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Zbc JBell of atrt T Atri In Abriizzo, a small town Of ancient Roman date, but scant renown, One of those little places that have run Half up the hill, beneath a blazing sun. And then sat down to rest, as if to say, * I climb no farther upward, come what may,' — The Re Giovanni, now unknown to fame. So many monarchs since have borne the name. Had a great bell hung in the market-place Beneath a roof, projecting some small space, By way of shelter from the sun and rain. Then rode he through the streets with all his train, And, with a blast of trumpets loud and long. Made proclamation, that whenever wrong Was done to any man, he should but ring The great bell in the square, and he, the King, Would cause the Syndic to decide thereon. Such was the proclamation of King John. How swift the happy days in Atri sped. What wrongs were righted, need not here be said. Suffice it that, as all things must decay. The hempen rope at length was worn away. Unravelled at the end, and, strand by strand, THE BELL OF ATRI i'i. Loosened and wasted in the ringer's hand, Till one, who noted this in passing" by, Mended llie rope with braids of briony, So that the leaves and tendrils of the vine Mung like a votive garland at a shrine. By chance it happened that in Atri dwelt A knight, with spur on heel and sword in belt, Who loved to hunt the wild-boar in the woods, Who loved his falcons with their crimson hoods, Who loved his hounds and horses, and all sports And prodigalities of camps and courts ; — Loved, or had loved them; for at last, grown old, His only passion was the love of gold. He sold his horses, sold his hawks and hounds. Rented his vineyards and his garden-grounds, Kept but one steed his favorite steed of all, To starve and shiver in a naked stall. And day by day sat brooding in his chair, Devising plans how best to hoard and spare. At length he said : ' What is the use or need To keep at my own cost this lazy steed. Eating his head off in my stables here. When rents are low and provender is dear? Let him go feed upon the public ways ; I want him only for the holidays.' So the old steed was turned into the heat Of the long, lonely, silent, shadeless street ; And wandered in suburban lanes forlorn. Barked at by dogs, and torn by brier and thorn. One afternoon, as in that sultry clime It is the custom in the summer time, THE BELI. OF A TRl Willi bolted doors and window-sluitters closed, The inhabitants of Atri slept or dozed ; When suddenly upon their senses fell The loud alarum of the accusiig bell ! The Syndic started from his deep repose, Turned on his couch, and listened, and then rose And donned his robes, and with reluctant pace Went panting forth into the market-place, Where the great bell upon its cross-beam swung Reiterating with persistent tongue, In half-articulate jargon, the old song : ' Some one hath done a wrong, hath done a wrong !' But e're he reached the belfry's light arcade He saw, or thought he saw, beneath its shade, No shape of human form of woman born. But a poor steed dejected and forlorn. Who with uplifted head and eager eye Was tugging at the vines of briony. * Domeneddio ! ' cried the Syndic straight, * This is the Knight of Atri's steed of state ! He calls for justice, being sore distressed, And pleads his cause as loudly as the best.' Meanwhile from street and lane a noisy crowd Had rolled together like a summer cloud. And told the story of the wretched beast In five-and-twenty different ways at least, With much gesticulation and appeal To heathen gods, in their excessive zeal, The Knight was called and questioned ; in reply Did not confess the fact, did not deny ; Treated the matter as a pleasant jest, laUlU''- OF ATKr ^"^ 'hereupon .„e s , -""-wn. The p^ocla^a • roSe K-^^"'^'^ '-^ J"' co,..e.h back :„ o r::;:' ^™"'^ ^-^ ^«>'- •■a-ne is , he f,ag °' •/*"''. begs „s w«v ; T'.esea;efl-'a?^^''"'^"°'o'-weedL! Ti.ey never ;:;'"'°^^t'' •' ""• ' 'ear He vvho serves we u"d "?^ "'" ^°°' *"■"'« ? Than ,„ey who c,a „o ' ^TT "°'' '"'=••'■"' '™- Jherefore .he, aw ;::::'"' ^'''-''°0'-- Served you in you.rh T ''" ""'^ ''eed heed ^°""'' henceforlh yo„ shali take s'°e.r , *::;;; r;r- -c, .o provide "Stan, and rood and field oeside/ ^-\'o;S?h:i?^---ed,.hepeop,ea,, The Kin^ heard and ann'""" . '° "" ■"'^"• griee, ''"'' ^PP'-oved, and laughed And cried aloud • < n- ■ Church-bells at best b'ft •"''" " '^'^^^^''' "- •' But go not in to^l '"?"""'" ""O-- ' J' -meth into .ZT'J\ "' ' '''^"' ■"<"-« •• Of creatures dumb Ld ''^'''^ "" ""^« And this shall nrake • " "°"" '° "■« '^^^ .