THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS
OF
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

Contents

VOICES OF THE NIGHT

Πότνια, πότνια νὺξ,
ὑπνοδότειρα τῶν
πολυπόνον βροτῶν,
Ἐρεβόθεν ἴθι
μόλε μόλε κατάπτερος
Ἀγαμεμνόνιον
ἐπὶ δόμον
ὑπὸ γὰρ ἀλγέων,
ὑπὸ τε συμφορᾶς
διοιχόμεθ’,
οἰχόμεθα.

EURIPIDES.

PRELUDE

Pleasant it was, when woods were green,
    And winds were soft and low,
To lie amid some sylvan scene.
Where, the long drooping boughs between,
Shadows dark and sunlight sheen
    Alternate come and go;

Or where the denser grove receives
    No sunlight from above,
But the dark foliage interweaves
In one unbroken roof of leaves,
Underneath whose sloping eaves
    The shadows hardly move.

Beneath some patriarchal tree
    I lay upon the ground;
His hoary arms uplifted he,
And all the broad leaves over me
Clapped their little hands in glee,
    With one continuous sound;—

A slumberous sound, a sound that brings
    The feelings of a dream,
As of innumerable wings,
As, when a bell no longer swings,
Faint the hollow murmur rings
    O’er meadow, lake, and stream.

And dreams of that which cannot die,
    Bright visions, came to me,
As lapped in thought I used to lie,
And gaze into the summer sky,
Where the sailing clouds went by,
    Like ships upon the sea;

Dreams that the soul of youth engage
    Ere Fancy has been quelled;
Old legends of the monkish page,
Traditions of the saint and sage,
Tales that have the rime of age,
    And chronicles of Eld.

And, loving still these quaint old themes,
    Even in the city’s throng
I feel the freshness of the streams,
That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams,
Water the green land of dreams,
    The holy land of song.

Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings
    The Spring, clothed like a bride,
When nestling buds unfold their wings,
And bishop’s-caps have golden rings,
Musing upon many things,
    I sought the woodlands wide.

The green trees whispered low and mild;
    It was a sound of joy!
They were my playmates when a child,
And rocked me in their arms so wild!
Still they looked at me and smiled,
    As if I were a boy;

And ever whispered, mild and low,
    “Come, be a child once more!”
And waved their long arms to and fro,
And beckoned solemnly and slow;
O, I could not choose but go
    Into the woodlands hoar,—

Into the blithe and breathing air,
    Into the solemn wood,
Solemn and silent everywhere
Nature with folded hands seemed there
Kneeling at her evening prayer!
    Like one in prayer I stood.

Before me rose an avenue
    Of tall and sombrous pines;
Abroad their fan-like branches grew,
And, where the sunshine darted through,
Spread a vapor soft and blue,
    In long and sloping lines.

And, falling on my weary brain,
    Like a fast-falling shower,
The dreams of youth came back again,
Low lispings of the summer rain,
Dropping on the ripened grain,
    As once upon the flower.

Visions of childhood! Stay, O stay!
    Ye were so sweet and wild!
And distant voices seemed to say,
“It cannot be! They pass away!
Other themes demand thy lay;
    Thou art no more a child!

“The land of Song within thee lies,
    Watered by living springs;
The lids of Fancy’s sleepless eyes
Are gates unto that Paradise,
Holy thoughts, like stars, arise,
    Its clouds are angels’ wings.

“Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be,
    Not mountains capped with snow,
Nor forests sounding like the sea,
Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly,
Where the woodlands bend to see
    The bending heavens below.

“There is a forest where the din
    Of iron branches sounds!
A mighty river roars between,
And whosoever looks therein
Sees the heavens all black with sin,
    Sees not its depths, nor bounds.

“Athwart the swinging branches cast,
    Soft rays of sunshine pour;
Then comes the fearful wintry blast
Our hopes, like withered leaves, fail fast;
Pallid lips say, ‘It is past!
    We can return no more!’

“Look, then, into thine heart, and write!
    Yes, into Life’s deep stream!
All forms of sorrow and delight,
All solemn Voices of the Night,
That can soothe thee, or affright,—
    Be these henceforth thy theme.”

HYMN TO THE NIGHT

Ἀσπασίη,
τρίλλιστος

I heard the trailing garments of the Night
    Sweep through her marble halls!
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
    From the celestial walls!

I felt her presence, by its spell of might,
    Stoop o’er me from above;
The calm, majestic presence of the Night,
    As of the one I love.

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,
    The manifold, soft chimes,
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night
    Like some old poet’s rhymes.

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
    My spirit drank repose;
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,—
    From those deep cisterns flows.

O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear
    What man has borne before!
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,
    And they complain no more.

Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!
    Descend with broad-winged flight,
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,
    The best-beloved Night!

A PSALM OF LIFE.

WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
    Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
    And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
    And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
    Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
    Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
    Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
    And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
    Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world’s broad field of battle,
    In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
    Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
    Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,—act in the living Present!
    Heart within, and God o’erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
    We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
    Footprints on the sands of time;—

Footprints, that perhaps another,
    Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
    Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
    With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
    Learn to labor and to wait.

THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS.

There is a Reaper, whose name is Death,
    And, with his sickle keen,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
    And the flowers that grow between.

“Shall I have naught that is fair?” saith he;
    “Have naught but the bearded grain?
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
    I will give them all back again.”

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
    He kissed their drooping leaves;
It was for the Lord of Paradise
    He bound them in his sheaves.

“My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,”
    The Reaper said, and smiled;
“Dear tokens of the earth are they,
    Where he was once a child.

“They shall all bloom in fields of light,
    Transplanted by my care,
And saints, upon their garments white,
    These sacred blossoms wear.”

And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
    The flowers she most did love;
She knew she should find them all again
    In the fields of light above.

O, not in cruelty, not in wrath,
    The Reaper came that day;
’T was an angel visited the green earth,
    And took the flowers away.

THE LIGHT OF STARS.

FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.

FLOWERS.

THE BELEAGUERED CITY.

MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR

EARLIER POEMS

AN APRIL DAY

AUTUMN

WOODS IN WINTER.

HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM

AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI’S BANNER.

When the dying flame of day Through the chancel shot its ray, Far the
glimmering tapers shed Faint light on the cowled head; And the censer
burning swung, Where, before the altar, hung The crimson banner, that with
prayer Had been consecrated there. And the nuns’ sweet hymn was heard the
while, Sung low, in the dim, mysterious aisle.

The warrior took that banner proud, And it was his martial cloak and
shroud!

SUNRISE ON THE HILLS

THE SPIRIT OF POETRY

BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK

On sunny slope and beechen swell, The shadowed light of evening fell; And,
where the maple’s leaf was brown, With soft and silent lapse came down,
The glory, that the wood receives, At sunset, in its golden leaves.

Far upward in the mellow light Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white,
Around a far uplifted cone, In the warm blush of evening shone; An image
of the silver lakes, By which the Indian’s soul awakes.

But soon a funeral hymn was heard Where the soft breath of evening stirred
The tall, gray forest; and a band Of stern in heart, and strong in hand,
Came winding down beside the wave, To lay the red chief in his grave.

They sang, that by his native bowers He stood, in the last moon of
flowers, And thirty snows had not yet shed Their glory on the warrior’s
head; But, as the summer fruit decays, So died he in those naked days.

A dark cloak of the roebuck’s skin Covered the warrior, and within Its
heavy folds the weapons, made For the hard toils of war, were laid; The
cuirass, woven of plaited reeds, And the broad belt of shells and beads.

Before, a dark-haired virgin train Chanted the death dirge of the slain;
Behind, the long procession came Of hoary men and chiefs of fame, With
heavy hearts, and eyes of grief, Leading the war-horse of their chief.

Stripped of his proud and martial dress, Uncurbed, unreined, and
riderless, With darting eye, and nostril spread, And heavy and impatient
tread, He came; and oft that eye so proud Asked for his rider in the
crowd.

They buried the dark chief; they freed Beside the grave his battle steed;
And swift an arrow cleaved its way To his stern heart! One piercing neigh
Arose, and, on the dead man’s plain, The rider grasps his steed again.

L’ ENVOI

Ye voices, that arose After the Evening’s close, And whispered to my
restless heart repose!

Go, breathe it in the ear Of all who doubt and fear, And say to them, “Be
of good cheer!”

Ye sounds, so low and calm, That in the groves of balm Seemed to me like
an angel’s psalm!

Go, mingle yet once more With the perpetual roar Of the pine forest dark
and hoar!

Tongues of the dead, not lost But speaking from deaths frost, Like fiery
tongues at Pentecost!

Glimmer, as funeral lamps, Amid the chills and damps Of the vast plain
where Death encamps!

BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS

THE SKELETON IN ARMOR

THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH

ENDYMION

IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY

THE RAINY DAY

GOD’S-ACRE.

TO THE RIVER CHARLES.

BLIND BARTIMEUS

Blind Bartimeus at the gates
Of Jericho in darkness waits;
He hears the crowd;—he hears a breath
Say, “It is Christ of Nazareth!”
And calls, in tones of agony,
Ἰησοῦ, ἐλέησόν
με!

The thronging multitudes increase;
Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace!
But still, above the noisy crowd,
The beggar’s cry is shrill and loud;
Until they say, “He calleth thee!”
Θάρσει
ἔγειραι, φωνεῖ
δε!

Then saith the Christ, as silent stands
The crowd, “What wilt thou at my hands?”
And he replies, “O give me light!
Rabbi, restore the blind man’s sight.”
And Jesus answers, Ὕπαγε
Ἡ πίστις σου
σέσωκέ δε!

Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see,
In darkness and in misery,
Recall those mighty Voices Three,
Ἰησοῦ, ἐλέησόν
με!
Θάρσει ἔγειραι,
ὕπαγε!
Ἡ πίστις σου
σέσωκέ δε!

THE GOBLET OF LIFE

MAIDENHOOD

Maiden! with the meek, brown eyes, In whose orbs a shadow lies Like the
dusk in evening skies!

Thou whose locks outshine the sun, Golden tresses, wreathed in one, As the
braided streamlets run!

Standing, with reluctant feet, Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood
and childhood fleet!

Gazing, with a timid glance, On the brooklet’s swift advance, On the
river’s broad expanse!

Deep and still, that gliding stream Beautiful to thee must seem, As the
river of a dream.

Then why pause with indecision, When bright angels in thy vision Beckon
thee to fields Elysian?

Seest thou shadows sailing by, As the dove, with startled eye, Sees the
falcon’s shadow fly?

Hearest thou voices on the shore, That our ears perceive no more, Deafened
by the cataract’s roar?

O, thou child of many prayers! Life hath quicksands,—Life hath
snares Care and age come unawares!

Like the swell of some sweet tune, Morning rises into noon, May glides
onward into June.

Childhood is the bough, where slumbered Birds and blossoms many-numbered;—
Age, that bough with snows encumbered.

Gather, then, each flower that grows, When the young heart overflows, To
embalm that tent of snows.

Bear a lily in thy hand; Gates of brass cannot withstand One touch of that
magic wand.

Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, In thy heart the dew of youth, On
thy lips the smile of truth!

O, that dew, like balm, shall steal Into wounds that cannot heal, Even as
sleep our eyes doth seal;

And that smile, like sunshine, dart Into many a sunless heart, For a smile
of God thou art.

EXCELSIOR

POEMS ON SLAVERY.

[The following poems, with one exception, were written at sea, in the
latter part of October, 1842. I had not then heard of Dr. Channing’s
death. Since that event, the poem addressed to him is no longer
appropriate. I have decided, however, to let it remain as it was written,
in testimony of my admiration for a great and good man.]

TO WILLIAM E. CHANNING

THE SLAVE’S DREAM

THE GOOD PART
THAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN AWAY

THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP

THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT

Loud he sang the psalm of David! He, a Negro and enslaved, Sang of
Israel’s victory, Sang of Zion, bright and free.

In that hour, when night is calmest, Sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist, In
a voice so sweet and clear That I could not choose but hear,

Songs of triumph, and ascriptions, Such as reached the swart Egyptians,
When upon the Red Sea coast Perished Pharaoh and his host.

And the voice of his devotion Filled my soul with strange emotion; For its
tones by turns were glad, Sweetly solemn, wildly sad.

Paul and Silas, in their prison, Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen, And an
earthquake’s arm of might Broke their dungeon-gates at night.

But, alas! what holy angel Brings the Slave this glad evangel? And what
earthquake’s arm of might Breaks his dungeon-gates at night?

THE WITNESSES

THE QUADROON GIRL

THE WARNING

THE SPANISH STUDENT

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

VICTORIAN HYPOLITO Students of Alcala.

THE COUNT OF LARA DON CARLOS Gentlemen of Madrid.

THE ARCHBISHOP OF TOLEDO. A CARDINAL. BELTRAN CRUZADO Count of the
Gypsies. BARTOLOME ROMAN A young Gypsy. THE PADRE CURA OF GUADARRAMA.
PEDRO CRESPO Alcalde. PANCHO Alguacil. FRANCISCO Lara’s Servant. CHISPA
Victorian’s Servant. BALTASAR Innkeeper. PRECIOSA A Gypsy Girl. ANGELICA A
poor Girl. MARTINA The Padre Cura’s Niece. DOLORES Preciosa’s Maid.
Gypsies, Musicians, etc.

ACT I.

(Enter FRANCISCO with a casket.)

SCENE III. — PRECIOSA’S chamber. She stands at the open window.

SERENADE.

(Enter VICTORIAN by the balcony.)

(He descends by the balcony.)

Padre Francisco! Padre Francisco! What do you want of Padre Francisco?
Here is a pretty young maiden Who wants to confess her sins! Open the door
and let her come in, I will shrive her from every sin.

(Enter VICTORIAN.)

(Clock strikes three.)

(Throws himself into the arm-chair which HYPOLITO has left, and lays a
large book open upon his knees.)

Must read, or sit in revery and watch The changing color of the waves that
break Upon the idle sea-shore of the mind! Visions of Fame! that once did
visit me, Making night glorious with your smile, where are ye? O, who
shall give me, now that ye are gone, Juices of those immortal plants that
bloom Upon Olympus, making us immortal? Or teach me where that wondrous
mandrake grows Whose magic root, torn from the earth with groans, At
midnight hour, can scare the fiends away, And make the mind prolific in
its fancies! I have the wish, but want the will, to act! Souls of great
men departed! Ye whose words Have come to light from the swift river of
Time, Like Roman swords found in the Tagus’ bed, Where is the strength to
wield the arms ye bore? From the barred visor of Antiquity Reflected
shines the eternal light of Truth, As from a mirror! All the means of
action— The shapeless masses, the materials— Lie everywhere
about us. What we need Is the celestial fire to change the flint Into
transparent crystal, bright and clear. That fire is genius! The rude
peasant sits At evening in his smoky cot, and draws With charcoal uncouth
figures on the wall. The son of genius comes, foot-sore with travel, And
begs a shelter from the inclement night. He takes the charcoal from the
peasant’s hand, And, by the magic of his touch at once Transfigured, all
its hidden virtues shine, And, in the eyes of the astonished clown, It
gleams a diamond! Even thus transformed, Rude popular traditions and old
tales Shine as immortal poems, at the touch Of some poor, houseless,
homeless, wandering bard, Who had but a night’s lodging for his pains. But
there are brighter dreams than those of Fame, Which are the dreams of
Love! Out of the heart Rises the bright ideal of these dreams, As from
some woodland fount a spirit rises And sinks again into its silent deeps,
Ere the enamored knight can touch her robe! ‘T is this ideal that the soul
of man, Like the enamored knight beside the fountain, Waits for upon the
margin of Life’s stream; Waits to behold her rise from the dark waters,
Clad in a mortal shape! Alas! how many Must wait in vain! The stream flows
evermore, But from its silent deeps no spirit rises! Yet I, born under a
propitious star, Have found the bright ideal of my dreams. Yes! she is
ever with me. I can feel, Here, as I sit at midnight and alone, Her gentle
breathing! on my breast can feel The pressure of her head! God’s benison
Rest ever on it! Close those beauteous eyes, Sweet Sleep! and all the
flowers that bloom at night With balmy lips breathe in her ears my name!

(Gradually sinks asleep.)

ACT II.

SCENE I. — PRECIOSA’S chamber. Morning. PRECIOSA and ANGELICA.

(Gives her a purse.)

Take this. Would it were more.

(Enter BELTRAN CRUZADO.)

(Enter a Servant)

SCENE III. — The Prado. A long avenue of trees leading to the

gate of Atocha. On the right the dome and spires of a convent. A fountain.
Evening, DON CARLOS and HYPOLITO meeting.

(Enter VICTORIAN in front.)

SCENE IV. — PRECIOSA’S chamber. She is sitting, with a book in

her hand, near a table, on which are flowers. A bird singing in its cage.
The COUNT OF LARA enters behind unperceived.

Heigho! I wish Victorian were here. I know not what it is makes me so
restless!

(The bird sings.)

Thou little prisoner with thy motley coat, That from thy vaulted, wiry
dungeon singest, Like thee I am a captive, and, like thee, I have a gentle
jailer. Lack-a-day!

Thou speakest truly, poet! and methinks More hearts are breaking in this
world of ours Than one would say. In distant villages And solitudes
remote, where winds have wafted The barbed seeds of love, or birds of
passage Scattered them in their flight, do they take root, And grow in
silence, and in silence perish. Who hears the falling of the forest leaf?
Or who takes note of every flower that dies? Heigho! I wish Victorian
would come. Dolores!

(Turns to lay down her boot and perceives the COUNT.)

(VICTORIAN enters behind.)

(He casts her from him and rushes out.)

(Scene closes.)

SCENE V. — The COUNT OF LARA’S rooms. Enter the COUNT.

(Enter FRANCISCO.)

(Enter LARA followed by FRNANCISCO)

(They fight. VICTORIAN disarms the COUNT.)

Your life is mine; and what shall now withhold me From sending your vile
soul to its account?

(FRANCISCO hands the COUNT his sword, and HYPOLITO interposes.)

(Throws it upon the ground, and tramples upon it.)

Thus may she perish who once wore that ring! Thus do I spurn her from me;
do thus trample Her memory in the dust! O Count of Lara, We both have been
abused, been much abused! I thank you for your courtesy and frankness.
Though, like the surgeon’s hand, yours gave me pain, Yet it has cured my
blindness, and I thank you. I now can see the folly I have done, Though ‘t
is, alas! too late. So fare you well! To-night I leave this hateful town
forever. Regard me as your friend. Once more farewell!

[Exit with FRANCISCO.

SCENE VIII. — The Theatre. The orchestra plays the cachucha.

Sound of castanets behind the scenes. The curtain rises, and discovers
PRECIOSA in the attitude of commencing the dance. The cachucha. Tumult;
hisses; cries of “Brava!” and “Afuera!” She falters and pauses. The music
stops. General confusion. PRECIOSA faints.

(They rise and drink.)

(Drinks and dashes the goblet down.)

(Scene closes.)

SONG.

SONG (coming nearer).

SONG (dying away).

(Exeunt. Re-enter CRUZADO and BARTOLOME.)

(They climb the wall.)

SCENE XI. — PRECIOSA’S bedchamber. Midnight. She is sleeping in

an armchair, in an undress. DOLORES watching her.

(Opens the window, and listens.)

(Signal from the garden.)

(She wakes.)

How late is it, Dolores?

(She sleeps again. Noise from the garden, and voices.)

ACT III.

SCENE I. — A cross-road through a wood. In the background a distant
village spire. VICTORIAN and HYPOLITO, as travelling students, with
guitars, sitting under the trees. HYPOLITO plays and sings.

SONG.

SONG (continued).

(Sound of a village belt in the distance.)

(Enter the PADRE CURA at the door of his cottage.)

(Agitation and murmurs in the crowd.)

Pedro C. I thank you heartily.

(They seat themselves on a bench at the PADRE CURAS door. Sound of guitars
heard at a distance, approaching during the dialogue which follows.)

(Enter VICTORIAN and HYPOLITO playing.)

(Touching the wooden spoon in his hat-band.

(Enter MARTINA.)

(Tries to kiss her. She runs off. Enter VICTORIAN, with a letter.)

(Reads.)

(Enter the PADRE CURA.)

(Enter DON CARLOS)

(Strikes him round the legs.)

Gypsies (at the forge sing).

Gypsies (at the forge sing).

(Enter BELTRAN CRUZADO.)

(BARTOLOME rushes in.)

(Enter VICTORIAN and HYPOLITO behind.)

(She rushes into his arms.)

(They walk aside.)

(Enters booted, with a whip and lantern.

SCENE VI. — A pass in the Guadarrama mountains. Early morning.

A muleteer crosses the stage, sitting sideways on his mule and lighting a
paper cigar with flint and steel.

SONG.

(Disappears down the pass. Enter a Monk. A shepherd appears on the rocks
above.)

(They disappear. A mounted Contrabandista passes, wrapped in his cloak,
and a gun at his saddle-bow. He goes down the pass singing.)

SONG.

Worn with speed is my good steed, And I march me hurried, worried; Onward,
caballito mio, With the white star in thy forehead! Onward, for here comes
the Ronda, And I hear their rifles crack! Ay, jaleo! Ay, ay, jaleo! Ay,
jaleo! They cross our track.

(They descend the pass. CHISPA remains behind.)

(Fires down the pass.)

Ha! ha! Well whistled, my sweet caramillo! Well whistled!—I have
missed her!—O my God!

(The shot is returned. BARTOLOME falls).

THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS

CARILLON

In the ancient town of Bruges, In the quaint old Flemish city, As the
evening shades descended, Low and loud and sweetly blended, Low at times
and loud at times, And changing like a poet’s rhymes, Rang the beautiful
wild chimes From the Belfry in the market Of the ancient town of Bruges.

Then, with deep sonorous clangor Calmly answering their sweet anger, When
the wrangling bells had ended, Slowly struck the clock eleven, And, from
out the silent heaven, Silence on the town descended. Silence, silence
everywhere, On the earth and in the air, Save that footsteps here and
there Of some burgher home returning, By the street lamps faintly burning,
For a moment woke the echoes Of the ancient town of Bruges.

But amid my broken slumbers Still I heard those magic numbers, As they
loud proclaimed the flight And stolen marches of the night; Till their
chimes in sweet collision Mingled with each wandering vision, Mingled with
the fortune-telling Gypsy-bands of dreams and fancies, Which amid the
waste expanses Of the silent land of trances Have their solitary dwelling;
All else seemed asleep in Bruges, In the quaint old Flemish city.

And I thought how like these chimes Are the poet’s airy rhymes, All his
rhymes and roundelays, His conceits, and songs, and ditties, From the
belfry of his brain, Scattered downward, though in vain, On the roofs and
stones of cities! For by night the drowsy ear Under its curtains cannot
hear, And by day men go their ways, Hearing the music as they pass, But
deeming it no more, alas! Than the hollow sound of brass.

Yet perchance a sleepless wight, Lodging at some humble inn In the narrow
lanes of life, When the dusk and hush of night Shut out the incessant din
Of daylight and its toil and strife, May listen with a calm delight To the
poet’s melodies, Till he hears, or dreams he hears, Intermingled with the
song, Thoughts that he has cherished long; Hears amid the chime and
singing The bells of his own village ringing, And wakes, and finds his
slumberous eyes Wet with most delicious tears.

Thus dreamed I, as by night I lay In Bruges, at the Fleur-de-Ble,
Listening with a wild delight To the chimes that, through the night Bang
their changes from the Belfry Of that quaint old Flemish city.

THE BELFRY OF BRUGES

In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown; Thrice
consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o’er the town.

As the summer morn was breaking, on that lofty tower I stood, And the
world threw off the darkness, like the weeds of widowhood.

Thick with towns and hamlets studded, and with streams and vapors gray,
Like a shield embossed with silver, round and vast the landscape lay.

At my feet the city slumbered. From its chimneys, here and there, Wreaths
of snow-white smoke, ascending, vanished, ghost-like, into air.

Not a sound rose from the city at that early morning hour, But I heard a
heart of iron beating in the ancient tower.

From their nests beneath the rafters sang the swallows wild and high; And
the world, beneath me sleeping, seemed more distant than the sky.

Then most musical and solemn, bringing back the olden times, With their
strange, unearthly changes rang the melancholy chimes,

Like the psalms from some old cloister, when the nuns sing in the choir;
And the great bell tolled among them, like the chanting of a friar.

Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms filled my brain; They who
live in history only seemed to walk the earth again;

All the Foresters of Flanders,—mighty Baldwin Bras de Fer, Lyderick
du Bucq and Cressy Philip, Guy de Dampierre.

I beheld the pageants splendid that adorned those days of old; Stately
dames, like queens attended, knights who bore the Fleece of Gold

Lombard and Venetian merchants with deep-laden argosies; Ministers from
twenty nations; more than royal pomp and ease.

I beheld proud Maximilian, kneeling humbly on the ground; I beheld the
gentle Mary, hunting with her hawk and hound;

And her lighted bridal-chamber, where a duke slept with the queen, And the
armed guard around them, and the sword unsheathed between.

I beheld the Flemish weavers, with Namur and Juliers bold, Marching
homeward from the bloody battle of the Spurs of Gold;

Saw the light at Minnewater, saw the White Hoods moving west, Saw great
Artevelde victorious scale the Golden Dragon’s nest.

And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land with terror smote; And again
the wild alarum sounded from the tocsin’s throat;

Till the bell of Ghent responded o’er lagoon and dike of sand, “I am
Roland! I am Roland! there is victory in the land!”

Then the sound of drums aroused me. The awakened city’s roar Chased the
phantoms I had summoned back into their graves once more.

Hours had passed away like minutes; and, before I was aware, Lo! the
shadow of the belfry crossed the sun-illumined square.

A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE

THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD

NUREMBERG

In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands Rise the
blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient, stands.

Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song,
Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them throng:

Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rough and bold, Had their
dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centuries old;

And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth rhyme, That
their great imperial city stretched its hand through every clime.

In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron hand, Stands the
mighty linden planted by Queen Cunigunde’s hand;

On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days Sat the poet
Melchior singing Kaiser Maximilian’s praise.

Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of Art: Fountains
wrought with richest sculpture standing in the common mart;

And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone, By a
former age commissioned as apostles to our own.

In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust, And in
bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age their trust;

In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture rare, Like the
foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted air.

Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, reverent heart, Lived
and labored Albrecht Durer, the Evangelist of Art;

Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand, Like an
emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better Land.

Emigravit is the inscription on the tombstone where he lies; Dead he is
not, but departed,—for the artist never dies.

Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more fair, That he
once has trod its pavement, that he once has breathed its air!

Through these streets so broad and stately, these obscure and dismal
lanes, Walked of yore the Mastersingers, chanting rude poetic strains.

From remote and sunless suburbs came they to the friendly guild, Building
nests in Fame’s great temple, as in spouts the swallows build.

As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic rhyme, And the
smith his iron measures hammered to the anvil’s chime;

Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers of poesy bloom In
the forge’s dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom.

Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the gentle craft, Wisest of
the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios sang and laughed.

But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely sanded floor, And a
garland in the window, and his face above the door;

Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Puschman’s song, As the old man
gray and dove-like, with his great beard white and long.

And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cark and care, Quaffing
ale from pewter tankard; in the master’s antique chair.

Vanished is the ancient splendor, and before my dreamy eye Wave these
mingled shapes and figures, like a faded tapestry.

Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the world’s regard; But
thy painter, Albrecht Durer, and Hans Sachs thy cobbler-bard.

Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far away, As he paced thy
streets and court-yards, sang in thought his careless lay:

Gathering from the pavement’s crevice, as a floweret of the soil, The
nobility of labor,—the long pedigree of toil.

THE NORMAN BARON

RAIN IN SUMMER

How beautiful is the rain! After the dust and heat, In the broad and fiery
street, In the narrow lane, How beautiful is the rain!

How it clatters along the roofs, Like the tramp of hoofs How it gushes and
struggles out From the throat of the overflowing spout!

Across the window-pane It pours and pours; And swift and wide, With a
muddy tide, Like a river down the gutter roars The rain, the welcome rain!

The sick man from his chamber looks At the twisted brooks; He can feel the
cool Breath of each little pool; His fevered brain Grows calm again, And
he breathes a blessing on the rain.

From the neighboring school Come the boys, With more than their wonted
noise And commotion; And down the wet streets Sail their mimic fleets,
Till the treacherous pool Ingulfs them in its whirling And turbulent
ocean.

In the country, on every side, Where far and wide, Like a leopard’s tawny
and spotted hide, Stretches the plain, To the dry grass and the drier
grain How welcome is the rain!

In the furrowed land The toilsome and patient oxen stand; Lifting the yoke
encumbered head, With their dilated nostrils spread, They silently inhale
The clover-scented gale, And the vapors that arise From the well-watered
and smoking soil. For this rest in the furrow after toil Their large and
lustrous eyes Seem to thank the Lord, More than man’s spoken word.

Near at hand, From under the sheltering trees, The farmer sees His
pastures, and his fields of grain, As they bend their tops To the
numberless beating drops Of the incessant rain. He counts it as no sin
That he sees therein Only his own thrift and gain.

These, and far more than these, The Poet sees! He can behold Aquarius old
Walking the fenceless fields of air; And from each ample fold Of the
clouds about him rolled Scattering everywhere The showery rain, As the
farmer scatters his grain.

He can behold Things manifold That have not yet been wholly told,—
Have not been wholly sung nor said. For his thought, that never stops,
Follows the water-drops Down to the graves of the dead, Down through
chasms and gulfs profound, To the dreary fountain-head Of lakes and rivers
under ground; And sees them, when the rain is done, On the bridge of
colors seven Climbing up once more to heaven, Opposite the setting sun.

Thus the Seer, With vision clear, Sees forms appear and disappear, In the
perpetual round of strange, Mysterious change From birth to death, from
death to birth, From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth; Till glimpses
more sublime Of things, unseen before, Unto his wondering eyes reveal The
Universe, as an immeasurable wheel Turning forevermore In the rapid and
rushing river of Time.

TO A CHILD

Dear child! how radiant on thy mother’s knee, With merry-making eyes and
jocund smiles, Thou gazest at the painted tiles, Whose figures grace, With
many a grotesque form and face. The ancient chimney of thy nursery! The
lady with the gay macaw, The dancing girl, the grave bashaw With bearded
lip and chin; And, leaning idly o’er his gate, Beneath the imperial fan of
state, The Chinese mandarin.

With what a look of proud command Thou shakest in thy little hand The
coral rattle with its silver bells, Making a merry tune! Thousands of
years in Indian seas That coral grew, by slow degrees, Until some deadly
and wild monsoon Dashed it on Coromandel’s sand! Those silver bells
Reposed of yore, As shapeless ore, Far down in the deep-sunken wells Of
darksome mines, In some obscure and sunless place, Beneath huge
Chimborazo’s base, Or Potosi’s o’erhanging pines And thus for thee, O
little child, Through many a danger and escape, The tall ships passed the
stormy cape; For thee in foreign lands remote, Beneath a burning, tropic
clime, The Indian peasant, chasing the wild goat, Himself as swift and
wild, In falling, clutched the frail arbute, The fibres of whose shallow
root, Uplifted from the soil, betrayed The silver veins beneath it laid,
The buried treasures of the miser, Time.

But, lo! thy door is left ajar! Thou hearest footsteps from afar! And, at
the sound, Thou turnest round With quick and questioning eyes, Like one,
who, in a foreign land, Beholds on every hand Some source of wonder and
surprise! And, restlessly, impatiently, Thou strivest, strugglest, to be
free, The four walls of thy nursery Are now like prison walls to thee. No
more thy mother’s smiles, No more the painted tiles, Delight thee, nor the
playthings on the floor, That won thy little, beating heart before; Thou
strugglest for the open door.

Through these once solitary halls Thy pattering footstep falls. The sound
of thy merry voice Makes the old walls Jubilant, and they rejoice With the
joy of thy young heart, O’er the light of whose gladness No shadows of
sadness From the sombre background of memory start.

