-. . º 3. E . - r , º- ..) E º se H E sa Kº ES TESS E E E E3 E É E E E = - E E E3 nos N. N. A \\ \, NN s ¿N AN - \ / )-NN, N. A , º"AAN 23 N (Na NN News Se s s Q º / sº. # a - 3 º ". Q. / º º a º « N n V . . º Ne . Sº Sº r & º The Good Part, that shall not be taken away The Slave in the Dismal Swamp The Slave singing at Midnight The Witnesses . The Quadroon Girl The Warning THE SPANISH STUDENT THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS. Carillon ſº & The Belfry of Bruges A Gleam of Sunshine The Arsenal at Springfield Nuremberg © g The Norman Baron Rain in Summer tº To a Child . © © The Occultation of Orion The Bridge To the Driving Cloud PAGE 41 . 44 46 46 48 58 59 60 61 61 62 62 63 64 64 66 69 69 70 71 72 72 73 74 . 119 120 . 121 122 . 123 125 . 126 127 . 131 132 . 133 iv CONTENT'S OF VOLUME, I SONGS. The Day is done . 134 Afternoon in February . e 134 To an Old Danish Song-Book . . 135 Walter von der Vogelweid 136 Drinking Song . . . . . 137 The Old Clock on the Stairs. . 138 The Arrow and the Song . , 139 SONNETs. The Evening Star . 140 Autumn . . 140 Dante 140 TRANSLATIONS. • The Hemlock Tree . 141 Annie of Tharaw e { } g . 141 The Statue over the Cathedral Door 142 The Legend of the Crossbill . 142 The Sea hath its Pearls. 143 Poetic Aphorisms . 143 CURFEw . 144 EVANGELINE. A. TALE OF ACADIE. . 145 THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE. Dedication 189 BY THE SEASIDE. The Building of the Ship . . 190 Seaweed e 196 Chrysaor . ë e . 197 The Secret of the Sea 197 Twilight . e tº . 197 Sir Humphrey Gilbert 198 The Lighthouse gº © . 198 The Fire of Drift-Wood. 199 BY THE FIRESIDE. Resignation , 201 The Builders. * t tº . 202 Sand of the Desert in an Hour-Glass . 202 The Open Window • 203 King Witlaf’s Drinking-Horn . . 204 Gaspar Becerra § e 204 Pegasus in Pound . 205 Tegnér's Drapa 206 Sonnet . 207 The Singers 207 Suspiria . 208 Hymn o o 208 THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL CUILLE . 209 A CHRISTMAS CAROL - 218 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. Introduction . & 221 I. The Peace-Pipe 222 II. The Four Winds 225 III. Hiawatha's Childhood 229 IV. V. VI. VII. VIII. IX. . Hiawatha's Wooing . o XI. XII. XIII. XIV. XV. |XVI. IXVII. XVIII. IXIX. XX. IXXI. XXII. THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. I. Miles Standish . 297 II. Love and Friendship . 300 III. The Lover's Errand . 303 Iv. John Alden & & . 308 v. The Sailing of the Mayflower . 313 VI. Priscilla & * & . 31 7 VII. The March of Miles Standish . 319 viri. The Spinning-Wheel 322 Ix. The Wedding-Day . 325 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. FLIGHT THE FIRST. Prometheus, or the Poet’s Forethought . 331 Birds of Passage g * . 332 The Ladder of St. Augustine 333 The Phantom Ship . g * . 334 The Warden of the Cinque Ports . 334 Haunted Houses . . . . . 336 In the Churchyard at Cambridge . 337 The Emperor's Bird’s-Nest . 337 The Two Angels 338 Daylight and Moonlight & . 339 The Jewish Cemetery at Newport. 339 Oliver Basselin . e . 341 Victor Galbraith 342 My Lost Youth . . 342 The Ropewalk 344 The Golden Mile-Stone . 345 Catawba Wine 346 Santa Filomena • • & . 34.7 The Discoverer of the North Cape 348 Daybreak . e º & * Ke . 350 The Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz . 351 Children & tº e tº . 351 Sandalphon 352 FLIGHT THE SECOND. The Children’s Hour 353 Enceladus. . 354 Hiawatha and Mudjekeewis Hiawatha's Fasting Hiawatha’s Friends Hiawatha’s Sailing Hiawatha’s Fishing . º ë Hiawatha and the Pearl-Feather Hiawatha's Wedding-Feast The Son of the Evening-Star Blessing the Cornfields Picture-Writing. Hiawatha’s Lamentation Pau-Puk-Keewis • * The Hunting of Pau-Puk-Keewis The Death of Kwasind The Ghosts The Famine g ſº The White Man’s Foot . Hiawatha's Departure . 240 , 291 . 232 236 242 . 244 248 . 25.2 256 . 259 264 . 267 269 . 272 276 . 281 283 . 285 288 COWTENT'S OF VOLUME, I. The Cumberland Snow-Flakes A Day of Sunshine Something left Undone Weariness FLIGHT THE THIRD. Fata Morgana . * The Haunted Chambe The Meeting Vox Populi The Castle-Builder Changed g s The Challenge . e tº The Brook and the Wave From the Spanish Cancioneros Aftermath tº º & e Epimetheus, or the Poet's Afterthought . FLIGHT THE FOURTH. Charles Sumner . e Travels by the Fireside Cadenabbia Monte Cassino . Amalfi . º . .” The Sermon of St. Francis Belisarius Songo River TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. PART FIRST. Prelude. The Wayside Inn The Landlord’s Tale. Paul Revere’s Ride Interlude The Student’s Tale. The Falcon of Ser Federigo . Interlude . & e The Spanish Jew’s Tale. The Legend of Rabbi Ben Levi Interlude e e gº The Sicilian’s Tale. King Robert of Sicily Interlude tº ſº * The Musician’s Tale. The Saga of King Olaf I. The Challenge of Thor II. King Olaf’s Return III. Thora of Rimol * Iv. Queen Sigrid the Haughty . v. The Skerry of Shrieks VI. The Wraith of Odin VII. Iron-Beard VIII. Gudrun & e Ix. Thangbrand the Priest X. Raud the Strong . & xI. Bishop Sigurd at Salten Fiord. XII. King Olaf’s Christmas g * XIII. The Building of the Long Serpent . . 356 . 358 355 357 358 . 359 359 . 360 360 . 360 361 . 361 362 . 362 363 . 364 365 , 365 366 . 367 368 . 370 3.71 . 37.2 375 . 379 381. . 382 386 . 387 388 . 389 393 . 393 393 . 394 396 . 397 398 . 400 401 . 402 404 . 405 406 . 407 408 XIV. The Crew of the Long Serpent . XV. A Little Bird in the Air . xvi. Queen Thyri and the Angelica Stalks XVII. King Svend of the Forked Beard xvi.II. King Olaf and Earl Sigvald XIX. King Olaf’s War-Horns xx. Einar Tamberskelver XXI. King Olaf’s Death-Drink XXII. The Nun of Nidaros Interlude e * The Theologian's Tale. Torquemada . Interlude The Poet’s Tale. The Birds of Killingworth Finale º & PART SECOND. Prelude {} The Sicilian's Tale. The Bell of Atri Interlude © tº & The Spanish Jew’s Tale. Kambalu g Interlude * The Student’s Tale. The Cobbler of Hagenau . Interlude e tº The Musician’s Tale. The Ballad of Carmillian . Interlude The Poet’s Tale. Lady Wentworth Interlude g The Theologian’s Tale. The Legend Beautiful Interlude e e The Student’s Second Tale. The Baron of St. Castine . Finale PART THIRD. Prelude . ſº e ſº The Spanish Jew’s Tale. Azrael Interlude The Poet’s Tale. Charlemagne . Interlude tº The Student’s Tale. Emma and Eginhard Interlude The Theologian’s Tale. Elizabeth Interlude g The Sicilian’s Tale. - The Monk of Casal-Maggiore Interlude º g * * } The Spanish Jew’s Second Tale. Scanderbeg . 410 410 412 413 . 414 415 . 416 41 7 . 418 419 . 420 4.25 . 425 430 . 431 433 . 436 436 . 438 439 . 442 443 . 448 448 . 452 452 . 454 455 . 460 461 . 462 463 . 464 465 . 466 470 . 471 478 . 479 485 . 486 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. PORTRAIT OF HENRY WADsworth LONGFELLOw From a photograph. Engraved by W. E. MARSHALL. WOICES OF THE NIGHT. Artist. Half Title . . L. S. IPSEN PRELUDE. “But the dark foliage interweaves J. D. SMILLIE L. S. IPSEN In one unbroken roof of leaves.”. Illustrated Heading “Avenue of pines " HYMN TO THE NIGHT. Landscape F. T. MERRILL THE LIGHT OF STARs. “The cold light of stars” T. MORAN . FLOWERS. - “ The castled Rhºne.” F. B. Schell. THE BELEAGUERED CITY. Prague F. B. SCHELL MIDNIGHT MAss TO THE DYING YEAR. The Dead Year . EARLIER POEMS. W. L. SHEPPARD Illustrated Heading L. S. IPSEN AN APRIL DAY. Arbutus F. T. MERRILL AUTUMN. - “The silver habit of the clouds " . HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNs of BETHLEHEM. The Nunnery A. R. WAUD . THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. “The sylvan pomp of woods' R. SWAIN GIFFORD BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK. F. O. C. DARLEY “Behind, the long procession came ’’. J. APPLETON BROWN . J. APPLETON BROWN . Frontispiece. Engraver. RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON W. J. LINTON RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON A. W. S. ANTHONY A. W. S. ANTHONY JOHN ANDREW AND SON . J. T. SPEER . JOHN ANDREW AND SON . A. V. S. ANTHONY RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON John ANDREW AND SON A. V. S. ANTHONY John ANDREW AND SON . A. V. S. ANTHONY SMITH WICK AND FRENCH . Page. 5 10 11 12 12 13 14 16 17 I, IST OF III, USTRATIOWS. TRANSLATIONS. Illustrated Heading COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. “Faith wings the soul”. “High-born dames’’. “Prowess high '' . THE IMAGE OF GOD. Cross . THE BROOK. “Pomp of the meadow / " . THE TERRESTIAL PARADISE. “Into the ancient wood’” KING CHRISTIAN. Portrait of King Christian . “And smote upon the foe full sore ” . THE WAVE BEWARE THE CASTLE BY THE SEA THE BLACK KNIGHT. “Danced in sable iron sark ’’. BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. Half Title Illustrated Heading THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. “I wooed the blue eyed maid” The Round Tower at Newport. “ O'er the dark sea I flew " The Drinking Horn THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUs. “ Norman’s Woe '’ - “Lashed close to a drifting mast.” THE ELECTED KNIGHT Artist. L. S. IPSEN C. S. REINHART . C. S. REINHART . C. S. REINHART . F. T. MERRILL w. H. GIBSON T. MORAN . W. L. SHEPPARD W. L. SHEPPARD A. R. WAUD . A. HOPPIN . G. F. BARNES. A. FREDERICKS L. S. IPSEN L. S. IPSEN E. A. ABBEY . F. B. SCHELL T. MORAN . L. S. IPSEN JOHN R. KEY W. L. SHEPPARD J. W. E.HNINGER THE CHILDREN OF THE . LORD’S SUPPER. Illustrated Heading “Day of rejoicing ” . “The affectionate Teacher ” “ The lost lamb '' . “There enraptured she wanders ” “Knee against knee they knitted a wreath round the altar's enclosure * Tail-piece. Lilies . MISCELLANEOUS. Illustrated Heading THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. “The village smithy” L. S. IPSEN E. A. ABBEY . E. A. ABBEY . E. A. ABBEY . E. A. ABBEY . E. A. ABBEY . L. S. IPSEN J. APPLETON BROWN . (After a painting in Mr. Longfellow's possession). Engraver. RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON J. P. DAVIS . J. T.INKEY J. P. DAVIS . JOHN ANDREW AND SON . J. S. HARLEY J. A. BOGERT SMITHWICK AND FRENCH . SMITHWICK AND FRENCH . JOHN ANDREW AND SON . T. H. HEARD RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON J. P. DAVIS . RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON J. P. DAVIS . A. V. S. ANTHONY W. J. LINTON RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON A. W. S. ANTHONY RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON MEEDER AND CHUBB RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON J. P. DAVIS . J. P. DAVIS . J. T.INKEY J. P. DAVIS . A. BOBBETT. RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON A. W. S. ANTHONY vii Page. 18 19 21 23 26 27 28 31 32 33 35 37 39 41 39 41 42 44 45 47 48 48 50 53 54 56 57 58 58 viii LIST OF ILL USTRATIONS. ENDYMION. “The rising moon has hid the stars ” THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR. “Then dropt the child asleep ’’ IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY } THE RAINY DAY To THE RIVER CHARLEs. “Through the meadows, bright and free " . BLIND BARTIMEUs. “The gates of Jericho”. |MAIDENHOOD. “Seest thou shadows sailing by ?” ExCELSIOR. St. Bernard . POEMS ON SLAVERY. Half Title Illustrated Heading THE GOOD PART. “ Great Kenhawa’s side ’’ THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP. “Where waving mosses shroud the pine 22 THE QUADROON GIRL. “Lay moored with idle sail” . THE WARNING. Tail-piece . . . THE SPANISH STUDENT. Street in Madrid Half Title Illustrated Heading The Count of Lara and Don Carlos Street in Madrid. The Musicians. Victorian and Preciosa on balcony. Chispa and Baltasar Victorian Reading . Preciosa and Angelica Preciosa before the Cardinal The Prado “Begone / begone / " “I gave up all for thee". The Duel . “She sleeps at last’. Cross Road in the Wood Square in Guadarrama Artist. A. R. WAUD . E. A. ABBEY . F. B. SCHELL. G. F. BARNES E. H. GARRATT . MARY HALLOCK FOOTE . JOHN R. KEY L. S. IPSEN L. S. IPSEN W. L. SHEPPARD A. R. WAUD . GRANVILLE PERKINS . W. L. SHEPPARD SAMUEL COLMAN L. S. IPSEN L. S. IPSEN A. FREDERICKS . SAMUEL COLMAN A. FREDERICKS . A. FREDERICKS . A. FREDERICKS . . FREDERICKS . . FREDERICKS . . FREDERICKs . A A A A. FREDERICKS . A. FREDERICKS . A. FREDERICKs . A. FREDERICKs . R. SWAIN GIFFORD SAMUEL COLMAN Victorian, Hypolito, and the Padre A. FREDERICKS . Engraver. J. A. BOGERT J. P. DAVIS . A. W. S. ANTHONY A. W. S. ANTHONY JOHN ANDREW AND SON . W. J. LINTON W. H. MORSE RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON JOHN ANDREW AND SON . J. S. HARLEY JOHN ANDREW AND SON . RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON W. H. MORSE . RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON A. Bobbºtt. W. J. LINTON A. BOBBETT RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON D. C. HITCHCOCK A. V. S. ANTHONY A. V. S. ANTHONY JOHN ANDREW AND SON RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON R. H. STEWART A. V. S. ANTHONY W. J. LINTON RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON Page. 59 60 61 62 63 65 66 67 69 70 71 73 101 102 104. 105 THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND LIST OF ILI, USTRATIONS. Martina and Hypolito A Post-house & e a Gypsies’ Camp in the Forest “Be still, my swelling heart / ‘’ A Pass in the Mountains A Mounted Contrabandista . Death of Bartolomé . . . . Half Title Illustrated Heading THE BELFRY OF BRUGES. A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE. A Lane in Brookline . NUREMBERG The Heathen Tower Interior, St. Lawrence Church . Albrecht Durer’s House . RAIN IN SUMMER To A CHILD. Staircase and Nursery in Mr. Long- fellow’s House e e º e A path in Mr. Longfellow's Garden Tail-piece THE OCCULTATION OF ORION. “And beautiful as some fair saint’’. THE BRIDGE. - “And the moon rose o'er the city, Behind the dark church-tower '' . TO THE DRIVING CLOUD. Tail-piece . SONGS. Illustrated Heading TO AN OLD DANISH SONG BOOK. The Song Book . WALTER voN DER WOGELWEID. “From the walls and woodland nests” DRINKING SONG. Pitcher in Mr. Longfellow’s Pos- session , THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. The “Gold House ’’ in Pittsfield . THE ARROW AND THE SONG. Tail-piece . SONNETS. Illustrated Heading Ö Artist. A. FREDERICKS . R. Swain GIFFORD . C. S. REINHART . A. FREDERICKS . T. MORAN R. SWAIN GIFFORD . A. FREDERICKS . OTHER POEMS. L. S. IPSEN L. S. IPSEN W. H. GIBSON JOHN R. KEY F. B. SCHELL F. B. SCHELL F. B. SCHELL J. APPLETON BROWN . G. F. BARNES G. F. BARNES G. F. BARNES C. S. REINHART . F. B. SCHELL G. F. BARNES L. S. Irses L. S. IPSEN F. T. MERRILL G. F. BARNES D. C. HITCH.Cock L. S. IPSEN L. S. IPSEN Engraver. RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON A. W. S. ANTHONY F. JUENGLING . A. V. S. ANTHONY A. W. S. ANTHONY A. V. S. ANTHONY A. W. S. ANTHONY RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON JOHN ANDREW AND SON W. H. RICHARDSON J. S. HARLEY J. S. HARLEY JOHN ANDREW AND SON A. W. S. ANTHONY W. H. MoRSE J. T. SPEER . T. ROBINSON J. P. DAVIS . W. H. MORSE . RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON RICHARDSON RUSSELL AND W. J. DANA . RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON JOHN ANDREW AND SON . RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON ix Page. 107 108 109 112 114 115 116 117 119 120 121 123 124 125 126 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 X LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS TRANSLATIONS. Illustrated Heading CURFEW. “The Curfew Bell’ EVANGELINE. Evangeline Half Title Illustrated Heading “Stand like harpers hoar” Grand Pré “Down the long street she passed '' “With her hand ºn her lover’s ” The Betrothal The Gathering . In the Churchyard. “Long at her father's door Evange- line stood * tº tº e “Clasped she his hands, and laid her head on his shoulder’ . e “ Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head '' Evangeline . . . . . . . “Far down the Beautiful River’’ “Safely their boat was moored " . Evangeline and Basil . “While Evangeline stood like one en- tranced ‘’ “Among the Wind-river Mountains” “Mute with wonder the Shawnee sat '' “The hunter's lodge’ “The Delaware’s waters ”. * “Darkness of slumber and death * The Graves . THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE. Half Title Illustrated Heading BY THE SEASIDE. Illustrated Heading Artist, L. S. IPSEN G. GIBSON. E. A. ABBEY . L. S. IPSEN L. S. IPSEN W. H. GIBSON T. MORAN . E. A. ABBEY . E. A. ABBEY . E. A. ABBEY . E. A. ABBEY . E. A. ABBEY . E. A. ABBEY . E. A. ABBEY . C. S. REINHART . MARY HALLOCK FOOTE . GRAN VILLE PERKINs . GRANVILLE PERKINS . C. S. REINHART . C. S. REINHART . T. MORAN . C. S. REINHART . GRAN VILLE PERKINs . GRAN VILLE PERKINS . C. S. REINHART . GRANVILLE PERKINS . L. S. IPSEN L. S. IPSEN L. S. IPSEN G. F. BARNES EASTMAN JOHNSON C. E. H. BONWILL . G. F. BARNES Engraver. RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON W. J. LINTON RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON J. S. HARLEY - JOHN ANDREW AND SON . J. P. DAVIS . - R. H. STEwART R. H. STEWART Russell, AND RICHARDsoN JOHN ANDREW AND SON . SMITHWICK AND FRENCH . SMITHWICK AND FRENCH . J. P. DAVIS . SMITHWICK AND FRENCH . A. W. S. ANTHONY JOHN ANDREW AND SON . J. P. DAVIS SMITHWICK AND FRENCH JOHN ANDREW AND SON . A. W. S. ANTHONY JOHN ANDREW AND SON . R. H. STEWART SMITHWICK AND FRENCH . JOHN ANDREW AND SON . RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON W. H. MORSE J. P. DAVIS . W. H. MORSE . RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON Page. 141 144 161 163 166 167 168 170 173 . 175 177 179 181 182 185 186 187 189 190 191 192 THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. The Master and the Youth . “Standing before Her father's door ’’. tº e - “In the deer-haunted forests of Maîne * “On the deck another bride ’’ 193 194 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. SEAWEED. “And from wrecks of ships " . THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD. Devereux Farm. Exterior and Sit- ting-room BY THE FIRESIDE. Illustrated Heading Artist. J. DAVIDSON . G. F. BARNES L. S. IPSEN SAND OF THE DESERT IN AN HOUR-GLASS. “With westward steps depart “ PEGASUS IN POUND. “And the curious country people * “Pure and bright, a fountain flowing ” HYMN. Tail-piece . A. FREDERICKs . F. S. CHURCH C. GRAHAM L. S. IPSEN THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL CUILLE. Half Title Illustrated Heading “When lo / a merry company” “The village seer” . . . . . . “Who knows 2 perhaps I am for- saken / " © tº tº dº º e “Why dost thou clasp me so, dear Margaret?” “Lifeless she fell /* A CHRISTMAS CAROL. Decoration tº tº gº THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. “And the maiden looked up at him ". Half Title Illustrated Heading “Gitche Manito, the mighty " . Tail-piece. Peace Pipe . “Hark you, Bear ! ” “To the lodge came wild and wailing * Hiawatha’s childhood . tº e The Kingdom of the West Wind . “Came unto the Rocky Mountains " “ Hurled them madly at his father ” . “Paused to purchase heads of al- Tows º' Mondamin at Hiawatha’s Tent . The Wrestling Kwasind clearing the Path . Hiawatha building the Canoe Hiawatha fishing Death of Nahma tº º “Shot them fast among the serpents” L. S. IPSEN L. S. IPSEN W. L. SHEPPARD W. L. SHEPPARD W. L. SHEPPARD W. L. SHIEPPARD W. L. SHEPPARD L. S. IPSEN Engraver. J. FILMER W. H. MORSE RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON JOHN ANDREW AND SON J. P. DAVIS . J. HELLAWELL . RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON W. H. MORSE W. J. DANA . W. J. DANA . JOHN ANDREW AND SON R. H. STEWART RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON J. A. BOGERT RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON J. A. BOGERT RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON G. H. SMITH E. SCHOONMAKER . W. H. MORSE RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON JOHN ANDREW AND SON W. J. DANA . J. A. BOGERT JOHN ANDREW AND SON JOHN ANDREW AND SON . J. A. BOGERT J. HELLAWELL . JOHN ANDREW AND SON . xi Page. 196 200 201 203 205. 206 208 209 211 21 1 213 214 216 217 218 F. O. C. DARLEY L. S. IPSEN L. S. IPSEN T. MORAN . G. F. BARNES F. O. C. DARLEY W. H. GIBSON F. O. C. DARLEY WORTHINGTON WHITTREDGE. W. J. LINTON . W. H. GIBSON F. O. C. DARLEY F. O. C. DARLEY F. B. SCHELL F. O. C. DARLEY F. O. C. DARLEY F. B. SCHELL F. O. C. DARLEY GRAN VILLE PERKINs . F. O. C. DARLEY 219 219 221 223 224. 225 227 230 232 233 234 235 237 238 241 243 245 247 249 xii LIST OF ILL USTRATIONS “The hero's coming ” “Wed a maiden of your people’ Falls of Minnehaha “From the sky the moon looked at them.” “Danced his Beggar's Dance ’’ Chibiabos Singing . “Can it be the sun descending 2* Artist. GRAN VILLE PERKINs . F. O. C. DARLEY W. H. GIBSON F. O. C. DARLEY F. O. C. DARLEY T. MORAN . “Took her hand, as brown and withered As an oak-leaf is in Winter” F. O. C. DARLEY “Soon they came with caw and clamor” “The harvest of the cornfields” Painting the Birch Tree . “Danced their medicine-dance ’ F. O. C. DARLEY F. O. C. DARLEY F. O. C. DARLEY * . . F. O. C. DARLEY “Then the smiling Pau-Puk-Keewis, Shook the bowl and threw the pieces” Pau-Puk-Keewis and the Birds The Beaver Dam “With their clubs they beat and bruised him '' . “ The distant Thunder Mountains '' . “Headlong, as an otter plunges *. “The wintry tempest * Hiawatha and the Ghosts Death of Minnehaha . “I have seen it in a vision ” F. O. C. DARLEY J. E. BAKER . W. H. GIBSON F. O. C. DARLEY J. E. BAKER . F. O. C. DARLEY J. E. BAKER . F. O. C. DARLEY F. O. C. DARLEY F. O. C. DARLEY “Toward the sun his hands were lifted” . Hiawatha’s Departure F. B. SCHELL F. O. C. DARLEY “ Westward, westward, Hiawatha Sailed into the fiery sunset ’’. T. MORAN . THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. “Why does he not come himself, and take the trouble to woo me 3’ . Half Title Illustrated Heading Plymouth . . . . Miles Standish at the Grave Priscilla “John Alden went on his errand ” GEO. H. BOUGHTON L. S. IPSEN L. S. IPSEN F. B. SCHELL GEO. H. BOUGHTON GEO. H. BOUGHTON GEO. H. BOUGHTON “Reeling and plunging along through the drifts *. D. C. HITCHCOCK Standish Hall, Duxbury, England. W. H. GIBSON “And wandered alone by the seaside ’’ F. H. SHAPLEIGH “Dimly the shadowy form of the May- flower riding at anchor’’ GRANVILLE PERKINS . GRANVILLE PERKINs . Engraver. JOHN ANDREW AND SON . J. T. SPEER . W. H. MORSE R. H. STEwART J. P. DAVIS . JOHN ANDREW AND SON . JOHN ANDREW AND SON . John ANDREW AND SON . J. T. SPEER . JOHN ANDREW AND SON . JoHN ANDREW AND SON . J. A. BOGERT JOHN ANDREW AND SON . A. V. S. ANTHONY JOHN FILMER . RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON W. J. DANA . A. V. S. ANTHONY J. A. BOGERT J. A. BOGERT JOHN ANDREW AND SON . JOHN ANDREW AND SON . JOHN ANDREW AND SON . F. S. KING . RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON JOHN ANDREW AND SON . J. S. HARLEY RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON J. S. HARLEY J. T. SPEER . W. J. DANA . A. V. S. ANTHONY E. KINGSLEY Page. 251 252 253 255 257 258 259 261 265 266 268 271 274 275 277 278 280 282 282 285 287 290 291 293 2.94. 295 295 297 297 299 301 304 305 307 308 309 *ś, I, IST OF ILD, USTRATIONS. xiii Artist. Engraver. Page The Council . . . . . . . . C. S. REINHART . . . . J. P. DAVIS . . . . . . 311 “Depths of the forest " . . . . . G. F. BARNEs . . . . RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON 312 The Mayflower . . . . . . . GRAN VILLE PERKINs . . E. KINGSLEY . . . . . 313 “Nearer the boat stood Alden, with one foot placed on the gunwale’’ C. S. REINHART . . . . JOHN ANDREW AND SON .. 315 “Frankly I speak to you, asking for sympathy only and kindness " . C. S. REINHART . . . . RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON 318 Standish and Wattawamat . . . GEO. H. BOUGHTON . . J. S. HARLEY . . . . . 321 “The pathway that ran through the woods”. . . . . . . . . J. D. SMILLIE . . . . J. W. LAUDERBACH . . . 323 The Rivulets . . . . . . . J. E. BAKER . . . . . JoHN ANDREW AND SON .. 325 “A form appeared on the threshold” . GEO. H. BoughTon . . J. S. HARLEY . . . . . 326 “The barren waste of the sea-shore ”. F. H. SHAPLEIGH . . . W. J. DANA . . . . . . 327 The Standish Spring. From a sketch by . . . . . . . . . JUSTIN WINSOR . . . . JoHN ANDREW AND SON .. 328 BIRDS OF PASSA G.E. * Half Title . . . . . . . . L. S. IPSEN . . . . . RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON 329 Longfellow House, Portland . . F. B. SCHELL. . . . . J. P. DAVIS . . . . . . 329 FLIGHT THE FIRST. Illustrated Heading . . . . . L. S. IPSEN . . . . . RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON 331 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. “Black shadows fall From the lindens tall ” . . . . J. D. SMILLIE . . . . J. A. Bog ERT . . . . . 332 THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS A. R. WAUD . . . . . C. CULLEN . . . . . . 335 HAUNTED Houses . . . . . . . W. H. GIBSON . . . . G. F. SMITH . . . . . 336 IN THE CHURCHYARD AT CAMBRIDGE. The Wassal Tomb . . . . . . R. S. GIFFORD . . . . A. W. S. ANTHONY . . . 337 THE JEWISH CEMETERY AT NEWPORT. The Gateway . . . . . . . D. C. HITCHCOCK . . . A. W. S. ANTHONY . . . .340 MY LOST YOUTH. “The shadows of Deering's Woods º' W. H. GIBSON . . . . SMITHwick AND FRENCH . 343 THE ROPEWALK. “And a woman with bare arms, Drawing water from a well” . . MARY HALLOCK FOOTE . A. W. S. ANTHONY . . . 344 THE GOLDEN MILE-STONE . . . . F. S. CHURCH . . . . J. P. DAVIS . . . . . . 345 CATAWBA WINE. Vineyard on the Ohio . . . . A. R. WAUD . . . . . JoHN ANDREW AND SON .. 347 THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPE. The North Cape . . . . . . F. B. SCHELL . . . . JoHN FILMER . . . . . 349 DAYBREAK. - “It hailed the ships * . . . GRAN VILLE PERKINS . . E. KINGSLEY . . . . . 350 “It touched the wood-bird's folded wing ” . . . . . . . . . GRAN VILLE PERKINS . . W. J. DANA . . . . . 351 “It whispered to the fields of corn " . GRAN VILLE PERKINs . . W. J. DANA . . . . . .351 FLIGHT THE SECOND. 3 Illustrated Heading . . . . . L. S. IPSEN . . . . . RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON 35 xiv LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. THE CHILDREN’s Hour. Mr. Longfellow's Study . ENCELADUs. Mount Etna . THE CUMBERLAND SNOW-FLAKES A DAY OF SUNSHINE . WEARINESS FLIGHT THE THIRD. Illustrated Heading CHANGED. “The dark and haunted wood’” AFTERMATH EPIMETHEUs. Hyacinths FLIGHT THE FOURTH. Illustrated Heading CADENABBIA. Bellaggio . AMALFI. “Leans a monk with folded hands” . THE SERMON OF ST. FRANCIS. St. Francis and the Birds. BELISARIUS SONGO RIVER TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. The Wayside Inn . Half Title PART FIRST. Illustrated Heading “Around the fireside at their ease " . PAUL REVERE’s RIDE. Christ Church, Boston Paul Revere’s Ride THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO. “And often, sitting by the sufferer's side ‘’ THE LEGEND OF RABBI BEN TEVI. The Angel of Death . KING Robert of SIGILY. Palermo “I am, I am the King ! ” THE CHALLENGE OF THOR. Thor KING OLAF's RETURN. “I accept thy challenge, Thor / " . Artist. E. H. GARRETT . W. H. GIBSON A. R. WAUD . F. B. SCHELL W. J. HENNESSY L. B. HUMPHREY L. S. IPSEN F. B. SCHELL W. J. HENNESSY L. B. HUMPHREY L. S. IPSEN W. H. GIBSON J. APPLETON BROWN . F. S. CHURCH A. FREDERICKS . F. B. SCHELL HOMER D. MARTIN L. S. IPSEN T. S. IPSEN C. S. REINHART . D. C. HITCH.cock J. W. E.HNINGER W. H. LOW A. FREDERICKS . F. B. SCHELL A. FREDERICKS . A. B. FROST . F. S. CHURCH F. O. C. DARLEY Engraver. W. H. MORSE W. J. LINTON J. T. SPEER . G. F. SMITH J. S. HARLEY C. CULLEN RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON A. V. S. ANTHONY J. S. HARLEY E. WILSON . RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON W. J. DANA . JOHN ANDREW AND SON E. HEINEMANN T. D. SUGDEN J. T.INKEY W. J. LINTON RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON E. HEINEMANN . R. VARLEY . J. P. DAVIS . G. KREULL J. S. HARLEY A. W. S. ANTHONY RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON S. S. KILBURN . J. P. T)AVIS S. S. KILBURN . 364 366 369 370 371 372 373 373 375 376 379 380 384 389 391 393 THORA OF RIMOL . . . . . 