Skip to main content

Full text of "Poetical works. With prefatory notice"

See other formats 


miL 

Wffls 

iltuEfXtllllllllDtlillHi 


BID 

1 


H 


riP» 


I 


m 


^m 


HI 
HI! 


01 


.   ll 
III 


■iilliil 


BHF 


HB 


HANDBOUND 
AT  THE 


UNIVERSITY  OF 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2010  with  funding  from 

University  of  Toronto 


http://www.archive.org/details/poeticalworkswiOOIong 


I 


nF 


\ 


•' 


THE 


-ffl    POETICAL    WOllKS," 


OF 


HENRY  WADSWOHTH  LONGFELLOW. 


w-v 


W  I.T11  PBEFATOEY  NOTICE. 


.4 

11 


fngiaaings  b  n  JHtil. 
■^GALL  &  INGLIS* 


I)  (EbinJiurgIt  #r 

BERNARD  TERRACE. 


25  PATERNOSTER  SQ* 


PREFATORY  NOTICE. 


Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  was  born  in  tho  city  of 
Portland,  State  of  Maine,  on  the  27th  February  1807.  Hit, 
parents,  who  were  in  easy  circumstances,  sent  him  at  the 
age  of  fourteen  to  Bowdoin  College,  in  the  neighbouring 
town  of  Brunswick ;  and  in  1825,  after  the  usual  curriculum 
of  four  years,  he  graduated  there  with  high  honours.  In 
that  same  year  he  entered  the  law-office  of  his  father ;  but 
in  a  few  months  he  was  relieved  from  the  uncongenial  stud}' 
of  law  by  a  proposal  on  tho  part  of  his  alma  mater,  which , 
more  than  any  possible  diploma,  attests  the  kind  as  well  as 
the  degree  of  merit  he  must  have  displayed,  and  the  reputatiou 
he  had  acquired  during  his  attendance  at  College.  It  was 
proposed  to  found  a  Professorship  of  Modern  Languages  in 
Bowdoin  College ;  and  this  Professorship  was  offered  to  Long- 
fellow, though  yet  in  his  teens,  and  not  specially  prepared  for 
the  work.  The  College  authorities,  however,  were  not  mis- 
taken in  their  estimate  of  Longfellow's  fitness,  intellectual 
and  moral.  Immediately  on  accepting  their  offer,  he  crossed 
the  Atlantic  to  thoroughly  prepare  himself  for  his  profes- 
sional duties  by  a  residence  of  three  years  and  a  half  in 
England,  France,  Italy,  Spain,  Germany,  and  Holland ;  and 
from  1829  to  1835  he  prelected  with  so  great  success,  and 
even  iclat,  in  Bowdoin  College,  that,  on  the  Professorship  of 
Modern  Languages  and  Belles  Lettres  in  the  University  of 
Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  becoming  vacant  in  the  latter  of 
these  two  years,  ho  was  at  once  invited  to  fill  the  chair.  On 
occasion  of  thi3  advancement  he  took  another  year  in  Europe, 
spending  most  of  it  in  Germany,  Denmark,  and  Sweden,  for 
the  purpose  cf  gaining  a  farther  insight  into  tho  literature 
of  Northern  Europo.  In  1836,  therefore,  he  commenced  hia 
professional  labours  at  Cambridge  ;  and  over  since  that  time 


IV 


PKLTAToliY   NO 


he  has  continued  a  dial  ed  ornament  of  this,  the  mont 

famoui  at  well  as  tin  oldeat  university  in  ti:    I  nil   !  btateb. 

A  short  visit  which  ho  paid  to  Europe  in  1842  was  for  I 
restoration  of  his  health. 
If  to  thoso  particulars  be  subjoined  a  chronological  list  of 

Longfellow's  publications,  the  reader  will  I  him 

all  the  information  which  can  be  derived  from  l 

and  booksellers  regarding  the  -■  and  literary  history 

of  our  author.  The  pieces  entitled  "  Earlier  Poems"  must 
bo  regarded  merely  as  a  specimen  of  his  youthful  composi- 
tions ;  for  during  his  student  lifo  he  made  many  tentative 
contributions  to  The  United  States  Literary  Gazette,  and  pro- 
bably to  other  periodicals  besides ;  and  it  was  the  success  of 
these  which  procured  him  admittance  afterwards  into  the 
tried  band  of  writers  in  The  North  American  lievitw.  Of  hil 
boparato  publications,  the  following  is  a  complete  list  : — 

1833.  Coplas  de  Manrique,  a  poem  translated  from  the 

Spanish. 
1835.  Outre-mcr,  i.e.,  Boyond  Seas,  a  prose  worlc  record 

ing  the  impressions  of  a  scholarly  traveller  in 

Southern  Europe. 

1839.  Hyperion,  a  romance  in  prose 

1840.  Voices  of  the  Night. 

1841.  Ballads  and  other  Poems. 

1842.  The  Spanish  Student,  a  drama. 

1843.  Poems  on  Slavery. 

1844.  The  Belfry  of  Bruges,  and  other  Poems. 

1845.  The  Poets  and  Foctry  of  Europe. 

184G.  Two  Editions  of  all  his  previously  published  Poems 

1847.  Evangeline. 

1851.  The  Golden  Legend. 

1855.  Hiawatha. 

1858.  Tho  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish,  and  other  Poems. 

18G3.  Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn. 

This  scantiness  of  biographical  detail  is  a  matter  of  con- 
gratulation rather  than  regret.  Happy  the  reign  of  which 
the  history  is  short,  was  a  just  reflection  when  the  history  oi 
a  people  meant  little  more  than  tho  history  of  its  govern- 
ment— i.e.,  of  wars  with  enemies  abroad,  and  collisions  with 
revolutionary  or  anarchical  forces  at  home.  In  tho  same 
sense,  happy  is  the  man  whose  life-story  is  brief.  Life,  in  such 
a  case,  is  not  so  much  a  war  or  series  of  battles,  with  thi.ii 


PUEFATOfiV  NOTT1R. 


.   |  ■ 


■ 


m 


thi  ir  n  I  terrible  disasters,  as 

a  journey  or  serii  sursions,  enlivened  indeed  l»y  ad- 

venture,  but  unchequered  by  mishaps,  aii'l  attended  duly  by 
Eatigue  to  sweeten  the  intervals  of  repose.     Ead  Longfellow 

naturally  a  robust  and  forward  spirit,  capable  of  bear- 
ing heavy  burdens,  and  requiring  to  bo  tamed  by  carrying 
them  through  life,  then  had  we  wished  for  him  a  different 
career.  Bui  a  spirit  so  gentle  and  meek  as  breathes  in  his 
poetry  would  have  succumbed  in  a  Titanic  life-struggle:  to 
act  out  an  epos  of  strifo,  and  crown  it  with  prcans  of  victory, 
would  not  have  been  his;  and  wo  aro  therefore  glad  that 
he  was  spared  tho  dust  and  din  of  the  arena,  whore  his 
inner  sense  would  have  been  dulled  to  those  sights  and  sounds 
of  beauty  which  form  the  distinguishing  charm  of  his  verses, 
What  the  Abbess  of  Irmingard,  in  tho  "Golden  Legend,"  says 
to  Elsie  of  Vogelweid's  minstrelsy,  is  true  of  his  own  : — 

"  His  song  was  of  the  summer  time, 
The  very  birds  sang  in  his  rhyme  : 
The  sunshine,  the  delicious  air, 
The  fragrance  of  the  flowers,  were  there." 

Well,  then,  that  his  life-voyage  has  been  smooth  and  happy  ; 

"Down  soft  aerial  currents  sailing, 

O'er  blossomed  orchards,  and  fields  in  bloom, 

And  through  the  momentary  gloom 

Of  shadows  o'er  the  landscape  trailing." 

Longfellow's  visits  to  continental  Europe  have  left  marked 
traces  in  his  poetry.  No  man  of  culture  can  pass  even  from 
Great  Britain,  where  mediaeval  institutions  are  still  repre- 
sented by  abbeys  and  castles  in  ruins,  and  by  half-occupied 
cathedrals,  into  the  Koman  Catholic  countries  of  Europe, 
particularly  Spain  and  Italy,  without  having  his  interest  in- 
tensely excited  by  tho  spectacle  of  medievalism  living  on 
there  in  connection  with  the  church,  and  looking  very  life-like 
indeed  on  high-days  and  holy-days,  in  its  various  costumes 
and  pompous  solemnities.  But  the  impression  must  he  still 
stronger  on  a  scholar  from  the  United  States.whcreonlyafow 
fragmentary  relics,  preserved  in  museums,  witness  to  mediae- 
val times,  which  they  illustrate  very  much  as  an  old  brick 
might  represent  a  onco  goodly  mansion.  From  tho  last  of 
Longfellow's  "Earlier  Poems,"  entitled  "Hymn  of  the 
Moravian  Nuns  of  Bethlehem,"  it  is  clear  that,  even  before 
visiting  Europe,  his  imagination  had  taken  fire  at  tho  altar, 
where  romantic  love  and  chivalrous  daring  used  to  worship 


t 


VI 


I'UIiFAToItV  NOTJCE. 


the  incorporato  God  and  record  their  vows;  while  the  fre- 
quency with  which  lie  borrows  illustrations  from  the  mediae 
val  past,  or  whatsur,  it,  shows  with  equal  t 

that,  on  crossing  tho  Atlantic  and  tho  English  Channel,  he 
mtemplation  as  many  centuries  as  ho  had  tra- 
velled thousaudsof  miles,  and  that  southern  Europe  became  to 
him  tho  very  land  of  romance.  Tho  impression  indeed  over- 
used him,  for  there  are  instances  in  which  his  fondness 
for  medieval  illustrations  has  betrayed  him  into  inaccuracies 
of  expression  and  errors  of  taste.  Thus,  describing  tho  fields 
of  maize  in  '  line,"  ho  says  that  tfc 

"  Lifted  their  slender  shafts,  with  leaves  interlacing,  and  forming 
Cloisters  for  mendicant  croirs,  and  granaries  pillaged  by  squirrels." 

Now  tho  crows  take  without  asking ;  thievish  therefore  is  their 
style,  and  not  mendicant;  for  we  cannot  supposo  the  mendi- 
cancy of  Longfellow's  favourite  monks  to  resemble  tho 
44  picking  and  stealing"  of  the  hooded  crows.  Again,  iu  the 
"  Occultation  of  Orion" — 

"  The  moon  was  pallid,  but  not  faint ; 

Yet  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  wore  to  prove  her  strength,  and  try 

Her  holiness  and  her  purity." 

Hero,  in  order  to  carry  out  his  illustration  from  tho  fiery 
ordeal  of  feudal  times,  ho  is  obliged  to  mako  the  stars  "  hot 
and  burning,"  contrary  to  the  poetic  sense  of  mankind, 
which  declares  them  to  be  bright  indeed,  but  cold. 

Tho  grand  source,  however,  of  Longfellow's  inspiration, 
and  the  chief  scene  of  his  triumphs,  is  in  the  domain  of  ex- 
ternal nature,  including  domestic,  industrial,  and  rural  life; 
for  all  that  is  beautiful  in  these  ho  has  an  eye  and  a  voice. 
His  paramount  sympathy  with  the  beauty  of  the  outer  world 
appears  in  the  choice  of  subjects  for  his  "Earlier  Poems:'' 
and  although,  towards  the  close  of  his  "Prelude"  to  the 
"  Voices  of  the  Night,"  which  was  his  first  published  collec- 
tion of  poems,  ho  declares  his  intention  of  becoming  the  poet 
of  human  life  in  general,  yet  tho  far  greater  part  of  that 
"Preludo"is  an  avowal  con  amore  of  his  predilection  for 
easier  and  quieter  themes;  and  throughout  his  poems,  nay 


t* 


m 


TOUT  NOTICE 


VI 1 


m- 


even  in  Mio  "Voices  of  the  Night  "  themselves,  tlio  natural 
tendency  triumphs  over  the  purpose  of  reflection.     Ho 

describes  his  native  self  in  these  stanzas  of  the  "  Prelude  :"— 

"Beneatl  -   trlarchal  tree 

I  lay  npon  the  grotuid  ; 
His  hoary  arms  uplifted  he, 

I  nil  the  broad  leaves  over  me 
Clapped  their  little  hands  in  glee, 
With  one  continuous  sound. 

"  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." 

But  in  these  others, — 

"  Leam  that  henceforth  thy  song  shall  be, 
Not  mountains  capped  with  snow, 

Nor  forests  sounding  like  the  sea. 

Nor  rivers  floating  ceaselessly, 

Where  the  woodlands  bend  to  see 
The  bending  heavens  below. 

"  Look  then  into  thine  heart  and  write  I 

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." 

— in  these  he  announces  a  purpose  alien  from  his  instincts, 
and  beyond  his  power  of  execution.  He  has,  in  fact,  no  ear 
for  the  terrible,  and  accordingly  the  most  frightful  night- voice 
becomes  in  his  rhymes  a  soothing  melody.  In  spite  of  his 
purpose  to  fathom  "life's  deep  stream,"  he  keeps  floating 
quietly  down  its  surface,  joining  in  the  concerts  of  music 
that  greet  him  from  its  banks,  and  confidently  anticipating 
the  pacific  ocean  of  eternity. 

The  absence  of  passion  in  Longfellow  incapacitates  him 
for  being  the  poet  of  human  life.  There  is  no  abyss  in  his 
experience  between  sorrow  and  delight;  the  sounds  of  both 
blend  into  a  pleasing  harmony  in  his  ear: — 

"  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." 


writer  of  coetry  when  a  mere  youth,  yet  W,ri  tnn 


«**>* 


■ 


*k±.v& 


VllL 


PRrFAT'MlY  N0TKT. 


der  passion  h  t  no  place  in  his  effusions ;  and  though 

■nailer  pieces  are  very  nui  not  one  is  addressed 

to  any  object,  animate  or  inanimate,  of  personal  attachment. 
His  mistress  is  no  more  to  him  than  the  "presence  of  the 
night,"  if  the  following  stanza  ho  attuned,  as  it  ougflit  to  be, 
to  the  lyre  of  his  own  heart : — 

"I  felt  her  presence  by  its  spell  of  might. 

Stoop  o'er  me  from  above ; 
The  calm  majestic  presence  of  the  niyht, 

As  of  the  one  I  love." 

Equally  remarkable  is  the  absence  of  national  enthusiasm, 
to  the  indulgence  of  which  he  might  have  been  often  tempted 
by  the  contrast  between  the  decrepitude  of  southern  Europe 
Rnd  tho  go-a-headism  of  his  native  States.  His  whole  poetry 
contains  but  one  utterance — it  cannot  be  called  an  outburst 
—of  patriotism.  At  tho  end  of  his  poem  on  tho  "  Building 
of  tho  Ship,  "is  an  apostrophe  to  the  Union,  in  which,  how- 
ever, thero  is  no  proud  mention  of  liberty  and  independence 
nothing  but  a  prayer  for  prosperity,  which  a  Briton,  or  any 
other  well-wisher  of  humanity,  might  breathe  with  as  much 
propriety  as  a  native  American.  Still  more  impotent  is 
Longfellow  in  hatred  and  denunciation.  Ho  can  hate  no- 
thing and  nobody.  His  poems  on  Slavery  paint  its  sorrows, 
and  bring  into  relief  its  consolations;  but  they  scarcely 
denounce  the  crime,  and  blow  no  blast  of  execration  on  its 
perpetrators.  IIo  has  not  an  unkind  word  to  say  even  of 
Lucifer,  whom  he  thna  gently  dismisses  at  the  end  of  the 
"  Golden  Legend  :"' — 

"  It  is  Lucifer, 
The  son  of  Mystery, 

Ami  since  God  suffers  him  to  be. 
He,  too,  is  God's  minister, 
And  labours  for  some  good 
By  us  not  understood  1" 

To  complete  his  impassibility,  Longfellow  has  no  comic  vein  ; 
you  never  catch  him  laughing,  as  you  never  catch  him  cry- 
ing, but  smiling,  always  smiling,  liko  an  optimist,  who  has 
come  to  Pope's  conclusion,  that  "  whatever  is,  is  best." 

Hence  tho  sternness  of  reality  is  wanting  in  Longfellow' 
view  of  things.    Ho  will  not  look  honestly  on  the  dark  side 
Perfectly  amiable,  and,  on  tho  whole,  well  pleased  himself, 
thero  is  little  sin  and  misery  in  his  world  ;  and,  brimming 
with  hope,  there  is  no  hell  in  his  future.     All  is  couleur  rk 


P 


v;v*v 


'*&k 


mEFATOTlY  NOTICE. 


l\ 


rose:  6TBH  the  hospital  beds  present  quite  a  pleasing  spectacle 
to  Evangeline : — 

"  And  u  she  looked  around,  she  saw  how  Death  the  consoler, 
Laying  his  hand  upon  many  a  heart,  had  healed  it  for  ever" 

And  to  little  Elsie,  in  the  "Golden  Legend," 

"  The  grave  itself  is  but  a  covered  bridge, 

Lending  from  light  to  light,  through  a  brief  darkness." 

Longfellow,  in  short,  is  a  poet-artist  much  more  than  a 
poet-man;  and  his  instincts,  in  the  order  of  strength,  are 
for  the  beautiful,  the  good,  and  tho  true ;  not  for  the  true, 
the  good,  and  the  beautiful.  Hence  his  indifference  to  Ihose 
things  which  divide  men  most,  as  forms  of  government  and 
religion.  A  mass  in  Italy,  and  a  first  communion  of  ihil- 
dren  in  Sweden,  are  alike  highly  interesting  to  him,  because 
both  present  aspects  of  the  beautiful,  although  in  heart  ho 
can  be  a  sympathizing  spectator  of  neither.  Hence,  too,  his 
feebleness  in  passionate  and  moral  expression,  and,  in  go 
neral,  his  unfitness  to  be  a  poet  of  human  life. 

By  nature  a  lover  of  the  beautiful,  by  education  a  scholar, 
and,  by  observation  rather  than  experience  of  human  life,  a 
thinker : — such  appear  to  be  Longfellow's  main  qualifica- 
tions for  delighting  and  instructing  mankind.  To  his  scho- 
larship, in  particular,  we  are  indebted  for  that  absence  of  ex- 
travagance in  thought  and  diction,  and  that  transparency  of 
meaning,  which  render  his  compositions  classic  ;  for  nothing 
can  be  more  alien  from  the  classic  models  than  the  substi- 
tution of  the  outrt,  for  the  forcible,  and  tho  pretension  to  pro- 
fundity in  the  palpably  obscure. 

Of  his  smaller  pieces,  "  Excelsior"  bears  away  the  palm. 
It  is  just  in  conception  as  well  as  spirited  in  execution ; 
and,  because  reflecting  exactly  the  ideal  of  the  age,  was  no 
sooner  pronounced  than  the  listening  generation  treasured 
it  up  as  a  "  household  word."  A  youthful  tourist,  such  as 
Longfellow  may  often  have  seen  in  Switzerland,  toiling  up 
a  mountain  pass,  with  a  leathern  scrip  swung  from  his 
shoulders,  and  a  long  Alpine  shepherd's  staff  in  hand,  is 
taken  as  the  emblem  of  that  progress  which  is  tho  destiny 
of  our  race,  and  should  be  the  aim  of  every  individual.  In 
the  "Village  Blacksmith,"  which  is  scarcely  inferior  in 
beauty,  though  pitched  on  a  lower  key  of  inspiration,  labour. 
tho  means  to  progress,  is  inculcated  :  and  these  two  elements. 


PREFATORY  NOTICE. 


labour  the  duty,  and  progress  the  reward,  constitute  the 
sum  of  Longfellow's  tear'  ad.    In  this 

tifies  hims  If  with  a  very  influential  class  of  cotemporary 
writers.     Su  indication  of  a  transition- 

id,  in  which  old  faiths  hare  lost  t: 
and  new  on  not  yet  acquired  it,  that  the  oracl. 

our  age  have  reduced  their  utteranc  rudi- 

ita  of  practical  wisdom  : Work  and  live,  labour  and 

per.      Yes ;     Do    whatever    lies   nearest    you  ;    thus   only 
will  you  see  what  to  do  next,  is  the  response  to  all  inquirers. 
Thus.  Longfellow,  in  one  of  his  "Poems  by  the  Firosi' 
entitled  "The  Builders"— 

"  Build  to-day,  then,  strong  and  sure, 
With  a  firm  and  ample  1 
And  ascending  ami  secure, 

Shall  to-morrow  find  its  place." 

This,  truly,  is  living  from  hand  to  mouth.  If  there  bo  no 
other  gospel  than  this,  why,  then,  alas,  poor  mortals !  you 
are  but  darkling  pilgrims,  iron-shod  indeed  for  the  jour- 
ney of  life,  but  unguided  by  any  light  greater  or  lesser  in 
the  firmament  above,  and  expected  to  illumine  fitfully  yonr 
own  path  by  momentary  gleams  struck  out  from  the,  flints 
over  which  you  travel.  The  reader  will  not  find  so  much 
satisfaction  in  consulting  Longfellow  the  philosopher  as 
pleasure  in  listening  to  Longfellow  the  poet. 

Of  the  larger  pieces.  "  Evangeline  "  is  by  far  the  best.  It 
went  through  several  editions  in  America  in  the  course  of  a 
few  months  ;  and  its  great  charm  lies  in  the  minute  yet 
graceful  delineation  of  primitive  country  life  and  Araei ' 
scenery.  Even  on  this  side  the  Atlantic,  one  almost  hi 
the  extravaganza  of  the  mocking  bird  in  the  following  de- 
scription : — 

M  Then  from  a  neighbouring  thicket  the  mocking  bird, wildest  of  singers. 

Swinging  aloft  on  a  willow  spray  that  hung  o'er  the  water, 

Shook  from  his  little  tin  oat  such  Hoods  of  delicious  music, 

That  the  whole  air,  and  the    I  I  silent  tc 

listen. 
Plaintive  at  first  were  the  tones  and  sad,  then,  soaring  to  madness, 
Seemed  they  to  follow  or  guide  the  revels  of  frenzied  Bacchantes; 

a  single  notes  were  heard  in  sorrowful  low  lamentation ; 
Till,  having  gathered  them  all,  he  Hung  them  abroad  in  derl 
As  when,  after  a  storm,  a  gust  of  wind  through  the  tree-tops 
Shakes  down  the  rattling  rain  in  a  crystal  shower  on  the  branches." 

Then,  again,  what  a  fine  illustration  of  a  mystery  in  hu- 


-*OV-  Mj*zj- 


I  ' 


man  experience  docs  he  b  irrow  from  the  botany  of  the  prw 
ries: — 

"  As,  at  the.  tramp  of  boof  on  the  turf  of  the  pr  I 

Far  In  blinking  mlmoea; 

So,  at  the  hoof-beats  of  W  ■  i  forebodings  of 

Shrinks  an<  heart,  ere  the  stroke  of  doom  has  attained  it. " 

It  is  much  to  ho  regretted  that  this  fine  poom  is  in  tho 
reely  rhythmical  English  hexameter,  and  that  Longfellow 
should  have  blemished  it  hero  and  thcro  by  inappropriate 
scriptural  allusions,  after  the  manner  of  Bishop  Tegner  in 
his  "  Children  of  the  Lord's  Supper,"  on  Longfellow's  own 
translation  of  which,  "  Evangeline  "  seems  to  have  been 
modelled.  The  Swedish  congregation,  joining  in  tho  music 
of  the  organ,  is  thus  described  : — 

"  Like  as  Elias  in  heaven,  token  he  cast  off  from  him  his  mantle, 
Even  so  cast  off  the  soul  its  garments  of  earth ;  and  ■with  one  voice 
Chimed  In  the  congregation,  and  sung  an  anthem  immortal 
Of  the  sublime  Wallin,  of  David's  harp  in  the  Northland, 
Tuned  to  the  choral  of  Luther ;  the  song  on  its  powerful  pinions 
Took  every  living  soul,  and  lifted  it  gently  to  heaven, 
And  eveiy  face  did  shine,  like  the  Holy  One's  face  upon  Tabor." 

In  this  short  passage  are  two  impertinent  illustrations  ot 
tho  kind  referred  to.  It  is  surprising  that  Longfellow's  ad- 
miration of  Tegner  could  beguile  his  usually  severe  taste  into 
the  perpetration  of  the  following  in  "  Evangeline  ": — 

"  And,  wild  with  the  winds  of  September, 

Wrestled  the  trees  of  the  forest,  as  Jacob  of  old  with  the  angel.'' 

Of  course,  when  tho  illustration  is  carried  out  into  detail, 
it  becomes  ludicrous  and  irreverent,  as  in  the  following  : — 

"  Swinging  from  its  great  arms,  the  trumpet  Cower  and  the  grape-vine 

ITung  their  ladder  of  ropes  aloft,  like  the  ladder  of  Jacob, 

On  whose  pendulous  stairs  the  angels  ascending,  descending, 

Were  the  swift  humming  birds,  that  flitted  from  blossom  to  blossom." 

About  a  dozen  such  examples  might  be  culled  from  "  Evan- 
geline." There  are  a  few  instances  too  of  incongruity  in  the 
sense,  arising  from  mere  carelessness,  which  is  rare  in  Long- 
fellow. For  instance,  when  the  herds  return  to  the  Acadian 
homestead, 

"  Pawing  the  ground  they  came,  and  resting  their  necks  on  each  other 
And  with  their  nostrils  distended  inhaling  the  freshness  of  evening." 

Now  the  pawing  of  tho  ground  and  tho  distension  of  the 
nostrils  indicate  rather  tho  excitement  and  unrest  of  stall- 
fed  rattlf  on  being  lot  out  nffer  a  wintor's  confinement,  than 


Ml 


PREFATORY  XOTTOE 


the  sedate  compl  f  oxen  returni 

lull. air  or  pasture  ;  at  all  events,  these  indications  are  inc 
sist.  ■  nt  with  "reeting  their  necks  on  each  other."     II 
sven  Homer  nods  sometin 

The  "Spanish  Student"  has  no  dramatic  effect,  hut  is  a 
Bprightly  delineation  of  manners.    The  most  powerful  i 

in  it  contains  a  finely-applied  classical  allusion.      Vic 
torian  is  venting  his  despair  at  being,  as  ho  supposes,  de- 
ceived in  ! 

•  Yet  I  would  fain  die  [ 
To  go  through  life,  unloving  and  unloved  ; 
To  feel  that  thirst  and  hunger  of  the  soul 
We  cannot  still ;  that  longing,  that  wild  impulse 
And  struggle  after  something  we  have  not, 
And  cannot  have  ;  the  effort  to  be  strong ; 
And,  like  the  Spartan  boy,  to  smile,  and  amtfe, 
While  secret  wounds  do  bleed  beneath  our  cloaks. 
All  this  the  dead  feel  not.— the  dead  alone  ! 
Would  I  were  with  them  !" 

The  "  Golden  Legend  "  hears  the  impress  of  Longfellow's 
European  travels  and  studies  more  than  any  other  of  his 
works.  It  may  be  called  Longfellow's  version  of  Goethe's 
Faust,  the  subject  being  the  same,  and  the  treatment  akin. 
But  it  is  the  outcome  of  his  reading  and  reflection,  rather 
than  of  his  native  vein,  and,  though  characterized  by  ai 
tic  elegance,  is  an  unsatisfactory  poem  ;  in  no  small  measure 
certainly  because  it  is  on  an  unsatisfactory  subject. 

"  Hiawatha,"  one  of  the  later  of  Longfellow's  considerable 
poems,  has  not  added  to  his  reputation  as  a  poet.  It  is,  how- 
ever, by  no  means  worthy  of  the  condemnation,  and  even  con- 
tempt, which  it  has  met  with  in  some  quarters.  It  seems  to  be 
forgotten  that,  in  "  Hiawatha,"  Longfellow  describes  human 
character  and  life,  and  even  natural  objects,  not  from  his  own 
point  of  view,  but  from  that  of  an  Indian  minstrel ;  and  that 
the  whole  is  to  be  regarded  not  properly  as  his  poetry,  but 
as  his  conception  of  wdiat  Chibiabos'  ballads,  mythologi 
heroic,  and  other,  would  have  been.  Sometimes  an  artist 
suffers,  sometimes  he  gains,  by  assuming  a  different  stand- 
point from  his  own.  In  tho  "Lays  of  Ancient  Rome,"  for 
instance,  Macaulay  could  only  gain  in  dignity  and  power  by 
identifying  himself  with  the  grand  old  Romans:  on  the  other 
hand,  Longfellow  could  not  but  lose  in  every  particular,  save 
novelty  OT  strangeness,  by  descending  to  the  level  of  the 
poor  wild  Indians.  The  beetling  trochaic  rhythm  of  "  Hia- 
watha" naturally  recalls  the  song  of  "  Old  Dan  Tucker."  and 


ss 


i 


,* 

m 


lUKFATUKY    IVUTICi;. 


xiii 


the  whole  tribo  of  negro  melodies,  which  is  rather  au  un- 
happy association.  This  is  the  first  considerable  poem  by 
Longfellow  on  a  strictly  American  subject;  and  had  ho  only 
introduced  moro  of  tbo  Indian  originals,  such  as  that  gem  oi 
B  wild  man's  lovo  song,  "  Onaway  !  awake,  beloved!"  and 
made  the  whole  shorter,  ho  would  have  treated  it  much  more 
satisfactorily.  Still  those  savages  are  men,  having  all  the 
essentials  of  humanity,  and  differing  from  the  most  civilized 
only  in  accidentals  ;  consequently,  the  aspect  of  the  world 
to  them,  and  tho  way  in  which  they  practically  solve  the 
problem  of  life,  can  never  be  matters  of  indifferenco  to  those 
whose  naturo  or  culture  has  endowed  them  with  universal 
sympathies.  In  the  songs  of  "Hiawatha"  this  grand  trinity  of 
truth  about  man  is  clearly  brought  out — viz.,  the  necessity  of 
work,  the  necessity  of  religion,  and  the  blessing  of  love,  which 
makes  the  former  tolerable  and  the  latter  attainable.  The 
classical  reader  will  now  and  then  trace  a  parallel  between 
the  Indian  and  the  Greek  mythology.  In  rude  states  of 
society  physical  strength  and  prowess  are  admired  almost  to 
adoration  ;  and  just  as  the  Greeks  had  their  Hercules,  and 
we  have  our  Jack  the  Giant-Killer,  so,  it  appears,  the  Indiana 
have  their  Hiawatha  with  magicmittens  and  mocassons,  doing 
glorious  battle  with  Mudjekeewis.  The  world  is  greatly  in- 
debted to  the  American  Board  of  Indian  affairs  for  the  hand 
some  and  splendidly  illustrated  quartos  by  Dr  Schoolcraft  on 
Indian  Antiquities;  and  our  obligations  are  not  less  to  Mi 
Longfellow  for  the  interesting  groups  into  which  his  poetic 
art  has  chiselled  the  ashlars  of  that  capacious  quarry. 

To  conclude,  Longfellow  is  pre-eminently  the  interpreter 
of  all  that  is  peaceful,  lovely,  and  cheering  in  external  nature 
and  human  life.  He  has  neither  ascended  the  bright  moun- 
tains of  transport,  where  the  beautiful  is  transfigured  into 
the  glorious,  nor  descended  into  the  dark  mines  of  misery, 
where  even  the  beautiful  is  deformed  into  the  frightful.  Ho 
dwells  between  these  extremes,  which  are  the  zenith  and 
nadir  of  human  experience  ;  and  he  sings  so  sweetly  in  the 
intermediate  region  of  evcry-day  nature  and  life,  that  all 
jaded  or  irritated  spirits  may  have  recourse  to  his  muse  for 
refreshment  and  soothing,  even  as  king  Saul,  when  the  evil 
Bpirit  from  God  was  upon  him,  called  for  David  the  harper. 

January  1865. 


■  \  ■  H 


**''■   P> 


s 


CONTENTS. 


\l 


Voices  c  — 

Prelude 

Byron  t  lit    . 

\  Psalm  of  Life 
The  Reaper  and  the  Flo? 
The  Light  of  Stars     . 
Footster>s  of  Angels    . 
Flowers 

The  Beleaguered  City 
Midnight  Mass  for  the  Dying  Year 

fcLvRLEER  Poems  :— 
An  April  Day 

Autumn  .... 

Woods  in  Winter 

Hymn  of  the  Moravian  Nuns  of  Bethlehem 
Sunrise  on  the  Hills    . 
The  Spirit  of  Poetry  . 
Burial  of  the  Minnisink 

Poems  ox  Slavery .  - 

To  V  E.  Chamiing 

The  Slave's  Dream 

The  Good  Part  that  shall  ken  away 

The  Slave  in  the  Dismal  Swamp 

The  Slave  Singing  at  Midnight 

The  Witnesses 

The  Quadroon  Girl 

The  Warnir 

TiiE  Spanish  Student     . 

The  Seaside  Fikeslde  :— 

Dedication       .  .  . 


1 
i 

i 

5 
8 
7 

10 
11 


13 
14 
15 
16 
17 
18 
19 


21 
21 
23 
24 
25 
25 
26 
2S 


29 


\vi                                               CONTENTS. 

— 

PAG 

.>'i  THE  Seaside  : — 

The  Building  of  the  Ship 

87 

The  Evening  Star       . 

93 

The  Secret  of  the  Sea 

97 

Twilight         .                                 . 

98 

Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert 

98 

.,  ■  2 

The  Lighthouse 

100 

The  Fire  of  Driftwood 

101 

By  the  Fireside  :— 

Resignation     . 

103 

The  Builders   . 

104 

Sand  of  the  Desert  in  an  Hour-Giass 

105 

B> 

Birds  of  Passage                                            . 

106 

S"1"**.    ' 

The  Open  Window 

107 

•*"'JiiH[Ms 

King  Witlaf's  Drinking- Horn 

108 

Gaspar  Bacerra            • 

109 

' 

fafiBI 

isns  in  Found 

110 

Tegner's  Death 

111 

On  Fanny  Kemble's  Readings  from  Shakspe; 

ire        .        113 

'.       Xl'4! 

The  Singers     .... 

114 

K:"*  •"■"""' 

Snspiria          .... 

114 

1 

Hymn  for  my  Brother's  Ordinal 

115 

EVANGELINE 

116 

Golden  Legend    . 

165 

' 

Hiawatha 

267 

Vocabulary     .... 

394 

■'  1 

Toe  Courtship  of  Miles  Standisb 

396 

-  ■» 

Birds  of  Passage  :  -  - 

Prometheus,  or  the  Poet's  Forethought 

433 

t 

ft  Jpy 

Haunted  Houses 

435 

|   I 

In  the  Churchyard  at  Cambridge 

436 

The  Emperor's  Bird's  Nest    . 

436 

Daylight  and  Moonlight 

The  Jewish  Cemetery  at  Newport 

438 

\       i 

438 

Vjjr 

$*$ 

Oliver  Basselin 

440 

} 

Victor  Galbraith 

442 

,  '  "    & 

-  ^^BJH 

My  Lost  Youth 

443 

I 

The  Golden  Milestone 

445 

\                Catawba  Wine 

447 

vWJ 

Santa  Filomena 

448 

*&**&! 

, 

The  Discoverer  of  the  NurtnCape 

450 

£^S1 

0ONTENT8. 


:  [continued)  - 

Daybreak        .... 
The  Fiftii  iii  Birthday  of  Agassis 
Children         .... 
Sandalphon     .... 
metheus,  or  the  Poet's  Afterthought 

translations  :— 
Spanish  :— * 

plas  de  Manrique 

The  Good  Shepherd 

To-morrow 

Native  Land    . 

The  Image  of  God 

The  Brook 

Song  from  Lopez  Maldonada 

Portuguese  :— 
Song  from  Gil  Vicente 

Italian  :— 
Celestial  Pilot 
Terrestrial  Paradise    . 
Beatrice 
The  Nature  of  Love    . 

French :— 
Spring  .  .  . 

The  Child  Asleep 
Death  of  Archbishop  Turpin  . 
Pvondell 

Friar  Lubin     .  .  . 

The  Blind  Girl  of  Castel-CuUle 
A  Christmas  Carol 
Duke  William  at  Ilouen 
Richard's  Escape        .  . 

Anglo-Saxon  :— 
The  Grave       .... 
Beowulf's  Expedition  to  Heort 
The  Soul's  Complaint  against  the  Body 

yVTEOISH  :— 

Children  of  Lord's  Supper     . 

Frithiof  s  Homestead 

Frithiofs  Temptations  , 


XVll 

PAGE 

452 
458 
454 
466 

456 


458 
470 
471 
471 
472 
472 
473 


474 
475 
476 

47? 

478 
479 
479 
480 
481 
482 
491 
492 
495 

496 
497 
500 

602 
616 
617 


■I 


-  — • 


XV1I1 


CONTENTS. 


Translations  (continued) — 
Danish  :— 
King  Christian  • 

The  Elected  Knight    . 
Childhood 

German  :— 

The  Happiest  Land 

The  Wave 

The  Dead 

The  Bird  and  the  Ship 

Whither  I 

Beware ! 

Song  of  the  Bell 

Castle  by  the  Sea 

The  Black  Knight 

Blessed  are  the  Dead 

The  Two  Locks  of  Hair 

Song  of  the  Silent  Land 

Lnck  of  Edenhall 

The  Hemlock  Tree      . 

Annie  of  Tharaw 

The  Statue  over  the  Cathedral  Door 

The  Legend  of  the  Crossbill 

The  Sea  hath  its  Pearls 

Poetic  Aphorisms 

Ballads  :— 

The  Skeleton  in  Armour 
The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus 

Miscellaneous  Poems  :— 
Excelsior 

The  Village  Blacksmith 
Endymiou 

It  is  not  always  May 
The  Rainy  Day 
God's  Acre 
To  the  River  Charles 
The  Goblet  of  Life 
Blind  Bartimeus 
Maidenhood     . 
The  Belfry  of  Bruges 
A  Gleam  of  Sunshine 
The  Arsenal  at  Springfield 


519 
620 

522 

523 
524 
524 
525 
526 
526 
527 
528 
529 
530 
531 
532 
532 
534 
534 
535 
536 
537 
537 


539 
543 


545 
546 
548 
549 
549 
550 
550 
551 
553 
554 
555 
557 
55S 


HBJLu 


I  U. 


CONTENTS. 


XIX 
PAQB 

662 

663 
566 
568 
569 
571 
572 
577 
578 
578 
580 
5S1 
581 


Miscellaneous  Poems  (continued)— 
Nuremberg 
The  Norman  Karon    . 

d  in  Summer 
The  Occultation  of  Orion 
Tto 

To  the  Driving  Cloud 
Carrillon 
To  a  Child       . 
Curfew  .  . 

L'Envoi 
Seaweed 

The  Day  is  Done 
Afternoon  in  February 
To  an  Old  Danish  Song  Book 
Walter  von  der  Vogelweid 
Drinking  Song  .....        585 

The  Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs  ,  .  .  586 

The  Arrow  and  the  Song       ....        588 

The  Evening  Star       .....        588 

Autumn  ..-..*»        589 

Dante  .......        589 

The  Phantom  Ship      .....        590 

The  Sea  Diver  .  .  .  .  .        601 

The  Indian  Hunter     .....        592 

The  Ladder  of  St  Augustine  .  .  »  .593 

The  Rope-Walk 594 

The  Two  Angels         .....        596 
The  Warden  of  the  Cinque  Ports       .  .  .597 

Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn— Prelude        .           .            .  599 

The  Landlord's  Tale --Paul  Revere's  Ride     .            .  606 

Interlude         ......  609 

The  Student's  Tale— The  Falcon  of  Ser  Federigo     .  611 
Interlude          .             .             .             .             .            .617 

The  Spanish  Jew's  Tale — The  Legend  of  Rabbi  Ben  Levi  61 8 

Interlude         ......  620 

The  Sicilian's  Tale— King  Robert  of  Sicily  .            .  620 

Interlude         ......  625 

The  Musician's  Tale— The  Saga  of  King  Olaf            .  626 
Interlude         .            .            .            .                        .663 

The  Theologian's  Tale — Torquemada             .           .  665 

Interlude          ...                        .  670 

The  Poet's  Tale    -The  Birds  of  Killingworth            .  671 

Finale               ......  67? 


VGE — 1'LIUUT  SECOND  !— 


Enceladus        ..... 

678 

The  Cumberland         .... 

Snow  Flukes  ..... 

A  Day  of  Sunshine     .... 

681 

Something  left  Undone 

Weariness       ..... 

The  Children's  Hour  .... 

GS3 

Miscellaneous  : — 

Palingenesis    . 

684 

The  Bridge  of  Cloud  .... 

686 

Christmas  Bells           .... 

687 

The  Kalif  of  Baldacca 

688 

The  Wind  over  the  Chimney 

690 

The  Bells  of  Lynn      .... 

691 

Hawthorne      ..... 

692 

Killed  at  the  Ford      .... 

693 

Noel 

G94 

Giotto's  Tower            . 

696 

To-Morrow      ...... 

696 

On  Translating  the  Divina  Commedia 

697 

Art  and  Nature           . 

699 

The  Two  Harvests      . 

699 

Flower-de-Luce            ... 

700 

VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT 


"M\ 


PRELUDE. 

Pleasant  it  was,  when  woods  were  green, 
And  winds  were  soft  and  low, 

To  lie  amid  some  sylvan  scene, 

Where,  the  long  drooping  bonghs  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 
Iu  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  soimd, — 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  : 


m 


8 


T.O.VCFET.r.OW 


Dreams  that  the  soul  of  youth  outage 

Ere  Fancy  lias  been  quelled  ; 
OM  legends  of  the  monkish  pa 
Traditions  of  the  saint  and  sa 
Tales  that  have  the  rime  of  age, 
And  chronicles  vf  eld. 

And,  loving  still  those  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  birds  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  Bound  of  joy  ! 
They  were  my  playmates  when  a  child, 
And  rocked  me  in  their  arms  so  wild  ! 
Still  they  looked  at  me  and  smiled, 

As  if  I  were  a  boy ; 

And  ever  whispered,  mild  and  low, 
"  Come,  be  a  child  once  more  !" 

And  waved  their  long  arms  to  and  fro, 

And  beckoned  solemnly  and  slow  : 

Oh,  I  could  not  choose  but  go 
Into  the  woodlands  hoar ; 

Into  the  blithe  and  breathing  air, 

Into  the  solemn  wood, 
Solemn  and  silent  everywhere  ! 
Nature  with  folded  hands  seemed  there 
Kneeling  at  her  evening  prayer  ! 

Like  one  in  prayer  I  stood. 

Before  me  rose  an  avenue 

Of  tall  and  sombrous  pines; 
Abroad  their  fan-like  branches  grew, 
And,  where  the  sunshine  darted  throu 


.    ' 


Pfe. 


te 


♦w 


*«4k^ 


VOICES  OF  THE  NHiflT. 


Spread  a  vapour  soft  and  blue, 
In  long  and  sloping  lines, 

And,  falling  on  my  weary  brain, 

Like  a  fast  falling  shower, 
The  dreams  of  youth  come  back  again  ; 
Low  lispings  of  the  summer  rain, 
Dropping  on  the  npenea  grain, 

As  once  upon  the  flower. 

Visions  of  childhood  !  Stay,  oh,  stay  I 

Ye  were  so  sweet  and  wild  ! 
Anil  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  1 
A  mighty  river  roars  between, 
And  whosoever  looks  therein, 
Sees  the  heavens  all  black  with  sin. 

Sees  not  its  depths  nor  bounds. 

"  Athwart  the  swinging  branches  cast 

Soft  rays  of  sunshine  pour  ; 
Then  comes  the  fearful  wintry  blast ; 
Our  hopes,  like  withered  leaves,  fall  fast: 
Pallid  lips  say,  *  It  is  past ! 

We  can  return  no  more  !' 


Look,  then,  into  thine  heart,  and  write ! 
Yes,  into  Life's  deep  stream  ! 


FELLOW  8  POEMS. 


All  forms  of  sorrow  and  delight, 

All  solemn  \  if  the  Ni 

That  can  soothe  thee,  or  aftrigh 
]>e  these  henceforth  thy  theme." 


HYMN  TO  THE  NIGHT. 

AvTrcioi?,,  rp<AX/0TOf. 

i  uEAiiD  the  trailing  garments  of  the  Might 

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  1  hue. 

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  ^\cep  cisterns  tlows. 

0  holy  Night !  from  thee  1  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 ! 


WHAT  THE  HEART  OF  THE  YOUNG  MAN  SAID  TO  THE 

PSALMIST. 


I 


VOICES  OF  THE  NIOHT. 


f  I 


i\ 


' 


Life  is  rial  !   Li IV  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 

Finds  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  ns 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  Time  j— 

Footprints,  that  perhaps  another, 
Sailing  o'er  Life's  solemn  main, 

A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 
Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 

With  a  heart  for  any  fate  ; 
Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 

Learn  to  labour  and  to  wait. 


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. 


e?5hv 


LONGFELLOW*  X  I" 


"  Shall  I  have  nought  that  is  fair  V  saith  he  ; 

u  Have  nought  but  the  bearded  grain  I 
Though  the  breath  of  these  flowers  is  sweet  to  roe, 

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 

lie  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, 

W  here  He  was  once  a  child. 

"  They  shall  all  bloom  in  fields  of  light, 

Transplanted  by  my  care  ; 
And  saints  upon  their  garments  white. 

These  sacred  blossoms  wear." 

And  the  mother  gave,  in  tears  and  pain. 

The  flowers  she  most  did  love  ; 
She  knew  she  should  find  them  all  again 

In  the  "fields  of  light  above. 

Oh,  not  in  cruelty,  not  in  wrath, 

The  Reai»er  came  that  day  ; 
'Twas  an  angel  visited  the  green  earth. 

And  took  the  Flowers  away. 


THE  LIGHT  OF  STARS. 

The  night  is  come,  but  not  too  soon ; 

And  sinking  silently, 
All  silently,  the  little  moon 

Drops  down  behind  the  sky. 

There  is  no  light  in  earth  or  heaven, 
But  the  cold  light  of  stars  ; 

And  the  first  watch  of  night  is  given 
To  the  red  planet  Mars. 

Is  it  the  tender  star  of  love  ? 

The  star  of  love  and  dreams  ? 
Oh,  no  !  from  that  blue  tent  above, 

A  hero's  armour  gleams. 

And  earnest  thoughts  within  me  rise, 
When  I  behold  afar, 


Ii      ■-    ...     i         -    .,    lj.i      Wl.|.ffl    III 


■  '  II '  l'» ><"  1 


■  I."   "  •<•<]/ 


voioks  or  titf:  NrniiT. 


Suspended  in  the  evening  skies, 
The  shield  of  that  red  star. 

0  star  of  strength  !  I  see  thee  stand 
And  smile  upon  my  pain  ; 

Thou  beckonest  with  thy  mailed  hand, 
Aud  I  am  strong  again. 

Within  my  breast  there  is  no  light, 
But  the  cold  light  of  stars  ; 

1  give  the  first  watch  of  the  night 
To  the  red  planet  Mars. 

The  star  of  the  unconquered  will, 

He  rises  in  my  breast, 
Serene,  and  resolute,  and  still, 

And  calm,  and  self-possessed. 

And  thou  too,  whosoe'er  thou  art, 
That  readest  this  brief  psalm, 

As  one  by  one  thy  hopes  depart, 
Be  resolute  and  calm. 

Oh,  fear  not  in  a  world  like  this, 
And  thou  shalt  know  ere  long, 

Know  how  sublime  a  thing  it  is 
To  suffer  and  be  strong. 


FOOTSTEPS  OF  ANGELS. 

When  the  hours  of  Day  are  numbered, 

And  the  voices  of  the  Night 
Wake  the  better  soul,  that  slumbered, 

To  a  holy,  calm  delight ; 

Ere  the  evening  lamps  are  lighted, 
And,  like  phantoms  grim  and  tall. 

Shadows  from  the  fitful  fire-light 
Dance  upon  the  parlour  wall ; 

Then  the  forms  of  the  departed 

Enter  at  the  open  door  ; 
The  beloved,  the  true-hearted, 

Come  to  visit  me  once  more  ; 

He,  the  young  and  strong,  who  cherished 

Noble  longings  for  the  strife, 
By  the  roadside  fell  and  perished, 

Weary  with  the  march  of  Life  ! 


p 


LONOFBliTXW 


% 


They,  the  holy  ones  and  weakly, 
Who  the  cross  of  Buffering  bore, 

Folded  their  pale  hands  bo  meekly. 
Spake  with  US  on  earth  no  more  \ 

And  with  them  the  Being  beauteous, 

Who  unto  my  youth  was  given, 
More  than  all  things  else  to  love  me, 
And  is  now  a  saint  in  heaven. 

With  a  slow  and  noiseless  footstep 
Comes  that  messenger  divine, 

Takes  the  vacant  chair  heside  me, 
Lays  her  gentle  hand  in  mine. 

And  she  sits  and  gazes  at  me 
With  those  deep  and  tender  eyes, 

Like  the  stars,  so  still  and  saint-like, 
Looking  downward  from  the  skies. 

Uttered  not,  yet  comprehended, 
Is  the  spirit's  voiceless  prayer, 

Soft  rebukes,  in  blessings  ended, 
Breathing  from  her  lips  of  air. 

Oh,  though  oft  depressed  and  lonely, 
All  my  fears  are  laid  aside, 

[f  I  but  remember  only 
Such  as  these  have  lived  and  died. 


FLOWERS. 

Spake  full  well,  in  language  quaint  and  olden, 
One  who  dwelleth  by  the  castled  Rhine, 

When  he  called  the  flowers  so  blue  and  golden, 
Stars,  that  in  earth's  firmament  do  shine. 

Stars  they  are,  wherein  we  read  our  history. 

As  astrologers  and  seers  of  eld  ; 
Yet  not  wrapped  about  with  awful  mystery, 

Like  the  burning  stars,  which  they  beheld. 

"Wondrous  truths,  and  manifold  as  wondrous, 
God  has  written  in  those  stars  above  ; 

But  not  less  in  the  bright  flowerets  under  us 
Stands  the  revelation  of  His  love. 

Bright  and  glorious  is  that  revelation, 
Written  all  over  this  great  world  of  ours  : 


PfrMHK 


V0ICKS  OF  THE  NIGHT. 


Making  evident  our  own  creation. 
In  these  stars  of  earth, — these  golden  (lowers. 

And  the  poet,  faithful  and  far-seeing, 
Sees,  alike  in  stars  and  flowers,  a  part 

Of  the  self-same  universal  being, 
Which  is  throbbing  in  his  brain  and  heart. 

Gorgeous  flowerets  in  the  sunlight  shining, 
Blossoms  Haunting  in  the  eye  of  day, 

Tremulous  leaves,  with  soft  and  silver  lining, 
Buds  that  open  only  to  decay  ; 

Brilliant  hopes,  all  woven  in  gorgeous  tissues, 
Flaunting  gaily  in  the  golden  light ; 

Large  desires,  with  most  uncertain  issues, 
Tender  wishes,  blossoming  at  night ! 

These  in  flower,  and  men  are  more  than  seeming  ; 

Workings  are  they  of  the  self-same  powers, 
Which  the  poet,  in  no  idle  dreaming, 

Seeth  in  himself  and  in  the  flowers. 

Everywhere  about  us  are  they  glowing, 
Some  like  stars,  to  tell  us  Spring  is  born : 

Others,  their  blue  eyes  with  tears  o'erflowing, 
Stand  like  Ruth  amid  the  golden  corn ; 

Not  alone  in  Spring's  armorial  bearing, 
And  in  Summer's  green  emblazoned  field ; 

But  in  arms  of  brave  old  Autumn's  wearing, 
In  the  centre  of  his  brazen  shield ; 

Not  alone  in  meadows  and  green  alleys, 
On  the  mountain-top,  and  by  the  brink 

Of  sequestered  pools  in  woodland  valleys, 
Where  the  slaves  of  Nature  stoop  to  drink ; 

Not  alone  in  her  vast  dome  of  glory, 
Not  on  graves  of  bird  and  beast  alone, 

But  in  old  cathedrals,  high  and  hoary, 
Or  the  tombs  of  heroes,  carved  in  stone  ; 

In  the  cottage  of  the  rudest  peasant, 
In  ancestral  homes,  whose  crumbling  towers 

Speaking  of  the  Past  unto  the  Present, 
Tell  us  of  the  ancient  Games  of  Flowers ; 

In  all  places,  then,  and  in  all  seasons, 
Flowers  expand  their  light  and  soul-like  wings, 


■ 


10 


.LOW'S  POEMS. 


Teaching  us,  by  most  persuasive  reasons, 
How  akin  they  are  to  human  things. 

And  with  childlike,  credulous  affection, 
We  behold  their  tender  buds  expand; 
Emblems  of  our  own  great  resurred 

Emblems  of  the  bright  and  better  laud. 


m 


THE  BELEAGUERED  CITY. 

I  have  read,  in  some  old  marvellous  tale. 
Some  legend  strange  and  vague, 

That  a  midnight  host  of  spectres  pale 
Beleaguered  the  walls  of  Prague. 

Beside  the  Moldau's  rushing  stream, 
With  the  wan  moon  overhead, 

There  stood,  as  in  an  awful  dream, 
The  army  of  the  dead. 

White  as  a  sea-fog,  landward  bound, 

The  spectral  camp  was  seen, 
And,  with  a  sorrowful,  deep  sound, 

The  river  flowed  between. 

No  other  voiee  nor  sound  was  there. 

No  drum,  nor  sentry's  pace  ; 
The  mist-like  banners  clasped  the  air, 

As  clouds  with  clouds  embrace. 

But,  when  the  old  cathedral-bell 
Proclaimed  the  morning  prayer, 

The  white  pavilions  rose  and  fell 
On  the  alarmed  air. 

Down  the  broad  valley  fast  and  far 

The  troubled  army  tied  ; 
Up  rose  the  glorious  morning  star, 

The  ghastly  host  was  dead  ! 

I  have  read,  in  the  marvellous  heart  of  man, 
That  strange  and  mystic  scroll, 

That  an  army  of  phantoms,  vast  and  wan, 
Beleaguer  the  human  soul. 

Encamped  beside  Life's  rushing  stream, 
In  Fancy's  misty  light, 

Gigantic  shapes  and  shadows  gleam 
Portentous  through  the  night. 


VOICES  OF  THK  iMUUT. 


11 


Upon  its  midnight  battle-ground 

The  spectral  camp  is  .seen, 
And,  with  a  sorrowful  deep  .sound, 

Flows  the  River  of  Life  between. 

No  other  voice  nor  sound  is  there, 

In  the  army  of  the  grave  ; 
No  other  challenge  breaks  the  air, 

But  the  rushing  of  Life's  wave. 

And  when  the  solemn  and  deep  church-bell, 

Entreats  the  soul  to  pray, 
The  midnight  phantoms  feel  the  spell, 

The  shadows  sweep  away. 

Down  the  broad  Vale  of  Tears  afar 

The  spectral  camp  is  fled ; 
Faith  shhieth  as  a  morning  star, 

Our  ghastly  fears  are  dead. 


B  m 


Ifc,. 


MIDNIGHT  MASS  FOR  THE  DYING  YEAR. 

Yes,  the  year  is  growing  old, 
And  his  eye  is  pale  and  bleared .' 

Death,  with  frosty  hand  and  cold, 
Plucks  the  old  man  by  the  beard. 
Sorely, — sorely ! 

The  leaves  are  falling,  falling, 

Solemnly  and  slow  ; 
Caw  !  caw  !  the  rooks  are  calling  ; 

It  is  a  sound  of  woe  ! 
A  sound  of  woe  ! 

Through  woods  and  mountain  passes 
The  winds,  like  anthems,  roll ; 

They  are  chanting  solemn  masses, 
Singing,  "  Pray  for  this  poor  soul 
Pray ,—  pray  !" 

And  the  hooded  clouds,  like  friars. 

Tell  their  beads  in  drops  of  rain, 
And  patter  their  doleful  prayers  ; — 

But  their  prayers  are  all  in  vaui, 
All  in  vain  ! 

There  he  stands  in  the  foul  weather, 
The  foolish,  fond  Old  Year, 


K 


12 


LONGFELLOW 


Crowned  with  wild  flowers  and  with  heather, 
Like  weak  despised  Lear, 
A  king,    a  king  ! 

Then  comes  the  summer-like  day, 

Bids  the  old  man  rejoice  ! 
His  joy  !  his  last !  Oh,  the  old  man  gray 

Loveth  that  ever-soft  voice, 
Gentle  and  low. 

To  the  crimson  woods  he  saith,— 

To  the  voice  gentle  and  low 
Of  the  soft  air,  like  a  daughter's  breatb;  — 

"  Pray  do  not  mock  me  so  ! 
l)o  not  laugh  at  me  !" 

And  now  the  sweet  day  is  deed- 
Cold  in  his  arms  it  lies  ; 

No  stain  from  its  breath  is  spread 
Over  the  glassy  skies, 
No  mist  or  stain  ! 

Then,  too,  the  Old  Year  dieth, 
And  the  forests  utter  a  moan, 

Like  the  voice  of  one  who  crieth 
In  the  wilderness  alone, 
"  Vex  not  his  ghost !" 

Then  comes,  with  an  awful  roai 

Gathering  and  sounding  on, 
The  storm -wind  from  Labrador, 

The  wind  Euroclydon, 

The  storm-wind  ! 

llowl !  howl  !  and  from  the  forest 

Sweep  the  red  leaves  away  ! 
Would  the  sins  that  thou  abhorrest. 

0  Soul !  could  thus  decay, 
And  be  swept  away  ! 

For  there  shall  come  a  mightier  blast. 

There  shall  be  a  darker  day ; 
And  the  stars,  from  heaven  down  caat 
Like  red  leaves  be  swept  away  ; 
Kyrie,  eleison ! 
Christe,  eleison ! 


EARLIER  POEMS 


[These  Poems  were  written,  for  the  most  part,  during  my  College  life 
and  all  of  them  before  the  age  of  nineteen.  Some  have  found  their  way 
into  schools,  and  seem  to  he  sueeessful.  Others  lead  a  vagabond  and  pre- 
carious existence  in  the  corners  of  newspapers;  or  have  changed  their 
names,  and  run  away  to  seek  their  fortunes  beyond  the  sea,  I  say,  with 
the  Bishop  of  Avranches  on  a  similar  occasion,  "I  cannot  be  displeased 
to  see  these  children  of  mine  which  I  have  neglected,  and  almost  exposed, 
brought  from  their  wanderings  in  lanes  and  alleys,  and  safely  lodged,  ic 
order  to  go  forth  into  the  world  together  in  a  more  decorous  garb."] 

AN  APRIL  DAY. 

When  the  warm  sun  that  brings 
Seed-time  and  harvest,  has  returned  again, 
'Tis  sweet  to  visit  the  still  wood,  where  springs 

The  first  flower  of  the  plain. 

I  love  the  season  well, 
When  forest  glades  are  teeming  with  bright  forms, 
Nor  dark  and  many-folded  clouds  foretell 

The  coming  on  of  storms. 

From  the  earth's  loosened  mould 
The  sapling  draws  its  sustenance,  and  thrives  ; 
Though  stricken  to  the  heart  with  winter's  cold, 

The  drooping  tree  revives. 

The  softly  warbled  song 
Comes  from  the  pleasant  woods,  and  coloured  wings 
Glance  quick  in  the  bright  sun,  that  moves  along 

The  forest  openings. 

When  the  bright  sunset  fills 
The  silver  woods  with  light,  the  green  slope  throws 
Its  shadows  in  the  hollows  of  the  hills, 

And  wide  the  upland  glows. 

And,  when  the  eve  is  born, 
In  the  blue  lake  the  sky,  o'er-reaching  far, 
Is  hollowed  out,  and  the  moon  dips  her  horn, 

And  twinkles  many  a  star.  b 


ill 


14 


LOKGJCELLOW  B  iOKMs. 


Inverted  in  the  tide, 
Stand  the  grey  r<  icks,  and  trembling  shadows  throw, 
And  the  fair  trees  look  over,  .side  by  side, 

And  see  themselves  below. 

Sweet  April  ! — many  a  thought 
Is  wedded  unto  thee,  as  hearts  are  wed  ; 
Nor  shall  they  lad,  till,  to  its  autumn  hicughfc 

Lite's  golden  fruit  is  shed. 


AUTUMN. 

With  what  a  glory  comes  and  goes  the  year  [ 
The  buds  of  spring,  those  beautiful  harbingers 
Of  sunny  skies  and  cloudless  times,  enjoy 
Life's  newness,  and  earth's  garniture  spread  ojI  ; 
Ami  when  the  silver  habit  of  the  clouds 
Comes  down  upon  the  autumn  sun,  and  with 
A  sober  gladness  the  old  year  takes  up 
His  bright  inheritance  of  golden  fruits, 
A  pomp  and  pageant  fill  the  splendid  scene. 

There  is  a  beautiful  spirit  breathing  now 
Its  mellow  richness  on  the  clustered  trees, 
And,  from  a  beaker  full  of  richest  dyes, 
Pouring  new  glory  on  the  autumn  woods, 
And  dipping  in  warm  light  the  pillared  clouds. 
Morn,  on  the  mountain,  like  a  summer  bird, 
Lifts  up  her  purple  wing ;  and  in  the  vales 
The  gentle  wind,  a  sweet  and  passionate  wooer, 
Kisses  the  blushing  leaf,  and  stirs  up  life 
"Within  the  solemn  woods  of  ash  deep-crimsoned, 
And  silver  beech,  and  maple  yellow-leaved, 
Where  Autumn,  like  a  faint  old  man,  sits  down 
By  the  wayside  a- weary.     Through  the  trees 
The  golden  robin  moves.     The  purple  finch, 
That  on  wild  cherry  and  red  cedar  feeds, 
A  winter  bird,  comes  with  its  plaintive  whistle, 
And  pecks  by  the  witch-hazel ;  whilst  aloud 
From  cottage  roofs  the  warbling  blue-bird  sings; 
And  merrily,  with  oft-repeated  stroke, 
Sounds  from  the  thrashing-floor  the  busy  flail 

0  what  a  glory  doth  this  world  put  on 
For  him  who,  with  a  fervent  heart,  goes  forth 


iiri» 


1.. Mil. IKK  l'OKMS. 


1C 


Under  the  bright  and  glorious  sky,  and  !■ 

On  duties  well  performed,  and  days  well  spent] 

For  him  the  wind,  ay,  and  the  yellow  haves, 

Shall  have  a  Voice,  ami  give  him  eloquent  teachings ; 
lie  shall  SO  hear  the  solemn  hymn,  that  .Death 
lias  lifted  up  fur  all,  that  he  shall  go 
To  his  long-resting-place  without  a  tear. 


WOODS  IN  WINTER. 

When  winter  winds  are  piercing  chill, 
And  through  the  hawthorn  blows  the  gale, 

With  solemn  feet  I  tread  the  hill, 
That  overbrows  the  lonely  vale. 

O'er  the  bare  upland,  and  away 
Through  the  long  reach  of  desert  woods, 

The  embracing  sunbeams  chastely  play, 
And  gladden  these  deep  solitudes. 

Where,  twisted  round  the  barren  oak, 
The  summer  vine  in  beauty  clung, 

And  summer  winds  the  stillness  broke, 
The  crystal  icicle  is  hung. 

Where,  from  their  frozen  urns,  mute  springs 
Pour  out  the  river's  gradual  tide, 

Shrilly  the  skater's  iron  rings, 
And  voices  fill  the  woodland  side. 

Alas !  how  changed  from  the  fair  scene, 
When  birds  sang  out  then-  mellow  lay, 

And  winds  were  soft,  and  woods  were  green, 
And  the  song  ceased  not  with  the  day. 

13ut  still  wild  music  is  abroad, 

Pale,  desert  woods  !  within  your  crowd ; 
And  gathering  winds,  in  hoarse  accord, 

Amid  the  vocal  reeds  pipe  loud. 

Chill  airs  and  wintry  winds  !  my  ear 
Has  grown  familiar  with  your  sung; 

I  hear  it  in  the  opening  year, — 
I  libten,  and  it  cheers  me  lona:. 


3 

•i 


9 


■*m 


HYMN  OF  THE  MORAVIAN  NUNS 
OF  BETHLEHEM 

AT   TIIE    CONSECRATION    OF    PULASKl'fl    BANNEH. 

When  the  dying  flame  of  day 
Through  the  chancel  shot  its  ray, 
Far  the  glimmering  tapers  shed 
Faint  light  on  the  cowled  head: 
And  the  censer  burning  swung, 
Where,  before  the  altar,  hung 
The  blood-red  tenner,  that  with  prayer 
Had  been  consecrated  there. 
And  the  nuns'  sweet  prayer  was  heard  the  wliiie: 
Sung  low  in  the  dim,  mysterious  aisle  : — 

"  Take  thy  banner  !  May  it  wave 
Proudly  o'er  the  good  and  brave, 
When  the  battle's  distant  wail 

Breaks  the  Sabbath  of  our  vale  ; 
When  the  clarion's  music  thrills 
To  the  hearts  of  these  lone  hills  ; 
When  the  spear  in  conflict  shakes, 
And  the  strong  lance  shivering  breaks. 

"Take  thy  banner!  and,  beneath 
The  battle-clouds'  encircling  wreath, 
Guard  it ! — till  our  homes  are  free  ! 
Guard  it ! — God  will  prosper  thee  ! 
Id  the  dark  and  trying  hour, 
In  the  breaking  forth  of  power, 
In  the  rush  of  steeds  and  men, 
His  right  hand  will  slueld  thee  then. 

M  Take  thy  banner !     But,  when  uight 
Closes  round  the  ghastly  right, 
If  the  vanquished  warrior  bow, 
Spare  him  ! — By  our  holy  vow, 
By  our  prayers  and  many  tears, 
By  the  mercy  that  endears, 
Spare  him — he  our  love  hath  shared  ! 
Spare  him  ! — as  thou  wouldst  be  spared 


u  Take  thy  banner  ! — and  if  e'er 
Thou  shouldst  press  the  soldier's  bier, 
And  the  inutile 


KAIM.UUt    FORMS. 


17 


To  the  tread  of  mournful  feet, 
Then  this  crimson  flag  shall  he 
Martial  cloak  ami  shroud  lor  thee." 

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


.1 


SUNRISE  ON  THE  HILLS. 

I  stoop  upon  the  hills,  when  heaven's  wide  arch 

Was  glorious  with  the  sun's  returning  march, 

And  woods  were  brightened,  and  soft  gales 

Went  forth  to  kiss  the  sun-clad  vales. 

The  clouds  were  far  beneath  me  ; — bathed  in  light, 

They  gathered  mid-way  round  the  wooded  height, 

And  in  their  fading  glory,  shone 

Like  hosts  in  battle  overthrown, 

As  many  a  pinnacle,  with  shifting  glance, 

Through  the  gray  mist  thrust  up  its  shattered  lance, 

And  rocking  on  the  cliff  was  left 

The  dark  pine,  blasted,  bare,  and  cleft. 

The  veil  of  cloud  was  lifted,  and  below 

Glowed  the  rich  valley,  and  the  river's  flow 

Was  darkened  by  the  forest's  shade, 

Or  glistened  in  the  white  cascade  ; 

Where  upward,  in  the  mellow  blush  of  day, 

The  noisy  bittern  wheeled  his  spiral  way. 

I  heard  the  distant  waters  dash, 
I  saw  the  current  whirl  and  flash, — 
And  richly,  by  the  blue  lake's  silver  beach, 
The  wToods  were  bending  with  a  silent  reach. 
Then  o'er  the  vale,  with  gentle  swell, 
The  music  of  the  village  bell 
Came  sweetly  to  the  echo-giving  hills  ; 
And  the  wild  horn,  whose  voice  the  woodland  fills, 
Was  ringing  to  the  merry  shout, 
'That  faint  and  far  the  glen  sent  out, 
Where,  answering  to  the  sudden  shot,  thin  smoke, 
Through  thick-leaved  branches,  from  the  dingle  broke. 

If  thou  art  worn  and  hard  beset 
With  sorrows  that  thou  wouldst  forget, 
If  thou  wouldst  read  a  lesson,  that  will  keep 
Thy  heart  from  fainting  and  thy  soul  from  sleep, 


~v 


f 


1« 


LOXOFELLOW  =>    POEM*. 


4  1 


Go  to  the  woods  and  hilN  irs 

Dim  the  sweet  look  that  Nature  wears. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  POETRY. 

There  is  a  quiet  spirit  in  these  woods, 
That  dwells  where'er  the  gentle  south  wind  Mows ; 
Where,  underneath  the  whitethorn  in  the  glade, 
The  wild  flowers  bloom,  or  kissing  the  soft  air, 
The  leaves  above  their  sunny  palms  outspread. 
With  what  a  tender  and  impassioned  voice 
It  tills  the  nice  and  delicate  ear  of  thought, 
When  the  fast  ushering  star  of  Morning  conies 
O'er-riding  the  gray  hills  with  golden  scarf; 
Or  when  the  cowled  and  dusky-sandalled  Eve, 
In  mourning  weeds,  from  out  the  western  gate, 
Departs  with  silent  pace  !     That  spirit  moves 
In  the  green  valley,  where  the  silver  brook, 
From  its  full  laver,  pours  the  white  cascade ; 
And,  babbling  low  amid  the  tangled  woods, 
Slips  down  through  moss-grown  stones  with  endless 

laughter. 
And  frequent,  on  the  everlasting  hills, 
Its  feet  go  forth,  when  it  doth  wrap  itself 
In  all  the  dark  embroidery  of  the  storm, 
And  shouts  the  stern,  strong  wind.   And  here,  amid 
The  silent  majesty  of  these  deep  woods, 
Its  presence  shall  uplift  thy  thoughts  from  earth, 
As  to  the  sunshine  and  the  pure  bright  air 
Their  tops  the  green  trees  lift.   Hence  gifted  bards 
Have  ever  loved  the  calm  and  quiet  shades. 
For  them  there  was  an  eloquent  voice  in  all 
The  sylvan  pomp  of  woods,  the  golden  sun, 
The  flowers,  the  leaves,  the  river  on  its  way, 
Blue  skies,  and  silver  clouds,  and  gentle  winds, — 
The  swelling  upland,  where  the  sidelong  sun 
Aslant  the  wooded  slope,  at  evening,  ^oc^} — 
Groves,  through  whose  broken  roof  the  sky  looks  in, 
Mountain,  and  shattered  cliff,  and  sunny  vale, 
The  distant  lake,  fountains,  and  mighty  trees, 
In  many  a  lazy  syllable,  repeating 
Their  old  poetic  legends  to  the  wind. 


r 


KAIlMRTt   P0EM8. 


10 


And  this  is  the  sweet  spirit,  that  doth  fill 
The  world  ;  and,  in  these  wayward  days  of  youth, 
My  busy  fancy  oft  embodies  it, 
As  a  bright  image  of  the  light  and  beauty 
That  dwell  in  nature, — of  the  heavenly  forms 
"We  worship  in  our  dreams,  and  the  soft  hues 
That  stain  the  wild  bird's  wing,  and  tlush  the  clouds 
When  the  sun  sets.    Within  her  eye 
The  heaven  of  April,  with  its  changing  light, 
And  when  it  wears  the  blue  of  May,  is  hung  ; 
And  on  her  lip  the  rich,  red  rose.     Her  hair 
Is  like  the  summer  tresses  of  the  trees, 
When  twilight  makes  them  brown ;  and  on  her  cheek 
Blushes  the  richness  of  an  autumn  sky, 
With  ever-shifting  beauty.     Then  her  breath  ! 
It  is  so  like  the  gentle  air  of  Spring, 
As,  from  the  morning's  dewy  flowers,  it  comes 
Full  of  their  fragrance,  that  it  is  a  joy 
To  have  it  round  us, — and  her  silver  voice 
Is  the  rich  music  of  a  summer  bird, 
Heard  in  the  still  night,  with  its  passionate  cadence. 


fc* 


*a 


BURIAL  OF  THE  MINNISINK. 

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

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

But  soon  a  funeral  hymn  was  heard, 
Where  the  soft  breath  of  evening  stirred 
The  tall,  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. 


V 


They  Bang,  thftt  by  its  native  bower* 
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, 
iSo  died  lie  in  thu.se  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  drass. 
Uncurbed,  unreined,  and  riderless, 
With  darting  eye,  and  nostril  spread. 
Ami  heavy  and  impatient  tread, 
lie  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  !     <  hie  piercing  neigb 
Arose, — and,  on  the  dead  man's  plain, 
The  rider  grasps  his  steed  again ! 


•: 


■ 


k 


m 


POEMS  ON  SLAVERY. 


[TriF.  following  rooms,  with  one  exception,  were  written  at  sea,  in  tha 
latter  part  of  October  1842.  1  had  not  then  heard  of  I)r  Channing's  death. 
Since  that  event  the  poem  addressed  to  him  is  no  longer  appropriate.  £ 
have  decided,  however,  to  let  it  remain  as  it  was  written,  a  feeble  testimony 
~>f  my  admiration  for  a  great  and  good  man.] 

TO  WILLIAM  E.  CHANNING. 

The  pages  of  thy  book  I  read, 

And  as  I  closed  each  one, 
My  heart,  responding,  ever  said, 

"  Servant  of  God,  well  done !" 

Well  done !  thy  words  are  great  and  bold  ; 

At  times  they  seem  to  me 
Like  Luther's,  in  the  days  of  old, 

lialf-battles  for  the  free. 

Go  on,  until  this  land  revokes 

The  old  and  chartered  lie, 
The  feudal  curse,  whose  whips  and  yokes 

Insult  humanity. 

A  voice  is  ever  at  thy  side, 

Speaking  in  tones  of  might, 
Like  the  prophetic  voice  that  cried 

To  John  in  Patmos,  "Write!" 

Write !  and  tell  out  this  bloody  tale ; 

llecord  this  dire  eclipse, 
This  lay  of  wrath,  this  endless  wail, 

This  dread  Apocalypse ! 


THE  SLAVE'S  DREAM. 

BraiDE  the  ungathered  rice  he  lay, 

His  sickle  iu  his  hand  ; 
His  breast  was  barn,  Id's  matted  hair 
Was  buried  in  the  sand. 


22 


LOXOFKT.LOW 


Again,  in  the  mist  and  shadow  of  sleep, 
He  saw  his  native  land. 

Wide  through  the  landscape  of  his  dream* 

The  lordly  Niger  flowed  ; 
Beneath  the  palm  trees  on  the  plain 

Once  nn»re  a  lung  he  strode, 
And  heard  the  tinkling  caravans 

Descend  the  mountain- road. 

He  saw  once  more  his  dark-eyed  queen 

Among  her  children  stand  ; 
They  clasped  his  neck,  they  kissed  his  cheeks. 

They  held  him  by  the  hand ! 
A  tear  burst  from  the  sleeper's  lids, 

And  fell  into  the  sand. 

And  then  at  furious  speed  he  rode 

Along  the  Niger's  bank  ; 
His  bridle  reins  wore  golden  chains, 

And,  with  a  martial  clank, 
At  each  leap  he  could  feel  his  scabbard  of  steel 

Smiting  his  stallion's  flank. 

Before  him,  like  a  blood-red  flag, 

The  bright  flamingoes  flew  ; 
From  morn  till  night  he  followed  their  flight, 

O'er  plains  where  the  tamarind  grew, 
Till  he  saw  the  roofs  of  Caffre  huts, 

And  the  ocean  rose  to  view. 

At  night  he  heard  the  lion  roar, 

And  the  hysena  scream, 
And  the  river-horse,  as  he  crushed  the  reeds 

Beside  some  hidden  stream  ; 
And  it  passed,  like  a  glorious  roll  of  drums, 

Through  the  triumph  of  his  dream. 

The  forests,  with  their  myriad  tongues, 

Shouted  of  liberty ; 
And  the  Blast  of  the  Desert  cried  aloud, 

With  a  voice  so  wild  and  free, 
That  he  started  m  his  sleep  and  smiled 

At  their  tempestuous  glee. 


He  did  not  feel  the  driver's  whip, 
Nor  the  burning  heat  of  day ; 


ON  PLAVERT. 


2? 


For  Death  had  illumined  the  Land  of  Sleep, 
And  his  lifeless  body  lay 

A  worn-out  fetter,  that  the  soul 
Had  broken  and  thrown  away! 


THE  GOOD  PART  THAT  SHALL  NOT  BE 
TAKEN  AWAY. 

She  dwells  by  great  Kenhawa's  side, 

In  valleys  green  and  cool ; 
And  all  her  hope  and  all  her  pride 

Are  in  the  village  school. 

Her  soul,  like  the  transparent  air 

That  robes  the  hills  above, 
Though  not  of  earth,  encircles  there 

All  things  with  arms  of  love. 

And  thus  she  walks  among  her  girls, 
With  praise  and  mild,  rebukes  : 

Subduing  e'en  rude  village  churls 
By  her  angelic  looks. 

She  reads  to  them  at  eventide 

Of  One  who  came  to  save  ; 
To  cast  the  captive's  chains  aside, 

And.  liberate  the  slave. 

And  oft  the  blessed  time  foretells 

When  all  men  shall  be  free, 
And  musical  as  silver  bells 

Their  falling  chains  shall  be. 

And  following  her  beloved  Lord 

In  decent  poverty, 
She  makes  her  life  one  sweet  record 

And  deed  of  charity. 

For  she  was  rich,  and  gave  up  all 

To  break  the  iron  bands 
Of  those  who  waited  in  her  hall, 

And  laboured  in  her  lands. 

Long  since  beyond  the  Southern  Sea, 
Their  outbound  sails  have  sped, 

While  she,  in  meek  humility, 
Now  earns  her  dailv  bread. 


M 


& 


24 


•heir  prayers,  which  never  cease, 
That  clothe  her  frith  such  gjra 
Their  blessing  ii  the  light  of  pe 

That  shines  upon  her  face. 


THE  SLAVE  IN  THE  DISMAL  SWAMP. 

Lv  dark  fens  of  the  Dismal  Swamp 

The  hunted  Negro  lay  ; 
He  saw  the  tire  of  the  midnight  camp, 

And  heani  at  times  a  horse's  tramp, 
And  a  bloodhound's  distant  hay. 

Where  Will-o'-the-wisps  and  glowworms  slJne 

In  bulrush  and  in  hrake ; 
Where  waving  mosses  shroud  the  pine, 
And  the  cedar  grows,  and  the  poisonous  vine 

Is  spotted  like  the  snake  ; 

Where  hardly  a  human  foot  could  pass, 

Or  a  human  neart  would  dare, 
On  the  quaking;  turf  of  the  green  morass 
He  crouched  in  the  rank  and  tangled  grass, 

Like  a  wild  heast  in  his  lair. 

A  poor  old  slave,  infirm  and  lame, 

Great  scars  deformed  his  fare  ; 
On  Ins  forehead  he  bore  the  brand  of  shame, 
And  the  rags  that  hid  his  mangled  frame 

Were  the  livery  of  di 

All  things  above  wore  bright  and  fair, 

All  things  were  glad  and  free  ; 
Lithe  squirrels  darted  here  and  there, 
And  wild  birds  filled  the  echoing  air 

With  songs  of  Liberty  ! 

On  him  alone  was  the  doom  of  pain, 
From  the  morning  of  his  birth  : 

On  him  alone  the  curse  of  Cain 
Fell,  like  a  Hail  on  the  garnered  grain. 
And  struck  him  to  the  earth  ! 


UN  tiLAVKRV. 


26 


fj 


THE  SLAVE  SINGING  AT  MIDNIGHT. 

Loud  he  sang  the  Psalm  of  David  ! 
lie,  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-gv.tes  at  night. 

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


,1 


I 


THE  WITNESSES. 

In  Ocean's  wide  domains, 
Half  buried  in  the  sands, 

Lie  skeletons  in  chains, 
With  shackled  feet  and  hands. 

Beyond  the  fall  of  dews, 
Deeper  than  plummet  lies, 

'  ships,  with  all  their  crews. 
No  more  to.  sink  nor  rise 


ati 


L0NU1 •Ll.l.oW'.s  P0J2M*. 


■ 


There  the  black  slave-ship  swiins, 
Freighted  with  human  forms, 

\\  hose  fettered,  fleshless  iimbs 
Are  not  the  sport  of  store 

These  are  the  hones  of  Slaves; 

They  gleam  from  the  abyss  ; 
They  cry,  from  yawning  wa 

"  We  are  the  Witnesses!" 

Within  Earth's  wide  domains 
Are  markets  for  men's  lives; 

Their  necks  are  galled  with  chains, 
Their  wrists  are  cramped  with  gyves. 

Dead  bodies,  that  the  kite 

In  deserts  makes  its  prey  ; 
Murders,  that  with  affright 

Scare  schoolboys  from  their  play 

All  evil  thoughts  and  deeds  ; 

Anger,  and  lust,  and  pride  ; 
The  foulest,  rankest  weeds, 

That  choke  Life's  groaning  tide : 

These  are  the  wroes  of  Slaves ; 

They  glare  from  the  abyss  ; 
They  cry,  from  unknown  graves, 

"We  are  the  Witnesses!" 


■- 


X: 


THE  QUADROON  GIRL. 

The  Slaver  in  the  broad  lagoon 
Lay  moored,  with  idle  sail ; 

He  waited  for  the  rising  moon 
And  for  the  evening  gale. 

Under  the  shore  his  boat  was  tied, 

And  all  her  listless  crew 
Watched  the  gray  alligator  slide 

Into  the  still  bayou. 

Odours  of  orange-llowers  and  spice 
Reached  them  from  time  to  time, 

Like  airs  tlult  breathe  from  Paradise 
Upon  a  world  of  crime. 


'  ** 


ON  SLAVKUY. 


X 


■ 

I 


The  Planter,  under  his  roof  of  thatch, 
Smoked  thoughtfully  and  slow; 

The  Slaver's  thumb  was  on  the  latch, 
He  seemed  in  haste  to  go. 

He  Baid,  "  My  ship  at  anchor  rides 

Jn  yonder  broad  lagoon  ; 
I  only  wait  the  evening  tides, 

And  the  rising  of  the  moon." 

Before  them,  with  her  face  upraised, 

In  timid  attitude, 
Like  one  half  curious,  half  amazed, 

A  Quadroon  maiden  stood. 

Her  eyes  were  large  and  full  of  light, 

Her  arms  and  neck  were  bare  ; 
No  garment  she  wore  save  a  kirtle  bright 

And  her  own  long  raven  hair. 

And  on  her  lips  there  played  a  smile 

As  holy,  meek,  and  faint, 
As  lights,  in  some  cathedral  aisle, 

The  features  of  a  saint. 

i4  The  soil  is  barren,  the  farm  is  old," 

The  thoughtful  Planter  said  ; 
Then  looked  upon  the  Slaver's  gold, 

And  then  upon  the  maid. 

His  heart  within  him  was  at  strife 

With  such  accursed  gains, 
For  he  knew  whose  passions  gave  her  life, 

Whose  blood  ran  in  her  veins. 

But  the  voice  of  nature  was  too  weak  ; 

He  took  the  glittering  gold  ! 
Then  pale  as  death  grew  the  maiden's  cheek, 

Her  hands  as  icy  cold. 

The  Slaver  led  her  from  the  door, 

lie  led  her  by  the  hand, 
To  be  his  slave  and  paramour 

In  a  strange  and  distant  land  ! 


■ia 


l.u.NGlfKLLOW'B  i'OKMS. 


THE  WARNING. 

BewaBI  !  the  Israelite  of  old,  who  tore 

The  lion  in  Iih  path, — when,  poor  and  blind, 

11    saw  the  blessed  Light  of  heaven  do  more, 
Shorn  of  his  noble  strength,  and  forced  to  grind 

In  prison,  and  at  List  led  forth  to  be 
A  pander  to  Philistine  revelry, — 

Upon  the  pillars  of  the  temple  laid 

His  desperate  hands,  and  m  its  overthrow 

Destroyed  himself,  and  with  him  those  who  made 
A  cruel  mockery  of  his  sightless  woe  ; 

The  poor  blind  Slave,  the  scoff  and  jest  of  all, 

Expired,  and  thousands  perished  in  the  fall ! 

There  is  a  poor  blind  Samson  in  this  land, 

Shorn  of  his  strength,  and  bound  in  bonds  of  steel 

Who  may,  in  some  grim  revel,  raise  his  hand, 
And  shake  the  pillars  of  this  Commonweal, 

Till  the  vast  temple  of  our  liberties 

A  shnpeless  mass  of  wreck  and  rubbish  lies ! 


, 


Til  E  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


'  What's  done  we  partly  may  compute, 
Hut  know  not  what's  resisted." — Burns. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

*£!££  }  Students  of  AlcaM* 

The  Count  of  Lara,    )  „     .,  .  «,    , , 

DonCaulos,  J"  Gentlemen  0/ Madrid. 

Thb  Abchbibhop  of  Toledo 
A  Cardinal. 

Beltran  Cruzado,    Count  of  the  Gipsies. 

Baktolome  Roman,  A  young  Gipsy. 

The  Padre  Cuua  of  Gladakrama. 

Pedko  Ckespo Alcalde. 

Pancho,    Alguacil 

Francisco,  Lara's  Servant. 

Cui6i>A, Victorian's  Servant 

Baltasab Innkeeper. 

Peeciosa, A  Gipsy  girl. 

Angelica, A  poor  girl 

Martini,   ThePadre Cura'sniece. 

Dolores,  Preciosa's  maid. 

Gipsies,  Musicians,  <bc 

ACT  I. 

Scene  1. — The  Count  of  Lara's  chambers.  Night.  The 
Count  in  his  d/ressing-govm,  smoking  and  conversing 
with  Don  Carlos. 

Lara.    You  were  not  at  the  play  to-night,  Don  Carlos; 
How  happened  it  I 

Don  Carlos.        I  had  engagements  elsewhere. 
Piay,  who  was  there  I 

Lara.  Why,  all  the  town  and  court- 

The  house  was  crowded  ;  and  the  busy  fans 
Araorg  the  gaily  dressed  and  perfumed  ladies 
Fluttered  like  butterflies  among  the  flowers. 
There  was  the  Countess  of  Medina  Celi; 
The  Goblin  Lady  with  her  Phantom  Lorer, 
Her  Lindo  Don  Diego  ;  Donna  Sol, 
And  Donna  Serafina.  and  her  cousins.  c 


■ 


LoNOPKLLOW  8  l-<jElfB. 


I  ha  Carlos.    What  was  the  pla  • 

Lara.  It  was  a  dull  affair  ; 

One  of  those  comedies  in  which  you 
As  Lope  says,  the  history  of  the  world 
Brought  down  from  Genesis  to  the  J^ay  of  Judgment 
There  were  three  duels  fought  in  the  first  act, 
Three  gentlemen  receiving  deadly  wounds, 
Laying  their  hands  upon  their  hearts,  and  sa J 
"  Oh,  1  am  dead  !"  a  lover  in  a  closet, 
An  old  hidalgo  and  a  gay  Don  Juan, 
A  Donna  Inez  with  a  black  mantilla, 
Followed  at  twilight  by  an  unknown  lover, 
Who  looks  intently  where  he  knows  she  is  not! 

Don  Carlos.  Of  course,  the  Preciosa  danced  to-night  £ 

Lara.     And  never  better.     Every  footstep  tell 
As  lightly  as  a  sunbeam  on  the  water. 
1  think  cue  girl  extremely  beautiful. 

Don  Carlos.    Almost  beyond  the  privilege  of  woman  ! 
1  saw  her  in  the  Prado  yesterday. 
Her  step  was  royal,  queen-like, — and  her  face 
As  beautiful  as  a  saint's  in  Paradise. 

Lara,     May  not  a  saint  fall  from  her  Paradise, 
And  he  no  more  a  saint  .; 

Don  Carlos.  Why  do  you  ask  I 

Lara.     Because  I  have  heard  it  said  this  angel  fell, 
And,  though  she  is  a  virgin  outwardly, 
Within  she  is  a  sinner  ;  like  those  panels 
Of  doors  and  altar-pieces  the  old  monks 
Painted  in  convents,  with  the  Virgin  Mary 
On  the  outside,  and  on  the  inside  Venus  ! 

Hon  Carlos.  You  do  her  wrong:  indeed,  you  do  her  wrong 
She  is  as  virtuous  as  she  is  fair. 

Lara.     How  credulous  you  are  !   Why,  look  you,  friend 
There  s  not  a  virtuous  woman  in  Madrid, 
In  this  whole  city  !     And  would  you  persuade  me 
That  a  mere  dancing-girl,  who  shows  herself 
Nightly,  half-naked,  on  the  stage  for  money, 
And  with  voluptuous  motions  fires  the  blood 
Of  inconsiderate  youth,  is  to  be  held 
A  model  for  her  virtue  I 

Don  <  'ii;  You  forget 

She  is  a  Gipsy  girl. 

Lara  And  therefore  won 


riiv:  MAM-  ii   STUD!  N 


:;l 


Don  <  'arlos.    Nay.  nol  to  be  won  at  all ! 
rhe  only  virtue  thai  a  Gipsy  prizes 
Is  chastity.    That  is  her  only  virtue. 
Dearer  than  life  she  holds  it    I  remembei 
A  Gipsy  woman,  a  vile,  shameless  bawd, 
Whose  craft  was  to  betray  the  young  and  fair, 
Ami  yet  this  woman  was  above  all  bribes. 
Ami  when  a  noble  lord,  touched  by  her  beauty, 
The  wild  and  wizard  beauty  of  her  race, 
Offered  her  gold  to  he  what  she  made  others, 
She  turned  upon  him  with  a  look  of  scorn, 
And  smote  him  in  the  face  ! 

Lara.  And  docs  that  prove 

That  Preciosa  is  above  suspicion  l 

Doa  Carlos.  It  proves  a  nobleman  may  be  lepulsed. 
When  he  thinks  conquest  easy.     I  believe 
That  woman,  in  her  deepest  degradation, 
Holds  something  sacred,  something  undefiled, 
Some  pledge  and  keepsake  of  her  higher  nature, 
And,  like  the  diamond  in  the  dark,  retains 
Some  quenchless  gleam  of  the  celestial  light ! 

Lara.     Yet  Pr^ciosa  would  have  taken  the  gold. 

Don  Carlos  (rising).    I  do  not  think  so. 

Lara.  I  am  sure  of  it. 

But  why  this  haste  '.     Stay  yet  a  little  longer, 
And  fight  the  battles  of  your  Dulcinea. 

Don  Carlos.    'Tis  late.     I  must  begone  ;  for  if  I  stay 
\.v\\.  will  not  he  persuaded. 

Lara.  Yes  ;  persuade  me. 

Don  Carlos.     No  one  sO  deaf  as  he  who  will  not  hear  ! 

Lara.    No  one  so  blind  as  he  who  will  not  see  ! 

Don  C.  And  so  good  night.    I  wish  you  pleasant  dreams, 


And  Greater  faith  in  woman. 


Greater  faith  ! 
for  I  believe 
believe 

and  thereafter 


[Exit. 


Lara. 
I  have  the  greatest  faith 
Victorian  is  her  lover  ;    1 
That  1  shall  be  to-morrow 
Another,  and  another,  and  anotner, 
Chasing  each  other  through  her  zodiac, 
As  Taurus  chases  Aries. 

[Enter  Franoisco  with  a  Caslxt.)  Well,  Franeisco 
What  speed  with  Pretiosa  ! 

Fru.ucixco.  JSoiiC,  my  lord. 

She  sends  your  jewels  back,  and  bids  me  tell  VOU 


i 


She  is  not  to  be  purchased  by  your  gold. 
Lara,    Then  I  will  try  some  other  way  to  win  Lei. 

Pray,  dost  thou  know  Victorian  I 

Francisco.  Yes,  my  lord  ; 

I  saw  him  at  the  jeweller's  to-day. 

Lara.    "What  was  he  doing  there  ! 

Francisco.  1  saw  him  buy 

A  golden  ring  that  had  a  ruby  in  it. 

Lara.     Was  there  another  like  it ! 

Francisco.  One  so  like  it, 

I  could  not  choose  between  them. 

Lara.  It  is  well. 

To-morrow  morning  bring  that  ring  to  me. 
Do  not  forget.    Now  light  me  to  my  bed.  \_Kxeuni. 


SCENE  11. 

^1  Street  in  Madrid.    Enter  Chispa,  followed  by  musicians 
with  a  bagpipe,  guitars,  and  other  instruments. 

Chispa.    Abemuncio  Satanas!  and  a  plague  on  all  loven 

who  ramble  about  at  night,  drinking  the  elements,  instead 
of  sleeping  quietly  in  their  beds.  Every  dead  man  to  his 
cemetery,  say  I  ;  and  every  friar  to  his  monastery.  Now 
here's  my  master,  Victorian  ;  yesterday  a  cowkeeper,  and  to- 
day a  gentleman  ;  yesterday  a  student,  and  to-day  a  lover  ; 
and  1  must  be  up  later  than  the  nightingale ;  for  as  the  abbot 
sings,  so  must  the  sacristan  respond.  God  grant  he  may  soon 
he  married,  for  then  shall  all  this  serenading  cease.  Ay, 
marry !  marry  !  marry  !  "  Mother,  what  does  marry  mean  V' 
"  It  means  to  spin,  to  bear  children,  and  to  weep,  my 
daughter  !"  And,  of  a  truth,  there  is  something  more  in 
matrimony  than  the  wedding-ring.  [To  the  Musicians."] 
And  now,  gentleman,  Pax  vobiscum  !  as  the  ass  said  to  the 
cabbages.  Pray  walk  this  way,  and  don't  hang  down  your 
heads.  It  is  no  disgrace  to  have  an  old  father  and  a  ragged 
shirt.  Now,  look  you,  you  are  gentlemen  who  lead  the  life 
of  crickets  ;  you  enjoy  hunger  by  day  and  noise  by  night. 
Yet,  I  beseech  you,  for  this  once  be  not  loud,  but  pathetic  ; 
for  it  is  a  serenade  to  a  damsel  in  bed,  and  not  to  the  Man 
in  the  Moon.  Your  object  is  net  to  arouse  and  terrify,  but 
to  soothe  and  firing  lulling  dreams.  Therefore,  each  shall 
not  play  upon  his  instrument  as  if  it  were  the  only  one  iu 
the  universe,  but  gently,  and  with  a  certain  modest)',  accord- 
ing with  the  others.     Pray,  how  may  I  call  thy  name,  friend / 


— '-  ' 


-*  — — — - 


ACT  I .  J 


tin:  si-.w  \>BH1 


KJ 


First  Musician.    Geronimo  Gil,  at  your  service. 

ib  smells  of  the  wine  thai  is  in  it.    Pray, 
Geronimo,  is  not  Saturday  an  unpleasant  day  with  thee  ? 

First  Musician.     Why  so  '. 

Chispa.  Because  I  have  heard  it  said  that  Saturday  is  an 
unpleasant  day  with  those  who  have  hut  one  shirt.  More- 
over, I  have  seen  thee  at  the  tavern  ;  and  if  thou  canst  run 
as  fast  as  thou  canst  drink,  I  should  like  to  hunt  hares  with 
thee.    What  instrument  is  that  ? 

First  Musician.    An  Aragonese  bagpipe. 

■pa.  Pray,  art  thou  related  to  the  bagpiper  of  Buja- 
lance,  who  asked  a  maravedi  for  playing,  and  ten  for  leaving 
off/ 

First  Musician.    No,  your  honour. 

Ch  ispa.  I  am  glad  of  it.  W  hat  other  instruments  have  we ! 

Second  and  Third  Musicians.    We  play  the  bandurria. 

Chispa.     A  pleasing  instrument.     And  thou  '( 

Fourth  Musician.    The  fife. 

Chispa.  I  like  it;  it  has  a  cheerful,  soul-stirring  sound 
that  soars  up  to  my  lady's  window  like  the  song  of  a  swallow 
And  you  others  ? 

Other  Musicians.    We  are  the  singers,  please  your  honour. 

Chispa.  You  are  too  many.  Do  you  think  we  are  going 
to  sing  mass  in  the  cathedral  of  Cordova  1  Four  men  can 
make  but  little  use  of  one  shoe,  and  I  see  not  how  you  can 
all  sing  in  one  song.  But  follow  rne  along  the  garden  wall. 
That  is  the  way  my  master  climbs  to  the  lady's  window.  It 
is  by  the  vicar's  skirts  that  the  devil  climbs  into  the  belfry. 
Come,  follow  me,  and  make  no  noise.  \Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. 
Preciosa's  chamber.    She  stands  at  the  open  window. 
Predosa.   How  slowly  through  the  lilac-scented  air 
Descends  the  tranquil  moon  !    Like  thistle-down 
The  vapoury  clouds  float  in  the  peaceful  sky  ; 
And  sweetly  from  yon  hollow  vaults  of  shade 
The  nightingales  breathe  out  their  souls  in  song. 
And  hark  !  what  songs  of  love,  what  soul-like  sounds. 
Answer  them  from  below  ! 

SERENADE. 
Stars  of  the  summer  night! 

Far  In  yon  azure  deeps 
Hide,  hide  your  golden  light! 

She  sleeps! 
Stj  Lady  sleeps! 

Sleeps! 


■9H 


■ 


m 


34 


Moon  of  the  summer  night 

town  yon  western  streps. 
Sink,  sink  in  silver  ll£ht 

She  sleeps! 
My  Lad j 

SI'-  ■ 

Wind  of  the  rammer  night! 
•  yonder  woodb 

i.  fold  thy  pinions  light ! 
She  Ble<  pel 

My  Lady  sleeps! 

ips! 

Dreams  of  the  rammer  night] 

Tell  her  her  lover  keeps 
Watchl  while  In  slumbers  light 

She 
My  Lady  Bleeps! 

Sleeps! 

Enter  Victoria*  b>/  the  balcony. 
Victorian.     Poor  little  dove  !  thou  tremhlest  like  a  leaf  ' 

Preciosa.     I  am  so  frightened  !     'Tis  for  thee  1  tremble  .' 
1  hate  to  have  thee  climb  that  wall  by  night  ! 
Did  no  one  see  thee  '. 

Victorian.  None,  my  love,  but  thou. 

Preciosa.    'Tis  very  dangerous  ;  and  when  thou  art  gene 
T  chide  myself  for  letting  thee  come  here 
Thus  stealthily  by  night.    Where  hast  thou  been  ? 
Since  yesterday  1  have  no  news  from  thee. 

Victorian.     Since  yesterday  I  have  been  in  Alcala. 
Ere  long  the  time  will  come,  sweet  Preciosa, 
When  that  dull  distance  shall  no  more  dividi 
And  I  no  more  shall  scale  thy  wall  by  night 
To  steal  a  kiss  from  thee,  as  I  do  now. 

Preciosa.     An  honest  thief,  to  steal  but  what  thou  givest  I 

Victorian.     And  we  shall  sit  together  unmolested, 
And  words  of  true  love  pass  from  tongue  to  tongue, 
As  singing  birds  from  one  bough  to  another. 

Preciosa.    That  were  a  life  indeed  to  make  Time  envious 
I  knew  that  thou  wouldst  visit  me  to-night ; 
[  saw  thee  at  the  p 

I  "u  tori  Sweet  child  of  air ! 

Never  did  I  behold  thee  so  attired 
And  garmented  in  beauty  as  to-night ! 
What  hast  thou  done  to  make  thee  look  so  fair  ? 

Preciosa.     Am  I  not  always  fair  ? 

Victorian.  Ay,  ana  so  fair 

That  I  am  jealous  of  all  eyes  that  see  thee, 
^nd  wish  that  they  were  blind. 


•;# 


V."      '    EU*1 


^^ 


10T.  I.] 


Till:  BPANI8I1  BTUDBXT. 


35 


Precioaa.  I  heed  them  not ; 

When  thou  art  present  I  sco  none  but  thee  ! 

Victorian.    There's  nothing  fair  nor  beautiful  but  i 
Something  from  thee,  that  makes  it  beautiful. 

Precis  to.  And  yet  thou  leavest  me  for  those  dusty  books, 

Vict.    Thou  coiiiost  between  me  and  those  hooks  too  often  I 
thy  face  in  everything  I  see  ! 
The  paintings  in  the  chapel  wear  thy  looks, 
The  canticles  are  changed  to  sarabands, 
And  with  the  learned  doctors  of  the  schools 
I  see  thee  dance  cachuchas. 

Preciosa.  In  good  sooth, 

I  dance  with  learned  doctors  of  the  schools 
To-morrow  morning. 

Victorian.  And  with  whom,  I  pray. 

Preciosa.  A  grave  and  reverend  Cardinal,  and  his  Grace 
The  Archbishop  of  Toledo. 


Victorian 
h  this  1 
Preciosa. 
Victorian, 
Preciosa. 


What  mad  jest 


It  is  no  jest ;  indeed  it  is  not. 
Prithee,  explain  thyself. 

Why  simply  thus. 
Thou  knowest  the  Pope  has  sent  here  into  Spain 
To  put  a  stop  to  dances  on  the  stage. 
Victorian.     I  have  heard  it  whispered. 


Preciosa. 


Now  the  Cardinal, 


Who  for  this  purpose  conies,  would  fain  behold 
With  his  own  eyes  these  dances  ;  and  the  Archbishop 
Has  sent  for  me 

Victorian.     That  thou  may'st  dance  before  them.' 
Now  viva  la  Cachucha  !     It  will  breathe 
The  fire  of  youth  into  these  gray  old  men  \ 
'Twill  be  thy  proudest  conquest ! 

Preciosa.  Saving  one. 

And  yet  I  fear  these  dances  will  be  stopped, 
And  Preciosa  be  once  more  a  beggar. 

Victorian.  The  sweetest  beggar  that  e'er  asked  for  alms : 
With  such  beseeching  eyes,  that  when  I  saw  thee 
[  gave  my  heart  away  ! 

Preciosa.  Dost  thou  remember 

When  first  we  met  / 

Victorian.  It  was  at  Cordova, 

Tn  the  cathedral  garden.     Thou  wast  sitting 
Under  the  orange- trees,  beside  a  fountain. 


Su 


Preciosa.  'Twa  Sunday.  The  fnll-1  ee« 

Fitted  all  the  air  with  fra  id  with  j 

The  priests  were  singing,  and  th  soundedj 

And  then  anon  the  great  cathedral  belL 

It  was  the  elevation  of  the  Host. 
We  both  of  us  fell  down  upon  our  knees 
Under  tlr  -boughs,  and  praj  her. 

I  never  had  heen  happy  till  that  moment 

Victorian.    Thou  blessed  angel ! 

Preciosa.  And  when  thou  wast  gone, 

I  felt  an  aching  here.     I  did  not  speak 
To  any  one  that  day.     But  from  that  day 
Bartoleme  grew  hateful  unto  me. 

Victorian.  Remember  him  no  more.  Let  not  hia shadow 
Come  between  thee  and  me.     Sweet  Preciosa  ! 
I  loved  thee  even  then,  though  I  was  silent ! 

Preciosa.    I  thought  I  ne'er  should  see  thy  face  again. 
Thy  farewell  had  a  sound  of  sorrow  in  it. 

Victorian.  That  was  the  first  sound  in  the  song  of  love  ! 
Scarce  more  than  silence  is,  and  yet  a  sound. 
Hands  of  invisible  spirits  touch  the  strings 
Of  that  mysterious  instrument,  the  soul, 
And  play  the  prelude  of  our  fate.    We  hear 
The  voice  prophetic,  and  are  not  alone. 

Pree.  That  is  my  faith.  Dost  thou  believe  these  warnit. 

I  'ictorian.    So  far  as  this.    Our  feelings  and  our  thought? 
Tend  ever  on,  and  rest  not  in  the  Present. 
As  drops  of  rain  fall  into  some  dark  well, 
And  from  beiow  comes  a  scarce  audible  sound, 
So  fall  our  thoughts  into  the  dark  Hereafter, 
And  their  mysterious  echo  reaches  us. 

Preciosa.  I  have  felt  it  so,  but  found  no  words  to  say  it ! 
I  cannot  reason  ;  I  can  only  feel ! 
But  thou  hast  language  for  all  thoughts  and  feelings. 
Thou  art  a  scholar  ;  and  sometimes  I  think 
We  cannot  walk  together  in  this  world  ; 
The  distance  that  divides  us  is  too  great ! 
Henceforth  thy  pathway  lies  among  the  stars  : 
I  must  not  hold  thee  back. 

Victorian.  Thou  little  scepl 

Dost  thou  still  doubt  ?     What  I  most  prize  in  woman 
Is  her  affections,  not  her  intellect ! 
The  intellect  is  finite ;  but  the  affections 
Arc  infinite,  and  cannot  be  exhausted. 


ACT.  1  | 


TUB  SPANISH  ST0DEN1 


37 


Compare  me  with  the  great  men  of  the  earth  ; 
What  am  I  I    Why,  a  pigmy  among  giai 
Bui  if  thou  lovest,-  -  mark  me  !  I  Bay  lovest, 

;reatost  of  Hi.,  hee  not ! 

The  world  of  the  affections  is  thy  world, 
Not  that  of  man's  ambition.    In  that  stillness 
Which  most  becomes  a.  woman,  calm  and  holy. 
Thou  sittest  by  the  fireside  of  the  heart, 
Lng  its  flame.    The  element  of  fire 
Is  pure.     It  cannot  change  nor  hide  its  nature, 
But  burns  as  brightly  in  a  Gipsy  camp 
As  in  a  palace  hall.     Art  thou  convinced  'I 

Preciosa.  Yes,  that  I  love  thee,  as  the  good  love  heaven 
But  not  that  I  am  worthy  of  that  heaven. 
How  shall  1  more  deserve  it  I 

Victorian.  Loving  more. 

Preciosa.    I  cannot  love  thee  more  ;  my  heart  is  full 

Victorian.    Then  let  it  overflow,  and  I  will  drink  it 
As  in  the  summer-time  the  thirsty  sands 
Drink  the  swift  waters  of  the  Manzanares, 
And  still  do  thirst  for  more. 

A  Watchman  (in  the  street).  Ave  Maria 

Purissima !     'Tis  midnight  and  serene  ! 

I  'ictorian.    Hear1  st  thou  that  cry  1 


Preciosa. 


It  is  a  hateful  sound 


To  scare  thee  from  me  ! 

Victorian.  As  the  hunter's  horn 

Doth  scare  the  timid  stag,  or  bark  of  hounds 
The  moor-fowl  from  his  mate. 

Preciosa.  Pray  do  not  go ! 

Victorian.    I  must  away  to  Alcala  to-night. 
Think  of  me  when  I  am  away. 

Preciosa.  Fear  not ! 

I  have  no  thoughts  that  do  not  think  of  thee. 

Victorian  (giving  her  a  ring). 
And  to  remind  thee  of  my  love,  take  this  ; 
A  serpent,  emblem  of  Eternity ; 
A  ruby — say,  a  drop  of  my  heart's  blood. 

Preciosa.    It  is  an  ancient  saying  that  the  ruby 
Brings  gladnes.s  to  the  wearer,  and  preserves 
The  heart  pure,  and  if  laid  beneath  the  pillow, 
Drives  away  evil  dreams.    But  then,  alas  ! 
It  was  a  serpent  tempted  Eve  to  sin. 

Victorian.    What  convent  of  barefooted  Carmelites 


-.  :-• 


Jfl 


LONGFELLOW  S  HO  EMS. 


Taught  thee  so  much  theology  ( 

Preciosa  (laying  her  hand  upon  his  mouth).   Hush  !  hush  ' 
Good  night!  and  may  all  holy  angels  guard  thee  ! 
Vict.  Goodnight!  goodnight!  Thou  art  my  guardian  a 

f  have  no  other  saint  than  thou  to  pray  to  ! 

//   descends  by  the  balcony ). 

Preciosa.  Take  care  and  do  not  hurt  thee.   Art  thou  sain  ( 

Victorian  {from  the  garden). 
Safe  as  my  love  for  thee  1    But  art  thou  safe  ] 
Others  can  climb  a  balcony  by  moonlight 
As  well  as  I.     Pray,  shut  thy  window  close ; 
[  am  jealous  of  the  perfumed  air  of  night 
That  from  this  garden  climbs  to  kiss  thy  lips. 

Preciosa  (throwing  down  her  handh  r 
Thou  silly  child  !    Take  this  to  Mind  thine  eyes, 
it  is  my  benison. 

Victorian,  And  brings  to  me 

Sweet  fragrance  from  thy  lips,  as  the  soft  wind 
Wafts  to  the  outbound  mariner  the  breath 
Of  the  beloved  land  he  leaves  behind. 

Preciosa.     Make  not  thy  voyage  lung. 

Victorian.  To-morrow  night 

Shall  see  me  safe  returned.     Thou  art  the  star 
To  guide  me  to  an  anchora  I  night, 

My  beauteous  star  !     My  star  of  love,  good  night ! 

Preciosa.     Good  night ! 

Watchman  (at  a  distance).       Ave  Maria  Purissima  : 

SCENE  IV. 

An  inn  on  the  road  to  Alcal a .   BALTASAROjfcep on  a  bench. 

Enter  On  [spa. 

Chispa.  And  here  we  are,  half-way  to  Alcala,  between 
cocks  and  midnight.  Body  o'  me  !  what  an  inn  this  is ! 
The  lights  out  and  the  landlord  asleep.  Hola !  ancient 
Baltasar ! 

Baltasar  {waking).     Here  I  am. 

Chispa.  Yes,  there  you  are,  like  a  one-eyed  alcade  in  a 
town  without  inhabitants.  Bring  a  light,  and  let  me  have 
supper. 

Baltasar.    Where  is  your  master  I 

Chispa.  Do  not  trouble  yourself  about  him.  We  have 
stopped  a  moment  to  breathe  our  horses  ;  and,  if  he  chooses 
to  walk  up  and  down  in  the  open  air,  looking  into  the  sky  as 
one  who  hears  it  rain,  that  does  not  satisfy  my  hunger,  you 


A.OT  I. 


TIIK  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


39 


J 


know.  But  be  quick,  for  I  am  in  a  hurry,  an -I  every  man 
Btretches  hin  legs  according  to  the  length  of  his  coverlet. 
What  have  TV6  here  I 

Baltasat  [sitting  a  light  on  the  table).    Stewod  rabbit. 

Chi  spa  [eating).  Conscience  of  Portalegrco!  Stewed 
kitten  you  mean  ! 

Baltasar.  And  a  pitcher  of  Pedro  Ximenes,  with  a 
roasted  pear  in  it. 

Chispa  [drinking).  Ancient  Baltasar,  amigo !  You 
know  how  to  cry  wine  and  sell  vinegar.  I  tell  you  this  is 
nothing  hut  vino  tinto  of  La  Mancha,  with  a  tang  of  the 
swine-skin. 

Baltasar.  I  swear  to  you,  by  Saint  Simon  and  Judas,  it 
is  all  as  I  say. 

Chispa.  And  I  swear  to  you,  by  Saint  Peter  and  Saint 
Paul,  that  it  is  no  such  thing.  Moreover,  your  supper  is 
like  the  hidalgo's  dinner— very  little  meat,  and  a  great  deal 
of  table-cloth. 

Baltasar.    II a!  ha!  ha! 

Chispa.    And  more  noise  than  nuts. 

Baltasar.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  You  must  have  your  joke, 
Master  Chispa.  But  shall  I  not  ask  Don  Victorian  in,  to 
take  a  draught  of  the  Pedro  Ximenes  ? 

Chispa.  No  ;  you  might  as  well  say,  "  Don't  you  want 
some  V  to  a  dead  man. 

Baltasar.    ~\\\\j  does  he  go  so  often  bo  Madrid  \ 

Chispa.  For  the  same  reason  that  he  eats  no  supper-  -he 
is  in  love.     Were  you  ever  in  love,  Baltasar  \ 

Baltasar.  I  was  never  out  of  it,  good  Chispa.  It  has 
been  the  torment  of  my  life. 

Ch  ispa.  \Y  hat !  are  you  on  fire  too,  old  hay-stack  \  W  hy, 
we  shall  never  be  able  to  put  you  out. 

Victorian  {without.)     Chispa ! 

pa.     Go  to  bed,  Pero  Grullo,  for  the  cocks  are  crowing. 

Victorian.     Ea  !  Chispa  !  Chispa! 

Chispa.  Ea  !  Sennor.  Come  with  me,  ancient  Baltasar, 
and  bring  water  for  the  horses.  I  will  pay  for  the  supper  to- 
morrow. \Exewtf. 

SCENE  V. 

Victorian's  chambers  at  ALcald.    Hypolito  asleep  in  an 
arm-chair.     He  awakes  slowly. 
Hypolito.    I  must  have  been  asleep  !  ay,  sound  asleep ! 
And  it  was  all  a  dream.     0  sleep,  sweet  sleep  ! 


- 


I 


\ 


40 


LONG 


\\  hatever  form  thou  takest,  thou  art  fair, 

Holding  unto  our  lips  thy  goblet  filled 
Out  of  Oblivion's  well,  a  healing  draught ! 

The  candles  have  burnt  low  ;  It  must  he  late. 
Where  can  Victorian  he  I     Like  Fray  Carillo, 
The  only  place  in  which  one  cannot  find  him 
Is  his  own  cell.     Here's  his  guitar,  that  seldom 

i  the  caresses  of  its  master's  hand. 
I  ►pen  thy  silent  lips,  sweet  instrument, 
And  make  dull  midnight  merry  with  a  son^ 
(lie  p>lays  and  sings.) 

Padre  Francisco  1 

Padre  Francisco! 

What  do  you  want  of  Padre  Franeiscof 

Here  is  a  pretty  young  maiden 

Who  wants  to  confess  her  sinst 
Open  the  door  and  let  her  come  in. 
1  will  shrive  her  from  every  sin. 

Enter  Victorian. 

Victorian.     Padre  Hypolito  !  Padre  Hypolito  ! 

Hypolito.    What  do  you  want  of  Padre  Hypolitc  J 

Victorian.  Come,  shrive  me  straight ;  for,  if  love  be  a  sin. 
1  am  the  greatest  sinner  that  doth  live. 
I  will  confess  the  sweetest  of  all  crimes, 
A  maiden  wooed  and  won. 

Hypolito.  The  same  old  tale 

Of  the  old  woman  in  the  chimney  corner, 
Who,  while  the  pot  boils,  says,  "  Come  here,  my  chiLd  ; 
I'll  tell  thee  a  story  of  my  wedding-day." 

Victorian.    Nay.  listen,  for  my  heart  is  full ;  so  fall 
That  I  must  speak. 

Hypolito.  Alas !  that  heart  of  thine 

Is  like  a  scene  in  the  old  play  ;  the  curtain 
Rises  to  solemn  music,  and  lo,  enter 
The  eleven  thousand  virgins  of  Cologne  ! 

Victorian.  Nay,  like  the  sybil's  volumes  thou  shouldst  say. 
Those  that  remained,  after  the  six  were  burned, 
Being  held  more  precious  than  the  nine  together. 
But  listen  to  my  tale.    Dost  thou  remember 
The  Gipsy  girl  we  saw  at  Cordova 
Dance  the  Romalis  in  the  market-place? 

Hypolito.    Thou  meanest  Preciosa  \ 

Victorian.  Ay,  the  same 

Thou  knowest  how  her  image  haunted  me. 
Long  after  we  returned  to  Alcaic 


vv> 


/*4v~ 


ACT  I.J 


I  HE  SPANISH  yiUDENT. 


1) 


* 
^ 


I 


She's  in  Madrid 

11  11} X 'I  ' 

Victorian. 
Hypoliio. 

In  A  lea  I  a, 
Victorian. 


I  know  it. 
And  I'm  in  love. 
Vntl  therefore  in  Madrid  when  thou  shouldst  be 


Oh,  pardon  me,  my  friend, 
If  I  so  1<mi--  have  kept  this  secret  from  thee  ; 
But  silence  is  the  charm  that  guards  such  treasures. 
And  if  a  word  he  spoken  ere  the  time, 
They  sink  again,  they  were  not  meant  for  us. 

Hyj>oliio.    Alas  !  alas  !  I  see  thou  art  in  Icve. 
Love  keeps  the  cold  out  hotter  than  a  cloak. 
It  serves  for  food  and  raiment.     Give  a  Spaniard 
His  mass,  his  olla,  and  his  Donna  Luisa, — 
Thou  knowest  the  proverb.    But  pray  tell  me,  lover, 
How  speeds  the  wooing  (     Is  the  maiden  coy  i 
Write  her  a  song,  beginning  with  an  Ave; 
Sing  as  the  monks  sang  to  the  Virgin  Mary, 

Ave!  cujus  cahem  dare. 
Nee  centenne  commendare 
Sciret  Seraph  studio! 

Victorian,  Pray,  do  not  jest !  This  is  no  time  for  it : 
I  am  in  earnest. 

Hypolito.  Seriously  enamoured  / 

What,  ho  !  The  Primus  of  great  Alcala 
Enamoured  of  a  Gipsy  !     Tell  me  frankly, 
How  meanest  thou  ? 

Victorian.    I  mean  it  honestly. 

Hypolito.    Surely  thou  wilt  not  marry  her ! 

Victorian.  Why  not  1 

Hypolito.    She  was  betrothed  to  one  Bartolome, 
If  I  remember  rightly,  a  young  Gipsy 
Who  danced  with  her  at  Cordova. 

Victorian.  They  quarrelled, 

And  so  the  matter  ended. 

Hypolito.  But  in  truth 

Thou  wilt  not  marry  her '! 

Victorian.  In  truth  I  will. 

The  angels  sang  in  heaven  when  she  was  born  ! 
She  is  a  precious  jewel  I  have  found 
Among  the  filth  and  rubbish  of  the  world. 
I'll  stoop  fur  it ;  but  when  I  wear  it  here, 
Set  on  my  forehead  like  the  morning  star, 
The  world  may  wonder,  but  it  will  not  laugl 


R.  I    A 


12 


•  Aiix    ■ 


Hypolito.  Ifthouwearestnol  n  thy  fore 

Twill  be  indeed  a  won 

Victorian,  Out  upon  tl. 

With  thy  unseasonable  jests !     Pray,  tell  I 

Is  there  in   virtue  in  the  world  I 

Hypolito.  Nol 

What,  think'st  thou,  is  she  doing  at  this  moment ; 
Now,  while  we  speak  of  her  I 

Victorian.  She  lie 

And,  from  her  parted  lips,  her  gentle  breath 
Conies  like  the  fragrance  from  the  lips  of  Aoy 
Her  tender  limbs  are  still,  and  on  her  breast 
The  emss  she  prayed  to  ere  she  fell  ask 
Rises  and  falls  with  tin  le  of  dreams, 

Like  a  light  barge  safe  moored. 

Hypolito.  Which  means,  in  prose, 

She's  sleeping  with  her  mouth  a  little  open  ! 

Victorian.     Oh,  would  1  had  the  old  magician's  glass, 
To  see  her  as  she  lies  in  child-like  sleep  ! 

Hypolito.     And  wouldst  thou  venture  ? 

Victorian.     Ay,  indeed  I  would  ! 

Hypolito.  Thou  art  courageous.  Hast  thou  e'er  reflected 
How  much  lies  hidden  in  that  one  word,  now? 

Victorian.     Yes  ;  all  the  awful  mystery  of  Life  ! 
1  oft  have  thought,  my  dear  Hypolito, 
That  could  we,  by  some  spell  of  magic,  change 
The  world  and  its  inhabitants  to  stone, 
In  the  same  attitudes  they  now  are  in, 
What  fearful  glances  downward  might  we  cast 
Into  the  hollow  chasms  of  human  life  ! 
What  groups  should  we  behold  about  the  death-bed, 
Putting  to  shame  the  group  of  Niobe  : 
What  joyful  welcomes,  and  what  sad  farewells  ! 
What  stony  tears  in  those  congealed  eyes  ! 
What  visible  joy  or  anguish  in  those  cheeks  ! 
What  bridal  pomps,  and  what  funereal  shows  ! 
What  foes,  like  gladiators,  fierce  and  struggling  ! 
What  lovers  with  then-  marble  lips  together  ! 

Hypolito.     Ay.  there  it  is  !  and  if  1  were  in  love 
That  is  the  very  point  1  most  should  dread, 
This  magic  glass,  these  magic  spells  of  thine. 
Might  tell  a  tale  were  better  left  untold. 
For  instance,  they  might  show  us  thy  fair  cousin, 
The  Lady  Violante,  bathed  in  b 


1 


TIM'  RPANIRI1  STJi)*JNT 


I:; 


i! 
i 


{Exit. 


of  love  and  anger,  like  the  maid  of  i 
Whom  thon,  another  faithless  Argonaut, 
Having  won  that  golden  fleece,  a  woman's  L 
Deaertesi  for  this  Glance. 

Victorian.  Hold  thy  peace  ! 

She  cares  nol  for  me.    She  may  wed  anotl 
Or  go  into  a  convent,  and  thus  dying, 
Many  Achilles  in  the  Kiysian  fields, 

Hypolito  {rising).    And  so,  good  night! 
■  I  morning,  1  should  say.  (Clock,  strikes  t/m 

Hark  !  how  the  loud  and  ponderous  mace  of  Time 
Knocks  at  the  golden  portals  of  the  day  ! 
And  so,  once  more  good  night  !    We'll  speak  more  largely 
Of  Preciosa  when  we  meet  again. 
Get  thee  to  bed,  and  the  magician,  Sleep, 
Shall  bIiow  her  to  thee,  in  his  magic  glass, 
In  all  her  loveliness.     Good  night ! 

Victorian.  Good  night ! 

But  not  to  lied,  for  x  must  read  awhile. 

(Throve  himself  into  the  arm-chair  which  Hypolito 
has  left,  and  lays  a  large  book  open  upon  his  knea 
Must  read,  or  sit  in  reverie  and  watch 
The  changing  colour  of  the  waves  that  break 
Upon  the  idle  sea-shore  of  the  mind  ! 
Visions  of  fame  !  that  once  did  visit  me, 
Making  night  glorious  with  your  smile,  where  are  ye  / 
Oh,  who  shall  give  me,  now  that  ye  are  gone, 
Juices  of  those  immortal  plants  that  bloom 
Upon  Olympus,  making  us  immortal  I 
Or  teach  me  where  that  wonderous  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  R^man  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 
1=  the  celestial  fire  to  chance  the  flint 


n 


>XMB. 


■•''  . 


Into  transparent  crystal,  bright  andcli 

That  lire  U  genius.     The  I 
At  evening  in  his  smoky  cut,  and  di 
With  charcoal  uncouth  figures  on  the  wall. 
The  son  of  genius  comes,  footsore  with  travel, 
And  begs  a  sheltei-  from  the  inclement  night, 
lie  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  transfbrn 
Rude  popular  traditions  and  old  tales 
Shine  as  immortal  poems,  at  the  touch 
Of  some  poor,  houseless,  homeless,  wandering  bird, 
Who  had  'out  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  enamoured  knight  can  touch  her  robe  ! 
'Tis  this  ideal  that  the  soul  of  man, 
Like  the  enamoured  knight  beside  the  fountain, 
Waits  for  upon  the  margin  of  Life's  stream  ; 
Waits  to  behold  her  rise  from  the  dark  waters, 
Clad  in  a  mortal  shape  !     Alas,  how  many 
Must  wait  in  vain  !     The  stream  flows  evermore, 
Rut  from  its  silent  deeps  no  spirit  ri 
Yet  I,  horn  under  a  propitious  star, 
Have  found  the  bright  ideal  of  my  dreams. 
Yes  !  she  is  ever  with  me.     I  can  feel 
Here,  as  1  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  Mowers  that  bloom  at  night 
With  balmy  lips  breathe  in  her  ears  my  name  ! 

(G radically  sinks  as/- 


1 


ACT  II. 

Scene  I.     Preciosa's  chamber.     Morning.     PnnciOSA 

and  Angelica. 

Preciosa.  Why  will  you  go  so  soon  1  Stay  yet  awhile. 
The  poor  too  often  turn  away  unheard 


ACT   1 1.1 


IPANI8I1 


Prom  hearts  that  shul  againsl  them  with  a  Bound 
That  will  be  heard  in  heaven.    Pray  tell  me  more 
Of  your  adversities.    Keep  nothing  from  me, 
What  is  your  landlord's  nai 

A  ngeli  The  Count  of  Lara. 

Preciosa.  The  Count  of  Lara  i  oh,  beware,  that  maul 
Mistrust  his  pity,-  hold  no  parley  with  him  ! 
An<l  rather  die  an  outcast  in  the  streets 
Than  touch  his  gold. 

Angelica.         You  know  him,  then  1 

Preciosa.  As  much 

As  any  woman  may,  and  yet  he  pure. 
As  you  would  keep  your  name  without  a  blemish, 
Beware  of  him ! 

Angelica.        Alas !  what  can  I  do  '. 
I  cannot  choose  my  friends.     Each  word  of  kindness. 
Come  whence  it  may,  is  welcome  to  the  poor. 

Preciosa.  .Make  me  your  friend.  A  girl  so  young  and  fan 
Should  have  no  friends  but  those  of  tier  own  sex. 
What  is  your  name  ? 

A  mjelica.  Angelica. 

Preciosa.  That  name 

Was  given  you  that  you  might  be  an  angel 
To  her  who  bore  you  !    When  your  infant  smile 
Made  her  home  paradise,  you  were  her  angel : 
Oh,  be  an  angel  still !     She  needs  that  smile. 
So  long  as  you  are  innocent,  fear  nothing. 
No  one  can  harm  you  !     I  am  a  poor  girl, 
Whom  chance  has  taken  from  the  public  streets 
I  have  no  other  shield  than  mine  own  virtue. 
That  is  the  charm  which  has  protected  me ! 
Amid  a  thousand  perils,  I  have  worn  it 
Bere  on  my  heart !     It  is  my  guardian  angel. 

Ang.  (ri  thank  you  for  this  counsel,  dearest  lad> 

Preciom.     Thank  me  by  following  it. 

Angelica.  Indeed  I  will. 

Preciosa.     Pray,  do  not  go.     I  have  much  more  to  say. 

Angelica.    My  mother  is  alone.     I  dare  not  leave  her. 

Preciosa.    Some  other  time  then,  when  we  meet  again. 
Vim  must  not  go  away  with  words  alone.  {Gives  her  a  purse) 
Take  this.    "Would  it  were  more  ! 

Angelica.  I  thank  you,  lady. 

Pre.  thanks.  To-morrow  come  to  me  again. 

I  dance  to-night.— perhaps  for  the  last  time.  r> 


ft 


I(J 


LONUbKl.l.OW 


•M 


But  what  1  gain  i  promise  shall  be 

It*  thai  can  save  you  from  the  Count  of  Lara. 

A/bjfltcd.  Oh|  my  dear  lady]  bon  shall  I  be  grateful 
Foi  bo  much  kindness .; 


7  '/•(•{ •< 
'hank  [leaven,  not  me. 

/' 


no  thanks. 


' 


Both  Heaven  ami  you. 
Farewell ! 
Remember  that  you  come  again  to-mon 

Angelica.  1  will.  And  may  the  blessed  Virgin  guard 
And  all  good  angels  !  IV- 

Prtciosa.  May  they  guard  thee 

And  all  the  poor  ;  for  they  have  need  of  angels. 
Now  bring  me,  dear  Dolores,  my  Basquh 
My  richest  maja  dress,— my  dancing  dj 
And  my  most  precious  jewels !    Make  me  Look 
Fairer  than  night  e'er  saw  me  !  I've  a  prize 
To  win  this  day  worthy  of  Preci 

Beltbah  Cruzado.) 

Crwtado.     Ave  Maria  ! 

Pr  0  thou!  my  evil  genius 

\N  hat  seekest  thou  here  to-day  ( 
I  'ruzado.  Thyself,  my  child, 

Preciosoi.     What  is  thy  will  with  me  ! 

Gold!  Gold! 
o  thee  yesterdaj  :  1  have  uo  m 
The  gold  of  the  Busne  ;  give  me  his 
I  gave  the  last  in  charity  to-day. 
That  is  a  foolish  lie. 

It  is  the  truth. 
zado.  Curses  upon  thee  !  Thou  art  not  my  child  ! 
Hast  thou  given  gold  away,  and  not  to  me? 
Not  to  thy  father  I     To  whom,  then  ? 

Preciosa,  To  one 

Who  needs  it  more. 
Cruzat  No  one  can  need  it  more. 

Pi'tciosa.     Thou  art  not  poor. 

lo.  What,  I,  who  lurk  about 

in  dismal  suburbs  and  unwholesome  laj 
I,  who  am  housed  worse  than  the  galley-ski vi 
I,  who  am  fed  worse  than  the  kennelled  hound  : 
1,  who  am  clothed  in  rags,     Beltran  Cruzadc. 
Not  poor! 


.•(do. 

iosa. 

tado. 
Preciosa. 
Cruzado. 


AOT  II. 


VII  R  SPANISH 


17 


iasa.    Thou  bast  astouthearl  and  strong  hands. 
Thou  canst  supply  thy  wants ;  what  vouldst  thou  more? 

Cruzado.    The  gold  of  the  Busne!  give  me  his  gold  I 
((>■«(.    Beltran  Cruzado  !  hear  me  once  for  all. 
I  speak  the  truth.    So  long  as  I  had  gold 

it  to  thee  freely,  at  all  limes, 
Never  denied  theej  never  had  a  wish 
But  to  fulfil  thine  own.    Now  go  in  peace! 
Be  merciful,  be  patient,  and,  ere  long, 
Thou  shalt  have  more. 

Cruzado.  And  if  I  have  it  not, 

Thou  shalt  no  longer  dwell  here  in  rich  chambers, 
Wear  silken  dresses,  feed  on  dainty  food, 
And  live  in  idleness,  but  go  with  me, 
Dance  the  Romalis  in  the  public  streets, 
And  wander  wild  again  o'er  field  and  fell ; 
For  here  we  stay  not  long. 

Preciosa.  What!  march  again? 

Cruzado.  Ay,  with  all  speed.  I  hate  the  crowded  tot?T. » 
[  cannot  breathe  shut  up  within  its  gates ! 
Air, — I  want  air,  and  sunshine,  and  blue  sky, 
The  feeling  of  the  breeze  upon  my  face, 
The  feeling  of  the  turf  beneath  my  feet, 
And  no  walls  but  the  far-off'  mountain-tops. 
Then  I  am  free  and  strong, — once  more  myself, 
Beltran  Cruzado,  Count  of  the  Cales ! 

Preciosa.  God  speed  thee  on  thy  march ! — I  cannot  go. 

Cruzado.     Remember  who  I  am,  and  who  thou  art  1 
Be  silent  and  obey  !     Yet  one  thing  more. 
Bartolome  Roman 

Preciosa  {with  emotion).  Oh,  I  beseech  thee  ! 
If  my  obedience  and  blameless  life, 
If  my  humility  and  meek  submission 
In  all  things  hitherto,  can  move  in  thee 
One  feeling  of  compassion  ;  if  thou  art 
Indeed  my  father,  and  canst  trace  in  me 
One  look  of  her  who  bore  me,  or  one  tone 
That  doth  remind  thee  of  her,  let  it  plead 
In  my  behalf,  who  am  a  feeble  girl, 
Too  feeble  to  resist,  and  do  not  force  me 
To  wed  that  man  !     I  am  afraid  of  him  ! 
I  do  not  love  him  !     On  my  knees  I  be^  thee 
To  use  no  violence,  nor  do  in  haste 
What  cannot  be  undone  ! 


^li' 


48 


I.O.VQFEI.! 


-.<■   v 


' '/  utado,  O  child,  child,  child  ! 

Thou  hast  betrayed  thy  secret,  as  a  bird 
Betrays  her  nest,  by  striving  to  conceal  it. 
1  will  QOt  leave  thee  here  in  the  great  city 
To  be  a  grandee's  mistress.     Make  thee  ready 
To  go  with  us  ;  and  until  then  remember 
A  watchful  eye  is  on  thee. 

Preciosa.  Woe  is  me  ! 

I  have  a  strange  misgiving  in  my  heart ! 
But  that  one  deed  of  charity  I'll  do, 
Befall  what  may;  they  cannot  take  that  from  me 

SCENE  II. 


.4  room  in  the  Archbishop's  Palace.     The  ABOHBlBHor 
and  a  Cardinal  seated. 

Archb.  Knowing  how  near  it  touched  the  public  morals 
And  that  our  age  is  grown  corrupt  and  rotten 
By  such  excesses,  we  have  sent  to  Rome, 
Beseeching  that  his  Holiness  would  aid 
In  curing  the  gross  surfeit  of  the  time, 
By  seasonable  stop  put  here  in  Spain 
To  bull-fights  and  lewd  dances  on  the  stage. 
All  this  you  know. 

Cardinal.        Know  and  approve. 

Archbishop.  And  further, 

That,  by  a  mandate  from  his  Holiness, 
The  first  have  been  suppressed. 

Card hia I.  I  trust  for  ever  ; 

It  was  a  cruel  sport. 

Archbishop.  A  barbarous  pastime, 

Disgraceful  to  the  land  that  calls  itself 
Most  Catholic  and  Christian. 

Cardinal.  Yet  the  people 

Murmur  at  this  ;  and  if  the  public  dances 
Should  lie  condemned  upon  too  slight  occasion, 
Worse  ills  might  follow  than  the  ills  we  cure. 
As  Panem  et  Circenses  was  the  cry 
Among  the  Roman  populace  of  old, 
So  Pan  y  Toros  is  the  cry  in  Spam. 
Hence  1  would  act  advisedly  herein ; 
And  therefore  have  induced  your  grace  to  see 
These  national  dances,  ere  we  interdict  them. 


XI 


AOT  II. 1 


THE  si'ANISTT  STUDENT, 


Ifl 


I 


I 


■runt.) 

vant.    The  dancing-girl,  and  with  her  the  musicians 
Four  grace  was  plea  e  I  bo  order,  wait  without. 

ckbishop.  Bid  them  come  in.  Nowahall  your  eyes  behold 
In  what  angelic  yet  voluptuous  shape 
The  Devil  came  to  tempi  Saint  Anthony. 
{Enter  Pbeoiosa,  with  a  mantle  thrown  over  her  heacc.  Sloe 
advance*  slowly,  in  a  modest,  halj  ude.) 

Cardinal  (aside).    Oh,  whata  fair  and  ministering  ai 
Was  lost  to  heaven  when  this  sweet  woman  fell  i 

Preciosa  (kneeling  before  the  Abohbibhop). 
I  have  obeyed  the  order  of  your  grace. 
If  I  intrude  upon  your  better  hours, 
I  proffer  this  exeuse,  and  here  beseech 
Your  holy  benediction. 

Archbishop.  May  God  bless  thee, 

And  lead  thee  to  a  better  life !    Arise. 

( '<ird.  (aside).  Her  acts  are  modest,  and  her  words  discreet. 
I  did  not  look  for  this.    Come  hither,  child. 
Is  thy  name  Preciosa  ? 

Preciosa.  Thus  I  am  called. 

Cardinal.    That  is  a  Gipsy  name.    Who  is  thy  father '. 

Preciosa.    Beltran  Cruzado,  Count  of  the  Cales. 

A  rchbishop.    I  have  a  dim  remembrance  of  that  man  ; 
lie  was  a  bold  and  reckless  character, 
A  sun-burnt  Ishmael ! 

Cardinal.  Dost  thou  remember 

Thy  earlier  days  ? 

Preciosa.  Yes  ;  by  the  Darro's  side 

My  childhood  passed.    I  can  remember  still 
The  river,  and  the  mountains  capped  with  snow; 
The  villages,  where  yet  a  little  child, 
1  told  the  traveller's  fortune  in  the  street ; 
The  smuggler's  horse,  the  brigand  and  the  shepiu 
The  march  across  the  moor  ;  the  halt  at  noon  ; 
The  red  fire  of  the  evening  camp  that  lighted 
The  forest  where  we  slept ;  and,  farther  back. 
As  in  a  dream  or  in  some  former  life, 
Gardens  and  palace  walls. 

Archbishop.  'Tis  the  Alhambra, 

Under  whose  towers  the  Gipsy  camp  was  pitched. 
But  the  time  wears  ;  and  we  would  see  thee  dance 

Preciosa.    Your  grace  shall  be  obeyed. 


■  ■/-  mantilla.  7'A  <i  u 

played^  and  the  dance  begins.  The  A.r<  eibish< 

v  i,  look  on  '■  ith  ',"■    '  •■• 
frovm;thi  stoeachotfu 

COR!' 

and  at  length  rise/,-  \row  their  ca 

the  air,  an\  rUly  as  (he  scene  clones.) 

SCENE  III. 

The  Prado.    A  long  avenue  of  trees  leading  to  the  got* 
Atocha.    On  the  right  the  dome  and  spin 
.1  fountain.    Evening.    Don  Carlos  and  Hypolitc 
meeting. 

Don  Carlos.    IIolA, !  good  evening,  Don  Hypolito. 
Hy  poll  to.  And  a  go  d  evening  to  my  friend  Don  Carlo*. 

Borne  lucky  star  has  led  my  steps  this  wi 
T  was  in  search  of  you. 

Don  Carlos.  Command  me  ah 

Hypolito.     Do  you  remember,  in  Quevedo's  Dreamt, 
The  miser,  who,  upon  the  day  of  judgment, 
Asks  if  his  money-bags  would  rise  ' 

Don  Carlos.  I  do  ; 

l>ut  what  of  that  ' 

llijpolito.  I  am  that  wretched  man. 

Don  Carlos.  You  mean  to  tell  me  yours  have  risen  em] 

Hypolito.    And  amen  !  said  my  Cid  Campeador. 

Don  Carlos.     Pray,  how  much  need  you  I 

Hypolito.                     Some  half-dozen  oun 
Which,  with  due  interest 

Don  Carlos  {giving  his  purse).    What !  am  I  ;i  J< 
To  put  my  moneys  out  at  usury  \ 
Here  is  my  purse. 

Hypolito.  Thank  you.     A  pretty  pi :: 

Made  by  the  hand  of  some  fair  Madrilenna : 
Perhaps  a  keepsake. 

Don  Carlos.  No,  'tis  at  your  service. 

Hypolito.  Thank  you  again.  Lie  there,  good  Chrysostom, 
And  with  thy  golden  mouth  remind  me  often 
I  am  the  debtor  of  my  friend. 

Don  Carlos.  But  tell  me, 

Dome  you  to-day  from  Aleala  ? 

Hypol  i  This  moment. 

Don  Carlos.  And  nrav,  how  fares  the  brave  Victorian? 


u 


ACT  II.  | 


HE  SPANISH  STUD 


A  damsel  has  ensnared  him  with  the  glances 
Of  her  dark  roving  herdsmen  catch 

r;  of  Aiklalu/.ia  with  a  la 
1  [e  is  in  love. 

lus.  And  is  it  faring  ill 

To  ho  ill  love  ; 

Hypolito.  In  his  case  very  ill. 

I>  Why  so  I 

EypolitO.  For  many  reasons.  First  and  foremost, 
Because  he  is  in  love  with  an  iucal ; 
A  creature  of  his  own  imagination  ; 
A  child  of  air ;  an  echo  of  his  heart ; 
And,  like  a  lily  on  a  river  floating, 
She  floats  upon  the  river  of  his  thoughts  ! 

Don  Carlos.  A  common  thing  with  poets.  But  who  is 
This  floating  lily  I    For  in  fine,  some  woman, 
Some  living  woman, — not  a  mere  ideal, — 
Must  wear  the  outward  semblance  of  his  thought. 
Who  is  it  (    Tell  me. 

Hypolito.  AYell,  it  is  a  woman  ! 

But,  look  you,  from  the  coffer  of  his  heart 
He  brings  forth  precious  jewels  to  adorn  her, 
As  pious  priests  adorn  some  favourite  saint 
With  gems  and  gold,  until  at  length  she  gleams 
One  blaze  of  glory.     Without  these,  you  know, 
And  the  priest's  benediction,  'tis  a  doll. 

Don  ( '■'/•/ os.    "Well,  well !  who  is  this  doll  ? 

Hypolito.  Why,  who  do  you  think/ 

Don  Carlos.     His  cousin  Violante  ? 

Hypolito.  Guess  again. 

se  his  labouring  heart,  in  the  last  storm 
He  threw  her  overboard,  with  all  her  ingots. 

Don  Carlos.     1  cannot  guess ;  so  tell  me  who  it  is. 

Hypolito.     Not  I. 

n  Carlos.  Why  not  / 

Hypolito  {mysteriously).  Why  /  Because  Mari  Franca 
Was  married  four  leagues  out  of  Salamanca  ! 

Don  Carlos.     Jesting  aside,  who  is  it  '. 

Hypolito.  Preciosa. 

l>on  Carlos.  Impossible  !  the  Count  of  Lara  tells  me 
is  not  virtuous. 

Hypolito,  Did  I  say  she  was  I 

Hie  Human  Empercr  Claudius  had  a  wife 
Whose  nai  1  think  ; 


.»U     rf-T.  - 


.    ■>   ,  ' 


r.2 


T-^ft 


Valeria  Messalina  name. 

But  hist !  I  see  bin  yonder  through  the  trees, 

Walking  as  in  a  dream. 

Do.  He  comes  this  way. 

Hypolito.    It  has  been  truly  said  bj  u 

That  money,  grief,  and  love,  cannot  he  hidden. 

(Enter  Victorian  in  front.) 

Victorian.  Where'er  thy  step  has  oundl 

Thes  are  sacred  !  I  behold  thee  walk] 

Under  these  shadowy  trees,  where  we  have  walked 
At  evening,  and  1  feel  thy  presence  now  ; 
Feel  that  the  place  has  taken  a  charm  from  thee, 
And  is  for  ever  hallowed. 

Hypolito.  Mark  him  well ! 

See  how  he  strides  away  with  lordly  air, 
Like  that  odd  guest  of  stone,  that  grim  Commander, 
Who  comes  to  sup  with  Juan  in  the  play. 

Don  Carlos.     What,  ho  !   Victorian  ! 

llijpolito.  Wilt  thou  sup  with  us  ] 

Victorian.     Hola. !  amigos  !     Faith  I  did  not  see  you 
How  fares  Don  Carlos ' 

Don  Carlos.  At  your  service  ever. 

Victorian.     How  is  that  young  and  green-eyed  Gaditana 
That  you  both  wot  of  i 

Don  Carlos.  Ay,  soft,  emerald  eyes  ! 

She  has  gone  back  to  Cadiz. 

llijpolito.  Ay  de  mi  ! 

\  'ictorian.  You  are  much  to  blame  for  letting  her  go 
A  pretty  girl  ;  and  in  her  tender  eyes 
■lust  that  soft  shade  of  green  we  sometimes  see 
In  evening  skies. 

Hypolito.  But,  speaking  of  green  eyes, 

Are  thine  green  ? 

Victorian.  Not  a  whit.    Why  so  ( 

Hypolito.  I  think 

The  slightest  shade  of  green  would  be  becoming, 
For  thou  art  jealous. 

Victorian.  No,  I  am  not  jealous. 

Hypolito.     Thou  shouldst  be. 

Vrictorian.  Why  / 

Hypolito.  Because  thou  art  in  love  ; 

And  they  wTho  are  in  love  are  always  jealous. 
Therefore  thou  shouldst  be. 


4CT  II. 


Till'  SPANISH  BTUPENT. 


53 


^! 


Vi  is  that  all  i 

Farewell  ;  1  am  in  haste.      Farewell,  Don  Carlos. 

Thou  I  should  be  jealous  i 

'polito.  Ay,  in  truth 

I  fear  there  is  reason.    Be  upon  thy  guard. 
I  hear  it  whispered  that  the  Count  of  Lara 
aiege  to  the  same  citadel. 

I  7,  .  rian.  Indeed  ! 

Then  he  will  have  his  labour  for  his  pains. 

II !i I nildo.  lie  does  not  think  so,  and  Don  Carlos  tells  me 
lie  boasts  of  his  success. 

Victorian.  How's  this,  Don  Carlos  '( 

Don  Carlos.     Some  hints  of  it  I  heard  from  his  own  lips, 
lie  spoke  but  lightly  of  the  lady's  virtue, 
As  a  gay  man  might  speak. 

\  'ictori  Death  and  damnation  ! 

['11  cut  his  lying  tongue  out  of  his  mouth, 
And  throw  it  to  my  dog  !     But  no,  no,  no  ! 
This  cannot  be.    You  jest;  indeed  you  jest. 
Trifle  with  me  no  more.    For  otherwise 
We  are  no  longer  friends.    And  so,  farewell.  [Exit 

llypolito.  Now, -what  a  coil  is  here !  The  Avenging  Child 
Hunting  the  traitor  Quadros  to  his  death, 
And  the  great  Moor  Calaynos,  when  he  rode 
To  Paris  for  the  ears  of  Oliver, 
Were  nothing  to  him  !     0  hot-headed  youth ! 
But  come  ;  we  will  not  follow.    Let  us  join 
The  crowd  that  pours  into  the  Prado.    There 
We  shall  find  merrier  company  ;  I  see 
The  Marialonzos  and  the  Almavivas. 
And  fifty  fans,  that  beckon  me  already.  I  Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. 
Piieciosa's  chamber.    She  is  sitting,  with  a  book  in  her 
hand,  near  a  table,  on  which  are  /lowers.     A  bird 
ing  in  its  cage.     The  Count  of  Lara  enters  behind  un- 
perceived. 

Preciosa  {reads). 

All  are  sleeping,  weary  heart! 
Thou,  thou  only  sleepless  art! 

Ileigho  !  I  wish  Victorian  was  here. 

i  know  not  what  i  t  is  makes  me  so  restless  !    ( The  bird  si  i 

Thou  little  prisoner,  with  thy  motley  coat, 

That  from  thy  vaulted,  wiry  dungeon  singest. 


M 


LON'.  'KMH. 


b 


Like  thee  1  am  a  captive  ;  and,  like  tl. 
1  ha  itle  gaoler     La  k-a-day ! 

All  em 

Tboo,  the  irt  I 

All  this  throbbing,  . 
Erermoi  i 

Fur  |  lit  a  .  bi taking 

Thinkeih  ever  <<t'  Ita  imart. 

Thou  speakest  truly,  poet !  and  methinks 

M*>re  hearts  are  breaking  in  this  world  of  ours 

Than  one  would  say.     In  distant  villi 

And  solitudes  reunite,  where  winds  have  wafted 

The  barbed  seeds  of  love,  or  birds  oi 

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  I 

Or  who  takes  note  of  every  llower  that  dies  / 

■ho  !  I  wisli  Victorian  would  come. 
Dolores  !    (Turn-;  to  Itti/  down  her  book,  and  gee  I  the  Count. 
Ha! 

Lara.  Sennora,  pardon  me! 

Preciosa.    How's  this  i    Dolores  ! 

Lara.  Pardon  me 

Preciv  Dolores ! 

Lara.    Be  not  alarmed  ;  I  found  no  one  in  waiting. 
(f  I  have  been  too  bold 

Preciosa  {turning  her  back  upon  him).  You  are  too  bold ! 
Retire  !  retire,  and  leave  me  ! 

■ra.  My  dear  lady, 

First  hear  me  !     1  beseech  you,  let  me  speak ! 
Tis  for  your  good  I  come. 

Prec.  (turning  towards  him  withindignation),  Begone! 
>ne!     You  are  the  Count  of  Lara,  but  your  deeds 
Would  make  the  statues  of  your  ancestors 
Blush  on  their  tombs !  Is  it  CastUian  honour, 
Is  it  CastUian  pride,  to  steal  in  here 
Upon  a  friendless  girl,  to  do  her  wrong? 
0,  shame  !  shame  !  shame  !  that  you,  a  nobleman, 
Should  be  so  little  noble  in  your  thoughts 
As  to  send  jewels  here  to  win  my  love, 
\nd  think  to  buy  my  honour  with  your  goid  ! 
i  have  no  words  to  tell  you  how  I  scorn  you  ! 

me  !  the  sight  of  you  is  hateful  to  me  ! 
B 

Lara.  Be  calm  :  I  will  not  harm  you. 


- 


v^v . : 


1 1 


tin:  SPANISH 


!'     use  you  dare  not ! 
ra.  I  dare  anything  ; 

Therefore,  beware  !    Sou  are  deceived  in  me. 
In  this  false  world  we  do  not  always  know 
Who  are  our  friends,  and  who  our  enemies. 
We  all  !  lies,  and  aU  need  friends, 

liven  you,  fair  Preciosa,  here  at  court 
Have  i'<  es,  who  seek  to  wrong  yon. 

Pr  If  to  this 

I  owe  the  honour  of  the  present  visit, 
Vou  might  have  spared  the  coming.     Having  spoken, 
Once  more  I  beg  yon,  leave  me  to  my  self. 

Lara.     I  thought  it  hut  a  friendly  part  to  tell  you 
What  strange  reports  are  current  here  in  town 
For  my  own  self,  I  do  not  credit  them  ; 
But  there  are  many  "who,  not  knowing  yon. 
Will  lend  a  readier  ear. 

Preciosa.  There  was  no  need 

That  3*on  should  take  upon  yourself  the  duty 
Of  telling  me  these  tales. 

■ra.  Malicious  tongues 

A  re  ever  busy  with  your  name. 

Preciosa.  Alas ! 

f  have  no  protectors.     I  am  a  poor  girl, 
to  insults  and  unfeeling  jests. 
They  wound  me,  yet  I  cannot  shield  myself. 

no  cause  for  these  reports.    I  live 
Retired  ;  am  visited  by  none. 

Lara.  By  none  \ 

Oh,  then,  indeed,  you  are  much  wronged  ! 

Preciosa.  How  mean  you  ? 

Li  ra.  Nay,  nay  ;  I  will  not  wound  your  gentle  soul 
By  the  report  of  idle  tales. 

Preciosa.  Speak  out ! 

W  hat  are  these  idle  tales  ?    You  need  not  spare  me. 

Lara.    I  will  deal  frankly  with  you.     Pardon  me  ; 
This  window,  as  I  think,  looks  toward  the  street, 
And  this  into  the  Prado,  does  it  not  t 
In  yon  high  house,  beyond  the  garden  wall, — 
You  see  the  roof  there,  just  above  the  trees,  — 
There  lives  a  friend,  who  told  me  yesterday, 
That  on  a  certain  night, — be  not  offended 
If  I  too  plainly  speak,— he  saw  a  man 
Climb  to  your  chamber-window.     You  are  silent ' 


' 


'.6 


LONOPEM  >EM8. 


.j»w 


T  would  not  blame  you,  being  young  and  fair  — 
{He  tries  to  i 
and  draws  a  >m.) 

Preciosa.    Beware!  beware!  [  am  a  Gipsy  girl ! 

Lay  not  your  hand  upon  me.    One  step  nearer, 
And  I  will  strike  ! 

La  Pray  you,  put  up  that  dag 

Fear  not. 

Pr  I  do  not  fear.     I  have  a  heart- 

In  whose  strength  I  can  trust. 

Lara.  Listen  to  me. 

1  come  here  as  your  friend, — I  am  your  friend, 
And  by  a  single  word  can  put  a  stop 
To  all  those  idle  tales,  and  make  your  name 
Spotless  as  lilies  are.     Here  on  my  knees. 
Fair  Preciosa '  on  my  knees  I  swear 
L  love  you  even  to  madness,  and  that  love 
I  [as  driven  me  to  break  the  rules  of  custom, 
And  force  myself  unasked  into  your  presence. 

Victorian  enters  behind. 

Preciosa.  Rise,  Count  of  Lara !  this  is  not  the  place 
For  such  as  you  are.     It  becomes  you  not 
To  kneel  before  me.     I  am  strangely  moved 
To  see  one  of  your  rank  thus  low  and  humbled  ; 
For  your  sake  I  will  put  aside  all  anger, 
All  unkind  feeling,  all  dislike,  and  speak 
[n  gentleness,  as  most  becomes  a  woman, 
And  as  my  heart  now  prompts  me.     I  no  more 
Will  hate  you,  for  all  bate  is  painful  to  me. 
But  if,  without  offending  modesty, 
And  that  reserve  which  is  a  woman's  glory, 
I  may  speak  freely,  I  will  teach  my  heart 
To  love  you. 

Lara.  0  swreet  angel ! 

/  'reciosa.  Ay,  in  truth, 

Far  better  than  you  love  yourself  or  me. 

Lara.  Give  me  some  sign  of  this, — the  slightest  token 
Let  me  but  kiss  your  hand  ! 

Preciosa.  Nay,  come  no  nearer. 

The  words  I  utter  are  its  sign  and  token. 
Misunderstand  me  not !     Be  not  deceived  ! 
The  love  wherewith  I  love  you  is  not  such 
As  you  would  offer  me.    For  you  come  here 


a 


aCT  n.l 


THE  BPANISB  STODE&T. 


57 


To  bake  from  mc  the  only  thing  1  have, 

My  honour.     You  arc:  wealthy,  you  have  friendfl 

Ami  kindred,  and  a  thousand  p]  asant  hopes 

That  till  70UT  heart  witn  happiness;  hut  I 

Am  poor  and  friendless,  having  but  one  treasure, 

And  you  would  take  that  from  me ;  and  for  what  ' 

To  flatter  your  own  vanity,  and  make  me 

What  you  would  most  despise.     Oh,  sir,  such  love. 

That  seeks  to  harm  me,  cannot  he  true  love. 

Indeed  it  cannot.     But  my  love  for  you 

Is  of  a  different  kind.    It  seeks  your  good. 

It  is  a  holier  feeling.    It  rebukes 

Your  earthly  passion,  your  unchaste  desires, 

And  bids  you  look  into  your  heart,  and  see 

How  you  do  wrong  that  better  nature  in  you, 

And  grieve  your  soul  with  sin. 

Lara.  I  swear  to  you 

1  wouid  not  harm  you ;  I  would  only  love  you. 
I  would  not  take  your  honour,  but  restore  it ; 
And  in  return  I  ask  but  some  slight  mark 
Of  your  affection.    If  indeed  you  love  me, 
As  you  confess  you  do,  oh,  let  me  thus 
With  this  embrace 

Vict,  {rushing  forward).  Hold  !  hold  !  this  is  too  muob 
What  means  this  outrage  ? 

Lara.  First,  what  right  have  you 

To  question  thus  a  nobleman  of  Spain  ? 

Victorian.    I  too  am  noble,  and  you  are  no  more  ! 
Out  of  my  sight ! 

Lara.  Are  you  the  master  here  ? 

Vict.    Ay,  here  and  elsewhere,  when  the  wrong  of  otheifc 
Gives  me  the  right ! 

Preciosa  (to  Lara).  Go  !  I  beseech  you,  go  ! 

Victorian.    I  shall  have  business  with  you,  Count,  anon  ! 


Lara.    You  cannot  come  too  soon  ! 

Preciosa.  Victorian ! 

Oh,  we  have  been  betrayed  ! 

Victorian.  Ea  !  ha  !  betrayed. 

'Tis  I  have  been  betrayed,  not  we  ! — not  we. 

Preciosa.    Dost  thou  imagine 

Victorian.  I  imagine  nothing; 

1  see  how  'tis  thou  wildest  the  time  away 
When  I  am  gune 


[  Kxit 


Preciosa. 


Oh,  speak  not  in  that  tone  ! 


^it^L 


68 


M 


I  j-i). 

Victor*  "f  was  not  meant  to  flat! 

Pncic  \a.    Too  well  thou  knoweet  the  presence  of  tha 
is  hateful  to  me  ! 

Victorian.  Yet  1  saw  thee  stand 

And  listen  to  him,  when  lie  told  his  love. 
Preciosa.     I  did  not  heed  his  woi 
Victorian.  Indeed  thou  di*. 

And  answeredst  them  with  lova 

Preci-0  lhtdst  thou  heard  all 

Victorian.     1  heard  enough, 

Be  not  bo  angry  with  me. 
1  am  not  angry ;  1  am  very  calm. 
If  thou  wilt  let  me  speak- 


Prcciosa. 

Victorian. 

Preciosa. 

Victorian.  Nay,  say  no  more, 

know  too  much  already.     Thou  art  falsa 
do  not  like  these  Gipsy  marriages ! 
'here  is  the  ring  I  gave  thee  1 
Preciosa.  In  my  casket. 

Vict.     There  let  it  rest !  I  would  not  have  thee  wear  it 


[  thought  thee  spotless,  and  thou  art  pollute 

Preciosa.     I  call  the  heavens  to  witness 

Victorian.  Nay,  nay,  Mi 

Take  not  the  name  of  Heaven  upon  thy  lips ! 

They  are  forsworn  ! 
Preciosa.  Victorian  !  dear  Viet  rian. 

Victorian.     I  gave  up  all  tor  thee  ;  myself,  my  fame. 

My  hopes  of  fortune,  ay,  my  very  soul  ! 

And  thou  hast  been  my  ruin  !     Now,  go  on  ! 

Laugh  at  my  folly  with  thy  paramour, 

And,  sitting  on  the  Count  of  Lara's  knee, 

Say  what  a  poor,  fond  fool  Victorian  was ! 

{He  casts  her  from  him,  and  nukes  out 
Preciosa.    And  this  from  thee  !  [Scene  closes. 


SCENE  V. 
The  Count  of  Lara's  room.     Enter  the  Co 

Lara.     There's  nothing  in  tins  world  si  is  love. 

And  next  to  love  the  sweetest  thing  is  hate  ! 
Pve  learned  to  hate,  and  therefore  am  reveng 
A  silly  girl  to  play  the  prude  with  me  ! 
The  fire  that  1  have  kindled  — 


..... 


ACT    II. 


111.  BPA5ISH  STUDENT. 


.V.I 


Enter  Francisco. 
Well,  Francisco, 
What  tidings  from  Don  Juan  ( 

l-'ri  Good,  my  loid ; 

He  will  be  present 

l.'trn.  And  the  Duke  of  Lermos  \ 

Francisco.    Was  not  at  tu 

Lara.  How  with  the  rest  ? 

Frcncixco.  I've  found 

The  men  you  wanted.    They  will  all  be  there, 
And  at  the  given  signal  raise  a  whirlwind 
of  such  discordant  noises,  that  the  dance 
Must  cease  for  lack  of  music. 

Lara.  Bravely  done. 

Ah  !  little  dost  thou  dream,  sweet  Preciosa, 
What  lies  in  wait  for  thee.    Sleep  shall  not  close 
Thine  eyes  this  night !  Give  me  my  cloak  and  sword.  [  Exeunt. 


Enter  Victorian 


SCENE  VI. 
A  retired  spot  beyond  the  city-gates, 
and  Hypolito. 

Victorian.   0  shame  !  0  shame  !   Why  do  I  walk  abroad 
By  daylight,  when  the  very  sunshine  mocks  me, 
And  voices,  and  familiar  sights  and  sounds, 
Cryi"  Hide  thyself !"     Oh,  what  a  thin  partition 
Doth  shut  out  from  the  curious  world  the  knowledge 
Of  evil  deeds  that  have  been  done  in  darkness  ! 
Disgrace  has  many  tongues.     My  fears  are  windows, 
Through  which  all  eyes  seem  gazing.     Every  face 
Expresses  some  suspicion  of  my  shame, 
And  in  derision  seems  to  smile  at  me  ! 

Hypolito.    Did  I  not  caution  thee  I   Did  1  not  tell  thee 
1  was  but  half  persuaded  of  her  virtue  ? 

I' idorian.    And  yet,  Hypolito,  we  may  be  wrong, 
We  may  be  over-hasty  in  condemning  ! 
The  Count  of  Lara  is  a  cursed  villain. 

Hypolito.    And  therefore  is  she  cursed  loving  him. 

Victorian.  She  does  not  love  him  !  'Tis  for  gold!  for  gold 

Hypolito.    Ay,  but  remember,  in  the  public  streets 
lie  shows  a  golden  ring  the  Gipsy  gave  him, — 
A  serpent  with  a  ruby  in  its  mouth. 

Victorian.  She  had  that  ring  from  me!  Oh!  she  is  false  1 
But  1  will  be  revenged  !     The  hour  is  passed. 
\N  here  stays  the  coward  I 


n 


V^fe^iSSH^B 


Hypolito.  .  he  is  no  ooward ; 

A  villain,  if  thou  wilt,  but  not  a  coward. 

I've  Been  him  play  with  swords ;  it  is  his  pastime. 

Ami  therefore  be  not  over-confident; 

He'll  task  thy  skill  anon.    Look,  here  he  con 

(Enter  Laka,  followed  Oy  Francisco.) 
Lara.     Good  evening,  gentlemen. 
Hypolito.  I  evening,  Count 

Lara.     1  trust  I  have  not  kept  you  lung  in  wail 

Victorian.  Not  long,  and  yet  too  long.  Are  you  prepared  \ 

Lara.     I  am. 

Hypolito.     It  grieves  me  much  to  see  this  quarrel 
Between  you,  gentlemen.     Is  there  no  way 
Left  open  to  aecord  this  difference, 
But  you  must  make  one  with  your  swords  ? 

Victorian.  No!  none ! 

I  do  entreat  thee,  dear  Hypolito, 
Stand  not  between  me  and  my  foe.    Too  long 
Our  tongues  have  spoken.     Let  these  tongues  of  steel 
End  our  debate.     Upon  your  guard,  Sir  Count ! 

(They  fight.     Victorian  disarms  the  Count.) 
Your  life  is  mine ;  and  what  shall  now  withhold  me 
From  sending  your  vile  soul  to  its  account  1 

Lara.    Strike  !  strike  ! 

Victorian.     You  are  disarmed.   I  will  not  kill  you. 
1  will  not  murder  you.     Take  up  your  sword 

(Francisco  hands  the  Count  his  sword,  and 
Hypolito  interposes.) 

Hypolito.    Enough  !  Let  it  end  here  !  The  Count  of  Lara 
Has  shown  himself  a  brave  man,  and  Victorian 
A  generous  one,  as  ever.    Now  be  friends. 
Put  up  your  swords  ;  for,  to  speak  frankly  to  you, 
Your  cause  of  quarrel  is  too  slight  a  thing 
To  move  you  to  extremes. 

Lara.  1  am  content. 

1  sought  no  quarrel.     A  few  hasty  words, 
Spoken  in  the  heat  of  blood,  have  led  to  this. 

Victorian.     Nay,  something  more  than  that. 

Lara.  I  understand  you. 

Therein  I  did  not  mean  to  cross  your  path. 
To  me  the  door  stood  open,  as  to  others. 
But  had  I  known  the  girl  belonged  to  you, 
Never  would  I  have  sought  to  win  her  from  you. 
The  truth  stands  now  revealed  ;  she  has  been  false 


*L 


K49I 


-3» 


"4W 


THE  SPAN  18 LI  STtTDJ  NT. 


i,I 


I 

■ 


To  both  oi 

Victorian,  Ay,  false  as  hell  itself! 

Lara.     In  truth,  I  did  not  seek  her ;  she  sought  me  ; 
And  told  me  how  to  win  her,  telling  me 
The  hours  when  she  was  oftenest  left  alone 

Victorian.  Say.  can  you  prove  this  to  me?  Oh,  pluck  out 
These  awful  doubts,  thai  goad  me  into  madness  ! 
Let  me  know  all !  all  !  all  ! 

Lara.  You  shall  know  all. 

Here  is  my  page,  who  was  the  messenger 
Between  us.    Question  him.    Was  it  not  so, 
Francisco  .' 

Francisco.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Lara.  If  further  proof 

Is  needful,  T  have  here  a  ring  she  gave  me. 

I  rictorian.    Pray  let  me  see  that  ring  !    It  is  the  same  ! 

(Throws  it  upon  the  ground,  and  tramples  Upon  it.) 
Thus  may  she  perish  who  once  wore  that  ring  ! 
Thus  do  I  spurn  her  from  me  ;  do  thus  trample 
Her  memory  in  the  dust !     0  Count  of  Lara, 
We  both  have  been  abused,  been  much  abused  ! 
I  thank  you  for  your  courtesy  and  frankness. 
Though  like  the  surgeon's  hand  yours  gave  me  pain, 
Yet  it  has  cured  my  blindness,  and  I  thank  you. 
i  now  can  see  the  folly  I  have  done, 
Though  'tis,  alas  !  too  late.     So  fare  you  well  ! 
To-night  I  leave  this  hateful  town  for  ever. 
Regard  me  as  your  friend.     Once  more,  farewell ! 

Rypolito.     Farewell,  Sir  Count. 

[Exeunt  Victorian  and  Hypolito 

Lara.  .  Farewell !  farewell ! 

Thus  have  1  cleared  the  field  of  my  worst  foe  ! 
I  have  none  else  to  fear  ;  the  fight  is  done, 
The  citadel  is  stormed,  the  victory  won  ! 

[Exit  with  Francisco. 

SCENE  VII. 

.4  lane  in  the  suburbs.     Night.     Enter  Cruzado  and 
Bartolom  6. 


Cmzado.  And  so,  Bartolome,  the  expedition  failed  But 
where  wast  thou  for  the  most  part  I 

Bartclonie.  In  the  Guadarrama  \nountains,  near  San 
Ildefonso. 


—-.a.  -  •» 


:  LOW  6  POEMS. 


Cruzado.  And  thou  bringest'nothing  back  tritb  tbee  i  l»iqhi 
thou  rob  no  one  / 

BartolomS.  There  \va  none  to  rob,  save  a  party  of  studentl 
tVoh  .,  who  looked  as  If  they  would  rob  as;  and  a 

jolly  little  friar,  who  had  nothing  in  his  pockets  but  a  missal 
and  a  loaf  of  bread. 

Cruzado.    Pray,  then,  what  brings  thee  hack  to  Madrid  I 

Bartolome.     First  tell  me  what  keeps  thee  hero  1 

Cruzado.    Preci 

BartolomS.  And  .she  brings  me  back,  llast  thou  forgotten 
thy  promi 

Cruzado.  The  two  years  ar.  edyet.  Wait  patiently. 

The  girl  shall  be  thine. 

tiartolome.     I  hear  she  has  a  Busne  lo 

Cruzado.     That  is  nothing. 

olome.  1  do  not  like  it.  I  hate  him,— the  son  of  a 
Busne"  harlot.  He  goes  in  and  out,  and  speaks  with  her 
alone  ;  and  I  must  stand  aside,  and  wait  his  pleasure. 

.  (do.    13e  patient,  I  say.   Thou  shalt  have  thy  revenge, 
When  the  time  conies,  thou  shalt  waylay  him. 

Bartolome.    Meanwhile,  show  me  her  hot. 

Cruzado,  Come  this  way.  But  thou  wilt  not  find  her. 
She  dances  at  the  play  to-night. 

Bartolviie.     No  matter.     Show  me  the  house,     [Esevnt. 

SCENE  VIII. 

The  Theatre.  The  orchestra  plays  the  cachucha.  Sound 
of  castanets  behind  the  scenes.  The  curtain  r-ises,  and  dis- 
covers Pkeciosa  in  the  attitude  of  commencing  the  dance. 
The  cachucha.  Tumult;  hisses;  cries  of  "Brava.f}} 
and  "  Afuera  /"  She  falters  and  pauses.  The  music 
stops.     General  confusion.    Preciosa  faints. 

SCENE  IX. 

The  Count  of  Lara's  chambers.     Lara  and  his  friends 
at  supp>er. 

Lara.    So,  Caballeros,  once  more  many  thanks  ! 
You  have  stood  by  me  bravely  in  this  matter. 
Pray  fill  your  glasses. 

Don  Juan.  Did  you  mark,  Don  Luis,, 

How  pale  she  looked,  when  first  the  noise  began. 
And  then  stood  still,  with  her  large  eves  dilated 


■ 


ACT  II.] 


TUB  SPANISH  STUDENT, 


(,. 


Her  nostrils  spread  !  her  lips  apart !  her  bosom 
Tumultuous  as  the  sea  1 

.Don.  L  I  pitied  her. 

Lara.    Her  pride  is  humbled  ;  and  this  very  night 

I  mean  to  visit  her. 

Don  J  Will  you  serenade  her  '( 

Lara.  No  music  !  no  more  music  ! 

Don  Luis.  Why  not  music  i 

It  softens  many  hearts. 

Lara.  Not  in  the  humoui 

She  now  is  in.    Music  would  madden  hen 

Don  Juan.    Try  golden  cymbals. 

Don  Luis.  Yes,  try  Don  Dinero  ; 

A.  mighty  wooer  is  your  Don  Dinero  ! 

Lara.  To  tell  the  truth,  then,  I  have  bribed  her  maid. 
But,  Gaballeros,  you  dislike  this  wine. 
A.  bumper,  and  away  ;  for  the  night  wears. 
A.  health  to  Preciosa  !  {They  rise  and  drink.) 

All.  Preciosa ! 

Lara  {holding  up  his  glass). 
Thou  bright  and  flaming  minister  of  Love  ! 
Thou  wonderful  magician  !  who  hast  stolen 
My  secret  from  me,  and  'mid  sighs  of  passion 
Caught  from  my  lips,  with  red  and  fiery  tongue, 
Her  precious  name  !     Oh,  never  more  henceforth 
Shall  mortal  lips  press  thine  ;  and  never  more 
A  mortal  name  be  whispered  in  thine  ear. 
Go  !  keep  my  secret !     {Drinks,  and  dashes  the  goblet  down.) 

Don  Juan.  Ite  !  missa  est !  {Scene  closes.) 


SCENE  X. 

Street  and  garden  wall.     Night. 
Bartolome 


Enter  Ciiuzado  and 


Cruzado.  This  is  the  garden-wall,  and  above  it,  yonder, 
is  her  house.  The  window  in  which  thou  seest  the  light  is 
her  window.     But  we  will  not  go  in  now. 

Hartolome.    Why  not  ? 

Cruzado.     Because  she  is  not  at  home. 

Bartolome'.  No  matter  ;  we  can  wait.  But  Low  is  this  ! 
The  gate  is  bolted.  {Sound  of  guitars  and  voices  in  a  neigh- 
ring  street.)  Hark  !  There  conies  her  lover  with  his  in- 
fernal serenade  !     Hark  ' 


04 


LONOFKU.uW  K   l'»EM8. 


i  night  I   (iood  night,  beloved. 

I  conn:  to  watch  o'ar  tiiee! 
To  tic  near  thee, — to  be  near  tl: 

Alone  i^  ,ne. 

•  are  stars  of  morning', 
Thy  lips  are  crimson  Ho** 

1  night!     Good  night,  beloved, 
While  I  count  tin:  weary  hours. 

Vruzado.    They  are  not  coming  this  way. 
BartoUme'.     Wait,  they  begin  again. 
Song  [coming  nearer). 

Ah!  thou  moon  that  shinest 

Argent-clear  above ! 
All  night  long  enlighten 

My  sweet  lady-love! 
Moon  that  shin 

All  night  long  enlighten. 

Bartolomi.    Woe  be  to  him  if  lie  comes  this  way  ! 
Cruzado.     Be  quiet,  they  are  passing  down  the  street 

Song  {dying  away). 

I'he  nuns  in  the  cloister 

Sang  to  each  other; 
Tor  so  many  sisters 

Is  there  not  one  brother? 
Ay,  for  the  partridge,  mol 

The  cat  has  run  away  with  the  partridge. 

Puss!  pass!  puss! 

Bartolomi.    Follow  that !  follow  that !     Come  with  me. 
Pubs  !  puss  !  [Exeunt. 

(On  the  opposite  enter  the  Count  op  Lara, 
and  gentlemen,  ivith  Francisco.) 
Lara.    The  gate  is  fast.     Over  the  wall,  Francisco, 
And  draw  the  bolt.     There,  so,  and  so,  and  over. 
Now,  gentlemen,  come  in,  and  help  me  scale 
Yon  balcony.     How  now  I     Her  light  still  burns. 
Move  warily.     Make  fast  the  gate,  Francisco.  [Exeunt. 

(Re-enter  Cruzado  and  Bartolomk.) 
Bartolome.     They  went  in  at  the  gate.     Hark !  I  hear 
them  in  the  garden.    (Tries  the  gate.)    Bolted  again  !    Vive 
Cristo  !     Follow  me  over  the  wall.       (They  climb  the  wall.) 

SCENE  XI. 

Preciosa's  bed-chamber.     Midnight.    She  is  sleeping  in 
an  arm-chair,  in  an  undress.    Dolores  watching  her. 
Dolores.  She  sleeps  at  last.  ( Opens  the  icindow,  and  listens.) 
All  silent  in  the  street, 

And  in  the  garden.    Hark ! 


7 


ACT  III.] 


tin:  Spanish  STUDENT. 


65 


Preciosa  (in  her  sleep).  I  must  go  hence  ! 

Give  mo  my  cloak  ! 
Dolores,    lie  comes  !  I  hear  his  footsteps  ! 

Preciosa.    Gk>  tell  them  that  I  cannot  dance  to-night ; 
I  am  too  ill  !     Look  at  me  !     Sec  the  fever 
That  burns  upon  my  cheek  !     I  must  go  hence. 
I  Bin  loo  weak  to  dance.  (Signal  from  the  garden.) 

Dolores  (from  the  window).  Who's  there  \ 

Voice  (from  below).  A  friend. 

Dolores.    I  will  undo  the  door.     Wait  till  I  come. 

Preciosa.  I  must  go  hence.   I  pray  you  do  not  harm  me  ! 
Shame  !  shame  !  to  treat  a  feeble  woman  thus  ! 
Be  you  hut  kind,  I  will  do  all  things  for  you. 
Tin  ready  now, — give  me  my  castanets. 
Where  is  Victorian  ?    Oh,  those  hateful  lamps  ! 
They  glare  upon  me  like  an  evil  eye. 
I  cannot  stay.     Hark  !  how  they  mock  at  me  !       [icakes.) 
They  hiss  at  me  like  serpents  !     Save  me  !  save  me  !     (She 
How  late  is  it,  Dolores '/ 


Dolores. 


It  is  midnight. 


Preciosa.  W  e  must  be  patient.  Smooth  this  pillow  for  me. 
(She  sleeps  again.     Noise  from  the  garden,  and  voices A 
Voice.    Muera ! 

Another  Voice.        0  villains  !  villains  ! 
I  \ra.  So  !  have  at  you  ! 

Voice.    Take  that ! 
Lara.  Oh,  I  am  wounded  ! 

Dolores  (shutting  the  window).  Jesu  Maria  .' 

ACT  TIL 
S  eve  I.— A   cross-road  through  a  wood.      In  the  bach- 
grounda  distant  village  sjnre.     Victorian  and  IIypo- 
lito  as  travelling  students,  with  guitars,  sitting  under 
the  trees.     Htpolito  plays  and  sings. 

Song. 

Ah,  Lore ! 
Perjured,  false,  treacherous  Love: 

Enemy 
Of  all  that  mankind  may  not  rue  ! 

Most  untrue 
To  him  who  keeps  most  faith  with  thee 

Woe  is  me! 
The  falcon  has  the  eyes  of  the  dove. 

Ah,  Love! 
jurcd,  false,  treacherous  Love. 

Victorian.    Yes,  Love  is  ever  busy  with  his  shuttle. 


■-  c 


Is  ever  weaving  into  life's  «lull  warp 

-us  (lowers,  and  scenes  Arcadian  ; 
Hanging  our  gloomy  prison-house  about 
With  tapestries  that  make  its  walls  dilate 
In  never-ending  vistas  of  delight. 

EypolUo.  Thinking  to  walk  in  thi  .  iian  pastures,. 

Thou  hast  run  thy  noble  head  against  the  wall. 
Sono  {continue1  . 

Thy  deceits 
Give  us  clearly  to  comprehend, 

Whither  tend 
All  thy  pleasures ;  all  thy  s\reets 

They  are  cheats, 
Thorns  below  and  flowers  above. 

Ah,  Love ! 
Perjured,  false,  treacherous  Love! 

Victorian.    A  very  pretty  song.    I  thank  thee  for  it. 

Ihipolito.     It  suits  thy  case. 

Victorian.  Indeed,  I  think  it  does. 

What  wise  man  wrote  it? 

EypolUo.  Lopez  Maldonado. 

Victori-in.     In  truth,  a  pretty  song. 

llypolito.  With  much  truth  in  it. 

I  hope  thou  wilt  profit  by  it,  and  in  earnest 
Try  to  forget  this  lady  of  thy  love. 

Victorian.    1  will  forget  her  !  All  dear  recollect  i. 
Pressed  in  my  heart,  like  flowers  within  a  book, 
Shall  lie  torn  out,  and  scattered  to  the  winds  ! 
I  will  forget  her  !     But  perhaps  hereafter, 
When  she  shall  learn  how  heartless  is  the  world, 
A  voice  within  her  will  repeat  my  name, 
And  she  will  say,  "  He  was  indeed  my  friend  !" 
Oh,  would  I  were  a  soldier,  not  a  scholar, 
That  the  loud  march,  the  deafening  beat  of  drums, 
The  shattering  blast  of  the  brass-throated  trumi 
The  din  of  arms,  the  onslaught  and  the  storm, 
And  a  swift  death,  might  make  me  deaf  for  ever 
To  the  upbraidings  of  this  foolish  heart ! 

llypolito.  Then  let  that  foolish  heart  upbraid  no  moro  ; 
To  conquer  love,  one  need  but  will  to  conquer. 