• -''-ellorAtri,at:ri',lt:';-<^''-. /n DAVIiREAfC rest, ^h Ills own* d iid : i and g-ay, Way ; »t'y ear. ute brute? ts more •or. ?ed 'ii take JaJ] ed in e! ©asbtcah ,/^WIND came up out of the i sea, And said, ' O mists, make room for me.' It hailed the ships, and cried, * Sail on, Ye mariners, the night is gone.' And hurried landward far away, Crying, * Awake ! it is the day.' It said unto the forest, ' Shout ! Hang all your leafy banners out ! ' It touched the wood-bird's folded wing, And said, 'O bird, awake and sing.' And o'er the farms, ' O chanticleer, Your clarion blow ; the day is ^near.' It whispered to the fields of corn, * Bow down, and hail the coming morn.' It shouted through the belfry-tower, 'Awake, O bell ! proclaim the hour.' It crossed the churchyard with a sigh. And said, ' Not yet ! in quiet lie.' « AVAY; A'O/i/./^.y^ ^^'' ^/c/L y l^'no iRobei-r Of sicHv, IK '^"''vlt::^,,:::''--^ '-ope ,>,.,., ^"d lieard (he pries.v , ' '"■"'"".v s;,t Repeated, like a b,;,,;^ -do- a^ain "•"-•a-'Slu .he words /,/"' A"d .slowly li/v ''"'""/«•/ ' ^''«' ".ean reset ^'■''^ ''■■•" «M. inese words ^ • ti . ,^ swermeet, ' ^he clerk made an- ?f - ^.^"^r Jt7- -. sea. Thereat King Kobe.-, n.u.r.^'""- ^'» 'veil that such 1 ' . '''^ scornf,,i|. ^°'- ""'o priests and peopl . " '""^"'^ ' -"''- ^-- -nt n,-r ,.:•:; -r;-- ^^hen he awoke .f f-h..chwas;:;;%^^-;^"--^'...- S-- Where the la„,pj ,7,; ' "« -- "o light. . f^x^t, ^ ' "'^' S-'mimered few and ^'fflited a liiii„ '"lie space before som<. • " some saint. AV.vf; h'OHKKr or sicjj.v Pe LVbane 'eniaine, re, 'Hi squire, hat cat. ade an- seat, ng- •one \ ' rht, and Hfi started tVom his seat and gazed around, But saw no living" thing anil heard no sound. He groped towards the door, but It was locked ; He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked, And uttered awful threatenings and complaints, And imprecations upon men and saints. The sounds re-echoed from the roof and walls As if dead priests were laughing in their stalls. At length the sexton, hearing from without The tumult of the knocking and the shout. And thinking thieves were in the house of prayer. Came with his lantern, asking, 'Who is there?' Half choked with rage. King Robert fiercely said, < Open : 'lis I, the King ! Art thou afraid ?' The frightened sexton, muttering, with a curse, ' This is some drunken vagabond, or worse ! ' Turned the great key and flung the portal wide ; A man rushed by him at a single stride, Hdggard, half naked, without hat or cloak, Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke, But leaped into the blackness of the night, And vanished like a spectre from his sight. Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, Despoiled of his magnificent attire. Bareheaded, breathless, and besprent with mire, With sense of wrong and ofitrage desperate. Strode on and thundered at the palace gate ; Rushed through the courtyard, thrusting in his rage To right and left each seneschal and page, I I lO II m 4 ^^^^^Sd!2^f^r^^jwa.y «'-^'ngr With li^ut. and b^'. "'"'"-' °°'". ^"-« on the dais sa, ''"^ """' P-'-'-e. ^--nng Lis rob", , "°"'«'- ''in^. f-S: Roberts self'in ;::.7"' ''^ ^'^"^^ Hn^, ll'^ 'hroneielsl j ;:;, r"°"'^"' ^--ed, ,^'•0 -et ,.is ,oo,X;^^;" 'he Ansel ^aze,, W„h the divine col"'^ '■''"'' ^''^Pri^e ^'■--id.MVho°art::r"'r^'^^' To r" /""" ^''y <=<""s. .hot, ^o which Kino- R„u f o-" an i„po,,^ ^ ^°™« 'o clai.„ ^y „^,, ' ^nd suddenly, ^t these and P' "^ ""-"^ ' ' ^P sprang the an^r " ue ""' "•°'-''^' ' ^«^. "ourxr;":''': "-'«^^ C^^^-'^- ^"d for thy counsellor s lijf ^'"'' ^"^^''^Ped cape ''-■'"Ponmyhenchn.enrnThVhaTr- '"g" stair, **' g-'are. ^^th/ess speed lot heed, •room, '^ perfume. net ring-, *"d iieig-ht, 2re >ize. zed, azed, '°«''st thou sneer, •wn . f • r swords; thou »ed cape, KING ROBERT OF SICILY 1 1 Deaf to King Robert's threats and cries and prayers, iThey thrust him from the hall and down the stairs ; I A group of tittering pages ran before, j And as they opened wide the folding door, ; His heart failed, for he heard, with strange alarms, 3 The boisterous laughter of the men-at-arms, |f And all the vaulted chamber roar and ring h With the mock plaudits of ' Long live the King ! ' Next morning, waking with the day's first beam, ,^ He said within himself, ' It was a dream ! ' But the straw