Once, ah, once, within these walls, One whom memory oft recalls, The
Father of his Country, dwelt. And yonder meadows broad and damp The fires
of the besieging camp Encircled with a burning belt. Up and down these
echoing stairs, Heavy with the weight of cares, Sounded his majestic
tread; Yes, within this very room Sat he in those hours of gloom, Weary
both in heart and head.

But what are these grave thoughts to thee? Out, out! into the open air!
Thy only dream is liberty, Thou carest little how or where. I see thee
eager at thy play, Now shouting to the apples on the tree, With cheeks as
round and red as they; And now among the yellow stalks, Among the
flowering shrubs and plants, As restless as the bee. Along the garden
walks, The tracks of thy small carriage-wheels I trace; And see at every
turn how they efface Whole villages of sand-roofed tents, That rise like
golden domes Above the cavernous and secret homes Of wandering and nomadic
tribes of ants. Ah, cruel little Tamerlane, Who, with thy dreadful reign,
Dost persecute and overwhelm These hapless Troglodytes of thy realm! What!
tired already! with those suppliant looks, And voice more beautiful than a
poet’s books, Or murmuring sound of water as it flows. Thou comest back to
parley with repose; This rustic seat in the old apple-tree, With its
o’erhanging golden canopy Of leaves illuminate with autumnal hues, And
shining with the argent light of dews, Shall for a season be our place of
rest. Beneath us, like an oriole’s pendent nest, From which the laughing
birds have taken wing, By thee abandoned, hangs thy vacant swing.
Dream-like the waters of the river gleam; A sailless vessel drops adown
the stream, And like it, to a sea as wide and deep, Thou driftest gently
down the tides of sleep.

O child! O new-born denizen Of life’s great city! on thy head The glory of
the morn is shed, Like a celestial benison! Here at the portal thou dost
stand, And with thy little hand Thou openest the mysterious gate Into the
future’s undiscovered land. I see its valves expand, As at the touch of
Fate! Into those realms of love and hate, Into that darkness blank and
drear, By some prophetic feeling taught, I launch the bold, adventurous
thought, Freighted with hope and fear; As upon subterranean streams, In
caverns unexplored and dark, Men sometimes launch a fragile bark, Laden
with flickering fire, And watch its swift-receding beams, Until at length
they disappear, And in the distant dark expire.

By what astrology of fear or hope Dare I to cast thy horoscope! Like the
new moon thy life appears; A little strip of silver light, And widening
outward into night The shadowy disk of future years; And yet upon its
outer rim, A luminous circle, faint and dim, And scarcely visible to us
here, Rounds and completes the perfect sphere; A prophecy and intimation,
A pale and feeble adumbration, Of the great world of light, that lies
Behind all human destinies.

Ah! if thy fate, with anguish fraught, Should be to wet the dusty soil
With the hot tears and sweat of toil,— To struggle with imperious
thought, Until the overburdened brain, Weary with labor, faint with pain,
Like a jarred pendulum, retain Only its motion, not its power,—
Remember, in that perilous hour, When most afflicted and oppressed, From
labor there shall come forth rest.

And if a more auspicious fate On thy advancing steps await Still let it
ever be thy pride To linger by the laborer’s side; With words of sympathy
or song To cheer the dreary march along Of the great army of the poor,
O’er desert sand, o’er dangerous moor. Nor to thyself the task shall be
Without reward; for thou shalt learn The wisdom early to discern True
beauty in utility; As great Pythagoras of yore, Standing beside the
blacksmith’s door, And hearing the hammers, as they smote The anvils with
a different note, Stole from the varying tones, that hung Vibrant on every
iron tongue, The secret of the sounding wire. And formed the seven-chorded
lyre.

Enough! I will not play the Seer; I will no longer strive to ope The
mystic volume, where appear The herald Hope, forerunning Fear, And Fear,
the pursuivant of Hope. Thy destiny remains untold; For, like Acestes’
shaft of old, The swift thought kindles as it flies, And burns to ashes in
the skies.

THE OCCULTATION OF ORION

I saw, as in a dream sublime, The balance in the hand of Time. O’er East
and West its beam impended; And day, with all its hours of light, Was
slowly sinking out of sight, While, opposite, the scale of night Silently
with the stars ascended.

Like the astrologers of eld, In that bright vision I beheld Greater and
deeper mysteries. I saw, with its celestial keys, Its chords of air, its
frets of fire, The Samian’s great Aeolian lyre, Rising through all its
sevenfold bars, From earth unto the fixed stars. And through the dewy
atmosphere, Not only could I see, but hear, Its wondrous and harmonious
strings, In sweet vibration, sphere by sphere, From Dian’s circle light
and near, Onward to vaster and wider rings. Where, chanting through his
beard of snows, Majestic, mournful, Saturn goes, And down the sunless
realms of space Reverberates the thunder of his bass.

Beneath the sky’s triumphal arch This music sounded like a march, And with
its chorus seemed to be Preluding some great tragedy. Sirius was rising in
the east; And, slow ascending one by one, The kindling constellations
shone. Begirt with many a blazing star, Stood the great giant Algebar,
Orion, hunter of the beast! His sword hung gleaming by his side, And, on
his arm, the lion’s hide Scattered across the midnight air The golden
radiance of its hair.

The moon was pallid, but not faint; And beautiful as some fair saint,
Serenely moving on her way In hours of trial and dismay. As if she heard
the voice of God, Unharmed with naked feet she trod Upon the hot and
burning stars, As on the glowing coals and bars, That were to prove her
strength, and try Her holiness and her purity.

Thus moving on, with silent pace, And triumph in her sweet, pale face, She
reached the station of Orion. Aghast he stood in strange alarm! And
suddenly from his outstretched arm Down fell the red skin of the lion Into
the river at his feet. His mighty club no longer beat The forehead of the
bull; but he Reeled as of yore beside the sea, When, blinded by Oenopion,
He sought the blacksmith at his forge, And, climbing up the mountain
gorge, Fixed his blank eyes upon the sun.

Then, through the silence overhead, An angel with a trumpet said,
“Forevermore, forevermore, The reign of violence is o’er!” And, like an
instrument that flings Its music on another’s strings, The trumpet of the
angel cast Upon the heavenly lyre its blast, And on from sphere to sphere
the words Re-echoed down the burning chords,— “Forevermore,
forevermore, The reign of violence is o’er!”

THE BRIDGE

TO THE DRIVING CLOUD

Gloomy and dark art thou, O chief of the mighty Omahas; Gloomy and dark as
the driving cloud, whose name thou hast taken! Wrapt in thy scarlet
blanket, I see thee stalk through the city’s Narrow and populous streets,
as once by the margin of rivers Stalked those birds unknown, that have
left us only their footprints. What, in a few short years, will remain of
thy race but the footprints?

How canst thou walk these streets, who hast trod the green turf of the
prairies! How canst thou breathe this air, who hast breathed the sweet air
of the mountains! Ah! ‘t is in vain that with lordly looks of disdain thou
dost challenge Looks of disdain in return, and question these walls and
these pavements, Claiming the soil for thy hunting-grounds, while
down-trodden millions Starve in the garrets of Europe, and cry from its
caverns that they, too, Have been created heirs of the earth, and claim
its division!

Back, then, back to thy woods in the regions west of the Wabash! There as
a monarch thou reignest. In autumn the leaves of the maple Pave the floors
of thy palace-halls with gold, and in summer Pine-trees waft through its
chambers the odorous breath of their branches. There thou art strong and
great, a hero, a tamer of horses! There thou chasest the stately stag on
the banks of the Elkhorn, Or by the roar of the Running-Water, or where
the Omaha Calls thee, and leaps through the wild ravine like a brave of
the Blackfeet!

Hark! what murmurs arise from the heart of those mountainous deserts? Is
it the cry of the Foxes and Crows, or the mighty Behemoth, Who, unharmed,
on his tusks once caught the bolts of the thunder, And now lurks in his
lair to destroy the race of the red man? Far more fatal to thee and thy
race than the Crows and the Foxes, Far more fatal to thee and thy race
than the tread of Behemoth, Lo! the big thunder-canoe, that steadily
breasts the Missouri’s Merciless current! and yonder, afar on the
prairies, the camp-fires Gleam through the night; and the cloud of dust in
the gray of the daybreak Marks not the buffalo’s track, nor the Mandan’s
dexterous horse-race; It is a caravan, whitening the desert where dwell
the Camanches! Ha! how the breath of these Saxons and Celts, like the
blast of the east-wind, Drifts evermore to the west the scanty smokes of
thy wigwams!

SONGS

THE DAY IS DONE

AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY

The day is ending, The night is descending; The marsh is frozen, The river
dead.

Through clouds like ashes The red sun flashes On village windows That
glimmer red.

The snow recommences; The buried fences Mark no longer The road o’er the
plain;

While through the meadows, Like fearful shadows, Slowly passes A funeral
train.

The bell is pealing, And every feeling Within me responds To the dismal
knell;

Shadows are trailing, My heart is bewailing And tolling within Like a
funeral bell.

TO AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK

Welcome, my old friend, Welcome to a foreign fireside, While the sullen
gales of autumn Shake the windows.

The ungrateful world Has, it seems, dealt harshly with thee, Since,
beneath the skies of Denmark, First I met thee.

There are marks of age, There are thumb-marks on thy margin, Made by hands
that clasped thee rudely, At the alehouse.

Soiled and dull thou art; Yellow are thy time-worn pages, As the russet,
rain-molested Leaves of autumn.

Thou art stained with wine Scattered from hilarious goblets, As the leaves
with the libations Of Olympus.

Yet dost thou recall Days departed, half-forgotten, When in dreamy youth I
wandered By the Baltic,—

When I paused to hear The old ballad of King Christian Shouted from
suburban taverns In the twilight.

Thou recallest bards, Who in solitary chambers, And with hearts by passion
wasted, Wrote thy pages.

Thou recallest homes Where thy songs of love and friendship Made the
gloomy Northern winter Bright as summer.

Once some ancient Scald, In his bleak, ancestral Iceland, Chanted staves
of these old ballads To the Vikings.

Once in Elsinore, At the court of old King Hamlet Yorick and his boon
companions Sang these ditties.

Once Prince Frederick’s Guard Sang them in their smoky barracks;—
Suddenly the English cannon Joined the chorus!

Peasants in the field, Sailors on the roaring ocean, Students, tradesmen,
pale mechanics, All have sung them.

Thou hast been their friend; They, alas! have left thee friendless! Yet at
least by one warm fireside Art thou welcome.

And, as swallows build In these wide, old-fashioned chimneys, So thy
twittering songs shall nestle In my bosom,—

Quiet, close, and warm, Sheltered from all molestation, And recalling by
their voices Youth and travel.

WALTER VON DER VOGELWEID

DRINKING SONG

INSCRIPTION FOR AN ANTIQUE PITCHER

THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS

L’eternite est une pendule, dont le balancier dit et redit sans cesse ces
deux mots seulement dans le silence des tombeaux: “Toujours! jamais!
Jamais! toujours!”—JACQUES BRIDAINE.

THE ARROW AND THE SONG

I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so
swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For
who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the
song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend.

SONNETS

MEZZO CAMMIN

THE EVENING STAR

AUTUMN

DANTE

CURFEW

I.

II.

EVANGELINE

A TALE OF ACADIE

PART THE FIRST

I

II

III

IV

V

PART THE SECOND

I

Many a weary year had passed since the burning of Grand-Pre, When on the
falling tide the freighted vessels departed, Bearing a nation, with all
its household gods, into exile. Exile without an end, and without an
example in story. Far asunder, on separate coasts, the Acadians landed;
Scattered were they, like flakes of snow, when the wind from the northeast
Strikes aslant through the fogs that darken the Banks of Newfoundland.
Friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandered from city to city, From the
cold lakes of the North to sultry Southern savannas,— From the bleak
shores of the sea to the lands where the Father of Waters Seizes the hills
in his hands, and drags them down to the ocean, Deep in their sands to
bury the scattered bones of the mammoth. Friends they sought and homes;
and many, despairing, heart-broken, Asked of the earth but a grave, and no
longer a friend nor a fireside. Written their history stands on tablets of
stone in the churchyards. Long among them was seen a maiden who waited and
wandered, Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffering all things.
Fair was she and young; but, alas! before her extended, Dreary and vast
and silent, the desert of life, with its pathway Marked by the graves of
those who had sorrowed and suffered before her, Passions long
extinguished, and hopes long dead and abandoned, As the emigrant’s way
o’er the Western desert is marked by Camp-fires long consumed, and bones
that bleach in the sunshine. Something there was in her life incomplete,
imperfect, unfinished; As if a morning of June, with all its music and
sunshine, Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly descended Into
the east again, from whence it late had arisen. Sometimes she lingered in
towns, till, urged by the fever within her, Urged by a restless longing,
the hunger and thirst of the spirit, She would commence again her endless
search and endeavor; Sometimes in churchyards strayed, and gazed on the
crosses and tombstones, Sat by some nameless grave, and thought that
perhaps in its bosom He was already at rest, and she longed to slumber
beside him. Sometimes a rumor, a hearsay, an inarticulate whisper, Came
with its airy hand to point and beckon her forward. Sometimes she spake
with those who had seen her beloved and known him, But it was long ago, in
some far-off place or forgotten. “Gabriel Lajeunesse!” they said; “yes! we
have seen him. He was with Basil the blacksmith, and both have gone to the
prairies; Coureurs-des-Bois are they, and famous hunters and trappers.”
“Gabriel Lajeunesse!” said others; “O yes! we have seen him. He is a
Voyageur in the lowlands of Louisiana.” Then would they say, “Dear child!
why dream and wait for him longer? Are there not other youths as fair as
Gabriel? others Who have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as loyal?
Here is Baptiste Leblanc, the notary’s son, who has loved thee Many a
tedious year; come, give him thy hand and be happy! Thou art too fair to
be left to braid St. Catherine’s tresses.” Then would Evangeline answer,
serenely but sadly, “I cannot! Whither my heart has gone, there follows my
hand, and not elsewhere. For when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and
illumines the pathway, Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden in
darkness.” Thereupon the priest, her friend and father-confessor, Said,
with a smile, “O daughter! thy God thus speaketh within thee! Talk not of
wasted affection, affection never was wasted; If it enrich not the heart
of another, its waters, returning Back to their springs, like the rain,
shall fill them full of refreshment; That which the fountain sends forth
returns again to the fountain. Patience; accomplish thy labor; accomplish
thy work of affection! Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient
endurance is godlike. Therefore accomplish thy labor of love, till the
heart is made godlike, Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered
more worthy of heaven!” Cheered by the good man’s words, Evangeline
labored and waited. Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of the
ocean, But with its sound there was mingled a voice that whispered,
“Despair not?” Thus did that poor soul wander in want and cheerless
discomfort Bleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns of existence.
Let me essay, O Muse! to follow the wanderer’s footsteps;— Not
through each devious path, each changeful year of existence; But as a
traveller follows a streamlet’s course through the valley: Far from its
margin at times, and seeing the gleam of its water Here and there, in some
open space, and at intervals only; Then drawing nearer its banks, through
sylvan glooms that conceal it, Though he behold it not, he can hear its
continuous murmur; Happy, at length, if he find the spot where it reaches
an outlet.

II

III

IV

V

THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE

DEDICATION

BY THE SEASIDE

THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP

The merchant’s word Delighted the Master heard; For his heart was in his
work, and the heart Giveth grace unto every Art.

A quiet smile played round his lips, As the eddies and dimples of the tide
Play round the bows of ships, That steadily at anchor ride. And with a
voice that was full of glee, He answered, “Erelong we will launch A vessel
as goodly, and strong, and stanch, As ever weathered a wintry sea!” And
first with nicest skill and art, Perfect and finished in every part, A
little model the Master wrought, Which should be to the larger plan What
the child is to the man, Its counterpart in miniature; That with a hand
more swift and sure The greater labor might be brought To answer to his
inward thought. And as he labored, his mind ran o’er The various ships
that were built of yore, And above them all, and strangest of all Towered
the Great Harry, crank and tall, Whose picture was hanging on the wall,
With bows and stern raised high in air, And balconies hanging here and
there, And signal lanterns and flags afloat, And eight round towers, like
those that frown From some old castle, looking down Upon the drawbridge
and the moat. And he said with a smile, “Our ship, I wis, Shall be of
another form than this!” It was of another form, indeed; Built for
freight, and yet for speed, A beautiful and gallant craft; Broad in the
beam, that the stress of the blast, Pressing down upon sail and mast,
Might not the sharp bows overwhelm; Broad in the beam, but sloping aft
With graceful curve and slow degrees, That she might be docile to the
helm, And that the currents of parted seas, Closing behind, with mighty
force, Might aid and not impede her course.

Covering many a rood of ground, Lay the timber piled around; Timber of
chestnut, and elm, and oak, And scattered here and there, with these, The
knarred and crooked cedar knees; Brought from regions far away, From
Pascagoula’s sunny bay, And the banks of the roaring Roanoke! Ah! what a
wondrous thing it is To note how many wheels of toil One thought, one
word, can set in motion! There’s not a ship that sails the ocean, But
every climate, every soil, Must bring its tribute, great or small, And
help to build the wooden wall!

The sun was rising o’er the sea, And long the level shadows lay, As if
they, too, the beams would be Of some great, airy argosy. Framed and
launched in a single day. That silent architect, the sun, Had hewn and
laid them every one, Ere the work of man was yet begun. Beside the Master,
when he spoke, A youth, against an anchor leaning, Listened, to catch his
slightest meaning. Only the long waves, as they broke In ripples on the
pebbly beach, Interrupted the old man’s speech.

Beautiful they were, in sooth, The old man and the fiery youth! The old
man, in whose busy brain Many a ship that sailed the main Was modelled
o’er and o’er again;— The fiery youth, who was to be the heir of his
dexterity, The heir of his house, and his daughter’s hand, When he had
built and launched from land What the elder head had planned.

“Thus,” said he, “will we build this ship! Lay square the blocks upon the
slip, And follow well this plan of mine. Choose the timbers with greatest
care; Of all that is unsound beware; For only what is sound and strong to
this vessel stall belong. Cedar of Maine and Georgia pine Here together
shall combine. A goodly frame, and a goodly fame, And the UNION be her
name! For the day that gives her to the sea Shall give my daughter unto
thee!”

The Master’s word Enraptured the young man heard; And as he turned his
face aside, With a look of joy and a thrill of pride, Standing before Her
father’s door, He saw the form of his promised bride. The sun shone on her
golden hair, And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair, With the breath of
morn and the soft sea air. Like a beauteous barge was she, Still at rest
on the sandy beach, Just beyond the billow’s reach; But he Was the
restless, seething, stormy sea! Ah, how skilful grows the hand That
obeyeth Love’s command! It is the heart, and not the brain, That to the
highest doth attain, And he who followeth Love’s behest Far excelleth all
the rest!

Thus with the rising of the sun Was the noble task begun And soon
throughout the ship-yard’s bounds Were heard the intermingled sounds Of
axes and of mallets, plied With vigorous arms on every side; Plied so
deftly and so well, That, ere the shadows of evening fell, The keel of oak
for a noble ship, Scarfed and bolted, straight and strong Was lying ready,
and stretched along The blocks, well placed upon the slip. Happy, thrice
happy, every one Who sees his labor well begun, And not perplexed and
multiplied, By idly waiting for time and tide!

And when the hot, long day was o’er, The young man at the Master’s door
Sat with the maiden calm and still. And within the porch, a little more
Removed beyond the evening chill, The father sat, and told them tales Of
wrecks in the great September gales, Of pirates coasting the Spanish Main,
And ships that never came back again, The chance and change of a sailor’s
life, Want and plenty, rest and strife, His roving fancy, like the wind,
That nothing can stay and nothing can bind, And the magic charm of foreign
lands, With shadows of palms, and shining sands, Where the tumbling surf,
O’er the coral reefs of Madagascar, Washes the feet of the swarthy Lascar,
As he lies alone and asleep on the turf. And the trembling maiden held her
breath At the tales of that awful, pitiless sea, With all its terror and
mystery, The dim, dark sea, so like unto Death, That divides and yet
unites mankind! And whenever the old man paused, a gleam From the bowl of
his pipe would awhile illume The silent group in the twilight gloom, And
thoughtful faces, as in a dream; And for a moment one might mark What had
been hidden by the dark, That the head of the maiden lay at rest,
Tenderly, on the young man’s breast!

Day by day the vessel grew, With timbers fashioned strong and true,
Stemson and keelson and sternson-knee, Till, framed with perfect symmetry,
A skeleton ship rose up to view! And around the bows and along the side
The heavy hammers and mallets plied, Till after many a week, at length,
Wonderful for form and strength, Sublime in its enormous bulk, Loomed
aloft the shadowy hulk! And around it columns of smoke, up-wreathing. Rose
from the boiling, bubbling, seething Caldron, that glowed, And overflowed
With the black tar, heated for the sheathing. And amid the clamors Of
clattering hammers, He who listened heard now and then The song of the
Master and his men:—

With oaken brace and copper band, Lay the rudder on the sand, That, like a
thought, should have control Over the movement of the whole; And near it
the anchor, whose giant hand Would reach down and grapple with the land,
And immovable and fast Hold the great ship against the bellowing blast!
And at the bows an image stood, By a cunning artist carved in wood, With
robes of white, that far behind Seemed to be fluttering in the wind. It
was not shaped in a classic mould, Not like a Nymph or Goddess of old, Or
Naiad rising from the water, But modelled from the Master’s daughter! On
many a dreary and misty night, ‘T will be seen by the rays of the signal
light, Speeding along through the rain and the dark, Like a ghost in its
snow-white sark, The pilot of some phantom bark, Guiding the vessel, in
its flight, By a path none other knows aright! Behold, at last, Each tall
and tapering mast Is swung into its place; Shrouds and stays Holding it
firm and fast!

Long ago, In the deer-haunted forests of Maine, When upon mountain and
plain Lay the snow, They fell,—those lordly pines! Those grand,
majestic pines! ‘Mid shouts and cheers The jaded steers, Panting beneath
the goad, Dragged down the weary, winding road Those captive kings so
straight and tall, To be shorn of their streaming hair, And, naked and
bare, To feel the stress and the strain Of the wind and the reeling main,
Whose roar Would remind them forevermore Of their native forests they
should not see again.

And everywhere The slender, graceful spars Poise aloft in the air, And at
the mast-head, White, blue, and red, A flag unrolls the stripes and stars.
Ah! when the wanderer, lonely, friendless, In foreign harbors shall behold
That flag unrolled, ‘T will be as a friendly hand Stretched out from his
native land, Filling his heart with memories sweet and endless!

All is finished! and at length Has come the bridal day Of beauty and of
strength. To-day the vessel shall be launched! With fleecy clouds the sky
is blanched, And o’er the bay, Slowly, in all his splendors dight, The
great sun rises to behold the sight.

The ocean old, Centuries old, Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled, Paces
restless to and fro, Up and down the sands of gold. His beating heart is
not at rest; And far and wide, With ceaseless flow, His beard of snow
Heaves with the heaving of his breast. He waits impatient for his bride.
There she stands, With her foot upon the sands, Decked with flags and
streamers gay, In honor of her marriage day, Her snow-white signals
fluttering, blending, Round her like a veil descending, Ready to be The
bride of the gray old sea.

On the deck another bride Is standing by her lover’s side. Shadows from
the flags and shrouds, Like the shadows cast by clouds, Broken by many a
sunny fleck, Fall around them on the deck.

The prayer is said, The service read, The joyous bridegroom bows his head;
And in tear’s the good old Master Shakes the brown hand of his son, Kisses
his daughter’s glowing cheek In silence, for he cannot speak, And ever
faster Down his own the tears begin to run. The worthy pastor— The
shepherd of that wandering flock, That has the ocean for its wold, That
has the vessel for its fold, Leaping ever from rock to rock— Spake,
with accents mild and clear, Words of warning, words of cheer, But tedious
to the bridegroom’s ear. He knew the chart Of the sailor’s heart, All its
pleasures and its griefs, All its shallows and rocky reefs, All those
secret currents, that flow With such resistless undertow, And lift and
drift, with terrible force, The will from its moorings and its course.
Therefore he spake, and thus said he:— “Like unto ships far off at
sea, Outward or homeward bound, are we. Before, behind, and all around,
Floats and swings the horizon’s bound, Seems at its distant rim to rise
And climb the crystal wall of the skies, And then again to turn and sink,
As if we could slide from its outer brink. Ah! it is not the sea, It is
not the sea that sinks and shelves, But ourselves That rock and rise With
endless and uneasy motion, Now touching the very skies, Now sinking into
the depths of ocean. Ah! if our souls but poise and swing Like the compass
in its brazen ring, Ever level and ever true To the toil and the task we
have to do, We shall sail securely, and safely reach The Fortunate Isles,
on whose shining beach The sights we see, and the sounds we hear, Will be
those of joy and not of fear!”

Then the Master, With a gesture of command, Waved his hand; And at the
word, Loud and sudden there was heard, All around them and below, The
sound of hammers, blow on blow, Knocking away the shores and spurs. And
see! she stirs! She starts,—she moves,—she seems to feel The
thrill of life along her keel, And, spurning with her foot the ground,
With one exulting, joyous bound, She leaps into the ocean’s arms!

And lo! from the assembled crowd There rose a shout, prolonged and loud,
That to the ocean seemed to say, “Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray,
Take her to thy protecting arms, With all her youth and all her charms!”

How beautiful she is! How fair She lies within those arms, that press Her
form with many a soft caress Of tenderness and watchful care! Sail forth
into the sea, O ship! Through wind and wave, right onward steer! The
moistened eye, the trembling lip, Are not the signs of doubt or fear.

Sail forth into the sea of life, O gentle, loving, trusting wife, And safe
from all adversity Upon the bosom of that sea Thy comings and thy goings
be! For gentleness and love and trust Prevail o’er angry wave and gust;
And in the wreck of noble lives Something immortal still survives!

Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State! Sail on, O UNION, strong and great!
Humanity with all its fears, With all the hopes of future years, Is
hanging breathless on thy fate! We know what Master laid thy keel, What
Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,
What anvils rang, what hammers beat, In what a forge and what a heat Were
shaped the anchors of thy hope! Fear not each sudden sound and shock, ‘T
is of the wave and not the rock; ‘T is but the flapping of the sail, And
not a rent made by the gale! In spite of rock and tempest’s roar, In spite
of false lights on the shore, Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea Our
hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers,
our tears, Our faith triumphant o’er our fears, Are all with thee,—are
all with thee!

SEAWEED

CHRYSAOR

THE SECRET OF THE SEA

TWILIGHT

SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT

THE LIGHTHOUSE

THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD

DEVEREUX FARM, NEAR MARBLEHEAD

BY THE FIRESIDE

RESIGNATION

THE BUILDERS

SAND OF THE DESERT IN AN HOUR-GLASS

THE OPEN WINDOW

KING WITLAF’S DRINKING-HORN

GASPAR BECERRA

PEGASUS IN POUND

TEGNÉR’S DRAPA

I heard a voice, that cried, “Balder the Beautiful Is dead, is dead!” And
through the misty air Passed like the mournful cry Of sunward sailing
cranes.

I saw the pallid corpse Of the dead sun Borne through the Northern sky.
Blasts from Niffelheim Lifted the sheeted mists Around him as he passed.

And the voice forever cried, “Balder the Beautiful Is dead, is dead!” And
died away Through the dreary night, In accents of despair.

Balder the Beautiful, God of the summer sun, Fairest of all the Gods!
Light from his forehead beamed, Runes were upon his tongue, As on the
warrior’s sword.

All things in earth and air Bound were by magic spell Never to do him
harm; Even the plants and stones; All save the mistletoe, The sacred
mistletoe!

Hoeder, the blind old God, Whose feet are shod with silence, Pierced
through that gentle breast With his sharp spear, by fraud Made of the
mistletoe, The accursed mistletoe!

They laid him in his ship, With horse and harness, As on a funeral pyre.
Odin placed A ring upon his finger, And whispered in his ear.

They launched the burning ship! It floated far away Over the misty sea,
Till like the sun it seemed, Sinking beneath the waves. Balder returned no
more!

So perish the old Gods! But out of the sea of Time Rises a new land of
song, Fairer than the old. Over its meadows green Walk the young bards and
sing.

Build it again, O ye bards, Fairer than before! Ye fathers of the new
race, Feed upon morning dew, Sing the new Song of Love!

The law of force is dead! The law of love prevails! Thor, the thunderer,
Shall rule the earth no more, No more, with threats, Challenge the meek
Christ.

Sing no more, O ye bards of the North, Of Vikings and of Jarls! Of the
days of Eld Preserve the freedom only, Not the deeds of blood!

SONNET
ON MRS. KEMBLE’S READINGS FROM SHAKESPEARE

THE SINGERS

God sent his Singers upon earth With songs of sadness and of mirth, That
they might touch the hearts of men, And bring them back to heaven again.

The first, a youth, with soul of fire, Held in his hand a golden lyre;
Through groves he wandered, and by streams, Playing the music of our
dreams.

The second, with a bearded face, Stood singing in the market-place, And
stirred with accents deep and loud The hearts of all the listening crowd.

A gray old man, the third and last, Sang in cathedrals dim and vast, While
the majestic organ rolled Contrition from its mouths of gold.

And those who heard the Singers three Disputed which the best might be;
For still their music seemed to start Discordant echoes in each heart,

But the great Master said, “I see No best in kind, but in degree; I gave a
various gift to each, To charm, to strengthen, and to teach.

“These are the three great chords of might, And he whose ear is tuned
aright Will hear no discord in the three, But the most perfect harmony.”

SUSPIRIA

HYMN
FOR MY BROTHER’S ORDINATION

THE SONG OF HIAWATHA

INTRODUCTION

I
THE PEACE-PIPE

II
The Four Winds

III
HIAWATHA’S CHILDHOOD

IV
HIAWATHA AND MUDJEKEEWIS

V
HIAWATHA’S FASTING

VI
HIAWATHA’S FRIENDS

VII
HIAWATHA’S SAILING

VIII
HIAWATHA’S FISHING

IX
HIAWATHA AND THE PEARL-FEATHER

X
HIAWATHA’S WOOING

XI
HIAWATHA’S WEDDING-FEAST

XII
THE SON OF THE EVENING STAR

XIII
BLESSING THE CORNFIELDS

XIV
PICTURE-WRITING

XV
HIAWATHA’S LAMENTATION

XVI
PAU-PUK-KEEWIS

XVII
THE HUNTING OF PAU-PUK-KEEWIS

XVIII
THE DEATH OF KWASIND

XIX
THE GHOSTS

XX
THE FAMINE

XXI
THE WHITE MAN’S FOOT

XXII
HIAWATHA’S DEPARTURE

NOTES
THE SONG OF HIAWATHA.

This Indian Edda—if I may so call it—is founded on a tradition
prevalent among the North American Indians, of a personage of miraculous
birth, who was sent among them to clear their rivers, forests, and
fishing-grounds, and to teach them the arts of peace.

He was known among different tribes by the several names of Michabou,
Chiabo, Manabozo, Tarenyawagon, and Hiawatha. Mr. Schoolcraft gives an
account of him in his Algic Researches, Vol. I. p. 134; and in his
History, Condition, and Prospects of the Indian Tribes of the United
States, Part III. p. 314, may be found the Iroquois form of the tradition,
derived from the verbal narrations of an Onondaga chief.

Into this old tradition I have woven other curious Indian legends, drawn
chiefly from the various and valuable writings of Mr. Schoolcraft, to whom
the literary world is greatly indebted for his indefatigable zeal in
rescuing from oblivion so much of the legendary lore of the Indians.

The scene of the poem is among the Ojibways on the southern shore of Lake
Superior, in the region between the Pictured Rocks and the Grand Sable.

VOCABULARY

In the Vale of Tawasentha.

This valley, now called Norman’s Kill; is in Albany County, New York.

On the Mountains of the Prairie.