395 3.96 I, IST OF ILL USTRATIONS. THE SKERRY OF SHRIEKs. “It was Eyvind Kallda's crew " . THE WRAITH OF ODIN. The Feast GUDRUN THANGBRAND THE PRIEST Artist. F. S. CHURCH F. DIELMAN A. HOPPIN A. R. WAUD . THE BUILDING OF THE LONG SERPENT. The Long Serpent A LITTLE BIRD IN THE AIR. Queen Thyri QUEEN THIYRI AND THE ANGELICA STALKs KING SVEND OF THE FORKED BEARD RING OLAF's WAR-HORNs. “Three together the ships were lashed” THE NUN OF NIDAROS. “Alone in her chamber Anelt Astrid the Abbess " . TORQUEMADA. “Returning from their convent school ’’ “Then to the Grand Inquisitor once $7207"6 The Hidalgo went * “Slowly the long procession crossed the square * THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. Killingworth “These came together in the new town- hall ” FINALE. “The embers of the fire * PART SECOND. Illustrated Heading PRELUDE. “A jaded horse, his head down bent " THE BELL OF ATRI. “Who loved his falcons with their crimson hoods ‘’ “A noisy crowd’” KAMBALU. “Still clutching his treasure” . “As in at the gate we rode * THE COBBLER OF HAGENAU. “Mending the Burgomaster's shoes”. “He came, confiding in his cause ’’ THE BALLAD OF CARMILHAN. “At Stralsund, by the Baltic Sea.” S. G. W. BENJAMIN C. S. REINHART . C. S. REINHART . A. HOPPIN T. MORAN . J. W. EFININGER C. S. REINHART . C. S. REINHART . C. S. REINIIART . E. H. GARRATT . F. O. C. DARLEY L. B. HUMPHREY L. S. IPSEN F. B. SCHELL F. S. CHURCH F. S. CIIURCH WALTER SHIRLAW . A. FREDERICKS . F. O. C. DARLEY F. O. C. DARLEY A. R. WAUD . Engraver, J. P. DAVIS . W. J. DANA J. P. DAVIS J. METCALFE J. T. SPEER . SMITIIWICK AND FRENCH . SMITHIWICK AND FRENCH . J. P. DAVIS J. T. SPEER . J. P. DAVIS . W. J. LINTON J. S. IIARLEY S. S. KILBURN . R. H. STEwART J. A. BOGERT JOHN ANDREW AND SON . RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON H. M. SNYDER . J. W. LAUDERBACH SMITIIWICK AND FRENCH . J. P. DAVIS . T. D. SUGDEN JOHN ANDREW AND SON . JOHN ANDREW AND SON . JOHN ANDREW AND SON . XV Page. 398 400 403 404 409 411 412 413 415 4.18 421 423 424 426 428 430 431 432 433 435 436 437 439 441 443 xvi. - LIST OF ILI, USTRATIONS. The Spectre Ship “Low down upon the sandy coast ’’. “As she dashed and crashed, a hope- less wreck ’’ LADY WENTWORTH. “A pail of water, dripping through the street, And bathing, as she went, her naked feet ’’ The Wentworth House THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL. “To the convent portals came All the blind and halt and lame * THE BARON OF ST. CASTINE. “His father, lonely, old, and gray” . In the Valley of Lavedan “Speeding along the woodland way” FINALE. “A shattered rainbow hung " . PART THIRD. Illustrated Heading INTERLUDE. “Pavia, the country's pride and boast" CHARLEMAGNE EMMA AND EGINHARD. Emma and Eginhard . Eginhard and the Emperor . INTERLUDE. “ The old orchard ” ELIZABETH. Delaware River “And as he entered, Elizabeth rose ’’. “When the supper was ended they drew their chairs to the fireplace ’’ “Thus came the lovely spring ”. THE MONK OF CASAL MAGGIORE. “Wended their weary way with foot- steps slow ’’ “All welcomed the Franciscan” . “And as he entered through the con- vent gate ’’. . . . . . . . “And patted him upon the neck and face ’’ SCANDERBEG. “The trembling scribe obeyed ” “He rode in regal state ’’ Artist. A. R. WAUD . A. R. WAUD . A. R. WAUD . W. L. SHEPPARD F. B. SCHELL A. B. FROST . W. L. SHEPPARD F. B. SCHELL F. B. SCHELL F. B. SCHELL L. S. IPSEN A. R. WAUD A. FREDERICKS . F. DIELMAN F. DIELMAN F. B. SCHELL F. B. SCHELL T. W. WOOD . T. W. WOOD . F. B. SCHELL . W. L. SHEPPARD W. L. SHEPPARD W. L. SHEPPARD W. L. SHEPPARD F. O. C. DARLEY F. O. C. DARLEY Engraver. J. P. DAVIS . JOHN ANDREW AND SON . J. T. SPEER . G. KRUELL . W. J. DANA . E. HEINEMANN . JOHN ANDREW AND SON . JOHN ANDREW AND SON . N. ORR S. S. KILBURN . RUSSELL AND RICHARDSON A. V. S. ANTHONY W. J. DANA . W. J. DANA W. J. DANA . R. M. SMART A. W. S. ANTHONY W. J. LINTON W. J. DANA . R. WARLEY . H. M. SNYDER . H. M. SNYDER . J. FOSTER H. M. SNYDER . JOHN ANDREW AND SON . L. DAMOREAU Page. 444 445 447 449 451 453 455 456 458 460 461 463 464 4.67 469 472 474 475 476 479 481 483 484 487 488 2，\!!!！ %%%% I |- (） -|$，ſae|× ¡¿ ¿) §§ | %\\ | .\\ §§§¿%§ ¶√≠√∞ √ Ķ ;&#%ſ'， \\&&&## Prelude, "But the dark foliage interweaves In one unbroken roof of leaves." ARTIST : J. D. SMILLIE. ãºstSão CC --sº-dº g - a * 3–F–F–F–F–F–F–F–F–F–F–-a-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-Hº-z-z a 2-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z : . : & º o § +E=E= Hº &= -aºsº wº p & IIótvia, Tótvia vić, e / * A * iTvočátelpa Töv troXuTóvov Bootów, 'Epeſ866ev tº p.6\e pºëAe katáTTepos 5 A 2 \ 86 Ayopepºvóvlov ćti öópov e A. \ s f e p - * into yūp àAyéov, Štó Te o upſhopās ôtotyóueſ”, oixàueff otoxopletſ, oxopleya. EURIPIDES. } | Ilºiſi º: 3i N a . . - | º º º 5) | ſº PRELUDE. PLEASANT it was, when woods were green, And winds were soft and low, To lie amid some sylvan scene, Where, the long drooping boughs between, Shadows dark and sunlight sheen Alternate come and go ; Or where the denser grove receives No sunlight from above, But the dark foliage interweaves In one unbroken roof of leaves, Underneath whose sloping eaves The shadows hardly move. Beneath some patriarchal tree I lay upon the ground; His hoary arms uplifted he, And all the broad leaves over me Clapped their little hands in glee, With one continuous sound; — A slumberous sound, a sound that brings The feelings of a dream, As of innumerable wings, As, when a bell no longer swings, Faint the hollow murmur rings O'er meadow, lake, and stream. And dreams of that which cannot die, Bright visions, came to me, As lapped in thought I used to lie, And gaze into the summer sky, Where the sailing clouds went by, Like ships upon the sea; Dreams that the soul of youth engage Ere Fancy has been quelled; Old legends of the monkish page, Traditions of the Saint and sage, Tales that have the rime of age, And chronicles of eld. And, loving still these quaint old themes, Even in the city's throng I feel the freshness of the streams, That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams, Water the green land of dreams, The holy land of song. Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings The Spring, clothed like a bride, When nestling buds unfold their wings, And bishop's-caps have golden rings, Musing upon many things, I sought the woodlands wide. THE POETICAL WORKS OF The green trees whispered low and mild; It was a sound of joy! They were my playmates when a child, And rocked me in their arms so wild Still they looked at me and smiled, As if I were a boy; And ever whispered, mild and low, “Come, be a child once more ' " And waved their long arms to and fro, And beckoned solemnly and slow; Oh, I could not choose but go Into the woodlands hoar, - Into the blithe and breathing air, Into the solemn wood, Solemn and silent everywhere! Nature with folded hands seemed there, Kneeling at her evening prayerſ Like one in prayer I stood. Before me rose an avenue Of tall and sombrous pines; Abroad their fan-like branches grew, And, where the sunshine darted through, Spread a vapor soft and blue, In long and sloping lines. And, falling on my weary brain, Like a fast-falling shower, The dreams of youth came back again, - Low lispings of the summer rain, Dropping on the ripened grain, As once upon the flower. HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLO W. Visions of childhood! Stay, oh stay! Ye were so sweet and wild And distant voices seemed to say, “It cannot be They pass away ! Other themes demand thy lay; Thou art no more a child ! “The land of Song within thee lies, Watered by living springs: The lids of Fancy's sleepless eyes Are gates unto that Paradise, Holy thoughts, like stars, arise, Its clouds are angels' wings. “Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be, Not mountains capped with snow, Nor forests sounding like the sea, Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly, Where the woodlands bend to see The bending heavens below. 5 “There is a forest where the din Of iron branches sounds ! A mighty river roars between, And whosoever looks therein Sees the heavens all black with sin, Sees not its depths, nor bounds. “Athwart the swinging branches cast, Soft rays of sunshine pour; Then comes the fearful wintry blast : Our hopes, like withered leaves, fall fast; Pallid lips say, ‘It is past! We can return no more l’ “Look, then, into thine heart, and write Yes, into Life's deep stream All forms of sorrow and delight, All solemn Voices of the Night, That can soothe thee, or affright, — Be these henceforth thy theme.” HYMN TO THE NIGHT. 'Aoſtagin, Tp(\\otos. I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night Sweep through her marble halls I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light From the celestial walls | I felt her presence, by its spell of might, Stoop o'er me from above; The calm, majestic presence of the Night, As of the one I love. I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, The manifold, soft chimes, That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, Like some old poet's rhymes. From the cool cisterns of the midnight air My spirit drank repose; The fountain of perpetual peace flows there, — From those deep cisterns flows. O holy Night ! from thee I learn to bear What man has borne before Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, And they complain no more. Peace Peace | Orestes-like I breathe this prayer Descend with broad-winged flight, The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, The best-beloved Night! THE POETICAL WORKS OF A PSALM OF LIFE, WELAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST. TELL me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream 1– For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real | Life is earnest And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world’s broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, THE REAPER AND THERE is a Reaper, whose name is Death, And, with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between. “Shall I have naught that is fair?” saith he: “Have naught but the bearded grain 2 Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, I will give them all back again.” He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, He kissed their drooping leaves; It was for the Lord of Paradise He bound them in his sheaves. “My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,” The Reaper said, and smiled ; Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! Be a hero in the strife Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act, — act in the living Present Heart within, and God o'erhead Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time; Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait. THE FLOWERS. “Dear tokens of the earth are they, Where he was once a child. “They shall all bloom in fields of light, Transplanted by my care, And saints, upon their garments white, These sacred blossoms wear.” And the mother gave, in tears and pain, The flowers she most did love; She knew she should find them all again In the fields of light above. Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath, The Reaper came that day; 'T was an angel visited the green earth, And took the flowers away. HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLO W. 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 armor gleams. And earnest thoughts within me rise, When I behold afar, Suspended in the evening skies, The shield of that red star. O star of strength ! I see thee stand And smile upon my pain; Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, And I am strong again. Within my breast there is no light But the cold light of stars; I give the first watch of the night To the red planet Mars. The star of the unconquered will, He rises in my breast, Serene, and resolute, and still, And calm, and self-possessed. And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, That readest this brief psalm, As one by one thy hopes depart, Be resolute and calm. Oh fear not in a world like this, And thou shalt know erelong, Know how sublime a thing it is To suffer and be strong. 8 THE POETIONAL WORKS OF 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 firelight Dance upon the parlor 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 They, the holy ones and weakly, Who the cross of suffering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly, Spake with us on earth no more And with them the Being Beauteous, Who unto my youth was given, More than all things else to love me, And is now a Saint in heaven. With a slow and noiseless footstep Comes that messenger divine, Takes the vacant chair beside me, Lays her gentle hand in mine. And she sits and gazes at me With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and Saint-like, Looking downward from the skies. Uttered not, yet comprehended, Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, Breathing from her lips of air. - Oh, though oft depressed and lonely, All my fears are laid aside, If 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 hath written in those stars above; But not less in the bright flowerets under u Stands the revelation of his love. Bright and glorious is that revelation, Written all over this great world of ours; Making evident our own creation, - In these stars of earth, these golden flow €I’S, 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 flaunting in the eye of day, Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining, Buds that open only to decay; Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, Flaunting gayly in the golden light; Large desires, with most uncertain issues, Tender wishes, blossoming at night ! These in flowers and men are more than seem- ing , Workings are they of the self-same powers, Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming, Seeth in himself and in the flowers. HENRY WADS WORTH LOVG. FELLO W. 9 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; In all places, then, and in all seasons, Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, How akin they are to human things. Not alone in her vast dome of glory, Not on graves of bird and beast alone, But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone; In the cottage of the rudest peasant, In ancestral homes, whose crumbling tow- el's, Speaking of the Past unto the Present, Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers: And with childlike, credulous affection We behold their tender buds expand; Emblems of our own great resurrection, Emblems of the bright and better land. THE BELEAGUERED CITY. I HAVE read, in some old, marvellous tale, Some legend strange and vague, That a midnight host of spectres pale Beleaguered the walls of Prague. Beside the Moldau’s rushing stream, With the wan moon overhead, There stood, as in an awful dream, The army of the dead. White as a sea-fog, landward bound, The spectral camp was seen, And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, The river flowed between. No other voice nor sound was there, No drum, nor sentry's pace: The mist-like banners clasped the air, As clouds with clouds embrace. 10 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 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 fled; Up rose the glorious morning star, The ghastly host was dead. I have read, in the marvellous heart of man, That strange and mystic scroll, That an army of phantoms vast and wan Beleaguer the human soul. Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, In Fancy's misty light, Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam Portentous through the night. Upon its midnight battle-ground The spectral camp is seen, And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, Flows the River of Life between. No other voice nor sound is there, In the army of the grave; No other challenge breaks the air, But the rushing of Life's wave. And when the solemn and deep church-bell Entreats the soul to pray, The midnight phantoms feel the spell, The shadows sweep away. Down the broad Vale of Tears afar The spectral camp is fled; Faith shineth as a morning star, Our ghastly fears are dead. MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. YES, the Year is growing old, And his eye is pale and bleared Death, with frosty hand and cold, Plucks the old man by the beard, Sorely, sorely The leaves are falling, falling, Solemnly and slow ; Caw caw the rooks are calling, It is a sound of woe, A sound of woeſ HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLO W. 11 Through woods and mountain passes The winds, like anthems, roll; They are chanting solemn masses, Singing, “Pray for this poor soul, Pray, pray !” And the hooded clouds, like friars, Tell their beads in drops of rain, And patter their doleful prayers; But their prayers are all in vain, All in vain There he stands in the foul weather, The foolish, fond Old Year, Crowned with wild flowers and with heather, Like weak, 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 breath, “Pray do not mock me so! Do not laugh at me!” And now the sweet day is dead; Cold in his arms it lies; No stain from its breath is spread Over the glassy skies, No mist or stain Then, too, the Old Year dieth, And the forests utter a moan, Like the voice of one who crieth In the wilderness alone, “Wex not his ghost l” Then comes, with an awful roar, Gathering and sounding on, The storm-wind from Labrador, The wind Euroclydon, The storm-wind | Howl! howl' and from the forest Sweep the red leaves away ! Would, the sins that thou abhorrest, O soul! could thus decay, And be swept away! For there shall come a mightier blast, There shall be a darker day: And the stars, from heaven down-cast Like red leaves be swept away! Kyrie, eleyson Christe, eleyson 12 THE POETICAL WORKS OF º º: 6) EW PUL/"t P | :AºS Fº: ==º º ſº º, S. …” - sº assº | || S$º #S º sº [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 be successful. Others lead a vagabond and precarious 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 neg- lected, and almost exposed, brought from their wanderings in lanes and alleys, and safely lodged, in order to go forth into the world together in a more decorous garb.”] AN APRIL DAY. WHEN the warm sun, that brings When the bright sunset fills Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, The silver woods with light, the green slope 'Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs - throws The first flower of the plain. Its shadows in the hollows of the hills, And wide the upland glows. I love the season well, When forest glades are teeming with bright And when the eve is born, forms, - In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far, Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretel Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn, The coming-on of storms. And twinkles many a star. From the earth's loosened mould - Inverted in the tide The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives; Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows Though stricken to the heart with winter's - throw, cold, And the fair trees look over, side by side, The drooping tree revives. And see themselves below. The softly-warbled song Sweet April many a thought Comes from the pleasant woods, and colored Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed; wings Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves Life's golden fruit is shed. along The forest openings. 2 ^*2° ** Yºº ºf HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. 13 AUTUMN. WITH what a glory comes and goes the year ! The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingers Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread Out: And when the 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-crim- soned, And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved, Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down By the wayside a-weary. Through the trees The golden robin moves. The purple finch, That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds, A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle, And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud From cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird sings, And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke, Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail. Oh, what a glory doth this world put on For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks On duties well performed, and days well spent' For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves, WOODS 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. Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings. He shall so hear the solemn h ymn that Death Has lifted up for all, that he shall go To his long resting-place without a tear. IN WINTER. O'er the bare upland, and away Through the long reach of desert woods, The embracing sunbeams chastely play, And gladden these deep solitudes. 14 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Where, twisted round the barren oak, And winds were soft, and woods were green, The summer vine in beauty clung, And the song ceased not with the day ! And summer winds the stillness broke, The crystal icicle is hung. But still wild music is abroad, Pale, desert woods ! within your crowd; Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs And gathering winds, in hoarse accord, Pour out the river's gradual tide, Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. Shrilly the skater's iron rings, And voices fill the woodland side. Chill airs and wintry winds ! my ear Has grown familiar with your song; Alas! how changed from the fair scene, I hear it in the opening year, When birds sang out their mellow lay, I listen, and it cheers me long. HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM. AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI's BANNER, WHEN the dying flame of day Breaks the sabbath of our vale, Through the chancel shot its ray, When the clarion's music thrills Far the glimmering tapers shed To the hearts of these lone hills, Faint light on the cowled head; When the spear in conflict shakes, And the censer burning swung, And the strong lance shivering breaks. Where, before the altar, hung The crimson banner, that with prayer “Take thy banner! and, beneath Had been consecrated there. The battle-cloud's encircling wreath, And the nuns’ sweet hymn was heard the while, Guard it, till our homes are free! Sung low, in the dim, mysterious aisle. Guard it ! God will prosper thee! In the dark and trying hour, “Take thy banner! May it wave In the breaking forth of power, Proudly o'er the good and brave; In the rush of steeds and men, When the battle's distant wail His right hand will shield thee then. HEWR Y WADS WOR TH LOWGFELLO W. 15 “Take thy banner | But when night Closes round the ghastly fight, If the vanquished warrior bow, Spare him By our holy vow, By our prayers and many tears, By the mercy that endears, Spare him he our love hath shared Spare him as thou wouldst be spared “Take thy banner and if e'er Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier, And the muffled drum should beat To the tread of mournful feet, Then this crimson flag shall be Martial cloak and shroud for thee.” The Warrior took that banner proud, And it was his martial cloak and shroud! SUNRISE ON THE HILLS. I STOOD upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch - Was glorious with the Sun's returning march, And woods were brightened, and soft gales Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales. The clouds were far beneath me ; bathed in light, They gathered 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 woods were bending with a silent reach. Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell, The music of the village bell Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills; And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills, 4. Was ringing to the merry shout, That faint and far the glen sent out, Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke, Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle broke. If thou art worn and hard beset With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget, If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep, Go to the woods and hills | No tears Dim the sweet look that Nature wears. THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. THERE is a quiet spirit in these woods, That dwells where'er the gentle south-wind blows; Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the - glade, The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft alr, The leaves above their sunny palms outspread. With what a tender and impassioned voice It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought, When the fast ushering star of morning comes O'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf; Or when the cowled and dusky-Sandaled Eve, In mourning weeds, from out the western gate, Departs with silent pace | That spirit moves In the green valley, where the silver brook, From its full laver, pours the white cascade; And, babbling low amid the tangled woods, Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter. 16 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 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. And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill The world; and, in these wayward days of youth, My busy fancy oft embodies it, As a bright image of the light and beauty That dwell in nature; of the heavenly forms We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds When the sun sets. Within her tender eye The heaven of April, with its changing light, And when it wears the blue of May, is hung, For them there was an eloquent voice in all The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun, The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way, Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds, The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes, Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in, Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale, The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees, In many a lazy syllable, repeating Their old poetic legends to the wind. And 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, HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLO W. 17 BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK. ON sunny slope and beechen swell, The shadowed light of evening fell; And, where the maple's leaf was brown, With soft and silent lapse came down, The glory, that the wood receives, At sunset, in its golden leaves. Far upward in the mellow light Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white, Around a far uplifted cone, In the warm blush of evening shone; An image of the silver lakes, By which the Indian's soul awakes. But soon a funeral hymn was heard Where the soft breath of evening stirred The tall, gray forest; and a band Of stern in heart, and strong in hand, Came winding down beside the wave, To lay the red chief in his grave. They sang, that by his native bowers He stood, in the last moon of flowers, And thirty snows had not yet shed Their glory on the warrior's head; But, as the summer fruit decays, So died he in those naked days. A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin Covered the warrior, and within Its heavy folds the weapons, made For the hard toils of war, were laid : The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds, And the broad belt of shells and beads. Before, a dark-haired virgin train Chanted the death dirge of the slain; Behind, the long procession came Of hoary men and chiefs of fame, With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief, Leading the war-horse of their chief. Stripped of his proud and martial dress, Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless, With darting eye, and nostril spread, And heavy and impatient tread, He came ; and oft that eye so proud Asked for his rider in the crowd. They buried the dark chief; they freed Beside the grave his battle steed; And swift an arrow cleaved its way To his stern heart | One piercing neigh Arose, and, on the dead man's plain, The rider grasps his steed again. 3 18 THE POETICAL WORAS OF N J sº- --- - Fºr- 3) Gº tº G, G, GIºTº TºIT@TSTCTSTC º ſº Gº Gº G). Gº (o) (5) Q (ºr G, G, ſº G) tº G) tº (º) (; WWWWWNéºvá [Don Jorge Manrique, the author of the following poem, flourished in the last half of the fifteenth century. He fol- lowed the profession of arms, and died on the field of battle, Mariana, in his History of Spain, makes honorable mention of him, as being present at the siege of Uclés; and speaks of him as “a youth of estimable qualities, who in this war gave brilliant proofs of his valor. He died young; and was thus cut off from long exercising his great virtues, and ex- hibiting to the world the light of his genius, which was already known to fame.” He was mortally wounded in a skir- mish near Cañavete, in the year 1479. The name of Rodrigo Manrique, the father of the poet, Conde de Paredes and Maestre de Santiago, is well known in Spanish history and song. He died in 1476; according to Mariana, in the town of Uclés; but, according to the poem of his son, in Ocaña. It was his death that called forth the poem upon which rests the literary reputation of the younger Manrique. In the language of his historian, “Don Jorge Manrique, in an elegant Ode, full of poetic beauties, rich em- bellishments of genius, and high moral reflections, mourned the death of his father as with a funeral hymn.” This praise is not exaggerated. The poem is a model in its kind. Its conception is solemn and beautiful; and, in accordance with it, the style moves on, — calm, dignified, and majestic.] COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. FROM THE SPANISH. OH 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 Fleeting as were the dreams of old, Remembered like a tale that 's told, They pass away. Our lives are rivers, gliding free To that unfathomed, boundless sea, The silent gravel Thither all earthly pomp and boast Roll, to be swallowed up and lost In one dark wave. 