rustled as he turned his head. There were the cap and bells beside his bed. Around him rose the bare, discolored walls, Close by, the steeds were champing in their stalls. And in the corner, a revolting shape, Shivering and chattering sat the wretched ape. It was no dream ; the world he loved so much Had turned to dust and ashes at liis touch ! Days came and went ; and now returned again To Sicily the old Saturnian reign ; Under the Angel's governance benign The happy island danced with corn and wine, And deep within the mountain's burning breast Enceladus, the giant, was at rest. Meanwhile King Robert yielded to liis fate, Sullen and silent and disconsolate. Dressed in the motley garb that Jesters wear, With look bewildered and a vacant stare, Close shaven above the ears, as monks are shorn, By courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to scorn. If If fl^J^OSE^r OF swuv His only friend tl,e ao^ h- , VVi,at others left Jj.^i^ °"'^ ''''"' And when the An^el ,11, . ""^"'"'"ed- And ha,nnear„es?hrf.°" "''-'"«>'• The velvet scabbard held 1 '"'^'" ''«'«' *Art.ho„,heKi„^?':^/^:--dofs,eel. B"^«t from him in resis 1. '^ °" °^ '"''' *°e The haughty answer ba^^ I'a m ?"" '^'"^ -^'"-Mhree years we ""' ' ^™ '"« ^'"^ •' ' Ambassadors ^f ;:;:;::;;;<;'' -'.en "^^ came f^rom Valmon J P ^^^Pu'e and name UntoKi„;R:ber1"r"''°'^"^'"-"-- On Holy Thursday .1, "■ "''*'"' '° -°'"e T"eA„^e,wi, ;rU::r"'°'^°■"«=• A^d ^ave them p^esems „f''"'r'' '"'^ «""'«. A"d velvet mantL w"tu °' r"''"'''^'"^'^ ^^^'^ And n^.^s and jereirof,r'" "■'"■•- "-d, Then he departed J- hl^e /J"?'"''- J;°"'e'ovelylandoflL,; "^^"^^^^ |-r;ti„7of7h~--- ^Vuh plumes, and clolL; ' "'y^.'^^^'^' Stir Of And lo ^'oaks, and housing: jewelled bridle pn^ r 'o. among- the menial '^Pon a piebald .r^^. S and the spur. H Tl IS le cloak sole '--.,;j™;;;,r;- of fox-tails fl PP'ng- in the wind mn fln« ^ '^ *"e wi «P« demurely perched beh ind. YZK KING ROBERT OF SICILY >3 'lied, vay, say, ht fee] lis Woe 1 the King^ ! ' there came bane Dnie iiests, vests, and the i ling" Robert rode, making* huge merriment [n all tlie country towns through which they went. lie Pope received them with great pomp and blare f bannered trumpets, en St. Peter's square, iving his benediction and embrace. Fervent, and full of Apostolic grace. While with congratulations and with prayers He entertained the Angel unawares, Robert, the Jester, bursting through the crowd, Into their presence rushed, and cried aloud, ' I am the king ! Look, and behold in me Robert, your brother. King of Sicily ! This man, who wears my semblance to your eyes, Is an imposter in a king's disguise. Do you not know me ? Does no voice within Answer my cry, and say we are akin ? ' The Pope in silence, but with troubled mien, Gazed at the angel's countenance serene ; The Emperor, laughing, said, ' It is strange sport To keep a madman for thy Fool at court ! ' And the poor, baffled Jester in disgrace Was hustled back among the populace. In solemn state the Holy Week went by, And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky ; The presence of the Angel, with its light, Before the sun rose, made the city bright, And with new fervour filled the hearts of men. Who felt that Christ indeed had risen again. Even the Jester, on his bed of straw, With haggard eyes the unwonted splendor saw ; 1 •4 ^^^^^L^£l£^lo^;jjcnr ward. ^"«"' a,r, ascending heaven- And now (|,e visit en^; ^"■'whenonl" °'""'"•'^«''>•^e,••, «e heard tl,eA„^e;u,f"^"«^'-e«'hali, -^-f'hebeuerwor? '"'^°"^^""°--. He beckoned >o Ki ' Rr""' "'"' °"-. And wi.h a gesture bade L'" '^ ''"^" "■^'-. And when ,l,ey were al„ V"' '"'^"'•^ '• "^■•"hou.heKinl. ^'''^^^''S-'^aid. head, ^- Then, bowing down his '^'"g: Robert cro«:=„^ i, ;--e.,,:re::d''h;:':^"?r''T ''■■--•. --Ho:::;-:-'----^^^^^^^^^^^ ,^;-oss those ston,,:;'°°'°^P-'*ence, ;^«"< barefoot, .i/i ■^; '" .{i^ ^ "''^ '° "-ven ^^he Angel smiled and f ^ '""' ''^ thriven ' • ^ -i^'y '.-^ht iiiui:ra,?"r "r ^^"■•^"^ ^-^ ' T^iey heard th Abo ve the St ^P^n wind e monks cli low, ioud an ir and t umult oftii '^"^'■"thechapeJ 'e.nanuscrip,sofGod/ -o.n,.-xtir^r T^^erh3.a.es of the universe And whenever the wav . C>r his hearf U ^ ^^""^^ ^^"g", ''!