Mr. Catlin, in his Letters and Notes on the Manners, Customs, and

Condition of the North American Indians, Vol. II p. 160, gives an
interesting account of the Coteau des Prairies, and the Red Pipestone
Quarry. He says:—

“Here (according to their traditions) happened the mysterious birth of the
red pipe, which has blown its fumes of peace and war to the remotest
corners of the continent; which has visited every warrior, and passed
through its reddened stem the irrevocable oath of war and desolation. And
here, also, the peace-breathing calumet was born, and fringed with the
eagle’s quills, which has shed its thrilling fumes over the land, and
soothed the fury of the relentless savage.

“The Great Spirit at an ancient period here called the Indian nations
together, and, standing on the precipice of the red pipe- stone rock,
broke from its wall a piece, and made a huge pipe by turning it in his
hand, which he smoked over them, and to the North, the South, the East,
and the West, and told them that this stone was red,—that it was
their flesh,—that they must use it for their pipes of peace,—that
it belonged to them all, and that the war-club and scalping-knife must not
be raised on its ground. At the last whiff of his pipe his head went into
a great cloud, and the whole surface of the rock for several miles was
melted and glazed; two great ovens were opened beneath, and two women
(guardian spirits of the place) entered them in a blaze of fire; and they
are heard there yet (Tso-mec-cos-tee aud Tso-me-cos-te-won-dee), answering
to the invocations of the high-priests or medicine-men, who consult them
when they are visitors to this sacred place.”

Hark you, Bear! you are a coward.

This anecdote is from Heckewelder. In his account of the Indian Nations,
he describes an Indian hunter as addressing a bear in nearly these words.
“I was present,” he says, “at the delivery of this curious invective; when
the hunter had despatched the bear, I asked him how he thought that poor
animal could understand what he said to it. ‘O,’ said he in answer, ‘the
bear understood me very well; did you not observe how ashamed he looked
while I was upbraiding him?”‘—Transactions of the American
Philosophical Society, Vol. I. p. 240.

Hush! the Naked Bear will hear thee!

Heckewelder, in a letter published in the Transactions of the American
Philosophical Society, Vol. IV. p. 260, speaks of this tradition as
prevalent among the Mohicans and Delawares.

“Their reports,” he says, “run thus: that among all animals that had been
formerly in this country, this was the most ferocious; that it was much
larger than the largest of the common bears, and remarkably long-bodied;
all over (except a spot of hair on its back of a white color) naked. . . .
.

“The history of this animal used to be a subject of conversation among the
Indians, especially when in the woods a hunting. I have also heard them
say to their children when crying: ‘Hush! the naked bear will hear you, be
upon you, and devour you,'”

Where the Falls of Minnehaha, etc.

“The scenery about Fort Snelling is rich in beauty. The Falls of St.
Anthony are familiar to travellers, and to readers of Indian sketches.
Between the fort and these falls are the ‘Little Falls,’ forty feet in
height, on a stream that empties into the Mississippi. The Indians called
them Mine-hah-hah, or ‘laughing waters.'” — MRS. EASTMAN’S Dacotah,
or Legends of the Sioux, Introd., p. ii.

Sand Hills of the Nagow Wudjoo.

A description of the Grand Sable, or great sand-dunes of Lake Superior, is
given in Foster and Whitney’s Report on the Geology of the Lake Superior
Land District, Part II. p. 131.

“The Grand Sable possesses a scenic interest little inferior to that of
the Pictured Rocks. The explorer passes abruptly from a coast of
consolidated sand to one of loose materials; and although in the one case
the cliffs are less precipitous, yet in the other they attain a higher
altitude. He sees before him a long reach of coast, resembling a vast
sand-bank, more than three hundred and fifty feet in height, without a
trace of vegetation. Ascending to the top, rounded hillocks of blown sand
are observed, with occasional clumps of trees standing out like oases in
the desert.”

Onaway! Awake, beloved!

The original of this song may be found in Littell’s Living Age, Vol. XXV.
p. 45.

On the Red Swan floating, flying.

The fanciful tradition of the Red Swan may be found in Schoolcraft’s Algic
Researches, Vol. II. p. 9. Three brothers were hunting on a wager to see
who would bring home the first game.

“They were to shoot no other animal,” so the legend says, “but such as
each was in the habit of killing. They set out different ways: Odjibwa,
the youngest, had not gone far before he saw a bear, an animal he was not
to kill, by the agreement. He followed him close, and drove an arrow
through him, which brought him to the ground. Although contrary to the
bet, he immediately commenced skinning him, when suddenly something red
tinged all the air around him. He rubbed his eyes, thinking he was perhaps
deceived; but without effect, for the red hue continued. At length he
heard a strange noise at a distance. It first appeared like a human voice,
but after following the sound for some distance, he reached the shores of
a lake, and soon saw the object he was looking for. At a distance out in
the lake sat a most beautiful Red Swan, whose plumage glittered in the
sun, and who would now and then make the same noise he had heard. He was
within long bow-shot, and, pulling the arrow from the bowstring up to his
ear, took deliberate aim and shot. The arrow took no effect; and he shot
and shot again till his quiver was empty. Still the swan remained, moving
round and round, stretching its long neck and dipping its bill into the
water, as if heedless of the arrows shot at it. Odjibwa ran home, and got
all his own and his brother’s arrows and shot them all away. He then stood
and gazed at the beautiful bird. While standing, he remembered his
brother’s saying that in their deceased father’s medicine-sack were three
magic arrows. Off he started, his anxiety to kill the swan overcoming all
scruples. At any other time, he would have deemed it sacrilege to open his
father’s medicine-sack; but now he hastily seized the three arrows and ran
back, leaving the other contents of the sack scattered over the lodge. The
swan was still there. He shot the first arrow with great precision, and
came very near to it. The second came still closer; as he took the last
arrow, he felt his arm firmer, and, drawing it up with vigor, saw it pass
through the neck of the swan a little above the breast. Still it did not
prevent the bird from flying off, which it did, however, at first slowly,
flapping its wings and rising gradually into the airs and teen flying off
toward the sinking of the sun.” — pp.10-12.

When I think of my beloved.

The original of this song may be found in Oneota, p. 15.

Sing the mysteries of Mondamin. The Indians hold the maize, or Indian
corn, in great veneration.

“They esteem it so important and divine a grain,” says Schoolcraft, “that
their story-tellers invented various tales, in which this idea is
symbolized under the form of a special gift from the Great Spirit. The
Odjibwa-Algonquins, who call it Mon-da-min, that is, the Spirit’s grain or
berry, have a pretty story of this kind, in which the stalk in full tassel
is represented as descending from the sky, under the guise of a handsome
youth, in answer to the prayers of a young man at his fast of virility, or
coming to manhood.

“It is well known that corn-planting and corn-gathering, at least among
all the still uncolonized tribes, are left entirely to the females and
children, and a few superannuated old men. It is not generally known,
perhaps, that this labor is not compulsory, and that it is assumed by the
females as a just equivalent, in their view, for the onerous and
continuous labor of the other sex, in providing meats, and skins for
clothing, by the chase, and in defending their villages against their
enemies, and keeping intruders off their territories. A good Indian
housewife deems this a part of her prerogative, and prides herself to have
a store of corn to exercise her hospitality, or duly honor her husband’s
hospitality, in the entertainment of the lodge guests.” — Oneota, p.
82.

Thus the fields shall be more fruitful.

“A singular proof of this belief, in both sexes, of the mysterious
influence of the steps of a woman on the vegetable and in sect creation,
is found in an ancient custom, which was related to me, respecting
corn-planting. It was the practice of the hunter’s wife, when the field of
corn had been planted, to choose the first dark or overclouded evening to
perform a secret circuit, sans habillement, around the field. For this
purpose she slipped out of the lodge in the evening, unobserved, to some
obscure nook, where she completely disrobed. Then, taking her matchecota,
or principal garment, in one hand, she dragged it around the field. This
was thought to insure a prolific crop, and to prevent the assaults of
insects and worms upon the grain. It was supposed they could not creep
over the charmed line.” — Oneota, p. 83.

With his prisoner-string he bound him.

“These cords,” says Mr. Tanner “are made of the bark of the elm- tree, by
boiling and then immersing it in cold water. . . . The leader of a war
party commonly carries several fastened about his waist, and if, in the
course of the fight, any one of his young men take a prisoner, it is his
duty to bring him immediately to the chief, to be tied, and the latter is
responsible for his safe keeping.” — Narrative of Captivity and
Adventures, p. 412.

“If one of the young female huskers finds a red ear of corn, it is typical
of a brave admirer, and is regarded as a fitting present to some young
warrior. But if the ear be crooked, and tapering to a point, no matter
what color, the whole circle is set in a roar, and wa-ge-min is the word
shouted aloud. It is the symbol of a thief in the cornfield. It is
considered as the image of an old man stooping as he enters the lot. Had
the chisel of Praxiteles been employed to produce this image, it could not
more vividly bring to the minds of the merry group the idea of a pilferer
of their favorite mondamin. . . .

“The literal meaning of the term is, a mass, or crooked ear of grain; but
the ear of corn so called is a conventional type of a little old man
pilfering ears of corn in a cornfield. It is in this manner that a single
word or term, in these curious languages, becomes the fruitful parent of
many ideas. And we can thus perceive why it is that the word wagemin is
alone competent to excite merriment in the husking circle.

“This term is taken as the basis of the cereal chorus, or corn song, as
sung by the Northern Algonquin tribes. It is coupled with the phrase
Paimosaid,—a permutative form of the Indian substantive, made from
the verb pim-o-sa, to walk. Its literal meaning is, he who walks, or the
walker; but the ideas conveyed by it are, he who walks by night to pilfer
corn. It offers, therefore, a kind of parallelism in expression to the
preceding term.” — Oneota, p. 254.

Pugasaing, with thirteen pieces.

This Game of the Bowl is the principal game of hazard among the Northern
tribes of Indians. Mr. Schoolcraft gives a particular account of it in
Oneota, p. 85. “This game,” he says, “is very fascinating to some portions
of the Indians. They stake at it their ornaments, weapons, clothing,
canoes, horses, everything in fact they possess; and have been known, it
is said, to set up their wives and children and even to forfeit their own
liberty. Of such desperate stakes I have seen no examples, nor do I think
the game itself in common use. It is rather confined to certain persons,
who hold the relative rank of gamblers in Indian society,—men who
are not noted as hunters or warriors, or steady providers for their
families. Among these are persons who bear the term of Iena-dizze- wug,
that is, wanderers about the country, braggadocios, or fops. It can hardly
be classed with the popular games of amusement, by which skill and
dexterity are acquired. I have generally found the chiefs and graver men
of the tribes, who encouraged the young men to play ball, and are sure to
be present at the customary sports, to witness, and sanction, and applaud
them, speak lightly and disparagingly of this game of hazard. Yet it
cannot be denied that some of the chiefs, distinguished in war and the
chase, at the West, can be referred to as lending their example to its
fascinating power.”

See also his history, Condition, and Prospects of the Indian Tribes, Part
II, p. 72.

To the Pictured Rocks of sandstone.

The reader will find a long description of the Pictured Rocks in Foster
and Whitney’s Report on the Geology of the Lake Superior Land District,
Part II. p. 124. From this I make the following extract:—

“The Pictured Rocks may be described, in general terms, as a series of
sandstone bluffs extending along the shore of Lake Superior for about five
miles, and rising, in most places, vertically from the water, without any
beach at the base, to a height varying from fifty to nearly two hundred
feet. Were they simply a line of cliffs, they might not, so far as relates
to height or extent, be worthy of a rank among great natural curiosities,
although such an assemblage of rocky strata, washed by the waves of the
great lake, would not, under any circumstances, be destitute of grandeur.
To the voyager, coasting along their base in his frail canoe, they would,
at all times, be an object of dread; the recoil of the surf, the
rock-bound coast, affording, for miles, no place of refuge,—the
lowering sky, the rising wind,—all these would excite his
apprehension, and induce him to ply a vigorous oar until the dreaded wall
was passed. But in the Pictured Rocks there are two features which
communicate to the scenery a wonderful and almost unique character. These
are, first, the curious manner in which the cliffs have been excavated and
worn away by the action of the lake, which, for centuries, has dashed an
ocean-like surf against their base; and, second, the equally curious
manner in which large portions of the surface have been colored by bands
of brilliant hues.

“It is from the latter circumstance that the name, by which these cliffs
are known to the American traveller, is derived; while that applied to
them by the French voyageurs (‘Les Portails’) is derived from the former,
and by far the most striking peculiarity.

“The term Pictured Rocks has been in use for a great length of time; but
when it was first applied, we have been unable to discover. It would seem
that the first travellers were more impressed with the novel and striking
distribution of colors on the surface than with the astonishing variety of
form into which the cliffs themselves have been worn. . . .

“Our voyageurs had many legends to relate of the pranks of the Menni-bojou
in these caverns, and, in answer to our inquiries, seemed disposed to
fabricate stories, without end, of the achievements of this Indian deity.”

Toward the Sun his hands were lifted.

In this manner, and with such salutations, was Father Marquette received
by the Illinois. See his Voyages et Decouvertes, Section V.

[END HIAWATHA NOTES]

THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH

I
MILES STANDISH

II
LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP

III
THE LOVER’S ERRAND

IV
JOHN ALDEN

V
THE SAILING OF THE MAYFLOWER

VI
PRISCILLA

VII
THE MARCH OF MILES STANDISH

VIII
THE SPINNING-WHEEL

IX
THE WEDDING-DAY

BIRDS OF PASSAGE.

. . come i gru van cantando lor lai, Facendo in aer di se lunga riga.
— DANTE

FLIGHT THE FIRST

BIRDS OF PASSAGE

PROMETHEUS
OR THE POET’S FORETHOUGHT

EPIMETHEUS
OR THE POET’S AFTERTHOUGHT

THE LADDER OF ST. AUGUSTINE

THE PHANTOM SHIP

THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS

HAUNTED HOUSES

IN THE CHURCHYARD AT CAMBRIDGE

THE EMPEROR’S BIRD’S-NEST

THE TWO ANGELS

DAYLIGHT AND MOONLIGHT

In broad daylight, and at noon, Yesterday I saw the moon Sailing high, but
faint and white, As a school-boy’s paper kite.

In broad daylight, yesterday, I read a Poet’s mystic lay; And it seemed to
me at most As a phantom, or a ghost.

But at length the feverish day Like a passion died away, And the night,
serene and still, Fell on village, vale, and hill.

Then the moon, in all her pride, Like a spirit glorified, Filled and
overflowed the night With revelations of her light.

And the Poet’s song again Passed like music through my brain; Night
interpreted to me All its grace and mystery.

THE JEWISH CEMETERY AT NEWPORT

OLIVER BASSELIN

VICTOR GALBRAITH

MY LOST YOUTH

THE ROPEWALK

THE GOLDEN MILE-STONE

CATAWBA WINE

SANTA FILOMENA

THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPE

A LEAF FROM KING ALFRED’S OROSIUS

DAYBREAK

A wind came up out of the sea, And said, “O mists, make room for me.”

It hailed the ships, and cried, “Sail on, Ye mariners, the night is gone.”

And hurried landward far away, Crying, “Awake! it is the day.”

It said unto the forest, “Shout! Hang all your leafy banners out!”

It touched the wood-bird’s folded wing, And said, “O bird, awake and
sing.”

And o’er the farms, “O chanticleer, Your clarion blow; the day is near.”

It whispered to the fields of corn, “Bow down, and hail the coming morn.”

It shouted through the belfry-tower, “Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour.”

It crossed the churchyard with a sigh, And said, “Not yet! in quiet lie.”

THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ

MAY 28, 1857

CHILDREN

SANDALPHON

FLIGHT THE SECOND

THE CHILDREN’S HOUR

ENCELADUS

THE CUMBERLAND

SNOW-FLAKES

A DAY OF SUNSHINE

O gift of God! O perfect day: Whereon shall no man work, but play; Whereon
it is enough for me, Not to be doing, but to be!

Through every fibre of my brain, Through every nerve, through every vein,
I feel the electric thrill, the touch Of life, that seems almost too much.

I hear the wind among the trees Playing celestial symphonies; I see the
branches downward bent, Like keys of some great instrument.

And over me unrolls on high The splendid scenery of the sky, Where though
a sapphire sea the sun Sails like a golden galleon,

Towards yonder cloud-land in the West, Towards yonder Islands of the
Blest, Whose steep sierra far uplifts Its craggy summits white with
drifts.

Blow, winds! and waft through all the rooms The snow-flakes of the
cherry-blooms! Blow, winds! and bend within my reach The fiery blossoms of
the peach!

O Life and Love! O happy throng Of thoughts, whose only speech is song! O
heart of man! canst thou not be Blithe as the air is, and as free?

SOMETHING LEFT UNDONE

WEARINESS

TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN

PART FIRST

PRELUDE

THE WAYSIDE INN

One Autumn night, in Sudbury town,
Across the meadows bare and brown,
The windows of the wayside inn
Gleamed red with fire-light through the leaves
Of woodbine, hanging from the eaves
Their crimson curtains rent and thin.

As ancient is this hostelry
As any in the land may be,
Built in the old Colonial day,
When men lived in a grander way,
With ampler hospitality;
A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall,
Now somewhat fallen to decay,
With weather-stains upon the wall,
And stairways worn, and crazy doors,
And creaking and uneven floors,
And chimneys huge, and tiled and tall.

A region of repose it seems,
A place of slumber and of dreams,
Remote among the wooded hills!
For there no noisy railway speeds,
Its torch-race scattering smoke and gleeds;
But noon and night, the panting teams
Stop under the great oaks, that throw
Tangles of light and shade below,
On roofs and doors and window-sills.
Across the road the barns display
Their lines of stalls, their mows of hay,
Through the wide doors the breezes blow,
The wattled cocks strut to and fro,
And, half effaced by rain and shine,
The Red Horse prances on the sign.
Round this old-fashioned, quaint abode
Deep silence reigned, save when a gust
Went rushing down the county road,
And skeletons of leaves, and dust,
A moment quickened by its breath,
Shuddered and danced their dance of death,
And through the ancient oaks o’erhead
Mysterious voices moaned and fled.

But from the parlor of the inn
A pleasant murmur smote the ear,
Like water rushing through a weir:
Oft interrupted by the din
Of laughter and of loud applause,
And, in each intervening pause,
The music of a violin.
The fire-light, shedding over all
The splendor of its ruddy glow,
Filled the whole parlor large and low;
It gleamed on wainscot and on wall,
It touched with more than wonted grace
Fair Princess Mary’s pictured face;
It bronzed the rafters overhead,
On the old spinet’s ivory keys
It played inaudible melodies,
It crowned the sombre clock with flame,
The hands, the hours, the maker’s name,
And painted with a livelier red
The Landlord’s coat-of-arms again;
And, flashing on the window-pane,
Emblazoned with its light and shade
The jovial rhymes, that still remain,
Writ near a century ago,
By the great Major Molineaux,
Whom Hawthorne has immortal made.

Before the blazing fire of wood
Erect the rapt musician stood;
And ever and anon he bent
His head upon his instrument,
And seemed to listen, till he caught
Confessions of its secret thought,—
The joy, the triumph, the lament,
The exultation and the pain;
Then, by the magic of his art,
He soothed the throbbings of its heart,
And lulled it into peace again.

Around the fireside at their ease
There sat a group of friends, entranced
With the delicious melodies
Who from the far-off noisy town
Had to the wayside inn come down,
To rest beneath its old oak-trees.
The fire-light on their faces glanced,
Their shadows on the wainscot danced,
And, though of different lands and speech,
Each had his tale to tell, and each
Was anxious to be pleased and please.
And while the sweet musician plays,
Let me in outline sketch them all,
Perchance uncouthly as the blaze
With its uncertain touch portrays
Their shadowy semblance on the wall.

But first the Landlord will I trace;
Grave in his aspect and attire;
A man of ancient pedigree,
A Justice of the Peace was he,
Known in all Sudbury as “The Squire.”
Proud was he of his name and race,
Of old Sir William and Sir Hugh,
And in the parlor, full in view,
His coat-of-arms, well framed and glazed,
Upon the wall in colors blazed;
He beareth gules upon his shield,
A chevron argent in the field,
With three wolf’s heads, and for the crest
A Wyvern part-per-pale addressed
Upon a helmet barred; below
The scroll reads, “By the name of Howe.”
And over this, no longer bright,
Though glimmering with a latent light,
Was hung the sword his grandsire bore
In the rebellious days of yore,
Down there at Concord in the fight.

A youth was there, of quiet ways,
A Student of old books and days,
To whom all tongues and lands were known
And yet a lover of his own;
With many a social virtue graced,
And yet a friend of solitude;
A man of such a genial mood
The heart of all things he embraced,
And yet of such fastidious taste,
He never found the best too good.
Books were his passion and delight,
And in his upper room at home
Stood many a rare and sumptuous tome,
In vellum bound, with gold bedight,
Great volumes garmented in white,
Recalling Florence, Pisa, Rome.
He loved the twilight that surrounds
The border-land of old romance;
Where glitter hauberk, helm, and lance,
And banner waves, and trumpet sounds,
And ladies ride with hawk on wrist,
And mighty warriors sweep along,
Magnified by the purple mist,
The dusk of centuries and of song.
The chronicles of Charlemagne,
Of Merlin and the Mort d’Arthure,
Mingled together in his brain
With tales of Flores and Blanchefleur,
Sir Ferumbras, Sir Eglamour,
Sir Launcelot, Sir Morgadour,
Sir Guy, Sir Bevis, Sir Gawain.

A young Sicilian, too, was there;
In sight of Etna born and bred,
Some breath of its volcanic air
Was glowing in his heart and brain,
And, being rebellious to his liege,
After Palermo’s fatal siege,
Across the western seas he fled,
In good King Bomba’s happy reign.
His face was like a summer night,
All flooded with a dusky light;
His hands were small; his teeth shone white
As sea-shells, when he smiled or spoke;
His sinews supple and strong as oak;
Clean shaven was he as a priest,
Who at the mass on Sunday sings,
Save that upon his upper lip
His beard, a good palm’s length least,
Level and pointed at the tip,
Shot sideways, like a swallow’s wings.
The poets read he o’er and o’er,
And most of all the Immortal Four
Of Italy; and next to those,
The story-telling bard of prose,
Who wrote the joyous Tuscan tales
Of the Decameron, that make
Fiesole’s green hills and vales
Remembered for Boccaccio’s sake.
Much too of music was his thought;
The melodies and measures fraught
With sunshine and the open air,
Of vineyards and the singing sea
Of his beloved Sicily;
And much it pleased him to peruse
The songs of the Sicilian muse,
Bucolic songs by Meli sung
In the familiar peasant tongue,
That made men say, “Behold! once more
The pitying gods to earth restore
Theocritus of Syracuse!”

A Spanish Jew from Alicant
With aspect grand and grave was there;
Vender of silks and fabrics rare,
And attar of rose from the Levant.
Like an old Patriarch he appeared,
Abraham or Isaac, or at least
Some later Prophet or High-Priest;
With lustrous eyes, and olive skin,
And, wildly tossed from cheeks and chin,
The tumbling cataract of his beard.
His garments breathed a spicy scent
Of cinnamon and sandal blent,
Like the soft aromatic gales
That meet the mariner, who sails
Through the Moluccas, and the seas
That wash the shores of Celebes.
All stories that recorded are
By Pierre Alphonse he knew by heart,
And it was rumored he could say
The Parables of Sandabar,
And all the Fables of Pilpay,
Or if not all, the greater part!
Well versed was he in Hebrew books,
Talmud and Targum, and the lore
Of Kabala; and evermore
There was a mystery in his looks;
His eyes seemed gazing far away,
As if in vision or in trance
He heard the solemn sackbut play,
And saw the Jewish maidens dance.

A Theologian, from the school
Of Cambridge on the Charles, was there;
Skilful alike with tongue and pen,
He preached to all men everywhere
The Gospel of the Golden Rule,
The New Commandment given to men,
Thinking the deed, and not the creed,
Would help us in our utmost need.
With reverent feet the earth he trod,
Nor banished nature from his plan,
But studied still with deep research
To build the Universal Church,
Lofty as in the love of God,
And ample as the wants of man.

A Poet, too, was there, whose verse
Was tender, musical, and terse;
The inspiration, the delight,
The gleam, the glory, the swift flight,
Of thoughts so sudden, that they seem
The revelations of a dream,
All these were his; but with them came
No envy of another’s fame;
He did not find his sleep less sweet
For music in some neighboring street,
Nor rustling hear in every breeze
The laurels of Miltiades.
Honor and blessings on his head
While living, good report when dead,
Who, not too eager for renown,
Accepts, but does not clutch, the crown!

Last the Musician, as he stood
Illumined by that fire of wood;
Fair-haired, blue-eyed, his aspect blithe.
His figure tall and straight and lithe,
And every feature of his face
Revealing his Norwegian race;
A radiance, streaming from within,
Around his eyes and forehead beamed,
The Angel with the violin,
Painted by Raphael, he seemed.
He lived in that ideal world
Whose language is not speech, but song;
Around him evermore the throng
Of elves and sprites their dances whirled;
The Stromkarl sang, the cataract hurled
Its headlong waters from the height;
And mingled in the wild delight
The scream of sea-birds in their flight,
The rumor of the forest trees,
The plunge of the implacable seas,
The tumult of the wind at night,
Voices of eld, like trumpets blowing,
Old ballads, and wild melodies
Through mist and darkness pouring forth,
Like Elivagar’s river flowing
Out of the glaciers of the North.

The instrument on which he played
Was in Cremona’s workshops made,
By a great master of the past,
Ere yet was lost the art divine;
Fashioned of maple and of pine,
That in Tyrolian forests vast
Had rocked and wrestled with the blast;
Exquisite was it in design,
Perfect in each minutest part.
A marvel of the lutist’s art;
And in its hollow chamber, thus,
The maker from whose hands it came
Had written his unrivalled name,—
“Antonius Stradivarius.”

And when he played, the atmosphere
Was filled with magic, and the ear
Caught echoes of that Harp of Gold,
Whose music had so weird a sound,
The hunted stag forgot to bound,
The leaping rivulet backward rolled,
The birds came down from bush and tree,
The dead came from beneath the sea,
The maiden to the harper’s knee!

The music ceased; the applause was loud,
The pleased musician smiled and bowed;
The wood-fire clapped its hands of flame,
The shadows on the wainscot stirred,
And from the harpsichord there came
A ghostly murmur of acclaim,
A sound like that sent down at night
By birds of passage in their flight,
From the remotest distance heard.

Then silence followed; then began
A clamor for the Landlord’s tale,—
The story promised them of old,
They said, but always left untold;
And he, although a bashful man,
And all his courage seemed to fail,
Finding excuse of no avail,
Yielded; and thus the story ran.

THE LANDLORD’S TALE.
PAUL REVERE’S RIDE.

Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, “If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,—
One, if by land, and two, if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm
For the country folk to be up and to arm,”

Then he said, “Good night!” and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street,
Wanders and watches with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,—
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town,
And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night-encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent
And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,—
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse’s side,
Now gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry-tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns!

A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet:
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders, that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer’s dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read,
How the British Regulars fired and fled,—
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,
Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,—
A cry of defiance and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo forevermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

INTERLUDE.

The Landlord ended thus his tale,
Then rising took down from its nail
The sword that hung there, dim with dust
And cleaving to its sheath with rust,
And said, “This sword was in the fight.”
The Poet seized it, and exclaimed,
“It is the sword of a good knight,
Though homespun was his coat-of-mail;
What matter if it be not named
Joyeuse, Colada, Durindale,
Excalibar, or Aroundight,
Or other name the books record?
Your ancestor, who bore this sword
As Colonel of the Volunteers,
Mounted upon his old gray mare,
Seen here and there and everywhere,
To me a grander shape appears
Than old Sir William, or what not,
Clinking about in foreign lands
With iron gauntlets on his hands,
And on his head an iron pot!”

All laughed; the Landlord’s face grew red
As his escutcheon on the wall;
He could not comprehend at all
The drift of what the Poet said;
For those who had been longest dead
Were always greatest in his eyes;
And he was speechless with surprise
To see Sir William’s plumed head
Brought to a level with the rest,
And made the subject of a jest.
And this perceiving, to appease
The Landlord’s wrath, the others’ fears,
The Student said, with careless ease,
“The ladies and the cavaliers,
The arms, the loves, the courtesies,
The deeds of high emprise, I sing!
Thus Ariosto says, in words
That have the stately stride and ring
Of armed knights and clashing swords.
Now listen to the tale I bring
Listen! though not to me belong
The flowing draperies of his song,
The words that rouse, the voice that charms.
The Landlord’s tale was one of arms,
Only a tale of love is mine,
Blending the human and divine,
A tale of the Decameron, told
In Palmieri’s garden old,
By Fiametta, laurel-crowned,
While her companions lay around,
And heard the intermingled sound
Of airs that on their errands sped,
And wild birds gossiping overhead,
And lisp of leaves, and fountain’s fall,
And her own voice more sweet than all,
Telling the tale, which, wanting these,
Perchance may lose its power to please.”

THE STUDENT’S TALE
THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO

One summer morning, when the sun was hot,
Weary with labor in his garden-plot,
On a rude bench beneath his cottage eaves,
Ser Federigo sat among the leaves
Of a huge vine, that, with its arms outspread,
Hung its delicious clusters overhead.
Below him, through the lovely valley flowed
The river Arno, like a winding road,
And from its banks were lifted high in air
The spires and roofs of Florence called the Fair;
To him a marble tomb, that rose above
His wasted fortunes and his buried love.
For there, in banquet and in tournament,
His wealth had lavished been, his substance spent,
To woo and lose, since ill his wooing sped,
Monna Giovanna, who his rival wed,
Yet ever in his fancy reigned supreme,
The ideal woman of a young man’s dream.

Then he withdrew, in poverty and pain,
To this small farm, the last of his domain,
His only comfort and his only care
To prune his vines, and plant the fig and pear;
His only forester and only guest
His falcon, faithful to him, when the rest,
Whose willing hands had found so light of yore
The brazen knocker of his palace door,
Had now no strength to lift the wooden latch,
That entrance gave beneath a roof of thatch.
Companion of his solitary ways,
Purveyor of his feasts on holidays,
On him this melancholy man bestowed
The love with which his nature overflowed.

And so the empty-handed years went round,
Vacant, though voiceful with prophetic sound,
And so, that summer morn, he sat and mused
With folded, patient hands, as he was used,
And dreamily before his half-closed sight
Floated the vision of his lost delight.
Beside him, motionless, the drowsy bird
Dreamed of the chase, and in his slumber heard
The sudden, scythe-like sweep of wings, that dare
The headlong plunge thro’ eddying gulfs of air,
Then, starting broad awake upon his perch,
Tinkled his bells, like mass-bells in a church,
And, looking at his master, seemed to say,
“Ser Federigo, shall we hunt to-day?”

Ser Federigo thought not of the chase;
The tender vision of her lovely face,
I will not say he seems to see, he sees
In the leaf-shadows of the trellises,
Herself, yet not herself; a lovely child
With flowing tresses, and eyes wide and wild,
Coming undaunted up the garden walk,
And looking not at him, but at the hawk.
“Beautiful falcon!” said he, “would that I
Might hold thee on my wrist, or see thee fly!”
The voice was hers, and made strange echoes start
Through all the haunted chambers of his heart,
As an æolian harp through gusty doors
Of some old ruin its wild music pours.

“Who is thy mother, my fair boy?” he said,
His hand laid softly on that shining head.
“Monna Giovanna. Will you let me stay
A little while, and with your falcon play?
We live there, just beyond your garden wall,
In the great house behind the poplars tall.”

So he spake on; and Federigo heard
As from afar each softly uttered word,
And drifted onward through the golden gleams
And shadows of the misty sea of dreams,
As mariners becalmed through vapors drift,
And feel the sea beneath them sink and lift,
And hear far off the mournful breakers roar,
And voices calling faintly from the shore!
Then, waking from his pleasant reveries
He took the little boy upon his knees,
And told him stories of his gallant bird,
Till in their friendship he became a third.