Victorian.     Yet,  good  llypolito,  it  is  in  vain 
I  throw  into  Oblivion's  sea  the  sword 
That  pierces  me  ;  for,  like  Excalibar, 
With  gemmed  and  flashing  hilt,  it  will  not  sink. 
There  rises  from  below  a  hand  that  grasps  it. 
And  waves  it  in  the  air  ;  and  wailing  voices 


r??E 


■i 


«***■£ 


p  Hu  hfl 


LOT  III.  1 


Tin:  BP  \  S  i-ll    JTUOENT. 


(17 


&i 


A  iv  heard  along  the  shore 

Ili/poh'fo.  And  yet  at  last 

Down  sank  Bxcalibar  to  rise  no  more. 
This  is  Dot  well.    In  truth,  it  vexes  me. 

Instead  of  whistling  to  the  steeds  of  Time, 
To  make  them  jog  on  merrily  with  life's  burden, 
Like  a  dead  weight  thou  hangest  on  the  wheels. 
Thou  art  too  young,  too  full  of  lusty  health, 
To  talk  of  dying. 

Victorian.  Yet  I  faio  would  die  ! 

T    go  through  life  unloving  and  unloved  ; 
To  feel  that  thirst  and  hunger  of  the  soul 
We  cannot  still  ;  that  longing,  that  wild  impulse. 
And  struggle  after  something  we  have  not, 
And  cannot  have  ;  the  effort  to  be  strong  ; 
And,  like  the  Spartan  boy,  to  smile,  and  smile, 
While  secret  wounds  do  bleed  beneath  our  cloaks  ; 
All  this  the  dead  feel  not, — the  dead  alone  ! 
Would  I  were  with  them  ! 

Hypolito.  We  shall  all  be  sooil 

Victorian,     it  cannot  be  too  soon  ;  for  I  am  weary 
Of  the  bewildering  masquerade  of  Life, 
Where  strangers  walk  as  friends,  and  friends  as  strangers 
Where  whispers  overheard  betray  false  hearts ; 
And  through  the  mazes  of  the  crowd  we  chase 
Some  form  of  loveliness,  that  smiles,  and  beckons, 
And  cheats  us  with  fair  words,  only  to  leave  us 
A  mockery  and  a  jest ;  maddened,  confused, 
Not  knowing  friend  from  foe. 

Hypolito.  Why  seek  to  know  i 

Enjoy  the  merry  shrove-tide  of  thy  youth  ! 
Take  each  fair  mask  for  what  it  gives  itself, 
Nor  strive  to  look  beneath  it. 

Victorian.  I  confess 

That  were  the  wiser  part.     But  Hope  no  longer 
Comforts  my  soul.     I  am  a  wretched  man, 
.Much  like  a  poor  and  shipwrecked  mariner, 
Who,  struggling  to  climb  up  into  the  boat, 
Has  both  his  bruised  and  bleeding  hands  cut  off, 
And  sinks  again  into  the  weltering  sea, 
Helpless  and  hopeless  ! 

Hypolito.  Yet  thou  shalt  not  peris!:. 

The  strength  of  thine  own  arm  is  thy  salvation. 
Above  thy  head,  through  rifted  clouds,  there  shines 


.  ^^B%f^C*~ 


G3 


l  FELLOW 


A 


A  glorious  star.     Be  patient.     Trust  thy  star ! 

(Sun ml  of  a  village-bell  in  t)  •  <%.) 

i   dorian,    Ave  Maria!  I  hear  the  sacristan 
Banging  the  chimes  from  yonder  village  bel 
a   olemn  sound,  that  echoes  far  ami  wide 
Over  the  i  of  the  o 

And  bids  the  labouring  hind  a-field,  the  shepherd 
Guarding  his  flook,  the  Lonely  ruulet 
And  all  the  crowd  in  village-street,  stand  still, 
And  breathe  a  prayer  unto  the  blessed  virgin  ! 

Hypolito.  Amen  !  amen  !  Not  halt' a  'eague  iVom  hence 
The  village  lies. 

Victorian,  This  path  will  lead  us  to  it, 

Over  the  wheat-fields,  where  the  shadows  sail 
Across  the  running  sea,  now  green,  now  'nine, 
And,  like  an  idle  mariner  on  the  main, 
Whistles  the  quail.     Come  let  us  hasten  on.         [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. 

Public  square  in  the  village  of  Guadarrama.    The  Ave 

Murid  still  tolling.  A  crowd  of  villager*,  with  their 
hats  in  their  hands,  as  if  in  prayer.  J  n  front,  a  group 
of  Gipsies.  The  bell  rings  a  merrier  peal.  A  Gijtsy 
dance.     Enter  Pancho,  follo%oed  by  Pedro  Crespo. 

Pancho.  Make  room,  ye  vagabonds  am1.  Gipsy  thieves  ! 
Make  room  for  the  alclade  and  for  me  ! 

Pedro  Crespo.  Keep  silence  all  !   J  have  an  edict  here 
From  our  most  gracious  lord,  the  King  of  Spain, 
Jerusalem,  and  the  Canary  Islands, 
Which  1  shad  publish  in  the  market-place. 
Open  your  ears  and  listen  ! 

{Enter  the  Padue  Cuba  at  the  door  of  his  cottage.) 

Padre  Cura, 
Good  day  !  and,  pray  you,  hear  this  edict  read. 

Padre  ('urn.        Good  day,  and  God  he  with  you  ! 
Pray,  what  is  it  I 

Pedro  ( 'respo.  An  act  of  banishment  against  the  Gipsies  ! 
{Agitation  and  murmurs  in  the  crowd.) 

Pancho.     Silence ! 

Pedro  Crespo  {reads).  "  I  hereby  order  ami  command 
That  the  Egyptian  and  Chaldean  strangers, 
Known  by  the  name  of  Gipsies,  shall  henceforth 
Be  banished  from  the  realm  as  vagabonds 


IH 


ACT  III.] 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


G9 


And  i  and  it',  after  seventy  'lays, 

Any  be  found  within  our  kingdom's  bounds, 

They  Bhall  receive  a  hundred  lashes  each  ; 
The  second  time  shall  have  their  ears  cut  off  ; 
The  third,  he  slaves  for  life  to  him  who  takes  f.hera, 
Or  burnt  as  heretics.    Signed  I,  the  King." 
Vile  miscreants  and  creatures  unbaptiscd, 
You  hear  the  law  !     Obey,  and  disappear  ! 

Pancho.    And  if  in  seventy  days  you  are  not  gone, 
Dead  or  alive  I  make  you  all  my  sla 

{The  Gipsies  go  out  in  confusion,  shoiving  signs  oj 
fear  and  discontent.     Pancho  follows.) 

Padre  Cura.  A  righteous  law  !  A  very  righteous  law  ! 

Pray  you  sit  down. 

Pedro  Crespo.  I  thank  you  heartily. 

{They  seat  themselves  on  a  bench  at  the  Padre  Cura's 
door.    Sound  of  guitars  heard  at  a  distance, 
approaching  during  the  dialogue  which  follows.) 
A  very  righteous  judgment,  as  you  say. 
Now  tell  me,  Padre  (Jura, — you  know  all  things, — 
How  came  these  Gipsies  into  Spain  I 

Padre  Cura.                                Why,  look  you  ; 
They  came  with  Hercules  from  Palestine, 
And  hence  are  thieves  and  vagrants,  Sir  Alcalde, 
As  the  Simoniacs  from  Simon  Magus. 
And,  look  you,  as  Fray  Jayme  Bleda  says, 
There  are  a  hundred  marks  to  prove  a  Moor 
Is  not  a  Christian,  so  'tis  with  the  Gipsies. 
They  never  many,  never  go  to  mass, 
Never  baptise  their  children,  nor  keep  Lent, 
Nor  see  the  inside  of  a  church, — nor — nor 

Pedro  Crespo.  Good  reasons,  good,  substantial  reasons  all ! 
No  matter  for  the  other  ninety-five. 
They  should  be  burnt ;  I  see  it  plain  enough. 
They  should  he  burnt. 

{Enter  Victorian  and  Htpolito playing) 

Padre  (Jura.        And  pray,  whom  have  we  here  ? 

Pedro  Crespo.  More  vagrants  ! 

By  st  Lazarus,  more  vagrants  ! 

Jlypolito.  Good  evening,  gentlemen  !  Is  this  Guadarrama  t 

Padre  Cura.  Yes,  Guadarrama,  and  good  evening  to  you 

//  rpolito.    "We  seek  the  Padre  Cura  of  the  village  ; 
And,  judging  from  your  dress  and  reverend  mien, 
You  must  be  he. 


: 


m 

■  mm 


- 


& 

r 


Padre  Cura.     I  am.     Pray,  what's  your  pleasure  I 
ll'ipolito.    We  are  poor  students,  t  ravelling  in  vacation, 
You  know  this  mark  / 

{Touching  the\ 
're  Cura  {joyfully).  Ay,  know  it,  and  have  worn  it. 
Pedro  Crespo  (aside).     Soup-eaters  !  by  the  mass  !     The 
YV( ... 

And  there's  no  law  against  them.    Sir,  your  servant  [E 

Padre  Cura.    four  servant,  Pedn  I 

Hypolito.  Padre  Cura, 

From  the  first  moment  I  beheld  your  face, 
1  said  within  myself,  "  This  is  the  man  !" 
i'here  is  a  certain  something  in  your  looks, 
A.  certain  scholar-like  and  studious  something,— 
You  understand, — which  cannot  be  mistaken  ; 
Which  marks  you  as  a  veiy  learned  man  ; 
In  fine,  as  one  of  us. 

\1  dorian  (aside).  What  impudence! 

II  'ipolito.    As  we  approached,  I  said  to  my  companion, 
"  That  is  the  Padre  Cura  ;  mark  my  words  !" 
Meaning  your  grace.    "  The  other  man,"  said  I 
u  Who  sits  so  awkwardly  upon  the  bench, 
Must  be  the  sacristan." 

Padre  Cura.  Ah  !  said  you  so  ? 

Why,  that  was  Pedro  Crespo,  the  alcalde  ! 

II [ipolito.     Indeed  !  you  much  astonish  me  !     His  air 
Was  not  so  full  of  dignity  and  grace 
As  an  alcalde's  should  be. 

Padre  Cura.  That  is  true, 

lie  is  out  of  humour  with  some  vagrant  Gipsies, 
Who  have  their  camp  here  in  the  neighbourhood  : 
There  is  nothing  so  undignified  as  an 

Ih/polito.    The  Padre  Cura  will  excuse  our  boldne 
If,  from  his  well-known  hospitality, 
We  crave  a  lodging  for  the  night. 

Padre  Cura.  I  pray  you  ! 

You  do  me  honour  !     1  am  but  too  happy 
To  have  such  guests  beneath  my  humble  roof. 
It  is  not  often  that  I  have  occasion 
To  speak  with  scholars  ;  and  Kmollit  more*. 
Xr  ■  .<i,,  it  esseferos,  Cicero  says. 

II :/polito.    'Tis  Ovid,  is  it  not  ? 

Padre  Cura.  No,  Cicero. 

You  are  the  better  scholar 


i 


Ml.] 


Tin:  SPANISH 


N'i'U-  what  a  dunce  was  T  to  flunk  it  Ovid  ! 
But  liang  me  if  it  is  act !    (Ancle.) 

ira.  is  this  way. 

He  was  a  very  great  man,  was  Cicero ! . 

IV;: '  in,  uro  in  !   QO  ceremony. 

SCENE  III. 

.1  room  in  the  Padre  Cura's  hor 
and  Hypolito. 

Padre  Cure     ^o  then,  Sennor,  you  come  from  Aleala. 
T  am  glad  to  hear  it.     It  was  there  I  studied. 

Hypolito.  And  left  behind  an  honoured  name,  no  doubt 
How  may  I  call  your  grace  I 

Padre  Cera.  Geronimo 

De  Santillana,  at  youi-  honours  service. 

Hypolito.     Descended  from  the  Marquis  Santillana  ? 
From  the  distinguished  poet  \ 

Padre  Oura.  From  the  Marquis, 

N"(  't  from  the  poet. 

Hypolito.  Why,  they  were  the  same. 

f.et  me  embrace  you  !     Oh,  some  lucky  star 
Has  brought  me  hither  !  Yet  once  more  ! — once  more  ! 
Your  name  is  ever  green  in  Aleala, 
And  our  professor,  when  we  are  unruly, 
Will  shake  his  hoary  head,  and  say,  "  Alas  ! 
It  was  not  so  in  Santillana' s  time  !" 

Padre  Cura.  I  did  not  think  my  name  remembered  there. 

Hypolito.    More  than  remembered  ;  it  is  idolised  ! 

Padre  Cura.     Of  what  professor  speak  you  ? 

Hyjjolito.  Timoneda. 

Padre  Cura.     I  don't  remember  any  Timoneda, 

Hypolito.  A  grave  and  sombre  man,  whose  beetling  Vow 
O'erhangs  the  rushing  current  of  his  speech, 
As  rocks  o'er  rivers  hang.     Have  you  forgotton  ? 

Padre  Cura.  Indeed  I  have.  Oh,  those  were  pleasant  days 
Chose  college  days !     I  ne'er  shall  see  the  like  ! 
I  had  not  buried  then  so  many  hopes ! 
L  had  not  buried  then  so  many  friends! 
I've  turned  my  back  on  what  was  then  before  me : 
And  the  bright  faces  of  my  young  companions 
Are  wrinkled  like  my  own,  or  are  no  more. 
Do  yon  remember  Cueva? 

Hypolito.  Cueva  ?  Cueva  ! 

Padre  Cura.  Fool  that  I  am  !  He  was  before  yoiu  time 


7-J 


□  FELLOW  S    l'OKMS. 


You're  a  mere  boy,  and  I  am  an  old  man. 
Hypolito.  I  should  not  like  to  try  my  strength  with  you. 
P. (  Wo.  Wellil  well !  But  1  forget ;  you  niu  t  bo  nun 

Martina!  ho!  Martina!  'tis  my  niece. 
(Enter  Martina.) 

Hypolito.  Vial  may  he  proud  of  such  a  niece  a.s  that, 
I  wish  I  had  a  niece.     Emollit  mores  [Arid*. 

He  was  a  very  great  man,  was  Cicero  ! 
Your  servant,  fair  Martina. 

Marti  Servant,  sir. 

Padre  Cura.  This  gentleman  is  hungry.  See  thou  to  it. 
Let  us  have  supper. 

Martina.  'Twill  be  ready  BOOa 

Padre  Cura.  And  bring  a  bottle  of  my  Val-de-Pennas 
Out  of  the  cellar.     Stay,  I'll  go  myself. 
Tray  you,  Sennor,  excuse  me.  [Exit. 

Hypolito.  Hist !  Martina  ! 

One  word  with  you.  Bless  me,  what  handsome,  eyes  ! 
To-day  there  have  been  Gipsies  in  the  village. 
Ts  it  not  so  \ 

Martina.  There  have  been  Gipsies  here. 

Ihipolito.     Yes,  and  they  told  your  fortune. 

Martin"  (embarrassed).  Told  my  fortune  ? 

polito.  Yes,  yes;  I  know  they  did.  Give  me  your  hand. 
I'll  tell  you  what  they  said.     They  said,— they  said, 
The  shepherd  boy  that  loved  you  was  a  down, 
And  him  you  should  not  marry.     Was  it  not  ? 

Martina  (surprised).     How  know  you  that  I 

Hi/polito.  .  I  know  more  than  that. 

What  a  soft  little  hand  !  And  then  they  said, 
A  cavalier  from  court,  handsome  and  tall, 
And  rich,  should  come  one  day  to  marry  you, 
And  you  should  be  a  lady.     Was  it  not  I 
lie  has  arrived,  the  handsome  cavalier. 

(Tries  to  kiss  her.     She  runs  off.     Enter  Victoria? 
with  a  letter.) 
Victorian.     The  muleteer  has  come. 

Ihipolito.  So  soon  \ 

tori  an  I  found  him 

Sitting  at  supper  by  the  tavern-door, 
And,  from  a  pitcher  that  he  held  aloft 
His  whole  arm's  length,  drinking  the  blood  red  wine. 

Hypolito.     What  new?  from  Court .' 

Victorian.     He  brought  this  letter  only.        (Read$.\ 


Mm 


act  in.] 


TUT  SPAN'ISn  STUDENT. 


.• 


Oh,  cursed  perfidy  !    Why  did  T  let 
That  lying  tongue  deceive  me !     Preciosa, 
Sweet  Preciosa]  how  art  thon  avenged  ! 

B  />.  What  newB  is  this,  that  makes  thy  cheel  turn  pale 
A.nd  thy  hand  tremble  I 

Victorian.  Oh,  most  infamous  ! 

The  Count  of  Lara  is  a  damned  villain  ! 

Hypolito.     That  is  no  news,  forsooth. 

Victorian,  lie  strove  in  vain 

To  steal  from  me  the  jewel  of  my  soul, 
The  love  of  Preciosa.    Not  succeeding, 
He  swore  to  he  revenged  ;  and  set  on  foot 
A  plot  to  ruin  her,  which  has  succeeded. 
She  has  been  hissed  and  hooted  from  the  stage, 
Her  reputation  stained  by  slanderous  lies 
Too  foul  to  speak  of  ;  and,  once  more  a  beggar, 
She  roams  a  wanderer  over  God's  green  earth, 
Housing  with  Gipsies ! 

Hypolito.  To  renew  again 

The  Age  of  Gold,  and  make  the  shepherd  swai-is 
Desperate  with  love,  like  Gaspar  Gil's  Diana. 
Red  it  et  virgo  / 

Victorian.  Dear  Hypolito. 

How  have  I  wronged  that  meek,  confiding  heart ! 
I  will  go  seek  for  her  ;  and  with  my  tears 
Wash  out  the  wrong  I've  done  her  ! 

Hypolito.  Oh,  beware ! 

Act  not  that  folly  o'er  again. 

Victorian.  Ay,  folly, 

Delusion,  madness,  call  it  what  thou  wilt, 
I  will  confess  my  weakness, — I  still  love  her  ! 
Still  fondly  love  her  ! 

{Enter  the  Padre  Cura.) 

Hypolito.  Tell  us,  Padre  Cura, 

Who  are  these  Gipsies  in  the  neighbourhood  l 

Padre  Cura.    Beltran  Cruzado  and  his  crew. 

Victorian.  Kind  Heaven, 

I  thank  thee  !     She  is  found  !  is  found  again  ! 

Hypolito.  And  have  they  with  them  a  pale,  beautiful  giii. 
Called  Preciosa  I 

Padre  dura.  Ay,  a  pretty  girl. — 

The  gentleman  seems  moved. 

Hypolito.  Yes,  moved  with  hunger  ; 

He  is  half  famished  with  this  long  day's  jour 


r%47 


74 


Padre  Oura.     Then,  pray  yuu  come  this  way. 


per  waits. 


The  sup- 


SCENE  IV. 


A  post-house  on  the  road  to  Segovia,  not  far  from  the  ul- 
lage of  Guadarratna,    Enter  Chispa,  cracking  a  i 
and  tinging  the  cachuc) 

Chispa.    Halloo  !  Don  Fulauo  !    Let  us  have  horses,  and 

quickly.  Alas,  poor  Chispa!  what  a  dog's  life  dost  thou 
lead.  1  thought,  when  I  left  my  old  master  Victorian  the 
student  to  serve  my  new  master  Don  Carlos  the  gentleman, 
that  I  too  should  lead  the  life  lileman  ;  should  go  to 

bed  early,  and  get  up  late.     For  when  the  abbot  plays  cauls, 
what  can  yen  expect  of  the  friars  '     But  in  running  I 
from  the  thunder,  1  have  run  into  the  lightning,    Here  1 
am  in  hot  chase  after  my  master  and  his  I  rl     And 

a  good  beginning  of  the  week  it  is,  as  he  said  who  was 
hanged  on  .Monday  mornii 

{Eider  Don  Carlos.) 

Don  Carlos.    Are  not  the  horses  ready  yet  1 

Oh  is  pa.  1  should  think  not,  for  the  hostler  seems  to  be  asleep  , 
Bo  !  within  there  !     Horses  !  horses  !  horses  ! 

{He  knocks  at  the  gate  with  his  whip,  and  enter 
Mosquito,  putting  on  hie  jacket.) 

Mosquito.     Pray,  have  a  little  patience.   I'm  not  a  musket. 

Chispa.  Ilealth  and  pistareensl  I'm  glad  to  see  you 
come  on  dancing,  padre  !     Pray,  what's  the  news  3 

Mosquito.  You  cannot  have  fresh  horses,  because  there 
are  none. 

Chispa.  Cachiporra  !  Throw  that  bone  to  another  dog. 
Do  I  look  like  your  aunt  ? 

Mosquito.    No,  she  has  a  beard. 

Chispa.     Go  to  !  go  to  ! 

Mosquito.    Are  you  from  Madrid  1 

Chispa.    Yes  ;  and  going  to  Estremadura.    Get  us  horses. 

Mosquito.    What's  the  news  at  Court  1 

Chispa.  Why,  the  latest  news  is,  that  I  am  going  to  set 
up  a  coach,  and  I  have  already  bought  the  whip. 

{Strikes  him  round  the  legs.) 

Mosquito.    Oh  !  ch  !  you  hurt  me  ! 

Don  Carlos.  Enough  of  this  folly.  Let  us  have  horses, 
{(rives  money  to  Mosquito.)  It  is  almost  dark  and  we  are 
in  haste.  But  tell  me,  has  a  band  of  Gipsies  passed  tliie 
wav  of  late  ? 


t  „ 


1 


AOT  III. 


THE  BPAN161I  STU1 


75 


Mosquito,     Sfes ;  and  they  arc  still  in  the  neighbourhood. 

Von  Carlo*,    And  where? 

Mosquito.  Across  the  fields  yonder,  in  the  woods  neat 
Qxtadarrama.  [Exit 

Don  Carlo*.  Now  this  is  lucky.  We  will  visitthe  Gipsy  camp. 

Chispa.  Are  yon  not  afraid  of  the  evil  eye  '(  Have  you 
a  stag's  horn  with  you  I 

Don  Carlo*.  Fear  not.  We  will  pass  the  night  at  the  village. 

Chispa.  Ami  sleep  like  the  Squires  of  llernan  Daza,  nine 
under  one  blanket, 

Don  Carlos.    I  hope  we  may  find  Preciosa  among  them. 

Chis2>a.    Among  the  squires  1 

Don  Carlos.     No  !  among  the  Gipsies,  blockhead  ! 

Chispa.  i  hope  we  may  ;  for  we  are  giving  ourselves 
trouble  enough  on  her  account.  Don't  you  think  so  l  How- 
ever, there  is  no  catching  trout  without  wetting  one's  trousers. 
Yonder  come  the  horses.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. 

The  Gipsy  camp  in  the  forest.     Night.      Gipsies  working 

at  a  forge.     Others  playing  cards  by  the  firelight. 

Gipsies  {at  the  forge  sing). 

On  the  top  of  a  mountain  I  stand, 
With  a  crown  of  red  gold  in  my  hand; 
Wild  Moors  come  trooping  over  the  lea. 
Oh,  how  from  their  fury  shall  I  flee,  flee,  flee? 
Oh,  how  from  their  fury  shall  I  flee? 

First  Gipsy  {playing).  Down  with  your  John-Dorados, 
my  pigeon ;  down  with  your  John-Dorados,  and  let  us  make 
an  end. 

Gipsies  {at  the  forge  sing). 

Loud  sang  the  Spanish  cavalier, 

And  thus  his  ditty  ran: 
God  send  the  Gipsy  lassie  here, 

And  not  the  Gipsy  man. 

First  Gispy  {playing).    There  you  are  in  your  morocco  ! 
Second  Gipsy.     One  more  game.     The  alcalde's  dovec 
against  the  Padre  Cura's  new  moon. 
First  Gipsy.    Have  at  you,  Chirelin. 

Gipsies  {at  the  forge  sing). 

At  midnight  when  the  moon  began 

To  show  her  silver  flame, 
There  came  to  him  no  Gipsy  man. 

The  Gipsy  lassie  came. 

{Enter  Beltkan  Cruzado.) 
Cruzado.    Come  hither,  Murcigalleros  and  Rastillerot : 


iHI^H 


leave  work,  leave  play  ;  [>.  j  our  orders  for  the  night 

(Speaking  to  the  right )    You  will  get  yuu  to  the  villi 
nark  you,  by  the  stout  en 
Ay ! 
ado  {to  the  left).     And  you,  l»y  the  pole  with   tho 
hermit's  head  upon  it. 
Gipsies.    Ay! 

■  ulo.    Aa  soon  as  you  n  e  the  planet*  are  out,  in  with 
yon,  and  be  busy  with  the  ten  commandments,  under  the  sly, 
and  Saint  .Martin  asleep.     L>'ye  hear  ( 
tsiea.    Ay! 

tado.     Keep  your  lanterns  open,  and,  if  you 
in  or  a  papagayo,  take  to  your  trampers.    "  Vineyi 
and  Daucing  John"  is  the  word.    Am  1  comprehended  1 
Gipsies,     Ay!  ay! 
( '  ruzado.     Away,  then  ! 
(Exeunt  severally.    Ouuzado  walks  up  the  stage,  and 
disappears  among  the  trees.    Enter  Pbjboiosa  ] 
Preciosa.  How  strangely  gleams  through  the  gigantic  trees 
The  red  light  of  the  forge  !    Wild,  beckoning  shadows 
Stalk  through  the  forest,  ever  and  anon 
Rising  and  bending  with  the  flickering  flame, 
Then  flitting  into  darkness !    So  within  me 
Strange  hopes  and  fears  do  beckon  to  each  other, 
My  brightest  hopes  giving  dark  fears  a  being, 
As  the  light  does  the  shadow.     Woe  is  me  ! 
liow  still  it  is  about  me,  and  how  lonely ! 
(Bahtoloue  rushes  in.) 
Ho !  Preciosa ! 

Oh,  Bartolome  ! 


Bartolome. 
Preciosa. 
Thou  here  1 
Bartolome. 
Preciosa. 
Bartolome. 


Lo  !  I  am  here. 

Whence  comest  thou  i 
From  the  rough  ridges  of  the  wild  Sierra, 
From  caverns  in  the  rucks,  from  hunger,  thirst, 
And  fever  !    Like  a  wild  wolf  to  the  sheepfold, 
Come  I  for  thee,  my  lamb. 

Preciosa.  Oh,  touch  me  not ! 

The  Count  of  Lara's  blood  is  on  thy  hands  ! 
The  Count  of  Lara's  curse  is  on  thy  bouI  ! 
Do  not  come  near  me  !    Pray,  begone  from  hi 
Thou  art  in  danger  !    They  have  set  a  price 
Upon  thy  head ! 
Bartolome.        Ay  and  I've  wandered  long 


ACT  III."] 


Till'   SI'  WISH    STUDKNT. 


77 


M 


Among  the  mountains  ;  and  for  many  days 

l  [ave  Been  do  human  face,  Bave  the  rough  swineherd'* 

The  wind  and  rain  have  been  my  Bole  companions. 
I  Bhouted  to  them  from  the  rocks  thy  name, 
A.nd  the  loud  echo  sent  it  back  to  me, 
Till  1  grew  mad.    1  could  uot  stay  from  thee, 
And  1  am  here  !    Betray  me,  it'  thou  wilt. 

Preciosa,     Betray  thee  !    I  betray  thee  ! 

BartolomS.  Preciosa, 

1  come  for  thee  !  for  thee  I  thus  brave  death  ! 
Fly  with  me  o'er  the  borders  of  this  realm  ! 
Fly  with  me ! 

Preciosa.    Speak  of  that  no  more.     I  cannot. 
I  am  thine  no  longer. 

Bartolome.  Oh,  recall  the  time 

When  we  were  children  !  how  we  played  together; 
How  we  grew  up  together;  how  we  plighted 
Our  hearts  unto  each  other,  even  in  childhood  ! 
Fulfil  thy  promise,  for  the  hour  is  come. 
I  am  hunted  from  the  kingdom  like  a  wolf! 
Fulfil  thy  promise  ! 

Preciosa.  'Twas  my  father's  promise, 

Not  mine.     I  never  gave  my  heart  to  thee, 
Nor  promised  thee  my  hand  ! 

Bartolome'.  False  tongue  of  woman  ! 

And.  heart  more  false  ! 

Preciosa.  Nay,  listen  unto  me. 

1  will  speak  frankly.     I  have  never  loved  thee  ; 
I  cannot  love  thee.     This  is  not  my  fault, 
It  is  my  destiny.    Thou  art  a  man 
Restless  and  violent.     What  wouldst  thou  with  me, 
A  feeble  girl,  who  have  not  long  to  live, 
\Y  hose  heart  is  broken  1     Seek  another  wife, 
Better  than  I,  and  fairer  ;  and  let  not 
Thy  rash  and  headlong  moods  estrange  her  from  thee  ; 
Thou  art  unhappy  in  this  hopeless  passion. 
I  never  sought  thy  love  ;  never  did  aught 
To  make  thee  love  me.     Yet  I  pity  thee, 
And  most  of  all  I  pity  thy  wild  heart, 
That  hurries  thee  to  crimes  and  deeds  of  blood  : 
Beware,  beware  of  that ! 

Bartolome.  For  thy  dear  sake 

I  will  be  gentle.    Thou  shalt  teach  me  patience. 

Preciosa.  Then  take  this  farewell,  and  depart  in  peace.  _ 


78 


LON  KM8. 


■ 


k 


Thou  must  not  lingi  i  I 

with  me. 

Preciosa.    Hark  !  1  heai 

Bartolm  thee,  come  ' 

Preciosa.     Away  !     It  is  in  vain. 

Wilt  thou  ii 
■  ■ciosa.    Xe\ 

Partolo/ue.  Then  woe,  eternal  itoe,  upon  thee  ! 

Thou  shalt  not  be  another's.     Thou  shall  die.  |  B 

J'reciosa.     All  holy  angels  keep  me  in  this  ho 
Spirit  of  her  who  here  me,  look  upon  me  ! 
Mother  of  God,  the  glorified,  protect  me  ! 
Christ  and  the  saints,  be  merciful  unto  d 
Yet  why  should  I  fear  death  /     What  is  it  to  die  i 
To  leave  all  disappointment,  care,  and  sorrow, 
To  leave  all  falsehood,  treachery,  and  unkindness, 
All  ignominy,  suffering,  and  despair, 
And  be  at  rest  for  ever  !  Oh,  dull  heart, 
Be  of  good  cheer  !    When  thou  shalt  cease  to  beat 
Then  shalt  thou  cease  to  suffer  and  complain  .' 

(Enter  Victorian  and  Hypolito  behind.) 

Victorian.  'Tis  she  !  Behold,  how  beautiful  she  stands. 
Under  the  tent-like  trees  ! 

lli/23olito.  A  woodland  nymph  ! 

Victorian.     I  pray  thee,  stand  aside.     Leave  me. 

Hypolito.  Be  \ 

Do  not  betray  thyself  too  soon. 

Victorian  {disguising  his  voice).     Hist !  Gipsy  ! 

Preciosa  (aside ,  with  emotion). 
That  voice  !  that  voice  from  heaven  !     Oh,  speak  again 
Who  is  it  calls? 

>  'idorian.  A  friend. 

Preciosa  (aside).  'Tis  he  !  'tis  he  ! 

I  thank  thee,  Heaven,  that  thou  hast  heard  my  prayer 
And  sent  me  this  protector  !     Now  be  strong, 
Be  strong,  my  heart !     I  must  dissemble  here. — 
false  friend  or  true  1  (aloud.) 

Victorian,  A  true  friend  to  the  true  ; 

Fear  not  ;  come  hither.     So  ;  can  you  tell  fortunes  I 

Preciosa.    Not  in  the  dark.     Come  nearer  to  the  fire 
Give  me  your  hand.     It  is  not  crossed,  I  see. 

Victorian  (putting  a  piece  of  gold  into  her  hand\ 
There  is  the  cross. 


ACT  III."! 


Tin:  SPANISH  st i 


79 


Preciota.  Is't  silver  .; 

Victorian.  bis  gold. 

Preciota.  There's  a  fair  lady  at  tin  ,  tm, 

And  for  yourself  alone. 

Victorian.  Fie  !  the  old  story ! 

Toll  me  a  better  fortune  for  my  money  ; 
this  i >ld  woman's  tale  ! 

Precio,  You  are  passionate  ; 

And  this  same  passionate  humour  in  your  hlood 
Has  marred  your  fortune.    Yes  ;  I  see  it  now  ; 
The  line  of  life  is  crossed  hy  many  marks. 
Shame  !  shame  !  Oh,  you  have  wronged  the  maid  who  loved 

you ! 
II  'U  could  3am  do  it? 

Victorian.  I  never  loved  a  maid  ; 

For  she  I  loved  was  then  a  maid  no  more. 

Preciosa.    How  know  you  that  I 

Victorian.  A  little  bird  in  the  air 

\\  hispered  the  secret. 

Preciosa.  There,  take  hack  your  gold ' 

Your  hand  is  cold,  like  a  deceiver's  hand  ; 
There  is  no  blessing  in  its  charity  ! 
Make  her  your  wife,  for  you  have  been  abused  ; 
And  you  shall  mend  your  fortunes,  mending  hers. 

J  'ictorian  (aside). 
How  like  an  angel's  speaks  the  tongue  of  woman, 

When  pleading  in  another's  cause  her  own  ! 

That  is  a  pretty  ring  upon  your  finger. 

Pray  give  it  me.  (Tries  to  take  the  ring), 

Preciosa.  No  !  never  from  my  hand 

Shall  that  be  taken  ! 

Victorian.  Why,  'tis  but  a  ring. 

I'll  give  it  back  to  you  ;  or,  if  I  keep  it, 
Will  give  you  gold  to  buy  you  twenty  such. 

Preciosa.     Why  would  you  have  this  ring  ? 
torian.  A  traveller  s  fancy, 

A  whim,  and  nothing  more.     I  would  fain  keep  it 
As  a  memento  of  the  Gipsy  camp 
In  Guadarrama,  and  the  fortune-teller 
Who  sent  me  back  to  wed  a  widowed  maid. 
Pray,  let  me  have  the  ring. 

Preciosa.  No,  never  !  never  ! 

1  will  ni.t  part  with  it,  even  when  I  die; 
But  bid  my  muse  fold  my  pale  fingers  thus, 


A 


miMk 


KO 


LONai  j:i.i.o\v 


'■'' 


That  it  may  not  fall  from  them.    'Tii  a  token 

Of  a  beloved  friend,  who  is  no  more. 

Victorian.  How  I  di 

Prtciosa.     Yes,  dead  to  me  ;  ami  worse  than   le 
lie  is  estranged  !     And  yet  1  keep  this  ring, 
I  will  rise  with  it  from  m>  ivatu-r, 

To  prove  to  him  that  i  rex  false. 

Victorian  .  Be  still,  my  swelling  heart !  one  moment 

Why,  'tis  the  folly  of  a  loi  Irl.  [still  !- 

Come,  give  it  me,  or  1  will  say  'tis  mine, 
And  that  you  stole  it. 

Precio  Oh,  you  will  not  dare 

To  utter  such  a  fiendish  lie  ! 

I  'ictorian.  Not  dare  ! 

.  in  my  face,  and  say  if  there  is  aught 
1  have  not  dared,  1  would  not  dare  for  thee  ! 

(S?to  rushes  into  his  arms.) 

Prec.  'Tis  thou !  'tis  thou  !  Yes,  yes ;  my  heart's  elected ! 
My  dearest-dear  Victorian  !  my  soul's  heaven  ! 
Where  hast  thou  been  so  long?  Why  didst  thou  leave  me  1 

Victoria  it.     Ask  me  not  now,  my  deaiv  i  1 
Let  me  forget  we  ever  have  been  parted  ! 

Preciosa.    lladst  thou  not  come 

Victor;  I  pray  thee  do  not  chide  I 

Prec.  I  should  have  perished  here  among  these  G  ipsies. 

Vict.  Forgive  me,  sweet  !  for  what  I  made  thee  suffer. 
Think'st  thou  this  heart  could  feel  a  moment's  joy, 
Thou  being  absent '(    Oh,  believe  it  not ! 
Indeed,  since  that  sad  hour  1  have  not  slept, 
For  thinking  of  the  wrong  I  did  to  thee  ! 
Dost  thou  forgive  me  i  Say,  wilt  thou  forgive  me  ( 

Prec.  I  have  forgiven  thee.  Ere  those  words  of  anger 
Were  in  the  book  of  Heaven  writ  down  against  thee, 
I  had  forgiven  thee. 

F ictorian.                   I'm  the  veriest  fool 
That  walks  the  earth,  to  have  believed  thee  false. 
It  was  the  Count  of  Lara 

Preciu-                              That  bad  man 
lias  worked  me  harm  enough.  Hast  thou  not  heard 

Vict.  I  have  heard  all.  And  yet  speak  on,  speak  on  ! 
Let  me  but  hear  thy  voice,  and  I  am  happy  ; 
For  every  tone,  like  some  sweet  incantation. 
Calls  up  the  buried  past  to  plead  for  me. 
Speak,  my  beloved/  speak  into  my  heart, 


Act  hi.] 


THE  SPANISH   STUDKNT. 


81 


m 


Whatever  tilts  and  agitates  thine  own.     (They  walk  aside.) 

Hypolito,  All  gentle  quarrels  in  the  pastoral  poets, 
All  passionate  love-scenea  in  the  best  romances, 
All  chaste  embraces  on  the  public  at 
All  Boft  adventures,  which  the  liberal  stars 
1  [ave  winked  at,  as  the  natural  course  of  things, 
1  lave  been  surpassed  hero  by  my  friend  the  Student, 
And  this  sweet  Qipsy  lass,  fair  Preciosa  ! 

Preciosa.    Sennor  Hypolito  !  I  kiss  your  hand. 
Pray,  shall  I  tell  your  fortune  1 

tpolito.  Not  to-night : 

For,  should  you  treat  me  as  you  did  Victorian, 
And  send  me  back  to  marry  maids  forlorn, 
My  wedding-day  would  last  from  now  till  Christmas. 

Chis.  {within).  What  ho !  the  Gipsies,  ho !  Beltran  Cruzado ! 
Halloo  !  halloo  !  halloo  !  halloo  ! 

{Enters  booted,  with  a  whip  and  lantern.) 

Victorian.  What  now  ? 

Why  such  a  fearful  din  '(   Hast  thou  been  robbed  ? 

Chis.  Ay,  robbed  and  murdered ;  and  good  evening  to  you, 
My  worthy  masters. 

Victorian.     Speak  ;  wbat  brings  thee  here  ? 

Chispa  {to  Preciosa). 
Good  news  from  Court ;  good  news  !  Eeltran  Cruzado, 
The  Coimt  of  Cales,  is  not  your  father  ; 
But  your  true  father  has  returned  to  Spain 
Laden  with  wealth.    You  are  no  more  a  Gipsy. 

Victorian.    Strange  as  a  Moorish  tale  ! 

Chispa.  And  we  have  all 

Been  drinking  at  the  tavern  to  your  health, 
As  wells  drink  in  November,  when  it  rains. 

Victorian.    Where  is  the  gentleman  ? 

Chispa.  As  the  old  song  says, 

His  body  is  in  Segovia, 
His  soul  is  in  Madrid. 

Preciosa.     Is  this  a  dream  ?  Oh,  if  it  be  a  dream, 
Let  me  sleep  on,  and  do  not  wake  me  yet ! 
.Repeat  thy  story  !     Say  I'm  not  deceived  ! 
Say  that  I  do  not  dream  !     I  am  awake  ; 
This  is  the  Gipsy  camp  ;  This  is  Victorian, 
And  this  his  friend  Hypolito !     Speak  !  speak  ! 
Let  me  not  wake  and  find  it  all  a  dream  ! 

Victorian.  It  is  a  dream,  sweet  child !  a  waking  dream, 
A  blissful  certainty,  a  vision  bright 


■:"\ 


m 


'■■ 


sm 


-# 


Of  that  rare  happiness,  which  even  on  earth 
Qeayen  gives  to  those  it  l  ow  art  thou  rich, 

As  thou  wast  ever  beautiful  and  good  ; 
Ami  I  am  now  the 

Preciosa  {giving  hint  her  hem  I  have  still 

A  hand  to  giva 

Okispa  (aside).  And  1  have  two  to  take 

I've  heard  my  grandmother  say,  that  I 
To  those  who  have  no  teeth.    That's  nuts  to  crack. 
I've  teeth  to  spare,  but  where  shall  I  find  almon 

Victorian.     What  more  of  this  strange  story  / 

Chupa.  Nothing  more. 

Your  friend  Don  Carlos  is  now  at  the  village 
Showing  to  Pedro  Crespo,  the  alcalde, 
The  proofs  of  what  I  tell  you.    The  old 
Who  stole  you  in  your  childhood  ha  ed  ; 

And  probably  they'll  hang  her  for  the  crime, 
To  make  the  celebration  more  complete. 

Victorian.     No  ;  let  it  be  a  day  of  general  joy  ; 
Fortune  comes  well  to  all,  that  comes  not  late. 
Now  let  us  join  Don  Carlos. 

Hypolito.  So  farewell, 

The  student's  wandering  life  !  sweet  sere na<  I 
Sung  under  ladies'  windows  in  the  night, 
And  all  that  makes  vacation  beautiful! 
To  you,  ye  cloistered  shades  of  Alcala  ; 
To  you,  ye  radiant  visions  of  romance, 
Written  in  books,  but  here  surpassed  by  truth. 
The  Bachelor  Hypolito  returns, 
And  leaves  the  Gipsy  with  the  Spanish  Student 

SCENE  VI. 

A  pass  in  the  Guadarrama  Mountains.     Early  mori 
A  Muleteer  crosses  the  stage,  sitting  sideways  on  his  mult 
and  lighting  a  paper  cigar  uithjiint  and  tit 

SONG. 

If  thou  art  Bleeping,  maiden, 
Awake  and  open  thy  di 

"lis  the  break  of  day,  and  we  must  • 
O'er  meadow,  and  mount,  and  ICOOI 

Wait  not  to  find  thy  slippers, 

Bui  .Mine  with  thy  naked  feet; 
w  i  shall  hare  to  pass  through  the  dewy  gnm 

And  waters  wide  and  fleet.. 


HP  • 


I 


\(  I  III, ' 


i  in:  <rn'hii  STUDENT 


S3 


.1  8) 


's  down  the  pats,     Enti  t  "  Monk. 

lien1  appean  ■■  <d><>ve.) 

Monk.    Ave  Maria,  gratia  plena.    <>la  !  good  man  ' 
Shepherd.    <  >la  ! 

Monk.    Is  this  the  road  w  Segovia  .' 

s    pherd.    It  is,  your  revere] 

Monk.     How  far  is  it  I 

S7u  I  t  know. 

Monk.     What  is  that  yonder  in  the  valley  ? 

Shepherd.    San  lid 

Monk.    A  Long  way  to  breakfast 

pherd.    Ay,  marry. 
Modi:.     Are  there  robhers  in  these  mountains:  '{ 
Shepherd.    Yes,  and  worse  than  that. 
Monk.    What  >. 
Shepherd.    AVolves. 

Monk.    Santa  Maria  !  Come  with  me  to  San  Eldefonso, 
and  thou  shalt  be  well  rewarded. 
Shepherd.    "What  wilt  thou  give  me  ? 
Monk.    An  Agnus  Dei  and  my  benediction. 

{They    disappear.      A    mounted   Contrabandista  passes, 
wrapped  in  his  cloak,  with  a  gun  at  his  saddle-boic. 

lie  goes  down  the  pass  singing.) 

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

{Song  dies  away.     Enter  Preciosa  on  horseback,  attended 

by  Victorias,  IIypolito,  Don  Carlos,  and  Chispa,ow 

foot,  and  armed.) 

Victorian.    Tins  is  the  highest  point.     Here  let  us  rest 
See,  Preciosa,  see  how  all  about  us 
Kneeling,  like  hooded  friars,  the  misty  mountains 
Receive  the  benediction  of  the  sun  ! 
Oh,  glorious  sight ! 

Preciosa.  .Most  beautiful  indeed  ! 

Ih/polito.     Most  wonderful  ! 
Victorian.  And  in  the  vale  below, 

VVTiere  yonder  steeples  flash  like  lifted  halberds, 
San  lldefonso  from  its  noisy  belfries, 


m 


*k4-^ȣ 


M 


\,0\\    -    I" 


',.'■: 


Sends  up  b  salutation  to  the  morn, 

As  if  an  army  smote  their  brazen  shields, 
Ami  si  united  victory  ! 

Preeii  And  which  way  lies 

Segovia  I 

torian.  At  a  great  distance  yonder. 

Dost  thou  not  see  it  ! 

Precio.vi.  No  ;  I  do  not  see  it. 

vrian.  The  merest  flaw  that  dents  the  horii 
There,  yonder  ! 

Hypolito.  'Tifl  a  notable  old  town 

Boasting  an  ancient  Roman  aqueduct, 
And  an  Alcazar,  bnilded  by  the  M 
Wherein,  you  may  remember,  poor  Gil  Jilas 
\\  b  i  fed  on  pan  del  rey.    Oh,  many  a  time 
Out  of  its  grated  windows  have  1  looked 
Hundreds  of  feet  plumb  down  to  the  Eresma, 
That,  like  a  serpent  through  the  valley  creeping, 
t \ lidos  at  its  foot ! 

Preciosa.  Oh,  yes  !  I  see  it  now, 

Yet  rather  with  my  heart  than  with  mine  i 
So  faint  it  is.     And  all  my  thoughts  sail  thither, 
Freighted  with  prayers  and  hopes,  and  forward  urged, 
Against  all  stress  of  accident,  as  in 
The  eastern  tale,  against  the  wind  and  tide 
Great  ships  were  drawn  to  the  Magnetic  .Mountains. 
And  there  were  wrecked  and  perished  in  the  sea  ! 

{She  weeps.) 

Victorian.     0  gentle  spirit !  thou  didst  bear  unmoved 
Blasts  of  adversity  and  trusts  of  fate  ! 
But  the  first  ray  of  sunshine  that  falls  on  thee 
Melts  th.ee  to  tears  !  Oh,  let  thy  weary  heart 
Lean  upon  mine  !  and  it  shall  faint  no  more. 
Nor  thirst,  nor  hunger;  but  be  comforted 
And  filled  with  my  affection. 

Preciosa.  Stay  no  longer  ! 

My  father  waits.    Metbinks  I  see  him  there, 
Now  looking  from  the  window,  and  now  watching 
Each  sound  of  wheels  or  footfall  in  the  street, 
And  saying,  k'  Hark  !  she  conies  !"     0  father  !  father  S 

{They  dest  end  the  pass,    Chispa  r<  mains  behind.) 

Chispa.  I  have  a  father  too,  but  he  is  a  dead  one.  Alas  and 
alack-a-day !  Poor  was  I  born,  and  poor  do  I  remain.  I  neither 
win  nor  lose.   Thus  I  wag  through  the  world,  half  the  time  "i 


S^" 


ACT   ITT.l 


THE  SPANISH  BTUDEKT. 


«6 


foot,  and  the  other  half  walking  ;  and  always  .-is  merry  as  a 
thunder-storm  in  the  night  And  so  we  plough  along,  as  the  fly 
said  to  the  ox.  Who  knows  what  may  happen?  Patience,  and 
shuffle  the  cards  !  1  am  not  yet  so  bald  that  you  can  sec  my 
brains ;  and  perhaps, after  all,  I  shall  sbmedaygo  to  Rome, and 
come  back  Sainl  P  [Exit. 

(A  pause.  Then  enter  Bautolomi':  wildly,  as  if  in 
;<  i  carabine  in  Ms  hand.) 

.'hey  passed  this  way !  I  hear  their  horses'  hoofs ! 
Fonder  l  see  them  !    Come,  sweet  earamillo, 
This  serenade  shall  be  the  Gipsy's  last ! 

(Fires  down  the  pass.) 
Ha !  ha  !  Well  whistled,  my  sweet  earamillo  ! 

U  ''11  whistled  !— I  have  missed  her  !— Oh 

( The  shot  is  ret  limed.    B  artolom  v.  falls. %. 


THE  SEASIDE  AND  THE  FIRESIDE. 


■ 


DEDICATION. 

As  one  who,  walking  in  the  twilight  gloom, 
Hears  round  about  him  voices  as  it  darkens, 

And  seeing  not  the  forms  from  which  they  come, 
Pauses  from  time  to  time,  and  turns  and  hearkens 

So  walking  here  in  twilight,  0  my  friends, 
I  hear  your  voices,  softened  by  the  distance, 

And  pause,  and  turn  to  listen,  as  each  sends 
His  words  of  friendship,  comfort,  and  assistance. 

If  any  thought  of  mine,  or  sung  or  told, 

Has  ever  given  delight  or  consolation, 

Ye  have  repaid  me  hack  a  thousandfold, 

By  every  friendly  sign  or  salutation. 

Thanks  for  the  sympathies  that  ye  have  shown  . 

Thanks  for  each  kindly  word,  each  silent  token. 
That  teaches  me,  when  seeming  most  alone, 

Friends  are  around  us,  though  no  word  be  spoken. 


K*  ' 


f 

H 

1       \ 

~  i 
i 

3lj*-  -5 


th'MH. 


Kind  messages,  that  past  from  land  to  h 

Kind  letters  that  betray  the  heart's  deep  history, 
In  which  we  feel  the  pressure  of  a  hand. — 

One  touch  of  tire, — and  all  the  rest  is  mysterj  ! 

The  pleasant  books,  that  silently  among 
Our  household  treasures  take  familiar  places, 

And  are  to  us  as  if  a  living  ton 
Spake  from  the  printed  leaves  or  pictured  faces ! 

Perhaps  on  earth  I  never  shall  behold, 

With  eyeof  sense,  your  outward  form  and  semblance  ; 
Therefore  to  me  ye  never  will  grow  old, 

But  live  for  ever  young  iu  my  remembrance. 

Never  grow  old,  nor  change,  nor  pass  awTay  ; 

Your  gentle  voices  will  flow  on  for  ever, 
When  life  grows  bare  and  tarnished  with  decay, 

As  through  a  leafless  landscape  flows  a  river. 

Not  chance  of  birth  or  place  has  made  us  friends 
Being  oftentimes  of  different  tongues  and  nati-  . 

But  the  eudeavour  for  the  selfsame  ends, 
With  the  same  hopes  and  fears  and  aspirations. 

Therefore  I  hope  to  joiu  your  seaside  walk, 
Saddened,  and  mostly  silent,  with  emotion  ; 

Not  interrupting  with  intrusive  talk 
The  grand,  majestic  symphonies  of  ocean. 

Therefore  I  hope,  as  no  unwelcome  gu< 

At  your  warm  fireside,  "when  the  lamps  are  ligbl 

To  have  my  place  reserved  among  the  rest, 
Nor  stand  as  one  unsought  and  uninvited  ! 


-f 


^ 


IV    Tin:    SEASIDE, 


87 


BY  THE  SEASIDE, 


THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  SHIP 

::  Build  me  straight,  0  worthy  master  ! 

Stanch  and  strong,  a  goodly  vessel, 
That  shall  laugh  at  all  disaster, 

And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wrestle  !' 

The  merchant's  word, 

Delighted  the  Master  heard  ; 

For  his  heart  was  in  his  work,  and  the  heart 

Giveth  grace  to  every  Art. 

A  quiet  smile  played  round  his  lips, 

As  the  eddies  and  dimples  of  the  tide 

Play  round  the  bows  of  ships, 

That  steadily  at  anchor  ride. 

And  with  a  voice  that  was  full  of  glee 

He  answered,  "  Ere  long  we  will  launch 

A  vessel  as  goodly,  and  strong,  and  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  labour  might  be  brought 

To  answer  to  his  inward  thought. 

And  as  he  laboured,  his  mind  ran  o'er 

The  various  ships  that  were  built  of  yore; 

And  above  them  all,  and  strangest  of  all, 

Towered  the  great  Harry,  crank  and  tali, 

Whose  picture  was  hanging  on  the  wall, 

With  bows  and  stern  raised  high  in  air, 


88 


LONOFBLLOVi 


And  balconies  banging  here  and  there, 
And  signal  lanterns  and  flag!  afloat, 

And  eight  round  towers,  like  those  that  I 
From  some  old  castle  looking  (!' 
Upon  the  drawbridge  and  the  n 

And  he  said  with  a  smile,  "  Our  ship,  I 
8hall  he  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 
Pressing  down  upon  sail  and  mast, 
.Might  not  the  sharp  hows  overwhelm  ; 
Broad  in  the  beam,  but  sloping  nft 
With  graceful  curve  and  slow  degn 
That  she  might  he  docile  to  the  helm, 
And  that  the  currents  of  parted  seas. 
Closing  behind,  with  mighty  force, 
.Might  aid  and  not  impede  her  cour 

In  the  shipyard  stood  the  Master, 

With  the  model  of  the  vessel, 
That  should  laugh  at  all  disaster. 

And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wrestle  ; 

Covering  many  a  rood  of  ground, 

Lay  the  timber  piled  around  ; 

Timber  of  chestnut,  and  elm,  and  oak, 

And,  scattered  here  and  there,  with  these. 

The  knarred  and  crooked  cedar  knees  ; 

Brought  from  regions  far  away, 

From  Pascagoula's  sunny  bay, 

And  the  banks  of  the  roaring  Roanoi<o  '. 

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. 


gafctf*^ 


pe 


15 Y    Till)  SK  \M  11'.. 


i4\ 


That  silent  architect,  the  sun, 
Had  hewD  and  laid  them  every  one, 
Ere  the  work  of  man  was  yet  begun. 
Beside  the  Master,  when  he  spoke, 
.A  youth  again  t  an  anchor  Kan 
Listened,  to  catch  the  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  south, 

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  oi^  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  lie,  "  we  will  build  this  ship  ! 

Lay  square  the  blocks  upon  the  slip, 

And  follow  well  this  plan  of  mine. 

Choose  the  timbers  with  greatest  care  . 

Of  all  that  is  unsound  beware  ; 

For  only  what  is  sound  and  strong 

To  this  vessel  shall  belong. 

Cedar  of  Maine  and  Georgia  pine 

Here  together  shall  combine. 

A  goodly  frame,  and  a  goodly  fame, 

And  the  Union  be  her  name  ! 

For  the  day  that  gives  her  to  the  sea 

Shall  give  my  daughter  unto  thee  ! " 

The  Master's  word 

Enraptured  the  young  man  heard  ; 

And  as  he  turned  his  face  aside, 

With  a  look  of  joy  and  a  thrill  of  pride. 

Standing  before 

Her  father's  door, 

He  saw  the  form  of  his  promised  bride. 

The  sun  shone  on  her  golden  hair, 

And  her  cheek  was  glowing  fresh  and  fail . 

With  the  breath  of  morn  and  the  soft  sea  air. 

Like  a  beauteous  barge  was  she, 


90 


ft? 


m 


\ 


- 


Still  at  rest  oil  the  sandy  beach, 

Just  beyond  the  billow's  reach  ; 

But 

Was  the  restless,  teething,  stormy  ,  -,L : 

Ah,  how  skilful  grows  the  hand 
That  obeyeth  Love's  oommi 
It  is  the  heart  and  not  the  brain, 
That  to  the  highest  doth  attain, 
And  he  who  followeth  Love's  behest 
Far  exceedeth  all  the  rest ! 

Thus  with  the  rising  of  the  sun 

Was  the  noble  task  begun. 

And  soon  throughout  the  shipyard'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  labour  well  begun, 

And  not  perplexed  and  multiplied, 

By  idly  waiting  for  time  and  tide  ! 

And  when  the  hot,  long  day  was  o'er, 

The  young  man  at  the  Master's  door 

Sat  with  the  maiden  calm  and  still. 

And  within  the  porch,  a  little  more 

Removed  beyond  the  evening  chill, 

The  father  sat,  and  told  them  tales 

Of  wrecks  in  the  great  September  gales 

Of  pirates  upon  the  Spanish  Main, 

And  ships  that  never  came  back  again  ; 

The  chance  and  change  of  a  sailor's  life, 

Want  and  plenty,  rest  and  strife, 

His  roving  fancy,  like  the  wind, 

That  nothing  can  stay  and  nothing  can  bind 

And  the  magic  charm  of  foreign  lands, 

With  shadows  of  palms,  and  shining  sands, 

Where  the  tumbling  surf 

O'er  the  coral  reefs  of  Madagascar. 


4M£ 


BY  Till:  SEASIDE. 


M 


■ 


Washes  the  feel  off  the  swarthy  Lascar, 

As  he  lies  al«>ne  ami  asleep  'Hi  the  turf. 
And  the  trembling  maiden  held  her  bread 

At  the  tales  of  that  awful,  pitiless  sea, 
\\  ith  all  its  terror  and  mystery. 
The  dim,  dark  .-ea,  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,  upwreathiiig. 

Rose  from  the  boiling,  bubbling,  seething 

Caldron,  that  glowed, 

And  overflowed 

With  the  black  tar  heated  for  the  sheathing. 

And  amid  the  clamours 

Of  clattering  hammers, 

He  who  listened  heard  now  and  then 

The  song  of  the  Master  and  his  men  : — 

"  Build  me  straight,  0  worthy  Master, 

Stanch  and  strong,  a  goodly  vessel, 
That  shall  laugh  at  all  disaster, 

And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wrestle  !" 

With  oaken  brace  and  copper  band, 
Lay  the  rudder  on  the  sand, 
That,  like  a  thought,  should  have  control 
Over  the  movement  of  the  whole; 


If 


i  ?\  i 


93 


LONGFELLOW  fi   i -"EMS. 


And  near  it  the  anchor,  whose  giant  hand 

Would  reach  down,  and  grapple  with  the  land, 

And  immoveable  and  last 

Hold  the  great  ship  against  the  bellowing  blast! 

And  at  the  DOWS  an  image  stood, 

By  a  cunning  artist  carved  in  wood, 

\\  ith  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  "Id ! 

Or  Naiad  rising  from  the  water, 

But  modelled  from  the  .Master's  daughter! 

On  many  a  dreary  and  misty  night, 

'Twill  be  seen  bj  the  rays  of  the  signal  light 

Speeding  along  through  the  rain  and  the  dark 

Like  a  ghost  in  its  snow-white  Bark, 

The  pilot  of  .some  phantom  hark, 

Guiding  the  vessel,  in  its  flight, 

By  a  path  uone  other  knows  aright ' 

]  J  eh  old  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  i 

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  he  shorn  of  their  streaming  hair, 

An  1,  naked  and  hare. 

To  feel  th  i  stress  and  the  strain 

Of  the  wind  and  the  reeling  main, 

Whose  roar 

Would  remind  them  for  evermore 

Of  then  native  forests  they  should  not  see  again. 


i:v  THE  3BASIDB. 


93 


'I  he  Blender,  graceful  spars 
Poised  aloft  in  the  air ; 

A ii< I  at  the  mast  head, 

White,  blue,  and  red, 

A  Hag  unrolls  the  stripes  and  stars. 

Ah  !  when  the  wanderer,  lonely,  friendless, 

In  foreign  harbour  shall  behold 

That  flag  unrolled, 

'Twill  be  as  a  friendly  hand 

Stretched  out  from  his  native  land, 

Filling  his  heart  with  memories  sweet  and  endless. 

All  is  finished  !  and  at  length 

Has  come  the  bridal  day 

Of  beauty  and  of  strength. 

To-day  the  vessel  shall  be  launched. 

With  fleecy  clouds  the  sky  is  blanched, 

Ajid  o'er  the  bay, 

Slowly,  in  all  his  splendours  dight, 

The  great  sun  rises  to  behold  the  sight. 

The  Ocean  old, 

Centuries  old, 

Strong  as  youth,  and  as  uncontrolled, 

Paces  restless  to  and  fro, 

Up  and  down  the  sands  of  gold. 

His  beating  heart  is  not  at  rest ; 

And  far  and  wide, 

With  ceaseless  flow, 

His  beard  of  snow 

Heaves  with  the  heaving  of  his  breast. 

He  waits  impatient  for  his  bride. 

There  she  stands, 

With  her  foot  upon  the  sands, 

Decked  with  flags  and  streamers  gay, 

In  honour  of  her  marriage  day, 

Her  snow  white  signals  fluttering,  blending, 

Round  her  like  a  veil  descending, 

Ready  to  be 

The  bride  of  the  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.  o, 


K. 


aid, 
The  service  read, 
The  joyous  bridegroom  b  lead 

And  in  tears  the  good  old  Master 

Shakes  the  brown  band  of  his  sun, 

i\      -  his  daughter's  glowing  cheek 

In  silence,  for  he  cannot  sp 

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  eai 

lie  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  tiow 

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  oft  at  sea, 

Outward  or  homeward  bound,  are  we. 

Before,  behind,  and  all  around, 

Floats  and  swings  the  horizon's  bound, 

Seems  at  its  outer  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  t  he  very  skies, 

Now  sinking  into  the  depths  of  the  oceau 

Ah  !  if  our  souls  but  poise  and  swing 

Like  the  compass  in  its  brazen  ring, 


^ 


> 


JiY  Till:  SEASIDE. 


9t> 


Ever  level,  and  ever  true 

To  the  toil  and  the  task  we  have  to  do, 
We  shall  sail  securely,  and  safely  reach 
The  Fortunate  Jsles,  on  whose  shining  ijeit/jL 
The  Bights  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,  0  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,  0  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, 
0  gentle,  loving,  trusting  wife, 
And  safe  from  all  adversity 
Upon  the  bosom  of  that  sea 
Thy  comings  and  thy  goings  De  ! 
For  gentleness  and  love  and  trust 
Prevail  o'er  angry  wave  and  gust  j 
And  in  the  wreck  of  noble  lives 
Something  immortal  still  survived  ! 


36 


I        QFELLOW  h  I'O 


Thou,  •  'ate  ! 

;ui<l  great ! 
Humanity,  with  all  it 

With  all  the  hopes  01  futlll 
1  -  bang]  iless  on  thy  fate  ! 

know  what  Master  laid  thy  kt 
What  Workmen  wrought  thy  ribs  of  8t( 
Who  made  each  mast,  and  sail,  and  ro}>e, 
What  anvils  rang,  what  hammers  beat, 
In  what  a  forge  and  what  a  heat 
Were  shaped  the  anchors  of  thy  hope  ! 
Fear  not  each  sudden  sound  and  shock, 
'Tis  the  wave,  and  not  the  rock  ; 
'Tis  but  the  flapping  of  the  sail, 
And  not  a  rent  made  by  the  gale ! 
In  spite  of  rock  and  tempest  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  fei 
Are  all  with  thee, — are  all  with  thee  ! 


THE  EVENING  STAR. 

Just  above  yon  sandy  bar, 

As  the  day  grows  fainter  and  dimmer, 
Lonely  and  lovely,  a  single  star 

Lights  the  air  with  a  du:>ky  glimmei 

into  the  ocean  faint  and  far 

Falls  the  trail  of  its  goluen  splendour. 
And  the  gleam  of  that  single  star 

Is  ever  refulgent,  soft,  and  tender, 

Chrysaor,  rising  out  of  the  sea. 
Showed  thus  glorious  and  thus  emulous 

ing  the  arms  of  Callirrhoe, 
For  ever  tender,  soft,  and  tremulous. 

Thus  o'er  the  ocean  faint  and  far 
Trailed  the  gleam  of  his  falchion  brightly ; 

Is  it  a  God,  or  is  it  a  star, 
That,  entranced,  I  gaze  on  nightly  ! 


m 


nv  run  SEAsinn. 


07 


THE  BEORBT  OF  THE  SEA. 

.\h  !  what  pleasant  visions  haunt  me, 

As  I  gaze  upon  the  sea  ' 
All  the  old  romantic  legends, 

All  my  dreams,  come  hack  to  me. 

Sails  of  silk  and  ropes  of  sendal, 

Such  as  gleam  in  ancient  lore  ; 
Vnd  the  singing  of  the  sailors, 

And  the  answer  from  the  shore  ! 

Most  of  all,  the  Spanish  ballad 
Haunts  me  oft  and  tarries  long, 

Of  the  noble  Count  Arnaldos, 
And  the  sailor's  mystic  song. 

Like  the  long  waves  on  a  sea-beach, 
Where  the  sand  as  silver  shines, 

With  a  soft  monotonous  cadence, 
Flows  its  unrhymed  lyric  lines  ;— 

Telling  how  the  Count  Arnaldos, 

With  his  hawk  upon  his  hand, 
Saw  a  fair  and  stately  galley 

Onward  steering  to  the  land  ;— 

How  he  heard  the  ancient  helmsman 

Chant  a  song  so  wild  and  clear, 
That  the  sailing  sea-bird  slowly 

Poised  upon  the  mast  to  hear. 

Till  his  soul  was  full  of  longing, 
And  he  cried,  with  impulse  strong, 

"  Helmsman !  for  the  love  of  Heaven, 
Teach  me,  too,  that  wondrous  song  !" 

"  Wouldst  thou,"  so  the  helmsman  answered, 

"  Learn  the  secret  of  the  sea  / 
Only  those  who  brave  its  dangers 

Comprehend  its  mystery." 

In  each  sail  that  skims  the  horizon, 
In  each  landward-blowing  nreeze, 

I  behold  that  stately  galley, 
Hear  those  mournful  melodies; 

Till  my  soul  is  full  of  longing 
For  the  secret  of  the  sea, 


08 


LONGFELLOW  S  POl 


Ami  the  heart  of  the  an 

Sends  a  thrilling  pulse  through  me. 


i 


TWILIGHT. 

The  twilight  is  sad  and  cloudy, 
The  wind  blows  wild  and  free, 

And  like  the  wings  of  sea-birds 
Flash  the  white  caps  of  the 

But  in  the  fisherman's  cot1 
There  shines  a  ruddier  light, 

And  a  little  face  at  the  window, 
Peers  out  into  the  night. 

Close,  close  it  is  pressed  to  the  window, 

As  if  those  childish  eyes 
Were  looking  into  the  darkness, 

To  see  some  form  arise. 

And  a  woman's  waving  shadow 

Is  passing  to  and  fro, 
Now  rising  to  the  ceiling, 

Now  bowing  and  bending  low. 

What  tale  do  the  roaring  ocean, 
And  the  night-wind,  bleak  and  wild. 

As  they  beat  at  the  crazy  casement, 
Tell  to  that  little  child  i 

And  why  do  the  roaring  ocean, 
And  the  night-wind,  wild  and  bleak, 

As  they  beat  at  the  heart  of  the  mother, 
Drive  the  colour  from  her  cheek  / 


SIR  HUMPHREY  GILBERT. 

Southward  with  fleet  of  ice 
Sailed  the  corsair  Dea^h  ; 

Wild  and  fast  blew  the  blast, 
And  the  east  wind  was  his  breath. 

His  lordly  ships  of  ice 

Glistened  in  the  sun  ; 
On  each  side,  like  pennons  wide, 

Flashing  crystal  streamlets  run. 


E^^g: 


HY   THE   -J  HAS  IDE. 


99 


His  sails  of  white  sea-mist 

Dripped  with  silver  rain  ; 
But  where  lie  passed  there  were  cast 

Leaden  shadows  o'er  the  main. 

Eastward  from  Campobello 
Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert  sailed  ; 

Three  days  or  more  seaward  he  bore, 
Then,  alas  !  the  land-wind  failed. 

Alas  !  the  land-wind  failed, 
And  ice-cold  grew  the  night ; 

And  never  more,  on  sea  or  shore, 
Should  Sir  Humphrey  see  the  light 

He  sat  upon  the  deck, 

The  Book  was  in  his  hand  ; 
"  Do  not  fear!  Heaven  is  as  near, 

He  said,  "  hy  water  as  by  land  !' 

In  the  first  watch  of  the  night, 

Without  a  signal's  sound, 
Out  of  the  sea,  mysteriously, 

The  fleet  of  Death  rose  all  around. 

The  moon  and  the  evening  star 
Were  hanging  in  the  shromts  ; 

Every  mast,  as  it  passed, 
Seemed  to  rake  the  passing  dowds. 

They  grappled  with  their  prize, 
At  midnight  black  and  cold  ! 

As  of  a  rock  was  the  shock  ; 
Heavily  the  ground-swell  rolled. 

Southward,  through  day  and  dark, 
They  drift  in  close  embrace, 

With  mist  and  rain  to  the  Spanish  Main ; 
Yet  there  seems  no  change  of  place. 

Southward,  for  ever  southward, 
They  drift  through  dark  and  day  ; 

And  like  a  dream,  in  the  Gulf  Stream 
Sinking,  vanish  all  away. 


r 


LOO 


l.oNGFHLLOW  i  FOlSMrf. 


THE  LIGHTHOUSE. 

The  rocky  ledge  runs  far  into  the  sea, 
And  on  its  outer  point,  BOme  miles  away, 

The  Lighthouse  lilts  its  massive  nutsunry, 
A  pillar  of  fire  by  night,  of  cloud  by  day. 

ii  at  this  distance  I  can  see  the  tides, 
Upheaving,  break  unheard  along  its  base, 
A  speechless  wrath,  that  rises  and  subsides 
In  the  white  lip  and  tremor  of  the  lace. 

And  as  the  evening  darkens,  lo  !  how  bright, 
Through  the  deep  purple  of  the  twilight  air, 

Beams  forth  the  sudden  radiance  of  its  light, 
With  strange,  unearthly  splendour  in  its  glare. 

Not  one  alone ;  from  each  projecting  cape 
And  perilous  reef  along  the  ocean's  vei 

Starts  into  life  a  dim,  gigantic  shape, 
Holding  its  lantern  o'er  the  restless  surge. 

Like  the  great  giant  Christopher,  it  stands 
Upon  the  brink  of  the  tempestuous  wave, 

Wading  far  out  among  the  rocks  and  sands, 
The  night-o'ertaken  mariner  to  save. 

And  the  great  ships  sail  outward  and  return, 
Bending  and  bowing  o'er  the  billowy  swells, 

And  ever  joyful,  as  they  see  it  burn, 
They  wave  their  silent  welcomes  and  farewells 

They  come  forth  from  the  darkness,  and  their  sail? 

G  learn  for  a  moment  only  in  the  blaze, 
And  eager  faces,  as  the  light  unveils, 

Gaze  at  the  tower,  and  vanish  while  they  gaze. 

The  mariner  remembers  when  a  child, 

On  his  first  voyage,  he  saw  it  fade  and  sink  ; 

And,  when  returning  from  adventures  wild, 
He  saw  it  rise  again  o'er  ocean's  brink. 

Steadfast,  serene,  immovable,  the  same 
Year  after  year,  through  all  the  silent  night, 

Burns  on  for  evermore  that  quenchless  flame, 
Sbines  on  that  inextinguishable  light ! 

It  sees  the  ocean  to  its  bosom  clasp 
The  rocks  and  sea-sand  with  the  kiss  of  peace  : 


ii, 


HY   THE  SEASIDE. 


It  sees  the  wild  w'mds  lift  it  in  their  grasp, 
And  hold  it  up,  and  shake  it  like  a  fleece. 

The  startled  waves  leap  over  it;  the  storm 
Smites  it  with  all  the  scourges  of  the  rain, 

And  steadily  against  its  solid  form 
Press  the  meat  shoulders  of  the  hurricane. 

The  sea-bird  wheeling  round  it,  with  the  din 
Of  wings  and  winds  and  solitary  cries, 

Blinded  and  maddened  by  the  light  within, 
Dashes  himself  against  the  glare  and  dies. 

A  new  Prometheus  chained  upon  the  rock, 
Still  grasping  in  his  hand  the  fire  of  Jove, 

It  does  not  hear  the  cry,  nor  heed  the  shock, 
But  hails  the  mariner  with  words  of  love. 

■•  Sail  on  !"  it  says,  "sail  on,  ye  stately  ships ! 

And  with  your  floating  bridge  the  ocean  span 
Be  mine  to  guard  this  light  from  all  eclipse, 

Be  yours  to  bring  man  nearer  unto  man  ! " 


iOL 


THE  FIRE  OF  DRIFT-WOOD. 

We  sat  within  the  farm-house  old, 
Whose  windows,  looking  o'er  the  bay, 

Gave  to  the  sea-breeze,  damp  and  cold, 
An  easy  entrance,  night  and  day 

Not  far  away  we  saw  the  port, — 

The  strange,  old-fashioned,  silent  town,— 
The  lighthouse, — the  dismantled  fort, — 

The  wooden  houses,  quaint  and  brown. 

We  sat  and  talked  until  the  night, 
Descending,  tilled  the  little  room  ; 

Our  faces  faded  from  the  sight, 
Our  voices  only  broke  the  gloom. 

We  spake  of  many  a  vanished  scene, 
Of  what  we  once  had  thought  and  said, 

Of  what  had  been,  and  might  have  been, 
And  who  was  changed,  and  who  was  dead 

And  all  that  fills  the  heart  of  friends, 
When  first  thev  feel,  with  secret  pain. 


102 


LONUFELLOW'S  PoF.MS. 


Their  lives  thenceforth  have  separate  ends, 
And  never  can  he  one  again  ; 

The  first  slight  swerving  of  the  heart, 
That  words  are  powerless  to  expn 

And  leaves  it  still  unsaid  in  part, 
Or  say  it  in  too  great  excess. 

The  very  tones  in  which  we  spake 

Had  something  strange,  I  could  hut  mark  ; 

The  leaves  of  memory  seemed  to  make 
A  mournful  rustling  in  the  dark. 

Oft  died  the  words  upon  our  lips, 

As  suddenly  from  out  the  fire 
Built  of  the  wreck  of  stranded  ships, 

The  flames  would  leap,  and  then  expire. 

And,  as  their  splendour  flashed  and  failed, 
We  thought  of  wrecks  upon  the  main,  - 

Of  ships  dismasted,  that  were  hailed 
And  sent  no  answer  hack  again. 

The  windows,  rattling  in  their  frames, 

The  ocean,  roaring  up  the  beach, 
The  gusty  blast,  the  bickering  flames, 

All  mingled  vaguely  in  our  speech  ; 

Until  they  made  themselves  a  part 
Of  fancies  floating  through  the  brain, — 

The  long-lost  ventures  of  the  heart, 
That  send  no  answers  back  again. 

0  flames  that  glowed !  0  hearts  that  yearned  ! 

They  were  indeed  too  much  akin — 
The  driftwood  fire  without  that  burned, 

The  thoughts  that  burned  and  glowed  within. 


m 


m*M  —i    i     '  • 


BY  THE  PRESIDE, 


RESIGNATION. 

There  is  no  flock,  however  watched  and  tended, 

But  one  dead  lamb  is  there  ! 
There  is  no  fireside,  howsoe'er  defended. 

But  has  one  vacant  chair  ! 

The  air  is  full  of  farewells  to  the  dying, 

And  mournings  for  the  dead  ; 
The  heart  of  Rachel,  for  her  children  crying, 

Will  not  be  comforted  ! 

Let  us  be  patient !     These  severe  afflictions 

Not  from  the  ground  arise, 
But  oftentimes  celestial  benedictions 

Assume  this  dark  disguise. 

We  see  but  dimly  through  the  mists  and  vapours ; 

Amid  these  earthly  damps, 
What  seem  to  us  but  sad,  funereal  tapers, 

May  be  heaven's  distant  lamps. 

There  is  no  Death  !   What  seems  so  is  transition  ; 

This  life  of  mortal  breath 
Is  but  a  suburb  of  the  life  elysian, 

Whose  portal  we  call  Death. 

She  is  not  dead, — the  child  of  our  affection, — 

But  gone  unto  that  school 
Where  she  no  longer  needs  our  poor  protection, 

And  Christ  himself  doth  rule. 

In  that  great  cloister's  stillness  and  seclusion, 

By  guardian  angels  led, 
Safe  from  temptation,  safe  from  sin's  pollution, 

She  lives,  whom  we  call  dead. 

Day  after  day,  wa  think  what  she  is  doing 
In  those  brisrht  realms  of  air  , 


m. 


U&i 


;3S- 


104 


LOICOFEU  .RMS. 


: 


Year  after  year,  her  tender  steps  pursuing, 
Behold  her  grown  more  fair. 

Tims  do  we  walk  with  her,  and  keep  unbroken 

The  bond  which  nature  gives, 
Thinking  that  our  remembrance,  though  unspoken. 

May  reach  her  where  she  livi 

Not  as  a  child  shall  we  again  behold  her  ; 

For  when,  with  raptures  wild, 
hi  dut  embraces  we  again  enfold  her, 

She  will  not  be  a  child., 

But  a  fair  maiden,  in  her  Father's  mansion, 

Clothed  with  celestial  grace  ; 
And  beautiful  with  all  the  soul's  expansion, 

Shall  we  behold  her  face. 

And  though  at  times,  impetuous  with  emotion 

And  anguish  long  suppressed, 
The  swelling  heart  heaves  moaning  like  the  ocean, 

That  cannot  be  at  rest ; 

We  will  be  patient,  and  assuage  the  feeling 

We  may  not  wholly  stay  ; 
By  silence  sanctifying,  not  concealing, 

The  grief  that  must  have  way. 


THE  BUILDERS. 

All  are  architects  of  Fate, 

Working  in  these  walls  of  Time  ; 

Some  with  massive  deeds  and  great, 
Some  with  ornaments  of  rhyme. 

Nothing  useless  is  or  low ; 

Each  thing  in  its  place  is  best; 
And  what  seems  but  idle  show 

Strengthens  and  supports  the  rest. 

For  the  structure  that  we  raise, 
Time  is  with  materials  filled  ; 

Our  to-days  and  yesterdays 
Are  the  blocks  with  which  we  build 


Truly  shape  and  fashion  these  ; 

Leave  no  yawning  gaps  between  ; 
Think  not,  because  no  man  sees, 

Such  things  will  remain  unseen. 


BY  TITE  FIRESIDE. 


105 


In  the  elder  days  of  Art, 

Builders  wrought  with  greatest  care 
Each  minute  and  unseen  part ; 

For  the  gods  sec  everywhere. 

Let  ns  do  our  work  as  well, 
Both  the  unseen  and  the  seen  ; 

Make  the  house,  where  gods  may  dwell, 
Beautiful,  entire,  and  clean  ; 

Else  our  lives  arc  incomplete, 
Standing  in  these  walls  of  Time, 

Broken  stairways,  where  the  feet 
Stumble  as  they  seek  to  climb. 

Build  to-day,  then,  strong  and  sure, 
With  a  firm  and  ample  base ; 

And  ascending  and  secure 
Shall  to-morrow  find  its  place. 

Thus  alone  can  we  attain 
To  those  turrets,  where  the  eye 

Sees  the  world  as  one  vast  plain, 
And  one  boundless  reach  of  skv. 


SAND  OF  THE  DESERT  IN  AN  HOUR-GLASS. 

A  handful  of  red  sand,  from  the  hot  clime 

Of  Arab  deserts  brought, 
Within  this  glass  becomes  the  spy  of  Time. 

The  minister  of  Thought. 

How  many  weary  centuries  has  it  been 

About  those  deserts  blown  ! 
How  many  strange  vicissitudes  has  seen. 

How  many  histories  known  ! 

Perhaps  the  camels  of  the  lshmaelite 

Trampled  and  passed  it  o'er, 
When  into  Egypt  from  the  patriarch's  sight 

His  favourite  son  they  bore. 

Perhaps  the  feet  of  Moses,  burnt  and  bare. 

Crushed  it  beneath  their  tread  ; 
Or  Pharaoh's  nasnmg  wheels  into  the  air 

Scattered  it  as  they  sped  ; 

Or  Mary,  with  the  Christ  of  Nazareth 
Held  close  in  her  caress 


<&& 


I 


. 


lor,  |  DLIiOWl  POBMH 

Whose  pilgrimage  of  hope  and  love  and  faith 
Illumed  the  wilderne 

Or  anchorites  beneath  I  i'spalnii 

Pacing  the  Red  Sea  beach, 
And  singing  slow  their  old  Armenian 
In  half  articulate  speech  ; 

Or  caravans,  that  from  Bassora's  gate 

\Y  ith  westward  steps  depart  ; 
Or  Mecca's  pilgrims,  confident  of  Fate, 

And  resolute  in  heart ! 

These  have  passed  over  it,  or  may  have  pasted 

Now  in  this  crystal  tower 
Imprisoned  by  some  curious  hand  at  last, 

It  counts  the  passing  hour. 

And  as  I  gaze,  these  narrow  walls  expand ; — 

Before  my  dreamy  eye 
Stretches  the  desert,  with  its  shifting  sand, 

Its  unimpeded  sky. 

And  borne  aloft  by  the  sustaining  blast, 

This  little  golden  thread 
Dilates  into  a  column  high  and  vast, 

A  form  of  fear  and  dread. 

And  onward,  and  across  the  setting  sun, 
And  across  the  boundless  plain, 

The  column  and  its  broader  shadow  run, 
Till  thought  pursues  iu  vain. 

The  vision  vanishes  !     These  walls  again 

Shut  out  the  lurid  sun, 
Shut  out  the  hot,  immeasurable  plain  : 

The  half- hour's  sand  is  run  ! 


; 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 

Black  shadows  fall 
From  the  lindens  tall, 
That  lift  aloft  the  massive  wall 
Against  the  southern  sky  ; 

And  from  the  realms 
Of  the  shadowy  elms 
A  tide-like  darkness  overwhelms 
The  fields  that  round  us  lie 


I 


i  > 


And  above,  in  the  Light 

Of  the  star-lit  night, 
Swift  birds  of  passage  wing  then  flight 
Through  the  dewy  atmosphere. 

I  hear  the  beat 
Of  their  pinions  fleet, 
As  from  the  land  of  snow  and  sleet 
They  seek  a  southern  lea. 

I  hear  the  cry 
Of  their  voices  high, 
Falling  dreamily  through  the  SKy, 
But  their  forms  I  cannot  see. 

0,  say  not  so  ! 
Those  sounds  that  flow 
In  murmurs  of  delight  and  woe 
Come  not  from  wings  of  birds. 

They  are  the  throngs 
Of  the  poet's  songs, 

Murmurs  of  pleasures,  and  pains,  and  wrongs, 
The  sounds  of  winged  words. 

This  is  the  cry 
Of  souls,  that  high 
On  toiling,  beating  pinions  fly. 
Seeking  a  warmer  clime. 

From  their  distant  flight 
Through  realms  of  light, 
It  falls  into  our  world  of  night 
With  a  murmuring  sound  of  rhyme. 


THE  OPEN  WINL>OW. 

The  old  house  by  the  lindens 
Stood  silent  in  the  shade, 

And  on  the  gravell'd  pathway 
The  light  and  shallow  played. 

I  saw  the  nursery  windows 
^'ide  open  to  the  air! 


108 


LOW  §  1  OEM 

But  the  faces  of  the  children, 
They  wire  no  longer  there  ! 

Che  large  Newfoundland  house-dog 

Was  standing  by  the  door  : 
lie  looked  fur  his  little  playmate*, 
Who  would  return  no  more. 

They  walked  not  under  the  lindeiu*, 
They  played  n<  t  in  the  hall ; 

But  shadow,  and  silence,  and  sadness 
Were  hanging  over  all. 

The  birds  sang  in  the  branches. 
With  sweet  familiar  tone  ; 

But  the  voices  of  the  children 
Will  be  heard  in  dreams  alone  ! 

And  the  boy  that  walked  beside  me, 

He  could  not  understand 
Why  closer  in  mine,  ah  !  closer, 

I  pressed  his  warm,  soft  hand  ! 


I 


KING  WITLAF'S  DRINKING-HORN. 

Witlaf,  a  king  of  the  Saxons, 
Ere  yet  his  last  he  breathed, 

To  the  merry  monks  of  Croyland 
His  driuking-horn  bequeathed, — 

That  whenever  they  sat  at  their  re\els. 

And  drank  from  the  golden  bowl, 
They  might  remember  the  donor, 

And  breathe  a  prayer  for  his  soul. 

So  sat  they  once  at  Christmas, 

And  bade  the  goblet  pass  ; 
In  their  beards  the  red  wine  glistened 

Like  dewdrops  in  the  grass. 

They  drank  to  the  soul  of  Witlaf, 
They  drank  to  Christ  the  Lord, 

And  to  each  of  the  twelve  Apostles, 
"Who  had  preached  His  holy  word. 

They  drank  to  the  Saints  and  Martyrs 
Of  the  dismal  days  of  yore, 

And  as  soon  as  the  horn  was  empty 
They  remembered  one  Saint  more. 


i.v  Tin:  FIRESIDE. 


109 


And  ihe  reader  dn  ra  the  pulpit, 

Like  the  murmur  of  many  bees, 
The  legend  of  good  Saint  Quthlac, 
And  Saint  Basil's  homilies  ; 

Till  the  great  bells  of  the  convent, 
From  their  prison  in  the  tower, 

(jut lilac  and  liartholomceus, 
Proclaimed  the  midnight  hour. 

Ami  the  Yule-log  cracked  in  the  chimney, 
And  the  Abbot  bowed  his  head, 

And  the  tlamelets  flapped  and  flickered 
But  the  Abbot  was  stark  and  dead  ! 

Vet  still  in  his  pallid  fingers 
He  clutched  the  golden  bowl, 

In  which,  like  a  pearl  dissolving, 
Had  sunk  and  dissolved  his  soul. 

But  not  for  this  their  revels 

The  jovial  monks  forebore, 
For  they  cried,  "  Fill  high  the  goblet  I 

We  must  drink  to  one  Saint  more  !" 


GASPAR  BECERRA. 

B  v  his  evening  fire  the  artist 
Pondered  o'er  his  secret  shame  ; 

Baffled,  weary,  and  disheartened, 
Still  he  mused  and  dreamed  of  fame. 

'Twas  an  image  of  the  Virgin 
That  had  tasked  his  utmost  skill ; 

But,  alas  !  his  fair  ideal 
Vanished  and  escaped  him  still. 

From  a  distant  Eastern  island 
Had  the  precious  wood  been  brought; 

Day  and  night  the  anxious  master 
At  his  toil  untiring  wrought ; 

Till,  discouraged  and  desponding, 
Sat  he  now  in  shadows  deep  ; 

And  the  day's  humiliation 
Found  oblivion  in  sleep. 

Then  a  voice  cried,  "  Rise,  O  ma.-ter  !— 
From  the  burning  brand  of  (  ak, 


* 


110 


Lo.MU'KLLoW       POEMS. 


pe  the  thought  tl  ithin  t1.. 

Ami  the  startled  artist  woke, 

Woke,  and  fi 

Seized  and  quenched  the  :  wood; 

And  therefrom  he  carved  an  in. 

And  he  .saw  that  it  v. 

0  thou  sculptor,  painter,  poet  ! 

Take  this  lesson  to  thy  heart  ; 
That  is  best  which  lietli  nearest  ; 

Shape  from  that  thy  work  of 


PEGASUS  IN  POUND. 

Once  into  a  quiet  vill: 

Without  haste  and  without  heed, 
In  the  golden  prime  of  morning, 

Strayed  the  poet's  winged  steed 

[\  was  Autumn,  and  incessant 

Piped  the  quails  from  shocks  and  sin  a 
And,  like  living  coals,  the  apples 

Burned  among  the  withering  leave 

fiOiid  the  clamorous  bell  was  ringing 
From  its  belfry  gaunt  and  grim  : 

'Twas  the  daily  call  to  labour, 
Not  a  triumph  meant  for  him. 

Not  the  less  he  saw  the  kmdsoa 
[n  its  gleaming  vapour  veiled  ; 

Not  the  less  he  breathed  the  odours 
That  the  dying  leaves  exhaled. 

Thus,  upon  the  village  common, 
By  the  schoolboys  he  was  found  : 

And  the  wise  men,  in  their  wisdom, 
Put  him  straightway  into  pound. 

Then  the  sombre  village  crier, 
Ringing  loud  his  brazen  bell, 

Wandered  down  the  street,  proclaiming 
There  was  an  estray  to  sell. 

And  the  curious  country  people, 
Rich  and  poor,  and  young  and  old, 

Came  in  haste  to  see  this  wondrous 
Winged  steed,  with  mane  of  gold. 


BV   THE  FIRJ'SIDE. 


11 


II 


Thus  the  daj  nig 

Fell,  with  vapottn  COld  and  dim  ; 

I5ut  it  brought  do  food  nor  shelter, 
Brought  no  straw  nor  itall  for  him. 

Patiently,  and  still  expectant, 
Looked  he  through  the  wooden  'tars 

Saw  the  moon  rise  o'er  the  landscape, 
Saw  the  tranquil,  patient  stars; 

Till  at  length  the  bell  at  midnight 
Sounded  from  its  dark  abode, 

And,  from  out  a  neighbouring  farm -yard, 
Loud  the  cock  Alectryon  crowed. 

Then,  with  nostrils  wide  distended, 
Breaking  from  his  iron  chain, 

And  unfolding  far  his  pinions, 
To  those  stars  he  soared  again. 

On  the  morrow,  when  the  village 
Woke  to  all  its  toil  and  care, 

Lo  !  the  strange  steed  had  departed, 
And  they  knew  not  when  nor  where 

But  they  found  upon  the  greenswar:.1 
"Where  his  struggling  hoofs  had  trod, 

Pure  and  bright,  a  fountain  flowing 
From  the  hoof-marks  in  the  sod. 

From  that  hour,  the  fount  unfailing 
Gladdens  the  whole  region  round, 

Strengthening  all  who  drink  its  waters, 
While  it  soothes  them  with  its  sound. 


TEGNER'S  DEATH. 

1  heard  a  voice,  that  cried. 
•'  J : alder  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  Niflclheiin 


Lifted  the  sheeted  mists 
Around  him  a  he  pasted 

And  the  voice  for  ever  cried, 
°  Balder  the  Beautiful 
Is  dead,  is  dead !" 

And  died  away 

Through  the  dreary  night, 

In  accents  of  despair. 

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

All  things  in  earth  and  an 
Bound  were  by  magic  spell 
Never  to  do  him  harm  : 

Even  the  plants  and  stone 
All  save  the  mistletoe, 
The  sacred  mistletoe  ! 

Boeder,  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, 

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  t 

Till  like  the  moon  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  son&; 


liY  TUB  FIRBSIDB. 


113 


Fairer  than  the  old. 
Over  the  meadows  green 
Walk  the  young  bards  and  sing. 

Build  it  again, 

0  ye  hards, 

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, 
0  ye  bards  of  the  North, 
Of  Vikings  and  of  Jarls  ! 
Of  the  days  of  Eld 
Preserve  the  freedom  only, 
Not  the  deeds  of  blood  ! 


i 


m 


ON  FANNY  KEMBLE'S  (MRS  BUTLER)  READINGS 
FROM  SHAKSPEARE. 

0  precious  evenings  !  all  too  swiftly  sped  ! 

Leaving  us  heirs  to  amplest  heritages 

Of  all  the  best  thoughts  of  the  greatest  sages, 

And  giving  tongues  unto  the  silent  dead  ! 

How  our  hearts  glowed  and  trembled  as  she  read, 

Interpreting  by  tones  the  wondrous  pages 

Of  the  great  Poet  who  foreruns  the  ages, 

Anticipating  all  that  shall  be  said  ! 

0  happy  Reader  !  having  for  thy  text 

The  magic  book,  whose  sibylline  leaves  have  caught 

The  rarest  essence  of  all  human  thought ! 

0  happy  Poet,  by  no  critic  vext ! 

How  must  thy  listening  spirit  now  rejoice 

To  be  interpreted  by  such  a  voice  ! 


' 


114 


,'"•>»'•  < 


>FELLO\\ 


THE  BINGBB 

God  sent  His  Singers  upon  earth 
With  songl  of  sadness  and  of  mirth, 

That  they  might  touch  the  hearts  of  men. 
And  bring  them  back  to  hi  in. 

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

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

A  gray  old  man,  the  third  and  last, 
Sang  in  cathedrals  dim  and  v.- 
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  mi 
And  he  whose  ear  is  tuned  aright 
Will  hear  oc  discord  in  the  three, 
But  the  most  perfect  harmony." 


SUSPIRIA. 
Take  them,  0  Death  !  and  bear  away 

Whatever  thou  canst  call  thine  own-- 
Thine  image,  stamped  upon  this  clay. 

Doth  give  thee  that,  but  that  alone ! 

Take  them,  0  Grave  !  and  let  them  lie 
Folded  upon  thy  narrow  shelves, 

As  garments  by  the  soul  laid  by. 
And  precious  only  to  ourselves  ! 


It V  TIIK  FIUKSIPK. 


115 


Take  them,  <  >  greal  Eternity  ! 

I  >ur  little  life  la  but  a  gust, 
Thai  tends  tlif  branches  of  iliy  tree, 

Ami  trails  its  blossoms  in  the  dust ! 


HYMN 

FoR  MY  BROTHER'S  ORDINATION 

Christ  to  the  young  man  said :  "  Yet  one  thing  more 

If  thou  wouldst  perfect  be, 
Sell  all  thou  hast,  and  give  it  to  the  poor, 

And  come  and  follow  me  !" 

Within  this  temple  Christ  again,  unseen, 

Those  sacred  words  hath  said, 
And  His  invisible  hands  to-day  have  been 

Laid  on  a  young  man's  head. 

And  evermore  beside  him  on  his  way, 

The  unseen  Christ  shall  move, 
That  he  may  lean  upon  His  arm,  and  say, 

"Dost  thou,  dear  Lord,  approve  \n 

Beside  him  at  the  marriage-feast  shall  be, 

To  maKe  the  scene  more  fair  : 
Beside  him  in  the  dark  Gethsemane 

Of  pain  and  midnight  prayer. 

0  holy  trust !  0  endless  sense  of  rest  I 

Like  the  beloved  John, 
To  lay  his  head  upon  his  Saviour's  breast. 

And  thus  to  journey  on  ! 


AJ&Kf^JP       . 


t- 1 


<4±jm 


EVANGELINE. 

A  TALE  OF  ACAD1£. 


[The  poem  of  'Eva:.  .' i  i.i  "  is  founded  on  a  painful  incident  In  the 
•»arly  history  of  North  America. 

Acadia,  or,  as  it  is  now  called,  Nova  Scotia,  after  baring  been  for  many 
yean  a  subject  of  contention  between  the  French  and  British  Govern- 
ments, was,  in  1713,  finally  ceded  to  Great  Britain.  The  inhabitants,  being 
Chiefly  of  French  extraction,  were  very  ave.se  to  this  measure. 

The  Acadians,  numbering  aoout  18,000,  were  an  industrious  people,  and 
were  •  of  considerable  wealth,  chiefly  in  cattle  and  (arm  produce. 

In  1755,  during  the  war  with  France,  the  British  Government  suspecting 
the  Acadians  of  .supplying  the  enemy  with  provisions  ami  ammunition, and 
Ing  they  might  Join  the  French  should  they  invade  the  country,  re- 
vived to  remove  the  whole  population,  and  disperse  them  among  the  other 
■  lean  colonlea 
To  effect  this  as  easily  as  possible,  the  Governor  convened  great  meet- 
throughout  the  country,  and  when  the  people  unsuspectingly  as« 
bled,  he  surrounded  them  with  soldiers,  and  having  announced  the 
purpose  of  the  British  Government,  marched  them  off  to  the  ships  which 
ready  waiting  for  them. 
About  7000  were  thus  deported ;  the  rest  fled  to  the  forests,  and  to  French 
Canada. 

The  Poem  is  descriptive  of  these  proceedings.  Some  of  the  characters 
are  real  personages.] 

This  is  the  forest  primeval.    The  murmuring  pines  and  the 

hemlocks, 
Bearded  with  moss,  and  with  garments  green,  indistinct  in 

the  twilight, 
Stand  like  Druids  of  eld,  with  voices  sad  and  prophetic, 
Stand  like  harpers  hoar,  with  beards  that  rest  on  their  bosoms, 
Loud  from  its  rocky  caverns,  the  deep-voiced  neighbouring 

■an 
Speaks,  and  in  accents  disconsolate  answers  the  wail  of  the 

fore 
This  is  the  forest  primeval  :  out  where  are  the  hearts  that 

beneath  it 
1.      ed  iike  the  roe,  when  he  hears  in  the  woodland  the  voice 

of  the  huntsman  / 
\\  here  is  the  thatch-roofed  village,  the  home  of  Acadian 

farmers,— 


a 

m 


m 


I 


PART  I.] 


i:v  \n<;ki,ink 


117 


Men  whose  lives  glided  on  like  rivers  that  water  the  woodlands, 
Darkened  by  Bhadows  of  earth,  but  reflecting  an  image  of 

heaven  1 
Waste  are  those  pleasant  farms,  and  the  farmers  for  ever  de- 
par' 
Scattered  like  dust  and  leaves,  when  the  mighty  Masts  of 

October 
Seize  them  anil  whirl  them  aloft,  and  sprinkle  them  far  o'er 

the  ocean. 
Nought  but  tradition  remains  of  the  beautiful  village  of 

(I  rand- Pre. 
Ye  who  believe  in  affection  that  hopes,  and  endures,  and  is 

patient, 
Ye  who  believe  in  the  beauty  and  strength  of  woman's  devotion, 
List  to  the  mournful  tradition  still  sung  by  the  pines  of  the 

forest  ; 
List  to  a  Tale  of  Love  in  Acadie,  home  of  the  happy. 


PART  THE  FIRST. 

I. 

In  the  Acadian  land,  on  the  shores  of  the  basin  of  Minas, 
Distant,  secluded,  still,  the  little  village  of  Grand-Pre 
Lay  in  the  fruitful  valley.    Vast  meadows  stretched  to  the 

eastward, 
Giving  the  village  its  name,  and  pasture  to  flocks  without 

number. 
Dikes,  that  the  hands  of  the  farmers  had  raised  with  labour 

incessant, 
Shut  out  the  turbulent  waves ;  but  at  stated  seasons  the  flood- 
gates 
Opened,  and  welcomed  the  sea  to  wander  at  will  o'er  the 

meadows. 
West  and  south  there  were  fields  of  flax,  and  orchards,  and 

corn-fields, 
Spreading  afar  and  unfenced  o'er  the  plain  ;  and  away  to  the 

northward 
Blomidon  rose,  and  the  forests  old ;  and  aloft  on  the  mountains 
Sea-fogs  pitched  then  teuts,  ami  mists  from  the  mighty 

Atlantic 
Looked  on  the  happy  valley,  but  ne'er  from  their  station  de 

scended. 


IIS 


LOWS    P(i 


There,  in  the  midit  of  its  farm  !  I  be  Acadian  vi: 

Strongly  built  were  the  houses,  with  Iran,  k  and  of 

chestnut, 
Such  as  the  peasants  of  Normandy  built  in  the  reign  of  the 

Henries. 
Thatoh'd  were  the  roofs  with  doraer-wind 

projecting 
Over  the  basement  below,  protected  and  shaded  the  doorway. 
There,  in  the  tranquil  evenings  of  summer,  when  brightly  the 

sun 
Lighted  the  village  street,  and  gilded  the  vanes  on  the  chim  • 

no  vs. 
Matrons  and  maidens  sat  in  snow-white  caps,  and  in  kirtles 
Scarlet  and  blue  and  green,  with  distaffs  spinning  the  golden 
Flax  for  the  gossipping  looms,  whose  noisy  shuttles  within 

doors 
Mingled  their  sound  with  the  whir  of  the  wheels  and  the  s 

of  the  maidens. 
Solemnly  down  the  street  came  the  parish  priest ;  and  the 

children 
Pause  in  their  play  to  kiss  the  hand  he  exteuded  to  bless  them. 
Reverend  walked  he  among  them  ;  and  uprose  matrons  and 

maidens, 
Hailing  his  slow  approach  with  words  of  affectionate  welc< 
Then  came  the  labourers  home  from  the  field,  and  serenely 

the  sun  sank 
1  town  to  his  rest,  and  twilight  prevailed.  Anon  from  the  belfi} 
It  the  Angelus  sounded,  and  over  the  roofs  of  the  village 
<  lolumns  of  pale  Wue  smoke,  like  clouds  of  incense  ascending, 
Rorc  from  a  hundred  hearths,  the  homes  of  peace  and 

tent  men t. 
Thus  dwelt  together  in  love  these  simple  Acadian  formers, — 
Dwelt  in  the  love  of  Gcd  and  of  man.     Alike  were  they  free 

from 
("ear,  that  reigns  with  the  tyrant,  and  envy,  the  vice  of  re- 
publics. 
tther  locks  bad  they  to  their  doors,  nor  bars  to  their 

windows, 
But  their  dwellings  were  open  as  day  and  the  hearts  of  the 

owners  ; 
There  the  richest  was  poor,  and  the  poorest  lived  in  abundance. 
Somewhat  apart  from  the  village,  and  nearer  the  Basin  of 

Minas, 
Benedict  Bellefontaine,  the  wealthiest  farmer  of  Grand-Pre, 


■•':..•-' 


I  air  ■was  she  to  Deltoid,  that  maiden  of  seventeen   summers 
Black  wore  her  eyes  as  the  "berry  that  grows  on  the  thorn  by  the  m 

lAThen  it  th<-  "re  to  the  reapers  at  noontide 

Flagons  of  home  "brewed  ale,  ah'  lair  in  sootk  was  the  maiden 


1 


PART  r.l 


FA  \\<;i:! 


lit' 


Dwelt  on  his  goodly  team;  and  with  him,  directing  oil 
household, 

Gentle  F\niu:vline  lived,  his  child,  and  the  pride  of  the  villi 
Stalwart  and  stately  in  form  was  the  man  of  seventy  winters. 
Hearty  and  hale  was  he,  an  oak  that  is  covered  with  snow- 
flab 
White  as  the  snow  were  his  locks,  and  his  cheeks  as  brown 

as  the  oak  lea 
Fair  was  she  to  behold,  that  maiden  of  seventeen  summers. 
Black  v,<  5 es  as  the  berry  that  grows  on  the  thorn  by 

the  wayside, — 
Black,  yet  how  softly  they  gleamed  beneath  the  brown  shade 

of  her  tresses  ! 
Sweet  was  her  breath  as  the  breath  of  kine  that  feed  in  the 

meadows. 
When  in  the  harvest  heat  she  bore  to  the  reapers  at  noontide 
Flagons  of  home-brewed  ale,  ah  !  fair  in  sooth  was  the  maiden. 
Fairer  was  she  when,  on  Sunday  morn,  while  the  bell  from 

its  turret 
Sprinkled  with  holy  sounds  the  air,  as  the  priest  with  Ms 

hyssop 
Sprinkles  the  congregation,  and  scatters  blessings  upon  them, 
Down  the  long  street  she  passed,  with  her  chaplet  of  beads 

and  her  Missal, 
Wearing  her  Norman-cap,  and  her  kirtle  of  blue,  and  the 

ear-rings 
Brought  in  the  olden  time  from  France,  and  since,  as  an 

heirloom, 
Handed  down  from  mother  to  child  through  long  generations. 
But  a  celestial  brightness — a  more  ethereal  beauty — 
Shone  on  her  face  and  encircled  her  form,  when,  after  con- 
fession, 
Homeward  serenely  she  walked  with  God's  benediction  upon 

her. 
When  she  had  passed,  it  seemed  like  the  ceasing  of  exquisite 

music. 
F'irmly  builded  with  rafters  of  oak,  the  house  of  the  farmer 
Stood  on  the  side  of  a  hill  commanding  the  sea  ;  and  a  shady 
Sycamore  grew  by  the  door,  with  a  woodbine  wreathing 

around  it. 
Rudely  carved  was  the  porch,  with  seats  beueath  ;   and  a 

footpath 
Led  through  an  orchard  wide,  and  disappeared  in  the  meadow. 
Under  the  sycamore- tree  were  hives  overhung  by  a  penthouse 


mm 


I  - 


LONGFELLOW 


Such  as  the  travel  In  sees  in  rt  I  ie, 

Built  o'er  a  box  for  the  pour,  or  tK  ry. 

Farther  down,  on  the  slope  of  the  hill,  was  the  well  with  it* 

moss-grown 
Bucket,  fastened  with  iron,  and  near  it  a  trough  for  the  hor 
Shielding  the  house  from  storms,  on  the  north,  were  the 

hams  and  the  farmyard. 
There  stood  the  broad-wheeled  wains  and  the  antique  ploughs 

and  the  harrows  ; 
There  were  the  folds  for  the  sheep  ;  and  there,  in  his  feathered 

seraglio, 
Strutted  the  lordly  turkey,  and  crowed  the  cock,  with  the 

selfsame 
Voice  that  in  ages  of  old  had  startled  the  penitent  Peter. 
Bursting  with  hay  were  the  barns,  themselves  a  village.    In 

each  one 
Far  o'er  the  gable  projected  a  roof  of  thatch  ;  and  a  staircase, 
Under  the  sheltering  eaves,  led  up  to  the  odorous  corn-loft. 
There,  too,  the  dovecot  stood,  with  its  meek  and  innocent  u> 

mates 
Murmuring  ever  of  love  ;  while  above,  in  the  variant  breezes, 
Numberless  noisy  weathercocks  rattled  and  sang  of  mutation. 
Thus,  at  peace  with   God  and  the  world,  the  farmer  of 

Grand-Pre 
Lived  on  his  sunny  farm,  and  Evangeline  governed  his  house- 
hold. 
Many  a  youth,  as  he  knelt  in  the  church  and  opened  his  Missal, 
Fixed  his  eyes  upon  her,  as  the  saint  of  his  deepest  devotion  , 
Happy  was  he  who  might  touch  her  hand,  or  the  hem  of  her 

garment ! 
Many  a  suitor  came  to  her  door,  by  the  darkness  befriended, 
And  as  he  knocked  and  waited  to  hear  the  sound  of  her  foot- 
steps, 
Knew  not  which  beat  the  louder,  hic  heart  or  the  knocker  of 

iron. 
Or  at  the  joyous  feast  of  the  patron  saint  of  the  village, 
Bolder  grew7,  and  pressed  her  hand  in  the  dance,  as  he 

whispered 
Hurried  words  of  love,  that  seemed  a  part  of  the  mi 
But,  among  all  who  came,  young  Gabriel  only  was  welcomes- 
Gabriel  Lejeunesse,  the  son  of  Basil  the  blacksmith, 
Who  was  a  mighty  man  in  the  village,  and  hououred  of  tS\ 

men  ; 
For  since  the  birth  of  time,  throughout  all  ages  and  nations. 


P  1. 1  121 

Baa  the  craft  of  the  smith  been  he]  ;<  bvthe  people. 

Basil  was  Benedict's  friend.     Their  children  trom  earliest 

childhood 
drew  ap  together  as  brother  and  sister  ;  and  Father  Felician, 
Priest  and  pedagogue  both  in  the  village,  had  taught  them 

their  letters 
Out  of  the  selfsame  book,  with  the  hymns  of  the  church  and 

the  plain-song. 
But  when  the  hymn  was  sung,  and  the  daily  lesson  completed, 
Swiftly  they  hurried  away  to  the  forge  of  1  >  a  s  i  ]  the  blacksmith. 
There  at  the  door  they  stood,  with  wondering  eyes  to  behold 

him 
Take  in  his  leathern  lap  the  hoof  of  the  horse  as  a  plaything, 
Nailing  the  shoe  in  its  place  ;  while  near  him  the  tire  of  the 

cart-wheel 
Lay  like  a  fiery  snake,  coiled  round  in  a  circle  of  cinders. 
Oft  on  autumnal  eves,  when  without,  in  the  gathering  dark- 

ne 
Bursting  with  light  seemed  the  smithy  through  every  cranny 

and  crevice, 
Warm  by  the  forge  within  they  watched  the  labouring  bellows, 
And  as  its  panting  ceased,  and  the  sparks  expired  in  the 

ashes, 
Merrily  laughed,  and  said  they  were  nuns  going  into  the 

chapel. 
Oft  on  sledges  in  winter,  as  swift  as  the  swoop  of  the  eagle, 
Down  the  hill-side  bounding,  they  glided  away  o'er  the  mea- 
dow. 
Oft  iu  the  barns  they  climbed  to  the  populous  nests  on  the 

rafters, 
Seeking  with  eager  eyes  that  wondrous  stone,  which  the 

swallow 
Brings  from  the  shore  of  the  sea  to  restore  the  sight  of  its 

fledglings : 
Lucky  was  he  who  found  that  stone  in  the  nest  of  the  swallow ! 
Thus  passed  a  few  swift  years,  and  they  no  longer  were  chil 

droit. 
lie  was  a  valiant  youth,  and  his  face,  like  the  face  of  the 

morning, 
Gladdened  the  earth  with  its  light,  and  ripened  thought  into 

action. 
She  was  a  woman  now,  with  the  heart  and  hopes  of  a  woman ; 
M  Sunshine  of  Saint  Eulalie"  was  she  called,  for  that  was 

the  sunshine 


;.■■ ' :'; 


fc 


•  EMS 


Which,  as  the  farmers  believed,  would  load  their  orcl..< 
with  app] 
too,    would  bring  to  her  husband's  house  delight  and 
abundance, 

Filling  it  full  of  lore  and  the  ruddy  faces  of  children 

II. 

Now  had  the  season  returned,  when  the  nights  grow  colder 
and  Ion 

An  1  the  retreating  Sun  the  sign  of  the  Scorpion  en  I: 

Birds  of  passage  sailed  through  the  leaden  air  from  the  ice- 
hound 

Desolate  northern  hays  to  the  shores  of  tropical  islands. 

Harvests  were  gathered  in  ;   and  wild  with  the  winds  oi 
September 

Wrestled  the  trees  of  the  forest,  as  Jacob  of  old  with  the 
Angel. 

All  the  signs  foretold  a  winter  long  and  inclement 

Rees,  with  prophetic  instinct  of  want,  had  hoarded  their 
honey 

Till  the  hives  overflowed  ;  and  the  Indian  hunters  a 

Cold  would  the  winter  be,  for  thick  was  the  fur  of  the  foxes. 

Such  was  the  advent  of  autumn.    Then  followed  that  beauti 
ful  season 

Called  by  the  pious  Acadian  peasants  the  Summer  of  All- 
Saints  ! 

Filled  was  the  air  with  a  dreamy  and  magical  light ;  and  the 
landscape 

Lay  as  if  new-created  in  all  the  freshness  of  childhood. 

Peace  seemed  to  reign  upon  earth,  and  the  restless  heart  of 
the  ocean 

\\  as  for  a  moment  consoled.    All  sounds  were  in  harmony 
olended. 

Voices  of  children  at  play,  the  crowing  of  cocks  in  the  farm- 
yards, 

Whir  of  wings  in  the  drowsy  air,  and  the  cooing  of  pigeons, — 

All  were  subdued  and  low  as  the  murmurs  of  love,  and  the 
great  sun 

Looked  with  the  eye  of  love  through  the  golden  vapours 
around  him  ; 

While  arrayed  in  its  robes  of  russet  and  scarlet  and  yellow, 

Bright  with  the  sheen  of  the  dew,  each  glittering  tree  of  the 
forest 


iUKT    I.  | 


Plashed  Like  the  plane  tre<  the  Persian  adorned  with  am 

I  jewels. 
Not?  i  snood  the  reign  of  reel  and  aflectionand  still 

□ess. 
Day  with  its  burden  and  heat  had  departed,  and  twilight 

sending 
Brought  back  the  evening  star  to  the  sky,  and  the  herds  to 

the  homestead. 
Pawing  the  ground  they  came,  and  resting  their  necks  on 

each  oilier, 
And  with  their  nostrils  distended  inhaling  the  freshness  of 

evening. 
most,  bearing  the  bell,  Evangeline's  beautiful  heifer, 
Proud  ot  her  snow-white  hide,  and  the  riband  that  waved  from 

her  collar, 
Quietly  paced  and  slow,  as  if  conscious  of  human  affection. 
Then  caine  the  shepherd  back  with  his  bleating  flocks  frotf 

the  sea-side, 
Where  was  their  favourite  pasture.     Behind  them  followed 

the,  watch-dog, 
Patient,  full  of  importance,  and  grand  in  the  pride  of  his 

instinct, 
Walking  from  side  to  side  with  a  lordly  air,  and  superbly 
Waving  his  bushy  tail,  and  urging  forward  the  stragglers  ; 
Uegent  of  flecks  was  he  when  the  shepherd  slept ;  their  pro- 
tector, 
When  from  the  forest  at  night,  through  the  starry  silence, 

the  wolves  howled. 
Late,  with  the  rising  moon,  returned  the  wains  from  th  i 

marshes, 
Laden  with  briny  hay,  that  filled  the  air  with  its  odour. 
Cheerily  neighed  the  steeds,  with  dew  on  their  manes  and 

their  fetlocks. 
While  aloft  on  their  shoulders  the  wooden  and  ponderous 

saddles, 
Painted  with  brilliant  dyes,  and  adorned  with  tassels  ot 

crimson, 
Nodded  in  bright  array,  like  hollyhocks  heavy  with  blossoms. 
Patiently  stood  I  h<  cows  meanwhile,  and  yielded  theirudders 
Unto  the  milkmaids  hand  ;  whilst  loud  and  in  regular  cadence 
the  foaming  streamlets  descended. 
ing  of  cattle  and  peals  of  laughter  were  heard  in  the 

farm -yard, 
Echoed  back  by  the  barns.  .Anon  they  sank  intostilme 


/I-JVA 


IM 


i 


A 


Elearily  do  o  I,  with  a  jarring  sound,  the  n  ie  I  arn- 

doort, 

Rattled  the  wood  rod  all  i  lent 

[ndo  .m  by  the  I  fire-place,  idly  the 

fit! 

Bat  iu  hii  elbow-ch  dr,  and  watched  how  the  flamei  and  tbi 

smoke- wreatlis 
Stru  .  i  a  burning  city-    Behind  him, 

Nodding  and  mocking  II,  with  gestiira  fantastic, 

I  Parted  his  own  huge  shadow,  and  ranished  away  into  dark] 
i,  clumsil        •    I  in  oak,  on  the  hack  rm-chair, 

Laughed  in  the  flickering  light ;  and  the  pewter  plate 

the  dre 
Oanght  and  reflected  the  dame,  ai  shields  of  armies  the  sun 
>v         shine. 

fragments  of  aong  the  old  man  sang,  and  cat  ristmas, 

8noha8athome,  in  the  olden  u  ithers  before  him 

Sang  in  their  Norman  orchard*  and  bright  Burgundian  vine 

yards, 

Lewasthi  ated, 

Spinning  flax  for  the  loom,  that  stood  in  the  corner  behind  her. 
Silent  awhile  were  its  treadles,  at  resl  was  its  diligent  shuttle, 
While  the  monotonous  drone  of  the  wheel,  like  the  dron 

a  bagpipe, 
Followed  the  old  man's  rod  unite  I  the  fragments 

ther. 
As  in  a  church,  when  the  chant  of  the  choir  at  inl 

thills  are  heard  in  the  I  words  of  the  priest  at  the 

altar. 
in  each  pause  of  th  .  with  measured  motion  the 

oloek  clicked. 

rhUf  as  they  sat,  tlu  heard,  and  suddenly 

lifted, 
sounded  the  wooden  latch,  and  the  door  swung  hack  on  its 

hin 
Benedict   knew  by  the   h"b  nailed  shoes  it  was    BasO  the 

blacksmith, 
Vn  1  by  her  beating  heart  Evangeline  knew  who  was  with  him. 
''Welcome!"  the  tanner  exclaimed,  as  thei.  Dfl  paused 

on  the  thresh 
M  Welcome,  Basil,  my  friend  !  Come,  take  thy  place  on  the 

settle 

.  the  chimney-aide,  which  is  always  empty  without  theej 

Take  from  the  shelf  overhead  thjDipeand  theboxoftobaCCO! 


I 


r- 


PART  I.  1 


iv  won  i\i 


118 


Nevej  bo  much  thyself  art  thou,  as  when,  through  the  curling 

vO  of  the  pipe  Of  the  forge,  thy  friendly  and  jovial  face 
gleams 
Round  and  red  as  the  harvest-moon  through  the  mist  oi  the 

marshe 
Then,  with  a  smile  of  content,  thus  answered  Basil  the 
blacksmith, 
dug  with  easy  air  the  accustomed  seat  by  the  fireside: — 
nedict  Bellefontaine,  thou  hast  ever  thy  jest  and  thy 
ballad ! 
liver  in  eheerfullest  mood  art  thou,  when  others  are  filled  with 
Gloomy  forebodings  of  ill,  and  see  only  ruin  before  them. 
Bappy  art  thou,  as  if  every  day  thou  hadst  picked  up  a 

horse-shoe." 
Pausing  a  moment  to  take  the  pipe  that  Evangeline  brought 

him, 
And  with  a  coal  from  the  embers  had  lighted,  he  slowly 
utinued  : — 

now  are  passed  since  the  English  ships  at  their 
anch 
Ride  in  the  Gasperean's  mouth,  with  their  cannon  pointed 

against  u& 
\Vhat  their  design  may  be  is  unknown  ;  but  all  are  commanded 
On  the  morrow  to  meet  in  the  church,  where  His  Majesty's 

mandate 
Will  be  proclaimed  as  law  in  the  land.  Alas  !  in  the  meantime 
Many  surmises  of  evil  alarm  the  hearts  of  the  people." 
Then  made  answer  the  farmer  : — "  Perhaps  some  friendlier 
purpose 

these  ships  to  our  shores.     Perhaps  the  harvest  in 
England, 
By  the  untimely  rains  or  untimelier  heat,  has  been  blighted, 
And  from  our  bursting  barns  they  would  feed  their  cattle 

and  children.'' 
"  Not  so  thinketh  the  folk  in  the  village,"  said,  warmly,  the 
blacksmith, 

his  head,  as  in  doubt ;  then,  heaving  a  sigh,  he 
inued : — 
"  Luisburg  is  not  forgotten,  nor  Beau  Sejour,  nor  Port  Royal. 
Many  already  have  lied  to  the  forest,  and  lurk  on  its  outskirts, 
Waiting  with  anxious  hearts  the  dubious  fate  of  to-morrow. 
Arms  have  been  taken  from  us,  and  wa  rlike  weapons  oi'all  kinds; 
Nothing  is  left  but  the  blacksmith's  sledge,  and  the  scythe 
the  mower."  i 


* 


126 


LOHOFEM.ow 


Then  with  a  pleasant  smil  jovial  fai 

kfer  are  we  unarmed,  in  the  midst 
n-fields, 
Safer  within  these  peaceful  v  the  ot 

Than  were  our  fathers  in  forts,  I  by  the 

cannon. 

Fear  no  evil,  my  friend,  and  to-night  may  no  .shadow  at' 
sorrow 

Fall  on  this  house  and  hearth  ;  for  this  is  the  night  of  the 
eon  tract. 

Built  are  the  house  and  the  barn.  The  merry  lads  of  the 
village 

Strongly  have  built  them  and  well ;  and,  breaking  the  glebe 
round  about  them, 

Filled  the  barn  with  hay,  and  the  house  with  food  for  £ 
twelvemonth, 

Rene  Leblanc,  will  be  here  anon,  with  his  papers  and  ink- 
horn. 

Shall  we  not,  then,  be  glad,  and  rejoice  in  the  joy  of  our  chil- 
dren/" 

As  apart  by  the  window  she  stood,  with  her  hand  in  her 
lover's, 

Blushing,  Evangeline  heard  the  words  that  her  father  had 
.spoken ; 

And  as  they  died  on  his  lips  the  worthy  notary  entered. 

III. 

Bent  like  a  labouring  oar,  that  toils  in  the  surf  of  the  ocean. 

Bent  but  not  broken  by  age  was  the  form  of  the  notaiy- 
public  ; 

Shocks  of  yellow  hair,  like  the  silken  floss  of  the  maize,  hung 

Over  his  shoulders  ;  his  forehead  was  high  ;  and  with 

horn  bows 

Sat  astride  on  his  nose,  with  a  look  of  wisdom  supernal. 

Father  of  twenty  children  was  he,  and  more  than  a  lunula  1 

Children's  children  rode  on  his  knee,  and  heard  his  great 
watch  tick. 

Four  long  years  in  the  times  of  the  war  had  he  languished  a 
captive, 

.Suffering  much  in  an  old  French  fort  as  the  friend  of  the 
English. 

Now,  though  warier  grown,  without  all  guile  or  suspicion, 

Ripe  in  wisdom  was  be,  but  patient,  and  simple,  and  child- 
like. 


■ 


I 


PABT  I.] 


Lk>  ■..  ■,  id  by  all,  and  most  of  all  by  the  children  ; 

For  he  told  them  tales  of  the  Loup-garou  in  the  forest, 

And  of  the  goblin  that  came  in  the  night  to  water  the  ho] 

And  of  the  w  iche,  the  ghost  of  a  child  who  unchris- 

tened 

Died,  ami  was  doomed  tn  haunt  unseen  the  chambei 
children  ; 

And  how  on  Christmas-eve  the  oxen  talked  in  the  stable, 

And  how  the  fever  was  cured  by  a  spider  shut  up  in  a  nut- 
shell, 

And  of  the  marvellous  powers  of  four-leaved  clover  and  horse- 
sin  >es, 

With  whatsoever  else  was  writ  in  the  lore  of  the  village. 

Then  uprose  from  his  seat  by  the  fireside  Basil  the  black- 
smith, 

Knocked  from  his  pipe  the  ashes,  and  slowly  extending  his 
right  hand, 

"  Father  Leblanc,"  he  exclaimed,  "  thou  hast  heard  the  talk 
in  the  village, 

And,  perchance,  canst  tell  us  some  news  of  these  ships  and 
their  errand." 

Then  with  modest  demeanom-  made  answer  the  notary- 
public  : — 

"  Gossip  enough  have  I  heard,  in  sooth,  yet  am  never  the 
wiser : 

And  what  their  errand  may  be,  I  know  not  better  than  others. 

Yet  I  am  not  of  those  who  imagine  some  evil  intention 

Brings  them  here,  for  we  are  at  peace  ;  and  why  then  molest 
us  ?" 

"  God's  name  !"  shouted  the  hasty  and  somewhat  irascible 
blacksmith, 

"  Must  we  in  all  things  look  for  the  how,  and  the  why,  and 
the  wherefore  ? 

Daily  iujustice  is  done,  and  might  is  the  right  of  the 
strongest." 

But,  without  heeding  his  warmth,  continued  the  notary- 
public  : — 

"  .Man  is  unjust,  but  God  is  just ;  and  finally  justice 

Triumphs  ;  and  well  1  remember  a  story  that  often  consoled 

When  as  a  captive  I  lay  in  the  old  French  fort  at  Port  Royal. ,: 
This  was  the  old  man's  fa  rourite  tale,  and  he  loved  to  repeat  it 
When  hi  •  »urs  complained  that  any  injustice  was  done 

them. 


J 


V 


LONfl 


d 


"  Once  in  an  ancient  city,  whose  name  I  no  longer  ren 

ber, 
Raised  aloft  on  a  column,  a  brazen  statue  of  Justice 
Stood  in  the  public  square)  upholding  the  scales  in  it. 

hand, 
And  in  its  right  a  sword,  as  an  emblem  that  justice  preside  I 
Over  the  laws  of  the  land,  and  the  hearts  and  homes  of  th- 

people. 
Even  the  hirds  had  built  their  nests  in  the  scales  of  the 

balance, 
Having  nu  fear  of  the  sword  that  flashed  in  the  sunshine 

above  them. 
But  in  the  course  of  time  the  laws  of  the  land  were  corrupted  ; 
Might  took  the  place  of  right,  and  the  weak  were  oppressed, 

and  the  mighty- 
Ruled  with  an  iron  rod.    Then  it  chanced  in  a  nohleman's 

palace 
That  a  necklace  of  pearls  was  lost ;  and  ere  long  a  suspicion 
Fell  on  an  orphan  girl  who  lived  as  maid  in  the  household. 
She,  after  form  of  trial,  condemned  to  die  on  the  scaffold, 
Patiently  met  her  doom  at  the  foot  of  the  statue  of  Justice 
As  to  her  Father  in  heaven  her  innocent  spirit  ascended, 
Lo !  o'er  the  city  a  tempest  rose ;  and  the  bolts  of  the  thundei 
Smote  the  statue  of  bronze,  and  hurled  in  wrath  from  ite 

left  hand, 
Down  on  the  pavement  below,  the  clattering  scales  of  the 

balance, 
And  in  the  hollow  thereof  was  found  the  nest  of  a  magpie, 
Into  whose  clay-built  walls  the  necklace  of  pearls  was  in 

woven." 
Silenced,  but  not  convinced,  when  the  story  was  ended,  the 

blacksmith 
Stood  like  a  man  who  fain  would  speak,  but  findeth  no  lan- 
guage ; 
All  his  thoughts  were  congealed  into  lines  on  his  face  as  the 

vapours 
Freeze  in  fantastic  shapes  on  the  window-panes  in  the  winter. 
Then  Evangeline  lighted  the  brazen  lamp  on  the  table, 
Filled,  till  it  overflowed,  the  pewter  tankard  with  home- 
brewed 
Nut-brown  ale,  that  was  famed  for  its  strength  in  the  village 

of  Grand-Pre  ; 
W  liile  from  his  pocket  the  notary  drew  his  papers  and  inkhorn, 
VV  rote  with  a  steady  hand  the  date  and  the  age  of  the  parties. 


PAHT  :. 


EVANT.KI.l  NT. 


120 


13 


Naming  the  dower  of  the  bride  in  flocks  of  sheep  and  in  cattle 

Orderly  all  things  proceeded,  and  duly  and  well  were  com- 
pleted, 

And  the  alofthelawwassel  like  a  sun  on  the  margin. 

■i  from  his  leathern  pouch  the  farmer  threw  on  the  table 

Three  times  the  old  man's  fee  in  solid  nieces  of  silver; 

And  the  notary  rising,  and  blessing  the  bride  and  the  bride 
groom, 

Lifted  aloft  the  tankard  of  ale  and  drank  to  their  welfare. 

Wiping  the  foam  from  his  lip,hesolemnlybowed  and  departed; 

While  in  silence  the  others  sat  and  mused  by  the  fireside, 

Till  Evangeline  brought  the  draught-board  out  of  its  corner. 

Soon  was  the  game  begun.   In  friendly  contention  the  old  men 

Laughed  at  each  lucky  hit  or  unsuccessful  manoeuvre, 

Laughed  when  a  man  was  crowned,  or  a  breach  was  made  in 
the  king- row. 

Meanwhile  apart,  in  the  twilight  gloom  of  a  window's  embra- 
sure, 

Sat  the  lovers,  and  whispered  together,  beholding  the  moon 
rise 

Over  the  pallid  sea,  and  the  silvery  mist  of  the  meadows. 

Silently,  one  by  one,  in  the  infinite  meadows  of  heaven, 

Blossomed  the  lovely  stars,  the  forget-me-nots  of  the  angels. 

Thus  passed  the  evening  away.  Anon  the  bell  from  the 
belfry 

Rang  out  the  hour  of  nine,  the  village  curfew,  and  straightway 

Rose  the  guests  and  departed ;  and  silence  reigned  in  the 
household. 

Many  a  farewell  word  and  sweet  good-night  on  the  door-step 

Linger'd  long  in  Evangeline's  heart,  and  fill'd  it  with  gladness. 

Carefully  then  were  covered  the  embers  that  glowed  on  the 
hearthstone, 

And  on  the  oaken  stairs  resounded  the  tread  of  the  farmer. 

Soon,  with  a  soundless  step,  the  foot  of  Evangeline  followed. 

Up  the  staircase  moved  a  luminous  space  in  the  darkness, 

Lighted  less  by  the  lamp  than  the  shining  face  of  the  maiden. 

Silent  she  passed  through  the  hall,  and  entered  the  door  of 
her  chamber, 

Simple  that  chamber  wTas,  with  its  curtains  of  white,  and  its 
clothes-press 

Ample  and  high,  on  whose  spacious  shelves  were  carefully 
folded 

Linen  and  woollen  stuffs,  by  the  hand  of  Evangeline  woven. 


'A 


A  , 


?vVN    *ffc 


i 


190 


L0N0FE1J  CMS. 


This  was  the  precious  dower  she  would  bring  to  her  hull 

in  marri; 
Better  than  flocks  and  herds,  being  proofs  of  her  skill  . 

housewife. 
Soon  she  extinguished  her  lamp,  for  th  .  radiant 

moonlight 
Streamed  through  the  windows,  and  lighted  the  room,  till  the 

heart  of  the  maiden 
Swelled  and  obeyed  its  power,  tremulou  :  the 

ocean. 
Ah!  she  was  fair,  exceeding  fair  to  behold,  assh  with 

Naked  snow-white  feet  on  the  gleaming  lluor  of  her  chain! 
Little  she  dreamed  that  below,  among  the  trees  of  the  orchard, 
Waited  her  lover,  and  watched  for  the  gleam  of  her  lamp  and 

her  shadow. 
Yet  were  her  thoughts  of  him  ;  and  at  times  a  feeling  of  sad- 
ness 
Passed  o'er  her  soul,  as  the  sailing  shade  of  clouds  in  the 

moonlight 
Flitted  across  the  floor,  and  darkened  the  room  for  a  moment. 
And  as  she  gazed  from  the  window  she  saw  serenely  the  moon 

pass 
Forth  from  the  folds  of  a  cloud,  and  one  star  follow  her  foot 

steps. 
As  out  of  Abraham's  tent  young  Ishmael  wandered  with 

Hagar, 

IV. 
Pleasantly  rose  next  morn  the  sun  on  the  village  of  Grand- 

Pre, 
Pleasantly  gleamed  in  the  soft,  sweet  air,  the  Basin  of  Minas, 
'Where  the  ships,  with  their  wavering  shadows,  were  riding 

at  anchor. 
Life  had  long  been  astir  in  the  village,  and  clamorous  labour, 
Knocked  with  its  hundred  hands  at  the  golden  gate  of  the 

morning. 
Now  from  the  country  around,  from  the  farms  and  the  neigh- 
bouring hamlets, 
Came  in  their  holiday  dresses  the  blithe  Acadian  peasants. 
Manv  a  glad  good-morrow  and  jocund  laugh  from  the  young 

folk 
Made  the  bright  air   brighter,  as  up  from   the  numerous 

meadows, 
Where  no  path  could  be  seen  but  the  track  of  wheeh  in  the 

greensward, 


■ 


■ 


*'! 


EV  worn 


i:m 


I 


Qroup  after  group  appeared,  and  joined  orpassedon  the  I 

way. 
g  ere  noon,  in  the  v\  ill  Bounds  of  labour 

silenced. 
Thronged  were  the  streets  with  people  ;  and  noisy  groups  ai 

the  house-doors 
In  the  cheerful  sun,  and  rejoiced  and  gossipped  together, 
ry   house   was   an    inn,   where  all   were  we  and 

feasted  ; 
For  with  this  simple  people,  who  lived  like  brothers  together, 
All  things  were  held  in  common,  and  what  one  had  was 

another's. 
Yet  under  Benedict's  roof  hospitality  seemed  more  abundant; 
For  Evangeline  stood  among  the  guests  of  her  father. 
Bright  was  her  face  with  smiles,  and  words  of  welcome  and 

gla<  1 1 
Fell  from  her  beautiful  lips,  and  blessed  the  cup  as  she  gave  it. 
Under  the  open  sky,  in  the  odorous  air  of  the  orchard, 
Bending  with  gulden  fruit,  was  spread  the  feast  of  betrothal. 
There,  in  the  shade  of  the  porch,  were  the  priest  and  the 

uotary  seated  ; 
There  good  .Benedict  sat,  and  sturdy  Lasil  the  blacksmith. 
Not  far  withdrawn  from  these,  by  the  cyder-press  and  the 

beehives, 
Michael  the  tiddler  was  placed,  with  the  gayest  of  hearts  and 

of  waistcoats. 
Shadow  aud  light  from  the  leaves  alternately  played  ou  his 

snow-white 
Hair,  as  it  waved  in  the  wind  ;  and  the  jolly  face  of  the 

fiddler 
Glowed  like  a  living  coal  when  the  ashes  are  blown  from  the 

embers. 
Gaily  the  old  man  sang  to  the  vibrant  sound  of  his  fiddle, 
Tous  les  Bourgeois  de  Chart  res,  and  Le  Carillon  de  Dan- 
ker que, 
And  anon,  with  his  wooden  shoes,  beat  time  to  the  music. 
Merrily,  merrily,  whirled  the  wheels  of  the  dizzying  dances 
Under  the  orchard-treee  and  down  the  path  to  the  meadows  , 
Old  folk  and  young  together,  and  children  mingled  among 

them. 
Fairest  of  all  the  maids  was  Evangeline,  Benedict's  daughter ! 
Noblest  of  all  the  youths  was  Gabriel,  son  of  the  blacksmith  ! 
ed  the  morning  away.    And  lo !  with  a  summons 

sonorous 


• 


13S 


I'KI.I.OU 


Sounded  the  bell  from  its  tower,  and  over  the  meal 

drum  heat. 
Thronged  ere  long  was  the  church  with  men.    Without  in 

the  churchyard, 

Waited  the  women.    They  stood  by  the  graves,  and  hung  on 
the  head-stones 

Garlands  of  autumn  leaves  and  evergreens  fresh  from  the 
forest 

Then  came  the  guard  from  the  ships,  and  marching  proudly 

among  them, 
Entered  the  sacred  portal.   With  loud  and  dissonant  clangour 
Echoed  the  sound  of  their  brazen  drums  from  ceiling  and 

cnentj— 
Echoed  a  moment  only,  and  slowly  the  ponderous  portal 
Closed ;  and  in  silence  the  crowd  awaited  the  will  of  the 

soldiers. 
Then  uprose  their  commander,  and  spake  from  the  steps  of 

the  altar, 
Molding  aloft  in  his  hands,  with  its  seals,  the  royal  com- 
mission : — 
"  You  are  convened  this  day,"  he  said  "by  his  Majesty's 

orders. 
Clement  and  kind  has  he  been  ;  but  how  you  have  answered 

his  kindness, 
Let  your  own  hearts  reply  i    To  my  natural  make  aud  my 

temper 
Painful  the  task  is  I  do,  which  to  you  I  know  must  be 

grievous. 
Vet  must  I  bow  and  obey,  and  deliver  the  will  of  our  monarch  ; 
Namely,  that  all  your  lands,  and  dwellings,  and  catti. 

kinds, 
Forfeited  he  to  the  Crown  ;  and  that  you  yourselves  from 

this  province 
Be  transported  to  other  lands.    God  grant  you  may  dwell  there 
Ever  as  faithful  subjects,  a  happy  and  peaceable  people  ! 
Prisoners  now  I  declare  you  ;   fur  such  is  his  Majesty's 

pleasure  !" 
As,  when  the  air  is  serene  in  the  sultry  solstice  of  summer, 
Suddenly  gathers  a  storm,  and  the  deadly  sling  of  the  hail- 
stones 
Beats  down  the  farmer's  com  in  the  field  and  shatters  his 

windows, 
Hiding  the  sun,  and  strewing  the  ground  with  thatch  from 

the  house-roofs. 


4' 


■ 


'*%.- 

™ 


PART  I.  ! 


EVAN«JKMXE. 


Bellowing  By  the  herds,  and  seek  to  break  their  encl 

n  the  hearta  of  the  people  descended  the  words  of  the 

sped 
it  a  moment  they  stood  in  B]  wonder,  and  then 

Louder  and  ever  louder  a  wail  of  sorrow  and  anger, 

And  byone  impulse  moved,  t  bey  madly  rushed  to  the  doorway. 

Vain  was  the  bopeof  escape  ;  and  cries  and  fierce  imprecations 

Bang  through  the  house  of  prayer  ;  and  high  o'er  the  heads 
of  the  others 

Rose,  with  his  arms  uplifted,  the  figure  of  Basil  the  black- 
smith, 

As,  on  a  stormy  sea,  a  spar  is  tossed  by  the  billows. 

Flushed  was  his  face  and  distorted  with  passion  ;  and  wildly 
shouted : — 

11  Down  with  the  tyrants  of  England  !  we  never  have  sworn 
them  allegiance  ! 

Death  to  these  foreign  soldiers,  who  seize  on  our  homes  and 
our  harvests  !" 

More  he  fain  would  have  said,  but  the  merciless  hand  of  a 
soldier 

Smote  him  upon  the  mouth,  and  dragged  him  down  to  the 
pavement. 

In  the  midst  of  the  strife  and  tumult  of  angry  contention, 

Lo  !  the  door  of  the  chancel  opened,  and  Father  Felician 

Entered  with  serious  mien,  and  ascending  the  steps  of  the  altar. 

Raising  his  reverend  hand,  with  a  gesture  he  awed  into  silence 

All  that  clamorous  throng  ;  and  thus  he  spake  to  his  people  : 

Deep  were  his  tones  and  solemn  ;  in  accents  measured  and 
mournful 

Spake  he,  as,  after  the  tocsin's  alarum,  distinctly  the  clock 
strikes : — 

"  "What  is  this  that  ye  do,  my  children  1  what  madness  has 
seized  you  ? 

Forty  years  of  my  life  have  I  laboured  among  you,  and 
taught  you, 

Not  in  word  alone,  but  in  deed,  to  love  one  another  ! 

Is  this  the  fruit  of  my  toils,  of  my  vigils  and  prayers  aud 
privations  ? 

Have  you  so  soon  forgotten  all  lessons  of  love  and  forgiveness  ? 

This  is  the  house  of  the  Prince  of  peace,  and  would  you  pro- 
fane it 

Thus  with  violent  deeds  and  hearts  overflowing  with  hatred  / 

Lo,  where  the  crucified  Christ  from  ]  I  is  cross  is  gazing  upon  you ! 


134 


•' 


ion  ! 

Hark,  howtl  it  the  prayer,  *  0  Father,  for> 

them !' 

Let  us  repeat  that  prayer  in  the  hour  when  the  W  lis, 

Let  us  repeat  it  now,  and  .say,  '  0  Father,  f 

Few  were  his  words  of  rebuke,  but  deep  in  .'  nil 

;  le 

Sank  they,  and  .sobs  of  contrition  succeeded  tha  oate 

outbreak  ; 

And  thev  repeated  his  prayer,  t  "  0  Father,  forgive 

them  !" 

Then  came  the  evening  service.     The  tapers  gleamed  from 
the  altar. 

Fervent  and  deep  an  as  the  voice  of  the  priest,  and  the  people 
pondedj 

Not  with  their  lips  alone,  but  their  hearts  ;  and  the  Ave  Maria 

Sang  they,  and  fell  on  their  knees,  and  their  souls,  with  de- 
votion translated, 

Rose  on  the  ardour  of  prayer,  like  Elijah  ascending  to  heaven. 

Meanwhile  had  spread  in  the  village  the  tidings  of  ill,  and 
on  all  sides 

Wandered,  wailing,  from  house  to  house,  the  women  and  chil- 
dren. 

Long  at  her  father's  door  Evangeline  stood,  with  her  right 
hand 

Shielding  her  eyes  from  the  level  rays  of  the  sun,  that,  de- 
scending, 

Lighted  the  village  street  with  mysterious  splendour,  and 
roofed  each 
ant's  cottage  with  golden  thatch,  and  emblazoned  its 
windows. 

Long  within  had  been  spread  the  snow-white  cloth  on  the 
table  ; 

There  stood  the  wheaten  Loaf,  and  the  honey  fragrant  with 
wild  flowers  ; 

The.  the  tankard  of  ale,  and  the  cheese  fresh  brought 

from  the  dairy  ; 

And  at  the  head  of  the  board  the  great  arm-chair  of  the  farmer- 

Thus  did  Evangeline  wait  at  her  father's  door,  as  the  sunset 

Threw  the  long  shadows  of  trees  o'er  the  broad  ambrosial 
meadi 

Ah  !  on  her  spirit  within,  a  deeper  shadow  had  fallen. 

And  from  the  fields  of  her  soul  a  fragrance  celestial  ascendod . 


I  p-wjf;1  "*»y*   mmm 


*-SS 


PART,  f.] 


EVANGELINE. 


136 


:  ity,meekness,  love  and  hope,  and  forgiveness,  and  patience* 
ij  all-forgetful  of  self,  she  wandered  into  the  vi!! 
Cheeriug  with  looks  and  words  the  disconsolate  hearts  of  the 

K'll, 

i'er  the  darkening  fields  with  lingering  steps  they  departed, 
1  by  their  household  cares,  and  the  weary  feet  of  their 
children. 

Down  sank  the  great  red  sun,  and  in  golden)  glimmering 

vapours 
Veiled  the  light  of  his  face,  like  the  prophet  descending  from 

Sinai. 
Sweetly  ever  the  village  the  bell  of  the  Angelus  sounded. 
Meanwhile,   amid  the  gloom  by  the  church,   Evangeline 

lingered. 
All  was  silent  within  ;  and  in  vain  at  the  door  and  the  windows 
Stood  she,  and  listened  and  looked,  until  overcome  by  emotion, 
"  Gabriel !"  cried  she  aloud,  with  tremulous  voice  ;  but  no 

answer 
Came  from  the  graves  of  the  dead,  nor  the  gloomier  grave  oi 

the  living. 
Slowly  at  length  she  returned  to  the  tenantless  house  of  her 

father. 
Smouldered  the  fire  on  the  hearth,  on  the  board  stood  the 

supper  untasted  ; 
Empty  and  drear  was  each  room,  and  haunted  with  phantoms 

of  terror  ; 
Sadly  echoed  her  step  on  the  stair  and  the  floor  of  her  chamber. 
In  the  dead  of  the  night  she  heard  the  whispering  rain  fall 
Loud  on  the  withered  leaves  of  the  sycamore-tree  by  the 

window. 
Keenly  the  lightning  flashed;   and  the  voice  of  the  echoing 

thunder 
Told  her  that  God  was  in  heaven,  and  governed  the  world  He 

created  ! 
Then  she  remembered  the  tale  she  had  heard  of  the  justice 

of  Heaven  ; 
Soothed  was  her  troubled  soul,  and  she  peacefully  slumbered 

till  morning. 


Four  times  the  sun  had  risen  and  set ;  and  now,  on  the  fifth 

day, 
Cheerily  called  the  cock  to  the  sleeping  maids  of  the  farm- 

hoi 


VHfe, 


■Pfl^ 


from  the  nciL 

women, 
Driving  in  ponderous  wains  their  household  goods  to  the  sca- 
re. 
Pausing  and  Looking  back  to  gaze  once  more  on  their  dwelling, 
Ere  they  at  from  sight  by  the  winding  road  and  the 

woodland. 
Close  at  their  sides  their  children  ran,  and  urged  on  the  oxen, 
While  in  their  little  hands  they  clasped  some  fragment 

playthings. 
Thus  to  the  Oaspereau's  mouth  they  hurried  ;  and  there,  on 

the  sea-heach, 
Piled  in  confusion  lay  the  household  goods  of  the  peasants. 
All  day  long  between  the  shore  and  the  ships  did  the  boats 

ply; 

All  day  long  the  wains  came  labouring  down  from  the  village. 
Late  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  sun  was  near  to  his  setting. 
Echoing  far  o'er  the  fields,  came  the  roll  of  drums  from  the 

churchyard. 
Thither  the  women  and  children  thronged.    On  a  sudden  the 

church-doors 
Opened,  and  forth  came  the  guard,  and  marching  in  gloomy 

procession 
Followed  the  long-imprisoned  but  patient  Acadian  farmers. 
Even  as  pilgrims,  who  journey  afar  from  their  homes  and 

their  country, 
Sing  as  they  go,  and  in  singing  forget  they  are  weary  and 

way-worn, 
So  with  Bongs  on  their  lips  the  Acadian  peasants  descended 
Down  from  the  church  to  the  shore,  amid  their  wives  and 

their  daughters. 
Foremost  the  young  men  came,  and  raising  together  their 

voi 
Sang   they  with  tremulous  lips  a  chant  of  the   Catholic 

Missions : — 
red  heart  of  the  Saviour  !  0  inexhaustible  fountain  ! 
Fill  our  hearts  this  day  with  strength  and  submission  and 

patience !" 
Then  the  old  men,  as  they  marched,  and  the  women  that 

stood  by  the  wayside, 
Joined  in  the  sacred  psalm,  and  the  birds  in  the  sunshine 

above  them 
Mingled  their  notes  therewith,  like  voices  of  spirits  departed. 


■  * 


FAHT  I. 


EVANOFT.TNE. 


K57 


Il;ilfw;i\  down  to  the  shore  Evangeline  waited  in  sil< 
N'  i1  ■  i  ircome  with  grief,  but  strong  in  the  hour  of  afflicti 
Calmly  and  Badly  waited,  until  the  procesi  ion  approached  her, 
And  sin'  beheld  the  face  of  Gabriel  pale  with  emotion. 
Tears  then  filled  her  eyes,  and,  eagerly  running  to  meet  Mm, 
usped  she  his  hands,  and  laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder, 

and  whispered : — 
tabriel,  be  of  good  cheer !  for  if  we  love  one  another, 
Nothing,  in  truth,  can  harm  us,  whatever  mischances  may 

happen  I" 
Smiling  she  spake  these  words  ;  then  suddenly  paused,  for 

her  father 
Saw  she  slowly  advancing.   Alas  !  how  changed  was  his  aspect ! 
Gone  was  the  glow  from  his  check,  and  the  fire  from  his  eye, 

and  his  footstep 
Heavier  seemed  with  the  weight  of  the  weary  heart  in  his 

bosom. 
But  with  a  smile  and  a  sigh  she  clasped  his  neck  and 

embraced  him, 
Speaking  words    of  endearment   where  words  of  comfcrt 

availed  not. 
Thus  to  the  Gaspereau's  mouth  moved  on  that  mournful 

procession. 
There  disorder  prevailed,   and   the   tumult   and   stir  of 

embarking. 
Busily  plied  the  freighted  boats  ;  and  in  the  confusion 
Wives  were  torn  from  their  husbands,  and  mothers,  too  late, 

saw  their  children 
Left  on  the  land,  extending  their  arms,  with  wildest  entreaties. 
So  unto  separate  ships  were  Basil  and  Gabriel  carried, 
While  in  despair  on  the  shore  Evangeline  stood  with  her 

father. 
Half  the  task  was  not  done  when  the  sun  went  down,  and 

the  twilight 
Deepened  and  darkened  around  ;  and  in  haste  the  refluent 

ocean 
Fled  away  from  the  shore,  and  left  the  line  of  the  sandbeach 
Covered  with  waifs  of  the  tide,  with  kelp  and  the  slippery 

seaweed. 
Farther  back,  in  the  midst  of  the  household  goods  and  the 

waggons, 
Like  camp,  or  a  leaguer  after  a  battle, 

All  escape  cut-  off  by  the  sea,  and  the  sentinels  near  them, 
Lay  encamped  for  the  night  the  houseless  Acadian  farmers. 


4» 


IS* 


r, 


Back  t<  lit 

ich  the  rattlii 

Inland  and  far  op  the  sh 
Then,  as  the  night  descended,  the  herdi 
pasture 

Sweet  was  the  moist  still  air  with  the  odour  of  milk  1. 

their  udders  ; 
Lowing  they  waited,  and  long,  at  the  well-known  bars  of  the 

farmyard,— 
Waited  and  looked  in  vain  for  the  voice  and  the  hand  of  the 

milkmaid. 
Silence  reigned  in  the  streets  ;  from  the  church  no  Angelus 

sounded, 
Uose  no  smoke  from  the  roofs,  and  gleamed  no  lights  : 

the  windows. 
But  on  the  shores,  meamvhile,  the  evening  fires  had  been 

kindled, 
Built  of  the  drift-wood  thrown  on  the  sands  from  wrecks  in  the 

tempest. 
Round  them  shapes  of  gloom  and  sorrowful  faces  were  gather 
Voices  of  women  were  heard,  and  of  men,  and  the  crying 

children. 
Onward  from  tire  to  fire,  as  from  hearth  to  hearth  in  his  parish, 
Wandered  the  faithful  priest,  consoling  and  blessing  and 

cheering, 
bike  unto  shipwrecked  Paul  on  Melita's desolate  sea  shore. 
Thus  he  approached  the  place  where  Evangeline  sat  with  hei 

father, 
And  in  the  nickering  light  beheld  the  face  of  the  old  man, 
gard  and  hollow  and  wan,  and  without  either  thought  or 

emotion, 
E'en  as  the  face  of  a  clock  from  which  the  hands  have  been 

taken. 
Vainly  Evangeline  strove  with  words  and  caresses  to  cheer  him. 
Vainly  offered  him  food  ;  yet  he  moved  not,  he  looked  not, 

he  spake  not, 
But,  with  a  vacant  stare  ever  gazed  at  the  flickering  fire-light. 

nedictie  /  "  murmured  the  priest,  in  ton 
.More  he  fain  would  have  said,  but  his  heart  was  lull  and  his 

.  nts 
Faltered  and  paused  on  his  lips,  as  the  feet  of  a  child  on  a 

threshold, 
Hushed  by  the  scene  he  beholds,  and  the  awful  presence  of 

sorrow. 


■Li- 


>t    the    old    - 


•  BJOQ 


!  I  \  1 


.  V 


Silently,  therefore,  belaid  Lis  hand  on  the  In  maiden, 

liaising  his  eyes,  full  of  tears,  to  the  silent  Btars  that  above 

them 
Moved  on  their  way,  unperturbed  by  the  wrongs  and  sorrows 

of  mortals. 
Then  sat  he  down  at  her  side,  and  they  wept  together  in  silence. 
Suddenly  rose  from  the  south  a  light,  as  in  autumn  the 

blood-red 
.Moon  climbs  the  crystal  walls  of  heaven,  and  o'er  the  horizon, 
Titan-lil  lies  its  hundred  hands  upon  mountain  and 

meadow, 
Seizing  the  rocks  and  the  rivers,  and  piling  huge  shadows 

together. 
Broader  and  ever  broader  it  gleamed  on  the  roofs  of  the  village 
imed  on  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the  ships  that  lay  in 

the  roadstead. 
Columns  of  shining  smoke  uprose,  and  flashes  of  flame  were 
Thrust  through  their  folds  and  withdrawn,  like  the  quivering 

hands  of  a  martyr. 
Then  as  the  wind  seized  the  gleeds  and  the  burning  thatch, 

and,  uplifting, 
Whirled  them  aloft  through  the  air  at  once  from  a  hundred 

housetops 
Started  the  sheeted  smoke,  with  flashes  of  flame  intermingled. 
These  things  beheld  in  dismay  the  crowd  on  the  shore  and  on 

shipboard. 
Speechless  at  first  they  stood,  then  cried  aioud  in  their  anguish, 
"  We  shall  behold  no  more  our  homes  in  the  village  of 

Grand-Pie: 
Loud  on  a  sudden  the  cocks  began  to  crow  in  the  farmyards, 
Thinking  the  day  had  dawned  ;  and  anon  the  lowing  of  cattle 
Came  on  the  evening  breeze,  by  the  barking  of  dogs  interrupted. 
Then  rose  a  sound  of  dread,  such  as  startles  the  sleeping  en- 
campments 
Far  in  the  western  prairies  or  forests  that  skirt  the  Nebraska, 
When  the  wild  horses,  affrighted,  swept  by  with  the  speed  of 

the  whirlwind. 
Or  the  loud-bellowing  herds  of  buffaloes  rush  to  the  ri 
Such  was  the  sound  that  arose  in  the  night,  as  the  herds  and 

the  horses 
Broke  through  their  folds  and  fences,  and  madly  rushed  o'er 

the  meadows 
Overwhelmed  with  the  sight,  yet  speechless,  the  priest  and 

the  maiden 


■w. .         .  .- 


S£M 


UD 


QFELLwW 


■ 


.    tliut  n  1 1 nl  wid. 

before  tliL'iu  ; 
And  as  they  turned  at  length  to  speak  to  their  .silent  com- 
panion, 
Lo  !  from  lii.s  .seat  he  had  fallen,  and  stretched  abroad  on  the 

re 
Motionless  lay  his  form,  from  which  the  sold  ha  I  departed. 
Slowly  the  priest  uplifted  the  lifeless  head,  and  the  maiden 
Knelt  at  her  father's  side,  and  wailed  aloud  in  her  terror. 
Then  in  a  swoon  she  sank,  and  lay  with  her  head  K  in. 

Through  the  long  night  she  lay  in  deep  oblivious  slum' 
And  when  she  woke  from  the  trance,  she  beheld  a  multitude 

near  her. 
Faces  of  friends  she  beheld,  that  were  mournfully  gazing 

upon  1; 
Pallid,  with  tearful  eyes,  and  looks  of  saddest  compassion. 
Still  the  blaze  of  the  burning  village  illumined  the  landscape. 
Reddened  the  sky  overhead,  and  gleamed  on  the  faces  around 

her. 
And  like  the  day  of  doom  it  seemed  to  lier  wavering  sei 
And  a  familiar  voice  she  heard,  as  it  said  to  the  people  : — 
"  Let  us  bury  him  here  by  the  sea.    When  a  happier  season 
Brings  us  again  to  our  homes  from  the  unknown  land  of  our 

exile, 
Then  shall  his  sacred  dust  be  piously  laid  in  the  churchyard.*' 
Such  were  the  words  of  the  priest.     And  there  in  haste,  by 

the  seaside, 
Having  the  glare  of  the  burning  village  for  funeral  torches, 
But  without  bell  or  book,  they  buried  the  farmer  of  Grand-Pre, 
And  as  the  voice  of  the  priest  repeated  the  sen  ice  of  sorrow, 
Lo  !  with  a  mournful  sound,  like  the  voice  of  a  vast  congre- 
gation, 
Solemnly  answered  the  sea,  and  mingled  its  roar  with  the 

dirges. 
'Twas  the  returning  tide,  that  afar,  from  the  waste  of  the  ocean, 
With  the  first  dawn  of  the  day,  came  heaving  and  hurrying 

landward. 
Then  recommenced  once  more  the  stir  and  noise  of  embarking  ; 
And  with  the  ebb  of  that  tide  the  ships  sailed  out  of  the 

harbour, 
Leaving  behind  them  the  dead  on  the  shore,  and  the  village 
in  ruins. 


PART  II. 


BVANGBLINB. 


141 


PART  THE  SECOND. 

I. 

Many  a  weary  year  had  passed  since  the  burning  of  Grand 

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  tlakes  of  snow,  when  the  wind  from 
the  north-east 

Strikes  aslant  through  the  fogs  that  darken  the  Banks  of 
Newfoundland. 

Friendless,  homeless,  hopeless,  they  wandered  from  city  to 
city, 

From  the  cold  lakes  of  the  North  to  sultry  Southern  savan- 
nas,— 

From  the  black  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  mam- 
moth. 

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  whe  waited  and  wan- 
dered, 

Lowjy  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  aban- 
doned, 

As  the  emigrant's  way  o'er  the  Western  desert  is  marked  by 

Camp-fires  long  consumed,  and  bones  that  bleach  in  the  sun- 
shine. 

Something  there  was  in  her  life  incomplete,  imperfect,  un- 
finished ;  K 


LONOPELLOW  S   P<   EMS. 


i  morning  of  June,  with  all  its  music  and  sunshine, 

Suddenly  paused  in  the  sky,  and  fadin  tended 

Into  the  East  again,  from  whence  it  late  had  ari 
Sometimes  she  lingered  in  towns,  till,  urged  by  the  fever 

within  her, 
ed  by  a  restless  Longing,  the  hunger  and  thirst  of  the  spirit, 
She  would  commence  again  her  end!  sh  and  endeavour ; 

Sometimes  in  churchyards  strayed,  and  gazed  on  the  cr< 

and  tombstones, 
Sat  by  some  nameless  grave,  and  thought  that  perhaps  in  its 

Bom 
lie  was  already  at  rest,  and  she  longed  to  slumber  beside  him. 
Sometimes  a  rumour,  a  hearsay,  an  inarticulate  whisper, 
Came  with  its  airy  hand  to  point  and  beckon  her  forward. 
Sometimes  she  spake  with  those  who  had  seen  her  beloved 

and  known  him  ; 
But  it  was  long  ago,  in  some  far-off  place  or  forgotten. 
"Gabriel  Lajeunesse /"  say  they ;  "  oh,  yes  !  we  have  seen 

him. 
lie  was  with  Basil  the  blacksmith,  and  both  have  gone  to 

the  prairies  ; 
Coureurs  des  Bois  are  they,  and  famous  hunters  and  trap- 
pers." 
"  Gabriel  Lajeunesse  f"  said  others  ;  "  oh,  yes  !  we  have  seeu 

him. 
lie  is  a  voywjeur  in  the  lowlands  of  Louisiana." 
Then  would  they  say  : — "  Dear  child,  why  dream  and  wait  for 

him  longer  I 
Are  there  not  other  youths  as  fair  as  Gabriel  i  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' 
Then  would  Evangeline  answer,  serenely  but  sadly:—"] 

cannot, 
Whither  my  heart  has  gone,  tliere  follows  my  hand,  and  not 

elsewhere. 
For  when  the  heart  goes  before,  like  a  lamp,  and  illumine* 

the  pathway, 
Many  things  are  made  clear,  that  else  lie  hidden  in  darkness." 
And  thereupon  the  priest,  her  friend  and  father-confe 
Said,  with  a  smile  : — "  0  daughter  !  thy  l  rod  thus  speaketh 

within  thee  ! 
Talk  not  cf  wasted  affection,— affection  never  was  wasted  : 

^■1 


PAST  II.  I 


i;\  a\«:i:i,i.m:. 


143 


-••> 


[fit  enrich  aotthe  heart  of  another,  its  waters,  returning 
v  to  their  springs,  like  the  rain,  shall  fill  them  full  of 
refreshmenl  ; 

That  which  the  fountain  sends  forth  returns  again  to  the 
fountain. 

Patience;  accomplish  thy  labour;  accomplish  thy  work  of 
affection. 

Sorrow  and  silence  are  strong,  and  patient  endurance  is  god- 
like. 

Therefore  accomplish  thy  labour  of  love,  till  thy  heart  is 
made  godlike, 

Purified,  strengthened,  perfected,  and  rendered  more  worthy 
of  heaven  !" 

Cheered  by  the  good  man's  words,  Evangeline  laboured  and 
waited. 

Still  in  her  heart  she  heard  the  funeral  dirge  of  the  ocean, 

But  with  its  sound  there  was  mingled  a  voice  that  whispered^ 
"  Despair  not !" 

Thus  did  that  poor  soul  wander  in  want  and  cheerless  dis- 
comfort, 

Bleeding,  barefooted,  over  the  shards  and  thorns  of  existence. 

Let  me  essay,  0  Muse  !  to  follow  the  wanderer's  footsteps  ; — 

Not  through  each  devious  path,  each  changful  year  of  exist- 
ence : 

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  a  spot  where  it  reaches  an  outlet. 

II. 

It  was  the  month  of  May.     Far  down  the  beautiful  river, 
Past  the  Ohio  shore,  and  past  the  mouth  of  the  Wabash, 
Into  the  golden  stream  of  the  broad  and  swift  Mississippi, 
Floated  a  cumbrous  boat,  that  was  rowed  by  Acadian  boat- 
men. 
It  was  a  band  of  exiles  ;  a  raft,  as  it  were,  from  the  ship- 
wrecked 
ion,  scattered  along  the  coast,  now  floating  together, 
Bound  by  the  bonds  of  a  common  belief  and  a  common  mis- 
fortune ; 


144 


LONG  .EMS. 


n,  and  women,  and  children,  who,  guided  by  hope  or  by 
rsay, 

Sought  for  their  kith  and  their  kin  among  the  few  acred 

farm 
On  the  Acadian  coast,  and  the  prairies  of  fair  0] 
With  them  Evangeline  went,  and  her   guide,  the  Father 

Feli. 
Onward  o'er  sunken  sands,  through  a  wilderness  sombre  with 

I  sts, 
Day  after  day,  they  glided  down  the  turbulent  ri 
JSright  after  night,  by  their  blazing  fires,  encamped  on  its 

borders. 
Now  through  rushing  chutes,  among  green  islands,  where 

plumelike 
Cotton-trees  nodded  their  shadowy  crests,  they  swept  with 

the  current, 
Then  emerged  into  broad  lagoons,  where  silvery  sandbars 
Lay  in  the  stream,  and  along  the  wimpling  waves  of  the 

margin, 
Shining  with  snow-white  plumes,  large  flocks  of  pelicans 

waded. 
Level  the  landscape  grew,  and  along  the  shores  of  the  river, 
Shaded  by  china-trees,  in  the  midst  of  luxuriant 
Stood  the  houses  of  planters,  with  negro  cabins  and  dovecots. 
They  were  approaching  the  region  where  reigns  perpetual 

summer. 
Where  through  the  Golden  Coast,  and  groves  of  orange  and 

citron, 
Sweeps  with  majestic  curve  the  river  away  to  the  eastward. 
They,  too,  swerved  from  their  course  ;  and  entering  the  Bayou 

of  Plaque  mine, 
Soon  were  lost  in  a  maze  of  sluggish  and  devious  waters, 
Which,  like  a  network  of  steel,  extended  in  every  direction. 
Over  their  heads  the  towering  and  tenebrous  boughs  of  the 

cypress 
Met  in  a  dusky  arch,  and  trailing  mosses  in  mid  air 
Waved  like  banners  that  hang  on  the  walls  of  ancient  cathe- 
drals. 
Deathlike  the  silence  seemed,  and  unbroken,  save  by  the 

herons 
Home  to  their  roosts  in  the  cedar-trees  returning  at  sunset, 
Or  by  the  owl,  as  he  greeted  the  moon  with  demoniac  laughter, 
i  ovely  the  moonlight  was  as  it  glanced  and  gleamed  on  the 

water, 


' 


' 


'■  II.  I 


BTANOELINB. 


1  I., 


Gleamed  od  the  columns  of  cypress  and  oedar,  sustaining  the 
arches, 

Down  through  whose  broken  vaults  it  fell  as  through  chinks 

in  a  ruin.  \ 

:i;  .(•.  and  Indisi  iner,  and  strange  were  all  things  around 

them  : 
And  o'er  their  spirits  there  came  a  feeling  of  wonder  and 

sadness, — 
Strange  forebodings  of  ill,  unseen,  and  that  cannot  be  com- 
passed. 
As,  at  the  tramp  of  a  horse's  hoof  on  the  turf  of  the  prairies, 
Far  in  advance  are  closed  the  leaves  of  the  shrinking  mimosa, 
So,  at  the  hoof-beats  of  fate,  with  sad  forebodings  of  evil, 
Shrinks  and  closes  the  heart,  ere  the  stroke  of  doom  has 

attained  it. 
But  Evangeline's  heart  was  sustained  by  a  vision,  that  faintly 
Floated  before  her  eyes,  and  beckoned  her  on  through  the 

moonlight, 
[t  was  the  thought  of  her  brain  that  assumed  the  shape  of  a 

phantom. 
Through  those  shadowy  aisles  had  Gabriel  wandered  before 

her, 
And  every  stroke  of  the  oar  now  brought  him  nearer  and  nearer. 
Then  in  his  place,  at  the  prow  of  the  boat,  rose  one  of  the 

oarsmen, 
And,  as  a  signal  sound,  if  others  like  them  pe-radventure 
Sailed  on  those  gloomy  and  midnight  streams,  blew  a  blast 

on  his  bugle. 
Wilti  through  the  dark  colonnades  and  corridors  leafy  the 

blast  rang, 
Breaking  the  seal  of  silence,  and  giving  tongues  to  the  forest. 
Soundless  above  them  the  banners  of  moss  just  stirred  to  the 

music. 
Multitudinous  echoes  awoke  and  died  in  the  distance, 
Over  the  watery  floor,  and  beneath  the  reverberant  branches  ; 
But  not  a  voice  replied  ;  no  answer  came  from  the  darkness  ; 
And  when  the  echoes  had  ceased,  like  a  sense  of  pain  was 

the  silence. 
Then  Evangeline  slept ;  but  the  boatmen  rowed  through  the 

midnight, 
Silent  at  times,  then  singing  familiar  Canadian  boat-songs, 
Such  as  they  sang  of  old  on  their  own  Acadian  rivers. 
And  through  the  night  were  heard  the  mysterious  sounds  of 

the  desert, 


CV- 


*>?£? 


tf,  indistinct,  »r  wind  in  the  for. 

Mixed  with  the  whoop  of  the  crane  ami  the  roar  of  the  grim 

alligator. 
Tin;  bher  noon  thi 

before  them 
Lay,  in  the  golden  sun,  the  lakes  of  the  Atch 
Water-lilies  in  myriads  rocked  on  the  slight  undulations 

le  by  the  passing  oars,  and,  resplendent  in  beauty,  the  lotus 
Lifted  her  golden  crown  above  the  heads  of  the  boatmen. 
Faint  was  the  air  with  the  odorous  breath  of  magnolia  blos- 
soms 
And  with  the  heat  of  noon  ;  and  numberless  sylvan  islan 
Fragrant  and  thickly  embowered  with  blossoming  hedges  of 

roses, 
Near  to  whose  shores  they  glided  along,  invited  to  slumber. 
Soon  by  the  fairest  of  these  their  weary  oars  were  suspended, 
Qnder  the  boughs  of  Wacbita  willows,  that  grew  by  the  margin, 
ly  their  boat  was  moored  ;  and  scattered  about  on  the 

greensward. 
Tired  with  their  midnight  toil,  the  weary  travellers  slumbered. 
Over  them,  vast  and  high,  extended  the  cope  of  a  cedar. 
Swinging  from  its  great  arms,  the  trumpet-flower  and  tho 

grape-vine 
Hung  their  ladder  of  ro]  es  aloft  like  the  ladder  of  Jacob, 
On  whose  pendulous  sta  rs  the  angels  ascending,  descending, 
Were  the  swift  hummin  j-birds,  that  flitted  from  blossom  to 

blossom. 
Such  was  the  vision  Evan  eline  saw  as  she  slumbered  beneath  it 
Filled  was  her  heart  wit  i  love,  and  the  dawn  of  an  opening 

heaven 
Lighted  her  soul  in  sleep  with  the  glory  of  regions  celestial. 

uer  and  ever  nearer,  among  the  numberless  islands, 
Darted  a  light,  swift  boat,  that  sped  away  o'er  the  water, 
Urged  on  its  course  by  the  sinewy  arms  of  hunters  and  trappers. 
Northward  its  prow  was  turned,  to  the  land  of  the  bison  and 

beaver. 
At  the  helm  sat  a  youth,  with  countenance  thoughtful  and 

careworn. 
Dark  and  neglected  locks  overshadowed  his  brow,  and  a  sadness 
Somewhat  beyond  his  years  on  his  face  was  legibly  written. 
Gabriel  was  it,  who,  weary  with  waiting,  unhappy  and  restless, 
Sought  in  the  western  wilds  jblivion  of  self  and  of  sorrow. 
Swiftly  they  glided  along,  close  under  the  lee  of  the  island, 
Hut  by  the  opposite  bank,  and  behind  a  screen  of  palmettoes. 


lit*. 


«**JS* 


f'AKT   II.  ) 


i:v  woki.ini;. 


147 


So  that  they  saw  nut  the  boat,  where  ii  lay  concealed  in  the 

willows, 
And  undisturbed  by  the  dash  of  their  oars,  and  unseen 

the  alee] 
Angel  of  God,  was  there  none  to  awaken  the  slumbering  maiden! 
Swiftly  they  glided  away,  like  the  shade  of  acloudonthe 

prairie. 
After  the  sound  of  their  oars  on  the  tholes  had  died  in  the 

distance, 
As  from  a  magic  trance  the  sleepers  awoke,  and  the  maiden 
Said  with  a  sigh  to  the  friendly  priest : — "  0  Father  Felician  ! 
nothing  says  in  my  heart  that  near  me  Gabriel  wanders, 
[s  it  a  foolish  dream,  an  idle  and  vague  superstition  I 
Or  has  an  angel  passed  and  revealed  the  truth  to  my  spirit  ?" 
Then,  with  a  blush,  she  added  :  "  Alas  for  my  credulous  fancy  ! 
Unto  ears  like  thine  such  words  as  these  have  no  meaning." 
J  nit  made  answer  the  reverend  man — and  he  smiled  as  he 

answered, — 
"  Daughter,  thy  words  are  not  idle  ;  nor  are  they  to  me  with- 
out meaning. 
Feeling  is  deep  and  still ;  and  the  word  that  floats  on  the  surface 
Is  as  the  b  issing  buoy,  that  betrays  where  the  anchor  is  hidden. 
Therefore  trust  to  thy  heart,  and  to  what  the  world  calls 

illusions, 
i]  iel  truly  is  near  thee  ;  for  not  far  away  to  the  southward, 
On  the  banks  of  the  Teche,  are  the  towns  of  St  Maiir  and 

St  Martin. 
There  the  long-wandering  bride  shall  be  given  again  toiler 

bridegroom, 
There  the  long  absent  pastor  regain  his  flock  and  his  sheepfold. 
Beautiful  is  the  land,  with  its  prairies  and  forests  of  fruit-trees ; 
Under  the  feet  a  garden  of  flowers,  and  the  bluest  of  heavens 
Mending  above,  and  resting  its  dome  on  the  walls  of  the  forest. 
They  who  dwell  there  have  named  it  the  Eden  of  Louisiana^, 
And  with  these  words  of  cheer  they  arose  and  continued 

their  j  ourney. 
Softly  the  evening  came.    The  sun  from  the  western  horizon 
Like  a  magician  extended  his  golden  wand  o'er  the  landscape  ; 
Twinkling  vapours  arose  ;  and  sky  and  water  and  forest 
Seemed  all  on  fire  at  the  touch,  and  melted,  am  I  mingled  together 
Hanging  between  two  skies,  a  cloud  with  edges  of  silver, 
Floa  red  the  1  >oat,with  its  dripping  oars,  on  the  motionless  water 
Filled  was  Evangeline's  heart  with  inexpressible  sweetness 
Touched  by  the  magic  spell,  the  sacred  fountains  of  feeling 


m 


148 


LONGFELLOW 


I 


:      < 


Glowed  with  the  light  of  love,  as  the  skies  and  w 

Then  from  a  neighbouring  thicket  the  mocking-bird,  wild 

of  singei 
Swinging  aloft  on  a  willow-spray  that  hung  o'er  the  water, 

k  from  his  little  throat  such  Hoods  of  delirious  mi 
That  the  whole  air  and  the  woods  and  the  waves  seemed 

silent  to  listen. 
Plaintive  at  first  were  the  tones  and  sad  !   then  soaring  to 

madness 
Seemed  they  to  follow  or  gmde  the  revel  of  frenzied  Bacchantes. 
le  notes  were  then  heard,  in  sorrowful,  low  lamentation  ; 
Till,  having  gathered  them  all,  he  Hung  them  ahroad  in 

derision  ; 
As  when,  after  a  storm,  a  gust  of  wind  through  the  tree-tops 
ves  down  the  rattling  rain  in  a  crystal  shower  on  the 

branches. 
With  such  a  prelude  as  this,  and  hearts  that  throbbed  with 

emotion, 
Slowly  they  entered  the  Teche,  where  it  flows  through  the 

green  Opelousas, 
And  through  the  amber  air,  above  the  crest  of  the  woodland, 
Saw  the  column  of  smoke  that  arose  from  a  neighbouring 

dwelling : — 
Sounds  of  a  horn  they  heard,  and  the  distant  lowing  of  cattle. 

III. 

Near  to  the  bank  of  the  river,  o'ershadowed  by  oaks,  from 

whose  branches 
Garlands  of  Spanish  moss  and  of  mystic  mistletoe  flaunted, 
Such  as  the  Druids  cut  down  with  golden  hatchets  at  Yule-tide, 
Stood,  secluded  and  still,  the  house  of  the  herdsman.     A 

garden 
Girded  it  round  about  with  a  belt  of  luxuriant  blossoms, 
Filling  the  air  with  fragrance.      The  house  itself  was  of 

timbers 
Hewn  from  the  cypress-tree,  and  carefully  fitted  together. 
Large  and  low  was  the  roof ;  and  on  slender  columns  sup- 
ported, 
Rose-wreathed,  vine  encircled,  a  broad  and  spacious  veranda, 
Haunt  of  the  humming-bird  and  the  bee,  extended  around  it. 
At  each  end  of  the  house,  amid  the  flowers  of  the  garden, 
Stationed  the  dovecots  were,  as  love's  perpetual  symbol, 
Scenes  of  endless  wooing,  and  endless  contentions  of  rivals. 
Silence  reigned  o'er  the  place.  The  line  of  shadow  and  sunshiue 


H 

■  ■ 


r.\KT  u. 


I  I!' 


ll.;ii  near  the  tops  of  the  trees  ;  hut  the  house  itself  was  in 

BhadoWj 
And  from  its  chimney-top,  ascending  and  slowly  eaqpanding 
Into  the  evening  air,  a  thin  blue  column  of  smoke  i 
In  the  rear  of  the  house,  from  the  garden-gate,  ran  a  pathway 
Through  of  oak  to  the  skirts  of  the  limitless 

prairie, 
Into  whose  sea  of  flowers  the  sun  was  slowly  descending, 
Full  in  his  track  of  light,  like  ships  with  shadowy  canvas 
Hanging  loose  from  their  spars  in  a  motionless  calm  in  the 

tropics, 
Stood  a  cluster  of  trees,  with  tangled  cordage  of  grape-vines. 
Just  where  the  woodlands  met  the  flowery  surf  of  the  prairie, 
Mounted  upon  his  horse,  with  Spanish  saddle  and  stirrups, 
Sat  a  herdsman,  arrayed  in  gaiters  aud  doublet  of  deer-skin. 
Broad  and  brown  was  the  face  that  from  under  the  Spanish 

sombrero 
Uazed  on  the  peaceful  scene,  with  a  lordly  look  of  its  master.* 
Round  about  him  were  numberless  herds  of  kine,  that  were 

grazing 
Quietly  in  the  meadows,  and  breathing  the  vapoury  freshness 
That  uprose  from  the  river,  and  spread  itself  over  the  landscape. 
Slowly  lifting  the  horn  that  hung  at  his  side,  and  expanding 
Fully  his  broad,  deep  chest,  he  blew  a  blast  that  resounded 
Wildly  and  sweet  and  far  through  the  still  damp  air  of  the 

evening. 
Suddenly  out  of  the  grass  the  long  white  horns  of  the  cattle 
Rose  like  flakes  of  foam  on  the  adverse  currents  of  ocean. 
Silent  a  moment  they  gazed,  then  bellowing  rushed  o'er  the 

prairie, 
And  the  whole  mass  became  a  cloud,  a  shade  in  the  distance. 
Then,  as  the  herdsman  turned  to  the  house,  through  the 

gate  of  the  garden 
Saw  he  the  forms  of  the  priest  and  the  maiden  advancing  to 

meet  him. 
Suddenly  down  from  his  horse  he  sprang  in  amazement,  and 

forward 
Rushed  with  extended  arms  and  exclamations  of  wonder ; 
When  they  beheld  his  face,  they  recognised  Basil  the  black- 
smith. 
Hearty  his  welcome  was,  as  he  led  his  guests  to  the  garden. 
There  in  an  arbour  of  roses,  with  endless  question  and  answer, 
Gave  they  vent  to  their  hearts,  and  renewed  their  friendly 

embraces. 


^Mr, 


ban 


J. -:  ■  .:  j 
Heai  lea. 


ce  at  the  words  of  Basil  a  shade  passed, 
to  her  :*d  she  said,  with  a  tremoloas 

:;.  :  '  i        ..:.:  :•::  ;e.il/.  .j  :.;-:  :": ::      .  Lis 

rdened  heart  gave  war,  and  she  wept  and 

:  ■>  -  N.i   ':.  — :.:.  i  :  .?  "    .:••:  jtv~     '.'.:.f  as  '  s 
-.:.:.  ;•"  -----  .  ::  :;    :lj  :  -  \:.j  '-<■.'  :rr-.\. 


■;ri—  muov  tbe  -i wb  hsui  to  the 

:  :"-.;rs  ::.  :1  f  :".?-.  :>.    -   r>rr>  ::\." : : 
*  of  good  cheer;  we  wiD  follow  the  1 

ir    r.  ..  -  -.iy.  i:._  :..;  ri:-f«  .".'  .  :'. 

:  t-otonow,  and  through  the  n 

.  -  _:;_  :'..>:.  ;.:...  ;:!:.j  :.::_  v    .:  : 


:  :„= 


r.T-r. 