> neart beg-an to fail She wonid sino- « t,^ '^' '"ore marveJlous taJe ^na wjU not Jet hirv. Thoug-h at times he h«o • m '^.:. ^^ AGASSIS s^ie said, THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH 17 I, Jcld 3d.' away ^ nurse, day |se. led] ""g-, 'erfuj ^aie. song-, 't£ wiJd ' id ; 's dreams ms Hark ! rn ; Ube peers XTale THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH T was the season, when through all the land ft The merle and mavis build, and building sing Those lovely lyrics, written by His hand, Whom Saxon Caedmon calls the Blithe-hcait King ; When on the boughs the purple buds expand. The banners of the vanguard cf the Spring, And rivultts, rejoicing, lush and leap, And wave their fluttering signals from the steep. 'The robin and the bluebird, 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. Clamored their piteous prayer incessantly, Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and said : ' Give us, O Lord, this day, our daily bread ! ' Across the Sound the birds of passage sailed, Speaking some unknown language strange and sweet Of tropic isle remote, and passing hailed Like foreign saUo ! ' '^''^'' ""'' '■«'>d O^ seaport (own ;°d^.«"^«'' '•"-'- s.ree. Heard with alarm I !><. -^ .'"^''"'e earth, That mingled ^uZT """"^ °' "'« -°w. Cassandra-lire orl """'"'" ""■■"'• The, Shoo. theiXr:rr"^^°^' words ""' ='"'' doomed with dreadful To swift destruction the wh^i '"^"'''°'e race of birds. And a town-meeting was ^« , To set a price upon , he T"'^ -""aightway Of'hese marauders wl„?"^''^^'^^ Levied black-maTuIo ;," "" °' P^^' And cornfields Tnd hT w ^^ *^"'"''«" ''^ds The awful ;ea?e. '^ "'""'"' ''-'"ay j^-^e,eton:h::::t-:i^-^«-eri„g^,.,,,^ r7^'^^'--"-^--w:"tased. ^hen from his house a .» > W'-'h fluted columl I 7" ''''"'^'' '^'"''e- The Squire came frr"h!°°"""'' Slowly descending w.^h'm":!-::" ^"'^"'"'^ --^h, - Three flights of steps Zl, V "■^^''• .«ow„ the long st^:;tt::-^'^«no-i^ht, A town that boasts inhabit^ n' ^' °"" *''°--a'd. Can have no lark „f 'ab.tanis hke me no lack of good society!' •h Th Hi H< Fr Ar A! ^^^GIVOA^TH THE BIRDS OF KILUXGWOKTH »9 ^ ''^^ their fleet • ^d and railed ' ^he street ''^'^^'h noise '"S- g-iris and b Kiliing-xvorth, d years ago ; J the earth, ^^ the crow, nirth, > woe ; 1"^^ vvith dreadfu •e of birds. ^^''aig^htwav ?ads 'pay, 5n beds ^'smay ^'^'■'ng- shreds ; St, creased. d white, red, '^endid sight ! ead, nor right, ^"e who said, .'be Parson, too, appeared, a man austere, The instinct of whose nature was to kill ; riie wratli of God he preached from year to year. And read, with fervor. Edwards on the Will ; ^■^3 His favorite pastime was to slay the deer In summer on some Adirondack hill ; Elen now, while walking down the rural lane, Hfe lopped the wayside lilies with his cane. From the Academy, whose belfry crowned ''f •^The hill of Science with its va e of brass, Qame the Preceptor, gazing idly round, I - Now at the clouds, and now at the green grass. And all absorbed in reveries profound Oi fair Almira in the upper class. Who was, as in a sonnet he had said. As pure as water, and as good as bread. And next ihe Deacon issued from his door. In his voluminous neckcloth, white as snow ; A suit of sable bombazine he wore ; I His form was ponderous, and his step was slow ; Jt'here never was so wise a man before ; He seemed the incarnate * Well, I told you so ! ' nd to perpetuate his great renown here was a street named after him in town. tThese came together in the new town-ball, ^ With sundry farmers from the region round, iThe Squire presided, dignified and tall, % His air impressive and his reasoning sound : ^111 fared it with the birds, both great and small ; 3 Hardly a friend in all that crowd they found, 20 5 ,i /!! i:^lf AV/M^O/.- Kna.yo;,^oA'm Ch! '"";"■"■' ^■""■^'-. who every one ''Ho:e";:r;ct:;';:^^-"-M"-ea,.. ~ Loo ej .o,.,.d bewildered 1 .^.r^'- «". "irong-; °" "le expecl.i, Then thought of fair Almir. ^ D. To speak out what wl n r """^ ""•■' C Alike regardless of th^^rV '""' "'''"' ^"'^ ^'™"i^ ^"<^ '^"He determined 'otTo": ," 'T"' 'Plato, anticipating ih„ p • From I,- D ^ ® Reviewers, The str«»i>f fv. • • ^ '^odDadours, ^'-^ir;rwr:rr::r^^.^"'^^-''^'-- -"— .>ours.aso::r:,rr^::,r"' ''-XtnTV''''^^ Tf.eoriole^frrer;!""'.'''