Monna Giovanna, widowed in her prime,
Had come with friends to pass the summer time
In her grand villa, half-way up the hill,
O’erlooking Florence, but retired and still;
With iron gates, that opened through long lines
Of sacred ilex and centennial pines,
And terraced gardens, and broad steps of stone,
And sylvan deities, with moss o’ergrown,
And fountains palpitating in the heat,
And all Val d’Arno stretched beneath its feet.
Here in seclusion, as a widow may,
The lovely lady whiled the hours away,
Pacing in sable robes the statued hall,
Herself the stateliest statue among all,
And seeing more and more, with secret joy,
Her husband risen and living in her boy,
Till the lost sense of life returned again,
Not as delight, but as relief from pain.
Meanwhile the boy, rejoicing in his strength,
Stormed down the terraces from length to length;
The screaming peacock chased in hot pursuit,
And climbed the garden trellises for fruit.
But his chief pastime was to watch the flight
Of a gerfalcon, soaring into sight,
Beyond the trees that fringed the garden wall,
Then downward stooping at some distant call;
And as he gazed full often wondered he
Who might the master of the falcon be,
Until that happy morning, when he found
Master and falcon in the cottage ground.

And now a shadow and a terror fell
On the great house, as if a passing-bell
Tolled from the tower, and filled each spacious room
With secret awe, and preternatural gloom;
The petted boy grew ill, and day by day
Pined with mysterious malady away.
The mother’s heart would not be comforted;
Her darling seemed to her already dead,
And often, sitting by the sufferer’s side,
“What can I do to comfort thee?” she cried.
At first the silent lips made no reply,
But moved at length by her importunate cry,
“Give me,” he answered, with imploring tone,
“Ser Federigo’s falcon for my own!”
No answer could the astonished mother make;
How could she ask, e’en for her darling’s sake,
Such favor at a luckless lover’s hand,
Well knowing that to ask was to command?
Well knowing, what all falconers confessed,
In all the land that falcon was the best,
The master’s pride and passion and delight,
And the sole pursuivant of this poor knight.
But yet, for her child’s sake, she could no less
Than give assent to soothe his restlessness,
So promised, and then promising to keep
Her promise sacred, saw him fall asleep.

The morrow was a bright September morn;
The earth was beautiful as if new-born;
There was that nameless splendor everywhere,
That wild exhilaration in the air,
Which makes the passers in the city street
Congratulate each other as they meet.
Two lovely ladies, clothed in cloak and hood,
Passed through the garden gate into the wood,
Under the lustrous leaves, and through the sheen
Of dewy sunshine showering down between.

The one, close-hooded, had the attractive grace
Which sorrow sometimes lends a woman’s face;
Her dark eyes moistened with the mists that roll
From the gulf-stream of passion in the soul;
The other with her hood thrown back, her hair
Making a golden glory in the air,
Her cheeks suffused with an auroral blush,
Her young heart singing louder than the thrush.
So walked, that morn, through mingled light and shade,
Each by the other’s presence lovelier made,
Monna Giovanna and her bosom friend,
Intent upon their errand and its end.

They found Ser Federigo at his toil,
Like banished Adam, delving in the soil;
And when he looked and these fair women spied,
The garden suddenly was glorified;
His long-lost Eden was restored again,
And the strange river winding through the plain
No longer was the Arno to his eyes,
But the Euphrates watering Paradise!

Monna Giovanna raised her stately head,
And with fair words of salutation said:
“Ser Federigo, we come here as friends,
Hoping in this to make some poor amends
For past unkindness. I who ne’er before
Would even cross the threshold of your door,
I who in happier days such pride maintained,
Refused your banquets, and your gifts disdained,
This morning come, a self-invited guest,
To put your generous nature to the test,
And breakfast with you under your own vine.”
To which he answered: “Poor desert of mine,
Not your unkindness call it, for if aught
Is good in me of feeling or of thought,
From you it comes, and this last grace outweighs
All sorrows, all regrets of other days.”

And after further compliment and talk,
Among the asters in the garden walk
He left his guests; and to his cottage turned,
And as he entered for a moment yearned
For the lost splendors of the days of old,
The ruby glass, the silver and the gold,
And felt how piercing is the sting of pride,
By want embittered and intensified.
He looked about him for some means or way
To keep this unexpected holiday;
Searched every cupboard, and then searched again,
Summoned the maid, who came, but came in vain;
“The Signor did not hunt to-day,” she said,
“There’s nothing in the house but wine and bread.”

Then suddenly the drowsy falcon shook
His little bells, with that sagacious look,
Which said, as plain as language to the ear,
“If anything is wanting, I am here!”
Yes, everything is wanting, gallant bird!
The master seized thee without further word.
Like thine own lure, he whirled thee round; ah me!
The pomp and flutter of brave falconry,
The bells, the jesses, the bright scarlet hood,
The flight and the pursuit o’er field and wood,
All these forevermore are ended now;
No longer victor, but the victim thou!

Then on the board a snow-white cloth he spread,
Laid on its wooden dish the loaf of bread,
Brought purple grapes with autumn sunshine hot,
The fragrant peach, the juicy bergamot;
Then in the midst a flask of wine he placed,
And with autumnal flowers the banquet graced.
Ser Federigo, would not these suffice
Without thy falcon stuffed with cloves and spice?

When all was ready, and the courtly dame
With her companion to the cottage came,
Upon Ser Federigo’s brain there fell
The wild enchantment of a magic spell!
The room they entered, mean and low and small,
Was changed into a sumptuous banquet-hall,
With fanfares by aerial trumpets blown;
The rustic chair she sat on was a throne;
He ate celestial food, and a divine
Flavor was given to his country wine,
And the poor falcon, fragrant with his spice,
A peacock was, or bird of paradise!

When the repast was ended, they arose
And passed again into the garden-close.
Then said the lady, “Far too well I know
Remembering still the days of long ago,
Though you betray it not with what surprise
You see me here in this familiar wise.
You have no children, and you cannot guess
What anguish, what unspeakable distress
A mother feels, whose child is lying ill,
Nor how her heart anticipates his will.
And yet for this, you see me lay aside
All womanly reserve and check of pride,
And ask the thing most precious in your sight,
Your falcon, your sole comfort and delight,
Which if you find it in your heart to give,
My poor, unhappy boy perchance may live.”

Ser Federigo listens, and replies,
With tears of love and pity in his eyes:
“Alas, dear lady! there can be no task
So sweet to me, as giving when you ask.
One little hour ago, if I had known
This wish of yours, it would have been my own.
But thinking in what manner I could best
Do honor to the presence of my guest,
I deemed that nothing worthier could be
Than what most dear and precious was to me,
And so my gallant falcon breathed his last
To furnish forth this morning our repast.”

In mute contrition, mingled with dismay,
The gentle lady tuned her eyes away,
Grieving that he such sacrifice should make,
And kill his falcon for a woman’s sake,
Yet feeling in her heart a woman’s pride,
That nothing she could ask for was denied;
Then took her leave, and passed out at the gate
With footstep slow and soul disconsolate.

Three days went by, and lo! a passing-bell
Tolled from the little chapel in the dell;
Ten strokes Ser Federigo heard, and said,
Breathing a prayer, “Alas! her child is dead!”
Three months went by; and lo! a merrier chime
Rang from the chapel bells at Christmas time;
The cottage was deserted, and no more
Ser Federigo sat beside its door,
But now, with servitors to do his will,
In the grand villa, half-way up the hill,
Sat at the Christmas feast, and at his side
Monna Giovanna, his beloved bride,
Never so beautiful, so kind, so fair,
Enthroned once more in the old rustic chair,
High-perched upon the back of which there stood
The image of a falcon carved in wood,
And underneath the inscription, with date,
“All things come round to him who will but wait.”

INTERLUDE

Soon as the story reached its end,
One, over eager to commend,
Crowned it with injudicious praise;
And then the voice of blame found vent,
And fanned the embers of dissent
Into a somewhat lively blaze.

The Theologian shook his head;
“These old Italian tales,” he said,
“From the much-praised Decameron down
Through all the rabble of the rest,
Are either trifling, dull, or lewd;
The gossip of a neighborhood
In some remote provincial town,
A scandalous chronicle at best!
They seem to me a stagnant fen,
Grown rank with rushes and with reeds,
Where a white lily, now and then,
Blooms in the midst of noxious weeds
And deadly nightshade on its banks.”

To this the Student straight replied,
“For the white lily, many thanks!
One should not say, with too much pride,
Fountain, I will not drink of thee!
Nor were it grateful to forget,
That from these reservoirs and tanks
Even imperial Shakespeare drew
His Moor of Venice, and the Jew,
And Romeo and Juliet,
And many a famous comedy.”

Then a long pause; till some one said,
“An Angel is flying overhead!”
At these words spake the Spanish Jew,
And murmured with an inward breath:
“God grant, if what you say be true,
It may not be the Angel of Death!”
And then another pause; and then,
Stroking his beard, he said again:
“This brings back to my memory
A story in the Talmud told,
That book of gems, that book of gold,
Of wonders many and manifold,
A tale that often comes to me,
And fills my heart, and haunts my brain,
And never wearies nor grows old.”

THE SPANISH JEW’S TALE
THE LEGEND OF RABBI BEN LEVI

Rabbi Ben Levi, on the Sabbath, read
A volume of the Law, in which it said,
“No man shall look upon my face and live.”
And as he read, he prayed that God would give
His faithful servant grace with mortal eye
To look upon His face and yet not die.

Then fell a sudden shadow on the page,
And, lifting up his eyes, grown dim with age
He saw the Angel of Death before him stand,
Holding a naked sword in his right hand.
Rabbi Ben Levi was a righteous man,
Yet through his veins a chill of terror ran.
With trembling voice he said, “What wilt thou here?”
The angel answered, “Lo! the time draws near
When thou must die; yet first, by God’s decree,
Whate’er thou askest shall be granted thee.”
Replied the Rabbi, “Let these living eyes
First look upon my place in Paradise.”

Then said the Angel, “Come with me and look.”
Rabbi Ben Levi closed the sacred book,
And rising, and uplifting his gray head,
“Give me thy sword,” he to the Angel said,
“Lest thou shouldst fall upon me by the way.”
The angel smiled and hastened to obey,
Then led him forth to the Celestial Town,
And set him on the wall, whence, gazing down,
Rabbi Ben Levi, with his living eyes,
Might look upon his place in Paradise.

Then straight into the city of the Lord
The Rabbi leaped with the Death-Angel’s sword,
And through the streets there swept a sudden breath
Of something there unknown, which men call death.
Meanwhile the Angel stayed without and cried,
“Come back!” To which the Rabbi’s voice replied,
“No! in the name of God, whom I adore,
I swear that hence I will depart no more!”

Then all the Angels cried, “O Holy One,
See what the son of Levi here hath done!
The kingdom of Heaven he takes by violence,
And in Thy name refuses to go hence!”
The Lord replied, “My Angels, be not wroth;
Did e’er the son of Levi break his oath?
Let him remain; for he with mortal eye
Shall look upon my face and yet not die.”

Beyond the outer wall the Angel of Death
Heard the great voice, and said, with panting breath,
“Give back the sword, and let me go my way.”
Whereat the Rabbi paused, and answered, “Nay!
Anguish enough already hath it caused
Among the sons of men.” And while he paused
He heard the awful mandate of the Lord
Resounding through the air, “Give back the sword!”

The Rabbi bowed his head in silent prayer;
Then said he to the dreadful Angel, “Swear,
No human eye shall look on it again;
But when thou takest away the souls of men,
Thyself unseen, and with an unseen sword,
Thou wilt perform the bidding of the Lord.”
The Angel took the sword again, and swore,
And walks on earth unseen forevermore.

INTERLUDE

He ended: and a kind of spell
Upon the silent listeners fell.
His solemn manner and his words
Had touched the deep, mysterious chords,
That vibrate in each human breast
Alike, but not alike confessed.
The spiritual world seemed near;
And close above them, full of fear,
Its awful adumbration passed,
A luminous shadow, vague and vast.
They almost feared to look, lest there,
Embodied from the impalpable air,
They might behold the Angel stand,
Holding the sword in his right hand.

At last, but in a voice subdued,
Not to disturb their dreamy mood,
Said the Sicilian: “While you spoke,
Telling your legend marvellous,
Suddenly in my memory woke
The thought of one, now gone from us,—
An old Abate, meek and mild,
My friend and teacher, when a child,
Who sometimes in those days of old
The legend of an Angel told,
Which ran, as I remember, thus.”

THE SICILIAN’S TALE
KING ROBERT OF SICILY

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane
And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,
Apparelled in magnificent attire,
With retinue of many a knight and squire,
On St. John’s eve, at vespers, proudly sat
And heard the priests chant the Magnificat,
And as he listened, o’er and o’er again
Repeated, like a burden or refrain,
He caught the words, “Deposuit potentes
De sede, et exaltavit humiles;”
And slowly lifting up his kingly head
He to a learned clerk beside him said,
“What mean these words?” The clerk made answer meet,
“He has put down the mighty from their seat,
And has exalted them of low degree.”
Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully,
“’T is well that such seditious words are sung
Only by priests and in the Latin tongue;
For unto priests and people be it known,
There is no power can push me from my throne!”
And leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep,
Lulled by the chant monotonous and deep.

When he awoke, it was already night;
The church was empty, and there was no light,
Save where the lamps, that glimmered few and faint,
Lighted a little space before some saint.
He started from his seat and gazed around,
But saw no living thing and heard no sound.
He groped towards the door, but it was locked;
He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked,
And uttered awful threatenings and complaints,
And imprecations upon men and saints.
The sounds re-echoed from the roof and walls
As if dead priests were laughing in their stalls.

At length the sexton, hearing from without
The tumult of the knocking and the shout,
And thinking thieves were in the house of prayer,
Came with his lantern, asking, “Who is there?”
Half choked with rage, King Robert fiercely said,
“Open: ’tis I, the King! Art thou afraid?”
The frightened sexton, muttering, with a curse,
“This is some drunken vagabond, or worse!”
Turned the great key and flung the portal wide;
A man rushed by him at a single stride,
Haggard, half naked, without hat or cloak,
Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke,
But leaped into the blackness of the night,
And vanished like a spectre from his sight.

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane
And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,
Despoiled of his magnificent attire,
Bareheaded, breathless, and besprent with mire,
With sense of wrong and outrage desperate,
Strode on and thundered at the palace gate;
Rushed through the courtyard, thrusting in his rage
To right and left each seneschal and page,
And hurried up the broad and sounding stair,
His white face ghastly in the torches’ glare.
From hall to hall he passed with breathless speed;
Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed,
Until at last he reached the banquet-room,
Blazing with light and breathing with perfume.

There on the dais sat another king,
Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet-ring,
King Robert’s self in features, form, and height,
But all transfigured with angelic light!
It was an Angel; and his presence there
With a divine effulgence filled the air,
An exaltation, piercing the disguise,
Though none the hidden Angel recognize.

A moment speechless, motionless, amazed,
The throneless monarch on the Angel gazed,
Who met his look of anger and surprise
With the divine compassion of his eyes;
Then said, “Who art thou? and why com’st thou here?”
To which King Robert answered, with a sneer,
“I am the King, and come to claim my own
From an impostor, who usurps my throne!”
And suddenly, at these audacious words,
Up sprang the angry guests, and drew their swords;
The Angel answered, with unruffled brow,
“Nay, not the King, but the King’s Jester, thou
Henceforth shall wear the bells and scalloped cape,
And for thy counsellor shalt lead an ape;
Thou shalt obey my servants when they call,
And wait upon my henchmen in the hall!”

Deaf to King Robert’s threats and cries and prayers,
They thrust him from the hall and down the stairs;
A group of tittering pages ran before,
And as they opened wide the folding door,
His heart failed, for he heard, with strange alarms,
The boisterous laughter of the men-at-arms,
And all the vaulted chamber roar and ring
With the mock plaudits of “Long live the King!”

Next morning, waking with the day’s first beam,
He said within himself, “It was a dream!”
But the straw rustled as he turned his head,
There were the cap and bells beside his bed,
Around him rose the bare, discolored walls,
Close by, the steeds were champing in their stalls,
And in the corner, a revolting shape,
Shivering and chattering sat the wretched ape.
It was no dream; the world he loved so much
Had turned to dust and ashes at his touch!

Days came and went; and now returned again
To Sicily the old Saturnian reign;
Under the Angel’s governance benign
The happy island danced with corn and wine,
And deep within the mountain’s burning breast
Enceladus, the giant, was at rest.

Meanwhile King Robert yielded to his fate,
Sullen and silent and disconsolate.
Dressed in the motley garb that Jesters wear,
With look bewildered and a vacant stare,
Close shaven above the ears, as monks are shorn,
By courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to scorn,
His only friend the ape, his only food
What others left,—he still was unsubdued.
And when the Angel met him on his way,
And half in earnest, half in jest, would say
Sternly, though tenderly, that he might feel
The velvet scabbard held a sword of steel,
“Art thou the King?” the passion of his woe
Burst from him in resistless overflow,
And, lifting high his forehead, he would fling
The haughty answer back, “I am, I am the King!”

Almost three years were ended; when there came
Ambassadors of great repute and name
From Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,
Unto King Robert, saying that Pope Urbane
By letter summoned them forthwith to come
On Holy Thursday to his city of Rome.
The Angel with great joy received his guests,
And gave them presents of embroidered vests,
And velvet mantles with rich ermine lined,
And rings and jewels of the rarest kind.
Then he departed with them o’er the sea
Into the lovely land of Italy,
Whose loveliness was more resplendent made
By the mere passing of that cavalcade,
With plumes, and cloaks, and housings, and the stir
Of jewelled bridle and of golden spur.
And lo! among the menials, in mock state,
Upon a piebald steed, with shambling gait,
His cloak of fox-tails flapping in the wind,
The solemn ape demurely perched behind,
King Robert rode, making huge merriment
In all the country towns through which they went.

The Pope received them with great pomp and blare
Of bannered trumpets, on Saint Peter’s square,
Giving his benediction and embrace,
Fervent, and full of apostolic grace.
While with congratulations and with prayers
He entertained the Angel unawares,
Robert, the Jester, bursting through the crowd,
Into their presence rushed, and cried aloud,
“I am the King! Look, and behold in me
Robert, your brother, King of Sicily!
This man, who wears my semblance to your eyes,
Is an impostor in a king’s disguise.
Do you not know me? does no voice within
Answer my cry, and say we are akin?”
The Pope in silence, but with troubled mien,
Gazed at the Angel’s countenance serene;
The Emperor, laughing, said, “It is strange sport
To keep a mad man for thy Fool at court!”
And the poor, baffled Jester in disgrace
Was hustled back among the populace.

In solemn state the Holy Week went by,
And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky;
The presence of the Angel, with its light,
Before the sun rose, made the city bright,
And with new fervor filled the hearts of men,
Who felt that Christ indeed had risen again.
Even the Jester, on his bed of straw,
With haggard eyes the unwonted splendor saw,
He felt within a power unfelt before,
And, kneeling humbly on his chamber floor,
He heard the rushing garments of the Lord
Sweep through the silent air, ascending heavenward.

And now the visit ending, and once more
Valmond returning to the Danube’s shore,
Homeward the Angel journeyed, and again
The land was made resplendent with his train,
Flashing along the towns of Italy
Unto Salerno, and from thence by sea.
And when once more within Palermo’s wall,
And, seated on the throne in his great hall,
He heard the Angelus from convent towers,
As if the better world conversed with ours,
He beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher,
And with a gesture bade the rest retire;
And when they were alone, the Angel said,
“Art thou the King?” Then, bowing down his head,
King Robert crossed both hands upon his breast,
And meekly answered him: “Thou knowest best!
My sins as scarlet are; let me go hence,
And in some cloister’s school of penitence,
Across those stones, that pave the way to heaven,
Walk barefoot, till my guilty soul be shriven!”

The Angel smiled, and from his radiant face
A holy light illumined all the place,
And through the open window, loud and clear,
They heard the monks chant in the chapel near,
Above the stir and tumult of the street:
“He has put down the mighty from their seat,
And has exalted them of low degree!”
And through the chant a second melody
Rose like the throbbing of a single string:
“I am an Angel, and thou art the King!”

King Robert, who was standing near the throne,
Lifted his eyes, and lo! he was alone!
But all apparelled as in days of old,
With ermined mantle and with cloth of gold;
And when his courtiers came, they found him there
Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in, silent prayer.

INTERLUDE

And then the blue-eyed Norseman told
A Saga of the days of old.
“There is,” said he, “a wondrous book
Of Legends in the old Norse tongue,
Of the dead kings of Norroway,—
Legends that once were told or sung
In many a smoky fireside nook
Of Iceland, in the ancient day,
By wandering Saga-man or Scald;
Heimskringla is the volume called;
And he who looks may find therein
The story that I now begin.”

And in each pause the story made
Upon his violin he played,
As an appropriate interlude,
Fragments of old Norwegian tunes
That bound in one the separate runes,
And held the mind in perfect mood,
Entwining and encircling all
The strange and antiquated rhymes
with melodies of olden times;
As over some half-ruined wall,
Disjointed and about to fall,
Fresh woodbines climb and interlace,
And keep the loosened stones in place.

THE MUSICIAN’S TALE
THE SAGA OF KING OLAF

I
THE CHALLENGE OF THOR

I am the God Thor,
I am the War God,
I am the Thunderer!
Here in my Northland,
My fastness and fortress,
Reign I forever!

Here amid icebergs
Rule I the nations;
This is my hammer,
Miölner the mighty;
Giants and sorcerers
Cannot withstand it!

These are the gauntlets
Wherewith I wield it,
And hurl it afar off;
This is my girdle;
Whenever I brace it,
Strength is redoubled!

The light thou beholdest
Stream through the heavens,
In flashes of crimson,
Is but my red beard
Blown by the night-wind,
Affrighting the nations!

Jove is my brother;
Mine eyes are the lightning;
The wheels of my chariot
Roll in the thunder,
The blows of my hammer
Ring in the earthquake!

Force rules the world still,
Has ruled it, shall rule it;
Meekness is weakness,
Strength is triumphant,
Over the whole earth
Still is it Thor’s-Day!

Thou art a God too,
O Galilean!
And thus single-handed
Unto the combat,
Gauntlet or Gospel,
Here I defy thee!

II
KING OLAF’S RETURN

And King Olaf heard the cry,
Saw the red light in the sky,
    Laid his hand upon his sword,
As he leaned upon the railing,
And his ships went sailing, sailing
    Northward into Drontheim fiord.

There he stood as one who dreamed;
And the red light glanced and gleamed
    On the armor that he wore;
And he shouted, as the rifled
Streamers o’er him shook and shifted,
    “I accept thy challenge, Thor!”

To avenge his father slain,
And reconquer realm and reign,
    Came the youthful Olaf home,
Through the midnight sailing, sailing,
Listening to the wild wind’s wailing,
    And the dashing of the foam.

To his thoughts the sacred name
Of his mother Astrid came,
    And the tale she oft had told
Of her flight by secret passes
Through the mountains and morasses,
    To the home of Hakon old.

Then strange memories crowded back
Of Queen Gunhild’s wrath and wrack,
    And a hurried flight by sea;
Of grim Vikings, and the rapture
Of the sea-fight, and the capture,
    And the life of slavery.

How a stranger watched his face
In the Esthonian market-place,
    Scanned his features one by one,
Saying, “We should know each other;
I am Sigurd, Astrid’s brother,
    Thou art Olaf, Astrid’s son!”

Then as Queen Allogia’s page,
Old in honors, young in age,
    Chief of all her men-at-arms;
Till vague whispers, and mysterious,
Reached King Valdemar, the imperious,
    Filling him with strange alarms.

Then his cruisings o’er the seas,
Westward to the Hebrides,
    And to Scilly’s rocky shore;
And the hermit’s cavern dismal,
Christ’s great name and rites baptismal
    in the ocean’s rush and roar.

All these thoughts of love and strife
Glimmered through his lurid life,
    As the stars’ intenser light
Through the red flames o’er him trailing,
As his ships went sailing, sailing,
    Northward in the summer night.

Trained for either camp or court,
Skilful in each manly sport,
    Young and beautiful and tall;
Art of warfare, craft of chases,
Swimming, skating, snow-shoe races
    Excellent alike in all.

When at sea, with all his rowers,
He along the bending oars
    Outside of his ship could run.
He the Smalsor Horn ascended,
And his shining shield suspended,
On its summit, like a sun.

On the ship-rails he could stand,
Wield his sword with either hand,
    And at once two javelins throw;
At all feasts where ale was strongest
Sat the merry monarch longest,
    First to come and last to go.

Norway never yet had seen
One so beautiful of mien,
    One so royal in attire,
When in arms completely furnished,
Harness gold-inlaid and burnished,
    Mantle like a flame of fire.

Thus came Olaf to his own,
When upon the night-wind blown
    Passed that cry along the shore;
And he answered, while the rifted
Streamers o’er him shook and shifted,
    “I accept thy challenge, Thor!”

III
THORA OF RIMOL

IV
QUEEN SIGRID THE HAUGHTY

The floor with tassels of fir was besprent, Filling the room with their
fragrant scent.

She heard the birds sing, she saw the sun shine, The air of summer was
sweeter than wine.

Like a sword without scabbard the bright river lay Between her own kingdom
and Norroway.

But Olaf the King had sued for her hand, The sword would be sheathed, the
river be spanned.

Her maidens were seated around her knee, Working bright figures in
tapestry.

And one was singing the ancient rune Of Brynhilda’s love and the wrath of
Gudrun.

And through it, and round it, and over it all Sounded incessant the
waterfall.

The Queen in her hand held a ring of gold, From the door of Lade’s Temple
old.

King Olaf had sent her this wedding gift, But her thoughts as arrows were
keen and swift.

She had given the ring to her goldsmiths twain, Who smiled, as they handed
it back again.

And Sigrid the Queen, in her haughty way, Said, “Why do you smile, my
goldsmiths, say?”

And they answered: “O Queen! if the truth must be told, The ring is of
copper, and not of gold!”

The lightning flashed o’er her forehead and cheek, She only murmured, she
did not speak:

“If in his gifts he can faithless be, There will be no gold in his love to
me.”

A footstep was heard on the outer stair, And in strode King Olaf with
royal air.

He kissed the Queen’s hand, and he whispered of love, And swore to be true
as the stars are above.

But she smiled with contempt as she answered: “O King, Will you swear it,
as Odin once swore, on the ring?”

And the King: “O speak not of Odin to me, The wife of King Olaf a
Christian must be.”

Looking straight at the King, with her level brows, She said, “I keep true
to my faith and my vows.”

Then the face of King Olaf was darkened with gloom, He rose in his anger
and strode through the room.

“Why, then, should I care to have thee?” he said,— “A faded old
woman, a heathenish jade!”

His zeal was stronger than fear or love, And he struck the Queen in the
face with his glove.

Then forth from the chamber in anger he fled, And the wooden stairway
shook with his tread.

V
THE SKERRY OF SHRIEKS

VI
THE WRAITH OF ODIN

VII
IRON-BEARD

VIII
GUDRUN

IX
THANGBRAND THE PRIEST

X
RAUD THE STRONG

XI
BISHOP SIGURD AT SALTEN FIORD

XII
KING OLAF’S CHRISTMAS

XIII
THE BUILDING OF THE LONG SERPENT

XIV
THE CREW OF THE LONG SERPENT

By the bulkhead, tall and dark, Stood Thrand Rame of Thelemark, A figure
gaunt and grand; On his hairy arm imprinted Was an anchor, azure-tinted;
Like Thor’s hammer, huge and dinted Was his brawny hand.

XV
A LITTLE BIRD IN THE AIR

XVI
QUEEN THYRI AND THE ANGELICA STALKS

XVII
KING SVEND OF THE FORKED BEAR

XVIII
KING OLAF AND EARL SIGVALD

On the gray sea-sands King Olaf stands, Northward and seaward He points
with his hands.

With eddy and whirl The sea-tides curl, Washing the sandals Of Sigvald the
Earl.

The mariners shout, The ships swing about, The yards are all hoisted, The
sails flutter out.

The war-horns are played, The anchors are weighed, Like moths in the
distance The sails flit and fade.

The sea is like lead The harbor lies dead, As a corse on the sea-shore,
Whose spirit has fled!

On that fatal day, The histories say, Seventy vessels Sailed out of the
bay.

But soon scattered wide O’er the billows they ride, While Sigvald and Olaf
Sail side by side.

Cried the Earl: “Follow me! I your pilot will be, For I know all the
channels Where flows the deep sea!”

So into the strait Where his foes lie in wait, Gallant King Olaf Sails to
his fate!

Then the sea-fog veils The ships and their sails; Queen Sigrid the
Haughty, Thy vengeance prevails!

XIX
KING OLAF’S WAR-HORNS

XX
EINAR TAMBERSKELVER

XXI
KING OLAF’S DEATH-DRINK

XXII
THE NUN OF NIDAROS

In the convent of Drontheim, Alone in her chamber Knelt Astrid the Abbess,
At midnight, adoring, Beseeching, entreating The Virgin and Mother.

She heard in the silence The voice of one speaking, Without in the
darkness, In gusts of the night-wind Now louder, now nearer, Now lost in
the distance.

The voice of a stranger It seemed as she listened, Of some one who
answered, Beseeching, imploring, A cry from afar off She could not
distinguish.

The voice of Saint John, The beloved disciple, Who wandered and waited The
Master’s appearance. Alone in the darkness, Unsheltered and friendless.

“It is accepted The angry defiance The challenge of battle! It is
accepted, But not with the weapons Of war that thou wieldest!

“Cross against corselet, Love against hatred, Peace-cry for war-cry!
Patience is powerful; He that o’ercometh Hath power o’er the nations!

“As torrents in summer, Half dried in their channels, Suddenly rise,
though the Sky is still cloudless, For rain has been falling Far off at
their fountains;

So hearts that are fainting Grow full to o’erflowing, And they that behold
it Marvel, and know not That God at their fountains Far off has been
raining!

“Stronger than steel Is the sword of the Spirit; Swifter than arrows The
light of the truth is, Greater than anger Is love, and subdueth!

“Thou art a phantom, A shape of the sea-mist, A shape of the brumal Rain,
and the darkness Fearful and formless; Day dawns and thou art not!

“The dawn is not distant, Nor is the night starless; Love is eternal! God
is still God, and His faith shall not fail us Christ is eternal!”

INTERLUDE

A strain of music closed the tale, A low, monotonous, funeral wail, That
with its cadence, wild and sweet, Made the long Saga more complete.

“Thank God,” the Theologian said, “The reign of violence is dead, Or dying
surely from the world; While Love triumphant reigns instead, And in a
brighter sky o’erhead His blessed banners are unfurled. And most of all
thank God for this: The war and waste of clashing creeds Now end in words,
and not in deeds, And no one suffers loss, or bleeds, For thoughts that
men call heresies.

“I stand without here in the porch, I hear the bell’s melodious din, I
hear the organ peal within, I hear the prayer, with words that scorch Like
sparks from an inverted torch, I hear the sermon upon sin, With
threatenings of the last account. And all, translated in the air, Reach me
but as our dear Lord’s Prayer, And as the Sermon on the Mount.

“Must it be Calvin, and not Christ? Must it be Athanasian creeds, Or holy
water, books, and beads? Must struggling souls remain content With
councils and decrees of Trend? And can it be enough for these The
Christian Church the year embalms With evergreens and boughs of palms, And
fills the air with litanies?

“I know that yonder Pharisee Thanks God that he is not like me; In my
humiliation dressed, I only stand and beat my breast, And pray for human
charity.

“Not to one church alone, but seven, The voice prophetic spake from
heaven; And unto each the promise came, Diversified, but still the same;
For him that overcometh are The new name written on the stone, The raiment
white, the crown, the throne, And I will give him the Morning Star!

“Ah! to how many Faith has been No evidence of things unseen, But a dim
shadow, that recasts The creed of the Phantasiasts, For whom no Man of
Sorrows died, For whom the Tragedy Divine Was but a symbol and a sign, And
Christ a phantom crucified!

