christly petition than in Elsie‘s prayer; +never more unaffected reverence bowed its head than in ’Christus.’” + +The Christianity of Longfellow is as simple as that of the New +Testament, and as catholic; his creed, his worship, and his life are +love. + + “My work is finished; I am strong + In faith and hope and charity; + For I have written the things I see, + The things that have been and shall be. + Conscious of right, nor fearing wrong + Because I am in love with Love, + And the sole thing I hate is Hate; + For Hate is death; and Love is life. + A peace, a splendour from above; + And Hate a never-ending strife, + A smoke, a blackness from the abyss + Where unclean serpents coil and hiss! + Love is the Holy Ghost within; + Hate the unpardonable sin! + Who preaches otherwise than this + Betrays his Master with a kiss.” + +The poet died on the 24th March 1882, at Cambridge, Massachusetts and +was buried in the Mount Auburn Cemetery, amidst public and private +evidences of the grief of many thousands of the American people; and in +the United Kingdom his death has been felt as the loss of a familiar +friend, almost irreparable. + + + + +THE POETICAL WORKS OF + +HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. + + + + +_Early Poems._ + +[WRITTEN FOR THE MOST PART DURING MY COLLEGE LIFE, AND ALL OF THEM +BEFORE THE AGE OF NINETEEN.] + + +AN APRIL DAY. + + When the warm sun, that brings + Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, + ’Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs + The first flower of the plain. + + I love the season well, + When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, + Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell + The coming-on of storms. + + From the earth’s loosened mould + The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives; + Though stricken to the heart with Winter’s cold, + The drooping tree revives. + + The softly-warbled song + Comes from the pleasant woods, and coloured wings + Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along + The forest openings. + + When the bright sunset fills + The silver woods with light, the green slope throws + Its shadows in the hollows of the hills, + And wide the upland glows. + + And, when the eve is born, + In the blue lake the sky, o’er-reaching far, + Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn, + And twinkles many a star. + + Inverted in the tide, + Stand the grey rocks, and trembling shadows throw; + And the fair trees look over, side by side, + And see themselves below. + + Sweet April!—many a thought + Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed; + Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, + Life’s golden fruit is shed. + + +AUTUMN. + + With what a glory comes and goes the year! + The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingers + Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy + Life’s newness, and earth’s garniture spread out. + And when the silvery habit of the clouds + Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with + A sober gladness the old year takes up + His bright inheritance of golden fruits, + A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene. + + There is a beautiful spirit breathing now + Its mellow richness on the clustered trees, + And, from a beaker full of richest dyes, + Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, + And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds. + Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird, + Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales + The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, + Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life + Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned; + And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved, + Where autumn, like a faint old man, sits down + By the wayside a-weary. Through the trees + The golden robin moves. The purple finch, + That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds, + A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle, + And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud + From cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird sings, + And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke, + Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail. + + O what a glory doth this world put on + For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth + Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks + On duties well performed, and days well spent! + For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves, + Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings. + He shall so hear the solemn hymn, that Death + Has lifted up for all, that he shall go + To his long resting-place without a tear. + + +SUNRISE ON THE HILLS. + + I stood upon the hills, when heaven’s wide arch + Was glorious with the sun’s returning march, + And woods were brightened, and soft gales + Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales. + The clouds were far beneath me;—bathed in light, + They gathered midway round the wooded height, + And, in their fading glory, shone + Like hosts in battle overthrown, + As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance, + Through the grey mist thrust up its shattered lance, + And rocking on the cliff was left + The dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft. + The veil of cloud was lifted, and below + Glowed the rich valley, and the river’s flow + Was darkened by the forest’s shade, + Or glistened in the white cascade; + Where upward, in the mellow blush of day, + The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way. + + I heard the distant waters dash, + I saw the current whirl and flash,— + And richly, by the blue lake’s silver beach, + The woods were bending with a silent reach. + Then o’er the vale, with gentle swell, + The music of the village bell + Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills; + And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills, + Was ringing to the merry shout, + That faint and far the glen sent out, + Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke, + Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle broke. + + If thou art worn and hard beset + With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget, + If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep + Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep, + Go to the woods and hills!—No tears + Dim the sweet look that Nature wears. + + +WOODS IN WINTER. + + When Winter winds are piercing chill, + And through the hawthorn blows the gale, + With solemn feet I tread the hill + That overbrows the lonely vale. + + O’er the bare upland, and away + Through the long reach of desert woods, + The embracing sunbeams chastely play, + And gladden these deep solitudes. + + Where, twisted round the barren oak, + The summer vine in beauty clung, + And summer winds the stillness broke, + The crystal icicle is hung. + + Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs + Pour out the river’s gradual tide, + Shrilly the skaters’ iron rings, + And voices fill the woodland side. + + Alas! how changed from the fair scene, + When birds sang out their mellow lay, + And winds were soft, and woods were green, + And the song ceased not with the day. + + But still wild music is abroad, + Pale, desert woods! within your crowd; + And gathering winds, in hoarse accord, + Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. + + Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear + Has grown familiar with your song; + I hear it in the opening year,— + I listen, and it cheers me long. + + +HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM. + +AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI’S BANNER. + + When the dying flame of day + Through the chancel shot its ray, + Far the glimmering tapers shed + Faint light on the cowled head; + And the censer burning swung, + Where, before the altar, hung + The blood-red banner, that with prayer + Had been consecrated there. + + And the nun’s sweet hymn was heard the while, + Sung low in the dim, mysterious aisle. + + “Take thy banner! May it wave + Proudly o’er the good and brave; + When the battle’s distant wail + Breaks the sabbath of our vale, + When the clarion’s music thrills + To the hearts of these lone hills, + When the spear in conflict shakes, + And the strong lance shivering breaks. + + “Take thy banner! and, beneath + The battle-cloud’s encircling wreath, + Guard it!—till our homes are free! + Guard it!—God will prosper thee! + In the dark and trying hour, + In the breaking forth of power, + In the rush of steeds and men, + His right hand will shield thee then. + + “Take thy banner! But, when night + Closes round the ghastly fight, + If the vanquished warrior bow, + Spare him!—By our holy vow, + By our prayers and many tears, + By the mercy that endears, + Spare him!—he our love hath shared! + Spare him!—as thou wouldst be spared! + + “Take thy banner!—and if e’er + Thou shouldst press the soldier’s bier, + And the muffled drums should beat + To the tread of mournful feet, + Then this crimson flag shall be + Martial cloak and shroud for thee.” + + The warrior took that banner proud, + And it was his martial cloak and shroud! + + +BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK. + + On sunny slope and beechen swell, + The shadowed light of evening fell; + And, where the maple’s leaf was brown, + With soft and silent lapse came down + The glory, that the wood receives, + At sunset, in its brazen leaves. + + Far upward in the mellow light + Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white, + Around a far uplifted cone, + In the warm blush of evening shone; + An image of the silver lakes, + By which the Indian’s soul awakes. + + But soon a funeral hymn was heard + Where the soft breath of evening stirred + The tall, grey forest; and a band + Of stern in heart, and strong in hand, + Came winding down beside the wave, + To lay the red chief in his grave. + + They sang, that by his native bowers + He stood in the last moon of flowers, + And thirty snows had not yet shed + Their glory on the warrior’s head; + But, as the summer fruit decays, + So died he in those naked days. + + A dark cloak of the roebuck’s skin + Covered the warrior, and within + Its heavy folds the weapons, made + For the hard toils of war were laid; + The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds, + And the broad belt of shells and beads. + + Before, a dark-haired virgin train + Chanted the death-dirge of the slain; + Behind, the long procession came + Of hoary men and chiefs of fame, + With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief, + Leading the war-horse of their chief. + + Stripped of his proud and martial dress, + Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless, + With darting eye, and nostril spread, + And heavy and impatient tread, + He came; and oft that eye so proud + Asked for his rider in the crowd. + + They buried the dark chief—they freed + Beside the grave his battle steed; + And swift an arrow cleaved its way + To his stern heart! One piercing neigh + Arose,—and, on the dead man’s plain, + The rider grasps his steed again. + + +THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. + + There is a quiet spirit in these woods, + That dwells where’er the gentle south wind blows; + Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade, + The wild-flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air, + The leaves above their sunny palms outspread. + With what a tender and impassioned voice + It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought, + When the fast-ushering star of Morning comes + O’er-riding the grey hills with golden scarf; + Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve, + In mourning weeds, from out the western gate, + Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves + In the green valley, where the silver brook, + From its full laver, pours the white cascade; + And, babbling low amid the tangled woods, + Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter. + + And frequent, on the everlasting hills, + Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself + In all the dark embroidery of the storm, + And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid + The silent majesty of these deep woods, + Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth, + As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air + Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards + Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades. + For them there was an eloquent voice in all + The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun, + The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way, + Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds,— + The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun + Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes,— + Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in, + Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale, + The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees, + In many a lazy syllable, repeating + Their old poetic legends to the wind. + + And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill + The world; and, in these wayward days of youth, + My busy fancy oft embodies it, + As a bright image of the light and beauty + That dwell in nature,—of the heavenly forms + We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues + That stain the wild bird’s wing, and flush the clouds + When the sun sets. Within her eye + The heaven of April, with its changing light, + And when it wears the blue of May, is hung, + And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair + Is like the summer tresses of the trees, + When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek + Blushes the richness of an autumn sky, + With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath,— + It is so like the gentle air of Spring, + As, from the morning’s dewy flowers, it comes + Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy + To have it round us,—and her silver voice + Is the rich music of a summer bird, + Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence. + +[Illustration] + + + + +_Voices of the Night._ + +1839. + + + Πότνια, πότνια νὺξ, + ὑπνοδότειρα τῶν πολυπόνων βροτῶν, + Ἐρεβόθεν ἴθι· μόλε μόλε κατάπτερος + Ἀγαμεμνόνιον ἐπὶ δόμον· + ὑπὸ γὰρ ἀλγέων, ὑπό τε συμφορᾶς + διοιχόμεθ’, οἰχόμεθα.—EURIPIDES. + + +PRELUDE. + + Pleasant it was, when woods were green, + And winds were soft and low, + To lie amid some sylvan scene, + Where, the long drooping boughs between, + Shadows dark and sunlight sheen + Alternate come and go; + + Or, where the denser grove receives + No sunlight from above, + But the dark foliage interweaves + In one unbroken roof of leaves, + Underneath whose sloping eaves + The shadows hardly move. + + Beneath some patriarchal tree, + I lay upon the ground; + His hoary arms uplifted he, + And all the broad leaves over me + Clapped their little hands in glee, + With one continuous sound;— + + A slumberous sound,—a sound that brings + The feelings of a dream,— + As of innumerable wings; + As, when a bell no longer swings, + Faint the hollow murmur rings + O’er meadow, lake, and stream. + + And dreams of that which cannot die, + Bright visions, came to me, + As lapped in thought I used to lie, + And gaze into the summer sky, + Where the sailing clouds went by, + Like ships upon the sea; + + Dreams that the soul of youth engage + Ere fancy has been quelled; + Old legends of the monkish page, + Traditions of the saint and sage, + Tales that have the rime of age, + And chronicles of eld. + + And, loving still these quaint old themes, + Even in the city’s throng + I feel the freshness of the streams, + That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams, + Water the green land of dreams, + The holy land of song. + + Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings + The Spring, clothed like a bride, + When nestling buds unfold their wings, + And bishop’s-caps have golden rings, + Musing upon many things, + I sought the woodlands wide. + + The green trees whispered low and mild; + It was a sound of joy! + They were my playmates when a child, + And rocked me in their arms so wild! + Still they looked at me and smiled, + As if I were a boy; + + And ever whispered, mild and low, + “Come, be a child once more!” + And waved their long arms to and fro, + And beckoned solemnly and slow; + Oh, I could not choose but go + Into the woodlands hoar; + + Into the blithe and breathing air, + Into the solemn wood, + Solemn and silent everywhere! + Nature with folded hands seemed there, + Kneeling at her evening prayer! + Like one in prayer I stood. + + Before me rose an avenue + Of tall and sombrous pines; + Abroad their fan-like branches grew, + And, where the sunshine darted through, + Spread a vapour soft and blue, + In long and sloping lines. + + And, falling on my weary brain + Like a fast-falling shower, + The dreams of youth came back again, + Low lispings of the summer rain, + Dropping on the ripened grain, + As once upon the flower. + + Visions of childhood! Stay, oh stay! + Ye were so sweet and wild! + And distant voices seemed to say, + “It cannot be! They pass away! + Other themes demand thy lay; + Thou art no more a child! + + “The land of song within thee lies, + Watered by living springs; + The lids of Fancy’s sleepless eyes + Are gates unto that Paradise, + Holy thoughts, like stars, arise, + Its clouds are angels’ wings. + + “Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be, + Not mountains capped with snow, + Nor forests sounding like the sea, + Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly, + Where the woodlands bend to see + The bending heavens below. + + “There is a forest where the din + Of iron branches sounds! + A mighty river roars between, + And whosoever looks therein, + Sees the heavens all black with sin,— + Sees not its depths nor bounds. + + “Athwart the swinging branches cast, + Soft rays of sunshine pour; + Then comes the fearful wintry blast; + Our hopes, like withered leaves, fall fast; + Pallid lips say, ‘It is past! + We can return no more!’ + + “Look, then, into thine heart, and write! + Yes, into Life’s deep stream! + All forms of sorrow and delight, + All solemn Voices of the Night, + That can soothe thee, or affright— + Be these henceforth thy theme.” + + +HYMN TO THE NIGHT. + +Ἀσπασίη, τρίλλιστος. + + I heard the trailing garments of the Night + Sweep through her marble halls! + I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light + From the celestial walls, + + I felt her presence, by its spell of might, + Stoop o’er me from above; + The calm, majestic presence of the Night, + As of the one I love. + + I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, + The manifold, soft chimes, + That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, + Like some old poet’s rhymes. + + From the cool cisterns of the midnight air + My spirit drank repose; + The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,— + From those deep cisterns flows. + + O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear + What man has borne before: + Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, + And they complain no more. + + Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer; + Descend with broad-winged flight, + The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, + The best belovèd Night! + + +A PSALM OF LIFE. + +WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST. + + Tell me not, in mournful numbers, + “Life is but an empty dream!” + For the soul is dead that slumbers, + And things are not what they seem. + + Life is real! Life is earnest! + And the grave is not its goal; + “Dust thou art, to dust returnest,” + Was not spoken of the soul. + + Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, + Is our destined end or way; + But to act, that each to-morrow + Find us farther than to-day. + + Art is long, and Time is fleeting, + And our hearts, though stout and brave, + Still, like muffled drums, are beating + Funeral marches to the grave. + + In the world’s broad field of battle, + In the bivouac of Life, + Be not like dumb, driven cattle! + Be a hero in the strife! + + Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant! + Let the dead Past bury its dead! + Act—act in the living Present! + Heart within, and God o’erhead! + + Lives of great men all remind us + We can make our lives sublime, + And, departing, leave behind us + Footprints on the sands of time;— + + Footprints, that perhaps another, + Sailing o’er life’s solemn main, + A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, + Seeing, shall take heart again. + + Let us, then, be up and doing, + With a heart for any fate; + Still achieving, still pursuing, + Learn to labour and to wait. + + +FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. + + When the hours of Day are numbered, + And the voices of the Night + Wake the better soul, that slumbered, + To a holy, calm delight; + + Ere the evening lamps are lighted, + And, like phantoms grim and tall + Shadows from the fitful fire-light + Dance upon the parlour wall; + + Then the forms of the departed + Enter at the open door; + The belovèd, the true-hearted, + Come to visit me once more; + + He, the young and strong, who cherished + Noble longings for the strife, + By the road-side fell and perished, + Weary with the march of life! + + They, the holy ones and weakly, + Who the cross of suffering bore, + Folded their pale hands so meekly, + Spake with us on earth no more! + + And with them the Being Beauteous, + Who unto my youth was given, + More than all things else to love me, + And is now a saint in heaven. + + With a slow and noiseless footstep + Comes that messenger divine, + Takes the vacant chair beside me, + Lays her gentle hand in mine. + + And she sits and gazes at me + With those deep and tender eyes, + Like the stars, so still and saint-like, + Looking downward from the skies. + + Uttered not, yet comprehended, + Is the spirit’s voiceless prayer, + Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, + Breathing from her lips of air. + + O, though oft depress’d and lonely, + All my fears are laid aside, + If I but remember only + Such as these have lived and died! + + +THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. + + There is a Reaper, whose name is Death, + And, with his sickle keen, + He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, + And the flowers that grow between. + + “Shall I have nought that is fair,” saith he; + “Have nought but the bearded grain? + Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, + I will give them all back again.” + + He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, + He kissed their drooping leaves; + It was for the Lord of Paradise + He bound them in his sheaves. + + “My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,” + The Reaper said, and smiled; + “Dear tokens of the earth are they, + Where He was once a child. + + “They shall all bloom in fields of light, + Transplanted by my care, + And saints, upon their garments white, + These sacred blossoms wear.” + + And the mother gave, in tears and pain, + The flowers she most did love; + She knew she should find them all again + In the fields of light above. + + Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath, + The Reaper came that day; + ’Twas an angel visited the green earth, + And took the flowers away. + + +THE LIGHT OF STARS. + + The night is come, but not too soon; + And sinking silently, + All silently, the little moon + Drops down behind the sky. + + There is no light in earth or heaven, + But the cold light of stars; + And the first watch of night is given + To the red planet Mars. + + Is it the tender star of love? + The star of love and dreams? + Oh, no! from that blue tent above + A hero’s armour gleams. + + And earnest thoughts within me rise, + When I behold afar, + Suspended in the evening skies, + The shield of that red star. + + O star of strength! I see thee stand + And smile upon my pain; + Thou beckonest with thy mailèd hand, + And I am strong again. + + Within my breast there is no light, + But the cold light of stars; + I give the first watch of the night + To the red planet Mars. + + The star of the unconquered will, + He rises in my breast, + Serene, and resolute, and still, + And calm, and self-possessed. + + And thou, too, whosoe’er thou art, + That readest this brief psalm, + As one by one thy hopes depart, + Be resolute and calm. + + Oh, fear not in a world like this, + And thou shalt know ere long, + Know how sublime a thing it is + To suffer and be strong. + + +FLOWERS. + + Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, + One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, + When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, + Stars, that in earth’s firmament do shine. + + Stars they are, wherein we read our history, + As astrologers and seers of eld; + Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery, + Like the burning stars, which they beheld. + + Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, + God hath written in those stars above; + But not less in the bright flowerets under us + Stands the revelation of His love. + + Bright and glorious is that revelation, + Written all over this great world of ours; + Making evident our own creation, + In these stars of earth,—these golden flowers. + + And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing, + Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part + Of the selfsame universal being + Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. + + Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, + Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, + Tremulous leaves with soft and silver lining, + Buds that open only to decay; + + Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, + Flaunting gaily in the golden light; + Large desires, with most uncertain issues, + Tender wishes, blossoming at night! + + These in flowers and men are more than seeming; + Workings are they of the selfsame powers, + Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming, + Seeth in himself and in the flowers. + + Everywhere about us are they glowing, + Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born; + Others, their blue eyes with tears o’erflowing, + Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn; + + Not alone in Spring’s armorial bearing, + And in Summer’s green emblazoned field, + But in arms of brave old Autumn’s wearing, + In the centre of his brazen shield; + + Not alone in meadows and green alleys, + On the mountain-top, and by the brink + Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys, + Where the slaves of Nature stoop to drink; + + Not alone in her vast dome of glory, + Not on graves of bird and beast alone, + But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, + On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone; + + In the cottage of the rudest peasant, + In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, + Speaking of the Past unto the Present, + Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers; + + In all places, then, and in all seasons, + Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, + Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, + How akin they are to human things. + + And with childlike, credulous affection + We behold their tender buds expand; + Emblems of our own great resurrection, + Emblems of the bright and better land. + + +THE BELEAGUERED CITY. + + I have read, in some old marvellous tale, + Some legend strange and vague, + That a midnight host of spectres pale + Beleaguered the walls of Prague. + + Beside the Moldau’s rushing stream, + With the wan moon overhead, + There stood, as in an awful dream, + The army of the dead. + + White as a sea-fog, landward bound, + The spectral camp was seen, + And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, + The river flowed between. + + No other voice nor sound was there, + No drum, nor sentry’s pace; + The mist-like banners clasped the air + As clouds with clouds embrace. + + But, when the old cathedral bell + Proclaimed the morning prayer, + The white pavilions rose and fell + On the alarmèd air. + + Down the broad valley fast and far + The troubled army fled; + Up rose the glorious morning star, + The ghastly host was dead. + + I have read, in the marvellous heart of man, + That strange and mystic scroll, + That an army of phantoms vast and wan + Beleaguer the human soul. + + Encamped beside Life’s rushing stream, + In Fancy’s misty light, + Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam + Portentous through the night. + + Upon its midnight battle-ground + The spectral camp is seen, + And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, + Flows the River of Life between. + + No other voice nor sound is there, + In the army of the grave; + No other challenge breaks the air, + But the rushing of Life’s wave. + + And, when the solemn and deep church-bell + Entreats the soul to pray, + The midnight phantoms feel the spell, + The shadows sweep away. + + Down the broad Vale of Tears afar + The spectral camp is fled; + Faith shineth as a morning star, + Our ghastly fears are dead. + + +MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. + + Yes, the Year is growing old, + And his eye is pale and bleared! + Death, with frosty hand and cold, + Plucks the old man by the beard, + Sorely,—sorely! + + The leaves are falling, falling, + Solemnly and slow; + Caw! caw! the rooks are calling, + It is a sound of woe, + A sound of woe! + + Through woods and mountain-passes + The winds, like anthems, roll; + They are chanting solemn masses, + Singing, “Pray for this poor soul, + Pray,—pray!” + + And the hooded clouds, like friars, + Tell their beads in drops of rain, + And patter their doleful prayers;— + But their prayers are all in vain, + All in vain! + + There he stands in the foul weather, + The foolish, fond Old Year, + Crowned with wild flowers and with heather, + Like weak, despisèd Lear, + A king,—a king! + + Then comes the summer-like day, + Bids the old man rejoice! + His joy! his last! Oh, the old man grey + Loveth that ever-soft voice, + Gentle and low. + + To the crimson woods he saith, + To the voice gentle and low + Of the soft air, like a daughter’s breath, + “Pray do not mock me so! + Do not laugh at me!” + + And now the sweet day is dead! + Cold in his arms it lies; + No stain from its breath is spread + Over the glassy skies, + No mist or stain! + + Then, too, the Old Year dieth, + And the forests utter a moan, + Like the voice of one who crieth + In the wilderness alone, + “Vex not his ghost!” + + Then comes, with an awful roar, + Gathering and sounding on, + The storm-wind from Labrador, + The wind Euroclydon, + The storm-wind! + + Howl! howl! and from the forest + Sweep the red leaves away! + Would the sins that thou abhorrest, + O Soul! could thus decay, + And be swept away! + + For there shall come a mightier blast, + There shall be a darker day; + And the stars, from heaven downcast, + Like red leaves be swept away! + Kyrie, eleyson! + Christe, eleyson! + + +L’ENVOI. + + Ye voices, that arose + After the Evening’s close, + And whispered to my restless heart repose! + + Go, breathe it in the ear + Of all who doubt and fear, + And say to them, “Be of good cheer!” + + Ye sounds, so low and calm, + That in the groves of balm + Seemed to me like an angel’s psalm! + + Go, mingle yet once more + With the perpetual roar + Of the pine forest, dark and hoar! + + Tongues of the dead, not lost, + But speaking from death’s frost, + Like fiery tongues at Pentecost! + + Glimmer, as funeral lamps, + Amid the chills and damps + Of the vast plain where Death encamps! + +[Illustration] + + + + +_Ballads._ + +1842. + + +THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR. + +PREFATORY NOTE. + +The following Ballad was suggested to me while riding on the sea-shore +at Newport. A year or two previous a skeleton had been dug up at Fall +River, clad in broken and corroded armour; and the idea occurred to +me of connecting it with the Round Tower at Newport, generally known +hitherto as the Old Windmill, though now claimed by the Danes as a +work of their early ancestors. Professor Rafn, in the _Mémoires de la +Société Royale des Antiquaires du Nord_, for 1838-39, says:— + +“There is no mistaking in this instance the style in which the more +ancient stone edifices of the North were constructed, the style +which belongs to the Roman or Ante-Gothic architecture, and which, +especially after the time of Charlemagne, diffused itself from Italy +over the whole of the West and North of Europe, where it continued to +predominate until the close of the twelfth century; that style which +some authors have, from one of its most striking characteristics, +called the round-arch style, the same which in England is denominated +Saxon and sometimes Norman architecture. + +“On the ancient structure in Newport there are no ornaments remaining +which might possibly have served to guide us in assigning the probable +date of its erection. That no vestige whatever is found of the pointed +arch, nor any approximation to it, is indicative of an earlier rather +than of a later period. From such characteristics as remain, however, +we can scarcely form any other inference than one, in which I am +persuaded that all who are familiar with Old Northern architecture +will concur, THAT THIS BUILDING WAS ERECTED AT A PERIOD DECIDEDLY NOT +LATER THAN THE TWELFTH CENTURY. This remark applies, of course, to the +original building only, and not to the alterations that it subsequently +received; for there are several such alterations in the upper part +of the building which cannot be mistaken, and which were most likely +occasioned by its being adapted in modern times to various uses, for +example, as the substructure of a windmill, and latterly as a hay +magazine. To the same times may be referred the windows, the fireplace, +and the apertures made above the columns. That this building could +not have been erected for a windmill is what an architect will easily +discern.” + +I will not enter into a discussion of the point. It is sufficiently +well established for the purpose of a ballad, though doubtless many an +honest citizen of Newport, who has passed his days within sight of the +Round Tower, will be ready to exclaim with Sancho, “God bless me! did +I not warn you to have a care of what you were doing, for that it was +nothing but a windmill? and nobody could mistake it but one who had the +like in his head.” + + “Speak! speak! thou fearful guest! + Who, with thy hollow breast + Still in rude armour drest, + Comest to daunt me! + Wrapt not in Eastern balms, + But with thy fleshless palms + Stretched, as if asking alms, + Why dost thou haunt me?” + + Then, from those cavernous eyes + Pale flashes seemed to rise, + As when the Northern skies + Gleam in December; + And, like the water’s flow + Under December’s snow, + Came a dull voice of woe + From the heart’s chamber. + + “I was a Viking old! + My deeds, though manifold, + No Skald in song has told, + No Saga taught thee! + Take heed, that in thy verse + Thou dost the tale rehearse, + Else dread a dead man’s curse! + For this I sought thee. + + “Far in the Northern Land, + By the wild Baltic’s strand, + I, with my childish hand, + Tamed the gerfalcon; + And, with my skates fast-bound, + Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, + That the poor whimpering hound + Trembled to walk on. + + “Oft to his frozen lair + Tracked I the grisly bear, + While from my path the hare + Fled like a shadow; + Oft through the forest dark + Followed the were-wolf’s bark, + Until the soaring lark + Sang from the meadow. + + “But when I older grew, + Joining a corsair’s crew, + O’er the dark sea I flew + With the marauders. + Wild with the life we led; + Many the souls that sped, + Many the hearts that bled, + By our stern orders. + + “Many a wassail-bout + Wore the long Winter out; + Often our midnight shout + Set the cocks crowing, + As we the Berserk’s tale + Measured in cups of ale, + Draining the oaken pail, + Filled to o’erflowing. + + “Once, as I told in glee + Tales of the stormy sea, + Soft eyes did gaze on me, + Burning, yet tender; + And as the white stars shine + On the dark Norway pine, + On that dark heart of mine + Fell their soft splendour. + + “I wooed the blue-eyed maid, + Yielding, yet half afraid, + And in the forest’s shade + Our vows were plighted. + Under its loosened vest + Fluttered her little breast, + Like birds within their nest + By the hawk frighted. + + “Bright in her father’s hall + Shields gleamed upon the wall, + Loud sang the minstrels all, + Chanting his glory; + When of old Hildebrand + I asked his daughter’s hand, + Mute did the minstrel stand + To hear my story. + + “While the brown ale he quaffed, + Loud then the champion laughed, + And as the wind-gusts waft + The sea-foam brightly, + So the loud laugh of scorn, + Out of those lips unshorn, + From the deep drinking-horn + Blew the foam lightly. + + “She was a Prince’s child, + I but a Viking wild, + And though she blushed and smiled, + I was discarded! + Should not the dove so white + Follow the sea-mew’s flight, + Why did they leave that night + Her nest unguarded? + + “Scarce had I put to sea, + Bearing the maid with me,— + Fairest of all was she + Among the Norsemen!— + When on the white-sea strand, + Waving his armèd hand, + Saw we old Hildebrand, + With twenty horsemen. + + “Then launched they to the blast, + Bent like a reed each mast, + Yet we were gaining fast, + When the wind failed us; + And with a sudden flaw + Came round the gusty Skaw, + So that our foe we saw + Laugh as he hailed us. + + “And as to catch the gale + Round veered the flapping sail, + Death! was the helmsman’s hail, + Death without quarter! + Mid-ships with iron-keel + Struck we her ribs of steel; + Down her black hulk did reel + Through the black water. + + “As with his wings aslant, + Sails the fierce cormorant, + Seeking some rocky haunt, + With his prey laden: + So toward the open main, + Beating the sea again, + Through the wild hurricane, + Bore I the maiden. + + “Three weeks we westward bore, + And when the storm was o’er, + Cloud-like we saw the shore + Stretching to leeward; + There for my lady’s bower + Built I the lofty tower, + Which, to this very hour, + Stands looking seaward. + + “There lived we many years; + Time dried the maiden’s tears; + She had forgot her fears, + She was a mother; + Death closed her mild blue eyes, + Under that tower she lies; + Ne’er shall the sun arise + On such another! + + “Still grew my bosom then, + Still as a stagnant fen! + Hateful to me were men, + The sunlight hateful! + In the vast forest here, + Clad in my warlike gear, + Fell I upon my spear, + Oh, death was grateful! + + “Thus, seamed with many scars, + Bursting these prison bars, + Up to its native stars + My soul ascended! + There from the flowing bowl + Deep drinks the warrior’s soul, + _Skoal!_ to the Northland! _Skoal!_”[1] + —Thus the tale ended. + +[1] In Scandinavia this is the customary salutation when drinking a +health. I have slightly changed the orthography of the word, in order +to preserve the correct pronunciation. + + +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, + 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, + 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, + For I fear a hurricane. + + “Last night the moon had a golden ring, + And to-night no moon we see!” + The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, + And a scornful laugh laughed he. + + Colder and louder blew the wind, + A gale from the North-east; + The snow fell hissing in the brine, + And the billows frothed like yeast. + + Down came the storm, and smote amain + The vessel in its strength; + She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, + Then leaped her cable’s length. + + “Come hither! come hither! my little daughtèr, + And do not tremble so; + For I can weather the roughest gale + That ever wind did blow.” + + He wrapped her warm in his seaman’s coat, + Against the stinging blast; + He cut a rope from a broken spar, + And bound her to the mast. + + “O father! I hear the church-bells ring, + O say what may it be?” + “’Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!”— + And he steered for the open sea. + + “O father! I hear the sound of guns, + O say, what may it be?” + “Some ship in distress, that cannot live + In such an angry sea!” + + “O father, I see a gleaming light, + O say, what may it be?” + But the father answered never a word, + A frozen corpse was he. + + Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, + With his face turned to the skies, + The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow + On his fixed and glassy eyes. + + Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed + That saved she might be; + And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, + On the Lake of Galilee. + + And fast through the midnight dark and drear, + Through the whistling sleet and snow, + Like a sheeted ghost the vessel swept + Towards the reef of Norman’s Woe. + + And ever the fitful gusts between + A sound came from the land; + It was the sound of the trampling surf, + On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. + + The breakers were right beneath her bows, + She drifted a dreary wreck, + And a whooping billow swept the crew + Like icicles from her deck. + + She struck where the white and fleecy waves + Look soft as carded wool, + But the cruel rocks, they gored her side + Like the horns of an angry bull. + + Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, + With the masts went by the board; + Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, + Ho! ho! the breakers roared! + + At daybreak, on a bleak sea-beach, + A fisherman stood aghast, + To see the form of a maiden fair, + Lashed close to a drifting mast. + + The salt sea was frozen on her breast, + The salt tears in her eyes; + And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, + On the billows fall and rise. + + Such was the wreck of the _Hesperus_, + In the midnight and the snow; + Christ save us all from a death like this, + On the reef of Norman’s Woe! + +[Illustration] + + + + +_Poems on Slavery._ + +1842. + + +[The following Poems, with one exception, were written at sea, in the +latter part of October 1842. I had not then heard of Dr. Channing’s +death. Since that event, the poem addressed to him is no longer +appropriate. I have decided, however, to let it remain as it was +written, in testimony of my admiration for a great and good man.] + + +TO WILLIAM E. CHANNING. + + The pages of thy book I read, + And as I closed each one, + My heart, responding, ever said, + “Servant of God! well done!” + + Well done! Thy words are great and bold; + At times they seem to me + Like Luther’s, in the days of old, + Half-battles for the free. + + Go on, until this land revokes + The old and chartered Lie, + The feudal curse, whose whips and yokes + Insult humanity. + + A voice is ever at thy side, + Speaking in tones of might, + Like the prophetic voice, that cried + To John in Patmos, “Write!” + + Write! and tell out this bloody tale; + Record this dire eclipse, + This Day of Wrath, this Endless Wail, + This dread Apocalypse! + + +THE SLAVE’S DREAM. + + Beside the ungathered rice he lay, + His sickle in his hand; + His breast was bare, his matted hair + Was buried in the sand. + Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, + He saw his Native Land. + + Wide through the landscape of his dreams + The lordly Niger flowed; + Beneath the palm-trees on the plain + Once more a king he strode; + And heard the tinkling caravans + Descend the mountain-road. + + He saw once more his dark-eyed queen + Among her children stand; + They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks, + They held him by the hand!— + A tear burst from the sleeper’s lids, + And fell into the sand. + + And then at furious speed he rode + Along the Niger’s bank; + His bridle-reins were golden chains, + And, with a martial clank, + At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel + Smiting his stallion’s flank. + + Before him, like a blood-red flag, + The bright flamingoes flew; + From morn till night he followed their flight, + O’er plains where the tamarind grew, + Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts, + And the ocean rose to view. + + At night he heard the lion roar, + And the hyæna scream; + And the river-horse as he crushed the reeds + Beside some hidden stream; + And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums, + Through the triumph of his dream. + + The forests, with their myriad tongues, + Shouted of liberty; + And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud, + With a voice so wild and free, + That he started in his sleep and smiled + At their tempestuous glee. + + He did not feel the driver’s whip, + Nor the burning heat of day; + For death had illumined the Land of Sleep, + And his lifeless body lay + A worn-out fetter, that the soul + Had broken and thrown away! + + +THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP. + + In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp + The hunted Negro lay; + He saw the fire of the midnight camp, + And heard at times a horse’s tramp, + And a bloodhound’s distant bay. + + Where will-o’-the-wisps and glow-worms shine, + In bulrush and in brake; + Where waving mosses shroud the pine, + And the cedar grows, and the poisonous vine + Is spotted like the snake; + + Where hardly a human foot could pass, + Or a human heart would dare, + On the quaking turf of the green morass + He crouched in the rank and tangled grass, + Like a wild beast in his lair. + + A poor old slave, infirm and lame; + Great scars deformed his face; + On his forehead he bore the brand of shame, + And the rags, that hid his mangled frame, + Were the livery of disgrace. + + All things above were bright and fair, + All things were glad and free; + Lithe squirrels darted here and there, + And wild birds filled the echoing air + With songs of Liberty! + + On him alone was the doom of pain, + From the morning of his birth; + On him alone the curse of Cain + Fell, like a flail on the garnered grain, + And struck him to the earth! + + +THE GOOD PART THAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN AWAY. + + She dwells by great Kenhawa’s side, + In valleys green and cool; + And all her hope and all her pride + Are in the village school. + + Her soul, like the transparent air + That robes the hills above, + Though not of earth, encircles there + All things with arms of love. + + And thus she walks among her girls + With praise and mild rebukes; + Subduing even rude village churls + By her angelic looks. + + She reads to them at eventide + Of One who came to save; + To cast the captive’s chains aside, + And liberate the slave. + + And oft the blessed time foretells + When all men shall be free; + And musical, as silver bells, + Their falling chains shall be. + + And following her beloved Lord, + In decent poverty, + She makes her life one sweet record + And deed of charity. + + For she was rich and gave up all + To break the iron bands + Of those who waited in her hall, + And laboured in her lands. + + Long since beyond the Southern Sea + Their outbound sails have sped, + While she, in meek humility, + Now earns her daily bread. + + It is their prayers, which never cease, + That clothe her with such grace; + Their blessing is the light of peace + That shines upon her face. + + +THE QUADROON GIRL. + + The Slaver in the broad lagoon + Lay moored with idle sail; + He waited for the rising moon, + And for the evening gale. + + Under the shore his boat was tied, + And all her listless crew + Watched the gray alligator slide + Into the still bayou. + + Odours of orange-flowers, and spice, + Reached them from time to time, + Like airs that breathe from Paradise + Upon a world of crime. + + The Planter, under his roof of thatch, + Smoked thoughtfully and slow; + The Slaver’s thumb was on the latch, + He seemed in haste to go. + + He said, “My ship at anchor rides + In yonder broad lagoon; + I only wait the evening tides, + And the rising of the moon.” + + Before them, with her face upraised, + In timid attitude, + Like one half curious, half amazed, + A Quadroon maiden stood. + + Her eyes were large, and full of light, + Her arms and neck were bare; + No garment she wore, save a kirtle bright, + And her own long, raven hair. + + And on her lips there played a smile + As holy, meek, and faint, + As lights in some cathedral aisle + The features of a saint. + + “The soil is barren,—the farm is old;” + The thoughtful Planter said; + Then looked upon the Slaver’s gold, + And then upon the maid. + + His heart within him was at strife + With such accursèd gains; + For he knew whose passions gave her life, + Whose blood ran in her veins. + + But the voice of nature was too weak; + He took the glittering gold! + Then pale as death grew the maiden’s cheek, + Her hands as icy cold. + + The Slaver led her from the door, + He led her by the hand, + To be his slave and paramour + In a strange and distant land! + + +THE WITNESSES. + + In Ocean’s wide domains, + Half buried in the sands, + Lie skeletons in chains, + With shackled feet and hands. + + Beyond the fall of dews, + Deeper than plummet lies, + Float ships with all their crews, + No more to sink nor rise. + + There the black Slave-ship swims, + Freighted with human forms, + Whose fettered, fleshless limbs + Are not the sport of storms. + + These are the bones of Slaves; + They gleam from the abyss; + They cry, from yawning waves, + “We are the Witnesses!” + + Within Earth’s wide domains + Are markets for men’s lives; + Their necks are galled with chains, + Their wrists are cramped with gyves. + + Dead bodies, that the kite + In deserts makes its prey; + Murders, that with affright + Scare school-boys from their play! + + All evil thoughts and deeds; + Anger, and lust, and pride; + The foulest, rankest weeds. + That choke Life’s groaning tide! + + These are the woes of Slaves; + They glare from the abyss; + They cry from unknown graves, + “We are the Witnesses!” + + +THE WARNING. + + Beware! The Israelite of old, who tore + The lion in his path,—when, poor and blind, + He saw the blessed light of heaven no more, + Shorn of his noble strength and forced to grind + In prison, and at last led forth to be + A pander to Philistine revelry,— + + Upon the pillars of the temple laid + His desperate hands, and in its overthrow + Destroyed himself, and with him those who made + A cruel mockery of his sightless woe; + The poor, blind Slave, the scoff and jest of all, + Expired, and thousands perished in the fall! + + There is a poor, blind Samson in this land, + Shorn of his strength, and bound in bonds of steel + Who may, in some grim revel, raise his hand, + And shake the pillars of this Commonweal, + Till the vast Temple of our liberties + A shapeless mass of wreck and rubbish lies. + + +THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT. + + Loud he sang the Psalm of David! + He, a Negro, and enslaved, + Sang of Israel’s victory, + Sang of Zion, bright and free. + + In that hour, when night is calmest, + Sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist, + In a voice so sweet and clear + That I could not choose but hear. + + Songs of triumph, and ascriptions, + Such as reached the swart Egyptians, + When upon the Red Sea coast + Perished Pharaoh and his host. + + And the voice of his devotion + Filled my soul with strange emotion; + For its tones by turns were glad, + Sweetly solemn, wildly sad. + + Paul and Silas, in their prison, + Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen, + And an earthquake’s arm of might + Broke their dungeon-gates at night. + + But, alas! what holy angel + Brings the slave this glad evangel? + And what earthquake’s arm of might + Breaks his dungeon-gates at night? + +[Illustration] + + + + +_Miscellaneous Poems._ + +1841-46. + + +IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY. + + NO HAY PÁJAROS EN LOS NIDOS DE ANTAÑO. + _Spanish Proverb._ + + The sun is bright, the air is clear, + The darting swallows soar and sing, + And from the stately elms I hear + The blue-bird prophesying Spring. + + So blue yon winding river flows, + It seems an outlet from the sky, + Where, waiting till the west wind blows, + The freighted clouds at anchor lie. + + All things are new;—the buds, the leaves, + That gild the elm-tree’s nodding crest, + And even the nest beneath the eaves;— + There are no birds in last year’s nest! + + All things rejoice in youth and love, + The fulness of their first delight! + And learn from the soft heavens above + The melting tenderness of night. + + Maiden, that read’st this simple rhyme, + Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay; + Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, + For O! it is not always May! + + Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth, + To some good angel leave the rest; + For time will teach thee soon the truth, + There are no birds in last year’s nest. + + +THE RAINY DAY. + + The day is cold, and dark, and dreary; + It rains, and the wind is never weary; + The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, + But at every gust the dead leaves fall, + And the day is dark and dreary. + + My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; + It rains, and the wind is never weary; + My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past, + But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, + And the days are dark and dreary. + + Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; + Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; + Thy fate is the common fate of all, + Into each life some rain must fall, + Some days must be dark and dreary. + + +THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. + + Under a spreading chestnut-tree + The village smithy stands; + The smith, a mighty man is he, + With large and sinewy hands; + And the muscles of his brawny arms + Are strong as iron bands. + + His hair is crisp, and black, and long, + His face is like the tan; + His brow is wet with honest sweat, + He earns whate’er he can, + And looks the whole world in the face, + For he owes not any man. + + Week in, week out, from morn till night, + You can hear his bellows blow; + You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, + With measured beat and slow, + Like a sexton ringing the village bell, + When the evening sun is low. + + And children coming home from school + Look in at the open door; + They love to see the flaming forge, + And hear the bellows roar, + And catch the burning sparks that fly + Like chaff from a threshing-floor. + + He goes on Sunday to the church, + And sits among his boys; + He hears the parson pray and preach, + He hears his daughter’s voice, + Singing in the village choir, + And it makes his heart rejoice. + + It sounds to him like her mother’s voice, + Singing in Paradise! + He needs must think of her once more, + How in the grave she lies; + And with his hard, rough hand he wipes + A tear out of his eyes. + + Toiling—rejoicing—sorrowing, + Onward through life he goes; + Each morning sees some task begin, + Each evening sees it close; + Something attempted, something done, + Has earned a night’s repose. + + Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, + For the lesson thou hast taught! + Thus at the flaming forge of life + Our fortunes must be wrought; + Thus on its sounding anvil shaped + Each burning deed and thought. + + +ENDYMION. + + The rising moon has hid the stars; + Her level rays, like golden bars, + Lie on the landscape green, + With shadows brown between. + + And silver white the river gleams, + As if Diana in her dreams, + Had dropt her silver bow + Upon the meadows low. + + On such a tranquil night as this, + She woke Endymion with a kiss, + When sleeping in the grove, + He dreamed not of her love. + + Like Dian’s kiss, unasked, unsought, + Love gives itself, but is not bought; + Nor voice nor sound betrays + Its deep, impassioned gaze. + + It comes—the beautiful, the free, + The crown of all humanity— + In silence and alone + To seek the elected one. + + It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep + Are life’s oblivion, the soul’s sleep, + And kisses the closed eyes + Of him who slumbering lies. + + O, weary hearts! O, slumbering eyes! + O, drooping souls whose destinies + Are fraught with fear and pain, + Ye shall be loved again! + + No one is so accursed by fate, + No one so utterly desolate, + But some heart, though unknown, + Responds unto his own. + + Responds—as if with unseen wings + An angel touched its quivering strings; + And whispers, in its song, + “Where hast thou stayed so long?” + + +GOD’S-ACRE. + + I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls + The burial-ground God’s-Acre! It is just; + It consecrates each grave within its walls, + And breathes a benison o’er the sleeping dust. + + God’s-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts + Comfort to those who in the grave have sown + The seed, that they had garnered in their hearts, + Their bread of life—alas! no more their own. + + Into its furrows shall we all be cast, + In the sure faith that we shall rise again + At the great harvest, when the archangel’s blast + Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain. + + Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, + In the fair gardens of that second birth; + And each bright blossom mingle its perfume + With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth. + + With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod, + And spread the furrow for the seed we sow; + This is the field and Acre of our God, + This is the place where human harvests grow. + + +TO THE RIVER CHARLES. + + River! that in silence windest + Through the meadows bright and free, + Till at length thy rest thou findest + In the bosom of the sea! + + Four long years of mingled feeling, + Half in rest, and half in strife, + I have seen thy waters stealing + Onward, like the stream of life. + + Thou hast taught me, Silent River! + Many a lesson, deep and long; + Thou hast been a generous giver; + I can give thee but a song. + + Oft in sadness and in illness, + I have watched thy current glide, + Till the beauty of its stillness + Overflowed me, like a tide. + + And in better hours and brighter, + When I saw thy waters gleam, + I have felt my heart beat lighter, + And leap onward with thy stream. + + Not for this alone I love thee, + Nor because thy waves of blue + From celestial seas above thee + Take their own celestial hue. + + Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee, + And thy waters disappear, + Friends I love have dwelt beside thee, + And have made thy margin dear. + + More than this;—thy name reminds me + Of three friends, all true and tried; + And that name, like magic, binds me + Closer, closer to thy side. + + Friends my soul with joy remembers! + How like quivering flames they start, + When I fan the living embers + On the hearthstone of my heart! + + ’Tis for this, thou Silent River! + That my spirit leans to thee; + Thou hast been a generous giver, + Take this idle song from me. + + +BLIND BARTIMEUS. + + Blind Bartimeus at the gates + Of Jericho in darkness waits; + He hears the crowd;—he hears a breath + Say, “It is Christ of Nazareth!” + And calls in tones of agony, + =Ἰηδοῦ, ἐλέηδόν υε!= + + The thronging multitudes increase; + Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace! + But still, above the noisy crowd, + The beggar’s cry is shrill and loud; + Until they say, “He calleth thee!” + =Θάξσει, ἔλξιζαι, φωνεἶ σε!= + + Then saith the Christ, as silent stands + The crowd, “What wilt thou at my hands?” + And he replies, “O give me light! + Rabbi, restore the blind man’s sight!” + And Jesus answers, “=Υπαγε= + =Ἠ πίστις σον σέσωκέ σε!=” + + Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see, + In darkness and in misery, + Recall those mighty Voices Three, + =Ἰηδοῦ, ἐλέηδόν υε!= + =Θάξσει, ἔλξιζαι, Υπαγε!= + =Ἠ πίστις σον σέσωκέ σε!=” + + +THE GOBLET OF LIFE. + + Filled is Life’s goblet to the brim; + And though my eyes with tears are dim, + I see its sparkling bubbles swim, + And chant a melancholy hymn + With solemn voice and slow. + + No purple flowers,—no garlands green, + Conceal the goblet’s shade or sheen, + Nor maddening draughts of Hippocrene, + Like gleams of sunshine, flash between + Thick leaves of mistletoe. + + This goblet, wrought with curious art, + Is filled with waters, that upstart, + When the deep fountains of the heart, + By strong convulsions rent apart, + Are running all to waste. + + And as it mantling passes round, + With fennel is it wreathed and crowned, + Whose seed and foliage sun-imbrowned + Are in its waters steeped and drowned, + And give a bitter taste. + + Above the lowly plants it towers, + The fennel, with its yellow flowers, + And in an earlier age than ours + Was gifted with the wondrous powers, + Lost vision to restore. + + It gave new strength, and fearless mood; + And gladiators, fierce and rude, + Mingled it in their daily food; + And he who battled and subdued, + A wreath of fennel wore. + + Then in Life’s goblet freely press + The leaves that give it bitterness, + Nor prize the coloured waters less, + For in thy darkness and distress + New light and strength they give! + + And he who has not learned to know + How false its sparkling bubbles show, + How bitter are the drops of woe, + With which its brim may overflow, + He has not learned to live. + + The prayer of Ajax was for light; + Through all that dark and desperate fight, + The blackness of that noonday night, + He asked but the return of sight, + To see his foeman’s face. + + Let our unceasing, earnest prayer + Be, too, for light,—for strength to bear + Our portion of the weight of care, + That crushes into dumb despair + One half the human race. + + O suffering, sad humanity! + O ye afflicted ones who lie + Steeped to the lips in misery, + Longing, and yet afraid to die, + Patient, though sorely tried! + + I pledge you in this cup of grief, + Where floats the fennel’s bitter leaf, + The Battle of our Life is brief, + The alarm,—the struggle,—the relief,— + Then sleep we side by side. + + +THE SEA-DIVER. + + My way is on the bright blue sea, + My sleep upon the rocky tide; + And many an eye has followed me, + Where billows clasp the worn sea-side. + + My plumage bears the crimson blush, + When ocean by the sun is kissed! + When fades the evening’s purple flush, + My dark wing cleaves the silver mist. + + Full many a fathom down beneath + The bright arch of the splendid deep, + My ear has heard the sea-shell breathe + O’er living myriads in their sleep. + + They rested by the coral throne, + And by the pearly diadem, + Where the pale sea-grape had overgrown + The glorious dwelling made for them. + + At night, upon my storm-drenched wing, + I poised above a helmless bark, + And soon I saw the shattered thing + Had passed away and left no mark. + + And when the wind and storm had done, + A ship, that had rode out the gale, + Sunk down without a signal-gun, + And none was left to tell the tale. + + I saw the pomp of day depart— + The cloud resign its golden crown, + When to the ocean’s beating heart + The sailor’s wasted corse went down. + + Peace be to those whose graves are made + Beneath the bright and silver sea! + Peace that their relics there were laid, + With no vain pride and pageantry. + + +THE BELFRY OF BRUGES. + +CARILLON. 1845. + + In the ancient town of Bruges, + In the quaint old Flemish city, + As the evening shades descended, + Low and loud and sweetly blended, + Low at times and loud at times, + And changing like a poet’s rhymes, + Rang the beautiful wild chimes, + From the Belfry in the market + Of the ancient town of Bruges. + + Then, with deep sonorous clangour + Calmly answering their sweet anger, + When the wrangling bells had ended, + Slowly struck the clock eleven, + And, from out the silent heaven, + Silence on the town descended. + Silence, silence everywhere, + On the earth and in the air, + Save that footsteps here and there + Of some burgher home returning, + By the street lamps faintly burning, + For a moment woke the echoes + Of the ancient town of Bruges. + + But amid my broken slumbers + Still I heard those magic numbers, + As they loud proclaimed the flight + And stolen marches of the night; + Till their chimes in sweet collision + Mingled with each wandering vision, + Mingled with the fortune-telling + Gipsy-bands of dreams and fancies, + Which amid the waste expanses + Of the silent land of trances + Have their solitary dwelling. + All else seemed asleep in Bruges, + In the quaint old Flemish city. + + And I thought how like these chimes + Are the poet’s airy rhymes, + All his rhymes and roundelays, + His conceits, and songs, and ditties, + From the belfry of his brain, + Scattered downward, though in vain, + On the roofs and stones of cities! + For by night the drowsy ear + Under its curtains cannot hear, + And by day men go their ways, + Hearing the music as they pass, + But deeming it no more, alas! + Than the hollow sound of brass. + + Yet perchance a sleepless wight, + Lodging at some humble inn + In the narrow lanes of life, + When the dusk and hush of night + Shut out the incessant din + Of daylight and its toil and strife, + May listen with a calm delight + To the poet’s melodies, + Till he hears, or dreams he hears, + Intermingled with the song, + Thoughts that he has cherished long; + Hears amid the chime and singing + The bells of his own village ringing, + And wakes, and finds his slumberous eyes + Wet with most delicious tears. + + Thus dreamed I, as by night I lay + In Bruges, at the Fleur-de-Blé, + Listening with a wild delight + To the chimes that, through the night, + Rang their changes from the Belfry + Of that quaint old Flemish city. + + +THE BELFRY OF BRUGES. + + In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown; + Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o’er the + town. + + As the summer morn was breaking, on that lofty tower I stood, + And the world threw off the darkness, like the weeds of + widowhood. + + Thick with towns and hamlets studded, and with streams and + vapours grey, + Like a shield embossed with silver, round and vast the + landscape lay. + + At my feet the city slumbered. From its chimneys, here and + there, + Wreaths of snow-white smoke, ascending, vanished, ghost-like, + into air. + + Not a sound rose from the city at that early morning hour, + But I heard a heart of iron beating in the ancient tower. + + From their nests beneath the rafters sang the swallows wild and + high, + And the world, beneath me sleeping, seemed more distant than + the sky. + + Then most musical and solemn, bringing back the olden times, + With their strange, unearthly changes rang the melancholy + chimes. + + Like the psalms from some old cloister, when the nuns sing in + the choir; + And the great bell tolled among them, like the chanting of a + friar. + + Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms filled my brain; + They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again; + + All the Foresters of Flanders,[2]—mighty Baldwin Bras de + Fer,[3] + Lyderick du Bucq[4] and Cressy, Philip, Guy de Dampierre.[5] + + I beheld the pageants splendid, that adorned those days of old; + Stately dames, like queens attended, knights who bore the + Fleece of Gold; + + Lombard and Venetian merchants with deep-laden argosies; + Ministers from twenty nations; more than royal pomp and ease. + + I beheld proud Maximilian,[6] kneeling humbly on the ground; + I beheld the gentle Mary,[7] hunting with her hawk and hound; + + And her lighted bridal chamber, where a duke slept with the + queen, + And the armèd guard around them, and the sword unsheathed + between.[8] + + I beheld the Flemish weavers, with Namur and Juliers bold, + Marching homeward from the bloody battle of the Spurs of + Gold;[9] + + Saw the fight at Minnewater,[10] saw the White Hoods moving + West, + Saw great Artevelde victorious scale the Golden Dragon’s + nest;[11] + + And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land with terror smote; + And again the wild alarum sounded from the tocsin’s throat; + + Till the bell of Ghent responded o’er lagoon and dike of sand, + “I am Roland! I am Roland![12] there is victory in the land!” + + Then the sound of drums aroused me. The awakened city’s roar + Chased the phantoms I had summoned back into their graves once + more. + + Hours had passed away like minutes; and, before I was aware, + Lo! the shadow of the belfry crossed the sun-illumined square. + +[2] The title of “Foresters of Flanders” was given by the French kings +to those governors whom they appointed. + +[3] Who stole the daughter of Charles the Bald from the French court, +and married her at Bruges. + +[4] Lyderick du Bucq was the first governor of Flanders in the reign of +Clotaire II. + +[5] Succeeding Foresters who took the title of Count. + +[6] Archduke of Austria. + +[7] The daughter of Charles the Bold, who succeeded him as Duchess of +Burgundy and Countess of Flanders, 1471. + +[8] See long notes in Appendix. + +[9] Fought, 11th of July 1302, between the French and Flemings. The +flower of the French nobility perished in it; and it was named from the +number of golden spurs found on the field of battle. Seven hundred were +hung up in the church of Notre-Dame du Courtray. + +[10] The battle at Minnewater was fought with the citizens of Ghent, +who wished to prevent the Flemings from opening a canal there. The +White Hoods were a military body of Ghent. + +[11] The Golden Dragon was taken from Bruges to Antwerp by Philip +von Artevelot. It came originally from the Church of St. Sophia in +Constantinople. + +[12] On the alarm-bell of Bruges is inscribed: “My name is Roland; when +I toll, there is fire; when I ring, there is victory in the land.” + + +MAIDENHOOD. + + Maiden! with the meek, brown eyes, + In whose orbs a shadow lies, + Like the dusk in evening skies! + + Thou whose locks outshine the sun, + Golden tresses, wreathed in one, + As the braided streamlets run! + + Standing, with reluctant feet, + Where the brook and river meet, + Womanhood and childhood fleet! + + Gazing, with a timid glance, + On the brooklet’s swift advance, + On the river’s broad expanse! + + Deep and still, that gliding stream + Beautiful to thee must seem, + As the river of a dream. + + Then why pause with indecision, + When bright angels in thy vision + Beckon thee to fields Elysian? + + Seest thou shadows sailing by, + As the dove, with startled eye, + Sees the falcon’s shadow fly? + + Hearest thou voices on the shore, + That our ears perceive no more, + Deafened by the cataract’s roar? + + O thou child of many prayers! + Life hath quicksands,—Life hath snares! + Care and age come unawares! + + Like the swell of some sweet tune, + Morning rises into noon, + May glides onward into June. + + Childhood is the bough, where slumbered + Birds and blossoms many-numbered;— + Age, that bough with snows encumbered. + + Gather, then, each flower that grows, + When the young heart overflows, + To embalm that tent of snows. + + Bear a lily in thy hand; + Gates of brass cannot withstand + One touch of that magic wand. + + Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, + In thy heart the dew of youth, + On thy lips the smile of truth. + + O, that dew, like balm, shall steal + Into wounds, that cannot heal, + Even as sleep our eyes doth seal; + + And that smile, like sunshine, dart + Into many a sunless heart, + For a smile of God thou art. + + +THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. + + This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, + Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms; + But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing + Startles the villages with strange alarms. + + Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, + When the death-angel touches those swift keys! + What loud lament and dismal Miserere + Will mingle with their awful symphonies! + + I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, + The cries of agony, the endless groan, + Which, through the ages that have gone before us, + In long reverberations reach our own. + + On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, + Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman’s song, + And loud, amid the universal clamour, + O’er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. + + I hear the Florentine, who from his palace + Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din, + And Aztec priests upon their teocallis + Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent’s skin; + + The tumult of each sacked and burning village; + The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns; + The soldier’s revels in the midst of pillage; + The wail of famine in beleaguered towns; + + The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, + The rattling musketry, the clashing blade; + And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, + The diapason of the cannonade. + + Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, + With such accursèd instruments as these, + Thou drownest Nature’s sweet and kindly voices, + And jarrest the celestial harmonies? + + Were half the power that fills the world with terror, + Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts, + Given to redeem the human mind from error, + There were no need of arsenals nor forts: + + The warrior’s name would be a name abhorrèd! + And every nation that should lift again + Its hand against a brother, on its forehead + Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain! + + Down the dark future, through long generations, + The echoing sounds grow fainter, and then cease; + And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, + I hear once more the voice of Christ say, “Peace!” + + Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals + The blast of War’s great organ shakes the skies! + But beautiful as songs of the immortals, + The holy melodies of love arise. + + +A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE. + + This is the place. Stand still, my steed, + Let me review the scene, + And summon from the shadowy Past + The forms that once have been. + + The Past and Present here unite + Beneath Time’s flowing tide, + Like footprints hidden by a brook, + But seen on either side. + + Here runs the highway to the town; + There the green lane descends, + Through which I walked to church with thee, + O gentlest of my friends! + + The shadow of the linden-trees + Lay moving on the grass; + Between them and the moving boughs, + A shadow, thou didst pass. + + Thy dress was like the lilies, + And thy heart as pure as they: + One of God’s holy messengers + Did walk with me that day. + + I saw the branches of the trees + Bend down thy touch to meet, + The clover-blossoms in the grass + Rise up to kiss thy feet. + + “Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, + Of earth and folly born!” + Solemnly sang the village choir + On that sweet Sabbath morn. + + Through the closed blinds the golden sun + Poured in a dusty beam, + Like the celestial ladder seen + By Jacob in his dream. + + And ever and anon the wind, + Sweet-scented with the hay, + Turned o’er the hymn-book’s fluttering leaves + That on the window lay. + + Long was the good man’s sermon, + Yet it seemed not so to me; + For he spake of Ruth the beautiful, + And still I thought of thee. + + Long was the prayer he uttered, + Yet it seemed not so to me; + For in my heart I prayed with him, + And still I thought of thee. + + But now, alas! the place seems changed; + Thou art no longer here: + Part of the sunshine of the scene + With thee did disappear. + + Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my heart, + Like pine-trees, dark and high, + Subdue the light of noon, and breathe + A low and ceaseless sigh; + + This memory brightens o’er the past, + As when the sun, concealed + Behind some cloud that near us hangs, + Shines on a distant field. + + +NUREMBERG. + + In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands + Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg the ancient + stands. + + Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and + song, + Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round + them throng: + + Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rough and bold, + Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centuries old; + + And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth + rhyme, + That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every + clime.[13] + + In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron band, + Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cunigunde’s hand; + + On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days + Sat the poet Melchior[14] singing Kaiser Maximilian’s praise. + + Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of Art: + Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the common + mart; + + And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in + stone, + By a former age commissioned as apostles to our own. + + In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy + dust,[15] + And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age their + trust; + + In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture + rare, + Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted + air. + + Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, reverent + heart, + Lived and laboured Albrecht Dürer, the Evangelist of Art; + + Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand, + Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better Land. + + _Emigravit_ is the inscription on the tombstone where he + lies; + Dead he is not,—but departed,—for the artist never dies. + + Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more + fair, + That he once has trod its pavement, that he once has breathed + its air! + + Through these streets so broad and stately, these obscure and + dismal lanes, + Walked of yore the Master-singers, chanting rude poetic + strains. + + From remote and sunless suburbs, came they to the friendly + guild, + Building nests in Fame’s great temple, as in spouts the + swallows build. + + As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic rhyme, + And the smith his iron measures hammered to the anvil’s chime; + + Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers of poesy + bloom + In the forge’s dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom. + + Here Hans Sachs,[16] the cobbler-poet, laureate of the gentle + craft, + Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios sang and + laughed. + + But his house is now an alehouse, with a nicely sanded floor, + And a garland in the window, and his face above the door; + + Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Puschman’s song,[17] + As “the old man grey and dove-like,” with his great beard white + and long. + + And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cark and + care, + Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the master’s antique + chair. + + Vanished is the ancient splendour, and before my dreamy eye + Wave these mingling shapes and figures, like a faded tapestry. + + Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the world’s + regard; + But thy painter, Albrecht Dürer, and Hans Sachs, thy + cobbler-bard. + + Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far away, + As he paced thy streets and court-yards, sang in thought his + careless lay: + + Gathering from the pavement’s crevice, as a floweret of the + soil, + The nobility of labour,—the long pedigree of toil. + +[13] An ancient proverb of the town ran thus:— + + “Nürnberg’s Hand + Geht durch alle Land.” + + Nuremberg’s hand + Goes through every land. + + +[14] Melchior Pfinzing, one of the celebrated German poets of the +sixteenth century. The hero of his _Tenerdank_ was the reigning Emperor +Maximilian (Mary of Burgundy’s former husband); the poem was to the +Germans of that age what the _Orlando Furioso_ was to the Italians. + +[15] The tomb of St. Sebald in this church is one of the richest works +of art in Nuremberg. It was cast in bronze by Peter Vischer and his +sons, who laboured on it for thirteen years. It is adorned with nearly +a hundred figures, among which are the Twelve Apostles. + +[16] He flourished in the sixteenth century, and left behind him 208 +plays, 1700 comic tales, and four or five thousand lyric poems. The +Twelve Wise Masters was the title of the original corporation of the +Master-singers. Hans Sachs, the cobbler of Nuremberg, though not one +of the original Twelve, was the most renowned of the Master-singers, +as well as the most voluminous. He left thirty-four folio volumes of +manuscript containing the above number of plays, tales, and lyric +poetry. + +[17] Adam Puschman, in his poem on the death of Hans Sachs, describes +him as he appeared in a vision:— + + “An old man, + Grey and white, and dove-like, + Who had, in sooth, a great beard; + And read in a fair great book, + Beautiful with golden clasps.” + + + +THE INDIAN HUNTER. + + When the summer harvest was gathered in, + And the sheaf of the gleaner grew white and thin, + And the ploughshare was in its furrow left, + Where the stubble land had been lately cleft, + An Indian hunter, with unstrung bow, + Looked down where the valley lay stretched below. + + He was a stranger there, and that day + Had been out on the hills, a perilous way, + But the foot of the deer was far and fleet, + And the wolf kept aloof from the hunter’s feet, + And bitter feelings passed o’er him then, + As he stood by the populous haunts of men. + + The winds of autumn came over the woods, + As the sun stole out from their solitudes; + The moss was white on the maple’s trunk, + And dead from its arms the pale vine shrunk, + And ripened the mellow fruit hung, and red + Where the trees’ withered leaves around it shed. + + The foot of the reaper moved slow on the lawn, + And the sickle cut down the yellow corn; + The mower sang loud by the meadow side, + Where the mists of evening were spreading wide; + And the voice of the herdsman came up the lea, + And the dance went round by the greenwood tree. + + Then the hunter turned away from that scene, + Where the home of his fathers once had been, + And heard, by the distant and measured stroke, + That the woodman hewed down the giant oak— + And burning thoughts flashed over his mind, + Of the white man’s faith, and love unkind. + + The moon of the harvest grew high and bright, + As her golden horn pierced the cloud of white,— + A footstep was heard in the rustling brake, + Where the beech overshadowed the misty lake, + A mourning voice, and a plunge from shore, + And the hunter was seen on the hills no more. + + When years had passed on, by that still lake side, + The fisher looked down through the silver tide, + And there, on the smooth yellow sand displayed, + A skeleton wasted and white was laid, + And ’twas seen, as the waters moved deep and slow, + That the hand was still grasping a hunter’s bow. + + +THE NORMAN BARON. + + [Dans les moments de la vie où la réflexion devient plus + calme et plus profonde, où l’intérêt et l’avarice parlent + moins haut que la raison, dans les instants de chagrin + domestique, de maladie, et de péril de mort, les nobles se + repentirent de posséder des serfs, comme d’une chose peu + agréable à Dieu, qui avait créé tous les hommes à son image.] + + THIERRY, _Conquête de l’Angleterre_. + + In his chamber, weak and dying, + Was the Norman baron lying; + Loud, without, the tempest thundered, + And the castle-turret shook. + + In this fight was Death the gainer, + Spite of vassal and retainer, + And the lands his sires had plundered, + Written in the Doomsday Book. + + By his bed a monk was seated, + Who in a humble voice repeated + Many a prayer and pater-noster, + From the missal on his knee; + + And, amid the tempest pealing, + Sounds of bells came faintly stealing, + Bells that, from the neighbouring kloster, + Rang for the Nativity. + + In the hall, the serf and vassal + Held, that night, their Christmas wassail; + Many a carol, old and saintly, + Sang the minstrels and the waits. + + And so loud these Saxon gleemen + Sang to slaves the songs of freemen, + That the storm was heard but faintly, + Knocking at the castle-gates. + + Till at length the lays they chanted + Reached the chamber terror-haunted, + Where the monk, with accents holy, + Whispered at the baron’s ear. + + Tears upon his eyelids glistened, + As he paused awhile and listened, + And the dying baron slowly + Turned his weary head to hear. + + “Wassail for the kingly stranger + Born and cradled in a manger! + King, like David, priest, like Aaron, + Christ is born to set us free!” + + And the lightning showed the sainted + Figures on the casement painted, + And exclaimed the shuddering baron, + “Miserere, Domine!” + + In that hour of deep contrition, + He beheld, with clearer vision, + Through all outward show and fashion, + Justice, the Avenger, rise. + + All the pomp of earth had vanished, + Falsehood and deceit were banished, + Reason spake more loud than passion, + And the truth wore no disguise. + + Every vassal of his banner, + Every serf born to his manor, + All those wronged and wretched creatures, + By his hand were freed again. + + And, as on the sacred missal + He recorded their dismissal, + Death relaxed his iron features, + And the monk replied, “Amen!” + + Many centuries have been numbered + Since in death the baron slumbered + By the convent’s sculptured portal, + Mingling with the common dust: + + But the good deed, through the ages + Living in historic pages, + Brighter grows and gleams immortal, + Unconsumed by moth or rust. + + +TO A CHILD. + + Dear child! how radiant on thy mother’s knee, + With merry-making eyes and jocund smiles, + Thou gazest at the painted tiles, + Whose figures grace, + With many a grotesque form and face, + The ancient chimney of thy nursery! + The lady with the gay macaw, + The dancing girl, the brave bashaw + With bearded lip and chin; + And, leaning idly o’er his gate, + Beneath the imperial fan of state, + The Chinese mandarin. + + With what a look of proud command + Thou shakest in thy little hand + The coral rattle with its silver bells, + Making a merry tune! + Thousands of years in Indian seas + That coral grew, by slow degrees, + Until some deadly and wild monsoon + Dashed it on Coromandel’s sand! + Those silver bells + Reposed of yore, + As shapeless ore, + Far down in the deep sunken wells + Of darksome mines, + In some obscure and sunless place, + Beneath huge Chimborazo’s base, + Or Potosí’s o’erhanging pines! + + And thus for thee, O little child, + Through many a danger and escape, + The tall ships passed the stormy cape; + For thee in foreign lands remote, + Beneath the burning, tropic clime, + The Indian peasant, chasing the wild goat, + Himself as swift and wild, + In falling, clutched the frail arbute, + The fibres of whose shallow root, + Uplifted from the soil, betrayed + The silver veins beneath it laid, + The buried treasures of the miser, Time. + + But, lo! thy door is left ajar! + Thou hearest footsteps from afar! + And, at the sound, + Thou turnest round + With quick and questioning eyes, + Like one who, in a foreign land, + Beholds on every hand + Some source of wonder and surprise! + And, restlessly, impatiently, + Thou strivest, strugglest, to be free. + The four walls of thy nursery + Are now like prison walls to thee. + No more thy mother’s smiles, + No more the painted tiles, + Delight thee, nor the playthings on the floor + That won thy little, beating heart before; + Thou strugglest for the open door. + + Through these once solitary halls + Thy pattering footstep falls. + The sound of thy merry voice + Makes the old walls + Jubilant, and they rejoice + With the joy of thy young heart, + O’er the light of whose gladness + No shadows of sadness + From the sombre background of memory start. + + Once, ah, once, within these walls, + One whom memory oft recalls, + The Father of his Country, dwelt. + And yonder meadows broad and damp + The fires of the besieging camp + Encircled with a burning belt. + Up and down these echoing stairs, + Heavy with the weight of cares, + Sounded his majestic tread; + Yes, within this very room + Sat he in those hours of gloom, + Weary both in heart and head. + + But what are these grave thoughts to thee? + Out, out! into the open air! + Thy only dream is liberty, + Thou carest little how or where. + I see thee eager at thy play, + Now shouting to the apples on the tree, + With cheeks as round and red as they; + And now among the yellow stalks, + Among the flowering shrubs and plants, + As restless as the bee. + Along the garden walks, + The tracks of thy small carriage-wheels I trace; + And see at every turn how they efface + Whole villages of sand-roofed tents, + That rise like golden domes + Above the cavernous and secret homes + Of wandering and nomadic tribes of ants. + Ah, cruel little Tamerlane, + Who, with thy dreadful reign, + Dost persecute and overwhelm + These hapless Troglodytes of thy realm! + + What! tired already! with those suppliant looks, + And voice more beautiful than a poet’s books, + Or murmuring sound of water as it flows, + Thou comest back to parley with repose! + This rustic seat in the old apple-tree, + With its o’erhanging golden canopy + Of leaves illuminate with autumnal hues, + And shining with the argent light of dews, + Shall for a season be our place of rest. + Beneath us, like an oriole’s pendent nest, + From which the laughing birds have taken wing, + By thee abandoned, hangs thy vacant swing. + Dreamlike the waters of the river gleam; + A sailless vessel drops adown the stream, + And like it, to a sea as wide and deep, + Thou driftest gently down the tides of sleep. + + O child! O new-born denizen + Of life’s great city! on thy head + The glory of the morn is shed, + Like a celestial benison! + Here at the portal thou dost stand, + And with thy little hand + Thou openest the mysterious gate + Into the future’s undiscovered land, + I see its valves expand, + As at the touch of Fate! + Into those realms of love and hate, + Into that darkness blank and drear, + By some prophetic feeling taught, + I launch the bold, adventurous thought, + Freighted with hope and fear; + As upon subterranean streams, + In caverns unexplored and dark, + Men sometimes launch a fragile bark, + Laden with flickering fire, + And watch its swift-receding beams, + Until at length they disappear, + And in the distant dark expire. + + By what astrology of fear or hope + Dare I to cast thy horoscope! + Like the new moon thy life appears; + A little strip of silver light, + And widening outward into night + The shadowy disk of future years; + And yet upon its outer rim, + A luminous circle, faint and dim, + And scarcely visible to us here, + Rounds and completes the perfect sphere; + A prophecy and intimation, + A pale and feeble adumbration, + Of the great world of light, that lies + Behind all human destinies. + + Ah! if thy fate, with anguish fraught, + Should be to wet the dusty soil + With the hot tears and sweat of toil,— + To struggle with imperious thought, + Until the overburdened brain, + Weary with labour, faint with pain, + Like a jarred pendulum, retain + Only its motion, not its power,— + Remember, in that perilous hour, + When most afflicted and oppressed, + From labour there shall come forth rest. + + And if a more auspicious fate + On thy advancing steps await, + Still let it ever be thy pride + To linger by the labourer’s side; + With words of sympathy or song + To cheer the dreary march along + Of the great army of the poor, + O’er desert sand, o’er dangerous moor. + Nor to thyself the task shall be + Without reward; for thou shalt learn + The wisdom early to discern + True beauty in utility; + As great Pythagoras of yore, + Standing beside the blacksmith’s door, + And hearing the hammers, as they smote + The anvils with a different note, + Stole from the varying tones, that hung + Vibrant on every iron tongue, + The secret of the sounding wire, + And formed the seven-chorded lyre. + + Enough! I will not play the Seer; + I will no longer strive to ope + The mystic volume, where appear + The herald Hope, forerunning Fear, + And Fear, the pursuivant of Hope. + Thy destiny remains untold; + For, like Acestes’ shaft of old, + The swift thought kindles as it flies, + And burns to ashes in the skies. + + +THE OCCULTATION OF ORION. + + I saw, as in a dream sublime, + The balance in the hand of Time. + O’er East and West its beam impended; + And day, with all its hours of light, + Was slowly sinking out of sight, + While, opposite, the scale of night + Silently with the stars ascended. + + Like the astrologers of eld, + In that bright vision I beheld + Greater and deeper mysteries. + I saw, with its celestial keys, + Its chords of air, its frets of fire, + The Samian’s great Æolian lyre, + Rising through all its sevenfold bars, + From earth unto the fixèd stars. + And through the dewy atmosphere, + Not only could I see, but hear, + Its wondrous and harmonious strings, + Its sweet vibration, sphere by sphere, + From Dian’s circle light and near, + Onward to vaster and wider rings, + Where, chanting through his beard of snows, + Majestic, mournful, Saturn goes, + And down the sunless realms of space + Reverberates the thunder of his bass. + + Beneath the sky’s triumphal arch + This music sounded like a march, + And with its chorus seemed to be + Preluding some great tragedy. + Sirius was rising in the east; + And, slow ascending one by one, + The kindling constellations shone. + Begirt with many a blazing star, + Stood the great giant Algebar, + Orion, hunter of the beast! + His sword hung gleaming by his side. + And, on his arm, the lion’s hide + Scattered across the midnight air + The golden radiance of its hair. + + The moon was pallid, but not faint, + And beautiful as some fair saint, + Serenely moving on her way + In hours of trial and dismay. + As if she heard the voice of God, + Unharmed with naked feet she trod + Upon the hot and burning stars, + As on the glowing coals and bars + That were to prove her strength, and try + Her holiness and her purity. + + Thus moving on, with silent pace, + And triumph in her sweet, pale face, + She reached the station of Orion. + Aghast he stood in strange alarm! + And suddenly from his outstretched arm + Down fell the red skin of the lion + Into the river at his feet. + His mighty club no longer beat + The forehead of the bull; but he + Reeled as of yore beside the sea, + When, blinded by Œnopion, + He sought the blacksmith at his forge, + And, climbing up the mountain gorge, + Fixed his blank eyes upon the sun. + + Then, through the silence overhead, + An angel with a trumpet said, + “For evermore, for evermore, + The reign of violence is o’er!” + And like an instrument that flings + Its music on another’s strings, + The trumpet of the angel cast + Upon the heavenly lyre its blast, + And on from sphere to sphere the words + Re-echoed down the burning chords,— + “For evermore, for evermore, + The reign of violence is o’er!” + + +RAIN IN SUMMER. + + How beautiful is the rain! + After the dust and heat, + In the broad and fiery street, + In the narrow lane, + How beautiful is the rain! + + How it clatters along the roofs, + Like the tramp of hoofs! + How it gushes and struggles out + From the throat of the overflowing spout! + + Across the window pane + It pours and pours; + And swift and wide, + With a muddy tide, + Like a river down the gutter roars + The rain, the welcome rain! + + The sick man from his chamber looks + At the twisted brooks; + He can feel the cool + Breath of each little pool; + His fevered brain + Grows calm again, + And he breathes a blessing on the rain. + + From the neighbouring school + Come the boys, + With more than their wonted noise + And commotion; + And down the wet streets + Sail their mimic fleets, + Till the treacherous pool + Engulfs them in its whirling + And turbulent ocean. + + In the country, on every side + Where far and wide, + Like a leopard’s tawny and spotted hide, + Stretches the plain, + To the dry grass and the drier grain + How welcome is the rain! + + In the furrowed land + The toilsome and patient oxen stand; + Lifting the yoke-encumbered head, + With their dilated nostrils spread, + They silently inhale + The clover-scented gale, + And the vapours that arise + From the well-watered and smoking soil. + For this rest in the furrow after toil + Their large and lustrous eyes + Seem to thank the Lord, + More than man’s spoken word. + + Near at hand, + From under the sheltering trees, + The farmer sees + His pastures, and his fields of grain, + As they bend their tops + To the numberless beating drops + Of the incessant rain. + He counts it as no sin + That he sees therein + Only his own thrift and gain. + + These, and far more than these, + The Poet sees! + He can behold + Aquarius old + Walking the fenceless fields of air, + And from each ample fold + Of the clouds about him rolled + Scattering everywhere + The showery rain, + As the farmer scatters his grain. + + He can behold + Things manifold + That have not yet been wholly told, + Have not been wholly sung or said. + For his thought, that never stops, + Follows the water-drops + Down to the graves of the dead, + Down through chasms and gulfs profound, + To the dreary fountain-head + Of lakes and rivers underground; + And sees them, when the rain is done, + On the bridge of colours seven + Climbing up once more to heaven, + Opposite the setting sun. + + Thus the Seer, + With vision clear, + Sees forms appear and disappear, + In the perpetual round of strange, + Mysterious change + From birth to death, from death to birth, + From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth; + Till glimpses more sublime + Of things, unseen before, + Unto his wondering eyes reveal + The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel + Turning for evermore + In the rapid and rushing river of Time. + + +THE BRIDGE. + + I stood on the bridge at midnight, + As the clocks were striking the hour, + And the moon rose o’er the city, + Behind the dark church-tower. + + I saw her bright reflection + In the waters under me, + Like a golden goblet falling + And sinking into the sea. + + And far in the hazy distance + Of that lovely night in June, + The blaze of the flaming furnace + Gleamed redder than the moon. + + Among the long, black rafters + The wavering shadows lay, + And the current that came from the ocean + Seemed to lift and bear them away; + + As, sweeping and eddying through them, + Rose the belated tide, + And, streaming into the moonlight, + The sea-weed floated wide. + + And like those waters rushing + Among the wooden piers, + A flood of thoughts came o’er me + That filled my eyes with tears. + + How often, oh, how often, + In the days that had gone by, + I had stood on that bridge at midnight, + And gazed on that wave and sky! + + How often, oh, how often, + I had wished that the ebbing tide + Would bear me away on its bosom + O’er the ocean wild and wide! + + For my heart was hot and restless, + And my life was full of care, + And the burden laid upon me + Seemed greater than I could bear. + + But now it has fallen from me, + It is buried in the sea; + And only the sorrow of others + Throws its shadow over me. + + Yet whenever I cross the river, + On its bridge with wooden piers, + Like the odour of brine from the ocean + Comes the thought of other years. + + And I think how many thousands + Of care-encumbered men, + Each bearing his burden of sorrow, + Have crossed the bridge since then! + + I see the long procession + Still passing to and fro, + The young heart hot and restless, + And the old subdued and slow. + + And for ever and for ever, + As long as the river flows, + As long as the heart has passions, + As long as life has woes; + + The moon and its broken reflection + And its shadows shall appear, + As the symbol of love in heaven, + And its wavering image here. + + +EXCELSIOR. + + The shades of night were falling fast, + As through an Alpine village passed + A youth, who bore, ’mid snow and ice, + A banner, with the strange device, + Excelsior! + + His brow was sad; his eye beneath + Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, + And like a silver clarion rung + The accents of that unknown tongue, + Excelsior! + + In happy homes he saw the light + Of household fires gleam warm and bright; + Above, the spectral glaciers shone, + And from his lips escaped a groan, + Excelsior! + + “Try not the Pass!” the old man said; + “Dark lowers the tempest overhead, + The roaring torrent is deep and wide!” + And loud that clarion voice replied, + Excelsior! + + “O stay,” the maiden said, “and rest + Thy weary head upon this breast!” + A tear stood in his bright blue eye, + But still he answered, with a sigh, + Excelsior! + + “Beware the pine-tree’s withered branch! + Beware the awful avalanche!” + This was the peasant’s last Good-night, + A voice replied, far up the height, + Excelsior! + + At break of day, as heavenward + The pious monks of Saint Bernard + Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, + A voice cried through the startled air, + Excelsior! + + A traveller, by the faithful hound, + Half-buried in the snow was found, + Still grasping in his hand of ice + That banner with the strange device, + Excelsior! + + There in the twilight cold and grey, + Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, + And from the sky, serene and far, + A voice fell, like a falling star, + Excelsior! + + +TO THE DRIVING CLOUD. + + Gloomy and dark art thou, O chief of the mighty Omahas; + Gloomy and dark, as the driving cloud, whose name thou hast + taken! + Wrapt in thy scarlet blanket, I see thee stalk through the + city’s + Narrow and populous streets, as once by the margin of rivers + Stalked those birds unknown, that have left us only their + footprints. + What, in a few short years, will remain of thy race but the + footprints? + + How canst thou walk these streets, who hast trod the green turf + of the prairies? + How canst thou breathe this air, who hast breathed the sweet + air of the mountains? + Ah! ’tis in vain that with lordly looks of disdain thou dost + challenge + Looks of disdain in return, and question these walls and these + pavements, + Claiming the soil for thy hunting-grounds, while down-trodden + millions + Starve in the garrets of Europe, and cry from its caverns that + they, too, + Have been created heirs of the earth, and claim its division! + + Back, then, back to thy woods in the regions west of the Wabash! + There as a monarch thou reignest. In autumn the leaves of the + maple + Pave the floors of thy palace-halls with gold, and in summer + Pine-trees waft through its chambers the odorous breath of + their branches. + There thou art strong and great, a hero, a tamer of horses! + There thou chasest the stately stag on the banks of the + Elk-horn, + Or by the roar of the Running-Water, or where the Omawhaw + Calls thee, and leaps through the wild ravine like a brave of + the Blackfeet! + + Hark! what murmurs arise from the heart of those mountainous + deserts? + Is it the cry of the Foxes and Crows, or the mighty Behemoth, + Who, unharmed, on his tusks once caught the bolts of the + thunder, + And now lurks in his lair to destroy the race of the red man? + Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the Crows and the + Foxes, + Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the tread of Behemoth, + Lo! the big thunder-canoe, that steadily breasts the Missouri’s + Merciless current! and yonder, afar on the prairies, the + camp-fires + Gleam through the night; and the cloud of dust in the grey of + the daybreak + Marks not the buffalo’s track, nor the Mandan’s dexterous + horse-race; + It is a caravan, whitening the desert where dwell the Camanches! + Ha! how the breath of these Saxons and Celts, like the blast of + the east-wind, + Drifts evermore to the west the scanty smokes of thy wigwams! + + +CURFEW. + + I. + Solemnly, mournfully, + Dealing its dole, + The Curfew Bell + Is beginning to toll. + + Cover the embers, + And put out the light; + Toil comes with the morning, + And rest with the night. + + Dark grow the windows, + And quenched is the fire, + Sound fades into silence,— + All footsteps retire. + + No voice in the chambers, + No sound in the hall! + Sleep and oblivion + Reign over all. + + II. + The book is completed, + And closed, like the day; + And the hand that has written it + Lays it away. + + Dim grow its fancies, + Forgotten they lie; + Like coals in the ashes, + They darken and die. + + Song sinks into silence, + The story is told, + The windows are darkened, + The hearthstone is cold. + + Darker and darker + The black shadows fall; + Sleep and oblivion + Reign over all. + + + + +_Songs._ + + +TO AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK. + + Welcome, my old friend, + Welcome to a foreign fireside, + While the sullen gales of autumn + Shake the windows. + + The ungrateful world + Has, it seems, dealt harshly with thee, + Since, beneath the skies of Denmark, + First I met thee. + + There are marks of age, + There are thumb-marks on thy margin, + Made by hands that clasped thee rudely + At the alehouse. + + Soiled and dull thou art; + Yellow are thy time-worn pages, + As the russet, rain-molested + Leaves of autumn. + + Thou art stained with wine + Scattered from hilarious goblets, + As the leaves with the libations + Of Olympus. + + Yet dost thou recall + Days departed, half-forgotten, + When in dreamy youth I wandered + By the Baltic,— + + When I paused to hear + The old ballad of King Christian + Shouted from suburban taverns + In the twilight. + + Thou recallest bards, + Who, in solitary chambers, + And with hearts by passion wasted, + Wrote thy pages. + + Thou recallest homes + Where thy songs of love and friendship + Made the gloomy Northern winter + Bright as summer. + + Once some ancient Scald, + In his bleak, ancestral Iceland, + Chanted staves of these old ballads + To the Vikings. + + Once in Elsinore, + At the court of old King Hamlet, + Yorick and his boon companions + Sang these ditties. + + Once Prince Frederick’s Guard + Sang them in their smoky barracks;— + Suddenly the English cannon + Joined the chorus! + + Peasants in the field, + Sailors on the roaring ocean, + Students, tradesmen, pale mechanics, + All have sung them. + + Thou hast been their friend; + They, alas, have left thee friendless; + Yet at least by one warm fireside + Art thou welcome. + + And, as swallows build + In these wide, old-fashioned chimneys, + So thy twittering songs shall nestle + In my bosom,— + + Quiet, close, and warm, + Sheltered from all molestation, + And recalling by their voices + Youth and travel. + + +THE ARROW AND THE SONG. + + I shot an arrow into the air, + It fell to earth, I knew not where; + For, so swiftly it flew, the sight + Could not follow it in its flight. + + I breathed a song into the air, + It fell to earth, I knew not where; + For who has sight so keen and strong, + That it can follow the flight of song? + + Long, long afterward, in an oak + I found the arrow, still unbroke; + And the song, from beginning to end, + I found again in the heart of a friend. + + +WALTER VON DER VOGELWEID.[18] + + Vogelweid the Minnesinger, + When he left this world of ours, + Laid his body in the cloister, + Under Würtzburg’s minster towers. + + And he gave the monks his treasures, + Gave them all with this behest: + They should feed the birds at noontide + Daily on his place of rest; + + Saying, “From these wandering minstrels + I have learned the art of song; + Let me now repay the lessons + They have taught so well and long.” + + Thus the bard of love departed; + And, fulfilling his desire, + On his tomb the birds were feasted + By the children of the choir. + + Day by day, o’er tower and turret, + In foul weather and in fair, + Day by day, in vaster numbers, + Flocked the poets of the air. + + On the tree whose heavy branches + Overshadowed all the place, + On the pavement, on the tombstone, + On the poet’s sculptured face, + + On the cross-bars of each window, + On the lintel of each door, + They renewed the War of Wartburg, + Which the bard had fought before. + + There they sang their merry carols, + Sang their lauds on every side; + And the name their voices uttered + Was the name of Vogelweid. + + Till at length the portly abbot + Murmured, “Why this waste of food? + Be it changed to loaves henceforward + For our fasting brotherhood.” + + Then in vain o’er tower and turret, + From the walls and woodland nests, + When the minster bell rang noontide, + Gathered the unwelcome guests. + + Then in vain, with cries discordant, + Clamorous round the Gothic spire, + Screamed the feathered Minnesingers + For the children of the choir. + + Time has long effaced the inscriptions + On the cloister’s funeral stones, + And tradition only tells us + Where repose the poet’s bones. + + But around the vast cathedral, + By sweet echoes multiplied, + Still the birds repeat the legend, + And the name of Vogelweid. + +[18] Walter von der Vogelweid, or Bird-Meadow, was one of the principal +Minnesingers of the thirteenth century. He triumphed over Heinrich +von Ofterdingen in that poetic contest at Wartburg Castle, known in +literary history as the “War of Wartburg.” + + +THE DAY IS DONE. + + The day is done, and the darkness + Falls from the wings of Night, + As a feather is wafted downward + From an eagle in his flight. + + I see the lights of the village + Gleam through the rain and the mist, + And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me, + That my soul cannot resist: + + A feeling of sadness and longing, + That is not akin to pain, + And resembles sorrow only + As the mist resembles the rain. + + Come, read to me some poem, + Some simple and heartfelt lay, + That shall soothe this restless feeling, + And banish the thoughts of day. + + Not from the grand old masters, + Not from the bards sublime, + Whose distant footsteps echo + Through the corridors of Time. + + For, like strains of martial music, + Their mighty thoughts suggest + Life’s endless toil and endeavour; + And to-night I long for rest. + + Read from some humbler poet, + Whose songs gushed from his heart, + As showers from the clouds of summer, + Or tears from the eyelids start; + + Who, through long days of labour, + And nights devoid of ease, + Still heard in his soul the music + Of wonderful melodies. + + Such songs have power to quiet + The restless pulse of care, + And come like the benediction + That follows after prayer. + + Then read from the treasured volume + The poem of thy choice, + And lend to the rhyme of the poet + The beauty of thy voice. + + And the night shall be filled with music, + And the cares that infest the day, + Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, + And as silently steal away. + + +SEA-WEED. + + When descends on the Atlantic + The gigantic + Storm-wind of the equinox, + Landward in his wrath he scourges + The toiling surges, + Laden with sea-weed from the rocks: + + From Bermuda’s reefs; from edges + Of sunken ledges, + In some far-off, bright Azore; + From Bahama, and the dashing, + Silver-flashing + Surges of San Salvador; + + From the tumbling surf, that buries + The Orkneyan skerries, + Answering the hoarse Hebrides; + And from wrecks of ships, and drifting + Spars, uplifting + On the desolate, rainy seas;— + + Ever drifting, drifting, drifting + On the shifting + Currents of the restless main; + Till in sheltered coves, and reaches + Of sandy beaches, + All have found repose again. + + So when storms of wild emotion + Strike the ocean + Of the poet’s soul, ere long + From each cave and rocky fastness, + In its vastness, + Floats some fragment of a song: + + From the far-off isles enchanted, + Heaven has planted + With the golden fruit of Truth; + From the flashing surf, whose vision + Gleams Elysian + In the tropic clime of Youth; + + From the strong Will and the Endeavour + That for ever + Wrestle with the tides of Fate; + From the wreck of Hopes far scattered, + Tempest-shattered, + Floating waste and desolate;— + + Ever drifting, drifting, drifting + On the shifting + Currents of the restless heart; + Till at length in books recorded, + They, like hoarded + Household words, no more depart. + + +DRINKING SONG. + +INSCRIPTION FOR AN ANTIQUE PITCHER. + + Come, old friend! sit down and listen! + From the pitcher placed between us, + How the waters laugh and glisten + In the head of old Silenus! + + Old Silenus, bloated, drunken, + Led by his inebriate Satyrs; + On his breast his head is sunken, + Vacantly he leers and chatters. + + Fauns with youthful Bacchus follow; + Ivy crowns that brow supernal + As the forehead of Apollo, + And possessing youth eternal. + + Round about him, fair Bacchantes, + Bearing cymbals, flutes, and thyrses, + Wild from Naxian groves, or Zante’s + Vineyards, sing delirious verses. + + Thus he won, through all the nations, + Bloodless victories, and the farmer + Bore, as trophies and oblations, + Vines for banners, ploughs for armour. + + Judged by no o’er-zealous rigour, + Much this mystic throng expresses: + Bacchus was the type of vigour, + And Silenus of excesses. + + These are ancient ethnic revels, + Of a faith long since forsaken; + Now the Satyrs, changed to devils, + Frighten mortals wine-o’ertaken. + + Now to rivulets from the mountains + Point the rods of fortune-tellers; + Youth perpetual dwells in fountains,— + Not in flasks, and casks and cellars. + + Claudius, though he sang of flagons + And huge tankards filled with Rhenish, + From that fiery blood of dragons + Never would his own replenish. + + Even Redi, though he chanted + Bacchus in the Tuscan valleys, + Never drank the wine he vaunted + In his dithyrambic sallies. + + Then with water fill the pitcher + Wreathed about with classic fables; + Ne’er Falernian threw a richer + Light upon Lucullus’ tables. + + Come, old friend, sit down and listen! + As it passes thus between us, + How its wavelets laugh and glisten + In the head of old Silenus! + + +THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. + +[L’éternité est une pendule, dont le balancier dit et redit sans cesse +ces deux mots seulement, dans le silence des tombeaux: “Toujours! +jamais! Jamais! toujours!”—JACQUES BRIDAINE.] + + Somewhat back from the village street + Stands the old-fashioned country-seat; + Across its antique portico + Tall poplar trees their shadows throw, + And from its station in the hall + An ancient timepiece says to all, + “For ever—never! + Never—for ever!” + + Half-way up the stairs it stands, + And points and beckons with its hands + From its case of massive oak, + Like a monk, who, under his cloak, + Crosses himself, and sighs, alas! + With sorrowful voice to all who pass,— + “For ever—never! + Never—for ever!” + + By day its voice is low and light; + But in the silent dead of night, + Distinct as a passing footstep’s fall, + It echoes along the vacant hall, + Along the ceiling, along the floor, + And seems to say at each chamber-door,— + “For ever—never! + Never—for ever!” + + Through days of sorrow and of mirth, + Through days of death and days of birth, + Through every swift vicissitude + Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, + And as if, like God, it all things saw, + It calmly repeats those words of awe,— + “For ever—never! + Never—for ever!” + + In that mansion used to be + Free-hearted Hospitality; + His great fires up the chimney roared; + The stranger feasted at his board; + But, like the skeleton at the feast, + That warning timepiece never ceased,— + “For ever—never! + Never—for ever!” + + There groups of merry children played, + There youths and maidens dreaming strayed; + O precious hours! O golden prime, + And affluence of love and time! + Even as a miser counts his gold, + Those hours the ancient timepiece told,— + “For ever—never! + Never—for ever!” + + From that chamber, clothed in white, + The bride came forth on her wedding night: + There, in that silent room below, + The dead lay in his shroud of snow; + And in the hush that followed the prayer, + Was heard the old clock on the stair,— + “For ever—never! + Never—for ever!” + + All are scattered now and fled, + Some are married, some are dead; + And when I ask, with throbs of pain, + “Ah! when shall they all meet again?” + As in the days long since gone by, + The ancient timepiece makes reply,— + “For ever—never! + Never—for ever!” + + Never here, for ever there, + Where all parting, pain, and care, + And death and time shall disappear,— + For ever there, but never here! + The horologe of Eternity + Sayeth this incessantly,— + “For ever—never! + Never—for ever!” + + +AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY. + + The day is ending, + The night is descending; + The marsh is frozen, + The river dead. + + Through clouds like ashes + The red sun flashes + On village windows + That glimmer red. + + The snow recommences; + The buried fences + Mark no longer + The road o’er the plain; + + While through the meadows, + Like fearful shadows, + Slowly passes + A funeral train. + + The bell is pealing, + And every feeling + Within me responds + To the dismal knell; + + Shadows are trailing, + My heart is bewailing + And tolling within + Like a funeral bell. + + + + +The Spanish Student. + +1843. + + +DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. + + VICTORIAN } _Students of Alcalá_. + HYPOLITO } + + THE COUNT OF LARA } _Gentlemen of Madrid_. + DON CARLOS } + + THE ARCHBISHOP OF TOLEDO. + A CARDINAL. + BELTRAN CRUZADO _Count of the Gipsies_. + BARTOLOMÉ ROMAN _A young Gipsy_. + THE PADRE CURA OF GUADARRAMA. + PEDRO CRESPO _Alcalde_. + PANCHO _Alguacil_. + FRANCISCO _Lara’s Servant_. + CHISPA _Victorian’s Servant_. + BALTASAR _Innkeeper_. + PRECIOSA _A Gipsy Girl_. + ANGELICA _A poor Girl_. + MARTINA _The Padre Cura’s Niece_. + DOLORES _Preciosa’s Maid_. + + _Gipsies, Musicians, etc._ + + +ACT I. + +SCENE I.—_The_ COUNT OF LARA’S _Chambers. Night. The_ COUNT _in his +dressing-gown, smoking and conversing with_ DON CARLOS. + + _Lara._ You were not at the play to night, Don Carlos; + How happened it? + + _Carlos._ I had engagements elsewhere. + Pray who was there? + + _Lara._ Why, all the town and court. + The house was crowded; and the busy fans + Among the gaily dressed and perfumed ladies + Fluttered like butterflies among the flowers. + There was the Countess of Medina Celi; + The Goblin Lady with her Phantom Lover, + Her Lindo Don Diego; Doña Sol, + And Doña Serafina, and her cousins. + + _Carlos._ What was the play? + + _Lara._ It was a dull affair; + One of those comedies in which you see, + As Lope says, the history of the world + Brought down from Genesis to the Day of Judgment. + There were three duels fought in the first act, + Three gentlemen receiving deadly wounds, + Laying their hands upon their hearts, and saying, + “O, I am dead!” a lover in a closet, + An old hidalgo, and a gay Don Juan, + A Doña Inez with a black mantilla, + Followed at twilight by an unknown lover, + Who looks intently where he knows she is not! + + _Carlos._ Of course, the Preciosa danced to-night? + + _Lara._ And never better. Every footstep fell + As lightly as a sunbeam on the water. + I think the girl extremely beautiful. + + _Carlos._ Almost beyond the privilege of woman! + I saw her in the Prado yesterday. + Her step was royal—queen-like—and her face + As beautiful as a saint’s in Paradise. + + _Lara._ May not a saint fall from her Paradise, + And be no more a saint? + + _Carlos._ Why do you ask? + + _Lara._ Because I have heard it said this angel fell, + And, though she is a virgin outwardly, + Within she is a sinner; like those panels + Of doors and altar-pieces the old monks + Painted in convents, with the Virgin Mary + On the outside, and on the inside Venus! + + _Carlos._ You do her wrong; indeed, you do her wrong! + She is as virtuous as she is fair. + + _Lara._ How credulous you are! Why, look you, friend, + There’s not a virtuous woman in Madrid, + In this whole city! And would you persuade me + That a mere dancing-girl, who shows herself + Nightly, half-naked, on the stage, for money, + And with voluptuous motions fires the blood + Of inconsiderate youth, is to be held + A model for her virtue. + + _Carlos._ You forget + She is a Gipsy girl. + + _Lara._ And therefore won + The easier. + + _Carlos._ Nay, not to be won at all! + The only virtue that a Gipsy prizes + Is chastity. This is her only virtue. + Dearer than life she holds it. I remember + A Gipsy woman, a vile, shameless bawd, + Whose craft was to betray the young and fair; + And yet this woman was above all bribes. + And when a noble lord, touched by her beauty, + The wild and wizard beauty of her race, + Offered her gold to be what she made others, + She turned upon him, with a look of scorn, + And smote him in the face! + + _Lara._ And does that prove + That Preciosa is above suspicion? + + _Carlos._ It proves a nobleman may be repulsed + When he thinks conquest easy. I believe + That woman, in her deepest degradation, + Holds something sacred, something undefiled, + Some pledge and keepsake of her higher nature, + And, like the diamond in the dark, retains + Some quenchless gleam of the celestial light! + + _Lara._ Yet Preciosa would have taken the gold. + + _Carlos_ [_rising_]. I do not think so. + + _Lara._ I am sure of it. + But why this haste? Stay yet a little longer, + And fight the battles of your Dulcinea. + + _Carlos._ ’Tis late. I must begone, for if I stay + You will not be persuaded. + + _Lara._ Yes; persuade me. + + _Carlos._ No one so deaf as he who will not hear! + + _Lara._ No one so blind as he who will not see! + + _Carlos._ And so good night. I wish you pleasant dreams, + And greater faith in woman. [_Exit._ + + _Lara._ Greater faith! + I have the greatest faith; for I believe + Victorian is her lover. I believe + That I shall be to-morrow; and thereafter + Another, and another, and another, + Chasing each other through her zodiac, + As Taurus chases Aries. + + [_Enter_ FRANCISCO _with a casket_.] + + Well, Francisco, + What speed with Preciosa? + + _Fran._ None, my lord. + She sends your jewels back, and bids me tell you + She is not to be purchased by your gold. + + _Lara._ Then I will try some other way to win her. + Pray, dost thou know Victorian? + + _Fran._ Yes, my lord, + I saw him at the jeweller’s to-day. + + _Lara._ What was he doing there? + + _Fran._ I saw him buy + A golden ring that had a ruby in it. + + _Lara._ Was there another like it? + + _Fran._ One so like it + I could not choose between them. + + _Lara._ It is well. + To-morrow morning bring that ring to me. + Do not forget. Now light me to my bed. [_Exeunt._ + + +SCENE II.—_A street in Madrid. Enter_ CHISPA, _followed by musicians, +with a bagpipe, guitars, and other instruments_. + +_Chis._ Abernuncio Satanas! and a plague on all lovers who ramble about +at night, drinking the elements, instead of sleeping quietly in their +beds. Every dead man to his cemetery, say I; and every friar to his +monastery. Now, here’s my master, Victorian, yesterday a cowkeeper, +and to-day a gentleman; yesterday a student, and to-day a lover; and +I must be up later than the nightingale, for as the abbot sings so +must the sacristan respond. God grant he may soon be married, for then +shall all this serenading cease. Ay, marry! marry! marry! Mother, what +does marry mean? It means to spin, to bear children, and to weep, +my daughter! And, of a truth, there is something more in matrimony +than the wedding-ring. [_To the musicians._] And now, gentlemen, Pax +vobiscum! as the ass said to the cabbages. Pray, walk this way; and +don’t hang down your heads. It is no disgrace to have an old father and +a ragged shirt. Now, look you, you are gentlemen who lead the life of +crickets; you enjoy hunger by day and noise by night. Yet, I beseech +you, for this once be not loud, but pathetic; for it is a serenade to +a damsel in bed, and not to the Man in the Moon. Your object is not to +arouse and terrify, but to soothe and bring lulling dreams. Therefore, +each shall not play upon his instrument as if it were the only one in +the universe, but gently, and with a certain modesty, according with +the others. Pray, how may I call thy name, friend? + +_First Mus._ Gerónimo Gil, at your service. + +_Chis._ Every tub smells of the wine that is in it. Pray, Gerónimo, is +not Saturday an unpleasant day with thee? + +_First Mus._ Why so? + +_Chis._ Because I have heard it said that Saturday is an unpleasant day +with those who have but one shirt. Moreover, I have seen thee at the +tavern, and if thou canst run as fast as thou canst drink, I should +like to hunt hares with thee. What instrument is that? + +_First Mus._ An Aragonese bagpipe. + +_Chis._ Pray, art thou related to the bagpiper of Bujalance, who asked +a maravedi for playing, and ten for leaving off? + +_First Mus._ No, your honour. + +_Chis._ I am glad of it. What other instruments have we? + +_Second and Third Mus._ We play the bandurria. + +_Chis._ A pleasing instrument. Art thou? + +_Fourth Mus._ The fife. + +_Chis._ I like it; it has a cheerful, soul-stirring sound, that soars +up to my lady’s window like the song of a swallow. And you others? + +_Other Mus._ We are the singers, please your honour. + +_Chis._ You are too many. Do you think we are going to sing mass in the +cathedral of Córdova? Four men can make but little use of one shoe, and +I see not how you can all sing in one song. But follow me along the +garden wall. That is the way my master climbs to the lady’s window. It +is by the Vicar’s skirts that the devil climbs into the belfry. Come, +follow me, and make no noise. [_Exeunt._ + + +SCENE III.—PRECIOSA’S _Chamber. She stands at the open window._ + + _Pre._ How slowly through the lilac-scented air + Descends the tranquil moon! Like thistle-down + The vapoury clouds float in the peaceful sky; + And sweetly from yon hollow vaults of shade + The nightingales breathe out their souls in song. + And hark! what songs of love, what soul-like sounds, + Answer them from below! + +SERENADE. + + Stars of the summer night! + Far in yon azure deeps, + Hide, hide your golden light! + She sleeps! + My lady sleeps! + Sleeps! + + Moon of the summer night! + Far down yon western steeps, + Sink, sink in silver light! + She sleeps! + My lady sleeps! + Sleeps! + + Wind of the summer night! + Where yonder woodbine creeps, + Fold, fold thy pinions light! + She sleeps! + My lady sleeps! + Sleeps! + + Dreams of the summer night! + Tell her, her lover keeps + Watch! while in slumbers light + She sleeps! + My lady sleeps! + Sleeps! + + [_Enter_ VICTORIAN _by the balcony_.] + + _Vict._ Poor little dove! Thou tremblest like a leaf! + + _Pre._ I am so frightened! ’Tis for thee I tremble! + I hate to have thee climb that wall by night! + Did no one see thee? + + _Vict._ None, my love, but thou. + + _Pre._ ’Tis very dangerous; and when thou art gone, + I chide myself for letting thee come here + Thus stealthily by night. Where hast thou been? + Since yesterday I have no news from thee. + + _Vict._ Since yesterday I’ve been in Alcalá. + Ere long the time will come, sweet Preciosa, + When that dull distance shall no more divide us, + And I no more shall scale thy wall by night + To steal a kiss from thee, as I do now. + + _Pre._ An honest thief to steal but what thou givest. + + _Vict._ And we shall sit together unmolested, + And words of true love pass from tongue to tongue, + As singing birds from one bough to another. + + _Pre._ That were a life indeed to make time envious! + I knew that thou wouldst visit me to-night. + I saw thee at the play. + + _Vict._ Sweet child of air! + Never did I behold thee so attired + + And garmented in beauty as to-night! + What hast thou done to make thee look so fair? + + _Pre._ Am not I always fair? + + _Vict._ Ay, and so fair + That I am jealous of all eyes that see thee, + And wish that they were blind. + + _Pre._ I heed them not; + When thou art present, I see none but thee! + + _Vict._ There’s nothing fair nor beautiful, but takes + Something from thee, that makes it beautiful. + + _Pre._ And yet thou leavest me for those dusty books. + + _Vict._ Thou comest between me and those books too often! + I see thy face in everything I see! + The paintings in the chapel wear thy looks, + The canticles are changed to sarabands. + And with the learned doctors of the schools + I see thee dance cachuchas. + + _Pre._ In good sooth, + I dance with learned doctors of the schools + To-morrow morning. + + _Vict._ And with whom, I pray? + + _Pre._ A grave and reverend Cardinal, and his Grace + The Archbishop of Toledo. + + _Vict._ What mad jest + Is this? + + _Pre._ It is no jest; indeed it is not. + + _Vict._ Prithee, explain thyself. + + _Pre._ Why, simply thus. + Thou knowest the Pope has sent here into Spain + To put a stop to dances on the stage. + + _Vict._ I have heard it whispered. + + _Pre._ Now the Cardinal + Who for this purpose comes, would fain behold + With his own eyes these dances; and the Archbishop + Has sent for me—— + + _Vict._ That thou mayst dance before them! + Now viva la cachucha! It will breathe + The fire of youth into these grey old men! + ’Twill be thy proudest conquest! + + _Pre._ Saving one. + And yet I fear these dances will be stopped, + And Preciosa be once more a beggar. + + _Vict._ The sweetest beggar that e’er asked for alms; + With such beseeching eyes, that when I saw thee + I gave my heart away! + + _Pre._ Dost thou remember + When first we met? + + _Vict._ It was at Córdova, + In the cathedral garden. Thou wast sitting + Under the orange-trees, beside a fountain. + + _Pre._ ’Twas Easter-Sunday. The full blossomed trees + Filled all the air with fragrance and with joy. + The priests were singing, and the organ sounded, + And then anon the great cathedral bell. + It was the elevation of the Host. + We both of us fell down upon our knees, + Under the orange boughs, and prayed together. + I never had been happy till that moment. + + _Vict._ Thou blessed angel! + + _Pre._ And when thou wast gone + I felt an aching here. I did not speak + To any one that day. But from that day + Bartolomé grew hateful unto me. + + _Vict._ Remember him no more. Let not his shadow + Come between thee and me. Sweet Preciosa! + I loved thee even then, though I was silent! + + _Pre._ I thought I ne’er should see thy face again. + Thy farewell had a sound of sorrow in it. + + _Vict._ That was the first sound in the song of love! + Scarce more than silence is, and yet a sound. + Hands of invisible spirits touch the strings + Of that mysterious instrument, the soul, + And play the prelude of our fate. We hear + The voice prophetic, and are not alone. + + _Pre._ That is my faith. Dost thou believe these warnings? + + _Vict._ So far as this. Our feelings and our thoughts + Tend ever on, and rest not in the Present. + As drops of rain fall into some dark well, + And from below comes a scarce audible sound, + So fall our thoughts into the dark Hereafter, + And their mysterious echo reaches us. + + _Pre._ I have felt it so, but found no words to say it! + I cannot reason; I can only feel! + But thou hast language for all thoughts and feelings. + Thou art a scholar; and sometimes I think + We cannot walk together in this world! + The distance that divides us is too great! + Henceforth thy pathway lies among the stars; + I must not hold thee back. + + _Vict._ Thou little sceptic! + Dost thou still doubt? What I most prize in woman + Is her affections, not her intellect! + The intellect is finite; but the affections + Are infinite, and cannot be exhausted. + Compare me with the great men of the earth; + What am I? Why, a pigmy among giants! + But if thou lovest,—mark me! I say lovest, + The greatest of thy sex excels thee not! + The world of the affections is thy world, + Not that of man’s ambition. In that stillness + Which most becomes a woman, calm and holy, + Thou sittest by the fireside of the heart, + Feeding its flame. The element of fire + Is pure. It cannot change nor hide its nature, + But burns as brightly in a Gipsy camp + As in a palace hall. Art thou convinced? + + _Pre._ Yes, that I love thee, as the good love heaven; + But not that I am worthy of that heaven. + How shall I more deserve it? + + _Vict._ Loving more. + + _Pre._ I cannot love thee more; my heart is full. + + _Vict._ Then let it overflow, and I will drink it, + As in the summer time the thirsty sands + Drink the swift waters of the Manzanares, + And still do thirst for more. + + _A Watchman_ [_in the street_]. Ave Maria + Purissima! ’Tis midnight and serene! + + _Vict._ Hear’st thou that cry? + + _Pre._ It is a hateful sound, + To scare thee from me! + + _Vict._ As the hunter’s horn + Doth scare the timid stag, or bark of hounds + The moor-fowl from his mate. + + _Pre._ Pray, do not go! + + _Vict._ I must away to Alcalá to-night. + Think of me when I am away. + + _Pre._ Fear not! + I have no thoughts that do not think of thee. + + _Vict._ [_giving her a ring_]. And to remind thee of + my love, take this; + A serpent, emblem of Eternity; + A ruby,—say, a drop of my heart’s blood. + + _Pre._ It is an ancient saying, that the ruby + Brings gladness to the wearer, and preserves + The heart pure, and, if laid beneath the pillow, + Drives away evil dreams. But then, alas! + It was a serpent tempted Eve to sin. + + _Vict._ What convent of barefooted Carmelites + Taught thee so much theology? + + _Pre._ [_laying her hand upon his mouth_]. Hush! Hush! + Good night! and may all holy angels guard thee! + + _Vict._ Good night! good night! Thou art my guardian angel! + I have no other saint than thou to pray to! + + [_He descends by the balcony._] + + _Pre._ Take care, and do not hurt thee. Art thou safe? + + _Vict._ [_from the garden_]. Safe as my love for thee! + But art thou safe? + Others can climb a balcony by moonlight + As well as I. Pray shut thy window close; + I am jealous of the perfumed air of night + That from this garden climbs to kiss thy lips. + + _Pre._ [_throwing down her handkerchief_]. + Thou silly child; take this to bind thine eyes. + It is my benison! + + _Vict._ And brings to me + Sweet fragrance from thy lips, as the soft wind + Wafts to the outbound mariner the breath + Of the belovèd land he leaves behind. + + _Pre._ Make not thy voyage long. + + _Vict._ To-morrow night + Shall see me safe returned. Thou art the star + To guide me to an anchorage. Good night! + My beauteous star! My star of love, good night! + + _Pre._ Good night! + + _Watchman_ [_at a distance_]. Ave Maria Purissima! + + +SCENE IV.—_An inn on the road to Alcalá._ BALTASAR _asleep on a bench. +Enter_ CHISPA. + +_Chis._ And here we are, half-way to Alcalá, between cocks and +midnight. Body of me! what an inn this is! The lights out, and the +landlord asleep. Holá! ancient Baltasar! + +_Balt._ [_waking_]. Here I am. + +_Chis._ Yes, there you are, like a one-eyed Alcalde in a town without +inhabitants. Bring a light, and let me have supper. + +_Balt._ Where is your master? + +_Chis._ Do not trouble yourself about him. We have stopped a moment +to breathe our horses; and, if he chooses to walk up and down in the +open air, looking into the sky as one who hears it rain, that does not +satisfy my hunger, you know. But be quick, for I am in a hurry, and +every man stretches his legs according to the length of his coverlet. +What have we here? + +_Balt._ [_setting a light on the table_]. Stewed rabbit. + +_Chis._ [_eating_]. Conscience of Portalegre! Stewed kitten, you mean! + +_Balt._ And a pitcher of Pedro Ximenes, with a roasted pear in it. + +_Chis._ [_drinking_]. Ancient Baltasar, amigo! You know how to cry +wine and sell vinegar. I tell you this is nothing but Vino Tinto of La +Mancha, with a tang of the swine-skin. + +_Balt._ I swear to you by Saint Simon and Judas, it is all as I say. + +_Chis._ And I swear to you by Saint Peter and Saint Paul, that it is no +such thing. Moreover, your supper is like the hidalgo’s dinner, very +little meat, and a great deal of table-cloth. + +_Balt._ Ha! ha! ha! + +_Chis._ And more noise than nuts. + +_Balt._ Ha! ha! ha! You must have your joke, Master Chispa. But shall I +not ask Don Victorian in, to take a draught of the Pedro Ximenes? + +_Chis._ No; you might as well say, “Don’t-you-want-some?” to a dead man. + +_Balt._ Why does he go so often to Madrid? + +_Chis._ For the same reason that he eats no supper. He is in love. Were +you ever in love, Baltasar? + +_Balt._ I was never out of it, good Chispa. It has been the torment of +my life. + +_Chis._ What! are you on fire, too, old haystack? Why, we shall never +be able to put you out. + +_Vict._ [_without_]. Chispa! + +_Chis._ Go to bed, Pero Grullo, for the cocks are crowing. + +_Vict._ Ea! Chispa! Chispa! + +_Chis._ Ea! Señor. Come with me, ancient Baltasar, and bring water for +the horses. I will pay for the supper, to-morrow. + +[_Exeunt._ + + +SCENE V.—VICTORIAN’S _Chambers at Alcalá_. HYPOLITO _asleep in an +arm-chair. He awakes slowly._ + + _Hyp._ I must have been asleep! ay, sound asleep! + And it was all a dream. O sleep, sweet sleep! + Whatever form thou takest, thou art fair, + Holding unto our lips thy goblet filled + Out of Oblivion’s well, a healing draught! + The candles have burned low; it must be late. + Where can Victorian be? Like Fray Carillo,[19] + The only place in which one cannot find him + Is his own cell. Here’s his guitar, that seldom + Feels the caresses of its master’s hand. + Open thy silent lips, sweet instrument! + And make dull midnight merry with a song. + + [_He plays and sings._] + + Padre Francisco! + Padre Francisco! + What do you want of Padre Francisco? + Here is a pretty young maiden + Who wants to confess her sins. + Open the door and let her come in, + I will shrive her from every sin. + + [_Enter_ VICTORIAN.] + +[19] The allusion is to a Spanish epigram. See Appendix. + + _Vict._ Padre Hypolito! Padre Hypolito! + + _Hyp._ What do you want of Padre Hypolito? + + _Vict._ Come, shrive me straight; for, if love be a sin, + I am the greatest sinner that doth live. + I will confess the sweetest of all crimes, + A maiden wooed and won. + + _Hyp._ The same old tale + Of the old woman in the chimney corner, + Who, while the pot boils, says, “Come here, my child; + I’ll tell thee a story of my wedding-day.” + + _Vict._ Nay, listen, for my heart is full; so full + That I must speak. + + _Hyp._ Alas! that heart of thine + Is like a scene in the old play; the curtain + Rises to solemn music, and lo! enter + The eleven thousand virgins of Cologne! + + _Vict._ Nay, like the Sibyl’s volumes, thou shouldst say; + Those that remained, after the six were burned, + Being held more precious than the nine together. + But listen to my tale. Dost thou remember + The gipsy girl we saw at Córdova + Dance the Romalis in the market-place? + + _Hyp._ Thou meanest Preciosa? + + _Vict._ Ay, the same. + Thou knowest how her image haunted me + Long after we returned to Alcalá. + She’s in Madrid. + + _Hyp._ I know it. + + _Vict._ And I am in love. + + _Hyp._ And therefore in Madrid when thou shouldst be + In Alcalá. + + _Vict._ O pardon me, my friend, + If I so long have kept this secret from thee; + But silence is the charm that guards such treasures, + And, if a word be spoken ere the time, + They sink again, they were not meant for us. + + _Hyp._ Alas! alas! I see thou art in love. + Love keeps the cold out better than a cloak. + It serves for food and raiment. Give a Spaniard + His mass, his olla, and his Dona Luisa,— + Thou knowest the proverb. But pray tell me, lover, + How speeds thy wooing? Is the maiden coy? + Write her a song, beginning with an _Ave_; + Sing as the monk sang to the Virgin Mary, + + _Ave! cujus calcem clare, + Nec centenni commendare + Sciret Seraph studio._ + + _Vict._ Pray, do not jest! This is no time for it. + I am in earnest! + + _Hyp._ Seriously enamoured? + What, ho! The Primus of great Alcalá + Enamoured of a Gipsy! Tell me frankly, + How meanest thou? + + _Vict._ I mean it honestly. + + _Hyp._ Surely thou wilt not marry her! + + _Vict._ Why not? + + _Hyp._ She was betrothed to one Bartolomé, + If I remember rightly, a young Gipsy + Who danced with her at Córdova. + + _Vict._ They quarrelled, + And so the matter ended. + + _Hyp._ But in truth + Thou wilt not marry her? + + _Vict._ In truth I will. + The angels sang in heaven when she was born! + She is a precious jewel I have found + Among the filth and rubbish of the world. + I’ll stoop for it; but when I wear it here, + Set on my forehead like the morning star, + The world may wonder, but it will not laugh. + + _Hyp._ If thou wear’st nothing else upon thy forehead, + ’Twill be indeed a wonder. + + _Vict._ Out upon thee, + With thy unseasonable jests! Pray, tell me, + Is there no virtue in the world? + + _Hyp._ Not much. + What, think’st thou, is she doing at this moment; + Now, while we speak of her? + + _Vict._ She lies asleep, + And, from her parted lips, her gentle breath + Comes like the fragrance from the lips of flowers. + Her tender limbs are still, and, on her breast, + The cross she prayed to, ere she fell asleep, + Rises and falls with the soft tide of dreams, + Like a light barge safe moored. + + _Hyp._ Which means, in prose, + She’s sleeping with her mouth a little open! + + _Vict._ O, would I had the old magician’s glass + To see her as she lies in childlike sleep! + + _Hyp._ And wouldst thou venture? + + _Vict._ Ay, indeed I would! + + _Hyp._ Thou art courageous. Hast thou e’er reflected + How much lies hidden in that one word, _now_? + + _Vict._ Yes, all the awful mystery of Life! + I oft have thought, my dear Hypolito, + That could we, by some spell of magic, change + The world and its inhabitants to stone, + In the same attitudes they now are in, + What fearful glances downward might we cast + Into the hollow chasms of human life! + What groups should we behold about the death-bed, + Putting to shame the group of Niobe! + What joyful welcomes, and what sad farewells! + What stony tears in those congealèd eyes! + What visible joy or anguish in those cheeks! + What bridal pomps, and what funereal shows! + What foes, like gladiators, fierce and struggling! + What lovers with their marble lips together! + + _Hyp._ Ay, there it is! and, if I were in love, + That is the very point I most should dread. + This magic glass, these magic spells of thine, + Might tell a tale were better left untold. + For instance, they might show us thy fair cousin, + The Lady Violante, bathed in tears + Of love and anger, like the maid of Colchis, + Whom thou, another faithless Argonaut, + Having won that golden fleece, a woman’s love, + Desertest for this Glaucè. + + _Vict._ Hold thy peace! + She cares not for me. She may wed another, + Or go into a convent, and, thus dying, + Marry Achilles in the Elysian Fields. + + _Hyp._ [_rising_]. And so, good night! Good morning, + I should say. + + [_Clock strikes three._] + + Hark! how the loud and ponderous mace of Time + Knocks at the golden portals of the day! + And so, once more, good night! We’ll speak more largely + Of Preciosa when we meet again. + Get thee to bed, and the magician, Sleep, + Shall show her to thee, in his magic glass, + In all her loveliness. Good night! [_Exit._ + + _Vict._ Good night! + But not to bed; for I must read awhile. + +[_Throws himself into the arm-chair which_ HYPOLITO _has left, and lays +a large book open upon his knees_.] + + Must read, or sit in reverie and watch + The changing colour of the waves that break + Upon the idle sea-shore of the mind! + Visions of Fame! that once did visit me, + Making night glorious with your smile, where are ye? + O, who shall give me, now that ye are gone, + Juices of those immortal plants that bloom + Upon Olympus, making us immortal? + Or teach me where that wondrous mandrake grows + Whose magic root, torn from the earth with groans, + At midnight hour, can scare the fiends away, + And make the mind prolific in its fancies? + I have the wish, but want the will, to act! + Souls of great men departed! Ye whose words + Have come to light from the swift river of Time, + Like Roman swords found in the Tagus’ bed, + Where is the strength to wield the arms ye bore? + From the barred visor of Antiquity + Reflected shines the eternal light of Truth, + As from a mirror! All the means of action— + The shapeless masses—the materials— + Lie everywhere about us. What we need + Is the celestial fire to change the flint + Into transparent crystal, bright and clear. + That fire is genius! The rude peasant sits + At evening in his smoky cot, and draws + With charcoal uncouth figures on the wall. + The son of genius comes, footsore with travel, + And begs a shelter from the inclement night. + He takes the charcoal from the peasant’s hand, + And, by the magic of his touch at once + Transfigured, all its hidden virtues shine, + And, in the eyes of the astonished clown, + It gleams a diamond! Even thus transformed, + Rude popular traditions and old tales + Shine as immortal poems, at the touch + Of some poor, houseless, homeless, wandering bard, + Who had but a night’s lodgings for his pains. + But there are brighter dreams than those of Fame, + Which are the dreams of Love! Out of the heart + Rises the bright ideal of these dreams, + As from some woodland fount a spirit rises + And sinks again into its silent deeps, + Ere the enamoured knight can touch her robe! + ’Tis this ideal that the soul of man, + Like the enamoured knight beside the fountain, + Waits for upon the margin of Life’s stream; + Waits to behold her rise from the dark waters, + Clad in a mortal shape! Alas! how many + Must wait in vain! The stream flows evermore, + But from its silent deeps no spirit rises! + Yet I, born under a propitious star, + Have found the bright ideal of my dreams. + Yes! she is ever with me. I can feel, + Here, as I sit at midnight and alone, + Her gentle breathing! on my breast can feel + The pressure of her head! God’s benison + Rest ever on it! Close those beauteous eyes, + Sweet Sleep! and all the flowers that bloom at night + With balmy lips breathe in her ears my name! + + [_Gradually sinks asleep._] + + +ACT II. + + +SCENE I.—PRECIOSA’S _Chamber. Morning._ PRECIOSA _and_ ANGELICA. + + _Pre._ Why will you go so soon? Stay yet awhile. + The poor too often turn away unheard + From hearts that shut against them with a sound + That will be heard in Heaven. Pray, tell me more + Of your adversities. Keep nothing from me. + What is your landlord’s name? + + _Ang._ The Count of Lara. + + _Pre._ The Count of Lara? O, beware that man! + Mistrust his pity,—hold no parley with him! + And rather die an outcast in the streets + Than touch his gold. + + _Ang._ You know him, then! + + _Pre._ As much + As any woman may, and yet be pure. + As you would keep your name without a blemish, + Beware of him! + + _Ang._ Alas! what can I do? + I cannot choose my friends. Each word of kindness, + Come from whence it may, is welcome to the poor. + + _Pre._ Make me your friend. A girl so young and fair + Should have no friends but those of her own sex. + What is your name? + + _Ang._ Angelica. + + _Pre._ That name + Was given you, that you might be an angel + To her who bore you! When your infant smile + Made her home Paradise, you were her angel. + O, be an angel still! She needs that smile. + So long as you are innocent, fear nothing. + No one can harm you! I am a poor girl, + Whom chance has taken from the public streets. + I have no other shield than mine own virtue, + That is the charm which has protected me! + Amid a thousand perils, I have worn it + Here on my heart! It is my guardian angel. + + _Ang._ [_rising_]. I thank you for this counsel, dearest lady. + + _Pre._ Thank me by following it. + + _Ang._ Indeed I will. + + _Pre._ Pray, do not go. I have much more to say. + + _Ang._ My mother is alone. I dare not leave her. + + _Pre._ Some other time, then, when we meet again. + You must not go away with words alone. + + [_Gives her a purse._] + + Take this. Would it were more. + + _Ang._ I thank you, lady. + + _Pre._ No thanks. To-morrow come to me again. + I dance to-night,—perhaps for the last time. + But what I gain, I promise shall be yours, + If that can save you from the Count of Lara. + + _Ang._ O, my dear lady! how shall I be grateful + For so much kindness? + + _Pre._ I deserve no thanks. + Thank Heaven, not me. + + _Ang._ Both Heaven and you. + + _Pre._ Farewell. + Remember that you come again to-morrow. + + _Ang._ I will. And may the blessed Virgin guard you, + And all good angels. [_Exit._ + + _Pre._ May they guard thee, too, + And all the poor; for they have need of angels. + Now bring me, dear Dolores, my Basquiña, + My richest maja dress,—my dancing dress, + And my most precious jewels! Make me look + Fairer than night e’er saw me! I’ve a prize + To win this day, worthy of Preciosa! + + [_Enter_ BELTRAN CRUZADO. + + _Cruz._ Ave Maria! + + _Pre._ O God! my evil genius! + What seekest thou here to-day? + + _Cruz._ Thyself,—my child. + + _Pre._ What is thy will with me? + + _Cruz._ Gold! gold! + + _Pre._ I gave thee yesterday; I have no more. + + _Cruz._ The gold of the Busné,[20]—give me his gold! + + _Pre._ I gave the last in charity to-day. + + _Cruz._ That is a foolish lie. + + _Pre._ It is the truth. + + _Cruz._ Curses upon thee! Thou art not my child! + Hast thou given gold away, and not to me! + Not to thy father? To whom then? + +[20] _Busné_ is the name given by the Gipsies to all who are not of +their race. + + _Pre._ To one + Who needs it more. + + _Cruz._ No one can need it more. + + _Pre._ Thou art not poor. + + _Cruz._ What, I, who lurk about + In dismal suburbs and unwholesome lanes; + I, who am housed worse than the galley slave; + I, who am fed worse than the kennelled hound; + I, who am clothed in rags,—Beltran Cruzado,— + Not poor! + + _Pre._ Thou hast a stout heart and strong hands. + Thou canst supply thy wants; what wouldst thou more? + + _Cruz._ The gold of the Busné! give me his gold! + + _Pre._ Beltran Cruzado! hear me once for all. + I speak the truth. So long as I had gold, + I gave it to thee freely, at all times, + Never denied thee; never had a wish + But to fulfil thine own. Now go in peace! + Be merciful, be patient, and, ere long, + Thou shalt have more. + + _Cruz._ And if I have it not, + Thou shalt no longer dwell here in rich chambers, + Wear silken dresses, feed on dainty food, + And live in idleness; but go with me, + Dance the Romalis in the public streets, + And wander wild again o’er field and fell; + For here we stay not long. + + _Pre._ What! march again? + + _Cruz._ Ay, with all speed. I hate the crowded town! + I cannot breathe shut up within its gates! + Air,—I want air, and sunshine, and blue sky, + The feeling of the breeze upon my face, + The feeling of the turf beneath my feet, + And no walls but the far-off mountain-tops. + Then I am free and strong,—once more myself, + Beltran Cruzado, Count of the Calés![21] + + _Pre._ God speed thee on thy march!—I cannot go. + + _Cruz._ Remember who I am, and who thou art. + Be silent and obey! Yet one thing more. + Bartolomé Román—— + +[21] The Gipsies call themselves Calés. See Burrow’s valuable and +extremely interesting work, _The Zincali; or, An Account of the Gipsies +in Spain_. + + _Pre._ [_with emotion_]. O, I beseech thee! + If my obedience and blameless life, + If my humility and meek submission + In all things hitherto, can move in thee + One feeling of compassion; if thou art + Indeed my father, and canst trace in me + One look of her who bore me, or one tone + That doth remind thee of her, let it plead + In my behalf, who am a feeble girl, + Too feeble to resist, and do not force me + To wed that man! I am afraid of him! + I do not love him! On my knees I beg thee + To use no violence, nor do in haste + What cannot be undone! + + _Cruz._ O child, child, child! + Thou hast betrayed thy secret, as a bird + Betrays her nest, by striving to conceal it. + I will not leave thee here in the great city + To be a grandee’s mistress. Make thee ready + To go with us; and until then remember + A watchful eye is on thee. [_Exit._ + + _Pre._ Woe is me! + I have a strange misgiving in my heart! + But that one deed of charity I will do, + Befall what may; they cannot take that from me. [_Exit._ + + +SCENE II.—_A room in the Archbishop’s palace. The_ ARCHBISHOP _and a_ +CARDINAL _seated._ + + _Arch._ Knowing how near it touched the public morals, + And that our age is grown corrupt and rotten + By such excesses, we have sent to Rome, + Beseeching that his Holiness would aid + In curing the gross surfeit of the time, + By seasonable stop put here in Spain + To bull-fights and lewd dances on the stage. + All this you know. + + _Card._ Know and approve. + + _Arch._ And further, + That, by a mandate from his Holiness, + The first have been suppressed. + + _Card._ I trust for ever; + It was a cruel sport. + + _Arch._ A barbarous pastime, + Disgraceful to the land that calls itself + Most Catholic and Christian. + + _Card._ Yet the people + Murmur at this; and, if the public dances + Should be condemned upon too slight occasion, + Worse ills might follow than the ills we cure. + As _Panem et Circenses_ was the cry + Among the Roman populace of old, + So _Pan y Toros_ is the cry in Spain. + Hence I would act advisedly herein; + And therefore have induced your grace to see + These national dances, ere we interdict them. + + [_Enter a Servant._] + + _Ser._ The dancing-girl, and with her the musicians + Your grace was pleased to order, wait without. + + _Arch._ Bid them come in. Now shall your eyes behold + In what angelic yet voluptuous shape + The Devil came to tempt Saint Anthony. + +[_Enter_ PRECIOSA, _with a mantle thrown over her head. She advances +slowly, in a modest, half-timid attitude._] + + _Card._ [_aside_]. O, what a fair and ministering + angel Was lost to Heaven when this sweet woman fell! + + _Pre._ [_kneeling before the Archbishop_]. I have + obeyed the order of your grace. + If I intrude upon your better hours, + I proffer this excuse, and here beseech + Your holy benediction. + + _Arch._ May God bless thee, + And lead thee to a better life. Arise. + + _Card._ [_aside_]. Her acts are modest, and her words + discreet! + I did not look for this! Come hither, child. + Is thy name Preciosa? + + _Pre._ Thus I am called. + + _Card._ That is a Gipsy name. Who is thy father? + + _Pre._ Beltran Cruzado, Count of the Calés. + + _Arch._ I have a dim remembrance of that man. + He was a bold and reckless character, + A sun-burnt Ishmael! + + _Card._ Dost thou remember + Thy earlier days? + + _Pre._ Yes; by the Darro’s side + My childhood passed. I can remember still + The river, and the mountains capped with snow: + The villages, where, yet a little child, + I told the traveller’s fortune in the street; + The smuggler’s horse, the brigand, and the shepherd, + The march across the moor; the halt at noon; + The red fire of the evening camp, that lighted + The forest where we slept; and, farther back, + As in a dream or in some former life, + Gardens and palace walls. + + _Arch._ ’Tis the Alhambra, + Under whose towers the Gipsy camp was pitched. + But the time wears; and we would see the dance. + + _Pre._ Your grace shall be obeyed. + +[_She lays aside her mantilla. The music of the cachuca is played, and +the dance begins. The_ ARCHBISHOP _and the_ CARDINAL _look on with +gravity and an occasional frown; then make signs to each other; and, as +the dance continues, become more and more pleased and excited; and at +length rise from their seats, throw their caps in the air, and applaud +vehemently as the scene closes_.] + + +SCENE III.—_The Prado. A long avenue of trees leading to the gate of +Atocha. On the right the dome and spires of a convent. A fountain. +Evening._ DON CARLOS _and_ HYPOLITO _meeting_. + + _Carlos._ Holá! Good evening, Don Hypolito. + + _Hyp._ And a good evening to my friend, Don Carlos. + Some lucky star has led my steps this way. + I was in search of you. + + _Carlos._ Command me always. + + _Hyp._ Do you remember, in Quevedo’s Dreams, + The miser who, upon the Day of Judgment, + Asks if his money-bags would rise? + + _Carlos._ I do; + But what of that? + + _Hyp._ I am that wretched man. + + _Carlos._ You mean to tell me yours have risen empty? + + _Hyp._ And amen! said my Cid Campeador.[22] + + _Carlos._ Pray, how much need you? + +[22] A line from the ancient Poema del Cid. + + + _Hyp._ Some half-dozen ounces, + Which, with due interest—— + + _Carlos_ [_giving his purse_]. What, am I a Jew, + To put my moneys out at usury? + Here is my purse. + + _Hyp._ Thank you. A pretty purse, + Made by the hand of some fair Madrilena; + Perhaps a keepsake? + + _Carlos._ No, ’tis at your service. + + _Hyp._ Thank you again. Lie there, good Chrysostom, + And with thy golden mouth remind me often, + I am the debtor of my friend. + + _Carlos._ But tell me, + Come you to-day from Alcalá? + + _Hyp._ This moment. + + _Carlos._ And pray, how fares the brave Victorian? + + _Hyp._ Indifferent well; that is to say, not well. + A damsel has ensnared him with the glances + Of her dark, roving eyes, as herdsmen catch + A steer of Andalusia with a lazo. + He is in love. + + _Carlos._ And is it faring ill + To be in love? + + _Hyp._ In his case very ill. + + _Carlos._ Why so? + + _Hyp._ For many reasons. First and foremost, + Because he is in love with an ideal; + A creature of his own imagination; + A child of air; an echo of his heart; + And, like a lily on a river floating, + She floats upon the river of his thoughts![23] + + _Carlos._ A common thing with poets. But who is + This floating lily? For, in fine, some woman, + Some living woman—not a mere ideal— + Must wear the outward semblance of his thought. + Who is it? Tell me. + + _Hyp._ Well, it is a woman! + But, look you, from the coffer of his heart + He brings forth precious jewels to adorn her, + As pious priests adorn some favourite saint + With gems and gold, until at length she gleams + One blaze of glory. Without these, you know, + And the priest’s benediction, ’tis a doll. + + _Carlos._ Well, well! who is this doll? + + _Hyp._ Why, who do you think? + + _Carlos._ His cousin Violante. + + _Hyp._ Guess again. + To ease his labouring heart, in the last storm + He threw her overboard, with all her ingots. + +[23] The expression is from Dante. See Appendix. + + _Carlos._ I cannot guess; so tell me who it is. + + _Hyp._ Not I. + + _Carlos._ Why not? + + _Hyp._ [_mysteriously_]. Why? Because Mari Franca + Was married four leagues out of Salamanca![24] + + _Carlos._ Jesting aside, who is it? + + _Hyp._ Preciosa. + + _Carlos._ Impossible! The Count of Lara tells me + She is not virtuous. + + _Hyp._ Did I say she was? + The Roman Emperor Claudius had a wife + Whose name was Messalina, as I think; + Valeria Messalina was her name. + But hist! I see him yonder through the trees, + Walking as in a dream. + + _Carlos._ He comes this way. + + _Hyp._ It has been truly said by some wise man, + That money, grief, and love cannot be hidden. + + [_Enter_ VICTORIAN _in front_.] + + _Vict._ Where’er thy step has passed is holy ground! + These groves are sacred! I behold thee walking + Under these shadowy trees, where we have walked + At evening, and I feel thy presence now; + Feel that the place has taken a charm from thee, + And is for ever hallowed. + + _Hyp._ Mark him well! + See how he strides away with lordly air, + Like that odd guest of stone, that grim Commander + Who comes to sup with Juan in the play. + + _Carlos._ What ho! Victorian! + + _Hyp._ Wilt thou sup with us? + + _Vict._ Holá! amigos! Faith, I did not see you. + How fares Don Carlos? + + _Carlos._ At your service ever. + + _Vict._ How is that young and green-eyed Gaditana + That you both wot of? + + _Carlos._ Ay, soft, emerald eyes! + She has gone back to Cadiz. + + _Hyp._ _Ay de mí_! + + _Vict._ You are much to blame for letting her go back. + A pretty girl; and in her tender eyes + Just that soft shade of green[25] we sometimes see + In evening skies. + + _Hyp._ But, speaking of green eyes, + Are thine green? + + _Vict._ Not a whit. Why so? + +[24] A common Spanish proverb, used to turn aside a question one does +not wish to answer. + +[25] See Appendix. + + _Hyp._ I think + The slightest shade of green would be becoming, + For thou art jealous. + + _Vict._ No, I am not jealous. + + _Hyp._ Thou shouldst be. + + _Vict._ Why? + + _Hyp._ Because thou art in love, + And they who are in love are always jealous. + Therefore thou shouldst be. + + _Vict._ Marry, is that all? + Farewell; I am in haste. Farewell, Don Carlos. + Thou sayest I should be jealous? + + _Hyp._ Ay, in truth + I fear there is reason. Be upon thy guard. + I hear it whispered that the Count of Lara + Lays siege to the same citadel. + + _Vict._ Indeed! + Then he will have his labour for his pains. + + _Hyp._ He does not think so, and Don Carlos tells me + He boasts of his success. + + _Vict._ How’s this, Don Carlos? + + _Carlos._ Some hints of it I heard from his own lips. + He spoke but lightly of the lady’s virtue, + As a gay man might speak. + + _Vict._ Death and damnation! + I’ll cut his lying tongue out of his mouth, + And throw it to my dog! But no, no, no! + This cannot be. You jest, indeed you jest. + Trifle with me no more. For otherwise + We are no longer friends. And so, farewell! [_Exit._ + + _Hyp._ Now what a coil is here! The Avenging Child + Hunting the traitor Quadros to his death,[26] + And the great Moor Calaynos, when he rode + To Paris for the ears of Oliver, + Were nothing to him! O hot-headed youth! + But come; we will not follow. Let us join + The crowd that pours into the Prado. There + We shall find merrier company; I see + The Marialonzos and the Almavivas, + And fifty fans, that beckon me already. [_Exeunt._ + +[26] See the ancient Ballads of El Infante Venjador and Calaynos. + + +SCENE IV.—PRECIOSA’S _Chamber. She is sitting, with a book in her hand, +near a table, on which are flowers. A bird singing in its cage. The_ +COUNT OF LARA _enters behind unperceived_. + + _Pre._ [_reads_]. + + All are sleeping, weary heart! + Thou, thou only sleepless art! + + Heigho! I wish Victorian were here. + I know not what it is makes me so restless! + + [_The bird sings._] + + Thou little prisoner with thy motley coat, + That from thy vaulted, wiry dungeon singest. + Like thee I am a captive, and, like thee, + I have a gentle gaoler. Lack-a-day! + + All are sleeping, weary heart! + Thou, thou only sleepless art! + All this throbbing, all this aching, + Evermore shall keep thee waking, + For a heart in sorrow breaking + Thinketh ever of its smart. + + Thou speakest truly, poet! and methinks + More hearts are breaking in this world of ours + Than one would say. In distant villages + And solitudes remote, where winds have wafted + The barbed seeds of love, or birds of passage + Scattered them in their flight, do they take root + And grow in silence, and in silence perish. + Who hears the falling of the forest leaf? + Or who takes note of every flower that dies? + Heigho! I wish Victorian would come. + Dolores! + + [_Turns to lay down her book, and perceives the_ COUNT.] + + Ha! + + _Lara._ Señora, pardon me! + + _Pre._ How’s this? Dolores! + + _Lara._ Pardon me—— + + _Pre._ Dolores! + + _Lara._ Be not alarmed; I found no one in waiting. + If I have been too bold—— + + _Pre._ [_turning her back upon him_]. You are too bold! + Retire! retire, and leave me! + + _Lara._ My dear lady, + First hear me! I beseech you, let me speak. + ’Tis for your good I come. + + _Pre._ [_turning toward him with indignation_]. Begone! Begone! + You are the Count of Lara, but your deeds + Would make the statues of your ancestors + Blush on their tombs! Is it Castilian honour, + Is it Castilian pride, to steal in here + Upon a friendless girl, to do her wrong? + O shame! shame! shame! that you, a nobleman, + Should be so little noble in your thoughts + As to send jewels here to win my love, + And think to buy my honour with your gold! + I have no words to tell you how I scorn you! + Begone! The sight of you is hateful to me! + Begone, I say! + + _Lara._ Be calm; I will not harm you. + + _Pre._ Because you dare not. + + _Lara._ I dare anything! + Therefore beware! You are deceived in me. + In this false world, we do not always know + Who are our friends and who our enemies. + We all have enemies, and all need friends. + Even you, fair Preciosa, here at court + Have foes who seek to wrong you. + + _Pre._ If to this + I owe the honour of the present visit, + You might have spared the coming. Having spoken, + Once more I beg you, leave me to myself. + + _Lara._ I thought it but a friendly part to tell you + What strange reports are current here in town. + For my own self, I do not credit them; + But there are many who, not knowing you, + Will lend a readier ear. + + _Pre._ There was no need + That you should take upon yourself the duty + Of telling me these tales. + + _Lara._ Malicious tongues + Are ever busy with your name. + + _Pre._ Alas! + I’ve no protectors. I am a poor girl, + Exposed to insults and unfeeling jests. + They wound me, yet I cannot shield myself. + I give no cause for these reports. I live + Retired, and visited by none. + + _Lara._ By none? + O, then, indeed, you are much wronged! + + _Pre._ How mean you? + + _Lara._ Nay, nay; I will not wound your gentle soul + By the report of idle tales. + + _Pre._ Speak out! + What are these idle tales? You need not spare me. + + _Lara._ I will deal frankly with you. Pardon me; + This window, as I think, looks towards the street, + And this into the Prado, does it not? + In yon high house, beyond the garden wall,— + You see the roof there just above the trees,— + There lives a friend, who told me yesterday, + That on a certain night,—be not offended + If I too plainly speak,—he saw a man + Climb to your chamber window. You are silent! + I would not blame you, being young and fair—— + + [_He tries to embrace her. She starts back, and draws + a dagger from her bosom._] + + _Pre._ Beware! beware! I am a Gipsy girl! + Lay not your hand upon me. One step nearer + And I will strike! + + _Lara._ Pray you, put up that dagger. + Fear not. + + _Pre._ I do not fear. I have a heart + In whose strength I can trust. + + _Lara._ Listen to me. + I come here as your friend,—I am your friend,— + And by a single word can put a stop + To all those idle tales, and make your name + Spotless as lilies are. Here on my knees, + Fair Preciosa! on my knees I swear + I love you even to madness, and that love + Has driven me to break the rules of custom, + And force myself unasked into your presence. + + [VICTORIAN _enters behind_.] + + _Pre._ Rise, Count of Lara! This is not the place + For such as you are. It becomes you not + To kneel before me. I am strangely moved + To see one of your rank thus low and humbled; + For your sake I will put aside all anger, + All unkind feeling, all dislike, and speak + In gentleness, as most becomes a woman, + And as my heart now prompts me. I no more + Will hate you, for all hate is painful to me. + But if, without offending modesty + And that reserve which is a woman’s glory, + I may speak freely, I will teach my heart + To love you. + + _Lara._ O sweet angel! + + _Pre._ Ay, in truth, + Far better than you love yourself or me. + + _Lara._ Give me some sign of this,—the slightest token. + Let me but kiss your hand! + + _Pre._ Nay, come no nearer. + The words I utter are its sign and token. + Misunderstand me not! Be not deceived! + The love wherewith I love you is not such + As you would offer me. For you come here + To take from me the only thing I have, + My honour. You are wealthy, you have friends + And kindred, and a thousand pleasant hopes + That fill your heart with happiness; but I + Am poor and friendless, having but one treasure, + And you would take that from me, and for what? + To flatter your own vanity, and make me + What you would most despise. O sir, such love, + That seeks to harm me, cannot be true love, + Indeed it cannot. But my love for you + Is of a different kind. It seeks your good. + It is a holier feeling. It rebukes + Your earthly passion, your unchaste desires, + And bids you look into your heart and see + How you do wrong that better nature in you, + And grieve your soul with sin. + + _Lara._ I swear to you, + I would not harm you; I would only love you. + I would not take your honour, but restore it, + And in return I ask but some slight mark + Of your affection. If indeed you love me, + As you confess you do, O let me thus + With this embrace—— + + _Vict._ [_rushing forward_]. Hold! hold! This is too + much. + What means this outrage? + + _Lara._ First, what right have you + To question thus a nobleman of Spain? + + _Vict._ I too am noble, and you are no more! + Out of my sight! + + _Lara._ Are you the master here? + + _Vict._ Ay, here and elsewhere, when the wrong of others + Gives me the right! + + _Pre._ [_to_ LARA]. Go! I beseech you, go! + + _Vict._ I shall have business with you, Count, anon! + + _Lara._ You cannot come too soon! [Exit. + + _Pre._ Victorian! + O we have been betrayed! + + _Vict._ Ha! ha! betrayed! + ’Tis I have been betrayed, not we!—not we! + + _Pre._ Dost thou imagine—— + + _Vict._ I imagine nothing; + I see how ’tis thou wilest the time away + When I am gone! + + _Pre._ O speak not in that tone! + It wounds me deeply. + + _Vict._ ’Twas not meant to flatter. + + _Pre._ Too well thou knowest the presence of that man + Is hateful to me! + + _Vict._ Yet I saw thee stand + And listen to him, when he told his love. + + _Pre._ I did not heed his words. + + _Vict._ Indeed thou didst, + And answeredst them with love. + + _Pre._ Hadst thou heard all—— + + _Vict._ I heard enough. + + _Pre._ Be not angry so with me. + + _Vict._ I am not angry; I am very calm. + + _Pre._ If thou wilt let me speak—— + + _Vict._ Nay, say no more. + I know too much already. Thou art false! + I do not like these Gipsy marriages! + Where is the ring I gave thee? + + _Pre._ In my casket. + + _Vict._ There let it rest! I would not have thee wear it; + I thought thee spotless, and thou art polluted. + + _Pre._ I call the Heavens to witness—— + + _Vict._ Nay, nay, nay! + Take not the name of Heaven upon thy lips! + They are forsworn! + + _Pre._ Victorian! dear Victorian! + + _Vict._ I gave up all for thee; myself, my fame, + My hopes of fortune, ay, my very soul! + And thou hast been my ruin! Now, go on! + Laugh at my folly with thy paramour, + And, sitting on the Count of Lara’s knee, + Say what a poor, fond fool Victorian was! + + [_He casts her from him and rushes out._] + + _Pre._ And this from thee! + + [_Scene closes._] + + +SCENE V.—_The_ COUNT OF LARA’S _rooms. Enter the_ COUNT. + + _Lara._ There’s nothing in this world so sweet as love, + And next to love the sweetest thing is hate! + I’ve learned to hate, and therefore am revenged. + A silly girl to play the prude with me! + The fire that I have kindled—— + + [_Enter_ FRANCISCO.] + + Well, Francisco, + What tidings from Don Juan? + + _Fran._ Good, my lord. + He will be present. + + _Lara._ And the Duke of Lermos? + + _Fran._ Was not at home. + + _Lara._ How with the rest? + + _Fran._ I’ve found + The men you wanted. They will be all there, + And at the given signal raise a whirlwind + Of such discordant noises, that the dance + Must cease for lack of music. + + _Lara._ Bravely done. + Ah! little dost thou dream, sweet Preciosa, + What lies in wait for thee. Sleep shall not close + Thine eyes this night! Give me my cloak and sword. + [_Exeunt._ + + +SCENE VI.—_A retired spot beyond the city gates. Enter_ VICTORIAN _and_ +HYPOLITO. + + _Vict._ O shame! O shame! Why do I walk abroad + By daylight, when the very sunshine mocks me, + And voices, and familiar sights and sounds, + Cry, “Hide thyself!” O what a thin partition + Doth shut out from the curious world the knowledge + Of evil deeds that have been done in darkness! + Disgrace has many tongues. My fears are windows, + Through which all eyes seem gazing. Every face + Expresses some suspicion of my shame, + And in derision seems to smile at me! + + _Hyp._ Did I not caution thee? Did I not tell thee + I was but half-persuaded of her virtue? + + _Vict._ And yet, Hypolito, we may be wrong, + We may be over-hasty in condemning! + The Count of Lara is a cursed villain. + + _Hyp._ And therefore is she cursed, loving him. + + _Vict._ She does not love him! ’Tis for gold! for gold! + + _Hyp._ Ay, but remember, in the public streets + He shows a golden ring the Gipsy gave him, + A serpent with a ruby in its mouth. + + _Vict._ She had that ring from me! God! she is false! + But I will be revenged! The hour is passed. + Where stays the coward? + + _Hyp._ Nay, he is no coward; + A villain, if thou wilt, but not a coward. + I’ve seen him play with swords; it is his pastime. + And therefore be not over-confident, + He’ll task thy skill anon. Look, here he comes. + + [_Enter_ LARA, _followed by_ FRANCISCO.] + + _Lara._ Good evening, gentlemen. + + _Hyp._ Good evening, Count. + + _Lara._ I trust I have not kept you long in waiting. + + _Vict._ Not long, and yet too long. Are you prepared? + + _Lara._ I am. + + _Hyp._ It grieves me much to see this quarrel + Between you, gentlemen. Is there no way + Left open to accord this difference, + But you must make one with your swords? + + _Vict._ No! none! + I do entreat thee, dear Hypolito, + Stand not between me and my foe. Too long + Our tongues have spoken. Let these tongues of steel + End our debate. Upon your guard, Sir Count! + + [_They fight._ VICTORIAN _disarms the_ + COUNT.] + + Your life is mine; and what shall now withhold me + From sending your vile soul to its account? + + _Lara._ Strike! strike! + + _Vict._ You are disarmed. I will not kill you. + I will not murder you. Take up your sword. + + [FRANCISCO _hands the_ COUNT _his sword, + and_ HYPOLITO _interposes_.] + + _Hyp._ Enough! Let it end here! The Count of Lara + Has shown himself a brave man, and Victorian + A generous one, as ever. Now be friends. + Put up your swords; for, to speak frankly to you, + Your cause of quarrel is too slight a thing + To move you to extremes. + + _Lara._ I am content. + I sought no quarrel. A few hasty words, + Spoken in the heat of blood, have led to this. + + _Vict._ Nay, something more than that. + + _Lara._ I understand you. + Therein I did not mean to cross your path. + To me the door stood open, as to others. + But, had I known the girl belonged to you, + Never would I have sought to win her from you. + The truth stands now revealed; she has been false + To both of us. + + _Vict._ Ay, false as hell itself! + + _Lara._ In truth I did not seek her; she sought me; + And told me how to win her, telling me + The hours when she was oftenest left alone. + + _Vict._ Say, can you prove this to me? O, pluck out + These awful doubts, that goad me into madness! + Let me know all! all! all! + + _Lara._ You shall know all. + Here is my page, who was the messenger + Between us. Question him. Was it not so, + Francisco? + + _Fran._ Ay, my lord. + + _Lara._ If further proof + Is needful, I have here a ring she gave me. + + _Vict._ Pray let me see that ring! It is the same. + + [_Throws it upon the ground, and tramples upon it._] + + Thus may she perish who once wore that ring! + Thus do I spurn her from me; do thus trample + Her memory in the dust! O Count of Lara, + We both have been abused, been much abused! + I thank you for your courtesy and frankness. + Though, like the surgeon’s hand, yours gave me pain, + Yet it has cured my blindness, and I thank you. + I now can see the folly I have done, + Though ’tis, alas! too late. So fare you well! + To-night I leave this hateful town for ever. + Regard me as your friend. Once more, farewell! + + _Hyp._ Farewell, Sir Count. + + [_Exeunt_ VICTORIAN _and_ HYPOLITO + + _Lara._ Farewell! farewell! + Thus have I cleared the field of my worst foe! + I have none else to fear; the fight is done, + The citadel is stormed, the victory won! + + [_Exit with_ FRANCISCO. + + +SCENE VII.—_A lane in the suburbs. Night. Enter_ CRUZADO _and_ +BARTOLOMÉ. + +_Cruz._ And so, Bartolomé, the expedition failed. But where wast thou +for the most part? + +_Bart._ In the Guadarrama mountains, near San Ildefonso. + +_Cruz._ And thou bringest nothing back with thee? Didst thou rob no one? + +_Bart._ There was no one to rob, save a party of students from Segovia, +who looked as if they would rob us; and a jolly little friar, who had +nothing in his pockets but a missal and a loaf of bread. + +_Cruz._ Pray, then, what brings thee back to Madrid? + +_Bart._ First tell me what keeps thee here? + +_Cruz._ Preciosa. + +_Bart._ And she brings me back. Hast thou forgotten thy promise? + +_Cruz._ The two years are not passed yet. Wait patiently. The girl +shall be thine. + +_Bart._ I hear she has a Busné lover. + +_Cruz._ That is nothing. + +_Bart._ I do not like it. I hate him,—the son of a Busné harlot. He +goes in and out, and speaks with her alone, and I must stand aside and +wait his pleasure. + +_Cruz._ Be patient, I say. Thou shalt have thy revenge. When the time +comes, thou shalt waylay him. + +_Bart._ Meanwhile, show me her house. + +_Cruz._ Come this way. But thou wilt not find her. She dances at the +play to-night. + +_Bart._ No matter. Show me the house. [_Exeunt._ + + +SCENE VIII.—_The Theatre. The orchestra plays the cachucha. Sound of +castanets behind the scenes. The curtain rises, and discovers_ PRECIOSA +_in the attitude of commencing the dance. The cachucha. Tumult; hisses; +cries of “Brava!” and “Afuera!” She falters and pauses. The music +stops. General confusion._ PRECIOSA _faints_. + + +SCENE IX.—_The_ COUNT OF LARA’S _chambers_. LARA _and his friends at +supper_. + + _Lara._ So, Caballeros, once more many thanks! + You have stood by me bravely in this matter. + Pray fill your glasses. + + _Juan._ Did you mark, Don Luis, + How pale she looked, when first the noise began, + And then stood still, with her large eyes dilated! + Her nostrils spread! her lips apart! her bosom + Tumultuous as the sea! + + _Luis._ I pitied her. + + _Lara._ Her pride is humbled; and this very night + I mean to visit her. + + _Juan._ Will you serenade her? + + _Lara._ No music! no more music! + + _Luis._ Why not music? + It softens many hearts. + + _Lara._ Not in the humour + She now is in. Music would madden her. + + _Juan._ Try golden cymbals. + + _Luis._ Yes, try Don Dinero; + A mighty wooer is your Don Dinero. + + _Lara._ To tell the truth, then, I have bribed her maid. + But, Caballeros, you dislike this wine. + A bumper and away; for the night wears. + A health to Preciosa! + + [_They rise and drink._] + + _All._ Preciosa! + + _Lara._ [holding up his glass]. Thou bright and flaming + minister of Love! + Thou wonderful magician! who hast stolen + My secret from me, and ’mid sighs of passion + Caught from my lips, with red and fiery tongue, + Her precious name! O never more henceforth + Shall mortal lips press thine; and never more + A mortal name be whispered in thine ear. + Go! keep my secret. + + [_Drinks and dashes the goblet down._] + + + _Juan._ _Ite! missa est!_ + + [_Scene closes._] + +SCENE X.—_Street and garden wall. Night. Enter_ CRUZADO _and_ BARTOLOMÉ. + +_Cruz._ This is the garden wall, and above it, yonder, is her house. +The window in which thou seest the light is her window. But we will not +go in now. + +_Bart._ Why not? + +_Cruz._ Because she is not at home. + +_Bart._ No matter; we can wait. But how is this? The gate is bolted. +[_Sound of guitars and voices in a neighbouring street._] Hark! There +comes her lover with his infernal serenade! Hark! + + +SONG. + + Good night! Good night, beloved! + I come to watch o’er thee! + To be near thee,—to be near thee, + Alone is peace for me. + + Thine eyes are stars of morning. + Thy lips are crimson flowers! + Good night! Good night, beloved, + While I count the weary hours. + +_Cruz._ They are not coming this way. + +_Bart._ Wait, they begin again. + + +SONG [_coming nearer_]. + + Ah! thou moon that shinest + Argent-clear above! + All night long enlighten + My sweet lady love! + Moon that shinest, + All night long enlighten! + +_Bart._ Woe be to him if he comes this way! + +_Cruz._ Be quiet, they are passing down the street. + + +SONG [_dying away_]. + + The nuns in the cloister + Sang to each other; + For so many sisters + Is there not one brother! + Ay, for the partridge, mother! + The cat has run away with the partridge! + Puss! puss! puss! + +_Bart._ Follow that! Follow that! Come with me. Puss! puss! + +[_Exeunt. On the opposite side enter the_ COUNT OF LARA _and gentlemen, +with_ FRANCISCO.] + + _Lara._ The gate is fast. Over the wall, Francisco, + And draw the bolt. There, so, and so, and over. + Now, gentlemen, come in, and help me scale + Yon balcony. How now? Her light still burns. + Move warily. Make fast the gate, Francisco. + +_[Exeunt. Re-enter_ CRUZADO _and_ BARTOLOMÉ.] + + _Bart._ They went in at the gate. Hark! I hear them in the garden. + [_Tries the gate._] Bolted again! Vive Christo! Follow me over + the wall. + [_They climb the wall._] + + +SCENE XI.—PRECIOSA’S _Bed-chamber. Midnight. She is sleeping in an +arm-chair, in an undress._ DOLORES _watching her_. + + _Dol._ She sleeps at last! + + [_Opens the window and listens._] + + All silent in the street, + And in the garden. Hark! + + _Pre._ [_in her sleep_]. I must go hence! + Give me my cloak! + + _Dol._ He comes! I hear his footsteps! + + _Pre._ Go tell them that I cannot dance to-night; + I am too ill! Look at me! See the fever + That burns upon my cheek! I must go hence, + I am too weak to dance. + + [_Signal from the garden._] + + _Dol._ [_from the window_]. Who’s there? + + _Voice_ [_from below_]. A friend. + + _Dol._ I will undo the door. Wait till I come. + + _Pre._ I must go hence. I pray you do not harm me! + Shame! shame! to treat a feeble woman thus! + Be you but kind, I will do all things for you. + I’m ready now,—give me my castanets. + Where is Victorian? Oh, those hateful lamps! + They glare upon me like an evil eye.