*'''"^ -■'''' J^goning like ah ' "''^ •'">'• The bluebird baUncrd """^ '' ''' '■°°'' ' , /'ooding With reMd;;::; 'rr°^' ^'"•^^' Linnet and meadow-lark and if , ""'''°°'' ' That dwell in nest, ?' "" "'^ ""-ons- ■"nests, and „ave the gift of song. Vou slay them all ! and wherefore » f u «^— nt handful more or i::;:;;,,;::,"'^^--" Wli Arc *T Ho ^^'GH'OA'7V/ rilR BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH 21 ^ J 'fryCj or barley, or some other gram, I'l the si SJcratched up at random by industrious feet. )n earching for worm or weevil after rain ! Or a few cherries, that are not so sweet Vs are the songs these uninvited guests Jing at their feast with comfortable breasts. place apart s the Wrong-, e the start, ' ^^le expecta Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these? , Do you ne'er think who made them, and who ^^'ear and strong taught frown ' The dialect they speak, where melodies Alone are the interpreters of thought ? Whose household words are songs in many keys, Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught ! Whose habitations in the tree-tops even Are half-way houses on the road to heaven ! fook heart "g-hed down. hout pify purs, Committee, idours, ^"'y city,—. - ^or us aJ] Saul. I of day Jy wood ; bod ; 'ost spray, rhood ; throng of song. for the gain /heat, * Think, every morning when the sun peeps through iThe 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 I 'Tis always morning somewhere, and above ^he awakening continents, from shore to shore, jtomewhere the birds are singing evermore. * Think of your woods and orchards without birds ! Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beams i\.s in an idiot's brain remembered words f Hang empty 'mid the cobwebs of his dreams ! |iVill bleat of flocks or bellowing of herds f M^e up for the lost music, when your teams 22 THE niRDS OF KILLING WO k'TH Drag home llie stingy h.-irvesl, and no morr» Tlie feathered gleaners follow to your door? * What ! would you rather see the incessant stir Of insects in the windrows of tiie hay, And hear the locust and the grasshopper Their melancholy hurdy-gurdies play ? Is this more pleasant to you than the whir Of meadow-lark, and her sweet roundelay, Or twitter of little field-fares, as you take Your nooning in the shade of bush and brake ? 4 8» i ! i ( ; 1 fill p'{i iiii * You 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 ; Even the blackest of them all, the crow, Renders good service as your man-at-arms, Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail. And crying havoc on the slug and snail. ' * How can I teach your children gentleness, And mercy to the weak, and reverence For Life, which, in its weakness or excess. Is still a gleam of God's omnipotence, Or Death, which, seeming darkness, is no less The self-same light, although averted hence, When by your laws, your actions, and your speech, You contradict the very things I teach ? ' With this he closed ; and through the audience went A murmur, like the rustle of dead leaves ; • ORTIT THE BIRDS OF K'lfJJXGWOR'nf door ? ssant stir K» ler K? t\\\v tidelay, ike i brake ? but know, ir farms, lious foe, Jred liarms ; t-arms, 11/ ness, ice ess, a i no less d hence, your speech, jdience went ves ; • The farmers lauji^lied and nodded, anrl some bent Their yellow heads tog^ether Hke tlieir sheaves ; ^ Men have no faith in fine spun sentinu;nt Who put their trust in bullocks and in beeves. 1^ 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 tnore than each. He still was victor, vanquished in tiieir cause. i* Sweetest of all the applause he won from thee, ' Ofair 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 bloodstains on their breasts. Or wounded crept away from sight of man, While the young- died of famine in their nests ; ;|A slaughter to be told in groans, not words, ^flThe very St. Bartholomew of Birds ! I The summer came, and all the birds were dead ; ' The days were like hot coals ; the very ground Was burned to ashes ; in the orchards fed ■^: Myriads of caterpillars, and around The cultivated fields and garden beds ( I '^iEW.. fli i tf\ 24 THE BIRDS OF KILIINGWORTH Hosts of devouring insects crawled, and found No foe to check their march, till they had made The land a desert without leaf or shade. Devoured by worms, like Herod, was the town, Because, like Herod, it had ruthlessly Slaughtered the Innocents. From the trees spun down The cankerworms upon the passers-by. Upon each woman's bonnet, shawl, and gown. Who shook them off with just a little cry ; They were the terror of each favorite 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 ally 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 .gain ; As schoolboys, finding their mistake too late. Draw a wet sponge across the accusing slate. That year in Killing worth the Autumn came Without the light of his majestic look, The wonder of the falling tongues of flame. The illumined pages of his Doomsday book. A few lost leaves blushed crimson with their shame, And drowned themselves despairing in the brook While the wild wind went moaning everywhere. Lamenting the dead children of the air ! ^ORTH THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH 25 , and found had made de. the town, le trees spun hy, id gfown, 3 cry ; walk, Mk. t complain, they knew tin ; >o late, g: slate. came ame, y book, their shame, in the brook rywhere. 