Borne  afaft  oo  his  comrades'  anus,  came  Michael  the  fiddler 
Long  under  BasTs  roof  had  he  lived  like  a  god  on  Ohnnpus 
Having  no  other  care  than  dispensing  music  to  mortals. 
Far  renowned  was  he  lor  his  sflrer  locks  and  his  fiddle. 

sz  live  Michael  ! "  they  cried,  "  oar  brave  Acadian 

-■ 


hi 


:*e 


ian  advance!  with  Evanreline.  greeting  the  old 

F.'.'.'.'.t-       -"-   •.:.::•:■:•".'.-  :':.■  ~  \-'. -':..'..'.  l-.  '■■'--' '    :-.-:. 
Hailed  with  hilarious  joj  his  old  companions  and  gossips, 
L -.•:.-.     .-'.    .  ".  2\    :   •  .-.  -:..-::..':■...:  _-:_  ::.-::-  i    '..■_---:  « 
Much  they  marvelled  to  see  the  wealth  of  the  ci-devant  black 

All  his  domains  and  his  herds,  and  his  patriarchal  demeanopr; 

of  the  prairies,  whose  numberless  herds  were  his  who 
would  take  them ; 
Each  one  thought  in  his  heart,  that  he  too  would  go  and  do 

. 
Thus  they  ascended  the  steps,  and.  crossing  the  airv  veranda, 

Waited  his  late  return ;  and  they  rested  and  feasted  together. 

■ 

_  iter  than  these,  shone  the  faces  of  mends  in  the  glimmer- 
ing lamplight. 

fusion. 
Taghtinf  his  pipe  that  was  filled  with  sweet  Xatchitochei 

:   -:■..:::. 

.  .ri  : — 
efcome,  once  more,  my  fiiends,  who  so  long  have  been 

xmeonce  more,  to  a  heme  that  is  better  perchance  than 

:ir  :".i  ::.r  . 
H:::  i:  .- "":.-*-■"  '.-'.:  :  l_-  :.*-  :"_-  :"::•!  L>r  :;.•=  :.     ::  : 

■     .      .  :  ■ 

Smoothly  the  ploughshare  runs  through  the  soil,  as  a  keel 

:Lr:*:r.-  :.=     i *;: 
All  the  year  round  the  orange-groves  are  in  blossom  :  and 

j.   -z  rr :  vi 
More  in  a  single  wight  than  a  whole  Canadian  summer. 
II .:  .-.:.-_■  :■:.   .:  -~i  hrr  -;  ru.  ~ 1  :  ir.l  -— :A;:_r_  ::.  :!  ; 


LONGFELLOW  -   PO 


After  your  houses  are  built,  and  your  fields  are  yellow  witb 

han 
No  King  Ceorge  of  England  shall  drive  you  away  from  your 

homesteads, 
Burning  your  dwellings  and  barns,  and  stealing  your  fai 

and  your  cattle." 
Speaking  these  words  he  blew  a  wrathful  cloud  from  his  nos- 
trils, 
And  his  huge  brawny  hand  came  thundering  down  OB  the  table, 
So  that  the  guests  all  started  ;  and  Father  Felician,  astounded, 
Suddenly  paused,  with  a  pinch  of  snuff  half-way  to  his  nostrils. 
But  the  brave  Basil  resumed,  and  his  words  were  milder  and 

gayer  :— 
"  Only  beware  of  the  fever,  my  friends,  beware  of  the  fever  ! 
For  it  is  not,  like  that  of  our  cold  Acadian  climate, 
Cured  by  wearing  a  spider  hung  round  one's  neck  in  a  nutshell !" 
Then  there  were  voices  heard  at  the  door,  and  footsteps 

approaching 
Bounded  upon  the  stairs  and  the  floors  of  the  breezy  veranda. 
It  was  the  neighbouring  Creoles  and  small  Acadian  planters, 
Who  had  been  summoned  all  to  the  house  of  Basil  the 

herdsman. 
Merry  the  meeting  was  of  ancient  comrades  and  neighbours  : 
Friend  clasped  friend  in  his  arms  :  and  they  who  before  were 

as  strangers, 
Meeting  in  exile,  became  straightway  as  friends  to  each  other, 
Drawn  by  the  gentle  bond  of  a  common  country  together. 
But  in  the  neighbouring  hall  a  strain  of  music,  proceeding 
From  the  accordant  strings  of  Michael's  melodious  fiddle, 
Broke  up  all  further  speech.  Away,  like  children  delighted, 
All  things  forgotten  beside,  they  gave  themselves  to  the 

maddening 
Whirl  of  the  dizzy  dance,  as  it  swept  and  swayed  to  the  music, 
Dreamlike,  with  beaming  eyes,  and  the  rush  of  fluttering 

garments. 
Meanwhile,  apart,  at  the  head  of  the  hall,  the  priest  and 

the  herdsman 
Sat,  conversing  together  of  past  and  present  and  future  ; 
\\'hile  Evangeline  stood  like  one  entranced,  for  within  her 
Olden  memories  rose,  and  loud  in  the  midst  of  the  music 
tleard  she  the  sound  of  the  sea,  and  an  irrepressible  sadness 
Came  o'er  her  heart,  and  unseen  she  stole  forth  into  the  garden. 
Beautiful  was  the  night.  Behind  the  black  wall  of  the  forest. 
Tipping  its  summit  with  silver,  arose  the  moon.  On  the  river 


• 


y. 


PAH  C  II.  ] 


i:v  LNQELINE. 


L53 


! 


Fell  here  and  there  through  the  branches  a  tremulous  gl< 

of  the  moonlight, 
Like  the  sweet  thoughts  of  love  on  a  darkened  and  devious 

spirit 
Nearer  and  round  about  her,  the  manifold  flowers  of  the  gardec 
Poured  out  their  souls  in  odours,  that  were  their  prayers 

and  confessions 
Unto  the  night,  as  it  went  its  way,  like  a  silent  Carthusian. 
Fuller  of  fragrance  than  they,  and  as  heavy  with  shadows 

and  night-dews, 
Hung  the  heart  of  the  maiden.      The  calm  and  the  magical 

moonlight 
Seemed  to  inundate  her  soul  with  indefinable  longings, 
As,  through  the  garden-gate,  beneath  the  brown  shade  of  the 

oak-trees, 
Passed  she  along  the  path  to  the  edge  of  the  measureless  prairie. 
Silent  it  lay,  with  a  silvery  haze  upon  it,  and  fire-flies 
Gleaming  and  floating  away  in  mingled  and  infinite  numbers. 
Over  her  head  the  stars,  the  thoughts  of  God  in  the  heavens, 
Shone  on  the  eyes  of  man,  who  had  ceased  to  marvel  and 

worship, 
Save  when  a  blazing  comet  was  seen  on  the  walls  of  that 

temple, 
As  if  a  hand  had  appeared  and  written  upon  them,  "  Uphar- 

sin." 
And  the  soul  of  the  maiden,  between  the  stars  and  the  fire-flies, 
Wandered  alone,  and  she  cried : — "  0  Gabriel !  0  my  beloved ! 
Art  thou  so  near  unto  me,  and  yet  I  cannot  behold  thee  ? 
Art  thou  so  near  unto  me,  and  yet  thy  voice  does  not  reach  me  ? 
Ah,  how  often  thy  feet  have  trod  this  path  to  the  prairie  ! 
Ah,  how  often  thine  eyes  have  looked  on  the  woodlands 

around  me  ! 
Ah,  how  often,  beneath  this  oak,  returning  from  labour, 
Thou  hast  lain  down  to  rest,  and  to  dream  of  me  in  thy 

slumbers ! . 
When  shall  these  eyes  behold,  these  arms  be  folded  about  thee  ?" 
Loud  and  sudden  and  near  the  note  of  a  whippoorwill  sounded 
Like  a  flute  in  the  wroods ;  and  anon,  through  the  neigh- 
bouring thickets, 
Farther  and  farther  away  it  floated  and  dropped  into  silence. 
"  Patience  !"  whispered  the  oaks  from  oracular  caverns  of 

darkness ; 
And  from  the  moonlight  meadow  a  sigh  responded,  "  To- 
morrow !" 


it 


wM 


m  w 


IsVsv, 


p^ae? 


n 


F 


154 


LONGFELLOW  s  1" 


i\   '.'''    ,W 


Bright  rose  the  sun  next  day  ;   and  all  the  dowers  of  the 
garden 

Bathed  his  shining  feet  with  their  tears,  and  anointed 

tie 
With  the  delicious  balm  thattheybore  in  their  vases  of  crystal. 
"Farewell!"   said  the  priest,  as  he  stood  at  the  shadowy 

threshold  ; 
"  See  that  you  bring  us  the  Prodigal  Son  from  his  fasting  and 

famine, 
And,  too,  the  Foolish  Virgin,  who  slept  when  the  bridegroom 

"  Farewell !"  answered  the  maiden,  and  smiling,  with  Basil 

descended 
Down  to  the  river's  brink,  where  the  boatmen  already  were 

waiting. 
Thus  beginning  their  journey  with  morning  and  sunshine 

and  gladness, 
Swiftly  they  followed  the  flight  of  him  who  was  speeding 

before  them, 
Blown  by  the  blast  of  fate  like  a  dead  leaf  over  the  desert. 
Not  that  day,  nor  the  next,  nor  yet  the  day  that  succeeded, 
Found  they  trace  of  his  course,  in  lake  or  forest  or  river  ; 
Nor  after  many  days  had  they  found  him  ;  but  vague  and 

uncertain 
Rumours  alone  were  their  guides  through  a  wild  and  desolate 

country  ; 
Till,  at  the  little  inn  of  the  Spanish  town  of  Adayes, 
Weary  and  worn,  they  alighted,  and  learned  from  the  gar- 
rulous landlord, 
That  on  the  day  before,  with  horses  and  guides  and  companions, 
I  Gabriel  left  the  village,  and  took  the  road  of  the  prairies. 

IV. 
tfar  in  the  West  there  lies  a  desert  land,  where  the  mountains 
Lift,  through  perpetual   snows,   their  lofty  and  luminous 

summits. 
Pown  from  their  jagged,  deep  ravines,  where  the  gorge,  like 

a  gateway, 
Opens  a  passage  rude  to  the  wheels  of  the  emigrant's  waggon, 
Westward  the  Oregon  flows  and  the  Walleway  and  Owyhee. 
Eastward,  with  devious  course,  among  the  Wind-river  M 

tains, 
Through  the    Sweet-water  Valley  precipitate  leaps  the 
Nebraska ; 


dll 


L'AIVV  II.  1 


BVANQBLINB. 


And  to  the  Bouth,  i'roin  b^ODtaine-qui-bout  and  the  Spanish 
Bierras, 
tted  with  sand  and  rocks,  and  swept  by  the  wind  of  the 

de! ! 
Numberless  torrents,  with  ceaseless  sounds,descend  to  the  ocean, 

Like  the  great  chords  of  a  harp,  in  loud  and  solemn  vibrations. 

Spreading  between  these  streams  arc  the  wondrous,  beautiful 
prairies, 

Billowy  bays  of  grass  ever  rolling  in  shadow  and  sunshine, 

Bright  with  luxuriant  clusters  of  roses  and  purple  amorphas. 

Over  them  wander  the  buffalo  herds,  and  the  elk  and  the 
roebuck  ; 

Over  them  wander  the  wolves,  and  herds  of  riderless  horses  ; 

Fires  that  blast  and  blight,  and  winds  that  are  weary  with 
travel ; 

Over  them  wander  the  scattered  tribes  of  Ishmael's  children, 

Staining  the  desert  with  blood  ;  and  above  their  terrible  war- 
trails 

Circles  and  sails  aloft,  on  pinions  majestic,  the  vulture, 

Like  the  implacable  soul  of  a  chieftain  slaughtered  in  battle, 

By  invisible  stairs  ascending  and  scaling  the  heavens. 

Here  and  there  rise  smokes  from  the  camps  of  these  savage 
marauders ; 

Here  and  there  rise  groves  from  the  margins  of  swift  running 
rivers  ; 

And  the  grim,  taciturn  bear,  the  anchorite  monk  of  the  desert, 

Climbs  down  their  dark  ravines  to  dig  for  roots  by  the  brook- 
side  ; 

And  over  all  is  the  sky,  the  clear  and  crystalline  heaven, 

Like  the  protecting  hand  of  God  inverted  above  them. 

Into  this  wonderf  ul  land,  at  the  base  of  the  Ozark  Mountains, 

Gabriel  far  had  entered,  with  hunters  and  trappers  behind  him. 

Day  after  day,  with  their  Indian  guides,  the  maiden  and  Basil 

Followed  his  flyingsteps,  and  thought  each  day  too'ertakehim. 

Sometimes  they  saw,  or  thought  they  saw,  the  smoke  of  his 
camp-fire 

Rise  in  the  morning  air  from  the  distant  plain  ;  but  at  nightfall, 

When  they  reached  the  place,  they  found  only  embers  and  ashes. 

And,  though  their  hearts  were  sad  at  times  and  their  bodies 
were  weary, 
€  still  guided  them  on  as  the  magic  Fata  Morgana 

Showed  them  her  lakes  of  light,  that  retreated  and  vanished 
before  them. 

Once  as  they  sat  by  their  evening  fire,  there  silently  entered 


156 


IFELLOW 


Int.  the  little  camp  an  Indian  woman,  whose  features 
Wore  deep  traces  of  sorrow,  and  patience 
She  n  rning  hoi  pie, 

From  the  far-off  huntin  the  cruel  Camam 

Where  her  Canadian  husband,  a  court  is}  had  I 

murdered. 
Touched  were  their  hearts  at  her  story,  and  and 

friendliest  welcome 
Have  they,  with  words  of  cheer,  and  she  sat  and  feasted 

among  them 
On  the  buffalo-meat  and  the  venison  cooked  on  the  embers. 
But  when  their  meal  was  done,  and  Basil  and  all  his  com- 
panions, 
Worn  with  the  long  day's  march  and  the  chase  of  the  deer 

and  the  bison, 
Stretched  themselves  on  the  ground,  and  slept  where  the 

quivering  fire-light 
Flashed  on  their  swarthy  cheeks,  and  their  forms  wrapped  up 

in  their  blan 
Then  at  the  door  of  Evangline's  tent  she  sat  and  repeated 
Slowly,  with  soft,  low  voice,  and  the  charm  of  her  Indian 

accent, 
All  the  tale  of  her  love,  with  its  pleasures,  and  pains,  and 

reverses. 
Much  Evangeline  wept  at  the  tale,  and  to  know  that  another 
Hapless  heart  like  her  own  had  loved  and  had  been  disap- 
pointed. 
Moved  to  the  depths  of  her  soul  by  pity  and  woman's  compassion 
Yet  in  her  sorrow  pleaded  that  one  who  had  suffered  was  near  her, 
She  in  turn  related  her  love  and  all  its  disasters. 
Mute  with  wonder  the  Shawnee  sat,  and  when  she  had  ended 
Still  was  mute  ;  but  at  length,  as  if  a  mysterious  horror 
Passed  through  her  brain,  she  spake,  and  repeated  the  tale 

of  the  Mowis  ; 
Mowis,  the  bridegroom  of  snow,  who  wonand  wedded  a  maiden, 
But,  when  the  morning  came,  arose  and  passed  from  the 

warn, 
Fading  and  melting  away,  and  dissolving  into  the  sunshine, 
Till  she  beheld  him  no  more,  though  she  followed  far  into  the 

for 
Then,  in  those  sweet,  low  tones,  that  seemed  like  a  weird 

incantation, 
Told  she  the  tale  of  the  fair  Lilinau,  who  was  wooed  by  a 

phantom, 


[•/.KT   II. 


BYANGELINE. 


IW 


■ 


That  through  the  pines  o'er  lirr  father's  lodge,  iii  the  hush  of 

the  twilight, 
Breathed  like  the  evening  wind,  and  whispered  love  to  the 

maiden, 
Till  she  followed  his  green  andwaying  plume  through  the  forest, 
And  never  more  returned,  nor  was  seen  again  by  her  people. 
Silent  with  wonder  and  strange  surprise,  Evangeline  listened 
To  the  soft  flow  of  her  magical  words,  till  the  region  around  her 
Seemed  like  enchanted  ground,  and  her  swarthy  guest  the 

enchantress. 
Slowly  over  the  tops  of  the  Ozark  Mountains  the  moon  rose, 
Lighting  the  little  tent,  and  with  a  mysterious  splendour 
Touching  the  sombre  leaves,  and  embracing  and  filling  the 

woodland. 
With  a  delicious  sound  the  brook  rushed  by,  and  the  branches 
Swayed  and  sighed  overhead  in  scarcely  audible  whispers. 
Filled  with  the  thoughts  of  love  was  Evangeline's  heart,  but 

a  secret, 
Subtile  sense  crept  in  of  pain  and  indefinite  terror, 
As  the  cold,  poisonous  snake  creeps  into  the  nest  of  the  swallow, 
It  was  no  earthly  fear.   A  breath  from  the  region  of  spirits 
Seemed  to  float  in  the  air  of  night ;  and  she  felt  for  a  moment 
That,  like  the  Indian  maid,  she,  too,  was  pursuing  a  phantom. 
And  with  this  thought  she  slept,  and  the  fear  and  the  phantom 

had  vanished. 
Early  upon  the  morrow  the  march  wTas  resumed ;  and  the 

Shawnee 
Said,  as  they  journeyed  along:— "  On  the  western  slope  of 

these  mountains 
Dwells  in  his  little  village  the  Black  Robe  chief  of  the  Mission. 
Much  he  teaches  the  people,  and  tells  them  of  Mary  and  Jesus ; 
Loud  laugh  their  hearts  with  joy,  and  weep  with  pain,  as 

they  hear  him." 
Ti-.en  with  a  sudden  and  secret  emotiou,  Evangeline  an- 
swered,— 
"  Let  us  go  to  the  mission,  for  there  good  tidings  await  us ! " 
Thither  they  turned  their  steeds ;  and  behind  a  spur  of  the 

mountains, 
Just  as  the  sun  went  down,  they  heard  a  murmur  of  voices, 
And  in  the  meadow  green  and  broad,  by  the  bank  of  a  river, 
Saw  the  tents  of  the  Christians,  the  tents  of  the  Jesuit  Mission. 
Under  a  towering  oak,  that  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  village, 
Knelt  the  Black  Robe  chief  with  liis  children.     A  crucifix 

fastened 


L0X0FE!  .1 


High  on  the  trunk  of  the  tree,  and  overshadowed  by  giapc- 

\'i;. 

Looked  with  its  agonised  lace  on  the  multitude  kneeling 

beneath  it. 
This  was  their  rural  chapel.  Aloft,  through  the  intricate  arches 
Of  its  aerial  roof,  arose  the  chant  of  their  vespers, 
Mingling  its  notes  with  the  soft  susurrus  and  sighs  of  the 

brandies. 
Silent,  with  heads  uncovered,  the  travellers,  nearer  approa 

inc 
Knelt  on  the  swarded  floor,  and  joined  in  the  evening  devotions. 
But  when  the  service  was  done,  and  the  benediction  had  fallen 
Forth  from  the  hands  of  the  priest,  like  seed  from  the  hands 

of  the  sower, 
Slowly  the  reverend  man  advanced  to  the  strangers,  and 

hade  them 
Welcome ;  and  when  they  replied,  he  smiled  with  benignant 

expression, 
Hearing  the  homelike  sounds  of  his  mother  tongue  in  the  forest, 
And  with  words  of  kindness  conducted  them  into  his  wigwam. 
There  upon  mats  and  skins  they  reposed,  and  on  cakes  ot 

the  maize-ear 
Feasted,  and  slaked  their  thirst  from  the  water-gourd  of  the 

teacher. 
Soon  was  their  story  told  ;  and  the  priest  with  solemnity 

answered : — 
"Not  six  suns  have  risen  and  set  since  Gabriel,  seated 
On  this  mat  by  my  side,  where  now  the  maiden  reposes, 
Told  me  this  same  sad  tale  ;  then  arose  and  continued  his 

journey!" 
Soft  was  the  voice  of  the  priest,  and  he  spake  with  an  accent 

of  kindness ; 
Bur  on  Evangeline's  heart  fell  his  words  as  in  winter  the 

snow-flakes 
Fall  into  some  lone  nest  from  which  the  birds  have  departed. 
'•  Par  to  the  north  he  has  gone,"  continued  the  priest;  "  but 

in  autumn, 
When  the  chase  is  done,  will  return  again  to  the  Mission." 
Then  Evangeline  said,  and  her  voice  was  weak  and  submis- 
sive,— 
"  Let  me  remain  with  thee,  for  my  soul  is  sad  and  afflicted." 
So  seemed  it  wise  and  well  unto  all ;  and  betimes  on  the  morrow, 
Mounting  his  Mexican  steed,  with  his  Indian  guides  and 

companions, 


TAUT   II.] 


15fl 


Homeward  Basil  returned,  and  Evangeline  stayed  at  the 

ion. 
Slowly,  Blowly,  slowly  the  'lays  succeeded  each  other, 
Days  and  weeks  and  months  ;  and  the  fields  of  maize  th.it 

were  springing 
Green  from  the  ground  when  a  stranger  she  came,  now  waving 

above  her, 
Lifted  their  slender  shafts,  with  leaves  interlacing,  and  forming 
Cloisters  for  mendicant  crows  and  granaries  pillaged   by 

squirrels. 
Then  in  the  golden  weather  the  maize  was  husked,  and  tho 

maidens 
Blushed  at  each  blood-red  ear,  for  that  betokened  a  lover, 
But  at  thecrooked  laughed,  andcalled  it  a  thief  in  the  corn-field. 
Even  the  blood-red  ear  to  Evangeline  brought  not  her  lover. 
"Patience!"  the  priest  would  say;   "have  faith,  and  thy 

prayer  will  be  answered  ! 
Look  at  this  delicate  plant  that  lifts  its  head  from  the  meadow, 
See  how  its  leaves  all  point  to  the  north,  as  true  as  the  magnet ; 
It  is  the  compass-flower,  that  the  finger  of  God  has  suspended 
Here  on  its  fragile  stalk,  to  direct  the  traveller's  journey 
Over  the  sea-like,  pathless,  limitless  waste  of  the  desert. 
Such  in  the  soul  of  man  is  faith.  The  blossoms  of  passion, 
Gay  and  luxuriant  flowers,  are  brighter  and  fuller  of  fragrance  ; 
But  they  beguile  us,  and  lead  us  astray,  and  their  odour  is  deadly. 
Only  this  humble  plant  can  guide  us  here,  and  hereafter 
Crown  us  with  asphodel  flowers,  that  are  wet  with  the  dews 

of  nepenthe." 
So  came  the  autumn,  and   passed,  and    the  winter, — yet 

Gabriel  came  not ; 
Blossomed  the  opening  spring,  and  the  notes  of  the  robin  and 

blue-bird 
Sounded  sweet  upon  wold  and  wood, — yet  Gabriel  came  not. 
But  on  the  breath  of  the  summer-winds  a  rumour  was  wafted 
Sweeter  than  song  of  bird,  or  hue  or  odour  of  blossom. 
Ear  to  the  north  and  east,  it  said,  in  the  Michigan  forests, 
Gabriel  had  his  lodge  by  the  banks  of  the  Saginaw  river. 
A.nd,  with  returning  guides,  that  sought  the  lakes  of  St 

Lawrence, 
Saying  a  sad  farewell,  Evangeline  went  from  the  Mission. 
When  over  weary  ways  by  long  and  perilous  marches, 
She  had  attained  at  length  the  depths  of  the  Michigan  forests 
Found  she  the  hunter's  lodge  deserted  and  fallen  to  ruin  ! 
Thus  did  the  long  sad  years  glide  on,  and  in  seasons  and  places 


'^ 

. 

■■"•-"&&  A- 

I  distant  for  ••  bhe  wandering  maiden  ; — 

Now  in  the  tents  of  grace  of  the  meek  Mora^ 

Now  irt  the  noisy  camps  and  the  battle-fields  of  the  army, 

Now  in  secluded  hamlets,  in  towns  and  populous  cit, 
Like  a  phantom  she  came,  and  passed  away  unremembei 
Fair  was  she  and  young,  when  in  hope  began  the  long  journey; 

Faded  was  she  and  old,  when  in  disappointment  it  ended. 
Each  succeeding  year  stole  something  away  from  her  beauty, 
Leaving  behind  it,  broader  and  deeper,  the  gloom  and 

shadow. 
Then  there  appeared  and  spread  faint  streaks  of  gray  o'er 

her  forehead, — 
Dawn  of  another  life,  that  broke  o'er  her  earthly  horizon, 
As  in  the  eastern  sky  the  first  faint  streaks  of  die  morning. 


(n  that  delightful  land  which  is  washed  by  the  Delaware 8 

waters, 
Guarding  in  sylvan  shades  the  name  of  Penn  the  apostle, 
Stands  on  the  banks  of  its  beautiful  stream  the  city  he  founded 
Thereall  theair  is  balm,  and  the  peach  is  the  emblem  of  beauty, 
And  the  streets  still  re-echo  the  names  of  the  trees  of  the  forest, 
As  if  they  fain  would  appease  the  Dryads  whose  haunts  they 

molested. 
There  from  the  troubled  sea  had  Evangeline  landed,  an  exile. 
Finding  among  the  children  of  Penn  a  home  and  a  country. 
There  old  Rene  Leblanc  had  died  ;  and  when  he  departed, 
Saw  at  his  side  only  one  of  all  his  hundred  descendants. 
Something  at  least  there  was  in  the  friendly  streets  of  the  city, 
Something  that  spake  to  her  heart,  and  made  her  no  longer 

a  stranger ; 
And  her  ear  was  pleased  with  the  '  thee '  and  '  thou '  of  the 

Quakers, 
For  it  recalled  the  past,  the  old  Acadian  country, 
Where  all  men  were  equal,  and  all  were  brothers  and  sisters. 
So,  when  the  fruitless  search,  the  disappointed  endeavour, 
Ended,  to  recommence  no  more  upon  earth,  uncomplaining. 
Thither,  as  leaves  to  the  light,  were  turned  her  thoughts  and 

her  footsteps. 
As  from  a  mountain's  top  the  rainy  mists  of  the  morning 
Roll  away,  and  afar  we  behold  the  landscape  below  us 
Sun-illumined,  with  shining  rivers  and  cities  and  hamlets, 
So  fell  the  mists  from  her  mind,  and  she  saw  the  world  far 

below  her, 


PART  M.  i 


EVANGELINE. 


161 


4 


Dark  no  Longer,  bul  all  illumined  with  love ;  and  the  pathway 
Which  she  had  climbed  so  Ear,  lying  Bmooth  and  fair  in  the 

distance. 
Gabriel  was  not  forgotten.    Within  her  heart  was  his  image, 
Clothed  in  the  beauty  ofloveand  youth,  as  last  she  beheld  bim, 
Only  more  beautiful   made  by  his  deathlike  silence  and 

absence. 
Into  her  thoughts  of  him  time  entered  not,  for  it  was  not. 
Over  him  years  had  no  power;  he  was  not  changed,  but 

transfigured  ; 
He  had  become  to  her  heart  as  one  who  is  dead,  and  not  absent , 
Patience,  and  abnegation  of  self,  and  devotion  to  others, — 
This  was  the  lesson  a  life  of  trial  and  sorrow  had  taught  her. 
So  was  her  love  diffused,  but,  like  to  some  odorous  spices, 
Suffered  no  waste  nor  loss,  though  filling  the  air  with  aroma. 
Other  hope  had  she  none,  nor  wish  in  life,  but  to  follow 
Meekly,  with  reverent  steps,  the  sacred  feet  of  her  Saviour. 
Thus  many  years  she  lived  as  a  Sister  of  Mercy ;  frequenting 
Lonely  and  wretched  roofs  in  the  crowded  lanes  of  the  city, 
Where  distress  and  want  concealed  themselves  from  the 

sunlight, 
Where  disease  and  sorrow  in  garrets  languished  neglected. 
Night  after  night,  when  the  world  was  asleep,  as  the  watch- 
man repeated 
Loud,  through  the  gusty  streets,  that  all  was  well  in  the  city, 
High  at  some  lonely  window  he  saw  the  light  of  her  taper. 
Day  after  day,  in  the  gray  of  the  dawn,  as  slow  through  the 

suburbs 
Plodded  the  German  farmer,  with  flowers  and  fruits 

the  market, 
Met  he  that  meek,   pale   face,   returning  home  from 

wa  tellings. 
Then  it  came  to  pass  that  a  pestilence  fell  on  the  city, 
Presaged  by  wondrous  signs,  and  mostly  by  flocks  of  wild 

pigeons, 
Darkening  the  sim  in  their  flight,  with  nought  in  their  craws 

but  an  acorn. 
And,  as  the  tides  of  the  sea  arise  in  the  month  of  September, 
Flooding  some  silver  stream,  till  it  spreads  to  a  lake  in  the 

meadow, 
So  death  flooded  life,  and,  o'erflowing  its  natural  margin. 
Spread  to  a  brackish  lake  the  silver  stream  of  existence. 
Wealth  had  no  power  to  bribe,  nor  beauty  to  charm,  the 

oppressor  ; 


foi 


its 


LONGFELLOW  S   PO] 


7$ 


HI 


But  all  perished  alike  beneath  t 

Only,  alas  !  the  poor,  who  had  neither  friends  nor  atl 

Crept  away  to  die  in  the  almshouse,  home  of  th 

Then  in  the  suburbs  it  stood,  in  the  midst  of  meadows  arid 

wot  id  lands  ; — 
Now  the  city  surrounds  it ;  but  still,  with  its  gateway  and 

wicket 
Meek,  in  the  midst  of  splendour,  its  humble  walls  seem  to  echo 
Softly  the  words  of  the  Lord  ; — "The  poor  ye  always  have 

with  you." 
Thither,  by  night  and  by  day,  came  the  Sister  of  Mercy.    The 

dying 
Looked  up  into  her  face,  and  thought,  indeed,  to  behold  there 
Gleams  of  celestial  light  encircle  her  forehead  with  splendour, 
Such  as  the  artist  paints  o'er  the  brows  of  saints  and  apostles, 
Or  such  as  hangs  by  night  o'er  a  city  seen  at  a  distance. 
Unto  their  eyes  it  seemed  the  lamps  of  the  city  celestial, 
Into  wdiose  shining  gates  ere  long  their  spirits  would  enter. 
Thus  on  a  Sabbath  morn,  through  the  streets,  deserted  and 

silent, 
Wending  her  quiet  way,  she  entered  the  door  of  the  almshouse. 
Sweet  on  the  summer  air  was  the  odour  of  flowers  in  the  garden  ; 
And  she  paused  on  her  way  to  gather  the  fairest  among  them, 
That  the  dying  once  more  might  rejoice  in  their  fragrance 

and  beauty. 
Then,  as  she  mounted  the  stairs  to  the  corridors,  cooled  bj 

the  east  wind, 
Distant  and  soft  on  her  ear  fell  the  chimes  from  the  belfry  of 

Christ  Church, 
While,  intermingled  with  these,  across  the  meadows,  were 

wafted 
Sounds  of  psalms,  that  were  sung  by  the  Swedes  in  their 

church  at  W  icaco. 
Soft  as  descending  wings  fell  the  calm  of  the  hour  on  her 

spirit; 
Something  within  her  said, — "At  length  thy  trials  are  ended ;" 
And,  with  light  in  her  looks,  she  entered  the  chambers  of 

sickness. 
Noiselessly  moved  about  the  assiduous,  careful  attendants, 
Moistening  the  feverish  lip  and  the  aching  brow,  and  in  silence 
Closing  the  sightless  eyes  of  the  dead,  and  concealing  their 

faces, 
Where  on  their  pallets  they  lay,  like  drifts  of  snow  by  the 

roadside. 


fc 


.* 

^ 


3K35*$& 


PART  II.  1 


'  QELINB. 


Many  a  languid  head,  upraised  as  Evangeline  entered, 
Turned  on  its  pillow  of  pain  b  bile  Bhe  passed,  fox  her 

presence 
Pell  on  their  hearts  like  a  ray  of  the  sun  on  the  vrallsof  aprison. 
And,  as  she  looked  around,  she  saw  how  Death,  the  consoler, 
Laying  his  hand  upon  many  a  heart,  had  healed  it  for  ever. 
Many  familiar  forms  had  disappeared  in  the  night-time  ; 
Vacant  their  places  were,  or  tilled  already  by  strangers. 
Suddenly,  as  if  arrested  hy  fear  or  a  feeling  of  wonder, 
Still  she  stood,  with  her  colourless  lips  apart,  while  a  shudder 
Ban  through  her  frame,  and,  forgotten,  the  flowerets  dropped 

from  her  fingers, 
And  from  her  eyes  and  cheeks  the  light  and  bloom  of  the 

morning. 
Then  there  escaped  from  her  lips  a  cry  of  such  terrible  anguish, 
That  the  dying  heard  it,  and  started  up  from  their  pillows. 
On  the  pallet  before  her  was  stretched  the  form  of  an  old  man. 
Long  and  thin  and  gray  were  the  locks  that  shaded  his  temples ; 
But,  as  he  lay  in  the  morning  light,  his  face  for  a  moment 
Seemed  to  assume  once  more  the  forms  of  its  earlier  manhood  ; 
So  are  wont  to  be  changed  the  faces  of  those  who  are  dying. 
Hot  and  red  on  his  lips  still  burned  the  flush  of  the  fever, 
As  if  life,  like  the  Hebrew,  with  blood  had  besprinkled  its 

portals 
That  the  Angel  of  death  might  see  the  sign  and  pass  over. 
Motionless,  senseless,  dying,  he  lay,  and  his  spirit,  exhausted, 
Seemed  to  be  sinking  down  through  infinite  depths  in  the 

darkness, 
Darkness  of  slumber  and  death,  for  ever  sinking  and  sinking. 
Then  through  those  realms  of  shade,  in  multiplied  reverber- 
ations, 
Heard  he  that  cry  of  pain,  and  through  the  hush  that  succeeded 
Whispered  a  gentle  voice,  in  accents  tender  and  saintlike, 
"  Gabriel !  0  my  beloved !"  and  died  away  into  silence. 
Then  he  beheld,  in  a  dream,  once  more  the  home  of  his  child- 
hood ;. 
Green  Acadian  meadows,  with  sylvan  rivers  among  them, 
Village,  and  mountain,  and  woodlands  ;  and  walking  under 

their  shadow, 
As  in  the  days  of  her  youth,  Evangeline  rose  in  his  vision. 
Tears  came  into  his  eyes  ;  and  slowly  he  lifted  his  eyelids, 
Vanished  the  vision  away,  but  Evangeline  knelt  by  his  bed- 
side. 
Vainly  he  strove  to  whisper  her  name,  for  the  accents  unnttered 


***,«•?. 


lt:4 


LONGFELLOW 


Died  on  his  lips,  and  their  motion  revealed  what  his  tongue 

would  have  spoken. 
Vainly  he  strove  to  1  ise  ;  and  Evangeline,  kneeling  betide  him, 
Kissed  his  dying  lips,  and  laid  his  head  on  her  bosom. 

Sweet  was  the  light  of  h  butit  suddenly  sank  intodark- 

nt 
As  when  a  lamp  is  blown  out  by  a  gust  of  wind  at  a  casement 
All  was  ended  now,  the  hope,  and  the  tear,  and  the  sorrow, 
All  the  aching  of  heart,  the  restless  unsatisfied  long 
All  the  dull,  deep  pain,  and  constant  anguish  of  patience  I 
And,  as  she  pressed  once  more  the  lifeless  head  to  her  bosom, 
Meekly  she  bowed  her  own,  and  murmured,  "  Father,  1  thank 

'thee !" 
Still  stands  the  forest  primeval ;  but  far  away  from  its  shadow, 
Side  by  side,  in  their  nameless  graves,  the  lovers  are  sleeping. 
Under  the  humble  walls  of  the  little  Catholic  churchyard, 
In  the  heart  of  the  city,  they  lie,  unknown  and  unnoticed. 
Daily  the  tides  of  life  go  ebbing  and  flowing  beside  them, 
Thousands  of  throbbing  hearts,  where  theirs  are  at  rest  and 

for  ever  ; 
Thousands  of  aching  brains,  where  theirs  no  longer  are  busy ; 
Thousands  of  toiling  hands,  where  theirs  have  ceased  from 

their  labom 
Thousands  of  weary  feet,  where  theirs  have  completed  then 

journey ! 
Still  stands  the  forest  primeval  ;  but  under  the  shade  of  its 

branches 
Dwells  another  race,  with  other  customs  and  languaj 
Only  along  the  shore  of  the  mournful  and  misty  Atlantic 
Linger  a  few  Acadian  peasants,  whose  fathers  from  exile 
Wandered  back  to  their  native  land  to  die  in  its  bosom. 
In  the  fisherman's  cot  the  wheel  and  the  loom  are  still  busy  ; 
Maidens  still  wear  their  Norman  caps  and  their  kirtles  oi 

homespun, 
And  by  the  evening  fire  repeat  Evangeline's  story, 
While  from  its  rocky  caverns  the  deep-voiced  neighbouring 

ocean 
Speaks,  and  in  accents  disconsolate  answers  the  wail  of  the 

forest. 


.  \ 


r 


tf 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND, 


■ 


mm 


PROLOGUE. 

THE  SPIRE  OF  STRASBURO  CATHEDRAL. 

NighA  and  storm.   Lucifer,  with  the  Powers  oj  the  Air, 
trying  to  tear  down  the  Cross, 

Lucifer.  Hasten  !  hasten  ! 
0  ye  spirits ! 

From  its  station  drag  the  ponderous 
Cross  of  iron,  that  to  mock  us 
Is  uplifted  high  in  air  ! 

Voices.    0,  we  cannot ! 
For  around  it 

All  the  Saints  and  Guardian  Angels 
Throng  in  legions  to  protect  it ; 
They  defeat  us  everywhere  ! 

The  Bells.  Laudo  Benin  veruni ! 
Plebem  voco  ! 
Cougrego  clerum  ! 

Lucifer.  Lower  !  lower  ! 
Hover  downward  ! 
Seize  the  loud,  vociferous  bells,  and 
Clashing,  clanging,  to  the  pavement 
Hurl  them  from  their  windy  tower ! 

Voices.    All  thy  thunders 
Here  are  harmless  ! 
For  these  bells  have  been  anointed. 
And  baptized  with  holy  water ! 
They  defy  our  utmost  power. 

The  Bells.  Defunctos  ploro  ! 
Pestem  fugo  ! 
Festa  decoro  ! 


L66 


L0NGFEM.0W  3  POEMS. 


/.<<  ifer.  Shake  the  casements! 
Break  the  painted 

ex,  that  flame  with  gold  and  crimson  ; 
Scatter  them  like  leaves  of  Autumn, 
Swept  away  before  the  blast  ! 

Voices.    0,  we  cannot ! 
The  Archan 

Michael  flames  from  every  window, 
With  the  sword  of  tire  that  drove  us 
Headlong  out  of  heaven,  aghast ! 

The  Bells.     Fimero  plango  ! 
Fulgora  frau 

Babbata  pan 

Lucifer.  Aim  your  lightnings 
At  the  oaken, 

Massive,  iron-studded  portals  ! 
Sack  the  house  of  God,  and  scatter 
Wide  the  ashes  of  the  dead  ! 

Voices.    0,  we  cannot  ! 
The  Apostles 

And  the  Martyrs,  wrapped  in  mantles, 
Stand  as  warders  at  the  entrance, 
Stand  as  sentinels  o'erhead  ! 

The  Bells.     Excite  lentos  ! 
Dissipo  ventos ! 
Paco  cruentos  ! 

Lucifer.  Baffled  !  baffled  ! 
Inefficient, 

Craven  spirits  !  leave  this  labour 
Unto  Time,  the  great  Destroyer  ! 
Come  away,  ere  night  is  gone  ! 

Voice*.    Onward  !  onward  ! 
With  the  night-wind, 
Over  field  and  farm  and  forest, 
Lonely  homestead,  darksome  hamlet. 
Blighting  all  we  breathe  upon  ! 

They  sweep  away.    Organ  and  Gregorian  ChaiU. 

Choir.    Nocte  surgentcs 
Vigilemus  omnes  i 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND. 


W 


I. 


IKE  CASTLE  OF  VATTLTSRERO  ON  THE  RTITNE. 

A  Chamber  in  a  tower.    Prince  Henry,  sitting  alone .. 
ill  and  restless.     Midnight. 

Prince  11.     I  cannot  sleep  !  ray  fervid  brain 
Calls  up  the  vanished  Past  again, 
And  throws  its  misty  splendours  deep 
Into  the  pallid  realms  of  sleep  ! 
A  breath  from  that  far-distant  shore 
Comes  freshening  ever  more  and  more, 
And  wafts  o'er  intervening  seas 
Sweet  odours  from  the  Hesperides  ! 
A  wind,  that  through  the  corridor 
Just  stirs  the  curtain,  and  no  more, 
And,  touching  the  iEolian  strings, 
Faints  with  the  burden  that  it  brings  ! 
Come  back  !  ye  friendships  long  departed  ! 
That  like  o'erflowing  streamlets  started, 
And  now  are  dwindled,  one  by  one, 
To  stony  channels  in  the  sun  ! 
Come  back  !  ye  friends,  whose  lives  are  ended  f 
Come  back,  with  all  that  light  attended, 
Which  seemed  to  darken  and  decay 
When  ye  arose  and  went  away ! 

They  come,  the  shapes  of  joy  and  woe, 
The  airy  crowds  of  long-ago, 
The  dreams  and  fancies  known  of  yore, 
That  have  been,  and  shall  be  no  more. 
They  change  the  cloisters  of  the  night 
Into  a  garden  of  delight ; 
They  make  the  dark  and  dreary  hours 
Open  and  blossom  into  flowers  ! 
I  would  not  sleep  !     I  love  to  be 
Again  their  fair  company  ; 
But  ere  my  lips  can  bid  them  stay. 
They  pass  and  vanish  quite  away  ! 
Alas!  our  memories  may  retrace 
Each  circumstance  of  time  and  place,. 
Season  and  scene  come  back  again 


r 


5    POEMS. 


And  outward  things  unchanged  remain  • 
l'he  rest  we  cannot  reinsta 
elves  we  cannot  re 

Nor  set  OUT  souls  to  the  same  key 
Of  the  remembered  harmony! 

Rest !  rest  !     0,  give  me  rest  and  peace  ! 
The  thought  of  life  that  ne'er  shall  cease 
J  la-  something  in  it  like  despair, 
A  weight  I  am  too  weak  to  bear  ! 

ter  to  this  afflicted  bn 
The  thought  of  never-ending  rest ! 
Sweeter  the  undisturbed  and  deep 
Tranquillity  of  endless  sleep  ! 

Hash  of  lightning,  out  of ichich  Lucifer  appear*, 
in  the  garb  of  a  travelling  Physician. 

Lucifer.     All  hail,  Prince  Henry  ! 
Prince  H.  (starting.)        Who  is  it  speaks  i 
Who  and  what  are  you  ? 

Lucifer.  One  who  seeks 

A  moment's  audience  with  the  Prince. 

Prince  Henry.     When  came  you  in  i 

Lucifer.  A  moment  since. 

I  found  your  study  door  unlocked, 
And  thought  you  answered  when  I  knocked. 

Prince  henry.     I  did  not  hear  you. 

Lucifer.  You  heard  the  thunder  ; 

It  was  loud  enough  to  waken  the  dead. 
And  it  is  not  a  matter  of  special  wonder 
That,  when  God  is  walking  overhead, 
Von  should  not  hear  my  feeble  tread. 

Prince  1J.  What  may  your  wish  or  purpose  be  I 

Lucifer.     Nothing  or  everything,  as  it  pleases 
Your  Highness.     You  behold  in  me 
Only  a  travelling  Physician  ; 
One  of  the  few  who  have  a  mission 
To  cure  incurable  disea 
Or  those  that  are  called  so. 

Prince  Henry.  Can  you  bring 

The  dead  to  life  ! 

Lucifer.  Yes;  very  nearly. 

And,  what  is  a  wiser,  and  better  thing, 
Can  keep  the  living  from  ever  needing 
Such  an  unnatural,  strange  proceed. 


1.1 


I'll  i.  <:ni,M:\   LEG 


L69 


By  Bhowing  conclusively  and  clearly 

That  death  is  a  stupid  blunder  merely, 

And  doI  a  necessity  of  tan-  lives. 

My  being  here  is  accidental  ; 

The  storm  that  against  your  casement  drives, 

In  the  little  village  below  waylaid  me. 

And  there  1  heard,  with  a  secret  delight, 

Of  your  maladies  physical  and  mental, 

Which  neither  astonished  nor  dismayed  me. 

And  I  hastened  hither,  though  late  in  the  night, 

To  proffer  my  aid  ! 

Prince  Henry  {ironically).    For  this  you  came  ! 
Ah,  how  can  I  ever  hope  to  requite 
This  honour  from  one  so  erudite  ! 

Lucifer.    The  honour  is  mine,  or  will  be  when 
I  have  cured  your  disease. 

Prince  Henry.  But  not  till  then. 

Lucifer.     What  is  your  illness  ] 

Prince  Henry.  It  has  no  name. 

A  smouldering,  dull,  perpetual  name, 
As  in  a  kiln,  burns  in  my  veins, 
Sending  up  vapours  to  the  head. 
My  heart  has  become  a  didl  lagoon, 
Which  a  kind  of  leprosy  drinks  and  drains  ; 
I  am  accounted  as  one  who  is  dead, 
And,  indeed,  I  think  that  I  shall  be  soon. 

Lucifer.     And  has  Gordonius  the  Divine; 
\\\  his  famous  Lily  of  Medicine, — 
I  see  the  book  lies  open  before  you, — 
No  remedy  potent  enough  to  restore  you  ? 

Prince  Henry.    None  whatever  ! 

Lticifer.  The  dead  are  dead, 

And  their  oracles  dumb,  when  questioned 
Of  the  new  diseases  that  human  life 
Evolves  in  its  progress,  rank  and  rife. 
Consult  the  dead  upon  things  that  were, 
But  the  living  only  on  things  that  are. 
Have  you  done  this,  by  the  appliance 
And  aid  of  doctors  ? 

Prince  Henry.  Ay,  whole  schools 

Of  doctors,  with  their  learned  rules ; 
But  the  case  is  quite  beyond  their  science. 
Even  the  doctors  of  Salern 
Send  me  back  word  they  can  discern 


■ 


No  cure  for  a  malady  like  this, 
!Save  one  which  in  its  nature  is 
Impossible,  and  cannot  be  ! 

Lucifer.     That  sounds  oracular  ! 

Prince  Henri/.  Unendurable 

Lucifer.     What  is  their  remedy  1 

Prince  Henry.  You  shall  so. 

Writ  in  this  scroll  is  the  mystery. 

Lucif.  [reading).  "  Not  to  be  cured,  yet  not  incurable! 
The  only  remedy  that  remains 
Is  the  blood  that  flows  from  a  maiden's  veins, 
Who  of  her  own  free  will  shall  die, 
And  give  her  life  as  the  price  of  yours  !" 
That  is  the  strangest  of  all  cures, 
And  one,  I  think,  you  will  never  try  : 
The  prescription  you  may  well  put  by, 
As  something  impossible  to  find 
Before  the  world  itself  shall  end  ! 
And  yet  who  knows  !     One  cannot  say 
That  into  some  maiden's  brain  that  kind 
Of  madness  will  not  find  its  way. 
Meanwhile  permit  me  to  recommend, 
As  the  matter  admits  of  no  delay, 
My  wonderful  Catholicon, 
Of  very  subtile  and  magical  powers  ! 

Pr.  H.    Purge  with  your  nostrums  and  drugs  infei  nai 
The  spouts  and  gargoyles  of  these  towers, 
Not  me  !     My  faith  is  utterly  gone 
In  every  power  but  the  Power  Supernal  ! 
Pray  tell  me,  of  what  school  are  you  I 

Lucifer.    Both  of  the  Old  and  of  the  New  ! 
The  school  of  Hermes  Trismegistus, 
Who  uttered  his  oracles  sublime 
Before  the  Olympiads,  in  the  dew 
Of  the  early  dawn  and  dusk  of  Time, 
The  reign  of  dateless  old  Hephaetus  ! 
As  northward  from  its  Nubian  spro 
The  Nile,  for  ever  new  and  old, 
Among  the  living  and  the  dead, 
Its  mighty,  mystic  stream  has  rolled; 
So  starting  from  its  fountain-head 
Under  the  lotus-leaves  of  1 
From  the  dead  demigods  of  eld, 
Through  long,  unbroken  lines  of  kings, 


1.1 


Tin:  noi,lii:S   LEGEND. 


171 


■  arse  the  Bacred  art  baa  held. 
Unchecked,  unchanged  by  man's  devic<  b. 
This  art  the  Arabian  Geber  taught, 
And  ii>  alembics,  finely  wrought, 
Distilling  herbs  and  ttowen  ired 

The  secret,  that  SO  long  had  hovered 
Upon  the  mist  :>t'  Truth, 

The  Elixir  of  Perpetual  Youth, 
(Jailed  Alcohol  in  the  Arab- speech  ! 
Like  him,  this  wondrous  lore  I  teach  ! 

Prince  Henry.    What!  an  adept? 

Lucifer.  Nor  less,  nor  more 

Prince  H.    I  am  a  reader  of  your  boote 
A  lover  of  that  mystic  lore ! 
With  such  a  piercing  glance  it  looks 
Into  great  Nature's  open  eye, 
And  sees  within  it  trembling  lie 
The  portrait  of  the  Deity ! 
And  yet,  alas !  with  all  my  pains, 
The  secret  and  the  mystery 
Have  baffled  and  eluded  me, 
Unseen  the  grand  result  remains  ! 

Luc.  [shows  a  flash).  Behold  it  here !  this  little  flask 
Contains  the  wonderful  quintessence, 
The  perfect  flower  and  efflorescence. 
Of  all  the  knowledge  man  can  ask  ! 
Hold  it  up  thus  against  the  light ! 

Prince  H.   How  limpid,  pure,  and  crystalline; 
How  quick,  and  tremulous,  and  bright, 
The  little  wavelets  dance  and  shine, 
As  were  it  the  Water  of  Life  in  sooth  ! 

Lucifer.  It  is  !  It  assuages  every  pain, 
Cures  all  diseases,  and  gives  again 
To  age  the  swift  delights  of  youth, 
inhale  its  fragrance. 

Prince  Henry  It  is  sweet. 

A  thousand  different  odours  meet 
And  mingle  in  its  rare  perfume, 
Such  as  the  winds  of  summer  waft 
At  open  windows  through  a  room  ! 

Lucifer.  Will  you  not  taste  it  ? 

Prince  Henry.  Will  one  draught 

Suffice  ? 

Lucifer.  If  not,  you  can  drink  more 


■ 


*\< 


jjjlg 


17* 


LONGFELLOW 


Jk 


Prince  11,  [nto  this  crystal  goblet  pour 

So  much  as  safely  I  may  drill 

r (vouring).  Let  not  the  quantity  alarm  you, 
Ymi  may  drink  all  ;  it  will  not  harm  you. 

Prince  II.  I  am  as  one  who  ou  the  brink 
Of  a  dark  river  stands  and  sues 
The  waters  flow,  the  landscape  dim 
Around  him  waver,  wheel,  and  swim, 
And,  ere  lie  plunges,  stops  to  think 
Into  what  whirlpools  he  may^ink  ; 
One  moment  pauses,  and  no  more, 
Then  madly  plunges  from  the  shore  ! 
Headlong  into  the  mysteries 
Of  life  and  death  [  boldly  lean, 
Nor  fear  the  fateful  current's  sweep, 
Nor  what  in  ambush  lurks  bel< 
For  death  is  better  than  disc.; 

An  Angel  with  an  Molian  harp  hovers  in  tin  ■ 

An i /el.  Woe!  woe!  eternal  woe! 
Not  mily  the  whispered  prayer 
Of  love," 

But  the  imprecations  of  hate, 
Reverberate 

For  ever  and  ever  through  the  air 
Above ! 

This  fearful  curse 
Shakes  the  great  universe  ! 

Lucifer  {disappearing).  Drink  !  Dririk  ! 
And  thy  soul  shall  sink 
Down  into  the  dark  aby 
Into  the  infinite  abyss, 
From  which  no  plummet  nor  rope 
Ever  drew  up  the  silver  sand  of  hope  ! 

Prince  II.  {drinking).  It  is  like  u.  draught  of  fire  ! 
Through  every  vein 
I  feel  again 

The  fever  of  youth,  the  soft  desire  ; 
A  rapture  'that  is  almost  pain 
Throbs  in  my  heart  and  fills  my  brain  ■ 
0  joy  !  0  joy  !  I  feel 
The  band  of  steel 

That  so  long  arjd  heavily  lias  pressed 
Upon  my  breast 


I.I 


:  in.  QOLDEU   LEGEND. 


L73 


Uplifted,  and  the  malediction 
Of  my  affliction 

is  taken  from  me,  and  my  weary  breast 
At  length  finds  rest. 

The  Angel.  It  is  but  the  rest  of  the  fire,  from  which 

the  air  has  been  taken  ! 
It  is  but  the  rest  of  the  sand,  when  the  hour-glass  is 

not  shaken ! 
It  is  but  the  rest  of  the  tide  between  the  ebb  and  the 

flow  ! 
it  is  but  the  rest  of  the  wind  between  the  flaws  that 

blow  ! 
With  fiendish  laughter, 
Hereafter, 
This  false  physician 
Will  mock  thee  in  thy  perdition. 
Prince  Henry.  Speak  !  speak  ! 
Who  says  that  1  am  ill  ( 
I  am  not  ill !  I  am  not  weak  ! 
The  trance,  the  swoon,  the  dream,  is  o'er  ! 
I  feel  the  chill  of  death  no  mure  ! 
At  length, 

I  stand  renewed  in  all  my  strength ! 
Beneath  me  1  can  feel 
The  great  earth  stagger  and  reel, 
As  if  the  feet  of  a  descending  god 
Upon  its  surface  trod, 

And  like  a  pebble  it  rolled  beneath  its  heel ! 
This,  0  brave  physician  !  this 
Is  thy  great  Palingenesis  !  (Drinks  again.) 

The  Angel.  Touch  the  goblet  no  more  ! 
It  will  make  thy  heart  sore 
To  its  very  core  ! 
Its  perfume  is  the  breath 
Of  the  Angel  of  Death, 
And  the  light  that  within  it  lies 
Is  the  dash  of  his  evil  eyes, 
Beware  !  0,  beware  ! 
For  sickness,  sorrow,  and  care  ! 
All  are  there ! 
Prince  It.  (sinking  back).  0  thou  voice  withiii  my 

breast ! 
Why  entreat  me,  why  upbraid  me, 
When  the  steadfast  tongues  of  truth  u 


« 

And  the  fluti 

Have  all  deceived  me  and  betrayed  dm  I 

Give  me,  give  me  rest,  0  i 

•,a\e  and  hove 
Golden  vapours,  waters  streaming, 

ndscapes  moving,  changing,  gteamii 
I  am  like  a  happy  lover 
Who  illumines  life  with  dream, 

uiu  !  Hare  physician  ! 
Well  hast  thou  fulfilled  thy  mission! 
His  head  Jails  on  his  book. 
The  Angels  (receding.)  Alas!  alas! 
Jake  a  vapour  the  golden  vision 
Shall  lade  and  p. 

And  thou  wilt  find  in  thy  heart  agaiu 
Only  the  blight  of  pain, 
And  bitter,  hitter,  bitter  contrition' 


COURT-YARD  OF  THE  CASTLE. 
Hubebt  standing  ly  the  >jateu:ay. 
Hubert.  How  sad  the  grand  old  castle  look- . 
O'erhead,  the  unmolested  rooks 
Upon  the  turret's  windy  top 
Sit,  talking  of  the  farmers  crop  ; 
Here,  in  the  court-yard  springs  the  grass, 
So  few  are  now  the  feet  that  pass  ; 
The  stately  peacocks,  holder  grown, 
Come  hopping  down  the  steps  of  stone, 
As  if  the  castle  were  their  own  ; 
And  I,  the  poor  old  seneschal, 
Haunt,  like  a  ghost,  the  banquet-hall. 

Alas  !  the  merry  guests  no  more 

Crowd  through  the  hospitable  door; 

No  eyes  with  youth  and  passion  shine, 

No  cheeks  grow  redder  than  the  wine; 

No  song,  do  laugh,  no  jovial  din 

Of  thinking  wassail  to  the  pin  ; 

But  all  is  silent,  sad,  and  drear, 

And  now  the  only  sounds  1  hear 

\re  the  house  rooks  upon  the  walls, 

And  horses  stamping  in  their  stalls  !  {A  horn  sounds. 

What  ho  !  that  merry  sudden  blast 


3£**a 


I.] 


'I'lll  .i'NI), 


176 


^ 


A 


Reminds  me  of  th<  og  past ! 

And,  as  of  old  resounding,  grate 

The  heavy  binges  of  the  .ate, 

And,  clattering  loud,  with  iron  chink, 

Down  goes  the  sounding  bridge  of  plank, 

As  if  it  were  in  haste  I 

The  pressure  of  a.  traveller's  feet ! 

{Enter  Walter,  the  Minnesinger.) 

Wal.  Hownow,  myfriend!  This  looks  quite  lonely 
No  banner  flying  from  the  walls, 
No  pages  ami  no  seneschals, 
No  warders,  and  one  porter  only  ; 
Is  it  you,  Hubert  / 

Hubert.  Ah  !  Master  Walter  ! 

Walter.     Alas  i  now  forms  and  faces  alter  ! 
1  did  not  know  you.     You  look  older  ! 
Your  hair  has  grown  much  grayer  and  thinner, 
And  you  stoop  a  little  in  the  shoulder  ! 

Hubert.     Alack  !  I  am  a  poor  old  sinner, 
And,  like  these  towers,  begin  to  moulder  ; 
And  you  have  been  absent  many  a  year  ! 

Walter.  How  is  the  Prince? 

Hubert.  He  is  not  here  : 

He  has  been  ill :  and  now  has  fled. 

Walter.    Speak  it  out  frankly  ;  say  he's  dead  ! 
Is  it  not  so  1 

Hubert.        No,  if  you  please  ; 
A  strange,  mysterious  disease 
Fell  on  him  with  a  sudden  blight. 
Whole  hours  together  he  would  stand 
Upon  the  terrace  in  a  dream, 
Resting  his  head  upon  his  hand, 
Best  pleased  when  he  was  most  alone, 
Like  Saint  John  Neponiuck  in  stone, 
Looking  down  into  a  stream. 
In  the  Round  Tower,  night  after  night, 
He  sat,  and  bleared  his  eyes  with  books  ; 
Until  one  morning  we  found  him  there 
Stretched  on  the  floor,  as  if  in  a  swoon 
He  hail  fallen  from  his  chair. 
We  hardly  recognised  his  sweet  looks  ! 

Walter.     Poor  Prince  ! 

Hubert.    1  think  he  might  have  mended  ; 
And  lie  did  mend  ;  but  very  soon 


I.O.N  U  FELLOW 


The  i  une  docking  in,  lik 

With  all  their  croziers  ami  their  crooks, 
And  so  at  last  the  matter  ended 
Walter,     ilow  did  it  end  / 

11  abert.  Why,  in  Saint  Rochus 

They  made  him  stand,  and  wait  his  doom  , 
And,  as  if  he  were  condemned  to  the  tomb, 
Began  to  mutter  their  hocus-pocus. 
First,  the  Mass  for  the  Dead  they  chanted, 
Then  three  times  laid  upon  his  head 
A  shovelful  of  churchyard  clay, 
Saying  to  him,  as  he  stood  undaunted, 
"This  is  a  sign  that  thou  art  dead, 
So  in  thy  heart  be  penitent !" 
And  forth  from  the  chapel  door  he  went 
Into  disgrace  ami  banishment, 
Clothed  in  a  cloak  of  hodden  gray, 
And  hearing  a  wallet  and  a  hell, 
Whose  sound  should  be  a  perpetual  kneL 
To  keep  all  travellers  away. 

Walter.  0  horrible  fate  !     Outcast,  rejected. 
As  one  with  pestilence  infected  ! 

Hubert.  Then  was  the  family  tomb  unsealed, 
And  broken  helmet,  sword  and  shield, 
Buried  together,  in  common  wreck, 
As  is  the  custom,  when  the  last 
Of  any  princely  house  has  passed, 
And  thrice,  as  with  a  trumpet-blast, 
A  herald  shouted  down  the  stair 
The  words  of  warning  and  despair, — 
"0  lloheneek!    0  Hoheneck  !" 

Walter.  Still  in  my  soul  that  cry  goes  ou,  - 
For  ever  gone  !  for  ever  gone  ! 
Ah,  what  a  cruel  sense  of  loss, 
Like  a  black  shadow,  would  fall  across 
The  hearts  of  all,  if  he  should  die  ! 
His  gracious  presence  upon  earth 
Was  as  a  tire  upon  a  health  ; 
As  pleasant  songs,  at  morning  sung, 
The  words  that  dropped  from  his  sweet  tongue 
Strengthened  our  hearts  :  or,  heard  at  night, 
Made  all  our  slumbers  soft  and  light. 
Where  is  he? 
Hubert.  In  the  Odenwald 


• 


'% 


r.1 


BND. 


177 


■ 


Some  of  his  tenants,  unappalled 

By  fear  of  death,  or  priestly  word,— 

A  holy  family,  that  make 

Bach  meal  a  Supper  of  the  Lord, — 

Have  him  beneath  their  watch  and  ward, 

love  of  him,  and  Jesus'  sake  ! 
Pray  you,  come  in.     For  why  should  I 
With  out-door  hospitality 
My  prince's  friend  thus  entertain  ( 

Walter.    I  would  a  moment  here  remain. 
But  you,  good  Hubert,  go  before, 
Fill  nie  a  goblet  of  May-drink, 
As  aromatic  as  the  May 
From  which  it  steals  the  breath  away. 
And  which  he  loved  so  well  of  yore  ; 
It  is  of  him  that  I  would  think. 
You  shall  attend  me,  when  I  call, 
In  the  ancestral  banquet  hall. 
Unseen  companions,  guests  of  air, 
You  cannot  wait  on,  will  be  there; 
They  taste  not  food,  they  drink  not  wine. 
But  their  soft  eyes  look  into  mine, 
And  their  lips  speak  to  me,  and  all 
The  vast  and  shadowy  banquet  hall 
Is  full  of  looks  and  words  divine  ! 

{Leaning  over  the  parapet.} 
The  day  is  done  ;  and  slowly  from  the  scene 
The  stooping  sun  upgathers  his  spent  shafts, 
And  puts  them  back  into  his  golden  quiver  ! 
Below  me  in  the  valley,  deep  and  green 
As  goblets  are,  from  which  in  thirsty  draughts 
We  drink  its  wine,  the  swift  and  mantling  river 
Flows  on  triumphant  through  those  lovely  regions, 
Etched  with  the  shadows  of  its  sombre  margent, 
And  soft,  reflected  clouds  of  gold  and  argent ! 
Yes,  there  it  flows,  for  ever,  broad  and  still, 
As  when  the  vanguard  of  the  Roman  legions 
First  saw  it  from  the  top  of  yonder  hill  ! 
How  beautiful  it  is  !     Fresh  fields  of  wheat, 
Vineyard,  and  town,  and  tower  with  fluttering  flag, 
The  consecrated  chapel  on  the  crag, 
And  the  white  hamlet  gathered  round  its  base,-- 
Like  Mary  sitting  at  her  Saviour's  feet, 
And  looking  up  at  His  beloved  face  ! 


i 


178 


0  friend  !  0  best  of  friends  !  Thy  abseil 

Than  the  impending  night  darkens  the  landscape  </er  I 


*£S 


II. 

A  FARM   IN  THE  ODENWALD. 

A  garden;  morning;  Piiixoi:  Hesuy  Hated  with  a 
book.    Elsie  at  a  distance,  gathering  jlowers. 

Prince  U.  (reading).  One  morning,  all  alone. 
Out  of  his  convent  of  gray  stone, 
Into  the  forest  older,  darker,  grayer, 
His  lips  moving  as  if  in  prayer, 
His  head  sunken  upon  his  breast 
As  in  a  dream  of  rest, 
Walked  the  Monk  Felix.     All  about 
The  broad,  sweet  sunshine  lay  without, 
Filling  the  summer  air  ; 
And  within  the  woodlands  as  he  trod, 
The  twilight  was  like  the  Truce  of  God 
With  worldly  woe  and  care  ; 
Under  him  lay  the  golden  moss  ; 
And  above  him  the  bows  of  hemloek-t; 
Waved,  and  made  the  sign  of  the  cross, 
And  whispered  their  llenedicites  ; 
And  from  the  ground 
Rose  an  odour  sweet  and  fragrant 
Of  the  wild-flowers  and  the  vagrant 
Vines  that  wandered, 
Seeking  the  sunshine,  round  and  round 

These  he  heeded  not,  but  pondered 
On  the  volume  in  his  hand, 
A  volume  of  Saint  Augustine, 
Wherein  he  read  of  the  unseen 
Splendours  of  God's  great  town 
In  the  unknown  land, 
And,  with  his  eyes  cast  down 
In  humility,  he  said  : 
"  I  believe",  0  God, 
What  herein  I  have  read. 
But  alas  !  I  do  not  understand  M" 

And  lo  !  he  heard 
The  sudden  singing  of  a  bird, 
A  snow-white  bird,  that  from  a  cloud 


r 


% 

■k.f 
tffa 


Si 

'     V 


THE  OOLDEK   LEGEND. 


17!' 


1 


Dropped  down, 

And  among  the  branches  brown 

Sat  singing 

So  sweet,  and  clear,  and  loud, 

It  seemed  a  thousand  harp-strings  ringing. 

And  the  Monk  Felix  closed  his  hook, 

And  long,  long, 

With  rapturous  look, 

He  listened  to  the  song, 

And  hardly  breathed  or  stirred , 

Until  he  saw,  as  in  a  vision, 

The  land  Elysian, 

And  in  the  heavenly  city  heard 

Angelic  feet 

Fall  on  the  golden  flagging  of  the  street. 

And  he  would  fain 

Have  caught  the  wondrous  bird, 

But  strove  in  vain  ; 

For  it  flew  away,  away, 

Far  over  hill  and  dell, 

And  instead  of  its  sweet  singing 

He  heard  the  convent  bell 

Suddenly  in  the  silence  ringing 

For  the  service  of  noonday. 

And  he  retraced 

His  pathway  homeward  sadly  and  in  haste. 

In  the  convent  there  was  a  change  ! 
He  looked  for  each  well-known  face, 
But  the  faces  were  new  and  strange  ; 
New  figures  sat  in  the  oaken  stalls, 
New  voices  chanted  in  the  choir  ; 
Yet  the  place  was  the  same  place, 
The  same  dusky  walls 
Of  cold,  gray  stone, 
The  same  cloisters  and  belfry  and  spire. 

A  stranger  and  alone 
Among  that  brotherhood 
The  Monk  Felix  stood. 
"  Forty  years,"  said  a  Friar, 
44  Have  I  been  Trior 
Of  this  convent  in  the  wood, 
But  for  that  space 
Never  have  I  beheld  thy  face  I" 

The  heart  of  the  Monk  Felix  fell  : 


\bfr* 


LONOFEI.LOW   -   I 


And  he  answered,  with  sul> missive  tone, 

"  Thii  morning,  aftei  the  hour  of  Prime, 

I  It-it  my  cell, 

And  wandered  forth  alone, 

Listening  all  the  time 

To  the  melodiouj  tinging 

Of  a  beautiful  white  bird, 

Until  1  heard 

The  bolls  of  the  convent  ringing 

Noon  from  their  noisy  towers. 

It  was  as  if  I  dreamed  ; 

For  what  to  me  liad  seemed 

Moments  only,  had  been  hours!" 

"  Years  !''  said  I  voice  close  by. 
It  was  an  aged  monk  who  spoke, 
From  a  bench  of  oak 
Fastened  against  the  wall  ; — 
lie  was  the  oldest  monk  of  all. 
For  a  whole  century 
Had  he  been  there, 
Serving  God  in  prayer, 
The  meekest  and  humblest  of  His  creatures. 
lie  remembered  well  the  features 
Of  Felix,  and  he  said, 
Speaking  distinct  and  slow  : 
"  One  hundred  years  a 
When  1  was  a  novice  in  this  place, 
There  was  here  a  monk,  full  of  God's  grace, 
Who  bore  the  name 
Of  Felix,  and  this  man  must  be  the  same.' 

And  straightway 
They  brought  forth  to  the  light  of  day 
A  volume  old  and  brown, — 
A  huge  tome,  bound 
In  brass  and  wild-boar's  hide, — 
Wherein  were  written  down 
The  names  of  all  who  had  died 
In  the  convent,  since  it  was  edified. 
And  there  they  found, 
Just  as  the  old  monk  said, 
That  on  a  certain  day  and  date, 
One  hundred  years  before, 
Had  gone  forth  from  the  convent  gate 
The  Monk  Felix,  and  never  more 


Tlir  OOIjPEK    U'OF.ND. 


Ifll 


Had  entered  thai  sacred  door. 

He  had  been  counted  among  the  dead  ' 

I  they  knew,  at  last, 
That,  such  had  been  the  power 
Of  that  celestial  and  immortal  song, 
A  hundred  years  had  passed, 
Ami  had  nol  seemed  so  long 
single  hour ! 

Elsie  comes  in  with  flowers. 

Elsie.  Here  are  flowers  for  you, 
But  they  are  not  all  for  you. 
8  »me  of  them  are  for  the  Virgin 
And  for  Sainl  Cecilia 

Prince  //.  As  thou  standest  there, 
Thou  seemest  to  me  like  the  angel 
That  brought  the  immortal  roses 
To  Saint  Cecilia's  bridal  chamber. 

Elsie.  But  these  will  fade. 

Prince  H.  Themselves  will  fade 
But  not  their  memory, 
And  memory  has  the  power 
To  re-create  them  from  the  dust 
They  remind  me,  too, 
Of  martyred  Dorothea, 
Who  from  celestial  gardens  sent 
Flowers  as  her  witnesses 
To  him  who  scoffed  and  doubted. 

Elsie.  Do  you  know  the  story 
Of  Christ  and  the  Sultan's  daughter  ? 
That  is  the  prettiest  legend  <A'  them  all 

Prince  11.  Then  tell  it  to  me. 
But  first  come  hither. 
Lay  the  flowers  down  beside  me. 
And  put  both  thy  hands  in  mine. 
Now  tell  me  the  story. 

Elsie.  Early  in  the  mornide 
The  Sultan's  daughter 
Walked  in  her  father's  garden, 
Gathering  the  bright  flowers, 
All  full  of  dew. 

Prina  II .  Just  as  tli"'i  hast  been  doing 
This  morning,  dearest  Elsie. 

Elsie.  And  as  she  gathered  them. 


She 

Who  wm  the  Ma  -a, 

And  made  the 

Out  of  tin  rk  earth. 

u  In  my  heart,'1  she  said, 
>e  hi  in  ;  and  for  him 
Would  leave  my  father's  palace. 
To  labour  in  His  gardi 

Prince  H.  Dear,  innocent  child  ! 
How  sweetly  thou  recallest 
The  I  .end, 

That  in  my  early  childhood 
.My  mother  told  me  ! 
Upon  my  brain 
It  reappears  once  moi 

birth-mark  on  the  forehead 
When  a  hand  .suddenly 
Is  laid  upon  it,  and  removed ! 
Elsie.  And  at  midnight, 

•ne  lay  upon  her  bed, 
She  heard  a  voice 
Call  to  her  from  the  garden, 
And,  Looking  forth  from  her  wind' 
She  saw  a  beautiful  youth 
Standing  among  the  hVwers. 
It  was  the  Lord  Jesu 
And  she  went  down  to  him, 
And  opened  the  door  for  him  ; 
And  he  said  to  her,  "  0  maiden  ! 
Thou  hast  thought  of  me  with  love, 
And  for  thy  sake 
Out  of  my  Father's  kingdom 
Have  I  come  hither  ; 

d  the  Master  of  the  Flowers. 
garden  is  in  Paradise, 
And  if  thou  wilt  go  with  me, 
Thy  bridal  garland 
Shall  be  of  bright  red  flowers." 
And  then  he  took  from  his  finger 

.  len  ring, 
And  asked  the  Sultan's  daughter 
If  she  would  be  his  bride. 
And  when  she  answered  him  with  love, 
His  wounds  began  to  bleed. 


p- 


.1.1 


Trn:  r.oi.niTN  uioend. 


i 


And  she  said  to  hini, 

•'  1 1  love  !  how  red  thy  heart  is, 

And  thy  hands  arc  full  <'t'rnscs.', 
"  For  thy  BB  '1  lie, — 

"  For  thy  sake  is  my  heart  so  red, 
For  thee  I  living  these  roses  ; 
I  gathered  them  at  the  cross 
Whereon  1  died  for  thee  ! 

i,  for  my  Father  calls. 
Thou  art  my  elected  bride  !" 
And  the  Sultan's  daughter 
Followed  him  to  his  Father's  garden. 

Prince  H.  Wouldst  thou  have  done  so,  Elsie  ' 

Elsie.  Yes,  very  gladly. 

Prince  II.   Then  the  Celestial  Bridegroom 
Will  come  for  thee  also, 
Upon  thy  forehead  he  will  place, 
Not  his  crown  of  thorns, 
But  a  crown  of  roses. 
In  thy  bridal  chamber, 
Like  Saint  Cecilia, 
Thou  shalt  hear  sweet  music. 
And  breathe  the  fragrance 
Of  flowers  immortal  ! 
Go  now  and  place  these  flowers 
Before  her  picture. 


A  ROOM  IN  TIIE  FARM-HOUSE. 
Twilight.  Ursula  spinning.  Gottlieb  asleep  in  his  chair 
Urs.  Darker  and  darker !     Hardly  a  glimmer 
Of  light  comes  in  at  the  window-pane  ; 
Or  is  it  my  eyes  are  growing  dimmer  ! 
I  cannot  disentangle  the  skein, 
Nor  wind  it  rightly  upon  the  reel. 
Elsie ! 

Gott.  {starting).  The  stopping  of  thy  wheel 
Has  wakened  me  out  of  a  pleasant  dream. 
I  thought  I  was  sitting  beside  a  stream, 
And  heard  the  grinding  of  a  mill. 
When  suddenly  the  wheels  stood  still, 


L84 


t.l.ow  s   POKMh 


j  cannot  pin  my  i 

iking  the  lamp,  Elsie.     Doit  thou  hear  / 

Elsie  (within)*   Jn  a  moment ! 

lieb.  Where  are  Bertha  and  .Max  / 

Ursula.  They  are  sitting  with  Elsie  at  the  door 
She  is  telling  them  stories  of  the  wood, 
And  the  Wolf,  and  Little  Red  Ridinghood. 

Gottlieb.  And  where  is  the  Prince 

Ursula.  In  his  room  overhead  ; 
1  heard  him  walking  across  the  floor, 
As  he  always  does,  with  a  heavy  tread. 

Klsie  comes  in  with  a  lump.  Max  and  Bebtha 
follow  her ;  and  they  all  sing  the  Evening  Sow/ 
on  the  lighting  of  the.  lamps, 

EVENING  BOKO. 

0  gladsome  light 
Of  the  Father  Immortal, 
And  of  the  celestial, 
Sacred,  and  blessed 
Jesus,  our  Saviour ! 
Now  to  the  sunset 
Again  hast  thou  brought  us  ; 
And,  seeing  the  evening 
Twilight,  we  bless  thee, 
Praise  thee,  adore  thee  ! 
Father  omnipotent ! 
Son,  the  Life-giver ! 
Spirit,  the  Comforter ! 
Worthy  at  all  times 
Of  worship  and  wonder  ! 
Prince  Henry  {at  the  door).    Amen  ! 
Ursula.  Who  was  it  said  Amen  i 

Elsie.  It  was  the  Prince  :  he  stood  at  the  door, 
And  listened  a  moment,  as  we  chanted 
The  evening  song.     IJe  is  gone  again. 
1  have  often  seen  him  there  before. 
Ursula,    Poor  Prince  ! 
Gottlieb.     I  thought  the  house  was  haunted  ! 
Poor  Prince,  alas  !  and  yet  as  mild 
And  patient  as  the  gentlest  child  ! 

Max.  1  love  him  because  he  is  so  good, 
And  makes  me  such  fine  bows  and  arrows, 
To  shoot  at  the  robins  and  the  sparrows, 


[I 


Nil;  GOLDEN   M'.OEND. 


i 


Si 


I, 


And  the  rod  squirrels  in  tlio  wood  ! 

bertha.  I  love  him,  too  ! 

Oottl ieb.  Ay,  yes  !  we  ali 

Love  him  from  the  bottom  of  our  hearts  ; 
He  gave  us  the  farm,  the  house,  and  the  grange, 

■ve  us  the  horses  and  the  carts, 
And  the  great  oxen  in  the  stall, 
The  vineyard,  and  the  forest  range  ! 
We  have  nothing  to  give  him  but  our  love  ! 

Bertha.  Did  he  give  us  the  beautiful  stork  above 
On  the  chimney-ton,  with  its  large,  round  nest  I 

Gottlieb.  No,  not  the  stork  !  by  God  in  heaven, 
As  a  blessing,  the  dear  white  stork  was  given  ; 
But  the  Prince  has  given  us  all  the  rest. 
God  bless  him,  and  make  him  well  again  ! 

Elsie.  Would  I  could  do  something  for  his  sake, 
Something  to  cure  his  sorrow  and  pain  ! 

Gottlieb.  That  no  one  can  :  neither  thou  nor 
Nor  any  one  else. 

Elsie.  And  must  he  die  ( 

I  rrsula.  Yes  ;  if  the  dear  God  does  not  take 
Pity  upon  him,  in  his  distress, 
And  work  a  miracle  ! 

Gottlieb.  Or  unless 

Some  maiden  of  her  own  accord, 
Offers  her  life  for  that  of  her  lord, 
And  is  willing  to  die  in  his  stead. 

Elsie.  1  will ! 

rrsula.  Prithee,  thou  foolish  child,  be  still ! 
Thou  shouldst  not  say  what  thou  dost  not  mean  ! 

Elsie.  I  mean  it  truly  ! 

Max.  0  father,  this  morning, 

Down  by  the  mill,  in  the  ravine, 
Mans  killed  a  wolf,  the  very  same 
That  in  the  night  to  the  sheepfold  came, 
And  ate  up  my  lamb  that  was  left  outside. 

Gottlieb.  I  am  glad  he  is  dead.    It  will  be  a  warning 
To  the  wolves  in  the  forest,  far  and  wide. 

Max.  And  I  am  going  to  have  his  hide  ! 

Bertha.  I  wonder  if  this  is  the  wolf  that  ate 
Little  Red  Ridinghood  ! 

Ursula.  0,  no ' 

That  wolf  was  killed  a  long  while  a 
Come,  children,  it  is  growing  late. 


c* 


ft 


186 


LONGFKI.l  KM8. 


m 


\h,  hu\v  1  wish  1  were  a  in 
,   (it  as  11 
1  would  do  QOthil  lay  long 

But  just  kill  wolv< 

lieb.  Tin  bed. 

Atul  grow  u  fast  as  a  little  buy  can. 
Bertha  is  half  asleep  already. 
See,  how  she  nods  her  heavy  head, 
And  her  sleepy  feet  are  BO  unsteady 
She  will  hardly  he  able  to  creep  up  Btai 

V rs.  Good  night,  my  children.   Here's  the!.  I 
And  do  not  forge;  four  prayers 

Before  you  sleep. 

Gottlieb.  Good  night ! 

Max  and  Bertha.  d  night ! 

They  go  out  -with  Elsie. 

Ursula  {spinning).    She  is  a  strange  and  wayward 
child, 
That  Elsie  of  ours.     She  looks  so  old, 
And  thoughts  and  fancies,  weird  and  wild, 
Seem  of  late  to  have  taken  hold 
Of  her  heart,  that  was  once  so  docile  and  mild ! 

Gottlieb.  She  is  like  all  girls. 

I  rrsula.  Ah  no,  forsooth  ! 

Unlike  all  I  have  ever  seen. 
For  she  has  visions  and  strange  dreams, 
And  in  all  her  words  and  ways,  she  seems 
Much  older  than  she  is  in  truth. 
Who  would  think  her  but  fourteen  I 
And  there  has  been  of  late  such  a  change  ! 
My  heart  is  heavy  with  fear  and  doubt 
That  she  may  not  live  till  the  year  is  out. 
She  is  so  strange,— 80  strange, — so  strange  ! 

Gottlieb.  1  am  not  troubled  with  any  such  fear  ; 
She  will  live  and  thrive  for  many  a  year. 


ELSIE'S    CHAMBER. 

Night.     Elsie  prayiiuj. 

Elsie.  My  Redeemer  and  my  Lord, 
1  beseech  thee,  1  entreat  thee, 
Guide  me  in  each  act  and  word, 
That  hereafter  I  may  meet  thee, 
Watching,  waiting,  hoping,  yearning, 


W*$$& 


'*& 


rx 


Till. 


Ib7 


With  my  lamp  well  trimmed  and  burning! 

[interceding, 
Willi  these  bleedi 
Wounda  upon  thy  bands  and  .sale, 
For  all  who  have  lived  and  erred 
Thou  hast  Buffered,  thou  hast  died, 
Scourged,  and  mocked,  and  crucified, 
And  in  the  grave  hast  thou  been  buried  ! 

If  my  feeble  prayer  can  reach  thee, 
0  my  Saviour,  1  beseech  thee, 
Even  as  thou  hast  died  for  me 
More  sincerely 

Let  me  follow  where  thou  ieadest, 
Let  me,  bleeding  as  thou  bleedest 
Die,  if  dying  I  may  give 
Life  to  one  who  asks  to  live. 
And  more  nearly, 
Dying  thus,  resemble  thee  ! 


THE  CHAMBER  OF  GOTTLIEB  AND  URSULA, 

Midnight.    Elsie  standing  by  their  bedside,  weeping, 

Gottlieb.  The  wind  is  roaring  ;  the  rushing  rain 
Is  loud  upon  roof  and  window-pane, 
As  if  the  Wild  Huntsman  of  Rodenstein, 
.Boding  evil  to  me  and  mine, 
Were  abroad  to-night  with  his  ghostly  train  ! 
In  the  brief  lulls  of  the  tempest  wild, 
The  dogs  howl  in  the  yard  ;  and  hark  ! 
Some  one  is  sobbing  in  the  dark, 
Here  in  the  chamber  ! 

Elsie.  It  is  I. 

Ursula.  Elsie,  what  ails  thee,  my  poor  child  ? 

Elsie.  I  am  disturbed  and  much  distressed, 
In  thinking  our  dear  Prince  must  die  ; 
I  cannot  close  mine  eyes,  nor  rest. 

Gottlieb.  "What  wouldst  thou  /  In  the  Power  Divine 
His  healing  lies,  not  in  our  own  ; 
It  is  in  the  hand  of  God  alone. 

Elsie.  Nay,  he  has  put  it  into  mine 
And  into  my  heart ! 

Gottlieb.  Thy  words  are  wild  ! 

Ursula.  What  dost  thou  mean?  my  child!  my  child! 


low's  poems. 


EUie,  That  for  our  dear  Prince  Henry's  a 

1  will  myself  the  offering  make, 
And  give  my  life  to  purchase  his. 

Ursula.  Am  1  still  dreaming  or  awake  ' 
Thou  epeakest  earelesalj  of  death, 

And  yet  thou  knowe6t  not  what  it  is. 
Elsie.  'Tis  the  cessation  of  our  breath, 

Silent  and  motionless  we  lie  ; 

And  no  one  knoweth  more  than  this. 

1  saw  our  little  Gertrude  die  ; 

She  left  off  breathing,  and  no  more 

I  smoothed  the  pillow  beneath  her  head. 

She  was  more  beautiful  than  before 

fake  violets  faded  were  her  eyes  ; 

By  this  we  knew  that  she  was  dr. id. 

Through  the  open  window  looked  the  skies 

Into  the  chamber  where  she  lay, 

And  the  wind  was  like  the  sound  of  wings 

As  if  angels  came  to  bear  her  away. 

Ah  !   when  I  saw  and  felt  these  things, 

I  found  it  difficult  to  stay  ; 

I  longed  to  die,  as  she  had  died, 

And  go  forth  with  her,  side  by  side. 

The  Saints  are  dead,  the  .Martyrs  dead, 

And  Mary,  and  our  Lord  ;  and  1 

Would  follow  in  humility 

The  way  by  them  illumined  ! 

Urs.  My  child  !  my  child  !  thou  must  not  die 
EUie.    Why  should  I  live  ?    Do  I  not  knew 
The  life  of  women  is  full  of  woe  i 
Toiling  on  and  on  and  on, 
With  breaking  heart,  and  tearful  eyes, 
And  silent  lips,  and  in  the  soul 
The  secret  longings  that  arise, 
Which  this  world  never  satisfies  ! 
Some  mere,  some  less,  but  of  the  whole 
Not  one  quite  happy—  no,  not  one  ! 
Ursula.  It  is  the  malediction  of  Eve  I 
Elsie.  In  place  of  it,  let  me  receive 
The  Benediction  of  Mary,  then. 

Gottlieb.  Ah,  woe  is  me  !  Ah,  woe  is  me  f 
Most  wi  etched  am  I  among  men  ! 

Ursula.  Alas!  that  1  should  live  to  see 
TLv  death,  beloved,  •itid  to  stand 


n.1 


VII  E  GOLDEN   LEGEND. 


189 


Above  thy  grave  !  Ah,  woe  the  day  ! 

El  V.  Thou  wilt  not  see  it.     I  shall  lie 
Beneath  the  flowers  of  another  land  ; 
For  at  Salerno,  far  away 
Over  the  mountains,  over  the  sea, 
It  is  appointed  me  to  die  ! 
And  it  will  seem  no  more  to  thee 
Than  if  at  the  village  on  market-day 
I  should  a  little  longer  stay 
Than  I  am  used. 

Ursula.  Even  as  thou  sayest  1 

And  how  my  heart  beats,  when  thou  stayest ! 
I  cannot  rest  until  my  sight 
Is  satisfied  with  seeing  thee. 
What,  then,  if  thou  wert  dead  .' 

Gottlieb.  Ah  me  ! 

Of  our  old  eyes  thou  art  the  light ! 
The  joy  of  our  old  hearts  art  thou  ! 
And  wilt  thou  die  ? 

Ursula.  Not  now  !  not  now  ! 

Elsie.  Christ  died  for  me,  and  shall  not  I 
Be  willing  for  my  Prince  to  die  \ 
You  both  are  silent ;  you  cannot  speak. 
This  said  I,  at  our  Saviour's  feast, 
After  confession,  to  the  priest, 
And  even  he  made  no  reply. 
Does  he  not  warn  us  all  to  seek 
The  happier,  better  land  on  high, 
Where  flowers  immortal  never  wither  ; 
And  could  he  forbid  me  to  go  thither  I 

Gottlieb.  In  God's  own  time,  my  heart's  delight ! 
When  He  shall  call  thee,  not  before  ! 

Elsie.  I  heard  him  call.  "When  Christ  ascended 
Triumphantly,  from  star  to  star 
He  left  the  gates  of  heaven  ajar. 
I  had  a  vision  in  the  night, 
And  saw  him  standing  at  the  door 
Of  his  Father's  mansion,  vast  and  splendid, 
And  beckoning  to  me  from  afar. 
I  cannot  stay  ! 

Gottlieb.  She  speaks  almost 

As  if  it  were  the  Holy  Ghost 
Kpake  through  her  lips,  and  in  her  stead  ! 
What  if  this  were  of  God  ? 


o  D 


■ 


1J0 


1 1 


,1 


LOSQFELLOW S  POEMS 

Ursula.  Ah, 

ay  it  dare  we  not. 

Gottlieb.  Amen  ! 

Elsie  !  the  words  that  thou  oast  said 
Are  Btrange  and  new  for  US  to  hear, 
And  fill  our  hearts  with  doubt  and  : 
Whether  it  lie  a  dark  teuiptati 
Of  the  Evil  One,  or  God's  inspiration, 
We  in  our  blindness  eannot  say. 
We  must  think  upon  it,  and  pray  ; 
For  evil  and  good  it  both  resembles. 
If  it  be  of  God,  his  will  be  done  ! 
May  lie  guard  us  from  the  Evil  One  ! 
How  hot  thy  hand  is !  how  it  trembles  I 
Go  to  thy  bed,  and  try  to  sleep. 

Urs.  Kiss  me.   Goodnight;  and  do  not  weep! 

Klsib  (joes  out.) 
Ah,  what  an  awful  thing  is  this  ! 
I  almost  shuddered  at  her  kiss, 
As  if  a  ghost  had  touched  my  cheek, 
1  am  so  childish  and  so  weak  .' 
As  soon  as  I  see  the  earliest  gray 
Of  morning  glimmer  in  the  east, 
I  will  go  over  to  the  priest, 
And  hear  what  the  good  man  has  to  say  ! 


A  VILLAGE  CHURCH. 
A  woman  kneeling  at  the  (Jo/ifest:- 
The  Parish  Priest  {from  will 
Go,  sin  no  more  !  Thy  penance  o'ei 
A  new  and  better  life  begin  ! 
God  maketh  thee  for  ever  free 
From  the  dominion  of  thy  sin  ! 
Go,  sin  no  more!  lie  will  restore 
The  peace  that  filled  thy  heart  bei 
And  pardon  thine  iniquity  ! 
The  woman  goes  out.     The  priest  comes  forth,  and  walks 
slowly  up  and  down  the  chwrch. 

0  blessed  Lord !  how  much  1  need 

Thy  light  to  guide  me  on  my  way! 

So  many  hands,  that,  without  heed 

Still  touch  thy  wounds,  and  make  them  bleed! 


A 


ex.] 


THE  GULDEN  LK<:' 


191 


' 


WM 


S<  many  feet,  that,  day  l>y  day, 

Still  wander  from  thy  fold  astray! 

Unless  thou  till  me  with  thy  light, 

1  cam;"!  lead  thy  flock  aright; 

Nor,  without  thy  support,  can  bear 

The  burden  "1"  .so  great  a  care, 

But  am  myself  a  castaway !  (-4.  pause.) 

The  day  is  drawing  to  its  close ; 
And  what  good  deeds,  since  first  it  rose, 
Have  1  presented,  Lord,  to  thee, 
As  offerings  of  my  ministry  ? 
What  wrong  repressed,  what  right  maintained, 
What  struggle  passed,  what  victory  gained, 
What  good  attempted  and  attained? 
Feeble,  at  best,  is  my  endeavour ! 
I  see,  but  caimot  reach,  the  height 
That  lies  for  ever  in  the  light, 
And  yet  for  ever  and  for  ever, 
When  seeming  just  within  my  grasp, 
I  feel  my  feeble  hands  unclasp, 
And  sink  discouraged  into  night ! 
For  thine  own  purpose,  thou  hast  sent 
The  strife  and  the  discouragement !  (A.  poju^e, ) 

Why  stayest  thou,  Prince  of  Hoheneck  ? 
Why  keep  me  pacing  to  and  fro 
Amid  these  aisles  of  sacred  gloom, 
Couuting  my  footsteps  as  I  go, 
And  marking  with  each  step  a  tomb  / 
Why  should  the  world  for  thee  make  room, 
And  wait  thy  leisure  and  thy  beck  '( 
Thou  comest  in  the  hope  to  hear 
Some  word  of  comfort  and  of  cheer. 
What  can  I  say  1     I  cannot  give 
The  counsel  to  do  this  and  live  ; 
But  rather,  firmly  to  deny 
The  tempter,  though  his  power  is  strong  ; 
And,  inaccessible  to  wrong, 
Still  like  a  martyr  live  and  die  !  (A  pause.) 

The  evening  air  grows  dusk  and  brown  ; 
I  must  go  forth  into  the  town, 
To  visit  beds  of  pain  and  death, 
Of  restless  limbs,  and  quivering  breath, 
And  sorrowing  hearts,  and  patient  eyes 
That  see,  through  tears,  the  sun  go  down. 


19J 


LOW'S   1' 


m 


But  never  mon 

The  poor  in  body  and 

The  .sick  and  the  disconsolate, 

Must  not  on  man's  oonvenienoe  (<■ 

Enter  Luoifbb,  as  a  Pr\ 

Lucifer  (with  a  genuflexion,  mocking). 
This  is  the  Black  Pater-noster. 
God  was  my  foster, 
He  fostered  me 

Under  the  book  of  the  Palm-tn 
St  Michael  was  my  dame. 
He  was  born  at  Bethlehem, 
He  was  made  of  flesh  and  blood. 
God  send  me  my  right  food, 
My  right  food,  and  shelter  too, 
That  1  may  to  yon  kirk  go, 
To  read  upon  et  book 

Which  the  mighty  God  of  heaven  shook 
Open,  open,  hell's  gates  ! 
Shut,  shut,  heaven's  gates  ! 
All  the  devils  in  the  air 
The  stronger  be,  that  hear  the  Black  Pray* 

Looking  the  church. 

What  a  darksome  and  dismal  place  ! 

I  wonder  that  any  man  has  the  face 

To  call  such  a  hole  the  House  of  the  Lord, 

And  the  Gate  of  Heaven,— yet  such  is.  the  word. 

Ceiling,  and  walls,  and  windows  old, 

Covered  with  cobwebs,  blackened  with  mould  ; 

Dust  on  the  pulpit,  dust  on  the  stairs, 

Dust  on  the  benches,  and  stalls,  and  chairs  ! 

The  pulpit,  from  which  such  ponderous  sermons 

Have  fallen  down  on  the  brains  of  the  Germans, 

AVith  about  as  much  real  edification, 

As  if  a  great  Bible,  bound  in  lead, 

Had  fallen,  and  struck  them  on  the  head  ; 

And  I  ought  to  remember  that  sensation  ! 

Here  stands  the  holy-water  stoup  ! 

Holy-water  it  may  be  to  many, 

But  to  me  the  veriest  Liquor  Gehenna 

It  smells  like  a  filthy  fast-day  soup  ! 

Near  it  stands  the  box  for  the  poor  ; 

\V  ith  its  iron  padlock,  safe  and  sure 


TWK  GOLDEN    I.KiiEND. 


193 


I  an' I  the  priest  of  the  parish  know 

Whither  all  those  charities  go  ; 
Therefore  to  keep  up  the  institution 
I  will  add  my  little  contribution  ! 

tie  puts  in  money. 
Underneath  this  mouldering  tomb, 
With  statue  of  stone  and  scutcheon  of  brass, 
Slumbers  a  great  lord  of  the  village. 
All  his  life  was  riot  and  pillage, 
But  at  length,  to  escape  the  threatened  doom 
Of  the  everlasting,  penal  fire, 
He  died  in  the  dress  of  a  mendicant  friar, 
And  bartered  his  wealth  for  a  daily  mass. 
But  all  that  afterwards  came  to  pass, 
And  whether  he  finds  it  dull  or  pleasant, 
Is  kept  a  secret  for  the  present, 
At  his  own  particular  desire. 

And  here,  in  a  corner  of  the  wall, 
Shadowy,  silent,  apart  from  all, 
With  its  awful  portal  open  wide, 
And  its  latticed  windows  on  either  side, 
And  its  step  well  worn  by  the  bended  knees 
Of  one  or  two  pious  centuries, 
Stands  the  village  confessional ! 
Within  it,  as  an  honoured  guest, 
I  will  sit  me  down  awhile  and  rest ! 

Seats  himself  in  the  confessional. 
Here  sits  the  priest  ;  and  faint  and  low, 
Like  the  sighing  of  an  evening  breeze, 
Comes  through  these  painted  lattices 
The  ceaseless  sound  of  human  woe  ; 
Here,  while  her  bosom  aches  and  throbs 
With  deep  and  agonising  sobs, 
That  half  are  passion,  half  coiitrition, 
The  luckless  daughter  of  perdition 
Slowly  confesses  her  secret  shame  ! 
The  time,  the  place,  the  lovers  name  ! 
Here  the  grim  murderer,  with  a  groan, 
From  his  bruised  conscience  rolls  the  stone 
Thinking  that  thus  he  can  atone 
For  ravages  of  sword  and  flame  ! 
Indeed,  1  marvel,  and  marvel  greatly, 
JJow  a  priest  can  sit  here  so  sedately, 


■yy&*£ 


m 


LONGFELl 


[leading,  the  whole  year  out  and  in, 
Naught  but  the  catalogue  of  sin, 
And  still  keep  any  faith  whatever 

In  human  virtue  !     Never !   never  ! 
1  cannot  repeat  a  thousandth  part 
Of  the  horrors  and  crimes  and  sins  and  w 
That  arise,  when  with  palpitating  throes 
The  graveyard  in  the  human  heart 
Hives  up  its  dead,  at  the  voice  of  the  priest, 
As  if  he  were  an  archangel,  at  least. 
It  makes  a  peculiar  atmosphere, 
Tiiis  odour  of  earthly  passions  and  crimes, 
Such  as  1  like  to  breathe,  at  times, 
And  such  as  often  brings  me  here 
In  the  hottest  and  most  pestilential  season. 
To-day,  1  come  for  another  reason  ; 
To  foster  and  ripen  an  evil  thought 
In  a  heart  that  is  almost  to  madness  wrought, 
And  to  make  a  murderer  out  of  a  prince. 
A  sleight  of  hand  1  learned  long  since  ! 
He  comes.     In  the  twilight  he  will  not  see 
The  difference  between  his  priest  and  me  ! 
In  the  same  net  was  the  mother  caught  ! 

fringe  HENRY  {entering  and  kneeling  at  the  confess 
Remorseful,  penitent,  and  lowly, 
I  come  to  crave,  0  Father  holy, 
Thy  benediction  on  my  head. 

Lucifer.  The  benediction  shall  be  said 
After  confession,  not  before  1 
'Tis  a  God-speed  to  the  parting  guest, 
Who  stands  already  at  the  door, 
Sandalled  with  holiness,  and  dressed 
In  garments  pure  from  earthly  stain. 
Meanwhile,  hast  thou  searched  well  thy  brc 

3  the  same  madness  till  thy  brain  ( 
Or  have  thy  passion  and  unrest 
Vanished  for  ever  from  thy  mind  .' 

Pr.  H.  J3y  the  same  madness  still  made  blind, 
By  the  same  passion  still  possessed, 
I  come  again  to  the  house  of  prayer, 
A  man  afflicted  and  distresse 
As  in  a  cloudy  atmosphere, 
Through  unseen  sluices  of  the  air, 


MM       ■■_, 


II. 


3i 


tiik  coi.nFN  lkoknd 


A  sudden  and  impetuous  wind 
Strikes  tin:  great  Forest  white  with  fear, 
And  every  braneh,  and  bough,  and  spray, 
Points  all  its  quivering  leaves  one  way, 
And  meadows  <■['  grass,  and  fields  of  grain, 
And  the  clouds  above,  and  the  slanting  rain, 
And  smoke  from  chimneys  of  the  town, 
Yield  themselves  to  it,  and  bow  down  ; 
So  dues  this  dreadful  purpose  press 
Onward,  with  irresistible  stress, 
And  all  my  thoughts  and  faculties, 
Struck  level  by  the  strength  of  this, 
From  their  true  inclination  turn, 
Lnd  all  stream  forward  to  Salem  ! 

Lucifer.  Alas  !  we  are  but  eddies  of  dust, 
Uplifted  by  the  blast,  and  whirled 
Along  the  highway  of  the  world 
A  moment  only,  then  to  fall 
Back  to  a  common  level  all, 
At  the  subsiding  of  the  gust  ! 

Prince  11.  0  holy  father !  pardon  in  me 
The  oscillation  of  a  mind 
Unsteadfast,  and  that  cannot  find 
Its  centre  of  rest  and  harmony  ! 
For  evermore  before  mine  eyes 
This  ghastly  phantom  Hits  and  Hies, 
And,  as  a  madman  through  a  crowd, 
With  frantic  gestures  and  wild  cries, 
It  hurries  onward,  and  aloud 
Repeats  its  awful  prophecies  ! 
Weakness  is  wretchedness  !     To  be  strong 
Is  to  be  happy  !     I  am  weak, 
And  cannot  rind  the  good  I  seek, 
Because  I  feel  and  fear  the  wrong  ! 

Lucifer.  Be  not  alarmed  !  The  Church  is  kind, 
And  in  her  mercy  and  her  meeki 
She  meets  half-way  her  children's  weakness, 
Writes  their  transgressions  in  the  dust ! 
Though  in  the  Decalogue  we  find 
The  mandate  written,  "  Thou  shaft  not  kill !'' 
Yet  there  are  cases  when  we  must. 
In  war,  for  instance,  or  from  scathe 

lard  and  keep  the  one  true  Faith  ! 
We  must  look  at  the  Decalogue  in  the  light 


196 


LONOFEI.LOW  8  POEMH. 


Of  an  ancient  statute,  that  was  meant 
i\>i  a  mild  and  general  application. 
To  be  understood  with  the  reservation, 
That,  in  certain  instances]  the  Right 
Must  yield  to  the  Expedient ! 
Thou  art  a  Prince.    If  thou  shouldst  die, 
What  hearts  and  hopes  would  prostrate  lie  ! 
What  noble  deeds,  what  fair  renown, 
Into  the  grave  with  thee  go  down  1 
\\  hat  acts  of  valour  and  courtesy 
Remain  undone,  and  die  with  thee  ! 
Thou  art  the  last  of  all  thy  race  ! 
With  thee  a  noble  name  expires, 
And  vanishes  from  the  earth's  face 
The  glorious  memory  of  thy  sires  ! 
She  is  a  peasant.     In  her  veins 
Flows  common  and  plebeian  blood  ; 
It  is  such  as  daily  and  hourly  stains 
The  dust  and  the  turf  of  battle  plains, 
By  vassals  shed  in  a  crimson  flood, 
Without  reserve,  and  without  reward, 
At  tlw3  slightest  summons  of  their  lord  ! 
But  thine  is  precious  ;  the  fore-appointed 
Blood  of  kings,  of  God's  anointed  ! 
Moreover,  what  has  the  world  in  store 
For  one  like  her,  but  tears  and  toil  ' 
Daughter  of  sorrow,  serf  of  the  soil, 
A  peasant's  child  and  a  peasant's  wife, 
And  her  soul  within  her  sick  and  sore 
With  the  roughness  and  barrenness  of  life  f 
I  marvel  not  at  the  heart's  recoil 
From  a  fate  like  this  in  one  so  tender, 
Nor  at  its  eagerness  to  surrender 
All  the  wretchedness,  want,  and  woe, 
That  await  it  in  this  world  below, 
For  the  unutterable  splendour 
Of  the  world  of  rest  beyond  the  skies. 
So  the  Church  sanctions  the  sacrifice  : 
Therefore  inhale  Ibis  healing  balm, 
And  breathe  this  fresh  life  into  thine  ; 
Accept  the  comfort  and  the  calm 
She  offers,  as  a  gift  divine  ; 
Let  her  fall  down  and  anoint  thy  feet 
With  the  ointment  costly  and  most  sweet 


r.L]  Tin:  GOLDBH  LEGEKD.  197 

Of  her  young  1>I<>hI,  and  fchon  slmlt  live. 

Prince  ll.  And  will  the  righteous  Heaven  forgive  I 
No  action,  whether  foul  or  fair, 
is  ever  done,  hut  it  leaves  somewhere 
A  record,  written  by  fingers  ghostly, 
As  a  blessing  or  a  curse,  and  mostly 
In  the  greater  weakness  or  greater  strength 
Of  the  acts  which  follow  it,  till  at  length 
The  wrongs  of  ages  are  redressed, 
And  the  justice  of  God  made  manifest ! 

Lucifer.  In  ancient  records  it  is  stated 
That,  whenever  an  evil  deed  is  done, 
Another  devil  is  created 
To  scourge  and  torment  the  offending  one  ! 
But  evil  is  only  good  perverted, 
And  Lucifer,  the  Bearer  of  Light, 
But  an  angel  falleu  and  deserted, 
Thrust  from  his  Father's  house  with  a  curse 
Into  the  black  and  endless  night. 

Prince  H.  If  justice  rules  the  universe, 
From  the  good  actions  of  good  men 
^  •  Angels  of  light  should  he  begotten,  B 

And  thus  the  balance  restored  again. 

Lucifer.  Yes  ;  if  the  world  were  not  so  rotten, 
And  so  given  over  to  the  devil ! 

Prince  E.  But  this  deed,  is  it  good  or  evil  i 
Have  I  thine  absolution  free 
To  do  it,  and  without  restriction  ? 

Lucifer.  Ay  ;  and  from  whatsoever  sin 
Lieth  around  it  and  within, 
From  all  crimes  in  which  it  may  involve  thee, 
I  now  release  thee  and  absolve  thee  ! 

Prince  11.  Give  me  thy  holy  benediction. 

Lucifer  {stretching  forth  his  hand  and  muttering). 
.Maledictione  perpetua 
Maledicat  vos 
Pater  eternus ! 

Angel  [with  JEolian  harp).  Take  heed  !  take  heed  ' 
Noble  art  thou  in  thy  birth, 
By  the  good  and  the  great  of  earth 
Hast  thou  been  taught ! 
Be  noble  in  every  thought 
And  in  every  deed  ! 
Let  not  the  illusion  of  thy  senses 


m 


10* 


tFEI.LOW' 


Betray  th  ully  oifen 

prong  !  be  good  !  be  pw 
The  right  only  shall  endu 
All  things  else  we  hut  fall 

I  entreat  thee,  I  implore, 

Listen  no  mure 

To  the  suggestions  of  an  evil  spirit, 

That  even  now  is  there, 

Making  the  foul  seem  fair, 

And  selfishness  itself  a  virtue  and  a  movit 


A  ROOM  IN  TIIK  FARM-HOUSE. 

Gottlieb.  It  is  decided  !   For  many  days, 
And  nights  as  many,  we  have  had 
A  nameless  terror  in  our  hreast, 
Making  us  timid,  and  afraid 
Of  Oo<l  and  his  mysterious  wa; 
We  have  been  sorrowful  and  sad  ; 
Much  have  we  suffered,  much  have  prayed 
That  he  would  lead  us  as  is  best, 
And  show  us  what  his  will  required. 
It  is  decided  ;  and  we  give 
Our  child,  0  Prince,  that  you  may  live  ! 

Ursula.  It  is  of  God.  lie  has  inspired 
This  purpose  in  her  ;  and  through  pain, 
Out  of  a  world  of  sin  and  woe, 
xle  takes  her  to  himself  again. 
The  mothers  heart  resists  no  longer, 
With  the  Angel  of  the  Lord  in  vain 
It  wrestled,  for  he  was  the  stronger. 

Gottlieb.  As  Abraham  offered  long  ago 
His  son  unto  the  Lord,  and  own 
The  Everlasting  Father  in  heaven 
Gave  his,  as  a  lamb  unto  the  slaughter, 
So  do  I  offer  up  my  daughter  '.a  hides  hei  face.) 

.  My  life  is  little, 
Only  a  cup  of  water. 
But  pure  ami  limpid. 
Take  it,  0  my  Prince  ! 
Let  it  refresh  you, 
Let  it  restore  you. 
It  is  given  williuslv- 


^ 


II.] 


rm:  ooT,r>EN  leoi 


l!l!» 


It  is  given  freely  : 
May  Qod  bless  the  gift! 

Prince  II.  And  tin'  ;;■ 
'.'.  "'■'■■  '.    Amen  ! 
Prince  II.  I  accept  it ! 
Gottlieb.    Where  are  the  children  i 
ley  are  already  .asleep. 
(lottlkb.    What  if  they  were  dead  / 


1U0 


IN  THE  GARDEN. 

/7//g.  I  have  erne  thing  to  ask  of  you. 

Prince  Henry.  What  is  it  / 

It  is  already  granted. 

Elsie.  Promise  me, 

When  we  are  gone  from  here,  and  on  our  way 
Are  journeying  to  Salerno,  you  will  not, 
By  word  or  deed,  endeavour  to  dissuade  me 
And  turn  me  from  my  purpose  :  but  remember 
That  as  a  pilgrim  to  the  Holy  City 
Walks  unmolested,  and  with  thoughts  of  pardon 
Occupied  wholly,  so  would  I  approach 
The  gates  of  Heaven,  in  this  great  jubilee, 
With  my  petition,  putting  off  from  me 
All  thoughts  of  earth ,  as  shoes  from  off  my  feet. 
Promise  me  this. 

Prince  Henry.      Thy  words  fall  from  thy  lips 
Like  roses  from  the  lips  of  Angelo ;  and  angels 
Might  stoop  to  pick  them  up  ! 

\sie.  Will  you  not  promise  l 

Prince  E.  If  ever  we  depart  upon  this  journey, 
So  long  to  one  or  both  of  us,  I  promise. 

Elsie.  Shall  we  not  go,  then  ?  Have  you  lifted  me 
Into  the  air,  only  tu  hurl  me  back 
Wounded  upon  the  ground  /  and  offered  me 
The  waters  of  eternal  life,  to  bid  me 
Drink  the  polluted  puddles  of  this  world  I 

Pr.  11.  0  Elsie  !  what  a  lesson  thou  dost  teach  me! 
The  life  which  is,  and  that  which  is  to  © 
Suspended  hang  in  such  nice  equipoi 
A  breath  disturbs  the  balance  ;  and  that  scale 
In  which  we  throw  our  hearts  preponderates, 
And  the  other,  like  an  enu>ty  one,  Hies  up. 


£00 


J.O?WFi:i.l..<\v  -   I'uRMS. 


And  If  accounted  vanity  and  air  ! 

To  me  the  thought  of  death  is  terrible, 

Having  Mich  hold  '.ii  life.     To  thee  it  is  not 

So  much  even  as  the  lifting  of  a  latch  ; 

Only  a  step  into  the  open  air 

Out  of  a  tent  already  luminous 

With  light  that  shines  through  its  transparent  walls' 

0  pure  in  heart  !  from  thy  sweet  dust  shall  gi 
Lilies,  upon  whose  petals  will  be  written 
"Ave  Maria"  in  characters  of  gold  ! 


III. 
A  STREET  IN  STRASBURG. 

Night.     Prince  Henry  wandering  alone,  wrapped 
in  a  cloak. 

Prince  II.  Still  is  the  night.    The  sound  of  feet 
lias  died  away  from  the  empty  street  ; 
And  like  an  artizan,  bending  down 
His  head  on  his  anvil,  the  dark  town 
Sleeps,  with  a  slumber  deep  and  sweet. 
Sleepless  and  restless,  I  alone, 
In  the  dusk  and  damp  of  these  walls  of  stone, 
Wander  and  weep  in  my  remorse  ! 

OBIEB  of  the  DEAD  {ringing  a  bell). 
Wake  !  wake  ! 
All  ye  that  sleep  ! 
Pray  for  the  Dead  ! 
Pray  for  the  Dead  ! 
Pr.  H.  Hark  !  with  what  accents  loud  and  !.• 
Tliis  warder  on  the  walls  of  death 
Sends  forth  the  challenge  of  his  breath  ! 
I  see  the  dead  that  sleep  in  the  grave  ! 
They  rise  up,  and  their  garments  wave, 
Dimly  and  spectral,  as  they  rise. 
With  the  light  of  another  world  in  their  eyes ! 
Crier  of  the  Dead.  Wake  !  wake  ! 
All  ye  that  sleep  ! 
Pray  for  the  Dead  ! 
Pray  for  the  Dead  ! 
Prince  H.  "Why  for  the  dead,  who  arc  at  rest ! 
Pray  for  the  living,  in  whose  breast 
The  struggle  between  right  and  wrong 


■  I 


mm 


g 


III.  I 


THE  flOMH'.N  LEGEU  D. 


201 


Is  raging  terrible  and  strong, 
As  when  good  angels  war  with  devils  ; 
This  is  the  Master  of  the  Revels, 
Who,  ;;i  Life's  flowing  feast,  |  i 
The  health  of  absent  friends,  and  pledges, 
Nb1  in  bright  goblets  crowned  with  roses, 
And  tinkling  as  we  touch  their  edges, 
But  with  his  dismal  tinkling  bell, 
.Mocks  and  mimics  their  funeral  knell  ! 
r  of  the  Dead.  Wake!  wake! 

All  ye  that  sleep  ! 
Pray  for  the  ])ead  ! 
Pray  for  the  Dead  ! 
Prince  II.  Wake  not,  beloved  !  be  thy  sleep 
Silent  as  night  is,  and  as  deep  ! 
There  walks  a  sentinel  at  thy  gate 
Whose  heart  is  heavy  and  desolate, 
And  the  heavings  of  whose  bosom  numbei 
The  respirations  of  thy  slumber, 
As  if  some  strange,  mysterious  fate 
Had  linked  two  hearts  in  one,  and  mine 
Went  madly  wheeling  about  thine, 
Only  with  wilder  and  wilder  sweep  ! 

Crier  of  the  Dead  {at  a  distance). 

Wake  !  wake  ! 

All  ye  that  sleep  ! 

Pray  for  the  Dead  ! 

Pray  for  the  Dead  ! 
Pr.  B.  Lo  !  with  what  depth  of  blackness  throws 
Against  the  clouds,  far  up  the  skies, 
The  walls  of  the  cathedral  rise, 
Like  a  mysterious  grove  of  stone, 
With  fitful  lights  and  shadows  blending. 
As  from  behind,  the  moon,  ascending, 
Lights  its  dim  aisles  and  paths  unknowu  ! 
The  wind  is  rising  !  but  the  boughs 
Fuse  not  and  fall  not  with  the  wind 
That  through  their  foliage  sobs  and  soughs  ; 
Only  the  cloudy  rack  behind, 
Drifting  onward,  wild  and  ragged, 
Gives  to  each  spire  and  buttress  jagged 
A  seeming  motion  undefined. 
Below  on  the  square,  an  armed  knight, 
Still  as  a  statue  and  a*  white, 


202 


l.o.N 


'i  ins  steed,  and  the  moon  aivei 

Upon  the  points  of  his  armour  bright 
As  on  the  ripples  of  a  river. 
lie  lifts  the  visor  from  his  cheek, 
And  beckons,  and  makes  as  he  would  .speak. 

Walter  {the  Mil  r).  Friend  !  can  yen  teii 

me  where  alight 
rhuringia's  horsemen  for  the  night '. 
Fur  1  have  lingered  in  the  rear, 
Ami  wandered  vainly  up  and  d< 

Prince  11.  1  am  a  stranger  in  the  town, 
As  thou  art ;  but  the  voice  1  hear 
Is  not  a  stranger  to  mine  ear. 
Thou  art  Walter  of  the  Vogelweid  ! 

Walter.  Thou  hast  guessed  rightly  ;  and  thy  name 
Is  Henry  of  Hoheneck! 

Prince  U,  Ay,  the  same. 

Wal.(embracing  him).  Come  closer,  closer  to  my  side! 
What  brings  thee  hither/  What  potent  charm 
lias  drawn  thee  from  thy  German  farm 
Into  the  old  Alsatian  city  ? 

Prince  II.  A  tale  of  wonder  and  of  pity  ! 
A  wretched  man,  almost  by  stealth 
Dragging  m\  body  to  Salern, 
In  the  vain  hope  and  search  of  health, 
And  destined  never  to  return. 
Already  thou  hast  heard  the  rest. 
But  what  brings  thee,  thins  armed  and  dight 
In  the  equipments  of  a  knight  I 

Walter.  Dost  thou  not  see  upon  my  bl 
The  cross  of  the  Crusaders  shine  I 
My  pathway  leads  to  Palestine. 

Prince  11.  All,  would  that  nay  were  also  mine  ! 

0  noble  poet  !  thou  whose  heart 
Is  like  a  nest  of  singing-birds 
Rocked  on  the  topmost  bough  of  life, 
Wilt  thou,  too,  from  our  sky  depart, 
And  in  the  clangour  of  the  strife 
Mingle  the  music  of  thy  words  i 

Walter.  My  hopes  are  high,  my  heart  is  proud, 
And  like  a  trumpet  long  and  loud, 
Thither  my  thoughts  all  clang  and  ring  ! 
My  life  is  in  my  hand,  and  lo  ! 

1  grasp  and  bend  it  as  a  bow, 


m.l 


Tin:  GOLDEN  I 


And  nth  from  its  trembling  string 

An  arrow,  that  shall  be,  perchance, 
Like  the  arrow  of  the  Israelite  king 
Slmt  from  the  nrindow  towards  the  cast, 

That  of  the  Lord's  deliverance  ' 

Prince  //.  My  life,  alas !  is  what  thou  set 

0  enviable  fate  !  to  be 

Strong,  beautiful,  and  armed  like  thee 

With  lyre  and  sword,  with  .son'.;  and  steel ; 
A  hand  to  smite,  and  a  heart  to  feel ! 
Thy  heart,  th\  hand,  thy  lyre,  thy  sword, 
Thougivest  all  unto  thy  Lord  ; 
While  ],  so  mean  and  abject  grown, 
Am  thinking  of  myself  alone. 

Walter.  Be  patient:  Time  will  reinstate 
Thy  health  and  fortunes. 

Prince  Henry.  'Tis  too  late  ! 

1  cannot  strive  against  my  fate  ! 

Walter.  Come  with  me  ;  fir  my  steed  is  weary; 
Our  journey  has  been  lung  and  dreary, 
And,  dreaming  of  his  stall,  he  dints 
With  his  impatient  hoofs  the  (lints. 

Prince  11.  {aside.)  I  am  ashamed,  in  my  disgrace, 
To  look  into  that  noble  face  ! 
To-morrow,  Walter,  let  it  be. 

Walter.  To-morrow,  at  the  dawn  of  day 
I  shall  again  be  on  my  way. 
Come  with  me  to  the  hostelry, 
For  I  have  many  things  to  say. 
Our  journey  into  Italy 
Perchance  together  we  may  make  ; 
Wilt  thou  not  do  it  for  my  sake  i 

Prince  11.  A  sick  man's  pace  would  but  impede 
Thine  eager  and  impatient  speed. 
Besides,  my  pathway  leads  me  round 
To  Hirschau,  in  the  forest's  bound, 
Where  I  assemble  man  and  steed, 
And  all  things  for  my  journey's  need.  {They  go  out.) 

Lucifer  (flying  over  the  city). 
Sleep,  sleep,  0  city  !  till  the  light 
Wakes  you  to  sin  aud  crime  again, 
Whilst  on  your  dreams,  like  dismal  rain, 
1  scatter  downward  through  the  night 
maledictions  dark  and  deep. 


JU-1  LL0W6   I 

I  have  more  martyrs  in  your  w 
Than  God  baa  ;  and  they  cannol 
They  arc  my  bondsmen  and  my  thralls  ; 
Their  wretched  lives  are  full  of  pain, 
Will  agonies  of  nerve  and  brain  ; 
And  every  heart-beat,  every  breath 
Is  a  convulsion  worse  than  death  ! 
Sleep,  sleep,  0  city  !  though  within 
The  circuit  of  your  walls  there  lies 

habitation  free  from  sin, 
And  all  its  nameless  niisei 
The  aching  heart,  the  aching  head, 
Grief  fur  the  living  and  the  dead, 
And  foul  corruption  of  the  time, 
Disease,  distress,  and  want,  and  woe, 
And  crimes,  and  passions  that  may  grow 
Until  they  ripen  into  crime  ! 


SQUARE  IN  FRONT  OF  THE  CATHEDRAL. 

Easier  Sunday.  Friar  Cuthrert  preaching  to  the  crowd 
from  a  pulpit  in  the  open  air.      Prince  Hex  it y  and 
Elsie  crossing  the  square. 

Prince  H.  This  is  the  day,  when  from  the  dead 
Our  Lord  arose  ;  and  everywhere, 
Out  of  their  darkness  and  despair, 
Triumphant  over  fears  and  foes, 
The  hearts  of  his  disciples  rose, 
When  to  the  women,  standing  near, 
The  Angel  in  shining  vesture  said, 
"  The  Lord  is  risen  ;  he  is  not  here  !' 
And,  mindful  that  the  day  is  come, 
On  all  the  hearths  in  Christendom 
The  fires  are  quenched,  to  be  again 
Rekindled  from  the  sun,  that  high 
Is  dancing  in  the  cloudless  sky. 
The  churches  are  all  decked  with  flowers,. 
The  salutations  among  men 
Are  but  the  Angel's  words  divine, 
"  Christ  is  arisen  !"  and  the  bells 
Catch  the  glad  murmur,  as  it  swells, 
And  chant  together  in  their  towers 


Lit. 


TIM:  GOLDF.K 


sot 


1 


All  hearts  are  glad  ;  and  free  from  care 
The  faces  of  the  people  shine. 
Bee  v, !iat  a  crowd  is  in  the  square] 
Gaily  and  gallantlj  arrayed  ! 

Elsie.  Let  us  go  back  ;  J  am  afraid  ! 

Prince  II.  Nay,  let  as  mount  the  church-steps  here, 
Under  the  doorway's  sacred  shadow  : 
We  can  see  all  things,  and  be  freer 
From  the  crowd  that  madly  heaves  and  presses  ! 

Elsie.  What  a  gay  pageant !  what  bright  dresses ! 
It  looks  like  a  flower-besprinkled  meadow 
What  is  that  yonder  on  the  square  ? 

Prince  II.  A  pulpit  in  the  open  air  ; 
And  a  Friar,  who  is  preaching  to  the  crowd 
In  a  voice  so  deep  and  clear  and  loud, 
That,  if  we  listen,  and  give  heed, 
His  lowest  words  will  reach  the  ear. 

Fria?  Cathbert  (gesticulating  and  cracking  a 
jiostilion's  whip). 
What  ho  !  good  people  !  do  you  not  hear  '. 
Dashing  along  at  the  top  of  his  speed, 
Booted  and  spurred,  on  his  jaded  steed, 
A  courier  comes  with  words  of  cheer. 
Courier  !  what  is  the  news  I  pray  .; 
"  Christ  is  arisen  !"  Whence  come  you  ?  "  From  court. 
Then  I  do  not  believe  it  ;  you  say  it  in  sport. 

(Cracks  his  whip  aga\ 
Ah  !  here  comes  another,  riding  this  way, 
We  soon  shall  know  what  he  has  to  say- 
Courier  !  what  are  the  tidings  to-day  ? 
"  Christ  is  arisen  !"  "When  come  you  '.  "  From  town." 
Then  I  do  not  believe  it  ;  away  with  you,  clown. 

(Cracks  his  whip  more  violently.) 
And  here  comes  a  third,  who  is  spurring  amain  : 
What  news  do  you  bring  with  your  loose-hanging  rein, 
Your  spurs  wet  with  blood,  and  your  bridle  with  foam  ( 
"Christ  is  arisen  !"  \\  hence  come  you?  "From  Rome." 
Ah,  now  I  believe.     lie  is  risen,  indeed. 
Ride  on  with  the  news  at  the  top  of  your  speed  ! 

(Great  applause  among  the  crowd.) 
To  come  back  to  my  text !  When  the  news  was  first  spread 
That  Christ  was  arisen  indeed  from  the  dead, 
Very  great  was  the  joy  of  the  angels  in  heaven  ; 
And  as  great  the  dispute  as  to  who  should  carry      0 


L'ot; 


The  tidingi  thereof  to  the  Virgin  W 
Fieroed  to  the  heart  with  sorrows  seven. 
Old  Father  Adam  was  first  to  propose, 

As  being  the  author  of  all  our  woes  ; 
But  he  was  refused,  for  fear,  said  they, 
JJe  would  stop  to  eat  apples  on  the  wi 

Abel  came  next,  but  petitioned  in  vain, 

Because  he  might  meet  with  his  brother  Cain  ! 

Noah,  too,  was  refused,  lest  his  weakness  for  win* 

Should  delay  him  at  every  tavern-sign  ; 

And  John  the  Baptist  could  not  get  a  vote, 

On  account  of  his  old-fashioned,  camel's-hair  coat ; 

And  the  Penitent  Thief,  who  died  on  the  cross, 

Was  reminded  that  all  his  bones  were  broken  ! 

Till  at  last,  when  each  in  turn  had  spoken, 

The  company  being  still  at  a  loss, 

The  Angel,  who  rolled  away  the  stone. 

Was  sent  to  the  sepulchre,  all  alone, 

And  filled  with  glory  that  gloomy  prison, 

And  said  to  the  Virgin,  "  The  Lord  is  arisen. 

The  Cathedral  bells  ring.) 
But  hark  !  the  bells  are  beginning  to  chime  ; 
And  I  feel  that  I  am  growing  hoarse. 
1  will  put  an  end  to  my  di 
And  leave  the  rest  for  some  other  time. 
For  the  bells  themselves  are  the  best  of  preachers  , 
Their  brazen  lips  are  learned  teachers, 
From  their  pulpits  of  stone,  in  the  upper  air, 
Sounding  aloft,  without  erack  or  flaw, 
Shriller  than  trumpets  under  the  Law, 
Now  a  sermon  and  now  a  prayer. 
The  clangorous  hammer  is  the  tongue, 
This  way,  that  way,  beaten  and  swung, 
That  from  Mouth  of  Brass,  as  from  .Mouth  of  Gold, 
May  be  taught  the  Testaments,  New  and  Ok 
And  above  it  the  great  cross-beam  of  wood 
Represented  the  Holy  Rood, 
Upon  which,  like  the  bell,  our  hopes  are  hung. 
And  the  wheel  wherewith  it  is  swayed  and  rung 
Is  the  mind  of  man,  that  round  and  round 
Sways  and  maketh  the  tongue  to  sound  ! 
And  the  rope,  with  its  twisted  cordage  three 
Denoteth  the  Scriptural  Trinity 
Of  Morals,  and  Symbols,  and  History  ; 


IM. 


Til!',  GOLDEN   i.K'. I  n  D. 


207 


And  the  upward  and  downward  motions  show 

Thai  we  touch  apon  matters  high  and  Urn  ; 

Ami  the  oonstant  change  and  transmutation 

I  >r  action  and  of  contemplation, 

Downward,  the  Scripture  brought  from  on  high, 

Upward,  exalted  again  to  the  sky  ; 

Down  ward,  the  liter  il  interpretation, 

Upward,  the  vision  and  Mystery! 

And  DOW,  my  hearers,  to  make  an  end, 

I  have  only  one  word  more  to  say ; 

In  the  church,  in  honour  of  Easter-day, 

Will  he  represented  a  .Miracle  Play  ; 

And  I  hope  you  will  all  have  the  grace  to  attend. 

Christ  bring  us  at  last  to  his  felicity  ! 

Pax  vohiscum  !  et  Benedicite  ! 


IN  THE  CATHEDRAL. 

Chant.  Kyrie  Eleison  ! 
(  hriste  Eleison  ! 

Elsie.  I  am  at  home  here  in  my  Father's  house  ! 
These  paintings  of  the  Saints  upon  the  walls 
Have  all  familiar  and  benignant  faces. 

Prince  11.  The  portraits  of  the  family  of  God  ! 
Thine  own  hereafter  shall  he  placed  among  them. 

Elsie.  How  very  grand  it  is,  and  wonderful ! 
Never  have  I  beheld  a  church  so  splendid  ! 
Such  columns,  and  such  arches,  and  such  windows, 
So  many  tombs  and  statues  in  the  chapels, 
And  under  them  so  many  confessionals. 
They  must  be  for  the  rich.     I  should  not  like 
To  tell  my  sins  in  such  a  church  as  this. 
Who  built  it  ! 

Prince  II.  A  great  master  of  his  craft, 
Erwin  von  Steinbach  ;  but  not  he  alone, 
For  many  generations  laboured  with  him, 
Children  that  came  to  see  these  saints  in  stone, 
As  day  by  day  nut,  of  the  blocks  they  rose, 
Grew  old  and  died,  and  .still  the  work  went  on, 
And  on,  and  on,  and  is  not  yet  completed. 
The  generation  that  succeeds  our  own 
Perhaps  may  finish  it.     The  architect 
Built  his  meat  heart  into  these  sculptured  stones, 


And  with  him  toiled  his  children,  and  their  li\. 
Were  builded,  with  his  own,  Into  the  walls, 

ee  that  statue 
Fixi:  yous,  bu1  deep-wrinkled eyes 

Upon  the  Pillar  of  the  Angels  yondi 
That  is  the  image  of  the  master,  carved 
By  the  fair  hand  of  his  own  child,  Sabi 

Elsie,   How  beautiful  isthe  column  that  he  looks  at ! 

Prince  II.  That,  too,  she  sculptured.  At  the  base  of  it 
Stand  the  K\  ta  ;  abore  their  heads 

Pour  Angela  blowing  upon  marble  trumpets, 
And  over  them  the  blessed  Christ,  surrounded 
By  his  attendant  ministers,  upholding 
The  instruments  of  his  passion. 

Elsie.  0  my  Lord  ! 

Would  I  could  leave  behind  me  upon  earth 
Some  monument  to  thy  glory,  such  as  this  ! 

Prince  11.  A  greater  monument  than  this  thou  leaved 
In  thine  own  life,  all  purity  and  love  ! 
See,  too,  the  Rose,  above  the  western  portal 
Flamboyant  with  a  thousand  gorgeous  colours, 
The  perfect  flower  of  Gothic  lovelin 

Elsie.    And,  in  the  gallery,  the  I  nag  line  of  statues. 
Christ  with  his  Twelve  Apostles  watching  us. 
( .1  BlSHOF  in  armour,  booted  and  spurred,  pa& 
with  his  train.) 

Prince  11.  But  come  away  ;  we  have  not  time  to  look. 
The  crowd  already  fills  the  church,  and  yonder 
Upon  a  Btage,  a  herald  with  a  trumpet, 
Clad  like  the  Angel  Gabriel,  proclaims 
The  Mystery  that  will  now  be  represented. 


THE   NATIVITY. 

A  MIRACLE  PLAT.* 
IXTROITUS. 

Pneco.  Come,  good  people,  all  and  each, 
Come  and  listen  to  our  speech  ! 
in  your  presence  here  I  stand, 
With  a  trumpet  in  my  hand, 
To  announce  the  Easter  Play, 
W  hich  we  represent  to-day ! 

•  These  plays  arc  still  continued  in  the  Roman  Catnolie  Church 


„ , ,~  - 


III. 


Till)  CJOLDEN   LEGEND. 


209 


I 


First  of  all,  we  shall  reb< 

In  OUT  action  and  OUI  vti 
The  Nativity  of  OUT  Lord, 
A    written  in  the  old  record 
Of  the  Protevangelion, 

So  that  he  who  reads  may  run  ! 

(IHoios  his  Crumpet, 


I    HEAVEN. 

Mercy  (at  the  feet  of  God). 
Have  pity,  Lord !  be  not  afraid 
To  save  mankind,  whom  thou  hast  made, 
Nor  let  the  souls  that  were  betrayed 
Perish  eternally  ! 
Justice.  It  cannot  be,  it  must  not  be  ! 
When  in  the  garden  placed  by  thee, 
The  fruit  of  the  forbidden  tree 
He  ate  and  he  must  die  ! 
Mercy.    Have  pity,  Lord  !  let  penitence 
Atone  for  disobedience, 
Nor  let  the  fruit  of  man's  offence 
Be  endless  misery ! 
Justice.    What  penitence  proportionate 
Can  e'er  be  felt  for  sin  so  great  ? 
Of  the  forbidden  fruit  he  ate, 
And  damned  must  he  be ! 
God.    He  shall  be  saved,  if  that  within 
The  bounds  of  earth  one  free  from  sin 
Be  found,  who  for  his  kith  and  kin 
Will  suffer  martyrdom. 
The  Four  Virtues. 
Lord !  we  have  searched  the  world  around, 
From  centre  to  the  utmost  bound, 
But  no  such  mortal  can  be  found  ; 
Despairing,  back  we  come. 
Wisdom.  No  mortal,  but  a  Cud  made  man. 
Can  ever  carry  out  this  plan, 
Achieving  what  none  other  can, 
Salvation  unto  all ! 
God.    Go,  then,  0  my  beloved  Son, 
It  can  by  thee  alone  lie  done  ; 


•*' 


Longfellow's  poems. 


By  thee  the  victory  on 

O'er  Satan  and  the  Fall ! 
{Here  the  A5GEL  Gabbiel  Bhall  leave  Paradise  and 
fly  towards  the  earth  ;  the  jaws  of  Hell  open  below, 
and  the  '  •  <ilk  about,  making  a  great  7ioise.) 


II.   MARY  AT  TLIE  WFI.I.. 

Mary.    Along  the  garden  walk,  and  thence 
Through  the  wicket  in  the  garden  fence, 

I  steal  with  quiet  pace, 
My  pitcher  at  the  well  to  fill, 
That  lies  so  deep  and  cool  and  still 

In  this  sequestered  place. 
These  sycamores  keep  guard  around  ; 
1  see  no  face,  I  hear  no  sound, 

Save  bubblings  of  the  spring, 
And  my  companions,  who  within 
The  threads  of  gold  and  scarlet  .spin, 
And  at  their  labour  sing. 
A  ngel  Gabriel.  Hail,  Virgin  Mary,  full  of  grace ! 
Here  Mary  looketh  around  her,  trembling,  and  then  saith  : 
Mar;/.    Who  is  it  speaketh  in  this  place 

With  such  a  gentle  voice  ? 
Gabriel.    The  Lord  of  heaven  is  with  thee  now ! 
Blessed  among  all  women  thou, 
W  ho  art  his  holy  choice  ! 
Mary  (setting  down  her  pitch 
What  can  this  mean  ?    No  one  is  near . 
And  yet  such  sacred  words  I  hear, 

1  almost  fear  to  stay. 
Here  the  Angel,  appearing  to  her,  shall  say: 

Gabriel.  Fear  not,  0  Mary!  hut  believe  ! 
For  thou,  a  Virgin,  shalt  conceive 

A  child  this  very  day. 
Fear  not,  0  Mary ;  from  the  sky 
The  Majesty  of  the  Most  High 
Shall  overshadow  thee  ! 
Mary.    Behold  the  handmaid  of  the  Lord! 
According  to  thy  holy  word, 
So  be  it  unto  me  ! 

(Here  the  Devils  shall  again  make  a  great  n</i^e  under 
the  stage?) 


III. 


^c 


HI.   SHI  ANGELS  OF  Tin;  si:vi;n  planets, 
wring  the  Star  of  Bethlehem, 

The  Angels.  The  Angels  of  the  Planets  Seven 
A.  toss  the  shining  fields  of  heaven 

The  natal  star  we  bring  ! 
Dropping  our  sevenfold  virtues  down, 
As  priceless  jewels  in  the  crown 

Of  Christ,  our  new-born  King. 

Raphael.    I  am  the  Angel  of  the  Sun, 
Whose  Hauring  wheels  began  to  run 

When  God's  almighty  breath 

!  to  the  Darkness  and  the  Night, 
Let  there  be  light !  and  there  was  light ! 

I  bring  the  gift  of  Faith. 
Gabriel.    I  am  the  Angel  of  the  Moon 
Darkened,  to  be  rekindled  soon 

Beneath  the  azure  cope  ! 
Nearest  to  earth,  it  is  my  ray 
That  best  illumes  the  midnight  way. 

I  bring  the  gift  of  Hope  ! 
Anael.    The  Angel  of  the  Star  of  Love. 
The  Evening  Star,  that  shines  above 

The  place  where  lovers  be, 
Above  all  happy  hearths  and  homes, 
On  roofs  of  thatch,  or  golden  domes, 

I  give  him  charity  ! 
Zobiachel.    The  Planet  Jupiter  is  mine 
The  mightiest  star  of  all  that  shine, 

Except  the  sun  alone  ! 
lie  is  the  High  Priest  of  the  Dove, 
And  sends,  from  his  great  throne  above, 

Justice,  that  shall  atone  ! 
Michael.  The  Planet  .Mercury,  whose  place 
Is  nearest  to  the  suu  in  space, 

Is  my  allotted  sphere  ! 
And  with  celestial  ardour  swift 

r  upon  my  hands  the 

Of  heavenly  Prudence  here! 
Uriel.    I  am  the  Minister  of  Mars, 
The  strongest  star  among  the  stars  ! 

My  songs  of  power  prelude 
The  march  and  "hurtle  of  man's  life, 


212 


H 


Ami  for  the  Buffering  and  the  strife, 

1  give  liiin  Fortitude  ! 
Orifel.    The  Angel  of  the  utterm 
Of  all  the  Bhining,  heavenlj  I 

From  the  far-orl  expanse 
Of  the  Saturniau,  endless  space, 
I  bring  the  last,  the  crowning  gia 

The  gift  of  Temperance  ! 

{A  sudden  light  shines  from  the  windows  of  the  stable 
in  the  village  below.) 


IV.    TUE  WISE  MEN  OF  THE  EAST. 

The  Stable  of  the  Inn.     The  Virgin  and  Child.    Th#m 
Gipsy  Kiii'js,  GaspajRj  Melohiou,  and  Belbhasiab, 

shall  come  in. 

Gaspar.  Hail  to  thee,  Jesus  of  Nazareth  ! 
Though  in  a  manger  thou  drawest  thy  breath, 
Thou  art  greater  than  Life  and  Death, 

Greater  than  Joy  or  AVoe  ! 
This  cross  upon  the  line  of  life 
Portendeth  struggle,  toil,  and  strife. 
And  through  a  region  with  dangers  rife 
In  darkness  shalt  thou  go  ! 
Mekhior.  Hail  to  thee,  King  of  Jerusalem  ' 
Though  humbly  born  in  Bethlehem, 
A  sceptre  and  a  diadem 

Await  thy  brow  and  hand  ! 
The  sceptre  is  a  simple  reed, 
The  crown  will  make  thy  temples  bleed, 
And  in  thy  hour  of  greatest  need, 
Abashed  thy  subjects  stand  ! 
Belshazzar.  Hail  to  thee,  Christ  of  Christendom  ' 
O'er  all  the  earth  thy  kingdom  come  ! 
From  distant  Trebizond  to  Rome 
Thy  name  shall  men  adore  ! 
Peace  and  good-will  among  all  men, 
The  Virgin  has  returned  again, 
Returned  the  old  Saturnian  reign 
And  Golden  Age  once  m< 
The  Child  Christ.  Jesus,  the  Son  of  God,  am  I, 
Bora  here  to  surfer  and  to  die 
According  to  the  prophecy, 


t 


{■■■■■■■i  ■■  ■■■■■IHfli  ■■■■■ 


III. 


THE    (OLDEN  LEGEND 


213 


That  other  men  may  i. 
The  Virgin. 
And  col  these  clothes,  thai  wrapped  him,  take 

Ami  keep  them  precious,  tor  his  Bake  | 
Our  benediction  thus  we  make, 
Naught  else  have  we  to  give. 
(She  (/ives  them  swaddling-clothes,  and.  they  depxert.) 


V.    THE  FLIGIIT  INTO  EGYPT. 

Here  shall  Josepii  come  in,  leading  an  ass,  on  which 
are  seated  Mary  and  the  Child. 

Mary.    Here  will  we  rest  us,  under  these 
O'erhanging  branches  of  the  trees, 
Where  robins  chant  their  Litanies 
And  canticles  of  joy. 
Joseph.    My  saddle-girths  have  given  way 
With  trudging  through  the  heat  to-day  ; 
To  you  I  think  it  is  but  play 
To  ride  and  hold  the  boy. 
Mary,  Hark  !  how  the  robins  shout  and  sing, 
As  if  to  hail  their  infant  King  ! 
I  will  alight  at  yonder  spring 
To  wash  his  little  coat. 
Joseph.    And  I  will  hobble  well  the  ass, 
Lest,  being  loose  upon  the  grass, 
He  should  escape  ;  for,  by  the  mass, 
lie  is  nimble  as  a  goat. 
Here  Mary  shall  alight  and  go  to  the  spring. 
Mary.     0  Joseph  !  I  am  much  afraid, 
For  men  are  sleeping  in  the  shade  ; 
I  fear  that  wTe  shall  be  waylaid, 
And  robbed  and  beaten  sore  ! 
( Here  a  band  of  robbers  shall  be  seen  sleeping,  two  of  whom 
shall  rise  and  come  forward.) 
Dumachus.    Cock's  soul !  deliver  up  your  gold! 
Joseph.    I  pray  you,  sirs,  let  go  your  hold  ! 
Of  wealth  I  have  no  store. 

Dumachus.     Give  up  your  money  ! 
Titus.  Prithee  cease  ! 

Let  these  good  people  go  in  peace  ! 

Dumachus-.  First  let  them  pay  for  their  release, 
And  then  go  on  their  way. 


«M 


Titus,    These  forty  in  fee, 

If  thou  wilt  only  silent  be. 

Mary.    May  <  ;<>d  be  merciful  to  tl 
Upon  the 

is.   When  thirty  years  shall  have  gone  by, 
I  at  Jerusalem  shall  die, 
By  Jewish  hands  exalted  high 

On  the  accursed  tree. 
Then  on  my  right  and  my  left  side, 
These  thieves  shall  both  he  crucified, 
And  Titus  thenceforth  shall  abide 
In  Paradise  with  me. 
(Bert  a  great  rumour  of  trumpets  and  horses, like  the  noise  oj 
a  king  with  his  army,  and  the  robbers  sholl  take  flight.) 


VI.    THE  SLAUGHTER  OF  THE   IXXOCEN 

KlnrjIlerocL  Potz-tausend !  Himmel-sacramentJ 

Filled  am  I  with  great  wonderment 

At  this  unwelcome  news  ! 
Am  I  not  Herod  I     Who  shall  dare 
My  crown  to  take,  my  sceptre  bear, 
king  among  the  Jews  ) 
{Here he  shall  stride  iq>  and  down  and  flourish  his  siuc/rd. 
What  ho  !  I  fain  would  drink  a  can 
Of  the  strong  wine  oi'  Canaan  ! 
The  wine  of  llelhon  bring, 
I  purchased  at  the  Fair  of  Tyre, 
As  red  as  blood,  as  hot  as  fire, 
And  lit  for  any  king  ! 
fie  quaffs  great  (joblets  of  wine.) 
Now  at  the  window  will  1  stand 
While  in  the  street  the  armed  band 

The  little  children  slay : 
The  babe  just  born  in  Bethlehem 
Will  surely  slaughtered  he  with  them, 
Nor  live  another 
i  Here  a  voice  of  lamentation  shall  be  heard  in  the  street 
Rachel.    0  wicked  king  !  0  cruel  speed  ! 
To  do  this  most  unrighteous  deed  ! 
My  children  all  arc  slain  ! 
Herod.  Ho,  seneschal  !  another  cup  ! 
With  wine  of  Sorek  fill  it  up  ! 


»5Si 


■ 


III.1 


THE  GOLDEN   LEGEND 


I  would  a  bumper  drain  ! 
\ab.  .May  maledictions  fall  and  blasl 
Th\  elf  and  lineage,  to  the  last 
'  Of  all  thy  kith  and  kin  | 

•od.  Another  goblet !  quick!  and  stir 
Pomegranate  juice  and  (Imps  oi  myrrh 
And  calamus  therein  ! 
Soldiers  {in  the  street). 
Give  up  thy  child  into  our  hands  ! 
It  is  King  Herod  who  commands 
That  he  should  thus  he  slain  ! 
The  Nurse  Medusa. 
0  monstrous  men  !    What  have  ye  done  ! 
It  is  King  Herod's  only  son 

That  ye  have  cleft  in  twain  ! 
Herod.  Ah,  luckless  day  !  What  words  of  fear 
Are  these  that  smite  upon  my  ear 

With  such  a  doleful  sound  '( 
What  torments  rack  my  heart  and  head  ! 
Would  I  were  dead  !  would  I  were  dead, 
And  buried  in  the  ground  ! 

I!  lulls  down  and  writhes  as  though  eaten  by  worms.  Hell 
opens,  and  Satan  and  Astaroth  come  forth  and  drag 
him  down.) 


VII.  JESUS  AT  PLAY  WITH  HIS  SCHOOLMATES. 

This  dialogue,  containing  32  lines,  also  17  lines  in  the  next 
act,  being  of  an  exceptional  nature,  have  been  omitted, 

VIII.    THE  VILLAGE  SCHOOL. 

The  Radbi  Bex  Israel,  vnth  a  long  beard,  sittino  on  a 
high  stool,  with  a  rod,  in  his  hand. 

Rabbi.  I  am  the  Rabbi  Ben  Israel, 
Throughout  this  village  known  full  well 
And,  as  my  scholars  all  will  tell, 

Learned  in  things  divine  ; 
The  Kabala  and  Talmud  I 
Than  all  the  prophets  prize  I  more  ; 
For  water  is  all  Bible  lore, 

But  Mishna  is  strong  wine. 
My  fame  extends  from  West  to  East. 
And  always,  at  the  Pnrim  feast, 


LOXGtELl.oW 


&£ 


I  am  as  drunk  as  any  l 

That  wallows  in  oil  .sty  ; 
The  wine  it  so  elateth  me, 
That  1  qo  difference  can 

Between  "  Accursed  Hainan  be  !  " 
And  "  Blessed  he  Mordecai !  " 

Come  hither,  Judas  [scariot, 
Say,  it*  thy  lesson  thou  hast  got 
From  the  Rabbinical  Book  or  not. 

Why  howl  the  dogs  at  night  I 
Judas.  In  the  Rabbinical  Book,  itsaith 

The  dogs  howl,  when  with  icy  breath 
Great  Sammael,  the  Angel  of  Death, 
Takes  through  the  town  his  flight ! 
Rabbi.  Well,  hoy  !  now  say,  if  thou  ait  wise 
When  the  Angel  of  Death,  who  is  full  of  eyes, 
Comes  where  a  sick  man  dying  lies, 
W  hat  doth  he  to  the  wight ) 
Judas.  He  stands  beside  him,  dark  and  tall, 
Holding  a  sword,  from  which  doth  fall 
Into  his  mouth  a  drop  of  gall, 
And  so  he  turneth  white. 
Rabbi.  And  now,  my  Judas,  say  to  me 
What  the  great  Voices  Four  may  be, 
That  quite  across  the  world  do  flee, 
And  are  not  heard  by  men  \ 
Judas.  The  voice  of  the  Sun  in  heaven's  dome. 
The  voice  of  the  Murmuring  of  Rome, 
The  voice  of  a  Soul  that  goeth  home, 
And  the  Angel  of  the  Rain  ! 
Rabbi.  Well  have  ye  answered  every  one  ! 
*  *  #  *  *  * 


IX.    CROWNED  WITH  FLOWERS. 

Jesus  sitting  among  his  playmates,  crowned  with 
flowers  as  their  King. 

Boys.  We  spread  our  garments  on  the  ground  ! 
With' fragrant  flowers  thy  head  is  crowned, 
While  like  a  guard  we  stand  around, 

And  hail  thee  as  our  king  ! 
Thou  art  the  new  King  of  the  Jews  ! 
Nor  let  the  passers-by  refuse 


I 

i 


~~l 


THE  GOLDEN   LEG 


L'l, 


m 


bring  thai  homage  which  men  use 
To  majesty  to  bi 
(//(/•(   a  traveller  shall  go  by}  and  the  boys  .shall  lay 
hold  of  his  garments  and  soy:) 
Boys.  Come  hither!  and  all  reverence  pay 
Unto  our  monarch,  crowned  to-day  ! 
Then    o  rejoicing  on  your  way 
In  all  prosperity  ! 
Traveller.  JIail  to  the  King  of  Bethlehem, 
Who  weareth  in  his  diadem 
The  yellow  crocus  for  the  gem 
Of  his  authority  ! 
{lie passes  by  ;  and  others  come  in,  bearing  on  a 
litter  a  sick  chili 
'8.  Set  down  the  litter  and  draw  near  ! 
The  King  of  Bethlehem  is  here  ! 
What  ails  the  child,  who  seems  to  fear 
That  we  shall  do  him  harm  ' 
The  Bearers.    He  climbed  up  to  the  robin's  nest, 
And  out  there  darted,  from  his  rest, 
A  serpent  with  a  crimson  crest, 
And  stung  him  in  the  arm. 
Jesus.  Bring  him  to  me,  and  let  me  feel 
The  wounded  place  ;  my  touch  can  heal 
The  sting  of  serpents,  and  can  steal 
The  poison  from  the  bite  ! 

{lie  touches  the  wound,  and  the  boy  begins  to  cry., 
Cease  to  lament !  1  can  foresee 
That  thou  hereafter  known  shall  be 
Among  the  men  that  follow  me, 
As  Simon  the  Canaanite  ! 
Epilogue.  In  the  after  part  of  the  day 
Will  be  represented  another  play, 
Of  the  passion  of  our  Blessed  Lord, 
Beginning  directly  after  Nones  ! 
At  the  close  of  which  we  shall  accord. 
By  way  of  benison  and  reward, 
The  sight  of  a  holy  Martyr's  bouos ! 


*•«* 


fj 

*4fc/g*fc 


118 


LONG  IK  I.'  'EMS. 


IrF"' 


IV. 

THE  ROAD  TO  HIESCHAU. 

I'iunce  Henky  and  Elsie,  with  their  attendants,  on 
horseback. 

Elsie.     Onward  and  onward  the  highway  inns  to  the 

taut  city,  impatiently  beai 
Tidings  of  human  joy  and  disaster,  of  love  and  of  hate,  of 

doing  and  darin 
Prince  H.     This  life  of  ours  is  a  wild  iEolian  harp  of  many 

a  joyous  strain, 
But  under  them  all  there  runs  a  loud  perpetual  wail,  as  ot 

souls  in  pain. 
Elsie.     Faith  alone  can  interpret  life,  and  the  heart  that 

aches  and  bleeds  with  the  stigma 
Of  pain,  alone  bears  the  likeness  of  Christ,  and  can  compre- 

hend  its  dark  enigma. 
Prince  11.      Man  is  selfish,  and  seeketh  pleasure  with  little 

care  of  what  may  betide  ; 
Else  why  am  I  travelling  here  beside  thee,  a  demon  that 

rides  by  an  angel's  side  .; 
Elsie.    All  the  hedges  are  white  with  dust,  and  the  grea1: 

dog  under  the  creaking  wain 
Hangs  his  head  in  the  lazy  beat,  while  onward  the  horses 

toil  mid  strain. 
Prince  II.      Now  they  stop  at  the  way-side  inn,  and  the 

waggoner  laughs  with  the  landlord's  daughter, 
While  out  of  the  dripping  trough  the  horses  distend  their 

leathern  sides  with  water. 
Elsie.     All   through  life   there   are  way-side   inns,  where 

man  may  refresh  his  soul  with  luve  ; 
Even  the  lowest  may  quench  his  thirst  at  rivulets  fed  by 

springs  from  above. 
Prince  U.     Yonder,  where   rises   the  cross  of  stone,  our 

journey  along  the  highway  ends, 
And  over  the  fields,  by  a  bridle-path,  down  into  the  broad 

een  valley  descends. 
Elsie.      I   am   not  sorry  to  leave  behind  the  beaten  roaa 

with  its  dust  and  heat ; 
The  air  will  be  sweeter  far,  and  the  turf  will  be  softer  under 

our  burses'  feet. 

!J1  \Ch  turn  down  a  green  lane.} 


m 


i 


ni.1 


TBK  GOi. 


219 


nine.     Sweet  is  the  air  with  the  budding  haws,  and  the 

valley  stretching  for  miles  below 
Is  white  with  bid  sherry-trees,  as  ifjusl  covered  with 

lightest  snow. 
Prina   ll.     Over  our  heads  a  white  cascade  is  gleaming 

against  the  distant  hill  ; 
We  cannot  hear  it,  nor  see  it  move,  but  it  hangs  like  a 

banner  when  winds  are  still. 
Elsie.      Damp  and  cool  is  this  deep  ravine,  and  cool  the 

sound  of  the  brook  by  our  side  ! 
What  is  this  castle  that  rises  above  us,  and  lords  it  over  a 

land  so  wide  .; 
Prince  11.     It  is  the  home  of  the  Counts  of  Calva  ;  well 

have  I  known  these  scenes  of  old, 
Well   I  remember  each  tower  and  turret,  remember  the 

brooklet,  the  wood  and  the  wold. 
Elsie.      Hark  !  from  the  little  village  below  us  the  bells  of 

the  church  are  ringing  for  rain  ! 
Priest  and  peasants  in  long  procession  come  forth  and  kneel 

vn  the  arid  plain. 
Prince  11.     They  have  not  long  to  wait,  for  I  see  in  the 

south  uprising  a  little  cloud, 
That  before  the  sun  shall  be  set  will  cover  the  sky  above  us 

as  with  a  shroud. 

{They  pass  on.) 


THE  CONVENT  OF  HIRSCHAU  IN  THE  BLACK 
FOKEST. 

'Hie  Convent  cellar,  Friar  Claus  comes  in  u'ith  a  liglti 
and  a  basket  of  empty  flagons. 

Fr.  Claus.    I  always  enter  this  sacred  place 
With  a  thoughtful,  solemn,  and  reverent  pace, 
Pausing  long  enough  on  each  stair 
To  oreathe  an  ejaculatory  prayer 
And  a  benediction  on  the  vines 
That  produce  these  various  sorts  of  wines  ! 

For  my  part,  I  am  well  content 
That  we  have  got  through  with  the  tedious  Lent ! 
Fasting  is  all  very  A\ell  for  those 
Who  have  to  contend  with  invisible  foes  ; 
But  1  am  quite  sure  it  does  not  agree 


52fl 


;  a* 


LON  • 


With  a  quiet  peaceable  man  like  me, 

Who  am  not  of  that  nervous  ami  meagre  kind 

That  are  always  distressed  in  body  ami  min 

And  at  times  it  really  does  me  good 

To  come  down  among  this  brotherhood. 

Dwelling  fur  ever  under  ground, 

Silent,  contemplative,  round  and  sound, 

Each  one  old,  and  brown  with  mould, 

]>ut  filled  to  the  lips  with  the  ardour  of  youth. 

With  the  latent  power  and  love  of  truth, 

And  with  virtues  fervent  and  manifold. 

I  have  heard  it  said,  that  at  Easter-tide, 
When  buds  are  swelling  on  every  side, 
And  the  sap  begins  to  move  in  the  vine, 
Then  in  all  the  cellars,  far  and  wide, 
The  oldest,  as  well  as  the  newest,  wine 
Begins  to  stir  itself,  and  ferment, 
With  a  kind  of  revolt  and  discontent 
At  being  so  long  in  darkness  pent, 
And  fain  would  burst  from  its  sombre  tun 
To  bask  on  the  hill-side  in  the  sun  ; 
As  in  the  bosom  of  us  poor  friars, 
The  tumult  of  half-subdued  desires 
For  the  world  that  we  have  left  behind 
Disturbs  at  times  all  peace  of  mind  ! 
And  now  that  we  have  lived  through  Lent, 
My  duty  it  is,  as  often  before, 
To  open  awhile  the  prison-door, 
Ami  give  these  restless  spirits  vent. 

Now  here  is  a  cask  that  stands  alone, 
And  has  stood  a  hundred  years  or  more, 
Its  beard  of  cobwebs,  long  and  hoar, 
Trailing  and  sweeping  along  the  lloor, 
Like  Barbarossa,  who  sits  in  his  cave, 
Taciturn,  sombre,  sedate,  and  grave, 
Till  his  beard  has  grown  through  the  table  of  stone 
It  is  of  the  quick  and  not  of  the  dead  ! 
In  its  veins  the  blood  is  hot  and  red, 
Ami  a  heart  still  beats  in  those  ribs  of  oak 
That  time  may  have  tamed,  but  has  not  broke. 
It  comes  from  Bacharach  on  the  Rhine, 
Is  one  of  the  three  best  kinds  of  wine. 
And  costs  some  hundred  florins  the  ohm  ; 
But  that  I  do  not  consider  dear 


/ 1 


ML 


rv.j 


in  i.  QOLDEM   LEGEND. 


•1'1\ 


When  I  remember  that  every  year 
Four  butts  are  sent  to  the  Pope  of  Rome. 

And  whenever  ;i  goblet  thereof  I  drain, 
The  old  rhyme  keeps  running  in  my  brain  : 
At  Bacharach  on  the  Rhine, 
At  lioeheim  on  the  Main, 
And  at  Wi'irzburg,  on  the  Stein, 
Grow  the  three  best  kinds  of  wine  ! 
They  are  all  good  wines,  and  better  far 
Than  those  of  the  Neckar,  or  those  of  the  Ahr. 
In  particular,  Wiirzbnrg  well  may  boast 
Of  its  blessed  wine  of  the  Holy  Ghost, 
Which  of  all  wines  I  like  the  most. 
This  I  shall  draw  for  the  Abbot's  drinking, 
Who  seems  to  be  much  of  my  way  of  thinking. 

{Fills  ajlagon.) 
Ah  !  how  the  streamlet  laughs  and  sings  ! 
What  a  delicious  fragrance  springs 
From  the  deep  flagon,  while  it  fills, 
As  of  hyacinths  and  daffodils  ! 
Between  this  cask  and  the  Abbot's  lips 
.Many  have  been  the  sips  and  slips  ; 
Many  have  been  the  draughts  of  wine, 
On  their  way  to  his,  that  have  stopped  at  mine  ; 
And  many  a  time  my  soul  has  hankered 
For  a  deep  draught  out  of  his  silver  tankard, 
When  it  should  have  been  busy  with  other  affairs 
Less  with  its  longings,  and  more  with  its  prayers. 
But  now  there  is  no  such  awkward  condition, 
.No  danger  of  death  and  eternal  perdition  ; 
So  here's  to  the  Abbot  and  Brothers  all, 
Who  dwell  in  this  convent  of  Peter  and  Paul ! 

(He  drinks.) 
0  cordial  delicious  !     0  soother  of  pain  ! 
It  flashes  like  sunshine  into  my  brain  ! 
A  benison  rest  on  the  Bishop  who  sends 
Such  a  fudder  of  wine  as  this  to  his  friends  ! 

And  now  a  flagon  for  such  as  may  ask 
A  draught  from  the  noble  Bacharach  cask, 
And  I  will  be  gone,  though  I  know  full  well 
The  cellar's  a  cheerfuller  place  than  the  cell. 
Behold  where  he  stands,  all  sound  and  good, 
Brown  and  old  in  his  oaken  hood  ! 
Silent  he  .seems  exteruallv 


ij  ( larthu  .in  monk  may  be  ; 
But  within,  what  a  .spirit  of  deep  nun 
What  a  .seething  ami  simmering  in  ins  brea 
As  if  the  heaving  of  hi.s  meat  heart 
Would  burst  his  belt  •  .  at! 

Let  me  unloose  tins  button  of  wood, 
And  quiet  a  little  his  turbulent  mood. 

(Set8  it  rU/ln 

See!  how  its  currents  gleam  and  shine, 
As  if  they  had  caught  the  purple  hues 
Of  autumn  sunsets  on  the  Rhine, 

Descending  and  mingling  with  the  de.. 

Or  as  if  the  grapes  were  stained  witli  the  blo-xl 

Of  the  innocent  boy,  who  some  years  back, 

Was  taken  and  crucified  by  the  Jc 

In  that  ancient  town  of  Bacharach  ; 

Perdition  upon  those  infidel  Jews, 

In  that  ancient  town  of  Bacharach  ! 

The  beautiful  town  that  gives  us  wine 

With  the  fragrant  odour  of  Muscadine  ! 

I  should  deem  it  wrong  to  let  this  | 

\Yithout  first  touching  my  lips  to  the  glass, 

For  here  in  the  midst  of  the  current  1  stand, 

Like  the  stone  Pfalz  in  the  midst  of  the  rivei, 

Taking  toll  upon  either  hand, 

And  much  more  grateful  to  the  giver. 

<JIe  drinks.) 
Here,  now,  is  a  very  inferior  kind, 
Such  as  in  any  town  you  may  find, 
Such  as  one  might  imagine  would  suit 
The  rascal  who  drank  wine  out  of  a  boot. 
And,  after  all,  it  was  not  a  crime, 
For  he  won  thereby  Dorf  Huffelsheim. 
A  jolly  old  toper  !  who  at  a  pull 
Could  drink  a  postillion's  jack-b  ot  full, 
And  ask  with  a  laugh,  when  that  was  done, 
If  the  fellow  had  left  the  other  one  ! 
This  wine  is  as  good  as  we  can  afford 
To  the  friars  who  sit  at  the  lower  board, 
And  cannot  distinguish  bad  from  good, 
And  are  far  better  off  than  if  they  could. 
Being  rather  the  rude  disciples  of  beer 
Than  of  auything  more  refined  and  deai  ! 

(FtUs  the  other  flwjon  and  depn^s 


V       «.'••; 


iv.  I 


GEN1). 


223 


■ 
I 

a 

1 


|a 


THE  SCRIPTORIUM 
Fbiab  Pacipious  transcribing  and  illuminating. 

r.  Pacifictu.  It  is  growing  dark !  Yet  one  line  more, 
And  then  my  work  for  to-day  IS  o'er. 
]  come  again  to  the  name  of  the  Lord! 
Ere  I  that  awful  name  record, 
That  is  spoken  so  lightly  among  men, 
Let  me  pause  awhile  and  wash  my  peu; 
Pure  from  blemish  and  blot  it  must  be 
When  it  writes  that  word  of  mystery  ! 

Thus  have  laboured  on  and  on, 
Nearly  through  the  Gospel  of  Johu. 
Can  it  be  that  from  the  lips 
Of  this  same  gentle  Evangelist, 
That  Christ  himself  perhaps  has  kissed, 
Came  the  dread  Apocalypse  ! 
It  has  a  very  awful  look, 
As  it  stands  there  at  the  end  of  the  book, 
Like  the  sun  in  an  eclipse. 
Ah  me  !  when  I  think  of  that  vision  divine, 
Think  of  writing  it,  line  by  line, 
I  stand  in  awe  of  the  terrible  curse, 
Like  the  trump  of  doom,  in  the  closing  verse ! 
God  forgive  me  !  if  ever  I 
Take  aught  from  the  book  of  that  Prophecy, 
Lest  my  part  too  should  be  taken  away 
From  the  Book  of  Life  on  the  Judgment  Day. 

This  is  well  written,  though  I  say  it ! 
I  should  not  be  afraid  to  display  it, 
In  open  day  on  the  self-same  shelf 
With  the  writings  of  St  Thecla  herself, 
Or  of  Theodosius,  who  of  old 
Wrote  the  Gospels  in  letters  of  gold  ! 
That  goodly  folio  standing  yonder, 
Without  a  single  blot  or  blunder, 
Would  not  bear  away  the  palm  from  mine,. 
If  we  should  compare  them  line  for  line. 

There,  now,  is  an  initial  letter  ! 
King  Rene  himself  never  made  a  better  ! 
Finished  down  to  the  leaf  and  the  snail, 
Down  to  the  eyes  on  the  peacock's  tail ' 


vJ24 


m 


.I***** 


■ 


And  DOW  as  1  turn  th  •  volume  01 

And  .see  what  lies  between  cover  ana  cover. 
What  treasure!  of  art  I  bold, 

All  ablaze  with  crimson  and  gold, 
God  forgive  m  m  to  feel 

tain  satisfaction  steal 
Into  my  heart,  and  into  my  brain, 

talent  had  not  lain 
Wrapped  in  a  napkin,  and  all  in  vain. 
1  might  almost  say  to  the  Lord, 
Here  is  a  copy  of  thy  Word, 
Written  out  with  much  toil  and  pain  ; 
Take  it,  0  Lord,  and  let  it  be 
As  something  I  have  done  for  Thee  ! 

(He  looks  from,  the  xaiudoM.) 
How  sweet  the  air  is  !  How  fair  the  scene  ! 
I  wish  I  had  as  lovely  a  green 
To  paint  my  landscapes  and  my  leaves ! 
How  the  swallows  twitter  under  the  eaves ! 
There,  now,  there  is  one  in  her  nest ; 
I  can  just  eatch  a  glimpse  of  her  head  and  breai 
And  will  sketch  her  thus,  in  her  quiet  nook, 
For  the  margin  of  my  Gospel  book. 

(He  makes  a  sketch.) 
I  can  see  no  more.     Through  the  valley  yonder 
A  shower  is  passing;  I  hear  the  thunder 
Mutter  its  curses  in  the  air, 
The  Devil's  own  and  only  prayer ! 
The  dusty  road  is  brown  with  rain, 
And,  speeding  on  with  might  and  main, 
Hitherward  rides  a  gallant  train. 
They  do  not  parley,  they  cannot  wait, 
But  hurry  in  at  the  convent  gate. 
What  a  fair  lady  !  and  beside  her 
What  a  handsome,  graceful,  noble  rider! 
Now  she  gives  him  her  hand  to  alight ; 
They  will  beg  a  shelter  for  the  night. 
1  will  go  down  to  the  corridor, 
And  try  to  see  that  face  once  more ; 
It  will  do  for  the  face  of  some  beautifid  Saint. 
Or  for  one  of  the  .Maries  I  shall  paint.      (Goes  out, 


«bk  ** 


TV. 


THE  OOLDEN  l.TXEND. 


225 


|  ft 
1 


THE  0LOI8TERS. 
The  Abbot  Ernebtus pacing  to  m  ;  1  • 

Abbot.  Slowly,  slowly  up  the  wall 
Steals  the  sunshine,  steals  the  shade  ; 
Evening  damps  begin  to  fall, 
Evening  shadows  are  displayed. 
Round  me,  o'er  me,  everywhere, 
All  the  sky  is  grand  with  clouds, 
And  athwart  the  evening  air 
Wheel  the  swallows  home  in  crowds. 
Shafts  of  sunshine  from  the  west 
Paint  the  dusky  windows  red  ; 
Darker  shadows,  deeper  rest, 
Underneath  and  overhead, 
Darker,  darker,  and  more  wan. 
In  my  breast  the  shadows  fall ; 
Upward  steals  the  life  of  man, 
As  the  sunshine  from  the  wall. 
From  the  wall  into  the  sky, 
From  the  roof  along  the  spire ; 
Ah,  the  souls  of  those  that  die 
Are  but  sunbeams  lifted  higher. 

Enter  Prince  Henry. 

Prince  Henry.    Christ  is  arisen ! 

Abbot.  Amen  !  He  is  arisen ! 

His  peace  be  with  you ! 

Prince  Henry.        Here  it  reigns  for  ever  ! 
The  peace  of  God,  that  passeth  understanding, 
Reigns  in  these  cloisters  and  these  corridors. 
Are  you  Ernestus,  Abbot  of  the  convent  1 

Abbot.  I  am. 

Prince  H.       And  I  Prince  Henry  of  Hoheneck, 
Who  crave  your  hospitality  to-night. 

A  bbot.  You  are  thrice  welcome  to  our  humble  walls. 
You  do  us  honour ;  and  we  shall  requite  it, 
I  fear,  but  poorly,  entertaining  you 
With  Paschal  eggs,  and  our  poor  convent  wine, 
The  remnants  of  our  Easter  holidays. 

Pr.  II.  J  low  fares  it  with  the  holy  monks  of  Hirschau  ! 
Are  all  things  well  with  them  ? 

All  All  things  are  well. 

Prince  II.  A  noble  convent !  I  have  known  it  long 


i*S 


KMS. 


By  the  report  of  travellers.     I  now  see 
Their  commendation*  lag  behind  the  truth. 

You  lie  here  in  the  valley  of  thi 

As  in  a  nest ;  and  the  still  river,  gliding 

Along  its  bed,  is  like  an  admonition 

How  all  thin.  Your  hinds  are  rich  and  ample, 

And  your  revenues  large.     God's  benedicl 
Rests  on  your  convent. 

Abbot.  By  our  charities 

We  strive  to  merit  it.     Our  Lord  and  Master, 
When  he  departed,  left  us  in  his  will, 
As  our  best  legacy  on  earth,  the  poor ! 
These  we  have  always  with  us ;  had  we  not, 
Our  hearts  would  grow  as  hard  as  are  these  st<  ines, 

Pr.  II.  If  I  remember  right,  the  Counts  of  Calva 
Founded  your  convent. 

Abbot.  Even  as  you  say. 

Prince  II.  And,  if  I  err  not,  it  is  very  old. 

Abbot.  Within  these  cloisters  lie  already  buried 
Twelve  holy  Abbots.     Underneath  the  flags 
On  which  we  stand,  the  Abbot  William  lies, 
Of  blessed  memory. 

Prince  II.  And  whose  tomb  is  that 

Which  bears  the  brass  escutcheon  :; 

Abbot.  A  benefactor's : 

Conrad,  a  Count  of  Calva,  he  who  stood 
Godfather  to  our  bells. 

Prince  II.  Your  monks  are  learned 

And  holy  men,  I  trust. 

Abbot.  There  are  among  them 

Learned  and  holy  men.     Yet  in  this  age 
We  need  another  Hildebrand,  to  shake 
And  purify  us  like  a  mighty  wind. 
The  world  is  wicked,  and  sometimes  1  wonder 
God  does  not  lose  his  patience  with  it  wholly, 
And  shatter  it  like  glass  !  Even  here,  at  tii 
Within  these  walls,  where  all  should  be  at  pea  e 
I  have  my  trials.    Time  has  laid  his  hi 
Upon  my  heart,  gently,  not  smiting  it, 
But  as  a  harper  lays  his  open  palm 
Upon  his  harp,  to  deaden  its  vibrations. 
Ashes  are  on  my  head,  and  on  my  lips 
Sackcloth,  and  in  my  breast  a  heaviness 
And  weariness  of  life  that  makes  me  ready 


11 


. 


iv.l 


Till;  OOLDBN   LEGEND. 


227 


v  to  the  dead  Abbots  under  us, 
"  Mako  poom  for  me  !"     Only  I  sec  the  du.-k 
Of  evening  twilight  coming,  and  have  not 
Completed  half  my  tail  j  ami  so  at  limes 
The  thought  of  my  shortcomings  in  this  lite 
Kails  like  a  shadow  on  the  life  to  come. 

Pr.  II.  \\  e  must  all  tlie,  and  not  the  old  alone  ; 
The  young  have  no  exemption  from  that  doom 

Abbot.  Ah,  yes!  the  young  may  die,  hot  the  ol 
That  is  the  difference. 

Prince  II.  I  have  heard  much  laud 

Of  your  transcrihers.    Your  Scriptorium 
Is  famous  among  all,  your  manuscripts 
Praised  for  their  heauty  and  their  excellence. 

Abbot.  That  is  indeed  our  boast.  If  you  desire  it 
You  shall  behold  these  treasures.  And  meanwhile 
Shall  the  Refectorarius  bestow 
Your  horses  and  attendants  for  the  night. 

(They  go  in.     The  Vesper-bell  rings.) 


must. ' 


THE  CHAPEL. 

Vespers;  after  which  the  Monks  retire,  a  chorister  leading 
an  old  Monk  who  is  blind. 

Prince  H.  They  are  all  gone,  save  one  who  lingers, 
Absorbed  in  deep  and.  silent  prayer. 
As  if  his  heart  could,  find  no  rest, 
At  times  he  beats  his  heaving  breast 
With  clenched  and  convulsive  fingers, 
Then  lifts  them  trembling  in  the  air. 
A  chorister,  with  golden  hair, 
Guides  hitherward  his  heavy  pace. 
Can  it  be  so  I    Or  does  my  sight 
Deceive  me  in  the  uncertain  light  ' 
Ah,  no  !  I  recognise  that  face, 
Though  Time  has  touched  it  in  his  flight, 
And  changed  the  auburn  hair  to  white. 
It  is  Count  Hugo  of  the  Rhine. 
The  deadliest  foe  of  all  our  race, 
And  hateful  unto  me  and  mine  ! 

The  Blind  Monk.  Who  is  it  that  doth  stand  so  near, 
His  whispered  words  I  almost  hear  ? 

Prince  H.  I  am  Prince  Henry  of  Hoheneck, 


22S 


And  you,  Count  Hugo  of  the  Rhine  1 

i  know  you,  and  I  see  the  scar, 
The  brand  upon  your  forehead,  shine 
And  redden  like  B  baleful  star  ! 
Blind  Monk.  Count  Hugo  once,  but  now  the  w  i 

Of  what  1  was.    0  Hoheneck, 
The  passionate  will,  the  pride,  the  wrath. 
That  bore  me  headlong  on  my  path, 
Stumbled  and  staggered  into  i 

A\\>\  failed  me  in  my  mad  career. 

As  a  tired  steed  some  evil-doer. 

Alone  upon  a  desolate  moor, 

Bewildered,  lost,  deserted,  blind, 

And  hearing  loud  and  close  behind 

The  o'ertaking  steps  of  his  pursuer. 

Then  suddenly  from  the  dark  there  came 

A  voice  that  called  me  by  my  name, 

And  said  to  me,  "  Kneel  down  and  pray  ! " 

And  so  my  terror  passed  away, 

Passed  utterly  away  for  ever. 

Contrition,  penitence,  remorse, 

Came  on  me,  with  o'erwhelming  force  ; 

A  hope,  a  longing,  an  endeavour, 

By  days  of  penance  and  nights  of  prayei 

To  frustrate  and  defeat  despair ! 

Calm,  deep,  and  still  is  now  my  heart, 

With  tranquil  waters  overflowed  ; 

A  lake  whose  unseen  fountains  start, 

Where  once  the  hot  volcano  glowed. 

And  you,  O  Prince  of  Hoheneck  ! 

Have  known  me  in  that  earlier  time, 

A  man  of  violence  and  crime. 

Whose  passions  brooked  no  curb  nor  check. 

Behold  me  now,  in  gentler  mood. 

One  of  this  holy  brotherhood. 

Give  me  your  hand  ;  here  let  me  kneel ; 

Make  your  reproaches  sharp  as  steel ; 

Spurn  me,  and  smite  me  on  each  cheek  ; 

No  violence  can  harm  the  meek, 

There  is  no  wound  Christ  cannot  heal  ! 

Yes  ;  lift  your  princely  hand,  and  take 

Revenge,  if  'tis  revenge  you  seek  ; 

Then  pardon  me,  for  Jesus1  sake  ! 

Prince  II.  Arise,  Count  Hugo!  let  there  be 


y>*H**J 

iu\  i 

v     ■'->] 

■  an 

1  V  -...--A 


ft 


TV.] 


Tin:  OOLDBN   LEOEH  D. 


'?!• 


No  further  strife  nor  enmity 
Between  us  twain  ;  we  both  ban 

Tor.  lasli  in  tot,  too  wroth  iii  word. 
From  the  beginning  have  we  stood 
In  fierce,  defiant  attitude, 
Each  thoughtless  of  the  other's  right, 

And  each  reliant  on  liis  might. 

But  now  our  souls  are  more  subdued  ; 

The  hand  of  God,  and  not  in  vain, 

1  las  touched  us  with  the  fire  of  pain. 
Let  us  kneel  down,  and  side  by  side 
Pray,  till  our  souls  are  purified. 
And  pardon  will  not  be  denied  ! 

{They  kneel. 


THE  REFECTORY. 

Onudiolum  of  Monks  at  Midnight,    Lucifer  disguised 
as  a  Friar. 

Friar  Paul  sings.  Ave  !  color  vini  clari 
Dulcis  potus,  non  amari, 
Tua  nos  inebriari 

Digneris  potentia ! 

Fr.  Cutlt.  Not  so  much  noise,  my  worthy  freres, 
You'll  disturb  the  Abbot  at  his  prayers. 

Fr.  Paul  sings.  0 !  quam  placens  in  colore ! 
0  !  quam  fragrans  in  odore  ! 
0  !  quam  sapidum  in  ore  ! 
Dulce  linguae  vinculum  ! 

Fr.  0.  I  should  think  your  tongue  had  broken  its  cl is  i  D  ' 

Friar  Paul  sings.  Felix  venter  quern  intrabis  ! 
Felix  gutter  quod  rigabis  ! 
Felix  os  quod  tu  lavabis  ! 
Et  beata  Libia  ! 

Fr.  /.  Peace!  I  say,  peace! 

Will  you  never  cease  ! 
You  will  rouse  up  the  Abbot,  I  tell  yon  again  ! 

Fr.  John.  No  danger ;  to-night  he  will  let  us  alone, 
As  T  happen  to  know  he  has  guests  of  his  own 

Fr.  CuthJbert.  Who  are  they  ! 

Fr.  John.  A  German  Prince  and  his  train, 
Who  arrived  here  just  before  the  rain. 
There  is  with  him  a  damsel  fair  to  see, 


230 


LONQFELLOW 


iA[^B  I 


lender  and  graceful  m  i  reed  ! 