“For others a diviner creed Is living in the life they lead. The passing
of their beautiful feet Blesses the pavement of the street And all their
looks and words repeat Old Fuller’s saying, wise and sweet, Not as a
vulture, but a dove, The Holy Ghost came from above.

“And this brings back to me a tale So sad the hearer well may quail, And
question if such things can be; Yet in the chronicles of Spain Down the
dark pages runs this stain, And naught can wash them white again, So
fearful is the tragedy.”

THE THEOLOGIAN’S TALE
TORQUEMADA

In the heroic days when Ferdinand And Isabella ruled the Spanish land, And
Torquemada, with his subtle brain, Ruled them, as Grand Inquisitor of
Spain, In a great castle near Valladolid, Moated and high and by fair
woodlands hid, There dwelt as from the chronicles we learn, An old Hidalgo
proud and taciturn, Whose name has perished, with his towers of stone, And
all his actions save this one alone; This one, so terrible, perhaps ‘t
were best If it, too, were forgotten with the rest; Unless, perchance, our
eyes can see therein The martyrdom triumphant o’er the sin; A double
picture, with its gloom and glow, The splendor overhead, the death below.

This sombre man counted each day as lost On which his feet no sacred
threshold crossed; And when he chanced the passing Host to meet, He knelt
and prayed devoutly in the street; Oft he confessed; and with each
mutinous thought, As with wild beasts at Ephesus, he fought. In deep
contrition scourged himself in Lent, Walked in processions, with his head
down bent, At plays of Corpus Christi oft was seen, And on Palm Sunday
bore his bough of green. His sole diversion was to hunt the boar Through
tangled thickets of the forest hoar, Or with his jingling mules to hurry
down To some grand bull-fight in the neighboring town, Or in the crowd
with lighted taper stand, When Jews were burned, or banished from the
land. Then stirred within him a tumultuous joy; The demon whose delight is
to destroy Shook him, and shouted with a trumpet tone, Kill! kill! and let
the Lord find out his own!”

And now, in that old castle in the wood, His daughters, in the dawn of
womanhood, Returning from their convent school, had made Resplendent with
their bloom the forest shade, Reminding him of their dead mother’s face,
When first she came into that gloomy place,— A memory in his heart
as dim and sweet As moonlight in a solitary street, Where the same rays,
that lift the sea, are thrown Lovely but powerless upon walls of stone.
These two fair daughters of a mother dead Were all the dream had left him
as it fled. A joy at first, and then a growing care, As if a voice within
him cried, “Beware A vague presentiment of impending doom, Like ghostly
footsteps in a vacant room, Haunted him day and night; a formless fear
That death to some one of his house was near, With dark surmises of a
hidden crime, Made life itself a death before its time. Jealous,
suspicious, with no sense of shame, A spy upon his daughters he became;
With velvet slippers, noiseless on the floors, He glided softly through
half-open doors; Now in the room, and now upon the stair, He stood beside
them ere they were aware; He listened in the passage when they talked, He
watched them from the casement when they walked, He saw the gypsy haunt
the river’s side, He saw the monk among the cork-trees glide; And,
tortured by the mystery and the doubt Of some dark secret, past his
finding out, Baffled he paused; then reassured again Pursued the flying
phantom of his brain. He watched them even when they knelt in church; And
then, descending lower in his search, Questioned the servants, and with
eager eyes Listened incredulous to their replies; The gypsy? none had seen
her in the wood! The monk? a mendicant in search of food!

At length the awful revelation came, Crushing at once his pride of birth
and name; The hopes his yearning bosom forward cast, And the ancestral
glories of the vast, All fell together, crumbling in disgrace, A turret
rent from battlement to base. His daughters talking in the dead of night
In their own chamber, and without a light, Listening, as he was wont, he
overheard, And learned the dreadful secret, word by word; And hurrying
from his castle, with a cry He raised his hands to the unpitying sky,
Repeating one dread word, till bush and tree Caught it, and shuddering
answered, “Heresy!”

Wrapped in his cloak, his hat drawn o’er his face, Now hurrying forward,
now with lingering pace, He walked all night the alleys of his park, With
one unseen companion in the dark, The Demon who within him lay in wait,
And by his presence turned his love to hate, Forever muttering in an
undertone, “Kill! kill! and let the Lord find out his own!”

Upon the morrow, after early Mass, While yet the dew was glistening on the
grass, And all the woods were musical with birds, The old Hidalgo,
uttering fearful words, Walked homeward with the Priest, and in his room
Summoned his trembling daughters to their doom. When questioned, with
brief answers they replied, Nor when accused evaded or denied;
Expostulations, passionate appeals, All that the human heart most fears or
feels, In vain the Priest with earnest voice essayed; In vain the father
threatened, wept, and prayed; Until at last he said, with haughty mien,
“The Holy Office, then, must intervene!”

And now the Grand Inquisitor of Spain, With all the fifty horsemen of his
train, His awful name resounding, like the blast Of funeral trumpets, as
he onward passed, Came to Valladolid, and there began To harry the rich
Jews with fire and ban. To him the Hidalgo went, and at the gate Demanded
audience on affairs of state, And in a secret chamber stood before A
venerable graybeard of fourscore, Dressed in the hood and habit of a
friar; Out of his eyes flashed a consuming fire, And in his hand the
mystic horn he held, Which poison and all noxious charms dispelled. He
heard in silence the Hidalgo’s tale, Then answered in a voice that made
him quail: “Son of the Church! when Abraham of old To sacrifice his only
son was told, He did not pause to parley nor protest But hastened to obey
the Lord’s behest. In him it was accounted righteousness; The Holy Church
expects of thee no less!”

A sacred frenzy seized the father’s brain, And Mercy from that hour
implored in vain. Ah! who will e’er believe the words I say? His daughters
he accused, and the same day They both were cast into the dungeon’s gloom,
That dismal antechamber of the tomb, Arraigned, condemned, and sentenced
to the flame, The secret torture and the public shame.

Then to the Grand Inquisitor once more The Hidalgo went, more eager than
before, And said: “When Abraham offered up his son, He clave the wood
wherewith it might be done. By his example taught, let me too bring Wood
from the forest for my offering!” And the deep voice, without a pause,
replied: “Son of the Church! by faith now justified, Complete thy
sacrifice, even as thou wilt; The Church absolves thy conscience from all
guilt!”

Then this most wretched father went his way Into the woods, that round his
castle lay, Where once his daughters in their childhood played With their
young mother in the sun and shade. Now all the leaves had fallen; the
branches bare Made a perpetual moaning in the air, And screaming from
their eyries overhead The ravens sailed athwart the sky of lead. With his
own hands he lopped the boughs and bound Fagots, that crackled with
foreboding sound, And on his mules, caparisoned and gay With bells and
tassels, sent them on their way.

Then with his mind on one dark purpose bent, Again to the Inquisitor he
went, And said: “Behold, the fagots I have brought, And now, lest my
atonement be as naught, Grant me one more request, one last desire,—
With my own hand to light the funeral fire!” And Torquemada answered from
his seat, “Son of the Church! Thine offering is complete; Her servants
through all ages shall not cease To magnify thy deed. Depart in peace!”

Upon the market-place, builded of stone The scaffold rose, whereon Death
claimed his own. At the four corners, in stern attitude, Four statues of
the Hebrew Prophets stood, Gazing with calm indifference in their eyes
Upon this place of human sacrifice, Round which was gathering fast the
eager crowd, With clamor of voices dissonant and loud, And every roof and
window was alive With restless gazers, swarming like a hive.

The church-bells tolled, the chant of monks drew near, Loud trumpets
stammered forth their notes of fear, A line of torches smoked along the
street, There was a stir, a rush, a tramp of feet, And, with its banners
floating in the air, Slowly the long procession crossed the square, And,
to the statues of the Prophets bound, The victims stood, with fagots piled
around. Then all the air a blast of trumpets shook, And louder sang the
monks with bell and book, And the Hidalgo, lofty, stern, and proud, Lifted
his torch, and, bursting through the crowd, Lighted in haste the fagots,
and then fled, Lest those imploring eyes should strike him dead!

O pitiless skies! why did your clouds retain For peasants’ fields their
floods of hoarded rain? O pitiless earth! why open no abyss To bury in its
chasm a crime like this?

That night a mingled column of fire and smoke Prom the dark thickets of
the forest broke, And, glaring o’er the landscape leagues away, Made all
the fields and hamlets bright as day. Wrapped in a sheet of flame the
castle blazed, And as the villagers in terror gazed, They saw the figure
of that cruel knight Lean from a window in the turret’s height, His
ghastly face illumined with the glare, His hands upraised above his head
in prayer, Till the floor sank beneath him, and he fell Down the black
hollow of that burning well.

Three centuries and more above his bones Have piled the oblivious years
like funeral stones; His name has perished with him, and no trace Remains
on earth of his afflicted race; But Torquemada’s name, with clouds
o’ercast, Looms in the distant landscape of the Past, Like a burnt tower
upon a blackened heath, Lit by the fires of burning woods beneath!

INTERLUDE

Thus closed the tale of guilt and gloom, That cast upon each listener’s
face Its shadow, and for some brief space Unbroken silence filled the
room. The Jew was thoughtful and distressed; Upon his memory thronged and
pressed The persecution of his race, Their wrongs and sufferings and
disgrace; His head was sunk upon his breast, And from his eyes alternate
came Flashes of wrath and tears of shame.

The student first the silence broke, As one who long has lain in wait With
purpose to retaliate, And thus he dealt the avenging stroke. “In such a
company as this, A tale so tragic seems amiss, That by its terrible
control O’ermasters and drags down the soul Into a fathomless abyss. The
Italian Tales that you disdain, Some merry Night of Straparole, Or
Machiavelli’s Belphagor, Would cheer us and delight us more, Give greater
pleasure and less pain Than your grim tragedies of Spain!”

And here the Poet raised his hand, With such entreaty and command, It
stopped discussion at its birth, And said: “The story I shall tell Has
meaning in it, if not mirth; Listen, and hear what once befell The merry
birds of Killingworth!”

THE POET’S TALE
THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH

FINALE

The hour was late; the fire burned low, The Landlord’s eyes were closed in
sleep, And near the story’s end a deep Sonorous sound at times was heard,
As when the distant bagpipes blow. At this all laughed; the Landlord
stirred, As one awaking from a swound, And, gazing anxiously around,
Protested that he had not slept, But only shut his eyes, and kept His ears
attentive to each word.

Then all arose, and said “Good Night.” Alone remained the drowsy Squire To
rake the embers of the fire, And quench the waning parlor light. While
from the windows, here and there, The scattered lamps a moment gleamed,
And the illumined hostel seemed The constellation of the Bear, Downward,
athwart the misty air, Sinking and setting toward the sun, Far off the
village clock struck one.

PART SECOND

PRELUDE

A cold, uninterrupted rain, That washed each southern window-pane, And
made a river of the road; A sea of mist that overflowed The house, the
barns, the gilded vane, And drowned the upland and the plain, Through
which the oak-trees, broad and high, Like phantom ships went drifting by;
And, hidden behind a watery screen, The sun unseen, or only seen As a
faint pallor in the sky;— Thus cold and colorless and gray, The morn
of that autumnal day, As if reluctant to begin, Dawned on the silent
Sudbury Inn, And all the guests that in it lay.

Full late they slept. They did not hear The challenge of Sir Chanticleer,
Who on the empty threshing-floor, Disdainful of the rain outside, Was
strutting with a martial stride, As if upon his thigh he wore The famous
broadsword of the Squire, And said, “Behold me, and admire!”

Only the Poet seemed to hear, In drowse or dream, more near and near
Across the border-land of sleep The blowing of a blithesome horn, That
laughed the dismal day to scorn; A splash of hoofs and rush of wheels
Through sand and mire like stranding keels, As from the road with sudden
sweep The Mail drove up the little steep, And stopped beside the tavern
door; A moment stopped, and then again With crack of whip and bark of dog
Plunged forward through the sea of fog, And all was silent as before,—
All silent save the dripping rain.

Then one by one the guests came down, And greeted with a smile the Squire,
Who sat before the parlor fire, Reading the paper fresh from town. First
the Sicilian, like a bird, Before his form appeared, was heard Whistling
and singing down the stair; Then came the Student, with a look As placid
as a meadow-brook; The Theologian, still perplexed With thoughts of this
world and the next; The Poet then, as one who seems Walking in visions and
in dreams; Then the Musician, like a fair Hyperion from whose golden hair
The radiance of the morning streams; And last the aromatic Jew Of Alicant,
who, as he threw The door wide open, on the air Breathed round about him a
perfume Of damask roses in full bloom, Making a garden of the room.

The breakfast ended, each pursued The promptings of his various mood;
Beside the fire in silence smoked The taciturn, impassive Jew, Lost in a
pleasant revery; While, by his gravity provoked, His portrait the Sicilian
drew, And wrote beneath it “Edrehi, At the Red Horse in Sudbury.”

By far the busiest of them all, The Theologian in the hall Was feeding
robins in a cage,— Two corpulent and lazy birds, Vagrants and
pilferers at best, If one might trust the hostler’s words, Chief
instrument of their arrest; Two poets of the Golden Age, Heirs of a
boundless heritage Of fields and orchards, east and west, And sunshine of
long summer days, Though outlawed now and dispossessed!— Such was
the Theologian’s phrase.

Meanwhile the Student held discourse With the Musician, on the source Of
all the legendary lore Among the nations, scattered wide Like silt and
seaweed by the force And fluctuation of the tide; The tale repeated o’er
and o’er, With change of place and change of name, Disguised, transformed,
and yet the same We’ve heard a hundred times before.

The Poet at the window mused, And saw, as in a dream confused, The
countenance of the Sun, discrowned, And haggard with a pale despair, And
saw the cloud-rack trail and drift Before it, and the trees uplift Their
leafless branches, and the air Filled with the arrows of the rain, And
heard amid the mist below, Like voices of distress and pain, That haunt
the thoughts of men insane, The fateful cawings of the crow.

Then down the road, with mud besprent, And drenched with rain from head to
hoof, The rain-drops dripping from his mane And tail as from a pent-house
roof, A jaded horse, his head down bent, Passed slowly, limping as he
went.

The young Sicilian—who had grown Impatient longer to abide A
prisoner, greatly mortified To see completely overthrown His plans for
angling in the brook, And, leaning o’er the bridge of stone, To watch the
speckled trout glide by, And float through the inverted sky, Still round
and round the baited hook— Now paced the room with rapid stride,
And, pausing at the Poet’s side, Looked forth, and saw the wretched steed,
And said: “Alas for human greed, That with cold hand and stony eye Thus
turns an old friend out to die, Or beg his food from gate to gate! This
brings a tale into my mind, Which, if you are not disinclined To listen, I
will now relate.”

All gave assent; all wished to hear, Not without many a jest and jeer, The
story of a spavined steed; And even the Student with the rest Put in his
pleasant little jest Out of Malherbe, that Pegasus Is but a horse that
with all speed Bears poets to the hospital; While the Sicilian,
self-possessed, After a moment’s interval Began his simple story thus.

THE SICILIAN’S TALE
THE BELL OF ATRI

At Atri in Abruzzo, a small town Of ancient Roman date, but scant renown,
One of those little places that have run Half up the hill, beneath a
blazing sun, And then sat down to rest, as if to say, “I climb no farther
upward, come what may,”— The Re Giovanni, now unknown to fame, So
many monarchs since have borne the name, Had a great bell hung in the
market-place Beneath a roof, projecting some small space, By way of
shelter from the sun and rain. Then rode he through the streets with all
his train, And, with the blast of trumpets loud and long, Made
proclamation, that whenever wrong Was done to any man, he should but ring
The great bell in the square, and he, the King, Would cause the Syndic to
decide thereon. Such was the proclamation of King John.

How swift the happy days in Atri sped, What wrongs were righted, need not
here be said. Suffice it that, as all things must decay, The hempen rope
at length was worn away, Unravelled at the end, and, strand by strand,
Loosened and wasted in the ringer’s hand, Till one, who noted this in
passing by, Mended the rope with braids of briony, So that the leaves and
tendrils of the vine Hung like a votive garland at a shrine.

By chance it happened that in Atri dwelt A knight, with spur on heel and
sword in belt, Who loved to hunt the wild-boar in the woods, Who loved his
falcons with their crimson hoods, Who loved his hounds and horses, and all
sports And prodigalities of camps and courts;— Loved, or had loved
them; for at last, grown old, His only passion was the love of gold.

He sold his horses, sold his hawks and hounds, Rented his vineyards and
his garden-grounds, Kept but one steed, his favorite steed of all, To
starve and shiver in a naked stall, And day by day sat brooding in his
chair, Devising plans how best to hoard and spare.

At length he said: “What is the use or need To keep at my own cost this
lazy steed, Eating his head off in my stables here, When rents are low and
provender is dear? Let him go feed upon the public ways; I want him only
for the holidays.” So the old steed was turned into the heat Of the long,
lonely, silent, shadeless street; And wandered in suburban lanes forlorn,
Barked at by dogs, and torn by brier and thorn.

One afternoon, as in that sultry clime It is the custom in the summer
time, With bolted doors and window-shutters closed, The inhabitants of
Atri slept or dozed; When suddenly upon their senses fell The loud alarum
of the accusing bell! The Syndic started from his deep repose, Turned on
his couch, and listened, and then rose And donned his robes, and with
reluctant pace Went panting forth into the market-place, Where the great
bell upon its cross-beam swung Reiterating with persistent tongue, In
half-articulate jargon, the old song: “Some one hath done a wrong, hath
done a wrong!”

But ere he reached the belfry’s light arcade He saw, or thought he saw,
beneath its shade, No shape of human form of woman born, But a poor steed
dejected and forlorn, Who with uplifted head and eager eye Was tugging at
the vines of briony. “Domeneddio!” cried the Syndie straight, “This is the
Knight of Atri’s steed of state! He calls for justice, being sore
distressed, And pleads his cause as loudly as the best.”

Meanwhile from street and lane a noisy crowd Had rolled together like a
summer cloud, And told the story of the wretched beast In five-and-twenty
different ways at least, With much gesticulation and appeal To heathen
gods, in their excessive zeal. The Knight was called and questioned; in
reply Did not confess the fact, did not deny; Treated the matter as a
pleasant jest, And set at naught the Syndic and the rest, Maintaining, in
an angry undertone, That he should do what pleased him with his own.

And thereupon the Syndic gravely read The proclamation of the King; then
said: “Pride goeth forth on horseback grand and gay, But cometh back on
foot, and begs its way; Fame is the fragrance of heroic deeds, Of flowers
of chivalry and not of weeds! These are familiar proverbs; but I fear They
never yet have reached your knightly ear. What fair renown, what honor,
what repute Can come to you from starving this poor brute? He who serves
well and speaks not, merits more Than they who clamor loudest at the door.
Therefore the law decrees that as this steed Served you in youth,
henceforth you shall take heed To comfort his old age, and to provide
Shelter in stall an food and field beside.”

The Knight withdrew abashed; the people all Led home the steed in triumph
to his stall. The King heard and approved, and laughed in glee And cried
aloud: “Right well it pleaseth me! Church-bells at best but ring us to the
door; But go not in to mass; my bell doth more: It cometh into court and
pleads the cause Of creatures dumb and unknown to the laws; And this shall
make, in every Christian clime, The Bell of Atri famous for all time.”

INTERLUDE

“Yes, well your story pleads the cause Of those dumb mouths that have no
speech, Only a cry from each to each In its own kind, with its own laws;
Something that is beyond the reach Of human power to learn or teach,—
An inarticulate moan of pain, Like the immeasurable main Breaking upon an
unknown beach.”

Thus spake the Poet with a sigh; Then added, with impassioned cry, As one
who feels the words he speaks, The color flushing in his cheeks, The
fervor burning in his eye: “Among the noblest in the land, Though he may
count himself the least, That man I honor and revere Who without favor,
without fear, In the great city dares to stand The friend of every
friendless beast, And tames with his unflinching hand The brutes that wear
our form and face, The were-wolves of the human race!” Then paused, and
waited with a frown, Like some old champion of romance, Who, having thrown
his gauntlet down, Expectant leans upon his lance; But neither Knight nor
Squire is found To raise the gauntlet from the ground, And try with him
the battle’s chance.

“Wake from your dreams, O Edrehi! Or dreaming speak to us, and make A
feint of being half awake, And tell us what your dreams may be. Out of the
hazy atmosphere Of cloud-land deign to reappear Among us in this Wayside
Inn; Tell us what visions and what scenes Illuminate the dark ravines In
which you grope your way. Begin!”

Thus the Sicilian spake. The Jew Made no reply, but only smiled, As men
unto a wayward child, Not knowing what to answer, do. As from a cavern’s
mouth, o’ergrown With moss and intertangled vines, A streamlet leaps into
the light And murmurs over root and stone In a melodious undertone; Or as
amid the noonday night Of sombre and wind-haunted pines, There runs a
sound as of the sea; So from his bearded lips there came A melody without
a name, A song, a tale, a history, Or whatsoever it may be, Writ and
recorded in these lines.

THE SPANISH JEW’S TALE
KAMBALU

Into the city of Kambalu, By the road that leadeth to Ispahan, At the head
of his dusty caravan, Laden with treasure from realms afar, Baldacca and
Kelat and Kandahar, Rode the great captain Alau.

The Khan from his palace-window gazed, And saw in the thronging street
beneath, In the light of the setting sun, that blazed Through the clouds
of dust by the caravan raised, The flash of harness and jewelled sheath,
And the shining scymitars of the guard, And the weary camels that bared
their teeth, As they passed and passed through the gates unbarred Into the
shade of the palace-yard.

Thus into the city of Kambalu Rode the great captain Alau; And he stood
before the Khan, and said: “The enemies of my lord are dead; All the
Kalifs of all the West Bow and obey thy least behest; The plains are dark
with the mulberry-trees, The weavers are busy in Samarcand, The miners are
sifting the golden sand, The divers plunging for pearls in the seas, And
peace and plenty are in the land.

“Baldacca’s Kalif, and he alone, Rose in revolt against thy throne: His
treasures are at thy palace-door, With the swords and the shawls and the
jewels he wore; His body is dust o’er the desert blown.

“A mile outside of Baldacca’s gate I left my forces to lie in wait,
Concealed by forests and hillocks of sand, And forward dashed with a
handful of men, To lure the old tiger from his den Into the ambush I had
planned. Ere we reached the town the alarm was spread, For we heard the
sound of gongs from within; And with clash of cymbals and warlike din The
gates swung wide; and we turned and fled; And the garrison sallied forth
and pursued, With the gray old Kalif at their head, And above them the
banner of Mohammed: So we snared them all, and the town was subdued.

“As in at the gate we rode, behold, A tower that is called the Tower of
Gold! For there the Kalif had hidden his wealth, Heaped and hoarded and
piled on high, Like sacks of wheat in a granary; And thither the miser
crept by stealth To feel of the gold that gave him health, And to gaze and
gloat with his hungry eye On jewels that gleamed like a glow-worm’s spark,
Or the eyes of a panther in the dark.

“I said to the Kalif: ‘Thou art old, Thou hast no need of so much gold.
Thou shouldst not have heaped and hidden it here, Till the breath of
battle was hot and near, But have sown through the land these useless
hoards To spring into shining blades of swords, And keep thine honor sweet
and clear. These grains of gold are not grains of wheat; These bars of
silver thou canst not eat; These jewels and pearls and precious stones
Cannot cure the aches in thy bones, Nor keep the feet of Death one hour
From climbing the stairways of thy tower!’

“Then into his dungeon I locked the drone, And left him to feed there all
alone In the honey-cells of his golden hive: Never a prayer, nor a cry,
nor a groan Was heard from those massive walls of stone, Nor again was the
Kalif seen alive!

“When at last we unlocked the door, We found him dead upon the floor; The
rings had dropped from his withered hands, His teeth were like bones in
the desert sands: Still clutching his treasure he had died; And as he lay
there, he appeared A statue of gold with a silver beard, His arms
outstretched as if crucified.”

This is the story, strange and true, That the great captain Alau Told to
his brother the Tartar Khan, When he rode that day into Kambalu By the
road that leadeth to Ispahan.

INTERLUDE

“I thought before your tale began,” The Student murmured, “we should have
Some legend written by Judah Rav In his Gemara of Babylon; Or something
from the Gulistan,— The tale of the Cazy of Hamadan, Or of that King
of Khorasan Who saw in dreams the eyes of one That had a hundred years
been dead Still moving restless in his head, Undimmed, and gleaming with
the lust Of power, though all the rest was dust.

“But lo! your glittering caravan On the road that leadeth to Ispahan Hath
led us farther to the East Into the regions of Cathay. Spite of your Kalif
and his gold, Pleasant has been the tale you told, And full of color; that
at least No one will question or gainsay. And yet on such a dismal day We
need a merrier tale to clear The dark and heavy atmosphere. So listen,
Lordlings, while I tell, Without a preface, what befell A simple cobbler,
in the year — No matter; it was long ago; And that is all we need to
know.”

THE STUDENT’S TALE
THE COBBLER OF HAGENAU

I trust that somewhere and somehow You all have heard of Hagenau, A quiet,
quaint, and ancient town Among the green Alsatian hills, A place of
valleys, streams, and mills, Where Barbarossa’s castle, brown With rust of
centuries, still looks down On the broad, drowsy land below,— On
shadowy forests filled with game, And the blue river winding slow Through
meadows, where the hedges grow That give this little town its name.

It happened in the good old times, While yet the Master-singers filled The
noisy workshop and the guild With various melodies and rhymes, That here
in Hagenau there dwelt A cobbler,—one who loved debate, And, arguing
from a postulate, Would say what others only felt; A man of forecast and
of thrift, And of a shrewd and careful mind In this world’s business, but
inclined Somewhat to let the next world drift.

Hans Sachs with vast delight he read, And Regenbogen’s rhymes of love, For
their poetic fame had spread Even to the town of Hagenau; And some Quick
Melody of the Plough, Or Double Harmony of the Dove, Was always running in
his head. He kept, moreover, at his side, Among his leathers and his
tools, Reynard the Fox, the Ship of Fools, Or Eulenspiegel, open wide;
With these he was much edified: He thought them wiser than the Schools.

His good wife, full of godly fear, Liked not these worldly themes to hear;
The Psalter was her book of songs; The only music to her ear Was that
which to the Church belongs, When the loud choir on Sunday chanted, And
the two angels carved in wood, That by the windy organ stood, Blew on
their trumpets loud and clear, And all the echoes, far and near, Gibbered
as if the church were haunted. Outside his door, one afternoon, This
humble votary of the muse Sat in the narrow strip of shade By a projecting
cornice made, Mending the Burgomaster’s shoes, And singing a familiar
tune:—

Thus sang the cobbler at his work; And with his gestures marked the time
Closing together with a jerk Of his waxed thread the stitch and rhyme.
Meanwhile his quiet little dame Was leaning o’er the window-sill, Eager,
excited, but mouse-still, Gazing impatiently to see What the great throng
of folk might be That onward in procession came, Along the unfrequented
street, With horns that blew, and drums that beat, And banners flying, and
the flame Of tapers, and, at times, the sweet Voices of nuns; and as they
sang Suddenly all the church-bells rang.

In a gay coach, above the crowd, There sat a monk in ample hood, Who with
his right hand held aloft A red and ponderous cross of wood, To which at
times he meekly bowed. In front three horsemen rode, and oft, With voice
and air importunate, A boisterous herald cried aloud: “The grace of God is
at your gate!” So onward to the church they passed.

The cobbler slowly tuned his last, And, wagging his sagacious head, Unto
his kneeling housewife said: “‘Tis the monk Tetzel. I have heard The
cawings of that reverend bird. Don’t let him cheat you of your gold;
Indulgence is not bought and sold.”

The church of Hagenau, that night, Was full of people, full of light; An
odor of incense filled the air, The priest intoned, the organ groaned Its
inarticulate despair; The candles on the altar blazed, And full in front
of it upraised The red cross stood against the glare. Below, upon the
altar-rail Indulgences were set to sale, Like ballads at a country fair. A
heavy strong-box, iron-bound And carved with many a quaint device,
Received, with a melodious sound, The coin that purchased Paradise.

Then from the pulpit overhead, Tetzel the monk, with fiery glow, Thundered
upon the crowd below. “Good people all, draw near!” he said; “Purchase
these letters, signed and sealed, By which all sins, though unrevealed And
unrepented, are forgiven! Count but the gain, count not the loss Your gold
and silver are but dross, And yet they pave the way to heaven. I hear your
mothers and your sires Cry from their purgatorial fires, And will ye not
their ransom pay? O senseless people! when the gate Of heaven is open,
will ye wait? Will ye not enter in to-day? To-morrow it will be too late;
I shall be gone upon my way. Make haste! bring money while ye may!’

The women shuddered, and turned pale; Allured by hope or driven by fear,
With many a sob and many a tear, All crowded to the altar-rail. Pieces of
silver and of gold Into the tinkling strong-box fell Like pebbles dropped
into a well; And soon the ballads were all sold. The cobbler’s wife among
the rest Slipped into the capacious chest A golden florin; then withdrew,
Hiding the paper in her breast; And homeward through the darkness went
Comforted, quieted, content; She did not walk, she rather flew, A dove
that settles to her nest, When some appalling bird of prey That scared her
has been driven away.

The days went by, the monk was gone, The summer passed, the winter came;
Though seasons changed, yet still the same The daily round of life went
on; The daily round of household care, The narrow life of toil and prayer.
But in her heart the cobbler’s dame Had now a treasure beyond price, A
secret joy without a name, The certainty of Paradise. Alas, alas! Dust
unto dust! Before the winter wore away, Her body in the churchyard lay,
Her patient soul was with the Just! After her death, among the things That
even the poor preserve with care,— Some little trinkets and cheap
rings, A locket with her mother’s hair, Her wedding gown, the faded
flowers She wore upon her wedding day,— Among these memories of past
hours, That so much of the heart reveal, Carefully kept and put away, The
Letter of Indulgence lay Folded, with signature and seal.

Meanwhile the Priest, aggrieved and pained, Waited and wondered that no
word Of mass or requiem he heard, As by the Holy Church ordained; Then to
the Magistrate complained, That as this woman had been dead A week or
more, and no mass said, It was rank heresy, or at least Contempt of
Church; thus said the Priest; And straight the cobbler was arraigned.

He came, confiding in his cause, But rather doubtful of the laws. The
Justice from his elbow-chair Gave him a look that seemed to say: “Thou
standest before a Magistrate, Therefore do not prevaricate!” Then asked
him in a business way, Kindly but cold: “Is thy wife dead?” The cobbler
meekly bowed his head; “She is,” came struggling from his throat Scarce
audibly. The Justice wrote The words down in a book, and then Continued,
as he raised his pen: “She is; and hath a mass been said For the salvation
of her soul? Come, speak the truth! confess the whole!” The cobbler
without pause replied: “Of mass or prayer there was no need; For at the
moment when she died Her soul was with the glorified!” And from his pocket
with all speed He drew the priestly title-deed, And prayed the Justice he
would read.

The Justice read, amused, amazed; And as he read his mirth increased; At
times his shaggy brows he raised, Now wondering at the cobbler gazed, Now
archly at the angry Priest. “From all excesses, sins, and crimes Thou hast
committed in past times Thee I absolve! And furthermore, Purified from all
earthly taints, To the communion of the Saints And to the sacraments
restore! All stains of weakness, and all trace Of shame and censure I
efface; Remit the pains thou shouldst endure, And make thee innocent and
pure, So that in dying, unto thee The gates of heaven shall open be!
Though long thou livest, yet this grace Until the moment of thy death
Unchangeable continueth!”

Then said he to the Priest: “I find This document is duly signed Brother
John Tetzel, his own hand. At all tribunals in the land In evidence it may
be used; Therefore acquitted is the accused.” Then to the cobbler turned:
“My friend, Pray tell me, didst thou ever read Reynard the Fox?”—”O
yes, indeed!”— “I thought so. Don’t forget the end.”