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 wagon, overarched with evergieen, Upon whose boughs were wicker cages hung, All full of singing birds, came down the street. Filling- the air with music wild and sweet. From all the country round these birds were brought. By order of the town, with anxious quest. And, loosened from their wicker prisons, sought In woods and fields the places they loved best. Singing loud canticles, which many thought Were satires to the authorities addressed. While others, listening in green lanes, averred Such lovely music never had been heard ! But blither still and lou'^er 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. IT ^!i 26 1 ;iii 5^iVry^ FILOMENA Santa ifilomena (FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE) HENE'ER a noble deed is wroug^ht, Whene'er is spoken a noble thought, Our hearts, in glad surprise, To higher levels rise. The tidal wave of deeper souls Into our inmost being rolls, And lifts us unawares Out of all meaner cares. Honor to those whose words or deeds Thus help us in our daily needs, And by their overflow Raise us from what is low ! Thus thought I, as by night I read Of the great army of the dead. The trenches cold and damp. The starved and frozen camp, — The wounded from the battle-plain, In dreary hospitals of pain, The cheerless corridors, The cold and stony floors. SANTA FILOMENA 27 E) deed IS >oken a It, in g^lad (Is rise. r souls s, ;s. r deeds ead ain, Lo ! in that house of misery A lady with a lamp I see Pass throug^h the glimmering- g-loom, And flit from room to room. And slow, as in a dream of bliss, The speechless sufferer turns to kiss Her shadow, as it falls Upon the darkening walls. As if a door in heaven should be Opened and then closed suddenly, The vision came and went, The light shone and was spent. On England's annals, through the long Hereafter of her speech and song. That light its rays shall cast • From portals of the past. A Lady with a Lamp shall stand In the great history of the land, A noble type of good. Heroic womanhood. Nor even shall be wanting here The palm, the lily, and the spear. The symbols that of yore Saint Filomena bore. 28 MV LOST YOUTH lllif /IDg Xost l^outb FTEN I think of the beautiful town That is seated by the sea ; Often in thong^ht go up and down The pleasant streets of that dear old town, And my youth comes back to me. And a verse of a Lapland song- Is haunting my memory still : 'A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, And catch in sudden gleams, The shee« of the far-surrounding seas. And islands that were the Hesperides Of all my boyish dreams. And the burden of that old song. It murmurs and whispers still : *A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' I remember the black wharves and the slips. And the sea-tides tossing free ; And Spanish sailors with bearded lips. And the beauty and mystery of the ships. And the magic of the sea. And the voice of that wayward song Is singing and saying still : I'i! MV LOST YOUTH 29 the beautiful the sea ; up and down Is of that dear long, long trees, seas, ides long, long I the slips, lips, ! ships, song 'A boy's will Is tlie wind's will, And the thoughts of youlh are long, long thoughts.' I remember the bulwarks by the shore, And the fort upon the hill ; The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar, The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er, And the bugle wild and shrill. And the music of that old song Throbs in my memory still : 'A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' I remember the sea-fight far away, How it thundered o'er the tide ! And the dead captains, as they lay In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay, Where they in battle died. And the sound of that mournful song Goes through me with a thrill : *A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' I can see the breezy dome of groves. The shadows of Deering's Woods ; And