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, Thither the mighty torrents stray, More highly prize. Onward its course the present keeps, Onward the constant current sweeps, Till life is done ; And, did we judge of time aright, The past and future in their flight Would be as one. Let no one fondly dream again, That Hope and all her shadowy train Will not decay; 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. HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 19 To One alone my thoughts arise, The Eternal Truth, the Good and Wise, To Him I cry, Who shared on earth our common lot, But the world comprehended not His deity. This world is but the rugged road Which leads us to the bright abode Of peace above; So let us choose that narrow way, Which leads no traveller's foot astray From realms of love. Our cradle is the starting-place, Life is the running of the race, We reach the goal When, in the mansions of the blest, Death leaves to its eternal rest The weary soul. Did we but use it as we ought, This world would school each wandering thought To its high state. Faith wings the soul beyond the sky, Up to that better world on high, For which we wait. Yes, the glad messenger of love, To guide us to our home above, The Saviour came; Born amid mortal cares and fears, He suffered in this vale of tears A death of shame. Behold of what delusive worth The bubbles we pursue on earth, The shapes we chase, Amid a world of treachery They vanish ere death shuts the eye, And leave no trace. Time steals them from us, chances strange, Disastrous accident, 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 2 20 - THE POETICAL WORKS OF 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. The noble blood of Gothic name, Heroes emblazoned high to fame, In long array; How, in the onward course of time, The landmarks of that race sublime Were swept away ! Some, the degraded slaves of lust, Prostrate and trampled in the dust, Shall rise no more; Others, by guilt and crime, maintain The scutcheon, that, without a stain, Their fathers bore. Wealth and the high estate of pride, With what untimely speed they glide, How soon depart Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay, The vassals of a mistress they, Of fickle heart. These gifts in Fortune's hands are found; Her swift revolving wheel turns round, And they are gone ! No rest the inconstant goddess knows, But changing, and without repose, Still hurries on. Even could the hand of avarice save Its gilded baubles, till the grave Reclaimed its prey, Let none on such poor hopes rely; Life, like an empty dream, flits by, And where are they 2 Earthly desires and sensual lust Are passions springing from the dust, They fade and die; But, in the life beyond the tomb, They seal the immortal spirit's doom Eternally The pleasures and delights, which mask In treacherous smiles life's serious task, What are they, all, But the fleet coursers of the chase, And death an ambush in the race, Wherein we fall? No foe, no dangerous pass, we heed, Brook no delay, but onward speed With loosened rein ; And, when the fatal snare is near, We strive to check our mad career, But strive in vain. Could we new charms to age impart, And fashion with a cunning art The human face, As we can clothe the soul with light, And make the glorious spirit bright With heavenly grace, How busily each passing hour Should we exert that magic power, What ardor show, To deck the sensual slave of sin, Yet leave the freeborn soul within, In weeds of woe Monarchs, the powerful and the strong, Famous in history and in song Of olden time, Saw, by the stern decrees of fate, Their kingdoms lost, and desolate Their race sublime. Who is the champion ? who the strong? Pontiff and priest, and sceptred throng? On these shall fall - As heavily the hand of Death, As when it stays the shepherd's breath Beside his stall. I speak not of the Trojan name, Neither its glory nor its shame Has met our eyes; Nor of Rome's great and glorious dead, Though we have heard so oft, and read, Their histories. Little avails it now to know Of ages passed so long ago, HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLO W. 21 Nor how they rolled; Our theme shall be of yesterday, Which to oblivion sweeps away, Like days of old. Where is the King, Don Juan 2 Where Each royal prince and noble heir Of Aragon 2 Where are the courtly gallantries? The deeds of love and high emprise, In battle done? Tourney and joust, that charmed the eye, And scarf, and gorgeous panoply, And nodding plume, What were they but a pageant scene 2 And he who next the sceptre swayed, Henry, 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 Her charms away. What but the garlands, gay and green, That deck the tomb 2 Where are the high-born dames, and where Their gay attire, and jewelled hair, And odors sweet 2 Where are the gentle knights, that came To kneel, and breathe love's ardent flame, Low at their feet? Where is the song of Troubadour 2 Where are the lute and gay tambour They loved of yore ? Where is the mazy dance of old, The flowing robes, inwrought with gold, The dancers wore? The countless gifts, the stately walls, The royal palaces, and halls All filled with gold : Plate with armorial bearings wrought, Chambers with ample treasures fraught Of wealth untold ; The noble steeds, and harness bright, And gallant lord, and stalwart knight, In rich array, Where shall we seek them now 2 Alas ! Like the bright dewdrops on the grass, They passed away. 22 THE POETICAL WORKS OF His brother, too, whose factious zeal Usurped the sceptre of Castile, Unskilled to reign : What a gay, brilliant court had he, When all the flower of chivalry Was in his train But he was mortal; and the breath, That flamed from the hot forge of Death, Blasted his years; - Judgment of God! that flame by thee, When raging fierce and fearfully, Was quenched in tears 1 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 villages and villas fair, His mighty power, What were they all but grief and shame, Tears and a broken heart, when came The parting hour 2 His other brothers, proud and high, Masters, who, in prosperity, Might rival kings; Who made the bravest and the best The bondsmen of their high behest, Their underlings; What was their prosperous estate, When high exalted and elate With power and pride 2 What, but a transient gleam of light, A flame, which, glaring at its height, Grew dim and died ? So many a duke of royal name, Marquis and count of spotless fame, And baron brave, That might the sword of empire wield, All these, O Death, hast thou concealed In the dark gravel Their deeds of mercy and of arms, In peaceful days, or war's alarms, When thou dost show, O Death, thy stern and angry face, One stroke of thy all-powerful mace Can overthrow. Unnumbered hosts, that threaten nigh, Pennon and standard flaunting high, And flag displayed; High battlements intrenched around, Bastion, and moated wall, and mound, And palisade, And covered trench, secure and deep, All these cannot one victim keep, O Death, from thee, When thou dost battle in thy wrath, And thy strong shafts pursue their path Unerringly. O World ! so few the years we live, Would that the life which thou dost give Were life indeed Alas ! thy sorrows fall so fast, Our happiest hour is when at last The soul is freed. Our days are covered o'er with grief, And sorrows neither few nor brief Veil all in gloom ; Left desolate of real good, Within this cheerless solitude No pleasures bloom. Thy pilgrimage begins in tears, And ends in bitter doubts and fears, Or dark despair; Midway so many toils appear, That he who lingers longest here Knows most of care. T hy 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, H//NR Y WADSWORTH LONG. FELLO W. º * * WN -- -- 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 sung 2 The name, that dwells on every tongue, No minstrel needs. To friends a friend; how kind to all The vassals of this ancient hall And feudal fief To foes how stern a foe was he And to the valiant and the free How brave a chief What prudence with the old and wise: What grace in youthful gayeties; In all how sage Benignant to the serf and slave, He showed the base and falsely brave A lion's rage. His was Octavian's prosperous star, The rush of Caesar's conquering car ºrs - º = Sº º º º N & º ~ . *7A - At battle's call; - His, Scipio's virtue; his, the skill And the indomitable will Of Hannibal. His was a Trajan's goodness, his A Titus' noble charities And righteous laws; The arm of Hector, and the might Of Tully, to maintain the right In truth's just cause; The clemency of Antonine, Aurelius’ countenance divine, Firm, gentle, still: The eloquence of Adrian, And Theodosius' love to man, And generous will; In tented field and bloody fray, An Alexander's vigorous sway And stern command ; The faith of Constantine; ay, more, The fervent love Camillus bore His native land. He left no well-filled treasury, He heaped no pile of riches high, 24 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 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 gallant riders found A common grave; And there the warrior's hand did gain The rents, and the long vassal train, That conquest gave. And if, of old, his halls displayed The honored 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 'T was his to share, Such noble leagues he made, that more 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. 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 valor of his hand, His monarch and his native land Were nobly served; Let Portugal repeat the story, And proud Castile, who shared the glory His arms deserved. And when so oft, for weal or woe, His life upon the fatal throw Had been cast down ; When he had served, with patriot zeal, Beneath the banner of Castile, His sovereign's crown ; And done such deeds of valor strong, That neither history nor song Can count them all; Then, on Ocaña's castled rock, Death at his portal came to knock, With sudden call, Saying, “Good Cavalier, prepare To leave this world of toil and care With joyful mien ; - Let thy strong heart of steel this day Put on its armor for the fray, The closing scene. “Since thou hast been, in battle-strife, So prodigal of health and life, For earthly fame, Let virtue nerve thy heart again; Loud on the last stern battle-plain They call thy name. “Think not the struggle that draws near Too terrible for man, nor fear To meet the foe; Nor let thy noble spirit grieve, Its life of glorious fame to leave On earth below. “A life of honor and of worth Has no eternity on earth, 'T is 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. HENR Y WADS WOR TH LOW G FELLO W. 25 “But the good monk, in cloistered cell, Shall gain it by his book and bell, His prayers and tears; And the brave knight, whose arm endures Fierce battle, and against the Moors His standard rears. “And thou, brave knight, whose hand has poured - The life-blood of the Pagan horde O'er all the land, - In heaven shalt thou receive, at length, The guerdon of thine earthly strength And dauntless hand. “ Cheered onward by this promise sure, Strong in the faith entire and pure Thou dost profess, Depart, thy hope is certainty, The third, the better life on high Shalt thou possess.” “O Death, no more, no more delay; My spirit longs to flee away, And be at rest ; The will of Heaven my will shall be, I bow to the divine decree, To God’s behest. “My soul is ready to depart, No thought rebels, the obedient heart Breathes forth no sigh; The wish on earth to linger still Were vain, when 't is God's sovereign will That we shall die. “O thou, that for our sins didst take A human form, and humbly make Thy home on earth; Thou, that to thy divinity A human nature didst ally By mortal birth, “And in that form didst suffer here Torment, and agony, and fear, So patiently; By thy redeeming grace alone, And not for merits of my own, Oh, pardon me!” As thus the dying warrior prayed, Without one gathering mist or shade Upon his mind; Encircled by his family, Watched by affection’s gentle eye So soft and kind ; His soul to Him, who gave it, rose : God lead it to its long repose, Its glorious rest And, though the warrior's Sun has set, Its light shall linger round us yet, Bright, radiant, blest. THE GOOD SHEPHERD. FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA. SHEPHERD ! who with thine amorous, sylvan Song Hast broken the slumber that encompassed Ime, Who 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 ; - I will obey thy voice, and wait to see Thy feet all beautiful upon the mountains. Hear, Shepherd I thou who for thy flock art dying, Oh, wash away these scarlet sins, for thou Rejoicest 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 wait- ing still for me ! 4 26 THE POETICAL WORKS OF TO_MORROW. FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE WEGA. LORD, what am I, that, with unceasing care, Thou didst seek after me, that thou didst wait, Wet with unhealthy dews, before my gate, And pass the gloomy nights of winter there? 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 shalt see How he persists to knock and wait for thee!” And, oh! how often to that voice of sor- row, “To-morrow we will open,” I replied, And when the morrow came I answered still, “To-morrow.” THE NATIVE LAND. FROM THE SPANISH OF FEANCISCO DE ALDANA. CLEAR fount of light ! my native land on high, Bright with a glory that shall never fadeſ Mansion of truth! without a veil or shade, Thy holy quiet meets the spirit's eye. There dwells the soul in its ethereal essence, Gasping no longer for life's feeble breath; But, sentinelled in heaven, its glorious pres- enCe With pitying eye beholds, yet fears not, death. Beloved country banished from thy shore, A stranger in this prison-house of clay, The exiled spirit weeps and sighs for thee! Heavenward the bright perfections I adore Direct, and the sure promise cheers the way, That, whither love aspires, there shall my dwelling be. THE IMAGE OF GOD. FROM THE SPANISH OF FIRANCISCO DE ALDANA. O Lord! who 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 bright ! Eternal Sun the warmth which thou hast given, To cheer life's flowery April, fast decays; Yet, in the hoary winter of my days, Forever green shall be 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. HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. 27 THE BROOK. FROM THE SPANISH. LAUGH of the mountain' — lyre of bird and tree' Pomp of the meadow ! mirror of the morn! The soul of April, unto whom are born The rose and jessamine, leaps wild in thee! Although, where'er thy devious current strays, The lap of earth with gold and silver teems, To me thy clear proceeding brighter seems Than golden sands, that charm each shep- herd's gaze. How without guile thy bosom, all transparent As the pure crystal, lets the curious eye Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, round pebbles count How, without malice murmuring, glides thy current º O sweet simplicity of days gone by Thou shun'st the haunts of man, to dwell in limpid fount THE CELESTIAL PILOT. FROM DANTE. AND now, behold as at the approach of morn- ing, Through the gross vapors, Mars grows fiery red Down in the west upon the ocean floor, Appeared to me, – may I again behold it! A light along the sea, so swiftly coming, Its motion by no flight of wing is equalled. And when therefrom I had withdrawn a little Mine eyes, that I might question my con- ductor, PURGATORIO. II. Again I saw it brighter grown and larger. Thereafter, on all sides of it, appeared I knew not what of white, and underneath, Little by little, there came forth another. My master yet had uttered not a word, While the first whiteness into wings un- folded; But, when he clearly recognized the pilot, He cried aloud: “Quick, quick, and bow the knee Behold the Angel of God! fold up thy hands! 28 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 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 ap- peared, So that the eye could not sustain his presence, But down I cast it ; and he came to shore With a small vessel, gliding swift and light, So that the water swallowed naught thereof. Upon the stern stood the Celestial Pilot! Beatitude seemed written in his face And more than a hundred spirits sat within. “In exitu Israel de AEgypto ''' Thus sang they all together in one voice, With whatso in that Psalm is after written. Then made he sign of holy rood upon them, Whereat all cast themselves upon the shore, And he departed swiftly as he came. THE TERRESTRIAL PARADISE. FROM DANTE, LONGING already to search in and round The heavenly forest, dense and living-green, Which tempered to the eyes the new-born day, Withouten more delay I left the bank, Crossing the level country slowly, slowly, Over the soil, that everywhere breathed fra- grance. A gently-breathing air, that no mutation PURGATORIO, XXVIII. 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 Moun. tain : Yet not from their upright direction bent So that the little birds upon their tops HEWR Y WADS WORTH. J. O.WGFELLO W. . 29 should cease the practice of their tuneful art; But, with full-throated joy, the hours of prime Singing received they in the midst of foliage That made monotonous burden to their rhymes, - Even as from branch to branch it gathering swells, Through the pine forests on the shore of Chiassi, - When Æolus unlooses the Sirocco. Already my slow steps had led me on Into the ancient wood so far, that I Could see no more the place where I had entered. And lo! my further course cut off a river, Which, tow’rds the left hand, with its little Waves, Bent down the grass, that on its margin Sprang. - All waters that on earth most limpid are, Would seem to have within themselves some mixture, Compared with that, which nothing doth conceal, Although it moves on with a brown, brown Current, Under the shade perpetual, that never Ray of the sun lets in, nor of the moon. BEATRICE. FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, xxx., xxxi. EVEN as the Blessed, at the final summons, Shall rise up quickened, each one from his grave, Wearing again the garments of the flesh, So, upon that celestial chariot, A hundred rose ad vocem tanti semis, Ministers and messengers of life eternal. They all were saying, “Benedictus qui venis,” And scattering flowers above and round about, “Manibus o date lilia plenis.” Oft have I seen, at the approach of day, The orient sky all stained with roseate hues, And the other heaven with light serene adorned, And the sun's face uprising, overshadowed, So that, by temperate influence of vapors, 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 colors of the living flame. Even as the snow, among the living rafters Upon the back of Italy, congeals, Blown on and beaten by Sclavonian winds, And then, dissolving, filters through itself, Whene'er the land, that loses shadow, breathes, Like as a taper melts before a fire, Even such I was, without a sigh or tear, Before the song of those who chime forever After the chiming of the eternal spheres; But, when I heard in those sweet melodies Compassion for me, more than had they said, “Oh wherefore, lady, dost thou thus con- sume him 7” - i The ice, that was about my heart congealed, To air and water changed, and, in my an- guish, Through lips and eyes came gushing from my breast. Confusion and dismay, together mingled, Forced such a feeble “Yes!” out of my mouth, To understand it one had need of sight. Even as a cross-bow breaks, when 't is dis- charged, - - Too tensely drawn the bow-string and the bow, And with less force the arrow hits the mark; So I gave way beneath this heavy burden, Gushing forth into bitter tears and sighs, And the voice, fainting, flagged upon its passage. 30 THE POETICAL WORKS OF SPRING. FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES D'ORLEANS. XV. CENTURY. GENTLE Spring ! in sunshine clad, Well dost thou thy power display ! For Winter maketh the light heart sad, And thou, thou makest the sad heart gay. He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train, The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the rain ; And they shrink away, and they flee in fear, When thy merry step draws near. Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so old, Their beards of icicles and snow ; And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold, We must cower over the embers low ; And, snugly housed from the wind and weather, Mope like birds that are changing feather. But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear, When thy merry step draws near. Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky Wrap him round with a mantle of cloud ; But, Heaven be praised, thy step is migh; Thou tearest away the mournful shroud, And the earth looks bright, and Winter surly, Who has toiled for naught both late and early, • Is banished afar by the new-born year, When thy merry step draws near. THE CHILD ASLEEP. FROM THE FRENCH OF CLOTILDE DE SURVIII.E. SWEET babe! true portrait of thy father's face, Sleep on the bosom that thy lips have pressed - Sleep, little one; and closely, gently place Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's breast. Upon that tender eye, my little friend, Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to - me! I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend ; 'T is 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 Wore not his cheek the apple's ruddy glow, Would you not say he slept on Death's Gold arm 2 Awake, my boy! I tremble with affright ! Awake, and chase this fatal thought | Un- close 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 be- guile ! Oh, when shall he, for whom I sigh in vain, Beside me watch to see thy waking smile? harm. THE GRAVE. IFROM THE ANGLO-SAXON. FOR thee was a house built Ere thou wast born, For thee was a mould meant Ere thou of mother cameSt. But it is not made ready, Nor its depth measured, Nor is it seen How long it shall be. HEWR Y WADSWORTH LONG FELLO W. 31 Now I bring thee Where thou shalt be ; Now I shall measure thee, And the mould afterwards. Thy house is not Highly timbered, It is unhigh and low; When thou art therein, The heel-ways are low, The side-ways unhigh. The roof is built Thy breast full nigh, So thou shalt in mould Dwell full cold, Dimly and dark. Doorless is that house, And dark it is within ; There thou art fast detained And Death hath the key. Loathsome is that earth-house, And grim within to dwell. There thou shalt dwell, And worms shall divide thee. Thus thou art laid, And leavest thy friends; Thou hast no friend, Who will come to thee, Who will ever see How that house pleaseth thee; Who will ever open The door for thee, And descend after thee; For soon thou art loathsome And hateful to see. KING CHRISTIAN. A NATIONAL SONG OF DENMARK. FROM THE DANISH OF JOHANNES EVALD. KING CHRISTIAN stood by the lofty mast In mist and smoke; His sword was hammering so fast, Through Gothic helm and brain it passed; Then sank each hostile hulk and mast, In mist and smoke. “Fly!” shouted they, “fly, he who can Who braves of Denmark's Christian The stroke 2 ° 32 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Nils Juel gave heed to the tempest's roar, Now is the hour ! He hoisted his blood-red flag once more, And smote upon the foe full sore, And shouted loud, through the tempest's roar, “Now is the hour !” “Fly!” shouted they, “for shelter fly! Of Denmark's Juel who can defy The power?” North Sea a glimpse of Wessel rent Thy murky sky! Then champions to thine arms were sent; Terror and Death glared where he went : From the waves was heard a wail, that rent º n - - º - Thy murky sky! From Denmark thunders Tordenskiol', Let each to Heaven commend his soul, And fly! Path of the Dane to fame and might! Dark-rolling wave' Receive thy friend, who, scorning flight, Goes to meet danger with despite, Proudly as thou the tempest's might, Dark-rolling wave And amid pleasures and alarms, And war and victory, be thine arms My grave! THE HAPPIEST LAND. FROM THE GERMAN. 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. HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. 33 But, when the maid departed, There have I as many maidens A Swabian raised his hand, As fingers on this hand!” And cried, all hot and flushed with wine, “Long live the Swabian land! “Hold your tongues! both Swabian and Saxon!” “The greatest kingdom upon earth A bold Bohemian cries; Cannot with that compare; “If there's a heaven upon this earth, With all the stout and hardy men In Bohemia it lies. And the nut-brown maidens there.” “There the tailor blows the flute, “Ha!” cried a Saxon, laughing, And the cobbler blows the horn, And dashed his beard with wine; And the miner blows the bugle, “I had rather live in Lapland, Over mountain gorge and bourn.” Than that Swabian land of thine! And then the landlord's daughter “The goodliest land on all this earth, Up to heaven raised her hand, It is the Saxon land And said, “Ye may no more contend, - There lies the happiest land ' " THE WAVE. FROM THE GERMAN OF TIEDGE. “WHITHER, thou turbid wave? From the struggle and the strife Whither, with so much haste, Of the narrow stream I fly As if a thief wert thou?” To the Sea's immensity, To wash from me the slime “I am the Wave of Life, Of the muddy banks of Time.” Stained with my margin's dust; THE DEAD. FROM THE GERMAN OF STOCKMANN. How they so softly rest, How they so softly rest, All they the holy ones, All in their silent graves, Unto whose dwelling-place Deep to corruption Now doth my soul draw near ! Slowly down-sinking ! 5 34 THE POETIOAL WORKS OF And they no longer weep, Here, where complaint is still ! And they no longer feel, Here, where all gladness flies! And, by the cypresses Softly o’ershadowed, Until the Angel Calls them, they slumber THE BIRD AND THE SHIP. FROM THE GERMAN OF MüLLER. “THE rivers rush into the sea, By castle and town they go ; The winds behind them merrily Their noisy trumpets blow. “The clouds are passing far and high, We little birds in them play; And everything, that can sing and fly, Goes with us, and far away. “I greet thee, bonny boat . Whither, or whence, With thy fluttering golden band?”— “I greet thee, little bird! To the wide sea I haste from the narrow land. “Full and swollen is every sail; I see no longer a hill, I have trusted all to the sounding gale, And it will not let me stand still. “And wilt thou, little bird, go with us? Thou mayest stand on the mainmast tall, For full to sinking is my house With merry companions all.” — “I need not and seek not company, Bonny boat, I can sing all alone; For the mainmast tall too heavy am I, Bonny boat, I have wings of my own. “High over the sails, high over the mast, Who shall gainsay these joys? When thy merry companions are still, at last, Thou shalt hear the sound of my voice. “Who neither may rest, nor listen may, God bless them every one ! I dart away, in the bright blue day, And the golden fields of the sun. “Thus do I sing my weary song, Wherever the four winds blow ; And this same song, my whole life long, Neither Poet nor Printer may know.” WHITHER 2 FROM THE GERMAN OF MüLLER. I HEARD a brooklet gushing From its rocky fountain near, Down into the valley rushing, So fresh and wondrous clear. I know not what came o'er me, Nor who the counsel gave ; But I must hasten downward, All with my pilgrim-stave; Downward, and ever farther, And ever the brook beside; And ever fresher murmured, And ever clearer, the tide. Is this the way I was going? Whither, O brooklet, say ! Thou hast, with thy soft murmur, Murmured my senses away. HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FF/L LOW. 35 What do I say of a murmur' Let them sing, my friend, let them murmur, That can no murmur be : 'Tis the water-nymphs, that are singing Their roundelays under me. And wander merrily near; The wheels of a mill are going In every brooklet clear. BEWARE I FROM THE GERMAN. I KNow a maiden fair to see, Take care She can both false and friendly be, Beware Beware Trust her not, She is fooling thee! She has two eyes, so soft and brown, Take care She gives a side-glance and looks down, Beware Beware Trust her not, She is fooling thee! And she has hair of a golden hue, Take care - And what she says, it is not true, Beware Beware Trust her not, She is fooling thee! She has a bosom as white as snow, Take care She knows how much it is best to show, Beware Beware Trust her not, She is fooling thee! She gives thee a garland woven fair, Take care It is a fool's-cap for thee to wear, Beware Beware Trust her not, She is fooling thee! 36 THE POETICAL WORKS OF SONG OF THE BELL. FROM THE GERMAN. BELL thou soundest merrily, When the bridal party To the church doth hie! Bell! thou soundest solemnly, When, on Sabbath morning, Fields deserted lie Bell! thou soundest merrily; Tellest thou at evening, Bed-time draweth nigh! Bell! thou soundest mournfully, Tellest thou the bitter Parting hath gone by | Say! how canst thou mourn? How canst thou rejoice? Thou art but metal dull! And yet all our sorrowings, And all our rejoicings, Thou dost feel them all! God hath wonders many, Which we cannot fathom, Placed within thy form When the heart is sinking, Thou alone canst raise it, Trembling in the storm' THE CASTLE BY THE SEA. FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. “HAST thou seen that lordly castle, That Castle by the Sea? Golden and red above it The clouds float gorgeously. “And fain it would stoop downward To the mirrored wave below; And fain it would soar upward In the evening's crimson glow.” “Well have I seen that castle, That Castle by the Sea, And the moon above it standing, And the mist rise solemnly.” “The winds and the waves of ocean, Had they a merry chime? Didst thou hear, from those lofty chambers, The harp and the minstrel's rhyme?” “The winds and the waves of ocean, They rested quietly, But I heard on the gale a sound of wail, And tears came to mine eye.” “And sawest thou on the turrets The King and his royal bride? And the wave of their crimson mantles’ And the golden crown of pride? “Led they not forth, in rapture, A beauteous maiden there 2 Resplendent as the morning sun, Beaming with golden hair 7” “Well saw I the ancient parents, Without the crown of pride; They were moving slow, in weeds of woe, No maiden was by their side l’ HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLO W. 37 THE BLACK KNIGHT. FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. 