INTERLUDE

“What was the end? I am ashamed Not to remember Reynard’s fate; I have not
read the book of late; Was he not hanged?” the Poet said. The Student
gravely shook his head, And answered: “You exaggerate. There was a
tournament proclaimed, And Reynard fought with Isegrim The Wolf, and
having vanquished him, Rose to high honor in the State, And Keeper of the
Seals was named!”

At this the gay Sicilian laughed: “Fight fire with fire, and craft with
craft; Successful cunning seems to be The moral of your tale,” said he.
“Mine had a better, and the Jew’s Had none at all, that I could see; His
aim was only to amuse.”

Meanwhile from out its ebon case His violin the Minstrel drew, And having
tuned its strings anew, Now held it close in his embrace, And poising in
his outstretched hand The bow, like a magician’s wand, He paused, and
said, with beaming face: “Last night my story was too long; To-day I give
you but a song, An old tradition of the North; But first, to put you in
the mood, I will a little while prelude, And from this instrument draw
forth Something by way of overture.”

He played; at first the tones were pure And tender as a summer night, The
full moon climbing to her height, The sob and ripple of the seas, The
flapping of an idle sail; And then by sudden and sharp degrees The
multiplied, wild harmonies Freshened and burst into a gale; A tempest
howling through the dark, A crash as of some shipwrecked bark. A loud and
melancholy wail.

Such was the prelude to the tale Told by the Minstrel; and at times He
paused amid its varying rhymes, And at each pause again broke in The music
of his violin, With tones of sweetness or of fear, Movements of trouble or
of calm, Creating their own atmosphere; As sitting in a church we hear
Between the verses of the psalm The organ playing soft and clear, Or
thundering on the startled ear.

THE MUSICIAN’S TALE
THE BALLAD OF CARMILHAN

I

II

III

IV

INTERLUDE

When the long murmur of applause That greeted the Musician’s lay Had
slowly buzzed itself away, And the long talk of Spectre Ships That
followed died upon their lips And came unto a natural pause, “These tales
you tell are one and all Of the Old World,” the Poet said, “Flowers
gathered from a crumbling wall, Dead leaves that rustle as they fall; Let
me present you in their stead Something of our New England earth, A tale
which, though of no great worth, Has still this merit, that it yields A
certain freshness of the fields, A sweetness as of home-made bread.”

The Student answered: “Be discreet; For if the flour be fresh and sound,
And if the bread be light and sweet, Who careth in what mill ‘t was
ground, Or of what oven felt the heat, Unless, as old Cervantes said, You
are looking after better bread Than any that is made of wheat? You know
that people nowadays To what is old give little praise; All must be new in
prose and verse: They want hot bread, or something worse, Fresh every
morning, and half baked; The wholesome bread of yesterday, Too stale for
them, is thrown away, Nor is their thirst with water slaked.

As oft we see the sky in May Threaten to rain, and yet not rain, The
Poet’s face, before so gay, Was clouded with a look of pain, But suddenly
brightened up again; And without further let or stay He told his tale of
yesterday.

THE POET’S TALE
LADY WENTWORTH.

One hundred years ago, and something more, In Queen Street, Portsmouth, at
her tavern door, Neat as a pin, and blooming as a rose, Stood Mistress
Stavers in her furbelows, Just as her cuckoo-clock was striking nine.
Above her head, resplendent on the sign, The portrait of the Earl of
Halifax, In scarlet coat and periwig of flax, Surveyed at leisure all her
varied charms, Her cap, her bodice, her white folded arms, And half
resolved, though he was past his prime, And rather damaged by the lapse of
time, To fall down at her feet and to declare The passion that had driven
him to despair. For from his lofty station he had seen Stavers, her
husband, dressed in bottle-green, Drive his new Flying Stage-coach, four
in hand, Down the long lane, and out into the land, And knew that he was
far upon the way To Ipswich and to Boston on the Bay!

Just then the meditations of the Earl Were interrupted by a little girl,
Barefooted, ragged, with neglected hair, Eyes full of laughter, neck and
shoulders bare, A thin slip of a girl, like a new moon, Sure to be rounded
into beauty soon, A creature men would worship and adore, Though now in
mean habiliments she bore A pail of water, dripping, through the street
And bathing, as she went her naked feet.

It was a pretty picture, full of grace,— The slender form, the
delicate, thin face; The swaying motion, as she hurried by; The shining
feet, the laughter in her eye, That o’er her face in ripples gleamed and
glanced, As in her pail the shifting sunbeam danced: And with uncommon
feelings of delight The Earl of Halifax beheld the sight. Not so Dame
Stavers, for he heard her say These words, or thought he did, as plain as
day: “O Martha Hilton! Fie! how dare you go About the town half dressed,
and looking so!” At which the gypsy laughed, and straight replied: “No
matter how I look; I yet shall ride In my own chariot, ma’am.” And on the
child The Earl of Halifax benignly smiled, As with her heavy burden she
passed on, Looked back, then turned the corner, and was gone.

What next, upon that memorable day, Arrested his attention was a gay And
brilliant equipage, that flashed and spun, The silver harness glittering
in the sun, Outriders with red jackets, lithe and lank, Pounding the
saddles as they rose and sank, While all alone within the chariot sat A
portly person with three-cornered hat, A crimson velvet coat, head high in
air, Gold-headed cane, and nicely powdered hair, And diamond buckles
sparkling at his knees, Dignified, stately, florid, much at ease. Onward
the pageant swept, and as it passed, Fair Mistress Stavers courtesied low
and fast; For this was Governor Wentworth, driving down To Little Harbor,
just beyond the town, Where his Great House stood looking out to sea, A
goodly place, where it was good to be.

It was a pleasant mansion, an abode Near and yet hidden from the great
high-road, Sequestered among trees, a noble pile, Baronial and colonial in
its style; Gables and dormer-windows everywhere, And stacks of chimneys
rising high in air,— Pandaean pipes, on which all winds that blew
Made mournful music the whole winter through. Within, unwonted splendors
met the eye, Panels, and floors of oak, and tapestry; Carved
chimney-pieces, where on brazen dogs Revelled and roared the Christmas
fires of logs; Doors opening into darkness unawares, Mysterious passages,
and flights of stairs; And on the walls, in heavy gilded frames, The
ancestral Wentworths with Old-Scripture names.

Such was the mansion where the great man dwelt. A widower and childless;
and he felt The loneliness, the uncongenial gloom, That like a presence
haunted ever room; For though not given to weakness, he could feel The
pain of wounds, that ache because they heal.

The years came and the years went,—seven in all, And passed in cloud
and sunshine o’er the Hall; The dawns their splendor through its chambers
shed, The sunsets flushed its western windows red; The snow was on its
roofs, the wind, the rain; Its woodlands were in leaf and bare again;
Moons waxed and waned, the lilacs bloomed and died, In the broad river
ebbed and flowed the tide, Ships went to sea, and ships came home from
sea, And the slow years sailed by and ceased to be.

And all these years had Martha Hilton served In the Great House, not
wholly unobserved: By day, by night, the silver crescent grew, Though
hidden by clouds, her light still shining through; A maid of all work,
whether coarse or fine, A servant who made service seem divine! Through
her each room was fair to look upon; The mirrors glistened, and the
brasses shone, The very knocker on the outer door, If she but passed, was
brighter than before.

And now the ceaseless turning of the mill Of Time, that never for an hour
stands still, Ground out the Governor’s sixtieth birthday, And powdered
his brown hair with silver-gray. The robin, the forerunner of the spring,
The bluebird with his jocund carolling, The restless swallows building in
the eaves, The golden buttercups, the grass, the leaves, The lilacs
tossing in the winds of May, All welcomed this majestic holiday! He gave a
splendid banquet served on plate, Such as became the Governor of the
State, Who represented England and the King, And was magnificent in
everything. He had invited all his friends and peers,— The
Pepperels, the Langdons, and the Lears, The Sparhawks, the Penhallows, and
the rest; For why repeat the name of every guest? But I must mention one,
in bands and gown, The rector there, the Reverend Arthur Brown Of the
Established Church; with smiling face He sat beside the Governor and said
grace; And then the feast went on, as others do, But ended as none other I
e’er knew.

When they had drunk the King, with many a cheer, The Governor whispered in
a servant’s ear, Who disappeared and presently there stood Within the
room, in perfect womanhood, A maiden, modest and yet self-possessed,
Youthful and beautiful, and simply dressed. Can this be Martha Hilton? It
must be! Yes, Martha Hilton, and no other she! Dowered with the beauty of
her twenty years, How ladylike, how queenlike she appears; The pale, thin
crescent of the days gone by Is Dian now in all her majesty! Yet scarce a
guest perceived that she was there, Until the Governor, rising from his
chair, Played slightly with his ruffles, then looked down, And said unto
the Reverend Arthur Brown: “This is my birthday: it shall likewise be My
wedding-day; and you shall marry me!”

The listening guests were greatly mystified, None more so than the rector,
who replied: “Marry you? Yes, that were a pleasant task, Your Excellency;
but to whom? I ask.” The Governor answered: “To this lady here” And
beckoned Martha Hilton to draw near. She came and stood, all blushes, at
his side. The rector paused. The impatient Governor cried: “This is the
lady; do you hesitate? Then I command you as Chief Magistrate.” The rector
read the service loud and clear: “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here,”
And so on to the end. At his command On the fourth finger of her fair left
hand The Governor placed the ring; and that was all: Martha was Lady
Wentworth of the Hall!

INTERLUDE.

Well pleased the audience heard the tale. The Theologian said: “Indeed, To
praise you there is little need; One almost hears the farmers flail Thresh
out your wheat, nor does there fail A certain freshness, as you said, And
sweetness as of home-made bread. But not less sweet and not less fresh Are
many legends that I know, Writ by the monks of long-ago, Who loved to
mortify the flesh, So that the soul might purer grow, And rise to a
diviner state; And one of these—perhaps of all Most beautiful—I
now recall, And with permission will narrate; Hoping thereby to make
amends For that grim tragedy of mine, As strong and black as Spanish wine,
I told last night, and wish almost It had remained untold, my friends; For
Torquemada’s awful ghost Came to me in the dreams I dreamed, And in the
darkness glared and gleamed Like a great lighthouse on the coast.”

The Student laughing said: “Far more Like to some dismal fire of bale
Flaring portentous on a hill; Or torches lighted on a shore By wreckers in
a midnight gale. No matter; be it as you will, Only go forward with your
tale.”

THE THEOLOGIAN’S TALE
THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL

“Hads’t thou stayed, I must have fled!” That is what the Vision said.

In his chamber all alone, Kneeling on the floor of stone, Prayed the Monk
in deep contrition For his sins of indecision, Prayed for greater
self-denial In temptation and in trial; It was noonday by the dial, And
the Monk was all alone.

Suddenly, as if it lightened, An unwonted splendor brightened All within
him and without him In that narrow cell of stone; And he saw the Blessed
Vision Of our Lord, with light Elysian Like a vesture wrapped about him,
Like a garment round him thrown.

Not as crucified and slain, Not in agonies of pain, Not with bleeding
hands and feet, Did the Monk his Master see; But as in the village street,
In the house or harvest-field, Halt and lame and blind he healed, When he
walked in Galilee.

In an attitude imploring, Hands upon his bosom crossed, Wondering,
worshipping, adoring, Knelt the Monk in rapture lost. Lord, he thought, in
heaven that reignest, Who am I, that thus thou deignest To reveal thyself
to me? Who am I, that from the centre Of thy glory thou shouldst enter
This poor cell, my guest to be?

Then amid his exaltation, Loud the convent bell appalling, From its belfry
calling, calling, Rang through court and corridor With persistent
iteration He had never heard before. It was now the appointed hour When
alike in shine or shower, Winter’s cold or summer’s heat, To the convent
portals came All the blind and halt and lame, All the beggars of the
street, For their daily dole of food Dealt them by the brotherhood; And
their almoner was he Who upon his bended knee, Rapt in silent ecstasy Of
divinest self-surrender, Saw the Vision and the Splendor.

Deep distress and hesitation Mingled with his adoration; Should he go, or
should he stay? Should he leave the poor to wait Hungry at the convent
gate, Till the Vision passed away? Should he slight his radiant guest,
Slight this visitant celestial, For a crowd of ragged, bestial Beggars at
the convent gate? Would the Vision there remain? Would the Vision come
again? Then a voice within his breast Whispered, audible and clear As if
to the outward ear: “Do thy duty; that is best; Leave unto thy Lord the
rest!”

Straightway to his feet he started, And with longing look intent On the
Blessed Vision bent, Slowly from his cell departed, Slowly on his errand
went.

At the gate the poor were waiting, Looking through the iron grating, With
that terror in the eye That is only seen in those Who amid their wants and
woes Hear the sound of doors that close, And of feet that pass them by;
Grown familiar with disfavor, Grown familiar with the savor Of the bread
by which men die! But to-day, they knew not why, Like the gate of Paradise
Seemed the convent sate to rise, Like a sacrament divine Seemed to them
the bread and wine. In his heart the Monk was praying, Thinking of the
homeless poor, What they suffer and endure; What we see not, what we see;
And the inward voice was saying: “Whatsoever thing thou doest To the least
of mine and lowest, That thou doest unto me!”

Unto me! but had the Vision Come to him in beggar’s clothing, Come a
mendicant imploring, Would he then have knelt adoring, Or have listened
with derision, And have turned away with loathing.

Thus his conscience put the question, Full of troublesome suggestion, As
at length, with hurried pace, Towards his cell he turned his face, And
beheld the convent bright With a supernatural light, Like a luminous cloud
expanding Over floor and wall and ceiling.

But he paused with awe-struck feeling At the threshold of his door, For
the Vision still was standing As he left it there before, When the convent
bell appalling, From its belfry calling, calling, Summoned him to feed the
poor. Through the long hour intervening It had waited his return, And he
felt his bosom burn, Comprehending all the meaning, When the Blessed
Vision said, “Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!”

INTERLUDE.

All praised the Legend more or less; Some liked the moral, some the verse;
Some thought it better, and some worse Than other legends of the past;
Until, with ill-concealed distress At all their cavilling, at last The
Theologian gravely said: “The Spanish proverb, then, is right; Consult
your friends on what you do, And one will say that it is white, And others
say that it is red.” And “Amen!” quoth the Spanish Jew.

“Six stories told! We must have seven, A cluster like the Pleiades, And
lo! it happens, as with these, That one is missing from our heaven. Where
is the Landlord? Bring him here; Let the Lost Pleiad reappear.”

Thus the Sicilian cried, and went Forthwith to seek his missing star, But
did not find him in the bar, A place that landlords most frequent, Nor yet
beside the kitchen fire, Nor up the stairs, nor in the hall; It was in
vain to ask or call, There were no tidings of the Squire.

So he came back with downcast head, Exclaiming: “Well, our bashful host
Hath surely given up the ghost. Another proverb says the dead Can tell no
tales; and that is true. It follows, then, that one of you Must tell a
story in his stead. You must,” he to the Student said, “Who know so many
of the best, And tell them better than the rest.” Straight by these
flattering words beguiled, The Student, happy as a child When he is called
a little man, Assumed the double task imposed, And without more ado
unclosed His smiling lips, and thus began.

THE STUDENT’S SECOND TALE
THE BARON OF ST. CASTINE

Baron Castine of St. Castine Has left his chateau in the Pyrenees, And
sailed across the western seas. When he went away from his fair demesne
The birds were building, the woods were green; And now the winds of winter
blow Round the turrets of the old chateau, The birds are silent and
unseen, The leaves lie dead in the ravine, And the Pyrenees are white with
snow.

His father, lonely, old, and gray, Sits by the fireside day by day,
Thinking ever one thought of care; Through the southern windows, narrow
and tall, The sun shines into the ancient hall, And makes a glory round
his hair. The house-dog, stretched beneath his chair, Groans in his sleep
as if in pain Then wakes, and yawns, and sleeps again, So silent is it
everywhere,— So silent you can hear the mouse Run and rummage along
the beams Behind the wainscot of the wall; And the old man rouses from his
dreams, And wanders restless through the house, As if he heard strange
voices call.

His footsteps echo along the floor Of a distant passage, and pause awhile;
He is standing by an open door Looking long, with a sad, sweet smile, Into
the room of his absent son. There is the bed on which he lay, There are
the pictures bright and gay, Horses and hounds and sun-lit seas; There are
his powder-flask and gun, And his hunting-knives in shape of a fan; The
chair by the window where he sat, With the clouded tiger-skin for a mat,
Looking out on the Pyrenees, Looking out on Mount Marbore And the Seven
Valleys of Lavedan. Ah me! he turns away and sighs; There is a mist before
his eyes.

At night whatever the weather be, Wind or rain or starry heaven, Just as
the clock is striking seven, Those who look from the windows see The
village Curate, with lantern and maid, Come through the gateway from the
park And cross the courtyard damp and dark,— A ring of light in a
ring of shade.

And now at the old man’s side he stands, His voice is cheery, his heart
expands, He gossips pleasantly, by the blaze Of the fire of fagots, about
old days, And Cardinal Mazarin and the Fronde, And the Cardinal’s nieces
fair and fond, And what they did, and what they said, When they heard his
Eminence was dead.

And after a pause the old man says, His mind still coming back again To
the one sad thought that haunts his brain, “Are there any tidings from
over sea? Ah, why has that wild boy gone from me?” And the Curate answers,
looking down, Harmless and docile as a lamb, “Young blood! young blood! It
must so be!” And draws from the pocket of his gown A handkerchief like an
oriflamb, And wipes his spectacles, and they play Their little game of
lansquenet In silence for an hour or so, Till the clock at nine strikes
loud and clear From the village lying asleep below, And across the
courtyard, into the dark Of the winding pathway in the park, Curate and
lantern disappear, And darkness reigns in the old chateau.

The ship has come back from over sea, She has been signalled from below,
And into the harbor of Bordeaux She sails with her gallant company. But
among them is nowhere seen The brave young Baron of St. Castine; He hath
tarried behind, I ween, In the beautiful land of Acadie!

And the father paces to and fro Through the chambers of the old chateau,
Waiting, waiting to hear the hum Of wheels on the road that runs below, Of
servants hurrying here and there, The voice in the courtyard, the step on
the stair, Waiting for some one who doth not come! But letters there are,
which the old man reads To the Curate, when he comes at night Word by
word, as an acolyte Repeats his prayers and tells his beads; Letters full
of the rolling sea, Full of a young man’s joy to be Abroad in the world,
alone and free; Full of adventures and wonderful scenes Of hunting the
deer through forests vast In the royal grant of Pierre du Gast; Of nights
in the tents of the Tarratines; Of Madocawando the Indian chief, And his
daughters, glorious as queens, And beautiful beyond belief; And so soft
the tones of their native tongue, The words are not spoken, they are sung!

And the Curate listens, and smiling says: “Ah yes, dear friend! in our
young days We should have liked to hunt the deer All day amid those forest
scenes, And to sleep in the tents of the Tarratines; But now it is better
sitting here Within four walls, and without the fear Of losing our hearts
to Indian queens; For man is fire and woman is tow, And the Somebody comes
and begins to blow.” Then a gleam of distrust and vague surmise Shines in
the father’s gentle eyes, As fire-light on a window-pane Glimmers and
vanishes again; But naught he answers; he only sighs, And for a moment
bows his head; Then, as their custom is, they play Their little gain of
lansquenet, And another day is with the dead.

Another day, and many a day And many a week and month depart, When a fatal
letter wings its way Across the sea, like a bird of prey, And strikes and
tears the old man’s heart. Lo! the young Baron of St. Castine, Swift as
the wind is, and as wild, Has married a dusky Tarratine, Has married
Madocawando’s child!

The letter drops from the father’s hand; Though the sinews of his heart
are wrung, He utters no cry, he breathes no prayer, No malediction falls
from his tongue; But his stately figure, erect and grand, Bends and sinks
like a column of sand In the whirlwind of his great despair. Dying, yes,
dying! His latest breath Of parley at the door of death Is a blessing on
his wayward son. Lower and lower on his breast Sinks his gray head; he is
at rest; No longer he waits for any one;

For many a year the old chateau Lies tenantless and desolate; Rank grasses
in the courtyard grow, About its gables caws the crow; Only the porter at
the gate Is left to guard it, and to wait The coming of the rightful heir;
No other life or sound is there; No more the Curate comes at night, No
more is seen the unsteady light, Threading the alleys of the park; The
windows of the hall are dark, The chambers dreary, cold, and bare!

At length, at last, when the winter is past, And birds are building, and
woods are green, With flying skirts is the Curate seen Speeding along the
woodland way, Humming gayly, “No day is so long But it comes at last to
vesper-song.” He stops at the porter’s lodge to say That at last the Baron
of St. Castine Is coming home with his Indian queen, Is coming without a
week’s delay; And all the house must be swept and clean, And all things
set in good array! And the solemn porter shakes his head; And the answer
he makes is: “Lackaday! We will see, as the blind man said!”

Alert since first the day began, The cock upon the village church Looks
northward from his airy perch, As if beyond the ken of man To see the
ships come sailing on, And pass the isle of Oleron, And pass the Tower of
Cordouan.

In the church below is cold in clay The heart that would have leaped for
joy— O tender heart of truth and trust!— To see the coming of
that day; In the church below the lips are dust; Dust are the hands, and
dust the feet, That would have been so swift to meet The coming of that
wayward boy.

At night the front of the old chateau Is a blaze of light above and below;
There’s a sound of wheels and hoofs in the street, A cracking of whips,
and scamper of feet, Bells are ringing, and horns are blown, And the Baron
hath come again to his own. The Curate is waiting in the hall, Most eager
and alive of all To welcome the Baron and Baroness; But his mind is full
of vague distress, For he hath read in Jesuit books Of those children of
the wilderness, And now, good, simple man! he looks To see a painted
savage stride Into the room, with shoulders bare, And eagle feathers in
her hair, And around her a robe of panther’s hide.

Instead, he beholds with secret shame A form of beauty undefined, A
loveliness with out a name, Not of degree, but more of kind; Nor bold nor
shy, nor short nor tall, But a new mingling of them all. Yes, beautiful
beyond belief, Transfigured and transfused, he sees The lady of the
Pyrenees, The daughter of the Indian chief.

Beneath the shadow of her hair The gold-bronze color of the skin Seems
lighted by a fire within, As when a burst of sunlight shines Beneath a
sombre grove of pines,— A dusky splendor in the air. The two small
hands, that now are pressed In his, seem made to be caressed, They lie so
warm and soft and still, Like birds half hidden in a nest, Trustful, and
innocent of ill. And ah! he cannot believe his ears When her melodious
voice he hears Speaking his native Gascon tongue; The words she utters
seem to be Part of some poem of Goudouli, They are not spoken, they are
sung! And the Baron smiles, and says, “You see, I told you but the simple
truth; Ah, you may trust the eyes of youth!”

Down in the village day by day The people gossip in their way, And stare
to see the Baroness pass On Sunday morning to early Mass; And when she
kneeleth down to pray, They wonder, and whisper together, and say, “Surely
this is no heathen lass!” And in course of time they learn to bless The
Baron and the Baroness.

And in course of time the Curate learns A secret so dreadful, that by
turns He is ice and fire, he freezes and burns. The Baron at confession
hath said, That though this woman be his wife, He bath wed her as the
Indians wed, He hath bought her for a gun and a knife! And the Curate
replies: “O profligate, O Prodigal Son! return once more To the open arms
and the open door Of the Church, or ever it be too late. Thank God, thy
father did not live To see what he could not forgive; On thee, so reckless
and perverse, He left his blessing, not his curse. But the nearer the dawn
the darker the night, And by going wrong all things come right; Things
have been mended that were worse, And the worse, the nearer they are to
mend. For the sake of the living and the dead, Thou shalt be wed as
Christians wed, And all things come to a happy end.”

O sun, that followest the night, In yon blue sky, serene and pure, And
pourest thine impartial light Alike on mountain and on moor, Pause for a
moment in thy course, And bless the bridegroom and the bride! O Gave, that
from thy hidden source In you mysterious mountain-side Pursuest thy
wandering way alone, And leaping down its steps of stone, Along the
meadow-lands demure Stealest away to the Adour, Pause for a moment in thy
course To bless the bridegroom and the bride!

The choir is singing the matin song, The doors of the church are opened
wide, The people crowd, and press, and throng To see the bridegroom and
the bride. They enter and pass along the nave; They stand upon the
father’s grave; The bells are ringing soft and slow; The living above and
the dead below Give their blessing on one and twain; The warm wind blows
from the hills of Spain, The birds are building, the leaves are green, And
Baron Castine of St. Castine Hath come at last to his own again.

FINALE

“Nunc plaudite!” the Student cried, When he had finished; “now applaud, As
Roman actors used to say At the conclusion of a play”; And rose, and
spread his hands abroad, And smiling bowed from side to side, As one who
bears the palm away. And generous was the applause and loud, But less for
him than for the sun, That even as the tale was done Burst from its canopy
of cloud, And lit the landscape with the blaze Of afternoon on autumn
days, And filled the room with light, and made The fire of logs a painted
shade.

A sudden wind from out the west Blew all its trumpets loud and shrill; The
windows rattled with the blast, The oak-trees shouted as it passed, And
straight, as if by fear possessed, The cloud encampment on the hill Broke
up, and fluttering flag and tent Vanished into the firmament, And down the
valley fled amain The rear of the retreating rain.

Only far up in the blue sky A mass of clouds, like drifted snow Suffused
with a faint Alpine glow, Was heaped together, vast and high, On which a
shattered rainbow hung, Not rising like the ruined arch Of some aerial
aqueduct, But like a roseate garland plucked From an Olympian god, and
flung Aside in his triumphal march.

Like prisoners from their dungeon gloom, Like birds escaping from a snare,
Like school-boys at the hour of play, All left at once the pent-up room,
And rushed into the open air; And no more tales were told that day.

PART THIRD

PRELUDE

The evening came; the golden vane A moment in the sunset glanced, Then
darkened, and then gleamed again, As from the east the moon advanced And
touched it with a softer light; While underneath, with flowing mane, Upon
the sign the Red Horse pranced, And galloped forth into the night.

But brighter than the afternoon That followed the dark day of rain, And
brighter than the golden vane That glistened in the rising moon, Within
the ruddy fire-light gleamed; And every separate window-pane, Backed by
the outer darkness, showed A mirror, where the flamelets gleamed And
flickered to and fro, and seemed A bonfire lighted in the road.

Amid the hospitable glow, Like an old actor on the stage, With the
uncertain voice of age, The singing chimney chanted low The homely songs
of long ago.

The voice that Ossian heard of yore, When midnight winds were in his hall;
A ghostly and appealing call, A sound of days that are no more! And dark
as Ossian sat the Jew, And listened to the sound, and knew The passing of
the airy hosts, The gray and misty cloud of ghosts In their interminable
flight; And listening muttered in his beard, With accent indistinct and
weird, “Who are ye, children of the Night?”

Beholding his mysterious face, “Tell me,” the gay Sicilian said, “Why was
it that in breaking bread At supper, you bent down your head And, musing,
paused a little space, As one who says a silent grace?”

The Jew replied, with solemn air, “I said the Manichaean’s prayer. It was
his faith,—perhaps is mine,— That life in all its forms is
one, And that its secret conduits run Unseen, but in unbroken line, From
the great fountain-head divine Through man and beast, through grain and
grass. Howe’er we struggle, strive, and cry, From death there can be no
escape, And no escape from life, alas Because we cannot die, but pass From
one into another shape: It is but into life we die.

“Therefore the Manichaean said This simple prayer on breaking bread, Lest
he with hasty hand or knife Might wound the incarcerated life, The soul in
things that we call dead: ‘I did not reap thee, did not bind thee, I did
not thrash thee, did not grind thee, Nor did I in the oven bake thee! It
was not I, it was another Did these things unto thee, O brother; I only
have thee, hold thee, break thee!'”

“That birds have souls I can concede,” The poet cried, with glowing
cheeks; “The flocks that from their beds of reed Uprising north or
southward fly, And flying write upon the sky The biforked letter of the
Greeks, As hath been said by Rucellai; All birds that sing or chirp or
cry, Even those migratory bands, The minor poets of the air, The plover,
peep, and sanderling, That hardly can be said to sing, But pipe along the
barren sands,— All these have souls akin to ours; So hath the lovely
race of flowers: Thus much I grant, but nothing more. The rusty hinges of
a door Are not alive because they creak; This chimney, with its dreary
roar, These rattling windows, do not speak!” “To me they speak,” the Jew
replied; “And in the sounds that sink and soar, I hear the voices of a
tide That breaks upon an unknown shore!”

Here the Sicilian interfered: “That was your dream, then, as you dozed A
moment since, with eyes half-closed, And murmured something in your
beard.”

The Hebrew smiled, and answered, “Nay; Not that, but something very near;
Like, and yet not the same, may seem The vision of my waking dream; Before
it wholly dies away, Listen to me, and you shall hear.”

THE SPANISH JEW’S TALE
AZRAEL

King Solomon, before his palace gate At evening, on the pavement
tessellate Was walking with a stranger from the East, Arrayed in rich
attire as for a feast, The mighty Runjeet-Sing, a learned man, And Rajah
of the realms of Hindostan. And as they walked the guest became aware Of a
white figure in the twilight air, Gazing intent, as one who with surprise
His form and features seemed to recognize; And in a whisper to the king he
said: “What is yon shape, that, pallid as the dead, Is watching me, as if
he sought to trace In the dim light the features of my face?”

The king looked, and replied: “I know him well; It is the Angel men call
Azrael, ‘T is the Death Angel; what hast thou to fear?” And the guest
answered: “Lest he should come near, And speak to me, and take away my
breath! Save me from Azrael, save me from death! O king, that hast
dominion o’er the wind, Bid it arise and bear me hence to Ind.”

The king gazed upward at the cloudless sky, Whispered a word, and raised
his hand on high, And lo! the signet-ring of chrysoprase On his uplifted
finger seemed to blaze With hidden fire, and rushing from the west There
came a mighty wind, and seized the guest And lifted him from earth, and on
they passed, His shining garments streaming in the blast, A silken banner
o’er the walls upreared, A purple cloud, that gleamed and disappeared.
Then said the Angel, smiling: “If this man Be Rajah Runjeet-Sing of
Hindostan, Thou hast done well in listening to his prayer; I was upon my
way to seek him there.”

INTERLUDE.

“O Edrehi, forbear to-night Your ghostly legends of affright, And let the
Talmud rest in peace; Spare us your dismal tales of death That almost take
away one’s breath; So doing, may your tribe increase.”

Thus the Sicilian said; then went And on the spinet’s rattling keys Played
Marianina, like a breeze From Naples and the Southern seas, That brings us
the delicious scent Of citron and of orange trees, And memories of soft
days of ease At Capri and Amalfi spent.

“Not so,” the eager Poet said; “At least, not so before I tell The story
of my Azrael, An angel mortal as ourselves, Which in an ancient tome I
found Upon a convent’s dusty shelves, Chained with an iron chain, and
bound In parchment, and with clasps of brass, Lest from its prison, some
dark day, It might be stolen or steal away, While the good friars were
singing mass.

“It is a tale of Charlemagne, When like a thunder-cloud, that lowers And
sweeps from mountain-crest to coast, With lightning flaming through its
showers, He swept across the Lombard plain, Beleaguering with his warlike
train Pavia, the country’s pride and boast, The City of the Hundred
Towers.” Thus heralded the tale began, And thus in sober measure ran.

THE POET’S TALE
CHARLEMAGNE

Olger the Dane and Desiderio, King of the Lombards, on a lofty tower Stood
gazing northward o’er the rolling plains, League after league of harvests,
to the foot Of the snow-crested Alps, and saw approach A mighty army,
thronging all the roads That led into the city. And the King Said unto
Olger, who had passed his youth As hostage at the court of France, and
knew The Emperor’s form and face “Is Charlemagne Among that host?” And
Olger answered: “No.”