When  she  alighted  from  her  steed, 
It  seemed  like  a  blossom  blown  from  •  tive. 
Fr,  Outhbert.  None  of  your  pale-faced  girls  for  i 

( h' i  •  v.,-  the  girl  at  hi 
Fr.  John.  Come,  old  fellow, drink  down  to  your  | 

But  do  not  drink  any  farther,  1  I 

Friar  Paid  tings.    In  the  days  of  gold, 
The  days  of  old, 
Cross  of  wood 
And  bishop  of  gold  ! 

Fr.  Cuth.  to  the  yirl.  What  an  infernal  racket  and  din . 
You  need  not  blush  so,  that's  no  sin. 
You  look  very  holy  in  this  disguise, 
Though  there's  something  wicked  in  your  eyes  ! 

Fr,  Paul  continues.  Now  we  have  changed 
That  law  so  good, 
To  cross  of  gold 
And  bishop  of  wood  ! 

Fr.  Cuthbert.  I  like  your  sweet  face  under  a  hood. 
Sinner  !  how  came  you  into  this  way  ? 

Girl.  It  was  you,  Friar  Cuthbert,  who  led  me  astray. 
Have  you  forgotten  that  day  in  June, 
When  the  church  was  so  cool  in  the  afternoon, 
And  I  came  in  to  confess  my  sins  / 
That  is  where  my  ruin  begins. 

Fr.  John.  What  is  the  name  of  yonder  friar, 
With  an  eye  that  glows  like  a  coal  of  fire, 
And  such  a  black  mass  of  tangled  hair  I 

Fr.  Paul.  lie  who  is  sitting  there, 
With  a  rollicking, 
Devil-may-c;: 

Free-and-easy  look  and  air, 
As  if  he  were  used  to  such  feasting  and  frolicking  ? 

Friar  John.  The  same. 

Fr.  P.  He's  a  stranger.   You  had  better  ask  his  name 
And  where  he  is  going,  and  whence  he  came. 

Friar  John.  Hallo  !  Sir  Friar  ! 

FY*.  Paul.  You  must  raise  your  voice  a  little  higher, 
He  does  not  seem  to  hear  what  you  say. 
Now,  try  again  !     He  is  looking  this  way. 

Friar  John.  Hallo!  Sir  Friar, 
We  wish  to  inquire 
Whence  you  came,  and  where  you  are  going, 


■v.] 


tin:  oolden  i .; 


2  I 


I  ! 


And  anything  else  that  is  worth  the  knowing, 
So  be  10  good  ai  to  open  your  head, 

Lucifer.  1  am  a  Frenchman  born  and  bred 
Going  "ii  a  pilgrimage  to  Rome, 
My  i 

Is  the  convent  of  St  Gildas  de  Rhuys, 
« >f  which,  very  like,  you  never  have  heard. 

Monks.  Never  a  word  ! 

Lucifer.  Yon  must  know,  then,  it  is  in  the  diocese 
Called  the  Diocese  of  Vanncs, 
In  the  province  of  Brittany. 
Fi  m  the  gray  rocks  of  Alorbihan 
It  overlooks  the  angry  sea  ; 
The  very  sea-shore  where, 
In  his  great  despair, 
Abbot  Abelard  walked  to  and  fro, 
Filling  the  night  with  woe, 
And  wailing  aloud  to  the  merciless  seas 
The  name  of  his  sweet  Heloise  ! 
Whilst  overhead 

The  convent  windows  gleamed  as  red 
As  the  fiery  eyes  of  the  monks  within, 
Who  with  jovial  din 
( lave  themselves  up  to  all  kinds  of  sin ! 
11a  !  that  is  a  convent !  that  is  an  abbey  ! 
Over  the  doors, 

None  of  your  death- heads  carved  in  wood, 
None  of  your  Saints  looking  pious  and  good, 
None  of  your  Patriarchs  old  and  shabby  ! 
But  the  heads  and  tusks  of  boars, 
And  the  cells 

Hung  all  round  with  the  fells 
Of  the  fallow-deer. 
And  then  what  cheer  ! 
What  jolly,  fat  friars, 
Sitting  round  the  great  roaring  theL. 
Roaring  louder  than  they, 
With  their  strong  win 
And  their  concubines, 
And  never  a  bell, 
With  its  Bwagger  and  swell. 


•  >.!.:.  w   3  I'oEMri. 


To  mumble  your  i 

But  the  cheery  crow 

Of  cocks  in  the  yard  below, 

After  daybreak  an  hour  or 

And  the  barking  of  deep-mouthed  houndfi, 
These  are  the  sounds 

That,  instead  of  bells,  salute  the  ear. 

And  then  all  day 

Up  and  away 

Through  the  forest,  hunting  the  deer ! 

Ah,  my  friends  !  I'm  afraid  that  here 

You  are  a  little  too  pious,  a  little  too  tame, 

And  the  more  is  the  shame. 

"lis  the  greatest  folly 

Not  to  be  jolly  ; 

That's  what  I  think  ! 

Come  drink,  drink, 

Drink,  and  die  game  ! 

Monks.  And  your  Abbot  What's-his-name  ? 

Lucifer.    Abelard ! 

Monks.  Did  he  drink  hard  .' 

Lucifer.  Oh,  no  !     Not  he  ! 
lie  was  a  dry  old  fellow, 

Without  juice  enough  to  get  thoroughly  mellow 
There  he  stood, 
Lowering  at  us  in  sullen  mood, 
As  if  he  had.  come  into  Brittany 
Just  to  reform  our  brotherhood  ! 

(-4  roar  of  laughter.) 
But  you  see 
It  never  would  do  ! 
For  some  of  us  knew  a  thing  or  two, 
In  the  Abbey  of  St  Gildas  do  Rhuys  ! 
For  instance,  the  great  ado 
With  the  old  Fulbert's  niece, 
The  young  and  lovely  Heloise  ! 

Fr.  John.  Stop  there,  if  you  please, 
Till  we  drink  to  the  fair  Heloise  ! 

All  (drinking  and  shouting). 
Heloise  !  Heloise  ! 

(The  Chapel-bell  tolls.) 

Lucifer  (starting). 
What  is  that  bell  for  ?    Are  you  such  asses 
As  to  keep  up  the  fashion  of  midnight  masses  '. 


ft 


:v 


Tin-:  D0L1 


»^ 


* 


Fr,  OtUhbert.  [t  is  only  a  poor  unfortunate  brother 
Who  Lb  gifted  with  most  miraculous  powers 

•  ap  at  all  sorts  of  hours, 

And,  by  way  of  penance  and  (  hristian  meekn 

<  tf  creeping  silently  out  of  his  eel] 

To  take  a  pull  at  that  hideous  hell  ; 

So  that  all  the  monks  who  are  lying  awake 

May  murmur  some  kind  of  prayer  for  his  sake 

And  adapted  to  his  peculiar  weakness  ! 

Friar  John.  From  frailty  and  fall — 

All.    Good  Lord,  deliver  us  all ! 

Fr.  Cuth.  And  before  the  bell  for  matins  sounds, 
lie  takes  his  lantern,  and  goes  the  rounds, 
Flashing  it  into  our  sleepy  eyes, 
Merely  to  say  it  is  time  to  arise. 
But  enough  of  that.   Go  on,  if  you  please, 
With  your  story  about  St  Gildas  de  Rhuys. 

Lucifer.  Well,  it  finally  came  to  pi 
That,  half  in  fun  and  half  in  malice, 
One  Sunday  at  Mass 
We  put  some  poison  into  the  chalice. 
But,  either  by  accident  or  design, 
Peter  Abelard  kept  away 
From  the  chapel  that  day, 
And  a  poor  young  friar  who  in  his  stead 
Drank  the  sacramental  wine, 
Fell  on  the  steps  of  the  altar  dead  ! 
But  look  !  do  you  see  at  the  wiudow  there 
That  face,  with  a  look  of  grief  and  despair, 
That  ghastly  face,  as  of  one  in  pain  ? 

Monks.     Who  I  where  ? 

Lucifer.  x\s  I  spoke,  it  vanished  away  again 

Fr.  Cuthbert.     It  is  that  nefarious 
Siebald  the  Refectorarius. 
That  fellow  is  always  playing  the  scout, 
Creeping,  and  peeping,  and  prowling  about ; 
And  then  he  regales 
The  Abbot  with  scandalous  tales. 

Lucifer.  A  spy  in  the  con  vent  ?  One  of  the  brothers 
Telling  scandalous  tales  of  the  others  1 
Out  upon  him,  the  lazy  loon  ! 
I  would  put  a  stop  to  that  pretty  soon. 
In  a  way  he  should  rue  it. 

hs.     llo\v  shall  we  d(   it  ? 


-ASS 


>f 


■■> 


Lacijtr.     Do  sou,  brother  Paul, 
p  under  the  window,  close  to  the  wall, 
And  open  it  .suddenly  when  1  call. 
Then  seize  the  villain  by  the  hair, 
And  hold  him  there, 
And  punish  him  soundly,  once  for  all. 

Fr.  Cuthbert.  As  St  Deinstall  of  old, 
We  are  told, 
Once  caught  the  devil  by  the  nose  ! 

Lucifer.  Ha  !  ha!  that  story  is  very  clever. 
But  has  no  foundation  whatsa 
Quick  !  for  I  see  his  face  again 
Glaring  in  at  the  window-pane  ; 
Now  !  now  !  and  do  not  spare  your  Mows. 
(Friak  Paul  opens  the  window  suddenly,  and  seats 
Siebald.     They  beat  hint.) 

Fr.  Siebald.  Help  !  help  !  are  you  going  to  slay  me 

Fr,  Paul.  'Chat  will  teach  you  again  to  betray  me 

Fr.  Siebald     Mercy  !  mercy  ! 

Fr.  Paul  {shouting  and  beating). 

Rumpas  bellorum  lorum, 
\  im  confer  amorum 
Morum  verorum,  rorum 
Tu  plena  polorum  ! 

Lucifer.  Who  stands  in  the  doorwayyonder, 
Stretching  out  his  trembling  hand, 
J  ust  as  Abelard  used  to  stand, 
The  flash  of  his  keen  black  eyes 
Forerunning  the  thunder  ( 

The  Monks  (i,i  confusion).  The  Abbot !  the  Abbot ! 

Fr.  Cuthbert  (to  the  girl).       Put  on  your  disguise  ! 

/•V.  Francis.     Hide  the  great  flagon 
From  the  eyes  of  the  dragon  ! 

Fr.  Cuthbert.  Pull  the  brown  hood  over  your  face, 
Lest  you  bring  me  into  disgrace ! 

Abbot.  What  means  this  revel  and  carouse  ? 
Is  this  a  tavern  and  drinking  house  ) 
Are  you  Christian  monks,  or  heathen  devils, 
To  pollute  this  convent  with  your  revels  ] 
Were  Peter  Damian  still  upon  earth, 
To  be  shocked  by  such  ungodly  mirth, 
He  would  write  your  names  with  pen  of  gall, 
In  his  Book  of  Gomorrah,  one  and  all ! 
Away,  you  drunkards  !  to  your  cells. 


3 


Jgfcj^'4&> 


~4&- 


IV.  I 


•i  ii  i:  GOLDEN   LJ  G  I 


til 

A  m^ 


Ami  pray  till  you  bear  the  matin-bells  ! 

You,  Broth  r  Frauds,  and  you,  Brother  Paul ! 

And  as  ;i  penance  mark  each  pi. 

With  tin.  upon  your  shoulders  bare; 

Nothing  atones  for  such  a  sin 

But  the  blood  that  follows  the  discipline. 

And  you,  Brother  Cuthbert,  come  with  nie 

Alone  into  the  sacristy  ; 

You,  who  should  be  a  guide  to  your  brothers, 

And  are  ten  times  worse  than  all  the  others, 

For  you  I've  a  draught  that  has  long  been  brewing, 

You  shall  do  a  penance  worth  the  doin 

Away  to  your  prayers,  then,  one  and  all ! 

I  wonder  the  very  convent  wall 

Does  not  crumble  and  crush  you  in  its  fall ! 


x.  ■■■''■ 


4 


THE  NEIGHBOURING  NUNNERY. 
The  Abbess  iRmxQAKD  sitting  vrith  Elsie  in  the  moonlight. 

lrmingard.  The  night  is  silent,  the  wind  is  still, 
The  moon  is  looking  from  yonder  hill 
Down  upon  convent,  and  grove,  and  garden  ; 
The  clouds  have  passed  away  from  her  face, 
Leaving  behind  them  no  sorrowful  trace, 
Only  the  tender  and  quiet  grace 
Of  one,  whose  heart  has  been  healed  with  pardon  ! 

And  such  am  L     My  soul  within 
Was  dark  with  passion  and  soiled  with  sin. 
But  now  its  wounds  are  healed  again  ; 
Gone  are  the  anguish,  the  terror,  and  pain  ; 
For  across  that  desolate  land  of  woe, 
O'er  whose  burning  sands  I  was  forced  to  go, 
A  wind  from  heaven  began  to  blow  ; 
And  all  my  being  trembled  and  shook, 
As  the  leaves  of  the  tree,  or  the  grass  of  the  field, 
And  I  was  healed,  as  the  sick  are  healed, 
When  fanned  by  the  leaves  of  the  Holy  Book  ! 

As  thou  sittest  in  the  moonlight  there, 
Its  glory  flooding  thy  golden  hair, 
And  the  only  darkness  that  which  lies 
In  the  haunted  chambers  of  thine  eyes, 
I  feel  my  soul  drawn  unto  thee, 
Strangely  and  strongly,  and  more  and  more, 


23<5 


ko  one  I  have  known  and  I   .  a 

For  every  sou]  is  akin  to  me 
That  dwell*  in  the  laud  of  mystery  i 

I  am  the  Lady  Irmingard, 
Born  of  a  QOble  race  and  name  ! 
Many  a  wandering  Suabian  bard, 
Whose  life  uas  dreary,  and  bleak,  and  i 
Has  found  through  me  the  way  to  fame. 
Brief  and  bright  were  those  days,  and  the  d 
Winch  followed  was  full  of  a  lurid  light. 
Love,  that  of  every  woman's  heart 
Will  have  the  whole,  and  not  a  part, 
That  is  to  her,  in  Nature's  plan, 
More  than  ambition  is  to  man, 
Her  light,  her  life,  her  very  breath, 
With  no  alternative  but  death, 
Found  me  a  maiden  soft  and  young, 
Just  from  the  convent's  cloistered  school, 
Ami  seated  on  my  lowly  stool, 
Attentive  while  the  minstrels  sung. 

Gallant,  graceful,  gentle,  tall, 
Fairest,  noblest,  best  of  all, 
Was  Walter  of  the  Vogelweid  ; 
And,  whatsoever  may  betide, 
Still  I  think  of  him  with  pride  ! 
His  song  was  of  the  summer-time, 
The  very  birds  sang  in  his  rhyme  ; 
The  sunshine,  the  delicious  air. 
The  fragrance  of  the  flowers,  were  thera ; 
And  I  grew  restless  as  I  heard, 
Restless  and  buoyant  as  a  bird, 
Down  soft,  aerial  currents  sail: 
O'er  blossomed  orchards,  and  fields  in  bloor.i, 
And  through  the  momentary  gloom 
Of  shadows  o'er  the  landscape  trailing, 
Yielding  and  borne  I  knew  not  where, 
But  feeling  resistance  unavailing. 

And  thus,  unnoticed  and  apart, 
And  more  by  accident  than  choice, 
I  listened  to  that  single  voice 
Until  the  chambers  of  my  heart 
Were  filled  with  it  by  night  and  day 
One  night, — it  was  a  night  in  May,    • 
Within  the  garden,  uuauaaca. 


tv  •  R 


vim:  oot.dk n 


237 


Under  the  blossoms  In  the  gloom, 

:'■«[  it,  utter  my  own  nai 
With  protestations  and  mid  prayers; 
Ami  it  rang  through  me,  ami  became 
Like  the  archangel's  trump  of  doom, 

Which  the  soul  hears,  and  must  obey; 
\nd  mine  arose,  as  from  a  tomb. 
.My  former  lite  now  seemed  to  me 
Such  as  hereafter  death  may  be, 
When  in  the  great  Eternity 
We  shall  awake  and  find  it  day. 

It  was  a  dream,  and  would  not  stay  ; 
A  dream,  that  in  a  single  night 
Faded  and  vanished  out  of  sight. 
My  father's  anger  followed  fast 
This  passion,  as  a  freshening  blast 
Seeks  out  and  fans  the  fire,  whose  rage 
It  may  increase,  but  not  assuage. 
And  he  exclaimed,  "  No  wandering  bard 
Shall  win  thy  hand,  0  Irmingard  ! 
For  which  Prince  Henry  of  Iloheneck 
By  messenger  and  letter  sues." 

Gently,  but  firmly,  I  replied  : 
"  Henry  of  Iloheneck  I  discard  ! 
Never  the  hand  of  Irmingard 
Shall  lie  in  his  as  the  hand  of  a  bride  ! " 
This  said  I,  "Walter,  for  thy  sake ; 
This  said  I,  for  I  could  not  choose. 
After  a  pause  my  father  spake, 
In  that  cold  and  deliberate  tone 
Which  turns  the  hearer  into  stone, 
And  seems  itself  the  act  to  be 
That  follows  with  such  dread  certainty: 
"  This,  or  the  cloister  and  the  veil !" 
No  other  words  than  these  he  said, 
But  they  were  like  a  funeral  wail ; 
My  life  was  ended,  my  heart  was  dead. 

That  night  from  the  castle-gate  went  down, 
With  silent,  slow,  and  stealthy  pace, 
Two  shadows,  mounted  on  shadowy  steeds, 
Taking  the  narrow  path  that  leads 
Into  the  forest  dense  and  brown. 
In  the  leafy  darkness  of  the  place, 
One  could  not  distinguish  form  nor  face. 


i 


23S 


I 


Only  a  bulk  without  a  >!i  I 

A  darker  shadow  in  t!\e  Bhade  ; 

One  scarce  COllld  say  it  mOVi 

Thus  it  was  we  made  our  escape  ! 

A  foaming  brook,  with  many  a  bound, 

Followed  us  like  a  playful  hound  ; 

Then  leaped  before  us,  and  in  the  hollow 

Paused,  and  waited  for  us  to  follow, 

And  seemed  impatient,  and  afraid 

That  our  tardy  flight  should  be  betrayed 

By  the  sound  our  horses'  hoof-beats  tua 

And  when  we  reached  the  plain  below, 

We  paused  a  moment  and  drew  rein 

To  look  back  at  the  castle  again  ; 

And  we  saw  the  windows  all  aglow 

With  lights,  that  were  patting  to  and  h 

Our  hearts  with  terror  ceased  to  beat ; 

The  brook  crept  silent  to  our  fe 

We  knew  what  most  we  feared  to  know. 

Then  suddenly  horns  began  to  blow  ; 

And  we  heard  a  shout,  and  a  heavy  tramp, 

And  our  horses  snorted  in  the  damp 

Night-air  of  the  meadows  green  and  wide, 

And  in  a  moment,  side  by  side, 

So  close,  they  must  have  seemed  but  one, 

The  shadows  across  the  moonlight  run, 

And  another  came,  and  swept  behind, 

Like  the  shadow  of  clouds  before  the  wind  ! 

How7  1  remember  that  breathless  flight 
Across  the  moors,  in  the  summer  night ! 
How  under  our  feet  the  long,  white  road 
Backward  like  a  river  flowed, 
Sweeping  with  it  fences  and  hedges  ; 
Whilst  farther  away,  and  overhead, 
Paler  than  I,  with  fear  and  dread, 
The  moon  lied  with  us  as  we  tied 
Along  the  forest's  jagged  edges  ! 

All  this  I  can  remember  well 
But  of  what  afterwards  befell 
1  nothing  farther  can  recall 
Than  a  blind,  desperate,  headlong  fall  : 
The  rest  is  a  blank  and  darkness  all. 
W  ben  1  awoke  out  of  this  swoon, 
The  sun  was  shining,  net  the  moon, 


■ 


iv.  1 


Tin:  QOLDEN   LEG 


liJ» 


Making  a  cross  ixpou  the  wall 

With  the  bars  of  my  windows  narrow  and  uiil ; 

And  1  prayed  to  it,  as  I  had  been  went  to  • 

Prom  early  childhood,  day  by  day, 

Each  morning,  as  in  bed  I  lay  ! 

1  was  lying  again  in  my  own  room! 

And  I  thanked  God,  in  my  lever  and  paid, 

'J' hat  those  shadows  on  the  midnight  plain 

Were  gone,  and  couid  not  come  again  ! 

I  struggled  no  longer  with  my  doom  ! 

This  happened  many  years  ago. 
I  left  my  fathers  home  to  come, 
Like  Catherine  to  her  martyrdom, 
For  blindly  I  esteemed  it  so. 
And  when  I  heard  the  convent  door 
Behind  me  close,  to  ope  no  more, 
I  felt  it  smite  me  like  a  blow . 
Through  all  my  limbs  a  shudder  ran, 
And  on  my  bruised  spirit  fell 
The  dampness  of  my  narrow  cell 
As  night-air  on  a  wounded  man, 
Giving  intolerable  pain. 

But  now  a  better  life  began. 
1  felt  the  agony  decrease 
By  slow  degrees,  then  wholly  cease, 
Ending  in  perfect  rest  and  peace ! 
It  was  not  apathy,  nor  dulness, 
That  weighed  and  pressed  upon  my  brain, 
But  the  same  passion  I  had  given 
To  earth  before,  now  turned  to  heaven 
With  all  its  overflowing  fulness. 

Alas !  the  world  is  full  of  peril ! 
The  path  that  runs  through  the  fairest  meads, 
On  the  sunniest  side  of  the  valley,  leads 
Into  a  region  bleak  and  sterUe  ! 
Alike  in  the  high-born  and  the  lowly, 
The  will  is  feeble,  and  passion  strong. 
W't  cannot  sever  right  from  wrong  ; 
Some  falsehood  mingles  with  all  truth  ; 
Nor  is  it  strange  the  heart  of  youth 
Should  waver  and  comprehend  but  slowly 
The  things  that  are  holy  and  unholy  ; 
But  in  this  sacred  and  calm  retreat, 
We  are  all  well  and  safely  shielded 


K2 


240 


LONarei 


From  windl  that  blow,  and  waves  that  I 

Prom  the  ©old,  and  ram,  and  blighting  h 
To  which  the  strongest  lie;1:  yielded. 

Here  we  stand  as  the  Virgins  Seven, 

For  our  celestial  l-i  0  yearn'n 

Our  hearts  are  lamps  tor  ever  burni 
With  a  steady  and  unwavering  flame, 
Pointing  upward,  for  ever  the  same, 
lily  upward  toward  the  Heaven! 
The  moon  is  hidden  behind  a  cloud ; 
A  sudden  darkness  tills  the  room, 
And  thy  deep  eyes,  amid  the  gloom, 
Shine  like  jewels  in  a  shroud. 
On  the  leaves  is  a  sound  of  falling  rain  ; 
A  bird,  awakened  in  its  nest, 
(Jives  a  faint  twitter  of  unrest, 
Then  smooths  its  plumes  and  sleeps  agai 
No  other  sounds  than  these  I  hear ; 
The  hour  of  midnight  must  he  near. 
Thou  art  o'erspent  with  the  day's  fatigue 
Of  riding  many  a  dusty  league ; 
Sink,  then,  gently  to  thy  slumber; 
Me  so  many  cares  encumber, 
So  many  ghosts,  and  forms  of  fright, 
Have  started  from  their  graves  to-night, 
They  have  driven  sleep  from  mine  eyes  away 
I  will  go  down  to  the  chapel  and  pray. 


COVERED  BRIDGE  AT  LUCERM:. 

L'riace  H.  God's  blessing  on  the  architects  who  build 
The  bridges  o'er  swift  rivers  and  abysses 
Before  impassable  to  human  feet, 
No  less  than  on  the  builders  of  cathedrals, 
'Whose  massive  walls  are  bridges  thrown  across 
The  dark  and  terrible  abyss  of  Death. 
Well  has  the  name  of  1'ontifex  been  given 
Unto  the  Church's  head,  as  the  chief  builder 
And  architect  of  the  invisible  bridge 
That  leads  from  earth  to  heaven. 

FAsie.  II ow  dark  it  grows ! 
What  are  these  paintings  on  the  walls  aroun- 


v.| 


iiik  <;oi.m:\  i.i-viKM). 


243 


Prince  Henry.  The  Dance  Maeabcr! 

EUie.  What'/ 

Prima  Henry.  The  Dance  of  Death  ! 
All  thai  '_:<•  to  and  fro  must  look  npon  it, 
Mindful  of  what  they  shall  be,  while  beneath, 
Among  the  wooden  piles,  the  turbulent  river 
Etuslu   ,  impetuous  aa  the  river  of  life, 
With  dimpling  eddies,  ever  green  and  bright, 
where  the  shadow  of  this  bridge  falls  on  it. 

EUie.  0  yes  !  1  see  it  now  ! 

Prince  Henry.  The  grim  musician 
Leads  all  men  through  the  mazes  of  that  dance, 
To  different  sounds  in  different  measures  moving  ; 
Sometimes  he  plays  a  lute,  sometimes  a  drum, 
To  tempt  or  terrify. 

EUie,  What  is  this  picture  / 

Prince  II.  It  is  a  young  man  singing  to  a  nun. 
Who  kneels  at  her  devotions,  but  in  kneeling 
Turns  round  to  look  at  him;  and  Death,  meanwhile 
Is  putting  out  the  candles  on  the  altar  ! 

Elsie.  Ah,  what  a  pity  'tis  that  she  should  listen 
Unto  such  songs,  when  in  her  orisons 
She  might  have  heard  in  heaven  the  angels  singing! 

Prince  II.  Here  he  has  stolen  a  jester's  cap  and  hells, 
And  dances  with  the  Queen. 

Elsie.  A  foolish  jest ! 

Prince  11.  And  here  the  heart  of  the  new-wedded  wife, 
Coming  from  church  with  her  beloved  lord, 
lie  startles  with  the  rattle  of  his  drum. 

EUie.  Ah,  that  is  sad  !  And  yet  perhaps  'tis  best 
That  she  should  die  with  all  the  sunshine  on  her, 
And  all  the  benedictions  of  the  morning. 
Before  this  affluence  of  golden  light 
Shall  fade  into  a  cold  and  clouded  gray, 
Then  into  darkness  ! 

Prince  Henry.  Under  it  is  written, 
"  Nothing  but  death  shall  separate  thee  and  me  !" 

EUie.  And  what  is  this,  that  follows  close  upon  it  ? 

Prince  H.  Death,  playing  on  a  dulcimer.  Behind  hirii, 
A  poor  old  woman,  with  a  rosary, 
Follows  the  sound  and  seems  to  wish  her  feet 
Were  swifter  to  o'ertake  him.     Underneath, 
The  inscription  reads,  "Better  is  Death  than  Life.3 


1V2. 


LONOFELLOV 


Eisie,  Better  is  death  than  life !  Ah  yes :  to  thousands 
Death  plays  upon  a  dulcimer,  and  sii 
That  Bong  of  consolation,  till  the  air 
Rings  with  it,  and  they  cannot  chouse  hut  follow 
\\  hither  he  leads.     And  not  the  old  alone, 
But  the  young  also  hear  it,  and  are  still. 

Prince  II.    Yes,  in  their  sadder  moments  'Tis  the  sound 
Of  their  own  hearts  they  hear,  half  full  of  t< 
Which  are  like  crystal  cups,  half  tilled  with  wal 

■  i  the  pressure  of  a  fie 
With  music  sweet  and  low  and  melancholy. 
Let  us  go  forward,  and  no  longer  stay 
In  this  great  picture-gallery  of  Death  ! 
y  thought  of  it ! 

Klsie.  Why  is  it  hateful  to  you  I 

Prince  Henry.  For  the  reason 
That  life,  and  all  that  speaks  of  life,  is  lovely. 
And  death,  and  all  that  speaks  of  death,  is  hateful. 

Elsie.  The  grave  itself  is  but  a  covered  bridge, 
Leading  from  light  to  light,  through  a  brief  darkness  ! 

Prince  Henry  {emerging  from  th> 
I  breathe  again  more  freely  !     Ah,  how  pleat 
To  come  once  more  into  the  light  of  day, 
( >ut  of  that  shadow  of  death  !     To  hear  again 
The  hoof-beats  of  our  horses  on  firm  ground, 
And  not  upon  those  hollow  planks,  resounding 
With  a  sepulchral  echo,  like  the  clods 
( m  coffins  in  a  churchyard  !     Yonder  lies 
The  Lake  of  the  Four  Forest  Towns,  apparelled 
In  light,  and  lingering,  like  a  village  maiden, 
Bid  in  the  bosom  of  her  native  mountains, 
Then  pouring  all  her  life  into  another's, 
Changing  her  name  and  being  !     Overhead, 
Shaking  his  cloudy  tresses  louse  in  air, 
llises  Pilatus,  with  his  windy  pines.    {They  pass  on.) 


THE  DEVIL'S  BRIDGE. 
Prince  Henry  and  Elsie  crossing,  with  attendants 
Guide.  Tlus  bridge  is  called  the  Devil's  Bridge. 
With  a  single  arch,  from  ridg3  to  ridge, 
It  leaps  across  the  terrible  chasm 
Yawning  beneath  us,  black  and  deep, 


r~~ 





v.l 


Till;  QOLDEN   l.l'.iii:vi>. 


24a 


As  if,  in  BOme  convulsive  spasm, 

The  summits  of  the  hills  had  cracked, 
And  made  a  road  for  the  cataract, 
That  raves  and  rages  down  the  steep  ! 
der  the  bridge).  11  a !  ha ! 

Guide.  Never  any  bridge  but  I 

Could  stand  across  the  wild  ah; 
All  the  rest,  of  wood  or  stone, 
By  the  Devil's  hand  were  overthrown. 
He  toppled  crags  from  the  precipice, 
And  whatsoe'er  was  built  by  day 
In  the  night  was  swept  away  ; 
None  could  stand  but  this  alone. 

Lucifer  {under  the  bridge).  JJa  !   ha! 

Guide.  I  showed  you  in  the  valley  a  boulder 
Marked  with  the  imprint  of  his  shoulder  ; 
As  he  was  bearing  it  up  this  way,  x 

A  peasant,  passing,  cried,  "  Herr  Je  !" 
And  the  Devil  dropped  it  in  his  fright, 
And  vanished  suddenly  out  of  sight ! 

Lucifer  {under  the  bridge).  Ha !  ha  ! 

Guide.  Abbot  Giraldr.s  of  Einsiedel, 
For  pilgrims  on  their  way  to  Rome, 
Built  this  at  last,  with  a  single  arch, 
Under  which,  on  its  endless  march, 
Runs  the  river,  white  with  foam, 
Like  a  thread  through  the  eye  of  a  needle. 
And  the  Devil  promised  to  let  it  stand, 
Under  compact  and  condition 
That  the  first  living  thing  which  crossed 
Should  be  surrendered  into  his  hand, 
And  be  beyond  redemption  lost. 

Lucifer  {under  the  bridge).  Ha  !  ha  !  perditu  n  I 

Guide.  At  length,  the  bridge  being  all  completed. 
The  Abbot,  standing  at  its  head, 
Threw  across  it  a  loaf  of  bread, 
Which  a  hungry  dog  sprang  after, 
And  the  rocks  re-echoed  with  peals  of  laughter 
To  see  the  Devil  thus  defeated  !   (They  pass  on.) 

Lucifer  {under  the  bridge).  Ha!  ha  !  defeated  ! 
For  journeys  and  for  crimes  like  this 
I  let  the  bridge  stand  orer  the  ahy. 


I 


zu 


LOXQtilLLOVi  H   l-otlMM 


3 


■ 


T11K  BT  GOTHAM)  PASS. 

/v.  77.  This  is  the  highest  point  Two  ways  the  riven 
Leap  down  to  different  .seas,  and  as  they  roll 

.  deep  and  still,  and  their  majestic  presence 
Becomes  a  benefaction  to  the  towns 

They  visit,  wandering  silently  among  them, 
Like  patriarchs  old  among  their  shining  tents. 

Elsie.  How  bleak  and  bare  it  is !  Nothing  but  mosses 
Grow  un  these  rocks. 

Prince  Henry.  Yet  are  they  not  forgotten  ; 
Beneficent  Nature  sends  the  mists  to  feed  them. 

Elsie.  See  yonder  little  cloud,  that,  borne  aloft 
So  tenderly  by  the  wind,  floats  fast  away 
Over  the  snowy  peaks  !  It  seems  to  me 
The  body  of  St  Catherine,  borne  by  angels  ! 

Pa  //.  Thou  art  St  Catherine,  and  invisible  angels 
Bear  thee  across  these  chasms  and  precipices, 
Lest  thou  shouldst  dash  thy  feet  against  a  stone  ! 

Elsie.  Would  I  were  borne  unto  my  grave  as  she  was, 
Upon  angelic  shoulders  !  Even  now 
1  seem  uplifted  by  them,  light  as  air  ! 
What  sound  is  that  ( 

Prince  Henry.  The  tumbling  avalanches  ! 

Elsie.     IIow  awful,  yet  how  beautiful ! 

Prince  Henry.  These  are 

The  voices  of  the  mountains  !    Thus  they  ope 
Their  snowy  lips,  and  speak  unto  each  other, 
In  the  primeval  language,  lost  to  man. 

Elsie.  W  hat  land  is  this  that  spreads  itself  beneath  us .' 

Prince  Henry.     Italy!  Italy! 

Elsie.  Land  of  the  .Madonna! 

How  beautiful  it  is  !    It  seems  a  garden 
Of  Paradise ! 

Prince  Henry.  Nay,  of  Gethsemane 

To  thee  and  me,  of  passion  and  of  prayer ! 
Yet  once  of  Paradise.     Long  years  ago 
1  wandered  as  a  youth  among  its  bowers, 
Aud  never  from  my  heart  has  faded  quite 
Its  memory,  that  like  a  summer  suuset, 
Encircles  with  a  ring  of  purple  light 
All  the  horizon  of  my  youth. 

(Juide,  0  friends ! 


fc 


HH 


■■■ 


v.l 


TUT  QOl  DEN    LEGEND. 


The  days  are  short,  the  m$  before  us  long  ; 

We  must  oot  linger,  if  we  think  to  reach 

The  inn  at  Belinzona  before  vespers!     (They  pass  on. 


AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  ALPS. 
.1  halt  under  the  trees  at  noon. 
/'/•.  //.  1  [ere  let,  us  pause  a  moment  in  the  trembling 
8had<»\v  and  sunshine  of  the  roadside  trees, 
And,  our  tired  horses  in  a  group  assembling, 
Inhale  long  draughts  of  this  delicious  breeze. 
( fur  fleeter  steeds  have  distanced  our  attendants  ; 
They  lag  behind  us  with  a  slower  pace  ; 
We  will  await  them  under  the  green  pendants 
Of  the  great  willows  in  this  shady  place. 
Ho,  Barbarossa  !  how  thy  mottled  haunches 
Sweat  with  this  canter  over  hill  and  glade  ! 
Stand  still,  and  let  these  overhanging  branches 
Fan  thy  hot  sides  and  comfort  thee  with  shade  ! 

Elsie.  What  a  delightful  landscape  spreads  before  us, 
Marked  with  a  whitewashed  cottage  here  and.  there  ! 
And,  in  luxuriant  garlands  drooping  o'er  us, 
Blossoms  of  grape-vines  scent  the  sunny  air. 

Prince  Henry. 
Hark !  what  sweet  sounds  are  those,  whose  accents  holy 
Fill  the  warm  noon  with  music  sad  and  sweet ! 
Elsie.  It  is  a  band  of  pilgrims  moving  slowly 
On  their  long  journey,  with  uncovered  feet. 

pilgrims,  chanting  the  Hymn  of  St  Hildebert. 
Me  receptet  Sion  ilia, 
Sion  David,  urbs  tranquilla, 
Cujus  faber  auctor  lucis. 
Cujus  porta?  lignum  crucis, 
Cujus  claves  lingua  Petri, 
Cujus  cives  semper  laeti, 
Cujus  muri  lapis  vivus, 
Cujus  custos  Ilex  festivus! 
Lucifer  (as  a  friar  in  the  procession). 
Here  am  1,  too,  in  the  pious  band, 
In  the  garb  of  a  barefooted  Carmelite  dressed  » 
The  soles  of  my  feet  are  as  hard  and  tanned 
As  the  conscience  of  old  Pope  Ilildebrand. 
The  Holy  Satan,  who  made  the  wives 
Of  the  bishops  lend  Buch  shameful  lives. 


' 


246 


nfellow  s  poems. 


WWM 


\Wrl 


All  day  long  1  heat  my  breast, 

And  chant  with  a  most  particular  / 

The  Latin  hymns,  which  I  understand 

Quite  as  well,  I  think,  as  the  I 

And  at  night  such  lodging  in  barns  and  sheds, 

Such  a  hurly-burly  in  country  u 

Such  a  clatter  of  tongues  in  empty  he.-' 

•  a  helter-skelter  of  prayers  and  sins  ! 
Of  all  the  contrivances  of  the  time 
For  sowing  hroadcast  the  seeds  of  crime, 
There  is  none  so  pleasing  to  me  and  mine 
As  a  pilgrimage  to  some  far-off  shrine  ! 

Pr.  //.  If  from  the  outward  man  we  judge  the  inner 
And  cleanliness  is  godliness,  I  fear 
A  hopeless  reprobate,  a  hardened  sinni 
Must  be  that  Carmelite  now  passing  near. 

Lucifer.  There  is  my  German  Prince  again, 
Thus  far  on  his  journey  to  Salern, 
And  the  lovesick  girl,  whose  heated  brain 
Is  sowing  the  cloud  to  reap  the  rain  ; 
But  it's  a  long  road  that  has  no  turn  ! 
Let  them  quietly  hold  their  wa 
!  have  al  in  the  play. 

But,  first,  I  must  act  to  my  heart's  content 
This  mummery  and  this  merriment, 
And  drive  this  motley  tlock  of  sheep 
Into  the  fold,  where  drink  and  sleep 
The  jolly  old  friars  of  Benevent. 
Of  a  truth,  it  often  provokes  me  to  laugh 
To  see  these  beggars  hobble  along, 
Lamed  and  maimed,  and  fed  upon  chaff 
Chanting  their  wonderful  pit!"  and  paff  ; 
And,  to  make  up  for  not  understanding  the  song, 
Singing  it  fiercely,  and  wild,  and  stron 
Were  it  not  for  my  magic  garters  and  staff, 
And  the  goblets  of  goodly  wine  I  quaff, 
And  the  mischief  I  make  in  the  idle  thn 
I  should  not  continue  the  business  long. 
Pil <j rims  chanting. 

In  hac  urhe,  lux  solennis, 

Ver  seternum,  pax  perennis  •. 

In  hac  odor  implens  coclos, 

In  hac  semper  test  urn  melos  ! 
J'r   If.  Do  you  observe  that  monk  among  the  train 


/ 


- 


' 


7.1 


QOLDE>    LEI 


247 


Who  pourfl  from  his  groat  throat  the  roaring  bass, 
\  -  a  cathedral  Bpoul  pours  out  the  rain, 

And  this  way  turns  his  rubicund,  round  face? 

EUie.  It  is  the  same  who,  on  the  Strasburg  square, 
Preached  i"  the  peopl  •  in  the  open  air. 

/'  •.  //.  And  he  hascrosscd  o'er  mountain,  field,  and  fell, 
On  that  good  steed  that  seems  to  hear  him  well, 
The  hackney  of  the  Friars  of  Orders  Gray, 
UN  own  stout  legs!   He,  too,  was  in  the  play, 
Both  as  King  Herod  and  Ben  Israel. 
Good  morrow,  Friar ! 

Friar  Cuthbert.        Good  morrow,  noble  sir  ! 

Prince  II.  I  speak  in  German,  for,  unless  I  err, 
You  are  a  German. 

Friar  (.'n'lrbert.    I  cannot  gainsay  you. 
But  by  what  instinct  or  what  secret  sign, 
Meeting  me  here,  do  you  straightway  divine 
That  northward  of  the  Alps  my  country  lies .; 

Pr.  H.  Your  accent  like  St  Peter's  would  betray  you, 
Did  not  your  yellow  beard  and  your  blue  eyes. 
Moreover,  we  have  seen  your  face  before, 
And  heard  you  preach  at  the  Cathedral  door 
On  Easter  Sunday,  in  the  Strasburg  square. 
We  were  among  the  crowd  that  gathered  there, 
And  saw  you  play  the  Rabbi  with  great  skill, 
As  if,  by  leaning  o'er  so  many  years 
To  walk  with  little  children,  your  own  will 
Had  caught  a  childish  attitude  from  theirs, 
A  kind  of  stooping  in  its  form  and  gait, 
And  could  no  longer  stand  erect  and  straight. 
Whence  come  you  now? 

Friar  Cuthbert.        From  the  old  monastery 
Of  Hirschau,  in  the  forest ;  being  sent 
Upon  a  pilgrimage  to  Benevent, 
To  see  the  image  of  the  Virgin  Mary, 
That  moves  its  holy  eyes,  and  sometimes  speaks, 
And  lets  the  piteous  tears  run  down  its  cheeks, 
To  touch  the  hearts  of  the  impenitent. 

Prince  H.  Oh,  had  I  faith,  as  in  the  days  gone  by, 
That  knew  no  doubt,  and  feared  no  myste; 

Lucif.  (at  a  distance).  Ho,  Cuthbert !  Friar  Cuthbei  t 

Friar  Cuthbert.  Farewell,  Prince! 

1  cannot  stay  to  argue  and  convince. 

Prince  //.  This  is  indeed  the  blessed  Man 


248 


EMft. 


■it 


in  and  Mother  of  our  dear  Redeemer! 

All  hearts  are  touched  and  Boftened  at  her  name ; 

Alike  the  bandit,  with  the  bloody  hand, 

The  priest,  the  prince,  the  scholar,  and  the  peasant, 

The  man  of  deeds,  the  visionary  dreamer, 
Pay  homage  to  her  as  one  ever  present • ! 
And  even  as  children,  who  have  much  offended 
A  too  indulgent  father,  in  great  shame, 
Penitent,  and  yet  not  daring  unattended 

into  his  presence,  at  the  gate 
Speak  with  their  sister,  and  confiding  wait, 
Till  she  goes  in  before  and  intercedes  ; 
So  men,  repenting  of  their  evil  deeds, 
And  yet  not  venturing  rashly  to  draw  near 
With  their  requests  an  angry  Father's  ear, 
Offer  to  her  their  prayers  and  their  confession, 
And  she  for  them  in  heaven  makes  intercession 
Ami  if  our  faith  had  given  us  nothing  more 
Than  this  example  of  all  womanhood, 
So  mild,  so  merciful,  so  strong,  80  good, 
So  patient,  peaeeful,  loyal,  loving,  pure, 
This  were  enough  to  prove  it  higher  and  truer 
Than  all  the  creeds  the  world  had  known  before. 
Pilgrims  (cham  ir  off). 

Urbs  ooeleBtis,  orbs  beata, 

Supra  petram  collocate, 

Urbs  in  portu  satis  tuto 

De  longinquo  te  saluto, 

Te  saluto,  te  suspiro, 

Te  afl'ecto,  te  require  ! 


THE  INN  AT  GENOA. 

A  terrace  overlooking  the  sea.    A 

Prince  II.  It  is  the  sea,  it  is  the  sea, 
In  all  its  vague  immensity, 
Fading  and  darkening  in  the  distance  ! 
Silent,  majestical,  and  slow, 
The  white  ships  haunt  it  to  and  fro, 
With  all  their  ghostly  sails  unfurled, 
As  phantoms  from  another  world 
Haunt  the  dim  confines  of  existence  ! 


v.l 


•nir.  cm!.  i;\p. 


_'  T.) 


But  ah  !  how  few  can  comprehend 
Their  Bignals,  or  to  what  good  end 
From  land  to  land  they  come  and  go  ! 

Upon  a  sea  more  vast  and  dark 
The  Bjtirita  of  the  dead  embark, 

All  voyaging  to  unknown  coasts. 

We  wave  our  farewells  from  the  shore, 

And  they  depart,  and  come  no  more, 

Or  come  as  phantoms  and  as  ghosts. 

Above  the  darksome  sea  of  death 

Looms  the  great  life  that  is  to  be, 

A  land  of  cloud  and  mystery, 

A  dim  mirage  with  shapes  of  men 

Long  dead,  and  passed  beyond  our  ken. 

Awe-struck  we  gaze,  and  hold  our  breath 

Till  the  fair  pageant  vanisheth, 

Leaving  us  in  perplexity, 

And  doubtful  whether  it  has  been 

A  vision  of  the  world  unseen, 

Or  a  bright  image  of  our  own 

Against  the  sky  in  vapours  thrown. 

Lucifer  {singing  from  the  sea). 
Thou  didst  not  make  it,  thou  canst  not  mend  it, 
But  thou  hast  the  power  to  end  it ! 
The  sea  is  silent,  the  sea  is  discreet, 
Deep  it  lies  at  thy  very  feet ; 
There  is  no  confessor  like  unto  death  ! 
Thou  canst  not  see  him,  but  he  is  near  ; 
Thou  needst  not  whisper  above  thy  breath, 
And  he  will  hear  ; 
He  will  answer  the  questions, 
The  vague  surmises  and  suggestions, 
That  fill  thy  soul  with  doubt  and  fear  ! 

Prince  11.  The  fisherman,  who  lies  afloat 
With  shadowy  sail,  in  yonder  boat, 
Is  singing  softly  to  the  Night ! 
But  do  I  comprehend  aright 
The  meaning  of  the  words  he  sung 
So  sweetly  in  his  native  tongue  I 
Ah,  yes  !  the  sea  is  still  and  dee]). 
All  things  within  its  b<>som  sleep  ! 
A  single  step,  and  all  is  o'er  ; 
A  ] 'lunge,  a  bubble,  and  no  more  : 
And  thou,  dear  Elsie,  wilt  be  I 


HHH 


B  A 


•:r<o 


m 


i 


m  martyrdom  ami  agony. 
Elsie  {coming  from  her  chamber 

The  night  is  calm  and  cloudlc 
And  still  as  still  can  b 

And  the  stars  come  forth  to  listen 

To  the  music  of  the  n 

They  gather,  and  gather,  and  gather 

Until  they  crowd  the  sky, 

And  listen  in  breathless  silence, 

To  the  solemn  litany. 

It  begins  in  rocky  caverns, 

As  a  voice  that  chants  alone 

To  the  pedals  of  the  organ 

In  monotonous  under-tone ; 

And  anon  from  shelving  beaches, 

And  shallow  sands  beyond, 

In  snow-white  robes  uprising 

The  ghostly  choirs  respond. 

And  sadly  and  unceasing 

The  mournful  voice  sings  on, 

And  the  snow-white  choirs  still  answer 

Christe  eleison  ! 

Prince  11.  Angel  of  God  !  thy  finer  sense  perceive* 
Celestial  and  perpetual  harmonies  ! 
Thy  purer  soul,  that  trembles  and  believes, 
Hears  the  archangel's  trumpet  in  the  br< 
And  where  the  forest  rolls,  or  ocean  bea 
Cecilia's  organ  sounding  in  the 
And  tongues  of  prophets  speaking  in  the  lea 
But  I  hear  discord  only  and  despair, 
And  whisners  as  of  demons  in  the  air  ! 


AT  SEA. 

//  Padrone.  The  wind  upon  our  quart* 
And  on  before  the  freshening  gale, 
That  fills  the  snow-white  lateen  sail, 
Swiftly  our  light  felucca  tlies. 
Around,  the  billows  burst  and  foam; 
They  lift  her  o'er  the  sunken  rock, 
They  beat  her  sides  with  many  a  shock, 
And  then  upon  their  flowing  dome 
They  poise  her  like  a  weathercock 


,  in:  OOLPKM   i.i.iiEM). 


261 


4   ; 

m 


Between  us  and  the  western  skies 
The  lulls  of  Corsica  arise; 
Eastward,  in  yonder  long,  blue  line, 
The  Bummits  of  the  Appenine, 
Ami  southward,  and  still  far  away, 
Salerno,  on  its  sunny  bay, 
You  cannot  see  it,  where  it  lies. 

Prince  11.  Ah,  would  that  never  more  mine  eyes 
Might  see  its  towers  by  night  or  day  ! 

Elsie.  Behind  us,  dark  and  awfully, 
There  comes  a  cloud  out  of  the  sea, 
That  bears  the  form  of  a  hunted  deer, 
With  hide  of  brown,  and  hoofs  of  black, 
And  antlers  laid  upon  its  back, 
And  fleeing  fast  and  wild  with  fear, 
As  if  the  hounds  were  on  its  track  ! 

Prince  H.  Lo  !  while  we  gaze,  it  breaks  and  falls 
In  shapeless  masses,  like  the  walls 
Of  a  burnt  city.    Broad  and  red 
The  fires  of  the  descending  sun 
Glare  through  the  windows,  and  o'erhead, 
Athwart  the  vapours,  dense  and  dun, 
Long  shafts  of  silvery  light  arise, 
Like  rafters  that  support  the  skies. 

Elsie.  See  !  from  its  summit  the  lurid  levin 
Flashes  downward  without  warning, 
As  Lucifer,  son  of  the  morning, 
Fell  from  the  battlements  of  heaven  ! 

11  Padrone.  I  must  entreat  you,  friends,  below  ! 
The  angry  storm  begins  to  blow, 
For  the  weather  changes  with  the  moon. 
All  this  morning,  until  Doon, 
We  had  baffling  winds,  and  sudden  flaws 
Struck  the  sea  with  then  cat's-paws. 
Only  a  little  hour  ago 
I  was  whistling  to  Saint  Antonio 
For  a  capful  of  wind  to  fill  our  sail, 
And  instead  of  a  breeze  he  has  sent  a  gale. 
Last  night  1  saw  Saint  Elmo's  stars, 
With  their  glimmering  lanterns,  all  at  play 
Ou  the  tops  of  the  masts  and  the  tips  of  the  spars 
And  1  knew  we  should  have  foul  weather  to-day 
Oheerly,  my  hearties,  yo  heave  ho  ! 
Brad  up  the  mainsail,  and  let  her  go 


g 


J 


LOW  8  Pot: MS. 


V 


i    the  winds  will  and  Saint  Antonio! 
Co  yon  see  that  Livornese  felu 

That  vessel  to  the  windward  jond 

Running  with  her  gunwale  under  I 

1  was  looking  when  the  wind  o'ertook  he*. 

She  had  all  sail  set,  and  the  only  wonder 
[8,  that  at  once  the  strength  of  the  blast 
Did  not  cany  away  her  luast. 

is  a  galley  of  the  Gran  Dnca, 
That  through  the  fear  of  the  Algerines, 
Convoys  those  lazy  brigantines, 
Laden  with  wine  and  oil  from  Lncea. 
Now  all  is  ready,  high  and  low  ; 
Blow,  blow,  good  Saint  Antonio  ! 

Ha  !  that  is  the  first  dash  of  the  rain, 
With  a  sprinkle  of  spray  above  the  rails, 
Just  enough  to  moisten  our  sails, 
And  make  them  ready  for  the  strain. 
See  how  she  leaps,  as  the  blasts  o'eitake  her, 
And  speeds  away  with  a  bone  in  her  month  ! 
Now  keep  her  head  towards  the  south, 
And  there  is  no  danger  of  bank  or  breaker. 
With  the  breeze  behind  us,  on  we  go; 
Not  too  much,  good  Saint  Antonio  ! 


I  t 


VI. 

THE  SCHOOL  OF  SALERNO. 
.  I  travelling  Scholastic  affixing  kit  Theses  to  the  gale  of 
the  College. 
Scholastic. 
There;  that  is  my  gauntlet,  my  banner,  my  shield, 
Hung  up  as  a  challenge  to  all  the  field  ! 

hundred  and  twenty-rive  propositions, 
Which  I  will  maintain  with  the  sword  of  the  tongue 
Against  all  disputants,  old  and  young. 
Let  us  see  if  doctors  or  dialecticians 
Will  dare  to  dispute  my  definitions, 
Or  attack  any  one  of  my  learned  tlu 
Here  stand  I ;  the  end  shall  be  as  God  pleases. 
I  think  I  have  proved,  by  profound  researches) 
The  error  of  all  those  doctrines,  so  vicious, 
Of  the  old  Areopagite  Dionysius, 
That  are  making  such  terrible  work  in  the  churches, 


VX] 


Tin;  GOLDEN   i.i  QBND. 


I 


By  Michael  the  Stammerer,  seul  from  the  [Cast, 
And  done  into  Latin  by  that  Scottish  beast, 
Erigena  Johannes,  who  dares  to  maintain, 

in  the  face  of  the  truth,  the  error  infernal, 
That  the  universe  is  and  must  he  eternal  ; 
\i  first  laying  down,  as  a  fact  fundamental, 

Thai  nothing  with  God  can  he  accidental; 
Then  asserting  that  God  before  the  creation 

Could  not  have  existed,  because  it  is  plain 
That,  had  he  existed,  he  would  have  created  ; 
Which  is  begging  the  question  that  should  he  debated, 
And  moveth  me  less  to  anger  than  laughter. 
All  nature,  he  holds,  is  a  respiration 
Of  the  Spirit  of  God,  who,  in  breathing  hereafter 
Will  inhale  it  into  his  bosom  again, 
So  that  nothing  but  God  alone  will  remain. 
And  therein  he  contradicteth  himself; 
For  he  opens  the  whole  discussion  by  stating, 
That  God  can  only  exist  in  creating. 
That  question  1  think  I  have  laid  on  the  shelf! 
(He  (joes  out.    Two  Doctors  come  in  disputing,  and  followed 
by  Pupils.) 

Dr  Serajino.  I,  with  the  Doctor  Seraphic,  maintain, 
That  a  word  which  is  only  conceived  in  the  brain 
Is  a  type  of  eternal  Generation; 
The  spoken  word  is  the  Incarnation. 

Dr  Cherubino.  What  do  I  care  for  the  Doctor  Seraphic, 
With  all  his  worthy  chaffer  and  traffic  ? 

Dr  Serajino.  You  make  but  a  paltry  show  of  resistance  ; 
Universal  have  no  real  existence  ! 

Dr  Cherubino.  Your  words  are  but  idle  and  empty  chatter- 
Ideas  are  eternally  joined  to  matter  ! 

Dr  Serajino.  May  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  your  position. 
You  wretched,  wrangling  culler  of  herbs  ! 

Dr  Cherubino.  May  he  send  your  soul  to  eternal  perdition. 
For  your  Treatise  on  the  Irregular  Verbs  ! 

(They  rush  outfighting.     Two  Scholars  come  in.) 

1st  Scholar.     Monte  Cassino,  then,  is  your  College. 
What  think  you  of  ours  here  at  Salern  1 

2d  Scholar.    To  tell  the  truth,  I  arrived  so  lately, 
J  hardly  yet  have  had  time  to  discern. 
So  much,  at  least  I  am  bound  to  acknowledge 
The  air  seems  healthy,  the  building  stately, 
And  on  the  whole  I  like  it  greatly.  B 


LONOFELI.oW  8  POKM*>. 


XV 


\<t  Scholar.  Yes,  the  ah  '    the  CalabrUn  I'  I 

1  us  down  pull's  of  mountain  air ; 

And  in  summer-time  the  sea-breeze  tills 

With  its  coolness,  cloister,  and  court,  and  square 

Then  at  every  season  of  the  year 

There  are  clouds  of  guests  and  travellers  bejej 

Pilgrims,  and  mendicant  friars,  and  traders 

From  the  Levant,  with  figs  and  wine, 

And  bauds  of  wounded  and  sick  Crusadi 

Coming  hack  from  Palestine, 

■2<l  Scholar.  And  what  are  the  studies  you  pursue  if 
What  is  the  course  you  here  go  through  1 

1st  Scholar.  The  first  three  years  of  the  college  coins*' 
Are  given  to  Logic  alone,  as  the  source 
Of  all  that  is  noble,  and  wise,  and  true. 

■I'l  Scholar.  That  seems  rather  stiange,  I  must  confess 
In  a  Medical  School;  yet,  nevertheless, 
You  doubtless  have  reasons  for  that. 

Ut  Scholar.     0,  yes! 
For  none  hut  a  clever  dialectician 
Can  hope  to  become  a  great  physician  ; 
That  has  been  settled  long  ago. 
Logic  makes  an  important  part 
Of  the  mystery  of  the  healing  art  ; 
For  without,  it  how  could  you  hope  to  show 
That  nohouy  knows  so  much  as  you  know  I 
After  this  there  are  live  years  more 
Devoted  wholly  to  medicine, 
With  lectures  on  chirurgical  lore, 
And  dissections  of  the  bodies  of  swine, 
As  likest  the  human  form  divine. 

2d  Scholar.  What  are  the  hooks  now  most  in  vogue 

1st  Scholar.  Quite  an  extensive  catalogue; 
Mostly,  however,  books  of  our  own  ; 
As  Gariopontus'  Passionarius. 
And  the  writings  of  Matthew  Platearius; 
And  a  volume  universally  known 
As  the  Regimen  of  the  School  of  Salern, 
For  Robert  of  Normandy  written  in  terse 
And  very  elegant  Latin  verse. 
Each  of  these  writings  has  its  turn. 
And  when  at  length  we  have  finished  these, 
Then  comes  the  struggle  for  degrees, 
With  dl  the  oldest  and  ablest  critics  : 


i 


VI. 


IEND. 


J." 


The  public  thesis  and  disputation, 

Question,  and  answer,  and  explanation 

Of  a  passage  out  of  Hippocrates, 

Or  Aristotle's  Analytics, 

There  the  triumphant  Magister  stands ! 

A  book  is  solemnly  placed  in  his  hands, 

On  which  he  swears  to  follow  the  rule 

And  ancient  forms  of  the  good  old  school ; 

To  report  if  any  confectionarius 

Mingles  his  drugs  with  matters  various, 

And  to  visit  his  patients  twice  a-day, 

And  once  in  the  night,  if  they  live  in  town, 

And  if  they  are  poor,  to  take  no  pay. 

Baving  faithfully  promised  these, 

His  head  is  crowned  with  a  laurel  crown  ; 

A  kiss  on  his  cheek,  a  ring  on  his  hand, 

The  Magister  Artium  et  Physices 

Goes  forth  from  the  school  like  a  lord  of  the  land. 

And  now,  as  we  have  the  whole  morning  before  us, 

Let  us  go  in,  if  you  make  no  objection, 

And  listen  awhile  to  a  learned  prelection 

On  Marcus  Aurelius  Cassiodorus. 

They  go  in.     Enter  Lucifer  as  a  Doctor. 

Lucifer.  This  is  the  great  School  of  Salern  ! 
A  land  of  wrangling  and  of  quarrels, 
Of  brains  that  seethe,  and  hearts  that  burn, 
Where  every  emulous  scholar  hears, 
In  every  breath  that  comes  to  his  ears, 
The  rustling  of  another's  laurels  ! 
The  air  of  the  place  is  called  salubrious  ; 
The  neighbourhood  of  Vesuvius  lends  it 
An  odour  volcanic,  that  rather  mends  it, 
And  the  buildings  have  an  aspect  lugubrious, 
That  inspires  a  feeling  of  awe  and  terror 
Into  the  heart  of  the  beholder, 
And  befits  such  an  ancient  homestead  of  error, 
Where  the  old  falsehoods  moulder  and  smoulder 
And  yearly  by  many  hundred  hands 
Are  carried  away,  in  the  zeal  of  youth, 
And  sown  like  tares  in  the  field  of  truth, 
To  blossom  and  ripen  in  other  lands. 

What  have  we  here,  affixed  to  the  gate  \ 
The  challenge  of  some  scholastic  wight, 
Who  wishes  to  hold  a  public  debate 


_  . 


# 


ff, 


,\ 


On  sundry  questions  wrong  or  right ! 

Ah,  now  this  is  my  great  delight ! 

For  I  have  often  observed  of  late 

That  such  discussions  cut  I  in  a  fight 

Let  us  see  what  the  learned  wag  maintain* 

\\  ith  such  a  prodigal  waste  of  brains, 

'•  Whether  angels  in  moving  from  place  to  plaoe 

Pass  through  the  intermediate  space  1 
Whether  Cod  himself  is  the  author  of  evil, 
Or  whether  that  is  the  work  of  the  Devil  .; 
When,  where,  and  wherefore  Lucifer  fell, 
And  whether  he  now  is  chained  in  hell  I" 

I  think.  I  can  answer  that  question  well ! 
So  long  as  the  boastful  human  mind 
Consents  in  such  mills  as  this  to  grind, 
[  sit  very  firmly  upon  my  throne  ! 
( )f  a  truth  it  almost  makes  me  laugh, 
To  see  men  leaving  the  golden  grain 
To  gather  in  piles  the  pitiful  chalF 
That  old  Peter  Lombard  thrashed  with  his  brain. 
To  have  it  caught  up  and  tossed  again 
On  the  horns  of  the  Dumb  Ox  of  Cologne  ! 

But  my  guests  approach  !  There  is  in  the  air 
A  fragrance,  like  that  of  the  Beautiful  Garden 
of  Paradise,  in  the  days  that  were  ! 
Au  odour  of  innocence,  and  of  prayer, 
And  of  love,  and  faith  that  never  fails, 
Such  as  the  fresh  young  heart  exhales 
Before  it  begins  to  wither  and  harden  ' 
L  cannot  breathe  such  an  atmosphere  ! 
My  soul  is  tilled  with  a  nameless  fear, 
That  after  all  my  trouble  and  pain, 
After  all  my  restless  endeavour, 
The  youngest,  fairest  soul  of  the  twain, 
The  most  ethereal,  most  divine, 
Will  escape  from  my  hands  for  ever  and  ever. 

But  the  other  is  already  mine  ! 
Let  him  live  to  corrupt  his  race, 
Breathing  among  them,  with  every  breath, 
Weakness,  selfishness,  and  the  base 
And  pusillanimous  fear  of  death. 
I  know  his  nature,  and  I  know 
That  of  all  who  in  my  ministry 


1 


ft] 


:  III    00LDEN  LKOEND. 


I 


If  •*&' 


Wander  the  greal  earth  to  and  fro, 
And  od  my  errands  come  and  go, 
The  Bafesl  and  subtleel  are  such  as  he. 

Enter  P&iiroi  IIknky  and  Elsie,  with  Attendant* 

Prima  ll.  Can  you  direct  us  to  Friar  Angelo  / 

Lucifer.    He  stands  before  you. 

Prince  //.  Then  you  know  our  purpose. 

1  am  Prince  Henry  of  Hoheneck,  and  this 
The  maiden  that  1  spake  of  in  my  letters. 

Lucifer.  It  is  a  very  grave  and  solemn  business  ! 
We  must  not  be  precipitate.    Does  she 
Without  compulsion,  of  her  own  free  will, 
Consent  to  this  ? 

Prince  II.  Against  all  opposition, 

Against  all  prayers,  entreaties,  protestations. 
She  will  not  be  persuaded. 

Lucifer.  That  is  strange  ! 
Have  you  thought  well  of  it  ? 

Elsie.  I  come  not  here 
To  argue,  but  to  die.     Your  business  is  not 
To  question,  but  to  kill  me.     I  am  ready, 
I  am  impatient  to  be  gone  from  here 
Ere  any  thoughts  of  earth  disturb  again 
The  spirit  of  tranquillity  within  me. 

Pr.ll.  Would  I  had  not  come  here!  Would  1  were  (load, 
And  thou  Avert  in  thy  cottage  in  the  forest, 
And  hadst  not  known  me  !  Why  have  I  done  this  i 
Let  me  go  back  and  die. 

Elsie.  It  cannot  be  ; 
Not  if  these  cold,  flat  stones  on  which  we  tread 
Were  coulters  heated  white,  and  yonder  gateway 
Flamed  like  a  furnace  with  a  sevenfold  heat. 
1  must  fulfil  my  purpose. 

Prince  Henry.  I  forbid  it ! 
Not  one  step  farther.     For  I  only  meant 
To  put  thus  far  thy  courage  to  the  proof. 
It  is  enough.     I,  too,  have  courage  to  die. 
For  thou  hast  taught  me  ! 

Elsie.  0  my  Prince  !  remember 
Your  promises.     Let  me  fulfil  my  errand. 
You  do  not  look  on  life  and  deaht  as  1  do. 
There  are  two  angels  that  attend  unseen 
Bach  one  of  us,  and  in  great  books  record 
Our  (good  and  evil  deeds,     lie  who  writes  down 


258 


1 


' 


j&r 


The  good  ones,  after  every  action  closes 
His  volume,  and  ascends  with  it  bo  God. 

The  other  keeps  his  dreadful  day-book  open 

Till  sunset,  that  we  may  repent  ;  which  doing, 

The  record  of  the  action  fades  away, 

And  leaves  a  line  of  white  acrosi  the  page. 

Now  if  my  act  be  good,  as  1  believi 

It  cannot  be  recalled.     It  is  already 

Sealed  up  in  heaven,  I  deed  accomplished. 

The  rest  is  yours.     Why  wait  you  (     1  am  ready, 

(To  her  Attendants.) 
Weep  not,  my  friends  !  rather  rejoice  with  me. 
I  shall  not  feel  the  pain,  hut  shall  he  gone, 
And  you  will  have  another  friend  in  heaven. 
Then  start  not  at  the  creaking  oi  the  door 
Through  which  I  pass.     1  see  what  lies  beyond  it. 

(To  Prince  Henry.) 
And  you,  0  Prince  !  bear  hack  my  benison 
Unto  my  fathers  house,  and  all  within  it. 
This  morning  in  the  church  I  prayed  for  them, 
After  confession,  after  absolution, 
When  my  whole  soul  was  white,  1  prayed  for  them. 
God  will  take  care  of  them,  they  need  me  not. 
And  in  your  life  let  my  remembrance  linger, 
As  something  not  to  trouble  and  disturb  it, 
But  to  complete  it,  adding  life  to  life. 
And  if  at  times,  beside  the  evening  fire, 
You  see  my  face  among  the  other  faces, 
Let  it  not  be  regarded  as  a  ghost 
That  haunts  your  house,  hut  as  a  guest  that  loves  you. 
Nay,  even  as  one  of  your  own  family, 
Without  whose  presence  there  were  something  wanting. 
I  have  no  more  to  say.     Let  us  go  in. 

Prince  H.  Friar  Angelo  !  I  charge  you  on  your  life, 
Believe  not  what  she  says,  for  she  is  mad, 
And  comes  here  not  to  die,  but  to  be  healed. 

Elsie.  Alas  !  Prince  Henry  ! 

Lucifer.  Come  with  me  ;  this  way. 
(Elsie  goes  in  with  Lucifer,  who  thrusts  Prince  Henry 
back  and  closes  the  door.) 
Prince  lit /cry. 

Gone !  and  the  light  of  all  my  life  gone  with  her ! 

A  sudden  darkness  falls  upon  the  world  ! 

0,  what  a  vile  and  abject  thing  am  1. 


v. 

it 


> 


VI. 1 


THl    GOT. [>Bfl   LEO!  N  I 


259 


Thai  purchase  length  of  days  at  sucl 
N"i  i  by  ber  death  alone,  but  by  the  death 
Of  all  that's  good  and  true  and  noble  in  me! 
All  manhood,  excellence,  and  self-respect, 
All  love,  and  faith,  and  hope,  and  heart  are  dead  : 

All  my  divine  nobility  of  nature 
By  this  one  art  is  forfeited  for  ever. 
I  am  a  prince  in  nothing  hut  in  name  ! 

(To  the  Attendants.) 
Why  did  you  let  this  horrible  deed  he  done  ? 
Why  did  you  not  lay  hold  on  her,  and  keep  her 
From  self-destruction  ?    Angela  !  murderer  ! 

(Struggles  at  the  door,  but  cannot  open  it.) 
Elsie  within.   Farewell,  clear  Prince!  farewell! 
P Ance  Henri/.        Unbar  the  door  ! 
Lucifer.     It  is  too  late  ! 
Prince  Henry.        It  shall  not  be  too  late  ! 

(They  burst  open  the  door,  and  rush  in.) 


THE  COTTAGE  IN  THE  ODENWALD. 

Ursula  spinning.  Summer  afternoon.   A  table  spread 

Ursula.   I  have  marked  it  well — it  must  be  true,--- 
Death  never  takes  one  alone,  but  two  .' 
Whenever  he  enters  in  at  a  door, 
Under  roof  of  gold  or  roof  of  thatch, 
He  always  leaves  it  upon  the  latch, 
And  comes  again  ere  the  year  is  o'er. 
Never  one  of  a  household  only  ! 
Perhaps  it  is  a  mercy  of  God, 
Lest  the  dead  there  under  the  sod, 
In  the  iand  of  strangers,  should  be  lonely  ! 
Ah  me  !  I  think  I  am  lonelier  here  ! 
It  is  hard  to  go,— but  harder  to  stay! 
Were  it  not  for  the  children,  I  should  pray 
That  Death  would  take  me  within  the  year! 
And  Gottlieb  ! — he  is  at  work  all  day, 
In  the  sunny  field,  or  the  forest  murk, 
But  I  know  that  his  thoughts  are  far  away. 
I  know  that  his  heart  is  not  in  his  work  ! 
And  when  he  comes  home  to  me  at  night, 
Be  is  not  cheery,  but  sits  and  sighs, 
And  I  see  the  ^reat  tears  in  his  eyes. 


~*rxmp^^~~* 


2tfO 


LONOFELL  »W'S   POF.M8 


Ami  try  to  he  cheerful  for  his  sake. 
Only  the  children's  hearts  are  light 
Mine  is  weary,  and  ready  to  break, 

God  help  ns  !     1  hone  we  have  done  right  ; 
\\  e  thought  we  wore  acting  for  the  best  ! 

(Lookiw/  throiujlt,  the  optn  door.) 
Who  is  it  coming  under  the  trees  I 
A  man,  in  the  Prince's  livery  dressed  ! 
lie  looks  ahout  him  with  doubtful  face, 
As  if  uncertain  of  the  place. 
He  stops  at  the  hee-hives  ;— now  he  sees 
The  garden  gate  ; — he  is  going  past  1 
Can  he  he  afraid  of  the  bees  / 
No  ;  he  is  coming  in  at  last ! 
He  fills  my  heart  with  strange  alarm  ! 

{Enter  a  Forester.) 

Forester.    Is  this  the  tenant  Gottlieb's  farm  \ 

Ursula.     This  is  his  farm,  and  I  Ids  wife. 
Pray  sit.     What  may  your  business  be  I 

Forester.     News  from  the  Prince  ! 

Ursula.  Of  death  or  life  / 

Forester.     You  put  your  questions  eagerly  ! 

Ursula.    Answer  me,  then,  how  is  the  Prince  I 

Forester.    1  left  him  only  two  hours  since 
Homeward  returning  down  the  river, 
As  strong  and  well  as  if  God,  the  Giver, 
Had  given  him  hack  his  youth  again. 

Urs.  (despairing).  Then  Elsie,  my  poor  child,  is  dead 

Forester.  That,  my  good  woman,  I  have  not  said. 
Don't  cross  the  bridge  till  you  come  to  it, 
Is  a  proverb  old,  and  of  excellent  wit. 

Ursula,     Keep  me  no  longer  in  this  pain  ! 

Forester.  1 1  is  true  your  daughter  is  no  more 
That  is,  the  peasant  she  was  before. 

Ursula.  Alas!  I  am  simple  and  lowly  bred, 
1  am  poor,  distracted,  and  forlorn. 
And  it  is  not  well  that  you  of  the  court 
Should  mock  me  thus,  and  make  a  sport 
Of  a  joyless  mother  whose  child  is  dead, 
For  you,  too,  were  of  mother  born  ! 

Fvrester.  Your  daughter  lives,  and  the  Prince  is  well  J 
You  will  learn  ere  long  how  it  all  befell. 


Her  heart  for  a  moment  never  failed  ; 
But  when  they  reached  Salerno's  gate, 


■ 


The  Prince's  nobler  Belf  prevailed, 

And  Bared  her  for  a  nobler  fate, 

And  he  was  healed,  in  his  despair, 

By  the  touch  of  Si  Matthew's  sacred  hones ; 

Though  J  think  the  long  ride  in  the  open  air. 
That  pilgrimage  over  stocks  and  stones, 
In  the  miracle  must  come  in  for  a  share  ! 

Ursula,   Virgin  !   who  Invest  the  poor  and  lowly, 
If  the  loud  cry  of  a  mother's  heart 
Can  ever  ascend  to  where  thou  art, 
Int"  thy  blessed  hands  and  holy 
Receive  my  prayer  of  praise  and  thanksgiving  ! 
Let  the  hands  that  bore  our  Saviour  bear  it 
Into  the  awful  presence  of  God  ; 
For  thy  feet  with  holiness  are  shod  ; 
And  if  thou  bearest  it  he  will  hear  it. 
Our  child  who  was  dead,  again  is  Jiving  ! 

Forester.  I  did  not  tell  you  she  was  dead ; 
If  you  thought  so  'twas  no  fault  of  mine  ; 
At  this  very  moment  while  I  speak, 
They  were  sailing  homeward  down  the  Rhine, 
In  a  splendid  barge,  with  golden  prow, 
And  decked  with  banners  white  and  red 
As  the  colours  on  your  daughter's  cheek. 
They  call  her  the  Lady  Alicia  now  ! 
For  the  Prince  in  Salerno  made  a  vow 
That  Elsie  only  would  he  wed. 

Ursula.  Jesu  Maria  !  what  a  change  ! 
All  seems  to  me  so  weird  and  strange  ! 

Forester.  1  saw  her  standing  on  the  deck; 
Beneath  an  awning  cool  and  shady  ; 
Her  cap  of  velvet  could  not  hold 
The  tresses  of  her  hair  of  gold, 
That  flowed  and  floated  like  the  stream, 
And  fell  in  masses  down  her  neck. 
As  fair  and  lovely  did  she  seem 
As  in  a  Btory  or  a  dream 
Some  beautiful  and  foreign  lady. 
And  the  Prince  looked  so  grand  and  proud, 
And  waved  his  hand  thus  to  the  crowd 
That  gazed  and  shouted  from  the  shore, 
All  down  the  river  long  and  loud. 

Ursula.  We  shall  behold  our  child  once  more  : 
She  is  not  dead  !     She  is  not  dead  ! 


I. 


| 


• 


262 


1  1,0 W  8    !'■    I 


IWtfH 


■-    ,. 


ver heard 
The  prayers,  that,  mX  md  or  worn, 

( hir  hearts  in  secrecy  have  said  ! 
0,  bring  me  t<>  her  ;  fur  mine  eyes 
Are  hungry  to  behold  her  face  ; 
My  very  soul  within  me  cries  ; 
My  very  hands  seem  to  caress  her, 
To  see  her,  gaze  at  her,  and  bless  her ; 
Deal  Elsie,  child  of  God  and  grace  ! 

(UoesoiU  toward  the  (jarden.) 
Forester.  There  goes  the  go<  »d  woman  out  of  her  head  ; 
And  Gottlieb's  supper  is  waiting  here  ; 
A  very  capacious  Ilagon  of  beer, 
And  a  very  portentous  loaf  of  hread. 
One  would  say  his  grief  did  not  much  oppress  him. 
Here's  to  the  health  of  the  Prince,  God  Mess  him  ! 

{lie  drinks.) 
ila  !  it  buzzes  and  stings  like  a  hornet  ! 
And  what  a  scene  there,  through  the  door  ! 
The  forest  behind  and  the  garden  before, 
And  midway  an  old  man  of  threescore, 
With  a  wife  and  children  that  caress  him. 
Let  me  try  still  further  to  cheer  and  adorn  it 
With  a  merry,  echoing  blast  of  my  cornet ! 

(Goes  out  blowing  his  horn.) 


t 


•     t. 


THE  CASTLE  OP  VAUTSBERG  ON  THE  RHINE 

PurxcE  Henry  and  Elsie  standing  on  the  terrace  at 
Evening.     The  sound  of  bells  heard  from  a  distance 

Prince  II.  We  are  alone.     The  wedding  guests 
Ride  down  the  hill,  with  plumes  and  cloaks, 
And  the  descending  dark  invests 
The  Niederwald,  and  all  the  nests 
Among  its  hoar  and  haunted  oaks. 

Elsie.  What  bells  are  those,  that  ring  so  slow, 
So  mellow,  musical,  and  low  ; 

Prince  II.  They  are  the  hells  of  Geisenheim, 
That  with  their  melancholy  chime 
Ring  out  the  curfew  of  the  sun 
<ie.  Listen,  beloved. 

Prince  Henry.  They  are  done  ! 
Dear  Elsie  !  Many  years  a 


VI.  1 


:  m:  QOLDBH   LEGEND. 


2fi:i 


Those  same  soft  bells  at  eventide 
Rang  in  the  ears    I  I  harle 

As,  seated  by  Fastrada's  side 

At  [ngelheim,  in  all  his  pride, 

He  heard  their  Bound  with  secret  pain. 

EUie.  Their  voices  only  speak  to  rue 
<  Ifpeao  and  deep  tranquillity. 
And  endless  confidence  in  thee  ! 

Prince  If.    Thou  knowest  the  .story  of  her  ring, 
How,  when  the  court  went  hack,  to  Aix, 
Fastrada  died  ;  and  how  the  king 
Sat  watching  by  her  night  and  day, 
Till  into  one  of  the  blue  lakes, 
That  water  that  delicious  land, 
They  cast  the  ring,  drawn  from  her  hand  ; 
And  the  great  monarch  sat  serene 
And  sad  heside  the  fated  shore, 
Now  left  the  land  for  ever  more. 

FA.de.     That  was  true  love. 

Prince  II.     For  him  the  queen 
Ne'er  did  what  thou  hast  done  for  me. 

Elsie.     Wilt  thou  as  fond  and  faithful  be  I 
Wilt  thou  so  love  me  after  death  '. 

Prince  II.     In  life's  delight,  in  death's  dismay. 
In  storm  and  sunshine,  night  and  day, 
In  health,  in  sickness,  in  decay, 
Here  and  hereafter,  I  am  thine  ! 
Thou  hast  Fastrada's  ring.     Beneath 
The  calm,  blue  waters  of  thine  eyes, 
Deep  in  thy  steadfast  soul  it  lies, 
And  undisturbed  by  this  world's  breath. 
With  magic  light  its  jewels  shine  ! 
This  golden  ring,  which  thou  hast  worn 
Upon  thy  finger  since  the  morn, 
Is  but  a  symbol  and  a  semblance, 
An  outward  fashion,  a  remembrance, 
Of  what  thou  wearest  within  unseen. 
0  my  Fastrada,  0  my  queen  ! 
Behold  !  the  hill-tops  all  aglow 
With  purple  and  with  amethyst; 
While  the  whole  valley  deep  below 
Is  filled,  and  seems  to  overflow, 
With  a  fast-rising  tide  of  mist. 
The  evening  air  grows  damp  and  chill ; 


— 


:  i 


LO.NGFEU.OW  3  r-   ■ 


Let  u>  go  in. 

the  moon, 
Slew  rising  o'er  the  eastern  hill. 

m  the  forest  tips, 
Ami  through  the  dewy  irips 

In  little  rivul  i:t, 

And  makes  the  heart  in  lore  with  n: 

Prince  //.  <  n't  on  this  terrace.  e  day 

Wu  have  I  stoo  I  and  gaz 

And  seen  the  landscape  fade  a' 
And  the  white  vapours  rise  and  dr 
Hamlet  and  vineyard,  tower  and  town, 
While  far  above  the  hill-tops  blazed. 
lint  then  another  hand  than  thine 
Was  gentlj  held  and  clasped  in  mine ; 
Another  head  upon  my  to 
Was  laid,  as  thine  is  now,  at  r 
Why  dost  thou  lift  those  tender  e\ 
With  so  much  Borrow  and  suipri 
A  minstrel's,  nut  a  maiden's  hand, 
Wat  that  which  in  my  own  was 
A  manly  form  usurped  thy  pla 
A  beautiful,  but  bearded  face, 
That  now  is  in  the  Holy  Land, 
Yet  in  my  memory  from  a 
Is  shining  on  us  like  a  star. 
But  linger  not.     For  while  I  speak, 
A  sheeted  spectre  white  and  tall. 
The  cold  mist  climbs  the  castle  wall. 
And  lays  his  hand  upon  thy  cheek  ! 

They  <jo  in. 


. 


EPILOGUE. 

THE  TWO  RECORDING  ANGELS  ASCENDING. 

The  Awjel  of  Good  Deeds,  with  closet!  book 

God  sent  his  messenger  the  nun, 
And  said  unto  the  mountain  hr 
"  Rise  up,  and  from  thy  caverns  look 
And  leap,  with  naked,  snow-white  feet, 
From  the  cool  hills  into  the  heat 
Of  the  broad  arid  plain." 


• 


i  HI  QOJiDEM    LEGEND. 


2ffl 


Y  ' 


S3 


God  Bent  his  messenger  of  faith, 

Ami  whispered  in  the  maiden's  heart, 

"  Rise  up,  and  l<»'k  from  where  thou  art, 

And  scatter  with  unselfish  hands 

Thy  freshness  on  the  barren  sands 

And  solitudes  of  death." 

<)  beauty  of  holini 

I  >f  Belf-forgetfulnf«*,  of  lowliness ! 

0  power  of  meeko 

Whose  very  gentleness  and  weakness 

Are  like  the  yielding  but  irresistible  air  ! 

Upon  the  pages 

Of  the  sealed  volume  that  I  bear, 

The  deed  divine 

Is  written  in  characters  of  gold, 

That  never  shall  grow  old, 

But  through  all  ages 

Burn  and  .shine, 

With  soft  effulgence! 

0  God  !  it  is  thy  indulgence 

That  fills  the  world  with  the  bliss 

Of  a  good  deed  like  this  ! 

The  Angel  of  Evil  Deeds  (with  open  book). 
Not  yet,  not  yet 
Is  the  red  sun  wholly  set, 
But  evermore  recedes, 
"While  open  still  I  bear 
The  Book  of  Evil  Deeds, 
To  let  the  breathings  of  the  upper  air 
Visit  its  pages  and  erase 
The  records  from  its  face  ! 
Fainter  and  fainter  as  I  gaze 
In  the  broad  blaze 
The  glimmering  landscape  shines. 
And  below  me  the  black  river 
[8  hidden  by  wreaths  of  vapour  ! 
Fainter  and  fainter  the  black  lines 
Begin  to  quiver 

Along  the  whitening  surface  of  the  paper  ! 
Shade  after  shade 

The  terrible  words  grow  faint  and  fade; 
And  in  their  place 
Runs  a  white  space. 

Buwn  goes  the  sun  ! 


B    POEMS. 


But  the  soul  of  one, 

Who  by  repentance 

escaped  the  dreadful  .sentence, 

Shines  bright  below  me  as  I  look, 
It  is  the  end  .' 
With  closed  Book 
To  God  do  ]  ascend. 

Lo !  over  the  mountain  steeps 
A  dark,  gigantic  shadow  sweeps 
Beneath  my  feet ; 
A  blackness  inwardly  brightening 
With  sullen  heat, 

-  storm-cloud  lurid  with  lightning. 
And  a  cry  of  lamentation, 
Repeated  and  again  repeated, 
Deep  and  loud 
As  the  reverberation 
Of  cloud  answering  unto  cloud, 
Swells  and  rolls  away  in  the  distance, 
As  if  the  sheeted 
Lightning  retreated, 
Battled  and  thwarted  by  the  wind's  resistance 

Tt  is  Lucifer, 
The  son  of  mystery  ; 
And  since  God  sutlers  him  to  he, 
lie,  too,  is  God's  minister, 
And  labours  for  some  good 
By  us  not  understood ! 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA 


•  •  w 


4 


•*/ 


INTRODUCTION. 

Should  you  ask  me,  whence  these  stories  I 
Whence  these  legends  and  traditions, 
With  the  odours  of  the  forest, 
With  the  dew  and  damp  of  meadows, 
With  the  curling  smoke  uf  wigwams, 
With  the  rushing  of  great  rivers, 
With  their  frequent  repetitions, 
And  their  wild  reverberations, 
As  of  thunder  in  the  mountains  ! 

I  should  answer,  I  should  tell  you, 
u  From  the  forests  and  the  prairies, 
From  the  great  lakes  of  the  Northland. 
From  the  land  of  the  Ojibways, 
From  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 
From  the  mountains,  moors,  and  fenlands, 
Where  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
Feeds  among  the  reeds  and  rushes. 
l  repeat  them  as  I  heard  them. 
From  the  lips  of  Nawadaha, 
The  musician,  the  sweet  singer." 

Should  you  ask  where  Nawadaha 
Found  these  songs,  so  wild  and  wayward. 
Found  these  legends  and  traditions, 
I  should  answer,  I  should  tell  you, 
"  In  the  bird's  nests  of  the  forest, 
In  the  lodges  of  the  Deaver, 
In  the  hoof-prints  of  the  bison, 
In  the  eyrie  of  the  eagle  ! 

"All  the  wild-fowl  sang  them  to  him. 
In  the  moorlands  and  the  fenlands. 
In  the  melancholy  marsh 
Chetowaik,  the  plover,  sang  them. 


\/MT 


' 


[FELLOW 


Mahng,  the  loon,  the  wild  goose,  Waua, 
The  blue  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh 
And  the  grouse,  the  Mushkoda 

[f  still  further  you  should  ask  me, 
Saying,  "  Who  was  Nawadaha  I 

Tell  us  of  this  Nawadaha," 
1  should  answer  four  inquiries 
Straightway  in  snen  words  as  follow  :— 

"  In  the  Vale  of  Tawasentha, 
In  the  green  and  silent  valley, 
By  the  pleasant  water-cow 
Dwelt  the  singer  Nawadaha. 
Round  about  the  Indian  village 
Spread  the  meadows  and  the  corn-fields, 
And  beyond  them  stood  the  forest, 
Stood  the  groves  of  singing  pine-trees, 
Green  in  Summer,  white  in  Winter, 
Ever  sighing,  ever  singing. 

"  And  the  pleasant  water-courses, 
You  could  trace  them  through  the  valley, 
By  the  rushing  in  the  Spring-time, 
By  the  alders  in  the  Summer, 
By  the  white  fog  in  the  Autumn, 
By  the  black  line  in  the  Winter  , 
And  beside  them  dwelt  the  singer. 
In  the  Vale  of  Tawasentha, 
In  the  green  and  silent  valley. 

"  There  he  sung  of  Hiawatha. 
Sang  the  Song  of  Hiawatha, 
Sang  his  wondrous  birth  and  being, 
How  he  prayed  and  how  he  fasted, 
How  he  lived,  and  toiled,  and  suffered. 
That  the  tribes  of  men  might  prosper, 
That  he  might  advance  his  people  !" 

Ye  who  love  the  haunts  of  Nature, 
Love  the  sunshine  of  the  meadow. 
Love  the  shadow  of  the  forest, 
Love  the  wind  among  the  branches, 
And  the  rain-shower  and  the  snow-storm, 
And  the  rushing  of  great  rivers 
Through  their  palisades  of  pine-trees, 
And  the  thunder  in  the  mountains, 
Whose  innumerable  echoes 
Flap  like  eagles  in  their  eyries  ; — 


Ik  ^3§jK*$ 


~ 


HIAWATHA.       INTRODUCTION. 


269 


d 


Listen  to  these  wild  traditions, 

To  this  Son-  of  Hiawatha! 

Xe  who  love  a  nation's  legends, 
Love  the  ballads  of  a  people^ 
That  like  voices  from  afar  off 
•  all  to  us  to  pause  and  listen, 
Speak  in  tones  so  plain  and  childlike, 
Scarcely  can  the  ear  distinguish 
Whether  they  are  sung  or  spoken  ;— 
Listen  to  this  Indian  Legend, 
To  this  Song  of  Hiawatha  ! 

Ye  whose  hearts  are  fresh  and  simple. 
Who  have  faith  in  God  and  Nature, 
Who  believe,  that  in  all  ages 
Every  human  heart  is  human, 
That  in  even  savage  bosoms 
There  are  longings,  yearnings,  strivings 
For  the  good  they  comprehend  not, 
That  the  feeble  hands  and  helpless, 
Groping  blindly  in  the  darkness, 
Touch  God's  right  hand  in  that  darkness 
And  are  lifted  up  and  strengthened  ;--- 
Listen  to  this  simple  story, 
To  this  Song  of  Hiawatha  ! 

Ye,  who  sometimes,  in  your  rambles 
Through  the  green  lanes  of  the  country., 
Where  the  tangled  bar  berry- bushes 
Hang  their  tufts  of  crimson  berries 
Over  stone  walls  gray  with  mosses, 
Pause  by  some  neglected  graveyard, 
for  a  while  to  muse,  and  ponder 
On  a  half-effaced  inscription, 
Written  with  little  skill  of  song-craft, 
Homely  phrases,  but  each  letter 
Full  of  hope  and  yet  of  heart-break, 
Full  of  all  the  tender  pathos 
Of  the  Here  and  the  Hereafter  : — 
S^a.y  and  read  this  rude  inscription, 
Read  this  Song  of  Hiawatha  ! 


270 


I'llMoW  a  1'OK.M 


I. 


Ililli 


THE  PEACE-PIPE 

On  the  .Mountains  of  the  Prairie, 
On  the  great  Red  Pipe-stone  Quarry, 
Gitohe  Manito,  the  mighty, 
lie  the  Muster  of  Life,  descending, 
On  the  red  crags  of  the  quarry 
Stood  erect,  and  called  the  nations, 
Called  the  tribes  of  men  together. 

From  hi*  foot-prints  flowed  u  river, 
Leaped  into  the  light  of  morning, 
O'er  the  precipice  plunging  downward 
Gleamed  like  Ishkoodah,  the  comet 
And  the  Spirit,  stooping  earthward. 
With  his  ringer  on  the  meadow 
Traced  a  winding  pathway  for  it, 
Saying  to  it,  "  llun  in  this  way  !' 

From  the  red  stone  of  the  quarr] 
With  his  hand  he  broke  a  fragment, 
Moulded  it  into  a  pipe-head, 
Shaped  and  fashioned  it  with  tu 
From  the  margin  of  the  river 
Took  a  long  reed  for  a  pipe-stem, 
With  its  dark  green  leaves  upon  it  . 
Filled  the  pipe  with  bark  of  willow  ; 
With  the  bark  of  the  red  willow  ; 
Breathed  upon  the  neighbouring  forest 
.Made  its  great  boughs  chafe  together, 
Till  in  flame  they  biuret  and  kindled  ; 
And  erect  upon  the  mountains, 
Qitche  Manito,  the  mighty. 
Smoked  the  calumet,  the  Peace-Pipe, 
As  a  signal  to  the  nations. 

And  the  smoke  rose  slowly,  slowly 
Through  the  tranquil  air  of  morning. 
First  a  single  line  of  darkness, 
Then  a  denser,  bluer  vapour, 
Then  a  snow-white  cloud  unfolding, 
Like  the  tree-tops  of  the  forest, 
Ever  rising,  rising,  rising, 
Till  it  touched  the  top  of  heaven 


I.] 


HIAWATHA.       Till)   PE  LOE    PI  PB. 


271 


-i    I 


Till  ii  broke  against  the  heaven, 
And  railed  outward  all  around  it. 

From  the  Vale  of  Tawasentha, 
From  the  Valley  of  Wyoming, 
From  the  groves  of  Tuscaloosa, 
From  the  far-oil"  Rocky  mountains. 
From  the  Northern  lakes  and  rivers, 
All  the  tribes  beheld  the  signal, 
Saw  the  distant  smoke  ascending, 
The  Pukwana  of  the  Peace-Pipe. 

And  the  Prophets  of  the  nation 
said  :  "Behold  it,  the  Pukwana! 
1  >y  this  signal  from  afar  off, 
Bending  like  a  wand  of  willow, 
\\  aving  like  a  hand  that  beckons, 
Gitche  Manito,  the  mighty, 
Calls  the  tribes  of  men  together, 
Calls  the  warriors  to  his  eouncil !" 

I>own  the  rivers,  o'er  the  prairies, 
Came  the  warriors  of  the  nations, 
Came  the  Delawares  and  Mohawks. 
Came  the  Choctaws  and  Camanches, 
Came  the  Shoshonies  and  Blackfeet, 
Came  the  Pawnees  and  Omawhaws, 
Came  the  Mandans  and  Pacotahs, 
Came  the  Ilurons  and  Ojibways, 
All  the  warriors  drawn  together 
By  the  signal  of  the  Peace-Pipe, 
To  the  Mountains  of  the  Prairie, 
To  the  great  lied  Pipe-stone  Quarry. 

And  they  stood  there,  on  the  meadow 
With  their  weapons  and  their  war-gear, 
Painted  like  the  leaves  of  Autumn, 
Painted  like  the  sky  of  morning, 
Wildly  glaring  at  each  other; 
In  their  faces  stern  defiance, 
In  their  hearts  the  feuds  of  ages, 
The  hereditary  hatred, 
The  ancestral  thirst  of  vengeance. 
Gitche  Manito,  the  mighty, 
The  creator  of  the  nations, 
Looked  upon  them  with  compassion, 
With  paternal  love  and  pity ; 

feed  upon  their  wrath  and  wrangling 


• 


►  FELLOW 


lint  as  quarrels  among  children, 
But  as  lends  and  fights  of  ohildren ! 

Over  them  he  stretched  his  right  hand. 
To  subdue  their  stubborn  natal] 
To  allay  their  thirst  and  fever, 
By  the  shadow  of  his  right  hand  ; 
Spake  to  them  with  roice  majestic 
As  the  sound  of  far-off  waters, 
Falling  into  deep  ftby 
Warning,  chiding,  spake  in  this  wise:— 

"  0  my  ohildren!  my  poor  children, 
Listen  to  the  words  of  wisdom, 
Listen  to  the  words  of  warning, 
From  the  lips  of  the  Great  Spirit, 
From  the  Master  of  Life,  who  made  you ! 

"  I  have  given  you  lands  to  hunt  in, 
1  have  given  you  streams  to  fish  in, 
I  have  given  you  bear  and  bison, 
I  have  given  you  roe  and  reindeer, 
I  have  given  you  brant  and  beaver, 
Filled  the  marshes  full  of  wild-fowl, 
Filled  the  rivers  full  of  fishes  ; 
Why  then  are  you  not  contented  '/ 
Why  then  will  you  hunt  each  other  i 

"  I  am  weary  of  your  quarrels, 
\Y  eary  of  your  wars  and  bloodshed, 
AY  eary  of  your  prayers  for  vengeance, 
Of  your  wranglings  and  dissensions  ; 
All  your  strength  is  in  your  union, 
All  your  danger  is  in  discord  ; 
Therefore  be  at  peace  henceforward, 
And  as  brothers  live  together. 

"  I  will  send  a  prophet  to  you, 
A  Deliverer  of  the  nations, 
Who  shall  guide  you  and  shall  teach  you. 
Who  shall  toil  and  suffer  with  you. 
If  you  listen  to  his  counsels, 
You  will  multiply  and  pros]ier  ; 
If  his  warnings  pass  unheeded, 
You  will  fade  away  and  perish  ! 

"  Bathe  now  in  the  stream  before  you, 
Wash  the  war-paint  from  your  faces, 
Wash  the  blood-stains  from  your  fingers, 
Bury  your  war-clubs  and  your  weapons. 


II.] 


Ill  AW  ITHA.      THE  1'iH'K  WINDS. 


27^ 


Break  the  red  stone  from  this  quarry, 

Mould  ami  make  it  into  Peace-Pipes. 
Take  the  reeds  that  grow  beside  you, 
Deck  them  with  your  brightest  feathers, 
Smoke  the  calumet  together, 
And  as  brothers  live  henceforward  !" 

Then  upon  the  ground  the  warriors 
Threw  their  cloaks  and  shirts  of  deer-skin, 
Threw  their  weapons  and  their  war-gear. 
Leaped  into  the  rushing  river, 
Washed  the  war-paint  from  their  faces. 
Clear  above  them  flowed  the  water, 
Clear  and  limped  from  the  footprints 
Of  the  Master  of  Life  descending  ; 
Dark  below  them  flowed  the  water, 
Soiled  and  stained  with  streaks  of  crimson, 
As  if  blood  were  mingled  with  it ! 

From  the  river  came  the  warriors, 
Clean  and  washed  from  all  their  war-paint ; 
On  the  banks  their  clubs  they  buried, 
Buried  all  their  warlike  weapons. 
Gitche  Manito,  the  mighty, 
The  Great  Spirit,  the  Creator, 
Smiled  upon  his  helpless  children  ! 

And  in  silence  all  the  warriors 
Broke  the  red  stone  of  the  quarry, 
Smoothed  and  formed  it  into  Peace-Pipes, 
Broke  the  long  reeds  by  the  river, 
Decked  them  with  their  brightest  feathers, 
And  departed  each  one  homeward, 
While  the  Master  of  Life,  ascending, 
Through  the  opening  of  cloud-curtains. 
Through  the  doorways  of  the  heaven, 
Vanished  from  before  their  faces, 
In  the  smoke  that  rolled  around  him, 
The  Pukwana  of  the  Peace-Pipe  ! 


i\  "; 


II. 

THE  FOUR  WINDS. 

u  Honour  be  to  Mudjekeewis  !" 
Cried  the  warriors,  cried  the  old  men, 
When  he  came  in  triumph  homeward 
With  the  sacred  Belt  of  Wampum, 


r 


Lov.i  1:1  i."\\  -  POIMS, 

u  the  regiom  of  the  North-Wind, 

Fn .111  the  kin-. lorn  of  W  ab 
Prom  the  land  of  the  White  Rabbit 
Be  had  stolen  the  Belt  of  Wampum 
,1  the  neck  of  Mishe-Mokwa, 
From  the  Great  Bear  of  the  mountains. 

From  the  terror  of  the  nations, 

As  he  lay  asleep  and  cumbrous 
On  the  summit  of  the  mountains, 

lake  a  rock  with  mosses  on  it, 
Spotted  brown  and  gray  with  mos 

Silently  he  stole  upon  him, 
Till  the  red  nails  of  the  monster 
Almost  touched  him,  almost  scared  him, 
Till  the  hot  breath  of  his  nostrils 
Warmed  the  hands  of  Mudjekeewi-. 
As  he  drew  the  belt  of  Wampum 
Over  the  round  ears,  that  heard  not, 
Over  the  small  eyes,  that  saw  not, 
Over  the  long  nose  and  nostrils, 
The  black  muffle  of  the  nostrils, 
Out  of  which  the  heavy  breathing 
Warmed  the  hands  of  Mudjekeewis, 

Then  he  swung  aloft  his  war-club, 
Shouted  loud  and  long  his  war-cry, 
Smote  the  mighty  Mishe-Mokwa 
In  the  middle  of  the  forehead, 
Right  between  the  eyes  he  smote  him. 

With  the  heavy  blow  bewildered, 
Rose  the  Great  Bear  of  the  mountains  . 
But  his  knees  beneath  him  trembled. 
And  he  whispered  like  a  woman, 
As  he  reeled  and  staggered  forward, 
As  he  sat  upon  his  haunches  ; 
And  the  mighty  Mndjekec 
Standing  fearlessly  before  him, 
Taunted  him  in  loud  derision, 
Spake  disdainfully  in  this  wise  . — 

u  Hark  you,  Bear !  you  are  a  coward, 
And  no  Brave,  as  you  pretended  ; 
Else  you  would  not  cry  and  whimper 
Like  a  miserable  wroman  ! 
Bear  !  you  know  our  tribes  are  hostile. 
Long  have  been  at  war  together  ; 


^>?. 


HIAWATHA.      Til  E  FOIT II  \V I  N PS. 


I 


Now  you  find  that  \w  are  strong 
You  go  sneaking  in  the  forest, 
You  go  hiding  in  the  mountains  ! 
Sad  you  eonquered  me  in  battle 
N">t  ;i  groan  would  I  have  uttered  ; 
But  you,  Bear!  Bit  here  and  whimper 
And  disgrace  ynv  tribe  by  crying, 
Like  a  wretched  Shaugodaya, 
Like  a  cowardly  old  woman  !" 

Then  again  he  raised  his  war-club, 
Smote  again  the  Mishe-Mokwa 
In  the  middle  of  his  forehead, 
Broke  his  skull,  as  ice  is  broken 
When  one  goes  to  fish  in  Winter. 
Thus  was  slain  the  Mishe-Mokwa, 
He  the  Great  Bear  of  the  mountains, 
lie  the  terror  of  the  nations. 

"  Honour  be  to  Mudjekeewis  !" 
With  a  shout  exclaimed  the  people, 
"  Honour  be  to  Mudjekeewis, 
Henceforth  he  shall  be  the  West-Win* 
And  hereafter  and  for  ever 
.Shall  he  hold  supreme  dominion 
Over  all  the  winds  of  heaven. 
Call  him  no  more  Mudjekeewis, 
Call  him  Kabeyun,  the  West- Wind  !" 

Thus  was  Mudjekeewis  chosen 
Father  of  the  Winds  of  Heaven. 
For  himself  he  kept  the  West-Wind, 
Gave  the  others  to  his  children  ; 
Unto  Wabungave  the  East- Wind. 
Gave  the  South  to  Shawondasee, 
And  the  North-Wind,  wild  and  cruel, 
To  the  fierce  Kabibonokka! 

Young  and  beautiful  was  Wabun  ; 
He  it  was  who  brought  the  morning, 
He  it  was  whose  silver  arrows 
Chased  the  dark  o'er  hill  and  valley  ; 
He  it  was  whose  cheeks  were  painted 
With  the  brightest  streaks  of  crimson, 
And  whose  voice  awoke  the  village, 
Called  the  deer,  and  called  the  hunter 

Lonely  in  the  sky  was  Wabun  ; 
Though  the  birds  sang  gaily  to  him, 


■tl 


■  I    1    I.I  "V, 


Though  the  wild-flowers  of  the  mea 

Filled  the  air  with  odours  for  him, 
Though  the  forest  and  the  rivers 
Sang  and  shouted  at  his  eomil 
Still  his  heart  was  sail  within  him, 
For  he  was  alone  in  heaven. 

But  one  morning,  gazing  earthward, 
While  the  village  siill  was  Bleeping, 

And  the  fog  lay  on  tin-  river, 
Like  a  ghost,  that  goes  at  sunrise, 
He  beheld  a  maiden  walking 
All  alone  upon  a  meadow, 
Gathering  water-flags  and  rushes 
By  a  river  in  the  meadow. 

Every  morning  gazing  earthward, 
Still  the  first  thing  he  beheld  theie 
Was  her  blue  eyes  looking  at  him, 
Two  blue  lakes  among  the  rushes 
And  he  loved  the  lonely  maiden, 
Who  thus  waited  for  his  coming  ; 
For  they  both  were  solitary, 
She  on  earth  and  he  in  heaven. 

And  he  wooed  her  with  caresses, 
Wooed  her  with  his  smile  of  sunshine, 
With  his  llattering  words  he  "wooed  hei. 
With  his  sighing  and  his  singing, 
Gentlest  whispers  in  the  branches. 
Softest  music,  sweetest  odours, 
Till  he  drew  her  to  his  bosom, 
Folded  in  his  robes  of  crimson, 
Till  into  a  star  he  changed  her, 
Trembling  still  upon  his  bosom  ; 
And  for  ever  in  the  heavens 
They  are  seen  together  walking, 
Wabun  and  the  Wabun-Annung, 
Wabun  and  the  Star  of  Morning. 

But  the  fierce  Kabibonokka 
Had  his  dwelling  among  icebergs. 
In  the  everlasting  snow-drifts, 
In  the  kingdom  of  Wabasso, 
In  the  land  of  the  White  Rabbit. 
He  it  was  whose  hand  in  Autumn 
Painted  all  the  trees  with  scarlet, 
Stained  the  leaves  with  red  and  yellow  ; 


11. 1 


JIIAMATHA.       T1IK   FoUH  WINDS. 


277 


I* 


-  ■ 


He  it  was  who  suit  I  lie  snow-  Hakes 
Sifting,  hissing  through  the  forest, 
Froze  the  ponds,  the  lakes,  the  rivers, 
Drove  the  loon  and  sea  guM  southward, 
Drove  the  cormorant  and  heron 
To  their  nests  of  sedge  and  sea-tang 
in  the  realms  of  Shawondasee. 

Once  the  fierce  Kabibonokka 
Issued  from  his  lodge  of  snow-drifts. 
From  his  home  among  the  icebergs, 
And  his  hair,  with  snow  besprinkled, 
Streamed  behind  him  like  a  river, 
Like  a  black  and  wintry  river 
As  he  howled  and  hurried  southward, 
Over  frozen  lakes  and  moorlands. 

There  among  the  reeds  and  rushes 
Found  he  Shingebis,  the  diver, 
Trailing  strings  of  fish  behind  him, 
O'er  the  frozen  fens  and  moorlands, 
Lingering  still  among  the  moorlands 
Though  his  tribe  had  long  departed 
To  the  lands  of  Shawondasee. 

Cried  the  fierce  Kabibonokka, 
M  Who  is  this  that  dares  to  brave  me  ¥ 
Dares  to  stay  in  my  dominions 
When  the  Wawa  has  departed, 
When  the  wild-goose  has  gone  southward. 
And  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
Long  ago  departed  southward  '. 
I  will  go  into  his  wigwam, 
I  will  put  his  smouldering  fire  out!" 

And  at  night  Kabibonokka 
To  the  lodge  came  wild  and  wailing, 
Heaped  the  snow  in  drifts  about  it, 
Shouted  down  into  the  smoke-flue, 
Shook  the  lodge-poles  in  his  fury, 
Flapped  the  curtain  of  the  doorway. 
Shingebis,  the  diver,  feared  not, 
Shingebis,  the  diver,  cared  not ; 
Four  great  logs  had  he  for  fire-wood 
One  for  each  moon  of  the  winter, 
And  for  food  the  fishes  served  him. 
By  his  blazing  fire  he  sat  theic, 
Warm  and  merry,  eating,  laughing. 


i 
1 


LO ' 

Singing,  "  0  Kabibonokka, 
You  are  but  my  fellow-mortal  !" 

Then  Kabibonokka  entered, 
And  though  Shingebis,  the  diver, 
Felt  his  presence  by  the  coldness, 
Felt  his  icy  breath  upon  him, 
Still  he  did  not  cease  his  tingi 
Still  he  did  not  leave  his  laughing, 
Only  turned  the  log  a  little, 
Only  made  the  fire  burn  brighter, 
Made  the  sparks  fly  up  the  sniuke-flue. 

From  Kabibonokka's  forehead, 
From  his  snow-besprinkled  tresses, 
Drops  of  sweat  fell  fast  and  heavy, 
.Making  dints  upon  the  as! 
As  along  the  eaves  of  lodges, 
As  from  drooping  boughs  of  hemlock, 
Drips  the  melting  snow  in  .spring-time. 
.Making  hollows  in  the  snow-drifts. 

Till  at  last  he  rose  defeated, 
Could  not  bear  the  heat  and  laughter, 
Could  not  bear  the  merry  singing, 
But  rushed  headlong  through  the  doorway. 
Stamped  upon  the  crusted  snow-drifts, 
Stamped  upon  the  lakes  and  rivers, 
Made  the  snow  upon  them  harder, 
Made  the  ice  upon  them  thicker, 
Challenged  Shingebis,  the  diver, 
To  come  forth  and  wrestle  with  him, 
To  come  forth  and  wrestle  naked 
( hi  the  frozen  fens  and  moorlands. 

Forth  went  Shingebis,  the  diver, 
Wrestled  all  night  with  the  North- Wind. 
Wrestled  naked  on  the  moorlands 
With  the  fierce  Kabibonokka, 
Till  his  panting  breath  grew  fainter, 
Till  his  frozen  grasp  grew  feebler, 
Till  he  reeled  and  staggered  backward, 
And  retreated,  baffled,  beaten, 
To  the  kingdom  of  Wabasso, 
To  the  land  of  the  White  Rabbit, 
Hearing  still  the  gusty  laughter, 
Hearing  Shingebis,  the  diver, 
Singing,  "  0  Kabibonokka, 


J- 


J 


in  vwatiia.     tin:  mi'i<  wtxds. 


?.7fl 


*W 


Vou  are  but  my  fellow-mortal  !  " 

Shawondasee,  fat  and  lazy, 
Mad  his  dwelling  far  to  .southward, 
In  the  drowsy  dreamy  sunshine, 
In  the  never-ending  Summer. 
lie  it  was  who  sent  the  wood-birds, 
Sent  the  Opechee,  the  robin, 
Sent  the  blue-bird,  the  Owaissa, 
Sent  the  Shawshaw,  sent  the  swallow, 
Sent  the  wild-goose,  Wawa,  northward. 
Sent  the  melons  and  tobacco, 
And  the  grapes  in  purple  clusters. 

From  Ins  pipe  the  smoke  ascending 
Filled  the  sky  with  haze  and  vapour, 
Filled  the  air  with  dreamy  softness, 
Gave  a  twinkle  to  the  water, 
Touched  the  rugged  hills  with  smoothness. 
Brought  the  tender  Indian  Summer, 
In  the  Moon  when  nights  are  brightest, 
In  the  dreary  Moon  of  Snow-shoes. 

Listless,  careless  Shawondasee ! 
In  his  life  he  had  one  shadow, 
In  his  heart  one  sorrow  had  he. 
Once,  as  he  was  gazing  northward, 
Far  away  upon  a  prairie 
He  beheld  a  maiden  standing, 
Saw  a  tall  and  slender  maiden 
All  alone  upon  a  prairie  ; 
Brightest  green  were  all  her  garments. 
And  her  hair  was  like  the  sunshine. 

Day  by  day  he  gazed  upon  her, 
Day  by  day  he  sighed  with  passion, 
Day  by  day  his  heart  within  him 
Grew  more  hot  with  love  and  longing; 
For  the  maid  with  yellow  tresses. 
But  he  was  too  fat  and  lazy 
To  bestir  himself  and  woo  her  ; 
Yes,  too  indolent  and  easy 
To  pursue  her  and  persuade  her 
So  he  only  gazed  upon  her, 
Only  sat  and  sighed  with  passion 
For  the  maiden  of  the  prairie. 

Till  one  morning,  looking  northward, 
He  beheld  her  yellow  tresses 


I: 


■m 


t 


Kt*J 


LOW  g  P0EM8. 


Changed  and  covered  o'er  with  whiteness. 

Covered  as  with  whitest  snow-flal.t 

u  Ah  !  my  brother  from  the  North-land, 

From  the  kingdom  of  Warn 

Prom  the  land  of  the  White  Rabbit  i 

Von  have  Stolen  the  maiden  from  me, 
You  have  laid  your  hand  upon  her, 
You  have  wooed  and  won  my  maiden, 
With  your  stories  of  the  North-land  ! 

Thus  the  wretched  Shawondasee 
Breathed  unto  the  air  his  sorrow  ; 
And  the  South-wind  o'er  the  prairie 
Wandered  warm  with  sighs  of  passion, 
With  the  sighs  of  Shawondasee, 
Till  the  air  seemed  full  of  snow-flakes, 
Full  of  thistle-down  the  prairie, 
And  the  maid  with  hair  like  sunshine 
Vanished  from  his  sight  for  ever  ; 
Never  more  did  Shawondasee 
See  the  maid  with  yellow  tresses  ! 

Poor  deluded  Shawondasee ! 
'Twas  no  woman  that  you  gazed  at, 
'Twas  no  maiden  that  you  sighed  for, 
'Twas  the  prairie  dandelion 
That  through  all  the  dreary  Summer 
You  had  gazed  at  with  such  longing, 
You  had  sighed  for  with  such  passion, 
And  had  puffed  away  for  ever, 
Blown  into  the  air  with  sighing. 
Ah  !  deluded  Shawondasee  ! 

Thus  the  Four  Winds  were  divided  ; 
Thus  the  sons  of  Mudjekeewis 
Had  their  stations  in  the  heavens. 
At  the  corners  of  the  heavens  ; 
For  himself  the  West-Wind  only 
Kept  the  mighty  Mudjekeewis. 


III. 

HIAWATHA'S  CHILDHOOD. 

Downward  through  the  evening  twilight. 
Jn  the  days  that  are  forgotten. 
In  the  unremembered  ages, 


II1.1 


in  wvatiia's  CHILDHOOD. 


2K1 


Prom  the  lull  moon  fell  Nokomis, 
Pell  the  beautiful  Nokomis, 
She  a  wife,  but  not  a  mother. 

She  was  sporting  with  her  women, 
Swinging  in  a  swing  of  grape-vines, 
When  her  rival,  the  rejected, 
Full  of  jealousy  and  hatred, 
Cut  the  leafy  swing  asunder, 
Cut  in  twain  the  twisted  grape-vines, 
And  Nokomis  fell  affrighted 
Downward  through  the  evening  twilight, 
On  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow, 
On  the  prairie  full  of  blossoms. 
"  See  !  a  star  falls  !"  said  the  people  ; 
"  From  the  sky  a  star  is  falling  !" 

There  among  the  ferns  and  mosses, 
There  among  the  prairie  lilies, 
On  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow, 
In  the  moonlight  and  the  starlight, 
Fair  Nokomis  bore  a  daughter. 
And  she  called  her  name  Wenonah, 
As  the  first-born  of  her  daughters. 
And  the  daughter  of  Nokomis 
Grew  up  like  the  prairie  lilies, 
Grew  a  tall  and  slender  maiden, 
With  the  beauty  of  the  moonlight. 
With  the  beauty  of  the  starlight. 

And  Nokomis  warned  her  often, 
Saying  oft,  and  oft  repeating, 
"  0,  beware  of  Mudjekeewis. 
Of  the  West-Wind,  Mudjekeewis  ; 
Listen  not  to  what  he  tells  you  ; 
Lie  not  down  upon  the  meadow, 
Stoop  not  down  among  the  lilies, 
Lest  the  West- Wind  come  and  harm  you 

But  she  heeded  not  the  warning, 
Heeded  not  those  wwds  of  wisdom, 
And  the  West- Wind  came  at  evening, 
Walking  lightly  o'er  the  prairie, 
Whispering  to  the  leaves  and  blossoms. 
Bending  low  the  flowers  and  grasses, 
Found  the  beautiful  Wenonah, 
Lying  there  among  the  lilies, 
Wooed  her  with  his  words  of  sweetness, 


szrmt, 


282 


LONUFELLOW 


Wooed  her  with  his  soft  caresses, 
Till  she  I  n  in  sorrow, 

n  of  love  iiin  I 

Thus  was  horn  my  Hiawatha, 
Thus  was  hum  the  child  of  wonder  . 
But  the  daughter  of  Nokornis, 
Hiawatha's  gentle  mother, 
In  her  anguish  died,  deserted 
By  the  West-Wind  false  and  faithless, 
By  the  heartless  Mudjekeewis. 

For  her  daughter,  long  and  loudly 
Wailed  and  wept  the  sad  NokoB 
"  0  that  1  were  dead  !  "  she  murmured. 
"  0  that  1  were  dead,  as  thou  ait  ! 
No  more  work,  and  no  mure  weeping, 
Wahonomin,  Wahonomin  !" 

By  the  shures  of  Gitche  Guniee, 
By  the  shining  Big- Sea-Water, 
Stood  the  wigwam  of  Nokomis, 
Daughter  of  the  Moon,  Nokomis. 
Dark  behind  it  rose  the  foi 
Rose  the  black  and  gloomy  pine-tit 
Rose  the  firs  with  cones  upon  them  ; 
Bright  before  it  heat  the  water. 
Beat  the  clear  and  sunny  water, 
Beat  the  shining  Big-Sea  Water. 

There  the  wrinkled,  old  Nokomis 
Nursed  the  little  Hiawatl 
Rocked  him  in  his  linden  cradle, 
Bedded  soft  in  moss  and  rushes, 
Safely  hound  with  reindeer  sinews  ; 
Stilled  his  fretful  wail  by  sayin 
"  Hush  !  the  Naked  Bear  will  get  thee  !  " 
Lulled  hi  in  into  slumber,  singing, 
"Ewa-yea  !  my  little  owlet ! 
Who  is  this  that  lights  the  wigwam  i 
With  his  great  eyes  lights  the  wigwam  ! 
Ewa-yea  !  my  little  owlet  !  " 

Many  things  Nokomis  taught  him 
Of  the  stars  that  shine  in  heaven  ; 
Showed  him  Ishkoodah  the  comet 
Ishkoodah,  with  fiery  tresse.>  ; 
Showed  the  Death-Dance  of  the  spirits, 
Warriors  with  their  plumes  and  war-clubs, 


Fin 


■PV<*> 


Ill  III  AW  ATM  AS   I'll  I  LDH00D. 

Flaring  far  away  to  northward 

J  n  the  In 'sty  nights  of  \\  inter  ; 
Showed  the  broad,  white  road  in  heaven 
Pathwaj  of  the  ghosts,  the  .shadows, 
Running  straight  across  the  heavens, 
Crowded  with  the  ghosts,  tlie  shadows. 

At  the  door  on  summer  evenings 
Sat  the  little  Hiawatha; 
Heard  the  whispering  of  the  pine-trees, 
Heard  the  lapping  of  the  water, 
Sounds  of  music,  words  of  wonder ; 
"  Minne-wawa !"  said  the  pine  trees, 
l<  Mudway-aushka !"  said  the  water. 

Saw  the  fire-fly,  Wah-wah-taysee, 
Flitting  through  the  dusk  of  evening. 
With  the  twinkle  of  its  candle 
Lighting  up  the  brakes  and  bushes, 
And  he  sang  the  song  of  children, 
Sang  the  song  Nokomis  taught  him 
:'  Wah-wah-taysee,  little  fire-fly, 
Little,  flitting,  white-fire  insect, 
Little,  dancing,  white-fire  creature, 
Light  me  with  your  little  candle, 
Ere  upon  my  bed  1  lay  me, 
Ere  in  sleep  I  close  my  eyelids  !" 

Saw  the  moon  rise  from  the  water, 
Rippling,  rounding  from  the  water, 
Saw  the  flecks  and  shadows  on  it, 
Whimpered,  "  What  is  that,  Nokomis?" 
And  the  good  Nokomis  answered  : 
"  Once  a  warrior,  very  angry, 
Seized  his  grandmother,  and  threw  her 
Up  into  the  sky  at  midnight ; 
Right  against  the  moon  he  threw  her  ; 
"lis  her  body  that  you  see  there." 

Saw  the  rainbow  in  the  heaven, 
in  the  eastern  sky,  the  rainbow, 
Whispered,  "  What  is  that,  Nokomis  ?" 
And  the  good  Nokomis  answered  : 
"  'Tis  the  heaven  of  flowers  you  see  there  , 
All  the  wild-flowers  of  the  furest, 
All  the  lilies  of  the  prairie, 
When  tin  earth  they  fade  arid  perish. 
Blossom  in  that  heaven  above  us." 


LON'OkKLLoW 


j 


When  lie  heard  the  owli  at  midnight, 
Booting,  laughing  iu  th 
"  What  is  that  ?"  he  cried  in  terror  ; 
"  What  is  that?"  he  said,  "  Nakomii  J" 

And  the  Minis  answered  : 

"  That  is  hut  the  owl  and  owlet, 
Talking  in  their  native  languaf 
Talking,  scolding  at  each  other." 

Then  the  little  Hiawatha 
Learned  of  every  bird  its  Lai 
Learned  their  names  and  all  their  secrets. 
How  they  built  their  nests  in  Summer, 
Where  they  hid  themselves  in  Winter, 
Talked  with  them  whene'er  he  met  them, 
Called  them  "  Hiawatha's  Chickens." 

Of  all  beasts  he  learned  the  langus 
Learned  their  names  and  all  their  secrets, 
How  the  beavers  built  their  lodges, 
Where  the  squirrels  hid  their  acorns, 
How  the  reindeer  ran  so  swiftly, 
Why  the  rabbit  was  so  timid. 
Talked  with  them  whene'er  he  met  them, 
Called  them  "  Hiawatha's  Brothers." 

Then  Iagoo,  the  great  boaster, 
He  the  marvellous  story-teller, 
He  the  traveller  and  the  talker, 
He  the  friend  of  old  Nokomis, 
Made  a  bow  for  Hiawatha  ; 
From  a  branch  of  ash  he  made  it, 
From  an  oak-bough  made  the  arrows, 
Tipped  with  flint,  and  winged  with  feathers, 
And  the  cord  he  made  of  deer-skin. 

Then  he  said  to  Hiawatha  : 
M  Go,  my  son,  into  the  forest, 
Where  the  red  deer  herd  together, 
Kill  for  us  a  famous  roebuck, 
Kill  for  us  a  deer  with  antlers  ! ': 

Forth  into  the  forest  straightway 
All  alone  walked  Hiawatha 
Proudly,  with  his  bow  and  arrows  ; 
And  the  birds  sang  round  him,  o'er  him, 
"  Do  not  shoot  us,  Hiawatha  !" 
Sang  the  Opechee,  the  robin, 
Sang  the  blue-bird,  the  Owaissa. 


I 


ni.. 


Ill  \\\   \Tlt  A  S  CHILDHOOD. 


286 


1 


"Do  not  shoot,  us,  Hiawatha," 

Up  the  oak-tree,  close  beside  him, 
Sprang  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 
In  and  out  among  the  branches, 
Coughed  and  chattered  from  the  oak-tree. 
Laughed,  and  said  between  his  laughing, 
"  Do  not  shoot  me,  Hiawatha !" 

And  the  rabbit  from  his  pathway 
Leaped  aside,  and  at  a  distance 
Sat  erect  upon  his  haunches, 
Half  in  fear  and  half  in  frolic, 
Saying  to  the  little  hunter, 
"  Do  not  shoot  me,  Hiawatha  ! " 

But  he  heeded  not,  nor  heard  them, 
For  his  thoughts  were  with  the  red  deer  ; 
On  their  tracks  his  eyes  were  fastened, 
Leading  downward  to  the  river, 
To  the  ford  across  the  river, 
And  as  one  in  slumber  walked  he. 

Hidden  in  the  alder-bushes, 
There  he  waited  till  the  deer  came, 
Till  he  saw  two  antlers  lifted, 
Saw  two  eyes  look  from  the  thicket, 
Saw  two  nostrils  point  to  windward, 
And  a  deer  came  down  the  pathway, 
Flecked  with  leafy  light  and  shadow. 
And  his  heart  within  him  fluttered, 
Trembled  like  the  leaves  above  him, 
Like  the  birch-leaf  palpitated, 
As  the  deer  came  down  the  pathway. 

Then,  upon  one  knee  uprising, 
Hiawatha  aimed  an  arrow : 
Scarce  a  twig  mcved  with  his  motion. 
Scarce  a  leaf  was  stirred  or  rustled, 
But  the  wary  roebuck  started, 
Stamped  with  all  his  hoofs  together, 
Listened  with  one  foot  uplifted, 
Leaped  as  if  to  meet  the  arrow  ; 
Ah  !  the  singing,  fatal  arrow, 
Like  a  wasp  it  buzzed  and  stung  him. 

Dead  he  lay  there  in  the  forest, 
By  the  ford  across  the  river ; 

his  timid  heart  no  longer, 
But  the  heart  of  Hiawatha 


EM 


IPELLCW  S  POEMS. 


Throbbed  and  shouted  and  exulted, 

As  he  bore  the  red  deer  homeward, 

And  Iagoo  and  Nokoinis 

Hailed  his  coining  with  applauses. 

From  the  re  I  deer's  hide  Nbk< 
.Made  a  cloak  for  Hiawatha, 
From  the  red  deer's  flesh  Nokomw 
Made  a  banquet  in  his  honour. 
All  the  village  came  and  feasted, 
All  the  guests  praised  Hiawatha, 
Called  him  Strong-Heart,  Soange-taha! 
Called  him  Loon-Heart,  Mahrtgo-t) 


RKH 


IV. 

HIAWATHA  AND  MUDJEKEEWIS 

Out  of  childhood  into  manhood 
Now  had  grown  my  Hiawatha, 
Skilled  in  all  the  craft  of  hunters, 
Learned  in  all  the  lore  of  old  men, 
In  all  youthful  sports  and  pastimes, 
Iu  all  manly  arts  and  labours. 

Swift  of  foot  was  Hiawatha  ; 
He  could  shoot  an  arrow  from  him, 
And  run  forward  with  such  rleetness, 
That  the  arrow  fell  behind  him  ! 
Strong  of  arm  was  Hiawatha  ; 
He  could  shoot  ten  arrows  upward, 
Shoot  them  with  such  strength  and  swiftness 
That  the  tenth  had  left  the  bow-string 
Ere  the  first  to  earth  had  fallen  ! 

He  had  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 
Magic  mittens  made  of  deer  skin  ; 
When  upon  his  hands  he  wore  them, 
He  could  smite  the  rocks  asunder, 
He  could  grind  them  into  powder. 
He  had  moccasons  enchanted, 
Magic  moccasons  of  deer  skin  ; 
When  he  hound  them  round  his  ankles. 
When  upon  his  feet  he  tied  them, 
At  each  stride  a  mile  he  measured  ! 

Much  he  questioned  old  Nokomis 
Of  his  father  Mudjekeewis  ; 


iv.l 


HIAWATHA  AND  MUDJEKEEWIS. 


2S7 


Learned  from  her  the  fatal  ecret 
Of  the  beauty  of  his  mother, 
Of  tl  »od  of  his  father ; 

And  his  heart  was  hot  within  him, 

Like  a  living  coal  his  heart  was. 

Then  he  said  to  old  Nokomis, 
"  I  will  go  to  Mudjckcewis, 
See  how  fares  it  with  my  father, 
At  the  doorways  of  the  West-Wind. 
At  the  portals  of  the  Sunset ! " 

From  his  lodge  went  Hiawatha, 
Dressed  for  travel,  armed  for  hunting, 
Dressed  in  deer-skin  shirt  and  leggings, 
Richly  wrought  with  quills  and  wampum  ; 
On  his  head  his  eagle-feathers, 
Round  his  waist  his  belt  of  wampum, 
In  his  hand  his  bow  of  ash-wood, 
Strung  with  sinews  of  the  reindeer ; 
In  his  quiver  oaken  arrows, 
Tipped  with  jasper,  winged  with  feathers ; 
With  his  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 
With  his  moccasons  enchanted. 

Warning  said  the  old  Nokomis, 
"Go  not  forth,  0  Hiawatha  ! 
To  the  kingdom  of  the  West-Wind, 
To  the  realms  of  Mudjekeewis, 
Lest  he  harm  you  with  his  magic, 
Lest  he  kill  3^ou  with  his  cunning  !" 

But  the  fearless  Hiawatha 
Heeded  not  her  woman's  warning  ; 
Forth  he  strode  into  the  forest, 
At  each  stride  a  mile  he  measured  ; 
Lurid  seemed  the  sky  above  him, 
Lurid  seemed  the  earth  beneath  him, 
Hot  and  close  the  air  around  him, 
Filled  with  smoke  and  fiery  vapours, 
As  of  burning  woods  and  prairies, 
B'or  his  heart  was  hot  within  him, 
Like  a  living  coal  his  heart  was. 

So  he  journeyed  westward,  westward, 
Left  the  fleetest  deer  behind  him, 


28S 


r.ow's  PO 


Passed  the  Mountains  of  the  Prairie, 
ed  the  land  of  Crows  and  Foi 
be  dwellings  of  the  Black  feet, 
Came  unto  the  Rocky  Mountains, 
To  the  kingdom  of  the  West-Wind, 
Where  upon  the  gusty  summits 
Sat  the  ancient  Mudjekeewis, 
Kuler  of  the  winds  of  heaven. 

Filled  with  awe  was  Hiawatha 
At  the  aspect  of  his  father. 
On  the  air  about  him  wildly 
Tossed  and  streamed  his  cloudy  tresses, 
Gleamed  like  drifting  snow  his  tresses, 
Glared  like  Ishkoodah,  the  comet, 
Like  the  star  with  fiery  ti\ 

Filled  with  joy  was  Mudjekeewis 
When  he  looked  on  Hiawatha, 
Saw  his  youth  rise  up  before  him 
In  the  face  of  Hiawatha, 
Saw  the  beauty  of  Wenonah 
From  the  grave  rise  up  before  him. 

"  Welcome  !"  said  he,  "  Hiawatha. 
To  the  kingdom  of  the  West- Wind  ! 
Long  have  i  been  waiting  for  you  ! 
Youth  is  lovely,  age  is  lonely, 
Youth  is  fiery,  age  is  frosty  ; 
You  bring  back  the  days  departed, 
You  bring  back  my  youth  of  passion, 
And  the  beautiful  Wenonah  !" 

Many  days  they  talked  together, 
Questioned,  listened,  -waited,  answered  ; 
Much  the  mighty  Mudjekeewis 
Boasted  of  his  ancient  prowess, 
Of  his  perilous  adventures, 
His  indomitable  courage, 
His  invulnerable  body. 

Patiently  sat  Hiawatha, 
Listening  to  his  father's  boasting  ; 
With  a  smile  he  sat  and  listened, 
Uttered  neither  threat  nor  menace, 
Neither  word  nor  look  betrayed  him, 
But  his  heart  was  hot  within  him, 
Like  a  living  coal  his  heart  was. 

Then  he  said,  "  0  Mudjekeewis, 


III.WV  \TII  \    \\  !•  MUDJ  EK  EEWIS. 


Is  there  nothing  thai  can  harm  yon  ( 
Nothing  that  yon  are  afraid  of  r 
And  the  mighty  Mudjekeewis, 
Grand  and  gracious  in  his  boasting, 

d,  saying,  "There  is  nothing, 
Nothing  luil  the  Mack  rock  yonder, 
Nothing  but  the  fatal  Wawbeek  !" 

And  he  looked  at  Hiawatha 
With  a  wise  look  and  benignant, 
With  a  countenance  paternal, 
Looked  with  pride  upon  the  beauty 
Of  his  tall  and  graceful  figure, 
Saying,  "  0  my  Hiawatha  ! 
Is  there  anything  can  harm  you  > 
Anything  you  are  afraid  of  ?" 

Jiut  the  wary  Hiawatha 
Paused  awhile,  as  if  uncertain, 
Held  his  peace,  as  if  resolving, 
And  then  answered,  "  There  is  nothing, 
Nothing  but  the  bulrush  yonder, 
Nothing  but  the  great  Apukwa  !" 

And  as  Mudjekeewis,  rising, 
Stretched  his  hand  to  pluck  the  bulrush, 
Hiawatha  cried  in  terror, 
Cried  in  well-dissembled  terror, 
"  Kago  !  Kago  !  do  not  touch  it !" 
"  Ah,  Kaween  !"  said  Mudjekeewis, 
"  No,  indeed,  I  will  not  touch  it !" 

Then  they  talked  of  other  matters  ; 
First  of  Hiawatha's  brothers, 
First  of  Wabun,  of  the  East-Wind, 
Of  the  South-Wind,  Shawondasee, 
Of  the  North,  Kabibonokka  ; 
Then  of  Hiawatha's  mother, 
Of  the  beautiful  Wenonah, 
Of  her  birth  upon  the  meadow, 
Of  her  death,  as  old  Nokomis 
Had  remembered  and  related. 

And  he  cried,  "  0  Mudjekeewis, 
It  was  you  who  killed  Wenonah, 
Took  her  young  life  and  her  beauty. 
Broke  the  Lily  of  the  Prairie, 
Trampled  it  beneath  your  footsteps  ; 
You  confess  it !  you  confess  it  !"' 


tfi 


■  LOW  S  POI 


And  the  mighty  Mudjekeewis 
Tossed  his  gray  hairs  to  the  West-Wind, 
Bowed  his  hoary  head  in  anguish, 
With  a  Bilent  nod  assented. 

Then  up  started  Hiawatha, 
And  with  threatening  look  and  gesture 
Laid  his  hand  upon  the  black  ruck, 
(>n  the  fatal  Wawheek  laid  it, 
With  his  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 
Rent  the  jutting  crag  asunder, 
Smote  and  crushed  it  into  fragment*! 
Hurled  them  madly  at  his  father, 
The  remorseful  Mudjekeewis. 
For  his  heart  was  hot  within  him, 
Like  a  living  coal  his  heart  was. 

But  the  ruler  of  the  West-Wind 
Blew  the  fragments  backward  from  him, 
With  the  breathing  of  his  nostrils, 
With  the  tempest  of  his  anger, 
Blew  them  hack  at  his  as  ailant ; 
Seized  the  bulrush,  the  Apukwa, 
Dragged  it  with  its  roots  and  fibres 
From  the  margin  of  the  meadow, 
From  its  ooze,  the  giant  bulrush  ; 
Long  and  loud  laughed  Hiawatha  ! 

Then  began  the  deadly  conflict, 
Hand  to  hand  among  the  mountains  : 
From  Ins  eyrie  screamed  the  eagle, 
The  Keneu,  the  great  Wax- Eagle  ; 
Sat  upon  the  crags  around  them, 
Wheeling  flapped  his  wings  above  them. 

Like  a  tall  tree  in  the  tempest 
Bent  and  lashed  the  giant  bulrush  ; 
And  in  masses  huge  and  heavy 
Crashing  fell  the  fatal  Wawbeek  ; 
Till  the  earth  shook  with  the  tumult 
And  confusion  of  the  battle, 
And  the  air  was  full  of  shoutings, 
And  the  thunder  of  the  mountains, 
Starting,  answered,  "Baim-Wawa  !" 

Back  retreated  Mudjekeewis, 
Rushing  westward  o'er  the  mountains, 
Stumbling  westward  down  the  mountains, 
Three  whole  days  retreated  fighting. 


■jgSs^^Ji^r'Y 


v*?l  H 


v! 


r-% 


HIAWATHA    AM'   Ml   DJ  BKEBWI8. 


291 


Still  pursue^  I'.V  Iliaua.tha 
To  the  doorways  of  fche  West- Wind, 
To  the  portal?  of  the  Sunset, 
To  the  earth's  remotest  border. 

Where  into  the  empty  spaces 
Sinks  the  sun,  as  a  tlamingo 
Drops  into  her  nest  at  nightfall, 
In  the  melancholy  marshes. 

"Hold  !"  at  length  cried  iWndjei'eewis. 
"  Hold,  my  son,  my  Hiawatha  ! 
'Tis  impossible  to  kill  me, 
For  you  cannot  kill  the  immortal. 
I  have  put  you  to  this  trial 
But  to  know  and  prove  your  courage  ; 
Now  receive  the  prize  of  valour  ! 

"  Go  back  to  your  home  and  people, 
Live  among  them,  toil  among  them. 
Cleanse  the  earth  from  all  that  harms  it, 
Clear  the  fishing-grounds  and  rivers, 
Slay  all  monsters  and  magicians, 
All  the  giants,  the  Wendigoes, 
All  the  serpents,  the  Kenabeeks, 
As  I  slew  the  Mishe-Mokwa, 
Slew  the  Great  Bear  of  the  mountains. 

"  And  at  last  when  Death  draws  near  you, 
"When  the  awful  eyes  of  Pauguk 
Glare  upon  you  in  the  darkness, 
I  will  share  my  kingdom  with  you, 
Ruler  shall  you  be  thenceforward 
Of  the  North-west-Wind,  Keewaydin, 
Of  the  home-wind,  the  Keewaydin." 

Thus  was  fought  that  famous  battle 
In  the  dreadful  days  of  Shah-shah, 
In  the  days  long  since  departed, 
In  the  kingdom  of  the  AV  est- Wind. 
Still  the  hunter  sees  its  traces 
Scattered  far  o'er  hill  and  valley  ; 
Sees  the  giant  bulrush  growing 
By  the  ponds  and  water-courses, 
Sees  the  masses  of  the  Wawbeek 
Lying  still  in  every  valley. 

Homeward  now  went  Hiawatha  ; 
Pleasant  was  the  landscape  round  him. 
Pleasant  was  the  air  above  him, 


&M 


"-_,....«•,*  4**, 


- 

■ 
r'. 

> .  -    .... .  S.iam  un  :._•  Um  Mk-treei 
I. a  :_*:.  :.:.  .  "-r;i:   ::.:    t'.'.e  valley. 

• 
.' 

.. 

Arrow-heals    : 

>   .  •:::.c  •  an :  v.r_e::r:  at  the  edges, 
I 

Eyes  that  . 

_ 

:  : 

the  corf 


■ 


»* 


i 


■ 


- 
> 


>;  "L> 


; 


+y 


».] 


eautv 
Filled  the  he! 
All  he  told  to 

he  readied  the  I  inset, 

the  meeting  with  his  fat:. 
Jjekeev 

a  word  of  Laughing  T 


n 


k 


V. 

HIAWATHAS  FA 

ii  how  Hiawatha 
Prayed  and  fasted  in  the  fin 

skill  in  hunting, 
.-  craft  in  fishing, 
t  for  triumijhs  in  the  battle, 
renown  among  the  warri : . 
Eut  for  profit  of  the  people, 
lvantage  of  the  nark 
:  built  a  lodge  for  fast! 
Built  a  wigwam  in  the 
By  the  shinin. 
In  the  blithe  and  j 
In  the  Moon  uilt  it, 

And,  with  dreams  and  visions  many, 
.  whole  days  and  nights  he  lasted. 
On  the  first  day  of  his  fasting 
Through  the  leafy  woods  he  wandered ; 
Saw  the  deer  start  from  the  thi; 

:he  rabbit  in  his  burrow, 
Heard  the  pheasant,  Bena,  drumming, 
I  the  squirrel,  Adjidainno, 
d  his  hoard  of  ac 
meme, 
Building  nests  among  x~. 
And  in  flocks  the  wild  goose 
Flying  to  the  fen-lands  northward, 
iling  far  above  him. 

he  cried,  desponding, 
:  lives  depend  on  the- 
On  the  next  day  :ing 

Ey  tfae  ri  ed, 


■J'.  1 1 


LONGFELLOW' 8  POEMS. 


v*w 


:V 


Through  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow. 
Saw  the  wild  rice,  Mahnomonee, 
Saw  the  blueberry,  Meenahga, 

And  the  strawberry,  Odahmin. 
And  the  gooseberry,  Shahbomin, 
And  the  grape-Tine,  the  Bemahgut, 
Trailing  o'er  the  alder-branches, 
I  illing  all  the  air  with  fragrance  ! 
'  .Master  of  Life !"  he  cried,  desponding, 
!t  Must  our  lives  depend  on  these  things?" 

On  the  third  day  of  his  fasting 
By  the  lake  he  sat  and  pondered, 
By  the  still,  transparent  water  : 
Saw  the  sturgeon,  Nahnia,  leaping, 
Scattering  drops  like  heads  of  wampum, 
Saw  the  yellow  perch,  the  Sahwa, 
Like  a  sunbeam  in  the  water, 
Saw  the  pike,  the  Maskenozha, 
And  the  herring,  Okahahwis, 
Ami  the  Shawgashee,  the  craw-fish  ! 
••  .Master  of  Life  !"  he  cried,  desponding, 
"  Must  our  lives  depend  on  these  things  T 

On  the  fourth  day  of  his  fasting 
In  his  lodge  he  lay  exhausted  ; 
From  bis  couch  of  leaves  and  branches 
Gazing  with  half  open  eye-lids. 
Full  of  shadowy  dreams  and  visions. 
On  the  dizzy,  swimming  landscape, 
On  the  gleaming  of  the  water, 
On  the  splendour  of  the  sunset. 

And  he  saw  a  youth  approaching, 
Dressed  in  garments  green  and  yellow, 
Coming  through  the  purple  twilight, 
Through  the  splendour  of  the  sunset; 
Plumes  of  green  bent  o'er  his  forehead, 
And  his  hair  was  soft  and  golden. 

Standing  at  the  open  doorway, 
Long  he  looked  at  Hiawatha, 
Looked  with  pity  and  compassion 
On  his  wasted  form  and  features, 
And,  in  accents  like  the  sighing 
Of  the  South-\Y  ind  in  the  tree-tops, 
Said  he,  "  0  my  Hiawatha  ! 
All  your  prayers  are  heard  in  heaven. 


v.l 


ihawatha's  fasting. 


295 


For  you  pray  not  like  the  others, 
Not  for  greater  skill  in  hunting, 
Not  for  greater  craft  in  fishing, 
Not  for  triumph  in  the  battle, 
Nor  renown  among  the  -warriors, 
But  for  profit  of  the  people, 
For  advantage  of  the  nations. 

"  From  the  Master  of  Life  descending, 
J,  the  friend  of  man,  Mondamin, 
Come  to  warn  you  and  instruct  you, 
How  by  struggle  and  by  labour 
You  shall  gain  what  you  have  prayed  for. 
Rise  up  from  your  bed  of  branches, 
Rise,  0  youth,  and  wrestle  with  me !" 

Faint  with  famine,  Hiawatha 
Started  from  his  bed  of  branches, 
From  the  twilight  of  his  wigwam 
Forth  into  the  flush  of  sunset 
Came,  and  wrestled  with  Mondamin  : 
At  his  touch  he  felt  new  courage 
Throbbing  in  his  brain  and  bosom, 
Felt  new  life  and  hope  and  vigour 
Run  through  every  nerve  and  fibre. 

So  they  wrestled  there  together 
In  the  glory  of  the  sunset, 
And  the  more  they  strove  and  struggled, 
Stronger  still  grew  Hiawatha; 
Till  the  darkness  fell  around  them, 
And  the  Heron  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From  her  haunts  among  the  fen-lands, 
Gave  a  cry  of  lamentation, 
Gave  a  scream  of  pain  and  famine. 
"'Tis  enough !  "  then  said  Mondamin, 
Smiling  upon  Hiawatha, 
"  But  to-morrow,  when  the  sun  sets, 
I  will  come  again  to  try  you." 
And  he  vanished  and  was  seen  not : 
Whether  sinking  as  the  rain  sinks. 
Whether  rising  as  the  mists  rise, 
Hiawatha  saw  not,  knew  not, 
Only  saw  that  he  had  vanished, 
Leaving  him  alone  and  fainting, 
With  the  misty  lake  below  him, 
And  the  reeling  stars  above  him 


290 


FELLOE  -  POEMS. 


!  h\ 


On  the  morrow  and  the  next  day, 
When  the  sun  through  heaven  descending, 
Like  a  red  and  burning  cinder 

From  the  hearth  of  the  Great  Spirit, 
Fell  into  the  western  waters, 
Came  Mondamin  for  the  trial, 
For  the  strife  with  Hiawatha  ; 
Came  as  silent  as  the  dew  comes, 
From  the  empty  air  appearing 
Into  empty  air  ret  urn  i: 
Taking  shape  when  earth  it  touches, 
But  invisible  to  all  men 
In  its  coming  and  its  going. 

Thrice  they  wrestled  there  together 
In  the  glory  of  the  sunset, 
Till  the  darkness  fell  around  them, 
Till  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From  her  haunts  among  the  fen-lands 
Uttered  her  loud  cry  of  famine, 
And  Mondamin  paused  to  listen. 

Tall  and  beautiful  he  stood  there, 
In  his  garments  green  and  yellow  ; 
To  and  fro  his  plumes  above  him 
Waved  and  nodded  with  his  breathing, 
And  the  sweat  of  the  encounter 
Stood  like  drops  of  dew  upon  him. 

And  he  cried,  "  0  Hiawatha ! 
Bravely  have  you  wrestled  with  me, 
Thrice  have  wrestled  stoutly  with  me, 
And  the  Master  of  Life,  who  sees  us, 
He  will  give  to  you  the  triumph ! "' 

Then  he  smiled,  and  said : "  To-morrow 
Is  the  last  day  of  your  conflict, 
Is  the  last  day  of  your  fasting. 
You  will  conquer  and  o'ercome  me; 
Make  a  bed  fur  me  to  lie  in, 
AYhere  the  rain  may  fall  upon  me. 
Where  the  sun  may  come  and  warm  me^ 
Strip  these  garments,  green  and  yellow, 
Strip  this  nodding  plumage  from  me, 
Lay  me  in  the  earth,  and  make  it 
Soft  and  loose  and  light  above  me. 

"  Let  no  hand  disturb  my  slumber, 
Let  no  weed  nor  worm  molest  me, 


0, 


,n 


v.] 


! 


4 


HI  \W.\TH.\  S   I'ASTIMl. 


207 


Let  not  Kahgahgee,  the  raven, 

Come  to  haunt  me  and  molest  me, 
Only  come  yourself  to  watch  me, 

Till  I  wake,  and  start,  and  quicken, 
Till  I  leap  into  the  sunshine." 

And  thus  Baying,  he  departed; 
reaccfullv  slept  Hiawatha, 
But  he  heard  the  Wawonaissa. 
Heard  the  Whip-poor-will  complaining, 
Perched  upon  his  lonely  wigwam  ; 
Heard  the  rushing  Sebowisha, 
Heard  the  rivulet  rippling  near  him, 
Talking  to  the  darksome  forest ; 
Heard  the  sighing  of  the  branches.. 
As  they  lifted  and  subsided 
At  the  passing  of  the  night- wind, 
Heard  them  as  one  hears  in  slumber 
Far-off  murmurs,  dreamy  whispers  : 
Peacefully  slept  Hiawatha. 

On  the  morrow  came  Nokomis, 
On  the  seventh  day  of  his  fasting, 
Came  with  food  for  Hiawatha, 
Came  imploring  and  bewailing, 
Lest  his  hunger  should  o'ercome  him, 
Lest  his  fasting  should  be  fatal. 

But  he  tasted  not,  and  touched  not, 
Only  said  to  her,  "  Nokomis, 
Wait  until  the  sun  is  setting, 
Till  the  darkness  falls  around  us, 
Till  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
Crying  from  the  desolate  marshes, 
Tells  us  that  the  day  is  ended." 

Homeward  weeping  went  Nokomis, 
Sorrowing  for  her  Hiawatha, 
Fearing  lest  his  strength  should  fail  him, 
Lest  his  fasting  should  be  fatal. 
He  meanwhile  sat  weary  waiting 
For  the  coming  of  Mondamin, 
Till  the  shadows,  pointing  eastward, 
Lengthened  over  field  and  forest, 
Till  the  sun  dropped  from  the  heaven, 
Floating  on  the  waters  westward, 
As  a  red  leaf  in  the  Autumn 
Falls  and  floats  upon  the  water. 


i 


29H 


L0N0FE1 


kJM 


Kails  and  sinks  into  hi 

And,  behold  !  the  young  Mondarnin, 
With  his  soft  and  shining 
With  his  garmenl  and  yellow, 

With  his  long  and 
Stood  and  beckoned  at  the  door 
And  as  one  in  slumber  walking, 

and  haggard,  but  undaunted, 
From  the  wigwam  Hiawatha 
Came  and  wrestled  with  Mondarnin. 

Round  about  him  spun  the  landscape, 
Sky  and  forest  reeled  together, 
And  his  strong  heart  leaped  within  him. 
As  the  sturgeon  leaps  and  struggles 
In  a  net  to  break  its  meshes. 
Like  a  ring  of  fire  around  him 
Blazed  and  flared  tiie  red  horizon, 
And  a  hundred  suns  seemed  looking 
At  the  combat  of  the  wrestlers. 

Suddenly  upon  the  greensward 
All  alone  stood  Hiawatha, 
Panting  with  his  wild  exertion, 
Palpitating  with  the  struggle  ; 
And  before  him,  breathless,  lifeless, 
Lay  the  youth,  with  hair  dishevelled, 
Plumage  torn,  and  garments  tattered, 
Dead  he  lay  there  in  the  sunset. 

And  victorious  Hiawatha 
Made  the  grave  as  he  commanded, 
Stripped  the  garments  from  Mondarnin, 
Stripped  his  tattered  plumage  from  him 
Laid  him  in  the  earth,  and  made  it 
Soft  and  loose  and  light  above  him ; 
And  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From  the  melancholy  moor-lands, 
Gave  a  cry  of  lamentation, 
Gave  a  cry  of  pain  and  anguish  ! 

Homeward  then  went  Hiawal 
To  the  lodge  of  old  Nokomis, 
And  the  seven  days  of  his  fasting 
Were  accomplished  and  completed. 
But  the  place  was  not  forgotten 
Where  he  wrestled  with  Mondarnin, 
Nor  forgotten  nor  neglected 


4& 


fl 


Was  the  grave  where  lay  Mondanrin, 
Sleeping  in  the  rain  and  Bunshine, 
Where  his  scattered  plumes  and  garments 

Faded  in  the  rain  and  sunshine. 

Day  by  day  did  i  Liawatha 
Go  to  wait  and  watch  beside  it; 
Kept  the  dark  mould  soft  above  it, 
Kept  it  clean  from  weeds  and  insects, 
Drove  away,  with  BColFs  and  shoutings, 
Kahgahgee,  the  king  of  ravens. 

Till  at  length  a  small  green  feather 
From  the  earth  shot  slowly  upward, 
Then  another  and  another, 
And  before  the  Summer  ended 
Stood  the  maize  in  all  its  beauty, 
With  its  shining  robes  about  it, 
And  its  long,  soft,  yellow  tresses ; 
And  in  rapture  Hiawatha 
Cried  aloud,  "It  is  Mondamiu  ! 
Yes,  the  friend  of  man,  Mondamin  !" 

Then  he  called  to  old  Nokomis 
And  Iagoo,  the  great  boaster, 
Showed  them  where  the  maize  was  growing, 
Told  them  of  his  wondrous  vision, 
Of  his  wrestling  and  his  triumph, 
Of  his  new  gift  to  the  nations, 
NY  hich  should  be  their  food  for  ever. 

And  still  later,  when  the  Autumn 
Changed  the  long  green  leaves  to  yellow, 
And  the  soft  and  juicy  kernels 
Grew  like  wampum  hard  and  yellow, 
Then  the  ripened  ears  he  gathered, 
Stripped  the  withered  husks  from  off  them 
As  he  once  had  stripped  the  wrestler, 
Gave  the  first  Feast  of  Mondaniin, 
And  made  known  unto  the  people 
This  new  jjiffc  of  the  Great  Spirit. 


800 


IFELLOW  8  POi 


Vi. 


HIAWATHA'S  PRIENDa 

Two  good  friends  had  Hiawatha, 

Singled  out  from  all  the  others, 

Bound  to  him  in  closest  union, 

And  to  whom  he  gave  the  right  hand 

Of  his  heart,  in  joy  and  Borrow  ; 

Chibiabos,  the  musician, 

And  the  very  strong  man,  Kwasind. 

Straight  between  them  ran  the  pathway. 
Never  grew  the  grass  upon  it  ; 
Singing  birds,  that  utter  falsehoods, 
Story-tellers,  mischief-makers, 
Found  no  eager  ear  to  listen, 
Could  not  breed  ill-will  between  them, 
For  they  kept  each  other's  counsel, 
Spake  with  naked  hearts  together, 
Pondering  much  and  much  contriving 
How  the  tribes  of  men  might  prosper. 

Most  beloved  by  Hiawatha 
Was  the  gentle  Chibiabos, 
He  the  best  of  all  musicians, 
He  the  sweetest  of  all  singers, 
Beautiful  and  childlike  was  he, 
Brave  as  man  is,  soft  as  woman, 
Pliant  as  a  wand  of  willow, 
Stately  as  a  deer  with  antlers. 

W  hen  he  sang,  the  village  listened  ; 
All  the  warriors  gathered  round  him, 
All  the  women  came  to  hear  him* 
Now  he  stirred  their  souls  to  passiou, 
Now  he  melted  them  to  pity. 

From  the  hollow  reeds  he  fashioned 
Flutes  so  musical  and  mellow, 
That  the  brook,  the  Sebowisha, 
Ceased  to  murmur  in  the  woodland  ; 
That  the  wood-birds  ceased  from  singing, 
And  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 
Ceased  his  chatter  in  the  oak-tree. 
And  the  rabbit,  the  Waba 
Sat  upright  to  look  and  listen. 


ra 


71.1 


HIAWATHA  S  I  III  HMDS. 


301 


Yes,  the  brook,  the  Sebowisha 
Pausing,  said,  "  0  Chibial 
Teach  my  waves  to  flow  in  music, 
Softly  as  your  words  in  singing!" 

Yes,  the  blue-bird,  the  Owaissa, 
Envious  said,  "  0  Chibiabos, 
Teach  me  songs  as  full  of  frenzy  !" 

Yes,  the  Opechee,  the  robin, 
Teach  me  notes  as  wild  and  wayward, 
Joyous,  said,  "  0  Chibiabos, 
Teach  me  notes  as  sweet  and  tender, 
Teach  me  songs  as  full  of  gladness  !" 

And  the  whip-poor-will,  Wawonaissa, 
Sobbing  said,  "  0  Chibiabos, 
Teach  me  tones  as  melancholy, 
Teach  me  songs  as  full  of  sadness  !" 

All  the  many  sounds  of  nature 
Borrowed  sweetness  from  his  singing  : 
All  the  hearts  of  men  were  softened 
By  the  pathos  of  his  music  ; 
For  lie  sang  of  peace  and  freedom, 
Sang  of  beauty,  love,  and  longing  ; 
Sang  of  death,  and  life  undying 
In  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed, 
In  the  kingdom  of  Ponemah, 
In  the  land  of  the  Hereafter. 

Very  dear  to  Hiawatha 
Was  the  gentle  Chibiabos, 
He  the  best  of  all  musicians, 
He  the  sweetest  of  all  singers  ; 
For  his  gentleness  he  loved  him, 
And  the  magic  of  his  singing. 

Dear,  too,  unto  Hiawatha 
Was  the  very  strong  man,  Kwasiud. 
lie  the  strongest  of  all  mortals, 
He  the  mightiest  among  many ; 
For  his  very  strength  he  loved  him, 
For  his  strength  allied  to  goodness. 

Idle  in  his  youth  was  Kwasind, 
Very  listless,  dull,  and  dreamy, 
Nevei  played  with  other  children. 
Never  fished,  and  never  hunted, 
Not  like  other  children  was  he  ; 
But  they  saw  that  much  he  fasted 


302 


LOXQKELLOW  B  POJ 


"" 


Much  his  Manito  entreated, 
Much  besought  bus  Guardian  Spirit 

"  Lazy  Kwasind!"  said  hi.s  mother, 
"  In  my  work  you  never  help  me! 
In  the  Summer  you  are  roaming 
Idly  in  the  fields  and  forests; 
In  the  Winter  you  are  cowering 
O'er  the  firebrands  in  the  wigwam  ! 
In  the  coldest  day  of  Winter 
I  must  break  the  ice  lor  fishing ; 
With  my  nets  you  never  help  me  ! 
At  the  door  my  nets  are  hanging, 
Dripping,  freezing  with  the  water  ; 
Go  and  wring  them,  Yenadizze  ! 
Go  and  dry  them  in  the  sunshine  !" 

Slowly,  from  the  ashes,  Kwasind 
Rose,  but  made  no  angry  answer ; 
From  the  lodge  went  forth  in  silence. 
Took  the  nets,  that  hung  together, 
Dripping,  freezing  at  the  doorway, 
Like  a  wisp  of  straw  he  wrung  them, 
Like  a  wisp  of  straw  he  broke  them, 
Could  not  wring  them  without  breaking, 
Such  the  strength  was  in  his  lingers. 

"  Lazy  Kwasind  !"  said  his  father, 
"  In  the  hunt  you  never  help  me  ; 
Every  bow  you  touch  is  broken, 
Snapped  asunder  every  arrow  ; 
Yet  come  with  me  to  the  forest, 
i'ou  shall  bring  the  hunting  homewanL 

Down  a  narrow  pass  they  wandered, 
Where  a  brooklet  led  them  onward, 
Where  the  trail  of  deer  and  bison  ' 
.Marked  the  soft  mud  on  the  margin, 
Till  they  found  all  further  passage 
Shut  against  them,  barred  securely 
l>y  the  trunks  oi  trees  uprooted, 
Lying  lengthwise,  lying  crosswise, 
And  forbidding  further  passage. 

"  We  must  go  back,"  said  the  old  man, 
"  O'er  these  logs  we  cannot  clamber; 
JMot  a  woodchuck  could  get  through  theia 
Not  a  squirrel  clamber  o'er  them  !" 
And  straightway  his  pipe  he  lighted, 


NTC.l 


HIAWATHA  S   FRIENDS. 


303 


And  Bat  <Iu\vn  bo  moke  and  ponder. 

But  before  ha  pipe  was  finished, 

Lo  !  the  path  was  cleared  before  him; 

All  the  trunks  had  Kwasind  lifted, 
To  the  right  hand,  to  the  left  kind,    . 
Shot  the  pine-trees  swift  as  arrows, 
Hurled  the  cedars  light  as  lances. 

"  Lazy  Kwasind  !"  said  the  young  men, 
As  they  sported  in  the  meadow, 
"  Why  stand  idly  looking  at  us, 
Leaning  on  the  rock  behind  you  ] 
Come  and  wrestle  with  the  others, 
Let  us  pitch  the  quoit  together  !" 

Lazy  Kwasind  made  no  answer, 
To  their  challenge  made  no  answer, 
Only  rose,  and,  slowly  turning, 
Seized  the  huge  rock  in  his  fingers, 
Tore  it  from  its  deep  foundation, 
Poised  it  in  the  air  a  moment, 
Pitched  it  sheer  into  the  river, 
Sheer  into  the  swift  Pauwating, 
Where  it  still  is  seen  in  Summer, 

Once  as  down  that  foaming  river, 
Dowrn  the  rapids  of  Pauwating, 
Kwasind  sailed  with  his  companions, 
In  the  stream  he  saw  a  beaver, 
Saw  Ahraeek  the  king  of  beavers, 
Struggling  with  the  rushing  currents, 
Rising,  sinking  in  the  water. 

Without  speaking,  without  pausing, 
Kwasind  leaped  into  the  river, 
Plunged  beneath  the  bubbling  surface, 
Through  the  whirlpools  chased  the  beaver, 
Followed  him  among  the  islands, 
Staid  so  long  beneath  the  water, 
That  his  terrified  companions 
Cried,  "  Alas  !  good-bye  to  Kwasind  ! 
We  shall  never  more  see  Kwasind  !" 
But  he  reappeared  triumphant, 
And  upon  his  shining  shoulders 
Brought  the  beaver,  dead  and  dripping, 
Brought  the  King  of  all  the  Beavers. 

And  these  two,  as  I  have  told  you, 
Were  the  friends  of  Hiawatha, 


sot 


Chihiabos,  the  musician, 
And  tlu:  very  Btrong  man,  Kwusind. 
Long  they  lived  in  peace  together, 
Spake  with  naked  hearts  together, 
Pondering  much  and  much  contriving 
How  the  tribes  of  men  might  prosper 


VII. 

HIAWATHA'S  SAILING. 

"  Give  me  of  your  bark,  0  Birch-Tree  ! 
Of  your  yellow  bark,  0  Birch-Tree  ! 
Growing  by  the  rushing  river, 
Tall  and  stately  in  the  valley! 
I  a  light  canoe  will  build  me, 
Build  a  swift  Cheemaun  for  sailing, 
That  shall  float  upon  the  river 
Like  a  yellow  leaf  in  Autumn, 
Like  a  yellow  water-lily! 

"  Lay  aside  your  cloak,  0  Birch-Tree  J 
Lay  aside  your  white-skin  wrapper, 
For  the  Summer-time  is  coming, 
And  the  sun  is  warm  in  heaven, 
And  you  need  no  white-skin  wrapper  !" 
Thus  aloud  cried  Hiawatha 
In  the  solitary  forest, 
By  the  rushing  Taquamenaw, 
When  the  birds  were  singing  gaily, 
In  the  Moon  of  Leaves  were  singing, 
And  the  sun,  from  sleep  awaking, 
Started  up  and  said,  "  Behold  me  ! 
Geezis,  the  great  Sun,  behold  me  !" 

And  the  tree  with  all  its  branches 
Rustled  in  the  breeze  of  morning, 
Saying,  with  a  sigh  of  patience, 
"  Take  my  cloak,  0  Hiawatha  !" 

With  his  knife  the  tree  he  girdled  ; 
Just  beneath  its  lowest  branches, 
Just  above  the  roots  he  cut  it, 
Till  the  sap  came  oozing  outward  ; 
Down  the  trunk,  from  top  to  bottom, 
Sheer  he  cleft  the  bark  asunder, 
With  a  wooden  wedge  he  raised  it, 


VII.] 


II!  LWATHA'S  SAIIilNO. 


305 


»■ 


A  ' 


Stripped  it  from  the  trunk  unbroken. 
\r  im1  of  your  boughs,  1 1  Cedar ! 
or  strong  and  pliant  branches, 
My  canoe  to  make  more  steady, 

Make  more  strong  and  firm  beneath  me  !" 

Through  the  summit  of  the  Cedar 
Went  a  Bound,  a  cry  of  horror, 
Went  a  murmur  of  resistance  ; 
But  it  whispered,  bending  downward, 
"  Take  my  houghs,  0  Hiawatha  !" 

Down  he  hewed  the  houghs  of  cedar, 
Shaped  them  straightway  to  a  framework, 
Like  two  bows  he  formed  and  shaped  them, 
Like  two  bended  bows  together. 

"  Give  me  of  your  roots,  0  Tamarack  ! 
Of  your  (il  irons  roots,  0  Larch-Tree  ! 
My  canoe  to  bind  together, 
So  to  hind  the  ends  together 
That  the  water  may  nut  enter, 
That  the  river  may  not  wet  me  !" 
And  the  Larch,  with  all  its  fibres, 
Shivered  in  the  air  of  morning, 
Touched  his  forehead  with  its  tassels, 
Said,  with  one  long  sigh  of  sorrow, 
"  Take  them  all,  0  Hiawatha !" 

From  the  earth  he  tore  the  fibres, 
Tore  the  tough  roots  of  the  Larch-Tree  ! 
Closely  sewed  the  bark  together, 
Bound  it  closely  to  the  framework. 

"  Give  me  of  your  halm,  0  Fir-Tree  ! 
Of  your  balsam  and  your  resin, 
So  to  close  the  seams  together 
That  the  water  may  not  enter, 
That  the  river  may  not  wet  me !" 

And  the  Fir-Tree,  tall  and  sombre, 
Sobbed  through  all  its  robes  of  darkness, 
Rattled  like  ashore  with  pebbles, 
Answered  wailing,  answered  weeping, 
"Take  my  balm,  0  Hiawatha!" 

And  he  took  the  tears  of  balsam, 
Took  the  resin  of  the  Fir-Tree, 
Smeared  therewith  each  seam  and  fissure, 
Bfade  each  crevice  safe  from  water. 

"  (Jive  me  of  your  quills,  0  Hedgehog  ! 


A 


906 


Ah  your  quills,  b,  the  II 

I  will  make  a  necklace  of  them, 
Make  a  girdle  foi  my  beauty, 
Ami  two  stars  I  i  d  ■  \  ber  bosom  !" 

Prom  a  hollow  tree  tiie  Jl 
With  his  glee] 

Shot  his  shilling  quills,  like 
Saying,  with  a  drowsy  murmur, 

Through  the  tangle  of  bis  w 

"Take  my  quills,  0  Hiawath. 
From  the  ground  the  quills  be  gatliered, 

All  tiie  little  shining  arrows, 
Stained  them  red  and  hlue  and  ye'ii 
With  the  juice  of  roots  and  bei 
Into  his  canoe  he  wrought  them, 
Round  its  waist  a  shining  girdle, 
Round  its  hows  a  gleaming  necklace, 
On  its  breast  two  stars  resplendent. 

Thus  the  Birch-Canoe  was  budded 
In  the  valley,  by  the  river, 
Iu  the  bosom  of  the  forest  ; 
And  the  forest's  life  was  in  it, 
All  its  mystery  and  its  magic, 
All  the  lightness  of  the  birch-tree 
All  the  toughness  of  the  cedar, 
All  the  larch's  supple  sinews  ; 
And  it  floated  on  the  river 
Like  a  yellow  leaf  in  Autumn, 
Like  a  yellow  water-lily. 

Paddles  none  had  Hiawatha, 
Paddles  none  he  had  or  needed, 
For  his  thoughts  as  paddles  served  him, 
And  his  wishes  served  to  guide  him  : 
Swift  or  slow  at  will  he  glided, 
Veered  to  right  or  left  at  pleasure. 

Then  he  called  aloud  to  Kwasind, 
To  his  friend,  the  strong  man,  Kwasind, 
Saying,  "  Help  me  clear  this  river, 
Of  its  sunken  logs  and  sand-bars." 

Straight  into  the  river  Kwasind 
Plunged  as  if  he  were  an  otter, 
Dove  as  if  he  were  a  beaver, 
Stood  up  to  his  waist  in  water, 
To  his  arm-pits  in  the  liver, 


fe 


****; 


111  \\v  mi  \  -  FISH 


307 


Swam  and  shouted  in  the  river, 

at  sunken  log!  and  branches, 
With  his  hands  h  I  the  sand-bars. 

With  his  feet  the  I  tangle. 

And  thus  sailed  my  Hiawatha 
Down  the  rushing  Taquamenaw, 
Bailed  through  all  its  bends  and  windings, 
Sailed  through  all  its  deeps  and  shallows, 
While  his  friend,  the  hi,  lvwasinij. 

Swam  the  deeps,  the  shallows  waded. 

Up  and  down  the  river  went  they, 
In  and  out  among  its  islands, 
Cleared  its  bed  of  root  and  sand-bar, 
Dragged  the  dead  trees  from  its  channel. 
Made  its  passage  safe  and  certain, 
Made  a  pathway  fur  the  people, 
L'rom  its  springs  among  the  mountains, 
To  the  waters  of  Pauwating, 
To  the  bay  of  Taquamenaw. 


VIII. 


I 


HIAWATHA'S  FISHING 

Forth  upon  the  Gitche  Gumee, 
On  the  shining  Big-Sea- Water, 
With  his  fishing-line  of  cedar, 
Of  the  twisted  bark  of  cedar, 
Forth  to  catch  the  sturgeon  Nahma, 
Mishe-Nahma,  king  of  fishes, 
In  his  birch-canoe  exulting 
All  alone  went  Hiawatha. 

Through  the  clear,  transparent  water 
He  could  see  the  fishes  swimming 
Far  down  in  the  depths  below  him ; 
See  the  yellow  perch,  the  Sahwa, 
Like  a  sunbeam  in  the  water, 
See  the  Shawgashee,  the  craw-fishj 
Like  a  spider  on  the  bottom, 
On  the  white  and  sandy  bottom. 

At  the  stern  sat  Hiawatha, 
With  his  fishing-line  of  cedar  ; 
In  his  plumes  the  breeze  of  mornine 

--ewes***- 


303 


LONG!  Bl  I  OH  B   P< 


■  i 


Played  its  in  the  hemlock  blanches ; 
On  the  hows,  with  tail  erected, 
Bat  the  squirrel,  Adjidaurao  ; 
In  his  fur  the  breeze  of  morning 
Played  as  in  the  prairie  gra 

On  the  white  sand  of  the  bottom 
Lay  the  monster,  Mishc-Nahma, 
Lay  the  sturgeon,  king  of  fishes  ; 
Through  his  gills  he  breathed  the  water, 
With  his  fins  he  fannea  and  winnowed. 
With  his  tail  he  swept  the  Band-floor, 

There  he  lay  in  all  his  armour  ; 
On  each  side  a  shield  to  guard  him, 
Flates  of  bone  upon  his  forehead, 
DoAvn  his  sides  and  back  and  shoulders 
Plates  of  bone  with  spines  projecting  ! 
Painted  was  he  with  his  war-paints, 
Stripes  of  yellow,  red,  and  azure, 
Spots  of  brown  and  spots  of  sable  ; 
And  he  lay  there  on  the  bottom, 
Fanning  with  his  fins  of  purple, 
As  above  him  Uiawatha 
In  his  birch-canoe  came  sailing, 
With  his  fishing-line  of  cedar. 

"  Take  my  bait  !"  cried  Hiawatha, 
Down  into  the  depths  beneath  him, 
"  Take  my  bait,  0  Sturgeon,  Xahma  ! 
Come  up  from  below  the  water, 
Let  us  see  which  is  the  stronger  !" 
And  he  dropped  his  line  of  cedar 
Through  the  clear  transparent  water, 
Waited  vainly  for  an  answer, 
Long  sat  waiting  for  an  answer, 
And  repeating  loud  and  louder, 
"  Take  my  bait,  0  King  of  Fishes!" 

Quiet  lay  the  sturgeon,  Nahma, 
Fanning  slowly  in  the  water, 
Looking  up  at  Hiawatha, 
Listening  to  his  call  and  clamour. 
His  unnecessary  tumult, 
Till  he  wearied  of  the  shouting  ; 
And  he  said  to  the  Kenozha, 
To  the  pike,  the  Maskenozha, 
'  Take  the  bait  of  this  rude  fellow, 


VIII. 


Ill  AW  \T1IA  S   1-MSIITNG. 


309 


m 


X  the  line  of  Hiawatha  !" 
J 11  his  angers  Hiawatha 
Pell  the  loose  line  jerk  and  tighten  ; 
As  he  drew  it  in,  it  tugged  so 
That  the  birch-canoe  stood  endwise, 
Like  a  birch  log  in  the  water, 
With  the  squirrel,  Adjidauino, 
Perched  and  frisking  on  the  summit. 

Full  of  scorn  was  Hiawatha 
When  he  saw  the  fish  rise  upward, 
Saw  the  pike,  the  Maskenozha, 
Coming  nearer,  nearer  to  him, 
And  he  shouted  through  the  water, 
"  Esa  !  esa  !  shame  upon  you  ! 
You  are  but  the  pike,  Kenozha, 
You  are  not  the  fish  I  wanted, 
You  are  not  the  King  of  Fishes  !" 
Reeling  downward  to  the  bottom 
Sank  the  pike  in  great  confusion, 
And  the  mighty  sturgeon,  Nahnia, 
Said  to  Ugudwash,  the  sun-fish, 
"  Take  the  bait  of  this  great  boaster, 
Break  the  line  of  Hiawatha  !" 

Slowly  upward,  wavering,  gleaming 
Like  a  white  moon  in  the  water, 
Rose  the  Ugudwash,  the  sun-fish, 
Seized  the  line  of  Hiawatha, 
Swung  with  all  his  weight  upon  it, 
Made  a  whirlpool  in  the  water, 
Whirled  the  birch-canoe  in  circles, 
Round  and  round  in  gurgling  eddies, 
Till  the  circles  in  the  water 
Reached  the  far-off  sandy  beaches, 
Till  the  water-flags  and  rushes 
Nodded  on  the  distant  margins. 

But  when  Hiawatha  saw  him 
Slowly  rising  through  the  water, 
Lifting  his  great  disc  of  whiteness, 
Loud  he  shouted  in  derision, 
••  Bsa  !  esa  !  shame  upon  you  ! 
You  are  Ugudwash,  the  sun-fish, 
You  are  uot  the  fish  I  wanted, 
You  are  not  the  King  of  Fishes  !" 

Wavering  downward,  white  and  ghastly 


r*'* 


^■"■-  "-"--'■' 


LONGPEl.T.oW 


Sunk  the  Ugudwash,  the  sun-fi  h, 
And  again  bh  in,  Nahma, 

Heard  the  shunt  of  Hiawatha, 

Heard  his  challenge  of  defiance. 

The  unnecessary  tumult, 
Ringing  tar  across  the  water. 

From  the  white  Band  of  the  bottom 
Up  he  rose  with  angry  gesture, 
Quivering  in  each  nerve  and  fibre, 

Clashing  all  his  plates  of  armour, 

Gleaming  bright  with  all  his  war-paint  ; 
In  his  wrath  he  darted  upward, 
Flashing  leaped  into  the  sunshine, 
Opened  his  great  jaws,  and  swallowed 
Both  canoe  and  Hiawatha. 

Down  into  that  darksome  cavern 
Plunged  the  headlong  Hiawatha, 
As  a  log  on  some  black  river 
Shoots  and  plunges  down  the  rapids, 
Found  himself  in  utter  darkness, 
Groped  about  in  helpless  wonder, 
Till  he  felt  a  great  heart  beating, 
Throbbing  in  that  utter  darkness. 

And  he  smote  it  in  his  anger, 
With  his  fist  the  heart  of  Nahma, 
Felt  the  mighty  King  of  Fishes 
Shudder  through  each  nerve  and  fibre, 
Heard  the  water  gurgle  round  him 
As  he  leaped  and  staggered  through  it 
Sick  at  heart,  and  faint  and  weary. 

Crosswise  then  did  Hiawatha 
Drag  his  birch-canoe  for  safety, 
Lest  from  out  the  jaws  of  Nahma, 
In  the  turmoil  and  confusion, 
Forth  he  might  be  hurled  and  perish. 
And  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 
Frisked  and  chattered  very  gaily, 
Toiled  and  tugged  with  Hiawatha 
Till  the  labour  was  completed. 

Then  said  Hiawatha  to  him, 
"  0  my  little  friend,  the  squirrel, 
Bravely  have  you  toiled  to  help  me  ; 
Take  the  thanks  of  Hiawatha, 
And  the  name  which  now  he  gives  you  j 


VIII.l 


HIAWATHA  S   FI8IIIJJQ. 


311 


For  hereafter  and  for  ever 

.-hall  call  you  Adjidaumo, 
Tail-iii-air  the  boys  Bhall  call  you  I" 

Ami  again  the  Bturgeon,  Nahma, 
1       ed  ami  quivered  in  the  water, 
Then  was  still,  and  drifted  landward 
Till  he  grated  on  the  pebbles, 
Till  the  listening  Hiawatha 
Heard  him  grate  upon  the  margin, 
Felt  him  strand  upon  the  pebbles, 
Knew  that  Nahma,  king  of  fishes, 
Lay  there  dead  upon  the  margin. 

Then  he  heard  a  clang  and  flapping, 
As  of  many  wings  assembling, 
Heard  a  screaming  and  confusion, 
As  of  birds  of  prey  contending, 
Saw  a  gleam  of  light  above  him, 
Shining  through  the  ribs  of  Nahma, 
Saw  the  glittering  eyes  of  sea-gulls. 
Of  Kayoshk,  the  sea-gulls,  peering, 
Gazing  at  him  through  the  opening. 
Heard  them  saying  to  each  other, 
"  'Tis  our  brother,  Hiawatha  !" 

And  he  shouted  from  below  them, 
Cried  exulting  from  the  caverns  : 
"  0  ye  sea-gulls  !  0  my  brothers  ! 
I  have  slain  the  sturgeon,  Nahma  ; 
Make  the  rifts  a  little  larger, 
With  your  clawrs  the  openings  wide 
Set  me  free  from  this  dark  prison, 
And  henceforward  and  for  ever 
Men  shall  speak  of  your  achievements, 
Calling  you  Kayoshk,  the  sea-gulls, 
Yes,  Kayoshk,  the  noble  scratchers  [M 

And  the  wild  and  clamorous  sea-gull 
Toiled  with  beak  and  claws  together, 
Made  the  rifts  and  openings  wider 
In  the  mighty  ribs  of  Nahma, 
And  from  peril  and  from  prison, 
From  the  body  of  the  sturgeon, 
From  the  peril  of  the  water, 
Was  released  my  Hiawatha. 

He  was  standing  near  his  wigwam. 
On  the  margin  of  the  water, 


t£5 


m 


And  he  called  to  old  Nokomis, 
Called  and  beckoned  to  Nokomis, 
Pointed  to  the  sturgeon,  Nahma, 
Lying  lifeless  on  the  pebbles, 
With  the  sea-gulls  feeding  on  him. 

"I  have  slain  the  Mishe-Nahma, 
Slain  the  king  of  fishes  !"  said  he  ; 
"Look!  the  sea-gulls  feed  upon  him, 
Yes,  my  friend  Kayoshk,  the  sea-gulls, 
.Drive  them  not  away,  Nokomis  ; 
They  have  saved  me  from  great  peril 
In  the  body  of  the  sturgeon, 
Wait  until  their  meal  is  ended 
Till  their  craws  are  full  with  ie;     ing, 
Till  they  homeward  lly  at  sunset, 
To  their  nests  among  the  mars' 
Then  bring  all  your  pots  and  kettles, 
And  make  oil  for  us  in  Winter.  " 

And  she  waited  till  the  sunset. 
Till  the  pallid  moon,  the  night-sun, 
Rose  above  the  tranquil  water, 
Till  Kayoshk,  the  sated  sea-gulls, 
From  their  banquet  rose  with  clamour, 
And  across  the  fiery  sunset 
Winged  their  way  to  far-off  islands, 
To  their  nests  among  the  rushes. 

To  his  sleep  went  Hiawatha, 
And  Nokomis  to  her  labour, 
Toiling  patient  in  the  moonlight, 
Till  the  sun  and  moon  changed  places, 
Till  the  sky  was  red  with  sunrise, 
And  Kayoshk,  the  hungry  sea-gulls. 
Came  back  from  the  reedy  islands, 
Clamorous  for  their  morning  banquet. 