[27] + I cannot stay. Hark! how they mock at me! + They hiss at me like serpents! Save me! save me! + + [_She wakes._] + + How late is it, Dolores? + + _Dol._ It is midnight. + + _Pre._ We must be patient. Smooth this pillow for me. + + [_She sleeps again. Noise from the garden, and voices._] + + _Voice._ Muera! + + _Another Voice._ O villains! villains! + + _Lara._ So! have at you! + + _Voice._ Take that! + + _Lara._ O, I am wounded! + + _Dol._ [_shutting the window_]. Jesu Maria! + +[27] See Appendix. + + + + +ACT III. + + +SCENE I.—_A cross-road through a wood. In the background a distant +village spire._ VICTORIAN _and_ HYPOLITO, _as travelling students, with +guitars, sitting under the trees_. HYPOLITO _plays and sings_. + + +SONG. + + Ah, Love! + Perjured, false, treacherous Love! + Enemy + Of all that mankind may not rue! + Most untrue + To him who keeps most faith with thee. + Woe is me! + The falcon has the eyes of the dove. + Ah! Love! + Perjured, false, treacherous Love! + + _Vict._ Yes, Love is ever busy with his shuttle, + Is ever weaving into life’s dull warp + Bright, gorgeous flowers and scenes Arcadian; + Hanging our gloomy prison-house about + With tapestries, that make its walls dilate + In never-ending vistas of delight. + + _Hyp._ Thinking to walk in those Arcadian pastures, + Thou hast run thy noble head against the wall. + + + SONG [_continued_]. + Thy deceits + Give us clearly to comprehend, + Whither tend + All thy pleasures, all thy sweets! + They are cheats, + Thorns below and flowers above. + Ah, Love! + Perjured, false, treacherous Love! + + _Vict._ A very pretty song. I thank thee for it. + + _Hyp._ It suits thy case. + + _Vict._ Indeed, I think it does. + What wise man wrote it? + + _Hyp._ Lopez Maldonado. + + _Vict._ In truth, a pretty song. + + _Hyp._ With much truth in it. + I hope thou wilt profit by it; and in earnest + Try to forget this lady of thy love. + + _Vict._ I will forget her! All dear recollections + Pressed in my heart, like flowers within a book, + Shall be torn out, and scattered to the winds! + I will forget her! But perhaps hereafter, + When she shall learn how heartless is the world, + A voice within her will repeat my name, + And she will say, “He was indeed my friend!” + O, would I were a soldier, not a scholar, + That the loud march, the deafening beat of drums, + The shattering blast of the brass-throated trumpet, + The din of arms, the onslaught and the storm, + And a swift death, might make me deaf for ever + To the upbraidings of this foolish heart! + + _Hyp._ Then let that foolish heart upbraid no more: + To conquer love, one need but will to conquer. + + _Vict._ Yet, good Hypolito, it is in vain + I throw into Oblivion’s sea the sword + That pierces me; for, like Excalibar, + With gemmed and flashing hilt, it will not sink. + There rises from below a hand that grasps it, + And waves it in the air; and wailing voices + Are heard along the shore. + + _Hyp._ And yet at last + Down sank Excalibar to rise no more. + This is not well. In truth, it vexes me. + Instead of whistling to the steeds of Time, + To make them jog on merrily with life’s burden, + Like a dead weight thou hangest on the wheels, + Thou art too young, too full of lusty health + To talk of dying. + + _Vict._ Yet I fain would die! + To go through life, unloving and unloved; + To feel that thirst and hunger of the soul + We cannot still; that longing, that wild impulse, + And struggle after something we have not + And cannot have; the effort to be strong; + And, like the Spartan boy, to smile, and smile, + While secret wounds do bleed beneath our cloaks; + All this the dead feel not,—the dead alone! + Would I were with them! + + _Hyp._ We shall all be soon. + + _Vict._ It cannot be too soon; for I am weary + Of the bewildering masquerade of Life, + Where strangers walk as friends, and friends as strangers; + Where whispers overheard betray false hearts; + And through the mazes of the crowd we chase + Some form of loveliness, that smiles, and beckons, + And cheats us with fair words, only to leave us + A mockery and a jest; maddened,—confused,— + Not knowing friend from foe. + + _Hyp._ Why seek to know? + Enjoy the merry shrove-tide of thy youth! + Take each fair mask for what it gives itself, + Nor strive to look beneath it. + + _Vict._ I confess, + That were the wiser part. But hope no longer + Comforts my soul. I am a wretched man, + Much like a poor and shipwrecked mariner, + Who, struggling to climb up into the boat, + Has both his bruised and bleeding hands cut off, + And sinks again into the weltering sea, + Helpless and hopeless! + + _Hyp._ Yet thou shalt not perish. + The strength of thine own arm is thy salvation. + Above thy head, through rifted clouds, there shines + A glorious star. Be patient. Trust thy star! + + [_Sound of a village-bell in the distance._] + + _Vict._ Ave Maria! I hear the sacristan + Ringing the chimes from yonder village belfry! + A solemn sound, that echoes far and wide + Over the red roofs of the cottages, + And bids the labouring hind a-field, the shepherd + Guarding his flock, the lonely muleteer, + And all the crowd in village streets, stand still, + And breathe a prayer unto the blessed Virgin! + + _Hyp._ Amen! amen! Not half a league from hence + The village lies. + + _Vict._ This path will lead us to it, + Over the wheat fields, where the shadows sail + Across the running sea, now green, now blue, + And, like an idle mariner on the main, + Whistles the quail. Come, let us hasten on. [_Exeunt._ + + +SCENE II.—_Public square in the village of Guadarrama. The Ave Maria +still tolling. A crowd of villagers, with their hats in their hands, as +if in prayer. In front, a group of Gipsies. The bell rings a merrier +peal. A Gipsy dance. Enter_ PANCHO, _followed by_ PEDRO CRESPO. + + _Pan._ Make room, ye vagabonds and Gipsy thieves! + Make room for the Alcalde and for me! + + _Cres._ Keep silence all! I have an edict here + From our most gracious lord, the King of Spain, + Jerusalem, and the Canary Islands, + Which I shall publish in the market-place. + Open your ears and listen! + + [_Enter the_ PADRE CURA _at the door of his + cottage_.] + + Padre Cura, + Good day! and, pray you, hear this edict read. + + _Padre._ Good day, and God be with you. Pray, what is it? + + _Cres._ An act of banishment against the Gipsies! + + [_Agitation and murmurs in the crowd._] + + _Pan._ Silence! + + _Cres._ [_reads_]. “I hereby order and command + That the Egyptian and Chaldean strangers, + Known by the name of Gipsies, shall henceforth + Be banished from the realm, as vagabonds + And beggars; and if, after seventy days, + Any be found within our kingdom’s bounds, + They shall receive a hundred lashes each; + The second time, shall have their ears cut off; + The third, be slaves for life to him who takes them, + Or burnt as heretics. Signed, I, the King.” + Vile miscreants and creatures unbaptized! + You hear the law! Obey and disappear! + + _Pan._ And if in seventy days you are not gone, + Dead or alive I make you all my slaves. + + [_The Gipsies go out in confusion, showing signs of fear + and discontent._ PANCHO _follows_.] + + _Padre._ A righteous law! A very righteous law! + Pray you, sit down. + + _Cres._ I thank you heartily. + + [_They seat themselves on a bench at the_ + PADRE CURA’S _door. Sound of guitars heard at a + distance, approaching during the dialogue which follows._] + + A very righteous judgment, as you say. + Now tell me, Padre Cura,—you know all things,— + How came these Gipsies into Spain? + + _Padre._ Why, look you; + They came with Hercules from Palestine, + And hence are thieves and vagrants, Sir Alcalde, + As the Simoniacs from Simon Magus. + And, look you, as Fray Jayme Bleda says, + There are a hundred marks to prove a Moor + Is not a Christian, so ’tis with the Gipsies. + They never marry, never go to mass, + Never baptize their children, nor keep Lent, + Nor see the inside of a church,—nor—nor—— + + _Cres._ Good reasons, good, substantial reasons, all! + No matter for the other ninety-five. + They should be burnt, I see it plain enough,— + They should be burnt. + + [_Enter_ VICTORIAN _and_ HYPOLITO + _playing_.] + + _Padre._ And pray, whom have we here? + + _Cres._ More vagrants! By Saint Lazarus, more vagrants! + + _Hyp._ Good evening, gentlemen! Is this Guadarrama? + + _Padre._ Yes, Guadarrama, and good evening to you. + + _Hyp._ We seek the Padre Cura of the village; + And, judging from your dress and reverend mien, + You must be he. + + _Padre._ I am. Pray, what’s your pleasure? + + _Hyp._ We are poor students, travelling in vacation. + You know this mark? + + [_Touching the wooden spoon in his hat-band._] + + _Padre_ [_joyfully_]. Ay, know it, and have worn it. + + _Cres._ [_aside_]. Soup-eaters! by the mass! + The worst of vagrants! + And there’s no law against them. Sir, your servant. + [_Exit._ + + _Padre._ Your servant, Pedro Crespo. + + _Hyp._ Padre Cura, + From the first moment I beheld your face, + I said within myself, “This is the man!” + There is a certain something in your looks, + A certain scholar-like and studious something,— + You understand,—which cannot be mistaken; + Which marks you as a very learned man, + In fine, as one of us. + + _Vict._ [_aside_]. What impudence! + + _Hyp._ As we approached, I said to my companion, + “That is the Padre Cura; mark my words!” + Meaning your Grace. “The other man,” said I, + “Who sits so awkwardly upon the bench, + Must be the sacristan.” + + _Padre._ Ah! said you so? + Why, that was Pedro Crespo, the alcalde! + + _Hyp._ Indeed! you much astonish me! His air + Was not so full of dignity and grace + As an alcalde’s should be. + + _Padre._ That is true. + He is out of humour with some vagrant Gipsies, + Who have their camp here in the neighbourhood. + There is nothing so undignified as anger. + + _Hyp._ The Padre Cura will excuse our boldness, + If, from his well-known hospitality, + We crave a lodging for the night. + + _Padre._ I pray you! + You do me honour! I am but too happy + To have such guests beneath my humble roof. + It is not often that I have occasion + To speak with scholars; and _Emollit mores, + Nec sinit esse feros_, Cicero says. + + _Hyp._ ’Tis Ovid, is it not? + + _Padre._ No, Cicero. + + _Hyp._ Your Grace is right. You are the better scholar. + Now what a dunce was I to think it Ovid! + But hang me if it is not! (_aside_). + + _Padre._ Pass this way. + He was a very great man, was Cicero! + Pray you, go in, go in! no ceremony. [_Exeunt._ + + +SCENE III.—_A room in the_ PADRE CURA’S _house. Enter the_ PADRE _and_ +HYPOLITO. + + _Padre._ So then, Señor, you come from Alcalá, + I am glad to hear it. It was there I studied. + + _Hyp._ And left behind an honoured name, no doubt. + How may I call your Grace? + + _Padre._ Gerónimo + De Santillana, at your Honour’s service. + + _Hyp._ Descended from the Marquis Santillana? + From the distinguished poet? + + _Padre._ From the Marquis, + Not from the poet. + + _Hyp._ Why, they were the same. + Let me embrace you! O some lucky star + Has brought me hither! Yet once more!—once more! + Your name is ever green in Alcalá, + And our professor, when we are unruly, + Will shake his hoary head, and say, “Alas! + It was not so in Santillana’s time!” + + _Padre._ I did not think my name remembered there. + + _Hyp._ More than remembered; it is idolized. + + _Padre._ Of what professor speak you? + + _Hyp._ Timoneda. + + _Padre._ I don’t remember any Timoneda. + + _Hyp._ A grave and sombre man, whose beetling brow + O’erhangs the rushing current of his speech + As rocks o’er rivers hang. Have you forgotten? + + _Padre_. Indeed, I have. O those were pleasant days,— + Those college days! I ne’er shall see the like! + I had not buried then so many hopes! + I had not buried then so many friends! + I’ve turned my back on what was then before me; + And the bright faces of my young companions + Are wrinkled like my own, or are no more. + Do you remember Cueva? + + _Hyp_. Cueva? Cueva? + + _Padre_. Fool that I am! He was before your time. + You’re a mere boy, and I am an old man. + + _Hyp._ I should not like to try my strength with you. + + Padre. Well, well. But I forget; you must be hungry. + Martina! ho! Martina! ’Tis my niece. + + [_Enter_ MARTINA.] + + _Hyp._ You may be proud of such a niece as that. + I wish I had a niece. _Emollit mores._ [_Aside._ + He was a very great man, was Cicero! + Your servant, fair Martina. + + _Mart_. Servant, sir. + + _Padre_. This gentleman is hungry. See thou to it. + Let us have supper. + + _Mart_. ’Twill be ready soon. + + _Padre_. And bring a bottle of my Val-de-Peñas + Out of the cellar. Stay; I’ll go myself. + Pray you, Señor, excuse me. [_Exit._ + + _Hyp._ Hist! Martina! + One word with you. Bless me! what handsome eyes! + To-day there have been Gipsies in the village. + Is it not so? + + _Mart._ There have been Gipsies here. + + _Hyp._ Yes, and they told your fortune. + + _Mart_. [_embarrassed_]. Told my fortune? + + _Hyp_. Yes, yes; I know they did. Give me your hand. + I’ll tell you what they said. They said,—they said, + The shepherd boy that loved you was a clown, + And him you should not marry. Was it not? + + _Mart_. [_surprised_]. How know you that? + + _Hyp_. O, I know more than that. + What a soft, little hand! And then they said, + A cavalier from court, handsome, and tall, + And rich, should come one day to marry you, + And you should be a lady. Was it not? + He has arrived, the handsome cavalier. + + [_Tries to kiss her. She runs off. Enter_ VICTORIAN + _with a letter_.] + + _Vict_. The muleteer has come. + + _Hyp._ So soon? + + _Vict._ I found him + Sitting at supper by the tavern door, + And, from a pitcher that he held aloft + His whole arm’s length, drinking the blood-red wine. + + _Hyp._ What news from Court? + + _Vict._ He brought this letter only. [_Reads._ + O cursed perfidy! Why did I let + That lying tongue deceive me! Preciosa, + Sweet Preciosa! how art thou avenged! + + _Hyp._ What news is this, that makes thy cheek turn pale, + And thy hand tremble? + + _Vict._ O, most infamous! + The Count of Lara is a worthless villain! + + _Hyp._ That is no news, forsooth. + + _Vict._ He strove in vain + To steal from me the jewel of my soul, + The love of Preciosa. Not succeeding, + He swore to be revenged; and set on foot + A plot to ruin her, which has succeeded. + She has been hissed and hooted from the stage, + Her reputation stained by slanderous lies + Too foul to speak of; and, once more a beggar, + She roams a wanderer over God’s green earth, + Housing with Gipsies! + + _Hyp._ To renew again + The Age of Gold, and make the shepherd swains + Desperate with love, like Gaspar Gil’s Diana. + Redit et Virgo! + + _Vict._ Dear Hypolito, + How have I wronged that meek, confiding heart! + I will go seek for her; and with my tears + Wash out the wrong I’ve done her! + + _Hyp._ O beware! + Act not that folly o’er again. + + _Vict._ Ay, folly, + Delusion, madness, call it what thou wilt, + I will confess my weakness,—I still love her! + Still fondly love her! + + [_Enter the_ PADRE CURA.] + + _Hyp._ Tell us, Padre Cura, + Who are these Gipsies in the neighbourhood? + + _Padre._ Beltran Cruzado and his crew. + + _Vict._ Kind Heaven, + I thank thee! She is found! is found again! + + _Hyp._ And have they with them a pale, beautiful girl, + Called Preciosa? + + _Padre._ Ay, a pretty girl. + The gentleman seems moved. + + _Hyp._ Yes, moved with hunger, + He is half-famished with this long day’s journey. + + _Padre._ Then, pray you, come this way. The supper waits. + [_Exeunt._ + + +SCENE IV.—_A post-house on the road to Segovia, not far from the +village of Guadarrama. Enter_ CHISPA, _cracking a whip, and singing the +cachucha_.] + +_Chis._ Halloo! Don Fulano! Let us have horses, and quickly. Alas, poor +Chispa! what a dog’s life dost thou lead! I thought, when I left my old +master Victorian, the student, to serve my new master, Don Carlos, the +gentleman, that I, too, should lead the life of a gentleman; should go +to bed early, and get up late. For when the abbot plays cards, what can +you expect of the friars? But, in running away from the thunder, I have +run into the lightning. Here I am in hot chase after my master and his +Gipsy girl. And a good beginning of the week it is, as he said who was +hanged on Monday morning. + +[_Enter_ DON CARLOS.] + +CARLOS. Are not the horses ready yet? + +CHIS. I should think not, for the hostler seems to be asleep. Ho! +within there! Horses! horses! horses! [_He knocks at the gate with his +whip, and enter_ MOSQUITO, _putting on his jacket_.] + +_Mos._ Pray, have a little patience. I’m not a musket. + +_Chis._ Health and pistareens! I’m glad to see you come on dancing, +padre! Pray, what’s the news? + +_Mos._ You cannot have fresh horses; because there are none. + +_Chis._ Cachiporra! Throw that bone to another dog. Do I look like your +aunt? + +_Mos._ No; she has a beard. + +_Chis._ Go to! Go to! + +_Mos._ Are you from Madrid? + +_Chis._ Yes; and going to Estramadura. Get us horses. + +_Mos._ What’s the news at Court? + +_Chis._ Why, the latest news is, that I am going to set up a coach, and +I have already bought the whip. + +[_Strikes him round the legs._] + +_Mos._ Oh! oh! you hurt me! + +_Carlos._ Enough of this folly. Let us have horses. [_Gives money to_ +MOSQUITO.] It is almost dark; and we are in haste. But tell me, has a +band of Gipsies passed this way of late? + +_Mos._ Yes; and they are still in the neighbourhood. + +_Carlos._ And where? + +_Mos._ Across the fields yonder, in the woods near Guadarrama. + +[_Exit._ + +_Carlos._ Now this is lucky. We will visit the Gipsy camp. + +_Chis._ Are you not afraid of the evil eye? Have you a stag’s horn with +you? + +_Carlos._ Fear not. We will pass the night at the village. + +_Chis._ And sleep like the Squires of Hernan Daza, nine under one +blanket. + +_Carlos._ I hope we may find the Preciosa among them. + +_Chis._ Among the Squires? + +_Carlos._ No; among the Gipsies, blockhead! + +_Chis._ I hope we may; for we are giving ourselves trouble enough on +her account. Don’t you think so? However, there is no catching trout +without wetting one’s trousers. Yonder come the horses. [_Exeunt._ + + +SCENE V.—_The Gipsy camp in the forest. Night. Gipsies working at a +forge. Others playing cards by the fire-light._ + + GIPSIES [_at the forge sing_]. + + On the top of a mountain I stand, + With a crown of red gold in my hand, + Wild Moors come trooping over the lea, + O how from their fury shall I flee, flee, flee? + O how from their fury shall I flee? + +_1st Gipsy_ [_playing_]. Down with your John-Dorados,[28] my pigeon. +Down with your John-Dorados, and let us make an end. + + GIPSIES [_at the forge sing_]. + + Loud sang the Spanish cavalier, + And thus his ditty ran: + God send the Gipsy lassie here, + And not the Gipsy man. + +[28] The Gipsy words in this scene may be thus interpreted:— + + _John-Dorados_, pieces of gold. + _Pigeon_, a simpleton. + _In your morocco_, stripped. + _Doves_, sheets. + _Moon_, a shirt. + _Chirelin_, a thief. + _Murcigalleros_, those who steal at nightfall. + _Rastilleros_, footpads. + _Hermit_, highway robber. + _Planets_, candles. + _Commandments_, the fingers. + _Saint Martin asleep_, to rob a person asleep. + _Lanterns_, eyes. + _Goblin_, police officer. + _Papagayo_, a spy. + _Vineyards and Dancing John_, to take flight. + + +_1st Gipsy_ [_playing_]. There you are in your morocco. + +_2d Gipsy._ One more game. The Alcalde’s doves against the Padre Cura’s +new moon. + +_1st Gipsy._ Have at you, Chirelin. + + GIPSIES [_at the forge sing_]. + + At midnight, when the moon began + To show her silver flame, + There came to him no Gipsy man, + The Gipsy lassie came. + + [_Enter_ BELTRAN CRUZADO.] + +_Cruz._ Come hither, Murcigalleros and Rastilleros; leave work, leave +play; listen to your orders for the night. [_Speaking to the right._] +You will get you to the village, mark you, by the stone cross. + +_Gipsies._ Ay! + +_Cruz._ [_to the left_]. And you, by the pole with the hermit’s head +upon it. + +_Gipsies._ Ay! + +_Cruz._ As soon as you see the planets are out, in with you, and be +busy with the ten commandments, under the sly, and Saint Martin asleep. +D’ye hear? + +_Gipsies._ Ay! + +_Cruz._ Keep your lanterns open, and, if you see a goblin or a +papagayo, take to your trampers. “Vineyards and Dancing John” is the +word. Am I comprehended? + +_Gipsies._ Ay! ay! + +_Cruz._ Away, then! + +[_Exeunt severally._ CRUZADO _walks up the stage and disappears among +the trees. Enter_ PRECIOSA.] + + _Pre._ How strangely gleams through the gigantic trees + The red light of the forge! Wild, beckoning shadows + Stalk through the forest, ever and anon + Rising and bending with the flickering flame, + Then flitting into darkness! So within me + Strange hopes and fears do beckon to each other, + My brightest hopes giving dark fears a being + As the light does the shadow. Woe is me! + How still it is about me, and how lonely! + + [BARTOLOMÉ _rushes in_.] + + _Bart._ Ho! Preciosa! + + _Pre._ O, Bartolomé! + Thou here? + + _Bart._ Lo! I am here. + + _Pre._ Whence comest thou? + + _Bart._ From the rough ridges of the wild Sierra, + From caverns in the rocks, from hunger, thirst, + And fever! Like a wild wolf to the sheepfold, + Come I for thee, my lamb. + + _Pre._ O touch me not! + The Count of Lara’s blood is on thy hands! + The Count of Lara’s curse is on thy soul! + Do not come near me! Pray, begone from here! + Thou art in danger! They have set a price + Upon thy head! + + _Bart._ Ay, and I’ve wandered long + Among the mountains; and for many days + Have seen no human face, save the rough swine-herd’s. + The wind and rain have been my sole companions. + I shouted to them from the rocks thy name, + And the loud echo sent it back to me, + Till I grew mad. I could not stay from thee, + And I am here! Betray me, if thou wilt. + + _Pre._ Betray thee? I betray thee? + + _Bart._ Preciosa! + I come for thee! for thee I thus brave death! + Fly with me o’er the borders of this realm! + Fly with me! + + _Pre._ Speak of that no more. I cannot. + I am thine no longer. + + _Bart._ O, recall the time + When we were children! how we played together, + How we grew up together; how we plighted + Our hearts unto each other, even in childhood! + Fulfil thy promise, for the hour has come. + I am hunted from the kingdom, like a wolf! + Fulfil thy promise. + + _Pre._ ’Twas my father’s promise, + Not mine. I never gave my heart to thee, + Nor promised thee my hand! + + _Bart._ False tongue of woman! + And heart more false! + + _Pre._ Nay, listen unto me. + I will speak frankly. I have never loved thee; + I cannot love thee. This is not my fault, + It is my destiny. Thou art a man + Restless and violent. What wouldst thou with me, + A feeble girl, who have not long to live, + Whose heart is broken? Seek another wife, + Better than I, and fairer; and let not + Thy rash and headlong moods estrange her from thee. + Thou art unhappy in this hopeless passion. + I never sought thy love; never did aught + To make thee love me. Yet I pity thee, + And most of all I pity thy wild heart, + That hurries thee to crimes and deeds of blood. + Beware, beware of that. + + _Bart._ For thy dear sake, + I will be gentle. Thou shalt teach me patience. + + _Pre._ Then take this farewell, and depart in peace. + Thou must not linger here. + + _Bart._ Come, come with me. + + _Pre._ Hark! I hear footsteps. + + _Bart._ I entreat thee, come! + + _Pre._ Away! It is in vain. + + _Bart._ Wilt thou not come? + + _Pre._ Never! + + _Bart._ Then woe, eternal woe, upon thee. + Thou shalt not be another’s. Thou shalt die. [_Exit._ + + _Pre._ All holy angels keep me in this hour! + Spirit of her who bore me, look upon me! + Mother of God, the glorified, protect me! + Christ and the saints, be merciful unto me! + Yet why should I fear death? What is it to die? + To leave all disappointment, care, and sorrow, + To leave all falsehood, treachery, and unkindness, + All ignominy, suffering, and despair, + And be at rest for ever! O, dull heart, + Be of good cheer! When thou shalt cease to beat, + Then shalt thou cease to suffer and complain! + + [_Enter_ VICTORIAN _and_ HYPOLITO + _behind_.] + + _Vict._ ’Tis she! Behold, how beautiful she stands + Under the tent-like trees! + + _Hyp._ A woodland nymph! + + _Vict._ I pray thee, stand aside. Leave me. + + _Hyp._ Be wary. + Do not betray thyself too soon. + + _Vict._ [_disguising his voice_]. Hist! Gipsy! + + _Pre._ [_aside, with emotion_]. + That voice! that voice from heaven! O speak again! + Who is it calls? + + _Vict._ A friend. + + _Pre._ [_aside_]. ’Tis he! ’Tis he! + I thank thee, Heaven, that thou hast heard my prayer, + And sent me this protector! Now be strong, + Be strong, my heart! I must dissemble here. + False friend or true? + + _Vict._ A true friend to the true. + Fear not; come hither. So, can you tell fortunes? + + _Pre._ Not in the dark. Come nearer to the fire. + Give me your hand. It is not crossed, I see. + + _Vict._ [_putting a piece of gold into her hand_]. There is the cross. + + _Pre._ Is’t silver? + + _Vict._ No, ’tis gold. + + _Pre._ There’s a fair lady at the Court, who loves you, + And for yourself alone. + + _Vict._ Fie! the old story! + Tell me a better fortune for my money; + Not this old woman’s tale! + + _Pre._ You are passionate; + And this same passionate humour in your blood + Has marred your fortune. Yes; I see it now; + The line of life is crossed by many marks. + Shame! shame! O you have wronged the maid who loved you! + How could you do it? + + _Vict._ I never loved a maid; + For she I loved was then a maid no more. + + _Pre._ How know you that? + + _Vict._ A little bird in the air + Whispered the secret. + + _Pre._ There, take back your gold. + Your hand is cold, like a deceiver’s hand! + There is no blessing in its charity! + Make her your wife, for you have been abused; + And you shall mend your fortunes, mending hers. + + _Vict._ [_aside_]. How like an angel’s speaks the tongue of woman, + When pleading in another’s cause her own—— + That is a pretty ring upon your finger. + Pray give it me. [_Tries to take the ring._] + + _Pre._ No; never from my hand + Shall that be taken! + + _Vict._ Why, ’tis but a ring. + I’ll give it back to you; or, if I keep it, + Will give you gold to buy you twenty such. + + _Pre._ Why would you have this ring? + + _Vict._ A traveller’s fancy, + A whim, and nothing more. I would fain keep it + As a memento of the Gipsy camp + In Guadarrama, and the fortune-teller + Who sent me back to wed a widowed maid. + Pray, let me have the ring. + + _Pre._ No, never! never! + I will not part with it, even when I die; + But bid my nurse fold my pale fingers thus, + That it may not fall from them. ’Tis a token + Of a beloved friend, who is no more. + + _Vict._ How? dead? + + _Pre._ Yes; dead to me; and worse than dead. + He is estranged! And yet I keep this ring. + I will rise with it from my grave hereafter, + To prove to him that I was never false. + + _Vict._ [_aside_]. Be still, my swelling heart! one moment, still! + Why, ’tis the folly of a love-sick girl. + Come, give it me, or I will say ’tis mine, + And that you stole it. + + _Pre._ O, you will not dare + To utter such a fiendish lie! + + _Vict._ Not dare? + Look in my face, and say if there is aught + I have not dared, I would not dare for thee! + + [_She rushes into his arms._] + + _Pre._ ’Tis thou! ’tis thou! Yes; yes; my heart’s elected! + My dearest-dear Victorian! my soul’s heaven! + Where hast thou been so long? Why didst thou leave me? + + _Vict._ Ask me not now, my dearest Preciosa. + Let me forget we ever have been parted! + + _Pre._ Hadst thou not come—— + + _Vict._ I pray thee, do not chide me! + + _Pre._ I should have perished here among these Gipsies. + + _Vict._ Forgive me, sweet! for what I made thee suffer. + Think’st thou this heart could feel a moment’s joy, + Thou being absent? O, believe it not! + Indeed, since that sad hour I have not slept, + For thinking of the wrong I did to thee! + Dost thou forgive me? Say, wilt thou forgive me? + + _Pre._ I have forgiven thee. Ere those words of anger + Were in the book of Heaven writ down against thee, + I had forgiven thee. + + _Vict._ I’m the veriest fool + That walks the earth, to have believed thee false. + It was the Count of Lara—— + + _Pre._ That bad man + Has worked me harm enough. Hast thou not heard—— + + _Vict._ I have heard all. And yet speak on, speak on! + Let me but hear thy voice, and I am happy; + For every tone, like some sweet incantation, + Calls up the buried past to plead for me. + Speak, my beloved, speak into my heart, + Whatever fills and agitates thine own. + + [_They walk aside._] + + _Hyp._ All gentle quarrels in the pastoral poets, + All passionate love scenes in the best romances, + All chaste embraces on the public stage, + All soft adventures, which the liberal stars + Have winked at, as the natural course of things, + Have been surpassed here by my friend, the student, + And this sweet Gipsy lass, fair Preciosa! + + _Pre._ Señor Hypolito! I kiss your hand. + Pray, shall I tell your fortune? + + _Hyp._ Not to-night; + For, should you treat me as you did Victorian, + And send me back to marry maids forlorn, + My wedding-day would last from now till Christmas. + + _Chispa_ [_within_]. What ho! the Gipsies, ho! Beltran Cruzado! + Halloo! halloo! halloo! halloo! + + [_Enters booted, with a whip and lantern._] + + _Vict._ What now? + Why such a fearful din? Hast thou been robbed? + + _Chis._ Ay, robbed and murdered; and good evening to you, + My worthy masters. + + _Vict._ Speak; what brings thee here? + + _Chis._ [_to_ PRECIOSA]. Good news from Court; good news! + Beltran Cruzado, + The Count of the Calés, is not your father; + But your true father has returned to Spain + Laden with wealth. You are no more a Gipsy. + + _Vict._ Strange as a Moorish tale! + + _Chis._ And we have all + Been drinking at the tavern to your health, + As wells drink in November, when it rains. + + _Vict._ Where is the gentleman? + + _Chis._ As the old song says, + + His body is in Segovia, + His soul is in Madrid. + + _Pre._ Is this a dream? O, if it be a dream, + Let me sleep on, and do not wake me yet! + Repeat thy story! Say I’m not deceived! + Say that I do not dream! I am awake; + This is the Gipsy camp; this is Victorian, + And this his friend, Hypolito! Speak! speak! + Let me not wake and find it all a dream! + + _Vict._ It is a dream, sweet child! a waking dream, + A blissful certainty, a vision bright + Of that rare happiness, which even on earth + Heaven gives to those it loves. Now art thou rich, + As thou wast ever beautiful and good; + And I am now the beggar. + + _Pre._ [_giving him her hand._] I have still + A hand to give. + + _Chis._ [_aside_]. And I have two to take. + I’ve heard my grandmother say, that Heaven gives almonds + To those who have no teeth. That’s nuts to crack. + I’ve teeth to spare, but where shall I find almonds? + + _Vict._ What more of this strange story? + + _Chis._ Nothing more. + Your friend, Don Carlos, is now at the village + Showing to Pedro Crespo, the Alcalde, + The proofs of what I tell you. The old hag, + Who stole you in her childhood, has confessed; + And probably they will hang her for the crime, + To make the celebration more complete. + + _Vict._ No; let it be a day of general joy; + Fortune comes well to all, that comes not late. + Now let us join Don Carlos. + + _Hyp._ So farewell, + The student’s wandering life! Sweet serenades, + Sung under ladies’ windows in the night, + And all that makes vacation beautiful! + To you, ye cloistered shades of Alcalá, + To you, ye radiant visions of romance, + Written in books, but here surpassed by truth, + The Bachelor Hypolito returns, + And leaves the Gipsy with the Spanish Student. + + +SCENE VI.—_A pass in the Guadarrama mountains. Early morning. A +muleteer crosses the stage, sitting sideways on his mule, and lighting +a paper cigar with flint and steel._ + + +SONG. + + If thou art sleeping, maiden, + Awake and open thy door, + ’Tis the break of day, and we must away + O’er meadow, and mount, and moor. + + Wait not to find thy slippers, + But come with thy naked feet; + We shall have to pass through the dewy grass, + And waters wide and fleet. + +[_Disappears down the pass. Enter a Monk. A Shepherd appears on the +rocks above._] + +_Monk._ Ave Maria, gratia plena. Olá! good man! + +_Shep._ Olá! + +_Monk._ Is this the road to Segovia? + +_Shep._ It is, your reverence. + +_Monk._ How far is it? + +_Shep._ I do not know. + +_Monk._ What is that yonder in the valley? + +_Shep._ San Ildefonso. + +_Monk._ A long way to breakfast. + +_Shep._ Ay, marry. + +_Monk._ Are there robbers in these mountains? + +_Shep._ Yes, and worse than that. + +_Monk._ What? + +_Shep._ Wolves. + +_Monk._ Santa Maria! Come with me to San Ildefonso, and thou shalt be +well rewarded. + +_Shep._ What wilt thou give me? + +_Monk._ An Agnus Dei and my benediction. + +[_They disappear. A mounted Contrabandista passes, wrapped in his +cloak, and a gun at his saddle-bow. He goes down the pass singing._] + + +SONG. + + Worn with speed is my good steed, + And I march me, hurried, worried; + Onward, caballito mio, + With the white star in thy forehead! + Onward, for here comes the Ronda, + And I hear their rifles crack! + Ay, jaléo! Ay, ay, jaléo! + Ay, jaléo! They cross our track! + +[_Song dies away. Enter_ PRECIOSA, _on horseback, attended by_ +VICTORIAN, HYPOLITO, DON CARLOS, _and_ CHISPA, _on foot, and armed_.] + + _Vict._ This is the highest point. Here let us rest. + See, Preciosa, see how all about us + Kneeling, like hooded friars, the misty mountains + + Receive the benediction of the sun! + O glorious sight! + + _Pre._ Most beautiful indeed! + + _Hyp._ Most wonderful! + + _Vict._ And in the vale below, + Where yonder steeples flash like lifted halberds, + San Ildefonso, from its noisy belfries, + Sends up a salutation to the morn, + As if an army smote their brazen shields, + And shouted victory! + + _Pre._ And which way lies + Segovia? + + _Vict._ At a great distance yonder. + Dost thou not see it? + + _Pre._ No, I do not see it. + + _Vict._ The merest flaw that dents the horizon’s edge. + There, yonder! + + _Hyp._ ’Tis a notable old town, + Boasting an ancient Roman aqueduct, + And an Alcázar, builded by the Moors, + Wherein, you may remember, poor Gil Blas + Was fed on _Pan del Rey_. O, many a time + Out of its grated windows have I looked + Hundreds of feet plumb down to the Eresma, + That, like a serpent through the valley creeping, + Glides at its foot. + + _Pre._ O, yes! I see it now, + Yet rather with my heart than with mine eyes, + So faint it is. And, all my thoughts sail thither, + Freighted with prayers and hopes, and forward urged + Against all stress of accident, as, in + The Eastern Tale, against the wind and tide, + Great ships were drawn to the Magnetic Mountains, + And there were wrecked and perished in the sea! + [_She weeps._] + + _Vict._ O gentle spirit! Thou didst bear unmoved + Blasts of adversity and frosts of fate! + But the first ray of sunshine that falls on thee + Melts thee to tears! O, let thy weary heart + Lean upon mine! and it shall faint no more, + Nor thirst, nor hunger; but be comforted + And filled with my affection. + + _Pre._ Stay no longer! + My father waits. Methinks I see him there, + Now looking from the window, and now watching + Each sound of wheels or footfall in the street, + And saying, “Hark! she comes!” O father! father! + +[_They descend the pass._ CHISPA _remains behind_.] + +_Chis._ I have a father, too, but he is a dead one. Alas and +alack-a-day! Poor was I born, and poor do I remain. I neither win nor +lose. Thus I wag through the world, half the time on foot, and the +other half walking: and always as merry as a thunder-storm in the +night. And so we plough along, as the fly said to the ox. Who knows +what may happen? Patience and shuffle the cards! I am not yet so bald +that you can see my brains; and perhaps, after all, I shall some day go +to Rome, and come back Saint Peter. Benedicite! + + [_Exit._ + +[_A pause. Then enter_ BARTOLOMÉ _wildly, as if in pursuit, with a +carbine in his hand_.] + + _Bart._ They passed this way! I hear their horses’ hoofs! + Yonder I see them! Come, sweet caramillo, + This serenade shall be the Gipsy’s last! + + [_Fires down the pass._] + + Ha! ha! Well whistled, my sweet caramillo! + Well whistled!—I have missed her!—O, my God! + +[_The shot is returned._ BARTOLOMÉ _falls_.] + +[Illustration] + + + + +_Evangeline._ + + +A TALE OF ACADIE. + +1847. + + +PREFATORY NOTE. + + +The story of “EVANGELINE” is founded on a painful occurrence which took +place in the early period of British colonization in the northern part +of America. + +In the year 1713, Acadia, or, as it is now named, Nova Scotia, was +ceded to Great Britain by the French. The wishes of the inhabitants +seem to have been little consulted in the change, and they with great +difficulty were induced to take the oaths of allegiance to the British +Government. Some time after this, war having again broken out between +the French and British in Canada, the Acadians were accused of having +assisted the French, from whom they were descended, and connected by +many ties of friendship, with provisions and ammunition, at the siege +of Beau Séjour. Whether the accusation was founded on fact or not, +has not been satisfactorily ascertained; the result, however, was +most disastrous to the primitive, simple-minded Acadians. The British +Government ordered them to be removed from their homes, and dispersed +throughout the other colonies, at a distance from their much-loved +land. This resolution was not communicated to the inhabitants till +measures had been matured to carry it into immediate effect; when the +Governor of the colony, having issued a summons calling the whole +people to a meeting, informed them that their lands, tenements, and +cattle of all kinds were forfeited to the British crown, that he had +orders to remove them in vessels to distant colonies, and they must +remain in custody till their embarkation. + +The poem is descriptive of the fate of some of the persons involved in +these calamitous proceedings. + + This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the + hemlocks, + Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the + twilight, + Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, + Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. + Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighbouring ocean + Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the + forest. + + This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that + beneath it + Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of + the huntsman? + Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,— + Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands, + Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven? + Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers for ever + departed, + Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of + October + Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far over + the ocean. + Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of + Grand-Pré. + + Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is + patient, + Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman’s devotion, + List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the + forest; + List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy. + + +PART THE FIRST. + + I. + + In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas, + Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pré + Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the + eastward, + Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without + number. + Dikes, that the hands of the farmer had raised with labour + incessant, + Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the + flood-gates + Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o’er the meadows. + West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards, and + corn-fields + Spreading afar and unfenced o’er the plain; and away to the + northward + Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains + Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic + Looked on the happy valley, but ne’er from their station + descended. + There, in the midst of its farm, reposed the Acadian village. + Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of + chestnut, + Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the + Henries. + Thatched were the roofs, with dormer windows; and gables + projecting + Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway. + There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the + sunset + Lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes on the + chimneys, + Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles + Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden + Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors + Mingled their sound with the whir of the wheels and the songs of + the maidens. + Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the + children + Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them. + Reverend walked he among them; and up rose matrons and maidens, + Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome. + Then came the labourers home from the field, and serenely the + sun sank + Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from the belfry + Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village + Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending, + Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment. + Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers,— + Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were they free from + Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of + republics. + Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their + windows; + But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of the + owners; + There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance. + + Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of + Minas, + Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand-Pré, + Dwelt on his goodly acres; and with him, directing his + household, + Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the + village. + Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy winters; + Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow-flakes; + White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the + oak-leaves. + Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers. + Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the + wayside, + Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of + her tresses! + Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the + meadows. + When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide + Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth was the maiden. + Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its + turret + Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his + hyssop + Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them, + Down the long street she passed with her chaplet of beads and + her missal, + Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the + ear-rings, + Brought in the olden times from France, and since, as an + heirloom, + Handed down from mother to child, through long generations. + But a celestial brightness—a more ethereal beauty— + Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after + confession, + Homeward serenely she walked with God’s benediction upon her. + When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite + music. + Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer + Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea; and a shady + Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it. + Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath; and a footpath + Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow. + Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by a pent-house, + Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the road-side, + Built o’er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary. + Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its + moss-grown + Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses. + Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns + and the farm-yard. + There stood the broad-wheeled wains, and the antique ploughs and + the harrows; + There were the folds for the sheep; and there, in his feathered + seraglio, + Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the + selfsame + Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter. + Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village. In each + one + Far o’er the gable projected a roof of thatch; and a staircase, + Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft. + There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and innocent inmates + Murmuring ever of love; while above in the variant breezes + Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation. + + Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of Grand-Pré + Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed his household. + Many a youth as he knelt in the church and opened his missal, + Fixed his eyes upon her, as the saint of his deepest devotion; + Happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her garment! + Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness befriended, + And as he knocked, and waited to hear the sound of her + footsteps, + Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of + iron; + Or at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the village, + Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance as he whispered + Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the music. + But, among all who came, young Gabriel only was welcome; + Gabriel Lajeunesse, the son of Basil the blacksmith, + Who was a mighty man in the village, and honoured of all men; + For since the birth of time, throughout all ages and nations, + Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the people. + Basil was Benedict’s friend. Their children from earliest + childhood + Grew up together as brother and sister; and Father Felician, + Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them their + letters + Out of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the church and the + plainsong. + But when the hymn was sung, and the daily lesson completed, + Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil the blacksmith. + There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to behold him + Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything, + Nailing the shoe in its place; while near him the tire of a + cart-wheel + Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders. + Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gathering darkness + Bursting with light seemed the smithy, through every cranny and + crevice, + Warm by the forge within they watched the labouring bellows, + And as its panting ceased, and the sparks expired in the ashes, + Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the chapel. + Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of the eagle, + Down the hill-side bounding, they glided away o’er the meadow. + Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests on the + rafters, + Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the swallow + Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the sight of its + fledglings; + Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of the swallow! + Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer were children. + He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the + morning, + Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened thought into + action. + She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes of a woman. + “Sunshine of Saint Eulalie” was she called; for that was the + sunshine + Which, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with + apples; + She, too, would bring to her husband’s house delight and + abundance, + Filling it full of love, and the ruddy faces of children. + + II. + Now had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and + longer, + And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters. + Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, from the + ice-bound, + Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical islands. + Harvests were gathered in; and wild with the winds of September + Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the + angel. + All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement. + Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded their honey + Till the hives overflowed; and the Indian hunters asserted + Cold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the foxes. + Such was the advent of autumn. Then followed that beautiful + season, + Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer of All-Saints! + Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the + landscape + Lay as if new-created in all the freshness of childhood. + Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the + ocean + Was for a moment consoled. All sounds were in harmony blended. + Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the + farm-yards, + Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons, + All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the great + sun + Looked with the eye of love through the golden vapours around + him; + While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and yellow, + Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering tree of the + forest + Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and + jewels. + + Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness. + Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight + descending + Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the + homestead. + Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each + other, + And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of + evening. + Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline’s beautiful heifer, + Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her + collar, + Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection. + Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the + sea-side, + Where was their favourite pasture. Behind them followed the + watch-dog, + Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his + instinct, + Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superbly + Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers; + Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; their + protector, + When from the forest at night, through the starry silence, the + wolves howled. + Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes, + Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odour. + Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their + fetlocks, + While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous saddles, + Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of + crimson, + Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms. + Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their udders + Unto the milkmaid’s hand; whilst loud, and in regular cadence + Into the sounding pails the foaming streamlets descended. + Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the + farm-yard, + Echoed back by the barns. Anon they sank into stillness; + Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the + barn-doors, + Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent. + + In-doors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly the farmer + Sat in his elbow chair, and watched how the flames and the + smoke-wreaths + Struggled together like foes in a burning city. Behind him, + Nodding and mocking along the wall, with gestures fantastic, + Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into darkness. + Faces, clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his arm-chair + Laughed in the flickering light, and the pewter plates on the + dresser + Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the + sunshine. + Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of Christmas, + Such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers before him + Sang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vineyards. + Close at her father’s side was the gentle Evangeline seated, + Spinning flax for the loom, that stood in the corner behind her. + Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent + shuttle, + While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the drone of a + bagpipe, + Followed the old man’s song, and united the fragments together. + As in a church, when the chant of the choir at intervals ceases, + Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the priest at the + altar, + So, in each pause of the song, with measured motion the clock + clicked. + + Thus, as they sat, there were footsteps heard, and, suddenly + lifted, + Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung back on its hinges. + Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Basil the + blacksmith, + And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with him. + “Welcome!” the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused on + the threshold, + “Welcome, Basil, my friend! Come, take thy place on the settle + Close by the chimney-side, which is always empty without thee; + Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of tobacco; + Never so much thyself art thou as when through the curling + Smoke of the pipe or the forge thy friendly and jovial face + gleams + Round and red as the harvest moon through the midst of the + marshes.” + Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Basil the + blacksmith, + Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fireside:— + “Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy jest and thy ballad! + Ever in cheerfulest mood art thou, when others are filled with + Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before them. + Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a + horseshoe.” + Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evangeline brought him, + And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he slowly + continued:— + “Four days now are passed since the English ships at their + anchors + Ride in the Gaspereau’s mouth, with their cannon pointed against + us. + What their design may be is unknown; but all are commanded + On the morrow to meet in the church, where his Majesty’s mandate + Will be proclaimed as law in the land. Alas! in the meantime + Many surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the people.” + Then made answer the farmer—“Perhaps some friendlier purpose + Bring these ships to our shores. Perhaps the harvests in England + By the untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted, + And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and + children.” + “Not so thinketh the folk in the village,” said, warmly, the + blacksmith, + Shaking his head, as in doubt; then, heaving a sigh, he + continued:— + “Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau Séjour, nor Port Royal. + Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its outskirts, + Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of to-morrow. + Arms have been taken from us, and warlike weapons of all kinds; + Nothing is left us but the blacksmith’s sledge and the scythe of + the mower.” + Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer:— + “Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and our + corn-fields, + Safer within these peaceful dikes, besieged by the ocean, + Than were our fathers in forts, besieged by the enemy’s cannon. + Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no shadow of sorrow + Fall on this house and hearth; for this is the night of the + contract. + Built are the house and the barn. The merry lads of the village + Strongly have built them and well; and, breaking the glebe round + about them, + Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a + twelvemonth. + René Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers and inkhorn. + Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our + children?” + As apart by the window she stood, with her hand in her lover’s, + Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her father had spoken, + And as they died on his lips the worthy notary entered. + + III. + Bent like a labouring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean, + Bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the notary public; + Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the maize, hung + Over his shoulders; his forehead was high; and glasses with horn + bows + Sat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom supernal. + Father of twenty children was he, and more than a hundred + Children’s children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch + tick. + Four long years in the times of the war had he languished a + captive, + Suffering much in an old French fort as the friend of the + English. + Now though warier grown, without all guile or suspicion, + Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and childlike. + He was beloved by all, and most of all by the children; + For he told them tales of the Loup-garou in the forest, + And of the goblin that came in the night to water the horses, + And of the white Létiche, the ghost of a child who unchristened + Died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers of children; + And how on Christmas-eve the oxen talked in the stable, + And how the fever was cured by a spider shut up in a nutshell, + And of the marvellous powers of four-leaved clover and + horseshoes, + With whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the village. + Then up rose from his seat by the fireside Basil the blacksmith, + Knocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly extending his right + hand, + “Father Leblanc,” he exclaimed, “thou hast heard the talk in the + village, + And, perchance, canst tell us some news of these ships and their + errand.” + Then with modest demeanour made answer the notary public,— + “Gossip enough have I heard, in sooth, yet am never the wiser; + And what their errand may be I know not better than others. + Yet am I not of those who imagine some evil intention + Brings them here, for we are at peace; and why then molest us?” + “God’s name!” shouted the hasty and somewhat irascible + blacksmith; + “Must we in all things look for the how, and the why, and the + wherefore? + Daily injustice is done, and might is the right of the + strongest!” + But without heeding his warmth, continued the notary public,— + “Man is unjust, but God is just; and finally justice + Triumphs; and well I remember a story, that often consoled me, + When as a captive I lay in the old French fort at Port Royal.” + This was the old man’s favourite tale, and he loved to repeat it + When his neighbours complained that any injustice was done them. + “Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer remember, + Raised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of Justice + Stood in the public square, upholding the scales in its left + hand, + And in its right a sword, as an emblem that justice presided + Over the laws of the land, and the hearts and homes of the + people. + Even the birds had built their nests in the scales of the + balance, + Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the sunshine above + them. + But in the course of time the laws of the land were corrupted; + Might took the place of right, and the weak were oppressed, and + the mighty + Ruled with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a nobleman’s palace + That a necklace of pearls was lost, and ere long a suspicion + Fell on an orphan girl who lived as maid in the household. + She, after form of trial, condemned to die on the scaffold, + Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of Justice. + As to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit ascended, + Lo! o’er the city a tempest rose; and the bolts of the thunder + Smote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left + hand + Down on the pavement below the clattering scales of the balance, + And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a magpie, + Into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls was inwoven.” + Silenced, but not convinced, when the story was ended, the + blacksmith + Stood like a man who fain would speak, but findeth no language; + All his thoughts were congealed into lines on his face, as the + vapours + Freeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes in the winter. + + Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table, + Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with home-brewed + Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village of + Grand-Pré; + While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and inkhorn, + Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of the parties, + Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep and in cattle. + Orderly all things proceeded, and duly and well were completed, + And the great seal of the law was set like a sun on the margin. + Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw on the table + Three times the old man’s fee in solid pieces of silver; + And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and the + bridegroom, + Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their welfare. + Wiping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed and departed; + While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside, + Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of its corner. + Soon was the game begun. In friendly contention the old men + Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manœuvre, + Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in + the king-row. + Meanwhile apart, in the twilight gloom of a window’s embrasure, + Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding the moon rise + Over the pallid sea and the silvery mist of the meadows. + Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, + Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels. + + Thus passed the evening away. Anon the bell from the belfry + Rang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and straightway + Rose the guests and departed; and silence reigned in the + household. + Many a farewell word and sweet good-night on the door-step + Lingered long in Evangeline’s heart, and filled it with + gladness. + Carefully then were covered the embers that glowed on the + hearthstone, + And on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of the farmer. + Soon with a soundless step the foot of Evangeline followed. + Up the staircase moved a luminous space in the darkness, + Lighted less by the lamp than the shining face of the maiden. + Silent she passed through the hall, and entered the door of her + chamber. + Simple that chamber was, with its curtains of white, and its + clothes-press + Ample and high, on whose spacious shelves were carefully folded + Linen and woollen stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline woven. + This was the precious dower she would bring to her husband in + marriage, + Better than flocks and herds, being proofs of her skill as a + housewife. + Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow and radiant + moonlight + Streamed through the windows and lighted the room, till the + heart of the maiden + Swelled and obeyed its power, like the tremulous tides of the + ocean. + Ah! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she stood with + Naked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of her chamber! + Little she dreamed that below, among the trees of the orchard, + Waited her lover and watched for the gleam of her lamp and her + shadow. + Yet were her thoughts of him, and at times a feeling of sadness + Passed o’er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds in the + moonlight + Flitted across the floor and darkened the room for a moment. + And as she gazed from the window she saw serenely the moon pass + Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her + footsteps, + As out of Abraham’s tent young Ishmael wandered with Hagar! + + IV. + Pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the village of Grand-Pré. + Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas, + Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were riding at + anchor. + Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous labour + Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the + morning. + Now from the country around, from the farms and the neighbouring + hamlets, + Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants. + Many a glad good-morrow and jocund laugh from the young folk + Made the bright air brighter, as up from the numerous meadows, + Where no path could be seen but the track of wheels in the + greensward, + Group after group appeared, and joined, or passed on the + highway. + Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labour were + silenced. + Thronged were the streets with people; and noisy groups at the + house-doors + Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together. + Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and feasted; + For with this simple people, who lived like brothers together, + All things were held in common, and what one had was another’s. + Yet under Benedict’s roof hospitality seemed more abundant: + For Evangeline stood among the guests of her father; + Bright was her face with smiles, and words of welcome and + gladness + Fell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup as she gave + it. + + Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard, + Bending with golden fruit, was spread the feast of betrothal. + There in the shade of the porch were the priest and the notary + seated; + There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the blacksmith. + Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and the + beehives + Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of hearts and of + waist-coats. + Shadow and light from the leaves alternately played on his + snow-white + Hair, as it waved in the wind; and the jolly face of the fiddler + Glowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown from the + embers. + Gaily the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his fiddle, + _Tous les Bourgeois de Chartres_, and _Le Carillon de + Dunkerque_, + And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the music. + Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances + Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows; + Old folk and young together, and children mingled among them. + Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict’s daughter! + Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the blacksmith! + + So passed the morning away. And lo! with a summons sonorous + Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum + beat. + Thronged ere long was the church with men. Without, in the + churchyard, + Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on the + head-stones + Garlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest. + Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly among + them + Entered the sacred portal. With a loud and dissonant clangour + Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling and + casement,— + Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portal + Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the + soldiers. + Then uprose their commander, and spake from the steps of the + altar, + Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal + commission. + “You are convened this day,” he said, “by his Majesty’s orders. + Clement and kind has he been; but how you have answered his + kindness, + Let your own hearts reply! To my natural make and my temper + Painful the task is I do, which to you I know must be grievous. + Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our monarch; + Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all + kinds, + Forfeited be to the crown; and that you yourselves from this + province + Be transported to other lands. God grant you may dwell there + Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people! + Prisoners now I declare you; for such is his Majesty’s + pleasure!” + As, when the air is serene in the sultry solstice of summer, + Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hailstones + Beats down the farmer’s corn in the field and shatters his + windows, + Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch from the + house-roofs, + Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their inclosures; + So on the hearts of the people descended the words of the + speaker + Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and then rose + Louder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and anger, + And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to the doorway. + Vain was the hope of escape; and cries and fierce imprecations + Rang through the house of prayer; and high o’er the heads of the + others + Rose, with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil the + blacksmith, + As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the billows. + Flushed was his face and distorted with passion; and wildly he + shouted,— + “Down with the tyrants of England! we never have sworn them + allegiance! + Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our homes and our + harvests!” + More he fain would have said, but the merciless hand of a + soldier + Smote him upon the mouth, and dragged him down to the pavement. + + In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry contention, + Lo! the door of the chancel opened, and Father Felician + Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the altar. + Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into silence + All that clamorous throng; and thus he spake to his people. + Deep were his tones and solemn; in accents measured and mournful + Spake he, as, after the tocsin’s alarum, distinctly the clock + strikes. + “What is this that ye do, my children? what madness has seized + you? + Forty years of my life have I laboured among you, and taught + you, + Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another! + Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers and + privations? + Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and forgiveness? + This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and would you profane + it + Thus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with hatred? + Lo! where the crucified Christ from his cross is gazing upon + you! + See! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy compassion! + Hark! how those lips still repeat the prayer, ‘O Father, forgive + them!’ + Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked assail us, + Let us repeat it now, and say, ‘O Father, forgive them!’” + Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his + people + Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded that passionate + outbreak; + While they repeated his prayer, and said, “O Father, forgive + them!” + + Then came the evening service. The tapers gleamed from the + altar. + Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and the people + responded, + Not with their lips alone, but their hearts; and the Ave Maria + Sang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls, with + devotion translated, + Rose on the ardour of prayer, like Elijah ascending to heaven. + + Meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings of ill, and on + all sides + Wandered, wailing, from house to house the women and children. + Long at her father’s door Evangeline stood, with her right hand + Shielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, that, + descending, + Lighted the village street with mysterious splendour, and roofed + each + Peasant’s cottage with golden thatch, and emblazoned its + windows. + Long within had been spread the snow-white cloth on the table; + There stood the wheaten loaf, and the honey fragrant with wild + flowers; + There stood the tankard of ale, and the cheese fresh brought + from the dairy; + And at the head of the board the great arm-chair of the farmer. + Thus did Evangeline wait at her father’s door, as the sunset + Threw the long shadows of trees o’er the broad ambrosial + meadows. + Ah! on her spirit within a deeper shadow had fallen, + And from the fields of her soul a fragrance celestial ascended,— + Charity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgiveness, and + patience! + Then, all forgetful of self, she wandered into the village, + Cheering with looks and words the disconsolate hearts of the + women, + As o’er the darkening fields with lingering steps they departed, + Urged by their household cares, and the weary feet of their + children. + Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapours + Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from + Sinai. + Sweetly over the village the bell of the Angelus sounded. + + Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church Evangeline lingered. + All was silent within; and in vain at the door and the windows + Stood she, and listened and looked, until, overcome by emotion, + “Gabriel!” cried she aloud with tremulous voice; but no answer + Came from the graves of the dead, nor the gloomier grave of the + living. + Slowly at length she returned to the tenantless house of her + father. + Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board stood the supper + untasted, + Empty and drear was each room, and haunted with phantoms of + terror. + Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the floor of her chamber. + In the dead of the night she heard the whispering rain fall + Loud on the withered leaves of the sycamore-tree by the window. + Keenly the lightning flashed; and the voice of the echoing + thunder + Told her that God was in heaven, and governed the world he + created! + Then she remembered the tale she had heard of the justice of + heaven; + Soothed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully slumbered till + morning. + + V. + Four times the sun had risen and set; and now on the fifth day + Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the + farm-house. + Soon o’er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession, + Came from the neighbouring hamlets and farms the Acadian women, + Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the + sea-shore, + Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings, + Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the + woodland. + Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen, + While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of + playthings. + + Thus to the Gaspereau’s mouth they hurried, and there on the + sea-beach + Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants. + All day long between the shore and the ships did the boats ply; + All day long the wains came labouring down from the village. + Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting, + Echoing far o’er the fields came the roll of drums from the + churchyard. + Thither the women and children thronged. On a sudden the + church-doors + Opened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy + procession + Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers. + Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their + country, + Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and + way-worn, + So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descended + Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their + daughters. + Foremost the young men came; and, raising together their voices, + Sang they with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Missions:— + “Sacred heart of the Saviour! O inexhaustible fountain! + Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and + patience!” + Then the old men, as they marched, and the women that stood by + the wayside, + Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above + them + Mingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed. + + Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited in silence, + Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of affliction,— + Calmly and sadly waited, until the procession approached her. + And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with emotion. + Tears then filled her eyes, and, eagerly running to meet him, + Clasped she his hands, and laid her head on his shoulder, and + whispered,— + “Gabriel, be of good cheer! for if we love one another, + Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may happen!” + Smiling she spake these words; then suddenly paused, for her + father + Saw she slowly advancing. Alas, how changed was his aspect! + Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the fire from his eye, and + his footstep + Heavier seemed with the weight of the weary heart in his bosom. + But, with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck and embraced + him, + Speaking words of endearment where words of comfort availed not. + Thus to the Gaspereau’s mouth moved on that mournful procession. + + There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking. + Busily plied the freighted boats; and in the confusion + Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw + their children + Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties. + So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried, + While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father. + Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the + twilight + Deepened and darkened around; and in haste the refluent ocean + Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beach + Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery + sea-weed. + Farther back, in the midst of the household goods and the + waggons, + Like to a gipsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle, + All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them, + Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers. + Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean, + Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leaving + Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors. + Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their + pastures; + Sweet was the moist still air with the odour of milk from their + udders; + Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the + farm-yard,— + Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the + milkmaid. + Silence reigned in the streets; from the church no Angelus + sounded, + Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the + windows. + + But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had been + kindled, + Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in the + tempest. + Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were gathered, + Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the crying of + children. + Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth in his + parish, + Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and + cheering, + Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita’s desolate sea-shore. + Thus he approached the place where Evangeline sat with her + father, + And in the flickering light beheld the face of the old man, + Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either thought or + emotion, + E’en as the face of a clock from which the hands have been + taken. + Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses to cheer him, + Vainly offered him food; yet he moved not, he looked not, he + spake not, + But, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flickering + fire-light. + “_Benedicite!_” murmured the priest, in tones of compassion. + More he fain would have said, but his heart was full, and his + accents + Faltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on the + threshold, + Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful presence of + sorrow. + Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden, + Raising his eyes, full of tears, to the silent stars that above + them + Moved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs and sorrows of + mortals. + Then sat he down at her side, and they wept together in silence. + + Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the + blood-red + Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o’er the horizon + Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mountain and meadow, + Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge shadows + together. + Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village, + Gleamed on the sky and the sea, and the ships that lay in the + roadstead. + Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were + Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering + hands of a martyr. + Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and, + uplifting, + Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred + house-tops + Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flames intermingled. + These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the shore and on + ship-board. + Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their + anguish, + “We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand-Pré!” + Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farm-yards, + Thinking the day had dawned; and anon the lowing of cattle + Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted. + Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping + encampments + Far in the western prairies or forests that skirt the Nebraska, + When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of the + whirlwind, + Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river. + Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and the + horses + Broke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o’er the + meadows. + + Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the priest and the + maiden + Gazed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened before + them; + And as they turned at length to speak to their silent companion, + Lo! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the + sea-shore + Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed. + Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and the maiden + Knelt at her father’s side, and wailed aloud in her terror. + Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head on his bosom. + Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious slumber; + And when she woke from the trance, she beheld a multitude near + her. + Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfully gazing upon + her; + Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of saddest compassion. + Still the blaze of the burning village illumined the landscape, + Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the faces around her, + And like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering senses. + Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the people,— + “Let us bury him here by the sea. When a happier season + Brings us again to our homes from the unknown land of our exile, + Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the churchyard.” + Such were the words of the priest. And there in haste by the + sea-side, + Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches, + But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of Grand-Pré. + And as the voice of the priest repeated the service of sorrow, + Lo! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast + congregation, + Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges. + ’Twas the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean, + With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying + landward. + Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking; + And with the ebb of that tide the ships sailed out of the + harbour, + Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in + ruins, + +PART THE SECOND. + + I. + Many a weary year had passed since the burning of Grand Pré, + When on the falling tide the freighted vessels departed, + Bearing a nation, with all its household gods, into exile, + Exile without an end, and without an example in story. + Far asunder, on separate coasts, the Acadians landed; + Scattered were they, like flakes of snow, when the wind from the + north-east + Strikes aslant through the fogs that darken the Banks of + Newfoundland. + Friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandered from city to city, + From the cold lakes of the North to sultry Southern savannas,— + From the bleak shores of the sea to the lands where the Father + of Waters + Seizes the hills in his hands, and drags them down to the ocean, + Deep in their sands to bury the scattered bones of the mammoth. + Friends they sought and homes; and many, despairing, + heart-broken, + Asked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a friend nor a + fireside. + Written their history stands on tablets of stone in the + churchyards. + Long among them was seen a maiden who waited and wandered, + Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffering all things. + Fair was she and young; but, alas! before her extended, + Dreary and vast and silent, the desert of life, with its pathway + Marked by the graves of those who had sorrowed and suffered + before her, + Passions long extinguished, and hopes long dead and abandoned, + As the emigrant’s way o’er the Western desert is marked by + Camp-fires long consumed, and bones that bleach in the sunshine. + Something there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, + unfinished; + As if a morning of June, with all its music and sunshine, + Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly descended + Into the east again, from whence it late had arisen. + Sometimes she lingered in towns, till, urged by the fever within + her, + Urged by a restless longing, the hunger and thirst of the + spirit, + She would commence again her endless search and endeavour; + Sometimes in churchyards strayed, and gazed on the crosses and + tombstones, + Sat by some nameless grave, and thought that perhaps in its + bosom + He was already at rest, and she longed to slumber beside him. + Sometimes a rumour, a hearsay, an inarticulate whisper, + Came with its airy hand to point and beckon her forward. + Sometimes she spake with those who had seen her beloved and + known him, + But it was long ago, in some far-off place or forgotten. + “Gabriel Lajeunesse!” said they; “O, yes! we have seen him. + He was with Basil the Blacksmith, and both have gone to the + prairies; + _Coureurs-des-Bois_ are they, and famous hunters and + trappers.” + “Gabriel Lajeunesse!” said others; “O, yes! we have seen him. + He is a _Voyageur_ in the lowlands of Louisiana.” + Then would they say,—“Dear child! why dream and wait for him + longer? + Are there not other youths as fair as Gabriel? others + Who have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as loyal? + Here is Baptiste Leblanc, the notary’s son, who has loved thee + Many a tedious year; come, give him thy hand and be happy! + Thou art too fair to be left to braid St Catherine’s tresses.” + Then would Evangeline answer, serenely but sadly,—“I cannot! + Whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand, and not + elsewhere. + For when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and illumines the + pathway, + Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden in darkness.” + And thereupon the priest, her friend and father-confessor, + Said, with a smile,—“O daughter! thy God thus speaketh within + thee! + Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted; + If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returning + Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of + refreshment; + That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the + fountain. + Patience; accomplish thy labour; accomplish thy work of + affection! + Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike. + Therefore accomplish thy labour of love, till the heart is made + godlike, + Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered more worthy of + heaven!” + Cheered by the good man’s word, Evangeline laboured and waited. + Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of the ocean, + But with its sound there was mingled a voice that whispered + “Despair not!” + Thus did that poor soul wander in want and cheerless discomfort, + Bleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns of existence. + Let me essay, O Muse! to follow the wanderer’s footsteps;— + Not through each devious path, each changeful year of existence, + But as a traveller follows a streamlet’s course through the + valley: + Far from its margin at times, and seeing the gleam of its water + Here and there, in some open space, and at intervals only; + Then drawing nearer its banks, through sylvan glooms that + conceal it, + Though he behold it not, he can hear its continuous murmur; + Happy, at length, if he find the spot where it reaches an + outlet. + + II. + It was the month of May. Far down the beautiful River, + Past the Ohio shore, and past the mouth of the Wabash, + Into the golden stream of the broad and swift Mississippi, + Floated a cumbrous boat, that was rowed by Acadian boatmen. + It was a band of exiles: a raft, as it were, from the + shipwrecked + Nation, scattered along the coast, now floating together, + Bound by the bonds of a common belief and a common misfortune; + Men and women and children, who, guided by hope or by hearsay, + Sought for their kith and their kin among the few-acred farmers + On the Acadian coast, and the prairies of fair Opelousas. + With them Evangeline went, and her guide, the Father Felician. + Onward o’er sunken sands, through a wilderness sombre with + forests, + Day after day they glided adown the turbulent river; + Night after night, by their blazing fires, encamped on its + borders. + Now through rushing chutes, among green islands, where plumelike + Cotton-trees nodded their shadowy crests, they swept with the + current, + Then emerged into broad lagoons, where silvery sand-bars + Lay in the stream, and along the wimpling waves of their margin, + Shining with snow-white plumes, large flocks of pelicans waded. + Level the landscape grew, and along the shores of the river, + Shaded by china-trees, in the midst of luxuriant gardens, + Stood the houses of planters, with negro-cabins and dove-cots. + They were approaching the region where reigns perpetual summer, + Where through the Golden Coast, and groves of orange and citron, + Sweeps with majestic curve the river away to the eastward. + They, too, swerved from their course; and, entering the Bayou of + Plaquemine, + Soon were lost in a maze of sluggish and devious waters, + Which, like a network of steel, extended in every direction. + Over their heads the towering and tenebrous boughs of the + cypress + Met in a dusky arch, and trailing mosses in mid air + Waved like banners that hang on the walls of ancient cathedrals. + Deathlike the silence seemed, and unbroken, save by the herons + Home to their roosts in the cedar-trees returning at sunset, + Or by the owl, as he greeted the moon with demoniac laughter. + Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and gleamed on the water, + Gleamed on the columns of cypress and cedar sustaining the + arches, + Down through whose broken vaults it fell as through chinks in a + ruin. + Dreamlike, and indistinct, and strange were all things around + them; + And o’er their spirits there came a feeling of wonder and + sadness,— + Strange forebodings of ill, unseen and that cannot be compassed. + As, at the tramp of a horse’s hoof on the turf of the prairies, + Far in advance are closed the leaves of the shrinking mimosa, + So, at the hoof-beats of fate, with sad forebodings of evil, + Shrinks and closes the heart, ere the stroke of doom has + attained it. + But Evangeline’s heart was sustained by a vision, that faintly + Floated before her eyes, and beckoned her on through the + moonlight. + It was the thought of her brain that assumed the shape of a + phantom. + Through those shadowy aisles had Gabriel wandered before her, + And every stroke of the oar now brought him nearer and nearer. + + Then in his place, at the prow of the boat, rose one of the + oarsmen, + And, as a signal sound, if others like them peradventure + Sailed on those gloomy and midnight streams, blew a blast on his + bugle. + Wild through the dark colonnades and corridors leafy the blast + rang, + Breaking the seal of silence, and giving tongues to the forest. + Soundless above them the banners of moss just stirred to the + music. + Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance, + Over the watery floor, and beneath the reverberant branches; + But not a voice replied; no answer came from the darkness; + And when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the + silence. + Then Evangeline slept; but the boatmen rowed through the + midnight, + Silent at times, then singing familiar Canadian boat-songs, + Such as they sang of old on their own Acadian rivers. + While through the night were heard the mysterious sounds of the + desert, + Far off,—indistinct,—as of wave or wind in the forest, + Mixed with the whoop of the crane and the roar of the grim + alligator. + + Thus ere another noon they emerged from those shades; and + before them + Lay, in the golden sun, the lakes of the Atchafalaya. + Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the slight undulations + Made by the passing oars, and, resplendent in beauty, the lotus + Lifted her golden crown above the heads of the boatmen. + Faint was the air with the odorous breath of magnolia blossoms, + And with the heat of noon; and numberless sylvan islands, + Fragrant and thickly embowered with blossoming hedges of roses, + Near to whose shores they glided along, invited to slumber. + Soon by the fairest of these their weary oars were suspended. + Under the boughs of Wachita willows, that grew by the margin, + Safely their boat was moored; and scattered about on the + greensward, + Tired with their midnight toil, the weary travellers slumbered. + Over them vast and high extended the cope of a cedar. + Swinging from its great arms, the trumpet-flower and the + grape-vine + Hung their ladder of ropes aloft like the ladder of Jacob, + On whose pendulous stairs the angels ascending, descending, + Were the swift humming-birds that flitted from blossom to + blossom. + Such was the vision Evangeline saw as she slumbered beneath it. + Filled was her heart with love, and the dawn of an opening + heaven + Lighted her soul in sleep with the glory of regions celestial. + + Nearer and ever nearer, among the numberless islands, + Darted a light, swift boat, that sped away o’er the water, + Urged on its course by the sinewy arms of hunters and trappers. + Northward its prow was turned, to the land of the bison and + beaver. + At the helm sat a youth, with countenance thoughtful and + care-worn. + Dark and neglected locks overshadowed his brow, and a sadness + Somewhat beyond his years on his face was legibly written. + Gabriel was it, who, weary with waiting, unhappy and restless, + Sought in the Western wilds oblivion of self and of sorrow. + Swiftly they glided along, close under the lee of the island, + But by the opposite bank, and behind a screen of palmettos, + So that they saw not the boat, where it lay concealed in the + willows, + All undisturbed by the dash of their oars, and unseen, were the + sleepers; + Angel of God was there none to awaken the slumbering maiden! + Swiftly they glided away, like the shade of a cloud on the + prairie. + After the sound of their oars on the tholes had died in the + distance, + As from a magic trance the sleepers awoke, and the maiden + Said with a sigh to the friendly priest—“O Father Felician! + Something says in my heart that near me Gabriel wanders. + Is it a foolish dream, an idle and vague superstition? + Or has an angel passed, and revealed the truth to my spirit?” + Then, with a blush, she added,—“Alas for my credulous fancy! + Unto ears like thine such words as these have no meaning.” + But made answer the reverend man, and he smiled as he answered,— + “Daughter, thy words are not idle; nor are they to me without + meaning. + Feeling is deep and still; and the word that floats on the + surface + Is as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the anchor is hidden. + Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls + illusions. + Gabriel truly is near thee; for not far away to the southward, + On the banks of the Têche, are the towns of St. Maur and St. + Martin. + There the long-wandering bride shall be given again to her + bridegroom. + There the long-absent pastor regain his flock and his sheepfold. + Beautiful is the land, with its prairies and forests of + fruit-trees; + Under the feet a garden of flowers, and the bluest of heavens + Bending above, and resting its dome on the walls of the forest. + They who dwell there have named it the Eden of Louisiana.” + + And with these words of cheer they arose and continued their + journey. + Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizon + Like a magician extended his golden wand o’er the landscape; + Twinkling vapours arose; and sky and water and forest + Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled + together. + Hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges of silver, + Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on the motionless + water. + Filled was Evangeline’s heart with inexpressible sweetness. + Touched by the magic spell, the sacred fountains of feeling + Glowed with the light of love, as the skies and waters around + her. + Then from a neighbouring thicket the mocking-bird, wildest of + singers, + Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o’er the water, + Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music, + That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to + listen. + Plaintive at first were the tones and sad; then soaring to + madness + Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied Bacchantes. + Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lamentation; + Till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad in + derision, + As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree-tops + Shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower on the + branches. + With such a prelude as this, and hearts that throbbed with + emotion, + Slowly they entered the Têche, where it flows through the green + Opelousas, + And through the amber air, above the crest of the woodland, + Saw the column of smoke that arose from a neighbouring + dwelling;— + Sounds of a horn they heard, and the distant lowing of cattle. + + III. + Near to the bank of the river, o’ershadowed by oaks, from whose + branches + Garlands of Spanish moss and of mystic mistletoe flaunted, + Such as the Druids cut down with golden hatchets at Yule-tide, + Stood, secluded and still, the house of the herdsman. A garden + Girded it round about with a belt of luxuriant blossoms, + Filling the air with fragrance. The house itself was of timbers + Hewn from the cypress-tree, and carefully fitted together. + Large and low was the roof; and on slender columns supported, + Rose-wreathed, vine-encircled, a broad and spacious veranda, + Haunt of the humming-bird and the bee, extended around it. + At each end of the house, amid the flowers of the garden, + Stationed the dove-cots were, as love’s perpetual symbol, + Scenes of endless wooing, and endless contentions of rivals. + Silence reigned o’er the place. The line of shadow and sunshine + Ran near the tops of the trees; but the house itself was in + shadow, + And from its chimney-top, ascending and slowly expanding + Into the evening air, a thin blue column of smoke rose. + In the rear of the house, from the garden gate, ran a pathway + Through the great groves of oak to the skirts of the limitless + prairie, + Into whose sea of flowers the sun was slowly descending. + Full in his track of light, like ships with shadowy canvas + Hanging loose from their spars in a motionless calm in the + tropics, + Stood a cluster of trees, with tangled cordage of grape-vines. + + Just where the woodlands met the flowery surf of the prairie, + Mounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and stirrups, + Sat a herdsman, arrayed in gaiters and doublet of deer-skin. + Broad and brown was the face that from under the Spanish + sombrero + Gazed on the peaceful scene, with the lordly look of its master. + Round about him were numberless herds of kine, that were grazing + Quietly in the meadows, and breathing the vapoury freshness + That uprose from the river, and spread itself over the + landscape. + Slowly lifting the horn that hung at his side, and expanding + Fully his broad, deep chest, he blew a blast, that resounded + Wildly and sweet and far, through the still damp air of the + evening. + Suddenly out of the grass the long white horns of the cattle + Rose like flakes of foam on the adverse currents of ocean. + Silent a moment they gazed, then bellowing rushed o’er the + prairie, + And the whole mass became a cloud, a shade in the distance. + Then, as the herdsman turned to the house, through the gate of + the garden + Saw he the forms of the priest and the maiden advancing to meet + him. + Suddenly down from his horse he sprang in amazement, and forward + Rushed with extended arms and exclamations of wonder; + When they beheld his face, they recognised Basil the Blacksmith. + Hearty his welcome was, as he led his guests to the garden. + There in an arbour of roses, with endless question and answer, + Gave they vent to their hearts, and renewed their friendly + embraces, + Laughing and weeping by turns, or sitting silent and thoughtful. + Thoughtful, for Gabriel came not; and now dark doubts and + misgivings + Stole o’er the maiden’s heart; and Basil, somewhat embarrassed, + Broke the silence and said,—“If you came by the Atchafalaya, + How have you nowhere encountered my Gabriel’s boat on the + bayous?” + Over Evangeline’s face at the words of Basil a shade passed. + Tears came into her eyes, and she said, with a tremulous + accent,— + “Gone? is Gabriel gone?” and, concealing her face on his + shoulder, + All her o’erburdened heart gave way, and she wept and lamented. + Then the good Basil said,—and his voice grew blithe as he said + it,— + “Be of good cheer, my child; it is only to-day he departed. + Foolish boy! he has left me alone with my herds and my horses. + Moody and restless grown, and tried and troubled, his spirit + Could no longer endure the calm of this quiet existence. + Thinking ever of thee, uncertain and sorrowful ever, + Ever silent, or speaking only of thee and his troubles, + He at length had become so tedious to men and to maidens, + Tedious even to me, that at length I bethought me, and sent him + Unto the town of Adayes to trade for mules with the Spaniards. + Thence he will follow the Indian trails to the Ozark Mountains, + Hunting for furs in the forests, on rivers trapping the beaver. + Therefore be of good cheer; we will follow the fugitive lover; + He is not far on his way, and the Fates and the streams are + against him. + Up and away to-morrow, and through the red dew of the morning + We will follow him fast, and bring him back to his prison.” + + Then glad voices were heard, and up from the banks of the + river, + Borne aloft on his comrade’s arms, came Michael the fiddler. + Long under Basil’s roof had he lived like a god on Olympus, + Having no other care than dispensing music to mortals. + Far renowned was he for his silver locks and his fiddle. + “Long live Michael,” they cried, “our brave Acadian minstrel!” + As they bore him aloft in triumphal procession; and straightway + Father Felician advanced with Evangeline, greeting the old man + Kindly and oft, and recalling the past, while Basil, enraptured, + Hailed with hilarious joy his old companions and gossips, + Laughing loud and long, and embracing mothers and daughters. + Much they marvelled to see the wealth of the ci-devant + blacksmith, + All his domains and his herds, and his patriarchal demeanour; + Much they marvelled to hear his tales of the soil and the + climate, + And of the prairies, whose numberless herds were his who would + take them; + Each one thought in his heart, that he, too, would go and do + likewise. + Thus they ascended the steps, and, crossing the breezy veranda, + Entered the hall of the house, where already the supper of Basil + Waited his late return; and they rested and feasted together. + + Over the joyous feast the sudden darkness descended. + All was silent without, and, illuming the landscape with silver, + Fair rose the dewy moon and the myriad stars; but within doors, + Brighter than these, shone the faces of friends in the + glimmering lamplight. + Then from his station aloft, at the head of the table, the + herdsman + Poured forth his heart and his wine together in endless + profusion. + Lighting his pipe, that was filled with sweet Natchitoches + tobacco, + Thus he spake to his guests, who listened, and smiled as they + listened:— + “Welcome once more, my friends, who so long have been friendless + and homeless, + Welcome once more to a home, that is better perchance than the + old one! + Here no hungry winter congeals our blood like the rivers; + Here no stony ground provokes the wrath of the farmer. + Smoothly the ploughshare runs through the soil as a keel + through the water. + All the year round the orange-groves are in blossom; and grass + grows + More in a single night than a whole Canadian summer. + Here, too, numberless herds run wild and unclaimed in the + prairies; + Here, too, lands may be had for the asking, and forests of + timber + With a few blows of the axe are hewn and framed into houses. + After your houses are built, and your fields are yellow with + harvests, + No King George of England shall drive you away from your + homesteads, + Burning your dwellings and barns, and stealing your farms and + your cattle.” + Speaking these words, he blew a wrathful cloud from his + nostrils, + While his huge, brawny hand came thundering down on the table, + So that the guests all started; and Father Felician, astounded, + Suddenly paused, with a pinch of snuff half-way to his nostrils. + But the brave Basil resumed, and his words were milder and + gayer:— + “Only beware of the fever, my friends, beware of the fever! + For it is not like that of our cold Acadian climate, + Cured by wearing a spider hung round one’s neck in a nutshell!” + Then there were voices heard at the door, and footsteps + approaching + Sounded upon the stairs and the floor of the breezy veranda. + It was the neighbouring Creoles and small Acadian planters, + Who had been summoned all to the house of Basil the Herdsman. + Merry the meeting was of ancient comrades and neighbours: + Friend clasped friend in his arms; and they who before were as + strangers, + Meeting in exile, became straightway as friends to each other, + Drawn by the gentle bond of a common country together. + But in the neighbouring hall a strain of music, proceeding + From the accordant strings of Michael’s melodious fiddle, + Broke up all further speech. Away, like children delighted, + All things forgotten beside, they gave themselves to the + maddening + Whirl of the dizzy dance, as it swept and swayed to the music, + Dreamlike, with beaming eyes and the rush of fluttering + garments. + + Meanwhile, apart, at the head of the hall, the priest and the + herdsman + Sat, conversing together of past and present and future; + While Evangeline stood like one entranced, for within her + Old memories rose, and loud in the midst of the music + Heard she the sound of the sea, and an irrepressible sadness + Came o’er her heart, and unseen she stole forth into the garden. + Beautiful was the night. Behind the black wall of the forest, + Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the river + Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of + the moonlight, + Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious + spirit. + Nearer and round about her the manifold flowers of the garden + Poured out their souls in odours, that were their prayers and + confessions + Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian. + Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows and + night-dews, + Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the magical moonlight + Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings, + As, through the garden gate, beneath the brown shade of the oak + trees, + Passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless + prairie. + Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-flies + Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite numbers. + Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the heavens, + Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel and worship, + Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that temple, + As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, “Upharsin.” + And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the + fire-flies, + Wandered alone, and she cried—“O, Gabriel! O, my beloved! + Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee! + Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach me? + Ah! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie! + Ah! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands around me! + Ah! how often beneath this oak, returning from labour, + Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in thy slumbers! + When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about thee?” + Loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoorwill sounded + Like a flute in the woods; and anon, through the neighbouring + thickets, + Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence. + “Patience!” whispered the oaks from oracular caverns of + darkness; + And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, “To-morrow!” + + Bright rose the sun next day; and all the flowers of the + garden + Bathed his shining feet with their tears, and anointed his + tresses + With the delicious balm that they bore in their vases of + crystal. + “Farewell!” said the priest, as he stood at the shadowy + threshold; + “See that you bring us the Prodigal Son from his fasting and + famine; + And, too, the Foolish Virgin, who slept when the bridegroom was + coming.” + “Farewell!” answered the maiden, and, smiling, with Basil + descended + Down to the river’s bank, where the boatmen already were + waiting. + Thus beginning their journey with morning, and sunshine, and + gladness. + Swiftly they followed the flight of him who was speeding before + them, + Blown by the blast of fate like a dead leaf over the desert. + Not that day, nor the next, nor yet the day that succeeded, + Found they trace of his course, in lake or forest or river; + Nor, after many days, had they found him; but vague and + uncertain + Rumours alone were their guides through a wild and desolate + country; + Till, at the little inn of the Spanish town of Adayes, + Weary and worn they alighted, and learned from the garrulous + landlord, + That on the day before, with horses and guides and companions, + Gabriel left the village, and took the road of the prairies. + + IV. + Far in the West there lies a desert land, where the mountains + Lift, through perpetual snows, their lofty and luminous summits. + Down from their jagged, deep ravines, where the gorge, like a + gateway, + Opens a passage rude to the wheels of the emigrant’s waggon, + Westward the Oregon flows and the Walleway and Owyhee. + Eastward, with devious course, among the Wind-river Mountains, + Through the Sweet-water Valley precipitate leaps the Nebraska; + And to the south, from Fontaine-qui-bout and the Spanish + sierras, + Fretted with sand and rocks, and swept by the wind of the + desert, + Numberless torrents, with ceaseless sound, descend to the ocean, + Like the great chords of a harp, in loud and solemn vibrations. + Spreading between these streams are the wondrous, beautiful + prairies, + Billowy bays of grass ever rolling in shadow and sunshine, + Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and purple amorphas. + Over them wandered the buffalo herds, and the elk and the + roebuck; + Over them wandered the wolves, and herds of riderless horses; + Fires that blast and blight, and winds that are weary with + travel; + Over them wander the scattered tribes of Ishmael’s children, + Staining the desert with blood; and above their terrible war + trails + Circles and sails aloft, on pinions majestic, the vulture, + Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaughtered in battle, + By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the heavens. + Here and there rise smokes from the camps of these savage + marauders; + Here and there rise groves from the margins of swift-running + rivers; + And the grim, taciturn bear, the anchorite monk of the desert, + Climbs down their dark ravines to dig for roots by the + brook-side; + And over all is the sky, the clear and crystalline heaven, + Like the protecting hand of God inverted above them. + + Into this wonderful land, at the base of the Ozark Mountains, + Gabriel far had entered, with hunters and trappers behind him. + Day after day, with their Indian guides, the maiden and Basil + Followed his flying steps, and thought each day to o’ertake him. + Sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the smoke of his + camp-fire + Rise in the morning air from the distant plain; but at + nightfall, + When they had reached the place, they found only embers and + ashes. + And, though their hearts were sad at times and their bodies were + weary, + Hope still guided them on, as the magic Fata Morgana + Showed them her lakes of light, that retreated and vanished + before them. + + Once, as they sat by their evening fire, there silently + entered + Into the little camp an Indian woman, whose features + Wore deep traces of sorrow, and patience as great as her sorrow. + She was a Shawnee woman returning home to her people, + From the far-off hunting-grounds of the cruel Camanches, + Where her Canadian husband, a Coureur-des-Bois, had been + murdered. + Touched were their hearts at her story, and warmest and + friendliest welcome + Gave they, with words of cheer, and she sat and feasted among + them + On the buffalo meat and the venison cooked on the embers. + But when their meal was done, and Basil and all his companions, + Worn with the long day’s march and the chase of the deer and the + bison, + Stretched themselves on the ground, and slept where the + quivering fire-light + Flashed on their swarthy cheeks, and their forms wrapped up in + their blankets, + Then at the door of Evangeline’s tent she sat and repeated + Slowly, with soft, low voice, and the charm of her Indian + accent, + All the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and pains, and + reverses. + Much Evangeline wept at the tale, and to know that another + Hapless heart like her own had loved and had been disappointed. + Moved to the depths of her soul by pity and woman’s compassion, + Yet in her sorrow pleased that one who had suffered was near + her, + She in turn related her love and all its disasters. + Mute with wonder the Shawnee sat, and when she had ended + Still was mute; but at length, as if a mysterious horror + Passed through her brain, she spake, and repeated the tale of + the Mowis; + Mowis, the bridegroom of snow, who won and wedded a maiden, + But, when the morning came, arose and passed from the wigwam, + Fading and melting away and dissolving into the sunshine, + Till she beheld him no more, though she followed far into the + forest. + Then, in those sweet, low tones, that seemed like a weird + incantation, + Told she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was wooed by a + phantom, + That, through the pines o’er her father’s lodge, in the hush of + the twilight, + Breathed like the evening wind, and whispered love to the + maiden, + Till she followed his green and waving plume through the forest, + And never more returned, nor was seen again by her people. + Silent with wonder and strange surprise, Evangeline listened + To the soft flow of her magical words, till the region around + her + Seemed like enchanted ground, and her swarthy guest the + enchantress. + Slowly over the tops of the Ozark Mountains the moon rose, + Lighting the little tent, and with a mysterious splendour + Touching the sombre leaves, and embracing and filling the + woodland. + With a delicious sound the brook rushed by, and the branches + Swayed and sighed overhead in scarcely audible whispers. + Filled with the thoughts of love was Evangeline’s heart, but a + secret, + Subtile sense crept in of pain and indefinite terror, + As the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the nest of the + swallow. + It was no earthly fear. A breath from the region of spirits + Seemed to float in the air of night; and she felt for a moment + That, like the Indian maid, she, too, was pursuing a phantom. + And with this thought she slept, and the fear and the phantom + had vanished. + + Early upon the morrow the march was resumed, and the Shawnee + Said, as they journeyed along,—“On the western slope of these + mountains + Dwells in his little village the Black Robe chief of the + Mission. + Much he teaches the people, and tells them of Mary and Jesus; + Loud laugh their hearts with joy, and weep with pain as they + hear him.” + Then, with a sudden and secret emotion, Evangeline answered,— + “Let us go to the Mission, for there good tidings await us!” + Thither they turned their steeds; and behind a spur of the + mountains, + Just as the sun went down, they heard a murmur of voices, + And in a meadow green and broad, by the bank of a river, + Saw the tents of the Christians, the tents of the Jesuit + Mission. + Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of the village, + Knelt the Black Robe chief with his children. A crucifix + fastened + High on the trunk of the tree, and overshadowed by grape-vines, + Looked with its agonized face on the multitude kneeling beneath + it. + This was their rural chapel. Aloft, through the intricate arches + Of its aërial roof, arose the chant of their vespers, + Mingling its notes with the soft susurrus and sighs of the + branches. + Silent, with heads uncovered, the travellers, nearer + approaching, + Knelt on the swarded floor, and joined in the evening devotions. + But when the service was done, and the benediction had fallen + Forth from the hands of the priest, like seed from the hands of + the sower, + Slowly the reverend man advanced to the strangers, and bade them + Welcome; and when they replied, he smiled with benignant + expression, + Hearing the homelike sounds of his mother-tongue in the forest, + And with words of kindness conducted them into his wigwam. + There upon mats and skins they reposed, and on cakes of the + maize ear + Feasted, and slaked their thirst from the water-gourd of the + teacher. + Soon was their story told; and the priest with solemnity + answered:— + “Not six suns have risen and set since Gabriel, seated + On this mat by my side, where now the maiden reposes, + Told me this same sad tale; then arose and continued his + journey.” + Soft was the voice of the priest, and he spake with an accent of + kindness; + But on Evangeline’s heart fell his words as in winter the + snow-flakes + Fall into some lone nest from which the birds have departed. + “Far to the north he has gone,” continued the priest; “but in + autumn, + When the chase is done, will return again to the Mission.” + Then Evangeline said, and her voice was meek and submissive,— + “Let me remain with thee, for my soul is sad and afflicted.” + So seemed it wise and well unto all; and betimes on the morrow, + Mounting his Mexican steed, with his Indian guides and + companions, + Homeward Basil returned, and Evangeline stayed at the Mission. + + Slowly, slowly, slowly the days succeeded each other,— + Days and weeks and months; and the fields of maize that were + springing + Green, from the ground when a stranger she came, now waving + above her, + Lifted their slender shafts, with leaves interlacing, and + forming + Cloisters for mendicant crows and granaries pillaged by + squirrels. + Then in the golden weather the maize was husked, and the maidens + Blushed at each blood-red ear, for that betokened a lover, + But at the crooked laughed, and called it a thief in the + corn-field. + Even the blood-red ear to Evangeline brought not her lover. + “Patience!” the priest would say; “have faith, and thy prayer + will be answered! + Look at this delicate plant that lifts its head from the meadow, + See how its leaves are turned to the north, as true as the + magnet; + This is the compass-flower, that the finger of God has planted + Here in the houseless wild, to direct the traveller’s journey + Over the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of the desert. + Such in the soul of man is faith. The blossoms of passion, + Gay and luxuriant flowers, are brighter and fuller of fragrance, + But they beguile us, and lead us astray, and their odour is + deadly. + Only this humble plant can guide us here, and hereafter + Crown us with asphodel flowers, that are wet with the dews of + nepenthe.” + + So came the autumn, and passed, and the winter,—yet Gabriel + came not; + Blossomed the opening spring, and the notes of the robin and + blue-bird + Sounded sweet upon wold and in wood, yet Gabriel came not. + But on the breath of the summer winds a rumour was wafted + Sweeter than song of bird, or hue or odour of blossom. + Far to the north and east, it said, in the Michigan forests, + Gabriel had his lodge by the banks of the Saginaw river. + And, with returning guides, that sought the lakes of St. + Lawrence, + Saying a sad farewell, Evangeline went from the Mission. + When over weary ways, by long and perilous marches, + She had attained at length the depths of the Michigan forests, + Found she the hunter’s lodge deserted and fallen to ruin! + + Thus did the long sad years glide on, and in seasons and + places + Divers and distant far was seen the wandering maiden;— + Now in the tents of grace of the meek Moravian Missions, + Now in the noisy camps and the battle-fields of the army, + Now in secluded hamlets, in towns and populous cities. + Like a phantom she came, and passed away unremembered. + Fair was she and young, when in hope began the long journey; + Faded was she and old, when in disappointment it ended. + Each succeeding year stole something away from her beauty, + Leaving behind it, broader and deeper, the gloom and the shadow. + Then there appeared and spread faint streaks of grey o’er her + forehead, + Dawn of another life, that broke o’er her earthly horizon, + As in the eastern sky the first faint streaks of the morning. + + V. + In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware’s + waters, + Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the apostle, + Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded. + There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of + beauty, + And the streets still re-echo the names of the trees of the + forest, + As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose haunts they + molested. + There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, an exile, + Finding among the children of Penn a home and a country. + There old René Leblanc had died; and when he departed, + Saw at his side only one of all his hundred descendants. + Something at least there was in the friendly streets of the + city, + Something that spake to her heart, and made her no longer a + stranger; + And her ear was pleased with the Thee and Thou of the Quakers, + For it recalled the past, the old Acadian country, + Where all men were equal, and all were brothers and sisters. + So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed endeavour, + Ended, to recommence no more upon earth, uncomplaining, + Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her thoughts and + her footsteps. + As from a mountain’s top the rainy mists of the morning + Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape below us, + Sun-illumined, with shining rivers and cities and hamlets, + So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the world far below + her, + Dark no longer, but all illumined with love; and the pathway + Which she had climbed so far, lying smooth and fair in the + distance. + Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was his image, + Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld him, + Only more beautiful made by his death-like silence and absence. + Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for it was not. + Over him years had no power; he was not changed, but + transfigured; + He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not absent; + Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others, + This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her. + So was her love diffused, but, like to some odorous spices, + Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air with aroma. + Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow + Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour. + Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy; frequenting + Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the city, + Where distress and want concealed themselves from the sunlight, + Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished neglected. + Night after night, when the world was asleep, as the watchman + repeated + Loud, through the gusty streets, that all was well in the city, + High at some lonely window he saw the light of her taper. + Day after day, in the grey of the dawn, as slow through the + suburbs + Plodded the German farmer, with flowers and fruits of the + market, + Met he that meek, pale face, returning home from its watchings. + + Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city, + Presaged by wondrous signs, and mostly by flocks of wild + pigeons, + Darkening the sun in their flight, with naught in their craws + but an acorn. + And, as the tides of the sea arise in the month of September, + Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads to a lake in the + meadow, + So death flooded life, and, o’erflowing its natural margin, + Spread to a brackish lake, the silver stream of existence. + Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm, the + oppressor; + But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his anger;— + Only, alas! the poor, who had neither friends nor attendants, + Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the homeless. + Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and + woodlands;— + Now the city surrounds it; but still, with its gateway and + wicket + Meek, in the midst of splendour, its humble walls seem to echo + Softly the words of the Lord—“The poor ye always have with + you.” + Thither, by night and by day, came the Sister of Mercy. The + dying + Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold there + Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead with splendour, + Such as the artist paints o’er the brows of saints and apostles, + Or such as hangs by night o’er a city seen at a distance. + Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city celestial, + Into whose shining gates ere long their spirits would enter. + + Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, deserted and + silent, + Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of the almshouse. + Sweet on the summer air was the odour of flowers in the garden; + And she paused on her way to gather the fairest among them, + That the dying once more might rejoice in their fragrance and + beauty. + Then, as she mounted the stairs to the corridors, cooled by the + east wind, + Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from the belfry of + Christ Church, + While, intermingled with these, across the meadows were wafted + Sounds of psalms, that were sung by the Swedes in their Church + at Wicaco. + Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the hour on her + spirit; + Something within her said—“At length thy trials are ended;” + And, with light in her looks, she entered the chambers of + sickness. + Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, careful attendants, + Moistening the feverish lip and the aching brow, and in silence + Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and concealing their + faces, + Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of snow by the + road-side. + Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered, + Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she passed, for her + presence + Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the walls of a + prison. + And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the consoler, + Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it for ever. + Many familiar forms had disappeared in the night-time; + Vacant their places were, or filled already by strangers. + + Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder, + Still she stood, with her colourless lips apart, while a shudder + Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowerets dropped + from her fingers, + And from her eyes and cheeks the light and bloom of the morning. + Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish, + That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows. + On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man. + Long, and thin, and grey were the locks that shaded his temples; + But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment + Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood; + So are wont to be changed the faces of those who are dying. + Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush of the fever, + As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had besprinkled its + portals, + That the Angel of Death might see the sign, and pass over. + Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit exhausted + Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the + darkness, + Darkness of slumber and death, for ever sinking and sinking. + Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied + reverberations, + Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded + Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like, + “Gabriel! O my beloved!” and died away into silence. + Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood; + Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them, + Village, and mountain, and woodlands; and, walking under their + shadow, + As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision. + Tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids, + Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bedside. + Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered + Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue + would have spoken. + Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him, + Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom. + Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into + darkness, + As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement. + + All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow, + All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing, + All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience! + And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom, + Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, “Father, I thank thee!” + + * * * * * + + Still stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow, + Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping. + Under the humble walls of the little Catholic churchyard, + In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed. + Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them, + Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and for + ever, + Thousands of aching brains, where theirs are no longer busy, + Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their + labours, + Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their + journey! + + Still stands the forest primeval; but under the shade of its + branches + Dwells another race, with other customs and language. + Only along the shore of the mournful and misty Atlantic + Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers from exile + Wandered back to their native land to die in its bosom. + In the fisherman’s cot the wheel and the loom are still busy; + Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of + homespun, + And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline’s story, + While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced neighbouring ocean + Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the + forest. + +[Illustration] + + + + +_The Seaside and the Fireside._ + +1849. + + +DEDICATION. + + As one who, walking in the twilight gloom, + Hears round about him voices as it darkens, + And seeing not the forms from which they come, + Pauses from time to time, and turns and hearkens; + + So walking here in twilight, O my friends! + I hear your voices, softened by the distance, + And pause, and turn to listen, as each sends + His words of friendship, comfort, and assistance. + + If any thought of mine, or sung or told, + Has ever given delight or consolation, + Ye have repaid me back a thousand fold, + By every friendly sign and salutation. + + Thanks for the sympathies that ye have shown! + Thanks for each kindly word, each silent token, + That teaches me, when seeming most alone, + Friends are around us, though no word be spoken. + + Kind messages that pass from land to land; + Kind letters, that betray the heart’s deep history, + In which we feel the pressure of a hand,— + One touch of fire,—and all the rest is mystery! + + The pleasant books, that silently among + Our household treasures take familiar places, + And are to us as if a living tongue + Spake from the printed leaves or pictured faces! + + Perhaps on earth I never shall behold, + With eye of sense, your outward form and semblance; + Therefore to me ye never will grow old, + But live for ever young in my remembrance. + + Never grow old, nor change, nor pass away! + Your gentle voices will flow on for ever, + When life grows bare and tarnished with decay, + As through a leafless landscape flows a river. + + Not chance of birth or place has made us friends, + Being oftentimes of different tongues and nations, + But the endeavour for the selfsame ends, + With the same hopes, and fears, and aspirations. + + Therefore I hope to join your sea-side walk, + Saddened, and mostly silent, with emotion; + Not interrupting with intrusive talk + The grand, majestic symphonies of ocean. + + Therefore I hope, as no unwelcome guest, + At your warm fireside, when the lamps are lighted, + To have my place reserved among the rest, + Nor stand as one unsought and uninvited! + + + + +_By the Seaside._ + + +THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. + + “Build me straight, O worthy Master! + Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel, + That shall laugh at all disaster, + And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!” + + The merchant’s word + Delighted the Master heard; + For his heart was in his work, and the heart + Giveth grace unto every Art. + A quiet smile played round his lips, + As the eddies and dimples of the tide + Play round the bows of ships, + That steadily at anchor ride. + And with a voice that was full of glee, + He answered, “Ere long we will launch + A vessel as goodly, and strong, and staunch, + As ever weathered a wintry sea!” + + And first with nicest skill and art, + Perfect and finished in every part, + A little model the Master wrought, + Which should be to the larger plan + What the child is to the man, + Its counterpart in miniature; + That with a hand more swift and sure + The greater labour might be brought + To answer to his inward thought. + And as he laboured, his mind ran o’er + The various ships that were built of yore, + And above them all, and strangest of all, + Towered the _Great Harry_, crank and tall, + Whose picture was hanging on the wall, + With bows and stern raised high in air, + And balconies hanging here and there, + And signal lanterns and flags afloat, + And eight round towers, like those that frown + From some old castle, looking down + Upon the drawbridge and the moat. + And he said with a smile, “Our ship, I wis, + Shall be of another form than this!” + + It was of another form, indeed; + Built for freight, and yet for speed, + A beautiful and gallant craft; + Broad in the beam, that the stress of the blast, + Pressing down upon sail and mast, + Might not the sharp bows overwhelm; + Broad in the beam, but sloping aft + With graceful curve and slow degrees, + That she might be docile to the helm, + And that the currents of parted seas, + Closing behind, with mighty force, + Might aid and not impede her course. + + In the ship-yard stood the Master, + With the model of the vessel, + That should laugh at all disaster, + And with wave and whirlwind wrestle! + + Covering many a rood of ground, + Lay the timber piled around; + Timber of chestnut, and elm, and oak. + And scattered here and there, with these, + The knarred and crooked cedar knees; + Brought from regions far away, + From Pascagoula’s sunny bay, + And the banks of the roaring Roanoke! + Ah! what a wondrous thing it is + To note how many wheels of toil + One thought, one word, can set in motion! + There’s not a ship that sails the ocean, + But every climate, every soil, + Must bring its tribute, great or small, + And help to build the wooden wall! + + The sun was rising o’er the sea, + And long the level shadows lay, + As if they, too, the beams would be + Of some great, airy argosy, + Framed and launched in a single day. + That silent architect, the sun, + Had hewn and laid them every one, + Ere the work of man was yet begun. + Beside the Master, when he spoke, + A youth, against an anchor leaning, + Listened to catch his slightest meaning. + Only the long waves, as they broke + In ripples on the pebbly beach, + Interrupted the old man’s speech. + + Beautiful they were, in sooth, + The old man and the fiery youth! + The old man, in whose busy brain + Many a ship that sailed the main + Was modelled o’er and o’er again;— + The fiery youth, who was to be + The heir of his dexterity, + The heir of his house, and his daughter’s hand, + When he had built and launched from land + What the elder head had planned. + + “Thus,” said he, “will we build this ship! + Lay square the blocks upon the slip, + And follow well this plan of mine. + Choose the timbers with greatest care; + Of all that is unsound beware; + For only what is sound and strong + To this vessel shall belong. + Cedar of Maine and Georgia pine + Here together shall combine. + A goodly frame, and a goodly fame, + And the UNION be her name! + For the day that gives her to the sea + Shall give my daughter unto thee!” + + The Master’s word + Enraptured the young man heard; + And as he turned his face aside, + With a look of joy and a thrill of pride, + Standing before + Her father’s door, + He saw the form of his promised bride. + The sun shone on her golden hair, + And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair, + With the breath of morn and the soft sea air. + Like a beauteous barge was she, + Still at rest on the sandy beach, + Just beyond the billow’s reach; + But he, + Was the restless, seething, stormy sea! + + Ah, how skilful grows the hand + That obeyeth Love’s command! + It is the heart, and not the brain, + That to the highest doth attain, + And he who followeth Love’s behest + Far exceedeth all the rest! + + Thus with the rising of the sun + Was the noble task begun, + And soon throughout the ship-yard’s bounds + Were heard the intermingled sounds + Of axes and of mallets, plied + With vigorous arms on every side; + Plied so deftly and so well, + That ere the shadows of evening fell, + The keel of oak for a noble ship, + Scarfed and bolted, straight and strong, + Was lying ready, and stretched along + The blocks, well placed upon the slip. + Happy, thrice happy, every one + Who sees his labours well begun, + And not perplexed and multiplied, + By idly waiting for time and tide! + + And when the hot, long day was o’er, + The young Man at the Master’s door + Sat with the maiden calm and still. + And within the porch, a little more + Removed beyond the evening chill, + The father sat, and told them tales + Of wrecks in the great September gales, + Of pirates upon the Spanish Main, + And ships that never came back again; + The chance and change of a sailor’s life, + Want and plenty, rest and strife, + His roving fancy, like the wind, + That nothing can stay and nothing can bind; + And the magic charm of foreign lands, + With shadows of palms, and shining sands, + Where the tumbling surf, + O’er the coral reefs of Madagascar, + Washes the feet of the swarthy Lascar, + As he lies alone and asleep on the turf. + + And the trembling maiden held her breath + At the tales of that awful, pitiless sea, + With all its terror and mystery, + The dim, dark sea, so like unto Death, + That divides, and yet unites, mankind! + And whenever the old man paused, a gleam + From the bowl of his pipe would awhile illume + The silent group in the twilight gloom, + And thoughtful faces, as in a dream; + And for a moment one might mark + What had been hidden by the dark, + That the head of the maiden lay at rest, + Tenderly, on the young man’s breast! + + Day by day the vessel grew, + With timbers fashioned strong and true, + Stemson and keelson and sternson-knee, + Till, framed with perfect symmetry, + A skeleton ship rose up to view! + And around the bows and along the side + The heavy hammers and mallets plied, + Till after many a week, at length, + Wonderful for form and strength, + Sublime in its enormous bulk, + Loomed aloft the shadowy hulk! + And around it columns of smoke, up-wreathing, + Rose from the boiling, bubbling, seething + Caldron, that glowed, + And overflowed + With the black tar, heated for the sheathing. + And amid the clamours + Of clattering hammers, + He who listened heard now and then + The song of the Master and his men:— + “Build me straight, O worthy Master, + Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel, + That shall laugh at all disaster, + And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!” + + With oaken brace and copper band, + Lay the rudder on the sand, + That, like a thought, should have control + Over the movement of the whole; + And near it the anchor, whose giant hand + Would reach down and grapple with the land, + And immoveable and fast + Hold the great ship against the bellowing blast! + And at the bows an image stood, + By a cunning artist carved in wood, + With robes of white, that far behind + Seemed to be fluttering in the wind. + It was not shaped in a classic mould, + Not like a Nymph or Goddess of old, + Or Naiad rising from the water, + But modelled from the Master’s daughter! + On many a dreary and misty night, + ’Twill be seen by the rays of the signal light, + Speeding along through the rain and the dark, + Like a ghost in its snow-white sark, + The pilot of some phantom bark, + Guiding the vessel, in its flight, + By a path none other knows aright! + Behold, at last,[29] + Each tall and tapering mast + Is swung into its place; + Shrouds and stays + Holding it firm and fast! + + Long ago, + In the deer-haunted forests of Maine, + When upon mountain and plain + Lay the snow, + They fell,—those lordly pines! + Those grand, majestic pines! + ’Mid shouts and cheers + The jaded steers, + Panting beneath the goad, + Dragged down the weary, winding road + Those captive kings so straight and tall, + To be shorn of their streaming hair, + And, naked and bare, + To feel the stress and the strain + Of the wind and the reeling main, + Whose roar + Would remind them for evermore + Of their native forests they should not see again. + And everywhere + The slender, graceful spars + Poise aloft in the air, + And at the mast head, + White, blue, and red, + A flag unrolls the stripes and stars. + Ah! when the wanderer, lonely, friendless, + In foreign harbours shall behold + That flag unrolled, + ’Twill be as a friendly hand + Stretched out from his native land, + Filling his heart with memories sweet and endless! + + All is finished! and at length + Has come the bridal day + Of beauty and of strength. + To-day the vessel shall be launched! + With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched, + And o’er the bay, + Slowly, in all his splendours dight, + The great sun rises to behold the sight. + The ocean old, + Centuries old, + Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled, + Paces restless to and fro, + Up and down the sands of gold. + His beating heart is not at rest; + And far and wide, + With ceaseless flow, + His beard of snow + Heaves with the heaving of his breast. + + He waits impatient for his bride. + There she stands, + With her foot upon the sands, + Decked with flags and streamers gay, + In honour of her marriage day, + Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending, + Round her like a veil descending, + Ready to be + The bride of the grey old sea. + + On the deck another bride + Is standing by her lover’s side. + Shadows from the flags and shrouds, + Like the shadows cast by clouds, + Broken by many a sunny fleck, + Fall around them on the deck. + + The prayer is said, + The service read, + The joyous bridegroom bows his head, + And in tears the good old Master + Shakes the brown hand of his son, + Kisses his daughter’s glowing cheek + In silence, for he cannot speak, + And ever faster + Down his own the tears begin to run. + The worthy pastor— + The shepherd of that wandering flock, + That has the ocean for its wold, + That has the vessel for its fold, + Leaping ever from rock to rock— + Spake, with accents mild and clear, + Words of warning, words of cheer, + But tedious to the bridegroom’s ear. + He knew the chart + Of the sailor’s heart, + All its pleasures and its griefs, + All its shallows and rocky reefs, + All those secret currents, that flow + With such resistless under-tow, + And lift and drift, with terrible force, + The will from its moorings and its course. + Therefore he spake, and thus said he:— + + “Like unto ships far off at sea, + Outward or homeward bound, are we. + Before, behind, and all around, + Floats and swings the horizon’s bound, + Seems at its distant rim to rise + And climb the crystal wall of the skies, + And then again to turn and sink, + As if we could slide from its outer blink. + Ah! it is not the sea, + It is not the sea that sinks and shelves, + But ourselves + That rock and rise + With endless and uneasy motion, + Now touching the very skies, + Now sinking into the depths of ocean. + Ah! if our souls but poise and swing + Like the compass in its brazen ring, + Ever level, and ever true + To the toil and the task we have to do, + We shall sail securely, and safely reach + The Fortunate Isles, on whose shining beach + The sights we see, and the sounds we hear, + Will be those of joy and not of fear!” + + Then the Master, + With a gesture of command, + Waved his hand; + And at the word, + Loud and sudden there was heard, + All around them and below, + The sound of hammers, blow on blow, + Knocking away the shores and spurs. + And see! she stirs! + She starts,—she moves,—she seems to feel + The thrill of life along her keel, + And, spurning with her foot the ground, + With one exulting, joyous bound, + She leaps into the ocean’s arms! + And lo! from the assembled crowd + There rose a shout, prolonged and loud, + That to the ocean seemed to say,— + “Take her, O bridegroom, old and grey, + Take her to thy protecting arms, + With all her youth and all her charms!” + + How beautiful she is! How fair + She lies within those arms that press + Her form with many a soft caress + Of tenderness and watchful care! + Sail forth into the sea, O ship! + Through wind and wave, right onward steer! + The moistened eye, the trembling lip, + Are not the signs of doubt or fear. + + Sail forth into the sea of life, + O gentle, loving, trusting wife, + And safe from all adversity + Upon the bosom of that sea + Thy comings and thy goings be! + For gentleness and love and trust + Prevail o’er angry wave and gust; + And in the wreck of noble lives + Something immortal still survives! + + Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State! + Sail on, O UNION, strong and great! + Humanity, with all its fears, + With all the hopes of future years, + Is hanging breathless on thy fate! + We know what Master laid thy keel, + What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, + Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, + What anvils rang, what hammers beat, + In what a forge and what a heat + Were shaped the anchors of thy hope! + + Fear not each sudden sound and shock, + ’Tis of the wave and not the rock; + ’Tis but the flapping of the sail, + And not a rent made by the gale! + In spite of rock and tempest’s roar, + In spite of false lights on the shore, + Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea! + Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, + Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, + Our faith triumphant o’er our fears, + Are all with thee,—are all with thee! + +[29] I wish to anticipate a criticism on this passage by stating, that +sometimes, though not usually, vessels are launched fully rigged and +sparred. I have availed myself of the exception, as better suited to +my purposes than the general rule; but the reader will see that it is +neither a blunder nor a poetic licence. On this subject a friend in +Portland, Maine, writes me thus:— + +“In this State, and also, as I am told, in New York, ships are +sometimes rigged upon the stocks, in order to save time, or to make a +show. There was a fine, large ship launched last summer at Ellsworth, +fully rigged and sparred. Some years ago a ship was launched here, with +her rigging, spars, sails, and cargo aboard. She sailed the next day, +and—was never heard of again. I hope this will not be the fate of your +poem!” + + +TWILIGHT. + + The twilight is sad and cloudy, + The wind blows wild and free, + And like the wings of sea-birds + Flash the white caps of the sea. + + But in the fisherman’s cottage + There shines a ruddier light, + And a little face at the window + Peers out into the night. + + Close, close it is pressed to the window, + As if those childish eyes + Were looking into the darkness, + To see some form arise. + + And a woman’s waving shadow + Is passing to and fro, + Now rising to the ceiling, + Now bowing and bending low. + + What tale do the roaring ocean, + And the night-wind, bleak and wild, + As they beat at the crazy casement, + Tell to that little child? + + And why do the roaring ocean, + And the night-wind, wild and bleak, + As they beat at the heart of the mother, + Drive the colour from her cheek? + + +THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD.[30] + + We sat within the farm-house old, + Whose windows, looking o’er the bay, + Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold, + An easy entrance, night and day. + + Not far away we saw the port,— + The strange, old-fashioned, silent town,— + The lighthouse, the dismantled fort, + The wooden houses quaint and brown. + + We sat and talked until the night, + Descending, filled the little room; + Our faces faded from the sight, + Our voices only broke the gloom. + + We spake of many a vanished scene, + Of what we once had thought and said, + Of what had been, and might have been, + And who was changed, and who was dead; + + And all that fills the hearts of friends, + When first they feel, with secret pain, + Their lives thenceforth have separate ends, + And never can be one again; + + The first slight swerving of the heart, + That words are powerless to express, + And leave it still unsaid in part, + Or say it in too great excess. + + The very tones in which we spake + Had something strange, I could but mark; + The leaves of memory seemed to make + A mournful rustling in the dark. + + Oft died the words upon our lips, + As suddenly, from out the fire + Built of the wreck of stranded ships, + The flames would leap and then expire. + + And, as their splendour flashed and failed, + We thought of wrecks upon the main,— + Of ships dismasted, that were hailed + And sent no answer back again. + + The windows, rattling in their frames,— + The ocean, roaring up the beach,— + The gusty blast,—the bickering flames,— + All mingled vaguely in our speech; + + Until they made themselves a part + Of fancies floating through the brain,— + The long-lost ventures of the heart, + That send no answers back again. + + O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned! + They were indeed too much akin, + The drift-wood fire without that burned, + The thoughts that burned and glowed within. + +[30] Suggested by one seen by the poet at Devereux Farm, Marblehead. + + +THE LIGHTHOUSE. + + The rocky ledge runs far into the sea, + And on its outer point, some miles away, + The Lighthouse lifts its massive masonry, + A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day. + + Even at this distance I can see the tides, + Upheaving, break unheard along its base, + A speechless wrath, that rises and subsides + In the white lip and tremor of the face. + + And as the evening darkens, lo! how bright, + Through the deep purple of the twilight air, + Beams forth the sudden radiance of its light + With strange, unearthly splendour in its glare! + + Not one alone; from each projecting cape + And perilous reef along the ocean’s verge, + Starts into life a dim, gigantic shape, + Holding its lantern o’er the restless surge. + + Like the great giant Christopher, it stands + Upon the brink of the tempestuous wave, + Wading far out among the rocks and sands, + The night-o’ertaken mariner to save. + + And the great ships sail outward and return, + Bending and bowing o’er the billowy swells, + And ever joyful, as they see it burn, + They wave their silent welcomes and farewells. + + They come forth from the darkness, and their sails + Gleam for a moment only in the blaze, + And eager faces, as the light unveils, + Gaze at the tower, and vanish while they gaze. + + The mariner remembers when a child, + On his first voyage, he saw it fade and sink; + And when, returning from adventures wild, + He saw it rise again o’er ocean’s brink. + + Steadfast, serene, immoveable, the same + Year after year, through all the silent night + Burns on for evermore that quenchless flame, + Shines on that inextinguishable light! + + It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp + The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace; + It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp, + And hold it up, and shake it like a fleece. + + The startled waves leap over it; the storm + Smites it with all the scourges of the rain, + And steadily against its solid form + Press the great shoulders of the hurricane. + + The sea-bird wheeling round it, with the din + Of wings and winds and solitary cries, + Blinded and maddened by the light within, + Dashes himself against the glare, and dies. + + A new Prometheus, chained upon the rock, + Still grasping in his hand the fire of Jove, + It does not hear the cry, nor heed the shock, + But hails the mariner with words of love. + + “Sail on!” it says, “sail on, ye stately ships! + And with your floating bridge the ocean span; + Be mine to guard this light from all eclipse, + Be yours to bring man nearer unto man!” + + +SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT.[31] + + Southward with fleet of ice + Sailed the corsair Death; + Wild and fast blew the blast, + And the east-wind was his breath. + + His lordly ships of ice + Glistened in the sun; + On each side, like pennons wide, + Flashing crystal streamlets run. + + His sails of white sea-mist + Dripped with silver rain; + But where he passed there were cast + Leaden shadows o’er the main. + + Eastward from Campobello + Sir Humphrey Gilbert sailed; + Three days or more seaward he bore, + Then, alas! the land-wind failed. + + Alas! the land-wind failed, + And ice-cold grew the night; + And never more, on sea or shore, + Should Sir Humphrey see the light. + + He sat upon the deck, + The Book was in his hand; + “Do not fear! Heaven is near,” + He said, “by water as by land!” + + In the first watch of the night, + Without a signal’s sound, + Out of the sea, mysteriously, + The fleet of Death rose all around. + + The moon and the evening star + Were hanging in the shrouds; + Every mast, as it passed, + Seemed to rake the passing clouds. + + They grappled with their prize, + At midnight black and cold! + As of a rock was the shock; + Heavily the ground-swell rolled. + + Southward through day and dark, + They drift in close embrace, + With mist and rain o’er the open main; + Yet there seems no change of place. + + Southward, for ever southward, + They drift through dark and day; + And like a dream in the Gulf-stream + Sinking, vanish all away. + +[31] “When the wind abated and the vessels were near enough, the +Admiral was seen constantly sitting in the stern, with a book in his +hand. On the 9th of September he was seen for the last time, and was +heard by the people of the Hind to say, ‘We are as near heaven by sea +as by land.’ In the following night the lights of the ship suddenly +disappeared. The people in the other vessel kept a good look-out for +him during the remainder of the voyage. On the 22d of September they +arrived, through much tempest and peril, at Falmouth. But nothing more +was seen or heard of the Admiral.”