And still the innumerable multitude Flowed onward and increased, until the
King Cried in amazement: “Surely Charlemagne Is coming in the midst of all
these knights!” And Olger answered slowly: “No; not yet; He will not come
so soon.” Then much disturbed King Desiderio asked: “What shall we do, if
he approach with a still greater army!” And Olger answered: “When he shall
appear, You will behold what manner of man he is; But what will then
befall us I know not.”

Then came the guard that never knew repose, The Paladins of France; and at
the sight The Lombard King o’ercome with terror cried: “This must be
Charlemagne!” and as before Did Olger answer: “No; not yet, not yet.”

And then appeared in panoply complete The Bishops and the Abbots and the
Priests Of the imperial chapel, and the Counts And Desiderio could no more
endure The light of day, nor yet encounter death, But sobbed aloud and
said: “Let us go down And hide us in the bosom of the earth, Far from the
sight and anger of a foe So terrible as this!” And Olger said: “When you
behold the harvests in the fields Shaking with fear, the Po and the Ticino
Lashing the city walls with iron waves, Then may you know that Charlemagne
is come. And even as he spake, in the northwest, Lo! there uprose a black
and threatening cloud, Out of whose bosom flashed the light of arms Upon
the people pent up in the city; A light more terrible than any darkness;
And Charlemagne appeared;—a Man of Iron!

His helmet was of iron, and his gloves Of iron, and his breastplate and
his greaves And tassets were of iron, and his shield. In his left hand he
held an iron spear, In his right hand his sword invincible. The horse he
rode on had the strength of iron, And color of iron. All who went before
him Beside him and behind him, his whole host, Were armed with iron, and
their hearts within them Were stronger than the armor that they wore. The
fields and all the roads were filled with iron, And points of iron
glistened in the sun And shed a terror through the city streets.

This at a single glance Olger the Dane Saw from the tower, and turning to
the King Exclaimed in haste: “Behold! this is the man You looked for with
such eagerness!” and then Fell as one dead at Desiderio’s feet.

INTERLUDE

Well pleased all listened to the tale, That drew, the Student said, its
pith And marrow from the ancient myth Of some one with an iron flail; Or
that portentous Man of Brass Hephæstus made in days of yore, Who stalked
about the Cretan shore, And saw the ships appear and pass, And threw
stones at the Argonauts, Being filled with indiscriminate ire That tangled
and perplexed his thoughts; But, like a hospitable host, When strangers
landed on the coast, Heated himself red-hot with fire, And hugged them in
his arms, and pressed Their bodies to his burning breast.

The Poet answered: “No, not thus The legend rose; it sprang at first Out
of the hunger and the thirst In all men for the marvellous. And thus it
filled and satisfied The imagination of mankind, And this ideal to the
mind Was truer than historic fact. Fancy enlarged and multiplied The
tenors of the awful name Of Charlemagne, till he became Armipotent in
every act, And, clothed in mystery, appeared Not what men saw, but what
they feared. Besides, unless my memory fail, Your some one with an iron
flail Is not an ancient myth at all, But comes much later on the scene As
Talus in the Faerie Queene, The iron groom of Artegall, Who threshed out
falsehood and deceit, And truth upheld, and righted wrong, As was, as is
the swallow, fleet, And as the lion is, was strong.”

The Theologian said: “Perchance Your chronicler in writing this Had in his
mind the Anabasis, Where Xenophon describes the advance Of Artaxerxes to
the fight; At first the low gray cloud of dust, And then a blackness o’er
the fields As of a passing thunder-gust, Then flash of brazen armor
bright, And ranks of men, and spears up-thrust, Bowmen and troops with
wicker shields, And cavalry equipped in white, And chariots ranged in
front of these With scythes upon their axle-trees.”

To this the Student answered: “Well, I also have a tale to tell Of
Charlemagne; a tale that throws A softer light, more tinged with rose,
Than your grim apparition cast Upon the darkness of the past. Listen, and
hear in English rhyme What the good Monk of Lauresheim Gives as the gossip
of his time, In mediaeval Latin prose.”

THE STUDENT’S TALE
EMMA AND EGINHARD

When Alcuin taught the sons of Charlemagne, In the free schools of Aix,
how kings should reign, And with them taught the children of the poor How
subjects should be patient and endure, He touched the lips of some, as
best befit, With honey from the hives of Holy Writ; Others intoxicated
with the wine Of ancient history, sweet but less divine; Some with the
wholesome fruits of grammar fed; Others with mysteries of the stars
o’er-head, That hang suspended in the vaulted sky Like lamps in some fair
palace vast and high.

In sooth, it was a pleasant sight to see That Saxon monk, with hood and
rosary, With inkhorn at his belt, and pen and book, And mingled lore and
reverence in his look, Or hear the cloister and the court repeat The
measured footfalls of his sandaled feet, Or watch him with the pupils of
his school, Gentle of speech, but absolute of rule.

Among them, always earliest in his place. Was Eginhard, a youth of
Frankish race, Whose face was bright with flashes that forerun The
splendors of a yet unrisen sun. To him all things were possible, and
seemed Not what he had accomplished, but had dreamed, And what were tasks
to others were his play, The pastime of an idle holiday.

Smaragdo, Abbot of St. Michael’s, said, With many a shrug and shaking of
the head, Surely some demon must possess the lad, Who showed more wit than
ever schoolboy had, And learned his Trivium thus without the rod; But
Alcuin said it was the grace of God.

Thus he grew up, in Logic point-device, Perfect in Grammar, and in
Rhetoric nice; Science of Numbers, Geometric art, And lore of Stars, and
Music knew by heart; A Minnesinger, long before the times Of those who
sang their love in Suabian rhymes.

The Emperor, when he heard this good report Of Eginhard much buzzed about
the court, Said to himself, “This stripling seems to be Purposely sent
into the world for me; He shall become my scribe, and shall be schooled In
all the arts whereby the world is ruled.” Thus did the gentle Eginhard
attain To honor in the court of Charlemagne; Became the sovereign’s
favorite, his right hand, So that his fame was great in all the land, And
all men loved him for his modest grace And comeliness of figure and of
face. An inmate of the palace, yet recluse, A man of books, yet sacred
from abuse Among the armed knights with spur on heel, The tramp of horses
and the clang of steel; And as the Emperor promised he was schooled In all
the arts by which the world is ruled. But the one art supreme, whose law
is fate, The Emperor never dreamed of till too late.

Home from her convent to the palace came The lovely Princess Emma, whose
sweet name, Whispered by seneschal or sung by bard, Had often touched the
soul of Eginhard. He saw her from his window, as in state She came, by
knights attended through the gate; He saw her at the banquet of that day,
Fresh as the morn, and beautiful as May; He saw her in the garden, as she
strayed Among the flowers of summer with her maid, And said to him, “O
Eginhard, disclose The meaning and the mystery of the rose”; And trembling
he made answer: “In good sooth, Its mystery is love, its meaning youth!”

How can I tell the signals and the signs By which one heart another heart
divines? How can I tell the many thousand ways By which it keeps the
secret it betrays?

O mystery of love! O strange romance! Among the Peers and Paladins of
France, Shining in steel, and prancing on gay steeds, Noble by birth, yet
nobler by great deeds, The Princess Emma had no words nor looks But for
this clerk, this man of thought and books.

The summer passed, the autumn came; the stalks Of lilies blackened in the
garden walks; The leaves fell, russet-golden and blood-red, Love-letters
thought the poet fancy-led, Or Jove descending in a shower of gold Into
the lap of Danae of old; For poets cherish many a strange conceit, And
love transmutes all nature by its heat.

No more the garden lessons, nor the dark And hurried meetings in the
twilight park; But now the studious lamp, and the delights Of firesides in
the silent winter nights, And watching from his window hour by hour The
light that burned in Princess Emma’s tower.

At length one night, while musing by the fire, O’ercome at last by his
insane desire,— For what will reckless love not do and dare?—
He crossed the court, and climbed the winding stair, With some feigned
message in the Emperor’s name; But when he to the lady’s presence came He
knelt down at her feet, until she laid Her hand upon him, like a naked
blade, And whispered in his ear: “Arise, Sir Knight, To my heart’s level,
O my heart’s delight.”

And there he lingered till the crowing cock, The Alectryon of the farmyard
and the flock, Sang his aubade with lusty voice and clear, To tell the
sleeping world that dawn was near. And then they parted; but at parting,
lo! They saw the palace courtyard white with snow, And, placid as a nun,
the moon on high Gazing from cloudy cloisters of the sky. “Alas!” he said,
“how hide the fatal line Of footprints leading from thy door to mine, And
none returning!” Ah, he little knew What woman’s wit, when put to proof,
can do!

That night the Emperor, sleepless with the cares And troubles that attend
on state affairs, Had risen before the dawn, and musing gazed Into the
silent night, as one amazed To see the calm that reigned o’er all supreme,
When his own reign was but a troubled dream. The moon lit up the gables
capped with snow, And the white roofs, and half the court below, And he
beheld a form, that seemed to cower Beneath a burden, come from Emma’s
tower,— A woman, who upon her shoulders bore Clerk Eginhard to his
own private door, And then returned in haste, but still essayed To tread
the footprints she herself had made; And as she passed across the lighted
space, The Emperor saw his daughter Emma’s face!

He started not; he did not speak or moan, But seemed as one who hath been
turned to stone; And stood there like a statue, nor awoke Out of his
trance of pain, till morning broke, Till the stars faded, and the moon
went down, And o’er the towers and steeples of the town Came the gray
daylight; then the sun, who took The empire of the world with sovereign
look, Suffusing with a soft and golden glow All the dead landscape in its
shroud of snow, Touching with flame the tapering chapel spires, Windows
and roofs, and smoke of household fires, And kindling park and palace as
he came; The stork’s nest on the chimney seemed in flame. And thus he
stood till Eginhard appeared, Demure and modest with his comely beard And
flowing flaxen tresses, come to ask, As was his wont, the day’s appointed
task.

The Emperor looked upon him with a smile, And gently said: “My son, wait
yet awhile; This hour my council meets upon some great And very urgent
business of the state. Come back within the hour. On thy return The work
appointed for thee shalt thou learn.

Having dismissed this gallant Troubadour, He summoned straight his
council, and secure And steadfast in his purpose, from the throne All the
adventure of the night made known; Then asked for sentence; and with eager
breath Some answered banishment, and others death.

Then spake the king: “Your sentence is not mine; Life is the gift of God,
and is divine; Nor from these palace walls shall one depart Who carries
such a secret in his heart; My better judgment points another way. Good
Alcuin, I remember how one day When my Pepino asked you, ‘What are men?’
You wrote upon his tablets with your pen, ‘Guests of the grave and
travellers that pass!’ This being true of all men, we, alas! Being all
fashioned of the selfsame dust, Let us be merciful as well as just; This
passing traveller, who hath stolen away The brightest jewel of my crown
to-day, Shall of himself the precious gem restore; By giving it, I make it
mine once more. Over those fatal footprints I will throw My ermine mantle
like another snow.”

Then Eginhard was summoned to the hall, And entered, and in presence of
them all, The Emperor said: “My son, for thou to me Hast been a son, and
evermore shalt be, Long hast thou served thy sovereign, and thy zeal
Pleads to me with importunate appeal, While I have been forgetful to
requite Thy service and affection as was right. But now the hour is come,
when I, thy Lord, Will crown thy love with such supreme reward, A gift so
precious kings have striven in vain To win it from the hands of
Charlemagne.”

Then sprang the portals of the chamber wide, And Princess Emma entered, in
the pride Of birth and beauty, that in part o’er-came The conscious terror
and the blush of shame. And the good Emperor rose up from his throne, And
taking her white hand within his own Placed it in Eginhard’s, and said:
“My son This is the gift thy constant zeal hath won; Thus I repay the
royal debt I owe, And cover up the footprints in the snow.”

INTERLUDE

Thus ran the Student’s pleasant rhyme Of Eginhard and love and youth; Some
doubted its historic truth, But while they doubted, ne’ertheless Saw in it
gleams of truthfulness, And thanked the Monk of Lauresheim.

This they discussed in various mood; Then in the silence that ensued Was
heard a sharp and sudden sound As of a bowstring snapped in air; And the
Musician with a bound Sprang up in terror from his chair, And for a moment
listening stood, Then strode across the room, and found His dear, his
darling violin Still lying safe asleep within Its little cradle, like a
child That gives a sudden cry of pain, And wakes to fall asleep again; And
as he looked at it and smiled, By the uncertain light beguiled, Despair!
two strings were broken in twain.

While all lamented and made moan, With many a sympathetic word As if the
loss had been their own, Deeming the tones they might have heard Sweeter
than they had heard before, They saw the Landlord at the door, The missing
man, the portly Squire! He had not entered, but he stood With both arms
full of seasoned wood, To feed the much-devouring fire, That like a lion
in a cage Lashed its long tail and roared with rage.

The missing man! Ah, yes, they said, Missing, but whither had he fled?
Where had he hidden himself away? No farther than the barn or shed; He had
not hidden himself, nor fled; How should he pass the rainy day But in his
barn with hens and hay, Or mending harness, cart, or sled? Now, having
come, he needs must stay And tell his tale as well as they.

The Landlord answered only: “These Are logs from the dead apple-trees Of
the old orchard planted here By the first Howe of Sudbury. Nor oak nor
maple has so clear A flame, or burns so quietly, Or leaves an ash so clean
and white”; Thinking by this to put aside The impending tale that
terrified; When suddenly, to his delight, The Theologian interposed,
Saying that when the door was closed, And they had stopped that draft of
cold, Unpleasant night air, he proposed To tell a tale world-wide apart
From that the Student had just told; World-wide apart, and yet akin, As
showing that the human heart Beats on forever as of old, As well beneath
the snow-white fold Of Quaker kerchief, as within Sendal or silk or cloth
of gold, And without preface would begin.

And then the clamorous clock struck eight, Deliberate, with sonorous chime
Slow measuring out the march of time, Like some grave Consul of old Rome
In Jupiter’s temple driving home The nails that marked the year and date.
Thus interrupted in his rhyme, The Theologian needs must wait; But quoted
Horace, where he sings The dire Necessity of things, That drives into the
roofs sublime Of new-built houses of the great The adamantine nails of
Fate.

When ceased the little carillon To herald from its wooden tower The
important transit of the hour, The Theologian hastened on, Content to be
all owed at last To sing his Idyl of the Past.

THE THEOLOGIAN’S TALE
ELIZABETH

I

II

III

IV

INTERLUDE

“A pleasant and a winsome tale,” The Student said, “though somewhat pale
And quiet in its coloring, As if it caught its tone and air From the gray
suits that Quakers wear; Yet worthy of some German bard, Hebel, or Voss,
or Eberhard, Who love of humble themes to sing, In humble verse; but no
more true Than was the tale I told to you.”

The Theologian made reply, And with some warmth, “That I deny; ‘T is no
invention of my own, But something well and widely known To readers of a
riper age, Writ by the skilful hand that wrote The Indian tale of Hobomok,
And Philothea’s classic page. I found it like a waif afloat Or dulse
uprooted from its rock, On the swift tides that ebb and flow In daily
papers, and at flood Bear freighted vessels to and fro, But later, when
the ebb is low, Leave a long waste of sand and mud.”

“It matters little,” quoth the Jew; “The cloak of truth is lined with
lies, Sayeth some proverb old and wise; And Love is master of all arts,
And puts it into human hearts The strangest things to say and do.”

And here the controversy closed Abruptly, ere ‘t was well begun; For the
Sicilian interposed With, “Lordlings, listen, every one That listen may,
unto a tale That’s merrier than the nightingale; A tale that cannot boast,
forsooth, A single rag or shred of truth; That does not leave the mind in
doubt As to the with it or without; A naked falsehood and absurd As mortal
ever told or heard. Therefore I tell it; or, maybe, Simply because it
pleases me.”

THE SICILIAN’S TALE
THE MONK OF CASAL-MAGGIORE

INTERLUDE

“Signor Luigi,” said the Jew, When the Sicilian’s tale was told, “The
were-wolf is a legend old, But the were-ass is something new, And yet for
one I think it true. The days of wonder have not ceased If there are
beasts in forms of men, As sure it happens now and then, Why may not man
become a beast, In way of punishment at least?

“But this I will not now discuss, I leave the theme, that we may thus
Remain within the realm of song. The story that I told before, Though not
acceptable to all, At least you did not find too long. I beg you, let me
try again, With something in a different vein, Before you bid the curtain
fall. Meanwhile keep watch upon the door, Nor let the Landlord leave his
chair, Lest he should vanish into air, And thus elude our search once
more.”

Thus saying, from his lips he blew A little cloud of perfumed breath, And
then, as if it were a clew To lead his footsteps safely through, Began his
tale as followeth.

THE SPANISH JEW’S SECOND TALE
SCANDERBEG

The battle is fought and won By King Ladislaus the Hun, In fire of hell
and death’s frost, On the day of Pentecost. And in rout before his path
From the field of battle red Flee all that are not dead Of the army of
Amurath.

In the darkness of the night Iskander, the pride and boast Of that mighty
Othman host, With his routed Turks, takes flight From the battle fought
and lost On the day of Pentecost; Leaving behind him dead The army of
Amurath, The vanguard as it led, The rearguard as it fled, Mown down in
the bloody swath Of the battle’s aftermath.

But he cared not for Hospodars, Nor for Baron or Voivode, As on through
the night he rode And gazed at the fateful stars, That were shining
overhead But smote his steed with his staff, And smiled to himself, and
said; “This is the time to laugh.”

In the middle of the night, In a halt of the hurrying flight, There came a
Scribe of the King Wearing his signet ring, And said in a voice severe:
“This is the first dark blot On thy name, George Castriot! Alas why art
thou here, And the army of Amurath slain, And left on the battle plain?”

And Iskander answered and said: “They lie on the bloody sod By the hoofs
of horses trod; But this was the decree Of the watchers overhead; For the
war belongeth to God, And in battle who are we, Who are we, that shall
withstand The wind of his lifted hand?”

Then he bade them bind with chains This man of books and brains; And the
Scribe said: “What misdeed Have I done, that, without need, Thou doest to
me this thing?” And Iskander answering Said unto him: “Not one Misdeed to
me hast thou done; But for fear that thou shouldst run And hide thyself
from me, Have I done this unto thee.

“Now write me a writing, O Scribe, And a blessing be on thy tribe! A
writing sealed with thy ring, To King Amurath’s Pasha In the city of
Croia, The city moated and walled, That he surrender the same In the name
of my master, the King; For what is writ in his name Can never be
recalled.”

And the Scribe bowed low in dread, And unto Iskander said: “Allah is great
and just, But we are as ashes and dust; How shall I do this thing, When I
know that my guilty head Will be forfeit to the King?”

Then swift as a shooting star The curved and shining blade Of Iskander’s
scimetar From its sheath, with jewels bright, Shot, as he thundered:
“Write!” And the trembling Scribe obeyed, And wrote in the fitful glare Of
the bivouac fire apart, With the chill of the midnight air On his forehead
white and bare, And the chill of death in his heart.

Then again Iskander cried: “Now follow whither I ride, For here thou must
not stay. Thou shalt be as my dearest friend, And honors without end Shall
surround thee on every side, And attend thee night and day.” But the
sullen Scribe replied “Our pathways here divide; Mine leadeth not thy
way.”

And even as he spoke Fell a sudden scimetar-stroke, When no one else was
near; And the Scribe sank to the ground, As a stone, pushed from the brink
Of a black pool, might sink With a sob and disappear; And no one saw the
deed; And in the stillness around No sound was heard but the sound Of the
hoofs of Iskander’s steed, As forward he sprang with a bound.

Then onward he rode and afar, With scarce three hundred men, Through river
and forest and fen, O’er the mountains of Argentar; And his heart was
merry within, When he crossed the river Drin, And saw in the gleam of the
morn The White Castle Ak-Hissar, The city Croia called, The city moated
and walled, The city where he was born,— And above it the morning
star.

Then his trumpeters in the van On their silver bugles blew, And in crowds
about him ran Albanian and Turkoman, That the sound together drew. And he
feasted with his friends, And when they were warm with wine, He said: “O
friends of mine, Behold what fortune sends, And what the fates design!
King Amurath commands That my father’s wide domain, This city and all its
lands, Shall be given to me again.”

Then to the Castle White He rode in regal state, And entered in at the
gate In all his arms bedight, And gave to the Pasha Who ruled in Croia The
writing of the King, Sealed with his signet ring. And the Pasha bowed his
head, And after a silence said: “Allah is just and great! I yield to the
will divine, The city and lands are thine; Who shall contend with fate?”

Anon from the castle walls The crescent banner falls, And the crowd
beholds instead, Like a portent in the sky, Iskander’s banner fly, The
Black Eagle with double head; And a shout ascends on high, For men’s souls
are tired of the Turks, And their wicked ways and works, That have made of
Ak-Hissar A city of the plague; And the loud, exultant cry That echoes
wide and far Is: “Long live Scanderbeg!”

It was thus Iskander came Once more unto his own; And the tidings, like
the flame Of a conflagration blown By the winds of summer, ran, Till the
land was in a blaze, And the cities far and near, Sayeth Ben Joshua Ben
Meir, In his Book of the Words of the Days, “Were taken as a man Would
take the tip of his ear.”

INTERLUDE

“Now that is after my own heart,” The Poet cried; “one understands Your
swarthy hero Scanderbeg, Gauntlet on hand and boot on leg, And skilled in
every warlike art, Riding through his Albanian lands, And following the
auspicious star That shone for him o’er Ak-Hissar.”

The Theologian added here His word of praise not less sincere, Although he
ended with a jibe; “The hero of romance and song Was born,” he said, “to
right the wrong; And I approve; but all the same That bit of treason with
the Scribe Adds nothing to your hero’s fame.”

The Student praised the good old times And liked the canter of the rhymes,
That had a hoofbeat in their sound; But longed some further word to hear
Of the old chronicler Ben Meir, And where his volume might he found. The
tall Musician walked the room With folded arms and gleaming eyes, As if he
saw the Vikings rise, Gigantic shadows in the gloom; And much he talked of
their emprise, And meteors seen in Northern skies, And Heimdal’s horn, and
day of doom But the Sicilian laughed again; “This is the time to laugh,”
he said, For the whole story he well knew Was an invention of the Jew,
Spun from the cobwebs in his brain, And of the same bright scarlet thread
As was the Tale of Kambalu.

Only the Landlord spake no word; ‘T was doubtful whether he had heard The
tale at all, so full of care Was he of his impending fate, That, like the
sword of Damocles, Above his head hung blank and bare, Suspended by a
single hair, So that he could not sit at ease, But sighed and looked
disconsolate, And shifted restless in his chair, Revolving how he might
evade The blow of the descending blade.

The Student came to his relief By saying in his easy way To the Musician:
“Calm your grief, My fair Apollo of the North, Balder the Beautiful and so
forth; Although your magic lyre or lute With broken strings is lying mute,
Still you can tell some doleful tale Of shipwreck in a midnight gale, Or
something of the kind to suit The mood that we are in to-night For what is
marvellous and strange; So give your nimble fancy range, And we will
follow in its flight.”

But the Musician shook his head; “No tale I tell to-night,” he said,
“While my poor instrument lies there, Even as a child with vacant stare
Lies in its little coffin dead.”

Yet, being urged, he said at last: “There comes to me out of the Past A
voice, whose tones are sweet and wild, Singing a song almost divine, And
with a tear in every line; An ancient ballad, that my nurse Sang to me
when I was a child, In accents tender as the verse; And sometimes wept,
and sometimes smiled While singing it, to see arise The look of wonder in
my eyes, And feel my heart with tenor beat. This simple ballad I retain
Clearly imprinted on my brain, And as a tale will now repeat”

THE MUSICIAN’S TALE
THE MOTHER’S GHOST

Together were they for seven years, And together children six were theirs.

Then came Death abroad through the land, And blighted the beautiful
lily-wand.

Svend Dyring he rideth adown the glade, And again hath he wooed him
another maid,

He hath wooed him a maid and brought home a bride, But she was bitter and
full of pride.

When she came driving into the yard, There stood the six children weeping
so hard.

There stood the small children with sorrowful heart; From before her feet
she thrust them apart.

She gave to them neither ale nor bread; “Ye shall suffer hunger and hate,”
she said.

She took from them their quilts of blue, And said: “Ye shall lie on the
straw we strew.”

She took from them the great waxlight; “Now ye shall lie in the dark at
night.”

In the evening late they cried with cold; The mother heard it under the
mould.

The woman heard it the earth below: “To my little children I must go.”

She standeth before the Lord of all: “And may I go to my children small?”

She prayed him so long, and would not cease, Until he bade her depart in
peace.

“At cock-crow thou shalt return again; Longer thou shalt not there
remain!”

She girded up her sorrowful bones, And rifted the walls and the marble
stones.

As through the village she flitted by, The watch-dogs howled aloud to the
sky.

When she came to the castle gate, There stood her eldest daughter in wait.

“Why standest thou here, dear daughter mine? How fares it with brothers
and sisters thine?”

“Never art thou mother of mine, For my mother was both fair and fine.

“My mother was white, with cheeks of red, But thou art pale, and like to
the dead.”

“How should I be fair and fine? I have been dead; pale cheeks are mine.

“How should I be white and red, So long, so long have I been dead?”

When she came in at the chamber door, There stood the small children
weeping sore.

One she braided, another she brushed, The third she lifted, the fourth she
hushed.

The fifth she took on her lap and pressed, As if she would suckle it at
her breast.

Then to her eldest daughter said she, “Do thou bid Svend Dyring come
hither to me.”

Into the chamber when he came She spake to him in anger and shame.

“I left behind me both ale and bread; My children hunger and are not fed.

“I left behind me quilts of blue; My children lie on the straw ye strew.

“I left behind me the great waxlight; My children lie in the dark at
night.

“If I come again unto your hall, As cruel a fate shall you befall!

“Now crows the cock with feathers red; Back to the earth must all the
dead.

“Now crows the cock with feathers swart; The gates of heaven fly wide
apart.

“Now crows the cock with feathers white; I can abide no longer to-night.”

Whenever they heard the watch-dogs wail, They gave the children bread and
ale.

Whenever they heard the watch-dogs bay, They feared lest the dead were on
their way.

INTERLUDE

Touched by the pathos of these rhymes, The Theologian said: “All praise Be
to the ballads of old times And to the bards of simple ways, Who walked
with Nature hand in hand, Whose country was their Holy Land, Whose singing
robes were homespun brown From looms of their own native town, Which they
were not ashamed to wear, And not of silk or sendal gay, Nor decked with
fanciful array Of cockle-shells from Outre-Mer.”

To whom the Student answered: “Yes; All praise and honor! I confess That
bread and ale, home-baked, home-brewed, Are wholesome and nutritious food,
But not enough for all our needs; Poets—the best of them—are
birds Of passage; where their instinct leads They range abroad for
thoughts and words, And from all climes bring home the seeds That
germinate in flowers or weeds. They are not fowls in barnyards born To
cackle o’er a grain of corn; And, if you shut the horizon down To the
small limits of their town, What do you but degrade your bard Till he at
last becomes as one Who thinks the all-encircling sun Rises and sets in
his back yard?”

The Theologian said again: “It may be so; yet I maintain That what is
native still is best, And little care I for the rest. ‘T is a long story;
time would fail To tell it, and the hour is late; We will not waste it in
debate, But listen to our Landlord’s tale.”

And thus the sword of Damocles Descending not by slow degrees, But
suddenly, on the Landlord fell, Who blushing, and with much demur And many
vain apologies, Plucking up heart, began to tell The Rhyme of one Sir
Christopher.

THE LANDLORD’S TALE
THE RHYME OF SIR CHRISTOPHER

It was Sir Christopher Gardiner, Knight of the Holy Sepulchre, From Merry
England over the sea, Who stepped upon this continent As if his august
presence lent A glory to the colony.

You should have seen him in the street Of the little Boston of Winthrop’s
time, His rapier dangling at his feet Doublet and hose and boots complete,
Prince Rupert hat with ostrich plume, Gloves that exhaled a faint perfume,
Luxuriant curls and air sublime, And superior manners now obsolete!

He had a way of saying things That made one think of courts and kings, And
lords and ladies of high degree; So that not having been at court Seemed
something very little short Of treason or lese-majesty, Such an
accomplished knight was he.

His dwelling was just beyond the town, At what he called his country-seat;
For, careless of Fortune’s smile or frown, And weary grown of the world
and its ways, He wished to pass the rest of his days In a private life and
a calm retreat.

But a double life was the life he led, And, while professing to be in
search Of a godly course, and willing, he said, Nay, anxious to join the
Puritan church, He made of all this but small account, And passed his idle
hours instead With roystering Morton of Merry Mount, That pettifogger from
Furnival’s Inn, Lord of misrule and riot and sin, Who looked on the wine
when it was red.

This country-seat was little more Than a cabin of log’s; but in front of
the door A modest flower-bed thickly sown With sweet alyssum and columbine
Made those who saw it at once divine The touch of some other hand than his
own. And first it was whispered, and then it was known, That he in secret
was harboring there A little lady with golden hair, Whom he called his
cousin, but whom he had wed In the Italian manner, as men said, And great
was the scandal everywhere.

But worse than this was the vague surmise, Though none could vouch for it
or aver, That the Knight of the Holy Sepulchre Was only a Papist in
disguise; And the more to imbitter their bitter lives, And the more to
trouble the public mind, Came letters from England, from two other wives,
Whom he had carelessly left behind; Both of them letters of such a kind As
made the governor hold his breath; The one imploring him straight to send
The husband home, that he might amend; The other asking his instant death,
As the only way to make an end.

The wary governor deemed it right, When all this wickedness was revealed,
To send his warrant signed and sealed, And take the body of the knight.
Armed with this mighty instrument, The marshal, mounting his gallant
steed, Rode forth from town at the top of his speed, And followed by all
his bailiffs bold, As if on high achievement bent, To storm some castle or
stronghold, Challenge the warders on the wall, And seize in his ancestral
hall A robber-baron grim and old.

But when though all the dust and heat He came to Sir Christopher’s
country-seat, No knight he found, nor warder there, But the little lady
with golden hair, Who was gathering in the bright sunshine The sweet
alyssum and columbine; While gallant Sir Christopher, all so gay, Being
forewarned, through the postern gate Of his castle wall had tripped away,
And was keeping a little holiday In the forests, that bounded his estate.

Then as a trusty squire and true The marshal searched the castle through,
Not crediting what the lady said; Searched from cellar to garret in vain,
And, finding no knight, came out again And arrested the golden damsel
instead, And bore her in triumph into the town, While from her eyes the
tears rolled down On the sweet alyssum and columbine, That she held in her
fingers white and fine.

The governor’s heart was moved to see So fair a creature caught within The
snares of Satan and of sin, And he read her a little homily On the folly
and wickedness of the lives Of women, half cousins and half wives; But,
seeing that naught his words availed, He sent her away in a ship that
sailed For Merry England over the sea, To the other two wives in the old
countree, To search her further, since he had failed To come at the heart
of the mystery.

Meanwhile Sir Christopher wandered away Through pathless woods for a month
and a day, Shooting pigeons, and sleeping at night With the noble savage,
who took delight In his feathered hat and his velvet vest, His gun and his
rapier and the rest. But as soon as the noble savage heard That a bounty
was offered for this gay bird, He wanted to slay him out of hand, And
bring in his beautiful scalp for a show, Like the glossy head of a kite or
crow, Until he was made to understand They wanted the bird alive, not
dead; Then he followed him whithersoever he fled, Through forest and
field, and hunted him down, And brought him prisoner into the town.

Alas! it was a rueful sight, To see this melancholy knight In such a
dismal and hapless case; His hat deformed by stain and dent, His plumage
broken, his doublet rent, His beard and flowing locks forlorn, Matted,
dishevelled, and unshorn, His boots with dust and mire besprent; But
dignified in his disgrace, And wearing an unblushing face. And thus before
the magistrate He stood to hear the doom of fate. In vain he strove with
wonted ease To modify and extenuate His evil deeds in church and state,
For gone was now his power to please; And his pompous words had no more
weight Than feathers flying in the breeze.