Three  whole  days  and  nights  alternate 
Old  Nokomis  and  the  sea-gulls 
Stripped  the  oily  flesh  of  Nahma, 
Till  the  waves  washed  through  the  rib-bonee. 
Till  the  sea-gulls  came  no  longer, 
And  upon  the  sands  lay  nothing 
But  the  skeleton  of  Nahma. 


vfe* 


**^ 


IX. 


HIAWATHA  AND  T1IK   PDA  K  1,-FKATHHR. 


313 


IX. 


HIAWATHA  AND  TOE  PEARL-FEATHER. 

On  the  shores  of  Gitche  Gumee, 
Of  the  shining  Big- Sea- Water, 
Stood  Nokomis,  the  old  woman, 
Pointing  with  her  finger  westward, 
O'er  the  water  pointing  westward, 
To  the  purple  clouds  of  sunset. 

Fiercely  the  red  sun  descending 
Burned  his  way  along  the  heavens, 
Set  the  sky  on  fire  behind  him, 
As  war-parties,  when  retreating, 
Burn  the  prairies  on  their  war-trail ; 
And  the  moon,  the  Night- Sun,  eastward, 
Suddenly  starting  from  his  ambush, 
Followed  fast  those  bloody  footprints, 
Followed  in  that  fiery  war-trail, 
With  its  glare  upon  his  features. 

And  Nokomis,  the  old  woman, 
Pointing  with  her  finger  westward, 
Spake  these  words  to  Hiawatha: 
"  Yonder  dwells  the  great  Pearl-Feather, 
Megissogwon,  the  Magician, 
Manito  of  Wealth  and  Wampum, 
Guarded  by  his  fiery  serpents, 
Guarded  by  the  black  pitch-water. 
You  can  see  his  fiery  serpents, 
The  Kenabeek,  the  great  serpents, 
Coiling,  playing  in  the  water  ; 
You  can  see  the  black  pitch- water 
Stretching  far  away  beyond  them, 
To  the  purple  clouds  of  sunset ! 

"  lie  it  was  who  slew  my  father, 
By  his  wicked  wiles  and  cunning, 
W  hen  he  from  the  moon  descended, 
When  he  came  on  earth  to  seek  me. 
He,  the  mightiest  of  Magicians, 
Sends  the  fever  from  the  marshes, 
Sends  the  pestilential  vapours, 
Sends  the  poisonous  exhalations, 
Sends  the  white  fog  from  the  fen-lands., 


-;M 


%i 


i*~  i 


"itf 


a 


314 


LONOFELI.MV  8    1" 


' 


■ 


Sends  disease  ami  death  among  us! 

"  Take  your  bow,  0  Iliawat!. 
Take  your  arrows,  jasper-headed, 
Take  your  war-club,  Puggawaugun, 

And  your  mittens,  Miujekahwuu, 
And  your  birch-canoe  for  sailing, 
And  the  oil  of  Mishe-Nahma, 
So  to  smear  its  sides,  that  swiftly 
You  may  pass  the  black  pitch-water; 
Slay  this  merciless  magician, 
Save  the  people  from  the  fever 
That  he  breathes  across  the  fen-lands, 
And  avenge  my  father's  murder  !" 

Straightway  then  my  Hiawatha 
Armed  himself  with  all  his  war-gear, 
Launched  his  birch-canoe  for  sailing, 
With  his  palm  its  sides  he  patted, 
Said  with  glee,  "  Oheemaun,  my  darling, 
0  my  Birch-Canoe  !  leap  forward, 
Where  you  see  the  fiery  serpents, 
Where  you  see  the  black  pitch-water  !" 

Forward  leaped  Cheemaun  exulting, 
And  the  noble  Hiawatha 
Sang  his  war-song  wild  and  woful, 
And  above  him  the  war-eagle, 
The  Keneu,  the  great  war-eagle, 
Master  of  all  fowls  with  feathers, 
Screamed  and  hurtled  through  the  heavens 

Soon  he  reached  the  fiery  serpents, 
The  Kenabeek,  the  great  serpents, 
Lying  huge  upon  the  water, 
Sparkling,  rippling  in  the  water, 
Lying  coiled  across  the  passage, 
With  their  blazing  crests  uplifted, 
Breathing  fiery  fogs  and  vapours, 
So  that  none  could  pass  beyond  them. 

But  the  fearless  Hiawatha 
Cried  aloud,  and  spake  in  this  wise  : 
"  Let  me  pass  my  way,  Kenabeek, 
Let  me  go  upon  my  journey  !" 
And  they  answered,  hissing  fiercely, 
With  their  fiery  breath  made  answer: 
"  Back,  go  back  !  0  Shaugodaya  ! 
Back  to  old  Nokomis,  Faint-heart !" 


Then  the  angry  Eliawatha 
Raised  his  mighty  bow  of  ash-tree, 
Seized  his  arrows,  jasper-headed, 
Shot  them  fast  among  the  serpents  ; 

Every  twanging  of  the  bow-string 
Was  a  war-cry  and  a  death-cry, 
Every  whizzing  of  an  arrow 
Was  a  death-song  of  Kenabeek. 
Weltering  in  the  bloody  water, 
Dead  lay  all  the  fiery  serpents, 
And  among  them  Hiawatha 
Harmless  sailed,  and  cried  exulting  : 
"  Onward,  0  Cheemaun,  my  darling  ! 
Onward  to  the  black  pitch-water  !'' 

Then  he  took  the  oil  of  Nahnia, 
And  the  bows  and  sides  anointed, 
Smeared  them  well  with  oil,  that  swiftly 
He  might  pass  the  black  pitch-water. 

All  night  long  he  sailed  upon  it, 
Sailed  upon  that  sluggish  water, 
Covered  with  its  mould  of  ages, 
Black  with  rotting  water-rushes, 
Rank  with  flags  and  leaves  of  lilies, 
Stagnant,  lifeless,  dreary,  dismal, 
Lighted  by  the  shimmering  moonlight, 
And  by  will-o'-the-wisps  illumined, 
Fires  by  ghosts  of  dead  men  kindled, 
In  their  weary  night-encampments. 

All  the  air  was  white  with  moonlight; 
All  the  water  black  with  shadow, 
And  around  him  the  Suggema, 
The  mosquitos,  sang  their  war-song  ; 
And  the  fire-flies,  Wah-wah-taysee, 
Waved  their  torches  to  mislead  him  ; 
And  the  bull-frog,  the  Dahinda, 
Thrust  his  head  into  the  moonlight, 
Fixed  his  yellow  eyes  upon  him, 
Sobbed  and  sank  beneath  the  surface  ; 
And  anon  a  thousand  whistles, 
Answered  over  all  the  fen-lands, 
And  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gan, 
Far  off  on  the  reedy  margin, 
Heralded  the  hero's  coming. 

Westward  thus  fared  Hiawatha. 


rjfiysfe 


316 


■•FELLOW  8  POEMS. 


Toward  the  realm  of  Megissogwon, 
Toward  the  land  of  the  Pearl-Feather, 

Till  the  level  moon  stared  at  him, 
J n  his  face  stared  pale  and  haggard, 
Till  the  sun  was  hot  behind  him, 
Till  it  burned  upon  his  shoulders, 
And  before  him  on  the  upland 
He  could  see  the  shining  wigwam 
Of  the  Manito  of  Wampum, 
Of  the  mightiest  of  Magicians. 

Then  once  more  Cheemaun  he  patted, 
To  his  birch-canoe  said,  "  Onward  !" 
And  it  stirred  in  all  its  fibres, 
And  with  one  great  bound  of  triumph 
Leaped  across  the  water-lilies, 
Leaped  through  tangled  flags  and  rushes, 
And  upon  the  beach  beyond  them 
Dry-shod  landed  Hiawatha. 

Straight  he  took  the  bow  of  ash-tree, 
One  end  on  the  sand  he  rested, 
With  his  knee  he  pressed  the  middle, 
Stretched  the  faithful  bow-string  tighter, 
Took  an  arrow,  jasper-headed, 
Shot  it  at  the  shining  wigwam, 
Sent  it  singing  as  a  herald, 
As  a  bearer  of  his  message, 
Of  his  challenge  loud  and  lofty  . 
"  Come  forth  from  your  lodge,  Pearl-Feather 
Hiawatha  waits  your  coming  !" 

Straightway  from  the  shining  wigwam 
Came  the  mighty  Megissogwon, 
Tall  of  stature,  broad  of  shoulder, 
Dark  and  terrible  in  aspect, 
Clad  from  head  to  foot  in  wampum, 
Armed  with  all  his  warlike  weapons, 
Painted  like  the  sky  of  morning, 
Streaked  with  crimson,  blue,  and  yellow. 
Crested  with  great  eagle  feathers, 
Streaming  upward,  streaming  outward. 

"  Weill  know  you,  Hiawatha  !" 
Cried  he  in  a  voice  of  thunder, 
lu  a  tone  of  loud  derision. 

"  Hasten  back,  0  Shaugodaya  ! 
Hasten  back  among  the  women. 


i  A 


Jjftir^  3*1 


■*£ 


IX. 


HIAWATHA  AND  TUB  PEA  IU-FKATH  BR. 


317 


m~*~ 


Back  to  old  Nokomis,  Faint-heart  ! 

I  will  slay  you  as  you  stand  there, 
As  of  old  I  slew  her  father !" 

But  my  Hiawatha  answered, 
Nothing  daunted,  fearing  nothing: 
•'  Big  words  do  not  smite  like  war-clubs, 
Boastful  breath  is  not  a  bow-string, 
Taunts  are  not  so  sharp  as  arrows, 
Deeds  are  better  things  than  words  are, 
Actions  mightier  than  boastings  !" 

Then  began  the  greatest  battle 
That  the  sun  had  ever  looked  on, 
That  the  war-birds  ever  witnessed. 
All  a  Summer's  day  it  lasted, 
From  the  sunrise  to  the  sunset ; 
For  the  shafts  of  Hiawatha 
Harmless  hit  the  shirt  of  wampum  ; 
Harmless  fell  the  blows  he  dealt  it 
With  his  mittens,  Minjekahwun  ; 
Harmless  fell  the  heavy  war-club, 
It  could  dash  the  rocks  asunder, 
But  it  could  not  break  the  meshes 
Of  that  magic  shirt  of  wampum. 

TiJl  at  sunset  Hiawatha, 
Leaning  on  his  bough  of  ash-tree, 
Wounded,  weary,  and  desponding, 
With  his  mighty  war-club  broken, 
With  his  mittens  torn  and  tattered. 
And  three  useless  arrows  only, 
Paused  to  rest  beneath  a  pine-tree, 
From  whose  branches  trailed  the  mosses. 
And  whose  trunk  was  coated  over 
With  the  Dead-man's  moccason-leather. 
With  the  fungus  white  and  yellow. 

Suddenly  from  the  boughs  above  him 
Sang  the  Mama,  the  woodpecker  : 
''  Aim  your  arrows,  Hiawatha, 
At  the  head  of  Megissogwon, 
Strike  the  tuft  of  hair  upon  it, 
At  their  roots  the  long  black  tresses  ; 
There  alone  can  be  be  wounded  !" 

Winged  with  feathers,  tipped  with  jasper 
Swift  flew  Hiawatha's  arrow. 
Just  a     '  ron,  stooping, 


31b 


L'KI.LOVVa  1'OEMfi. 


jd  a  heavj  stoue  bo  tb 

Full  upon  the  crown  it  .struck  hiiu, 
At  the  roots  of  his 

And  ho  reeled  and  Btaggered  forward, 
Plunging  like  a  wounded  bison, 
Yes,  like  PezhekeCj  the  bison, 
^  hen  the  snow  is  on  the  prairie. 

Swiftei  flew  the  second  arrow, 
In  the  pathway  of  the  other, 
Piercing  deeper  than  the  other, 
Wounding  Borer  than  the  other  ; 
And  the  knees  of  Megissogwon 
Shook  like  windy  reeds  beneath  him, 
Bent  and  trembled  like  the  rusJ 

But  the  third  and  latest  ai  row- 
Swiftest  tlew  and  wounded  sorest, 
And  the  mighty  Megissogwon 
Saw  the  fiery  eyes  of  Pauguk, 
Saw  the  eyes  of  Death  glare  at  him, 
Heard  his  voice  call  to  the  darkness  ; 
At  the  feet  of  Hiawatha 
Lifeless  lay  the  great  Pearl- Feather, 
Lay  the  mightiest  of  Magician*, 

Then  the  grateful  Hiawatha 
(Jailed  the  Mama,  the  woodpecker, 
From  his  perch  among  the  branches 
Of  the  melancholy  pine-tree, 
And,  in  honour  of  his  service, 
Stained  with  blood  the  tuft  of  feathers 
On  the  little  head  of  Mai 
Even  to  this  day  he  wears  it. 
Wears  the  tuft  of  crimson  feathers, 
As  a  symbol  of  his  service. 

Then  he  stripped  the  shirt  of  wampum 
From  the  back  of  M<  on, 

As  a  trophy  of  the  battle, 
As  a  signal  of  his  conquest. 
On  the  shore  he  left  the  body, 
Half  on  land  and  half  ou  water, 
Iu  the  sand  his  feet  were  buried, 
And  his  face  was  in  the  water. 
And  above  him  wheeled  and  clamoureu 
The  Keneu,  the  great  war-eagle, 
Sailing  round  in  narrower  circU 


Hovering  Dearer,  nearer,  nearer. 

From  the  wigwam  Hiawatha 

Bore  tin;  wealth  of  Megissogwon, 

All  his  wealth  of  skins  and  wampum, 

Pure  of  bison  and  of  beaver, 

Furs  of  sable  and  of  ermine, 

Y>  ampum  belts  and  strings  and  pouches, 

Quivers  wrought  with  beads  of  wampum, 

Killed  with  arrows,  silver-headed. 

Homeward  then  he  sailed  exulting, 
Homeward  through  the  black  pitch-water, 
Homeward  through  the  weltering  serpents, 
With  the  trophies  of  the  battle, 
W  ith  a  shout  and  song  of  triumph. 

On  the  shore  stood  old  Nokomis, 
On  the  shore  stood  Chibiabos, 
And  the  very  strong  man,  Kwasind, 
Waiting  for  the  hero's  coming, 
Listening  to  his  song  of  triumph. 
And  the  people  of  the  village 
Welcomed  him  with  songs  and  dances, 
Made  a  joyous  feast,  and  shouted  : 
"  Honour  be  to  Hiawatha  ! 
He  has  slain  the  great  Pearl-Feather, 
Slain  the  mightiest  of  Magicians, 
Him  who  sent  the  fiery  fever, 
Sent  the  white  fog  from  the  fen-lands, 
Sent  disease  and  death  among  us  !" 

Ever  dear  to  Hiawatha 
Was  the  memory  of  Mama  ! 
And  in  token  of  his  friendship, 
As  a  mark  of  his  remembrance, 
He  adorned  and  decked  his  pipe-stem. 
With  the  crimson  tuft  of  feathers. 
With  the  blood-red  crest  of  Mama,. 
But  the  wealth  of  Megissogwon, 
All  the  trophies  of  the  battle, 
He  divided  with  his  people, 
Shared  it  equally  among  them. 


r.<»>.  ,  s  poems. 


X. 

HIAWATHA'S  WOOING. 

unto  the  bow  the  cord  is, 
So  unto  the  man  is  woman, 
Though  she  bends  him,  she  obeys  him, 
Though  she  draws  him,  yet  she  follows, 

Useless  each  without  the  other  !" 
Thus  the  youthful  Hiawatha 
Said  within  himself  and  pondered, 
Much  perplexed  by  various  feelings, 
Listless,  longing,  hoping,  fearing, 
Dreaming  still  of  Minnehaha, 
Of  the  lovely  Laughing  Water, 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs. 

"  Wed  a  maiden  of  your  people," 
Warning,  said  the  old  Nokomis; 
"  Go  not  eastward,  go  not  westward, 
For  a  stranger,  whom  we  know  not ! 
Like  a  fire  upon  the  hearthstone 
Is  a  neighbour's  homely  daughter, 
Like  the  starlight  or  the  moonlight 
Is  the  handsomest  of  strangers  !" 

Tims  dissuading  spake  Nokomis, 
And  my  Hiawatha  answered 
Only  this  :  "  Hear  old  Nokomis, 
Very  pleasant  is  the  firelight, 
But  I  like  the  starlight  better, 
Better  do  I  like  the  moonlight !" 

Gravely  then  said  old  Nokomis 
"Bring  not  here  an  idle  maiden, 
Bring  not  here  a  useless  woman, 
Hands  unskilful,  feet  unwilling ; 
Bring  a  wife  with  nimble  fingers, 
Heart  and  hand  that  move  together, 
Feet  that  run  on  willing  errands  !" 

Smiling  answered  Hiawatha : 
"  In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs 
Lives  the  Arrow-maker's  daughter, 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water, 
Handsomest  of  all  the  women. 
IwTill  bring  her  to  your  wigwam, 
She  shall  run  upon  your  errands, 


TO**" 


1.1 


HIAWATHA  S  WOOI  NO. 


321 


iut  starlight,  moonlight,  firelight, 
ie  sunlight  of  my  people  !" 

Still  dissuading,  said  Nokomis: 
"  Bring  not  to  my  lodge  a  stranger 
Prom  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs  ! 
Very  fierce  are  the  Dacotahs, 
Often  is  there  war  between  us, 
There  are  feuds  yet  unforgotten, 
Wounds  that  ache  ami  still  may  open  !' 

Laughing  answered  Hiawatha  : 
"  For  that  reason,  if  no  other. 
Would  I  wed  the  fair  Daeotah, 
That  our  tribes  might  be  united, 
That  old  feuds  might  be  forgotten, 
And  old  wounds  be  healed  for  ever  !" 

Thus  departed  Hiawatha 
To  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 
To  the  land  of  handsome  women ; 
Striding  over  moor  and  meadow, 
Through  interminable  forests, 
Through  uninterrupted  silence. 

With  his  moccasons  of  magic, 
At  each  stride  a  mile  he  measured ; 
Yet  the  way  seemed  long  before  him, 
And  his  heart  outrun  his  footsteps  ; 
And  he  journeyed  without  resting, 
Till  he  heard  the  cataract's  thunder, 
Heard  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  him  through  the  silence. 
"Pleasant  is  the  sound  !"  he  murmured. 
"Pleasant  is  the  voice  that  calls  me  !'' 

On  the  outskirts  of  the  forest, 
'Twixt  the  shadow  and  the  sunshine, 
Herds  of  fallowr  deer  were  feeding, 
But  they  saw  not  Hiawatha  ; 
To  his  bow  he  whispered,  "  Fail  not !" 
To  his  arrow  whispered,  "Swerve  not !' 
Sent  it  singing  on  its  errand, 
To  the  red  heart  of  the  roebuck  ; 
Threw  the  deer  across  his  shoulder, 
And  sped  forward  without  pausing. 

At  the  doorway  of  his  wigwam 
Sat  tiie  ancient  Arrow-maker, 
In  the  laud  «'f  the  Dacotahs, 


IPS* 


r 


3£2 


m 


i— 


.is. 

Making  arrow-heads  of  jasper, 

Arrow-heads  of  chalcedony. 

At  his  side,  in  all  her  beauty, 

Bat  the  lovely  Minnehaha, 

Fat  his  daughter,  Laughing  Water, 

Plaiting  mats  of  Sags  and  rush 

Of  the  past  the  old  man's  thoughts  wire, 

And  the  maiden's,  of  the  future. 

lie  was  thinking,  as  he  sat  there, 
Of  the  days  when  with  such  arrows 
He  had  struck  the  deer  and  bison, 
On  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow  ; 
Shot  the  wild  goose.  Hying  southward, 
On  the  wing,  the  clamorous  Wawa  ; 
Thinking  of  the  great  war-parties, 
How  they  came  to  buy  tiis  arrows, 
Could  not  right  without  his  arrows. 
Ah,  no  more  such  noble  warriors 
Could  he  found  on  earth  as  they  were  ! 
Now  the  men  were  all  like  women, 
Only  used  their  tongues  for  weapons  ! 

She  was  thinking  of  a  hunter, 
From  another  tribe  and  country, 
Young  and  tall  and  very  handsome, 
Who  one  morning,  in  the  Spring-time, 
Came  to  buy  her  father's  arrows, 
Sat  and  rested  in  the  wigwam, 
Lingered  long  about  the  doorway, 
Looking  back  as  he  departed. 
She  had  heard  her  father  praise  him, 
Praise  his  courage  and  his  wisdom  ; 
Would  he  come  again  for  arrows 
To  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha  i 
On  the  mat  her  hands  lay  idle, 
And  her  eyes  were  very  dreamy. 

Through  their  thoughts  they  heard  a  footstep. 
Heard  a  rustling  in  the  branches, 
And  with  glowing  cheek  and  forehead, 
With  the  deer  upon  his  shoulders, 
Suddenly  from  out  the  woodlands 
Hiawatha  stood  before  them. 

Straight  the  ancient  Arrow-maker 
Looked  up  gravely  from  his  labour, 
Laid  aside  the  unfinished  arrow, 


fe 


<^&m 


*■.  I    '. 


& 


bira  enter  at  the  doorway, 
Saying  as  lie  rose  to  meet  him, 
"  Hiawatha,  yon  are  welcome  .'" 
V:  the  R  et  of  Laughing  Water 

Hiawatha  laid  his  burden, 
Threw  the  red  deer  from  his  shoulders  ; 
And  the  maiden  looked  up  at  him, 
Looked  up  from  her  mat  of  rushes, 
Said  with  gentle  look  and  accent, 
"  You  are  welcome,  Hiawatha  !" 

Very  spacious  was  the  wigwam, 
Made  of  deer-skin  dressed  and  whitened 
With  the  gods  of  the  Daootahs 
Drawn  and  painted  on  its  curtains, 
And  so  tall  the  doorway,  hardly 
Hiawatha  stooped  to  enter, 
Hardly  touched  his  eagle- feathers 
As  he  entered  at  the  doorway. 

Then  uprose  the  Laughing  Water, 
From  the  ground  fair  Minnehaha, 
Laid  aside  her  mat  unfinished, 
Brought  forth  food  and  set  before  theft; 
Water  brought  them  from  the  brooklet. 
Gave  them  food  in  earthen  vessels, 
Gave  them  drink  in  bowls  of  bass-wood, 
Listened  while  the  guest  was  speaking, 
Listened  while  her  father  answered, 
But  nut  once  her  lips  she  opened, 
Not  a  single  word  .she  uttered. 

Yes,  as  in  a  dream  she  listened 
To  the  words  of  Hiawatha, 
As  he  talked  of  old  Nokomis, 
Who  had  nursed  him  in  his  childhood, 
As  he  told  of  his  companions, 
Chibiabos,  the  musician, 
And  the  very  strong  man,  Kwasind, 
And  of  happiness  and  plenty 
In  the  land  of  the  Ojibways, 
In  the  pleasant  land  and  peaceful. 

"  After  many  years  of  warfare, 
Many  years  of  strife  and  bloodshed, 
There  is  peace  between  the  Ojibways 
And  the  tribe  of  the  Daootahs." 
Thus  continued  Hiawatha. 


i*l 


lEW  3 


And  then  added,  ipeaking  slowly, 

u  That  this  peace  may  last  foi  ever, 

And  cur  hands  be  clasped  more  closely, 
And  our  hearts  he  more  united, 
Give  me  as  my  wife  this  maiden, 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water, 
Loveliest  of  Daeotah  women  !" 

And  the  ancient  A; Tow-maker 
Paused  a  moment  ere  he  answered, 
Smoked  a  little  while  1:1  silen. 
Locked  at  Hiawatha  proudly, 
Fondly  looked  at  Laughing  Water, 
And  made  answer  very  gravely  : 
"  Yes,  if  Minnehaha  wishes  ; 
Let  your  heart  speak,  Minnehaha  !" 

And  the  lovely  Laughing  Water 
Seemed  more  lovely  as  .she  stood  there, 
Neither  willing  nor  reluctant, 
As  she  went  to  Hiawatha, 
Softly  took  the  seat  beside  him, 
While  she  said,  and  blushed  to  say  ic, 
"  I  will  follow  you,  my  husband  !" 

This  was  Hiawatha's  wooing  ! 
Thus  it  was  he  won  the  daughter 
Of  the  ancient  Arrow-maker, 
In  the  land  of  the  Daeotahs  ! 

From  the  wigwam  he  departed, 
Leading  with  him  Laughing  Water  ; 
Hand  in  hand  they  went  together, 
Through  the  woodland  and  the  meadow. 
Left  tiie  old  man  standing  lonely 
At  the  doorway  of  his  wigwam. 
Heard  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  them  from  the  distance, 
Crying  to  them  from  afar  off, 
"  Fare  thee  well,  0  Minnehaha  !" 

And  the  ancient  Arrow-maker 
Turned  again  unto  his  labour, 
Sat  down  by  his  sunny  doorway, 
Murmuring  to  himself,  and  saying: 
"  Thus  it  is  our  daughter!  leave  us, 
Those  we  love,  and  those  who  love  us  ! 
Just  when  they  have  'earned  to  help  us, 
When  we  are  old  and  lean  unon  them, 


«.] 


II  TAW  ATM  AS  WOOING. 


325 


Comes  a  youth  with  Haunting  feathers, 
With  ln.s  tluti:  of  reels,  a  stranger 
Wanders  piping  through  the  village, 
Beckons  to  the  fairest,  maiden, 
And  she  follows  where  he  leads  her, 
Leaving  all  things  for  the  stranger  !" 

Pleasant  was  the  journey  homeward, 
Through  interminable  forests, 
Over  meadow,  over  mountain, 
Over  river,  hill,  and  hollow 
Short  it  seemed  to  Hiawatha, 
Though  they  journeyed  very  slowly, 
Though  his  pace  he  checked  and  slackened 
To  the  steps  of  Laughing  Water, 

Over  wide  and  rushing  rivers 
In  his  arms  he  bore  the  maiden  ; 
Light  he  thought  her  as  a  feather, 
As  the  plume  upon  his  head-gear  : 
Cleared  the  tangled  pathway  for  her, 
Bent  aside  the  swaying  branches, 
Made  at  night  a  lodge  of  branches, 
And  a  bed  with  houghs  of  hemlock, 
And  a  fire  before  the  doorway 
With  the  dry  cones  of  the  pine-tree. 

All  the  travelling  winds  went  with  them, 
O'er  the  meadow,  through  the  forest; 
All  the  stars  of  night  looked  at  them, 
Watched  with  sleepless  eyes  their  slumber  j 
From  his  ambush  in  the  oak-tree 
Peeped  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 
Watched  with  eager  eyes  the  lovers ; 
And  the  rabbit,  the  Wabasso, 
Scampered  from  the  path  before  them, 
Peering,  peeping  from  his  burrow, 
Sat  erect  upon  his  haunches, 
Watched  with  curious  eyes  the  lovers. 

Pleasant  was  the  journey  homeward  ! 
All  the  birds  sang  loud  and  sweetly 
Songs  of  happiness  and  heart' s-ease  ; 
Sang  the  blue-bird,  the  Owaissa, 
"  Happy  are  you,  Hiawatha, 
Having  such  a  wife  to  love  you  !" 
Sang  the  Opechee,  the  robin, 
KH*nm  oiwyou.  Laughing  Water. 


r^ 


Having  such  a  noble  husband  I" 

From  the  sky  the  sun  benignant 
Looked  upon  them  through  the  hranetoe, 

kg  to  them,  "  0  my  children, 
sunshine,  hate  ia  Bhad 

Life  is  checkered  shade  and  sunshine, 
Rul(  ,  0  lliav, 

From  the  sky  the  moon  looked  at  them, 
Filial  the  lodge  with  mystic  snlendours, 
Whispered  to  them,  "  0  my  children, 
Day  is  restless,  night  is  quiet, 
Man  imperious,  woman  feeble  ; 

f  is  mine,  although  1  follow  ; 
Rule  by  patience,  Laughing  Water  !" 

Thus  it  was  they  journeyed  homeward  ; 
Thus  it  was  that  Hiawatha 
To  the  lodge  of  old  Nokomifi 
Brought  the  moonlight,  starlight,  tire 
Brought  the  sunshine  of  Ids  people, — 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water, 
lianas  most  of  all  the  women 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 
In  the  Land  of  handsome  women. 


& 


XL 

HIAWATHA'S  WEDDING-FEAST. 

You  shall  hear  how  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
How  the  haodson  .izze 

Dan  [iawatha's  wedding; 

How  the  gentle  Chibia 
He  the  s1  ans. 

Sung  his  songs  of  love  and  longing ; 
How  Iagoo,  the  great  boaster, 
He  the  marvellous  story-teller, 
Told  his  tales  of  strange  adventure, 
That  the  feast  might  be  more 
That  the  time  might  pass  more  gaily, 
Ami  the  -  ntented. 

Sumptuous  was  the  feast  Nokoinia 
■  at  Hiawatl 
Ali  the  :  ade  ofbasB-wood, 

White  and  polished  ?ery  smoothly. 


K- 


I- 


L 


All  the  -;•.•:  ■  .:*  hn  of  IJBOB, 
Bfa  :•:  a-.  -  pafisfaed  rery  s  soothly. 

e  had  sent  through  all  the  Tillage 
Messengers  with  wands  of  will 
'.  ■  '     .-     ■      ,-  -  -    - 
As  a  token  of  the  feasting ; 
A'  :  :..  -  --  .  1: :._'  z  -~:  '     r  -'".::. 
Clad  in  all  their  rkhest  raiment, 
i 

St  \z~  1:  -  —  :i  ::.?•.:  -  -.   :  ar. .     /:.    -._■■:. 
Beautiful  with  beads  and  tassel*. 

And  the  pike,  the  Maskenozha, 

'.2.-Z:.-.  ■'.  :  ;-•:    -:::    -    .15   -:  l.^  . 
Then  on  pemkan  they  feasted, 

r  -.-: ':".  .  "  .f  ■      :  \z:  ~. 

Haunch  of  deer  and  hump  of  bison, 

A      : :.r   -Hi  -;.-:    :' :   r  r.vr: 

!■::  :..c -=  11-  .  ~i:"-i. 

A:.    :   r .  v-.j  1.-- .■■_  .     r      ::eii 
A"  1  :    =  :■.?.:-.:  .  .1.1  !•".£.-_•>. 
Iv--r:  r.::  :l.-r  :':•:<:  '•r:::-  :  .r:   . 
Only  waited  on  the  other?, 

•erred  their  guests  in  alence. 

A:.  .  --.-.-rr.  i'.l  -'.-.-  z--. ■■:■      -;L±L    ■    .1. 

1- :  .     \-   -.  :.-  A  y. •::■:-.  ::'  "~cr, 

11. 1A    -  .r  :.  -  -:  -r  ' : T^  :"  :  ?--:L  _• 

Mixed  with  bark  of  the  red  willow 

A-   .  ~ :_  .  :.t;    ;  .-.:..  .;  .    .-     :  :; k 

Then  she  said,  "  0  Pau-Puk-1 
Dance  for  us  your  merry  danc , 
bi:.  x  the  Becgar  s  Dance  :■:■  please  as, 
7  .i:  -  .-.-  :'r    "     .  .-    e  :      ':  :   -     -. 
That  the  time  may  pass  m 

■ 
Then  the  handsome  Pao-Puk-Keewis, 

He  the  rcerry  mischief-maker, 

'  ■"-    .::..-;■■-     .r  ^^'A  :  :;.:  S:  rm-F   At 
Boat  bb>    _•  :      .-:.  ■--:  ;.--.-:_.'  A.. 


328 


LONOFFU.oW  9    POEMS. 


Iii  the  merry  dance  of  snow-shoep. 
In  the  play  of  quoits  and  hall-play  ; 
Skilled  was  he  in  games  of  hazard, 
In  all  panics  of  skill  and  hazard, 
Pugasaing,  the  Bowl  and  Oounl 
Kuntassoo,  the  Qame  of  Plum-Stones 

Though  the  warriors  called  him  Faint -Heart, 
Called  him  ooward,  Sbattgodaya, 
Idler,  gambler,  Yenadizze, 
Little  heeded  he  their  jesting, 
Little  cared  he  for  their  insults, 
For  the  women  and  the  maidens 
Loved  the  handsome  Pau-Puk-Kcewis. 

He  was  dressed  in  shirt  of  doeskin, 
White  and  soft,  and  fringed  with  ermine, 
All  inwrought  with  beads  of  wampum; 
lie  was  dressed  in  deer-skin  leggings, 
Fringed  with  hedgehog  quills  and  ermine, 
And  in  moccasons  of  buckskin, 
Thick  with  quills  and  beads  embroidered. 
On  his  head  were  plumes  of  swan's  down, 
On  his  heels  were  tails  of  foxes, 
In  one  hand  a  fan  of  feathers, 
And  a  pipe  was  in  the  other. 

Barred  with  streaks  of  red  and  yellow, 
Streaks  of  blue  and  bright  vermilion, 
Shone  the  face  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 
From  his  forehead  fell  his  tresses, 
Smooth,  and  parted  like  a  woman's, 
Shining  bright  witii  oil,  and  plaited, 
Hung  with  braids  of  scented  grasses, 
As  among  the  guests  assembled, 
To  the  sound  of  flutes  and  singing, 
To  the  sound  of  drums  and  voices, 
Rose  the  handsome  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
And  hegan  his  mystic  dances. 

First  he  danced  a  solemn  measure, 
Very  slow  in  step  and  gesture, 
In  and  out  among  the  pine-trees, 
Through  the  shadows  and  the  sunshine 
Treading  softly  like  a  panther. 
Then  more  swiftly  and  still  swifter, 
Whirling,  spinning  round  in  circles. 
Leaping  o'er  the  guests  assembled. 


I 


■BHHBnB 

i 


XI 


BIAWATH  '-  8  WEDDING-FE 


328 


Eddying  round  and  round  the  wigwam, 
Till  the  leaves  went  whirling  with  him, 
Till  the  dust  and  wind  together 
Swept  ni  eddies  round  about  him. 

Then  along  the  sandy  margin 
Of  the  hike,  the  Big-Sea-Water, 
On  he  sped  with  frenzied  gestures, 
Stamped  upon  the  .sand,  and  tossed  it 
Wildly  in  the  air  around  him, 
Till  the  wind  beeame  a  whirlwind, 
Till  the  sand  was  blown  and  sifted 
Like  great  snowdrifts  o'er  the  landscape, 
Heaping  all  the  shores  with  Sand  Dunes 
Sand  Hills  <>f  the  Nagow  Wudjoo  ! 

Thus  the  merry  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Danced  his  Beggar's  Dance  to  please  them; 
And,  returning,  sat  down  laughing 
There  among  the  guests  assembled, 
Sat  and  fanned  himself  serenely 
With  his  fan  of  turkey-feathers. 

Then  they  said  to  Chibiabos, 
To  the  friend  of  Hiawatha, 
To  the  sweetest  of  all  singers, 
To  the  best  of  all  musicians, 
"  Sing  to  us,  0  Chibiabos  ! 
Songs  of  love  and  songs  of  longing, 
That  the  feast  may  be  more  joyous, 
That  the  time  may  pass  more  gaily, 
And  our  guests  be  more  contented  !" 

And  the  gentle  Chibiabos 
Sang  in  accents  sweet  and  tender, 
Sang  in  tones  of  deep  emotion, 
Songs  of  love  and  songs  of  lunging  ; 
Looking  still  at  Hiawatha, 
Looking  at  fair  Laughing  Water, 
Sang  he  softly,  sang  in  this  wise  : 

"  Onaway  !  Awake,  beloved  ! 
Thou  the  wild-flower  of  the  forest ! 
Thou  the  wild-bird  of  the  prairie  ! 
Thou  with  eyes  so  soft  and  fawn-like  ! 

"  If  thou  "iily  lookest  at  me  ! 
I  am  happy,  1  am  happy, 
As  the  lilies  "f  the  prs 
When  they  feel  the  dew  upon  them  ! 


Ul\ 


u_ 


I 
I 


3Ju 


LONGFELLOW  S  POEMS. 


thy  breath  is  as  the  fragrance 

Of  the  wild-flowers  in  the  morning, 
As  their  fragrance  is  at  evening, 

In  the  Moon  when  leaves  are  falling. 

es  not  all  the  hlood  within  rue 

Leap  to  meet  thee,  leap  to  meet  thee, 

springs  to  meet  the  sunshine, 

In  the  Moon  when  nights  are  bright* 

"  Onaway  !  my  heart  sings  to  th» 
Sings  with  joy  when  thou  art  near  me, 
As  the  sighing,  singing  branches 
In  the  pleasant  Moon  of  Strawberri 

"  When  thou  art  not  pleased,  beloved. 
Then  my  heart  is  sad  and  darkened, 
As  the  shining  river  darkens 
When  the  clouds  drop  shadows  on  it ! 

"  When  thou  smilest,  my  beloved, 
Then  my  troubled  heart  is  brightened, 
As  in  sunshine  gleam  the  ripples 
That  the  cold  wind  makes  in  ri\ 

"  Smiles  the  earth,  and  smile  the  waters, 
Smile  the  cloudless  skies  above  us, 
But  I  lose  the  way  of  smiling 
When  thou  art  no  longer  near  me  ! 

"  I  myself,  myself !  behold  me  ! 
Blood  of  my  beating  heart,  behold  me  ! 
O  awake,  awake,  beloved  ! 
Onaway  !  awake,  beloved  !" 

Thus  the  gentle  Chibiabos 
Sang  his  song  of  love  and  longing  ; 
And  Iagoo,  the  great  boaster, 
He  the  marvellous  story-teller, 
He  the  friend  of  old  Nokomis, 
Jealous  of  the  sweet  musician, 
Jealous  of  the  applause  they  gave  him. 
Saw  in  all  the  eyes  around  him, 
Saw  in  all  their  looks  and  gestures, 
That  the  wedding  guests  assembled 
Longed  to  hear  his  pleasant  stories, 
His  immeasurable  falsehoods. 

Very  boastful  was  Iagoo  ; 
Never  heard  he  an  adventure 
But  himself  had  met  a  greater  ; 
Never  any  deed  of  daring 


XL] 


HIAWATHA'S  W  K  I' l>  I  NO-FEAST. 


;;;;j 


But  himself  had  done  a  bolder  ; 

any  marvellous  story 
1  Jul  himself  could  tell  e  stranger. 

Would  you  listen  to  bis  boasting, 
Would  you  only  give  liim  credence, 
No  one  ever  Bhot  an  arrow 
Half  so  far  and  high  as  he  had  ; 
Ever  caught  so  many  fishes, 
Ever  killed  so  many  reindeer, 
Ever  trapped  so  many  beaver  ! 

None  could  run  so  fast  as  he  could, 
None  coidd  di\e  so  deep  as  he  could, 
None  could  swim  so  far  as  he  could  ; 
None  had  made  so  mauy  journeys, 
None  had  seen  so  many  wonders, 

J  lis  wonderful  Iagoo, 
As  this  marvellous  story-teller  ! 

Thus  his  name  became  a  by-word 
And  a  jest  among  the  people  ; 
And  whene'er  a  boastful  hunter 
Praised  his  own  address  too  highly, 
Or  a  warrior,  home  returning, 
Talked  too  much  of  his  achievements, 
All  his  hearers  cried,  "  lagoo  ! 
Here's  lagoo  come  among  us  !" 

lie  it  was  who  carved  the  cradle 
Of  the  little  Hiawatha, 
Carved  its  framework  out  of  linden, 
Boiuid  it  strong  with  reindeer  sinews 
He  it  was  who  taught  him  later 
How  to  make  his  bows  and  arrows, 
How  to  make  the  bows  of  ash-tree, 
And  the  arrows  of  the  oak-tree. 
.So  among  the  guests  assembled 
At  my  Hiawatha's  wedding 
Sat  lagoo,  old  and  ugly, 
Sat  the  marvellous  story-teller. 

And  they  said,  "  0  good  lagoo, 
Tell  us  now  a  tale  of  wonder, 
Tell  us  of  some  Btrange  adventure, 
That  the  toast  may  be  more  joyous. 
That  the  time  may  pass  more  gaily, 
And  our  guests  lie  more  contented  I" 

Ana  lagoo  answered  straightway, 


■ 


L0M0FKLLOW 


"  You  ihall  hear  a  talc  of  wonder, 
You  shall  hear  the  .strange  adventures 
Of  Osseo  the  Magician, 
From  the  Evening  Star  descended." 


XII. 

THE  SON  OF  THE  EVENING  STAR. 

Can  it  be  the  sun  descending 
O'er  the  level  plain  of  water  I 
Or  the  Red  Swan  floating,  Hying, 
Wounded  by  the  magic  arrow, 
Staining  all  the  waves  with  crimson, 
With  the  crimson  of  its  life-blood, 
Filling  all  the  air  with  splendour, 
With  the  splendour  of  its  plumage  ! 

Yes  ;  it  is  the  sun  descending, 
Sinking  down  into  the  water  ; 
All  the  sky  is  stained  with  purple, 
All  the  water  Hushed  with  crimson ! 
No;  it  is  the  Red  Swan  floating. 
Diving  down  beneath  the  water  ; 
To  the  sky  its  wings  are  lifted, 
With  its  blood  the  waves  are  reddened  ! 

Over  it  the  Star  of  Evening 
Melts  and  trembles  through  the  purple, 
Hangs  suspended  in  the  twilight. 
No  ;  it  is  a  bead  of  Wampum 
On  the  robes  of  the  Great  Spirit, 
As  he  passes  through  the  twilight, 
Walks  in  silence  through  the  heavens  ! 

This  with  joy  beheld  EagoO) 
And  he  said  in  haste  :  "  Behold  it ! 
See  the  sacred  Star  of  Evening  ! 
You  shall  hear  a  tale  of  wonder, 
Hear  the  story  of  Osseo, 
Son  of  the  Evening  Star,  Osseo  ! 

"Once,  in  days  no  mere  remembered, 
Ages  nearer  the  beginning, 
When  the  heavens  were  closer  to  us, 
And  the  gods  were  more  familiar, 
In  the  North-land  lived  a  hunter. 


Xll.  I       HIAWATHA.      BON  OF  Tin:  WANDER]  HQ     i'ah 


333 


\\  ltd  ten  young  and  comely  daughters. 
Tall  and  lithe  as  wands  of  willow  ; 
Only  Oweenee,  the  youngest, 

She  the  wilful  and  the  wayward, 
>slie  the  silent,  dreamy  maiden, 
Was  the  fairest  of  the  sista 

"All  these  women  married  warriors, 
Married  brave  and  haughty  husbands  ; 
Only  Oweenee,  the  youngest, 
Laughed  and  flouted  all  her  lovers, 
All  her  young  and  handsome  suitors, 
And  then  married  old  Osseo, 
Old  Osseo,  poor  and  ugly, 
Broken  with  age  and  weak  with  coughing. 
Always  coughing  like  a  squirrel. 

vk  Ah,  but  beautiful  within  him 
Was  the  spirit  of  Osseo, 
From  the  Evening  Star  desceuded, 
Star  of  Evening,  .Star  of  Woman, 
Star  of  tenderness  and  passion! 
All  its  lire  was  in  his  bosom, 
All  its  beauty  in  his  spirit, 
All  its  mystery  in  his  being, 
All  its  splendour  in  his  language I 

"And  her  lovers,  the  rejected, 
Handsome  men  with  belts  of  wampum, 
Handsome  men  with  paint  and  feathers 
Pointed  at  her  in  derision, 
Followed  her  with  jests  and  laughter, 
But  she  said  :  '  I  care  not  for  you, 
Care  not  for  your  belts  of  wampum, 
Care  not  for  your  paint  and  feathers 
Care  not  for  your  jests  and  laughter ; 
I  am  happy  with  Osseo  ! 

"  Once  to  some  great  feast  invited. 
Through  the  damp  and  dusk  of  evening 
Walked  together  the  ten  sisters, 
Walked  together  with  their  husbands  ; 
Slowly  followed  old  Osseo, 
With  fair  Oweenee  beside  him; 
All  the  others  chatted  gaily, 
These  two  only  walked  in  silence. 

u  At  the  western  sky  Osseo 
Gazed  intent,  as  if  imploring, 


- 


yi4 


Often  stopped  and  gazed  imploring 
At  the  trembling  ing, 

At  the  tender  Star  of  Woman  ; 
Ami  they  heard  him  murmur  softly, 
'  Ah,  ihowavn  \    \a  ! 

Pity,  pity  me,  my  lather  I' 

M  '  Listen  !  said  the  eldest  Ester, 
•  Be  is  praying  to  his  father ! 
What  a  pity  that  the  old  man 
Does  not  stumble  in  the  pathway, 
Does  not  break  his  neck  by  falling  !' 
And  they  laughed  till  all  the  forest 
Rang  with  their  unseemly  laughter. 
"On  their  pathway  through  the  woodland 
Lay  an  oak,  by  storms  uprooted, 
Lay  the  great  trunk  of  an  oak-tree, 
Buried  half  in  leaves  and  mosses, 
Mouldering,  crumbling,  huge  and  hollow. 
And  Osseo,  when  he  saw  it, 
Gave  a  shout,  a  cry  of  anguish, 
Leaped  into  its  yawning  cavern, 
At  one  end  went  in  an  old  man, 
Wasted,  wrinkled,  old,  and  ugly  ; 
From  the  other  came  a  young  man, 
Tall  and  straight  and  strong  and  handsome. 

"  Thus  Osseo  was  transfigured, 
Thus  restored  to  youth  and  beauty  ; 
But,  alas  for  good  Osseo, 
And  for  Oweenee,  the  faithful ! 
Strangely,  too,  was  she  transfigured, 

;iiged  into  a  weak  old  woman. 
With  a  staff  she  tottered  onward, 
\\  asted,  wrinkled,  old,  and  ugly  ! 
And  the  sisters  and  their  husbands 
Laughed  until  the  echoing  forest 
Rang  with  their  unseemly  laughter. 

"  But  Osseo  turned  not  from  her, 
Walked  with  slower  step  beside  her, 
Took  her  hand,  as  brown  and  withered 
As  an  oak-leaf  is  in  winter, 
Called  her  sweetheart.  Nenemc 
Soothed  her  with  soft  words  ot  kind:. 
Till  they  reached  the  lodge  of  feasting, 
Till  they  sat  down  in  the  wigwam, 


& 


XII. 


■a. -80S  <  •     : 


- 

All  w 

All  v.  ere  seo. 

•:  he  tasted, 

:     ■ 

%i  heard,  a  whig; 

I 

1 ! 
the  spells  1 
All  *  ids, 

All  t 

•     '    - 

It  has  magic  virtues  in 
U  r  ■  :s./:  :  y 


. 


fc 


- 

: 
1 

-  Osseo  bear-i 

eodec 

t 

•'--.  r  •  ~ 
(;fthelo.  ouaistt 


I  ■   s 


-;." 


LONOFELJ    ■■■ 


i 


Singing  in  the  darksome  forest. 

"  Then  the  lodge  began  to  tremble, 
Straight  began  to  shake  and  tremble, 
Anil  they  felt  it  rising,  rising, 
Slowly  through  the  air  ascending, 
From  the  darkness  of  the  tree-1 
Forth  into  the  dewy  starlight, 
Till  it  passed  the  topmost  branches  ; 
And,  behold  !  the  wooden  dish 
All  were  changed  to  shells  of  scarl 
And,  heboid  !  the  earthen  kettles 
All  were  changed  to  bowls  of  silver! 
And  the  roof-poles  of  the  wigwam 
Were  as  glittering  rods  of  silver, 
And  the  roof  of  bark  upon  them 
As  the  shining  shards  of  beet  I 

"  Then  Osseo  gazed  around  him, 
And  he  saw  the  nine  fair  sisters, 
All  the  sisters  and  their  husbands, 
Changed  to  birds  of  various  plumage. 
Some  were  jays  and  some  were  magpies, 
Others  thrushes,  others  blackbirds  ; 
And  they  hopped,  and  sang,  and  twitten 
Perked  and  fluttered  all  their  feathers, 
Strutted  in  their  shining  plumage, 
And  their  tails  like  fans  unfolded. 

"  Only  Oweenee,  the  youngest, 
Was  not  changed,  but  sat  in  sileiu 
Wasted,  wrinkled,  old  and  ugly, 
Looking  sadly  at  the  others  ; 
Till  Osseo,  gazing  upward, 

6  another  cry  of  anguish, 
Such  a  cry  as  he  had  uttered 
By  the  oak-tree  in  the  forest. 

"  Then  returned  her  youth  and  beauty, 
And  her  soiled  and  tattered  garments 
Were  transformed  to  robes  of  ermine, 
And  her  staff  became  a  feather, 
Yes,  a  shining  silver  feather ! 

"  And  again  the  wigwam  trembled, 
Swayed  and  rushed  through  airy  currents. 
Through  transparent  cloud  and  vapour, 
And  amid  celestial  splendours 
On  the  Evening  Star  alighted. 


1 


-^ 


n  n 


XII.  1 


HIAWATHA.        IOS   OP  THE  EVENING  STAR. 


337 


■■ 


. 


As  a  Bnow-flake  falls  on  mew  Q 
As  a  leaf  drops  on  a  river. 
As  the  thistle  down  on  water. 

"Forth  with  cheerful  words  of  welcome 
Came  the  father  of  Osseo, 
lie  with  radiant  locks  of  silver, 
lie  with  eves  serene  and  tender. 
And  he  said : '  My  son,  Osseo, 
Hang  the  cage  of  birds  you  bring  there, 
Hang  the  cage  with  rods  of  silver, 
And  the  birds  witli  glistening  feathers, 
At  the  doorway  of  my  wigwam.' 

"  At  the  door  he  hung  the  bird-cage, 
And  they  entered  in  and  gladly 
Listened  to  Osseo's  father, 
Ruler  of  the  Star  of  Evening, 
As  he  said : '  0  my  Osseo ! 
1  have  had  compassion  on  you, 
Given  you  hack  your  youth  and  beauty, 
Into  birds  of  various  plumage 
Changed  your  sisters  and  their  husbands  ; 
Changed  them  thus  because  they  mocked  you, 
In  the  figure  of  the  old  man, 
In  that  aspect  sad  and  wrinkled, 
Could  not  see  your  heart  of  passion, 
Could  not  see  your  youth  immortal  ; 
Only  Oweenee,  the  faithful, 
Saw  your  naked  heart  and  loved  you. 

"  '  In  the  lodge  that  glimmers  yonder, 
In  the  little  star  that  twinkles 
Though  the  vapours,  on  the  left  hand, 
Lives  the  envious  Evil  Spirit, 
The  Wabeno,  the  magician, 
W  ho  transformed  you  to  an  old  man. 
Take  heed  lest  his  beams  fall  on  you, 
For  the  rays  he  darts  around  him 
Are  the  power  of  his  enchantment, 
Arc  the  arrows  that  he  uses.' 

"  Many  years,  in  peace  and  quiet, 
On  the  peaceful  Star  of  Eveni 
I) welt;  Osseo  with  his  father  ; 

;n  song  and  flutter, 
At  the  doorway  of  the  wigwam, 
Hung  the  cage  with  rods  of  silver, 


e 


r 


338 


L0NGFEL1."U 


I 


Ami  fail  Oweenee,  the  fait! 

With  the  beauty  of  his  mother, 
With  the  courage  of  his  lather. 

u  And  the  hoy  grew  141  ami  prospered, 
Ami  <  toseo,  to  delight  him, 

Made  him  little  bows  ami  arrows, 
Opened  the  great  cage  of  silver, 

And  let  loose  his  aunts  ami  uncles, 
All  those  birds  with  glossy  leathers, 
Km-  his  little  sun  to  shout  at. 

"  Hound  and  round  they  wheeled  and  darted. 
Filled  the  Evening  Star  with  music, 
With  their  songs  of  joy  and  freedom  ; 
Filled  the  Evening  Star  with  splendour, 
With  the  fluttering  of  their  plumage  ; 
Till  the  boy,  the  little  hunter, 
Bent  his  bow  and  shot  an  arrow, 
Shot  a  swift  and  fatal  arrow, 
And  a  bird  with  shining  feathers 
At  his  feet  fell  wounded  sorely. 

"  But,  0  wondrous  transformation  ! 
'Twas  no  bird  he  saw  before  him, 
'Twas  a  beautiful  young  woman, 
With  the  arrow  in  her  bosom  ! 

"  When  her  blood  fell  on  the  planet, 
On  the  sacred  Star  of  Evening, 
Broken  was  the  spell  of  ma 
Powerless  was  the  strange  enchantment. 
And  the  youth,  the  fearless  bowman, 
Suddenly  felt  himself  descending, 
Held  by  unseen  hands,  but  sinking 
Downward  through  the  empty  spaces, 
Downward  through  the  clouds  and  vapours. 
Till  he  rested  on  an  island, 
On  an  island,  green  and  grassy, 
Yonder  in  the  Big-Sea-Water. 

"  After  him  he  saw  descending 
All  the  birds  with  shining  feathers, 
Fluttering,  falling,  wafted  downward, 
Like  the  painted  leaves  of  autumn ; 
And  the  lodge  with  poles  of  silver, 
With  its  roof  like  wings  of  beetles, 
Like  the  shining  shards  of  beetles, 


- 


■»-  ■■ 


Ml. 


HI  AW  A     II  \.      B  iN  OF  THE  EVEN]  N'G  STAR. 


339 


By  the  winds  of  heaven  uplifted. 

Slowly  sunk  upon  the  island, 
fing  back  the  good  Oi 
in--  Oweent  e,  the  faithful 
I  hen  the  birds,  again  transfigured, 

Reassumed  the  shape  of  mortals, 
Took  their  shape,  but  not  their  stature; 
They  remained  as  Little  People, 
Like  the  pigmies,  the  Puk-Wudjies, 

Ami  on  pleasant  nights  of  Summer, 
When  the  Evening  Star  was  shining, 
Hand  in  hand  they  danced  together, 
On  the  island's  craggy  headlands, 
On  the  sand-beach  low  and  level. 

"  Still  their  glittering  lodge  is  seen  there, 
On  the  tranquil  summer  evenings, 
And  upon  the  shore  the  fisher 
Sometimes  hears  their  happy  voices, 
Sees  them  dancing  in  the  starlight!" 

When  the  story  was  completed, 
When  the  wondrous  tale  was  ended, 
Looking  round  upon  his  listeners, 
Solemnly  Iagoo  added  : 
"  There  are  great  men,  I  have  known  such 
Whom  their  people  understand  not, 
Whom  they  even  make  a  jest  of, 
Scoff  and  jeer  at  in  derision. 
From  the  story  of  Osseo 
Let  them  learn  the  fate  of  jesters  !" 

All  the  wedding  guests  delighted, 
Listened  to  the  marvellous  story, 
Listened  laughing  and  applauding, 
And  they  whispered  to  each  other  : 
''Does  he  mean  himself,  I  wonder  ? 
And  are  we  the  aunts  and  uncles  ? 

Then  again  sang  Chibaibos, 
Sang  a  song  of  love  and  longing, 
In  those  accents  sweet  and  tender, 
In  those  tones  of  pensive  sadness, 
Sang  a  maiden's  lamentation 
For  her  lover,  her  Algonquin. 

"  When  I  think  of  my  beloved, 
Ah  me  !  think  of  my  beloved, 
When  my  heart  is  thinking  of  him 3 


a 


340 


*A 


0  my  sweetheart,  my  tlgonquin] 

when  1  parted  from  him, 
Rouii'l  my  nock  he  hung  the  wampum, 
As  a  pledge,  the  snow-white  wampum 
0  my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  ! 

"  1  will  go  with  you,  be  whispers' 
Ah  me  !  to  your  native  country; 
Let  me  go  with  you,  he  whispered, 
0  my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  ! 

"  Far  away,  away,  1  answeit 
Very   far  away,  I  answered, 
Ah  me  !  is  my  native  country, 
0  my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  ! 

"  When  1  looked  hack  to  behold  him. 
Where  we  parted,  to  behold  him, 
After  me  he  still  was  gazing, 
0  my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  ! 

"  By  the  tree  he  still  was  staudinc. 
By  the  fallen  tree  was  standing. 
That  had  dropped  int*>  the  water, 
0  my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  ! 

"  When  I  think  of  my  beloved, 
Ah  me  !  think  of  my  beloved, 
When  my  heart  is  thinking  of  him, 
0  my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  |r 

Such  was  Hiawatha  s  wedding, 
Such  the  dance  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Such  the  story  of  lagoo, 
Such  the  songs  of  Chihaibos  ; 
Thus  the  wedding  banquet  ended, 
And  the  wedding  guests  departed, 
Leaving  1 1  iawatha  happy 
With  the  night  and  Minnehaha. 


fc 


XIII. 

BLESSING  THE  CORN-FIELDS 

Sing,  0  Song  of  Hiawatha, 

Of  the  happy  days  that  followed. 

In  the  land  of  the  Ojibwa; 

In  the  pleasant  land  and  peaceful ! 

Sing  the  mysteries  of  Mondamin, 

Sing  the  Blessing  of  the  Corn-fields. 


^Itt-LZfeffSL' 


XII 


ril  AWAT1U    HLKSRIN0   THE  CORN    PIKLDS 


341 


4 


Buried  wai  the  bloody  hatchet, 
Buri  he  dreadful  war-club, 

Bmied  were  all  warlike  weapons, 
Ami  the  war-ay  was  forgotten. 
There  was  peace  among  the  nations  j 
Unmolested  rove  the  hunters, 
Built  the  birch-canoe  for  sailing, 
lit  the  fish  in  lake  and  river, 
Shot  the  deer  and  trapped  the  beaver  ; 
Unmolested  worked  the  women, 
Made  their  sugar  from  the  maple, 
Gathered  wild  rice  in  the  meadows, 
Dressed  the  skins  of  deer  and  beaver. 

All  around  the  happy  village 
Stood  the  maize-fields,  green  and  shining, 
Waved  the  green  plumes  of  Mondamin. 
Waved  his  soft  and  sunny  tresses, 
Filling  all  the  land  with  plenty  ; 
'Twaa  the  women  who  in  Spring-time 
Planted  the  broad  fields  and  fruitful. 
Buried  in  the  earth  Mondamin  ; 
'Twas  the  women  who  in  Autumn 
Stripped  the  yellow  husks  of  harvest, 
Stripped  the  garments  from  Mondamin. 
Even  as  Hiawatha  taught  them. 

Once,  when  all  the  maize  was  planted, 
Hiawatha,  wise  and  thoughtful, 
Spake  and  said  to  Minnehaha, 
To  his  wife,  the  Laughing  Water : 
"  You  shall  bless  to-night  the  corn-fields. 
Draw  a  magic  circle  round  them, 
To  protect  them  from  destruction, 
Blasts  of  mildew,  blight  of  insect, 
\\  agemin,  the  thief  of  corn-fields, 
Paimosaid,  who  steals  the  maize-ear ! 

"  In  the  night,  when  all  is  silence, 
In  the  night,  when  all  is  darkness, 
When  the  Spirit  of  Sleep,  Nepahmin, 
Shuts  the  doors  of  all  the  wigwams, 
So  that  not  an  ear  ran  hear  yon, 
So  that  not  an  eye  can  see  you, 
Rise  up  from  your  bed  in  silence. 
Lay  a  ide  your  garments  wholly, 
Walk  around  the  fields  you  planted. 


s&f-C# 


•342 


Uu 


Round  the  borders  of  the  corn-fields, 
Covered  by  your  tresses  only, 
llobed  with  darkness  as  a  garment. 

"  Thus  the  fields  shall  be  more  fruitful, 
And  the  passing  of  your  footsteps 
Draw  a  magic  circle  round  them, 
So  that  neither  blight  nor  mildew, 
Neither  burrowing  worm  nor  insect, 
Shall  pass  o'er  the  magic  circle  ; 
Not  the  dragon-fly,  Kwo-ne-she. 
Nor  the  spider,  Subbekashe, 
Nor  the  grasshopper,  1'au-puk-keena, 
Nor  the  mighty  caterpillar, 
Way-muk-kwana,  with  the  bear-skin, 
King  of  all  the  caterpillars  !" 

On  the  tree-tops,  near  the  corn-fields, 
Sat  the  hungry  crows  and  ravens, 
Kahgahgee,  the  King  of  Ravens, 
With  his  band  of  black  marauders  ; 
And  they  laughed  at  Hiawatha, 
Till  the  tree-tops  shook  with  laughter, 
With  their  melancholy  laughter, 
At  the  words  of  Hiawatha. 
"Hear him  V  said  they  ;  "hear  the  wise  man  ! 
Hear  the  plots  of  Hiawatha  !" 

When  the  noiseless  night  descended 
Broad  and  dark  o'er  field  and  forest, 
When  the  mournful  Wawonau 
Sorrowing  sang  among  the  hemlocks, 
Ami  the  Spirit  of  Sleep,  Nepahwin, 
Shut  the  doors  of  all  the  wigwams, 
From  her  bed  rose  Laughing  Water, 
Laid  aside  her  garments  wholly, 
And  with  darkness  clothed  and  guarded, 
Unashamed  and  unafrrighted, 
Walked  securely  round  the  corn-fields, 
Drew  the  sacred  magic  circle 
Of  her  footprints  round  the  corn-fields. 

No  one  but  the  Midnight  only 
Saw  her  beauty  in  the  darkness, 
No  one  but  the  Wawonaissa 
U  Hard  the  panting  of  her  bosom  ; 
Guskewau,  the  darkness,  wrapped  her 
Closely  in  his  sacred  mantle. 


3 


•i 


XIII. 1  BIAWATHi   BL1  S8IH4   rn; 

i  that  DODO  might  sec  her  beauty, 
that  none  might  boast,  "  I  saw  her 

i  the  morrow,  as  the  day  dawned, 
Kali  .  the  King  of  Ravens, 

Gathered  all  his  black  marauders, 
Crows  and  black-birds,  j  ravens, 

Clamorous  on  the  dusky  tree-tops, 
And  descended,  last  and  tearless, 
On  the  fields  of  Hiawatha, 
On  the  grave  of  the  Mondamin. 

"  We  will  drag  Mondamin,"  said  they, 
"  From  the  grave  where  lie  is  buried, 
Spite  of  all  the  magic  circles 
Laughing  Water  draws  around  it, 
Spite  of  all  the  sacred  footprints 
Minnehaha  stamps  upon  it !" 

But  the  wary  liiawatha, 
Ever  thoughtful,  careful,  watchful, 
Had  o'erheard  the  scornful  laughter 
When  they  mocked  him  from  the  tree-tops, 
"  Kaw !"  he  said,  "  my  friends  the  ravens ! 
Kahgahgee,  my  King  of  Ravens ! 
I  will  teach  you  all  a  lesson 
That  shall  not  be  soon  forgotten  !" 

He  had  risen  before  the  daybreak, 
He  had  spread  o'er  all  the  corn-fields 
Snares  to  catch  the  black  marauders, 
And  was  lying  now  in  ambush 
In  the  neighbouring  grove  of  pine-trees, 
Waiting  for  the  crows  and  blackbirds, 
Waiting  for  the  jays  and  ravens. 

Soon  they  came  with  caw  and  clamour 
Rush  of  wings  and  cry  of  voii 
To  their  work  of  devastation, 
Settling  down  upon  the  corn-fields, 
Delving  dec])  with  beak  and  talon, 
For  the  body  of  Mondamin. 
And  with  all  their  craft  and  cunning, 
All  their  skill  in  wiles  of  warfare, 
They  perceived  no  danger  near  them, 
Till  their  claws  became  entangled, 
Till  they  found  themselves  imprisoned 
In  the  snares  of  Hiawatha. 

Fr<»m  his  place  of  ambush  came  he, 


«     4 


,-    JWMAj.Jfr. 


\M 


ry~\ 


344 


:b'ELLO\\ 


Striding  terrible  among  them, 
And  to  awful  was  his  aspect 
That  the  bravest  quailed  with  terror. 
Without  mercy  he  destroyed  them 
Right  and  left,  by  tens  and  twenties, 
And  their  wretched,  lifeless  bed 
Hnng  aloft  on  poles  for  scarecrows 
Round  the  consecrated  corn-fields, 
As  a  signal  of  his  vengean< 
As  a  warning  to  marauders. 

Only  Kahgahgee,  the  leader, 
Kahgahgee,  the  King  of  Ravens, 
He  alone  was  spared  among  them 
As  a  hostage  for  his  people. 
With  his  prisoner-string  he  bound  hiDL, 
Led  him  captive  to  his  wigwam, 
Tied  him  fast  with  cords  of  elm-ba 
To  the  ridge-pole  of  his  wigwam. 

"  Kahgahgee,  my  raven  !"  said 
"  You  the  leader  of  the  robbers, 
You  the  plotter  of  this  mischief. 
The  contriver  of  this  outrage, 
1  will  keep  yon,  I  will  hold  you, 
As  a  hostage  for  your  people, 
As  a  pledge  of  good  behaviour !" 

And  he  left  him  grim  and  sulky, 
Sitting  in  the  morning  sunshine 
On  the  summit  of  the  wigwam, 
Croaking  fiercely  his  displeasure, 
Flapping  his  great  sable  pinions, 
Vaiidy  struggling  for  his  freedom, 
Vainly  calling  on  his  people ! 

Summer  passed,  and  Shawondasee 
Breathed  his  sighs  o'er  all  the  landscape. 
From  the  South-land  sent  his  ardours, 
Wafted  kisses  warm  and  tender; 
And  the  maize-field  grew  and  ripened, 
Till  it  stood  in  all  the  splendour 
Of  its  garments  green  and  yell 
Of  its  tassels  and  its  plumi 
And  the  maize-ears  full  and  sinning 
Gleamed  from  bursting  sheaths  of  verdure. 

Then  Nokomis,  the  old  woman, 
Spake,  and  said  to  Minnehaha : 


iijlii 


XXII.  ihaw.v  i  ii a  i  i  BLDB. 


345 


■ 


the  Moon  when  leaves  we  falling; 
All  the  wild-rice  has  been  gathered, 

And  the  maize  is  ripe  and  ready  ; 
Let  us  gather  in  the  hat  vest, 
Let  us  wrestle  frith  Mondamin, 
Strip  him  of  his  plumes  and  tassels, 

Of  his  garments  green  and  yellow  !" 

And  the  merry  Laughing  Water 
Went  rejoicing  from  the  wigwam, 
With  Nokomis,  old  and  wrinkled, 
And  they  called  the  women  round  them, 
Called  the  young  men  and  the  maidens, 
To  the  harvest  of  the  corn-fields, 
To  the  husking  of  the  maize-ear. 

On  the  border  of  the  forest, 
Underneath  the  fragrant  pine-trees, 
Sat  the  old  men  and  the  warriors 
Smoking  in  the  pleasant  shadow. 
In  uninterrupted  silence 
Looked  they  at  the  gamesome  labour 
Of  the  young  men  and  the  women ; 
Listened  to  their  noisy  talking, 
To  their  laughter  and  their  singing, 
Ueard  them  chattering  like  the  magpies, 
Heard  them  laughing  like  the  blue-jays, 
Heard  them  singing  like  the  robins. 

And  whene'er  some  lucky  maiden 
Found  a  red  ear  in  the  husking, 
Found  a  maize-ear  red  as  blood  is, 
"Noska  !"  cried  they  all  together, 
"Noska  !  you  shall  have  a  sweetheart, 
You  shall  have  a  handsome  husband  !" 
"  Ugh  !"  the  old  men  all  responded 
From  their  seats  beneath  the  pine-trees. 

And  whene'er  a  youth  or  maiden 
Found  a  crooked  ear  in  husking, 
Found  a  niaize-eai  m  the  husking 
Blighted,  mildewed,  or  misshapen, 
Then  they  laughed  and  sang  together, 
Crept  and  limped  about  the  corn-fieldfc, 
Mimicked  in  their  gait  and  gestures 
Suine  "Id  man,  Lent  almost  double, 
Singing  singly  or  together  : 
"  Wagemin,  the  thief  of  corn-fields  ! 


J46 


i 


LONGFELLOW 

Paimosaid,  the  skulking  robber !" 

Till  the  corn-fields  rang  with  laughter, 
Till  from  Hiawath  rom 

Kahgahgee,  the  King  of  Ravens, 
Screamed  and  quivered  in  Ids  angq 
And  from  all  the  neighbouring  tree 
Cawed  and  croaked  the  black  marauders. 

"  Ugh  !"  the  old  men  all  responded 
From  their  seats  beneath  the  pine-trees. 


XIV. 

PICTURE-WRITING 

In  those  days  said  Hiawatha, 

11  Lo  !  how  all  things  fade  and  perish  ! 

From  the  memory  of  the  old  men 

Fade  away  the  great  traditions, 

The  achievements  of  the  warriors, 

The  adventures  of  the  hunters, 

All  the  wisdom  of  the  Medas, 

All  the  craft  of  the  Wabenos, 

All  the  marvellous  dreams  and  visions 

Of  the  Jos8akeeds,  the  Prophets  ! 

"  Great  men  die  and  are  forgotten, 
Wise  men  speak  ;  their  words  of  wisdom 
Perish  in  the  ears  that  hear  them. 
Do  not  reach  the  generations 
That,  as  yet  unborn,  are  waiting 
In  the  great,  mysterious  darkness 
Of  the  speechless  days  that  shall  be  ! 

"  On  the  grave-posts  of  our  fathers 
Are  no  signs,  no  figures  painted  ; 
Who  are  in  those  graves  we  know  not, 
Only  know  they  are  our  fathers. 
Of  what  kith  they  are  and  kindred, 
From  what  old,  ancestral  Totem, 
Be  it  Eagle,  Bear,  or  Beaver, 
They  descended,  this  we  know  not, 
Only  know  they  are  our  fathers. 

"Face  to  face  we  speak  together, 
But  we  cannot  speak  when  absent, 
Cannot  send  our  voices  from  us 
To  the  friends  that  dwell  afar  off; 


JL 


1 


YIN 


i 


HIAWATHA.      PIOTUBB  \vi;i  I  LNO. 

,i  secret  message) 
But  t lie  bearer  learns  our  secret, 
May  pervert  it,  may  betray  it, 

May  reveal  it  unto  oth( 

Thus  said  Hiawatha  walking 
In  the  solitary  forest, 

Pondering,  musing,  in  the  forest, 
On  the  welfare  of  his  people. 

From  his  pouch  he  took  his  colours, 
Took  his  paints  uf  different  colours, 

On  the  smooth  hark  of  a  hirch-tree 
Painted  many  shapes  and  figures, 
Wonderful  and  mystic  figures, 
And  each  figure  had  a  meaning, 
Each  some  word  or  thought  suggested. 

Gitche  Manito  tiie  .Mighty, 
He,  the  Master  of  Life,  was  painted 
As  an  egg,  with  [joints  projecting 
To  the  four  winds  of  the  heavens. 
Everywhere  is  the  Great  Spirit, 
Was  the  meaning  of  this  symbol. 

Mitche  Manito  the  Mighty, 
lie  the  dreadful  Spirit  of  Evil, 
As  a  seq)ent  was  depicted, 
As  Kenabeek,  the  great  serpent 
Very  crafty,  very  cunning, 
Is  the  creeping  Spirit  of  Evil, 
Was  the  meaning  of  this  symbol. 

Life  and  death  he  drew  as  circles, 
Life  was  white,  but  death  was  darkened  , 
Sun  and  moon  and  stars  he  painted, 
Man  and  beast,  and  fish  and  reptile, 
Forests,  mountains,  lakes,  and  river. 

For  the  earth  he  drew  a  straight  line, 
For  the  sky  a  bow  above  it ; 
White  the  space  between  fur  day-time, 
Filled  with  little  stars  for  night-time  ; 
On  the  left  a  point  for  sunrise, 
On  the  right  a  point  for  sunset, 
On  the  top  a  point  for  noon-tide, 
And  for  rain  and  cloudy  weather 
Waving  lines  descending  from  it. 

Footprints  pointing  towards  a  wigv 


347 


148 


LONQPELLOWR    POEMS. 


Were  a  sign  of  guests  assembling  ; 
Bloody  hands  with  palms  uplifted 
Were  a  symbol  of  destruction, 

Were  a  host  and  symbol. 

All  these  things  did  Hiawatha 
Show  unto  his  wondering  people, 
And  interpreted  their  meaning, 
And  he  said  :  "  Behold,  your  grave -posts 
Have  no  mark,  no  sign,  nor  symbol. 
Go  and  paint  them  all  with  figures  ; 
Each  one  with  its  household  symbol, 
With  its  own  ancestral  Totem  ; 
So  that  those  who  follow  after 
May  distinguish  them  and  know  them.,; 

And  they  painted  on  the  grave-posts 
Of  the  graves  yet  unforgotteu, 
Each  his  own  ancestral  Totem, 
Each  the  symbol  of  his  household  ; 
Figures  of  the  Bear  and  Reindeer, 
Of  the  Turtle,  Crane,  and  Beaver, 
Each  inverted  as  a  token 
That  the  owner  was  deputed. 
That  the  chief  who  bore  the  symbol 
Lay  beneath  in  dust  and  ashes. 

And  the  Jossakeeds,  the  Prophets, 
The  Wabenos,  the  Magicians, 
And  the  Medicine-men,  the  Medas, 
Painted  upon  bark  and  deer-skin 
Figures  for  the  songs  they  chanted, 
For  each  song  a  separate  symbol, 
Figures  mystical  and  awful, 
Figures  strange  and  brightly  coloured  ; 
And  each  figure  had  its  meaning. 
Each  some  magic  song  suggested. 

The  Great  Spirit,  the  Creator, 
Flashing  light  through  all  the  heaven 
The  Great  Serpent,  the  Kenabeek. 
With  Ins  bloody  crest  erected. 
Creeping,  looking  into  heaven; 
In  the  sky  the  sun,  that  listens, 
And  the  moon  eclipsed  and  dyi] 
Owl  and  eagle,  crane  and  hen  hawk, 
And  the  cormorant,  bird  of  magic ; 
Headless  men  that  walk  the  heavens 


fl 


w? 


■■■ 


IIV.] 


HI  \w.vril  \.      PIOTUBB-WEITINO. 


349 


Bodies  lying  pierced  with  arrows, 

Bl ly  hands  of  deal  h  uplifted, 

Flags  »>n  graveB  and  great  war-captains 
Qrasping  b<>th  the  earth  and  heaven! 

Such  as  these  the  shapes  they  painted 
On  the  birch-bark  and  the  deer-skin; 
Songs  of  war  and  songs  of  hunting, 
Songs  "I"  medicine  and  of  magic, 
All  were  written  in  these  figures, 
For  each  figure  had  its  meaning, 
Each  its  separate  song  recorded. 

Nor  forgotten  was  the  Love-Song, 
The  most  subtle  of  all  medicines, 
The  most  potent  spoil  of  magic, 
Dangerous  more  than  "war  or  hunting 
Thus  the  Love-Song  was  recorded, 
Symbol  and.  interpretation. 

First  a  human  figure  standing, 
Painted  in  the  brightest  scarlet ; 
'Tis  the  lover,  the  musician, 
And  the  meaning  is,  "  My  painting 
Makes  me  powerful  over  others." 

Then  the  figure  seated,  singing, 
Playing  on  a  drum  of  magic, 
Aud  the  interpretation,  "  Listen  ! 
'Tis  my  voice  you  hear,  my  singing 

Then  the  same  red  figure  seated 
In  the  shelter  of  a  wigwam, 
And  the  meaning  of  the  symbol, 
"  I  will  come  and  sit  beside  you 
In  the  mystery  of  my  passion  !" 

Then  two  figures,  man  and  woman 
Standing  hand  in  hand  together, 
With  their  hands  so  clasped  together 
That  they  seem  in  one  united, 
And  the  words  thus  represented 
Are,  "  1  see  your  heart  within  you, 
And  your  cheeks  are  red  with  blushes  I1 

Next  the  maiden,  on  an  island, 
In  the  centre  of  an  island  ; 
And  the  pong  this  shape  suggested 
Was,  "  Though  you  were  at  a  distance, 
Were  upon  some  far-off  island. 
Such  the  spell  1  east  upon  you. 


i'! 


360 


Now   -  r    . 


Such  the  magic  | 

I  oould  straightway  draw  you  to  me !" 

Then  the  figure  of  the  maiden 
ling,  and  the  lover  near  her, 
Whispering  to  her  in  her  slum! 
Saying,  "  Though  you  were  far  from  me 
In  the  land  of  Sleep  and  Silence, 
Still  the  voice  of  love  would  reach  you 

And  the  last  of  all  the  figures 
Was  a  heart  within  a  circle, 
Drawn  within  a  magic  circle ; 
And  the  image  had  this  meaning  : 
'•  Nuked  lies  your  heart  before  me, 
To  your  naked  heart  I  whisper!" 

Thus  it  was  that  Hiawatha, 
In  his  wisdom,  taught  the  people 
All  the  mysteries  of  painting, 
All  the  art  of  Picture-Writing, 
On  the  smooth  bark  of  the  birch-tree 
On  the  white  skin  of  the  reindeer, 
On  the  grave-posts  of  the  village. 


<£ 


■ 


zMy 


XV. 

HIAWATHA'S  LAMENTATION 

In  those  days  the  Evil  Spirits, 
All  the  Manitos  of  mischief, 
Fearing  Hiawatha's  wisdom, 
And  his  love  for  Chibiabos, 
Jealous  of  their  faithful  friendship, 
And  their  noble  words  and  action.-. 
Made  at  length  a  league  against  them. 
To  molest  them  and  destroy  them. 

Hiawatha,  wise  and  wary, 
Often  said  to  Chibiabos, 
"  0  my  brother  !  do  not  leave  me, 
Lest  the  Evil  Spirits  harm  you  !" 
Chibiabos,  young  and  heedless. 
Laughing  shook  his  coal-black  tresses, 
Answered  ever  sweet  and  child-like, 
"  Do  nut  fear  for  me,  0  brother  ! 
Harm  and  evil  come  not  near  me  ! " 

Once  when  Peboan,  the  Win1    . 


XV.  J 


IITAWATIIA  S  LAMENTATION. 


351 


I 


i 


•  I  with  ice  th< 
When  the  mow-flakefl  whirling  downward, 
Hissed  among  the  withered  oak-lea 
Changed  the  pine-tree*  into  wigwams, 

Covered  all  the  earth  with  silence, 
Armed  with  arrows,  shod  with  snow-shoes. 
Heeding  not  his  brother's  warning, 
Fearing  not  the  Evil  Spirits, 

Forth  to  hunt  the  deer  with  antlers 
All  alone  went  Cbibial 

Right  across  the  Big-Sea-Water 
Sprang  with  speed  the  deer  before  him. 
With  the  wind  and  snow  he  followed, 
O'er  the  treacherous  ice  he  followed, 
Wild  with  all  the  fierce  commotion 
And  the  rapture  of  the  hunting. 

But  beneath,  the  Evil  Spirits 
Lay  in  ambush,  waiting  for  him, 
Broke  the  treacherous  ice  beneath  him, 
Dragged  him  downward  to  the  bottom, 
Buried  in  the  sand  his  body. 
Unktahee,  the  god  of  water, 
He  the  god  of  the  Dacotahs, 
Drowned  him  in  the  deep  abysses 
Of  the  lake  of  Gitche  Gumee. 

From  the  headlands  Hiawatha 
Sent  forth  such  a  wail  of  anguish, 
Such  a  fearful  lamentation, 
That  the  bison  paused  to  listen, 
And  the  wolves  howled  from  the  prairies, 
And  the  thunder  in  the  distance 
Woke  and  answered,  "  Balm-wawa  !" 

Then  his  face  with  black  he  painted, 
With  his  robe  his  head  he  covered, 
In  his  wigwam  sat  lamenting, 
Seven  long  weeks  he  sat  lamenting, 
Uttering  still  his  moan  of  sorrow  : 

"  lie  is  dead,  the  sweet  musician  ' 
lie  the  sweetest  of  all  singers  ! 
He  has  gone  from,  ns  for  ever, 
He  lias  moved  a  little  nearer 
To  the  .Master  of  all  music. 
To  the  Master  of  all  singing  ! 
0  my  brother,  Ohibiabos  !" 


* 


uw 


LOW  S  1'OEMS. 


tr5 


And  the  melancholy  lir-trees 

id  their  dark  green  fans  above  him, 

Waved  their  purple  cones  above  him, 

ing  with  liim  to  oonsole  him, 
Mingling  with  his  lamentation 
Their  complaining,  their  lamenting. 

Came  the  Spring,  and  all  the  fori 
Looked  in  vain  for  Chibiab 

t  the  rivulet,  Sebowisha, 
Sighed  the  rushes  in  the  meadow. 

From  the  tree-tops  sang  the  blue-bird, 
Sang  the  blue-bird,  the  Owaissa, 
"  Chibiabos  !  Chibiabos ! 
He  is  dead,  the  sweet  musician  !" 

From  the  wigwam  sang  the  robin, 
Sang  the  Opechee,  the  robin, 
"  Chibiabos  !  Chibiabos  ! 
lie  is  dead,  the  sweetest  singer  I1' 

And  at  night  through  all  the  fori 
Went  the  whip-poor-will  complaining 
Wailing  went  the  Wawonaissa, 
"  Chibiabos  !  Chibiabos  ! 
He  is  dead,  the  sweet  musician  ! 
He  the  sweetest  of  all  singers !" 

Then  the  medicine-men,  the  Hedas. 
The  magicians,  the  Wabenos, 
And  the  Jossakeeds,  the  prophets, 

ie  to  visit  Hiawatha  ; 
Built  a  Sacred  Lodge  beside  him, 
To  appease  him,  to  console  him, 
Walked  in  silent,  grave  procession, 
Bearing  each  a  pouch  of  healing, 

of  beaver,  lynx,  or  otter, 
Filled  with  magic  roots  and  simples, 
Filled  with  very  potent  medicines. 

When  he  heard  their  steps  approaching 
Hiawatha  ceased  lamenting, 
Called  no  more  on  Chibiabos  : 
Naught  he  questioned,  naught  heanswered. 
But  his  mournful  head  uncovered. 
From  his  face  the  mourning  colours 
Washed  he  slowly  and  in  silence, 
Slowly  and  in  silence  followed 
Onward  to  the  Sacred  Wigs 


w 


HIAWATHA  s  LAMENTATION. 


353 


1 

< 

i 

i 


There  a  magic  drink  they  gave  him, 

.Made  of  Nahiiia-wusk,  the  Bpeaimint, 
And  Wabeno-wusk,  the  yarrow, 
Roots  of  power  and  herlis  of  healing ; 
Heat  their  drums  and  Bhook  their  rattles 
Chanted  singly  and  in  chorus, 
Mysti  'ike  these,  they  chanted  : 

••  I  myself,  myself!  behold  mel 
'Tis  the  great  Gray  Eagle  talk;: 
Come,  ye  white  crows,  come  and  hear  him  ! 
The  loud-speaking  thunder  helps  me  ; 
All  the  unseen  spirits  help  me  ; 
I  can  hear  their  voices  calling, 
All  around  the  sky  I  hear  them  ! 
I  can  hlow  you  strong,  my  brother, 
I  can  heal  you,  Hiawatha  !" 

"  Hi-au-ha  !"  replied  the  chorus, 
"  Way-ha-way  !"  the  mystic  chorus. 

riends  cf  mine  are  all  the  serpents, 
Hear  me  shake  my  skin  of  hen-hawk  ! 
Mahng,  the  white  loon,  I  can  kill  him  ; 
I  can  shoot  your  heart  and  kill  it ! 
I  can  blow  you  strong,  my  brother, 
I  can  heal  you,  Hiawatha  !" 

"  Hi-au-ha  !"  replied  the  chorus, 
"  Way-ha-way  !"  the  mystic  chorus. 

"  I  myself,  myself !  the  prophet ! 
When  I  speak  the  wigwam  trembles, 
Shakes  the  Sacred  Lodge  with  terror, 
Hands  unseen  begin  to  shake  it ! 
When  I  walk,  the  sky  I  tread  on 
Bends  and  makes  a  noise  beneath  me  ! 
I  can  blow  you  strong,  my  brother  ! 
Rise  and  speak,  0  Hiawatha  !;' 

"  Hi-au-ha  I"  replied  the  chorus, 
"  Way-ha-way  !"  the  mystic  chorus. 

Then  they  shook  their  medicine-pouchei 
O'er  the  head  of  Hiawatha, 
Danced  their  medicine-dance  around  him  ; 
And  upstarting  wild  and  haggard, 
Like  a  man  from  dreams  awakened, 
He  was  healed  of  all  his  madness. 
As  the  clouds  are  swept  from  heavi 
Straightway  from  hi.-  brain  depu 


■ 


354 


r^ 


All  his  moody  melancholy  ; 
As  the  ice  is  swept  from  rivers, 

aightway  from  his  heart  departed 
All  his  sorrow  and  affliction. 

Then  they  summoned  Chibiab 
From  his  grave  beneath  the  waters, 
From  the  sands  of  Citche  Cumee 
Summoned  Hiawatha's  brother. 
And  BO  mighty  was  the  magic 
Of  that  cry  and  invocation, 
That  he  heard  it  as  he  lay  there 
Underneath  the  Big-Sea-Water  ; 
From  the  sand  he  rose  and  listened, 
Heard  the  music  and  the  aingil 
Came,  ohedient  to  the  summons, 
To  the  doorway  of  the  wigwam, 
But  to  enter  they  forbade  him. 

Through  a  chink  a  coal  they  gave  him. 
Through  the  door  a  burning  iire-hrand  ; 
Ruler  in  the  Land  of  Spirits, 
Ruler  o'er  the  dead,  they  made  him, 
Telling  him  a  fire  to  kindle 
For  all  those  who  died  thereafter, — 
Camp-fires  for  their  night  encampments 
On  their  solitary  journey 
To  the  kingdom  of  Ponemah, 
To  the  land  of  the  Hereafter, 

From  the  village  of  his  childhood, 
From  the  homes  of  those  who  knew  hit'!, 

ing  silent  through  the  forest, 
Like  asmoke-wreath  wafted  sideways, 
Slowly  vanished  Chibiabos ! 
Where  he  passed  the  branches  moved  not. 
Where  he  trod  the  grasses  bent  not, 
And  the  fallen  leaves  of  last  year 
Made  no  sound  beneath  his  footsteps. 

Four  whole  days  he  journeyed  onward 
Down  the  pathway  of  the  dead  men  ; 
On  the  dead  man's  strawberry  feasted, 
Crossed  the  melancholy  river, 
On  the  swinging  log  he  crossed  it, 
Came  unto  the  Lake  of  Silver, 
In  the  Stone  Canoe  was  carried 
To  the  islands  of  the  Blessed, 


% 


HIAWATHA.      .    .1     ii  I 


3M 


ki 


To  the  land  of  ghosts  and  Bhadom 
On  thai  journey,  moving  slowly, 

.Many  weary  spirits  saw  he, 

Panting  under  heavy  burdens, 

Laden  with  war-clubs,  hows  and  arrows, 

Robes  of  fur,  and  pots  and  kettles, 

And  with  food  that  friends  had  given 

For  that  solitary  journey. 
"  Ah!  why  do  the  living/'  said  they, 

"  Lay  such  heavy  burdens  on  us  ! 

Better  were  it  to  go  naked, 

Better  were  it  to  go  fasting, 

Than  to  bear  such  heavy  burdens 

On  om-  long  and  weary  journey  ! 
Forth  then  issued  Hiawatha, 

Wandered  eastward,  wandered  westward. 

Teaching  men  the  use  of  simples 

And  the  antidotes  for  poisons, 

And  the  cure  of  all  diseases  ; 

Thus  was  first  made  known  to  mortals 

All  the  mystery  of  Medamin, 

All  the  sacred  art  of  healing. 


XVI. 

PAU-P0K-KEEWIS. 

You  shall  hear  how  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
He,  the  handsome  Yenadizze, 
Whom  the  people  called  the  Storm-FooL 
Vexed  the  village  with  disturbance  ; 
Von  shall  hear  of  all  his  mischief, 
And  his  flight  from  Hiawatha, 
And  his  wondrous  transmigrations, 
And  the  end  of  his  adventures. 

On  the  shores  of  Gitche  Gumcc, 
On  the  dunes  of  Nagow  Wudjoo, 
By  the  shining  Big-Sea-Water 
Stood  the  lodge  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

a  he  who  in  his  frenzy 
Whirled  these  drifting  sands  together. 
On  the  dunes  of  Nagow  Wudjoo, 
When,  among  the  guests  assembled, 
11^  so  merrih  and  madlv 


35fl 


LONGFELLOW  S   P 


Danced  at  Hiawatha's  wedding, 
Danced  the  B  Danced  please  them. 

ii  of  new  ;ul. 

From  his  lodge  went  Pau-Puk-Keewia, 
Came  with  sped  into  the  villa 

Found  the  young  men  all  assembled 
In  the  l<»di;e  of  old  la;. 

rung  to  his  monstrous  stories 
To  his  wonderful  adventun 

He  was  telling  them  the  story 
Of  Ojeeg,  the  Summer-maker, 
How  he  made  a  hole  in  heaven, 
How  he  climbed  up  into  heaven, 
And  let  out  the  Summer-weather, 
The  perpetual,  pleasant  Summer; 
How  the  Otter  first  essayed  it ; 
How  the  Beaver,  Lynx,  and  Badger, 
Tried  in  turn  the  ureat  achievement, 
From  the  summit  of  the  mountain 
Smote  their  lists  against  the  heavens, 
Smote  against  the  sky  their  foreheads, 
Cracked  the  sky,  hut  could  not  break  it  : 
How  the  Wolverine,  uprising, 
Made  him  ready  for  the  encounter, 
Bent  his  knees  down,  like  a  squirrel, 
Drew  his  arms  back,  like  a  cricket. 

"  Once  he  leaped,"  said  old  Iagoo, 
"  Once  he  leaped,  and  lo  !  above  him 
Bent  the  sky,  as  ice  in  rivers 
When  the  waters  rise  beneath  it ; 

Twice  he  leaped,  and  lo  !  above  him 

Cracked  the  sky,  as  ice  in  rivers 

When  the  freshet  is  at  highest  ! 

Thrice  he  leaped,  and  lo  !  above  him 

Broke  the  shattered  sky  asunder, 

And  he  disappeared  within  it, 

And  Ojeeg,  the  Fisher  Weasel, 

With  a  hound  went  in  behind  him  •" 
"Hark  you  !"  shouted  Pau-Puk-Keewis 

As  he  entered  at  the  doorway  ; 

"  I  am  tired  of  all  this  talking. 

Tired  of  old  lagoo's  stories, 

Tired  of  Hiawatha's  wisdom. 

Here  Is  something  to  amuse  you 


i 


XVI1  Hiawatha.      PAU-PUK-K1BWI8. 

Better  than  this  endless  talkii 
Then  from  out  his  pouch  of  wolf-skin 
bh  he  drew,  with  solemn  manner, 

All  the  gan  miters, 

Pu{  .  with  thirteen  piec 

White  on  one  side  were  they  painted, 
Aiul  vermilion  on  the  other; 
Two  Kenabeeks  or  great  serpents, 
Two  Ininewug  or  wedge-men, 
One  great  war-club,  Pugamaugun, 
And  cue  slender  fish,  the  Keego, 
Four  round  pieces,  Ozawabeeks, 
And  three  Sheshebwug  or  ducklings. 
All  were  made  of  bone  and  painted, 
All  except  the  Ozawabeeks  ; 
These  were  brass,  on  one  side  burnished, 
And  were  black  upon  the  other. 

In  a  wooden  bowl  lie  placed  them, 
Shook  and  jostled  them  together, 
Threw  them  on  the  ground  before  him, 
Thus  exclaiming  and  explaining : 
"  Red  side  up  are  all  the  pieces, 
And  one  great  Eenabeek  standing 
On  the  bright  side  of  a  brass  piece, 
On  a  burnished  Ozawabeek  ; 
Thirteen  tens  and  eight  are  counted." 

Then  again  he  shook  the  pieces, 
Shook  and  jostled  them  together, 
Threw  them  on  the  ground  before  him, 
Still  exclaiming  and  explaining  : 
"  White  are  both  the  great  Kenabeeks. 
White  the  Ininewug,  the  wedge-men, 
Red  are  all  the  other  pieces  ; 
Five  tens  and  an  eight  are  counted." 

Thus  he  taught  the  game  of  hazard, 
Thus  displayed  it  and  explained  it, 
Running  through  its  various  chances. 
Various  changes,  various  meanings  . 
Twenty  curious  eyes  stared  at  him, 
Full  of  eagerness  stared  at  him. 

"  Man)  . '  said  old  Iagoo, 

■  Many    amea  of  skill  and  hazard 
Have  J  seen  in  different  nations, 
Have  I  piayel  in  diff 


367 


358 

'< 

1 

j 

LONQFELLOW  8  I'oKMS. 


He  who  plays  with  old  lagoo 
Must  have  very  tumble  fingers  ; 

Though  you  think  yourself  so  skilful, 
1  can  heat  you,  Pau-Puk-keewis, 
1  can  even  give  ions 

in  your  game  of  Bowl  and  Counters !" 

So  they  sat  and  played  together, 
All  the  old  men  and  the  young  men, 
Played  for  dresses,  weapons,  wampum, 
Played  till  midnight,  played  till  morning 
Played  until  the  Venadi/.ze, 
Till  the  cunning  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Of  their  treasures  had  despoiled  them, 
Of  the  best  of  all  their  dresses, 
Shirts  of  deer-skin,  robes  of  ermine, 
Belts  of  wampum,  crests  of  feathers, 
Warlike  weapons,  pipes,  and  pouches. 
Twenty  eyes  glared  wildly  at  him, 
Like  the  eyes  of  wolves  glared  at  him. 

Said  the  lucky  Pau-Puk-Keewis ; 
"  In  my  wigwam  I  am  lonely, 
In  my  wanderings  and  adventures 
I  have  need  of  a  companion, 
Fain  would  have  a  Meshinauwa, 
An  attendant  and  pipe-bearer. 
I  will  venture  all  these  winnin     . 
All  these  garments  heaped  about  me, 
All  this  wampum,  all  these  feathers. 
On  a  single  throw  will  venture 
All  against  the  young  man  yonder  !" 
'Twas  a  youth  of  sixteen  summers, 
T was  a  nephew  of  lagoo — 
Face-in-a-mist,  the  people  called  him. 

As  the  fire  burns  in  a  pipe-head 
Dusky  red  beneath  the  ashes, 
So  beneath  his  shaggy  eyebrows 
Glowed  the  eyes  of  old  lagoo. 
"  Ugh  !"  lie  answered  very  fiercely  ! 
"  Ugh  !"  they  answered  all  and  each  one 

Seized  the  wooden  bowl  the  old  man, 
Closely  in  his  bony  ringers 
Clutched  the  fatal  bowl,  Onagon, 
Shook  it  fiercely  and  with  fury. 
Made  the  pieces  ring  together 


'  n 


XVI.  ] 


HMWATMA.       I'M"  BWIfi. 


35P 


As  he  threw  them  down  before  him. 

Red  were  both  the  great  Kinabeeks, 
Red  the  [ninewug,  the  wedge-men, 
Red  the  Sheshebwug,  the  ducklii 
Black  the  four  brass  Ozawabeeks, 
White  alone  the  fish,  the  Keego  ; 
<  mly  live  the  pieces  counted  ! 

Then  the  smiling  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Shook  the  bowl  and  threw  the  pieces; 
Lightly  in  the  air  he  tossed  them, 
And  they  fell  about  him  scattered  ; 
Dark  and  bright  the  Ozawabeeks, 
Red  and  white  the  other  pieces, 
And  upright  among  the  others 
One  Ininewug  was  standing, 
Even  as  crafty  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Stood  alone  among  the  players, 
Saying,  "  Five  tens  !  mine  the  game  is  !" 

Twenty  eyes  glared  at  him  fiercely, 
Like  the  eyes  of  wolves  glared  at  him, 
As  he  turned  and  left  the  wigwam, 
Followed  by  his  Meshinauwa, 
By  the  nephew  of  Iagoo, 
By  the  tall  and  graceful  stripling, 
Bearing  in  his  arms  the  winnings, 
Shirts  of  deer-skin,  robes  of  ermine, 
Belts  of  wampum,  pipes,  and  weapons. 

"Carry  them,"  said  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 
Pointing  with  his  fan  of  feathers, 
"  To  my  wigwam  far  to  eastward, 
On  the  dunes  of  Nagow  Wudjoo  !" 

Hot  and  red  with  smoke  and  gambling 
\Yere  the  eyes  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
As  he  came  forth  to  the  freshness 
Of  the  pleasant  Summer  morning. 
All  the  birds  were  singing  gaily, 
All  the  streamlets  flowing  swiftly. 
And  the  heart  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Sang  with  pleasure  as  the  birds  sing, 
Beat  with  triumph  like  the  streamlets, 
As  he  wandered  through  the  village, 
In  the  early  gray  of  tnorni 
With  his  fan  of  turkey  feathers, 
With  h;<  plumes  and  tufts  of  swan 


It 


Till  lie  reached  the  farthest  wigwam, 
Reached  the  lodge  of  Hiawatha. 

Silent  was  it  and  deserted  ; 
No  one  met  him  at  the  doorway, 

ne  came  to  bid  him  welcome; 
But  the  birds  were  singing  round  it, 
In  and  out  and  round  the  doorway, 
Bopping,  singing,  fluttering,  feeding, 
And  aloft  upon  the  ridge-pole 
Kahgahgee,  the  King  of  Ravens, 
Sat  with  fiery  eyes,  and,  scream 
Flapped  his  wings  at  Pau-Puk-Ke< 

"  All  are  gone  !  the  lodge  is  empty  ! 
Thus  it  was  snake  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
In  his  heart  resolving  mischief; 
"Gone  is  wary  Hiawatha, 
Gone  the  silly  Laughing  Water, 
Gone  Nokomis,  the  old  woman, 
And  the  lodge  is  left  unguarded  !" 

By  the  neck  he  seized  the  raven, 
Whirled  it  round  him  like  a  rattle, 
Take  a  medicine-pouch  1)3  shook  it, 
Strangled  Kahgahgee,  the  raven. 
From  the  ridge-pole  of  the  wigwam 
Left  its  lifeless  body  hanging, 
As  an  insult  to  its  master, 
As  a  taunt  to  Hiawatha, 

With  a  stealthy  step  he  entered, 
Round  the  lodge  in  wild  disorder 
Threw  the  household  things  about  him. 
Piled  together  in  confusion 
Bov.j  I  and  earthen  kettles, 

Robes  of  buffalo  and  beaver, 
Skins  of  otter,  lynx,  and  ermine, 
As  an  insult  to  Nokomis, 
As  a  taunt  to  Minnehaha. 

Then  departed  the  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Whistling,  singing  through  the  forest, 
Whistling  gaily  to  the  squirrels, 
Who  from  hollow  boughs  above  him 
Dropped  their  acorn-shells  upon  him. 
Singing  gaily  to  the  wood-birds, 
Who  from  out  the  leafy  darkness 
Answered  with  a  song  as  merry. 


M 


i 


r 
- 


1 


iVU.  I 


1I1AV,  PUK-KEEW18. 


Then  he  climbed  the  rooky  headlands, 
Looking  o'ei  tin:  Gitcne  Gumi 
Perched  himself  upon  their  summit, 
Waiting,  full  of  mirth  and  mischief, 
return  of  Hiawatha. 

Stretched  upon  his  hack  he  lay  there  ; 
Far  below  him  plashed  the  waters, 
Plashed  and  washed  the  dreamy  •waters; 
Far  above  him  swam  the  heavens, 
Swam  the  dizzy,  dreamy  heavens  ; 
Round  him  hovered,  fluttered,  rustled, 
Hiawatha's  mountain  chiekens, 
Flock-wise  swept  and  wheeled  about  him 
Almost  brushed  him  with  their  pinions. 

And  he  killed  them  as  he  lay  there  ; 
Slaughtered  them  by  tens  and  twenties, 
Threw  their  bodies  down  the  headland, 
Threw  them  on  the  beach  below  him, 
Till  at  length  Kayoshk,  the  sea-gull, 
Perched  upon  a  crag  above  them, 
Shouted  :  "  It  is  Pau-Puk-Keewis  ! 
lie  is  slaying  us  by  hundreds  ! 
Send  a  message  to  our  brother, 
Tidings  send  to  Hiawatha  !" 


XVII. 


THE  HUNTING  OF  PAU-PUK-KEEWIS. 

Foll  of  wrath  was  Hiawatha 
When  he  eame  into  the  village, 
Found  the  people  in  confusion, 
Heard  of  all  the  misdemeanours, 
All  the  malice  and  the  mischief, 
Of  the  cunning  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

Hard  his  breath  came  through  his  nostrils, 
Through  his  teeth  he  buzzed  and  muttered 
Words  of  anger  and  resentment, 
Hot  and  humming,  like  a  hornet. 
"  I  will  slay  this  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

■y  this  mischief-maker  !"  said  he. 

Not  so  long  and  wide  the  world  is, 
Not  so  rude  and  rough  the  way  Ls, 


3*2 


LOW  B  POI 


That  my  wrath  shall  not  attain  him, 
That  my  vengeance  shall  n61  reach  I 

Then  in  swift  pursuit  departed 
Hiawatha  and  the  hunters 
On  the  trail  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Through  the  forest,  where  he  passed  it, 
To  the  headlands  where  he  rested  ; 
But  they  found  not  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Only  in  the  trampled  gras 
In  the  whortleberry  hushes, 
Found  the  couch  where  he  had  rested, 
Found  the  impress  of  his  body. 

From  the  lowlands  far  beneath  thi 
i  the  Muskody,  the  meadow, 
Pau-Puk-Keewis,  turning  backward, 
Made  a  gesture  of  defiance, 
Made  a  gesture  of  derision  ; 
And  aluid  cried  Hiawatha, 
From  the  summit  of  the  mountain  : 
"  Not  so  long  and  wide  the  world  is, 
Not  so  rude  and  rough  the  way  is, 
Rut  my  wrath  shall  overtake  you, 
And  my  vengeance  shall  attain  you  !" 

Over  rock  and  over  river, 
Thorough  bush,  and  brake,  and  forest 
Ran  the  cunning  Pau-Puk-Keewis  ; 
Like  an  antelope  he  bounded, 
Till  he  came  unto  a  streamlet 
In  the  middle  of  the  forest, 
To  a  streamlet  still  and  tranquil, 
That  had  overflowed  its  margin, 
To  a  dam  made  by  the  beavers, 
To  a  pond  of  quiet  water, 
\\  here  knee-deep  the  trees  were  standing, 
Where  the  water-lilies  floated, 
Where  the  rushes  waved  and  whispered. 

On  the  dam  stood  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
On  the  dam  of  trunks  and  branches, 
Through  whose  chinks  the  water  spouted. 
O'er  whose  summit  flowed  the  streamlet 
From  the  bottom  rose  a  beaver, 
Looked  with  two  great  eyes  of  wonder, 
Eyes  that  seemed  to  ask  a  question, 
At  the  stranger,  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 


XVII.  i 


HIAWATHA.-  -P  AT    IT  K-KI'KW  IS. 


3<to 


4: 


a- 


Un  the  dam  stood  Pau-Puk-Keevi 
O'er  his  ankles  flowed  the  Btreamletj 
Flowed  the  bright  and  silvery  water  ; 
And  he  spake  unto  the  heaver, 
With  a  smile  he  spake  in  this  wise : 

"  <>  ni_v  friend  Ahmeek,  the  heaver, 
Cool  and  pleasant  is  the  water, 
Let  me  dive  into  the  water, 
Let  me  rest  there  in  your  lodges  ; 
Change  me,  too,  into  a  beaver !" 

Cautiously  replied  the  heaver, 
With  reserve  he  thus  made  answer . 
"  Let  me  first  consult  the  others, 
Let  me  ask  the  other  beavers." 
Down  he  sank  into  the  water, 
Heavily  sank  he,  as  a  stone  sinks, 
Down  among  the  leaves  and  branches, 
Brown  and  matted  at  the  bottom. 

On  the  dam  stood  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
O'er  his  ankles  flowed  the  streamlet, 
Spouted  through  the  chinks  below  him, 
Dashed  upon  the  stones  beneath  him, 
Spread  serene  and  calm  before  him, 
Aud  the  sunshine  and  the  shadows 
Fell  in  flecks  and  gleams  upon  him, 
Fell  in  little  shining  patches, 
Through  the  waving,  rustling  branches 

From  the  bottom  rose  the  beavers, 
Silently  above  the  surface 
Rose  one  head  and  then  anotlter, 
Till  the  pond  seemed  full  of  beavers, 
Full  of  black  and  shining  faces. 

To  the  beavers  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Spake  entreating,  said  in  this  wise  : 
"  Very  pleasant  is  your  dwelling, 
0  my  friends  !  and  safe  from  danger  , 
Can  you  not  with  all  your  cunning, 
All  your  wisdom  and  contrivance, 
Change  me,  too,  into  a  beaver  C 

"  Yes  !"  replied  Ahmeek,  the  beavei, 
lie  the  King  of  all  the  beavers, 
"  Let  yourself  slide  down  among  us, 
Down  into  the  tranquil  water." 

Down  into  th  am  >ng  them 


&fcm& 


/'  h 


364 


LONGFELLOW 


Silently  sank  Pau-Puk-Keewis; 
Black  became  his  shirt  of  deer-skin, 
Black  his  moccasons  and  I 
[na  broad  black  tail  behind  him 
Spread  his  fox-tails  and  his  fringe 
lie  was  changed  into  a  heaver. 

.'.lake  me  large,"  said  Pau-Pnk-Keeww, 
•'  Alake  me  large  and  make  me  larger, 
Larger  than  the  other  beavers." 

"  Yes,"  the  beaverchief  responded, 
"  When  our  lodge  below  you  enter, 
In  our  wigwam  we  will  make  you 
Ten  times  larger  than  the  others." 
Thus  into  the  clear,  brown  water 
Silently  sank  Pau-Puk-Keewis  ; 
Pound  the  bottom  covered  over 
With  the  trunks  of  trees  and  branches, 
Hoards  of  food  against  the  winter, 
Piles  and  heaps  against  the  famine, 
Found  the  lodge  with  arching  doorwaj 
Leading  into  spacious  chambers. 

Here  they  made  him  large  and  Uu 
Made  him  largest  of  the  beavers, 
Ten  times  larger  than  the  others. 
"  You  shall  be  our  ruler,"  said  they  ; 
"  Chief  and  King  of  all  the  beavers." 

But  not  long  had  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Sat  in  state  among  the  beavers, 
When  there  came  a  voice  of  warning 
From  the  watchman  at  his  station 
In  the  water-Hags  and  lilies, 
Saying,  "  Here  is  Hiawatha  ! 
Hiawatha  with  his  hunters!" 

Then  they  heard  a  cry  above  them, 
Heard  a  shouting  and  a  tramping, 
Heard  a  crashing  and  a  rushing, 
And  the  water  round  and  o'er  them 
Sank  and  sucked  away  in  eddies, 
And  they  knew  their  dam  was  broken. 

On  the  lodge's  roof  the  hunters 
Leaped,  and  broke  it  all  asunder  ; 
Streamed  the  sunshine  through  the  crevice. 
Sprang  the  beavert  through  the  doorway, 
Hid  themselves  in  deeper  water. 


XVII. 


HIAWATHA,      PAU-PUK-KBEWla. 


865 


hi  the  channel  of  the  streamlet ; 
But  the  mighty  Pat*  Puk-Keewia 

.  ,d  iii>t  pass  beneal  h  the  doorway,  ; 
He  was  puffed  frith  pride  and  feeding, 
Be  was  swollen  like  a  bladder. 

Through  the  roof  looked  Hiawatha, 
Cried  aloud,  "  0  Pan-Puk-Keewis  ! 
Vain  are  all  your  craft  and  dinning, 
Vain  your  manifold  eEsguises  ! 
Well  I  k now  you,  Pau-Puk-Keewis  !" 

With  their  clubs  they  beat  and  bruised  him, 
Beat  to  death  pour  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Pounded  him  as  maize  is  pounded, 
Till  his  skull  was  crushed  to  pieces. 

Six  tall  hunters,  lithe  and  limber, 
Bore  him  home  on  poles  and  branches, 
Bore  the  body  of  the  beaver ; 
But  the  ghost,  the  Jeebi  in  him, 
Thought  and  felt  as  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Still  lived  on  as  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

And  it  fluttered,  strove,  and  struggled, 
Waving  hither,  waving  thither, 
As  the  curtains  of  a  wigwam 
Struggle  with  their  thongs  of  deer-skin, 
"When  the  wintry  wind  is  blowing  ; 
Till  it  drew  itself  together, 
Till  it  rose  up  from  the  body, 
Till  it  took  the  form  and  features 
Of  the  cunning  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Vanishing  into  the  forest. 

But  the  wary  Hiawatha 
Saw  the  figure  ere  it  vanished, 
Saw  the  form  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Glide  into  the  soft  blue  shadow 
Of  the  pine-trees  of  the  forest, 
Toward  the  squares  of  white  beyond  it, 
Toward  an  opening  in  the  forest, 
Like  a  wind  it  rushed  and  panted, 
Bending  all  the  boughs  before  it, 
And  behind  it,  as  the  rain  conies, 
Came  the  steps  of  Hiawatha. 

To  a  lake  with  many  islands 
Came  the  breathless  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Where  among  the  water-lilies  2  a 


I 


iriti 


.  fELLoW'S  1'OJ 


Pishnekuh,  the  brant,  were  sailing  ; 

Through  the  tufts  of  rushes  floating, 

Steering  through  the  reedy  islai. 
X'i\v  their  broad  Mack  beaks  they  lifted, 
Now  they  plunged  beneath  the  water, 
Now  they  darkened  in  the  shadow, 
Now  they  brightened  in  the  sunshine 

"  Pishnekuh  I"  cried  Pau-Puk-Kei 
•  Pishnekuh  !  my  brothers  !"  said  he, 
"  Change  me  to  a  brant  with  plumage, 
With  a  shining  neck  and  feathers, 
Make  me  large,  and  make  me  larger, 
Ten  times  larger  than  the  others." 

Straightway  to  a  brant  they  changed  him. 
With  two  huge  and  dusky  pinions, 
With  a  bosom  smooth  and  rounded, 
With  a  bill  like  two  great  paddles, 
Made  him  larger  than  the  others, 
Ten  times  larger  than  the  largest, 
J  ust  as,  shouting  from  the  forest, 
On  the  shore  stood  Hiawatha. 

dp  they  rose  with  cry  and  clamour, 
With  a  whirr  and  beat  of  pinions, 
Hose  up  from  the  reedy  islands, 
From  the  water-flags  and  lilies. 
And  they  said  to  Pau-Puk-Keewis  : 
"  In  your  dying,  look  not  downward, 
Take  good  heed,  and  look  not  downward, 
Lest  some  strange  mischance  should  happen 
Lest  some  great  mishap  befall  you  !" 

Fast  ami  far  they  tied  to  northward, 
Fast  and  far  through  mist  and  sunshine. 
Fed  among  the  moors  and  fen-lands, 
Slept  among  the  reeds  and  tushes. 

On  the  morrow  as  they  journeyed, 
Buoyed  and  lifted  by  the  South-wind, 
\Vafted  onward  by  the  South-wind, 
Blowing  fresh  and  strong  behind  them, 
Rose  a  sound  of  human  voices, 
Rose  a  clamour  from  beneath  them, 
From  the  lodges  of  a  village, 
From  the  people  miles  beneath  them- 

For  the  people  of  the  village 
Saw  the  Mock  of  brant  with  wonder. 


in  uyatii.a.     i-.\r  )mk-kt:i:wi« 


m 


i 


Saw  the  wings  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Flapping  far  up  in  the 

Lei  than  i  ray  i  ill  baini 

Pau-Puk-Keewis  heard  the  shouting 

Knew  the  voice  of  Hiawatha, 

Knew  the  outcry  of  Iagoo, 

And,  forgetful  of  the  warnii 

Drew  his  neck  in,  and  looked  downward, 

And  the  wind  that  blew  behind  him 

Caught  his  mighty  fan  of  feathers, 

Sent  him  wheeling,  whirling  downward  ! 

All  in  vain  did  Pau-Puk-KeewL 
Struggle  to  regain  his  balance  ! 
Whirling  round  and  round  and  downward 
lie  beheld  in  turn  the  village 
And  in  turn  the  flock  above  him, 
Saw  the  village  coining  nearer, 
And  the  flock  receding  farther, 
Heard  the  voices  growing  louder, 
Heard  the  shouting  and  the  laughter  ; 
Saw  no  more  the  flock  above  him, 
Only  saw  the  earth  beneath  him  ; 
Dead  out  of  the  empty  heaven, 
Dead  among  the  shouting  people, 
With  a  heavy  sound  and  sullen, 
Fell  the  brant  with  broken  pinions. 

But  his  soul,  his  ghost,  his  shadow  t 
Still  survived  as  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Took  again  the  form  and  features 
Of  the  handsome  Yenadizze. 
And  again  went  rushing  onward, 
Followed  fast  by  Hiawatha, 
(  rying  :  "  Not  so  wide  the  world  is, 
Not  so  long  and  rough  the  way  is, 
But  my  wrath  shall  overtake  you, 
But  my  vengeance  shall  attain  you  !" 

And  so  near  he  came,  so  near  him, 
That  his  hand  was  stretched  to  seize  him, 
Ilis  right  hand  to  seize  and  hold  him, 
When  the  cunning  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Whirled  and  spun  about  in  circles, 
Fanned  the  air  into  a  whirlwind, 
Danced  the  dust  and  leaves  about  him. 
And  amid  the  whh 


SM:?yr 


Sprang  into  a  hollow  oak-ta 
Changed  himself  into  a  serpent, 
Gliding  out  through  root  and  rabbit 

With  his  right  hand  Hiawatha 
be  amain  the  hollow  oak-tree, 
Rent  it  into  shreds  and  splinters, 
Left  it  lying  there  in  fragments. 
But  in  vain  ;  for  Pau-Puk-Keewi  , 
Once  again  in  human  ftgi 
PuU  in  Bight  ran  on  before  him, 
Sped  away  in  gust  and  whirlwind 
On  the  shores  of  Gitche  Gumee, 
Westward  by  the  Big-Sea-Water, 
Came  unto  the  rooky  headlands, 
To  the  Pictured  Rocks  of  sandstone, 
Looking  over  lake  and  landscape. 

And  the  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain, 
He  the  Manito  of  Mountains, 
Opened  wide  his  rocky  doorways, 
Opened  wide  his  deep  abysses, 
Giving  Pau-Puk-Keewis  shelter 
In  his  caverns  dark  and  dreary, 
Bidding  Pau-Puk-Keewis  welcome 
To  his  gloomy  lodge  of  sandstone. 

There  without  stood  Hiawatha, 
Pound  the  doorways  closed  against  him, 
With  his  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 
Smote  great  caverns  in  the  sandstone, 
Cried  aloud  in  tones  of  thunder, 
"  Open  !  1  am  Hiawatha  !" 
But  the  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain 
Opened  not,  and  made  no  answer 
From  the  silent  crags  of  sandstone, 
Prom  the  gloomy  rock  ahysses. 

Then  he  raised  his  hands  to  heaven, 
Called  imploring  on  the  tempest, 
Called  Waywassimo,  the  lightning. 
And  the  thunder,  Annemeekee  ; 
And  they  came  with  night  and  darkness, 
Sweeping  down  the  Big-Sea-Water 
From  the  distant  Thunder  Mountains  ; 
And  the  trembling  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Heard  the  footsteps  of  the  thunder, 
f  the  lightnim 


W\, 


XVir  HIAWATH  v.       "  D    PUK    Ki'iwi    . 

Was  afraid,  and  crouched  and  trembled. 

Then  Waywassimo,  the  lightning, 
Smote  the  doorways  of  the  caverns, 
With  his  war-club  smote  the  doorw; 
Smote  the  jutting  en  ndstona 

And  the  thunder,  Annemeekee, 
Shouted  down  into  the  caverns, 
Saying  "  Where  is  Pau-Puk-Keewis !" 
And  the  crags  fell,  and  beneath  them 
Dead  among  the  rooky  ruins 
Lay  the  cunning  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Lay  the  handsome  Yenadizze, 
Slain  in  his  own  human  figure. 

Ended  were  his  wild  adventures, 
Ended  were  his  tricks  and  gambols, 
Ended  all  his  craft  and  cunning, 
Ended  all  his  mischief-making, 
All  his  gambling  and  his  dancing, 
All  his  wooing  of  the  maidens. 

Then  the  noble  Hiawatha 
Took,  his  soul,  his  ghost,  his  shadow, 
Spake  and  said  :  "  0  Pau-Puk-Keewis  V 
Never  more  in  human  figure 
Shall  you  search  for  new  adventm 
Never  more  with  jest  and  laughter 
Dance  the  dust  and  leaves  in  whirlwinds, 
But  above  there  in  the  heavens 
You  shall  soar  and  sail  in  circles  ; 
I  will  change  you  to  an  eagle, 
To  Keneu,  the  great  War-Eagle, 
Chief  of  all  the  fowls  with  feathers, 
Chief  of  Hiawatha's  chickens." 

And  the  name  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Lingers  still  among  the  people, 
Lingers  still  among  the  singers, 
And  among  the  story-tellers ; 
And  in  Winter,  when  the  Bflow-flalkes 
Whirl  in  eddies  round  the  lodges, 
When  the  wind  in  gusty  tumult 

r  the  smoke-Hue  pipes  and  whistles, 
"There,"  they  cry,  "comes  Pau-Puk-Ke 
Ele  is  dancing  through  the  vill  i 
lie  is  gathering  in  bis  harvest !" 


369 


'. 


.570 


i.oxo  fellow's  poems. 


% 


XVIII. 

THE  DEATH  OF  KWASIND. 

Par  and  wide  among  the  natio 
Spread  the  name  and  fame  of  Kwasind  j 
No  man  dared  to  strive  with  Kwasind, 
No  man  could  compete  with  Kwasind. 
But  the  mischievous  Puk-Wndjies, 
They  the  envious  Little  People, 
They  the  fairies  and  the  pigmies, 
Plotted  and  conspired  against  him. 

"  If  this  hateful  Kwasind,"  said  they, 
"  If  this  great,  outrageous  fellow 
Goes  on  thus  a  little  longer, 
Tearing  everything  he  touches, 
Rending  everything  to  pieces, 
Filling  all  the  world  with  wonder, 
What  becomes  of  the  Puk-Wudjies  I 
Who  will  care  for  the  Puk-Wudjies? 
He  will  tread  us  down  like  mushrooms, 
Drive  us  all  into  the  water, 
Give  our  bodies  to  be  eaten 
By  the  wicked  Nec-ha-naw-baigs, 
By  the  Spirits  of  the  water  !" 

So  the  angry  Little  People 
All  conspired  against  the  Strong  Man, 
All  conspired  to  murder  Kwasind, 
Yes,  to  rid  the  world  of  Kwasind, 
The  audacious,  overbearing, 
Heartless,  haughty,  dangerous  Kwasind. 

Now  this  wondrous  strength  of  Kwasind 
In  his  crown  alone  was  seated  ; 
In  his  crown,  too,  was  his  weakness, 
There  alone  could  he  be  wounded, 
Nowhere  else  could  weapon  pierce  him, 
Nowhere  else  could  weapon  harm  him. 

Even  there  the  only  weapon 
That  could  wound  him,  that  could  slay  him 
Was  the  seed-cone  of  the  pine-tree, 
Was  the  blue  cone  of  the  fir-tree. 
This  was  Kwasind' s  fatal  secret, 
Known  to  no  man  among  mortals  ; 


■**** 


Will.  ]  II!  W\  \  ni  \        DEATH   OF  K\V  IS1  \!>. 


371 


But  the  cunning  Little  People, 
The  Puk-Wudjies,  knew  the  secret, 

Knew  the  only  way  to  kill  him. 

So  they  gathered  cones  together, 
Gathered  seed-cones  of  the  pine-tree, 
Gathered  blue  cones  of  the  fir-tree, 

In  the  woods  by  Taquamenaw, 
Brought  them  to  the  river's  irfargin, 
Heaped  them  in  great  piles  together, 
Where  the  red  rocks  from  the  margin 
Jutting  overhang  the  river. 
There  they  lay  in  wait  for  Kwasind, 
The  malicious  Little  People. 

'Twas  an  afternoon  in  Summer, 
Very  hot  and  still  the  air  was, 
Very  smooth  the  gliding  river, 
Motionless  the  sleeping  shadows, 
Insects  glistened  in  the  sunshine, 
Insects  skated  on  the  water, 
Filled  the  drowsy  air  with  buzzing, 
With  a  far-resounding  war-cry. 

Down  the  river  came  the  Strong  Man. 
In  his  birch-canoe  came  Kwasind, 
Floating  slowly  down  the  current 
Of  the  sluggish  Taquamenaw, 
Very  languid  with  the  weather, 
Very  sleepy  with  the  silence. 

From  the  overhanging  branches, 
From  the  tassels  of  the  birch- trees, 
Soft  the  Spirit  of  Sleep  descended  : 
By  his  airy  hosts  surrounded, 
His  invisible  attendants, 
Came  the  Spirit  of  Sleep,  Nepahwin, 
Like  the  burnished  Dush-kwo-ne-she; 
Like  a  dragon-fly  he  hovered 
O'er  the  drowsy  head  of  Kwasind. 

To  his  ear  there  came  a  murmur 
As  of  waves  upon  a  sea-shore, 
As  of  far-off  tumbling  waters, 

t  winds  among  the  pine-trees. 
And  he  felt  upon  his  forehead 
Blows  of  little  airy  war-clubs. 
Wielded  by  the  slumbrous  legions 
Of  theSpirit  of  Sleep,  Nepahwin, 


J72 


L0NQFEL1 


I 


MP 


As  of. some  our  breathing  on  Kim. 

At  the  first  Mow  of  their  war-elul 
Fell  a  drowsiness  on  Kwasind; 
At  the  Becond  blow  they  SlUOtG  I 
Motionless  his  paddle  rested  ; 
At  the  third,  before  his  vi 
Keeled  the  landscape  into  darkness, 
Very  sound  asleep  was  Kwasind. 

So  he  floated  down  the  river, 
Like  a  blind  man  seated  upright, 
Floated  down  the  Taqnamenaw, 
Underneath  the  trembling  birch-trees, 
Underneath  the  wooded  headlands, 
Underneath  the  war  encampment 
Of  the  pigmies,  the  Puk-Wudjies, 

There  they  stood  all  armed  and  waiting, 
Hurled  the  pine-cones  down  upon  him, 
Struck  him  on  his  brawny  shoulders, 
On  his  crown  defenceless  struck  him. 
"Death  to  Kwasind!"  was  the  sudden 
War-cry  of  the  Little  People. 

And  he  sideways  swayed  and  tumbled, 
Sideways  fell  into  the  river, 
Plunged  beneath  the  sluggish  water 
Headlong,  as  an  otter  plunges  ; 
And  the  birch-canoe,  abandoned, 
Drifted  empty  down  the  river, 
Bottom  upward  swerved  and  drifted  ; 
Nothing  more  was  seen  of  Kwasind. 

But  the  memory  of  the  Strong  Map 
Lingered  long  among  the  people, 
And  whenever  through  the  forest 
Raged  and  roared  the  wintry  tempest, 
And  the  branches,  tossed  ami  troubled, 
Creaked  and  groaned  and  split  asunder, 
"  Kwasind !"  cried  they ;  "  that  is  Kwaaind, 
He  is  gathering  in  his  firewood :,: 


■ 


■ 


XIX 


HIAWATHA.-- THE  GHOSTS. 


373 


'  V     5 

t\l 

it  Vu 


XTX. 

THE  GHOSTS 

Never  stoops  the  soaring  vulture 
On  his  quarry  in  I  lie  desert, 
On  the  sick  oi  wounded  bison* 

lint  another  vulture,  watching 
From  his  high  aerial  look-out, 

the  downward  plunge, and  follows; 

And  a  third  pursues  the  Beoond, 
ConiiiiLC  from  the  invisible  ether, 
First  a  speck,  ami  then  a  vulture, 
Till  the  air  is  dark  with  pinions. 

So  disasters  come  net  singly  ; 
But  as  if  they  watched  and  waited, 
Scanning  one  another's  motions, 
When  the  first  descends,  the  others 
Follow,  follow,  gathering  Hock-wise 
Bound  their  victim,  sick  and  wounded, 
First  a  shadow,  then  a  Borrow, 
Till  the  air  is  dark  with  anguish. 

Now  o'er  all  the  dreary  Northland, 
Mighty  Peboan,  the  Winter, 
Breathing  on  the  lakes  and  rivers, 
Into  stone  had  changed  their  waters 
From  his  hair  he  shook  the  snow-flakes, 
Till  the  plains  were  strewn  with  whiteness. 
One  uninterrupted  level, 
As  if,  stooping,  the  Creator 
With  his  hand  had  smoothed  them  over. 

Through  the  forest,  wide  and  wailing. 
Roamed  the  hunter  on  his  snow-shoes  ; 
In  the  village  worked  the  women. 
Pounded  maize,  or  dressed  the  deerskin  r 
And  the  young  men  plav  her 

On  the  ice  the  noisy  ball-play, 
On  the  plain  the  dance  of  snow-she 

One  dark  evening,  after  sundown, 
In  her  wigwam  Laughing  Water 
Bat  with  old  Nokomis,  waiting 
For  the  steps  of  Hiawatha 
Homeward  from  the  hunt  petumiu 

On  their  faces  gleamed  the  tire-light. 


371 


IF  EL  LOU 


Punting  them  with  streaks  of  crimson j 

In  the  eyes  of  old  Nokomis 
Glimmered  like  the  watery  moonlight, 

In  the  eyes  of  Laughing  Water 
Glistened  like  the  sun  in  water  ; 
And  behind  them  crouched  their  Bhadows 
In  the  corners  of  the  wigwam, 

And  the  smoke  in  wreaths  above  them 
Climbed  and  crowded  through  the  smoke-flue 

Then  the  curtain  of  the  doorway 
From  without  was  slowly  lifted  ; 

Brighter  glowed  the  tire  a  moment, 
And  a  moment  swerved  the  Miioke-wreath, 
As  two  women  entered  softly. 
Passed  the  doorway  uninvited, 
Without  word  of  salutation, 
Without  sign  of  recognition, 
Sat  down  in  the  farthest  corner, 
Crouching  low  among  the  shadows. 

From  their  aspect  and  their  garments, 
Strangers  seemed  they  in  the  village  ; 
Very  pale  and  haggard  were  they. 
As  they  sat  there  sail  and  silent, 
Trembling,  cowering  with  the  shadows. 

Was  it  the  wind  above  the  smoke-flue, 
Muttering  down  into  the  wigwam  j 
Was  it  the  owl,  the  Koko-koho, 
Hooting  from  the  dismal  forest  / 
Sure  a  voice  said  in  the  silence  : 
"  These  are  corpses  clad  in  garments, 
These  are  ghosts  that  come  to  haunt  you. 
From  the  kingdom  of  Ponemah, 
From  the  land  of  Cue  Hereafte 

Homeward  now  came  Hiawatha 
From  his  hunting  in  the  forest. 
With  the  snow  upon  his  tresses, 
And  the  red  deer  on  his  shoulders. 
At  the  feet  of  Laughing  Water 
Down  he  threw  his  lifeless  burden  ; 
Nobler,  handsomer  she  thought  him, 
Than  when  first  he  came  to  woo  her, 
First  threw  down  the  deer  before  her. 
As  a  token  of  his  wishes, 
As  a  promise  of  the  future. 


sIX.  | 


1j 


HIAWATHA.      Tin:  OHO  ITS. 

Then  he  turned  and  Baw  the  strangers, 
ring,  crouching  with  the  shadow 
Said  within  himself,  "  Who  arc  th 

What.  strange  gnests  has  Minnehaha?" 
But  he  questioned  not  the  Btrangers, 

Only  spake  to  bid  them  welcome 

To  his  lodge,  his  food,  his  fireside. 

When  the  evening  meal  was  ready, 

And  the  deer  had  been  divided, 

Both  the  pallid  guests,  the  strangers, 

Springing  from  among  the  shadows, 

Seized  upon  the  choicest  portions, 

Seized  the  white  fat  of  the  roebuck, 

Set  apart  for  Laughing  Water, 

For  the  wife  of  Hiawatha  ; 

Without  asking,  without  thanking, 

Eagerly  devoured  the  morsels, 

Flitted  back  among  the  shadows 

In  the  corner  of  the  wigwam. 

Not  a  word  spake  Hiawatha, 

Not  a  motion  made  Nokomis, 

Not  a  gesture  Laughing  Water  ; 

Not  a  change  came  o'er  their  features ; 

Only  Minnehaha  softly 

Whispered,  saying,  "  They  are  famished  ; 

Let  them  do  what  best  delights  them  ; 

Let  them  eat,  for  they  are  famished." 

Many  a  daylight  dawned  and  darkened 
Many  a  night  shook  off  the  daylight 
As  the  pine  shakes  off  the  snow-tiakes 
From  the  midnight  of  its  branches  ; 
Day  by  day  the  guests  unmoving 
Sat  there  silent  in  the  wigwam  ; 
But  by  night,  in  storm  or  starlight, 
Forth  they  went  into  the  fo 
Bringing  five-wood  to  the  wigwam, 
Bringing  pine-cones  for  the  burning, 
Always  sad  and  always  silent. 

And  whenever  Hiawatha 
Came  from  fishing  or  from  hunting, 
When  the  evening  meal  was  ready, 
And  the  food  had  been  divided, 
Gliding  from  their  darksome  corner, 
Game  the  pallid  gi  ests.  the  strangi 


m 


■ 


876 


. 


ed  upon  the  choio   I  ■         us 
Set  aside  for  Laughing  Watev, 
And  without  rebuke  or  qi  i 
Flitted  hack  among  the  shadows. 

Never  once  had  Hiawatha 
By  a  word  or  look  I  them  ; 

Never  once  had  old  Nokomis 
.Made  a  gesture  of  impatiem 
Never  once  had  Laughing  Wa1 
Shown  resentment  at  the  outrage* 
All  had  they  en  .lured  in  silem 
That  the  rights  of  guest  and  s 
That  the  virtue  of  free-giving, 
By  a  look  might  not  he  lessened, 
By  a  word  might  not  he  broken. 

Once  at  midnight  Hiawatha, 
Ever  wakeful,  ever  watchful, 
In  the  wigwam,  dimly  lighted 
By  the  brands  that  still  were  hurning. 
By  the  glimmering,  flickering  firelight, 
Heard  a  sighing,  oft  repeated. 
Heard  a  sobbing,  as  of  sorrow. 

From  his  couch  rose  Hiawatha, 
From  his  shaggy  hides  of  bison, 
Pushed  aside  the  deer-skin  curtain, 
Saw  the  pallid  guests,  the  shadows, 
Sitting  upright  on  their  couch 
Weeping  in  the  silent  midnight. 

Ami  he  said  :  a  0  guests  !  why  is  it 
That  your  hearts  are  Bo  afflicted, 
That  you  sob  so  in  the  midnight  1 
Has  perchance  the  old  Nokon 
Has  my  wife,  my  Minnehaha, 
Wronged  or  grieved  you  by  unkindness, 
Failed  in  hospitable  duties  ." 

Then  the  shadows  ceased  from  weeping, 
Ceased  from  sobbing  and  lamenting, 
And  they  said,  with  gentle  voic 
"  We  an  j  departed, 

Souls  of  those  who  once  were  with  you. 
From  the  realms  of  Chibiabos 
Hither  have  we  come  to  try  yon, 
Hither  have  we  come  to  wain 

"Cries  of  grief  and  lamentation 


x**vj£. 


>v 


Reach  us  in  bhe  I 

Cries  of  anguish  from  the  living, 
Calling  back  Gheir  friends  departed', 
Sadden  us  with  aa  h  row, 

Therefore  have  we  come  to  try  you  ; 
No  one  knows  us,  no  one  heeds  us, 
We  are  but  a  burden  to  you, 
And  we  see  that  the  departed 
Have  no  place  among  the  living. 

"Think  of  this,  (.)'  Hiawatha  ! 
Speak  of  it  to  all  the  people, 
That  henceforward  and  for  ever 
They  no  more  with  lamentations 
Sadden  the  souls  of  the  departed 
In  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed. 

"Do  not  lay  such  heavy  burdens 
In  the  graves  of  those  you  bury, 
Not  such  weight  of  furs  and  wampum, 
Not  such  weight  of  pots  and  kettles, 
For  the  spirits  faint  beneath  them. 
Only  give  them  food  to  carry, 
Only  give  them  fire  to  light  them. 

"  Four  days  is  the  spirit's  journey 
To  the  land  of  ghosts  and  shadows, 
Four  its  lonely  night  encampments, 
Four  times  must  their  fires  be  lighted. 
Therefore,  when  the  dead  are  buried, 
Let  a  fire,  as  night  approaches, 
Four  times  on  the  grave  be  kindled, 
That  the  soul  upon  its  journey 
May  not  lack  the  cheerful  fire-light, 
May  not  grope  about  in  darkness. 

"  Farewell,  noble  Hiawatha  ! 
\Yc  have  put  you  to  the  trial, 
To  the  proof  have  put  your  patience. 
By  the  insidt  of  our  presence, 
By  the  outrage  of  our  actions. 
We  have  found  y  >u  great  and  noble  ; 
Fail  not  in  the  greater  trial, 
Faint  not  in  the  harder  struggle." 

When  they  ceased,  a  sudden  darkness 
Fell  and  filled  the  silent  wigwam. 
Hiawatha  heard  a  rustle 
As  of  garments  trailing  by  him 


LONGFKI.I.oW 


Ele&rd  the  curtain  of  the  doorway 

Lifted  by  a  hand  he  saw  d 

•he  cold  breath  of  the  uight  ail 
a  moment  saw  the  starlight ; 

But  lie  saw  the  ghosts  no  Longer, 
Saw  no  more  the  wandering  spirits 
From  the  kingdom  of  Ponemah 
From  the  land  of  the  Hereafter 


XX. 

THE  FAMINE. 

0  the  long  and  dreary  whitei  ! 
()  the  cold  and  cruel  winter  ! 
Ever  thicker,  thicker,  thicker 
Froze  the  ice  on  lake  and  river, 
Ever  deeper,  deeper,  deeper, 
Fell  the  snow  o'er  all  the  landscape. 
Fell  the  covering  snow,  and  drifted 
Through  the  forest,  round  the  village. 

Hardly  from  his  buried  wigwam 
Could  the  hunter  force  a  passage  ; 
With  his  mittens  and  his  snow-shoes 
Vainly  walked  he  through  the  forest, 
Sought  for  bird  or  beast  and  found  none. 
Saw  no  track  of  deer  or  rabbit, 
In  the  snow  beheld  no  foot-prints, 
In  the  ghastly,  gleaming  forest 
Fell,  and  could  not  rise  from  weakness, 
Perished  therefrom  cold  and  hunger. 

*  i  the  famine  and  the  fever  ! 
0  the  wasting  of  the  famine  ! 
0  the  blasting  of  the  fever  ! 
O  the  wailing  of  the  children  ! 
O  the  anguish  of  the  women  ! 

All  the  earth  was  sick  and  famished  ; 
Hungry  was  the  air  around  them, 
Hungry  was  the  sky  above  them, 
And  tiic  hungry  stars  in  heaven 
Like  the  eyes  of  wolves  glared  at  them  ! 

Into  Hiawatha's  wigwam 
Came  two  other  guests,  as  silent 
As  the  ghosts  were,  and  as  gloomy, 


XX. 


Hiawatha,      i  in:  FAMINE. 


m 


i 


Waited  not  bo  be  inrij 

Did  qo1  parley  at  the  doorway, 

Sat  there  without  word  of  welcome 

In  the  seat  of  Laughing  Water  ; 
Looked  with  haggard  eyes  and  hollow 
At  the  face  of  Laughing  Water. 

And  the  foremost  said  :  "  Behold  me  ; 
I  am  Famine,  Bukadawin  f 
And  the  other  said  :  "  Behold  me  ! 
I  am  Fever,  Ahkosewin  !" 

And  the  lovely  Minnehaha 
Shuddered  as  they  looked  upon  her, 
Shuddered  at  the  words  they  uttered. 
Lay  down  on  her  bed  in  silence, 
Hid  her  face,  but  made  no  answer  ; 
Lay  there  trembling,  freezing,  burning, 
At  the  looks  they  cast  upon  her, 
At  the  fearful  words  they  uttered. 

Forth  into  the  empty  forest 
Rushed  the  maddened  Hiawatha, 
In  his  heart  was  deadly  sorrow, 
In  his  face  a  stony  firmness  ; 
On  his  brow  the  sweat  of  anguish 
Started,  but  it  froze  and  fell  not. 

Wrapped  in  furs  and  armed  for  hunting, 
With  his  mighty  bow  of  ash-tree, 
With  his  quiver  full  of  arrows, 
With  his  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 
Into  the  vast  and  vacant  forest, 
On  his  snow-shoes  strode  he  forward  : 

"  Gitche  Manito,  the  Mighty  !" 
Cried  he  with  his  face  uplifted 
In  that  bitter  hour  of  anguish, 
"  Give  your  children  food,  0  father  ! 
Give  us  food,  or  we  must  perish  ! 
Give  me  food  for  Minnehaha, 
For  my  dying  Minnehaha  !" 

Through  the  far-resounding  foi 
Through  the  forest  ^ast  and  vacant 
Rang  that  cry  of  desolation, 
But  there  came  no  other  answer 
Than  the  echo  of  his  crying, 
Than  the  echo  of  the  woodlands, 
"Minnehaha  !  Minnehaha  !,: 


380 


LONGFELLOW 


All  day  long  roved  Hiawatha 
In  that  melancholy  forest, 
Through  toe  shadow  of  whose  thicks 

In  the  pleasant  days  of  Summer, 

Of  that  n.  (ten  Summer, 

lie  had  brought  his  young  wife  homev.hrd 

From  the  land  of  the  Dacota] 

When  the  birds  sang  in  the  thicket 

And  the  streamlets  laughed  and  glistened, 

And  the  air  was  full  of  fragrance, 

And  the  lovely  Laughing  Water 

Said  with  voiee  that  did  not  tremble, 

"I  will  follow  you,  my  husband  !" 

In  the  wigwam  with  Nokomis, 
With  those  gloomy  guests,  thai  watched  her.. 
With  the  Famine  and  the  Fever; 
She  was  lying,  the  Beloved, 
She  the  dying  Minnehaha. 

"Hark  !"  she  said.  UI  hear  a  rushing, 
Hear  a  roaring  and  a  rushing, 
Hear  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  nie  from  a  distance  !" 
"No,  my  child  !"  said  old  Nokomis, 
"'Tis  the  night-wind  in  the  pine-trees  !" 

"Look  !"  she  said,  u  1  see  my  father 
Standing  lonely  at  his  doorway, 
Beckoning  to  me  from  his  wigwam 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs  !" 
"No,  my  child  !"  said  old  Nokonn>, 
M  'Tis  the  smoke  that  waves  and  beckons  !" 

"  Ah  !"  she  said,  "  the  eyes  of  Pauguk 
Glare  upon  me  in  the  darkness, 
I  can  feel  his  icy  fingers 
Clasping  mine  amid  the  darkness  ! 
Hiawatha !  Hiawatha !" 

And  the  desolate  Hiawatha, 
Far  away  amid  the  forest, 
Miles  away  among  the  mountains, 
Heard  that  sudden  cry  of  anguish, 
Heard  the  voice  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  him  in  the  darkness, 
"Hiawatha!  Hiawatha  !" 

Over  snow-fields  waste  and  pathless 
Under  snow-encumbered  branches. 


■ 


«.] 


i  u  aw  at  n  a  .  — t  » r  1:  fa  m  i  n  e. 


m 


IK; 

'A 


Homeward  hurried  Hiawatha, 
Empty-handed,  heary-hearted, 
Heard  Nokomis  moaning,  wailing: 

"  Wahonomin !  Wahonomin  ! 
Would  that  1  had  perished  for  you, 

Would  that  I  were  dead  as  you  are ! 
Wahonomin !  Wahonomin !" 

And  he  rushed  into  the  wigwam. 
Saw  the  old  Nokomis  slowly 
Rocking  to  and  fro  and  moaning. 
Saw  his  lovely  Minnehaha 
Lying  dead  and  cold  before  him, 
And  his  bursting  heart  within  him 
Uttered  such  a  cry  of  anguish, 
That  the  forest  moaned  and  shuddered, 
That  the  very  stars  in  heaven 
Shook  and  trembled  with  his  anguish. 

Then  he  sat  down,  still  and  speechless, 
On  the  bed  of  Minnehaha, 
At  the  feet  of  Laughing  Water, 
At  those  willing  feet  that  never 
More  would  lightly  run  to  meet  him, 
Never  more  would  lightly  follow. 

With  both  hands  his  face  he  covered, 
Seven  long  days  and  nights  he  sat  there, 
As  if  in  a  swoon  he  sat  there, 
Speechless,  motionless,  unconscious 
Of  the  daylight  or  the  darkness. 

Then  they  buried  Minnehaha  ; 
h\  the  snow  a  grave  they  made  her, 
In  the  forest  deep  and  darksome, 
Underneath  the  moaning  hemlocks  ; 
Clothed  her  in  her  richest  garments, 
Wrapped  her  in  her  robes  of  ermine. 
Covered  her  with  snow  like  ermine  ; 
Thus  they  buried  Minnehaha. 

And  at  night  a  lire  was  lighted, 
On  her  grave  four  times  was  kindled, 
For  her  soul  upon  its  journey 
To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed. 
From  his  doorway  Hiawatha 
Saw  it  burning  in  the  forest, 
Lighting  up  the  gloomy  hemlocks  ; 
From  his  sleepless  bed  uprising, 


2 


382 


(FELLOW 


From  the  bed  of  Minnehaha, 

1  and  watched  it  at  the  doorway, 
That  it  might  not  he  extinguished, 

Might  not  leave  her  in  the  darkness. 

"  Farewell !"  said  he,  "Minnehaha! 
Farewell,  0  my  Laughing  Water  ! 
All  my  heart  is  buried  with  yon. 
All  my  thoughts  go  onward  with  you! 
Come  not  hack  again  to  labour, 
Come  not  back  again  to  suffer, 
Where  the  Famine  and  the  Ft 
Wear  the  heart  and  waste  the  body 
Soon  my  task  will  be  completed, 
Soon  your  footsteps  I  shall  follow 
To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed, 
To  the  kingdom  of  Ponemah, 
To  the  land  of  the  Hereafter  !" 


XXI. 

THE  WHITE  MAN'S  FOOT. 

In  his  lodge  beside  a  river, 
Close  beside  a  frozen  river, 
Sat  an  old  man,  sad  and  lonely. 
White  his  hair  was  as  a  snow-drift ; 
Dull  and  low  his  fire  was  burning, 
And  the  old  man  shook  and  trembled. 
Folded  in  his  Waubewyoii, 
In  his  tattered  white-skin  wrapper, 
Hearing  nothing  but  the  tempest 
As  it  roared  along  the  forest, 
Seeing  nothing  but  the  snow-storm, 
As  it  whirled  and  hissed  and  drifted. 

All  the  coals  were  white  with  ashes. 
And  the  fire  was  slowly  dying, 
As  a  young  man,  walking  lightly, 
At  the  open  doorway  entered. 
Red  with  blood  of  youth  his  cheeks  were 
Soft  his  eyes,  as  stars  in  Spring-time, 
Bound  his  forehead  was  with  grasses, 
Bound  and  plumed  with  scented  grasses  : 
On  his  lips  a  smile  of  beauty, 


1X1 


HIAWATHA.       Till;    WHITE  MANS  FOOT. 


m 


Filling  all  the  Lodge  with  sunshine, 
In  his  hand  a  bunch  of  blossoms 

Filling  all  the  lodge  with  sweetii 

"  Ah,  my  son  !"  exclaimed  the  old  man 
•'  Happy  are  my  eyes  to  see  you. 
Sit  here  on  the  mat  beside  me, 

Sit  here  by  the  dying  embers, 
Let  ns  pass  the  night  together, 
Tell  me  of  your  strange  adventures, 
Of  the  lands  where  you  have  travelled  ; 
1  will  tell  you  of  my  prowei 
Of  my  many  deeds  of  wonder/' 

From  his  pouch  be  drew  his  peace-pipe, 
Very  old  and  strangely  fashioned  ; 
Made  of  red  stone  was  the  pipe-head, 
And  the  stem  a  reed  with  feathers; 
Filled  the  pipe  with  bark  of  willow, 
Placed  a  burning  coal  upon  it, 
Gave  it  to  his  guest,  the  stranger, 
And  began  to  speak  in  this  wise  : 

"  When  I  blow  my  breath  about  me, 
When  I  breathe  upon  the  landscape, 
Motionless  are  all  the  rivers, 
Hard  as  stone  becomes  the  water  !" 

And  the  young  man  answered,  smiling ; 
"  When  I  blow  my  breath  about  me, 
When  I  breathe  upon  the  landscape, 
Flowers  spring  up  o'er  all  the  meadows, 
Singing,  onward  rush  the  rivers  !" 

"  When  I  shake  my  hoary  tresses," 
S;iid  the  old  man  darkly  frowning, 
"All  the  land  with  snow  is  covered  ; 
All  the  leaves  from  all  the  branches 
Fall  and  fade  and  die  and  wither, 
For  I  breathe,  and.  lo  !  they  are  not. 
From  the  waters  and  the  marshes 
Rise  the  wild  goose  and  the  heron, 
Fly  away  to  distant  regions, 
For  I  speak,  and  lo  !  they  are  not. 
And  where'er  my  footsteps  wander, 
All  the  wild  beasts  of  the  forest 
Hide  themselves  in  holes  and  caverns, 
A.nd  the  earth  becomes  as  fliutstone !" 


384 


A 


W 


m 


*** 


■ 


LONGFELLOW  S  PO] 


Said  the  young  man,  softly  laughing, 

"  Showers  of  rain  fall  warm  and  welcome, 
Plants  lift  up  their  heads  rejoicing, 
Back  unto  their  lakes  and  marshes 
Come  the  wild  goose  and  the  heron, 
Homeward  shoots  the  arrowy  swallow. 
Sing  the  blue-bird  and  the  robin; 
And  where'er  my  footsteps  wander, 
All  the  meadows  wave  with  blossoms, 
All  the  woodlands  ring  with  music, 
All  the  trees  are  dark  with  foliage  !" 

While  they  spake,  the  night  departed  ; 
From  the  distant  realms  of  Wabun, 
From  his  shining  lodge  of  silver, 
Like  a  warrior  robed  and  paint 
Came  the  sun,  and  said,  "  Behold  me  ! 
Gheezis,  the  great  sun,  behold  me  !" 

Then  the  old  man's  tongue  was  speechless 
And  the  air  grew  warm  and  pleasant, 
And  upon  the  wigwam  sweetly 
Sang  the  blue-bird  and  the  robin, 
And  the  stream  began  to  murmur, 
And  a  scent  of  growing  grasses 
Through  the  lodge  was  gently  wafted. 

And  Segwun,  the  youthful  stranger, 
More  distinctly  in  the  daylight 
Saw  the  icy  face  before  him  ; 
It  was  Peboan,  the  Winter  ! 

From  his  eyes  the  tears  were  flowing, 
As  from  melting  lakes  the  streamlets, 
And  his  body  shrunk  and  dwindled 
As  the  shouting  sun  ascended, 
Till  into  the  air  it  faded, 
Till  into  the  ground  it  vanished, 
And  the  young  man  saw  before  him, 
On  the  hearth-stone  of  the  wigwam. 
Where  the  fire  had  smoked  and  smouldered, 
Saw  the  earliest  flower  of  Spring-time, 
Saw  the  beauty  of  the  spring-time, 
Saw  the  Miskodeed  in  blossom, 

Thus  it  was  that  in  the  Northland 
After  that  unheard-of  coldness, 
That  intolerable  Winter, 
Came  the  Spring  with  all  its  splendour, 


9Nk  ,4^^\ 


rx; . 


HIAWATHA        THE  WIIITi;   MAN  S   fOOT. 


:wr» 


9  ■' 


All  its  Mnls  and  nil  its  blossoms, 
All  its  flowers  and  leaves  and  grasses. 

Sailing  on  the  wind  to  northward, 
Flying  in  great  Bocks,  like  arrows, 
Like  huge  arrows  shot  through  heaven, 
Passed  the  swan,  the  Mahnahhezee, 
Speaking  almost  as  a  man  speaks; 
And  in  long  lines  waving,  bending 
Like  a  bow-string  snapped  asunder, 
The  white  goose,  the  Waw-be-wawa; 
And  in  pairs,  or  singly  Hying, 
Mahng  the  loon,  with  clangorous  pinions, 
The  bine  heron,  the  Slmh-shnh-gah, 
And  the  grouse,  the  Mushkodasa. 

In  the  thickets  and  the  meadows 
Piped  the  bine-bird,  the  Owaissa; 
On  the  summit  of  the  lodges 
Sang  the  Opeche,  the  robin; 
In  the  covert  of  the  pine-trees 
Cooed  the  Omemee,  the  pigeon ; 
And  the  sorrowing  Hiawatha, 
Speechless  in  his  infinite  sorrow, 
Heard  their  voices  calling  to  him, 
Went  forth  from  his  gloomy  doorway, 
Stood  and  gazed  into  the  heaven, 
Gazed  upon  the  earth  and  waters. 

From  his  wanderings  far  to  eastward. 
From  the  regions  of  the  morning, 
From  the  shining  land  of  Wabun, 
Homeward  now  returned  Iagoo, 
The  great  traveller,  the  great  boaster, 
Full  of  new  and  strange  adventures, 
Marvels  many  and  many  wonders. 

And  the  people  of  the  village 
Listened  to  him  as  he  told  them 
Of  his  marvellous  adventures, 
Laughing  answered  him  in  this  wise  ; 
"Ugh I  it  is  indeed  Iagoo  ! 
No  one  else  beholds  such  wonders  !" 

He  had  seen,  he  said,  a  water 
er  than  the  Big-Sea- Water, 
ader  than  the  Gitche  Gumee, 
Bitter  so  that  none  could  drink  it  ! 
At  each  other  looked  the  warriors, 


■ 


"^^RBI 


"        "*'BE8PPB 


T^ii 


386 


ri:i.i.M\s  a  poems. 


.4** 


Looked  the  women  at  each  other, 
Smiled,  and  said,  "  It  cannot  he  so  ! 
Kaw  !"  they  said,  "  it  cannot  he  so." 

O'er  it,  said  he,  o'er  this  water 
Came  a  great  canoe  with  pinions, 
A  canoe  with  wings  came  flyin 
er  than  a  grove  of  pine-tn 
Taller  than  the  tallest  tree-to; 
And  the  old  men  and  the  women 
Looked  and  tittered  at  each  other  ; 
"  Kaw,"  they  said,  "  we  don't  helieve  it  !" 

From  its  month,  he  said,  to  greet  him, 
Came  Waywassimo,  the  lightning, 
Came  the  thunder,  Annemeekee  ! 
And  the  warriors  and  the  women 
Laughed  aloud  at  poor  Iagoo; 
"  Kaw  !"  they  said,  "  what  tales  you  tell  lis  !" 

In  it,  said  he,  came  a  people, 
In  the  great  canoe  with  pinions 
Came,  he  said,  a  hundred  warriors  ; 
Painted  white  were  all  their  faces, 
And  with  hair  their  chins  were  covered, 
And  the  warriors  and  the  women 
Laughed  and  shouted  in  derision, 
Like  the  ravens  on  the  tree-tops, 
Like  the  crows  upon  the  hemlock. 
"  Kaw  !"  they  said,  "  what  lies  you  tell  as  1 
Do  not  think  that  we  believe  them  !" 

Only  Hiawatha  laughed  not, 
But  he  gravely  spake  and  answered 
To  their  jeering  and  their  jesting  : 
"  True  is  all  Iagoo  tells  us  ; 
I  have  seen  it  in  a  vision, 
Seen  the  great  canoe  with  pinions, 
Seen  the  people  with  white  faces, 
Seen  the  coining  of  this  bearded 
People  of  the  wooden  vessel 
From  the  regions  of  the  morning, 
From  the  shining  land  of  Wabun. 

"  Gitche  Manito,  the  Mighty, 
The  Great  Spirit,  the  Creator, 
Sends  them  hither  on  his  errand, 
Sends  them  to  us  with  his  message. 
Wheresoe'er  they  move,  before  them 


uf 


■ 


rxn.  I 


III  \\V  \TIIA  S    DKI'AHTUKK. 


•W 


4 


*#    ■      ! 


Swarms  the  stinging  fly,  the  A  (hum, 

Swarms  the  bee,  the  In »iicy-in;i !  ■  r  ; 

Wheresoever  they  tread,  beneath  them 
Springs  a  flower  unknown  among  \\*. 
Springs  the  White-man's  Foot  in  blossom. 

u  Lei  OS  welcome,  then,  the  strangers, 
Hail  them  as  our  friends  and  brothers, 
And  the  heart's  righl  hand  of  Friendship 
Give  them  when  they  come  to  see  us. 
Gitche  Manito,  the  Mighty, 
Slid  this  to  me  in  my  vision. 

"  I  beheld^  too,  in  that  vision 
All  the  secrets  of  the  future, 
Of  the  distant  days  that  shall  he. 
I  beheld  the  westward  marches 
( )f  the  unknown,  crowded  nations. 
All  the  laud  was  full  of  people, 
Restless,  struggling,  toiling,  striving, 
Speaking  many  tongues,  yet  feeling 
But  one  heart-beat  in  their  bosoms. 
In  the  woodlands  rang  their  axes, 
Smoked  their  towns  in  all  the  valleys, 
Over  all  the  lakes  and  rivers 
Rushed  their  great  canoes  of  thunder. 

'•'  Then  a  darker,  drearier  vision 
Passed  before  me,  vague  and  cloud-like  ; 
I  beheld  our  nations  scattered, 
All  forgetful  of  my  counsels, 
Weakened,  warring  with  each  other ; 
Saw  tiie  remnants  of  our  people 
Sweeping  westward,  wild  and  woeful, 
Like  the  cloud-rack  of  a  tempest, 
Like  the  withered  leaves  of  Autumn  !' 


::;.-!i 


XXII. 

HIAWATHA'S  DEPARTURE. 

By  the  shores  of  Gitche  Guniee, 
By  the  shining  Big-Sea- Water, 
At  the  doorway  of  his  wigwam, 
In  the  pleasant  Summer  morning, 
Hiawatha  stood  and  waited. 
All  the  air  was  full  of  freshness. 


!>< 


3i>b 


FELLOW   -   :    >UM! 


All  the  earth  was  bright  and  joyoua, 
And  before  him,  through  the  sunshine, 
Westward  toward  the  neighbouring 
i  in  golden  Bwarma  the  Aiimo, 
i  es,  the  honey-makers, 

Burning,  singing  in  the  sunshine. 

Bright  above  him  Bhone  the  heavens, 
l  spread  the  lake  before  him  ; 
From  its  bosom  leaped  the  sturgeon,, 
Sparkling,  hashing  in  the  sunshine; 
On  its  margin  the  great  forest 
^t<H,d  reflected  in  the  water, 
Every  tree-top  had  its  shadow, 
Motionless  beneath  the  water. 

From  the  brow  of  Hiawatha 
Gone  was  every  trace  of  sorrow. 
As  the  fog  from  off  the  water, 
As  the  mist  from  off  the  meadow, 
With  a  smile  of  joy  and  triumph, 
With  a  look  of  exultation, 
As  of  one  who  in  a  vision 
Sees  what  is  to  be,  but  is  not, 
Stood  and  -waited  Hiawatha. 

Toward  the  sun  his  hands  were  lifted. 
Both  the  palms  spread  out  against  it, 
And  between  the  parted  tin 
Fell  the  sunshine  on  his  features, 
Flecked  with  light  his  naked  shoulders, 
As  it  falls  and  Hecks  an  oak-tree 
Through  the  rifted  leaves  and  branches. 

O'er  the  water  floating,  dying, 
Something  in  the  hazy  distance. 
Something  in  the  mists  of  morning, 
Loomed  and  lifted  from  the  water, 
Now  seemed  floating,  now  seemed  dying. 
Coming  nearer,  nearer,  nearer. 

Was  it  Shingebis  the  diver ! 
Was  it  the  pelican,  the  Shada  i 
Or  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah  ! 
Or  the  white  goose,  Waw-be-wawa, 
With  the  water  dripping,  dashing 
From  its  glossy  neck  and  feathers  1 

It  was  neither  goose  nor  diver, 
Neither  pelican  nor  heron, 


VI 


\S\[. 


HIAWATHA  8  DEPAR1  I 


889 


o'er  the  water  floating,  Hying, 
Through  the  Bhining  mist  of  morning, 
Bui  a  birch- canoe  with  puddles, 
Rising,  sinking  on  the  water, 
Dripping,  Hashing  in  the  -.1111x11106. 
And  within  it  came  a  people 
From  the  distant  land  of  Wabuii, 
From  the  farthest  realms  of  morning, 
Came  the  Black-Robe  chief,  the  Prophet 
He  the  Priest  of  Prayer,  the  Pale-face 
With  his  guides  and  his  companions. 

And  the  noble  Hiawatha, 
With  his  hands  aloft  extended, 
Held  aloft  in  sign  of  welcome, 
Waited,  full  of  exultation, 
Till  the  birch-canoe  with  paddles 
Grated  on  the  shining-  pebbles, 
Stranded  on  the  sandy  margin, 
Till  the  Black-Robe  chief,  the  Palp-face 
With  the  cross  upon  his  bosom, 
Landed  on  the  sandy  margin. 

Then  the  joyous  Hiawatha 
Cried  aloud  and  spake  in  this  wise ; 
"  Beautiful  is  the  sun,  0  strangers, 
When  you  come  so  far  to  see  us  ! 
All  our  town  in  peace  awaits  you, 
All  our  doors  stand  open  for  you  ; 
You  shall  enter  all  our  wigwams, 
For  the  heart's  right  band  we  give  you. 

"  Never  bloomed  the  earth  so  gaily, 
Never  shone  the  sun  so  brightly, 
As  to-day  they  shine  and  blossom 
When  you  come  so  far  to  see  us ! 
Never  was  our  lake  so  tranquil, 
Nor  so  free  from  rocks  and  sand-bars  ; 
For  your  birch-canoe  in  passing 
Has  removed  both  rock  and  sand-bar  ! 

"  Never  before  had  our  tobacco 
Such  a  sweet  and  pleasant  flavour, 
Never  the  broad  leaves  of  our  corn-fields 
Were  so  beautiful  to  look  on, 
As  they  seem  to  us  this  morning,     . 
When  you  come  so  far  to  see  v. 

And  the  Black-Robe  chief  made  answer, 


3<J0 


LONGFELLOW  .s  i 


Stammered  in  his  speech  a  little, 
Speaking  words  yet  unfamiliar  . 

B  lie  with  you,  Hiawatha, 
Peace  be  with  you  and  your  people, 
se  of  prayer,  and  peace  of  pardon. 

Peace  of  Christ,  and  joy  of  Mary  !" 

Then  the  generous  Hiawatha 
Led  the  strangers  to  his  wigwam, 
Seated  them  on  skins  of  bison, 
Seated  them  on  skins  of  ermine, 
And  the  careful,  old  Nokomis 
Brought  them  food  in  bowls  of  bass-wood, 
Water  brought  in  birchen  dippers, 
And  the  calumet,  the  peace-pipe, 
Filled  and  lighted  for  their  smoking. 

All  the  old  men  of  the  vill 
All  the  warriors  of  the  nation, 
All  the  Jossakeeds,  the  prophets. 
The  magicians,  the  Wabenos, 
Vnd  the  medicine-men,  the  Medaa, 
Came  to  bid  the  strangers  welcome  ; 
"  It  is  well,"  they  said,  "  0  brother, 
That  you  come  so  far  to  see  us  l" 

In  a  circle  round  the  doorway. 
With  their  pipes  they  sat  in  silence, 
Waiting  to  behold  the  strangers, 
Waiting  to  receive  their  message  : 
Till  the  Black- Robe  chief,  the  Pale-face, 
From  the  wigwam  came  to  greet  them, 
Stammering  in  his  speech  a  little, 
Speaking  words  yet  unfamiliar  ; 
u  rt  is  well,"  they  said,  "  0  brother, 
That  you  come  so  far  to  see  us  !" 

Then  the  Black-Robe  chief,  the  prophet 
Told  his  message  to  the  people, 
Told  the  purport  of  his  mission, 
Told  them  of  the  Virgin  Mary, 
And  her  blessed  Son,  the  Saviour, 
How  in  distant  lands  and  ; 
He  had  lived  on  earth  as  we  do  ; 
How  he  fasted,  prayed,  and  laboured  ; 
How  the  Jews,  the  tribe  accursed, 
Mocked  him,  scourged  him,  crucified  him  : 
How  he  rose  from  where  they  laid  him, 


L 


\  \  1 1. . 


illAWATHAS    :   1:1    W,  fL'Kfc. 


391 


i 


Walked  again  with  his  disciples, 
And  ascended  into  heaves. 

And  the  chiefs  made  answer,  saying: 
"  We  have  listened  to  your  message, 

\\  e  have  heard  your  words. if  wisdom. 
We  will  think  on  what  you  tell  us. 
It  is  well  for  us,  0  brothers, 
That  you  come  so  far  to  see  us !" 

Then  they  rose  up  and  departed 
Each  one  homeward  to  his  wigwam, 
To  the  young  men  and  the  women 
Told  the  story  of  the  strangers 
Whom  the  Master  of  Life  had  sent  them 
From  the  shining  land  of  Walmn. 
Heavy  with  the  heat  and  silence 
Grew  the  afternoon  of  Summer  ; 
With  a  drowsy  sound  the  forest 
Whispered  round  the  sultry  wigwam, 
With  a  sound  of  sleep  the  water 
Rippled  on  the  beach  below  it ; 
From  the  corn-fields  shrill  and  ceaseless 
Sang  the  grasshopper,  Pah-Puk-keena  ; 
And  the  guests  of  Hiawatha, 
Weary  with  the  'neat  of  Summer, 
Slumbered  in  the  sultry  wigwam. 
Slowly  o'er  the  simmering  landscape 
Fell  the  evening's  dusk  and  coolness, 
And  the  long  and  level  sunbeams 
Shot  their  spears  into  the  forest, 
Breaking  through  its  shields  of  shadow, 
Rushed  into  each  secret  ambush. 
Searched  each  thicket,  dingle,  hollow  ; 
Still  the  guests  of  Hiawatha 
Slumbered  in  the  silent  wigwam. 

From  his  place  rose  Hiawatha, 
Bade  farewell  to  old  Nokomis, 
Spake  in  whispers,  spake  in  this  wise. 
Did  not  wake  the  guests  that  slumbered' 

"I  am  going,  0  Nokomis, 
On  a  long  and  distant  journey, 
To  the  portals  of  the  Sunset, 
To  the  regions  of  the  home-wind, 
Of  the  North-west  wind,  Keewaydin. 
But  these  guests  I  leave  behind  me, 


392 


EiOWOFELLOW'g  POl 


In  your  watch  and  wan!  1  leave  them, 
Sec  that  never  harm  mines  near  them., 

that  never  fear  molests  them, 
Never  danger  nor  suspicion, 
Never  want  of  food  or  shelter, 
In  the  Lodge  Of  Hiawatha  !" 

Forth  into  the  village  went  he, 
Bade  farewell  to  all  the  warriors, 
Bade  farewell  to  all  the  young  men, 
Spake  persuading,  spake  in  this  wise- 

"  I  am  going,  0  my  people, 
On  a  long  and  distant  journey  ; 
Many  moons  and  many  winters 
Will  have  come  and  will  have  vanished 
Ere  I  come  again  to  see  you. 
But  my  guests  I  leave  behind  me  ; 
Listen  to  their  words  of  wisdom, 
Listen  to  the  truth  they  tell  you, 
For  the  Master  of  Life  hath  sent  them 
From  the  land  of  light  and  morning!" 

On  the  shore  stood  Hiawatha, 
Turned  and  waved  his  hand  at  parting ; 
On  the  clear  and  luminous  water 
Launched  his  birch-canoe  for  sailing. 
From  the  pebbles  of  the  margin 
Shoved  it  forth  into  the  water; 
Whispered  to  it,  "Westward  !  westward'' 
And  with  speed  it  darted  forward. 

And  the  evening  sun  descending 
Set  the  clouds  on  fire  with  redness, 
Burned  the  broad  sky,  like  a  prairie, 
Left  upon  the  level  water 
One  long  track  and  trail  of  splendour, 
Down  whose  stream,  as  down  a  river, 
Westward,  westward  Hiawatha 
Sailed  into  the  fiery  sunset, 
Sailed  into  the  purple  vapour, 
Sailed  into  the  dusk  of  evening. 

And  the  people  from  the  margin 
Watched  him  floating,  rising,  sinking. 
Till  the  birch-canoe  seemed  lifted 
1  tigh  into  that  sea  of  splendour, 
Till  it  sank  into  the  vapours 
Like  the  new  moon  slowly,  slowly 


xxu.  I 


HIAWATHA'S  DEPARTURE. 


393 


Sinking  in  the  purple  distance. 

And  they  said,  "  Farewell  for  ever  !" 
Said,  "Farewell,  0  Hiawatha!" 
And  the  Forests,  dark  and  lonely, 
Moved  through  all  their  depths  of  darkness, 
Sighed,"  Farewell,  0  Hiawatha!" 
And  the  waves  upon  the  margin 
Rising,  rippling  on  the  {rabbles, 
Sobbed, " Farewell,  0  Hiawatha!" 
And  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From  her  haunts  among  the  fen-lands. 
Screamed,  "  Farewell,  0  Hiawatha!" 

Thus  departed  Hiawatha, 
Hiawatha  the  Beloved, 
In  the  glory  of  the  sunset, 
In  the  purple  mists  of  evening, 
To  the  regions  of  the  home-wind, 
Of  the  North-west  wind  Keewaydin, 
To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed, 
To  the  kingdom  of  Ponemab. 
To  the  land  of  the  Hereafter  . 


h 


1 


■toikl, 


>.Vfci 


M 


VOCABULARY  FOR  HIAWATHA. 


Adjidaii'mo,  the  red  sijut  . 
Ahdeek',  the  reindeer. 
Ahiih'i'k',  the  be 
Amieuiee'kee,  the  than.' 
Apukwa,  a  buirush, 
Ilaim-wa'wa,  the  sound   of    the 

thunder. 
Bemah'gut,  thegrape-vii 
Big-Sea- Water,  Lake  Superior. 
Cheemaun',  a  birch-- 
Chetowaik',  thi 
Ohibia/bos,  a  musician  ,• 

of  Hiawatha  ;     ruler    in    the 

Land  of  Spu 
Dahin'da,  the  buU-f 
Dush-kwo-ne'-she,  or   Kwo-ne*- 

she,  the  Dragon-fly. 
Eaa,  shame  upon  you, 
Ewa-yea',  lullaby. 
Gitoh'o    Gu'mee,    the    Big-Sea- 
Water,  Lake  Superior. 
Gitch'e  Man'ito,  the  Great  Spirit, 

the  Master  of  Life. 
Gushkewau',  the  darhm 
lliawa'tka,     the     Prophet,    the 

Teacher;  son  of  Mu/jekecwis, 

the  West- Wind,  and  Wenonah, 

daughter  of  Nbkomu. 
la'gOO,  a  great  boaster  and  story- 

tcl. 
Inin'ewug,  men,  or  pawns  in  the 

i  w  Howl. 
Ishkoodah',  fire  ;  a  comet. 
Jee'bi,  a  ghost,  a  spirit. 

Joss'akeed,  a 

Kabibonok'ka,  the  Ndrth'Wind. 

Ka'go,  do  not. 

Kahgahgee',  the  raven. 

Ivaw,  no. 

Kaween',  no  indeed. 

Ivavoshk',  the  sea-gull. 


K.ce',^0,  a  fish. 
Keeway'din,     the    North- 
wind  ,•  the  Home-wind. 

KenaHbeek,  a  terpent. 

Keneu',  the  great  war-eagle. 

Kono'zha,  the  pickerel. 

Ko'koko'ho,  the  owl. 

Kuutasoo',   the   Game  of  Plum- 
stones. 

Kwasind,  the  Strong  .Van. 

Kwo-no'-ske,  or    l)ush-kwo-ne'- 
.  ■  '>e  drago 

Mahnahbe'zee,  the  swan. 

Mahng,  the  loon. 

Mahn-go  tay'see,  loon-hearted, 
brave. 

Mahnomo'nee,  wild  , 

Ma'ma,  the  woodpecker. 

Maskeno'zha,  the  pike. 

Me'da,  a  medicine-man. 

Meenatiga,  the  blueberry. 

-  Jg'won,  the  great  Pearl- 
Feather,  a  magician,  and  the 
Manito  of  Wealth. 

Meshinau'wa,  a  pipe-bearer. 

Minjekah'wun,  Hiawatha's  mit- 
tens. 

Mimieka'ha,  Laughing  Water  , 
<./  water-fall  on  a  stream  run- 
ning into  the  Mississippi,  be- 
tween Fort  Snelling  and  the 
Falls  of  St  Anthc 

Minneha'ha,  Laughing    '• 
wife  of  Hiawatha. 

Minne-wa'wa.  a  pleasant  found, 
wind  in  the  tr 

Misb/e-Mo'kwa,  the  Great  Bear. 

Mish'e-Nah'ma,  the  Great  Stur* 
aeon, 

Miskodccd',  the  Spring-Beauty, 
the  Claytonia  Virginiea. 


BULARI  OF   HIAWATHA 


. 


.Moiidii'mi!'. 

Moon  of  Bright  Nights,   ' 

Moon  of  I  i6&Y6S,  i 

Moon  of  Strawborrii 

Moon  of  the   Falling  Leaves, 

Moon  of  SnOW-  .    November, 

Mndjekee'wis,  </.■•     Weet-Windj 

'■a. 
Mudway-aush'ka,     sound    of 

■  ■  ■ 

Mnshkoda'sa,  the  grouse. 

Nah'ina,  the  sturgeon. 

Nah  ma-wusk,  spearmint. 

Na'gow  Wudj'oo,  t he  Sand  Dunes 
of  Lake  Superior. 

Nee-ba-naw'-baiga,  water-spirits. 

Nenemootaha,  tweetheart. 

Nepah'win,  sleep. 

Noko'mis,  a  grandmother  ,•  mo- 
ther  of  Wenonah. 

No'sa,  my  father. 

Nush'ka,  look  .'  hole' 

Odah'min,  the  strawb 

Okahah'wis,  the  fresh-water  her- 
ring. 

Ome'me,  the  }>igeon. 

Ona'gon,  a  bowl. 

On  away,  awake. 

Opechee',  the  robin. 

Osse'o,  Soji  of  the  Evening  Star. 

Owais'sa,  the  blue-bird. 

Oweenee',  wife  of  Osseo. 

Ozawa'beek,  a  round  piece  of 
bran  or  copper  in  the  Game  of 
the  1 

Pah-puk-kee'na,  the  grasshopper. 

Pau'guk,  death. 

Pau-Puk-Kee'wis,  the  handsome 
<i'li::e,  the  Storm  Fool. 

Pe'boan,   Winter. 

Pem'iean,  meat  of  the  deer  or 
) id  pounded. 

Pezhekee',  the  bison. 

Pishnekuh',  the  brant. 

Ponemah',  hereafter. 

Puggawau'gun,  a  war  club. 

Puk-Wudj'ics,    Puk-Wudg-Ini- 


u.n    of   tjie 
ode ;  pigm 

•ids. 
Sah'wa,  the  perch. 

on',  Spri 
Sha'da,  the  pelican. 
Shahbo'min,  the  gooseberry. 
Shah'shah,  long  ago. 
Shaugoda'ya,  a  coiuard. 
Shawgasttee',  the  craw-fish. 
Shawonda'see,  the  South-Wind. 
Shaw-shaw,  the  siuaUow. 
Shesh'ebwug,  ducks ;   pieces   ir 

Game  of  the  Bowl. 
Shin'gcbis,  the  diver,  or  greebe. 
Showain  ncine'.-hin,  pity  me. 
Shuh-shuh'-gah,  the  blue  heron. 
Soan-ge-taTia,  strong-hearted. 
Subbcka'she,  the  spi 
Suggo'ma,  the  mosquito. 
Tctetn,  family  coat-of-arms. 
Ugh,  yes. 

Ugudwash',  the  sun-fish. 
Unktahee',  the  God  of  WaVr. 
Wabas'so,  the  rabbit ;  the  North. 
Wabe'no,  a  magician,  a  juggler. 
AVabe'no-wusk,  yarrow. 
WaTran,  the  EastrWind. 
Wa'bun  An'nung,  the  Star  of  the 

East,  the  Morning  Star. 
Vi ahono'min,a  cry  of  'lamentation. 
Wah-wah-tay'see,  the  fire-fly. 
Wampum,  sheik  or  beads  which 

are  made  into  belts,   also  used 

as  money. 
Waubcwy'on,     a     white     skin 

wrapper. 
VVa/wa,  the  wild-goose. 
Waw'beek,  a  rock. 
Waw-be-wa'wa>  the  white  goose. 
"Wawonais'sa,  the  ivlnppoorwill. 
Way-muk-kwa'ua,     the     cater- 
pillar. 
Weno'nah,  the  eldest  daughter  , 

Hiawatha's  motlier  ,•  aa\ 

of  Nokomis. 
Yenadiz'zc,  an  idler  and  gam* 

bier  ,•  an  Indian  dandy. 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STAN  DISH. 


i. 

MILES  8TANDISH. 

In  the  Old  Colony  days,  in  Plymouth  the  land  of  the  Pilgrims, 
To  and  fro  in  a  mum  of  his  simple  and  primitive  dwelling, 
Clad  in  doublet  and  hose,  and  hoots  of  Cordovan  leather, 
Strode,  with  a  martial  air,  Miles  Standish,  the  Puritan  Captain. 
Buried  in  thought  he  seemed,  with  his  hands  behind  him, 

and  pausing 
liver  and  anon  to  behold  his  glittering  weapons  of  warfare 
Hanging  in  shining  array  along  the  walls  of  the  chamber,— 
Cutlass  and  corslet  of  steel,  and  his  trusty  sword  of  Damascus, 
Curved  at  the  point  and  inscribed  with  its  mystical  Arabic 

sentence, 
While  underneath,  in  a  corner,  were  fowling-piece,  musket. 

and  matchlock. 
Short  of  stature  he  was,  but  strongly  built  and  athletic, 
Broad  in  the  shoulders,  deep-chested,  with  muscles  and  sinews 

of  iron ; 
Brown  as  a  nut  was  his  face,  but  his  russet  beard  was  already 
Flaked  with  patches  of  snow,  as  hedges  sometimes  in  No- 
vember. 
Near  him  was  seated  John  Alden,  his  friend  and  household 

companion, 
Writing  with  diligent  speed  at  a  table  of  pine  by  the  window  ; 
Kair-haned,  azure-eyed,  with  delicate  Saxon  complexion, 
Having  the  dew  of  his  youth,  and  the  beauty  thereof,  as  the 

captives 
Whom  Saint  Cregory  saw,  and  exclaimed,  "  Not  Angles,  but 

Angels.'' 
Youngest  of  all  was  he  of  the  men  who  came  in  the  Mat/Jiower 


Suddenly  breaking  the  silence,  the  diligent  sciibe  inter- 
rupting, 


M 


Tin:  0OUET81IIP  OF  MILES  BTANDISH. 


I 

H 


Spake,  in  the  pride  of  his  heart.  Miles  Standish,  the  Captain 
of  Plymouth : 

"  Look  at  these  aims,"  he  said,  "  the  warlike  weapons  that 
hang  here, 

Burnished  and  bright  and  clean,  as  if  for  parade  or  inspec- 
tion! 

This  is  the  sword  of  .Damascus  I  fought  with  in  Flanders  ; 
this  breastplate. 

Well  I  remember  the  day  !  once  saved  my  life  in  a  skirmish ; 

1  [ere  in  front  you  can  see  the  very  dint  of  the  Lmllet 

Fired  point-blank  at  my  heart  by  a  Spanish  arcabneero. 

Hal  it  not  been  of  sheer  steel,  the  forgotten  bones  of  Miles 
Standish 

Would  at  this  moment  be  mould,  in  their  grave  in  the  Flem- 
ish morasses." 