—Belknap’s _American Biography_, i. +203. + + +THE SECRET OF THE SEA. + + Ah! what pleasant visions haunt me + As I gaze upon the sea! + All the old romantic legends, + All my dreams, come back to me. + + Sails of silk and ropes of sendal, + Such as gleam in ancient lore; + And the singing of the sailors, + And the answer from the shore! + + Most of all, the Spanish ballad + Haunts me oft, and tarries long, + Of the noble Count Arnaldos + And the sailor’s mystic song. + + Like the long waves on a sea-beach, + Where the sand as silver shines, + With a soft monotonous cadence, + Flow its unrhymed lyric lines;— + + Telling how the Count Arnaldos,[32] + With his hawk upon his hand, + Saw a fair and stately galley, + Steering onward to the land;— + + How he heard the ancient helmsman + Chant a song so wild and clear, + That the sailing sea-bird slowly + Poised upon the mast to hear, + + Till his soul was full of longing, + And he cried with impulse strong,— + “Helmsman! for the love of heaven, + Teach me, too, that wondrous song!” + + “Wouldst thou,” so the helmsman answered, + “Learn the secrets of the sea? + Only those who brave its dangers + Comprehend its mystery!” + + In each sail that skims the horizon, + In each landward-blowing breeze, + I behold that stately galley, + Hear those mournful melodies; + + Till my soul is full of longing + For the secret of the sea, + And the heart of the great ocean + Sends a thrilling pulse through me. + +[32] See Lockhart’s _Spanish Ballads_. + + +THE EVENING STAR. + + Just above yon sandy bar, + As the day grows fainter and dimmer, + Lonely and lovely, a single star + Lights the air with a dusky glimmer. + + Into the ocean faint and far + Falls the trail of its golden splendour, + And the gleam of that single star + Is ever refulgent, soft, and tender. + + Chrysaor, rising out of the sea, + Showed thus glorious and thus emulous, + Leaving the arms of Callirrhoe, + For ever tender, soft, and tremulous. + + Thus o’er the ocean faint and far + Trailed the gleam of his falchion brightly. + Is it a God, or is it a star, + That, entranced, I gazed on nightly. + + + + +_By the Fireside._ + + +RESIGNATION. + + There is no flock, however watched and tended, + But one dead lamb is there! + There is no fireside, howsoe’er defended, + But has one vacant chair! + + The air is full of farewells to the dying, + And mournings for the dead; + The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, + Will not be comforted! + + Let us be patient! These severe afflictions + Not from the ground arise, + But oftentimes celestial benedictions + Assume this dark disguise. + + We see but dimly through the mists and vapours; + Amid these earthly damps, + What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers, + May be heaven’s distant lamps. + + There is no death! What seems so is transition. + This life of mortal breath + Is but a suburb of the life elysian, + Whose portal we call Death. + + She is not dead,—the child of our affection,— + But gone unto that school + Where she no longer needs our poor protection, + And Christ himself doth rule. + + In that great cloister’s stillness and seclusion, + By guardian angels led, + Safe from temptation, safe from sin’s pollution, + She lives, whom we call dead. + + Day after day we think what she is doing + In those bright realms of air; + Year after year her tender steps pursuing, + Behold her grown more fair. + + Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken + The bond which nature gives, + Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, + May reach her where she lives. + + Not as a child shall we again behold her; + For when with raptures wild + In our embraces we again enfold her, + She will not be a child; + + But a fair maiden, in her Father’s mansion, + Clothed with celestial grace; + And beautiful with all the soul’s expansion + Shall we behold her face. + + And though at times, impetuous with emotion + And anguish long suppressed, + The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, + That cannot be at rest,— + + We will be patient, and assuage the feeling + We may not wholly stay; + By silence sanctifying, not concealing, + The grief that must have way. + + +THE BUILDERS. + + All are architects of Fate, + Working in these walls of Time; + Some with massive deeds and great, + Some with ornaments of rhyme. + + Nothing useless is, or low; + Each thing in its place is best; + And what seems but idle show, + Strengthens and supports the rest. + + For the structure that we raise, + Time is with materials filled; + Our to-days and yesterdays + Are the blocks with which we build. + + Truly shape and fashion these; + Leave no yawning gaps between; + Think not, because no man sees, + Such things will remain unseen. + + In the elder days of Art, + Builders wrought with greatest care, + Each minute and unseen part; + For the Gods see everywhere. + + Let us do our work as well, + Both the unseen and the seen; + Make the house, where Gods may dwell, + Beautiful, entire, and clean. + + Else our lives are incomplete, + Standing in these walls of Time, + Broken stairways, where the feet + Stumble as they seek to climb. + + Build to-day, then, strong and sure, + With a firm and ample base; + And ascending and secure + Shall to-morrow find its place. + + Thus alone can we attain + To those turrets, where the eye + Sees the world as one vast plain, + And one boundless reach of sky. + + +SAND OF THE DESERT IN AN HOUR-GLASS. + + A handful of red sand, from the hot clime + Of Arab deserts brought, + Within this glass becomes the spy of Time, + The minister of Thought. + + How many weary centuries has it been + About those deserts blown! + How many strange vicissitudes has seen, + How many histories known! + + Perhaps the camels of the Ishmaelite + Trampled and passed it o’er, + When into Egypt from the patriarch’s sight + His favourite son they bore. + + Perhaps the feet of Moses, burnt and bare, + Crushed it beneath their tread; + Or Pharaoh’s flashing wheels into the air + Scattered it as they sped; + + Or Mary, with the Christ of Nazareth + Held close in her caress, + Whose pilgrimage of hope and love and faith + Illumed the wilderness; + + Or anchorites beneath Engaddi’s palms + Pacing the Dead Sea beach, + And singing slow their old Armenian psalms + In half-articulate speech; + + Or caravans, that from Bassora’s gate + With westward steps depart; + Or Mecca’s pilgrims, confident of Fate, + And resolute in heart! + + These have passed over it, or may have passed! + Now in this crystal tower + Imprisoned by some curious hand at last, + It counts the passing hour. + + And as I gaze, these narrow walls expand;— + Before my dreamy eye + Stretches the desert with its shifting sand, + Its unimpeded sky. + + And borne aloft by the sustaining blast, + This little golden thread + Dilates into a column high and vast, + A form of fear and dread. + + And onward, and across the setting sun, + Across the boundless plain, + The column and its broader shadow run, + Till thought pursues in vain. + + The vision vanishes! These walls again + Shut out the lurid sun, + Shut out the hot immeasurable plain, + The half-hour’s sand is run! + + +PEGASUS IN POUND. + + Once into a quiet village, + Without haste and without heed, + In the golden prime of morning, + Strayed the poet’s wingèd steed. + + It was Autumn, and incessant + Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves, + And, like living coals, the apples + Burned among the withering leaves. + + Loud the clamorous bell was ringing + From its belfry gaunt and grim; + ’Twas the daily call for labour, + Not a triumph meant for him. + + Not the less he saw the landscape, + In its gleaming vapour veiled; + Not the less he breathed the odours + That the dying leaves exhaled. + + Thus, upon the village common, + By the school-boys he was found; + And the wise men, in their wisdom, + Put him straightway into pound. + + Then the sombre village crier, + Ringing loud his brazen bell, + Wandered down the street proclaiming + There was an estray to sell. + + And the curious country people, + Rich and poor, and young and old, + Came in haste to see this wondrous + Wingèd steed, with mane of gold. + + Thus the day passed, and the evening + Fell, with vapours cold and dim; + But it brought no food nor shelter, + Brought no straw nor stall, for him. + + Patiently, and still expectant, + Looked he through the wooden bars, + Saw the moon rise o’er the landscape, + Saw the tranquil, patient stars; + + Till at length the bell at midnight + Sounded from its dark abode, + And, from out a neighbouring farm-yard, + Loud the cock Alectryon crowed. + + Then, with nostrils wide distended, + Breaking from his iron chain, + And unfolding far his pinions, + To those stars he soared again. + + On the morrow, when the village + Woke to all its toil and care, + Lo! the strange steed had departed, + And they knew not when nor where. + + But they found, upon the greensward + Where his struggling hoofs had trod, + Pure and bright, a fountain flowing + From the hoof-marks in the sod. + + From that hour, the fount unfailing + Gladdens the whole region round, + Strengthening all who drink its waters, + While it soothes them with its sound. + + +KING WITLAF’S DRINKING-HORN. + + Witlaf, a king of the Saxons, + Ere yet his last he breathed, + To the merry monks of Croyland + His drinking-horn bequeathed,— + + That, whenever they sat at their revels, + And drank from the golden bowl, + They might remember the donor, + And breathe a prayer for his soul. + + So sat they once at Christmas, + And bade the goblet pass; + In their beards the red wine glistened + Like dew-drops in the grass. + + They drank to the soul of Witlaf, + They drank to Christ the Lord, + And to each of the Twelve Apostles + Who had preached his holy word. + + They drank to the Saints and Martyrs + Of the dismal days of yore, + And as soon as the horn was empty + They remembered one Saint more. + + And the reader droned from the pulpit, + Like the murmur of many bees, + The legend of good Saint Guthlac, + And St. Basil’s homilies; + + Till the great bells of the convent, + From their prison in the tower, + Guthlac and Bartholomæus, + Proclaimed the midnight hour. + + And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney, + And the Abbot bowed his head, + And the flamelets flapped and flickered, + But the Abbot was stark and dead. + + Yet still in his pallid fingers + He clutched the golden bowl, + In which, like a pearl dissolving, + Had sunk and dissolved his soul. + + But not for this their revels + The jovial monks forbore, + For they cried, “Fill high the goblet! + We must drink to one Saint more!” + + +TEGNER’S DRAPA. + + I heard a voice that cried, + “Balder the Beautiful + Is dead, is dead!” + And through the misty air + Passed like the mournful cry + Of sunward sailing cranes. + + I saw the pallid corpse + Of the dead sun + Borne through the Northern sky. + Blasts from Niffelheim + Lifted the sheeted mists + Around him as he passed. + + And the voice for ever cried, + “Balder the Beautiful + Is dead, is dead!” + And died away + Through the dreary night, + In accents of despair. + + Balder the Beautiful, + God of the summer sun, + Fairest of all the Gods! + Light from his forehead beamed, + Runes were upon his tongue, + As on the warrior’s sword. + + All things in earth and air + Bound were by magic spell + Never to do him harm; + Even the plants and stones, + All save the mistletoe, + The sacred mistletoe! + + Hœder, the blind old God, + Whose feet are shod with silence, + Pierced through that gentle breast + With his sharp spear, by fraud + Made of the mistletoe, + The accursed mistletoe! + + They laid him in his ship, + With horse and harness, + As on a funeral pyre. + Odin placed + A ring upon his finger, + And whispered in his ear. + + They launched the burning ship! + It floated far away + Over the misty sea, + Till like the sun it seemed, + Sinking beneath the waves. + Balder returned no more! + + So perish the old Gods! + But out of the sea of Time + Rises a new land of song, + Fairer than the old. + Over its meadows green + Walk the young bards and sing. + + Build it again, + O ye bards, + Fairer than before! + Ye fathers of the new race, + Feed upon morning dew, + Sing the new Song of Love! + + The law of force is dead! + The law of love prevails! + Thor, the thunderer, + Shall rule the earth no more, + No more, with threats, + Challenge the meek Christ. + + Sing no more, + O ye bards of the North, + Of Vikings and of Jarls! + Of the days of Eld + Preserve the freedom only, + Not the deeds of blood. + + +THE SINGERS. + + God sent his Singers upon earth + With songs of sadness and of mirth, + That they might touch the hearts of men, + And bring them back to heaven again. + + The first, a youth, with soul of fire, + Held in his hand a golden lyre; + Through groves he wandered, and by streams, + Playing the music of our dreams. + + The second, with a bearded face, + Stood singing in the market-place, + And stirred with accents deep and loud + The hearts of all the listening crowd. + + A grey old man, the third and last, + Sang in cathedrals dim and vast, + While the majestic organ rolled + Contrition from its mouths of gold. + + And those who heard the Singers three, + Disputed which the best might be; + For still their music seemed to start + Discordant echoes in each heart. + + But the great Master said, “I see + No best in kind, but in degree; + I gave a various gift to each, + To charm, to strengthen, and to teach. + + “These are the three great chords of might, + And he whose ear is tuned aright + Will hear no discord in the three, + But the most perfect harmony.” + + +SUSPIRIA. + + Take them, O Death! and bear away + Whatever thou canst call thine own! + Thine image stamped upon this clay, + Doth give thee that, but that alone! + + Take them, O Grave! and let them lie + Folded upon thy narrow shelves, + As garments by the soul laid by, + And precious only to ourselves! + + Take them, O great Eternity! + Our little life is but a gust, + That bends the branches of thy tree, + And trails its blossoms in the dust. + + +THE OPEN WINDOW. + + The old house by the lindens + Stood silent in the shade, + And on the gravelled pathway + The light and shadow played. + + I saw the nursery windows + Wide open to the air; + But the faces of the children, + They were no longer there. + + The large Newfoundland house-dog + Was standing by the door; + He looked for his little playmates, + Who would return no more. + + They walked not under the lindens, + They played not in the hall; + But shadow, and silence, and sadness + Were hanging over all. + + The birds sang in the branches, + With sweet, familiar tone; + But the voices of the children + Will be heard in dreams alone! + + And the boy that walked beside me, + He could not understand + Why closer in mine, ah! closer, + I pressed his warm, soft hand! + + +HYMN. + +FOR MY BROTHER’S ORDINATION. + + Christ to the young man said: “Yet one thing more; + If thou wouldst perfect be, + Sell all thou hast and give it to the poor, + And come and follow me!” + + Within this temple Christ again, unseen, + Those sacred words hath said, + And his invisible hands to-day have been + Laid on a young man’s head. + + And evermore beside him on his way + The unseen Christ shall move, + That he may lean upon his arm and say, + “Dost thou, dear Lord, approve?” + + Beside him at the marriage feast shall be, + To make the scene more fair; + Beside him in the dark Gethsemane + Of pain and midnight prayer. + + O holy trust! O endless sense of rest! + Like the beloved John + To lay his head upon the Saviour’s breast, + And thus to journey on! + + +GASPAR BECERRA. + + By his evening fire the artist + Pondered o’er his secret shame; + Baffled, weary, and disheartened, + Still he mused, and dreamed of fame. + + ’Twas an image of the Virgin + That had tasked his utmost skill; + But, alas! his fair ideal + Vanished and escaped him still. + + From a distant Eastern island + Had the precious wood been brought; + Day and night the anxious master + At his toil untiring wrought; + + Till, discouraged and desponding, + Sat he now in shadows deep, + And the day’s humiliation + Found oblivion in sleep. + + Then a voice cried, “Rise, O Master; + From the burning brand of oak + Shape the thought that stirs within thee!” + And the startled artist woke,— + + Woke, and from the smoking embers + Seized and quenched the glowing wood; + And therefrom he carved an image, + And he saw that it was good. + + O thou sculptor, painter, poet! + Take this lesson to thy heart: + That is best which lieth nearest; + Shape from that thy work of art. + +[Illustration] + + + + +_The Golden Legend._ + +1851. + + +The old _Legenda Aurea_, or Golden Legend, was originally written in +Latin, in the thirteenth century, by Jacobus de Voragine, a Dominican +friar, who afterwards became Archbishop of Genoa, and died in 1292. + +He called his book simply _Legends of the Saints_. The epithet of +Golden was given it by his admirers; for, as Wynkin de Worde says, +“Like as passeth gold in value all other metals, so this legend +exceedeth all other books.” But Edward Leigh, in much distress of mind, +calls it “a book written by a man of a leaden heart for the basenesse +of the errours, that are without wit or reason, and of a brazen +forehead, for his impudent boldnesse in reporting things so fabulous +and incredible.” + +This work, the great text-book of the legendary lore of the Middle +Ages, was translated into French in the fourteenth century by Jean +de Vigney, and in the fifteenth into English by William Caxton. It +has lately been made more accessible by a new French translation: _La +Légende Dorée, traduite du Latin, par M. G. B._ Paris, 1850. There is +a copy of the original, with the _Gesta Longobadorum_ appended, in +the Harvard College Library, Cambridge, printed at Strasburg, 1496. +The title-page is wanting; and the volume begins with the _Tabula +Legendorum_. + +I have called this poem the Golden Legend, because the story upon which +it is founded seems to me to surpass all other legends in beauty and +significance. It exhibits, amid the corruptions of the Middle Ages, +the virtue of disinterestedness and self-sacrifice, and the power of +Faith, Hope, and Charity, sufficient for all the exigencies of life and +death. The story is told, and perhaps invented, by Hartmann von der +Aue, a Minnesinger of the twelfth century. The original may be found in +Mailáth’s _Altdeutsche Gedichte_, with a modern German version. There +is another in Marbách’s _Volksbucher_, No. 32. + + +PROLOGUE. + +_The Spire of Strasburg Cathedral. Night and storm._ LUCIFER, _with the +Powers of the Air, trying to tear down the Cross_. + + _Lucifer._ Hasten! hasten! + O ye spirits! + From its station drag the ponderous + Cross of iron, that to mock us + Is uplifted high in air! + + _Voices._ O, we cannot. + For around it + All the saints and guardian angels + Throng in legions to protect it; + They defeat us everywhere! + + _The Bells._ + + Laudo Deum verum! + Plebem voco! + Congrego clerum! + + _Lucifer._ Lower! lower! + Hover downward! + Seize the loud vociferous bells, and + Clashing, clanging, to the pavement + Hurl them from their windy tower. + + _Voices._ All thy thunders + Here are harmless! + For these bells have been anointed,[33] + And baptized with holy water! + They defy our utmost power. + +[33] One of the curious mediæval rites was the christening and +anointing of bells. See Appendix. + + _The Bells._ + + Defunctos ploro! + Pestem fugo! + Festa decoro! + + _Lucifer._ Shake the casements! + Break the painted + Panes, that flame with gold and crimson: + Scatter them like leaves of Autumn, + Swept away before the blast! + + _Voices._ Oh, we cannot; + The Archangel + Michael flames from every window, + With the sword of fire that drove us + Headlong, out of heaven, aghast! + + _The Bells._ + + Funera plango! + Fulgura frango! + Sabbata pango! + + _Lucifer._ Aim your lightnings! + At the oaken, + Massive, iron-studded portals! + Sack the house of God, and scatter + Wide the ashes of the dead! + + _Voices._ Oh, we cannot! + The Apostles + And the Martyrs, wrapped in mantles, + Stand as warders at the entrance, + Stand as sentinels o’erhead! + +[Illustration: STRASBURG CATHEDRAL.] + + _The Bells._ + + Excito lentos! + Dissipo ventos! + Paco cruentos! + + _Lucifer._ Baffled! baffled! + Inefficient, + Craven spirits! leave this labour + Unto Time, the great Destroyer! + Come away, ere night is gone! + + _Voices._ Onward! onward! + With the night-wind, + Over field and farm and forest, + Lonely homestead, darksome hamlet, + Blighting all we breathe upon! + + [_They sweep away. Organ and Gregorian Chant._] + + _Choir._ + + Nocte surgentes + Vigilemus omnes! + + +I. + +_The Castle of Vautsberg on the Rhine. A chamber in a tower._ PRINCE +HENRY, _sitting alone, ill and restless. Midnight._ + + _Prince Henry._ I cannot sleep! my fervid brain + Calls up the vanished Past again, + And throws its misty splendours deep + Into the pallid realms of sleep! + A breath from that far-distant shore + Comes freshening ever more and more, + And wafts o’er intervening seas + Sweet odours from the Hesperides! + A wind, that through the corridor + Just stirs the curtain, and no more, + And, touching the Æolian strings, + Faints with the burden that it brings! + Come back! ye friendships long departed! + That like o’erflowing streamlets started, + And now are dwindled, one by one, + To stony channels in the sun! + Come back! ye friends, whose lives are ended, + Come back, with all that light attended, + Which seemed to darken and decay + When ye arose and went away! + + They come, the shapes of joy and woe, + The airy crowds of long-ago, + The dreams and fancies known of yore, + That have been, and shall be no more. + They change the cloisters of the night + Into a garden of delight; + They make the dark and dreary hours + Open and blossom into flowers! + I would not sleep! I love to be + Again in their fair company; + But ere my lips can bid them stay, + They pass and vanish quite away! + Alas! our memories may retrace + Each circumstance of time and place, + Season and scene come back again, + And outward things unchanged remain; + The rest we cannot reinstate; + Ourselves we cannot re-create, + Nor set our souls to the same key + Of the remembered harmony! + + Rest! rest! Oh, give me rest and peace! + The thought of life that ne’er shall cease + Has something in it like despair, + A weight I am too weak to bear! + Sweeter to this afflicted breast + The thought of never-ending rest! + Sweeter the undisturbed and deep + Tranquillity of endless sleep! + +[_A flash of lightning, out of which_ LUCIFER _appears, in the garb of +a travelling Physician_.] + + _Lucifer._ All hail, Prince Henry! + + _Prince Henry_ (_starting_). Who is it speaks? + Who and what are you? + + _Lucifer._ One who seeks + A moment’s audience with the Prince. + + _Prince Henry._ When came you in? + + _Lucifer._ A moment since. + I found your study door unlocked, + And thought you answered when I knocked. + + _Prince Henry._ I did not hear you. + + _Lucifer._ You heard the thunder; + It was loud enough to waken the dead. + And it is not a matter of special wonder + That, when God is walking overhead, + You should not hear my feeble tread. + + _Prince Henry._ What may your wish or purpose be? + + _Lucifer._ Nothing or everything, as it pleases + Your Highness. You behold in me + Only a travelling Physician; + One of the few who have a mission + To cure incurable diseases, + Or those that are called so. + + _Prince Henry._ Can you bring + The dead to life? + + _Lucifer._ Yes; very nearly. + And what is a wiser and better thing, + Can keep the living from ever needing + Such an unnatural, strange proceeding, + By showing conclusively and clearly + That death is a stupid blunder merely, + And not a necessity of our lives. + My being here is accidental; + The storm, that against your casement drives, + In the little village below waylaid me. + And there I heard, with a secret delight, + Of your maladies, physical and mental, + Which neither astonished nor dismayed me. + And I hastened hither, though late in the night, + To proffer my aid! + + _Prince Henry_ (_ironically_). For this you came! + Ah, how can I ever hope to requite + This honour from one so erudite? + + _Lucifer._ The honour is mine, or will be when + I have cured your disease. + + _Prince Henry._ But not till then. + + _Lucifer._ What is your illness? + + _Prince Henry._ It has no name. + A smouldering, dull, perpetual flame, + As in a kiln, burns in my veins, + Sending up vapours to the head; + My heart has become a dull lagoon, + Which a kind of leprosy drinks and drains; + I am accounted as one who is dead, + And, indeed, I think I shall be soon. + + _Lucifer._ And has Gordonius, the Divine, + In his famous Lily of Medicine,— + I see the book lies open before you,— + No remedy potent enough to restore you? + + _Prince Henry._ None whatever! + + _Lucifer._ The dead are dead. + And their oracles dumb, when questionèd + Of the new diseases that human life + Evolves in its progress, rank and rife. + Consult the dead upon things that were, + But the living only on things that are. + Have you done this, by the appliance + And aid of doctors? + + _Prince Henry._ Ay, whole schools + Of doctors, with their learned rules; + But the case is quite beyond their science. + Even the doctors of Salern + Send me back word they can discern + No cure for a malady like this, + Save one which in its nature is + Impossible, and cannot be! + + _Lucifer._ That sounds oracular! + + _Prince Henry._ Unendurable! + + _Lucifer._ What is their remedy? + + _Prince Henry._ You shall see; + Writ in this scroll is the mystery. + + _Lucifer_ (_reading_). “Not to be cured, yet not + incurable! + The only remedy that remains + Is the blood that flows from a maiden’s veins, + Who of her own free will shall die, + And give her life as the price of yours!” + That is the strangest of all cures, + And one, I think, you will never try; + The prescription you may well put by, + As something impossible to find + Before the world itself shall end! + And yet who knows? One cannot say + That into some maiden’s brain that kind + Of madness will not find its way. + Meanwhile permit me to recommend, + As the matter admits of no delay, + My wonderful Catholicon, + Of very subtile and magical powers. + + _Prince Henry._ Purge with your nostrums and drugs infernal + The spouts and gargoyles of these towers, + Not me! My faith is utterly gone + In every power but the Power Supernal! + Pray tell me, of what school are you? + + _Lucifer._ Both of the Old and of the New! + The school of Hermes Trismegistus, + Who uttered his oracles sublime + Before the Olympiads, in the dew + Of the early dusk and dawn of Time, + The reign of dateless old Hephæstus! + As northward, from its Nubian springs, + The Nile, for ever new and old, + Among the living and the dead, + Its mighty, mystic stream has rolled; + So, starting from its fountain-head + Under the lotus-leaves of Isis, + From the dead demigods of eld, + Through long, unbroken lines of kings, + Its course the sacred art has held, + Unchecked, unchanged by man’s devices. + This art the Arabian Geber taught, + And in alembics, finely wrought, + Distilling herbs and flowers, discovered + The secret that so long had hovered + Upon the misty verge of Truth, + The Elixir of Perpetual Youth, + Called Alcohol, in the Arab speech! + Like him, this wondrous lore I teach! + + _Prince Henry._ What! an adept? + + _Lucifer._ Nor less, nor more! + + _Prince Henry._ I am a reader of your books, + A lover of that mystic lore! + With such a piercing glance it looks + Into great Nature’s open eye, + And sees within it trembling lie + The portrait of the Deity! + And yet, alas! with all my pains, + The secret and the mystery + Have baffled and eluded me, + Unseen the grand result remains! + + _Lucifer_ (_showing a flask_). Behold it here! this + little flask + Contains the wonderful quintessence, + The perfect flower and efflorescence, + Of all the knowledge man can ask! + Hold it up thus against the light! + + _Prince Henry._ How limpid, pure, and crystalline, + How quick, and tremulous, and bright + The little wavelets dance and shine, + As were it the Water of Life in sooth! + + _Lucifer._ It is! It assuages every pain, + Cures all disease, and gives again + To age the swift delights of youth. + Inhale its fragrance. + + _Prince Henry._ It is sweet. + A thousand different odours meet + And mingle in its rare perfume, + Such as the winds of summer waft + At open windows through a room! + + _Lucifer._ Will you not taste it? + + _Prince Henry._ Will one draught + Suffice? + + _Lucifer._ If not, you can drink more. + + _Prince Henry._ Into this crystal goblet pour + So much as safely I may drink. + + _Lucifer_ (_pouring_). Let not the quantity alarm you; + You may drink all; it will not harm you. + + _Prince Henry._ I am as one who on the brink + Of a dark river stands and sees + The waters flow, the landscape dim + Around him waver, wheel, and swim, + And, ere he plunges, stops to think + Into what whirlpools he may sink; + One moment pauses, and no more, + Then madly plunges from the shore! + Headlong into the mysteries + Of life and death I boldly leap, + Nor fear the fateful current’s sweep, + Nor what in ambush lurks below! + For death is better than disease! + +[_An_ ANGEL _with an Æolian harp hovers in the air_.] + + _Angel._ Woe! woe! eternal woe! + Not only the whispered prayer + Of love, + But the imprecations of hate, + Reverberate + For ever and ever through the air + Above! + This fearful curse + Shakes the great universe! + + _Lucifer_ (_disappearing_). Drink! drink! + And thy soul shall sink + Down into the dark abyss, + Into the infinite abyss, + From which no plummet nor rope + Ever drew up the silver sand of hope! + + _Prince Henry_ (_drinking_). It is like a draught of fire! + Through every vein + I feel again + The fever of youth, the soft desire; + A rapture that is almost pain + Throbs in my heart and fills my brain! + O joy! O joy! I feel + The band of steel + That so long and heavily has pressed + Upon my breast + Uplifted, and the malediction + Of my affliction + Is taken from me, and my weary breast + At length finds rest. + + _The Angel._ It is but the rest of the fire, from which + the air has been taken! + It is but the rest of the sand, when the hour-glass is not + shaken! + It is but the rest of the tide between the ebb and the flow! + It is but the rest of the wind between the flaws that blow! + With fiendish laughter, + Hereafter, + This false physician + Will mock thee in thy perdition. + + _Prince Henry._ Speak! speak! + Who says that I am ill? + I am not ill! I am not weak! + The trance, the swoon, the dream is o’er, + I feel the chill of death no more! + At length, + I stand renewed in all my strength! + Beneath me I can feel + The great earth stagger and reel, + As if the feet of a descending God + Upon its surface trod, + And like a pebble it rolled beneath his heel! + This, O brave physician! this + Is thy great Palingenesis! + + [_Drinks again._] + + _The Angel._ Touch the goblet no more! + It will make thy heart sore + To its very core! + Its perfume is the breath + Of the Angel of Death, + And the light that within it lies + Is the flash of his evil eyes. + Beware! O beware! + For sickness, sorrow, and care + All are there! + + _Prince Henry_ (_sinking back_). O thou voice within + my breast! + Why entreat me, why upbraid me, + When the steadfast tongues of truth + And the flattering hopes of youth + Have all deceived me and betrayed me? + Give me, give me rest, O, rest! + Golden visions wave and hover, + Golden vapours, waters streaming, + Landscapes moving, changing, gleaming! + I am like a happy lover + Who illumines life with dreaming! + Brave physician! Rare physician! + Well hast thou fulfilled thy mission. + + [_His head falls on his book._] + + _The Angel_ (_receding_). Alas! alas! + Like a vapour the golden vision + Shall fade and pass, + And thou wilt find in thy heart again + Only the blight of pain, + And bitter, bitter, bitter contrition! + + _Court-yard of the Castle._ HUBERT _standing by the Gateway_. + + _Hubert._ How sad the grand old castle looks! + O’erhead, the unmolested rooks + Upon the turret’s windy top + Sit, talking of the farmer’s crop; + Here in the court-yard springs the grass, + So few are now the feet that pass; + The stately peacocks, bolder grown, + Come hopping down the steps of stone, + As if the castle were their own; + And I, the poor old seneschal, + Haunt, like a ghost, the banquet-hall. + Alas! the merry guests no more + Crowd through the hospitable door; + No eyes with youth and passion shine, + No cheeks grow redder than the wine; + No song, no laugh, no jovial din + Of drinking wassail to the pin;[34] + But all is silent, sad, and drear, + And now the only sounds I hear + Are the hoarse rooks upon the walls, + And horses stamping in their stalls! + +[34] The cup was marked with wooden pegs at fixed distances, and it was +usual for each carouser to drink only to the next pin or peg, that all +might share alike. + + [_A horn sounds._] + + What ho! that merry, sudden blast + Reminds me of the days long past! + And, as of old resounding, grate + The heavy hinges of the gate, + And, clattering loud, with iron clank, + Down goes the sounding bridge of plank, + As if it were in haste to greet + The pressure of a traveller’s feet! + + _Enter_ WALTER _the Minnesinger_. + + _Walter._ How now, my friend! This looks quite lonely! + No banner flying from the walls, + No pages and no seneschals, + No warders, and one porter only! + Is it you, Hubert? + + _Hubert._ Ah! Master Walter! + + _Walter._ Alas! how forms and faces alter! + I did not know you. You look older! + Your hair has grown much greyer and thinner, + And you stoop a little in the shoulder! + + _Hubert._ Alack! I am a poor old sinner, + And, like these towers, begin to moulder; + And you have been absent many a year! + + _Walter._ How is the Prince? + + _Hubert._. He is not here; + He has been ill: and now has fled. + + _Walter._ Speak it out frankly; say he’s dead! + Is it not so? + + _Hubert._ No; if you please; + A strange, mysterious disease + Fell on him with a sudden blight. + Whole hours together he would stand + Upon the terrace, in a dream, + Resting his head upon his hand, + Best pleased when he was most alone, + Like Saint John Nepomuck in stone, + Looking down into a stream. + In the Round Tower, night after night, + He sat, and bleared his eyes with books, + Until one morning we found him there + Stretched on the floor, as if in a swoon + He had fallen from his chair. + We hardly recognised his sweet looks! + + _Walter._ Poor Prince! + + _Hubert._ I think he might have mended; + And he did mend; but very soon + The Priests came flocking in like rooks, + With all their crosiers and their crooks, + And so at last the matter ended. + + _Walter._ How did it end? + + _Hubert._ Why, in Saint Rochus + They made him stand and wait his doom; + And, as if he were condemned to the tomb, + Began to mutter their hocus-pocus. + First, the Mass for the dead they chanted, + Then three times laid upon his head + A shovelful of churchyard clay, + Saying to him, as he stood undaunted, + “This is a sign that thou art dead, + So in thy heart be penitent!” + And forth from the chapel door he went + Into disgrace and banishment, + Clothed in a cloak of hodden grey, + And bearing a wallet, and a bell, + Whose sound should be a perpetual knell + To keep all travellers away. + + _Walter._ O, horrible fate! Outcast, rejected, + As one with pestilence infected! + + _Hubert._ Then was the family tomb unsealed, + And broken helmet, sword, and shield, + Buried together, in common wreck, + As is the custom, when the last + Of any princely house has passed, + And thrice, as with a trumpet-blast, + A herald shouted down the stair + The words of warning and despair,— + “O Hoheneck! O Hoheneck!” + + _Walter._ Still in my soul that cry goes on,— + For ever gone! for ever gone! + Ah, what a cruel sense of loss, + Like a black shadow, would fall across + The hearts of all, if he should die! + His gracious presence upon earth + Was as a fire upon a hearth; + As pleasant songs, at morning sung, + The words that dropped from his sweet tongue + Strengthened our hearts; or, heard at night, + Made all our slumbers soft and light. + Where is he? + + _Hubert._ In the Odenwald. + Some of his tenants, unappalled + By fear of death, or priestly word,— + A holy family, that make + Each meal a Supper of the Lord,— + Have him beneath their watch and ward, + For love of him, and Jesus’ sake! + Pray you come in. For why should I + With out-door hospitality + My prince’s friend thus entertain? + + _Walter._ I would a moment here remain. + But you, good Hubert, go before, + Fill me a goblet of May-drink, + As aromatic as the May + From which it steals the breath away, + And which he loved so well of yore; + It is of him that I would think. + You shall attend me, when I call, + In the ancestral banquet-hall. + Unseen companions, guests of air, + You cannot wait on, will be there; + They taste not food, they drink not wine, + But their soft eyes look into mine, + And their lips speak to me, and all + The vast and shadowy banquet-hall + Is full of looks and words divine! + + [_Leaning over the parapet._] + + The day is done; and slowly from the scene + The stooping sun upgathers his spent shafts, + And puts them back into his golden quiver! + Below me in the valley, deep and green + As goblets are, from which in thirsty draughts + We drink its wine, the swift and mantling river + Flows on triumphant through these lovely regions, + Etched with the shadows of its sombre margent, + And soft, reflected clouds of gold and argent! + Yes, there it flows, for ever, broad and still, + As when the vanguard of the Roman legions + First saw it from the top of yonder hill! + How beautiful it is! Fresh fields of wheat, + Vineyard, and town, and tower with fluttering flag, + The consecrated chapel on the crag, + And the white hamlet gathered round its base, + Like Mary sitting at her Saviour’s feet, + And looking up at his beloved face! + O friend! O best of friends! Thy absence more + Than the impending night darkens the landscape o’er! + +II. + +_A Farm in the Odenwald. A garden; morning_; PRINCE HENRY _seated, with +a book_. ELSIE, _at a distance, gathering flowers_. + + _Prince Henry_ (_reading_). One morning, all alone, + Out of his convent of grey stone, + Into the forest older, darker, greyer, + His lips moving as if in prayer, + His head sunken upon his breast + As in a dream of rest, + Walked the Monk Felix. All about + The broad, sweet sunshine lay without, + Filling the summer air; + And within the woodlands as he trod, + The twilight was like the Truce of God + With worldly woe and care; + Under him lay the golden moss; + And above him the boughs of hoary trees + Waved and made the sign of the cross, + And whispered their Benedicites; + And from the ground + Rose an odour sweet and fragrant + Of the wild-flowers and the vagrant + Vines that wandered, + Seeking the sunshine, round and round. + + These he heeded not, but pondered + On the volume in his hand, + A volume of St. Augustine, + Wherein he read of the unseen + Splendours of God’s great town + In the unknown land, + And, with his eyes cast down + In humility, he said: + “I believe, O God, + What herein I have read, + But, alas! I do not understand!” + And lo! he heard + The sudden singing of a bird, + A snow-white bird, that from a cloud + Dropped down, + And among the branches brown + Sat singing + So sweet, and clear, and loud, + It seemed a thousand harp-strings ringing. + And the Monk Felix closed his book, + And long, long, + With rapturous look, + He listened to the song, + And hardly breathed or stirred, + Until he saw, as in a vision, + The land Elysian, + And in the heavenly city heard + Angelic feet + Fall on the golden flagging of the street. + And he would fain + Have caught the wondrous bird, + But strove in vain; + For it flew away, away, + Far over hill and dell, + And instead of its sweet singing + He heard the convent bell + Suddenly in the silence ringing + For the service of noonday. + And he retraced + His pathway homeward sadly and in haste. + + In the convent there was a change! + He looked for each well-known face, + But the faces were new and strange; + New figures sat in the oaken stalls, + New voices chanted in the choir; + Yet the place was the same place, + The same dusky walls + Of cold, grey stone, + The same cloisters and belfry and spire. + A stranger and alone + Among that brotherhood + The Monk Felix stood. + “Forty years,” said a Friar, + “Have I been Prior + Of this convent in the wood, + But for that space + Never have I beheld thy face!” + + The heart of the Monk Felix fell: + And he answered, with submissive tone, + “This morning, after the hour of Prime, + I left my cell, + And wandered forth alone, + Listening all the time + To the melodious singing + Of a beautiful white bird, + Until I heard + The bells of the convent ringing + Noon from their noisy towers. + It was as if I dreamed; + For what to me had seemed + Moments only, had been hours!” + + “Years,” said a voice close by. + It was an aged monk who spoke, + From a bench of oak + Fastened against the wall;— + He was the oldest monk of all. + For a whole century + Had he been there, + Serving God in prayer, + The meekest and humblest of his creatures. + He remembered well the features + Of Felix, and he said, + Speaking distinct and slow: + “One hundred years ago, + When I was a novice in this place, + There was here a monk, full of God’s grace, + Who bore the name + Of Felix, and this man must be the same.” + + And straightway + They brought back to the light of day + A volume old and brown, + A huge tome, bound + In brass and wild-boar’s hide, + Wherein were written down + The names of all who had died + In the convent, since it was edified. + And there they found, + Just as the old monk said, + That on a certain day and date, + One hundred years before, + Had gone forth from the convent gate + The Monk Felix, and never more + Had entered that sacred door. + He had been counted among the dead! + And they knew, at last, + That, such had been the power + Of that celestial and immortal song, + A hundred years had passed, + And had not seemed so long + As a single hour! + + ELSIE _comes in with flowers_. + + _Elsie._ Here are flowers for you, + But they are not all for you. + Some of them are for the Virgin + And for Saint Cecilia. + + _Prince Henry._ As thou standest there, + Thou seemest to me like the angel + That brought the immortal robes + To Saint Cecilia’s bridal chamber. + + _Elsie._ But these will fade. + + _Prince Henry._ Themselves will fade, + But not their memory, + And memory has the power + To re-create them from the dust. + They remind me, too, + Of martyred Dorothea, + Who from celestial gardens sent + Flowers as her witnesses + To him who scoffed and doubted. + + _Elsie._ Do you know the story + Of Christ and the Sultan’s daughter? + That is the prettiest legend of them all. + + _Prince Henry._ Then tell it to me. + But first come hither. + Lay the flowers down beside me, + And put both thy hands in mine. + Now tell me the story. + + _Elsie._ Early in the morning + The Sultan’s daughter + Walked in her father’s garden, + Gathering the bright flowers, + All full of dew. + + _Prince Henry._ Just as thou hast been doing + This morning, dearest Elsie. + + _Elsie._ And as she gathered them, + She wondered more and more + Who was the Master of the Flowers, + And made them grow + Out of the cold, dark earth. + “In my heart,” she said, + “I love him; and for him + Would leave my father’s palace + To labour in his garden.” + + _Prince Henry._ Dear, innocent child! + How sweetly thou recallest + The long-forgotten legend, + That in my early childhood + My mother told me! + Upon my brain + It reappears once more, + As a birthmark on the forehead + When a hand suddenly + Is laid upon it, and removed! + + _Elsie._ And at midnight, + As she lay upon her bed, + She heard a voice + Call to her from the garden, + And, looking forth from her window, + She saw a beautiful youth + Standing among the flowers. + It was the Lord Jesus; + And she went down to him, + And opened the door for him; + And he said to her, “O maiden! + Thou hast thought of me with love, + And for thy sake + Out of my Father’s kingdom + Have I come hither: + I am the Master of the Flowers. + My garden is in Paradise, + And if thou wilt go with me, + Thy bridal garland + Shall be of bright red flowers.” + And then he took from his finger + A golden ring, + And asked the Sultan’s daughter + If she would be his bride. + And when she answered him with love, + His wounds began to bleed, + And she said to him, + “O Love! how red thy heart is, + And thy hands are full of roses.” + “For thy sake,” answered he, + “For thy sake is my heart so red, + For thee I bring these roses. + I gathered them at the cross + Whereon I died for thee! + Come, for my Father calls. + Thou art my elected bride!” + And the Sultan’s daughter + Followed him to his Father’s garden. + + _Prince Henry._ Wouldst thou have done so, Elsie? + + _Elsie._ Yes, very gladly. + + _Prince Henry._ Then the Celestial Bridegroom + Will come for thee also, + Upon thy forehead he will place, + Not his crown of thorns, + But a crown of roses. + In thy bridal chamber, + Like Saint Cecilia, + Thou shalt hear sweet music, + And breathe the fragrance + Of flowers immortal! + Go now and place these flowers + Before her picture. + +_A room in the Farmhouse. Twilight._ URSULA _spinning_. GOTTLIEB +_asleep in his chair_. + + _Ursula._ Darker and darker! Hardly a glimmer + Of light comes in at the window-pane; + Or is it my eyes are growing dimmer? + I cannot disentangle this skein, + Nor wind it rightly upon the reel. + Elsie! + + _Gottlieb_ (_starting_). The stopping of thy wheel + Has wakened me out of a pleasant dream. + I thought I was sitting beside a stream, + And heard the grinding of a mill, + When suddenly the wheels stood still, + And a voice cried “Elsie” in my ear! + It startled me, it seemed so near. + + _Ursula._ I was calling her; I want a light. + I cannot see to spin my flax. + Bring the lamp, Elsie. Dost thou hear? + + _Elsie_ (_within_). In a moment! + + _Gottlieb._ Where are Bertha and Max? + + _Ursula._ They are sitting with Elsie at the door. + She is telling them stories of the wood, + And the Wolf, and Little Red Ridinghood. + + _Gottlieb._ And where is the Prince? + + _Ursula._ In his room overhead + I heard him walking across the floor, + As he always does, with a heavy tread. + +ELSIE _comes in with a lamp_. MAX _and_ BERTHA _follow her, and they +all sing the Evening Song on the lighting of the lamps_. + + EVENING SONG. + + O gladsome light + Of the Father Immortal, + And of the celestial + Sacred and blessed + Jesus, our Saviour! + + Now to the sunset + Again hast thou brought us; + And, seeing the evening + Twilight, we bless thee, + Praise thee, adore thee! + + Father Omnipotent! + Son, the Life-giver! + Spirit, the Comforter! + Worthy at all times + Of worship and wonder! + + _Prince Henry_ (_at the door_). Amen! + + _Ursula._ Who was it said Amen? + + _Elsie._ It was the Prince: he stood at the door, + And listened a moment, as we chanted + The evening song. He is gone again. + I have often seen him there before. + + _Ursula._ Poor Prince! + + _Gottlieb._ I thought the house was haunted! + Poor Prince, alas! and yet as mild + And patient as the gentlest child! + + _Max._ I love him because he is so good, + And makes me such fine bows and arrows, + To shoot at the robins and the sparrows, + And the red squirrels in the wood! + + _Bertha._ I love him, too! + + _Gottlieb._ Ah, yes! we all + Love him, from the bottom of our hearts; + He gave us the farm, the house, and the grange, + He gave us the horses and the carts, + And the great oxen in the stall, + The vineyard, and the forest range! + We have nothing to give him but our love! + + _Bertha._ Did he give us the beautiful stork above + On the chimney-top, with its large, round nest? + + _Gottlieb._ No, not the stork; by God in heaven, + As a blessing, the dear, white stork was given; + But the Prince has given us all the rest. + God bless him, and make him well again. + + _Elsie._ Would I could do something for his sake, + Something to cure his sorrow and pain! + + _Gottlieb._ That no one can; neither thou nor I, + Nor any one else. + + _Elsie._ And must he die? + + _Ursula._ Yes; if the dear God does not take + Pity upon him, in his distress, + And work a miracle! + + _Gottlieb._ Or unless + Some maiden, of her own accord, + Offers her life for that of her lord, + And is willing to die in his stead. + + _Elsie._ I will! + + _Ursula._ Prithee, thou foolish child, be still. + Thou shouldst not say what thou dost not mean! + + _Elsie._ I mean it truly! + + _Max._ Oh, father! this morning, + Down by the mill, in the ravine, + Hans killed a wolf, the very same + That in the night to the sheepfold came, + And ate up my lamb, that was left outside. + + _Gottlieb._ I am glad he is dead. It will be a warning + To the wolves in the forest, far and wide. + + _Max._ And I am going to have his hide! + + _Bertha._ I wonder if this is the wolf that ate + Little Red Ridinghood! + + _Ursula._ Oh, no! + That wolf was killed a long while ago. + Come, children, it is growing late. + + _Max._ Ah, how I wish I were a man, + As stout as Hans is, and as strong! + I would do nothing else, the whole day long, + But just kill wolves. + + _Gottlieb._ Then go to bed, + And grow as fast as a little boy can. + Bertha is half asleep already. + See how she nods her heavy head, + And her sleepy feet are so unsteady, + She will hardly be able to creep upstairs. + + _Ursula._ Good night, my children. Here’s the light. + And do not forget to say your prayers + Before you sleep. + + _Gottlieb._ Good night! + + _Max and Bertha._ Good night! + + [_They go out with_ ELSIE.] + + _Ursula_ (_spinning_). She is a strange and wayward + child, + That Elsie of ours. She looks so old, + And thoughts and fancies weird and wild + Seem of late to have taken hold + Of her heart, that was once so docile and mild! + + _Gottlieb._ She is like all girls. + + _Ursula._ Ah no, forsooth! + Unlike all I have ever seen. + For she has visions and strange dreams, + And in all her words and ways, she seems + Much older than she is in truth. + Who would think her but fifteen? + And there has been of late such a change! + My heart is heavy with fear and doubt + That she may not live till the year is out. + She is so strange,—so strange,—so strange! + + _Gottlieb._ I am not troubled with any such fear; + She will live and thrive for many a year. + [ELSIE’S _Chamber. Night._ ELSIE _praying_.] + + _Elsie._ My Redeemer and my Lord, + I beseech thee, I entreat thee, + Guide me in each act and word, + That hereafter I may meet thee, + Watching, waiting, hoping, yearning, + With my lamp well trimmed and burning? + + Interceding + With these bleeding + Wounds upon thy hands and side, + For all who have lived and erred + Thou hast suffered, thou hast died, + Scourged, and mocked, and crucified, + And in the grave hast thou been buried! + + If my feeble prayer can reach thee, + O my Saviour, I beseech thee, + Even as thou hast died for me, + More sincerely + Let me follow where thou leadest; + Let me, bleeding as thou bleedest, + Die, if dying I may give + Life to one who asks to live, + And more nearly, + Dying thus, resemble thee! + +_The Chamber of_ GOTTLIEB _and_ URSULA. _Midnight._ ELSIE _standing by +their bedside weeping_. + + _Gottlieb._ The wind is roaring; the rushing rain + Is loud upon roof and window-pane, + As if the wild Huntsman of Rodenstein, + Boding evil to me and mine, + Were abroad to-night, with his ghostly train! + In the brief lulls of the tempest wild, + The dogs howl in the yard; and hark! + Some one is sobbing in the dark, + Here in the chamber! + + _Elsie._ It is I. + + _Ursula._ Elsie, what ails thee, my poor child? + + _Elsie._ I am disturbed and much distressed, + In thinking our dear Prince must die; + I cannot close mine eyes, nor rest. + + _Gottlieb._ What wouldst thou? In the Power Divine + His healing lies, not in our own; + It is in the hand of God alone. + + _Elsie._ Nay, he has put it into mine, + And into my heart! + + _Gottlieb._ Thy words are wild! + + _Ursula._ What dost thou mean? my child! my child! + + _Elsie._ That for our dear Prince Henry’s sake + I will myself the offering make, + And give my life to purchase his. + + _Ursula._ Am I still dreaming or awake? + Thou speakest carelessly of death, + And yet thou knowest not what it is. + + _Elsie._ ’Tis the cessation of our breath. + Silent and motionless we lie; + And no one knoweth more than this. + I saw our little Gertrude die; + She left off breathing, and no more. + I smoothed the pillow beneath her head. + She was more beautiful than before. + Like violets faded were her eyes; + By this we knew that she was dead. + Through the open window looked the skies + Into the chamber where she lay, + And the wind was like the sound of wings, + As if angels came to bear her away. + Ah! when I saw and felt these things, + I found it difficult to stay; + I longed to die, as she had died, + And go forth with her, side by side. + The Saints are dead, the Martyrs dead, + And Mary, and our Lord; and I + Would follow in humility + The way by them illuminèd! + + _Ursula._ My child! my child! thou must not die! + + _Elsie._ Why should I live? Do I not know + The life of woman is full of woe? + Toiling on and on and on, + With breaking heart and tearful eyes, + And silent lips, and in the soul + The secret longings that arise, + Which this world never satisfies! + Some more, some less, but of the whole + Not one quite happy, no, not one! + + _Ursula._ It is the malediction of Eve.[35] + +[35] See Appendix. + + _Elsie._ In place of it, let me receive + The benediction of Mary, then. + + _Gottlieb._ Ah, woe is me! Ah, woe is me! + Most wretched am I among men! + + _Ursula._ Alas! that I should live to see + Thy death, belovèd, and to stand + Above thy grave! Ah, woe the day! + + _Elsie._ Thou wilt not see it. I shall lie + Beneath the flowers of another land; + For at Salerno, far away + Over the mountains, over the sea, + It is appointed me to die! + And it will seem no more to thee + Than if at the village on market-day + I should a little longer stay + Than I am wont. + + _Ursula._ Even as thou sayest! + And how my heart beats when thou stayest! + I cannot rest until my sight + Is satisfied in seeing thee. + What, then, if thou wert dead? + + _Gottlieb._ Ah me! + Of our old eyes thou art the light! + The joy of our old hearts art thou! + And wilt thou die? + + _Ursula._ Not now! not now! + + _Elsie._ Christ died for me, and shall not I + Be willing for my Prince to die? + You both are silent; you cannot speak. + This said I, at our Saviour’s feast, + After confession to the priest, + And even he made no reply. + Does he not warn us all to seek + The happier, better land on high, + Where flowers immortal never wither; + And could he forbid me to go thither? + + _Gottlieb._ In God’s own time, my heart’s delight! + When he shall call thee, not before! + + _Elsie._ I heard him call. When Christ ascended + Triumphantly, from star to star, + He left the gates of heaven ajar. + I had a vision in the night, + And saw him standing at the door + Of his Father’s mansion, vast and splendid, + And beckoning to me from afar. + I cannot stay! + + _Gottlieb._ She speaks almost + As if it were the Holy Ghost + Spake through her lips, and in her stead! + What if this were of God? + + _Ursula._ Ah, then + Gainsay dare we not. + + _Gottlieb._ Amen! + Elsie! the words that thou hast said + Are strange and new for us to hear, + And fill our hearts with doubt and fear. + Whether it be a dark temptation + Of the Evil One, or God’s inspiration, + We in our blindness cannot say. + We must think upon it, and pray; + For evil and good it both resembles. + If it be of God, his will be done! + May he guard us from the Evil One! + How hot thy hand is! how it trembles! + Go to thy bed, and try to sleep. + + _Ursula._ Kiss me. Good night; and do not weep. + + [ELSIE _goes out_.] + + Ah, what an awful thing is this! + I almost shuddered at her kiss, + As if a ghost had touched my cheek, + I am so childish and so weak! + As soon as I see the earliest grey + Of morning glimmer in the east, + I will go over to the priest, + And hear what the good man has to say! + + _A village church. A woman kneeling at the Confessional._ + + _The Parish Priest_ (_from within_). Go, sin no more! + Thy penance o’er, + A new and better life begin! + God maketh thee for ever free + From the dominion of thy sin! + Go, sin no more! He will restore + The peace that filled thy heart before, + And pardon thine iniquity! + + [_The woman goes out. The Priest comes forth, and walks slowly + up and down the church._] + + O blessed Lord! how much I need + Thy light to guide me on my way! + So many hands, that, without heed, + Still touch thy wounds, and make them bleed! + So many feet that, day by day, + Still wander from thy fold astray! + Unless thou fill me with thy light, + I cannot lead thy flock aright; + Nor, without thy support, can bear + The burden of so great a care, + But am myself a castaway! + + [_A pause._] + + The day is drawing to its close; + And what good deeds, since first it rose, + Have I presented, Lord, to thee, + As offerings of my ministry? + What wrong repressed, what right maintained, + What struggle passed, what victory gained, + What good attempted and attained? + Feeble, at best, is my endeavour! + I see, but cannot reach, the height + That lies for ever in the light; + And yet for ever, and for ever, + When seeming just within my grasp, + I feel my feeble hands unclasp, + And sink discouraged into night! + For thine own purpose thou hast sent + The strife and the discouragement! + + [_A pause._] + + Why stayest thou, Prince of Hoheneck? + Why keep me pacing to and fro + Amid these aisles of sacred gloom, + Counting my footsteps as I go, + And marking with each step a tomb? + Why should the world for thee make room, + And wait thy leisure and thy beck? + Thou comest in the hope to hear + Some word of comfort and of cheer. + What can I say? I cannot give + The counsel to do this and live; + But rather, firmly to deny + The tempter, though his power be strong, + And, inaccessible to wrong, + Still like a martyr live and die! + + [_A pause._] + + The evening air grows dusk and brown; + I must go forth into the town, + To visit beds of pain and death, + Of restless limbs and quivering breath, + And sorrowing hearts, and patient eyes + That see, through tears, the sun go down, + But never more shall see it rise. + The poor, in body and estate, + The sick and the disconsolate, + Must not on man’s convenience wait. + + [_Goes out._] + + _Enter_ _Lucifer_, _as a Priest_. + + _Lucifer_ (_with a genuflection, mocking_). + This is the Black Pater-noster. + God was my foster. + He fostered me + Under the book of the Palm-tree! + St. Michael was my dame. + He was born at Bethlehem, + He was made of flesh and blood. + God send me my right food, + My right food, and shelter too, + That I may to yon kirk go, + To read upon yon sweet book + Which the mighty God of heaven shook. + Open, open, hell’s gates! + Shut, shut, heaven’s gates! + All the devils in the air + The stronger be, that hear the Black Prayer! + + [_Looking round the church._] + + What a darksome and dismal place! + I wonder that any man has the face + To call such a hole the House of the Lord, + And the Gate of Heaven,—yet such is the word. + Ceiling and walls, and windows old, + Covered with cobwebs, blackened with mould; + Dust on the pulpit, dust on the stairs, + Dust on the benches, and stalls, and chairs! + The pulpit, from which such ponderous sermons + Have fallen down on the brains of the Germans, + With about as much real edification + As if a great Bible, bound in lead, + Had fallen and struck them on the head; + And I ought to remember that sensation! + Here stands the holy-water stoup! + Holy-water it may be to many, + But to me, the veriest Liquor Gehennæ! + It smells like a filthy fast-day soup! + Near it stands the box for the poor; + With its iron padlock safe and sure. + I and the priest of the parish know + Whither all these charities go; + Therefore, to keep up the institution, + I will add my little contribution! + + [_He puts in money._] + + Underneath this mouldering tomb, + With statue of stone, and scutcheon of brass, + Slumbers a great lord of the village. + All his life was riot and pillage, + But at length, to escape the threatened doom + Of the everlasting, penal fire, + He died in the dress of a mendicant friar, + And bartered his wealth for a daily mass. + But all that afterwards came to pass, + And whether he finds it dull or pleasant, + Is kept a secret for the present, + At his own particular desire. + + And here, in a corner of the wall, + Shadowy, silent, apart from all, + With its awful portal open wide, + And its latticed windows on either side, + And its step well worn by the bended knees + Of one or two pious centuries, + Stands the village confessional! + Within it, as an honoured guest, + I will sit me down awhile and rest! + + [_Seats himself in the Confessional._] + + Here sits the priest; and faint and low, + Like the sighing of an evening breeze, + Comes through these painted lattices + The ceaseless sound of human woe; + Here, while her bosom aches and throbs + With deep and agonizing sobs, + That half are passion, half contrition, + The luckless daughter of perdition + Slowly confesses her secret shame! + The time, the place, the lover’s name! + Here the grim murderer, with a groan, + From his bruised conscience rolls the stone, + Thinking that thus he can atone + For ravages of sword and flame! + Indeed, I marvel, and marvel greatly, + How a priest can sit here so sedately, + Reading, the whole year out and in, + Naught but the catalogue of sin, + And still keep any faith whatever + In human virtue! Never! never! + + I cannot repeat a thousandth part + Of the horrors and crimes and sins and woes + That arise, when with palpitating throes + The graveyard in the human heart + Gives up its dead, at the voice of the priest, + As if he were an archangel, at least. + It makes a peculiar atmosphere, + This odour of earthly passions and crimes, + Such as I like to breathe, at times, + And such as often brings me here + In the hottest and most pestilential season. + To-day I come for another reason; + To foster and ripen an evil thought + In a heart that is almost to madness wrought, + And to make a murderer out of a prince, + A sleight of hand I learned long since! + He comes. In the twilight he will not see + The difference between his priest and me! + In the same net was the mother caught! + + PRINCE HENRY, _entering and kneeling at the Confessional_. + + Remorseful, penitent, and lowly, + I come to crave, O Father holy, + Thy benediction on my head. + + _Lucifer._ The benediction shall be said + After confession, not before! + ’Tis a God-speed to the parting guest, + Who stands already at the door, + Sandalled with holiness, and dressed + In garments pure from earthly stain. + Meanwhile, hast thou searched well thy breast? + Does the same madness fill thy brain? + Or have thy passion and unrest + Vanished for ever from thy mind? + + _Prince Henry._ By the same madness still made blind, + By the same passion still possessed, + I come again to the house of prayer, + A man afflicted and distressed! + As in a cloudy atmosphere, + Through unseen sluices of the air, + A sudden and impetuous wind + Strikes the great forest white with fear, + And every branch, and bough, and spray + Points all its quivering leaves one way, + And meadows of grass, and fields of grain, + And the clouds above, and the slanting rain, + And smoke from chimneys of the town, + Yield themselves to it, and bow down, + So does this dreadful purpose press + Onward, with irresistible stress, + And all my thoughts and faculties, + Struck level by the strength of this, + From their true inclination turn, + And all stream forward to Salern! + + _Lucifer._ Alas! we are but eddies of dust, + Uplifted by the blast, and whirled + Along the highway of the world + A moment only, then to fall + Back to a common level all, + At the subsiding of the gust! + + _Prince Henry._ O holy Father! pardon in me + The oscillation of a mind + Unsteadfast, and that cannot find + Its centre of rest and harmony! + For evermore before mine eyes + This ghastly phantom flits and flies, + And as a madman through a crowd + With frantic gestures and wild cries, + It hurries onward, and aloud + Repeats its awful prophecies! + Weakness is wretchedness! To be strong + Is to be happy! I am weak, + And cannot find the good I seek, + Because I feel and fear the wrong! + + _Lucifer._ Be not alarmed! The Church is kind, + And in her mercy and her meekness + She meets half-way her children’s weakness, + Writes their transgressions in the dust! + Though in the Decalogue we find + The mandate written, “Thou shalt not kill!” + Yet there are cases when we must. + In war, for instance, or from scathe + To guard and keep the one true Faith! + We must look at the Decalogue in the light + Of an ancient statute, that was meant + For a mild and general application, + To be understood with the reservation, + That, in certain instances, the Right + Must yield to the Expedient! + Thou art a Prince. If thou shouldst die, + What hearts and hopes would prostrate lie! + What noble deeds, what fair renown, + Into the grave with thee go down! + What acts of valour and courtesy + Remain undone, and die with thee! + Thou art the last of all thy race! + With thee a noble name expires, + And vanishes from the earth’s face + The glorious memory of thy sires! + She is a peasant. In her veins + Flows common and plebeian blood; + It is such as daily and hourly stains + The dust and the turf of battle plains, + By vassals shed, in a crimson flood, + Without reserve, and without reward, + At the slightest summons of their lord! + But thine is precious; the fore-appointed + Blood of kings, of God’s anointed! + Moreover, what has the world in store + For one like her, but tears and toil? + Daughter of sorrow, serf of the soil, + A peasant’s child and a peasant’s wife, + And her soul within her sick and sore + With the roughness and barrenness of life! + I marvel not at the heart’s recoil + From a fate like this in one so tender, + Nor at its eagerness to surrender + All the wretchedness, want, and woe + That await it in this world below, + For the unutterable splendour + Of the world of rest beyond the skies. + So the Church sanctions the sacrifice: + Therefore inhale this healing balm, + And breathe this fresh life into thine; + Accept the comfort and the calm + She offers, as a gift divine; + Let her fall down and anoint thy feet + With the ointment costly and most sweet + Of her young blood, and thou shalt live. + + _Prince Henry._ And will the righteous Heaven forgive? + No action, whether foul or fair, + Is ever done, but it leaves somewhere + A record, written by fingers ghostly, + As a blessing or a curse, and mostly + In the greater weakness or greater strength + Of the acts which follow it, till at length + The wrongs of ages are redressed, + And the justice of God made manifest! + + _Lucifer._ In ancient records it is stated + That, whenever an evil deed is done, + Another devil is created + To scourge and torment the offending one! + But evil is only good perverted, + And Lucifer, the Bearer of Light, + But an angel fallen and deserted, + Thrust from his Father’s house with a curse + Into the black and endless night. + + _Prince Henry._ If justice rules the universe, + From the good actions of good men + Angels of light should be begotten, + And thus the balance restored again. + + _Lucifer._ Yes; if the world were not so rotten, + And so given over to the Devil! + + _Prince Henry._ But this deed, is it good or evil? + Have I thine absolution free + To do it, and without restriction? + + _Lucifer._ Ay! and from whatsoever sin + Lieth around it and within + From all crimes in which it may involve thee, + I now release thee and absolve thee! + + _Prince Henry._ Give me thy holy benediction. + + _Lucifer_ (_stretching forth his hand and muttering_). + + Maledictione perpetua + Maledicat vos + Pater eternus! + + _The_ ANGEL, _with the Æolian harp_. + + Take heed! take heed! + Noble art thou in thy birth, + By the good and the great of earth + Hast thou been taught! + Be noble in every thought + And in every deed! + Let not the illusion of thy senses + Betray thee to deadly offences. + Be strong! be good! be pure! + The right only shall endure, + All things else are but false pretences. + I entreat thee, I implore, + Listen no more + To the suggestions of an evil spirit + That even now is there, + Making the foul seem fair, + And selfishness itself a virtue and a merit! + + _A room in the Farmhouse._ + + _Gottlieb._ It is decided! for many days, + And nights as many, we have had + A nameless terror in our breast, + Making us timid, and afraid + Of God, and his mysterious ways! + We have been sorrowful and sad; + Much have we suffered, much have prayed + That he would lead us as is best, + And show us what his will required. + It is decided; and we give + Our child, O Prince, that you may live! + + _Ursula._ It is of God. He has inspired + This purpose in her; and through pain, + Out of a world of sin and woe, + He takes her to himself again. + The mother’s heart resists no longer; + With the Angel of the Lord in vain + It wrestled, for he was the stronger. + + _Gottlieb._ As Abraham offered long ago + His son unto the Lord, and even + The everlasting Father in heaven + Gave his, as a lamb unto the slaughter, + So do I offer up my daughter. + + [URSULA _hides her face_.] + + _Elsie._ My life is little, + Only a cup of water, + But pure and limpid. + Take it, O my Prince! + Let it refresh you, + Let it restore you. + It is given willingly, + It is given freely; + May God bless the gift! + + _Prince Henry._ And the giver! + + _Gottlieb._ Amen! + + _Prince Henry._ I accept it! + + _Gottlieb._ Where are the children? + + _Ursula._ They are already asleep. + + _Gottlieb._ What if they were dead? + + _In the garden._ + + _Elsie._ I have one thing to ask of you. + + _Prince Henry._ What is it? + It is already granted. + + _Elsie._ Promise me, + When we are gone from here, and on our way + Are journeying to Salerno, you will not, + By word or deed, endeavour to dissuade me + And turn me from my purpose, but remember + That as a pilgrim to the Holy City + Walks unmolested, and with thoughts of pardon + Occupied wholly, so would I approach + The gates of Heaven, in this great jubilee, + With my petition, putting off from me + All thoughts of earth, as shoes from off my feet. + Promise me this. + + _Prince Henry._ Thy words fall from thy lips + Like roses from the lips of Angelo: and angels + Might stoop to pick them up! + + _Elsie._ Will you not promise? + + _Prince Henry._ If ever we depart upon this journey, + So long to one or both of us, I promise. + + _Elsie._ Shall we not go, then? Have you lifted me + Into the air, only to hurl me back + Wounded upon the ground? and offered me + The waters of eternal life, to bid me + Drink the polluted puddles of this world? + + _Prince Henry._ O Elsie! what a lesson thou dost teach me! + The life which is, and that which is to come, + Suspended hang in such nice equipoise, + A breath disturbs the balance; and that scale + In which we throw our hearts preponderates, + And the other, like an empty one, flies up + And is accounted vanity and air! + To me the thought of death is terrible, + Having such hold on life. To thee it is not + So much even as the lifting of a latch; + Only a step into the open air + Out of a tent already luminous + With light that shines through its transparent walls. + O pure in heart! from thy sweet dust shall grow + Lilies, upon whose petals will be written + “Ave Maria” in characters of gold! + +III. + +_A street in Strasburg. Night._ PRINCE HENRY _wandering alone, wrapped +in a cloak_. + + _Prince Henry._ Still is the night. The sound of feet + Has died away from the empty street; + And like an artisan, bending down + His head on his anvil, the dark town + Sleeps, with a slumber deep and sweet. + Sleepless and restless, I alone, + In the dusk and damp of these walls of stone, + Wander and weep in my remorse! + + _Crier of the Dead_ (_ringing a bell_). + + Wake! wake! + All ye that sleep! + Pray for the Dead! + Pray for the Dead! + + _Prince Henry._ Hark! with what accents loud and hoarse + This warder on the walls of death + Sends forth the challenge of his breath! + I see the dead that sleep in the grave! + They rise up, and their garments wave, + Dimly and spectral, as they rise + With the light of another world in their eyes! + + _Crier of the Dead._ + + Wake! wake! + All ye that sleep! + Pray for the Dead! + Pray for the Dead! + + _Prince Henry._ Why for the dead, who are at rest? + Pray for the living, in whose breast + The struggle between right and wrong + Is raging terrible and strong, + As when good angels war with devils! + This is the Master of the Revels, + Who, at Life’s flowing feast, proposes + The health of absent friends, and pledges, + Not in bright goblets crowned with roses, + And tinkling as we touch their edges, + But with his dismal, tinkling bell, + That mocks and mimics their funeral knell! + + _Crier of the Dead._ + + Wake! wake! + All ye that sleep! + Pray for the Dead! + Pray for the Dead! + + _Prince Henry._ Wake not, belovèd! be thy sleep + Silent as night is, and as deep! + There walks a sentinel at thy gate + Whose heart is heavy and desolate, + And the heavings of whose bosom number + The respirations of thy slumber, + As if some strange, mysterious fate + Had linked two hearts in one, and mine + Went madly wheeling about thine, + Only with wider and wilder sweep! + + _Crier of the Dead_ (_at a distance_). + + Wake! wake! + All ye that sleep! + Pray for the Dead! + Pray for the Dead! + + _Prince Henry._ Lo! with what depth of blackness thrown + Against the clouds, far up the skies + The walls of the cathedral rise, + Like a mysterious grove of stone, + With fitful lights and shadows blending, + As from behind, the moon, ascending, + Lights its dim isles and paths unknown! + The wind is rising; but the boughs + Rise not and fall not with the wind + That through their foliage sobs and soughs; + Only the cloudy rack behind, + Drifting onward, wild and ragged, + Gives to each spire and buttress jagged + A seeming motion undefined. + Below on the square, an armed knight, + Still as a statue and as white, + Sits on his steed, and the moonbeams quiver + Upon the points of his armour bright + As on the ripples of a river. + He lifts the visor from his cheek, + And beckons, and makes as he would speak. + + _Walter_ (_the Minnesinger_). Friend! can you tell me + where alight + Thuringia’s horsemen for the night? + For I have lingered in the rear, + And wander vainly up and down. + + _Prince Henry._ I am a stranger in the town, + As thou art; but the voice I hear + Is not a stranger to mine ear. + Thou art Walter of the Vogelweid! + + _Walter._ Thou hast guessed rightly, and thy name + Is Henry of Hoheneck! + + _Prince Henry._ Ay, the same. + + _Walter_ (_embracing him_). Come closer, closer to + my side! + What brings thee hither? What potent charm + Has drawn thee from thy German farm + Into the old Alsatian city? + + _Prince Henry._ A tale of wonder and of pity! + A wretched man, almost by stealth + Dragging my body to Salern, + In the vain hope and search for health, + And destined never to return. + Already thou hast heard the rest. + But what brings thee, thus armed and dight + In the equipments of a knight? + + _Walter._ Dost thou not see upon my breast + The cross of the Crusaders shine? + My pathway leads to Palestine. + + _Prince Henry._ Ah, would that way were also mine. + O noble poet! thou whose heart + Is like a nest of singing-birds + Rocked on the topmost bough of life. + Wilt thou, too, from our sky depart, + And in the clangour of the strife + Mingle the music of thy words? + + _Walter._ My hopes are high, my heart is proud, + And like a trumpet long and loud, + Thither my thoughts all clang and ring! + My life is in my hand, and lo! + I grasp and bend it as a bow, + And shoot forth from its trembling string + An arrow, that shall be, perchance, + Like the arrow of the Israelite king + Shot from the window toward the east, + That of the Lord’s deliverance! + + _Prince Henry._ My life, alas! is what thou seest. + O enviable fate! to be + Strong, beautiful, and armed like thee + With lyre and sword, with song and steel; + A hand to smite, a heart to feel! + Thy heart, thy hand, thy lyre, thy sword, + Thou givest all unto thy Lord; + While I, so mean and abject grown, + Am thinking of myself alone. + + _Walter._ Be patient: Time will reinstate + Thy health and fortunes. + + _Prince Henry._ ’Tis too late! + I cannot strive against my fate! + + _Walter._ Come with me; for my steed is weary; + Our journey has been long and dreary, + And, dreaming of his stall, he dints + With his impatient hoofs the flints. + + _Prince Henry_ (_aside_). I am ashamed, in my + disgrace, + To look into that noble face! + To-morrow, Walter, let it be. + + _Walter._ To-morrow, at the dawn of day, + I shall again be on my way. + Come with me to the hostelry, + For I have many things to say. + Our journey into Italy + Perchance together we may make; + Wilt thou not do it for my sake? + + _Prince Henry._ A sick man’s pace would but impede + Thine eager and impatient speed. + Besides, my pathway leads me round + To Hirschau, in the forest’s bound, + Where I assemble man and steed, + And all things for my journey’s need. + + [_They go out._] + + _Lucifer_ (_flying over the city_). Sleep, sleep, + O city! till the light + Wakes you to sin and crime again, + Whilst on your dreams, like dismal rain, + I scatter downward through the night + My maledictions dark and deep. + I have more martyrs in your walls + Than God has; and they cannot sleep; + They are my bondsmen and my thralls; + Their wretched lives are full of pain, + Wild agonies of nerve and brain; + And every heart-beat, every breath, + Is a convulsion worse than death! + Sleep, sleep, O city! though within + The circuit of your walls there lies + No habitation free from sin, + And all its nameless misery; + The aching heart, the aching head, + Grief for the living and the dead, + And foul corruption of the time, + Disease, distress, and want, and woe, + And crimes, and passions that may grow + Until they ripen into crime! + +_Square in front of the Cathedral. Easter Sunday._ FRIAR CUTHBERT +_preaching to the crowd from pulpit in the open air_. PRINCE HENRY +_and_ ELSIE _crossing the square_. + + _Prince Henry._ This is the day when from the dead + Our Lord arose; and everywhere, + Out of their darkness and despair, + Triumphant over fears and foes, + The hearts of his disciples rose, + When to the women, standing near, + The Angel in shining vesture said, + “The Lord is risen; he is not here!” + And, mindful that the day is come, + On all the hearths in Christendom + The fires are quenched, to be again + Rekindled from the sun, that high + Is dancing in the cloudless sky. + The churches are all decked with flowers, + The salutations among men + Are but the Angel’s words divine, + “Christ is arisen!” and the bells + Catch the glad murmur, as it swells, + And chant together in their towers. + All hearts are glad; and free from care + The faces of the people shine. + See what a crowd is in the square, + Gaily and gallantly arrayed! + + _Elsie._ Let us go back; I am afraid! + + _Prince Henry._ Nay, let us mount the church-steps here, + Under the doorway’s sacred shadow; + We can see all things, and be freer + From the crowd that madly heaves and presses! + + _Elsie._ What a gay pageant! what bright dresses! + It looks like a flower-besprinkled meadow. + What is that yonder on the square? + + _Prince Henry._ A pulpit in the open air, + And a Friar, who is preaching to the crowd + In a voice so deep and clear and loud, + That, if we listen, and give heed, + His lowest words will reach the ear. + + _Friar Cuthbert_ (_gesticulating and cracking a + postilion’s whip_). + + What ho! good people! do you not hear? + Dashing along at the top of his speed, + Booted and spurred, on his jaded steed, + A courier comes with words of cheer. + Courier! what is the news, I pray? + “Christ is arisen!” Whence come you? “From Court.” + Then I do not believe it; you say it in sport. + + [_Cracks his whip again._] + + Ah, here comes another, riding this way; + We soon shall know what he has to say. + Courier! what are the tidings to-day? + “Christ is arisen!” Whence come you? “From town.” + Then I do not believe it; away with you, clown. + + [_Cracks his whip more violently._] + + And here comes a third, who is spurring amain. + What news do you bring, with your loose-hanging rein, + Your spurs wet with blood, and your bridle with foam? + “Christ is arisen!” Whence come you? “From Rome.” + Ah, now I believe. He is risen, indeed. + Ride on with the news, at the top of your speed! + + [_Great applause among the Crowd._] + + To come back to my text![36] When the news was first spread + That Christ was arisen indeed from the dead, + Very great was the joy of the angels in heaven; + And as great the dispute as to who should carry + The tidings thereof to the Virgin Mary, + Pierced to the heart with sorrows seven. + Old father Adam was first to propose, + As being the author of all our woes; + But he was refused, for fear, said they, + He would stop to eat apples on the way! + Abel came next, but petitioned in vain, + Because he might meet with his brother Cain! + Noah, too, was refused, lest his weakness for wine + Should delay him at every tavern-sign; + And John the Baptist could not get a vote, + On account of his old-fashioned, camel’s-hair coat; + And the Penitent Thief, who died on the cross, + Was reminded that all his bones were broken! + Till at last, when each in turn had spoken, + The company being still at a loss, + The Angel, who rolled away the stone, + Was sent to the sepulchre, all alone, + And filled with glory that gloomy prison, + And said to the Virgin, “The Lord is arisen!” + +[36] See Appendix. + + [_The Cathedral bells ring._] + + But hark! the bells are beginning to chime; + And I feel that I am growing hoarse. + I will put an end to my discourse, + And leave the rest for some other time. + For the bells themselves are the best of preachers; + Their brazen lips are learned teachers, + From their pulpits of stone, in the upper air, + Sounding aloft, without crack or flaw, + Shriller than trumpets under the Law, + Now a sermon, and now a prayer. + The clangorous hammer is the tongue, + This way, that way beaten and swung, + That from Mouth of Brass, as from Mouth of Gold, + May be taught the Testaments, New and Old. + And above it the great cross-beam of wood + Representeth the Holy Rood, + Upon which, like the bell, our hopes are hung. + And the wheel wherewith it is swayed and rung + Is the mind of man, that round and round + Sways and maketh the tongue to sound! + And the rope, with its twisted cordage three, + Denoteth the Scriptural Trinity + Of Morals, and Symbols, and History; + And the upward and downward motions show + That we touch upon matters high and low; + And the constant change and transmutation + Of action and of contemplation, + Downward, the Scripture brought from on high, + Upward, exalted again to the sky; + Downward, the literal interpretation, + Upward, the Vision and Mystery! + + And now, my hearers, to make an end, + I have only one word more to say; + In the church, in honour of Easter Day, + Will be represented a Miracle-Play; + And I hope you will all have the grace to attend. + Christ bring us at last to his felicity! + Pax vobiscum! et Benedicite! + + +_In the Cathedral._ + + CHANT. + + Kyrie Eleison! + Christe Eleison! + + _Elsie._ I am at home here in my Father’s house! + These paintings of the Saints upon the walls + Have all familiar and benignant faces. + + _Prince Henry._ The portraits of the family of God! + Thine own hereafter shall be placed among them. + + _Elsie._ How very grand it is and wonderful! + Never have I beheld a church so splendid! + Such columns, and such arches, and such windows, + So many tombs and statues in the chapels, + And under them so many confessionals. + They must be for the rich. I should not like + To tell my sins in such a church as this. + Who built it? + + _Prince Henry._ A great master of his craft, + Erwin von Steinbach; but not he alone, + For many generations laboured with him, + Children that came to see these Saints in stone, + As day by day out of the blocks they rose, + Grew old and died, and still the work went on, + And on, and on, and is not yet completed. + The generation that succeeds our own + Perhaps may finish it. The architect + Built his great heart into these sculptured stones, + And with him toiled his children, and their lives + Were builded, with his own, into the walls, + As offerings unto God. You see that statue + Fixing its joyous, but deep-wrinkled eyes + Upon the Pillar of the Angels yonder. + That is the image of the master, carved + By the fair hand of his own child, Sabina. + + _Elsie._ How beautiful is the column that he looks at! + + _Prince Henry._ That, too, she sculptured. At the base of it + Stand the Evangelists; above their heads + Four Angels blowing upon marble trumpets, + And over them the blessed Christ, surrounded + By his attendant ministers, upholding + The instruments of his passion. + + _Elsie._ O my Lord! + Would I could leave behind me upon earth + Some monument to thy glory, such as this! + + _Prince Henry._ A greater monument than this thou leavest + In thine own life, all purity and love! + See, too, the Rose, above the western portal + Resplendent with a thousand gorgeous colours, + The perfect flower of Gothic loveliness! + + _Elsie._ And, in the gallery, the long line of statues, + Christ with his twelve Apostles watching us. + +[_A_ BISHOP _in armour, booted and spurred, passes with his train_.] + + _Prince Henry._ But come away; we have not time to look. + The crowd already fills the church, and yonder, + Upon a stage, a herald with a trumpet, + Clad like the Angel Gabriel, proclaims + The Mystery that will now be represented. + + + + +_The Nativity._ + + +A MIRACLE-PLAY.[37] + +[37] A singular chapter in the history of the Middle Ages is that which +gives account of the early Christian Drama, the Mysteries, Moralities, +and Miracle-Plays, which were at first performed in churches, and +afterwards in the streets, on fixed or moveable stages. For the most +part the Mysteries were founded on the historic portions of the Old +and New Testaments, and the Miracle-Plays on the lives of saints; +a distinction not always observed, however, for in Mr. Wright’s +_Early Mysteries and other Latin Poems of the Twelfth and Thirteenth +Centuries_, the Resurrection of Lazarus is called a Miracle, and not a +Mystery. The Moralities were plays, in which the Virtues and Vices were +personified. See Appendix. + + +INTROITUS. + + _Præco._ Come, good people, all and each + Come and listen to our speech! + In your presence here I stand, + With a trumpet in my hand, + To announce the Easter Play, + Which we represent to-day. + First of all, we shall rehearse, + In our action and our verse, + The Nativity of our Lord, + As written in the old record + Of the Protevangelion, + So that he who reads may run! + + [_Blows his trumpet._] + + +I. HEAVEN. + + _Mercy_ (_at the feet of God_). Have pity, Lord! be + not afraid + To save mankind, whom thou hast made, + Nor let the souls that were betrayed + Perish eternally! + + _Justice._ It cannot be, it must not be! + When in the garden placed by thee, + The fruit of the forbidden tree + He ate, and he must die! + + _Mercy._ Have pity, Lord! let penitence + Atone for disobedience, + Nor let the fruit of man’s offence + Be endless misery! + + _Justice._ What penitence proportionate + Can e’er be felt for sin so great? + Of the forbidden fruit he ate, + And damnèd must he be! + + _God._ He shall be saved, if that within + The bounds of earth one free from sin + Be found, who for his kith and kin + Will suffer martyrdom. + + _The Four Virtues._ Lord! we have searched the world around, + From centre to the utmost bound, + But no such mortal can be found; + Despairing, back we come. + + _Wisdom._ No mortal, but a God-made man, + Can ever carry out this plan, + Achieving what none other can, + Salvation unto all! + + _God._ Go, then, O my beloved Son! + It can by thee alone be done; + By thee the victory shall be won + O’er Satan and the Fall! + +[_Here the_ ANGEL GABRIEL _shall leave Paradise and fly towards the +earth; the jaws of Hell open below, and the Devils walk about, making a +great noise_.] + + +II. MARY AT THE WELL. + + _Mary._ Along the garden walk, and thence + Through the wicket in the garden fence, + I steal with quiet pace, + My pitcher at the well to fill, + That lies so deep and cool and still + In this sequestered place. + These sycamores keep guard around; + I see no face, I hear no sound, + Save bubblings of the spring, + And my companions, who within + The threads of gold and scarlet spin, + And at their labour sing. + + _The Angel Gabriel._ Hail, Virgin Mary, full of grace! + + [_Here_ MARY _looketh around her, trembling, + and then saith_.] + + _Mary._ Who is it speaketh in this place, + With such a gentle voice? + + _Gabriel._ The Lord of heaven is with thee now! + Blessed among all women thou, + Who art his holy choice! + + _Mary_ (_setting down the pitcher_). + What can this mean? No one is near, + And yet such sacred words I hear, + I almost fear to stay. + + [_Here the_ ANGEL, _appearing to her, shall say_.] + + _Gabriel._ Fear not, O Mary! but believe! + For thou, a Virgin, shalt conceive + A child this very day. + + Fear not, O Mary! from the sky + The Majesty of the Most High + Shall overshadow thee! + + _Mary._ Behold the handmaid of the Lord! + According to thy holy word, + So be it unto me! + + [_Here the Devils shall again make a great noise under the + stage._] + + +III. THE ANGELS OF THE SEVEN PLANETS, BEARING THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. + + _The Angels._ The Angels of the Planets Seven, + Across the shining fields of heaven + The natal star we bring! + Dropping our sevenfold virtues down, + As priceless jewels in the crown + Of Christ, our new-born King. + + _Raphael._ I am the Angel of the Sun, + Whose flaming wheels began to run + When God’s almighty breath + Said to the Darkness and the Night, + Let there be light! and there was light! + I bring the gift of Faith. + + _Gabriel._ I am the Angel of the Moon, + Darkened, to be rekindled soon + Beneath the azure cope! + Nearest to earth, it is my ray + That best illumes the midnight way. + I bring the gift of Hope! + + _Angel._ The Angel of the Star of Love, + The Evening Star, that shines above + The place where lovers be, + Above all happy hearths and homes, + On roofs of thatch, or golden domes, + I give him Charity! + + _Zobiachel._ The Planet Jupiter is mine! + The mightiest star of all that shine, + Except the sun alone! + He is the High Priest of the Dove, + And sends, from his great throne above, + Justice, that shall atone! + + _Michael._ The Planet Mercury, whose place + Is nearest to the sun in space, + Is my allotted sphere! + And with celestial ardour swift + I bear upon my hands the gift + Of heavenly Prudence here! + + _Uriel._ I am the Minister of Mars, + The strongest star among the stars! + My songs of power prelude + The march and battle of man’s life, + And for the suffering and the strife, + I give him Fortitude! + + _Orifel._ The Angel of the uttermost + Of all the shining, heavenly host, + From the far-off expanse + Of the Saturnian, endless space + I bring the last, the crowning grace, + The gift of Temperance! + + [_A sudden light shines from the windows + of the stable in the village below._] + + +IV. THE WISE MEN OF THE EAST. + +_The stable of the Inn. The_ VIRGIN _and_ CHILD. _Three Gipsy Kings_, +GASPAR, MELCHIOR, _and_ BELSHAZZAR, _shall come in_. + + _Gaspar._ Hail to thee, Jesus of Nazareth! + Though in a manger thou drawest thy breath, + Thou art greater than Life and Death, + Greater than Joy or Woe! + This cross upon the line of life + Portendeth struggle, toil, and strife, + And through a region with peril rife + In darkness shalt thou go! + + _Melchior._ Hail to thee, King of Jerusalem! + Though humbly born in Bethlehem, + A sceptre and a diadem + Await thy brow and hand! + The sceptre is a simple reed, + The crown will make thy temples bleed, + And in thy hour of greatest need, + Abashed thy subjects stand! + + _Belshazzar._ Hail to thee, Christ of Christendom! + O’er all the earth thy kingdom come! + From distant Trebizond to Rome + Thy name shall men adore! + Peace and good-will among all men, + The Virgin has returned again, + Returned the old Saturnian reign + And Golden Age once more. + + _The Child Christ._ Jesus, the Son of God, am I, + Born here to suffer and to die + According to the prophecy, + That other men may live! + + _The Virgin._ And now these clothes, that wrapped him, take, + And keep them precious, for his sake, + Our benediction thus we make, + Naught else have we to give. + + [_She gives them swaddling-clothes, and they depart._] + + +V. THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT. + +[_Here shall_ JOSEPH _come in, leading an ass, on which are seated_ +MARY _and the_ CHILD.] + + _Mary._ Here will we rest us under these + O’erhanging branches of the trees, + Where robins chant their Litanies, + And canticles of Joy. + + _Joseph._ My saddle-girths have given way + With trudging through the heat to-day; + To you I think it is but play + To ride and hold the boy. + + _Mary._ Hark! how the robins shout and sing, + As if to hail their infant King! + I will alight at yonder spring + To wash his little coat. + + _Joseph._ And I will hobble well the ass, + Lest, being loose upon the grass, + He should escape; for, by the mass, + He is nimble as a goat. + + [_Here_ MARY _shall alight and go to the spring_.] + + _Mary._ O Joseph! I am much afraid, + For men are sleeping in the shade; + I fear that we shall be waylaid, + And robbed and beaten sore! + + [_Here a band of robbers shall be seen sleeping, + two of whom shall rise and come forward._] + + _Dumachus._ Cock’s soul! deliver up your gold! + + _Joseph._ I pray you, Sirs, let go your hold! + You see that I am weak and old, + Of wealth I have no store. + + Dumachus. Give up your money! + + _Titus._ Prithee cease. + Let these good people go in peace. + + _Dumachus._ First let them pay for their release, + And then go on their way. + + _Titus._ These forty groats I give in fee, + If thou wilt only silent be. + + _Mary._ May God be merciful to thee + Upon the Judgment Day! + + _Jesus._ When thirty years shall have gone by, + I at Jerusalem shall die, + By Jewish hands exalted high + On the accursed tree. + Then on my right and my left side, + These thieves shall both be crucified, + And Titus thenceforth shall abide + In paradise with me. + +[_Here a great rumour of trumpets and horses, like the noise of a king +with his army, and the robbers shall take flight._] + + +VI. THE SLAUGHTER OF THE INNOCENTS. + + _King Herod._ Potz-tausend! Himmel-sacrament! + Filled am I with great wonderment + At this unwelcome news! + Am I not Herod? Who shall dare + My crown to take, my sceptre bear, + As king among the Jews! + + [_Here he shall stride up and down and flourish his sword._] + + What ho! I fain would drink a can + Of the strong wine of Canaan! + The wine of Helbon bring, + I purchased at the Fair of Tyre, + As red as blood, as hot as fire, + And fit for any king! + + [_He quaffs great goblets of wine._] + + Now at the window will I stand, + While in the street the armed band + The little children slay: + The babe just born in Bethlehem + Will surely slaughtered be with them, + Nor live another day! + + [_Here a voice of lamentation shall be heard in the street._] + + _Rachel._ O wicked king! O cruel speed! + To do this most unrighteous deed! + My children are all slain! + + _Herod._ Ho, seneschal! another cup! + With wine of Sorek fill it up! + I would a bumper drain! + + _Rahab._ May maledictions fall and blast + Thyself and lineage, to the last + Of all thy kith and kin! + + _Herod._ Another goblet! quick! and stir + Pomegranate juice and drops of myrrh + And calamus therein! + + _Soldiers_ (_in the street_). + Give up thy child into our hands! + It is King Herod who commands + That he should thus be slain! + + _The Nurse Medusa._ O monstrous men! What have ye done! + It is King Herod’s only son + That ye have cleft in twain! + + _Herod._ Ah, luckless day! What words of fear + Are these that smite upon my ear + With such a doleful sound! + What torments rack my heart and head! + Would I were dead! would I were dead! + And buried in the ground! + +[_He falls down and writhes as though eaten by worms. Hell opens, and_ +SATAN _and_ ASTAROTH _come forth and drag him down_.] + + +VII. JESUS AT PLAY WITH HIS SCHOOLMATES. + + _Jesus._ The shower is over. Let us play, + And make some sparrows out of clay, + Down by the river’s side. + + _Judas._ See, how the stream has overflowed + Its banks, and o’er the meadow road + Is spreading far and wide! + +[_They draw water out of the river by channels, and from little pools._ +JESUS _makes twelve sparrows of clay, and the other boys do the same_.] + + _Jesus._ Look! look! how prettily I make + These little sparrows by the lake + Bend down their necks and drink! + Now will I make them sing and soar + So far, they shall return no more + Unto this river’s brink. + + _Judas._ That canst thou not! They are but clay, + They cannot sing, nor fly away + Above the meadow lands! + + _Jesus._ Fly, fly! ye sparrows! ye are free! + And while you live, remember me, + Who made you with my hands. + +[_Here_ JESUS _shall clap his hands, and the sparrows shall fly away, +chirruping_.] + + _Judas._ Thou art a sorcerer, I know; + Oft has my mother told me so, + I will not play with thee! + + [_He strikes_ JESUS _on the right side_.] + + _Jesus._ Ah, Judas! thou hast smote my side, + And when I shall be crucified, + There shall I pierced be! + + [_Here_ JOSEPH _shall come in and say_.] + + _Joseph._ Ye wicked boys! Why do ye play, + And break the holy Sabbath day? + What, think ye, will your mothers say + To see you in such plight! + In such a sweat and such a heat, + With all that mud upon your feet! + There’s not a beggar in the street + Makes such a sorry sight! + + +VIII. THE VILLAGE SCHOOL. + +[_The_ RABBI BEN ISRAEL, _with a long beard, sitting on a high stool, +with a rod in his hand_. + + _Rabbi._ I am the Rabbi Ben Israel, + Throughout this village known full well, + And, as my scholars all will tell, + Learned in things divine; + The Cabala and Talmud hoar + Than all the prophets prize I more, + For water is all Bible lore, + But Mishna is strong wine. + + My fame extends from West to East, + And always, at the Purim feast, + I am as drunk as any beast + That wallows in his sty; + The wine it so elateth me, + That I no difference can see + Between “Accursed Haman be!” + And “Blessed be Mordecai!” + + Come hither, Judas Iscariot. + Say, if thy lesson thou hast got + From the Rabbinical Book or not. + Why howl the dogs at night? + + _Judas._ In the Rabbinical Book, it saith + The dogs howl, when, with icy breath, + Great Sammaël, the Angel of Death, + Takes through the town his flight! + + _Rabbi._ Well, boy! now say, if thou art wise, + When the Angel of Death, who is full of eyes, + Comes where a sick man dying lies, + What doth he to the wight? + + _Judas._ He stands beside him, dark and tall, + Holding a sword from which doth fall + Into his mouth a drop of gall, + And so he turneth white. + + _Rabbi._ And now, my Judas, say to me, + What the great Voices Four may be, + That quite across the world do flee, + And are not heard by men? + + _Judas._ The Voice of the Sun in heaven’s dome, + The Voice of the Murmuring of Rome, + The Voice of a Soul that goeth home, + And the Angel of the Rain! + + _Rabbi._ Right are thine answers every one! + Now, little Jesus, the carpenter’s son, + Let us see how thy task is done. + Canst thou thy letters say? + + _Jesus._ Aleph. + + _Rabbi._ What next! Do not stop yet! + Go on with all the alphabet. + Come, Aleph, Beth; dost thou forget? + Cock’s soul! thou’dst rather play! + + _Jesus._ What Aleph means I fain would know, + Before I any farther go! + + _Rabbi._ O, by St. Peter! wouldst thou so? + Come hither, boy, to me. + As surely as the letter Jod + Once cried aloud, and spake to God, + So surely shalt thou feel this rod, + And punished shalt thou be! + +[_Here_ RABBI BEN ISRAEL _shall lift up his rod to strike_ JESUS, _and +his right arm shall be paralysed_.] + + +IX. CROWNED WITH FLOWERS. + +JESUS _sitting among his playmates, crowned with flowers as their King_. + + _Boys._ We spread our garments on the ground! + With fragrant flowers thy head is crowned, + While like a guard we stand around, + And hail thee as our King! + Thou art the new King of the Jews! + Nor let the passers-by refuse + To bring that homage which men use + To majesty to bring. + + [_Here a traveller shall go by, and the boys shall lay hold + of his garments, and say._] + + _Boys._ Come hither! and all reverence pay + Unto our monarch crowned to-day! + Then go rejoicing on your way, + In all prosperity! + + _Traveller._ Hail to the King of Bethlehem, + Who weareth in his diadem + The yellow crocus for the gem + Of his authority! + + [_He passes by; and others come in, bearing on a litter + a sick child._] + + _Boys._ Set down the litter and draw near! + The King of Bethlehem is here! + What ails the child, who seems to fear + That we shall do him harm? + + _The Bearers._ He climbed up to the Robin’s nest, + And out there darted, from his rest, + A serpent with a crimson crest, + And stung him in the arm. + + _Jesus._ Bring him to me, and let me feel + The wounded place; my touch can heal + The sting of serpents, and can steal + The poison from the bite! + + [_He touches the wound, and the boy begins to cry._] + + Cease to lament! I can foresee + That thou hereafter known shall be, + Among the men who follow me, + As Simon the Canaanite! + + +EPILOGUE. + + In the after part of the day + Will be represented another play, + Of the passion of our Blessed Lord, + Beginning directly after Nones! + At the close of which we shall accord, + By way of benison and reward, + The sight of a holy Martyr’s bones! + + +IV. + +_The road to Hirschau._ PRINCE HENRY _and_ ELSIE, _with their +attendants, on horseback_. + + _Elsie._ Onward and onward the highway runs to the distant + city, impatiently bearing + Tidings of human joy and disaster, of love and of hate, of + doing and daring! + + _Prince Henry._ This life of ours is a wild Æolian harp of + many a joyous strain, + But under them all there runs a loud perpetual wail, as of + souls in pain. + + _Elsie._ Faith alone can interpret life, and the heart that + aches and bleeds with the stigma + Of pain, alone bears the likeness of Christ, and can comprehend + its dark enigma. + + _Prince Henry._ Man is selfish, and seeketh pleasure with + little care of what may betide; + Else why am I travelling here beside thee, a demon that rides by + an angel’s side? + + _Elsie._ All the hedges are white with dust, and the great + dog under the creaking wain + Hangs his head in the lazy heat, while onward the horses toil + and strain. + + _Prince Henry._ New they stop at the wayside inn, and the + waggoner laughs with the landlord’s daughter, + While out of the dripping trough the horses distend their + leathern sides with water. + + _Elsie._ All through life there are wayside inns, where man + may refresh his soul with love; + Even the lowest may quench his thirst at rivulets fed by springs + from above. + + _Prince Henry._ Yonder, where rises the cross of stone, our + journey along the highway ends, + And over the fields, by a bridle path, down into the broad green + valley descends. + + _Elsie._ I am not sorry to leave behind the beaten road + with its dust and heat; + The air will be sweeter far, and the turf will be softer under + our horses’ feet. + + [_They turn down a green lane._] + + _Elsie._ Sweet is the air with the budding haws, and the + valley, stretching for miles below, + Is white with blossoming cherry-trees, as if just covered with + lightest snow. + + _Prince Henry._ Over our heads a white cascade is gleaming + against the distant hill; + We cannot hear it, nor see it move, but it hangs like a banner + when winds are still. + + _Elsie._ Damp and cool is this deep ravine, and cool the + sound of the brook by our side! + What is this castle that rises above us, and lords it over a + land so wide? + + _Prince Henry._ It is the home of the Counts of Calva; well + have I known these scenes of old, + Well I remember each tower and turret, remember the brooklet, + the wood, and the wold. + + _Elsie._ Hark! from the little village below us the bells + of the church are ringing for rain! + Priests and peasants in long procession come forth and kneel on + the arid plain. + + _Prince Henry._ They have not long to wait, for I see in + the south uprising a little cloud, + That before the sun shall be set will cover the sky above us as + with a shroud. + + [_They pass on._] + +_The Convent of Hirschau in the Black Forest. The Convent cellar._ +FRIAR CLAUS _comes in with a light and a basket of empty flagons_. + + _Friar Claus._ I always enter this sacred place + With a thoughtful, solemn, and reverent pace, + Pausing long enough on each stair + To breathe an ejaculatory prayer, + And a benediction of the vines + That produce these various sorts of wines! + + For my part, I am well content + That we have got through with the tedious Lent! + Fasting is all very well for those + Who have to contend with invisible foes; + But I am quite sure it does not agree + With a quiet, peaceful man like me, + Who am not of that nervous and meagre kind + That are always distressed in body and mind! + And at times it really does me good + To come down among this brotherhood, + Dwelling for ever under ground, + Silent, contemplative, round and sound; + Each one old, and brown with mould, + But filled to the lips with the ardour of youth, + With the latent power and love of truth, + And with virtues fervent and manifold. + + I have heard it said, that at Easter-tide, + When buds are swelling on every side, + And the sap begins to move in the vine, + Then in all cellars, far and wide, + The oldest, as well as the newest, wine + Begins to stir itself, and ferment, + With a kind of revolt and discontent + At being so long in darkness pent, + And fain would burst from its sombre tun + To bask on the hill-side in the sun; + As in the bosom of us poor friars, + The tumult of half-subdued desires + For the world that we have left behind + Disturbs at times all peace of mind! + And now that we have lived through Lent, + My duty it is, as often before, + To open awhile the prison-door, + And give these restless spirits vent. + + Now here is a cask that stands alone, + And has stood a hundred years or more, + Its beard of cobwebs, long and hoar, + Trailing and sweeping along the floor, + Like Barbarossa, who sits in his cave, + Taciturn, sombre, sedate, and grave, + Till his beard has grown through the table of stone! + It is of the quick, and not of the dead! + In its veins the blood is hot and red, + And a heart still beats in those ribs of oak + That time may have tamed, but has not broke. + It comes from Bacharach on the Rhine, + Is one of the three best kinds of wine, + And costs some hundred florins the ohm; + But that I do not consider dear, + When I remember that every year + Four butts are sent to the Pope of Rome, + And whenever a goblet thereof I drain, + The old rhyme keeps running in my brain: + At Bacharach on the Rhine, + At Hochheim on the Main, + And at Würzburg on the Stein, + Grow the three best kinds of wine! + They are all good wines, and better far + Than those of the Neckar, or those of the Ahr. + In particular, Würzburg well may boast + Of its blessed wine of the Holy Ghost, + Which of all wines I like the most. + This I shall draw for the Abbot’s drinking, + Who seems to be much of my way of thinking. + + [_Fills a flagon._] + + Ah! how the streamlet laughs and sings! + What a delicious fragrance springs + From the deep flagon, while it fills, + As of hyacinths and daffodils! + Between this cask and the Abbot’s lips + Many have been the sips and slips; + Many have been the draughts of wine, + On their way to his, that have stopped at mine; + And many a time my soul has hankered + For a deep draught out of his silver tankard, + When it should have been busy with other affairs, + Less with its longings and more with its prayers. + But now there is no such awkward condition, + No danger of death and eternal perdition; + So here’s to the Abbot and Brothers all, + Who dwell in this convent of Peter and Paul! + + [_He drinks._] + + O cordial delicious! O soother of pain! + It flashes like sunshine into my brain! + A benison rest on the Bishop who sends + Such a fudder of wine as this to his friends. + And now a flagon for such as may ask + A draught from the noble Bacharach cask, + And I will be gone, though I know full well + The cellar’s a cheerfuller place than the cell. + Behold where he stands, all sound and good, + Brown and old in his oaken hood; + Silent he seems externally + As any Carthusian monk may be; + But within, what a spirit of deep unrest! + What a seething and simmering in his breast! + As if the heaving of his great heart + Would burst his belt of oak apart! + Let me unloose this button of wood, + And quiet a little his turbulent mood. + + [_Sets it running._] + + See! how its currents gleam and shine, + As if they had caught the purple hues + Of autumn sunsets on the Rhine, + Descending and mingling with the dews; + Or as if the grapes were stained with the blood + Of the innocent boy, who, some years back, + Was taken and crucified by the Jews, + In that ancient town of Bacharach; + Perdition upon those infidel Jews, + In that ancient town of Bacharach! + The beautiful town, that gives us wine + With the fragrant odour of Muscadine! + I should deem it wrong to let this pass + Without first touching my lips to the glass, + For here in the midst of the current I stand, + Like the stone Pfalz in the midst of the river, + Taking toll upon either hand, + And much more grateful to the giver. + + [_He drinks._] + + Here, now, is a very inferior kind, + Such as in any town you may find, + Such as one might imagine would suit + The rascal who drank wine out of a boot. + And, after all, it was not a crime, + For he won thereby Dorf Hüffelsheim. + A jolly old toper! who at a pull + Could drink a postilion’s jack-boot full, + And ask with a laugh, when that was done, + If the fellow had left the other one! + This wine is as good as we can afford + To the friars, who sit at the lower board, + And cannot distinguish bad from good, + And are far better off than if they could, + Being rather the rude disciples of beer, + Than of anything more refined and dear! + + [_Fills the other flagon and departs._] + +_The Scriptorium._[38] FRIAR PACIFICUS _transcribing and illuminating_. + +[38] See Appendix. + + _Friar Pacificus._ It is growing dark! Yet one line more, + And then my work for to-day is o’er. + I come again to the name of the Lord! + Ere I that awful name record, + That is spoken so lightly among men, + Let me pause awhile, and wash my pen; + Pure from blemish and blot must it be + When it writes that word of mystery! + + Thus have I laboured on and on, + Nearly through the Gospel of John. + Can it be that from the lips + Of this same gentle Evangelist, + That Christ himself perhaps has kissed, + Came the dread Apocalypse! + It has a very awful look, + As it stands there at the end of the book, + Like the sun in an eclipse. + Ah me! when I think of that vision divine, + Think of writing it, line by line, + I stand in awe of the terrible curse, + Like the trump of doom, in the closing verse. + God forgive me! If ever I + Take aught from the book of that Prophecy, + Lest my part too should be taken away + From the Book of Life on the Judgment Day. + + This is well written, though I say it! + I should not be afraid to display it, + In open day, on the selfsame shelf + With the writings of St. Thecla herself, + Or of Theodosius, who of old + Wrote the Gospels in letters of gold! + That goodly folio standing yonder, + Without a single blot or blunder, + Would not bear away the palm from mine, + If we should compare them line for line. + + There, now, is an initial letter! + Saint Ulric himself never made a better; + Finished down to the leaf and the snail, + Down to the eyes on the peacock’s tail! + And now, as I turn the volume over, + And see what lies between cover and cover, + What treasures of art these pages hold, + All ablaze with crimson and gold, + God forgive me! I seem to feel + A certain satisfaction steal + Into my heart, and into my brain, + As if my talent had not lain + Wrapped in a napkin, and all in vain. + Yes, I might almost say to the Lord, + Here is a copy of thy Word, + Written out with much toil and pain; + Take it, O Lord, and let it be + As something I have done for thee! + + [_He looks from the window._] + + How sweet the air is! How fair the scene! + I wish I had as lovely a green + To paint my landscapes and my leaves! + How the swallows twitter under the eaves! + There, now, there is one in her nest; + I can just catch a glimpse of her head and breast, + And will sketch her thus in her quiet nook, + For the margin of my Gospel book. + + [_He makes a sketch._] + + I can see no more. Through the valley yonder + A shower is passing; I hear the thunder + Mutter its curses in the air, + The Devil’s own and only prayer! + The dusty road is brown with rain, + And, speeding on with might and main, + Hitherward rides a gallant train. + They do not parley, they cannot wait, + But hurry in at the convent-gate. + What a fair lady! and beside her + What a handsome, graceful, noble rider! + Now she gives him her hand to alight; + They will beg shelter for the night. + I will go down to the corridor, + And try to see that face once more; + It will do for the face of some beautiful Saint, + Or for one of the Maries I shall paint. + + [_Goes out._] + + _The Cloisters. The_ ABBOT ERNESTUS _pacing to and fro_. + + _Abbot._ Slowly, slowly up the wall + Steals the sunshine, steals the shade; + Evening damps begin to fall, + Evening shadows are displayed. + Round me, o’er me, everywhere, + All the sky is grand with clouds, + And athwart the evening air + Wheel the swallows home in crowds. + Shafts of sunshine from the west + Paint the dusky windows red; + Darker shadows, deeper rest, + Underneath and overhead. + Darker, darker, and more wan, + In my breast the shadows fall; + Upward steals the life of man, + As the sunshine from the wall. + From the wall into the sky, + From the roof along the spire; + Ah, the souls of those that die + Are but sunbeams lifted higher. + + _Enter_ PRINCE HENRY. + + _Prince Henry._ Christ is arisen! + + _Abbot._ Amen! he is arisen! + His peace be with you! + + _Prince Henry._ Here it reigns for ever. + The peace of God, that passeth understanding, + Reigns in these cloisters and these corridors. + Are you Ernestus, Abbot of the convent? + + _Abbot._ I am. + + _Prince Henry._ And I Prince Henry of Hoheneck, + Who crave your hospitality to-night. + + _Abbot._ You are thrice welcome to our humble walls. + You do us honour; and we shall requite it, + I fear, but poorly, entertaining you + With Paschal eggs, and our poor convent wine, + The remnants of our Easter holidays. + + _Prince Henry._ How fares it with the holy monks of Hirschau? + Are all things well with them? + + _Abbot._ All things are well. + + _Prince Henry._ A noble convent! I have known it long + By the report of travellers. I now see + Their commendations lag behind the truth. + You lie here in the valley of the Nagold + As in a nest: and the still river, gliding + Along its bed, is like an admonition + How all things pass. Your lands are rich and ample, + And your revenues large. God’s benediction + Rests on your convent. + + _Abbot._ By our charities + We strive to merit it. Our Lord and Master, + When he departed, left us, in his will, + As our best legacy on earth, the poor! + These we have always with us; had we not, + Our hearts would grow as hard as are these stones. + + _Prince Henry._ If I remember right, the Counts of Calva + Founded your convent. + + _Abbot._ Even as you say. + + _Prince Henry._ And, if I err not, it is very old. + + _Abbot._ Within these cloisters lie already buried + Twelve holy Abbots. Underneath the flags + On which we stand, the Abbot William lies, + Of blessed memory. + + _Prince Henry._ And whose tomb is that + Which bears the brass escutcheon? + + _Abbot._ A benefactor’s, + Conrad, a Count of Calva, he who stood + Godfather to our bells. + + _Prince Henry._ Your monks are learned + And holy men, I trust. + + _Abbot._ There are among them + Learned and holy men. Yet in this age + We need another Hildebrand, to shake + And purify us like a mighty wind. + The world is wicked, and sometimes I wonder + God does not lose his patience with it wholly, + And shatter it like glass! Even here, at times, + Within these walls, where all should be at peace, + I have my trials. Time has laid his hand + Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it, + But as a harper lays his open palm + Upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations. + Ashes are on my head, and on my lips + Sackcloth, and in my breast a heaviness + And weariness of life, that makes me ready + To say to the dead Abbots under us, + “Make room for me!” Only I see the dusk + Of evening twilight coming, and have not + Completed half my task; and so at times + The thought of my shortcomings in this life + Falls like a shadow on the life to come. + + _Prince Henry._ We must all die, and not the old alone; + The young have no exemption from that doom. + + _Abbot._ Ah, yes! the young may die, but the old must! + That is the difference. + + _Prince Henry._ I have heard much laud + Of your transcribers. Your Scriptorium + Is famous among all, your manuscripts + Praised for their beauty and their excellence. + + _Abbot._ That is indeed our boast. If you desire it, + You shall behold these treasures. And meanwhile + Shall the Refectorarius bestow + Your horses and attendants for the night. + + (_They go in. The Vesper-bell rings._) + +_The Chapel. Vespers; after which the monks retire, a chorister leading +an old monk who is blind._ + + _Prince Henry._ They are all gone, save one who lingers, + Absorbed in deep and silent prayer. + As if his heart could find no rest, + At times he beats his heaving breast + With clenchèd and convulsive fingers, + Then lifts them trembling in the air. + A chorister, with golden hair, + Guides hitherward his heavy pace. + Can it be so? Or does my sight + Deceive me in the uncertain light? + Ah no! I recognise that face, + Though time has touched it in his flight, + And changed the auburn hair to white. + It is Count Hugo of the Rhine, + The deadliest foe of all our race, + And hateful unto me and mine! + + _The Blind Monk._ Who is it that doth stand so near, + His whispered words I almost hear? + + _Prince Henry._ I am Prince Henry of Hoheneck, + And you, Count Hugo of the Rhine! + I know you, and I see the scar, + The brand upon your forehead, shine + And redden like a baleful star! + + _The Blind Monk._ Count Hugo once, but now the wreck + Of what I was. O Hoheneck! + The passionate will, the pride, the wrath + That bore me headlong on my path, + Stumbled and staggered into fear, + And failed me in my mad career, + As a tired steed some evil-doer, + Alone upon a desolate moor, + Bewildered, lost, deserted, blind, + And hearing loud and close behind + The o’ertaking steps of his pursuer. + Then suddenly from the dark there came + A voice that called me by my name, + And said to me, “Kneel down and pray!” + And so my terror passed away, + Passed utterly away for ever. + Contrition, penitence, remorse, + Came on me with o’erwhelming force, + A hope, a longing, an endeavour, + By days of penance and nights of prayer, + To frustrate and defeat despair! + Calm, deep, and still is now my heart, + With tranquil waters overflowed; + A lake whose unseen fountains start, + Where once the hot volcano glowed. + And you, O Prince of Hoheneck! + Have known me in that earlier time, + A man of violence and crime, + Whose passions brooked no curb nor check. + Behold me now, in gentler mood, + One of this holy brotherhood. + Give me your hand; here let me kneel; + Make your reproaches sharp as steel; + Spurn me, and smite me on each cheek; + No violence can harm the meek, + There is no wound Christ cannot heal! + Yes; lift your princely hand, and take + Revenge, if ’tis revenge you seek; + Then pardon me, for Jesus’ sake! + + _Prince Henry._ Arise, Count Hugo! let there be + No farther strife nor enmity + Between us twain; we both have erred! + Too rash in act, too wroth in word, + From the beginning have we stood + In fierce, defiant attitude, + Each thoughtless of the other’s right, + And each reliant on his might. + But now our souls are more subdued; + The hand of God, and not in vain, + Has touched us with the fire of pain. + Let us kneel down, and side by side + Pray, till our souls are purified, + And pardon will not be denied! + + [_They kneel._] + +_The Refectory. Gaudiolum of Monks at midnight._ LUCIFER _disguised as +a Friar_ + + _Friar Paul_ (_sings_). + + Ave! color vini clari, + Dulcis potus, non amari, + Tua nos inebriari + Digneris potentia! + + _Friar Cuthbert._ Not so much noise, my worthy freres, + You’ll disturb the Abbot at his prayers. + + _Friar Paul_ (_sings_). + + O! quam placens in colore! + O! quam fragrans in odore! + O! quam sapidum in ore! + Dulce linguæ vinculum! + + _Friar Cuthbert._ I should think your tongue had broken its chain! + + _Friar Paul_ (_sings_). + + Felix venter quern intrabis! + Felix guttur quod rigabis! + Felix os quod tu lavabis! + Et beata labia! + + _Friar Cuthbert._ Peace! I say, peace! + Will you never cease? + You will rouse up the Abbot, I tell you again! + + _Friar John._ No danger! to-night he will let us alone, + As I happen to know he has guests of his own. + + _Friar Cuthbert._ Who are they? + + _Friar John._ A German Prince and his train, + Who arrived here just before the rain. + There is with him a damsel fair to see, + As slender and graceful as a reed! + When she alighted from her steed, + It seemed like a blossom blown from a tree. + + _Friar Cuthbert._ None of your pale-faced girls for me! + None of your damsels of high degree! + + _Friar John._ Come, old fellow, drink down to your peg! + But do not drink any farther, I beg! + + _Friar Paul_ (_sings_). + + In the days of gold, + The days of old, + Crozier of wood + And bishop of gold! + + _Friar Cuthbert._ What an infernal racket and riot! + Can you not drink your wine in quiet? + Why fill the convent with such scandals, + As if we were so many drunken Vandals? + + _Friar Paul_ (_continues_). + + Now we have changed + That law so good, + To crozier of gold + And bishop of wood! + + _Friar Cuthbert._ Well, then, since you are in the mood + To give your noisy humours vent, + Sing and howl to your heart’s content! + + _Chorus of Monks._ + + Funde vinum, funde! + Tanquam sint fluminis undæ + Nec quæras unde, + Sed fundas semper abunde! + + _Friar John._ What is the name of yonder friar, + With an eye that glows like a coal of fire, + And such a black mass of tangled hair? + + _Friar Paul._ He who is sitting there, + With a rollicking, + Devil may care, + Free and easy look and air, + As if he were used to such feasting and frolicking? + + _Friar John._ The same. + + _Friar Paul._ He’s a stranger. You had better ask his name, + And where he is going, and whence he came. + + _Friar John._ Hallo! Sir Friar! + + _Friar Paul._ You must raise your voice a little higher; + He does not seem to hear what you say. + Now, try again! He is looking this way. + + _Friar John._ Hallo! Sir Friar, + We wish to inquire + Whence you came, and where you are going, + And anything else that is worth the knowing. + So be so good as to open your head. + + _Lucifer._ I am a Frenchman born and bred, + Going on a pilgrimage to Rome. + My home + Is the convent of St. Gildas de Rhuys, + Of which, very like, you never have heard. + + _Monks._ Never a word! + + _Lucifer._ You must know, then, it is in the diocese + Called the Diocese of Vannes, + In the province of Brittany. + From the grey rocks of Morbihan + It overlooks the angry sea; + The very sea-shore where, + In his great despair, + Abbot Abelard walked to and fro, + Filling the night with woe, + And wailing aloud to the merciless seas + The name of his sweet Heloise! + Whilst overhead + The convent windows gleamed as red + As the fiery eyes of the monks within, + Who with jovial din + Gave themselves up to all kinds of sin! + Ha! that is a convent! that is an abbey! + Over the doors + None of your death-heads carved in wood, + None of your Saints looking pious and good, + None of your Patriarchs old and shabby! + But the heads and tusks of boars, + And the cells + Hung all round with the fells + Of the fallow-deer. + And then what cheer! + What jolly, fat friars, + Sitting round the great, roaring fires, + Roaring louder than they, + With their strong wines, + And their concubines; + And never a bell, + With its swagger and swell, + Calling you up with a start of affright + In the dead of night, + To send you grumbling down dark stairs, + To mumble your prayers. + But the cheery crow + Of cocks in the yard below, + After daybreak, an hour or so, + And the barking of deep-mouthed hounds, + These are the sounds + That, instead of bells, salute the ear. + And then all day + Up and away + Through the forest, hunting the deer! + Ah, my friends! I’m afraid that here + You are a little too pious, a little too tame, + And the more is the shame. + ’Tis the greatest folly + Not to be jolly; + That’s what I think! + Come, drink, drink, + Drink, and die game! + + _Monks._ And your Abbot What’s-his-name? + + _Lucifer._ Abelard! + + _Monks._ Did he drink hard? + + _Lucifer._ O, no! Not he! + He was a dry old fellow, + Without juice enough to get thoroughly mellow. + There he stood, + Lowering at us in sullen mood, + As if he had come into Brittany + Just to reform our brotherhood! + + [_A roar of laughter._] + + But you see + It would never do! + For some of us knew a thing or two, + In the Abbey of St. Gildas de Rhuys! + For instance the great ado + With old Fulbert’s niece, + The young and lovely Heloise! + + _Friar John._ Stop there, if you please, + Till we drink to the fair Heloise. + + _All_ (_drinking and shouting_). Heloise! Heloise! + + [_The Chapel-bell tolls._] + + _Lucifer_ (_starting_). What is that bell for? Are you such asses + As to keep up the fashion of midnight masses? + + _Friar Cuthbert._ It is only a poor, unfortunate brother, + Who is gifted with most miraculous powers + Of getting up all sorts of hours, + And, by way of penance and Christian meekness, + Of creeping silently out of his cell, + To take a pull at that hideous bell; + So that all the monks who are lying awake + May murmur some kind of prayer for his sake, + And adapted to his peculiar weakness! + + _Friar John._ From frailty and fall—— + + _All._ Good Lord, deliver us all! + + _Friar Cuthbert._ And before the bell for matins sounds, + He takes lantern, and goes the rounds, + Flashing it into our sleepy eyes, + Merely to say it is time to arise. + But enough of that. Go on, if you please, + With your story about St. Gildas de Rhuys. + + _Lucifer._ Well, it finally came to pass + That, half in fun and half in malice, + One Sunday at Mass + We put some poison into the chalice. + But, either by accident or design, + Peter Abelard kept away + From the chapel that day, + And a poor, young friar, who in his stead + Drank the sacramental wine, + Fell on the steps of the altar, dead! + But look! do you see at the window there + That face, with a look of grief and despair, + That ghastly face, as of one in pain? + + _Monks._ Who? where? + + _Lucifer._ As I spoke, it vanished away again. + + _Friar Cuthbert._ It is that nefarious + Siebald the Refectorarius. + That fellow is always playing the scout, + Creeping and peeping and prowling about; + And then he regales + The Abbot with scandalous tales. + + _Lucifer._ A spy in the convent? One of the brothers + Telling scandalous tales of the others? + Out upon him, the lazy loon! + I would put a stop to that pretty soon, + In a way he should rue it. + + _Monks._ How shall we do it? + + _Lucifer._ Do you, Brother Paul, + Creep under the window close to the wall, + And open it suddenly when I call. + Then seize the villain by the hair, + And hold him there, + And punish him soundly, once for all. + + _Friar Cuthbert._ As St. Dunstan of old, + We are told, + Once caught the Devil by the nose! + + _Lucifer._ Ha! ha! that story is very clever, + But has no foundation whatsoever. + Quick! for I see his face again + Glaring in at the window-pane; + Now! now! and do not spare your blows. + + +[FRIAR PAUL _opens the window suddenly, and seizes_ SIEBALD. _They beat +him._] + + _Friar Siebald._ Help! help! are you going to slay me? + + _Friar Paul._ That will teach you again to betray me! + + _Friar Siebald._ Mercy! mercy! + + _Friar Paul_ (_shouting and beating_). + + Rumpas bellorum lorum, + Vin confer amorum + Morum verorum rorum + Tu plena polorum! + + _Lucifer._ Who stands in the doorway yonder, + Stretching out his trembling hand, + Just as Abelard used to stand, + The flash of his keen, black eyes + Forerunning the thunder? + + _The Monks_ (_in confusion_). The Abbot! the Abbot! + + _Friar Cuthbert._ And what is the wonder! + He seems to have taken you by surprise. + + _Friar Francis._ Hide the great flagon + From the eyes of the dragon! + + _Friar Cuthbert._ Pull the brown hood over your face! + This will bring us into disgrace! + + _Abbot._ What means this revel and carouse? + Is this a tavern and drinking house? + Are you Christian monks, or heathen devils, + To pollute this convent with your revels? + Were Peter Damian still upon earth, + To be shocked by such ungodly mirth, + He would write your names, with pen of gall, + In his Book of Gomorrah, one and all! + Away, you drunkards! to your cells, + And pray till you hear the matin-bells; + You, Brother Francis, and you, Brother Paul! + And as a penance mark each prayer + With the scourge upon your shoulders bare; + Nothing atones for such a sin + But the blood that follows the discipline. + And you, Brother Cuthbert, come with me + Alone into the sacristy; + You, who should be a guide to your brothers, + And are ten times worse than all the others, + For you I’ve a draught that has long been brewing, + You shall do a penance worth the doing! + Away to your prayers, then, one and all! + I wonder the very convent wall + Does not crumble and crush you in its fall! + +_The neighbouring Nunnery. The_ ABBESS IRMINGARD _sitting with_ ELSIE +_in the moonlight_. + + _Irmingard._ The night is silent, the wind is still, + The moon is looking from yonder hill + Down upon convent, and grove, and garden; + The clouds have passed away from her face, + Leaving behind them no sorrowful trace, + Only the tender and quiet grace + Of one whose heart has been healed with pardon! + And such am I. My soul within + Was dark with passion and soiled with sin. + But now its wounds are healed again; + Gone are the anguish, the terror, and pain; + For across the desolate land of woe, + O’er whose burning sands I was forced to go, + A wind from heaven began to blow; + And all my being trembled and shook, + As the leaves of the tree, or the grass of the field, + And I was healed, as the sick are healed, + When fanned by the leaves of the Holy Book! + As thou sittest in the moonlight there, + Its glory flooding thy folden hair, + And the only darkness that which lies + In the haunted chambers of thine eyes, + I feel my soul drawn unto thee, + Strangely, and strongly, and more and more, + As to one I have known and loved before; + For every soul is akin to me + That dwells in the land of mystery! + I am the Lady Irmingard, + Born of a noble race and name! + Many a wandering Suabian bard, + Whose life was dreary, and bleak, and hard, + Has found through me the way to fame. + Brief and bright were those days, and the night + Which followed was full of a lurid light. + Love, that of every woman’s heart + Will have the whole, and not a part, + That is to her, in Nature’s plan, + More than ambition is to man, + Her light, her life, her very breath, + With no alternative but death, + Found me a maiden soft and young, + Just from the convent’s cloistered school, + And seated on my lowly stool, + Attentive while the minstrels sung, + Gallant, graceful, gentle, tall, + Fairest, noblest, best of all, + Was Walter of the Vogelweid; + And, whatsoever may betide, + Still I think of him with pride! + His song was of the summer-time, + The very birds sang in his rhyme; + The sunshine, the delicious air, + The fragrance of the flowers were there; + And I grew restless as I heard, + Restless and buoyant as a bird, + Down soft, aërial currents sailing, + O’er blossomed orchards, and fields in bloom, + And through the momentary gloom + Of shadows o’er the landscape trailing, + Yielding and borne I knew not where, + But feeling resistance unavailing. + + And thus, unnoticed and apart, + And more by accident than choice, + I listened to that single voice + Until the chambers of my heart + Were filled with it by night and day. + One night,—it was a night in May,— + Within the garden, unawares, + Under the blossoms in the gloom, + I heard it utter my own name + With protestations and wild prayers; + And it rang through me and became + Like the archangel’s trump of doom, + Which the soul hears, and must obey; + And mine arose as from a tomb. + My former life now seemed to me + Such as hereafter death may be, + When in the great Eternity + We shall awake and find it day. + + It was a dream and would not stay; + A dream, that in a single night + Faded and vanished out of sight. + My father’s anger followed fast + This passion, as a freshening blast + Seeks out and fans the fire, whose rage + It may increase, but not assuage. + And he exclaimed: “No wandering bard + Shall win thy hand, O Irmingard! + For which Prince Henry of Hoheneck + By messenger and letter sues.” + + Gently, but firmly, I replied: + “Henry of Hoheneck I discard! + Never the hand of Irmingard + Shall lie in his as the hand of a bride!” + This said I, Walter, for thy sake; + This said I, for I could not choose. + After a pause, my father spake + In that cold and deliberate tone + Which turns the hearer into stone, + And seems itself the act to be + That follows with such dread certainty: + “This, or the cloister and the veil!” + No other words than these he said. + But they were like a funeral wail; + My life was ended, my heart was dead. + + That night from the castle-gate went down, + With silent, slow, and stealthy pace, + Two shadows, mounted on shadowy steeds, + Taking the narrow path that leads + Into the forest dense and brown. + In the leafy darkness of the place, + One could not distinguish form nor face, + Only a bulk without a shape, + A darker shadow in the shade; + One scarce could say it moved or stayed. + Thus it was we made our escape! + A foaming brook, with many a bound, + Followed us like a playful hound; + Then leaped before us, and in the hollow, + Paused, and waited for us to follow, + And seemed impatient, and afraid, + That our tardy flight should be betrayed + By the sound our horses’ hoof-beats made. + + And when we reached the plain below, + We paused a moment and drew rein + To look back at the castle again; + And we saw the windows all aglow + With lights, that were passing to and fro; + Our hearts with terror ceased to beat; + The brook crept silent to our feet; + We knew what most we feared to know. + Then suddenly horns began to blow; + And we heard a shout, and a heavy tramp, + And our horses snorted in the damp + Night air of the meadows green and wide, + And in a moment, side by side, + So close, they must have seemed but one, + The shadows across the moonlight run, + And another came, and swept behind, + Like the shadow of clouds before the wind! + How I remember that breathless flight + Across the moors, in the summer night! + How under our feet the long, white road + Backward like a river flowed, + Sweeping with it fences and hedges; + Whilst farther away, and overhead, + Paler than I, with fear and dread, + The moon fled with us, as we fled + Along the forest’s jagged edges! + + All this I can remember well; + But of what afterwards befell + I nothing farther can recall + Than a blind, desperate, headlong fall; + The rest is a blank and darkness all. + When I awoke out of this swoon, + The sun was shining, not the moon, + Making a cross upon the wall + With the bars of my windows narrow and tall; + And I prayed to it as I had been wont to pray, + From early childhood, day by day, + Each morning, as in bed I lay! + I was lying again in my own room! + And I thanked God, in my fever and pain, + That those shadows on the midnight plain + Were gone, and could not come again! + I struggled no longer with my doom! + + This happened many years ago. + I left my father’s home to come + Like Catherine to her martyrdom, + For blindly I esteemed it so. + And when I heard the convent-door + Behind me close, to ope no more, + I felt it smite me like a blow. + Through all my limbs a shudder ran, + And on my bruisèd spirit fell + The dampness of my narrow cell, + As night air on a wounded man, + Giving intolerable pain. + + But now a better life began. + I felt the agony decrease + By slow degrees, then wholly cease, + Ending in perfect rest and peace! + It was not apathy, nor dulness, + That weighed and pressed upon my brain, + But the same passion I had given + To earth before, now turned to heaven + With all its overflowing fulness. + + Alas! the world is full of peril! + The path that runs through the fairest meads, + On the sunniest side of the valley, leads + Into a region bleak and sterile! + Alike in the high-born and the lowly, + The will is feeble, and passion strong. + We cannot sever right from wrong; + Some falsehood mingles with all truth; + Nor is it strange the heart of youth + Should waver and comprehend but slowly + The things that are holy and unholy. + But in this sacred and calm retreat, + We are all well and safely shielded + From winds that blow, and waves that beat, + From the cold, and rain, and blighting heat, + To which the strongest hearts have yielded. + Here we stand as the Virgins Seven, + For our celestial bridegroom yearning; + Our hearts are lamps for ever burning, + With a steady and unwavering flame, + Pointing upward, for ever the same, + Steadily upward, toward the Heaven! + The moon is hidden behind a cloud; + A sudden darkness fills the room, + And thy deep eyes, amid the gloom, + Shine like jewels in a shroud. + On the leaves is a sound of falling rain; + A bird, awakened in its nest, + Gives a faint twitter of unrest, + Then smooths its plumes and sleeps again. + No other sounds than these I hear; + The hour of midnight must be near. + Thou art o’erspent with the day’s fatigue + Of riding many a dusty league; + Sink, then, gently, to thy slumber; + Me so many cares encumber, + So many ghosts, and forms of fright, + Have started from their graves to-night, + They have driven sleep from mine eyes away: + I will go down to the chapel and pray. + + +V. + +[_A covered bridge at Lucerne._] + + _Prince Henry._ God’s blessing on the architects who build + The bridges o’er swift rivers and abysses + Before impassable to human feet, + No less than on the builders of cathedrals, + Whose massive walls are bridges thrown across + The dark and terrible abyss of Death. + Well has the name of Pontifex been given + Unto the Church’s head, as the chief builder + And architect of the invisible bridge + That leads from earth to heaven. + + _Elsie._ How dark it grows! + What are these paintings on the walls around us? + + _Prince Henry._ The Dance Macaber! + + _Elsie._ What? + + _Prince Henry._ The Dance of Death. + All that go to and fro must look upon it, + Mindful of what they shall be, while beneath, + Among the wooden piles, the turbulent river + Rushes impetuous as the river of life, + With dimpling eddies, ever green and bright, + Save where the shadow of this bridge falls on it. + + _Elsie._ O, yes! I see it now! + + _Prince Henry._ The grim musician + Leads all men through the mazes of that dance, + To different sounds in different measures moving; + Sometimes he plays a lute, sometimes a drum, + To tempt or terrify. + + _Elsie._ What is this picture? + + _Prince Henry._ It is a young man singing to a nun, + Who kneels at her devotions, but in kneeling + Turns round to look at him; and Death, meanwhile, + Is putting out the candles on the altar! + + _Elsie._ Ah, what a pity ’tis that she should listen + Unto such songs, when in her orisons + She might have heard in heaven the angels singing! + + _Prince Henry._ Here he has stolen a jester’s cap and bells, + And dances with the Queen. + + _Elsie._ A foolish jest! + + _Prince Henry._ And here the heart of the new-wedded wife, + Coming from church with her beloved lord, + He startles with the rattle of his drum. + + _Elsie._ Ah, that is sad! And yet perhaps ’tis best + That she should die, with all the sunshine on her, + And all the benedictions of the morning, + Before this affluence of golden light + Shall fade into a cold and clouded grey, + Then into darkness! + + _Prince Henry._ Under it is written, + “Nothing but death shall separate thee and me!” + + _Elsie._ And what is this that follows close upon it? + + _Prince Henry._ Death, playing on a dulcimer. Behind him, + A poor old woman, with a rosary, + Follows the sound, and seems to wish her feet + Were swifter to o’ertake him. Underneath, + The inscription reads, “Better is Death than Life.” + + _Elsie._ Better is Death than Life! Ah, yes! To thousands + Death plays upon a dulcimer, and sings + That song of consolation, till the air + Rings with it, and they cannot choose but follow + Whither he leads. And not the old alone, + But the young also hear it, and are still. + + _Prince Henry._ Yes, in their sadder moments. ’Tis the sound + Of their own hearts they hear, half full of tears, + Which are like crystal cups, half filled with water, + Responding to the pressure of a finger + With music sweet and low and melancholy. + Let us go forward, and no longer stay + In this great picture-gallery of Death. + I hate it! ay, the very thought of it! + + _Elsie._ Why is it hateful to you? + + _Prince Henry._ For the reason + That life, and all that speaks of life, is lovely, + And death, and all that speaks of death, is hateful. + + _Elsie._ The grave itself is but a covered bridge, + Leading from light to light, through a brief darkness! + + _Prince Henry_ (_emerging from the bridge_). + I breathe again more freely! Ah, how pleasant + To come once more into the light of day, + Out of that shadow of death! To hear again + The hoof-beats of our horses on firm ground, + And not upon those hollow planks, resounding + With a sepulchral echo, like the clods + On coffins in a churchyard! Yonder lies + The Lake of the Four Forest-Towns, apparelled + In light, and lingering, like a village maiden, + Hid in the bosom of her native mountains, + Then pouring all her life into another’s, + Changing her name and being! Overhead, + Shaking his cloudy tresses loose in air, + Rises Pilatus, with his windy pines. + + [_They pass on._] + +_The Devil’s Bridge._ PRINCE HENRY _and_ ELSIE _crossing, with +attendants_. + + _Guide._ This bridge is called the Devil’s Bridge. + With a single arch, from ridge to ridge, + It leaps across the terrible chasm + Yawning beneath us, black and deep, + As if, in some convulsive spasm, + The summits of the hills had cracked, + And made a road for the cataract, + That raves and rages down the steep! + + _Lucifer_ (_under the bridge_). Ha! ha! + + _Guide._ Never any bridge but this + Could stand across the wild abyss; + All the rest, of wood or stone, + By the Devil’s hand were overthrown. + He toppled crags from the precipice, + And whatsoe’er was built by day + In the night was swept away; + None could stand but this alone. + + _Lucifer_ (_under the bridge_). Ha! ha! + + _Guide._ I showed you in the valley a boulder + Marked with the imprint of his shoulder; + As he was bearing it up this way, + A peasant, passing, cried, “Herr Jé!” + And the Devil dropped it in his fright, + And vanished suddenly out of sight! + + _Lucifer_ (_under the bridge_). Ha! ha! + + _Guide._ Abbot Giraldus of Einsiedel, + For pilgrims on their way to Rome, + Built this at last, with a single arch, + Under which, on its endless march, + Runs the river, white with foam, + Like a thread through the eye of a needle. + And the Devil promised to let it stand, + Under compact and condition + That the first living thing which crossed + Should be surrendered into his hand, + And be beyond redemption lost. + + _Lucifer_ (_under the bridge_). Ha! ha! perdition! + + _Guide._ At length, the bridge being all completed, + The Abbot, standing at its head, + Threw across it a loaf of bread, + Which a hungry dog sprang after, + And the rocks re-echoed with peals of laughter + To see the Devil thus defeated! + + [_They pass on._] + + _Lucifer_ (_under the bridge_). Ha! ha! defeated! + For journeys and for crimes like this + I let the bridge stand o’er the abyss! + + +_The St. Gothard Pass._ + + _Prince Henry._ This is the highest point. Two ways the rivers + Leap down to different seas, and as they roll + Grow deep and still, and their majestic presence + Becomes a benefaction to the towns + They visit, wandering silently among them, + Like patriarchs old among their shining tents. + + _Elsie._ How bleak and bare it is! Nothing but mosses + Grow on these rocks. + + _Prince Henry._ Yet are they not forgotten; + Beneficent Nature sends the mists to feed them. + + _Elsie._ See yonder little cloud, that, borne aloft + So tenderly by the wind, floats fast away + Over the snowy peaks! It seems to me + The body of St. Catherine, borne by angels! + + _Prince Henry._ Thou art St. Catherine, and invisible angels + Bear thee across these chasms and precipices, + Lest thou shouldst dash thy feet against a stone! + + _Elsie._ Would I were borne unto my grave, as she was, + Upon angelic shoulders! Even now + I seem uplifted by them, light as air! + What sound is that? + + _Prince Henry._ The tumbling avalanches! + + _Elsie._ How awful, yet how beautiful! + + _Prince Henry._ These are + The voices of the mountain! Thus they ope + Their snowy lips, and speak unto each other, + In the primeval language, lost to man. + + _Elsie._ What land is this that spreads itself beneath us? + + _Prince Henry._ Italy! Italy! + + _Elsie._ Land of the Madonna! + How beautiful it is! It seems a garden + Of Paradise! + + _Prince Henry._ Nay, of Gethsemane + To thee and me, of passion and of prayer! + Yet once of Paradise. Long years ago + I wandered as a youth among its bowers, + And never from my heart has faded quite + Its memory, that, like a summer sunset, + Encircles with a ring of purple light + All the horizon of my youth! + + _Guide._ O friends! + The days are short, the way before us long; + We must not linger, if we think to reach + The inn at Belinzona before vespers! + + [_They pass on._] + +_At the foot of the Alps. A halt under the trees at noon._ + + _Prince Henry._ Here let us pause a moment in the trembling + Shadow and sunshine of the road-side trees, + And, our tired horses in a group assembling, + Inhale long draughts of this delicious breeze. + Our fleeter steeds have distanced our attendants; + They lag behind us with a slower pace; + We will await them under the green pendants + Of the great willows in this shady place. + Ho, Barbarossa! how thy mottled haunches + Sweat with this canter over hill and glade! + Stand still, and let these overhanging branches + Fan thy hot sides and comfort thee with shade! + + _Elsie._ What a delightful landscape spreads before us, + Marked with a whitewashed cottage here and there! + And, in luxuriant garlands drooping o’er us, + Blossoms of grape-vines scent the sunny air. + + _Prince Henry._ Hark! what sweet sounds are those, whose accents holy + Fill the warm noon with music sad and sweet? + + _Elsie._ It is a band of pilgrims moving slowly + On their long journey, with uncovered feet. + + _Pilgrims_ (_chanting the Hymn of St. Hildebert_). + + Me receptet Sion illa, + Sion David, urbs tranquilla, + Cujus faber auctor lucis, + Cujus portæ lignum crucis, + Cujus claves lingua Petri, + Cujus cives semper læti, + Cujus muri lapis vivus, + Cujus custos Rex festivus! + + _Lucifer_ (_as a Friar in the procession_). Here am I, too, + in the pious band, + In the garb of a barefooted Carmelite dressed! + The soles of my feet are as hard and tanned + As the conscience of old Pope Hildebrand, + The Holy Satan, who made the wives + Of the bishops lead such shameful lives, + All day long I beat my breast, + And chant with a most particular zest + The Latin hymns, which I understand + Quite as well, I think, as the rest. + And at night such lodging in barns and sheds, + Such a hurly-burly in country inns, + Such a clatter of tongues in empty heads, + Such a helter-skelter of prayers and sins! + Of all the contrivances of the time + For sowing broad-cast the seeds of crime, + There is none so pleasing to me and mine + As a pilgrimage to some far-off shrine! + + _Prince Henry._ If from the outward man we judge the inner, + And cleanliness is godliness, I fear + A hopeless reprobate, a hardened sinner, + Must be that Carmelite now passing near. + + _Lucifer._ There is my German Prince again, + Thus far on his journey to Salern, + And the love-sick girl, whose heated brain + Is sowing the cloud to reap the rain; + But it’s a long road that has no turn! + Let them quietly hold their way, + I have also a part in the play. + But first I must act to my heart’s content + This mummery and this merriment, + And drive this motley flock of sheep + Into the fold, where drink and sleep + The jolly old friars of Benevent. + Of a truth, it often provokes me to laugh + To see these beggars hobble along, + Lamed and maimed, and fed upon chaff, + Chanting their wonderful piff and paff, + And, to make up for not understanding the song, + Singing it fiercely, and wild, and strong! + Were it not for my magic garters and staff, + And the goblets of goodly wine I quaff, + And the mischief I make in the idle throng, + I should not continue the business long. + + _Pilgrims (chanting)._ + + In hâc urbe, lux solennis, + Ver æternum, pax perennis; + In hâc odor implens cælos, + In hâc semper festum melos! + + _Prince Henry._ Do you observe that monk among the train, + Who pours from his great throat the roaring bass, + As a cathedral spout pours out the rain, + And this way turns his rubicund, round face? + + _Elsie._ It is the same who, on the Strasburg square, + Preached to the people in the open air. + + _Prince Henry._ And he has crossed o’er mountain, field, and fell + On that good steed, that seems to bear him well, + The hackney of the Friars of Orders Grey, + His own stout legs! He, too, was in the play, + Both as King Herod and Ben Israel. + Good morrow, Friar! + + _Friar Cuthbert._ Good morrow, noble Sir! + + _Prince Henry._ I speak in German, for, unless I err, + You are a German. + + _Friar Cuthbert._ I cannot gainsay you. + But by what instinct, or what secret sign, + Meeting me here, do you straightway divine + That northward of the Alps my country lies? + + _Prince Henry._ Your accent, like St. Peter’s, would betray you, + Did not your yellow beard and your blue eyes. + Moreover, we have seen your face before, + And heard you preach at the Cathedral door + On Easter Sunday, in the Strasburg square. + We were among the crowd that gathered there, + And saw you play the Rabbi with great skill, + As if, by leaning o’er so many years + To walk with little children, your own will + Had caught a childish attitude from theirs, + A kind of stooping in its form and gait, + And could no longer stand erect and straight. + Whence come you now? + + _Friar Cuthbert._ From the old monastery + Of Hirschau, in the forest; being sent + Upon a pilgrimage to Benevent, + To see the image of the Virgin Mary, + That moves its holy eyes, and sometimes speaks, + And lets the piteous tears run down its cheeks, + To touch the hearts of the impenitent. + + _Prince Henry._ O, had I faith, as in the days gone by, + That knew no doubt, and feared no mystery! + + _Lucifer_ (_at a distance_). Ho, Cuthbert! Friar Cuthbert! + + _Friar Cuthbert._ Farewell, Prince! + I cannot stay to argue and convince. + + _Prince Henry._ This is indeed the blessed Mary’s land, + Virgin and Mother of our dear Redeemer! + All hearts are touched and softened at her name; + Alike the bandit, with the bloody hand, + The priest, the prince, the scholar, and the peasant, + The man of deeds, the visionary dreamer, + Pay homage to her as one ever present! + And even as children, who have much offended + A too indulgent father, in great shame, + Penitent, and yet not daring unattended + To go into his presence, at the gate + Speak with their sister, and confiding wait + Till she goes in before and intercedes; + So men, repenting of their evil deeds, + And yet not venturing rashly to draw near + With their requests an angry Father’s ear, + Offer to her their prayers and their confession, + And she for them in heaven makes intercession. + And if our Faith had given us nothing more + Than this example of all womanhood, + So mild, so merciful, so strong, so good, + So patient, peaceful, loyal, loving, pure, + This were enough to prove it higher and truer + Than all the creeds the world had known before. + + _Pilgrims_ (_chanting afar off_). + + Urbs cœlestis, urbs beata, + Supra petram collocata, + Urbs in portu satis tuto + De longinquo te saluto, + Te saluto te suspiro, + Te affecto, te requiro! + +_The Inn at Genoa. A terrace overlooking the sea. Night._ + + _Prince Henry._ It is the sea, it is the sea, + In all its vague immensity, + Fading and darkening in the distance! + Silent, majestical, and slow, + The white ships haunt it to and fro, + With all their ghostly sails unfurled, + As phantoms from another world + Haunt the dim confines of existence! + But ah! how few can comprehend + Their signals, or to what good end + From land to land they come and go! + Upon a sea more vast and dark + The spirits of the dead embark, + All voyaging to unknown coasts. + We wave our farewells from the shore, + And they depart, and come no more, + Or come as phantoms and as ghosts. + Above the darksome sea of death + Looms the great life that is to be, + A land of cloud and mystery, + A dim mirage, with shapes of men + Long dead, and passed beyond our ken, + Awe-struck, we gaze, and hold our breath + Till the fair pageant vanisheth, + Leaving us in perplexity, + And doubtful whether it has been + A vision of the world unseen, + Or a bright image of our own + Against the sky in vapours thrown. + + _Lucifer_ (_singing from the sea_). + Thou didst not make it, thou canst not mend it, + But thou hast the power to end it! + The sea is silent, the sea is discreet, + Deep it lies at thy very feet; + There is no confessor like unto Death! + Thou canst not see him, but he is near; + Thou needest not whisper above thy breath, + And he will hear; + He will answer the questions, + The vague surmises and suggestions, + That fill thy soul with doubt and fear! + + _Prince Henry._ The fisherman, who lies afloat, + With shadowy sail, in yonder boat, + Is singing softly to the Night! + But do I comprehend aright + The meaning of the words he sung + So sweetly in his native tongue? + Ah, yes! the sea is still and deep, + All things within its bosom sleep! + A single step and all is o’er; + A plunge, a bubble, and no more; + And thou, dear Elsie, wilt be free + From martyrdom and agony. + + _Elsie_ (_coming from her chamber upon the terrace_). + The night is calm and cloudless, + And still as still can be, + And the stars come forth to listen + To the music of the sea. + They gather, and gather, and gather, + Until they crowd the sky, + And listen in breathless silence + To the solemn litany. + It begins in rocky caverns, + As a voice that chants alone + To the pedals of the organ + In monotonous undertone; + And anon from shelving beaches, + And shallow sands beyond, + In snow-white robes uprising + The ghostly choirs respond. + And sadly and unceasing + The mournful voice sings on, + And the snow-white choirs still answer, + Christe eleison! + + _Prince Henry._ Angel of God! thy finer sense perceives + Celestial and perpetual harmonies! + Thy purer soul, that trembles and believes, + Hears the archangel’s trumpet in the breeze, + And where the forest rolls, or ocean heaves, + Cecilia’s organ sounding in the seas, + And tongues of prophets speaking in the leaves. + But I hear discord only and despair, + And whispers as of demons in the air! + + +_At Sea._ + + _Il Padrone._ The wind upon our quarter lies, + And on before the freshening gale, + That fills the snow-white lateen sail, + Swiftly our light felucca flies. + Around, the billows burst and foam; + They lift her o’er the sunken rock, + They beat her sides with many a shock, + And then upon their flowing dome + They poise her, like a weathercock! + Between us and the western skies + The hills of Corsica arise; + Eastward, in yonder long, blue line, + The summits of the Apennine, + And southward, and still far away, + Salerno, on its sunny bay. + You cannot see it, where it lies. + + _Prince Henry._ Ah, would that never more mine eyes + Might see its towers by night or day! + + _Elsie._ Behind us, dark and awfully, + There comes a cloud out of the sea, + That bears the form of a hunted deer, + With hide of brown, and hoofs of black, + And antlers laid upon its back, + And fleeing fast and wild with fear, + As if the hounds were on its track! + + _Prince Henry._ Lo! while we gaze, it breaks and falls + In shapeless masses, like the walls + Of a burnt city. Broad and red + The fires of the descending sun + Glare through the windows, and o’erhead, + Athwart the vapours, dense and dun, + Long shafts of silvery light arise, + Like rafters that support the skies! + + _Elsie._ See! from its summit the lurid levin + Flashes downward without warning, + As Lucifer, son of the morning, + Fell from the battlements of heaven! + + _Il Padrone._ I must entreat you, friends, below! + The angry storm begins to blow, + For the weather changes with the moon. + All this morning, until noon, + We had baffling winds, and sudden flaws + Struck the sea with their cat’s-paws. + Only a little hour ago + I was whistling to Saint Antonio + For a capful of wind to fill our sail, + And instead of a breeze he has sent a gale. + Last night I saw Saint Elmo’s stars,[39] + With their glimmering lanterns, all at play + On the tops of the masts and the tips of the spars, + And I knew we should have foul weather to-day. + Cheerly, my hearties! yo heave ho! + Brail up the mainsail, and let her go + As the winds will and Saint Antonio! + + Do you see that Livornese felucca, + That vessel to the windward yonder, + Running with her gunwale under? + I was looking when the wind o’ertook her. + She had all sail set, and the only wonder + Is, that at once the strength of the blast + Did not carry away her mast. + She is a galley of the Grand Duca, + That, through the fear of the Algerines, + Convoys those lazy brigantines, + Laden with wine and oil from Lucca. + Now all is ready high and low; + Blow, blow, good Saint Antonio! + + Ha! that is the first dash of the rain, + With a sprinkle of spray above the rails, + Just enough to moisten our sails, + And make them ready for the strain. + See how she leaps, as the blasts o’ertake her, + And speeds away with a bone in her mouth! + Now keep her head toward the south, + And there is no danger of bank or breaker. + With the breeze behind us, on we go; + Not too much, good Saint Antonio! + +[39] See Appendix. + + +VI. + +_The School of Salerno. A travelling Scholastic affixing his Theses to +the gate of the College._ + + _Scholastic._ There, that is my gauntlet, my banner, my shield, + Hung up as a challenge to all the field! + One hundred and twenty-five propositions, + Which I will maintain with the sword of the tongue + Against all disputants, old and young. + Let us see if doctors or dialecticians + Will dare to dispute my definitions, + Or attack any one of my learned theses. + Here stand I; the end shall be as God pleases. + I think I have proved, by profound researches, + The error of all those doctrines so vicious + Of the old Areopagite Dionysius, + That are making such terrible work in the churches, + By Michael the Stammerer sent from the East, + And done into Latin by that Scottish beast, + Johannes Duns Scotus, who dares to maintain, + In the face of the truth, the error infernal, + That the universe is and must be eternal; + At first laying down, as a fact fundamental, + That nothing with God can be accidental; + Then asserting that God before the creation + Could not have existed, because it is plain + That, had he existed, he would have created; + Which is begging the question that should be debated, + And moveth me less to anger than laughter. + All nature, he holds, is a respiration + Of the Spirit of God, who, in breathing, hereafter + Will inhale it into his bosom again, + So that nothing but God alone will remain. + And therein he contradicteth himself; + For he opens the whole discussion by stating, + That God can only exist in creating. + That question I think I have laid on the shelf! + +[_He goes out. Two Doctors come in disputing, and followed by Pupils._] + + _Doctor Serafino._ I, with the Doctor Seraphic, maintain, + That a word which is only conceived in the brain + Is a type of eternal Generation; + The spoken word is the Incarnation. + + _Doctor Cherubino._ What do I care for the Doctor Seraphic, + With all his wordy chaffer and traffic? + + _Doctor Serafino._ You make but a paltry show of resistance; + Universals have no real existence! + + _Doctor Cherubino._ Your words are but idle and empty chatter; + Ideas are eternally joined to matter! + + _Doctor Serafino._ May the Lord have mercy on your position, + You wretched, wrangling culler of herbs! + + _Doctor Cherubino._ May he send your soul to eternal perdition, + For your Treatise on the Irregular Verbs! + + [_They rush out fighting. Two Scholars come in._] + + _First Scholar._ Monte Cassino, then, is your College. + What think you of ours here at Salern? + + _Second Scholar._ To tell the truth, I arrived so lately, + I hardly yet have had time to discern. + So much, at least, I am bound to acknowledge: + The air seems healthy, the buildings stately, + And on the whole I like it greatly. + + _First Scholar._ Yes, the air is sweet; the Calabrian hills + Send us down puffs of mountain air; + And in summer-time the sea-breeze fills + With its coolness cloister, and court, and square. + Then at every season of the year + There are crowds of guests and travellers here; + Pilgrims, and mendicant friars, and traders + From the Levant, with figs and wine, + And bands of wounded and sick Crusaders, + Coming back from Palestine. + + _Second Scholar._ And what are the studies you pursue? + What is the course you here go through? + + _First Scholar._ The first three years of the college course + Are given to Logic alone, as the source + Of all that is noble, and wise, and true. + + _Second Scholar._ That seems rather strange, I must confess, + In a Medical School; yet, nevertheless, + You doubtless have reasons for that. + + _First Scholar._ O, yes! + For none but a clever dialectician + Can hope to become a great physician; + That has been settled long ago. + Logic makes an important part + Of the mystery of the healing art; + For without it how could you hope to show + That nobody knows so much as you know? + After this there are five years more + Devoted wholly to medicine, + With lectures on chirurgical lore, + And dissections of the bodies of swine, + As likest the human form divine. + + _Second Scholar._ What are the books now most in vogue? + + _First Scholar._ Quite an extensive catalogue; + Mostly, however, books of our own; + As Garriopontus’ Passionarius, + And the writings of Matthew Platearius; + And a volume universally known + As the Regimen of the School of Salern, + For Robert of Normandy written in terse + And very elegant Latin verse. + Each of these writings has its turn. + And when at length we have finished these, + Then comes the struggle for degrees, + With all the oldest and ablest critics; + The public thesis and disputation, + Question, and answer, and explanation + Of a passage out of Hippocrates, + Or Aristotle’s Analytics. + There the triumphant Magister stands! + A book is solemnly placed in his hands, + On which he swears to follow the rule + And ancient forms of the good old School; + To report if any confectionarius + Mingles his drugs with matters various, + And to visit his patients twice a day, + And once in the night, if they live in town, + And if they are poor, to take no pay. + Having faithfully promised these, + His head is crowned with a laurel crown; + A kiss on his cheek, a ring on his hand, + The Magister Artium et Physices + Goes forth from the school like a lord of the land. + And now, as we have the whole morning before us, + Let us go in, if you make no objection, + And listen awhile to a learned prelection + On Marcus Aurelius Cassiodorus. + + [_They go in. Enter_ LUCIFER _as a Doctor_.] + + LUCIFER. This is the great School of Salern! + A land of wrangling and of quarrels, + Of brains that seethe and hearts that burn, + Where every emulous scholar hears, + In every breath that comes to his ears, + The rustling of another’s laurels! + The air of the place is called salubrious; + The neighbourhood of Vesuvius lends it + An odour volcanic, that rather mends it, + And the buildings have an aspect lugubrious, + That inspires a feeling of awe and terror + Into the heart of the beholder, + And befits such an ancient homestead of error, + Where the old falsehoods moulder and smoulder, + And yearly by many hundred hands + Are carried away, in the zeal of youth, + And sown like tares in the field of truth, + To blossom and ripen in other lands. + + What have we here, affixed to the gate? + The challenge of some scholastic wight, + Who wishes to hold a public debate + On sundry questions wrong or right! + Ah, now this is my great delight! + For I have often observed of late + That such discussions end in a fight. + Let us see what the learned wag maintains + With such a prodigal waste of brains. + + + [_Reads_] + + “Whether angels in moving from place to place + Pass through the intermediate space. + Whether God himself is the author of evil, + Or whether that is the work of the Devil. + When, where, and wherefore Lucifer fell, + And whether he now is chained in hell.” + + I think I can answer that question well! + So long as the boastful human mind + Consents in such mills as this to grind, + I sit very firmly upon my throne! + Of a truth it almost makes me laugh, + To see men leaving the golden grain + To gather in piles the pitiful chaff + That old Peter Lombard thrashed with his brain, + To have it caught up and tossed again + On the horns of the Dumb Ox of Cologne! + + But my guests approach! there is in the air + A fragrance like that of the Beautiful Garden + Of Paradise in the days that were! + An odour of innocence and of prayer, + And of love, and faith that never fails, + Such as the fresh young heart exhales + Before it begins to wither and harden! + I cannot breathe such an atmosphere! + My soul is filled with a nameless fear, + That, after all my trouble and pain, + After all my restless endeavour, + The youngest, fairest soul of the twain, + The most ethereal, most divine, + Will escape from my hands for ever and ever; + But the other is already mine! + + Let him live to corrupt his race, + Breathing among them, with every breath, + Weakness, selfishness, and the base + And pusillanimous fear of death. + I know his nature, and I know + That of all who in my ministry + Wander the great earth to and fro, + And on my errands come and go, + The safest and subtlest are such as he. + + _Enter_ PRINCE HENRY _and_ ELSIE, _with attendants_. + + _Prince Henry._ Can you direct us to Friar Angelo? + + _Lucifer._ He stands before you. + + _Prince Henry._ Then you know our purpose. + I am Prince Henry of Hoheneck, and this + The maiden that I spake of in my letters. + + _Lucifer._ It is a very grave and solemn business! + We must not be precipitate. Does she + Without compulsion, of her own free will, + Consent to this? + + _Prince Henry._ Against all opposition, + Against all prayers, entreaties, protestations. + She will not be persuaded. + + _Lucifer._ That is strange! + Have you thought well of it? + + _Elsie._ I come not here + To argue, but to die. Your business is not + To question, but to kill me. I am ready. + I am impatient to be gone from here + Ere any thoughts of earth disturb again + The spirit of tranquillity within me. + + _Prince Henry._ Would I had not come here! Would I were dead, + And thou wert in thy cottage in the forest, + And hadst not known me! Why have I done this? + Let me go back and die. + + _Elsie._ It cannot be; + Not if these cold flat stones on which we tread + Were coulters heated white, and yonder gateway + Flamed like a furnace with a sevenfold heat. + I must fulfil my purpose. + + _Prince Henry._ I forbid it! + Not one step farther. For I only meant + To put thus far thy courage to the proof. + It is enough. I, too, have courage to die, + For thou hast taught me! + + _Elsie._ O my Prince! remember + Your promises. Let me fulfil my errand. + You do not look on life and death as I do. + There are two angels, that attend unseen + Each one of us, and in great books record + Our good and evil deeds. He who writes down + The good ones, after every action closes + His volume, and ascends with it to God. + The other keeps his dreadful day-book open + Till sunset, that we may repent; which doing, + The record of the action fades away, + And leaves a line of white across the page. + Now if my act be good, as I believe, + It cannot be recalled. It is already + Sealed up in heaven, as a good deed accomplished. + The rest is yours. Why wait you? I am ready. + + [_To her attendants._] + + Weep not, my friends! rather rejoice with me. + I shall not feel the pain, but shall be gone, + And you will have another friend in heaven. + Then start not at the creaking of the door + Through which I pass. I see what lies beyond it. + + [_To_ PRINCE HENRY.] + + And you, O Prince, bear back my benison + Unto my father’s house, and all within it. + This morning in the church I prayed for them, + After confession, after absolution, + When my whole soul was white, I prayed for them. + God will take care of them, they need me not. + And in your life let my remembrance linger, + As something not to trouble and disturb it, + But to complete it, adding life to life. + And if at times beside the evening fire + You see my face among the other faces, + Let it not be regarded as a ghost + That haunts your house, but as a guest that loves you. + Nay, even as one of your own family, + Without whose presence there were something wanting. + I have no more to say. Let us go in. + + _Prince Henry._ Friar Angelo! I charge you on your life, + Believe not what she says, for she is mad, + And comes here not to die, but to be healed! + + _Elsie._ Alas! Prince Henry! + + _Lucifer._ Come with me; this way. + +[ELSIE _goes in with_ LUCIFER, _who thrusts_ PRINCE HENRY _back and +closes the door_.] + + _Prince Henry._ Gone! and the light of all my life + gone with her! + A sudden darkness falls upon the world! + O, what a vile and abject thing am I, + That purchase length of days at such a cost! + Not by her death alone, but by the death + Of all that’s good and true and noble in me! + All manhood, excellence, and self-respect, + All love, and faith, and hope, and heart are dead! + All my divine nobility of nature + By this one act is forfeited for ever. + I am a Prince in nothing but in name! + + [_To the attendants._] + + Why did you let this horrible deed be done? + Why did you not lay hold on her, and keep her + From self-destruction? Angelo! murderer! + + [_Struggles at the door, but cannot open it._] + + _Elsie_ (_within_). Farewell, dear Prince! farewell! + + _Prince Henry._ Unbar the door! + + _Lucifer._ It is too late! + + _Prince Henry._ It shall not be too late! + + [_They burst the door open and rush in._] + +_The cottage in the Odenwald._ URSULA, _spinning. Summer afternoon. +A table spread._ + + _Ursula._ I have marked it well—it must be true,— + Death never takes one alone, but two! + Whenever he enters in at a door, + Under roof of gold or roof of thatch, + He always leaves it upon the latch, + And comes again ere the year is o’er. + Never one of a household only! + Perhaps it is a mercy of God, + Lest the dead there under the sod, + In the land of strangers, should be lonely! + Ah me! I think I am lonelier here! + It is hard to go,—but harder to stay! + Were it not for the children, I should pray + That Death would take me within the year! + And Gottlieb!—he is at work all day + In the sunny field, or the forest murk, + But I know that his thoughts are far away, + I know that his heart is not in his work! + And when he comes home to me at night + He is not cheery, but sits and sighs, + And I see the great tears in his eyes, + And try to be cheerful for his sake. + Only the children’s hearts are light. + Mine is weary, and ready to break. + God help us! I hope we have done right; + We thought we were acting for the best! + [_Looking through the open door._] + + Who is it coming under the trees? + A man, in the Prince’s livery dressed! + He looks about him with doubtful face, + As if uncertain of the place. + He stops at the beehives;—now he sees + The garden gate; he is going past! + Can he be afraid of the bees? + No; he is coming in at last! + He fills my heart with strange alarm! + + _Enter a Forester._ + + _Forester._ Is this the tenant Gottlieb’s farm? + + _Ursula._ This is his farm, and I his wife. + Pray sit. What may your business be? + + _Forester._ News from the Prince! + + _Ursula._ Of death or life? + + _Forester._ You put your questions eagerly! + + _Ursula._ Answer me, then. How is the Prince? + + _Forester._ I left him only two hours since + Homeward returning down the river, + As strong and well as if God, the Giver, + Had given him back his youth again. + + _Ursula_ (_despairing_). Then Elsie, my poor child, is dead! + + _Forester._ That, my good woman, I have not said. + Don’t cross the bridge till you come to it, + Is a proverb old, and of excellent wit. + + _Ursula._ Keep me no longer in this pain! + + _Forester._ It is true your daughter is no more;— + That is, the peasant she was before. + + _Ursula._ Alas! I am simple and lowly bred, + I am poor, distracted, and forlorn. + And it is not well that you of the court + Should mock me thus, and make a sport + Of a joyless mother whose child is dead, + For you, too, were of mother born! + + _Forester._ Your daughter lives, and the Prince is well! + You will learn ere long how it all befell. + Her heart for a moment never failed; + But when they reached Salerno’s gate, + The Prince’s nobler self prevailed, + And saved her for a nobler fate. + And he was healed, in his despair, + By the touch of St. Matthew’s sacred bones; + Though I think the long ride in the open air, + That pilgrimage over stocks and stones, + In the miracle must come in for a share! + + _Ursula._ Virgin! who lovest the poor and lowly, + If the loud cry of a mother’s heart + Can ever ascend to where thou art, + Into thy blessed hands and holy + Receive my prayer of praise and thanksgiving! + Let the hands that bore our Saviour bear it + Into the awful presence of God; + For thy feet with holiness are shod, + And if thou bearest it he will hear it. + Our child who was dead, again is living! + + _Forester._ I did not tell you she was dead; + If you thought so ’twas no fault of mine; + At this very moment, while I speak, + They are sailing homeward down the Rhine, + In a splendid barge, with golden prow, + And decked with banners white and red + As the colours on your daughter’s cheek. + They call her the Lady Alicia now; + For the Prince in Salerno made a vow + That Elsie only would he wed. + + _Ursula._ Jesu Maria! what a change! + All seems to me so weird and strange! + + _Forester._ I saw her standing on the deck, + Beneath an awning cool and shady; + Her cap of velvet could not hold + The tresses of her hair of gold, + That flowed and floated like the stream + And fell in masses down her neck. + As fair and lovely did she seem + As in a story or a dream + Some beautiful and foreign lady. + And the Prince looked so grand and proud + And waved his hand thus to the crowd + That gazed and shouted from the shore, + All down the river, long and loud. + + _Ursula._ We shall behold our child once more; + She is not dead! She is not dead! + God, listening, must have overheard + The prayers, that, without sound or word, + Our hearts in secrecy have said! + O, bring me to her; for mine eyes + Are hungry to behold her face; + My very soul within me cries; + My very hands seem to caress her, + To see her, gaze at her, and bless her; + Dear Elsie, child of God and grace! + + [_Goes out towards the garden._] + + _Forester._ There goes the good woman out of her head: + And Gottlieb’s supper is waiting here; + A very capacious flagon of beer, + And a very portentous loaf of bread. + One would say his grief did not much oppress him. + Here’s to the health of the Prince, God bless him. + + [_He drinks._] + + Ha! it buzzes and stings like a hornet! + And what a scene there, through the door! + The forest behind and the garden before, + And midway an old man of threescore, + With a wife and children that caress him. + Let me try still further to cheer and adorn it + With a merry, echoing blast of my cornet! + + [_Goes out blowing his horn._] + +_The Castle of Vautsberg on the Rhine._ PRINCE HENRY _and_ ELSIE +_standing on the terrace at evening. The sound of bells heard from a +distance._ + + _Prince Henry._ We are alone. The wedding guests + Ride down the hill with plumes and cloaks, + And the descending dark invests + The Niederwald, and all the nests + Among its hoar and haunted oaks. + + _Elsie._ What bells are those, that ring so slow, + So mellow, musical, and low? + + _Prince Henry._ They are the bells of Geisenheim, + That with their melancholy chime + Ring out the curfew of the sun. + + _Elsie._ Listen, beloved. + + _Prince Henry._ They are done! + Dear Elsie! many years ago + Those same soft bells at eventide + Rang in the ears of Charlemagne, + As, seated by Fastrada’s side + At Ingelheim, in all his pride, + He heard their sound with secret pain. + + _Elsie._ Their voices only speak to me + Of peace and deep tranquillity, + And endless confidence in thee! + + _Prince Henry._ Thou knowest the story of her ring, + How, when the court went back to Aix, + Fastrada died; and how the king + Sat watching by her night and day, + Till into one of the blue lakes, + Which water that delicious land, + They cast the ring, drawn from her hand; + And the great monarch sat serene + And sad beside the fated shore, + Nor left the land for evermore. + + _Elsie._ That was true love. + + _Prince Henry._ For him the queen + Ne’er did what thou hast done for me. + + _Elsie._ Wilt thou as fond and faithful be? + Wilt thou so love me after death? + + _Prince Henry._ In life’s delight, in death’s dismay, + In storm and sunshine, night and day, + In health, in sickness, in decay, + Here and hereafter, I am thine! + Thou hast Fastrada’s ring. Beneath + The calm, blue waters of thine eyes, + Deep in thy steadfast soul it lies, + And, undisturbed by this world’s breath, + With magic light its jewels shine! + This golden ring, which thou hast worn + Upon thy finger since the morn, + Is but a symbol and a semblance, + An outward fashion, a remembrance, + Of what thou wearest within unseen, + O my Fastrada, O my queen! + Behold! the hill-tops all aglow + With purple and with amethyst; + While the whole valley deep below + Is filled, and seems to overflow, + With a fast-rising tide of mist. + The evening air grows damp and chill; + Let us go in. + + _Elsie._ Ah, not so soon. + See yonder fire! It is the moon + Slow rising o’er the eastern hill. + It glimmers on the forest tips, + And through the dewy foliage drips + In little rivulets of light, + And makes the heart in love with night. + + _Prince Henry._ Oft on this terrace, when the day + Was closing, have I stood and gazed, + And seen the landscape fade away, + And the white vapours rise and drown + Hamlet and vineyard, tower and town, + While far above the hill-tops blazed. + But then another hand than thine + Was gently held and clasped in mine; + Another head upon my breast + Was laid, as thine is now, at rest. + Why dost thou lift those tender eyes + With so much sorrow and surprise? + A minstrel’s, not a maiden’s hand, + Was that in which my own was pressed + A manly form usurped thy place, + A beautiful, but bearded face, + +[Illustration: + + “_Oft on this terrace, when the day + Was closing, have I stood and gazed, + And seen the landscape fade away._” +] + + That now is in the Holy Land, + Yet in my memory from afar + Is shining on us like a star. + But linger not. For, while I speak, + A sheeted spectre white and tall, + The cold mist climbs the castle wall, + And lays his hand upon thy cheek. + + [_They go in._] + + + + +EPILOGUE. + + +THE TWO RECORDING ANGELS ASCENDING. + + _The Angel of Good Deeds_ (_with closed book_). + + God sent his messenger the rain, + And said unto the mountain brook, + “Rise up, and from thy caverns look + And leap, with naked, snow-white feet, + From the cool hills into the heat + Of the broad, arid plain.” + + God sent his messenger of faith, + And whispered in the maiden’s heart, + “Rise up, and look from where thou art, + And scatter with unselfish hands + Thy freshness on the barren sands + And solitudes of Death.” + + O beauty of holiness, + Of self-forgetfulness, of lowliness! + O power of meekness, + Whose very gentleness and weakness + Are like the yielding, but irresistible air! + Upon the pages + Of the sealed volume that I bear, + The deed divine + Is written in characters of gold, + That never shall grow old, + But through all ages + Burn and shine + With soft effulgence! + O God! it is thy indulgence + That fills the world with the bliss + Of a good deed like this! + + _The Angel of Evil Deeds_ (_with open book_). + + Not yet, not yet + Is the red sun wholly set, + But evermore recedes, + While open still I bear + The Book of Evil Deeds, + To let the breathings of the upper air + Visit its pages, and erase + The records from its face! + Fainter and fainter as I gaze + In the broad blaze + The glimmering landscape shines, + And below me the black river + Is hidden by wreaths of vapour! + Fainter and fainter the black lines + Begin to quiver + Along the whitening surface of the paper; + Shade after shade + The terrible words grow faint and fade, + And in their place + Runs a white space! + Down goes the sun! + But the soul of one, + Who by repentance + Has escaped the dreadful sentence, + Shines bright below me as I look. + It is the end! + With closèd Book + To God do I ascend. + + Lo! over the mountain steeps + A dark, gigantic shadow sweeps + Beneath my feet; + A blackness inwardly brightening + With sudden heat, + As a storm-cloud lurid with lightning. + And a cry of lamentation, + Repeated and again repeated, + Deep and loud + As the reverberation + Of cloud answering unto cloud, + Swells and rolls away in the distance, + As if the sheeted + Lightning retreated, + Baffled and thwarted by the wind’s resistance. + + It is Lucifer, + The son of mystery; + And since God suffers him to be, + He, too, is God’s minister, + And labours for some good + By us not understood! + + + + +MARTIN LUTHER. + + +_A Chamber in the Wartburg. Morning._ MARTIN LUTHER _writing_. + + _Martin Luther._ Our God a tower of strength is he, + A goodly wall and weapon; + From all our need he helps us free, + That now to us doth happen. + The old evil foe + Doth in earnest grow, + In grim armour dight, + Much guile and great might; + On earth there is none like him. + O yes; a tower of strength indeed, + A present help in all our need, + A sword and buckler is our God. + Innocent men have walked unshod + O’er burning ploughshares, and have trod + Unharmed on serpents in their path, + And laughed to scorn the Devil’s wrath! + + Safe in this Wartburg tower I stand + Where God hath led me by the hand, + And look down, with a heart at ease, + Over the pleasant neighbourhoods, + Over the vast Thuringian Woods, + With flash of river, and gloom of trees, + With castles crowning the dizzy heights, + And farms and pastoral delights, + And the morning pouring everywhere + Its golden glory on the air. + Safe, yes, safe am I here at last, + Safe from the overwhelming blast + Of the mouths of Hell, that followed me fast, + And the howling demons of despair + That hunted me like a beast to his lair. + + Of our own might we nothing can; + We soon are unprotected; + There fighteth for us the right Man, + Whom God himself elected. + Who is he? ye exclaim; + Christus is his name, + Lord of Sabaoth, + Very God in troth; + The field he holds for ever. + + Nothing can vex the Devil more + Than the name of him whom we adore. + Therefore doth it delight me best + To stand in the choir among the rest, + With the great organ trumpeting + Through its metallic tubes, and sing: + _Et Verbum caro factum est_! + These words the Devil cannot endure, + For he knoweth their meaning well! + Him they trouble and repel, + Us they comfort and allure, + And happy it were, if our delight + Were as great as his affright! + Yea, music is the Prophet’s art; + Among the gifts that God hath sent, + One of the most magnificent! + It calms the agitated heart; + Temptations, evil thoughts, and all + The passions that disturb the soul, + Are quelled by its divine control, + As the Evil Spirit fled from Saul, + And his distemper was allayed, + When David took his harp and played. + + This world may full of Devils be, + All ready to devour us; + Yet not so sore afraid are we, + They shall not overpower us. + This World’s Prince, howe’er + Fierce he may appear, + He can harm us not, + He is doomed, God wot! + One little word can slay him! + + Incredible it seems to some, + And to myself a mystery, + That such weak flesh and blood as we, + Armed with no other shield or sword, + Or other weapon than the Word, + Should combat and should overcome + A spirit powerful as he! + He summons forth the Pope of Rome + With all his diabolic crew, + His shorn and shaven retinue + Of priests and children of the dark; + Kill! kill! they cry, the Heresiarch, + Who rouseth up all Christendom + Against us; and at one fell blow + Seeks the whole Church to overthrow! + Not yet; my hour is not yet come. + + Yesterday in an idle mood, + Hunting with others in the wood, + I did not pass the hours in vain, + For in the very heart of all + The joyous tumult raised around, + Shouting of men, and baying of hound, + And the bugle’s blithe and cheery call, + And echoes answering back again, + From crags of the distant mountain chain,— + In the very heart of this, I found + A mystery of grief and pain. + It was an image of the power + Of Satan, hunting the world about, + With his nets and traps and well-trained dogs, + His bishops and priests and theologues, + And all the rest of the rabble rout, + Seeking whom he may devour! + Enough have I had of hunting hares, + Enough of these hours of idle mirth, + Enough of nets and traps and gins! + The only hunting of any worth + Is where I can pierce with javelins + The cunning foxes and wolves and bears, + The whole iniquitous troop of beasts, + The Roman Pope and the Roman priests + That sorely infest and afflict the earth! + + Ye nuns, ye singing birds of the air! + The fowler hath caught you in his snare, + And keeps you safe in his gilded cage, + Singing the song that never tires, + To lure down others from their nests; + How ye flutter and beat your breasts, + Warm and soft with young desires, + Against the cruel pitiless wires, + Reclaiming your lost heritage! + Behold! a hand unbars the door, + Ye shall be captives held no more. + + The Word they shall perforce let stand, + And little thanks they merit! + For he is with us in the land, + With gifts of his own Spirit! + Though they take our life, + Goods, honours, child, and wife, + Let these pass away, + Little gain have they; + The Kingdom still remaineth! + + Yea, it remaineth for evermore, + However Satan may rage and roar, + Though often he whispers in my ears: + What if thy doctrines false should be? + And wrings from me a bitter sweat. + Then I put him to flight with jeers, + Saying: Saint Satan! pray for me; + If thou thinkest I am not saved yet! + + And my mortal foes that lie in wait + In every avenue and gate! + As to that odious monk John Tetzel + Hawking about his hollow wares + Like a huckster at village fairs, + And those mischievous fellows, Wetzel, + Campanus, Carlstadt, Martin Cellarius, + And all the busy multifarious + Heretics, and disciples of Arius, + Half-learned, dunce-bold, dry and hard, + They are not worthy of my regard, + Poor and humble as I am. + But ah! Erasmus of Rotterdam, + He is the vilest miscreant + That ever walked this world below! + A Momus, making his mock and mow + At Papist and at Protestant, + Sneering at St. John and St. Paul, + At God and Man, at one and all; + And yet as hollow and false and drear, + As a cracked pitcher to the ear, + And ever growing worse and worse! + Whenever I pray, I pray for a curse + On Erasmus, the Insincere! + + Philip Melancthon! thou alone + Faithful among the faithless known, + Thee I hail, and only thee! + Behold the record of us three! + _Res et verba Philippus, + Res sine verbis Lutherus; + Erasmus verba sine re_! + My Philip, prayest thou for me? + Lifted above all earthly care, + From these high regions of the air, + Among the birds that day and night + Upon the branches of tall trees + Sing their lauds and litanies, + Praising God with all their might, + My Philip, unto thee I write. + + My Philip! thou who knowest best + All that is passing in this breast; + The spiritual agonies, + The inward deaths, the inward hell, + And the divine new births as well, + That surely follow after these, + As after winter follows spring; + My Philip, in the night-time sing + This song of the Lord I send to thee, + And I will sing it for thy sake, + Until our answering voices make + A glorious antiphony, + And choral chant of victory! + + + + +ST. JOHN. + + +SAINT JOHN _wandering over the face of the Earth_. + + _St. John._ The Ages come and go, + The Centuries pass as Years; + My hair is white as the snow, + My feet are weary and slow, + The earth is wet with my tears! + The kingdoms crumble, and fall + Apart, like a ruined wall, + Or a bank that is undermined + By a river’s ceaseless flow, + And leave no trace behind! + The world itself is old; + The portals of Time unfold + On hinges of iron, that grate + And groan with the rust and the weight, + Like the hinges of a gate + That hath fallen to decay; + But the evil doth not cease; + There is war instead of peace, + Instead of love there is hate; + And still I must wander and wait, + Still I must watch and pray, + Not forgetting in whose sight, + A thousand years in their flight + Are as a single day. + + The life of man is a gleam + Of light, that comes and goes + Like the course of the Holy Stream, + The cityless river, that flows + From fountains no one knows, + Through the Lake of Galilee, + Through forests and level lands, + Over rocks, and shallows, and sands + Of a wilderness wild and vast, + Till it findeth its rest at last + In the desolate Dead Sea! + But alas! alas for me, + Not yet this rest shall be! + + What, then! doth Charity fail? + Is Faith of no avail? + Is Hope blown out like a light + By a gust of wind in the night? + The clashing of creeds, and the strife + Of the many beliefs, that in vain + Perplex man’s heart and brain, + Are nought but the rustle of leaves, + When the breath of God upheaves + The boughs of the Tree of Life, + And they subside again! + And I remember still + The words, and from whom they came, + Not he that repeateth the name, + But he that doeth the will! + + And him evermore I behold + Walking in Galilee, + Through the corn-fields waving gold, + In hamlet, in wood, and in wold, + By the shores of the Beautiful Sea. + He toucheth the sightless eyes; + Before him the demons flee; + To the dead he sayeth: Arise! + To the living: Follow me! + And that voice still soundeth on + From the centuries that are gone, + To the centuries that shall be! + + From all vain pomps and shows, + From the pride that overflows, + And the false conceits of men; + From all the narrow rules + And subtleties of Schools, + And the craft of tongue and pen; + Bewildered in its search, + Bewildered with the cry: + Lo, here! lo, there, the Church! + Poor, sad Humanity + Through all the dust and heat + Turns back with bleeding feet, + By the weary road it came, + Unto the simple thought + By the Great Master taught, + And that remaineth still: + Not he that repeateth the name + But he that doeth the will! + +[Illustration] + + + + +_The Song of Hiawatha_ + +1855. + + +INTRODUCTION. + + Should you ask me, whence these stories? + Whence these legends and traditions, + With the odours of the forest, + With the dew and damp of meadows, + With the curling smoke of wigwams, + With the rushing of great rivers, + With their frequent repetitions, + And their wild reverberations, + As of thunder in the mountains? + I should answer, I should tell you, + “From the forest and the prairies, + From the great lakes of the Northland, + From the land of the Ojibways, + From the land of the Dacotahs, + From the mountains, moors, and fenlands, + Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, + Feeds among the reeds and rushes, + I repeat them as I heard them + From the lips of Nawadaha, + The musician, the sweet singer.” + Should you ask where Nawadaha + Found these songs, so wild and wayward, + Found these legends and traditions, + I should answer, I should tell you, + “In the birds’-nests of the forest, + In the lodges of the beaver, + In the hoof-prints of the bison, + In the eyrie of the eagle! + “All the wild-fowl sang them to him, + In the moorlands and the fenlands, + In the melancholy marshes; + Chetowaik,[40] the plover, sang them, + Mahng, the loon, the wild goose, Wawa, + The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, + And the grouse, the Mushkodasa!” + If still further you should ask me, + Saying, “Who was Nawadaha? + Tell us of this Nawadaha,” + I should answer your inquiries + Straightway in such words as follow. + “In the vale of Tawasentha, + In the green and silent valley, + By the pleasant water-courses, + Dwelt the singer Nawadaha. + Round about the Indian village + Spread the meadows and the corn-fields, + And beyond them stood the forest, + Stood the groves of singing pine-trees, + Green in Summer, white in Winter, + Ever sighing, ever singing. + “And the pleasant water-courses, + You could trace them through the valley, + By the rushing in the Spring-time, + By the alders in the Summer, + By the white fog in the Autumn, + By the black line in the Winter; + And beside them dwelt the singer, + In the vale of Tawasentha, + In the green and silent valley. + “There he sang of Hiawatha, + Sang the song of Hiawatha, + Sang his wondrous birth and being, + How he prayed and how he fasted, + How he lived, and toiled, and suffered, + That the tribes of men might prosper, + That he might advance his people!” + Ye who love the haunts of Nature, + Love the sunshine of the meadow, + Love the shadow of the forest, + Love the wind among the branches, + And the rain-shower and the snow-storm, + And the rushing of great rivers + Through their palisades of pine-trees, + And the thunder in the mountains, + Whose innumerable echoes + Flap like eagles in their eyries;— + Listen to these wild traditions, + To this Song of Hiawatha! + Ye who love a nation’s legends, + Love the ballads of a people, + That like voices from afar off + Call to us to pause and listen, + Speak in tones so plain and childlike, + Scarcely can the ear distinguish + Whether they are sung or spoken;— + Listen to this Indian legend, + To this Song of Hiawatha! + Ye whose hearts are fresh and simple, + Who have faith in God and Nature, + Who believe, that in all ages + Every human heart is human, + That in even savage bosoms + There are longings, yearnings, strivings, + For the good they comprehend not, + That the feeble hands and helpless, + Groping blindly in the darkness, + Touch God’s right hand in that darkness, + And are lifted up and strengthened:— + Listen to this simple story, + To this Song of Hiawatha! + Ye, who sometimes, in your rambles + Through the green lanes of the country, + Where the tangled barberry-bushes + Hang their tufts of crimson berries + Over stone walls grey with mosses, + Pause by some neglected graveyard, + For a while to muse, and ponder + On a half-effaced inscription, + Written with little skill of song-craft. + Homely phrases, but each letter + Full of hope and yet of heart-break, + Full of all the tender pathos + Of the Here and the Hereafter;— + Stay and read this rude inscription! + Read this Song of Hiawatha! + +[40] The vocabulary will be found in the Appendix with the notes, but +the English word is generally beside the Indian. + + +I. + +THE PEACE-PIPE. + + On the Mountains of the Prairie, + On the great Red Pipe-stone Quarry, + Gitche Manito, the mighty, + He the Master of Life descending, + On the red crags of the quarry, + Stood erect, and called the nations, + Called the tribes of men together. + From his footprints flowed a river, + Leaped into the light of morning, + O’er the precipice plunging downward + Gleamed like Ishkoodah, the comet. + And the Spirit, stooping earthward, + With his finger on the meadow + Traced a winding pathway for it, + Saying to it, “Run in this way!” + From the red stone of the quarry + With his hand he broke a fragment, + Moulded it into a pipe-head, + Shaped and fashioned it with figures; + From the margin of the river + Took a long reed for a pipe-stem, + With its dark-green leaves upon it; + Filled the pipe with bark of willow, + With the bark of the red willow; + Breathed upon the neighbouring forest, + Made its great boughs chafe together, + Till in flame they burst and kindled; + And erect upon the mountains, + Gitche Manito, the mighty, + Smoked the calumet, the Peace-Pipe, + As a signal to the nations. + And the smoke rose slowly, slowly, + Through the tranquil air of morning, + First a single line of darkness, + Then a denser, bluer vapour, + Then a snow-white cloud unfolding, + Like the tree-tops of the forest, + Ever rising, rising, rising, + Till it touched the top of heaven, + Till it broke against the heaven, + And rolled outward all around it. + From the Vale of Tawasentha, + From the Valley of Wyoming, + From the groves of Tuscaloosa, + From the far-off Rocky Mountains, + From the Northern lakes and rivers, + All the tribes beheld the signal, + Saw the distant smoke ascending, + The Pukwana of the Peace-Pipe. + And the Prophets of the nations + Said: “Behold it, the Pukwana! + By this signal from afar off, + Bending like a wand of willow, + Waving like a hand that beckons, + Gitche Manito, the mighty, + Calls the tribes of men together, + Calls the warriors to his council!” + Down the rivers, o’er the prairies, + Came the warriors of the nations, + Came the Delawares and Mohawks, + Came the Choctaws and Camanches, + Came the Shoshonies and Blackfeet, + Came the Pawnees and Omahas, + Came the Mandans and Dacotahs, + Came the Hurons and Ojibways, + All the warriors drawn together + By the signal of the Peace-Pipe, + To the Mountains of the Prairie, + To the great Red Pipe-stone Quarry. + And they stood there on the meadow, + With their weapons and their war-gear, + Painted like the leaves of Autumn, + Painted like the sky of morning, + Wildly glaring at each other; + In their faces stern defiance, + In their hearts the feuds of ages, + The hereditary hatred, + The ancestral thirst of vengeance. + Gitche Marnito, the mighty, + The Creator of the nations, + Looked upon them with compassion, + With paternal love and pity; + Looked upon their wrath and wrangling + But as quarrels among children, + But as feuds and fights of children! + Over them he stretched his right hand, + To subdue their stubborn natures, + To allay their thirst and fever, + By the shadow of his right hand; + Spake to them with voice majestic + As the sound of far-off waters, + Falling into deep abysses, + Warning, chiding, spake in this wise: — + “O my children; my poor children! + Listen to the words of wisdom, + Listen to the words of warning, + From the lips of the Great Spirit, + From the Master of Life, who made you! + “I have given you lands to hunt in, + I have given you streams to fish in, + I have given you bear and bison, + I have given you roe and reindeer, + I have given you brant and beaver, + Filled the marshes full of wild-fowl, + Filled the rivers full of fishes; + Why then are you not contented? + Why then will you hunt each other? + “I am weary of your quarrels, + Weary of your wars and bloodshed, + Weary of your prayers for vengeance, + Of your wranglings and dissensions; + All your strength is in your union, + All your danger is in discord; + Therefore be at peace henceforward, + And as brothers live together. + “I will send a Prophet to you, + A Deliverer of the nations, + Who shall guide you and shall teach you, + Who shall toil and suffer with you. + If you listen to his counsels, + You will multiply and prosper; + If his warnings pass unheeded, + You will fade away and perish! + “Bathe now in the stream before you, + Wash the war-paint from your faces, + Wash the blood-stains from your fingers, + Bury your war-clubs and your weapons, + Break the red stone from this quarry, + Mould and make it into Peace-Pipes, + Take the reeds that grow beside you, + Deck them with your brightest feathers, + Smoke the calumet together, + And as brothers live henceforward!” + Then upon the ground the warriors + Threw their cloaks and shirts of deer-skin, + Threw their weapons and their war-gear, + Leaped into the rushing river, + Washed the war-paint from their faces. + Clear above them flowed the water, + Clear and limpid from the footprints + Of the Master of Life descending; + Dark below them flowed the water, + Soiled and stained with streaks of crimson, + As if blood were mingled with it! + From the river came the warriors, + Cleaned and washed from all their war-paint; + On the banks their clubs they buried, + Buried all their warlike weapons. + Gitche Manito, the mighty, + The Great Spirit, the Creator, + Smiled upon his helpless children! + And in silence all the warriors + Broke the red stone of the quarry, + Smoothed and formed it into Peace-Pipes, + Broke the long reeds by the river, + Decked them with their brightest feathers, + And departed each one homeward, + While the Master of Life, ascending, + Through the opening of cloud-curtains, + Through the doorways of the heaven, + Vanished from before their faces, + In the smoke that rolled around him, + The Pukwana of the Peace-Pipe! + + +II. + +THE FOUR WINDS. + + “Honour be to Mudjekeewis!” + Cried the warriors, cried the old men, + When he came in triumph homeward + With the sacred Belt of Wampum, + From the regions of the North-Wind, + From the kingdom of Wabasso, + From the land of the White Rabbit. + He had stolen the Belt of Wampum, + From the neck of Mishe-Mokwa, + From the Great Bear of the mountains, + From the terror of the nations, + As he lay asleep and cumbrous + On the summit of the mountains, + Like a rock with mosses on it, + Spotted brown and grey with mosses. + Silently he stole upon him, + Till the red nails of the monster + Almost touched him, almost scared him, + Till the hot breath of his nostrils + Warmed the hands of Mudjekeewis, + As he drew the Belt of Wampum + Over the round ears, that heard not, + Over the small eyes, that saw not, + Over the long nose and nostrils, + The black muffle of the nostrils, + Out of which the heavy breathing + Warmed the hands of Mudjekeewis. + Then he