With suavity equal to his own The governor lent a patient ear To the
speech evasive and highflown, In which he endeavored to make clear That
colonial laws were too severe When applied to a gallant cavalier, A
gentleman born, and so well known, And accustomed to move in a higher
sphere.

All this the Puritan governor heard, And deigned in answer never a word;
But in summary manner shipped away, In a vessel that sailed from Salem
bay, This splendid and famous cavalier, With his Rupert hat and his
popery, To Merry England over the sea, As being unmeet to inhabit here.

Thus endeth the Rhyme of Sir Christopher, Knight of the Holy Sepulchre,
The first who furnished this barren land With apples of Sodom and ropes of
sand.

FINALE

These are the tales those merry guests Told to each other, well or ill;
Like summer birds that lift their crests Above the borders of their nests
And twitter, and again are still.

These are the tales, or new or old, In idle moments idly told; Flowers of
the field with petals thin, Lilies that neither toil nor spin, And tufts
of wayside weeds and gorse Hung in the parlor of the inn Beneath the sign
of the Red Horse.

And still, reluctant to retire, The friends sat talking by the fire And
watched the smouldering embers burn To ashes, and flash up again Into a
momentary glow, Lingering like them when forced to go, And going when they
would remain; For on the morrow they must turn Their faces homeward, and
the pain Of parting touched with its unrest A tender nerve in every
breast.

But sleep at last the victory won; They must be stirring with the sun, And
drowsily good night they said, And went still gossiping to bed, And left
the parlor wrapped in gloom. The only live thing in the room Was the old
clock, that in its pace Kept time with the revolving spheres And
constellations in their flight, And struck with its uplifted mace The
dark, unconscious hours of night, To senseless and unlistening ears.

Uprose the sun; and every guest, Uprisen, was soon equipped and dressed
For journeying home and city-ward; The old stage-coach was at the door,
With horses harnessed, long before The sunshine reached the withered sward
Beneath the oaks, whose branches hoar Murmured: “Farewell forevermore.”

“Farewell!” the portly Landlord cried; “Farewell!” the parting guests
replied, But little thought that nevermore Their feet would pass that
threshold o’er; That nevermore together there Would they assemble, free
from care, To hear the oaks’ mysterious roar, And breathe the wholesome
country air.

Where are they now? What lands and skies Paint pictures in their friendly
eyes? What hope deludes, what promise cheers, What pleasant voices fill
their ears? Two are beyond the salt sea waves, And three already in their
graves. Perchance the living still may look Into the pages of this book,
And see the days of long ago Floating and fleeting to and fro, As in the
well-remembered brook They saw the inverted landscape gleam, And their own
faces like a dream Look up upon them from below.

FLOWER-DE-LUCE

FLOWER-DE-LUCE

PALINGENESIS

THE BRIDGE OF CLOUD

HAWTHORNE

MAY 23, 1864

CHRISTMAS BELLS

THE WIND OVER THE CHIMNEY

THE BELLS OF LYNN

HEARD AT NAHANT

O curfew of the setting sun! O Bells of Lynn! O requiem of the dying day!
O Bells of Lynn!

From the dark belfries of yon cloud-cathedral wafted, Your sounds aerial
seem to float, O Bells of Lynn!

Borne on the evening wind across the crimson twilight, O’er land and sea
they rise and fall, O Bells of Lynn!

The fisherman in his boat, far out beyond the headland, Listens, and
leisurely rows ashore, O Bells of Lynn!

Over the shining sands the wandering cattle homeward Follow each other at
your call, O Bells of Lynn!

The distant lighthouse hears, and with his flaming signal Answers you,
passing the watchword on, O Bells of Lynn!

And down the darkening coast run the tumultuous surges, And clap their
hands, and shout to you, O Bells of Lynn!

Till from the shuddering sea, with your wild incantations, Ye summon up
the spectral moon, O Bells of Lynn!

And startled at the sight like the weird woman of Endor, Ye cry aloud, and
then are still, O Bells of Lynn!

KILLED AT THE FORD.

He is dead, the beautiful youth, The heart of honor, the tongue of truth,
He, the life and light of us all, Whose voice was blithe as a bugle-call,
Whom all eyes followed with one consent, The cheer of whose laugh, and
whose pleasant word, Hushed all murmurs of discontent.

Only last night, as we rode along, Down the dark of the mountain gap, To
visit the picket-guard at the ford, Little dreaming of any mishap, He was
humming the words of some old song: “Two red roses he had on his cap, And
another he bore at the point of his sword.”

Sudden and swift a whistling ball Came out of a wood, and the voice was
still; Something I heard in the darkness fall, And for a moment my blood
grew chill; I spake in a whisper, as he who speaks In a room where some
one is lying dead; But he made no answer to what I said.

We lifted him up to his saddle again, And through the mire and the mist
and the rain Carried him back to the silent camp, And laid him as if
asleep on his bed; And I saw by the light of the surgeon’s lamp Two white
roses upon his cheeks, And one, just over his heart, blood-red!

And I saw in a vision how far and fleet That fatal bullet went speeding
forth, Till it reached a town in the distant North, Till it reached a
house in a sunny street, Till it reached a heart that ceased to beat
Without a murmur, without a cry; And a bell was tolled, in that far-off
town, For one who had passed from cross to crown, And the neighbors
wondered that she should die.

GIOTTO’S TOWER

TO-MORROW

DIVINA COMMEDIA

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

NOËL.

ENVOYE A M. AGASSIZ, LA VEILLE DE NOËL 1864, AVEC UN PANIER DE VINS DIVERS

BIRDS OF PASSAGE

FLIGHT THE THIRD

FATA MORGANA

THE HAUNTED CHAMBER

THE MEETING

VOX POPULI

THE CASTLE-BUILDER

CHANGED

THE CHALLENGE

THE BROOK AND THE WAVE

AFTERMATH

THE MASQUE OF PANDORA

I
THE WORKSHOP OF HEPHÆSTUS

HEPHÆSTUS (standing before the statue of Pandora.) Not fashioned out of
gold, like Hera’s throne, Nor forged of iron like the thunderbolts Of Zeus
omnipotent, or other works Wrought by my hands at Lemnos or Olympus, But
moulded in soft clay, that unresisting Yields itself to the touch, this
lovely form Before me stands, perfect in every part. Not Aphrodite’s self
appeared more fair, When first upwafted by caressing winds She came to
high Olympus, and the gods Paid homage to her beauty. Thus her hair Was
cinctured; thus her floating drapery Was like a cloud about her, and her
face Was radiant with the sunshine and the sea.

THE VOICE OF ZEUS. Is thy work done, Hephæstus?

HEPHÆSTUS. It is finished!

THE VOICE. Not finished till I breathe the breath of life Into her
nostrils, and she moves and speaks.

HEPHÆSTUS. Will she become immortal like ourselves?

THE VOICE. The form that thou hast fashioned out of clay Is of the earth
and mortal; but the spirit, The life, the exhalation of my breath, Is of
diviner essence and immortal. The gods shall shower on her their
benefactions, She shall possess all gifts: the gift of song, The gift of
eloquence, the gift of beauty, The fascination and the nameless charm That
shall lead all men captive.

HEPHÆSTUS. Wherefore? wherefore?

(A wind shakes the house.)

I hear the rushing of a mighty wind Through all the halls and chambers of
my house! Her parted lips inhale it, and her bosom Heaves with the
inspiration. As a reed Beside a river in the rippling current Bends to and
fro, she bows or lifts her head. She gazes round about as if amazed; She
is alive; she breathes, but yet she speaks not!

(PANDORA descends from the pedestal.)

CHORUS OF THE GRACES

II
OLYMPUS.

HERMES (putting on his sandals.) Much must he toil who serves the Immortal
Gods, And I, who am their herald, most of all. No rest have I, nor
respite. I no sooner Unclasp the winged sandals from my feet, Than I again
must clasp them, and depart Upon some foolish errand. But to-day The
errand is not foolish. Never yet With greater joy did I obey the summons
That sends me earthward. I will fly so swiftly That my caduceus in the
whistling air Shall make a sound like the Pandaean pipes, Cheating the
shepherds; for to-day I go, Commissioned by high-thundering Zeus, to lead
A maiden to Prometheus, in his tower, And by my cunning arguments persuade
him To marry her. What mischief lies concealed In this design I know not;
but I know Who thinks of marrying hath already taken One step upon the
road to penitence. Such embassies delight me. Forth I launch On the
sustaining air, nor fear to fall Like Icarus, nor swerve aside like him
Who drove amiss Hyperion’s fiery steeds. I sink, I fly! The yielding
element Folds itself round about me like an arm, And holds me as a mother
holds her child.

III
TOWER OF PROMETHEUS ON MOUNT CAUCASUS

PROMETHEUS. I hear the trumpet of Alectryon Proclaim the dawn. The stars
begin to fade, And all the heavens are full of prophecies And evil
auguries. Blood-red last night I saw great Kronos rise; the crescent moon
Sank through the mist, as if it were the scythe His parricidal hand had
flung far down The western steeps. O ye Immortal Gods, What evil are ye
plotting and contriving?

(HERMES and PANDORA at the threshold.)

PANDORA. I cannot cross the threshold. An unseen And icy hand repels me.
These blank walls Oppress me with their weight!

PROMETHEUS. Powerful ye are, But not omnipotent. Ye cannot fight Against
Necessity. The Fates control you, As they do us, and so far we are equals!

PANDORA. Motionless, passionless, companionless, He sits there muttering
in his beard. His voice Is like a river flowing underground!

HERMES. Prometheus, hail!

PROMETHEUS. Who calls me?

HERMES. It is I. Dost thou not know me?

PROMETHEUS. By thy winged cap And winged heels I know thee. Thou art
Hermes, Captain of thieves! Hast thou again been stealing The heifers of
Admetus in the sweet Meadows of asphodel? or Hera’s girdle? Or the
earth-shaking trident of Poseidon?

HERMES. And thou, Prometheus; say, hast thou again Been stealing fire from
Helios’ chariot-wheels To light thy furnaces?

PROMETHEUS. Why comest thou hither So early in the dawn?

HERMES. The Immortal Gods Know naught of late or early. Zeus himself The
omnipotent hath sent me.

PROMETHEUS. For what purpose?

HERMES. To bring this maiden to thee.

PROMETHEUS. I mistrust The Gods and all their gifts. If they have sent her
It is for no good purpose.

HERMES. What disaster Could she bring on thy house, who is a woman?

PROMETHEUS. The Gods are not my friends, nor am I theirs. Whatever comes
from them, though in a shape As beautiful as this, is evil only. Who art
thou?

PANDORA. One who, though to thee unknown, Yet knoweth thee.

PROMETHEUS. How shouldst thou know me, woman?

PANDORA. Who knoweth not Prometheus the humane?

PROMETHEUS. Prometheus the unfortunate; to whom Both Gods and men have
shown themselves ungrateful. When every spark was quenched on every hearth
Throughout the earth, I brought to man the fire And all its ministrations.
My reward Hath been the rock and vulture.

HERMES. But the Gods At last relent and pardon.

PROMETHEUS. They relent not; They pardon not; they are implacable,
Revengeful, unforgiving!

HERMES. As a pledge Of reconciliation they have sent to thee This divine
being, to be thy companion, And bring into thy melancholy house The
sunshine and the fragrance of her youth.

PROMETHEUS. I need them not. I have within myself All that my heart
desires; the ideal beauty Which the creative faculty of mind Fashions and
follows in a thousand shapes More lovely than the real. My own thoughts
Are my companions; my designs and labors And aspirations are my only
friends.

HERMES. Decide not rashly. The decision made Can never be recalled. The
Gods implore not, Plead not, solicit not; they only offer Choice and
occasion, which once being passed Return no more. Dost thou accept the
gift?

PROMETHEUS. No gift of theirs, in whatsoever shape It comes to me, with
whatsoever charm To fascinate my sense, will I receive. Leave me.

PANDORA. Let us go hence. I will not stay.

HERMES. We leave thee to thy vacant dreams, and all The silence and the
solitude of thought, The endless bitterness of unbelief, The loneliness of
existence without love.

CHORUS OF THE FATES

CLOTHO. How the Titan, the defiant, The self-centred, self-reliant,
Wrapped in visions and illusions, Robs himself of life’s best gifts! Till
by all the storm-winds shaken, By the blast of fate o’ertaken, Hopeless,
helpless, and forsaken, In the mists of his confusions To the reefs of
doom he drifts!

LACHESIS. Sorely tried and sorely tempted, From no agonies exempted, In
the penance of his trial, And the discipline of pain; Often by illusions
cheated, Often baffled and defeated In the tasks to be completed, He, by
toil and self-denial, To the highest shall attain.

ATROPOS. Tempt no more the noble schemer; Bear unto some idle dreamer This
new toy and fascination, This new dalliance and delight! To the garden
where reposes Epimetheus crowned with roses, To the door that never closes
Upon pleasure and temptation, Bring this vision of the night!

IV
THE AIR

HERMES (returning to Olympus.) As lonely as the tower that he inhabits, As
firm and cold as are the crags about him, Prometheus stands. The
thunderbolts of Zeus Alone can move him; but the tender heart Of
Epimetheus, burning at white heat, Hammers and flames like all his
brother’s forges! Now as an arrow from Hyperion’s bow, My errand done, I
fly, I float, I soar Into the air, returning to Olympus. O joy of motion!
O delight to cleave The infinite realms of space, the liquid ether,
Through the warm sunshine and the cooling cloud, Myself as light as
sunbeam or as cloud! With one touch of my swift and winged feet, I spurn
the solid earth, and leave it rocking As rocks the bough from which a bird
takes wing.

V
THE HOUSE OF EPIMETHEUS

EPIMETHEUS. Beautiful apparition! go not hence! Surely thou art a Goddess,
for thy voice Is a celestial melody, and thy form Self-poised as if it
floated on the air!

PANDORA. No Goddess am I, nor of heavenly birth, But a mere woman
fashioned out of clay And mortal as the rest.

EPIMETHEUS. Thy face is fair; There is a wonder in thine azure eyes That
fascinates me. Thy whole presence seems A soft desire, a breathing thought
of love. Say, would thy star like Merope’s grow dim If thou shouldst wed
beneath thee?

PANDORA. Ask me not; I cannot answer thee. I only know The Gods have sent
me hither.

EPIMETHEUS. I believe, And thus believing am most fortunate. It was not
Hermes led thee here, but Eros, And swifter than his arrows were thine
eyes In wounding me. There was no moment’s space Between my seeing thee
and loving thee. O, what a telltale face thou hast! Again I see the wonder
in thy tender eyes.

PANDORA. They do but answer to the love in thine, Yet secretly I wonder
thou shouldst love me. Thou knowest me not.

EPIMETHEUS. Perhaps I know thee better Than had I known thee longer. Yet
it seems That I have always known thee, and but now Have found thee. Ah, I
have been waiting long.

PANDORA. How beautiful is this house! The atmosphere Breathes rest and
comfort, and the many chambers Seem full of welcomes.

EPIMETHEUS. They not only seem, But truly are. This dwelling and its
master Belong to thee.

PANDORA. Here let me stay forever! There is a spell upon me.

EPIMETHEUS. Thou thyself Art the enchantress, and I feel thy power Envelop
me, and wrap my soul and sense In an Elysian dream.

PANDORA, O, let me stay. How beautiful are all things round about me,
Multiplied by the mirrors on the walls! What treasures hast thou here! Yon
oaken chest, Carven with figures and embossed with gold, Is wonderful to
look upon! What choice And precious things dost thou keep hidden in it?

EPIMETHEUS. I know not. ‘T is a mystery.

PANDORA. Hast thou never Lifted the lid?

EPIMETHEUS. The oracle forbids. Safely concealed there from all mortal
eyes Forever sleeps the secret of the Gods. Seek not to know what they
have hidden from thee, Till they themselves reveal it.

PANDORA. As thou wilt.

EPIMETHEUS. Let us go forth from this mysterious place. The garden walks
are pleasant at this hour; The nightingales among the sheltering boughs Of
populous and many-nested trees Shall teach me how to woo thee, and shall
tell me By what resistless charms or incantations They won their mates.

PANDORA. Thou dost not need a teacher.

(They go out.)

CHORUS OF THE EUMENIDES. What the Immortals Confide to thy keeping, Tell
unto no man; Waking or sleeping, Closed be thy portals To friend as to
foeman.

Silence conceals it; The word that is spoken Betrays and reveals it; By
breath or by token The charm may be broken.

With shafts of their splendors The Gods unforgiving Pursue the offenders,
The dead and the living! Fortune forsakes them, Nor earth shall abide
them, Nor Tartarus hide them; Swift wrath overtakes them!

With useless endeavor, Forever, forever, Is Sisyphus rolling His stone up
the mountain! Immersed in the fountain, Tantalus tastes not The water that
wastes not! Through ages increasing The pangs that afflict him, With
motion unceasing The wheel of Ixion Shall torture its victim!

VI
IN THE GARDEN

EPIMETHEUS. Yon snow-white cloud that sails sublime in ether Is but the
sovereign Zeus, who like a swan Flies to fair-ankled Leda!

PANDORA. Or perchance Ixion’s cloud, the shadowy shape of Hera, That bore
the Centaurs.

EPIMETHEUS. The divine and human.

CHORUS OF BIRDS. Gently swaying to and fro, Rocked by all the winds that
blow, Bright with sunshine from above Dark with shadow from below, Beak to
beak and breast to breast In the cradle of their nest, Lie the fledglings
of our love.

ECHO. Love! love!

EPIMETHEUS. Hark! listen! Hear how sweetly overhead The feathered
flute-players pipe their songs of love, And echo answers, love and only
love.

CHORUS OF BIRDS. Every flutter of the wing, Every note of song we sing,
Every murmur, every tone, Is of love and love alone.

ECHO. Love alone!

EPIMETHEUS. Who would not love, if loving she might be Changed like
Callisto to a star in heaven?

PANDORA. Ah, who would love, if loving she might be Like Semele consumed
and burnt to ashes?

EPIMETHEUS. Whence knowest thou these stories?

PANDORA. Hermes taught me; He told me all the history of the Gods.

CHORUS OF REEDS. Evermore a sound shall be In the reeds of Arcady,
Evermore a low lament Of unrest and discontent, As the story is retold Of
the nymph so coy and cold, Who with frightened feet outran The pursuing
steps of Pan.

EPIMETHEUS. The pipe of Pan out of these reeds is made, And when he plays
upon it to the shepherds They pity him, so mournful is the sound. Be thou
not coy and cold as Syrinx was.

PANDORA. Nor thou as Pan be rude and mannerless.

PROMETHEUS (without). Ho! Epimetheus!

EPIMETHEUS. ‘T is my brother’s voice; A sound unwelcome and inopportune As
was the braying of Silenus’ ass, Once heard in Cybele’s garden.

PANDORA. Let me go. I would not be found here. I would not see him.

(She escapes among the trees.)

CHORUS OF DRYADES. Haste and hide thee, Ere too late, In these thickets
intricate; Lest Prometheus See and chide thee, Lest some hurt Or harm
betide thee, Haste and hide thee!

PROMETHEUS (entering.) Who was it fled from here? I saw a shape Flitting
among the trees.

EPIMETHEUS. It was Pandora.

PROMETHEUS. O Epimetheus! Is it then in vain That I have warned thee? Let
me now implore. Thou harborest in thy house a dangerous guest.

EPIMETHEUS. Whom the Gods love they honor with such guests.

PROMETHEUS. Whom the Gods would destroy they first make mad.

EPIMETHEUS. Shall I refuse the gifts they send to me?

PROMETHEUS. Reject all gifts that come from higher powers.

EPIMETHEUS. Such gifts as this are not to be rejected.

PROMETHEUS. Make not thyself the slave of any woman.

EPIMETHEUS. Make not thyself the judge of any man.

PROMETHEUS. I judge thee not; for thou art more than man; Thou art
descended from Titanic race, And hast a Titan’s strength, and faculties
That make thee godlike; and thou sittest here Like Heracles spinning
Omphale’s flax, And beaten with her sandals.

EPIMETHEUS. O my brother! Thou drivest me to madness with thy taunts.

PROMETHEUS. And me thou drivest to madness with thy follies. Come with me
to my tower on Caucasus: See there my forges in the roaring caverns,
Beneficent to man, and taste the joy That springs from labor. Read with me
the stars, And learn the virtues that lie hidden in plants, And all things
that are useful.

EPIMETHEU5. O my brother! I am not as thou art. Thou dost inherit Our
father’s strength, and I our mother’s weakness: The softness of the
Oceanides, The yielding nature that cannot resist.

PROMETHEUS. Because thou wilt not.

EPIMETHEUS. Nay; because I cannot.

PROMETHEUS. Assert thyself; rise up to thy full height; Shake from thy
soul these dreams effeminate, These passions born of indolence and ease.
Resolve, and thou art free. But breathe the air Of mountains, and their
unapproachable summits Will lift thee to the level of themselves.

EPIMETHEUS. The roar of forests and of waterfalls, The rushing of a mighty
wind, with loud And undistinguishable voices calling, Are in my ear!

PROMETHEUS. O, listen and obey.

EPIMETHEUS. Thou leadest me as a child, I follow thee.

(They go out.)

CHORUS OF OREADES. Centuries old are the mountains; Their foreheads
wrinkled and rifted Helios crowns by day, Pallid Selene by night; From
their bosoms uptossed The snows are driven and drifted, Like Tithonus’
beard Streaming dishevelled and white.

Thunder and tempest of wind Their trumpets blow in the vastness; Phantoms
of mist and rain, Cloud and the shadow of cloud, Pass and repass by the
gates Of their inaccessible fastness; Ever unmoved they stand, Solemn,
eternal, and proud,

VOICES OF THE WATERS. Flooded by rain and snow In their inexhaustible
sources, Swollen by affluent streams Hurrying onward and hurled Headlong
over the crags, The impetuous water-courses, Rush and roar and plunge Down
to the nethermost world.

Say, have the solid rocks Into streams of silver been melted, Flowing over
the plains, Spreading to lakes in the fields? Or have the mountains, the
giants, The ice-helmed, the forest-belted, Scattered their arms abroad;
Flung in the meadows their shields?

VOICES OF THE WINDS. High on their turreted cliffs That bolts of thunder
have shattered, Storm-winds muster and blow Trumpets of terrible breath;
Then from the gateways rush, And before them routed and scattered Sullen
the cloud-rack flies, Pale with the pallor of death.

Onward the hurricane rides, And flee for shelter the shepherds; White are
the frightened leaves, Harvests with terror are white; Panic seizes the
herds, And even the lions and leopards, Prowling no longer for prey,
Crouch in their caverns with fright.

VOICES OF THE FOREST. Guarding the mountains around Majestic the forests
are standing, Bright are their crested helms, Dark is their armor of
leaves; Filled with the breath of freedom Each bosom subsiding, expanding,
Now like the ocean sinks, Now like the ocean upheaves.

Planted firm on the rock, With foreheads stern and defiant, Loud they
shout to the winds, Loud to the tempest they call; Naught but Olympian
thunders, That blasted Titan and Giant, Them can uproot and o’erthrow,
Shaking the earth with their fall.

CHORUS OF OREADES. These are the Voices Three Of winds and forests and
fountains, Voices of earth and of air, Murmur and rushing of streams,
Making together one sound, The mysterious voice of the mountains, Waking
the sluggard that sleeps, Waking the dreamer of dreams.

These are the Voices Three, That speak of endless endeavor, Speak of
endurance and strength, Triumph and fulness of fame, Sounding about the
world, An inspiration forever, Stirring the hearts of men, Shaping their
end and their aim.

VII
THE HOUSE OF EPIMETHEUS

PANDORA. Left to myself I wander as I will, And as my fancy leads me,
through this house, Nor could I ask a dwelling more complete Were I indeed
the Goddess that he deems me. No mansion of Olympus, framed to be The
habitation of the Immortal Gods, Can be more beautiful. And this is mine
And more than this, the love wherewith he crowns me. As if impelled by
powers invisible And irresistible, my steps return Unto this spacious
hall. All corridors And passages lead hither, and all doors But open into
it. Yon mysterious chest Attracts and fascinates me. Would I knew What
there lies hidden! But the oracle Forbids. Ah me! The secret then is safe.
So would it be if it were in my keeping. A crowd of shadowy faces from the
mirrors That line these walls are watching me. I dare not Lift up the lid.
A hundred times the act Would be repeated, and the secret seen By twice a
hundred incorporeal eyes.

(She walks to the other side of the hall.)

My feet are weary, wandering to and fro, My eyes with seeing and my heart
with waiting. I will lie here and rest till he returns, Who is my dawn, my
day, my Helios.

(Throws herself upon a couch, and falls asleep.)

ZEPHYRUS. Come from thy caverns dark and deep. O son of Erebus and Night;
All sense of hearing and of sight Enfold in the serene delight And
quietude of sleep!

Set all the silent sentinels To bar and guard the Ivory Gate, And keep the
evil dreams of fate And falsehood and infernal hate Imprisoned in their
cells.

But open wide the Gate of Horn, Whence, beautiful as planets, rise The
dreams of truth, with starry eyes, And all the wondrous prophecies And
visions of the morn.

PANDORA (waking). A voice said in my sleep: “Do not delay: Do not delay;
the golden moments fly! The oracle hath forbidden; yet not thee Doth it
forbid, but Epimetheus only!” I am alone. These faces in the mirrors Are
but the shadows and phantoms of myself; They cannot help nor hinder. No
one sees me, Save the all-seeing Gods, who, knowing good And knowing evil,
have created me Such as I am, and filled me with desire Of knowing good
and evil like themselves.

(She approaches the chest.)

I hesitate no longer. Weal or woe, Or life or death, the moment shall
decide.

(She lifts the lid. A dense mist rises from the chest, and fills the room.
PANDORA falls senseless on the floor. Storm without.)

CHORUS OF DREAMS FROM THE GATE OF HORN. Yes, the moment shall decide! It
already hath decided; And the secret once confided To the keeping of the
Titan Now is flying far and wide, Whispered, told on every side, To
disquiet and to frighten.

Fever of the heart and brain, Sorrow, pestilence, and pain, Moans of
anguish, maniac laughter, All the evils that hereafter Shall afflict and
vex mankind, All into the air have risen From the chambers of their
prison; Only Hope remains behind.

VIII
IN THE GARDEN

EPIMETHEUS. The storm is past, but it hath left behind it Ruin and
desolation. All the walks Are strewn with shattered boughs; the birds are
silent; The flowers, downtrodden by the wind, lie dead; The swollen
rivulet sobs with secret pain, The melancholy reeds whisper together As if
some dreadful deed had been committed They dare not name, and all the air
is heavy With an unspoken sorrow! Premonitions, Foreshadowings of some
terrible disaster Oppress my heart. Ye Gods, avert the omen!

PANDORA (coming from the house). O Epimetheus, I no longer dare To lift
mine eyes to thine, nor hear thy voice, Being no longer worthy of thy
love.

EPIMETHEUS. What hast thou done?

PANDORA. Forgive me not, but kill me.

EPIMETHEUS. What hast thou done?

PANDORA. I pray for death, not pardon.

EPIMETHEUS. What hast thou done?

PANDORA. I dare not speak of it.

EPIMETHEUS. Thy pallor and thy silence terrify me!

PANDORA. I have brought wrath and ruin on thy house! My heart hath braved
the oracle that guarded The fatal secret from us, and my hand Lifted the
lid of the mysterious chest!

EPIMETHEUS. Then all is lost! I am indeed undone.

PANDORA. I pray for punishment, and not for pardon.

EPIMETHEUS. Mine is the fault not thine. On me shall fall The vengeance of
the Gods, for I betrayed Their secret when, in evil hour, I said It was a
secret; when, in evil hour, I left thee here alone to this temptation. Why
did I leave thee?

PANDORA. Why didst thou return? Eternal absence would have been to me The
greatest punishment. To be left alone And face to face with my own crime,
had been Just retribution. Upon me, ye Gods, Let all your vengeance fall!

EPIMETHEUS. On thee and me. I do not love thee less for what is done, And
cannot be undone. Thy very weakness Hath brought thee nearer to me, and
henceforth My love will have a sense of pity in it, Making it less a
worship than before.

PANDORA. Pity me not; pity is degradation. Love me and kill me.

EPIMETHEUS. Beautiful Pandora! Thou art a Goddess still!

PANDORA. I am a woman; And the insurgent demon in my nature, That made me
brave the oracle, revolts At pity and compassion. Let me die; What else
remains for me?

EPIMETHEUS. Youth, hope, and love: To build a new life on a ruined life,
To make the future fairer than the past, And make the past appear a
troubled dream. Even now in passing through the garden walks Upon the
ground I saw a fallen nest Ruined and full of rain; and over me Beheld the
uncomplaining birds already Busy in building a new habitation.

PANDORA. Auspicious omen!

EPIMETHEUS. May the Eumenides Put out their torches and behold us not, And
fling away their whips of scorpions And touch us not.

PANDORA. Me let them punish. Only through punishment of our evil deeds,
Only through suffering, are we reconciled To the immortal Gods and to
ourselves.

THE HANGING OF THE CRANE

I

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

For two alone, there in the hall, As spread the table round and small;
Upon the polished silver shine The evening lamps, but, more divine, The
light of love shines over all; Of love, that says not mine and thine, But
ours, for ours is thine and mine.

They want no guests, to come between Their tender glances like a screen,
And tell them tales of land and sea, And whatsoever may betide The great,
forgotten world outside; They want no guests; they needs must be Each
other’s own best company.

III

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

There are two guests at table now; The king, deposed and older grown, No
longer occupies the throne,— The crown is on his sister’s brow; A
Princess from the Fairy Isles, The very pattern girl of girls. All covered
and embowered in curls, Rose-tinted from the Isle of Flowers, And sailing
with soft, silken sails From far-off Dreamland into ours. Above their
bowls with rims of blue Four azure eyes of deeper hue Are looking, dreamy
with delight; Limpid as planets that emerge Above the ocean’s rounded
verge, Soft-shining through the summer night. Steadfast they gaze, yet
nothing see Beyond the horizon of their bowls; Nor care they for the world
that rolls With all its freight of troubled souls Into the days that are
to be.

V

I see the table wider grown, I see it garlanded with guests, As if fair
Ariadne’s Crown Out of the sky had fallen down; Maidens within whose
tender breasts A thousand restless hopes and fears, Forth reaching to the
coming years, Flutter awhile, then quiet lie Like timid birds that fain
would fly, But do not dare to leave their nests;— And youths, who in
their strength elate Challenge the van and front of fate, Eager as
champions to be In the divine knight-errantry Of youth, that travels sea
and land Seeking adventures, or pursues, Through cities, and through
solitudes Frequented by the lyric Muse, The phantom with the beckoning
hand, That still allures and still eludes. O sweet illusions of the brain!
O sudden thrills of fire and frost! The world is bright while ye remain,
And dark and dead when ye are lost!

VI

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

What see I now? The night is fair, The storm of grief, the clouds of care,
The wind, the rain, have passed away; The lamps are lit, the fires burn
bright, The house is full of life and light: It is the Golden Wedding day.
The guests come thronging in once more, Quick footsteps sound along the
floor, The trooping children crowd the stair, And in and out and
everywhere Flashes along the corridor The sunshine of their golden hair.
On the round table in the hall Another Ariadne’s Crown Out of the sky hath
fallen down; More than one Monarch of the Moon Is drumming with his silver
spoon; The light of love shines over all.

O fortunate, O happy day! The people sing, the people say. The ancient
bridegroom and the bride, Smiling contented and serene Upon the blithe,
bewildering scene, Behold, well pleased, on every side Their forms and
features multiplied, As the reflection of a light Between two burnished
mirrors gleams, Or lamps upon a bridge at night Stretch on and on before
the sight, Till the long vista endless seems.

MORITURI SALUTAMUS