'T WAS 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 Hofburg'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, - Danced a measure weird and dark, Coldly clasped her limbs around; From breast and hair Down fall from her the fair Flowerets, faded, to the ground. 38 THE POETICAL WORKS OF HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. To the sumptuous banquet came Every Knight and every Dame; 'Twixt son and daughter all distraught, With mournful mind The ancient King reclined, Gazed at them in silent thought. Pale the children both did look, But the guest a beaker took : “Golden wine will make you whole!” The children drank, - Gave many a courteous thank: “Oh, that draught was very cool!” Each the father's breast embraces, Son and daughter; and their faces Colorless grow utterly; Whichever way Looks the fear-struck father gray, He beholds his children die. “Woe! the blessed children both Takest thou in the joy of youth; Take me, too, the joyless father l’” Spake the grim Guest, From his hollow, cavernous breast : “Roses in the spring I gather l’ SONG OF THE SILENT LAND. FROM THE GERMAN OF SATIS. INTO the Silent Land Ah who shall lead us thither ? Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand. Who leads us with a gentle hand Thither, oh, thither, Into the Silent Land 2 Into the Silent Land To you, ye boundless regions Who in Life's battle firm doth stand, Shall bear Hope's tender blossoms Into the Silent Land O Land J O 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 Of all perfection Tender morning-visions Of beauteous souls . The Future's pledge and band 1 To the land of the great Departed, Into the Silent Land L’ENVOI. YE voices, that arose After the Evening's close, And whispered to my restless heart repose ! Go, mingle yet once more With the perpetual roar Of the pine forest, dark and hoar ! Go, breathe it in the ear Of all who doubt and fear, And say to them, “Be of good cheer!” Tongues of the dead, not lost, But speaking from death's frost, Like fiery tongues at Pentecost Ye sounds, so low and calm, That in the groves of balm Seemed to me like an angel's psalm Glimmer, as funeral lamps, Amid the chills and damps Of the vast plain where Death encamps! ae º£ ：：：：::：:：：：：:： |-ſae， : E. A. ABBEY. A RTIs T : eyed maid, "I wooed the blue Yielding, yet half afra 7"he SAEeleton in Armor. - • • • ---- • • • • • • • • - · - · -*... • ---- ---- · *--- №N�}}&{¿? º G ºº:: §§ º EEºs º º C O C C C Cill O O. O º O C Cill C C U. ºlº C. C “SPEAK! speak! thou fearful guest' Then, from those cavernous eyes Who, with thy hollow breast Pale flashes seemed to rise, Still in rude armor drest, - As when the Northern skies Comest to daunt me ! Gleam in December ; Wrapt not in Eastern balms, And, like the water's flow But with thy fleshless palms Under December's snow, Stretched, as if asking alms, Came a dull voice of woe Why dost thou haunt me?” From the heart's chamber. 6 THE POETICAL WORKS OF “I was a Viking old ! “Oft to his frozen lair My deeds, though manifold, Tracked I the grisly bear, No Skald in song has told, While from my path the hare No Saga taught thee! Fled like a shadow; Take heed, that in thy verse Oft through the forest dark Thou dost the tale rehearse, Followed the were-wolf's bark, Else dread a dead man's curse; Until the soaring lark For this I sought thee. Sang from the meadow. “Far in the Northern Land, “But when I older grew, By the wild Baltic's strand, Joining a corsair's crew, I, with my childish hand, O'er the dark sea I flew Tamed the gerfalcon; With the marauders. And, with my skates fast-bound, Wild was the life we led; Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, Many the souls that sped, That the poor whimpering hound Many the hearts that bled, Trembled to walk on. By our stern orders. “Many a wassail-bout “Once as I told in glee Wore the long Winter out; Tales of the stormy sea, Often our midnight shout Soft eyes did gaze on me, Set the cocks crowing, Burning yet tender; As we the Berserk's tale And as the white stars shine Measured in cups of ale, On the dark Norway pine, Draining the oaken pail, On that dark heart of mine Filled to o'erflowing. Fell their soft splendor. HENRY WADS WORTH LOWGFELLO W. 43 “I wooed the blue-eyed maid, Yielding, yet half afraid, And in the forest's shade Our vows were plighted. Under its loosened vest Fluttered her little breast, Like birds within their nest By the hawk frighted. “Bright in her father's hall Shields gleamed upon the wall, Loud sang the minstrels all, Chanting his glory; When of old Hildebrand I asked his daughter's hand, Mute did the 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 ? “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 blast, Bent like a reed each mast, Yet we were gaining fast, When the wind failed us; And with a sudden flaw Came round the gusty Skaw, So that our foe we saw Laugh as he hailed us. “And as to catch the gale Round veered the flapping sail, “Death !’ was the helmsman’s hail, ‘Death without quarter l’ Mid-ships with iron keel Struck we her ribs of steel; Down her black hulk did reel Through the black water “As with his wings aslant, Sails the fierce cormorant, Seeking some rocky haunt, With his prey laden, So toward the open main, Beating to Sea again, Through the wild hurricane, Bore I the maiden. “Three weeks we westward bore, And when the storm was o'er, Cloud-like we saw the shore Stretching to leeward; There for my lady's bower Built I the lofty tower, Which, to this very hour, Stands looking seaward. “There lived we many years; Time dried the maiden's tears; She had forgot her fears, She was a mother; Death closed her mild blue eyes, Under that tower she lies; Ne'er shall the sun arise On such another “Still grew my bosom then, Still as a stagnant fen Hateful to me were men, The sunlight hateful! In the vast forest here, Clad in my warlike gear, Fell I upon my spear, Oh, death was grateful! 44 THE POETICAL WORKS OF “Thus, seamed with many scars, Bursting these prison bars, Up to its native stars My soul ascended ! º # §§sº *NººSºº wº D § * Sº º º §§ Žº § THE WRECK OF IT was the schooner Hesperus, That sailed the wintry sea; And the skipper had taken his little daughtër, To bear him company. Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day, And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, That ope in the month of May. The skipper he stood beside the helm, His pipe was in his mouth, And he watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke now West, now South. Then up and spake an old Sailör, Had sailed to 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 l’ The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, And a scornful laugh laughed he. Colder and louder blew the wind, A gale from the Northeast, The snow fell hissing in the brine, And the billows frothed like yeast. Down came the storm, and smote amain The vessel in its strength; She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, Then leaped her cable's length. There from the flowing bowl Deep drinks the warrior's soul, Skoal / to the Northland Skoal /* Thus the tale ended. THE HESPERUS. “Come hither! come hither! my little daughtër, And do not tremble so; For I can weather the roughest gale That ever wind did blow.” He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat Against the stinging blast : He cut a rope from a broken spar, And bound her to the mast. “O father I hear the church-bells ring, Oh say, what may it be?” “”T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast !” — And he steered for the open sea. “O father I hear the sound of guns, Oh say, what may it be 7” “Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea l’” “O father I see a gleaming light, Oh say, what may it be 2 ° But the father answered never a word, A frozen corpse was he. Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, With his face turned to the skies, The lantern gleamed through the gleaming Snow On his fixed and glassy eyes, e. Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed That savéd she might be ; And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, On the Lake of Galilee. HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLO W. 45 And fast through the midnight dark and drear, Through the whistling sleet and snow, Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept Tow’rds the reef of Norman's Woe. 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, But the cruel rocks, they gored her side Like the horns of an angry bull. Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, With the masts went by the board; Hike a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, Ho! ho! the breakers roared! And ever the fitful gusts between A sound came from the land; It was the sound of the trampling surf On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, A fisherman stood aghast, To see the form of a maiden fair, Lashed close to a drifting mast. The salt sea was frozen on her breast, The salt tears in her eyes; And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, On the billows fall and rise. Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, In the midnight and the snow! Christ save us all from a death like this, - On the reef of Norman's Woe! 46 THE POETICAL WORKS OF THE LUCK OF EDENHALL. FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. OF Edenhall, the youthful Lord Bids sound the festal trumpet’s call; He rises at the banquet board, And cries, 'mid the drunken revellers all, “Now bring me the Luck of Edenhall!” The butler hears the words with pain, The house's oldest seneschal, Takes slow from its silken cloth again The drinking-glass of crystal tall; They call it The Luck of Edenhall, Then said the Lord: “This glass to praise, Fill with red wine from Portugal!” The graybeard 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 them, O Luck of Edenhall / “’Twas right a goblet the Fate should be Of the joyous race of Edenhall! Deep draughts drink we right willingly; And willingly ring, with merry call, Kling ! klang! to the Luck of Edenhall!” First rings it deep, and full, and mild, Like to the 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 all Will I try the Luck of Edenhall!” As the goblet ringing flies apart, Suddenly cracks the vaulted hall; And through the rift, the wild flames start; The guests in dust are scattered all, With the breaking Luck of Edenhall! In storms the foe, with fire and sword; He in the night had scaled the wall, Slain by the sword lies the youthful Lord, But holds in his hand the crystal tall, The shattered Luck of Edenhall. On the morrow the butler gropes alone, The graybeard in the desert hall, He seeks his Lord’s burnt skeleton, He seeks in the dismal ruin’s fall The shards of the Luck of Edenhall. “The stone wall,” saith he, “doth fall aside, Down must the stately columns fall; Glass is this earth's Luck and Pride ; In atoms shall fall this earthly ball One day like the Luck of Edenhall !” THE ELECTED KNIGHT. FROM THE DANISH. His steed was black, his helm was barred : He was riding at full speed. 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 wore upon his spurs Twelve little golden birds; Anon he spurred his steed with a clang, And there sat all the birds and sang. He saw under the hillside A Knight full well equipped; HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. 47 He wore upon his mail Twelve little golden wheels; Anon in eddies the wild wind blew, And round and round the wheels they flew. He wore before his breast A lance that was poised in rest; And it was sharper than diamond-stone, It made Sir Oluf's heart to groan. He wore upon his helm A wreath of ruddy gold; And that gave him the Maidens Three, The youngest was fair to behold. Sir Oluf questioned the Knight eftsoon If he were come from heaven down : “Art thou Christ of Heaven,” quoth he, “So will I yield me unto thee.” “I am not Christ the Great, Thou shalt not yield thee yet; I am an Unknown Knight, Three modest Maidens have me bedight.” “Art thou a Knight elected, And have three Maidens thee bedight; So shalt thou ride a tilt this day, For all the Maidens' honor l’’ 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. THE POETICA / WORKS OF º | % . 2 º 3. & 3. º -- s º ºf- § f s º ſº º - º PENTECOST, day of rejoicing, had come. The church of the village Gleaming stood in the morning's sheen. On the spire of the belfry, Decked with a brazen cock, the friendly flames of the Spring-sun Glanced like the tongues of fire, beheld by Apostles aforetime. Clear was the heaven and blue, and May, with her cap crowned 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 Highest. Swept and clean was the churchyard. Adorned like a leaf-woven arbor Stood its old-fashioned gate; and within upon each cross of iron Hung was a fragrant garland, new twined by the hands of affection. Even the dial, that stood on a mound among the departed, (There full a hundred years had it stood,) was embellished with blossoms. HENRY WADSWOR TH LONG FELLO W. Like to the patriarch hoary, the sage of his kith and the hamlet, Who on his birthday is crowned by children and children's children, So stood the ancient prophet, and mute with his pencil of iron Marked on the tablet of stone, and measured the time and its changes, While all around at his feet, an eternity slumbered in quiet. Also the church within was adorned, for this was the season When the young, their parents' hope, and the loved-ones of heaven, Should at the foot of the altar renew the vows of their baptism. Therefore each nook and corner was swept and cleaned, and the dust was Blown from the walls and ceiling, and from the oil-painted benches. There stood the church like a garden; the Feast of the Leafy Pavilions Saw we in living presentment. From noble arms on the church wall Grew forth a cluster of leaves, and the preacher's pulpit of oak-wood Budded once more anew, as aforetime the rod before Aaron. Wreathed thereon was the Bible with leaves, and the dove, washed with silver, Under its canopy fastened, had on it a necklace of wind-flowers. But in front of the choir, round the altar-piece painted by Hörberg, Crept a garland gigantic ; and bright-curling tresses of angels Peeped, like the sun from a cloud, from out of the shadowy leaf-work. Likewise the lustre of brass, new-polished, blinked from the ceiling, And for lights there were lilies of Pentecost set in the sockets. Loud rang the bells already ; the thronging crowd was assembled Far from valleys and hills, to list to the holy preaching. Hark! then roll forth at once the mighty tones of the organ, Hover like voices from God, aloft like invisible spirits. Like as Elias in heaven, when he cast from off him his mantle, So cast off the soul its garments of earth; and with one voice Chimed in the congregation, and Sang an anthem immortal Of the sublime Wallín, of David's harp in the North-land Tuned to the choral of Luther; the song on its mighty pinions Took every living soul, and lifted it gently to heaven, And each face did shine like the Holy One's face upon Tabor. Lo there entered then into the church the Reverend Teacher. Father he hight and he was in the parish ; a Christianly plainness Clothed from his head to his feet the old man of seventy winters. Friendly was he to behold, and glad as the heralding angel Walked he among the crowds, but still a contemplative grandeur Lay on his forehead as clear as on moss-covered gravestone 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. 49 7 50 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Many a moving word and warning, that out of the heart came, Fell like the dew of the morning, like manna on those in the desert. Then, when all was finished, the Teacher reëntered the chancel, Followed therein by the young. The boys on the right had their places, Delicate figures, with close-curling hair and cheeks rosy-blooming. But on the left of these there stood the tremulous lilies, Tinged with the blushing light of the dawn, the diffident maidens, - Folding their hands in prayer, and their eyes cast down on the pavement. Now came, with question and answer, the catechism. In the beginning Answered the children with troubled and faltering voice, but the old man's Glances of kindness encouraged them soon, and the doctrines eternal Flowed, like the waters of fountains, so clear from lips unpolluted. Each time the answer was closed, and as oft as they named the Redeemer, Lowly louted the boys, and lowly the maidens all courtesied. Friendly the Teacher stood, like an angel of light there among them, And to the children explained the holy, the highest, in few words, Thorough, yet simple and clear, for sublimity always is simple, Both in sermon and song, a child can seize on its meaning. Een as the green-growing bud unfolds when Springtide approaches, Leaf by leaf puts forth, and warmed, by the radiant sunshine, Blushes with purple and gold, till at last the perfected blossom Opens its odorous chalice, and rocks with its crown in the breezes, So was unfolded here the Christian lore of salvation, Line by line from the soul of childhood. The fathers and mothers Stood behind them in tears, and were glad at the well-worded answer. Now went the old man up to the altar; – and straightway transfigured (So did it seem unto me) was then the affectionate Teacher. - - + ºr--- º º º PHEWR Y WADS WOR TH LOWGFELLO W. 51 Like the Lord's Prophet sublime, and awful as Death and as Judgment Stood he, the God-commissioned, the soul-searcher, earthward descending. Glances, sharp as a sword, into hearts that to him were transparent Shot he ; his voice was deep, was low like the thunder afar off. So on a sudden transfigured he stood there, he spake and he questioned. “This is the faith of the Fathers, the faith the Apostles delivered, This is moreover the faith whereunto I baptized you, while still ye Lay on your mothers' breasts, and nearer the portals of heaven. Slumbering received you then the Holy Church in its bosom ; Wakened from sleep are ye now, and the light in its radiant splendor Downward rains from the heaven; –to-day on the threshold of childhood Kindly she frees you again, to examine and make your election, For she knows naught 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 questioning Teacher. Sharp is his eye to-day, and a curse ever rests upon falsehood. Enter not with a lie on Life's journey; the multitude hears you, Brothers and sisters and parents, what dear upon earth is and holy Standeth before your sight as a witness; the Judge everlasting Looks from the sun down upon you, and angels in waiting beside him Grave your confession in letters of fire upon tablets eternal. Thus, then, – believe ye in God, in the Father who this world created? Him who redeemed it, the Son, and the Spirit where both are united 2 Will ye promise me here, (a holy promise () to cherish God more than all things earthly, and every man as a brother ? Will ye promise me here, to confirm your faith by your living, Th’ heavenly faith of affection to hope, to forgive, and to suffer, Be what it may your condition, and walk before God in uprightness? Will ye promise me this before God and man?” — With a clear voice Answered the young men Yes! and Yes! with lips softly-breathing Answered the maidens eke. Then dissolved from the brow of the Teacher Clouds with the lightnings therein, and he spake in accents more gentle, Soft as the evening's breath, as harps by Babylon's rivers. “Hail, then, hail to you all! To the heirdom of heaven be ye welcome ! Children no more from this day, but by covenant brothers and sisters! Yet, — for what reason not children 2 Of such is the kingdom of heaven. Here upon earth an assemblage of children, in heaven one Father, Ruling them all as his household, - forgiving in turn and chastising, That is of human life a picture, as Scripture has taught us. Blest are the pure before God! Upon purity and upon virtue Resteth the Christian Faith; she herself from on high is descended. Strong as a man and pure as a child, is the sum of the doctrine, Which the Divine One taught, and suffered and died on the cross for. Oh, as ye wander this day from childhood's sacred asylum Downward, and ever downward, and deeper in Age's chill valley, Oh, how soon will ye come, – too soon — and long to turn backward 52 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Up to its hill-tops again, to the sun-illumined, where Judgment Stood like a father before you, and Pardon, clad like a mother, Gave you her hand to kiss, and the loving heart was forgiven, Life was a play and your hands grasped after the roses of heaven Seventy years have I lived already ; the Father eternal Gave me gladness and care; but the loveliest hours of existence, When I have steadfastly gazed in their eyes, I have instantly known them, Known them all again; — they were my childhood's acquaintance. Therefore take from henceforth, as guides in the paths of existence, Prayer, with her eyes raised to heaven, and Innocence, bride of man's childhood. Innocence, child beloved, is a guest from the world of the blessed, Beautiful, and in her hand a lily; on life's roaring billows Swings she in Safety, she heedeth them not, in the ship she is sleeping. Calmly she gazes around in the turmoil of men; in the desert Angels descend and minister unto her ; she herself knoweth Naught of her glorious attendance; but follows faithful and humble, 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. Son of Eternity, fettered in Time, and an exile, the Spirit Tugs at his chains evermore, and struggles like flame ever upward. Still he recalls with emotion his Father's manifold mansions, Thinks of the land of his fathers, where blossomed more freshly the flowerets, Shone a more beautiful sun, and he played with the wingèd angels. Then grows the earth too narrow, too close; and homesick for heaven Longs the wanderer again; and the Spirit's longings are worship; Worship is called his most beautiful hour, and its tongue is entreaty. Ah when the infinite burden of life descendeth upon us, Crushes to earth our hope, and, under the earth, in the graveyard, Then it is good to pray unto God; for his sorrowing children Turns He ne'er from his door, but He heals and helps and consoles them. Yet is it better to pray when all things are prosperous with us, Pray in fortunate days, for life's most beautiful Fortune Kneels before the Eternal’s throne; and with hands interfolded, Praises thankful and moved the only giver of blessings. Or do ye know, ye children, one blessing that comes not from Heaven? What has mankind forsooth, the poor that it has not received 2 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 pendent on naught, when the world He created. Earth declareth his might, and the firmament utters his glory. Races blossom and die, and stars fall downward from heaven, Downward like withered leaves; at the last stroke of midnight, millenniums Lay themselves down at his feet, and He sees them, but counts them as nothing. Who shall stand in his presence? The wrath of the Judge is terrific, Casting the insolent down at a glance. When He speaks in his anger Hillocks skip like the kid, and mountains leap like the roebuck. Yet, — why are ye afraid, ye children 2 This awful avenger, Ah! is a merciful God God’s voice was not in the earthquake, HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLO W. 53 Not in the fire, nor the storm, but it was in the whispering breezes. Love is the root of creation; God's essence; worlds without number Lie in his bosom like children; He made them for this purpose only. Only to love and 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 of 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 't was that you may be happy Gave He his only Son. When He bowed down his head in the death-hour Solemnized Love its triumph; the sacrifice then was completed. Lo! then was rent on a sudden the veil of the temple, dividing Earth and heaven apart, and the dead from their sepulchres rising Whispered with pallid lips and low in the ears of each other Th’ answer, but dreamed of before, to creation's enigma, – Atonement' Depths of Love are Atonement's depths, for Love is Atonement. Therefore, child of mortality, love thou the merciful Father; Wish what the Holy One wishes, and not from fear, but affection; Fear is the virtue of slaves; but the heart that loveth is willing; Perfect was before God, and perfect is Love, and Love only. Lovest thou God as thou oughtest, then lovest thou likewise thy brethren : One is the sun in heaven, and one, only one, is Love also. Bears not each human figure the godlike stamp on his forehead 2 Readest thou not in his face thine origin 2 Is he not sailing Lost like thyself on an ocean unknown, and is he not guided By the same stars that guide thee? Why shouldst thou hate then thy brother? Hateth he thee, forgive For t is 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 on his temples? Earnestly prayed for his foes, for his murderers? Say, dost thou know Him 2 Ah! thou confessest his name, so follow likewise his example, Think of thy brother no ill, but throw a veil over his failings, Guide the erring aright; for the good, the heavenly shepherd Took the lost lamb in his arms, and bore it back to its mother. THE POETICAL WORKS OF This is the fruit of Love, and it is by its fruits that we know it. Love is the creature's welfare, with God; but Love among mortals Is but an endless sigh . He longs, and endures, and stands waiting, Suffers and yet rejoices, and smiles with tears on his eyelids. Hope, – so is called upon earth his recompense, – Hope, the befriending, Does what she can, for she points evermore up to heaven, and faithful Plunges her anchor's peak in the depths of the grave, and beneath it Paints a more beautiful world, a dim, but a sweet play of shadows' Races, better than we, have leaned on her wavering promise, Having naught else but Hope. Then praise we our Father in heaven, Him, who has given us more; for to us has Hope been transfigured, Groping no longer in night : she is Faith, she is living assurance. Faith is enlightened Hope; she is light, is the eye of affection, Dreams of the longing interprets, and carves their visions in marble. Faith is the sun of life; and her countenance shines like the Hebrew’s, For she has looked upon God; the heaven on its stable foundation Draws she with chains down to earth, and the New Jerusalem sinketh Splendid with portals twelve in golden vapors 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, HEWR Y WADS WORTH LOWGFELLOW 55 Love in a bodily shape; and Christian works are no more than Animate Love and faith, as flowers are the animate Springtide. Works do follow us all unto God; there stand and bear witness Not what they seemed, - but what they were only. Blessed is he who Hears their confession secure ; they are mute upon earth until death's hand Opens the mouth of the silent. Ye children, does Death e'er alarm you? Death is the brother of Love, twin-brother is he, and is only More austere to behold. With a kiss upon lips that are fading Takes he the soul and departs, and, rocked in the 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 Look I on God as He is, a sun unpolluted by vapors; Look on the light of the ages I loved, the spirits majestic, Nobler, better than I; they stand by the throne all transfigured, Wested in white, and with harps of gold, and are singing an anthem, Writ in the climate of heaven, in the language spoken by angels. You, in like manner, ye children beloved, he one day shall gather, Never forgets he the weary; — then welcome, ye loved ones, hereafter Meanwhile forget not the keeping of vows, forget not the promise, Wander from holiness onward to holiness; earth shall ye heed not ; Earth is but dust and heaven is light; I have pledged you to heaven. God of the universe, hear me ! thou fountain of Love everlasting, Hark to the voice of thy servant I send up my prayer to thy heaven Let me hereafter not miss at thy throne one spirit of all these, Whom thou hast given me here ! I have loved them all like a father. May they bear witness for me, that I taught them the way of salvation, Faithful, so far as I knew, of thy word; again may they know me, Fall on their Teacher's breast, and before thy face may I place them, Pure as they now are, but only more tried, and exclaiming with gladness, Father, lo l I am here, and the children, whom thou hast given me !” Weeping he spake in these words ; and now at the beck of the old man Knee against knee they knitted a wreath round the altar's enclosure. Kneeling he read then the prayers of the consecration, and softly With him the children read; at the close, with tremulous accents, Asked he the peace of Heaven, a benediction upon them. Now should have ended his task for the day; the following Sunday Was for the young appointed to eat of the Lord's holy Supper. Sudden, as struck from the clouds, stood the Teacher silent and laid his Hand on his forehead, and cast his looks upward; while thoughts high and holy Flew through the midst of his soul, and his eyes glanced with wonderful brightness. “On the next Sunday, who knows perhaps I shall rest in the graveyard Some one perhaps of yourselves, a lily broken untimely, Bow down his head to the earth ; why delay I? the hour is accomplished. Warm is the heart ; – I will! for to-day grows the harvest of heaven. What I began accomplish I now ; what failing therein is I, the old man, will answer to God and the reverend father. 