swung aloft his war-club, + Shouted loud and long his war-cry, + Smote the mighty Mishe-Mokwa + In the middle of the forehead, + Right between the eyes he smote him. + With the heavy blow bewildered, + Rose the Great Bear of the mountains; + But his knees beneath him trembled, + And he whimpered like a woman, + As he reeled and staggered forward, + As he sat upon his haunches; + And the mighty Mudjekeewis, + Standing fearlessly before him, + Taunted him in loud derision, + Spake disdainfully in this wise:— + “Hark you, Bear! you are a coward, + And no Brave, as you pretended; + Else you would not cry and whimper + Like a miserable woman! + Bear! you know our tribes are hostile, + Long have been at war together; + Now you find that we are strongest, + You go sneaking in the forest, + You go hiding in the mountains! + Had you conquered me in battle, + Not a groan would I have uttered; + But you, Bear! sit here and whimper, + And disgrace your tribe by crying, + Like a wretched Shaugodaya, + Like a cowardly old woman!” + Then again he raised his war-club, + Smote again the Mishe-Mokwa + In the middle of his forehead, + Broke his skull, as ice is broken + When one goes to fish in Winter. + Thus was slain the Mishe-Mokwa, + He the Great Bear of the mountains, + He the terror of the nations. + “Honour be to Mudjekeewis!” + With a shout exclaimed the people, + “Honour be to Mudjekeewis! + Henceforth he shall be the West-Wind, + And hereafter and for ever + Shall he hold supreme dominion + Over all the winds of heaven. + Call him no more Mudjekeewis, + Call him Kabeyun, the West-Wind!” + Thus was Mudjekeewis chosen + Father of the Winds of Heaven. + For himself he kept the West-Wind, + Gave the others to his children; + Unto Wabun gave the East-Wind, + Gave the South to Shawondasee, + And the North-Wind, wild and cruel, + To the fierce Kabibonokka. + Young and beautiful was Wabun; + He it was who brought the morning, + He it was whose silver arrows + Chased the dark o’er hill and valley; + He it was whose cheeks were painted + With the brightest streaks of crimson, + And whose voice awoke the village, + Called the deer and called the hunter. + Lonely in the sky was Wabun; + Though the birds sang gaily to him, + Though the wild-flowers of the meadow + Filled the air with odours for him, + Though the forests and the rivers + Sang and shouted at his coming, + Still his heart was sad within him, + For he was alone in heaven. + But one morning gazing earthward, + While the village still was sleeping, + And the fog lay on the river, + Like a ghost, that goes at sunrise, + He beheld a maiden walking + All alone upon a meadow, + Gathering water-flags and rushes + By a river in the meadow. + Every morning, gazing earthward, + Still the first thing he beheld there + Was her blue eyes looking at him, + Two blue lakes among the rushes. + And he loved the lonely maiden, + Who thus waited for his coming; + For they both were solitary, + She on earth and he in heaven. + And he wooed her with caresses, + Wooed her with his smile of sunshine, + With his flattering words he wooed her, + With his sighing and his singing, + Gentlest whispers in the branches, + Softest music, sweetest odours, + Till he drew her to his bosom, + Folded in his robes of crimson, + Till into a star he changed her, + Trembling still upon his bosom; + And for ever in the heavens + They are seen together walking, + Wabun and the Wabun-Annung, + Wabun and the Star of Morning. + But the fierce Kabibonokka + Had his dwelling among icebergs, + In the everlasting snow-drifts, + In the kingdom of Wabasso, + In the land of the White Rabbit. + He it was whose hand in Autumn + Painted all the trees with scarlet, + Stained the leaves with red and yellow; + He it was who sent the snow-flakes, + Sifting, hissing through the forest, + Froze the ponds, the lakes, the rivers, + Drove the loon and sea-gull southward, + Drove the cormorant and curlew + To their nests of sedge and sea-tang + In the realms of Shawondasee. + Once the fierce Kabibonokka + Issued from his lodge of snow-drifts, + From his home among the icebergs, + And his hair, with snow besprinkled, + Streamed behind him like a river, + Like a black and wintry river, + As he howled and hurried southward, + Over frozen lakes and moorlands. + There among the reeds and rushes + Found he Shingebis, the diver, + Trailing strings of fish behind him, + O’er the frozen fens and moorlands, + Lingering still among the moorlands, + Though his tribe had long departed + To the land of Shawondasee. + Cried the fierce Kabibonokka, + “Who is this that dares to brave me? + Dares to stay in my dominions, + When the Wawa has departed, + When the wild-goose has gone southward, + And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, + Long ago departed southward? + I will go into his wigwam, + I will put his smouldering fire out!” + And at night Kabibonokka + To the lodge came wild and wailing, + Heaped the snow in drifts about it, + Shouted down into the smoke-flue, + Shook the lodge poles in his fury, + Flapped the curtain of the doorway. + Shingebis, the diver, feared not, + Shingebis, the diver, cared not; + Four great logs had he for fire-wood, + One for each moon of the winter, + And for food the fishes served him. + By his blazing fire he sat there, + Warm and merry, eating, laughing, + Singing, “O Kabibonokka, + You are but my fellow-mortal!” + Then Kabibonokka entered, + And though Shingebis, the diver, + Felt his presence by the coldness, + Felt his icy breath upon him, + Still he did not cease his singing, + Still he did not leave his laughing, + Only turned the log a little, + Only made the fire burn brighter, + Made the sparks fly up the smoke-flue. + From Kabibonokka’s forehead, + From his snow-besprinkled tresses, + Drops of sweat fell fast and heavy, + Making dints upon the ashes, + As along the eaves of lodges, + As from drooping boughs of hemlock, + Drips the melting snow in springtime, + Making hollows in the snow-drifts. + Till at last he rose defeated, + Could not bear the heat and laughter, + Could not bear the merry singing, + But rushed headlong through the doorway, + Stamped upon the crusted snow-drifts, + Stamped upon the lakes and rivers, + Made the snow upon them harder, + Made the ice upon them thicker, + Challenged Shingebis, the diver, + To come forth and wrestle with him, + To come forth and wrestle naked + On the frozen fens and moorlands. + Forth went Shingebis, the diver, + Wrestled all night with the North-Wind, + Wrestled naked on the moorlands + With the fierce Kabibonokka, + Till his panting breath grew fainter, + Till his frozen grasp grew feebler, + Till he reeled and staggered backward, + And retreated, baffled, beaten, + To the kingdom of Wabasso, + To the land of the White Rabbit, + Hearing still the gusty laughter, + Hearing Shingebis, the diver, + Singing, “O Kabibonokka, + You are but my fellow-mortal!” + Shawondasee, fat and lazy, + Had his dwelling far to southward, + In the drowsy, dreamy sunshine, + In the never-ending Summer. + He it was who sent the wood-birds, + Sent the robin, the Opechee, + Sent the blue-bird, the Owaissa, + Sent the Shaw-shaw, sent the swallow, + Sent the wild-goose, Wawa, northward, + Sent the melons and tobacco, + And the grapes in purple clusters. + From his pipe the smoke ascending + Filled the sky with haze and vapour, + Filled the air with dreamy softness, + Gave a twinkle to the water, + Touched the rugged hills with smoothness, + Brought the tender Indian Summer + To the melancholy Northland, + In the dreary Moon of Snow-shoes. + Listless, careless Shawondasee! + In his life he had one shadow, + In his heart one sorrow had he. + Once, as he was gazing northward, + Far away upon a prairie + He beheld a maiden standing, + Saw a tall and slender maiden + All alone upon a prairie; + Brightest green were all her garments, + And her hair was like the sunshine. + + Day by day he gazed upon her, + Day by day he sighed with passion, + Day by day his heart within him + Grew more hot with love and longing + For the maid with yellow tresses. + But he was too fat and lazy + To bestir himself and woo her; + Yes, too indolent and easy + To pursue her and persuade her. + So he only gazed upon her, + Only sat and sighed with passion + For the maiden of the prairie. + Till one morning, looking northward, + He beheld her yellow tresses + Changed and covered o’er with whiteness; + Covered as with whitest snow-flakes. + “Ah! my brother from the Northland, + From the kingdom of Wabasso, + From the land of the White Rabbit! + You have stolen the maiden from me, + You have laid your hand upon her, + You have wooed and won my maiden, + With your stories of the Northland!” + Thus the wretched Shawondasee + Breathed into the air his sorrow; + And the South-Wind o’er the prairie + Wandered warm with sighs of passion, + With the sighs of Shawondasee, + Till the air seemed full of snow-flakes, + Full of thistle-down the prairie, + And the maid with hair like sunshine + Vanished from his sight for ever; + Never more did Shawondasee + See the maid with yellow tresses! + Poor, deluded Shawondasee! + ’Twas no woman that you gazed at, + ’Twas no maiden that you sighed for, + ’Twas the prairie dandelion + That through all the dreamy Summer + You had gazed at with such longing, + You had sighed for with such passion, + And had puffed away for ever, + Blown into the air with sighing. + Ah! deluded Shawondasee! + Thus the Four Winds were divided, + Thus the sons of Mudjekeewis + Had their stations in the heavens; + At the corners of the heavens; + For himself the West-Wind only + Kept the mighty Mudjekeewis. + + +III. + +HIAWATHA’S CHILDHOOD. + + Downward through the evening twilight, + In the days that are forgotten, + In the unremembered ages, + From the full moon fell Nokomis, + Fell the beautiful Nokomis, + She a wife, but not a mother. + She was sporting with her women, + Swinging in a swing of grape-vines, + When her rival, the rejected, + Full of jealousy and hatred, + Cut the leafy swing asunder, + Cut in twain the twisted grape-vines, + And Nokomis fell affrighted + Downward through the evening twilight, + On the Muskoday, the meadow + On the prairie full of blossoms. + “See! a star falls!” said the people; + “From the sky a star is falling!” + There among the ferns and mosses, + There among the prairie lilies, + On the Muskoday, the meadow, + In the moonlight and the star-light, + Fair Nokomis bore a daughter, + And she called her name Wenonah, + As the first-born of her daughters. + And the daughter of Nokomis + Grew up like the prairie lilies, + Grew a tall and slender maiden, + With the beauty of the moonlight, + With the beauty of the star-light. + And Nokomis warned her often, + Saying oft, and oft repeating, + “O, beware of Mudjekeewis; + Of the West-Wind, Mudjekeewis; + Listen not to what he tells you; + Lie not down upon the meadow, + Stoop not down among the lilies, + Lest the West-Wind come and harm you!” + But she heeded not the warning, + Heeded not those words of wisdom, + And the West-Wind came at evening, + Walking lightly o’er the prairie, + Whispering to the leaves and blossoms, + Bending low the flowers and grasses, + Found the beautiful Wenonah, + Lying there among the lilies, + Wooed her with his words of sweetness, + Wooed her with his soft caresses, + Till she bore a son in sorrow, + Bore a son of love and sorrow. + Thus was born my Hiawatha, + Thus was born the child of wonder; + But the daughter of Nokomis, + Hiawatha’s gentle mother, + In her anguish died deserted + By the West-Wind, false and faithless, + By the heartless Mudjekeewis. + For her daughter, long and loudly + Wailed and wept the sad Nokomis; + “O that I were dead,” she murmured, + “O that I were dead, as thou art! + No more work, and no more weeping, + Wahonowin! Wahonowin!” + By the shores of Gitche Gumee, + By the shining Big-Sea-Water, + Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, + Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis. + Dark behind it rose the forest, + Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees, + Rose the firs with cones upon them; + Bright before it beat the water, + Beat the shining Big-Sea-Water. + Thus the wrinkled, old Nokomis + Nursed the little Hiawatha, + Rocked him in his linden cradle, + Bedded soft in moss and rushes, + Safely bound with reindeer sinews; + Stilled his fretful wail by saying, + “Hush! the naked bear will get thee!” + Lulled him into slumber, singing, + “Ewa-yea! my little owlet! + Who is this, that lights the wigwam? + With his great eyes lights the wigwam? + Ewa-yea! my little owlet!” + Many things Nokomis taught him + Of the stars that shine in heaven; + Showed him Ishkoodah, the comet, + Ishkoodah, with fiery tresses; + Showed the Death-Dance of the spirits, + Warriors with their plumes and war-clubs, + Flaring far away to northward + In the frosty nights of Winter; + Showed the broad, white road in heaven, + Pathway of the ghosts, the shadows, + Running straight across the heavens, + Crowded with the ghosts, the shadows. + At the door on Summer evenings + Sat the little Hiawatha; + Heard the whispering of the pine-trees, + Heard the lapping of the water, + Sounds of music, words of wonder; + “Minne-wawa!” said the pine-trees, + “Mudway-aushka!” said the water. + Saw the fire-fly, Wah-wah-taysee, + Flitting through the dusk of evening, + With the twinkle of its candle + Lighting up the brakes and bushes, + And he sang the song of children, + Sang the song Nokomis taught him: + “Wah-wah-taysee, little fire-fly, + Little, flitting, white-fire insect, + Little, dancing, white-fire creature, + Light me with your little candle, + Ere upon my bed I lay me, + Ere in sleep I close my eyelids!” + Saw the moon rise from the water, + Rippling, rounding, from the water, + Saw the flecks and shadows on it, + Whispered, “What is that, Nokomis?” + And the good Nokomis answered: + “Once a warrior, very angry, + Seized his grandmother, and threw her + Up into the sky at midnight; + Right against the moon he threw her; + ’Tis her body that you see there.” + Saw the rainbow in the heaven, + In the eastern sky the rainbow, + Whispered, “What is that, Nokomis?” + And the good Nokomis answered: + “’Tis the heaven of flowers you see there; + All the wild-flowers of the forest, + All the lilies of the prairie, + When on earth they fade and perish, + Blossom in that heaven above us.” + When he heard the owls at midnight, + Hooting, laughing in the forest, + “What is that?” he cried in terror, + “What is that?” he said, “Nokomis?” + And the good Nokomis answered: + “That is but the owl and owlet, + Talking in their native language, + Talking, scolding at each other.” + Then the little Hiawatha + Learned of every bird its language, + Learned their names and all their secrets, + How they built their nests in Summer, + Where they hid themselves in Winter, + Talked with them whene’er he met them, + Called them “Hiawatha’s Chickens.” + Of all the beasts he learned the language, + Learned their names and all their secrets, + How the beavers built their lodges, + Where the squirrels hid their acorns, + How the reindeer ran so swiftly, + Why the rabbit was so timid, + Talked with them whene’er he met them, + Called them “Hiawatha’s Brothers.” + Then Iagoo, the great boaster, + He the marvellous story-teller, + He the traveller and the talker, + He the friend of old Nokomis, + Made a bow for Hiawatha; + From a branch of ash he made it, + From an oak-bough made the arrows, + Tipped with flint, and winged with feathers, + And the cord he made of deer-skin. + Then he said to Hiawatha— + “Go, my son, into the forest, + Where the red deer herd together, + Kill for us a famous roebuck, + Kill for us a deer with antlers!” + Forth into the forest straightway + All alone walked Hiawatha + Proudly, with his bow and arrows; + And the birds sang round him, o’er him, + “Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!” + Sang the robin, the Opechee, + Sang the blue-bird, the Owaissa, + “Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!” + Up the oak-tree, close beside him, + Sprang the squirrel, Adjidaumo, + In and out among the branches, + Coughed and chattered from the oak-tree, + Laughed, and said between his laughing, + “Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!” + And the rabbit from his pathway + Leaped aside, and at a distance + Sat erect upon his haunches, + Half in fear and half in frolic, + Saying to the little hunter, + “Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!’” + But he heeded not, nor heard them, + For his thoughts were with the red-deer; + On their tracks his eyes were fastened, + Leading downward to the river, + To the ford across the river, + And as one in slumber walked he. + Hidden in the alder-bushes, + There he waited till the deer came, + Till he saw two antlers lifted, + Saw two eyes look from the thicket, + Saw two nostrils point to windward, + And a deer came down the pathway, + Flecked with leafy light and shadow. + And his heart within him fluttered, + Trembled like the leaves above him, + Like the birch-leaf palpitated, + As the deer came down the pathway. + Then, upon one knee uprising, + Hiawatha aimed an arrow; + Scarce a twig moved with his motion, + Scarce a leaf was stirred or rustled, + But the wary roebuck started, + Stamped with all his hoofs together, + Listened with one foot uplifted, + Leaped as if to meet the arrow; + Ah! the singing, fatal arrow, + Like a wasp it buzzed and stung him. + Dead he lay there in the forest, + By the ford across the river; + Beat his timid heart no longer, + But the heart of Hiawatha + Throbbed and shouted and exulted, + As he bore the red deer homeward, + And Iagoo and Nokomis + Hailed his coming with applauses. + From the red deer’s hide Nokomis + Made a cloak for Hiawatha, + From the red deer’s flesh Nokomis + Made a banquet in his honour. + All the village came and feasted, + All the guests praised Hiawatha, + Called him Strong-Heart, Soan-getaha! + Called him Loon-heart, Mahn-go-tay-see! + + +IV. + +HIAWATHA AND MUDJEKEEWIS + + Out of childhood into manhood + Now had grown my Hiawatha, + Skilled in all the craft of hunters, + Learned in all the lore of old men, + In all youthful sports and pastimes, + In all manly arts and labours. + Swift of foot was Hiawatha; + He could shoot an arrow from him, + And run forward with such fleetness, + That the arrow fell behind him! + Strong of arm was Hiawatha; + He could shoot ten arrows upward, + Shoot them with such strength and swiftness, + That the tenth had left the bow-string + Ere the first to earth had fallen! + He had mittens, Minjekahwun, + Magic mittens made of deer-skin; + When upon his hands he wore them, + He could smite the rocks asunder, + He could grind them into powder. + He had moccasins enchanted, + Magic moccasins of deer-skin; + When he bound them round his ankles, + When upon his feet he tied them, + At each stride a mile he measured! + Much he questioned old Nokomis + Of his father Mudjekeewis; + Learned from her the fatal secret + Of the beauty of his mother, + Of the falsehood of his father; + And his heart was hot within him, + Like a living coal his heart was. + Then he said to old Nokomis, + “I will go to Mudjekeewis, + See how fares it with my father, + At the doorways of the West-Wind, + At the portals of the Sunset!” + From his lodge went Hiawatha, + Dressed for travel, armed for hunting; + Dressed in deer-skin shirt and leggings, + Richly wrought with quills and wampum; + On his head his eagle-feathers, + Round his waist his belt of wampum, + In his hand his bow of ash-wood, + Strung with sinews of the reindeer; + In his quiver oaken arrows, + Tipped with jasper, winged with feathers; + With his mittens, Minjekahwun, + With his moccasins enchanted. + Warning, said the old Nokomis, + “Go not forth, O Hiawatha! + To the kingdom of the West-Wind, + To the realms of Mudjekeewis, + Lest he harm you with his magic, + Lest he kill you with his cunning!” + But the fearless Hiawatha + Heeded not her woman’s warning; + Forth he strode into the forest, + At each stride a mile he measured; + Lurid seemed the sky above him, + Lurid seemed the earth beneath him, + Hot and close the air around him, + Filled with smoke and fiery vapours, + As of burning woods and prairies, + For his heart was hot within him, + Like a living coal his heart was. + So he journeyed westward, westward, + Left the fleetest deer behind him, + Left the antelope and bison; + Crossed the rushing Esconaba, + Crossed the mighty Mississippi, + Passed the Mountains of the Prairie, + Passed the land of Crows and Foxes, + Passed the dwellings of the Blackfeet, + Came unto the Rocky Mountains, + To the kingdom of the West-Wind, + Where upon the gusty summits + Sat the ancient Mudjekeewis, + Ruler of the winds of heaven. + Filled with awe was Hiawatha + At the aspect of his father. + On the air about him wildly + Tossed and streamed his cloudy tresses, + Gleamed like drifting snow his tresses, + Glared like Ishkoodah, the comet, + Like the star with fiery tresses. + Filled with joy was Mudjekeewis + When he looked on Hiawatha, + Saw his youth rise up before him + In the face of Hiawatha, + Saw the beauty of Wenonah + From the grave rise up before him. + “Welcome!” said he, “Hiawatha, + To the kingdom of the West-Wind! + Long have I been waiting for you! + Youth is lovely, age is lonely; + Youth is fiery, age is frosty; + You bring back the days departed, + You bring back my youth of passion, + And the beautiful Wenonah!” + Many days they talked together, + Questioned, listened, waited, answered; + Much the mighty Mudjekeewis + Boasted of his ancient prowess, + Of his perilous adventures, + His indomitable courage, + His invulnerable body. + Patiently sat Hiawatha, + Listening to his father’s boasting; + With a smile he sat and listened, + Uttered neither threat nor menace, + Neither word nor look betrayed him, + But his heart was hot within him, + Like a living coal his heart was. + Then he said, “O Mudjekeewis, + Is there nothing that can harm you? + Nothing that you are afraid of?” + And the mighty Mudjekeewis, + Grand and gracious in his boasting, + Answered, saying, “There is nothing, + Nothing but the black rock yonder, + Nothing but the fatal Wawbeek!” + And he looked at Hiawatha + With a wise look and benignant, + With a countenance paternal, + Looked with pride upon the beauty + Of his tall and graceful figure, + Saying, “O my Hiawatha! + Is there anything can harm you? + Anything you are afraid of?” + But the wary Hiawatha + Paused awhile, as if uncertain, + Held his peace, as if resolving, + And then answered, “There is nothing, + Nothing but the bulrush yonder, + Nothing but the great Apukwa!” + And as Mudjekeewis, rising, + Stretched his hand to pluck the bulrush, + Hiawatha cried in terror, + Cried in well-dissembled terror, + “Kago! kago! do not touch it!” + “Ah, kaween,” said Mudjekeewis, + “No, indeed, I will not touch it!” + Then they talked of other matters; + First of Hiawatha’s brothers, + First of Wabun, of the East-Wind, + Of the South-Wind, Shawondasee, + Of the North, Kabibonokka; + Then of Hiawatha’s mother, + Of the beautiful Wenonah, + Of her birth upon the meadow, + Of her death, as old Nokomis + Had remembered and related. + And he cried, “O Mudjekeewis, + It was you who killed Wenonah, + Took her young life and her beauty, + Broke the Lily of the Prairie, + Trampled it beneath your footsteps; + You confess it! you confess it!” + And the mighty Mudjekeewis + Tossed upon the wind his tresses, + Bowed his hoary head in anguish, + With a silent nod assented. + Then up started Hiawatha, + And with threatening look and gesture, + Laid his hand upon the black rock. + On the fatal Wawbeek laid it, + With his mittens, Minjekahwun, + Rent the jutting crag asunder, + Smote and crushed it into fragments, + Hurled them madly at his father, + The remorseful Mudjekeewis, + For his heart was hot within him, + Like a living coal his heart was. + But the ruler of the West-Wind + Blew the fragments backward from him, + With the breathing of his nostrils, + With the tempest of his anger, + Blew them back at his assailant; + Seized the bulrush, the Apukwa, + Dragged it with its roots and fibres + From the margin of the meadow, + From its ooze, the giant bulrush; + Long and loud laughed Hiawatha! + Then began the deadly conflict, + Hand to hand among the mountains; + From his eyrie screamed the eagle, + The Keneu, the great war-eagle; + Sat upon the crags around them, + Wheeling flapped his wings above them. + Like a tall tree in the tempest + Bent and lashed the giant bulrush; + And in masses huge and heavy + Crashing fell the fatal Wawbeek; + Till the earth shook with the tumult + And confusion of the battle, + And the air was full of shoutings, + And the thunder of the mountains, + Starting, answered, “Baim-wawa!” + Back retreated Mudjekeewis, + Rushing westward o’er the mountains, + Stumbling westward down the mountains, + Three whole days retreated fighting, + Still pursued by Hiawatha + To the doorways of the West-Wind, + To the portals of the Sunset, + To the earth’s remotest border, + Where into the empty spaces + Sinks the sun, as a flamingo + Drops into her nest at nightfall, + In the melancholy marshes. + “Hold!” at length cried Mudjekeewis, + “Hold, my son, my Hiawatha! + ’Tis impossible to kill me, + For you cannot kill the immortal. + I have put you to this trial, + But to know and prove your courage; + Now receive the prize of valour! + “Go back to your home and people, + Live among them, toil among them, + Cleanse the earth from all that harms it, + Clear the fishing-grounds and rivers, + Slay all monsters and magicians, + All the Wendigoes, the giants, + All the serpents, the Kenabeeks, + As I slew the Mishe-Mokwa, + Slew the Great Bear of the mountains. + “And at last when Death draws near you, + When the awful eyes of Pauguk + Glare upon you in the darkness, + I will share my kingdom with you, + Ruler shall you be thenceforward + Of the Northwest-Wind, Keewaydin, + Of the home-wind, the Keewaydin.” + Thus was fought that famous battle + In the dreadful days of Shah-shah, + In the days long since departed, + In the kingdom of the West-Wind. + Still the hunter sees its traces + Scattered far o’er hill and valley; + Sees the giant bulrush growing + By the ponds and water-courses, + Sees the masses of the Wawbeek + Lying still in every valley. + Homeward now went Hiawatha; + Pleasant was the landscape round him, + Pleasant was the air above him, + For the bitterness of anger + Had departed wholly from him, + From his brain the thought of vengeance, + From his heart the burning fever. + Only once his pace he slackened, + Only once he paused or halted, + Paused to purchase heads of arrows + Of the ancient Arrow-maker, + In the land of the Dacotahs, + Where the Falls of Minnehaha + Flash and gleam among the oak-trees, + Laugh and leap into the valley. + There the ancient Arrow-maker + Made his arrow-heads of sandstone, + Arrow-heads of chalcedony, + Arrow-heads of flint and jasper, + Smoothed and sharpened at the edges, + Hard and polished, keen and costly. + With him dwelt his dark-eyed daughter, + Wayward as the Minnehaha, + With her moods of shade and sunshine, + Eyes that smiled and frowned alternate, + Feet as rapid as the river, + Tresses flowing like the water, + And as musical a laughter; + And he named her from the river, + From the waterfall he named her, + Minnehaha, Laughing Water. + Was it then for heads of arrows, + Arrow-heads of chalcedony, + Arrow-heads of flint and jasper, + That my Hiawatha halted, + In the land of the Dacotahs? + Was it not to see the maiden, + See the face of Laughing Water + Peeping from behind the curtain, + Hear the rustling of her garments + From behind the waving curtain, + As one sees the Minnehaha + Gleaming, glancing through the branches, + As one hears the Laughing Water + From behind its screen of branches? + Who shall say what thoughts and visions + Fill the fiery brains of young men? + Who shall say what dreams of beauty + Filled the heart of Hiawatha? + All he told to old Nokomis, + When he reached the lodge at sunset, + Was the meeting with his father, + Was his fight with Mudjekeewis; + Not a word he said of arrows, + Not a word of Laughing Water! + + +V. + +HIAWATHA’S FASTING. + + You shall hear how Hiawatha + Prayed and fasted in the forest, + Not for greater skill in hunting, + Not for greater craft in fishing, + Not for triumphs in the battle, + And renown among the warriors, + But for profit of the people, + For advantage of the nations. + First he built a lodge for fasting, + Built a wigwam in the forest, + By the shining Big-Sea-Water, + In the blithe and pleasant Spring-time, + In the Moon of Leaves he built it, + And, with dreams and visions many, + Seven whole days and nights he fasted. + On the first day of his fasting + Through the leafy woods he wandered; + Saw the deer start from the thicket, + Saw the rabbit in his burrow, + Heard the pheasant, Bena, drumming, + Heard the squirrel, Adjidaumo, + Rattling in his hoard of acorns, + Saw the pigeon, the Omeme, + Building nests among the pine-trees, + And in flocks the wild goose, Wawa, + Flying to the fenlands northward, + Whirring, wailing far above him. + “Master of Life!” he cried, desponding, + “Must our lives depend on these things?” + On the next day of his fasting + By the river’s brink he wandered, + Through the Muskoday, the meadow, + Saw the wild rice, Mahnomonee, + Saw the blueberry, Meenahga, + And the strawberry, Odahmin, + And the gooseberry, Shahbomin, + And the grape-vine, the Bemahgut, + Trailing o’er the alder-branches, + Filling all the air with fragrance! + “Master of Life!” he cried, desponding, + “Must our lives depend on these things?” + On the third day of his fasting + By the lake he sat and pondered, + By the still, transparent water; + Saw the sturgeon, Nahma, leaping, + Scattering drops like beads of wampum, + Saw the yellow perch, the Sahwa, + Like a sunbeam in the water, + Saw the pike, the Maskenozha, + And the herring, Okahahwis, + And the Shawgashee, the craw-fish! + “Master of Life!” he cried, desponding, + “Must our lives depend on these things?” + On the fourth day of his fasting, + In his lodge he lay exhausted; + From his couch of leaves and branches + Gazing with half-open eyelids, + Full of shadowy dreams and visions, + On the dizzy, swimming landscape, + On the gleaming of the water, + On the splendour of the sunset. + And he saw a youth approaching, + Dressed in garments green and yellow, + Coming through the purple twilight, + Through the splendour of the sunset; + Plumes of green bent o’er his forehead, + And his hair was soft and golden. + Standing at the open doorway, + Long he looked at Hiawatha, + Looked with pity and compassion + On his wasted form and features, + And, in accents like the sighing + Of the South-Wind in the tree-tops, + Said he, “O my Hiawatha! + All your prayers are heard in heaven, + For you pray not like the others, + Not for greater skill in hunting, + Not for greater craft in fishing, + Not for triumph in the battle, + Nor renown among the warriors, + But for profit of the people, + For advantage of the nations. + “From the Master of Life descending, + I, the friend of man, Mondamin, + Come to warn you and instruct you, + How by struggle and by labour + You shall gain what you have prayed for. + Rise up from your bed of branches, + Rise, O youth, and wrestle with me!” + Faint with famine, Hiawatha + Started from his bed of branches, + From the twilight of his wigwam + Forth into the flush of sunset + Came, and wrestled with Mondamin; + At his touch he felt new courage + Throbbing in his brain and bosom, + Felt new life and hope and vigour + Run through every nerve and fibre. + So they wrestled there together + In the glory of the sunset, + And the more they strove and struggled, + Stronger still grew Hiawatha; + Till the darkness fell around them, + And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, + From her nest among the pine-trees, + Gave a cry of lamentation, + Gave a scream of pain and famine. + “’Tis enough!” then said Mondamin, + Smiling upon Hiawatha, + “But to-morrow, when the sun sets, + I will come again to try you.” + And he vanished, and was seen not; + Whether sinking as the rain sinks, + Whether rising as the mists rise, + Hiawatha saw not, knew not, + Only saw that he had vanished, + Leaving him alone and fainting, + With the misty lake below him, + And the reeling stars above him. + On the morrow and the next day, + When the sun through heaven descending, + Like a red and burning cinder, + From the hearth of the Great Spirit, + Fell into the western waters, + Came Mondamin for the trial, + For the strife with Hiawatha; + Came as silent as the dew comes, + From the empty air appearing, + Into empty air returning, + Taking shape when earth it touches, + But invisible to all men + In its coming and its going. + Thrice they wrestled there together + In the glory of the sunset, + Till the darkness fell around them, + Till the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, + From her nest among the pine-trees, + Uttered her loud cry of famine, + And Mondamin paused to listen. + Tall and beautiful he stood there, + In his garments green and yellow; + To and fro his plumes above him + Waved and nodded with his breathing, + And the sweat of the encounter + Stood like drops of dew upon him. + And he cried, “O Hiawatha! + Bravely have you wrestled with me, + Thrice have wrestled stoutly with me, + And the Master of Life, who sees us, + He will give to you the triumph!” + Then he smiled, and said, “To-morrow + Is the last day of your conflict, + Is the last day of your fasting. + You will conquer and o’ercome me; + Make a bed for me to lie in, + Where the rain may fall upon me, + Where the sun may come and warm me; + Strip these garments, green and yellow, + Strip this nodding plumage from me, + Lay me in the earth, and make it + Soft and loose and light above me. + “Let no hand disturb my slumber, + Let no weed or worm molest me, + Let not Kahgahgee, the raven, + Come to haunt me and molest me, + Only come yourself to watch me, + Till I wake, and start, and quicken, + Till I leap into the sunshine.” + And thus saying, he departed; + Peacefully slept Hiawatha, + But he heard the Wawonaissa, + Heard the whippoorwill complaining, + Perched upon his lonely wigwam; + Heard the rushing Sebowisha, + Heard the rivulet rippling near him, + Talking to the darksome forest; + Heard the sighing of the branches, + As they lifted and subsided + At the passing of the night-wind, + Heard them, as one hears in slumber + Far-off murmurs, dreamy whispers: + Peacefully slept Hiawatha. + On the morrow came Nokomis, + On the seventh day of his fasting, + Came with food for Hiawatha, + Came imploring and bewailing, + Lest his hunger should o’ercome him, + Lest his fasting should be fatal. + But he tasted not, and touched not, + Only said to her, “Nokomis, + Wait until the sun is setting, + Till the darkness falls around us, + Till the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, + Crying from the desolate marshes, + Tells us that the day is ended.” + Homeward weeping went Nokomis, + Sorrowing for her Hiawatha, + Fearing lest his strength should fail him, + Lest his fasting should be fatal. + He meanwhile sat weary waiting + For the coming of Mondamin, + Till the shadows, pointing eastward, + Lengthened over field and forest, + Till the sun dropped from the heaven, + Floating on the waters westward, + As a red leaf in the Autumn + Falls and floats upon the water, + Falls and sinks into his bosom. + And behold! the young Mondamin, + With his soft and shining tresses, + With his garments green and yellow, + With his long and glossy plumage, + Stood and beckoned at the doorway. + And as one in slumber walking, + Pale and haggard, but undaunted, + From the wigwam Hiawatha + Came and wrestled with Mondamin. + Round about him spun the landscape, + Sky and forest reeled together, + And his strong heart leaped within him, + As the sturgeon leaps and struggles + In a net to break its meshes. + Like a ring of fire around him + Blazed and flared the red horizon, + And a hundred suns seemed looking + At the combat of the wrestlers. + Suddenly upon the greensward + All alone stood Hiawatha, + Panting with his wild exertion, + Palpitating with the struggle; + And before him, breathless, lifeless, + Lay the youth, with hair dishevelled, + Plumage torn, and garments tattered, + Dead he lay there in the sunset. + And victorious Hiawatha + Made the grave as he commanded, + Stripped the garments from Mondamin, + Stripped his tattered plumage from him, + Laid him in the earth, and made it + Soft and loose and light above him; + And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, + From the melancholy moorlands, + Gave a cry of lamentation, + Gave a cry of pain and anguish! + Homeward then went Hiawatha + To the lodge of old Nokomis, + And the seven days of his fasting + Were accomplished and completed, + But the place was not forgotten + Where he wrestled with Mondamin; + Nor forgotten nor neglected + Was the grave where lay Mondamin, + Sleeping in the rain and sunshine, + Where his scattered plumes and garments + Faded in the rain and sunshine. + Day by day did Hiawatha + Go to wait and watch beside it; + Kept the dark mould soft above it, + Kept it clean from weeds and insects, + Drove away, with scoffs and shoutings, + Kahgahgee, the king of ravens. + Till at length a small green feather + From the earth shot slowly upward, + Then another and another, + And before the Summer ended + Stood the maize in all its beauty, + With its shining robes about it, + And its long, soft, yellow tresses; + And in rapture Hiawatha + Cried aloud, “It is Mondamin! + Yes, the friend of man, Mondamin!” + Then he called to old Nokomis + And Iagoo, the great boaster, + Showed them where the maize was growing, + Told them of his wondrous vision, + Of his wrestling and his triumph, + Of this new gift to the nations, + Which should be their food for ever. + And still later, when the Autumn + Changed the long, green leaves to yellow, + And the soft and juicy kernels + Grew like wampum hard and yellow, + Then the ripened ears he gathered, + Stripped the withered husks from off them, + As he once had stripped the wrestler, + Gave the first Feast of Mondamin, + And made known unto the people + This new gift of the Great Spirit. + + +VI. + +HIAWATHA’S FRIENDS. + + Two good friends had Hiawatha, + Singled out from all the others, + Bound to him in closest union, + And to whom he gave the right hand + Of his heart, in joy and sorrow; + Chibiabos, the musician, + And the very strong man, Kwasind. + Straight between them ran the pathway, + Never grew the grass upon it; + Singing-birds, that utter falsehoods, + Story-tellers, mischief-makers, + Found no eager ear to listen, + Could not breed ill-will between them, + For they kept each other’s counsel, + Spake with naked hearts together, + Pondering much, and much contriving + How the tribes of men might prosper. + Most beloved by Hiawatha + Was the gentle Chibiabos, + He the best of all musicians, + He the sweetest of all singers. + Beautiful and childlike was he, + Brave as man is, soft as woman, + Pliant as a wand of willow, + Stately as a deer with antlers. + When he sang, the village listened; + All the warriors gathered round him, + All the women came to hear him; + Now he stirred their souls to passion, + Now he melted them to pity. + From the hollow reeds he fashioned + Flutes so musical and mellow, + That the brook, the Sebowisha, + Ceased to murmur in the woodland, + That the wood-birds ceased from singing, + And the squirrel, Adjidaumo, + Ceased his chatter in the oak-tree, + And the rabbit, the Wabasso, + Sat upright to look and listen. + Yes, the brook, the Sebowisha, + Pausing, said, “O Chibiabos, + Teach my waves to flow in music, + Softly as your words in singing!” + Yes, the blue-bird, the Owaissa, + Envious said, “O Chibiabos, + Teach me tones as wild and wayward, + Teach me songs as full of frenzy!” + Yes, the Opechee, the robin, + Joyous said, “O Chibiabos, + Teach me tones as sweet and tender, + Teach me songs as full of gladness!” + And the whippoorwill, Wawonaissa, + Sobbing, said, “O Chibiabos, + Teach me tones as melancholy, + Teach me songs as full of sadness!” + All the many sounds of nature + Borrowed sweetness from his singing, + All the hearts of men were softened + By the pathos of his music; + For he sang of peace and freedom, + Sang of beauty, love, and longing; + Sang of death, and lifAe undying + In the Islands of the Blessed, + In the kingdom of Ponemah, + In the land of the Hereafter. + Very dear to Hiawatha + Was the gentle Chibiabos, + He the best of all musicians, + He the sweetest of all singers; + For his gentleness he loved him, + And the magic of his singing. + Dear, too, unto Hiawatha + Was the very strong man, Kwasind, + He the strongest of all mortals, + He the mightiest among many; + For his very strength he loved him, + For his strength allied to goodness. + Idle in his youth was Kwasind, + Very listless, dull, and dreamy, + Never played with other children, + Never fished and never hunted, + Not like other children was he; + But they saw that much he fasted, + Much his Manito entreated, + Much besought his Guardian Spirit. + “Lazy Kwasind!” said his mother, + “In my work you never help me! + In the Summer you are roaming + Idly in the fields and forests; + In the Winter you are cowering + O’er the firebrands in the wigwam; + In the coldest days of Winter + I must break the ice for fishing; + With my nets you never help me! + At the door my nets are hanging, + Dripping, freezing with the water; + Go and wring them, Yenadizze! + Go and dry them in the sunshine!” + Slowly, from the ashes, Kwasind + Rose, but made no angry answer; + From the lodge went forth in silence, + Took the nets that hung together, + Dripping, freezing at the doorway, + Like a wisp of straw he wrung them, + Like a wisp of straw he broke them, + Could not wring them without breaking, + Such the strength was in his fingers. + “Lazy Kwasind!” said his father, + “In the hunt you never help me; + Every bow you touch is broken, + Snapped asunder every arrow; + Yet come with me to the forest, + You shall bring the hunting homeward.” + Down a narrow pass they wandered, + Where a brooklet led them onward, + Where the trail of deer and bison + Marked the soft mud on the margin, + Till they found all further passage + Shut against them, barred securely + By the trunks of trees uprooted, + Lying lengthwise, lying crosswise, + And forbidding further passage. + “We must go back,” said the old man, + “O’er these logs we cannot clamber; + Not a woodchuck could get through them, + Not a squirrel clamber o’er them!” + And straightway his pipe he lighted, + And sat down to smoke and ponder. + But before his pipe was finished, + Lo! the path was cleared before him; + All the trunks had Kwasind lifted, + To the right hand, to the left hand, + Shot the pine-trees swift as arrows, + Hurled the cedars light as lances. + “Lazy Kwasind!” said the young men, + As they sported in the meadow, + “Why stand idly looking at us, + Leaning on the rock behind you? + Come and wrestle with the others, + Let us pitch the quoit together!” + Lazy Kwasind made no answer, + To the challenge made no answer, + Only rose, and, slowly turning, + Seized the huge rock in his fingers, + Tore it from its deep foundation, + Poised it in the air a moment, + Pitched it sheer into the river, + Sheer into the swift Pauwating, + Where it still is seen in Summer. + Once as down that foaming river, + Down the rapids of Pauwating, + Kwasind sailed with his companions, + In the stream he saw a beaver, + Saw Ahmeek, the King of Beavers, + Struggling with the rushing currents, + Rising, sinking in the water. + Without speaking, without pausing, + Kwasind leaped into the river, + Plunged beneath the bubbling surface, + Through the whirlpools chased the beaver, + Followed him among the islands, + Stayed so long beneath the water, + That his terrified companions + Cried, “Alas! good-bye to Kwasind! + We shall never more see Kwasind!” + But he reappeared triumphant, + And upon his shining shoulders + Brought the beaver, dead and dripping, + Brought the King of all the Beavers. + And these two, as I have told you, + Were the friends of Hiawatha, + Chibiabos, the musician, + And the very strong man, Kwasind. + Long they lived in peace together, + Spake with naked hearts together, + Pondering much and much contriving + How the tribes of men might prosper. + + +VII. + +HIAWATHA’S SAILING. + + “Give me of your bark, O Birch-Tree! + Of your yellow bark, O Birch-Tree + Growing by the rushing river, + Tall and stately in the valley! + I a light canoe will build me, + Build a swift Cheemaun for sailing, + That shall float upon the river, + Like a yellow leaf in Autumn, + Like a yellow water-lily! + “Lay aside your cloak, O Birch-Tree! + Lay aside your white-skin wrapper, + For the Summer-time is coming, + And the sun is warm in heaven, + And you need no white-skin wrapper!” + Thus aloud cried Hiawatha + In the solitary forest, + By the rushing Taquamenaw, + When the birds were singing gaily, + In the Moon of Leaves were singing, + And the sun, from sleep awaking, + Started up and said, “Behold me! + Geezis, the great Sun, behold me!” + And the tree with all its branches + Rustled in the breeze of morning, + Saying, with a sigh of patience, + “Take my cloak, O Hiawatha!” + With his knife the tree he girdled; + Just beneath its lowest branches, + Just above the roots, he cut it, + Till the sap came oozing outward; + Down the trunk, from top to bottom, + Sheer he cleft the bark asunder, + With a wooden wedge he raised it, + Stripped it from the trunk unbroken. + “Give me of your boughs, O Cedar! + Of your strong and pliant branches, + My canoe to make more steady, + Make more strong and firm beneath me!” + Through the summit of the Cedar + Went a sound, a cry of horror, + Went a murmur of resistance; + But it whispered, bending downward, + “Take my boughs, O Hiawatha!” + Down he hewed the boughs of cedar, + Shaped them straightway to a framework, + Like two bows he formed and shaped them, + Like two bended bows together. + “Give me of your roots, O Tamarack! + Of your fibrous roots, O Larch-Tree! + My canoe to bind together, + So to bind the ends together, + That the water may not enter, + That the river may not wet me!” + And the Larch, with all its fibres, + Shivered in the air of morning, + Touched its forehead with its tassels, + Said, with one long sigh of sorrow, + “Take them all, O Hiawatha!” + From the earth he tore the fibres, + Tore the tough roots of the Larch-Tree, + Closely sewed the bark together, + Bound it closely to the framework. + “Give me of your balm, O Fir-Tree! + Of your balsam and your resin, + So to close the seams together + That the water may not enter, + That the river may not wet me!” + And the Fir-Tree, tall and sombre, + Sobbed through all its robes of darkness, + Rattled like a shore with pebbles, + Answered wailing, answered weeping, + “Take my balm, O Hiawatha!” + And he took the tears of balsam, + Took the resin of the Fir-Tree, + Smeared therewith each seam and fissure, + Made each crevice safe from water. + “Give me of your quills, O Hedgehog! + All your quills, O Kagh, the Hedgehog! + I will make a necklace of them, + Make a girdle for my beauty, + And two stars to deck her bosom!” + From a hollow tree the Hedgehog + With his sleepy eyes looked at him, + Shot his shining quills like arrows, + Saying, with a drowsy murmur, + Through the tangle of his whiskers, + “Take my quills, O Hiawatha!” + From the ground the quills he gathered, + All the little shining arrows, + Stained them red and blue and yellow + With the juice of roots and berries; + Into his canoe he wrought them, + Round its waist a shining girdle, + Round its bows a gleaming necklace, + On its breast two stars resplendent. + Thus the Birch Canoe was builded + In the valley, by the river, + In the bosom of the forest; + And the forest’s life was in it, + All its mystery and its magic + All the lightness of the birch-tree, + All the toughness of the cedar, + All the larch’s supple sinews; + And it floated on the river + Like a yellow leaf in Autumn, + Like a yellow water-lily. + Paddles none had Hiawatha, + Paddles none he had or needed, + For his thoughts as paddles served him, + And his wishes served to guide him; + Swift or slow at will he glided, + Veered to right or left at pleasure. + Then he called aloud to Kwasind, + To his friend, the strong man, Kwasind, + Saying, “Help me clear this river + Of its sunken logs and sand-bars.” + Straight into the river Kwasind + Plunged as if he were an otter, + Dived as if he were a beaver, + Stood up to his waist in water, + To his arm-pits in the river, + Swam and shouted in the river, + Tugged at sunken logs and branches, + With his hands he scooped the sand-bars, + With his feet the ooze and tangle. + And thus sailed my Hiawatha, + Down the rushing Taquamenaw, + Sailed through all its bends and windings, + Sailed through all its deeps and shallows, + While his friend, the strong man, Kwasind, + Swam the deeps, the shallows waded. + Up and down the river went they, + In and out among its islands, + Cleared its bed of root and sand-bar, + Dragged the dead trees from its channel, + Made its passage safe and certain, + Made a pathway for the people, + From its springs among the mountains, + To the waters of Pauwating, + To the bay of Taquamenaw. + + +VIII. + +HIAWATHA’S FISHING. + + Forth upon the Gitche Gumee, + On the shining Big-Sea-Water, + With his fishing-line of cedar, + Of the twisted bark of cedar, + Forth to catch the sturgeon Nahma, + Mishe-Nahma, King of Fishes. + In his birch canoe exulting + All alone went Hiawatha. + Through the clear, transparent water + He could see the fishes swimming + Far down in the depths below him: + See the yellow perch, the Sahwa, + Like a sunbeam in the water + See the Shawgashee, the craw-fish, + Like a spider on the bottom, + On the white and sandy bottom. + At the stern sat Hiawatha, + With his fishing-line of cedar; + In his plumes the breeze of morning + Played as in the hemlock branches; + On the bows, with tail erected, + Sat the squirrel, Adjidaumo; + In his fur the breeze of morning + Played as in the prairie grasses. + On the white sand of the bottom + Lay the monster Mishe-Nahma, + Lay the sturgeon, King of Fishes; + Through his gills he breathed the water, + With his fins he fanned and winnowed, + With his tail he swept the sand-floor. + There he lay in all his armour; + On each side a shield to guard him, + Plates of bone upon his forehead, + Down his sides and back and shoulders + Plates of bone with spines projecting! + Painted was he with his war-paints, + Stripes of yellow, red, and azure, + Spots of brown and spots of sable; + And he lay there on the bottom, + Fanning with his fins of purple, + As above him Hiawatha + In his birch canoe came sailing, + With his fishing-line of cedar. + “Take my bait!” cried Hiawatha + Down into the depths beneath him, + “Take my bait, O Sturgeon, Nahma, + Come up from below the water, + Let us see which is the stronger!” + And he dropped his line of cedar + Through the clear, transparent water, + Waited vainly for an answer, + Long sat waiting for an answer, + And repeating loud and louder, + “Take my bait, O King of Fishes!” + Quiet lay the sturgeon, Nahma, + Fanning slowly in the water, + Looking up at Hiawatha, + Listening to his call and clamour, + His unnecessary tumult, + Till he wearied of the shouting; + And he said to the Kenozha, + To the pike, the Maskenozha, + “Take the bait of this rude fellow, + Break the line of Hiawatha!” + In his fingers Hiawatha + Felt the loose line jerk and tighten; + As he drew it in, it tugged so + That the birch canoe stood endwise, + Like a birch log in the water, + With the squirrel, Adjidaumo, + Perched and frisking on the summit. + Full of scorn was Hiawatha + When he saw the fish rise upward, + Saw the pike, the Maskenozha, + Coming nearer, nearer to him, + And he shouted through the water, + “Esa! esa! shame upon you! + You are but the pike, Kenozha, + You are not the fish I wanted, + You are not the King of Fishes!” + Reeling downward to the bottom + Sank the pike in great confusion, + And the mighty sturgeon, Nahma, + Said to Ugudwash, the sun-fish, + “Take the bait of this great boaster, + Break the line of Hiawatha!” + Slowly upward, wavering, gleaming + Like a white moon in the water, + Rose the Ugudwash, the sun-fish, + Seized the line of Hiawatha, + Swung with all his weight upon it, + Made a whirlpool in the water, + Whirled the birch canoe in circles, + Round and round in gurgling eddies, + Till the circles in the water + Reached the far-off sandy beaches, + Till the water-flags and rushes + Nodded on the distant margins. + But when Hiawatha saw him + Slowly rising through the water, + Lifting his great disc of whiteness, + Loud he shouted in derision, + “Esa! esa! shame upon you! + You are Ugudwash, the sun-fish. + You are not the fish I wanted, + You are not the King of Fishes!” + Slowly downward, wavering, gleaming, + Sank the Ugudwash, the sun-fish, + And again the sturgeon, Nahma, + Heard the shout of Hiawatha, + Heard his challenge of defiance, + The unnecessary tumult, + Ringing far across the water. + From the white sand of the bottom + Up he rose with angry gesture, + Quivering in each nerve and fibre, + Clashing all his plates of armour, + Gleaming bright with all his war-paint; + In his wrath he darted upward, + Flashing leaped into the sunshine, + Opened his great jaws, and swallowed + Both canoe and Hiawatha. + Down into that darksome cavern + Plunged the headlong Hiawatha, + As a log on some black river + Shoots and plunges down the rapids, + Found himself in utter darkness, + Groped about in helpless wonder, + Till he felt a great heart beating, + Throbbing in that utter darkness. + And he smote it in his anger, + With his fist, the heart of Nahma, + Felt the mighty King of Fishes + Shudder through each nerve and fibre, + Heard the water gurgle round him + As he leaped and staggered through it, + Sick at heart, and faint and weary. + Crosswise then did Hiawatha + Drag his birch canoe for safety, + Lest from out the jaws of Nahma, + In the turmoil and confusion, + Forth he might be hurled and perish. + And the squirrel, Adjidaumo, + Frisked and chattered very gaily, + Toiled and tugged with Hiawatha + Till the labour was completed. + Then said Hiawatha to him, + “O my little friend, the squirrel, + Bravely have you toiled to help me; + Take the thanks of Hiawatha, + And the name which now he gives you; + For hereafter and for ever + Boys shall call you Adjidaumo, + Tail-in-air the boys shall call you!” + And again the sturgeon, Nahma, + Gasped and quivered in the water, + Then was still, and drifted landward + Till he grated on the pebbles, + Till the listening Hiawatha + Heard him grate upon the margin, + Felt him strand upon the pebbles, + Knew that Nahma, King of Fishes, + Lay there dead upon the margin. + Then he heard a clang and flapping, + As of many wings assembling, + Heard a screaming and confusion, + As of birds of prey contending, + Saw a gleam of light above him, + Shining through the ribs of Nahma, + Saw the glittering eyes of sea-gulls, + Of Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, peering, + Gazing at him through the opening, + Heard them saying to each other, + “’Tis our brother, Hiawatha!” + And he shouted from below them, + Cried exulting from the caverns, + “O ye sea-gulls! O my brothers! + I have slain the sturgeon, Nahma; + Make the rifts a little larger, + With your claws the openings widen, + Set me free from this dark prison, + And henceforward and for ever + Men shall speak of your achievements, + Calling you Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, + Yes, Kayoshk, the Noble Scratchers!” + And the wild and clamorous sea-gulls + Toiled with beak and claws together, + Made the rifts and openings wider + In the mighty ribs of Nahma, + And from peril and from prison, + From the body of the sturgeon, + From the peril of the water, + Was released my Hiawatha. + He was standing near his wigwam, + On the margin of the water, + And he called to old Nokomis, + Called and beckoned to Nokomis, + Pointed to the sturgeon, Nahma, + Lying lifeless on the pebbles, + With the sea-gulls feeding on him. + “I have slain the Mishe-Nahma, + Slain the King of Fishes!” said he; + “Look! the sea-gulls feed upon him, + Yes, my friends Kayoshk, the sea-gulls; + Drive them not away, Nokomis, + They have saved me from great peril + In the body of the sturgeon, + Wait until their meal is ended, + Till their craws are full with feasting, + Till they homeward fly, at sunset, + To their nests among the marshes; + Then bring all your pots and kettles, + And make oil for us in Winter.” + And she waited till the sunset, + Till the pallid moon, the Night-sun, + Rose above the tranquil water, + Till Kayoshk, the sated sea-gulls, + From their banquet rose with clamour, + And across the fiery sunset + Winged their way to far-off islands, + To their nests among the rushes. + To his sleep went Hiawatha, + And Nokomis to her labour, + Toiling patient in the moonlight, + Till the sun and moon changed places, + Till the sky was red with sunrise, + And Kayoshk, the hungry sea-gulls, + Came back from the reedy islands, + Clamorous for their morning banquet. + Three whole days and nights alternate + Old Nokomis and the sea-gulls + Stripped the oily flesh of Nahma, + Till the waves washed through the rib-bones, + Till the sea-gulls came no longer, + And upon the sands lay nothing + But the skeleton of Nahma. + + +IX. + +HIAWATHA AND THE PEARL-FEATHER. + + On the shores of Gitche Gumee, + Of the shining Big-Sea-Water, + Stood Nokomis, the old woman, + Pointing with her finger westward, + O’er the water pointing westward, + To the purple clouds of sunset. + Fiercely the red sun descending + Burned his way along the heavens, + Set the sky on fire behind him, + As war-parties, when retreating, + Burn the prairies on their war-trail; + And the moon, the Night-Sun, eastward, + Suddenly, starting from his ambush, + Followed fast those bloody footprints, + Followed in that fiery war-trail, + With its glare upon his features. + And Nokomis, the old woman, + Pointing with her finger westward, + Spake these words to Hiawatha: + “Yonder dwells the great Pearl-Feather, + Megissogwon, the Magician, + Manito of Wealth and Wampum, + Guarded by his fiery serpents, + Guarded by the black pitch-water; + You can see his fiery serpents, + The Kenabeek, the great serpents, + Coiling, playing in the water; + You can see the black pitch-water + Stretching far away beyond them, + To the purple clouds of sunset! + “He it was who slew my father, + By his wicked wiles and cunning, + When he from the moon descended, + When he came on earth to seek me. + He, the mightiest of Magicians, + Sends the fever from the marshes, + Sends the pestilential vapours, + Sends the poisonous exhalations, + Sends the white-fog from the fenlands, + Sends disease and death among us! + “Take your bow, O Hiawatha, + Take your arrows, jasper-headed, + Take your war-club, Puggawaugun, + And your mittens, Minjekahwun, + And your birch canoe for sailing, + And the oil of Mishe-Nahma, + So to smear its sides, that swiftly + You may pass the black pitch-water; + Slay this merciless magician, + Save the people from the fever + That he breathes across the fenlands, + And avenge my father’s murder!” + Straightway then my Hiawatha + Armed himself with all his war-gear, + Launched his birch canoe for sailing; + With his palm its sides he patted, + Said with glee, “Cheemaun, my darling, + O my Birch-Canoe! leap forward, + Where you see the fiery serpents, + Where you see the black pitch-water!” + Forward leaped Cheemaun exulting, + And the noble Hiawatha + Sang his war-song wild and woeful, + And above him the war-eagle, + The Keneu, the great war-eagle, + Master of all fowls with feathers, + Screamed and hurtled through the heavens. + Soon he reached the fiery serpents, + The Kenabeek, the great serpents, + Lying huge upon the water, + Sparkling, rippling in the water, + Lying coiled across the passage, + With their blazing crests uplifted, + Breathing fiery fogs and vapours, + So that none could pass beyond them. + But the fearless Hiawatha + Cried aloud, and spake in this wise: + “Let me pass my way, Kenabeek, + Let me go upon my journey!” + And they answered, hissing fiercely, + With their fiery breath made answer: + “Back, go back! O Shaugodaya! + Back to old Nokomis, Faint-heart!” + Then the angry Hiawatha + Raised his mighty bow of ash-tree, + Seized his arrows, jasper-headed, + Shot them fast among the serpents; + Every twanging of the bow-string + Was a war-cry and a death-cry, + Every whizzing of an arrow + Was a death-song of Kenabeek. + Weltering in the bloody water, + Dead lay all the fiery serpents, + And among them Hiawatha + Harmless sailed, and cried exulting: + “Onward, O Cheemaun, my darling! + Onward to the black pitch-water!” + Then he took the oil of Nahma, + And the bows and sides anointed, + Smeared them well with oil, that swiftly + He might pass the black pitch-water. + All night long he sailed upon it, + Sailed upon that sluggish water, + Covered with its mould of ages, + Black with rotting water-rushes, + Rank with flags and leaves of lilies, + Stagnant, lifeless, dreary, dismal, + Lighted by the shimmering moonlight, + And by will-o’-wisps illumined, + Fires by ghosts of dead men kindled, + In their weary night encampments. + All the air was white with moonlight, + All the water black with shadow, + And around him the Suggema, + The mosquitos, sang their war-song, + And the fire-flies, Wah-wah-taysee, + Waved their torches to mislead him; + And the bull-frog, the Dahinda, + Thrust his head into the moonlight, + Fixed his yellow eyes upon him, + Sobbed and sank beneath the surface, + And anon a thousand whistles + Answered over all the fenlands, + And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, + Far off on the reedy margin, + Heralded the hero’s coming. + Westward thus fared Hiawatha, + Toward the realm of Megissogwon, + Toward the land of the Pearl-Feather, + Till the level moon stared at him, + In his face stared pale and haggard, + Till the sun was hot behind him, + Till it burned upon his shoulders, + And before him on the upland + He could see the Shining Wigwam + Of the Manito of Wampum, + Of the mightiest of Magicians. + Then once more Cheemaun he patted, + To his Birch-Canoe said, “Onward!” + And it stirred in all its fibres, + And with one great bound of triumph + Leaped across the water-lilies, + Leaped through tangled flags and rushes, + And upon the beach beyond them + Dryshod landed Hiawatha. + Straight he took his bow of ash-tree, + On the sand one end he rested, + With his knee he pressed the middle, + Stretched the faithful bow-string tighter, + Took an arrow, jasper-headed, + Shot it at the Shining Wigwam, + Sent it singing as a herald, + As a bearer of his message, + Of his challenge loud and lofty: + “Come forth from your lodge, Pearl-Feather! + Hiawatha waits your coming!” + Straightway from the Shining Wigwam + Came the mighty Megissogwon, + Tall of stature, broad of shoulder, + Dark and terrible in aspect, + Clad from head to foot in wampum, + Armed with all his warlike weapons, + Painted like the sky of morning, + Streaked with crimson, blue, and yellow, + Crested with great eagle feathers, + Streaming upward, streaming outward. + “Well I know you, Hiawatha!” + Cried he in a voice of thunder, + In a tone of loud derision. + “Hasten back, O Shaugodaya! + Hasten back among the women, + Back to old Nokomis, Faint-heart! + I will slay you as you stand there, + As of old I slew her father!” + But my Hiawatha answered, + Nothing daunted, fearing nothing: + “Big words do not smite like war-clubs, + Boastful breath is not a bow-string, + Taunts are not so sharp as arrows, + Deeds are better things than words are, + Actions mightier than boastings!” + Then began the greatest battle + That the sun had ever looked on, + That the war-birds ever witnessed. + All a Summer’s day it lasted, + From the sunrise to the sunset; + For the shafts of Hiawatha + Harmless hit the shirt of wampum, + Harmless fell the blows he dealt it + With his mittens, Minjekahwun, + Harmless fell the heavy war-club; + It could dash the rocks asunder, + But it could not break the meshes + Of that magic shirt of wampum. + Till at sunset Hiawatha, + Leaning on his bow of ash-tree, + Wounded, weary, and desponding, + With his mighty war-club broken, + With his mittens torn and tattered, + And three useless arrows only, + Paused to rest beneath a pine-tree, + From whose branches trailed the mosses, + And whose trunk was coated over + With the Dead-man’s Moccasin-leather, + With the fungus white and yellow. + Suddenly from the boughs above him + Sang the Mama, the woodpecker: + “Aim your arrows, Hiawatha, + At the head of Megissogwon, + Strike the tuft of hair upon it, + At their roots the long black tresses; + There alone can he be wounded!” + Winged with feathers, tipped with jasper, + Swiftly flew Hiawatha’s arrow, + Just as Megissogwon, stooping, + Raised a heavy stone to throw it. + Full upon the crown it struck him, + At the roots of his long tresses, + And he reeled and staggered forward, + Plunging like a wounded bison, + Yes, like Pezhekee, the bison, + When the snow is on the prairie. + Swifter flew the second arrow, + In the pathway of the other, + Piercing deeper than the other, + Wounding sorer than the other; + And the knees of Megissogwon + Shook like windy reeds beneath him, + Bent and trembled like the rushes. + But the third and latest arrow + Swiftest flew and wounded sorest, + And the mighty Megissogwon + Saw the fiery eyes of Pauguk, + Saw the eyes of Death glare at him, + Heard his voice call in the darkness; + At the feet of Hiawatha + Lifeless lay the great Pearl-Feather, + Lay the mightiest of Magicians. + Then the grateful Hiawatha + Called the Mama, the woodpecker, + From his perch among the branches + Of the melancholy pine-tree, + And, in honour of his service, + Stained with blood the tuft of feathers + On the little head of Mama; + Even to this day he wears it, + Wears the tuft of crimson feathers, + As a symbol of his service. + Then he stripped the shirt of wampum + From the back of Megissogwon, + As a trophy of the battle, + As a signal of his conquest. + On the shore he left the body, + Half on land and half in water, + In the sand his feet were buried, + And his face was in the water, + And above him wheeled and clamoured + The Keneu, the great war-eagle, + Sailing round in narrower circles, + Hovering nearer, nearer, nearer. + From the wigwam Hiawatha + Bore the wealth of Megissogwon, + All his wealth of skins and wampum, + Furs of bison and of beaver, + Furs of sable and of ermine, + Wampum belts and strings and pouches, + Quivers wrought with beads of wampum, + Filled with arrows, silver-headed. + Homeward then he sailed exulting, + Homeward through the black pitch-water, + Homeward through the weltering serpents, + With the trophies of the battle, + With a shout and song of triumph. + On the shore stood old Nokomis, + On the shore stood Chibiabos, + And the very strong man, Kwasind, + Waiting for the hero’s coming, + Listening to his song of triumph. + And the people of the village + Welcomed him with songs and dances. + Made a joyous feast, and shouted: + “Honour be to Hiawatha! + He has slain the great Pearl-Feather, + Slain the mightiest of Magicians, + Him who sent the fiery fever, + Sent the white-fog from the fenlands, + Sent disease and death among us!” + Ever dear to Hiawatha + Was the memory of Mama! + And in token of his friendship, + As a mark of his remembrance, + He adorned and decked his pipe-stem + With the crimson tuft of feathers, + With the blood-red crest of Mama. + But the wealth of Megissogwon, + All the trophies of the battle, + He divided with his people, + Shared it equally among them. + + +X. + +HIAWATHA’S WOOING. + + “As unto the bow the cord is, + So unto the man is woman, + Though she bends him she obeys him, + Though she draws him, yet she follows, + Useless each without the other!” + Thus the youthful Hiawatha + Said within himself and pondered, + Much perplexed by various feelings, + Listless, longing, hoping, fearing, + Dreaming still of Minnehaha, + Of the lovely Laughing Water, + In the land of the Dacotahs. + “Wed a maiden of your people,” + Warning said the old Nokomis; + “Go not eastward, go not westward, + For a stranger, whom we know not! + Like a fire upon the hearthstone + Is a neighbour’s homely daughter, + Like the star-light or the moonlight + Is the handsomest of strangers!” + Thus dissuading spake Nokomis, + And my Hiawatha answered + Only this: “Dear old Nokomis, + Very pleasant is the fire-light, + But I like the star-light better, + Better do I like the moonlight!” + Gravely then said old Nokomis: + “Bring not here an idle maiden, + Bring not here a useless woman, + Hands unskilful, feet unwilling; + Bring a wife with nimble fingers, + Heart and hand that move together, + Feet that run on willing errands!” + Smiling, answered Hiawatha: + “In the land of the Dacotahs + Lives the Arrow-maker’s daughter, + Minnehaha, Laughing Water, + Handsomest of all the women. + I will bring her to your wigwam, + She shall run upon your errands, + Be your star-light, moonlight, fire-light, + Be the sunlight of my people!” + Still dissuading said Nokomis: + “Bring not to my lodge a stranger + From the land of the Dacotahs! + Very fierce are the Dacotahs, + Often is there war between us, + There are feuds yet unforgotten, + Wounds that ache and still may open!” + Laughing answered Hiawatha: + “For that reason, if no other, + Would I wed the fair Dacotah, + That our tribes may be united, + That old feuds might be forgotten, + And old wounds be healed for ever!” + Thus departed Hiawatha + To the land of the Dacotahs, + To the land of handsome women; + Striding over moor and meadow, + Through interminable forests, + Through uninterrupted silence. + With his moccasins of magic, + At each stride a mile he measured; + Yet the way seemed long before him, + And his heart outran his footsteps; + And he journeyed without resting, + Till he heard the cataract’s thunder, + Heard the falls of Minnehaha + Calling to him through the silence. + “Pleasant is the sound!” he murmured, + “Pleasant is the voice that calls me!” + On the outskirts of the forest, + ’Twixt the shadow and the sunshine, + Herds of fallow deer were feeding, + But they saw not Hiawatha; + To his bow he whispered, “Fail not!” + To his arrow whispered, “Swerve not!” + Sent it singing on its errand, + To the red heart of the roebuck; + Threw the deer across his shoulder, + And sped forward without pausing. + At the doorway of his wigwam + Sat the ancient Arrow-maker, + In the land of the Dacotahs, + Making arrow-heads of jasper, + Arrow-heads of chalcedony. + At his side, in all her beauty, + Sat the lovely Minnehaha, + Sat his daughter, Laughing Water, + Plaiting mats of flags and rushes; + Of the past the old man’s thoughts were, + And the maiden’s of the future. + He was thinking, as he sat there, + Of the days when with such arrows + He had struck the deer and bison, + On the Muskoday, the meadow; + Shot the wild-goose, flying southward, + On the wing, the clamorous Wawa; + Thinking of the great war-parties, + How they came to buy his arrows, + Could not fight without his arrows. + Ah, no more such noble warriors + Could be found on earth as they were! + Now the men were all like women, + Only used their tongues for weapons! + She was thinking of a hunter, + From another tribe and country, + Young and tall, and very handsome, + Who, one morning, in the Spring-time, + Came to buy her father’s arrows, + Sat and rested in the wigwam, + Lingered long about the doorway, + Looking back as he departed. + She had heard her father praise him, + Praise his courage and his wisdom; + Would he come again for arrows + To the Falls of Minnehaha? + On her mat her hands lay idle, + And her eyes were very dreamy. + Through their thoughts they heard a footstep, + Heard a rustling in the branches, + And with glowing cheek and forehead, + With the deer upon his shoulder, + Suddenly from out the woodlands + Hiawatha stood before them. + Straight the ancient Arrow-maker + Looked up gravely from his labour, + Laid aside the unfinished arrow, + Bade him enter at the doorway, + Saying, as he rose to meet him, + “Hiawatha, you are welcome!” + At the feet of Laughing Water + Hiawatha laid his burden, + Threw the red deer from his shoulders. + And the maiden looked up at him, + Looked up from her mat of rushes, + Said, with gentle look and accent, + “You are welcome, Hiawatha!” + Very spacious was the wigwam, + Made of deer-skin dressed and whitened, + With the gods of the Dacotahs, + Drawn and painted on its curtains. + And so tall the doorway, hardly + Hiawatha stooped to enter, + Hardly touched his eagle-feathers, + As he entered at the doorway. + Then uprose the Laughing Water, + From the ground fair Minnehaha, + Laid aside her mat unfinished, + Brought forth food and set before them, + Water brought them from the brooklet, + Gave them food in earthen vessels, + Gave them drink in bowls of bass-wood, + Listened while the guest was speaking, + Listened while her father answered, + But not once her lips she opened, + Not a single word she uttered. + Yes, as in a dream she listened + To the words of Hiawatha, + As he talked of old Nokomis, + Who had nursed him in his childhood, + As he told of his companions, + Chibiabos, the musician, + And the very strong man, Kwasind, + And of happiness and plenty + In the land of the Ojibways, + In the pleasant land and peaceful. + “After many years of warfare, + Many years of strife and bloodshed, + There is peace between the Ojibways + And the tribe of the Dacotahs.” + Thus continued Hiawatha, + And then added, speaking slowly, + “That this peace may last for ever, + And our hands be clasped more closely, + And our hearts be more united, + Give me as my wife this maiden, + Minnehaha, Laughing Water, + Loveliest of Dacotah women!” + And the ancient Arrow-maker + Paused a moment ere he answered, + Smoked a little while in silence, + Looked at Hiawatha proudly, + Fondly looked at Laughing Water, + And made answer, very gravely, + “Yes, if Minnehaha wishes; + Let your heart speak, Minnehaha!” + And the lovely Laughing Water + Seemed more lovely, as she stood there, + Neither willing nor reluctant, + As she went to Hiawatha, + Softly took the seat beside him, + While she said, and blushed to say it, + “I will follow you, my husband!” + This was Hiawatha’s wooing! + Thus it was he won the daughter + Of the ancient Arrow-maker, + In the land of the Dacotahs! + From the wigwam he departed, + Leading with him Laughing Water, + Hand in hand they went together, + Through the woodland and the meadow, + Left the old man standing lonely + At the doorway of his wigwam, + Heard the falls of Minnehaha + Calling to them from the distance, + Crying to them from afar off, + “Fare thee well, O Minnehaha!” + And the ancient Arrow-maker + Turned again unto his labour, + Sat down by his sunny doorway, + Murmuring to himself, and saying, + “Thus it is our daughters leave us, + Those we love, and those who love us! + Just when they have learned to help us, + When we are old and lean upon them, + Comes a youth with flaunting feathers, + With his flute of reeds, a stranger + Wanders piping through the village, + Beckons to the fairest maiden, + And she follows where he leads her, + Leaving all things for the stranger!” + Pleasant was the journey homeward, + Through interminable forests, + Over meadow, over mountain, + Over river, hill, and hollow. + Short it seemed to Hiawatha, + Though they journeyed very slowly, + Though his pace he checked and slackened + To the steps of Laughing Water. + Over wide and rushing rivers + In his arms he bore the maiden; + Light he thought her as a feather, + As the plume upon his head-gear; + Cleared the tangled pathway for her, + Bent aside the swaying branches, + Made at night a lodge of branches, + And a bed with boughs of hemlock, + And a fire before the doorway + With the dry cones of the pine-tree. + All the travelling winds went with them, + O’er the meadow, through the forest; + All the stars of night looked at them, + Watched with sleepless eyes their slumber; + From his ambush in the oak-tree + Peeped the squirrel, Adjidaumo, + Watched with eager eyes the lovers. + And the rabbit, the Wabasso, + Scampered from the path before them, + Peering, peeping from his burrow, + Sat erect upon his haunches, + Watched with curious eyes the lovers. + Pleasant was the journey homeward, + All the birds sang loud and sweetly + Songs of happiness and heart’s-ease; + Sang the blue-bird, the Owaissa, + “Happy are you, Hiawatha, + Having such a wife to love you!” + Sang the Opechee, the robin, + “Happy are you, Laughing Water, + Having such a noble husband!” + From the sky the sun benignant + Looked upon them through the branches, + Saying to them, “O my children, + Love is sunshine, hate is shadow, + Life is checkered shade and sunshine; + Rule by love, O Hiawatha!” + From the sky the moon looked at them, + Filled the lodge with mystic splendours, + Whispered to them, “O my children, + Day is restless, night is quiet, + Man imperious, woman feeble; + Half is mine, although I follow; + Rule by patience, Laughing Water!” + Thus it was they journeyed homeward; + Thus it was that Hiawatha + To the lodge of old Nokomis + Brought the moonlight, star-light, fire-light, + Brought the sunshine of his people, + Minnehaha, Laughing Water, + Handsomest of all the women + In the land of the Dacotahs, + In the land of handsome women. + + +XI. + +HIAWATHA’S WEDDING-FEAST. + + You shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis, + How the handsome Yenadizze + Danced at Hiawatha’s wedding; + How the gentle Chibiabos, + He the sweetest of musicians, + Sang his songs of love and longing; + How Iagoo, the great boaster, + He the marvellous story-teller, + Told his tales of strange adventure, + That the feast might be more joyous, + That the time might pass more gaily, + And the guests be more contented. + Sumptuous was the feast Nokomis + Made at Hiawatha’s wedding. + All the bowls were made of bass-wood, + White and polished very smoothly, + All the spoons of horn of bison, + Black and polished very smoothly. + She had sent through all the village + Messengers with wands of willow, + As a sign of invitation, + As a token of the feasting; + And the wedding-guests assembled, + Clad in all their richest raiment, + Robes of fur and belts of wampum, + Splendid with their paint and plumage, + Beautiful with beads and tassels. + First they ate the sturgeon, Nahma, + And the pike, the Maskenozha, + Caught and cooked by old Nokomis; + Then on pemican they feasted, + Pemican and buffalo marrow, + Haunch of deer and hump of bison, + Yellow cakes of the Mondamin, + And the wild rice of the river. + But the gracious Hiawatha, + And the lovely Laughing Water, + And the careful old Nokomis, + Tasted not the food before them, + Only waited on the others, + Only served their guests in silence. + And when all the guests had finished, + Old Nokomis, brisk and busy, + From an ample pouch of otter, + Filled the red stone pipes for smoking + With tobacco from the South-land, + Mixed with bark of the red willow, + And with herbs and leaves of fragrance. + Then she said, “O Pau-Puk-Keewis, + Dance for us your merry dances, + Dance the Beggar’s Dance to please us, + That the feast may be more joyous, + That the time may pass more gaily, + And our guests be more contented!” + Then the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis, + He the idle Yenadizze, + He the merry mischief-maker, + Whom the people call the Storm-Fool, + Rose among the guests assembled. + Skilled was he in sports and pastimes, + In the merry dance of snow-shoes, + In the play of quoits and ball-play; + Skilled was he in games of hazard, + In all games of skill and hazard, + Pugasaing, the Bowl and Counters, + Kuntassoo, the Game of Plum-stones. + Though the warriors called him Faint-heart, + Called him coward, Shaugodaya, + Idler, gambler, Yenadizze, + Little heeded he their jesting, + Little cared he for their insults, + For the women and the maidens + Loved the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis. + He was dressed in shirt of doe-skin, + White and soft, and fringed with ermine, + All inwrought with beads of wampum; + He was dressed in deer-skin leggings, + Fringed with hedgehog quills and ermine, + And in moccasins of buck-skin + Thick with quills and beads embroidered. + On his head were plumes of swan’s down, + On his heels were tails of foxes, + In one hand a fan of feathers, + And a pipe was in the other. + Barred with streaks of red and yellow, + Streaks of blue and bright vermilion, + Shone the face of Pau-Puk-Keewis. + From his forehead fell his tresses, + Smooth and parted like a woman’s, + Shining bright with oil, and plaited, + Hung with braids of scented grasses, + As among the guests assembled, + To the sound of flutes and singing, + To the sound of drums and voices, + Rose the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis, + And began his mystic dances. + First he danced a solemn measure, + Very slow in step and gesture, + In and out among the pine-trees, + Through the shadows and the sunshine, + Treading softly like a panther, + Then more swiftly and still swifter, + Whirling, spinning round in circles, + Leaping o’er the guests assembled, + Eddying round and round the wigwam, + Till the leaves went whirling with him, + Till the dust and wind together + Swept in eddies round about him. + Then along the sandy margin + Of the lake, the Big-Sea-Water, + On he sped with frenzied gestures, + Stamped upon the sand and tossed it + Wildly in the air around him; + Till the wind became a whirlwind, + Till the sand was blown and sifted + Like great snow-drifts o’er the landscape, + Heaping all the shores with Sand Dunes, + Sand Hills of the Nagow Wudjoo! + Thus the merry Pau-Puk-Keewis + Danced his Beggar’s Dance to please them + And, returning, sat down laughing + There among the guests assembled, + Sat and fanned himself serenely + With his fan of turkey-feathers. + Then they said to Chibiabos, + To the friend of Hiawatha, + To the sweetest of all singers, + To the best of all musicians, + “Sing to us, O Chibiabos! + Songs of love and songs of longing, + That the feast may be more joyous, + That the time may pass more gaily, + And our guests be more contented!” + And the gentle Chibiabos + Sang in accents sweet and tender, + Sang in tones of deep emotion, + Songs of love and songs of longing; + Looking still at Hiawatha, + Looking at fair Laughing Water, + Sang he softly, sang in this wise: + “Onaway! Awake, beloved! + Thou the wild-flower of the forest! + Thou the wild-bird of the prairie! + Thou with eyes so soft and fawn-like! + “If thou only lookest at me, + I am happy, I am happy, + As the lilies of the prairie, + When they feel the dew upon them! + “Sweet thy breath is as the fragrance + Of the wild-flowers in the morning, + As their fragrance is at evening, + In the Moon when leaves are falling. + “Does not all the blood within me + Leap to meet thee, leap to meet thee, + As the springs to meet the sunshine, + In the Moon when nights are brightest? + “Onaway! my heart sings to thee, + Sings with joy when thou art near me, + As the sighing, singing branches + In the pleasant Moon of Strawberries! + “When thou art not pleased, beloved, + Then my heart is sad and darkened, + As the shining river darkens + When the clouds drop shadows on it! + “When thou smilest, my beloved, + Then my troubled heart is brightened, + As in sunshine gleam the ripples + That the cold wind makes in rivers. + “Smiles the earth, and smile the waters, + Smile the cloudless skies above us, + But I lose the way of smiling + When thou art no longer near me! + “I myself, myself! behold me! + Blood of my beating heart, behold me! + O awake, awake, beloved! + Onaway! awake, beloved!” + Thus the gentle Chibiabos + Sang his song of love and longing; + And Iagoo, the great boaster, + He the marvellous story-teller, + He the friend of old Nokomis, + Jealous of the sweet musician, + Jealous of the applause they gave him + Saw in all the eyes around him, + Saw in all their looks and gestures, + That the wedding-guests assembled + Longed to hear his pleasant stories, + His immeasurable falsehoods. + Very boastful was Iagoo; + Never heard he an adventure + But himself had met a greater; + Never any deed of daring + But himself had done a bolder; + Never any marvellous story + But himself could tell a stranger. + Would you listen to his boasting, + Would you only give him credence, + No one ever shot an arrow + Half so far and high as he had; + Ever caught so many fishes, + Ever killed so many reindeer, + Ever trapped so many beaver! + None could run so fast as he could, + None could dive so deep as he could, + None could swim so far as he could; + None had made so many journeys, + None had seen so many wonders, + As this wonderful Iagoo, + As this marvellous story-teller! + Thus his name became a by-word + And a jest among the people; + And whene’er a boastful hunter + Praised his own address too highly, + Or a warrior, home returning, + Talked too much of his achievements, + All his hearers cried, “Iagoo! + Here’s Iagoo come among us!” + He it was who carved the cradle + Of the little Hiawatha, + Carved its framework out of linden, + Bound it strong with reindeer’s sinews; + He it was who taught him later + How to make his bows and arrows, + How to make the bows of ash-tree, + And the arrows of the oak-tree. + So among the guests assembled + At my Hiawatha’s wedding + Sat Iagoo, old and ugly, + Sat the marvellous story-teller. + And they said, “O good Iagoo, + Tell us now a tale of wonder, + Tell us of some strange adventure, + That the feast may be more joyous, + That the time may pass more gaily, + And our guests be more contented!” + And Iagoo answered straightway, + “You shall hear a tale of wonder, + You shall hear the strange adventures + Of Osseo, the Magician, + From the Evening Star descended.” + + +XII. + +THE SON OF THE EVENING STAR. + + Can it be the sun descending + O’er the level plain of water? + Or the Red Swan floating, flying, + Wounded by the magic arrow, + Staining all the waves with crimson, + With the crimson of its life-blood, + Filling all the air with splendour, + With the splendour of its plumage? + Yes; it is the sun descending, + Sinking down into the water; + All the sky is stained with purple, + All the water flushed with crimson! + No; it is the Red Swan floating, + Diving down beneath the water; + To the sky its wings are lifted, + With its blood the waves are reddened! + Over it the Star of Evening + Melts and trembles through the purple, + Hangs suspended in the twilight. + No; it is a bead of wampum + On the robes of the Great Spirit, + As he passes through the twilight, + Walks in silence through the heavens! + This with joy beheld Iagoo, + And he said in haste: “Behold it! + See the Sacred Star of Evening! + You shall hear a tale of wonder, + Hear the Story of Osseo, + Son of the Evening Star, Osseo! + “Once, in days no more remembered, + Ages nearer the beginning, + When the heavens were closer to us, + And the Gods were more familiar, + In the Northland lived a hunter, + With ten young and comely daughters, + Tall and lithe as wands of willow; + Only Oweenee, the youngest, + She the wilful and the wayward, + She the silent, dreamy maiden, + Was the fairest of the sisters. + “All these women married warriors, + Married brave and haughty husbands; + Only Oweenee, the youngest, + Laughed and flouted all her lovers, + All her young and handsome suitors, + And then married old Osseo, + Old Osseo, poor and ugly, + Broken with age and weak with coughing, + Always coughing like a squirrel. + “Ah, but beautiful within him + Was the spirit of Osseo, + From the Evening Star descended, + Star of Evening, Star of Woman, + Star of tenderness and passion, + All its fire was in his bosom, + All its beauty in his spirit, + All its mystery in his being, + All its splendour in his language! + “And her lovers, the rejected, + Handsome men with belts of wampum, + Handsome men with paint and feathers, + Pointed at her in derision, + Followed her with jest and laughter. + But she said: ‘I care not for you, + Care not for your belts of wampum, + Care not for your paint and feathers, + Care not for your jests and laughter! + I am happy with Osseo!’ + “Once to some great feast invited, + Through the damp and dusk of evening, + Walked together the ten sisters, + Walked together with their husbands; + Slowly followed old Osseo, + With fair Oweenee beside him; + All the others chatted gaily, + These two only walked in silence. + “At the Western sky Osseo + Gazed intent, as if imploring, + Often stopped and gazed imploring + At the trembling Star of Evening, + At the tender Star of Woman; + And they heard him murmur softly, + ‘_Ah, showain nemeshin, Nosa_! + Pity, pity me, my father!’ + “‘Listen!’ said the eldest sister, + ‘He is praying to his father! + What a pity that the old man + Does not stumble in the pathway, + Does not break his neck by falling!’ + And they laughed till all the forest + Rang with their unseemly laughter. + “On their pathway through the woodlands + Lay an oak, by storms uprooted, + Lay the great trunk of an oak-tree, + Buried half in leaves and mosses, + Mouldering, crumbling, huge and hollow. + And Osseo, when he saw it, + Gave a shout, a cry of anguish, + Leaped into its yawning cavern, + At one end went in an old man, + Wasted, wrinkled, old, and ugly; + From the other came a young man, + Tall and straight, and strong, and handsome. + “Thus Osseo was transfigured, + Thus restored to youth and beauty; + But, alas! for good Osseo, + And for Oweenee, the faithful! + Strangely, too, was she transfigured, + Changed into a weak old woman. + With a staff she tottered onward, + Wasted, wrinkled, old, and ugly! + And the sisters and their husbands + Laughed until the echoing forest + Rang with their unseemly laughter. + “But Osseo turned not from her, + Walked with slower step beside her, + Took her hand, as brown and withered + As an oak-leaf is in Winter, + Called her sweetheart, Nenemoosha, + Soothed her with soft words of kindness, + Till they reached the lodge of feasting, + Till they sat down in the wigwam, + Sacred to the Star of Evening, + To the tender Star of Woman. + “Wrapt in visions, lost in dreaming, + At the banquet sat Osseo; + All were merry, all were happy, + All were joyous but Osseo. + Neither food nor drink he tasted, + Neither did he speak nor listen, + But as one bewildered sat he, + Looking dreamily and sadly, + First at Oweenee, then upward + At the gleaming sky above them. + “Then a voice was heard, a whisper, + Coming from the starry distance, + Coming from the empty vastness, + Low, and musical, and tender; + And the voice said: ’O Osseo! + O my son, my best beloved! + Broken are the spells that bound you, + All the charms of the magicians, + All the magic powers of evil; + Come to me; ascend, Osseo! + “’Taste the food that stands before you: + It is blessed and enchanted, + It has magic virtues in it, + It will change you to a spirit. + All your bowls and all your kettles + Shall be wood and clay no longer; + But the bowls be changed to wampum, + And the kettles shall be silver; + They shall shine like shells of scarlet, + Like the fire shall gleam and glimmer. + “’And the women shall no longer + Bear the dreary doom of labour, + But be changed to birds, and glisten + With the beauty of the star-light, + Painted with the dusky splendours + Of the skies and clouds of evening!’ + “What Osseo heard as whispers, + What as words he comprehended, + Was but music to the others, + Music as of birds afar off, + Of the whippoorwill afar off, + Of the lonely Wawonaissa + Singing in the darksome forest. + “Then the lodge began to tremble, + Straight began to shake and tremble, + And they felt it rising, rising, + Slowly through the air ascending, + From the darkness of the tree-tops + Forth into the dewy star-light, + Till it passed the topmost branches; + And behold! the wooden dishes + All were changed to shells of scarlet! + And behold! the earthen kettles + All were changed to bowls of silver! + And the roof-poles of the wigwam + Were as glittering rods of silver, + And the roof of bark upon them + As the shining shards of beetles. + “Then Osseo gazed around him, + And he saw the nine fair sisters, + All the sisters and their husbands, + Changed to birds of various plumage, + Some were jays and some were magpies, + Others thrushes, others blackbirds; + And they hopped, and sang, and twittered, + Perked and fluttered all their feathers, + Strutted in their shining plumage, + And their tails like fans unfolded. + “Only Oweenee, the youngest, + Was not changed, but sat in silence, + Wasted, wrinkled, old, and ugly, + Looking sadly at the others; + Till Osseo, gazing upward, + Gave another cry of anguish, + Such a cry as he had uttered + By the oak-tree in the forest. + “Then returned her youth and beauty, + And her soiled and tattered garments + Were transformed to robes of ermine, + And her staff became a feather, + Yes, a shining silver-feather! + “And again the wigwam trembled, + Swayed and rushed through airy currents, + Through transparent cloud and vapour, + And amid celestial splendours + On the Evening Star alighted, + As a snow-flake falls on snow-flake, + As a leaf drops on a river, + As the thistle-down on water. + “Forth with cheerful words of welcome + Came the father of Osseo, + He with radiant locks of silver, + He with eyes serene and tender. + And he said: ‘My son Osseo, + Hang the cage of birds you bring there, + Hang the cage with rods of silver, + And the birds with glistening feathers, + At the doorway of my wigwam.’ + “At the door he hung the bird-cage, + And they entered in and gladly + Listened to Osseo’s father. + Ruler of the Star of Evening, + As he said: ’O my Osseo! + I have had compassion on you, + Given you back your youth and beauty, + Into birds of various plumage + Changed your sisters and their husbands; + Changed them thus because they mocked you + In the figure of the old man, + In that aspect sad and wrinkled, + Could not see your heart of passion, + Could not see your youth immortal; + Only Oweenee, the faithful, + Saw your naked heart and loved you. + “‘In the lodge that glimmers yonder, + In the little star that twinkles + Through the vapours, on the left hand, + Lives the envious Evil Spirit, + The Wabeno, the magician, + Who transformed you to an old man. + Take heed lest his beams fall on you, + For the rays he darts around him + Are the power of his enchantment, + Are the arrows that he uses.’ + “Many years, in peace and quiet, + On the peaceful Star of Evening + Dwelt Osseo with his father; + Many years, in song and flutter, + At the doorway of the wigwam, + Hung the cage with rods of silver. + And fair Oweenee, the faithful, + Bore a son unto Osseo, + With the beauty of his mother, + With the courage of his father. + “And the boy grew up and prospered. + And Osseo, to delight him, + Made him little bows and arrows. + Opened the great cage of silver, + And let loose his aunts and uncles, + All those birds with glossy feathers, + For his little son to shoot at. + “Round and round they wheeled and darted, + Filled the Evening Star with music, + With their songs of joy and freedom; + Filled the Evening Star with splendour, + With the fluttering of their plumage; + Till the boy, the little hunter, + Bent his bow and shot an arrow, + Shot a swift and fatal arrow, + And a bird, with shining feathers, + At his feet fell wounded sorely. + “But, O wondrous transformation! + ’Twas no bird he saw before him, + ’Twas a beautiful young woman, + With the arrow in her bosom! + “When her blood fell on the planet, + On the sacred Star of Evening, + Broken was the spell of magic, + Powerless was the strange enchantment, + And the youth, the fearless bowman, + Suddenly felt himself descending, + Held by unseen hands, but sinking + Downward through the empty spaces, + Downward through the clouds and vapours, + Till he rested on an island, + On an island green and grassy, + Yonder in the Big-Sea-Water. + “After him he saw descending + All the birds with shining feathers, + Fluttering, falling, wafted downward, + Like the painted leaves of Autumn; + And the lodge with poles of silver, + With its roof like wings of beetles, + Like the shining shards of beetles, + By the winds of heaven uplifted, + Slowly sank upon the island, + Bringing back the good Osseo, + Bringing Oweenee, the faithful. + “Then the birds, again transfigured, + Reassumed the shape of mortals, + Took their shape, but not their stature; + They remained as Little People, + Like the pigmies, the Puk-Wudjies, + And on pleasant nights of Summer, + When the Evening Star was shining, + Hand in hand they danced together + On the island’s craggy headlands, + On the sand-beach low and level. + “Still their glittering lodge is seen there, + On the tranquil Summer evenings, + And upon the shore the fisher + Sometimes hears their happy voices, + Sees them dancing in the star-light!” + When the story was completed, + When the wondrous tale was ended, + Looking round upon his listeners, + Solemnly Iagoo added: + “There are great men, I have known such, + Whom their people understand not, + Whom they even make a jest of, + Scoff and jeer at in derision. + From the story of Osseo + Let us learn the fate of jesters!” + All the wedding-guests delighted + Listened to the marvellous story, + Listened laughing and applauding, + And they whispered to each other, + “Does he mean himself, I wonder? + And are we the aunts and uncles?” + Then again sang Chibiabos, + Sang a song of love and longing, + In those accents sweet and tender, + In those tones of pensive sadness, + Sang a maiden’s lamentation + For her lover, her Algonquin, + “When I think of my beloved, + Ah me! think of my beloved, + When my heart is thinking of him, + O my sweetheart, my Algonquin! + “Ah me! when I parted from him, + Round my neck he hung the wampum, + As a pledge, the snow-white wampum, + O my sweetheart, my Algonquin! + “I will go with you, he whispered, + Ah me! to your native country; + Let me go with you, he whispered, + O my sweetheart, my Algonquin! + “Far away, away, I answered, + Very far away, I answered + Ah me! is my native country, + O my sweetheart, my Algonquin! + “When I looked back to behold him, + Where we parted, to behold him, + After me he still was gazing, + O my sweetheart, my Algonquin! + “By the tree he still was standing, + By the falling tree was standing, + That had dropped into the water, + O my sweetheart, my Algonquin! + “When I think of my beloved, + Ah me! think of my beloved, + When my heart is thinking of him, + O my sweetheart, my Algonquin!” + Such was Hiawatha’s Wedding, + Such the dance of Pau-Puk-Keewis, + Such the story of Iagoo, + Such the songs of Chibiabos; + Thus the wedding-banquet ended, + And the wedding-guests departed, + Leaving Hiawatha happy + With the night and Minnehaha. + + +XIII. + +BLESSING THE CORN-FIELDS. + + Sing, O Song of Hiawatha, + Of the happy days that followed, + In the land of the Ojibways, + In the pleasant land and peaceful! + Sing the mysteries of Mondamin, + Sing the Blessing of the Corn-fields! + Buried was the bloody hatchet, + Buried was the dreadful war-club, + Buried were all warlike weapons, + And the war-cry was forgotten. + There was peace among the nations, + Unmolested roved the hunters, + Built the birch-canoe for sailing, + Caught the fish in lake and river, + Shot the deer and trapped the beaver; + Unmolested worked the women, + Made their sugar from the maple, + Gathered wild rice in the meadows, + Dressed the skins of deer and beaver. + All around the happy village + Stood the maize-fields, green and shining, + Waved the green plumes of Mondamin, + Waved his soft and sunny tresses, + Filling all the land with plenty. + ’Twas the women who in Spring-time + Planted the broad fields and fruitful, + Buried in the earth Mondamin; + ’Twas the women who in Autumn + Stripped the yellow husks of harvest, + Stripped the garments from Mondamin, + Even as Hiawatha taught them. + Once, when all the maize was planted, + Hiawatha, wise and thoughtful, + Spake and said to Minnehaha, + To his wife, the Laughing Water: + “You shall bless to-night the corn-fields, + Draw a magic circle round them, + To protect them from destruction, + Blast of mildew, blight of insect, + Wagemin, the thief of corn-fields, + Paimosaid, who steals the maize-ear! + “In the night, when all is silence, + In the night, when all is darkness, + When the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin, + Shuts the doors of all the wigwams, + So that not an ear can hear you, + So that not an eye can see you, + Rise up from your bed in silence, + Lay aside your garments wholly, + Walk around the fields you planted, + Round the borders of the corn-fields, + Covered by your tresses only, + Robed with darkness as a garment. + “Thus the fields shall be more fruitful, + And the passing of your footsteps + Draw a magic circle round them, + So that neither blight nor mildew, + Neither burrowing worm nor insect, + Shall pass o’er the magic circle; + Not the dragon-fly, Kwo-ne-she, + Nor the spider, Subbekashe, + Nor the grasshopper, Pah-puk-keena, + Nor the mighty caterpillar, + Way-muk-kwana, with the bear-skin, + King of all the caterpillars!” + On the tree-tops near the corn-fields + Sat the hungry crows and ravens, + Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, + With his band of black marauders. + And they laughed at Hiawatha, + Till the tree-tops shook with laughter, + With their melancholy laughter, + At the words of Hiawatha. + “Hear him!” said they; “hear the wise man! + Hear the plots of Hiawatha!” + When the noiseless night descended + Broad and dark o’er field and forest, + When the mournful Wawonaissa + Sorrowing sang among the hemlocks, + And the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin, + Shut the doors of all the wigwams, + From her bed rose Laughing Water, + Laid aside her garments wholly, + And with darkness clothed and guarded, + Unashamed and unaffrighted, + Walked securely round the corn-fields, + Drew the sacred, magic circle + Of her footprints round the corn-fields. + No one but the Midnight only + Saw her beauty in the darkness, + No one but the Wawonaissa + Heard the panting of her bosom; + Guskewau, the darkness, wrapped her + Closely in his sacred mantle, + So that none might see her beauty, + So that none might boast, “I saw her!” + On the morrow, as the day dawned, + Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, + Gathered all his black marauders, + Crows and blackbirds, jays and ravens, + Clamorous on the dusky tree-tops, + And descended, fast and fearless, + On the fields of Hiawatha, + On the grave of the Mondamin. + “We will drag Mondamin,” said they, + “From the grave where he is buried, + Spite of all the magic circles + Laughing Water draws around it, + Spite of all the sacred footprints + Minnehaha stamps upon it!” + But the wary Hiawatha, + Ever thoughtful, careful, watchful, + Had o’erheard the scornful laughter + When they mocked him from the tree-tops. + “Kaw!” he said, “my friends the ravens! + Kahgahgee, my King of Ravens! + I will teach you all a lesson + That shall not be soon forgotten!” + He had risen before the daybreak, + He had spread o’er all the corn-fields + Snares to catch the black marauders, + And was lying now in ambush + In the neighbouring grove of pine-trees, + Waiting for the crows and blackbirds, + Waiting for the jays and ravens. + Soon they came with caw and clamour, + Rush of wings and cry of voices, + To their work of devastation, + Settling down upon the corn-fields, + Delving deep with beak and talon, + For the body of Mondamin. + And with all their craft and cunning, + All their skill in wiles of warfare, + They perceived no danger near them, + Till their claws became entangled, + Till they found themselves imprisoned + In the snares of Hiawatha. + From his place of ambush came he, + Striding terrible among them, + And so awful was his aspect + That the bravest quailed with terror. + Without mercy he destroyed them + Right and left, by tens and twenties, + And their wretched, lifeless bodies + Hung aloft on poles for scarecrows + Round the consecrated corn-fields, + As a signal of his vengeance, + As a warning to marauders. + Only Kahgahgee, the leader, + Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, + He alone was spared among them + As a hostage for his people. + With his prisoner-string he bound him, + Led him captive to his wigwam, + Tied him fast with cords of elm-bark + To the ridge-pole of his wigwam. + “Kahgahgee, my raven!” said he, + “You the leader of the robbers, + You the plotter of this mischief, + The contriver of this outrage, + I will keep you, I will hold you, + As a hostage for your people, + As a pledge of good behaviour!” + And he left him, grim and sulky, + Sitting in the morning sunshine + On the summit of the wigwam, + Croaking fiercely his displeasure, + Flapping his great sable pinions, + Vainly struggling for his freedom, + Vainly calling on his people! + Summer passed, and Shawondasee + Breathed his sighs o’er all the landscape, + From the South-land sent his ardours, + Wafted kisses warm and tender; + And the maize-field grew and ripened, + Till it stood in all the splendour + Of its garments green and yellow, + Of its tassels and its plumage, + And the maize-ears full and shining + Gleamed from bursting sheaths of verdure. + Then Nokomis, the old woman, + Spake and said to Minnehaha: + “’Tis the Moon when leaves are falling; + All the wild-rice has been gathered, + And the maize is ripe and ready; + Let us gather in the harvest, + Let us wrestle with Mondamin, + Strip him of his plumes and tassels, + Of his garments green and yellow! + And the merry Laughing Water + Went rejoicing from the wigwam, + With Nokomis, old and wrinkled; + And they called the women round them, + Called the young men and the maidens, + To the harvest of the corn-fields, + To the husking of the maize-ear. + On the border of the forest, + Underneath the fragrant pine-trees, + Sat the old men and the warriors + Smoking in the pleasant shadow. + In uninterrupted silence + Looked they at the gamesome labour + Of the young men and the women; + Listened to their noisy talking, + To their laughter and their singing, + Heard them chattering like the magpies, + Heard them laughing like the blue-jays, + Heard them singing like the robins. + And whene’er some lucky maiden + Found a red ear[41] in the husking, + Found a maize-ear red as blood is, + “Nushka!” cried they all together, + “Nushka! you shall have a sweetheart, + You shall have a handsome husband!” + “Ugh!” the old men all responded, + From their seats beneath the pine-trees! + And whene’er a youth or maiden + Found a crooked ear[42] in husking, + Found a maize-ear in the husking + Blighted, mildewed, or misshapen, + Then they laughed and sang together, + Crept and limped about the corn-fields, + Mimicked in their gait and gestures + Some old man, bent almost double, + Singing singly or together: + “Wagemin, the thief of corn-fields! + Paimosaid, the skulking robber!” + Till the corn-fields rang with laughter, + Till from Hiawatha’s wigwam + Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, + Screamed and quivered in his anger, + And from all the neighbouring tree-tops + Cawed and croaked the black marauders. + “Ugh!” the old men all responded, + From their seats beneath the pine-trees! + +[41] A red ear was an augury that she would have a brave lover. + +[42] A crooked ear was the symbol of a thief in the corn-field. See +Appendix. + + +XIV. + +PICTURE-WRITING. + + In those days said Hiawatha, + “Lo! how all things fade and perish! + From the memory of the old men + Fade away the great traditions, + The achievements of the warriors, + The adventures of the hunters, + All the wisdom of the Medas, + All the craft of the Wabenos, + All the marvellous dreams and visions + Of the Jossakeeds, the Prophets! + “Great men die and are forgotten, + Wise men speak; their words of wisdom + Perish in the ears that hear them, + Do not reach the generations + That, as yet unborn, are waiting + In the great mysterious darkness + Of the speechless days that shall be! + “On the grave-posts of our fathers + Are no signs, no figures painted; + Who are in those graves we know not, + Only know they are our fathers. + Of what kith they are and kindred, + From what old, ancestral Totem, + Be it Eagle, Bear, or Beaver, + They descended, this we know not, + Only know they are our fathers. + “Face to face we speak together, + But we cannot speak when absent, + Cannot send our voices from us + To the friends that dwell afar off; + Cannot send a secret message, + But the bearer learns our secret, + May pervert it, may betray it, + May reveal it unto others.” + Thus said Hiawatha, walking + In the solitary forest, + Pondering, musing in the forest, + On the welfare of his people. + From his pouch he took his colours, + Took his paints of different colours, + On the smooth bark of a birch-tree + Painted many shapes and figures, + Wonderful and mystic figures, + And each figure had a meaning, + Each some word or thought suggested. + Gitche Manito the Mighty, + He the Master of Life, was painted + As an egg, with points projecting + To the four winds of the heavens. + Everywhere is the Great Spirit, + Was the meaning of this symbol. + Mitche Manito the Mighty, + He the dreadful Spirit of Evil, + As a serpent was depicted, + As Kenabeek, the great serpent. + Very crafty, very cunning, + Is the creeping Spirit of Evil, + Was the meaning of this symbol. + Life and Death he drew as circles, + Life was white, but Death was darkened; + Sun and moon and stars he painted, + Man and beast, and fish and reptile, + Forests, mountains, lakes, and rivers. + For the earth he drew a straight line, + For the sky a bow above it; + White the space between for day-time, + Filled with little stars for night-time; + On the left a point for sunrise, + On the right a point for sunset, + On the top a point for noontide, + And for rain and cloudy weather + Waving lines descending from it. + Footprints pointing towards a wigwam + Were a sign of invitation, + Were a sign of guests assembling; + Bloody hands with palms uplifted + Were a symbol of destruction, + Were a hostile sign and symbol. + All these things did Hiawatha + Show unto his wondering people, + And interpreted their meaning, + And he said: “Behold, your grave-posts + Have no mark, no sign, nor symbol. + Go and paint them all with figures, + Each one with its household symbol, + With its own ancestral Totem; + So that those who follow after + May distinguish them and know them.” + And they painted on the grave-posts + Of the graves yet unforgotten, + Each his own ancestral Totem, + Each the symbol of his household; + Figures of the Bear and Reindeer, + Of the Turtle, Crane, and Beaver, + Each inverted as a token + That the owner was departed, + That the chief who bore the symbol + Lay beneath in dust and ashes. + And the Jossakeeds, the prophets, + The Wabenos, the magicians, + And the medicine-men, the Medas, + Painted upon bark and deer-skin + Figures for the songs they chanted, + For each song a separate symbol, + Figures mystical and awful, + Figures strange and brightly coloured; + And each figure had its meaning, + Each some magic song suggested. + The Great Spirit, the Creator, + Flashing light through all the heaven; + The Great Serpent, the Kenabeek, + With his bloody crest erected, + Creeping, looking into heaven; + In the sky the sun, that listens, + And the moon eclipsed and dying; + Owl and eagle, crane and hen-hawk, + And the cormorant, bird of magic; + Headless men that walk the heavens, + Bodies lying pierced with arrows, + Bloody hands of death uplifted, + Flags on graves and great war-captains + Grasping both the earth and heaven! + Such as these the shapes they painted + On the birch-bark and the deer-skin; + Songs of war and songs of hunting, + Songs of medicine and of magic, + All were written in these figures, + For each figure had its meaning, + Each its separate song recorded. + Nor forgotten was the Love-Song, + The most subtle of all medicines, + The most potent spell of magic, + Dangerous more than war or hunting! + Thus the Love-Song was recorded, + Symbol and interpretation. + First a human figure standing, + Painted in the brightest scarlet; + ’Tis the lover, the musician, + And the meaning is, “My painting + Makes me powerful over others.” + Then the figure seated, singing, + Playing on a drum of magic, + And the interpretation, “Listen! + ’Tis my voice you hear, my singing!” + Then the same red figure seated + In the shelter of a wigwam, + And the meaning of the symbol, + “I will come and sit beside you + In the mystery of my passion!” + Then two figures, man and woman, + Standing hand in hand together, + With their hands so clasped together + That they seem in one united; + And the words thus represented + Are, “I see your heart within you, + And your cheeks are red with blushes!” + Next the maiden on an island, + In the centre of an island; + And the song this shape suggested + Was, “Though you were at a distance, + Were upon some far-off island, + Such the spell I cast upon you, + Such the magic power of passion, + I could straightway draw you to me!” + Then the figure of the maiden + Sleeping, and the lover near her, + Whispering to her in her slumbers, + Saying, “Though you were far from me + In the land of Sleep and Silence, + Still the voice of love would reach you!” + And the last of all the figures + Was a heart within a circle, + Drawn within a magic circle; + And the image had this meaning: + “Naked lies your heart before me, + To your naked heart I whisper!” + Thus it was that Hiawatha, + In his wisdom, taught the people + All the mysteries of painting, + All the art of Picture-Writing, + On the smooth bark of the birch-tree, + On the white skin of the reindeer, + On the grave-posts of the village. + + +XV. + +HIAWATHA’S LAMENTATION. + + In those days the Evil Spirits, + All the Manitos of mischief, + Fearing Hiawatha’s wisdom, + And his love for Chibiabos, + Jealous of their faithful friendship, + And their noble words and actions, + Made at length a league against them, + To molest them and destroy them. + Hiawatha, wise and wary, + Often said to Chibiabos, + “O my brother! do not leave me, + Lest the Evil Spirits harm you!” + Chibiabos, young and heedless, + Laughing shook his coal-black tresses, + Answered ever sweet and childlike, + “Do not fear for me, O brother! + Harm and evil come not near me!” + Once when Peboan, the Winter, + Roofed with ice the Big-Sea-Water, + When the snow-flakes, whirling downward, + Hissed among the withered oak-leaves, + Changed the pine-trees into wigwams, + Covered all the earth with silence,— + Armed with arrows, shod with snow-shoes, + Heeding not his brother’s warning, + Fearing not the Evil Spirits, + Forth to hunt the deer with antlers + All alone went Chibiabos. + Right across the Big-Sea-Water + Sprang with speed the deer before him. + With the wind and snow he followed, + O’er the treacherous ice he followed, + Wild with all the fierce commotion + And the rapture of the hunting. + But beneath, the Evil Spirits + Lay in ambush, waiting for him, + Broke the treacherous ice beneath him, + Dragged him downward to the bottom, + Buried in the sand his body. + Unktahee, the god of water, + He the god of the Dacotahs, + Drowned him in the deep abysses + Of the lake of Gitche Gumee. + From the headlands Hiawatha + Sent forth such a wail of anguish, + Such a fearful lamentation, + That the bison paused to listen, + And the wolves howled from the prairies, + And the thunder in the distance + Starting answered, “Baim-wawa!” + Then his face with black he painted, + With his robe his head he covered, + In his wigwam sat lamenting, + Seven long weeks he sat lamenting, + Uttering still this moan of sorrow:— + “He is dead, the sweet musician! + He the sweetest of all singers! + He has gone from us for ever, + He has moved a little nearer + To the Master of all music, + To the Master of all singing! + O my brother, Chibiabos!” + And the melancholy fir-trees + Waved their dark green fans above him, + Waved their purple cones above him, + Sighing with him to console him, + Mingling with his lamentation + Their complaining, their lamenting. + Came the Spring, and all the forest + Looked in vain for Chibiabos; + Sighed the rivulet, Sebowisha, + Sighed the rushes in the meadow; + From the tree-tops sang the blue-bird, + Sang the blue-bird, the Owaissa, + “Chibiabos! Chibiabos! + He is dead, the sweet musician!” + From the wigwam sang the robin, + Sang the robin, the Opechee, + “Chibiabos! Chibiabos! + He is dead, the sweetest singer!” + And at night through all the forest + Went the whippoorwill complaining, + Wailing went the Wawonaissa, + “Chibiabos! Chibiabos! + He is dead, the sweet musician! + He the sweetest of all singers!” + Then the medicine-men, the Medas, + The magicians, the Wabenos, + And the Jossakeeds, the prophets, + Came to visit Hiawatha; + Built a Sacred Lodge beside him, + To appease him, to console him, + Walked in silent, grave procession, + Bearing each a pouch of healing, + Skin of beaver, lynx, or otter, + Filled with magic roots and simples, + Filled with very potent medicines. + When he heard their steps approaching, + Hiawatha ceased lamenting, + Called no more on Chibiabos; + Nought he questioned, nought he answered, + But his mournful head uncovered, + From his face the mourning colours + Washed he slowly and in silence, + Slowly and in silence followed + Onward to the Sacred Wigwam. + There a magic drink they gave him, + Made of Nahma-wusk, the spearmint, + And Wabeno-wusk, the yarrow, + Roots of power, and herbs of healing; + Beat their drums and shook their rattles; + Chanted singly and in chorus, + Mystic songs like these they chanted:— + “I myself, myself! behold me! + ’Tis the great Grey Eagle talking; + Come, ye white crows, come and hear him! + The loud-speaking thunder helps me; + All the unseen spirits help me; + I can hear their voices calling, + All around the sky I hear them! + I can blow you strong, my brother, + I can heal you, Hiawatha!” + “Hi-au-ha!” replied the chorus, + “Way-ha-way!” the mystic chorus. + “Friends of mine are all the serpents! + Hear me shake my skin of hen-hawk! + Mahng, the white loon, I can kill him; + I can shoot your heart and kill it! + I can blow you strong, my brother, + I can heal you, Hiawatha!” + “Hi-au-ha!” replied the chorus, + “Way-ha-way!” the mystic chorus. + “I myself, myself! the prophet! + When I speak the wigwam trembles, + Shakes the Sacred Lodge with terror, + Hands unseen begin to shake it! + When I walk, the sky I tread on + Bends and makes a noise beneath me! + I can blow you strong, my brother! + Rise and speak, O Hiawatha!” + “Hi-au-ha!” replied the chorus, + “Way-ha-way!” the mystic chorus. + Then they shook their medicine-pouches + O’er the head of Hiawatha, + Danced their medicine-dance around him; + And upstarting wild and haggard, + Like a man from dreams awakened, + He was healed of all his madness. + As the clouds are swept from heaven, + Straightway from his brain departed + All his moody melancholy; + As the ice is swept from rivers, + Straightway from his heart departed + All his sorrow and affliction. + Then they summoned Chibiabos + From his grave beneath the waters, + From the sands of Gitche Gumee + Summoned Hiawatha’s brother. + And so mighty was the magic + Of that cry and invocation, + That he heard it as he laid there + Underneath the Big-Sea-Water. + From the sand he rose and listened, + Heard the music and the singing, + Came, obedient to the summons, + To the doorway of the wigwam, + But to enter they forbade him. + Through a chink a coal they gave him, + Through the door a burning firebrand; + Ruler in the Land of Spirits, + Ruler o’er the dead, they made him, + Telling him a fire to kindle + For all those that died thereafter, + Camp-fires for their night encampments + On their solitary journey + To the kingdom of Ponemah, + To the land of the Hereafter. + From the village of his childhood, + From the homes of those who knew him, + Passing silent through the forest, + Like a smoke-wreath wafted sideways, + Slowly vanished Chibiabos! + Where he passed, the branches moved not; + Where he trod, the grasses bent not, + And the fallen leaves of last year + Made no sound beneath his footsteps. + Four whole days he journeyed onward + Down the pathway of the dead men; + On the dead-man’s strawberry feasted, + Crossed the melancholy river, + On the swinging log he crossed it, + Came unto the Lake of Silver, + In the Stone Canoe was carried + To the Islands of the Blessed, + To the land of ghosts and shadows. + On that journey, moving slowly, + Many weary spirits saw he, + Panting under heavy burdens, + Laden with war-clubs, bows and arrows, + Robes of fur, and pots and kettles, + And with food that friends had given + For that solitary journey. + “Ah! why do the living,” said they, + “Lay such heavy burdens on us? + Better were it to go naked, + Better were it to go fasting, + Than to bear such heavy burdens + On our long and weary journey!” + Forth then issued Hiawatha, + Wandered eastward, wandered westward, + Teaching men the use of simples + And the antidotes for poisons, + And the cure of all diseases. + Thus was first made known to mortals + All the mystery of Medamin, + All the sacred art of healing. + + +XVI. + +PAU-PUK-KEEWIS. + + You shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis, + He, the handsome Yenadizze, + Whom the people called the Storm-Fool, + Vexed the village with disturbance; + You shall hear of all his mischief, + And his flight from Hiawatha, + And his wondrous transmigrations, + And the end of his adventures. + On the shores of Gitche Gumee, + On the dunes of Nagow Wudjoo, + By the shining Big-Sea-Water + Stood the lodge of Pau-Puk-Keewis. + It was he who in his frenzy + Whirled these drifting sands together, + On the dunes of Nagow Wudjoo, + When, amongst the guests assembled, + He so merrily and madly + Danced at Hiawatha’s wedding, + Danced the Beggar’s Dance to please them. + Now, in search of new adventures, + From his lodge went Pau-Puk-Keewis, + Came with speed into the village, + Found the young men all assembled + In the lodge of old Iagoo, + Listening to his monstrous stories, + To his wonderful adventures. + He was telling them the story + Of Ojeeg, the Summer-Maker, + How he made a hole in heaven, + How he climbed up into heaven, + And let out the Summer-weather, + The perpetual, pleasant Summer; + How the Otter first essayed it; + How the Beaver, Lynx, and Badger + Tried in turn the great achievement, + From the summit of the mountain + Smote their fists against the heavens, + Smote against the sky their foreheads, + Cracked the sky, but could not break it; + How the Wolverine, uprising, + Made him ready for the encounter, + Bent his knees down, like a squirrel, + Drew his arms back, like a cricket. + “Once he leaped,” said old Iagoo, + “Once he leaped, and lo! above him + Bent the sky as ice in rivers + When the waters rise beneath it; + Twice he leaped, and lo! above him + Cracked the sky, as ice in rivers + When the freshet is at highest! + Thrice he leaped, and lo! above him + Broke the shattered sky asunder, + And he disappeared within it, + And Ojeeg, the Fisher Weasel, + With a bound went in behind him!” + “Hark you!” shouted Pau-Puk-Keewis + As he entered at the doorway; + “I am tired of all this talking, + Tired of old Iagoo’s stories, + Tired of Hiawatha’s wisdom. + Here is something to amuse you, + Better than this endless talking.” + Then from out his pouch of wolf-skin + Forth he drew, with solemn manner, + All the game of Bowl and Counters, + Pugasaing, with thirteen pieces.[43] + White on one side were they painted, + And vermilion on the other; + Two Kenabeeks or great serpents, + Two Ininewug or wedge-men, + One great war-club, Pugamaugun, + And one slender fish, the Keego, + Four round pieces, Ozawabeeks, + And three Sheshebwug or ducklings. + All were made of bone and painted, + All except the Ozawabeeks; + These were brass, on one side burnished, + And were black upon the other. + In a wooden bowl he placed them, + Shook and jostled them together, + Threw them on the ground before him, + Thus exclaiming and explaining: + “Red side up are all the pieces, + And one great Kenabeek standing, + On the bright side of a brass piece, + On a burnished Ozawabeek; + Thirteen tens and eight are counted.” + Then again he shook the pieces, + Shook and jostled them together, + Threw them on the ground before him, + Still exclaiming and explaining: + “White are both the great Kenabeeks, + White the Ininewug, the wedge-men, + Red are all the other pieces; + Five tens and an eight are counted.” + Thus he taught the game of hazard, + Thus displayed it and explained it, + Running through its various chances, + Various changes, various meanings; + Twenty curious eyes stared at him, + Full of eagerness stared at him. + “Many games,” said old Iagoo, + “Many games of skill and hazard + Have I seen in different nations, + Have I played in different countries. + He who plays with old Iagoo + Must have very nimble fingers; + Though you think yourself so skilful, + I can beat you, Pau-Puk-Keewis, + I can even give you lessons + In your game of Bowl and Counters!” + So they sat and played together, + All the old men and the young men, + Played for dresses, weapons, wampum, + Played till midnight, played till morning, + Played until the Yenadizze, + Till the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis, + Of their treasures had despoiled them, + Of the best of all their dresses, + Shirts of deer-skin, robes of ermine, + Belts of wampum, crests of feathers, + Warlike weapons, pipes and pouches. + Twenty eyes glared wildly at him, + Like the eyes of wolves glared at him. + Said the lucky Pau-Puk-Keewis, + “In my wigwam I am lonely, + In my wanderings and adventures + I have need of a companion, + Fain would have a Meshinauwa, + An attendant and pipe-bearer. + I will venture all these winnings, + All these garments heaped about me, + All this wampum, all these feathers, + On a single throw will venture + All against the young man yonder!” + ’Twas a youth of sixteen summers, + ’Twas a nephew of Iagoo; + Face-in-a-Mist, the people called him. + As the fire burns in a pipe-head + Dusky red beneath the ashes, + So beneath his shaggy eyebrows + Glowed the eyes of old Iagoo. + “Ugh!” he answered, very fiercely; + “Ugh!” they answered all and each one. + Seized the wooden bowl the old man, + Closely in his bony fingers + Clutched the fatal bowl, Onagon, + Shook it fiercely and with fury, + Made the pieces ring together + As he threw them down before him. + Red were both the great Kenabeeks, + Red the Ininewug, the wedge-men, + Red the Sheshebwug, the ducklings, + Black the four brass Ozawabeeks, + White alone the fish, the Keego; + Only five the pieces counted! + Then the smiling Pau-Puk-Keewis + Shook the bowl and threw the pieces: + Lightly in the air he tossed them, + And they fell about him scattered; + Dark and bright the Ozawabeeks, + Red and white the other pieces, + And upright among the others + One Ininewug was standing, + Even as crafty Pau-Puk-Keewis + Stood alone among the players, + Saying, “Five tens! mine the game is!” + Twenty eyes glared at him fiercely, + Like the eyes of wolves glared at him, + As he turned and left the wigwam, + Followed by his Meshinauwa, + By the nephew of Iagoo, + By the tall and graceful stripling, + Bearing in his arms the winnings, + Shirts of deer-skin, robes of ermine, + Belts of wampum, pipes and weapons. + “Carry them,” said Pau-Puk-Keewis, + Pointing with his fan of feathers, + “To my wigwam far to eastward, + On the dunes of Nagow Wudjoo!” + Hot and red with smoke and gambling + Were the eyes of Pau-Puk-Keewis + As he came forth to the freshness + Of the pleasant Summer morning. + All the birds were singing gaily, + All the streamlets flowing swiftly, + And the heart of Pau-Puk-Keewis + Sang with pleasure as the birds sing, + Beat with triumph like the streamlets, + As he wandered through the village, + In the early grey of morning, + With his fan of turkey-feathers, + With his plumes and tufts of swan’s-down, + Till he reached the farthest wigwam, + Reached the lodge of Hiawatha. + Silent was it and deserted; + No one met him at the doorway, + No one came to bid him welcome; + But the birds were singing round it, + In and out and round the doorway, + Hopping, singing, fluttering, feeding, + And aloft upon the ridge-pole + Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, + Sat with fiery eyes, and, screaming, + Flapped his wings at Pau-Puk-Keewis. + “All are gone! the lodge is empty!” + Thus it was spake Pau-Puk-Keewis, + In his heart resolving mischief;— + “Gone is wary Hiawatha, + Gone the silly Laughing Water, + Gone Nokomis, the old woman, + And the lodge is left unguarded!” + By the neck he seized the raven, + Whirled it round him like a rattle, + Like a medicine-pouch he shook it, + Strangled Kahgahgee, the raven, + From the ridge-pole of the wigwam + Left its lifeless body hanging, + As an insult to its master, + As a taunt to Hiawatha. + With a stealthy step he entered, + Round the lodge in wild disorder + Threw the household things about him, + Piled together in confusion + Bowls of wood and earthen kettles, + Robes of buffalo and beaver, + Skins of otter, lynx, and ermine, + As an insult to Nokomis, + As a taunt to Minnehaha. + Then departed Pau-Puk-Keewis, + Whistling, singing through the forest, + Whistling gaily to the squirrels, + Who from hollow boughs above him + Dropped their acorn-shells upon him, + Singing gaily to the wood-birds, + Who from out the leafy darkness + Answered with a song as merry. + Then he climbed the rocky headlands, + Looking o’er the Gitche Gumee, + Perched himself upon their summit, + Waiting full of mirth and mischief + The return of Hiawatha. + Stretched upon his back he lay there; + Far below him plashed the waters, + Plashed and washed the dreamy waters; + Far above him swam the heavens, + Swam the dizzy, dreamy heavens; + Round him hovered, fluttered, rustled, + Hiawatha’s mountain chickens, + Flock-wise swept and wheeled about him, + Almost brushed him with their pinions. + And he killed them as he lay there, + Slaughtered them by tens and twenties, + Threw their bodies down the headland, + Threw them on the beach below him, + Till at length Kayoshk, the sea-gull, + Perched upon a crag above them, + Shouted: “It is Pau-Puk-Keewis! + He is slaying us by hundreds! + Send a message to our brother, + Tidings send to Hiawatha!” + +[43] See Appendix. + + +XVII. + +THE HUNTING OF PAU-PUK-KEEWIS. + + Full of wrath was Hiawatha + When he came into the village, + Found the people in confusion, + Heard of all the misdemeanours, + All the malice and the mischief, + Of the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis. + Hard his breath came through his nostrils, + Through his teeth he buzzed and muttered + Words of anger and resentment, + Hot and humming, like a hornet. + “I will slay this Pau-Puk-Keewis, + Slay this mischief-maker!” said he. + “Not so long and wide the world is, + Not so rude and rough the way is, + That my wrath shall not attain him, + That my vengeance shall not reach him!” + Then in swift pursuit departed + Hiawatha and the hunters + On the trail of Pau-Puk-Keewis, + Through the forest where he passed it, + To the headlands where he rested; + But they found not Pau-Puk-Keewis, + Only in the trampled grasses, + In the whortleberry-bushes, + Found the couch where he had rested, + Found the impress of his body. + From the lowlands far beneath them, + From the Muskoday, the meadow, + Pau-Puk-Keewis, turning backward, + Made a gesture of defiance, + Made a gesture of derision; + And aloud cried Hiawatha, + From the summit of the mountain: + “Not so long and wide the world is, + Not so rude and rough the way is, + But my wrath shall overtake you, + And my vengeance shall attain you!” + Over rock and over river, + Thorough bush and brake and forest, + Ran the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis; + Like an antelope he bounded, + Till he came unto a streamlet + In the middle of the forest, + To a streamlet still and tranquil, + That had overflowed its margin, + To a dam made by the beavers, + To a pond of quiet water, + Where knee-deep the trees were standing, + Where the water-lilies floated, + Where the rushes waved and whispered. + On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis, + On the dam of trunks and branches, + Through whose chinks the water spouted, + O’er whose summit flowed the streamlet. + From the bottom rose a beaver, + Looked with two great eyes of wonder, + Eyes that seemed to ask a question, + At the stranger, Pau-Puk-Keewis. + On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis, + O’er his ankles flowed the streamlet, + Flowed the bright and silvery water, + And he spake unto the beaver, + With a smile he spake in this wise: + “O my friend, Ahmeek, the beaver, + Cool and pleasant is the water; + Let me dive into the water, + Let me rest there in your lodges; + Change me, too, into a beaver!” + Cautiously replied the beaver, + With reserve he thus made answer: + “Let me first consult the others, + Let me ask the other beavers.” + Down he sank into the water, + Heavily sank he as a stone sinks, + Down among the leaves and branches, + Brown and matted at the bottom. + On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis, + O’er his ankles flowed the streamlet, + Spouted through the chinks below him, + Dashed upon the stones beneath him, + Spread serene and calm before him, + And the sunshine and the shadows + Fell in flecks and gleams upon him, + Fell in little shining patches, + Through the waving, rustling branches. + From the bottom rose the beavers, + Silently above the surface + Rose one head and then another, + Till the pond seemed full of beavers, + Full of black and shining faces. + To the beavers Pau-Puk-Keewis + Spake entreating, said in this wise: + “Very pleasant is your dwelling, + O my friends! and safe from danger; + Can you not with all your cunning, + All your wisdom and contrivance, + Change me, too, into a beaver?” + “Yes,” replied Ahmeek, the beaver, + He the King of all the beavers, + “Let yourself slide down among us, + Down into the tranquil water.” + Down into the pond among them + Silently sank Pau-Puk-Keewis, + Black became his shirt of deer-skin, + Black his moccasins and leggings, + In a broad black tail behind him + Spread his foxtails and his fringes; + He was changed into a beaver. + “Make me large,” said Pau-Puk-Keewis, + “Make me large, and make me larger, + Larger than the other beavers.” + “Yes,” the beaver chief responded, + “When our lodge below you enter, + In our wigwam we will make you + Ten times larger than the others.” + Thus into the clear, brown water + Silently sank Pau-Puk-Keewis; + Found the bottom covered over + With the trunks of trees and branches, + Hoards of food against the winter, + Piles and heaps against the famine, + Found the lodge with arching doorway + Leading into spacious chambers. + Here they made him large and larger, + Made him largest of the beavers, + Ten times larger than the others. + “You shall be our ruler,” said they, + “Chief and king of all the beavers.” + But not long had Pau-Puk-Keewis + Sat in state among the beavers, + When there came a voice of warning + From the watchman at his station + In the water-flags and lilies, + Saying, “Here is Hiawatha! + Hiawatha with his hunters!” + Then they heard a cry above them, + Heard a shouting and a tramping, + Heard a crashing and a rushing, + And the water round and o’er them + Sank and sucked away in eddies, + And they knew their dam was broken. + On the lodge’s roof the hunters + Leaped and broke it all asunder; + Streamed the sunshine through the crevice, + Sprang the beavers through the doorway, + Hid themselves in deeper water, + In the channel of the streamlet; + But the mighty Pau-Puk-Keewis + Could not pass beneath the doorway; + He was puffed with pride and feeding, + He was swollen like a bladder. + Through the roof looked Hiawatha, + Cried aloud, “O Pau-Puk-Keewis! + Vain are all your craft and cunning, + Vain your manifold disguises! + Well I know you, Pau-Puk-Keewis!” + With their clubs they beat and bruised him, + Beat to death poor Pau-Puk-Keewis, + Pounded him as maize is pounded, + Till his skull was crushed to pieces. + Six tall hunters, lithe and limber, + Bore him home on poles and branches, + Bore the body of the beaver; + But the ghost, the Jeebi in him, + Thought and felt as Pau-Puk-Keewis, + Still lived on as Pau-Puk-Keewis. + And it fluttered, strove, and struggled, + Waving hither, waving thither, + As the curtains of a wigwam + Struggle with their thongs of deer-skin, + When the wintry wind is blowing; + Till it drew itself together, + Till it rose up from the body, + Till it took the form and features + Of the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis, + Vanishing into the forest. + But the wary Hiawatha + Saw the figure ere it vanished, + Saw the form of Pau-Puk-Keewis + Glide into the soft blue shadow + Of the pine-trees of the forest; + Toward the squares of white beyond it, + Toward an opening in the forest, + Like a wind it rushed and panted, + Bending all the boughs before it, + And behind it, as the rain comes, + Came the steps of Hiawatha. + To a lake with many islands + Came the breathless Pau-Puk-Keewis, + Where among the water-lilies + Pishnekuh, the brant, were sailing; + Through the tufts of rushes floating, + Steering through the reedy islands, + Now their broad black beaks they lifted, + Now they plunged beneath the water, + Now they darkened in the shadow, + Now they brightened in the sunshine. + “Pishnekuh!” cried Pau-Puk-Keewis, + “Pishnekuh, my brothers!” said he, + “Change me to a brant with plumage, + With a shining neck and feathers, + Make me large, and make me larger, + Ten times larger than the others.” + Straightway to a brant they changed him, + With two huge and dusky pinions, + With a bosom smooth and rounded, + With a bill like two great paddles, + Made him larger than the others, + Ten times larger than the largest, + Just as, shouting from the forest, + On the shore stood Hiawatha. + Up they rose with cry and clamour, + With a whirr and beat of pinions, + Rose up from the reedy islands, + From the water-flags and lilies. + And they said to Pau-Puk-Keewis: + “In your flying look not downward, + Take good heed and look not downward, + Lest some strange mischance should happen, + Lest some great mishap befall you!” + Fast and far they fled to northward, + Fast and far through mist and sunshine, + Fed among the moors and fenlands, + Slept among the reeds and rushes. + On the morrow as they journeyed, + Buoyed and lifted by the South-wind, + Wafted onward by the South-wind, + Blowing fresh and strong behind them, + Rose a sound of human voices, + Rose a clamour from beneath them, + From the lodges of a village, + From the people miles beneath them. + For the people of the village + Saw the flock of brant with wonder, + Saw the wings of Pau-Puk-Keewis + Flapping far up in the ether, + Broader than two doorway curtains. + Pau-Puk-Keewis heard the shouting, + Knew the voice of Hiawatha, + Knew the outcry of Iagoo, + And, forgetful of the warning, + Drew his neck in and looked downward, + And the wind that blew behind him + Caught his mighty fan of feathers, + Sent him wheeling, whirling downward! + All in vain did Pau-Puk-Keewis + Struggle to regain his balance! + Whirling round and round and downward, + He beheld in turn the village, + And in turn the flock above him, + Saw the village coming nearer, + And the flock receding farther, + Heard the voices growing louder, + Heard the shouting and the laughter, + Saw no more the flock above him, + Only saw the earth beneath him; + Dead out of the empty heaven, + Dead among the shouting people, + With a heavy sound and sullen, + Fell the brant with broken pinions. + But his soul, his ghost, his shadow, + Still survived as Pau-Puk-Keewis, + Took again the form and features + Of the handsome Yenadizze, + And again went rushing onward, + Followed fast by Hiawatha, + Crying: “Not so wide the world is, + Not so long and rough the way is, + But my wrath shall overtake you, + But my vengeance shall attain you!” + And so near he came, so near him, + That his hand was stretched to seize him, + His right hand to seize and hold him, + When the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis + Whirled and spun about in circles, + Fanned the air into a whirlwind, + Danced the dust and leaves about him, + And amid the whirling eddies + Sprang into a hollow oak-tree, + Changed himself into a serpent, + Gliding out through root and rubbish. + With his right hand Hiawatha + Smote amain the hollow oak-tree, + Rent it into shreds and splinters, + Left it lying there in fragments. + But in vain! for Pau-Puk-Keewis, + Once again in human figure, + Full in sight ran on before him, + Sped away in gust and whirlwind, + On the shores of Gitche Gumee, + Westward by the Big-Sea-Water, + Came unto the rocky headlands, + To the Pictured Rocks of sandstone, + Looking over lake and landscape. + And the Old Man of the Mountain, + He the Manito of Mountains, + Opened wide his rocky doorways, + Opened wide his deep abysses, + Giving Pau-Puk-Keewis shelter + In his caverns dark and dreary, + Bidding Pau-Puk-Keewis welcome + To his gloomy lodge of sandstone. + There without stood Hiawatha, + Found the doorways closed against him, + With his mittens, Minjekahwun, + Smote great caverns in the sandstone, + Cried aloud in tones of thunder, + “Open! I am Hiawatha!” + But the Old Man of the Mountain + Opened not, and made no answer + From the silent crags of sandstone, + From the gloomy rock abysses. + Then he raised his hands to heaven, + Called imploring on the tempest, + Called Waywassimo, the lightning, + And the thunder, Annemeekee; + And they came with night and darkness, + Sweeping down the Big-Sea-Water + From the distant Thunder Mountains: + And the trembling Pau-Puk-Keewis + Heard the footsteps of the thunder, + Saw the red eyes of the lightning, + Was afraid, and crouched and trembled. + Then Waywassimo, the lightning, + Smote the doorways of the caverns, + With his war-club smote the doorways, + Smote the jutting crags of sandstone, + And the thunder, Annemeekee, + Shouted down into the caverns, + Saying, “Where is Pau-Puk-Keewis?” + And the crags fell, and beneath them + Dead among the rocky ruins + Lay the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis, + Lay the handsome Yenadizze, + Slain in his own human figure. + Ended were his wild adventures, + Ended were his tricks and gambols, + Ended all his craft and cunning, + Ended all his mischief-making, + All his gambling and his dancing, + All his wooing of the maidens. + Then the noble Hiawatha + Took his soul, his ghost, his shadow, + Spake and said: “O Pau-Puk-Keewis! + Never more in human figure + Shall you search for new adventures, + Never more with jest and laughter + Dance the dust and leaves in whirlwinds, + But above there in the heavens + You shall soar and sail in circles; + I will change you to an eagle, + To Keneu, the great War-Eagle, + Chief of all the fowls with feathers, + Chief of Hiawatha’s chickens.” + And the name of Pau-Puk-Keewis + Lingers still among the people, + Lingers still among the singers, + And among the story-tellers; + And in Winter, when the snow-flakes + Whirl in eddies round the lodges, + When the wind in gusty tumult + O’er the smoke-flue pipes and whistles, + “There,” they cry, “comes Pau-Puk-Keewis; + He is dancing through the village, + He is gathering in his harvest!” + + +XVIII. + +THE DEATH OF KWASIND. + + Far and wide among the nations + Spread the name and fame of Kwasind; + No man dared to strive with Kwasind, + No man could compete with Kwasind. + But the mischievous Puk-Wudjies, + They the envious Little People, + They the fairies and the pigmies, + Plotted and conspired against him. + “If this hateful Kwasind,” said they, + “If this great, outrageous fellow + Goes on thus a little longer, + Tearing everything he touches, + Rending everything to pieces, + Filling all the world with wonder, + What becomes of the Puk-Wudjies? + Who will care for the Puk-Wudjies? + He will tread us down like mushrooms, + Drive us all into the water, + Give our bodies to be eaten + By the wicked Nee-ba-naw-baigs, + By the Spirits of the Water!” + So the angry Little People + All conspired against the Strong Man, + All conspired to murder Kwasind, + Yes, to rid the world of Kwasind, + The audacious, overbearing, + Heartless, haughty, dangerous Kwasind. + Now this wondrous strength of Kwasind + In his crown alone was seated; + In his crown, too, was his weakness; + There alone could he be wounded, + Nowhere else could weapon pierce him, + Nowhere else could weapon harm him. + Even there the only weapon + That could wound him, that could slay him, + Was the seed-cone of the pine-tree, + Was the blue-cone of the fir-tree, + This was Kwasind’s fatal secret, + Known to no man among mortals; + But the cunning Little People, + The Puk-Wudjies, knew the secret, + Knew the only way to kill him. + So they gathered cones together, + Gathered seed-cones of the pine-tree, + Gathered blue-cones of the fir-tree, + In the woods by Taquamenaw, + Brought them to the river’s margin, + Heaped them in great piles together, + Where the red rocks from the margin + Jutting overhang the river. + There they lay in wait for Kwasind, + The malicious Little People. + ’Twas an afternoon in Summer; + Very hot and still the air was, + Very smooth the gliding river, + Motionless the sleeping shadows: + Insects glistened in the sunshine, + Insects skated on the water, + Filled the drowsy air with buzzing, + With a far-resounding war-cry. + Down the river came the Strong Man, + In his birch-canoe came Kwasind, + Floating slowly down the current + Of the sluggish Taquamenaw, + Very languid with the weather, + Very sleepy with the silence. + From the overhanging branches, + From the tassels of the birch-trees, + Soft the Spirit of Sleep descended; + By his airy hosts surrounded, + His invisible attendants, + Came the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin; + Like the burnished Dush-kwo-ne-she, + Like a Dragon-fly, he hovered + O’er the drowsy head of Kwasind. + To his ear there came a murmur + As of waves upon a sea-shore, + As of far-off tumbling waters, + As of winds among the pine-trees; + And he felt upon his forehead + Blows of little airy war-clubs, + Wielded by the slumbrous legions + Of the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin, + As of some one breathing on him. + At the first blow of their war-clubs, + Fell a drowsiness on Kwasind; + At the second blow they smote him, + Motionless his paddle rested; + At the third, before his vision + Reeled the landscape into darkness, + Very sound asleep was Kwasind. + So he floated down the river, + Like a blind man seated upright, + Floated down the Taquamenaw, + Underneath the trembling birch-trees, + Underneath the wooded headlands, + Underneath the war encampment + Of the pigmies, the Puk-Wudjies. + There they stood, all armed and waiting, + Hurled the pine-cones down upon him, + Struck him on his brawny shoulders, + On his crown defenceless struck him. + “Death to Kwasind!” was the sudden + War-cry of the Little People. + And he sideways swayed and tumbled, + Sideways fell into the river, + Plunged beneath the sluggish water + Headlong as an otter plunges; + And the birch-canoe, abandoned, + Drifted empty down the river, + Bottom upward swerved and drifted: + Nothing more was seen of Kwasind. + But the memory of the Strong Man + Lingered long among the people, + And whenever through the forest + Raged and roared the wintry tempest, + And the branches, tossed and troubled, + Creaked and groaned and split asunder, + “Kwasind!” cried they; “that is Kwasind! + He is gathering in his fire-wood!” + + +XIX. + +THE GHOSTS. + + Never stoops the soaring vulture + On his quarry in the desert, + On the sick or wounded bison, + But another vulture, watching + From his high aerial look-out, + Sees the downward plunge, and follows; + And a third pursues the second, + Coming from the invisible ether, + First a speck, and then a vulture, + Till the air is dark with pinions. + So disasters come not singly; + But as if they watched and waited, + Scanning one another’s motions, + When the first descends, the others + Follow, follow, gathering flock-wise + Round their victim, sick and wounded, + First a shadow, then a sorrow, + Till the air is dark with anguish. + Now, o’er all the dreary Northland, + Mighty Peboan, the Winter, + Breathing on the lakes and rivers, + Into stone had changed their waters. + From his hair he shook the snow-flakes, + Till the plains were strewn with whiteness, + One uninterrupted level, + As if, stooping, the Creator + With his hand had smoothed them over. + Through the forest, wide and wailing, + Roamed the hunter on his snow-shoes; + In the village worked the women, + Pounded maize, or dressed the deer-skin; + And the young men played together + On the ice the noisy ball-play, + On the plain the dance of snow-shoes. + One dark evening, after sun-down, + In her wigwam Laughing Water + Sat with old Nokomis, waiting + For the steps of Hiawatha + Homeward from the hunt returning. + On their faces gleamed the fire-light, + Painting them with streaks of crimson, + In the eyes of old Nokomis + Glimmered like the watery moonlight, + In the eyes of Laughing Water + Glistened like the sun in water; + And behind them crouched their shadows + In the corners of the wigwam, + And the smoke in wreaths above them + Climbed and crowded through the smoke-flue. + Then the curtain of the doorway + From without was slowly lifted; + Brighter glowed the fire a moment, + And a moment swerved the smoke-wreath, + As two women entered softly, + Passed the doorway uninvited, + Without word of salutation, + Without sign of recognition, + Sat down in the farthest corner, + Crouching low among the shadows. + From their aspect and their garments, + Strangers seemed they in the village; + Very pale and haggard were they, + As they sat there sad and silent, + Trembling, cowering with the shadows. + Was it the wind above the smoke-flue, + Muttering down into the wigwam? + Was it the owl, the Koko-koko, + Hooting from the dismal forest? + Sure a voice said in the silence: + “These are corpses clad in garments, + These are ghosts that come to haunt you, + From the kingdom of Ponemah, + From the land of the Hereafter!” + Homeward now came Hiawatha + From his hunting in the forest, + With the snow upon his tresses, + And the red deer on his shoulders. + At the feet of Laughing Water + Down he threw his lifeless burden; + Nobler, handsomer she thought him, + Than when first he came to woo her; + First threw down the deer before her, + As a token of his wishes, + As a promise of the future. + Then he turned and saw the strangers, + Cowering, crouching with the shadows; + Said within himself, “Who are they? + What strange guests has Minnehaha?” + But he questioned not the strangers, + Only spake to bid them welcome + To his lodge, his food, his fireside. + When the evening meal was ready, + And the deer had been divided, + Both the pallid guests, the strangers, + Springing from among the shadows, + Seized upon the choicest portions, + Seized the white fat of the roebuck, + Set apart for Laughing Water, + For the wife of Hiawatha; + Without asking, without thanking, + Eagerly devoured the morsels, + Flitted back among the shadows + In the corner of the wigwam. + Not a word spake Hiawatha, + Not a motion made Nokomis, + Not a gesture Laughing Water; + Not a change came o’er their features; + Only Minnehaha softly + Whispered, saying, “They are famished; + Let them do what best delights them; + Let them eat, for they are famished.” + Many a daylight dawned and darkened, + Many a night shook off the daylight + As the pine shakes off the snow-flakes + From the midnight of its branches; + Day by day the guests unmoving + Sat there silent in the wigwam; + But by night, in storm or star-light, + Forth they went into the forest, + Bringing fire-wood to the wigwam, + Bringing pine-cones for the burning, + Always sad and always silent. + And whenever Hiawatha + Came from fishing or from hunting, + When the evening meal was ready, + And the food had been divided, + Gliding from their darksome corner, + Came the pallid guests, the strangers, + Seized upon the choicest portions, + Set aside for Laughing Water, + And without rebuke or question + Flitted back among the shadows. + Never once had Hiawatha + By a word or look reproved them; + Never once had old Nokomis + Made a gesture of impatience; + Never once had Laughing Water + Shown resentment at the outrage. + All had they endured in silence, + That the rights of guest and stranger, + That the virtue of free-giving, + By a look might not be lessened, + By a word might not be broken. + Once at midnight Hiawatha, + Ever wakeful, ever watchful, + In the wigwam dimly lighted + By the brands that still were burning, + By the glimmering, flickering fire-light, + Heard a sighing, oft repeated, + Heard a sobbing, as of sorrow. + From his couch rose Hiawatha, + From his shaggy hides of bison, + Pushed aside the deer-skin curtain, + Saw the pallid guests, the shadows, + Sitting upright on their couches, + Weeping in the silent midnight. + And he said: “O guests! why is it + That your hearts are so afflicted, + That you sob so in the midnight? + Has perchance the old Nokomis, + Has my wife, my Minnehaha, + Wronged or grieved you by unkindness, + Failed in hospitable duties?” + Then the shadows ceased from weeping, + Ceased from sobbing and lamenting, + And they said, with gentle voices: + “We are ghosts of the departed, + Souls of those who once were with you. + From the realms of Chibiabos + Hither have we come to try you, + Hither have we come to warn you. + “Cries of grief and lamentation + Reach us in the Blessed Islands; + Cries of anguish from the living, + Calling back their friends departed, + Sadden us with useless sorrow. + Therefore have we come to try you; + No one knows us, no one heeds us, + We are but a burden to you, + And we see that the departed + Have no place among the living. + “Think of this, O Hiawatha! + Speak of it to all the people, + That henceforward and for ever + They no more with lamentations + Sadden the souls of the departed + In the Islands of the Blessed. + “Do not lay such heavy burdens + In the graves of those you bury, + Not such weight of furs and wampum, + Not such weight of pots and kettles, + For the spirits faint beneath them. + Only give them food to carry, + Only give them fire to light them. + “Four days is the spirit’s journey + To the land of ghosts and shadows, + Four its lonely night encampments; + Four times must their fires be lighted. + Therefore, when the dead are buried, + Let a fire, as night approaches, + Four times on the grave be kindled, + That the soul upon its journey + May not lack the cheerful fire-light, + May not grope about in darkness. + “Farewell, noble Hiawatha! + We have put you to the trial, + To the proof have put your patience, + By the insult of our presence, + By the outrage of our actions. + We have found you great and noble. + Fail not in the greater trial, + Faint not in the harder struggle.” + When they ceased, a sudden darkness + Fell and filled the silent wigwam. + Hiawatha heard a rustle + As of garments trailing by him, + Heard the curtain of the doorway + Lifted by a hand he saw not, + Felt the cold breath of the night-air, + For a moment saw the star-light; + But he saw the ghosts no longer, + Saw no more the wandering spirits + From the kingdom of Ponemah, + From the land of the Hereafter. + + +XX. + +THE FAMINE. + + O The long and dreary Winter! + O the cold and cruel Winter! + Ever thicker, thicker, thicker + Froze the ice on lake and river, + Ever deeper, deeper, deeper + Fell the snow o’er all the landscape, + Fell the covering snow, and drifted + Through the forest, round the village. + Hardly from his buried wigwam + Could the hunter force a passage; + With his mittens and his snow-shoes + Vainly walked he through the forest, + Sought for bird or beast and found none, + Saw no track of deer or rabbit, + In the snow beheld no footprints, + In the ghastly, gleaming forest + Fell, and could not rise from weakness, + Perished there from cold and hunger. + O the famine and the fever! + O the wasting of the famine! + O the blasting of the fever! + O the wailing of the children! + O the anguish of the women! + All the earth was sick and famished, + Hungry was the air around them, + Hungry was the sky above them, + And the hungry stars in heaven + Like the eyes of wolves glared at them! + Into Hiawatha’s wigwam + Came two other guests, as silent + As the ghosts were, and as gloomy, + Waited not to be invited, + Did not parley at the doorway, + Sat there without word of welcome + In the seat of Laughing Water; + Looked with haggard eyes and hollow + At the face of Laughing Water. + And the foremost said, “Behold me! + I am Famine, Buckadawin!” + And the other said, “Behold me! + I am Fever, Ahkosewin!” + And the lovely Minnehaha + Shuddered as they looked upon her, + Shuddered at the words they uttered, + Lay down on her bed in silence, + Hid her face, but made no answer; + Lay there trembling, freezing, burning + At the looks they cast upon her, + At the fearful words they uttered. + Forth into the empty forest + Rushed the maddened Hiawatha; + In his heart was deadly sorrow, + In his face a stony firmness; + On his brow the sweat of anguish + Started, but it froze, and fell not. + Wrapped in furs,and armed for hunting, + With his mighty bow of ash-tree, + With his quiver full of arrows, + With his mittens, Minjekahwun, + Into the vast and vacant forest + On his snow-shoes strode he forward. + “Gitche Manito, the Mighty!” + Cried he with his face uplifted + In that bitter hour of anguish, + “Give your children food, O father! + Give us food, or we must perish! + Give me food for Minnehaha, + For my dying Minnehaha!” + Through the far-resounding forest, + Through the forest vast and vacant, + Rang that cry of desolation, + But there came no other answer + Than the echo of his crying, + Than the echo of the woodlands. + “Minnehaha! Minnehaha!” + All day long roved Hiawatha + In that melancholy forest, + Through the shadow of whose thickets, + In the pleasant days of Summer, + Of that ne’er forgotten Summer, + He had brought his young wife homeward, + From the land of the Dacotahs; + When the birds sang in the thickets, + And the streamlets laughed and glistened, + And the air was full of fragrance, + And the lovely Laughing Water + Said, with voice that did not tremble, + “I will follow you, my husband!” + In the wigwam with Nokomis, + With those gloomy guests that watched her, + With the Famine and the Fever, + She was lying, the Beloved, + She the dying Minnehaha. + “Hark!” she said, “I hear a rushing, + Hear a roaring and a rushing, + Hear the falls of Minnehaha + Calling to me from a distance!” + “No, my child!” said old Nokomis, + “’Tis the night-wind in the pine-trees!” + “Look!” she said, “I see my father + Standing lonely at his doorway, + Beckoning to me from his wigwam, + In the land of the Dacotahs!” + “No, my child!” said old Nokomis, + “’Tis the smoke that waves and beckons!” + “Ah!” she said, “the eyes of Pauguk + Glare upon me in the darkness; + I can feel his icy fingers + Clasping mine amid the darkness! + Hiawatha! Hiawatha!” + And the desolate Hiawatha, + Far away amid the forest, + Miles away among the mountains, + Heard that sudden cry of anguish, + Heard the voice of Minnehaha + Calling to him in the darkness, + “Hiawatha! Hiawatha!” + Over snow-fields waste and pathless, + Under snow-encumbered branches, + Homeward hurried Hiawatha, + Empty-handed, heavy-hearted, + Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing, + “Wahonomin! Wahonomin! + Would that I had perished for you, + Would that I were dead as you are! + Wahonomin! Wahonomin!” + And he rushed into the wigwam, + Saw the old Nokomis slowly + Rocking to and fro and moaning, + Saw his lovely Minnehaha + Lying dead and cold before him; + And his bursting heart within him + Uttered such a cry of anguish, + That the forest moaned and shuddered, + That the very stars in heaven + Shook and trembled with his anguish. + Then he sat down, still and speechless, + On the bed of Minnehaha, + At the feet of Laughing Water, + At those willing feet, that never + More would lightly run to meet him, + Never more would lightly follow. + With both hands his face he covered, + Seven long days and nights he sat there, + As if in a swoon he sat there, + Speechless, motionless, unconscious + Of the daylight or the darkness. + Then they buried Minnehaha; + In the snow a grave they made her, + In the forest deep and darksome, + Underneath the moaning hemlocks; + Clothed her in her richest garments, + Wrapped her in her robes of ermine, + Covered her with snow-like ermine; + Thus they buried Minnehaha. + And at night a fire was lighted, + On her grave four times was kindled, + For her soul upon its journey + To the Islands of the Blessed. + From his doorway Hiawatha + Saw it burning in the forest, + Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks; + From his sleepless bed uprising, + From the bed of Minnehaha, + Stood and watched it at the doorway, + That it might not be extinguished, + Might not leave her in the darkness. + “Farewell!” said he, “Minnehaha! + Farewell, O my Laughing Water! + All my heart is buried with you, + All my thoughts go onward with you! + Come not back again to labour, + Come not back again to suffer, + Where the Famine and the Fever + Wear the heart and waste the body. + Soon my task will be completed, + Soon your footsteps I shall follow + To the Islands of the Blessed, + To the kingdom of Ponemah! + To the Land of the Hereafter!” + + + + +XXI. + +THE WHITE MAN’S FOOT. + + + In his lodge beside a river, + Close beside a frozen river, + Sat an old man, sad and lonely. + White his hair was as a snow-drift; + Dull and low his fire was burning, + And the old man shook and trembled, + Folded in his Waubewyon, + In his tattered white-skin wrapper, + Hearing nothing but the tempest + As it roared along the forest, + Seeing nothing but the snow-storm + As it whirled and hissed and drifted. + All the coals were white with ashes, + And the fire was slowly dying, + As a young man, walking lightly, + At the open doorway entered. + Red with blood of youth his cheeks were, + Soft his eyes as stars in Spring-time; + Bound his forehead was with grasses, + Bound and plumed with scented grasses; + On his lips a smile of beauty, + Filling all the lodge with sunshine; + In his hands a bunch of blossoms, + Filling all the lodge with sweetness. + “Ah, my son!” exclaimed the old man, + “Happy are my eyes to see you. + Sit here on the mat beside me, + Sit here by the dying embers, + Let us pass the night together. + Tell me of your strange adventures, + Of the lands where you have travelled; + I will tell you of my prowess, + Of my many deeds of wonder.” + From his pouch he drew his peace-pipe, + Very old and strangely fashioned; + Made of red stone was the pipe-head, + And the stem a reed with feathers; + Filled the pipe with bark of willow, + Placed a burning coal upon it, + Gave it to his guest, the stranger, + And began to speak in this wise: + “When I blow my breath about me, + When I breathe upon the landscape, + Motionless are all the rivers, + Hard as stone becomes the water!” + And the young man answered, smiling: + “When I blow my breath about me, + When I breathe upon the landscape, + Flowers spring up o’er all the meadows, + Singing, onward rush the rivers!” + “When I shake my hoary tresses,” + Said the old man, darkly frowning, + “All the land with snow is covered; + All the leaves from all the branches + Fall and fade and die and wither, + For I breathe, and lo! they are not. + From the waters and the marshes + Rise the wild-goose and the heron, + Fly away to distant regions, + For I speak, and lo! they are not. + And where’er my footsteps wander, + All the wild beasts of the forest + Hide themselves in holes and caverns, + And the earth becomes as flintstone!” + “When I shake my flowing ringlets,” + Said the young man, softly laughing, + “Showers of rain fall warm and welcome, + Plants lift up their heads rejoicing, + Back unto their lakes and marshes + Come the wild-goose and the heron, + Homeward shoots the arrowy swallow, + Sing the blue-bird and the robin; + And where’er my footsteps wander, + All the meadows wave with blossoms, + All the woodlands ring with music, + All the trees are dark with foliage!” + While they spake, the night departed; + From the distant realms of Wabun, + From his shining lodge of silver, + Like a warrior robed and painted, + Came the sun, and said, “Behold me, + Gheezis, the great sun, behold me!” + Then the old man’s tongue was speechless, + And the air grew warm and pleasant, + And upon the wigwam sweetly + Sang the blue-bird and the robin, + And the stream began to murmur, + And a scent of growing grasses + Through the lodge was gently wafted. + And Segwun, the youthful stranger, + More distinctly in the daylight + Saw the icy face before him; + It was Peboan, the Winter! + From his eyes the tears were flowing, + As from melting lakes the streamlets, + And his body shrunk and dwindled + As the shouting sun ascended, + Till into the air it faded, + Till into the ground it vanished, + And the young man saw before him, + On the hearthstone of the wigwam, + Where the fire had smoked and smouldered, + Saw the earliest flowers of Spring-time, + Saw the Beauty of the Spring-time, + Saw the Miskodeed in blossom. + Thus it was that in the Northland, + After that unheard-of coldness, + That intolerable Winter, + Came the Spring with all its splendour, + All its birds and all its blossoms, + All its flowers and leaves and grasses. + Sailing on the wind to northward, + Flying in great flocks, like arrows, + Like huge arrows shot through heaven, + Passed the swan, the Mahnahbezee, + Speaking almost as a man speaks; + And in long lines waving, bending + Like a bow-string snapped asunder, + The white goose, the Waw-be-wawa; + And in pairs, or singly flying, + Mahng the loon, with clangorous pinions, + The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, + And the grouse, the Mushkodasa. + In the thickets and the meadows + Piped the blue-bird, the Owaissa; + On the summit of the lodges + Sang the robin, the Opechee; + In the covert of the pine-trees + Cooed the pigeon, the Omeme; + And the sorrowing Hiawatha, + Speechless in his infinite sorrow, + Heard their voices calling to him, + Went forth from his gloomy doorway, + Stood and gazed into the heaven, + Gazed upon the earth and waters. + From his wanderings far to eastward, + From the regions of the morning, + From the shining land of Wabun, + Homeward now returned Iagoo, + The great traveller, the great boaster, + Full of new and strange adventures, + Marvels many and many wonders. + And the people of the village + Listened to him as he told them + Of his marvellous adventures, + Laughing answered him in this wise: + “Ugh! it is indeed Iagoo! + No one else beholds such wonders!” + He had seen, he said, a water + Bigger than the Big-Sea-Water, + Broader than the Gitche Gumee, + Bitter so that none could drink it! + At each other looked the warriors, + Looked the women at each other, + Smiled, and said, “It cannot be so! + Kaw!” they said, “it cannot be so!” + O’er it, said he, o’er this water + Came a great canoe with pinions, + A canoe with wings came flying, + Bigger than a grove of pine trees, + Taller than the tallest tree-tops! + And the old men and the women + Looked and tittered at each other. + “Kaw!” they said, “we don’t believe it! + From its mouth, he said, to greet him, + Came Waywassimo, the lightning, + Came the thunder, Annemeekee! + And the warriors and the women + Laughed aloud at poor Iagoo; + “Kaw!” said they, “what tales you tell us!” + In it, said he, came a people, + In the great canoe with pinions + Came, he said, a hundred warriors; + Painted white were all their faces, + And with hair their chins were covered! + And the warriors and the women + Laughed and shouted in derision, + Like the ravens on the tree-tops, + Like the crows upon the hemlocks. + “Kaw!” they said, “what lies you tell us! + Do not think that we believe them!” + Only Hiawatha laughed not, + But he gravely spake and answered + To their jeering and their jesting: + “True is all Iagoo tells us; + I have seen it in a vision, + Seen the great canoe with pinions, + Seen the people with white faces, + Seen the coming of this bearded + People of the wooden vessel + From the regions of the morning, + From the shining land of Wabun. + “Gitche Manito, the Mighty, + The Great Spirit, the Creator, + Sends them hither on his errand, + Sends them to us with his message. + Wheresoe’er they move, before them + Swarms the stinging-fly, the Ahmo, + Swarms the bee, the honey-maker; + Wheresoe’er they tread, beneath them + Springs a flower unknown among us, + Springs the White Man’s Foot in blossom. + “Let us welcome, then, the strangers, + Hail them as our friends and brothers, + And the heart’s right hand of friendship + Give them when they come to see us. + Gitche Manito, the Mighty, + Said this to me in my vision. + “I beheld, too, in that vision + All the secrets of the future, + Of the distant days that shall be. + I beheld the westward marches + Of the unknown, crowded nations. + All the land was full of people, + Restless, struggling, toiling, striving, + Speaking many tongues, yet feeling + But one heart-beat in their bosoms. + In the woodlands rang their axes, + Smoked their towns in all the valleys. + Over all the lakes and rivers + Rushed their great canoes of thunder. + “Then a darker, drearier vision + Passed before me, vague and cloud-like. + I beheld our nations scattered, + All forgetful of my counsels, + Weakened, warring with each other; + Saw the remnants of our people + Sweeping westward, wild and woeful, + Like the cloud-rack of a tempest, + Like the withered leaves of Autumn!” + + +XXII. + +HIAWATHA’s DEPARTURE. + + By the shore of Gitche Gumee, + By the shining Big-Sea-Water, + At the doorway of his wigwam, + In the pleasant summer morning, + Hiawatha stood and waited. + All the air was full of freshness, + All the earth was bright and joyous, + And before him through the sunshine, + Westward toward the neighbouring forest, + Passed in golden swarms the Ahmo, + Passed the bees, the honey-makers, + Burning, singing in the sunshine. + Bright above him shone the heavens, + Level spread the lake before him; + From its bosom leaped the sturgeon, + Sparkling, flashing in the sunshine; + On its margin the great forest + Stood reflected in the water, + Every tree-top had its shadow, + Motionless, beneath the water. + From the brow of Hiawatha + Gone was every trace of sorrow, + As a fog from off the water, + As the mist from off the meadow. + With a smile of joy and triumph, + With a look of exultation, + As at one who in a vision + Sees what is to be, but is not, + Stood and waited Hiawatha. + Toward the sun his hands were lifted, + Both the palms spread out against it, + And between the parted fingers + Fell the sunshine on his features, + Flecked with light his naked shoulders + As it falls and flecks an oak-tree + Through the rifted leaves and branches. + O’er the water, floating, flying, + Something in the hazy distance, + Something in the mists of morning, + Loomed and lifted from the water, + Now seemed floating, now seemed flying, + Coming nearer, nearer, nearer. + Was it Shingebis, the diver? + Was it the pelican, the Shada? + Or the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah? + Or the white goose, Waw-be-wawa, + With the water dripping, flashing + From its glossy neck and feathers? + It was neither goose nor diver, + Neither pelican nor heron, + O’er the water, floating, flying, + Through the shining mist of morning, + But a birch-canoe with paddles, + Rising, sinking on the water, + Dripping, flashing in the sunshine. + And within it came a people + From the distant land of Wabun. + From the farthest realms of morning + Came the Black-Robe chief, the Prophet, + He the Priest of Prayer, the Pale-face, + With his guides and his companions. + And the noble Hiawatha, + With his hands aloft extended, + Held aloft in sign of welcome, + Waited, full of exultation, + Till the birch-canoe, with paddles + Grated on the shining pebbles, + Stranded on the sandy margin, + Till the Black-Robe chief, the Pale-face, + With the cross upon his bosom, + Landed on the sandy margin. + Then the joyous Hiawatha + Cried aloud and spake in this wise: + “Beautiful is the sun, O strangers, + When you come so far to see us! + All our town in peace awaits you, + All our doors stand open for you; + You shall enter all our wigwams, + For the heart’s right hand we give you. + “Never bloomed the earth so gaily, + Never shone the sun so brightly, + As to-day they shine and blossom, + When you come so far to see us! + Never was our lake so tranquil, + Nor so free from rocks and sand-bars; + For your birch-canoe in passing + Has removed both rock and sand-bar! + “Never before had our tobacco + Such a sweet and pleasant flavour, + Never the broad leaves of our corn-fields + Were so beautiful to look on, + As they seem to us this morning, + When you come so far to see us!” + And the Black-Robe chief made answer, + Stammered in his speech a little, + Speaking words yet unfamiliar: + “Peace be with you, Hiawatha, + Peace be with you and your people, + Peace of prayer, and peace of pardon, + Peace of Christ, and joy of Mary!” + Then the generous Hiawatha + Led the strangers to his wigwam, + Seated them on skins of bison, + Seated them on skins of ermine, + And the careful, old Nokomis + Brought them food in bowls of bass-wood, + Water brought in birchen dippers, + And the calumet, the peace-pipe, + Filled and lighted for their smoking. + All the old men of the village, + All the warriors of the nation, + All the Jossakeeds, the prophets, + The magicians, the Wabenos, + And the medicine men, the Medas, + Came to bid the strangers welcome: + “It is well,” they said, “O brothers, + That you come so far to see us!” + In a circle round the doorway, + With their pipes they sat in silence, + Waiting to behold the strangers, + Waiting to receive their message; + Till the Black-Robe chief, the Pale-face, + From the wigwam came to greet them, + Stammering in his speech a little, + Speaking words yet unfamiliar: + “It is well,” they said, “O brother, + That you come so far to see us!” + Then the Black-Robe chief, the prophet, + Told his message to the people, + Told the purport of his mission, + Told them of the Virgin Mary, + And her blessed Son, the Saviour: + How in distant lands and ages + He had lived on earth as we do; + How he fasted, prayed, and laboured; + How the Jews, the tribe accursed, + Mocked him, scourged him, crucified him; + How he rose from where they laid him, + Walked again with his disciples, + And ascended into heaven. + And the chiefs made answer, saying: + “We have listened to your message, + We have heard your words of wisdom, + We will think on what you tell us. + It is well for us, O brothers, + That you come so far to see us!” + Then they rose up and departed + Each one homeward to his wigwam, + To the young men and the women, + Told the story of the strangers + Whom the Master of Life had sent them + From the shining land of Wabun. + Heavy with the heat and silence + Grew the afternoon of Summer; + With a drowsy sound the forest + Whispered round the sultry wigwam, + With a sound of sleep the water + Rippled on the beach below it; + From the corn-fields shrill and ceaseless + Sang the grasshopper, Pah-puk-keena; + And the guests of Hiawatha, + Weary with the heat of Summer, + Slumbered in the sultry wigwam. + Slowly o’er the simmering landscape + Fell the evening’s dusk and coolness, + And the long and level sunbeams + Shot their spears into the forest, + Breaking through its shields of shadow, + Rushed into each secret ambush, + Searched each thicket, dingle, hollow; + Still the guests of Hiawatha + Slumbered in the silent wigwam. + From his place rose Hiawatha, + Bade farewell to old Nokomis, + Spake in whispers, spake in this wise, + Did not wake the guests that slumbered: + “I am going, O Nokomis, + On a long and distant journey, + To the portals of the Sunset, + To the regions of the home-wind, + Of the North-west wind, Keewaydin, + But these guests I leave behind me, + In your watch and ward I leave them; + See that never harm comes near them, + See that never fear molests them, + Never danger nor suspicion, + Never want of food or shelter, + In the lodge of Hiawatha!” + Forth into the village went he, + Bade farewell to all the warriors, + Bade farewell to all the young men, + Spake persuading, spake in this wise: + “I am going, O my people, + On a long and distant journey; + Many moons and many winters + Will have come, and will have vanished + Ere I come again to see you. + But my guests I leave behind me; + Listen to their words of wisdom, + Listen to the truth they tell you, + For the Master of Life has sent them + From the land of light and morning!” + On the shore stood Hiawatha, + Turned and waved his hand at parting; + On the clear and luminous water + Launched his birch-canoe for sailing, + From the pebbles of the margin + Shoved it forth into the water; + Whispered to it, “Westward! westward!” + And with speed it darted forward. + And the evening sun descending + Set the clouds on fire with redness, + Burned the broad sky, like a prairie, + Left upon the level water + One long track and trail of splendour, + Down whose stream, as down a river, + Westward, westward Hiawatha + Sailed into the fiery sunset, + Sailed into the purple vapours, + Sailed into the dusk of evening. + And the people from the margin + Watched him floating, rising, sinking, + Till the birch-canoe seemed lifted + High into that sea of splendour, + Till it sank into the vapours + Like the new moon slowly, slowly + Sinking in the purple distance. + And they said, “Farewell for ever!” + Said, “Farewell, O Hiawatha!” + And the forests, dark and lonely, + Moved through all their depths of darkness, + Sighed, “Farewell, O Hiawatha!” + And the waves upon the margin + Rising, rippling on the pebbles, + Sobbed, “Farewell, O Hiawatha!” + And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, + From her haunts among the fenlands, + Screamed, “Farewell, O Hiawatha!” + Thus departed Hiawatha, + Hiawatha the Beloved, + In the glory of the sunset, + In the purple mists of evening, + To the regions of the home-wind, + Of the North-west wind Keewaydin, + To the Islands of the Blessed, + To the Kingdom of Ponemah, + To the land of the Hereafter! + + + + +The Courtship of Miles Standish. + +1858. + + +I. + +MILES STANDISH. + + In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims, + To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling, + Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan leather, + Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain. + Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and pausing + Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of warfare, + Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber,— + Cutlass and corslet of steel, and his trusty sword of Damascus, + Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical Arabic sentence, + While underneath, in a corner, were fowling-piece, musket, and + matchlock. + Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic, + Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of + iron; + Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard was already + Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November. + Near him was seated John Alden, his friend, and household companion, + Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window; + Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion, + Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty thereof, as the captives + Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, “Not Angles but Angels.” + Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the _May Flower_. + + Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe interrupting, + Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the Captain of + Plymouth. + “Look at these arms,” he said, “the warlike weapons that hang here + Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection! + This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders; this + breastplate, + Well I remember the day! once saved my life in a skirmish; + Here in front you can see the very dent of the bullet + Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arcabucero. + Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles + Standish + Would at this moment be mould, in their grave in the Flemish + morasses.” + + Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his writing: + “Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the bullet; + He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield and our weapon!” + Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling: + “See, how bright they are burnished, as if in an arsenal hanging; + That is because I have done it myself, and not left it to others. + Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent adage; + So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your inkhorn. + Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invincible army, + Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock, + Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and pillage, + And, like Cæsar, I know the name of each of my soldiers!” + This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes, as the sunbeams + Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again in a moment. + Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain continued: + “Look! you can see from this window my brazen howitzer planted + High on the roof of the church, a preacher who speaks to the purpose, + Steady, straightforward, and strong, with irresistible logic, + Orthodox, flashing conviction right into the hearts of the heathen. + Now we are ready, I think, for any assault of the Indians; + Let them come, if they like, and the sooner they try it the better,— + Let them come, if they like, be it sagamore, sachem, or pow-wow, + Aspinet, Samoset, Corbitant, Squanto, or Tokamahamon!” + + Long at the window he stood, and wistfully gazed on the landscape, + Washed with a cold grey mist, the vapoury breath of the east wind, + Forest and meadow and hill, and the steel-blue rim of the ocean, + Lying silent and sad, in the afternoon shadows and sunshine. + Over his countenance flitted a shadow like those on the landscape, + Gloom intermingled with light; and his voice was subdued with + emotion, + Tenderness, pity, regret, as after a pause he proceeded: + “Yonder there, on the hill by the sea, lies buried Rose Standish; + Beautiful rose of love, that bloomed for me by the wayside! + She was the first to die of all who came in the _May Flower_! + Green above her is growing the field of wheat we have sown there, + Better to hide from the Indian scouts the graves of our people, + Lest they should count them and see how many already have perished!” + Sadly his face he averted, and strode up and down, and was + thoughtful. + + Fixed to the opposite wall was a shelf of books, and among them + Prominent three, distinguished alike for bulk and for binding; + Bariffe’s _Artillery Guide_, and the _Commentaries of Cæsar_, + Out of the Latin translated by Arthur Goldinge of London, + And, as if guarded by these, between them was standing the Bible. + Musing a moment before them, Miles Standish paused, as if doubtful + Which of the three he should choose for his consolation and comfort, + Whether the wars of the Hebrews, the famous campaigns of the Romans, + Or the Artillery practice designed for belligerent Christians. + Finally down from its shelf he dragged the ponderous Roman, + Seated himself at the window, and opened the book, and in silence + Turned o’er the well-worn leaves, where thumb-marks thick on the + margin, + Like the trample of feet, proclaimed the battle was hottest. + Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling, + Busily writing epistles, important, to go by the _May Flower_, + Ready to sail on the morrow, or next day at latest, God willing! + Homeward bound with the tidings of all that terrible winter, + Letters written by Alden, and full of the name of Priscilla, + Full of the name and the fame of the Puritan maiden Priscilla! + + +II. + +LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. + + Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling, + Or an occasional sigh from the labouring heart of the Captain, + Reading the marvellous words and achievements of Julius Cæsar. + After a while he exclaimed, as he smote with his hand, palm + downwards, + Heavily on the page: “A wonderful man was this Cæsar! + You are a writer, and I am a fighter, but here is a fellow + Who could both write and fight, and in both was equally skilful!” + Straightway answered and spake John Alden, the comely, the youthful: + “Yes, he was equally skilled, as you say, with his pen and his + weapons, + Somewhere have I read, but where I forget, he could dictate + Seven letters at once, at the same time writing his memoirs.” + “Truly,” continued the Captain, not heeding or hearing the other, + “Truly a wonderful man was Caius Julius Cæsar! + Better be first, he said, in a little Iberian village, + Than be second in Rome, and I think he was right when he said it. + Twice was he married before he was twenty, and many times after; + Battles five hundred he fought, and a thousand cities he conquered; + He, too, fought in Flanders, as he himself has recorded; + Finally he was stabbed by his friend, the orator Brutus! + Now, do you know what he did on a certain occasion in Flanders, + When the rear-guard of his army retreated, the front giving way too, + And the immortal Twelfth Legion was crowded so closely together + There was no room for their swords? Why, he seized a shield from a + soldier, + Put himself straight at the head of his troops, and commanded the + captains, + Calling on each by his name, to order forward the ensigns; + Then to widen the ranks, and give more room for their weapons; + So he won the day, the battle of something-or-other. + That’s what I always say; if you wish a thing to be well done, + You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others!” + + All was silent again; the Captain continued his reading. + Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling + Writing epistles important to go next day by the _May Flower_, + Filled with the name and the fame of the Puritan maiden Priscilla; + Every sentence began or closed with the name of Priscilla, + Till the treacherous pen, to which he confided the secret, + Strove to betray it, by singing and shouting the name of Priscilla! + Finally closing his book, with a bang of the ponderous cover, + Sudden and loud as the sound of a soldier grounding his musket, + Thus to the young man spake Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth: + “When you have finished your work, I have something important to + tell you. + Be not however in haste; I can wait; I shall not be impatient!” + Straightway Alden replied, as he folded the last of his letters, + Pushing his papers aside, and giving respectful attention: + “Speak; for whenever you speak, I am always ready to listen, + Always ready to hear whatever pertains to Miles Standish.” + Thereupon answered the Captain, embarrassed, and culling his + phrases: + “’Tis not good for a man to be alone, say the Scriptures. + This I have said before, and again and again I repeat it; + Every hour in the day, I think it, and feel it, and say it. + Since Rose Standish died, my life has been weary and dreary; + Sick at heart have I been, beyond the healing of friendship. + Oft in my lonely hours have I thought of the maiden Priscilla. + She is alone in the world; her father and mother and brother + Died in the winter together; I saw her going and coming, + Now to the grave of the dead, and now to the bed of the dying, + Patient, courageous, and strong, and said to myself, that if ever + There were angels on earth, as there are angels in heaven, + Two have I seen and known; and the angel whose name is Priscilla + Holds in my desolate life the place which the other abandoned. + Long have I cherished the thought, but never have dared to reveal + it, + Being a coward in this, though valiant enough for the most part. + Go to the damsel Priscilla, the loveliest maiden of Plymouth, + Say that a blunt old Captain, a man not of words but of actions, + Offers his hand and his heart, the hand and the heart of a soldier. + Not in these words, you know, but this in short is my meaning; + I am a maker of war, and not a maker of phrases. + You, who are bred as a scholar, can say it in elegant language, + Such as you read in your books of the pleadings and wooings of + lovers, + Such as you think best adapted to win the heart of a maiden.” + + When he had spoken, John Alden, the fair-haired, taciturn + stripling, + All aghast at his words, surprised, embarrassed, bewildered, + Trying to mask his dismay by treating the subject with lightness, + Trying to smile, and yet feeling his heart stand still in his bosom, + Just as a timepiece stops in a house that is stricken by lightning, + Thus made answer and spake, or rather stammered than answered: + “Such a message as that, I am sure I should mangle and mar it: + If you would have it well done,—I am only repeating your maxim,— + You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others!” + But with the air of a man whom nothing can turn from his purpose, + Gravely shaking his head, made answer the Captain of Plymouth: + “Truly the maxim is good, and I do not mean to gainsay it; + But we must use it discreetly, and not waste powder for nothing. + Now, as I said before, I was never a maker of phrases. + I can march up to a fortress and summon the place to surrender, + But march up to a woman with such a proposal, I dare not. + I’m not afraid of bullets, nor shot from the mouth of a cannon, + But of a thundering ‘No!’ point-blank from the mouth of a woman, + That I confess I’m afraid of, nor am I ashamed to confess it! + So you must grant my request, for you are an elegant scholar, + Having the graces of speech, and skill in the turning of phrases.” + Taking the hand of his friend, who still was reluctant and doubtful, + Holding it long in his own, and pressing it kindly, he added: + “Though I have spoken thus lightly, yet deep is the feeling that + prompts me; + Surely you cannot refuse what I ask in the name of our friendship!” + Then made answer John Alden: “The name of friendship is sacred; + What you demand in that name, I have not the power to deny you!” + So the strong will prevailed, subduing and moulding the gentler, + Friendship prevailed over love, and Alden went on his errand. + + +III. + +THE LOVER’S ERRAND. + + So the strong will prevailed, and Alden went on his errand, + Out of the street of the village, and into the paths of the forest, + Into the tranquil woods, where blue-birds and robins were building + Towns in the populous trees, with hanging gardens of verdure, + Peaceful, aerial cities of joy and affection and freedom. + All around him was calm, but within him commotion and conflict, + Love contending with friendship, and self with each generous impulse. + To and fro in his breast his thoughts were heaving and dashing, + As in a foundering ship, with every roll of the vessel, + Washes the bitter sea, the merciless surge of the ocean! + “Must I relinquish it all,” he cried with a wild lamentation, + “Must I relinquish it all, the joy, the hope, the illusion? + Was it for this I have loved, and waited, and worshipped in silence? + Was it for this I have followed the flying feet and the shadow + Over the wintry sea, to the desolate shores of New England? + Truly the heart is deceitful, and out of its depths of corruption + Rise, like an exhalation, the misty phantoms of passion; + Angels of light they seem, but are only delusions of Satan. + All is clear to me now; I feel it, I see it distinctly! + This is the hand of the Lord; it is laid upon me in anger, + For I have followed too much the heart’s desires and devices, + Worshipping Astaroth blindly, and impious idols of Baal. + This is the cross I must bear; the sin and the swift retribution.” + + So through the Plymouth woods John Alden went on his errand; + Crossing the brook at the ford, where it brawled over pebble and + shallow, + Gathering still, as he went, the May-flowers blooming around him, + Fragrant, filling the air with a strange and wonderful sweetness, + Children lost in the woods, and covered with leaves in their slumber. + “Puritan flowers,” he said, “and the type of Puritan maidens, + Modest and simple and sweet, the very type of Priscilla! + So I will take them to her; to Priscilla the May-flower of Plymouth, + Modest and simple and sweet, as a parting gift will I take them; + Breathing their silent farewells, as they fade and wither and perish, + Soon to be thrown away as is the heart of the giver.” + So through the Plymouth woods John Alden went on his errand; + Came to an open space, and saw the disk of the ocean, + Sailless, sombre and cold with the comfortless breath of the east + wind; + Saw the new-built house, and people at work in a meadow; + Heard, as he drew near the door, the musical voice of Priscilla + Singing the Hundredth Psalm, the grand old Puritan anthem, + Music that Luther sang to the sacred words of the Psalmist, + Full of the breath of the Lord, consoling and comforting many. + Then, as he opened the door, he beheld the form of the maiden + Seated beside her wheel, and the carded wool like a snow-drift + Piled at her knee, her white hands feeding the ravenous spindle, + While with her foot on the treadle she guided the wheel in its + motion. + Open wide on her lap lay the well-worn psalm-book of Ainsworth, + Printed in Amsterdam, the words and the music together + Rough-hewn, angular notes, like stones in the wall of a churchyard, + Darkened and overhung by the running vine of the verses. + Such was the book from whose pages she sang the old Puritan anthem, + She, the Puritan girl, in the solitude of the forest, + Making the humble house and the modest apparel of home-spun + Beautiful with her beauty, and rich with the wealth of her being! + Over him rushed, like a wind that is keen and cold and relentless, + Thoughts of what might have been, and the weight and woe of his + errand; + All the dreams that had faded, and all the hopes that had vanished, + All his life henceforth a dreary and tenantless mansion, + Haunted by vain regrets, and pallid, sorrowful faces. + Still he said to himself, and almost fiercely he said it, + “Let not him that putteth his hand to the plough look backwards; + Though the ploughshare cut through the flowers of life to its + fountains, + Though it pass o’er the graves of the dead and the hearths of the + living, + It is the will of the Lord; and his mercy endureth for ever!” + + So he entered the house: and the hum of the wheel and the singing + Suddenly ceased; for Priscilla, aroused by his step on the threshold, + Rose as he entered, and gave him her hand, in signal of welcome, + Saying, “I knew it was you, when I heard your step in the passage; + For I was thinking of you, as I sat there singing and spinning.” + Awkward and dumb with delight, that a thought of him had been + mingled + Thus in the sacred psalm, that came from the heart of the maiden, + Silent before her he stood, and gave her the flowers for an answer, + Finding no words for his thought. He remembered that day in the + winter, + After the first great snow, when he broke a path from the village, + Reeling and plunging along through the drifts that encumbered the + doorway, + Stamping the snow from his feet as he entered the house, and + Priscilla + Laughed at his snowy locks, and gave him a seat by the fireside, + Grateful and pleased to know he had thought of her in the snow-storm. + Had he but spoken then! perhaps not in vain had he spoken; + Now it was all too late; the golden moment had vanished! + So he stood there abashed, and gave her the flowers for an answer. + + Then they sat down and talked of the birds and the beautiful + Spring-time, + Talked of their friends at home, and the _May Flower_ that + sailed on the morrow. + “I have been thinking all day,” said gently the Puritan maiden, + “Dreaming all night, and thinking all day, of the hedge-rows of + England,— + They are in blossom now, and the country is all like a garden; + Thinking of lanes and fields, and the song of the lark and the + linnet, + Seeing the village street, and familiar faces of neighbours + Going about as of old, and stopping to gossip together, + And, at the end of the street, the village church, with the ivy + Climbing the old grey tower, and the quiet graves in the churchyard. + Kind are the people I live with, and dear to me my religion; + Still my heart is so sad, that I wish myself back in Old England. + You will say it is wrong, but I cannot help it; I almost + Wish myself back in Old England, I feel so lonely and wretched.” + + Thereupon answered the youth: “Indeed I do not condemn you; + Stouter hearts than a woman’s have quailed in this terrible winter. + Yours is tender and trusting, and needs a stronger to lean on; + So I have come to you now, with an offer and proffer of marriage + Made by a good man and true, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth!” + + Thus he delivered his message, the dexterous writer of letters,— + Did not embellish the theme, nor array it in beautiful phrases, + But came straight to the point, and blurted it out like a schoolboy; + Even the Captain himself could hardly have said it more bluntly. + Mute with amazement and sorrow, Priscilla the Puritan maiden + Looked into Alden’s face, her eyes dilated with wonder, + Feeling his words like a blow, that stunned her and rendered her + speechless; + Till at length she exclaimed, interrupting the ominous silence: + “If the great Captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me, + Why does he not come himself, and take the trouble to woo me? + If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning!” + Then John Alden began explaining and smoothing the matter, + Making it worse as he went, by saying the Captain was busy,— + Had no time for such things;—such things! the words grating harshly + Fell on the ear of Priscilla; and swift as a flash she made answer: + “Has he no time for such things, as you call it, before he is married, + Would he be likely to find it, or make it, after the wedding? + That is the way with you men; you don’t understand us, you cannot. + When you have made up your minds, after thinking of this one and + that one, + Choosing, selecting, rejecting, comparing one with another, + Then you make known your desire, with abrupt and sudden avowal, + And are offended and hurt, and indignant perhaps, that a woman + Does not respond at once to a love that she never suspected, + Does not attain at a bound the height to which you have been + climbing + This is not right nor just: for surely a woman’s affection + Is not a thing to be asked for, and had for only the asking. + When one is truly in love, one not only says it, but shows it. + Had he but waited awhile, had he only showed that he loved me, + Even this Captain of yours—who knows?