the friendships old and the early loves Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves In quiet neighborhoods. And the verse of that sweet old song. It flutters and murmurs still : * A boy's will is the wind's will. •m Jll ff'i 30 MV LOST YOUTH And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' I remember the gleams and glooms that dart Across the schoolboy's brain ; The song and the silence in the heart, That in part are prophecies, and in part Are longings wild and vain. And the voice of that fitful song Sings on, and is never still : * \ boy's will is the wind's will. And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. There are things of vvhich I may not speak ; There are dreams that cannot die ; There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, And bring a pallor into the cheek. And a mist before the eye. And the words of that fatal song Come over me like a chill : * A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' Strange to me now are the forms I meet When I visit the dear old town ; But the native air is pure and sweet. And the trees that o'ershadow each well- known street, As they balance up and down. Are singing the beautiful song. Are sighing and whispering still : H THE SER^fON OF ST. FRANCIS 3' are long, long looms that dart n ; le heart, nd in part 1 song" I: ill, are long, long ly not speak ; ot die ; ke the strong ek, 1 song 1. re long, long IS I meet n ; ^eet, w each well- I: Still : ' A boy's will is the wind's will. And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair. And with joy that is almost pain My heart goes back to wander there. And among the dreams of the days that were, I find my lost youth again. And the strange and beautiful song, The groves are repeating it still : 'A boy's will is the wind's will. And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' XEbe Sermon of St. iftancis P soared the lark into the air, A shaft o" song, a winged prayer. As if a soul, released from pain. Were flying back to heaven again. St. Francis heard ; it was to him An emblem of the Seraphim ; The upward motion of the fire, The light, the heat, the heart's de- sire. k < I I ." ■ !i 32 If I 111 ^M • — ■ ' II . l i s Tff£ SERMOX OF ST. FRANCIS Around Assisi's convent gate The birds, God's poor who cannot wait, From moor and mere and darksome wood Came flocking for their dole of food. * O brother birds,' St. Francis said, 'Ye come to me and ask for bread, But not with bread alone to-day Shall ye be fed and sent away. ' Ye shall be fed, ye haj3py birds, With manna of celestial words ; Not mine, though mine they seem to be, Not mine, though they be spoken through me. ' O, doubl)^ are ye bound to praise The great Creator in your lays ; He giveth you your plumes of down. Your crimson hoods, your cloaks of brown. * He giveth you your wings to fly And brefithe a purer air on high, And careth for you everywhere. Who for yourselves so little care ! ' With flutter of swift wings and songs Together rose the feathered throngs, And singing scattered far apart ; Deep peace was in St. Francis' heart. He knew not if tlie brotherhood His homily had understood ; He only knew that to one ear The meaning of his words was clear. f RANG IS THE HANGING OF THE CRANE 33 annot wait, rk some wood of food. is said, bread, day y- irds, is; seem to be, cken through 3raise ys ; f down, aks of brown. o fly ire, ;are ! ' id song's throngs, art ; is' heart. >od IS clear. Cbe WaufltuG of tbe Crane I. HE lights are out, and gone are all the guests That thronging came with merriment and jests To celebrate the Hang- ing of the Crane In the new house, — into the night are gone ; But still the fire upon the hearth burns on. And I alone remain. O fortunate, O happy day. When a new household finds its place Among the myriad homes of earth, Like a iiew star just sprung to birth. And rolled on its harmonious way Into the boundless realms of space ! So said the guests in speech and song. As in the chimney, burning bright, We hung the iron crane to-night. And merry was the feast and long. n. And now I sit and muse on what may be, And in my vision see, or seem to see. Through floating vapors interfused with light, 34 THK HANGING OF THE CRANE Sliapes indeterminate, that gleam and fade, As shadows passing into deeper shade Sink and eUide the sight. For two alone, there in the hall, Is spread the table round and small ; Upon the polished silver shine The evening lamps, but, more