56 THE POETICAL WORKS OF º \\\ ºv º | Say to me only, ye children, ye denizens new-come in heaven, Are ye ready this day to eat of the bread of Atonement? What it denoteth, that know ye full well, I have told it you often. Of the new covenant symbol it is, of Atonement a token, Stablished between earth and heaven. Man by his sins and transgressions Far has wandered from God, from his essence. T was in the beginning Fast by the Tree of Knowledge he fell, and it hangs its crown o'er the Fall to this day; in the Thought is the Fall; in the Heart the Atonement. Infinite is the fall, - the Atonement infinite likewise. See behind me, as far as the old man remembers, and forward, Far as Hope in her flight can reach with her wearied pinions, Sin and Atonement incessant go through the lifetime of mortals, Sin is brought forth full-grown; but Atonement sleeps in our bosoms Still as the cradled babe ; and dreams of heaven and of angels, Cannot awake to sensation; is like the tones in the harp's strings, Spirits imprisoned, that wait evermore the deliverer's finger. Therefore, ye children beloved, descended the Prince of Atonement, Woke the slumberer from sleep, and she stands now with eyes all resplendent, Bright as the vault of the sky, and battles with Sin and o'ercomes her. Downward to earth. He came and, transfigured, thence reascended, Not from the heart in like wise, for there He still lives in the Spirit, HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. 57 Loves and atones evermore. So long as Time is, is Atonement. Therefore with reverence take this day her visible token. Tokens are dead if the things live not. The light everlasting Unto the blind is not, but is born of the eye that has vision. Neither in bread nor in wine, but in the heart that is hallowed Lieth forgiveness enshrined; the intention alone of amendment Fruits of the earth ennobles to heavenly things, and removes all Sin and the guerdon of sin. Only Love with his arms wide extended, Penitence weeping and praying ; the Will that is tried, and whose gold flows Purified forth from the flames; in a word, mankind by Atonement Breaketh Atonement's bread, and drinketh Atonement's wine-cup. But he who cometh up hither, unworthy, with hate in his bosom, Scoffing at men and at God, is guilty of Christ's blessed body, And the Redeemer's blood To himself he eateth and drinketh Death and doom ' And from this, preserve us, thou heavenly Father Are ye ready, ye children, to eat of the bread of Atonement?” Thus with emotion he asked, and together answered the children, “Yes!” with deep sobs interrupted. Then read he the due supplications, Read the Form of Communion, and in chimed the organ and anthem : “O Holy Lamb of God, who takest away our transgressions, Hear us! give us thy peace have mercy, have mercy upon us!” Th' old man, with trembling hand, and heavenly pearls on his eyelids, Filled now the chalice and paten, and dealt round the mystical symbols. Oh, then seemed it to me as if God, with the broad eye of midday, Clearer looked in at the windows, and all the trees in the churchyard Bowed down their summits of green, and the grass on the graves 'gan to shiver. But in the children (I noted it well; I knew it) there ran a Tremor of holy rapture along through their ice-cold members. Decked like an altar before them, there stood the green earth, and above it Heaven opened itself, as of old before Stephen; they saw there Radiant in glory the Father, and on his right hand the Redeemer. Under them hear they the clang of harpstrings, 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. THE POETICAL WORKS OF " CFIIHDFOWIS3 cº THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. UNDER a spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands: And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. His hair is crisp, and black, and long His face is like the tan; - His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow ; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the evening sun is low. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 59 And children coming home from school Look in at the open door ; They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing-floor. He goes on Sunday to the church, And sits among his boys; He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter's voice, Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singing in Paradise He needs must think of her once more, ENDYMION. THE rising moon has hid the stars; Her level rays, like golden bars, Lie on the landscape green, With shadows brown between. And silver white the river gleams, As if Diana, in her dreams, Had dropt her silver bow Upon the meadows low. On such a tranquil night as this, She woke Endymion with a kiss, When, sleeping in the grove, He dreamed not of her love. Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought, Love gives itself, but is not bought; Nor voice, nor sound betrays Its deep, impassioned gaze. It comes, – the beautiful, the free, The crown of all humanity, - In silence and alone To seek the elected one. It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep, And kisses the closed eyes Of him, who slumbering lies. How in the grave she lies; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes. Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorrowing, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught ! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought : Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought. O weary hearts O slumbering eyes! O drooping souls, whose destinies Are fraught with fear and pain, Ye shall be loved again THE POETICAL WORKS OF No one is so accursed by fate, No one so utterly desolate, But some heart, though unknown, Responds unto his own. THE TWO LOCKS Responds, -as if with unseen wings, An angel touched its quivering strings; And whispers, in its song, “Where hast thou stayed so long?” OF HAIR. EROM THE GERMAN OF PEIZER, A YOUTH, light-hearted and content, I wander through the world; Here, Arab-like, is pitched my tent And straight again is furled. Yet oft I dream, that once a wife Close in my heart was locked, And in the sweet repose of life A blessed child I rocked. I wake! Away that dream, -away Too long did it remain So long, that both by night and day It ever comes again. The end lies ever in my thought; To a grave so cold and deep The mother beautiful was brought; Then dropt the child asleep. But now the dream is wholly o'er, I bathe mine eyes and see : And wander through the world once more, A youth so light and free. Two locks—and they are wondrous fair– Left me that vision mild; The brown is from the mother's hair, The 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, I wish that I were dead. HENRY WADS WORTH LOWGFELLO W. 61 IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY. No hay pájaros en los nidos de antaño. Spanish Proverb. THE sun is bright, — the air is clear, All things rejoice in youth and love, The darting swallows soar and sing, The fulness of their first delight! And from the stately elms I hear And learn from the soft heavens above The bluebird prophesying Spring. The melting tenderness of night. So blue yon winding river flows, Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme, It seems an outlet from the sky, Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay; Where waiting till the west wind blows, Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, The freighted clouds at anchor lie. - For oh, it is not always May ! All things are new : — Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth, sº- t the buds, the leaves, & jº. - To some good angel leave the rest; That gild the elm-tree's º sº º For Time will teach thee soon the truth, - - nodding crest, There are no birds in last year's nest! And even the nest beneath the eaves; — There are no birds in last year's nest THE RAINY DAY. THE day is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, But at every gust the dead leaves fall, And the day is dark and dreary. My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past, But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, And the days are dark and dreary. Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary. 62 THE POETICAL WORKS OF GOD’S-ACRE, I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls The burial-ground God’s-Acre . It is just ; It consecrates each grave within its walls, And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. God’s-Acre Yes, that blessed name imparts Comfort to those who in the grave have sown The seed that they had garnered in their hearts, Their bread of life, alas! no more their OWn. Into its furrows shall we all be cast, In the sure faith, that we shall rise again At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain. Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, In the fair gardens of that second birth; And each bright blossom mingle its perfume With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth. With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod, - And spread the furrow for the seed we sow; This is the field and Acre of our God, This is the place where human harvests grow TO THE RIVER CHARLES. RIVER! that in silence windest Through the meadows, bright and free, Till at length thy rest thou findest In the bosom of the sea Four long years of mingled feeling, Half in rest, and half in strife, I have seen thy waters stealing Onward, like the stream of life. Thou hast taught me, Silent River ! Many a lesson, deep and long ; Thou hast been a generous giver; I can give thee but a song. Oft in sadness and in illness, I have watched thy current glide, Till the beauty of its stillness Overflowed me, like a tide. HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. 63 And in better hours and brighter, When I saw thy waters gleam, I have felt my heart beat lighter, And leap onward with thy stream. Not for this alone I love thee, Nor because thy waves of blue From celestial seas above thee Take their own celestial hue. Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee, And thy waters disappear, Friends I love have dwelt beside thee, And have made thy margin dear. More than this; –thy name reminds me Of three friends, all true and tried ; And that name, like magic, binds me Closer, closer to thy side. Friends my soul with joy remembers! How like quivering flames they start, When I fan the living embers On the hearth-stone of my heart! 'T is for this, thou Silent River ! That my spirit leans to thee; Thou hast been a generous giver, Take this idle song from me. BLIND BARTIMEUS. BLIND Bartimeus at the gates Of Jericho in darkness waits; He hears the crowd; — he hears a breath Say, “It is Christ of Nazareth !” And calls, in tones of agony, "Imoroº, Aémorév pe/ 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!” Oápore, yepat, hoveſ ore / Then saith the Christ, as silent stands The crowd, “What wilt thou at my hands’” And he replies, “Oh, give me light ! Rabbi, restore the blind man's sight.” And Jesus answers, "YTaye - º º H triotis orov oréoroké ore / Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see, In darkness and in misery, Recall those mighty Voices Three, "Imoroſ, Aémorów Me / ©ápoet, eyepal, Štraye/ - - º ſº H triotus orov oregoke ore. 64 THE POETICAL WORKS OF THE GOBLET OF LIFE. FILLED is Life's goblet to the brim; And though my eyes with tears are dim, I see its sparkling bubbles swim, And chant a melancholy hymn With solemn voice and slow. No purple flowers, – no garlands green, Conceal the goblet's shade or sheen, Nor maddening draughts of Hippocrene, Like gleams of sunshine, flash between Thick leaves of mistletoe. This goblet, wrought with curious art, Is filled with waters, that upstart, When the deep fountains of the heart, By strong convulsions rent apart, Are running all to waste. And as it mantling passes round, With fennel is it wreathed and crowned, Whose seed and foliage sun-imbrowned Are in its waters steeped and drowned, And give a bitter taste. Above the lowly plants it towers, The fennel, with its yellow flowers, And in an earlier age than ours Was gifted with the wondrous powers, Lost vision to restore. It gave new strength, and fearless mood; And gladiators, fierce and rude, |Mingled it in their daily food; And he who battled and subdued, A wreath of fennel wore. Then in Life's goblet freely press, The leaves that give it bitterness, Nor prize the colored waters less, For in thy darkness and distress New light and strength they give! And he who has not learned to know How false its sparkling bubbles show, How bitter are the drops of woe, With which its brim may overflow, He has not learned to live. The prayer of Ajax was for light; Through all that dark and desperate fight, The blackness of that noonday night, He asked but the return of sight, To see his foeman's face. Let our unceasing, earnest prayer Be, too, for light, — for strength to bear Our portion of the weight of care, That crushes into dumb despair One half the human race. O suffering, sad humanity! O ye afflicted ones, who lie Steeped to the lips in misery, Longing, and yet afraid to die, Patient, though sorely tried I pledge you in this cup of grief, Where floats the fennel’s bitter leaf The Battle of our Life is brief, The alarm, - the struggle, – the relief, Then sleep we side by side. |MAIDENHOOD. MAIDEN with the meek, brown eyes, In whose orbs a shadow lies - Like the dusk in evening skies! Thou whose locks outshine the sun, Golden tresses, wreathed in one, As the braided streamlets run Standing, with reluctant feet, Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood fleet ! Gazing, with a timid glance, On the brooklet's swift advance, On the river's broad expanse ! HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLO W. 65 Deep and still, that gliding stream Hearest thou voices on the shore, Beautiful to thee must seem, That our ears perceive no more, As the river of a dream. Deafened by the cataract's roarº Then why pause with indecision, Oh, thou child of many prayers! When bright angels in thy vision Life hath quicksands, - Life hath snares | Beckon thee to fields Elysian * Care and age come unawares | Seest thou shadows sailing by, Like the swell of some sweet tune, As the dove, with startled eye, Morning rises into noon, Sees the falcon's shadow fly 2 May glides onward into June. Childhood is the bough, where slumbered Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, Birds and blossoms many-numbered : — In thy heart the dew of youth, Age, that bough with snows encumbered. On thy lips the smile of truth. Gather, then, each flower that grows, Oh, that dew, like balm, shall steal When the young heart overflows, Into wounds that cannot heal, To embalm that tent of snows. Even as sleep our eyes doth seal; Bear a lily in thy hand: And that smile, like sunshine, dart Gates of brass cannot withstand Into many a sunless heart, One touch of that magic wand. For a smile of God thou art. 9 {j j6 THE POETICAL WORKS OF HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLO W. EXCELSIOR. THE shades of night were falling fast, As through an Alpine village passed A youth, who bore, mid snow and ice, A banner with the strange device, Excelsior " His brow was sad: his eye beneath, Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, And like a silver clarion rung The accents of that unknown tongue, Excelsior In happy homes he saw the light Of household fires gleam warm and bright: Above, the spectral glaciers shone, And from his lips escaped a groan, Excelsior " “Try not the Pass " " the old man said; “Dark lowers the tempest overhead, The roaring torrent is deep and wide l’’ And loud that clarion voice replied, Excelsior “Oh stay,” the maiden said, “and rest Thy weary head upon this breast !” A tear stood in his bright blue eye, But still he answered, with a sigh, Excelsior “Beware the pine-tree's withered branch Beware the awful avalanche lº This was the peasant's last Good-night, A voice replied, far up the height, Excelsior At break of day, as heavenward The pious monks of Saint Bernard Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, A voice cried through the startled air, Excelsior A traveller, by the faithful hound, Half-buried in the snow was found, Still grasping in his hand of ice That banner with the strange device, Excelsior' There in the twilight cold and gray, Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, And from the sky, serene and far, A voice fell, like a falling star, Excelsior " SN >~ º * * {{(- }}º. §2% º º sº sº §§§ &; § §§ §§ - £33;º §3. Sº §§§ £ºś §§§§ § # § º s § * §ºar §§§& .;&7--º fgº-ex & -º- Ç ST/NZ Fº º żº º 2 º: SZZºśS|| \{{{fº - --- Sºlºš SN&ſº \º šº Egº **** egº:#; E § º º § & |Sº 2}º 3% ºf §§§ºº º wºrk fºssº w §§ . & Jºº - # == (º, #& & s | §f rººtſ[. #W º º A^ fºſs tº *@ ºf{} § ſ }}| sº | L #Titº # jº ring #($ ſº gº § zá= º [The following poems, with one exception, were written at sea, in the latter part of October, 1842. I had not then heard of Dr. Channing’s death. Since that event, the poem addressed to him is no longer appropriate. I have decided, however, to let it remain as it was written, in testimony of my admiration for a great and good man.] TO WILLIAM E. CHANNING. THE pages of thy book I read, And as I closed each one, My heart, responding, ever said, “Servant of God well done !” Well done ! Thy words are great and bold; At times they seem to me, Like Luther's, in the days of old, Half-battles for the free. Go on, until this land revokes The old and chartered Lie, The feudal curse, whose whips and yokes Insult humanity. A voice is ever at thy side Speaking in tones of might, Like the prophetic voice, that cried To John in Patmos, “Write | * Write and tell out this bloody tale; Record this dire eclipse, This Day of Wrath, this Endless Wail, This dread Apocalypse THE SLAVE'S DREAM. BESIDE the ungathered rice he lay, His sickle in his hand ; His breast was bare, his matted hair Was buried in the sand. Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, He saw his Native Land. Wide through the landscape of his dreams The lordly Niger flowed; Beneath the palm trees on the plain Once more a king he strode : And heard the tinkling caravans Descend the mountain road. He saw once more his dark-eyed queen Among her children stand; They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks, They held him by the hand — A tear burst from the sleeper's lids And fell into the sand. And then at furious speed he rode Along the Niger's bank; His bridle-reins were golden chains, And, with a martial clank, At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel Smiting his stallion's flank. 70 THE POET'/CA /, WORKS OF 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 hyena scream, And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds Beside some hidden stream : And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums, Through the triumph of his dream. The forests, with their myriad tongues, Shouted of liberty; And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud, With a voice so wild and free, That he started in his sleep and smiled At their tempestuous glee. He did not feel the driver's whip, Nor the burning heat of day; For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep, And his lifeless body lay A worn-out fetter, that the soul Had broken and thrown away ! THE GOOD PART, THAT SHALL NOT IBE TAIKEN 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 een 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. HENRY WADS WORTH / ONG. FE// O W. 71 And oft the blessed time foretells Of those who waited in her hall, When all men shall be free; And labored in her lands. And musical, as silver bells, Their falling chains shall be. Long since beyond the Southern Sea - Their outbound sails have sped, And following her beloved Lord, While she, in meek humility, In decent poverty, Now earns her daily bread. She makes her life one sweet record And deed of charity. It is their prayers, which never cease, That clothe her with such grace; For she was rich, and gave up all Their blessing is the light of peace To break the iron bands That shines upon her face. THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP. IN dark fens of the Dismal Swamp The hunted Negro lay; He saw the fire of the midnight camp, And heard at times a horse's tramp And a bloodhound's distant bay. Where will-o'-the-wisps and glow-worms shine, In bulrush and in brake; Where waving mosses shroud the pine, And the cedar grows, and the poisonous vine Is spotted like the snake; ~~~ 72 - THE POETICAL WORKS OF Where hardly a human foot could pass, Or a human heart would dare, On the quaking turf of the green morass He crouched in the rank and tangled grass, Like a wild beast in his lair. A poor old slave, infirm and lame; Great scars deformed his face; All things above were bright and fair, All things were glad and free : Lithe squirrels darted here and there, And wild birds filled the echoing air With songs of Liberty On him alone was the doom of pain, From the morning of his birth; On his forehead he bore the brand of shame, On him alone the curse of Cain And the rags, that hid his mangled frame, Were the livery of disgrace. Fell, like a flail on the garnered grain, And struck him to the earth ! THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT, LOUD he sang the psalm of David He, a Negro and enslaved, Sang of Israel's victory, Sang of Zion, bright and free. In that hour, when night is calmest, Sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist, In a voice so sweet and clear That I could not choose but hear, Songs of triumph, and ascriptions, Such as reached the Swart Egyptians, When upon the Red Sea coast Perished Pharaoh and his host. THE IN Ocean's wide domains, Half buried in the sands, Lie skeletons in chains, With shackled feet and hands. Beyond the fall of dews, Deeper than plummet lies, Float ships, with all their crews, No more to sink nor rise. There the black Slave-ship swims, Freighted with human forms, Whose fettered, fleshless limbs Are not the sport of storms. And the voice of his devotion Filled my soul with strange emotion; For its tones by turns were glad, Sweetly solemn, wildly sad. Paul and Silas, in their prison, Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen, And an earthquake's arm of might Broke their dungeon-gates at night, But, alas ! what holy angel Brings the Slave this glad evangel? And what earthquake's arm of might Breaks his dungeon-gates at night? WITNESSES. These are the bones of Slaves; They gleam from the abyss; They cry, from yawning waves, “We are the Witnesses ’’ Within Earth’s wide domains Are markets for men's lives, Their necks are galled with chains, Their wrists are cramped with gyves. Dead bodies, that the kite In deserts makes its prey; Murders, that with affright Scare school-boys from their play ! HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. 73 All evil thoughts and deeds; Anger, and lust, and pride; The foulest, rankest weeds, That choke Life's groaning tide These are the woes of Slaves; They glare from the abyss: They cry, from unknown graves, “We are the Witnesses!” THE 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. Odors of orange-flowers, and spice, Reached them from time to time, Like airs that breathe from Paradise Upon a world of crime. The Planter, under his roof of thatch, Smoked thoughtfully and slow ; The Slaver's thumb was on the latch, He seemed in haste to go. He said, “My ship at anchor rides In yonder broad lagoon : I only wait the evening tides, And the rising of the moon.” Before them, with her face upraised, In timid attitude, Like one half curious, half amazed, A Quadroon maiden stood. 10 74 THE POETICAL WORKS OF HENRY WADS WOR TH Lowgreſſion. Her eyes were large, and full of light, Her arms and neck were bare; No garment she wore save a kirtle bright, And her own long, raven hair. And on her lips there played a smile As holy, meek, and faint, As lights in some cathedral aisle The features of a saint. “The soil is barren, - the farm is old,” The thoughtful planter said: Then looked upon the Slaver's gold, And then upon the maid. His heart within him was at strife With such 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, He led her by the hand, To be his slave and paramour In a strange and distant land' THE WARNING. BEWARE The Israelite of old, who tore The lion in his path, – when, poor and blind, He saw the blessed light of heaven no more, Shorn of his noble strength and forced to grind In prison, and at last led forth to be A pander to Philistine revelry, - Upon the pillars of the temple laid His desperate hands, and in its overthrow Destroyed himself, and with him those who made A cruel mockery of his sightless woe: The poor, blind Slave, the scoff and jest of all, Expired, and thousands perished in the fall! There is a poor, blind Samson in this land, Shorn of his strength and bound in bonds of steel, Who may, in some grim revel, raise his hand, And shake the pillars of this Commonweal, Till the vast Temple of our liberties A shapeless mass of wreck and rubbish lies. º º ". mº º ſº º º | | º ºilº ºntº º | º r "W"|º º ARTIST : SAMUEL COLMAN, * ... - • *- -- - - - - *** * * - - - - - - - - *c. STREET IN MADRID, f r . a o o o q ^ o o t c 3 & 0 6 to D as o ºx & 4 - . - : HYPOLITO THE COUNT OF LARA DON CARLOS | º THE ARCHBISHOP OF TOLEDO. A CARDINAL. BELTRAN CRUZADO . BARTOLOME ROMAN te e THE PADRE CURA OF GUADARRAM.A. PEDRO CRESPO PANCHO FRANCISCO CHISPA . BALTASAR PRECIOSA ANGELICA MARTINA º o DOLORES . VICTORIAN | ACT I. SCENE I. — The COUNT OF LARA’s chambers. Night. g The Count in his dressing-gown, Smoking and conversing with DON CARLOS. Lara. You were not at the play to-night, Don Carlos; How happened it 2 Don C. I had engagements elsewhere. Pray who was there 2 Lara. Why, all the town and court. The house was crowded; and the busy fans Among the gayly dressed and perfumed ladies Fluttered like butterflies among the flowers. There was the Countess of Medina Celi; The Goblin Lady with her Phantom Lover, Her Lindo Don Diego; Doña Sol, And Doña Serafina, and her cousins. Don C. What was the play 7 Lara. It was a dull affair ; One of those comedies in which you see, Students of Alcalá. o o o © º Gentlemen of Madrid, Count of the Gypsies. A young Gypsy. Alcalde. Alguacil. Lara’s Servant. o o o d o Victorian's Servant. Innkeeper. o o o A Gypsy Girl. º C. <} . A poor Girl. s The Padre Cura’s Niece, • Preciosa's Maid. Gypsies, Musicians, etc. As Lope says, the history of the world Brought down from Genesis to the day of Judgment. There were three duels fought in the first act, Three gentlemen receiving deadly wounds, Laying their hands upon their hearts, and saying, “Oh, I am dead ’’ a lover in a closet, An old hidalgo, and a gay Don Juan, A Doña Inez with a black mantilla, Followed at twilight by an unknown lover, Who looks intently where he knows she is not - Don. C. Of course, the Preciosa danced to- night? - | Lara. And never better. Every footstep fell As lightly as a Sunbeam on the water. I think the girl extremely beautiful. Don C. Almost beyond the privilege of woman I saw her in the Prado yesterday. 