Thereupon  answered  John  Alden,  but  looked  not  up  from 
his  writing : 

"  Truly  the  breath  of  the  Lord  hath  slackened  the  speed  of 
the  bullet ; 

He  in  his  mercy  preserved  you,  to  be  our  shield  and  our 
weapon  !" 

Still  the  Captain  continued,  unheeding  the  words  of  the 
stripling : 

"  See,  how  bright  they  are  burnished,  as  if  In  an  arsenal 
hanging  : 

That  is  because  I  have  done  it  myself,  and  not  left  it  to  others. 

Serve  yourself,  would  you  be  well  served,  is  an  excellent 
adage  ; 

So  I  take  care  of  my  arms,  as  you  of  your  pens  and  your 
inkhorn. 

Then,  too,  there  are  my  soldiers,  my  great,  invincible  army, 

Twelve  men,  all  equipped,  having  each  his  rest  and  his  match- 
lock, 

Eighteen  shillings  a  month,  together  with  diet  and  pillage, 

And,  like  Caesar,  I  know  the  name  of  each  of  my  soldiers  !" 

This  he  said  with  a  smile,  that  danced  in  his  eyes  as  the 
sunbeams 

Lance  on  the  waves  of  the  sea,  and  vanish  again  in  a  moment 

Alden  laughed  as  he  wrote,  and  still  the  Captain  continued. 

"  Look  !  you  can  see  from  this  window  my  brazen  howitzer 
planted 

High  on  the  roof  of  the  church,  a  preacher  who  speaks  tc 
the  purpose, 

Steady,  straightforward,  and  strong,  with  irresistible  logic,2c 


-  -»  i— 


398 


Orthodox,  flashing  conviction  right  into  the  heart.-,  of  the 

heathen. 
Now  we  are  ready,  I  think,  for  any  assault  of  the  Indian 
Let  them  come,  if  they  like,  and  the  sooner  they  try  it  the 

better, — 
Let  them  come,  if  they  like,  be  it  sagamore,  sachem,  or  pow 

wow, 

Aspinet,  Samoset,  Corbitant,  Squanto,  or  Tokamahamon  !" 
Long  at  the  window  he  stood,  and  wistfully  gazed  on  the 
landscape, 

Washed  with  a  cold  grey  mist,  the  vapoury  breath  of  the  cast 

wind, 
Forest  and  meadow  and  hill,  and  the  steel-blue  rim  of  the 

ocean, 
Lying  silent  and  sad,  in  the  afternoon  shadows  and  sunshine. 
Over  his  countenance  thtted  a  shadow  like  those  on  the  land- 
scape, 
Gloom  intermingled  with  light  •  and  his  voice  was  subdued 

with  emotion, 
Tenderness,  pity,  regret,  as  after  a  pause  he  proceeded  : 
"  Yonder  there,  on  the  hill  by  the  sea,  lies  buried  Rose 

Standish : 
Beautiful  rose  of  love,  that  bloomed  for  me  by  the  wayside  ; 
She  was  the  first  to  die  of  all  who  came  in  the  Mayflower. 
Qreenabove  her  is  growing  the  field  of  wheatwehaye  sown  there, 
Better  to  hide  from  the  Indian  Scouts  the  graves  of  our  people, 
Lest  they  should  count  them  and  see  how  many  already  have 

perished  !" 
Sadly  his  face  he  averted,  and  strode  up  and  down,  and  was 

thoughtful. 


Fixed  to  the  opposile  wall  was  a  shelf  of  books,  and  among 

them 
Prominent  three,  distinguished  alike  for  bulk  and  for  binding : 
Bariife's  Artillery  Guide,  and  the  Commentaries  of  Caesar, 
Out  of  the  Latin  translated  by  Arthur  Goldinge  of  London, 
And,  as  if  guarded  by  these,  between  them  was  standing  the 

Bible. 
Musing  a  moment  before  them,  Miles  Standish  paused,  as  if 

doubtful 
Which  of  the  three  he  should  choose  for  his  consolation  and 

comfort, 
Whether  the  wars  of  the  Hebrews,  the  famous  campaigns  of 

the  Romans. 


Tin:  COURTSHIP  OP  MILES  BTANDI8H. 


w<j 


Or  the  artillery  practice  designed  for  belligerent  Chiistians. 
Finally  down  from  bis  shelf  he  dragged  the  ponderous  Roman, 
Seated  himself  at  the  window,  and  opened  the  buck,  and  in 

silence 
Turned  o'er  the  well-worn  leaves,  where  thumb-marks  thick 

on  the  margin, 
Like  the  trample  of  feet,  proclaimed  the  battle  was  hottest 
Nothing  was  heard  in  the  room  but  the  hurrying  pen  of  the 

stripling, 
Busily  writing  epistles  important,  to  go  by  the  Mayflower, 
Heady  to  sail  on  the  morrow,  or  next  day  at  the  latest,  God 

willing  ! 
Bomeward  bound  with  the  tidings  of  all  that  terrible  winter, 
Letters  written  by  Alden,  and  full  of  the  name  of  Priscilla, 
Full  of  the  name  and  the  fame  of  the  Puritan  maiden  Priscilla! 

II. 

LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP. 

Nothing  was  heard  in  the  room  but  the  hurrying  pen  of  the 
stripling, 

Or  an  occasional  sigh  from  the  labouring  heart  of  the  Captain, 
Heading  the  marvellous  words  and  achievements  of  Julius 

Caesar. 
After  a  while  he  exclaimed,  as  he  smote  with  his  hand,  palm 

downwards, 
Heauly  on  the  page  :  "  A  wonderful  man  was  this  Caesar  ! 
You  are  a  writer,  and  I  am  a  fighter,  but  here  is  a  fellow 
Who  could  both  write  and  right,  and  in  both  was  equally 

skilful !:' 
Straightway  answered  and  spake  John  Alden,  the  comely, 

the  youthful : 
"  Yes,  he  was  equally  skilled,  as  you  say,  with  his  pen  and 

his  weapons. 
Somewhere  have  I  read,  but  where  I  forget,  he  could  dictate 
Seven  letters  at  once,  at  the  same  time  writing  his  memoirs.'- 
"  Truly,"  continued  the  Captain,  not  heeding  or  hearing  the 

other, 
u  Truly  a  wonderful  man  was  Caius  Julius  Caesar! 
Letter  be  first,  he  said,  in  a  little  Iberian  village 
Than  be  second  in  Rome  ;  and  1  think  he  was  right  when 

he  said  it. 
Twice  was  he  married  before  he  was  twenty,  and  many  time* 

after  ; 


41  H> 


■ 


Bat;.  hundred  lie  fought,  and  a  thousand  eitiea  lit 

quered ; 

He,  too,  fought  in  Flanders,  ;is  he  him  elf  b  ed  ; 

Finally  lie  was  stabbed  by  bis  friend,  the  orator  Brut 
Now,  do  you  know  what  he  did  on  a  certain  occasion  in 

Flanders, 
When  the  rear-guard  of  his  army  retreated,  the  front  giving 

way  too, 
And  the  immortal  Twelfth  Legion  was  crowded  .so  cl< 

ther 
There  was  no  room  for  their  swords  ;     Why,  he  seized  a  shield 

from  a  soldier, 
Put  himself  straight  at  the  head  of  his  troops,  and  com- 
manded the  captains, 
Calling  on  each  by  his  name,  to  order  forward  the  ensigns  ; 
Then  to  widen    the   ranks,  and  give  more  room   for  their 

weapons  ; 
So  he  won  the  day,  the  battle  of  something-or-other. 
That's  what  I  always  say  :  if  you  wish  a  thing  to  be  well 

done, 
You  must  do  it  yourself,  you  must  not  leave  it  to  others  !" 
All  was  silent  again  ;  the  Captain  continued  his  reading. 
Nothing  was  heard  in  the  room  but  the  hurrying  pen  of  the 

stripling, 
\\  riting  epistles  important  to  go  next  day  by  the  Mayflower 
Filled  with  the  name  and  the  fame  of  the  Puritan  maiden 

Priscilla  ; 
Every  sentence  began  or  closed  with  the  name  of  Priscilla, 
Till  the  treacherous  pen,  to  which  he  confided  the  secret, 
Strove  to  betray  it  by  singing  and  shouting  the  name  of 

Priscilla ; 
Finally  closing  his  book,  with  a  bang  of  the  ponderous  cover, 
Sudden  and  loud  as  the  sound  of  a  soldier  grounding  his 

musket, 
Thus  to  the  young  man  spake  Miles  Standish,  the  Captain 

of  Plymouth  : 
"  When  you  have  finished  your  work,  I  have  something  im- 
portant to  tell  you. 
Be  not,  however,   in  haste  ;   I  can  wait ;   I  shall  not  be 

impatient !" 
Straightway  Alden  replied,  as  he  folded  the  last  of  his  letters, 
Pushing  his  papers  a^ide,  and  giving  respectful  attention: 
11  Speak ;  for  whenever  you  speak,  1  am  always  ready  to  listen, 
Always  ready  to  hear  whatever  pertains  to  Miles  Standish." 


0URT8HIP  OF  MILB8  BTAMDISH. 


401 


A 


I'k, 


Thereupon  answered  the  Captain,  embarrassed,  and  calling 

his  phrs 
"  'Tia  M"t  good  for  a  man  to  oe  alone,  Bay  the  Scriptures. 

This  I  have  said  before,  and  again  and  again  I  repeat  it  ; 
•v  how  in  llu'  day  I  think  it,  and  feel  it,  and  say  it. 
Since  Rose  Standish  died,  my  life  has  been  weary  and  dreary; 

Sick  at  heart  have  I  been,  beyond  the  healing  of  friendship. 

Oft  in  my  lonely  hours  have  1  thought  of  the  maiden  Priscilla. 

She  is  alone  in  the  world  ;  her  father  and  mother  and  brother 

Died  in  the  winter  together  ;  \  saw  her  going  and  coming, 

Now  to  the  grave  of  the  dead,  and  now  to  the  bed  of  the 
dyi: 

Patient,  courageous,  and  strong,  and  said  to  myself,  that  if 
ever 

There  were  angels  on  earth  as  there  are  angels  in  heaven, 

Two  have  I  seen  and  known  ;  and  the  angel  whose  name  is 
Priscilla 

Holds  in  my  desolate  life  the  place  which  the  other  aban- 
doned. 

Long  have  I  cherished  the  thought,  nut  never  have  dared  to 
reveal  it, 

Being  a  coward  in  this,  though  valiant  enough  for  the  most 
part. 

Go  to  the  damsel  Priscilla,  the  loveliest  maiden  of  Plymouth, 

Say  that  a  blunt  old  Captain,  a  man  not  of  words  but  of 
actions, 

Offers  his  hand  and  his  heart,  the  hand  and  heart  of  a  soldier. 

Not  in  these  words,  you  know,  but  this  in  short  is  my 
meaning  ; 

I  am  a  maker  of  war,  and  not  a  maker  of  phrases. 

You,  who  are  bred  as  a  scholar,  can  say  it  in  elegant  lan- 
guage, 

Such  as  you  read  in  your  books  of  the  pleadings  and  wooings 
-  >f  lovers, 

Such  as  you  think  best  adapted  to  win  the  heart  of  a  maiden." 

When  he  had  spoken,  John  Alden,  the  fair-haired,  taciturn 
stripling, 

AH  aghast  at  his  words,  surprised,  embarrassed,  bewildered 

Trying  to  mask   his  dismay  by  treating  the  subject  with 

Trying  to  smile,  and  yet  feeling  his  heart  stand  still  in  his 

bosom, 
Just  afl   a  timepiece  stops  in   a   house  that  is  stricken  by 
htning, 


■w 


402 


LONO  FELLOW  8   P< 


Thus  made  answei  and  spake,  01  rattier  stammered  than 

answers  1 ; 
"  Such  a  message  as  that  1  am  sure  I  should  mangle  and 

mar  it  ; 
If  you  would  have  it  well  done    I  am  only  repeating  • 

maxim — 
You  must  do  it  yourself,  you  must  not  leave  it  to  others  !" 
But  with  the  air  of  a  man  whom  nothing  can  turn  from  his 

purj 
Gravely  shaking  his  head,  made  answer  the  Captain  of  Ply- 
mouth : 
"  Truly  the  maxim  is  good,  and  I  do  not  mean  to  gainsay  it  ; 
But  we  must  use  it  discreetly,  and  not  waste  powder  for  nothing 
Now,  as  f  said  before,  I  was  never  a  maker  of  phrati 
1  can  march  up  to  a  fortress  and  summon  the  place  to  sur- 
render, 
But  march  up  to  a  woman  with  such  a  proposal,  I  dare  not. 
I'm  not  afraid  of  bullets,  nor  shot  from  the  mouth  of  a  cannon, 
But  of  a  thundering  'No!'  point-blank  from  the  mouth  of 

a  woman, 
That  I  confess  I'm  afraid  of,  nor  am  I  ashamed  to  confess  it ! 
So  you  must  grant  my  request,  for  you  are  an  elegant  scholar. 
Having  the  graces  of  speech,  and   skill   in  the  turning  of 

phrases." 
Taking  the  hand  of  liis  friend,  who  still  was  reluctant  and 

doubtful, 

Holding  it  long  in  his  own,  and  pressing  it  kindly,  he  added, 
"  Though  I  have  spoken  thus  lightly,  yet  deep  is  the  feeling 

that  prompts  me  ; 
Surely  you  cannot  refuse  what  I  ask  in  the  name  of  our  friend - 

*  ship!" 
Then  made  answer  John  Alden:  "  The  name  of  friendship  is 

sacred  ; 
What  you  demand  in  that  name,  I  have  not  the  power  to  deny 

you !" 
So  the  strong  will  prevailed,   subduing  and  moulding  the 

gentler, — 
Friendship  prevailed  over  love,  and  Alden  went  on  his  errand. 


I*^** 


III. 

THE  LOVER'S  ERRAND. 

So  the  strong  will  prevailed,  and  Alden  went  on  his  errand. 
Out  of  the  street  of  the  village,  and  into  the  paths  of  the  forest. 


jj^fUJST 


THE  OOUBTBHIP  OF  MM.i  -  8T  wmsh. 


40a 


Into  the  tranquil  woods,  where  blue-birds  and  robins  were 

building 
Towns  in  the  populous  trees,  with  hanging  gardens  of  verdure, 
Peaceful,  aerial  cities  of  joy  and  affection  and  freedom. 

All  around  him  was  calm,  but  within  him  commotion  and 

conflict, 
Love  contending  with  friendship,  and  self  with  each  generous 

impulse. 

To  and  fro  in  his  hreast  his  thoughts  were  heaving  and  dashing, 
AS  in  a  foundering  ship,  with  every  roll  of  the  vessel, 
\\  a>hes  the  hitter  sea,  the  merciless  surge  of  the  ocean  ! 
u  Must  I  relinquish  it  all,"  he  cried,  with  a  wild  lamentation ; 
"  Must  1  relinquish  it  all, —  the  joy,  the  hope,  the  illusion '/ 
Was  it  for  this  I  have  loved,  and  waited,  and  worshipped  in 

silence  I 
Was  it  for  this  I  have  followed  the  flying  feet  and  the  shadow 
Over  the  wintry  sea,  to  the  desolate  shores  of  New  England  '( 
Truly  the  heart  is  deceitful,  and  out  of  its  depths  of  corruption 
Rise,  like  an  exhalation,  the  misty  phantoms  of  passion  : 
Angels  cf  light  they  seem,  but  are  only  delusions  of  Satan. 
All  is  clear  to  me  now  ;  I  feel  it,  1  see  it  distinctly  ! 
This  is  the  hand  of  the  Lord  ;  it  is  laid  upon  me  in  anger, 
For  I  have  followed  too  much  the  heart's  desires  and  devices, 
Worshipping  Astaroth  blindly,  and  impious  idols  of  Baal. 
This  is  the  cross  I  must  bear ;  the  sin  and  the  swift  retribution." 
So  through  the  Plymouth  woods  John  Alden  went  on  his 

errand  ; 
Crossing  the  brook  at  the  ford,  where  it  brawled  over  pebble 

and  shallow, 
Gathering  still,  as  he  went,  the  May-flowers  blooming  around 

him, 
Fragrant,  filling  the  air  with  a  strange  and  wonderful  sweetness, 
Children  lost  in  the  woods,  and  covered  with  leaves  in  their 

slumber. 
11  Puritan  flowers,"  he  said,  "  and  the  type  of  Puritan  maidens, 
Modest  and  simple  and  sweet,  the  very  type  of  Priscilla  ! 
So  I  will  take  them  to  her — to  Priscilla,  the  May-flower  of 

Plymouth  ; 
Modest  and  simpleand  sweet,  as  a  partinggift  will  I  take  them, 
Breathing  their  sdent  farewells,  as  they  fade  and  wither  and 

perish, 
Soon  to  be  thrown  away  as  is  the  heart  of  the  giver." 
Sothrough  the  Plymouth  woods  John  Alden  went  on  his  errand 
Came  to  an  open  space,  and  saw  the  disk  of  the  ocean, 


J&:'XJZ& 


rx&am 


404 


LONGFELLOW  S  POEMS. 


Sail-less  gombre,  and  cold  with  tlie  oomfortleH  breath  of  the 

tl  wind  ; 
Saw  the  new-built  house,  and  people  at  work  in  a  n 
Heard,  as  he  drew  near  thedoor,  the  musical  voice  of  PrUeilla 
Singing  the  hundredth  Psalm,  the  grand  old  Puritan  anthem, 
Music  that  Luther  sang  to  the  sacred  words  of  the  Psalmist, 
Full  of  the  breath  of  the  Lord,  consoling  and  comforting  manj. 
Then,  as  he  opened  the  door,  he  beheld  the  tuna  of  the  maiden 
Seated  beside  her  wheel,  and  the  carded  wool  like  a  snow-drift 
Piled  at  her  knee,  her  white  hands  feeding  the  ravenousspindle, 
While  with  her  foot  on  the  treadle  she  guided  the  wheel  in  its 

motion. 
Opeinvide  on  her  lap  lay  the  well- wi  »rn  [>sal  m-book  of  Ainsworth ; 
Printed  in  Amsterdam,  the  words  and  the  music  together, 
Rough-hewn,  angular   notes,   like   stones  in  the  wall   of  a 

churchyard, 
Darkened  and  overhung  by  the  running  vine  of  the  verses. 
Such  was  the  book  from  whose  pages  she  sang  the  old  Puritan 

anthem, 
She,  the  Puritan  girl,  in  the  solitude  of  the  forest, 
Makingthe  humble  house  and  the  modest  apparel  of  home-spun 
Beautiful  with  her  beauty,  and  rich  with  the  wealth  of  her  bein- ! 
Over  him  rushed,  like  a  wind  that  is  keen  andcold  and  relentless, 
Thoughts  of  wdiat  might  have  been,  and  the  weight  and  woe  of 

his  errand  ; 
All  the  dreams  that  had  faded,  and  all  the  hopes  that,  had 

vanished, 
All  his  life  henceforth  a  dreary  and  tenantless  mansion, 
Haunted  by  vain  regrets,  and  pallid,  sorrowful  faces. 
Still  he  said  to  himself,  ami  almost  fiercely  he  said  it, 
"Let  not  him  that   putteth  his   hand   to  the  plough  look 

backwards ; 
Though  the  ploughshare  cut  through  the  flowers  of  life  to  its 

fountains, 
Though  it  pass  o'er  the  graves  of  the  dead  and  the  hearths  cf 

the  living, 
It  is  the  will  of  the  Lord  ;  and  His  mercy  endureth  for  ever !'' 
So  he  entered  the  house;  and  the  hum  of  the  wheel  and  the 

singing 
Suddenly  ceased ;  for  Priscilla,  aroused  by  his  step  on  the 

threshold, 
Rose  as  he  entered,  an  1  gave  him  her  hand,  in  signal  of  welcome, 
Saying,  "  I  knew  it  was  you,  when  I  heard  your  step  in  the 
passage ; 


*Y 


TIIK  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STANDISH. 


400 


m 


Fori  was  thinking  of  you  as  I  sal  there  singing  and  spinning." 
Awkward  and  dumb  with  delight,  that  a  thought  of  him  had 
been  mingled 

Thus  in  the  sacred  psalm,  that  came  from  the  heart  of  the 

maiden, 
Silent  before  her  he  stood,  and  gave  her  the  flowers  fur  an 

answer, 
Finding  no  words  for  his  thought.  lie  remembered  that  day 

in  the  winter, 
After  the  first  great  snow,  when  he  broke  a  path  from  the  village, 
Keeling  and  plunging  along  through  the  drifts  that  encum- 
bered the  doorway, 
Stamping  the  snow  from  his  feet  as  he  entered  the  house, 

and  Priscilla 
Laughed  at  his  snowy  locks,  and  gave  him  a  seat  bythe  fireside, 
Grateful  and  pleased  to  know  he  had  thought  of  her  in  the 

snow-storm. 
Had  he  but  spoken  then  !  perhaps  not  in  vain  had  he  spoken  • 
Now  it  was  all  too  late  ;  the  golden  moment  had  vanished! 
So  he  stood  thereabashed,  and  gave  her  the  Mowers  for  an  answer. 
Then  they  sat  down  and  talked  of  the  birds  and  the  beautiful 

spring-time, 
Talked  of  their  friends  at  home,  and  the  Mayflower  that 

sailed  on  the  morrow. 
•'  I  have  been  thinking  all  day,"  said  gently  the  Puritan 

maiden, 
"  Dreaming  all  night,  and  thinking  all  day,  of  the  hedge- 
rows of  England, — 
They  are  in  blossom  now,  and  the  country  is  all  like  a  garden  ; 
Thinking  of  lanes  and  fields,  and  the  song  of  the  lark  and 

the  linnet, 
Seeing  the  village  street,  and  familiar  faces  of  neighbours 
Going  about  as  of  old,  and  stopping  to  gossip  together, 
And  at  the  end  of  the  street  the  village  church,  with  the  ivy 
Climbing  the  old  gray  tower,  and  the  quiet  graves  in  the 

churchyard. 
Kinl  are  the  people  I  live  with,  and  dear  to  me  my  religion ; 
Still  my  heart  is  so  sad,  that  I  wish  myself  back  in  Old  England. 
You  will  say  it  is  wrung,  but  1  cannot  help  it ;  I  almost 
\Y  iah  myself  back  in  Old  England,  1  feel  so  lonely  and  wretched." 
Thereupon  answered  the  youth : — "  Indeed  I  do  not  con- 
demn you ; 
Stouter  hearts  than  a  woman's  have  quailed  in  this  terrible 
winter 


I 


«-* 


406 


■ 


m 


Yours 


i  tender  and  trusting,  and  needs  asti  to  ii  an  on 

So  1  have  come  to  you  now  with  an  offer  and  proffer  of  marriage 

Made  by  a  good  man  and  true,  Miles  Standiah,  the  Captain 

of  Plymouth!" 
Thus  he  delivered    his   m  the  dexterous   writer  of 

letters 
Did  not  embellish  the  theme,  nor  army  it  in  beautiful  phr; 
lint  came  straight  to  the  point,  and  blurted  it  out  like  a 

schoolboy  , 
Even  the  Captain  himself  could  hardly  have  said  it  more 

bluntly. 
Mute  with  amazement  and  sorrow,  Priscilla,  the  Puritan 

maiden, 
Looked  into  Alden's  face,  her  eyes  dilated  with  wonder, 
Feeling  his  words  like  a  blow,  that  stunned  her  and  rendered 

her  speechless ; 
Till  at  length  she  exclaimed,  interrupting  the  ominous  silence  . 
"  If  the  great  Captain  of  Plymouth  is  so  very  eager  to  wed  me, 
Why  does  he  not  come  himself,  and  take  the  trouble  to  woo  me  I 
If  1  am  not  worth  the  wooing,  I  surely  am  not  worth  the 

winning  !" 
Then  John  Alden  began  explaining  and  smoothing  the  matter, 
Making  it  worse  as  he  went,  by  saying  the  Captain  was  busy, — 
Bad  no  time  for  such  things. — Such  things  !  the  words  grat- 

harshly 
Fell  on  the  ear  of  Priscilla  ;  and  swift  as  a  flash  she  made 

answer  : 
"  lias  he  no  time  for  such  things,  as  you  call  it,  before  he  is 

married, 
Would  he  be  likely  to  find  it,  or  make  it,  after  the  wedding  I 
That  is  the  way  with  you  men;  you  don't  understand  us, 

you  cannot. 
When  you  have  made  up  your  minds,  after  thinking  of  this 

one  and  that  one, 
Choosing,  selecting,  rejecting,  comparing  one  with  another. 
Then  you  make  known  your  desire,  with  abrupt  and  sudden 

avowal, 
And  are  offended  and  hurt,  and  indignant  perhaps  that  a 

woman 
Does  not  respond  at  once  to  a  love  that  she  never  suspected, 
Does  not  attain  at  a  bound  the  height  to  which  you  have 

been  climbing. 
This  is  not  right  nor  just ;  for  surely  a  woman's  affection 
Is  not  a  thing  to  be  asked  for,  and  had  for  only  the  asking. 


Ml 


1     ... 


i 


rur  i  «»niT<im'  of  mtt,e<*  rtanm-ii 


KIT 


When  one  is  truly  in  love,  one  not  only  says  it,  but  BhoWB  it. 
Had  hebul  waited  awhile, had  he  only  showed  that  he  loved  me. 
Even  this  Captain  of  yours    who  knows? — at  last  might 

have  won  me, 
Old  and  rough  as  he  is  ;   but  now  it  never  can  happen." 
still  John  Alden  went  on,  unheeding  the  words  of  Priscilla, 
Urging  thi>  suit  of  his  friend,  explaining,  persuading,  ex- 
panding ; 
Spoke  of  his  courage  and  skill,  and  of  all  his  battles  in 
Flanders, 
v  with  the  people  of  God  he  had  chosen  to  suffer  affliction, 
How,  in  return  for  his  zeal,  they  had  made  him  Captain  of 

Plymouth  : 
lie  was  a  gentleman  born,  could  trace  his  pedigree  plainly 
Back  to  Hugh  Standish  of  Duxbury  Hall,  in  Lancashire, 

England, 
Who  was  the  son  of  Ralph,  and  the  grandson  of  Thurston  de 

Standish  ; 
Heir  unto  vast  estates,  of  which  he  was  basely  defrauded, 
Still  bore  the  family  arms,  and  had  for  his  crest  a  cock  argent 
Combed  and  wattled  gules,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  blazon. 
1  le  was  a  man  of  honour,  of  noble  and  generous  nature  ; 
Though  he  was  rough,  he  was  kindly  ;  she  knew  how  during 

the  winter 
lie  had  attended  the  sick,  with  a  hand  as  gentle  as  woman's  ; 
Somewhat  hasty  and  hot.  he  could  not  deny  it,  and  headstrong, 
Stern  as  a  soldier  might  be,  but  hearty,  and  placable  always, 
Not  to  be  laughed  at  and  scorned,  because  he  was  little  of  stature  • 
For  he  was  great  of  heart,  magnanimous,  courtly,  courageous ; 
Any  woman  in  Plymouth,  nay,  any  woman  in  England, 
'it  be  happy  and  proud  to  be  called  the  wife  of  Miles 
Standish*! 
But  as  he  warmed  and  glowed,  in  his  simple  and  eloquent 

language, 
Quite  forgetful  of  self,  and  full  of  the  praise  if  his  rival, 
Archly  the  maiden  smiled,  and  with  eyes  overrunning  with 

laughter, 
Said  in  a  tremulous  voice,  "  Why  don't  you  speaK  for  your- 
self, John  ?" 

IV. 

JOHN  ALDEN. 

the  open  air  John  Alden,  perplexed  and  bewilder 

Unshed  like  a  man  insane,  and  wandered  alone  by  the  sea-side; 


Hi 


<•<*.  tt     iii 


408 


FFT.T.OV. 


Paced  np  and  down  the  sands,  and  bared  his  head  to  the  east 

wind, 
Cooling  his  heated  brow  and  the  tire  and  fever  within  him. 
Slowly,  as  out  of  the  heavens,  with  apocalyptical  splendour*, 

Sank  the  City  of  God  in  the  vision  of  John  the  Apostle, 

So,  with  its  cloudy  walls  of  chrysolite,  jasper,  and  Bapphi 

Sank  the  broad  red  sun,  and  over  its  turrets  uplifted, 

Glimmered  the  golden  reed  of  the  angel  who  measured  the 
city. 

"Welcome,  0  wind  of  the  East,"  he  exclaimed,  in  his  wild 
exultation  ; 

"  Welcome,  O  wind  of  the  East,  from  the  caves  of  the  misty 
Atlantic  ! 

Blowing  o'er  fields  of  dulse,  and  measureless  meadows  of  sea- 
grass, 

Blowing  o'er  rocky  wastes,  and  the  grottoes  and  gardens  of 
ocean  ! 

Lay  thy  odd  moist  hand  on  my  burning  forehead,  and  wrap  me 

Close  in  thy  garments  of  mist,  to  allay  the  fever  within  me  !" 

Like  an  awakened  conscience,  the  sea  was  moaning  and 
Ing, 

Beating  remorseful  and  loud  the  mutable  sandsof  the  sea-shore. 

Fierce  in  his  soul  was  the  struggle  and  tumult  of  passions 
contending  ; 

Love  triumphant  and  crowned,  and  friendship  wounded  and 
bleeding, 

Passionate  cries  of  desire,  and  importunate  pleadings  of  duty  ! 

"  Is  it  my  fault,"  he  said,  "  that  the  maiden  has  chosen  be- 
tween us  ! 

Is  it  my  fault  that  he  failed, — my  fault  that  I  am  the  victor  '" 

Then  within  him  there  thundered  a  voice,  like  the  voice  of 
the  Prophet : 

"  It  hath  displeased  the  Lord"— and  he  thought  of  David's 
transgression, 

Bathsheba's  beautiful  face,  and  his  friend  in  the  front  of  the 
battle  ! 

Shame  and  confusion  of  guilt,  and  abasement,  and  self-con- 
demnation, 

Overwhelmed  iiim  at  once,  and  he  cried  in  the  deepest  contrition, 

"  It  hath  displeased  the  Lord  !  it  is  the  temptation  of 
Satan !" 

Then,  uplifting  his  head,  he  looked  at  the  sea,  and  beheld 
there 

Dimly  the  shadowy  form  of  the  Mayflower  riding  at  anchor 


W£ 


Till:  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  BTANDISH. 


109 


Rocked  en  the  rising  tide,  and  ready  to  sail  od  the  morrow  ; 
I  [eard  bhev  ices  of  men  through  the  mist,  therattleof  cord 
Thrown  on  the  deck,  the  shouts  of  the  mate,  and  the  sailors' 

irl" 
Clear  and  distinct,  but  not  loud,  in  the  dripping  air  of  the 

twili 
Still  for  a  moment  he  stood,  and  listened,  and  stared  at  the 

vessel ; 
Then  wi  nt  hurriedly  on,  as  one  who,  seeing  a  phantom, 
Stops,  then  quiekens   his  pace,  and  follows  the  beckoning 

shadow. 
"  Yes,  it  is  plain  to  me  now,"  he  murmured  ;  "  the  hand  of 

the  Lord  is 
Leading  me  out  of  the  land  of  darkness,  the  bondage  of  error, 
Through  the  sea,  that  shall  lift  the  walls  of  its  waters  around  me, 
Hiding  me,  cutting  me  off,  from  the  cruel  thoughts  that  pursue 

me. 
Back  will  I  go  o'er  the  ocean,  this  dreary  land  will  abandon, 
Her  whom  I  niaynotlove,andhiniwhnni  my  heart  hasoffended; 
Better  tobe  in  my  grave  inthegreen  old  churchyard  in  England, 
Close  by  my  mother's  side,  and  among  the  dust  of  my  kindred  ; 
Better  be  dead  aud  forgotten,  than  living  in  shame  and  dis- 
honour ! 
Sacred  and  safe,  and  unseen,  in  the  dark  of  the  narrow  chambei 
With  me  my  secret  shall  lie,  like  a  buried  jewel  that  glimmers 
Bright  on  the  hand  that  is  dust,  in  the  chambers  of  silence 

and  darkness, — 
Yes,  as  the  marriage  ring  of  the  great  espousal  hereafter  !" 
Thus  as  he  spake,  he  turned,  in  the  strength  of  his  strong 

resolution, 
Leaving  behind  him  theshore,  and  hurried  along  in  the  twilight, 
Through  the  congenial  gloom  of  the  forest  silent  and  sombre, 
Till  he  beheld  the  lights  in  the  seven  houses  of  Plymouth, 
Shining  like  seven  stars  in  the  dusk  and  mist  of  the  evening. 
Soon  he  entered  his  door,  and  found  the  redoubtable  Captain 
Sitting  alone,  and  absorbed  in  the  martial  pages  of  Caesar, 
Fighting  some  great  campaign  in   Jlainault  or  Brabant  or 

Flanders. 
"Long  have  you  been  on  your  errand,"  he  said,  with  a  cheery 

demeanour, 
Even  as  one  who  is  waiting  answer,  and  fears  not  the  issue. 
'Not  far  off  is  the  house,  although  the  woods  are  between  us  ; 
But  you  have  lingered  so  long,  that  while  you  were  going  aud 
aing 


L  IhJUUl-" 


I  | 


Ill) 


low's  Pi 


IV  ■  •  < 


I  have  fought  ten  battle  and  dem 

Come,  sit  down,  and  in  order  relate  to  me  all  that  ha 
pened." 

Then  John  Alden  spake,  ana  related  the  wondrous  adventure 

From  begininng  to  end,  minutely,  just  as  it  happened; 

How  he  had  seen  Priseilla,  and  how  he  had  sped  inhis 
ship. 

Only  smoothing  a  little,  and  Boftening  down  her  refuaai 

But  when  he  came  at  length  to  the  words  Priseilla  had  spoken, 

Words  so  tender  and  cruel,  "  Why  don't  you  speak  for  your- 
self, John  r 

Up  leaped  the  Captain  of  Plymouth,  and  stamped  on  the  floor, 
till  his  armour 

Clanged  on  the  wall,  where  it  hung,  with  a  sound  of  sinister 
omen. 

All  his  pent-up  wrath  burst  forth  in  a  sudden  explosion, 

Even  as  a  hand  grenade,  that  scatters  destruction  around  it. 

Wildly  he  shouted,  and  loud  :  "John  Alden  !   you  have  be- 
trayed me ! 

vMe,  Miles  Standish,  your  friend !  hare  supplanted,  defrauded, 
betrayed  me ! 

One  of  my  ancestors  ran  his  sword  through  the  heart  of  Wat 
Tyler; 

Who  shall  prevent  me  from  running  my  own  through  the 
heart  of  a  traitor? 

Yours  is  the  greater  treason,  for  yours  is  a  treason  to  friend- 
ship ! 

Yon,  who  lived  under  my  roof,  whom  1  cherished  and  loved 
as  a  brother; 

You,  who  have  fed  at  my  board,  and  drunk  at  my  cup,  to 
whose  keeping 

1  have  intrusted  my  honour,  my  thoughts  the  most  sacred 
and  secret, — 

You  too,  Brutus  !  Ah,  woe  to  the  name  of  friendship  hereafter ! 

Brutus  was  Caesar's  friend,  and  you  were  mine,  but  hence- 
forward 

Let  there  be  nothing  between  us  save  war  and  implacable 
hatred!" 

So  spake  the  Captain  of  Plymouth,  and  strode  about  in  the 
chamber, 

Charing  and  choking  with  rage ;  like  cords  were  the  veins  on 
his  temples. 

But  in  the  midst  of  his  anger  a  man  appeared  at  the  doorway, 

Bringing  in  uttermost  haste  a  message  of  urgent  importance. 


^^I^^Hir- 


tin;  0OURTBH1  P  OF  M  i  i.i:s  BTANDI8H« 


411 


»    W 


Humours  of  danger  and  war,  and  hostile  incursions  of  Indians ! 
Btraightwaj  I  lie  I  laptain  paused,  and  without  further quesl  ion 
or  pari 
k  from  the  nail  on  the  wall  his  Bword  with  its  scabbard  of 
iron, 
Buckled  the  bell  round  his  waist,  and,  frowning  fiercely,  de- 
parted. 
AMen  was  Left  alone.     He  heard  the  clank  of  the  scahhard 
i  rrowing  fainter  and  fainter,  and  dying  away  in  the  distance  ; 
Then  he  arose  from  his  seal,  and  looked  forth  into  the  darkness, 
Felt  the  cool  air  blow  on  his  cheek,  that  was  hot  with  the 

insult, 
Lifted  his  eyes  to  the  heavens,  and,  folding  his  hands  as  in 

childhood, 
Prayed  in  the  silence  of  night  to  the  Father  who  seeth  in  secret 
Meanwhile  the  choleric  Captain  strode  wrathful  away  to  the 

council, 
Found  it  already  assembled,  impatiently  waiting  his  coming  ; 
Men  in  the  middle  of  life,  austere  and  grave  in  deportment, 
Only  one  of  them  old,  the  hill  that  was  nearest  to  heaven, 
Covered  with  snow,  but  erect,  the  excellent  Elder  of  Plymouth, 
God  had  sifted  three  kingdoms  to  find  the  wheat  for  this 

planting, 
Then  had  sifted  the  wheat,  as  the  living  seed  of  a  nation ; 
So  say  the  chronicles  old,  and  such  is  the  faith  of  the  people ! 
Near  them  was  standing  an  Indian,  in  attitude  stern  and  de- 
fiant, 
Naked  down  to  the  waist,  and  grim  and  ferocious  in  aspect ; 
While  on  the  table  before  them  was  lying  unopened  a  Bible, 
Ponderous,  bound  in  leather,  brass-studded,  printed  in  Hol- 
land, 
And  beside  it  outstretched  the  skin  of  a  rattlesnake  glittered, 
Filled,  like  a  quiver,  with  arrows  ;  a  signal  and  challenge  of 

warfare, 
Brought  by  the  Indian,  and  speaking  with  arrowy  tongues  of 

defiance. 
This  .Miles  Standish  beheld,  as  he  sntered,  and  heard  them 

debating 
What  were  an  answer  befitting  the  hostile  message  and  menace, 
ralking  of  this  and  of  that,  contriving,  suggesting,  objecting; 
Due  voice  only  for  peace,  and  that  the  voice  of  the  Elder, 
Judging  it  wise  and  well  that  some  at  least  were  converted. 
Father  than  any  were  slain,  for  this  was  but  Christian  be- 
haviour ! 


m( 


A-n  /■ 


412 


■■iFELLOW  9  POEM8. 


.  v  HM 


I 


Then  outspake  .Miles  Standish,  the  stalwart  Captain  of  1'ly 

mouth, 
Muttering  deep  in  his  throat,  for  his  voice  was  husky  witu 

u  What!  do  you  mean  to  make  war  with  milk  and  the  water 

of  roses  j 
Is  it  to  shoot  red  squirrels  you  have  your  howitzer  planted 
There  on  the  roof  of  the  church,  or  is  it  to  shoot  red  devils  ] 
Truly  the  only  tongue  that  is  understood  hy  a  lavage 
Must  be  the  tongue  of  tire  that  speaks  from  the  mouth  of  the 

cannon !" 
Thereupon  answered  and  said  the  excellent  Elder  of  Plymouth, 
Somewhat  amazed  and  alarmed  at  this  irreverent  lai 
4>  Not  so  thought  Saint  Paul,  nor  yet  the  other  A.pos1 
Not  from  the  cannon's  mouth  were  the  tongues  of  fire  they 

spake  with !" 
But  unheeded  fell  this  mild  rebuke  on  the  Captain, 
AY  ho  had  advanced  to  the  table,  and  thus  continued  dis- 
coursing : 
"Leave  this  matter  to  me,  for  to  me  by  right  it  pertaineth. 
War  is  a  terrible  trade  ;  but  in  the  cause  that  is  righteous, 
Sweet  is  the  smell  of  powder;  and  thus  I  answer  the  ehalleng 
Then   from  the  rattlesnake's  skin,  with  sudden,  contemp- 
tuous gesture, 
Jerking  the  Indian  arrows,  he  rilled  it  with  powder  and  bulletl 
Full  to  the  very  jaws,  and  handed  it  back  to  the  savage, 
Saying  in  thundering  tones:  "  Here,  take   it!  this  is  your 

answer!" 
Silently  out  of  the  room  then  glided  the  glistening  Bavage, 
Bearing  the  serpent's  skin  and  seeming  himself  like  a  serpent, 
Winding  his  sinuous  way  in  the  dark  to  the  deptlis  of  the 
fore  •  t . 


V. 

THE  SAILING  OF  THE  MAYFLOWER. 

Just  in  the  gray  of  the  dawn,  as  the  mists  uprose  from  the 

meadows, 
There  was  a  stir  and  a  sound  in  the  slumbering  village  of 

Plymouth ; 
Clanging  and  clicking  of  arms,  and  the  order  imperative. 

"Forward!" 
Given  in  tone  suppressed,  a  tramp  of  feet  and  then  silence. 
Figures  ten,  in  the  mist,  marched  slowly  out  of  the  village 


Vv.{ 


THE  COl  KT8H1P  OE   MM  ECS  BTAND1SH. 


■ 


Standi&h  the  stalwarl  it  was,  with  eight  of  his  valorous  army, 

Led  by  their  Indian  guide,  by  Hobomok,  friend  oi  the  white 

men, 
Northward  inarching  to  quell  the  sudden  revolt  of  the  savage. 
Giants  they  seemed  in  the  mist,  or  the  mighty  men  of  King 

David  ; 
Giants  in  heart  they  were,   who  believed  in  God  and  the 

liihle  — 
Ay,  who  believed  in  the  smiting ot  Midianites  and  Philistines. 
Over  them  gleamed  far  off  the  crimson  banners  of  morning; 
Under  them  loud  on  the  sands,  the  serried  billows,  advancing, 
Fired  along  the  line,  and  in  regular  order  retreated. 
Many  a  mile  had  they  marched,  when  at  length  the  village 

of  Plymouth 
Woke  from  its  sleep,  and  arose,  intent  on  its  manifold  labours. 
Sweet  was  the  air  and  soft ;  and  slowly  the  smoke  from  the 

chimneys 
Rose  over  roofs  of  thatch,  and  pointed  steadily  eastward  ; 
Men  came  forth  from  the  doors,  and  paused  and  talked  of  the 

weather, 
Said  that  the  wind  had  changed,  and  was  blowing  fair  for  the 

Mayflower  ; 
Talked  of  their  Captain's  departure,  and  all  the  dangers  that 

menaced, 
He  being  gone,  the  town,  and  what  should  be  done  in  his 

absence. 
Merrily  sang  the  birds,  and  the  tender  voices  of  women 
Consecrated  with  hymns  the  common  cares  of  the  household. 
Out  of  the  sea  rose  the  sun,  and  the  billows  rejoiced  at  his 

coming ; 
Beautiful  were  his  feet  on  the  purple  tops  of  the  mountains; 
Beautiful  on  the  sails  of  the  Mayjlower  riding  at  anchor, 
Battered  and  blackened  and  worn  by  all  the  storms  of  the 

winter. 
Loosely  against  her  masts  was  hanging  and  flapping  her  canvas 
Rent  by  so  many  gales,  and  patched  by  the  handsof  the  sailors. 
Suddeidy  from  her  side,  as  the  sun  rose  over  the  ocean, 
Darted  a  puff  of  smoke,  and  floated  seaward ;  anon  rang 
Loud  over  field  and  forest  the  cannon's  roar,  and  the  echoes 
Heard  and  repeated  the  sound,  the  signal-gun  of  departure! 
Ah  !  but  with  louder  echoes  replied  the  hearts  of  the  people! 
Meeklv,  in  voices  subdued,  the  chapter  was  read  from  the 

'Bible, 
Meekly,  the  prayer  was  begun,  but  ended  in  fervent  entreaty  ! 


\\\ 


LONGFELLOW  8  PO 


Nf 


Then  from  their  houses  in  haste  came  forth  the  Pilgrims  ol 

Plymouth, 
Men  and  women  and  children,  all  hurrying  down  tu  the 

shore, 
Eager,  with  tearful  eyes,  to  say  farewell  to  the  Mmjjlowtr; 
Homeward  bound  o'er  the  sea,  and  leaving  them  here  in  the 

desert. 
Foremost  among  them  was  Alden.     All  night  he  had  lain 

without  slumber, 
Tinning  and  tossing  about  in  the  heat  and  unrest  of  his  fever, 
lie  had  beheld  Miles  Staudish,  who  came  back  late  from  the 

council, 
Stalking  into  the  room,  and  heard  him  mutter  and  murmur, 
Sometimes  it  seemed  a  prayer,  and  sometimes  it  sounded  like 

swearing. 
Once  he  had  come  to  the  bed,  and  stood  there  a  moment  in 

silence ; 
Then  he  had  turned  away  and  said :  "  I  will  not  awake  him  ; 
Let  him  sleep  on,  it  is  best;  for  what  is  the  use  of  more 

talking!" 
Then  he  extinguished  the  light,  and  threw  himself  down  on 

his  pallet, 
Dressed  as  he  was,  and  ready  to  start  at  the  break  of  the 

morning. — 
Covered  himself  with  the  cloak  he  had  worn  in  his  campaigns 

in  Flanders, — 
Slept  as  a  soldier  sleeps  in  his  bivouac,  ready  for  action. 
But  with  the  dawn  he  arose  ;  in  the  twilight  Alden  beheld 

him 
Put  on  his  corselet  of  steel,  and  all  the  rest  of  his  armour. 
Buckle  about  his  waist  his  trusty  blade  of  Damascus, 
Take  from  the  corner  his  musket,  and  so  stride  out  of  the 

chamber. 
Often  the  heart  of  the  youth  had  burned  and  yearned  to 

i  mbrace  him, 
Often  his  lipa  had  essayed  to  speak,  imploring  for  pardon  ; 
All  the  old  friendship  came  back,  with  its  tender  and  grate- 
ful emotions  ; 
But  his  pride  overmastered  the  nobler  nature  within  1dm, — 
Pride,  and  the  sense  of  his  wrong,  and  the  burning  tire  of  the 

insult. 
So  he  beheld  his  friend  departing  in  anger,  but  spake  not, 
Saw  him  go  forth  to  danger,  perhaps  to  death,  and  he  spake 

not! 


,11!  I  I  •   ■  . !     M  I  ] 


4J  5 


b 


Then  he  arose  from  his  bed,  and  heai  I  what  the  people  were 
Baying, 

Joined  in  the  talk  at  the  door,  with  Stephen  and  Richard 

and  Gilbert, 
Joined  in  the  morning  prayer  and  in  the  reading  of  Scripture, 
And,  with  the  others,  in  haste  went  hurrying  down  to  the  sea- 
shore, 
Down  to  the  Plymouth  Rock,  that  had  been  to  their  feet  as 

a  doorstep 
Into  a  world  unknown,— the  corner-stone  of  a  nation  » 
There  with  his  boat  was  the  master,  already  a  little  im- 
patient 
Lest  he  should  lose  the  tide,  or  the  wind  might  shift  to  the 

eastward, 
Square-built,  hearty,  and  strong,  with  an  odour  of  ocean 

about  him, 
Speaking  with  this  one  and  that,  and  cramming  letters  and 

parcels 
Into  his  pockets  capacious,  and  messages  mingled  together 
Into  his  narrow  brain,  till  at  last  he  was  wholly  bewildered. 
Nearer  the  boat  stood  Alden,  with  one  foot  placed  on  the 

gunwale, 
One  still  firm  on  the  rock,  and  talking  attimes  with  the  sailors, 
Seated  erect  on  the  thwarts,  all  ready  and  eager  for  starting. 
He  too  was  eager  to  go,  and  thus  put  an  end  to  his  anguish, 
Thinking  to  fly  from  despair,  that  swifter  than  keel  is  or 

canvas, 
Thinking  to  drown  in  the  sea  the  ghost  that  would  rise  and 

pursue  him. 
But  as  he  gazed  on  the  crowd,  he  beheld  the  form  of  Priscilla 
Standing  dejected  among  them,  unconscious  of  all  that  waa 

passing. 
Fixed  were  her  eyes  upon  his,  as  if  she  divined  his  intention, 
Fixed  with  a  look  bo  sad,  so  reproachful,  imploring,  and  patient, 
That  with  asudden  revulsion  hisheart  recoiled  from  its  purpose, 
As  from  the  verge  of  a  crag,  where  one  step  more  is  destruc- 
tion. 
Strange  is  the  heart  of  man,  with  its  quick,  mysterious  in- 
stincts ! 
Strange  is  the  life  of  man,  and  fatal  or  fated  are  moments. 
Whereupon  turn,  as  on  hinges,  the  gates  of  the  wall  adaman- 
tine ! 
M  Here  I  remain  !"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  looked  at  the  heavens 
above  him, 


41b 


4 


e£Sfe*£ 


Thanking  the  Lord  whose  breath  bad  scattered  the  mist  and 

i  he  madness, 
When-ill,  blind  and  lost,  to  death  he  was  staggering  head- 
long. 
"  Yonder  snow-white  cloud,  that  floats  in  the  ether  above  ine, 
Seems  like  a  hand  that  is  pointing  and  beckoning  over  the  ocean. 
There  is  another  hand  that  is  not  so  spectral  and  ghost-like, 
Iloldingme, drawing  me  back,  andclaspingminefor  protection. 
Float,  0  hand  of  cloud,  and  vanish  away  in  the  ether  ! 
Roll  thyself  up  like  a  fist,  to  threaten  and  daunt  me;  I  heed  not 
Either  your  warning  or  menace,  or  any  omen  of  evil ! 
There  is  no  land  so  sacred,  no  air  so  pure  and  so  wholesome, 
As  is  the  air  she  breathes,  and  the  soil  that  is  pressed  by  her 

footsteps. 
Mere  for  her  sake  will  I  stay,  and  like  an  invisible  presence 
Hover  around  her  for  ever,  protecting,  supporting  her  weak- 
ness ; 
Yes  !  as  my  foot  was  the  first  that  stepped  on  this  rock  at  the 

landing, 
So,  with  t  he  blessing  of  God,  shall  it  be  the  last  at  the  leaving !" 
Meanwhile  the  master  alert,  but  with  dignified  air  and 
important, 
oiling  with  watchful  eye  the  tide  and  the  wind  and  the 
weather, 
Walked  about  on  the  sands ;  and  thepeople  crowded  around  him 
Saying  a  few  last  words,  and  enforcing  his  careful  rememl  irance. 
Then,  taking  each  by  the  hand,  as  if  he  were  grasping  a  tiller, 
Into  the  boat  he  sprang,  and  in  haste  shoved  off  to  his  vessel, 
Glad  in  his  heart  to  get  rid  of  all  this  worry  and  flurry, 
Glad  to  be  gone  from  a  land  of  sand  and  sickness  and  sorrow, 
Short  allowance  of  victual,  and  plenty  of  nothing  but  Gospel ! 
Lost  in  the  sound  of  the  oars  was  the  last  farewell  of  the  Pil- 
grims. 
0  strong  hearts  and  true  !  not  one  went  back  in  the  May- 

flower  I 
No,notonelookedback,  who  had  set  his  hand  to  this  ploughing. 
Soon  were  heard  on  board  the  shouts  and  songs  of  the  sailors 
Heaving  the  windlass  round,  and  hoisting  the  ponderous 

anchor. 
Then  the  yards  were  braced,  and  all  sails  set  to  the  west-wind, 
Blowing  steady  and  strong  ;  and  the  Mayjlower  sailed  from 

the  harbour. 
Rounded  the  point  of  the  G  urnet,  and  leaving  far  to  the  south- 
ward 


TUT.  COUItTSlITr  OF  MILES   BTANDI8H. 


117 


Mait'l  and  cape  of  sand,  and  the  field  of  the  first  encounter. 
Took  the  wind  on  her  quarter  and  stood  for  the  open  Atlantic, 
Borne  on  the  sand  of  the  Bea,  and  the  swelling  hearts  of  the 

Pilgrims. 
Long  in  silence  they  watched  the  receding  sail  of  the  vessel, 
Much  endeared  to  them  all,  a  i  something  living  and  human , 
Then,  as  if  tilled  with  the  {Spirit,  and  wrapped  in  a  vision 

prophel 
Taring  his  hoary  head,  the  excellent  Elder  of  Plymouth 
Said,  "  Let  us  pray  !"  and  they  prayed,  and  thanked  the 

Lord,  and  took  courage. 
Mournfully  sobbed  the  waves  at  the  base  of  the  rock,  and 

above  them 
Bowed  and  whispered  the  wheat  on  the  hill  of  death,  and 

their  kindred 
Seemed  to  awake  in  their  graves,  and  to  join  in  the  prayer 

that  they  uttered. 
Sun-illumined  and  white,  on  the  eastern  verge  of  the  ocean 
Q learned  the  departing  sail,  like  a  marble  slab  in  a  graveyard, 
Buried  beneath  it  lay  for  ever  all  hope  of  escaping. 
Lo  ;  as  they  turned  to  depart,  they  saw  the  form  of  an  Indian, 
Watching  them  from  the  hill ;  but  while  they  spake  with 

eacli  other. 
Pointing  with  outstretched  hands,  and  saying,  "  Look  !"  ho 

had  vanished. 
So  they  returned  to  their  homes ;  but  Alden  lingered  a  little, 
Musing  alone  on  the  shore,  and  watching  the  wash  of  the 

billows 
Round  the  base  of  the  rock,  and  the  sparkle  and  Hash  of  the 

sunshine, 
Like  the  Spirit  of  God  moving  visibly  over  the  waters. 


VI. 

PRISCILLA. 

Thus  for  a  while  he  stood,  and  mused  by  the  shore  of  the 

ocean, 
Thinking  of  many  things,  and  most  of  all  of  Priscilln  : 
And  as  if  thought  had  the  power  to  draw  to  itself,  like  the 

loadstone, 
Whatsoever  it  touches  by  subtle  laws  of  its  nature, 
Lo!  as  he  turned  to  depart,  Priscillawas  standing  beside  him 
"Are  you  so  much  offended,  you  will  not  speak  to  me?" 

said  she. 


i 


UK 


-    POEM*. 


1 


"Am  I  so  much  to  blame,  that  j 

pleading 
Warmly  the  f  another,  my  heart,  impulsive  and 

wayward, 
Pleaded  yourown,  and  spake  out,  forgetful  perhai  im  I 

Certainly  you  can  forgive  me  for  speaking  so  frankly,  for  saying 
What  1  ought  not  to  have  u  never  unsay  it ; 

For  there  are  moments  in  life,  when  the  heart  is  so  full  at 

emotion, 
That  if  by  chance  it  be  shaken,  or  into  its  depths  like  a  pebble 
Props  some  careless  word,  it  overflows,  and  its  secret, 
Spilt  on  the  ground  like  water,  can  never  he  gathered  I 
Yesterday  i  was  shocked  when  I  heard  yon  s;  ";iles 

Standish, 
Praising  his  virtues,  transforming  his  very  defects  into  virtues, 
Praising  his  courage  and  strength,  and  even  his  fighting  in 

Flanders, 
is  if  by  fighting  alone  you  could  win  the  heart  of  a  woman, 
Quite  overlooking  yourself  and  the  rest,  in  exalting  your  hero 
Therefore  I  spake  as  I  did,  by  an  irresistible  impulse. 
You  will  forgive  me,  1  hope,  for  the  sake  of  the  firiendshi] 

between  us, 
Which  is  too  true  and  too  sacred  to  be  so  easily  broken  !" 
Thereupon  answered  John  Alden,  the  scholar,  the  friend  of 

Miles  Standish : 
"  I  was  not  angry  with  you  ;  with  myself  alone  I  was  angry, 
Seeing  how  badly  I  managed  the  matter  I  had  in  my  keepi  I 
'  No  !"  interrupted  the  maiden,  with  answer  prompt  and 

decisive ; 
11  No  :  you  were  angry  with  me,  for  speaking  so  frankly  and 

freely. 
It  was  wrung,  I  acknowledge  ;  for  it  is  the  fate  of  a  woman 
Long  to  be  patient  and  silent,  to  wait  like  a  ghost  that  is 

speechless, 
Till  some  questioning  voice  dissolves  the  spell  of  its  silence. 
Hence  is  the  inner  life  of  so  many  suffering  women 
Sunless  and  silent  and  deep,  like  subterranean  rivers 
Running  through  caverns  of  darkness,  unheard,  unseen,  and 

unfruitful, 
Chafing  their  channels  of  stone,  with  endless  and  profitless 

murmurs." 
Thereupon  answered  John  Alden,  the  young  man,  the  lover 

of  woman : 
"Heaven  forbid  it,  Priscilla  ;  and  truly  they  seem  to  me  always 


I  ■ 


THE  0OURTSH1  I'  OP  MILKS  STANDI8H. 


tin 


More  like  the  beautiful  rivers  that  watered  the  garden  of  Eden, 
More  like  the  river  Euphrates,  through  deserts  of  Havilah 

flowing, 
Filling  the  land  with  delight,  and  memories  sweet  of  the 

garden !" 
"  Ah,  by  these  w<  in  Is,  T  can  see,"  again  interrupted  the  maiden, 
u  How  very  little  you  prize  me,  or  care  for  what  I  am  saying, 
When  from  the  depths  of  my  heart,  in  pain  and  with  secret 

misgiving, 
Frankly  1  speak  to  y<  .11,  asking  for  sympathy  only  and  kindness, 
Straightway  you  take  up  my  words,  that  are  plain  and  direct 

and  in  earnest, 
Turn  them  away  from  their  meaning,  and  answer  with  flat- 
tering phrases. 
This  is  not  right,  is  not  just,  is  not  true  to  the  best  that  is 

in  you  ; 
For  I  know  and  esteem  you,  and  feel  that  your  nature  is  noble 
Lifting  mine  up  to  a  higher,  a  more  ethereal  level. 
Therefore  I  value  your  friendship,  and  feel  it  perhaps  the 

more  keenly 
If  you  say  aught  that  implies  I  am  only  as  one  among  many 
If  you  make  use  of  those  common  and  complimentary  phrase? 
Most  men  think  so  fine,  in  dealing  and  speaking  with  women, 
But  which  women  reject  as  insipid,  if  not  as  insulting." 
Mute  and  amazed  was  Alden ;   and  listened  and  looked  at 

Priscilla, 
Thinking  he  never  had  seen  her  more  fair,  more  divine  in  her 

beauty. 
He  who  but  yesterday  pleaded  so  glibly  the  cause  of  another, 
Stood  there  embarrassed  and  silent,  and  seeking  in  vain  for  an 

answer. 
So  the  maiden  went  on,  and  little  divined  or  imagined 
What  was  at  work  in  his  heart,  that  made  him  so  awkward 

and  speechless. 
"Let  us,  then,  be  what  we  are,  and  speak  what  we  think, 

and  in  all  things 
Keep  ourselves  loyal  to  until,  and  the  sacred  professions  of 

friendship. 
It  is  no  secret  I  tell  you,  nor  am  I  ashamed,  to  declare  it : 
I  have  liked  to  be  with  you,  to  see  you,  to  speak  with  you 

always, 
was  hurt  at  your  words,  and  a  little  affronted  to  hear  you 
■narry  your  friend,  though  he  were  the  Captain 

Miles  Stand  ish. 


■ 


■ 


4lM*£ 


■■ 


120 


IFELLOW  1    POIM1 


v 


.' 


For  !  must  tell  you  the  truth:  much  more  to  me  is  youi 

friendship 
Tlian  all  the  love  he  could  give,  were  he  twice  the  hero  you 

think  him." 
Then  she  extended  her  hand,  and  Alden,  who  eagerly  graspedit, 

Felt  all  the  wounds  in  his  heart,  that  were  aching  and  bleed- 
ing so  sorely, 
Healed  hy  the  touch  of  that  hand  ;  and  he  said,  with  a  voice 

full  of  feeling, 
"  Yes,  we  must  ever  be  friends ;  and  of  all  who  offer  you 

friendship, 
Let  me  be  ever  the  first,  the  truest,  the  nearest  and  dearest !" 
Casting  a  farewell  look  at  the  glimmering  sail  of  the  May- 
flower, 
Distant,  but  still  in  sight,  and  sinking  below  the  horizon, 
Homeward  together  they  walked,  with  a  strange  indefinite 

feeling, 
That  all  the  rest  had  departed  and  left  them  alone  in  the 

desert. 
But,  as  they  went  through  the  fields  in  the  blessing  and  smile 

of  the  sunshine, 
Lighter  grew  their  hearts,  and  Priscilla  said  very  archly  : 
"  Now  that  our  terrible  Captain  has  gone  in  pursuit  of  the 

Indians, 
Where  he  is  happier  far  than  he  would  be  commanding  a 

household, 
You  may  speak  boldly,  and  tell   me  of  all  that  happened 

between  you, 
When  you  returned  last  night,  and  said  how  ungrateful  you 

found  me." 
Thereupon  answered  John  Alden,  and  told  her  the  whole  of 

the  story, — 
Told  her  his  own  despair,  and  the  direful  wrath  of  Miles 

Standish. 
Whereat  the  maiden  smiled,  and  said,  between  laughing  and 

earnest, 
"  He  is  a  little  chimney,  and  heated  hot  in  a  moment  !" 
But  as  he  gently  rebuked  her,  and  told  her  how  much  he  had 

suffered, 
How  he  had  even  determined  to  sail  that  day  in  the  Ma  '/flower, 
And  had  remained  for  her  sake,  on  hearing  the  dangers  that 

threatened. 
All  her  manner  was  changed,  and  she  said,  with  a  faltering 

accent, 


THE  001  R1  BHIP  OF  MILKS  ST  LNDISH. 


421 


"  Truly  I  thank  you  for  this:   how  good  you  have  been  to 

me  always  !" 
Thus  as  a  pilgrim  devout,  who  towards  .Jerusalem  journeys, 
Taking  three  steps  in  advance,  and  one  reluctantly  backward, 
Urged  by  importunate  zeal,  and  withheld  by  pangs  of  contrition; 
Slowly  but  Bteadily  onward,  receding  yet  ever  advancing, 
Journeyed  this  Puritan   youth   to   the   Holy  Land   of  his 

longings, 
Urged  by  the  tervour  of  love,  and  withheld  by  remorseful 

misgivings. 

VII. 
THE  MARCH  OF  MILES  STANDISH. 

Meanwhile   the  stalwart  Miles   Standish  was  marching 

steadily  northward, 
Winding  through  forest  and  swamp,  and  along  the  trend  of 

the  sea-shore. 
All  day  long,  with  hardly  a  halt,  the  fire  of  his  anger 
Burning  and  crackling  within,  and  the  sulphurous  odour  of 

powder 
Seeming  more  sweet  to  his  nostrils  than  all  the  scents  of  the 

forest. 
Silent  and  moody  he  went,  and  much  he  revolved  his  dis- 
comfort; 
He  who  was  used  to  success,  and  to  easy  victories  always, 
Thus  to  be  flouted,  rejected,  and  laughed  to  scorn  by  a  maiden, 
Thus  to  be  mocked  and  betrayed  by  the  friend  whom  most 

he  had  trusted ! 
Ah  !  'twas  too  much  to  be  borne,  and  he  fretted  and  chafed  in 

his  armour  ! 
"1  alone  am  to  blame,"  he  muttered,  "for  mine  was  the 

folly. 
What  has  a  rough  old  soldier,  grown  grim  and  gray  in  the 

harness, 
Used  to  the  camp  and  its  ways,  to  do  with  the  wooing  of 

maidens  ? 
'Twas  but  a  dream, — let  it  pass,— let  it  vanish  like  so  many 

others ! 
What  1  thought  was  a  dower  is  only  a  weed,  and  is  worthlc 
Out  of  my  heart  will  I  pluck  it,  and  throw   it  away,  and 

henceforward 
lie  but  a  !:■:•<  r  of  battles,  a  lover  and  wooer  of  dangers!" 
Thus  he  revolved  in  his  mind  his  sorry  defeat  and  discomfort. 


■M; 


1 


ijjht  in  il 
i  the  nc 

S  them 

Ish,  :uui  oiler  bin  fnrsjis  a  present  . 
.  their  look,  but  in  their  hearts  there  was 

and  brother; 

I  hi;,  -.urn. 

Row  suspended  their  k 

withpoin  eedle. 

grams  had  I  p7  forth*  imniiux  and  ci 

"  W'i  |    had 

forS 

:  taller  for  pel* 

rhenint  rley  with  Standish, 

.  . 

jing  fori  .it  mostly  lor  mus 

I  with  the  plagwe 

Readj  to  belet  loose,  and  d  man. 

sh  refused,  and  sa  retheinthe 

Suddenly  il  to 

Then  Wattawamafl  advai  th  astride  in  Grout  of 

otl  I 


f 


« 


Tin:  COURTSHIP  OP  MILES  STA3  DI8H. 


And,  with  a  lofty  demeanour,  thus  vauntingly  spake  to  the 

Captain  : 
"Now  Wattawamat  can  sec,  by  the  fiery  eyes  of  the  Captain, 
Angry  is  he  in  his  heart;  but  the  heart  of  the  brave  Watta- 
wamat 
N  Dot  afraid  at  the  sight.    lie  was  not  born  of  a  woman, 
But  on  a  mountain,  at  night,  from  an  oak  tree  riven  by  light- 

■■■     ■ 

Forth  he  sprang  at  a  bound,  with  all  hi.  weapons  about  him, 

Shouting  '  Who  is  there  here  to  fight  with  the  brave  Watta- 
wamat?'" 

Then  lie  unsheathed  his  kirife,  and  whetting  the  blade  on  his 
left  hand, 

Held  it  aloft  and  displayed  a  woman's  face  on  the  handle, 

Saying,  with  bitter  expression,  and  look  of  sinister  meaning, 

"  I  have  another  at  home,  with  the  face  of  a  man  on  the 
handle; 

By-and-bv  they  shall  marry ;  and  there  will  be  plenty  of 
children!" 

Then  stood  Pecksuot  forth,  self- vaunting,  insulting  Miles 
Standish : 

While  with  his  fiugers  he  patted  the  knife  that  hung  at  his 
bosom, 

Drawing  it  half  from  its  sheath,  and  plunging  it  back,  as  he 
muttered, 

"  By-and-by  it  shall  see;  it  shall  eat ;  ah,  ha !  but  shall  speak 
not! 

This  is  the  mighty  Captain  the  white  men  have  sent  to  de- 
stroy us ! 

He  is  a  little  man  ;  let  him  go  and  work  with  the  women  !" 

.Meanwhile  Standish  had  noted  the  faces  and  figures  pf 
Indians 

Peeping  and  creeping  about  from  bush  to  tree  in  the  forest, 

Feigning  to  look  for  game,  with  arrows  set  on  their  bow-strings, 

Drawing  about  him  still  closer  and  closer  the  net  of  their  am- 
bush. 

But  undaunted  he  stood,  and  dissembled  and  treated  them 
smoothly  ; 

So  the  old  chronicles  say,  that  were  writ  in  the  days  of  the 
Fathers. 

But  when  he  heard  their  defiance,  the  boast,  the  taunt,  and 
the  insult, 

All  the  hot  blood  of  his  race,  of  Sir  Hugh  and  of  Thurston  de 
aodish, 


n 


124 


lEMfl. 


Boiled  and  beat  in  his  heart,  and  swelled  in  the  veins  of  bin 
temples. 

Headlong  he  leaped  on  the  boaster,  and  snatching  his  i 
from  its  scabbard^ 

Plunged  it  into  his  heart,  and,  reeling  backward,  the  savage 

Fell  with  his  face  to  the  sky,  and  a  fiendlike  fierceness  upon  it- 

Straight  there  arose  from  the  forest  the  awful  sound  of  the 
war-whoop, 

And,  like  a  flurry  of  snow  on  the  whistling  wind  of  December, 

Swift  and  sudden  and  keen  came  a  flight  of  feathery  ar- 
rows. 

Then  came  a  cloud  of  smoke,  and  out  of  the  cloud  came  the 
lightning, 

Out  of  the  lightning,  thunder ;  and  death  unseen  ran  before  it. 

Frightened  the  savages  fled  for  shelter  in  swamp  and  in 
thicket, 

Hotly  pursued  and  beset ;  but  their  sachem,  the  brave  Watta- 
wamat, 

Fled  not ;  he  was  dead.     Unswerving  and  swift  had  a  bullet 

Passed  through  his  brain,  and  he  fell  with  both  hands  clutch- 
ing the  greensward, 

Seeming  in  death  to  hold  back  from  his  foe  the  land  of  his 
fathers. 

There  on  the  flowers  of  the  meadow  the  warriors  lay,  and 
above  them, 

Silent,  with  folded  arms,  stood  Hobomok,  friend  of  the  white 
man. 

Smiling,  at  length  he  exclaimed  to  the  stalwart  Captain  of 
Plymouth : 

"  Pecksuot  bragged  very  loud  of  his  courage,  his  strength, 
and  his  stature, — 

Mocked  the  great  Captain,  and  called  him  a  little  man  ,  but 
I  see  now 

Big  enough  have  you  been  to  lay  him  speechless  before  you  !  ' 

Thus  the  first  battle  was  fought  and  won  by  the  stalwart 
Miles  Standish. 

\Y  hen  the  tidings  thereof  were  brought  to  the  village  of  Ply- 
mouth, 

And  as  a  trophy  of  war  the  head  of  the  brave  Wattawamat 

Scowled  from  the  roof  of  the  fort,  which  at  once  was  a  church 
and  a  fortress, 

All  who  beheld  it  rejoiced,  and  praised  the  Lord,  and  took 
courage. 

Only  Priscilla  averted  her  face  from  this  spectre  of  terror, 


THE  COUR  L'SHl  P  OP  Ml  LES  8TANDI81I. 


Thanking  God  in  her  heart  that  she  had  not  married  Miles 

Staudisb  ; 
Shrinking,  fearing  almost,  lest)  coming  home  from  his  halt 
Be  Bhould  lay  claim  to  her  hand,  as  the  prize  and  reward  of 

his  valour. 


VIII. 
THE  SPINNING-WIIEEL. 

Month  after  month  passed  away,  and  in  autumn  the  ships 

of  the  merchants 
tamo  with  kindred  and  friends,  with  cattle  and  corn  for  the 

Pilgrims. 
All  in  the  village  was  peace  ;  the  men  were  intent  on  then 

lahonrs, 
Busy  with  hewing  and  building,  with  garden-plot  and  with 

merestead, 
Busy  with  breaking  the  glebe,  and  mowing  the  grass  in  the 

meadows, 
Searching  the  sea  for  its  fish,  and  hunting  the  deer  in  the 

forest. 
All  in  the  village  was  peace  ;  but  at  times  the  rumour  of 

warfare 
Filled  the  air  with  alarm,  and  the  apprehension  of  danger. 
Bravely  the  stalwart  Miles  Standish  was  scouring  the  land 

with  his  forces, 
Waxing  valiant  in  fight  and  defeating  the  alien  armies, 
Till  his  name  had  become  a  sound  of  fear  to  the  nations. 
Auger  was  still  in  his  heart,  but  at  times  the  remorse  and 

contrition 
Which  in  all  noble  natures  succeed  the  passionate  outbreak, 
Came  like  a  rising  tide,  that  encounters  the  rush  of  a  river, 
Staying  its  current  awhile,  but  making  it  bitter  and  brackish. 
Meanwhile  Aldenat  home  had  built  him  a  new  habitation, 
Solid,  substantial,  of  timber  rough-hewn  from  the  firs  of  the 

forest. 
Wooden-barred  was  the  door,  and  the  roof  was  covered  with 

rushes, 
Latticed  the  windows  were,  and  the  window-panes  were  of 

paper  ; 
( tiled  to  admit  the  light,  while  wind  and  rain  were  excluded. 
There  too  he  dug  a  well,  and  around  it  planted  an  orchard  : 
Still  may  be  seen  to  this  day  some  trace  of  the  well  and  the 

orchard. 


MW* 


426 


IF 


Close  to  the  house  was  the  itall,  where,  I  secure  from 

annoyance, 
horn,  the  snow-white  steer  that  bad  fallen  to  AM 

allotment 
In  the  division  of  cattle,  might  ruminate  in  the  night-tin 
over  tin.'  pastures  be  cropped,  made  fragrant hy  sweet  penny- 

n  iyal. 
Oft  when  his  labour  was  finished,  with  eager  feet  would  the 

dreamer 
Follow  the  pathway  that  ran  through  the  woods  to  the  house 

of  Pnscilla, 
Led  by  illusions  romantic  and  subtile  deceptions  of  fancy, 
Pleasure  disguised  as  duty,  and  love  in  the  semblance  or 

friendship. 
Ever  of  her  he  thought,  when  he  fashioned  the  walls  of  his 

dwelling ; 
Ever  of  her  he  thought,  when  he  delved  in  the  soil  of  his 

garden  ; 
Ever  of  her  he   thought,  when  he  read   in  his   Bible  on 

Sunday 
Praise  of  the  virtuous  woman,  as  she  is  described  in  the 

Proverbs, — 
llow  the  heart  of  her   husband  doth  safely  trust  in   her 

always  ; 
1  low  all  the  days  of  her  life  she  will  do  him  good,  and  not  evil ; 
How  she  seeketh  the  wool  and  the  flax,  and  worketh  with 

gladness  ; 
llow  she  layeth  her  hand  to  the  spindle,  and  holdeth  the 

distaff  ; 
1  low  she  is  not  afraid  of  the  snow  for  herself  or  her  household, 
Knowing  her  household  are  clothed  with  the  scarlet  cloth  of 

her  weaving  ! 
So  as  she  sat  at  her  wheel  one  afternoon  in  the  autumn, 
Alden,  who  opposite  sat,  and  was  watching  her  dexterous 

fingers, 
As  if  the  thread  she  was  spinning  were  that  of  his  life  and 

his  fortune, 
After  a  pause  in  their  talk,  thus  spake  to  the  sound  of  the 

spindle  : 
"  Truly,  Priscilla,"  he  said,  "  when  I  see  you  spinning  and 

spinning, 
Never  idle  a  moment,  but  thrifty  and  thoughtful  of  others, 
Suddenly  you  are  transformed,  are  visibly  changed  in  a  mo- 
ment; 


■  . 


m 


m 


i i 


Vou  are  no  Longer   Priscilla,  but  Bertha  the    Beautiful 

Spinner." 
Here  the  lighl  fool  on  the  treadle  grew  swifter  and  swifter, 

the  spindle 
Uttered  an  angry  snarl,  and  the  thread  snapped  short  in  her 

fingers ; 
\\  hile  the  impetuous  speaker,  not  heeding  the  mischief,  con- 
tinued : 
"You  are  the  beautiful  Bertha,  the  spinner,  the  queen  of 

Helvetia  ; 
She  whose  story  I  read  at  a  stall  in  the  streets  of  South- 
ampton, 
Who,  as  she  rode  on  her  palfrey,  o'er  valley  and  meadow  and 

mountain, 
Ever  was  spinning  her  thread  from  a  distaff  fixed  to  her  saddle. 
She  was  so  thrifty  and  good,  that  her  name  passed  into  a 

proverb. 
So  shall  it  be  with  your  own,  when  the  spinning-wheel  shall 

no  longer 
Hum  in  the  house  of  the  farmer,  and  fill  its  chambers  with 

music. 
Then  shall  the  mothers,  reproving,  relate  how  it  was  in  their 

childhood, 
Praising  the  good  old  times,  and  the  days  of  Priscilla  the 

spinner  S" 
Straight  uprose  from  her  wheel  the  beautiful  Puritan  maiden, 
Pleased  with  the  praise  of  her  thrift  from  him  whose  praise 

was  the  sweetest, 
Drew  from  the  reel  on  the  table  a  snowy  skein  of  her  spinning, 
Thus  making  answer,  meanwhile,  to  the  flattering  phrases  of 

Alden : 
kC  Come,  you  must  not  be  idle  ;  if  1  am  a  pattern  for  house- 
wives, 
Bhow  yourself  equally  worthy  of  being  the  model  of  husbands. 
Hold  this  skein  in  your  hands,  while  T  wind  it  ready  for 

knitting; 
Then  who  knows  but  hereafter,  when  fashions  have  changed 

and  manners, 
Fathers  may  talk  to  their  sons  of  the  good  old  times  of  John 

Alden  !" 
Thus,  with  a  jest  and  a  laugh,  the  skein  on  his  bands  she 

adjusted, 
lie  Bitting  awkwardly  there,  with  lie  arms  extended  before 

him. 


^nfri 


£l( 


128 


»EM8 


She  standing  graceful,  civet,  and  rinding  the  thread  I 
fingers, 

Sometimes  chiding  a  little  his  clumsy  manner  of  holding, 
Sometimes  touching  his  hands,  as  she  disentangled  expertly 
Twist  or  knot  in  the  yarn,  unawares— for  how  could  she  help 
it?— 

Sending  electrical  thrills  through  every  nerve  in  his  body. 
Lo !  in  the  midst  of  this  scene,  a  breathless  messenger  entered, 
Bringing  in  hurry  and  heat  the  terrible  news  from  the  village. 
Yes  ;  Miles  Standish  was  dead  I— an  Indian  had  brought 

them  the  tidings, — 
Slain  by  a  poisoned  arrow,  shot  down  in  the  front  of  the  battle. 
Into  an  ambush  beguiled,  cut  oil'  with  the  whole  of  his  forces  ; 
All  the  town  would  be  burned,  and  all  the  people  be  murdered ! 
Such  were  the  tidings  of  evil  that  burst  on  the  hearts  of  the 

hearers. 
Silent  and  statue-like  stood  Priscilla,  her  face  looking  back- 
ward 
Still  at  the  face  of  the  speaker,  her  arms  uplifted  in  horror  ; 
But  John  Alden,  upstarting,  as  if  the  barb  of  the  arrow 
Piercing  the  heart  of  his  friend  had  struck  his  own,  and  had 

sundered 
Once  and  for  ever  the  bonds,  that  held  him  bound  as  a  captive, 
Wild  with  excess  of  sensation,  the  awful  delight  of  his  freedom, 
Mingled  with  pain  and  regret,  unconscious  of  what  he  was 

doing, 
Clasped,  almost  with  a  groan,  the  motionless  form  of  Priscilla, 
Pressing  her  close  to  his  heart,  as  for  over  his  own,  and  ex- 
claiming : 
"  Those  whom  the  Lord  hath  united,  let  no  man  put  them 

asunder  !" 
Even  as  rivulets  twain,  from  distant  and  separate  sources, 
Seeing  each  other  alar,  as  they  leap  from  the  rocks  and  pur- 
suing 
Each  one  its  devious  path,  but  drawing  nearer  and  nearer, 
Rush  together  at  last,  at  their  trysting-place  in  the  forest ; 
So  these  lives  that  had  run  thus  far  in  separate  channels, 
Coming  in  sight  of  each  other,  then  swerving  and  flowing 

asunder, 
Parted  by  barriers  strong,  but  drawing  nearer  and  nearer, 
Rushed  together  at  last,  and  one  was  lost  in  the  other. 


..  .^ 


TUK  COURTSHl  I'  OF  MILES  8TANDI8H 


I -JO 


IX. 
THE  WEDDING-DAY. 

Foirrn  from  the  ouitain  of  clouds,  from  the  tent  of  purple  and 

scarlet, 

Issued  the  sun,  the  great  High-Priest,  in  his  garments  re- 
splendent, 

Holiness  onto  the  Lord,  in  letters  of  light,  on  Ids  forehead, 

Round  the  hem  of  his  robe  the  golden  hells  and  pomegranates. 

Blessing  the  world  he  came,  and  the  bars  of  vapour  beneath 
him 

Gleamed  like  a  grate  of  brass,  and  the  sea  at  his  feet  was  a 
laver  ! 

This  was  the  wedding  morn  of  Priscilla,  the  Puritan  maiden. 

Friends  were  assembled  together  ;  the  Elder  and  Magistrate 
also 

Graced  the  scene  with  their  presence,  and  stood  like  the  Law 
and  the  Gospel, 

One  with  the  sanction  of  earth  and  one  with  the  blessing  ol 
Heaven. 

Simple  and  brief  was  the  wedding,  as  that  of  Ruth  and  of  Boaz 

Softly  the  youth  and  the  maiden  repeated  the  words  of  be- 
trothal, 

Taking  each  other  for  husband  and  wife  in  the  Magistrate's 
presence, 

After  the  Puritan  way,  and  the  laudable  custom  of  Holland. 

Fervently  then,  and  devoutly,  the  excelleut  Elder  of  Ply- 
mouth 

Prayed  fur  the  hearth  and  the  home  that  were  founded  that 
day  in  affection, 

Speaking  of  life  and  of  death,  and  imploring  Divine  bene- 
dictions. 

Lo  !  when  the  service  was  ended,  a  form  appeared  on  the 
threshold, 

Clad  in  armour  of  steel,  a  sombre  and  sorrowful  figure  ! 

Why  does  the  bridegroom  start  and  stare  at  the  strange  ap- 
parition '. 

Why  does  the  bride  turn  pale,  and  hide  her  face  on  hie 
shoulder  ? 

Is  it  a  phantom  of  air,  -  -a  bodiless,  spectral  illusion  •' 

Is  it  a  ghost  from  the  grave,  that  has  come  to  forbid  the  be 
ml  ' 


130 


IFELLOWS  f« 


Long  had  it  stood  there  unseen,  a  guest  uninvited,  unwelcomed; 
r  its  clouded  eyes  there  had  I  times  an  expression 

Softening  the  gloom  and  revealing  the  warm  heart  hidden 
neath  them, 

As  when  across  the  sky  the  driving  rack  of  the  rain-cloud 

Grows  for  a  moment  thin,  and  betrays  the  sun  by  its  bright- 
ness. 

Once  it  had  lifted  its  hand,  and  moved  its  lips,  but  was  silent, 

As  if  an  iron  will  had  mastered  the  fleeting  intention. 

But  when  were  ended  the  troth,  and  the  prayer,  and  the  last 
benediction, 

Into  the  room  it  .^crode,  and  the  people  beheld  with  am; 
ment, 

Bodily  there  in  his  armour,  Miles  Standisb,  the  Captain  of 
Plymouth ! 

Grasping  the  bridegroom's  hand,  he  said  with  emotion,  "  For- 
give me ! 

1  have  been  angry  and  hurt,     too  long  have  I  cherished  the 
feelii 

I  have  been  cruel  and  hard,  but  now,  thank  God  !  it  is  ended. 

Mine  is  the  same  hot  blood  that  leaped  in  the  veins  of  Hugh 
Standish, 

Sensitive,  swift  to  resent,  but  as  swift  in  atoning  for  error. 

Never  BO  much  as  now  was  Miles  Standish  the  friend  of  John 
Alden." 

Thereupon  answered  the  bridegroom  :  "  Let  all  be  forgotten 
between  us, — 

All  save  the  dear  old  friendship,  and  that  shall  grow  older 
and  dearer  !" 

Then  the  Captain  advanced,  and,  bowing,  saluted  Priscilla 

Gravely,  and  after  the  manner  of  old-fashioned  gentry  in 
England, 

Something  of  camp  and  of  court,  of  town  and  of  country, 
commingled, 

Wishing  her  joy  of  her  wedding,  and  loudly  lauding  her  hus- 
band. 

Then  he  said  with  a  smile  :  — "  I  should  have  remembered  the 
adage, — 

If  you  would  be  well  served,  you  must  serve  yourself;  and 
moreover, 

No  man  can  gather  cherries  in  Kent  at  the  season  of  Christ- 
mas !" 

Great  was  the  people's  amazement,  and  greater  yet  their  re- 
joicing, 


Tin:  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  8TANDI8H 


•i:n 


Thus  to  behold  vucc  more  the  sunburnt  face  of  their  Captain, 
Whom  the)  had  mourned  as  dead ;  and  they  gathered  and 

crowded  about  him, 

him,  and  hoar  him,  forgetful  of  bride  and  of 

bridegroom, 
kioning,  answering,  laughing,  and  each  interrupting  the 

of 
Till  the  good  Captain  declared,  being  quite  overpowered  and 

bewildered, 
He  had  rather  by  far  break  into  an  Indian  encampment 
Than  come  again  to  a  wedding  to  which  lie  had  not  been  in- 
vited. 
Meanwhile  the  bridegroom  went  forth  and  stood  with  the 

bride  at  the  doorway, 
Breathing  the  perfumed  air  of  that  warm  and  beautiful 

morning. 
Touched  with  autumnal   tints,  but  lonely  and   sad  in  the 

sunshine, 
Lay  extended  before  them  the  land  of  toil  and  privation  ; 
There  were  the  graves  of  the  dead,  and  the  barren  waste  of 

the  sea-shore, 
There  the  familiar  fields,  the  groves  of  pine,  and  the  mea- 
dows ; 
But  to  their  eyes  transfigured,  it  seemed  as  the  Garden  of 

Eden, 
Filled  with  the  presence  of  God,  whose  voice  was  the  sound 

of  the  ocean. 
Soon  was  their  vision   disturbed  by  the   noise  and  stir  of 

departure, 
Friends  coming  forth  from  the  house,  and  impatient  of  longer 

delaying, 
Each  with  his  plan  for  the  day,  and  the  work  that  was  left 

uncompleted. 
Then  from  a  stall  near  at  hand,  amid  exclamations  of 

wonder, 
Alden  the  thoughtful,  the  careful,  so   happy,  so  proud  of 

Priscilla, 
Brought  out  Ids  snow-white  steer,  obeying  the  hand  of  it- 

master, 
Led  by  a  cord  that  was  tied  to  an  iron  ring  in  its  nostrils, 

rered  with  crimson  cloth,  and  a  cushion  placed  fora saddle. 
She  should  not  walk,  he  said,  through  the  dust  and  heat  of 

the  noonday  ; 
Nay,  shohould  nde  Like  a  queen,  not  plodalong  like  a  peasant 


•' 


a. 


432 


(FELLOW  S  P0LM8. 


/■:: 


Somewhat  alarmed  at  first,  but  reassured  by  the  othe 
Placing  her  hand  on  the  cushion,  her  foot  in  the  hand  of  ha 

husband, 
Saily,  with  joyous  laugh,  PrisciHa  mounted  her  palfi 
"Nothing  is  wanting  now,"  he  said,  with  a  smile,  ;<  but  the 

•  list  ail': 
Then  you  would  be  in  truth  my  queen,  my  beautiful  Bertha  !" 
Onward  the  bridal  procession  now  moved  to  their  new  habi- 
tation, 
Happy  husband  and  wife,  and  friends  conversing  (together. 
Pleasantly  murmured  the  brook,  as  they  crosed  the  ford  in 

the  forest, 
Pleased  with  the  image  that  passed,  like  a  dream  of  love 

through  its  bosom, 
Tremulous,  floating  in  air,  o'er  the  depths  of  the  azure  abysses. 
Down  through  the  golden  leaves  the  sun  was  pouring  his 

splendours, 
Gleaming  on  purple  grapes,  that,  from  branches  above  them 

suspended, 
Mingled  their  odorous  breath  with  the  balm  of  the  pine  and 

the  fir-tree, 
Wild  and  sweetas  the  clusters  that  grew  in  the  valley  of  Eschol. 
Like  a  picture  it  seemed  of  the  primitive,  pastoral  ages, 
Fresh  with  the  youth  of  the  world,  and  recalling  Rebecca  and 

Isaac, 
Old  and  yet  ever  new,  and  simple  and  beautiful  alwai 
Love  immortal  and  young  in  the  endless  succession  of  lovers 
So  through  the  Plymouth  woods  passed  onward  t  lie  bridal 

procession. 


-  ,_ ^. r •  ■    •  ■ ""■"        1BI I 


BIRDS   OF    PASSAGE. 


Come;  gru  van  cantando  lor  lal 
Facendo  in  aer  di  sfe  lunga  riga  " — hanie, 


t:  ■■  ■" 


PROMETHEUS  j 

OR,  THE  TOET's  FORETHOUGHT. 

Of  Prometheus  how  undaunted 

On  Olympus'  shiniug  bastions 
His  audacious  foot  he  planted, 
Myths  are  told  and  songs  are  chanted, 

Full  of  promptings  and  suggestions. 

Beautiful  is  the  tradition 

Of  that  flight  through  heavenly  portiis, 
The  old  classic  superstition 
Of  the  theft  and  the  transmission 

Of  the  fire  of  the  Immortals  ! 

First  the  deed  of  noble  daring, 

Born  of  heavenward  aspiration, 
Then  the  fire  with  mortals  sharing, 
Then  the  vulture,— the  despairing 
Cry  of  pain  on  crags  Caucasian. 

All  is  but  a  symbol  painted 

Of  the  Poet.  Prophet,  Seer ; 
Only  those  are  crowned  and  sainted 
Who  with  grief  have  been  acquainted, 

Making  nations  nobler,  freer. 

hi  their  feverish  exultations, 
In  their  triumph  and  their  yearning, 

In  their  passionate  pulsati 

In  their  word       long  the  natii 
Tluv  Promethean  fire  is  burnin 


M 


Vr2 


5 


LONGFELLOW  8  TOEMS. 


Shall  it,  then,  be  unavailii 

All  this  toil  fur  human  culture  I 
Through  the  cloud-rack,  dark  and  trailing, 
Must  they  see  above  them  Bailing 

O'er  life's  barren  crags  the  vulture  ? 

Such  a  fate  as  this  was  Dante's, 

By  defeat  and  exile  maddened  ; 
Thus  were  Milton  and  Cervantes, 
Nature's  priests  and  Corybantes, 

By  affliction  touched  ami  saddened 

But  the  glories  so  transcendent 

That  around  their  memories  cluster, 
And,  on  all  their  steps  attendant, 
Make  their  darkened  lives  resplendent 
With  such  gleams  of  inward  lustre  ! 

All  the  melodies  mysterious, 

Through  the  dreary  darkness  chanted  ; 
Thoughts  in  attitudes  imperious, 
Voices  soft,  and  deep,  and  serious, 

Words  that  whispered,  songs  that  haunted  ! 

All  the  soul  in  rapt  suspension, 

All  the  quivering,  palpitating 
Chords  of  life  in  utmost  tension 
With  the  fervour  of  invention, 

With  the  rapture  of  creating  ! 

Ah,  Prometheus  !  heaven  scaling  ! 

In  such  hours  of  exultation 
Even  the  faintest  heart,  unquailing, 
Might  behold  the  vulture  sailing 

Round  the  cloudy  crags  Caucasian  ! 

Though  to  all  there  is  not  given 
Strength  for  such  sublime  endeavour, 

Thus  to  scale  the  walls  of  heaven, 

And  to  leaven  with  fiery  leaven 
All  the  hearts  of  men  for  ever  ; 

Yet  all  bards,  whose  hearts  unhlighted 

Honour  and  believe  the  presage, 
Ilold  aloft  their  torches  lighted, 
Gleaming  through  the  realms  benighted, 
As  they  onward  bear  the  message  ! 


«**,<**. 


BIIlbH  OF   I'A." 


4« 


HAUNTED  IIOUSKS 

Ai  i  houses  wherein  men  have  lived  and  died 
Arc  haunted  lionses.    Through  theopen  doors 

The  harmless  phantoms  on  their  errands  glide, 
With  feet  that  make  no  sound  upon  the  floors, 

We  meet  them  at  the  doorway,  on  the  stair, 
Along  the  passages  they  come  and  go, 

Impalpable  impressions  on  the  air, 
A  sense  of  something  moving  to  and  fro. 

There  are  more  guests  at  table  than  the  hosts 

Invited  ;  the  illuminated  hall 
Is  thronged  with  quiet-,  inoffensive  ghosts, 

As  silent  as  the  pictures  on  the  wall. 

The  stranger  at  my  fireside  cannot  see 
The  forms  1  see,  nor  hear  the  sounds  1  hear  ;• 

He  but  perceives  what  is  ;  while  unto  me 
All  that  has  been  is  visible  and  clear. 

We  have  no  title-deeds  to  house  or  lands  ; 

Owners  and  occupants  of  earlier  dates 
From  graves  forgotten  stretch  their  dusty  hands, 

And  hold  in  mortmain  still  their  old  estates. 

The  spirit- world  around  this  world  of  sense 
Floats  like  an  atmosphere,  and  everywhere 

Wafts  through  these  earthly  mists  and  vapours  densf 
A  vital  breath  of  more  ethereal  air. 

Our  little  lives  are  kept  in  equipoise 

By  opposite  attractions  and  desires ; 
The  struggle  of  the  instinct  that  enjoys, 

And  the  more  noble  instinct  that  aspires 

These  perturbations,  this  perpetual  jar 
Of  earthly  wants  and  aspirations  high, 

Come  from  the  influence  of  an  unseen  star, 
An  undiscovered  planet  in  our  sky. 

And  as  the  moon  from  some  dark  gate  of  cloud 
Throws  o'er  the  sea  a  floating  bridge  of  light, 

Across  whose  trembling  planks  our  fancies  crowd 
lnf"  the  realm  of  mystery  and  night. 


•V 


v»y 


430 


LONG!  Ci.l.oW  6  POl 


rom  the  world  of  spirits  there  desoendi 
A  bridge  of  light,  connecting  it  with  this, 
O'er  whose  unsteady  Hoor,  that  sways  and  IhjikIb, 
Wander  OUT  thoughts  above  the  (lark  abyss. 


IN  THE  CHURCHYARD  AT  CAMBRIDGE 

In  the  village  churchyard  she  lies, 
Dust  is  in  her  beautiful  eyes, 

Ho  more  she  breathes,  nor  feels,  nor  stirs ; 
At  her  feet  and  at  her  head 
Lies  a  slave  to  attend  the  dead, 

But  their  dust  is  white  as  heft. 

Was  she  a  lady  of  high  degree, 
So  much  in  love  with  the  vanity 

And  foolish  pomp  of  this  world  of  ours  / 
Or  was  it  Christian  charity, 
And  lowliness  and  humility, 

The  richest  and  rarest  of  all  dowers  i 

Who  shall  tell  us  /     No  one  speaks  ; 
No  colour  shoots  into  those  cheeks, 

Either  of  anger  or  of  pride, 
At  the  rude  question  we  have  asked  ; 
Nor  will  the  mystery  be  unmasked 

By  those  who  are  sleeping  at  her  side. 

Hereafter  I     And  do  you  think  to  loci; 
On  the  terrible  pages  of  that  Book 

To  find  her  failings,  faults,  and  errors! 
Ah,  you  will  then  have  other  cares, 
In  your  own  shortcomings  and  despairs, 
In  your  own  secret  .sins  and  terrors  ' 


TEE  EMPEROR'S  BIRD'S-NEST. 

i  !hce  the  Emperor  Charles  of  Spain, 

With  his  swarthy,  grave  commanders, 
I  forget  in  what  earn] 
Long  besieged  in  mud  and  rain 
Some  old  frontier  town  of  Flanders 


ItlKlvs  OF  L'ASJ 


m 


\ 


*\ 


Up  and  down  the  dreary  camp, 
in  great  I (a  of  Spanish  leather 

Striding  with  a  measured  tram]), 

:  .  I    ,  ■    oa,  dull  and  damp, 

Cursed  the  Frenchmen,  cursed  the  weather 

Thus  as  lo  and  fro  they  went, 

Over  upland  and  through  hollow; 
Giving  their  impatience  vent, 
Perched  upon  the  Emperor's  tent, 
In  her  nest,  they  spied  a  swallow 

Yes,  it  was  a  swallow's  nest, 

Built  of  clay  and  hair  of  horses, 
Mane,  or  tail,  or  dragoon's  crest. 
Found  on  hedgerows  east  and  west , 
After  skirmish  of  the  forces. 

Then  an  old  Hidalgo  said, 

As  he  twirled  his  grey  mustachio, 
"  Sure  this  swallow  overhead 
Thinks  the  Emperor  s  tent  a  shed, 
And  the  Emperor  but  a  Macho  !" 

Ilearing  his  imperial  name 

Coupled  with  those  words  of  malice 
Half  in  anger,  half  in  shame, 
Forth  the  great  campaigner  came, 
Slowly  from  his  canvas  palace. 

"  Let  no  hand  the  bird  molest/' 
Said  he  solemnly,  "  nor  hurt  her  !" 

Adding  then  by  way  of  jest, 

"  Golondrina  is  my  guest, 
'Tis  the  wife  of  some  deserter  !"' 

Swift  as  bowstring  speeds  a  shaft, 
Through  the  camp  was  spread  the  rumour, 

And  the  soldiers,  as  they  quaffed 

Flemish  beer  at  dinner,  laughed 
At  the  Emperor's  pleasant  lmmonr. 

So  unharmed  and  unafraid 

the  swallow  still  and  brooded, 
Till  the  constant  cannonade 
Through  the  walls  a  breach  had  made. 
•-  thus  concluded 


v 


r<\Vf!KKU,<>\V 


•'•' 


Then  the  army,  elsewhere  bent, 

Struck  its  tents  as  if  disband.. 
Only  not  the  Emperor's  tent, 
For  he  ordered,  ere  he  went, 

Very  cnrtly,  "  Leave  it  standiug  !:' 

So  it  stood  there  all  alone, 

Loosely  flapping,  turn  and  tattered, 
Till  the  brood  was  Hedged  and  flown, 
Singing  o'er  those  walls  of  stone 

Which  the  cannon-shot  had  shaft i 


DAYLIGHT  AND  MOONLIGHT. 

In  broad  daylight,  and  at  noon. 
Yesterday  I  saw  the  moon 
Sailing  high,  but  faint  and  white, 
As  a  schoolboy's  paper  kite. 

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

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

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  Bong  again 
Passed  like  music  through  my  brain  ; 
Night  interpreted  to  me 
All  its  grace  and  mysi 


THE  JEWISH  CEMETERY  AT  NEWPORT. 

How  strange  it  seems  !  These  Hebrews  in  their  graves, 
Close  by  the  street  of  this  fair  seaport  town, 

Silent  beside  the  never-silent  wave-. 
At  rest  in  all  this  moving  up  and  down  ! 


■  . 


RTRDS  OF  IWSSAOE. 


430 


ufc 


The  treefi  are  white  with  dust,  that  o'er  their  sleep 
Ware  their  broad  curtains  in  the  south-wind's  breath, 

While  underneath  such  leafy  tents  they  keep 
The  long,  mysterious  Exodus  of  Death. 

And  these  sepulchral  stones,  so  old  and  brown, 
That  pave  with  level  flags  their  burial-place, 

Seem  like  the  tablets  of  the  law,  throwTi  down, 
And  broken  by  Moses  at  the  mountain's  base. 

The  very  names  recorded  here  are  strange, 
Of  foreign  accent,  and  of  different  climes  ; 

Alvares  and  Rivera  interchange 
"With  Abraham  and  Jacob  of  old  times. 

"  Blessed  be  God  !  for  lie  created  death  !" 
The  mourners  said,  "  and  death  is  rest  and  peace  :" 

Then  added,  in  the  certainty  of  faith, 

"  And  giveth  life  that  never  more  shall  cease." 

Closed  are  the  portals  of  their  synagogue, 
No  Psalms  of  David  now  the  silence  break, 

No  rabbi  reads  the  ancient  Decalogue 
In  the  grand  dialect  the  prophets  spake. 

Gone  are  the  living,  but  the  dead  remain, 

And  not  neglected  ;  for  a  hand  unseen, 
Scattering  its  bounty,  like  a  summer  rain, 

Still  keeps  their  graves  and  their  remembrance  green. 

I  low  came  they  here  ?  what  burst  of  Christian  hate. 

What  persecution,  merciless  and  blind, 
Drove  o'er  the  sea — that  desert  desolate — 

These  Ishmaels  and  Hagars  of  mankind  ? 

They  lived  in  narrow  streets  and  lanes  obscure, 
Ghetto  and  Judenstrass,  in  mirk  and  mire  ; 

Taught  in  the  school  of  patience  to  endure 
The  life  of  anguish  and  the  death  of  fire. 

All  their  lives  long,  with  the  unleavened  bread 

And  bitter  herbs  of  exile  and  its  fears, 
The  wasting  famine  of  the  heart  they  fed, 

Aud  slaked  its  thirst  with  ma  rah  of  their  tears. 

Anathema  maranatha  !  was  the  cry 

That  rang  from  town  to  town,  from  street  to  street; 
\X  c*   ry  gate  the  accursed  Mordecai 

a  mocked  and  jeered,  and  spurned  by  Christian  feet 


» 


41i> 


i     v 


Pride  and  humiliation  band  in  band 
Walked  trith  them  through  the  world  i  I  i§j  went 

Trampled  and  beaten  were  they  as  t  lie  Ba 
\n<l  vet  unshaken  as  the  continent 

For  in  the  background  figures  vague  and  vai 
Ofpatriareha  and  of  prophets  rose  sublinu 

And  all  the  great  traditions  of  the  • 
They  saw  reflected  in  the  coming  time. 

And  thus  for  ever  with  reverted  look 

The  mystic  volume  of  the  world  they  read 
Spelling  it  backward,  like  a  Hebrew  ba 

Till  life  became  a  Legend  of  the  Dead. 

But  ah  !  what  <mce  has  been  shall  be  no  oon  I 
The  groaning  earth  in  travail  and  in  pain 

Brings  forth  its  races,  but  does  not  restore, 
And  the  dead  nations  never  rise  again. 


OLIVER  BASSELIN. 

Ix  the  Valley  of  the  Vire 

Still  is  seen  -an  ancient  mill. 
With  its  gables  quaint  and  qu< 
And  beneath  the  window  sill. 
On  the  stone, 
These  words  alone 
"  Oliver  Basselin  lived  here." 

Far  above  it,  on  the  steep, 

Ruined  stands  the  old  chateau, 
Nothing  but  the  donjon-keep 
Left  for  shelter  or  for  show. 
Its  vacant  eyes 
Stare  at  the  skies, 
Stare  at  the  valley  green  and  deep 

Once  a  convent,  old  and  brown, 

Looked  —but  ah!  it  looks  no  more. 
From  the  neighbouring  hillside  down 
On  the  rushing  and  the  roar 
( )f  the  stream 
Whose  sunny  gleam 
Cheers  the  little  Norman  town. 


% 


BIRD?  "i    PASS  \«.i: 


111 


In  that  darksome  mill  off  stone, 
To  the  water's  dash  and  din, 
Careless,  humble,  and  unknown, 
Sang  the  poel  Basselin 
Bongs  that  (ill 
That  ancient  mill 
With  a  Bplendour  of  its  own. 

Never  feeling  of  unrest 

Broke  the  pleasant  dream  he  dreamed 
Only  made  to  be  his  nest, 
All  the  lovely  valley  seemed  ; 
No  desire 
Of  soaring  higher 
Stirred  or  fluttered  in  his  breast. 

True,  his  songs  were  not  divine  ; 

Were  not  songs  of  that  high  art, 
Which,  as  winds  do  in  the  pine, 
Find  an  answer  in  each  heart ; 
But  the  mirth 
Of  this  green  earth 
Laughed  and  revelled  in  his  line. 

From  the  alehouse  and  the  inn, 
Opening  on  the  narrow  street, 
Came  the  loud  convivial  din, 
Singing  and  applause  of  feet, 
The  laughing  lays 
That  in  those  days 
ISang  the  poet  Basselin. 

In  the  castle,  cased  in  steel, 

Knights,  who  fought  at  Agincourt. 
\\  atched  and  waited,  spur  on  heel; 
But  the  poet  sang  for  sport 
Songs  that  rang 
Another  clang, 
Songs  that  lowlier  hearts  could  feel 

In  the  convent,  clad  in  gray, 

Sat  the  monks  in  lonely  cells, 

Paced  the  cloisters,  knelt  to  pray; 

And  the  poet  heard  their  belli; 

But  his  rhymes 

Found  ether  chimes, 

ilii'  earth  than  they. 


442 


ELI      ■■ 


all  the  bai  'ii-  bold, 
Gone  are  all  the  knights  and 
Gone  the  abbot  stern  and  cold, 
And  the  brotherhood  of  friai 

.  D 

Remains  to  tame, 
From  those  mouldering  days  of  old  I 

But  the  poet's  memory  here 

Of  the  landscape  makes  a  pa: 
Like  the  river,  swift  and  clear, 
Flows  his  song  through  many  a  h 
Haunting  still 
That  ancient  mill, 
In  the  Valley  of  the  Viie. 


IMP  ■ 


VICTOR  GALBRAITH. 

Under  the  walls  of  Monterey 

At  daybreak  the  bugles  began  to  play, 

"Victor  Galbraith! 
In  the  mist  of  the  morning  damp  and  gray, 
These  were  the  words  they  seemed  to  say 
"  Come  forth  to  thy  death, 
Victor  Galbraith  !" 

Forth  he  came,  with  a  martial  tread  ; 
Firm  was  his  step,  erect  his  head  ; 

Victor  Galbraith, 
lie  who  so  well  the  bugle  played, 
Could  not  mistake  the  words  it  said  : 

"  Come  forth  to  thy  death, 

Victor  Galbraith  !" 

fie  looked  at  the  earth,  he  looked  at  the 
lie  looked  at  the  files  of  musketry, 

Victor  Galbraith ! 
And  he  said,  with  a  steady  voice  and  eye, 
"  Take  good  aim  ;  I  am  ready  to  die  !" 

Thus  challenges  death 

Victor  Galbraith. 

Twelve  fiery  tongues  flashed  straight  and  red, 
Six  leaden  balls  on  their  errand  sped  ; 

Victor  Galbraith 
Falls  to  the  ground,  but  he  is  not  dead  . 


urn!' 


ii .; 


S  >  I' 


ft,! 


His  iiain  i  nped  on  I  bile  of  lead, 

And  they  i uily  acath 
Victor  Galbraith. 

Three  balls  are  in  his  breast  and  brain, 
But  he  riseB  out  of  the  dust  again, 

Victor  Galbraith ! 
The  water  lie  drinks  has  a  bloody  stain  ; 
"  0  kill  me,  and  put  me  out  of  my  pain  !" 

In  his  agony  prayeth 

Victor  Galbraith. 

Forth  dart  once  more  those  tongues  of  tlamw, 
And  the  bugler  has  died  a  death  of  shame, 

Victor  Galbraith ! 
His  soul  has  gone  back  to  whence  it  came, 
And  no  one  answers  to  the  name, 

"When  the  sergeant  saith, 

"  Victor  Galbraith  !" 

Under  the  walls  of  Monterey 
13y  night  a  bugle  is  heard  to  play, 

Victor  Galbraith ! 
Through  the  mist  of  the  Aralley  damp  and  gray 
The  sentinels  hear  the  sound,  and  say, 

"  That  is  the  wraith 

Of  Victor  Galbraith  !"' 


■ 


MY  LOST  YOUTH. 

Oram  I  think  of  the  beautiful  town 

That  is  seated  by  the  sea  ; 
Often  in  thought  go  up  and  down 
The  pleasant  streets  of  that  dear  old  town, 
And  my  youth  conies  back  to  me. 
And  a  verse  of  a  Lapland  song 
Is  haunting  my  memory  still  : 
41  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thong  I 

1  can  see  the  shadowy  lines  of  its  trees, 

And  catch,  in  sudden  gleams, 
The  sheen  of  the  far-surrounding  seas, 
And  islands  that  were  the  Hesperides 

Of  all  in v  boyish  dreams, 


444 


1  LOW  -    PO 


■ 


And  the  burden  of  that  old  ^ong, 
It  murmurs  and  whispers  still  : 
"  A  boy's  w ill  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  though 

I  remember  the  black  wharfs  and  slips, 

And  the  sea-tides  tossing  tree, 
And  Spanish  sailors  with  bearded  lips, 
And  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  ships, 
And  the  magic  of  the  sea. 
And  the  voice  of  that  wayward  song 
Is  singing  and  saying  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  bulwarks  by  the  shore, 

And  the  fort  upon  the  hill ; 
The  sun-rise  gun,  with  its  hollow  roar, 
The  drum-beat  repeated  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  the  bugle  wild  and  shrill. 
And  the  music  of  that  old  .song 
Throbs  in  my  memory  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

1  remember  the  sea-fight  tar  away, 
How  it  thundered  o'er  the  tide  ! 
And  the  dead  captains,  as  they  lay 
In  their  graves,  o'erlooking  the  tranquil  bay, 
Where  they  in  battle  died. 
And  the  sound  of  that  mournful  song 
Goes  through  me  like  a  thrill : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts.1' 

1  can  see  the  breezy  dome  of  groves, 
The  shadows  of  Deering's  Woods  ; 
And  the  friendships  old  and  the  early  loves 
Come  back  with  a  Sabbath  sound,  as  of  doves 
In  quiet  neighbourhoods. 
And  the  verse  of  that  sweet  old  si  i 
It  flutters  and  murmurs  still  : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts. ! 

I  remember  the  gleams  and  glooms  that  dart 
Across  the  schoolboy's  brain  ; 


■ 


KIKDS  UF  PASSAGE. 


44fi 


sm 


\ 


The  song  and  the  Bilence  in  the  heart . 
That  in  part  are  prophecies,  and  in  part 
Are  Longings  wild  and  vain. 
And  the  voice  of  that  fitfu]  .song 
Sings  on,  and  is  never  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

There  are  tilings  of  which  I  may  not  speak  ; 

There  are  dreams  that  cannot  die  ; 
There  are  thoughts  that  make  the  .strung  heart  weak, 
And  bring  a  pallor  into  the  cheek, 
And  a  mist  before  the  eye. 
And  the  words  of  that  fatal  song 
Come  over  me  like  a  ehill : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

Strange  to  me  now  are  the  forms  I  meet 

When  I  visit  the  dear  old  town  ; 
But  the  native  air  is  pure  and  sweet, 
And  the  trees  that  o'ershadow  each  wTell-known  street. 
As  they  balance  up  and  down, 
Are  singing  the  beautiful  song, 
Are  sighing  and  whispering  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

And  Decring's  Woods  are  fresh  and  fair, 

And  with  juy  that  is  almost  pain, 
My  heart  goes  back  to  wander  there, 
And  among  the  dreams  of  the  days  that  were 
1  find  my  lost  youth  again. 
And  the  strange  and  beautiful  song, 
The  groves  are  repeating  it  still : 
"  A  buy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts.' 


THE  GOLDEN  MILESTONE. 

Leafless  are  the  trees ;  their  purple  branches 
Spread  themselves  abroad,  like  reefs  of  coral, 

Rising  silent 
In  the  Red  Sea  of  the  Winter  sunset. 


:  HJ 


••W    -    I'l 


From  the  hundred  chimneys  of  the  village, 
Like  the  Afreet  in  the  Arabian  Btory, 

Smoky  columns 
Tower  afoft  into  the  air  of  amber. 

At  the  window  winks  the  flickering  fire-light ; 

Here  and  there  the  lamps  of  evening  glimmer, 

Social  watch-fires 
Answering  one  another  through  the  darkness. 

On  the  hearth  the  lighted  logs  are  glowing, 
And  like  Ariel  in  the  cloven  pine  tree, 

For  its  freedom 
Groans  and  sighs  the  air  imprisoned  in  them. 

By  the  fireside  there  are  old  men  seated, 
Seeing  ruined  cities  in  the  ashe 

Asking  sadly 
Of  the  past  what  it  can  ne'er  restore  them 

By  the  fireside  there  are  youthful  dreamers, 
Building  castles  fair,  with  stately  stairways, 

Asking  blindly 
Of  the  future  what  it  cannot  give  them. 

By  the  fireside  tragedies  are  acted 

hi  whose  scenes  appear  two  actors  only, 

Wife  and  husband, 
And  above  them  God  the  sole  spectator. 

By  the  fireside  there  are  peace  and  comfort, 
Wives  and  children  with  fair  thoughtful  faces, 

Waiting,  watching 
For  a  well-known  footstep  in  the  passage. 

Each  man's  chimney  is  his  Golden  Milestone,  - 
Is  the  centra]  point,  from  which  he  measures 

Every  distance 
Through  the  gateways  of  the  world  around  him. 

In  his  farthest  wanderings  still  he  sees  it  ; 

Hears  the  talking  flame,  the  answering  night-wind 

As  he  heard  them 
When  he  sat  with  those  who  were,  but  are  not. 

Happy  he  whom  neither  wealth  nor  fashion, 
Nor  the  march  of  the  encroaching  city, 

Drives  an  exile 
From  the  hearth  of  his  ancestral  homestead. 


^r 


~El 


BIRDS  OF  PAS  - 


117 


We  may  build  more  splendid  habitations, 

Fill  our  rooms  with  paintings  and  with  sculptures, 

But  avc  cannot 
Buy  with  gold  the  old  associations  ! 


if  I 


. 


CATAWBA  WINE. 

This  song  of  mine 

Is  a  song  of  the  Vine, 
To  be  sung  by  the  glowing  embers 

Of  wayside  inns, 

When  the  rain  begins 
To  darken  the  dreary  November?. 

It  is  not  a  song 

Of  the  Scuppernong, 
From  warm  Carolinian  valleys, 

Nor  the  Isabel 

And  the  Muscadel 
That  bask  in  our  garden  alleys. 

Nor  the  red  Mustang, 

W  hose  clusters  hang 
O'er  the  waves  of  the  Colarado, 

And  the  fiery  flood 

Of  whose  purple  blood 
Has  a  dash  of  Spanish  bravado. 

For  richest  and  best 

Is  the  wine  of  the  West 
That  grows  by  the  Beautiful  lliver, 

Who.se  sweet  perfume 

Fills  all  the  room 
With  a  benison  on  the  giver. 

And  as  hollow  trees 

Are  the  haunts  of  bees, 
For  ever  going  and  coming, 

So  this  crystal  hive 

Is  all  alive 
With  a  swarming  and  buzzing  and  hum] 

Very  good  in  its  way 
Is  the  Verzenay, 
'Jr  the  Sillery  soft  and  creamy  * 


LONQFELLOW  S  l'OEMs. 


But  Catawba  wine 

Has  a  taste  inure  divine 
More  dulcet,  delicious,  and 

There  grows  no  vine 

By  the  haunted  Rhine, 
By  Danube  or  Guadalquivcr, 

Nor  on  island  or  cape, 

That  bears  such  a  grape 
As  grows  by  the  Beautiful  River. 

Drugged  is  their  juice 

For  foreign  use, 
When  shipped  o'er  the  reeling  Atlautic, 

To  rack  our  brains 

'With  the  fever  pains 
That  have  driven  the  Old  World  frantic. 

To  the  sewers  and  sinks 

"With  all  such  drinks, 
And  after  them  tumble  the  mixer  ; 

For  a  poison  malign 

Is  such  Borgia  wine, 
Or  at  best  but  a  Devil's  Elixir. 

While  pure  as  a  spring 

Is  the  wine  I  sing, 
And  to  praise  it,  one  needs  but  name  it  ; 

For  Catawba  wine 

Has  need  of  no  sign, 
No  tavern-bush  to  proclaim  it. 

And  this  song  of  the  Vine, 

This  greeting  of  mine, 
The  winds  and  the  birds  shall  deliver 

To  the  Queen  of  the  West, 

In  her  garlands  dressed, 
On  the  banks  of  the  Beautiful  River. 


nntns  OF  PA8SAOE. 


148 


■ 


k 


The  tidal  wave  of  deeper  souls 
into  our  inmost  being  rolls, 

And  lifts  us  unawares 
Out  of  all  meaner  cares. 

Honour  to  those  whose  words  or  deeds 
Tims  help  us  in  our  daily  needs. 
And  by  their  overflow 
Raise  us  from  what  is  low  ! 

Thus  thought  I,  as  by  night  I  read 

Of  the  great  army  of  the  dead, 
The  trenches  cold  and  damp, 
The  starved  and  frozen  camp, — 

The  wounded  from  the  battle-plain, 
In  dreary  hospitals  of  pain, 

The  cheerless  corridors, 

The  cold  and  stony  floors. 

Lo  !  in  that  house  of  misery 

A  lady  with  a  lamp  I  see 

Pass  through  the  glimmering  glocm. 
And  flit  from  room  to  room. 

And  slow,  as  in  a  dream  of  bliss, 
The  speechless  sufferer  turns  to  kiss 
Her  shadow,  as  it  falls 
Upon  the  darkening  walls. 


J*; 


W 


As  if  a  door  in  heaven  should  be 
Opened  and  then  closed  suddenly, 
The  vision  came  and  went, 
The  light  shone  and  was  spent. 

On  England's  annals,  through  the  lontr 
Hereafter  of  her  speech  and  song, 
That  light  its  rays  shall  cast 
From  portals  of  the  past. 

A  Lady  with  a  Lamp  shall  sta1  1 
In  the  great  history  of  the  laud, 

A  noble  type  of  good, 

Heroic  womanhood. 

Nor  even  shall  be  wanting  here 
The  palm,  the  lily,  and  the  spear, 

The  symbols  that  of  yore 

Saint  Filomena  bore. 


afe 


r~ 


THE  DISCOVERER  OP  THE  NORTH  CAPE 

A  LEAF  FROM  KING  ALFRED'S  OltOSTUS. 

Othebe,  the  old  s  a  captain, 

Who  dwelt  in  Helgoland, 
To  King  Alfred,  the  Lover  of  Truth, 
Drought  a  snow-white  walrus-tooth, 

Which  he  held  in  his  brown  right  hand 

His  figure  was  tall  and  stately, 
Like  a  boy's  his  eye  appeared  ; 

His  hair  was  yellow  as  hay, 

But  threads  of  a  silvery  gray 
Gleamed  in  his  tawny  beard. 

Hearty  and  hale  was  Othere, 
His  cheek  had  the  colour  of  oak ; 

With  a  kind  of  laugh  in  his  speech, 

Like  the  sea-tide  on  a  beach, 
As  unto  the  King  he  spoke. 

And  Alfred,  King  of  the  Saxons, 

Had  a  book  upon  his  km  . 
And  wrote  down  the  wondrous  tale 
Of  him  who  was  first  to  sail 

Into  the  Arctic  E 

"  So  far  1  live  to  the  northward, 

No  man  lives  north  of  me  ; 
To  the  east  are  wild  mountain-chains 
And  beyond  them  meres  and  plains; 

To  the  westward  all  is  sea. 

"So  far  I  live  to  the  northward. 

From  the  harbour  of  Skeringes-hale, 
If  you  only  sailed  by  day, 
With  a  fair  wind  all  the  way, 

More  than  a  mouth  would  you  sail. 

11 1  own  six  hundred  reindeer, 

With  sheep  and  swine  beside  ; 
I  have  tribute  from  the  Finns, 
Whalebone  and  reindeer-skins, 

And  ropes  of  walrus-hide. 

"I  ploughed  the  land  with  horses, 
But  my  heart  was  ill  at  ease. 


k 


BIHDS  OF  PA.S1 


4f»l 


For  the  old  geafaring  men 

Came  tome  mow  and  then, 
With  their  sagas  of  the  seas; 

"  Of  Iceland  and  of  Greenland, 

And  the  stormy  Hebrides, 
And  the  undiscovered  deep; — 
1  could  not  eat  nor  sleep 

For  thinking  of  those  seas. 

"  To  the  northward  stretched  the  desert 

How  far  I  fain  would  know  ; 
So  at  last  1  sallied  forth, 
And  three  days  sailed  due  north, 
As  far  as  the  whale  ships  go. 

"  To  the  west  of  me  was  the  ocean, 
To  the  right  the  desolate  shore, 

But  I  did  not  slacken  sail 

For  the  walrus  or  the  whale, 
Till  after  tlu-ee  days  more. 

"  The  days  grew  longer  and  longer, 

Till  they  became  as  one, 
And  southward  through  the  haze 
I  saw  the  sullen  blaze 

Of  the  red  midnight  sun. 

"  And  then  uprose  before  me, 

Upon  the  water's  edge, 
The  huge  and  haggard  shape 
Of  that  unknown  North  Cape 

Whose  form  is  like  a  wedge. 

"  The  sea  was  rough  and  stormy, 
The  tempest  howled  and  wailed, 

And  the  sea-fog,  like  a  ghost, 

Haunted  that  dreary  coast ; 
Uut  onward  still  I  sailed. 

"  Four  days  I  steered  to  eastwar  1, 

Four  days  without  a  night: 
Round  in  a  fiery  ring 
Went  the  great  sun,  0  King, 

\\  ith  red  and  lurid  light." 

Here  Alfred,  King  of  the  Saxons. 

Ceased  writing  for  a  while, 
And  raised  hifl  eyes  from  his  hook. 


m  i 


■  --  ■ 


453 


«fcM* 


V 


- 


L0N0VELL0W  B  l'OEMK 

With  a  strange  and  puzzled  look, 
And  an  incredulous  smile. 

But  Othere,  the  old  sea-captain, 

lie  neither  paused  nor  stirred, 
Till  the  King  listened,  and  then 
Once  more  took  up  his  pen, 

And  wrote  down  every  word 
"  And  now  the  land,"  said  Othere, 

"  Bent  southward  suddenly, 
And  1  followed  the  curving  shore 
And  ever  southward  bore 

Into  a  nameless  sea. 

"  And  there  we  hunted  the  walrus, 

The  narwhale,  and  the  seal; 
Ha  !  'twas  a  noble  game  ! 
And  like  the  lightning's  flame 

Flew  our  harpoons  of  steel. 
"  There  were  six  of  us  all  together, 

Norsemen  of  Helgoland: 
In  two  days  and  no  more 
We  killed  of  them  threescore, 

And  dragged  them  to  the  strand  [" 

Here  Alfred,  the  Truth-Teller 

Suddenly  closed  his  book, 
And  lifted  his  blue  eyes, 
With  doubt  and  strange  surmise 

Depicted  in  their  look. 
And  Othere,  the  old  sea-captain, 

Stared  at  him  wild  and  weird, 
Then  smiled,  till  his  shining  teeth 
Gleamed  white  from  underneath 

His  tawny,  quivering  beard. 

And  to  the  King  of  the  Saxons, 

In  witness  of  the  truth, 
Raising  his  noble  head, 
He  stretched  his  brown  hand,  and  said, 

"  Behold  this  walrus-tooth  !" 


DAYBREAK. 

A  wind  came  up  out  of  the  sea, 

And  said,  "  0  mists,  make  room  for  me 


TUTUX;  OF  PASSAGE. 


463 


* 


f 


iled  the  ships,  and  cried,  "  Sail  on, 
mariners,  the  night  is  gone." 

And  hurried  landward  faraway, 
Crying,  "  Awake  !  it  is  tlie  day." 

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

It  touched  the  -wood-bird's  folded  wing, 
And  said,  "  0  bird,  awake  and  sing." 

And  o'er  the  farms,  "  0  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,  0  bell,  proclaim  the  hour." 

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


E 


THE  FIFTIETH  BIRTHDAY  OF  AGASSIZ. 

May  28, 1857. 

It  was  fifty  years  ago 
In  the  pleasant  month  of  May, 

In  the  beautiful  Pays  de  Vaud, 
A  child  in  his  cradle  lay. 

And  Nature,  the  old  nurse,  took 

The  child  upon  her  knee, 
Saying  :  "  Here  is  a  story-book 

Thy  Father  has  written  for  thee.'' 

"  Come,  wander  with  me,"  she  said, 

"  Into  regions  yet  untrod  ; 
And  read  what  is  still  unread 

In  the  manuscripts  of  God." 

And  he  wandered  away  and  away 
With  Nature,  the  dear  old  nurse, 

Who  sang  to  him  night  and  day 
The  rhymes  of  the  universe. 

And  whenever  the  way  seemed  loi 
Or  his  heart  began  to  fail, 


T&± 


«,,,,,  _— 


LONOFEI.I.'AV  S    POJ 


She  would  sing  a  more  wonderful  song, 
Or  tell  a  more  marvellous  tale. 


■I — ■•i'-'  "t^? 


So  she  kee]is  him  still  a  child, 
And  will  not  let  him  go, 

Though  at  times  his  heart  beats  wild 
For  the  beautiful  Pays  de  Vaud  ; 

Though  at  times  he  hears  in  his  dreams 
The  Ranz  des  Vaches  of  old, 

And  the  rush  of  mountain  streams 
From  glaciers  clear  and  cold  ; 

And  the  mother  at  home  says,  "  Hark 
For  Ms  voice  I  listen  and  yearn  ; 

It  is  growing  late  and  dark, 
And  my  boy  does  not  return  !" 


CHILDREN. 

(  Jomb  to  me,  0  ye  children  ! 

For  I  hear  you  at  your  play, 
And  the  questions  that  perplexed  me 

Have  vanished  quite  away. 

Ye  open  the  eastern  windows, 

That  look  towards  the  sun, 
Where  thoughts  are  singing  swallows 

And  the  brooks  of  morning  run. 

In  your  hearts  are  the  birds  and  the  sunshine- 

In  your  thoughts  the  brooklets  flow, 
But  in  mine  is  the  wind  of  Autumn, 
And  the  first  fall  of  the  snow. 

Ah  !  what  would  the  world  be  to  m 

If  the  children  were  no  more  '. 
We  should  dread  the  desert  behind  us 

Worse  than  the  dark  before. 

What  the  leaves  are  to  the  forest 

With  light  and  air  for  food, 
Ere  their  sweet  and  tender  juices 

Have  been  hardened  into  wood,  - 

That  to  the  world  are  children  ; 
Through  them  it  feels  the  glow 


IJIKD-  "l 


•155 


<  <\'  a  brighter  and  .sunnier  climate 

Than  reaches  the  trunks  below. 

Come  to  me,  0  ye  children  ! 
And  whisper  in  my  ear 

the  birds  and  the  winds  are  staging 

In  your  sunny  atmosphere. 

For  what  are  all  our  contrivings, 
And  the  wisdom  of  our  books, 

When  compared  with  your  caresses, 
And  the  gladness  of  your  looks  j 

Ye  are  better  than  all  the  ballads 

That  ever  were  sung  or  said  ; 
For  ye  are  living  poems, 

And  all  the  rest  are  dead. 


/'      ' 


SANDALPHON. 

Have  you  read  in  the  Talmud  of  old, 
In  the  Legends  the  Rabbins  have  told 

Of  the  limitless  realms  of  the  air, — 
[lave  you  read  it, — the  marvellous  story 
Of  Sandalphon,  the  Angel  of  Glory, 

Sandalphon,  the  Angel  of  Prayer  i 

How,  erect,  at  the  outermost  gates 
Of  the  City  Celestial  he  waits, 

With  his  feet  on  the  ladder  of  light, 
That,  crowded  with  angels  unnumbered 
By  Jacob  was  seen,  as  he  slumbered 

Alone  in  the  desert  at  night  1 

The  Angels  of  Wind  and  of  Fire 
Chant  only  one  hymn,  and  expire 

With  the  song's  irresistible  stress  ; 
Expire  in  their  rapture  and  wonder, 
As  harp-strings  are  broken  asunder 

By  music  they  throb  to  express. 

But  serene  in  the  rapturous  thr< 
Unmoved  by  the  rush  of  the  song, 

With  eyes  unimpassioned  and  slow, 
Among  the  dead  angels,  the  deathli 
Sandalphon  stands  listening  breathless 

To  sounds  that  ascend  from  below  ;— 


m 


i .; 


Longfellow's 


From  tlie  spirits  on  earth  that  adoi 
From  the  souls  that  entreat  and  im; 

In  the  feivour  and  passion  of  prayer  ; 
i  the  hearts  that  are  broken  with  lo 
Ami  weary  with  dragging  the  crosses 

Too  heavy  for  mortals  to  bear. 

And  he  gathers  the  prayers  as  lie  stands, 
And  they  change  into  flowers  in  his  hands, 

Into  garlands  of  purple  and  red  ; 
And  beneath  the  great  arch  of  the  portal. 
Through  the  streets  of  the  City  Immortal 

Is  wafted  the  fragrance  they  shed. 

It  is  but  a  legend,  I  know, — 
A  fable,  a  phantom,  a  show, 

Of  the  ancient  Rabbinical  lore  ; 
Yet  the  old  mediaeval  tradition, 

The  beautiful,  strange  superstition, 
But  haunts  me  and  holds  me  the  more. 

When  I  look  from  my  window  at  night, 
And  the  welkin  above  is  all  white, 

All  throhhing  and  panting  with  stars, 
Among  them,  majestic,  is  standing 
Sandalphon  the  angel,  expanding 

His  pinions  in  nebulous  bars. 

And  the  legend,  I  feel,  is  a  part 
Of  the  hunger  and  thirst  of  the  he; 

The  frenzy  and  fire  of  the  brain, 
That  grasps  at  the  fruitage  forbidden, 
The  golden  pomegranates  of  Eden, 

To  quiet  its  fever  and  pain. 


m 


EPIMETIIEUS  ; 

OR,  THE  POET'S  AFTERTHOUGHT 

Have  I  dreamed  ?  or  was  it  real, 

AY  hat  I  saw  as  in  a  vision, 
When  to  marches  hymeneal, 
In  the  land  of  the  ideal, 

Moved  my  thoughts  o'er  fields  Elysiau  ? 

What !  are  these  the  guests  whose  glances 
Seemed  like  sunshine  gleaming  round 


- 


BIRDS  OF  PA. 


157 


These  the  wild,  bewildering  fancies, 
That  with  dithyrambic  dan 

As  with  magic  circles,  bound  me  ( 

Ah  !  how  cold  are  their  caresses ! 

Pallid  cheeks  and  I  bosoms! 

Spectral  gleam  their  snow-white  dresses, 
And  from  loose,  dishevelled  tresses 

Fall  the  hyacinthine  blossoms! 

0  my  songs !  whose  winsome  measures 
Filled  my  heart  with  secret  rapture! 

Children  of  my  golden  leisures! 

Must  even  your  delights  and  pleasures 
Fade  and  perish  with  the  capture  ? 

Fair  they  seemed,  those  songs  sonorous, 

When  they  came  to  me  unhidden  ; 
Voices  single,  and  in  chorus, 
Like  the  wild  birds  singing  o'er  us 
In  the  dark  of  branches  hidden. 

Disenchantment !  Disillusion ! 

Must  each  noble  aspiration 
Come  at  last  to  this  conclusion, 
Jarring  discord,  wild  confusion, 

Lassitude,  renunciation  ? 

Not  with  steeper  fall  nor  faster, 
From  the  sun's  serene  dominions, 

Not  through  brighter  realms  nor  vaster 

In  swift  ruin  and  disaster 
Icarus  fell  with  shattered  pinions ! 

Sweet  Pandora  !  dear  Pandora ! 

Why  did  mighty  Jove  create  thee 
Coy  as  Thetis,  fair  as  Flora, 
Beautiful  as  young  Aurora, 

If  to  win  thee  is  to  hate  thee  ? 

No,  not  hate  thee !  for  this  feeling 
Of  unrest  and  long  resistance 

Is  but  passionate  appealing, 

A  prophetic  whisper  stealing 
O'er  the  chords  of  our  existence. 


Him  whom  thou  dost  once  enamour, 

Thou,  beloved,  never  lea  vest ; 
l'j  life's  discord,  strife,  and  clamour 


i  r.MS. 


Still  he  feels  thy  spell  of  glamour; 
Him  of  hope  thou  ne'er  bereavi 

Weary  hearts  by  thee  are  lifted, 

Struggling  souls  by  thee  are  strengthened 
Clouds  of  tear  asuii'ler  rifted, 
Truth  from  falsehood  cleansed  and  sifte 

Lives,  like  days  in  summer,  lengthened 

Therefore  art  thou  ever  dearer, 

0  my  Sibyl!  my  deceiver! 
For  thou  makest  each  mystery  clearer 
And  the  unattained  seems  nearer 

When  thou  iillest  my  heart  with  fevei ! 

Muse  of  all  the  Gifts  and  Graces ! 

Though  the  fields  around  us  wither, 
There  are  ampler  realms  and  spaces, 
Where  no  foot  has  left  its  traces ; 

Let  us  turn  and  wander  thither. 


TRANSLATIONS. 


SpBttigjf. 


COPLAS  DE  MANRIQUE. 

On,  let  the  soul  her  slumbers  break, 
Let  thought  be  quickened  and  awake 
Awake  to  see 

How  soon  this  life  is  past  and  gone, 
And  death  comes  softly  stealing  on, 
How  silently  ! 

Swiftly  our  pleasures  glide  away. 
Our  hearts  recall  the  distant  day 
With  many  sighs  ; 
The  moments  that  are  speeding  fast 
We  heed  not,  but  the  past, — the  past, 
More  highly  prize. 


TK  \NSI..\T10NS       SPANISH. 


IM 


Onward  its  course  the  present  keeps, 
Onward  the  constant  current  sweeps. 
Till  life  is  done  ; 

And,  did  we  judge  of  time  aright, 
The  past  and  future  in  their  flight 
Wuuld  be  as  one. 

Let  no  one  fondly  dream  again, 
That  Hope  and  all  her  shadowy  train 
Will  not  decay ; 

Fleeting  as  were  the  dreams  of  old, 
Remembered  like  a  tale  that's  told, 
They  pass  away. 

Our  lives  are  rivers,  gliding  free 
To  that  uufathorned  boundless  sea, 
The  silent  grave ! 

Thither,  all  earthly  pomp  and  boast 
Roll,  to  be  swallowed  up  and  lost 
In  one  dark  wave. 

Thither  the  mighty  torrents  stray, 
Thither  the  brook  pursues  its  way, 
And  tinkling  rill. 
There  all  are  equal.    Side  by  side 
The  poor  man  and  the  son  of  pride 
Lie  calm  and  still. 

I  will  not  here  invoke  the  throng 

Of  orators  and  sons  of  song, 

The  deathless  few  ; 

Fiction  entices  and  deceives, 

And  sprinkled  o'er  her  fragrant  leaves 

Lies  poisonous  dew. 

To  One  alone  my  thoughts  arise, 

The  Eternal  Truth,— the  Good  and  Wise, 

To  Him  I  cry, 

Who  shared  on  earth  our  common  lot, 

But  1  he  world  comprehended  not 

liis  deity. 

This  world  is  but  the  rugged  road 
\Y  hich  leads  us  to  the  bright  abode 
Of  peace  above  ; 

So  let  us  choose  that  narrow  way 
Which  leads  no  traveller's  foot  astray 
im  realms  of  love. 


460 


LOKGrOLLOW's  1'OUMS. 


1 


Our  cradle  u  the  starting-place, 

In  life  we  ran  the  onward  race, 

And  reach  the  goal ; 

\\  hen,  in  the  mansions  of  the  bleat, 

Death  leaves  to  its  eternal  . 

The  weary  souL 

Did  we  hut  use  it  u  we  ought, 

This  world  would  schuul  each  wandering  thought 

To  its  high  state. 

Faith  wings  the  soul  beyond  the  sky, 

Up  to  that  better  world  on  high, 

For  which  we  wait. 

.  —the  glad  messenger  of  love, 
To  guide  us  to  our  home  above, 
The  Saviour  came  ; 
Born  amid  mortal  cares  and  fears, 
He  suffered  in  this  vale  of  tears 
A  death  of  shame. 

Behold  of  what  delusive  worth 

The  bubbles  we  pursue  on  earth, 

The  shapes  we  chase, 

Amid  a  world  of  treachery  ! 

They  vanish  ere  death  shuts  the  eye, 

And  leave  no  trace. 

Time  steals  them  from  as,-  chances  Btranj  i  , 

Disastrous  accidents,  and  change, 

That  come  to  all ; 

Even  in  the  most  exalted  state, 

Relentless  sweeps  the  stroke  of  fate  ; 

The  strongest  fall. 

Tell  me,-   the  charms  that  lovers  seek 
In  the  clear  eye  and  blushing  cheek, 
The  hues  that  play 
O'er  rosy  lip  and  brow  of  snow, 
When  hoary  age  approaches  slow, 
Ah,  where  are  they  ( 

The  cunning  skill,  the  curious  arts, 

The  glorious  strength  that  youth  imparts 

In  life's  first  stage  ; 

These  shall  become  a  heavy  weight, 

When  Time  swings  wide  his  outward  gate 

To  weary  age. 


TRANSLATIONS      BPANI8H. 

The  noble  Mood  of  Gothic  name, 
Beroea  emblazoned  high  to  fame, 

In  long  array  ; 

Bow,  in  the  onward  course  of  time. 
The  landmarks  of  that  race  sublime 
Were  swept  away  ! 

Some,  the  degraded  slaves  of  lust, 
Prostrate  and  trampled  in  the  dust, 
Shall  rise  no  more  ; 
Others  by  guilt  and  crime  maintain 
The  scutcheon  that  without  a  stain 
Their  fathers  bore. 

Wealth  and  the  high  estate  of  pride, 

With  what  untimely  speed  they  glide, 

How  soon  depart ! 

Bid  not  the  shadowy  phantoms  stay, 

The  vassals  of  a  mistress  they 

Of  fickle  heart. 

These  gifts  in  Fortune's  hands  are  found 
Her  swift-revolving  wheel  turns  round, 
And  they  are  gone  ! 
No  rest  the  inconstant  goddess  knows. 
But  changing,  and  without  repose, 
Still  hurries  on. 

Even  could  the  hand  of  avarice  save 
Its  gilded  baubles,  till  the  grave 
Reclaimed  its  prey, 
Let  none  on  such  poor  hopes  rely ; 
Life,  like  an  empty  dream,  Hits  by, 
And  where  are  they  ? 

Earthly  desires  and  sensual  lust 

Are  passions  springing  from  the  dust,— 

They  fade  and  die  ; 

But  in  the  life  beyond  the  tomb, 

They  seal  the  immortal  spirit's  doom 

Eternally ! 

The  pleasures  and  delights,  which  mask 
In  treacherous  smiles  life's  serious  task, 
What  are  they  all 
But  the  fleet  coursers  of  the  chase, 
And  death  an  ambush  in  the  race. 
Wherein  we  fall  / 


4MI 


4tii 


low's  Pi 


No  toe,  no  dangerous  pass,  we  heel, 
Brook  no  delay, — but  onward  speed 
With  loosened  rein ; 
And,  when  the  fatal  snare  is  near, 
We  strive  to  check  our  mad  career, 
But  strive  in  vain. 

Could  we  new  charms  to  age  impart, 
And  fashion  with  a  cunning  art 
The  human  face, 

As  we  can  clothe  the  soul  with  light, 
And  make  the  glorious  spirit  bright 
With  heavenly  grace, — 

How  busily  each  passing  hour 
Should  Ave  exert  that  magic  power ' 
What  ardour  show 
To  deck  the  sensual  slave  of  sin, 
Yet  leave  the  freeborn  soul  within 
In  weeds  of  woe  ! 

Monarchs,  the  powerful  and  the  strong 

Famous  in  history  and  in  song 
Of  olden  time, 

Saw,  by  the  stern  decrees  of  fate, 
Their  kingdoms  lost,  and  desolate 
Their  race  sublime. 

Who  is  the  champion  /  who  the  strong  ( 

Pontiff  and  priest,  and  sceptered  throng  < 

On  these  shall  fall 

As  heavily  the  hand  of  Death, 

As  when  it  stays  the  shepherd's  breath 

Beside  his  stall. 

1  speak  not  of  the  Trojan  name, 
Neither  its  glory  nor  its  shame 
Has  met  our  eyes  ; 

Nor  of  Rome's  great  and  glorious  dead, 
Though  we  have  heard  so  oft,  and  read 
Theii  histories. 

Little  avails  it  now  to  know 
Of  ages  past  so  long  ago. 
And  how  they  rolled  ; 
Our  theme  shall  be  of  yesterday. 
Which  to  oblivion  sweeps  awa\ 
Like  days  of  old. 


TRANSLATIONS— Sl'AM  si  I. 


461) 


Where  Lb  the  king,  Don  Juan  i  Where 

Each  royal  prince  and  noble  heir 

Of  Aragoo  '. 

Where  are  the  courtly  gallantries? 

The  deeds  of  love  and  high  einpri.se 

In  battle  done  I 

Tourney  and  joust,  that  charmed  the  eye, 

And  scarf,  and  gorgeous  panoply, 

And  nodding  plume, — 

What  were  they  but  a  pageant  scene  ? 

What  but  the  garlands,  gay  and  green, 

That  deck  the  tomb  ? 

"Where  are  the  high-born  dames,  and  where 
Their  gay  attire,  and  jewelled  hair, 
And  odours  sweet  i 

"Where  are  the  gentle  knights,  that  came 
To  kneel,  and  breathe  love's  ardent  flame, 
Low  at  their  feet  1 

"Where  is  the  song  of  Troubadour  ? 

Where  are  the  lute  and  gay  tambour 

They  loved  of  yore  ? 

Where  is  the  mazy  dance  of  old, 

The  flowing  robes,  inwrought  with  gold. 

The  dancer  wore  ? 

And  he  who  next  the  sceptre  swayed, 
Hemy,  whose  royal  court  displayed 
Such  power  and  pride  ; 
Oh,  in  what  winning  smiles  arrayed, 
The  world  its  various  pleasures  laid 
His  throne  beside ! 

But  oh  !  how  false  and  full  of  guile 
That  world,  which  wore  so  soft  a  smile 
But  to  betray  ! 

She,  that  had  been  his  friend  before, 
Now  from  the  fated  monarch  tore 


fcSr-* 


I  ' 


}t"4 


■  w 


The  noble  steeds,  and  harness  bright, 
And  gallant  lord  and  stalwart  knight, 
In  rich  array,— 

Where  shall  Ave  seek  them  now  ?     Ala*  ! 
Like  the  bright  dewdrops  on  the  grs 
They  passed  away. 

His  brother  too,  whose  factious  zeal 
Usurped  the  sceptre  of  Castile, 
Unskilled  to  reign ; 
What  a  gay,  brilliant  court  had  he, 
When  all  the  flower  of  chivalry 
Was  in  his  train  ! 

But  he  was  mortal  ;  and  the  breath 
That  flamed  from  the  hot  forge  of  1 1 
Blasted  his  years  ; 

Judgment  of  God  !  that  flame  by  The*. 
When  raging  fierce  and  fearfully, 
Was  quenched  in  tears ! 

Spain's  haughty  Constable,— the  true 
And  gallant  Master,  whom  we  knew 
Most  loved  of  all ; 

Breathe  not  a  whisper  of  his  pride,-  - 
He  on  the  gloomy  scaffold  died, 
Ignoble  fall ! 

The  countless  treasures  of  his  care, 
His  hamlets  green  and  cities  fair, 
His  mighty  power, — 
What  were  they  all  but  grief  and  sham*, 
Tears  and  a  broken  heart,  when  came 
The  parting  hour  ? 

His  other  brothers,  proud  and  high, 
Masters  who  in  prosperity 
Might  rival  kings  ; 
Who  made  the  bravest  and  the  best 
The  bondsmen  of  their  high  behest, 
Their  underlings ; 

What  was  their  prosperous  estate, 
When  high  exalted  and  elate 
W  itli  power  and  pride  ? 
What  but  a  transient  gleam  of  light, 
A  flame  which,  glaring  at  its  height, 
Grew  dim  and  died/ 


_ 


TK.WS1  LTI0N8      SPANISH. 


W5t 


So  many  a  duke  of  royal  name, 
Marquis  and  count  of  spotless  fame, 
And  baron  brave, 

That  might  the  sword  of  empire  wield, 
All  these,  0  Death,  bast  thou  concealed 
In  the  dark  grave! 

Their  deeds  of  mercy  and  of  arms, 
In  peaceful  days  or  war's  alarms, 
When  thou  dost  show, 
0  Death,  thy  stern  and  angry  face, 
One  stroke  of  thy  all-powerful  mace 
Can  overthrow. 

Unnumbered  hosts,  that  threaten  nigh, 
Pennon  am  I  standard  flaunting  high, 
And  flag  displayed  ; 
High  battlements  entrenched  around. 
Bastion,  and  moated  wall,  and  mound, 
And  pallisade, 

And  covered  trench,  secure  and  deep,  - 

All  these  cannot  one  victim  keep, 

0  Death,  from  thee, 

When  thou  dost  battle  in  thy  wrath. 

And  thy  strong  shafts  pursue  their  path 

Unerringly. 

0  World !  so  few  the  years  we  live, 

Would  that  the  life  which  thou  dost  give 

Were  life  indeed ! 

Alas  !  thy  sorrows  fall  so  fast, 

Our  happiest  hour  is  when  at  last 

The  soul  is  freed. 

Our  days  are  covered  o'er  with  grief. 
And  sorrows  neither  few  nor  brief 
Veil  all  in  gloom  ; 
Left  desolate  of  real  good, 
Within  this  cheerless  solitude 
No  pleasures  bloom. 

Thy  pilgrimage  begins  in  tears, 
And  ends  in  hitter  doubts  and  i 
Or  dark  despair ; 
Midway  so  many  toils  appear, 
That  he  who  lingers  longest  here 
Knows  most  of  care- 


4CG 


LONGFELLOW 


Thy  goods  are  bought  with  many  a  groan, 
By  the  hot  sweat  of  toil  alone, 

And  weary  hearts  ; 
Fleet-footed  is  the  approach  of  woe, 
But  with  a  lingering  step  and  slow 
Its  form  departs. 

And  he,  the  good  man's  shield  and  shade, 
To  whom  all  hearts  their  homage  paid, 
As  Virtue's  son, — 
Roderic  Manrique, — he  whose  name 
Is  written  on  the  scroll  of  Fame, 
Spain's  champion  ; 

His  signal  deeds  and  prowess  high 

Demand  no  pompous  eulogy, — 

Ye  saw  his  deeds ! 

Why  should  their  praise  in  verse  be  suns;  V 

The  name  that  dwells  on  every  tongue 

No  minstrel  needs. 

To  friends  a  friend  ; — how  kind  to  all 
The  vassals  of  this  ancient  hall 
And  feudal  fief ! 
To  foes  how  stern  a  foe  was  he  ! 
And  to  the  valiant  and  the  free 
IIow  brave  a  chief ! 

What  prudence  with  the  old  and  wise : 

What  grace  in  youthful  gaieties ; 

In  all  how  sage ! 

Benignant  to  the  serf  and  slave, 

lie  showed  the  base  and  falsely  bra^e 

A  lion's  rage. 

His  was  Octavian's  prosperous  star, 

The  rush  of  Cesar's  conquering  car 

At  battle's  call ; 

His,  Scipio's  virtue  ;  his,  the  skill 

And  the  indomitable  will 

Of  Hannibal. 

His  was  a  Trajan's  goodness,— his 

A  Titus'  noble  charities 

And  righteous  laws ; 

The  arm  of  Hector,  and  the  might 

Of  Tully,  to  maintain  the  right 

In  truth's  just  cause ; 


*».#*£ 


rRAJTSI.ATIONfl      BPANIrfH. 


U57 


The  clemency  of  Antonine, 
Aurelius'  countenance  divine, 
Finn,  gentle,  still ; 
The  eloquence  of  Adrian, 
And  Theodosius'  love  to  man, 
And  generous  will ; 

In  tented  field  and  bloody  fray, 
An  Alexander's  vigorous  sway 
And  stern  command ; 
The  faith  of  Constantine  ;  ay,  more 
The  fervent  love  Cam  ill  us  bore 
His  native  land. 

He  left  no  well-filled  treasury, 

He  heaped  no  pile  of  riches  high, 

Nor  massive  plate ; 

He  fought  the  Moors, — and,  in  their  fall. 

City  and  tower  and  castled  wall 

Were  his  estate. 

Upon  the  hard-fought  battle-ground 
Brave  steeds  and  gallaut  riders  found 
A  common  grave ; 

And  there  the  warrior's  hand  did  gain 
The  rents,  and  the  long  vassa.1  train, 
That  conquest  gave. 

And  if,  of  old,  his  halls  displayed 
The  honoured  and  exalted  grade 
His  worth  had  gained, 
So,  in  the  dark,  disastrous  hour, 
Brothers  and  bondsmen  of  his  power 
His  hand  sustained. 

After  high  deeds,  not  left  untold, 

In  the  stern  warfare,  which  of  old 

'Twas  his  to  share, 

Such  noble  leagues  he  made,  that  moTo 

And  fairer  regions  than  before 

His  guerdon  were. 

These  are  the  records,  half-effaced, 

Which,  with  the  hand  of  youth,  he  traced 

On  history's  page ; 

But  with  fresh  victories  he  drew 

Each  fading  character  anew 

In  his  old  age. 


|<!8 


FELLOE 


By  his  unrivalled  skill,  by  great 
And  veteran  service  to  the  state, 
.By  worth  adored, 
He  stood,  in  his  high  dignity, 

The  proudest  knight  of  chivalry, 
Knight  of  the  Sword. 

He  found  his  cities  and  domains 
Beneath  a  tyrant's  galling  chains 
And  cruel  power ; 
But,  by  fierce  battle  and  blockade, 
Soon  his  own  banner  was  displayed 
From  every  tower. 

By  the  tried  valour  of  his  hand, 
1  Lis  monarch  and  his  native  land 
Were  nobly  served  ;  — 
Let  Portugal  repeat  the  story, 
And  proud  Castile,  who  shared  the  g 
His  arms  deserved. 

And  when  so  oft,  for  weal  or  woe, 

His  life  upon  the  fatal  throw 

Had  been  cast  down  ; 

When  he  had  served  with  patriot  zeai_, 

Beneath  the  banner  of  Castile, 

His  sovereign's  crown ; 

And  done  such  deeds  of  valour  strong, 
That  neither  history  nor  song 
Can  count  them  all  ; 
Then,  on  Ocarina's  castled  rock, 
Death  at  his  portal  came  to  knock, 
With  sudden  call, — 

Saying,  "  Good  Cavalier,  prepare 
To  leave  this  world  of  toil  and  care 
With  joyful  mien  ; 

Let  thy  strong  heart  of  steel  this  day 
Put  on  its  armour  for  the  fray, — 
The  closing  scene. 

"Since  thou  hast  been,  in  battle-strife, 
So  prodigal  of  health  and  life, 
For  earthly  fame, 
Let  virtue  nerve  thy  heart  again. ; 
Loud  on  the  last  stern  battle-plain 
They  call  thy  name. 


T  K  A  X  SL  AT  1 0  N  8       SPANISH. 


Ifl'J 


v 


"Think  not  the  struggle  that  draws  nea.r 
Too  terrible  for  man,     nor  fear 
To  meet  the  foe; 
Nor  let  thy  noble  spirit  grieve 
Its  life  of  glorious  fame  to  leave 
On  earth  below. 

"  A  life  of  honour  and  of  worth 
Has  no  eternity  on  earth, — 
'Tis  but  a  name  ; 
And  yet  its  glory  far  exceeds 
That  base  and  sensual  life,  which  leads 
To  want  and  shame. 

"  The  eternal  life  beyond  the  sky 
Wealth  cannot  purchase,  nor  the  high 
And  proud  estate ; 
The  soul  in  dalliance  laid,  the  spirit 
Corrupt  with  sin,  shall  not  inherit 
A  joy  so  great. 

"  But  the  good  monk,  in  cloistered  cell, 
Shall  gain  it  by  his  book  and  bell, 
His  prayers  and  tears  ; 
And  the  brave  knight,  whose  arm  endures 
Fierce  battle,  and  against  the  Moors 
His  standard  rears. 

:t  And  thou,  brave  knight,  whose  hand  has  poured 
The  life-blood  of  the  Pagan  horde 
O'er  all  the  land, 

In  heaven  shalt  thou  receive,  at  length, 
The  guerdon  of  thine  earthly  strength 
And  dauntless  hand. 

"  Cheered  onward  by  this  promise  sure, 
Strong  in  the  faith  entire  and  pure 
Thou  dost  profess, 
Depart, — thy  hope  is  certainty,  — 
The  third— the  better  life  on  high 
Shalt  thou  possess." 

•'  0  Death,  no  more,  no  more  delay  ; 
My  spirit  longs  to  flee  away, 
And  be  at  rest  ; 

The  will  of  Heaven  my  will  shall  be,— 
I  bow  to  the  divine  decree, 
To  God's  behest. 


470 


LONQFELLOW '6  PoEMS 


u  My  soul  is  ready  to  depart, 
No  thought  rebels,  the  obedient  heart 
Breathes  forth  no  sigh  ; 
The  wish  on  earth  to  linger  still 
Were  vain,  where  'tis  God's  D  will 

That  we  shall  die. 

"  0  Thou,  that  for  our  sins  didst  take 
A  human  form,  and  humbly  make 
Thy  home  on  earth  ; 
Thou,  that  to  thy  divinity 
A  human  nature  didst  ally 
By  mortal  birth, 

"  And  in  that  form  didst  suffer  belt 
Torment  and  agony  and  fear 
So  patiently  ; 

By  thy  redeeming  grace  alone, 
And  not  for  merits  of  my  own, 
Oh,  pardon  me  I" 

As  thus  the  dying  warrior  prayed, 
Without  one  gathering  mist  or  shade 
Upon  his  mind  ; 
Encircled  by  his  family, 
Watched  by  affection's  gentle  eye 
So  soft  and  kind  ; 

His  soul  to  Him  who  gave  it  rose  ; 
God  led  it  to  its  long  repose, 
Its  glorious  rest ! 
And  though  the  warrior's  sun  has 
Its  light  shall  linger  round  us  yet, 
Bright,  radiant,  blest. 


■gM 


«':  . 


THE  GOOD  SHEPHBRD. 

FKOM  THE  SPANISH  OF  LOPE  DE  VEQA. 

Shepherd  !  that  with  thine  amorous,  sylvan  song 

Hast  broken  the  slumber  which  encompassed  me,    - 

That  mad'st  Thy  crook  from  the  accursed  tree 

On  which  Thy  powerful  arms  were  stretched  so  long  ! 

Lead  me  to  mercy's  ever-flowing  fountains  ; 

For  thou  my  shepherd,  guard,  and  guide,  shalt  be  ; 


TRANSLATIONS      SPANISH. 


471 


J  will  obey  Thy  voice,  and  wait  to  see 
Thy  feet  all  beautiful  upon  the  mountains. 

Hear,  Shepherd  ! — Thou  who  for  Thy  Unci;  art  'lying, 

Oh,  wash  away  these  scarlet  sins,  for  Thou 

Rejoioest  at  the  contrite  sinner's  vow. 

Oh,  wait ! — to  Thee  my  weary  soul  is  crying, — 

Wait  for  me  !  Yet  why  ask  it,  when  I  see, 

With  feet  nailed  to  the  cross,  Thou'rt  waiting  still  forme 


TO-MORROW. 


% 


FROM  TITE  SPANISH  OF  LOPE  PE  VEGA. 

Lord,  what  am  I,  that,  with  unceasing  care, 

Thou  didst  seek  after  me, — that  Thou  didst  wait, 

Wet  with  unhealthy  dews,  before  my  gftte, 

And  pass  the  gloomy  nights  of  winter  there  ? 

Oh,  strange  delusion  ! — that  I  did  not  greet 

Thy  blest  approach  ;  and  oh,  to  Heaven  how  lost 

If  my  ingratitude's  unkindly  frost 

Has  chilled  the  bleeding  wounds  upon  Thy  feet. 

How  oft  my  guardian  angel  gently  cried, 

"  Soul,  from  thy  casement  look,  and  thou  shait  see 

How  He  persists  to  knock  and  wait  for  thee  !" 

And  oh  !  how  often  to  that  voice  of  sorrow, 

11  To-morrow  we  will  open,"  I  replied  ; 

And  when  the  morrow  came,  I  answered  still,  "To-morrow!' 


T&& 


THE  NATIVE  LAND. 

FROM  THE  SPANISH  OF  FRANCISCO  DE  ALDANA. 

Clear  fount  of  light !  my  native  land  on  high, 
Bright  with  a  glory  that  shall  never  fade  ! 
Mansion  of  truth  !  without  a  veil  or  shade, 
Thy  holy  quiet  meets  the  spirit's  eye. 
There  dwells  the  soul  in  its  ethereal  essence, 
Gasping  no  longer  for  life's  feeble  breath  ; 
But  sentineled  in  heaven,  its  glorious  presence 
With  pitying  eye  beholds,  yet  fears  not  death. 
Beloved  country  !  banished  from  thy  shore, 


bL.4 — -_ 


HHM 


472 


A  stranger  in  this  prison-house  of  clay, 

The  i  Us  for  thee! 

Heavenward  the  bright  perfections  I  adore 

Direct,  and  the  sure  promise  cheers  the  i 

That  whither  love  aspires,  there  shall  ray  dwelling  be  ! 


THE  [MAGE  OF  GOD. 

PROM  THE  SPANISH  OF  FRANCISCO  DE  ALDANA. 

0  Lord  !  that  seest,  from  yon  starry  height, 

Centred  in  one  the  future  and  the  past, 

Fashioned  in  thine  own  image,  see  how  fast 

The  world  obscures  in  me  what  once  was  bri 

Eternal  Sun  !  the  warmth  which  thou  hast  g 

To  cheer  life's  flowery  April,  fast  dean 

Yet  in  the  hoary  winter  of  my  days, 

For  ever  green  shall  he  my  trust  in  Heaven. 

Celestial  King  !  oh,  let  thy  presence  pass 

Before  my  spirit,  and  an  image  fair 

Shall  meet  that  look  of  mercy  from  on  high, 

As  the  reflected  image  in  a  glass 

Doth  meet  the  look  of  him  who  seeks  it  there.. 

And  owes  its  being  to  the  gazer's  eye. 


THE  BROOK. 

Laugh  of  the  mountain  !— lyre  of  bird  and  tree ! 

Pomp  of  the  meadow  !  mirror  of  the  morn ! 

The  soul  of  April,  unto  whom  are  horn 

The  rose  and  jessamine,  leaps  wild  in  thee ! 

Although,  where'er  thy  devious  current  strays, 

The  la})  of  earth  with  gold  and  silver  teems, 

To  me  thy  clear  proceeding  brighter  seems 

Than  golden  sands,  that  charm  each  shepherd's  gaze. 

How  without  gnile  thy  bosom,  all  transparent 

As  the  pure  crystal,  lets  the  curious  eye 

Thy  secrets  scan,  thy  smooth  round  pebbles  count ' 

How,  without  malice  murmuring,  glides  thy  current! 

0  sweet  simplicity  of  days  gone  by  ! 

Thou  shunn'st  the  haunts  of  man  to  dwell  in  limpid  fount ! 


4& 


ITIONS      PORTUGUESE, 


J7:; 


SONG. 

FROM  Till:  SPANISH  OF  LOPEZ  MALL'ONADO. 

An,  Love  ! 
Perjured,  false,  treacherous  Love  ! 

Enemy 
Of  all  that  mankind  may  not  rue  ! 

Most  untrue 
To  him  who  keeps  most  faith  with  thee  ! 

Woe  is  me  ! 
The  falcon  has  the  eyes  of  the  dove  ! 

Ah,  Love  ! 
Perjured,  false,  treacherous  Love  ! 

Thy  deceits 
Give  us  clearly  to  comprehend, 

Whither  tend 
All  thy  pleasures,  all  thy  sweets  ! 

They  are  cheats, — 
Thorns  below,  and  flowers  above  ! 

Ah,  Love, 
Perjured,  false,  treacherous  Love  ! 


ortujiuse. 


SONG. 

FROM  THE  PORTUGUESE  OF  GIL  VICENTE. 

If  thou  art  sleeping,  maiden, 

Awake,  and  open  thy  door  : 
'Tis  the  break  of  day,  and  we  must  away, 

O'er  meadow,  and  mount,  and  moor. 

Wait  not  to  find  thy  slippers, 

But  come  with  thy  naked  feet : 
We  shall  have  to  pass  through  the  dewy  gra&> 

And  waters  wide  and  fleet. 


174 


EMS. 


Italian, 


■  i 


THE  CELESTIAL  PILOT. 

FROM  DANTE.     PURGATOUIO,  II. 

And  now,  behold  !  as  at  the  approach  of  morning, 
Through  the  gross  vapours,  Mars  grows  fiery  red, 
Down  in  the  west,  upon  the  ocean  floor, 

Appeared  to  me— may  I  again  behold  it  ? — 
A  light  along  the  sea,  so  swiftly  coming, 
Its  motion  by  no  flight  of  wing  is  equalled. 

And  when  therefrom  1  had  withdrawn  a  little 
Mine  eyes,  that  I  might  question  my  conductor. 
Again  I  saw  it  brighter  grown  arrd  larger. 

Thereafter,  on  all  sides  of  it,  appeared 

I  knew  not  what  of  white,  and  underneath, 

Little  by  little,  there  came  forth  another. 

My  master  yet  had  uttered  not  a  word, 

W  hile  the  first  brightness  into  wings  unfolded  ; 

But,  when  he  clearly  recognised  the  pilot, 

He  cried  aloud:  "Quick,  quick,  and  bow  the  knee' 
Behold  the  Angel  of  God  !  fold  up  thy  hands  ! 
Henceforward  shalt  thou  see  such  officers  ! 

"  See  how  he  scorns  all  human  arguments, 

So  that  no  oar  he  wants,  nor  other  sail 

Than  his  own  wings,  between  so  distant  shores  ! 

"  See  how  he  holds  them,  pointed  straight  to  heaven, 

Fanning  the  air  with  the  eternal  pinions, 

That  do  not  moult  themselves  like  mortal  hair !" 

And  then,  as  nearer  and  more  near  us  came 
The  Bird  of  heaven,  more  glorious  he  appeared, 
So  that  the  eye  could  not  sustain  his  preseuce, 

But  down  I  cast  it ;  and  he  came  to  shore 
With  a  small  vessel,  gliding  swift  and  light, 
So  that  the  waters  swallowed  nought  thereof. 


•■ 


TRANSLATIONS— ITALIA  V 


Upon  the  .stern  stood  the  Celestial  Pilot  ! 

Beatitudi  I  written  in  liis  face  ! 

And  more  than  a  hundred  spirits  sat  within. 

"  Fn  exit  a-  Israel*  out  of  Egypt  !" 
Tims  Bang  they  al!  together  in  one  voice, 
With  whatso  in  that  Psalm  is  after  written. 

Then  made  lie  Bign  of  holy  rood  upon  them. 

Whereat  all  east  themselves  upon  the  shore, 
And  he  departed  swiftly  as  he  eame. 


476 


wM 


» 


THE  TERRESTRIAL  PARADISE. 

FROM  DANTE.     PURGATORIO,  XXVIII. 

Longing  already  to  search  in  and  round 
The  heavenly  forest,  dense  and  living-green, 
Which  to  the  eyes  tempered  the  new-born  day, 

Withouten  more  delay  I  left  the  bank, 

Crossing  the  level  country  slowly,  slowly, 

Over  the  soil,  that  everywhere  breathed  fragrance. 

A  gently-breathing  air,  that  no  mutation 
Had  in  itself,  smote  me  upon  the  forehead 
No  heavier  blow  than  of  a  pleasant  breeze, 

Whereat  the  tremulous  branches  readily 

Did  all  of  them  bow  downward  towards  that  side 

Where  its  first  shadow  casts  the  Holy  Mountain  : 

Yet  not  from  their  upright  direction  bent 
So  that  the  little  birds  upon  their  tops 
Should  cease  the  practice  of  their  tuneful  art ; 

But,  with  full-throated  joy,  the  hours  of  prime 
Singing  received  they  in  the  midst  of  foliage 
That  made  monotonous  burden  to  their  rhymes. 

Even  as  from  branch  to  branch  it  gathering  swells. 
Through  the  pine-forests  on  the  shore  of  Chiassi, 
When  iEolus  unlooses  the  Sirocco. 

Already  my  slow  steps  had  led  me  on 

Into  the  ancient  wood  so  far,  that  I 

Could  see  no  more  the  place  where  I  had  entered. 

♦  At  the  departure  of  Israel. 


/ 


IfcW 


476 


LONGFELLOW 


And  lo  !  my  farther  course  cut  off  a  river, 

Which,  towards  the  left  hand,  with  its  little  waves, 

Dent  down  the  grass  that  on  its  margin  sprang. 

All  waters  that  on  earth  most  limpid  are, 

Would  seem  to  have  within  themselves  some  mixture, 

Compared  witli  that  which  nothing  doth  conceal, 

Although  it  moves  on  with  a  hrown,  brown  current, 
Under  the  shade  perpetual,  that  never 
Kay  of  the  sun  lets  in,  nor  of  the  moon. 


BEATRICE. 

FROM  DANTE.      PURQATORIO,  XXX.  XXXI. 

Even  as  the  blessed,  in  the  new  covenant, 
Shall  rise  up  quickened,  each  one  from  his  grave, 
Wearing  again  the  garments  of  the  tlesh, 

tSo,  upon  that  celestial  chariot, 

A  hundred  rose  ad  vocem  tanti  tenia,  * 

Ministers  and  messengers  of  life  eternal. 

They  all  were  saying  :  "  Benedlctus  qui  venis"  f 
And  scattering  flowers  above  and  round  about,. 
"  Manibus  0!  date  lilia  plenis."l 

I  once  beheld,  at  the  approach  of  day, 

The  orient  sky  all  stained  with  roseate  hues, 

And  the  other  heaven  with  light  serene  adorned, 

And  the  sun's  face  uprising,  overshadowed, 
So  that,  by  temperate  influence  of  vapours, 
The  eye  sustained  his  aspect  for  long  while  : 

Thus  in  the  bosom  of  a  cloud  of  flowers, 

Which  from  those  hands  angelic  were  thrown  up, 

And  down  descended  inside  and  without, 

With  crown  of  olive  o'er  a  snow-white  veil 
Appeared  a  lady,  under  a  green  mantle 
Vested  in  colours  of  the  living  flame. 
♦  *  #  #  * 

Even  as  the  snow,  among  the  living  rafters 
Upon  the  back  of  Italy,  congeals, 
Blown  on  and  beaten  by  Sclavonian  winds, 

At  the  voice  of  so  old  a  man.  t  Blessed  is  he  who  cometh 

j  0  give  lilies  with  a  liberal  hand. 


TRANSLATIONS       ITAI.I  \\. 


And  then,  dissolving,  (liters  through  itself, 
Whene'er  the  Land,  that  loses  shadow,  breathes. 

Like  as  a  taper  melts  before  a  tire. 

Even  such  L  was,  without  a  sigh  or  tear, 
Before  the  song  of  those  who  chime  for  ever 
After  the  chiming  of  the  eternal  spheres  ; 

But,  when  I  heard  in  those  sweet  melodies 

Compassion  for  me,  more  than  had  they  said, 

"  Oli,  wherefore,  lady,  dost  thou  thus  consume  him  V 

The  ice,  that  was  about  my  heart  congealed, 
To  air  and  water  changed,  and,  in  my  anguish, 
Through  lips  and  eyes  came  gushing  from  my  breast. 

*  #  *  *  * 

Confusion  and  dismay,  together  mingled, 
Forced  such  a  feeble  "  Yes  I"  out  of  my  mouth, 
To  understand  it  one  had  need  of  sight. 

Even  as  a  cross-bow  breaks,  when  'tis  discharged, 
Too  tensely  drawn  the  bow-string  and  the  bow, 
And  with  less  force  the  arrow  hits  the  mark  ; 

So  I  gave  way  under  this  heavy  burden, 

Gushing  forth  into  bitter  tears  and  sighs, 

Aud  the  voice,  fainting,  flagged  upon  its  passage. 


■ 


THE  NATURE  OF  LOVE. 

FROM  THE  ITALIAN  OF  GUIDO  GUINICELLI. 

To  noble  heart  Love  doth  for  shelter  fly, 

As  seeks  the  bird  the  forest's  leafy  shade  ; 

Love  was  not  felt  till  noble  heart  beat  high, 

Nor  before  love  the  noble  heart  was  made. 

Soon  as  the  sun's  broad  flame 

Was  formed,  so  soon  the  clear  light  filled  the  air  ; 

Yet  was  not  till  he  came  : 

So  love  springs  up  in  noble  breasts,  and  there 

lias  its  appointed  space, 

As  heat  in  the  bright  flame  finds  its  allotted  place. 

Kindles  in  noble  heart  the  fire  of  love, 

As  hidden  virtue  in  the  precious  stone  : 

This  virtue  comes  not  from  the  stars  above, 

Till  round  it  the  ennobling  sun  has  shone  ; 

But  when  his  powerful  blaze  2  u 


478 


brawn  forth  what  was  vile,  the  stars  impart 
Strange  virtue  in  their  rays : 
And  thus  when  Nature  doth  create  the  heart 
Noble  and  pure  and  high, 
Like  virtue  from  the  star,  love  comes  from  woman's  eye. 


Jfniulj. 


SPRING. 

tfROM  THE  FllENCU  OF  CHAULES  d'oHLEA&'B. 

Fifteenth  Century. 

Gentle  Spring  ! — in  sunshine  clad, 

\\  ell  dost  thou  thy  power  display  ! 
For  Winter  maketh  the  light  heart  Bad, 

And  thou, — thou  makest  the  sad  heart  gay. 
lie  sees  thee,  and  calls  to  his  gloomy  train, 
The  sleet  and  the  snow,  and  the  wind  and  the  rain  ; 
And  they  shrink  away,  and  they  flee  in  fear, 

When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 

Winter  giveth  the  fields  and  trees,  so  old, 

Their  beards  of  icicles  and  snow*  ; 
And  the  rain,  it  raineth  so  fast  aud  cold, 

"We  must  cower  over  the  embeis  low  ; 
And,  snugly  housed  from  the  wind  and  weather, 
Mope  like  birds  that  are  changing  feather. 
But  the  storm  retires,  and  the  sky  grows  clear, 

When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 

Winter  maketh  the  sun  in  the  gloomy  sky 
Wrap  him  round  with  a  mantle  of  cloud  ; 

But,  Heaven  be  praised,  thy  step  is  nigh: 
Thou  tearest  away  the  mournful  shroud, 

And  the  earth  looks  bright,  and  Winter  surly, 

Who  has  toiled  for  nought  both  late  and  early, 

Is  banished  afar  by  the  new-born  year, 
When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 


TRA  '••Ml. 


479 


THE  CHILD  ASLEEP. 

Sweet  babe  !  true  portrait  of  thy  father's  face, 
Sleep  od  the  bosom  that  thy  lips  have  pressed  ! 

Sleep,  little  one  ;  and  closely,  gently  place 
Thy  drowsy  eyelid  on  thy  mother's  breast. 

Upon  that  tender  eye,  my  little  friend, 
Soft  sleep  shall  come,  that  cometh  not  to  me  ! 

1  watch  to  see  thee,  nourish  thee,  defend  ; — 
'Tia  sweet  to  watch  for  thee,  alone  for  thee  ! 

His  arms  fall  down  ;  sleep  sits  upon  his  brow  ; 

His  eye  is  closed  ;  He  sleeps,  nor  dreams  of  harm. 
Wore  not  his  cheek  the  apple's  ruddy  glow, 

Would  you  not  say  he  slept  on  Death's  cold  arm  '! 

Awake,  my  boy  ! — I  tremble  with  affright ! 

Awake,  and  chase  this  fatal  thought ! — unclose     - 
Thine  eye  but  for  one  moment  on  the  light ! 

Even  at  the  price  of  thine,  give  me  repose  ! 

Sweet  error  !  he  but  slept,  —I  breathe  again  ; — 
Come,  gentle  dreams,  the  hour  of  sleep  beguile. 

Oh  !  when  shall  he,  for  whom  I  sigh  in  vain, 
Reside  me  watch  to  see  thy  waking  smile  ( 


DEATH  OF  ARCHBISHOP  TURPIN. 

PROM   THE   FRENCH   OF    CHANSON    DE    ROLAND. 

The  Archbishop,  whom  God  loved  in  high  degree, 
Beheld  his  wounds,  all  bleeding  fresh  and  free  ; 
And  then  his  cheek  more  ghastly  grew  and  wan, 
And  a  faint  shudder  through  his  members  ran. 
Upon  the  battle-field  his  knee  was  bent ; 
Brave  Roland  saw,  and  to  his  succour  went, 
Straightway  his  helmet  from  his  brow  unlaced  ; 
And  tore  the  shining  haubert  from  his  breast, 
Then  raising  in  his  arms  the  man  of  God, 
Gently  he  laid  him  on  the  verdant  sod. 
"  Rest,  Sire,"  he  cried,  "for  rest  thy  suffering  need.-: 
The  priest  replied,  "  Think  but  of  warlike  deeds  ! 
The  field  is  ours  ;  well  may  we  boast  this  strife  ! 
But  death  steals  on,— there  is  no  hope  of  life  ; 
In  paradise,  where  the  almoners  live  again, 


There  are  our  couches  spread,-  there  Bhallwe  rest  from  pain 
Roland  grieved  ;  nor  marvel  1,  al 

That  thrice  he  swooned  upon  the  thick  green  grass. 
When  he  revived  with  aloud  voice  cried  he, 
"0  heavenly  Father !  Holy  Saint  -Marie  ! 
Why  lingers  death  to  lay  me  in  my  grave  I 

Beloved  France  !   How  have  the  good  and  brave 

Been  torn  from  thee,  and  left  thee  weak  and  poor!" 

Then  thoughts  of  Aude,  his  lady-love,  came  o'er 

His  spirit,  and  he  whispered  soft  and  slow, 

"  My  gentle  friend !— what  parting  full  of  woe  ! 

Never  so  true  a  liegeman  shalt  thou  see  \-  - 

Whate'er  my  fate,  Christ's  benison  on  thee  ! 

Christ,  who  did  save  from  realms  of  woe  beneath, 

The  Hebrew  prophets  from  the  second  death." 

Then  to  the  paladins,  whom  well  he  knew, 

He  went,  and  one  by  one  unaided  drew 

To  Turpins  side,  well  skilled  in  ghostly  lore  ; — 

No  heart  had  he  to  smile,— but,  weeping  sore, 

He  blessed  them  in  God's  name,  with  faith  that  He 

Would  soon  vouchsafe  to  them  a  glad  eternity. 

The  Archbishop,  then, — on  whom  God's  benison  rest  !- 

Exhausted,  bowed  his  head  upon  his  breast ; — 

His  mouth  was  full  of  dust  and  clotted  gore, 

And  many  a  wound  his  swollen  visage  bore  ; 

Slow  beats  his  heart, — his  panting  bosom  heaves,— 

Death  comes  apace,— no  hope  of  cure  relieves. 

Towards  heaven  he  raised  his  dying  hands,  and  prayed 

That  God,  who  for  our  sins  was  mortal  made, — 

Born  of  the  Virgin,  —scorned  and  crucified, — 

In  paradise  would  place  him  by  his  side. 

Then  Turpin  died  in  service  of  Charlon, 

In  battle  great  and  eke  great  orison  ; 

'Gainst  Pagan  host  alway  strong  champion  ; — 

God  grant  to  him  His  holy  benison  ! 


I   <*■ 


RONDEL. 

PROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  JEAN  FROISSART. 

Love,  love,  what  wilt  thou  with  this  heart  of  mine  ? 

Nought  see  I  fixed  or  sure  iu  thee  ! 
I  do  not  know  thee, — nor  what  deeds  are  thine  : 


!  \M 


**fur?:xy.2\ 


JLATI0N8      FRENCH, 


'•    1 


Lore,  love,  what  wilt  thou  with  tibia  heart  of  mine? 

Nought  Bee  I  fixed  or  sure  in  thee  ! 
Shall  1  be  mute,  or  trows  with  prayers  combine? 

?e  who  arc  Messed  in  loving,  tell  it  me: 
Love,  Love,  what  wilt  thou  with  this  heart  of  mine  'i 

Nought  see  I  permanent  or  sure  in  thee  ! 


FRIAR  LUBIN. 

FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  CLEMENT  MAROT. 

To  gallop  off  to  town  post-haste, 

So  oft,  the  times  I  cannot  tell  ; 
To  do  vile  deed,  nor  feel  disgraced, — 

Friar  Lubin  will  do  it  well. 
But  a  sober  life  to  lead, 

To  honour  virtue,  and  pursue  it, 
That's  a  pious,  Christian  deed, — 

Friar  Lubin  cannot  do  it. 

To  mingle,  Avith  a  knowing  smile, 

The  goods  of  others  with  his  own, 
And  leave  you  without  cross  or  pile, 

Friar  Lubin  stands  alone. 
To  say  'tis  yours  is  all  in  vain, 

If  once  he  lays  his  finger  to  it ; 
For  as  to  giving  back  again, 

Friar  Lubin  cannot  do  it. 

With  flattering  words  and  gentle  tone, 

To  woo  and  win  some  guileless  maid  ; 
Cunning!  pander  need  you  none, — 

Friar  Lubin  knows  the  trade 
Loud  preacheth  he  sobriety, 

But  as  for  water,  doth  eschew  it ; 
Your  dog  may  drink  it, — but  not  he  ; 

Friar  Lubin  cannot  do  it. 

ENVOY. 

When  an  evil  deed's  to  do, 
Friar  Lubin  is  stout  and  true ; 
Glimmers  a  ray  of  goodness  through  it, 
Friar  Lubin  cannot  do  it. 


