CLOSE OF FIRST DAY

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.

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!”

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!

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?

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.

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!_

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.

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.