78 THE POETICA/, WORKS OF 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 Par- adise, And be no more a saint? Don C. Why do you ask? Lara. Because I have heard it said this angel fell, ºs- º - | º --- - |liſh // |º. | 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 In 16 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? Don C. You forget She is a Gypsy girl. Lara. And therefore won The easier. % - § Zº § §/º/Zºº’ſ Nº. %%. % Nº. º % º- 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' Don C. You do her wrong; indeed, you do her wrong! She is as virtuous as she is fair. º | // */ º Aº Don C. Nay, not to be won at all! The only virtue that a Gypsy prizes Is chastity. That is her only virtue. Dearer than life she holds it. I remember A Gypsy woman, a vile, shameless bawd. Whose craft was to betray the young and fair ; And yet this woman was above all bribes. And when a noble lord, touched by her beauty, The wild and wizard beauty of her race. Offered her gold to be what she made others, She turned upon him, with a look of scorn, And smote him in the face HENRY WADS WOR TH LONG FELLO W. 79 Lara. And does that prove That Preciosa is above suspicion ? Don C. It proves a nobleman may be re- pulsed 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 na- ture, - And, like the diamond in the dark, retains Some quenchless gleam of the celestial light ! Lara. Yet Preciosa would have taken the gold. Don C. (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 C. 'T is late. I must begone, for if I stay You will not be persuaded. Lara. Yes; persuade me. Don C. 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. [Erit. Lara. Greater faith ! I have the greatest faith; for I believe Victorian is her lover. I believe That I shall be to-morrow ; and thereafter Another, and another, and another, Chasing each other through her zodiac, As Taurus chases Aries. (Enter FRANCISCO with a casket.) Well, Francisco, What speed with Preciosa? Fran. None, my lord. She sends your jewels back, and bids me tell you She is not to be purchased by your gold. Lara. Then I will try some other way to win her. Pray, dost thou know Victorian? Fran. Yes, my lord; I saw him at the jeweller's to-day. Lara. What was he doing there? Fram. I saw him buy A golden ring, that had a ruby in it. Lara. Was there another like it? Fram. 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. [Eveunt. SCENE II. — A street in Madrid. Enter CHISPA, fol- lowed by musicians, with a bagpipe, guitars, and other instruments. Chispa. Abernuncio Satanas and a plague on all lovers who ramble about at night drinking the elements, instead of sleeping quietly in their beds. Every dead man to his cemetery, say I; and every friar to his monastery. Now, here's my master, Victo- rian, yesterday a cow-keeper, and to-day a gentleman; yesterday a student, and to-day a lover; and I must be up later than the nightingale, for as the abbot sings so must the sacristan respond. God grant he may soon be married, for then shall all this sere- nading cease. Ay, marry ! marry marry Mother, what does marry mean? It means to spin, to bear children, and to weep, my daughter | And, of a truth, there is some- thing more in matrimony than the wedding- ring. (To the musicians.) And now, gentle- men, Pax vobiscum ! as the ass said to the cabbages. Pray, walk this way; and don’t hang down your heads. It is no disgrace to have an old father and a ragged shirt. Now, look you, you are gentlemen who lead the life of crickets; you enjoy hunger by day and noise by night. Yet, I beseech you, for this once be not loud, but pathetic ; for it is a Serenade to a damsel in bed, and not to the Man in the Moon. Your object is not to arouse and terrify, but to soothe and bring lulling dreams. Therefore, each shall not play upon his instrument as if it were the Only one in the universe, but gently, and with a certain modesty, according with the others. Pray, how may I call thy name, friend ? First Mus. Gerónimo Gil, at your service. Chispa. Every tub smells of the wine that is in it. Pray, Gerónimo, is not Saturday an unpleasant day with thee ? 80. THE POETICAL WORKS () F First Mus. Why so? Chispa. Because I have heard it said that Saturday is an unpleasant day with those who have but one shirt. Moreover, I have seen thee at the tavern, and if thou canst run as fast as thou canst drink, I should like to hunt hares with thee. What instrument is that 2 First Mus. An Aragonese bagpipe. Chispa. Pray, art thou related to the bag- piper of Bujalance, who asked a maravedí for playing, and ten for leaving off 2 First Mus. No, your honor. Chispa. I am glad of it. What other in- struments have we ? Second and Third Musicians. We play the bandurria. Chispa. A pleasing instrument. And thou ? Fourth Mus. 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 Mus. We are the singers, please your honor. Chispa. You are too many. Do you think we are going to sing mass in the cathedral PHENR Y WADS WORTH L ONG FELLO W. 81 of Córdova 2 Four men can make but little use of one shoe, and I see not how you can all sing in one song. But follow me along the garden wall. That is the way my master climbs to the lady's window. It is by the Vicar's skirts that the Devil climbs into the belfry. Come, follow me, and make no noise. [Eveunt. SCENE III. — PRECIOSA’s chamber. She stands at the open window. Pree. How slowly through the lilac-scented air Descends the tranquil moon | Like thistle- down The vapory 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 ! SEREN AD E. Stars of the summer night ! Far in yon azure deeps, Hide, hide your golden light ! She sleeps My lady sleeps Sleeps Moon of the summer night ! Far down yon western steeps, Sink, sink in silver light ! She sleeps My lady sleeps Sleeps Wind of the summer night ! Where yonder woodbine creeps, Fold, fold thy pinions light! She sleeps § My lady sleeps! Sleeps Dreams of the summer night! Tell her, her lover keeps Watch while in slumbers light She sleeps! My lady sleeps! Sleeps! (Enter VICTORIAN by the balcony.) Vict. Poor little dove | Thou tremblest like a leaf Pree. I am so frightened tremble ! I hate to have thee climb that wall by night! Did no one see thee ? Vict, None, my love, but thou. Pree. 'T is very dangerous; and when thou art gone I chide myself for letting thee come here Thus stealthily by night. Where hast thou been 2 Since yesterday I have no news from thee. Viet. Since yesterday I have been in Alcalá. Erelong the time will come, sweet Preciosa, When that dull distance shall no more divide US ; And I no more shall scale thy wall by night To steal a kiss from thee, as I do now. Pree. An honest thief, to steal but what thou givest. Vict. And we shall sit together unmolested, And words of true love pass from tongue to tongue, - As singing birds from one bough to another. Pree. That were a life to make time en- vious ! I knew that thou wouldst come to me to-night. I saw thee at the play. Vºgt. 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 2 Pree. Am I not always fair? Vict. Ay, and so fair That I am jealous of all eyes that see thee, And wish that they were blind. Prec. I heed them not; When thou art present, I see none but thee! Viet. There's nothing fair nor beautiful, but takes Something from thee, that makes it beautiful. Pree. And yet thou leavest me for those dusty books. - Vict. Thou comest between me and those books too often I see thy face in everything I see The paintings in the chapel wear thy looks, 'T is for thee I 11 82 THE POETICAL WORKS OF The canticles are changed to sarabands, And with the learned doctors of the schools I see thee dance cachuchas. Pree. In good sooth, I dance with learned doctors of the schools To-morrow morning. Viet. And with whom, I pray? Pree. A grave and reverend Cardinal, and his Grace The Archbishop of Toledo. Vict. What mad jest Is this 2 Pree. It is no jest; indeed it is not. Vict. Prithee, explain thyself. Pree. Why, simply thus, Thou knowest the Pope has sent here into Spain To put a stop to dances on the stage. Viet. I have heard it whispered. Pree. Now the Cardinal, Who for this purpose comes, would fain behold With his own eyes these dances; and the Arch- bishop Has sent for me — Vict. That thou mayest dance before them! Now viva la cachucha! It will breathe The fire of youth into these gray old men 'T will be thy proudest conquest Pree. Saving one. And yet I fear these dances will be stopped, And Preciosa be once more a beggar. Vict. The sweetest beggar that eer asked for alms; With such beseeching eyes, that when I saw thee I gave my heart away ! Prec. Dost thou remember When first we met 2 Vºct. It was at Córdova, In the cathedral garden. Thou wast sitting Under the orange trees, beside a fountain. Pree. T was Easter-Sunday. The full-blos- somed trees Filled all the air with fragrance and with joy. The priests were singing, and the organ sounded, And then anon the great cathedral bell. It was the elevation of the Host. We both of us fell down upon our knees, Under the orange boughs, and prayed together. I never had been happy till that moment. Viet. Thou blessed angel! Prec. And when thou wast gone I felt an aching here. I did not speak To any one that day. But from that day Bartolomé grew hateful unto me. HEWR Y WADS WORTH / ONG. FELLO W. 83 Vict. Remember him no more. Let not his shadow Come between thee and me. Sweet Preciosa I loved thee even then, though I was silent Pree. I thought I ne'er should see thy face again. Thy farewell had a sound of sorrow in it. Vict. That was the first sound in the song of love - Scarce more than silence is, and yet a sound. Hands of invisible spirits touch the strings Of that mysterious instrument, the soul, And play the prelude of our fate. We hear The voice prophetic, and are not alone. Pree. That is my faith. Dost thou believe these warnings 2 Viet. So far as this. Our feelings and our thoughts Tend ever on, and rest not in the Present. As drops of rain fall into some dark well, And from below comes a scarce audible sound, So fall our thoughts into the dark Hereafter, And their mysterious echo reaches us. Pree. I have felt it so, but found no words to say it ! I cannot reason; I can only feel ! But thou hast language for all thoughts and feelings. - Thou art a scholar; and sometimes I think We cannot walk together in this world ! The distance that divides us is too great! Henceforth thy pathway lies among the stars; I must not hold thee back. Vict. Thou little skeptic Dost thou still doubt? What I most prize in WOIO 8,1]. Is her affections, not her intellect The intellect is finite ; but the affections Are infinite, and cannot be exhausted. Compare me with the great men of the earth; What am I? Why, a pygmy among giants But if thou lovest, — mark me ! I say lovest, The greatest of thy sex excels thee not The world of the affections is thy world, Not that of man’s ambition. In that stillness Which most becomes a woman, calm and holy, Thou sittest by the fireside of the heart, Feeding its flame. The element of fire Is pure. It cannot change nor hide its nature, But burns as brightly in a Gypsy camp As in a palace hall. Art thou convinced 2 Pree. Yes, that I love thee, as the good love heaven ; But not that I am worthy of that heaven. How shall I more deserve it 2 Vºgt. Loving more. Pree. I cannot love thee more; my heart is full. Vict. Then let it overflow, and I will drink it, As in the summer-time the thirsty sands Drink the swift waters of the Manzanares, And still do thirst for more. A Watchman (in the street). Ave Maria Purissima | T is midnight and serene ! Viet. Hear'st thou that cry? Pree. It is a hateful sound, To scare thee from me ! |Wºot. As the hunter’s horn Doth scare the timid stag, or bark of hounds The moor-fowl from his mate. Pree. Pray, do not go Vict. I must away to Alcalá to-night. Think of me when I am away. Pree. Fear not I have no thoughts that do not think of thee. Vict. (giving her a ring). And to remind thee of my love, take this; A serpent, emblem of Eternity; A ruby, - say, a drop of my heart's blood. Pree. It is an ancient saying, that the ruby Brings gladness to the wearer, and preserves The heart pure, and, if laid beneath the pillow, Drives away evil dreams. But then, alas ! It was a serpent tempted Eve to sin. Viet. What convent of barefooted Carmel- ites Taught thee so much theology 7 Pree. (laying her hand upon his mouth). Hush hush Good night ! and may all holy angels guard thee Viet. Good night ! good night ! Thou art my guardian angel ! I have no other saint than thou to pray to (He descends by the balcony.) Pree. Take care, and do not hurt thee. Art thou safe 2 - Vict. (from the garden). Safe as my love for thee! But art thou safe 2 84 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Others can climb a balcony by moonlight As well as I. Pray shut thy window close; I am jealous of the perfumed air of night That from this garden climbs to kiss thy lips. Pree. (throwing down her handkerchief). Thou silly child! Take this to blind thine eyes. It is my benison Vict, And brings to me Sweet fragrance from thy lips, as the soft wind Wafts to the out-bound mariner the breath Of the beloved land he leaves behind. Pree. Make not thy voyage long. Vict. To-morrow night Shall see me safe returned. Thou art the star To guide me to an anchorage. Good night ! My beauteous star ! My star of love, good night! Pree. Good night! Watchman (at a distance). Purissima Ave Maria SCENE IV. — An inn on the road to Alcalá. BALTASAR asleep on a bench. Enter CHIS PA. Chispa. And here we are, half-way to Alcalá, between cocks and midnight. Body o' me ! what an inn this is . The lights out, and the landlord asleep. Holá' ancient Bal- tasar ! Bal. (waking). Here I am. \, \ | | &% º - wº º \ Chispa. Yes, there you are, like a one-eyed Alcalde in a town without inhabitants, Bring a light, and let me have supper. Bal. Where is your master? 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 know. But be quick, for I am in a hurry, and every man stretches his legs according to the length of his coverlet. What have we here 2 Bal. (setting a light on the table). Stewed rabbit. Chispa (eating). Conscience of Portalegre Stewed kitten, you mean Bal. 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 but Vinto Tinto of La Mancha, with a tang of the swine-skin. Bal. 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 tablecloth. Bal. Ha! ha ha! HENRY WADS WORTH LOWGFELLO W. - 85 Chispa. And more noise than nuts. Bal. Ha! haſ ha You must have your joke, Master Chispa. But shall I not ask Don Victorian in, to take a draught of the Pedro Ximenes 7 Chispa. No ; you might as well say, “Don’t- you-want-some 7” to a dead man. Bal. Why does he go so often to Madrid 2 Chispa. For the same reason that he eats no supper. He is in love. Were you ever in love, Baltasar 2 Bal. I was never out of it, good Chispa. It has been the torment of my life. Chispa. What are you on fire, too, old hay- stack? Why, we shall never be able to put you out. Viet. (without). Chispa Chispa. Go to bed, Pero Grullo, for the cocks are crowing. Viet. Ea Chispa Chispal Chispa. Eal Señor. Come with me, ancient Baltasar, and bring water for the horses. I will pay for the supper to-morrow. - [Eveunt. SCENE W. — VICTORIAN’s chambers at Alcald. HYPO- LITO asleep in an arm-chair. He awakes slowly. Hyp. I must have been asleep ay, sound asleep ! And it was all a dream. O sleep, sweet sleep ! Whatever form thou takest, thou art fair, Holding unto our lips thy goblet filled Out of Oblivion's well, a healing draught ! The candles have burned low ; it must be late. Where can Victorian be 2 Like Fray Carrillo. The only place in which one cannot find him Is his own cell. Here’s his guitar, that seldom Feels the caresses of its master's hand. Open thy silent lips, sweet instrument And make dull midnight merry with a song. (He plays and sings.) Padre Francisco Padre Francisco ! What do you want of Padre Francisco º Here is a pretty young maiden Who wants to confess her sins ! Open the door and let her come in, I will shrive her from every sin. (Enter VICTORIAN.) Viet. Padre Hypolito Padre Hypolitol Hyp. What do you want of Padre Hypolito.” Vict, Come, shrive me straight; for, if love be a sin, I am the greatest sinner that doth live. I will confess the sweetest of all crimes, A maiden wooed and won. Hyp. The same old tale Of the old woman in the chimney-corner, - Who, while the pot boils, says, “Come here my child; I’ll tell thee a story of my wedding-day,” Vict, Nay, listen, for my heart is full; so full That I must speak. Hyp. Alas ! that heart of thine Is like a scene in the old play; the curtain Rises to solemn music, and lo! enter The eleven thousand virgins of Cologne ! Viet. Nay, like the Sibyl's volumes, thou shouldst say : Those that remained, after the six were burned, Being held more precious than the nine to- gether. - But listen to my tale. Dost thou remember The Gypsy girl we saw at Córdova Dance the Romalis in the market-place 2 Hyp. Thou meanest Preciosa. Vºct. Ay, the same. Thou knowest how her image haunted me Long after we returned to Alcalá. She 's in Madrid. Hyp. I know it. Vict. And I’m in love. Hyp. And therefore in Madrid when thou shouldst be - In Alcalá. Vict, Oh pardon me, my friend, If I so long have kept this secret from thee; But silence is the charm that guards such treasures, And, if a word be spoken ere the time, They sink again, they were not meant for us. Hyp. Alas! alas ! I see thou art in love. Love keeps the cold out better than a cloak. 4: It serves for food and raiment. Give a Span- iard His mass, his Olla, and his Doña Luisa — 86 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Thou knowest the proverb. But pray tell me, lover, How speeds thy wooing? Is the maiden coyº Write her a song, beginning with an Ave, Sing as the monk sang to the Virgin Mary, Ave / cujus calcem clare Nec centenni commendare Seiret Seraph studio / Vict. Pray, do not jest This is no time for it ! I am in earnest Hyp. Seriously enamored 2 What, ho | The Primus of great Alcalá Enamored of a Gypsy 2 Tell me frankly, How meanest thou? Vict. I mean it honestly. Hyp, Surely thou wilt not marry her Vºet. Why not 2 Hyp. She was betrothed to one Bartolomé, If I remember rightly, a young Gypsy Who danced with her at Córdova. Vict. - They quarrelled, And so the matter ended. Hyp. But in truth Thou wilt not marry her. Vict, In truth I will. The angels sang in heaven when she was born She is a precious jewel I have found Among the filth and rubbish of the world. I’ll stoop for it; but when I wear it here, Set on my forehead like the morning star, The world may wonder, but it will not laugh. Hyp. If thou wear'st nothing else upon thy forehead, 'T will be indeed a wonder. Vºet. Out upon thee With thy unseasonable jests | Pray tell me, Is there no virtue in the world 2 Hyp. Not much. What, think'st thou, is she doing at this moment ; Now, while we speak of her ? Vict. She lies asleep, And from her parted lips her gentle breath Comes like the fragrance from the lips of flowers. Her tender limbs are still, and on her breast The cross she prayed to, ere she fell asleep, Rises and falls with the soft tide of dreams, Like a light barge safe moored. Hyp, Which means, in prose, She’s sleeping with her mouth a little open Vºet. Oh, would I had the old magician's glass To see her as she lies in childlike sleep ! Hyp. And wouldst thou venture? Vict. Ay, indeed I would ! Hyp, Thou art courageous. Hast thou eer reflected How much lies hidden in that one word, now 2 Vict. Yes; all the awful mystery of Life I oft have thought, my dear Hypolito, That could we, by some spell of magic, change The world and its inhabitants to stone, In the same attitudes they now are in, What fearful glances downward might we cast Into the hollow chasms of human life What groups should we behold about the death-bed, Putting to shame the group of Niobe What joyful welcomes, and what sad farewells What stony tears in those congealed eyes | What visible joy or anguish in those cheeks What bridal pomps, and what funereal shows What foes, like gladiators, fierce and strug- gling ! What lovers with their marble lips together Hyp. Ay, there it is 1 and, if I were in love, That is the very point I most should dread, This magic glass, these magic spells of thine, Might tell a tale were better left untold. For instance, they might show us thy fair COllSIn, The Lady Violante, bathed in tears Of love and anger, like the maid of Colchis, Whom thou, another faithless Argonaut, Having won that golden fleece, a woman's love, Desertest for this Glaucé. Vºct. Hold thy peace She cares not for me. She may wed another, Or go into a convent, and, thus dying, Marry Achilles in the Elysian Fields. Hyp. (rising). And so, good night ! Good morning, I should say. (Clock strikes three.) Hark! how the loud and ponderous mace of Time Knocks at the golden portals of the day ! And so, once more, good night ! We 'll speak more largely HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. 87 Of Preciosa when we meet again. Get thee to bed, and the magician, Sleep, Shall show her to thee, in his magic glass, In all her loveliness. Good night ! [Evit. Vict. Good night ! But not to bed; for I must read awhile. (Throws himself into the arm-chair which HYPolito has left, and lays a large book open upon his knees.) Must read, or sit in revery and watch The changing color of the waves that break Upon the idle sea-shore of the mind! Visions of Fame ! that once did visit me, Making night glorious with your smile, where are ye? Oh, who shall give me, now that ye are gone, Juices of those immortal plants that bloom Upon Olympus, making us immortal? Or teach me where that wondrous mandrake grows Whose magic root, torn from the earth with groans, At midnight hour, can scare the fiends away, And make the mind prolific in its fancies? I have the wish, but want the will, to act Souls of great men departed Ye whose words Have come to light from the swift river of Time, Like Roman swords found in the Tagus' bed, Where is the strength to wield the arms ye bore ? From the barred visor of Antiquity Reflected shines the eternal light of Truth, As from a mirror! All the means of action — The shapeless masses, the materials — Lie everywhere about us. What we need Is the celestial fire to change the flint Into transparent crystal, bright and clear. That fire is genius ! The rude peasant sits At evening in his smoky cot, and draws With charcoal uncouth figures on the wall. The son of genius comes, foot-sore with travel, And begs a shelter from the inclement night. He takes the charcoal from the peasant's hand, And, by the magic of his touch at once Transfigured, all its hidden virtues shine, And, in the eyes of the astonished clown, It gleams a diamond Even thus transformed, Rude popular traditions and old tales Shine as immortal poems, at the touch Of some poor, houseless, homeless, wandering bard, Who had but a night's lodging for his pains. But there are brighter dreams than those of Fame, Which are the dreams of Love | Out of the heart Rises the bright ideal of these dreams, As from some woodland fount a spirit rises And sinks again into its silent deeps, Ere the enamored knight can touch her robe 'T is this ideal that the soul of man, Like the enamored knight beside the foun- tain, Waits for upon the margin of Life's stream : Waits to behold her rise from the dark waters, Clad in a mortal shapel Alas! how many Must wait in vain The stream flows ever- more, But from its silent deeps no spirit rises' Yet I, born under a propitious star, Have found the bright ideal of my dreams. Yes! she is ever with me. I can feel, Here, as I sit at midnight and alone, Her gentle breathing! on my breast can feel The pressure of her head God's benison Rest ever on it! Close those beauteous eyes, Sweet Sleep ! and all the flowers that bloom at night With balmy lips breathe in her ears my name' (Gradually sinks asleep.) 88 THE POETICAL WORKS OF ACT II. SCENE I. – PRECIosA's chamber. Morning. PRECIOSA and ANGELICA. Pree. Why will you go so soon 2 Stay yet awhile. The poor too often turn away unheard From hearts that shut against them with a sound That will be heard in heaven. Pray, tell me In Ore Of your adversities. Keep nothing from me. What is your landlord's name? Ang. The Count of Lara. Prec. The Count of Lara 2 Oh, beware that man Mistrust his pity, - hold no parley with him And rather die an outcast in the streets Than touch his gold. Ang. You know him, then Pree. As much As any woman may, and yet be pure. As you would keep your name without a blemish, Beware of him Ang. Alas! what can I do? I cannot choose my friends. Each word of kindness, Come whence it may, is welcome to the poor. Pree. Make me your friend. A girl so young and fair Should have no friends but those of her own SeX. What is your name 2 Ang. Angelica. Pree. 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. HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLO W. 89 I have no other shield than mine own virtue. That is the charm which has protected me ! Amid a thousand perils, I have worn it Here on my heart It is my guardian angel. Ang. (rising). I thank you for this counsel, dearest lady. Pree. Thank me by following it. Ang. Indeed I will. Pree. Pray, do not go. I have much more to say. Ang. My mother is alone. I dare not leave her. Pree. Some other time, then, when we meet again. - You must not go away with words alone. (Gives her a purse.) Take this. Would it were more. Ang. I thank you, lady. Pree. No thanks. To-morrow come to me again. I dance to-night, — perhaps for the last time. But what I gain, I promise shall be yours, If that can save you from the Count of Lara. Ang. Oh, my dear lady how shall I be grateful For so much kindness 2 Prec. I deserve no thanks, Thank Heaven, not me. Ang. Both Heaven and you. Pree. Farewell. Remember that you come again to-morrow. Ang. I will. And may the Blessed Virgin guard you, And all good angels. [Evit. Pree. May they guard thee too, And all the poor; for they have need of an- gels. Now bring me, dear Dolores, my basquiña, My richest maja dress, – my dancing dress, And my most precious jewels Make me look Fairer than night e'er saw me ! I’ve a prize To win this day, worthy of Preciosa (Enter BELTRAN CRUZADO.) Cruz. Ave Maria | Pree. O God! my evil genius ! What seekest thou here to-day 7 Cruz. - Thyself, -my child. Pree. What is thy will with me? Cruz. . Gold ! gold ! Pree. I gave thee yesterday; I have no IYLOI’62. Cruz. The gold of the Busné, - give me his gold ! Pree, I gave the last in charity to-day. Cruz. That is a foolish lie. Pree, It is the truth. Cruz. Curses upon thee! Thou art not my child ! Hast thou given gold away, and not to me? Not to thy father ? To whom, then 2 Prec. To one Who needs it more. Cruz. No one can need it more. Prec. Thou art not poor. Cruz. What, I, who lurk about In dismal suburbs and unwholesome lanes; I, who am housed worse than the galley slave; I, who am fed worse than the kennelled hound ; I, who am clothed in rags, – Beltran Cru- Zado, - Not poor Pree. Thou hast a stout heart and strong hands. • . Thou canst supply thy wants; what wouldst thou more ? Cruz. The gold of the Busné! give me his gold ! Prec. Beltran Cruzado I hear me once for all. - I speak the truth. So long as I had gold, I gave it to thee freely, at all times, Never denied thee; never had a wish But to fulfil thine own. Now go in peace Be merciful, be patient, and erelong Thou shalt have more. - Cruz. And if I have it not, Thou shalt no longer dwell here in rich cham- bers, 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. Pree. What march again? Cruz. Ay, with all speed. I hate the crowded town - I cannot breathe shut up within its gates Air, – I want air, and sunshine, and blue sky, The feeling of the breeze upon my face, 12 90 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 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 my- self, Beltran Cruzado, Count of the Calés Pree. God speed thee on thy march 1 — I cannot go. Cruz. Remember who I am, and who thou art | Be silent and obey ! Yet one thing more. Bartolomé Román — Pree. (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 beg thee To use no violence, nor do in haste What cannot be undone Cruz. O child, child, child ! Thou hast betrayed thy secret, as a bird Betrays her nest, by striving to conceal it. I will not leave thee here in the great city To be a grandee's mistress. Make thee ready To go with us; and until then remember A watchful eye is on thee. [Evit. Pree. 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 II].62. SCENE II. — A room in the ARCHBISHOP’s Palace. The ARCHBISHOP and a CARDINAL seated. Arch. Knowing how near it touched the public morals, And that our age is grown corrupt and rotten By such excesses, we have sent to Rome, Beseeching that his Holiness would aid In curing the gross surfeit of the time, By seasonable stop put here in Spain To bull-fights and lewd dances on the stage. All this you know. Card. Know and approve. Arch. And further, That, by a mandate from his Holiness, The first have been suppressed. Card. I trust forever. It was a cruel sport. Arch. A barbarous pastime, Disgraceful to the land that calls itself Most Catholic and Christian. Card. - Yet the people Murmur at this; and, if the public dances Should be condemned upon too slight occasion, Worse ills might follow than the ills we cure. As Panem et Cireenses was the cry Among the Roman populace of old, So Pan y Toros is the cry in Spain. Hence I would act advisedly herein; And therefore have induced your Grace to see These national dances, ere we interdict them. (Enter a Servant.) Serv. The dancing-girl, and with her the IO ULSI C18,11S Your Grace was pleased to order, wait without. Arch. Bid them come in. Now shall your eyes behold In what angelic, yet voluptuous shape The Devil came to tempt Saint Anthony. (Enter PRECIosA, with a mantle thrown over her head, She advances slowly, in modest, half-timid altitude.) Card. (aside). Oh, what a fair and minister- ing angel Was lost to heaven when this sweet woman fell ! Prec. (kneeling before the ARCHBISHOP). I have obeyed the order of your Grace. If I intrude upon your better hours, I proffer this excuse, and here beseech Your holy benediction. Arch. May God bless thee, And lead thee to a better life. Arise. Card. (aside). Her acts are modest, and her words discreet ! - I did not look for this ' Come hither, child. Is thy name Preciosa Ż Prec. Thus I am called. Card. That is a Gypsy name. Who is thy father ? Pree. Beltran Cruzado, Count of the Calés. Arch. I have a dim remembrance of that Illall ; HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. 