.->* 


182 


H'UnW  B    POEMP. 


Ai>i 


-■a 


THE  BLIND  GIRL  OF  CAOTfiL-CUILlJl 

M  tiii:  G  L8C0N  01  JJuBMIH. 

Only  the  Lowland  tongu  nd  might 

Rehearse  this  little  tragedy  aright; 

Let  me  attempt  it  with  an  English  quill; 
And  take,  0  reader  for  the  deed  the  will. 

I. 

At  the  foot  of  the  mountain  height 
Where  is  perched  Castel-Cuille, 

When  the  apple,  the  plum,  and  the  almond-tree 
In  the  plain  below  were  growing  white, 
This  is  the  song  one  might  perceive 

On  a  Wednesday  morn  of  Saint  Joseph's  eve ; 

"  The  roads  should  blossom,  the  roads  should  bloom, 

So  fair  a  bride  shall  leave  her  home  ! 

Should  blossom  and  bloom  with  garlands  gay, 

So  fair  a  bride  shall  pass  to-day!" 

This  old  Te  Deum,  rustic  rites  attending, 
Seemed  from  the  clouds  descending; 
When  lo  !  a  merry  company 

Of  rosy  village  girls,  clean  as  the  eye, 
Each  one  with  her  attendant  swain, 

( lame  to  the  cliff,  all  singing  the  same  strain ; 

Resembling  there  so  near  unto  the  sky, 

Rejoicing  angels,  that  kind  Heaven  has  sent 

For  their  delight  and  our  encouragement, 

Together  blending, 
And  soon  descending 
The  narrow  sweep 
Of  the  hill-side  steep, 
They  wind  aslant 

Toward  Saint  Am  ant, 
Through  leafy  alleys, 
Of  verdurous  valleys, 
W  ith  merry  sallies 
Singing  their  chant ; 

"  The  roads  should  blossom,  the  roads  should  bloom, 
So  fair  a  bride  shall  leave  her  home ! 
Should  blossom  and  bloom  with  garlands  gay, 
So  fair  a  bride  shall  pass  to-day !" 

It  is  Baptiste  and  his  affianced  maiden, 
With  garlands  for  the  bridal  laden! 


*th*«*. 


TRANSLATIONS       FRENCH. 


483 


The  sky  was  blue  ;  without  one  cloiul  of  gloom, 
The  sun  of  .March  was  Bhining  brightly, 

An- 1  tn  the  air  the  freshening  wind  gave  Lightly 
Its  breathings  of  perfume. 

When  "tic  beholds  the  dusky  hedges  blossom, 
A  rustic  bridal,  ah  !  how  sweet  it  is! 

To  sounds  of  joyous  melodies, 
That  touch  with  tenderness  the  trembling  bosom, 
A  band  of  maidens 
Gaily  frolicking, 
A  band  of  youngsters 
Wildly  rollicking ! 
Kissing, 
Caressing, 
With  fingers  pressing, 

Till  in  the  veriest 
Madness  of  mirth,  as  they  dance, 
They  retreat  and  advance, 
Trying  whose  laugh  shall  be  loudest  and  merriest ; 

While  the  bride  with  roguish  eyes, 
Sporting  with  them,  now  escapes  and  cries: 
"  Those  who  catch  me 

Married  verily 
This  year  shall  be !" 

And  all  pursue  with  eager  haste, 
And  all  attain  what  they  pursue, 
And  touch  her  pretty  apron  fresh  and  new, 
And.  the  linen  kirtle  round  her  waist. 

Meanwhile,  whence  comes  it  that  among 
These  youthful  maidens  fresh  and  fair, 
So  joyous  with  such  laughing  air, 
Baptiste  stands  sighing,  with  silent  tongue  / 
And  yet  the  bride  is  fair  and  young  ! 

Is  it  Saint  Joseph  would  say  to  us  all, 
That  love,  o'er-hasty,  precedeth  a  fall .; 

Oh,  no !  for  maiden  frail  I  trow, 

Never  bore  so  lofty  a  brow  ! 
What  lovers!  they  give  not  a  single  caress! 
To  see  them  so  careless  and  cold  to-day, 

These  are  grand  people,  one  would  say. 
What  ails  Baptiste  /  what  grief  doth  him  oppress/ 

It  is,  that,  half  way  up  the  hill, 


y*/ 


I  FELLOW  S   J-oEMS. 


In  yon  .  by  whose  walls 

and  the  cart-house  ana  the  stalls 

Dwelleth  the  blind  orphan  still, 

Daughl  .  i  old; 

And  you  must  knoi . 

That  Margaret,  the  young  and  tender, 

Was  the  village  pride  and  splendour, 

And  Baptisteher  lover  bold. 

Love  the  deceiver,  them  ensnared  ; 

For  them  the  altar  was  prepared  ; 

]>ut,  alas!  the  summer's  blight, 

The  dread  disease  that  none  c 

The  pestilence  that  walks  by  night, 

Took,  the  young  bride's  sight  away. 
All  at  the  father's  stern  command  was  changed  ; 
Their  peace  was  gone,  but  not  their  love  estranged. 
Wearied  at  home,  ere  long  the  lover  tied, 

Returned  hut  three  short  da;,  (ago, 

The  golden  chain  they  round  him  throw, 

He  is  enticed,  and  onward  led 

To  marry  Angela,  and  yet 

Is  thinking  ever  of  Margaret. 

Then  suddenly  a  maiden  cried, 

'•  Anna,  Theresa,  Mary,  Kate  ! 
Here  comes  the  cripple  Jane  !"  And  by  a  fountain's  side 

A  woman,  bent  and  gray  with  years, 

Under  the  mulberry-trees  app 

And  all  towards  her  run,  as  fleet 

As  had  they  wings  upon  their  feet. 

It  is  that  Jane,  the  cripple  Jane, 

Is  a  soothsayer,  wary  and  kind. 
She  telleth  fortunes,  and  none  complain. 

She  promises  one  a  village  swain, 

Another  a  happy  wedding-day. 

And  the  bride  a  lovely  boy  straightway. 

All  comes  i  -  she  avei 

She  never  deceives,  she  never  errs. 

But  for  this  once  the  village  seer 
Wears  a  countenance  severe, 
And  from  beneath  her  eyebrows  thin  and  white 
Her  two  eyes  flash  like  cannons  bright 
Aimed  at  the  bridegroom  in  waistcoat  blue, 
Who,  like  a  statue,  stands  in  view  ; 


TK  INSLATIONS       FRENCH. 


486 


Changing  colour,  as  well  be  might, 
When  the  beldame  wrinkled  and  -ray 
Takes  the  young  bride  by  the  hand, 
And,  with  the  tip  of  her  reedy  wand 
Making  the  sign  of  the  cross,  doth  say  : — 
"  Thoughtli  la,  beware  ! 

Lest,  when  thou  Weddest  this  false  bridegroom. 
Thou  diggest  for  thyself  a  tomb  !" 

And  she  was  silent  ;  and  the  maidens  fair 

Saw  from  each  eye  escape  a  swollen  tear. 

But  on  a  little  streamlet  silver-clear, 
What  are  two  drops  of  turbid  rain  ! 
Saddened  a  moment,  the  bridal  train 
Resumed  the  dance  and  song  again. 

The  bridegroom  only  was  pale  with  fear  ; — 
And  down  green  alleys 
Of  verdurous  valleys, 
With  merry  sallies 
They  sang  the  refrain  : 

"  The  roads  should  blossom,  the  roads  should  bloom, 

So  fair  a  bride  shall  leave  her  home  ! 

Should  blossom  and  bloom  with  garlands  gay, 

So  fair  a  bride  shall  pass  to-day  !" 


II. 

And  by  suffering  worn  and  weary, 
But  beautiful  as  some  fair  angel  yet, 

Thus  lamented  Margaret, 

In  her  cottage  lone  and  dreary  : — 

"  lie  has  arrived  !  arrived  at  last ! 
Yet  Jane  has  named  him  not  these  three  days  past ; 

Arrived  !  yet  keeps  aloof  so  far  ! 
And  knows  that  of  my  night  he  is  the  star  ! 
Knows  that  long  months  I  wait  alone,  benighted, 
And  count  the  moments  since  he  went  away  ! 
Gome  !  keep  the  promise  of  that  happier  day. 
That  I  may  keep  the  faith  to  thee  I  plighted  1 
What  joy  have  I  without  thee  /  what  delight  / 
Grief  wastes  my  life,  and  makes  it  misery  ; 
Day  for  the  others  ever,  but  for  me 

For  ever  night !  for  ever  night ! 

:i  he  is  gone,  'tis  dark  !  my  soul  is  sad  ! 
I  suffer !  0  my  God  !  come,  make  me  glad. 


-ISO 


LONGFELLOW  8  PO 


When  he  is  near,  no  thoughts  of  day  intrude  ; 

Day  has  blue  heavens,  but  Baptist*  has  bluer* 
Within  them  shines  for  me  a  heaven  of  I 
A  heaven  all  happiness,  like  that  ah 

No  more  of  grief !  no  more  of  lassitude  ! 
Earth  1  forget,  and  heaven,  and  all  distresses, 
When  seated  by  my  side  my  hand  he  presses ; 

But  when  alone,  remember  all ! 
\\  here  is  Baptdste  I  he  hears  not  when  I  call ! 
A  branch  of  ivy,  dying  on  the  -round, 

I  need  some  bough  to  twine  around  ! 
In  pity  come  !  be  to  my  Buffering  kind  ! 
True  love,  they  say,  in  grief  doth  more  abound  ! 

What  then — when  one  is  blind  t 

"  Who  knows  ?  perhaps  I  am  forsaken  ! 
Ah  !  woe  is  me  !  then  bear  me  to  my  grave  ! 

0  God  !  what  thoughts  within  me  waken  ! 
Away  !  he  will  return  !  I  do  but  rave  ! 

He  will  return  !   I  need  not  fear ! 

He  swore  it  by  our  Saviour  dear  ; 

He  could  not  come  at  his  own  will  ; 

Is  weary,  or  perhaps  is  ill ! 

Perhaps  his  heart  in  this  disguise 

Prepares  me  for  some  sweet  surpri 
But  some  one  comes !  Though  blind  my  heart  can  see. 
And  that  deceives  me  not !  'tis  he  !  'tis  he  !" 

And  the  door  ajar  is  set, 

Ami  poor  confiding  Margaret 
Rises,  with  outstretched  arms,  but  sightless  eyes  ; 
"Tis  only  Paul,  her  brother,  who  thus  cries  : — 

u  Angela,  the  bride,  has  passed  ! 
I  saw  the  wedding  guests  go  by  ; 

Tell  me,  my  sister,  why  were  we  not  asked  \ 
For  all  are  there  but  you  ami  I  !" 

"  Angela  married  !  and  not  send 

To  tell  her  secret  unto  me  ! 

Oh,  speak  !  who  may  the  bridegroom  be?" 

>;  .My  sister,  'tis  Baptiste,  thy  friend  !" 

A  cry  the  blind  girl  gave,  but  nothing  said  ; 
A  milky  whiteness  spreads  upon  her  cheeks  ; 
An  icy  hand,  as  heavy  as  lead, 
Descending,  as  her  brother  speaks, 


r 


'""-"  ■""  **" 


ti:  \\-i,  \TI..\S  --  FRENCH. 


189 


m  her  heart,  that  has  erase]  to  beat, 
Suspends  awhile  its  life  and  heat. 
She  stands  beside  bhe  boy,  now  sore  distressed, 
A  wax  Madonna  as  a  peasant  dressed. 

At  length  the  bridal  song  again 
Brings  her  back  to  her  sorrow  and  pain. 

"  Hark  !  the  joyous  airs  are  ringing  ! 

Sister,  dost  thou  hear  them  Bulging? 

How  merrily  they  laugh  and  jest! 

Would  we  were  hidden  with  the  rest ! 

I  would  don  my  hose  of  homespun  gray, 

And  my  doublet  of  linen  striped  and  gay  ; 

Perhaps  they  will  come  :  for  they  do  not  wed 

Till  to-morrow  at  seven  o'clock,  it  is  said  !" 

u  I  know  it  I"  answered  Margaret, 
Whom  the  vision,  with  aspect  black  as  jet, 

Mastered  again  ;  and  its  hand  of  ice 
Held  her  heart  crushed,  as  in  a  vice  ! 

"  Paul,  be  not  sad  !  'Tis  a  holiday  ; 

To-morrow  put  on  thy  doublet  gay ! 

But  leave  me  now  for  a  while  alone." 

Away,  with  a  hop  and  a  jump,  went  Paul, 

And,  as  he  whistled  along  the  hall, 

Entered  Jane,  the  cripple  crone. 

"  Holy  Virgin  !  what  dreadful  heat ! 

I  am  faint,  and  weary,  and  out  of  breath ! 

But  thou  art  cold, — art  chill  as  death  ; 

My  little  friend  !  what  ails  thee,  sweet  ?" 
"  Nothing  !  I  heard  them  singing  home  the  bride  ; 

And,  as;  1  listened  to  the  song, 

I  thought  my  turn  would  come  ere  long, 
Thou  knowest  it  is  at  Whitsuntide. 
Thy  cards,  forsooth,  can  never  lie, 

To  me  such  joy  they  prophesy  ; 
Thy  skill  shall  be  vaunted  far  and  wide 
When  they  behold  him  at  my  side. 
And  poor  Baptiste,  what  sayest  thou  ? 
It  must  seem  long  to  him  ;  methinks  I  see  him  now 
Jane,  shuddering,  her  hand  doth  press  : 

II  Thy  love  T  cannot  all  approve  ; 
We  must  not  trust  too  much  to  happiness ; — 
Gk>,  pray  to  God  that  thou  mayest  love  him  less !" 

"  The  more  I  pray,  the  more  I  love  ! 


U  ■ 


■ 


A 


•a 


•■• 


488 


IFELLCW  s  I  • 


ttO  mii,  for  God  is  on  my  side  !" 
It  was  enough  ;  and  Jane  no  more  replied. 

Now  to  all  hope  her  heart  is  barred  and  cold  ; 

But  to  deceive  the  beldame  old 

She  takes  a  sweet  contented  air; 

Speaks  of  foul  weather  or  of  fair, 

At  every  word  the  maiden  smiles  ! 

Thus  the  beguiler  she  beguili 
So  that,  departing  at  the  evening's  close, 

She  says, "  She  may  be  saved !  she  nothing  knows  !" 

Poor  Jane,  the  cunning  sorceress  ! 
Now  that  thou  wouldst,  thou  art  no  prophetess ! 
This  morning,  in  the  fulness  of  thy  heart, 

Thou  wast  so,  far  beyond  thine  art ! 

III. 

Now  rings  the  bell,  nine  times  reverberating, 

And  the  white  daybreak,  stealing  up  the  sky, 
in  two  cottages  two  maidens  waiting, 
How  differently ! 

Queen  of  a  day,  by  flatterers  caressed, 
The  one  puts  on  her  cross  and  crown, 
Decks  with  a  huge  bouquet  her  breast, 
And  flaunting,  fluttering  up  and  down, 
Looks  at  herself,  and  cannot  rest. 
The  other,  blind,  within  her  little  room, 
Has  neither  crown  nor  flower's  perfume  ; 

But  in  their  stead  for  something  gropes  apart, 
That  in  a  drawer's  recess  doth  lie, 

And  'neath  her  bodice  of  bright  scarlet  dye, 
Convulsive  clasps  it  to  her  heart. 

The  one,  fantastic,  light  as  air, 
'Mid  kisses  ringing, 
And  joyous  singing, 
Forgets  to  say  her  morning  prayer  ! 
The  other,  with  cold  drops  upon  her  brow, 

Joins  her  two  hands,  and  kneels  upon  the  floor, 
And  whispers,  as  her  brother  opes  the  door, 
"  0  God  !  forgive  me  now  !" 

And  then  the  orphan,  young  and  blind, 

Conducted  by  her  brother's  hand, 

Towards  the  church,  through  paths  unscanned 


TRANSLATIONS      I'KENCM. 


5 


■  i 


I 


<*ta 


\\  ith  tranquil  air,  her  waydoth  wind. 
Odours  of  laurel,  making  her  faint  and  pale, 

iiiti  her  at  times  exhale, 
And  in  the  sky  as  yet  DO  sunny  ray, 

But  brumal  vapours  gray. 

Near  that  castle,  fail  to  see, 
Crowded  with  sculptures  old  in  every  part, 

Marvels  of  nature  and  of  art, 
And  proud  of  its  name  of  high  degree, 

A  little  chapel,  almost  hare, 

At  the  base  of  the  rock  is  lmilded  there  ; 

All  glorious  that  it  lifts  aloof, 

Above  each  jealous  cottage-roof, 
Its  sacred  summit,  swept  by  autumn  gales, 

And  its  blackened  steeple  high  in  air, 

Round  which  the  osprey  screams  and  sails. 

"Paul,  lay  thy  noisy  rattle  by !" 
Thus  Margaret  said.     "  Where  are  we  ?  we  ascend  !" 

"  Yes  ;  seest  thou  uot  our  journey's  end  'I 
Ilearest  not  the  osprey  from  the  belfry  cry  ] 
The  hideous  bird,  that  brings  ill-luck,  you  know  ! 
Dost  thou  remember  when  our  father  said, 

The  night  we  watched  beside  his  bed, 

'  0  daughter,  I  am  weak  and  low  ; 
Take  care  of  Paul ;  I  feel  that  I  am  dying  !' 
And  thou,  and  he,  and  I,  all  fell  to  crying  \ 
Then  on  the  roof  the  osprey  screamed  aloud  ; 
And  here  they  brought  our  father  in  his  shroud. 
There  is  his  grave  ;  there  stands  the  cross  we  set : 
Why  dost  thou  clasp  me  so,  dear  Margaret  ? 

Come  in  !     The  bride  will  be  here  soon  : 
Thou  tremblest !    0  my  God  !  thou  art  going  to  swoon  !" 

She  could  no  more, — the  blind  girl,  weak  and  weary  ! 

A  voice  seemed  crying  from  that  grave  so  dreary, 

"  What  wouldst  thou  do,  my  daughter/"— and  she  started 

And  (piick  recoiled,  aghast,  faint-hearted  ; 
But  Paul,  impatient,  urges  ever  more 

Her  steps  towards  the  open  door ; 
And  when  beneath  her  feet  the  unhappy  maid 
Crushes  the  laurel  near  the  house  immortal, 
And  with  her  head,  as  Paul  talks  on  again, 

Touches  the  crown  of  filigrane 

Suspended  from  the  low-arched  portal, 


1  «J0 


No  more  restrained,  no  more  afraid, 

She  walks,  as  for  a  feast  arrayed  ; 
And  in  the  ancient  chapel's  sombre  night 
They  both  are  last  to  sight 

At  length  the  bell, 

With  1  looming  sound, 
Sends  forth,  resounding  round, 
Its  hymeneal  peal  o'er  rock  ami  down  the  dell. 
It  is  broad  day,  with  sunshine  and  with  rain  ; 
And  yet  the  guests  delay  not  1 
For  soon  arrives  the  bridal  train, 
And  with  it  brings  the  village  throng. 

In  sooth,  deceit  maketh  no  mortal  gay, 
For  lo  !  Baptdste  on  this  triumphant  day, 
Mute  as  an  idiot,  sad  as  yester-morning, 

Thinks  only  of  the  beldame's  words  of  warning. 

And  Angela  thinks  of  her  cross,  I  wis  ; 

To  be  a  bride  is  all  !     The  pretty  lisper 

Feels  her  heart  swell  to  hear  all  round  her  whisper, 

"  How  beautiful  !  how  beautiful  she  is!" 

lint  she  must  calm  that  giddy  head, 

For  already  the  mass  is  said  ; 

At  the  holy  table  stands  the  priest  ; 
The  wedding-ring  is  blest ;  Baptiste  receives  it  ; 
Ere  on  the  finger  of  the  bride  he  leaves  it, 

lie  must  pronounce  one  word  at  least ! 

'Tis  spoken  ;  and  sudden  at  the  groomsman's  side 

"'Tis  he!"  a  well-known  voice  has  cried. 

And  while  the  wedding  guests  all  hold  their  breath, 

Opes  the  confessional,  and  the  blind  girl,  see  ! 

"  Baptiste,"  she  said,  "since  thou  hast  wished  my  death 

As  holy  water  be  my  blood  for  thee  !" 

And  calmly  in  the  air  a  knife  suspended  ! 

.Doubtless  her  guardian  angel  near  attended, 
For  anguish  did  its  work  so  well, 
That,  ere  the  fatal  stroke  descended, 
Lifeless  she  fell ! 

At  eve,  instead  of  bridal  verse, 
The  Deprofundis  filled  the  air  ; 
Decked  with  flowers  a  simple  hearse 
To  the  churchyard  forth  they  bear  ; 
Village  girls  iu  robes  of  snow 


10] 


Follow,  weeping  as  they  go  ; 

Nowhere  was  a  smile  that  day, 
1Stm,  all  no  !  for  ea  :li  one  seemed  to  Bay 
44  The  roads  should  mourn  and  be  veiled  in  gloom; 

iir  a  corpse  shall  Leave  its  home  ! 
Should  mourn  and  should  weep,  ah,  well-away  ! 
So  fair  a  corpse  shall  pass  to-day  !" 


*ftSil 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 

FROM  THE  SOEI  BOUKGUIGNON  DE  GUI  BAROZAI 

I  hear  along  our  street 
Pass  the  minstrel  throngs  ; 
1  lark  !  they  play  so  sweet, 
On  their  hautboys,  Christmas  songs  ! 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire  ! 

In  December  ring 
Every  day  the  chimes  ; 
Loud  the  gleemen  sing 
In  the  streets  their  merry  rhymes. 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire  ! 

Shepherds  at  the  grange, 
Where  the  Babe  was  born, 
Sang,  with  many  a  change, 
Christmas  carols  until  morn. 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire  ! 

These  good  people  sang 
Songs  devout  and  sweet ; 
While  the  rafters  rang, 
There  they  stood  with  freezing  feet 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 
Bing  them  till  the  night  expire  ! 

Nuns  in  frigid  cells 

At  this  holy  tide, 

For  want  of  suinething  else, 


i 


492 


LONGFELLOW  8  POEMS 


Christmas  BOng8  at  times  have  triad. 

Let  us  by  the  lire 

Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire] 

\\  aaherwomei)  old, 
To  the  sound  they  beat, 
Sing  by  rivers  cold, 
With  uncovered  heads  and  feet. 
Let  us  by  the  tire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire  ! 

Who  by  the  fireside  stands 
Stamps  his  feet  and  sings  ; 
But  he  who  blows  his  hands 
Not  so  gay  a  carol  brings. 
Let  us  by  the  tire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire! 


DUKE  WILLIAM  AT  ROUEN. 

FROM  THE  ROMAN  DD  ROD. 

Then  Duke  William  was  right  sorrowful,  and  strength  a nu 

power  had  none, 
For  he  thought  that  in  the  battle  he  should  well-nigh  stand 

alone ; 
He  knew  not  who  would  fight  fur  him,  or  who  would  prove  a 

foe: 
"  Why  should  we  linger  here,"  quoth  he,  "  I  into  France  will 

go." 
Then   said   Boten,— "  Duke   William,  thou  hast  spoke  a 

coward's  word ; 
What !  fly  away  at  once,  ere  thou  hast  wielded  lance  or  sword  / 
Think'st  thou  I  e'er  will  see  thee  ily  /    Thou  talk^st  quite 

childishly, 
Summon  thy  men,  prepare  for  fight,  and  have  good  heart  in 

thee, 
Perjured  thy  foemen  are,  and  they  shall  surely  vanquished  be!" 
"  Boten,"  said  William,  "  how  can  1  prepare  me  for  the  fight  I 
Rioulf  can  bring  four  well-armed  men  for  every  single  wight 
1  can  command  ; — I  sure  shall  die,  if  I  against  him  go." 


TRANSLATIONS— FRENCH. 


193 


M 

m 


"  That  thou'rt  a  coward,"  said  Boten,  "Saint  Frier  well  doth 

know  ; 
But,  by  the  faith  which  firm  I  hold  to  the  Son  of  God,  I  say, 
Whoe'er  should  do  as  thou,  deserves  sound  beating  in  the  fray ; 
For  thou  wilt  neither  arm  nor  fight,  but  only  run  away." 
"  Mercie!"  cried  William,  "  See  ye  not  how  Rioulf  me  sieges 

here, 
And  my  perjured  knights  are  all  with  him  ;  must  it  not  cost 

me  dear  / 
And  they  all  hate  me  unto  death,  and  round  encompass  me; 
I  never  can,  by  my  soul  I  swear,  drive  them  from  this  countrie ; 
I  must  forsake  it,  and  to  France  right  speedily  I'll  flee." 
Then  spake  Bernart, — "Duke,  know  this  well,  we  will  not 

follow  thee. 
Too  much  of  ill  these  men  have  wrought,  out  a  day  will  surely 

come 
For  payment,  and  we'll  pay  them  well.    When  erst  we  left 

our  home 
In  Denmark,  and  to  this  land  came,  we  gained  it  by  our 

might, 
But  thou  to  arm  thee  art  afraid,  and  dar'st  not  wage  the  fight, 
Go,  then,  to  France,  enjoy  thyself,  a  wretched  caitiff  wight ; 
No  love  of  honest  praise  hast  thou,  no  prayer  will  e'er  avail 

thee, 
0  wicked  one!  why  shouldst  thou  fear  that  God  will  ever  fail 

thee  j 
Rollo,  like  bold  and  hardy  chief,  this  land  by  his  good  sword 

won, 
And  thou  woiddst  do  even  as  he  did,  wTert  thou  indeed  his 

son?" 
"  Bernart,"  said  William,  "  well,  methinks,  thou  hast  reviled 

me, 
Offence  enow  to  me  hast  given,  enow  of  villainye ; 
But  thou  shalt  see  me  bear  myself  even  as  a  man  right  wode, 
Whoe'er  will  come  and  fight  with  me  shall  swear  my  will  is 

good. 
Boten,  good   friend,"  said  he,  "  Beniart,  now  list  to  me,  I 

P»y, 

No  longer  hold  me  evil  one,  nor  coward  from  this  day ; 
Call  my  men  unto  the  battle-field ,  I  pledge  my  word,  and 

know 
That  henceforth  for  the  strife  of  swords  ye  shall  not  find  me 

slow." 
Then  all  did  rush  to  arms,  and  all  with  equal  spirit  came,  2  i 


4'J4 


tFELLOW  -  POBMS 


IMJ& 


And  fully  armed,  thrice  haughtily  defiance  did  proclaim 
Rioulf  and  his  vassals,  who  the  challenge  heard  with  glee. 

And  flung  it  back  to  William,  who  returned  it  joyfully. 
Full  harnessed  was  he  now,  and  toward  his  foeinen  blithe  he 

ran, 
11  God  be  our  aid  "  he  shouted,  and  rushed  on  like  a  giant  man. 
Ve  never  saw  such  heavy  hlows  as   Duke  William  gave  that 

day, 
For  when  the  sword  was  in  his  grasp,  scant  need  of  leech  had 

they 
Who  felt  its  edge  ;   and  vain  were  lance  and  brand  'gainst 

him,  I  trow, 
For  when  Duke  William  struck  them  down,  joy  had  they 

never  moe. 
Twas  blithe  to  see  how  he  bore  himself,  like  a  wild  bull,  'mid 

the  light, 
And  drove  his  foemen  left  and  right,  all  flying  with  sore  aff- 
right, 
For  truly  he  did  pay  them  off,  and  with  a  right  good  will. 
Now  when  Kioulf  saw  his  vassals  there,  lying  all  cold  and  still 
Upon  the  field,  while  William's  men  boldly  maintained  their 

ground, 
He  seized  his  good  steed's  bridle  rein,  and  madly  turned  him 

round, 
And  stayed  not  to  prick  and  spur,  till  near  a  wood  he  drew  ; 
Then,  fearing  that  Duke  William's  men  did  even  yet  pursue, 
His  hawberk,  lance,  and  trusty  sword  away  he  gladly  threw, 
That  more  swiftly  he  might  speed  along  ;  but  though  he  was 

not  caught, 
Scarce  better  fate  that  gallant  fight  unto  bold  Rioulf  brought, 
For  there  he  died,   heart   broke,  I  weeu,  with  shame  and 

mickle  wroe, 
And  his  corpse  was  after  in  the  Seine  (do  not  all  that  story 

know  I) 
Found  floating  on  the  rising  tide.     So  the  victory  was  won, 
And  far  and  wide  was  the  story  spread  of  the  deeds  the  Duke 

had  done. 


A 
I 


m  L5SLATI0NS      n:i.\  mi 


(95 


I 


IUCIIARD'S  ESCAIMv. 


F1MM    THE    ROMAN    DU    KOU. 


"And  now,  fair  sir,"  said  Osmont,  "I  pray  you  sickness 

feign, 
And  keep  your  bed,  nor  eat,  nor  drink,  but,  as  in  bitter  pain, 
Groan  loudly,  sigh,  and  moan,  and  then  at  last,  as  near  your 

end, 
Pray  that  a  priest,  to  house]  ye,  the  king  at  least  may  send  ; 
And  bear  ye  warily  in  all,  for  I  do  trust  that  ye 
By  God's  aid,  even  yet  shall  'scape  from  this  captivity." 
"  This  will  I  do,"said  Richard,  "  even  as  ye  counsel  me." 
And  well  did  Richard  act  the  part  that  Osmont  taught. 
lie  kept  his  bed,  nor  ate,  nor  drank,  and  thus  so  low  was 

brought, 
That  his  Mesh  was  soft  and  sallow,  his  visage  deadly  pale, 
For  so  well  acted  he  his  part,  that  all  thought  his  life  must 

fail  ; 
But  when  King  Louis  heard  of  it,  his  woe  was  scant,  I  trow, 
For  he  thought  Duke  Richard's  heritage  to  his  eldest  son 

would  go. 
Then  Osmont  made  loud  sorrow,  and  mourned  ana  wept  full 

sore. 
u  Alas,  Sire  Richard  !  one  so  mild  and  courteous  never  more 
Shall  we  behold  ! — Ay,  'twas  alone  for  thy  goodly  heritage 
That  Louis  snatched  thee  from  thy  friends,  and  at  such 

tender  age 
A  captive  doomed  thee. — 0,  his  hate  but  from  thy  lands  arose ! 
Alas  !  that  our  rich  Normandie  should  make  so  many  foes  ! — 
Oh,  what  will  Bernart  say,  who  watched  thy  tender  infancy, — 
That  thou  here  shouldst  die,  not  in  the  town  of  thy  nativity  I 
0  God  !  look  down,  for  only  thou  our  failing  hope  can  raise  ! 
Thou  knowest  how  well  beloved  he  was,  how  worthy  of  all 

praise 
And  honour,  too  !  0,  there  was  none  ever  beloved  as  he  !" 
Now  when  the  warders  heard  Osmont  mourning  so  bitterly, 
They  doubted  not  that  Richard  then  upon  his  death-bed  lay  : 
And  others  thought  so,  too,  and  each  did  to  the  other  say, 
That  Richard's  spirit  certainly  was  passing  swift  away, 
it  came  to  pass  that  night  the  King  at  supper  sat, 
And  they  who  guarded  Richard  most  carelessly  of  late 
Kept  watch  and  ward,  for  well  they  thought  he  was  so  weak 

and  low, 


496 


.  low  s  r* 


That  save  unto  his  burial,  abroad  he  ne'er  would  go  ; 

For  how  could  he  live  long  who  never  spoke,  i  r  ta  ted  food? 

And  wherefore  else  should  Osmont  weep  and  be  so  sad  of  mood  / 

That  when  good  Osmont  saw  the  watch  right  from  the  door 
depart, 

Bis  steed  he  caused  ydight  to  be,  in  readiness  to  start ; 

Then  he  hastened  to  Duke  Richard's  bed,  and  bade  him  swift 
uprise  ; 

Then  in  a  truss  of  rushes  green  hides  him  from  prying  ej 

And  binds  and  cords  the  bundle  well ;  bids  his  menye  mount 
and  ride  ; 

In  a  churchman's  gown  he  wraps  himself,  nor  heeds  what 
may  betide, 

So  Richard's  safe  ;  then  last  of  all,  he  follows  his  menye  ; — 

The  night  was  dark,  and  that  was  well,  for  no  need  of  light 
had  he. 

Soon  as  outside  the  walls  they  came,  Duke  Richard  they  un- 
bound, 

And  brought  to  him  as  gallant  steed  as  ever  stepped  on  ground; 

Right  glad  was  he  to  mi  rant,  I  ween,  right  glad  were  they  also, 

And  off  they  set,  and  spurred  well,  for  they  had  far  to  go. 

O,  when  Duke  Richard  seized  the  rein,  a  joyful  one  was  he ! 

But,  whether  he  rode  fast  or  no,  ye  need  not  ask  of  me. 


|>nflIo- 


Sasoit. 


THE  GRAVE. 

For  thee  was  a  house  built 
Ere  thou  wast  born. 
For  thee  was  a  mould  meant 
Ere  thou  of  mother  earnest. 
But  it  is  not  made  ready. 
Not  its  depth  measured, 
Nor  is  it  seen 
How  long  it  shall  be. 
Now  I  bring  thee. 
Where  thou  slialt  be  ; 
Now  I  shall  measure  thee, 
And  the  mould  afterwards. 


TRANSLATIONS       LNQLO  BAXOH. 


497 


j 

i 

•: 

t 

.  ] 

1 

H 

■  ■ 

m 

X 

1 

:  1 

Thy  boose  is  Dot 

ly  timbered, 

li  is  unhigh  and  low  ; 

When  thou  art  therein, 
The  heel-ways  are  low, 
The  side-ways  unhigh. 
The  roof  is  built 
Thy  breast  lull  nigh, 
So  thou  shalt  in  mould 
Dwell  full  cold, 
Dimly  and  dark. 

Doorless  is  that  house, 
And  dark  it  is  within  ; 
There  thou  art  fast  detained, 
And  Death  hath  the  key. 
Loathsome  is  that  earth-house. 
And  grim  within  to  dwell. 
There  thou  shalt  dwell, 
And  worms  shall  divide  thee. 

Thus  thou  art  laid, 
And  leavest  thy  friends ; 
Thou  hast  no  friend 
Who  will  come  to  thee, 
Who  will  ever  see 
How  that  house  pleaseth  thee  ; 
Who  will  ever  open 
The  door  for  thee, 
And  descend  after  thee  ; 
For  soon  thou  art  loathsome 
And  hateful  to  see. 


BEOWULF'S  EXPEDITION  TO  11EORT. 

Thus  then,  much  care-worn, 

The  son  of  Healfden 

Sorrowed  evermore, 

Nor  might  the  prudent  hero 

His  woes  avert. 

The  war  was  too  hard, 

Too  loath  and  longsome, 

That  on  the  people  came, 


498 


LOHGFELLOW'S  P< 


Dire  wrath  and  grim, 
Of  night-woes  the  worst. 
This  from  borne  heard 
Higelac's  Thane, 

Good  among  the  Goths, 
Grendel's  deeds. 

lie  was  of  mankind 

In  might  the  strongest, 

At  that  day 

Of  this  life, 

Noble  and  stalwarth. 

lie  hade  him  a  sea-ship, 

A  goodly  one,  prepare. 

Quoth  he,  the  war-king, 

Over  the  swan's  road, 

Seek  he  would 

The  mighty  monarch, 

Since  he  wanted  men. 

For  him  that  journey 

His  prudent  fellows 

Straight  made  ready. 

Those  that  loved  him. 

They  excited  their  souls. 

The  omen  they  beheld. 

Had  the  good-man 

Of  the  Gothic  people 

Champions  chosen, 

Of  those  that  keenest 

lie  might  find, 

Some  fifteen  men. 

The  sea-wood  sought  he. 

The  warrior  showed, 

Sea-crafty  man  ! 

The  land-marks, 

And  first  went  forth. 

The  ship  was  on  the  waves, 

Boat  under  the  cliffs. 

The  barons  ready 

To  the  prow  mounted. 

The  streams  they  whirled 

The  sea  against  the  sands. 

The  chieftains  bore 

On  the  naked  breast 

Bright  ornaments, 


% 


TRANSLATIONS      ANGLO-SA  X<  >H. 


490 


War  gear,  Goth-like. 
The  men  shoved  off, 
Men  on  their  willing  way, 
The  bounded  wood. 

Then  went  over  the  sea-waves, 
Hurried  by  the  wind, 
The  ship  with  foamy  neck, 
Most  like  a  sea-fowl, 
Till  about  one  hour 
Of  the  second  day 
The  curved  prow 
Had  passed  onward, 
So  that  the  sailors 
The  land  saw, 
The  shore-cliffs  shining, 
Mountains  steep, 
And  broad  sea-noses. 
Then  was  the  sea-sailing 
Of  the  Earl  at  an  end. 

Then  up  speedily 
The  Weather  people 
On  the  land  went, 
The  sea-bark  moored, 
Their  mail-sarks  shook. 
Their  war-weeds. 
God  thanked  they, 
That  to  them  the  sea-journey 
Easy  had  been. 

Then  from  the  wall  beheld 
The  warden  of  the  Scyldings. 
He  who  the  sea-cliff's 
Had  in  his  keeping, 
Bear  o'er  the  balks 
The  bright  shields, 
The  war-weapons  speedily. 
Him  the  doubt  disturbed 
In  his  mind's  thought, 
What  these  men  might  be. 

Went  then  to  the  shore, 
On  his  steed  riding, 
The  Thane  of  Hrothgar. 
Before  the  host  he  shook 
His  warden's  staff  in  hand 
In  measured  words  demanded 


r 


:      ■ 


Longfellow's  poems. 


"  What  men  are  ye 
car  wearing, 
Host  in  ham 

Who  thus  the  brown  keel 
Over  the  water-street 
Leading  come 
Hither  over  the  sea  / 

I  these  boundaries 

As  shore- wan  leu  hold  ; 
That  in  the  land  of  the  Danes 
Nothing  loathsome 
With  a  ship-crew 

Scathe  us  might 

Ne'er  saw  I  mightier 

Earl  upon  earth 

Than  is  your  own, 

Hero  in  harness. 

Not  seldom  this  warrior 

Is  in  weapons  distinguished ; 

Never  his  beauty  belies  him, 

II  is  peerless  countenance! 
Now  would  I  fain 

Your  origin  know, 

Ere  ye  forth  ' 

As  false  spies 

Into  the  land  of  the  Danes 

Farther  fare. 

Now,  ye  dwellers  afar  off ! 

Ye  sailors  of  the  sea  ! 

Listen  to  my 

One-fold  thought 

Quickest  is  best 

To  make  known 

Whence  your  coming  may  be," 


THE  SOUL'S  COMPLAINT  AGAINST  THE  BODY 

Much  it  behoveth 
Each  one  of  mortals, 
That  he  his  soul's  journey 
In  himself  ponder, 
How  deep  it  may  be. 
When  Death  cometh, 


I 


M 


TRANSLATIONS— ANOT  o-SAXON. 

The  bonds  he  hreaketh 
By  which  united 
Were  body  and  soul. 

Long  it  is  thenceforth 
Ere  the  soul  taketh 
From  God  himself 
Its  woe  or  its  weal ; 
As  in  the  world  erst, 
Even  in  its  earth- vessel, 
It  wrought  before. 

The  soul  shall  come 
Wailing  with  loud  voice, 
After  a  se'enmght, 
The  soul,  to  find 
The  body 

That  it  erst  dwelt  in  ; — 
Three  hundred  winters : 
Unless  ere  that  worketh 
The  Eternal  Lord, 
The  Almighty  God, 
The  end  of  the  world. 

Crieth  then,  so  care-worn, 
With  cold  utterance, 
And  speaketh  grimly, 
The  ghost  to  the  dust : 
"  Dry  dust !  thou  dreary  one  : 
How  little  didst  thou  labcur  forme 
In  the  foulness  of  earth 
Thou  all  wearest  away 
Like  to  the  loam  ! 
Little  didst  thou  think 
How  thy  soul's  journey 
Would  be  thereafter, 
When  from  the  body 
It  should  be  led  forrh.' 


501 


:<*"J 


IIP* 


60*2 


LONGFELLOW'S  POEMS. 


Shubisf). 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD'S  SUPPER. 

PROM  THE  SWEDISn  OF  BISHOP  TEGNKK. 

Pentecost,  day  of  rejoicing,  had  come.     The  church  of  the 

village 
Gleaming  stood  in  the  morning's  sheen.    On  the  spire  of 

the  belfry, 
Tipped  with  a  vane  of  metal,  the  friendly  flames  of  the  spring 

sun 
Glanced  like  the  tongues  of  fire  beheld  by  apostles  aforetime. 
Clear  was  the  heaven  and  blue,  and  May,  with  her  cap 

crowned  with  roses, 
Stood  in  her  holiday  dress  in  the  fields,  and  the  wind  and  the 

brooklet 
Murmured  gladness  and  peace,  God's  peace  !  with  lips  rosy- 
tinted 
Whispered  the  race  of  the  flowers,  and  merry  on  balancing 

branches 
Birds  were  singing  their  carol,  a  jubilant  hymn  to  the  Higl 
Swept  and  clean  was  the  churchyard.     Adorned  like  a  leaf- 
woven  arbour 
Stood  its  old-fashioned  gate  ;  and  within  upon  each  cross  of 

iron 
Hung  was  a  fragrant  garland,  new  twined  by  the  hands  of 

affection. 
Even  the  dial  that  stood  on  a  hillock  among  the  departed, 
(There  full  a  hundred  years  had  it  stood),  was  embellished 

with  blossoms. 
Like  to  the  patriarch  hoary,  the  sage  of  his  kith  and  the 

hamlet, 
Who  on  his  birthday  is  crowned  by  children  and  children's 

children  ; 
So  stood  the  ancient  prophet,  and  mute  with  his  pencil  of 

iron 
Marked  on  the  tablet  of  stone,  and  measured  the  time  and 

its  chang 
While  all  around  at  his  feet  an  eternity  slumbered  in  quiet. 
Also  the  church  within  was  adorned,  for  this  was  the  season 
When  the  young,  their  parents'  hope,  and  the  loved  ones  of 

heaven, 


Ti;  !  RELATIONS — SWEDISH. 


50.1 


■ 

■ 


Should  at  the  foot  of  the  altar  renew  the  vows  of  their  "baptism. 
Therefore  each  nook  and  corner  was  swept  and  cleaned,  and 

the  dusl 
Blown  from  the  walls  and  ceiling,  and  from  the  oil-painted 

benches. 
There  stood  the  church  like  a  garden  ;   the  Feast  of  the 

Leafy  Pavilions 
Saw  we  in  living  presentment.     From  noble-arms  on  the 

church  wall 
Grew  forth  a  cluster  of  leaves,  and  the  preacher's  pulpit  of 

oak-wood 
Budded  once  more  anew,  as  aforetime  the  rod  before  Aaron. 
Wreathed  thereon  was  the  Bible  with  leaves,  and  the  dove, 

washed  with  silver, 
Under  its  canopy  fastened,  had  on  it  a  necklace  of  wind- 
flowers. 
But  in  front  of  the  choir,  round  the  altar-piece  painted  by 

llorberg, 
Crept  a  garland  gigantic  ;  and  bright  curling  tresses  of  angels 
Peeped,  like  the  sun  from  a  cloud,  from  out  of  the  shadowy 

leaf- work. 
Likewise  the  lustre  of  brass,  new-polished,  blinked  from  the 

ceiling, 
And  for  lights  there  were  lilies  of  Pentecost  set  in  the  sockets. 
Loud  rang  the  bells  already ;  the  thronging  crowd  was  as- 
sembled 
Far  from  valleys  and  hills,  to  list  to  the  holy  preaching. 
II  ark  !  then  roll  forth  at  once  the  mighty  tones  from  the 

organ, 
Hover  like  voices  from  God,  aloft  like  invisible  spirits. 
Like  as  Elias  in  heaven,  when  he  cast  off  from  him  his 

mantle, 
Even  so  cast  off  the  soul  its  garments  of  earth  ;  and  with  one 

voice 
Chimed  in  the  congregation,  and  sang  an  anthem  immortal 
Of  the  sublime  "VYallin,  of  David's  harp  in  the  Northland 
Tuned  to  the  choral  of  Luther ;  the  song  on  its  powerful 

pinions 
Took  every  living  soul,  and  lifted  it  gently  to  heaven, 
And  every  face  did  shine  like  the  Holy  One's  face  upon 

Tal 
I/.  :  there  entered  then  into  the  church  the  reverend  Teacher. 
Father  he  bight  and  he  was  in  the  parish  ;   a  Christian]? 

plainness 


504 


LONGFKI.I.oW  B    1 


Clothed  from  hi«  head  to  his  feet  the  old  man  of  seventy 
winters. 

Friendly  was  he  to  behold,  and  glad  as  the  heralding  ai 

Walked"  he  among  the   crowds,   but   still  a  contemplative 

grandeur 
Lay  on  his  forehead  as  clear  as  on  moss-covered  grave-stone 

a  sunbeam. 
As  in  his  inspiration  (an  evening  twilight  that  faintly 
Gleams  in  the  human  soul,  even  now,  from  the  day  of  creation) 
Th'  artist,  the  friend  of  heaven,  imagines  Saint  John  when 

in  Patmos, 
Gray,  with  his  eyes  uplifted  to  heaven,  so  seemed  then  the 

old  man  ; 
Such  was  the  glance  of  his  eye,  and  such  were  his  tresses  of 

silver. 
All  the  congregation  arose  in  the  pews  that  were  numbered. 
But  with  a  cordial  look,  to  the  right  and  the  left  hand,  the 

old  man 
Nodding  all-hail  and  peace,  disappeared  in  the  innermost 

chancel. 
Simply  and  solemnly  now  proceeded  the  Christian  service, 
Singing  and  prayer,  and  at  last  an  ardent  discourse  from  the 

old  man. 
Many  a  moving  word  and  warning,  that  out  of  the  heart 

came, 
Fell  like  the  dew  of  the  morning,  like  manna  on  those  in  the 

desert. 
Afterwards,  when  all  was  finished,  the  Teacher  re-entered 

the  chancel, 
Followed  therein  by  the  young.    On  the  right  hand  the  boys 

had  their  places, 
Delicate  figures,  with  close-curliug  hair,  and  cheeks  rosy- 

blooming. 
But  on  the  left  hand  of  these  there  stood  the  tremulous  lilies, 
Tinged  with  the  blushing  light  of  the  morning,  the  diffident 

maidens — 
Folding  their  hands  in  prayer,  ana  their  eyes  cast  down  on 

the  pavement. 
Now  came,  with  question  and  answer,  the  Catechism.     In  the 

beginning 
Answered  the  children  with  troubled  and  faltering  voice ;  but 

the  old  man's 
Glances  of  kindness  encouraged  them  soon,  and  the  doctrines 

eternal 


m 


i'»>     V    1, 


TRANSLATIONS      SWEDISH. 


Ml 


Flowed,  like  the  waters  of  fountains,  so  clear  from  lips  un- 
polluted. 

Whene'er  the  answer  was  closed,  and  as  oft  as  they  named 
the  Redeemer, 

L<nvlv  louted  the  boys,  and  lowly  the  maidens  all  curtsied. 
Friendly  the  Teacher  stood,  like  an  angel  of  light,  there 

among  them, 
And  to  the  children  explained  he  the  holy,  the  highest,  in  few 

words, 
Thorough,  yet  simple  and  clear,  for  sublimity  always  is 

simple, 
IJoth  in  sermon  and  song,  a  child  can  seize  on  its  meaning. 
Even  as  the  green  growing  bud  is  unfolded  when  spring-tide 

approaches, 
Leaf  by  leaf  is  developed,  and,  warmed  by  the  radiant  sun- 
shine, 
Blushes  with  purple  and  gold,  till  at  last  the  perfected  blossom 
Opens  its  odorous  chalice,  and  rocks  with  its  crown  in  the 

breezes, 
So  was  unfolded  here  the  Christian  lore  of  salvation, 
Line  by  line  from  the  soul  of  childhood.      The  fathers  and 

mothers 
Stood  behind  them  in  tears,  and  were  glad  at  each  weli- 

worded  answer. 
Now  went  the  old  man  up  to  the  altar  ; — and  straightway 

transfigured 
(So  did  it  seem  unto  me)  was  then  the  affectionate  Teacher. 
Like  the  Lord's  prophet  sublime,  and  awful  as  death  and  as 

judgment 
Stood  lie,  the  God-commissioned,  the  soul-searcher,  earth- 
ward descending, 
Glauces,  sharp  as  a  sword,  into  hearts,  that  to  him  were 

transparent, 
Shot  he  ;  his  voice  was  dee}),  was  low  like  the  thunder  afar  off. 
So  on  a  sudden  transfigured  he  stood  there,  he  spake  and  he 

questioned. 
"  This  is  the  faith  of  the  fathers,  the  faith  the  apostles 

delivered, 
This  is  moreover  the  faith  whereunto  I  baptized  you,  while 

still  ye 
Lay  on  your  mothers'  breasts,  and  nearer  the  portals  i  >f  heaven. 
Slumbering  received  you  then  the  holy  Church  in  its  bosom  ; 
Wakened  from  sleep  are  ye  now,  and  the  light  in  its  radiant 

splendour 


606 


LONGFELLOW  S    1'oKMS. 


I 


Rains  from  the  heaven  downward ;  -to-day  on  the  threshold 
of  childhood 

Kindly  she  frees  you  again, to  examine  and  make  your  election, 

For  she  knows  nought  of  compulsion,  and  only  conviction 
desireth. 

This  is  the  hour  of  your  trial,  the  turning-point  of  existence, 

Seed  for  the  coming  days  ;  without  revocation  departeth 

Now  from  your  lips  the  confession  ;  bethink  ye  before  ye  make 
answer  ! 

Think  not,  oh,  think  not,  with  guile  to  deceive  the  question- 
ing Teacher. 

Sharp  is  his  eye  to-day,  and  a  curse  ever  rests  upon  falsehood. 

Enter  not  with  a  lie  on  life's  journey;  the  multitude  hears 
you. 

Brothers  and  sisters  and  parents,  what  dear  upon  earth  is 
and  holy 

Standeth  before  your  sight  as  a  witness;  the  Judge  everlasting 

Looks  from  the  sun  down  upon  you,  and  angels  in  waiting 
beside  him 

Grave  your  confession  in  letters  of  fire  upon  tablets  eternal. 

Thus  then,— Believe  ye  in  God,  in  the  Father  who  this  world 
created  ? 

II im  who  redeemed  it,  the  Sou,  and  the  Spirit  where  both 
are  united  ! 

Will  ye  promise  me  here  (a  holy  promise  !)  to  cherish 

God  more  than  all  things  earthly,  and  every  man  as  a  brother  { 

\\  ill  ye  promise  me  here,  to  confirm  your  faith  by  your  living, 

Tli'  heavenly  faith  of  affection  ;  to  hope,  to  forgive,  and  to 
suffer, 

Be  what  it  may  your  condition,  and  walk  before  God  in  up- 
rightness >. 

AY  ill  ye  promise  me  this  before  God  and  man  P'— With  a  clear 
voice 

Answered  the  young  men,  Yes  !  and  Yes !  with  lips  softly- 
breathing 

Answered  the  maidens  eke.  Then  dissolved  from  the  brow  of 
the  Teacher 

Clouds  with  the  thunders  therein,  and  he  spake  in  accents 
more  gentle, 

Soft  as  the  evening's  breath,  as  harps  by  Babylon's  rivers. 

"  Hail,  then,  hail  to  you  all !     To  the  heirdom  of  heaven 
be  ye  welcome ! 

Children  no  more  from  this  day,  but  by  covenant  brothers 
and  sisters ! 


1 


TRANSLATIONS— SWEDISH. 


50? 


■ 


Vet,— for  what  reason  not  children?  Of  such  is  the  kingdom 

of  heaven. 
Here  upon  earth  an  assemblage  of  children,  in  heaven  one 

Father, 

Ruling  them  all  as  his  household, — forgiving  in  turn  and  chas- 
tising, 

That  is  of  human  life  a  picture,  as  Scripture  has  taught  us. 

Blessed  are  the  pure  before  God  !  Upon  purity  and  upon  virtue 

llcsteth  the  Christian  Faith  ;  she  herself  from  on  high  is  de- 
scended. 

Strong  as  a  man  and  pure  as  a  child,  is  the  sum  of  the  doc- 
trine, 

Which  the  Godlike  delivered,  and  suffered  and  died  on  the 
cross  for. 

Oh  !  as  he  wandered  this  day  from  childhood's  sacred  asylum 

Downward  and  ever  downward,  and  deeper  in  age's  chill  valley, 

Oh  !  how  soon  will  ye  come, — too  soon  ! — and  long  to  turn 
backward 

Up  to  its  hill-tops  again,  to  the  sun-illumined,  where  Judg- 
ment 

Stood  like  a  father  before  you,  and  Pardon,  clad  like  a  mother, 

Gave  you  her  hand  to  kiss,  and  the  loving  heart  was  forgiven, 

Life  was  a  play,  and  your  hands  grasped  after  the  roses  of 
heaven ! 

Seventy  years  have  I  lived  already  ;  the  Father  eternal 

Gave  me  gladness  and  care  ;  but  the  loveliest  hours  of  exist- 
ence, 

When  I  have  steadfastly  gazed  in  their  eyes,  I  have  instantly 
known  them, 

Known  them  all  again  ; — they  were  my  childhood's  aquaint- 
ance. 

Therefore  take  from  henceforth,  as  guides  in  the  paths  of  ex- 
istence, 

Prayer,  with  her  eyes  raised  to  heaven,  and  Innocence,  bride 
of  man's  childhood. 

Innocence,  child  beloved,  is  a  guest  from  the  world  of  the 

blessed, 
Beautiful,  and  in  her  hand  a  lilly  ;  on  life's  roaring  billows 
Swings  she  in  safety,  she  heedeth  them  not,  in  the  ship  she 

leeping. 
Calmly  she  gazes  around  in  the  turmoil  of  men  ;  in  the  desert 
Angels  descend  and  minister  unto  her  ;  she  herself  knoweth 
Naught  of  her  glorious  attendance  ;  but  fullows  faithful  and 

humble. 


An  a 


£■ 


&ffcM 


L0N07]  1. 1. "'A   I   I'oEMS. 


Follows  so  long  as  she  may  her  friend  ;  oh,  do  not  reject 

her, 
For  she  cometh  from  God,  and  she  holdeth  the  keys  of  the 

heavens. — 
Prayer  is  Innocence'  friend  ;  and  willingly  flieth  incessant 
'Twixt  the  earth  and  the  sky,  the  carrier-pigeon  of  heaven. 
Bon  of  eternity,  fettered  in  time,  and  an  exile,  the  Spirit 
Tugs  at  his  chains  evermore,  and  straggles  like  flames  ever 

upward. 
Still  he  recalls  with  emotion  his  Father's  manifold  mansions, 
Thinks  of  the  land  of  his  fathers,  where  blossomed  more  freshly 

the  flowers, 
Shone  a  more  beautiful  sun,  and  he  played  with  the  winged 

angels. 
Then  grows  the  earth  too  narrow,  too  close  ;  and  home-sick 

for  heaven 
Longs  the  wanderer  again  ;  and  the  Spirits  longings  are  wor- 
ship ; 
Worship  is  called  his  most  beautiful  hour,  and  its  tongue  is 

entreaty. 
Ah  !  when  the  infinite  burden  of  life  descendeth  upon  us, 
Crushes  to  earth  our  hope,  and,  under  the  earth,  in  the  grave- 
yard- 
Then  it  is  good  to  pray  unto  God  ;  for  his  sorrowing  children 
Turns  he  ne'er  from  his  door,  but  he  heals  and  helps  and  con- 
soles them. 
Yet  it  is  better  to  pray  when  all  things  are  prosperous  with  us, 
Pray  in  fortunate  days,  for  life's  most  beautiful  fortune 
Kneels  down  before  the  Eternal's  throne,  and,  with  hands  in- 

terfolded 
Praises  thankful  and  moved  the  only  giver  of  blessings. 
Or  do  ye  know,  ye  children,  one  blessing  that  comes  not  from 

Heaven  ! 
What  has  mankind  forsooth,  the  pocr  !   that  it  has  not  re- 
ceived / 
Therefore  fall  in  the  dust  and  pray  !     The  seraphs  adoring 
Cover  with  pinions  six  their  face  in  the  glory  of  him  who 
Hung  his  masonry  pendant  on  nought,  when  the  world  he 

created. 
Earth  declareth  his  might,  and  the  firmament  uttereth  his 

glory. 
Races  blossom  and  die,  and  stars  fall  downward  from  heaven, 
Downward  like  withered  leaves  ;  at  the  last  stroke  of  mid- 
night millenniums 


'*■ 


TRANSLATIONS— SWEDISH. 


509 


Lay  themselves  down  at  his  feet,  and  he  sees  them,  but 

counts  them  as  nothing. 
Who  shall  stand  in  his  presence  ?     The  wrath  of  the  Judge 

is  terrific, 
Casting  the  insolent  down  at  a  glance.      When  he  speaks  in 

his  anger, 
Hillocks  skip  like  the  kid,  and  mountains  leap  like  the  roe- 
buck. 
Yet, — why  are  ye  afraid,  ye  children  \    This  awful  avenger, 
Ah  !  is  a  merciful  God !     God's  voice  was  not  in  the  earth- 
quake, 
Not  in  the  tire,  nor  the  storm,  but  it  was  in  the  whispering 

breezes. 
Love  is  the  root  of  creation,  God's  essence  ;  worlds  without 

number 
Lie  in  his  bosom  like  children  ;   he  made  "them  for  this 

purpose  only. 
Only  to  love  and  to  be  loved  again,  he  breathed  forth  his 

Spirit 
Into  the  slumbering  dust,  and  upright  standing  it  laid  its 
Hand  on  its  heart,  and  felt  it  was  warm  with  a  flame  out  oi 

heaven. 
Quench,  oh,  quench  not  that  flame  !     It  is  the  breath  of  your 

being. 
Love  is  life,  but  hatred  is  death.    Not  father  nor  mother 
Loved  you  as  God  has  loved  you  ;  for  'twas  that  you  may  be 

happy 
Gave  he  his  only  Son.     When  he  bowed  down  his  head  in 

the  death  hour 
Solemnised  love  its  triumph,  the  sacrifice  then  was  completed. 
Lo  !   then  was  rent  on  a  sudden  the  vail  of  the  temple, 

dividing 
Earth  and  heaven  apart,  and  the  dead  from  their  sepulchres 

rising 
Whispered  with  pallid  lips  and  low  in  the  ears  of  each  other 
Th'  answer,  but  dreamed  of  before,  to  creation's  enigma, — 

Atonement ! 
Depth's  of  love  are  atonement's  depths,  for  love  is  atonement. 
Therefore,  child  of  mortality,  love  thou  the  merciful  Father ; 
Wish  what  the  Holy  One  wishes,  and  not  from  fear,  hut 

affection  ; 
Fear  is  the  virtue  of  slaves  ;  but  the  heart  that  lovcth  is  will 

inn ; 
Perfect  was  before  God,  and  perfect  is  love,  and  love  only.gg 


510 


LONGFELLOW'S  POEMS. 


Lovest  thou  God  as  thou  oughtest,  then  lovest  thou  like 
thy  brethren  ; 

One  is  the  sun  in  heaven,  and  one,  only  one,  is  love  al 

Bears  not  afxh  human  figure  the  godlike  stamp  on  his  fore- 
bead  ( 

Readest  thou  not  in  his  face  thine  origin  '.  Is  he  not  sailing, 

Lost  like  thyself,  on  an  ocean  unknown  ;  and  is  he  not  guided 

By  the  same  stars  that  guide  thee  I  Why  shouldst  thou  hate 
then  thy  brother  .; 

llateth  he  thee,  forgive !     For  'tis  sweet  to  stammer  one 
letter 

Of  the  Eternal's  language  ;— on  earth  it  is  called  forgiveness. 

Knowest  thou  him  who  forgave,  with  the  crown  of  thorns 
round  his  temples  ? 

Earnestly  prayed  for  his  foes,  for  his  murderers  ?    Say,  dost 
thou  know  him  I 

Ah!    thou  confessest  his  name,  so  follow  likewise  his  ex 
example ; 

Think  (if  thy  brother  no  ill,  but  throw  a  veil  over  his  fail- 
ings, 

Guide  the  erring  aright ;  for  the  good,  the  heavenly  Shepherd 

Took  the  lost  lamb  in  his  arms,  and  bore  it  back  to  its 
mother. 

This  is  the  fruit  of  love,  and  it  is  by  its  fruits  that  we 
Know  it. 

Love  is  the  creature's  welfare,  with  God  ;  but  love  among 
mortals 

Is  but  an  endless  sigh  !  He  longs,  and  endures,  and  stands 
waiting, 

Suffers  and  yet  rejoices,  and  smiles  with  tears  on  his  eye- 
lids. 

Hope, — so  is  called  upon  earth  his  recompense, — Hope,  the 
befriending, 

Does  what  she  can,  for  she  points  evermore  up  to  heaven,  and 
faithful 

Plunges  her  anchor's  peak  in  the  depths  of  the  grave,  and 
beneath  it 

Paints  a  more  beautiful  world,  a  dim  but  a  sweet  play  of 
shadows  ! 

Races,  better  than  we,  have  leaned  on  her  wavering  promise, 

Having  uought  else  but  hope.    Then  praise  we  our  father  in 
heaven, 

Him  who  has  given  us  more  ;  for  to  us  has  hope  been  trans- 
figured* 


THANST-ATlnNS — SWEDISH. 


511 


i 
1 


Qroping  no  Longer  in  night;  she  is  faith,  she  is  living  as- 
surance. 
Faith  is  enlightened  hope ;  she  is  light,  is  the  eye  of  affection, 
Dreams  of  the  longing  interprets,  and  carves  their  visions  in 

marble. 
Faith  is  the  sun  of  life  ;  and  her  countenance  shines  like  the 

Hebrew's, 
For  she  has  looked  upon  God ;  the  heaven  on  its  stable 

foundation 
Draws  she  with  chains  down  to  earth,  and  the  New  Jeru- 
salem sinketh 
Splended  with  portals  twelve  in  golden  vapours  descending. 
There  enraptured  she  wanders,  and  looks  at  the  figures 

majestic, 
Fears  not  the  winged  crowd,  in  the  midst  of  them  all  is  her 

homestead. 
Therefore  love  and  believe ;  for  works  will  follow  spontaneous, 
Even  as  day  does  the  sun  ;  the  right  from  the  good  is  an 

offspring, 
Love  in  a  bodily  shape  ;  and  Christian  works  are  no  more 

than 
Animate  love  and  faith,  as  flowers  are  the  animate  spring- 
tide. 
Works  do  follow  us  all  unto  God  ;  there  stand  and  bear 

witness 
Not  what  they  seem, — but  what  they  were  only.    Blessed  is 

he  who 
Hears  their  confession  secure :  they  are  mute  upon  earth  until 

death's  hand 
Opens  the  mouth  of  the  silent.    Ye  children,  does  death  e'er 

alarm  you  ? 
Death  is  the  brother  of  love,  twin-brother  is  he,  and  is  only 
Mure  austere  to  behold,    With  a  kiss  upon  lips  that  are 

fading 
Takes  he  the  soul  and  departs,  and  rocked  in  the  arms  of 

affection, 
Places  the  ransomed  child,  new  born,  'fore  the  face  of  its 

father. 
Sounds  of  his  coming  already  I  hear — see  dimly  his  pinions, 
Swart  as  the  night,  but  with  stars  strewn  upon  them !  I  fear 

not  before  him. 
Death  is  only  release,  and  in  mercy  is  mute.    On  his  bosom 
Freer  breathes,  in  its  coolness,  my  breast  :  and  face  to  face 

standing 


' 


512 


LONGFELLOW  8  POl-.M-i. 


Look  I  on  God  as  he  is,  a  sun  unpolluted  by  vapours  ; 
Look  on  the  light  of  the  ages  1  love  L,  the  spirit  majestic, 
Nobler,  better  than  I ;  they  stand  by  the  throne  all  trans - 

figured, 
Vested  in  white,  and  with  harps  of  gold,  and  are  singing 

an  anthem, 
Writ  in  the  climate  of  heaven,  in  the  language  spoken  by 

angels. 
You,  in  like  manner,  ye  children  beloved,  he  one  day  shall 

gather, 
Never  forgets  he  the  weary  ; — then  welcome,  ye  loved  ones, 

hereafter ! 
Meanwhile  forget  not  the  keeping  of  vows,  forget  not  the 

promise, 
Wander  from  holiness  onwTard  to  holiness  ;  earth  shall  ye  heed 

not  ; 
Earth  is  but  dust,  and  heaven  is  light ;  I  have  pledged  you 

to  heaven. 
God  of  the  Universe,  hear  me  !   thou  fountain  of  love  ever- 
lasting, 
Hark  to  the  voice  of  thy  servant !     I  send  up  my  prayer  to 

thy  heaven  ! 
Let  me  hereafter  not  miss  at  thy  throne  one  spirit  of  all 

these, 
Whom  thou  hast  given  me  here  !     I  have  loved  them  all  like 

a  father. 
May  they  bear  witness  for  me,  that  I  taught  them  the  way 

of  salvation, 
Faithful  so  far  as  I  knew  of  thy  word  ;   again  may  they 

know  me, 
Fall  on  their  Teacher's  breast,  and  before  thy  face  may  I  place 

them, 
Pure  as  they  now  are,  but  only  more  tried,  and  exclaiming 

with  gladness, 
"  Father,  lo !  I  am  here,  and  the  children  whom  thou  hast 

given  me !" 
Weeping  he  spake  in  these  words ;  and  now  at  the  beck  of 

the  old  man 
Knee  against  knee  they  knitted  a  wreath  round  the  altar's 

enclosure. 
Kneeling  he  read  then  the  prayers  of  the  consecration;  and 

softly 
With  him  the  children  read  ;  at  the  close  with  tremulous 

accents, 


] 


■ 


TKAXSLATIOXS-  SWEDISH. 


a  a 


Asked  he  the  peace  of  Heaven,  a  benediction  upon  them. 
Now  Bhould  have  ended  his  task  for  the  day  ;  the  following 

Sunday 
Was  for  the  young  appointed  to  cat  of  the  Lord's  holy  Supper. 
Sudden,  as  struck  from  the  clouds,  stood  the  teacher  silent, 

and  laid  his 
Hand  on  his  forehead,  and  cast  his  looks  upward;    while 

thoughts  high  and  holy 
Flew  through  the  midst  of  his  soul,  and  his  eyes  glanced 

with  wonderful  brightness. 
"On  the  next  Sunday,  who  knows!  perhaps  I  shall  rest  in 

the  graveyard ! 
Some  one  perhaps  of  yourselves,  a  lily  broken  untimely, 
Bow  down  his  head  to  the  earth  ;  why  delay  I  ?  the  hour  is 

accomplished. 
Warm  is  the  heart  ; — I  will  so !  for  to-day  grows  the  harvest 

of  heaven. 
What  I  began  accomplish  I  now  ;  for  what  failing  therein  is 
[,  the  old  man,  will  answer  to  God  and  the  reverend  father. 
Say  to  me  only,  ye  children,  ye  denizens  new-come  in  heaven, 
Are  ye  ready  this  day  to  eat  of  the  Bread  of  Atonement  I 
W  hat  itdenoteth  that  know  ye  full  well,  I  have  told  it  you  often 
Of  the  new  covenant  a  symbol  it  is,  of  atonement  a  token, 
'Stablished  between  earth  and  heaven.    Man  by  his  sins  and 


transgressions 


'Twas  in  the 


Far  has  wandered  from  God,  from  his  essence 
beginning 

Fast  by  the  tree  of  knowledge  he  fell,  and  it  hangs  its  crown 
o'er  the 

Fall  to  this  day  ;  in  the  thought  is  the  fall ;  in  the  heart  the 
atonement. 

Infinite  is  the  fall,  the  atonement  infinite  likewise. 

See !  behind  me,  as  far  as  the  old  man  remembers,  and  for- 
ward, 

Far  as  Hope  in  her  flight  can  reach  with  her  wrearied  pinions, 

Sin  and  atonement  incessant  go  through  thelifetime  of  mortals. 

Brought  forth  is  sin  full  grown  ;  but  atonement  sleeps  in  our 
bosoms 

Still  as  the  cradled  babe  ;  and  dreams  of  heaven  and  of  angels 

Cannot  awake  to  sensation;  is  like  the  tones  in  the  heart's 
strii 

Spirits  imprisoned,  that  wait  evermore  the  deliverer's  finger. 

Therefore,  ye  children  beloved,  descended  the  Prince  of  Atone- 
ment, 


Woke  the  slumberer  from  sleep,  and  she  stands  now  with  eyes 
all  resplendent, 

Bright  as  the  vault  of  the  sky,  and  battles  with  Sin  and 
o'ercomes  her, 

Downward  to  earth  he  came  and  transfigured,  thence  reas- 
cended, 

Not  from  the  heart  in  like  wise,  for  there  he  still  lives  in  the 
Spirit, 

Loves  and  atones  evermore.     So  long  as  time  is,  is  atone- 
ment. 

Therefore  with  reverence  receive  this  day  her  visible  token. 

Tokens  are  dead  if  the  things  do  not  live.   The  light  everlasting 

Unto  the  blind  man  is  not,  but  is  born  of  the  eye  that  has 
vision. 

Neither  in  bread  nor  in  wine,  but  in  the  heart  that  is  hal- 
lowed 

Lieth  forgiveness  enshrined  ;  the  intention  alone  of  amend- 
ment 

Fruits  of  the  earth  ennobles  to  heavenly  things,  and  removes 
all 

Sin  and  the  guerdon  of  sin.     Only  Love  with  his  arms  wide 
extend. 

Penitence  weeping  and  praying  ;   the  will  that  is  tried,  and 
whose  gold  flows 

Purified  forth  from  the  flames ;  in  a  word,  mankind  by  atom* 
ment 

Breaketh   Atonement's   bread,  and  drinketh  Atonement' 
wine-cup. 

But  he  who  cometh  up  hither  unworthy,  with  hate  in  his 
bosom, 

Scoffing  at  men  and  at  God,  is  guilty  of  Christ's  blessed  body, 

And  the  Redeemer's  blood!     To  himself  he  eateth  and 
drinketh 

Death  and  doom !    And  from  this  preserve  us,  thou  heavenly 
Father ! 

Are  ye  ready,  ye  children,  to  eat  of  the  bread  of  atonement  /" 

Thus  with  emotion  he  asked,  and  together  answered  the  chil- 
dren, 

Yes !  with  deep  sobs  i  terrupted.    Then  read  he  the  due  sup- 
plications, 

Read  the  form  of  communion,  and  in  chimed  the  organ  and 
anthem : 

"  0  holy  Lamb  of  God,  who  takest  away  our  transgressions 

Hear  us !  give  us  thy  peace !  have  mercy ,  have  mercy  upon  us  !'' 


TiJj.-^'-'  MB 


I  I:  VNSI,ATI"\S       SWKDISH. 


515 


h* 


Th'  old  man,  with  trembling  hand,  and  heavenly  pearls  on 

his  eyelids, 
Filled  DOW  t  he  chalice  and  paten,  and  dealt  round  the  mystical 

symbols. 
Oh,  then  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  God,  with  the  broad  eye  of 

mid-day, 
Clearer  looked  in  at  the  windows,  and  all  the  trees  in  the 

churchyard 
Bowel  down  their  Buraraits  of  green,  and  the  grass  on  the 

graves  'gan  to  shiver. 
But  in  the  children  (I  noted  it  well ;  I  knew  it),  there  ran  a 
Tremour  of  holy  rapture  along  through  their  icy-cold  mem- 
bers. 
Decked  like  an  altar  before  them,  there  stood  the  green  earth, 

and  above  it 
Heaven  opened  itself,  as  of  old  before  Stephen;  they  saw 

there 
Radiant  in  glory  the  Father,  and  on  his  right  hand  the 

Redeemer. 
Under  them  hear  they  the  clang  of  harp-strings,  and  angels 

from  gold  clouds 
Beckon  to  them  like  brothers,  and  fan  with  their  pinions  of 

purple. 
Closed  was  the  Teacher's  task ;  and  with  heaven  in  their 

hearts  and  their  faces 
Up  rose  the  children  all,  and  each  bowed  him,  weeping  full 

sorely, 
Downward  to  kiss  that  reverend  hand  ;  but  all  of  them  pressed 

he, 
Moved,  to  his  bosom,  and  laid,  with  a  prayer,  his  hands  full 

of  blessings, 
Now  on  the  holy  breast,  and  now  on  the  innocent  tresses. 


■ 


FRITHIOF'S  HOMESTEAD. 

FROM  THE  SWEDISH  OF  BISHOP  TEGNKR. 

Three  miles  extended  around  the  fields  of  the  homestead  on 

three  sides 
Valleys  and  mountains  and  hills,  but  on  the  fourth  side  was 

the  ocean. 
Birch-woods  crowned  the  summits,  but  over  the  down-sloping 

hill-sides 


/ 


.:  -S*  m 


516 


. !  KI.T.OW  8  POEMB. 


1 


-  « 


Flourished  the  golden  corn,  and  man-high  wag  waving  the 
rye-field. 

Lakes,  full  many  in  number,  their  minor  held  up  fur  the 

mountains, 

Held  for  the  forests  up,  in  whose  depths  the  high  antlered 
reindet 

Had  their  kingly  walk,  and  drank  of  a  hundred  brooklets. 

But  in  the  valleys,  full  widely  around,  there  fed  on  the  green- 
sward 

Herds  with  sleek,  shining  sides,  and  udders  that  longed  foi 
the  milk-pail. 

'Mid  these  were  scattered,  now  here  and  now  there,  a  vast, 
countless  number 

Of  white-woolled  sheep,  as  thou  seest  the  white-looking  stray 
clouds, 

Flock-wise,  spread  o'er  the  heavenly  vault,  when  it  bloweth 
in  spring-time. 

Twice  twelve  swift-footed  coursers  mettlesome,  fast-fettered 
storm  winds, 

Stamping  stood  in  the  line  of  stalls,  all  champing  their  fodder, 

Knotted  with  red  their  manes,  and  their  hoofs  all  whitened 
with  steel  shoes. 

The  banquet-hall,  a  house  by  itself,  was  timbered  of  hard  fir. 

Not  five  hundred  men  (at  ten  times  twelve  to  the  hundred)* 

Filled  up  the  roomy  hall,  when  assembled  for  drinking  at 
Yule-tide. 

Through  the  hall,  as  long  as  it  was,  went  a  table  of  holm-oak, 

Polished  and  white,  as  of  steel ;  the  columns  twain  of  the  high 
seat 

Stood  at  the  end  thereof,  two  gods  carved  out  of  an  elm-tree  ; 

Odinf  with  lordly  look,  and  FreyJ  with  the  sun  on   his 
frontlet. 

Lately  between  the  two,  on  a  bear-skin  (the  skin,  it  was  coal- 
black, 

Scarlet-red  was  the  throat,  but  the  paws  wTere  shodden  with 
silver), 

Thorston  sat  with  his  friends,  Hospitality  sitting  with  Glad- 
ness. 

Oft,  when  the  moon  among  the  night-clouds  flew,  related  the 
old  man 

*  An  old  fashion  of  reckoning  in  the  North. 

f  Odin,  the  All-father;  the  Jupiter  of  Scandinavian  mythology. 

J  Frey,  the  god  of  Liberty,  the  Bacchus  of  the  North.  He  represents  the 

sun  at  the  wmter  solstice. 


TRANSLATIONS      BWEDISH. 


■i 
517 


Wonders  from  far  distant  lands  be  had  seen,  and  cruises  oi 

Viking* 
Far  on  the  Baltic  and  Sea  of  the  West,  and  the  North  Hca. 
Unshed  sat  the  listening  bench,  and  their  glances  hung  on 

the  greybeard's 
Lips  as  a  In  run  the  rose;  buttheScald  was  thinking  of  Brage.t 
Where,  with  silver  heard,  and  runes  on  his  tongue,  he  is  seated 
Under  the  leafy  beach,  and  tells  a  tradition  by  Minier's^ 
Ever-murmuring  wave,  himself  a  living  tradition. 
Midway  the  floor  (with  thatch  was  it  strewn),  burned  for  ever 

tiie  lire-flame 
Glad  ou  its  stone-built  hearth  ;  and  through  the  wide-mouthed 

smoke-flue 
Looked  the  stars,  those  heavenly  friends,  down  into  the  great 

hall. 
But  round  the  walls,  upon  nails  of  steel,  were  hanging  in 

order 
Breastplate  and  helm  with  each  other,  and  here  and  there 

in  among  them 
Downward  lightened  a  sword,  as  in  winter  evening  a  stai 

shoots. 
More  than  helmets  and  swords,  the  shields  in  the  banquet- 

hall  glistened, 
White  as  the  orb  of  the  sun,  or  white  as  the  moon's  disk  of 

silver. 
Ever  and  anon  went  a  maid  round  the  board  and  filled  up 

the  drink-horns  ; 
Ever  she  cast  down  her  eyes  and  blushed  ;  in  the  shield  her 

reflection 
Blushed  too,  even  as  she  ;—  this  gladdened  the  hard  drinking 

champions. 


*9~#. 


FRITHIOF'S  TEMPTATION. 

Spring  is  coming,  birds  are  twittering,  forests  leaf,  and  smiles 

the  sun, 
And  the  loosened  torrents  downward  singing  to  the  ocean  run; 
Glowing  like  the  cheek  of  Freya,  peeping  rose-buds  'gin  to  ope. 
And  in  human  hearts  awaken  love  of  life,  and  joy,  and  hope. 

•  The  old  pirates  of  the  North  were  called  Vikingar,  Kings  of  the  Gulf, 
t  Bragtf,  the  pod  of  Song;  the  Scandinavian  Apollo. 
5  Winer,  the  god  of  Eloquence.  lie  sat  by  the  wave  of  Urda,  the  Destiny 
of  the  put 


518 


fellow's  POBVS. 


>i^4 


Si 


SaSs 


Now  will  hunt  the  ancient  monarch,  tad  the  queen  shall  join 

the  sport  ; 
Swarming  in  its  gorgeous  splendour  is  assembled  all  the  court; 
Bows  ring  loud,  and  quivers  rattle,  stallions  paw  the  ground 

alw 
And,  with  hoods  upon  their  eyelids,  falcons  scream  aloud  foi 

prey. 
See,  the  queen  of  the  chase  advances !    Frithiof,  gaze  not  on 

the  sight  ! 
Like  a  star  upon  a  spring  cloud  sits  she  on  her  palfrey  white, 
Half  of  Freya,*  half  of  llota,t  yet  more  beauteous  than  tl 

And  from  her  light  hat  of  purple  wave  aloft  the  feathers  blue. 

Now  the  huntsman's  band  is  ready.  Hurrah  !  over  hill  and 
dale ! 

Horns  ring,  and  the  hawks  right  upward  to  the  hall  of  Odin 
sail. 

All  the  dwellers  in  the  forest  seek  in  fear  their  cavern  homes, 

But,  with  spear  outstretched  before  her,  after  them  ValkyriaJ 
comes. 

Then  threw  Frithiof  down  his  mantle,  and  upon  the  green- 
sward spread, 

And  the  ancient  king  so  trustful  laid  on  Frithiof  8  knee  his 
head  ; 

Slept,  as  calmly  as  the  hero  sleepeth  after  war's  alarms 

On  his  shield,  calm  as  an  infant  sleepeth  in  its  mother's  arms. 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

As  he  slumbers,  hark  !  there  sings  a  coal-black  bird  upon  a 

bough  . 
"  Hasten,  Frithiof,  slay  the  old  man,  close  your  quarrel  at  a 

blow  ; 
Take  his  queen,  for  she  is  thine,  and  once  the  bridal  kiss  she 

gave  ; 
Now  no  human  eye  beholds  thee  ;  deep  and  silent  is  the  gra 
Frithiof  listens  ;  hark  !  there  sings  a  snow-white  bird  upon 

the  bough : 
"  Though  no  human  eye  beholds  thee,  Odin's  eye  beholds 

thee  now, 
Coward,  wilt  thou  murder  slumber  I  a  defenceAsss  old  man 

slay  \ 

*  The  goddess  of  Love  and  Beauty.  f  One  of  the  Valkyi'ies. 
I  The  Va'kyrics  are  celestial  virgins,  who  bear  off  the  souls  of  the  slain 

in  battle. 


With  :i  Bhudder  hurled  it  from  him,  far  into  the  gloomy  wood. 
[-black  bird  flics  down  to  Nastrand  ;*  but  on  light  un- 
folded wings, 

Like  tlie  tone  of  harps,  the  other,  sounding  towards  the  sun 

upsprings. 
Straight  the  ancient  king  awakens.     "  Sweet  has  been  my 

sleep,"  he  said  ; 
"  Pleasantly  sleeps  one  in  the  shadow,  guarded  by  a  brave 

man's  blade. 
But  where  is  thy  sword,  0  stranger  ?    Ligntning's  brother, 

where  is  he  I 
Who  thus  parts  you,  who  should  never  from  each  other  parted 

be?" 
"It  avails  not,"  Frithiof  answered ;  "in  the  North  are  other 

swords  ; 
Sharp,  0  monarch,  is  the  sword's  tongue,  and  it  speaks  not 

peaceful  words, 
Murky  spirits  dwell  in  steel  blades,  spirits  from  the  Niffelhern, 
Slumber  is  not  safe  before  them,  silver  locks  but  anger  them." 


h  >■ 


Jhunslj, 


KING  CHRISTIAN. 

A  NATIONAL  SONG  OF  DENMARK. — FROM  THE  DANISH  OF 
JOHANNES  EVALD. 

King  Christian  stocd  by  the  lofty  mast 

In  mist  and  smoke  ; 
His  sword  was  hammering  so  fast, 
Through  Gothic  helm  and  brain  it  passed  ; 
Then  sank  each  hostile  hulk  and  mast, 

In  mist  and  smoke. 
"  Fly!"  shouted  they,  "  fly  he  who  can! 
Who  braves  of  Denmark's  Christian 

The  stroke!" 

•  The  strand  of  Corpses ;  a  region  in  the  Niffelhem,  or  Scandinavian 
Hell. 


LONGFELLOW  6  POE.V 

Nils  Juel  gave  heed  to  the  tempest's  i 

Now  is  the  hour ! 
lie  hoisted  his  blood-red  flag  once  more, 
And  smote  upon  the  foe  full  -■ 

And  shouted  loud,  through  the  tempest's  roar, 

"  Now  is  the  hour:'1 
"  Fly,"  shouted  they,  "  for  shelter  lly  ! 
Of  Denmark's  Juel  who  can  defy 

The  power !" 

North  Sea !  a  glimpse  of  Wessel  rent 

Thy  murky  sky ! 
Then  champions  to  thine  arms  were  sent ; 
Terror  and  death  glared  where  he  went ; 
From  the  waves  was  heard  a  wail,  that  rent 

Thy  murky  sky ! 
From  Denmark,  thunders  Tordenskiol', 
Let  each  to  lleaveu  commend  his  soul, 

And  fly! 

Path  of  the  Dane  to  fame  and  might 

Dark  rolling  wave! 
Receive  thy  friend,  who  scorning  flight, 
Goes  to  meet  danger  with  despite, 
Proudly  as  thou  the  tempest's  might, 

Dark  rolling  wave! 
And  amid  pleasures  ami  alarms, 
And  war  and  victory,  he  thine  arms 

My  grave ! 


m 


THE  ELECTED  KNIGHT. 

Sir  Oluf  he  rideth  over  the  plain, 
Full  seven  miles  broad  and  seven  miles  wide 

But  never,  ah,  never  can  meet  with  the  man 
A  tilt  with  him  dare  ride. 

He  saw  under  the  hill  side 

A  knight  full  well  equipped; 
His  steed  was  black,  his  helm  was  barred  ; 

He  was  riding  at  full  speed. 

He  wore  upon  his  spurs 
Twelve  little  golden  birds; 


-iL- 


i 


TRANSLATIONS— DANISH. 


i21 


Anon  he  spurred  his  steed  with  a  clang, 
And  there  sat  all  the  birds  and  sang. 

He  wore  upon  his  mail 
Twelve  little  golden  wheels; 

Anon  in  eddies  the  wild  wind  blew, 
And  round  and  round  the  wheels  they  flew, 

He  wore  before  his  breast 
A  lance  that  was  poised  in  rest ; 

And  it  was  sharper  than  diamond-stone, 
It  made  Sir  Olufs  heart  to  groan. 

lie  wore  upon  his  helm 

A  wreath  of  ruddy  gold ; 
And  that  gave  him  the  Maidens  Three, 

The  youngest  was  fair  to  behold. 

Sir  Oluf  questioned  the  knight  eftsoon 
If  he  were  come  from  heaven  down : 

"  Art  thou  Christ  of  Heaven  ?"  quoth  he, 
"  So  will  I  yield  me  unto  thee!" 

11 1  am  not  Christ  the  great, 

Thou  shalt  not  yield  thee  yet ; 
I  am  an  unknown  knight, 

Three  modest  maidens  have  me  bedight.' 

"  Art  thou  a  knight  elected, 

And  lkive  three  maidens  thee  bedight? 
So  thou  shalt  ride  a  tilt  this  day, 

For  all  the  maidens'  honour!" 

The  first  tilt  they  together  rode, 
They  put  their  steeds  to  the  test ; 

The  second  tilt  they  together  rode; 
They  proved  their  manhood  best. 

The  third  tilt  they  together  rode, 

Neither  of  them  would  yield  ; 
The  fourth  tilt  they  together  rode, 

They  both  fell  on  the  field. 

Now  lie  the  lords  upon  the  plain, 
And  their  blood  runs  unto  death; 

Now  sit  the  maidens  in  the  high  tower, 
The  youngest  sorrows  till  death. 


■i 


J       v . 


! : 


CHILDHOOD. 


FROM  THE  DANISn  OF  JEN'S  BAGOESEN. 


There  was  a  time  when  I  was  very  small, 
When  my  whole  frame  was  but  an  ell  in  height ; 

Sweetly,  as  I  recall  it,  tears  do  fall, 
And  therefore  I  recall  it  with  delight. 

I  sported  in  my  tender  mother's  arms, 
And  rode  a-horseback  on  best  father's  knee  ; 

Alike  were  sorrows,  passions,  and  alarms, 
And  gold,  and  Greek,  and  love,  unknown  to  me 

Then  seemed  to  me  this  world  far  less  in  size, 
Likewise  it  seemed  to  me  less  wicked  far  ; 

Like  points  in  heaven,  I  saw  the  stars  arise, 
And  longed  for  wings  that  I  might  catch  a  star. 

I  saw  the  moon  behind  the  island  fade, 
And  thought,  "  0,  were  I  on  that  island  there, 

I  could  find  out  of  what  the  moon  is  made, 

Find  out  how  large  it  is,  how  round,  how  fair  !" 

Wondering,  I  saw  God's  sun,  through  western  skies, 
Sink  in  the  ocean's  golden  lap  at  night, 

And  yet  upon  the  morrow  early  rise, 
And  paint  the  eastern  heaven  with  crimson  light ! 

And  thought  of  God,  the  gracious  Heavenly  Father, 
Who  made  me,  and  that  lovely  sun  on  high, 

And  all  those  pearls  of  heaven  thick-strung  together, 
Dropped,  clustering,  from  his  hand  o'er  all  the  sky. 

With  childish  reverence,  my  young  lips  did  say 
The  prayer  my  pious  mother  taught  to  me : 

"  0  gentle  God  !  0,  let  me  strive  alway 
Still  to  be  wise,  and  good,  and  follow  thee  !" 

So  prayed  1  for  my  father  and  my  mother, 
And  for  my  sister,  and  for  all  the  town  ; 

The  king  I  knew  not,  and  the  beggar-brother, 
Who,  bent  with  age,  went  sighing  up  and  down. 

They  perished,  the  blithe  days  of  boyhood  perished, 
And  all  the  gladness,  all  the  peace  I  knew  ! 

Now  have  I  but  their  memory,  fondly  cherished  ;— 
God  !  may  I  never,  never  lose  that  too  I 


=s?*!^*^%wifc 


TRANSLATIONS-    UEUMAN. 


523 


(Sunutn. 


5 


U 


THE  HAPPIEST  LAND. 

FRAGMENT  OF  A  MODERN  BALLAD. 

There  sat  one  day  in  quiet, 

By  an  alehouse  on  the  Rhine, 
Four  hale  and  hearty  fellows, 

And  drank  the  precious  wine. 

The  landlord's  daughter  filled  their  cups, 

Around  the  rustic  board  ; 
Then  sat  they  all  so  calm  and  still, 

And  spake  not  one  rude  word. 

But  when  the  maid  departed, 

A  Swabian  raised  his  hand, 
And  cried,  all  hot  and  Hushed  with  wine, 

"  Long  live  the  Swabian  land  ! 

The  greatest  kingdom  upon  earth 

Cannot  with  that  compare  ; 
With  all  the  stout  and  hardy  men 

And  the  nut-brown  maidens  there.'1 

"  Ha  !"  cried  a  Saxon,  laughing, 

And  dashed  his  beard  with  wine  ; 
I  had  rather  live  in  Lapland, 

Than  that  Swabian  land  of  thine  ! 

The  goodliest  land  on  all  this  eartn, 

It  is  the  Saxon  land  ! 
There  have  I  as  many  maidens 

As  lingers  on  this  hand  !" 

,k  Hold  your  tongues,  both  Swabian  and  Saxon  !': 

A  bold  Bohemian  cries  ; 
"  If  there's  a  heaven  upon  this  earth, 

In  Bohemia  it  lies  ! 

w  There  the  tailor  blows  the  Mute, 

And  the  eobler  blows  the  horn, 
And  tiie  miner  bluws  the  bugle 

Over  mountain-goige  and  bourn.'' 


4&to* 


524 


LONGFELLOW  H  1'oEMS. 


■ 


Aii' I  then  the  landlord's  daughter 
Up  to  liea von  raised  her  hand, 

And  said,  "  Ye  may  no  more  contend. 
There  lies  the  happiest  laud  I1' 


THE  WAVE. 

FROM    THE    GERMAN    OF    TIE.DGE. 

Whether,  thou  turbid  wave* 
Whether,  with  so  much  hasce. 
As  if  a  thief  wcrt  thou  V 

"  I  am  the  Wave  of  Life, 
Stained  with  my  margin's  dust  ; 
From  the  struggle  and  the  strife 
Of  the  narrow  stream  I  tly 
To  the  Sea's  immensity, 
To  wash  from  me  the  slime 
Of  the  muddy  banks  of  Time." 


THE  DEAD. 

KhOM    THE    GERMAN    OF    KLOPSTOOK 

How  they  so  softly  rest, 
All,  all   the  holy  dead. 
Unto  whose  dwelling-place 
Now  doth  my  soul  draw  near 
How  they  so  softly  rest 
All  in  their  silent  graves, 
Deep  to  corruption 
Slowly  down-sinking ! 

And  they  no  longer  weep, 
Here,  where  complaint  is  still ! 
And  they  no  longer  feel,, 
Here  where  all  gladness  flies  ! 
And,  by  the  cypresses 
Softly  o'ershadowed, 
Ihitil  the  amrel 
Calls  them,  they  slumber  j 


U» 


f 


M 


SHE 


TRANSLATIONS-     (1F.KMAN. 


025 


THE  r»IKl>  AND  TllK  SHIP. 


&J 


H 


FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  MULLEK. 

•'  The  rivers  rush  into  the  sea, 
By  castle  and  town  they  go  ; 
The  winds  behind  them  merrily 
Their  noisy  trumpets  blow. 

"  The  clouds  are  passing  far  on  high, 
We  little  birds  in  them  play  ; 
And  every  thing  that  can  sing  and  fly 
Goes  with  us,  and  far  away. 

"  I  greet  thee,  bonny  boat !  Whither  or  whence, 
With  thy  fluttering  golden  band  ?" 

"  I  greet  thee,  little  bird  !  To  the  wide  sea 
I  haste  from  the  narrow  land. 

"  Full  and  swollen  is  every  sail  ; 
I  see  no  longer  a  hill, 
I  have  trusted  all  to  the  sounding  gale, 
And  it  will  not  let  me  stand  still. 

:i  And  wilt  thou,  little  bird,  go  with  us  '. 
Thou  mayst  stand  on  the  mainmast  tall, 
For  full  to  sinking  is  my  house 
With  merry  companions  all." — 

"  I  need  not  and  seek  not  company, 
Bonny  boat,  1  can  sing  all  alone  ; 
For  the  mainmast  tall  too  heavy  am  I, 
Bonny  boat,  I  have  wings  of  my  own. 

:i  High  over  the  sails,  high  over  the  mast, 
"Who  shall  gainsay  these  joys  ! 
'A' hen  thy  merry  companions  are  still,  at  last 
Thou  shalt  hear  the  sound  of  my  voice. 

"  Who  neither  may  rest,  nor  listen  may, 
God  bless  them  every  one  ! 
1  dart  away,  in  the  bright  blue  day, 
And  the  golden  nekls  of  the  sun. 

"Thus  do  T  sing  my  weary  sou 

Wherever  the  four  winds  blow  ; 
And  this  same  song,  my  whole  life  long, 

t  nor  printer  may  know."  2l 


-- 


526 


LONGFELLOW  8   POiiMb. 


WHITHER  I 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  MUJ.LER. 

I  heard  a  brouklet  gushing 

From  its  rocky  fountain  near, 
Down  into  the  valley  rushing, 

So  fresh  ami  wondrous  clear. 

I  know  not  what  came  o'er  me, 

Nor  who  the  counsel  gave  ; 
But  I  must  hasten  downward, 

All  with  my  pilgrim-stave  ; 

Downward,  and  ever  farther, 

And  ever  the  brook  beside  ; 
And  ever  fresher  murmured, 

And  ever  clearer,  the  tide. 

Is  this  the  way  1  was  going  I 

Whither,  0  brooklet,  say  i 
Thou  hast,  with  thy  soft  murmur, 

Murmured  my  senses  away. 

What  do  I  say  of  a  murmur  I 

That  can  no  murmur  be  ! 
"lis  the  water-nymphs,  that  are  singing 

Their  roundelays  under  me. 

Let  them  sing,  my  friend,  let  them  murmur, 

And  wander  merrily  near  ; 
The  wheels  of  a  mill  are  going 

In  every  brooklet  clear. 


BEWARE! 

I  know  a  maiden  fair  to  see, 

Take  care ! 
She  can  both  false  and  friendly  be, 

Beware  !  beware ! 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  ! 
She  has  two  eyes,  so  soft  and  brown, 

Take  care ' 


TRANSLATIONS      «:i:KMAN. 


527 


She  gives  a  side  glance  and  looks  dowu, 

Bewi      I  beware! 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee! 

And  she  has  hair  of  a  golden  line, 

Take  care ' 
And  what  she  says,  it  is  not  true, 

Beware !  beware  ! 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee ! 

She  has  a  bosom  as  white  as  snow, 

Take  care  ! 
She  knows  how  much  it  is  best  to  show, 

Beware  !  beware ! 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee. 

She  gives  thee  a  garland  woven  fair, 

Take  care  ! 
It  is  a  fool's  cap  for  thee  to  wear, 

Beware  !  beware ! 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  ! 


J 


SONG  OF  THE  BELL. 

Bell  !  thou  soundest  merrily. 
When  the  bridal  party 

To  the  church  doth  hie  ! 
Bell !  thou  soundest  solemnly, 
When,  on  Sabbath  morning, 

Fields  deserted  lie ! 

Bell !  thou  soundest  merrily  ; 
Tellest  thou  at  evening, 

Bed-time  draweth  nigh  ! 
Bell !  thou  soundest  mournfully 
Tellest  thou  the  bitter 

Parting  hath  gone  by  ! 

!  how  canst  thou  mourn  I 
How  canst  thou  rejoice  \ 
Thou  art  but  metal  dull  ! 


528 


LONl"!  ri-:  I.  !,<>w  3    POKMH. 


And  yet  all  our  sorrowings, 

And  all  our  rejoici 
Thou  dost  feel  them  all  ' 

God  hath  wonders  many, 
Which  we  cannot  fathom, 
Placed  within  thy  form  ! 
When  the  heart  is  sinking, 
Thou  alone  canst  raise  it, 
Trembling  in  the  storm  ' 


THE  CASTLE  BY  THE  SEA. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  UHLAND. 

ci  Hast  thou  seen  that  lordly  castle. 
That  Castle  by  the  Sea  ? 
Golden  and  red  above  it 
The  clouds  float  gorgeously. 

"  And  fain  it  would  stoop  downward 
To  the  mirror  d  wave  below  ; 
And  fain  it  would  soar  upward 
In  the  evening's  crimson  glow." 

"  Well  have  I  seen  that  castle, 
That  Castle  by  the  Sea, 
And  the  moon  above  it  standing, 
And  the  mist  rise  solemnly." 

"  The  winds  and  the  waves  of  ocean, 
Had  they  a  merry  chime  ? 
Didst  thou  hear,  from  those  lofty  chambers, 
The  harp  and  the  minstrel's  rhyme  V 

**  The  winds  and  the  waves  of  ocean, 
They  rested  quietly  ; 
But  I  heard  on  the  ^mq  a  sound  of  wail, 
And  tears  came  to  mine  eye." 

"  And  sawest  thou  on  the  turrets 
The  king  and  his  royal  bride  ! 
And  the  wave  of  their  crimson  mantles  7 
And  the  golden  crown  of  pride  1 

M  Led  they  not  forth,  in  rapture, 
A  beauteous  maiden  there  ? 
Resplendent  as  the  morning  sun, 
Beaming  with  golden  hair  ?" 


K]iM^^S^d^sis^i 





LTIONS      (iERMAN. 


u  Well  saw  I  fche  ancient  parents, 
\Y  ithout  the  crown  of  pride  ; 
They  were  moving  Blow,  in  weeds  of  woe, 
No  maiden  was  by  their  side  !" 


62y 


THE  BLACK  KNIGHT. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OP  UHLAND. 

Twas  Pentecost,  the  Feast  of  Gladness, 
When  woods  and  fields  put  off  all  sadness. 

Thus  began  the  king  and  spake  : 
"  So  from  the  halls 
Of  ancient  H  of  burg's  walls, 

A  luxuriant  spring  shall  break." 

Drums  and  trumpets  echo  loudly, 
Wave  the  crimson  banners  proudly 

From  balcony  the  king  looked  on  ; 
In  the  play  of  spears, 
Fell  all  the  cavaliers, 

Before  the  monarch's  stalwart  son. 

To  the  barrier  of  the  fight, 
Rode  at  last  a  sable  knight, 

"  Sir  Knight !  your  name  and  scutcheon  say  !" 
"  Should  I  speak  it  here, 
Ye  would  stand  aghast  with  fear  ; 

I  am  a  prince  of  mighty  sway  !" 

When  he  rode  into  the  lists, 

The  arch  of  heaven  grew  black  with  mists, 

And  the  castle  'gan  to  rock. 
At  the  first  blow 
Fell  the  youth  from  saddle-bow, 

Hardly  rises  from  the  shock. 

Pipe  and  viol  call  the  dances, 

Torch-light  through  the  high  halls  glances  ; 

Waves  a  mighty  shadow  in  ; 
With  manner  bland 
Doth  ask  the  maiden's  hand, 

Doth  with  her  the  dance  begin  ; 

Danced  in  sable  iron  sark, 

<!  a  measure  weird  and  dark, 
Culdly  clasped  her  limbs  around. 


•^ 


M 


^w* 


LONGFELLOW  8  POEMS. 


From  breast  ami  hair 
Down  fall  from  her  the  fair 
Flow' rets  faded  to  the  ground. 

To  the  sumptuous  banquet  came 
Every  knight  and  every  dame. 

Twixt  son  and  daughter  all  distraught, 
With  mournful  mind 
The  ancient  king  reclined, 

<  lazed  at  them  in  silent  thought. 

Pale  the  children  both  did  look, 
But  the  guest  a  beaker  took  ; 

"  Golden  wine  will  make  you  whole  !" 
The  children  drank, 
Gave  many  a  courteous  thank  ; 

"Oh,  that  draught  was  very  cool !" 

Each  the  father's  breast  embraces, 
Son  and  daughter  ;  and  their  faces 

Colourless  grew  utterly. 
Whichever  way 
Looks  the  fear-struck  father  gray 

lie  beholds  his  children  die. 

"  Woe  !  the  blessed  children  both 
Takest  thou  in  the  joy  of  youth  ; 

Take  me,  too,  the  joyless  father  !" 
Spake  the  grim  guest, 
From  his  hollow,  cavernous  breast : 

"  Roses  in  the  spring  I  gather  !" 


BLESSED  ARE  THE  DEAD. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  SIMON  DACH. 

0,  now  blest  are  you  whose  toils  are  ended  ! 
Who  through  death  have  unto  God  ascended  ! 
Ye  have  arisen 
From  the  cares  which  keep  us  still  in  prison. 

We  are  still  as  in  a  dungeon  living, 

Still  oppress'd  with  sorrow  and  misgiving  ; 

Our  undertakings 

Are  but  toils,  and  troubles,  and  heart-breakings 


&*#*& 


- 


TK  INSLATI0N8      GERM  iff. 


531 


Ye,  meanwhile,  are  in  your  chambers  Bleeping, 

Quiet,  and  Bet  free  from  all  our  weeping; 

No  CT088  DOT  trial 

Hinders  your  enjoyments  with  denial. 

Christ  has  wiped  away  your  tears  for  ever; 
Ye  have  that  for  which  we  still  endeavour. 
To  you  are  chanted 
Son^s  which  yet  no  mortal  ear  have  haunted. 

Ah !  who  would  not,  then,  depart  with  gladness, 

To  inherit  heaven  for  earthly  sadness  ! 

Who  here  would  languish 

Longer  in  bewailing  and  in  anguish  / 

Come,  0  Christ,  and  loose  the  chains  that  hind  us 
Lead  us  forth,  and  cast  this  world  behind  us; 
With  thee,  the  Anointed, 
Finds  the  soul  its  joy  and  rest  appointed. 


THE  TWO  LOCKS  OF  HAIR. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  PFIZER. 

A  youth,  light-hearted  and  content, 

I  wander  through  the  world  ; 
Here,  Arab-like,  is  pitched  my  tent, 

And  straight  again  is  furled. 

Yet  oft  I  dream  that  once  a  wife 
Close  in  my  heart  was  locked, 

And  in  the  sweet  repose  of  life 
A  blessed  child  I  rocked. 

1  wake !     Away  that  dream, — away ! 

Too  long  did  it  remain  ! 
So  long,  that  both  by  night  and  day 

It  ever  comes  again. 

The  end  lies  ever  in  my  thought; 

To  a  grave  so  cold  and  deep 
The  mother  beautiful  was  brought, 

Then  dropt  the  child  asleep. 

But  new  the  dream  is  wholly  o'er, 

I  bathe  mine  eye-  and  see  ; 
And  wander  through  the  world  once  more, 

A  youth  so  light  and  free. 


•  a  »'  * 


< 


U'EliLOW 


Two  locks,— and  they  are  wondrous  fair. 

Left  me  that  vision  mild  ; 
The  bruwn  is  from  the  mother's  hair, 

The  blond  is  from  the  child. 

And  when  I  see  that  lock  of  gold, 
Pale  grows  the  evening-red  ; 

And  when  the  dark  lock  I  behold, 
1  wish  that  I  were  dead. 


SONG  OF  THE  SILENT  LAN  J) 

FBOM  THE  GERMAN  OP  SALIS. 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 

Ah !  who  shall  lead  us  thither  I 

Clouds  in  the  evening  sky  more  darkly  gather, 

And  shattered  wrecks  lie  thicker  on  the  strand. 

Who  leads  us  with  a  gentle  hand 

Thither,  oh,  thither, 

Into  the  Silent  Land  I 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 

To  you,  ye  boundless  regions 

Of  all  perfection  !     Tender  morning  visions 

Of  beauteous  souls !  The  future's  pledge  and  band  ! 

Who  in  life's  battle  firm  doth  stand, 

Shall  bear  hope's  tender  blossoms 

Into  the  Silent  Land! 

0  Land !  0  Land  ! 

For  all  the  broken-hearted 

The  mildest  herald  by  our  fate  allotted, 
Beckons,  and  with  inverted  torch  doth  stand 
To  lead  us  with  a  gentle  hand 
Into  the  land  of  the  great  departed, 
Into  the  silent  land  ! 


,'# 


THE  LUCK  OF  EDENHALL. 

PROM  THE  GERMAN  OP  UHLAND. 

Op  Edenhall  the  youthful  lord 
Bids  sound  the  festal  trumpet's  call ; 
lie  rises  at  the  banquet  hoard, 


i 


TRANSLATIONS      OKHMAN. 


53? 


And  cries  'mid  the  drunken  revellers  all, 
"Now  bring  me  the  Luck  of  Edenhall  I" 

The  butler  hoars  the  words  with  pain, 

The  house's  oldest  seneschal, 
Takes  slow  from  its  silken  cloth  agaiu 
The  drinking-glass  of  crystal  tall ; 
They  call  it  the  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

Then  said  the  lord,  "  This  glass  to  praise, 

Fill  with  red  wine  from  Portugal !" 

The  grey-beard  with  trembling  hand  obeys; 

A  purple  light  shines  over  all, 

It  beams  from  the  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

Then  speaks  the  lord,  and  waves  it  light, 
"  This  glass  of  flashing  crystal  tall, 
Gave  to  my  sires  the  fountain-sprite ; 
She  wrote  in  it,  If  this  glass  doth  fall, 
Farewell  then,  0  Luck  of  Edenhall  I 

"'Twas  right  a  goblet  the  fate  should  be 
Of  the  joyous  race  of  Edenhall ! 
Dee})  draughts  drink  we  right  willingly ! 
And  willingly  ring,  with  merry  call, 
Kling!  klang!  to  the  Luck  of  Edenhall! 

"  First  rings  it  deep,  and  full,  and  mild, 
Like  to  the  song  of  a  nightingale ; 
Then  like  the  roar  of  a  torrent  wild ; 
Then  mutters  at  last  like  the  thunder's  fall, 
The  glorious  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

"  For  its  keeper  takes  a  race  of  might, 
The  fragile  goblet  of  crystal  tall ; 
It  has  lasted  longer  than  is  right; 
Kling!  klang! — with  a  harder  blow  than  ail 
AN  ill  I  try  the  Luck  of  Edenhall!" 

As  the  goblet  ringing  flies  apart. 
Suddenly  cracks  the  vaulted  hall ; 
And  through  the  rift  the  wild  flames  start: 
The  guests  in  dust  are  scattered  all. 
With  the  breaking  Luck  of  Edenhall! 

In  storms  the  foe,  with  fire  and  sword; 
lie  in  the  night  had  scaled  the  wall, 
D  by  the  sword  lies  the  youthful  lord, 


'jwr-ryg^Mtr*  I 


534 


LOXOFEU/>V, 


, 


But  holds  in  his  hand  the  crystal  tall, 
The  shattered  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

On  the  morrow  the  butler  gropes  alone, 
The  grey-beard  in  the  desert  hall, 
•eks  his  lord's  burnt  skeleton, 
He  seeks  in  the  dismal  nun's  fall 
The  shards  of  the  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

"The  stone  wall,"  saith  he,  "doth  all  aside, 
Down  must  the  stately  columns  fall ; 
Glass  is  this  earth's  luck  and  pride; 
In  atoms  shall  fall  this  earthly  ball 
One  day  like  the  Luck  of  Edenhall." 


THE  HEMLOCK  TREE. 

0  hum  log  K  tree !  0  hemlock  tree !  how  faithful  are  thy  branches] 

Green  not  alone  in  summer  time, 

But  in  the  winter's  frost  and  rime ! 
0  hemlock  tree !  0  hemlock  tree !  howfaithfnlarethybranches ! 

0  maiden  fair!  0  maiden  fair'  how  faithless  is  thy  bosom  ! 

To  love  me  in  prosperity, 

And  leave  me  in  adversity ! 
O  maiden  fair  !  0  maiden  fair  !  how  faithless  is  thy  bosom  ! 

The  nightingale,  thenightingale,  thou  tak'st  for  thine  example ! 

So  long  as  summer  laughs,  she  sit: 

But  in  the  autumn  spreads  her  wings. 
The  nightingale,  the  nightingale,  thou  tak'st  for  thine  example! 

The  meadow  brook,  the  meadow  brook,  is  mirror  of  thy 
falsehood ! 
It  flows  so  long  as  falls  the  rain, 
In  drought  its  springs  soon  dry  again. 
The  meadow  brook,  the  meadow  brook,  is  mirror  of  thy 
falsehood ! 

ANNIE  OF  TIIARAW. 

FROM  THE  LOW  GERMAN  OF  SIMON  DACH. 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  my  true  love  of  old, 
She  is  my  life,  and  my  goods,  and  my  gold. 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  her  heart  once  again 
To  me  has  surrendered  in  joy  and  pain. 


m 


H? 


TJW 


*!'■■    ■   l« 


in       Mil    |in--. 


TRAN8LAT]  >NS 


535 


i 


J**' 


Annie  of  Tharaw,  my  riches,  my  good, 
Thou,  <>  my  sou],  my  flesh  and  my  Mood  \ 

Then  come  the  mild  weather,  come  sleet  or  come  snow, 
We  will  stand  by  each  other,  however  it  blow. 

Oppression,  and  sickness,  and  sorrow,  and  pain 
Shall  be  to  onr  true  love  as  links  to  the  chain. 

As  the  palm-tree  standeth  so  straight  and  so  tall, 
The  more  the  hail  beats,  and  the  more  the  rains  fall,— 

So  love  in  our  hearts  shall  grow  mighty  and  strong, 
Through  crosses,  through  sorrows,  through  manifold  wrong 

Shouldst  thou  be  torn  from  me  to  wander  alone 
In  a  desolate  land  where  the  sun  is  scarce  known, — 

Through  forests  I'll  follow,  and  where  the  sea  flows, 
Through  ice,  and  through  iron,  through  armies  of  foes. 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  my  light  and  my  sun, 
The  threads  of  our  two  lives  are  woven  in  one. 

Whate'er  I  have  bidden  thee,  thou  hast  obeyed, 
"Whatever  forbidden,  thou  hast  not  gainsaid. 

How  in  the  turmoil  of  life  can  love  stand, 

"Where  there  is  not  one  heart,  and  one  mouth,  and  one  hand  ? 

Some  seek  for  dissension,  and  trouble,  and  strife  ; 
Like  a  dog  and  a  cat  live  such  man  and  wife. 

Annie  of  Tharaw  such  is  not  our  love  ; 

Thou  art  my  lambkin,  my  chick,  and  my  dove. 

Whate'er  my  desire  is,  in  thine  may  be  seen  ; 

I  am  king  of  the  household,  and  thou  art  its  queen. 

It  is  this,  0  my  Annie,  my  heart's  sweetest  rest, 
That  makes  of  us  twain  but  one  soul  in  one  breast. 

This  turns  to  a  heaven  the  hut  where  we  dwell ; 
While  wrangling  soon  changes  a  home  to  a  hell. 


TI1E  STATUE  OVER  THE  CATHEDRAL  DOOR, 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  JULIUS  MOSEX. 

Forms  of  saints  and  kincr.s  are  standing 

The  cathedral-door  above  ; 
Yet  I  saw  but  one  among  them 

Who  hath  soothed  my  soul  with  love. 


536 


.llil.l.ou  '8  POEMS. 


In  his  mantle, — wound  about  him, 
As  their  robes  the  sowers  wind,— 

Bore  he  swallows  and  their  fledgling 
Flowers  and  weeds  of  every  kind. 

And  so  stands  he  calm  and  childlike, 
High  in  wind  and  tempest  wild  ; 

Oh,  were  I  like  him  exalted, 
I  would  be  like  him,  a  child  ! 

And  my  songs,— green  leaves  and  blossoms,- 
To  the  doors  of  heaven  would  bear, 

Calling,  even  in  storm  and  tempest, 
Round  me  still  these  birds  of  air. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  CROSSBILL. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  JULIUS  MOSEN. 

On  the  cross  the  dying  Saviour 
Heavenward  lifts  his  eyelids  calm, 

Feels,  but  scarcely  feels,  a  trembling 
In  his  pierced  and  bleeding  palm. 

And  by  all  the  world  forsaken, 
Sees  he  how  with  zealous  care 

At  the  ruthless  nail  of  iron 
A  little  bird  is  striving  there. 

Stained  with  blood  and  never  tiring, 
With  its  beak  it  doth  not  cease, 

From  the  cross  'twould  free  the  Saviour, 
Its  Creator's  Son  release. 

And  the  Saviour  speaks  in  mildness  : 
"  Blest  be  thou  of  all  the  good  ! 

Bear  as  token  of  this  moment, 
Marks  of  blood  and  holy  rood  !" 

And  that  bird  is  called  the  crossbill ; 

Covered  all  with  blood  so  clear 
In  the  groves  of  pine  it  singeth 

Songs,  like  legends,  strange  to  hear. 


*s 


TRANSLATIONS—  OERMAN. 


-,.17 


■-  6 


!  f  1 


THE  SKA  11  AT  1 1  ITS  PEARLS. 

FROM    THE    OBRMAK    OF    HEINRIOH    IIEINTL 

The  Bea  hath  its  pearls, 

The  heaven  hath  its  stars  ; 
But  my  heart,  my  heart, 

My  heart  hath  its  love. 

Great  are  the  sea  and  the  heaven  ; 

Yet  greater  is  my  heart, 
And  fairer  than  pearls  and  stars 

Flashes  and  beams  my  love. 

Thou  little,  youthful  maiden, 
Come  unto  my  ^reat  heart ; 

My  heart,  and  the  sea,  and  the  heaven 
Are  melting  away  with  love  ! 


POETIC  APHORISMS. 

FROM    THE   SINNGEDICHTE   OF    FREIDRICH    VON    LOGAU. 

Seventeenth  Century. 


MONEY. 

Whereunto  is  money  good  ( 
Who  has  it  not  wants  hardihood, 
Who  has  it  has  much  trouble  and  care, 
Who  once  has  had  it  has  despair. 

THE    BEST    MEDICINES. 

Joy  and  temperance  and  repose 
Slam  the  door  on  the  doctor's  nose. 

ST.V 

Man-like  is  it  to  fall  into  sin, 
Fiend-like  is  it  to  dwell  therein, 
Christ-like  is  it  for  sin  to  grieve, 
God-like  is  it  all  sin  to  leave. 

POVERTY  AND  RLINDNE8S. 

A  blind  man  is  a  poor  man,  and  blind  a  poor  man  is ; 
Kor  the  former  seeth  no  man,  and  the  latter  uo  man  sees 


RN 


d  l'OKM8. 


[.AW  OF  LIFE. 

Live  I,  BO  live  I, 
To  my  Lord  heartily, 
To  my  prince  faithfully, 
To  my  neighbour  honestly 
Die  I,  so  die  I. 

CREEDS. 

Lutheran,  Popish,  Calvinistic,  all  these  creeds  and  doctrines 
three 

Extant  are ;  but  still  the  doubt  is,  where  Christianity  may  be. 

TIIE  RESTLESS  HEART. 

A.  millstone  and  the  human  heart  are  driven  ever  round  ; 
[f  they  have  nothing  else  to  grind,  they  must  themselves  be 
ground. 

CHRISTIAN  LOVE. 

Whilom  love  was  like  a  fire,  and  warmth  and  comfort  it  be- 
spoke ; 
But,  alas !  it  now  is  quenched,  and  only  bites  us,  like  the  smoke. 

ART  AND  TACT. 

Intelligence  and  courtesy  not  always  are  combined  ; 
Often  in  a  wooden  house  a  goldeu  room  we  find. 

RETRIBUTION. 

Though  the  mills  of  God  grind  slowly,  yet  they  grind  exceed- 
ingly small ; 

Though  with  patience  he  stands  waiting,  with  exactness  grinds 
he  all. 

TRUTH. 

When  by  night  the  frogs  are  croaking,  kindle  but  a  torch's  fire, 
Ha !  how  soon  they  all  are  silent !  Thus  truth  silences  the  liar. 

RHYMES. 

If  perhaps  these  rhymes  of  mine  should  sound  not  well  in 

strangers'  ears, 
They  have  only  to  bethink  them  that  it  happens  so  with  theirs; 
For  so  long  as  words,  like  mortals,  call  a  fatherland  their  own, 
They  will  be  most  highly  valued  where  they  are  best  and 

longest  known. 


BALLADS. 


V 


THE  SKELETON  IN  ARMOUR. 

[The  following  ballad  W*a  suggested  to  me  while  riding  on  the  sea-shore 
At  Newport.  A  year  or  two  previous,  a  skeleton  had  been  dug  up  at  Fall 
River,  clad  in  broken  and  corroded  armour;  and  the  idea  occurred  to  me 
of  connecting  it  with  the  Round  Tower  at  Newport,  generally  known 
hitherto  as  the  Old  Windmill,  though  now  claimed  by  the  Danes  as  a  work 
of  their  early  ancestors.] 

:t  Speak  !  speak  !  thou  fearful  guest ! 
W  ho,  with  thy  hollow  breast, 
Still  in  rude  armour  drest, 

Comest  to  daunt  me  ! 
Wrapt  not  in  eastern  balms, 
But  with  thy  tteshless  palms 
Stretched,  as  if  asking  alms, 

Why  dost  thou  haunt  me  if" 

Then,  from  those  cavernous  eyes 
Pale  flashes  seemed  to  rise, 
As  when  the  northern  skies 

Gleam  in  December ; 
And,  like  the  water's  flow 
Under  December's  snow, 
Came  a  dull  voice  of  woe 

From  the  heart's  chamber. 

"  I  was  a  Viking  old  ! 
My  deeds,  though  manifold, 
No  Skald  in  song  has  told, 

No  Saga  taught  thee  ! 
Take  heed,  that  in  thy  verse 
Thou  dost  the  tale  rehearse, 
Else  dread  a  dead  man's  curse  ; 

For  thii  !  sought  thee. 

(i  Far  in  the  northern  land, 
Bythe  wild  Baltic's  strand, 
I,  with  my  childish  hand, 
Tamed  the  uer-1'alcon 


54(1 


LONGFELLOW  S   F<»r.M<*. 


Ami,  with  my  skates  fast-bound, 
Skimmed  the  half  frozen  Sound, 
That  the  poor  whimpering  hound 
Trembled  to  walk  on. 

u  Oft  to  his  frozen  lair 
Tracked  I  the  grisly  hear, 
While  from  my  path  the  hare 

Fled  like  a  shadow  ; 
Oft  through  the  forest  dark 
Followed  the  were-wolf  a  bark, 
Until  the  soaring  lark 

Sang  from  the  meadow. 

"  But  when  I  older  grew, 
Joining  a  corsair's  crew, 
O'er  the  dark  sea  I  flew 

With  the  marauders. 
Wild  was  the  life  we  led, 
Many  the  souls  that  sped, 
Many  the  hearts  that  bled, 

By  our  stern  orders. 

"  Many  a  wassail-bout 
Wore  the  long  winter  out  ; 
Often  our  midnight  shout 

Set  the  cocks  crowing, 
As  we  the  Berserk's  tale 
Measured  in  cups  of  ale, 
Draining  the  oaken  pail, 

Filled  to  o'errlowing. 

•':  Once,  as  I  told  in  glee 
Tales  of  the  stormy  sea, 
Soft  eyes  did  gaze  on  me, 
Burning  yet  tender  ; 
And  as  the  white  stars  shine 
On  the  dark  Norway  pine, 
On  that  dark  heart  of  mine 
Fell  their  soft  splendour. 

••  I  wooed  the  blue-eyed  maid, 
Yielding,  yet  half  afraid, 
And  in  the  forest's  shade 

Our  vows  were  plighted. 
Under  its  loosened  vest 
Fluttered  her  little  breast, 


HALLADS. 


:.  1 1 


H 


I 


hike  birds  within  their  nest 
By  the  hawk  frighted. 

•  Brighl  in  her  Gather's  hall 
Shields  gleamed  upon  the  wall, 
Loud  sang  the  minstrels  all, 

Chanting  his  glory ; 
When  of  old  Hildebrand 
1  asked  his  daughter's  hand, 
Mute  did  the  minstrels  stand 

To  hear  my  story. 

While  the  brown  ale  he  quaffed. 
Loud  then  the  champion  laughed, 
And  as  the  wind-gusts  waft 

The  sea-foam  brightly, 
So  the  loud  laugh  of  scorn, 
Out  of  those  lips  unshorn, 
From  the  deep  drinking-horn 

Blew  the  foam  lightly. 

She  was  a  prince's  child, 

I  but  a  Viking  wild. 

And  though  she  blushed  and  smiled, 

I  was  discarded ! 
Should  not  the  dove  so  white 
Follow  the  sea-mew's  flight, 
Why  did  they  leave  that  night 

Her  nest  unguarded  ! 

1  Scarce  had  I  put  to  sea, 
Bearing  the  maid  with  me, — 
Fairest  of  all  was  she 

Among  the  Norsemen  ! 
When  on  the  white-sea  strand, 
Waving  his  armed  hand, 
Saw  we  old  Hildebrand, 

With  twenty  horsemen. 

Then  launched  they  to  the  blasr. 
Bent  like  a  reed  each  mast, 
Yet  we  were  gaining  fast, 

When  the  wind  failed  us  : 
And  with  a  sudden  flaw 

.ie  round  the  gusty  Ska 
be  that  our  foe  we  saw 

Laugh  as  lie  hailed  us 


2  M 


■ 


542  LONQFBLLOW'fl    POIK1. 

And  as  to  catch  the  gale 
Round  veered  the  flapping  sail, 
Death  !  w;us  the  helmsman's  hai! 

Death  without  quarter ! 
Mid-ships  with  iron  I 
Struck  we  her  ribs  of  steel. 
Down  her  black  hulk  did  reel 

Through  the  black  water  ' 

*  As  with  his  wings  aslant 
Sails  the  fierce  cormorant, 
Seeking  some  rocky  haunt, 

With  his  prey  laden, 
So  toward  the  open  main, 
Beating  to  sea  again, 
Through  the  wild  hurricane, 
Bore  I  the  maiden. 

44  Three  weeks  we  westward  bore 
And  when  the  storm  was  o'er 
Cloud-like  we  saw  the  shore 
Stretching  to  leeward  ! 
There  from  my  lady's  bowei 
Built  I  the  lofty  tower, 
Which  to  this  very  hour 
Stands  looking  seaward. 

"  There  lived  we  many  years  ; 
Time  dried  the  maiden's  tears  , 
She  had  forgot  her  fears. 

She  was  a  mother  ; 
Death  closed  her  mild  blue  eyes, 
Under  that  tower  she  lies  ; 
Ne'er  shall  the  sun  arise 

On  such  another ! 

"  Still  grew  my  bosom  then, 
Still  as  a  stagnant  fen ! 
Hateful  to  me  were  men, 

The  sunlight  hateful 
In  the  vast  forest  here, 
Clad  in  my  warlike  gear, 
Fell  T  upon  my  spear, 

Oh,  death  was  grateful  !• 

u  Thus  seamed  with  many  scars, 
Bursting  these  prison-bars. 


BALLADS. 

Up  to  his  native  stars 

My  soul  ascended ! 
There  from  the  flowing  bowl 
Deep  drinks  the  warrior's  sou], 
Shoal!  to  the  Northland!  Skoal!" 

— Thus  the  tale  ended. 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS. 

It  was  the  schooner  Hesperus, 

That  sailed  the  wintry  sea; 
And  the  skipper  had  taken  his  little  daughtei 

To  bear  him  company. 

Blue  were  her  eyes  as  the  fairy  flax, 
Her  cheeks  like  the  dawn  of  day, 

And  her  bosom  white  as  the  hawthorn  buds, 
That  ope  in  the  month  of  May. 

The  skipper  he  stood  beside  the  helm, 

II is  pipe  was  in  his  mouth, 
And  he  watched  how  the  veering  flaw  did  blow 

The  smoke  now  west,  now  south. 

Then  up  and  spake  an  old  sailor, 

Had  sailed  the  Spanish  Main, 
"  I  pray  thee,  put  into  yonder  port, 

For  I  fear  a  hurricane. 

"  Last  night  the  moon  had  a  golden  ring, 

And  to-night  no  moon  we  see  V' 
The  skipper,  he  blew  a  whiff  from  his  pipe 

And  a  scornful  laugh  laughed  he. 

Colder  and  louder  blew  the  wind, 
gale  from  the  north-east; 
The  snow  fell  hissing  in  the  brine, 

And  the  billows  frothed  like  yeast. 

Down  came  the  storm,  and  smote  amain 

The  vessel  in  its  strength  ; 
She  Bhuddered  and  paused,  like  a  frigh 

Then  leaped  her  cable's  length. 

"  Come  hither!  come  hither!  my  little  daughter, 
Ami  do  not  tremble  so : 


tMH 


it 


II 


l.o\;iFELIiOW'S  POEMS. 


* 


?! 

'3 


For  I  can  weather  the  roughest  gale 
That  ever  wind  did  blow." 

lie  wrapped  her  warm  in  Ins  seaman's  coat 

Against  the  stinging  blast ; 
He  cut  a  rope  from  a  broken  spar, 

And  bound  her  to  the  mast. 

"  0  father  !  I  hear  the  chinch  bells  ring ; 

Oh,  say  what  may  it  be  V1 
"'Tis  a  fog-bell  on  a  rock-bound  coast !" — 

And  he  steered  for  the  open  sea. 

"0  father !  I  hear  the  sound  of  guns  ; 

Oh,  say,  what  may  it  be  ?" 
"Some  ship  in  distress,  that  cannot  live 

In  such  an  angry  sea  !" 

'■'  0  father !  I  see  a  gleaming  light ; 

Oh,  say  what  may  it  be'/" 
But  the  father  answered  never  a  word, 

A  frozen  corpse  was  he. 

Lashed  to  the  helm,  all  stiff  and  stark, 
With  his  face  turned  to  the  skies, 

The  lantern  gleamed  through  the  gleaming  snow 
On  his  fixed  and  glassy  ej  es. 

Then  the  maiden  clasped  her  hands  and  prayed 

That  savfcd  she  might  be  ; 
And  she  thought  of  Christ,  who  stilled  the  wave 

On  the  Lake  of  Galilee. 

And  fast  through  the  midnight,  dark  and  drear, 
Through  the  whistling  sleet  and  snow, 

Like  a  sheeted  ghost,  the  vessel  swept 
Towards  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe. 

Ami  ever  the  fitful  gusts  between 

A  sound  came  from  the  land  ; 
It  was  the  sound  of  the  trampling  surf 

On  the  rocks  and  the  hard  sea-sand. 

The  breakers  were  right  beneath  her  bows, 

She  drifted  a  dreary  wreck, 
And  a  whooping  billow  swept  the  crew 

Like  icicles  from  her  deck. 

She  struck  where  the  white  and  fleecy  waves 
Looked  soft  as  carded  wool ; 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


546 


.-   A 


■ 


& 


* 


Hut  the  cruel  rocks,  ti  I  her  side 

Like  the  horns  of  an  angry  bull. 

Her  rattling  shrouds,  all  sheathed  in  ice, 
With  the  mast  went  by  the  board; 

Like  a  v.  he  stove  and  sank 

Ho  !  ho!  the  breakers  roared! 

At  daybreak,  on  the  bleak  sea-beach 

A  fisherman  stood  aghast, 
To  see  the  form  of  a  maiden  fair 

Lashed  to  a  drifting  mast. 

The  salt  sea  was  frozen  on  her  breast, 

The  salt  tears  in  her  eyes  ; 
And  he  saw  her  hair,  like  the  brown  sea-weed, 

On  the  billows  fall  and  rise. 

Such  was  the  wreck  of  the  Hesperus, 
In  the  midnight  and  the  snow  ! 

Christ  save  us  all  from  a  death  like  this, 
On  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe ! 


9 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


EXCELSIOR. 

The  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast. 
As  through  an  Alpine  village  passed 
A  youth  who  bore,  'mid  snow  and  ice. 
A  banner  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior ! 

His  brow  was  sad  ;  his  eye  beneath 
Flashed  like  a  falchion  from  its  sheath, 
And  like  a  silver  clarion  rung 
The  accents  of  that  unknown  tongue, 
Excelsior ! 

In  happy  homes  lie  saw  the  light 
Of  household  fires  gleam  warm  and  blight; 
Above,  the  spectral  glaciers  shone, 
And  from  his  lips  escaped  a  groan, 

Excelsior! 


ftv; 


H6 


LONGFELLOW  ti  POE 


*Hk 


"Try  DOfc  the  Pass!"  the  old  man  I 
"  Dark  lowers  the  tempest  overhead. 
The  roaring  torrent  is  deep  and  wide!'' 
And  loud  that  clarion  voice  replied, 
Excelsior ! 

ay!1'  the  maiden  said,  "and  rest 
Thy  weary  head  upon  this  breast !" 
A  tear  stood  in  his  bright  blue  eye, 
But  still  he  answered,  with  a  sigh, 
Excelsior! 

"  Beware  the  pine-tree's  withered  branch  ! 
Beware  the  awful  avalanche !" 
This  was  the  peasant's  last  good  night! 
A  voice  replied,  far  up  the  height, 
Excelsior ! 

At  break  of  day,  as  heavenward 
The  pious  monks  of  Saint  Bernard 
Uttered  the  oft-repeated  prayer, 
A  voice  cried  through  the  startled  an 
Excelsior ! 

A  traveller,  by  the  faithful  hound, 
Half-buried  in  the  snow  was  found, 
Still  grasping  in  his  hand  of  ice 
That  banner,  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior ! 

There,  in  the  twilight  cold  and  gray, 
Lifeless,  but  beautiful,  he  lay, 
And  from  the  sky,  serene  and  far, 
A  voice  fell,  like  a  falling  star, 
Excelsior ! 


'_-.'• 


b- 


THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH 

Undek  a  spreading  chestnut-tree 
The  village  smithy  stands ; 

The  smith,  a  mighty  man  is  he, 
With  large  and  sinewy  hands; 

And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms 
Are  strong  as  iron  bauds. 

His  hair  is  crisp,  and  black,  and  long, 
His  face  is  like  the  tan ; 


\ 


■ 


:i,l,ANE0U8. 


54  J 


I  lis  brow  is  wet  with  honest  sweat, 

He  earns  wliaic'er  he  can, 
And  looks  the  whole  world  in  the  face, 

For  he  owes  not  any  man. 

Week  in,  week  out,  from  mom  till  night, 
You  can  hear  his  bellows  blow  ; 

You  can  hear  him  swing  his  heavy  sledge, 
With  measured  beat  and  slow, 

Like  a  sexton  ringing  the  village  bell, 
When  the  evening  sun  is  low. 

And  children  coming  home  from  school 

Look  in  at  the  open  door ; 
They  love  to  see  the  flaming  forge, 

And  hear  the  bellows  roar, 
And  catch  the  burning  sparks  that  fly 

Like  chaff  from  a  thrashing-floor. 

He  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  church, 

And  sits  among  his  boys ; 
He  hears  the  parson  pray  and  preach, 

He  hears  his  daughter's  voice 
Singing  in  the  village  choir, 

And  it  makes  his  heart  rejoice. 

It  sounds  to  him  like  her  mother's  voice, 

Singing  in  Paradise ! 
He  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more, 

How  in  the  grave  she  lies ; 
And  with  his  hard  rough  hand  he  wipes 

A  tear  out  of  his  eyes. 

Toiling,  rejoicing,  sorrowing, 

Onward  through  life  he  goes  ; 
Each  morning  sees  some  task  begin, 

Each  evening  sees  it  close  ; 
Something  attempted,  something  done, 

Has  earned  a  night's  repose. 

Thanks,  thanks  to  thee,  my  worthy  friend, 
For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught ! 

Thus  at  the  flaming  forge  of  life 
Onr  fortunes  must  be  wrought ; 

Thus  on  its  sounding  anvil  shaped 
Each  burning  deed  and  thought ' 


^4 


o4S 


'.FELLOW  8  POEMS 


/'t 

,; 

1  n 

■ 

ENDYMION. 

The  rising  moon  lias  hid  the  stars, 
Her  level  rays,  like  golden  bars, 
Lie  on  the  landscape  green, 
With  shadows  brown  between. 

And  silver  white  the  river  gleams, 
As  if  Diana,  in  her  dreams, 

Bad  dropt  her  silver  boi 

Upon  the  meadows  low. 

On  such  a  tranquil  night  as  this, 
She  woke  Endymion  with  a  kiss, 
When,  sleeping  in  the  grove, 
He  dreamed  not  of  her  love. 

Like  Dian's  kiss,  unasked,  unsought, 
Love  gives  itself,  but  is  not  bought ; 
Nor  voice,  nor  sound  betrays 
Its  deep,  impassioned  gaze. 

It  comes, — the  beautiful,  the  free. 
The  crown  of  all  humanity, — 

In  silence  and  alone, 

To  seek  the  elected  one. 

It  lifts  the  boughs,  whose  shadows  deep 
Are  Life's  oblivion,  the  soul's  sleep, 
And  kisses  the  closed  eyes 
Of  him  who  slumbering  lies. 

0,  weary  hearts!  0,  slumbering  eyes! 
0,  drooping  souls,  whose  destinies 

Are  fraught  with  fear  and  pain, 

Ye  shall  be  loved  again  ! 

No  one  is  so  accursed  by  fate, 
No  one  so  utterly  desolate, 

But  some  heart,  though  unknown, 

Responds  unto  his  own. 

Responds,  as  if,  with  unseen  wings, 
An  angel  touched  its  quivering  strings  ; 
And  whispers,  in  its  song, 
"  Where  hast  thou  stayed  so  long?' 


iJtW 


i,.# 


'  'JL-^'IHP 


^^sw: 


MIS(TM,.\NKOUS. 


549 


J 


IT  IS  NOT  ALWAYS  MAY. 

Xo  hay  Pajaros  en  losnidoadc  Antano. — Spanish  Proverb 

The  sun  is  bright,  the  air  is  clear, 
The  darting  swallows  soar  and  sing, 

And  from  the  stately  elms  1  hear 
The  blue-bird  prophesying  Spring. 

So  blue  yon  winding  river  flows, 
It  seems  an  outlet  from  the  sky, 

Where,  waiting  till  the  west  wind  blows, 
The  freighted  clouds  at  anchor  lie. 

All  things  are  new  ;  the  buds,  the  leaves, 
That  gild  the  elm-tree's  nodding  crest, 

And  even  the  nest  beneath  the  eaves  : 
There  are  no  birds  in  last  year's  nest ! 

All  things  rejoice  in  youth  and  love, 
The  fulness  of  their  first  delight ! 

And  learn  from  the  soft  heavens  above 
The  melting  tenderness  of  night. 

Maiden,  that  read'st  this  simple  rhyme, 
Enjoy  thy  youth,  it  will  not  stay 

Enjoy  the  fragrance  of  thy  prime, 
For  oh  !  it  is  not  always  May  ! 

Enjoy  the  spring  of  love  and  youth, 
To  some  good  angel  leave  the  rest ; 

For  time  will  teach  thee  soon  the  truth, 
There  are  no  birds  in  last  year's  nest. 


THE  RAINY  DAY. 

The  day  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary  ; 
It  rains,  ami  the  wind  is  never  weary; 
The  vine  still  clings  to  the  mouldering  wall, 
But  at  every  gust  the  dead  leaves  fall, 
And  the  day  is  dark  and  dreary. 

My  life  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary  ; 
It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary; 
My  thoughts  still  cling  to  the  mouldering  past 
But  the  hopes  of  youth  fail  thick  in  the  blast. 
And  the  days  are  dark  and  dreary. 


:,;;<> 


LONGFELLOW  S  POEMS. 


Be  still,  Bad  heart !  and  cease  repining  ; 
Behind  the  clouds  is  the  sun  still  shining  ; 
Thy  fate  is  the  common  fate  of  all, 
Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall. 

Some  days  must  be  dark  and  dreary. 


GOD'S  ACRE. 

1  like  that  ancient  Saxon  phrase,  which  calls 
The  burial-ground  Clod's  Acre  !     It  is  just ; 

It  consecrates  each  grave  within  its  walls, 
And  breathes  a  benison  o'er  the  sleeping  dust 

God's  Acre  !     Yes,  that  blessed  name  imparts 
Comfort  to  those,  who  in  the  grave  have  sown 

The  seed,  that  they  have  garnered  in  their  hearts, 
Their  bread  of  life  ;  alas  !  no  more  their  own. 

Into  its  furrows  shall  we  all  be  i 
In  the  sure  faith  that  we  shall  rise  again, 

At  the  great  harvest,  when  the  archangel's  blast 
Shall  winnow,  like  a  fan,  the  chaff  and  grain. 

Then  shall  the  good  stand  in  immortal  bloom, 
In  the  fair  gardens  of  that  second  birth  ; 

And  each  bright  blossom  mingle  its  perfume 

\V ith  that  of  flowers  which  never  bloomed  on  earth. 

With  thy  rude  ploughshare,  Death,  turn  up  thesod, 
And  spread  the  furrow  for  the  seed  we  sew  ; 

This  is  the  field  and  Acre  of  our  God, 
This  is  the  place  where  human  harvests  grow! 


TO  THE  RIVER  CHARLES. 

River  !  that  in  silence  windest 
Through  the  meadowrs,  bright  and  free, 

Till  at  length  thy  rest  thou  tindest 
In  the  bosom  of  the  sea  ! 

Four  long  years  of  mingled  feeling, 
Half  in  rest  and  half  in  strife, 

I  have  seen  thy  waters  stealing 
Onward,  like  the  stream  of  life. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


)51 


J 
I 


Thou  hast  taught  me,  silent  river! 

Many  a  lesson,  deep  and  long  ; 
Thou  hast  been  a  generous  giver, 

I  can  give  thee  but  a  s 

Oft  in  sadness  and  in  illness, 

1  have  watched  thy  current  glide, 

Till  the  beauty  of  its  stillness 
Overflowed  me,  like  a  tide. 

And  in  hotter  hours  and  brighter, 
When  1  saw  thy  waters  gleam, 

I  have  felt  my  heart  beat  lighter, 
And  leap  onward  with  thy  stream. 

Not  for  this  alone  I  love  thee, 
Nor  because  thy  waves  of  blue 

From  celestial  seas  above  thee 
Take  their  own  celestial  hue. 

Where  yon  shadowy  woodlands  hide  thee, 

And  thy  waters  disappear, 
Friends  1  love  have  dwelt  beside  thee, 

And  have  made  thy  margin  dear. 

More  than  this  ! — thy  name  reminds  rae 
Of  three  friends,  all  true  and  tried ; 

And  that  name,  like  magic,  binds  me 
Closer,  closer  to  thy  side. 

Friends  with  joy  my  soul  remembers  ! 

How  like  quivering  flames  they  start 
When  I  fan  the  living  embers 

On  the  hearth-stone  of  my  heart ! 

'Tis  for  this,  thou  silent  river! 

That  my  spirit  leans  to  thee : 
Thou  hast  been  a  generous  giver, 

Take  this  idle  song  from  me. 


THE  GOBLET  OF  L1FK 

Filled  is  Life's  goblet  to  the  brim  , 
And  though  my  eyes  with  tenrsare  dim, 
1  see  its  sparkling  bubbles  swim, 
fluid  chant  a  melancholy  hymn 
AN  ill i  a  solemn  v<  ice  and  slow. 


552 


LONOFELLoW  B  1'oEMS. 


No  purple  flowers,  no  garlands  green, 
Conceal  the  goblet's  shade  or  sheen, 
Nor  maddening  draughts  of  llippocrene, 
Like  gleams  of  sunshine,  flash  between 
Thick  leaves  of  mistletoe. 

This  goblet,  wrought  with  curious  art, 
Is  filled  with  waters,  that  upstart, 
When  the  deep  fountains  uf  the  heart, 
By  strong  convulsions  rent  apart, 
Are  running  all  to  waste — 

And  as  it  mantling  passes  round, 
With  fennel  is  it  wreathed  and  crowned, 
Whose  seed  and  foliage  sun-embrowned, 
Are  in  its  waters  steeped  and  drowned, 
And  give  a  bitter  taste. 

Above  the  lowly  plants  it  towers, 
The  fennel,  with  its  yellow  fiowTers, 
And  in  an  earlier  age  than  ours, 
Was  gifted  with  the  wondrous  powers, 
Lost  vision  to  restore. 

It  gave  new  strength,  and  fearless  mood  ; 
And  gladiators,  fierce  and  rude, 
Mingled  it  in  their  daily  food  ; 
And  he  who  battled  and  subdued, 
The  wreath  of  fennel  wore. 

Then  in  Life's  goblet  freely  press 
The  leaves  that  give  it  bitterness, 
Nor  prize  the  coloured  water  lc 
For  in  thy  darkness  and  distress 

New  light  and  strength  they  give. 

And  he  who  has  not  learned  to  know 
How  false  its  sparkling  bubbles  show, 
How  bitter  are  the  drops  of  woe 
With  which  its  brim  may  overflow , 
He  has  not  learned  to  live. 

The  prayer  of  Ajax  was  for  light ; 
Through  all  that  dark  and  desperate  fight, 
The  blackness  of  that  noonday  night, 
He  asked  but  the  return  of  sight. 
To  see  his  foeman's  face. 


MISCELLANEOUS 


653 


Let  our  unceasing,  earnest  prayer 
Be,  too,  for  light, — for  strength  to  tear 
Our  portion  of  the  weight  of  care, 
That  cru         ato  dumb  despair 
One  half  the  human  race. 

0  suffering,  sad  humanity  ! 

0  ye  afflicted  ones,  who  lie 
Steeped  to  the  lips  in  misery, 
Longing,  and  yet  afraid  to  die, 

Patient,  though  sorely  tried  ! 

1  pledge  you  in  this  cup  of  grief, 
Where  floats  the  fennel's  bitter  leaf ! 
The  Battle  of  our  Life  is  brief, 

The  alarm, — the  struggle, — the  relief,— 
Then  sleep  we  side  by  side 


H 

;  ■ 


J:  a 


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, 

'IrjaoiJ,  e\.ii]<rov  fie!* 

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  ;" 

Qdpaei,  eyeipai'    <pwi/e1  <re/*r 

Then  saith  the  Christ,  as  silent  stands 
The  crowd,  "  What  wilt  thou  at  my  hands  I 
And  he  replies,  "  0  give  me  light ! 
Rabbi,  restore  the  blind  man's  sight !" 
And  Jesus  answers,  "YirayeX 

H  Trtorxis  aov  <recru)\€  ae / 

Ye  that  have  eyes,  and  cannot  see, 

/  ijw — Jo:h.  have  merry  on  me! 

T  Tfiarsei  egeirai phnnci  se — Be  of  good  comfort,  rise,  he  calleth  thee 
%  Ilupa//?— Go  thy  way.     He  pistis  sou  sctole  se — Thy  faith  hath  made 


at 


In  darkness  and  in  misery, 

Recall  i.  itj  Voices  Ti. 

'\r\aov,  k\ii]tr6v  fie! 
OeLxret,  eyet/jai,  viruyef 
H    TrtcTiv  (Ton  (reeruKe  ae! 


m 


Hit 


.MAIDENHOOD. 

AIaidkn  !  with  the  meek  brown  eyes, 
In  whose  orb  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  I 

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

Hear' st  thou  voices  on  the  shore. 
That  our  ears  pereeive  no  more, 
Deafened  by  the  cataract's  roar  ( 

0,  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  w;th  snows  encumbered 


N'EOUS. 


her,  then,  each  dower  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  ratli, 
In  thy  heart  the  dew  of  youth, 
On  thy  lips  the  smile  of  truth. 

0  that  dew,  like  balm,  shall  steal 
Into  wounds,  that  cannot  heal, 
Even  as  sleep  our  eyes  doth  sea!  ; 

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


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  ot 

widowhood. 

Thick  with  towns  and  hamlet-'  studded,  and  with  streamg 
and  vapours  gray, 

Like  a  shield  embossed  with  silver,  round  and  vast  the  land- 
scape lay. 

At  my  teet  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  ne.^s  beneath  the  rafters  sang  the  swallows vnld 

and  high  ; 
And  the  world,  beneath  me  sleeping,  seemed  more  distant 

Mian  the  sky 


ll> 


556 


LOHOfELLOW'B  1*". 


Then,  most  musical  and  solemn,  bringing  back  the -Men  times, 
With  their  strauge  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  day  departed,  shadowy  phantoms  filled  mybrain  ; 
They  who  lived  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  fight  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  loud  alarum  sounded  from  the  tocsin's  throat : 

Till  the  bell  of  Ghent  responded,  o'er  lagoon  and  dyke  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, 


I 


w 


v'  [8CELLANEOU8. 


557 


A  GLEAM  OF  SUNSHINE. 

This  is  the  place.    Stand  still,  my  steed. 

Let  me  review  the  scene, 
And  summon  from  the  shadowy  past 

The  forms  that  once  have  heen. 

The  Past  and  Present  here  unite 

Beneath  Time's  flowing  tide, 
Like  footprints  hidden  by  a  brook, 

But  seen  on  either  side. 

Here  runs  the  highway  to  the  town  ; 

There  the  green  lane  descends, 
Through  which  I  walked  to  church  with  thee 

0  gentlest  of  my  friends ! 

The  shadow  of  the  linden-trees 

Lay  moving  on  the  grass  ; 
Between  them  and  the  moving  boughs, 

A  shadow,  thou  didst  pass. 

Thy  dress  was  like  the  lilies, 

And  thy  heart  as  pure  as  they ; 
One  of  God's  holy  messengers 

Did  walk  with  me  that  day. 

I  saw  the  branches  of  the  trees 

Bend  down  thy  touch  to  meet, 
The  clover- blossoms  in  the  grass 

Rise  up  to  kiss  thy  feet. 

"  Sleep,  sleep  to-day,  tormenting  caie.s, 

Of  earth  and  folly  born  !" 
Solemnly  sang  the  village  choir 

On  that  sweet  Sabbath  morn 

Through  the  closed  blinds  the  golden  sun 

Poured  in  a  dusty  beam, 
Like  the  celestial  ladder  seen 

By  Jacob  in  his  dream. 

And  ever  and  anon  the  wind, 

Sweet-scented  with  the  hay, 
Turned  o'er  the  hymn-book's  fluttering  leaves 

That  on  the  window  lay. 

Long  was  the  good  man's  sermon, 
Yet  it  seemed  not  so  to  me  :  -  S 


SH8 


LONGFELLOW  8  PoKMfl 


For  lie  spake  of  Ruth  the  beautiful, 
And  still  1  thought  of  thee. 

Long  was  the  prayer  he  uttered, 

Yet  it  seemed  not  so  to  me  ; 
For  in  my  heart  I  prayed  with  him. 

And  still  I  thought  of  thee. 

But  now,  alas!  the  place  seems  nhattfti 

Thou  art  no  longer  here  : 
Part  of  the  sunshine  of  the  scene 

With  thee  did  disappear. 

Though  thoughts,  deep-routed  in  my  heart 
Like  pine-trees  dark  and  high, 

Subdue  the  light  of  noon,  and  breathe 
A  low  and  ceaseless  sigh, 

This  memory  brightens  o'er  the  past, 

As  when  the  sun,  concealed 
Behind  some  cloud  that  near  us  hangs, 

Shines  on  a  distant  field. 


THE  ARSENAL  AT  SPRINGFIELD 

This  is  the  Arsenal.     From  floor  to  ceiling, 
Like  a  huge  organ,  rise  the  burnished  arms; 

But  from  their  silent  pipes  no  anthem  pealing 
Startles  the  villages  with  strange  alarms. 

Ah!  what  a  sound  will  rise,  how  wild  and  dreary, 
When  the  death-angel  touches  those  swift  keys! 

What  loud  lament  and  dismal  Miserere 
Will  mingle  with  their  awful  symphonies! 

I  hear  even  now  the  infinite  tierce  chorus, 
The  cries  of  agony,  the  endless  groan, 

Which,  through  the  ages  that  have  gone  before  us, 
In  long  reverberations  reach  our  own. 

On  helm  and  harness  rings  the  Saxon  hammer, 
Through  Cimbric  forest  roars  the  Norseman's  song, 

And  loud,  amid  the  universal  clamour, 
O'er  distant  deserts  sounds  the  Tartar  gong. 

1  heard  the  Florentine,  who  from  his  palace 
Wheels  out  his  battle-bell  with  dreadful  din, 


MIM-NLLANEOUS. 


559 


An»i  Aztec  priests  upon  their  teocallis 
Beat  the  wild  war-drums  made  of  serpent's  skin 

The  tumult  of  each  sacked  and  burning  village  ; 

The  shout  that  every  prayer  for  mercy  drowns  ; 
The  soldiers'  revels  in  the  midst  of  pillage  ; 

The  wail  of  famine  in  beleaguered  towns  ; 

The  bursting  shell,  the  gateway  wrenched  asuuder 
The  rattling  musketry,  the  clashing  blade  ; 

And  ever  and  anon,  in  tones  of  thunder, 
The  diapason  of  the  cannonade. 

Is  it,  0  man,  with  such  discordant  noises, 
"With- such  accursed  instruments  as  these, 

Th*'U  drownest  Nature's  sweet  and  kindly  voices, 
And  j arrest  the  celestial  harmonies  I 

Were  half  the  power  that  fills  the  world  with  terror, 
Were  half  the  wealth  bestowed  on  camps  and  courts 

Given  to  redeem  the  human  mind  from  error, 
There  were  no  need  of  arsenals  nor  forts  : 

The  warrior's  name  wrould  be  a  name  abhorred  ! 

And  every  nation,  that  should  lift  again 
Its  hand  against  a  brother,  on  its  forehead 

Would  wear  for  evermore  the  curse  of  Cain  ! 

Down  the  dark  future,  through  long  generations, 
The  echoing  sounds  grow  fainter,  and  then  cease  ! 

And  like  a  bell,  with  solemn,  sweet  vibrations, 
I  hear  once  more  the  voice  of  Christ  say,  "  Peace !" 

Peace  !  and  no  longer  from  its  brazen  portals 
The  blast  of  War's  great  organ  shakes  the  skies  ! 

But  beautiful  as  songs  of  the  immortals, 
The  holy  melodies  of  love  arise. 


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 
BOl 

Memories  haunt  thy  pointed  gables,  like  the  rooks  that  round 
them  throng  • 


I  BO 


U)NOPELLOW*S  POEMS. 


Memories  of  the  middle  ages,  ulien  the  emperors  rough  and 

hold, 
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'i 
hand  ; 

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

Kverywhere  I  see  around   me  rise  the  wondrous  world  of 

Art- 
Fountains  wrought  with  richest  sculpture  standing  in  the  com- 
mon mart ; 

And  above  cathedral  doorways,  saints  and  bishops  carved  iD 

stone, 
By  a  former  age  commissioned  as  apostles  to  our  own. 

In  the  church  of  sainted  Sebald  sleeps  enslirined  his  holy  dust 
And  in  bronze  the  twelve  apostles  guard  from  age  to  agG 
their  trust ; 

In  the  church  of  sainted  Lawrence  stands  a  pix  of  sculpture 

rare, 
Like  the  foamy  sheath   of  fountains,  rising    through   the 

painted  air. 

Here,  when  Art  was  still  religion,  with  a  simple,  reverent 

heart, 
Lived  and  laboured  Albrecht  Diirer,  the  Evangelist  of  Art ; 

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

Emigravii*  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 ! 


m 

■ 


♦  He  has  depart*** 


4*  ** 


MISCKU.ANKOITS. 


R61 


4 


Through  these  streets  so  broad  and  stately,  these  obscure  and 

di  anal  lanes, 
Walked  of  yore  the   Master  singers,  ch  mting  rude  poetic 

strain.-. 

From  remote  and  sunless  suburbs,  came  they  to  the  friendly 
guild, 

Building  nests  in  Fame's  great  temple,  as  in  spouts  the  swal- 
lows 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  Puschmau's  song, 
As  the  old  mail  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  tankards,  in  the  master's  antique 

chair. 

Vanished  is  the  ancient  splendour,  and  before  my  dreamy  eye 
Wave  these  mingling  shapes  and  figures,  like  a  faded  tapes- 
try. 

Not  thy  Councils,  not  thy  Kaisers,  win  for  thee  the  world's 
regard  ; 

But  thy  painter,  Albrecbt  Durer,  aud  Hans  Sachs,  thy  cob- 
bler-bard. 

Thus,  0  Nuremberg,  a  wanderer,  from  a  region  far  away, 
As  he  paced  thy  streets  and  court-yards,  sang  in  thought  his 
careless  lay : 

icring  from  the  pavement's  crevice,  as  a  floweret  of  the 
The  nobility  of  labour,-  -the  long  pedigree  of  toil. 


£l> 


■  rf 


f.G2 


LONGFELTiOW'8  POEMS. 


VV 


THE  NORMAN  BARON. 

l>aus  les  moments  de  la  fie  on  la  reflexion  devient  plus  calme  et  pius 
profonde,  oh  1 'intriiCt  *t  Tavarice  parlent  moins  haut  que  l;i  raison,  dans 
lei  instants  ik  chagrin  doinestique,  de  maladie,  et  de  ptfril  de  moit,  leu 
nobles  se  repentirent  de  posnellei'  <-les  suits,  comma  d'une  chose  peu  ar- 
able a  Dieu,  qui  avalt  crdd  tons  les  homines  a  son  imaga" — Thikrbt" 
t'oaqutte  de  VAnglettrre. 

In  his  chamber,  weak  and  dying, 

Was  the  Norman  haron  lying, 

Loud,  without,  the  tempest  thundered, 

And  the  castle- turret  shook. 
In  this  fight  was  Death  the  gainer, 
Spite  of  vassal  and  retainer, 
And  the  lands  his  sires  had  plundered, 

Written  in  the  Doomsday  Book. 

By  his  bed  a  monk  was  seated, 
Who  in  humble  voice  repeated 
Many  a  prayer  and  pater-noster 

From  the  Missal  on  his  knee  ; 
And,  amid  the  tempest  pealing, 
Sounds  of  bells  came  faintly  stealing, 
Bells,  that  from  the  neighbouring  kloster, 

Rang  for  the  Nativity. 

In  the  hall,  the  serf  and  vassal 

Held,  that  night,  their  Christmas  wassail: 

Many  a  carol,  old  and  saintly, 

Sang  the  minstrels  and  the  waits; 
And  so  loud  these  Saxon  gleemen 
Sung  to  slaves  the  songs  of  freemen, 
That  the  storm  was  heard  but  faintly 

Knocking  at  the  castle-gates. 

Till  at  length  the  lays  they  chanted 
Reached  the  chamber  terror-haunted, 
Where  the  monk  with  accents  holy, 

Whispered  at  the  baron's  ear. 
Tears  upon  his  eyelids  glistened, 
Ashe  paused  awhile  and  listened, 
And  the  dying  baron  slowly 

Turned  his  weary  head  to  hear. 


r- 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


r,w 


"  Wassail  for  the  kingly  stranger, 
Born  and  cradled  in  a  manger  ! 

King,  like  David,    priest,  like  Aaron, — 
Christ  is  horn  to  set  08  free  !" 

And  the  lightning  showed  the  sainted 
urea  on  the  casement  painted, 

And  exclaimed  the  shuddering  baron, 
"  Miserere  Domine !" 

In  that  hour  of  deep  contrition, 
lie  beheld,  with  clearer  vision, 
Through  all  outward  show  and  .fashion, 

.Justice,  the  Avenger,  rise. 
All  the  pomp  of  earth  had  vanished, 
Falsehood  and  deceit  were  banished, 
Reason  spake  more  loud  than  passion, 

And  the  truth  wore  no  disguise. 

Every  vassal  of  his  banner, 

Every  serf  born  to  his  manor, 

All  those  wronged  and  wretched  creatures. 

By  his  hand  were  freed  again  ; 
And  as  on  the  sacred  Missal 
He  recorded  their  dismissal, 
Death  relaxed  his  iron  features, 

And  the  monk  replied,  "  Amen  !"' 

Many  centuries  have  been  numbered 
Since  in  death  the  baron  slumbered 
By  the  convent's  sculptured  portal, 

.Mingling  with  the  common  dust : 
But  the  good  deed,  through  the  ages 
Living  in  historic  pages, 
Brighter  glows  and  gleams  immortal 

Unconsumed  by  moth  or  rust 


RAIN  IN  SUMMKK 

How  beautiful  is  the  rain  ! 
After  the  dust  and  heat, 
in  the  broad  and  fiery  street 
In  the  narrow  Uu 
11  v.  beautiful  is  the  rain  i 


564 


•  FELLOW  s  POBMS, 


How  it  clatters  along  the:  nut*, 

Like  the  tramp  of  ha 

How  it  gushes  and  struggles  out 

From  the  throat  of  the  overflowing  spout  ! 

Across  the  window  pane 

It  pours  and  pours  ; 

And  swift  and  wide 

With  a  muddy  tide, 

Like  a  river  down  the  gutter  roars 

The  rain,  the  welcome  rain  ! 

The  sick  man  from  his  chamber  looks 

At  the  twisted  brooks  ; 

He  can  feel  the  cool 

Breath  of  each  little  pool ; 

His  fevered  brain 

Grows  calm  again, 

And  he  breathes  a  blessing  on  the  rain 

From  the  neighbouring  school 

Come  the  boys, 

With  more  than  their  wonted  noise 

And  commotion  ; 

And  down  the  wet  streets 

Sail  their  mimic  fleets, 

Till  the  treacherous  pool 

Engulfs  them  in  its  whirling 

And  turbulent  ocean. 

in  tiie  country,  on  every  side, 

Where  far  and  wide, 

Like  a  leopard's  tawny  and  spotted  hide, 

Stretches  the  plain, 

To  the  dry  grass  and  the  drier  grain 

How  welcome  is  the  rain! 


In  the  furrowed  land 

The  toilsome  and  patient  oxen  stand ; 

Lifting  the  yoke-encumbered  head, 

With  their  dilated  nostrils  spread 

They  silently  inhale 

The  clover-scented  gale, 

And  the  vapours  that  arise 

From  the  well-watered  and  smoking  soil. 

For  this  rest  in  the  furrow  after  toil 


»2-' 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


666 


.-. 


m 


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  numhcrless  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  colours  seven 

Climbing  up  once  more  to  heaven 

Opposite  the  setting  sun. 

Thus  the  Seer 

With  vision  clear, 

Sees  forms  appear  and  disappear, 

In  the  perpetual  round  of  stran 

Rfysterion   change 

Prom  birth  to  death.  From  death  to  birth. 


5H6 


LONUFKU.oW  3  POEMS. 


From  earth  to  heaven,  from  heaven  to  earth. 

Till  glimpses  more  sublime 

Of  things,  unseen  before, 

(Into  his  wondering  eye.s  reveal 

The  Universe,  as  an  immeasurable  wheel 

Turning  for  evermore 

In  the  rapid  and  rushing  river  of  Time. 


THE  OCCULTATION  OF  ORION. 

I  saw,  as  in  a  dream  suhlime, 
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. 

L  saw,  with  its  celestial  keys, 

Its  chords  of  air,  its  frets  of  fire, 

The  Samian's  great  JSolian  lyre, 

Rising  through  all  its  sevenfold  bars, 

From  earth  unto  the  fixed  stars. 

And  through  the  dewy  atmosphere, 

Not  only  could  1  see,  but  hear 

Its  wondrous  and  harmonious  strings 

In  sweet  vibration,  sphere  by  sphere, 

From  Dian's  circle  light  and  ni 

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  \m 

Beneath  the  sky's  triumphal  arch 

This  music  sounded  like  a  march, 

And  with  its  chorus  seemed  t'^  be 

Preluding  some  great  tragedy. 

Sirins  was  rising  in  the  east; 

And,  slow,  ascending  one  by  one, 

The  kindling  constellations  shone. 


m< 


r- — 

' 

MISCELLANEOUS.                                            667 

»                                                                                     ... 

Begirt  with  many  a  blazing  star, 

■ 

Stood  the  great  giant  Algebar, 

Orion,  hunter  of  tin1  beasl  ! 

His  Bword  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  nut  faint ; 

Yet  beautiful  as  some  fair  saint, 

Serenely  moving  on  her  way 

In  hours  of  trial  and  dismay. 

-♦L£ 

As  if  she  heard  the  voice  of  God, 

4B 

Unharmed  with  naked  feet  she  trod 

MY  i  P 

Upon  the  hot  and  burning  stars, 

»           i 

' -  c  X?  I 

As  on  the  glowing  coals  and  bars 
That  were  to  prove  her  strength,  and  try 

il 

Her  holiness  and  her  purity. 

Thus  moving  on,  with  silent  pace,                                      HI 

And  triumph  in  her  sweet,  pale  face, 

She  reached  the  station  of  Orion. 

Aghast  be  stood  in  strange  alarm  !                                     ff/Vn 

And  suddenly  from  his  outstretched  arm 

TH 

. 

Down  fell  the  red  skin  of  the  lion 

:;  fjk 

Into  the  river  at  his  feet.                                                 ||- 

^S 

His  mighty  club  no  longer  beat 

The  forehead  of  the  bull ;  but  he 

Reeled  as  of  yore  beside  the  sea, 

When,  blinded  by  CEnopion, 

He  sought  the  blacksmith  at  his  forge. 

t 

And,  climbing  up  the  mountain  gorge. 

j3 

Fixed  his  blank  eyes  upon  the  sun. 

Then,  through  the  silence  overhead, 

An  angel  with  a  trumpet  said, 

'»'            ■ 

"  For  evermore,  for  evermore, 
The  reign  of  violence  is  o'er  !"     m 
And,  like  an  instrument  that  flings 
[ts  music  oa  another's  stain 

The  trumpet  of  the  angel  i 

Upon  the  heavenly  lyre  its  blast, 

And  on  from  sphere  to  sphere  the  wordf; 

Re-echoed  down  the  burning  chords, — 

"  For  evermore,  for  evermore, 

The  reign  of  violence  is  o'er  !': 


&68 


LONQFELLOW  S  POEMS. 


the  bridge. 

i  stood  on  the  bridge  at  midnight, 
As  the  clocks  were  striking  the  hour. 

And  the  moon  rose  o'er  the  city, 
Behind  the  dark  church  tower. 

1  saw  her  bright  reflection 

In  the  waters  under  me, 
Like  a  golden  goblet  falling 

And  sinking  into  the  sea. 

And  far  in  the  hazy  distance 

Of  that  lovely  night  in  June, 
The  blaze  of  the  flaming  furnace; 

Gleamed  redder  than  the  moon. 

Among  the  long,  black  rafters 

The  wavering  shadows  lay, 
And  the  current  that  came  from  the  ocean 

Seemed  to  lift  and  bear  them  away  ; 

As,  sweeping  and  eddying  through  them, 

Rose  the  belated  tide, 
And,  streaming  into  the  moonlight, 

The  sea-weed  floated  wide. 

And  like  those  waters  rushing 

Among  the  wooden  piers, 
A  flood  of  thoughts  came  o'er  me, 

That  filled  my  eyes  with  tears. 

How  often,  0  how  often, 
In  the  days  that  had  gone  by, 

I  had  stood  on  that  bridge  at  midnight. 
And  gazed  on  that  wave  and  sky ! 

How  often,  0  how  often, 

1  had  wished  that  the  ebbing  tide 
Would  bear  me  away  on  its  bosom 

O'er  the  ocean  wild  and  wide  ! 

For  my  heart  was  hot  and  restless, 

And  my  life  was  full  of  care, 
And  the  burden  laid  upon  me 

Seemed  greater  than  I  could  bear. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


!W9 


tMj 


But  now  it  has  fallen  from  me, 

It  is  buried  in  the  sea  ; 
Ami  only  the  sorrow  of  others 

Throws  its  shadow  over  me. 

Yet  whenever  I  cross  the  river, 
On  its  bridge  with  wooden  piers, 

Like  the  odour  of  brine  from  the  ocean 
Comes  the  thought  of  other  years. 

And  I  think  how  many  thousands 

Of  care-encumbered  men, 
Each  bearing  his  burden  of  sorrow, 

Have  crossed  the  bridge  since  then. 

I  see  the  long  procession 

Still  passing  to  and  fro, 
The  young  heart  hot  and  restless, 

And  the  old  subdued  and  slow  ! 

And  for  ever  and  for  ever, 

As  long  as  the  river  flows, 
As  long  as  the  heart  has  passions, 

As  long  as  life  has  woes  ; 

The  moon  and  its  broken  reflection 
And  its  shadows  shall  appear, 

As  the  symbol  of  love  in  heaven, 
And  its  wavering  image  here. 


TO  THE  DRIVING  CLOUD. 

Gloomy  and  dark  art  thou,  0  chief  of  the  mighty  Omawhaws  ; 
Gloomy  and  dark,  as  the  driving  cloud,  whose  name  thou  hast 

taken  ! 
Wrapt  in  the  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 

foot  print 
What,  in  a  few  short  years,  will  remain  of  thy  race  but  the 

footprints  I 
How  canst  thou  walk  in  these  streets,  who  hast  trod  the  green 

turf  of  the  prairi 
How  canst  thou  breathe  in  this  air.  who  hast  breathed  the 
air  of  the  mountain 


570 


LONUFELLOW S  POFM« 


i  lib  £  I 


Ah  !  'tis  vain  that  with  lordly  looks  of  disdain  tlioudost  chal- 
lenge 

Looks  of  dislike  in  return,  and  question  these  walls  and  these 
1  lavements, 

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  Wa- 
bash ! 

There  as  a  monarch  thou  reignest.     In  autumn  the  leaves  of 
the  maple 

Pave  the  floors  of  thy  palace-halls  with  gold,  and  in  summer 

Pine-trees  waft  through  its  chambers  the  odorous  breath  of 
their  branches. 

There  thou  art  strong  and  great,  a  hero,  a  tamer  of  horses  ! 

There  thou  chasest  the  stately  stag  on  the  banks  of  the  Elk- 
horn, 

Or  by  the  roar  of  the  Running- Water,  or  where  the  Omawhaw 

Calls  thee,  and  leaps  through  the  wild  ravine  like  a  brave  oi 
the  Blackfeet ! 

Hark  !  what  murmurs  arise  from  the  heart  of  those  moun- 
tainous 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  I 

Far  more  fatal  to  thee  and  thy  race  than  the  Crows  and  the 
Foxes  ; 

Farmore  fatal  to  thee  and  thy  race  than  the  tread  of  Behemoth. 

Lo !  the  big  thunder-canoe,  that  steadily  breasts  the  Mis- 
souri'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  Cam- 
anches ! 

I  la  !    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 ,! 


K 


CARILLON. 


iHfr    A 


In  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges, 
In  the  quaint  old  KLmish  city, 
As  the  evening  slunk. s  descended, 
Low  and  loud  and  sweetly  blended 
Low  at  times  and  loud  at  times, 
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  clan: 
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  Might 
And  stolen  inarches  of  the  night ; 
Till  their  chimes  in  sweet  collision 
Mingled  with  each  wandering  vision, 
Mingled  with  the  fortune-telling 
Gipsy-bands  of  dreams  and  fancies, 
Which  amid  the  waste  expanses 
Of  the  silent  land  of  trances 
Have  their  solitary  dwelling. 
All  else  seemed  asleep  in  Bruges, 
In  the  quaint  old  Flemish  city. 

And  I  thought  how  like  these  clnnies 
Are  the  poet's  airy  rhymes, 
All  his  rhymes  and  roundelays, 
His  conceits,  and  songs,  and  ditties, 
From  the  belfry  of  his  brain. 


B 


LONGFELLOW  S  POE 


Scattered  downward,  though  in  vara, 

On  the  roof's  ami  stone.-,  of  cities  ! 
For  by  night  the  drowsy  e 
Under  its  curtains  cannot  hear, 
And  by  day  men  go  their  ways, 
Hearing  the  music  as  they  | 
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  son.:, 

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, 

Rang  their  changes  from  the  belfry 

Of  that  quaint  old  Flemish  city. 


•  •..;  : 


I 


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  ; 


. ..  E8 


U, AN  ECUS. 


073 


And,  leaning  idly  o'er  his  gate, 

Beneath  the  imperial  tan  of  state, 
The  Chinese  mandarin. 

With  what  a  look  of  prond  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  CoromandcTs  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  steep  Potosi's  mountain  pines  ! 

And  thus  fur  thee,  0  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  nearest  footsteps  from  afar  ! 
And,  at  the  sound, 
Thou  tumest  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,  impatient^, 
Thou  Btrivest,  strugglest,  to  be  fre*. 
The  four  walls  of  thy  nursery 
Arc  now  like  prison  walls  tn  thee. 


>■■ 


:.;i 


Longfellow's  poems 


No  more  thy  mother's  smiles, 

No  more  thy  painted  t 

Delight  thee,  nor  the  playthings  on  the  floor, 

That  won  thy  little  heating  heart  before  ; 

Thou  strugglest  for  the  open  door 

Through  these  once  solitary  halls 

Thy  pattering  footstep  falls. 

The  Bound  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  Bombre  background  of  memory  start 

Once,  ah,  once,  within  these  walls, 
One  whom  memory  oft .recalls, 
The  Father  of  this  country  dwelt. 
And  yonder  meadows  broad  and  damp 
The  tires  of  the  besieging  camp 
Encircled  with  a  burning  belt. 
U]>  and  down  those  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. 

1  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  a.s  the  bee. 

Along  the  garden  walks, 

The  tracks  of  thy  small  carriage  wheels  I  trace 

And  see  at  every  turn  how  they  efface 

Wrhole  villages  of  sand-roofed  tents, 

That  rise  like  golden  domes 

Above  the  cavernous  and  secret  homes 

Of  wandering  and  nomadic  tribes  of  ants 


•'A 


MI80EL1  LK  EOUS. 


i7S 


* 


Ah  !  cruel  little  Tamerlane, 
Who,  with  thy  dreadful  reign, 
persecute  and  overwhelm 
hapless  Troglodytes  of  thy  realm  ! 

What !  tired  already  !  with  those  suppliant  looks, 
And  voice  more  beautiful  than  poet's  books, 
Or  murmuring  sound  of  water  as  it  flows, 
Thou  comest  hack  to  parley  with  repose  ! 
This  rustic  scat  in  the  old  apple-tree, 
With  its  o'er-hanging  golden  canopy 
Of  leaves  illumined  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  pendant  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. 

0  child  !  0  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. 

1  see  its  valves  expand, 
As  at  the  touch  of  Fate  ! 

Into  those  realms  of  love  and  hate, 
Into  that  darkness  blank  and  drear, 

!iic  prophetic  feeling  taught, 
I  launch  the  bold,  adventurous  thought. 
Freighted  with  hope  and  fear  ; 
As  upon  subterranean  streams, 
In  caverns  unexplored  and  dark, 
Men  sometime  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  ast  Tear  or  h 


u   y 


.  . 


576 


LONGFELLOW'S  POEMS. 


5tf"» 


Dare  1  to  cast  thy  horoscope  ! 

Like  the  new  moon  thy  life  appears  ; 

A  little  strip  of  silver  light, 

All' I  widening  outward  into  night 

The  shadowy  disk  of  future  yeai>  '. 

And  yet  upon  its  outer  rim, 

A  luminous  circle,  faint  and  dim, 

And  scarcely  visible  to  as  here, 

Rounds  and  completes  the  perfect  sphere  ; 

A  prophecy  and  intimation, 

A  pale  and  feeble  adumbration, 

Of  the  great  world  of  light,  that 

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  st niggle  with  imperious  thought, 
Until  the  overburdened  brain, 
Weary  with  labour,  faint  with  pain , 
Like  a  jarred  pendulum  retain 
Only  its  motion,  not  its  power, — 
Remember,  in  that  perilous  hour, 
When  most  afflicted  and  oppressed, 
From  labour  there  shall  come  forth  rest. 

And  if  a  more  auspicious  fate 

On  thy  advancing  steps  await, 

Still  let  it  ever  be  thy  pride 

To  linger  by  the  labourer's  side  ; 

With  words  of  sympathy  or  song 

To  cheer  the  dreary  march  along, 

Of  the  great  army  of  the  poor, 

O'er  desert  sand,  o'er  dangerous  moor. 

Nor  to  thyself  the  task  shall  be 

Without  reward  ;  for  thou  shalt  learn 

The  wisdom  early  to  discern 

True  beauty  in  utility  ; 

As  great  Pythagoras  of  yore, 

Standing  beside  the  blacksmith's  door, 

And  hearing  the  hammers  as  they  smote 

The  anvils  with  a  different  note, 

Stole  from  the  varying  tones,  that  hung 

Vibrant  on  every  iron  tongue, 


***.*<£ 


,!.    I     .Al 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


577 


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  Y^ir7 
And  Fear,  the  pursuivant  of  llope. 
Thy  destiny  remains  untold  ; 
For,  like  Aceste's  shaft  of  old, 
The  swift  thought  kindles  as  it  lliee, 
And  burns  to  ashes  in  the  skies. 


CURFEW. 


Solemnly,  mournfully, 

Dealing  its  dole, 
The  Curfew  Bell 

Is  beginning  to  toll. 

Cover  the  embers, 
And  put  out  the  light ; 

Toil  comes  with  the  morning, 
And  rest  with  the  night. 

Dark  grow  the  windows, 
And  quenched  is  the  fire  ; 

Sound  fades  into  silence, — 
All  footsteps  retire. 

No  voice  in  the  chambers, 

No  sound  in  the  hall ! 
Sleep  and  oblivion 

Reign  over  all ! 

II. 

The  book  is  com] doted, 
And  closed,  like  the  day  ; 

And  the  hand  that  has  written  it 
Lays  it  away. 


Dim  grow  its  fancies, 
Forgotten  they  lie ; 

Like  coals  in  the  ashes, 
They  darken  and  die. 


o2* 


t' EI. LOW'S  POEMS. 


»  sinks  into  silence, 
The  story  is  told, 
The  windows  arc  darkened, 
The  hearth-stone  a  cold. 

Darker  ami  darker 

The  I. lack  shadows  fall 
Sleep  and  oblivion 

Reign  over  all. 


(Hm 


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  1 

Go,  mingle  yet  once  more 

With  the  perpetual  roar 

Of  the  pine  forest,  dark  and  hoar  ! 

Tongues  of  the  dead,  not  lost, 

But  speaking  from  death's  frost, 

Like  fiery  tongues  at  Pentecost ! 

Glimmer,  as  funeral  lamps, 

Amid  the  chills  and  damps 

Of  the  vast  plain  where  death  encamps  ! 


i- 


SEAWEED. 

When  descends  on  the  Atlantic 

The  gigantic 
Storm-wind  of  the  equinox, 
Landward  in  his  wrath  he  scourges 

The  toiling  surges, 
Laden  with  seaweed  from  the  rode ; 


MIS  "US. 


57  fl 


From  Bermuda's  reefs ;  from  edges 

Of  sunken-ledges, 
In  some  far-off,  bright  Azore  ; 
From  Bahama,  and  the  dashing, 

Silver-flashing 
Surges  of  San  Salvador  ; 

From  the  tumbling  surf,  that  buries 

The  Orkneyan  skerries, 
Answering  the  hoarse  Hebrides  ; 
And  from  wrecks  of  ships,  and  drifting 

Spars,  uplifting 
On  the  desolate,  rainy  seas  ; — 

Ever  drifting,  drifting,  drifting, 

On  the  shifting 
Currents  of  the  restless  main  ; 
Till  in  sheltered  coves  and  reaches 

Of  sandy  beaches, 
All  have  found  repose  again. 

So  when  storms  of  wild  emotion 

Strike  the  ocean 
Of  the  poet's  soul,  ere  long 
From  each  cave  and  rocky  fastness, 

In  its  vastness, 
Floats  some  fragment  of  a  song : 

From  the  far-off  isles  enchanted, 

Heaven  has  planted 
With  the  golden  fruit  of  Truth  ; 
From  the  Mashing  surf,  whose  vision 

Gleams  elysian 
In  the  tropic  clime  of  Youth  ; 
From  the  strong  Will,  and  the  Endeavour 

That  for  ever 
Wrestles  with  the  tides  of  Fate  ; 
From  the  wreck  of  Hopes  far-scattered, 

Tempest-shattered, 
Floating  waste  and  desolate ; — 

Fver  drifting,  drifting,  drifting, 

On  the  shifting 
Currents  of  the  restless  heart  ; 
Till  at  Length  in  books  recorded, 

They  like  hoarded 
Household  words,  no  more  de] 


580 


LONGFELLOW  S  POEMS. 