—at last might have won me, + Old and rough as he is; but now it never can happen.” + + Still John Alden went on, unheeding the words of Priscilla, + Urging the suit of his friend, explaining, persuading, expanding; + Spoke of his courage and skill, and of all his battles in Flanders, + How with the people of God he had chosen to suffer affliction, + How, in return for his zeal they had made him Captain of Plymouth; + He was a gentleman born, could trace his pedigree plainly + Back to Hugh Standish of Duxbury Hall, in Lancashire, England, + Who was the son of Ralph, and the grandson of Thurston de Standish; + Heir unto vast estates, of which he was basely defrauded, + Still bore the family arms, and had for his crest a cock argent + Combed and wattled gules, and all the rest of the blazon. + He was a man of honour, of noble and generous nature; + Though he was rough, he was kindly; she knew how during the winter + He had attended the sick, with a hand as gentle as woman’s; + Somewhat hasty and hot, he could not deny it, and headstrong, + Stern as a soldier might be, but hearty, and placable always, + Not to be laughed at and scorned, because he was little of stature; + For he was great of heart, magnanimous, courtly, courageous; + Any woman in Plymouth, nay, any woman in England, + Might be happy and proud to be called the wife of Miles Standish! + + But as he warmed and glowed, in his simple and eloquent language, + Quite forgetful of self, and full of the praise of his rival, + Archly the maiden smiled, and, with eyes overrunning with laughter, + Said, in a tremulous voice, “Why don’t you speak for yourself, John?” + + +IV. + +JOHN ALDEN. + + Into the open air John Alden, perplexed and bewildered, + Rushed like a man insane, and wandered alone by the sea-side; + Paced up and down the sands, and bared his head to the east wind, + Cooling his heated brow, and the fire and fever within him. + Slowly as out of the heavens, with apocalyptical splendours, + Sank the City of God, in the vision of John the Apostle, + So, with its cloudy walls of chrysolite, jasper, and sapphire, + Sank the broad red sun, and over its turrets uplifted + Glimmered the golden reed of the angel who measured the city. + + “Welcome, O wind of the East!” he exclaimed in his wild exultation, + “Welcome, O wind of the East, from the caves of the misty Atlantic! + Blowing o’er fields of dulse, and measureless meadows of sea-grass, + Blowing o’er rocky wastes, and the grottoes and gardens of ocean! + Lay thy cold, moist hand on my burning forehead and wrap me + Close in thy garments of mist, to allay the fever within me!” + + Like an awakened conscience, the sea was moaning and tossing, + Beating remorseful and loud the mutable sands of the sea-shore. + Fierce in his soul was the struggle and tumult of passions + contending; + Love triumphant and crowned, and friendship wounded and bleeding, + Passionate cries of desire, and importunate pleadings of duty! + “Is it my fault,” he said, “that the maiden has chosen between us? + Is it my fault that he failed,—my fault that I am the victor?” + Then within him there thundered a voice, like the voice of the + Prophet, + “It hath displeased the Lord!”—and he thought of David’s + transgression, + Bathsheba’s beautiful face, and his friend in the front of the + battle! + Shame and confusion of guilt, and abasement and self-condemnation, + Overwhelmed him at once; and he cried in the deepest contrition: + “It hath displeased the Lord! It is the temptation of Satan!” + + Then uplifting his head, he looked at the sea, and beheld there + Dimly the shadowy form of the _May Flower_ riding at anchor, + Rocked on the rising tide, and ready to sail on the morrow; + Heard the voices of men through the mist, the rattle of cordage + Thrown on the deck, the shouts of the mate, and the sailors’ “Ay, + ay, Sir!” + Clear and distinct, but not loud, in the dripping air of the + twilight. + Still for a moment he stood, and listened, and stared at the vessel, + Then went hurriedly on, as one who, seeing a phantom, + Stops, then quickens his pace, and follows the beckoning shadow. + “Yes, it is plain to me now,” he murmured; “the hand of the Lord is + Leading me out of the land of darkness, the bondage of error, + Through the sea that shall lift the walls of its waters around me, + Hiding me, cutting me off, from the cruel thoughts that pursue me. + Back will I go o’er the ocean, this dreary land will abandon, + Her whom I may not love, and him whom my heart has offended. + Better to be in my grave in the green old churchyard in England, + Close by my mother’s side, and among the dust of my kindred; + Better be dead and forgotten, than living in shame and dishonour! + Sacred and safe and unseen, in the dark of the narrow chamber + With me my secret shall lie, like a buried jewel that glimmers + Bright on the hand that is dust, in the chambers of silence and + darkness,— + Yes, as the marriage ring of the great espousal hereafter!” + + Thus as he spake, he turned, in the strength of his strong + resolution, + Leaving behind him the shore, and hurried along in the twilight, + Through the congenial gloom of the forest silent and sombre, + Till he beheld the lights in the seven houses of Plymouth, + Shining like seven stars in the dusk and mist of the evening. + Soon he entered his door, and found the redoubtable Captain + Sitting alone, and absorbed in the martial pages of Cæsar, + Fighting some great campaign in Hainault or Brabant or Flanders. + “Long have you been on your errand,” he said with a cheery demeanour, + Even as one who is waiting an answer, and fears not the issue. + “Not far off is the house, although the woods are between us; + But you have lingered so long, that while you were going and coming + I have fought ten battles and sacked and demolished a city. + Come, sit down, and in order relate to me all that has happened.” + + Then John Alden spake, and related the wondrous adventure, + From the beginning to end, minutely, just as it happened; + How he had seen Priscilla, and how he had sped in his courtship, + Only smoothing a little, and softening down her refusal. + But when he came at length to the words Priscilla had spoken, + Words so tender and cruel: “Why don’t you speak for yourself, John?” + Up leaped the Captain of Plymouth, and stamped on the floor, till + his armour + Clanged on the wall, where it hung, with a sound of sinister omen; + All his pent-up wrath burst forth in a sudden explosion, + Even as a hand-grenade, that scatters destruction around it. + Wildly he shouted, and loud: “John Alden! you have betrayed me! + Me, Miles Standish, your friend! have supplanted, defrauded, + betrayed me! + One of my ancestors ran his sword through the heart of Wat Tyler; + Who shall prevent me from running my own through the heart of a + traitor? + Yours is the greater treason, for yours is a treason to friendship! + You, who lived under my roof, whom I cherished and loved as a + brother; + You, who have fed at my board, and drunk at my cup, to whose keeping + I have intrusted my honour, my thoughts the most sacred and secret,— + You, too, Brutus! ah woe to the name of friendship hereafter! + Brutus was Cæsar’s friend, and you were mine, but henceforward + Let there be nothing between us save war, and implacable hatred!” + + So spake the Captain of Plymouth, and strode about in the chamber, + Chafing and choking with rage; like cords were the veins on his + temples. + But in the midst of his anger a man appeared at the doorway, + Bringing in uttermost haste a message of urgent importance, + Rumours of danger and war and hostile incursions of Indians! + Straightway the Captain paused, and, without further question or + parley, + Took from the nail on the wall his sword with its scabbard of iron, + Buckled the belt round his waist, and, frowning fiercely, departed. + Alden was left alone. He heard the clank of the scabbard + Growing fainter and fainter, and dying away in the distance. + Then he arose from his seat, and looked forth into the darkness, + Felt the cool air blow on his cheek, that was hot with the insult, + Lifted his eyes to the heavens, and folding his hands as in + childhood, + Prayed in the silence of night to the Father who seeth in secret. + + Meanwhile the choleric Captain strode wrathful away to the council, + Found it already assembled, impatiently waiting his coming; + Men in the middle of life, austere and grave in deportment, + Only one of them old, the hill that was nearest to heaven, + Covered with snow, but erect, the excellent Elder of Plymouth. + God had sifted three kingdoms to find the wheat for this planting, + Then had sifted the wheat, as the living seed of a nation; + So say the chronicles old, and such is the faith of the people! + Near them was standing an Indian, in attitude stern and defiant, + Naked down to the waist, and grim and ferocious in aspect; + While on the table before them was lying unopened a Bible, + Ponderous, bound in leather, brass-studded, printed in Holland, + And beside it outstretched the skin of a rattlesnake glittered, + Filled, like a quiver, with arrows; a signal and challenge of + warfare, + Brought by the Indian, and speaking with arrowy tongues of defiance. + This Miles Standish beheld, as he entered, and heard them debating + What were an answer befitting the hostile message and menace, + Talking of this and of that, contriving, suggesting, objecting; + One voice only for peace, and that the voice of the Elder, + Judging it wise and well that some at least were converted, + Rather than any were slain, for this was but Christian behaviour! + Then out spake Miles Standish, the stalwart Captain of Plymouth, + Muttering deep in his throat, for his voice was husky with anger, + “What! do you mean to make war with milk and the water of roses? + Is it to shoot red squirrels you have your howitzer planted + There on the roof of the church, or is it to shoot red devils? + Truly the only tongue that is understood by a savage + Must be the tongue of fire that speaks from the mouth of the cannon!” + Thereupon answered and said the excellent Elder of Plymouth, + Somewhat amazed and alarmed at this irreverent language: + “Not so thought Saint Paul, nor yet the other Apostles; + Not from the cannon’s mouth were the tongues of fire they spake + with!” + But unheeded fell this mild rebuke on the Captain, + Who had advanced to the table, and thus continued discoursing: + “Leave this matter to me, for to me by right it pertaineth. + War is a terrible trade; but in the cause that is righteous, + Sweet is the smell of powder; and thus I answer the challenge!” + + Then from the rattlesnake’s skin, with a sudden, contemptuous + gesture, + Jerking the Indian arrows, he filled it with powder and bullets + Full to the very jaws, and handed it back to the savage, + Saying, in thundering tones: “Here, take it! this is your answer!” + Silently out of the room then glided the glistening savage, + Bearing the serpent’s skin, and seeming himself like a serpent, + Winding his sinuous way in the dark to the depths of the forest. + + +V. + +THE SAILING OF THE “MAY FLOWER.” + + Just in the grey of the dawn, as the mists uprose from the meadows, + There was a stir and a sound in the slumbering village of Plymouth; + Clanging and clicking of arms, and the order imperative, “Forward!” + Given in tone suppressed, a tramp of feet, and then silence. + Figures ten, in the mist, marched slowly out of the village. + Standish the stalwart it was, with eight of his valorous army, + Led by their Indian guide, by Hobomok, friend of the white men, + Northward marching to quell the sudden revolt of the savage. + Giants they seemed in the mist, or the mighty men of King David; + Giants in heart they were, who believed in God and the Bible,— + Ay, who believed in the smiting of Midianites and Philistines. + Over them gleamed far off the crimson banners of morning; + Under them, loud on the sands, the serried billows, advancing, + Fired along the line, and in regular order retreated. + + Many a mile had they marched, when at length the village of + Plymouth + Woke from its sleep, and arose, intent on its manifold labours. + Sweet was the air and soft; and slowly the smoke from the chimneys + Rose over roofs of thatch, and pointed steadily eastward; + Men came forth from the doors, and paused and talked of the weather, + Said that the wind had changed, and was blowing fair for the + _May Flower_; + Talked of their Captain’s departure, and all the dangers that + menaced, + He being gone, the town, and what should be done in his absence. + Merrily sang the birds, and the tender voices of women + Consecrated with hymns the common cares of the household. + Out of the sea rose the sun, and the billows rejoiced at his coming; + Beautiful were his feet on the purple tops of the mountains; + Beautiful on the sails of the _May Flower_ riding at anchor, + Battered and blackened and worn by all the storms of the winter. + Loosely against her masts was hanging and flapping her canvas, + Rent by so many gales, and patched by the hands of the sailors. + Suddenly from her side, as the sun rose over the ocean, + Darted a puff of smoke, and floated seaward; anon rang + Loud over field and forest the cannon’s roar, and the echoes + Heard and repeated the sound, the signal gun of departure! + Ah! but with louder echoes replied the hearts of the people! + Meekly, in voices subdued, the chapter was read from the Bible, + Meekly the prayer was begun, but ended in fervent entreaty! + Then from their houses in haste came forth the Pilgrims of Plymouth, + Men and women and children, all hurrying down to the sea-shore, + Eager, with tearful eyes, to say farewell to the _May Flower_, + Homeward bound o’er the sea, and leaving them here in the desert. + + Foremost among them was Alden. All night he had lain without + slumber, + Turning and tossing about in the heat and unrest of his fever. + He had beheld Miles Standish, who came back late from the council, + Stalking into the room, and heard him mutter and murmur, + Sometimes it seemed a prayer, and sometimes it sounded like swearing. + Once he had come to the bed, and stood there a moment in silence; + Then he had turned away, and said: “I will not awake him; + Let him sleep on, it is best; for what is the use of more talking!” + Then he extinguished the light, and threw himself down on his pallet, + Dressed as he was, and ready to start at the break of the morning,— + Covered himself with the cloak he had worn in his campaigns in + Flanders,— + Slept as a soldier sleeps in his bivouac, ready for action. + But with the dawn he arose; in the twilight Alden beheld him + Put on his corselet of steel, and all the rest of his armour, + Buckle about his waist his trusty blade of Damascus, + Take from the corner his musket, and so stride out of the chamber. + Often the heart of the youth had burned and yearned to embrace him. + Often his lips had essayed to speak, imploring for pardon; + All the old friendship came back, with its tender and grateful + emotions; + But his pride overmastered the noble nature within him,— + Pride, and the sense of his wrong, and the burning fire of the + insult. + So he beheld his friend departing in anger, but spake not, + Saw him go forth to danger, perhaps to death, and he spake not! + Then he arose from his bed, and heard what the people were saying, + Joined in the talk at the door, with Stephen and Richard and Gilbert, + Joined in the morning prayer, and in the reading of Scripture, + And, with the others, in haste went hurrying down to the sea-shore, + Down to the Plymouth Rock, that had been to their feet as a + door-step + Into a world unknown,—the corner-stone of a nation! + + There with his boat was the Master, already a little impatient + Lest he should lose the tide, or the wind might shift to the + eastward, + Square-built, hearty, and strong, with an odour of ocean about him, + Speaking with this one and that, and cramming letters and parcels + Into his pocket capacious, and messages mingled together + Into his narrow brain, till at last he was wholly bewildered. + Nearer the boat stood Alden, with one foot placed on the gunwale, + One still firm on the rock, and talking at times with the sailors, + Seated erect on the thwarts, all ready and eager for starting. + He too was eager to go, and thus put an end to his anguish, + Thinking to fly from despair, that swifter than keel is or canvas, + Thinking to drown in the sea the ghost that would rise and pursue + him. + But as he gazed on the crowd, he beheld the form of Priscilla + Standing dejected among them, unconscious of all that was passing. + Fixed were her eyes upon his, as if she divined his intention, + Fixed with a look so sad, so reproachful, imploring, and patient, + That with a sudden revulsion his heart recoiled from its purpose + As from the verge of a crag, where one step more is destruction. + Strange is the heart of man, with its quick, mysterious instincts! + Strange is the life of man, and fatal or fated are moments, + Whereupon turn, as on hinges, the gates of the wall adamantine! + “Here I remain!” he exclaimed, as he looked at the heavens above him, + Thanking the Lord whose breath had scattered the mist and the + madness, + Wherein, blind and lost, to death he was staggering headlong. + “Yonder snow-white cloud, that floats in the ether above me, + Seems like a hand that is pointing and beckoning over the ocean. + There is another hand, that is not so spectral and ghost-like, + Holding me, drawing me back, and clasping mine for protection. + Float, O hand of cloud, and vanish away in the ether! + Roll thyself up like a fist, to threaten and daunt me; I heed not + Either your warning or menace, or any omen of evil! + There is no land so sacred, no air so pure and so wholesome, + As is the air she breathes, and the soil that is pressed by her + footsteps. + Here for her sake will I stay, and like an invisible presence + Hover around her for ever, protecting, supporting her weakness; + Yes! as my foot was the first that stepped on this rock at the + landing, + So, with the blessing of God, shall it be the last at the leaving!” + + Meanwhile the Master alert, but with dignified air and important, + Scanning with watchful eye the tide and the wind and the weather, + Walked about on the sands, and the people crowded around him + Saying a few last words, and enforcing his careful remembrance. + Then, taking each by the hand, as if he were grasping a tiller, + Into the boat he sprang, and in haste shoved off to his vessel, + Glad in his heart to get rid of all this worry and flurry, + Glad to be gone from a land of sand and sickness and sorrow, + Short allowance of victual, and plenty of nothing but Gospel! + Lost in the sound of the oars was the last farewell of the Pilgrims. + O strong hearts and true! not one went back in the _May Flower_! + No, not one looked back, who had set his hand to this ploughing! + + Soon were heard on board the shouts and songs of the sailors + Heaving the windlass round, and hoisting the ponderous anchor. + Then the yards were braced, and all sails set to the west wind, + Blowing steady and strong; and the _May Flower_ sailed from + the harbour, + Rounded the point of the Gurnet, and leaving far to the southward + Island and cape of sand, and the Field of the First Encounter, + Took the wind on her quarter, and stood for the open Atlantic, + Borne on the send of the sea, and the swelling hearts of the + Pilgrims. + + Long in silence they watched the receding sail of the vessel, + Much endeared to them all, as something living and human; + Then, as if filled with the spirit, and wrapt in a vision prophetic, + Baring his hoary head, the excellent Elder of Plymouth + Said, “Let us pray!” and they prayed, and thanked the Lord and took + courage. + Mournfully sobbed the waves at the base of the rock, and above them + Bowed and whispered the wheat on the hill of death, and their + kindred + Seemed to awake in their graves, and to join in the prayer that + they uttered. + Sun-illumined and white, on the eastern verge of the ocean + Gleamed the departing sail, like a marble slab in a graveyard; + Buried beneath it lay for ever all hope of escaping. + Lo! as they turned to depart, they saw the form of an Indian, + Watching them from the hill; but while they spake with each other, + Pointing with outstretched hands, and saying, “Look!” he had + vanished. + So they returned to their homes; but Alden lingered a little, + Musing alone on the shore, and watching the wash of the billows + Round the base of the rock, and the sparkle and flash of the + sunshine, + Like the Spirit of God, moving visibly over the waters. + + +VI. + +PRISCILLA. + + Thus for a while he stood, and mused by the shore of the ocean, + Thinking of many things, and most of all of Priscilla; + And as if thought had the power to draw to itself, like the + loadstone, + Whatsoever it touches, by subtile laws of its nature, + Lo! as he turned to depart, Priscilla was standing beside him. + + “Are you so much offended, you will not speak to me?” said she. + “Am I so much to blame, that yesterday, when you were pleading + Warmly the cause of another, my heart, impulsive and wayward, + Pleaded your own, and spake out, forgetful perhaps of decorum? + Certainly you can forgive me for speaking so frankly, for saying + What I ought not to have said, yet now I can never unsay it; + For there are moments in life, when the heart is full of emotion, + That if by chance it be shaken, or into its depths like a pebble + Drops some careless word, it overflows, and its secret, + Spilt on the ground like water, can never be gathered together. + Yesterday I was shocked, when I heard you speak of Miles Standish, + Praising his virtues, transforming his very defects into virtues, + Praising his courage and strength, and even his fighting in Flanders, + As if by fighting alone you could win the heart of a woman, + Quite overlooking yourself and the rest, in exalting your hero. + Therefore I spake as I did, by an irresistible impulse. + You will forgive me, I hope, for the sake of the friendship between + us, + Which is too true and too sacred to be so easily broken!” + Thereupon answered John Alden, the scholar, the friend of Miles + Standish: + “I was not angry with you, with myself alone I was angry, + Seeing how badly I managed the matter I had in my keeping.” + “No!” interrupted the maiden, with answer prompt and decisive; + “No; you were angry with me, for speaking so frankly and freely. + It was wrong, I acknowledge; for it is the fate of a woman + Long to be patient and silent, to wait like a ghost that is + speechless, + Till some questioning voice dissolves the spell of its silence. + Hence is the inner life of so many suffering women + Sunless and silent and deep, like subterranean rivers + Running through caverns of darkness, unheard, unseen, and unfruitful, + Chafing their channels of stone, with endless and profitless + murmurs.” + Thereupon answered John Alden, the young man, the lover of women: + “Heaven forbid it, Priscilla; and truly they seem to me always + More like the beautiful rivers that watered the garden of Eden, + More like the river Euphrates, through deserts of Havilah flowing, + Filling the land with delight, and memories sweet of the garden!” + “Ah, by these words, I can see,” again interrupted the maiden, + “How very little you prize me, or care for what I am saying. + When from the depths of my heart, in pain and with secret misgiving, + Frankly I speak to you, asking for sympathy only and kindness, + Straightway you take up my words, that are plain and direct and in + earnest, + Turn them away from their meaning, and answer with flattering + phrases. + This is not right, is not just, is not true to the best that is in + you; + For I know and esteem you, and feel that your nature is noble, + Lifting mine up to a higher, a more ethereal level. + Therefore I value your friendship, and feel it perhaps the more + keenly + If you say aught that implies I am only as one among many, + If you make use of those common and complimentary phrases + Most men think so fine, in dealing and speaking with women, + But which women reject as insipid, if not as insulting.” + + Mute and amazed was Alden; and listened and looked at Priscilla, + Thinking he never had seen her more fair, more divine in her beauty. + He who but yesterday pleaded so glibly the cause of another, + Stood there embarrassed and silent, and seeking in vain for an + answer. + So the maiden went on, and little divined or imagined + What was at work in his heart, that made him so awkward and + speechless. + “Let us, then, be what we are, and speak what we think, and in all + things + Keep ourselves loyal to truth, and the sacred professions of + friendship. + It is no secret I tell you, nor am I ashamed to declare it: + I have liked to be with you, to see you, to speak with you always. + So I was hurt at your words, and a little affronted to hear you + Urge me to marry your friend, though he were the Captain Miles + Standish, + For I must tell you the truth: much more to me is your friendship + Than all the love he could give, were he twice the hero you think + him.” + Then she extended her hand, and Alden, who eagerly grasped it, + Felt all the wounds in his heart, that were aching and bleeding so + sorely, + Healed by the touch of that hand, and he said, with a voice full of + feeling, + “Yes, we must ever be friends; and of all who offer you friendship + Let me be ever the first, the truest, the nearest and dearest!” + + Casting a farewell look at the glimmering sail of the + _May Flower_, + Distant, but still in sight, and sinking below the horizon, + Homeward together they walked, with a strange, indefinite feeling, + That all the rest had departed and left them alone in the desert. + But, as they went through the fields in the blessing and smile of + the sunshine, + Lighter grew their hearts, and Priscilla said very archly, + “Now that our terrible Captain has gone in pursuit of the Indians, + Where he is happier far than he would be commanding a household, + You may speak boldly, and tell me of all that happened between you, + When you returned last night, and said how ungrateful you found me.” + Thereupon answered John Alden, and told her the whole of the story,— + Told her his own despair, and the direful wrath of Miles Standish. + Whereat the maiden smiled, and said between laughing and earnest, + “He is a little chimney, and heated hot in a moment!” + But as he gently rebuked her, and told her how much he had suffered,— + How he had even determined to sail that day in the _May Flower_, + And had remained for her sake, on hearing the dangers that + threatened,— + All her manner was changed, and she said with a faltering accent, + “Truly I thank you for this: how good you have been to me always!” + + Thus, as a pilgrim devout, who toward Jerusalem journeys, + Taking three steps in advance, and one reluctantly backward, + Urged by importunate zeal, and withheld by pangs of contrition; + Slowly but steadily onward, receding yet ever advancing, + Journeyed this Puritan youth to the Holy Land of his longings, + Urged by the fervour of love, and withheld by remorseful misgivings. + + +VII. + +THE MARCH OF MILES STANDISH. + + Meanwhile the stalwart Miles Standish was marching steadily + northward, + Winding through forest and swamp, and along the trend of the + sea-shore + All day long, with hardly a halt, the fire of his anger + Burning and crackling within, and the sulphurous odour of powder + Seeming more sweet to his nostrils than all the scents of the forest. + Silent and moody he went, and much he revolved his discomfort; + He who was used to success, and to easy victories always, + Thus to be flouted, rejected, and laughed to scorn by a maiden, + Thus to be mocked and betrayed by the friend whom most he had + trusted, + Ah! ’twas too much to be borne, and he fretted and chafed in his + armour. + + “I alone am to blame,” he muttered, “for mine was the folly. + What has a rough old soldier, grown grim and grey in the harness, + Used to the camp and its ways, to do with the wooing of maidens? + ’Twas but a dream,—let it pass,—let it vanish like so many others! + What I thought was a flower, is only a weed, and is worthless; + Out of my heart will I pluck it, and throw it away, and henceforward + Be but a fighter of battles, a lover and wooer of dangers!” + Thus he revolved in his mind his sorry defeat and discomfort, + While he was marching by day or lying at night in the forest, + Looking up at the trees, and the constellations beyond them. + + After a three days’ march he came to an Indian encampment + Pitched on the edge of a meadow, between the sea and the forest; + Women at work by the tents, and the warriors, horrid with war-paint, + Seated about a fire, and smoking and talking together; + Who, when they saw from afar the sudden approach of the white men, + Saw the flash of the sun on breastplate and sabre and musket, + Straightway leaped to their feet, and two, from among them advancing, + Came to parley with Standish, and offer him furs as a present; + Friendship was in their looks, but in their hearts there was hatred. + Braves of the tribe were these, and brothers gigantic in stature, + Huge as Goliath of Gath, or the terrible Og, king of Bashan; + One was Pecksuot named, and the other was called Wattawamat. + Round their necks were suspended their knives in scabbards of wampum, + Two-edged, trenchant knives, with points as sharp as a needle. + Other arms had they none, for they were cunning and crafty. + “Welcome, English!” they said,—these words they had learned from + the traders + Touching at times on the coast, to barter and chaffer for peltries. + Then in their native tongue they began to parley with Standish, + Through his guide and interpreter, Hobomok, friend of the white man, + Begging for blankets and knives, but mostly for muskets and powder, + Kept by the white man, they said, concealed, with the plague, in + his cellars, + Ready to be let loose, and destroy his brother the red man! + But when Standish refused, and said he would give them the Bible, + Suddenly changing their tone, they began to boast and to bluster. + Then Wattawamat advanced with a stride in front of the other, + And, with a lofty demeanour, thus vauntingly spake to the Captain: + “Now Wattawamat can see, by the fiery eyes of the Captain, + Angry is he in his heart; but the heart of the brave Wattawamat + Is not afraid at the sight. He was not born of a woman, + But on a mountain, at night, from an oak-tree riven by lightning, + Forth he sprang at a bound, with all his weapons about him, + Shouting, ‘Who is there here to fight with the brave Wattawamat?’” + Then he unsheathed his knife, and, whetting the blade on his left + hand, + Held it aloft and displayed a woman’s face on the handle, + Saying, with bitter expression and a look of sinister meaning: + “I have another at home, with the face of a man on the handle; + By and by they shall marry; and there will be plenty of children!” + + Then stood Pecksuot forth, self-vaunting, insulting Miles Standish: + While with his fingers he patted the knife that hung at his bosom, + Drawing it half from its sheath, and plunging it back, as he + muttered, + “By and by it shall see; it shall eat; ah, ha! but shall speak not! + This is the mighty Captain the white men have sent to destroy us! + He is a little man; let him go and work with the women!” + + Meanwhile Standish had noted the faces and figures of Indians + Peeping and creeping about from bush to tree in the forest, + Feigning to look for game, with arrows set on their bow-strings, + Drawing about him still closer and closer the net of their ambush, + But undaunted he stood, and dissembled and treated them smoothly; + So the old chronicles say, that were writ in the days of the + fathers. + But when he heard their defiance, the boast, the taunt, and the + insult, + All the hot blood of his race, of Sir Hugh and of Thurston de + Standish, + Boiled and beat in his heart, and swelled in the veins of his + temples. + Headlong he leaped on the boaster, and, snatching his knife from + the scabbard, + Plunged it into his heart, and, reeling backward, the savage + Fell with his face to the sky, and a fiend-like fierceness upon it. + Straight there arose from the forest the awful sound of the + war-whoop, + And, like a flurry of snow on the whistling wind of December, + Swift and sudden and keen came a flight of feathery arrows. + Then came a cloud of smoke, and out of the cloud came the lightning, + Out of the lightning thunder; and death unseen ran before it. + Frightened the savages fled for shelter in swamp and in thicket, + Hotly pursued and beset; but their sachem, the brave Wattawamat, + Fled not; he was dead. Unswerving and swift had a bullet + Passed through his brain, and he fell with both hands clutching the + greensward, + Seeming in death to hold back from his foe the land of his fathers. + + There, on the flowers of the meadow the warriors lay, and above + them, + Silent, with folded arms, stood Hobomok, friend of the white man. + Smiling at length he exclaimed to the stalwart Captain of Plymouth: + “Pecksuot bragged very loud, of his courage, his strength, and his + stature,— + Mocked the great Captain, and called him a little man; but I see now + Big enough have you been to lay him speechless before you!” + + Thus the first battle was fought and won by the stalwart Miles + Standish. + When the tidings thereof were brought to the village of Plymouth, + And as a trophy of war the head of the brave Wattawamat + Scowled from the roof of the fort, which at once was a church and a + fortress, + All who beheld it rejoiced, and praised the Lord, and took courage. + Only Priscilla averted her face from this spectre of terror, + Thanking God in her heart that she had not married Miles Standish; + Shrinking, fearing almost, lest, coming home from his battles, + He should lay claim to her hand, as the prize and reward of his + valour. + + +VIII. + +THE SPINNING-WHEEL. + + Month after month passed away, and in Autumn the ships of the + merchants + Came with kindred and friends, with cattle and corn for the Pilgrims. + All in the village was peace; the men were intent on their labours, + Busy with hewing and building, with garden-plot and with merestead, + Busy with breaking the glebe, and mowing the grass in the meadows, + Searching the sea for its fish, and hunting the deer in the forest. + All in the village was peace; but at times the rumour of warfare + Filled the air with alarm, and the apprehension of danger. + Bravely the stalwart Standish was scouring the lane with his forces, + Waxing valiant in fight and defeating the alien armies, + Till his name had become a sound of fear to the nations. + Anger was still in his heart, but at times the remorse and + contrition + Which in all noble natures succeed the passionate outbreak, + Came like a rising tide, that encounters the rush of a river, + Staying its current awhile, but making it bitter and brackish. + + Meanwhile Alden at home had built him a new habitation, + Solid, substantial, of timber rough-hewn from the first of the + forest. + Wooden-barred was the door, and the roof was covered with rushes; + Latticed the windows were, and the window-panes were of paper, + Oiled to admit the light, while wind and rain were excluded. + There too he dug a well, and around it planted an orchard: + Still may be seen to this day some trace of the well and the orchard + Close to the house was the stall, where, safe and secure from + annoyance, + Raghorn, the snow-white bull, that had fallen to Alden’s allotment + In the division of cattle, might ruminate in the night-time + Over the pastures he cropped, made fragrant by sweet pennyroyal. + + Oft when his labour was finished, with eager feet would the + dreamer + Follow the pathway that ran through the woods to the house of + Priscilla, + Led by illusions romantic and subtile deceptions of fancy, + Pleasure disguised as duty, and love in the semblance of friendship. + Ever of her he thought, when he fashioned the walls of his dwelling; + Ever of her he thought, when he delved in the soil in his garden; + Ever of her he thought, when he read in his Bible on Sunday + Praise of the virtuous woman, as she is described in the Proverbs,— + How the heart of her husband doth safely trust in her always, + How all the days of her life she will do him good, and not evil, + How she seeketh the wool and the flax and worketh with gladness, + How she layeth her hand to the spindle and holdeth the distaff, + How she is not afraid of the snow for herself or her household, + Knowing her household are clothed with the scarlet cloth of her + weaving! + + So as she sat at her wheel one afternoon in Autumn, + Alden, who opposite sat, and was watching her dexterous fingers, + As if the thread she was spinning were that of his life and his + fortune, + After a pause in their talk, thus spake to the sound of the spindle. + “Truly, Priscilla,” he said, “when I see you spinning and spinning, + Never idle a moment, but thrifty and thoughtful of others, + Suddenly you are transformed, are visibly changed in a moment; + You are no longer Priscilla, but Bertha the Beautiful Spinner.” + Here the light foot on the treadle grew swifter and swifter; the + spindle + Uttered an angry snarl, and the thread snapped short in her fingers; + While the impetuous speaker, not heeding the mischief, continued: + “You are the beautiful Bertha, the spinner, the queen of Helvetia; + She whose story I read at a stall in the streets of Southampton, + Who, as she rode on her palfrey, o’er valley and meadow and mountain, + Ever was spinning her thread from a distaff fixed to her saddle. + She was so thrifty and good, that her name passed into a proverb. + So shall it be with your own, when the spinning-wheel shall no + longer + Hum in the house of the farmer, and fill its chambers with music. + Then shall the mothers, reproving, relate how it was in their + childhood, + Praising the good old times, and the days of Priscilla the spinner!” + Straight uprose from her wheel the beautiful Puritan maiden, + Pleased with the praise of her thrift from him whose praise was the + sweetest, + Drew from the reel on the table a snowy skein of her spinning, + Thus making answer, meanwhile, to the flattering phrases of Alden: + “Come, you must not be idle; if I am a pattern for housewives, + Show yourself equally worthy of being the model of husbands. + Hold this skein on your hands, while I wind it, ready for knitting; + Then who knows but hereafter, when fashions have changed and the + manners, + Fathers may talk to their sons of the good old times of John Alden!” + Thus, with a jest and a laugh, the skein on his hands she adjusted, + He sitting awkwardly there, with his arms extended before him, + She standing graceful, erect, and winding the thread from his + fingers, + Sometimes chiding a little his clumsy manner of holding, + Sometimes touching his hands, as she disentangled expertly + Twist or knot in the yarn, unawares—for how could she help it?— + Sending electrical thrills through every nerve in his body. + + Lo! in the midst of this scene, a breathless messenger entered, + Bringing in hurry and heat the terrible news from the village. + Yes; Miles Standish was dead!—an Indian had brought them the + tidings,— + Slain by a poisoned arrow, shot down in the front of the battle, + Into an ambush beguiled, cut off with the whole of his forces; + All the town would be burned, and all the people be murdered! + Such were the tidings of evil that burst on the hearts of the + hearers. + Silent and statue-like stood Priscilla, her face looking backward + Still at the face of the speaker, her arms uplifted in horror; + But John Alden, upstarting, as if the barb of the arrow + Piercing the heart of his friend had struck his own, and had + sundered + Once and for ever the bonds that held him bound as a captive, + Wild with excess of sensation, the awful delight of his freedom, + Mingled with pain and regret, unconscious of what he was doing, + Clasped, almost with a groan, the motionless form of Priscilla, + Pressing her close to his heart, as for ever his own, and exclaiming: + “Those whom the Lord hath united, let no man put them asunder!” + + Even as rivulets twain, from distant and separate sources, + Seeing each other afar, as they leap from the rocks, and pursuing + Each one its devious path, but drawing nearer and nearer, + Rush together at last, at their trysting-place in the forest; + So these lives that had run thus far in separate channels, + Coming in sight of each other, then swerving and flowing asunder, + Parted by barriers strong, but drawing nearer and nearer, + Rushed together at last, and one was lost in the other. + + +IX. + +THE WEDDING-DAY. + + Forth from the curtain of clouds, from the tent of purple and + scarlet, + Issued the sun, the great High-Priest, in his garments resplendent, + Holiness unto the Lord, in letters of light, on his forehead, + Round the hem of his robe the golden bells and pomegranates. + Blessing the world he came, and the bars of vapour beneath him + Gleamed like a grate of brass, and the sea at his feet was a laver! + + This was the wedding morn of Priscilla the Puritan maiden. + Friends were assembled together; the Elder and Magistrate also + Graced the scene with their presence, and stood like the Law and + the Gospel, + One with the sanction of earth, and one with the blessing of heaven. + Simple and brief was the wedding, as that of Ruth and of Boaz. + Softly the youth and the maiden repeated the words of betrothal, + Taking each other for husband and wife in the Magistrate’s presence, + After the Puritan way, and the laudable custom of Holland. + Fervently then, and devoutly, the excellent Elder of Plymouth + Prayed for the hearth, and the home, that were founded that day in + affection, + Speaking of life and of death, and imploring divine benedictions. + + Lo! when the service was ended, a form appeared on the threshold, + Clad in armour of steel, a sombre and sorrowful figure! + Why does the bridegroom start and stare at the strange apparition? + Why does the bride turn pale, and hide her face on his shoulder? + Is it a phantom of air,—a bodiless, spectral illusion? + Is it a ghost from the grave, that has come to forbid the betrothal? + Long had it stood there unseen, a guest uninvited, unwelcomed; + Over its clouded eyes there had passed at times an expression + Softening the gloom and revealing the warm heart hidden beneath them, + As when across the sky the driving rack of the rain-cloud + Grows for a moment thin, and betrays the sun by its brightness. + Once it had lifted its hand, and moved its lips, but was silent, + As if an iron will had mastered the fleeting intention. + But when were ended the troth and the prayer and the last + benediction, + Into the room it strode, and the people beheld with amazement + Bodily there in his armour Miles Standish, the Captain of Plymouth! + Grasping the bridegroom’s hand, he said with emotion, “Forgive me! + I have been angry and hurt,—too long have I cherished the feeling; + I have been cruel and hard, but now, thank God! it is ended, + Mine is the same hot blood that leaped in the veins of Hugh Standish, + Sensitive, swift to resent, but as swift in atoning for error. + Never so much as now was Miles Standish the friend of John Alden.” + Thereupon answered the bridegroom: “Let all be forgotten between us,— + All save the dear, old friendship, and that shall grow older and + dearer!” + Then the Captain advanced, and, bowing, saluted Priscilla, + Gravely, and after the manner of old-fashioned gentry in England, + Something of camp and of court, of town and of country, commingled, + Wishing her joy of her wedding, and loudly lauding her husband. + Then he said with a smile: “I should have remembered the adage,— + If you would be well served, you must serve yourself; and moreover, + No man can gather cherries in Kent at the season of Christmas!” + + Great was the people’s amazement, and greater yet their rejoicing, + Thus to behold once more the sun-burnt face of their Captain, + Whom they had mourned as dead; and they gathered and crowded about + him, + Eager to see him and hear him, forgetful of bride and of bridegroom, + Questioning, answering, laughing, and each interrupting the other, + Till the good Captain declared, being quite overpowered and + bewildered, + He had rather by far break into an Indian encampment, + Than come again to a wedding to which he had not been invited. + + Meanwhile the bridegroom went forth and stood with the bride at + the doorway, + Breathing the perfumed air of that warm and beautiful morning. + Touched with autumnal tints, but lonely and sad in the sunshine, + Lay extended before them the land of toil and privation; + There were the graves of the dead, and the barren waste of the + sea-shore. + There the familiar fields, the groves of pine, and the meadows; + But to their eyes transfigured, it seemed as the Garden of Eden, + Filled with the presence of God, whose voice was the sound of the + ocean. + + Soon was their vision disturbed by the noise and stir of departure, + Friends coming forth from the house, and impatient of longer + delaying, + Each with his plan for the day, and the work that was left + uncompleted. + Then from a stall near at hand, amid exclamations of wonder, + Alden the thoughtful, the careful, so happy, so proud of Priscilla, + Brought out his snow-white bull, obeying the hand of its master, + Led by a cord that was tied to an iron ring in its nostrils, + Covered with crimson cloth, and a cushion placed for a saddle. + She should not walk, he said, through the dust and heat of the + noonday; + Nay, she should ride like a queen, not plod along like a peasant. + Somewhat alarmed at first, but reassured by the others, + Placing her hand on the cushion, her foot in the hand of her husband, + Gaily, with joyous laugh, Priscilla mounted her palfrey. + “Nothing is wanting now,” he said with a smile, “but the distaff; + Then you would be in truth my queen, my beautiful Bertha!” + + Onward the bridal procession now moved to their new habitation, + Happy husband and wife, and friends conversing together. + Pleasantly murmured the brook, as they crossed the ford in the + forest, + Pleased with the image that passed, like a dream of love through + its bosom, + Tremulous, floating in air, o’er the depths of the azure abysses. + Down through the golden leaves the sun was pouring his splendours, + Gleaming on purple grapes, that, from branches above them suspended, + Mingled their odorous breath with the balm of the pine and the + fir-tree, + Wild and sweet as the clusters that grew in the valley of Eshcol. + Like a picture it seemed of the primitive, pastoral ages, + Fresh with the youth of the world, and recalling Rebecca and Isaac, + Old and yet ever new, and simple and beautiful always, + Love immortal and young in the endless succession of lovers. + So through the Plymouth woods passed onward the bridal procession. + + + + +_Tales of a Wayside Inn._ + +1863. + + +DAY THE FIRST + + +PRELUDE. + +THE WAYSIDE INN.[44] + +[44] The Wayside Inn is the old Red House at Sudbury, Mass.; the +story-tellers are guests that used to gather there. The old house still +stands; the old names still live in the memory of the living, Luigi +Monti, the Sicilian; Henry Wales, the student; Ole Bull, the musician; +Theophilus Parsons, the poet; Edrehi, a Boston oriental dealer, the +merchant; Professor Treadwell, an amateur doctor of theology, the +theologian; Lyman Howe, the innkeeper. + + One Autumn night, in Sudbury town, + Across the meadows bare and brown, + The windows of the wayside inn + Gleamed red with fire-light through the leaves + Of woodbine, hanging from the eaves, + Their crimson curtains rent and thin. + + As ancient is this hostelry + As any in the land may be, + Built in the old Colonial day, + When men lived in a grander way, + With ampler hospitality; + A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall, + Now somewhat fallen to decay, + With weather-stains upon the wall, + And stairways worn, and crazy doors, + And creaking and uneven floors, + And chimneys huge, and tiled and tall. + + A region of repose it seems, + A place of slumber and of dreams, + Remote among the wooded hills! + For there no noisy railway speeds, + Its torch-race scattering smoke and gleeds; + But noon and night, the panting teams + Stop under the great oaks, that throw + Tangles of light and shade below, + On roofs and doors and window-sills. + + Across the road the barns display + Their lines of stalls, their mows of hay, + Through the wide doors the breezes blow, + The wattled cocks strut to and fro, + And, half effaced by rain and shine, + The Red Horse prances on the sign. + + Round this old-fashioned, quaint abode + Deep silence reigned, save when a gust + Went rushing down the county road, + And skeletons of leaves, and dust, + A moment quickened by its breath, + Shuddered and danced their dance of death, + And through the ancient oaks o’erhead + Mysterious voices moaned and fled. + + But from the parlour of the inn + A pleasant murmur smote the ear, + Like water rushing through a weir; + Oft interrupted by the din + Of laughter and of loud applause, + And, in each intervening pause, + The music of a violin. + The fire-light, shedding over all + The splendour of its ruddy glow, + Filled the whole parlour large and low; + It gleamed on wainscot and on wall, + It touched with more than wonted grace + Fair Princess Mary’s pictured face; + It bronzed the rafters overhead, + On the old spinet’s ivory keys + It played inaudible melodies, + It crowned the sombre clock with flame, + The hands, the hours, the maker’s name, + And painted with a livelier red + The Landlord’s coat-of-arms again; + And, flashing on the window-pane, + Emblazoned with its light and shade + The jovial rhymes, that still remain, + Writ near a century ago, + By the great Major Molineaux, + Whom Hawthorne has immortal made. + Before the blazing fire of wood + Erect the wrapt musician stood; + And ever and anon he bent + His head upon his instrument, + And seemed to listen, till he caught + Confessions of its secret thought,— + The joy, the triumph, the lament, + The exultation and the pain; + Then, by the magic of his art, + He soothed the throbbings of its heart, + And lulled it into peace again. + + Around the fireside, at their ease, + There sat a group of friends, entranced + With the delicious melodies; + Who from the far-off noisy town + Had to the wayside inn come down, + To rest beneath its old oak-trees. + The fire-light on their faces glanced, + Their shadows on the wainscot danced, + And, though of different lands and speech, + Each had his tale to tell, and each + Was anxious to be pleased and please. + And while the sweet musician plays, + Let me in outline sketch them all, + Perchance uncouthly as the blaze + With its uncertain touch portrays + Their shadowy semblance on the wall. + + But first the Landlord will I trace; + Grave in his aspect and attire; + A man of ancient pedigree, + A Justice of the Peace was he, + Known in all Sudbury as “The Squire.” + Proud was he of his name and race, + Of old Sir William and Sir Hugh, + And in the parlour full in view, + His coat-of-arms, well framed and glazed, + Upon the wall in colours blazed; + He beareth gules upon his shield, + A chevron argent in the field, + With three wolves’ heads, and for the crest + A Wyvern part-per-pale addressed + Upon a helmet barred; below + The scroll reads, “By the name of Howe.” + And over this, no longer bright, + Though glimmering with a latent light, + Was hung the sword his grandsire bore, + In the rebellious days of yore, + Down there at Concord in the fight. + + A youth was there, of quiet ways, + A Student of old books and days, + To whom all tongues and lands were known, + And yet a lover of his own; + With many a social virtue graced, + And yet a friend of solitude; + A man of such a genial mood, + The heart of all things he embraced, + And yet of such fastidious taste, + He never found the best too good. + Books were his passion and delight, + And in his upper room at home + Stood many a rare and sumptuous tome, + In vellum bound, with gold bedight, + Great volumes garmented in white, + Recalling Florence, Pisa, Rome. + He loved the twilight that surrounds + The border land of old romance; + Where glitter hauberk, helm, and lance, + And banner waves, and trumpet sounds, + And ladies ride with hawk on wrist, + And mighty warriors sweep along, + Magnified by the purple mist, + The dusk of centuries and of song. + The chronicles of Charlemagne, + Of Merlin and the Mort d’Arthure, + Mingled together in his brain + With tales of Flores and Blanchefleur, + Sir Ferumbras, Sir Eglamour, + Sir Launcelot, Sir Morgadour, + Sir Guy, Sir Bevis, Sir Gawain. + + A young Sicilian, too, was there;— + In sight of Etna born and bred, + Some breath of its volcanic air + Was glowing in his heart and brain, + And, being rebellious to his liege, + After Palermo’s fatal siege, + Across the western seas he fled, + In good King Bomba’s happy reign. + His face was like a summer night, + All flooded with a dusky light; + His hands were small; his teeth shone white + As sea-shells, when he smiled or spoke; + His sinews supple and strong as oak; + Clean shaven was he as a priest, + Who at the mass on Sunday sings, + Save that upon his upper lip + His beard, a good palm’s length at least, + Level and pointed at the tip, + Shot sideways, like a swallow’s wings. + The poets read he, o’er and o’er, + And most of all the Immortal Four + Of Italy; and next to those + The story-telling bard of prose, + Who wrote the joyous Tuscan tales + Of the Decameron, that make + Fiesole’s green hills and vales + Remembered for Boccaccio’s sake. + Much too of music was his thought, + The melodies and measures fraught + With sunshine and the open air, + Of vineyards and the singing sea + Of his beloved Sicily; + And much it pleased him to peruse + The songs of the Sicilian muse,— + Bucolic songs by Meli sung + In the familiar peasant tongue, + That made men say, “Behold! once more + The pitying gods to earth restore + Theocritus of Syracuse!” + + A Spanish Jew from Alicant, + With aspect grand and grave, was there; + Vender of silks and fabrics rare, + And attar of rose from the Levant. + Like an old Patriarch he appeared, + Abraham or Isaac, or at least + Some later Prophet or High-Priest; + With lustrous eyes, and olive skin, + And, wildly tossed from cheeks and chin, + The tumbling cataract of his beard. + His garments breathed a spicy scent + Of cinnamon and sandal blent, + Like the soft aromatic gales + That meet the mariner, who sails + Through the Moluccas, and the seas + That wash the shores of Celebes. + All stories that recorded are + By Pierre Alphonse he knew by heart, + And it was rumoured he could say + The Parables of Sandabar, + And all the Fables of Pilpay, + Or if not all, the greater part! + Well versed was he in Hebrew books, + Talmud and Targum, and the lore + Of Kabala; and evermore + There was a mystery in his looks; + His eyes seemed gazing far away, + As if in vision or in trance + He heard the solemn sackbut play, + And saw the Jewish maidens dance. + + A Theologian, from the school + Of Cambridge on the Charles, was there; + Skilful alike with tongue and pen, + He preached to all men everywhere + The Gospel of the Golden Rule, + The New Commandment given to men, + Thinking the deed, and not the creed, + Would help us in our utmost need. + With reverend feet the earth he trod, + Nor banished nature from his plan, + But studied still with deep research + To build the Universal Church, + Lofty as is the love of God, + And ample as the wants of man. + + A Poet, too, was there, whose verse + Was tender, musical, and terse; + The inspiration, the delight, + The gleam, the glory, the swift flight, + Of thoughts so sudden, that they seem + The revelations of a dream, + All these were his; but with them came + No envy of another’s fame; + He did not find his sleep less sweet + For music in some neighbouring street, + Nor rustling hear in every breeze + The laurels of Miltiades. + Honour and blessings on his head + While living, good report when dead, + Who, not too eager for renown, + Accepts, but does not clutch, the crown. + + Last the Musician, as he stood + Illumined by that fire of wood; + Fair-haired, blue-eyed, his aspect blithe, + His figure tall and straight and lithe, + And every feature of his face + Revealing his Norwegian race; + A radiance, streaming from within, + Around his eyes and forehead beamed, + The Angel with the violin, + Painted by Raphael, he seemed. + He lived in that ideal world + Whose language is not speech, but song; + Around him evermore the throng + Of elves and sprites their dances whirled; + The Strömkarl sang, the cataract hurled + Its headlong waters from the height; + And mingled in the wild delight + The scream of sea-birds in their flight, + The rumour of the forest trees, + The plunge of the implacable seas, + The tumult of the wind at night, + Voices of eld, like trumpets blowing, + Old ballads, and wild melodies + Through mist and darkness pouring forth, + Like Elivagar’s river flowing + Out of the glaciers of the North. + + The instrument on which he played + Was in Cremona’s workshops made, + By a great master of the past, + Ere yet was lost the art divine; + Fashioned of maple and of pine, + That in Tyrolian forests vast + Had rocked and wrestled with the blast: + Exquisite was it in design, + Perfect in each minutest part, + A marvel of the lutist’s art; + And in its hollow chamber, thus, + The maker from whose hands it came + Had written his unrivalled name,— + “Antonius Stradivarius.” + + And when he played, the atmosphere + Was filled with magic, and the ear + Caught echoes of that Harp of Gold, + Whose music had so weird a sound, + The hunted stag forgot to bound, + The leaping rivulet backward rolled, + The birds came down from bush and tree, + The dead came from beneath the sea, + The maiden to the harper’s knee! + + The music ceased; the applause was loud, + The pleased musician smiled and bowed; + The wood-fire clapped its hands of flame, + The shadows on the wainscot stirred, + And from the harpsichord there came + A ghostly murmur of acclaim, + A sound like that sent down at night + By birds of passage in their flight, + From the remotest distance heard. + + Then silence followed; then began + A clamour for the Landlord’s tale,— + The story promised them of old, + They said, but always left untold; + And he, although a bashful man, + And all his courage seemed to fail, + Finding excuse of no avail, + Yielded; and thus the story ran. + + +THE LANDLORD’S TALE. + +PAUL REVERE’S RIDE. + + Listen, my children, and you shall hear + Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, + On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five; + Hardly a man is now alive + Who remembers that famous day and year. + + He said to his friend, “If the British march + By land or sea from the town to-night, + Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch + Of the North Church tower as a signal light,— + One, if by land, and two, if by sea; + And I on the opposite shore will be, + Ready to ride and spread the alarm + Through every Middlesex village and farm, + For the country-folk to be up and to arm.” + Then he said, “Good night!” and with muffled oar + Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, + Just as the moon rose over the bay, + Where swinging wide at her moorings lay + The _Somerset_, British man-of-war; + A phantom-ship, with each mast and spar + Across the moon like a prison-bar, + And a huge black hulk, that was magnified + By its own reflection in the tide. + + Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street, + Wanders and watches with eager ears, + Till in the silence around him he hears + The muster of men at the barrack-door, + The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, + And the measured tread of the grenadiers, + Marching down to their boats on the shore. + + Then he climbed to the tower of the Old North 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 + 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, + And the moonlight flowing over all. + + Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, + In their night-encampment on the hill, + Wrapped in silence so deep and still + That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread, + The watchful night-wind, as it went, + Creeping along from tent to tent, + And seeming to whisper, “All is well!” + A moment only he feels the spell + Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread + Of the lonely belfry and the dead; + For suddenly all his thoughts are bent + On a shadowy something far away, + Where the river widens to meet the bay,— + A line of black that bends and floats + On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. + +[Illustration: + + “_Just as the moon rose over the bay, + Where, swinging wide at her moorings, lay + The_ ‘Somerset,’ _British man-of-war_.” +] + + Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, + Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride + On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. + Now he patted his horse’s side, + Now gazed at the landscape far and near, + Then, impetuous, stamped the earth, + And turned and tightened his saddle-girth; + But mostly he watched with eager search + The belfry tower of the Old North Church, + As it rose above the graves on the hill, + Lonely and spectral, and sombre and still. + And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height + A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! + He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, + But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight + A second lamp in the belfry burns! + + A hurry of hoofs in a village street, + A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, + And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark + Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet; + That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light, + The fate of a nation was riding that night; + And the spark struck out by that steed in his flight, + Kindled the land into flame with its heat. + + He has left the village and mounted the steep, + And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, + Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; + And under the alders, that skirt its edge, + Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, + Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. + + It was twelve by the village clock, + When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. + He heard the crowing of the cock, + And the barking of the farmer’s dog, + And felt the damp of the river fog, + That rises after the sun goes down. + + It was one by the village clock, + When he galloped into Lexington. + He saw the gilded weathercock + Swim in the moonlight as he passed, + And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, + Gaze at him with a spectral glare, + As if they already stood aghast + At the bloody work they would look upon. + + It was two by the village clock, + When he came to the bridge in Concord town. + He heard the bleating of the flock, + And the twitter of birds among the trees, + And felt the breath of the morning breeze + Blowing over the meadows brown. + And one was safe and asleep in his bed + Who at the bridge would be first to fall, + Who that day would be lying dead, + Pierced by a British musket-ball. + + You know the rest. In the books you have read, + How the British Regulars fired and fled,— + How the farmers gave them ball for ball, + From behind each fence and farm-yard wall, + Chasing the red-coats down the lane, + Then crossing the field to emerge again + Under the trees at the turn of the road, + And only pausing to fire and load. + + So through the night rode Paul Revere; + And so through the night went his cry of alarm + To every Middlesex village and farm,— + A cry of defiance and not of fear, + A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, + And a word that shall echo for evermore! + For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, + Through all our history, to the last, + In the hour of darkness and peril and need + The people will waken and listen to hear + The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, + And the midnight message of Paul Revere. + + +INTERLUDE. + + The Landlord ended thus his tale, + Then rising took down from its nail + The sword that hung there, dim with dust, + And cleaving to its sheath with rust, + And said, “This sword was in the fight.” + The Poet seized it, and exclaimed, + “It is the sword of a good knight, + Though homespun was his coat-of-mail; + What matter if it be not named + Joyeuse, Colada, Durindale, + Excalibar, or Aroundight, + Or other name the books record? + Your ancestor, who bore this sword + As Colonel of the Volunteers, + Mounted upon his old grey mare, + Seen here and there and everywhere, + To me a grander shape appears + Than old Sir William, or what not, + Clinking about in foreign lands + With iron gauntlets on his hands, + And on his head an iron pot!” + + All laughed; the Landlord’s face grew red + As his escutcheon on the wall; + He could not comprehend at all + The drift of what the Poet said; + For those who had been longest dead + Were always greatest in his eyes; + And he was speechless with surprise + To see Sir William’s plumèd head + Brought to a level with the rest, + And made the subject of a jest. + + And this perceiving, to appease + The Landlord’s wrath, the others’ fears, + The Student said, with careless ease, + “The ladies and the cavaliers, + The arms, the loves, the courtesies, + The deeds of high emprise, I sing! + Thus Ariosto says, in words + That have the stately stride and ring + Of armèd knights and clashing swords. + Now listen to the tale I bring; + Listen! though not to me belong + The flowing draperies of his song, + The words that rouse, the voice that charms. + The Landlord’s tale was one of arms, + Only a tale of love is mine, + Blending the human and divine, + A tale of the Decameron, told + In Palmieri’s garden old, + By Fiametta, laurel-crowned, + While her companions lay around, + And heard the intermingled sound + Of airs that on their errands sped, + And wild birds gossiping overhead, + And lisp of leaves and fountain’s fall, + And her own voice more sweet than all, + Telling the tale, which, wanting these, + Perchance may lose its power to please.” + + +THE STUDENT’S TALE. + +THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO. + + One summer morning when the sun was hot, + Weary with labour in his garden plot, + On a rude bench beneath his cottage eaves, + Ser Federigo sat among the leaves + Of a huge vine, that, with its arms outspread, + Hung its delicious clusters overhead. + Below him, through the lovely valley, flowed + The river Arno, like a winding road, + And from its banks were lifted high in air + The spires and roofs of Florence called the Fair; + To him a marble tomb, that rose above + His wasted fortunes and his buried love. + For there, in banquet and in tournament, + His wealth had lavished been, his substance spent + To woo and lose, since ill his wooing sped, + Monna Giovanna, who his rival wed, + Yet ever in his fancy reigned supreme, + The ideal woman of a young man’s dream. + + Then he withdrew, in poverty and pain, + To this small farm, the last of his domain, + His only comfort and his only care + To prune his vines, and plant the fig and pear; + His only forester and only guest + His falcon, faithful to him, when the rest, + Whose willing hands had found so light of yore + The brazen knocker of his palace door, + Had now no strength to lift the wooden latch, + That entrance gave beneath a roof of thatch. + Companion of his solitary ways, + Purveyor of his feasts on holidays, + On him this melancholy man bestowed + The love with which his nature overflowed. + And so the empty-handed years went round, + Vacant, though voiceful with prophetic sound; + And so, that summer morn, he sat and mused + With folded, patient hands, as he was used, + And dreamily before his half-closed sight + Floated the vision of his lost delight. + Beside him, motionless, the drowsy bird + Dreamed of the chase, and in his slumber heard + The sudden scythe-like sweep of wings, that dare + The headlong plunge through eddying gulfs of air, + Then, starting broad awake upon his perch, + Tinkled his bells, like mass-bells in a church, + And, looking at his master, seemed to say, + “Ser Federigo, shall we hunt to-day?” + + Ser Federigo thought not of the chase; + The tender vision of her lovely face + I will not say he seems to see, he sees + In the leaf-shadows of the trellises, + Herself, yet not herself; a lovely child + With flowing tresses, and eyes wide and wild, + Coming undaunted up the garden walk, + And looking not at him, but at the hawk. + “Beautiful falcon!” said he, “would that I + Might hold thee on my wrist, or see thee fly!” + + The voice was hers, and made strange echoes start + Through all the haunted chambers of his heart, + As an Æolian harp through gusty doors + Of some old ruin its wild music pours. + “Who is thy mother, my fair boy?” he said, + His hand laid softly on that shining head. + “Monna Giovanna.—Will you let me stay + A little while, and with your falcon play? + We live there, just beyond your garden wall, + In the great house behind the poplars tall.” + + So he spake on; and Federigo heard + As from afar each softly uttered word, + And drifted onward through the golden gleams + And shadows of the misty sea of dreams, + As mariners becalmed through vapours drift, + And feel the sea beneath them sink and lift, + And hear far off the mournful breakers roar, + And voices calling faintly from the shore! + Then, waking from his painful reveries, + He took the little boy upon his knees, + And told him stories of his gallant bird, + Till in their friendship he became a third. + + Monna Giovanna, widowed in her prime, + Had come with friends to pass the summer time + In her grand villa, half-way up the hill, + O’erlooking Florence, but retired and still; + With iron gates, that opened through long lines + Of sacred ilex and centennial pines, + And terraced gardens, and broad steps of stone, + And sylvan deities, with moss o’ergrown, + And fountains palpitating in the heat, + And all Val d’Arno stretched beneath its feet. + Here in seclusion, as a widow may, + The lovely lady wiled the hours away, + Pacing in sable robes the statued hall, + Herself the stateliest statue among all, + And seeing more and more, with secret joy, + Her husband risen and living in her boy, + Till the lost sense of life returned again, + Not as delight, but as relief from pain. + + Meanwhile the boy, rejoicing in his strength, + Stormed down the terraces from length to length; + The screaming peacock chased in hot pursuit, + And climbed the garden trellises for fruit. + But his chief pastime was to watch the flight + Of a gerfalcon, soaring into sight, + Beyond the trees that fringed the garden wall, + Then downward stooping at some distant call; + And as he gazed full often wondered he + Who might the master of the falcon be, + Until that happy morning, when he found + Master and falcon in the cottage ground. + + And now a shadow and a terror fell + On the great house, as if a passing-bell + Toiled from the tower, and filled each spacious room + With secret awe, and preternatural gloom. + The petted boy grew ill, and day by day + Pined with mysterious malady away. + The mother’s heart would not be comforted; + Her darling seemed to her already dead, + And often, sitting by the sufferer’s side, + “What can I do to comfort thee?” she cried. + At first the silent lips made no reply, + But, moved at length by her importunate cry, + “Give me,” he answered, with imploring tone, + “Ser Federigo’s falcon for my own!” + + No answer could the astonished mother make; + How could she ask, e’en for her darling’s sake, + Such favour at a luckless lover’s hand, + Well knowing that to ask was to command? + Well knowing, what all falconers confessed, + In all the land that falcon was the best, + The master’s pride and passion and delight, + And the sole pursuivant of this poor knight. + But yet, for her child’s sake, she could no less + Than give assent, to soothe his restlessness, + So promised, and then promising to keep + Her promise sacred, saw him fall asleep. + + The morrow was a bright September morn; + The earth was beautiful as if new-born; + There was that nameless splendour everywhere, + That wild exhilaration in the air, + Which makes the passers in the city street + Congratulate each other as they meet. + Two lovely ladies, clothed in cloak and hood, + Passed through the garden gate into the wood, + Under the lustrous leaves, and through the sheen + Of dewy sunshine showering down between. + The one, close-hooded, had the attractive grace + Which sorrow sometimes lends a woman’s face; + Her dark eyes moistened with the mists that roll + From the gulf-stream of passion in the soul; + The other with her hood thrown back, her hair + Making a golden glory in the air, + Her cheeks suffused with an auroral blush, + Her young heart singing louder than the thrush; + So walked, that morn, through mingled light and shade, + Each by the other’s presence lovelier made, + Monna Giovanna and her bosom friend, + Intent upon their errand and its end. + + They found Ser Federigo at his toil, + Like banished Adam, delving in the soil; + And when he looked and these fair women spied, + The garden suddenly was glorified; + His long-lost Eden was restored again, + And the strange river winding through the plain + No longer was the Arno to his eyes, + But the Euphrates watering Paradise! + + Monna Giovanna raised her stately head, + And with fair words of salutation said: + “Ser Federigo, we come here as friends, + Hoping in this to make some poor amends + For past unkindness. I who ne’er before + Would even cross the threshold of your door, + I who in happier days such pride maintained, + Refused your banquets, and your gifts disdained, + This morning come, a self-invited guest, + To put your generous nature to the test, + And breakfast with you under your own vine.” + To which he answered: “Poor desert of mine, + Not your unkindness call it, for if aught + Is good in me of feeling or of thought, + From you it comes, and this last grace outweighs + All sorrows, all regrets of other days.” + And after further compliment and talk, + Among the dahlias in the garden walk + He left his guests; and to his cottage turned, + And as he entered for a moment yearned + For the lost splendours of the days of old, + The ruby glass, the silver, and the gold, + And felt how piercing is the sting of pride, + By want embittered and intensified. + He looked about him for some means or way + To keep this unexpected holiday; + Searched every cupboard, and then searched again, + Summoned the maid, who came, but came in vain; + “The Signor did not hunt to-day,” she said, + “There’s nothing in the house but wine and bread.” + + Then suddenly the drowsy falcon shook + His little bells with that sagacious look, + Which said, as plain as language to the ear, + “If anything is wanting, I am here!” + + Yes, everything is wanting, gallant bird! + The master seized thee without further word, + Like thine own lure, he whirled thee round; ah me! + The pomp and flutter of brave falconry, + The bells, the jesses, the bright scarlet hood, + The flight and the pursuit o’er field and wood, + All these for evermore are ended now; + No longer victor, but the victim thou! + + Then on the board a snow-white cloth he spread, + Laid on its wooden dish the loaf of bread, + Brought purple grapes with autumn sunshine hot, + The fragrant peach, the juicy bergamot; + Then in the midst a flask of wine he placed, + And with autumnal flowers the banquet graced. + Ser Federigo, would not these suffice + Without thy falcon stuffed with cloves and spice? + + When all was ready, and the courtly dame + With her companion to the cottage came, + Upon Ser Federigo’s brain there fell + The wild enchantment of a magic spell; + The room they entered, mean and low and small, + Was changed into a sumptuous banquet-hall, + With fanfares by aërial trumpets blown; + The rustic chair she sat on was a throne; + He ate celestial food, and a divine + Flavour was given to his country wine, + And the poor falcon, fragrant with his spice, + A peacock was, or bird of paradise! + + When the repast was ended, they arose + And passed again into the garden-close. + Then said the Lady, “Far too well I know, + Remembering still the days of long ago, + Though you betray it not, with what surprise + You see me here in this familiar wise. + You have no children, and you cannot guess + What anguish, what unspeakable distress + A mother feels, whose child is lying ill, + Nor how her heart anticipates his will. + And yet for this you see me lay aside + All womanly reserve and check of pride, + And ask the thing most precious in your sight, + Your falcon, your sole comfort and delight, + Which, if you find it in your heart to give, + My poor, unhappy boy perchance may live.” + + Ser Federigo listens, and replies, + With tears of love and pity in his eyes: + “Alas, dear lady! there can be no task + So sweet to me, as giving when you ask. + One little hour ago, if I had known + This wish of yours, it would have been my own. + But thinking in what manner I could best + Do honour to the presence of my guest, + I deemed that nothing worthier could be + Than what most dear and precious was to me, + And so my gallant falcon breathed his last + To furnish forth this morning our repast.” + + In mute contrition, mingled with dismay, + The gentle lady turned her eyes away, + Grieving that he such sacrifice should make, + And kill his falcon for a woman’s sake, + Yet feeling in her heart a woman’s pride, + That nothing she could ask for was denied; + Then took her leave, and passed out at the gate + With footsteps slow, and soul disconsolate. + Three days went by, and lo! a passing-bell + Tolled from the little chapel in the dell; + Ten strokes Ser Federigo heard, and said, + Breathing a prayer, “Alas! her child is dead!” + + Three months went by, and lo! a merrier chime + Rang from the chapel bells at Christmas time; + The cottage was deserted, and no more + Ser Federigo sat beside its door, + But now, with servitors to do his will, + In the grand villa, half-way up the hill, + Sat at the Christmas feast, and at his side + Monna Giovanna, his belovèd bride, + Never so beautiful, so kind, so fair, + Enthroned once more in the old rustic chair, + High-perched upon the back of which there stood + The image of a falcon carved in wood, + And underneath the inscription, with a date, + “All things come round to him who will but wait.” + + +INTERLUDE. + + Soon as the story reached its end, + One, over-eager to commend, + Crowned it with injudicious praise; + And then the voice of blame found vent, + And fanned the embers of dissent + Into a somewhat lively blaze. + + The Theologian shook his head; + “These old Italian tales,” he said, + “From the much-praised Decameron down + Through all the rabble of the rest, + Are either trifling, dull, or lewd; + The gossip of a neighbourhood + In some remote provincial town, + A scandalous chronicle at best! + They seem to me a stagnant fen, + Grown rank with rushes and with reeds, + Where a white lily, now and then, + Blooms in the midst of noxious weeds, + And deadly nightshade on its banks.” + To this the Student straight replied: + “For the white lily, many thanks! + One should not say, with too much pride, + Fountain, I will not drink of thee! + Nor were it grateful to forget, + That from these reservoirs and tanks + Even imperial Shakespeare drew + His Moor of Venice and the Jew, + And Romeo and Juliet, + And many a famous comedy.” + + Then a long pause; till some one said, + “An angel is flying overhead!” + At these words spake the Spanish Jew, + And murmured with an inward breath: + “God grant, if what you say is true, + It may not be the Angel of Death!” + + And then another pause; and then, + Stroking his beard, he said again: + “This brings back to my memory + A story in the Talmud told, + That book of gems, that book of gold, + Of wonders many and manifold, + A tale that often comes to me, + And fills my heart, and haunts my brain; + And never wearies nor grows old.” + + +THE SPANISH JEW’S TALE. + +THE LEGEND OF RABBI BEN LEVI. + + Rabbi Ben Levi, on the Sabbath, read + A volume of the Law, in which it said, + “No man shall look upon my face and live.” + And as he read, he prayed that God would give + His faithful servant grace with mortal eye + To look upon his face and yet not die. + + Then fell a sudden shadow on the page, + And lifting up his eyes, grown dim with age, + He saw the Angel of Death before him stand, + Holding a naked sword in his right hand. + Rabbi Ben Levi was a righteous man, + Yet through his veins a chill of terror ran. + With trembling voice he said, “What wilt thou here?” + The Angel answered, “Lo! the time draws near + When thou must die; yet first, by God’s decree, + Whate’er thou askest shall be granted thee.” + Replied the Rabbi, “Let these living eyes + First look upon my place in Paradise.” + Then said the Angel, “Come with me and look.” + Rabbi Ben Levi closed the sacred book, + And rising, and uplifting his grey head, + “Give me thy sword,” he to the Angel said, + “Lest thou shouldst fall upon me by the way.” + The Angel smiled and hastened to obey, + Then led him forth to the Celestial Town, + And set him on the wall, whence, gazing down, + Rabbi Ben Levi, with his living eyes, + Might look upon his place in Paradise. + + Then straight into the city of the Lord + The Rabbi leaped with the Death-Angel’s sword, + And through the streets there swept a sudden breath + Of something there unknown, which men call death. + Meanwhile the Angel stayed without, and cried, + “Come back!” To which the Rabbi’s voice replied, + “No! in the name of God, whom I adore, + I swear that hence I will depart no more!” + + Then all the Angels cried, “O Holy One, + See what the son of Levi here has done! + The kingdom of Heaven he takes by violence, + And in thy name refuses to go hence!” + The Lord replied, “My Angels, be not wroth; + Did e’er the son of Levi break his oath? + Let him remain; for he with mortal eye + Shall look upon my face and yet not die.” + + Beyond the outer wall the Angel of Death + Heard the great voice, and said, with panting breath, + “Give back the sword, and let me go my way.” + Whereat the Rabbi paused, and answered, “Nay! + Anguish enough already has it caused + Among the sons of men.” And while he paused + He heard the awful mandate of the Lord + Resounding through the air, “Give back the sword!” + The Rabbi bowed his head in silent prayer; + Then said he to the dreadful Angel, “Swear, + No human eye shall look on it again; + But when thou takest away the souls of men, + Thyself unseen, and with an unseen sword, + Thou wilt perform the bidding of the Lord.” + + The Angel took the sword again, and swore, + And walks on earth unseen for evermore. + + +INTERLUDE. + + He ended: and a kind of spell + Upon the silent listeners fell. + His solemn manner and his words + Had touched the deep, mysterious chords + That vibrate in each human breast + Alike, but not alike confessed. + The spiritual world seemed near; + And close above them, full of fear, + Its awful adumbration passed, + A luminous shadow, vague and vast. + They almost feared to look, lest there, + Embodied from the impalpable air, + They might behold the Angel stand, + Holding the sword in his right hand. + + At last, but in a voice subdued, + Not to disturb their dreamy mood, + Said the Sicilian: “While you spoke, + Telling your legend marvellous, + Suddenly in my memory woke + The thought of one, now gone from us,— + An old Abate, meek and mild, + My friend and teacher, when a child, + Who sometimes in those days of old + The legend of an Angel told, + Which ran, if I remember, thus.” + + +THE SICILIAN’S TALE. + +KING ROBERT OF SICILY. + + Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane + And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, + Apparelled in magnificent attire, + With retinue of many a knight and squire, + On St. John’s Eve, at vespers, proudly sat + And heard the priests chant the Magnificat. + And as he listened, o’er and o’er again + Repeated, like a burden or refrain, + He caught the “_Deposuit potentes + De sede, et exaltavit humiles_;” + And slowly lifting up his kingly head, + He to a learnèd clerk beside him said, + “What mean these words?” The clerk made answer meet, + “He has put down the mighty from their seat, + And has exalted them of low degree.” + Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully, + “’Tis well that such seditious words are sung + Only by priests and in the Latin tongue: + For unto priests and people be it known, + There is no power can push me from my throne!” + And leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep, + Lulled by the chant monotonous and deep. + + When he awoke, it was already night; + The church was empty, and there was no light, + Save where the lamps, that glimmered few and faint + Lighted a little space before some saint. + He started from his seat and gazed around, + But saw no living thing and heard no sound. + He groped towards the door, but it was locked; + He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked, + And uttered awful threatenings and complaints, + And imprecations upon men and saints. + The sounds re-echoed from the roof and walls, + As if dead priests were laughing in their stalls! + + At length the sexton, hearing from without + The tumult of the knocking and the shout, + And thinking thieves were in the house of prayer, + Came with his lantern, asking, “Who is there?” + Half-choked with rage, King Robert fiercely said, + “Open: ’tis I, the King! Art thou afraid?” + The frightened sexton, muttering, with a curse, + “This is some drunken vagabond, or worse!” + Turned the great key and flung the portal wide: + A man rushed by him at a single stride, + Haggard, half-naked, without hat or cloak, + Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke, + But leapt into the blackness of the night, + And vanished like a spectre from his sight. + + Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane + And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, + Despoiled of his magnificent attire, + Bare-headed, breathless, and besprent with mire, + With sense of wrong and outrage desperate, + Strode on and thundered at the palace gate; + Rushed through the court-yard, thrusting in his rage + To right and left each seneschal and page, + And hurried up the broad and sounding stair, + His white face ghastly in the torches’ glare. + From hall to hall he passed with breathless speed; + Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed, + Until at last he reached the banquet-room, + Blazing with light, and breathing with perfume. + There on the daïs sat another king, + Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet-ring, + King Robert’s self in features, form, and height, + But all transfigured with angelic light! + It was an Angel; and his presence there + With a divine effulgence filled the air, + An exaltation, piercing the disguise, + Though none the hidden Angel recognise. + + A moment speechless, motionless, amazed, + The throneless monarch on the Angel gazed, + Who met his looks of anger and surprise + With the divine compassion of his eyes; + Then said, “Who art thou? and why com’st thou here?” + To which King Robert answered with a sneer, + “I am the King, and come to claim my own + From an impostor, who usurps my throne!” + And suddenly, at these audacious words, + Up sprang the angry guests, and drew their swords; + The Angel answered, with unruffled brow, + “Nay, not the King, but the King’s Jester; thou + Henceforth shalt wear the bells and scalloped cape, + And for thy counsellor shalt lead an ape; + Thou shalt obey my servants when they call, + And wait upon my henchmen in the hall!” + + Deaf to King Robert’s threats and cries and prayers, + They thrust him from the hall and down the stairs; + A group of tittering pages ran before, + And as they opened wide the folding-door, + His heart failed, for he heard, with strange alarms, + The boisterous laughter of the men-at-arms, + And all the vaulted chamber roar and ring + With the mock plaudits of “Long live the King!” + + Next morning, waking with the day’s first beam, + He said within himself, “It was a dream!” + But the straw rustled as he turned his head, + There were the cap and bells beside his bed, + Around him rose the bare, discoloured walls, + Close by, the steeds were champing in their stalls, + And in the corner, a revolting shape, + Shivering and chattering, sat the wretched ape. + It was no dream; the world he loved so much + Had turned to dust and ashes at his touch! + + Days came and went; and now returned again + To Sicily the old Saturnian reign; + Under the Angel’s governance benign + The happy island danced with corn and wine, + And deep within the mountain’s burning breast + Enceladus, the giant, was at rest. + Meanwhile King Robert yielded to his fate, + Sullen and silent and disconsolate. + Dressed in the motley garb that Jesters wear, + With looks bewildered and a vacant stare, + Close shaven above the ears, as monks are shorn, + By courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to scorn, + His only friend the ape, his only food + What others left,—he still was unsubdued. + And when the Angel met him on his way, + And half in earnest, half in jest, would say, + Sternly, though tenderly, that he might feel + The velvet scabbard held a sword of steel, + “Art thou the King?” the passion of his woe + Burst from him in resistless overflow, + And, lifting high his forehead, he would fling + The haughty answer back, “I am, I am the King!” + + Almost three years were ended; when there came + Ambassadors of great repute and name + From Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, + Unto King Robert, saying that Pope Urbane + By letter summoned them forthwith to come + On Holy Thursday to his city of Rome. + The Angel with great joy received his guests, + And gave them presents of embroidered vests, + And velvet mantles with rich ermine lined, + And rings and jewels of the rarest kind. + Then he departed with them o’er the sea + Into the lovely land of Italy, + Whose loveliness was more resplendent made + By the mere passing of that cavalcade, + With plumes, and cloaks, and housings, and the stir + Of jewelled bridle and of golden spur. + + And lo! among the menials, in mock state, + Upon a piebald steed, with shambling gait, + His cloak of foxtails flapping in the wind, + The solemn ape demurely perched behind, + King Robert rode, making huge merriment + In all the country towns through which they went. + + The Pope received them with great pomp, and blare + Of bannered trumpets, in Saint Peter’s square, + Giving his benediction and embrace, + Fervent, and full of apostolic grace. + While with congratulations and with prayers + He entertained the Angel unawares, + Robert, the Jester, bursting through the crowd, + Into their presence rushed, and cried aloud, + “I am the King! Look, and behold in me + Robert, your brother, King of Sicily! + This man, who wears my semblance to your eyes, + Is an impostor in a king’s disguise. + Do you not know me? does no voice within + Answer my cry, and say we are akin?” + The Pope in silence, but with troubled mien, + Gazed at the Angel’s countenance serene; + The Emperor, laughing, said, “It is strange sport + To keep a madman for thy Fool at court!” + And the poor, baffled Jester in disgrace + Was hustled back among the populace. + + In solemn state the Holy Week went by, + And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky; + The presence of the Angel, with its light, + Before the sun rose, made the city bright, + And with new fervour filled the hearts of men, + Who felt that Christ indeed had risen again. + Even the Jester, on his bed of straw, + With haggard eyes the unwonted splendour saw; + He felt within a power unfelt before, + And, kneeling humbly on his chamber floor, + He heard the rushing garments of the Lord + Sweep through the silent air, ascending heavenward. + + And now the visit ending, and once more + Valmond returning to the Danube’s shore, + Homeward the Angel journeyed, and again + The land was made resplendent with his train. + Flashing along the towns of Italy + Unto Salerno, and from thence by sea. + + And when once more within Palermo’s wall, + And, seated on the throne in his great hall, + He heard the Angelus from convent towers, + As if the better world conversed with ours, + He beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher, + And with a gesture bade the rest retire; + And when they were alone, the Angel said, + “Art thou the King?” Then bowing down his head, + King Robert crossed both hands upon his breast, + And meekly answered him: “Thou knowest best! + My sins as scarlet are; let me go hence, + And in some cloister’s school of penitence, + Across those stones, that pave the way to heaven, + Walk barefoot, till my guilty soul is shriven!” + The Angel smiled, and from his radiant face + A holy light illumined all the place, + And through the open window, loud and clear, + They heard the monks chant in the chapel near, + Above the stir and tumult of the street: + “He has put down the mighty from their seat, + And has exalted them of low degree!” + And through the chant a second melody + Rose like the throbbing of a single string: + “I am an Angel, and thou art the King!” + + King Robert, who was standing near the throne, + Lifted his eyes, and lo! he was alone! + But all apparelled as in days of old, + With ermined mantle and with cloth of gold; + And when his courtiers came, they found him there + Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent prayer. + + +INTERLUDE. + + And then the blue-eyed Norseman told + A Saga of the days of old. + “There is,” said he, “a wondrous book + Of Legends in the old Norse tongue + Of the dead kings of Norroway,— + Legends that once were told or sung + In many a smoky fireside nook + Of Iceland, in the ancient day, + By wandering Saga-man or Scald; + Heimskringla is the volume called; + And he who looks may find therein + The story that I now begin.” + And in each pause the story made + Upon his violin he played, + As an appropriate interlude, + Fragments of old Norwegian tunes + That bound in one the separate runes, + And held the mind in perfect mood, + Entwining and encircling all + The strange and antiquated rhymes + With melodies of olden times; + As over some half-ruined wall, + Disjointed and about to fall, + Fresh woodbines climb and interlace, + And keep the loosened stones in place. + + +THE MUSICIAN’S TALE. + +THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. + +I. + +THE CHALLENGE OF THOR. + + I am the God Thor, + I am the War God, + I am the Thunderer! + Here in my Northland, + My fastness and fortress, + Reign I for ever! + + Here amid icebergs + Rule I the nations; + This is my hammer, + Miölner the mighty; + Giants and sorcerers + Cannot withstand it! + + These are the gauntlets, + Wherewith I wield it, + And hurl it afar off; + This is my girdle; + Whenever I brace it, + Strength is redoubled! + + The light thou beholdest + Stream through the heavens + In flashes of crimson, + Is but my red beard + Blown by the night-wind, + Affrighting the nations! + + Jove is my brother; + Mine eyes are the lightning; + The wheels of my chariot + Roll in the thunder, + The blows of my hammer + Ring in the earthquake! + + Force rules the world still, + Has ruled it, shall rule it; + Meekness is weakness, + Strength is triumphant, + Over the whole earth + Still is it Thor’s Day! + + Thou art a God too, + O Galilean! + And thus single-handed + Unto the combat, + Gauntlet or Gospel, + Here I defy thee! + + +II. + +KING OLAF’S RETURN. + + And King Olaf heard the cry, + Saw the red light in the sky, + Laid his hand upon his sword, + As he leaned upon the railing, + And his ship went sailing, sailing + Northward into Drontheim fiord. + + There he stood as one who dreamed; + And the red light glanced and gleamed + On the armour that he wore; + And he shouted, as the rifted + Streamers o’er him shook and shifted, + “I accept thy challenge, Thor!” + + To avenge his father slain, + And reconquer realm and reign, + Came the youthful Olaf home, + Through the midnight sailing, sailing, + Listening to the wild wind’s wailing, + And the dashing of the foam. + + To his thoughts the sacred name + Of his mother Astrid came, + And the tale she oft had told + Of her flight by secret passes + Through the mountains and morasses, + To the home of Hakon old. + + Then strange memories crowded back + Of Queen Gunhild’s wrath and wrack + And a hurried flight by sea; + Of grim Vikings, and their rapture + In the sea-fight, and the capture, + And the life of slavery. + + How a stranger watched his face + In the Esthonian market-place, + Scanned his features one by one, + Saying, “We should know each other; + I am Sigurd, Astrid’s brother, + Thou art Olaf, Astrid’s son!” + + Then as Queen Allogia’s page, + Old in honours, young in age, + Chief of all her men-at-arms; + Till vague whispers, and mysterious, + Reached King Valdemar, the imperious, + Filling him with strange alarms. + + Then his cruisings o’er the seas, + Westward to the Hebrides, + And to Scilly’s rocky shore; + And the hermit’s cavern dismal, + Christ’s great name and rites baptismal, + In the ocean’s rush and roar. + + All these thoughts of love and strife + Glimmered through his lurid life, + As the stars’ intenser light + Through the red flames o’er him trailing, + As his ships went sailing, sailing, + Northward in the summer night. + + Trained for either camp or court, + Skilful in each manly sport, + Young and beautiful and tall. + Art of warfare, craft of chases, + Swimming, skating, snow-shoe races, + Excellent alike in all. + + When at sea, with all his rowers, + He along the bending oars + Outside of his ship could run. + He the Smalsor Horn ascended, + And his shining shield suspended + On its summit, like a sun. + + On the ship-rails he could stand, + Wield his sword with either hand, + And at once two javelins throw; + At all feasts where ale was strongest, + Sat the merry monarch longest, + First to come and last to go. + + Norway never yet had seen + One so beautiful of mien, + One so royal in attire, + When in arms completely furnished, + Harness gold-inlaid and burnished, + Mantle like a flame of fire. + + Thus came Olaf to his own, + When upon the night-wind blown + Passed that cry along the shore; + And he answered, while the rifted + Streamers o’er him shook and shifted, + “I accept thy challenge, Thor!” + + +III. + +THORA OF RIMOL. + + “Thora of Rimol! hide me! hide me! + Danger and shame and death betide me! + For Olaf the King is hunting me down + Through field and forest, through thorp and town!” + Thus cried Jarl Hakon + To Thora, the fairest of women. + + “Hakon Jarl! for the love I bear thee, + Neither shall shame nor death come near thee + But the hiding-place wherein thou must lie + Is the cave underneath the swine in the sty.” + Thus to Jarl Hakon + Said Thora, the fairest of women. + + So Hakon Jarl and his base thrall Karker + Crouched in the cave, than a dungeon darker, + As Olaf came riding, with men in mail, + Through the forest roads into Orkadale, + Demanding Jarl Hakon + Of Thora, the fairest of women. + + “Rich and honoured shall be whoever + The head of Hakon Jarl shall dissever!” + Hakon heard him, and Karker the slave, + Through the breathing-holes of the darksome cave. + Alone in her chamber + Wept Thora, the fairest of women. + + Said Karker, the crafty, “I will not slay thee! + For all the King’s gold I will never betray thee!” + “Then why dost thou turn so pale, O churl, + And then again black as the earth?” said the Earl. + More pale and more faithful + Was Thora, the fairest of women. + + From a dream in the night the thrall started, saying, + “Round my neck a gold ring King Olaf was laying!” + And Hakon answered, “Beware of the king! + He will lay round thy neck a blood-red ring.” + At the ring on her finger + Gazed Thora, the fairest of women. + + At daybreak slept Hakon, with sorrows encumbered, + But screamed and drew up his feet as he slumbered; + The thrall in the darkness plunged with his knife, + And the Earl awakened no more in this life. + But wakeful and weeping + Sat Thora, the fairest of women. + + At Nidarholm the priests are all singing, + Two ghastly heads on the gibbet are swinging; + One is Jarl Hakon’s and one is his thrall’s, + And the people are shouting from windows and walls; + While alone in her chamber + Swoons Thora, the fairest of women. + + +IV. + +QUEEN SIGRID THE HAUGHTY. + + Queen Sigrid the Haughty sat proud and aloft + In her chamber, that looked over meadow and croft. + Heart’s dearest, + Why dost thou sorrow so? + + The floor with tassels of fir was besprent, + Filling the room with their fragrant scent. + + She heard the birds sing, she saw the sun shine, + The air of summer was sweeter than wine. + + Like a sword without scabbard the bright river lay + Between her own kingdom and Norroway. + + But Olaf the King had sued for her hand, + The sword would be sheathed, the river be spanned. + + Her maidens were seated around her knee, + Working bright figures in tapestry. + + And one was singing the ancient rune + Of Brynhilda’s love and the wrath of Gudrun. + + And through it, and round it, and over it all + Sounded incessant the waterfall. + + The Queen in her hand held a ring of gold, + From the door of Ladé’s Temple old. + + King Olaf had sent her this wedding gift, + But her thoughts as arrows were keen and swift. + + She had given the ring to her goldsmiths twain, + Who smiled as they handed it back again. + + And Sigrid the Queen, in her haughty way, + Said, “Why do you smile, my goldsmiths, say?” + + And they answered: “O Queen! if the truth must be told, + The ring is of copper, and not of gold!” + + The lightning flashed o’er her forehead and cheek, + She only murmured, she did not speak: + + “If in his gifts he can faithless be, + There will be no gold in his love to me.” + + A footstep was heard on the outer stair, + And in strode King Olaf with royal air. + + He kissed the Queen’s hand, and he whispered of love, + And swore to be true as the stars are above. + + But she smiled with contempt as she answered: “O King + Will you swear it, as Odin once swore, on the ring?” + + And the King: “O speak not of Odin to me, + The wife of King Olaf a Christian must be.” + + Looking straight at the King, with her level brows, + She said, “I keep true to my faith and my vows.” + + Then the face of King Olaf was darkened with gloom, + He rose in his anger and strode through the room. + + “Why then should I care to have thee?” he said,— + “A faded old woman, a heathenish jade!” + + His zeal was stronger than fear or love, + And he struck the Queen in the face with his glove. + + Then forth from the chamber in anger he fled, + And the wooden stairway shook with his tread. + + Queen Sigrid the Haughty said under her breath, + “This insult, King Olaf, shall be thy death!” + Heart’s dearest, + Why dost thou sorrow so? + + +V. + +THE SKERRY OF SHRIEKS. + + Now from all King Olaf’s farms + His men-at-arms + Gathered on the Eve of Easter; + To his house at Angvalds-ness + Fast they press, + Drinking with the royal feaster. + + Loudly through the wide-flung door + Came the roar + Of the sea upon the Skerry; + And its thunder loud and near + Reached the ear, + Mingling with their voices merry. + + “Hark!” said Olaf to his Scald, + Halfred the Bald, + “Listen to that song, and learn it! + Half my kingdom would I give, + As I live, + If by such songs you would earn it! + + “For of all the runes and rhymes + Of all times, + Best I like the ocean’s dirges, + When the old harper heaves and rocks, + His hoary locks + Mowing and flashing in the surges!” + + Halfred answered: “I am called + The Unappalled! + Nothing hinders me or daunts me; + Hearken to me, then, O King, + While I sing + The great Ocean song that haunts me.” + + “I will hear your song sublime + Some other time,” + Says the drowsy monarch, yawning, + And retires; each laughing guest + Applauds the jest; + Then they sleep till day is dawning. + + Pacing up and down the yard, + King Olaf’s guard + Saw the sea-mist slowly creeping + O’er the sands, and up the hill, + Gathering still + Round the house where they were sleeping. + + It was not the fog he saw, + Nor misty flaw, + That above the landscape brooded; + It was Eyvind Kallda’s crew + Of warlocks blue, + With their caps of darkness hooded! + + Round and round the house they go, + Weaving slow + Magic circles to encumber + And imprison in their ring + Olaf the King, + As he helpless lies in slumber. + + Then athwart the vapours dun + The Easter sun + Streamed with one broad track of splendour! + In their real forms appeared + The warlocks weird, + Awful as the Witch of Endor. + + Blinded by the light that glared, + They groped and stared + Round about with steps unsteady; + From his window Olaf gazed, + And, amazed, + “Who are these strange people?” said he. + + “Eyvind Kallda and his men!” + Answered then + From the yard a sturdy farmer; + While the men-at-arms apace + Filled the place, + Busily buckling on their armour. + + From the gates they sallied forth, + South and north, + Scoured the island coasts around them, + Seizing all the warlock band + Foot and hand + On the Skerry’s rocks they bound them. + + And at eve the King again + Called his train, + And, with all the candles burning, + Silent sat and heard once more + The sullen roar + Of the ocean tides returning. + + Shrieks and cries of wild despair + Filled the air, + Growing fainter as they listened; + Then the bursting surge alone + Sounded on;— + Thus the sorcerers were christened! + + “Sing, O Scald, your song sublime, + Your ocean-rhyme,” + Cried King Olaf: “it will cheer me!” + Said the Scald, with pallid cheeks, + “The Skerry of Shrieks + Sings too loud for you to hear me!” + + +VI. + +THE WRAITH OF ODIN. + + The guests were loud, the ale was strong, + King Olaf feasted late and long; + The hoary Scalds together sang; + O’erhead the smoky rafters rang. + Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. + + The door swung wide, with creak and din; + A blast of cold night-air came in, + And on the threshold shivering stood + A one-eyed guest, with cloak and hood. + Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. + + The King exclaimed, “O grey-beard pale! + Come warm thee with this cup of ale.” + The foaming draught the old man quaffed, + The noisy guests looked on and laughed. + Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. + + Then spake the King: “Be not afraid; + Sit here by me.” The guest obeyed, + And, seated at the table, told + Tales of the sea, and Sagas old. + Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. + + And ever, when the tale was o’er, + The King demanded yet one more; + Till Sigurd the Bishop smiling said, + “’Tis late, O king, and time for bed.” + Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. + + The King retired; the stranger-guest + Followed and entered with the rest; + The lights were out, the pages gone, + But still the garrulous guest spake on. + Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. + + As one who from a volume reads, + He spake of heroes and their deeds, + Of lands and cities he had seen, + And stormy gulfs that tossed between. + Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. + + Then from his lips in music rolled + The Havamal of Odin old, + With sounds mysterious as the roar + Of billows on a distant shore. + Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. + + “Do we not learn from runes and rhymes + Made by the gods in elder times, + And do not still the great Scalds teach + That silence better is than speech?” + Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. + + Smiling at this, the King replied, + “Thy lore is by thy tongue belied; + For never was I so enthralled + Either by Saga-man or Scald.” + Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. + + The Bishop said, “Late hours we keep! + Night wanes, O King! ’tis time for sleep!” + Then slept the King, and when he woke + The guest was gone, the morning broke. + Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. + + They found the doors securely barred, + They found the watch-dog in the yard, + There was no footprint in the grass, + And none had seen the stranger pass. + Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. + + King Olaf crossed himself and said: + “I know that Odin the Great is dead; + Sure is the triumph of our Faith, + The one-eyed stranger was his wraith.” + Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. + + +VII. + +IRON-BEARD. + + Olaf the King, one summer morn, + Blew a blast on his bugle-horn, + Sending his signal through the land of Drontheim. + + And to the Hus-Ting held at Mere + Gathered the farmers far and near, + With their war weapons ready to confront him. + + Ploughing under the morning star, + Old Iron-Beard in Yriar + Heard the summons, chuckling with a low laugh. + + He wiped the sweat-drops from his brow, + Unharnessed his horses from the plough, + And clattering came on horseback to King Olaf. + + He was the churliest of the churls; + Little he cared for king or earls; + Bitter as home-brewed ale were his foaming passions. + + Hodden-grey was the garb he wore, + And by the Hammer of Thor he swore; + He hated the narrow town, and all its fashions. + + But he loved the freedom of his farm, + His ale at night, by the fireside warm, + Gudrun his daughter, with her flaxen tresses. + + He loved his horses and his herds, + The smell of the earth, and the song of birds, + His well-filled barns, his brook with its watercresses. + + Huge and cumbersome was his frame; + His beard, from which he took his name, + Frosty and fierce, like that of Hymer the Giant. + + So at the Hus-Ting he appeared, + The farmer of Yriar, Iron-Beard, + On horseback, with an attitude defiant. + + And to King Olaf he cried aloud, + Out of the middle of the crowd, + That tossed about him like a stormy ocean: + + “Such sacrifices shalt thou bring, + To Odin and to Thor, O King, + As other kings have done in their devotion!” + + King Olaf answered: “I command + This land to be a Christian land; + Here is my Bishop who the folk baptizes! + + “But if you ask me to restore + Your sacrifices, stained with gore, + Then will I offer human sacrifices! + + “Not slaves nor peasants shall they be, + But men of note and high degree, + Such men as Orm of Lyra and Kar of Gryting!” + + Then to the Temple strode he in, + And loud behind him heard the din + Of his men-at-arms and the peasants fiercely fighting. + + There in their Temple, carved in wood, + The image of great Odin stood, + And other gods, with Thor supreme among them. + + King Olaf smote them with the blade + Of his huge war-axe, gold inlaid, + And downward shattered to the pavement flung them. + + At the same moment rose without, + From the contending crowd, a shout, + A mingled sound of triumph and of wailing. + + And there upon the trampled plain + The farmer Iron-Beard lay slain, + Midway between the assailed and the assailing. + + King Olaf from the doorway spoke: + “Choose ye between two things, my folk, + To be baptized or given up to slaughter!” + + And seeing their leader stark and dead, + The people with a murmur said, + “O King, baptize us with thy holy water!” + + So all the Drontheim land became + A Christian land in name and fame, + In the old gods no more believing and trusting. + + And as a blood-atonement, soon + King Olaf wed the fair Gudrun; + And thus in peace ended the Drontheim Hus-Ting! + + +VIII. + +GUDRUN. + + On King Olaf’s bridal night + Shines the moon with tender light, + And across the chamber streams + Its tide of dreams. + + At the fatal midnight hour, + When all evil things have power, + In the glimmer of the moon + Stands Gudrun. + + Close against her heaving breast, + Something in her hand is pressed; + Like an icicle, its sheen + Is cold and keen. + + On the cairn are fixed her eyes + Where her murdered father lies, + And a voice remote and drear + She seems to hear. + + What a bridal night is this? + Cold will be the dagger’s kiss; + Laden with the chill of death + Is its breath. + + Like the drifting snow she sweeps + To the couch where Olaf sleeps; + Suddenly he wakes and stirs, + His eyes meet hers. + + “What is that,” King Olaf said, + “Gleams so bright above thy head? + Wherefore standest thou so white + In pale moonlight?” + + “’Tis the bodkin that I wear + When at night I bind my hair; + It woke me falling on the floor; + ’Tis nothing more.” + + “Forests have ears, and fields have eyes; + Often treachery lurking lies + Underneath the fairest hair! + Gudrun, beware!” + + Ere the earliest peep of morn + Blew King Olaf’s bugle-horn; + And for ever sundered ride + Bridegroom and bride! + + +IX. + +THANGBRAND THE PRIEST. + + Short of stature, large of limb, + Burly face and russet beard, + All the women stared at him, + When in Iceland he appeared. + “Look!” they said, + With nodding head, + “There goes Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest.” + + All the prayers he knew by rote, + He could preach like Chrysostome, + From the fathers he could quote, + He had even been at Rome. + A learnèd clerk, + A man of mark, + Was this Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest. + + He was quarrelsome and loud, + And impatient of control, + Boisterous in the market crowd, + Boisterous at the wassail-bowl, + Everywhere + Would drink and swear, + Swaggering Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest. + + In his house this malecontent + Could the King no longer bear, + So to Iceland he was sent + To convert the heathen there, + And away + One summer day + Sailed this Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest. + + There in Iceland, o’er their books + Pored the people day and night, + But he did not like their looks, + Nor the songs they used to write. + “All this rhyme + Is waste of time!” + Grumbled Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest. + + To the alehouse, where he sat, + Came the Scalds and Saga-men; + Is it to be wondered at, + That they quarrelled now and then, + When o’er his beer + Began to leer + Drunken Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest? + + All the folk in Altafiord + Boasted of their island grand; + Saying in a single word, + “Iceland is the finest land + That the sun + Doth shine upon!” + Loud laughed Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest. + + And he answered: “What’s the use + Of this bragging up and down, + When three women and one goose + Make a market in your town!” + Every Scald + Satires scrawled + On poor Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest. + + Something worse they did than that; + And what vexed him most of all + Was a figure in shovel hat, + Drawn in charcoal on the wall; + With words that go + Sprawling below, + “This is Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest.” + + Hardly knowing what he did, + Then he smote them might and main, + Thorvald Veile and Veterlid + Lay there in the alehouse slain. + “To-day we are gold, + To-morrow mould!” + Muttered Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest. + + Much in fear of axe and rope, + Back to Norway sailed he then. + “O, King Olaf! little hope + Is there of these Iceland men!” + Meekly said, + With bending head, + Pious Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest. + + +X. + +RAUD THE STRONG. + + “All the old gods are dead, + All the wild warlocks fled; + But the white Christ lives and reigns, + And through my wide domains + His Gospel shall be spread!” + On the Evangelists + Thus swore King Olaf. + + But still in dreams of the night + Beheld he the crimson light, + And heard the voice that defied + Him who was crucified, + And challenged him to the fight. + To Sigurd the Bishop + King Olaf confessed it. + + And Sigurd the Bishop said, + “The old gods are not dead, + For the great Thor still reigns, + And among the Jarls and Thanes + The old witchcraft still is spread.” + Thus to King Olaf + Said Sigurd the Bishop. + + “Far north in the Salten Fiord, + By rapine, fire, and sword, + Lives the Viking, Raud the Strong; + All the Godoe Isles belong + To him and his heathen horde.” + Thus went on speaking + Sigurd the Bishop. + + “A warlock, a wizard is he, + And lord of the wind and the sea; + And whichever way he sails, + He has ever favouring gales, + By his craft in sorcery.” + Here the sign of the cross made + Devoutly King Olaf. + + “With rites that we both abhor, + He worships Odin and Thor; + So it cannot yet be said, + That all the old gods are dead, + And the warlocks are no more,” + Flushing with anger + Said Sigurd the Bishop. + + Then King Olaf cried aloud: + “I will talk with this mighty Raud, + And along the Salten Fiord + Preach the Gospel with my sword + Or be brought back in my shroud!” + So northward from Drontheim + Sailed King Olaf. + + +XI. + +BISHOP SIGURD AT SALTEN FIORD. + + Loud the angry wind was wailing + As King Olaf’s ships came sailing + Northward out of Drontheim haven + To the mouth of Salten Fiord. + + Though the flying sea-spray drenches, + Fore and aft, the rowers’ benches, + Not a single heart is craven + Of the champions there on board. + + All without the Fiord was quiet, + But within it storm and riot, + Such as on his Viking cruises + Raud the Strong was wont to ride. + + And the sea through all its tide-ways + Swept the reeling vessels sideways, + As the leaves are swept through sluices, + When the flood-gates open wide. + + “’Tis the warlock! ’tis the demon + Raud!” cried Sigurd to the seamen; + “But the Lord is not affrighted + By the witchcraft of his foes.” + + To the ship’s bow he ascended, + By his choristers attended, + Round him were the tapers lighted, + And the sacred incense rose. + + On the bow stood Bishop Sigurd, + In his robes, as one transfigured, + And the Crucifix he planted + High amid the rain and mist. + + Then with holy water sprinkled + All the ship; the mass-bells tinkled; + Loud the monks around him chanted, + Loud he read the Evangelist. + + As into the Fiord they darted, + On each side the water parted; + Down a path like silver molten + Steadily rowed King Olaf’s ships; + + Steadily burned all night the tapers, + And the White Christ through the vapours + Gleamed across the Fiord of Salten, + As through John’s Apocalypse,— + + Till at last they reached Raud’s dwelling + On the little isle of Gelling; + Not a guard was at the doorway, + Not a glimmer of light was seen. + + But at anchor, carved and gilded, + Lay the dragon ship he builded; + ’Twas the grandest ship in Norway, + With its crest and scales of green. + + Up the stairway, softly creeping, + To the loft where Raud was sleeping, + With their fists they burst asunder + Bolt and bar that held the door. + + Drunken with sleep and ale they found him, + Dragged him from his bed and bound him, + While he stared with stupid wonder, + At the look and garb they wore. + + Then King Olaf said: “O Sea-King! + Little time have we for speaking, + Choose between the good and evil; + Be baptized, or thou shalt die!” + + But in scorn the heathen scoffer + Answered: “I disdain thine offer; + Neither fear I God nor Devil; + Thee and thy Gospel I defy!” + + Then between his jaws distended, + When his frantic struggles ended, + Through King Olaf’s horn an adder, + Touched by fire, they forced to glide. + + Sharp his tooth was as an arrow, + As he gnawed through bone and marrow; + But without a groan or shudder, + Raud the Strong blaspheming died. + + Then baptized they all that region, + Swarthy Lap and fair Norwegian, + Far as swims the salmon, leaping, + Up the streams of Salten Fiord. + + In their temples Thor and Odin + Lay in dust and ashes trodden, + As King Olaf, onward sweeping, + Preached the Gospel with his sword. + + Then he took the carved and gilded + Dragon-ship that Raud had builded, + And the tiller single-handed, + Grasping, steered into the main. + + Southward sailed the sea-gulls o’er him, + Southward sailed the ship that bore him, + Till at Drontheim haven landed + Olaf and his crew again. + + +XII. + +KING OLAF’S CHRISTMAS. + + At Drontheim, Olaf the King + Heard the bells of Yule-tide ring, + As he sat in his banquet-hall, + Drinking the nut-brown ale, + With his bearded Berserks hale + And tall. + + Three days his Yule-tide feasts + He held with Bishops and Priests, + And his horn filled up to the brim, + But the ale was never too strong, + Nor the Saga-man’s tale too long, + For him. + + O’er his drinking horn, the sign + He made of the Cross divine, + As he drank, and muttered his prayers; + But the Berserks evermore + Made the sign of the Hammer of Thor + Over theirs. + + The gleams of the fire-light dance + Upon helmet and hauberk and lance, + And laugh in the eyes of the King; + And he cries to Halfred the Scald, + Grey-bearded, wrinkled, and bald, + “Sing! + + Sing me a song divine, + With a sword in every line, + And this shall be thy reward.” + And he loosened the belt at his waist, + And in front of the singer placed + His sword. + + “Quern-biter of Hakon the Good, + Wherewith at a stroke he hewed + The millstone through and through, + And Foot-breadth of Thoralf the Strong, + Were neither so broad nor so long, + Nor so true.” + + Then the Scald took his harp and sang, + And loud through the music rang + The sound of that shining word; + And the harp-strings a clangour made, + As if they were struck with the blade + Of a sword. + + And the Berserks round about + Broke forth into a shout + That made the rafters ring; + They smote with their fists on the board, + And shouted, “Long live the Sword, + And the King!” + + But the King said, “O my son, + I miss the bright word in one + Of thy measures and thy rhymes.” + And Halfred the Scald replied, + “In another ’twas multiplied + Three times.” + + Then King Olaf raised the hilt + Of iron, cross-shaped and gilt, + And said, “Do not refuse; + Count well the gain and the loss, + Thor’s hammer or Christ’s cross; + Choose!” + + And Halfred the Scald said, “This + In the name of the Lord I kiss, + Who on it was crucified!” + And a shout went round the board, + “In the name of Christ the Lord, + Who died!” + + Then over the waste of snows + The noonday sun uprose, + Through the driving mists revealed, + Like the lifting of the Host, + By incense-clouds almost + Concealed. + + On the shining wall a vast + And shadowy cross was cast + From the hilt of the lifted sword, + And in foaming cups of ale + The Berserks drank “Was-hael! + To the Lord!” + + +XIII. + +THE BUILDING OF THE LONG SERPENT. + + Thorberg Skafting, master-builder, + In his ship-yard by the sea, + Whistled, saying, “’Twould bewilder + Any man but Thorberg Skafting, + Any man but me!” + + Near him lay the Dragon stranded, + Built of old by Raud the Strong. + And King Olaf had commanded + He should build another Dragon, + Twice as large and long. + + Therefore whistled Thorberg Skafting, + As he sat with half-closed eyes, + And his head turned sideways, drafting + That new vessel for King Olaf, + Twice the Dragon’s size. + + Round him busily hewed and hammered + Mallet huge and heavy axe; + Workmen laughed and sang and clamoured, + Whirred the wheels that into rigging + Spun the shining flax! + + All this tumult heard the master,— + It was music to his ear; + Fancy whispered all the faster, + “Men shall hear of Thorberg Skafting + For a hundred year!” + + Workmen sweating at the forges + Fashioned iron bolt and bar, + Like a warlock’s midnight orgies + Smoked and bubbled the black cauldron + With the boiling tar. + + Did the warlocks mingle in it, + Thorberg Skafting, any curse? + Could you not be gone a minute + But some mischief must be doing, + Turning bad to worse? + + ’Twas an ill wind that came wafting + From his homestead words of woe; + To his farm went Thorberg Skafting, + Oft repeating to his workmen, + Build ye thus and so. + + After long delays returning, + Came the master back by night; + To his ship-yard longing, yearning, + Hurried he, and did not leave it + Till the morning’s light. + + “Come and see my ship, my darling!” + On the morrow said the King; + “Finished now from keel to carling; + Never yet was seen in Norway + Such a wondrous thing!” + + In the ship-yard, idly talking, + At the ship the workmen stared: + Some one, all their labour balking, + Down her sides had cut deep gashes, + Not a plank was spared! + + “Death be to the evil-doer!” + With an oath King Olaf spoke; + “But rewards to his pursuer!” + And with wrath his face grew redder + Than his scarlet cloak. + + Straight the master-builder, smiling, + Answered thus the angry King: + “Cease blaspheming and reviling, + Olaf, it was Thorberg Skafting + Who has done this thing!” + + Then he chipped and smoothed the planking, + Till the King, delighted, swore, + With much lauding and much thanking + “Handsomer is now my Dragon + Than she was before!” + + Seventy ells and four extended + On the grass the vessel’s keel; + High above it, gilt and splendid, + Rose the figure-head ferocious, + With its crest of steel. + + Then they launched her from the tressels, + In the ship-yard by the sea; + She was the grandest of all vessels, + Never ship was built in Norway + Half so fine as she! + + The Long Serpent was she christened, + ’Mid the roar of cheer on cheer! + They who to the Saga listened + Heard the name of Thorberg Skafting + For a hundred year! + + +XIV. + +THE CREW OF THE LONG SERPENT. + + Safe at anchor in Drontheim Bay + King Olaf’s fleet assembled lay, + And, striped with white and blue, + Downward fluttered sail and banner, + As alights the screaming lanner; + Lustily cheered, in their wild manner, + The Long Serpent’s crew. + + Her forecastle man was Ulf the Red; + Like a wolf’s was his shaggy head, + His teeth as large and white; + His beard of grey and russet blended, + Round as a swallow’s nest descended; + As standard-bearer he defended + Olaf’s flag in the fight. + + Near him Kolbiorn had his place, + Like the King in garb and face, + So gallant and so hale; + Every cabin-boy and varlet + Wondered at his cloak of scarlet; + Like a river frozen and star-lit, + Gleamed his coat of mail. + + By the bulkhead, tall and dark, + Stood Thrand Rame of Thelemark, + A figure gaunt and grand; + On his hairy arm imprinted + Was an anchor, azure-tinted; + Like Thor’s hammer, huge and dinted + Was his brawny hand. + + Einar Tamberskelver, bare + To the winds his golden hair, + By the mainmast stood; + Graceful was his form, and slender, + And his eyes were deep and tender + As a woman’s, in the splendour + Of her maidenhood. + + In the fore-hold Biorn and Bork + Watched the sailors at their work: + Heavens! how they swore! + Thirty men they each commanded, + Iron-sinewed, horny-handed, + Shoulders broad and chests expanded, + Tugging at the oar. + + These, and many more like these, + With King Olaf sailed the seas, + Till the waters vast + Filled them with a vague devotion, + With the freedom and the motion, + With the roll and roar of ocean + And the sounding blast. + + When they landed from the fleet, + How they roared through Drontheim’s street, + Boisterous as the gale! + How they laughed and stamped and pounded, + Till the tavern roof resounded, + And the host looked on astounded + As they drank the ale! + + Never saw the wild North Sea + Such a gallant company + Sail its billows blue! + Never, while they cruised and quarrelled, + Old King Gorm, or Blue-Tooth Harald, + Owned a ship so well apparelled, + Boasted such a crew! + + +XV. + +A LITTLE BIRD IN THE AIR. + + A little bird in the air + Is singing of Thyri the fair, + The sister of Svend the Dane; + And the song of the garrulous bird + In the streets of the town is heard, + And repeated again and again. + Hoist up your sails of silk, + And flee away from each other. + + To King Burislaf, it is said, + Was the beautiful Thyri wed, + And a sorrowful bride went she; + And after a week and a day, + She has fled away and away, + From his town by the stormy sea. + Hoist up your sails of silk, + And flee away from each other. + + They say that through heat and through cold, + Through weald, they say, and through wold, + By day and by night, they say, + She has fled; and the gossips report + She has come to King Olaf’s court, + And the town is all in dismay. + Hoist up your sails of silk, + And flee away from each other. + + It is whispered King Olaf has seen, + Has talked with the beautiful Queen; + And they wonder how it will end; + For surely, if here she remain, + It is war with King Svend the Dane, + And King Burislaf the Vend! + Hoist up your sails of silk, + And flee away from each other. + + O, greatest wonder of all! + It is published in hamlet and hall, + It roars like a flame that is fanned! + The King—yes, Olaf the king— + Has wedded her with his ring, + And Thyri is Queen in the land! + Hoist up your sails of silk, + And flee away from each other. + + +XVI. + +QUEEN THYRI AND THE ANGELICA-STALKS. + + Northward over Drontheim + Flew the clamorous sea-gulls, + Sang the lark and linnet + From the meadows green; + + Weeping in her chamber, + Lonely and unhappy, + Sat the Drottning Thyri, + Sat King Olaf’s Queen. + + In at all the windows + Streamed the pleasant sunshine; + On the roof above her + Softly cooed the dove; + + But the sound she heard not, + Nor the sunshine heeded, + For the thoughts of Thyri + Were not thoughts of love. + + Then King Olaf entered, + Beautiful as morning, + Like the sun at Easter + Shone his happy face; + + In his hand he carried + Angelicas uprooted, + With delicious fragrance + Filling all the place. + + Like a rainy midnight + Sat the Drottning Thyri, + Even the smile of Olaf + Could not cheer her gloom; + + Nor the stalks he gave her + With a gracious gesture, + And with words as pleasant + As their own perfume. + + In her hands he placed them, + And her jewelled fingers + Through the green leaves glistened + Like the dews of morn; + + But she cast them from her, + Haughty and indignant, + On the floor she threw them + With a look of scorn. + + “Richer presents,” said she, + “Gave King Harald Gormson + To the Queen, my mother, + Than such worthless weeds; + + “When he ravaged Norway, + Laying waste the kingdom, + Seizing scatt and treasure + For her royal needs. + + “But thou darest not venture + Through the Sound to Vendland, + My domains to rescue + From King Burislaf; + + “Lest King Svend of Denmark, + Forkèd Beard, my brother, + Scatter all thy vessels + As the wind the chaff.” + + Then up sprang King Olaf, + Like a reindeer bounding, + With an oath he answered + Thus the luckless Queen: + + “Never yet did Olaf + Fear King Svend of Denmark; + This right hand shall hale him + By his forkèd chin!” + + Then he left the chamber, + Thundering through the doorway, + Loud his steps resounded + Down the outer stair. + + Smarting with the insult, + Through the streets of Drontheim + Strode he red and wrathful, + With his stately air. + + All his ships he gathered, + Summoned all his forces, + Making his war levy + In the region round; + + Down the coast of Norway, + Like a flock of sea-gulls, + Sailed the fleet of Olaf + Through the Danish Sound. + + With his own hand fearless, + Steered he the Long Serpent, + Strained the creaking cordage, + Bent each boom and gaff; + + Till in Vendland landing, + The domains of Thyri + He redeemed and rescued + From King Burislaf. + + Then said Olaf, laughing, + “Not ten yoke of oxen + Have the power to draw us + Like a woman’s hair! + + “Now will I confess it, + Better things are jewels + Than angelica-stalks are + For a Queen to wear.” + + +XVII. + +KING SVEND OF THE FORKÈD BEARD. + + Loudly the sailors cheered + Svend of the Forkèd Beard, + As with his fleet he steered + Southward to Vendland; + Where with their courses hauled + All were together called, + Under the Isle of Svald, + Near to the mainland. + + After Queen Gunhild’s death, + So the old Saga saith, + Plighted King Svend his faith + To Sigrid the Haughty; + And to avenge his bride, + Soothing her wounded pride, + Over the waters wide + King Olaf sought he. + + Still on her scornful face, + Blushing with deep disgrace, + Bore she the crimson trace + Of Olaf’s gauntlet; + Like a malignant star, + Blazing in heaven afar, + Red shone the angry scar + Under her frontlet. + + Oft to King Svend she spake, + “For thine own honour’s sake + Shalt thou swift vengeance take + On the vile coward!” + Until the King at last, + Gusty and overcast, + Like a tempestuous blast + Threatened and lowered. + + Soon as the Spring appeared, + Svend of the Forkèd Beard + High his red standard reared, + Eager for battle; + While every warlike Dane, + Seizing his arms again, + Left all unsown the grain, + Unhoused the cattle. + + Likewise the Swedish King + Summoned in haste a Thing, + Weapons and men to bring + In aid of Denmark; + Eric the Norseman, too, + As the war-tidings flew, + Sailed with a chosen crew + From Lapland and Finmark. + + So upon Easter day + Sailed the three kings away + Out of the sheltered bay, + In the bright season; + With them Earl Sigvald came, + Eager for spoil and fame; + Pity that such a name + Stooped to such treason! + + Safe under Svald at last, + Now were their anchors cast, + Safe from the sea and blast, + Plotted the three kings; + While, with a base intent, + Southward Earl Sigvald went, + On a foul errand bent, + Unto the Sea-kings, + + Thence to hold on his course, + Unto King Olaf’s force, + Lying within the hoarse + Mouths of Stet-haven; + Him to ensnare and bring + Unto the Danish King, + Who his dead corse would fling + Forth to the raven! + + +XVIII. + +KING OLAF AND EARL SIGVALD. + + On the grey sea-sands + King Olaf stands, + Northward and seaward + He points with his hands. + + With eddy and whirl + The sea-tides curl, + Washing the sandals + Of Sigvald the Earl. + + The mariners shout, + The ships swing about, + The yards are all hoisted, + The sails flutter out. + + The war-horns are played, + The anchors are weighed, + Like moths in the distance + The sails flit and fade. + + The sea is like lead, + The harbour lies dead, + As a corse on the sea-shore, + Whose spirit has fled! + + On that fatal day, + The histories say, + Seventy vessels + Sailed out of the bay + + But soon scattered wide + O’er the billows they ride, + While Sigvald and Olaf + Sail side by side. + + Cried the Earl: “Follow me! + I your pilot will be, + For I know all the channels + Where flows the deep sea!” + + So into the strait + Where his foes lie in wait, + Gallant King Olaf + Sails to his fate! + + Then the sea-fog veils + The ships and their sails; + Queen Sigrid the Haughty, + Thy vengeance prevails! + + +XIX. + +KING OLAF’S WAR-HORNS. + + “Strike the sails!” King Olaf said; + “Never shall men of mine take flight: + Never away from battle I fled, + Never away from my foes! + Let God dispose + Of my life in the fight!” + + “Sound the horns!” said Olaf the King; + And suddenly through the drifting brume + The blare of the horns began to ring, + Like the terrible trumpet shock + Of Regnarock, + On the Day of Doom! + + Louder and louder the war-horns sang + Over the level floor of the flood; + All the sails came down with a clang, + And there in the mist overhead + The sun hung red + As a drop of blood. + + Drifting down on the Danish fleet + Three together the ships were lashed, + So that neither should turn and retreat; + In the midst, but in front of the rest, + The burnished crest + Of the Serpent flashed. + + King Olaf stood on the quarter-deck, + With bow of ash and arrows of oak, + His gilded shield was without a fleck, + His helmet inlaid with gold, + And in many a fold + Hung his crimson cloak. + + On the forecastle Ulf the Red + Watched the lashing of the ships; + “If the Serpent lie so far ahead, + We shall have hard work of it here, + Said he with a sneer + On his bearded lips. + + King Olaf laid an arrow on string, + “Have I a coward on board?” said he. + “Shoot it another way, O King!” + Sullenly answered Ulf, + The old sea-wolf; + “You have need of me!” + + In front came Svend, the King of the Danes, + Sweeping down with his fifty rowers; + To the right, the Swedish king with his Thanes; + And on board of the Iron-Beard + Earl Eric steered + On the left with his oars. + + “These soft Danes and Swedes,” said the King, + “At home with their wives had better stay, + Than come within reach of my Serpent’s sting; + But where the Norseman leads, + Heroic deeds + Will be done to-day!” + + Then as together the vessels crashed, + Eric severed the cables of hide + With which King Olaf’s ships were lashed, + And left them to drive and drift + With the currents swift + Of the outward tide. + + Louder the war-horns growl and snarl, + Sharper the dragons bite and sting! + Eric the son of Hakon Jarl + A death-drink salt as the sea + Pledges to thee, + Olaf the King! + + +XX. + +EINAR TAMBERSKELVER. + + It was Einar Tamberskelver + Stood beside the mast; + From his yew-bow, tipped with silver + Flew the arrows fast; + Aimed at Eric unavailing, + As he sat concealed, + Half behind the quarter-railing, + Half behind his shield. + + First an arrow struck the tiller, + Just above his head; + “Sing, O Eyvind Skaldaspiller,” + Then Earl Eric said, + “Sing the song of Hakon dying, + Sing his funeral wail!” + And another arrow flying + Grazed his coat of mail. + + Turning to a Lapland yeoman, + As the arrow passed, + Said Earl Eric, “Shoot that bowman + Standing by the mast.” + Sooner than the word was spoken + Flew the yeoman’s shaft; + Einar’s bow in twain was broken, + Einar only laughed. + + “What was that?” said Olaf, standing + On the quarter-deck. + “Something heard I like the stranding + Of a shattered wreck.” + Einar then, the arrow taking + From the loosened string, + Answered, “That was Norway breaking + From thy hand, O king!” + + “Thou art but a poor diviner,” + Straightway Olaf said; + “Take my bow, and swifter, Einar + Let thy shafts be sped.” + Of his bows the fairest choosing, + Reached he from above; + Einar saw the blood-drops oozing + Through his iron glove. + + But the bow was thin and narrow; + At the first assay, + O’er its head he drew the arrow, + Flung the bow away; + Said, with hot and angry temper + Flushing in his cheek, + “Olaf! for so great a Kämper + Are thy bows too weak!” + + Then, with smile of joy defiant + On his beardless lip, + Scaled he, light and self-reliant, + Eric’s dragon-ship. + Loose his golden locks were flowing, + Bright his armour gleamed; + Like Saint Michael overthrowing + Lucifer he seemed. + + +XXI. + +KING OLAF’S DEATH-DRINK. + + All day has the battle raged, + All day have the ships engaged, + But not yet is assuaged + The vengeance of Eric the Earl. + + The decks with blood are red, + The arrows of death are sped, + The ships are filled with the dead, + And the spears the champions hurl. + + They drift as wrecks on the tide, + The grappling-irons are plied, + The boarders climb up the side, + The shouts are feeble and few. + + Ah! never shall Norway again + See her sailors come back o’er the main; + They all lie wounded or slain + Or asleep in the billows blue! + + On the deck stands Olaf the King, + Around him whistle and sing + The spears that the foemen fling, + And the stones they hurl with their hands. + + In the midst of the stones and the spears, + Kolbiorn, the marshal, appears, + His shield in the air he uprears, + By the side of King Olaf he stands. + + Over the slippery wreck + Of the Long Serpent’s deck + Sweeps Eric with hardly a check, + His lips with anger are pale; + + He hews with his axe at the mast, + Till it falls, with the sails overcast, + Like a snow-covered pine in the vast + Dim forests of Orkadale. + + Seeking King Olaf then, + He rushes aft with his men, + As a hunter into the den + Of the bear, when he stands at bay. + + “Remember Jarl Hakon!” he cries; + When lo! on his wondering eyes, + Two kingly figures arise, + Two Olafs in warlike array. + + Then Kolbiorn speaks in the ear + Of King Olaf a word of cheer, + In a whisper that none may hear, + With a smile on his tremulous lip; + + Two shields raised high in the air, + Two flashes of golden hair, + Two scarlet meteors’ glare, + And both have leapt from the ship. + + Earl Eric’s men in the boats + Seize Kolbiorn’s shield as it floats, + And cry, from their hairy throats, + “See! it is Olaf the King!” + + While far on the opposite side + Floats another shield on the tide, + Like a jewel set in the wide + Sea-current’s eddying ring. + + There is told a wonderful tale, + How the King stripped off his mail, + Like leaves of the brown sea-kale, + As he swam beneath the main; + + But the young grew old and grey, + And never, by night or by day, + In his kingdom of Norroway + Was King Olaf seen again! + + +XXII. + +THE NUN OF NIDAROS. + + In the convent of Drontheim, + Alone in her chamber + Knelt Astrid, the Abbess, + At midnight, adoring, + Beseeching, entreating + The Virgin and Mother. + + She heard in the silence + The voice of one speaking, + Without in the darkness, + In gusts of the night-wind, + Now louder, now nearer, + Now lost in the distance. + + The voice of a stranger + It seemed as she listened, + Of some one who answered, + Beseeching, imploring, + A cry from afar off + She could not distinguish. + + The voice of Saint John, + The belovèd disciple, + Who wandered and waited + The Master’s appearance, + Alone in the darkness, + Unsheltered and friendless. + + “It is accepted, + The angry defiance, + The challenge of battle! + It is accepted, + But not with the weapons + Of war that thou wieldest! + + “Cross against corslet, + Love against hatred. + Peace-cry for war-cry! + Patience is powerful; + He that o’ercometh + Hath power o’er the nations! + + “As torrents in summer, + Half dried in their channels, + Suddenly rise, though the + Sky is still cloudless, + For rain has been falling + Far off at their fountains; + + “So hearts that are fainting + Grow full to o’erflowing, + And they that behold it + Marvel, and know not + That God at their fountains + Far off has been raining! + + “Stronger than steel + Is the sword of the Spirit; + Swifter than arrows + The light of the truth is; + Greater than anger + Is love, and subdueth! + + “Thou art a phantom, + A shape of the sea-mist, + A shape of the brumal + Rain, and the darkness + Fearful and formless; + Day dawns and thou art not! + + “The dawn is not distant, + Nor is the night starless; + Love is eternal! + God is still God, and + His faith shall not fail us; + Christ is eternal!” + + +INTERLUDE. + + A strain of music closed the tale, + A low, monotonous, funeral wail, + That with its cadence, wild and sweet, + Made the long Saga more complete. + + “Thank God!” the Theologian said, + “The reign of violence is dead, + Or dying surely from the world; + While Love triumphant reigns instead, + And in a brighter sky o’erhead + His blessèd banners are unfurled. + And most of all thank God for this: + The war and waste of clashing creeds + Now end in words, and not in deeds, + And no one suffers loss or bleeds + For thoughts that men call heresies. + + “I stand without here in the porch, + I hear the bell’s melodious din, + I hear the organ peal within, + I hear the prayer, with words that scorch + Like sparks from an inverted torch, + I hear the sermon upon sin, + With threatenings of the last account, + And all, translated in the air, + Reach me but as our dear Lord’s Prayer, + And as the Sermon on the Mount. + + “Must it be Calvin, and not Christ? + Must it be Athanasian creeds, + Or holy water, books, and beads? + Must struggling souls remain content + With councils and decrees of Trent? + And can it be enough for these + The Christian Church the year embalms + With evergreens and boughs of palms, + And fills the air with litanies? + + “I know that yonder Pharisee + Thanks God that he is not like me; + In my humiliation dressed, + I only stand and beat my breast, + And pray for human charity. + + “Not to one church alone, but seven, + The voice prophetic spake from heaven; + And unto each the promise came, + Diversified, but still the same; + For him that overcometh are + The new name written on the stone, + The raiment white, the crown, the throne, + And I will give him the Morning Star! + + “Ah! to how many Faith has been + No evidence of things unseen, + But a dim shadow, that recasts + The creed of the Phantasiasts, + For whom no Man of Sorrows died, + For whom the Tragedy Divine + Was but a symbol and a sign, + And Christ a phantom crucified! + + “For others a diviner creed + Is living in the life they lead. + The passing of their beautiful feet + Blesses the pavement of the street, + And all their looks and words repeat + Old Fuller’s saying, wise and sweet, + Not as a vulture, but a dove, + The Holy Ghost came from above. + + “And this brings back to me a tale + So sad the hearer well may quail, + And question if such things can be; + Yet in the chronicles of Spain + Down the dark pages runs this stain, + And nought can wash them white again, + So fearful is the tragedy.” + + +THE THEOLOGIAN’S TALE. + +TORQUEMADA. + + In the heroic days when Ferdinand + And Isabella ruled the Spanish land, + And Torquemada, with his subtle brain, + Ruled them, as Grand Inquisitor of Spain, + In a great castle near Valladolid, + Moated and high and by fair woodlands hid, + There dwelt, as from the chronicles we learn, + An old Hidalgo, proud and taciturn, + Whose name has perished with his towers of stone, + And all his actions, save this one alone; + This one so terrible, perhaps ’twere best + If it, too, were forgotten with the rest; + Unless, perchance, our eyes can see therein + The martyrdom triumphant o’er the sin; + A double picture, with its gloom and glow, + The splendour overhead, the death below. + + This sombre man counted each day as lost + On which his feet no sacred threshold crossed; + And when he chanced the passing Host to meet, + He knelt and prayed devoutly in the street; + Oft he confessed; and with each mutinous thought, + As with wild beasts at Ephesus, he fought. + In deep contrition scourged himself in Lent, + Walked in processions with his head down bent; + At plays of Corpus Christi oft was seen, + And on Palm Sunday bore his bough of green. + His sole diversion was to hunt the boar, + Through tangled thickets of the forest hoar, + Or with his jingling mules to hurry down + To some grand bull-fight in the neighbouring town, + Or in the crowd with lighted taper stand, + When Jews were burned, or banished from the land. + Then stirred within him a tumultuous joy; + The demon whose delight is to destroy + Shook him, and shouted with a trumpet tone, + “Kill! kill! and let the Lord find out his own!” + And now, in that old castle in the wood, + His daughters in the dawn of womanhood, + Returning from their convent school, had made + Resplendent with their bloom the forest shade, + Reminding him of their dead mother’s face, + When first she came into that gloomy place,— + A memory in his heart as dim and sweet + As moonlight in a solitary street, + Where the same rays, that lift the sea, are thrown + Lovely but powerless upon walls of stone. + These two fair daughters of a mother dead + Were all the dream had left him as it fled. + A joy at first, and then a growing care, + As if a voice within him cried, “Beware!” + A vague presentiment of impending doom, + Like ghostly footsteps in a vacant room, + Haunted him day and night; a formless fear + That death to some one of his house was near, + With dark surmises of a hidden crime, + Made life itself a death before its time. + Jealous, suspicious, with no sense of shame, + A spy upon his daughters he became; + With velvet slippers, noiseless on the floors, + He glided softly through half-open doors; + Now in the room, and now upon the stair, + He stood beside them ere they were aware; + He listened in the passage when they talked, + He watched them from the casement when they walked; + He saw the gipsy haunt the river’s side, + He saw the monk among the cork-trees glide; + And tortured by the mystery and the doubt + Of some dark secret, past his finding out, + Baffled he paused; then reassured again + Pursued the flying phantom of his brain. + He watched them even when they knelt in church; + And then, descending lower in his search, + Questioned the servants, and with eager eyes + Listened incredulous to their replies; + The gipsy? none had seen her in the wood! + The monk? a mendicant in search of food! + + At length the awful revelation came, + Crushing at once his pride of birth and name, + The hopes his yearning bosom forward cast, + And the ancestral glories of the past; + All fell together crumbling in disgrace, + A turret rent from battlement to base. + His daughters talking in the dead of night + In their own chamber, and without a light, + Listening, as he was wont, he overheard, + And learned the dreadful secret, word by word; + And hurrying from his castle, with a cry + He raised his hands to the unpitying sky, + Repeating one dread word, till bush and tree + Caught it, and shuddering answered, “Heresy!” + + Wrapped in his cloak, his hat drawn o’er his face, + Now hurrying forward, now with lingering pace, + He walked all night the alleys of his park, + With one unseen companion in the dark, + The demon who within him lay in wait, + And by his presence turned his love to hate, + For ever muttering in an undertone, + “Kill! kill! and let the Lord find out his own!” + + Upon the morrow, after early Mass, + While yet the dew was glistening on the grass, + And all the woods were musical with birds, + The old Hidalgo, uttering fearful words, + Walked homeward with the priest, and in his room + Summoned his trembling daughters to their doom. + When questioned, with brief answers they replied, + Nor when accused evaded or denied; + Expostulations, passionate appeals, + All that the human heart most fears or feels, + In vain the Priest with earnest voice essayed, + In vain the father threatened, wept, and prayed; + Until at last he said, with haughty mien, + “The Holy Office, then, must intervene!” + + And now the Grand Inquisitor of Spain, + With all the fifty horsemen of his train, + His awful name resounding, like the blast + Of funeral trumpets, as he onward passed, + Came to Valladolid, and there began + To harry the rich Jews with fire and ban. + To him the Hidalgo went, and at the gate + Demanded audience on affairs of state, + And in a secret chamber stood before + A venerable grey-beard of fourscore, + Dressed in the hood and habit of a friar; + Out of his eyes flashed a consuming fire, + And in his hand the mystic horn he held, + Which poison and all noxious charms dispelled. + He heard in silence the Hidalgo’s tale, + Then answered in a voice that made him quail: + “Son of the Church! when Abraham of old + To sacrifice his only son was told, + He did not pause to parley nor protest, + But hastened to obey the Lord’s behest. + In him it was accounted righteousness; + The Holy Church expects of thee no less!” + + A sacred frenzy seized the father’s brain, + And Mercy from that hour implored in vain. + Ah! who will e’er believe the words I say? + His daughters he accused, and the same day + They both were cast into the dungeon’s gloom, + That dismal ante-chamber of the tomb, + Arraigned, condemned, and sentenced to the flame, + The secret torture and the public shame. + + Then to the Grand Inquisitor once more + The Hidalgo went, more eager than before, + And said: “When Abraham offered up his son, + He clave the wood wherewith it might be done. + By his example taught, let me too bring + Wood from the forest for my offering!” + And the deep voice, without a pause, replied: + “Son of the Church! by faith now justified, + Complete thy sacrifice, even as thou wilt; + The Church absolves thy conscience from all guilt!” + Then this most wretched father went his way + Into the woods that round his castle lay, + Where once his daughters in their childhood played + With their young mother in the sun and shade. + Now all the leaves had fallen; the branches bare + Made a perpetual moaning in the air, + And screaming from their eyries overhead + The ravens sailed athwart the sky of lead. + With his own hands he lopped the boughs and bound + Faggots, that crackled with foreboding sound, + And on his mules, caparisoned and gay + With bells and tassels, sent them on their way. + Then with his mind on one dark purpose bent, + Again to the Inquisitor he went, + And said: “Behold the faggots I have brought, + And now, lest my atonement be as nought, + Grant me one more request, one last desire,— + With my own hand to light the funeral fire!” + And Torquemada answered from his seat, + “Son of the Church! thine offering is complete; + Her servants through all ages shall not cease + To magnify thy deed. Depart in peace!” + + Upon the market-place, builded of stone + The scaffold rose, whereon Death claimed his own. + At the four corners, in stern attitude, + Four statues of the Hebrew Prophets stood, + Gazing with calm indifference in their eyes + Upon this place of human sacrifice, + Round which was gathering fast the eager crowd, + With clamour of voices dissonant and loud, + And every roof and window was alive + With restless gazers, swarming like a hive. + + The church-bells tolled, the chant of monks drew near, + Loud trumpets stammered forth their notes of fear, + A line of torches smoked along the street, + There was a stir, a rush, a tramp of feet, + And, with its banners floating in the air, + Slowly the long procession crossed the square, + And, to the statues of the Prophets bound, + The victims stood, with faggots piled around. + Then all the air a blast of trumpets shook, + And louder sang the monks with bell and book, + And the Hidalgo, lofty, stern, and proud, + Lifted his torch, and, bursting through the crowd, + Lighted in haste the faggots, and then fled, + Lest those imploring eyes should strike him dead! + + O pitiless skies! why did your clouds retain + For peasants’ fields their floods of hoarded rain? + O pitiless earth! why opened no abyss + To bury in its chasm a crime like this? + + That night, a mingled column of fire and smoke + From the dark thickets of the forest broke, + And, glaring o’er the landscape leagues away, + Made all the fields and hamlets bright as day. + Wrapped in a sheet of flame the castle blazed, + And as the villagers in terror gazed, + They saw the figure of that cruel knight + Lean from a window in the turret’s height, + His ghastly face illumined with the glare, + His hands upraised above his head in prayer, + Till the floor sank beneath him, and he fell + Down the black hollow of that burning well. + + Three centuries and more above his bones + Have piled the oblivious years like funeral stones; + His name has perished with him, and no trace + Remains on earth of his afflicted race; + But Torquemada’s name, with clouds o’ercast, + Looms in the distant landscape of the Past, + Like a burnt tower upon a blackened heath, + Lit by the fires of burning woods beneath! + + +INTERLUDE. + + Thus closed the tale of guilt and gloom, + That cast upon each listener’s face + Its shadow, and for some brief space + Unbroken silence filled the room. + The Jew was thoughtful and distressed; + Upon his memory thronged and pressed + The persecution of his race, + Their wrongs and sufferings and disgrace; + His head was sunk upon his breast, + And from his eyes alternate came + Flashes of wrath and tears of shame. + + The Student first the silence broke, + As one who long has laid in wait, + With purpose to retaliate, + And thus he dealt the avenging stroke. + + “In such a company as this, + A tale so tragic seems amiss, + That by its terrible control + O’ermasters and drags down the soul + Into a fathomless abyss. + The Italian Tales that you disdain, + Some merry Night of Straparole, + Or Machiavelli’s Belphagor, + Would cheer us and delight us more, + Give greater pleasure and less pain + Than your grim tragedies of Spain!” + + And here the Poet raised his hand, + With such entreaty and command, + It stopped discussion at its birth, + And said: “The story I shall tell + Has meaning in it, if not mirth; + Listen, and hear what once befell + The merry birds of Killingworth!” + + +THE POET’S TALE. + +THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. + + It was the season, when through all the land + The merle and mavis build, and building sing + Those lovely lyrics, written by his hand, + Whom Saxon Cædmon calls the Blithe-heart King; + When on the boughs the purple buds expand, + The banners of the vanguard of the Spring, + And rivulets, rejoicing, rush and leap, + And wave their fluttering signals from the steep. + + The robin and the blue-bird, piping loud, + Filled all the blossoming orchards with their glee; + The sparrows chirped as if they still were proud + Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned be; + And hungry crows assembled in a crowd, + Clamoured their piteous prayer incessantly, + Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and said: + “Give us, O Lord, this day our daily bread!” + + Across the Sound the birds of passage sailed, + Speaking some unknown language strange and sweet + Of tropic isle remote, and passing hailed + The village with the cheers of all their fleet; + Or, quarrelling together, laughed and railed + Like foreign sailors, landed in the street + Of seaport town, and with outlandish noise + Of oaths and gibberish frightening girls and boys. + + Thus came the jocund Spring in Killingworth, + In fabulous days, some hundred years ago; + And thrifty farmers, as they tilled the earth, + Heard with alarm the cawing of the crow, + That mingled with the universal mirth, + Cassandra-like, prognosticating woe; + They shook their heads, and doomed with dreadful words + To swift destruction the whole race of birds. + + And a town-meeting was convened straightway + To set a price upon the guilty heads + Of these marauders, who, in lieu of pay, + Levied black-mail upon the garden beds + And corn-fields, and beheld without dismay + The awful scarecrow, with his fluttering shreds; + The skeleton that waited at their feast, + Whereby their sinful pleasure was increased. + + Then from his house, a temple painted white, + With fluted columns and a roof of red, + The Squire came forth, august and splendid sight! + Slowly descending, with majestic tread, + Three flights of steps, nor looking left nor right, + Down the long street he walked, as one who said, + “A town that boasts inhabitants like me + Can have no lack of good society!” + + The Parson, too, appeared, a man austere, + The instinct of whose nature was to kill; + The wrath of God he preached from year to year, + And read, with fervour, Edwards on the Will; + His favourite pastime was to slay the deer + In Summer on some Adirondac hill; + E’en now, while walking down the rural lane, + He lopped the wayside lilies with his cane. + + From the Academy, whose belfry crowned + The hill of Science with its vane of brass, + Came the Preceptor, gazing idly round, + Now at the clouds, and now at the green grass, + And all absorbed in reveries profound + Of fair Almira in the upper class, + Who was, as in a sonnet he had said, + As pure as water, and as good as bread. + + And next the Deacon issued from his door, + In his voluminous neck-cloth, white as snow; + A suit of sable bombazine he wore; + His form was ponderous, and his step was slow; + There never was so wise a man before; + He seemed the incarnate “Well, I told you so!” + And to perpetuate his great renown, + There was a street named after him in town. + + These came together in the new town-hall, + With sundry farmers from the region round. + The Squire presided, dignified and tall, + His air impressive and his reasoning sound. + Ill fared it with the birds, both great and small; + Hardly a friend in all that crowd they found, + But enemies enough, who every one + Charged them with all the crimes beneath the sun. + + When they had ended, from his place apart, + Rose the Preceptor, to redress the wrong, + And, trembling like a steed before the start, + Looked round bewildered on the expectant throng; + Then thought of fair Almira, and took heart + To speak out what was in him, clear and strong, + Alike regardless of their smile or frown, + And quite determined not to be laughed down. + + “Plato, anticipating the Reviewers, + From his Republic banished without pity + The Poets; in this little town of yours, + You put to death, by means of a Committee, + The ballad-singers and the Troubadours, + The street-musicians of the heavenly city, + The birds, who make sweet music for us all + In our dark hours, as David did for Saul. + + “The thrush that carols at the dawn of day + From the green steeples of the piny wood; + The oriole in the elm; the noisy jay, + Jargoning like a foreigner at his food; + The blue-bird balanced on some topmost spray, + Flooding with melody the neighbourhood; + Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throng + That dwell in nests and have the gift of song. + + “You slay them all! and wherefore? for the gain + Of a scant handful more or less of wheat, + Or rye, or barley, or some other grain, + Scratched up at random by industrious feet, + Searching for worm or weevil after rain! + Or a few cherries, that are not so sweet + As are the songs these uninvited guests + Sing at their feast with comfortable breasts. + + “Do you ne’er think what wondrous beings these? + Do you ne’er think who made them, and who taught + The dialect they speak, where melodies + Alone are the interpreters of thought? + Whose household words are songs in many keys, + Sweeter than instrument of man e’er caught! + Whose habitations in the tree-tops even + Are half-way houses on the road to heaven! + + “Think, every morning when the sun peeps through + The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove, + How jubilant the happy birds renew + Their old, melodious madrigals of love! + And when you think of this, remember too + ’Tis always morning somewhere, and above + The awakening continents, from shore to shore, + Somewhere the birds are singing evermore. + + “Think of your woods and orchards without birds! + Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beams + As in an idiot’s brain remembered words + Hang empty ’mid the cobwebs of his dreams! + Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of herds + Make up for the lost music, when your teams + Drag home the stingy harvest, and no more + The feathered gleaners follow to your door? + + “What! would you rather see the incessant stir + Of insects in the windrows of the hay, + And hear the locust and the grasshopper + Their melancholy hurdy-gurdies play? + Is this more pleasant to you than the whirr + Of meadow-lark, and her sweet roundelay, + Or twitter of little field-fares, as you take + Your nooning in the shade of bush and brake? + + “You call them thieves and pillagers; but know + They are the wingèd wardens of your farms, + Who from the corn-fields drive the insidious foe, + And from your harvests keep a hundred harms; + Even the blackest of them all, the crow, + Renders good service as your man-at-arms, + Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail, + And crying havoc on the slug and snail. + + “How can I teach your children gentleness, + And mercy to the weak, and reverence + For Life, which, in its weakness or excess, + Is still a gleam of God’s omnipotence, + Or Death, which, seeming darkness, is no less + The selfsame light, although averted hence, + When by your laws, your actions, and your speech, + You contradict the very things I teach?” + + With this he closed; and through the audience went + A murmur, like the rustle of dead leaves; + The farmers laughed and nodded, and some bent + Their yellow heads together like their sheaves; + Men have no faith in fine-spun sentiment + Who put their trust in bullocks and in beeves. + The birds were doomed; and, as the record shows, + A bounty offered for the heads of crows. + + There was another audience out of reach, + Who had no voice nor vote in making laws, + But in the papers read his little speech, + And crowned his modest temples with applause; + They made him conscious, each one more than each, + He still was victor, vanquished in their cause. + Sweetest of all the applause he won from thee, + O fair Almira, at the Academy! + + And so the dreadful massacre began; + O’er fields and orchards, and o’er woodland crests, + The ceaseless fusilade of terror ran, + Dead fell the birds, with blood-stains on their breasts, + Or wounded crept away from sight of man, + While the young died of famine in their nests; + A slaughter to be told in groans, not words, + The very St. Bartholomew of Birds! + + The summer came, and all the birds were dead; + The days were like hot coals; the very ground + Was burned to ashes; in the orchards fed + Myriads of caterpillars, and around + The cultivated fields and garden beds + Hosts of devouring insects crawled, and found + No foe to check their march, till they had made + The land a desert without leaf or shade. + + Devoured by worms, like Herod, was the town, + Because, like Herod, it had ruthlessly + Slaughtered the Innocents. From the trees spun down + The cankerworms upon the passers-by, + Upon each woman’s bonnet, shawl, and gown, + Who shook them off with just a little cry; + They were the terror of each favourite walk, + The endless theme of all the village talk. + + The farmers grew impatient, but a few + Confessed their error, and would not complain, + For, after all, the best thing one can do + When it is raining, is to let it rain. + Then they repealed the law, although they knew + It would not call the dead to life again; + As school-boys, finding their mistake too late, + Draw a wet sponge across the accusing slate. + + That year in Killingworth the Autumn came + Without the light of his majestic look, + The wonder of the falling tongues of flame, + The illumined pages of his Doomsday-Book. + A few lost leaves blushed crimson with their shame, + And drowned themselves despairing in the brook, + While the wild wind went moaning everywhere, + Lamenting the dead children of the air! + + But the next Spring a stranger sight was seen, + A sight that never yet by bard was sung, + As great a wonder as it would have been + If some dumb animal had found a tongue! + A waggon, overarched with evergreen, + Upon whose boughs were wicker cages hung, + All full of singing birds, came down the street, + Filling the air with music wild and sweet. + + From all the country round these birds were brought, + By order of the town, with anxious quest, + And, loosened from their wicker prisons, sought + In woods and fields the places they loved best, + Singing loud canticles, which many thought + Were satires to the authorities addressed, + While others, listening in green lanes, averred + Such lovely music never had been heard! + + But blither still and louder carolled they + Upon the morrow, for they seemed to know + It was the fair Almira’s wedding-day, + And everywhere, around, above, below, + When the Preceptor bore his bride away, + Their songs burst forth in joyous overflow, + And a new heaven bent over a new earth + Amid the sunny farms of Killingworth. + + +CLOSE OF FIRST DAY. + + The hour was late; the fire burned low, + The landlord’s eyes were closed in sleep, + And near the story’s end a deep + Sonorous sound at times was heard, + As when the distant bagpipes blow. + At this all laughed; the Landlord stirred, + As one awakening from a swound, + And, gazing anxiously around, + Protested that he had not slept, + But only shut his eyes, and kept + His ears attentive to each word. + + Then all arose, and said “Good Night.” + Alone remained the drowsy Squire + To rake the embers of the fire, + And quench the waning parlour light: + While from the windows, here and there, + The scattered lamps a moment gleamed, + And the illumined hostel seemed + The constellation of the Bear, + Downward, athwart the misty air, + Sinking and setting toward the sun. + Far off the village clock struck one. + + +THE SECOND DAY. + + +PRELUDE. + + A cold, uninterrupted rain, + That washed each southern window-pane, + And made a river of the road; + A sea of mist that overflowed + The house, the barns, the gilded vane, + And drowned the upland and the plain, + Through which the oak-trees, broad and high, + Like phantom ships went drifting by; + And, hidden behind a watery screen, + The sun unseen, or only seen + As a faint pallor in the sky;— + Thus cold and colourless and grey, + The morn of that autumnal day, + As if reluctant to begin, + Dawned on the silent Sudbury Inn, + And all the guests that in it lay. + + Full late they slept. They did not hear + The challenge of Sir Chanticleer, + Who on the empty threshing-floor, + Disdainful of the rain outside, + Was strutting with a martial stride, + As if upon his thigh he wore + The famous broadsword of the Squire, + And said, “Behold me and admire!” + Only the Poet seemed to hear, + In drowse or dream, more near and near, + Across the border-land of sleep, + The blowing of a blithesome horn, + That laughed the dismal day to scorn; + A splash of hoofs and rush of wheels + Through sand and mire like stranding keels, + As from the road with sudden sweep, + The Mail drove up the little steep, + And stopped beside the tavern door; + A moment stopped, and then again, + With crack of whip and bark of dog, + Plunged forward through the sea of fog, + And all was silent as before,— + All silent save the dripping rain. + + Then one by one the guests came down, + And greeted with a smile the Squire, + Who sat before the parlour fire, + Reading the paper fresh from town. + First the Sicilian, like a bird, + Before his form appeared, was heard + Whistling and singing down the stair; + Then came the Student, with a look + As placid as a meadow-brook; + The Theologian, still perplexed + With thoughts of this world and the next; + The Poet then, as one who seems + Walking in visions and in dreams; + Then the Musician, like a fair + Hyperion from whose golden hair + The radiance of the morning streams; + And last the Aromatic Jew + Of Alicant, who, as he threw + The door wide open, on the air + Breathed round about him a perfume + Of damask roses in full bloom, + Making a garden of the room. + + The breakfast ended, each pursued + The promptings of his various mood; + Beside the fire in silence smoked + The taciturn, impassive Jew, + Lost in a pleasant reverie; + While, by his gravity provoked, + His portrait the Sicilian drew, + And wrote beneath it, “Edrehi, + At the Red Horse in Sudbury.” + + By far the busiest of them all, + The Theologian in the hall + Was feeding robins in a cage,— + Two corpulent and lazy birds, + Vagrants and pilferers at best, + If one might trust the hostler’s word, + Chief instrument of their arrest; + Two poets of the Golden Age, + Heirs of a boundless heritage + Of fields and orchards, east and west, + And sunshine of long summer days, + Though outlawed now and dispossessed!