91 He was a bold and reckless character, A sun-burnt Ishmael! Card. Dost thou remember Thy earlier days? - Pree. Yes; by the Darro's side My childhood passed. I can remember still The river, and the mountains capped with snow; The villages, where, yet a little child, I told the traveller's fortune in the street; The smuggler's horse, the brigand and the shepherd; The march across the moor; the halt at noon: The red fire of the evening camp, that lighted The forest where we slept ; and, further back, As in a dream or in some former life, Gardens and palace walls. Arch. 'T is the Alhambra, Under whose towers the Gypsy camp was pitched. But the time wears; and we would see thee dance. Pree. Your Grace shall be obeyed. (She lays aside her mantilla. The music of the cachucha is played, and the dance begins. The ARCHBishop and the CARDINAL look on with gravity and an occasional frown; then make signs to each other; and, as the dance continues, become more and more pleased and excited ; and at length rise from their seats, throw their caps in the air, and applaud vehemently as the scene closes.) - - H || || 92 THE POETICAL WORKS OF SCENE III. — The Prado. A long avenue of trees lead- ing to the gate of Atocha. On the right the dome and spires of a convent. A fountain. Evening, DON CARLOS and HYPOLITO meeting. Don C. Holáſ good evening, Don Hypolito. Hyp. And a good evening to my friend, Don Carlos. Some lucky star has led my steps this way. I was in search of you. Don C. Command me always. Hyp. Do you remember, in Quevedo's Dreams, The miser, who, upon the Day of Judgment, Asks if his money-bags would rise? Don C. I do ; But what of that 2 - Hyp. I am that wretched man. Don C. You mean to tell me yours have risen empty 2 Hyp. And amen said my Cid Campea- dor. Don C. Pray, how much need you ? Hyp. Some half-dozen ounces, Which, with due interest — - Don C. (giving his purse). What, am I a Jew To put my moneys out at usury 2 Here is my purse. Hyp. Thank you. A pretty purse. Made by the hand of some fair Madrileña; Perhaps a keepsake. Don C. No, 'tis at your service. Hyp. Thank you again. Lie there, good Chrysostom, - - And with thy golden mouth remind me often, I am the debtor of my friend. Don C. Come you to-day from Alcalá 2 Hyp. This moment. Don C. And pray, how fares the brave Vic- torian 2 Hyp. Indifferent well; that is to say, not well. A damsel has ensnared him with the glances Of her dark, roving eyes, as herdsmen catch A steer of Andalusia with a lazo. He is in love. - Dom C. To be in love 2 Hyp. In his case very ill. But tell me, And is it faring ill Don C. Why so? Hyp. For many reasons. First and fore- most, Because he is in love with an ideal; A creature of his own imagination; A child of air ; an echo of his heart; And, like a lily on a river floating, She floats upon the river of his thoughts Don C. A common thing with poets. But who is This floating lily? For, in fine, some woman, Some living woman, – not a mere ideal,- Must wear the outward semblance of his thought. Who is it 2 Tell me. Hyp. Well, it is a woman But, look you, from the coffer of his heart He brings forth precious jewels to adorn her, As pious priests adorn some favorite saint With gems and gold, until at length she gleams o One blaze of glory. Without these, you know, And the priest’s benediction, "t is a doll. Don C. Well, well! who is this doll 2 Hyp. Why, who do you think? Don C. His cousin Violante. Hyp. Guess again. To ease his laboring heart, in the last storm He threw her overboard, with all her ingots. Don C. I cannot guess; so tell me who it is Hyp. Not I. Don C. Why not? Hyp. (mysteriously). Why? Because Mari Franca Was married four leagues out of Salamanca Don C. Jesting aside, who is it 2 Hyp. Preciosa. Don C. Impossible ! The Count of Lara tells me She is not virtuous. Hyp. Did I say she was 2 The Roman Emperor Claudius had a wife Whose name was Messalina, as I think; Valeria Messalina was her name. But hist I see him yonder through the trees, Walking as in a dream. Don C. He comes this way. Hyp. It has been truly said by some wise Imall, HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLO W. 93 That money, grief, and love cannot be hidden. (Enter Victor IAN in front.) Viet. Where'er thy step has passed is holy ground ! These groves are sacred I behold thee walk- ing Under these shadowy trees, where we have walked At evening, and I feel thy presence now ; Feel that the place has taken a charm from thee, And is forever hallowed. Hyp. Mark him well' See how he strides away with lordly air, Like that odd guest of stone, that grim Com- mander Who comes to sup with Juan in the play. Don C. What ho! Victorian Wilt thou sup with us? Ay de mí Vict. You are much to blame for letting her go back. A pretty girl; and in her tender eyes Just that soft shade of green We sometimes Hyp. See In evening skies. Viet. Holá' amigos! you. How fares Don Carlos ? Don C. At your service ever. Vict. How is that young and green-eyed Gaditana That you both wot of 2 Don C. Ay, soft, emerald eyes! She has gone back to Cadiz. Faith, I did not see - | s= | º …//0.41 Hyp. But, speaking of green eyes, Are thine green 2 |Wict. Not a whit. Why so? Hyp. I think The slightest shade of green would be becom- Ing, For thou art jealous. Vict. No, I am not jealous. Hyp. Thou shouldst be. Vict. Why? Hyp. Because thou art in love. And they who are in love are always jealous. Therefore thou shouldst be. 94 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Vict. Marry, is that all? Farewell; I am in haste. Farewell, Don Carlos. Thou sayest I should be jealous 2 Hyp. Ay, in truth I fear there is reason. Be upon thy guard. I hear it whispered that the Count of Lara Lays siege to the same citadel. Vict. Indeed! Then he will have his labor for his pains. Hyp. He does not think so, and Don Carlos tells me He boasts of his success. Viet. How 's this, Don Carlos ? Don C. Some hints of it I heard from his own lips. He spoke but lightly of the lady's virtue, As a gay man might speak. |Vict. Death and damnation I’ll cut his lying tongue out of his mouth, And throw it to my dog ' But, no, no, no This cannot be. You jest, indeed you jest. Trifle with me no more. For otherwise We are no longer friends. And so, farewell! - [Evit. Hyp. Now what a coil is here ! The Aveng- ing 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 O hot-headed youth ! But come ; we will not follow. Let us join The crowd that pours into the Prado. There We shall find merrier company; I see The Marialonzos and the Almavivas, And fifty fans, that beckon me already. [Ea.eunt. SCENE IV. — PRECIOSA’s chamber. She is sitting, with a book in her hand, near a table, on which are flowers. A bird singing in its cage. The Count of LARA enters behind unperceived. Pree. (reads). - All are sleeping, weary heart | Thou, thou only sleepless art Heigho | I wish Victorian were here. I know not what it is makes me so restless (The bird sings.) Thou little prisoner with thy motley coat, That from thy vaulted, wiry dungeon singest, Like thee I am a captive, and, like thee, I have a gentle jailer. Lack-a-day ! All are sleeping, weary heart | Thou, thou only sleepless art | All this throbbing, all this aching, Evermore shall keep thee waking, For a heart in sorrow breaking Thinketh ever of its smart Thou speakest truly, poet ! and methinks More hearts are breaking in this world of ours Than one would say. In distant villages And solitudes remote, where winds have wafted The barbed seeds of love, or birds of passage Scattered them in their flight, do they take root, And grow in silence, and in silence perish. Who hears the falling of the forest leaf 2 Or who takes note of every flower that dies? Heigho I wish Victorian would come. Dolores | (Turns to lay down her book, and perceives the Count.) Ha Lara. Señora, pardon me ! Pree. How 's this 2 Dolores Lara. Pardon me — Pree. . Dolores Lara. Be not alarmed ; I found no one in waiting. If I have been too bold — Pree. (turning her back upon him). You are too bold ! Retire retire, and leave me ! Lara. My dear lady, First hear me ! I beseech you, let me speak | 'T is for your good I come. Pree. (turning toward him with indigma- tion). Begone ! begone You are the Count of Lara, but your deeds Would make the statues of your ancestors Blush on their tombs Is it Castilian honor, Is it Castilian pride, to steal in here -- Upon a friendless girl, to do her wrong? Oh shame! shame! shame! that you, a noble- Imall, Should be so little noble in your thoughts As to send jewels here to win my love, And think to buy my honor with your gold ! HENRY WADS WORTH LOWGFELLO W. 95 I have no words to tell you how I scorn you! Begone The sight of you is hateful to me ! Begone, I say! Lara. Be calm ; I will not harm you, Pree. Because you dare not. Lara. I dare anything ! Therefore beware You are deceived in me. In this false world, we do not always know Who are our friends and who our enemies. We all have enemies, and all need friends. Even you, fair Preciosa, here at court Have foes, who seek to wrong you. Pree. If to this I owe the honor of the present visit, Prec. Alas! I’ve no protectors. I am a poor girl, Exposed to insults and unfeeling jest. They wound me, yet I cannot shield myself. I give no cause for these reports. I live Retired; am visited by none. Lara. By none? Oh, then, indeed, you are much wronged Pree. How mean you ? Lara. Nay, nay; I will not wound your gentle soul By the report of idle tales. You might have spared the coming. Having spoken, Once more I beg you, leave me to myself. Lara. I thought it but a friendly part to tell you What strange reports are current here in town. For my own self, I do not credit them : But there are many who, not knowing you, Will lend a readier ear. Prec. There was no need That you should take upon yourself the duty Of telling me these tales. Lara. Malicious tongues Are ever busy with your name. Prec. Speak out ! What are these idle tales 2 You need not spare me. Lara. I will deal frankly with you. Par- don me; This window, as I think, looks toward the street, And this into the Prado, does it not 2 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 96 - THE POETICAL WORKS OF If I too plainly speak, - he saw a man Climb to your chamber window. silent You are I would not blame you, being young and fair — - (He tries to embrace her. She starts back, and draws a dagger from her bosom.) Pree. Beware beware I am a Gypsy girl Lay not your hand upon me. One step nearer And I will strike Lara. Pray you, put up that dagger. Fear not. Pree. I do not fear. I have a heart In whose strength I can trust. Lara. Listen to me. I come here as your friend, - I am your friend, - - And by a single word can put a stop To all those idle tales, and make your name Spotless as lilies are. Here on my knees, Fair Preciosal on my knees I swear, I love you even to madness, and that love Has driven me to break the rules of custom, And force myself unasked into your presence. (VICTORIAN enters behind.) Pree. Rise, Count of Lara ! That is not the place - For such as you are. It becomes you not To kneel before me. I am strangely moved To see one of your rank thus low and humbled; For your sake I will put aside all anger, All unkind feeling, all dislike, and speak In gentleness, as most becomes a woman, And as my heart now prompts me. I no IY).OI’6” Will hate you, for all hate is painful to me. But if, without offending modesty And that reserve which is a woman's glory, I may speak freely, I will teach my heart To love you. - Lara. O sweet angel! Prea. 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 Pree. Nay, come no nearer. The words I utter are its sign and token. Misunderstand me not l Be not deceived The love wherewith I love you is not such As you would offer me. For you come here To take from me the only thing I have, My honor. You are wealthy, you have friends And kindred, and a thousand pleasant hopes That fill you heart with happiness; but I Am poor, and friendless, having but one treas- Ulre, 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 be true love. Indeed it cannot. But my love for you Is of a different kind. It seeks your good. It is a holier feeling. It rebukes Your earthly passion, your unchaste desires, And bids you look into your heart, and see How you do wrong that better nature in you, And grieve your soul with sin. Lara. I swear to you, I would not harm you; I would only love you. I would not take your honor, 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 — Viet. (rushing forward). Hold hold ! This is too much. What means this outrage 2 Lara. First, what right have you To question thus a nobleman of Spain 7 Viet. I too am noble, and you are no more Out of my sight ! Lara. Are you the master here? Vict, Ay, here and elsewhere, when the wrong of others Gives me the right ! Pree. (to LARA). Go! I beseech you, go! Vict. I shall have business with you, Count, anon Lara. You cannot come too soon [Evit. Pree. - Victorian Oh, we have been betrayed Vºgt. Ha! ha betrayed 'T is I have been betrayed, not we — not we Pree. Dost thou imagine — Vºgt. I imagine nothing ; I see how ’t is thou whilest the time away When I am gone ! HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. 97 Pree. Oh, speak not in that tone It wounds me deeply. Vict. ‘Twas not meant to flatter. Pree. Too well thou knowest the presence of that man Is hateful to me ! Vict. Yet I saw thee stand And listen to him, when he told his love. Pree. I did not heed his words. Vict. Indeed thou didst, And answeredst them with love. Prec. Hadst thou heard all— Vict. I heard enough, Pree. Be not so angry with me. Viet. I am not angry; I am very calm. Pree. If thou wilt let me speak — Vict. Nay, say no more. I know too much already. Thou art false I do not like these Gypsy marriages Where is the ring I gave thee? Prec. In my casket. Viet. There let it rest I would not have thee wear it : I thought thee spotless, and thou art polluted Pree. I call the Heavens to witness — Vict. Nay, nay, nay' Take not the name of Heaven upon thy lips' They are forsworn Pree. Victorian dear Victorian Viet. I gave up all for thee; myself, my fame, My hopes of fortune, ay, my very soul! And thou hast been my ruin Now, go on Laugh at my folly with thy paramour, And, sitting on the Count of Lara's knee, Say what a poor, fond fool Victorian was (He casts her from him and rushes out.) Pree. And this from thee! (Scene closes.) SCENE W. — The Count of LARA's rooms. Enter the Count. Lara. There 's nothing in this world so sweet as love, And next to love the sweetest thing is hate I’ve learned to hate, and therefore am re- venged. A silly girl to play the prude with me ! The fire that I have kindled— (Enter FRANCIsco.) Well, Francisco, What tidings from Don Juan 2 Fram. Good, my lord; He will be present. Lara. And the Duke of Lermos.” Fram. Was not at home. Lara. How with the rest ? Fram. 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. [Eveunt. SCENE WI. — A retired spot beyond the city gates. Enter Victor LAN and HYPolito. Viet. Oh shame! Oh shame! Why do I walk abroad By daylight, when the very sunshine mocks me, And voices, and familiar sights and sounds Cry, “Hide thyself!” Oh what a thin partition 98 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Doth shut out from the curious world the knowledge Of evil deeds that have been done in darkness! Disgrace has many tongues. My fears are windows, Through which all eyes seem gazing. Every face Expresses some suspicion of my shame, And in derision seems to smile at me ! Hyp. Did I not caution thee 2 Did I not tell thee I was but half persuaded of her virtue 2 Viet. And yet, Hypolito, we may be wrong, We may be over-hasty in condemning! The Count of Lara is a cursed villain. Hyp. And therefore is she cursed, loving him. Vict. She does not love him ' 'T is for gold for gold! Hyp. Ay, but remember, in the public streets He shows a golden ring the Gypsy gave him, A serpent with a ruby in its mouth. Viet. She had that ring from me! God! she is false But I will be revenged The hour is passed. Where stays the coward 2 Hyp. Nay, he is no coward; A villain, if thou wilt, but not a coward. I’ve seen him play with swords; it is his pas- time. And therefore be not over-confident, He'll task thy skill anon. Look, here he COIneS. (Enter LARA followed by FRANCIsco.) Lara. Good evening, gentlemen. Hyp. Good evening, Count, Lara. I trust I have not kept you long in waiting. Vict. Not long, and yet too long. Are you prepared 2 Lara. I am. Hyp. It grieves me much to see this quarrel Between you, gentlemen. Is there no way Left open to accord this difference, But you must make one with your swords? Vºct. 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, HENRY WADS WORTH J, OWGFELLO W. 99 (They fight. VICTORIAN disarms the Count.) Your life is mine; and what shall now with- hold me From sending your vile soul to its account 7 Lara. Strike strike Vict. You are disarmed, I will not kill you. I will not murder you. Take up your sword. (FRANCIsco hands the Count his sword, and HYPOLITO interposes.) Hyp. Enough Let it end here ! The Count of Lara Has shown himself a brave man, and Victorian A generous one, as ever. Now be friends. Put up your swords; for, to speak frankly to you, Your cause of quarrel is too slight a thing To move you to extremes. Lara. I am content. I sought no quarrel. A few hasty words, Spoken in the heat of blood, have led to this. Vict. Nay, something more than that. Lara. I understand you. Therein I did not mean to cross your path. To me the door stood open, as to others. But, had I known the girl belonged to you, Never would I have sought to win her from you, The truth stands now revealed; she has been false To both of us. Vict. Ay, false as hell itself! Lara. In truth, I did not seek her ; she sought me; And told me how to win her, telling me The hours when she was oftenest left alone. Viet. Say, can you prove this to me? Oh, pluck out These awful doubts, that goad me into mad- ness | 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 2 Fran. Lara. Ay, my lord. - If further proof Is needful, I have here a ring she gave me. Viet. Pray let me see that ring ! It is the same ! (Throws it upon the ground, and tramples upon it.) Thus may she perish who once wore that ring ! Thus do I spurn her from me; do thus trample Her memory in the dust O Count of Lara, We both have been abused, been much abused I thank you for your courtesy and frankness. Though, like the surgeon’s hand, yours gave me pain, Yet it has cured my blindness, and I thank you. I now can see the folly I have done, Though "t is, alas! too late. So fare you well! To-night I leave this hateful town forever. Regard me as your friend. Once more fare- well ! - Hyp. Farewell, Sir Count. [Ea.eunt VICTORIAN and HYPOLITO. Lara. Farewell ! farewell ! farewell! Thus have I cleared the field of my worst foe! I have none else to fear; the fight is done, The citadel is stormed, the victory won [Ea.it with FRANCISCO. SCENE VII. — A lane in the suburbs. Night. Enter CRUZADO and BARTOLOME. Cruz. And so, Bartolomé, the expedition failed. But where wast thou for the most part 2 Bart. In the Guadarrama mountains, near San Ildefonso. Cruz. And thou bringest nothing back with thee? Didst thou rob no one 7 Bart. There was no one to rob, save a party of students from Segovia, who looked as if they would rob us; and a jolly little friar, who had nothing in his pockets but a missal and a loaf of bread. t Cruz. Pray, then, what brings thee back to Madrid 7 . . Bart. First tell me what keeps thee here? Cruz. Preciosa. Bart. And she brings me back. Hast thou forgotten thy promise” Cruz. The two years are not passed yet. Wait patiently. The girl shall be thine. Bart. I hear she has a Busné lover. Cruz. That is nothing. Bart. I do not like it. I hate him, - the son of a Busné harlot. He goes in and out, 100 THE POETICAL WORKS OF and speaks with her alone, and I must stand aside, and wait his pleasure. Cruz. Be patient, I say. Thou shalt have thy revenge. When the time comes, thou shalt waylay him. Bart. Meanwhile, show me her house. Cruz. Come this way. But thou wilt not find her. She dances at the play to-night. Bart. No matter. Show me the house. [Eveunt. SCENE VIII. — The Theatre. The orchestra plays the cachucha. Sound of castanets behind the scenes. The curtain rises, and discovers PRECIOSA in the attitude of commencing the dance. The cachucha. Tumult; hisses; cries of “Brava / " and “Afuera !” She falters and pauses. The music stops. General confusion. PRE- CIOSA faints. SCENE IX. — The Count of LARA’s chambers. LARA and his friends at supper. Lara. So, Caballeros, once more many thanks You have stood by me bravely in this matter. Pray fill your glasses. Don J. Did you mark, Don Luis, How pale she looked, when first the noise began, And then stood still, with her large eyes dilated | Her nostrils spread her lips apart her bosom Tumultuous as the sea Don L. I pitied her. Lara. Her pride is humbled; and this very night I mean to visit her. Dom J. Will you serenade her ? Lara. No music l no more music Don L. Why not music 2 It softens many hearts. Lara. Not in the humor She now is in. Music would madden her. Don J. Try golden cymbals. Don L. Yes, try Don Dinero ; A mighty wooer is your Don Dinero. Lara. To tell the truth, then, I have bribed her maid. But, Caballeros, you dislike this wine. A bumper and away ; for the night wears. A health to Preciosa. (They rise and drink.) All. Preciosa. Lara (holding up his glass). Thou bright and flaming minister of Love Thou wonderful magician who hast stolen My Secret from me, and mid sighs of passion Caught from my lips, with red and fiery tongue, Her precious name ! Oh nevermore henceforth Shall mortal lips press thine; and nevermore A mortal name be whispered in thine ear. Go! keep my secret ! (Drinks and dashes the goblet down.) Don J. Ite missa est (Scene closes.) SCENE X. — Street and garden wall. Night. Enter CRUZADO and BARTOLOME. Cruz. This is the garden wall, and above it, yonder, is her house. The window in which thou seest the light is her window. But we will not go in now. Bart. Why not 2 Cruz. Because she is not at home. Bart. No matter; we can wait. But how is this? The gate is bolted. (Sound of gui- tars and voices in a neighboring street.) Hark! There comes her lover with his infernal sere- made Hark! SONG. Good night ! Good night, beloved I come to watch o'er thee To be near thee, – to be near thee, Alone is peace for me. Thine eyes are stars of morning, Thy lips are crimson flowers Good night ! Good night, beloved, While I count the weary hours. Cruz. They are not coming this way. Bart. Wait, they begin again. SONG (coming nearer). Ah thou moon that shinest Argent-clear above All might long enlighten My sweet lady-love ; Moon that shinest, All night long enlighten HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLO W. 101 Bart. Woe be to him, if he comes this way Cruz. Be quiet, they are passing down the street. song (dying away). The nuns in the cloister Sang to each other ; For so many sisters Is there not one brother Ay, for the partridge, mother The cat has run away with the partridge Puss' puss puss Bart. Follow that follow that Come with me. Puss' puss | (Ereunt. On the opposite side enter the Count of LARA and gentlemen with FRANCIsco.) Lara. The gate is fast. Over the wall, Francisco, And draw the bolt. OWel’. Now, gentlemen, come in, and help me scale Yon balcony. How now 2 Her light still burns. Move warily. Make fast the gate, Francisco. (Ereunt. Rečnter CRUzADo and BARTolović.) Bart. 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. There, so, and so, and (They climb the wall.) Scene XI. – PREcios A's bedchamber. Midnight. She is sleeping in an arm-chair, in an undress. Dolores watching her. Dol. She sleeps at last ! (Opens the window, and listens.) All silent in the street, And in the garden. Hark! Pree. (in her sleep). I must go hence! Give me my cloak.' Dol. He comes I hear his footsteps. Pree. Go tell them that I cannot dance to- night; I am too ill! Look at me! See the fever That burns upon my cheek' I must go hence. I am too weak to dance. (Signal from the garden.) Dol. (from the window). Who's there 2 Voice (from below). A friend. Dol. I will undo the door. Wait till I COInne. Pree. I must go hence. I pray you do not harm me ! - Shame! shame! to treat a feeble woman thus Be you but kind, I will do all things for you. I’m ready now, -give me my castanets. Where is Victorian 2 Oh, those hateful lamps' : 102 THE POETICAL WORKS OF They glare upon me like an evil eye. I cannot stay. Hark! how they mock at me ! They hiss at me like serpents Save me ! save me ! (She wakes.) How late is it, Dolores? Dol. It is midnight. Pree. We must be patient. Smooth this pillow for me. (She sleeps again. Noise from the garden, and voices.) Voice. Muera ! Another voice. O villains ! villains ! Lara. So! have at you! Voice. Take that Lara. Oh, I am wounded ! Dol. (shutting the window). Jesu Maria ACT III. Scene I. — A cross-road through a wood. In the back- ground a distant village spire. Victor IAN and HYPo- Lito, as travelling students, with guitars, sitting under the trees. HYPOLITo plays and sings. SONG. Ah, Love' Perjured, false, treacherous Love! Enemy Of all that mankind may not rue ! Most untrue To him who keeps most faith with thee. Woe is me ! The falcon has the eyes of the dove. Ah, Love Perjured, false, treacherous Love : : : Viet. Yes, Love is ever busy with his shuttle, Is ever weaving into life's dull warp Bright, gorgeous flowers and scenes Arcadian; Hanging our gloomy prison-house about With tapestries, that make its walls dilate In never-ending vistas of delight. Hyp. Thinking to walk in those Arcadian pastures, Thou hast run thy noble head against the wall. song (continued). Thy deceits Give us clearly to comprehend, Whither tend All thy pleasures, all thy sweets They are cheats, Thorns below and flowers above. Ah, Love Perjured, false, treacherous Love Vict. A very pretty song. I thank thee for it. Hyp. It suits thy case. Vºct. Indeed, I think it does. What wise man wrote it 2 Hyp. Lopez Maldonado. Viet. In truth, a pretty song. PIENR Y WADS WORTH LOWGFELLO W. -- 103 Hyp. With much truth in it. I hope thou wilt profit by it; and in earnest Try to forget this lady of thy love. Vict, I will forget her All dear recollec- tions Pressed in my heart, like flowers within a - book, - Shall be torn out, and scattered to the winds ! I will forget her But perhaps hereafter, When she shall learn how heartless is the World, A voice within her will repeat my name, And she will say, “He was indeed my friend!” 