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*** 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 ***