THE  DAY  IS  DONE. 

The  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 
Falls  from  the  wings  of  Night, 

As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 
From  an  eagle  in  his  flight 

I  see  the  lights  of  the  village 

1 1  learn  through  the  rain  and  the  mist. 
And  a  feeling  of  sadness  comes  o'er  me, 

That  my  suul  cannot  resist : 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing, 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 
And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  the  mist  resembles  the  rain. 

Come,  read  to  me  some  poem, 
Some  simple  and  heartfelt  lay, 

That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling, 
And  banish  the  thoughts  of  day. 

Not  from  the  grand  old  masters, 
Not  from  the  bards  sublime, 

Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 
Through  the  corridors  of  Time. 

For,  like  strains  of  martial  music, 
Their  mighty  thoughts  suggest 

Life's  endless  toil  and  endeavour  ; 
And  to-night  I  long  for  rest. 

Read  from  some  humbler  poet, 
Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart, 

As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start ; 

Who,  through  long  days  of  labour, 

And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 
Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 

Of  wonderful  melodies. 

Such  songs  have  power  to  quiet 

The  restless  pulse  of  care, 
And  come  like  the  benediction 

That  follows  after  prayer. 

Then  read  from  the  treasured  volume 
The  poem  of  thy  choice, 


f'ff 


.-  ..J* 


■ 


M  1 1 


MI80ELLANE' 


r,«i 


And  lend  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poet 
The  beauty  of  thy  voice  ; 

An  1  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  music 
Ami  the  cares,  that  infest  the  day, 

Shall  fold  their  tents,  like  the  Arabs, 
And  as  silently  steal  away. 


1 


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  toiling  within 
Like  a  funeral  bell. 


I 


TO  AN  OLD  DANISH  SONG-BOOK. 

Welcome,  my  old  friend, 

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


582 


LONG  . 


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  these  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. 


:ti 


> 


583 


Once  Prince  Frederick's  Guard 
Bang  them  in  their  smoicy  barracks  ; — 
Suddenly  the  English  cannon 
Joined  the  chorus  ! 

arte  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, 
Aud  recalling  by  their  voices 
Youth  and  travel. 


WVLTER  VON  DER  VOGELWEID 

Vogelweid  the  Minnesinger, 
When  he  left  this  world  of  ours, 

Laid  his  body  in  the  cloister, 
Under  Wiirtzburg's  minster  towers. 

And  he  gave  the  monks  his  treasures, 
Gave  them  all  with  this  behest : 

They  should  feed  the  birds  at  noontide 
Daily  on  his  place  of  rest  ; 

Saying,  "  From  these  wandering  minstrels 
I  have  learned  the  art  of  song  ; 

Let  me  now  repay  the  lessons 
They  have  taught  so  well  and  long." 

Thus  the  bard  of  love  departed  ; 

And,  fulfilling  his  desire, 
On  his  tomb  the  birds  were  feasted 

By  the  children  of  the  choir. 


..  r— 


LONGFELLOW  S  TOEM  >. 


Day  by  day,  o'er  tower  and  turret, 

In  foul  weather  and  in  fair, 
Day  by  day,  in  vaster  numl 

Flocked  the  poets  of  the  air. 

On  the  tree  whose  heavy  branches 

Overshadowed  all  the  place, 
On  the  pavement,  on  the  tombstone, 

On  the  poet's  sculptured  face, 

Ou  the  cross-bars  of  each  window, 

On  the  lintel  of  each  door, 
They  renewed  the  War  of  Wartburg, 

Which  the  bard  had  fought  before. 

There  they  sang  their  merry  carols, 
Sang  their  lauds  on  every  side  ; 

And  the  name  their  voices  uttered 
Was  the  name  of  Vogelweid. 

Till  at  length  the  portly  abbot 

Murmured,  "  Why  this  waste  of  food  ? 

Be  it  changed  to  loaves  henceforward 
For  our  fasting  brotherhood." 

Then  in  vain  o'er  tower  and  turret, 
From  the  walls  and  woodland  nests, 

When  the  minster  bells  rang  noontide, 
Gathered  the  unwelcome  guests. 

Then  in  vain,  with  cries  discordant, 
Clamorous  round  the  Gothic  spire, 

Screamed  the  feathered  Minnesingers 
For  the  children  of  the  choir. 

Time  has  long  effaced  the  inscriptions 

On  the  cloister's  funeral  stones, 
And  tradition  only  tells  us 
Where  repose  the  poet's  bones  : 

But  around  the  vast  cathedral, 

By  sweet  echoes  multiplied, 
Still  the  birds  repeat  the  legend, 

And  the  name  of  Vogelweid. 


!MI 


IIIBOEM-A.NEOUS. 


585 


DRINKING  SONG. 


<jv  S 


* 


■ 
■ 


*C* 


■.IPTIOX  FOH  AX  ANTIQUE  PITCIIEii. 

Come,  old  friend,  sit  down  and  listen ! 

From  the  pitcher,  placed  between  us, 
How  the  waters  laugh  and  glisten 

In  the  head  of  old  Silenus  ! 

Old  Silenus,  bleated,  drunken, 

Led  by  his  inebriate  Satyrs  ; 
On  his  breast  his  head  is  sunken, 

Vacantly  he  leers  and  chatters. 

Fauns  with  youthful  Bacchus  follow  ; 

Ivy  crowns  that  brow  supernal 
As  the  forehead  of  Apollo, 

And  possessing  youth  eternal. 

Round  about  him  fair  Bacchantes, 
Bearing  cymbals,  flutes,  and  thyises, 

Wild  from  Naxian  groves,  or  Zante's 
Vineyards,  sing  delirious  verses. 

Thus  he  won  through  all  the  nations 
Bloodless  victories,  and  the  farmer 

Bore  as  trophies  and  oblations 
Vines  for  banners,  ploughs  for  armour 

Judged  by  no  o'er-zealous  rigour, 
Much  this  mystic  throng  expresses. 

Bacchus  was  the  type  of  vigour, 
And  Silenus  of  excesses. 

These  are  ancient  ethnic  revels 
Of  a  faith  long  since  forsaken  ; 

Now  the  Satyrs,  changed  to  devils, 
Frighten  mortals  wine-o'ertaken. 

Now  to  rivulets  from  mountains 
Point  the  rods  of  fortune-tellers  ; 

Youth  perpetual  dwells  in  fountains,— 
Not  in  flasks,  and  casks,  and  cellars. 

Claudius,  though  he  sang  of  fla 

And  huge  tankards  tilled  with  Rhenish, 
From  that  fiery  blood  of  dragons 
vo.r  would  his  own  replenisl 


t 


L0N0 FELLOW  S  PO] 

Even  Redi,  though  he  ch.v 
Bacchus  in  the  Tuscan  valleys, 

Never  drank  the  wine  he  vaunted 
In  his  dithyrambic  sallies. 

Then  with  water  fill  the  pitcher 
Wreathed  about  with  classic  fables  ; 

Ne'er  Falernian  threw  a  richer 
Light  upon  Lucullus'  tables. 

Come,  old  friend,  sit  down  and  listen  ! 

As  it  passes  thus  between  us, 
How  its  wavelets  laugh  and  glisten 

In  the  head  of  old  Silenus  ! 


K*U 


THE  OLD  CLOCK  ON  THE  STAIRS. 

"  L'dternitd  est  une  pcndule,  clout  le  bslaneicr  flit  ct  redit  sans  ( i 
deux  mots  senlement,  dans  lc  silence  des  tombeaux:  'Toujours!  Jamais' 
Jamais!  toujours  1'  " — Jacques  Bkipaine. 

Somewhat  back  frow  the  village  street 
Stands  the  old-fashioned  country- 
Across  its  antique  portico 
Tall  poplar-trees  their  shadows  throw  ; 
And  from  its  station  in  the  hall 
An  ancient  time-piece  says  to  all,— 
"  For  ever — never  ! 
Never — for  ever  I1' 

Halfway  up  the  stairs  it  stands, 
And  points  and  beckons  with  its  hands 
From  its  case  of  massive  oak, 
Like  a  monk,  who,  under  his  cloak, 
Crosses  himself,  and  sighs,  alas  ! 
With  sorrowful  voice  to  all  who  pa 
"  For  ever — never  ! 
Never — for  ever  !" 

By  day  its  voice  is  low  and  light  ; 
But  in  the  silent  dead  of  night. 
Distinct  as  a  passing  footstep's  fall, 
It  echoes  along  the  vacant  hall. 


4& 


MISCELLANEOUS.  .087 


iig  the  ceiling,  along  the  floor, 
And  seenis  to  say,  at  each  chamber-door, 

N( ma     for  ever  !" 

!  btrough  (lays  of  sorrow  and  of  mirth, 
Through  days  of  death  and  days  of  birth, 
Through  every  swift  vicissitude 
Gf  changeful  time,  unchanged  it  has  stood, 
And  as  if,  like  God,  it  all  things  saw, 
It  calmly  repeats  those  words  of  awe, — 
"  For  ever — never  ! 
Never — for  ever  !" 

In  that  mansion  used  to  be 
Free-hearted  Hospitality  ; 
His  great  fires  up  the  chimney  roared, 
The  stranger  feasted  at  his  board  ; 
But,  like  the  skeleton  at  the  feast, 
That  warning  time-piece  never  ceased,-  • 
"  For  ever — never  ! 
Never — for  ever  !" 

There  groups  of  merry  children  played, 
There  youths  and  maidens  dreaming  strayed  ; 
0  precious  hours  !  0  golden  prime, 
And  affluence  of  love  and  time  ! 
Even  as  a  miser  counts  his  gold, 
Those  hours  the  ancient  time-piece  told,   - 
"  For  ever — never  ! 
Never — for  ever  !" 

From  that  chamber,  clothed  in  white, 
The  bride  came  forth  on  her  wedding  night ; 
There,  in  that  silent  room  below, 
The  dead  lay  in  his  shroud  of  snow  ; 
And  in  the  hush  that  followed  the  prayer, 
Was  heard  the  old  clock  on  the  stair, — 
"For  ever — never  ! 
Never— for  ever 

All  are  scattered  now  and  fled, 
Some  are  married,  some  are  dead  . 
And  when  I  ask,  with  throbs  of  pain, 
i^j  u  Ah  !  when  shall  they  all  meet  again  ."' 


m 


LONGFELLOW 


As  in  the  d;tys  long  since  gone  I 
The  ancient  time-piece  makes  reply. - 
"  For  ever — never  ! 
Never — for  ever  !" 

Never  here,  for  ever  there, 
Where  all  parting,  pain,  and  care, 
And  death  and  time  shall  disappear, 
For  ever  there,  but  never  here  ! 
The  horologe  of  Eternity 
Sayeth  this  incessantly, — 
"  For  ever — never  ! 
Never — for  ever  !" 


Wl 


K! 


THE  ARROW  AND  THE  SONG. 

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

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  i 

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


THE  EVENING  STAR. 

Lo  !  in  the  painted  oriel  of  the  West, 
Whose  panes  the  sunken  sun  incarnadines, 
Like  a  fair  lady  at  her  casement  shines 
The  evening  star,  the  star  of  love  and  rest ! 
And  then  anon  she  doth  herself  divest 
Of  all  her  radiant  garments,  and  reclines 
Behind  the  sombre  screen  of  yonder  pines, 
With  slumber  and  soft  dreams  of  love  oppressed 
0  my  beloved,  my  sweet  Hesperus  ! 

morning  and  my  evening  star  of  love ! 


WISCEL1  \N  EOUB, 


My  best  and  gentlest  lady  !  even  thus, 
As  that  fair  planet  in  the  sky  above, 

bhou  retire  unto  thy  rest  at  night, 
And  from  thy  darkened  window  fades  the  light. 


589 


■ 


AUTUMN. 

Thou  comest,  Autumn,  heralded  by  the  rain, 
With  banners,  by  great  gales  incessant  fanned, 
Brighter  than  brightest  silks  of  Samarcand, 

Ana  stately  oxen  harnessed  to  thy  wain  ! 
Thou  standest,  like  imperial  Charlemagne, 
Upon  thy  bridge  of  gold  ;  thy  royal  hand 
Outstretched  with  benedictions  o'er  the  land, 
Blessing  the  farms  through  all  thy  vast  domain! 
Thy  shield  is  the  red  harvest  moon,  suspended 
So  long  beneath  the  heavens'  o'erhanging  eaves; 
Thy  steps  are  by  the  farmer's  prayers  attended  ; 
Like  flames  upon  an  altar  shine  the  sheaves  ; 
And,  following  thee,  in  thy  ovation  splendid, 
Thine  almoner,  the  wind,  scatters  the  golden  leaves  \ 


DANTE. 


Tuscan,  that  wanderest  through  the  realms  of  gloom 

With  thoughtful  pace,  and  sad  majestic  eyes, 

Stern  thoughts  and  awful  from  thy  soul  arise, 

Like  Farinata  from  his  fiery  tomb. 

Thy  sacred  song  is  like  the  trump  of  doom  ; 

Yet  in  thy  heart  what  human  sympathies, 

What  soft  compassion  glows,  as  in  the  skies 

The  tender  stars  their  clouded  lamps  relume  ! 

Methinks  I  see  thee  stand,  with  pallid  cheeks, 

By  Pra  llilario  in  his  diocese, 

As  up  the  convent-walls,  in  golden  streaks, 

The  ascending  sunbeams  mark  the  day's  decrease, 

And  as  he  asks  what  there  the  stranger  seeks, 

Thy  vuice  along  the  cloister  whispers,  "  Peace  f" 


■fF?r 


b\)U  LLOWE    l 


THE  PHAOTOM  SHIP. 

Is  .Matin  .alia  christi, 

Of  the  old  colonial  time, 
May  be  found  in  prose  the  legend 

That  is  here  set  down  in  rhyme. 

A  ship  sailed  from  New  Haven, 

And  the  keen  and  frosty  airs, 
That  filled  her  sails  at  parting, 

Were  heavy  with  good  men's  prayers 

u  Oh  Lord  !  if  it  be  thy  pleasure," 

Thus  prayed  the  old  divine, 
"  To  bury  our  friends  in  the  ocean, 

Take  them,  for  they  are  thine  !" 

But  Master  Lamberton  muttered, 
And  under  his  breath  said  he — 

"  This  ship  is  so  crank  and  wolty, 
I  fear  our  grave  she  will  be  !" 

And  the  ships  that  came  from  England, 
When  the  winter  months  were  gone, 

Brought  no  tidings  of  this  vessel 
Nor  of  Master  Lamberton. 

This  put  the  people  to  praying 
That  the  Lord  would  let  them  hear 

What,  in  his  greater  wisdom, 
He  had  done  with  friends  so  dear. 

And  at  last  their  prayers  were  answered  . 

It  was  in  the  month  of  June, 
An  hour  before  the  sunset 

Of  a  windy  afternoon  ; 

When  steadily  steering  landward 

A  ship  was  seen  below, 
And  they  knew  it  was  Lamberton,  Master, 

Who  sailed  so  long  ago. 

On  she  came,  with  a  cloud  of  canvas, 
Right  against  the  wind  that  blew, 

Until  the  eye  could  distinguish 
The  faces  of  the  crew. 


MISCKLI-ANT 


601 


■ 


Then  fell  her  straining  top-rna#t, 
1  [anging  tangled  is  the  shrouds, 

And  her  sails  were  loosened  and  lifted, 
And  blown  away  like  clouds. 

And  the  masts,  with  all  their  ringing. 

Pell  slowly  one  by  one, 
And  the  hnlk  dilated  and  vanished, 

As  a  sea-mist  in  the  sun  ! 

And  the  people  who  saw  this  marvel, 

Bach  said  unto  his  friend, 
That  this  was  the  mould  of  their  vessel, 

And  thus  her  tragic  end. 

And  the  pastor  of  the  village 
Gave  thanks  to  God  in  prayer, 

That  to  quiet  their  troubled  spirits 
lie  had  sent  this  Ship  of  Air. 


THE  SEA  DIVER. 

My  way  is  on  the  bright  blue  sea, 
My  sleep  upon  its  rocky  tide  ; 

And  many  an  eye  has  followed  me, 
Where  billows  clasp  the  worn  sea-side. 

My  plumage  bears  the  crimson  blush, 
When  ocean  by  the  sun  is  kissed  ! 

When  fades  the  evening's  purple  flush, 
My  dark  wing  cleaves  the  silver  mist. 

Full  many  a  fathom  down  beneath 
The  bright  arch  of  the  splendid  deep, 

My  ear  has  heard  the  sea-shell  breathe 
O'er  living  myriads  in  their  sleep. 

They  rested  by  the  coral  throne, 

And  by  the  pearly  diadem, 
Where  the  pale  sea-grape  had  o'ergrown 

The  glorious  dwellings  made  for  them. 

At  night,  upon  my  storm-drenched  wing, 
1  i  ove  a  helmless  bark, 

.'•.  i  1  BOOD  1  saw  the  shattered  thing 
Qad  pa     •  i  aw  ••  ■•  d  !••"  rk. 


« 


592 


LONGFELLOW  S  PC: 


And  when  the  wind  and  storm  had  done, 
A  ship,  that  had  rode  out  the  gale, 

Sunk  down — without  a  signal  gun, 
And  none  was  left  to  tell  the  tale. 

the  pomp  cf  day  depart — 
The  cloud  resign  its  golden  crown, 
When  to  the  ocean's  heating  heart 
The  sailor's  wasted  corse  went  down. 

Peace  be  to  those  whose  graves  are  made 
Beneath  the  bright  and  silver  sea  ! 

Peace  that  their  relics  there  were  laid, 
With  no  vain  pride  and  pageantry. 


THE  INDIAN  HUNTER. 

When  the  summer  harvest  was  gathered  in, 
And  the  sheaf  of  the  gleaner  grew  white  and  thin, 
And  the  ploughshare  was  in  its  furrow  left, 
Where  the  stubble  land  had  been  lately  cleft, 
An  Indian  hunter,  with  unstrung  bow, 
Looked  down  where  the  valley  lay  stretched  below. 

ne  was  a  stranger  there,  and  all  that  day 
Had  been  out  on  the  hills,  a  perilous  wa 
But  the  foot  of  the  deer  was  far  and  fleet, 
And  the  wolf  kept  aloof  from  the  hunter's  feet, 
And  bitter  feelings  passed  o'er  him  then, 
As  he  stood  by  the  populous  haunts  of  men. 

The  winds  of  autumn  came  over  the  woods, 
As  the  sun  stole  out  from  their  solitudes  ; 
The  moss  was  white  on  the  maple's  trunk, 
And  dead  from  its  arms  the  pale  vine  shrunk, 
And  ripened  the  mellow  fruit  hung,  and  red 
Where  the  trees'  withered  leaves  around  it  shed. 

The  foot  of  the  reaper  moved  slow  on  the  lawn, 
And  the  sickle  cut  down  the  yellow  corn  ; 
The  mower  sung  loud  by  the  meadow  side, 
Where  the  mists  of  evening  were  spreading  wide  ; 
And  the  voice  of  the  herdsman  came  up  the  lea, 
And  the  dance  went  round  by  the  greenwood  tree 

Then  the  hunter  turned  away  from  that  scene, 
Where  the  home  of  his  fathers  once  had  been. 


mt 


, 


Ml  SO  KM,  AN  LOUS. 


B93 


■ 


And  heard,  by  the  distant  and  measured  stroke. 
That  the  woodman  hewed  down  the  giant  oak  - 
And  burning  thoughts  flashed  over  his  mind, 
Of  the  white  man's  faith,  and  love  unkind. 

The  moon  of  the  harvest  grew  high  and  bright, 
As  her  golden  horn  pierced  the  cloud  of  white, 
A  footstep  was  heard  in  the  rustling  brake, 
Where  the  beech  overshadowed  the  misty  lake, 
And  a  mourning  voice,  and  a  plunge  from  shore, 
And  the  hunter  was  seen  on  the  lulls  no  more. 

"When  years  had  passed  on,  by  that  still  lake  side, 
The  fisher  looked  down  through  the  silver  tide, 
And  there,  on  the  smooth  yellow  sand  displayed, 
A  skeleton  wasted  and  white  was  laid, 
And  'twas  seen,  as  the  waters  moved  deep  and  slow, 
That  the  hand  was  still  grasping  a  hunter's  bow. 


. 


A 


e\ 


THE  LADDER  OF  ST  AUGUSTINE. 

Saint  Augustine  !  well  hast  thou  said, 
That  of  our  vices  we  can  frame 

A  ladder,  if  we  will  but  tread 
Beneath  our  feet  each  deed  of  shame ! 

All  commou  things,  each  day's  events, 
That  with  the  hour  begin  and  end, 

Our  pleasures  and  our  discontents, 
Are  rounds  by  which  we  may  ascend. 

The  low  desire,  the  base  design, 
That  makes  another's  virtues  less ; 

The  revel  of  the  treacherous  wine, 
And  all  occasions  of  excess  ; 

The  longing  for  ignoble  things  ; 

The  strife  for  triumph  more  than  truth 
The  hardening  of  the  heart,  that  brings 

Irreverence  for  the  dreams  of  youth  ; 

All  thoughts  of  ill  ;  all  evil  deeds, 
That  have  their  root  in  thoughts  of  ill  -, 

Whatever  hinders  or  impedes 
The  action  of  the  nobler  will  ; 


•^issps 


594 


l  ELLOU  6  POEMS. 


All  these  must  first  be  trampled  down 
Beneath  our  feet,  if  we  would  gain 

In  the  bright  fields  of  fair  renown 
The  right  of  eminent  domain. 

We  have  not  wings,  we  cannot  soar ; 

But  we  have  feet  to  scale  and  climb, 
By  slow  degrees,  by  mure  and  more, 

The  cloudy  summits  of  our  time. 

The  mighty  pyramids  of  stone 

That,  wedge-like,  cleave  the  desert  airs, 
When  nearer  seen,  and  better  known, 

Are  but  gigantic  flights  of  stairs. 

The  distant  mountains,  that  uproar 
Their  solid  bastions  to  the  skies, 
Are  crossed  by  pathways,  that  appear 
As  we  to  higher  levels  rise. 

The  heights  by  great  men  reached  and  kept, 
Were  not  attained  by  sudden  flight, 

But  they,  while  their  companions  slept, 
Were  toiling  upward  in  the  night. 

Standing  on  what  too  long  we  bore 
With  shoulders  bent  and  downcast  eyes. 

We  may  discern — unseen  before — 
A  path  to  higher  destinies. 

Nor  deem  the  irrevocable  Past 
As  wholly  wasted,  wholly  vain, 

If,  rising  on  its  wrecks,  at  last 
To  something  nobler  we  attain. 


f  >:M 


THE  ROPEWALK. 

In  that  building,  long  and  low, 
With  its  windows  all  a-row, 

Like  the  port-holes  of  a  hulk, 
Human  spiders  spin  and  spin, 
Backward  down  their  thread  so  thin 

Dropping,  each  a  hempen  bulk. 

At  the  end,  an  open  door  ; 
Squares  of  sunshine  on  the  floor 
Light  the  long  and  dusky  lane  ; 


i- 


MIS<  ELLANE0U8. 


59? 


And  the  whirring  of  a  whorl, 
Dull  and  drowsy,  makes  me  feel 
All  Its  Bpokea  arc  in  my  brain, 

As  the  spinners  to  the  end 
Downward  go  and  re-ascend. 

Gleam  the  long  threads  in  the  sun  ; 
While  within  this  brain  of  mine 
Cobwebs  brighter  and  more  fine 

By  the  busy  wheel  are  spun. 

Two  fair  maidens  in  a  swing, 
Like  white  doves  upon  the  wing, 

First  before  my  vision  pass  ; 
Laughing,  as  their  gentle  hands 
Closely  clasp  the  twisted  strands, 

At  their  shadow  on  the  grass. 

Then  a  booth  of  mountebanks, 
With  its  smell  of  tan  and  planks, 

And  a  girl  poised  high  in  air 
On  a  cord,  in  spangled  dress, 
"With  a  faded  loveliness, 

And  a  weary  look  of  care. 

Then  a  homestead  among  farms. 
And  a  woman  with  bare  arms 

Drawing  water  from  a  well ; 
As  the  bucket  mounts  apace, 
With  it  mounts  her  own  fair  face, 

As  at  some  magician's  spell. 

Then  an  old  man  in  a  tower, 
Ringing  loud  the  noontide  hour, 

While  the  rope  coils  round  and  round 
Like  a  serpent  at  his  feet, 
And  again  in  swift  retreat, 

Nearly  lifts  him  from  the  ground. 

Then  within  a  prison  yard, 
Faces  fixed,  and  stern,  and  hard, 

Laughter  and  indecent  mirth  : 
Ah  1  it  is  the  gallows-tree! 
Breath  of  Christian  charity, 

Blow,  and  sweep  it  from  the  earth  f 

Then  a  schoolboy,  with  his  kite 
Gleaming  in  a  sky  of  light, 
A 'id  ;iM  es  'it  upward  look  ; 


■W 


5'Jt, 


Steeds  pursued  through  lane  and  field  ; 
iers  with  their  snares  concealed  ; 
And  an  angler  by  a  bi 

Ships  rejoicing  in  the  breeze, 
Wrecks  that  float  o'er  unknot 

Anchors  dragged  through  faithless  sand  ; 
Sea-tog  drifting  overhead, 
And,  with  lessening  line  and  lead, 

Sailors  feeling  for  the  land. 

All  these  scenes  do  I  behold, 
These,  and  many  left  untold, 

In  that  building  lung  and  low  ; 
While  the  wheel  goes  rouud  and  round, 
With  a  drowsy,  dreamy  sound, 

And  the  spinners  backward  go. 


h 


I 


THE  TWO  ANGELS. 

Two  angels,  one  of  Life  and  one  of  Death, 

Passed  o'er  our  village  as  the  morning  broke  ; 
The  dawn  was  on  their  faces,  and  beneath, 

The  sombre  houses  hearsed  with  plumes  of  smoke. 

Their  attitude  and  aspect  were  the  same, 
Alike  their  features  and  their  robes  of  white  ; 

But  one  was  crowned  with  amaranth,  as  with  flame, 
And  one  with  asphodels,  like  flakes  of  light. 

I  saw  them  pause  on  their  celestial  way  ; 

Then  said  I,  with  deep  fear  and  doubt  oppressed, 
"  Heat  not  so  loud,  my  heart,  lest  thou  betray 

The  place  where  thy  beloved  are  at  rest!" 

And  he  who  wore  the  crown  of  asphodels, 
Descending,  at  my  door  began  to  knock, 

And  my  soul  sank  within  me,  as  in  wells 
The  waters  sink  before  an  earthquake's  shock. 

1  recognised  the  nameless  agony, 
The  terror  and  the  tremor  and  the  pain, 

That  oft  before  had  filled  or  haunted  me, 
And  now  returned  with  threefold  strength  again 


kNi 


ed  to  my  heavenly  guest, 
And  listened,  for  I  thought  I  heard  God's  voice; 
Ami  knowing  whatsoe'er  lie  sent  was  best, 
Dared  neither  to  lament  nor  to  rejoice. 

Then  with  a  smile,  that  rilled  the  house  with  light, 
"  My  errand  is  not  Death,  but  Life,"  he  said  , 

And  ere  1  answered,  passing  out  of  sight, 
On  his  celestial  embassy  he  sped. 

' T was  at  thy  door,  0  friend  !  and  not  at  mine. 
The  angel  with  the  amaranthine  wreath, 

Pausing,  descended,  and  with  voice  divine, 
Whispered  a  word  that  had  a  sound  like  Death. 

Then  fell  upon  the  house  a  sudden  gloom, 
A  shadow  on  those  features  fair  and  thin  ; 

And  softly,  from  that  hushed  and  darkened  room, 
Two  angels  issued,  where  but  one  went  in. 

All  is  of  God  !     If  He  but  wave  His  hand, 

The  mists  collect,  the  rain  falls  thick  and  loud, 

Till,  with  a  smile  of  light  on  sea  and  land, 
Lo  !  He  looks  back  from  the  departing  cloud. 

Angels  of  Life  and  Death  alike  are  His  ; 

Without  His  leave  they  pass  no  threshold  o'er  ; 
Who,  then,  would  wish  or  dare,  believing  this, 

Against  His  messengers  to  shut  the  door  ? 


THE  WARDEN  OF  THE  CINQUE  POUTS. 

A  mist  was  driving  down  the  British  Channel, 

The  day  was  just  begun, 
And  through  the  window-panes,  on  floor  and  panel, 

Streamed  the  red  autumn  sun. 

It  glanced  on  flowing  flag  and  rippling  pennon, 

And  the  white  sails  of  ships  ; 
And,  from  the  frowning  rampart,  the  black  cannon 

Hailed  it  with  feverish  lips. 

Sandwich  and  Bomney,  Hastings,  Hythe,  and  Dover 

Were  all  alert  that  day, 
To  seethe  French  war-steamers  speeding  over, 

When  the  E  I  away. 


5US 


L0NGFE1 


Sullen  and  silent,  and  like  COUChant  lions, 

Their  cannon,  through  the  night, 
Holding  their  breath,  had  watched,  in  gfiin  defiance, 

The  sea-coast  opposite. 

And  now  they  roared  at  drum -beat  from  their  station! 

On  every  citadel  ; 
Each  answering  each,  with  morning  salutations, 

That  all  was  well. 

And  down  the  coast,  all  taking  up  the  burden, 

Replied  the  distant  forts, 
As  if  to  summon  from  his  sleep  the  Warden 

And  Lord  of  the  Cinque  Ports. 

Ilim  shall  no  sunshine  from  the  fields  of  azure, 

No  drum-beat  from  the  wall, 
No  morning  gun  from  the  black  fort's  embrasure, 

Awaken  with  its  call ! 

No  more,  surveyiug  with  an  eye  impartial 

The  long  line  of  the  coast, 
Shall  the  gaunt  figure  of  the  old  Field-Marshal 

Be  seen  upon  his  post ! 

For  in  the  night,  unseen,  a  single  warrior, 

In  sombre  harness  mailed, 
Dreaded  of  man,  and  surnamed  the  Destroyer, 

The  rampart  wall  has  scaled. 

lie  passed  into  the  chamber  of  the  sleeper, 

The  dark  and  silent  room, 
And  as  he  entered,  darker  grew,  and  deeper, 

The  silence  and  the  gloom. 

He  did  not  pause  to  parley  or  dissemble, 

But  smote  the  "Warden  hoar  : 
Ah  !  what  a  blow  !  that  made  all  England  tremble. 

And  groan  from  shore  to  shore. 

Meanwhile,  without,  the  surly  cannon  waited. 

The  sun  rose  bright  o'erhead  ; 
Nothing  in  Nature's  aspect  intimated 

That  a  great  man  was  dead. 


'    .  - 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 


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  hostel ry 
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  woni,  and  crazy  doors, 
And  creaking  and  uneven  floors, 
And  chimneys  huge,  and  tiled  and  tall. 

A  region  o-f  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  hood  and  night,  the  panting  tc; 

under  the  great  oaks,  that  throw 
Tan  rl<>  of  light  and  shade  below, 

and  doors  and  window-sills. 
Across  the  road  the  barns  display 

:  sir  mows  of  hay. 
Through  the  md  -  blow, 

The  wattled  cocks  strut  to  and  I 


600 


Longfellow's  poems. 


And,  half  effaced  by  rain  and  shine, 
The  Bed  Horse  prances  on  the 
Round  this  old-fashioned,  quaint  abode 
Deep  silence  reigned,  save  when  a  gnat 
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  tied. 

But  from  the  parlour  of  the  inn 
A  pleasant  murmur  smote  the  ear, 
Like  water  rushing  through  a  weir  ; 
Oft  interrupted  by  the  din 
Of  laughter  and  of  loud  applause, 
And,  in  each  intervening  pause, 
The  music  of  a  violin. 
The  fire-light,  shedding  over  all 
The  splendour  of  its  ruddy  glow, 
Filled  the  whole  parlour  large  and  low  ; 
It  gleamed  on  wainscot  and  on  wall, 
It  touched  with  more  than  wonted  grace 
Fair  Princess  Mary's  pictured  face  ; 
It  bronzed  the  rafters  overhead, 
On  the  old  spinet's  ivory  keys 
It  played  inaudible  melodies, 
It  crowned  the  sombre  clock  with  flame. 
The  hands,  the  horns,  the  maker's  name, 
And  painted  with  a  livelier  red 
The  Landlord's  coat-of-arms  again  ; 
And,  Hashing  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  mad'' 

Before  the  blazing  fire  of  wood 
Erect  the  rapt  musician  stood  ; 
And  ever  and  anon  he  bent 
Ilis  head  upon  his  instrument, 
And  seemed  to  listen,  till  he  caught 
Oonfessions  of  its  secret  thought, — 
The  joy,  the  triumph,  the  lament, 
The  exultation  and  the  pain  ; 


f 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE   INN       PKKMTDE. 


COl 


Then,  by  the  magic  of  his  art, 

lie  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  pourtrays 
Their  shadowy  semblance  on  the  wall. 

But  first  the  Landlord  will  I  trace  , 
Grave  in  his  aspect  and  attire  ; 
A  man  of  ancient  pedigree, 
A  Justice  of  the  Peace  was  he, 
Known  in  all  Sudbury  as  "  The  Squire." 
Proud  was  he  of  his  name  and  race, 
Of  old  Sir  William  and  Sir  Hugh, 
And  in  the  parlour,  full  in  view, 
Ilis  coat-of-arms,  well  framed  and  glazed, 
Upon  the  wall  in  colours  blazed  ; 
He  beareth  gules  upon  his  shield, 
A  chevron  argent  in  the  field, 
With  three  wolfs  beads,  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  day  , 
To  whom  all  tongues  and  lands  were  known, 
And  yet  a  lover  of  his  own  ; 


!' 


60-. 


^  :•$.. 


LONQFELLOATS  T0EM3. 


With  many  a  social  virtue 

And  yet  a  friend  of  solitude  ; 

A  man  of  such  a  genial  mi     I 
The  heart  of  all  things  heeinbr 

And  yet  of  such  fastidious  taste, 
lie  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  U>:, 
In  vellum  bound,  with  gold  bed i -Id, 
Great  volumes  garmented  in  white, 
Recalling  Florence,  Pisa,  Rome, 
lie  loved  the  twilight  that  surrounds 
The  border-land  of  old  romance  ; 
Where  glitter  hauberk,  helm,  and  lance, 
And  banner  waves,  and  trumpet  souuda, 
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  Charlenu 
Of  Merlin  and  the  Mort  d'Arthure, 
Mingled  together  in  his  brain 
With  tales  of  Flores  and  Blanchefleur, 
Sir  Ferumbras,  Sir  Eglaniour, 
Sir  Launcelot,  Sir  Morgadour, 
Sir  Guy,  Sir  Bevis,  Sir  Grawain. 

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,  1  icing  rebellious  to  his  liege, 
After  Palermo's  fatal  siege, 
Across  the  western  seas  he  tied, 
In  good  King  Bomba's  happy  reign. 
His  face  was  like  a  summer  night, 
All  Hooded  with  a  dusky  light  ; 
llis  hands  were  small  ;  his  teeth  shone  white 
As  sea-shells,  when  he  smiled  or  spoke  ; 
llis  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 
llis  beard,  a  good  palm's  length  at  least 


i2*i«t 


iMll 


**£ 


A  WAYSIDE  inn     i-kulude. 


GO-5 


■ 

4 


Level  and  pointed  at  the  tip, 

Shot  Bideways,  like  a  swallow's  win 

The  poeta  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, 

<  )f  vineyards  and  the  singing  sea 

Of  his  beloved  Sicily  ; 

And  much  it  pleased  him  to  peruse 

The  songs  of  the  Siciliau  muse, — 

Bucolic  songs  by  Meli  sung 

h\  the  familiar  peasant  tongue, 

That  made  men  say,  "  Behold  !  once  more 

The  pitying  gods  to  earth  restore 

Theocritus  of  Syracuse  !" 

A  Spanish  Jew  from  Alicant 
With  aspect  grand  and  grave  was  there  ; 
Vender  of  silks  and  fabrics  rare, 
And  attar  of  rose  from  the  Levant, 
Like  an  old  Patriarch  he  appeared, 
Abraham  or  Isaac,  or  at  least 
Some  later  Prophet  or  High-Priest  ; 
With  lustrous  eyes,  and  olive  skin, 
And,  wildly  tossed  from  cheeks  and  chin, 
The  tumbling  cataract  of  his  beard. 
His  garments  breathed  a  spicy  scent 
Of  cinnamon  and  sandal  blent, 
Like  the  soft  aromatic  gales 
That  meet  the  mariner,  who  sails 
Through  the  Moluccas,  and  the  seas 
That  wash  the  shores  of  Celebes. 
All  stories  that  recorded  are 
By  Pierre  Alphonse  he  knew  by  heart, 
And  it  was  rumoured  he  could  say 
The  Parables  of  Sandahar, 
And  all  the  Fables  of  Pilpay, 
Or  if  not  all,  the  greater  part  ! 


IJJ 


r  * 

k 

fl 

lb* 

i 

:.  * 

■ 

l 

004 


LONGFELLOW  S  POEM.S. 


mm 


-,  ■ 


II 


Well  veiled  was  he  in  Hebrew  books, 
Talmud  and  Targum,  and  the  lore 
Of  Kabala  ;  and  evermore 

There  was  a  mystery  in  his  looks  ; 
His  i  Med  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, 
lie  preached  to  all  men  everywhere 
The  Gospel  id"  the  Golden  Rule, 
The  New  Commandment  given  to  men, 
Thinking  the  deed,  and  nut  the  creed, 
Would  help  us  in  our  utmost  need. 
With  reverent  feet  the  earth  he  trod, 
Nor  banished  nature  from  bis  plan, 
But  studied  still  with  deep  tesearcb 
To  build  the  Universal  Church, 
Lofty  as  is  the  love  of  God, 
And  ample  as  the  wants  of  man. 

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

Last  the  Musician,  as  he  stood 
Illumined  by  that  fire  of  wood  ; 
Fair-haired,  blue-eyed,  his  aspect  blithe, 
His  figure  tall  and  straight  and  lithe, 
And  every  feature  of  his  face 
Revealing  his  Norwegian  race  ; 


i 


s 


TALIS  OP  A  WAYSIDE  INN — PIIEIUDE. 

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  wliirled  ; 

The  Stromkarl  sang,  the  cataract  hur'ed 

Its  headlong  waters  from  the  heights  ; 

And  mingled  in  the  wild  delight 

The  scream  of  sea-birds  in  their  flight, 

The  rumour  of  the  forest  trees, 

The  plunge  of  the  implacable  seas, 

The  tumult  of  the  wind  at  night, 

Voices  of  eld,  like  trumpets  blowing, 

Old  ballads,  and  wild  melodies 

Through  mist  and  darkness  pouring  forth, 

Like  Elivagar's  river  flowing 

Out  of  the  glaciers  of  the  North. 

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

And  when  lie  played,  the  atmosphere 
Was  filled  with  magic,  and  the  ear 
(aught  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  an  1  tree, 
The  dead  came  from  beneath  the  sea, 
The  maiden  to  the  harper's  knee  ! 

The  music  ce 


605 


6U6 


,  b'ELLOW  8  POEMS. 


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

Then  silence  followed  ;  then  began 
A  clamour  for  the  Landlord's  tale,— 
The  st<>ry  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    KEVEUE  S    HIDE. 

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  laud  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  laud,  and  two,  if  by  sea  ; 
And  I  on  the  opposite  shore  will  be, 
Ready  to  ride  and  spread  the  a\ 
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, 


SK^ 


IB  Of  A  WAYSIDE  INN      PAUL  BEVERE'S  RIDE.      mi; 


N 


rs 


Ami  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  cars, 

Till  in  tin;  silence  around  him  he  hears 
The  muster  of  men  at  the  barrack  door, 
The  sound  of  arms,  and  the  tram])  of  feet, 
And  the  measured  tread  of  the  grenadiers, 
Marching  down  to  their  boats  OB  the  shore. 

Then  he  climbed  to  the  tower  of  the  church, 
Up  the  wooden  stairs,  with  stealthy  tread, 
To  the  belfry-chamber  overhead, 
And  startled  the  pigeons  from  their  perch 
On  the  sombre  rafters,  that  round  him  made 
Masses  and  moving  shapes  of  shade, — 
Up  the  trembling  ladder,  steep  and  tall, 
To  the  highest  window  in  the  wall, 
"Where  he  paused  to  listen  and  look  down 
A  nmrnent  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 
<  >n  the  opposite  shore  walked  Paul  Revere. 
Now  he  patted  his  Imrse's  side, 
Now  gazed  at  the  landscape  far  and  near, 
Then,  impetuous,  stamped  the  earth, 
And  turned  and  tightened  his  saddle-girth  : 
But  mostly  lie  watched  with  eager  search 
The  belfry-tower  of  the  Old  North  Church. 


W 


f 


m 

J 

.Z3 

s 


* 


I, OS 


lonqfellow's  poems. 


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  jtramp  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. 
lie  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, 


****■£ 


TAIES  OF  A  WA\-IM;  INN — INTERLUDE. 


609 


Who  tli  > t  day  would  be  lying  dead, 
Pierced  by  a  British  musket-ball. 

You  know  tbe  rest.    In  the  books  you  have  read 
How  the  British  Regulars  fired  and  fled, — 
How  the  fanners  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  Around ight, 

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 


610 


LONGFELLOW'S  POEMS. 


% 


<4fa 


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, 
u  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." 


t' 


T^flW 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN       PAL  .  <;1UU.   (ill 


THE  STUDENT'S  TALE. 

THE    FALCON    OF    SER    FEDERIOO. 

One  summer  morning,  when  the  sun  was  hot, 
Weary  with  labour  in  nis  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  hanks  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  prime  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  holida}rs, 
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  mom,  he  sat  and  mused 
With  folded,  patient  hands,  as  lie  was  used, 
And  dreamily  before  his  half-closed  sight 
Floated  the  vision  of  his  lost  delight. 
Beside  him,  motionless,  the  drowsy  bird 


I 


6J2 


LONGFELLOW  S  P0EM8. 

ned  of  tl  and  in  his  slumber  h< 

The  sudden,  scythe-like  sweep  of  wings,  that  dure 
The  headlong  plunge  thro'  edd]  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  I " 

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  lly  !" 
The  voice  was  hers,  and  made  strange  echoes  start 
Through  all  the  haunted  chambers  of  ids  heart, 
As  an  aeolian  harp  through  gusty  doors 
Of  some  old  ruin  its  wild  music  pours. 

"  Who  is  thy  mother,  my  fair  boy  I "  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  I 
"We  live  there,  just  beyond  your  garden  wall, 
In  the  great  house  behind  the  poplars  tall." 

So  he  spake  on  ;  and  Federigo  heard 
As  from  afar  each  softly  uttered  word, 
And  drifted  onward  through  the  golden  gleams 
And  shadows  of  the  misty  sea  of  dreams, 
As  mariners  becalmed  through  vapours  drift, 
And  feel  the  sea  beneath  them  sink  and  lift, 
And  hear  far  off  the  mournful  breakers  roar, 
And  voices  calling  faintly  from  the  shore  ! 
Then,  waking  from  his  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, 
Overlooking  Florence,  but  retired  and  still ; 
With  iron  gates,  that  opened  through  long  lines 





■ 


TALES  01  A  WAYSIDE  INN--FALCON  OP  SER  1  013 


;:)'■ 


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  hi 
And  all  Val  d'Arno  strctehed  beneath  its  feet 
Here  in  seclusion,  as  a  widow  may, 
The  lovely  lady  whiled  the  hours  away, 
Pacing  in  sahle  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  calJ  ; 
Aud  as  he  gazed  full  often  wondered  he 
Who  might  the  master  of  the  falcon  be, 
Until  that  happy  morning,  when  he  found 
Waster  and  falcon  in  the  cottage  ground. 
Aud  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  sufferers  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, 
ve  me,"  he  answered,  with  imploring  tone, 
" Ser  Federigo's  falcon  for  my  own!  " 

No  answer  could  the  astonished  mother  make  ; 
How  could  she  ask,  e'en  for  her  darling's  sake, 
Such  favour  at  a  luckless  lover's  hand, 
Well  knowing  that  to  ask  was  to  command  ? 
Well  knowing,  what  all  falconea  ed, 


LONGFELLOW  8  POEMS. 


In  all  the  land  that  falcon  was  the  best, 
The  master's  pride  and  passion  and  delight, 
And  the  sole  pursuivant  of  this  poor  knight. 
But  yet,  for  her  child's  sake  she  could  no  less 
Than  give  assent,  to  soothe  his  restlessness, 
So  promised,  and  then  promising  to  keep 
Her  promise  sacred,  saw  him  fall  asleep. 

The  morrow  was  a  bright  September  morn  ; 
The  earth  was  beautiful  as  if  new-born  ; 
There  was  that  nameless  splendour  everywhere, 
That  wild  exhilaration  in  the  air, 
Which  makes  the  passers  in  the  city  street 
Congratulate  each  other  as  they  meet. 
Two  lovely  ladies,  clothed  in  cloak  and  hood. 
Passed  through  the  garden  gate  into  the  wood, 
Under  the  lustrous  leaves,  and  through  the  sheen 
Of  dewy  sunshine  showering  down  between. 
The  one  close-hooded,  had  the  attractive  grace 
Which  sorrow  sometime  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  iu  the  soil  ; 
And  when  he  looked  and  those  fair  women  spied. 
The  garden  suddenly  was  glorified  ; 
II  is  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, 


Mr 


rALEBOl  A   WAYSIDE  INN      FALCON  OF  SBB  FEDERIQO.    615 


I  who  in  happier  days  such  pride  maintained, 
Refused  y<>:ir  banquets,  and  your  gifts  disdained, 
This  morning  oome,  a  self-invited  gc 
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 
A1!  sorrows,  all  regrets  of  other  days." 

And  after  further  compliment  and  talk, 
Among  the  dahlias  in  the  garden  walk 
lie  left  his  guests  ;  and  to  his  cottage  turned. 
And  as  he  entered  for  a  moment  yearned 
For  the  lost  splendours  of  the  days  of  old, 
The  ruby  glass,  the  silver  and  the  gold, 
And  felt  how  piercing  is  the  sting  of  pride, 
By  want  embittered  and  intensified. 
He  looked  about  him  for  some  means  or  way 
To  keep  this  unexpected  holiday  ; 
Searched  every  cupboard,  and  then  searched  again, 
Summoned  the  maid,  avIio  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  farther  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  pla 
And  with  autumnal  flowers  the  banquet  graced. 
Ser  Federigo,  would  not  these  suffice 
Without  thy  falcon  stuffed  with  cloves  and  spice  / 


61  ti 


LONGFELLOW'S  PuKMi. 


W  hen  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 
Flavour  was  given  to  his  country  wine, 
And  the  poor  falcon,  fragrant  with  his  spice, 
A  peacock  was,  or  bird  of  paradise  ! 

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

Ser  Federigo  listens,  and  replies, 
With  tears  of  love  and  pity  in  his  eyes  : 
"  Alas,  dear  lady  !  there  can  be  no  task 
So  sweet  to  me,  as  giving  when  you  ask. 
One  little  hour  ago,  if  I  had  known 
This  wish  of  yours,  it  would  have  been  my  own. 
But  thinking  in  what  manner  I  could  best 
Do  honour  to  the  presence  of  my  guest, 
I  deemed  that  nothing  worthier  could  be 
Than  what  most  dear  and  precious  was  to  me, 
And  so  my  gallant  falcon  breathed  his  last 
To  furnish  forth  this  morning  our  repast.1' 

In  mute  contritiou,  mingled  with  dismay, 
The  gentle  lady  turned  her  eyes  away, 
Grieving  that  he  such  sacrifice  should  make, 
And  kill  his  falcon  for  a  woman's  sake, 


» 


TALES  Of  A   J  INN-    FAT.CON  OF  8EB  rEDEBIQO.    617 


<rJi 


& 


Vet  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, 
lligh-perched  upon  the  back  of  which  there  stood 
The  image  of  a  falcon  carved  in  wood, 
And  underneath  the  inscription,  with  a  date, 
"  All  things  come  round  to  him  who  will  but  wait:" 


INTERLUDE. 

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

The  Theologian  shook  his  head  ; 
"  These  old  Italian  tales,"  he  said, 
"  From  the  much-praised  Decameron  down 
Through  all  the  rabble  of  the  rest, 
Are  either  trifling,  dull,  or  lewd  ; 
The  gossip  of  a  neighbourhood 
In  some  remote  provincial  town, 
A  scandalous  chronicle  at  best ! 
They  seem  to  me  a  stagnant  fen, 

>!  rank  with  rushes  and  with  reeds. 
Where  a  white  lilv,  no*  and  then. 


618 


LONGFELLOW  S  POEMS. 


r  •■• 


ms  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  Shakspeare  drew 
11  is  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  Hying  overhead  !" 
At  these  words  spake  the  Spanish  Jew, 
And  murmured  with  an  inward  breath  : 
"  God  grant,  if  what  you  say  is  true 
It  may  not  be  the  Angel  of  Death  !" 
And  then  another  pause  ;  and  then, 
Stroking  his  beard,  he  said  again  : 
"  This  brings  back  to  my  memory 
A  story  in  the  Talmud  told, 
That  book  of  gems,  that  book  of  gold) 
Of  wonders  many  and  manifold, 
A  tale  that  often  comes  to  me, 
And  tills  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  ram 


PALES  OP  A  WAYSIDE  INN      LEGEND  OP  RABBI   LEVI.      01H 


With  trembling  voice  he  said,  "  What  wilt  thou  here  V* 
The  Angel  answered,  "  Lo  !  the  time  draws  aeai 
WheD  thou  must  die  ;  yet  fust,  by  Cod's  decree, 
Whate'er  thou  askest  shall  be  granted  thee." 
Replied  the  Rabbi,  '"  Let  these  living  eyes 
First  look  upon  my  place  in  Paradi 

Then  said  the  Angel,  "Come  with  me  and  look." 
Rabl  i  Ken  Levi  closed  the  sacred  hook, 
And  rising,  and  uplifting  his  gray  head, 
k'  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,  "  0  Holy  One, 
See  what  the  son  of  Levi  here  has  done  ! 
The  kingdom  of  Heaven  he  takes  by  violence, 
And  in  Thy  name  refuses  to  go  hence  !  " 
The  Lord  replied,  "  My  Angels,  be  not  wroth  ; 
Did  e'er  the  son  of  Levi  break  his  oath  / 
Let  him  remain  ;  for  he  with  mortal  eye 
Shall  look  upon  my  face  and  yet  not  die." 
Beyond  the  outer  wall  the  Angel  of  Death 
Heard  the  great  voice,  and  said,  with  panting  breath, 
"  Give  back  the  sword,  and  let  me  go  my  way." 
Whereat  the  Rabbi  paused,  and  answered,  "  Nay  .' 
Anguish  enough  already  has  it  caused 
Among  the  sons  of  men."   And  while  he  paused 
He  heard  the  awful  mandate  of  the  Lord 
Resounding  through  the  air,  "  Give  back  the  sword  I" 

The  I  wed  his  head  in  silent  prayer  ; 

Then  Bald  he  to  the  dreadful  Angel,  "  Swear, 
No  human  eye  shall  look  on  it  again  ; 
But  when  thou  takest  away  the  souls  of  men, 


HV 


620 


Longfellow's  poems. 


Thyself  unseen,  and  with  an  unseen  sword, 
Thou  wilt  perform  the  bidding  of  the  Lord." 

The  Angel  took  the  sword  agaiu,  and  swore, 
And  walks  on  earth  unseen  forevermore. 


I 


INTERLUDE. 

He  ended  :  and  a  kind  of  spell 

Upon  the  oilent  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  ua,  - 

An  old  Abate,  meek  and  mild, 

My  friend  and  teacher,  when  a  child, 

W  ho  sometimes  in  those  days  of  old 

The  legend  of  an  Angel  told, 

Which  ran,  if  I  remember,  thus." 


i 


THE   SICILIAN'S  TALE. 

KINOt    ROBBBT    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 


TALES  OP  A  WAYI  [DE  INN       KI  N 


ated,  like  a  buid<  d  or 
He  caught  the  words,  "  Deposuit  potentea 
l)e  .  raltavit  humiles  ;  " 

And  lifting  iii>  his  kingly  head 

lie  to  a  learned  clerk  beside  him  said, 
'What  mean  these  words/"  The  clerk  made  answer 

me 
"  lie  has  put  down  the  mighty  from  their  seat, 
And  lias  exalted  them  of  low  degree." 
Thereat  King  Robert  muttered  scornfully, 
"  'Tis  well  that  such  seditious  words  are  sung 
Only  by  priests  and  in  the  Latin  tongue  ; 
For  unto  priests  and  people  be  it  known, 
There  is  no  power  can  push  me  from  my  throne  !' 
And  leaning  back,  he  yawned  and  fell  asleep. 
Lulled  by  the  chant  monotonous  and  deep. 

When  he  awoke,  it  was  already  night ; 
The  church  was  empty,  and  there  was  no  light, 
Save  "where  the  lamps,  that  glimmered  few  and  faint, 
Lighted  a  little  space  before  some  saint. 
lie  started  from  his  seat  aud  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  I  " 
Half  choked  with  rage,  King  Robert  fiercely  said, 
"  Open  :  'tis  I,  the  King  !     Art  thou  afraid  I  " 
The  frightened  sexton,  muttering,  with  a  curse, 
"  This  is  some  drunken  vagabond,  or  worse  !  " 
Turned  the  great  key  and  Hung  the  portal  wide  ; 
A  man  rushed  by  him  at  a  single  stride, 

ird,  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  Urbai 
And  Valmond,  Emperor  of  Allemaine,  -  b 


522 


LONGFELLOW 


Despoiled  of  his  magnificent  al 

Bare-1  leaded,  breathless,  and  besprent  with  mire, 

With  sense  of  wrong  and  outrage  desperate, 

Strode  on  and  thundered  at  the  palace  gate  ; 
Rushed  through  the  court-yard,  thrusting  in  his  rage 

To  right  and  left  each  seneschal  and  page, 
And  hurried  up  the  broad  and  sounding  stair, 
His  white  face  ghastly  in  the  torches'  glare. 
From  hall  to  hall  he  passed  with  breathless  speed  ; 
Voices  and  cries  he  heard,  but  did  not  heed, 
Until  at  last  he  reached  the  banquet-room, 
Blazing  with  light,  and  breathing  with  perfume. 

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

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

Deaf  to  King  Robert's  tln-eats  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  aud  ring 
With  the  mock  plaudits  of  "  Long  live  the  King  ! " 


I 


TALES  UK  A  WAYSlDU  LNM —  KIKO  KullEKT  oi    BICILY.      623 


Next  morning,  waking  with  the  day's  first  beam, 
He  laid  within  himself,  "  It  was  a  dream  ! " 

But  the  straw  rustled  as  he  turned  his  head, 
There  were  the  cap  and  bells  beside  his  bed, 
Around  him  rose  the  bare,  discoloured  walls, 
Close  by,  the  steeds  were  champing  in  their  stalls, 
Aud  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  Saturniau  reign  ; 
Under  the  Angel's  governance  benign 
The  happy  island  danced  with  corn  and  wine, 
And  deep  within  the  mountain's  burning  breast 
Encelagus,  the  giant,  was  at  rest. 
Meanwhile  King  Kobert  yielded  to  his  fate, 
Sullen  and  silent  and  disconsolate. 
Dressed  in  the  motley  garb  that  Jesters  wear, 
With  looks  bewildered  and  a  vacant  stare, 
Close  shaven  above  the  ears,  as  monks  are  shorn, 
By  courtiers  mocked,  by  pages  laughed  to  scorn, 
His  only  friend  the  ape,  his  only  food 
What  others  left, — he  still  was  unsubdued. 
And  when  the  Angel  met  him  on  his  way, 
And  half  in  earnest,  half  in  jest,  would  say, 
Sternly,  though  tenderly,  that  he  might  feel 
The  velvet  scabbard  held  a  sword  of  steel, 
"  Art  thou  the  King  1 "  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,  1  am  the  King  !  " 

Almost  three  years  were  ended  ;  when  there  came 
Ambassadors  of  great  repute  and  name 
From  Valmond,  Emperor  of  Allemaine, 
Uuto  King  Robert,  saying  that  Pope  Urbane 
By  letter  summoned  them  forthwith  to  come 
'»n  Holy  Thursday  to  his  city  of  Kome. 
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, 


3*- 


[bi 


i+J'W-  > ' 


-i.-** 


RfT.-g 


624 


LONGFELLOW  S   POEMS. 


• 


Whose  loveliness  was  more  resplendent  made 
By  the  mere  |  E  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  ami  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  I " 
The  Pope  in  silence,  but  with  troubled  mien, 
Gazed  at  the  Angel's  countenance  serene  ; 
The  Emperor,  laughing,  said,  "  It  is  strange  sport 
To  keep  a  madman  for  thy  fool  at  court ! " 
And  the  poor  baffled  Jester  in  disgrace 
Was  hustled  back  among  the  populace. 

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

And  now  the  visit  ending,  and  once  more 
Valmond  returning  to  the  Danube's  shore, 


:. 


TALM  Or  A  WAY8IDB  INN-    K.IJ  i;T  of  SICILY.     (iJ" 


I 


Homeward  the  Angel  journeyed,  and  again 

The  hunt  was  made  resplendent  with  his  tram, 

Flashing  along  the  towns  of  Italy 

Unto  Salerno,  and  from  there  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, 

lie  beckoned  to  King  Robert  to  draw  nigher. 

And  with  a  gesture  bade  the  rest  retire  ; 

And  when  they  were  alone,  the  Angel  said, 

"  Art  thou  the  King  /"  Then  bowing  down  his  head, 

King  Robert  crossed  both  hands  upon  his  breast, 

And  meekly  answered  him  :  "  Thou  knowest  best  ! 

My  sins  as  scarlet  are  ;  let  me  go  hence, 

And  in  some  cloister's  school  of  penitence, 

Across  those  stones,  that  pave  the  way  to  heaven, 

Walk  barefoot,  till  my  guilty  soul  is  shriven  !  " 

The  Angel  smiled,  and  from  his  radiant  face 

A  holy  light  illumined  all  the  place, 

And  through  the  open  window,  loud  and  clear, 

They  heard  the  monks  chant  in  the  chapel  near. 

Above  the  stir  and  tumult  of  the  street : 

"Lie  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  ! 
Rut  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 


lonqfellow's  poems. 


In  many  a  smoky  fireside  nook 
Of  Iceland,  in  the  ancient  day, 
By  wandering  Saga-man  or  Scald  ; 
lleimskringla  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. 


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, 
Mioluer  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  ! 


TALKS  OF  A  V.'AV  (IDE  tNH      THE  SAG4  OF  KINO  OLAF.      (J27 


I 


The  light  thou  beholdest 
i  he  heavens, 

In  flashes  of  crimson, 
Js  hut  my  red  beard 

■■  n  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 
King  in  the  earthquake  ! 

Force  rules  the  world  still, 
lias  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, 
0  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  iu  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  armour  that  he  wore  ; 
And  he  shouted,  as  the  rifted 
Streamers  o'er  him  shook  and  shifted, 

"  I  accept  thy  challenge,  Thor  !  " 

To  avenge  his  father  slain, 
And  reconquer  realm  and  reign, 
Came  the  youtliful  Olaf  home, 
Tl trough  the  midnight  sailing,  sailing, 


.  . 


<Hi 


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  llakon  old. 

Then  strange  memories  crowded  back 
Of  Queen  Gunhild's  wrath  and  wrack, 

And  a  hurried  (light  by  sea  ; 
Of  grim  Vikings,  and  their  rapture 
In  the  sea-fight,  and  the  capture, 

And  the  life  of  slavery. 

How  a  stranger  watched  his  face 
In  the  Esthonian  market-place, 

Scanned  his  features  one  by  one, 
Saying,  "  We  should  know  each  other  ; 
I  am  Sigurd,  Astrid's  brother, 

Thou  art  Olaf,  Astrid's  son  !  " 

Then  as  Queen  Allogia's  pa 
Old  in  honours,  young  in  age, 

Chief  of  all  her  men-at  arms  ; 
Till  vague  whispers,  and  mysterious, 
Reached  King  Valdemar,  the  imperious, 

Filling  him  with  strange  alarms. 

Then  his  cruisings  o'er  the  seas, 
Westward  to  the  Hebrides, 

And  to  Scilly's  rocky  shore  ; 
And  the  hermit's  cavern  dismal, 
Christ's  great  name  and  rites  baptismal, 

In  the  ocean's  rush  and  roar. 

All  these  thoughts  of  love  and  strife 
Glimmered  through  his  lurid  life, 

As  the  stars'  intenser  light 
Through  the  red  flames  o'er  him  trailing, 
As  his  ships  went  sailing,  sailing, 

Northward  in  the  summer  night. 

Trained  for  either  camp  or  court, 
Skilful  in  each  manly  sport, 

Young  and  beautiful  and  tall ; 
Art  of  warfare,  craft  of  chases, 


fc 


Ji> j. 


LA!'.    (129 


Swimming,  skating,  snow-shoe  race*, 

client  alike  in  all. 

When  at  sea,  with  all  his  rowers. 
He  along  the  bending  oars 

Outside  of  his  ship  could  run. 
lie  th  or  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  !  " 


in. 


THORA  OF  RIMOL. 

"  Thora  of  Rimol !  hide  me  !  hide  me  ! 

Danger  and  shame  and  death  betide  me  ! 

For  Olaf  the  King  is  hunting  me  down 

Through  field  and  forest,  through  thorp  and  town 
Thus  cried  Jarl  liakon 
To  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

"  liakon  Jarl !  for  the  love  I  bear  thee 
Neither  shall  shame  nor  death  come  near  thee  ! 
But  the  hiding-place  wherein  thou  must  lie 
[s  the  cave  underneath  the  swine  in  the 

Thus  to  Jarl  Ihikon 

Said  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 


630 


IFELI.OW 


lakon  Jarl  and  his  base  thrall  Karker 
Crouched  in  the  cave,  than  a  dungeon  darker, 
As  Olai  came  riding  with  men  in  mail, 
Through  the  ibre.st  roads  into  Orkadale, 

Demanding  Jarl  Hakon 

Of  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

-  Rich  and  honoured  shall  be  whoever 
The  head  of  Ilakon  Jarl  shall  dissever  !  " 
Hakon  heard  him,  and  Karker  the  slave, 
Through  the  breathing-holes  of  the  darksome  cave. 
Alone  in  her  chamber 
Wept  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

Said  Karker  the  crafty,  "  I  will  not  slay  thee  ! 
For  all  the  king's  gold  I  will  never  betray  thee  ! " 
"  Then  why  dost  thou  turn  so  pale,  0  churl, 
And  then  again  black  as  the  earth  I  "  said  the  Earl. 

More  pale  and  more  faithful 

Was  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

From  a  dream  in  the  night  the  thrall  started,  saying, 
"  Round  my  neck  a  gold  ring  King  Olaf  was  laying  !  " 
And  Hakon  answered,  "  Beware  of  the  king  ! 
lie  will  lay  round  thy  neck  a  blood-red  ring." 
At  the  ring  on  her  finger 
Gazed  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

At  daybreak  slept  Ilakon,  with  sorrows  encumbered, 
But  screamed  and  drew  up  his  feet  as  he  slumbered  ; 
The  thrall  in  the  darkness  plunged  with  his  knife. 
And  the  Earl  awakened  no  more  in  this  life. 

But  wakeful  and  weeping 

Sat  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

At  Nidarholm  the  priests  are  all  singing, 
Two  ghastly  heads  on  the  gibbet  are  swinging  ; 
One  is  Jarl  Ilakon' s  and  one  is  his  thrall's, 
And  the  people  are  shouting  from  windows  and  walls  ; 
While  alone  in  her  chamber 
Swoons  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 


TALES  01  a  WAYSIDE  INN — THE  SAOA  OF  KING  OLAF.     Ml 


IV, 

QUEEN  SIGltID  THE  HADGHTr. 

Queen  Sigrid  the  naughty  eat  proud  and  aloft 
In  her  chamber,  that  looked  over  meadow  and  croft. 

Ilea  it's  dearest, 

Why  dost  thou  sorrow  so  ? 

The  floor  with  tassels  of  fir  was  besprent, 
Filling  the  room  with  their  fragant  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 :  "  0  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. 


W/ 


6:i2 


LONGFELLOW  8  POEMS. 


•&&*? 


lie  kissed  the  Queen's  hand,  and  he  whispered  of  love, 
An  1  mvoiv  to  be  true  as  the  stars  are  above. 

But  she  smiled  with  contempt  as  she  answered  :  "  0 

King, 
Will  you  swear  it,  as  Odin  once  swore,  on  the  ring  I  " 

And  the  King  :  "  0  speak  not  of  Odin  to  me, 
The  wife  of  King  Olaf  a  Christian  must  be." 

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

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

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

His  zeal  was  stronger  than  fear  or  love, 

And  he  struck  the  Queen  in  the  face  with  his  glove 

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

Queen  Sigrid  the  Haughty  said  under  her  breath, 
"  This  insult,  King  Olaf,  shall  be  thy  death  !  " 

Heart's  dearest, 

Why  dost  thou  sorrow  so  ? 


THE  SKERRY  OF  SHRIEKS. 

Now  from  all  King  Olaf's  farms 

His  men-at-arms 
Gathered  on  the  Eve  of  Easter  ; 
To  his  house  at  Angvalds-ness 

Fast  they  press, 
Drinking  with  the  royal  feaster. 

Loudly  through  the  wide-flung  door 

Came  the  roar 
Of  the  sea  upon  the  Skerry  ; 
And  its  thunder  loud  and  near 

Reached  the  ear. 
Mingling  with  their  voices  merry. 

"  Hark  !"  said  Olaf  to  his  Scald, 

llalfred  the  Bald, 
"  Listen  to  that  song,  and  learn  it  J 


n 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INK      THE  SAOA  OF  KINO  OLAF.     633 


I 

I 


■ 


i» 


Half  my  kingdom  would  I  give, 

La  1  live, 
If  by  such  BODgB  you  would  earn  it ! 
For  of  all  the  runes  and  rhymes 

Of  all  times, 
Best  I  like  the  ocean's  dirges, 
When  the  old  harper  heaves  and  rocks. 

His  hoary  locks 
Flowing  and  flashing  in  the  surges 

Halfred  answered  :  "  I  am  called 

The  Unappalled  ! 
Nothing  hinders  me  or  daunts  me. 
Hearken  to  me,  then,  0  King, 

While  I  sing 
The  great  Ocean  Song  that  haunts  me." 

"  I  will  hear  your  song  sublime 

Some  other  time," 
Says  the  drowsy  monarch,  yawning, 
And  retires ;  each  laughing  guest 

Applauds  the  jest ; 
Then  they  sleep  till  day  is  dawning. 

Pacing  up  and  down  the  yard, 

King  Olaf  s  guard 
Saw  the  sea-mist  slowly  creeping 
O'er  the  sands,  and  up  the  hill, 

Gathering  still 
Round  the  house  where  they  were  sleeping. 

It  was  not  the  fog  he  saw, 

Nor  misty  flaw, 
That  above  the  landscape  brooded  ; 
It  was  Eyvind  Kallda's  crew 

Of  warlocks  blue, 
With  their  caps  of  darkness  hooded  ! 

Round  and  round  the  house  they  go, 

Weaving  slow 
Magic  circles  to  encumber 
And  imprison  in  their  ring 

Olaf  the  King, 
As  he  helpless  lies  in  slumber. 

Then  athwart  the  vapours  dun 

The  Easter  sun 
Streamed  with  on<  plendom  ! 


I 


634 


LONOFELLOW  8  POEMS. 


In  their  real  forms  appeared 
The  warlocks  weird, 
Awful  as  the  Witch  of  Endor. 

Blinded  by  the  light  that  glared, 
They  groped  aud  stared 

Round  about  with  steps  unsteady  ; 

From  his  window  Olaf  gazed, 
And,  amazed, 

M  Who  are  these  strange  people  ?"  said  he. 

"  Eyvind  Kallda  and  his  men  !  " 

Answered  then 
From  the  yard  a  sturdy  farmer  ; 
While  the  men-at-arms  apace 

Filled  the  place, 
Busily  buckling  on  their  armour. 

From  the  gates  they  sallied  forth, 

South  and  north, 
Scoured  the  island  coast  around  thero, 
Seizing  all  the  warlock  band, 

Foot  and  hand 
On  the  Skerry's  rocks  they  bound  them, 

And  at  eve  the  king  again 

Called  his  train, 
And,  with  all  the  candles  burning, 
Silent  sat  and  heard  once  more 

The  sullen  roar 
Of  the  ocean  tides  returning. 

Shrieks  and  cries  of  wild  despair 

Filled  the  air, 
Growing  fainter  as  they  listened  ; 
Then  the  bursting  surge  alone 

Sounded  on ; — 
Thus  the  sorcerers  were  christened  ! 

"  Sing,  0  Scald  your  song  sublime, 

Your  ocean-rhyme," 
Cried  King  Olal :  "  it  will  cheer  me  ! " 
Said-  the  Scald,  with  pallid  cheeks, 

"  The  Skerry  of  Shrieks 
8ings  too  leud  for  you  to  hear  me  ! " 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN       THE  8AQA  OF  KINO  OLAF.      635 


VI. 


A 


4 


m 


THE    WRAITH    OF    ODIN. 

The  guests  were  loud,  the  ale  was  strong, 
King  Olaf  feasted  late  and  long  ; 
The  hoary  Scalds  together  sang  ; 
O'erhead  the  smoky  rafters  rang. 

Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

The  door  swung  wide,  with  creak  and  din  ; 
A  blast  of  cold  night-air  came  in, 
And  on  the  threshold  shivering  stood 
A  one-eyed  guest,  with  cloak  and  hood. 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

The  King  exclaimed,  "  0  graybeard  pale  ! 
Come  warm  thee  with  this  cup  of  ale.'' 
The  foaming  draught  the  old  man  quaffed, 
The  noisy  guests  looked  on  and  laughed. 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

Then  spake  the  King  :  "  Be  not  afraid  : 
Sit  here  by  me."    The  guest  obeyed, 
And,  seated  at  the  table,  told 
Tales  of  the  sea,  and  Sagas  old. 

Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

And  ever,  when  the  tale  was  o'er, 
The  King  demanded  yet  one  more  ; 
Till  Sigurd  the  Bishop  smiling  said, 
"  'Tis  late,  0  king,  and  time  for  bed." 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

The  King  retired  ;  the  stranger  guest 
Followed  and  entered  with  the  rest ; 
The  lights  were  out,  the  pages  gone, 
But  still  the  garrulous  guest  spake  on. 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

As  one  who  from  a  volume  reads, 
lie  spake  of  heroes  and  their  dec  is, 
Of  lands  and  cities  he  had  seen, 
And  stormy  gulfs  that  tossed  between. 
Dead  rides  Sir  .Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

Then  from  his  lips  in  music  rolled 
The  Ilavanial  i.f  Odin  old, 


'  1 


636 


LONGFELLOW  S  POEMS. 


With  sounds  mysterious  as  the  roar 
Of  billows  on  a  distant  shore. 

Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

"  Do  we  not  learn  from  nines  and  rhymes 
Made  by  the  gods  in  elder  times, 
And  do  not  still  the  great  Scalds  teach 
That  silence  better  is  than  speech  I  " 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

Smiling  at  this,  the  King  replied, 
"  Thy  lore  is  by  thy  tongue  belied  ; 
For  never  was  I  so  enthralled 
Either  by  Saga-man  or  Scald." 

Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang/ 

The  Bishop  said,  "  Late  hours  we  keep ! 
Night  wanes,  0  King !  'tis  time  for  sleep!" 
Then  slept  the  King,  and  when  he  woke 
The  guest  was  gone,  the  morning  broke. 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

They  found  the  doors  securely  barred, 
They  found  the  watch-dog  in  the  yard, 
There  was  no  footprint  in  the  grass, 
And  none  had  seen  the  stranger  pass. 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

King  Olaf  crossed  himself  and  said  : 
"  I  know  that  Odin  the  Great  is  dead  ! 
Sure  is  the  triumph  of  our  Faith, 
The  one-eyed  stranger  was  his  wraith." 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

VII. 
IllON-BEARD. 

Olaf  the  King,  one  summer  morn, 
Blew  a  blast  on  his  bugle-horn, 
Sending  his  signal  through  the  land  of  Drontheim. 

And  to  the  IIus-Ting  held  at  Mere 
Gathered  the  farmers  far  and  near, 
With  their  war  weapons  ready  to  confront  him. 

Ploughing  under  the  morning  star, 
Old  Iron-Beard  in  Yriar 
Heard  the  summons,  chuckling  with  a  low  laugh. 


W 


m 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDH   INN— Tin  f  KINO  OLAF.      037 


"1 


lie  wiped  the  sweat-drops  from  his  brow, 
Dnharnessed  his  horses  from  the  plough, 
And  clattering  came  on  horseback  to  King  Olaf. 

He  was  the  churliest  of  the  churls  ; 
Little  he  cared  for  king  or  carls  ; 
Ditter  as  home-brewed  ale  were  his  foaming  passions, 

Ilodden-gray  was  the  garb  he  wore, 
And  by  the  Hammer  of  Thor  he  swore  ; 
He  hated  the  narrow  town,  and  all  its  fashions. 

But  he  loved  the  freedom  of  his  farm, 
His  ale  at  night,  by  the  fireside  warm, 
Gudrun  his  daughter,  with  her  flaxen  tresses. 

He  loved  his  horses  and  his  herds. 
The  smell  of  the  earth,  and  the  song  of  birds, 
His  well-filled  barns,  his  brook  with  its  water-cresses. 

Huge  and  cumbersome  was  his  frame  ; 
II is  beard,  from  which  he  took  his  name, 
Frosty  and  fierce,  like  that  of  Ilymer  the  Giant. 

So  at  the  IIus-Ting  he  appeared, 
The  farmer  of  Yriar,  Iron-Beard, 
On  horseback,  with  an  attitude  defiant. 

And  to  King  Olaf  he  cried  aloud, 
Out  of  the  middle  of  the  crowd, 
That  tossed  about  him  like  a  stormy  ocean  : 

14  Such  sacrifices  shalt  thou  bring  ; 
To  Odin  and  to  Thor,  0  King, 
As  other  kings  have  dune  in  their  devotion  1 " 

King  Olaf  answered  :  "  I  command 
This  land  to  be  a  Christian  land  ; 
Here  is  my  Bishop  who  the  folk  baptizes  ; 

"  But  if  you  ask  me  to  restore 

Your  sacrifices,  stained  with  gore. 
Then  will  I  oiler  human  sacrifices ! 

"  Nut  slaves  and  peasants  shall  they  be, 
But  men  of  note  and  high 
Such  men  as  Orm  of  Lyra  and  K;u  of  Qryting!*1 

Then  to  their  temple  strode  lie  in. 
And  loud  behind  him  heard  the  din 
Of  his  men-at-arms  and  file  peasants  fiercely  fighting.  2d 


%& 

™ 


LONGFELLOW  3  POEMS. 


▼v 


There  in  the  Temple,  carved  in  wood, 
The  image  of  great  Odin  stood, 
And  other  gods,  with  Thor  supreme  among  them. 

King  Olaf  smote  them  with  the  blade 
Of  his  huge  war-axe,  gold  inlaid, 
An  I  downward  shattered  to  the  pavement  filing  them. 

At  the  same  moment  rose  without, 
From  the  contending  crowd,  a  shout, 
A  mingled  sound  of  triumph  and  of  wailing 

And  there  upon  the  trampled  plain 
The  fanner  Iron-Beard  lay  slain, 
Midway  between  the  assailed  and  the  assailing. 

King  Olaf  from  the  doorway  spoke  : 
"  Choose  ye  between  two  things,  my  folk, 
To  be  baptized  or  given  up  to  slaughter  V1 

And  seeing  their  leader  stark  and  dead, 
The  people  with  a  murmur  said, 
O  King,  baptize  us  with  thy  holy  water!1' 

So  all  the  Drontheim  land  became 
\  Christian  land  in  name  and  fame, 
In  the  old  gods  no  more  believing  and  trusting. 

And  as  a  blood-atonement,  soon 
King  Olaf  wed  the  fair  Gudrun  ; 
And  thus  in  peace  ended  the  Drontheim  Lius-Ting! 


VIII. 

GUDRUN. 

On  King  Olafs  bridal  night 
Shines  the  moon  with  tender  light, 
And  across  the  chamber  streams 
Its  tide  of  dreams. 

At  the  fatal  midnight  hour, 
When  all  evil  things  have  power, 
In  the  glimmer  of  the  moon 
Stands  Gudrun. 

Close  against  her  heaving  breast. 
Something  in  her  hand  is  pressed 
Like  an  icicle,  its  sheen 
Is  cold  and  keen 


~ 


TALEh  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN-     THE  SAGA  OF  KINO  OLAF.     689 


SJ 


Ou  the  caini  arc  fixed  her  eyes 
\Y  here  her  murdered  father  lies, 
And  a  voice  remote  and  drear 
8he  seems  to  hear. 

What  a  bridal  night  is  this  ! 
Cold  will  be  the  daggers  kiss  ; 
Laden  with  the  chill  of  death 
Is  its  breath. 

Like  the  drifting  snow  she  sweeps, 
To  the  couch  where  Olaf  sleeps  ; 
Suddenly  he  wakes  and  stirs, 
His  eyes  meet  hers. 

11  What  is  that,"  King  Olaf  said, 
"  Gleams  so  bright  above  thy  head '( 
Wherefore  standest  thou  so  white 
In  pale  moonlight  ? " 

"  'T  is  the  bodkin  that  I  wear 
When  at  night  I  bind  my  hair  ; 
It  woke  me  falling  on  the  floor  ; 
'T  is  nothing  more." 

"  Forests  have  ears,  and  fields  have  eyes  ; 
Often  treachery  lurking  lies 
Underneath  the  fairest  hair ! 
Gudrun  beware!" 

Ere  the  earliest  peep  of  morn 
Blew  King  Olaf  s  bugle-horn  ; 
And  forever  sundered  ride 
Bridegroom  and  bride ! 

IX. 
THANOBKAND    THE  PRIEST. 

SnoiiT  of  stature,  large  of  limb, 

Burly  face  and  russet  beard, 
All  the  women  stared  at  him, 
When  in  Iceland  he  appeared. 
"  Look  !  "  they  said, 
With  nodding  head, 
11  There  goes  Thangbrand,  Olaf  s  Priest." 

All  the  ]  I  ■■  knew  by  rote, 

He  could  preach  like  Chrysostome, 
t  the  Fathers  he  could  quote, 
D  been  at  Rome. 


m 


.: 


640 


LONGFELLOW  8  POEMS. 


A  learned  clerk, 
A  man  of  mark, 
Was  this  Thangbrand,  Olaf's  Priest. 

lie  was  quarrelsome  and  loud, 

And  impatient  of  control, 
Boisterous  in  the  market  crowd, 
Boisterous  at  the  wassail-bowl, 
Everywhere 

Would  drink  and  swear, 
Swaggering  Thangbrand,  Olafs  Priest, 

In  his  house  this  malecontent 

Could  the  King  no  longer  bear, 
So  to  Iceland  he  was  sent 
To  convert  the  heathen  there, 
And  away 
One  summer  day 
Sailed  this  Thangbrand,  Olafs  Priest. 

There  in  Iceland,  o'er  their  books 
Pored  the  people  day  and  night, 
But  he  did  not  like  their  looks, 
Nor  the  songs  they  used  to  write. 
"All  this  rhyme 
Is  waste  of  time  !  " 
Grumbled  Thangbrand,  Olafs  Priest. 

To  the  alehouse,  where  he  sat, 

Came  the  Scalds  and  Saga-men  ; 
Is  it  to  be  wondered  at, 
That  they  quarrelled  now  and  then, 
When  o'er  his  beer 
Began  to  leer 
Drunken  Thangbrand,  Olaf's  Priest. 

All  the  folk  in  Altafiord 

Boasted  of  their  island  grand  ; 
Saying  in  a  single  word, 
"  Iceland  is  the  finest  land 
That  the  sun 
Doth  shine  upon  ! " 
Loud  laughed  Thangbrand,  Olafs  Priest. 

And  he  answered  :  "  What's  the  use 
Of  this  bragging  up  and  down, 

When  three  women  and  one  goose 
Make  a  market  in  your  town 


TALES  Of  a  WA1    iim:  i.\N  LGA  OF  KING  OLAF.   CI  I 


Every  Scald 
Satires  scrawled 
On  poor  Thangbrand,  Olaf  s  Priest. 

Something  worse  they  did  than  that  ; 

And  what  vexed  him  most  of  all 
Was  a  figure  in  shovel  hat, 
Drawn  in  charcoal  on  the  wall ; 
With  words  that  go 
Sprawling  below, 
"  This  is  Thangbrand,  Olaf  a  Priest." 

Hardly  knowing  what  he  did, 

Then  he  smote  them  might  and  main, 
Thorvald  Veile  and  Veterlid 
Lay  there  in  the  alehouse  slain. 
"  To-day  we  are  gold, 
To-morrow  mould ! " 
Muttered  Thangbrand,  Olaf  s  Priesi 

Much  in  fear  of  axe  and  rope, 

Back  to  Norway  sailed  he  then. 
"  0,  King  Olaf !  little  hope 
Is  there  of  these  Iceland  men  !  " 
Meekly  said, 
With  bending  head, 
Pious  Thangbrand,  Olaf  s  Priest. 


RAUD    THE   STROXO. 

"All  the  old  gods  are  dead, 

All  the  wild  warlocks  fled  , 

But  the  White  Christ  lives  and  reigns, 

And  throughout  my  wide  domains 

His  Gospel  shall  be  spread  ! " 

On  the  Evangelists 

Thus  swore  King  (Mat. 

But  still  in  dreams  of  the  night 
Beheld  he  the  crimson  light, 
And  heard  the  voice  that  defied 
Him  who  was  crucified, 
And  challenged  him  to  the  fight 

To  Sigurd  the  ' 

Kins  Olaf  confessed  it. 


642 


lonofellow's  poems. 


And  Sigurd  the  Bishop  said, 
11  The  old  gods  are  not  dead, 
For  the  great  Thor  still  reigns, 
And  among  the  Javls  and  Thanes 
The  old  witchcraft  still  is  spread." 
Thus  to  King  Olaf 
Said  Sigurd  the  Bishop. 

"  Far  north  in  the  Saltern  Fiord, 

By  rapine,  fire,  and  sword, 

Lives  the  Viking,  Raud  the  Strong  : 

All  the  Godoe  Isles  belong 

To  him  and  his  heathen  horde." 

Thus  went  on  speaking 

Sigurd  the  Bishop. 

"A  warlock,  a  wizard  is  he, 
And  lord  of  the  wind  and  the  sea  ; 
And  whichever  way  he  sails, 
He  has  ever  favouring  gales, 
By  his  craft  in  sorcery." 

Here  the  sign  of  the  cross  made 

Devoutly  King  Olaf. 

11  With  rites  that  we  both  abhor, 
He  worships  Odin  and  Thor  ; 
So  it  cannot  yet  be  said, 
That  all  the  old  gods  are  dead, 
And  the  warlocks  are  no  more," 
Flushing  with  anger 
Said  Sigurd  the  Bishop. 

Then  King  Olaf  cried  aloud  : 
"  I  will  talk  with  this  mighty  Raud. 
And  along  the  Salten  Fiord 
Preach  the  Gospel  with  my  sword, 
Or  be  brought  back  in  my  shroud  !  " 

So  northward  from  Drontheim 

Sailed  King  Olaf! 


XI. 
BISHOP    SIGURD    AT    SALTEN    FIORD. 

Loud  the  angry  wind  was  wailing 
As  King  Olaf  s  ships  came  sailing 
Northward  out  of  Drontheim  haven 
To  the  mouth  of  Salten  Fiord 


TALES  OF  A  WAY8IDH   !  \\      THE  8AG\A  01  KIHO  "LAP.     648 

Though  the  flying  sea-spray  drenches 

re  and  aft  the  rowers'  benches. 
Not  a  single  heart  is  craven 

Of  the  champions  there  on  buard. 

All  without  the  Fiord  was  quiet, 
But  within  it  storm  and  riot, 
Such  as  on  his  Viking  cruises 

Baud  the  Strong  was  wont  to  ride. 

And  the  tea  through  all  its  tide-ways 
Swept  the  reeling  vessels  sideways, 
As  the  leaves  are  swept  through  sluices 
When  the  tlood-gates  open  wide. 

"  'T  is  the  warlock  !  't  is  the  demon 
Raud  !  "  cried  Sigurd  to  the  seamen  ; 
"  But  the  Lord  is  not  affrighted 
By  the  witchcraft  of  his  foes." 

To  the  ship's  bow  he  ascended, 
By  his  choristers  attended, 
Round  him  were  the  tapers  lighted, 
And  the  sacred  incense  rose. 

On  the  bow  stood  Bishop  Sigurd, 
In  his  robes,  as  one  transfigm-ed, 
And  the  Crucifix  he  planted 

High  amid  the  rain  and  mist. 

Then  with  holy  water  sprinkled 
All  the  ship  ;  the  mass-belle,  tinkled  ; 
Loud  the  monks  around  him  chanted, 
Loud  he  read  the  Evangelist 

/is  into  the  Fiord  they  darted, 
On  each  side  the  water  parted  ; 
Down  a  path  like  silver  molt 

idily  rowed  King  i  jps  j 

Steadily  burned  all  night  the  tapers, 
And  the  White  Christ  through  the 
lleam  the  Fiord  of  Salten, 

through  John's  Apocalypse, 

Till  at  last  they  reached  Rand's  dwelling 

the  little  isle  of  Gclli> 
Not  a  guard  was  at  the  doorway, 
$  a  glimmer  of  light  was  c, 


G44 


LON('.FEMii»w  8  P0EM8. 


*M 


But  ut  anchor,  carved  and  gilded, 

Lay  the  dragon-ship  he  builded  ; 
'Twas  the  grandest  ship  in  Norway, 
With  its  crest  and  scales  of  green 

Up  the  stairway,  softly  creeping, 
To  the  loft  where  Rand  was  sleeping, 
With  their  fists  they  burst  asunder 
Bolt  and  bar  that  held  the  door. 

Drunken  with  sleep  and  ale  they  found  him, 
Dragged  him  from  his  bed  and  bound  him, 
While  he  stared  with  stupid  wonder, 
At  the  look  and  garb  they  wore. 

Then  King  Olaf  said  :  "0  Sea-King! 
Little  time  have  we  for  speaking, 
Choose  between  the  good  and  evil  ; 
Be  baptized,  or  thou  shalt  die  !  " 

But  in  scorn  the  heathen  scoffer 
Answered  :  "  1  disdain  thine  offer  ; 
Neither  fear  I  God  nor  Devil  ; 
Thee  and  thy  Gospel  I  defy  !  " 

Then  between  his  jaws  distended, 
When  his  frantic  struggles  ended, 
Through  King  Olaf  s  horn  an  adder, 

Touched  by  fire,  they  forced  to  glide. 

Sharp  his  tooth  was  as  an  arrow, 

As  he  gnawed  through  bone  and  marrow  ; 

But  without  a  groan  or  shudder, 

Rami  the  Strong  blaspheming  died. 

Then  baptized  they  all  that  region, 
Swarthy  Lap  and  fair  Norwegian, 
Far  as  swims  the  salmon,  leaping, 
Up  the  streams  of  Salten  Fiord. 

In  their  temples  Thor  and  Odin 
Lay  in  dust  and  ashes  trodden, 
As  King  Olaf,  onward  sweeping. 

Preached  the  Gospel  with  his  sword, 

Then  he  took  the  carved  and  gilded 
Dragon-ship  that  Raud  had  builded, 
And  the  tiller  single-handed, 

Grasping,  steered  into  the  main. 


fc 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN-    Till)  SAGA  Of  KING  OLAF.    645 


Southward  sailed  the  sea-gulls  o'er  him, 
Southward  sailed  the  ship  that  bore  him, 
Till  al  Drontheim  haven  landed 

01, if  and  his  crew  again. 


§ 


XII. 


KING  OLAF  S  CHRISTMAS. 

At  Drontheim,  Olaf  the  King 
Heard  tlie  bells  of  Yule-tide  ring, 

As  he  sat  in  his  banqnet-hall, 
Drinking  the  nut-brown  ale, 
With  his  bearded  Berserks  hale 

And  tall. 

Three  days  his  Yule-tide  feasts 
He  held  with  Bishops  and  Priests, 

And  his  horn  filled  up  to  the  brim  ; 
But  the  ale  was  never  too  strong, 
Nor  the  Saga-man's  tale  too  long, 

For  him. 

O'er  his  drinking-horn,  the  sign 
lie  made  of  the  cross  divine, 

As  he  drank,  and  muttered  his  prayers  ; 
But  the  Berserks  evermore 
Made  the  sign  of  the  Hammer  of  Thor 

Over  theirs. 

The  gleams  of  the  fire-light  dance 
Upon  helmet  and  hauberk  and  lance, 

And  laugh  in  the  eyes  of  the  King  ; 
And  he  cries  to  Ilalfred  the  Scald, 
Gray-bearded,  wrinkled,  and  bald, 

"  Sing  !" 

'*  Sing  me  a  song  divine, 
With  a  sword  in  every  line. 

And  this  shall  be  thy  reward." 
And  he  loosened  the  belt  at  his  waist. 
And  in  front  of  the  singer  pla< 

His  sword. 

"  Quern-biter  of  Ilakon  the  G< 
Wherewith  at  a  stroke  he  hewed 

The  millstone  through  and  through, 


"JEm 


040 


LONOFELLOW  3  P^ 


And  Foot-breadth  of  Thoralf  the  Strong, 
Were  neither  so  broad  nor  so  long. 
Nor  *o  true." 

Then  the  Scald  took  his  harp  and  sang. 
And  loud  through  the  music  ran; 

The  sound  of  that  shining  word  ; 
And  the  harp-strings  a  clangour  made. 
As  it*  they  were  struck  with  the  blade 

Of  a  sword. 

And  the  Berserks  round  about 
Broke  forth  into  a  shout 

That  made  the  rafters  ring  : 
They  smote  with  their  lists  on  the  board. 
And  shouted,  "  Long  live  the  Sword, 

And  the  King  !" 

But  the  King  said,  "  0  my  son, 
[  miss  the  bright  word  in  one 

Of  thy  measures  and  thy  rhymes.'' 
And  llalfred  the  Scald  replied, 
"  In  another  'twas  multiplied 

Three  times." 

Then  King  Olaf  raised  the  hilt 
Of  iron,  cross-shaped  and  gilt, 

And  said,  "  Do  not  refuse  ; 
Count  well  the  gain  and  the  loss, 
Thor's  hammer  or  Christ's  cross  : 

Choose  !" 

And  llalfred  the  Scald  said,  "  This 
In  the  name  of  the  Lord  1  kiss. 

Who  on  it  was  crucified  !" 
And  a  shout  went  round  the  board. 
"  In  the  name  of  Christ  the  Lord. 

Who  died  !" 
Then  over  the  waste  of  snows 
The  noonday  sun  uprose, 

Through  the  driving  mists  revealed 
Like  the  lifting  of  the  Host, 
By  incense- clouds  almost 

Concealed. 

On  the  shining  wall  a  vast 
And  shadowy  cross  was  cast 

From  the  hilt  of  the  lifted  sword 


C 


;A  of  KIKO  OLAP.    64? 


And  in  foaming  cu] 
The  Berserks  drank  "  Was-hael ! 
To  the  Lord  !" 


\ 


.' 


XIII. 

the  r.rn-DiNO  of  Tin:  long  serpent. 

Thorberg  Skafting,  master-builder. 

In  his  ship-yard  by  the  sen, 
Whistled,  Baying,  "'T  would  bewildei 
Any  man  but  Thorberg  Skafting, 

Any  man  but  me  !" 

Near  him  lay  the  Dragon  stranded, 

Built  of  old  by  fraud  the  Strong, 
And  King  Olaf  had  commanded 
He  should  build  another  Dragon, 
Twice  as  large  and  long. 

Therefore  whistled  Thorberg  Skafting, 
As  he  sat  with  half-closed  eyes, 

And  his  head  turned  sideways,  drafting 

That  new  vessel  for  King  Olaf, 
Twice  the  Dragon's  size. 

Round  him  busily  hewed  and  hammered 

Mallet  huge  and  heavy  axe  ; 
Workmen  laughed  and  sang  and  clamoured 
Whirred  the  wheels,  that  into  rigging 
Spun  the  shining  flax  ! 

All  this  tumult  heard  the  master, — 

It  was  music  to  his  ear  ; 
Fancy  whispered  all  the  faster, 
"  Men  shall  hear  of  Thorberg  Skafting 

For  a  hundred  year  !" 

Workmen  sweating  at  the  fori; 

Fashioned  iron  bolt  and  bar. 
Like  a  warlock's  midni  jies 

Smoked  and  bubbled  the  black  caldron 

With  the  boiling  tar. 

Did  the  warlocks  mingle  in  it, 

Thorberg  Skafting,  any  cm 
Could  you  not  be  gone  a  mi] 
But  some  mischief  must  be  doing- 
Turning  bad  to  worse  ? 


>b.\i 


LONOFELI.o'.V'S  POEMS. 


'T  was  an  ill  wind  that  came  wafting, 

From  his  homestead  words  of  woe 
To  his  farm  went  Thorberg  Skafting, 
Oft  repeating  to  his  workmen, 

Build  ye  thus  and  so. 
After  long  delays  returning 

Came  the  master  hack  by  night ; 
To  his  ship-yard  longing,  yearning, 
Hurried  he,  and  did  not  leave  it 

Till  the  morning's  light. 

'Come  and  see  my  ship,  my  darling  ." 

On  the  morrow  said  the  King  ; 
M  Finished  now  from  keel  to  carling  ; 
Never  yet  was  seen  in  Norway 

Such  a  wondrous  tiling  !" 

In  the  ship-yard,  idly  talking, 

At  the  ship  the  workmen  stared  : 
Some  one,  all  their  labour  balking, 
Down  her  sides  had  cut  deep  gashes, 

Not  a  plank  was  spared  ! 
"  Death  be  to  the  evil-doer  !" 

With  an  oath  King  Olaf  spoke  ; 
11  But  rewards  to  his  pursuer  !" 
And  with  wrath  his  face  grew  redder 

Than  his  scarlet  cloak. 
Straight  the  master-builder,  smiling, 

Answered  thus  the  angry  king  : 
"  Cease  blaspheming  and  reviling, 
Olaf,  it  was  Thorberg  Skafting 

Who  has  done  this  thing  !" 
Then  he  chipped  and  smoothed  the  planking 

Till  the  King,  delighted,  swore, 
With  much  lauding  and  much  thanking, 
11  Handsomer  is  now  my  Dragon 

Than  she  was  before  !" 
Seventy  ells  and  four  extended 

On  the  grass  the  vessel's  keel  ; 
High  above  it,  gilt  and  splendid, 
Rose  the  figure-head  ferocious 

With  its  crest  of  steel. 

Then  they  launched  her  from  the  fereseels, 
In  the  ship-yard  by  the  sea  ; 


j—mm—mm—mm^ 


m 


TA1.ES  Oi    A  WATBID1  INN-    THE  SAGA  OF  KINO  OLAF.      649 


She  v  randest  of  all  vessels, 

Never  Bhip  was  buill  in  Norway 

Hall' so  fine  as  she  ! 

The  Long  Serpent  was  she  christened, 

'.Mid  the  roar  of  cheer  on  cheer  ! 
They  who  to  the  Saga  Listened 
Heard  the  name  of  Thorberg  Skafting 
For  a  hundred  year  ! 


XIV. 
THE  CHEW  OF  THE  LONG  SERPENT. 

Safe  at  anchor  in  Drontheim  bay 
King  Olaf's  fleet  assembled  lay, 

And,  striped  with  white  and  blue, 
Downward  fluttered  sail  and  banner, 
As  alights  the  screaming  lanner  ; 
Lustily  cheered,  in  their  wild  manner, 

The  Long  Serpent's  crew. 
Her  forecastle  man  was  Ulf  the  Red  ; 
Like  a  wolf's  was  his  shaggy  head, 

His  teeth  as  large  and  white  ; 
His  beard,  of  gray  and  russet  blended; 
Round  as  a  swallow's  nest  descended  ; 
As  standard-bearer  he  defended 

Olaf  s  flag  in  the  fight. 
Near  him  Kolbiorn  had  his  place, 
Like  the  King  in  garb  and  face, 

So  gallant  and  so  hale  ; 
Every  cabin-boy  and  varlet 
Wondered  at  his  cloak  of  scarlet  ; 
Like  a  river,  frozen  and  star-lit, 

Gleamed  his  coat  of  mail. 
By  the  bulkhead,  tall  and  dark, 
Stood  Thrand  Rame  of  Thelcmark, 

A  figure  gaunt  and  grand  ; 
On  his  hairy  arm  imprinted 
Was  an  anchor,  azure-tinted  ; 
Like  Tiler's  hammer,  huge  and  dinted 

\Ya>  his  brawny  hand. 

Rinar  Tamberskelver,  bare 
To  the  winds  his  golden  hair, 
By  the  mainmast  >t<>od  ; 


^1 


Graceful  was  his  form,  ami  slender, 
And  his  eyes  were  deep  and  tender 
As  a  woman's,  in  the  splendour 

Of  her  maidenhood. 

In  the  fore-hold  Biorn  and  Bork 
Watched  the  sailors  at  their  work  : 

Heavens  !  how  they  swore  ! 
Thirty  men  they  each  commanded, 
Iron-sinewed,  horny-handed, 
Shoulders  broad,  and  chests  expanded, 

Tugging  at  the  oar. 

These,  and  many  more  like  these, 
With  King  Olaf  sailed  the  seas, 

Till  the  waters  vast 
Filled  them  with  a  vague  devotion, 
With  the  freedom  and  the  motion, 
With  the  roll  and  roar  of  ocean 

And  the  sounding  blast 

When  they  landed  from  the  fleet, 

How  they  roared  through  Drontheim's  street, 

Boisterous  as  the  gale  ! 
How  they  laughed  and  stamped  and  pounded, 
Till  the  tavern  roof  resounded, 
And  the  host  looked  on  astounded 

As  they  drank  the  ale  ! 

Never  saw  the  wild  North  Sea 
Such  a  gallant  company 

Sail  its  billows  blue  ! 
Never,  while  they  cruised  and  quarrelled. 
Old  King  Gorm,  or  Blue-Tooth  Harald, 
Owned  a  ship  so  well  apparelled,— 

Boasted  such  a  crew  ! 


iJi^    1 1 

^^^st>1 

■  ■ " w  Hi 

XV. 
A  LITTLE  BIRD  IN   THE  AIR. 

A  little  bird  in  the  air 
Is  singing  of  Thyri  the  fair, 

The  sister  of  Svend  the  Dane  : 
And  the  song  of  the  garrulous  birrt 
In  the  streets  of  the  town  is  heard, 

And  repeated  again  and  again. 


TALES  OF  A  WAV.SIDH  INN    -THE  SAQA  OF  KINO  OLA  t        661 


J 


Hoist  up  your  bails  of  silk, 
And  lice  away  from  each  other. 

To  King  Burislaf,  it  is  said, 
\\  as  the  beautiful  Thyri  wed, 

And  a  sorrowful  bride  went  she  ; 
And  after  a  week  and  a  day, 
She  lias  tied  away  and  away, 

From  his  town  by  the  stormy  sea. 
Hoist  up  your  sails  of  silk, 
And  rlee  away  from  each  other. 

They  say,  that  through  heat  and  through  cold 
Through  weald,  they  say,  and  through  wold, 

By  day  and  by  night,  they  say, 

She  has  fled  ;  and  the  gossips  report 

She  has  come  to  King  Olaf  s  court, 

And  the  town  is  all  in  dismay. 

Hoist  up  your  sails  of  silk, 

And  flee  away  from  each  other. 

It  is  whispered  King  Olaf  has  seen, 
lias  talked  with  the  beautiful  Queen  ; 
And  they  wonder  how  it  will  end  ; 
For  surely,  if  here  she  remain, 
It  is  war  with  King  Svend  the  Dane, 
And  King  Burislaf  the  Vend  ! 
Hoist  up  your  sails  of  silk, 
And  flee  away  from  each  other. 

0,  greatest  wonder  of  all ! 

It  is  published  in  hamlet  and  hall, 

It  roars  like  a  flame  that  is  farmed  '• 
The  King— yes,  Olaf  the  King — 
Has  wedded  her  with  his  ring, 
And  Thyri  is  Queen  in  the  land  ! 
Hoist  up  your  sails  of  silk, 
And  flee  away  from  each  other. 

XVI. 
(iUEEN  THYRI  AND  THE  ANGELICA  BTALK8. 

Northward  over  Drontheim. 
Flew  the  clamorous  sea-gulls, 
Sang  the  lark  and  linnet 

i  the  meadows  green  , 


i 


652 


LONGFELLOW'S  POZMg. 

Weeping  in  her  chamber, 
Lonely  and  unhappy, 
Sat  the  Drottning  Thyri, 
Sat  King  Olafs  Queen. 

In  at  all  the  windows 
Streamed  the  pleasant  sunshine, 
On  the  roof  above  her 
Softly  cooed  the  dove  ; 

But  the  sound  she  heard  not, 
Nor  the  sunshine  heeded, 
For  the  thoughts  of  Thyri 
Were  not  thoughts  of  love. 

Then  King  Olaf  entered, 
Beautiful  as  morning, 
Like  the  sun  at  Easter 
Shone  his  happy  face  ; 

In  his  hand  he  carried 
Angelicas  uprooted, 
With  delicious  fragrance 
Filling  all  the  place. 

Like  a  rainy  midnight 
Sat  the  Drottning  Thyri, 
Even  the  smile  of  Olaf 
Could  not  cheer  her  gloom  ; 

Nor  the  stalks  he  gave  her 
With  a  gracious  gesture, 
And  with  words  as  pleasant 
As  their  own  perfume. 

In  her  hands  he  placed  them, 
And  her  jewelled  fingers 
Through  the  green  leaves  gliatene  I 
Like  the  dews  of  morn  ; 

But  she  cast  them  from  her, 
Haughty  and  indignant, 
On  the  floor  she  threw  them 
With  a  look  of  scorn. 

w  Richer  presents,"  said  she, 
"  Gave  King  Harald  Gormson 
To  the  Queen,  my  mother, 
Than  such  worthless  weeds  ; 


lf    >H 


- 


■  m 


TAT.E-iOF  A  WAVSIIM:   INN       TUT:  s.UJA  OF  KING  OLAF.     663 


is 

|:iw 


'J 


An 


"  When  he  ravaged  Norway. 
Laying  waste  the  kingdom, 
Seizing  Bcatt  and  treasure 
For  her  royal  needs. 

"  But  thou  darest  not  venture 
Through  the  Sound  to  Vendland, 
My  domains  to  rescue 
From  King  Burislaf ; 

"  Lest  King  Svend  of  Denmark, 
Forked  Beard,  my  brother, 
Scatter  all  thy  vessels 
As  the  wind  the  chaff." 

Then  up  sprang  King  Olaf, 
Like  a  reindeer  bounding, 
With  an  oath  he  answered 
Thus  the  luckless  Queeu  : 

u  Never  yet  did  Olaf 
Fear  King  Svend  of  Denmark  ; 
This  right  hand  shall  hale  him 
By  his  forked  chin  !" 

Then  he  left  the  chamber, 
Thundering  through  the  doorway, 
Loud  his  steps  resounded 
Down  the  outer  stair. 

Smarting  with  the  insult, 
Through  the  streets  of  Drontheim 
Strode  he  red  and  wrathful, 
With  his  stately  air. 

All  his  ships  he  gathered, 
Summoned  all  his  forces, 
Making  his  war  levy 
In  the  region  round  ; 

Down  the  coast  of  Norway, 
Like  a  flock  of  sea-gulls, 
Sailed  the  fleet  of  Olaf 
Through  the  Danish  Sound. 

With  his  own  hand  fearlee 
Steered  he  the  Long  Serpent, 
Strained  the  creaking  cordage, 
Bent  each  boom  and  traff  ; 


>- 


2t 


f,f>l 


LONGFELLOW  8  POE 


Till  hi  VcnJlund  landing; 
The  domains  of  Thyri 
lie  redeemed  and  rescued 
From  King  Burislaf. 

Then  said  Olaf,  laughi 
"  Not  ten  yoke  of  oxen 
Have  the  power  to  draw  us 
Like  a  woman's  hair ! 

"  Now  will  I  confess  it, 
Better  things  are  jewels 
Than  angelica  stalks  are 
For  a  Queen  to  wear." 

XVII. 
KING   SVEND    OF    THE   FOKKED   EEAED. 

Loudly  the  sailors  cheered 
Sveud  of  the  Forked  Beard, 
As  with  his  fleet  he  steered 

Southward  to  Vendland  ; 
Where  with  their  courses  hauled 
All  were  together  called, 
Under  the  Isle  of  Svald 

Near  to  the  mainland. 
After  Queen  Gunhild's  death, 
So  the  old  Saga  saith, 
Plighted  King  Svend  his  faith 

To  Sigrid  the  Haughty  ; 
And  to  avenge  his  bride, 
Soothing  her  wounded  pride, 
Over  the  waters  wide 

King  Olaf  sought  he. 

Still  on  her  scornful  face, 
Blushing  with  deep  disgrace, 
B'>re  she  the  crimson  trace 

Of  Olaf's  gauntlet ; 
Like  a  malignant  star, 
Blazing  in  heaven  afar, 
Red  shone  the  angry  scar 

Under  her  frontlet. 

Oft  to  King  Svend  she  spake, 
"  For  thine  own  honour's  sake 
8halt  thou  swift  vengeance  take- 
On  the  vile  coward ! " 


TALKS  OF  A  WAYSIDE  l.NN   T1IK  SAO  A  OF  KINO  OLAY .   < 


mm 


Until  tlie  King  at  la.  t, 
Gusty  and  overcast, 
Like  a  tempestuous  blast 
Threatened  and  lowered. 

Soon  as  the  Spring  appeared, 
Svend  of  the  Forked  Beard 
High  his  red  standard  reared. 

Eager  for  battle  ; 
While  every  warlike  Dane, 
Seizing  his  arms  again, 
Left  all  unsown  the  grain, 

Unhoused  the  cattle. 

Likewise  the  Swedish  King 
Summoned  in  haste  a  Thing, 
Weapons  and  men  to  bring 

In  aid  of  Denmark  ; 
Eric  the  Norseman,  too, 
As  the  war-tidings  Hew, 
Sailed  with  a  chosen  crew 

From  Lapland  and  Fiimiark. 

So  upon  Easter  day 

Sailed  the  three  kings  away, 

Out  of  the  sheltered  bay, 

In  the  bright  season  ; 
With  them  Earl  Sigvald  came, 
Eager  for  spoil  and  fame  ; 
Pity  that  such  a  name 

Stooped  to  such  treason  ! 

Safe  under  Svall  at  last, 
Now  were  their  anchors  cast, 
Safe  from  the  sea  and  blast, 

Plotted  the  three  kings  ; 
While,  with  abase  intent, 

■  hward  Ea         reJ  !  went, 
On  a  foul  errand  bent, 

Unto  the  Sea-kings. 

Thence  to  hold  od  his  coui 
Unto  King  I 
Lying  within  the  hoarse 
Bd   uths  (if  Stet   ia.veij  ; 


Longfellow's  poems. 


Him  to  ensnare  and  bring, 
Unto  the  Danish  king, 
W  ho  his  dead  corse  would  fling 
Forth  to  the  raven ! 


m 


XVIII. 
KINO"    OLAP    AND    EAKL   SIGVALL 

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, 
Tha  anchors  are  weighed, 
Like  moths  in  the  distance 
The  sails  flit  and  fade. 

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

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

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

Cried  the  Earl :  "  Follow  me) 
I  your  pilot  will  be, 
For  1  know  all  the  channels 
Where  flows  the  deep  sea!" 


„j.  V    .ij     k 


TA1  B8  <T  A   WAYSIDE  INN — TTIE  SAGA  OP  KING  OLAF.     H57 


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! 


m 


XIX. 
KING   OLAF'S    WAR-HORNS. 

"  Strike  the  sails!"  King  Olaf  said  ; 
Never  shall  men  of  mine  take  flight  : 
Never  away  from  battle  1  lied, 
Never  away  from  my  f>  iefl ! 

Let  God  dispose 
Of  my  life  in  the  fight!" 

"  Sound  the  horns!"  said  Olaf  the  King  ; 
And  suddenly  through  the  drifting  brume 
The  blare  of  the  horns  began  to  ring, 
Like  the  terrible  trumpet  shock 

Of  Reguarock, 
On  the  Day  of  Doom  ! 

Louder  and  louder  the  war-horns  sang 
Over  the  level  floor  of  the  flood  ; 
All  the  sails  came  down  with  a  clang, 
And  there  in  the  mist  overhead 

The  sun  hung  red 
As  a  drop  of  blood. 

Drifting  down  on  the  Danish  fleet 
Three  together  the  ships  were  lashed, 
So  that  neither  should  turn  and  retreat  ; 
In  the  midst,  but  in  front  of  the  re 

The  burnished  or 
Of  the  Serpent  flashed. 

King  Olaf  stood  on  the  quarter-deck, 
With  bow  of  ash  and  arrows  of  oak, 
His  gilded  shield  was  without  a  fleck. 
His  helmet  inlaid  with  gold, 

A  ad  in  many  ;i  foil 
Hung  his  crimson  cloak. 


«r>8 


LONGFELLOW  S  POKMS. 


On  the  forecastle  Ulf  the  Red 
Watched  the  lashing  of  the  ships  ; 
M  If  the  Serpent  lie  so  far  ahead, 
We  shall  have  hard  work  of  it  here,  " 

Said  he  with  a  sneer 
On  his  bearded  lips. 

King  Olaf  laid  an  arrow  on  string, 
"  Have  I  a  coward  on  board  ?"  said  he 
"  Shoot  it  another  way,  0  King  !  " 
Sullenly  answered  Ulf, 
The  old  sea- wolf  ; 
"  You  have  need  of  me  !  " 

In  front  came  Svend,  the  King  of  the  Danes, 
Sweeping  down  with  his  fifty  rowers  ; 
To  the  right,  the  Swedish  king  with  his  thanes 
And  on  board  of  the  Iron  Beard 

Earl  Eric  steered 
On  the  left  with  his  oars. 

"  These  soft  Danes  and  Swedes,"  said  the  King, 
"  At  home  with  their  wives  had  better  stay, 
Than  come  within  reach  of  my  Serpent's  sting; 
But  where  Eric  the  Norseman  leads 

Heroic  deeds 
Will  be  done  to-day!" 

Then  as  together  the  vessels  crashed, 
Eric  severed  the  cables  of  hide 
With  which  King  Olaf's  ships  were  1  ashed. 
And  left  them  to  drive  and  drift 

With  the  current  swift 
Of  the  outward  tide. 

Louder  the  war-horns  growl  and  snarl, 
Sharper  the  dragons  bite  and  sting ! 
Eric  the  son  of  llakon  Jarl 
A  death-drink  salt  as  the  sea 

Pledges  to  thee, 
Olaf  the  King ! 


TALES  Of  v  waysim-:  inn  tii::  saoa  of  KING  olaf.  669 


XX. 
EINAK    IAKBSBSK1LVSR, 

Jt  was  Einar  Tambcrskelver 

Stood  beside  the  mast ; 
From  his  yew-bow,  tipped  with  silv 

Flew  the  arrows  fail  ; 
Aimed  at  Eric  unavailing, 

As  he  Bat  concealed, 
Half  behind  the  quarter-railing, 

Half  behind  his  shield. 

First  an  arrow  struck  the  tiller 

Just  above  his  head  ; 
11  Sing,  0  Eyvind  Skaldaspiller," 

Then  Earl  Eric  said. 
"  Sing  the  song  of  llakon  dying, 

Sing  his  funeral  wail !  " 
And  another  arrow  flying 

Grazed  his  coat  of  mail. 
Turning  to  a  Lapland  yeoman, 

As  the  arrow  passed, 
Said  Earl  Eric,  "  Shoot  that  bowman 

Standing  by  the  mast." 
Sooner  than  the  word  was  spoken 

Flew  the  yeoman's  shaft ; 
Einar's  bow  in  twain  was  broken, 

Einar  only  laughed. 

"  What  was  that  I  "  said  Olaf,  standing 

On  the  quarter-deck. 
"  Something  heard  I  like  the  stranding 

Of  a  shattered  wreck." 
Einar  then,  the  arrow  taking 

From  the  loosened  string, 
Answered,  "  That  was  Norway  breaking 

From  thy  hand,  0  King  !  " 

u  Thou  art  but  a  poor  diviner," 

Straightway  Olaf  said  ; 
M  Take  my  bow,  and  switter,  Einar, 

Let  thy  shafts  be  spo 
Of  his  bows  the  fairest  oho 

Reached  he  from  above  ; 
Einar  saw  the  blood-drops 

Through  his  iron  glove. 


LOVGFELLOW'S  POEMS. 


But  tlie  bow  was  thin  and  narrow  ; 

At  the  first  essay, 
O'er  its  head  he  drew  the  arrow, 

Flung  the  bow  away  ; 
Said,  with  hot  and  angry  temper 

Flushing  in  his  cheek, 
"  Olaf !  for  so  great  a  Kamper 

Are  thy  bows  too  weak  !  " 

Then,  with  smile  of  joy  defiant 

<  >n  his  beardless  Up, 
Scaled  he,  light  and  self-reliant, 

Eric's  dragon-ship. 
Loose  his  golden  locks  were  flowing, 

Bright  his  armour  gleamed  ; 
Like  Saint  Michael  overthrowing 

Lucifer  he  seemed. 


XXI. 

KINO  OLAF'S  DEATIT-DRINK. 

All  day  has  the  battle  raged, 
All  day  have  the  ships  engaged, 
But  not  yet  is  assuaged 

The  vengeance  of  Eric  the  Earl 

The  decks  with  blood  are  red, 
The  aiTOws  of  death  are  sped, 
The  ships  are  filled  with  the  dead. 

And  the  spears  the  champions  hurl 

They  drift  as  wrecks  on  the  tide, 
The  grappling-irons  are  plied, 
The  boarders  climb  up  the  side, 
The  shouts  are  feeble  and  few. 


Ah  !  never  shall  Norway  again 

See  her  sailors  come  back  o'er  the  main  ; 

They  all  lie  wounded  or  slain, 

Or  asleep  in  the  billows  blue  ! 

On  the  deck  stands  Olaf  the  King, 
Around  him  whistle  and  sinur 
The  spears  that  the  foemen  fling, 

And  the  stones  they  hurl  with  their 


■■utvtj' 


lands. 


■ 

mi 


. 


SI 


TALKS  OF  A  wwsiniMXN     Til  OLAF.    661 

In  the  midst  of  the  stones  and  the  spears, 
Kolbiorn,  the  marshal,  appears, 
His  shield  in  the  air  he  uprears, 

By  the  side  of  King  Olaf  he  stands. 

Over  the  slippery  wreck 
Of  the  Long  Serpent's  deck 
Sweeps  Eric  with  hardly  a  check, 
His  lips  with  anger  are  pale  ; 

He  hews  with  his  axe  at  the  mast. 
Till  it  falls,  with  the  sails  overcast, 
Like  a  snow-covered  pine  in  the  vast 
Dim  forests  of  Orkadale. 

Seeking  King  Olaf  then, 
He  rushes  aft  with  his  men, 
As  a  hunter  into  the  den 

Of  the  bear,  when  he  stands  at  ba,y. 

"  Remember  Jarl  Hakon  !"  he  cries  ; 
"When  lo  !  on  his  wondering  eyes, 
Two  kingly  figures  arise, 

Two  Olafs  in  warlike  array  ! 

Then  Kolbiorn  speaks  in  the  ear 
Of  King  Olaf  a  word  of  cheer, 
In  a  whisper  that  none  may  hear, 

With  a  smile  on  his  tremulous  lip  ; 

Two  shields  raised  high  in  the  air, 
Two  flashes  of  golden  hair, 
Two  scarlet  meteors'  glare, 

And  both  have  leaped  from  the  ship. 

Earl  Eric's  men  in  the  boats 
Seize  Kolbiorn's  shield  as  it  floats, 
And  cry,  from  their  hairy  throats, 
"  See  !  it  is  Olaf  the  King  !" 

While  far  on  the  opposite  side 
Floats  another  shield  on  the  tide, 
Like  a  jewel  set  in  the  wide 
a-current'e  eddying  ring. 

There  is  told  a  wonderful  tale, 
IIow  the  King  stripped  off  bis  mail, 
Like  leaves  of  the  brown  son-kale, 
As  he  swam  beneath  the  main  : 


■    - ; — 


662 


IPBLLOW'S  POEMS. 


V-5 


But  the  young  grew  old  and  /-rray 
Ami  never,  by  night  or  by  dav 
In  his  kingdom  of  Norrowav 
Was  King  Olaf  seen  again  ' 

XXII. 

THE  NUN  OF  NIDAROS. 

In  the  convent  of  Drontheiin, 
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-wiiul 
Now  louder,  now  nearer, 
Now  lost  hi  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  wieldestl 

u  Cross  against  corslet, 
Love  against  hatred, 
Peace-cry  for  war-cry  ! 
Patience  is  powerful ; 


. 


TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN-  THE  SAGA  01    KINO  OhAV.    C,Cu', 


m 


j 


He  that  o'ercometh 

Httfch  power  o'er  the  nations  ! 

"  As  torrents  in  summer, 
Ilalf  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 
Ilis  faith  shall  not  fail  us  ; 
Christ  is  eternal !" 


INTERLUDE. 

A  strain  of  music  closed  the  talc, 
A  low,  monotonous,  funeral  wail, 
That  with  its  cadence,  wild  and  sweet 
.Made  the  long  Saga  more  complete. 
:t  Thank  God,"  the  Theologian  said, 
'*  The  reign  of  violence  is  dead, 


6C4 


LONGFELLOW  8  POEX3. 


Or  dying  surely  from  the  world  ; 
While  Love  triumphant  reigns  inM<  ml, 
And  in  a  brighter  sky  o'erhead 
His  blessed  banners  are  unfurled. 
Ami  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  he  Calvin,  and  not  Christ ' 

Must  it  be  Athanasian  creeds, 

Or  holy  water,  books,  and  beads  ? 

Must  struggling  souls  remain  content 

With  councils  and  decrees  of  Trent  i 

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  oidy  stand  and  beat,  my  breast, 

And  pray  fur  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. 


TAJiES  oY    A   WAYSIDE  l.NN       TliL  SAGA   OF   KING   OLA  If.     6ti5 


filLi 


-/£ 


£fe 


But  a  dim  Bliadow,  that  recasts 
The  creed  of  the  Phantasiasts, 
For  \>  bom  no  Alan  of  Borrows  died, 
For  whomthe  Tragedy  Divine 
Was  but  a  symbol  and  a  sign, 
And  Christ  a  phantom  crucified  ! 

"  For  othus  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  sucli  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    TALK 

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  splendour  overhead,  the  death  below. 

This  sombre  man  counted  each  day  as  lost 
On  which  his  feet  no  sacred  threshold  crossed  ; 
And  when  he  chanced  the  passing  Host  to  meet. 


6Cu* 


LONGFELLOW 


He  knelt  and  prayed  devoutly  in  the  street  ; 

Oft  he  confessed  ;  and  with  each  mutinous  thought, 

As  with  wild  beasts  at  Ephesus,  lie  fought. 

In  deep  contrition  Boourged  himself  in  Lent, 

Walked  in  processions,  with  his  head  down  bent, 

At  pi  irpua  Christ]  oft  was  .seen, 

And  on  Palm  Sunday  bore  his  bough  of  green. 

His  only  pastime  was  to  hunt  the  boar 

Through  tangled  thickets  of  the  forest  hoar, 

Or  with  his  jingling  mules  to  hurry  down 

To  some  grand  bull-fight  in  the  neighbouring  town, 

Or  in  the  crowd  with  lighted  taper  stand, 

When  Jews  were  burned,  or  banished  from  the  land. 

Then  stirred  within  him  a  tumultuous  joy  ; 

The  demon  whose  delight  is  to  destroy 

Shook  him,  and  shouted  with  a  trumpet  tone, 

"  Kill !  kill !  and  let  the  Lord  find  out  his  own  ! " 

And  now,  in  that  old  castle  in  the  wood, 
His  daughters,  in  the  dawn  of  womanhood, 
Returning  from  their  convent  school,  had  made 
Resplendent  with  their  bloom  the  forest  shade, 
Reminding  him  of  their  dead  mother's  face, 
When  first  she  came  into  that  gloomy  place, — 
A  memory  in  his  heart  as  dim  and  sw7eet 
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, 
ne  glided  softly  through  half-open  doors  ; 
Now  in  the  room,  and  now  upon  the  stair, 
Be    tood  beside  them  ere  they  were  aware  ; 


Tift  listened  in  the  passage  when  they  talked, 

Be  watched  them  from  the  casement  when  they  walked. 

He  saw  the  gipsy  haunt  the  river's  side, 

lie  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. 

lie  watched  them  even  when  they  knelt  in  church  ; 

And  then,  descending  lower  in  his  search, 

Questioned  the  servants,  and  with  eager  eyes 

Listened  incredulous  to  their  replies  ; 

The  gipsy  ?  none  had  seen  her  in  the  wood  ! 

The  monk  ?  a  mendicant  in  search  of  food  ! 

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

Wrapped  in  his  cloak,  his  hat  drawn  o'er  his  face, 
Now  hurrying  forward,  now  with  lingering  pace, 
He  walked  all  night  the  alleys  of  his  park, 
With  one  unseen  companion  in  the  dark, 
The  Demon  who  within  him  lay  in  wait, 
And  by  his  presence  turned  his  love  to  hate, 
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. 

Whet)  questioned,  with  brief  answers  they  repliel. 


tZk 


■ 


wm* 


*M 


LONOVBU  OW'fl  1" 


Nor  when  accused  evaded  or  denied  ; 

Expostulations,  passionate  appeals, 

All  that  the  human  heart  must  tears  or  feelb, 

In  vain  the  Priest  with  earnest  voice  essayed, 

In  vain  the  lather  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  graybeaid  of  fourscore, 
Dressed  in  the  hood  and  habit  of  a  friar  ; 
Out  of  his  eyes  flashed  a  consuming  tire, 
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  sou  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  !" 


....   ■ 


01   \  WAY-!  DB  I.\.N'      TOBQUEMAPA. 


n 


iii  Tilir 


■ 


1 


And  the  deep  voice,  without  a  pause,  replii 

"  Sum  of  the  Church  !  by  faith  now  justified, 

Complete  thy  sacrifice,  even  as  thou  wilt ; 

The  Church  absolves  thy  conscience  from  all  ^uilt  !" 

Then  this  most  wretched  father  went  his  way 

Into  the  woods,  that  round  his  castle  lay, 

Where  once  his  daughters  in  their  childhood  playeu 

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 

Pa  rgots,  that  crackled  with  foreboding  sound, 

And  on  his  mules,  caparisoned  and  gay 

With  bells  and  tassels,  sent  them  on  their  way. 

Then  with  his  mind  on  one  dark  purpose  bent, 

Again  to  the  Inquisitor  he  went, 

And  said  :  "  Behold,  the  faggots  I  have  brought, 

And  now,  lest  my  atonement  be  as  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  ; 

ller  servants  through  all  ages  shall  nofc  cease 

To  magnify  thy  deed.     Depart  in  peace  !" 

Upon  the  market-place,  builded  of  stone 

The  scaffold  rose,  whereon  Death  claimed  his  own. 

At  the  four  corners,  in  stern  attitude, 

Four  statues  of  the  Hebrew  Prophets  stood, 

Gazing  with  calm  indifference  in  their  eyes 

Upon  this  place  of  human  sacrifice, 

Round  which  was  gathering  fast  the  eager  crowd, 

With  clamour  of  voices  dissonant  and  loud, 

And  every  roof  and  window  was  alive 

With  restless  gazers,  swarming  like  a  hive. 

The  church-bells  tolled,  the  chant  of  monks  drew  ne*u. 
Loud  trumpets  stammered  forth  their  notes  of  fear, 
\  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 


LuNUFELLoW'S  P01M& 


The  victims  stood,  with  faggots  piled  around. 

Then  all  the  air  a  blast  of  trumpets  shook, 

And  louder  sang  the  monks  with  bell  and  book, 

And  the  Hidalgo,  lofty,  stem,  and  proud, 

Lifted  his  torch,  and,  bursting  through  the  crowd, 

Lighted  in  haste  the  faggots,  and  then  lied, 

Lest  those  imploring  eyes  should  strike  him  dead  ! 

0  pitiless  skies  !  why  did  your  clouds  retain 

For  peasants'  fields  their  floods  of  hoarded  rain  / 

0  pitiless  earth  !  why  opened  no  abyss 

To  bury  in  its  chasm  a  crime  like  this  / 

That  night,  a  mingled  column  of  fire  and  smoke 

From  the  dark  thickets  of  the  forest  broke, 

And,  glaring  o'er  the  landscape  leagues  away. 

Made  all  the  fields  and  hamlets  bright  as  day 

Wrapped  in  a  sheet  of  flame  the  castle  blazed 

And  as  the  villagers  in  terror  gazed, 

They  saw  the  figure  of  that  cruel  knight 

Lean  from  a  window  in  the  turret's  height, 

His  ghastly  face  illumined  with  the  glare, 

His  hands  upraised  above  his  head  in  prayer, 

Till  the  floor  sank  beneath  him,  and  he  fell 

Down  the  black  hollow  of  that  burning  well. 

Three  centuries  and  more  above  his  bones 

Have  piled  the  oblivious  years  like  funeral  stones  ; 

His  name  has  perished  with  him,  and  no  trace 

Remains  ou  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  wTongs  and  sufferings  and  disgrace 
His  head  was  sunk  upon  his  breast, 


&y 


TA1.F>  oF  A  WAYSIDE  1  N  .\       [NTERLCDE. 


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, 

An  1  thus  he  dealt  the  avenging  stroke. 

"  In  such  a  company  as  this, 

A  tale  so  tragic  seems  amiss, 

That  by  its  terrible  control 

O'ermasters  and  drags  down  the  soul 

Into  a  fathomless  abyss. 

The  Italian  Tales  that  you  disdain, 

Some  merry  Night  of  Straparole, 

Or  Machiavelli's  Belphagor, 

Would  cheer  us  and  delight  us  more, 

Give  greater  pleasure  and  less  pain 

Than  your  grim  tragedies  of  Spain  ! " 

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


THE  POET'S  TALE. 

THE  BIRDS  OF  KILLINGWORTH. 

it  was  the  season,  when  through  all  the  land 
The  merle  and  mavis  build,  and  building  sing 

Those  lovely  lyrics,  written  by  His  hand, 
"Whom  Saxon  Csedmon  calls  the  Blithe-heart  King; 

When  on  the  boughs  the  purple  buds  expand, 
The  banners  of  the  vanguard  of  the  Spring, 

And  rivulets,  rejoicing,  rush  and  leap, 

And  wave  their  fluttering  signals  from  the  steep. 

The  robin  and  the  blue-bird,  piping  loud. 

Filled  all  the  blossoming  orchards  with  their  glee  ; 

The  sparrows  chirped  as  if  they  still  were  proud 
Their  race  in  Holy  Writ  should  mentioned  be  ; 

And  hungry  crows  assembled  in  a  crowd, 
Clamoured  their  piteous  prayer  incessantly, 

Knowing  who  hears  the  ravens  cry,  and  said  : 
five  us,  0  Lord,  this  day  our  daily  bread  !" 


672 


OEMS. 


Across  the  Sound  the  birds  of  passage  sailed, 
Speaking  some  unknown  language  strange  and  sweet 

Of  tropic  isle  remote,  and  passing  hailed 
The  village  with  the  cheers  of  all  their  fleet ; 

Or  quarrelling  together,  laughed  and  railed 
Like  foreign  sailors,  landed  in  the  street 

Of  seaport  town,  and  with  outlandish  noise 

Of  oaths  and  gibberish  frightening  girls  and  boys. 

Thus  came  the  jocund  Spring  in  Killingwurth, 
In  fabulous  days,  some  hundred  years  ago  ; 

And  thrifty  farmers,  as  they  tilled  the  earth, 
Heard  with  alarm  the  cawing  of  the  crow, 

That  mingled  with  the  universal  mirth, 
Oassandra-like,  prognosticating  woe  ; 

They  shook  their  heads,  and  doomed  with  dreadful  words 

To  swift  destruction  the  whole  race  of  birds. 

And  a  town-meeting  was  convened  straightway 

To  set  a  price  upon  the  guilty  heads 
Of  these  marauders,  who,  in  lieu  of  pay, 

Levied  black-mail  upon  the  garden  beds 
And  corn- fields,  and  beheld  without  dismay 

The  awful  scarecrow,  with  his  fluttering  shrede  ; 
The  skeleton  that  waited  at  their  feast, 
\Y  hereby  their  sinful  pleasure  was  increased. 

Then  from  his  house,  a  temple  painted  white, 

With  fluted  columns,  and  a  roof  of  red, 
The  Squire  came  forth,  august  and  splendid  sight ! 

Slowly  descending,  with  majestic  tread, 
Three  flights  of  steps,  nor  looking  left  nor  right, 

Down  the  long  street  he  walked,  as  one  who  said, 
"  A  town  that  boasts  inhabitants  like  me 
Can  have  no  lack  of  good  society  I1' 

The  Parson,  too,  appeared,  a  man  austere, 
The  instinct  of  whose  nature  was  to  kill; 

The  wrath  of  God  he  preached  from  year  to  year, 
And  read,  with  fervour,  Edwards  on  the  Will ; 

His  favourite  pastime  was  to  slay  the  deer 
In  Summer  on  some  Adirondac  liill ; 

E'en  now,  while  walking  down  the  rural  lane, 

He  lopped  the  wiypide  lilies  with  his  cane. 


- 


!S  OP  A  WAYSIDE  iNX    -BIRDS  OF  KILL1NOWOETH.   673 


u 


From  the  Academy,  whose  belfry  crowned 

The  hill  of  Science  with  its  vane  of  brass, 
•  the  Preceptor,  gazing  idly  round, 

Now  at  the  clouds,  and  now  at  the  green  grass^ 
And  all  absorbed  in  reveries  profound 

Of  fair  Almira  in  the  upper  class, 
Wbn  was,  as  in  a  sonnet  he  had  said, 
As  pure  as  water,  and  as  good  as  bread. 

And  next  the  Deacon  issued  from  his  door, 
In  his  voluminous  neckcloth,  white  as  snow  ; 

A  suit  of  sable  bombazine  he  wore  ; 

His  form  was  ponderous,  and  his  step  was  slow  ; 

There  never  was  so  wise  a  man  before  ; 
He  seemed  the  incarnate  "  Well,  I  told  you  so  !" 

And  to  perpetuate  his  great  renown 

There  was  a  street  named  after  him  in  town. 

These  came  together  in  the  new  town-hall, 
With  sundry  farmers  from  the  region  round. 

The  Squire  presided,  dignified  and  tall, 

His  air  impressive  and  his  reasoning  sound  ; 

111  fared  it  with  the  birds,  both  great  and  small  ; 
Hardly  a  friend  in  all  that  crowd  they  found, 

But  enemies  enough,  who  every  one 

Charged  them  with  all  the  crimes  beneath  the  sun 

When  they  had  ended,  from  his  place  apart, 
Rose  the  Preceptor,  to  redress  the  wrong, 

And,  trembling  like  a  steed  before  the  start, 
Looked  round  bewildered  on  the  expectant  throng 

Then  thought  of  fair  Almira,  and  took  heart 
To  speak  out  what  was  in  him,  clear  and  strong, 

Alike  regardless  of  their  smile  or  frown, 

And  quite  determined  not  to  be  laughed  down. 

"  Plato,  anticipating  the  Reviewers, 

From  his  Republic  banished  without  pity 

The  Poets  ;  in  this  little  town  of  yours, 
You  put  to  death,  by  means  of  a  Committee. 

The  ballad-singers  and  the  Troubadours, 
The  street-musicians  of  the  heavenly  city, 

The  birds,  who  make  sweet  music  fur  as  all 

In  our  dark  hours,  as  David  did  for  Saul. 


"  The  thrush  that  can 4s  at  the  dawn  of  day 
From  the  green  of  the  piny  wood  ; 


[-: 


/ 


874 


LONGFELLOW  8  P0EM3. 


The  oriole  in  the  elm  ;  the  noisy  jay, 
Jargoning  like  a  foreigner  at  his  food  ; 

The  bine-bird  balanced  on  some  topmost  spray, 
Flooding  with  melody  the  neighbourhood  ; 

Linnet  and  meadow-lark,  and  all  the  throng 

That  dwell  in  nests,  and  have  the  gift  of  song. 

"  You  slay  them  all  !  and  wherefore  ?  for  the  gain 
Of  a  scant  handful  more  or  less  of  wheat, 

Or  rye,  or  barley,  or  some  other  grain, 
Scratched  up  at  random  by  industrious  feet, 

Searching  for  worm  or  weevil  after  rain  ! 
Or  a  few  cherries,  that  are  not  so  sweet 

As  are  the  songs  these  uninvited  guests 

Sing  at  their  feast  with  comfortable  breasts 

"  Do  you  ne'er  think  what  wondrous  beings  these  I 
Do  you  ne'er  think  who  made  them,  and  who  taught 

The  dialect  they  speak,  where  melodies 
Alone  are  the  interpreters  of  thought  i 

Whose  household  words  are  songs  in  many  keys, 
Sweeter  than  instrument  of  man  e'er  caught ! 

Whose  habitations  in  the  tree-tops  even 

Are  half-way  houses  on  the  road  to  heaven  ! 

"  Think,  every  morning  when  the  sun  peeps  through 
The  dim,  leaf-latticed  windows  of  the  grove, 

How  jubilant  the  happy  birds  renew 
Their  old,  melodious  madrigals  of  love  ! 

And  when  you  think  of  this,  remember  too 
'Tis  always  morning  somewhere,  and  above 

The  awakening  continents,  from  shore  to  shore, 

Somewhere  the  birds  are  singing  evermore. 

"  Think  of  your  woods  and  orchards  without  birds  ' 
Of  empty  nests  that  cling  to  boughs  and  beams 

As  in  an  idiot's  brain  remembered  words 
Hang  empty  'mid  the  cobwebs  of  his  dreams  ! 

Will  bleat  of  flocks  or  bellowing  of  herds 
Make  up  for  the  lost  music,  when  your  teams 

Drag  home  the  stingy  harvest,  and  no  more 

The  feathered  gleaners  follow  to  your  door  I 

"  W'hat !  would  you  rather  see  the  incessant  stir 

Of  insects  in  the  windrows  of  the  hay, 
And  hear  the  locust  and  the  grasshopper 

Their  melancholy  hurdy-gurdies  play  ? 


35* 


is* 


" 


-"1 


Is  this  more  pleasant  to  you  than  the  whirr 
Of  meadow-lark,  and  its  sweet  roundelay, 
Or  twitter  of  little  fieldfares,  aa  you  take 
Your  nooning  in  the  shade  of  bush  and  brake  I 

i  call  them  thieves  and  pillagers  ;  but  know 
They  are  the  winged  wardens  of  your  farms, 

Who  from  the  cornfields  drive  the  insidious  foe, 
And  from  your  harvests  keep  a  hundred  harms  ; 

Eren  the  blackest  of  them  all,  the  crow, 
Renders  good  service  as  your  man-at-arms, 

Crushiug  the  beetle  in  his  coat  of  mail, 

And  crying  havoc  on  the  slug  and  snail. 

"  How  can  1  teach  your  children  gentleness, 
And  mercy  to  the  weak,  and  reverence 

For  Life,  which,  in  its  weakness  or  excess, 
Is  still  a  gleam  of  God's  omnipotence, 

Or  Death,  which,  seeming  darkness,  is  no  less 
The  selfsame  light,  although  averted  hence, 

When  by  your  laws,  your  actions,  and  your  speech, 

You  contradict  the  very  things  I  teach  V 

With  this  he  closed  ;  and  through  the  audience  went 
A  murmur,  like  the  rustle  of  dead  leaves  ; 

The  farmers  laughed  and  nodded,  and  some  bent 
Their  yellow  heads  together  like  their  sheaves  ; 

Men  have  no  faith  in  fine-spun  sentiment 
Who  put  their  trust  in  bullocks  and  in  beeves. 

The  birds  were  doomed  ;  and,  as  the  record  shows, 

A  bounty  offered  for  the  heads  of  crows. 

There  was  another  audience  out  of  reach, 
Who  had  no  voice  nor  vote  in  making  laws, 

But  in  the  papers  read  his  little  speech, 
And  crowned  his  modest  temples  with  applause  ; 

They  made  him  conscious,  each  one  more  than  each, 
lie  still  was  victor,  vanquished  in  their  cause. 

Sweetest  of  all  the  applause  he  won  from  thee, 

0  fair  Almira  at  the  Academy  ! 

And  so  the  dreadful  massacre  began  ; 

O'er  fields  and  orchards,  and  o'er  woodland  crests, 
The  ceaseless  fusillade  of  terror  ran. 

Dead  fell  the  birds,  with  blood-stains  on  their  breasts 
Or  wounded  crept  away  from  sight  of  man, 

While  the  young  died  of  famine  in  their  nests  : 


J 


576 


LONGFELLOW  S  POEMS. 


>    1 


A  slaughter  to  be  told  in  groans,  not  words, 
The  very  St  Bartholomew  of  Birds  ! 

The  Summer  came,  and  all  the  birds  were  dead  ; 

Th  '  days  wore  like  hot  coals  ;  the  very  ground 
Was  burnt  to  ashes  ;  in  the  orchards  fed 

Myriads  of  caterpillars,  and  around 
The  cultivated  fields  and  garden  beds 

Hosts  of  devouring  insects  crawled,  and  found 
No  foe  to  check  their  march,  till  they  had  made 
The  land  a  desert  without  leaf  or  shade. 

Devoured  by  worms,  like  Herod,  was  the  town, 
Because,  like  Herod,  it  had  ruthlessly 

Slaughtered  the  Innocents.  From  the  tree  spun  down 
The  canker-worms  upon  the  passers-by, 

Upon  each  woman's  bonnet,  shawl,  and  gown, 
Who  shook  them  off  with  just  a  little  cry  ; 

They  were  the  terror  of  each  favourite  walk, 

The  endless  theme  of  all  the  village  talk. 

The  farmers  grew  impatient,  but  a  few 
Confessed  their  error,  and  would  not  complain, 

For  after  all,  the  best  thing  one  can  do 
When  it  is  raining,  is  to  let  it  rain. 

Then  they  repealed  the  law,  although  they  knew 
It  would  not  call  the  dead  to  life  again  ; 

As  school-boys,  finding  their  mistake  too  late, 

Draw  a  wet  sponge  across  the  accusing  slate. 

That  year  in  Killingworth  the  Autumn  came 
Without  the  light  of  his  majestic  look, 

The  wonder  of  the  falling  tongues  of  flame, 
The  illumined  pages  of  ins  Doom's-Day  book. 

A  few  lost  leaves  blushed  crimson  with  their  sham;1, 
And  drowned  themselves  despairing  in  the  brook. 

While  the  wild  wind  went  moaning  everywhere, 

Lamenting  the  dead  children  of  the  air  ! 

But  the  next  Spring  a  stranger  sight  was  seen. 

A  sight  that  never  yet  by  bard  was  sung, 
As  great  a  wonder  as  it  would  have  been 

If  some  dumb  animal  had  found  a  tongue  ! 
A  waggon,  overarched  with  evergreen, 

Upon  whose  boughs  were  wicker  cages  hung, 
All  full  of  singing  birds,  came  down  the  street. 
Filling  the  air  with  music  wild  and  sweet. 


y 


fc&- 


1 


iSi 

i< 


MS 


From  all  the  country  round  these  birds  were  brought. 

By  order  of  the  town,  with  anxious  quest, 
And,  loosened  from  their  wicker  prisons,  sought 

In  woods  and  fields  the  places  they  loved  best, 
Singing  loud  canticles,  which  many  thought 

Were  satires  to  the  authorities  addressed  ; 
While  others,  listening  in  green  lanes,  averred 
Such  lovely  music  never  had  been  heard  ! 

But  blither  still  and  louder  carolled  they 
Upon  the  morrow,  for  they  seemed  to  know 

It  was  the  fair  Almira's  wedding-day, 
And  everywhere,  around,  above,  below, 

When  the  Preceptor  bore  his  bride  away, 
Their  songs  burst  forth  in  joyous  overflow, 

And  a  new  heaven  bent  over  a  new  earth 

Amid  the  sunny  farms  of  Killingworth. 


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  parlour  light ; 
While  from  the  windows,  here  and  there. 
The  scattered  lamps  a  moment  gleamed, 
And  the  illumined  hostel  seemed 
The  constellation  of  the  Bear, 
Downward,  athwart  the  misty  air. 
Sinking  and  setting  toward  the  sun. 
Far  off  the  village  clock  struck  one. 


'. 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 

FLIGHT  THE  SECOND. 


ENCELADUS. 

Under  Mount  Etna  he  lies, 

It  is  slumber,  it  is  not  death  ; 
For  he  struggles  at  times  to  arise 
And  above  him  the  lurid  skies 

Are  hot  with  his  fiery  breath. 

The  crags  are  piled  on  his  breast, 

The  earth  is  heaped  on  his  head  ; 
But  the  groans  of  his  wild  unrest, 
Though  smothered  and  hall' suppressed, 
Are  heard,  and  he  is  not  dead. 

And  the  nations  far  away 
Are  watching  with  eager  eyes  : 

They  talk  together  and  say, 

"  To-morrow,  perhaps  to-day, 
Enceladus  will  arise  !  " 

And  the  old  gods,  the  austere 

Oppressors  in  their  strength, 
Stand  aghast  and  white  with  fear 
At  the  ominous  sounds  they  hear, 

And  tremble,  and  mutter,  "  At  length!" 

Ah  me  !  for  the  land  that  is  sown 

With  the  harvest  of  despair  ! 
Where  the  burning  cinders,  blown 
From  the  lips  of  the  overthrown 

Enceladus,  fill  the  air. 

Where  ashes  are  heaped  in  drifts 
Over  vineyard  and  field  and  town, 


p.rups  ov  rASSAOE 


Whenever  he  starts  ami  lifts 
His  head  through  the  blackened  rifts 
Of  the  crags  that  keep  him  down. 

Sec,  see  !  the  red  light  shines  ! 

'T  is  the  £lare  of  his  awful  eyes  ! 
And  the  storm  -wind  shouts  through  the  pines 
Of  Alps  anil  of  Appenines, 

"  Enceladus,  arise  !  " 


THE  CUMBERLAND. 

At  anchor  in  Hampton  Roads  we  lay, 

Onboard  of  the  Cumberland,  sloop-oi-war  ; 
And  at  times  from  the  fortress  across  the  bay 
The  alarum  of  drums  swept  past, 
Or  a  bugle  blast 
From  the  camp  on  the  shore. 

Then  far  away  to  the  south  uprose 

A  little  feather  of  snow-white  smoke, 
And  we  knew  that  the  iron  ship  of  our  foes 
Was  steadily  steering  its  course 
To  try  the  force 
Of  our  ribs  of  oak. 

Down  upon  us  heavily  runs, 

Silent  and  sullen,  the  floating  fort  ; 
Then  comes  a  puff  of  smoke  from  her  guns, 
And  leaps  the  terrible  death, 
With  fiery  breath, 
From  each  open  port. 

We  are  not  idle,  but  send  her  straight 

Defiance  back  in  a  full  broadside  ! 
As  hail  rebounds  from  a  roof  of  slate. 
Rebounds  our  heavier  hail 
From  each  iron  scale 
Of  the  monster's  hide. 

"  Strike  your  (lag  !  "  the  rebel  cries, 

In  his  arrogant  old  plantation  strain. 
"  Never  !  "  our  gallant  Morris  replies  ; 
"  It  is  better  to  sink  than  to  yield  1 " 
And  the  whole  air  pealed 
With  the  cheers  of  our  men 


080 


LONOFEIiLOW'S  POEMS. 


Then,  like  a  kraken  bilge  and  black, 

She  crushed  our  ribs  in  her  iron  grasp  I 
Down  went  the  Cumberland  all  a  wrack, 
With  a  sudden  shudder  of  death, 
And  the  cannon's  breath 
For  her  dying  gasp. 
Next  morn,  as  the  sun  rose  over  the  bay, 

Still  floated  our  flag  at  the  mainmast -head- 
Lord,  how  beautiful  was  thy  day  ! 
Every  waft  of  the  air 
Was  a  whisper  of  prayer, 
Or  a  dirge  for  the  dead. 
Ho  !  brave  hearts  that  went  down  in  the  sea«  ! 

Ye  are  at  peace  in  the  troubled  stream, 
Ho  !  brave  land  !  with  hearts  like  these, 
Thy  flag,  that  is  rent  in  twain, 
Shall  be  one  again, 
And  without  a  seam  ! 


SNOW-FLAKES. 

Out  of  the  bosom  of  the  Air, 

Out  of  the  cloud-folds  of  her  garments  shaki  r. 
Over  the  woodlands  brown  ami  bare, 
Over  the  harvest-fields  forsaken, 
Silent,  and  soft,  and  slow 
Descends  the  snow. 
Even  as  our  cloudy  fancies  take 

Suddenly  shape  in  some  divine  expression. 
Even  as  the  troubled  heart  doth  make 
In  the  white  countenance  confession, 
The  troubled  sky  reveals 
The  grief  it  feels. 

This  is  the  poem  of  the  air, 

Slowly  in  silent  syllables  recorded  ; 
This  is  the  secret  of  despair, 

Long  in  its  cloudy  bosom  hoarded. 
Now  whispered  and  revea-led 
Tc  wood  and  field. 


.  Ui    J 


-  oi     1  ASSAOE-  FLKiHT  THE  BLOOND. 


681 


■ 


mm 


■ 


>£ 


A  DAY  OF  SUNSHINE. 

0  gift  of  God  !  0  perfect  (Lay  ! 
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  void. 

1  feel  the  electric  thrill,  the  touch 
Of  life,  that  seems  almost  too  much. 

I  hear  the  wind  among  the  trees 
Playing  celestial  symphouies  ; 
I  see  the  branches  downward  bent, 
Like  keys  of  some  great  instrument. 
And  over  me  unrolls  on  high 
The  splendid  scenery  of  the  sky, 
Where  through  a  sapnhire  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  ! 

0  Life  and  Love  !  0  happy  throng 
Of  thoughts,  whose  only  speech  is  song  ! 
0  heart  of  man  !  canst  thou  not  be 
Blithe  as  the  air  is,  and  as  free  / 


SOMETHING  LEFT  UNDONE. 

Labour,  with  what  zeal  we  will, 
Something  still  remains  undone, 

Something  uncompleted  still 
Waits  the  rising  of  the  sun. 

By  the  bedside,  on  the  stair. 
At  the  threshold,  near  the  gate*, 

With  its  menace  or  its  prayer, 
Like  a  mendicant  it  waits  ; 


i  82 


LONGFELLOW'S  P*  . 


Waits,  ami  will  not  go  away  ; 

Waits,  and  will  cot  be  gainsaid  ; 
By  the  cares  of  yesterday 

Bach  to-day  is  heavier  made  ; 

Till  at  length  the  burden  seems 
Greater  than  our  strength  can  bear. 

Heavy  as  the  weight  of  dreams, 
Pressing  on  us  everywhere. 

And  we  stand  from  day  to  day, 
Like  the  dwarfs  of  times  gone  by. 

Who,  as  Northern  legends  say, 
On  their  shoulders  held  the  sky 


m 


WEARINESS. 

0  little  feet !  that  such  long  years 
Must  wander  on  through  hopes  and  fears, 

Must  ache  and  bleed  beneath  your  load  ; 
I,  nearer  to  the  wayside  inn 
Where  toil  shall  cease  and  rest  begin, 

Am  weary,  thinking  of  your  road  ! 
0  little  hands  !  that,  weak  or  strong, 
Have  still  to  serve  or  rule  so  long, 

Have  still  so  long  to  give  or  ask  ; 
I,  who  so  much  with  book  and  pen 
Have  toiled  among  my  fellow-men, 

Am  weary,  thinking  of  your  task. 

0  little  hearts  !  that  throb  and  beat 
With  such  impatient,  feverish  heat, 

Such  limitless  and  strong  desires  ; 
Mine  that  so  long  has  glowed  and  burned, 
With  passions  into  ashes  turned 

Now  covers  and  conceals  its  fires. 

O  little  souls  !  as  pure  and  white 
And  crystalline  as  rays  of  light 

Direct  from  heaven,  their  source  divine  ; 
Refracted  through  the  mist  of  years, 
How  red  my  setting  sun  appears, 

How  lurid  looks  this  soul  of  mine  ! 


OF  PASSAGE      FUCllT  Till  SECOND. 


THE  CHILDREN'S  HOUR, 

Between  the  dark  and  the  daylight, 
\\  hen  the  night  is  beginning  to  lower, 

Comes  a  pause  in  the  day's  occupatl 
That  is  known  as  the  Children's  Hour. 


I  hear  in  the  chamber  above  me 

The  patter  of  little  feet, 
The  sound  of  a  door  that  is  opened, 

And  voices  soft  and  sweet. 

From  my  study  I  see  in  the  lamplight 
Descending  the  broad  hall-stair, 

Grave  Alice,  and  laughing  Allegra, 
And  Edith  with  golden  hair. 

A  whisper,  and  then  a  silence  : 
Yet  I  know  by  their  merry  eyes 

They  are  plotting  and  planning  together 
To  take  me  by  surprise. 

A  sudden  rush  from  the  stairway, 
A  sudden  raid  from  the  hall : 

By  three  doors  left  unguarded 
They  enter  my  castle  wall ! 

They  climb  up  into  my  turret 
O'er  the  arms  and  back  of  my  chair  ; 

If  I  try  to  escape they  surround  me  ; 

They  seem  to  be  everywhere. 

They  almost  devour  me  with  kisses. 

Their  arms  about  me  entwine, 
Till  I  think  of  the  Bishop  of  Bingen 

In  his  Mouse-Tower  on  the  Rhine  ' 

Do  you  think,  0  blue-eyed  banditti, 
Because  you  have  scaled  the  wall. 

Such  an  old  moustache  as  I  am 
Is  not  a  match  for  you  all  / 


imtmsm 


rihi 


LONGFELLOW'S  POEMS. 


i  have  you  fast  in  my  fortress, 
And  will  not  let  you  depart, 

But  put  you  down  into  the  dungeon* 
In  the  round  tower  of  my  heart. 

And  there  will  I  keep  you  for  evei, 

Yes,  for  ever  and  a  day, 
Till  the  walls  shall  crumble  to  ruin, 

And  moulder  in  dust  away  ! 


HMBP 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


-  -  ■ ;  >■■ 

1 .  4  J 


PALINGENESIS. 

I  lay  upon  the  headland-height,  and  listened 
To  the  incessant  sobbing  of  the  sea 

In  caverns  under  me, 
And    watched   the   waves,    that   tossed  and  tied  and 

glistened, 
Until  the  rolling  meadows  of  amethyst 

Melted  away  in  mist. 

Then  suddenly,  as  one  from  sleep,  I  started  ; 
For  round  about  me  all  the  sunny  capes 

Seemed  peopled  with  the  shapes 
Of  those  whom  1  had  known  in  days  departed, 
Apparelled  in  the  loveliness  which  gleams 

On  faces  seen  in  dreams. 

A  moment  only,  and  the  light  and  glory 
Faded  away,  and  the  disconsolate  shore 

Stood  lonely  as  before ; 
And  the  wild  roses  of  the  promontory 
Around  me  shuddered  in  the  wind,  and  shed 

Their  petals  of  pale  red. 

There  was  an  old  belief  that  in  the  embers 
Of  all  things  their  primordial  form  exists, 

And  cunning  alchemists 
Could  re-create  the  rose  with  all  its  members 
From  its  own  ashes,  but  without  the  bloom, 

"Without  the  lost  perfume. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


685 


M 


Ah  me!  what  wonder-working,  occult  science 
Can  from  the  ashes  in  our  hearts  once  more 

The  rose  of  youth  restore  I 
What  craft  of  alchemy  can  bid  defiance 
To  time  and  change,  and  fur  a  single  hour 

Renew  this  phantom  flower? 

"  0,  give  me  back !  "  I  cried,  "  the  vanished  splendours. 
The  breath  of  morn,  and  the  exultant  strife, 

When  the  swift  stream  of  life 
Bounds  over  its  rocky  channel,  and  surrenders 
The  pond,  with  all  its  lilies,  for  the  leap 

Into  the  unknown  deep !" 

And  the  sea  answered,  with  a  lamentation, 
Like  some  old  prophet  wailing,  and  it  said, 

"  Alas !  thy  youth  is  dead ! 
It  breathes  no  more,  its  heart  has  no  pulsation  ; 
In  the  dark  places  with  the  dead  of  old 

It  lies  for  ever  cold  !" 

Then  said  I,  "  From  its  consecrated  cerements 
I  will  not  drag  this  sacred  dust  again, 

Only  to  give  me  pain ; 
But,  still  remembering  all  the  lost  endearments, 
Go  on  my  way,  like  one  who  looks  before, 

And  turns  to  weep  no  more." 

Into  what  land  of  harvests,  what  plantations 
Bright  with  autumnal  foliage  and  the  glow 

Of  sunsets  burning  low ; 
Beneath  what  midnight  skies,  whose  constellations 
Light  up  the  spacious  avenues  between 

This  world  and  the  unseen ! 

Amid  what  friendly  greetings  and  caresses, 
What  households,  though  not  alien,  yet  not  mine, 

What  bowers  of  rest  divine ; 
To  what  temptations  in  lone  wildernesses, 
What  famine  of  the  heart,  what  pain  and  loss, 

The  bearing  of  what  cross! 

I  do  not  know ;  nor  will  I  vainly  question 
Those  pages  of  the  mystic  book  which  hold 

The  story  still  untold, 
But  without  rash  conjecture  or  suggestion 
Turn  its  last  leaves  in  reverence  and  good  heed, 

Until  "  The  End  "  I  read. 


i 


tarn 


LOXQFELI.OW  S  POEMS. 


)lmj 


THE  BRIDGE  OF  CLOUD 

Bukn,  0  evening  hearth,  and  waken 
Pleasant  visions,  as  of  old! 

Though  the  house  by  winds  he  .shake::, 
Safe  I  keep  this  room  of  gold  1 

Ah,  no  longer  wizard  Fancy- 
Builds  her  castles  in  the  air 

Luring  me  by  necromancy 
Up  the  never-ending  stair. 

But,  instead,  she  builds  me  bridges 
Over  many  a  dark  ravine, 

Where  beneath  the  gusty  ridges 
Cataracts  dash  and  roar  unseen 

And  I  cross  them,  little  heeding 
Blast  of  wind  or  torrent's  roar, 

As  I  follow  the  receding 

Footsteps  that  have  gone  before 

Nought  avails  the  imploring  gesture. 

Nought  avails  the  cry  of  pain ! 
When  I  touch  the  flying  vesture, 

'Tis  the  gray  robe  of  the  rain 

Baffled  I  return,  and  leaning 
O'er  the  parapets  of  cloud, 

Watch  the  mist  that  intervening 
Wraps  the  valley  in  its  shroul 

And  the  souuds  of  life  ascending 
Faintly,  vaguely,  meet  the  ear, 

Murmur  of  bells  and  voices  blending 
With  the  rush  of  waters  near. 

Well  I  know  what  there  lies  hidden, 
Every  tower  and  town  and  farm, 

And  again  the  land  forbidden 

Reassumes  its  vanished  charm. 

Well  I  know  the  secret  places, 

And  the  nests  in  hedge  and  tree ; 

At  what  doors  are  friendly  faces, 
In  what  hearts  a  thought  of 


MISOEIXAN 


687 


Through  the  mist  and  darkness  sinking, 
Blown  by  wind  and  beaten  by  .shower. 

Down  I  fling  the  thought  I'm  thinking, 
Down  I  toss  this  Alpine  flower. 


CHRISTMAS  BELLS. 

I  heard  the  bells  on  Christmas  day 
Their  old,  familiar  carols  play, 

And  wild  and  sweet 

The  words  repeat 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men ! 

And  thought  how,  as  the  day  had  come, 
The  belfries  of  all  Christendom 

Had  rolled  along 

The  unbroken  song 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men ! 

Till,  ringing,  singing  on  its  way, 
The  world  revolved  from  night  to  day, 

A  voice,  a  chime, 

A  chant  sublime 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men ! 

Then  from  each  black,  accursed  mouth 
The  cannon  thundered  in  the  South, 

And  with  the  sound 

The  carols  drowned 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good- will  to  men  I 

It  was  as  if  an  earthquake  rent 
The  hearthstones  of  a  continent, 

And  made  forlorn 

The  households  born 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men ! 

And  in  despair  I  bowed  my  head  ; 
"  There  is  no  peace  on  earth,"  I  said ; 

"  For  hate  is  strong 

And  mocks  the  song 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good- will  to  men ! " 

Then  pealed  the  bells  more  loud  and  deep: 
rt  God  is  not  dead  ;  nor  doth  He  sleep ! 

The  Wrong  shall  fail, 

The  Right  prevail, 
With  veaoe  on  earth,  good  will  to  menl*1 


J 


C88 


I,*.  vjFKI  LOW  S  POUMS. 


THE  KALIF  OP  BALDACCA. 

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

The  Khan  from  his  palace-window  gazed, 

He  saw  in  the  thronging  street  beneath, 

In  the  light  of  the  setting  sun  that  blazed 

Through  the  clouds  of  dust  by  the  caravan  raised, 

The  flash  of  harness  and  jewelled  sheath, 

And  the  shining  scimitars  of  the  guard, 

And  the  weary  camels  that  bared  their  teeth, 

As  they  passed  and  passed  through  the  gates  unbarred 

Into  the  shade  of  the  palace-yard. 

Thus  into  the  city  of  Kambalu 

Rode  the  great  captain  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  are  plunging  for  pearls  in  the  seas, 

And  peace  and  plenty  are  in  the  land. 

"  Only  Baldacca's  Kalif,  alone, 

Rose  in  rebellion  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. 


I  L 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


689 


1 


B 


For  we  heard  the  sound  of  gongs  from  within; 

With  (dash  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  was  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  there  the  old  miser  crept  by  stealth 

To  feel  of  the  gold  that  gave  him  health, 

To  gaze  and  gloat  with  his  hungry  eye 

On  jewels  that  gleamed  like  a  glow-worm's  spark, 

Or  the  eyes  of  a  panther  in  the  dark. 

"  I  said  to  the  Kalif :  '  Thou  art  old, 

Thou  hast  no  need  of  so  much  gold. 

Thou  shouldst  not  have  heaped  and  hidden  it  here, 

Till  the  breath  of  battle  was  hot  and  near, 

But  have  sown  through  the  land  these  useless  hoards 

To  spring  into  shining  blades  of  swords, 

And  keep  thine  honour  sweet  and  clear. 

These  grains  of  gold  are  not  grains  of  wheat ; 

These  bars  of  silver  thou  canst  not  eat ; 

These  jewels  and  pearls  and  precious  stones 

Cannot  cure  the  aches  in  thy  bones, 

Nor  keep  the  feet  of  Death  one  hour 

From  climbing  the  stairways  of  thy  tower! ' 

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

"  When  at  last  we  unlocked  the  door, 

We  found  him  dead  upon  the  floor; 

The  rimrs  had  dropped  from  his  witliored  hands, 

His  teeth  were  like  bones  in  the  desert  sands; 

Still  clutching  his  treasure  he  had  died; 

And  as  he  lay  there,  he  appeared 


690 


LONOFEJJ.OW  S  POKMB. 


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  Aliiu 
Told  to  his  brother  the  Tartar  Khan, 
When  he  rode  that  day  into  Kainbalu 
By  the  road  that  leadeth  to  Ispahan. 


THE  WIND  OVER  THE  CHIMNEY 

See,  the  fire  is  sinking  low, 
Dusky  red  the  embers  glow, 

Wrhile  above  them  still  I  cower, 
While  a  moment  more  I  linger, 
Though  the  clock,  with  lifted  finger, 

Points  beyond  the  midnight  hour. 

Sings  the  blackened  log  a  tune 
Learned  in  some  forgotten  June 

From  a  schoolboy  at  his  play, 
When  they  both  were  young  together. 
Heart  of  youth  and  summer  weather 

Making  all  their  holiday. 

And  the  night-wind  rising,  hark ! 
How  above  there  in  the  dark, 

In  the  midnight  and  the  snow, 
Ever  wilder,  fiercer,  grander, 
Like  the  trumpets  of  Iskander, 

All  the  noisy  chimneys  blow ! 

Every  quivering  tongue  of  flame 
Seems  to  murmur  some  great  name, 

Seems  to  say  to  me,  u  Aspire ! " 
But  the  night-wind  answers,  "  Hollow 
Are  the  visions  that  you  follow, 

Into  darkness  sinks  your  fire !  " 

Then  the  flicker  of  the  blaze 
Gleams  on  volumes  of  old  days, 

Written  by  masters  of  the  art, 
Loud  through  those  majestic  pages 
Rolls  the  melody  of  ages, 

Throb  the  harp-strings  of  the  heart 


misoem,a\kotth. 


fiOl 


3£ 


And  again  the  tongues  of  flame 
Start  exulting,  and  exclaim  : 

"  These  are  prophets,  bards,  and  seers 
In  the  horoscope  of  nations, 
Like  ascendant  constellations, 

They  control  the  coming  years." 

But  the  night-wind  cries:  "  Despair  ! 
Those  who  walk  with  feet  of  air 

Leave  no  long-enduring  marks  ; 
At  God's  forges  incandescent 
Mighty  hammers  beat  incessant, 

These  are  but  the  flying  sparks. 

"  Dust  are  all  the  hands  that  wrought : 
Books  are  sepulchres  of  thought ; 

The  dead  laurels  of  the  dead 
Rustle  for  a  moment  only, 
Like  the  withered  leaves  in  lonely 

Churchyards  at  some  passing  tread.'* 

Suddenly  the  flame  sinks  down  ; 
Sink  the  rumours  of  renown  ; 

And  alone  the  night-wind  drear 
Clamours  louder,  wilder,  vaguer, — 
"  'Tis  the  brand  of  Meleagcr 

Dying  on  the  hearth- stone  here !" 

And  I  answer, — "  Though  it  be, 
Why  should  that  discomfort  me  ? 

No  endeavour  is  in  vain  ; 
Its  reward  is  in  the  doing, 
And  the  rapture  of  pursuing 

Is  the  prize  the  vanquished  gain. 


W* 


THE  BELLS  OF  LYNN, 

HEARD  AT  NAHAHT. 

0  Ccrfew  of  the  setting  sun  !  0  Bells  of  Lynn  ! 
0  requiem  of  the  dying  day  !  0  Bells  of  Lynn  ! 

From  the  dark  belfries  of  yon  cloud-cathedral  wafted, 
Your  sounds  aerial  seem  to  float,  0  Bells  of  Lynn  ! 

Borne  on  the  evening  wind  across  the  crimson  tv. : 
Oer  land  and  sea  they  rise  anil  fall,  0  Bells  of  Lynn  ! 


-r»  ' 


PC 


692 


LOXGFELLOW  8  P0KM8. 


m/L 


f; 


The  fisherman  in  his  boat,  far  out  beyond  the  headland, 
Listens,  and  leisurely  rows  ashore,  0  Bella  of  Lynn  ! 

Over  the  shining  sands  the  wandering  cattle  homeward 
Follow  each  other  at  your  call,  0  Bells  of  Lynn  ! 

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

And  down  the  darkening  coast  run  the  tumultuous 

surges, 
And  clap  their  hands,  and  shout  to  you,  0  Bells  of  Lynn  ! 

Till  from  the  shuddering  sea,  with  your  wild  incantations, 
Ye  summon  up  the  spectral  moon,  0  Bells  of  Lynn  ! 

And  startled  at  the  sight,  like  the  weird  woman  of  Endor, 
Ye  cry  aloud,  and  then  are  still,  0  Bells  of  Lynn  ! 


A 


i 


HAWTHORNE. 

How  beautiful  it  was,  that  one  bright  day 

In  the  long  w  ek  of  rain  ! 
Though  all  its  splendour  could  not  chase  away 

The  omnipresent  pain. 

The  lovely  town  was  white  with  apple -blooms 

And  the  great  elms  o'erhead 
Dark  shadows  wove  on  their  aerial  looms, 

Shot  though  with  golden  thread. 

Across  the  meadows,  by  the  gray  old  manso, 

The  historic  river  flowed: — 
I  was  as  one  who  wanders  in  a  trance, 

Unconscious  of  his  road. 

The  faces  of  familiar  friends  seemed  strange  ; 

Their  voices  I  could  hear, 
And  yet  the  words  they  uttered  seemed  to  change 

Their  meaning  to  the  ear. 

For  the  one  face  I  looked  for  was  not  there, 

The  one  low  voice  was  mute  ; 
Only  an  unseen  presence  tilled  the  air, 

And  baffled  my  pursuit 


:-J 


8f 


m 


L 


MISOEiiL.YXEOUS. 


603 


<rl 


Now  T  look  hack,  and  meadow,  manse,  and  stream 

Dimly  my  thought  defines ; 
I  only  sec— a  dream  within  a  drcam- 

Tlie  hill-top  hearsed  with  pines. 

I  only  hear  above  his  place  of  rest 

Their  tender  undertime, 
The  infinite  longings  of  a  troubled  breast, 

The  voice  so  like  his  own. 

There,  in  seclusion  and  remote  from  men, 

The  wizard  hand  lies  cold, 
Which  at  its  topmost  speed  let  fall  the  pen, 

And  left  the  tale  half  told. 

Ah,  who  shall  lift  that  wand  of  magic  power. 

And  the  lost  clue  regain  ? 
The  unfinished  window  in  Aladdin's  tower 

Unfinished  must  remain ! 


KILLED  AT  THE  FORD. 

He  is  dead,  the  beautiful  youth, 

The  heart  of  honour,  the  tongue  of  truth, 

lie,  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, 

lie  was  hummiug  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. 


LONGFELLOW'S  T* 


We  lifted  him  on  his  saddle  again, 

And  through  the  mire  and  the  mist  and  the  rain 

Carried  him  hack  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  heat 

Without  a  murmur,  without  a  cry  ; 

And  a  bell  was  tolled  in  that  far-off  town, 

For  one  who  had  passed  from  cross  to  crown, 

And  the  neighbours  wondered  that  she  should  die. 


gt 


NOEL 

Esvoye  A  M.  Agassiz,  la  veille  de  Noel  1864,  avec 

UN  PANIER  de  vins  divers. 

L'Acad^mie  en  respect, 
Nonobstant  l'incorrcction, 
A  la  faveui-  du  sujet, 

Ture-luro, 
N'y  fera  point  de  raturej 
No61 1  ture-iure-lure.  Gui-Bak6eai. 

Quand  les  astres  de  Noel 
Brillaient,  palpitaient  au  ciel, 
Six  gai  Hards,  et  chacun  ivre, 
Chantaient  gaiment  dans  le  givre, 

"  Eons  amis 
Allons  done  chez  Agassiz  ! " 
Ces  illustres  Pederins 
D'Outre-Mer  adroits  et  fins, 
Se  donnant  des  airs  de  pretre, 
A  l'envi  se  vantaient  d'etre 

"  Bons  amis 
De  Jean  Rudolphe  Agassiz  !  " 
(Eil-de-Perdrix,  grand  farceur, 
Sans  reproche  et  sans  pudeur, 
Dans  son  patois  de  Bourgogne, 
Bredouillait  comme  un  ivrogne. 

"  Bons  amis, 
J'&i  danse  chez  Agassiz  !  " 


*3fc 


MISCEl.LANr.onS. 


«95 


m 


Awj 


Vcrzonay  le  Ohampenois, 

Bon  Francais,  point  Ncw-Yorquois, 
Mais  des  environs  d' Arize, 
Fredonne  a  maintc  reprise 

"  Bons  amis. 
J'ai  chante  chez  Agassiz  !  " 

A  cOte  marchait  un  vicnx 
Hidalgo,  mais  non  monssenx  ; 
Dans  le  temps  de  Charlemagne 
Fut  son  pere  Grand  d'Espagne  ! 

"  Bons  amis 
J'ai  din6  chez  Agassiz  !  " 

Derriere  eux  un  Bordelais, 
Gascon,  s'il  en  fut  jamais, 
Parfume  de  poesie 
Riait,  chantait,  plein  de  vie, 

u  Bons  amis, 
J'ai  soupe  chez  Agassiz  ! " 

Avec  ce  beau  cadet  roux, 
Bras  dessus  et  bras  dessous, 
Mine  altiere  et  couleur  terne, 
Vint  le  Sire  de  Sauterne ; 

"  Bons  amis, 
J'ai  ccuche  chez  Agassiz ! " 

Mais  le  dernier  de  ces  preux, 
fitait  un  pauvre  Chartreux, 
Qui  disait,  d'un  ton  robuste, 
"  Benedictions  sur  le  Juste  ! 

Bons  amis, 
Benissons  Pere  Agassiz !  " 

lis  arrivent  trois  a  trois, 
Montent  l'escalier  de  bois 
Clopin-clopant !  quel  gendarme 
Peut  permcttre  ce  vacarme, 

Bons  amis, 
A  la  porte  d'Agaasiz  ! 

"  Onvrez  done,  mon  bon  Seigneur, 
Ouvrez  vite  et  n'ayez  penr  ; 
Ouvrez,  ouvrez,  car  u  mmes 

Gens  de  bien  et  gentilshoinmes. 

Bons  amis 
De  la  famille  Agassi? 


m 


■ 


696 


LONGFELLOW'.*  POEM3. 


Chut,  ganaches  !  taisez-vous  ! 
C'en  est  fcrop  de  vos  glouglous; 

nez  mix  Philosophes 
Vos  abominables  strophes ! 

Bons  amis, 
Respectez  mon  Agassiz  I 


GIOTTO'S  TOWER. 

How  many  lives,  made  beautiful  and  sweet 
By  self-devotion  and  by  self-restraint, 
Whose  pleasure  is  to  run  without  complaint 
On  unknown  errands  of  the  Paraclete, 

Wanting  the  reverence  of  unshodden  feet, 
Fail  of  the  nimbus  which  the  artists  paint 
Around  the  shining  forehead  of  the  saint, 
And  are  in  their  completeness  incomplete  ! 

In  the  old  Tuscan  town  stands  Giotto's  tower, 
The  lily  of  Florence  blossoming  in  stone,— 
A  vision,  a  delight,  and  a  desire, — 

The  builder's  perfect  and  centennial  flower, 
That  in  the  night  of  ages  bloomed  alone, 
But  wanting  still  the  glory  of  the  spire. 


TO-MORROW. 

Tis  late  at  night,  and  in  the  realm  of  sleep 
My  little  lambs  are  folded  like  the  flocks; 
From  room  to  room  I  hear  the  wakeful  clocks 
Challenge  the  passing  nour,  like  guards  that  keep 

Their  solitary  watch  on  tower  and  steep  ; 
Far  off  I  hear  the  crowing  of  the  cocks, 
And  through  the  opening  door  that  time  unlocks 
Feel  the  fresh  breathing  of  To-morrow  creep. 

To-morrow  !  the  mysterious,  unknown  guest, 
Who  cries  to  me  :   "  Remember  Barmecide, 
And  tremble  to  be  happy  with  the  rest." 

And  I  make  answer  :   "  I  am  satisfied  ; 

I  dare  not  ask  ;   I  know  not  what  is  best ; 
God  hath  already  said  what  shall  betide." 


MISCEJ.LANEOUS. 


61)7 


r- 


ON  TRANSLATING  TIIE  DIVINA  COMMEDIA. 

Oft  have  I  seeii  at  some  cathedral  door 

A  labourer,  passing  in  the  dust  and  heat, 
Lay  down  his  burden,  and  with  reverent  feet 
Enter,  and  cross  himself,  and  on  the  floor 

Kneel  to  repeat  his  paternoster  o'er  ; 

Far  off  the  noises  of  the  world  retreat ; 
The  loud  vociferations  of  the  street 
Become  an  undistiuguishable  roar. 

So,  as  I  enter  here  from  day  to  day, 

And  leave  my  burden  at  this  minster  gate, 
Kneeling  in  prayer,  and  not  ashamed  to  pray, 

The  tumult  of  the  time  disconsolate 
To  inarticulate  murmurs  dies  away, 
While  the  eternal  ages  watch  and  wait 

II. 

I  enter,  and  see  thee  in  the  gloom 

Of  the  long  aisles,  0  poet  saturnine  ! 

And  strive  to  make  my  steps  keep  pace  with  thine 

The  air  is  filled  with  some  unknown  perfume ; 

The  congregation  of  the  dead  make  room 

For  thee  to  pass  ;  the  votive  tapers  shine  ; 
Like  rooks  that  haunt  Ravenna's  groves  of  pine 
The  hovering  echoes  fly  from  tomb  to  tomb. 

From  the  confessionals  I  hear  arise 
Rehearsals  of  forgotten  tragedies, 
And  lamentations  from  the  crypts  below  ; 

And  then  a  voice  celestial,  that  begins 

AYith  the  pathetic  words,  "  Although  your  sins 
As  scarlet  be,"  and  ends  with  "  as  the  snow." 

III. 
I  lift  mine  eyes,  and  all  the  windows  blaze 

With  forms  of  saints  and  holy  men  who  died, 

Here  martyred  and  hereafter  glorified  ; 

And  the  great  Rose  upon  its  leaves  displays 
Christ's  Triumph,  and  the  angelic  roundelays 

With  splendour  upon  splendour  multiplied  ; 

And  Beatrice  again  at  Dante's  side 

No  more  rebukes,  but  smiles  her  words  of  praise. 


f! 


.** 


698 


LONGFELLOW  8  P<» 


Ami  then  the  organ  Bounds,  and  unseen  cli< 
Sing  the  old  Latin  hymns  of  peace  and  love, 
And  beni  i  of  the  Holy  Ghost ; 

And  the  melodious  hells  among  the  spires 

O'er  all  the  house-tops  and  through  heaven  above 
Proclaim  the  elevation  of  the  Host ! 

IV. 

How  strange  the  sculptures  that  adorn  these  towers ! 
This  crowd  of  statues,  in  whose  folded  sleeves 
Birds  build  their  nests  ;  while  canopied  with  leaves 
Parvis  and  portal  bloom  like  trellised  bowers, 

And  the  vast  minster  seems  a  cross  of  flowers  ! 
But  fiends  and  dragons  on  the  gargoyled  eaves 
Watch  the  dead  Christ  between  the  living  thieves, 
And,  underneath,  the  traitor  Juda-^  lowers  ! 
Ah  !  from  what  agonies  of  heart  and  brain, 
What  exultations  trampling  on  despair, 
What  tenderness,  what  tears,  what  hate  of  wrong, 

What  passionate  outcry  of  a  soul  in  pain, 
Uprose  this  poem  of  the  earth  and  air, 
This  mediaeval  miracle  of  song ! 


, 


Mil 

■  6 


star  of  morning  and  of  liberty  ! 
O  brkiger  of  the  light,  whose  splendour  shines 
Above  the  darkness  of  the  Apennines, 
Forerunner  of  the  day  that  is  to  be ! 

The  voices  of  the  city  and  the  sea, 
The  voices  of  the  mountains  and  the  pines, 
Repeat  thy  song,  till  the  familiar  lines 
'  Are  footpaths  for  the  thought  of  Italy ! 

Thy  fame  is  blown  abroad  and  a  sound  is  heard, 
As  of  a  mighty  wind,  and  men  devout, 
Strangers  of  Rome,  and  the  new  proselytes, 

in  their  own  language  hear  thy  wondrous  wcud 
And  many  are  amazed  And  many  doubt. 


M 


f  ■: 


-  vi'fw    "  flilr  * 


UUUIHiUl    O&w  i  .       Utb  1  i  *TOA 


PLEASE  DO  NOT  REMOVE 
CARDS  OR  SLIPS  FROM  THIS  POCKET 

UNIVERSITY  OF  TORONTO  LIBRARY 


H&SS 

A 

1452 


1111$ 

IllllHi  hHUi 

■I