— + Such was the Theologian’s phrase. + + Meanwhile the Student held discourse + With the Musician, on the source + Of all the legendary lore + Among the nations, scattered wide + Like salt and sea-weed by the force + And fluctuation of the tide; + The tale repeated o’er and o’er, + With change of place and change of name, + Disguised, transformed, and yet the same + We’ve heard a hundred times before. + + The Poet at the window mused, + And saw, as in a dream confused, + The countenance of the Sun, discrowned, + And haggard with a pale despair, + And saw the cloud-rack trail and drift + Before it, and the trees uplift + Their leafless branches, and the air + Filled with the arrows of the rain, + And heard amid the mist below, + Like voices of distress and pain, + That haunt the thoughts of men insane, + The fateful cawings of the crow. + + Then down the road, with mud besprent, + And drenched with rain from head to hoof, + The rain-drops dripping from his mane + And tail as from a pent-house roof, + A jaded horse, his head down bent, + Passed slowly, limping as he went. + + The young Sicilian—who had grown + Impatient longer to abide + A prisoner, greatly mortified + To see completely overthrown + His plans for angling in the brook, + And, leaning o’er the bridge of stone, + To watch the speckled trout glide by, + And float through the inverted sky, + Still round and round the baited hook,— + Now paced the room with rapid stride, + And, pausing at the Poet’s side, + Looked forth, and saw the wretched steed, + And said: “Alas for human greed, + That with cold hand and stony eye + Thus turns an old friend out to die, + Or beg his food from gate to gate! + This brings a tale into my mind, + Which, if you are not disinclined + To listen, I will now relate.” + + All gave assent; all wished to hear, + Not without many a jest and jeer, + The story of a spavined steed; + And even the Student with the rest + Put in his pleasant little jest + Out of Malherbe, that Pegasus + Is but a horse that with all speed + Bears poets to the hospital; + While the Sicilian, self-possessed, + After a moment’s interval + Began his simple story thus. + + +THE SICILIAN’S TALE. + +THE BELL OF ATRI. + + At Atri in Abruzzo, a small town + Of ancient Roman date, but scant renown, + One of those little places that have run + Half up the hill, beneath a blazing sun, + And then sat down to rest, as if to say, + “I climb no farther upward, come what may,”— + The Re Giovanni, now unknown to fame, + So many monarchs since have borne the name, + Had a great bell hung in the market-place + Beneath a roof, projecting some small space, + By way of shelter from the sun and rain. + Then rode he through the streets with all his train, + And, with the blast of trumpets loud and long, + Made proclamation, that whenever wrong + Was done to any man, he should but ring + The great bell in the square, and he, the King, + Would cause the Syndic to decide thereon. + Such was the proclamation of King John. + + How swift the happy days in Atri sped, + What wrongs were righted, need not here be said. + Suffice it that, as all things must decay, + The hempen rope at length was worn away, + Unravelled at the end, and, strand by strand, + Loosened and wasted in the ringer’s hand, + Till one, who noted this in passing by, + Mended the rope with braids of briony, + So that the leaves and tendrils of the vine + Hung like a votive garland at a shrine. + + By chance it happened that in Atri dwelt + A knight, with spur on heel and sword in belt, + Who loved to hunt the wild-boar in the woods, + Who loved his falcons with their crimson hoods, + Who loved his hounds and horses, and all sports + And prodigalities of camps and courts;— + Loved, or had loved them; for at last, grown old, + His only passion was the love of gold. + + He sold his horses, sold his hawks and hounds, + Rented his vineyards and his garden-grounds, + Kept but one steed, his favourite steed of all, + To starve and shiver in a naked stall, + And day by day sat brooding in his chair, + Devising plans how best to hoard and spare. + At length he said: “What is the use or need + To keep at my own cost this lazy steed, + Eating his head off in my stables here, + When rents are low and provender is dear? + Let him go feed upon the public ways; + I want him only for the holidays.” + So the old steed was turned into the heat + Of the long, lonely, silent, shadeless street + And wandered in suburban lanes forlorn, + Barked at by dogs, and torn by brier and thorn. + + One afternoon, as in that sultry clime + It is the custom in the summer time, + With bolted doors and window-shutters closed, + The inhabitants of Atri slept or dozed; + When suddenly upon their senses fell + The loud alarum of the accusing bell! + The Syndic started from his deep repose, + Turned on his couch, and listened, and then rose + And donned his robes, and with reluctant pace + Went panting forth into the market-place, + Where the great bell upon its cross-beam swung, + Reiterating with persistent tongue, + In half-articulate jargon, the old song: + “Some one hath done a wrong, hath done a wrong!” + But ere he reached the belfry’s light arcade + He saw, or thought he saw, beneath its shade, + No shape of human form of woman born, + But a poor steed dejected and forlorn, + Who with uplifted head and eager eye + Was tugging at the vines of briony. + “Domeneddio!” cried the Syndic straight, + “This is the Knight of Atri’s steed of state! + He calls for justice, being sore distressed, + And pleads his cause as loudly as the best.” + + Meanwhile from street and lane a noisy crowd + Had rolled together like a summer cloud, + And told the story of the wretched beast + In five-and-twenty different ways at least, + With much gesticulation and appeal + To heathen gods, in their excessive zeal. + The Knight was called and questioned; in reply + Did not confess the fact, did not deny; + Treated the matter as a pleasant jest, + And set at nought the Syndic and the rest, + Maintaining in an angry undertone, + That he should do what pleased him with his own. + And thereupon the Syndic gravely read + The proclamation of the King; then said: + “Pride goeth forth on horseback grand and gay, + But cometh back on foot, and begs its way; + Fame is the fragrance of heroic deeds, + Of flowers of chivalry and not of weeds! + These are familiar proverbs; but I fear + They never yet have reached your knightly ear. + What fair renown, what honour, what repute + Can come to you from starving this poor brute? + He who serves well and speaks not, merits more + Than they who clamour loudest at the door. + Therefore the law decrees, that as this steed + Served you in youth, henceforth you shall take heed + To comfort his old age, and to provide + Shelter in stall, and food and field beside.” + + The Knight withdrew abashed; the people all + Led home the steed in triumph to his stall. + The King heard and approved, and laughed in glee, + And cried aloud: “Right well it pleaseth me! + Church-bells at best but ring us to the door; + But go not in to mass; my bell doth more: + It cometh into court and pleads the cause + Of creatures dumb and unknown to the laws; + And this shall make, in every Christian clime, + The Bell of Atri famous for all time.” + + +INTERLUDE. + + “Yes, well your story pleads the cause + Of those dumb mouths that have no speech, + Only a cry from each to each + In its own kind, with its own laws; + Something that is beyond the reach + Of human power to learn or teach,— + An inarticulate moan of pain + Like the immeasurable main + Breaking upon an unknown beach.” + + Thus spake the Poet with a sigh; + Then added, with impassioned cry, + As one who feels the words he speaks, + The colour flushing in his cheeks, + The fervour burning in his eye: + “Among the noblest in the land, + Though he may count himself the least, + That man I honour and revere + Who without favour, without fear, + In the great city dares to stand + The friend of every friendless beast, + And tames with his unflinching hand + The brutes that wear our form and face, + The were-wolves of the human race!” + Then paused, and waited with a frown, + Like some old champion of romance, + Who, having thrown his gauntlet down, + Expectant leans upon his lance; + But neither Knight nor Squire is found + To raise the gauntlet from the ground, + And try with him the battle’s chance. + + “Wake from your dreams, O Edrehi! + Or dreaming speak to us, and make + A feint of being half awake, + And tell us what your dreams may be. + Out of the hazy atmosphere + Of cloud-land deign to reappear + Among us in this Wayside Inn; + Tell us what visions and what scenes + Illuminate the dark ravines + In which you grope your way. Begin!” + + Thus the Sicilian spake. The Jew + Made no reply, but only smiled, + As men unto a wayward child, + Not knowing what to answer, do. + As from a cavern’s mouth, o’ergrown + With moss and intertangled vines, + A streamlet leaps into the light + And murmurs over root and stone + In a melodious undertone; + Or as amid the noonday night + Of sombre and wind-haunted pines, + There runs a sound as of the sea; + So from his bearded lips there came + A melody without a name, + A song, a tale, a history, + Or whatsoever it may be, + Writ and recorded in these lines. + + +THE SPANISH JEW’S TALE. + +KAMBALU. + + Into the city of Kambalu, + By the road that leadeth to Ispahan, + At the head of his dusty caravan, + Laden with treasure from realms afar, + Baldacca and Kelat and Kandahar, + Rode the great captain Alaù. + + The Khan from his palace-window gazed: + He saw in the thronging street beneath, + In the light of the setting sun, that blazed + Through the clouds of dust by the caravan raised, + The flash of harness and jewelled sheath, + And the shining scimitars of the guard, + And the weary camels that bared their teeth, + As they passed and passed through the gates unbarred + Into the shade of the palace-yard. + + Thus into the city of Kambalu + Rode the great captain Alaù; + And he stood before the Khan, and said: + “The enemies of my lord are dead; + All the Kalifs of all the West + Bow and obey thy least behest; + The plains are dark with the mulberry-trees, + The weavers are busy in Samarcand, + The miners are sifting the golden sand, + The divers plunging for pearls in the seas, + And peace and plenty are in the land. + + “Baldacca’s Kalif, and he alone, + Rose in revolt against thy throne: + His treasures are at thy palace-door, + With the swords and the shawls and the jewels he wore: + His body is dust o’er the desert blown. + + “A mile outside of Baldacca’s gate + I left my forces to lie in wait, + Concealed by forests and hillocks of sand, + And forward dashed with a handful of men, + To lure the old tiger from his den + Into the ambush I had planned. + Ere we reached the town the alarm was spread, + For we heard the sound of gongs from within; + And with clash of cymbals and warlike din + The gates swung wide; and we turned and fled; + And the garrison sallied forth and pursued, + With the grey old Kalif at their head, + And above them the banner of Mohammed: + So we snared them all, and the town was subdued. + + “As in at the gate we rode, behold, + A tower that is called the Tower of Gold! + For there the Kalif had hidden his wealth, + Heaped and hoarded and piled on high, + Like sacks of wheat in a granary; + And thither the miser crept by stealth + To feel of the gold that gave him health, + And to gaze and gloat with his hungry eye + On jewels that gleamed like a glow-worm’s spark, + Or the eyes of a panther in the dark. + + “I said to the Kalif: ‘Thou art old, + Thou hast no need of so much gold. + Thou shouldst not have heaped and hidden it here, + Till the breath of battle was hot and near, + But have sown through the land these useless hoards + To spring into shining blades of swords, + And keep thine honour sweet and clear. + These grains of gold are not grains of wheat; + These bars of silver thou canst not eat; + These jewels and pearls and precious stones + Cannot cure the aches in thy bones, + Nor keep the feet of Death one hour + From climbing the stairways of thy tower!’ + + “Then into his dungeon I locked the drone, + And left him to feed there all alone + In the honey-cells of his golden hive: + Never a prayer, nor a cry, nor a groan + Was heard from those massive walls of stone, + Nor again was the Kalif seen alive! + + “When at last we unlocked the door, + We found him dead upon the floor; + The rings had dropped from his withered hands, + His teeth were like bones in the desert sands: + Still clutching his treasure he had died; + And as he lay there, he appeared + A statue of gold with a silver beard, + His arms outstretched as if crucified.” + + This is the story, strange and true, + That the great captain Alaù + Told to his brother the Tartar Khan, + When he rode that day into Kambalu + By the road that leadeth to Ispahan. + + +INTERLUDE. + + “I thought before your tale began,” + The Student murmured, “we should have + Some legend written by Judah Rav + In his Gemara of Babylon; + Or something from the Gulistan,— + The tale of the Cazy of Hamadan, + Or of that King of Khorasan + Who saw in dreams the eyes of one + That had a hundred years been dead + Still moving restless in his head, + Undimmed, and gleaming with the lust + Of power, though all the rest was dust. + + “But lo! your glittering caravan + On the road that leadeth to Ispahan + Hath led us farther to the East + Into the regions of Cathay. + Spite of your Kalif and his gold, + Pleasant has been the tale you told, + And full of colour; that at least + No one will question or gainsay. + And yet on such a dismal day + We need a merrier tale to clear + The dark and heavy atmosphere. + So listen, Lordlings, while I tell, + Without a preface, what befell + A simple cobbler, in the year—— + No matter; it was long ago; + And that is all we need to know.” + + +THE STUDENT’S TALE. + +THE COBBLER OF HAGENAU. + + I trust that somewhere and somehow + You all have heard of Hagenau, + A quiet, quaint, and ancient town + Among the green Alsatian hills, + A place of valleys, streams, and mills, + Where Barbarossa’s castle, brown + With rust of centuries, still looks down + On the broad, drowsy land below,— + On shadowy forests filled with game, + And the blue river winding slow + Through meadows, where the hedges grow + That give this little town its name. + + It happened in the good old times, + While yet the Master-singers filled + The noisy workshop and the guild + With various melodies and rhymes, + That here in Hagenau there dwelt + A cobbler,—one who loved debate, + And, arguing from a postulate, + Would say what others only felt; + A man of forecast and of thrift, + And of a shrewd and careful mind + In this world’s business, but inclined + Somewhat to let the next world drift. + Hans Sachs with vast delight he read, + And Regenbogen’s rhymes of love, + For their poetic fame had spread + Even to the town of Hagenau; + And some Quick Melody of the Plough, + Or Double Harmony of the Dove, + Was always running in his head. + He kept, moreover, at his side, + Among his leathers and his tools, + Reynard the Fox, the Ship of Fools, + Or Eulenspiegel, open wide; + With these he was much edified: + He thought them wiser than the Schools. + + His good wife, full of godly fear, + Liked not these worldly themes to hear; + The Psalter was her book of songs; + The only music to her ear + Was that which to the Church belongs, + When the loud choir on Sunday chanted, + And the two angels carved in wood, + That by the windy organ stood, + Blew on their trumpets loud and clear, + And all the echoes, far and near, + Gibbered as if the church were haunted. + + Outside his door, one afternoon, + This humble votary of the Muse + Sat in the narrow strip of shade + By a projecting cornice made, + Mending the Burgomaster’s shoes, + And singing a familiar tune: + + “Our ingress into the world + Was naked and bare; + Our progress through the world + Is trouble and care; + Our egress from the world + Will be nobody knows where: + But if we do well here, + We shall do well there; + And I could tell you no more, + Should I preach a whole year!” + + Thus sang the cobbler at his work; + And with his gestures marked the time, + Closing together with a jerk + Of his waxed thread the stitch and rhyme. + + Meanwhile his quiet little dame + Was leaning o’er the window-sill, + Eager, excited, but mouse-still, + Gazing impatiently to see + What the great throng of folk might be + That onward in procession came, + Along the unfrequented street, + With horns that blew, and drums that beat, + And banners flying, and the flame + Of tapers, and, at times, the sweet + Voices of nuns; and as they sang, + Suddenly all the church-bells rang. + + In a gay coach, above the crowd, + There sat a monk in ample hood, + Who with his right hand held aloft + A red and ponderous cross of wood, + To which at times he meekly bowed. + In front three horsemen rode, and oft, + With voice and air importunate, + A boisterous herald cried aloud: + “The grace of God is at your gate!” + So onward to the church they passed. + + The cobbler slowly turned his last, + And, wagging his sagacious head, + Unto his kneeling housewife said: + “’Tis the monk Tetzel. I have heard + The cawings of that reverend bird. + Don’t let him cheat you of your gold; + Indulgence is not bought and sold.” + + The church of Hagenau, that night, + Was full of people, full of light; + An odour of incense filled the air, + The priest intoned, the organ groaned + Its inarticulate despair; + The candles on the altar blazed, + And full in front of it, upraised, + The red cross stood against the glare. + Below, upon the altar rail, + Indulgences were set to sale, + Like ballads at a country fair. + A heavy strong-box, iron-bound + And carved with many a quaint device, + Received, with a melodious sound, + The coin that purchased Paradise. + Then from the pulpit overhead, + Tetzel the monk, with fiery glow, + Thundered upon the crowd below. + “Good people all, draw near!” he said; + “Purchase these letters, signed and sealed, + By which all sins, though unrevealed + And unrepented, are forgiven! + Count but the gain, count not the loss! + Your gold and silver are but dross, + And yet they pave the way to heaven. + + I hear your mothers and your sires + Cry from their purgatorial fires, + And will ye not their ransom pay? + O senseless people! when the gate + Of heaven is open, will ye wait? + Will ye not enter in to-day? + To-morrow it will be too late; + I shall be gone upon my way. + Make haste! bring money while ye may!” + + The women shuddered and turned pale; + Allured by hope or driven by fear, + With many a sob and many a tear, + All crowded to the altar rail. + Pieces of silver and of gold + Into the tinkling strong-box fell + Like pebbles dropped into a well; + And soon the ballads were all sold. + The cobbler’s wife among the rest + Slipped into the capacious chest + A golden florin; then withdrew, + Hiding the paper in her breast; + And homeward through the darkness went + Comforted, quieted, content; + She did not walk, she rather flew, + A dove that settles to her nest, + When some appalling bird of prey + That scared her has been driven away. + + The days went by, the monk was gone, + The summer passed, the winter came; + Though seasons changed, yet still the same + The daily round of life went on; + The daily round of household care, + The narrow life of toil and prayer. + But in her heart the cobbler’s dame + Had now a treasure beyond price, + A secret joy without a name, + The certainty of Paradise. + Alas, alas! Dust unto dust! + Before the winter wore away, + Her body in the churchyard lay, + Her patient soul was with the Just! + + After her death, among the things + That even the poor reserve with care,— + Some little trinkets and cheap rings, + A locket with her mother’s hair, + Her wedding gown, the faded flowers + She wore upon her wedding day,— + Among these memories of past hours, + That so much of the heart reveal, + Carefully kept and put away, + The Letter of Indulgence lay + Folded, with signature and seal. + + Meanwhile the Priest, aggrieved and pained, + Waited and wondered that no word + Of mass or requiem he heard, + As by the Holy Church ordained: + Then to the Magistrate complained, + That as this woman had been dead + A week or more, and no mass said, + It was rank heresy, or at least + Contempt of Church; thus said the Priest; + And straight the cobbler was arraigned. + + He came, confiding in his cause, + But rather doubtful of the laws. + The Justice from his elbow-chair + Gave him a look that seemed to say, + “Thou standest before a Magistrate, + Therefore do not prevaricate!” + Then asked him in a business way, + Kindly but cold: “Is thy wife dead?” + The cobbler meekly bowed his head; + “She is,” came struggling from his throat + Scarce audibly. The Justice wrote + The words down in a book, and then + Continued, as he raised his pen: + “She is: and hath a mass been said + For the salvation of her soul? + Come, speak the truth! confess the whole!” + The cobbler without pause replied: + “Of mass or prayer there was no need; + For at the moment when she died + Her soul was with the glorified!” + And from his pocket with all speed + He drew the priestly title-deed, + And prayed the Justice he would read. + + The Justice read, amused, amazed; + And as he read his mirth increased + At times his shaggy brows he raised, + Now wondering at the cobbler gazed, + Now archly at the angry Priest. + “From all excesses, sins, and crimes + Thou hast committed in past times, + Thee I absolve! And furthermore, + Purified from all earthly taints, + To the communion of the Saints + And to the sacraments restore! + All stains of weakness, and all trace + Of shame and censure I efface; + Remit the pains thou shouldst endure, + And make thee innocent and pure, + So that in dying, unto thee + The gates of heaven shall open be! + Though long thou livest, yet this grace + Until the moment of thy death + Unchangeable continueth!” + Then said he to the Priest: “I find + This document is truly signed + Brother John Tetzel, his own hand. + At all tribunals in the land + In evidence it may be used; + Therefore acquitted is the accused.” + Then to the cobbler turned: “My friend, + Pray tell me, didst thou ever read + Reynard the Fox?”—“O yes, indeed!”— + “I thought so. Don’t forget the end.” + + +INTERLUDE. + + “What was the end? I am ashamed + Not to remember Reynard’s fate; + I have not read the book of late; + Was he not hanged?” the Poet said. + The Student gravely shook his head, + And answered: “You exaggerate. + There was a tournament proclaimed, + And Reynard fought with Isegrim + The Wolf, and having vanquished him, + Rose to high honour in the State, + And Keeper of the Seals was named!” + + At this the gay Sicilian laughed: + “Fight fire with fire, and craft with craft, + Successful cunning seems to be + The moral of your tale,” said he. + “Mine had a better, and the Jew’s + Had none at all, that I could see; + His aim was only to amuse.” + + Meanwhile from out its ebon case + His violin the Minstrel drew, + And having tuned its strings anew, + Now held it close in his embrace, + And poising in his outstretched hand + The bow, like a magician’s wand, + He paused, and said, with beaming face: + “Last night my story was too long; + To-day I give you but a song, + An old tradition of the North; + But first, to put you in the mood, + I will a little while prelude, + And from this instrument draw forth + Something by way of overture.” + + He played; at first the tones were pure + And tender as a summer night, + The full moon climbing to her height, + The sob and ripple of the seas, + The flapping of an idle sail; + And then by sudden and sharp degrees, + The multiplied, wild harmonies + Freshened and burst into a gale; + A tempest howling through the dark, + A crash as of some shipwrecked bark, + A loud and melancholy wail. + + Such was the prelude to the tale + Told by the Minstrel; and at times + He paused amid its varying rhymes, + And at each pause again broke in + The music of his violin, + With tones of sweetness or of fear, + Movements of trouble or of calm, + Creating their own atmosphere; + As sitting in a church we hear + Between the verses of the psalm + The organ playing soft and clear, + Or thundering on the startled ear. + + +THE MUSICIAN’S TALE. + +THE BALLAD OF CARMILHAN. + + +I. + + At Stralsund, by the Baltic Sea, + Within the sandy bar, + At sunset of a summer’s day, + Ready for sea, at anchor lay + The good ship _Valdemar_. + + The sunbeams danced upon the waves, + And played along her side; + And through the cabin windows streamed + In ripples of golden light, that seemed + The ripple of the tide. + + There sat the captain with his friends,— + Old skippers brown and hale, + Who smoked and grumbled o’er their grog, + And talked of iceberg and of fog, + Of calm and storm and gale. + + And one was spinning a sailor’s yarn + About Klaboterman, + The Kobold of the sea; a sprite + Invisible to mortal sight, + Who o’er the rigging ran. + + Sometimes he hammered in the hold, + Sometimes upon the mast, + Sometimes abeam, sometimes abaft, + Or at the bows he sang and laughed, + And made all tight and fast. + + He helped the sailors at their work, + And toiled with jovial din; + He helped them hoist and reef the sails, + He helped them stow the casks and bales, + And heave the anchor in. + + But woe unto the lazy louts, + The idlers of the crew; + Them to torment was his delight, + And worry them by day and night, + And pinch them black and blue. + + And woe to him whose mortal eyes + Klaboterman behold. + It is a certain sign of death!— + The cabin-boy here held his breath, + He felt his blood run cold. + + +II. + + The jolly skipper paused awhile, + And then again began; + “There is a Spectre Ship,” quoth he, + “A Ship of the Dead that sails the sea, + And is called the _Carmilhan_. + + “A ghostly ship, with a ghostly crew, + In tempests she appears; + And before the gale, or against the gale, + She sails without a rag of sail, + Without a helmsman steers. + + “She haunts the Atlantic north and south, + But mostly the mid-sea, + Where three great rocks rise bleak and bare + Like furnace chimneys in the air, + And are called the Chimneys Three. + + “And ill betide the luckless ship + That meets the _Carmilhan_; + Over her deck the seas will leap, + She must go down into the deep, + And perish mouse and man.” + + The captain of the _Valdemar_ + Laughed loud with merry heart. + “I should like to see this ship,” said he; + “I should like to find these Chimneys Three, + That are marked down in the chart. + + “I have sailed right over the spot,” he said, + “With a good stiff breeze behind, + When the sea was blue, and the sky was clear,— + You can follow my course by these pinholes here,— + And never a rock could find.” + + And then he swore a dreadful oath, + He swore by the Kingdoms Three, + That, should he meet the _Carmilhan_, + He would run her down, although he ran + Right into Eternity! + + All this, while passing to and fro, + The cabin-boy had heard; + He lingered at the door to hear, + And drank in all with greedy ear, + And pondered every word. + + He was a simple country lad, + But of a roving mind. + “O, it must be like heaven,” thought he, + “Those far-off foreign lands to see, + And fortune seek and find!” + + But in the fo’castle, when he heard + The mariners blaspheme, + He thought of home, he thought of God, + And his mother under the churchyard sod, + And wished it were a dream. + + One friend on board that ship had he; + ’Twas the Klaboterman, + Who saw the Bible in his chest, + And made a sign upon his breast, + All evil things to ban. + + +III. + + The cabin windows have grown blank + As eyeballs of the dead; + No more the glancing sunbeams burn + On the gilt letters of the stern, + But on the figure-head; + + On Valdemar Victorious, + Who looketh with disdain + To see his image in the tide + Dismembered float from side to side, + And reunite again. + + “It is the wind,” those skippers said, + “That swings the vessel so; + It is the wind; it rises fast, + ’Tis time to say farewell at last, + ’Tis time for us to go.” + + They shook the captain by the hand, + “Good luck! good luck!” they cried; + Each face was like the setting sun, + As, broad and red, they one by one + Went o’er the vessel’s side. + + The sun went down, the full moon rose, + Serene o’er field and flood; + And all the winding creeks and bays + And broad sea-meadows seemed ablaze, + The sky was red as blood. + + The south-west wind blew fresh and fair, + As fair as wind could be; + Bound for Odessa, o’er the bar, + With all sail set, the _Valdemar_ + Went proudly out to sea. + + The lovely moon climbs up the sky + As one who walks in dreams; + A tower of marble in her light, + A wall of black, a wall of white, + The stately vessel seems. + + Low down upon the sandy coast + The lights begin to burn; + And now, uplifted high in air, + They kindle with a fiercer glare, + And now drop far astern. + + The dawn appears, the land is gone, + The sea is all around; + Then on each hand low hills of sand + Emerge and form another land; + She steereth through the Sound. + + Through Kattegat and Skager-rack + She flitteth like a ghost; + By day and night, by night and day, + She bounds, she flies upon her way + Along the English coast. + + Cape Finisterre is drawing near, + Cape Finisterre is passed; + Into the open ocean stream + She floats, the vision of a dream + Too beautiful to last. + + Suns rise and set, and rise, and yet + There is no land in sight; + The liquid planets overhead + Burn brighter now the moon is dead, + And longer stays the night. + + +IV. + + And now along the horizon’s edge + Mountains of cloud uprose, + Black as with forests underneath, + Above their sharp and jagged teeth + Were white as drifted snows. + + Unseen behind them sank the sun, + But flushed each snowy peak + A little while with rosy light, + That faded slowly from the sight + As blushes from the cheek. + + Black grew the sky,—all black, all black + The clouds were everywhere; + There was a feeling of suspense + In nature, a mysterious sense + Of terror in the air. + + And all on board the _Valdemar_ + Was still as still could be; + Save when the dismal ship-bell tolled, + As ever and anon she rolled + And lurched into the sea. + + The captain up and down the deck + Went striding to and fro; + Now watched the compass at the wheel, + Now lifted up his hand to feel + Which way the wind might blow. + + And now he looked up at the sails, + And now upon the deep; + In every fibre of his frame + He felt the storm before it came, + He had no thought of sleep. + + Eight bells! and suddenly abaft, + With a great rush of rain, + Making the ocean white with spume, + In darkness like the day of doom, + On came the hurricane. + + The lightning flashed from cloud to cloud, + And rent the sky in two; + A jagged flame, a single jet + Of white fire, like a bayonet, + That pierced the eyeballs through. + + Then all around was dark again, + And blacker than before; + But in that single flash of light + He had beheld a fearful sight, + And thought of the oath he swore. + + For right ahead lay the Ship of the Dead, + The ghostly _Carmilhan_! + Her masts were stripped, her yards were bare, + And on her bowsprit, poised in air, + Sat the Klaboterman. + + Her crew of ghosts was all on deck, + Or clambering up the shrouds; + The boatswain’s whistle, the captain’s hail, + Were like the piping of the gale, + And thunder in the clouds. + + And close behind the _Carmilhan_ + There rose up from the sea, + As from a foundered ship of stone, + Three bare and splintered masts alone; + They were the Chimneys Three! + + And onward dashed the _Valdemar_, + And leaped into the dark; + A denser mist, a colder blast, + A little shudder, and she had passed + Right through the Phantom Bark. + + She cleft in twain the shadowy hulk, + But cleft it unaware; + As when, careering to her nest, + The sea-gull severs with her breast + The unresisting air. + + Again the lightning flashed; again + They saw the _Carmilhan_, + Whole as before in hull and spar; + But now on board of the _Valdemar_ + Stood the Klaboterman. + + And they all knew their doom was sealed; + They knew that death was near; + Some prayed who never prayed before, + And some they wept, and some they swore, + And some were mute with fear. + + Then suddenly there came a shock, + And louder than wind or sea + A cry burst from the crew on deck, + As she dashed and crashed, a hopeless wreck, + Upon the Chimneys Three. + + The storm and night were passed, the light + To streak the east began; + The cabin-boy, picked up at sea, + Survived the wreck, and only he, + To tell of the _Carmilhan_. + + +INTERLUDE. + + When the long murmur of applause + That greeted the Musician’s lay + Had slowly buzzed itself away, + And the long talk of Spectre Ships + That followed died upon their lips, + And came unto a natural pause, + “These tales you tell are one and all + Of the Old World,” the Poet said, + “Flowers gathered from a crumbling wall, + Dead leaves that rustle as they fall; + Let me present you in their stead + Something of our New England earth, + A tale which, though of no great worth, + Has still this merit, that it yields + A certain freshness of the fields, + A sweetness as of home-made bread.” + + The Student answered: “Be discreet; + For if the flour be fresh and sound, + And if the bread be light and sweet, + Who careth in what mill ’twas ground, + Or of what oven felt the heat, + Unless, as old Cervantes said, + You are looking after better bread + Than any that is made of wheat? + You know that people now-a-days + To what is old give little praise; + All must be new in prose and verse. + They want hot bread, or something worse, + Fresh every morning, and half baked; + The wholesome bread of yesterday, + Too stale for them, is thrown away, + Nor is their thirst with water slaked.” + + As oft we see the sky in May + Threaten to rain, and yet not rain, + The Poet’s face, before so gay, + Was clouded with a look of pain, + But suddenly brightened up again; + And without further let or stay + He told his tale of yesterday. + + +THE POET’S TALE. + +LADY WENTWORTH. + + One hundred years ago, and something more, + In Queen Street, Portsmouth, at her tavern door, + Neat as a pin, and blooming as a rose, + Stood Mistress Stavers in her furbelows, + Just as her cuckoo-clock was striking nine. + Above her head, resplendent on the sign, + The portrait of the Earl of Halifax, + In scarlet coat and periwig of flax, + Surveyed at leisure all her varied charms, + Her cap, her bodice, her white folded arms, + And half resolved, though he was past his prime, + And rather damaged by the lapse of time, + To fall down at her feet, and to declare + The passion that had driven him to despair. + For from his lofty station he had seen + Stavers, her husband, dressed in bottle-green, + Drive his new Flying Stage-coach, four in hand, + Down the long lane, and out into the land, + And knew that he was far upon the way + To Ipswich and to Boston on the Bay! + + Just then the meditations of the Earl + Were interrupted by a little girl, + Barefooted, ragged, with neglected hair, + Eyes full of laughter, neck and shoulders bare, + A thin slip of a girl, like a new moon, + Sure to be rounded into beauty soon, + A creature men would worship and adore, + Though now in mean habiliments she bore + A pail of water, dripping, through the street, + And bathing, as she went, her naked feet. + + It was a pretty picture, full of grace,— + The slender form, the delicate, thin face; + The swaying motion, as she hurried by; + The shining feet, the laughter in her eye, + That o’er her face in ripples gleamed and glanced, + As in her pail the shifting sunbeam danced: + And with uncommon feelings of delight + The Earl of Halifax beheld the sight. + Not so Dame Stavers, for he heard her say + These words, or thought he did, as plain as day: + “O Martha Hilton! Fie! how dare you go + About the town half dressed, and looking so!” + At which the gipsy laughed, and straight replied: + “No matter how I look; I yet shall ride + In my own chariot, ma’am.” And on the child + The Earl of Halifax benignly smiled, + As with her heavy burden she passed on, + Looked back, then turned the corner, and was gone. + + What next, upon that memorable day, + Arrested his attention was a gay + And brilliant equipage, that flashed and spun, + The silver harness glittering in the sun, + Outriders with red jackets, lithe and lank, + Pounding the saddles as they rose and sank, + While all alone within the chariot sat + A portly person with three-cornered hat, + A crimson velvet coat, head high in air, + Gold-headed cane, and nicely powdered hair, + And diamond buckles sparkling at his knees, + Dignified, stately, florid, much at ease. + Onward the pageant swept, and as it passed, + Fair Mistress Stavers courtesied low and fast; + For this was Governor Wentworth, driving down + To Little Harbour, just beyond the town, + Where his Great House stood looking out to sea, + A goodly place, where it was good to be. + + It was a pleasant mansion, an abode + Near and yet hidden from the great highroad, + Sequestered among trees, a noble pile, + Baronial and colonial in its style; + Gables and dormer-windows everywhere, + And stacks of chimneys rising high in air,— + Pandæan pipes, on which all winds that blew + Made mournful music the whole winter through. + Within, unwonted splendours met the eye,— + Panels, and floors of oak, and tapestry; + Carved chimney-pieces, where on brazen dogs + Revelled and roared the Christmas fires of logs; + Doors opening into darkness unawares, + Mysterious passages, and flights of stairs; + And on the walls, in heavy gilded frames, + The ancestral Wentworths with Old-Scripture names. + + Such was the mansion where the great man dwelt, + A widower and childless; and he felt + The loneliness, the uncongenial gloom, + That like a presence haunted every room; + For though not given to weakness, he could feel + The pain of wounds, that ache because they heal. + + The years came and the years went,—seven in all, + And passed in cloud and sunshine o’er the Hall; + The dawns their splendour through its chambers shed, + The sunsets flushed its western windows red; + The snow was on its roofs, the wind, the rain; + Its woodlands were in leaf and bare again; + Moons waxed and waned, the lilacs bloomed and died, + In the broad river ebbed and flowed the tide, + Ships went to sea, and ships came home from sea, + And the slow years sailed by and ceased to be. + + And all these years had Martha Hilton served + In the Great House, not wholly unobserved: + By day, by night, the silver crescent grew, + Though hidden by clouds, her light still shining through; + A maid of all work, whether coarse or fine, + A servant who made service seem divine! + Through her each room was fair to look upon; + The mirrors glistened, and the brasses shone; + The very knocker on the outer door, + If she but passed, was brighter than before. + + And now the ceaseless turning of the mill + Of Time, that never for an hour stands still, + Ground out the Governor’s sixtieth birthday, + And powdered his brown hair with silver-grey. + The robin, the forerunner of the spring, + The blue-bird with his jocund carolling, + The restless swallows building in the eaves, + The golden buttercups, the grass, the leaves, + The lilacs tossing in the winds of May,— + All welcomed this majestic holiday! + He gave a splendid banquet, served on plate, + Such as became the Governor of the State, + Who represented England and the King, + And was magnificent in everything. + He had invited all his friends and peers,— + The Pepperels, the Langdons, and the Lears, + The Sparhawks, the Penhallows, and the rest; + For why repeat the name of every guest? + But I must mention one, in bands and gown, + The rector there, the Reverend Arthur Brown + Of the Established Church; with smiling face + He sat beside the Governor and said grace; + And then the feast went on, as others do, + But ended as none other I e’er knew. + + When they had drunk the King, with many a cheer + The Governor whispered in a servant’s ear, + Who disappeared, and presently there stood + Within the room, in perfect womanhood, + A maiden, modest and yet self-possessed, + Youthful and beautiful, and simply dressed. + Can this be Martha Hilton? It must be! + Yes, Martha Hilton, and no other she! + Dowered with the beauty of her twenty years, + How ladylike, how queen-like she appears; + The pale, thin crescent of the days gone by + Is Dian now in all her majesty! + Yet scarce a guest perceived that she was there, + Until the Governor, rising from his chair, + Played slightly with his ruffles, then looked down, + And said unto the Reverend Arthur Brown: + “This is my birthday; it shall likewise be + My wedding-day; and you shall marry me!” + + The listening guests were greatly mystified, + None more so than the rector, who replied: + “Marry you? Yes, that were a pleasant task, + Your Excellency; but to whom? I ask.” + The Governor answered: “To this lady here;” + And beckoned Martha Hilton to draw near. + She came and stood, all blushes, at his side. + The rector paused. The impatient Governor cried: + “This is the lady; do you hesitate? + Then I command you as Chief Magistrate.” + The rector read the service loud and clear: + “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here,” + And so on to the end. At his command, + On the fourth finger of her fair left hand + The Governor placed the ring; and that was all: + Martha was Lady Wentworth of the Hall! + + +INTERLUDE. + + Well pleased the audience heard the tale. + The Theologian said: “Indeed, + To praise you there is little need; + One almost hears the farmer’s flail + Thresh out your wheat, nor does there fail + A certain freshness, as you said, + And sweetness as of home-made bread. + But not less sweet and not less fresh + Are many legends that I know, + Writ by the monks of long ago, + Who loved to mortify the flesh, + So that the soul might purer grow, + And rise to a diviner state; + And one of these—perhaps of all + Most beautiful—I now recall, + And with permission will narrate; + Hoping thereby to make amends + For that grim tragedy of mine, + As strong and black as Spanish wine, + I told last night, and wish almost + It had remained untold, my friends; + For Torquemada’s awful ghost + Came to me in the dreams I dreamed, + And in the darkness glared and gleamed + Like a great lighthouse on the coast.” + The Student laughing said: “Far more + Like to some dismal fire of bale + Flaring portentous on a hill; + Or torches lighted on a shore + By wreckers in a midnight gale. + No matter; be it as you will, + Only go forward with your tale.” + + +THE THEOLOGIAN’S TALE. + +THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL. + + “Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!” + That is what the Vision said. + + In his chamber all alone, + Kneeling on the floor of stone, + Prayed the Monk in deep contrition + For his sins of indecision, + Prayed for greater self-denial + In temptation and in trial; + It was noonday by the dial, + And the Monk was all alone. + + Suddenly, as if it lightened, + An unwonted splendour brightened + All within him and without him + In that narrow cell of stone; + And he saw the Blessed Vision + Of our Lord, with light Elysian + Like a vesture wrapped about him, + Like a garment round him thrown. + + Not as crucified and slain, + Not in agonies of pain, + Not with bleeding hands and feet, + Did the Monk his Master see; + But as in the village street, + In the house or harvest-field, + Halt and lame and blind he healed, + When he walked in Galilee. + + In an attitude imploring, + Hands upon his bosom crossed, + Wondering, worshipping, adoring, + Knelt the Monk in rapture lost. + Lord, he thought, in heaven that reignest, + Who am I, that thus thou deignest + To reveal thyself to me? + Who am I, that from the centre + Of thy glory thou shouldst enter + This poor cell, my guest to be? + + Then amid his exaltation, + Loud the convent bell appalling, + From its belfry calling, calling, + Rang through court and corridor + With persistent iteration + He had never heard before. + It was now the appointed hour + When alike in shine or shower, + Winter’s cold or summer’s heat, + To the convent portals came + All the blind and halt and lame, + All the beggars of the street, + For their daily dole of food + Dealt them by the brotherhood; + And their almoner was he + Who upon his bended knee, + Rapt in silent ecstasy + Of divinest self-surrender, + Saw the Vision and the Splendour. + + Deep distress and hesitation + Mingled with his adoration; + Should he go, or should he stay? + Should he leave the poor to wait + Hungry at the convent gate, + Till the Vision passed away? + Should he slight his radiant guest, + Slight his visitant celestial, + For a crowd of ragged, bestial + Beggars at the convent gate? + Would the Vision there remain? + Would the Vision come again? + + Then a voice within his breast + Whispered, audible and clear, + As if to the outward ear: + “Do thy duty; that is best; + Leave unto thy Lord the rest!” + + Straightway to his feet he started, + And with longing look intent + On the Blessed Vision bent, + Slowly from his cell departed, + Slowly on his errand went. + + At the gate the poor were waiting, + Looking through the iron grating, + With that terror in the eye + That is only seen in those + Who amid their wants and woes + Hear the sound of doors that close, + And of feet that pass them by; + Grown familiar with disfavour, + Grown familiar with the savour + Of the bread by which men die! + But to-day, they knew not why, + Like the gate of Paradise + Seemed the convent gate to rise, + Like a sacrament divine + Seemed to them the bread and wine. + In his heart the Monk was praying, + Thinking of the homeless poor, + What they suffer and endure; + What we see not, what we see; + And the inward voice was saying: + “Whatsoever thing thou doest + To the least of mine and lowest, + That thou doest unto me!” + + Unto me! but had the Vision + Come to him in beggar’s clothing, + Come a mendicant imploring, + Would he then have knelt adoring, + Or have listened with derision, + And have turned away with loathing? + + Thus his conscience put the question, + Full of troublesome suggestion, + As at length, with hurried pace, + Towards his cell he turned his face, + And beheld the convent bright + With a supernatural light, + Like a luminous cloud expanding + Over floor and wall and ceiling. + + But he paused with awe-struck feeling + At the threshold of his door, + For the Vision still was standing + As he left it there before, + When the convent bell appalling, + From its belfry calling, calling, + Summoned him to feed the poor. + Through the long hour intervening + It had waited his return, + And he felt his bosom burn, + Comprehending all the meaning, + When the Blessed Vision said, + “Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!” + + +INTERLUDE. + + All praised the Legend more or less; + Some liked the moral, some the verse; + Some thought it better, and some worse + Than other legends of the past; + Until, with ill-concealed distress + At all their cavilling, at last + The Theologian gravely said: + “The Spanish proverb, then, is right; + Consult your friends on what you do, + And one will say that it is white, + And others say that it is red.” + And “Amen!” quoth the Spanish Jew. + + “Six stories told! We must have seven, + A cluster like the Pleiades, + And lo! it happens, as with these, + That one is missing from our heaven. + Where is the Landlord? Bring him here; + Let the Lost Pleiad reappear.” + + Thus the Sicilian cried, and went + Forthwith to meet his missing star, + But did not find him in the bar, + A place that landlords most frequent, + Nor yet beside the kitchen fire, + Nor up the stairs, nor in the hall; + It was in vain to ask or call, + There were no tidings of the Squire. + + So he came back with downcast head, + Exclaiming: “Well, our bashful host + Hath surely given up the ghost. + Another proverb says the dead + Can tell no tales; and that is true. + It follows, then, that one of you + Must tell a story in his stead. + You must,” he to the Student said, + “Who know so many of the best, + And tell them better than the rest.” + + Straight, by these flattering words beguiled, + The Student, happy as a child + When he is called a little man, + Assumed the double task imposed, + And without more ado unclosed + His smiling lips, and thus began. + + +THE STUDENT’S SECOND TALE. + +THE BARON OF ST. CASTINE. + + Baron Castine of St. Castine + Has left his chateau in the Pyrenees, + And sailed across the western seas. + When he went away from his fair demesne + The birds were building, the woods were green; + And now the winds of winter blow + Round the turrets of the old chateau, + The birds are silent and unseen, + The leaves lie dead in the ravine, + And the Pyrenees are white with snow. + + His father, lonely, old, and grey, + Sits by the fireside day by day, + Thinking ever one thought of care; + Through the southern windows, narrow and tall, + The sun shines into the ancient hall, + And makes a glory round his hair. + The house-dog, stretched beneath his chair, + + Groans in his sleep as if in pain, + Then wakes, and yawns, and sleeps again, + So silent is it everywhere,— + So silent you can hear the mouse + Run and rummage along the beams + Behind the wainscot of the wall; + And the old man rouses from his dreams, + And wanders restless through the house, + As if he heard strange voices call. + + His footsteps echo along the floor + Of a distant passage, and pause awhile; + He is standing by an open door + Looking long, with a sad, sweet smile, + Into the room of his absent son. + There is the bed on which he lay, + There are the pictures bright and gay, + Horses and hounds and sunlit seas; + There are his powder-flask and gun, + And his hunting-knives in shape of a fan; + The chair by the window where he sat, + With the clouded tiger-skin for a mat, + Looking out on the Pyrenees, + Looking out on Mount Maboré + And the Seven Valleys of Lavedan. + Ah me! he turns away and sighs; + There is a mist before his eyes. + + At night, whatever the weather be, + Wind or rain or starry heaven, + Just as the clock is striking seven, + Those who look from the windows see + The village Curate, with lantern and maid, + Come through the gateway from the park + And cross the court-yard damp and dark,— + A ring of light in a ring of shade. + + And now at the old man’s side he stands, + His voice is cheery, his heart expands, + He gossips pleasantly, by the blaze + Of the fire of faggots, about old days, + And Cardinal Mazarin and the Fronde, + And the Cardinal’s nieces fair and fond, + And what they did, and what they said, + When they heard his Eminence was dead. + + And after a pause the old man says, + His mind still coming back again + To the one sad thought that haunts his brain, + “Are there any tidings from over sea? + + Ah, why has that wild boy gone from me?” + And the Curate answers, looking down, + Harmless and docile as a lamb, + “Young blood! young blood! It must so be!” + And draws from the pocket of his gown + A handkerchief like an oriflamb, + And wipes his spectacles, and they play + Their little game of lansquenet + In silence for an hour or so, + Till the clock at nine strikes loud and clear + From the village lying asleep below, + And across the court-yard, into the dark + Of the winding pathway in the park, + Curate and lantern disappear, + And darkness reigns in the old chateau. + + The ship has come back from over sea, + She has been signalled from below, + And into the harbour of Bordeaux + She sails with her gallant company. + But among them is nowhere seen + The brave young Baron of St. Castine; + He hath tarried behind, I ween, + In the beautiful land of Acadie! + + And the father paces to and fro + Through the chambers of the old chateau, + Waiting, waiting to hear the hum + Of wheels on the road that runs below, + Of servants hurrying here and there, + The voice in the court-yard, the step on the stair, + Waiting for some one who doth not come! + But letters there are, which the old man reads + To the Curate, when he comes at night, + Word by word, as an acolyte + Repeats his prayers and tells his beads; + Letters full of the rolling sea, + Full of a young man’s joy to be + Abroad in the world, alone and free; + Full of adventures and wonderful scenes + Of hunting the deer through forests vast + In the royal grant of Pierre du Gast; + Of nights in the tents of the Tarratines; + Of Madocawando, the Indian chief, + And his daughters, glorious as queens, + And beautiful beyond belief; + And so soft the tones of their native tongue, + The words are not spoken, they are sung! + + And the Curate listens, and smiling says: + “Ah yes, dear friend! in our young days + We should have liked to hunt the deer + All day amid those forest scenes, + And to sleep in the tents of the Tarratines; + But now it is better sitting here + Within four walls, and without the fear + Of losing our hearts to Indian queens; + For man is fire and woman is tow, + And the Somebody comes and begins to blow.” + Then a gleam of distrust and vague surmise + Shines in the father’s gentle eyes, + As fire-light on a window-pane + Glimmers and vanishes again; + But naught he answers; he only sighs, + And for a moment bows his head; + Then, as their custom is, they play + Their little game of lansquenet, + And another day is with the dead. + + Another day, and many a day + And many a week and month depart, + When a fatal letter wings its way + Across the sea, like a bird of prey, + And strikes and tears the old man’s heart. + Lo! the young Baron of St. Castine, + Swift as the wind is, and as wild, + Has married a dusky Tarratine, + Has married Madocawando’s child! + + The letter drops from the father’s hand; + Though the sinews of his heart are wrung, + He utters no cry, he breathes no prayer, + No malediction falls from his tongue; + But his stately figure, erect and grand, + Bends and sinks like a column of sand + In the whirlwind of his great despair. + Dying, yes dying! His latest breath + Of parley at the door of death + Is a blessing on his wayward son. + Lower and lower on his breast + Sinks his grey head; he is at rest; + No longer he waits for any one. + + For many a year the old chateau + Lies tenantless and desolate; + Rank grasses in the court-yard grow, + About its gables caws the crow; + Only the porter at the gate + Is left to guard it, and to wait + The coming of the rightful heir; + No other life or sound is there, + No more the Curate comes at night, + No more is seen the unsteady light, + Threading the alleys of the park; + The windows of the hall are dark, + The chambers dreary, cold, and bare! + + At length, at last, when the winter is past, + And birds are building, and woods are green, + With flying skirts is the Curate seen + Speeding along the woodland way, + Humming gaily, “No day is so long + But it comes at last to vesper-song.” + He stops at the porter’s lodge to say + That at last the Baron of St. Castine + Is coming home with his Indian queen, + Is coming without a week’s delay; + And all the house must be swept and clean, + And all things set in good array! + And the solemn porter shakes his head; + And the answer he makes is: “Lack-a-day! + We will see, as the blind man said!” + + Alert since first the day began, + The cock upon the village church + Looks northward from his airy perch, + As if beyond the ken of man, + To see the ships come sailing on + And pass the Isle of Oléron, + And pass the Tower of Cordouan. + In the church below is cold in clay + The heart that would have leaped for joy— + O tender heart of truth and trust!— + To see the coming of that day; + In the church below the lips are dust, + Dust are the hands, and dust the feet, + That would have been so swift to meet + The coming of that wayward boy. + + At night the front of the old chateau + Is a blaze of light above and below; + There’s a sound of wheels and hoofs in the street, + A cracking of whips, and scamper of feet, + Bells are ringing, and horns are blown, + And the Baron hath come again to his own. + + The Curate is waiting in the hall, + Most eager and alive of all + To welcome the Baron and Baroness; + But his mind is full of vague distress, + For he hath read in Jesuit books + Of those children of the wilderness, + And now, good, simple man! he looks + To see a painted savage stride + Into the room with shoulders bare, + And eagle feathers in her hair, + And around her a robe of panther’s hide. + + Instead, he beholds with secret shame + A form of beauty undefined, + A loveliness without a name, + Not of degree, but more of kind; + Nor bold nor shy, nor short nor tall, + But a new mingling of them all. + Yes, beautiful beyond belief, + Transfigured and transfused, he sees + The lady of the Pyrenees, + The daughter of the Indian chief. + Beneath the shadow of her hair + The gold-bronze colour of the skin + Seems lighted by a fire within, + As when a burst of sunlight shines + Beneath a sombre grove of pines,— + A dusky splendour in the air. + The two small hands, that now are pressed + In his, seem made to be caressed, + They lie so warm and soft and still, + Like birds half hidden in a nest, + Trustful and innocent of ill. + And ah! he cannot believe his ears + When her melodious voice he hears + Speaking his native Gascon tongue; + The words she utters seem to be + Part of some poem of Goudouli, + They are not spoken, they are sung! + And the Baron smiles, and says, “You see, + I told you but the simple truth; + Ah, you may trust the eyes of youth!” + + Down in the village day by day + The people gossip in their way, + And stare to see the Baroness pass + On Sunday morning to early Mass; + And when she kneeleth down to pray, + They wonder, and whisper together, and say, + “Surely this is no heathen lass!” + And in course of time they learn to bless + The Baron and the Baroness. + + And in course of time the Curate learns + A secret so dreadful, that by turns + He is ice and fire, he freezes and burns. + The Baron at confession hath said, + That though this woman be his wife, + He hath wed her as the Indians wed, + He hath bought her for a gun and a knife! + + And the Curate replies: “O profligate, + O Prodigal Son! return once more + To the open arms and the open door + Of the Church, or ever it be too late. + Thank God, thy father did not live + To see what he could not forgive; + On thee, so reckless and perverse, + He left his blessing, not his curse. + But the nearer the dawn the darker the night, + And by going wrong all things come right; + Things have been mended that were worse, + And the worse, the nearer they are to mend. + For the sake of the living and the dead, + Thou shalt be wed as Christians wed, + And all things come to a happy end.“ + + O sun, that followest the night, + In yon blue sky, serene and pure, + And pourest thine impartial light + Alike on mountain and on moor, + Pause for a moment in thy course, + And bless the bridegroom and the bride! + O Gave, that from thy hidden source + In yon mysterious mountain-side + Pursuest thy wandering way alone, + And leaping down its steps of stone, + Along the meadow-lands demure + Stealest away to the Adour, + Pause for a moment in thy course + To bless the bridegroom and the bride! + + The choir is singing the matin song, + The doors of the church are opened wide, + The people crowd, and press, and throng + To see the bridegroom and the bride. + They enter and pass along the nave; + They stand upon the father’s grave; + The bells are ringing soft and slow; + The living above and the dead below + Give their blessing on one and twain; + The warm wind blows from the hills of Spain, + The birds are building, the leaves are green, + The Baron Castine of St. Castine + Hath come at last to his own again. + + +FINALE. + + “_Nunc plaudite!_” the Student cried, + When he had finished; “now applaud, + As Roman actors used to say + At the conclusion of a play;” + And rose, and spread his hands abroad, + And smiling bowed from side to side, + As one who bears the palm away. + + And generous was the applause and loud, + But less for him than for the sun, + That even as the tale was done + Burst from its canopy of cloud, + And lit the landscape with the blaze + Of afternoon on autumn days, + And filled the room with light, and made + The fire of logs a painted shade. + + A sudden wind from out the west + Blew all its trumpets loud and shrill; + The windows rattled with the blast, + The oak-trees shouted as it passed, + And straight, as if by fear possessed, + The cloud encampment on the hill + Broke up, and fluttering flag and tent + Vanished into the firmament, + And down the valley fled amain + The rear of the retreating rain. + + Only far up in the blue sky + A mass of clouds, like drifted snow + Suffused with a faint Alpine glow, + Was heaped together, vast and high, + On which a shattered rainbow hung, + Not rising like the ruined arch + Of some aërial aqueduct, + But like a roseate garland plucked + From an Olympian god, and flung + Aside in his triumphal march. + + Like prisoners from their dungeon gloom, + Like birds escaping from a snare, + Like school-boys at the hour of play, + All left at once the pent-up room + And rushed into the open air; + And no more tales were told that day. + + + + +SCANDERBEG. + + + The battle is fought and won + By King Ladislaus the Hun, + In fire of hell and death’s frost, + On the day of Pentecost; + And in rout before his path + From the field of battle red + Flee all that are not dead + Of the army of Amurath. + + In the darkness of the night + Iskander, the pride and boast + Of that mighty Othman host, + With his routed Turks, takes flight + From the battle fought and lost + On the day of Pentecost; + Leaving behind him dead + The army of Amurath, + The vanguard as it led, + The rear-guard as it fled, + Mown down in the bloody swath + Of the battle’s aftermath. + + But he cared not for Hospodars, + Nor for Baron or Voivode, + As on through the night he rode, + And gazed at the fatal stars + That were shining overhead; + But smote his steed with his staff, + And smiled to himself, and said: + “This is the time to laugh.” + + In the middle of the night, + In a halt of the hurrying flight, + There came a Scribe of the King, + Wearing his signet ring, + And said in a voice severe: + “This is the first dark blot + On thy name, George Castriot! + Alas! why art thou here, + And the army of Amurath slain, + And left on the battle plain?” + + And Iskander answered and said: + “They lie on the bloody sod, + By the hoofs of horses trod; + But this was the decree + Of the watchers overhead; + For the war belongeth to God, + And in battle who are we, + Who are we, that shall withstand + The wind of his uplifted hand?” + + Then he bade them bind with chains + This man of books and brains; + And the Scribe said: “What misdeed + Have I done, that without need, + Thou doest to me this thing?” + And Iskander answering + Said unto him: “Not one + Misdeed to me hast thou done; + But for fear that thou shouldst run + And hide thyself from me, + Have I done this unto thee. + + “Now write me a writing, O Scribe, + And a blessing be on thy tribe! + A writing sealed with thy ring, + To King Amurath’s Pasha + In the city of Croia, + The city moated and walled, + That he surrender the same + In the name of my master, the King; + For what is writ in his name + Can never be recalled.” + + And the Scribe bowed low in dread, + And unto Iskander said: + “Allah is great and just, + We are but ashes and dust! + How shall I do this thing, + When I know that my guilty head + Will be forfeit to the King?” + + Then swift as a shooting star + The curved and shining blade + Of Iskander’s scimitar + From its sheath, with jewels bright, + Shot, as he thundered: “Write!” + And the trembling Scribe obeyed, + And wrote in the fitful glare + Of the bivouac fire apart, + With the chill of the midnight air + On his forehead white and bare, + And the chill of death in his heart. + + Then again Iskander cried: + “Now follow whither I ride, + For here thou must not stay. + Thou shalt be as my dearest friend, + And honours without end + Shall surround thee on every side, + And attend thee night and day.” + But the sullen Scribe replied: + “Our pathways here divide; + Mine leadeth not thy way.” + + And even as he spoke + Fell a sudden scimitar stroke, + When no one else was near; + And the Scribe sank to the ground, + As a stone, pushed from the brink + Of a black pool, might sink + With a sob and disappear; + And no one saw the deed; + And in the stillness around + No sound was heard but the sound + Of the hoofs of Iskander’s steed, + As forward he sprang with a bound. + + Then onward he rode and afar, + With scarce three hundred men, + Through river and forest and fen, + O’er the mountains of Argentar; + And his heart was merry within + When he crossed the river Drin, + And saw in the gleam of the morn + The White Castle Ak-Hissar, + The city Croia called, + The city moated and walled, + The city where he was born,— + And above it the morning star. + + Then his trumpeters in the van + On their silver bugles blew, + And in crowds about him ran + Albanian and Turkoman, + That the sound together drew. + And he feasted with his friends, + And when they were warm with wine, + He said: “O friends of mine, + Behold what fortune sends, + And what the fates design! + King Amurath commands + That my father’s wide domain, + This city and all its lands, + Shall be given to me again.” + + Then to the Castle White + He rode in regal state, + And entered in at the gate + In all his arms bedight, + And gave to the Pasha + Who ruled in Croia + The writing of the King, + Sealed with his signet ring. + And the Pasha bowed his head, + And after a silence said: + “Allah is just and great! + I yield to the will divine, + The city and lands are thine; + Who shall contend with fate?” + + Anon from the castle walls + The crescent banner falls, + And the crowd beholds instead, + Like a portent in the sky, + Iskander’s banner fly, + The Black Eagle with double head; + And a shout ascends on high, + For men’s souls are tired of the Turks, + And their wicked ways and works, + That have made of Ak-Hissar + A city of the plague; + And the loud, exultant cry + That echoes wide and far + Is: “Long live Scanderbeg!” + + It was thus Iskander came + Once more unto his own; + And the tidings, like the flame + Of a conflagration blown + By the winds of summer, ran, + Till the land was in a blaze, + And the cities far and near, + Sayeth Ben Joshua Ben Meir, + In his Book of the Words of the Days, + “Were taken as a man + Would take the tip of his ear.” + + + + +THE RHYME OF SIR CHRISTOPHER. + + + It was Sir Christopher Gardiner, + Knight of the Holy Sepulchre, + From Merry England over the sea, + Who stepped upon this continent + As if his august presence lent + A glory to the colony. + + You should have seen him in the street + Of the little Boston of Winthrop’s time, + His rapier dangling at his feet, + Doublet and hose and boots complete, + Prince Rupert hat with ostrich plume, + Gloves that exhaled a faint perfume, + Luxuriant curls and air sublime, + And superior manners now obsolete! + + He had a way of saying things + That made one think of courts and kings, + And lords and ladies of high degree; + So that not having been at court + Seemed something very little short + Of treason or lese-majesty, + Such an accomplished knight was he. + + His dwelling was just beyond the town, + At what he called his country seat; + For, careless of Fortune’s smile or frown, + And weary grown of the world and its ways, + He wished to pass the rest of his days + In a private life and a calm retreat. + + But a double life was the life he led; + And, while professing to be in search + Of a godly course, and willing, he said, + Nay, anxious to join the Puritan Church, + He made of all this but small account, + And passed his idle hours instead + With roystering Morton of Merry Mount, + That pettifogger from Furnival’s Inn, + Lord of misrule and riot and sin, + Who looked on the wine when it was red. + + This country-seat was little more + Than a cabin of logs; but in front of the door + A modest flower-bed thickly sown + With sweet alyssum and columbine + Made those who saw it at once divine + The touch of some other hand than his own. + + And first it was whispered, and then it was known, + That he in secret was harbouring there + A little lady with golden hair, + Whom he called his cousin, but whom he had wed + In the Italian manner, as men said; + And great was the scandal everywhere. + + But worse than this was the vague surmise— + Though none could vouch for it or aver— + That the Knight of the Holy Sepulchre + Was only a Papist in disguise; + And the more to embitter their bitter lives, + And the more to trouble the public mind, + Came letters from England, from two other wives, + Whom he had carelessly left behind; + Both of them letters of such a kind + As made the governor hold his breath; + The one imploring him straight to send + The husband home, that he might amend; + The other asking his instant death, + As the only way to make an end. + + The wary governor deemed it right, + When all this wickedness was revealed, + To send his warrant signed and sealed + And take the body of the knight. + + Armed with this mighty instrument, + The marshal, mounting his gallant steed, + Rode forth from town at the top of his speed, + And followed by all his bailiffs bold, + As if on high achievement bent, + To storm some castle or stronghold, + Challenge the warders on the wall, + And seize in his ancestral hall + A robber-baron grim and old. + + But when through all the dust and heat + He came to Sir Christopher’s country-seat, + No knight he found, nor warder there, + But the little lady with golden hair, + Who was gathering in the bright sunshine + The sweet alyssum and columbine; + While gallant Sir Christopher, all so gay, + Being forewarned, through the postern gate + Of his castle wall had tripped away, + And was keeping a little holiday + In the forests, that bounded his estate. + + Then as a trusty squire and true + The marshal searched the castle through, + Not crediting what the lady said; + Searched from cellar to garret in vain, + And, finding no knight, came out again + And arrested the golden damsel instead, + And bore her in triumph into the town, + While from her eyes the tears rolled down + On the sweet alyssum and columbine, + That she held in her fingers white and fine. + + The governor’s heart was moved to see + So fair a creature caught within + The snares of Satan and of sin, + And read her a little homily + On the folly and wickedness of the lives + Of women, half cousins and half wives; + But, seeing that naught his words availed, + He sent her away in a ship that sailed + For Merry England over the sea, + To the other two wives in the old countree, + To search her further, since he had failed + To come at the heart of the mystery. + + Meanwhile Sir Christopher wandered away + Through pathless woods for a month and a day, + Shooting pigeons, and sleeping at night + With the noble savage, who took delight + In his feathered hat and his velvet vest, + His gun and his rapier and the rest. + But as soon as the noble savage heard + That a bounty was offered for this gay bird, + He wanted to slay him out of hand, + And bring in his beautiful scalp for a show, + Like the glossy head of a kite or crow, + Until he was made to understand + They wanted the bird alive, not dead; + Then he followed him whithersoever he fled, + Through forest and field, and hunted him down, + And brought him prisoner into the town. + + Alas! it was a rueful sight. + To see this melancholy knight + In such a dismal and hapless case; + His hat deformed by stain and dent, + His plumage broken, his doublet rent, + His beard and flowing locks forlorn, + Matted, dishevelled, and unshorn, + His boots with dust and mire besprent; + But dignified in his disgrace, + And wearing an unblushing face. + And thus before the magistrate + He stood to hear the doom of fate. + In vain he strove with wonted ease + To modify and extenuate + His evil deeds in church and state, + For gone was now his power to please: + And his pompous words had no more weight + Than feathers flying in the breeze. + + With suavity equal to his own, + The governor lent a patient ear + To the speech evasive and high-flown, + In which he endeavoured to make clear + That colonial laws were too severe + When applied to a gallant cavalier, + A gentleman born, and so well known, + And accustomed to move in a higher sphere. + + All this the Puritan governor heard, + And deigned in answer never a word; + But in summary manner shipped away, + In a vessel that sailed from Salem Bay, + This splendid and famous cavalier, + With his Rupert hat and his Popery, + To Merry England over the sea, + As being unmeet to inhabit here. + + Thus endeth the Rhyme of Sir Christopher, + Knight of the Holy Sepulchre, + The first who furnished this barren land + With apples of Sodom and ropes of sand. + + + + +CHARLEMAGNE. + + + Olger the Dane and Desiderio, + King of the Lombards, on a lofty tower + Stood gazing northward o’er the rolling plains, + League after league of harvests, to the foot + Of the snow-crested Alps, and saw approach + A mighty army, thronging all the roads + That led into the city. And the King + Said unto Olger, who had passed his youth + As hostage at the court of France, and knew + The Emperor’s form and face: “Is Charlemagne + Among that host?” And Olger answered: “No.” + + And still the innumerable multitude + Flowed onward and increased, until the King + Cried in amazement: “Surely Charlemagne + Is coming in the midst of all these knights!” + And Olger answered slowly: “No, not yet; + He will not come so soon.” Then much disturbed + King Desiderio asked: “What shall we do, + If he approach with a still greater army?” + And Olger answered: “When he shall appear, + You will behold what manner of man he is; + But what will then befall us I know not.” + + Then came the guard that never knew repose, + The Paladins of France; and at the sight + The Lombard King o’ercome with terror cried: + “This must be Charlemagne!” and as before + Did Olger answer: “No; not yet, not yet.” + + And then appeared in panoply complete + The Bishops and the Abbots and the Priests + Of the imperial chapel, and the Counts; + And Desiderio could no more endure + The light of day, nor yet encounter death, + But sobbed aloud and said: “Let us go down + And hide us in the bosom of the earth, + Far from the sight and anger of a foe + So terrible as this!” And Olger said: + “When you behold the harvests in the fields + Shaking with fear, the Po and the Ticino + Lashing the city walls with iron waves, + Then may you know that Charlemagne is come.” + And even as he spake, in the north-west, + Lo! there uprose a black and threatening cloud, + Out of whose bosom flashed the light of arms + Upon the people pent up in the city; + A light more terrible than any darkness: + And Charlemagne appeared—a Man of Iron! + + His helmet was of iron, and his gloves + Of iron, and his breastplate and his greaves + And tassets were of iron, and his shield. + In his left hand he held an iron spear, + In his right hand his sword invincible. + The horse he rode on had the strength of iron, + And colour of iron. All who went before him, + Beside him, and behind him, his whole host, + Were armed with iron, and their hearts within them + Were stronger than the armour that they wore. + The fields and all the roads were filled with iron, + And points of iron glistened in the sun, + And shed a terror through the city streets. + This at a single glance Olger the Dane + Saw from the tower, and turning to the King + Exclaimed in haste, “Behold, this is the man + You looked for with such eagerness!” and then + Fell as one dead at Desiderio’s feet. + +[Illustration] + + + + +_Flower-de-Luce._ + +1866. + + +BEAUTIFUL LILY. + + Beautiful lily, dwelling by still rivers, + Or solitary mere, + Or where the sluggish meadow-brook delivers + Its water to the weir! + + Thou laughest at the mill, the whirr and worry + Of spindle and of loom, + And the great wheel that toils amid the hurry + And rushing of the flume. + + Born to the purple, born to joy and pleasance, + Thou dost not toil nor spin, + But makest glad and radiant with thy presence + The meadow and the lin. + + The wind blows, and uplifts thy drooping banner, + And round thee throng and run + The rushes, the green yeomen of thy manor, + The outlaws of the sun. + + The burnished dragon-fly is thine attendant, + And tilts against the field, + And down the listed sunbeam rides resplendent + With steel-blue mail and shield. + + Thou art the Iris, fair among the fairest, + Who, armed with golden rod + And winged with the celestial azure, bearest + The message of some God. + + Thou art the Muse, who far from crowded cities + Hauntest the sylvan streams, + Playing on pipes of reed the artless ditties + That come to us as dreams. + + O flower-de-luce, bloom on, and let the river + Linger to kiss thy feet! + O flower of song, bloom on, and make for ever + The world more fair and sweet. + + +PALINGENESIS. + + I lay upon the headland height, and listened + To the incessant sobbing of the sea + In caverns under me, + And watched the waves, that tossed and fled and glistened, + Until the rolling meadows of amethyst + Melted away in mist. + + Then suddenly, as one from sleep, I started; + For round about me all the sunny capes + Seemed peopled with the shapes + Of those whom I had known in days departed, + Apparelled in the loveliness which gleams + On faces seen in dreams. + + A moment only, and the light and glory + Faded away, and the disconsolate shore + Stood lonely as before; + And the wild roses of the promontory + Around me shuddered in the wind, and shed + Their petals of pale red. + + There was an old belief that in the embers + Of all things their primordial form exists, + And cunning alchemists + Could re-create the rose with all its members + From its own ashes, but without the bloom, + Without the lost perfume. + + Ah me! what wonder-working, occult science + Can from the ashes in our hearts once more + The rose of youth restore? + What craft of alchemy can bid defiance + To time and change, and for a single hour + Renew this phantom flower? + + “Oh, give me back,” I cried, “the vanished splendours, + The breath of morn, and the exultant strife, + When the swift stream of life + Bounds over its rocky channel, and surrenders + The pond with all its lilies, for the leap + Into the unknown deep!” + + And the sea answered, with a lamentation, + Like some old prophet wailing, and it said, + “Alas! thy youth is dead! + It breathes no more, its heart has no pulsation, + In the dark places with the dead of old, + It lies for ever cold!” + + Then said I, “From its consecrated cerements + I will not drag this sacred dust again, + Only to give me pain; + But, still remembering all the lost endearments, + Go on my way, like one who looks before, + And turns to weep no more.” + + Into what land of harvests, what plantations + Bright with autumnal foliage and the glow + Of sunsets burning low; + Beneath what midnight skies, whose constellations + Light up the spacious avenues between + This world and the unseen! + + Amid what friendly greetings and caresses, + What households, though not alien, yet not mine, + What bowers of rest divine; + To what temptations in lone wildernesses, + What famine of the heart, what pain and loss, + The bearing of what cross! + + I do not know; nor will I vainly question + Those pages of the mystic book which hold + The story still untold, + But without rash conjecture or suggestion + Turn its last leaves in reverence and good heed, + Until “The End” I read. + + +HAWTHORNE. + +MAY 23, 1864. + + How beautiful it was, that one bright day + In the long week of rain! + Though all its splendour could not chase away + The omnipresent pain. + + The lovely town was white with apple-blooms, + And the great elms o’erhead, + Dark shadows wove on their aërial looms, + Shot through with golden thread. + + Across the meadows, by the grey old manse, + The historic river flowed;— + I was as one who wanders in a trance, + Unconscious of his road. + + The faces of familiar friends seemed strange; + Their voices I could hear, + And yet the words they uttered seemed to change + Their meaning to the ear. + + For the one face I looked for was not there, + The one low voice was mute; + Only an unseen presence filled the air, + And baffled my pursuit. + + Now I look back, and meadow, manse, and stream, + Dimly my thought defines; + I only see—a dream within a dream— + The hill-top hearsed with pines. + + I only hear above his place of rest + Their tender undertone, + The infinite longings of a troubled breast, + The voice so like his own. + + There in seclusion and remote from men + The wizard hand lies cold, + Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen, + And left the tale half told. + + Ah! who shall lift that wand of magic power, + And the lost clue regain? + The unfinished window in Aladdin’s tower, + Unfinished must remain! + + +THE BELLS OF LYNN. + +HEARD AT NAHANT. + + O curfew of the setting sun! O Bells of Lynn! + O requiem of the dying day! O Bells of Lynn! + + From the dark belfries of yon cloud-cathedral wafted, + Your sounds aërial seem to float, O Bells of Lynn! + + Borne on the evening wind across the crimson twilight, + O’er land and sea they rise and fall, O Bells of Lynn! + + The fisherman in his boat, far out beyond the headland, + Listens, and leisurely rows ashore, O Bells of Lynn! + + Over the shining sands the wandering cattle homeward + Follow each other at your call, O Bells of Lynn! + + The distant lighthouse hears, and with his flaming signal + Answers you, passing the watchword on, O Bells of Lynn! + + And down the darkening coast run the tumultuous surges, + And clap their hands, and shout to you, O Bells of Lynn! + + Till from the shuddering sea, with your wild incantations, + Ye summon up the spectral moon, O Bells of Lynn! + + And startled at the sight, like the weird woman of Endor, + Ye cry aloud, and then are still, O Bells of Lynn! + + +THE BRIDGE OF CLOUD. + + Burn, O evening hearth, and waken + Pleasant visions, as of old! + Though the house by winds be shaken, + Safe I keep this room of gold. + + Ah, no longer wizard Fancy + Builds her castles in the air, + Luring me by necromancy + Up the never-ending stair. + + But, instead, she builds me bridges + Over many a dark ravine, + Where, beneath the gusty ridges, + Cataracts dash and roar unseen. + + And I cross them, little heeding + Blast of wind, or torrent’s roar, + As I follow the receding + Footsteps that have gone before. + + Nought avails the imploring gesture, + Nought avails the cry of pain! + When I touch the flying vesture, + ’Tis the grey robe of the rain. + + Baffled I return, and leaning + O’er the parapets of cloud, + Watch the mist that intervening + Wraps the valley in its shroud. + + And the sounds of life ascending + Feebly, vaguely, meet the ear, + Murmur of bells and voices blending + With the rush of waters near. + + Well I know what there lies hidden, + Every tower, and town, and farm, + And again the land forbidden + Reassumes its vanished charm. + + Well I know the secret places, + And the nests in hedge and tree; + At what doors are friendly faces, + In what hearts a thought of me. + + Through the mist and darkness sinking, + Blown by wind, and beaten by shower, + Down I fling the thought I’m thinking, + Down I toss this Alpine flower. + + +THE WIND OVER THE CHIMNEY. + + See, the fire is sinking low, + Dusky red the embers glow, + While above them still I cower,— + While a moment more I linger, + Though the clock, with lifted finger, + Points beyond the midnight hour. + + Sings the blackened log a tune + Learned in some forgotten June + From a schoolboy in his play, + When they both were young together, + Heart of youth and summer weather + Making all their holiday. + + And the night-wind rising, hark! + How above there in the dark, + In the midnight and the snow, + Ever wilder, fiercer, grander, + Like the trumpets of Iskander, + All the noisy chimneys blow! + + Every quivering tongue of flame + Seems to murmur some great name, + Seems to say to me, “Aspire!” + But the night-wind answers,—“Hollow + Are the visions that you follow; + Into darkness sinks your fire!” + + Then the flicker of the blaze + Gleams on volumes of old days, + Written by masters of the art, + Loud through whose majestic pages + Rolls the melody of ages, + Throb the harp-strings of the heart. + + And again the tongues of flame + Start exulting and exclaim,— + “These are prophets, bards, and seers; + In the horoscope of nations, + Like ascendant constellations, + They control the coming years.” + + But the night-wind cries,—“Despair! + Those who walk with feet of air + Leave no long-enduring marks; + At God’s forges incandescent + Mighty hammers beat incessant, + These are but the flying sparks. + + “Dust are all the hands that wrought; + Books are sepulchres of thought; + The dead laurels of the dead + Rustle for a moment only, + Like the withered leaves in lonely + Churchyards at some passing tread.” + + Suddenly the flame sinks down; + Sink the rumours of renown; + And alone the night-wind drear + Clamours louder, wilder, vaguer, + “’Tis the brand of Meleager + Dying on the hearthstone here!” + + And I answer: “Though it be, + Why should that discomfort me? + No endeavour is in vain; + Its reward is in the doing, + And the rapture of pursuing + Is the prize the vanquished gain.” + + +KILLED AT THE FORD. + + He is dead, the beautiful youth, + The heart of honour, the tongue of truth,— + He, the life and light of us all, + Whose voice was blithe as a bugle call + Whom all eyes followed with one consent, + The cheer of whose laugh, and whose pleasant word, + Hushed all murmurs of discontent. + + Only last night, as we rode along, + Down the dark of the mountain gap, + To visit the picquet-guard at the ford, + Little dreaming of any mishap, + He was humming the words of some old song: + “Two red roses he had on his cap, + And another he bore at the point of his sword.” + + Sudden and swift a whistling ball + Came out of the wood, and the voice was still; + Something I heard in the darkness fall, + And for a moment my blood grew chill: + I spake in a whisper, as he who speaks + In a room when some one is lying dead; + But he made no answer to what I said. + + We lifted him on his saddle again, + And through the mire, and the mist, and the rain + Carried him back to the silent camp, + And laid him as if asleep on his bed; + And I saw, by the light of the surgeon’s lamp, + Two white roses upon his cheeks, + And one just over his heart blood-red! + + And I saw in a vision how far and fleet + That fatal bullet went speeding forth, + Till it reached a town in the distant North, + Till it reached a house in a sunny street, + Till it reached a heart that ceased to beat, + Without a murmur, without a cry; + And a bell was tolled in that far-off town, + For one who had passed from cross to crown,— + And the neighbours wondered that she should die. + + +NOËL + +Envoyé à M. Agassiz, la veille de Noël, 1864, avec un panier de vins +divers. + + L’Académie en respect, + Nonobstant l’incorrection, + À la faveur du sujet, + Ture-lure, + N’y fera point de rature; + Noël! ture-lure-lure. + GUI-BARÔZAI. + + Quand les astres de Noël + Brillaient, palpitaient au ciel, + Six gaillards, et chacun ivre, + Chantaient gaîment dans le givre, + “Bons amis, + Allons donc chez Agassiz!” + + Ces illustres Pélerins + D’Outre Mer, adroits et fins, + Se donnant des airs de prêtre, + A l’envi se vantaient d’être, + “Bons amis, + De Jean Rudolphe Agassiz.” + + Œil-de-Perdrix, grand farceur, + Sans reproche et sans pudeur, + Dans son patois de Bourgogne, + Bredouillait comme un ivrogne, + “Bons amis, + J’ai dansé chez Agassiz!” + + Verzenay le Champenois, + Bon Français, point New-Yorquois, + Mais des environs d’Avize, + Fredonne, à mainte reprise, + “Bons amis, + J’ai chanté chez Agassiz!” + + A côté marchait un vieux + Hidalgo, mais non mousseux; + Dans le temps de Charlemagne, + Fut son père Grand d’Espagne! + “Bons amis, + J’ai diné chez Agassiz!” + + Derrière eux un Bordelais, + Gascon, s’il en fût jamais, + Parfumé de poésie + Riait, chantait plein de vie, + “Bons amis, + J’ai soupé chez Agassiz!” + + Avec ce beau cadet roux, + Bras dessus et bras dessous, + Mine altière et couleur terne, + Vint le Sire de Sauterne; + “Bon amis, + J’ai couché chez Agassiz!” + + Mais le dernier de ces preux + Était un pauvre Chartreux, + Qui disait, d’un ton robuste, + “Bénédictions sur le Juste! + Bon amis, + Bénissons Père Agassiz!” + + Ils arrivent trois à trois, + Montent l’escalier de bois + Clopin-clopant! quel gendarme + Peut permettre ce vacarme, + Bons amis, + À la porte d’Agassiz! + + “Ouvrez donc, mon bon Seigneur, + Ouvrez vite et n’ayez peur; + Ouvrez, ouvrez, car nous sommes + Gens de bien et gentilshommes, + Bons amis, + De la famille Agassiz.” + + Chut, ganaches! taisez-vous! + C’en est trop de vos glouglous + Épargnez aux Philosophes + Vos abominables strophes! + Bons amis, + Respectez mon Agassiz! + + +CHRISTMAS BELLS. + + I heard the bells on Christmas Day + Their old, familiar carols play, + And wild and sweet + The words repeat + Of peace on earth, good-will to men! + + And thought how, as the day had come, + The belfries of all Christendom + Had rolled along + The unbroken song + Of peace on earth, good-will to men! + + Till, ringing, singing on its way, + The world revolved from night to day, + A voice, a chime, + A chant sublime + Of peace on earth, good-will to men! + + Then from each black, accursèd mouth + The cannon thundered in the South, + And with the sound + The carols drowned + Of peace on earth, good-will to men! + + It was as if an earthquake rent + The hearthstones of a continent, + + And made forlorn + The households born + Of peace on earth, good-will to men! + + And in despair I bowed my head; + “There is no peace on earth,” I said; + “For hate is strong, + And mocks the song + Of peace on earth, good-will to men!” + + Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: + “God is not dead! nor doth he sleep! + The Wrong shall fail, + The Right prevail, + With peace on earth, good-will to men!” + +[Illustration] + + + + +_Sonnets._ + + +AUTUMN. + + Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain, + With banners, by great gales incessant fanned, + Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand, + And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain! + Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne,[45] + Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal hand + Outstretched with benedictions o’er the land, + Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain. + Thy shield is the red harvest moon suspended + So long beneath the heaven’s o’erhanging eaves; + Thy steps are by the farmer’s prayers attended; + Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves; + And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid, + Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden leaves! + +[45] Charlemagne may be called by pre-eminence the monarch of farmers. +According to the German tradition, in seasons of great abundance his +spirit crosses the Rhine on a golden bridge at Bingen, and blesses the +corn-fields and the vineyards. + + +GIOTTO’S TOWER. + + How many lives, made beautiful and sweet + By self-devotion and by self-restraint, + Whose pleasure is to run without complaint + On unknown errands of the Paraclete, + Wanting the reverence of unshodden feet, + Fail of the nimbus which the artists paint + Around the shining forehead of the saint, + And are in their completeness incomplete! + In the old Tuscan town stands Giotto’s tower, + The lily of Florence blossoming in stone,— + A vision, a delight, and a desire, + The builder’s perfect and centennial flower, + That in the night of ages bloomed alone, + But wanting still the glory of the spire. + + +DANTE. + + Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms of gloom, + With thoughtful pace, and sad majestic eyes, + Stern thoughts and awful from thy soul arise, + Like Farinata from his fiery tomb. + Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom; + Yet in thy heart what human sympathies, + What soft compassion glows, as in the skies + The tender stars their clouded lamps relume! + Methinks I see thee stand, with pallid cheeks, + By Fra Hilario in his diocese, + As up the convent-walls, in golden streaks, + The ascending sunbeams mark the day’s decrease; + And, as he asks what there the stranger seeks, + Thy voice along the cloisters whispers, “Peace!” + + +TO-MORROW. + + ’Tis late at night, and in the realm of sleep + My little lambs are folded like the flocks; + From room to room I hear the wakeful clocks + Challenge the passing hour, like guards that keep + Their solitary watch on tower and steep; + Far off I hear the crowing of the cocks, + And through the opening door that time unlocks + Feel the fresh breathing of To-morrow creep + To-morrow! the mysterious, unknown guest, + Who cries to me: “Remember Barmecide, + And tremble to be happy with the rest.” + And I make answer: “I am satisfied; + I dare not ask; I know not what is best; + God hath already said what shall betide.” + + +THE EVENING STAR. + + Lo! in the painted oriel of the West, + Whose panes the sunken sun incarnadines + Like a fair lady at her casement shines + The Evening Star, the star of love and rest! + And then anon she doth herself divest + Of all her radiant garments, and reclines + Behind the sombre screen of yonder pines, + With slumber and soft dreams of love oppressed. + O my beloved, my sweet Hesperus! + My morning and my evening star of love! + My best and gentlest lady! even thus, + As that fair planet in the sky above, + Dost thou retire unto thy rest at night, + And from thy darkened window fades the light. + + +DIVINA COMMEDIA. + +I. + + Oft have I seen at some cathedral door + A labourer, pausing in the dust and heat, + Lay down his burden, and with reverent feet + Enter and cross himself, and on the floor + Kneel to repeat his pater-noster o’er; + Far off the noises of the world retreat, + The loud vociferations of the street + Become an undistinguishable roar. + So, as I enter here from day to day, + And leave my burden at this minster gate, + Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to pray, + The tumult of the time disconsolate + To inarticulate murmurs dies away, + While the eternal ages watch and wait. + +II. + + How strange the sculptures that adorn these towers! + This crowd of statues, in whose folded sleeves + Birds build their nests; while canopied with leaves + Parvis and portal bloom like trellised bowers, + And the vast minster seems a cross of flowers! + But fiends and dragons on the gargoyled eaves + Watch the dead Christ between the living thieves, + And, underneath, the traitor Judas lowers! + Ah! from what agonies of heart and brain, + What exultations trampling on despair, + What tenderness, what tears, what hate of wrong, + What passionate outcry of a soul in pain, + Uprose this poem of the earth and air, + This mediæval miracle of song! + +III. + + I enter, and I see thee in the gloom + Of the long aisles, O poet saturnine! + And strive to make my steps keep pace with thine, + The air is filled with some unknown perfume; + The congregation of the dead make room + For thee to pass; the votive tapers shine; + Like rooks that haunt Ravenna’s groves of pine, + The hovering echoes fly from tomb to tomb. + From the confessionals I hear arise + Rehearsals of forgotten tragedies, + And lamentations from the crypts below; + And then a voice celestial, that begins + With the pathetic words, “Although your sins + As scarlet be,” and ends with “as the snow.” + +IV. + + I lift mine eyes, and all the windows blaze + With forms of saints and holy men who died, + Here martyred and hereafter glorified; + And the great Rose upon its leaves displays + Christ’s Triumph, and the angelic roundelays + With splendour upon splendour multiplied; + And Beatrice again at Dante’s side + No more rebukes, but smiles her words of praise. + And then the organ sounds, and unseen choirs + Sing the old Latin hymns of peace and love, + And benedictions of the Holy Ghost; + And the melodious bells among the spires + O’er all the house-tops and through heaven above + Proclaim the elevation of the Host! + +V. + + O star of morning and of liberty! + O bringer of the light whose splendour shines + Above the darkness of the Apennines, + Forerunner of the day that is to be! + The voices of the city and the sea, + The voices of the mountains and the pines, + Repeat thy song, till the familiar lines + Are footpaths for the thought of Italy! + Thy fame is blown abroad from all the heights, + Through all the nations, and a sound is heard, + As of a mighty wind, and men devout, + Strangers of Rome, and the new proselytes, + In their own language hear thy wondrous word, + And many are amazed and many doubt. + + +ON MRS. KEMBLE’S READINGS FROM SHAKESPEARE. + + O precious evenings! all too swiftly sped! + Leaving us heirs to amplest heritages + Of all the best thoughts of the greatest sages, + And giving tongues unto the silent dead! + How our hearts glowed and trembled as she read, + Interpreting by tones the wondrous pages + Of the great poet who foreruns the ages, + Anticipating all that shall be said! + O happy Reader! having for thy text + The magic book, whose Sibylline leaves have caught + The rarest essence of all human thought! + O happy Poet! by no critic vexed! + How must thy listening spirit now rejoice + To be interpreted by such a voice! + + +NATURE. + + As a fond mother when the day is o’er, + Leads by the hand her little child to bed, + Half willing, half reluctant to be led, + And leave his broken playthings on the floor, + Still gazing at them through the open door, + Nor wholly reassured and comforted + By promises of others in their stead, + Which, though more splendid, may not please him more; + So Nature deals with us, and takes away + Our playthings one by one, and by the hand + Leads us to rest so gently, that we go, + Scarce knowing if we wished to go or stay, + Being too full of sleep to understand + How far the unknown transcends the what we know. + + +IN THE CHURCHYARD AT TARRYTOWN. + + Here lies the gentle humourist, who died + In the bright Indian summer of his fame! + A simple stone, with but a date and name, + Marks his secluded resting-place beside + The river that he loved and glorified. + Here in the autumn of his days he came, + But the dry leaves of life were all aflame + With tints that brightened and were multiplied. + How sweet a life was his; how sweet a death! + Living, to wing with mirth the weary hours, + Or with romantic tales the heart to cheer; + Dying, to leave a memory like the breath + Of summers full of sunshine and of showers, + A grief and gladness in the atmosphere. + + +ELIOT’S OAK. + + Thou ancient oak! whose myriad leaves are loud + With sounds of unintelligible speech, + Sounds as of surges on a shingly beach, + Or multitudinous murmurs of a crowd; + With some mysterious gift of tongues endowed, + Thou speakest a different dialect to each; + To me a language that no man can teach, + Of a lost race, long vanished like a cloud. + For underneath thy shade, in days remote, + Seated like Abraham at eventide + Beneath the oaks of Mamre, the unknown + Apostle of the Indians, Eliot, wrote + His Bible in a language that hath died + And is forgotten, save by thee alone. + + +THE DESCENT OF THE MUSES. + + Nine sisters, beautiful in form and face, + Came from their convent on the shining heights + Of Pierus, the mountain of delights, + To dwell among the people at its base. + Then seemed the world to change. All time and space, + Splendour of cloudless days and starry nights, + And men and manners, and all sounds and sights, + Had a new meaning, a diviner grace. + Proud were these sisters, but were not too proud + To teach in schools of little country towns + Science and song, and all the arts that please; + So that while housewives span, and farmers ploughed, + Their comely daughters, clad in homespun gowns, + Learned the sweet songs of the Pierides. + + +VENICE. + + White swan of cities, slumbering in thy nest + So wonderfully built among the reeds + Of the lagoon, that fences thee and feeds, + As sayeth thy old historian and thy guest! + White water-lily, cradled and caressed + By ocean streams, and from the silt and weeds + Lifting thy golden filaments and seeds, + Thy sun-illumined spires, thy crown and crest! + White phantom city, whose untrodden streets + Are rivers, and whose pavements are the shifting + Shadows of palaces and strips of sky; + I wait to see thee vanish like the fleets + Seen in mirage, or towers of cloud uplifting + In air their unsubstantial masonry. + + +THE TWO RIVERS. + +I. + + Slowly the hour-hand of the clock moves round; + So slowly that no human eye hath power + To see it move! Slowly in shine or shower + The painted ship above it, homeward bound, + Sails, but seems motionless, as if aground; + Yet both arrive at last; and in his tower + The slumbrous watchman wakes and strikes the hour, + A mellow, measured, melancholy sound. + Midnight! the outpost of advancing day! + The frontier town and citadel of night! + The watershed of Time, from which the streams + Of Yesterday and To-morrow take their way, + One to the land of promise and of light, + One to the land of darkness and of dreams! + +II. + + O River of Yesterday, with current swift + Through chasms descending, and soon lost to sight, + I do not care to follow in thy flight + The faded leaves, that on thy bosom drift! + O River of To-morrow, I uplift + Mine eyes, and thee I follow, as the night + Wanes into morning, and the dawning light + Broadens, and all the shadows fade and shift! + I follow, follow, where thy waters run + Through unfrequented, unfamiliar fields, + Fragrant with flowers and musical with song; + Still follow, follow; sure to meet the sun, + And confident, that what the future yields + Will be the right, unless myself be wrong. + +III. + + Yet not in vain, O River of Yesterday, + Through chasms of darkness to the deep descending, + I heard thee sobbing in the rain, and blending + Thy voice with other voices far away. + I called to thee, and yet thou wouldst not stay, + But turbulent, and with thyself contending, + And torrent-like thy force on pebbles spending, + Thou wouldst not listen to a poet’s lay. + Thoughts, like a loud and sudden rush of wings, + Regrets and recollections of things past, + With hints and prophecies of things to be, + And inspirations, which, could they be things, + And stay with us, and we could hold them fast, + Were our good angels,—these I owe to thee. + +IV. + + And thou, O River of To-morrow, flowing + Between thy narrow adamantine walls, + But beautiful, and white with waterfalls, + And wreaths of mist, like hands the pathway showing; + I hear the trumpets of the morning blowing, + I hear thy mighty voice, that calls and calls, + And see, as Ossian saw in Morven’s halls, + Mysterious phantoms, coming, beckoning, going! + It is the mystery of the unknown + That fascinates us; we are children still, + Wayward and wistful; with one hand we cling + To the familiar things we call our own, + And with the other, resolute of will, + Grope in the dark for what the day will bring. + + +CHAUCER. + + An old man in a lodge within a park; + The chamber walls depicted all around + With portraitures of huntsman, hawk, and hound, + And the hurt deer. He listeneth to the lark, + Whose song comes with the sunshine through the dark + Of painted glass in leaden lattice bound; + He listeneth and he laugheth at the sound, + Then writeth in a book like any clerk. + He is the poet of the dawn, who wrote + The Canterbury Tales, and his old age + Made beautiful with song; and as I read + I hear the crowing cock, I hear the note + Of lark and linnet, and from every page + Rise odours of ploughed field or flowery mead. + + +WOODSTOCK PARK. + + Here in a little rustic hermitage + Alfred the Saxon King, Alfred the Great, + Postponed the cares of kingcraft to translate + The Consolations of the Roman sage. + Here Geoffrey Chaucer in his ripe old age + Wrote the unrivalled Tales, which soon or late + The venturous hand that strives to imitate + Vanquished must fall on the unfinished page. + Two kings were they, who ruled by right divine, + And both supreme; one in the realm of Truth, + One in the realm of Fiction and of Song. + What prince hereditary of their line, + Uprising in the strength and flush of youth, + Their glory shall inherit and prolong? + + +ST. JOHN’S, CAMBRIDGE. + + I stand beneath the tree, whose branches shade + Thy western window, Chapel of St. John! + And hear its leaves repeat thy benison + On him, whose hand thy stones memorial laid; + Then I remember one of whom was said + In the world’s darkest hour, “Behold thy son!” + And see him living still, and wandering on + And waiting for the advent long delayed. + Not only tongues of the apostles teach + Lessons of love and light, but these expanding + And sheltering boughs with all their leaves implore, + And say in language clear as human speech, + “The peace of God, that passeth understanding, + Be and abide with you for evermore!” + + +BOSTON. + + St. Botolph’s Town! Hither across the plains + And fens of Lincolnshire, in garb austere, + There came a Saxon monk, and founded here + A Priory, pillaged by marauding Danes, + So that thereof no vestige now remains; + Only a name, that, spoken loud and clear, + And echoed in another hemisphere, + Survives the sculptured walls and painted panes. + St. Botolph’s Town! Far over leagues of land + And leagues of sea looks forth its noble tower, + And far around the chiming bells are heard: + So may that sacred name for ever stand + A landmark, and a symbol of the power + That lies concentred in a single word. + + +THE BURIAL OF THE POET.[46] + +April 1879. + + In the old churchyard of his native town, + And in the ancestral tomb beside the wall, + We laid him in the sleep that comes to all, + And left him to his rest and his renown. + The snow was falling, as if Heaven dropped down + White flowers of Paradise to strew his pall;— + The dead around him seemed to wake, and call + His name, as worthy of so white a crown. + And now the moon is shining on the scene, + And the broad sheet of snow is written o’er + With shadows cruciform of leafless trees, + As once the winding-sheet of Saladin + With chapters of the Koran; but ah! more + Mysterious and triumphant signs are these. + +[46] Richard Henry Dana. + + +THE THREE SILENCES OF MOLINOS. + +TO JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. + + Three Silences there are; the first of speech, + The second of desire, the third of thought; + This is the lore a Spanish monk, distraught + With dreams and visions, was the first to teach. + These Silences, commingling each with each, + Made up the perfect Silence that he sought + And prayed for, and wherein at times he caught + Mysterious sounds from realms beyond our reach. + O thou, whose daily life anticipates + The life to come, and in whose thought and word + The spiritual world preponderates, + Hermit of Amesbury! thou too hast heard + Voices and melodies from beyond the gates, + And speakest only when thy soul is stirred! + +[Illustration: + + “_St. Bodolph’s Town! Far over leagues of land + And leagues of sea looks forth its noble tower, + And far around the charming bells are heard._” +] + + +MY CATHEDRAL. + + Like two cathedral towers these stately pines + Uplift their fretted summits tipped with cones; + The arch beneath them is not built with stones, + Not Art but Nature traced these lovely lines, + And carved this graceful arabesque of vines; + No organ but the wind here sighs and moans, + No sepulchre conceals a martyr’s bones, + No marble bishop on his tomb reclines. + Enter! the pavement carpeted with leaves + Gives back a softened echo to thy tread! + Listen! the choir is singing; all the birds, + In leafy galleries beneath the eaves, + Are singing! Listen ere the sound be fled, + And learn there may be worship without words. + + +TO THE RIVER RHONE. + + Thou Royal River, born of sun and shower + In chambers purple with the Alpine glow, + Wrapped in the spotless ermine of the snow, + And rocked by tempests!—at the appointed hour + Forth, like a steel-clad horseman from a tower, + With clang and clink of harness dost thou go + To meet thy vassal torrents, that below + Rush to receive thee and obey thy power. + And now thou movest in triumphal march, + A king among the rivers! On thy way + A hundred towns await and welcome thee; + Bridges uplift for thee the stately arch, + Vineyards encircle thee with garlands gay, + And fleets attend thy progress to the sea! + + +WAPENTAKE. + +_To_ ALFRED TENNYSON. + + Poet! I come to touch thy lance with mine; + Not as a knight who on the listed field + Of tourney touched his adversary’s shield + In token of defiance, but in sign + Of homage to the mastery, which is thine, + In English song; nor will I keep concealed, + And voiceless as a rivulet frost-congealed. + My admiration for thy verse divine. + Not of the howling dervishes of song, + Who craze the brain with their delirious dance, + Art thou, O sweet historian of the heart! + Therefore to thee the laurel-leaves belong, + To thee our love and our allegiance, + For thy allegiance to the poet’s art. + + +THE BROKEN OAR. + + Once upon Iceland’s solitary strand + A poet wandered with his book and pen, + Seeking some final word, some sweet Amen, + Wherewith to close the volume in his hand. + The billows rolled and plunged upon the sand, + The circling sea-gulls swept beyond his ken, + And from the parting cloud-rack now and then + Flashed the red sunset over sea and land. + Then by the billows at his feet was tossed + A broken oar; and carved thereon he read, + “Oft was I weary, when I toiled at thee;” + And like a man who findeth what was lost, + He wrote the words, then lifted up his head, + And flung his useless pen into the sea. + + +AGASSIZ. + + I stand again on the familiar shore, + And hear the waves of the distracted sea + Piteously calling and lamenting thee, + And waiting restless at thy cottage door. + The rocks, the sea-weed on the ocean floor, + The willows in the meadow, and the free + Wild winds of the Atlantic welcome me; + Then why shouldst thou be dead and come no more! + Ah! why shouldst thou be dead when common men + Are busy with their trivial affairs, + Having and holding? Why, when thou hadst read + Nature’s mysterious manuscript, and then + Wast ready to reveal the truth it bears, + Why art thou silent? Why shouldst thou be dead? + +[Illustration] + + + + +THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. + +1874. + +_Pendre la Crémaillière_, to Hang the Crane, is a French expression for +a house-warming, or the first party given in a new house. + +I. + + The lights are out, and gone are all the guests + That thronging came with merriment and jests + To celebrate the Hanging of the Crane + In the new house—into the night are gone; + But still the fire upon the hearth burns on, + And I alone remain. + + O fortunate, O happy day, + When a new household finds its place + Among the myriad homes of earth, + Like a new star just sprung to birth, + And rolled on its harmonious way + Into the boundless realms of space! + So said the guests in speech and song, + As in the chimney, burning bright, + We hung the iron crane to-night, + And merry was the feast and long. + +II. + + And now I sit and muse on what may be, + And in my vision see, or seem to see, + Through floating vapours interfused with light, + Shapes indeterminate, that gleam and fade, + As shadows passing into deeper shade + Sink and elude the sight. + + For two alone, there in the hall, + Is spread the table, round and small; + Upon the polished silver shine + The evening lamps, but, more divine, + The light of love shines over all; + Of love, that says not mine and thine, + But ours, for ours is thine and mine. + They want no guests, to come between + Their tender glances like a screen, + And tell them tales of land and sea, + And whatsoever may betide + The great, forgotten world outside; + They want no guests; they needs must be + Each other’s own best company. + +III. + + The picture fades; as at a village fair + A showman’s views, dissolving into air, + Again appear transfigured on the screen, + So in my fancy this; and now once more, + In part transfigured, through the open door + Appears the selfsame scene. + + Seated, I see the two again, + But not alone; they entertain + A little angel unaware, + With face as round as is the moon; + A royal guest with flaxen hair, + Who, throned upon his lofty chair, + Drums on the table with his spoon, + Then drops it careless on the floor, + To grasp at things unseen before. + Are these celestial manners? these + The ways that win, the arts that please? + Ah yes; consider well the guest, + And whatsoe’er he does seems best; + He ruleth by the right divine + Of helplessness, so lately born + In purple chambers of the morn, + As sovereign over thee and thine. + He speaketh not; and yet there lies + A conversation in his eyes; + The golden silence of the Greek, + The gravest wisdom of the wise, + Not spoken in language, but in looks + More legible than printed books, + As if he could but would not speak. + And now, O monarch absolute, + Thy power is put to proof; for lo! + Resistless, fathomless, and slow, + The nurse comes rustling like the sea, + And pushes back thy chair and thee, + And so good night to King Canute. + +IV. + + As one who walking in a forest sees + A lovely landscape through the parted trees, + Then sees it not, for boughs that intervene + Or as we see the moon sometimes revealed + Through drifting clouds, and then again concealed, + So I behold the scene. + + There are two guests at table now; + The king, deposed and older grown, + No longer occupies the throne,— + The crown is on his sister’s brow; + A Princess from the Fairy Isles, + The very pattern girl of girls, + All covered and embowered in curls, + Rose-tinted from the Isle of Flowers, + And sailing with soft, silken sails + From far-off Dreamland into ours. + Above their bowls with rims of blue + Four azure eyes of deeper hue + Are looking, dreamy with delight; + Limpid as planets that emerge + Above the ocean’s rounded verge, + Soft-shining through the summer night. + Stedfast they gaze, yet nothing see + Beyond the horizon of their bowls; + Nor care they for the world that rolls + With all its freight of troubled souls + Into the days that are to be. + +V. + + Again the tossing boughs shut out the scene, + Again the drifting vapours intervene, + And the moon’s pallid disk is hidden quite; + And now I see the table wider grown, + As round a pebble into water thrown + Dilates a ring of light. + + I see the table wider grown, + I see it garlanded with guests, + As if fair Ariadne’s Crown + Out of the sky had fallen down; + Maidens within whose tender breasts + A thousand restless hopes and fears, + Forth reaching to the coming years, + Flutter a while, then quiet lie, + Like timid birds that fain would fly, + But do not care to leave their nests;— + And youths, who in their strength elate + Challenge the van and front of fate, + Eager as champions to be + In the divine knight-errantry + Of youth, that travels sea and land + Seeking adventures, or pursues, + Through cities and through solitudes + Frequented by the lyric Muse, + The phantom with the beckoning hand, + That still allures and still eludes. + O sweet illusions of the brain! + O sudden thrills of fire and frost! + The world is bright while ye remain, + And dark and dead when ye are lost! + +VI. + + The meadow-brook, that seemeth to stand still, + Quickens its current as it nears the mill; + And so the stream of Time that lingereth + In level places, and so dull appears, + Runs with a swifter current as it nears + The gloomy mills of Death. + + And now, like the magician’s scroll, + That in the owner’s keeping shrinks + With every wish he speaks or thinks, + Till the last wish consumes the whole, + The table dwindles, and again + I see the two alone remain. + The crown of stars is broken in parts; + Its jewels, brighter than the day, + Have one by one been stolen away + To shine in other homes and hearts. + One is a wanderer now afar + In Ceylon or in Zanzibar, + Or sunny regions of Cathay; + And one is in the boisterous camp + Mid clink of arms and horses’ tramp, + And battle’s terrible array. + I see the patient mother read, + With aching heart, of wrecks that float + Disabled on those seas remote, + Or of some great heroic deed + On battle-fields, where thousands bleed + To lift one hero into fame. + Anxious she bends her graceful head + Above these chronicles of pain, + And trembles with a secret dread + Lest there among the drowned or slain + She find the one beloved name. + + +VII. + + After a day of cloud and wind and rain + Sometimes the setting sun breaks out again, + And, touching all the darksome woods with light, + Smiles on the fields, until they laugh and sing, + Then like a ruby from the horizon’s ring + Drops down into the night. + + What see I now? The night is fair, + The storm of grief, the clouds of care, + The wind, the rain, have passed away; + The lamps are lit, the fires burn bright, + The house is full of life and light: + It is the Golden Wedding-day. + The guests come thronging in once more, + Quick footsteps sound along the floor, + The trooping children crowd the stair, + And in and out and everywhere + Flashes along the corridor + The sunshine of their golden hair. + + On the round table in the hall + Another Ariadne’s Crown + Out of the sky hath fallen down; + More than one Monarch of the Moon + Is drumming with his silver spoon; + The light of love shines over all. + O fortunate, O happy day! + The people sing, the people say. + The ancient bridegroom and the bride, + Serenely smiling on the scene, + Behold, well-pleased, on every side + Their forms and features multiplied, + As the reflection of a light + Between two burnished mirrors gleams, + Or lamps upon a bridge at night + Stretch on and on before the sight, + Till the long vista endless seems. + + + + +MORITURI SALUTAMUS. + +1875. + +[This poem was delivered on the occasion of the 50th anniversary of the +Bowdoin College Class of 1825.] + + Tempora labuntur, tacitisque senescimus annis, + Et fugiunt freno non remorante dies. + OVID, _Fastorum_, Lib. vi. + + “O Cæsar, we who are about to die + Salute you!” was the gladiators’ cry + In the arena, standing face to face + With death and with the Roman populace. + O ye familiar scenes—ye groves of pine, + That once were mine and are no longer mine,— + Thou river, widening through the meadows green + To the vast sea, so near and yet unseen,— + Ye halls, in whose seclusion and repose + Phantoms of fame, like exhalations, rose + And vanished,—we who are about to die + Salute you; earth and air and sea and sky, + And the Imperial Sun that scatters down + His sovereign splendours upon grove and town. + Ye do not answer us! ye do not hear! + We are forgotten; and in your austere + And calm indifference, ye little care + Whether we come or go, or whence or where. + What passing generations fill these halls, + What passing voices echo from these walls, + Ye heed not; we are only as the blast, + A moment heard, and then for ever past. + Not so the teachers who in earlier days + Led our bewildered feet through learning’s maze; + They answer us—alas! what have I said? + What greetings come there from the voiceless dead? + What salutation, welcome, or reply? + What pressure from the hands that lifeless lie? + They are no longer here; they all are gone + Into the land of shadows—all save one. + Honour and reverence, and the good repute + That follows faithful service as its fruit, + Be unto him, whom living we salute. + The great Italian poet, when he made + His dreadful journey to the realms of shade, + Met there the old instructor of his youth, + And cried in tones of pity and of ruth: + “O never from the memory of my heart + Your dear paternal image shall depart, + Who while on earth, ere yet by death surprised + Taught me how mortals are immortalized; + How grateful am I for that patient care, + All my life long my language shall declare.” + To-day we make the poet’s words our own, + And utter them in plaintive undertone; + Nor to the living only be they said, + But to the other living, called the dead, + Whose dear, paternal images appear, + Not wrapped in gloom, but robed in sunshine here; + Whose simple lives, complete and without flaw, + Were part and parcel of great Nature’s law; + Who said not to their Lord, as if afraid, + “Here is thy talent in a napkin laid,” + But laboured in their sphere, as those who live + In the delight that work alone can give. + Peace be to them; eternal peace and rest, + And the fulfilment of the great behest: + “Ye have been faithful over a few things, + Over ten cities shall ye reign as kings.” + And ye who fill the places we once filled, + And follow in the furrows that we tilled, + Young men, whose generous hearts are beating high, + We who are old, and are about to die, + Salute you; hail you; take your hands in ours, + And crown you with our welcome as with flowers! + How beautiful is youth! how bright it gleams + With its illusions, aspirations, dreams! + Book of Beginnings, Story without End, + Each maid a heroine, and each man a friend! + Aladdin’s Lamp, and Fortunatus’ Purse + That holds the treasure of the universe! + All possibilities are in its hands, + No danger daunts it, and no foe withstands; + In its sublime audacity of faith, + “Be thou removed!” it to the mountain saith + And with ambitious feet, secure and proud, + Ascends the ladder leaning on the cloud! + As ancient Priam at the Scæan gate + Sat on the walls of Troy in regal state + With the old men, too old and weak to fight, + Chirping like grasshoppers in their delight + To see the embattled hosts, with spear and shield, + Of Trojans and Achaians in the field; + So from the snowy summits of our years + We see you in the plain, as each appears, + And question of you; asking, “Who is he + That towers above the others? Which may be + Atreides, Menelaus, Odysseus, + Ajax the great, or bold Idomeneus?” + Let him not boast who puts his armour on + As he who puts it off, the battle done. + Study yourselves; and most of all note well + Wherein kind Nature meant you to excel. + Not every blossom ripens into fruit; + Minerva, the inventress of the flute, + Flung it aside, when she her face surveyed + Distorted in a fountain as she played; + The unlucky Marsyas found it, and his fate + Was one to make the bravest hesitate. + Write on your doors the saying wise and old, + “Be bold! be bold! and everywhere be bold; + Be not too bold!” Yet better the excess + Than the defect; better the more than less; + Better like Hector in the field to die, + Than like the perfumed Paris turn and fly. + And now, my classmates; ye remaining few + That number not the half of those we knew; + Ye, against whose familiar names not yet + The fatal asterisk of death is set, + Ye I salute! The horologe of Time + Strikes the half-century with a solemn chime, + And summons us together once again, + The joy of meeting not unmixed with pain. + Where are the others? Voices from the deep + Caverns of darkness answer me: “They sleep!” + I name no names; instinctively I feel + Each at some well-remembered grave will kneel, + And from the inscription wipe the weeds and moss, + For every heart best knoweth its own loss. + I see the scattered grave-stones gleaming white + Through the pale dusk of the impending night. + O’er all alike the impartial sunset throws + Its golden lilies mingled with the rose; + We give to all a tender thought, and pass + Out of the grave-yards with their tangled grass, + Unto these scenes frequented by our feet + When we were young, and life was fresh and sweet. + What shall I say to you? What can I say + Better than silence is? When I survey + This throng of faces turned to meet my own, + Friendly and fair, and yet to me unknown, + Transformed the very landscape seems to be; + It is the same, yet not the same to me. + So many memories crowd upon my brain, + So many ghosts are in the wooded plain, + I fain would steal away with noiseless tread + As from a house where some one lieth dead. + I cannot go;—I pause;—I hesitate; + My feet reluctant linger at the gate; + As one who struggles in a troubled dream + To speak and cannot, to myself I seem. + Vanish the dream! Vanish the idle fears! + Vanish the rolling mists of fifty years! + Whatever time or space may intervene, + I will not be a stranger in this scene. + Here every doubt, all indecision ends; + Hail, my companions, comrades, classmates, friends! + Ah me! the fifty years since last we met + Seem to me fifty folios bound and set + By Time, the great transcriber, on his shelves, + Wherein are written the histories of ourselves. + What tragedies, what comedies, are there; + What joy and grief, what rapture and despair! + What chronicles of triumph and defeat, + Of struggle, and temptation, and retreat! + What records of regrets, and doubts, and fears! + What pages blotted, blistered by our tears! + What lovely landscapes on the margin shine, + What sweet, angelic faces, what divine + And holy images of love and trust, + Undimmed by age, unsoiled by damp or dust! + Whose hand shall dare to open and explore + These volumes, closed and clasped for evermore + Not mine. With reverential feet I pass; + I hear a voice that cries, “Alas! alas! + Whatever hath been written shall remain, + Nor be erased nor written o’er again; + The unwritten only still belongs to thee, + Take heed, and ponder well what that shall be.” + As children frightened by a thunder-cloud + Are reassured if some one reads aloud + A tale of wonder, with enchantment fraught, + Or wild adventure, that diverts their thought, + Let me endeavour with a tale to chase + The gathering shadows of the time and place, + And banish what we all too deeply feel + Wholly to say, or wholly to conceal. + In mediæval Rome, I know not where, + There stood an image with its arm in air, + And on its lifted finger, shining clear, + A golden ring with the device, “Strike here!” + Greatly the people wondered, though none guessed + The meaning that these words but half expressed, + Until a learnèd clerk, who at noonday + With downcast eyes was passing on his way, + Paused, and observed the spot, and marked it well, + Whereon the shadow of the finger fell; + And, coming back at midnight, delved, and found + A secret stairway leading underground. + Down this he passed into a spacious hall, + Lit by a flaming jewel on the wall; + And opposite a brazen statue stood + With bow and shaft in threatening attitude; + Upon its forehead, like a coronet, + Were these mysterious words of menace set: + “That which I am, I am; my fatal aim + None can escape, not even yon luminous flame!” + Midway the hall was a fair table placed, + With cloth of gold, and golden cups enchased + With rubies, and the plates and knives were gold, + And gold the bread and viands manifold. + Around it, silent, motionless, and sad, + Were seated gallant knights in armour clad, + And ladies beautiful with plume and zone, + But they were stone, their hearts within were stone; + And the vast hall was filled in every part + With silent crowds, stony in face and heart. + Long at the scene, bewildered and amazed, + The trembling clerk in speechless wonder gazed; + Then from the table, by his greed made bold, + He seized a goblet and a knife of gold, + And suddenly from their seats the guests upsprang, + The vaulted ceiling with loud clamours rang, + The archer sped his arrow, at their call, + Shattering the lambent jewel on the wall, + And all was dark around and overhead;— + Stark on the floor the luckless clerk lay dead! + The writer of this legend then records + Its ghostly application in these words: + The image is the Adversary old, + Whose beckoning finger points to realms of gold; + Our lusts and passions are the downward stair + That leads the soul from a diviner air; + The archer, Death; the flaming jewel, Life! + Terrestrial goods, the goblet and the knife; + The knights and ladies, all whose flesh and bone + By avarice have been hardened into stone; + The clerk, the scholar whom the love of pelf + Tempts from his books and from his nobler self. + The scholar and the world! The endless strife, + The discord in the harmonies of life! + The love of learning, the sequestered nooks, + And all the sweet serenity of books; + The market-place, the eager love of gain, + Whose aim is vanity, and whose end is pain. + But why, you ask me, should this tale be told + To men grown old, or who are growing old? + It is too late! Ah, nothing is too late + Till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate. + Cato learned Greek at eighty; Sophocles + Wrote his grand Œdipus, and Simonides + Bore off the prize of verse from his compeers, + When each had numbered more than fourscore years; + And Theophrastus, at fourscore and ten, + Had but begun his Characters of Men. + Chaucer, at Woodstock with the nightingales, + At sixty wrote the Canterbury Tales; + Goethe, at Weimar, toiling to the last, + Completed Faust when eighty years were past. + These are, indeed, exceptions; but they show + How far the gulf-stream of our youth may flow + Into the Arctic regions of our lives, + Where little else than life itself survives. + As the barometer foretells the storm + While still the skies are clear, the weather warm, + So something in us, as old age draws near, + Betrays the pressure of the atmosphere. + The nimble mercury, ere we are aware, + Descends the elastic ladder of the air; + The tell-tale blood in artery and vein + Sinks from its higher levels in the brain; + Whatever poet, orator, or sage + May say of it, old age is still old age. + It is the waning, not the crescent moon; + The dusk of evening, not the blaze of noon: + It is not strength, but weakness; not desire, + But its surcease; not the fierce heat of fire, + The burning and consuming element, + But that of ashes and of embers spent, + In which some living sparks we still discern, + Enough to warm, but not enough to burn. + What then? Shall we sit idly down and say + The night hath come; it is no longer day? + The night hath not yet come; we are not quite + Cut off from labour by the failing light; + Something remains for us to do or dare; + Even the oldest tree some fruit may bear; + Not Œdipus Coloneus, or Greek Ode, + Or tales of pilgrims that one morning rode + Out of the gateway of the Tabard Inn, + But other something, would we but begin; + For age is opportunity no less + Than youth itself, though in another dress, + And as the evening twilight fades away + The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day. + +[Illustration] + + + + +_Kéramos._ + +1878. + + + _Turn, turn, my wheel! Turn round and round + Without a pause, without a sound: + So spins the flying world, away! + This clay, well mixed with marl and sand, + Follows the motion of my hand; + For some must follow, and some command, + Though all are made of clay!_ + + Thus sang the Potter at his task + Beneath the blossoming hawthorn-tree, + While o’er his features, like a mask, + The quilted sunshine and leaf-shade + Moved, as the boughs above him swayed, + And clothed him, till he seemed to be + A figure woven in tapestry, + So sumptuously was he arrayed + In that magnificent attire + Of sable tissue flaked with fire. + Like a magician he appeared, + A conjurer without book or beard; + And while he plied his magic art— + For it was magical to me— + I stood in silence and apart, + And wondered more and more to see + That shapeless, lifeless mass of clay + Rise up to meet the master’s hand, + And now contract and now expand, + And even his slightest touch obey; + While ever in a thoughtful mood + He sang his ditty, and at times + Whistled a tune between the rhymes, + As a melodious interlude. + + _Turn, turn, my wheel! All things must change + To something new, to something strange; + Nothing that is can pause or stay; + The moon will wax, the moon will wane, + The mist and cloud will turn to rain, + The rain to mist and cloud again, + To-morrow be to-day._ + + Thus still the Potter sang, and still, + By some unconscious act of will, + The melody and even the words + Were intermingled with my thought, + As bits of coloured thread are caught + And woven into nests of birds. + And thus to regions far remote, + Beyond the ocean’s vast expanse, + This wizard in the motley coat + Transported me on wings of song, + And by the northern shores of France + Bore me with restless speed along. + What land is this that seems to be + A mingling of the land and sea? + This land of sluices, dikes, and dunes? + This water-net, that tesselates + The landscape? this unending maze + Of gardens, through whose latticed gates + The imprisoned pinks and tulips gaze; + Where in long summer afternoons + The sunshine, softened by the haze, + Comes streaming down as through a screen; + Where over fields and pastures green + The painted ships float high in air, + And over all and everywhere + The sails of windmills sink and soar + Like wings of sea-gulls on the shore? + + What land is this? Yon pretty town + Is Delft, with all its wares displayed; + The pride, the market-place, the crown + And centre of the Potter’s trade. + See! every house and room is bright + With glimmers of reflected light + From plates that on the dresser shine; + Flagons to foam with Flemish beer, + Or sparkle with the Rhenish wine, + And pilgrim flasks with fleur-de-lis, + And ships upon a rolling sea, + And tankards pewter topped, and queer + With comic mask and musketeer! + Each hospitable chimney smiles + A welcome from its painted tiles; + The parlour walls, the chamber floors, + The stairways and the corridors, + The borders of the garden walks, + Are beautiful with fadeless flowers, + That never droop in winds or showers, + And never wither on their stalks. + + _Turn, turn, my wheel! All life is brief; + What now is bud will soon be leaf, + What now is leaf will soon decay; + The wind blows east, the wind blows west; + The blue eggs in the robin’s nest + Will soon have wings and beak and breast, + And flutter and fly away._ + + Now southward through the air I glide, + The song my only pursuivant, + And see across the landscape wide + The blue Charente, upon whose tide + The belfries and the spires of Saintes + Ripple and rock from side to side, + As, when an earthquake rends its walls, + A crumbling city reels and falls. + + Who is it in the suburbs here, + This Potter, working with such cheer, + In this mean house, this mean attire, + His manly features bronzed with fire, + Whose figulines and rustic wares + Scarce find him bread from day to day? + This madman, as the people say, + Who breaks his tables and his chairs + To feed his furnace fires, nor cares + Who goes unfed if they are fed, + Nor who may live if they are dead? + This alchemist with hollow cheeks + And sunken, searching eyes, who seeks, + By mingled earths and ores combined + With potency of fire, to find + Some new enamel, hard and bright, + His dream, his passion, his delight? + + O Palissy! within thy breast + I tamed the hot fever of unrest; + Thine was the prophet’s vision, thine + The exultation, the divine + Insanity of noble minds, + That never falters nor abates, + But labours and endures and waits, + Till all that it foresees it finds, + Or what it cannot find creates! + + _Turn, turn, my wheel! This earthen jar + A touch can make, a touch can mar; + And shall it to the Potter say, + What makest thou? Thou hast no hand? + As men who think to understand + A world by their Creator planned, + Who wiser is than they._ + + Still guided by the dreamy song, + As in a trance I float along + Above the Pyrenean chain, + Above the fields and farms of Spain, + Above the bright Majorcan isle, + That lends its softened name to art,— + A spot, a dot upon the chart, + Whose little towns, red-roofed with tile, + Are ruby-lustred with the light + Of blazing furnaces by night, + And crowned by day with wreaths of smoke. + Then eastward, wafted in my flight + On my enchanter’s magic cloak, + I sail across the Tyrrhene Sea + Into the land of Italy, + And o’er the windy Apennines, + Mantled and musical with pines. + + The palaces, the princely halls, + The doors of houses, and the walls + Of churches and of belfry towers, + Cloister and castle, street and mart, + Are garlanded and gay with flowers + That blossom in the fields of art. + Here Gubbio’s workshops gleam and glow + With brilliant, iridescent dyes, + The dazzling whiteness of the snow, + The cobalt blue of summer skies; + And vase, and scutcheon, cup and plate, + In perfect finish emulate + Faenza, Florence, Pesaro. + + Forth from Urbino’s gate there came + A youth with the angelic name + Of Raphael, in form and face + Himself angelic, and divine + In arts of colour and design. + From him Francesco Xanto caught + Something of his transcendent grace, + And into fictile fabrics wrought + Suggestions of the master’s thought. + Nor less Maestro Giorgio shines + With madre-perl and golden lines + Of arabesques, and interweaves + His birds and fruits and flowers and leaves + About some landscape, shaded brown, + With olive tints on rock and town. + + Behold this cup within whose bowl, + Upon a ground of deepest blue + With yellow-lustred stars o’erlaid, + Colours of every tint and hue + Mingle in one harmonious whole! + With large blue eyes and steadfast gaze, + Her yellow hair in net and braid, + Necklace and ear-rings all ablaze + With golden lustre o’er the glaze, + A woman’s portrait; on the scroll, + Cana, the beautiful! A name + Forgotten save for such brief fame + As this memorial can bestow,— + A gift some lover long ago + Gave with his heart to this fair dame. + + A nobler title to renown + Is thine, O pleasant Tuscan town, + Seated beside the Arno’s stream; + For Lucca della Robbia there + Created forms so wondrous fair, + They made thy sovereignty supreme. + These choristers with lips of stone, + Whose music is not heard, but seen, + Still chant, as from their organ-screen, + Their Maker’s praise; nor these alone, + But the more fragile forms of clay, + Hardly less beautiful than they. + These saints and angels that adorn + The walls of hospitals, and tell + The story of good deeds so well, + That poverty seems less forlorn, + And life more like a holiday. + + Here in this old neglected church, + That long eludes the traveller’s search, + Lies the dead bishop on his tomb; + Earth upon earth he slumbering lies, + Life-like and death-like in the gloom; + Garlands of fruit and flowers in bloom + And foliage deck his resting-place; + A shadow in the sightless eyes, + A pallor on the patient face, + Made perfect by the furnace heat; + All earthly passions and desires + Burnt out by purgatorial fires; + Seeming to say, “Our years are fleet, + And to the weary death is sweet.” + + But the most wonderful of all + The ornaments on tomb or wall + That grace the fair Ausonian shores + Are those the faithful earth restores, + Near some Apulian town concealed, + In vineyard or in harvest field,— + Vases and urns and bas-reliefs, + Memorials of forgotten griefs, + Or records of heroic deeds + Of demigods and mighty chiefs: + Figures that almost move and speak, + And, buried amid mould and weeds, + Still in their attitudes attest + The presence of the graceful Greek,— + Achilles in his armour dressed, + Alcides with the Cretan bull, + Aphrodite with her boy, + Or lovely Helena of Troy, + Still living and still beautiful. + + _Turn, turn, my wheel! ’Tis nature’s plan + The child should grow into the man, + The man grow wrinkled, old, and grey; + In youth the heart exults and sings, + The pulses leap, the feet have wings; + In age the cricket chirps, and brings + The harvest home of day._ + And now the winds that southward blow + And cool the hot Sicilian isle, + Bear me away. I see below + The long line of the Libyan Nile, + Flooding and feeding the parched lands + With annual ebb and overflow, + A fallen palm whose branches lie + Beneath the Abyssinian sky, + Whose roots are in Egyptian sands. + On either bank huge water-wheels, + Belted with jars and dripping weeds, + Send forth their melancholy moans, + As if, in their grey mantles hid, + Dead anchorites of the Thebaid + Knelt on the shore and told their beads, + Beating their breasts with loud appeals + And penitential tears and groans. + + This city, walled and thickly set + With glittering mosque and minaret, + Is Cairo, in whose gay bazaars + The dreaming traveller first inhales + The perfume of Arabian gales, + And sees the fabulous earthen jars, + Huge as were those wherein the maid + Morgiana found the Forty Thieves + Concealed in midnight ambuscade; + And seeing, more than half believes + The fascinating tales that run + Through all the Thousand Nights and One, + Told by the fair Scheherezade. + + More strange and wonderful than these + Are the Egyptian deities, + Ammon, and Emoth, and the grand + Osiris, holding in his hand + The lotus; Isis, crowned and veiled; + The sacred Ibis, and the Sphinx; + Bracelets with blue enamelled links; + The Scarabee in emerald mailed, + Or spreading wide his funeral wings; + Lamps that perchance their night-watch kept + O’er Cleopatra where she slept,— + All plundered from the tombs of kings. + + _Turn, turn, my wheel! The human race, + Of every tongue, of every place, + Caucasian, Coptic, or Malay, + All that inhabit this great earth, + Whatever be their rank or worth, + Are kindred and allied by birth, + And made of the same clay._ + + O’er desert sands, o’er gulf and bay, + O’er Ganges and o’er Himalay, + Bird-like I fly, and flying sing, + To flowery kingdoms of Cathay, + And bird-like poise on balanced wing + Above the town of King-te-tching, + A burning town, or seeming so,— + Three thousand furnaces that glow + Incessantly, and fill the air + With smoke uprising, gyre on gyre, + And painted by the lurid glare + Of jets and flashes of red fire. + + As leaves that in the autumn fall, + Spotted and veined with various hues, + Are swept along the avenues, + And lie in heaps by hedge and wall, + So from this grove of chimneys whirled + To all the markets of the world, + These porcelain leaves are wafted on,— + Light yellow leaves with spots and stains + Of violet and of crimson dye, + Or tender azure of a sky + Just washed by gentle April rains, + And beautiful with celadon. + + Nor less the coarser household wares,— + The willow pattern, that we knew + In childhood, with its bridge of blue + Leading to unknown thoroughfares; + The solitary man who stares + At the white river flowing through + Its arches, the fantastic trees + And wild perspective of the view; + And intermingled among these + The tiles that in our nurseries + Filled us with wonder and delight, + Or haunted us in dreams at night. + + And yonder by Nankin, behold! + The Tower of Porcelain, strange and old, + Uplifting to the astonished skies + Its ninefold painted balconies, + With balustrades of twining leaves, + And roofs of tile, beneath whose eaves + Hang porcelain bells that all the time + Ring with a soft, melodious chime; + While the whole fabric is ablaze + With varied tints, all fused in one + Great mass of colour, like a maze + Of flowers illumined by the sun. + + _Turn, turn, my wheel! What is begun + At daybreak must at dark be done, + To-morrow will be another day, + To-morrow the hot furnace flame + Will search the heart and try the frame, + And stamp with honour or with shame + These vessels made of clay._ + + Cradled and rocked in Eastern seas + The islands of the Japanese + Beneath me lie; o’er lake and plain + The stork, the heron, and the crane + Through the clear realms of azure drift, + And on the hill-side I can see + The villages of Imari, + Whose thronged and flaming workshops lift + Their twisted columns of smoke on high, + Cloud cloisters that in ruins lie, + With sunshine streaming through each rift, + And broken arches of blue sky. + + All the bright flowers that fill the land, + Ripple of waves on rock or sand, + The snow on Fusiyama’s cone. + The midnight heaven so thickly sown + With constellations of bright stars, + The leaves that rustle, the reeds that make + A whisper by each stream and lake, + The saffron dawn, the sunset red, + Are painted on these lovely jars; + Again the skylark sings, again + The stork, the heron, and the crane + Float through the azure overhead, + The counterfeit and counterpart + Of Nature reproduced in Art. + + Art is the child of Nature; yes, + Her darling child, in whom we trace + The features of the mother’s face, + Her aspect and her attitude, + All her majestic loveliness + Chastened and softened and subdued + Into a more attractive grace, + And with a human sense imbued. + He is the greatest artist, then, + Whether of pencil or of pen, + Who follows Nature. Never man, + As artist or as artisan, + Pursuing his own fantasies, + Can touch the human heart, or please, + Or satisfy our nobler needs, + As he who sets his willing feet, + In Nature’s footprints, light and fleet, + And follows fearless where she leads. + + Thus mused I on that morn in May, + Wrapped in my visions like the Seer, + Whose eyes behold not what is near, + But only what is far away, + When, suddenly sounding peal on peal, + The church-bell from the neighbouring town + Proclaimed the welcome hour of noon. + The Potter heard, and stopped his wheel, + His apron on the grass threw down, + Whistled his quiet little tune, + Not overloud nor overlong, + And ended thus his simple song: + + _Stop, stop, my wheel! Too soon, too soon + The noon will be the afternoon, + Too soon to-day be yesterday; + Behind us in our path we cast + The broken potsherds of the past, + And all are ground to dust at last, + And trodden into clay!_ + +[Illustration] + + + + +_Birds of passage._ + +1858 TO 1880. + + +FLIGHT THE FIRST. + + ... come i gru van cantando lor lai, + Facendo in aer di sè lunga riga. + DANTE. + + +PROMETHEUS; + +OR, THE POET’S FORETHOUGHT. + + Of Prometheus, how undaunted + On Olympus’ shining bastions + His audacious foot he planted, + Myths are told and songs are chanted, + Full of promptings and suggestions. + + Beautiful is the tradition + Of that flight through heavenly portals, + The old classic superstition + Of the theft and the transmission + Of the fire of the Immortals! + + First the deed of noble daring, + Born of heavenward aspiration, + Then the fire with mortals sharing, + Then the vulture,—the despairing + Cry of pain on crags Caucasian. + + All is but a symbol painted + Of the Poet, Prophet, Seer; + Only those are crowned and sainted + Who with grief have been acquainted, + Making nations nobler, freer. + + In their feverish exultations, + In their triumph and their yearning, + In their passionate pulsations, + In their words among the nations, + The Promethean fire is burning. + + Shall it, then, be unavailing, + All this toil for human culture? + Through the cloud-rack, dark and trailing + Must they see above them sailing + O’er life’s barren crags the vulture? + + Such a fate as this was Dante’s, + By defeat and exile maddened; + Thus were Milton and Cervantes, + Nature’s priests and Corybantes, + By affliction touched and saddened. + + But the glories so transcendent + That around their memories cluster, + And, on all their steps attendant, + Make their darkened lives resplendent + With such gleams of inward lustre! + + All the melodies mysterious, + Through the dreary darkness chanted; + Thoughts in attitudes imperious, + Voices soft, and deep, and serious, + Words that whispered, songs that haunted! + + All the soul in rapt suspension, + All the quivering, palpitating + Chords of life in utmost tension, + With the fervour of invention, + With the rapture of creating! + + Ah, Prometheus! heaven-scaling! + In such hours of exultation + Even the faintest heart, unquailing, + Might behold the vulture sailing + Round the cloudy crags Caucasian! + + Though to all there is not given + Strength for such sublime endeavour, + Thus to scale the walls of heaven, + And to leaven with fiery leaven + All the hearts of men for ever; + + Yet all bards, whose hearts unblighted + Honour and believe the presage, + Hold aloft their torches lighted, + Gleaming through the realms benighted, + As they onward bear the message! + + +THE LADDER OF SAINT AUGUSTINE. + + Saint Augustine! well hast thou said, + That of our vices we can frame + A ladder,[47] if we will but tread + Beneath our feet each deed of shame! + + All common things, each day’s events, + That with the hour begin and end, + Our pleasures and our discontents, + Are rounds by which we may ascend. + + The low desire, the base design, + That makes another’s virtues less; + The revel of the ruddy wine, + And all occasions of excess; + + The longing for ignoble things; + The strife for triumph more than truth; + The hardening of the heart, that brings + Irreverence for the dreams of youth; + + All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds, + That have their roots in thoughts of ill; + Whatever hinders or impedes + The action of the nobler will;— + + All these must first be trampled down + Beneath our feet, if we would gain + In the bright fields of fair renown + The right of eminent domain. + + We have not wings, we cannot soar; + But we have feet to scale and climb + By slow degrees, by more and more, + The cloudy summits of our time. + + The mighty pyramids of stone + That wedge-like cleave the desert airs, + When nearer seen, and better known, + Are but gigantic flights of stairs. + + The distant mountains, that uprear + Their solid bastions to the skies, + Are crossed by pathways, that appear + As we to higher levels rise. + + The heights by great men reached and kept + Were not attained by sudden flight, + But they, while their companions slept, + Were toiling upward in the night. + + Standing on what too long we bore + With shoulders bent and downcast eyes, + We may discern—unseen before— + A path to higher destinies. + + Nor deem the irrevocable Past + As wholly wasted, wholly vain, + If, rising on its wrecks, at last + To something nobler we attain. + +[47] The words of St. Augustine are, “De vitiis nostris scalam nobis +facimus, si vitia ipsa calcamus.”—Sermon iii. _De Ascensione_. + + +BIRDS OF PASSAGE. + + Black shadows fall + From the lindens tall, + That lift aloft their massive wall + Against the southern sky; + + And from the realms + Of the shadowy elms + A tide-like darkness overwhelms + The fields that round us lie. + + But the night is fair, + And everywhere + A warm, soft vapour fills the air, + And distant sounds seem near; + + And above, in the light + Of the star-lit night, + Swift birds of passage wing their flight + Through the dewy atmosphere. + + I hear the beat + Of their pinions fleet, + As from the land of snow and sleet + They seek a southern lea. + + I hear the cry + Of their voices high + Falling dreamily through the sky, + But their forms I cannot see. + + O, say not so! + Those sounds that flow + In murmurs of delight and woe + Come not from wings of birds. + + They are the throngs + Of the poet’s songs, + Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, and wrongs, + The sounds of wingèd words. + + This is the cry + Of souls, that high + On toiling, beating pinions, fly, + Seeking a warmer clime. + + From their distant flight + Through realms of light + It falls into our world of night, + With the murmuring sound of rhyme. + + +THE PHANTOM SHIP.[48] + + In Mather’s _Magnalia Christi_, + Of the old colonial time, + May be found in prose the legend + That is here set down in rhyme. + + A ship sailed from New Haven, + And the keen and frosty airs, + That filled her sails at parting, + Were heavy with good men’s prayers. + + “O Lord! if it be thy pleasure”— + Thus prayed the old divine— + “To bury our friends in the ocean, + Take them, for they are thine!” + + But Master Lamberton muttered, + And under his breath said he, + “This ship is so crank and walty, + I fear our grave she will be!” + + And the ship that came from England, + When the winter months were gone, + Brought no tidings of this vessel, + Nor of Master Lamberton. + + This put the people to praying + That the Lord would let them hear + What in his greater wisdom + He had done with friends so dear. + + And at last their prayers were answered:— + It was in the month of June, + An hour before the sunset + Of a windy afternoon, + + When, steadily steering landward, + A ship was seen below, + And they knew it was Lamberton, Master, + Who sailed so long ago. + + On she came, with a cloud of canvas, + Right against the wind that blew, + Until the eye could distinguish + The faces of the crew. + + Then fell her straining topmasts, + Hanging tangled in the shrouds, + And her sails were loosened and lifted, + And blown away like clouds. + + And the masts, with all their rigging, + Fell slowly, one by one, + And the hulk dilated and vanished, + As a sea-mist in the sun! + + And the people who saw this marvel + Each said unto his friend, + That this was the mould of their vessel, + And thus her tragic end. + + And the pastor of the village + Gave thanks to God in prayer, + That, to quiet their troubled spirits, + He had sent this Ship of Air. + +[48] A detailed account of this “apparition of a Ship in the Air” is +given by Cotton Mather in his _Magnalia Christi_, book i. ch. vi. It +is contained in a letter from the Rev. James Pierpont, Pastor of New +Haven. To this account, Mather adds these words:— + +“Reader, there being yet living so many credible gentlemen, that were +eye-witnesses of this wonderful thing, I venture to publish it for a +thing as undoubted as ’tis wonderful.” + + +THE WARDEN[49] OF THE CINQUE PORTS. + + A mist was driving down the British Channel, + The day was just begun, + And through the window-panes, on floor and panel, + Streamed the red autumn sun. + + It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon, + And the white sails of ships; + And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannon + Hailed it with feverish lips. + + Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hithe, and Dover, + Were all alert that day, + To see the French war-steamers speeding over, + When the fog cleared away. + + Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions, + Their cannon through the night, + Holding their breath, had watched, in grim defiance, + The sea-coast opposite. + + And now they roared at drum-beat from their stations + On every citadel; + Each answering each, with morning salutations, + That all was well. + + And down the coast, all taking up the burden, + Replied the distant forts, + As if to summon from his sleep the Warden + And Lord of the Cinque Ports. + + Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure, + No drum-beat from the wall, + No morning gun from the black fort’s embrasure + Awaken with its call! + + No more, surveying with an eye impartial + The long line of the coast, + Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field-Marshal + Be seen upon his post! + + For in the night, unseen, a single warrior, + In sombre harness mailed, + Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer, + The rampart wall has scaled. + + He passed into the chamber of the sleeper, + The dark and silent room, + And as he entered, darker grew, and deeper, + The silence and the gloom. + + He did not pause to parley or dissemble, + But smote the Warden hoar; + Ah! what a blow! that made all England tremble, + And groan from shore to shore. + + Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited, + The sun rose bright o’erhead: + Nothing in Nature’s aspect intimated + That a great man was dead. + +[49] The Duke of Wellington, written in memory of his death. + + +HAUNTED HOUSES. + + All houses wherein men have lived and died + Are haunted houses. Through the open doors + The harmless phantoms on their errands glide, + With feet that make no sound upon the floors. + + We meet them at the doorway, on the stair, + Along the passages they come and go, + Impalpable impressions on the air, + A sense of something moving to and fro. + + There are more guests at table than the hosts + Invited; the illuminated hall + Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts, + As silent as the pictures on the wall. + + The stranger at my fireside cannot see + The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear; + He but perceives what is; while unto me + All that has been is visible and clear. + + We have no title-deeds to house or lands; + Owners and occupants of earlier dates + From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands, + And hold in mortmain still their old estates. + + The spirit-world around this world of sense + Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere + Wafts through these earthly mists and vapours dense + A vital breath of more ethereal air. + + Our little lives are kept in equipoise + By opposite attractions and desires; + The struggle of the instinct that enjoys, + And the more noble instinct that aspires. + + These perturbations, this perpetual jar + Of earthly wants and aspirations high, + Come from the influence of an unseen star, + An undiscovered planet in our sky. + + And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud + Throws o’er the sea a floating bridge of light, + Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd + Into the realm of mystery and night,— + + So from the world of spirits there descends + A bridge of light, connecting it with this, + O’er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends, + Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss. + + +THE EMPEROR’S BIRD’S-NEST. + + Once the Emperor Charles of Spain + With his swarthy, grave commanders, + I forget in what campaign, + Long besieged, in mud and rain, + Some old frontier town of Flanders. + + Up and down the dreary camp, + In great boots of Spanish leather, + Striding with a measured tramp, + These Hidalgos, dull and damp, + Cursed the Frenchmen, cursed the weather. + + Thus as to and fro they went, + Over upland and through hollow, + Giving their impatience vent, + Perched upon the Emperor’s tent, + In her nest, they spied a swallow. + + Yes, it was a swallow’s nest, + Built, of clay and hair of horses, + Mane or tail, or dragoon’s crest, + Found on hedge-rows east and west, + After skirmish of the forces. + + Then an old Hidalgo said, + As he twirled his grey mustachio, + “Sure this swallow overhead + Thinks the Emperor’s tent a shed, + And the Emperor but a Macho!”[50] + + Hearing his imperial name + Coupled with those words of malice, + Half in anger, half in shame, + Forth the great campaigner came + Slowly from his canvas palace. + + “Let no hand the bird molest,” + Said he solemnly, “nor hurt her!” + Adding then, by way of jest, + “Golondrina[51] is my guest, + ’Tis the wife of some deserter!” + + Swift as bow-string speeds a shaft, + Through the camp was spread the rumour, + And the soldiers, as they quaffed + Flemish beer at dinner, laughed + At the Emperor’s pleasant humour. + + So unharmed and unafraid + Sat the swallow still and brooded, + Till the constant cannonade + Through the walls a breach had made, + And the siege was thus concluded. + + Then the army, elsewhere bent, + Struck its tents as if disbanding, + Only not the Emperor’s tent, + For he ordered, ere he went, + Very curtly, “Leave it standing.” + + So it stood there all alone, + Loosely flapping, torn and tattered, + Till the brood was fledged and flown, + Singing o’er those walls of stone + Which the cannon-shot had shattered. + +[50] _Macho_ is Spanish for _mule_. + +[51] _Golondrina_, a swallow. It is also a cant word for a deserter. + + +IN THE CHURCHYARD AT CAMBRIDGE. + + In the village churchyard she lies, + Dust is in her beautiful eyes, + No more she breathes, nor feels, nor stirs; + At her feet and at her head + Lies a slave to attend the dead, + But their dust is white as hers. + + Was she a lady of high degree, + So much in love with the vanity + And foolish pomp of this world of ours; + Or was it Christian charity, + And lowliness and humility, + The richest and rarest of all dowers? + + Who shall tell us? No one speaks; + No colour shoots into those cheeks, + Either of anger or of pride, + At the rude question we have asked; + Nor will the mystery be unmasked + By those who are sleeping at her side. + + Hereafter?—And do you think to look + On the terrible pages of that Book + To find her failings, faults, and errors? + Ah, you will then have other cares, + In your own shortcomings and despairs, + In your own secret sins and terrors! + + +THE TWO ANGELS.[52] + + Two angels, one of Life and one of Death, + Passed o’er our village as the morning broke; + The dawn was on their faces, and beneath, + The sombre houses hearsed with plumes of smoke. + + Their attitude and aspect were the same, + Alike their features and their robes of white; + But one was crowned with amaranth, as with flame, + And one with asphodels, like flakes of light. + + I saw them pause on their celestial way; + Then said I, with deep fear and doubt oppressed, + “Beat not so loud, my heart, lest thou betray + The place where thy belovèd are at rest!” + + And he who wore the crown of asphodels, + Descending, at my door began to knock, + And my soul sank within me, as in wells + The waters sink before an earthquake’s shock. + + I recognised the nameless agony, + The terror and the tremor and the pain, + That oft before had filled or haunted me, + And now returned with threefold strength again. + + The door I opened to my heavenly guest, + And listened, for I thought I heard God’s voice; + And, knowing whatsoe’er he sent was best, + Dared neither to lament nor to rejoice. + + Then with a smile, that filled the house with light, + “My errand is not Death, but Life,” he said; + And, ere I answered, passing out of sight, + On his celestial embassy he sped. + + ’Twas at thy door, O friend! and not at mine, + The angel with the amaranthine wreath, + Pausing, descended, and with voice divine, + Whispered a word that had a sound like Death. + + Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom, + A shadow on those features, fair and thin; + And softly, from that hushed and darkened room, + Two angels issued, where but one went in. + + All is of God! If he but wave his hand, + The mists collect, the rain falls thick and loud, + Till, with a smile of light on sea and land, + Lo! he looks back from the departing cloud. + + Angels of Life and Death alike are his; + Without his leave they pass no threshold o’er; + Who, then, would wish or dare, believing this, + Against his messengers to shut the door? + +[52] A child was born to Longfellow the same night that his friend Mr. +Lowell’s wife died; he commemorates both events in this poem. + + +OLIVER BASSELIN.[53] + + In the Valley of the Vire + Still is seen an ancient mill, + With its gables quaint and queer, + And beneath the window-sill, + On the stone, + These words alone: + “Oliver Basselin lived here.” + + Far above it, on the steep, + Ruined stands the old Château; + Nothing but the donjon-keep + Left for shelter or for show. + Its vacant eyes + Stare at the skies, + Stare at the valley green and deep. + + Once a convent, old and brown, + Looked, but ah! it looks no more, + From the neighbouring hill-side down + On the rushing and the roar + Of the stream + Whose sunny gleam + Cheers the little Norman town. + + In that darksome mill of stone, + To the water’s dash and din, + Careless, humble, and unknown, + Sang the poet Basselin + Songs that fill + That ancient mill + With a splendour of its own. + + Never feeling of unrest + Broke the pleasant dream he dreamed; + Only made to be his nest, + All the lovely valley seemed; + No desire + Of soaring higher + Stirred or fluttered in his breast. + + True, his songs were not divine; + Were not songs of that high art, + Which, as winds do in the pine, + Find an answer in each heart; + But the mirth + Of this green earth + Laughed and revelled in his line. + + From the alehouse and the inn, + Opening on the narrow street, + Came the loud, convivial din, + Singing and applause of feet, + The laughing lays + That in those days + Sang the poet Basselin. + + In the castle, cased in steel, + Knights, who fought at Agincourt, + Watched and waited, spur on heel; + But the poet sang for sport + Songs that rang + Another clang, + Songs that lowlier hearts could feel. + + In the convent, clad in grey, + Sat the monks in lonely cells, + Paced the cloisters, knelt to pray, + And the poet heard their bells; + But his rhymes + Found other chimes, + Nearer to the earth than they. + + Gone are all the barons bold, + Gone are all the knights and squires, + Gone the abbot stern and cold, + And the brotherhood of friars; + Not a name + Remains to fame, + From those mouldering days of old! + + But the poet’s memory here + Of the landscape makes a part; + Like the river, swift and clear, + Flows his song through many a heart; + Haunting still + That ancient mill, + In the Valley of the Vire. + +[53] Oliver Basselin, the “_Père joyeux du Vaudeville_,” flourished +in the fifteenth century, and gave to his convivial songs the name of +his native valleys, in which he sang them, Vaux-de-Vire. This name was +afterwards corrupted into the modern _Vaudeville_. + + +THE JEWISH CEMETERY AT NEWPORT. + + How strange it seems! These Hebrews in their graves, + Close by the street of this fair seaport town, + Silent beside the never-silent waves, + At rest in all this moving up and down. + + The trees are white with dust, that o’er their sleep + Wave their broad curtains in the south wind’s breath, + While underneath these leafy tents they keep + The long mysterious Exodus of Death. + + And these sepulchral stones, so old and brown, + That pave with level flags their burial-place, + Seem like the tablets of the Law, thrown down + And broken by Moses at the mountain’s base. + + The very names recorded here are strange, + Of foreign accent, and of different climes; + Alvares and Rivera interchange + With Abraham and Jacob of old times. + + “Blessed be God! for he created Death!” + The mourner said, “and Death is rest and peace;” + Then added, in the certainty of faith, + “And giveth Life that never more shall cease.” + + Closed are the portals of their Synagogue, + No Psalms of David now the silence break, + No Rabbi reads the ancient Decalogue + In the grand dialect the Prophets spake. + + Gone are the living, but the dead remain, + And not neglected; for a hand unseen, + Scattering its bounty, like a summer-rain, + Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green. + + How came they here? What burst of Christian hate, + What persecution, merciless and blind, + Drove o’er the sea—that desert desolate— + These Ishmaels and Hagars of mankind? + + They lived in narrow streets and lanes obscure, + Ghetto and Judenstrass, in mirk and mire; + Taught in the school of patience to endure + The life of anguish and the death of fire. + + All their lives long, with the unleavened bread + And bitter herbs of exile and its fears, + The wasting famine of the heart they fed, + And slaked its thirst with Marah of their tears. + + Anathema maranatha! was the cry + That rang from town to town, from street to street; + At every gate the accursed Mordecai + Was mocked and jeered, and spurned by Christian feet. + + Pride and humiliation hand in hand + Walked with them through the world where’er they went, + Trampled and beaten were they as the sand, + And yet unshaken as the continent. + + For in the background figures vague and vast + Of patriarchs and of prophets rose sublime, + And all the great traditions of the past + They saw reflected in the coming time. + + And thus for ever with reverted look + The mystic volume of the world they read, + Spelling it backward, like a Hebrew book, + Till life became a Legend of the Dead. + + But ah! what once has been shall be no more! + The groaning earth in travail and in pain + Brings forth its races, but does not restore, + And the dead nations never rise again. + + +VICTOR GALBRAITH.