divine, The light of love shines over all ; Of love, that says not mine and thine, But ours, — for ours is thine and mine. They want no guests, to come between Their tender glances like a screen. And tell them tales of land and sea, And whatsoever may betide The great, forgotten world outside ; They want no guests ; they needs must be Each other's own best company. III. The picture rades ; as at a village fair A showman's views, dissolving into air, Again appear transfigured on the screen. So in my fancy this ; and now once more, In part transfigured, through the open door Appears the self-same scene. Seated, I see the two again, But not alone ; thoy entertain A liitle angel unaware, With face as round as is the moon ; THE HANGING OF THE CRANE 35 A royal guest with flaxen hair, Who, throned upon his lofty chair, Drums on the table with his spoon, Then drops It careless on the floor. To grasp at things unseen before. Are these celestial manners? these The ways that win, the arts that please ? Ah yes ; consider well the guest, And whatsoe'er he does seems best ; He ruleth by the right divine Of helplessness, so lately born In purple chambers of the morn, As sovereign over thee and thine. He speaketh not ; and yet there lies A conversation in his eyes ; The golden silence of the Greek, The gravest wisdom of the wise, Not spoken in language, but in looks More legible than printed books. As if he could but would not speak. And now, O monarch absolute. Thy power is put to proof; for, lo ! Resistless, fathomless, and slow, The nurse comes rustling like the sea. And pushes back thy chair and thee, And so good night to King Canute. IV. As one who walking in a forest sees A lovely landscape through the parted trees. Then sees it not, for boughs that intervene ; ^1 36 THE HANGINC, OF THE CRANE I. Or as we see the moon sometimes revealed Through drifting clouds, and then again con- cealed, So I behold the scene. There are two guests at table now ; The king, deposed and older grown. No longer occupies the throne, — The crown is on his sister's brow ; A Princess from the Fairy Isles, The very pattern girl of girls, All covered and embowered in curls, Rose-tinted from the Isle of Flowers, And sailing with soft, silken sails From far-off Dreamland into ours. Above their bowls with rims of blue Four azure eyes of deeper hue Are looking, dreamy with delight ; Limpid as planets that emerge Above the ocean's rounded verge. Soft-shining through the summer niglit. Steadfast they gaze, yet nothing see Beyond the horizon of their bowls ; Nor care they for the world that rolls With all its freight of troubled souls Into the days that are to be. V. Again the tossing boughs shut out the scene. Again the drifting vapors intervene. And the moon's pallid disc is hidden quite ; And now I see the table wider grown. b THE HANGING OF THE CRANE 37 As rouud a pebble into water thrown Dilates a ring* of lijj^ht. I see the table wider grown, I see it garlanded with guests, As if fair Ariadne's Crown Out of the sky had fallen down ; Maidens within whose tvl '2.H HOW THE LEAVES CAME DOWN Mow tbc Xea\>e9 Came Down By Sarah C. Woolsey f 'LL tell you hew the leaves came down, The great tree to his children said, * You're getting sleepy, yellow and brown — Yes, very sleepy, little red. It is quite time you went to bed.' 'Ah ! ' begged each silly pouting leaf, * Let us a little longer stay, Dear father tree ; behold our grief; 'Tis such a very pleasant day. We do not want to go away.' So just for one more merry day To the great tree the leaflets clung. Frolicked and danced and had their way. Upon the autumn breezes swung, Whisperii.g all their sports among. ' Perhaps the great tree will forget, And let us stay untill the spring, If we all beg and coax and fret.' But the great tree did no such thing, He smiled to hear them whispering. * Come children, all to bed : ' he cried. And ere the leaves could urge their prayer He shook his head and far and wide, I HOW THE LEAVES CAME DOWN Fluttering- and rustling- everywhere, Down sped the leaflets through the air. I saw them on the ground, they lay Red and golden, a huddled swarm, Waiting till one from far away With bed-clothes heaped upon his arm, Should come and wrap them sqft and warm. The great bare tree looked down and smiled ; * Good-night ! dear little ones,' he said. And from below each sleepy child Replied * Good-night,' and murmured * It is so nice to go to bed.'