[54] + + Under the walls of Monterey + At daybreak the bugles began to play, + Victor Galbraith! + In the mist of the morning damp and grey, + These were the words they seemed to say: + “Come forth to thy death, + Victor Galbraith!” + + Forth he came, with a martial tread; + Firm was his step, erect his head; + Victor Galbraith, + He who so well the bugle played, + Could not mistake the words it said: + “Come forth to thy death, + Victor Galbraith!” + + He looked at the earth, he looked at the sky, + He looked at the files of musketry, + Victor Galbraith! + And he said, with a steady voice and eye, + “Take good aim; I am ready to die!” + Thus challenges death + Victor Galbraith. + + Twelve fiery tongues flashed straight and red, + Six leaden balls on their errand sped; + Victor Galbraith + Falls to the ground, but he is not dead; + His name was not stamped on those balls of lead, + And they only scath + Victor Galbraith. + + Three balls are in his breast and brain, + But he rises out of the dust again, + Victor Galbraith! + The water he drinks has a bloody stain; + “O kill me, and put me out of my pain!” + In his agony prayeth + Victor Galbraith. + + Forth dart once more those tongues of flame, + And the bugler has died a death of shame, + Victor Galbraith! + His soul has gone back to whence it came, + And no one answers to the name, + When the Sergeant saith, + “Victor Galbraith!” + + Under the walls of Monterey + By night a bugle is heard to play, + Victor Galbraith! + Through the mist of the valley damp and grey + The sentinels hear the sound, and say, + “That is the wraith + Of Victor Galbraith!” + +[54] This poem is founded on fact. Victor Galbraith was a bugler in a +company of volunteer cavalry; and was shot in Mexico for some breach of +discipline. It is a common superstition among soldiers, that no balls +will kill them unless their names are written on them. The old proverb +says, “Every bullet has its billet.” + + +DAYLIGHT AND MOONLIGHT. + + In broad daylight, and at noon, + Yesterday I saw the moon + Sailing high, but faint and white, + As a schoolboy’s paper kite. + + In broad daylight yesterday, + I read a Poet’s mystic lay; + And it seemed to me at most + As a phantom, or a ghost. + + But at length the feverish day + Like a passion died away, + And the night, serene and still, + Fell on village, vale, and hill. + + Then the moon, in all her pride, + Like a spirit glorified, + Filled and overflowed the night + With revelations of her light. + + And the Poet’s song again + Passed like music through my brain; + Night interpreted to me + All its grace and mystery. + + +MY LOST YOUTH. + + Often I think of the beautiful town + That is seated by the sea; + Often in thought go up and down + The pleasant streets of that dear old town, + And my youth comes back to me. + And a verse of a Lapland song + Is haunting my memory still: + “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, + And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” + + I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, + And catch, in sudden gleams, + The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, + And islands that were the Hesperides + Of all my boyish dreams. + And the burden of that old song, + It murmurs and whispers still: + “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, + And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” + + I remember the black wharves and the slips, + And the sea-tides tossing free; + And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, + And the beauty and mystery of the ships, + And the magic of the sea. + And the voice of that wayward song + Is singing and saying still: + “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, + And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” + + I remember the bulwarks by the shore, + And the fort upon the hill; + The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar, + The drum-beat repeated o’er and o’er, + And the bugle wild and shrill. + And the music of that old song + Throbs in my memory still: + “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, + And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” + + I remember the sea-fight far away,[55] + How it thundered o’er the tide! + And the dead captains, as they lay + in their graves o’erlooking the tranquil bay, + Where they in battle died. + And the sound of that mournful song + Goes through me with a thrill: + “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, + And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” + + I can see the breezy dome of groves, + The shadows of Deering’s Woods; + And the friendships old and the early loves + Come back with a sabbath sound, as of doves + In quiet neighbourhoods. + And the verse of that sweet old song, + It flutters and murmurs still: + “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, + And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” + + I remember the gleams and glooms that dart + Across the schoolboy’s brain; + The song and the silence in the heart, + That in part are prophecies, and in part + Are longings wild and vain. + And the voice of that fitful song + Sings on, and is never still: + “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, + And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” + + There are things of which I may not speak; + There are dreams that cannot die; + There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, + And bring a pallor into the cheek, + And a mist before the eye. + And the words of that fatal song + Come over me like a chill: + “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, + And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” + + Strange to me now are the forms I meet + When I visit the dear old town; + But the native air is pure and sweet, + And the trees that o’ershadow each well-known street, + As they balance up and down, + Are singing the beautiful song, + Are sighing and whispering still: + “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, + And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” + + And Deering’s Woods are fresh and fair, + And with joy that is almost pain + My heart goes back to wander there, + And among the dreams of the days that were, + I find my lost youth again. + And the strange and beautiful song, + The groves are repeating it still: + “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, + And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” + +[55] This was the engagement between the _Enterprise_ and _Boxer_, off +the harbour of Portland, in which both Captains were slain. They were +buried side by side in the cemetery on Mountjoy. + + +THE ROPEWALK. + + In that building, long and low, + With its windows all a-row, + Like the port-holes of a hulk, + Human spiders spin and spin, + Backward down their threads so thin + Dropping, each a hempen bulk. + + At the end an open door; + Squares of sunshine on the floor + Light the long and dusky lane; + And the whirring of a wheel, + Dull and drowsy, makes me feel + All its spokes are in my brain. + + As the spinners to the end + Downward go and re-ascend, + Gleam the long threads in the sun; + While within this brain of mine + Cobwebs brighter and more fine + By the busy wheel are spun. + + Two fair maidens in a swing, + Like white doves upon the wing, + First before my vision pass; + Laughing, as their gentle hands + Closely clasp the twisted strands, + At their shadow on the grass. + + Then a booth of mountebanks, + With its smell of tan and planks, + And a girl poised high in air + On a cord, in spangled dress, + With a faded loveliness, + And a weary look of care. + + Then a homestead among farms, + And a woman with bare arms + Drawing water from a well; + As the bucket mounts apace, + With it mounts her own fair face, + As at some magician’s spell. + + Then an old man in a tower, + Ringing loud the noontide hour, + While the rope coils round and round, + Like a serpent at his feet, + And again, in swift retreat, + Nearly lifts him from the ground. + + Then within a prison-yard, + Faces fixed, and stern, and hard, + Laughter and indecent mirth; + Ah! it is the gallows-tree; + Breath of Christian charity, + Blow, and sweep it from the earth! + + Then a schoolboy, with his kite, + Gleaming in a sky of light, + And an eager, upward look; + Steeds pursued through lane and field; + Fowlers with their snares concealed; + And an angler by a brook. + + Ships rejoicing in the breeze, + Wrecks that float o’er unknown seas, + Anchors dragged through faithless sand; + Sea-fog drifting overhead, + And, with lessening line and lead, + Sailors feeling for the land. + + All these scenes do I behold, + These, and many left untold, + In that building long and low; + While the wheel goes round and round, + With a drowsy, dreamy sound, + And the spinners backward go. + + +THE GOLDEN MILESTONE. + + Leafless are the trees; their purple branches + Spread themselves abroad, like reefs of coral, + Rising silent + In the Red Sea of the Winter sunset. + + From the hundred chimneys of the village, + Like the Afreet in the Arabian story, + Smoky columns + Tower aloft into the air of amber. + + At the window winks the flickering fire-light; + Here and there the lamps of evening glimmer, + Social watch-fires + Answering one another through the darkness. + + On the hearth the lighted logs are glowing, + And like Ariel in the cloven pine-tree + For its freedom + Groans and sighs the air imprisoned in them. + + By the fireside there are old men seated, + Seeing ruined cities in the ashes, + Asking sadly + Of the Past what it can ne’er restore them. + + By the fireside there are youthful dreamers, + Building castles fair, with stately stairways, + Asking blindly + Of the Future what it cannot give them. + + By the fireside tragedies are acted + In whose scenes appear two actors only, + Wife and husband, + And above them God the sole spectator. + + By the fireside there are peace and comfort, + Wives and children, with fair, thoughtful faces, + Waiting, watching + For a well-known footstep in the passage. + + Each man’s chimney is his Golden Milestone, + Is the central point from which he measures + Every distance + Through the gateways of the world around him. + + In his farthest wanderings still he sees it; + Hears the talking flame, the answering night-wind, + As he heard them + When he sat with those who were, but are not. + + Happy he whom neither wealth nor fashion, + Nor the march of the encroaching city, + Drives an exile + From the hearth of his ancestral homestead. + + We may build more splendid habitations, + Fill our rooms with paintings and with sculptures, + But we cannot + Buy with gold the old associations! + + +CATAWBA WINE. + + This song of mine + Is a Song of the Vine, + To be sung by the glowing embers + Of wayside inns, + When the rain begins + To darken the drear Novembers. + + It is not a song + Of the Scuppernong, + From warm Carolinian valleys, + Nor the Isabel + And the Muscadel + That bask in our garden alleys. + + Nor the red Mustang, + Whose clusters hang + O’er the waves of the Colorado, + And the fiery flood + Of whose purple blood + Has a dash of Spanish bravado. + + For richest and best + Is the wine of the West, + That grows by the Beautiful River; + Whose sweet perfume + Fills all the room + With a benison on the giver. + + And as hollow trees + Are the haunts of bees, + For ever going and coming; + So this crystal hive + Is all alive + With a swarming and buzzing and humming. + + Very good in its way + Is the Verzenay, + Or the Sillery soft and creamy; + But Catawba wine + Has a taste more divine, + More dulcet, delicious, and dreamy. + + There grows no vine + By the haunted Rhine, + By Danube or Guadalquivir, + Nor on island or cape, + That bears such a grape + As grows by the Beautiful River. + + Drugged is their juice + For foreign use, + When shipped o’er the reeling Atlantic, + To rack our brains, + With the fever pains, + That have driven the Old World frantic. + + To the sewers and sinks + With all such drinks, + And after them tumble the mixer; + For a poison malign + Is such Borgia wine, + Or at best but a Devil’s Elixir. + + While pure as a spring + Is the wine I sing, + And to praise it, one needs but name it; + For Catawba wine + Has need of no sign, + No tavern-bush to proclaim it. + + And this Song of the Vine, + This greeting of mine, + The winds and the birds shall deliver + To the Queen of the West, + In her garlands dressed, + On the banks of the Beautiful River. + + +DAYBREAK. + + A wind came up out of the sea, + And said, “O mists, make room for me.” + + It hailed the ships, and cried, “Sail on, + Ye mariners, the night is gone.” + + And hurried landward far away, + Crying, “Awake! it is the day.” + + It said unto the forest, “Shout! + Hang all your leafy banners out!” + + It touched the wood-bird’s folded wing, + And said, “O bird, awake and sing.” + + And o’er the farms, “O chanticleer, + Your clarion blow; the day is near.” + + It whispered to the fields of corn, + “Bow down, and hail the coming morn.” + + It shouted through the belfry-tower, + “Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour.” + + It crossed the churchyard with a sigh, + And said, “Not yet! in quiet lie.” + + +SANTA FILOMENA.[56] + + Whene’er a noble deed is wrought, + Whene’er is spoken a noble thought, + Our hearts, in glad surprise, + To higher levels rise. + + The tidal wave of deeper souls + Into our inmost being rolls, + And lifts us unawares + Out of all meaner cares. + + Honour to those whose words or deeds + Thus help us in our daily needs, + And by their overflow + Raise us from what is low! + + Thus thought I, as by night I read + Of the great army of the dead, + The trenches cold and damp, + The starved and frozen camp,— + + The wounded from the battle-plain, + In dreary hospitals of pain, + The cheerless corridors, + The cold and stony floors. + + Lo! in that house of misery + A lady with a lamp I see + Pass through the glimmering gloom, + And flit from room to room. + + And slow, as in a dream of bliss, + The speechless sufferer turns to kiss + Her shadow, as it falls + Upon the darkening walls. + + As if a door in heaven should be + Opened and then closed suddenly, + The vision came and went, + The light shone and was spent. + + On England’s annals, through the long + Hereafter of her speech and song, + That light its rays shall cast + From portals of the past. + + A Lady with a Lamp shall stand + In the great history of the land, + A noble type of good, + Heroic womanhood. + + Nor even shall be wanting here + The palm, the lily, and the spear, + The symbols that of yore + Saint Filomena bore. + +[56] “At Pisa the Church of San Francisco contains a chapel dedicated +lately to Santa Filomena; over the altar is a picture, by Sabatelli, +representing the saint as a beautiful nymph-like figure, floating +down from heaven, attended by two angels bearing the lily, palm, and +javelin, and beneath, in the foreground, the sick and maimed, who are +healed by her intercession.”—MRS. JAMESON, _Sacred and Legendary Art_, +ii. 298. + + +THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ. + +MAY 28, 1857. + + It was fifty years ago, + In the pleasant month of May, + In the beautiful Pays de Vaud, + A child in its cradle lay. + + And Nature, the old nurse, took + The child upon her knee, + Saying: “Here is a story-book + Thy Father has written for thee.” + + “Come, wander with me,” she said, + “Into regions yet untrod; + And read what is still unread + In the manuscripts of God.” + + And he wandered away and away + With Nature, the dear old nurse, + Who sang to him night and day + The rhymes of the universe. + + And whenever the way seemed long, + Or his heart began to fail, + She would sing a more wonderful song, + Or tell a more marvellous tale. + + So she keeps him still a child, + And will not let him go, + Though at times his heart beats wild + For the beautiful Pays de Vaud; + + Though at times he hears in his dreams + The Ranz des Vaches of old, + And the rush of mountain streams + From glaciers clear and cold; + + And the mother at home says, “Hark! + For his voice I listen and yearn; + It is growing late and dark, + And my boy does not return!” + + +THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPE. + +A LEAF FROM KING ALFRED’S OROSIUS. + + Othere, the old sea-captain, + Who dwelt in Helgoland, + To King Alfred, the Lover of Truth, + Brought a snow-white walrus-tooth, + Which he held in his brown right hand. + + His figure was tall and stately, + Like a boy’s his eye appeared; + His hair was yellow as hay, + But threads of a silvery grey + Gleamed in his tawny beard. + + Hearty and hale was Othere, + His cheek had the colour of oak; + With a kind of laugh in his speech, + Like the sea-tide on a beach, + As unto the king he spoke. + + And Alfred, King of the Saxons, + Had a book upon his knees, + And wrote down the wondrous tale + Of him who was first to sail + Into the Arctic seas. + + “So far I live to the northward, + No man lives north of me; + To the east are wild mountain-chains, + And beyond them meres and plains; + To the westward all is sea. + + “So far I live to the northward, + From the harbour of Skeringes-hale, + If you only sailed by day, + With a fair wind all the way, + More than a month would you sail. + + “I own six hundred reindeer, + With sheep and swine beside; + I have tribute from the Finns, + Whalebone and reindeer-skins, + And ropes of walrus-hide. + + “I ploughed the land with horses, + But my heart was ill at ease, + For the old seafaring men + Came to me now and then, + With their sagas of the seas;— + + “Of Iceland and of Greenland, + And the stormy Hebrides, + And the undiscovered deep;— + I could not eat nor sleep + For thinking of those seas. + + “To the northward stretched the desert, + How far I fain would know; + So at last I sallied forth, + And three days sailed due north, + As far as the whale-ships go. + + “To the west of me was the ocean, + To the right the desolate shore, + But I did not slacken sail + For the walrus or the whale, + Till after three days more. + + “The days grew longer and longer, + Till they became as one, + And southward through the haze + I saw the sullen blaze + Of the red midnight sun. + + “And then uprose before me, + Upon the water’s edge, + The huge and haggard shape + Of that unknown North Cape, + Whose form is like a wedge. + + “The sea was rough and stormy, + The tempest howled and wailed, + And the sea-fog, like a ghost, + Haunted that dreary coast, + But onward still I sailed. + + “Four days I steered to eastward, + Four days without a night: + Round in a fiery ring + Went the great sun, O King, + With red and lurid light.” + + Here Alfred, King of the Saxons, + Ceased writing for a while; + And raised his eyes from his book, + With a strange and puzzled look, + And an incredulous smile. + + But Othere, the old sea-captain, + He neither paused nor stirred, + Till the King listened, and then + Once more took up his pen, + And wrote down every word. + + “And now the land,” said Othere, + “Bent southward suddenly, + And I followed the curving shore, + And ever southward bore + Into a nameless sea. + + “And there we hunted the walrus, + The narwhale, and the seal; + Ha! ’twas a noble game! + And like the lightning’s flame + Flew our harpoons of steel. + + “There were six of us all together, + Norsemen of Helgoland; + In two days and no more + We killed of them threescore, + And dragged them to the strand!” + + Here Alfred, the Truth-Teller, + Suddenly closed his book, + And lifted his blue eyes, + With doubt and strange surmise + Depicted in their look. + + And Othere the old sea-captain + Stared at him wild and weird, + Then smiled, till his shining teeth + Gleamed white from underneath + His tawny, quivering beard. + + And to the King of the Saxons, + In witness of the truth, + Raising his noble head, + He stretched his brown hand, and said, + “Behold this walrus-tooth!” + + +CHILDREN. + + Come to me, O ye children! + For I hear you at your play, + And the questions that perplexed me + Have vanished quite away. + + Ye open the eastern windows, + That look towards the sun, + Where thoughts are singing swallows, + And the brooks of morning run. + + In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine, + In your thoughts the brooklet’s flow, + But in mine is the wind of Autumn, + And the first fall of the snow. + + Ah! what would the world be to us, + If the children were no more? + We should dread the desert behind us + Worse than the dark before. + + What the leaves are to the forest, + With light and air for food, + Ere their sweet and tender juices + Have been hardened into wood,— + + That to the world are children; + Through them it feels the glow + Of a brighter and sunnier climate + Than reaches the trunks below. + + Come to me, O ye children! + And whisper in my ear + What the birds and the winds are singing + In your sunny atmosphere. + + For what are all our contrivings, + And the wisdom of our books, + When compared with your caresses, + And the gladness of your looks? + + Ye are better than all the ballads + That ever were sung or said; + For ye are living poems, + And all the rest are dead. + + +SANDALPHON. + + Have you read in the Talmud of old, + In the Legends the Rabbins have told + Of the limitless realms of the air,— + Have you read it,—the marvellous story + Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory, + Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer? + + How, erect, at the outermost gates + Of the City Celestial he waits, + With his feet on the ladder of light, + That, crowded with angels unnumbered, + By Jacob was seen, as he slumbered + Alone in the desert at night? + + The Angels of Wind and of Fire + Chant only one hymn, and expire + With the song’s irresistible stress; + Expire in their rapture and wonder, + As harp-strings are broken asunder + By music they throb to express. + + But serene in the rapturous throng, + Unmoved by the rush of the song, + With eyes unimpassioned and slow, + Among the dead angels, the deathless + Sandalphon stands listening breathless + To sounds that ascend from below;— + + From the spirits on earth that adore, + From the souls that entreat and implore + In the fervour and passion of prayer; + From the hearts that are broken with losses, + And weary with dragging the crosses + Too heavy for mortals to bear. + + And he gathers the prayers as he stands, + And they change into flowers in his hands, + Into garlands of purple and red; + And beneath the great arch of the portal, + Through the streets of the City Immortal + Is wafted the fragrance they shed. + + It is but a legend, I know,— + A fable, a phantom, a show, + Of the ancient Rabbinical lore; + Yet the old mediæval tradition, + The beautiful, strange superstition, + But haunts me and holds me the more. + + When I look from window at night, + And the welkin above is all white, + All throbbing and panting with stars, + Among them majestic is standing + Sandalphon the angel, expanding + His pinions in nebulous bars. + + And the legend, I feel, is a part + Of the hunger and thirst of the heart, + The frenzy and fire of the brain, + That grasps at the fruitage forbidden, + The golden pomegranates of Eden, + To quiet its fever and pain. + + +EPIMETHEUS; OR, + +THE POET’S AFTERTHOUGHT. + + Have I dreamed? or was it real, + What I saw as in a vision, + When to marches hymeneal + In the land of the Ideal + Moved my thought o’er Fields Elysian? + + What! are these the guests whose glances + Seemed like sunshine gleaming round me? + These the wild, bewildering fancies, + That with dithyrambic dances, + As with magic circles, bound me? + + Ah! how cold are their caresses! + Pallid cheeks, and haggard bosoms! + Spectral gleam their snow-white dresses, + And from loose, dishevelled tresses + Fall the hyacinthine blossoms! + + O my songs! whose winsome measures + Filled my heart with secret rapture! + Children of my golden leisures! + Must even your delights and pleasures + Fade and perish with the capture? + + Fair they seemed, those songs sonorous, + When they came to me unbidden; + Voices single, and in chorus, + Like the wild birds singing o’er us + In the dark of branches hidden. + + Disenchantment! Disillusion! + Must each noble aspiration + Come at last to this conclusion, + Jarring discord, wild confusion, + Lassitude, renunciation? + + Not with steeper fall nor faster, + From the sun’s serene dominions, + Not through brighter realms nor vaster, + In swift ruin and disaster, + Icarus fell with shattered pinions! + + Sweet Pandora! dear Pandora! + Why did mighty Jove create thee + Coy as Thetis, fair as Flora, + Beautiful as young Aurora, + If to win thee is to hate thee? + + No, not hate thee! for this feeling + Of unrest and long resistance + Is but passionate appealing, + A prophetic whisper stealing + O’er the chords of our existence. + + Him whom thou dost once enamour, + Thou, belovèd, never leavest; + In life’s discord, strife, and clamour, + Still he feels thy spell of glamour; + Him of Hope thou ne’er bereavest. + + Weary hearts by thee are lifted, + Struggling souls by thee are strengthened, + Clouds of fear asunder rifted, + Truth from falsehood cleansed and sifted, + Lives, like days in summer, lengthened! + + Therefore art thou ever dearer, + O my Sibyl, my deceiver! + For thou makest each mystery clearer, + And the unattained seems nearer, + When thou fillest my heart with fever! + + Muse of all the Gifts and Graces! + Though the fields around us wither, + There are ampler realms and spaces, + Where no foot has left its traces: + Let us turn and wander thither! + + +FLIGHT THE SECOND. + +A DAY OF SUNSHINE. + + O gift of God! O perfect day: + Whereon shall no man work, but play; + Whereon it is enough for me, + Not to be doing, but to be! + + Through every fibre of my brain, + Through every nerve, through every vein, + I feel the electric thrill, the touch + Of life, that seems almost too much. + + I hear the wind among the trees + Playing celestial symphonies; + I see the branches downward bent, + Like keys of some great instrument. + + And over me unrolls on high + The splendid scenery of the sky, + Where through a sapphire sea the sun + Sails like a golden galleon, + + Towards yonder cloud-land in the West, + Towards yonder Islands of the Blest, + Whose steep sierra far uplifts + Its craggy summits white with drifts. + + Blow, winds! and waft through all the rooms + The snow-flakes of the cherry-blooms! + Blow, winds! and bend within my reach + The fiery blossoms of the peach. + + O Life and Love! O happy throng + Of thoughts, whose only speech is song! + O heart of man! canst thou not be + Blithe as the air is, and as free? + + +THE CHILDREN’S HOUR. + + Between the dark and the daylight, + When the night is beginning to lower, + Comes a pause in the day’s occupations + That is known as the Children’s Hour. + + I hear in the chamber above me + The patter of little feet, + The sound of a door that is opened, + And voices soft and sweet. + + From my study I see in the lamplight, + Descending the broad hall stair, + Grave Alice and laughing Allegra, + And Edith with golden hair. + + A whisper and then a silence; + Yet I know by their merry eyes + They are plotting and planning together + To take me by surprise. + + A sudden rush from the stairway, + A sudden raid from the hall! + By three doors left unguarded + They enter my castle wall! + + They climb up into my turret + O’er the arms and back of my chair; + If I try to escape they surround me; + They seem to be everywhere. + + They almost devour me with kisses, + Their arms about me entwine, + Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen + In his Mouse Tower on the Rhine! + + Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, + Because you have scaled the wall, + Such an old moustache as I am + Is not a match for you all! + + I have you fast in my fortress, + And will not let you depart, + But put you down into the dungeon + In the round-tower of my heart. + + And there will I keep you for ever, + Yes, for ever and a day, + Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, + And moulder in dust away! + + +ENCELADUS. + + Under Mount Etna he lies, + It is slumber, it is not death; + For he struggles at times to arise, + And above him the lurid skies + Are hot with his fiery breath. + + The crags are piled on his breast, + The earth is heaped on his head; + But the groans of his wild unrest, + Though smothered and half suppressed, + Are heard, and he is not dead. + + And the nations far away + Are watching with eager eyes; + They talk together and say, + “To-morrow, perhaps to-day, + Enceladus will arise!” + + And the old gods, the austere + Oppressors in their strength, + Stand aghast and white with fear + At the ominous sounds they hear, + And tremble, and mutter, “At length!” + + Ah me! for the land that is sown + With the harvest of despair, + Where the burning cinders, blown + From the lips of the overthrown + Enceladus, fill the air. + + Where ashes are heaped in drifts + Over vineyard and field and town, + Whenever he starts and lifts + His head through the blackened rifts + Of the crags that keep him down. + + See, see! the red light shines! + ’Tis the glare of his awful eyes! + And the storm-wind shouts through the pines + Of Alps and of Apennines, + “Enceladus, arise!” + + +THE _CUMBERLAND_. + + At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, + On board of the _Cumberland_, sloop of war; + And at times from the fortress across the bay + The alarum of drums swept past, + Or a bugle blast + From the camp on the shore. + + Then far away to the south uprose + A little feather of snow-white smoke, + And we knew that the iron ship of our foe + Was steadily steering its course + To try the force + Of our ribs of oak. + + Down upon us heavily runs, + Silent and sullen, the floating fort; + Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, + And leaps the terrible death, + With fiery breath, + From each open port. + + We are not idle, but send her straight + Defiance back in a full broadside! + As hail rebounds from a roof of slate + Rebounds our heavier hail + From each iron scale + Of the monster’s hide. + + “Strike your flag!” the rebel cries, + In his arrogant old plantation strain. + “Never!” our gallant Morris replies; + “It is better to sink than to yield!” + And the whole air pealed + With the cheers of our men. + + Then, like a kraken huge and black, + She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp! + Down went the _Cumberland_ all a wrack, + With a sudden shudder of death, + And the cannon’s breath + For her dying gasp. + + Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, + Still floated our flag at the mainmast head. + Lord, how beautiful was thy day! + Every waft of the air + Was a whisper of prayer, + Or a dirge for the dead. + + Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas! + Ye are at peace in the troubled stream, + Ho! brave land! with hearts like these, + Thy flag, that is rent in twain, + Shall be one again, + And without a seam! + + +SOMETHING LEFT UNDONE. + + Labour with what zeal we will, + Something still remains undone, + Something uncompleted still + Waits the rising of the sun. + + By the bedside, on the stair, + At the threshold, near the gates, + With its menace or its prayer, + Like a mendicant it waits; + + Waits, and will not go away; + Waits, and will not be gainsaid + By the cares of yesterday + Each to-day is heavier made; + + Till at length the burden seems + Greater than our strength can bear; + Heavy as the weight of dreams, + Pressing on us everywhere. + + And we stand from day to day, + Like the dwarfs of times gone by, + Who, as Northern legends say, + On their shoulders held the sky. + + +WEARINESS. + + O little feet! that such long years + Must wander on through hopes and fears, + Must ache and bleed beneath your load; + I, nearer to the Wayside Inn + Where toil shall cease and rest begin, + Am weary, thinking of your road! + + O little hands! that, weak or strong, + Have still to serve or rule so long, + Have still so long to give or ask; + I, who so much with book and pen + Have toiled among my fellow-men, + Am weary, thinking of your task. + + O little hearts! that throb and beat + With such impatient, feverish heat, + Such limitless and strong desires; + Mine that so long has glowed and burned, + With passions into ashes turned, + Now covers and conceals its fires. + + O little souls! as pure and white + And crystalline as rays of light + Direct from heaven, their source divine; + Refracted through the mist of years, + How red my setting sun appears, + How lurid looks this soul of mine! + + +SNOW-FLAKES. + + Out of the bosom of the Air, + Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, + Over the woodlands brown and bare, + Over the harvest-fields forsaken, + Silent, and soft, and slow + Descends the snow. + + Even as our cloudy fancies take + Suddenly shape in some divine expression, + Even as the troubled heart doth make + In the white countenance confession, + The troubled sky reveals + The grief it feels. + + This is the poem of the Air, + Slowly in silent syllables recorded; + This is the secret of despair, + Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, + Now whispered and revealed + To wood and field. + + +FLIGHT THE THIRD. + +1874. + +CADENABBIA. + + No sound of wheels or hoof-beat breaks + The silence of the summer day, + As by the loveliest of all lakes + I while the idle hours away. + + I pace the leafy colonnade, + Where level branches of the plane + Above me weave a roof of shade + Impervious to the sun and rain. + + At times a sudden rush of air + Flutters the lazy leaves o’erhead, + And gleams of sunlight toss and flare + Like torches down the path I tread. + + By Somariva’s garden gate + I make the marble stairs my seat; + And hear the water, as I wait, + Lapping the steps beneath my feet. + + The undulation sinks and swells + Along the stony parapets; + And far away the floating bells + Tinkle upon the fisher’s nets. + + Silent and slow, by tower and town, + The freighted barges come and go; + Their pendent shadow gliding down, + By town and tower submerged below. + + The hills sweep upward from the shore, + With villas scattered one by one + Upon their wooded spurs, and lower + Bellaggio blazing in the sun. + + And dimly seen, a tangled mass + Of walls and woods, of light and shade, + Stands beck’ning up the Stelvio pass + Varenna with its wide cascade. + + I ask myself, Is this a dream? + Will it all vanish into air? + Is there a land of such supreme + And perfect beauty anywhere? + + Sweet vision! Do not fade away; + Linger until my heart shall take + Into itself the summer day + And all the beauty of the lake. + + Linger until upon my brain + Is stamped an image of the scene; + Then fade into the air again, + And be as if thou hadst not been. + + +CHARLES SUMNER. + +MARCH 30, 1874. + + Garlands upon his grave, + And flowers upon his hearse; + And to the tender heart and brave, + The tribute of this verse. + + His was the troubled life, + The conflict and the pain; + The griefs, the bitterness of strife, + The honour without stain. + + Like Winkelried, he took + Into his manly breast + The sheaf of hostile spears, and broke + A path for the oppressed; + + Then from the fatal field, + Upon a nation’s heart, + Borne like a warrior on his shield!— + So should the brave depart. + + Death takes us by surprise, + And stays our hurrying feet; + The great design unfinished lies, + Our lives are incomplete. + + But in the dark unknown, + Perfect their circles seem, + Even as a bridge’s arch of stone + Is rounded in the stream. + + Alike are life and death + When life in death survives, + And the uninterrupted breath + Inspires a thousand lives. + + Were a star quenched on high, + For ages would its light, + Still travelling downward from the sky, + Shine on our mortal sight. + + So when a great man dies, + For years beyond our ken, + The light he leaves behind him lies + Upon the paths of men. + + +MONTE CASSINO. + + Beautiful valley, through whose verdant meads + Unheard the Garigliano glides along,— + The Liris, nurse of rushes and of reeds, + The river taciturn of classic song! + + The Land of Labour and the Land of Rest, + Where mediæval towns are white on all + The hillsides, and where every mountain crest + Is an Etrurian or a Roman wall! + + There is Alagna, there Pope Boniface + Was dragged with contumely from his throne; + Sciarra Colonna, was that day’s disgrace + The Pontiff’s only, or in part thine own? + + There is Ceprano, where a renegade + Was each Apulian as great Dante saith, + When Manfred, by his men-at-arms betrayed, + Spurred on to Benevento and to death. + + There is Aquinum, the old Volscian town, + Where Juvenal was born, whose lurid light + Still hovers o’er his birthplace, like the crown + Of splendour over cities seen at night. + + Doubled the splendour is, that in its streets + The angelic Doctor as a schoolboy played, + And dreamed perhaps the dreams that he repeats + In ponderous folios for scholastics made. + + And there, uplifted like a passing cloud, + That pauses on a mountain summit high, + Monte Cassino’s convent rears its proud + And venerable walls against the sky. + + Well I remember how on foot I climbed + The stony pathway leading to its gate: + Above, the convent bells for vespers chimed; + Below, the darkening town grew desolate. + + Well I remember the low arch and dark, + The court-yard with its well, the terrace wide, + From which, far down, diminished to a park, + The valley veiled in mist was dim descried. + + The day was dying, and with feeble hands + Caressed the mountain-tops; the vales between + Darkened; the river in the meadow-lands + Sheathed itself as a sword and was not seen. + + The silence of the place was like a sleep, + So full of rest it seemed; each passing tread + Was a reverberation from the deep + Recesses of the ages that are dead. + + For, more than thirteen centuries ago, + Benedict, fleeing from the gates of Rome, + A youth disgusted with its vice and woe, + Sought in these mountain solitudes a home. + + He founded here his Convent and his Rule + Of prayer and work, and counted work as prayer. + His pen became a clarion, and his school + Flamed like a beacon in the midnight air. + + What though Boccaccio, in his reckless way + Mocking the lazy brotherhood, deplores + The illuminated manuscripts that lay + Torn and neglected on the dusty floors? + + Boccaccio was a novelist, a child + Of fancy and of fiction at the best; + This the urbane librarian said and smiled, + Incredulous as at some idle jest. + + Upon such themes as these with one young friar + I sat conversing late into the night, + Till in its cavernous chimney the wood fire + Had burnt its heart out like an anchorite. + + And then translated, in my convent cell, + Myself yet not myself in dreams I lay; + And, as a monk who hears the matin bell, + Started from sleep; already it was day. + + From the high window I beheld the scene + On which Saint Benedict so oft had gazed; + The mountains and the valley in the sheen + Of the bright sun, and stood as one amazed. + + Grey mists were rolling, rising, vanishing; + The woodlands glistened with their jewelled crowns. + Far off the mellow bells began to ring + For matins in the half-awakened towns. + + The conflict of the Present and the Past, + The ideal and the actual in our life, + As on a field of battle held me fast, + Where this world and the next world were at strife. + + For, as the valley from its sleep awoke, + I saw the iron horses of the steam + Toss to the morning air their plumes of smoke, + And woke as one awaketh from a dream. + + +AMALFI. + + Sweet the memory is to me + Of the land beyond the sea, + Where the waves and mountains meet; + Where amid her mulberry-trees + Sits Amalfi in the heat, + Bathing ever her white feet + In the tideless, summer seas. + + In the middle of the town, + From its fountains in the hills, + Tumbling through the narrow gorge, + The Canneto rushes down, + Turns the great wheels of the mills, + Lifts the hammers of the forge. + + ’Tis a stairway, not a street, + That ascends the deep ravine, + Where the torrent leaps between + Rocky walls that almost meet. + Toiling up from stair to stair + Peasant girls their burdens bear; + Sunburnt daughters of the soil, + Stately figures tall and straight; + What inexorable fate + Dooms them to this life of toil? + + Lord of vineyards and of lands, + Far above the convent stands, + On its terraced walk aloof + Leans a monk with folded hands, + Placid, satisfied, serene, + Looking down upon the scene + Over wall and red-tiled roof; + Wondering unto what good end + All this toil and traffic tend, + And why all men cannot be + Free from care, and free from pain, + And the sordid love of gain, + And as indolent as he. + + Where are now the freighted barks + From the marts of east and west? + Where the knights in iron sarks + Journeying to the Holy Land, + Glove of steel upon the hand, + Cross of crimson on the breast? + Where the pomp of camp and court? + Where the pilgrims with their prayers? + Where the merchants with their wares, + And their gallant brigantines + Sailing safely into port, + Chased by corsair Algerines? + + Vanished like a fleet of cloud, + Like a passing trumpet-blast, + Are those splendours of the past, + And the commerce and the crowd! + Fathoms deep beneath the seas + Lie the ancient wharves and quays, + Swallowed by the engulfing waves; + Silent streets, and vacant halls, + Ruined roofs and towers and walls; + Hidden from all mortal eyes + Deep the sunken city lies: + Even cities have their graves! + + This is an enchanted land! + Round the headlands far away + Sweeps the blue Salernian bay + With its sickle of white sand; + Farther still and farthermost + On the dim discovered coast + Pæstum with its ruins lies, + And its roses all in bloom + Seem to tinge the fatal skies + Of that lonely land of doom. + + On his terrace, high in air, + Nothing doth the good monk care + For such worldly themes as these. + From the garden just below + Little puffs of perfume blow, + And a sound is in his ears + Of the murmur of the bees + In the shining chestnut-trees; + + Nothing else he heeds or hears. + All the landscape seems to swoon + In the happy afternoon; + Slowly o’er his senses creep + The encroaching waves of sleep + And he sinks as sank the town, + Unresisting, fathoms down + Into caverns cool and deep! + + Walled about with drifts of snow, + Hearing the fierce north wind blow, + Seeing all the landscape white, + And the river cased in ice, + Comes this memory of delight, + Comes this vision unto me + Of a long-lost Paradise + In the land beyond the sea. + + +A DUTCH PICTURE. + + Simon Danz has come home again, + From cruising about with his buccaneers; + He has singed the beard of the King of Spain, + And carried away the Dean of Jaen + And sold him in Algiers. + + In his house by the Maese, with its roof of tiles + And weathercocks flying aloft in air, + There are silver tankards of antique styles, + Plunder of convent and castle, and piles + Of carpets rich and rare. + + In his tulip-garden there by the town, + Overlooking the sluggish stream, + With his Moorish cap and dressing-gown + The old sea-captain, hale and brown, + Walks in a waking dream. + + A smile in his grey mustachio lurks + Whenever he thinks of the King of Spain + And the listed tulips look like Turks, + And the silent gardener as he works + Is changed to the Dean of Jaen. + + The windmills on the outermost + Verge of the landscape in the haze, + To him are towers on the Spanish coast, + With whiskered sentinels at their post, + Though this is the river Maese. + + But when the winter rains begin, + He sits and smokes by the blazing brands, + And old seafaring men come in, + Goat-bearded, grey, and with double chin, + And rings upon their hands. + + They sit there in the shadow and shine + Of the flickering fire of the winter night; + Figures in colour and design + Like those by Rembrandt of the Rhine, + Half darkness and half light. + + And they talk of their ventures lost or won, + And their talk is ever and ever the same, + While they drink the red wine of Tarragon, + From the cellars of some Spanish Don, + Or convent set on flame. + + Restless at times, with heavy strides + He paces his parlour to and fro; + He is like a ship that at anchor rides, + And swings with the rising and falling tides + And tugs at her anchor-tow. + + Voices mysterious far and near, + Sound of the wind and sound of the sea, + Are calling and whispering in his ear, + “Simon Danz! Why stayest thou here? + Come forth and follow me!” + + So he thinks he shall take to the sea again + For one more cruise with his buccaneers, + To singe the beard of the King of Spain, + And capture another Dean of Jaen + And sell him in Algiers. + + +THE SERMON OF ST. FRANCIS. + + Up soared the lark into the air, + A shaft of song, a wingèd prayer, + As if a soul, released from pain, + Were flying back to heaven again. + + St. Francis heard; it was to him + An emblem of the Seraphim; + The upward motion of the fire, + The light, the heat, the heart’s desire. + + Around Assisi’s convent gate + The birds, God’s poor who cannot wait, + From moor and mere and darksome wood + Came flocking for their dole of food. + + “O brother birds,” St. Francis said, + “Ye come to me and ask for bread, + But not with bread alone to-day + Shall ye be fed and sent away. + + “Ye shall be fed, ye happy birds, + With manna of celestial words; + Not mine, though mine they seem to be, + Not mine, though they be spoken through me. + + “O, doubly are ye bound to praise + The great Creator in your lays; + He giveth you your plumes of down, + Your crimson hoods, your cloaks of brown. + + “He giveth you your wings to fly + And breathe a purer air on high, + And careth for you everywhere, + Who for yourselves so little care!” + + With flutter of swift wings and songs + Together rose the feathered throngs, + And singing scattered far apart; + Deep peace was in St. Francis’ heart. + + He knew not if the brotherhood + His homily had understood; + He only knew that to one ear + The meaning of his words was clear. + + +TRAVELS BY THE FIRESIDE. + + The ceaseless rain is falling fast, + And yonder gilded vane, + Immoveable for three days past, + Points to the misty main. + + It drives me in upon myself, + And to the fireside gleams, + To pleasant books that crowd my shelf, + And still more pleasant dreams. + + I read whatever bards have sung + Of lands beyond the sea, + And the bright days when I was young + Come thronging back to me. + + I fancy I can hear again + The Alpine torrent’s roar, + The mule-bells on the hills of Spain, + The sea at Elsinore. + + I see the convent’s gleaming wall + Rise from its groves of pine, + And towers of old cathedrals tall, + And castles by the Rhine. + + I journey on by park and spire, + Beneath centennial trees, + Through fields with poppies all on fire, + And gleams of distant seas. + + I fear no more the dust and heat, + No more I feel fatigue, + While journeying with another’s feet, + O’er many a lengthening league. + + Let others traverse sea and land, + And toil through various climes, + I turn the world round with my hand, + Reading these poet’s rhymes. + + From them I learn whatever lies + Beneath each changing zone, + And see, when looking with their eyes, + Better than with mine own. + +[Illustration] + + +FLIGHT THE FOURTH. + + +THE HERONS OF ELMWOOD. + + Warm and still is the summer night, + As here by the river’s brink I wander; + White overhead are the stars, and white + The glimmering lamps on the hill-side yonder. + + Silent are all the sounds of day; + Nothing I hear but the chirp of crickets, + And the cry of the herons winging their way + O’er the poet’s[57] house in the Elmwood thickets. + + Call to him, herons, as slowly you pass + To your roosts in the haunts of the exiled thrushes, + Sing him the song of the green morass, + And the tides that water the reeds and rushes. + + Sing him the mystical Song of the Hern, + And the secret that baffles our utmost seeking; + For only a sound of lament we discern, + And cannot interpret the words you are speaking. + + Sing of the air, and the wild delight + Of wings that uplift and winds that uphold you, + The joy of freedom, the rapture of flight + Through the drift of the floating mists that infold you; + + Of the landscape lying so far below, + With its towns and rivers and desert places; + And the splendour of light above, and the glow + Of the limitless, blue, ethereal spaces. + + Ask him if songs of the Troubadours, + Or of Minnesingers in old black-letter, + Sound in his ears more sweet than yours, + And if yours are not sweeter and wilder and better. + + Sing to him, say to him, here at his gate, + Where the boughs of the stately elms are meeting, + Some one hath lingered to meditate, + And send him unseen this friendly greeting; + + That many another hath done the same, + Though not by a sound was the silence broken; + The surest pledge of a deathless name + Is the silent homage of thoughts unspoken. + +[57] James Russell Lowell. + + +VITTORIA COLONNA. + +VITTORIA COLONNA, on the death of her husband, the Marchese di Pescara, +retired to her castle at Ischia (Inarimé), and there wrote the Ode upon +his death, which gained her the title of Divine. + + Once more, once more, Inarimé, + I see thy purple hills!—once more + I hear the billows of the bay + Wash the white pebbles on thy shore. + + High o’er the sea-surge and the sands, + Like a great galleon wrecked and cast + Ashore by storms, thy castle stands, + A mouldering landmark of the Past. + + Upon its terrace-walk I see + A phantom gliding to and fro; + It is Colonna,—it is she + Who lived and loved so long ago, + + Pescara’s beautiful young wife, + The type of perfect womanhood, + Whose life was love, the life of life, + That time and change and death withstood. + + For death, that breaks the marriage band + In others, only closer pressed + The wedding ring upon her hand, + And closer locked and barred her breast. + + She knew the lifelong martyrdom, + The weariness, the endless pain + Of waiting for some one to come + Who never more would come again. + + The shadows of the chestnut-trees, + The odour of the orange blooms, + The song of birds, and, more than these, + The silence of deserted rooms; + + The respiration of the sea, + The soft caresses of the air, + All things in nature seemed to be + But ministers of her despair; + + Till the o’erburdened heart, so long + Imprisoned in itself, found vent + And voice in one impassioned song + Of inconsolable lament. + + Then as the sun, though hidden from sight, + Transmutes to gold the leaden mist, + Her life was interfused with light, + From realms that, though unseen, exist. + + Inarimé! Inarimé! + Thy castle on the crags above + In dust shall crumble and decay, + But not the memory of her love. + + +SONG. + + Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest; + Home-keeping hearts are happiest, + For those that wander they know not where + Are full of trouble and full of care; + To stay at home is best. + + Weary and homesick and distressed, + They wander east, they wander west, + And are baffled and beaten and blown about + By the winds of the wilderness of doubt; + To stay at home is best. + + Then stay at home, my heart, and rest; + The bird is safest in its nest; + O’er all that flutter their wings and fly + A hawk is hovering in the sky; + To stay at home is best. + + +A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH FLEET. + +OCTOBER 1746. + +MR. THOMAS PRINCE _loquitur_. + + A fleet with flags arrayed + Sailed from the port of Brest, + And the Admiral’s ship displayed + The signal—“Steer south-west.” + For this Admiral D’Anville + Had sworn by cross and crown + To ravage with fire and steel + Our helpless Boston town. + + There were rumours in the street, + In the houses there was fear + Of the coming of the fleet, + And the danger hovering near; + And while from mouth to mouth + Spread the tidings of dismay, + I stood in the Old South, + Saying humbly, “Let us pray! + + “O Lord! we would not advise; + But if in thy Providence + A tempest should arise, + To drive the French fleet hence, + And scatter it far and wide, + Or sink it in the sea, + We should be satisfied, + And thine the glory be.” + + This was the prayer I made, + For my soul was all on flame, + And even as I prayed + The answering tempest came. + It came with a mighty power, + Shaking the windows and walls, + And tolling the bell in the tower, + As it tolls at funerals. + + The lightning suddenly + Unsheathed its flaming sword, + And I cried, “Stand still, and see + The salvation of the Lord!” + The heavens were black with cloud, + The sea was white with hail, + And ever more fierce and loud + Blew the October gale. + + The fleet it overtook, + And the broad sails in the van, + Like the tents of Cushan shook, + Or the curtains of Midian. + Down on the reeling decks + Crashed the o’erwhelming seas; + Ah, never were there wrecks + So pitiful as these! + + Like a potter’s vessel broke + The great ships of the line; + They were carried away as a smoke, + Or sank like lead in the brine. + O Lord! before thy path + They vanished and ceased to be, + When thou didst walk in wrath, + With thine horses through the sea. + + +CASTLES IN SPAIN. + + How much of my young heart, O Spain, + Went out to thee in days of yore! + What dreams romantic filled my brain, + And summoned back to life again + The Paladins of Charlemagne, + The Cid Campeador! + + And shapes more shadowy than these, + In the dim twilight half revealed: + Phœnician galleys on the seas, + The Roman camps like hives of bees, + The Goth uplifting from his knees + Pelayo on his shield. + + It was these memories perchance, + From annals of remotest eld, + That lent the colours of romance + To every trivial circumstance, + And changed the form and countenance + Of all that I beheld. + + Old towns, whose history lies hid + In monkish chronicle or rhyme,— + Burgos, the birthplace of the Cid, + Zamora and Valladolid, + Toledo, built and walled amid + The wars of Wamba’s time; + + The long straight line of the highway, + The distant town that seems so near, + The peasants in the fields, that stay + Their toil to cross themselves and pray, + When from the belfry at mid-day + The Angelus they hear; + + The crosses in the mountain pass, + Mules gay with tassels, the loud din + Of muleteers, the tethered ass + That crops the dusty wayside grass, + And cavaliers with spurs of brass + Alighting at the inn; + + White hamlets hidden in fields of wheat, + White cities slumbering by the sea, + White sunshine flooding square and street, + Dark mountain-ranges, at whose feet + The river-beds are dry with heat, + All was a dream to me. + + Yet something sombre and severe + O’er the enchanted landscape reigned; + A terror in the atmosphere + As if King Philip listened near, + Or Torquemada, the austere, + His ghostly sway maintained. + + The softer Andalusian skies + Dispelled the sadness and the gloom; + There Cadiz by the sea-side lies, + And Seville’s orange-orchards rise, + Making the land a paradise + Of beauty and of bloom. + + There Córdova is hidden among + The palm, the olive, and the vine; + Gem of the South, by poets sung, + And in whose Mosque Almanzor hung + As lamps the bells that once had rung + At Compostella’s shrine. + + But over all the rest supreme, + The star of stars, the cynosure, + The artist’s and the poet’s theme, + The young man’s vision, the old man’s dream,— + Granada by its winding stream, + The city of the Moor! + + And there the Alhambra still recalls + Aladdin’s palace of delight: + Allah il Allah! through its halls + Whispers the fountain as it falls; + The Darro darts beneath its walls, + The hills with snow are white. + + Ah yes, the hills are white with snow, + And cold with blasts that bite and freeze; + But in the happy vale below + The orange and pomegranate grow, + And wafts of air toss to and fro + The blossoming almond-trees. + + The Vega cleft by the Xenil, + The fascination and allure + Of the sweet landscape chain the will. + The traveller lingers on the hill, + His parted lips are breathing still + The last sigh of the Moor. + + How like a ruin overgrown + With flowers that hide the rents of time, + Stands now the Past that I have known; + Castles in Spain, not built of stone, + But of white summer cloud, and blown + Into this little mist of rhyme! + + +THE WHITE CZAR. + + Dost thou see on the rampart’s height + That wreath of mist, in the light + Of the midnight moon? O, hist! + It is not a wreath of mist; + It is the Czar, the White Czar, + Batyushka! Gosudar![58] + + He has heard, among the dead, + The artillery roll o’erhead; + The drums and the tramp of feet + Of his soldiery in the street; + He is awake! the White Czar, + Batyushka! Gosudar! + + He has heard in the grave the cries + Of his people: “Awake! arise!” + He has rent the gold brocade + Whereof his shroud was made; + He is risen! the White Czar, + Batyushka! Gosudar! + + From the Volga and the Don + He has led his armies on, + Over river and morass, + Over desert and mountain pass; + The Czar, the Orthodox Czar, + Batyushka! Gosudar! + + He looks from the mountain-chain + Toward the seas, that cleave in twain + The continents; his hand + Points southward o’er the land + Of Roumele! O Czar, + Batyushka! Gosudar! + + And the words break from his lips: + “I am the builder of ships, + And my ships shall sail these seas + To the Pillars of Hercules! + I say it; the White Czar, + Batyushka! Gosudar! + + “The Bosphorus shall be free; + It shall make room for me; + And the gates of its water-streets + Be unbarred before my fleets. + I say it; the White Czar, + Batyushka! Gosudar! + + “And the Christian shall no more + Be crushed, as heretofore, + Beneath thine iron rule, + O Sultan of Istamboul! + I swear it! I the Czar, + Batyushka! Gosudar!” + +[58] The White Czar is Peter the Great. Batyushka (_Father dear_) and +Gosudar (_Sovereign_) are titles the Russian people are fond of giving +to the Czar in their popular songs. + + +THE LEAP OF ROUSHAN BEG. + + Mounted on Kyrat strong and fleet, + His chestnut steed with four white feet, + Roushan Beg, called Kurroglou, + Son of the road and bandit chief, + Seeking refuge and relief, + Up the mountain pathway flew. + + Such was Kyrat’s wondrous speed, + Never yet could any steed + Reach the dust-cloud in his course. + More than maiden, more than wife, + More than gold, and next to life + Roushan the Robber loved his horse. + + In the land that lies beyond + Erzeroum and Trebizond, + Garden-girt his fortress stood; + Plundered khan, or caravan + Journeying north from Koordistan, + Gave him wealth and wine and food. + + Seven hundred and fourscore + Men at arms his livery wore, + Did his bidding night and day. + Now, through regions all unknown, + He was wandering, lost, alone, + Seeking without guide his way. + + Suddenly the pathway ends, + Sheer the precipice descends, + Loud the torrent roars unseen; + Thirty feet from side to side + Yawns the chasm; on air must ride + He who crosses this ravine. + + Following close in his pursuit, + At the precipice’s foot, + Reyhan the Arab, of Orfah, + Halted with his hundred men, + Shouting upward from the glen, + “La il Allah-Allah-la!” + + Gently Roushan Beg caressed + Kyrat’s forehead, neck, and breast; + Kissed him upon both his eyes; + Sang to him in his wild way, + As upon the topmost spray + Sings a bird before it flies. + + “O my Kyrat, O my steed, + Round and slender as a reed, + Carry me this peril through! + Satin housings shall be thine, + Shoes of gold, O Kyrat mine, + O thou soul of Kurroglou! + + “Soft thy skin as silken skein, + Soft as woman’s hair thy mane, + Tender are thine eyes and true; + All thine hoofs like ivory shine, + Polished bright; O, life of mine, + Leap, and rescue Kurroglou!” + + Kyrat, then, the strong and fleet, + Drew together his four white feet, + Paused a moment on the verge, + Measured with his eye the space, + And into the air’s embrace + Leaped as leaps the ocean surge. + + As the ocean surge o’er silt and sand + Bears a swimmer safe to land, + Kyrat safe his rider bore; + Rattling down the deep abyss + Fragments of the precipice + Rolled like pebbles on a shore. + + Roushan’s tasselled cap of red + Trembled not upon his head, + Careless sat he and upright; + Neither hand nor bridle shook, + Nor his head he turned to look, + As he galloped out of sight. + + Flash of harness in the air, + Seen a moment like the glare + Of a sword drawn from its sheath; + Thus the phantom horseman passed, + And the shadow that he cast + Leaped the cataract underneath. + + Reyhan the Arab held his breath + While this vision of life and death + Passed above him. “Allahu!” + Cried he. “In all Koordistan + Lives there not so brave a man + As this Robber Kurroglou!” + + +HAROUN AL RASCHID. + + One day, Haroun Al Raschid read + A book wherein the poet said:— + + “Where are the kings, and where the rest + Of those who once the world possessed? + + “They’re gone with all their pomp and show, + They’re gone the way that thou shalt go. + + “O thou who choosest for thy share + The world, and what the world calls fair, + + “Take all that it can give or lend, + But know that death is at the end! + + Haroun Al Raschid bowed his head; + Tears fell upon the page he read. + + +THE THREE KINGS. + + Three Kings came riding from far away, + Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar; + Three Wise Men out of the East were they, + And they travelled by night and they slept by day, + For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star. + + The star was so beautiful, large, and clear, + That all the other stars of the sky + Became a white mist in the atmosphere, + And by this they knew that the coming was near + Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy. + + Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows, + Three caskets of gold with golden keys; + Their robes were of crimson silk with rows + Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows, + Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees. + + And so the Three Kings rode into the West, + Through the dusk of night over hills and dells, + And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast, + And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest, + With the people they met at the wayside wells. + + “Of the child that is born,” said Baltasar, + “Good people, I pray you, tell us the news; + For we in the East have seen his star, + And have ridden fast, and have ridden far, + To find and worship the King of the Jews.” + + And the people answered, “You ask in vain; + We know of no king but Herod the Great!” + They thought the Wise Men were men insane, + As they spurred their horses across the plain, + Like riders in haste who cannot wait. + + And when they came to Jerusalem, + Herod the Great, who had heard this thing, + Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them; + And said, “Go down unto Bethlehem, + And bring me tidings of this new king.” + + So they rode away; and the star stood still, + The only one in the grey of morn; + Yes, it stopped, it stood still of its own free will, + Right over Bethlehem on the hill, + The city of David where Christ was born. + + And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard, + Through the silent street, till their horses turned + And neighed as they entered the great inn-yard; + But the windows were closed, and the doors were barred, + And only a light in the stable burned. + + And cradled there in the scented hay, + In the air made sweet by the breath of kine + The little child in the manger lay, + The Child that would be King one day + Of a kingdom not human but divine. + + His mother, Mary of Nazareth, + Sat watching beside his place of rest, + Watching the even flow of his breath, + For the joy of life and the terror of death + Were mingled together in her breast. + + They laid their offerings at his feet: + The gold was their tribute to a King, + The frankincense, with its odour sweet, + Was for the Priest, the Paraclete, + The myrrh for the body’s burying. + + And the mother wondered and bowed her head, + And sat as still as a statue of stone; + Her heart was troubled yet comforted, + Remembering what the Angel had said + Of an endless reign and of David’s throne. + + Then the Kings rode out of the city gate, + With a clatter of hoofs in proud array; + But they went not back to Herod the Great, + For they knew his malice and feared his hate, + And returned to their homes by another way. + + +KING TRISANKU. + + Viswamitra the magician, + By his spells and incantations, + Up to Indra’s realms elysian + Raised Trisanku, king of nations. + + India and the Gods offended + Hurled him downward, and descending + In the air he hung suspended, + With these equal powers contending. + + Thus by aspirations lifted, + By misgivings downward driven. + Human hearts are tossed and drifted + Midway between earth and heaven. + + +VOX POPULI. + + When Mazáran, the magician, + Journeyed westward through Cathay, + Nothing heard he but the praises + Of Badoura on his way. + + But the lessening rumour ended + When he came to Khaledan; + There the folks were talking only + Of Prince Camaralzaman. + + So it happens with the poets, + Every province hath its own; + Camaralzaman is famous + Where Badoura is unknown. + + +THE REVENGE OF RAIN-IN-THE-FACE. + + In that desolate land and lone, + Where the Big Horn and Yellowstone + Roar down their mountain path, + By their fires the Sioux chiefs + Muttered their woes and griefs, + And the menace of their wrath. + + “Revenge!” cried Rain-in-the-Face, + “Revenge upon all the race + Of the White Chief with yellow hair!” + And the mountains dark and high + From their crags re-echoed the cry + Of his anger and despair. + + In the meadow, spreading wide + By woodland and river-side + The Indian village stood; + All was silent as a dream, + Save the rushing of the stream + And the blue-jay in the wood. + + In his war-paint and his beads, + Like a bison among the reeds, + In ambush the Sitting Bull + Lay with three thousand braves + Crouched in the clefts and caves, + Savage, unmerciful! + + Into the fatal snare + The White Chief with yellow hair + And his three hundred men + Dashed headlong, sword in hand; + But of that gallant band + Not one returned again. + + The sudden darkness of death + Overwhelmed them, like the breath + And smoke of a furnace fire; + By the river’s bank, and between + The rocks of the ravine + They lay in their bloody attire. + + But the foeman fled in the night, + And Rain-in-the-Face, in his flight + Uplifted high in air + As a ghastly trophy, bore + The brave heart that beat no more, + Of the White Chief with yellow hair. + + Whose was the right and the wrong? + Sing it, O funeral song, + With a voice that is full of tears, + And say that our broken faith, + Wrought all this ruin and scathe, + In the Year of a Hundred Years! + + +TO THE RIVER YVETTE. + + O lovely river of Yvette! + O darling river! like a bride, + Some dimpled, bashful, fair Lisette, + Thou goest to wed the Orge’s tide. + + Maincourt, and lordly Dampierre, + See and salute thee on thy way, + And, with a blessing and a prayer, + Ring the sweet bells of St. Forget. + + The valley of Chevreuse in vain + Would hold thee in its fond embrace; + Thou glidest from its arms again + And hurriest on with swifter pace. + + Thou wilt not stay; with restless feet + Pursuing still thine onward flight, + Thou goest as one in haste to meet + Her sole desire, her heart’s delight. + + O lovely river of Yvette! + O darling stream! on balanced wings + The wood-birds sang the chansonnette + That here an unknown poet sings. + + +THE EMPEROR’S GLOVE. + +“Combien faudrait-il de peaux d’Espagne pour faire un gant de cette +grandeur?” A play upon the words _gant_, a glove, and _Gand_, the +French for Ghent. + + On St. Bavon’s tower, commanding + Half of Flanders, his domain, + Charles the Emperor once was standing, + While beneath him on the landing + Stood Duke Alva and his train. + + Like a print in books of fables, + Or a model made for show, + With its pointed roofs and gables, + Dormer windows, scrolls and labels, + Lay the city far below. + + Through its squares and streets and alleys + Poured the populace of Ghent; + As a routed army rallies, + Or as rivers run through valleys, + Hurrying to their homes they went. + + “Nest of Lutheran misbelievers!” + Cried Duke Alva as he gazed; + “Haunt of traitors and deceivers, + Stronghold of insurgent weavers, + Let it to the ground be razed!” + + On the Emperor’s cap the feather + Nods, as laughing he replies: + “How many skins of Spanish leather, + Think you, would, if stitched together, + Make a glove of such a size?” + + +A WRAITH IN THE MIST. + +“Sir, I should build me a fortification if I came to live +here.”—BOSWELL’S _Johnson_. + + On the green little isle of Inchkenneth + Who is it that walks by the shore, + So gay with his Highland blue bonnet, + So brave with his targe and claymore? + + His form is the form of a giant, + But his face wears an aspect of pain; + Can this be the Laird of Inchkenneth? + Can this be Sir Alan McLean? + + Ah, no! It is only the Rambler, + The Idler, who lives in Bolt Court, + And who says, were he Laird of Inchkenneth, + He would wall himself round with a fort. + + + + +Miscellaneous Poems. + +1879 TO 1882. + + +THE GOLDEN SUNSET. + + The golden sea its mirror spread + Beneath the golden skies, + And but a narrow strip between + Of land and shadow lies. + + The cloud-like rocks, the rock-like clouds + Dissolved in glory float, + And midway of the radiant flood, + Hangs silently the boat. + + The sea is but another sky, + The sky a sea as well, + And which is earth and which is heaven, + The eye can scarcely tell. + + So when for us life’s evening hour, + Soft fading shall descend, + May glory, born of earth and heaven, + The earth and heaven blend. + + Flooded with peace the spirits float, + With silent rapture glow, + Till where earth ends and heaven begins, + The soul shall scarcely know. + + +FROM MY ARM-CHAIR. + +_To the Children of Cambridge, who presented to me, on my +Seventy-second Birthday, February 27, 1879, this Chair, made from the +Wood of the Village Blacksmith’s Chestnut Tree._ + + Am I a king, that I should call my own + This splendid ebon throne? + Or by what reason, or what right divine, + Can I proclaim it mine? + + Only, perhaps, by right divine of song + It may to me belong; + Only because the spreading chestnut tree + Of old was sung by me. + + Well I remember it in all its prime, + When in the summer-time + The affluent foliage of its branches made + A cavern of cool shade. + + There by the blacksmith’s forge beside the street + Its blossom white and sweet + Enticed the bees, until it seemed alive, + And murmured like a hive. + + And when the winds of autumn, with a shout, + Tossed its great arms about, + The shining chestnuts, bursting from the sheath, + Dropped to the ground beneath. + + And now some fragments of its branches bare, + Shaped as a stately chair, + Have by my hearthstone found a home at last, + And whisper of the Past. + + The Danish king could not in all his pride + Repel the ocean tide, + But seated in this chair, I can in rhyme + Roll back the tide of Time. + + I see again, as one in vision sees, + The blossoms and the bees, + And hear the children’s voices shout and call, + And the brown chestnuts fall. + + I see the smithy with its fires aglow, + I hear the bellows blow, + And the shrill hammers on the anvil beat + The iron white with heat! + + And thus, dear children, have ye made for me + This day a jubilee, + And to my more than threescore years and ten + Brought back my youth again. + + The heart hath its own memory, like the mind, + And in it are enshrined + The precious keepsakes, into which are wrought + The giver’s loving thought. + + Only your love and your remembrance could + Give life to this dead wood, + And make these branches, leafless now so long, + Blossom again in song. + + +THE CHAMBER OVER THE GATE. + + Is it so far from thee + Thou canst no longer see + In the Chamber over the Gate + That old man desolate, + Weeping and wailing sore + For his son who is no more? + O Absalom, my son! + + Is it so long ago + That cry of human woe + From the walled city came, + Calling on his dear name, + That it has died away + In the distance of to-day? + O Absalom, my son! + + There is no far nor near, + There is neither there nor here, + There is neither soon nor late, + In that Chamber over the Gate, + Nor any long ago + To that cry of human woe, + O Absalom, my son! + + From the ages that are past + The voice comes like a blast, + Over seas that wreck and drown, + Over tumult of traffic and town; + And from ages yet to be + Come the echoes back to me, + O Absalom, my son! + + Somewhere at every hour + The watchman on the tower + Looks forth, and sees the fleet + Approach of the hurrying feet + Of messengers that bear + The tidings of despair. + O Absalom, my son! + + He goes forth from the door, + Who shall return no more. + With him our joy departs; + The light goes out in our hearts; + In the Chamber over the Gate + We sit disconsolate. + O Absalom, my son! + + That ’tis a common grief + Bringing but slight relief; + Ours is the bitterest loss, + Ours is the heaviest cross; + And for ever the cry will be, + “Would God I had died for thee + O Absalom, my son!” + + +THE FOUR LAKES OF MADISON. + + Four limpid lakes—four Naiades + Or sylvan deities are these, + In flowing robes of azure dressed, + Four lovely handmaids that uphold + Their shining mirrors, rimmed with gold, + To the fair city in the West. + + By day the coursers of the Sun + Drink of these waters as they run + Their swift diurnal round on high; + By night the constellations glow + Far down the hollow deeps below, + And glimmer in another sky. + + Fair Lakes, serene and full of light, + Fair town, arrayed in robes of white, + How visionary ye appear! + All like a floating landscape seems + In cloud-land or the land of dreams + Bathed in a golden atmosphere. + + +THE SIFTING OF PETER. + +A FOLK SONG. + +“Behold, Satan hath desired to have you that he may sift you as wheat.” + +—ST. LUKE XXII. 31. + + In St. Luke’s Gospel we are told + How Peter in the days of old + Was sifted; + And now, though ages intervene, + Sin is the same, while time and scene + Are shifted. + + Satan desires us, great and small, + As wheat, to sift us, and we all + Are tempted; + Not one, however rich or great, + Is by his station or estate + Exempted. + + No house so safely guarded is + But he, by some device of his, + Can enter; + No heart hath armour so complete + But he can pierce with arrows fleet + Its centre. + + For all at last the cock will crow + Who hear the warning voice, but go + Unheeding, + Till thrice and more they have denied + The Man of Sorrows, crucified + And bleeding. + + One look of that pale suffering face + Will make us feel the deep disgrace + Of weakness; + We shall be sifted till the strength + Of self-conceit be changed at length + To meekness. + + Wounds of the soul, though healed, will ache, + The reddening scars remain, and make + Confession; + Lost innocence returns no more; + We are not what we were before + Transgression. + + But noble souls, through dust and heat, + Rise from disaster and defeat + The stronger, + And conscious still of the Divine + Within them, he on earth supine + No longer. + + +HELEN OF TYRE. + + What phantom is this, that appears + Through the purple mists of the years + Itself but a mist like these? + A woman of cloud and of fire; + It is she; it is Helen of Tyre, + The town in the midst of the seas! + + O Tyre! in thy crowded streets + The phantom appears and retreats, + And the Israelites, that sell + Thy lilies and lions of brass, + Look up as they see her pass, + And murmur “Jezebel!” + + Then another phantom is seen + At her side, in a grey gabardine, + With beard that floats to his waist; + It is Simon Magus, the Seer; + He speaks, and she pauses to hear + The words he utters in haste. + + He says: “From this evil fame, + From this life of sorrow and shame, + I will lift thee and make thee mine! + Thou hast been Queen Candace, + And Helen of Troy, and shalt be + The Intelligence Divine!” + + Oh, sweet as the breath of morn, + To the fallen and forlorn + Are whispered words of praise; + For the famished heart believes + The falsehood that tempts and deceives, + And the promise that betrays. + + So she follows from land to land + The wizard’s beckoning hand, + As a leaf is blown by the gust, + Till she vanishes into night! + O reader, stoop down and write + With thy finger in the dust. + + O town in the midst of the seas, + With thy rafts of cedar trees, + Thy merchandise and thy ships, + Thou, too, art become as nought, + A phantom, a shadow, a thought, + A name upon men’s lips. + + +THE IRON PEN + +MADE FROM A FETTER OF BONNIVARD, THE PRISONER OF CHILLON; THE HANDLE OF +WOOD FROM THE FRIGATE “CONSTITUTION,” AND BOUND WITH A CIRCLET OF GOLD, +INSET WITH THREE PRECIOUS STONES FROM SIBERIA, CEYLON, AND MAINE. + + I thought this Pen would arise + From the casket where it lies— + Of itself would arise, and write + My thanks and my surprise. + + When you gave it me under the pines, + I dreamed these gems from the mines + Of Siberia, Ceylon, and Maine + Would glimmer as thoughts in the lines; + + That this iron link from the chain + Of Bonnivard might retain + Some verse of the Poet who sang + Of the prisoner and his pain; + + That this wood from the frigate’s mast + Might write me a rhyme at last, + As it used to write on the sky + The song of the sea and the blast. + + But motionless as I wait, + Like a Bishop lying in state + Lies the Pen, with its mitre of gold, + And its jewels inviolate. + + Then I must speak, and say + That the light of that summer day + In the garden under the pines + Shall not fade and pass away. + + I shall see you standing there, + Caressed by the fragrant air, + With the shadow on your face, + And the sunshine on your hair. + + I shall hear the sweet low tone + Of a voice before unknown, + Saying, “This is from me to you— + From me, and to you alone.” + + And in words not idle and vain + I shall answer, and thank you again + For the gift, and the grace of the gift, + O beautiful Helen of Maine! + + And for ever this gift will be + As a blessing from you to me, + As a drop of the dew of your youth + On the leaves of an aged tree. + + +THE POET AND HIS SONGS. + + As the birds come in the spring, + We know not from where; + As the stars come at evening + From the depths of the air; + + As the rain comes from the cloud, + And the brook from the ground; + As suddenly, low or loud, + Out of silence a sound; + + As the grape comes to the vine, + The fruit to the tree; + As the wind comes to the pine, + And the tide to the sea; + + As come the white sails of ships + O’er the ocean’s verge; + As comes the smile to the lips; + The foam to the surge; + + So come to the Poet his songs, + All hitherward blown + From the misty land, that belongs + To the vast Unknown. + + His, and not his, are the lays + He sings;—and their fame + Is his, and not his;—and the praise + And the pride of a name. + + For voices pursue him by day, + And haunt him by night, + And he listens, and needs must obey, + When the angel says: “Write!” + + +ROBERT BURNS. + + I see amid the fields of Ayr + A ploughman, who in foul or fair + Sings at his task, + So clear we know not if it is + The laverock’s song we hear or his, + Nor care to ask. + + For him the ploughing of those fields + A more ethereal harvest yields + Than sheaves of grain: + Songs flush with purple bloom the rye; + The plover’s call, the curlew’s cry, + Sing in his brain. + + Touched by his hand, the wayside weed + Becomes a flower; the lowliest reed + Beside the stream + Is clothed with beauty; gorse and grass + And heather, where his footsteps pass, + The brighter seem. + + He sings of love, whose flame illumes + The darkness of lone cottage rooms; + He feels the force, + The treacherous under-tow and stress, + Of wayward passions, and no less + The keen remorse. + + At moments, wrestling with his fate, + His voice is harsh, but not with hate; + The brushwood hung + Above the tavern door lets fall + Its bitter leaf, its drop of gall, + Upon his tongue. + + But still the burden of his song + Is love of right, disdain of wrong; + Its master chords + Are Manhood, Freedom, Brotherhood; + Its discords but an interlude + Between the words. + + And then to die so young, and leave + Unfinished what he might achieve! + Yet better sure + Is this than wandering up and down, + An old man, in a country town, + Infirm and poor. + + For now he haunts his native land + As an immortal youth; his hand + Guides every plough; + He sits beside each ingle-nook; + His voice is in each rushing brook, + Each rustling bough. + + His presence haunts this room to-night, + A form of mingled mist and light, + From that far coast. + Welcome beneath this roof of mine! + Welcome! this vacant chair is thine, + Dear guest and ghost! + + +BAYARD TAYLOR. + + Dead he lay among his books! + The peace of God was in his looks. + + As the statues in the gloom + Watch o’er Maximilian’s tomb, + + So those volumes from their shelves + Watched him silent as themselves. + + Ah! his hand will never more + Turn their storied pages o’er, + + Never more his lips repeat + Songs of theirs, however sweet. + + Let the lifeless body rest! + He is gone who was its guest; + + Gone, as travellers haste to leave + An inn, nor tarry until eve. + + Traveller! in what realms afar + In what planet, in what star, + + In what vast, aërial space + Shines the light upon thy face? + + In what gardens of delight + Rest thy weary feet to-night? + + Poet! thou whose latest verse + Was a garland on thy hearse; + + Thou hast sung, with organ tone, + In Deukalion’s life thine own;[59] + + On the ruins of the past + Blooms the perfect flower at last. + + Friend! but yesterday the bells + Rang for thee their loud farewells; + + And to-day they toll for thee, + Lying dead beyond the sea; + + Lying dead among thy books, + The peace of God in all thy looks! + +[59] Bayard Taylor published _Eastern Poems_, _El Dorado_, _Life and +Landscapes from Egypt_, _Japan, India, and China_, etc. + + +OLD ST. DAVID’S AT RADNOR. + + What an image of peace and rest + Is this little church among its graves! + All is so quiet; the troubled breast, + The wounded spirit, the heart oppressed, + Here may find the repose it craves. + + See how the ivy climbs and expands + Over this humble hermitage, + And seems to caress with its little hands + The rough grey stones, as a child that stands + Caressing the wrinkled cheeks of age! + + You cross the threshold; and dim and small + Is the space that serves for the Shepherd’s Fold; + The narrow aisle, the bare white wall, + The pews, and the pulpit quaint and tall, + Whisper and say, “Alas! we are old.” + + Herbert’s Chapel at Bemerton, + Hardly more spacious is than this; + But Poet and Pastor, blent in one, + Clothed with a splendour as of the sun, + That lowly and holy edifice. + + It is not the wall of stone without + That makes the building small or great, + But the soul’s light shining round about, + And the faith that overcometh doubt, + And the love that stronger is than hate. + + Were I a pilgrim in search of peace, + Were I a pastor of Holy Church, + More than a bishop’s diocese + Should I prize this place of rest and release + From further longing and further search. + + Here would I stay, and let the world + With its distant thunder roar and roll; + Storms do not rend the sail that is furled; + Nor like a dead leaf tossed and whirled + In an eddy of wind is the anchored soul. + + +JUGURTHA. + + How cold are thy baths, Apollo! + Cried the African monarch the splendid, + As down to his death in the hollow + Dark dungeons of Rome he descended, + Uncrowned, unthroned, unattended; + How cold are thy baths, Apollo! + + How cold are thy baths, Apollo! + Cried the Poet, unknown, unbefriended, + As the vision that lured him to follow + With the mist and the darkness blended, + And the dream of his life was ended; + How cold are thy baths, Apollo! + + +MAIDEN AND WEATHERCOCK. + +A FOLK SONG. + + MAIDEN. + O weathercock on the village spire, + With your golden feathers all on fire, + Tell me, what can you see from your perch, + Above there over the towers of the church? + + WEATHERCOCK. + I can see the roofs and the streets below, + And the people moving to and fro, + And beyond, without either roof or street, + The great salt sea and the fishermen’s fleet. + + I can see a ship come sailing in + Beyond the headlands and harbour of Lynn, + And a young man standing on the deck + With a silken ’kerchief round his neck. + + Now he is pressing it to his lips, + And now he is kissing his finger tips, + And now he is lifting and waving his hand, + And blowing the kisses toward the land. + + MAIDEN. + Ah, that is the ship from over the sea, + That is bringing my lover back to me; + Bringing my lover so fond and true, + Who does not change with the wind like you. + + WEATHERCOCK. + If I change with all the winds that blow, + It is only because they made me so; + And people would think it wondrous strange + If I, a weathercock, should not change. + + O pretty maiden, so fine and fair, + With your dreamy eyes and your golden hair, + When you and your lover meet to-day, + You will thank me for looking some other way. + + +THE WINDMILL. + +A FOLK SONG. + + Behold! a giant am I! + Aloft here in my tower + With my granite jaws I devour + The maize, and the wheat, and the rye, + And grind them into flour. + + I look down over the farms; + In the fields of grain I see + The harvest that is to be; + And I fling to the air my arms, + For I know it is all for me. + + I hear the sound of flails, + Far off from the threshing-floors + In barns, with their open doors, + And the wind, the wind in my sails + Louder and louder roars. + + I stand here in my place, + With my foot on the rock below, + And whichever way it may blow + I meet it face to face + As a brave man meets his foe. + + And while we wrestle and strive, + My master the miller stands + And feeds me with his hands; + For he knows who makes him thrive, + Who makes him lord of lands. + + On Sundays I take my rest; + Church-going bells begin + Their low melodious din; + I cross my arms on my breast, + And all is peace within. + + +VIA SOLITARIA. + + Alone I walk the peopled city, + Where each seems happy with his own; + Oh! friends, I ask not for your pity— + I walk alone. + + No more for me yon lake rejoices, + Though moved by loving airs of June; + Oh! birds, your sweet and piping voices + Are out of tune. + + In vain for me the elm tree arches + Its plumes in many a feathery spray; + In vain the evening’s starry marches + And sunlit day. + + In vain your beauty, Summer flowers; + Ye cannot greet these cordial eyes; + They gaze on other fields than ours— + On other skies. + + The gold is rifled from the coffer, + The blade is stolen from the sheath; + Life has but one more boon to offer, + And that is—Death. + + Yet well I know the voice of Duty, + And, therefore, life and health must crave, + Though she who gave the world its beauty + Is in her grave. + + I live, O lost one! for the living + Who drew their earliest life from thee, + And wait, until with glad thanksgiving + I shall be free. + + For life to me is as a station + Wherein apart a traveller stands— + One absent long from home and nation, + In other lands. + + And I, as he who stands and listens, + Amid the twilight’s chill and gloom, + To hear, approaching in the distance, + The train for home. + + For death shall bring another mating, + Beyond the shadows of the tomb, + On yonder shores a bride is waiting + Until I come. + + In yonder field are children playing, + And there—oh! vision of delight!— + I see the child and mother straying + In robes of white. + + Thou, then, the longing heart that breakest, + Stealing the treasures one by one, + I’ll call Thee blessed when thou makest + The parted—one. + + +AUF WIEDERSEHEN.[60] + + Until we meet again! That is the meaning + Of the familiar words that men repeat + At parting in the street. + Ah, yes, till then! but when death intervening + Rends us asunder, with what ceaseless pain + We wait for the Again! + + The friends who leave us do not feel the sorrow + Of parting as we feel it who must stay + Lamenting day by day, + And knowing, when we wake upon the morrow, + We shall not find in its accustomed place + The one belovèd face. + + It were a double grief, if the departed, + Being released from earth, should still retain + A sense of earthly pain; + It were a double grief if the true-hearted + Who loved us here, should on the farther shore + Remember us no more. + + Believing, in the midst of our afflictions, + That death is a beginning, not an end, + We cry to them, and send + Farewells, that better might be called predictions, + Being foreshadowings of the future thrown + Into the vast Unknown. + + Faith overleaps the confines of our reason, + And if by faith, as in old times was said, + Women received their dead + Raised up to life, then only for a season + Our partings are, nor shall we wait in vain + Until we meet again. + +[60] Written in memory of the Poet’s long-time friend and publisher, +Mr. James T. Fields. + + +ULTIMA THULE. + +TO G. W. G. + + With favouring winds, o’er sunlit seas, + We sailed for the Hesperides, + The land where golden apples grow; + But that, ah! that was long ago. + + How far since then the ocean streams + Have swept us from the land of dreams. + That land of fiction and of truth, + The lost Atlantis of our youth! + + Whither, ah, whither? Are not these + The tempest-haunted Hebrides, + Where sea-gulls scream, and breakers roar, + And wreck and sea-weed line the shore? + + Ultima Thule! Utmost Isle! + Here in thy harbours for awhile + We lower our sails; awhile we rest + From the unending, endless quest. + + +HERMES TRISMEGISTUS. + +_As Seleucus narrates, Hermes described the principles that rank as +wholes in two myriads of books; or, as we are informed by Manetho, he +perfectly unfolded these principles in three myriads six thousand five +hundred and twenty five Volumes._ + +_Our ancestors dedicated the inventions of their wisdom to this deity, +inscribing all their own writings with the name of Hermes._—IAMBLICUS. + + Still through Egypt’s desert places + Flows the lordly Nile; + From its banks the great stone faces, + Gaze with patient smile; + Still the pyramids imperious + Pierce the cloudless skies, + And the Sphinx stares with mysterious, + Solemn, stony eyes. + + But where are the old Egyptian + Demigods and kings? + Nothing left but an inscription + Graven on stones and rings. + Where are Helius and Hephoestus, + Gods of eldest eld? + Where is Hermes Trismegistus, + Who their secrets held? + + Where are now the many hundred + Thousand books he wrote? + By the Thaumaturgists plundered, + Lost in lands remote; + In oblivion sunk for ever, + As when o’er the land + Blows a storm-wind, in the river + Sinks the scattered sand. + + Something unsubstantial, ghostly, + Seems this Theurgist, + In deep meditation mostly + Wrapped, as in a mist. + Vague, phantasmal, and unreal, + To our thought he seems, + Walking in a world ideal, + In the land of dreams. + + Was he one, or many, merging + Name and fame in one, + Like a stream, to which converging + Many streamlets run? + Till, with gathered power proceeding, + Ampler sweep it takes, + Downward the sweet waters leading + From unnumbered lakes. + + By the Nile I see him wandering, + Pausing now and then, + On the mystic union pondering + Between gods and men; + Half-believing, wholly feeling, + With supreme delight, + How the gods, themselves concealing, + Lift men to their height. + + Or in Thebes, the hundred-gated, + In the thoroughfare + Breathing, as if consecrated, + A diviner air; + And amid discordant noises, + In the jostling throng, + Hearing far, celestial voices + Of Olympian song. + + Who shall call his dreams fallacious? + Who has searched or sought + All the unexplored and spacious + Universe of thought? + Who, in his own skill confiding, + Shall with rule and line + Mark the border-land dividing + Human and divine? + + Trismegistus! three times greatest! + How thy name sublime + Has descended to this latest + Progeny of time! + Happy they whose written pages + Perish with their lives, + If amid the crumbling ages + Still their name survives! + + Thine, O priest of Egypt, lately + Found I in the vast, + Weed-encumbered, sombre, stately + Graveyard of the Past; + And a presence moved before me + On that gloomy shore, + As a waft of wind, that o’er me + Breathed, and was no more. + + +DECORATION DAY. + + Sleep, comrades, sleep and rest + On this Field of the Grounded Arms, + Where foes no more molest, + Nor sentry’s shot alarms! + + Ye have slept on the ground before, + And started to your feet + At the cannon’s sudden roar, + Or the drum’s redoubling beat. + + But in this camp of Death + No sound your slumber breaks; + Here is no fevered breath, + No wound that bleeds and aches. + + All is repose and peace, + Untrampled lies the sod; + The shouts of battle cease, + It is the Truce of God! + + Rest, comrades, rest and sleep! + The thoughts of men shall be + As sentinels to keep + Your rest from danger free. + + Your silent tents of green + We deck with fragrant flowers; + Yours has the suffering been, + The memory shall be ours. + + +MAD RIVER.[61] + +IN THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. + + TRAVELLER. + Why dost thou wildly rush and roar, + Mad River, O Mad River? + Wilt thou not pause and cease to pour + Thy hurrying, headlong waters o’er + This rocky shelf for ever? + + What secret trouble stirs thy breast? + Why all this fret and flurry? + Dost thou not know that what is best + In this too restless world is rest + From over-work and worry? + + THE RIVER. + What wouldst thou in these mountains seek, + O stranger from the city? + Is it, perhaps, some foolish freak + Of thine, to put the words I speak + Into a plaintive ditty? + + TRAVELLER. + Yes; I would learn of thee thy song, + With all its flowing numbers, + And in a voice as fresh and strong + As thine is, sing it all day long, + And hear it in my slumbers. + + THE RIVER. + A brooklet nameless and unknown + Was I at first, resembling + A little child, that all alone + Comes venturing down the stairs of stone, + Irresolute and trembling. + + Later, by wayward fancies led, + For the wide world I panted; + Out of the forest dark and dread, + Across the open fields I fled, + Like one pursued and haunted! + + I tossed my arms, I sang aloud, + My voice exultant blending + With thunder from the passing cloud, + The wind, the forest bent and bowed, + The rush of rain descending. + + I heard the distant ocean call, + Imploring and entreating; + Drawn onward, o’er this rocky wall, + I plunged, and the loud waterfall + Made answer to the greeting. + + And now, beset with many ills, + A toilsome life I follow; + Compelled to carry from the hills + These logs to the impatient mills, + Below there in the hollow. + + Yet something ever cheers and charms + The rudeness of my labours; + Daily I water with these arms + The cattle of a hundred farms, + And have the birds for neighbours. + + Men call me MAD, and well they may, + When, full of rage and trouble, + I burst my banks of sand and clay, + And sweep their wooden bridge away, + Like withered reeds and stubble. + + Now go and write thy little rhyme + As of thine own creating. + Thou seest the day is past its prime, + I can no longer waste my time; + The mills are tired of waiting. + +[61] This was the last poem published in the Poet’s lifetime; he +corrected the proof only two or three days before his death. + + +INSCRIPTION ON THE SHANKLIN FOUNTAIN, + +ISLE OF WIGHT. + +The following quotation from a private letter, dated “Shanklin, Isle +of Wight, 1st October 1879,” is the authority for ascribing this +inscription to the Poet:— + +“Just look at this group of thatched cottages! The one on the right +is a library where we go for books. In the middle is the Crab Inn. Do +you see what looks like a pile of stones to the right of it? That is a +fountain for the use of the public. I read some verses painted there on +a piece of tin, and said to myself: ‘That must be from Longfellow.’ I +found afterward that they were written by him, by request, when he was +here some years ago: + + “‘O traveller, stay thy weary feet; + Drink of this fountain, pure and sweet; + It flows for rich and poor the same. + The go thy way, remembering still + The wayside well beneath the hill, + The cup of water in His name.’” + + +THE BELLS OF SAN BLAS.[62] + + What say the Bells of San Blas + To the ships that southward pass + From the harbour of Mazatlan? + To them it is nothing more + Than the sound of surf on the shore— + Nothing more to master or man. + + But to me, a dreamer of dreams, + To whom what is and what seems + Are often one and the same,— + The Bells of San Blas to me + Have a strange, wild melody, + And are something more than a name. + + For bells are the voice of the Church; + They have tones that touch and search + The hearts of young and old; + One sound to all, yet each + Lends a meaning to their speech, + And the meaning is manifold. + + They are a voice of the Past, + Of an age that is fading fast, + Of a power austere and grand, + When the flag of Spain unfurled + Its folds o’er this Western world, + And the Priest was lord of the land. + + The chapel that once looked down + On the little seaport town + Has crumbled into dust; + And on oaken beams below + The bells swing to and fro, + And are green with mould and rust. + + “Is, then, the old faith dead,” + They say, “and in its stead + Is some new faith proclaimed, + That we are forced to remain + Naked to sun and rain, + Unsheltered and ashamed? + + “Once in our tower aloof, + We rang over wall and roof + Our warnings and our complaints; + And round about us there, + The white doves filled the air + Like the white souls of the saints. + + “The saints! ah, have they grown + Forgetful of their own? + Are they asleep or dead, + That open to the sky + Their ruined Missions lie, + No longer tenanted? + + “Oh, bring us back once more + The vanished days of yore, + When the world with faith was filled; + Bring back the fervid zeal, + The hearts of fire and steel, + The hands that believe and build! + + “Then from our tower again + We will send over land and main + Our voices of command, + Like exiled kings who return + To their thrones, and the people learn + That the Priest is lord of the land.” + + O Bells of San Blas, in vain + Ye call back the Past again; + The Past is deaf to your prayer! + Out of the shadows of night + The world rolls into light; + It is daybreak everywhere. + + +[62] This poem, the last penned by the poet, bears date March 15, 1882. + + +PRESIDENT GARFIELD. + + “E venni dal martirio a questa pace.” + + These words the poet heard in Paradise, + Uttered by one who, bravely dying here. + In the true faith was living in that sphere + Where the celestial cross of sacrifice + Spread its protecting arms athwart the skies, + And set thereon, like jewels crystal clear, + The souls magnanimous, that knew not fear, + Flashed their efflulgence on his dazzled eyes. + Ah me! how dark the discipline of pain, + Were not the suffering followed by the sense + Of infinite rest and infinite release! + This is our consolation: and again + A great soul cries to us in our suspense, + “I came from martyrdom unto this peace.” + + + + +_Poems_ + + +WRITTEN BETWEEN 1824 AND 1826, WHEN THE POET WAS BETWEEN THE AGES OF +EIGHTEEN AND TWENTY. THEY HAVE NOT HITHERTO BEEN PUBLISHED WITH HIS +WORKS. + + +THANKSGIVING. + + When first in ancient time, from Jubal’s tongue + The tuneful anthem filled the morning air, + To sacred hymnings and Elysian song + His music-breathing shell the minstrel woke. + Devotion breathed aloud from every chord:— + The voice of praise was heard in every tone, + And prayer, and thanks to Him the Eternal One, + To him, that with bright inspiration touched + The high and gifted lyre of heavenly song, + And warmed the soul with new vitality. + A stirring energy through nature breathed:— + The voice of adoration from her broke, + Swelling aloud in every breeze, and heard + Long in the sullen waterfall,—what time + Soft Spring or hoary Autumn threw on earth + Its bloom or blighting,—when the Summer smiled, + Or Winter o’er the year’s sepulchre mourned. + The Deity was there!—a nameless spirit + Moved in the breasts of men to do him homage; + And when the morning smiled, or evening pale + Hung weeping o’er the melancholy urn, + They came beneath the broad o’erarching trees, + And in their tremulous shadow worshipped oft, + Where pale the vine clung round their simple altars, + And grey moss mantling hung. Above was heard + The melody of winds, breathed out as the green trees + Bowed to their quivering touch in living beauty, + And birds sang forth their cheerful hymns. Below, + The bright and widely wandering rivulet + Struggled and gushed amongst the tangled roots, + That choked its reedy fountain—and dark rocks + Worn smooth by the constant current. Even there + The listless wave, that stole with mellow voice + Where reeds grew rank on the rushy-fringed brink, + And the green sedge bent to the wandering wind, + Sang with a cheerful song of sweet tranquillity. + Men felt the heavenly influence—and it stole + Like balm into their hearts, till all was peace; + And even the air they breathed,—the light they saw,— + Became religion,—for the ethereal spirit + That to soft music wakes the chords of feeling, + And mellows every thing to beauty,—moved + With cheering energy within their breasts, + And made all holy there—for all was love. + The morning stars, that sweetly sang together— + The moon, that hung at night in the mid-sky— + Dayspring—and eventide—and all the fair + And beautiful forms of nature, had a voice + Of eloquent worship. Ocean with its tides + Swelling and deep, where low the infant storm + Hung on his dun, dark cloud, and heavily beat + The pulses of the sea—sent forth a voice + Of awful adoration to the spirit, + That, wrapt in darkness, moved upon its face. + And when the bow of evening arched the east, + Or, in the moonlight pale, the curling wave + Kissed with a sweet embrace the sea-worn beach, + And soft the song of winds came o’er the waters, + The mingled melody of wind and wave + Touched like a heavenly anthem on the ear; + For it arose a tuneful hymn of worship. + And have _our_ hearts grown cold? Are there on earth + No pure reflections caught from heavenly light?— + Have our mute lips no hymn—our souls no song?— + Let him that in the summer-day of youth + Keeps pure the holy fount of youthful feeling,— + And him that in the nightfall of his years + Lies down in his last sleep, and shuts in peace + His dim pale eyes on life’s short wayfaring, + Praise him that rules the destiny of man. + + +AUTUMNAL NIGHTFALL. + + Round Autumn’s mouldering urn, + Loud mourns the chill and cheerless gale, + When nightfall shades the quiet vale, + And stars in beauty burn. + + ’Tis the year’s eventide. + The wind,—like one that sighs in pain + O’er joys that ne’er will bloom again, + Mourns on the far hill-side. + + And yet my pensive eye + Rests on the faint blue mountain long, + And for the fairy-land of song, + That lies beyond, I sigh. + + The moon unveils her brow; + In the mid-sky her urn glows bright, + And in her sad and mellowing light + The valley sleeps below. + + Upon the hazel grey + The lyre of Autumn hangs unstrung, + And o’er its tremulous chords are flung + The fringes of decay. + + I stand deep musing here, + Beneath the dark and motionless beech, + Whilst wandering winds of nightfall reach + My melancholy ear. + + The air breathes chill and free; + A Spirit, in soft music calls + From Autumn’s grey and moss-grown halls, + And round her withered tree. + + The hoar and mantled oak, + With moss and twisted ivy brown, + Bends in its lifeless beauty down + Where weeds the fountain choke. + + That fountain’s hollow voice + Echoes the sound of precious things;— + Of early feeling’s tuneful springs + Choked with our blighted joys. + + Leaves, that the night-wind bears + To earth’s cold bosom with a sigh, + Are types of our mortality, + And of our fading years. + + The tree that shades the plain, + Wasting and hoar as time decays, + Spring shall renew with cheerful days,— + But not my joys again. + + +ITALIAN SCENERY. + + ——Night rests in beauty on Mont Alto. + Beneath its shade the beauteous Arno sleeps + In Vallombrosa’s bosom, and dark trees + Bend with a calm and quiet shadow down + Upon the beauty of that silent river. + Still in the west, a melancholy smile + Mantles the lips of day, and twilight pale + Moves like a spectre in the dusky sky; + While eve’s sweet star on the fast-fading year + Smiles calmly:—Music steals at intervals + Across the water, with a tremulous swell, + From out the upland dingle of tall firs, + And a faint footfall sounds, where dim and dark + Hangs the grey willow from the river’s brink, + O’ershadowing its current. Slowly there + The lover’s gondola drops down the stream, + Silent,—save when its dipping oar is heard, + Or in its eddy sighs the rippling wave. + Mouldering and moss-grown, through the lapse of years, + In motionless beauty stands the giant oak, + Whilst those, that saw its green and flourishing youth, + Are gone and are forgotten. Soft the fount, + Whose secret springs the star-light pale discloses, + Gushes in hollow music, and beyond + The broader river sweeps its silent way, + Mingling a silver current with that sea, + Whose waters have no tides, coming nor going. + On noiseless wing along that fair blue sea + The halcyon flits,—and where the wearied storm + Left a loud moaning, all is peace again. + + A calm is on the deep! The winds that came + O’er the dark sea-surge with a tremulous breathing. + And mourned on the dark cliff where weeds grew rank, + And to the autumnal death-dirge the deep sea + Heaved its long billows,—with a cheerless song + Have passed away to the cold earth again, + Like a wayfaring mourner. Silently + Up from the calm sea’s dim and distant verge, + Full and unveiled the moon’s broad disk emerges. + On Tivoli, and where the fairy hues + Of autumn glow upon Abruzzi’s woods, + The silver light is spreading. Far above, + Encompassed with their thin, cold atmosphere, + The Apennines uplift their snowy brows, + Glowing with colder beauty, where unheard + The eagle screams in the fathomless ether, + And stays his wearied wing. Here let us pause! + The spirit of these solitudes—the soul + That dwells within these steep and difficult places— + Speaks a mysterious language to mine own, + And brings unutterable musings. Earth + Sleeps in the shades of nightfall, and the sea + Spreads like a thin blue haze beneath my feet, + Whilst the grey columns and the mouldering tombs + Of the Imperial City, hidden deep + Beneath the mantle of their shadows, rest. + My spirit looks on earth!—A heavenly voice + Comes silently: “Dreamer, is earth thy dwelling!— + Lo! nursed within that fair and fruitful bosom + Which has sustained thy being, and within + The colder breast of Ocean, lie the germs + Of thine own dissolution! E’en the air, + That fans the clear blue sky and gives thee strength— + Up from the sullen lake of mouldering reeds, + And the wide waste of forest, where the osier + Thrives in the damp and motionless atmosphere,— + Shall bring the dire and wasting pestilence + And blight thy cheek. Dream thou of higher things;— + This world is not thy home!” And yet my eye + Rests upon earth again! How beautiful, + Where wild Velino heaves its sullen waves + Down the high cliff of grey and shapeless granite,— + Hung on the curling mist, the moonlight bow + Arches the perilous river. A soft light + Silvers the Albanian mountains, and the haze + That rests upon their summits, mellows down + The austerer features of their beauty. Faint + And dim-discovered glow the Sabine hills, + And listening to the sea’s monotonous shell, + High on the cliffs of Terracina stands + The castle of the royal Goth[63] in ruins. + But night is in her wane:—day’s early flush + Glows like a hectic on her fading cheek, + Wasting its beauty. And the opening dawn + With cheerful lustre lights the royal city, + Where, with its proud tiara of dark towers, + It sleeps upon its own romantic bay. + +[63] Theodoric. + + +THE LUNATIC GIRL. + + Most beautiful, most gentle! Yet how lost + To all that gladdens the fair earth; the eye + That watched her being; the maternal care + That kept and nourished her; and the calm light + That steals from our own thoughts, and softly rests + On youth’s green valleys and smooth-sliding waters. + Alas! few suns of life, and fewer winds, + Had withered or had wasted the fresh rose + That bloomed upon her cheek; but one chill frost + Came in that early Autumn, when ripe thought + Is rich and beautiful,—and blighted it; + And the fair stalk grew languid day by day, + And drooped,—and drooped, and shed its many leaves. + ’Tis said that some have died of love, and some, + That once from beauty’s high romance had caught + Love’s passionate feelings and heart-wasting cares, + Have spurned life’s threshold with a desperate foot: + And others have gone mad,—and she was one!— + Her lover died at sea; and they had felt + A coldness for each other when they parted; + But love returned again, and to her ear + Came tidings, that the ship which bore her lover + Had suddenly gone down at sea, and all were lost. + I saw her in her native vale, when high + The aspiring lark up from the reedy river + Mounted, on cheerful pinion; and she sat + Casting smooth pebbles into a clear fountain, + And marking how they sank; and oft she sighed + For him that perished thus in the vast deep. + She had a sea-shell, that her lover brought + From the far-distant ocean, and she pressed + Its smooth cold lips unto her ear, and thought + It whispered tidings of the dark blue sea; + And sad, she cried: “The tides are out!—and now + I see his corse upon the stormy beach!” + Around her neck a string of rose-lipped shells, + And coral, and white pearl, was loosely hung, + And close beside her lay a delicate fan, + Made of the halcyon’s blue wing; and when + She looked upon it, it would calm her thoughts + As that bird calms the ocean,—for it gave + Mournful, yet pleasant memory. Once I marked, + When through the mountain hollows and green woods, + That bent beneath its footsteps, the loud wind + Came with a voice as of the restless deep, + She raised her head, and on her pale cold cheek + A beauty of diviner seeming came: + And then she spread her hands, and smiled, as if + She welcomed a long-absent friend,—and then + Shrank timorously back again, and wept. + I turned away: a multitude of thoughts, + Mournful and dark, were crowding on my mind; + And as I left that lost and ruined one, + A living monument that still on earth + There is warm love and deep sincerity,— + She gazed upon the west, where the blue sky + Held, like an ocean, in its wide embrace + Those fairy islands of bright cloud, that lay + So calm and quietly in the thin ether. + And then she pointed where, alone and high, + One little cloud sailed onward, like a lost + And wandering bark, and fainter grew, and fainter, + And soon was swallowed up in the blue depths. + And when it sank away, she turned again + With sad despondency and tears to earth. + Three long and weary months,—yet not a whisper + Of stern reproach for that cold parting! Then + She sat no longer by her favourite fountain!— + She was at rest for ever. + + +THE VENETIAN GONDOLIER. + + Here rest the weary oar!—soft airs + Breathe out in the o’erarching sky; + And Night!—sweet Night—serenely wears + A smile of peace;—her noon is nigh. + + Where the tall fir in quiet stands, + And waves, embracing the chaste shores, + Move over sea-shells and bright sands,— + Is heard the sound of dipping oars. + + Swift o’er the wave the light bark springs, + Love’s midnight hour draws lingering near: + And list!—his tuneful viol strings + The young Venetian Gondolier. + + Lo! on the silver-mirrored deep, + On earth, and her embosomed lakes, + And where the silent rivers swept,— + From the thin cloud fair moonlight breaks. + + Soft music breathes around, and dies + On the calm bosom of the sea; + Whilst in her cell the novice sighs + Her vespers to her rosary. + + At their dim altars bow fair forms, + In tender charity for those, + That, helpless left to life’s rude storms, + Have never found this calm repose. + + The bell swings to its midnight chime, + Relieved against the deep blue sky! + Haste!—dip the oar again!—’tis time + To seek Genevra’s balcony. + + +DIRGE OVER A NAMELESS GRAVE. + + By yon still river, where the wave + Is winding slow at evening’s close, + The beech, upon a nameless grave, + Its sadly-moving shadow throws. + + O’er the fair woods the sun looks down + Upon the many-twinkling leaves, + And twilight’s mellow shades are brown, + Where darkly the green turf upheaves. + + The river glides in silence there, + And hardly waves the sapling tree: + Sweet flowers are springing, and the air + Is full of balm,—but where is she! + + They bade her wed a son of pride, + And leave the hopes she cherished long: + She loved but one,—and would not hide + A love which knew no wrong. + + And months went sadly on,—and years:— + And she was wasting day by day: + At length she died,—and many tears + Were shed, that she should pass away. + + Then came a grey old man, and knelt + With bitter weeping by her tomb:— + And others mourned for him, who felt + That he had sealed a daughter’s doom. + + The funeral train has long passed on, + And time wiped dry the father’s tear! + Farewell,—lost maiden!—there is one + That mourns thee yet,—and he is here. + + +A SONG OF SAVOY. + + As the dim twilight shrouds + The mountain’s purple crest, + And summer’s white and folded clouds + Are glowing in the west, + Loud shouts come up the rocky dell, + And voices hail the evening-bell. + + Faint is the goatherd’s song, + And sighing comes the breeze: + The silent river sweeps along, + Amid its bended trees,— + And the full moon shines faintly there, + And music fills the evening air. + + Beneath the waving firs + The tinkling cymbals sound; + And as the wind the foliage stirs, + I see the dancers bound + Where the green branches, arched above, + Bend over this fair scene of love. + + And he is there, that sought + My young heart long ago! + But he has left me,—though I thought + He ne’er could leave me so. + Ah! lovers’ vows—how frail are they! + And his—were made but yesterday. + + Why comes he not? I call + In tears upon him yet;— + ’Twere better ne’er to love at all, + Than love and then forget! + Why comes he not? Alas! I should + Reclaim him still, if weeping could. + + But see,—he leaves the glade, + And beckons me away: + He comes to seek his mountain maid!— + I cannot chide his stay. + Glad sounds along the valley swell, + And voices hail the evening-bell. + + +JECKOYVA. + +The Indian chief, Jeckoyva, as tradition says, perished alone on the +mountain which now bears his name. Night overtook him whilst hunting +among the cliffs, and he was not heard of till after a long time, when +his corpse was found at the foot of a high rock, over which he must +have fallen. Mount Jeckoyva is near the White Hills. + + They made the warrior’s grave beside + The dashing of his native tide: + And there was mourning in the glen— + The strong wail of a thousand men— + O’er him thus fallen in his pride, + Ere mist of age—or blight or blast + Had o’er his mighty spirit past. + + They made the warrior’s grave beneath + The bending of the wild elm’s wreath, + When the dark hunter’s piercing eye + Had found that mountain rest on high, + Where, scattered by the sharp wind’s breath, + Beneath the rugged cliff were thrown + The strong belt and the mouldering bone. + + Where was the warrior’s foot, when first + The red sun on the mountain burst?— + Where—when the sultry noon-time came + On the green vales with scorching flame, + And made the woodlands faint with thirst? + ’Twas where the wind is keen and loud, + And the grey eagle breasts the cloud. + + Where was the warrior’s foot, when night + Veiled in thick cloud the mountain-height? + None heard the loud and sudden crash,— + None saw the fallen warrior dash + Down the bare rock so high and white!— + But he that drooped not in the chase + Made on the hills his burial-place. + + They found him there, when the long day + Of cold desertion passed away, + And traces on that barren cleft + Of struggling hard with death were left— + Deep marks and footprints in the clay! + And they have laid his feathery helm + By the dark river and green elm. + + +MUSINGS. + + I sat by my window one night, + And watched how the stars grew high; + And the earth and skies were a splendid sight + To a sober and musing eye. + + From heaven the silver moon shone down + With gentle and mellow ray, + And beneath the crowded roofs of the town + In broad light and shadow lay. + + A glory was on the silent sea, + And mainland and island too, + Till a haze came over the lowland lea, + And shrouded that beautiful blue. + + Bright in the moon the autumn wood + Its crimson scarf unrolled, + And the trees like a splendid army stood + In a panoply of gold! + + I saw them waving their banners high, + As their crests to the night wind bowed, + And a distant sound on the air went by, + Like the whispering of a crowd. + + Then I watched from my window how fast + The lights all around me fled, + As the wearied man to his slumber passed, + And the sick one to his bed. + + All faded save one, that burned + With distant and steady light; + But that, too, went out,—and I turned + Where my own lamp within shone bright! + + Thus, thought I, our joys must die, + Yes—the brightest from earth we win: + Till each turns away, with a sigh, + To the lamp that burns brightly within. + + +SONG. + + Where, from the eye of day, + The dark and silent river + Pursues through tangled woods a way + O’er which the tall trees quiver; + + The silver mist, that breaks + From out that woodland cover, + Betrays the hidden path it takes + And hangs the current over! + + So oft the thoughts that burst + From hidden springs of feeling, + Like silent streams, unseen at first, + From our cold hearts are stealing: + + But soon the clouds that veil + The eye of Love, when glowing, + Betray the long unwhispered tale + Of thoughts in darkness flowing. + + + + +_Translations._ + + +TRANSLATIONS FROM THE SPANISH AND PORTUGUESE. + + +COPLAS DE MANRIQUE.[64] + + O let the soul her slumbers break, + Let thought be quickened, and awake; + Awake to see + How soon this life is past and gone, + And death comes softly stealing on, + How silently! + + Swiftly our pleasures glide away, + Our hearts recall the distant day + With many sighs; + The moments that are speeding fast + We heed not, but the past,—the past,— + More highly prize. + + Onward its course the present keeps, + Onward the constant current sweeps, + Till life is done; + And, did we judge of time aright, + The past and future in their flight + Would be as one. + + Let no one fondly dream again, + That Hope and all her shadowy train + Will not decay; + Fleeting as were the dreams of old, + Remembered like a tale that’s told, + They pass away. + + Our lives are rivers, gliding free + To that unfathomed, boundless sea, + The silent grave! + Thither all earthly pomp and boast + Roll, to be swallowed up and lost + In one dark wave. + + Thither the mighty torrents stray, + Thither the brook pursues its way, + And tinkling rill. + There all are equal. Side by side + The poor man and the son of pride + Lie calm and still. + + I will not here invoke the throng + Of orators and sons of song, + The deathless few; + Fiction entices and deceives, + And, sprinkled o’er her fragrant leaves, + Lies poisonous dew. + + To One alone my thoughts arise, + The Eternal Truth,—the Good and Wise,— + To him I cry, + Who shared on earth our common lot, + But the world comprehended not + His Deity. + + This world is but the rugged road + Which leads us to the bright abode + Of peace above; + So let us choose that narrow way, + Which leads no traveller’s foot astray + From realms of love. + + Our Cradle is the starting-place, + Life is the running of the race, + We reach the goal + When, in the mansions of the blest, + Death leaves to its eternal rest + The weary soul. + + Did we but use it as we ought, + This world would school each wandering thought + To its high state. + Faith wings the soul beyond the sky, + Up to that better world on high, + For which we wait. + + Yes,—the glad messenger of love, + To guide us to our home above, + The Saviour came; + Born amid mortal cares and fears, + He suffered in this vale of tears + A death of shame. + + Behold of what delusive worth + The bubbles we pursue on earth, + The shapes we chase; + Amid a world of treachery; + They vanish ere death shuts the eye, + And leave no trace. + + Time steals them from us,—chances strange, + Disastrous accidents, and change, + That come to all; + Even in the most exalted state, + Relentless sweeps the stroke of fate; + The strongest fall. + + Tell me,—the charms that lovers seek + In the clear eye and blushing cheek, + The hues that play + O’er rosy lip and brow of snow, + When hoary age approaches slow, + Ah, where are they? + + The cunning skill, the cunning arts, + The glorious strength that youth imparts + In life’s first stage; + These shall become a heavy weight, + When Time swings wide his outward gate + To weary age. + + The noble blood of Gothic name, + Heroes emblazoned high to fame, + In long array; + How, in the onward course of time, + The landmarks of that race sublime + Were swept away! + + Some, the degraded slaves of lust, + Prostrate and trampled in the dust, + Shall rise no more; + Others, by guilt and crime, maintain + The scutcheon, that, without a stain, + Their fathers bore. + + Wealth and the high estate of pride, + With what untimely speed they glide, + How soon depart! + Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay, + The vassals of a mistress they, + Of fickle heart. + + These gifts in Fortune’s hands are found; + Her swift revolving wheel turns round, + And they are gone! + No rest the inconstant goddess knows, + But changing, and without repose, + Still hurries on. + + Even could the hand of avarice save + Its gilded baubles, till the grave + Reclaimed its prey, + Let none on such poor hopes rely; + Life, like an empty dream, flits by, + And where are they? + + Earthly desires and sensual lust + Are passions springing from the dust,— + They fade and die; + But, in the life beyond the tomb, + They seal the immortal spirit’s doom + Eternally! + + The pleasures and delights, which mask + In treacherous smiles life’s serious task, + What are they, all, + But the fleet coursers of the chase, + And death an ambush in the race, + Wherein we fall? + + No foe, no dangerous pass, we heed, + Brook no delay—but onward speed + With loosened rein; + And, when the fatal snare is near, + We strive to check our mad career, + But strive in vain. + + Could we new charms to age impart, + And fashion with a cunning art + The human face, + As we can clothe the soul with light, + And make the glorious spirit bright + With heavenly grace,— + + How busily each passing hour + Should we exert that magic power! + What ardour show, + To deck the sensual slave of sin, + Yet leave the freeborn soul within, + In weeds of woe! + + Monarchs, the powerful and the strong, + Famous in history and in song + Of olden time, + Saw, by the stern decrees of fate, + Their kingdoms lost, and desolate + Their race sublime. + + Who is the champion? who the strong? + Pontiff and priest, and sceptred throng? + On these shall fall + As heavily the hand of Death, + As when it stays the shepherd’s breath + Beside his stall. + + I speak not of the Trojan name, + Neither its glory nor its shame + Has met our eyes; + Nor of Rome’s great and glorious dead, + Though we have heard so oft, and read, + Their histories. + + Little avails it now to know + Of ages past so long ago, + Nor how they rolled; + Our theme shall be of yesterday, + Which to oblivion sweeps away + Like days of old. + + Where is the King, Don Juan? Where + Each royal prince and noble heir + Of Aragon? + Where are the courtly gallantries? + Their deeds of love and high emprise, + In battle done? + + Tourney and joust, that charmed the eye, + And scarf, and gorgeous panoply, + And nodding plume,— + What were they but a pageant scene? + What but the garlands, gay and green, + That deck the tomb? + + Where are the high-born dames, and where + Their gay attire, and jewelled hair, + And odours sweet? + Where are the gentle knights that came + To kneel and breathe love’s ardent flame, + Low at their feet? + + Where is the song of Troubadour? + Where are the lute and gay tambour + They loved of yore? + Where is the mazy dance of old, + The flowing robes, inwrought with gold, + The dancers wore? + + And he who next the sceptre swayed, + Henry, whose royal court displayed + Such power and pride; + O, in what winning smiles arrayed, + The world its various pleasures laid + His throne beside! + + But O, how false and full of guile + That world which wore so soft a smile, + But to betray! + She, that had been his friend before, + Now from the fated monarch tore + Her charms away. + + The countless gifts,—the stately walls,— + The royal palaces, and halls + All filled with gold; + Plate with armorial bearings wrought, + Chambers with ample treasures fraught + Of wealth untold; + + The noble steeds and harness bright, + And gallant lord, and stalwart knight, + In rich array,— + Where shall we seek them now? Alas! + Like the bright dew-drops on the grass + They passed away. + + His brother, too, whose factious zeal + Usurped the sceptre of Castile, + Unskilled to reign; + What a gay, brilliant court had he, + When all the flower of chivalry + Was in his train! + + But he was mortal; and the breath, + That flamed from the hot forge of Death, + Blasted his years; + Judgment of God! that flame by thee, + When raging fierce and fearfully, + Was quenched in tears! + + Spain’s haughty Constable,—the true + And gallant Master, whom we knew + Most loved of all. + Breathe not a whisper of his pride,— + He on the gloomy scaffold died, + Ignoble fall! + + The countless treasures of his care, + His hamlets green and cities fair, + His mighty power,— + What were they all but grief and shame, + Tears and a broken heart, when came + The parting hour? + + His other brothers, proud and high, + Masters, who, in prosperity, + Might rival kings; + Who made the bravest and the best + The bondsmen of their high behest, + Their underlings; + + What was their prosperous estate, + When high exalted and elate + With power and pride? + What, but a transient gleam of light, + A flame, which, glaring at its height, + Grew dim and died? + + So many a duke of royal name, + Marquis and count of spotless fame, + And baron brave, + That might the sword of empire wield, + All these, O Death, hast thou concealed + In the dark grave! + + Their deeds of mercy and of arms, + In peaceful days, or war’s alarms, + When thou dost show, + O Death, thy stern and angry face, + One stroke of thy all-powerful mace + Can overthrow. + + Unnumbered hosts, that threaten nigh, + Pennon and standard flaunting high, + And flag displayed; + High battlements intrenched around, + Bastion, and moated wall, and mound, + And palisade, + + And covered trench, secure and deep,— + All these cannot one victim keep, + O Death, from thee, + When thou dost battle in thy wrath, + And thy strong shafts pursue their path + Unerringly. + + O World! so few the years we live, + Would that the life which thou dost give + Were life indeed! + Alas! thy sorrows fall so fast, + Our happiest hour is when at last + The soul is freed. + + Our days are covered o’er with grief, + And sorrows neither few nor brief + Veil all in gloom; + Left desolate of real good, + Within this cheerless solitude + No pleasures bloom. + + Thy pilgrimage begins in tears, + And ends in bitter doubts and fears, + Or dark despair; + Midway so many toils appear, + That he who lingers longest here + Knows most of care. + + Thy goods are bought with many a groan, + By the hot sweat of toil alone, + And weary hearts; + Fleet-footed is the approach of woe, + But with a lingering step and slow + Its form departs. + + And he, the good man’s shield and shade, + To whom all hearts their homage paid, + As Virtue’s son,— + Roderic Manrique,[65]—he whose name + Is written on the scroll of Fame, + Spain’s champion; + + His signal deeds and prowess high + Demand no pompous eulogy,— + Ye saw his deeds! + Why should their praise in verse be sung? + The name, that dwells on every tongue, + No minstrel needs. + + To friends a friend;—how kind to all + The vassals of this ancient hall + And feudal fief! + To foes how stern a foe was he! + And to the valiant and the free + How brave a chief! + + What prudence with the old and wise! + What grace in youthful gaieties! + In all how sage! + Benignant to the serf and slave, + He showed the base and falsely brave + A lion’s rage. + + His was Octavian’s prosperous star, + The rush of Cæsar’s conquering car + At battle’s call; + His, Scipio’s virtue; his, the skill + And the indomitable will + Of Hannibal. + + His was a Trajan’s goodness,—his + A Titus’ noble charities + And righteous laws; + The arm of Hector, and the might + Of Tully, to maintain the right + In truth’s just cause: + + The clemency of Antonine, + Aurelius’ countenance divine, + Firm, gentle, still; + The eloquence of Adrian, + And Theodosius’ love to man, + And generous will: + + In tented field and bloody fray, + An Alexander’s vigorous sway + And stern command; + The faith of Constantine; ay, more, + The fervent love Camillus bore + His native land. + + He left no well-filled treasury, + He heaped no pile of riches high, + Nor massive plate; + He fought the Moors,—and, in their fall, + City and tower and castle wall + Were his estate. + + Upon the hard-fought battle-ground, + Brave steeds and gallant riders found + A common grave; + And there the warrior’s hand did gain + The rents, and the long vassal train, + That conquest gave. + + And if of old his halls displayed + The honoured and exalted grade + His worth hath gained, + So, in the dark, disastrous hour, + Brothers and bondsmen of his power + His hand sustained. + + After high deeds, not left untold, + In the stern warfare, which of old + ’Twas his to share, + Such noble leagues he made, that more + And fairer legions than before, + His guerdon were. + + These are the records, half effaced, + Which, with the hand of youth, he traced + On history’s page; + But with fresh victories he drew + Each fading character anew + In his old age. + + By his unrivalled skill, by great + And veteran service to the state, + By worth adored, + He stood in his high dignity, + The proudest knight of chivalry, + Knight of the Sword. + + He found his cities and domains + Beneath a tyrant’s galling chains + And cruel power; + But by fierce battle and blockade + Soon his own banner was displayed + From every tower. + + By the tried valour of his hand, + His monarch and his native land + Were nobly served;— + Let Portugal repeat the story, + And proud Castile, who shared the glory + His arms deserved. + + And when so oft, for weal or woe, + His life upon the fatal throw + Had been cast down; + When he had served with patriot zeal + Beneath the banner of Castile, + His sovereign’s crown; + + And done such deeds of valour strong + That neither history nor song + Can count them all; + Then, on Ocaña’s castled rock, + Death at his portal came to knock, + With sudden call,— + + Saying, “Good cavalier, prepare + To leave this world of toil and care + With joyful mien; + Let thy strong heart of steel this day + Put on its armour for the fray,— + The closing scene. + + “Since thou hast been in battle-strife, + So prodigal of health and life, + For earthly fame, + Let virtue nerve thy heart again; + Loud on the last stern battle-plain + They call thy name. + + “Think not the struggle that draws near + Too terrible for man,—nor fear + To meet the foe; + Nor let thy noble spirit grieve, + Its life of glorious fame to leave + On earth below. + + “A life of honour and of worth + Has no eternity on earth,— + ’Tis but a name; + And yet its glory far exceeds + That base and sensual life, which leads + To want and shame. + + “The eternal life, beyond the sky, + Wealth cannot purchase, nor the high + And proud estate; + The soul in dalliance laid,—the spirit + Corrupt with sin,—shall not inherit + A joy so great. + + “But the good monk, in cloistered cell, + Shall gain it by his book and bell, + His prayers and tears; + And the brave knight, whose arm endures + Fierce battle, and against the Moors + His standard rears. + + “And thou, brave knight, whose hand has poured + The life-blood of the Pagan horde + O’er all the land, + In heaven shalt thou receive, at length, + The guerdon of thine earthly strength + And dauntless hand. + + “Cheered onward by this promise sure, + Strong in the faith entire and pure + Thou dost profess, + Depart,—thy hope is certainty;— + The third—the better life on high, + Shalt thou possess.” + + “O Death, no more, no more delay; + My spirit longs to flee away, + And be at rest; + The will of Heaven my will shall be,— + I bow to the divine decree, + To God’s behest. + + “My soul is ready to depart, + No thought rebels, the obedient heart + Breathes forth no sigh; + The wish on earth to linger still + Were vain, when ’tis God’s sovereign will + That we shall die. + + “O Thou, that for our sins didst take + A human form, and humbly make + Thy home on earth; + Thou, that to thy Divinity + A human nature didst ally + By mortal birth, + + “And in that form didst suffer here + Torment, and agony, and fear, + So patiently; + By thy redeeming grace alone, + And not for merits of my own, + O, pardon me!” + + As thus the dying warrior prayed, + Without one gathering mist or shade + Upon his mind; + Encircled by his family, + Watched by affection’s gentle eye, + So soft and kind; + + His soul to him, who gave it, rose; + God lead it to its long repose, + Its glorious rest! + And though the warrior’s sun has set, + Its light shall linger round us yet, + Bright, radiant, blest. + +[64] Don Jorge Manrique lived in the last half of the fifteenth +century. He was a soldier, and died on the field of battle. See +Appendix. + +[65] The Poet’s father; he died 1476. + + +THE GOOD SHEPHERD. + +FROM LOPE DE VEGA. + + Shepherd! who with thine amorous, sylvan song + Hast broken the slumber that encompassed me,— + That madest thy crook from the accursèd tree, + On which thy powerful arms were stretched so long! + Lead me to mercy’s ever-flowing fountains; + For thou my Shepherd, Guard, and Guide shalt be; + I will obey thy voice, and wait to see + Thy feet all beautiful upon the mountains. + Hear, Shepherd!—thou who for thy flock art dying, + O, wash away these scarlet sins, for thou + Rejoicest at the contrite sinner’s vow. + O, wait!—to thee my weary soul is crying,— + Wait for me!—Yet why ask it when I see, + With feet nailed to the cross, thou’rt waiting still for me! + + +THE BROOK. + + Laugh of the mountain!—lyre of bird and tree! + Pomp of the meadow! mirror of the morn! + The soul of April, unto whom are born + The rose and jessamine, leaps wild in thee! + Although, where’er thy devious current strays, + The lap of earth with gold and silver teems, + To me thy clear proceeding brighter seems + Than golden sands that charm each shepherd’s gaze. + How without guile thy bosom, all transparent + As the pure crystal, lets the curious eye + Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, round pebbles count! + How, without malice murmuring, glides thy current! + O sweet simplicity of days gone by! + Thou shun’st the haunts of man, to dwell in limpid fount! + + +SANTA TERESA’S BOOK-MARK. + +FROM SANTA TERESA. + + Let nothing disturb thee, + Nothing affright thee; + All things are passing; + God never changeth; + Patient endurance + Attaineth to all things; + Who God possesseth + In nothing is wanting; + Alone God sufficeth. + + +TO-MORROW. + +FROM LOPE DE VEGA. + + Lord, what am I, that, with unceasing care, + Thou didst seek after me—that thou didst wait, + Wet with unhealthy dews, before my gate, + And pass the gloomy nights of winter there? + O strange delusion!—that I did not greet + Thy blest approach, and O, to Heaven how lost, + If my ingratitude’s unkindly frost + Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon thy feet. + How oft my guardian angel gently cried, + “Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt see + How he persists to knock and wait for thee!” + And O! how often to that voice of sorrow + “To-morrow we will open,” I replied, + And when the morrow came, I answered still, “To-morrow.” + + +THE NATIVE LAND. + +FROM FRANCISCO DE ALDANA. + + Clear fount of light! my native land on high, + Bright with a glory that shall never fade! + Mansion of truth! without a veil or shade, + Thy holy quiet meets the spirit’s eye. + There dwells the soul in its ethereal essence, + Gasping no longer for life’s feeble breath; + But, sentinelled in heaven, its glorious presence + With pitying eye beholds, yet fears not death. + Belovèd country! banished from thy shore, + A stranger in this prison-house of clay, + The exiled spirit weeps and sighs for thee! + Heavenward the bright perfections I adore + Direct, and the sure promise cheers the way, + That, whither love aspires, there shall my dwelling be. + + +THE IMAGE OF GOD. + +FROM FRANCISCO DE ALDANA. + + O Lord! that seest, from yonder starry height, + Centred in one the future and the past, + Fashioned in thine own image, see how fast + The world obscures in me what once was bright! + Eternal Sun! the warmth which thou hast given + To cheer life’s flowery April, fast decays; + Yet, in the hoary winter of my days, + For ever green shall be my trust in Heaven. + Celestial King! O let thy presence pass + Before my spirit, and an image fair + Shall meet that look of mercy from on high, + As the reflected image in a glass + Doth meet the look of him who seeks it there, + And owes its being to the gazer’s eye. + + +TWO SONNETS FROM FRANCISCO DE MEDRANO. + +I. + +ART AND NATURE. + + The works of human artifice soon tire + The curious eye; the fountain’s sparkling rill, + And gardens, when adorned by human skill, + Reproach the feeble hand, the vain desire. + But, O! the free and wild magnificence + Of Nature, in her lavish hours, doth steal, + In admiration silent and intense, + The soul of him, who hath a soul to feel. + The river moving on its ceaseless way, + The verdant reach of meadows fair and green, + And the blue hills, that bound the sylvan scene, + These speak of grandeur, that defies decay,— + Proclaim the Eternal Architect on high, + Who stamps on all his works his own eternity. + +II. + +THE TWO HARVESTS. + + But yesterday these few and hoary sheaves + Waved in the golden harvest; from the plain + I saw the blade shoot upward, and the grain + Put forth the unripe ear and tender leaves. + Then the glad upland smiled upon the view, + And to the air the broad green leaves unrolled, + A peerless emerald in each silken fold, + And on each palm a pearl of morning dew. + And thus sprang up and ripened in brief space + All that beneath the reaper’s sickle died, + All that smiled beauteous in the summer-tide. + And what are we? a copy of that race, + The later harvest of a longer year! + And, O! how many fall before the ripened ear. + + + + +TRANSLATIONS FROM THE ITALIAN. + + +THE CELESTIAL PILOT. + +FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, II. + + And now, behold! as at the approach of morning, + Through the gross vapours, Mars grows fiery red + Down in the west upon the ocean floor, + Appeared to me—may I again behold it!— + A light along the sea, so swiftly coming, + Its motion by no flight of wing is equalled. + And when therefrom I had withdrawn a little + Mine eyes, that I might question my conductor, + Again I saw it brighter grown and larger. + Thereafter, on all sides of it, appeared + I knew not what of white, and underneath, + Little by little, there came forth another. + My master yet had uttered not a word, + While the first brightness into wings unfolded, + But, when he clearly recognised the pilot, + He cried aloud: “Quick, quick, and bow the knee! + Behold the Angel of God! fold up thy hands! + Henceforward shalt thou see such officers! + See how he scorns all human arguments, + So that no oar he wants, nor other sail + Than his own wings, between so distant shores! + See how he holds them, pointed straight to heaven, + Fanning the air with the eternal pinions, + That do not moult themselves like mortal hair!” + And then, as nearer and more near us came + The Bird of Heaven, more glorious he appeared, + So that the eye could not sustain his presence. + But down I cast it; and he came to shore + With a small vessel, gliding swift and light, + So that the water swallowed nought thereof. + Upon the stern stood the Celestial Pilot! + Beatitude seemed written in his face! + And more than a hundred spirits sat within. + “_In exitu Israel de Ægypto!_” + Thus sang they altogether in one voice, + With whatso in that Psalm is after written. + Then made he sign of holy rood upon them, + Whereat all cast themselves upon the shore, + And he departed swiftly as he came. + + +THE TERRESTRIAL PARADISE. + +FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, XXVIII. + + Longing already to search in and round + The heavenly forest, dense and living green, + Which to the eyes tempered the new-born day, + Withouten more delay I left the bank, + Crossing the level country slowly, slowly, + Over the soil, that everywhere breathed fragrance. + A gently-breathing air, that no mutation + Had in itself, smote me upon the forehead, + No heavier blow, than of a pleasant breeze, + Whereat the tremulous branches readily + Did all of them bow downward towards that side + Where its first shadow casts the Holy Mountain; + Yet not from their upright direction bent + So that the little birds upon their tops + Should cease the practice of their tuneful art; + But, with full-throated joy, the hours of prime + Singing received they in the midst of foliage + That made monotonous burden to their rhymes, + Even as from branch to branch it gathering swells, + Through the pine forests on the shore of Chiassi, + When Æolus unlooses the Sirocco. + Already my slow steps had led me on + Into the ancient wood so far, that I + Could see no more the place where I had entered. + And lo! my farther course cut off a river + Which, towards the left hand, with its little waves, + Bent down the grass that on its margin sprang. + All waters that on earth most limpid are, + Would seem to have within themselves some mixture, + Compared with that, which nothing doth conceal, + Although it moves on with a brown, brown current, + Under the shade perpetual, that never + Ray of the sun lets in, nor of the moon. + + +BEATRICE. + +FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, XXX. XXXI. + + Even as the Blessèd, at the final summons, + Shall rise up quickened, each one from his grave, + Wearing again the garments of the flesh; + So, upon that celestial chariot, + A hundred rose _ad vocem tanti senis_, + Ministers and messengers of life eternal. + They all were saying: “_Benedictus qui venis_,” + And scattering flowers above and round about, + “_Manibus o date lilia plenis_.” + Oft have I seen, at the approach of day, + The orient sky all stained with roseate hues, + And the other heaven with light serene adorned, + And the sun’s face uprising, overshadowed, + So that, by temperate influence of vapours, + The eye sustained his aspect for long while; + Thus in the bosom of a cloud of flowers, + Which from those hands angelic were thrown up, + And now descended inside and without + With crown of olive o’er a snow-white veil, + Appeared a lady, under a green mantle, + Vested in colours of the living flame. + + * * * * * + + Even as the snow, among the living rafters + Upon the back of Italy, congeals, + Blown on and beaten by Sclavonian winds, + And then dissolving, filters through itself, + Whene’er the land, that loses shadow, breathes, + Like as a taper melts before a fire, + Even such I was, without a sigh or tear, + Before the song of those who chime for ever + After the chiming of the eternal spheres; + But when I heard in those sweet melodies + Compassion for me, more than they had said, + “O wherefore, lady, dost thou thus consume him?” + The ice that was about my heart congealed, + To air and water changed, and, in my anguish, + Through lips and eyes came gushing from my breast. + + * * * * * + + Confusion and dismay, together mingled, + Forced such a feeble “Yes!” out of my mouth, + To understand it one had need of sight. + Even as a cross-bow breaks, when ’tis discharged, + Too tensely drawn the bow-string and the bow, + And with less force the arrow hits the mark; + So I gave way beneath this heavy burden, + Gushing forth into bitter tears and sighs, + And the voice, fainting, flagged upon its passage. + + +THREE CANTOS OF DANTE’S PARADISO. + +CANTO XXIII. + +Dante is with Beatrice in the eighth circle, that of the fixed stars. +She is gazing upwards, watching for the descent of the Triumph of +Christ. + + Even as a bird, ’mid the belovèd leaves, + Quiet upon the nest of her sweet brood + Throughout the night, that hideth all things from us, + Who, that she may behold their longed-for looks, + And find the nourishment wherewith to feed them, + In which, to her, grave labours grateful are, + Anticipates the time on open spray, + And with an ardent longing waits the sun, + Gazing intent, as soon as breaks the dawn: + Even thus my Lady standing was, erect + And vigilant, turned round towards the zone + Underneath which the sun displays least haste;[66] + So that beholding her distraught and eager, + Such I became as he is, who desiring + For something yearns, and hoping is appeased. + But brief the space from one When to the other; + From my awaiting, say I, to the seeing + The welkin grow resplendent more and more. + And Beatrice exclaimed: “Behold the hosts + Of the triumphant Christ, and all the fruit + Harvested by the rolling of these spheres!”[67] + It seemed to me her face was all on flame; + And eyes she had so full of ecstasy + That I must needs pass on without describing. + As when in nights serene of the full moon + Smiles Trivia among the nymphs eternal + Who paint the heaven through all its hollow cope, + Saw I, above the myriads of lamps, + A sun that one and all of them enkindled, + E’en as our own does the supernal stars.[68] + And through the living light transparent shone + The lucent substance so intensely clear + Into my sight, that I could not sustain it. + O Beatrice, my gentle guide and dear! + She said to me: “That which o’ermasters thee + A virtue is which no one can resist. + There are the wisdom and omnipotence + That oped the thoroughfares ’twixt heaven and earth, + For which there erst had been so long a yearning.” + As fire from out a cloud itself discharges, + Dilating so it finds not room therein, + And down against its nature, falls to earth, + So did my mind among those aliments + Becoming larger, issue from itself, + And what became of it cannot remember. + [69]“Open thine eyes, and look at what I am: + Thou hast beheld such things, that strong enough + Hast thou become to tolerate my smile.” + I was as one who still retains the feeling + Of a forgotten dream, and who endeavours + In vain to bring it back into his mind, + When I this invitation heard, deserving + Of so much gratitude, it never fades + Out of the book that chronicles the past. + If at this moment sounded all the tongues + That Polyhymnia and her sisters made + Most lubrical with their delicious milk, + To aid me, to a thousandth of the truth + It would not reach, singing the holy smile, + And how the holy aspect it illumined. + And therefore, representing Paradise, + The sacred poem must perforce leap over, + Even as a man who finds his way cut off. + But whoso thinketh of the ponderous theme, + And of the mortal shoulder that sustains it, + Should blame it not, if under this it trembles. + It is no passage for a little boat + This which goes cleaving the audacious prow, + Nor for a pilot who would spare himself. + “Why does my face so much enamour thee, + That to the garden fair thou turnest not, + Which under the rays of Christ is blossoming? + There is the Rose[70] in which the Word Divine + Became incarnate; there the lilies are + By whose perfume the good way was selected.” + Thus Beatrice; and I, who to her counsels + Was wholly ready, once again betook me + Unto the battle of the feeble brows.[71] + As in a sunbeam, that unbroken passes + Through fractured cloud, ere now a meadow of flowers. + Mine eyes with shadow covered have beheld, + So I beheld the multitudinous splendours + Refulgent from above with burning rays, + Beholding not the source of the effulgence. + O thou benignant power that so imprint’st them! + Thou didst exalt thyself[72] to give more scope + There to the eyes, that were not strong enough. + The name of that fair flower I e’er invoke + Morning and evening utterly enthralled + My soul to gaze upon the greater fire.[73] + And when in both mine eyes depicted were + The glory and greatness of the living star + Which conquers there, as here below it conquered, + Athwart the heavens descended a bright sheen[74] + Formed in a circle like a coronal, + And cinctured it, and whirled itself about it. + Whatever melody most sweetly soundeth + On earth, and to itself most draws the soul, + Would seem a cloud that, rent asunder, thunders, + Compared unto the sounding of that lyre + Wherewith was crowned the sapphire beautiful + Wherewith gives the clearest heaven its sapphire hue.[75] + “I am Angelic Love, that circle round + The joy sublime which breathes from out the bosom + That was the hostelry of our Desire:[76] + And I shall circle, Lady of Heaven, while + Thou followest thy Son, and makest diviner + The sphere supreme, because thou enterest it.” + Thus did the circulated melody + Seal itself up; and all the other lights + Were making resonant the name of Mary. + The regal mantle[77] of the volumes all + Of that world, which most fervid is and living + With breath of God and with His works and ways, + Extended over us its inner curve, + So very distant, that its outward show, + There where I was, not yet appeared to me. + Therefore mine eyes did not possess the power + Of following the incoronated flame, + Which had ascended near to its own seed.[78] + And as a little child, that towards its mother + Extends its arms, when it the milk has taken, + Through impulse kindled into outward flame, + Each of those gleams of light did upward stretch + So with its summit, that the deep affection + They had for Mary was revealed to me. + Thereafter they remained there in my sight, + _Regina Cœli_[79] singing with such sweetness, + That ne’er from me has the delight departed. + Oh, what exuberance is garnered up + In those resplendent coffers, which had been + For sowing here below good husbandmen! + There they enjoy and live upon the treasure + Which was acquired while weeping in the exile[80] + Of Babylon, wherein the gold was left. + There triumpheth beneath the exalted Son + Of God and Mary, in his victory, + Both with the ancient council and the new, + He who doth keep the keys of such a story.[81] + +[66] Under the meridian, or at noon, the shadows being shorter, move +slower, and therefore the sun seems less in haste. + +[67] By the beneficent influences of the stars. + +[68] The old belief that the stars were fed by the light of the sun. So +Milton:— + + “Hither, as to their fountain, other stars + Repair, and in their golden urns draw light.” + +Here the stars are souls, the sun is Christ. + +[69] Beatrice speaks. + +[70] The rose is the Virgin Mary, _Rosa Mundi, Rosa mystica_; the +lilies are the Apostles and other saints. + +[71] The struggle between his eyes and the light. + +[72] Christ reascends, that Dante’s dazzled eyes, too feeble to bear +the light of his presence, may behold the splendours around him. + +[73] The greater fire is the Virgin Mary, greater than any of those +remaining. She is the living star, surpassing in brightness all other +saints in heaven, as she did here on earth; _Stella Maris, Stella +Matutina_. + +[74] The Angel Gabriel, or Angelic Love. + +[75] Sapphire is the colour in which the old painters arrayed the +Virgin. + +[76] Christ, the Desire of the nations. + +[77] The regal mantle of all the volumes, or rolling orbs, of the world +is the crystalline heaven, or _Primum Mobile_, which enfolds all the +others like a mantle. + + +[78] The Virgin ascends to her Son. + +[79] Easter hymn to the Virgin. + +[80] Caring not for gold in the Babylonian exile of this life, they +laid up treasures in the other. + +[81] St. Peter, keeper of the keys, with the holy men of the Old and +New Testament. + + +CANTO XXIV. + + “O company elect to the Great Supper + Of the Lamb glorified, who feedeth you, + So that for ever full is your desire, + If by the grace of God this man foretastes + Of whatsover falleth from your table, + Or ever death prescribes to him the time, + Direct your mind to his immense desire,[82] + And him somewhat bedew; ye drinking are + For ever from the fount[83] whence comes his thought.” + Thus Beatrice; and those enraptured spirits + Made themselves spheres around their steadfast poles; + Flaming intensely in the guise of comets. + And as the wheels in works of horologes + Revolve so that the first to the beholder + Motionless seems, and the last one to fly, + So in like manner did those carols, dancing[84] + In different measure, by their affluence + Make me esteem them either swift or slow. + From that one which I noted of most beauty + Beheld I issue forth a fire so happy + That none is left there of a greater splendour; + And about Beatrice three several times[85] + It whirled itself with so divine a song, + My fantasy repeats it not to me; + Therefore the pen skips, and I write it not, + Since our imagination for such folds, + Much more our speech, is of a tint too glaring.[86] + “O holy sister mine,[87] who us implorest + With such devotion, by thine ardent love + Thou dost unbind me from that beautiful sphere.” + Thus, having stopped, the beatific fire + Unto my Lady did direct its breath, + Which spake in fashion as I here have said. + And she: “O light eterne of the great man + To whom our Lord delivered up the keys + He carried down of this miraculous joy, + This one examine on points light and grave, + As good beseemeth thee, about the Faith + By means of which thou on the sea didst walk, + If he loves well, and hopes well, and believes, + Is hid not from thee; for thou hast thy sight + Where everything beholds itself depicted.[88] + But since this kingdom has made citizens + By means of the true Faith, to glorify it + ’Tis well he have the chance to speak thereof.” + As baccalaureate arms himself, and speaks not + Until the master doth propose the question, + To argue it and not to terminate it, + So I did arm myself with every reason, + While she was speaking, that I might be ready + For such a questioner and such confession. + “Speak on,[89] good Christian; manifest thyself; + Say, what is Faith?” whereat I raised my brow + Unto that light from which this was breathed forth, + Then turned I round to Beatrice, and she + Prompt signals made to me that I should pour + The water forth from my internal fountain. + “May grace, that suffers me to make confession,” + Began I, “to the great Centurion[90] + Cause my conceptions all to be explicit!” + And I continued: “As the truthful pen, + Father, of thy dear brother wrote of it, + Who put with thee Rome into the good way, + Faith is the substance of the things we hope for, + And evidence of those that are not seen; + And this appears to me its quiddity.”[91] + Then heard I: “Very rightly thou perceivest, + If well thou understandest why he placed it + With substances and then with evidences.” + And I thereafterward: “The things profound, + That here vouchsafe to me their outward show, + Unto all eyes below are so concealed, + That they exist there only in belief, + Upon the which is founded the high hope, + And therefore takes the nature of a substance. + And it behoveth us from this belief, + To reason without having other views, + And hence it has the nature of evidence.” + Then heard I: “If whatever is acquired + Below as doctrine were thus understood, + No sophist’s subtlety would there find place.” + Thus was breathed forth from that enkindled love; + Then added: “Thoroughly has been gone over + Already of this coin the alloy and weight; + But tell me if thou hast it in thy purse?” + And I: “Yes, both so shining and so round, + That in its stamp there is no peradventure.” + Thereafter issued from the light profound + That there resplendent was: “This precious jewel, + Upon the which is every virtue founded, + Whence hadst thou it?” And I: “The large outpouring + Of the Holy Spirit, which has been diffused + Upon the ancient parchments and the new,[92] + A syllogism is, which demonstrates it + With such acuteness, that, compared therewith, + All demonstration seems to me obtuse.” + And then I heard: “The ancient and the new + Postulates, that to thee are so conclusive, + Why dost thou take them for the word divine?” + And I: “The proofs, which show the truth to me, + Are the works subsequent, whereunto Nature + Ne’er heated iron yet, nor anvil beat.” + ’Twas answered me: “Say, who assureth thee + That those works ever were? the thing itself + We wish to prove, nought else to thee affirms it.” + “Were the world to Christianity converted,” + I said, “withouten miracles”, this one + Is such, the rest are not its hundredth part; + For thou didst enter destitute and fasting + Into the field to plant there the good plant, + Which was a vine, and has become a thorn!“ + This being finished, the high, holy Court + Resounded through the spheres, “One God we praise!” + In melody that there above is chanted. + And then that Baron,[93] who from branch to branch, + Examining, had thus conducted me, + Till the remotest leaves we were approaching, + Did recommence once more: “The Grace that lords it + Over thy intellect thy mouth has opened, + Up to this point, as it should opened be, + So that I do approve what forth emerged; + But now thou must express what thou believest. + And whence to thy belief it was presented.” + “O holy father, O thou spirit, who seest + What thou believedst, so that thou o’ercamest, + Towards the sepulchre, more youthful feet,”[94] + Began I, “thou dost wish me to declare + Forthwith the manner of my prompt belief, + And likewise thou the cause thereof demandest, + And I respond: In one God I believe, + Sole and eterne, who all the heaven doth move, + Himself unmoved, with love and with desire; + And of such faith not only have I proofs + Physical and metaphysical, but gives them + Likewise the truth that from this place rains down + Through Moses, through the Prophets, and the Psalms, + Through the Evangel, and through you, who wrote + After the fiery Spirit sanctified you;[95] + In Persons three eterne believe I, and these + One essence I believe, so one and trine, + They bear conjunction both with _sunt_ and _est_. + With the profound conjunction and divine, + Which now I touch upon, doth stamp my mind + Ofttimes the doctrine evangelical. + This the beginning is, this is the spark + Which afterwards dilates to vivid flame, + And, like a star in heaven, is sparkling in me.” + Even as a lord, who hears what pleases him, + His servant straight embraces, giving thanks + For the good news, as soon as he is silent; + So, giving me its benediction, singing, + Three times encircled me, when I was silent, + The apostolic light at whose command + I spoken had, in speaking I so pleased him. + +[82] Hunger and thirst after things divine. + +[83] The Grace of God. + +[84] The carol was a dance as well as a song. + +[85] St. Peter thrice encircles Beatrice, as the Angel Gabriel did the +Virgin Mary in the preceding canto. + +[86] Too glaring for painting such delicate draperies of song. + +[87] St. Peter speaks to Beatrice. + +[88] Fixed upon God, in whom are all things reflected. + +[89] St. Peter speaks to Dante. + +[90] The great Head of the Church. + +[91] In the Scholastic Philosophy the essence of a thing, +distinguishing it from all other things, was called its Quiddity; an +answer to the question, _Quid est?_ + +[92] The Old and New Testaments. + +[93] In the Middle Ages earthly titles were sometimes given to the +saints. Thus Boccaccio speaks of Baron Messer San Antonio. + +[94] St. John xx. 3-8. St. John was the first to reach the sepulchre, +but St. Peter the first to enter it. + +[95] St. Peter and the other Apostles, after Pentecost. + + +CANTO XXV. + + If it e’er happen that the Poem Sacred,[96] + To which both heaven and earth have set their hand + Till it hath made me meagre many a year, + O’ercome the cruelty that bars me out + From the fair sheepfold where a lamb I slumbered,[97] + Obnoxious to the wolves that war upon it, + With other voice henceforth, with other fleece + Will I return as poet, and at my font[98] + Baptismal will I take the laurel crown; + Because into the faith that maketh known + All souls to God there entered I, and then + Peter for her sake so my brow encircled. + Thereafterward towards us moved a light + Out of that band whence issued the first fruits + Which of his vicars Christ behind him left, + And then my Lady, full of ecstasy, + Said unto me: “Look, look! behold the Baron,[99] + For whom below Galicia is frequented.” + In the same way as, when a dove alights + Near his companion, both of them pour forth, + Circling about and murmuring, their affection, + So I beheld one by the other grand + Prince glorified to be with welcome greeted, + Lauding the food that there above is eaten. + But when their gratulations were completed, + Silently _coram me_ each one stood still, + So incandescent it o’ercame my sight. + Smiling thereafterwards, said Beatrice: + “Spirit august, by whom the benefactions + Of our Basilica[100] have been described, + Make Hope reverberate in this altitude; + Thou knowest as oft thou dost personify it + As Jesus to the three[101] gave greater light.”— + “Lift up thy head, and make thyself assured; + For what comes hither from the mortal world + Must needs be ripened in our radiance.” + This exhortation from the second fire[102] + Came; and mine eyes I lifted to the hills,[103] + Which bent them down before with too great weight.[104] + “Since through his grace, our Emperor decrees + Thou shouldst confronted be, before thy death, + In the most secret chamber, with his Counts,[105] + So that, the truth beholding of this court, + Hope, which below there rightly fascinates + In thee, and others may thereby be strengthened; + Say what it is, and how is flowering with it + Thy mind, and say from whence it came to thee;” + Thus did the second light continue still + And the Compassionate,[106] who piloted + The plumage of my wings in such high flight, + In the reply did thus anticipate me; + “No child whatever the Church Militant + Of greater hope possesses, as is written + In that Sun[107] which irradiates all our band; + Therefore it is conceded him from Egypt + To come into Jerusalem to see,[108] + Or ever yet his warfare is completed. + The other points, that not for knowledge’ sake + Have been demanded,[109] but that he report + How much this virtue unto thee is pleasing, + To him I leave; for hard he will not find them, + Nor to be boasted of; them let him answer; + And may the Grace of God in this assist him!” + As a disciple, who obeys his teacher, + Ready and willing, where he is expert, + So that his excellence may be revealed, + “Hope,”[110] said I, “is the certain expectation + Of glory in the hereafter, which proceedeth + From grace divine and merit precedent. + From many stars this light comes unto me; + But he instilled it first into my heart, + Who was chief singer[111] unto the Chief Captain, + _Hope they in thee_, in the high Theody + He says, _all those who recognise thy name_;[112] + And who does not if he my faith possesses? + Thou didst instil me, then, with his instilling + In the Epistle, so that I am full, + And upon others rain again your rain.”[113] + While I was speaking, in the living bosom + Of that effulgence quivered a sharp flash, + Sudden and frequent, in the guise of lightning. + Then breathed: “The love wherewith I am inflamed + Towards the virtue still, which followed me + Unto the palm and issue of the field, + Wills that I whisper thee, thou take delight + In her; and grateful to me is thy saying + Whatever things Hope promises to thee.” + And I: “The ancient Scriptures and the new + The mark establish,[114] and this shows it me, + Of all the souls whom God has made His friends, + Isaiah saith, that each one garmented + In his own land shall be with twofold garments,[115] + And his own land is this delicious life. + Thy brother,[116] too, far more explicitly, + There where he treateth of the robes of white, + This revelation manifests to us.” + And first, and near the ending of these words, + _Sperent in te_ from over us was heard, + To which responsive answered all the carols.[117] + Thereafterward among them gleamed a light,[118] + So that, if Cancer such a crystal had, + Winter would have a month of one sole day,[119] + And as uprises, goes, and enters the dance + A joyous maiden, only to do honour + To the new bride, and not from any failing,[120] + So saw I the illuminated splendour + Approach the two,[121] who in a wheel revolved, + As was beseeming to their ardent love. + It joined itself there in the song and music; + And fixed on them my Lady kept her look, + Even as a bride, silent and motionless. + “This is the one who lay upon the breast + Of him[122] our Pelican; and this is he + To the great office[123] from the cross elected.” + My Lady thus; but therefore none the more + Removed her sight from its fixed contemplation. + Before or afterward, these words of hers. + Even as a man who gazes, and endeavours + To see the eclipsing of the sun a little, + And who, by seeing, sightless doth become, + So I became before that latest fire,[124] + While it was said, “Why dost thou daze thyself + To see a thing which here has no existence? + Earth upon earth my body is,[125] and shall be + With all the others there, until our number + With the eternal proposition tallies;[126] + With the two garments[127] in the blessed cloister + Are the two lights[128] alone that have ascended: + And this shalt thou take back into your world.”[129] + And at this utterance the flaming circle + Grew quiet, with the dulcet intermingling + Of sound that by the trinal[130] breath was made, + As to escape from danger or fatigue + The oars that erst were in the water beaten + Are all suspended at a whistle’s sound. + Ah, how much in my mind was I disturbed, + When I turned round to look on Beatrice, + At not beholding her, although I was + Close at her side and in the Happy World. + +[96] This “Divina Commedia,” in which human science or Philosophy is +symbolized in Virgil, and divine science or Theology in Beatrice. + +[97] “Fiorenza la Bella,” Florence the Fair. In one of his canzoni +Dante says:— + + “O mountain song of mine, thou goest thy way; + Florence my town thou shalt perchance behold, + Which bars me from itself, + Devoid of love and naked of compassion.” + + +[98] This allusion to the Church of San Giovanni: “Il mio bel San +Giovanni,” as Dante calls it elsewhere (Inf. xix. 17), is a fitting +prelude to the canto in which St. John is to appear. Like the “laughing +of the grass” in canto xxx. 77, it is a foreshadowing preface, +_ombrifero prefazio_ of what follows. + +[99] St. James. Pilgrimages were made to his tomb at Compostella, in +Galicia. + +[100] The general epistle of St. James, called the Epistola Cattolica, +i. 17: “Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and +cometh down from the Father of Lights.” Our Basilica; the Church +Triumphant, Paradise. + +[101] Peter, James, and John, representing the three theological +virtues, Faith, Hope, and Charity, and distinguished above the other +Apostles by clearer manifestations of their Master’s favour. + +[102] St. James speaks. + +[103] “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my +help.”—Psalm cxxi. I. + +[104] The three Apostles, luminous above him overwhelming him with +light. + +[105] The most august spirits of the celestial city. + +[106] Beatrice. + +[107] In God, + + “Where everything beholds itself depicted.” + + Canto xxiv. 42. + + +[108] To come from earth to heaven. + +[109] “Say what it is,” and “whence it cometh to thee.” + +[110] “_Est spes certa expectatio futuræ beatitudinis, veniens ex +Dei gratia et meritis præcedentibus._” Petrus Lombardus, _Magister +Sententiarum_. + +[111] The Psalmist David. + +[112] The Book of Psalms or songs of God:— + + “And they that know thy name will put their trust in thee.” + Psalm ix. 10. + + +[113] Your rain: that is, of David and yourself. + +[114] “The mark of the high calling and election sure.” + +[115] The twofold garments are the glorified spirit and the glorified +body. + +[116] St. John in the Apocalypse, vii. 9: “A great multitude, which no +man could number ... clothed with white robes.” + +[117] Dances and songs commingled; the circling choirs, the celestial +choristers. + +[118] St. John the Evangelist. + +[119] In winter the constellation Cancer rises at sunset; and if it had +one star as bright as this, it would turn night into day. + +[120] Such as vanity, ostentation, or the like. + +[121] St. Peter and St. James are joined by St. John. + +[122] Christ. + +[123] Then saith he to that disciple, “Behold thy mother! and from that +hour that disciple took her unto his own house.”—St. John xix. 27. + +[124] St. John. + +[125] “If I will that he tarry till I come, what is that to thee?” + +[126] Till the predestined number of the elect is complete. + +[127] The two garments: the glorified spirit, and the glorified body. + +[128] The two lights: Christ and the Virgin Mary. + +[129] Carry back these tidings. + +[130] The sacred trio of St. Peter, St. James, and St. John. + +[Illustration: + +THE OLD BRIDGE AT FLORENCE.] + + +THE OLD BRIDGE AT FLORENCE. + + Taddeo Gaddi built me. I am old; + Five centuries old. I plant my foot of stone + Upon the Arno, as St. Michael’s own + Was planted on the dragon. Fold by fold + Beneath me, as it struggles, I behold + Its glistening scales. Twice hath it overthrown + My kindred and companions. Me alone + It moveth not, but is by me controlled. + I can remember when the Medici + Were driven from Florence; longer still ago + The final wars of Ghibelline and Guelf. + Florence adorns me with her jewelry; + And when I think that Michael Angelo + Hath leaned on me, I glory in myself. + + +THE NATURE OF LOVE. + +FROM THE ITALIAN. + + To noble heart Love doth for shelter fly, + As seeks the bird the forest’s leafy shade; + Love was not felt till noble heart beat high, + Nor before love the noble heart was made. + Soon as the sun’s broad flame + Was formed, so soon the clear light filled the air; + Yet was not till he came: + So love springs up in noble breasts, and there + Has its appointed space, + As heat in the bright flame finds its allotted place. + + Kindles in noble heart the fire of love, + As hidden virtue in the precious stone: + This virtue comes not from the stars above, + Till round it the ennobling sun has shone; + But when his powerful blaze + Has drawn forth what was vile, the stars impar + Strange virtue in their rays: + And thus when Nature doth create the heart + Noble and pure and high, + Like virtue from the star, love comes from woman’s eye. + + +TO ITALY. + +FROM FILICAJA. + + Italy! Italy! thou who’rt doomed to wear + The fatal gift of beauty, and possess + The dower funest[131] of infinite wretchedness, + Written upon thy forehead by despair; + Ah! would that thou wert stronger, or less fair, + That they might fear thee more, or love thee less, + Who in the splendour of thy loveliness + Seem wasting, yet to mortal combat dare! + Then from the Alps I should not see descending + Such torrents of armed men, nor Gallic horde + Drinking the wave of Po, distained with gore, + For should I see thee girded with a sword + Not thine, and with the stranger’s arm contending, + Victor or vanquished, slave for evermore. + +[131] Fatal. + + + + +TRANSLATIONS FROM THE FRENCH. + + +SPRING. + +FROM CHARLES, DUKE OF ORLEANS. + +XV. CENTURY. + + Gentle Spring!—in sunshine clad, + Well dost thou thy power display! + For Winter maketh the light heart sad, + And thou,—thou makest the sad heart gay. + He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train, + The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the rain, + And they shrink away, and they flee in fear, + When thy merry step draws near. + + Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so old, + Their beards of icicles and snow; + And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold, + We must cower over the embers low; + And, snugly housed from the wind and weather, + Mope like birds that are changing feather. + But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear, + When thy merry step draws near. + + Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky + Wrap him round with a mantle of cloud; + But, Heaven be praised, thy step is nigh; + Thou tearest away the mournful shroud, + And the earth looks bright, and Winter surly, + Who has toiled for nought both late and early, + Is banished afar by the new-born year, + When thy merry step draws near. + + +THE CHILD ASLEEP. + + Sweet babe! true portrait of thy father’s face, + Sleep on the bosom, that thy lips have pressed! + Sleep, little one; and closely, gently place + Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother’s breast. + + Upon that tender eye, my little friend, + Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to me! + I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend;— + ’Tis sweet to watch for thee, alone for thee! + + His arms fall down; sleep sits upon his brow; + His eye is closed; he sleeps, nor dreams of harm. + Wore not his cheek the apple’s ruddy glow, + Would you not say he slept on Death’s cold arm? + + Awake, my boy!—I tremble with affright! + Awake, and chase this fatal thought!—Unclose + Thine eye but for one moment on the light! + Even at the price of thine, give me repose! + + Sweet error! he but slept, I breathe again; + Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep beguile! + O when shall he for whom I sigh in vain, + Beside me watch to see thy waking smile? + + +RONDEL. + +FROM FROISSARD. + + Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine? + Nought see I fixed or sure in thee! + I do not know thee,—nor what deeds are thine: + Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine? + Nought see I fixed or sure in thee! + + Shall I be mute, or vows with prayers combine? + Ye who are blessed in loving, tell it me: + Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine + Nought see I permanent or sure in thee! + + +RONDEL. + +FROM THE DUKE OF ORLEANS. + + Hence away, begone, begone, + Carking care and melancholy! + Think ye thus to govern me + All my life long, as ye have done? + That shall ye not, I promise ye: + Reason shall have the mastery. + So hence away, begone, begone, + Carking care and melancholy! + If ever ye return this way, + With your mournful company, + A curse be on ye, and the day + That brings ye moping back to me! + Hence away, begone, I say, + Carking care and melancholy! + + +RENOUVEAU. + + Now Time throws off his cloak again + Of ermined frost, and cold and rain, + And clothes him in the embroidery + Of glittering sun and clear blue sky. + + With beast and bird the forest rings, + Each in his jargon cries or sings; + And Time throws off his cloak again + Of ermined frost, and cold and rain. + + River, and fount, and tinkling brook + Wear in their dainty livery + Drops of silver jewelry; + In new-made suit they merry look; + And Time throws off his cloak again + Of ermined frost, and cold and rain. + + +FRIAR LUBIN. + + To gallop off to town post-haste + So oft, the times I cannot tell; + To do vile deed, nor feel disgraced,— + Friar Lubin will do it well. + But a sober life to lead, + To honour virtue, and pursue it, + That’s a pious, Christian deed,— + Friar Lubin cannot do it. + + To mingle with a knowing smile, + The goods of others with his own, + And leave you without cross or pile, + Friar Lubin stands alone. + To say ’tis yours is all in vain, + If once he lays his finger to it; + For as to giving back again, + Friar Lubin cannot do it. + + With flattering words and gentle tone, + To woo and win some guileless maid, + Cunning pander need you none,— + Friar Lubin knows the trade. + Loud preacheth he sobriety, + But as for water, doth eschew it; + Your dog may drink it,—but not he; + Friar Lubin cannot do it. + + ENVOI. + + When an evil deed’s to do, + Friar Lubin’s stout and true; + Glimmers a ray of goodness through it, + Friar Lubin cannot do it. + + +DEATH OF ARCHBISHOP TURPIN. + + The archbishop, whom God loved in high degree, + Beheld his wounds all bleeding fresh and free; + And then his cheek more ghastly grew and wan, + And a faint shudder through his members ran. + Upon the battle-field his knee was bent; + Brave Roland saw, and to his succour went, + Straightway his helmet from his brow unlaced, + And tore the shining hauberk from his breast; + Then raising in his arms the man of God, + Gently he laid him on the verdant sod. + “Rest, Sire,” he cried,—“for rest thy suffering needs.” + The priest replied, “Think but of warlike deeds! + The field is ours; well may we boast with strife! + But death steals on,—there is no hope of life; + In Paradise, where the almoners live again, + There are our couches spread,—there shall we rest from pain.” + Sore Roland grieved; nor marvel I, alas! + That thrice he swooned upon the thick, green grass. + When he revived, with a loud voice cried he, + “O Heavenly Father! Holy Saint Marie! + Why lingers death to lay me in my grave? + Beloved France! how have the good and brave + Been torn from thee and left thee weak and poor!” + Then thoughts of Aude, his lady-love, came o’er + His spirit, and he whispered soft and slow, + “My gentle friend!—what parting full of woe! + Never so true a liegeman shalt thou see;— + Whate’er my fate, Christ’s benison on thee; + Christ, who did save from realms of woe beneath + The Hebrew prophets from the second death.” + + Then to the paladins, whom well he knew, + He went, and one by one unaided drew + To Turpin’s side, well skilled in ghostly lore;— + No heart had he to smile,—but, weeping sore, + He blessed them in God’s name, with faith that he + Would soon vouchsafe to them a glad eternity. + + The archbishop, then,—on whom God’s benison rest!— + Exhausted, bowed his head upon his breast;— + His mouth was full of dust and clotted gore, + And many a wound his swollen visage bore. + Slow beats his heart,—his panting bosom heaves,— + Death comes apace, no hope of cure relieves. + Towards heaven he raised his dying hands and prayed + That God, who for our sins was mortal made,— + Born of the Virgin,—scorned and crucified,— + In paradise would place him by his side. + + Then Turpin died in service of Charlon, + In battle great and eke great orison; + ’Gainst Pagan host alway strong champion;— + God grant to him his holy benison! + + +TO CARDINAL RICHELIEU. + +FROM MALHERBE. + + Thou mighty Prince of Church and State, + Richelieu! until the hour of death, + Whatever road man chooses, Fate + Still holds him subject to her breath. + Spun of all silks, our days and nights + Have sorrows woven with delights; + And of this intermingled shade + Our various destiny appears, + Even as one sees the course of years + Of summers and of winters made. + + Sometimes the soft, deceitful hours + Let us enjoy the halcyon wave; + Something impending peril lowers + Beyond the seaman’s skill to save. + The Wisdom, infinitely wise, + That gives to human destinies + Their foreordained necessity, + Has made no law more fixed below, + Than the alternate ebb and flow + Of Fortune and Adversity. + + +CONSOLATION. + +TO M. DU PERRIER, GENTLEMAN, OF AIX IN PROVENCE, ON THE DEATH OF HIS +DAUGHTER. + +FROM THE FRENCH OF FRANÇOIS DE MALHERBE. + + Will then, Du Perrier, thy sorrow be eternal? + And shall the sad discourse + Whispered within thy heart, by tenderness paternal, + Only augment its force? + + Thy daughter’s mournful fate, into the tomb descending + By death’s frequented ways, + Has it become to thee a labyrinth never ending, + Where thy lost reason strays? + + I know the charms that made her youth a benediction: + Nor should I be content, + As a censorious friend, to solace thine affliction, + By her disparagement. + + But she was of the world, which fairest things exposes + To fates the most forlorn; + A rose, she too hath lived as long as live the roses, + The space of one brief morn. + + * * * * * + + Death hath his rigorous laws, unparalleled, unfeeling; + All prayers to him are vain; + Cruel, he stops his ears, and, deaf to our appealing, + He leaves us to complain. + + The poor man in his hut, with only thatch for cover, + Unto these laws must bend; + The sentinel that guards the barriers of the Louvre + Cannot our Kings defend. + + To murmur against death, in petulant defiance, + Is never for the best; + To will what God doth will, that is the only science + That gives us any rest. + + +THE ANGEL AND THE CHILD. + +FROM THE FRENCH OF JEAN REBOUL.[132] + + An angel with a radiant face + Above a cradle bent to look, + Seemed his own image there to trace + As in the waters of a brook. + + “Dear child! who me resemblest so,” + It whispered, “come, O come with me! + Happy together let us go, + The earth unworthy is of thee! + + “Here none to perfect bliss attain; + The soul in pleasure suffering lies; + Joy hath an undertone of pain, + And even the happiest hours their sighs. + + “Fear doth at every portal knock; + Never a day serene and pure + From the o’ershadowing tempest’s shock + Has made the morrow’s dawn secure. + + “What, then, shall sorrows and shall fears + Come to disturb so pure a brow? + And with the bitterness of tears + Those eyes of azure troubled grow? + + “Ah no! into the fields of space, + Away shalt thou escape with me; + And Providence will grant thee grace + Of all the days that were to be. + + “Let no one in thy dwelling cower + In sombre vestments draped and veiled; + But let them welcome thy last hour, + As thy first moments once they hailed. + + “Without a cloud be there each brow; + There let the grave no shadow cast; + When one is pure as thou art now, + The fairest day is still the last.” + + And waving wide his wings of white, + The angel, at these words, had sped + Towards the eternal realms of light!— + Poor mother! see, thy son is dead. + +[132] The Baker of Nismes. + + +A CHRISTMAS CAROL. + +FROM THE NOEL BOURGUIGNON DE GUI BARÔZAI. + + I hear along our street + Pass the minstrel throngs; + Hark! they play so sweet, + On their hautboys, Christmas songs! + Let us by the fire + Ever higher + Sing them till the night expire! + + In December ring + Every day the chimes; + Loud the gleemen sing + In the streets their merry rhymes. + Let us by the fire + Ever higher + Sing them till the night expire! + + Shepherds at the grange, + Where the Babe was born + Sang, with many a change, + Christmas carols until morn. + Let us by the fire + Ever higher + Sing them till the night expire. + + These good people sang + Songs devout and sweet + While the rafters rang, + There they stood with freezing feet. + Let us by the fire + Ever higher + Sing them till the night expire! + + Nuns in frigid cells + At this holy tide, + For want of something else, + Christmas songs at times have tried. + Let us by the fire + Ever higher + Sing them till the night expire! + + Washerwomen old, + To the sound they beat, + Sing by rivers cold, + With uncovered heads and feet. + Let us by the fire + Ever higher + Sing them till the night expire! + + Who by the fireside stands + Stamps his feet and sings; + But he who blows his hands + Not so gay a carol brings. + Let us by the fire + Ever higher + Sing them till the night expire! + + +THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTÈL-CUILLÈ. + +FROM THE GASCON OF JASMIN. + + Only the Lowland tongue of Scotland might + Rehearse this little tragedy aright: + Let me attempt it with an English quill: + And take, O reader, for the deed the will. + +JASMIN, the author of this beautiful poem, is to the South of France +what Burns is to the South of Scotland,—the representative of the heart +of the people,—one of those happy bards who are born with their mouths +full of birds (_la bouco pleno d’aouzelous_). He has written his own +biography in a poetic form, and the simple narrative of his poverty, +his struggles and his triumphs, is very touching. His home was at Agen +on the Garonne. + +Those who may feel interested in knowing something about “Jasmin, +Coiffeur”—for such is his calling—will find a description of his person +and mode of life in the graphic pages of _Béarn and the Pyrenees_ +(Vol. i. p. 369, _et seq._), by Louisa Stuart Costello, whose charming +pen has done so much to illustrate the French provinces and their +literature. + +I. + + At the foot of the mountain height + Where is perched Castèl-Cuillè, + When the apple, the plum, and the almond tree + In the plain below were growing white, + This is the song one might perceive + On a Wednesday morn of Saint Joseph’s Eve: + + “The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom, + So fair a bride shall leave her home! + Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, + So fair a bride shall pass to-day!” + + This old Te Deum, rustic rites attending, + Seemed from the clouds descending; + When lo! a merry company + Of rosy village girls, clean as the eye, + Each one with her attendant swain, + Came to the cliff, all singing the same strain: + Resembling there, so near unto the sky, + Rejoicing angels, that kind Heaven has sent + For their delight and our encouragement. + Together blending, + And soon descending + The narrow sweep + Of the hill-side steep, + They wind aslant + Toward Saint Amant + Through leafy alleys + Of verdurous valleys, + With merry sallies, + Singing their chant: + “The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom, + So fair a bride shall leave her home! + Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, + So fair a bride shall pass to-day!” + + It is Baptiste, and his affianced maiden, + With garlands for the bridal laden! + + The sky was blue; without one cloud of gloom, + The sun of March was shining brightly, + And to the air the freshening wind gave lightly + Its breathings of perfume. + + When one beholds the dusky hedges blossom, + A rustic bridal, ah! how sweet it is! + To sounds of joyous melodies, + That touch with tenderness the trembling bosom, + A band of maidens + Gaily frolicking, + A band of youngsters + Wildly rollicking! + Kissing, + Caressing, + With fingers pressing, + Till in the veriest + Madness of mirth, as they dance, + They retreat and advance, + Trying whose laugh shall be loudest and merriest; + While the bride, with roguish eyes, + Sporting with them, now escapes and cries: + “Those who catch me + Married verily + This year shall be!” + + And all pursue with eager haste, + And all attain what they pursue, + And touch her pretty apron fresh and new, + And the linen kirtle round her waist. + + “Meanwhile, whence comes it that among + These youthful maidens fresh and fair, + So joyous, with such laughing air, + Baptiste stands sighing, with silent tongue? + And yet the bride is fair and young! + Is it Saint Joseph would say to us all, + That love, o’er-hasty, precedeth a fall? + O, no! for a maiden frail, I trow, + Never bore so lofty a brow! + What lovers! they give not a single caress! + To see them so careless and cold to-day, + These are grand people, one would say. + What ails Baptiste? what grief doth him oppress? + It is, that, half way up the hill + In yon cottage, by whose walls + Stand the cart-house and the stalls, + Dwelleth the blind orphan still, + Daughter of a veteran old; + And you must know, one year ago, + That Margaret, the young and tender, + Was the village pride and splendour, + And Baptiste her lover bold. + Love, the deceiver, them ensnared; + For them the altar was prepared; + + But alas! the summer’s blight, + The dread disease that none can stay, + The pestilence that walks by night, + Took the young bride’s sight away. + + All at the father’s stern command was changed; + Their peace was gone, but not their love estranged; + Wearied at home, ere long the lover fled; + Returned but three short days ago, + The golden chain they round him throw, + He is enticed, and onward led + To marry Angela, and yet + Is thinking ever of Margaret. + + Then suddenly a maiden cried, + “Anna, Theresa, Mary, Kate! + Here comes the cripple Jane!” And by a fountain’s side + A woman, bent and grey with years, + Under the mulberry-trees appears, + And all towards her run, as fleet + As had they wings upon their feet. + + It is that Jane, the cripple Jane, + Is a soothsayer, wary and kind. + She telleth fortunes, and none complain. + She promises one a village swain, + Another a happy wedding-day, + And the bride a lovely boy straightway. + All comes to pass as she avers; + She never deceives, she never errs. + + But for this once the village seer + Wears a countenance severe, + And from beneath her eyebrows thin and white + Her two eyes flash like cannons bright + Aimed at the bridegroom in waistcoat blue, + Who, like a statue, stands in view; + Changing colour, as well he might, + When the beldame, wrinkled and grey, + Takes the young bride by the hand, + And, with the tip of her reedy wand, + Making the sign of the cross, doth say:— + “Thoughtless Angela, beware! + Lest, when thou weddest this false bridegroom, + Thou diggest for thyself a tomb!” + + And she was silent; and the maidens fair + Saw from each eye escape a swollen tear; + But on a little streamlet silver-clear, + What are two drops of turbid rain? + Saddened a moment, the bridal train + Resumed the dance and song again; + The bridegroom only was pale with fear; + And down green alleys + Of verdurous valleys, + With merry sallies, + They sang the refrain:— + + “The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom, + So fair a bride shall leave her home! + Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, + So fair a bride shall pass to-day!” + +II. + + And by suffering worn and weary, + But beautiful as some fair angel yet, + Thus lamented Margaret, + In her cottage lone and dreary:— + + “He has arrived! arrived at last! + Yet Jane has named him not these three days past; + Arrived! yet keeps aloof so far! + And knows that of my night he is the star! + Knows that long months I wait alone, benighted, + And count the moments since he went away! + Come! keep the promise of that happier day, + That I may keep the faith to thee I plighted! + What joy have I without thee? what delight? + Grief wastes my life, and makes it misery; + Day for the others ever, but for me + For ever night! for ever night! + When he is gone ’tis dark! my soul is sad! + I suffer! O my God! come, make me glad. + When he is near, no thoughts of day intrude; + Day has blue heavens, but Baptiste has blue eyes + Within them shines for me a heaven of love, + A heaven all happiness, like that above, + No more of grief! no more of lassitude! + Earth I forget,—and heaven, and all distresses, + When seated by my side my hand he presses; + But when alone, remember all! + Where is Baptiste? he hears not when I call! + A branch of ivy, dying on the ground, + I need some bough to twine around! + In pity come! be to my suffering kind! + True love, they say, in grief doth more abound! + What then, when one is blind? + “Who knows? perhaps I am forsaken! + Ah! woe is me! then bear me to my grave! + O God! what thoughts within me waken! + Away! he will return! I do but rave! + He will return! I need not fear! + He swore it by our Saviour dear; + He could not come at his own will; + Is weary, or perhaps is ill! + Perhaps his heart, in this disguise, + Prepares for me some sweet surprise. + But some one comes! Though blind, my heart can see! + And that deceives me not! ’tis he! ’tis he!” + And the door ajar is set, + And poor, confiding Margaret + Rises, with outstretched arms, but sightless eyes; + ’Tis only Paul, her brother, who thus cries:— + “Angela the bride has passed! + I saw the wedding guests go by; + Tell me, my sister, why were we not asked? + For all are there but you and I!” + + “Angela married! and not send + To tell her secret unto me! + O, speak! who may the bridegroom be?” + “My sister, ’tis Baptiste, thy friend!” + + A cry the blind girl gave, but nothing said; + A milky whiteness spreads upon her cheeks; + An icy hand, as heavy as lead, + Descending, as her brother speaks, + Upon her heart, that has ceased to beat, + Suspends awhile its life and heat. + She stands beside the boy, now sore distressed, + A wax Madonna as a peasant dressed. + + At length the bridal song again + Brings her back to her sorrow and pain. + + “Hark! the joyous airs are ringing! + Sister, dost thou hear them singing? + How merrily they laugh and jest! + Would we were bidden with the rest! + I would don my hose of homespun grey, + And my doublet of linen striped and gay; + Perhaps they will come; for they do not wed + Till to-morrow at seven o’clock, it is said!” + “I know it!” answered Margaret; + Whom the vision, with aspect black as jet, + Mastered again; and its hand of ice + Held her heart crushed, as in a vice! + + “Paul, be not sad! ’Tis a holiday; + To-morrow put on thy doublet gay! + But leave me now for a while alone.” + Away, with a hop and a jump, went Paul, + And, as he whistled along the hall, + Entered Jane, the crippled crone. + + “Holy Virgin! what dreadful heat! + I am faint, and weary, and out of breath! + But thou art cold,—art chill as death! + My little friend! what ails thee, sweet?” + “Nothing! I heard them singing home the bride; + And, as I listened to the song, + I thought my turn would come ere long, + Thou knowest it is at Whitsuntide. + Thy cards forsooth can never lie, + To me such joy they prophesy, + Thy skill shall be vaunted far and wide + When they behold him at my side. + And poor Baptiste, what sayest thou? + It must seem long to him;—methinks I see him now!” + Jane, shuddering, her hand doth press: + “Thy love I cannot all approve; + We must not trust too much to happiness; + Go, pray to God, that thou mayst love him less!” + “The more I pray, the more I love! + It is no sin, for God is on my side!” + It was enough; and Jane no more replied. + + Now to all hope her heart is barred and cold; + But to deceive the beldame old + She takes a sweet, contented air; + Speaks of foul weather or of fair, + At every word the maiden smiles. + Thus the beguiler she beguiles; + So that, departing at the evening’s close, + She says, “She may be saved! she nothing knows!” + + Poor Jane, the cunning sorceress! + Now that thou wouldst, thou art no prophetess! + This morning, in the fulness of thy heart, + Thou wast so, far beyond thine art! + +III. + + Now rings the bell, nine times reverberating, + And the white daybreak, stealing up the sky, + Sees in two cottages two maidens waiting, + How differently! + Queen of a day, by flatterers caressed, + The one puts on her cross and crown, + Decks with a huge bouquet her breast, + And flaunting, fluttering up and down, + Looks at herself, and cannot rest. + + The other, blind, within her little room, + Has neither crown nor flower’s perfume; + But in their stead for something gropes apart + That in a drawer’s recess doth lie, + And, ’neath her bodice of bright scarlet dye, + Convulsive clasps it to her heart. + + The one, fantastic, light as air, + ’Mid kisses ringing, + And joyous singing, + Forgets to say her morning prayer! + + The other, with cold drops upon her brow, + Joins her two hands, and kneels upon the floor, + And whispers, as her brother opes the door, + “O God! forgive me now!” + + And then the orphan, young and blind, + Conducted by her brother’s hand, + Towards the church, through paths unscanned, + With tranquil air, her way doth wind. + Odours of laurel, making her faint and pale, + Round her at times exhale, + And in the sky as yet no sunny ray, + But brumal vapours grey. + + Near that castle, fair to see, + Crowded with sculptures old, in every part, + Marvels of nature and of art, + And proud of its name of high degree, + A little chapel, almost bare, + At the base of the rock is builded there; + All glorious that it lifts aloof, + Above each jealous cottage roof, + Its sacred summit, swept by autumn gales, + And its blackened steeple high in air, + Round which the osprey screams and sails. + + “Paul, lay thy noisy rattle by!” + Thus Margaret said. “Where are we? we ascend!” + “Yes; seest thou not our journey’s end? + Hearest not the osprey from the belfry cry? + The hideous bird, that brings ill luck, we know! + Dost thou remember when our father said, + The night we watched beside his bed, + ’O daughter, I am weak and low; + Take care of Paul; I feel that I am dying!’ + And thou, and he, and I, all fell to crying? + Then on the roof the osprey screamed aloud; + And here they brought our father in his shroud. + There is his grave; there stands the cross we set; + Why dost thou clasp me so, dear Margaret? + Come in! The bride will be here soon: + Thou tremblest! O my God! thou art going to swoon!” + She could no more,—the blind girl, weak and weary! + A voice seemed crying from that grave so dreary, + “What wouldst thou do, my daughter?”—and she started; + And quick recoiled, aghast, faint-hearted; + But Paul, impatient, urges ever more + Her steps towards the open door; + And when, beneath her feet, the unhappy maid + Crushes the laurel near the house immortal, + And with her head, as Paul talks on again, + Touches the crown of filigrane + Suspended from the low-arched portal, + No more restrained, no more afraid, + She walks, as for a feast arrayed, + And in the ancient chapel’s sombre night + They both are lost to sight. + + At length the bell, + With booming sound, + Sends forth, resounding round, + Its hymeneal peal o’er rock and down the dell. + It is broad day, with sunshine and with rain; + And yet the guests delay not long, + For soon arrives the bridal train, + And with it brings the village throng. + + In sooth, deceit maketh no mortal gay, + For lo! Baptiste on this triumphant day, + Mute as an idiot, sad as yester-morning, + Thinks only of the beldame’s words of warning. + + And Angela thinks of her cross, I wis; + To be a bride is all! The pretty lisper + Feels her heart swell to hear all round her whisper, + “How beautiful! how beautiful she is!” + + But she must calm that giddy head, + For already the Mass is said; + At the holy table stands the priest; + The wedding ring is blessed; Baptiste receives it; + Ere on the finger of the bride he leaves it, + He must pronounce one word at least! + ’Tis spoken; and sudden at the groomsman’s side + “’Tis he!” a well-known voice has cried. + + And while the wedding-guests all hold their breath, + Opes the confessional, and the blind girl, see! + “Baptiste,” she said, “since thou hast wished my death, + As holy water be my blood for thee!” + And calmly in the air a knife suspended! + Doubtless her guardian angel near attended, + For anguish did its work so well, + That, ere the fatal stroke descended, + Lifeless she fell! + + At eve, instead of bridal verse, + The De Profundis filled the air; + Decked with flowers a single hearse + To the churchyard forth they bear; + Village girls in robes of snow + Follow, weeping as they go; + Nowhere was a smile that day, + No, ah no! for each one seemed to say:— + + “The roads shall mourn and be veiled in gloom, + So fair a corpse shall leave its home! + Should mourn and should weep, ah, well-away, + So fair a corpse shall pass to-day!” + + +MY SECRET. + +FROM THE FRENCH OF FÉLIX ARVERS. + + My soul its secret hath, my life too hath its mystery, + A love eternal in a moment’s space conceived; + Hopeless the evil is, I have not told its history, + And she who was the cause nor knew it nor believed. + Alas! I shall have passed close by her unperceived, + For ever at her side and yet for ever lonely, + I shall unto the end have made life’s journey, only + Daring to ask for nought, and having nought received. + + For her, though God hath made her gentle and endearing, + She will go on her way distraught and without hearing + These murmurings of love that round her steps ascend, + Piously faithful still unto her austere duty, + Will say, when she shall read these lines full of her beauty, + “Who can this woman be?” and will not comprehend. + + +BARRÉGES. + +FROM THE FRENCH OF JEAN-JACQUES LEFRANC DE POMPIGNAN. + + I leave you, ye cold mountain chains, + Dwelling of warriors stark and frore! + You, may these eyes behold no more, + Save on the horizon of our plains. + + Vanish, ye frightful, gloomy views! + Ye rocks that mount up to the clouds! + Of skies, enwrapped in misty shrouds, + Impracticable avenues! + + Ye torrents, that with might and main + Break pathways through the rocky walls, + With your terrific waterfalls + Fatigue no more my weary brain! + + Arise, ye landscapes full of charms, + Arise, ye pictures of delight! + Ye brooks, that water in your flight + The flowers and harvests of our farms! + + You I perceive, ye meadows green, + Where the Garonne the lowland fills, + Not far from that long chain of hills, + With intermingled vales between. + + Yon wreath of smoke, that mounts so high, + Methinks from my own hearth must come; + With speed to that belovèd home, + Fly, ye too lazy coursers, fly! + + And bear me thither, where the soul + In quiet may itself possess, + Where all things soothe the mind’s distress, + Where all things teach me and console. + + +ON THE TERRACE OF THE AIGALADES. + +FROM THE FRENCH OF J. MÉRY. + + From this high portal, where upsprings + The rose to touch our hands in play, + We at a glance behold three things,— + The Sea, the Town, and the Highway. + + And the Sea says: My shipwrecks fear; + I drown my best friends in the deep; + And those who braved my tempests, here + Among my sea-weeds lie asleep! + + The Town says: I am filled and fraught + With tumult and with smoke and care; + My days with toil are overwrought, + And in my nights I gasp for air. + + The Highway says: My wheel-tracks guide + To the pale climates of the North; + Where my last milestone stands abide + The people to their death gone forth. + + Here, in the shade, this life of ours, + Full of delicious air, glides by + Amid a multitude of flowers + As countless as the stars on high; + + These red-tiled roofs, this fruitful soil, + Bathed with an azure all divine, + Where springs the tree that gives us oil, + The grape that giveth us the wine; + + Beneath these mountains stripped of trees, + Whose tops with flowers are covered o’er, + Where springtime of the Hesperides + Begins, but endeth nevermore; + + Under these leafy vaults and walls, + That unto gentle sleep persuade + This rainbow of the waterfalls, + Of mingled mist and sunshine made; + + Upon these shores, where all invites, + We live our languid life apart; + This air is that of life’s delights, + The festival of sense and heart; + + This limpid space of time prolong, + Forget to-morrow in to-day, + And leave unto the passing throng + The Sea, the Town, and the Highway. + + + + +TRANSLATIONS FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON. + + +THE GRAVE. + + For thee was a house built + Ere thou wast born, + For thee was a mould meant + Ere thou of mother camest. + But it is not made ready, + Nor its depth measured, + Nor is it seen + How long it shall be. + Now I bring thee + Where thou shalt be; + Now I shall measure thee, + And the mould afterwards. + + Thy house is not + Highly timbered, + It is unhigh and low; + When thou art therein, + The heel-ways are low, + The sideways unhigh. + The roof is built + Thy breast full nigh, + So thou shalt in mould + Dwell full cold, + Dimly and dark. + + Doorless is that house, + And dark it is within; + There thou art fast detained, + And death hath the key. + Loathsome is that earth-house, + And grim within to dwell. + There thou shalt dwell, + And worms shall divide thee. + + Thus thou art laid, + And leavest thy friends; + Thou hast no friend + Who will come to thee, + Who will ever see + How that house pleaseth thee; + Who will ever open + The door for thee, + And descend after thee, + For soon thou art loathsome + And hateful to see. + + +BEOWULF’S EXPEDITION TO HEORT. + + Thus then, much care-worn, + The son of Healfden + Sorrowed evermore, + Nor might the prudent hero + His woes avert. + The war was too hard, + Too loath and longsome, + That on the people came, + Dire wrath and grim, + Of night-woes the worst. + This from home heard + Higelac’s Thane, + Good among the Goths, + Grendel’s deeds. + He was of mankind + In might the strongest, + At that day + Of this life, + Noble and stalwart. + He bade him a sea-ship, + A goodly one, prepare. + Quoth he, the war-king, + Over the swan’s road, + Seek he would + The mighty monarch, + Since he wanted men. + For him that journey + His prudent fellows + Straight made ready, + Those that loved him. + They excited their souls, + The omen they beheld. + Had the good-man + Of the Gothic people + Champions chosen, + Of those that keenest + He might find, + Some fifteen men. + The sea-wood sought he, + The warrior showed, + Sea-crafty man! + The landmarks, + And first went forth. + The ship was on the waves, + Boat under the cliffs. + The barons ready + To the prow mounted. + The streams they whirled + The sea against the sands. + The chieftains bore + On the naked breast + Bright ornaments, + War-gear, Goth-like. + The men shoved off, + Men on their willing way, + The bounden wood. + Then went over the sea-waves, + Hurried by the wind, + The ship with foamy neck + Most like a sea-fowl, + Till about one hour + Of the second day + The curved prow + Had passed onward, + So that the sailors + The land saw, + The shore-cliffs shining, + Mountains steep, + And broad sea-noses. + Then was the sea-sailing + Of the earl at an end. + Then up speedily + The Weather people + On the land went, + The sea-bark moored, + Their mail-sarks shook, + Their war-weeds. + God thanked they, + That to them the sea journey + Easy had been. + Then from the wall beheld + The warden of the Scyldings, + He who the sea-cliffs + Had in his keeping, + Bear o’er the balks + The bright shields, + The war-weapons speedily. + Him the doubt disturbed + In his mind’s thought, + What these men might be. + Went then to the shore, + On his steed riding, + The Thane of Hrothgar. + Before the host he shook + His warden’s staff in hand, + In measured words demanded: + “What men are ye + War-gear wearing, + Host in harness, + Who thus the brown keel + Over the water-street + Leading come + Hither over the sea? + I these boundaries + As shore-warden hold; + That in the Land of the Danes + Nothing loathsome + With a ship-crew + Scathe us might.... + Ne’er saw I mightier + Earl upon earth + Than is your own, + Hero in harness. + Not seldom this warrior + Is in weapons distinguished; + Never his beauty belies him, + His peerless countenance! + Now would I fain + Your origin know, + Ere ye forth + As false spies + Into the Land of the Danes + Farther fare. + Now, ye dwellers afar off! + Ye sailors of the sea! + Listen to my + One-fold thought. + Quickest is best + To make known + Whence your coming may be.” + + +THE SOUL’S COMPLAINT AGAINST THE BODY. + + Much it behoveth + Each one of mortals, + That he his soul’s journey + In himself ponder, + How deep it may be. + When death cometh, + The bonds he breaketh + By which united + Were body and soul. + + Long it is henceforth + Ere the soul taketh + From God himself + Its woe or its weal; + As in the world erst, + Even in its earth-vessel, + It wrought before. + + The soul shall come + Wailing with loud voice, + After a sennight, + The soul, to find + The body + That it erst dwelt in;— + Three hundred winters, + Unless ere that worketh + The eternal Lord, + The Almighty God, + The end of the world. + + Crieth then, so care-worn, + With cold utterance, + And speaketh grimly, + The ghost to the dust: + “Dry dust! thou dreary one! + How little didst thou labour for me! + In the foulness of earth + Thou all wearest away + Like to the loam! + Little didst thou think + How thy soul’s journey + Would be thereafter, + When from the body + It should be led forth.” + + + + +TRANSLATIONS FROM THE SWEDISH. + + +FRITHIOF’S HOMESTEAD. + + Three miles extended around the fields of the homestead; on three + sides + Valleys, and mountains, and hills, but on the fourth side was the + ocean. + Birch-woods crowned the summits, but over the down-sloping + hillsides + Flourished the golden corn, and man-high was waving the rye-field. + Lakes, full many in number, their mirror held up for the mountains, + Held for the forests up, in whose depths the high-antlered reindeer + Had their kingly walk, and drank of a hundred brooklets. + But in the valleys, full widely around, there fed on the greensward + Herds with sleek, shining sides, and udders that longed for the + milk-pail; + ’Mid these were scattered, now here and now there, a vast countless + number + Of white-wooled sheep, as thou seest the white-looking stray clouds, + Flock-wise, spread o’er the heavenly vault, when it bloweth in + springtime. + + Twice twelve swift-footed coursers, mettlesome, fast-fettered + storm-winds, + Stamping stood in the line of stalls, all champing their fodder, + Knotted with red their manes, and their hoofs all whitened with + steel shoes. + The banquet-hall, a house by itself, was timbered of hard fir. + Not five hundred men (at ten times twelve to the hundred) + Filled up the roomy hall, when assembled for drinking at Yule-tide. + Thorough the hall, as long as it was, went a table of holm-oak, + Polished and white, as of steel; the columns twain of the high-seat + Stood at the end thereof, two gods carved out of an elm-tree; + Odin with lordly look, and Frey with the sun on his frontlet. + Lately between the two, on a bear-skin (the skin it was coal-black, + Scarlet-red was the throat, but the paws were shodden with silver), + Thorsten sat with his friends, Hospitality sitting with Gladness. + Oft, when the moon among the night-clouds flew, related the old man + Wonders from far-distant lands he had seen, and cruises of Vikings + Far on the Baltic and Sea of the West, and the North Sea. + Hush sat the listening bench, and their glances hung on the + gray-beard’s + Lips, as a bee on the rose; but the Skald was thinking of Bragé, + Where, with silver beard, and runes on his tongue, he is seated + Under the leafy beech, and tells a tradition by Mimer’s + Ever-murmuring wave, himself a living tradition. + Midway the floor (with thatch was it strewn), burned for ever the + fire-flame + Glad on its stone-built hearth; and through the wide-mouthed + smoke-flue + Looked the stars, those heavenly friends, down into the great hall, + But round the walls, upon nails of steel, were hanging in order + Breastplate and helm with each other, and here and there in among + them + Downward lightened a sword, as in winter evening a star shoots. + More than helmets and swords, the shields in the banquet-hall + glisten, + White as the orb of the sun, or white as the moon’s disc of silver. + Ever and anon went a maid round the board and filled up the + drink-horns; + Ever she cast down her eyes and blushed; in the shield her + reflection + Blushed too, even as she;—this gladdened the hard-drinking + champions. + + +FRITHIOF’S TEMPTATION. + + Spring is coming, birds are twittering, forests leaf, and smiles + the sun, + And the loosened torrents downward singing to the ocean run; + Glowing like the cheek of Freya, peeping rosebuds ’gin to ope, + And in human hearts awaken love of life, and joy, and hope. + + Now will hunt the ancient monarch, and the queen shall join the + sport; + Swarming in its gorgeous splendour is assembled all the court; + Bows ring loud, and quivers rattle, stallions paw the ground alway, + And, with hoods upon their eyelids, falcons scream aloud for prey. + + See, the queen of the chase advances! Frithiof, gaze not on the + sight! + Like a star upon a spring-cloud sits she on her palfrey white, + Half of Freya, half of Rota, yet more beauteous than these two, + And from her light hat of purple wave aloft the feathers blue. + + Now the huntsman’s band is ready. Hurrah! over hill and dale! + Morns ring, and the hawks right upward to the hall of Odin sail. + All the dwellers in the forest seek in fear their cavern homes, + But with spear outstretched before her, after them Valkyria comes. + + * * * * * + + Then threw Frithiof down his mantle, and upon the greensward spread, + And the ancient king so trustful laid on Frithiof’s knees his head; + Slept, as calmly as the hero sleepeth after war’s alarms + On his shield, calm as an infant sleepeth in its mother’s arms. + As he slumbers, hark! there sings a coal-black bird upon a bough: + “Hasten, Frithiof, slay the old man, close your quarrel at a blow; + Take his queen, for she is thine, and once the bridal kiss she gave; + Now no human eye beholds thee; deep and silent is the grave.” + Frithiof listens; hark! there sings a snow-white bird upon the bough: + “Though no human eye beholds thee, Odin’s eye beholds thee now. + Coward, wilt thou murder slumber? a defenceless old man slay? + Whatsoe’er thou winn’st, thou canst not win a hero’s fame this way.” + + Thus the two wood-birds did warble; Frithiof took his war-sword good, + With a shudder hurled it from him, far into the gloomy wood. + Coal-black bird flies down to Nastrand; but on light unfolded wings, + Like the tone of harps, the other, sounding towards the sun + upsprings. + + Straight the ancient king awakens. “Sweet has been my sleep,” he + said; + “Pleasantly sleeps one in the shadow, guarded by a brave man’s blade. + But where is thy sword, O stranger? Lightning’s brother, where is he? + Who thus parts you, who should never from each other parted be?” + + “It avails not,” Frithiof answered; “in the North are other swords; + Sharp, O monarch, is the sword’s tongue, and it speaks not peaceful + words; + Murky spirits dwell in steel blades, spirits from the Niffelhem, + Slumber is not safe before them, silver locks but anger them.” + + +THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD’S SUPPER. + + +PREFATORY REMARKS. + +This poem, from the Swedish of Bishop Tegnér, enjoys no inconsiderable +reputation in the North of Europe. It is an Idyl descriptive of rural +life in Sweden, round which something primeval and picturesque still +lingers. + +You pass out from the gate of a city, and, as if by magic, the scene +changes to a wild, woodland landscape. Around you are forests of fir, +with their long, fan-like branches; while underfoot is spread a carpet +of yellow leaves. On a wooden bridge you cross a little silver stream: +and anon come forth into a pleasant land of farms. Wooden fences divide +the adjoining fields. The gates are opened by troops of children, and +the peasants take off their hats as you pass. The houses in the village +and smaller towns are built of hewn timber, and are generally painted +red. The floors of the taverns are strewn with the fragrant tips of +fir boughs. In many villages there are no taverns, and the peasants +take turns in receiving travellers. The thrifty housewife shows you +into the best chamber, the walls of which are hung round with rude +pictures from the Bible; and she brings you curdled milk from the +pan, with oaten cakes baked some months before. Meanwhile, the sturdy +husband has brought his horses from the plough, and harnessed them to +your carriage. Solitary travellers come and go in uncouth one-horse +chaises. Most of them are smoking pipes, and have hanging around their +necks in front a leather wallet, in which they carry tobacco, and the +great bank-notes of the country. You meet, also, groups of barefooted +Dalekarlian peasant women, travelling in pursuit of work, carrying in +their hands their shoes, which have high heels under the hollow of the +foot, and soles of birch bark. + +Frequent, too, are the village churches, standing by the road-side. +In the churchyard are a few flowers, and much green grass. The +grave-stones are flat, large, low, and perhaps sunken, like the roofs +of old houses; the tenants all sleeping with their heads to the +westward. Each held a lighted taper in his hand when he died; and in +his coffin were placed his little heart-treasures, and a piece of +money for his last journey. Babes that came lifeless into the world +were carried in the arms of grey-haired old men to the only cradle +they ever slept in; and in the shroud of the dead mother were laid the +little garments of the child, that lived and died in her bosom. Near +the churchyard gate stands a poor-box, with a sloping roof over it, +fastened to a post by iron bands, and secured by a padlock. If it be +Sunday, the peasants sit on the church steps and con their psalm-books. +Others are coming down the road, listening to their beloved pastor. +He is their patriarch, and, like Melchizedek, both priest and king, +though he has no other throne than the church pulpit. The women carry +psalm-books in their hands, wrapped in silk handkerchiefs, and listen +devoutly to the good man’s words. But the young men, like Gallio, care +for none of these things. They are busy counting the plaits in the +kirtles of the peasant girls, their number being an indication of the +wearer’s wealth. + +I must not forget to speak of the suddenly changing seasons of the +Northern clime. There is no long spring, gradually unfolding leaf and +blossom;—no lingering autumn, pompous with many-coloured leaves. But +winter and summer are wonderful, and pass into each other. The quail +has hardly ceased piping in the corn, when winter from the folds of +trailing clouds sows broad-cast over the land snow, icicles, and +rattling hail. The days wane apace. Ere long the sun hardly rises above +the horizon, or does not rise at all. The moon and the stars shine +through the day; only, at noon, they are pale and wan, and in the +southern sky a red, fiery glow, as of sunset, burns along the horizon, +and then goes out. And pleasantly under the silver moon, and twinkling +stars, ring the steel shoes of the skaters on the frozen sea, and +voices, and the sound of bells. + +And now the Northern Lights begin to burn, faintly at first, like +sunbeams playing in the waters of the blue sea. Then a soft crimson +glow tinges the heavens. There is a blush on the cheek of night. The +colours come and go; and change from crimson to gold, from gold to +crimson. The snow is stained with rosy light. Twofold from the zenith, +east and west, flames a fiery sword; and a broad band passes athwart +the heavens, like a summer sunset. Soft purple clouds come sailing over +the sky, and through their vapoury folds the winking stars shine white +as silver. With such pomp as this is Merry Christmas ushered in, though +only a single star heralded the first Christmas. And in memory of that +day the Swedish peasants dance on straw; and the peasant girls throw +straws at the timbered roof of the hall, and for every one that sticks +in a crack shall a groomsman come to their wedding. Merry indeed is +Christmas-time for Swedish peasants; brandy and nut-brown ale in wooden +bowls; and the great Yulecake crowned with a cheese, and garlanded +with apples, and upholding a three-armed candlestick over the Christmas +feast. + +And now leafy mid-summer, full of blossoms and the song of +nightingales, is come. In every village there is a May-pole fifty +feet high, with wreaths and roses and ribands streaming in the wind, +and a noisy weathercock on top. The sun does not set till ten o’clock +at night; and the children are at play in the streets an hour later. +The windows and doors are all open, and you may sit and read till +midnight without a candle. O how beautiful is the summer night, which +is not night, but a sunless yet unclouded day, descending upon earth +with dews, and shadows, and refreshing coolness! How beautiful the +long, mild twilight, which unites to-day with yesterday! How beautiful +the silent hour, when Morning and Evening thus sit together, hand in +hand, beneath the starless sky of midnight! From the church tower in +the public square the bell tolls the hour, with a soft musical chime; +and the watchman, whose watch-tower is the belfry, blows a blast on +his horn, for each stroke of the hammer, and four times, for the four +corners of the heavens, in a sonorous voice he chants,— + + “Ho! watchman, ho! + Twelve is the clock! + God keep our town + From fire and brand, + And hostile hand! + Twelve is the clock!” + +From his swallow’s nest in the belfry he can see the sun all night +long; and farther north the priest stands at his door in the warm +midnight, and lights his pipe with a common burning-glass. + +I trust that these remarks will not be deemed irrelevant to the poem, +but will lead to a clearer understanding of it. The translation is +literal perhaps to a fault. In no instance have I done the author +a wrong, by introducing into his work any supposed improvements or +embellishments of my own. I have preserved even the measure; in which, +it must be confessed, the motions of the English Muse are not unlike +those of a prisoner dancing to the music of his chains; and perhaps, as +Dr. Johnson said of the dancing dog, “the wonder is not that she should +do it so well, but that she should do it at all.” + +Esaias Tegnér, the author of this poem, was born in the parish of By, +in Wärmland, in the year 1782. In 1799 he entered the University of +Lund, as a student; and in 1812 was appointed Professor of Greek in +that institution. In 1824 he became Bishop of Wexiö. He is the glory +and boast of Sweden, and stands first among all her poets living or +dead. His principal work is Frithiof’s Saga; one of the most remarkable +poems of the age. Bishop Tegnér is a prophet honoured in his own +country, adding one more to the list of great names that adorn her +history. + + + Pentecost, day of rejoicing, had come. The church of the village + Gleaming stood in the morning’s sheen. On the spire of the belfry, + Decked with a brazen cock, the friendly flames of the Spring-sun + Glanced like the tongues of fire, beheld by Apostles aforetime. + Clear was the heaven and blue, and May, with her cap crowned by + roses, + Stood in her holiday dress in the fields, and the wind and the + brooklet + Murmured gladness and peace, God’s-peace! with lips rosy-tinted + Whispered the race of the flowers, and merry on balancing branches + Birds were singing their carol, a jubilant hymn to the Highest. + Swept and clean was the churchyard. Adorned like a leaf-woven arbour + Stood its old-fashioned gate; and within upon each cross of iron + Hung was a fragrant garland, new twined by the hands of affection. + Even the dial, that stood on a mound among the departed + (There full a hundred years had it stood), was embellished with + blossoms, + Like to the patriarch hoary, the sage of his kith and the hamlet, + Who on his birthday is crowned by children and children’s children, + So stood the ancient prophet, and mute with his pencil of iron + Marked on the tablet of stone, and measured the time and its changes, + + While all around at his feet an eternity slumbered in quiet. + Also the church within was adorned, for this was the season + When the young, their parents’ hope, and the loved ones of heaven, + Should at the foot of the altar renew the vows of their baptism. + Therefore each nook and corner was swept and cleaned, and the dust + was + Blown from the walls and ceiling, and from the oil-painted benches. + There stood the church like a garden; the Feast of the Leafy + Pavilions[133] + Saw we in living presentment. From noble arms on the church wall + Grew forth a cluster of leaves, and the preacher’s pulpit of + oak-wood + Budded once more anew, as aforetime the rod before Aaron. + Wreathed thereon was the Bible with leaves, and the dove, washed + with silver, + Under its canopy fastened, had on it a necklace of wind-flowers. + But in front of the choir, round the altar-piece painted by + Hörberg,[134] + Crept a garland gigantic; and bright-curling tresses of angels + Peeped, like the sun from a cloud, from out of the shadowy leaf-work. + Likewise the lustre of brass, new polished, blinked from the ceiling, + And for lights there were lilies of Pentecost set in the sockets. + + Loud rang the bells already; the thronging crowd was assembled + Far from valleys and hills, to list to the holy preaching. + Hark! then roll forth at once the mighty tones from the organ, + Hover like voices from God, aloft like invisible spirits. + Like as Elias in heaven, when he cast from off him his mantle, + So cast off the soul its garments of earth; and with one voice + Chimed in the congregation, and sang an anthem immortal + Of the sublime Wallín,[135] of David’s harp in the Northland + Tuned to the choral of Luther; the song on its mighty pinions + Took every living soul, and lifted it gently to heaven, + And each face did shine like the Holy One’s face upon Tabor. + Lo! there entered then into the church the Reverend Teacher. + Father he hight and he was in the parish; a christianly plainness + Clothed from his head to his feet the old man of seventy winters. + Friendly was he to behold, and glad as the heralding angel + Walked he among the crowds, but still a contemplative grandeur + Lay on his forehead as clear, as on moss-covered grave-stone a + sunbeam. + As in his inspiration (an evening twilight that faintly + Gleams in the human soul, even now, from the day of creation) + Th’ Artist, the friend of heaven, imagines Saint John when in Patmos, + Grey, with his eyes uplifted to heaven, so seemed then the old man; + Such was the glance of his eye, and such were his tresses of silver. + All the congregation arose in the pews that were numbered, + But with a cordial look to the right and the left hand, the old man + Nodding all hail and peace, disappeared in the innermost chancel. + + Simply and solemnly now proceeded the Christian service, + Singing and prayer, and at last an ardent discourse from the old man. + Many a moving word and warning, that out of the heart came, + Fell like the dew of the morning, like manna on those in the desert. + Then, when all was finished, the Teacher re-entered the chancel, + Followed therein by the young. The boys on the right had their + places, + Delicate figures, with close-curling hair, and cheeks rosy-blooming. + But on the left of these, there stood the tremulous lilies, + Tinged with the blushing light of the dawn, the diffident maidens,— + Folding their hands in prayer, and their eyes cast down on the + pavement. + Now came, with question and answer, the Catechism. In the beginning, + Answered the children with troubled and faltering voice, but the + old man’s + Glances of kindness encouraged them soon, and the doctrines eternal + Flowed, like the waters of fountains, so clear from lips unpolluted. + Each time the answer was closed, and as oft as they named the + Redeemer, + Lowly louted the boys, and lowly the maidens all courtesied. + Friendly the Teacher stood, like an angel of light there among them, + And to the children explained the holy, the highest in few words, + Thorough, yet simple and clear, for sublimity always is simple, + Both in sermon and song, a child can seize on its meaning. + E’en as the green-growing bud is unfolded when Spring-tide + approaches, + Leaf by leaf puts forth, and, warmed by the radiant sunshine, + Blushes with purple and gold, till at last the perfected blossom + Opens its odorous chalice, and rocks with its crown in the breezes, + So was unfolded here the Christian lore of salvation, + Line by line from the soul of childhood. The fathers and mothers + Stood behind them in tears, and were glad at the well-worded answer. + + Now went the old man up to the altar;—and straightway + transfigured + (So did it seem unto me) was then the affectionate Teacher. + Like the Lord’s Prophet sublime, and awful as Death and as Judgment + Stood he, the God-commissioned, the soul-searcher, earthward + descending + Glances, sharp as a sword, into hearts, that to him were transparent + Shot he; his voice was deep, was low like the thunder afar off. + So on a sudden transfigured he stood there, he spake and he + questioned. + + “This is the faith of the Fathers, the Faith the Apostles + delivered, + This is moreover the faith whereunto I baptized you, while still ye + Lay on your mothers’ breasts, and nearer the portals of heaven. + Slumbering received you then the Holy Church in its bosom; + Wakened from sleep are ye now, and the light in its radiant + splendour + Downward rains from the heaven,—to-day on the threshold of + childhood + Kindly she frees you again, to examine and make your election, + For she knows nought of compulsion, and only conviction desireth. + This is the hour of your trial, the turning-point of existence, + Seed for the coming days; without revocation departeth + Now from your lips the confession; Bethink ye, before ye make answer! + Think not, O think not with guile to deceive the questioning Teacher. + Sharp is his eye to-day, and a curse ever rests upon falsehood. + Enter not with a lie on Life’s journey; the multitude hears you, + Brothers and sisters and parents, what dear upon earth is and holy + Standeth before your sight as a witness; the Judge everlasting + Looks from the sun down upon you, and angels in waiting beside him + Grave your confession in letters of fire, upon tablets eternal. + Thus, then,—Believe ye in God, in the Father who this world created? + Him who redeemed it, the Son, and the Spirit where both are united? + Will ye promise me here (a holy promise!), to cherish + God more than all things earthly, and every man as a brother? + Will ye promise me here to confirm your faith by your living, + Th’ heavenly faith of affection! to hope, to forgive, and to suffer, + Be what it may your condition, and walk before God in uprightness? + Will ye promise me this before God and man?”—With a clear voice + Answered the young men Yes! and Yes! with lips softly breathing + Answered the maidens eke. Then dissolved from the brow of the + Teacher + Clouds with the thunders therein, and he spake in accents more + gentle, + Soft as the evening’s breath, as harps by Babylon’s rivers. + + “Hail, then, hail to you all! To the heirdom of heaven be ye + welcome; + Children no more from this day, but by covenant brothers and sisters! + Yet,—for what reason not children? Of such is the kingdom of heaven. + Here upon earth an assemblage of children, in heaven one Father, + Ruling them all as his household,—forgiving in turn and chastising, + That is of human life a picture, as Scripture has taught us. + Blest are the pure before God! Upon purity and upon virtue + Resteth the Christian Faith; she herself from on high is descended. + Strong as a man and pure as a child, is the sum of the doctrine, + Which the Divine One taught, and suffered and died on the cross for. + O! as ye wander this day from childhood’s sacred asylum + Downward and ever downward, and deeper in Age’s chill valley, + Oh! how soon will ye come,—too soon!—and long to turn backward + Up to its hill-tops again, to the sun-illumined, where Judgment + Stood like a father before you, and Pardon, clad like a mother, + Gave you her hand to kiss, and the loving heart was forgiven. + Life was a play, and your hands grasped after the roses of heaven! + Seventy years have I lived already; the Father eternal + Gave me gladness and care; but the loveliest hours of existence, + When I have steadfastly gazed in their eyes, I have instantly known + them, + Known them all again;—they were my childhood’s acquaintance. + Therefore take from henceforth, as guides in the paths of existence, + Prayer, with her eyes raised to heaven, and Innocence, bride of + man’s childhood. + Innocence, child beloved, is a guest from the world of the blessed, + Beautiful, and in her hand a lily; on life’s roaring billows + Swings she in safety, she heedeth them not, in the ship she is + sleeping. + Calmly she gazes around in the turmoil of men; in the desert + Angels descend and minister unto her; she herself knoweth + Nought of her glorious attendance; but follows faithful and humble, + Follows so long as she may her friend; O do not reject her, + For she cometh from God and she holdeth the keys of the heavens. + Prayer is Innocence’ friend; and willingly flieth incessant + ’Twixt the earth and the sky, the carrier-pigeon of heaven. + Son of Eternity, fettered in Time, and an exile, the Spirit + Tugs at his chains evermore, and struggles like flames ever upward. + Still he recalls with emotion his Father’s manifold mansions, + Thinks of the land of his fathers, where blossomed more freshly the + flowerets, + Shone a more beautiful sun, and he played with the wingèd angels. + Then grows the earth too narrow, too close; and homesick for heaven + Longs the wanderer again; and the Spirit’s longings are worship; + Worship is called his most beautiful hour, and its tongue is + entreaty. + Ah! when the infinite burden of life descendeth upon us, + Crushes to earth our hope, and, under the earth, in the graveyard,— + Then it is good to pray unto God; for His sorrowing children + Turns he ne’er from his door, but he heals and helps and consoles + them. + Yet it is better to pray when all things are prosperous with us, + Pray in fortunate days, for Life’s most beautiful Fortune + Kneels before the Eternal’s throne; and, with hands interfolded, + Praises thankful and moved the only Giver of blessings. + Or do ye know, ye children, one blessing that comes not from Heaven? + What has mankind forsooth, the poor! that it has not received? + Therefore, fall in the dust and pray! The seraphs adoring + Cover with pinions six their face in the glory of him who + Hung his masonry pendant on nought, when the world he created. + Earth declareth his might, and the firmament uttereth his glory. + Races blossom and die, and stars fall downward from heaven, + Downward like withered leaves; at the last stroke of midnight, + millenniums + Lay themselves down at his feet, and he sees them, but counts them + as nothing. + Who shall stand in His presence? The wrath of the Judge is terrific, + Casting the insolent down at a glance. When he speaks in his anger + Hillocks skip like the kid, and mountains leap like the roebuck. + Yet,—why are ye afraid, ye children? This awful avenger, + Ah! is a merciful God! God’s voice was not in the earthquake, + Not in the fire, nor the storm, but it was in the whispering breezes. + Love is the root of creation; God’s essence; worlds without number + Lie in his bosom like children; he made them for this purpose only: + Only to love and be loved again, he breathed forth his spirit + Into the slumbering dust, and upright standing, it laid its + Hand on its heart, and felt it was warm with a flame out of heaven. + Quench, O quench not that flame! It is the breath of your being. + Love is life, but hatred is death. Not father nor mother + Loved you, as God has loved you; for ’twas that you may be happy + Gave he his only Son. When he bowed down his head in the death-hour, + Solemnized Love its triumph; the sacrifice then was completed. + Lo! then was rent on a sudden the veil of the temple, dividing + Earth and heaven apart, and the dead from their sepulchres rising, + Whispered with pallid lips and low in the ears of each other + Th’ answer, but dreamed of before, to creation’s enigma,—Atonement! + Depths of Love are Atonement’s depths, for Love is Atonement. + Therefore, child of mortality, love thou the merciful Father; + Wish what the Holy One wishes, and not from fear, but affection; + Fear is the virtue of slaves; but the heart that loveth is willing; + Perfect was before God, and perfect is Love, and Love only. + Lovest thou God as thou oughtest, then lovest thou likewise thy + brethren; + One is the sun in heaven, and one, only one, is Love also. + Bears not each human figure the godlike stamp on his forehead? + Readest thou not in his face thine origin? Is he not sailing + Lost like thyself on an ocean unknown, and is he not guided + By the same stars that guide thee? Why shouldst thou hate then thy + brother? + Hateth he thee, forgive! For ’tis sweet to stammer one letter + Of the Eternal’s language;—on earth it is callèd Forgiveness! + Knowest thou him, who forgave, with the crown of thorns on his + temples? + Earnestly prayed for his foes, for his murderers? Say, dost thou + know him? + Ah! thou confesseth his name, so follow likewise his example, + Think of thy brother no ill, but throw a veil over his failings, + Guide the erring aright; for the good, the heavenly Shepherd + Took the lost lamb in his arms, and bore it back to its mother. + This is the fruit of Love, and it is by its fruits that we know it. + Love is the creature’s welfare, with God; but love among mortals + Is but an endless sigh! He longs, and endures, and stands waiting, + Suffers, and yet rejoices, and smiles with tears on his eyelids. + Hope,—so is called upon earth, his recompense,—Hope, the + befriending, + Does what she can, for she points evermore up to heaven, and + faithful + Plunges her anchor’s peak in the depths of the grave, and beneath it + Paints a more beautiful world, a dim, but a sweet play of shadows! + Races, better than we, have leaned on her wavering promise, + Having nought else but Hope. Then praise we our Father in heaven, + Him, who has given us more! for to us has Hope been transfigured, + Groping no longer in night; she is Faith, she is living assurance. + Faith is enlightened Hope; she is light, is the eye of affection, + Dreams of the longing interprets, and carves their visions in marble. + Faith is the sun of life; and her countenance shines like the + Hebrew’s, + For she has looked upon God; the heaven on its stable foundation + Draws she with chains down to earth, and the New Jerusalem sinketh + Splendid with portals twelve in golden vapours descending. + There enraptured she wanders, and looks at the figures majestic, + Fears not the wingèd crowd, in the midst of them all is her + homestead. + Therefore love and believe; for works will follow spontaneous, + Even as day does the sun; the Right from the Good is an offspring, + Love in a bodily shape; and Christian works are no more than + Animate Love and Faith, as flowers are the animate spring-tide. + Works do follow us all unto God; there stand and bear witness + Not what they seemed,—but what they were only. Blessed is he who + Hears their confession secure; they are mute upon earth until + Death’s hand + Opens the mouth of the silent. Ye children, does Death e’er alarm + you? + Death is the brother of Love, twin-brother is he, and is only + More austere to behold. With a kiss upon lips that are fading + Takes he the soul and departs, and rocked in the arm of affection, + Places the ransomed child, new born, ’fore the face of its Father. + Sounds of his coming already I hear,—see dimly his pinions, + Swart as the night, but with stars strewn upon them! I fear not + before him. + Death is only release, and in mercy is mute. On his bosom + Freer breathes, in its coolness, my breast; and face to face + standing, + Look I on God as He is, a sun unpolluted by vapours; + Look on the light of the ages I loved, the spirits majestic, + Nobler, better than I; they stand by the throne all transfigured, + Vested in white, and with harps of gold, and are singing an anthem, + Writ in the climate of heaven, in the language spoken by angels. + You, in like manner, ye children beloved, he one day shall gather, + Never forgets he the weary;—then welcome, ye loved ones, hereafter! + Meanwhile forget not the keeping of vows, forget not the promise, + Wander from holiness onward to holiness; earth shall ye heed not; + Earth is but dust and heaven is light; I have pledged you to heaven. + God of the Universe, hear me; thou fountain of Love everlasting, + Hark to the voice of thy servant! I send up my prayer to thy heaven! + Let me hereafter not miss at thy throne one spirit of all these, + Whom thou hast given me here! I have loved them all like a father. + May they bear witness for me, that I taught them the way of + salvation, + Faithful, so far as I knew, of thy word; again may they know me, + Fall on their Teacher’s breast, and before thy face may I place them, + Pure as they now are, but only more tried, and exclaiming with + gladness + Father, lo! I am here, and the children, whom thou hast given me!” + + Weeping he spake in these words; and now at the beck of the old + man, + Knee against knee they knitted a wreath round the altar’s enclosure. + Kneeling he read then the prayers of the consecration, and softly + With him the children read; at the close, with tremulous accents, + Asked he the peace of heaven, a benediction upon them. + Now should have ended his task for the day; the following Sunday + Was for the young appointed to eat of the Lord’s holy Supper. + Sudden, as struck from the clouds, stood the Teacher silent, and + laid his + Hand on his forehead, and cast his looks upward; while thoughts + high and holy + Flew through the midst of his soul, and his eyes glanced with + wonderful brightness. + “On the next Sunday, who knows! perhaps I shall rest in the + graveyard! + Some one perhaps of yourselves, a lily broken untimely, + Bow down his head to the earth; why delay I? the hour is + accomplished. + Warm is the heart;—I will! for to-day grows the harvest of heaven. + What I began accomplish I now; for what failing therein is, + I, the old man, will answer to God and the reverend father. + Say to me only, ye children, ye denizens new-come in heaven, + Are ye ready this day to eat of the bread of Atonement? + What it denoteth, that know ye full well, I have told it you often. + Of the new covenant a symbol it is, of Atonement a token, + ’Stablished between earth and heaven. Man by his sins and + transgressions + Far has wandered from God, from his essence. ’Twas in the beginning + Fast by the Tree of Knowledge he fell, and it hangs its crown o’er + the + Fall to this day; in the Thought is the Fall; in the Heart the + Atonement. + Infinite is the Fall, the Atonement infinite likewise. + See! behind me, as far as the old man remembers, and forward, + Far as Hope in her flight can reach with her wearied pinions, + Sin and Atonement incessant go through the lifetime of mortals. + Sin is brought forth full-grown; but Atonement sleeps in our bosoms + Still as the cradled babe; and dreams of heaven and of angels, + Cannot awake to sensation; is like the tones in the harp’s strings, + Spirits imprisoned, that wait evermore the deliverer’s finger. + Therefore, ye children beloved, descended the Prince of Atonement, + Woke the slumberer from sleep, and she stands now with eyes all + resplendent, + Bright as the vault of the sky, and battles with Sin and o’ercomes + her. + Downward to earth He came and transfigured, thence reascended, + Not from the heart in like wise, for there he still lives in the + Spirit, + Loves and atones evermore. So long as Time is, is Atonement. + Therefore with reverence take this day her visible token. + Tokens are dead if the things live not. The light everlasting + Unto the blind is not, but is born of the eye that has vision. + Neither in bread nor in wine, but in the heart that is hallowed + Lieth forgiveness enshrined; the intention alone of amendment + Fruits of the earth ennobles to heavenly things, and removes all + Sin and the guerdon of sin. Only Love with his arm wide extended, + Penitence weeping and praying; the Will that is tried, and whose + gold flows + Purified forth from the flames; in a word, mankind by Atonement + Breaketh Atonement’s bread, and drinketh Atonement’s wine-cup. + But he who cometh up hither, unworthy, with hate in his bosom, + Scoffing at men and at God, is guilty of Christ’s blessed body, + And the Redeemer’s blood! To himself he eateth and drinketh + Death and doom! And from this, preserve us, thou heavenly Father! + Are ye ready, ye children, to eat of the bread of Atonement?” + Thus with emotion he asked, and together answered the children + “Yes!” with deep sobs interrupted. Then read he the due + supplications, + Read the Form of Communion, and in chimed the organ and anthem; + “O! Holy Lamb of God, who takest away our transgressions, + Hear us! give us thy peace! have mercy, have mercy upon us!” + Th’ old man, with trembling hand, and heavenly pearls on his + eyelids, + Filled now the chalice and paten, and dealt round the mystical + symbols, + O! then seemed it to me, as if God, with the broad eye of mid-day, + Clearer looked in at the windows, and all the trees in the + churchyard + Bowed down their summits of green, and the grass on the graves ’gan + to shiver. + But in the children (I noted it well; I knew it) there ran a + Tremor of holy rapture along through their icy-cold members. + Decked like an altar before them, there stood the green earth, and + above it + Heaven opened itself, as of old before Stephen; they saw there + Radiant in glory the Father, and on his right hand the Redeemer. + Under them hear they the clang of harp-strings, and angels from gold + clouds + Beckon to them like brothers, and fan with their pinions of purple. + + Closed was the Teacher’s task, and with heaven in their hearts and + their faces, + Up rose the children all, and each bowed him, weeping full sorely, + Downward to kiss that reverend hand, but all of them pressed he + Moved to his bosom, and laid, with a prayer, his hands full of + blessings, + Now on the holy breast, and now on the innocent tresses. + +[133] The Feast of the Tabernacles; in Swedish, _Löfhyddohögtiden_, the +Leaf-huts’-high-tide. + +[134] The Peasant-painter of Sweden. He is known chiefly by his +altar-pieces in the village churches. + +[135] A distinguished pulpit-orator and poet. He is particularly +remarkable for the beauty and sublimity of his psalms. + + + + +TRANSLATIONS FROM THE GERMAN. + + +THE STATUE OVER THE CATHEDRAL DOOR. + +FROM JULIUS MOSEN. + + Forms of saints and kings are standing + The cathedral door above; + Yet I saw but one among them + Who hath soothed my soul with love. + + In his mantle,—wound about him, + As their robes the sowers wind,— + Bore he swallows and their fledglings, + Flowers and weeds of every kind. + + And so stands he calm and childlike! + High in wind and tempest wild; + O, were I like him exalted, + I would be like him, a child! + + And my songs,—green leaves and blossoms,— + To the doors of heaven would bear, + Calling, even in storm and tempest, + Round me still these birds of air. + + +THE HEMLOCK-TREE. + + O hemlock-tree! O hemlock-tree! how faithful are thy branches! + Green not alone in summer time, + But in the winter’s frost and rime! + O hemlock-tree! O hemlock-tree! how faithful are thy branches! + + O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is thy bosom! + To love me in prosperity, + And leave me in adversity! + O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is thy bosom! + + The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak’st for thine example! + So long as summer laughs she sings, + But in the autumn spreads her wings! + The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak’st for thine example! + + The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror of thy falsehood! + It flows so long as falls the rain, + In drought its springs soon dry again. + The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror of thy falsehood! + + +ANNIE OF THARAW. + +FROM THE LOW GERMAN OF SIMON DACH. + + Annie of Tharaw, my true love of old, + She is my life, and my goods, and my gold. + + Annie of Tharaw, her heart once again + To me has surrendered in joy and in pain. + + Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my good, + Thou, O my soul, my flesh and my blood! + + Then come the wild weather, come sleet, or come snow, + We will stand by each other, however it blow. + + Oppression, and sickness, and sorrow, and pain, + Shall be to our true love as links to the chain. + + As the palm-tree standeth so straight and so tall, + The more the hail beats, and the more the rains fall,— + + So love in our hearts shall grow mighty and strong, + Through crosses, through sorrows, through manifold wrong. + + Shouldst thou be torn from me to wander alone + In a desolate land where the sun is scarce known,— + + Through forests I’ll follow, and where the sea flows, + Through ice and through iron, through armies of foes. + + Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun, + The threads of our two lives are woven in one. + + Whate’er I have bidden thee thou hast obeyed, + Whatever forbidden thou hast not gainsaid. + + How in the turmoil of life can love stand, + Where there is not one heart, and one mouth, and one hand? + + Some seek for dissension, and trouble, and strife; + Like a dog and a cat live such man and wife. + + Annie of Tharaw, such is not our love; + Thou art my lambkin, my chick, and my dove. + + Whate’er my desire is, in thine may be seen; + I am king of the household, and thou art its queen. + + It is this, O my Annie, my heart’s sweetest rest, + That makes of us twain but one soul in one breast. + + This turns to a heaven the hut where we dwell; + While wrangling soon changes a home to a hell. + + +THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL. + +FROM JULIUS MOSEN. + + On the cross the dying Saviour + Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm, + Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling + In his pierced and bleeding palm. + + And by all the world forsaken, + Sees he how with zealous care + At the ruthless nail of iron + A little bird is striving there. + + Stained with blood and never tiring, + With its beak it doth not cease, + From the cross ’twould free the Saviour, + Its Creator’s Son release. + + And the Saviour speaks in mildness; + “Blest be thou of all the good! + Bear, as token of this moment, + Marks of blood and holy rood!” + + And that bird is called the Crossbill; + Covered all with blood so clear. + In the groves of pine it singeth + Songs, like legends, strange to hear. + + +POETIC APHORISMS. + +FROM THE SINNGEDICHTE OF FRIEDRICH VON LOGAU. + +SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. + + +MONEY. + + Whereunto is money good? + Who has it not wants hardihood, + Who has it has much trouble and care + Who once has had it has despair. + + +THE BEST MEDICINES. + + Joy and Temperance and Repose + Slam the door on the doctor’s nose. + + +SIN. + + Manlike is it to fall into sin, + Fiend-like is it to dwell therein, + Christ-like is it for sin to grieve, + God-like is it all sin to leave. + + +LAW OF LIFE. + + Live I, so live I, + To my Lord heartily, + To my Prince faithfully, + To my Neighbour honestly, + Die I, so die I. + + +POVERTY AND BLINDNESS. + + A blind man is a poor man, and blind a poor man is; + For the former seeth no man, and the latter no man sees. + + +CREEDS. + + Lutheran, Popish, Calvinistic, all these creeds and doctrines three + Extant are; but still the doubt is, where Christianity may be. + + +THE RESTLESS HEART. + + A millstone and the human heart, are driven ever round; + If they have nothing else to grind, they must themselves be ground. + + +CHRISTIAN LOVE. + + Whilom Love was like a fire, and warmth and comfort it bespoke; + But, alas! it is now quenched, and only bites us, like the smoke. + + +ART AND TACT. + + Intelligence and courtesy not always are combined; + Often in a wooden house a golden room we find. + + +RETRIBUTION. + + Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small; + Though with patience he stands waiting, with exactness grinds he all. + + +TRUTH. + + When by night the frogs are croaking, kindle but a torch’s fire, + Ha! how soon they all are silent! Thus Truth silences the liar. + + +RHYMES. + + If perhaps these rhymes of mine should sound not well in strangers’ + ears, + They have only to bethink them that it happens so with theirs; + For so long as words, like mortals, call a fatherland their own, + They will be most highly valued where they are best and longest + known. + + +THE SEA HATH ITS PEARLS. + +FROM HEINRICH HEINE. + + The sea hath its pearls, + The heaven hath its stars; + But my heart, my heart, + My heart hath its love. + + Great are the sea and the heaven; + Yet greater is my heart, + And fairer than pearls and stars + Flashes and beams my love. + + Thou little, youthful maiden, + Come unto my great heart; + My heart, and the sea, and the heaven, + Are melting away with love! + + +SONG OF THE SILENT LAND. + +FROM SALIS. + + Into the Silent Land! + Ah! who shall lead us thither? + Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, + And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand. + Who leads us with a gentle hand + Thither, O thither, + Into the Silent Land? + + Into the Silent Land! + To you, ye boundless regions + Of all perfection! Tender morning-visions + Of beauteous souls! The Future’s pledge and band! + Who in Life’s battle firm doth stand, + Shall bear Hope’s tender blossoms + Into the Silent Land! + + O Land! O Land! + For all the broken-hearted + The mildest herald by our faith allotted, + Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand + To lead us with a gentle hand + Into the land of the great Departed, + Into the Silent Land! + + +BLESSED ARE THE DEAD. + + O, how blest are ye whose toils are ended! + Who, through death, have unto God ascended! + Ye have arisen + From the cares which keep us still in prison. + + We are still as in a dungeon living, + Still oppressed with sorrow and misgiving; + Our undertakings + Are but toils, and troubles, and heart-breakings. + + Ye, meanwhile, are in your chambers sleeping, + Quiet, and set free from all our weeping; + No cross nor trial + Hinders your enjoyments with denial. + + Christ has wiped away your tears for ever; + Ye have that for which we still endeavour. + To you are chanted + Songs which yet no mortal ear have haunted. + + Ah! who would not, then, depart with gladness, + To inherit heaven for earthly sadness? + Who here would languish + Longer in bewailing and in anguish? + + Come, O Christ, and loose the chains that bind us! + Lead us forth, and cast this world behind us! + With thee, the Anointed, + Finds the soul its joy and rest appointed. + + +THE WAVE. + +FROM TIEDGE. + + Whither, thou turbid wave? + Whither, with so much haste, + As if a thief wert thou? + “I am the Wave of Life, + Stained with my margin’s dust; + From the struggle and the strife + Of the narrow stream I fly + To the Sea’s immensity, + To wash from me the slime + Of the muddy banks of Time.” + + +THE BIRD AND THE SHIP. + +FROM MÜLLER. + + “The rivers rush into the sea, + By castle and town they go; + The winds behind them merrily + Their noisy trumpets blow. + + “The clouds are passing far and high, + We little birds in them play; + And everything, that can sing and fly, + Goes with us, and far away. + + “I greet thee, bonny boat! Whither, or whence, + With thy fluttering golden band?“— + “I greet thee, little bird! To the wide sea + I haste from the narrow land. + + “Full and swollen is every sail; + I see no longer a hill, + I have trusted all to the sounding gale, + And it will not let me stand still. + + “And wilt thou, little bird, go with us? + Thou mayest stand on the mainmast tall, + For full to sinking is my house + With merry companions all.”— + + “I need not and seek not company, + Bonny boat, I can sing all alone; + For the mainmast tall too heavy am I, + Bonny boat, I have wings of my own. + + “High over the sails, high over the mast, + Who shall gainsay these joys? + When thy merry companions are still, at last + Thou shalt hear the sound of my voice. + + “Who neither may rest, nor listen may, + God bless them every one! + I dart away, in the bright blue day, + And the golden fields of the sun. + + “Thus do I sing my weary song, + Wherever the four winds blow; + And this same song, my whole life long, + Neither Poet nor Printer may know.” + + +THE HAPPIEST LAND. + +FRAGMENT OF A MODERN GERMAN BALLAD. + + There sat one day in quiet, + By an alehouse on the Rhine, + Four hale and hearty fellows, + And drank the precious wine. + + The landlord’s daughter filled their cups + Around the rustic board; + Then sat they all so calm and still, + And spake not one rude word. + + But, when the maid departed, + A Swabian raised his hand, + And cried, all hot and flushed with wine, + “Long live the Swabian land! + + “The greatest kingdom upon earth + Cannot with that compare; + With all the stout and hardy men + And the nut-brown maidens there.” + + “Ha!” cried a Saxon, laughing,— + And dashed his beard with wine; + “I had rather live in Lapland, + Than that Swabian land of thine! + + “The goodliest land on all this earth, + It is the Saxon land! + There have I as many maidens + As fingers on this hand!” + + “Hold your tongues! both Swabian and Saxon!” + A bold Bohemian cries; + “If there’s a heaven upon this earth, + In Bohemia it lies. + + “There the tailor blows the flute, + And the cobbler blows the horn, + And the miner blows the bugle, + Over mountain gorge and bourn.” + + * * * * * + + And then the landlord’s daughter + Up to heaven raised her hand, + And said, “Ye may no more contend,— + There lies the happiest land!” + + +WHITHER? + +FROM MÜLLER. + + I heard a brooklet gushing + From its rocky fountain near, + Down into the valley rushing, + So fresh and wondrous clear. + + I know not what came o’er me, + Nor who the counsel gave; + But I must hasten downward, + All with my pilgrim-stave. + + Downward, and ever farther, + And ever the brook beside; + And ever fresher murmured, + And ever clearer, the tide. + + Is this the way I was going? + Whither, O brooklet, say! + Thou hast, with thy soft murmur, + Murmured my senses away. + + What do I say of a murmur? + That can no murmur be; + ’Tis the water-nymphs that are singing + Their roundelays under me. + + Let them sing, my friend, let them murmur, + And wander merrily near; + The wheels of a mill are going + In every brooklet clear. + + +BEWARE! + + I know a maiden fair to see, + Take care! + She can both false and friendly be, + Beware! Beware! + Trust her not, + She is fooling thee! + + She has two eyes, so soft and brown, + Take care! + She gives a side-glance and looks down, + Beware! Beware! + Trust her not, + She is fooling thee! + + And she has hair of a golden hue, + Take care! + And what she says, it is not true, + Beware! Beware! + Trust her not, + She is fooling thee! + + She has a bosom as white as snow, + Take care! + She knows how much it is best to show, + Beware! Beware! + Trust her not, + She is fooling thee! + + She gives thee a garland woven fair, + Take care! + It is a fool’s-cap for thee to wear, + Beware! Beware! + Trust her not, + She is fooling thee! + + +SONG OF THE BELL. + + Bell! thou soundest merrily, + When the bridal party + To the church doth hie! + Bell! thou soundest solemnly, + When, on Sabbath morning, + Fields deserted lie! + + Bell! thou soundest merrily; + Tellest thou at evening, + Bed-time draweth nigh! + Bell! thou soundest mournfully; + Tellest thou the bitter + Parting hath gone by! + + Say! how canst thou mourn? + How canst thou rejoice? + Thou art but metal dull! + And yet all our sorrowings, + And all our rejoicings, + Thou dost feel them all! + + God hath wonders many, + Which we cannot fathom, + Placed within thy form! + When the heart is sinking, + Thou alone canst raise it, + Trembling in the storm! + + +THE DEAD. + +FROM STOCKMANN. + + How they so softly rest, + All, all the holy dead, + Unto whose dwelling-place + Now doth my soul draw near! + How they so softly rest, + All in their silent graves, + Deep to corruption + Slowly down sinking! + + And they no longer weep, + Here, where complaint is still! + And they no longer feel, + Here, where all gladness flies! + And by the cypresses + Softly o’ershadowed, + Until the Angel + Calls them, they slumber! + + +THE CASTLE BY THE SEA. + +FROM UHLAND. + + “Hast thou seen that lordly castle, + That Castle by the Sea? + Golden and red above it + The clouds float gorgeously. + + “And fain it would stoop downward + To the mirrored wave below; + And fain it would soar upward + In the evening’s crimson glow.” + + “Well have I seen that castle, + That Castle by the Sea, + And the moon above it standing, + And the mist rise solemnly.” + + “The winds and the waves of ocean, + Had they a merry chime? + Didst thou hear, from those lofty chambers, + The harp and the minstrel’s rhyme?” + + “The winds and the waves of ocean, + They rested quietly; + But I heard on the gale a sound of wail, + And tears came to mine eye.” + + “And sawest thou on the turrets + The King and his royal bride! + And the wave of their crimson mantles? + And the golden crown of pride? + + “Led they not forth, in rapture, + A beauteous maiden there? + Resplendent as the morning sun, + Beaming with golden hair?” + + “Well saw I the ancient parents; + Without the crown of pride; + They were moving slow, in weeds of woe, + No maiden was by their side!” + + +WANDERER’S NIGHT-SONGS. + +FROM GOETHE. + + +I. + + Thou that from the heaven’s art, + Every pain and sorrow stillest, + And the doubly wretched heart + Doubly with refreshment fillest. + I am weary with contending! + Why this rapture and unrest? + Peace descending + Come, ah, come into my breast! + + +II. + + O’er all the hill-tops + Is quiet now, + In all the tree-tops + Hearest thou + Hardly a breath; + The birds are asleep in the trees. + Wait; soon like these + Thou too shalt rest. + + +THE BLACK KNIGHT. + +FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. + + ’Twas Pentecost, the Feast of Gladness, + When woods and fields put off all sadness, + Thus began the King and spake; + “So from the halls + Of ancient Hofburgh’s walls, + A luxuriant spring shall break.” + + Drums and trumpets echo loudly, + Wave the crimson banners proudly. + From balcony the King looked on; + In the play of spears, + Fell all the cavaliers, + Before the monarch’s stalwart son. + + To the barrier of the fight + Rode at last a sable Knight. + “Sir Knight! your name and scutcheon say!” + “Should I speak it here, + Ye would stand aghast with fear; + I am a Prince of mighty sway!” + + When he rode into the lists, + The arch of heaven grew black with mists, + And the castle ’gan to rock. + At the first blow, + Fell the youth from saddle-bow, + Hardly rises from the shock. + + Pipe and viol call the dances, + Torch-light through the high hall glances; + Waves a mighty shadow in; + With manner bland + Doth ask the maiden’s hand, + Doth with her the dance begin; + + Danced in sable iron sark, + Danced a measure weird and dark, + Coldly clasped her limbs around. + From breast and hair + Down fall from her the fair + Flowerets, faded, to the ground. + + To the sumptuous banquet came + Every Knight and every Dame. + ’Twixt son and daughter all distraught, + With mournful mind + The ancient King reclined, + Gazed at them in silent thought. + + Pale the children both did look, + But the guest a beaker took; + “Golden wine will make you whole!” + The children drank, + Gave many a courteous thank; + “Oh, that draught was very cool!” + + Each the father’s breast embraces, + Son and daughter; and their faces + Colourless grow utterly. + Whichever way + Looks the fear-struck father grey, + He beholds his children die. + + “Woe! the blessed children both + Takest thou in the joy of youth; + Take me, too, the joyless father!” + Spake the grim Guest, + From his hollow, cavernous breast, + “Roses in the spring I gather!” + + +SILENT LOVE. + + Who love would seek, + Let him love evermore + And seldom speak; + For in love’s domain + Silence must reign; + Or it brings the heart + Smart + And pain. + + +THE LUCK OF EDENHALL. + +FROM UHLAND. + +[The tradition upon which this ballad is founded, and the “shards +of the Luck of Edenhall,” still exist in England. The goblet is in +the possession of Sir Christopher Musgrave, Bart., of Eden Hall, +Cumberland; and is not so entirely shattered as the ballad leaves it.] + + Of Edenhall, the youthful lord + Bids sound the festal trumpet’s call; + He rises at the banquet board, + And cries, ’mid the drunken revellers all, + “Now bring me the Luck of Edenhall!” + + The butler hears the words with pain, + The house’s oldest seneschal + Takes slow from its silken cloth again + The drinking glass of crystal tall; + They call it the Luck of Edenhall. + + Then said the lord: “This glass to praise, + Fill with red wine from Portugal!” + The grey-beard with trembling hand obeys; + A purple light shines over all, + It beams from the Luck of Edenhall. + + Then speaks the lord, and waves it light, + “This glass of flashing crystal tall + Gave to my sires the Fountain-Sprite; + She wrote in it: _If this glass doth fall, + Farewell then, O Luck of Edenhall_! + + “’Twas right a goblet the Fate should be + Of the joyous race of Edenhall! + Deep draughts drink we right willingly; + And willingly ring, with merry call, + Kling! klang! to the Luck of Edenhall!” + + First rings it deep, and full, and mild, + Like to the sound of a nightingale; + Then like the roar of a torrent wild; + Then mutters at last like the thunder’s fall, + The glorious Luck of Edenhall. + + “For its keeper takes a race of might, + The fragile goblet of crystal tall; + It has lasted longer than is right; + Kling! klang! with a harder blow than all + Will I try the Luck of Edenhall!” + + As the goblet ringing flies apart, + Suddenly cracks the vaulted hall; + And through the rift, the wild flames start; + The guests in dust are scattered all, + With the breaking Luck of Edenhall! + + In storms the foe, with fire and sword; + He in the night had scaled the wall, + Slain by the sword lies the youthful Lord, + But holds in his hand the crystal tall, + The shattered Luck of Edenhall. + + On the morrow the butler gropes alone, + The grey-beard in the desert-hall, + He seeks his lord’s burnt skeleton, + He seeks in the dismal ruin’s fall + The shards of the Luck of Edenhall. + + “The stone wall,” saith he, “doth fall aside, + Down must the stately columns fall; + Glass is this earth’s Luck and Pride; + In atoms shall fall this earthly ball + One day like the Luck of Edenhall!” + + +THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR. + +FROM PFIZER. + + A youth, light-hearted and content, + I wander through the world: + Here, Arab-like, is pitched my tent, + And straight again is furled. + + Yet oft I dream, that once a wife + Close in my heart was locked, + And in the sweet repose of life + A blessed child I rocked. + + I wake! Away that dream,—away! + Too long did it remain! + So long, that both by night and day + It ever comes again. + + The end lies ever in my thought; + To a grave so cold and deep + The mother beautiful was brought; + Then dropt the child asleep. + + But now the dream is wholly o’er, + I bathe mine eyes and see; + And wander through the world once more, + A youth so light and free. + + Two locks,—and they are wondrous fair,— + Left me that vision mild; + The brown is from the mother’s hair, + The blonde is from the child. + + And when I see that lock of gold, + Pale grows the evening-red; + And when the dark lock I behold, + I wish that I were dead. + + +REMORSE. + +FROM GRAF VON PLATEN. + + How I started up in the night, in the night, + Drawn on without rest or reprieval, + The streets, with their watchmen, were lost to my sight + As I wandered so light + In the night, in the night, + Through the gate with the arch mediæval. + + The mill-brook rushed through the rocky height, + I leaned o’er the bridge in my yearning; + Deep under me watched I the waves in their flight, + As they glided so light + In the night, in the night, + Yet backward not one was returning. + + O’erhead were revolving, so countless and bright, + The stars in melodious existence; + And with them the moon, more serenely bedight;— + They sparkled so light + In the night, in the night, + Through the magical measureless distance. + + And upward I gazed, in the night, in the night, + And again on the waves in their fleeting; + Ah woe! thou hast wasted thy days in delight, + Now silence thou light + In the night, in the night, + The Remorse in thy heart that is beating. + + + + +TRANSLATIONS FROM THE DANISH. + + +KING CHRISTIAN. + +A NATIONAL SONG OF DENMARK.—FROM JOHANNES EVALD. + + King Christian stood by the lofty mast + In mist and smoke; + His sword was hammering so fast, + Through Gothic helm and brain it passed; + Then sank each hostile hulk and mast, + In mist and smoke. + “Fly!” shouted they, “fly, he who can! + Who braves of Denmark’s Christian + The stroke?” + + Nils Juel gave heed to the tempest’s roar; + Now is the hour! + He hoisted his blood-red flag once more, + And smote upon the foe full sore, + And shouted loud through the tempest’s roar, + “Now is the hour!” + “Fly!” shouted they, “for shelter fly! + Of Denmark’s Juel who can defy + The power?” + + North Sea! a glimpse of Wessel rent + Thy murky sky! + Then champions to thine arms were sent; + Terror and Death glared where he went; + From the waves was heard a wail, that rent + Thy murky sky! + From Denmark, thunders Tordenskiol’, + Let each to Heaven commend his soul, + And fly! + + Path of the Dane to fame and might! + Dark-rolling wave! + Receive thy friend, who, scorning flight, + Goes to meet danger with despite, + Proudly as thou the tempest’s might, + Dark-rolling wave! + And amid pleasures and alarms, + And war and victory, be thine arms + My grave! + + +THE ELECTED KNIGHT. + +[The following strange and somewhat mystical ballad is from Nyerup and +Rahbek’s _Danske Viser_ of the Middle Ages. It seems to refer to the +first preaching of Christianity in the North, and to the institution +of Knight-Errantry. The three maidens I suppose to be Faith, Hope, +and Charity. The irregularities of the original have been carefully +preserved in the translation.] + + Sir Oluf he rideth over the plain, + Full seven miles broad and seven miles wide, + But never, ah never, can meet with the man + A tilt with him dare ride. + + He saw under the hill-side + A Knight full well equipped; + His steed was black, his helm was barred; + He was riding at full speed. + + He wore upon his spurs + Twelve little golden birds; + Anon he spurred his steed with a clang, + And there sat all the birds and sang. + + He wore upon his mail + Twelve little golden wheels; + Anon in eddies the wild wind blew, + And round and round the wheels they flew. + + He wore before his breast + A lance that was poised in rest; + And it was sharper than diamond-stone, + It made Sir Oluf’s heart to groan. + + He wore upon his helm + A wreath of ruddy gold; + And that gave him the Maidens Three, + The youngest was fair to behold. + + Sir Oluf questioned the Knight eftsoon + If he were come from heaven down; + “Art thou Christ of Heaven?” quoth he, + “So will I yield me unto thee.” + + “I am not Christ the Great, + Thou shalt not yield thee yet; + I am an Unknown Knight, + Three modest Maidens have me bedight.” + + “Art thou a Knight elected, + And have three Maidens thee bedight; + So shalt thou ride a tilt this day, + For all the Maidens’ honour!” + + The first tilt they together rode + They put their steeds to the test; + The second tilt they together rode, + They proved their manhood best; + + The third tilt they together rode, + Neither of them would yield; + The fourth tilt they together rode, + They both fell on the field. + + Now lie the lords upon the plain. + And their blood runs unto death; + Now sit the Maidens in the high tower. + The youngest sorrows till death. + + +CHILDHOOD. + + There was a time when I was very small, + When my whole frame was but an ell in height, + Sweetly, as I recall it, tears do fall, + And therefore I recall it with delight. + + I sported in my tender mother’s arms, + And rode a-horseback on best father’s knee; + Alike were sorrows, passions, and alarms, + And gold, and Greek, and love, unknown to me. + + Then seemed to me this world far less in size, + Likewise it seemed to me less wicked far; + Like points in heaven, I saw the stars arise, + And longed for wings that I might catch a star. + + I saw the moon behind the island fade, + And thought, “O, were I on that island there, + I could find out of what the moon is made, + Find out how large it is, how round, how fair!” + + Wondering, I saw God’s sun through western skies, + Sink in the ocean’s golden lap at night, + And yet upon the morrow early rise, + And paint the eastern heaven with crimson light; + + And thought of God, the gracious Heavenly Father, + Who made me, and that lovely sun on high, + And all those pearls of heaven thick-strung together, + Dropped, clustering, from his hand o’er all the sky. + + With childish reverence, my young lips did say + The prayer my pious mother taught to me; + “O Gentle God! O, let me strive alway + Still to be wise, and good, and follow thee!” + + So prayed I for my father and my mother, + And for my sister, and for all the town; + The king I knew not, and the beggar-brother, + Who, bent with age, went, sighing, up and down. + + They perished, the blithe days of boyhood perished, + And all the gladness, all the peace I knew! + Now have I but their memory, fondly cherished;— + God! may I never, never, lose that too! + + + + +MISCELLANEOUS TRANSLATIONS. + + +THE FUGITIVE. + +TARTAR SONG, FROM THE PROSE VERSION OF CHODZKO. + +I. + + “He is gone to the desert land! + I can see the shining mane + Of his horse on the distant plain, + As he rides with his Kossak band! + + “Come back, rebellious one! + Let thy proud heart relent; + Come back to my tall, white tent, + Come back, my only son! + + “Thy hand in freedom shall + Cast thy hawks, when morning breaks, + On the swans of the Seven Lakes, + On the lakes of Karajal. + + “I will give thee leave to stray + And pasture thy hunting steeds + In the long grass and the reeds + Of the meadows of Karaday. + + “I will give thee my coat of mail, + Of softest leather made, + With choicest steel inlaid; + Will not all this prevail?” + +II. + + “This hand no longer shall + Cast my hawks when morning breaks, + On the swans of the Seven Lakes, + On the lakes of Karajal. + + “I will no longer stray + And pasture my hunting steeds + In the long grass and the reeds + Of the meadows of Karaday. + + “Though thou give me thy coat of mail, + Of softest leather made, + With choicest steel inlaid, + All this cannot prevail. + + “What right hast thou, O Khan, + To me, who am mine own, + Who am slave to God alone, + And not to any man? + + “God will appoint the day + When I again shall be + By the blue, shallow sea, + Where the steel-bright sturgeons play. + + “God, who doth care for me, + In the barren wilderness, + On unknown hills, no less + Will my companion be. + + “When I wander, lonely and lost, + In the wind; when I watch at night + Like a hungry wolf, and am white + And covered with hoar-frost; + + “Yea, wheresoever I be, + In the yellow desert sands, + In mountains or unknown lands, + Allah will care for me!” + +III. + + Then Sobra, the old, old man,— + Three hundred and sixty years + Had he lived in this land of tears, + Bowed down and said, “O Khan!” + + “If you bid me, I will speak. + There’s no sap in dry grass, + No marrow in dry bones! Alas, + The mind of old men is weak! + + “I am old, I am very old: + I have seen the primeval man, + I have seen the great Gengis Khan + Arrayed in his robes of gold. + + “What I say to you is the truth; + And I say to you, O Khan, + Pursue not the star-white man, + Pursue not the beautiful youth. + + “Him the Almighty made, + And brought him forth of the light, + At the verge and end of the night, + When men on the mountain prayed. + + “He was born at the break of day, + When abroad the angels walk; + He hath listened to their talk, + And he knoweth what they say. + + “Gifted with Allah’s grace, + Like the moon of Ramazan + When it shines in the skies, O Khan, + Is the light of his beautiful face. + + “When first on earth he trod, + The first words that he said + Were these, as he stood and prayed, + There is no God but God! + + “And he shall be king of men, + For Allah hath heard his prayer, + And the Archangel in the air, + Gabriel, hath said, Amen!” + + +TO THE STORK. + +ARMENIAN POPULAR SONG, FROM THE PROSE VERSION OF ALISHAN. + + Welcome, O Stork! that dost wing + Thy flight from the far-away! + Thou hast brought us the signs of Spring, + Thou hast made our sad hearts gay. + + Descend, O Stork! descend + Upon our roof to rest; + In our ash-tree, O my friend, + My darling, make thy nest. + + To thee, O Stork, I complain, + O Stork, to thee I impart + The thousand sorrows, the pain + And aching of my heart. + + When thou away didst go, + Away from this tree of ours, + The withering winds did blow, + And dried up all the flowers. + + Dark grew the brilliant sky, + Cloudy and dark and drear; + They were breaking the snow on high, + And winter was drawing near. + + From Varaca’s rocky wall, + From the rock of Varaca unrolled, + The snow came and covered all, + And the green meadow was cold. + + O Stork, our garden with snow + Was hidden away and lost, + And the rose-trees that in it grow + Were withered by snow and frost. + + +THE BOY AND THE BROOK. + +ARMENIAN POPULAR SONG, FROM THE PROSE VERSION OF ALISHAN. + + Down from yon distant mountain height + The brooklet flows through the village street; + A boy comes forth to wash his hands, + Washing, yes washing, there he stands, + In the water cool and sweet. + + “Brook, from what mountain dost thou come? + O my brooklet cool and sweet!” + “I come from yon mountain high and cold, + Where lieth the new snow on the old, + And melts in the summer heat.” + + “Brook, to what river dost thou go? + O my brooklet cool and sweet!” + “I go to the river there below + Where in bunches the violets grow, + And sun and shadow meet.” + + “Brook, to what garden dost thou go? + O my brooklet cool and sweet!” + “I go to that garden in the vale + Where all night long the nightingale + Her love-song doth repeat.” + + “Brook, to what fountain dost thou go? + O my brooklet cool and sweet!” + “I go to that fountain, at whose brink + The maid that loves thee comes to drink, + And, whenever she looks therein, + I rise to meet her, and kiss her chin, + And my joy is then complete.” + + +THE SIEGE OF KAZAN. + +TARTAR SONG, FROM THE PROSE VERSION OF CHODZKO. + + Black are the moors before Kazan, + And their stagnant waters smell of blood: + I said in my heart, with horse and man, + I will swim across this shallow flood. + + Under the feet of Argamack, + Like new moons were the shoes he bare, + Silken trappings hung on his back, + In a talisman on his neck, a prayer. + + My warriors, thought I, are following me; + But when I looked behind, alas! + Not one of all the band could I see, + All had sunk in the black morass! + + Where are our shallow fords? and where + The power of Kazan with its fourfold gates? + From the prison windows our maidens fair + Talk of us still through the iron grates. + + We cannot hear them; for horse and man + Lie buried deep in the dark abyss! + Ah! the black day hath come down on Kazan! + Ah! was ever a grief like this? + + +COLUMBUS. + +A TRANSLATION FROM SCHILLER. + +The following lines, hitherto unpublished, were written for Charles +Sumner, and were read July 4, at Roseland Park, Woodstock, Connecticut:— + +I. + + Steer, bold mariner, on! albeit witlings deride thee + And the steersman drop idly his hand at the helm; + Ever, ever to Westward! There must the coast be discovered, + If it but lie distinct, luminous lie in thy mind. + +II. + + Trust to the God that leads thee, and follow the sea that is silent; + Did it not yet exist, now would it rise from the flood. + Nature with Genius stands united in league everlasting; + What is promised to one, surely the other performs. + + + + +Notes. + +Page 31. _All the Foresters of Flanders._ + +The title of Foresters was given to the early governors of Flanders, +appointed by the kings of France. Lyderick du Bucq, in the days of +Clotaire the Second, was the first of them; and Beaudoin Bras-de-Fer, +who stole away the fair Judith, daughter of Charles the Bald, from the +French court, and married her in Bruges, was the last. After him, the +title of Forester was changed to that of Count. Philippe d’Alsace, Guy +de Dampierre, and Louis de Crécy, coming later in the order of time, +were therefore rather Counts than Foresters. Philippe went twice to the +Holy Land as a Crusader, and died of the plague at St. Jean-d’Acre, +shortly after the capture of the city by the Christians. Guy de +Dampierre died in the prison of Compiègne. Louis de Crécy was son and +successor of Robert de Béthune, who strangled his wife, Yolande de +Burgogne, with the bridle of his horse, for having poisoned, at the age +of eleven years, Charles, his son by his first wife, Blanche d’Anjou. + +Page 31. _Stately dames like queens attended._ + +When Philippe-le-Bel, king of France, visited Flanders with his queen, +she was so astonished at the magnificence of the dames of Bruges, that +she exclaimed, “Je croyais être seule reine ici, mais il paraît que +ceux de Flandre qui se trouvent dans nos prisons sont tous des princes, +car leurs femmes sont habillées comme des princesses et des reines.” + +When the burgomasters of Ghent, Bruges, and Ypres went to Paris to +pay homage to King John, in 1351, they were received with great pomp +and distinction; but, being invited to a festival, they observed that +their seats at table were not furnished with cushions; whereupon, to +make known their displeasure at this want of regard to their dignity, +they folded their richly-embroidered cloaks and seated themselves upon +them. On rising from table, they left their cloaks behind them, and, +being informed of their apparent forgetfulness, Simon van Eertrycke, +burgomaster of Bruges, replied: “We Flemings are not in the habit of +carrying away our cushions after dinner.” + +Page 31. _Knights who bore the Fleece of Gold._ + +Philippe de Burgogne, surnamed Le Bon, espoused Isabella of Portugal, +on the 10th of January 1430; and on the same day instituted the famous +order of the Fleece of Gold. + +Page 31. _I beheld the gentle Mary._ + +Marie de Valois, Duchess of Burgundy, was left by the death of her +father, Charles-le-Téméraire, at the age of twenty, the richest heiress +of Europe. She came to Bruges, as Countess of Flanders, in 1477, and +in the same year was married by proxy to the Archduke Maximilian. +According to the custom of the time, the Duke of Bavaria, Maximilian’s +substitute, slept with the princess. They were both in complete dress, +separated by a naked sword, and attended by four armed guards. Marie +was adored by her subjects for her gentleness and her many other +virtues. + +Maximilian was the son of the Emperor Frederick the Third, and is the +same person mentioned afterwards in the poem of _Nuremberg_ as the +Kaiser Maximilian, and the hero of Pfinzing’s poem of _Teuerdank_. +Having been imprisoned by the revolted burghers of Bruges, they refused +to release him, till he consented to kneel in the public square, and to +swear on the Holy Evangelists and the body of Saint Donatus, that he +would not take vengeance upon them for their rebellion. + +Page 31. _The bloody battle of the Spurs of Gold._ + +This battle, the most memorable in Flemish history, was fought under +the walls of Courtray, on the 11th of July 1302, between the French and +the Flemings, the former commanded by Robert, Comte d’Artois, and the +latter by Guillaume de Juliers, and Jean, Comte de Namur. The French +army was completely routed, with a loss of twenty thousand infantry and +seven thousand cavalry, among whom were sixty-three princes, dukes, and +counts, seven hundred lords-banneret, and eleven hundred noblemen. The +flower of the French nobility perished on that day; to which history +has given the name of the _Journée des Eperons d’Or_, from the great +number of golden spurs found on the field of battle. Seven hundred of +them were hung up as a trophy in the church of Notre Dame de Courtray; +and as the cavaliers of that day wore but a single spur each, these +vouched to God for the violent and bloody death of seven hundred of his +creatures. + +Page 31. _Saw the fight at Minnewater._ + +When the inhabitants of Bruges were digging a canal at Minnewater +to bring the waters of the Lys from Deynze to their city, they were +attacked and routed by the citizens of Ghent, whose commerce would have +been much injured by the canal. They were led by Jean Lyons, captain +of a military company at Ghent, called the _Chaperons Blancs_. He had +great sway over the turbulent populace, who, in those prosperous times +of the city, gained an easy livelihood by labouring two or three days +in the week, and had the remaining four or five to devote to public +affairs. The fight at Minnewater was followed by open rebellion against +Louis de Maele, the Count of Flanders and Protector of Bruges. His +superb château of Wondelghem was pillaged and burnt, and the insurgents +forced the gates of Bruges, and entered in triumph, with Lyons mounted +at their head. A few days afterwards he died suddenly, perhaps by +poison. + +Meanwhile the insurgents received a check at the village of Nevèle; +and two hundred of them perished in the church, which was burnt by the +Count’s orders. One of the chiefs, Jean de Lannoy, took refuge in the +belfry. From the summit of the tower he held forth his purse filled +with gold, and begged for deliverance. It was in vain. His enemies +cried to him from below to save himself as best he might; and, half +suffocated with smoke and flame, he threw himself from the tower, and +perished at their feet. Peace was soon afterwards established, and the +Count retired to faithful Bruges. + +Page 35. _In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture +rare._ + +This pix, or tabernacle for the vessels of the sacrament, is by the +hand of Adam Kraft. It is an exquisite piece of sculpture, in white +stone, and rises to the height of sixty-four feet. It stands in the +choir, whose richly-painted windows cover it with varied colours. + +Page 56. _As Lope says._ + + “La cólera + de un Español sentado no se templa, + si no le representan en dos horas + hasta el final juicio desde el Génesis.” + _Lope de Vega._ + +Page 58. _Abernuncio Satanas._ + +“Digo, Señora, respondió Sancho, lo que tengo dicho, que de los azotes +abernuncio. Abrenuncio habeis de decir, Sancho, y no como decis, dijo +el Duque.”—_Don Quixote_, Part ii. c. xxxv. + +Page 64. _Fray Carillo._ + +The allusion here is to a Spanish epigram. + + “Siempre, Fray Carrillo, estás + cansándonos acá fuera; + quién en tu celda estuviera + para no verte jamás!” + + _Böhl de Faber._ _Floresta_, No. 611. + +Page 64. _Padre Francisco._ + +This is from an Italian popular song. + + “‘Padre Francesco, + Padre Francesco!’ + —Cosa volete del Padre Francesco— + ‘V’è una bella ragazzina + Che si vuole confessar!‘ + Fatte l’entrare, fatte l’entrare! + Che la voglio confessare!” + _Kopisch._ _Volksthümliche Poesien aus allen Mundarten + Italiens und seiner Inseln_, p. 194. + +Page 65. _Ave! cujus calcem clare._ + +From a monkish hymn of the twelfth century, in Sir Alexander Croke’s +_Essay on the Origin, Progress, and Decline of Rhyming Latin Verse_, p. +109. + +Page 73. _Asks if his money-bags would rise._ + +“Y volviéndome á un lado, ví á un Avariento, que estaba preguntando +á otro (que por haber sido embalsamado, y estar léxos sus tripas, no +hablaba porque no habian llegado si habian de resucitar aquel dia todos +los enterrados), si resucitarian unos bolsones suyos?”—_El Sueño de las +Calaveras._ + +Page 74. _The river of his thoughts._ + +This expression is from Dante:— + + “Si che chiaro + Per essa scenda della mente il fiume.” + +Byron has likewise used the expression; though I do not recollect in +which of his poems. [_The Dream._—EDITOR.] + +Page 75. _Mari Franca._ + + “Porque casó Mari Franca + cuatro leguas de Salamanca.” + +Page 75. _Ay, soft, emerald eyes._ + +The Spaniards, with good reason, consider this colour of the eye as +beautiful, and celebrate it in song; as, for example, in the well-known +_Villancico_:— + + “Ay ojuelos verdes, + ay los mis ojuelos, + ay hagan los cielos + que de mí te acuerdes! + + * * * * * + + Tengo confianza + de mis verdes ojos.” + _Böhl de Faber._ _Floresta_, No. 255. + +Dante speaks of Beatrice’s eyes as emeralds. _Purgatorio_, xxxi. 116. +Lami says, in his _Annotazioni_, “Erano i suoi occhi d’ un turchino +verdiccio, simie a quel del mare.” + +Page 76. _The Avenging Child._ + +See the ancient ballads of _El Infante Vengador_, and _Calaynos_. + +Page 76. _All are sleeping._ + +From the Spanish. _Böhl’s Floresta_, No. 282. + +Page 85. _Good Night!_ + +From the Spanish; as are likewise the songs immediately following, and +that which commences the first scene of Act III. + +Page 95. _The evil eye._ + +“In the Gitano language, casting the evil eye is called _Querelar +Nasula_, which simply means making sick, and which, according to the +common superstition, is accomplished by casting an evil look at people, +especially children, who, from the tenderness of their constitution, +are supposed to be more easily blighted than those of a more mature +age. After receiving the evil glance, they fall sick, and die in a few +hours. + +“The Spaniards have very little to say respecting the evil eye, though +the belief in it is very prevalent, especially in Andalusia, amongst +the lower orders. A stag’s horn is considered a good safeguard, and on +that account a small horn, tipped with silver, is frequently attached +to the children’s necks by means of a cord braided from the hair of +a black mare’s tail. Should the evil glance be cast, it is imagined +that the horn receives it, and instantly snaps asunder. Such horns may +be purchased in some of the silversmiths’ shops at Seville.”—BORROW’S +_Zincali_, vol. i. c. ix. + +Page 96. _On the top of a mountain I stand._ + +This and the following scraps of song are from Borrow’s _Zincali; or, +An Account of the Gipsies in Spain_. + +Page 103. _If thou art sleeping, maiden._ + +From the Spanish; as is likewise the song of the Contrabandista below. + +Page 158. + + _For these bells have been anointed + And baptized with holy water_! + +The Consecration and Baptism of Bells is one of the most curious +ceremonies of the Church in the Middle Ages. The Council of Cologne +ordained as follows:— + +“Let the bells be blessed, as the trumpets of the Church militant, by +which the people are assembled to hear the word of God; the clergy to +announce his mercy by day, and his truth in their nocturnal vigils: +that by their sound the faithful may be invited to prayers, and that +the spirit of devotion in them may be increased. The fathers have +also maintained that demons affrighted by the sound of bells calling +Christians to prayers, would flee away; and when they fled, the persons +of the faithful would be secure: that the destruction of lightnings +and whirlwinds would be averted, and the spirits of the storm +defeated.”—_Edinburgh Encyclopædia_, Art. “Bells.” See also Scheible’s +_Kloster_, vi. 776. + +Page 178. _It is the malediction of Eve_! + +“Nec esses plus quam femina, quæ nunc etiam viros transcendis, et quæ +maledictionem Evæ in benedictionem vertisti Mariæ.”—_Epistola Abælardi +Heloissæ._ + +Page 194. _To come back to my text._ + +In giving this sermon of Friar Cuthbert, as a specimen of the _Risus +Paschales_, or street preaching of the monks at Easter, I have +exaggerated nothing. This very anecdote, offensive as it is, comes +from a discourse of Father Barletta, a Dominican friar of the fifteenth +century, whose fame as a popular preacher was so great, that it gave +rise to the proverb— + + _Nescit predicare + Qui nescit Barettare._ + +“Among the abuses introduced in this century,” says Tiraboschi, “was +that of exciting from the pulpit the laughter of the hearers; as if +that were the same thing as converting them. We have examples of this +not only in Italy, but also in France, where the sermons of Menot and +Maillard, and of others, who would make a better appearance on the +stage than in the pulpit, are still celebrated for such follies.” + +If the reader is curious to see how far the freedom of speech was +carried in these popular sermons, he is referred to Scheible’s +_Kloster_, vol. i., where he will find extracts from Abraham à Sancta +Clara, Sebastian, Frank, and others; and, in particular, an anonymous +discourse called _Der Gräuel der Verwüstung_—The Abomination of +Desolation—preached at Ottakring, a village west of Vienna, November +25, 1782, in which the licence of language is carried to its utmost +limit. + +See also _Prédicatoriana, ou Révélations singulières et amusantes sur +les Prédicateurs; par G. P. Philomneste_. (Menin.) This work contains +extracts from the popular sermons of St. Vincent Ferrier, Barletta, +Menot, Maillard, Marini, Raulin, Valladier, De Besse, Camus, Père +André, Bening, and the most eloquent of all, Jacques Brydaine. + +My authority for the spiritual interpretation of bell-ringing, which +follows, is Durandus, _Ration_. _Divin Offic._, Lib. i. cap. 4. + +Page 197. THE NATIVITY: A Miracle-Play. + +The earliest mystery or religious play which has been preserved is the +_Christos Paschon_ of Gregory Nazianzen, written in Greek in the fourth +century. Next to this come the remarkable Latin plays of Roswitha, +the nun of Gandersheim, in the tenth century, which, though crude, +and wanting in artistic construction, are marked by a good deal of +dramatic power and interest. A handsome edition of these plays, with a +French translation, has been lately published, entitled, _Théatre de +Rotsvitha, Religieuse Allemande du Xᵉ Siècle_. _Par Charles Magnin._ +Paris, 1845. + +The most important collections of English Mysteries and Miracle-Plays +are those known as the Townley, the Chester, and the Coventry plays. +The first of these collections has been published by the Surtees +Society, and the other two by the Shakespeare Society. In his +introduction to the Coventry Mysteries, the editor, Mr. Halliwell, +quotes the following passage from Dugdale’s _Antiquities of +Warwickshire_:— + +“Before the suppression of the monasteries, this city was very famous +for the pageants that were played therein, upon Corpus Christi day; +which, occasioning very great confluence of people thither, from +far and near, was of no small benefit thereto; which pageants being +acted with mighty state and reverence by the friars of this house, +had theatres for the several scenes, very large and high, placed +upon wheels, and drawn to all the eminent parts of the city, for the +better advantage of the spectators; and contained the story of the +New Testament, composed into old English Rithme, as appeareth by an +ancient MS., intituled _Ludus Corporis Christi_, or _Ludus Conventriæ_. +I have been told by some old people, who in their younger years were +eye-witnesses of these pageants so acted, that the yearly confluence of +people to see that show was extraordinary great, and yielded no small +advantage to this city.” + +The representation of religious plays has not yet been wholly +discontinued by the Roman Church. At Ober-Ammergau in the Tyrol, a +grand spectacle of this kind is exhibited once in ten years. A very +graphic description of that which took place in the year 1850 is given +by Miss Anna Mary Howitt, in her _Art-Student in Munich_, vol. i. chap. +iv. She says:— + +“We had come expecting to feel our souls revolt at so material a +representation of Christ, as any representation of him we naturally +imagined must be in a peasant’s Miracle-Play. Yet so far, strange to +confess, neither horror, disgust, nor contempt was excited in our +minds. Such an earnest solemnity and simplicity breathed throughout the +whole of the performance, that to me, at least, anything like anger, or +a perception of the ludicrous, would have seemed more irreverent on my +part than was this simple, childlike rendering of the sublime Christian +tragedy. We felt at times as though the figures of Cimabue’s, Giotto’s, +and Perugino’s pictures had become animated, and were moving before us; +there was the same simple arrangement and brilliant colour of drapery; +the same earnest, quiet dignity about the heads, whilst the entire +absence of all theatrical effect wonderfully increased the illusion. +There were scenes and groups so extraordinarily like the early Italian +pictures, that you could have declared they were the works of Giotto +and Perugino, and not living men and women, had not the figures moved +and spoken, and the breeze stirred their richly-coloured drapery, and +the sun cast long, moving shadows behind them on the stage. These +effects of sunshine and shadow, and of drapery fluttered by the wind, +were very striking and beautiful; one could imagine how the Greeks must +have availed themselves of such striking effects in their theatres open +to the sky.” + +Mr. Bayard Taylor, in his _Eldorado_, gives a description of a Mystery +he saw performed at San Lionel, in Mexico. See vol. ii. chap. xi. + +“Against the wing-wall of the Hacienda del Mayo, which occupied one end +of the plaza, was raised a platform, on which stood a table covered +with scarlet cloth. A rude bower of cane-leaves, on one end of the +platform, represented the manger of Bethlehem; while a cord, stretched +from its top across the plaza to a hole in the front of the church, +bore a large tinsel star suspended by a hole in its centre. There +was quite a crowd in the plaza, and very soon a procession appeared, +coming up from the lower part of the village. The three kings took the +lead; the Virgin, mounted on an ass that gloried in a gilded saddle +and rose-besprinked mane and tail, followed them, led by the angel; +and several women, with curious masks of paper, brought up the rear. +Two characters of the harlequin sort—one with a dog’s head on his +shoulders, and the other a bald-headed friar, with a huge hat hanging +on his back—played all sorts of antics for the diversion of the crowd. +After making the circuit of the plaza, the Virgin was taken to the +platform, and entered the manger. King Herod took his seat at the +scarlet table, with an attendant in blue coat and red sash, whom I took +to be his Prime Minister. The three kings remained on their horses +in front of the church; but between them and the platform, under the +string on which the star was to slide, walked two men in long white +robes and blue hoods, with parchment folios in their hands. These were +the Wise Men of the East, as one might readily know from their solemn +air, and the mysterious glances which they cast towards all quarters of +the heavens. + +“In a little while, a company of women on the platform, concealed +behind a curtain, sang an angelic chorus to the tune of ‘O pescator +dell’ onda.’ At the proper moment, the Magi turned towards the +platform, followed by the star, to which a string was conveniently +attached, that it might be slid along the line. The three kings +followed the star till it reached the manger, when they dismounted, and +inquired for the sovereign whom it had led them to visit. They were +invited upon the platform and introduced to Herod, as the only king; +this did not seem to satisfy them, and, after some conversation, they +retired. By this time the star had receded to the other end of the +line, and commenced moving forward again, they following. The angel +called them into the manger, where, upon their knees, they were shown +a small wooden box, supposed to contain the sacred infant; they then +retired, and the star brought them back no more. After this departure, +King Herod declared himself greatly confused by what he had witnessed, +and was very much afraid this newly-found king would weaken his +power. Upon consultation with his Prime Minister, the Massacre of the +Innocents was decided upon as the only means of security. + +“The angel, on hearing this, gave warning to the Virgin, who quickly +got down from the platform, mounted her bespangled donkey, and hurried +off. Herod’s Prime Minister directed all the children to be handed +up for execution. A boy, in a ragged sarape, was caught and thrust +forward; the Minister took him by the heels in spite of his kicking, +and held his head on the table. The little brother and sister of the +boy, thinking he was really to be decapitated, yelled at the top of +their voices in an agony of terror, which threw the crowd into a roar +of laughter. King Herod brought down his sword with a whack on the +table, and the Prime Minister, dipping his brush into a pot of white +paint which stood before him, made a flaring cross on the boy’s face. +Several other boys were caught and served likewise; and finally, +the two harlequins, whose kicks and struggles nearly shook down the +platform. The procession then went off up the hill, followed by the +whole population of the village. All the evening there were fandangos +in the méson, bonfires and rockets on the plaza, ringing of bells, +and high mass in the church, with the accompaniment of two guitars, +tinkling to lively polkas.” + +In 1852 there was a representation of this kind by Germans in +Boston; and I have now before me the copy of a playbill, announcing +the performance on June 10, 1852, in Cincinnati, of the “Great +Biblico-Historical Drama, the Life of Jesus Christ,” with the +characters and the names of the performers. + +Page 211. THE SCRIPTORIUM. + +A most interesting volume might be written on the Calligraphers and +Chrysographers, the transcribers and illuminators of manuscripts in +the Middle Ages. These men were for the most part monks, who laboured +sometimes for pleasure and sometimes for penance, in multiplying copies +of the classics and the Scriptures. + +“Of all bodily labours which are proper for us,” says Cassiodorus, the +old Calabrian monk, “that of copying books has always been more to my +taste than any other. The more so, as in this exercise the mind is +instructed by the reading of the Holy Scriptures, and it is a kind of +homily to the others, whom these books may reach. It is preaching with +the hand, by converting the fingers into tongues: it is publishing to +men in silence the words of salvation; in fine, it is fighting against +the demon with pen and ink. As many words as a transcriber writes, so +many wounds the demon receives. In a word, a recluse, seated in his +chair to copy books, travels into different provinces, without moving +from the spot, and the labour of his hands is felt even where he is +not.” + +Nearly every monastery was provided with its Scriptorium. Nicholas de +Clairvaux, St. Bernard’s secretary, in one of his letters, describes +his cell, which he calls Scriptoriolum, where he copied books. And +Mabillon, in his _Études Monastiques_, says that in his time were +still to be seen at Citeaux “many of those little cells where the +transcribers and bookbinders worked.” + +Silvestre’s _Paléographie Universelle_ contains a vast number of +facsimiles of the most beautiful illuminated manuscripts of all ages +and all countries; and Montfaucon in his _Palæographia Græca_ gives the +names of over three hundred calligraphers. He also gives an account +of the books they copied, and the colophons, with which, as with a +satisfactory flourish of the pen, they closed their long-continued +labours. Many of these are very curious; expressing joy, humility, +remorse; entreating the reader’s prayers and pardon for the writer’s +sins; and sometimes pronouncing a malediction on any one who should +steal the book. A few of these I subjoin:— + +“As pilgrims rejoice, beholding their native land, so are transcribers +made glad, beholding the end of a book.” + +“Sweet is it to write the end of any book.” + +“Ye who read, pray for me, who have written this book, the humble and +sinful Theodulus.” + +“As many, therefore, as shall read this book, pardon me, I beseech you, +if aught I have erred in accent acute and grave, in apostrophe, in +breathing soft or aspirate; and may God save you all. Amen.” + +“If anything is well, praise the transcriber; if ill, pardon his +unskilfulness.” + +“Ye who read, pray for me, the most sinful of all men, for the Lord’s +sake.” + +“The hand that has written this book shall decay, alas! and become +dust, and go down to the grave, the corrupter of all bodies. But all +ye who are of the portion of Christ, pray that I may obtain the pardon +of my sins. Again and again I beseech you with tears, brothers and +fathers, accept my miserable supplication, O holy choir! I am called +John, woe is me! I am called Hiereus, or Sacerdos, in name only, not in +unction.” + +“Whoever shall carry away this book, without permission of the Pope, +may he incur the malediction of the Holy Trinity, of the Holy Mother of +God, of Saint John the Baptist, of the one hundred and eighteen holy +Nicene Fathers, and of all the Saints; the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah; +and the halter of Judas; anathema, amen.” + +“Keep safe, O Trinity, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, my three fingers, +with which I have written this book.” + +“Mathusalas Machir transcribed this divinest book in toil, infirmity, +and dangers many.” + +“Bacchius Barbardorius and Michael Sophianus wrote this book in sport +and laughter, being the guests of their noble and common friend +Vincentius Pinellus, and Petrus Nunnius, a most learned man.” + +This last colophon, Montfaucon does not suffer to pass without reproof. +“Other calligraphers,” he remarks, “demand only the prayers of their +readers, and the pardon of their sins; but these glory in their +wantonness.” + +Page 217. _Drink down to your peg._ + +One of the canons of Archbishop Anselm, promulgated at the beginning of +the twelfth century, ordains “that priests go not to drinking bouts, +nor drink to pegs.” In the times of the hard-drinking Danes, King Edgar +ordained that “pins or nails should be fastened into the drinking-cups +or horns at stated distances, and whosoever shall drink beyond those +marks at one draught should be obnoxious to a severe punishment.” + +Sharpe, in his _History of the Kings of England_, says: “Our ancestors +were formerly famous for compotation; their liquor was ale, and one +method of amusing themselves in this way was with the peg-tankard. I +had lately one of them in my hand. It had on the inside a row of eight +pins, one above another, from top to bottom. It held two quarts, and +was a noble piece of plate, so that there was a gill of ale, half a +pint, Winchester measure, between each peg. The law was, that every +person that drank was to empty the space between pin and pin, so that +the pins were so many measures to make the company all drink alike, and +to swallow the same quantity of liquor. This was a pretty sure method +of making all the company drunk, especially if it be considered that +the rule was, that whosoever drank short of his pin, or beyond it, was +obliged to drink again, and even as deep as to the next pin.” + +Page 218. _The Convent of St. Gildas de Rhuys._ + +Abelard, in a letter to his friend Philintus, gives a sad picture +of this monastery. “I live,” he says, “in a barbarous country, the +language of which I do not understand; I have no conversation, but +with the rudest people. My walks are on the inaccessible shore of a +sea, which is perpetually stormy. My monks are only known by their +dissoluteness, and living without any rule or order. Could you see +the abbey, Philintus, you would not call it one. The doors and walls +are without any ornament, except the heads of wild boars and hinds’ +feet, which are nailed up against them, and the hides of frightful +animals. The cells are hung with the skins of deer. The monks have not +so much as a bell to wake them, the cocks and dogs supply that defect. +In short, they pass their whole days in hunting: would to Heaven that +were their greatest fault, or that their pleasures terminated there! +I endeavour in vain to recall them to their duty; they all combine +against me, and I only expose myself to continual vexations and +dangers. I imagine I see every moment a naked sword hang over my head. +Sometimes they surround me, and load me with infinite abuses; sometimes +they abandon me, and I am left alone to my own tormenting thoughts. I +make it my endeavour to merit by my sufferings, and to appease an angry +God. Sometimes I grieve for the loss of the house of the Paraclete, +and wish to see it again. Ah, Philintus, does not the love of Heloise +still burn in my heart? I have not yet triumphed over that unhappy +passion. In the midst of my retirement I sigh, I weep, I pine, I speak +the dear name Heloise, and am pleased to hear the sound.”—_Letters of +the celebrated Abelard and Heloise. Translated by Mr. John Hughes._ +Glasgow, 1751. + +Page 232. _Were it not for my magic garters and staff._ + +The method of making the Magic Garters and the Magic Staff is thus +laid down in _Les Secrets Merveilleux du Petit Albert_, a French +translation of _Alberti Parvi Lucii Libellus de Mirabilibus Naturæ +Arcanis_:— + +“Gather some of the herb called motherwort, when the sun is entering +the first degree of the sign of Capricorn; let it dry a little in the +shade, and make some garters of the skin of a young hare; that is to +say, having cut the skin of the hare into strips two inches wide, +double them, sew the before-mentioned herb between, and wear them +on your legs. No horse can long keep up with a man on foot who is +furnished with these garters.”—P. 128. + +“Gather, on the morrow of All Saints, a strong branch of willow, of +which you will make a staff, fashioned to your liking. Hollow it out, +by removing the pith from within, after having furnished the lower end +with an iron ferrule. Put into the bottom of the staff the two eyes +of a young wolf, the tongue and heart of a dog, three green lizards, +and the hearts of three swallows. These must all be dried in the sun, +between two papers, having been first sprinkled with finely-pulverised +saltpetre. Besides all these, put into the staff seven leaves of +vervain, gathered on the eve of St. John the Baptist, with a stone +of divers colours, which you will find in the nest of the lapwing, +and stop the end of the staff with a pomel of box, or of any other +material you please, and be assured that this staff will guarantee you +from the perils and mishaps which too often befall travellers, either +from robbers, wild beasts, mad dogs, or venomous animals. It will also +procure you the good-will of those with whom you lodge.”—P. 130. + +Page 237. _Saint Elmo’s stars._ + +So the Italian sailors call the phosphorescent gleams that sometimes +play about the masts and rigging of ships. + +Page 238. THE SCHOOL OF SALERNO. + +For a history of the celebrated schools of Salerno and Monte-Cassino, +the reader is referred to Sir Alexander Croke’s introduction to the +_Regimen Sanitatis Salernitanum_; and Kurt Sprengel’s _Geschichte der +Arzneikunde_, i. 463, or Jourdan’s French translation of it, _Histoire +de la Médecine_, ii. 354. + +Page 255. THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. + +This Indian Edda—if I may so call it—is founded on a tradition +prevalent among the North American Indians, of a personage of +miraculous birth who was sent among them to clear their rivers, +forests, and fishing-grounds, and to teach them the arts of peace. He +was known among different tribes by the several names of Michabou, +Chiabo, Manabozo, Tarenyawagon, and Hiawatha. Mr. Schoolcraft gives +an account of him in his _Algic Researches_, vol. i. p. 134; and in +his _History, Condition, and Prospects of the Indian Tribes of the +United States_, Part iii. p. 314, may be found the Iroquois form of the +tradition, derived from the verbal narrations of an Onondaga chief. + +Into this old tradition I have woven other curious Indian legends, +drawn chiefly from the various and valuable writings of Mr. +Schoolcraft, to whom the literary world is greatly indebted for his +indefatigable zeal in rescuing from oblivion so much of the legendary +lore of the Indians. + +The scene of the poem is among the Ojibways on the southern shore of +Lake Superior, in the region between the Pictured Rocks and the Grand +Sable. + + +VOCABULARY TO THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. + + Adjidau’mo, _the red squirrel_. + Ahdeek’, _the reindeer_. + Ahmeek’, _the beaver_. + Algonquin, _Ojibway_. + Annemee’kee, _the thunder_. + Apuk’wa, _a bulrush_. + Baim-wa’wa, _the sound of the thunder_. + Bemah’gut, _the grape-vine_. + Bena, _the pheasant_. + Big-Sea-Water, _Lake Superior_. + Bukadawin, _famine_. + Cheemaun’, _a birch canoe_. + Chetowaik’, _the plover_. + Chibia’bos, _a musician_; _friend of Hiawatha_; + _ruler in the Land of Spirits_. + Dahin’da, _the bull-frog_. + Dush-kwo-ne’-she, _or_ Kwo-ne’-she, _the dragon-fly_. + Esa, _shame upon you_. + Ewa-yea’, _lullaby_. + Gitche Gu’mee, _the Big-Sea-Water, Lake Superior_. + Gitche Man’ito, _the Great Spirit, the Master of Life_. + Gushkewau’, _the darkness_. + Hiawa’tha, _the Prophet, the Teacher_; _son of Mudjekeewis, + the West-Wind, and Wenonah, daughter of Nokomis_. + Ia’goo, _a great boaster and story-teller_. + Inin’ewug, _men, or pawns in the Game of the Bowl_. + Ishkoodah’, _fire, a comet_. + Jee’bi, _a ghost, a spirit_. + Joss’akeed, _a prophet_. + Kabibonok’ka, _the North-Wind_. + Ka’go, _do not_. + Kagh, _the Hedgehog_. + Kahgahgee’, _the raven_. + Kaw, _no_. + Kaween’, _no indeed_. + Kayoshk’, _the sea-gull_. + Keego, _a fish_. + Keeway’din, _the North-west wind, the Home-wind_. + Kena’beek, _a serpent_. + Keneu’, _the great war-eagle_. + Keno’zha, _the pickerel_. + Ko’ko-ko’ho, _the owl_. + Kuntasoo’, _the Game of Plum-stones_. + Kwa’sind, _the Strong Man_. + Kwo-ne’-she, _or_ Dush-kwo-ne’-she, _the dragon-fly_. + Mahnahbe’zee, _the swan_. + Mahng, _the loon_. + Mahn-go-tay’see, _loon-hearted, brave_. + Mahnomo’nee, _wild rice_. + Ma’ma, _the woodpecker_. + Maskeno’zha, _the pike_. + Me’da, a _medicine-man_. + Meenah’ga, _the blueberry_. + Megissog’won, _the Great Pearl-Feather, a magician, and the Manito + of Wealth_. + Meshinau’wa, _a pipe-bearer_. + Minjekah’wun, _Hiawatha’s mittens_. + Minneha’ha, _Laughing Water_; _a waterfall on a stream + running into the Mississippi, between Fort Snelling + and the Falls of St. Anthony_. + Minneha’ha, _Laughing Water_; _wife of Hiawatha_. + Minne-wa’wa, _a pleasant sound, as of the wind in the trees_. + Mishe-Mo’kwa, _the Great Bear_. + Mishe-Nah’ma, _the Great Sturgeon_. + Miskodeed’, _the Spring-Beauty, the Claytonia Virginica_. + Monda’min, _Indian corn_. + Moon of Bright Nights, _April_. + Moon of Leaves, _May_. + Moon of Strawberries, _June_. + Moon of the Falling Leaves, _September_. + Moon of Snow-shoes, _November_. + Mudjekee’wis, _the West-Wind_; _father of Hiawatha_. + Mudway-aush’ka, _sound of waves on a shore_. + Mushkoda’sa, _the grouse_. + Nah’ma, _the sturgeon_. + Nah’ma-wusk, _the spearmint_. + Na’gow Wudjoo’, _the Sand Dunes of Lake Superior_. + Nee-ba-naw-baigs, _water-spirits_. + Nenemoo’sha, _sweetheart_. + Nepah’win, _sleep_. + Noko’mis, _a grandmother_; _mother of Wenonah_. + No’sa, _my father_. + Nush’ka, _look! look!_ + Odah’min, _the strawberry_. + Okahah’wis, _the fresh-water herring_. + Ome’me, _the pigeon_. + Ona’gon, _a bowl_. + Onaway’, _awake_. + Opechee’, _the robin_. + Osse’o, _Son of the Evening Star_. + Owais’sa, _the blue-bird_. + Oweenee’, _wife of Osseo_. + Ozawa’beek, _a round piece of brass or copper in the + Game of the Bowl_. + Pah-puk-kee’-na, _the grasshopper_. + Pau’guk, _death_. + Pau-Puk-Kee’wis, _the handsome Yenadizze, the Storm-Fool_. + Pawwa’ting, _Saut Sainte Marie_. + Pe’boan, _Winter_. + Pem’ican, _meat of the deer or buffalo dried and pounded_. + Pezhekee’, _the bison_. + Pishnekuh’, _the brant_. + Pone’mah, _hereafter_. + Pugasaing, _game of the bowl_. + Puggawau’gun, _a war-club_. + Puk-Wudj’ies, Puk-Wudj-In-in’ees, _little wild men of the + woods_; _pigmies_. + Sah-sah-je’-wun, _rapids_. + Sah’wa, _the perch_. + Segwun’, _Spring_. + Sha’da, _the pelican_. + Shahbo’min, _the gooseberry_. + Shah-shah, _long ago_. + Shaugoda’ya, _a coward_. + Shawgashee’, _the craw-fish_. + Shawonda’see, _the South-Wind_. + Shaw-shaw, _the swallow_. + Shesh’ebwug, _ducks_; _pieces in the Game of the Bowl_. + Shin’gebis, _the diver, or greebe_. + Showain’neme’shin, _pity me_. + Shuh’shuh’gah, _the blue heron_. + Soan-ge-ta’ha, _strong-hearted_. + Subbeka’she, _the spider_. + Sugge’ma, _the mosquito_. + To’tem, _family coat of arms_. + Ugh, _yes_. + Ugudwash’, _the sun-fish_. + Unktahee’, _the God of Water_. + Wabas’so, _the rabbit_; _the North_. + Wabe’no, _a magician, a juggler_. + Wabe’no-wusk, _yarrow_. + Wa’bun, _the East-Wind_. + Wa’bun An’nung, _the Star of the East, the Morning Star_. + Wahono’min, _a cry of lamentation_. + Wah-way-tay’see, _the fire-fly_. + Wam’pum, _beads of shell_. + Waubewy’on, _a white skin wrapper_. + Wa’wa, _the wild-goose_. + Waw’beek, _a rock_. + Waw-be-wa’wa, _the white goose_. + Wawonais’sa, _the whippoorwill_. + Way-muk-kwa’na, _the caterpillar_. + Weno’nah, _the eldest daughter_. _Hiawatha’s mother_; + _daughter of Nokomis_. + Yenadiz’ze, _an idler and gambler_; _an Indian dandy_. + +Page 255. _In the Vale of Tawasentha._ + +This valley, now called Norman’s Kill, is in Albany County, New York. + +Page 256. _On the mountains of the Prairie._ + +Mr. Catlin, in his _Letters and Notes on the Manners, Customs, and +Condition of the North American Indians_, vol. ii. p. 160, gives +an interesting account of the _Côteau des Prairies_, and the Red +Pipe-stone Quarry. He says:— + +“Here (according to their traditions) happened the mysterious birth +of the red pipe, which has blown its fumes of peace and war to the +remotest corners of the continent; which has visited every warrior, +and passed through its reddened stem the irrevocable oath of war and +desolation. And here, also, the peace-breathing calamet was born, and +fringed with the eagle’s quills, which has shed its thrilling fumes +over the land, and soothed the fury of the relentless savage. + +“The Great Spirit at an ancient period here called the Indian Nations +together, and, standing on the precipice of the red pipe-stone rock, +broke from its wall a piece, and made a huge pipe by turning it in his +hand, which he smoked over them, and to the North, the South, the East, +and the West, and told them that this stone was red—that it was their +flesh—that they must use it for their pipes of peace—that it belonged +to them all, and that the war-club and scalping-knife must not be +raised on its ground. At the last whiff of his pipe his head went into +a great cloud, and the whole surface of the rock for several miles was +melted and glazed; two great ovens were opened beneath, and two women +(guardian spirits of the place) entered them in a blaze of fire; and +they are heard there yet (Tso-mec-cos-tee and Tso-me-cos-te-won-dee), +answering to the invocations of the high-priests or medicine men, who +consult them when they are visitors to this sacred place.” + +Page 258. _Hark you, Bear! you are a coward._ + +This anecdote is from Heckewelder. In his account of the _Indian +Nations_, he describes an Indian hunter as addressing a bear in +nearly these words. “I was present,” he says, “at the delivery of +this curious invective; when the hunter had despatched the bear, I +asked him how he thought that poor animal could understand what he +said to it! ‘Oh,’ said he in answer, ‘the bear understood me very +well; did you not observe how ashamed he looked while I was upbraiding +him?’”—_Transactions of the American Philosophical Society_, vol. i. p. +240. + +Page 262. _Hush! the Naked Bear will get thee!_ + +Heckewelder, in a letter published in the _Transactions of the American +Philosophical Society_, vol. iv. p. 260, speaks of this tradition as +prevalent among the Mohicans and Delawares. + +“Their reports,” he says, “run thus: that among all animals that had +been formerly in this country, this was the most ferocious; that it +was much larger than the largest of the common bears, and remarkably +long-bodied; all over (except a spot of hair on its back of a white +colour) naked.... + +“The history of this animal used to be a subject of conversation among +the Indians, especially when in the woods a-hunting. I have also heard +them say to their children when crying: ‘Hush! the naked bear will hear +you, be upon you, and devour you.’” + +Page 266. _Where the Falls of Minnehaha, etc._ + +“The scenery about Fort Snelling is rich in beauty. The Falls of St. +Anthony are familiar to travellers, and to readers of Indian sketches. +Between the fort and these falls are the ‘Little Falls,’ forty feet in +height, on a stream that empties into the Mississippi. The Indians call +them Mine-hah-hah, or ‘laughing waters.’”—MRS. EASTMAN’S _Dacotah, or +Legends of the Sioux_, Introd. p. ii. + +Page 283. _Sand Hills of the Nagow Wudjoo._ + +A description of the _Grand Sable_, or great sand-dunes of Lake +Superior, is given in Foster and Witney’s _Report on the Geology of the +Lake Superior Land District_, Part ii. p. 131. + +“The Grand Sable possesses a scenic interest little inferior to that +of the Pictured Rocks. The explorer passes abruptly from a coast of +consolidated sand to one of loose materials; and although in the one +case the cliffs are less precipitous, yet in the other they attain a +higher altitude. He sees before him a long reach of coast, resembling +a vast sand-bank, more than three hundred and fifty feet in height, +without a trace of vegetation. Ascending to the top, rounded hillocks +of blown sand are observed, with occasional clumps of trees, standing +out like oases in the desert.” + +Page 284. _Onaway! Awake, beloved!_ + +The original of this song may be found in Littell’s _Living Age_, vol. +XXV. p. 45. + +Page 285. _Or the Red Swan floating, flying._ + +The fanciful tradition of the Red Swan may be found in Schoolcraft’s +_Algic Researches_, vol. ii. p. 9. Three brothers were hunting on a +wager to see who would bring home the first game. + +“They were to shoot no other animal,” so the legend says, “but such as +each was in the habit of killing. They set out different ways; Odjibwa, +the youngest, had not gone far before he saw a bear, an animal he was +not to kill by the agreement. He followed him close, and drove an arrow +through him, which brought him to the ground. Although contrary to the +bet, he immediately commenced skinning him, when suddenly something +red tinged all the air around him. He rubbed his eyes, thinking he was +perhaps deceived; but without effect, for the red hue continued. At +length he heard a strange noise at a distance. It first appeared like +a human voice, but after following the sound for some distance, he +reached the shores of a lake, and soon saw the object he was looking +for. At a distance out on the lake sat a most beautiful Red Swan, whose +plumage glittered in the sun, and who would now and then make the same +noise he had heard. He was within long bow-shot, and, pulling the arrow +from the bow-string up to his ear, took deliberate aim and shot. The +arrow took no effect; and he shot and shot again till his quiver was +empty. Still the swan remained, moving round and round, stretching +its long neck and dipping its bill into the water, as if heedless of +the arrows shot at it. Odjibwa ran home, and got all his own and his +brother’s arrows, and shot them all away. He then stood and gazed +at the beautiful bird. While standing, he remembered his brother’s +saying that in their deceased father’s medicine-sack were three magic +arrows. Off he started, his anxiety to kill the swan overcoming all +scruples. At any other time he would have deemed it sacrilege to open +his father’s medicine-sack; but now he hastily seized the three arrows +and ran back, leaving the other contents of the sack scattered over the +lodge. The swan was still there. He shot the first arrow with great +precision, and came very near it. The second came still closer; as he +took the last arrow, he felt his arm firmer, and, drawing it up with +vigour, saw it pass through the neck of the swan a little above the +breast. Still it did not prevent the bird from flying off, which it +did, however, at first slowly, flapping its wings and rising gradually +into the air, and then flying off towards the sinking of the sun.”—Pp. +10-12. + +Page 288. _When I think of my beloved._ + +The original of this song may be found in _Oneóta_, p. 15. + +Page 289. _Sing the mysteries of Mondamin._ + +The Indians hold the maize, or Indian corn, in great veneration. “They +esteem it so important and divine a grain,” says Schoolcraft, “that +their story-tellers invented various tales, in which this idea is +symbolized under the form of a special gift from the Great Spirit. The +Odjibwa-Algonquins, who called it Mondá-min, that is, the Spirit’s +grain or berry, have a pretty story of this kind, in which the stalk in +full tassel is represented as descending from the sky, under the guise +of a handsome youth, in answer to the prayers of a young man at his +fast of virility, or coming to manhood. + +“It is well known that corn-planting, and corn-gathering, at least +among all the still _uncolonized_ tribes, are left entirely to the +females and children, and a few superannuated old men. It is not +generally known, perhaps, that this labour is not compulsory, and that +it is assumed by the females as a just equivalent, in their view, for +the onerous and continuous labour of the other sex, in providing meats, +and skins for clothing, by the chase, and in defending their villages +against their enemies, and keeping intruders off their territories. A +good Indian housewife deems this part of her prerogative, and prides +herself to have a store of corn to exercise her hospitality, or duly +honour her husband’s hospitality in the entertainment of the lodge +guests.”—_Oneóta_, p. 82. + +Page 289. _Thus the fields shall be more fruitful._ + +“A singular proof of this belief, in both sexes, of the mysterious +influence of the steps of a woman on the vegetable and insect creation, +is found in an ancient custom, which was related to me, respecting +corn-planting. It was the practice of the hunter’s wife, when the field +of corn had been planted, to choose the first dark or over-clouded +evening to perform a secret circuit, _sans habilement_, around the +field. For this purpose she slipped out of the lodge in the evening, +unobserved, to some obscure nook, where she completely disrobed. Then, +taking her matchecota, or principal garment, in one hand, she dragged +it around the field. This was thought to ensure a prolific crop, and +to prevent the assaults of insects and worms upon the grain. It was +supposed they could not creep over the charmed line.”—_Oneóta_, p. 83. + +Page 290. _With his prisoner-string he bound him._ + +“These cords,” says Mr. Tanner, “are made of the bark of the elm-tree, +by boiling and then immersing it in cold water.... The leader of a war +party commonly carries several fastened about his waist, and if, in +the course of the fight, any one of his young men takes a prisoner, it +is his duty to bring him immediately to the chief, to be tied, and the +latter is responsible for his safe-keeping.”—_Narrative of Captivity +and Adventures_, p. 412. + + Page 291. _Wagemin, the thief of corn-fields. + Paimosaid, the skulking robber._ + +“If one of the young female huskers finds a red ear of corn, it is +typical of a brave admirer, and is regarded as a fitting present to +some young warrior. But if the ear be _crooked_, and tapering to a +point, no matter what colour, the whole circle is set in a roar, and +_wa-ge-min_ is the word shouted aloud. It is the symbol of a thief in +the corn-field. It is considered as the image of an old man stooping +as he enters the lot. Had the chisel of Praxiteles been employed to +produce this image, it could not more vividly bring to the minds of the +merry group the idea of a pilferer of their favourite mondámin.... + +“The literal meaning of the term is, a mass, or crooked ear of grain; +but the ear of corn so called, is a conventional type of a little old +man pilfering ears of corn in a corn-field. It is in this manner that a +single word or term, in these curious languages, becomes the fruitful +parent of many ideas. And we can thus perceive why it is that the word +wa-ge-min is alone competent to excite merriment in the husking circle. + +“This term is taken as the basis of the cereal chores, or corn-song, as +sung by the Northern Algonquin tribes. It is coupled with the phrase +_Paimosaid_, a permutative form of the Indian substantive, made from +the verb _pimp-o-sa_, to walk. Its literal meaning is, _he who walks_, +or _the walker_; but the ideas conveyed by it are, he who walks by +night to pilfer corn. It offers, therefore, a kind of parallelism in +expression to the preceding term.”—_Oneóta_, p. 254. + +Page 296. _Pugasaing, with thirteen pieces._ + +This game of the Bowl is the principal game of hazard among the +Northern tribes of Indians. Mr. Schoolcraft gives a particular account +of it in _Oneóta_, p. 85. “This game,” he says, “is very fascinating +to some portions of the Indians. They stake at it their ornaments, +weapons, clothing, canoes, horses, everything, in fact, they possess; +and have been known, it is said, to set up their wives and children, +and even to forfeit their own liberty. Of such desperate stakes I +have seen no examples, nor do I think the game itself in common use. +It is rather confined to certain persons, who hold the relative rank +of gamblers in Indian society—men who are not noted as hunters or +warriors, or steady providers for their families. Among these are +persons who bear the term of _Ienadizze-wug_, that is, wanderers +about the country, braggadocios, or fops. It can hardly be classed +with the popular games of amusenent, by which skill and dexterity are +acquired. I have generally found the chiefs and graver men of the +tribes, who encouraged the young men to play ball, and are sure to be +present at the customary sports, to witness, and sanction, and applaud +them, speak lightly and disparagingly of this game of hazard. Yet it +cannot be denied that some of the chiefs, distinguished in war and the +chase, at the West, can be referred to as lending their example to its +fascinating power.” + +See also his _History, Condition, and Prospects of the Indian Tribes_, +Part ii. p. 72. + +Page 302. _To the Pictured Rocks of Sandstone._ + +The reader will find a long description of the Pictured Rocks in +Foster and Whitney’s _Report on the Geology of the Lake Superior Land +District_, Part ii. p. 124. From this I make the following extract:— + +“The Pictured Rocks may be described, in general terms, as a series +of sandstone bluffs extending along the shore of Lake Superior for +about five miles, and rising in most places vertically from the +water, without any beach at the base, to a height varying from fifty +to nearly two hundred feet. Were they simply a line of cliffs, they +might not, so far as relates to height or extent, be worthy of a rank +among great natural curiosities, although such an assemblage of rocky +strata, washed by the waves of the great lake, would not, under any +circumstances, be destitute of grandeur. To the voyager coasting along +their base in his frail canoe, they would at all times be an object +of dread; the recoil of the surf, the rock-bound coast, affording for +miles no place of refuge—the lowering sky, the rising wind—all these +would excite his apprehension, and induce him to ply a vigorous oar +until the dreaded wall was passed. But in the Pictured Rocks there are +two features which communicate to the scenery a wonderful and almost +unique character. These are, first, the curious manner in which the +cliffs have been excavated and worn away by the action of the lake, +which for centuries has dashed an ocean-like surf against their base; +and second, the equally curious manner in which large portions of the +surface have been coloured by bands of brilliant hues. + +“It is from the latter circumstance that the name by which these cliffs +are known to the American traveller is derived; while that applied +to them by the French voyageurs (‘Les Portails’) is derived from the +former, and by far the most striking peculiarity. + +“The term _Pictured Rocks_ has been in use for a great length of time; +but when it was first applied, we have been unable to discover. It +would seem that the first travellers were more impressed with the novel +and striking distribution of colours on the surface than with the +astonishing variety of form into which the cliffs themselves have been +worn.... + +“Our voyageurs had many legends to relate of the pranks of the +_Menni-bojou_ in these caverns, and, in answer to our inquiries, seemed +disposed to fabricate stories without end of the achievements of this +Indian deity.” + +Page 311. _Towards the sun his hands were lifted._ + +In this manner, and with such salutations, was Father Marquette +received by the Illinois. See his _Voyages et Découvertes_, section v. + +Page 434. _Like imperial Charlemagne._ + +During his lifetime he did not disdain, says Montesquieu, “to sell the +eggs from the farm-yards of his domains, and the superfluous vegetables +of his gardens; while he distributed among his people the wealth of the +Lombards and the immense treasures of the Huns.” + +Page 529. _Coplas de Manrique._ + +Don Jorge Manrique, the author of this poem, flourished in the last +half of the fifteenth century. He followed the profession of arms, and +died on the field of battle. Mariana, in his history of Spain, makes +honourable mention of him, as being present at the siege of Uclès; and +speaks of him as “a youth of estimable qualities, who in this war gave +brilliant proofs of his valour. He died young; and was thus cut off +from long exercising his great virtues, and exhibiting to the world the +light of his genius, which was already known to fame.” He was mortally +wounded in a skirmish near Cañavete, in the year 1479. + +The name of Rodrigo Manrique, the father of the poet, Conde de Parades +and Maestre de Santiago, is well known in Spanish history and song. He +died in 1476; according to Mariana, in the town of Uclès; but according +to the poem of his son, in Ocaña. It was his death that called forth +the poem upon which rests the literary reputation of the younger +Manrique. In the language of his historian, “Don Jorge Manrique, in an +elegant Ode, full of poetic beauties, rich embellishments of genius, +and high moral reflections, mourned the death of his father as with a +funeral hymn.” This praise is not exaggerated. The poem is a model in +its kind. Its conception is solemn and beautiful; and, in accordance +with it, the style moves on—calm, dignified, and majestic. + +This poem of Manrique is a great favourite in Spain. No less than four +poetic glosses, or running commentaries upon it, have been published, +no one of which, however, possesses great poetic merit. That of the +Carthusian monk, Rodrigo de Valdepenas, is the best. It is known as the +_Glosa del Cartujo_. There is also a prose Commentary by Luis de Aranda. + + * * * * * + +The following stanzas of the poem were found in the author’s pocket +after his death on the field of battle:— + + “O World! so few the years we live, + Would that the life which thou dost give + Were life indeed! + Alas! thy sorrows fall so fast, + Our happiest hour is when at last + The soul is freed. + + “Our days are covered o’er with grief, + And sorrows neither few nor brief + Veil all in gloom; + Left desolate of real good, + Within this cheerless solitude + No pleasures bloom. + + “Thy pilgrimage begins in tears, + And ends in bitter doubts and fears, + Or dark despair; + Midway so many toils appear, + That he who lingers longest here + Knows most of care. + + “Thy goods are bought with many a groan, + By the hot sweat of toil alone, + And weary hearts; + Fleet-footed is the approach of woe, + But with a lingering step and slow + Its form departs.” + +Page 546. _A Christmas Carol._ + +The following description of Christmas in Burgundy is from M. +Fertiault’s _Coup d’œil sur les Noels en Bourgogne_, prefixed to +the Paris edition of _Les Noels Bourguignons de la Monnoye_ (_Gui +Barozai_), 1842:— + +“Every year, at the approach of Advent, people refresh their memories, +clear their throats, and begin preluding, in the long evenings by +the fireside, those carols whose invariable and eternal theme is the +coming of the Messiah. They take from old closets, pamphlets, little +collections begrimed with dust and smoke, to which the press, and +sometimes the pen, has consigned these songs; and as soon as the first +Sunday of Advent sounds, they gossip, they gad about, they sit together +by the fireside, sometimes at one house, sometimes at another, taking +turns in paying for the chestnuts and white wine, but singing with +one common voice the grotesque praises of the _Little Jesus_. There +are very few villages even, which, during all the evenings of Advent, +do not hear some of these curious canticles shouted in their streets, +to the nasal drone of bagpipes. In this case the minstrel comes as a +reinforcement to the singers at the fireside; he brings and adds his +dose of joy (spontaneous or mercenary, it matters little which) to the +joy which breathes around the hearthstone; and when the voices vibrate +and resound, one voice more is always welcome. There, it is not the +purity of the notes which makes the concert, but the quantity—_non +qualitas sed quantitas_; then (to finish at once with the ministrel), +when the Saviour has at length been born in the manger, and the +beautiful Christmas-eve is passed, the rustic piper makes his round +among the houses, where every one compliments and thanks him, and, +moreover, gives him in a small coin the price of the shrill notes with +which he has enlivened the evening entertainments. + +“More or less, until Christmas-eve, all goes on in this way among our +devout singers, with the difference of some gallons of wine or some +hundreds of chestnuts. But this famous eve once come, the scale is +pitched upon a higher key; the closing evening must be a memorable +one. The toilet is begun at nightfall; then comes the hour of supper, +admonishing divers appetites; and groups, as numerous as possible, are +formed, to take together this comfortable evening repast. The supper +finished, a circle gathers around the hearth, which is arranged and +set in order this evening after a particular fashion, and which at a +later hour of the night is to become the object of special interest to +the children. On the burning brands an enormous log has been placed. +This log assuredly does not change its nature, but it changes its +name during this evening; it is called the _Suche_ (the Yule-log). +‘Look you,’ say they to the children, ‘if you are good this evening, +Noël’ (for with children one must always personify) ‘will rain down +sugar-plums in the night.’ And the children sit demurely, keeping as +quiet as their turbulent little natures will permit. The groups of +older persons, not always as orderly as the children, seize this good +opportunity to surrender themselves with merry hearts and boisterous +voices to the chanted worship of the miraculous Noël. For this final +solemnity they have kept the most powerful, the most enthusiastic, the +most electrifying carols. Noël! Noël! Noël! This magic word resounds on +all sides; it seasons every sauce; it is served up with every course. +Of the thousands of canticles which are heard on this famous eve, +ninety-nine in a hundred begin and end with this word; which is, one +may say, their Alpha and Omega, their crown and footstool.” + +Page 546. _The blind girl of Castèl-Cuillè._ + +The following description of Jasmin’s person and way of life is taken +from the graphic pages of _Béarn and the Pyrenees_, by Louisa Stuart +Costello, whose charming pen has done so much to illustrate the French +provinces and their literature:— + +“At the entrance of the promenade du Gravier is a row of small +houses—some _cafés_, others shops, the indication of which is a +painted cloth, placed across the way, with the owner’s name in bright +gold letters, in the manner of the arcades in the streets, and their +announcements. One of the most glaring of these was, we observed, a +bright blue flag, bordered with gold; on which, in large gold letters, +appeared the name of ‘Jasmin, coiffeur.’ We entered, and were welcomed +by a smiling, dark-eyed woman, who informed us that her husband was +busy at that moment, dressing a customer’s hair, but he was desirous to +receive us, and begged we would walk into his parlour at the back of +the shop. + + * * * * * + +“She exhibited to us a laurel crown of gold, of delicate workmanship, +sent from the city of Clemence Isaure, Toulouse, to the poet; who will +probably one day take his place in the _capitoul_. Next came a golden +cup, with an inscription in his honour, given by the citizens of Auch; +a gold watch, chain, and seals, sent by the king, Louis Philippe; an +emerald ring, worn and presented by the lamented Duke of Orleans; a +pearl pin, by the graceful Duchess, who, on the poet’s visit to Paris, +accompanied by his son, received him in the words he puts into the +mouth of Henri Quatre:— + + ‘Brabes Gascous! + A moun amou per bous aou dibes creyre; + Benès! benès! cy plazé de bous beyre; + Aproucha bous!’ + +A fine service of linen, the offering of the town of Pau, after its +citizens had given fêtes in his honour, and loaded him with caresses +and praises; and nicknacks and jewels of all descriptions, offered +to him by lady-ambassadresses and great lords; English ‘misses’ and +‘miladis;’ and French and foreigners of all nations who did or did not +understand Gascon. + +“All this, though startling, was not convincing; Jasmin, the barber, +might only be a fashion, a _furore_, a caprice, after all; and it +was evident that he knew how to get up a scene well. When we had +become nearly tired of looking over these tributes to his genius, the +door opened, and the poet himself appeared. His manner was free and +unembarrassed, well-bred, and lively; he received our compliments +naturally, and like one accustomed to homage; said he was ill, and +unfortunately too hoarse to read anything to us, or should have been +delighted to do so. He spoke with a broad Gascon accent, and very +rapidly and eloquently; ran over the story of his successes; told us +that his grandfather had been a beggar, and all his family very poor; +that he was now as rich as he wished to be; his son placed in a good +position at Nantes; then showed us his son’s picture, and spoke of his +disposition, to which his brisk little wife added that, though no fool, +he had not his father’s genius, to which truth Jasmin assented as a +matter of course. I told him of having seen mention made of him in an +English review; which he said had been sent him by Lord Durham, who +had paid him a visit: and I then spoke of ‘Mi cal mouri’ as known to +me. This was enough to make him forget his hoarseness and every other +evil: it would never do for me to imagine that that little song was +his best composition; it was merely his first; he must try to read to +me a little of ‘L’Abuglo,’ a few verses of ‘Françonnette.’ ‘You will +be charmed,’ said he; ‘but if I were well, and you would give me the +pleasure of your company for some time, if you were not merely running +through Agen, I would kill you with weeping—I would make you die with +distress for my poor Margarido—my pretty Françonnette!’ + +“He caught up two copies of his book from a pile lying on the table, +and making us sit close to him, he pointed out the French translation +on one side, which he told us to follow, while he read in Gascon. +He began in a rich soft voice, and as he advanced, the surprise of +Hamlet on hearing the player-king recite the disasters of Hecuba was +but a type of ours, to find ourselves carried away by the spell of +his enthusiasm. His eyes swam in tears; he became pale and red; he +trembled; he recovered himself; his face was now joyous, now exulting, +gay, jocose; in fact, he was twenty actors in one; he rang the changes +from Rachel to Bouffé; and he finished by delighting us, besides +beguiling us of our tears, and overwhelming us with astonishment. + +“He would have been a treasure on the stage; for he is still, though +his first youth is past, remarkably good-looking and striking; with +black, sparkling eyes of intense expression; a fine ruddy complexion; +a countenance of wondrous mobility; a good figure, and action full of +fire and grace; he has handsome hands, which he uses with infinite +effect; and, on the whole, he is the best actor of the kind I ever +saw. I could now quite understand what a troubadour or _jongleur_ +might be, and I look upon Jasmin as a revived specimen of that extinct +race. Such as he is might have been Gaucelm Faidit, of Avignon, the +friend of Cœur de Lion, who lamented the death of the hero in such +moving strains; such might have been Bernard de Ventadour, who sang the +praises of Queen Elinore’s beauty; such Geoffrey Rudel, of Blaye, on +his own Garonne; such the wild Vidal; certain it is that none of these +troubadours of old could more move, by their singing or reciting, than +Jasmin, in whom all their long-smothered fire and traditional magic +seem re-illumined. + +“We found we had stayed hours instead of minutes with the poet; but he +would not hear of any apology—only regretted that his voice was so out +of tune, in consequence of a violent cold, under which he was really +labouring, and hoped to see us again. He told us our countrywomen of +Pau had laden him with kindness and attention, and spoke with such +enthusiasm of the beauty of certain ‘misses,’ that I feared his little +wife would feel somewhat piqued; but, on the contrary, she stood by, +smiling and happy, and enjoying the stories of his triumphs. I remarked +that he had restored the poetry of the troubadours; asked him if he +knew their songs; and said he was worthy to stand at their head. ‘I +am, indeed, a troubadour,’ said he with energy; ‘but I am far beyond +them all; they were but beginners; they never composed a poem like +my Françonnette! there are no poets in France now—there cannot be; +the language does not admit of it; where is the fire, the spirit, the +expression, the tenderness, the force of the Gascon? French is but +the ladder to reach the first floor of Gascon—how can you get up to a +height except by a ladder?’ + + * * * * * + +“I returned by Agen, after an absence in the Pyrenees of some months, +and renewed my acquaintance with Jasmin and his dark-eyed wife. I did +not expect that I should be recognised; but the moment I entered the +little shop I was hailed as an old friend. ‘Ah!’ cried Jasmin, ‘enfin +la violà encore!’ I could not but be flattered by this recollection, +but soon found it was less on my own account that I was thus welcomed, +than because a circumstance had occurred to the poet which he thought +I could perhaps explain. He produced several French newspapers, in +which he pointed out to me an article headed, ‘Jasmin à Londres;’ being +a translation of certain notices of himself, which had appeared in a +leading English literary journal. He had, he said, been informed of the +honour done him by numerous friends, and assured me his fame had been +much spread by this means; and he was so delighted on the occasion, +that he had resolved to learn English, in order that he might judge of +the translations from his works, which, he had been told, were well +done. I enjoyed his surprise, while I informed him I knew who was the +reviewer and translator; and explained the reason for the verses giving +pleasure in an English dress to be the superior simplicity of the +English language over modern French, for which he has a great contempt, +as unfitted for lyrical composition. He inquired of me respecting +Burns, to whom he had been likened; and begged me to tell him +something of Moore. The delight of himself and his wife was amusing, at +having discovered a secret which had puzzled them so long. + +“He had a thousand things to tell me; in particular, that he had only +the day before received a letter from the Duchess of Orleans, informing +him that she had ordered a medal of her late husband to be struck, the +first of which would be sent to him: she also announced to him the +agreeable news of the king having granted him a pension of a thousand +francs. He smiled and wept by turns, as he told all this; and declared, +much as he was elated at the possession of a sum which made him a rich +man for life, the kindness of the duchess gratified him even more. + +“He then made us sit down while he read us two new poems; both charming +and full of grace and _naïveté_; and one very affecting, being an +address to the king, alluding to the death of his son. As he read, his +wife stood by, and, fearing we did not quite comprehend his language, +she made a remark to that effect: to which he answered, impatiently, +‘Nonsense—don’t you see they are in tears?’ This was unanswerable; and +we were allowed to hear the poem to the end; and I certainly never +listened to anything more feelingly and energetically delivered. + +“We had much conversation, for he was anxious to detain us, and, in the +course of it, he told me that he had been by some accused of vanity. +‘O,’ he rejoined, ‘what would you have? I am a child of nature, and +cannot conceal my feelings; the only difference between me and a man of +refinement is, that he knows how to conceal his vanity and exultation +at success, which I let everybody see.’”—_Béarn and the Pyrenees_, i. +369 _et seq._ + +Page 600. _Nils Juel._ + +Nils Juel was a celebrated Danish Admiral, and Peder Wessel a +Vice-Admiral, who for his great prowess received the popular title +of Tordenskiold, or _Thundershield_. In childhood he was a tailor’s +apprentice, and rose to his higher rank before the age of twenty-eight, +when he was killed in a duel. + +[Illustration] + + + + +INDEX OF FIRST LINES. + + + PAGE + A blind man is a poor man, 589 + A cold, uninterrupted rain, 392 + A fleet with flags arrayed, 492 + A handful of red sand, from the hot clime, 151 + A little bird in the air, 374 + A millstone and the human heart, 589 + A mist was driving down the British Channel, 462 + A strain of music closed the tale, 380 + A wind came up out of the sea, 475 + A youth, light-hearted and content, 598 + After a day of cloud and wind and rain, 447 + Again the tossing boughs shut out the scene, 446 + Ah Love, 87 + Ah! what pleasant visions haunt me, 148 + All are architects of Fate, 150 + All day has the battle raged, 378 + All houses wherein men have lived and died, 463 + All praised the Legend more or less, 412 + All the old gods are dead, 369 + Am I a king, that I should call my own, 500 + An angel with a radiant face, 559 + An old man in a lodge within a park, 441 + And King Olaf heard the cry, 359 + And now, behold! as at the approach of morning, 538 + And now I sit and muse on what may be, 445 + And then the blue-eyed Norseman told, 358 + And thou, O River of To-morrow, flowing, 440 + Annie of Tharaw, my true love of old, 586 + As a fond mother when the day is o’er, 438 + As one who walking in a forest sees, 445 + As one who, walking in the twilight gloom, 139 + As the birds come in the spring, 504 + As the dim twilight shrouds, 525 + As unto the bow the cord is, 279 + At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, 482 + At Atri in Abruzzo, a small town, 394 + At Drontheim, Olaf the king, 371 + At Stralsund, by the Baltic Sea, 403 + At the foot of the mountain height, 561 + + Baron Castine of St. Castine, 412 + Beautiful lily, dwelling by still rivers, 425 + Beautiful valley through whose verdant meads, 485 + Behold! a giant am I!, 509 + Bell! thou soundest merrily, 594 + Bent like a labouring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean, 112 + Beside the ungathered rice he lay, 20 + Between the dark and the daylight, 481 + Beware! the Israelite of old, who tore, 23 + Black are the moors before Kazan, 605 + Black shadows fall, 460 + Blind Bartimeus at the gates, 28 + Build me straight, O worthy master, 140 + Burn, O evening hearth, and waken, 429 + But yesterday these few and hoary sheaves, 537 + By his evening fire the artist, 156 + By the shore of Gitche Gumee, 311 + By yon still river, where the wave, 525 + + Can it be the sun descending, 285 + Christ to the young man said, “Yet one thing more”, 155 + Clear fount of light, my native land on high, 536 + Come! old friend! sit down and listen, 52 + Come to me, O ye children, 478 + + Dark is the morning with mist, 508 + Dead he lay among his books, 506 + Dear child! how radiant on thy mother’s knee, 39 + Dost thou see on the rampart’s height, 494 + Down from yon distant mountain height, 605 + Downward through the evening twilight, 261 + + Even as a bird, ’mid the belovèd leaves, 541 + Even as the Blessèd, at the final summons, 540 + + Far and wide among the nations, 303 + Far in the West there lies a desert land, where the mountains, 131 + Filled is Life’s goblet to the brim, 28 + For thee was a house built, 571 + Forms of saints and kings are standing, 585 + Forth from the curtain of clouds, from the tent of purple and + scarlet, 335 + Forth upon the Gitche Gumee, 273 + Four limpid lakes—four Naiades, 502 + Four times the sun had risen and set; and now on the fifth day, 118 + From this high portal, where upsprings, 570 + Full of wrath was Hiawatha, 299 + + Garlands upon his grave, 485 + Gentle Spring!—in sunshine clad, 553 + Give me of your bark, O Birch-Tree, 272 + Gloomy and dark art thou, O chief of the mighty Omahas, 47 + God sent his messenger the rain, 249 + God sent his Singers upon earth, 154 + Good night, good night, beloved, 85 + + Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled, 410 + Hast thou seen that lordly castle?, 595 + Hasten, hasten, O ye spirits, 157 + Have I dreamed? or was it real, 479 + Have you read in the Talmud of old, 479 + He ended: and a kind of spell, 353 + He is dead, the beautiful youth, 430 + He is gone to the desert land, 603 + Hence away, begone, begone, 554 + Here in a little rustic hermitage, 441 + Here lies the gentle humourist, who died, 438 + Here rest the weary oar!—soft airs, 524 + Honour be to Mudjekeewis!, 258 + How beautiful is the rain!, 44 + How beautiful it was that one bright day, 427 + How cold are thy baths, Apollo!, 508 + How I started up in the night, in the night, 599 + How many lives, made beautiful and sweet, 434 + How much of my young heart, O Spain, 493 + How strange it seems! these Hebrews in their graves, 467 + How strange the sculptures that adorn these towers, 436 + How they so softly rest, 594 + + I am the God Thor, 359 + I enter, and I see thee in the gloom, 436 + I have read, in some old marvellous tale, 13 + I hear along our street, 560 + I heard a brooklet gushing, 593 + I heard a voice that cried, 153 + I heard the bells on Christmas Day, 432 + I heard the trailing garments of the night, 8 + I know a maiden fair to see, 594 + I lay upon the headland height, and listened, 426 + I leave you, ye cold mountain chains, 570 + I lift mine eyes, and all the windows blaze, 437 + I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls, 27 + I sat by my window one night, 527 + I saw, as in a dream sublime, 43 + I see amidst the fields of Ayr, 505 + I shot an arrow into the air, 50 + I stand again on the familiar shore, 444 + I stand beneath the tree, whose branches shade, 441 + I stood on the bridge at midnight, 45 + I stood upon the hills, when heaven’s wide arch, 3 + I thought before your tale began, 399 + I thought this pen would arise, 504 + I trust that somewhere and somehow, 399 + If it e’er happen that the Poem Sacred, 548 + If perhaps these rhymes of mine, 589 + If thou art sleeping, maiden, 103 + In broad daylight, and at noon, 470 + In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp, 21 + In his chamber, weak and dying, 38 + In his lodge beside a river, 308 + In Mather’s _Magnalia Christi_, 461 + In Ocean’s wide domains, 23 + In St. Luke’s Gospel we are told, 503 + In that building, long and low, 472 + In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware’s + waters, 135 + In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas, 107 + In the ancient town of Bruges, 30 + In the convent of Drontheim, 379 + In the heroic days when Ferdinand, 381 + In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown, 30 + In the old churchyard of his native town, 500 + In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims, 314 + In the valley of the Pegintz, where across broad meadow-lands, 35 + In the Valley of the Vire, 466 + In the village churchyard she lies, 465 + In those days, said Hiawatha, 291 + In those days the Evil Spirits, 293 + Intelligence and courtesy are not always combined, 589 + Into the city of Kambalu, 397 + Into the darkness and the hush of night, 442 + Into the open air John Alden, perplexed, 322 + Into the Silent Land, 590 + Is it so far from thee, 501 + It was Einar Tamberskelver, 378 + It was fifty years ago, 476 + It was Sir Christopher Gardiner, 421 + It was the month of May. Far down the beautiful River, 123 + It was the schooner _Hesperus_, 17 + It was the season, when through all the land, 386 + Italy! Italy! thou who’rt doomed to wear, 552 + + Joy and Temperance and Repose, 588 + Just above yon sandy bar, 149 + Just in the grey of the dawn as the mists uprose from the + meadows, 325 + + King Christian stood by the lofty mast, 599 + + Labour with what zeal we will, 483 + Laugh of the mountain!—lyre of bird and tree!, 535 + Leafless are the trees; their purple branches, 473 + Let nothing disturb thee, 535 + Like two cathedral towers these stately pines, 443 + Listen, my children, and you shall hear, 341 + Live I, so live I, 589 + Lo! in the painted oriel of the West, 435 + Longing already to search in and round, 539 + Lord, what am I, that with unceasing care, 536 + Loud he sang the Psalm of David, 24 + Loud the angry wind was wailing, 370 + Loudly the sailors cheered, 375 + Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine, 554 + Lutheran, Popish, Calvinistic, 589 + + Maiden! with the meek, brown eyes, 32 + Manlike is it to fall into sin, 589 + Many a weary year had passed since the burning of Grand-Pré, 122 + Meanwhile the stalwart Miles Standish was marching steadily + northward, 331 + Month after month passed away, and in Autumn the ships of the + merchants, 333 + Most beautiful, most gentle! Yet how lost, 522 + Mounted on Kyrat strong and fleet, 495 + Much it behoveth, 573 + My soul its secret hath, my life too hath its mystery, 569 + My way is on the bright blue sea, 29 + + Near to the bank of the river, o’ershadowed by oaks, from whose + branches, 126 + Never stoops the soaring vulture, 304 + Night rests in beauty on Mont Alto, 520 + Nine sisters, beautiful in form and face, 439 + No sound of wheels or hoof-beat breaks, 484 + Northward over Drontheim, 374 + Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the + stripling, 316 + Now from all King Olaf’s farms, 363 + Now had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and + longer, 110 + Now Time throws off his cloak again, 555 + “_Nunc plaudite_” the Student cried, 419 + + O Cæsar, we who are about to die, 447 + O company elect to the Great Supper, 544 + O curfew of the setting Sun! O Bells of Lynn, 428 + O gift of God! O perfect day, 480 + O hemlock-tree! O hemlock-tree! how faithful are thy branches, 586 + O, how blest are ye whose toils are ended, 591 + O let the soul her slumbers break, 529 + O little feet! that such long years, 483 + O Lord! that seest, from yonder starry height, 536 + O lovely river of Yvette!, 498 + O precious evenings! all too swiftly sped, 437 + O River of Yesterday, with current swift, 440 + O star of morning and of liberty, 437 + O the long and dreary Winter!, 306 + O traveller, stay thy weary feet, 515 + O weathercock on the village spire, 508 + O’er all the hill-tops, 595 + Of Edenhall the youthful lord, 597 + Of Prometheus, how undaunted, 459 + Oft have I seen at some cathedral door, 436 + Often I think of the beautiful town, 470 + Olaf the King, one summer morn, 366 + Olger the Dane and Desiderio, 423 + On King Olaf’s bridal night, 368 + On St. Bavon’s tower, commanding, 499 + On sunny slope and beechen swell, 5 + On the cross the dying Saviour, 588 + On the green little isle of Inchkenneth, 499 + On the grey sea-sands, 376 + On the Mountains of the Prairie, 256 + On the shores of Gitche Gumee, 276 + Once into a quiet village, 152 + Once more, once more, Inarimé, 491 + Once the Emperor Charles of Spain, 464 + Once upon Iceland’s solitary strand, 444 + One Autumn night, in Sudbury town, 338 + One day, Haroun Al Raschid read, 496 + One hundred years ago, and something more, 406 + One summer morning when the sun was hot, 345 + Only the Lowland tongue of Scotland might, 560 + Othere, the old sea-captain, 477 + Our God a tower of strength is he, 251 + Out of childhood into manhood, 264 + Out of the bosom of the Air, 484 + + Pentecost, day of rejoicing, had come, 577 + Pleasant it was, when woods were green, 7 + Pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the village of Grand-Pré, 115 + Poet! I come to touch thy lance with mine, 443 + + Quand les astres de Noël, 431 + Queen Sigrid the Haughty sat proud and aloft, 361 + + Rabbi Ben Levi, on the Sabbath, read, 352 + River! that in silence windest, 27 + Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane, 254 + Round Autumn’s mouldering urn, 519 + + Safe at anchor in Drontheim Bay, 373 + Saint Augustine! well hast thou said, 460 + St. Botolph’s Town! Hither across the plains, 442 + See, the fire is sinking low, 429 + She dwells by great Kenhawa’s side, 21 + Shepherd! who with thine amorous, sylvan song, 535 + Short of stature, large of limb, 368 + Should you ask me, whence these stories?, 255 + Simon Danz has come home again, 488 + Sing! O song of Hiawatha, 289 + Sir Oluf he rideth over the plain, 600 + Sleep, comrades, sleep and rest, 513 + Slowly the hour-hand of the clock moves round, 439 + So the strong will prevailed, and Alden went on his errand, 318 + Solemnly, mournfully, 48 + Somewhat back from the village street, 53 + Soon as the story reached its end, 351 + Southward with fleet of ice, 147 + Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, 11 + Speak! speak! thou fearful guest, 15 + Spring is coming, birds are twittering, 574 + Stars of the summer night, 59 + Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest, 492 + Steer, bold mariner, on! albeit witlings deride thee, 606 + Still through Egypt’s desert places, 512 + “Strike the sails!” King Olaf said, 377 + Sweet babe! true portrait of thy father’s face, 553 + Sweet the memory is to me, 487 + + Taddeo Gaddi built me. I am old, 551 + Take them, O Death! and bear away, 155 + Tell me not, in mournful numbers, 9 + The Ages come and go, 253 + The archbishop, whom God loved in high degree, 556 + The battle is fought and won, 419 + The ceaseless rain is falling fast, 490 + The day is cold, and dark, and dreary, 25 + The day is done, and the darkness, 51 + The day is ending, 54 + The guests were loud, the ale was strong, 364 + The hour was late; the fire burned low, 392 + The Landlord ended thus his tale, 344 + The lights are out, and gone are all the guests, 445 + The meadow-brook, that seemeth to stand still, 446 + The night is come, but not too soon, 11 + The old house by the lindens, 155 + The pages of thy book I read, 20 + The picture fades; as at a village fair, 445 + The rising moon has hid the stars, 26 + The rivers rush into the sea, 592 + The rocky ledge runs far into the sea, 146 + The sea hath its pearls, 590 + The shades of night were falling fast, 46 + The Slaver in the broad lagoon, 22 + The sun is bright, the air is clear, 25 + The tide rises, the tide falls, 511 + The twilight is sad and cloudy, 145 + The works of human artifice soon tire, 537 + There is a quiet spirit in these woods, 5 + There is a Reaper, whose name is Death, 10 + There is no flock, however watched and tended, 149 + There sat one day in quiet, 593 + There was a time when I was very small, 602 + These words the poet heard in Paradise, 517 + They made the warrior’s grave beside, 526 + This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, 33 + This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the + hemlocks, 106 + This is the place. Stand still, my steed, 34 + This song of mine, 474 + Thora of Rimol! hide me! hide me, 360 + Thorberg Skafting, master-builder, 372 + Thou ancient oak! whose myriad leaves are loud, 438 + Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain, 434 + Thou mighty Prince of Church and State, 557 + Thou Royal River, born of sun and shower, 443 + Thou that from the heaven’s art, 595 + Though the mills of God grind slowly, 589 + Three Kings came riding from far away, 496 + Three miles extended around the fields of the homestead; on three + sides, 573 + Three Silences there are; the first of speech, 442 + Thus closed the tale of guilt and gloom, 386 + Thus for a while he stood, and mused by the shore of the ocean, 328 + Thus sang the Potter at his task, 454 + Thus then, much care-worn, 571 + ’Tis late at night, and in the realm of sleep, 435 + To gallop off to town post-haste, 555 + To noble heart Love doth for shelter fly, 552 + Turn, turn, my wheel! Turn round and round, 454 + Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms of gloom, 435 + ’Twas Pentecost, the Feast of Gladness, 595 + Two angels, one of Life and one of Death, 465 + Two good friends had Hiawatha, 270 + + Under a spreading chestnut-tree, 26 + Under Mount Etna he lies, 481 + Under the walls of Monterey, 469 + Until we meet again! That is the meaning, 510 + Up soared the lark into the air, 489 + + Viswamitra the magician, 496 + Vogelweid the Minnesinger, 50 + + Warm and still is the summer night, 491 + We sat within the farm-house old, 145 + Welcome, my old friend, 49 + Welcome, O Stork! that dost wing, 604 + Well pleased the audience heard the tale, 410 + What an image of peace and rest, 507 + What phantom is this, that appears, 503 + What say the Bells of San Blas, 516 + What was the end? I am ashamed, 402 + When by night the frogs are croaking, 589 + When descends on the Atlantic, 51 + When first in ancient time from Jubal’s tongue, 518 + When Mazáran, the magician, 498 + When the dying flame of day, 4 + When the hours of Day are numbered, 9 + When the long murmur of applause, 406 + When the summer harvest was gathered in, 37 + When the warm sun, that brings, 1 + When winter winds are piercing chill, 4 + Whene’er a noble deed is wrought, 476 + Where, from the eye of day, 528 + Whereunto is money good?, 588 + Whilom Love was like a fire, 589 + White swan of cities, slumbering in thy nest, 439 + Whither, thou turbid wave, 591 + Who love would seek, 596 + Why dost thou wildly rush and roar, 514 + Will then, du Perrier, thy sorrow be eternal, 558 + With favouring winds, o’er sunlit seas, 511 + With what a glory comes and goes the year, 2 + Witlaf, a king of the Saxons, 153 + + Ye voices, that arose, 14 + Yes, the Year is growing old, 13 + Yes, well your story pleads the cause, 396 + Yet not in vain. O River of Yesterday, 440 + You shall hear how Hiawatha, 267 + You shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis, 282, 296 + You were not at the play to-night, Don Carlos, 55 + +THE END. + + MORRISON AND GIBB, EDINBURGH, + PRINTERS TO HER MAJESTY’S STATIONERY OFFICE. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78406 *** |