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 trumpet, The din of arms, the onslaught and the storm, And a swift death, might make me deaf forever To the upbraidings of this foolish heart | Hyp. Then let that foolish heart upbraid no more To conquer love, one need but will to conquer. Viet. Yet, good Hypolito, it is in vain I throw into Oblivion's sea the sword That pierces me; for, like Excalibar, With gemmed and flashing hilt, it will not sink. There rises from below a hand that grasps it, And waves it in the air ; and wailing voices Are heard along the shore. Hyp. And yet at last Down sank Excalibar to rise no more. This is not well. In truth, it vexes me. Instead of whistling to the steeds of Time, To make them jog on merrily with life's burden, Like a dead weight thou hangest on the wheels. Thou art too young, too full of lusty health To talk of dying. - Vict. Yet I fain would die To go through life, unloving and unloved : To feel that thirst and hunger of the soul We cannot still ; that longing, that wild im- pulse, And struggle after something we have not And cannot have ; the effort to be strong ; And, like the Spartan boy, to Smile, and smile, While secret wounds do bleed beneath our cloaks : All this the dead feel not, — the dead alone ! Would I were with them | Hyp. We shall all be soon. Vict. It cannot be too soon ; for I am weary Of the bewildering masquerade of Life, Where strangers walk as friends, and friends as strangers; Where whispers overheard betray false hearts; And through the mazes of the crowd we chase Some form of loveliness, that smiles, and beckons, And cheats us with fair words, only to leave |ULS A mockery and a jest; maddened, - con- fused, - - Not knowing friend from foe. Hyp. Why seek to know? Enjoy the merry shrove-tide of thy youth ! Take each fair mask for what it gives itself, Nor strive to look beneath it. Vºgt. I confess, That were the wiser part. But Hope no longer Comforts my soul. I am a wretched man, Much like a poor and shipwrecked mariner, Who, struggling to climb up into the boat, Has both his bruised and bleeding hands cut off, And sinks again into the weltering sea, Helpless and hopeless Hyp. Yet thou shalt not perish. The strength of thine own arm is thy Salva- tion. Above thy head, through rifted clouds, there shines - A glorious star. Be patient. Trust thy star ! (Sound of a village bell in the distance.) Vict. Ave Maria " I hear the sacristan Ringing the chimes from yonder village belfry A solemn sound, that echoes far and wide Over the red roofs of the cottages, And bids the laboring hind a-field, the shep- herd, Guarding his flock, the lonely muleteer, And all the crowd in village streets, stand still, And breathe a prayer unto the blessed Virgin Hyp. Amen amen l Not half a league from hence The village lies. 104 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Vict. This path will lead us to it, Over the wheat-fields, where the shadows sail Across the running sea, now green, now blue, And, like an idle mariner on the main, Whistles the quail. Come, let us hasten on. [Eveunt. ScFNE II. — Public square in the village of Guadarrama. The Ave Maria still tolling. A crowd of villagers, with their hats in their hands, as if in prayer. In front, a group of Gypsies. The bell rings a merrier peal. A Gypsy dance. Enter PANCHo, followed by PEDRO CRESPO. Pancho. Make room, ye vagabonds and Gypsy thieves! Make room for the Alcalde and for me ! Pedro C. Keep silence all! I have an edict here From our most gracious lord, the King of Spain, Jerusalem, and the Canary Islands, Which I shall publish in the market-place. Open your ears and listen (Enter the PADRE CURA at the door of his cottage.) Padre Cura, Good day! and, pray you, hear this edict read. Padre C. Good day, and God be with you! Pray, what is it? Pedro C. An act of banishment against the Gypsies (Agitation and murmurs in the crowd.) Pancho. Silence Pedro C. (reads). “I hereby order and command, That the Egyptian and Chaldean strangers, Known by the name of Gypsies, shall hence- forth Be banished from the realm, as vagabonds And beggars; and if, after seventy days, Any be found within our kingdom's bounds, They shall receive a hundred lashes each ; The second time, shall have their ears cut off; The third, be slaves for life to him who takes them, Or burnt as heretics. Signed, I, the King.” HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLO W. 105 Wile miscreants and creatures unbaptized 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 slaves. (The Gypsies go out in confusion, showing signs of fear and discontent. PAN cho follows.) Padre C. A righteous law A very right- eous law Pray you, sit down. Pedro C. I thank you heartily. (They seat themselves on a bench at the PADRE CURA's door. Sound of guitars heard at a distance, approach- ing during the dialogue which follows.) A very righteous judgment, as you say, Now tell me, Padre Cura, - you know all things, – How came these Gypsies into Spain 2 Padre C. 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 t is with the Gypsies. They never marry, never go to mass, Never baptize their children, nor keep Lent, Nor see the inside of a church, – nor — nor — Pedro C. Good reasons, good, substantial reasons all ! No matter for the other ninety-five. They should be burnt, I see it plain enough, They should be burnt. (Enter Victor IAN and HYPolito playing.) Padre C. And pray, whom have we here? Pedro C. More vagrants | By Saint Laza- rus, more vagrants' Hyp. Good evening, gentlemen Guadarrama 2 Padre C. Yes, Guadarrama, and good even- ing to you. Hyp. We seek the Padre Cura of the vil- lage : And, judging from your dress and reverend mien, You must be he. Is this Padre C. I am. Pray, what 's your pleasure? Hyp. We are poor students travelling in vacation. You know this mark 2 (Touching the wooden spoon in his hat-band.) Padre C. (joyfully). Ay, know it, and have worn it. - Pedro C. (aside). Soup-eaters! by the mass' The worst of vagrants! And there's no law against them. Sir, your servant. [Erit. Padre C. Your servant, Pedro Crespo. Hyp. Padre Cura, From the first moment I beheld your face, I said within myself, “This is the man!” There is a certain something in your looks, A certain scholar-like and studious some- thing. — You understand, - which cannot be mistaken; Which marks you as a very learned man, In fine, as one of us. Viet. (aside). What impudenceſ Hyp. As we approached, I said to my com- panion, “That is the Padre Cura; mark my words!” 106 THE POETICA L WORKS OF Meaning your Grace. “The other man,” said I, “Who sits so awkwardly upon the bench, Must be the sacristan.” Padre O. Ah! said you so 7 Why, that was Pedro Crespo, the alcalde Hyp, Indeed! you much astonish me! His 2,II? Was not so full of dignity and grace As an alcalde’s should be. Padre 0. That is true. He 's out of humor with some vagrant Gypsies, Who have their camp here in the neighbor- hood. There's nothing so undignified as anger. Hyp. The Padre Cura will excuse our bold- IneSS, If, from his well-known hospitality, We crave a lodging for the night. Padre C. I pray you ! You do me honor I am but too happy To have such guests beneath my humble roof. It is not often that I have occasion To speak with scholars; and Emollit mores, Nee simit esse feros, Cicero says. Hyp, T is Ovid, is it not 2 Padre C. No, Cicero. Hyp. Your Grace is right. You are the better scholar. Now what a dunce was I to think it Ovid I But hang me if it is not l (Aside.) Padre C. Pass this way. He was a very great man, was Cicero ! Pray you, go in, go in no ceremony. [Evewnt. SCENE III. — A room in the PADRE CURA’s house. Enter the PADRE and HYPOLITO. Padre C. So then, Señor, you come from Alcalá I am glad to hear it. It was there I studied. Hyp. And left behind an honored name, no doubt. How may I call your Grace 2 Padre O. Gerónimo De Santillana, at your Honor’s service. Hyp. Descended from the Marquis San- tillana 2 From the distinguished poet? Padre O'. From the Marquis, Not from the poet. Hyp. Why, they were the same. Let me embrace you ! Oh, some lucky star Has brought me hither Yet once more — once more - Your name is ever green in Alcalá, And our professor, when we are unruly, Will shake his hoary head, and say, “Alas ! It was not so in Santillana's time !” Padre C. I did not think my name re- membered there. Hyp, More than remembered ; it is idolized. Padre C. Of what professor speak you? Hyp, Timoneda. Padre C. I don't remember any Timoneda. Hyp. A grave and sombre man, whose beet- ling brow O'erhangs the rushing current of his speech As rocks o'er rivers hang. Have you forgotten? Padre C. Indeed, I have. Oh, those were pleasant days, Those college days I ne'er shall see the like I had not buried then so many hopes | I had not buried then so many friends ! I’ve turned my back on what was then be- fore me ; And the bright faces of my young companions Are wrinkled like my own, or are no more. Do you remember Cueva 7 Hyp. Cueva 2 Cueva 2 Padre C. Fool that I am | He was before your time. You're a mere boy, and I am an old man. Hyp. I should not like to try my strength with you. Padre C. Well, well. But I forget ; you must be hungry. Martina ho! Martina | T is my niece. (Enter MARTINA.) Hyp. You may be proud of such a niece as that. I wish I had a niece. Emollit mores. (Aside.) He was a very great man, was Cicero ! Your servant, fair Martina. Mart. - Servant, sir. Padre C. This gentleman is hungry. See thou to it. Let us have supper. HENRY WADSWORTH LOWGFELLOW. 107 Mart. 'T will be ready soon. Padre C. And bring a bottle of my Val- de-Peñas Out of the cellar. Stay; I’ll go myself. Pray you, Señor, excuse me. [Erit. Hyp. Hist! Martina | One word with you. Bless me! what hand- some eyes! To-day there have been Gypsies in the village. Is it not so 2 Mart. There have been Gypsies here. Hyp. Yes, and have told your fortune. Mart. (embarrassed). Told my fortune? Hyp. Yes, yes; I know they did. Give me your hand. I'll tell you what they said. They said, - they said, The shepherd boy that loved you was a clown, And him you should not marry. Was it not 2 Mart. (surprised). How know you that? Hyp. Oh, I know more than that. What a soft, little hand! And then they said, A cavalier from court, handsome, and tall And rich, should come one day to marry you, And you should be a lady. Was it not? He has arrived, the handsome cavalier. (Tries to kiss her. She runs off. Enter Victor IAN, with a letter.) Vict. The muleteer has come. Hyp. So soon” Vict. I found him Sitting at supper by the tavern door, And, from a pitcher that he held aloft His whole arm’s length, drinking the blood- red wine. Hyp. What news from Court? Vict. He brought this letter only. (Reads.) Oh, cursed perfidy Why did I let That lying tongue deceive me! Preciosa, Sweet Preciosa? how art thou avenged Hyp. What news is this, that makes thy cheek turn pale, And thy hand tremble? Vict. - Oh, most infamous! The Count of Lara is a worthless villain Hyp. That is no news, forsooth. Vict. He strove in vain To steal from me the jewel of my soul, The love of Preciosa. Not succeeding, He swore to be revenged; and set on foot A plot to ruin her, which has succeeded. She has been hissed and hooted from the stage, Her reputation stained by slanderous lies Too foul to speak of ; and, once more a beg- gar, She roams a wanderer over God's green earth, Housing with Gypsies! - Hyp. To renew again The Age of Gold, and make the shepherd swains Desperate with love, like Gasper Gil's Di- alla. Redit et Virgo / Vºct. Dear Hypolito, How have I wronged that meek, confiding heart | I will go seek for her; and with my tears Wash out the wrong I’ve done her Hyp. Oh, beware Act not that folly o'er again. Vict. Ay, folly, Delusion, madness, call it what thou wilt, I will confess my weakness, – I still love her Still fondly love her 108 THE POETICAL WORKS OF (Enter the PADRE CURA.) Hyp. Tell us, Padre Cura, Who are these Gypsies in the neighborhood? Padre C. Beltran Cruzado and his crew. Vict, Kind Heaven, I thank thee! She is found ! is found again! Hyp. And have they with them a pale, beautiful girl, Called Preciosa 2 Padre C. Ay, a pretty girl. The gentleman seems moved. Hyp. Yes, moved with hunger, He is half famished with this long day's Journey. Padre C. Then, pray you, come this way. The supper waits. [Eveunt. – º yº | . * º good beginning of the week it is, as he said who was hanged on Monday morning. (Enter DoN CARLos.) Don C. Are not the horses ready yet? Chispa. I should think not, for the hostler seems to be asleep. Ho! within there ! Horses' horses' horses' (He knocks at the gate with his whip, and enter MOSQUITO, put- ting on his jacket.) Mosq. Pray, have a little patience. I’m not a musket. º - & "Nº. º Nº. º SCENE IV. — A post-house on the road to Segovia, not far from the village of Guadarrama. Enter CHISPA, cracking a whip, and singing the cachucha. Chispa. Halloo! Don Fulano! Let us have horses, and quickly. Alas, poor Chispa! what a dog's life dost thou lead! I thought, when I left my old master Victorian, the student, to serve my new master Don Carlos, the gentleman, that I, too, should lead the life of a gentleman; should go to bed early, and get up late. For when the abbot plays cards, what can you expect of the friars? But, in running away from the thunder, I have run into the lightning. Here I am in hot chase after my master and his Gypsy girl. And a | | | Chispa. Health and pistareens ! I’m glad to see you come on dancing, padre! Pray, what's the news 2 Mosq. You cannot have fresh horses; be- cause there are none. Chispa. Cachiporra! Throw that bone to another dog. Do I look like your auntº Mosq. No; she has a beard. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLO W. 100 Chispa. Go to go to Mosq. Are you from Madrid 2 Chispa. Yes; and going to Estramadura. Get us horses. Mosq. What’s the news at Court” 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.) Mosq. Oh oh! you hurt me! Don C. Enough of this folly. Let us have horses. (Gives money to MOSQUITO.) It is almost dark; and we are in haste. But tell me, has a band of Gypsies passed this way of late 2 Mosq. Yes; and they are still in the neigh- borhood. Don C. And where? Mosq. Across the fields yonder, in the woods near Guadarrama. [Evit. Don C. Now this is lucky. We will visit the Gypsy camp. Chispa. Are you not afraid of the evil eye? Have you a stag's horn with you? º Don C. Fear not. We will pass the night at the village. Chispa. And sleep like the Squires of Her- man Daza, nine under one blanket. Don C. I hope we may find the Preciosa among them. Chispa. Among the Squires? Don C. No ; among the Gypsies, block- head | Chispa. I hope we may ; for we are giving ourselves trouble enough on her account. Don't you think so 2 However, there is no catching trout without wetting one's trousers. Yonder come the horses. [Eveunt. SCENE V. — The Gypsy camp in the forest. Night. Gypsies working at a forge. Others playing cards by the firelight. Gypsies (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? | 110 THE POETICAL WORKS OF First Gypsy (playing). Down with your John-Dorados, my pigeon. Down with your John-Dorados, and let us make an end. Gypsies (at the forge sing). Loud sang the Spanish cavalier, And thus his ditty ran; God send the Gypsy lassie here, And not the Gypsy man. First Gypsy (playing). There you are in your morocco Second Gypsy. One more game. The Al- calde’s doves against the Padre Cura's new Iſl(OOI). First Gypsy. Have at you, Chirelin. Gypsies (at the forge sing). At midnight, when the moon began To show her silver flame, There came to him no Gypsy man, The Gypsy lassie came. (Enter BELTRAN CRUZADO.) Cruz. Come hither, Murcigalleros and Ras- tilleros; leave work, leave play; listen to your orders for the night. (Speaking to the right.) You will get you to the village, mark you, by the stone cross. Gypsies. Ay Cruz. (to the left). And you, by the pole with the hermit's head upon it. Gypsies. Ayl . Cruz. As soon as you see the planets are out, in with you, and be busy with the ten commandments, under the sly, and Saint Martin asleep. D'ye hear? Gypsies. Ayl Cruz. Keep your lanterns open, and, if you See a goblin or a papagayo, take to your trampers. Vineyards and Dancing John is the word. Am I comprehended ? Gypsies. Ay I ay ! Cruz. Away, then (Eaceunt severally. CRUZADo walks up the stage, and disappears among the trees. Enter PRECIOSA.) Pree. How strangely gleams through the gigantic trees, - The red light of the forge Wild, beckon- ing shadows, Stalk through the forest, ever and anon Rising and bending with the flickering flame, Then flitting into darkness | So within me Strange hopes and fears do beckon to each other, My brightest hopes giving dark fears a being As the light does the shadow. Woe is me ! How still it is about me, and how lonely (BARTOLOMſ rushes in.) Bart. Ho | Preciosa Pree. O Bartolomé ! Thou here? Bart. Lo! I am here. Pree. Whence comest thou ? Bart. From the rough ridges of the wild Sierra, From caverns in the rocks, from hunger, thirst, And fever! Like a wild wolf to the sheepfold Come I for thee, my lamb. Pree. Oh, touch me not The Count of Lara’s blood is on thy hands ! The Count of Lara's curse is on thy soul | Do not come near me ! Pray, begone from here ! Thou art in danger | They have set a price Upon thy head Bart. Ay, and I’ve wandered long Among the mountains; and for many days Have seen no human face, save the rough swineherd's. The wind and rain have been my sole com- panions. I shouted to them from the rocks thy name, And the loud echo sent it back to me, Till I grew mad. I could not stay from thee, And I am here ! Betray me, if thou wilt. Pree. Betray thee ? I betray thee? Bart. Preciosa I come for thee for thee I thus brave death ! Fly with me o'er the borders of this realm Fly with me ! Pree. Speak of that no more. I Cannot. I’m thine no longer. Bart. Oh, recall the time When we were children how we played to- gether, How we grew up together ; how we plighted Our hearts unto each other, even in child- hood | Fulfil thy promise, for the hour has come. HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. 111 I’m hunted from the kingdom, like a wolf | Fulfil thy promise. Pree. ‘T was my father's promise, Not mine. I never gave my heart to thee, Nor promised thee my hand Bart. False tongue of woman And heart more false ! Prec. Nay, listen unto me. I will speak frankly. I have never loved thee; I cannot love thee. This is not my fault, It is my destiny. Thou art a man - Restless and violent. What wouldst thou with Ime, A feeble girl, who have not long to live, Whose heart is broken? Seek another wife, Better than I, and fairer; and let not Thy rash and headlong moods estrange her from thee. Thou art unhappy in this hopeless passion. I never sought thy love; never did aught To make thee love me. Yet I pity thee, And most of all I pity thy wild heart, That hurries thee to crimes and deeds of blood. Beware, beware of that. Bart. For thy dear sake I will be gentle. Thou shalt teach me pa- tience. Pree. Then take this farewell, and depart in peace. - Thou must not linger here. Bart. Come, come with me. Pree. Hark! I hear footsteps. Bart. I entreat thee, come ! Pree. Away ! It is in vain. Eart. Wilt thou not come 2 Pree. Never ! Bart. Then woe, eternal woe, upon thee! Thou shalt not be another's. Thou shalt die. - [Evit. Pree. All holy angels keep me in this hour ! Spirit of her who bore me, look upon me ! Mother of God, the glorified, protect me ! Christ and the saints, be merciful unto me ! Yet why should I fear death? What is it to die 2 To leave all disappointment, care, and Sorrow, To leave all falsehood, treachery, and unkind- neSS, All ignominy, suffering, and despair, And be at rest forever ! O dull heart, Be of good cheer! When thou shalt cease to beat, Then shalt thou cease to suffer and complain (Enter VICTORIAN and Hypolito behind.) Viet. T is she Behold, how beautiful she stands Under the tent-like trees | Hyp. A woodland nymph : Vict. I pray thee, stand aside. Leave me. Hyp. Be wary. Do not betray thyself too soon. Vºet. (disguising his voice). Hist! Gypsy Pree. (aside, with emotion). That voice that voice from heaven! Oh speak again! Who is it calls 2 Vºgt. A friend. Pree. (aside), 'T is he ’T is he I thank thee, Heaven, that thou hast heard my prayer, . And sent me this protector' Now be strong, Be strong, my heart 1 I must dissemble here. False friend or true? Vict. A true friend to the true ; Fear not ; come hither. So ; can you tell for- tunes 2 Pree. Not in the dark. Come nearer to the fire. Give me your hand. It is not crossed, I see. Vict. (putting a piece of gold into her hand). There is the cross. Pree. Is 't silver ? Vict. - No, "t is gold. Pree. There's a fair lady at the Court, who loves you, - And for yourself alone. Vict. Fie! the old story ! Tell me a better fortune for my money; Not this old woman’s tale ! Pree. You are passionate ; And this same passionate humor in your blood Has marred your fortune. Yes; I see it now ; The line of life is crossed by many marks. Shame ' shame ! Oh you have wronged the maid who loved you ! How could you do it? Vºct. I never loved a maid: For she I loved was then a maid no more. Pree. How know you that 2 112 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Vºet. A little bird in the air Whispered the secret. Pree. There, take back your gold ! Your hand is cold, like a deceiver's hand 1 There is no blessing in its charity Make her your wife, for you have been abused; And you shall mend your fortunes, mending hers. Viet. (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.) Pree. No ; never from my hand Shall that be taken Vict. Why, "t is but a ring. I'll give it back to you ; or, if I keep it, Will give you gold to buy you twenty such. Pree. Why would you have this ring 2 Vºet. A traveller's fancy, A whim, and nothing more. I would fain keep it As a momento of the Gypsy camp In Guadarrama, and the fortune-teller Who sent me back to wed a widowed maid. Pray, let me have the ring. Pree. No, never ! never ! I will not part with it, even when I die; But bid my nurse fold my pale fingers thus, That it may not fall from them. T is a token Of a beloved friend, who is no more. 'ict. How 2 dead 2 Prec. Yes; dead to me; and worse than dead. He is estranged ' And yet I keep this ring. I will rise with it from my grave hereafter, To prove to him that I was never false. Viet. (aside). Be still, my swelling heart one moment, still! Why, "t is the folly of a love-sick girl. Come, give it me, or I will say ’t is mine, And that you stole it. Prec. Oh, you will not dare To utter such a falsehood' Vict. I not dare 2 Look in my face, and say if there is aught I have not dared, I would not dare for thee! (She rushes into his arms.) Pree. T is thou ! t is 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? PIENR Y WADS WOR TH LONG FELLO W. 113 Viet. Ask me not now, my dearest Preciosa. Let me forget we ever have been parted Pree. Hadst thou not come — Viet. I pray thee, do not chide me! Pree. I should have perished here among these Gypsies. Vict. Forgive me, sweet! for what I made thee suffer. Think'st thou this heart could feel a moment's joy, Thou being absent 2 Oh, believe it not Indeed, since that sad hour I have not slept, For thinking of the wrong I did to thee Dost thou forgive me 2 Say, wilt thou for- give me? Pree. I have forgiven thee. words of anger Were in the book of Heaven writ down against Ere those thee, I had forgiven thee. Vºct. I’m the veriest fool That walks the earth, to have believed thee false. It was the Count of Lara — Pree. That bad man Płas worked me harm enough. Hast thou not heard — Vict. I have heard all. And yet speak on, speak on Let me but hear thy voice, and I am happy; For every tone, like some sweet incantation, Calls up the buried past to plead for me. Speak, my beloved, speak into my heart, Whatever fills and agitates thine own. (They walk aside.) Hyp. All gentle quarrels in the pastoral poets, All passionate love-scenes in the best romances, All chaste embraces on the public stage, All soft adventures, which the liberal stars Have winked at, as the natural course of things, Have been surpassed here by my friend, the student, And this sweet Gypsy lass, fair Preciosa Pree. Señor Hypolitol I kiss your hand. Pray, shall I tell your fortune? Hyp. Not to-night; For, should you treat me as you did Victorian, And send me back to marry maids forlorn, My wedding day would last from now till Christmas. Chispa (within). What ho! the Gypsies, ho! Beltran Cruzado Halloo ! halloo ! halloo ! halloo ! (Enters booted, with a whip and lantern.) Vict. What now 2 Why such a fearful din 2 Hast thou been robbed 2 Chispa. Ay, robbed and murdered; and good evening to you, My worthy masters. Vict. Speak; what brings thee here 2 Chispa (to PRECIOSA). Good news from Court; good news | Beltran Cruzado, The Count of the Calés, is not your father, But your true father has returned to Spain Laden with wealth. You are no more a Gypsy. Vict. 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. Vict. Where is the gentleman 2 Chispa. As the old song says, His body is in Segovia, His soul is in Madrid. Pree. Is this a dream 2 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 Gypsy camp ; this is Victorian, And this his friend, Hypolitol Speak 1 speak! Let me not wake and find it all a dream | Vict. It is a dream, sweet child ! a waking dream, A blissful certainty, a vision bright Of that rare happiness, which even on earth Heaven gives to those it loves. Now art thou rich, As thou wast ever beautiful and good; And I am now the beggar. Pree. (giving him her hand). I have still A hand to give. Chispa (aside). And I have two to take. I’ve heard my grandmother say, that Heaven gives almonds To those who have no teeth. That's nuts to crack. 15 114 THE POETICAL WORKS OF I’ve teeth to spare, but where shall I find - * almonds? N Vict. What more of this strange story? Chispa. Nothing more. Your friend, Don Carlos, is now at the village Showing to Pedro Crespo, the Alcalde, The proofs of what I tell you. The old hag, Who stole you in your childhood, has con- fessed : And probably they’ll hang her for the crime, To make the celebration more complete. Viet. No: let it be a day of general joy; Fortune comes well to all, that comes not late. Now let us join Don Carlos. Hyp. So farewell, The student's wandering life Sweet sere- nades, Sung under ladies' windows in the night, And all that makes vacation beautiful! To you, ye cloistered shades of Alcalá, To you, ye radiant visions of romance, Written in books, but here surpassed by truth, The Bachelor Hypolito returns, And leaves the Gypsy with the Spanish Stu- dent. Scene VI. — A pass in the Guadarrama mountains. Early morning. A muleteer crosses the stage, sitting sideways on his mule, and lighting a paper cigar with flint and steel. SONG. If thou art sleeping, maiden, Awake and open thy door, 'T is the break of day, and we must away O'er meadow, and mount, and moor. Wait not to find thy slippers, But come with thy naked feet; We shall have to pass through the dewy grass, And waters wide and fleet. (Disappears down the pass. Enter a Monk. A Shepherd appears on the rocks above.) Monk. Ave Maria, gratia plena. Oláſ good man Shep. Olá' Monk. Is this the road to Segovia 2 Shep. It is, your reverence. Monk. How far is it 2 Shep. I do not know. HENRY WADSWOR TH LONGFELLOW. 115 Monk. What is that yonder in the valley 7 Shep. San Ildefonso. Monk. A long way to breakfast. Shep. Ay, marry. Monk. Are there robbers in these moun- tains 2 Shep. Yes, and worse than that. Monk. What? Shep. Wolves. Monk. Santa Marial Come with me to San Ildefonso, and thou shalt be well rewarded. Shep. What wilt thou give me? Monk. An Agnus Dei and my benediction. Receive the benediction of the sun O glorious sight ! Prec. Most beautiful indeed! Hyp. Most wonderful! Vºet. And in the vale below, Where yonder steeples flash like lifted hal- berds, San Ildefonso, from its noisy belfries, Sends up a salutation to the morn, As if an army smote their brazen shields, And shouted victory! Pree. And which way lies Segovia? Vºct. At a great distance yonder Dost thou not see it? Prec. No. I do not see it. (They disappear. A mounted Contrabandista passes, wrapped in his cloak, and a gun at his saddle-bow. He goes down the pass singing.) SONG. Worn with speed is my good steed, And I march me hurried, worried; Onward, caballito mio, With the white star in thy forehead! Onward, for here comes the Ronda, And I hear their rifles crackſ Ay, jaléo Ay, ay, jaléo Ay, jaléo They cross our track. (Song dies away. Enter PRECIos A, on horseback, at- tended by Victor IAN, HYPolito, DoN CARLos, and CHISPA, on foot, and armed.) Vict. This is the highest point. us rest. See, Preciosa, see how all about us Kneeling, like hooded friars, the misty moun- tains Here let Wict. The merest flaw that dents the hori- zon's edge, There, yonder Hyp. 'T is a notable old town, Boasting an ancient Roman aqueduct, And an Alcázar, builded by the Moors, Wherein, you may remember, poor Gil Blas Was fed on Pan del Rey. Oh, many a time Out of its grated windows have I looked Hundreds of feet plumb down to the Eresma, That, like a serpent through the valley creep- ing, Glides at its foot. 116 THE POETICAL WORKS OF HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLO W. Pree. Oh yes! I see it now, Yet rather with my heart than with mine eyes, So faint it is. And all my thoughts sail thither, Freighted with prayers and hopes, and forward urged Against all stress of accident, as in The Eastern Tale, against the wind and tide Great ships were drawn to the Magnetic Mountains, And there were wrecked, and perished in the sea! (She weeps.) Vict. O gentle spirit ! Thou didst bear un- moved Blasts of adversity and frosts of fate | But the first ray of sunshine that falls on thee Melts thee 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. Prec. Stay no longer! My father waits. Methinks I see him there, Now looking from the window, and now watch- ing Each sound of wheels or footfall in the street, And saying, “Hark! she comes ' " O father' father' (They descend the pass. CHISPA remains 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 on foot, and the other half walking; and always as merry as a thunder-storm in the night. And so we plough along, as the fly said to the ox. Who knows what may hap- pen? Patience, and shuffle the cards! I am not yet so bald that you can see my brains: and perhaps, after all, I shall some day go to Rome, and come back Saint Peter. Benedi- cite [Evit. (A pause. Then enter BARTOLOME wildly, as if in pur- suit, with a carbine in his hand.) Bart. They passed this way. I hear their horses' hoofs Yonder I see them Come, sweet caramillo, This serenade shall be the Gypsy's last ! (Fires down the pass.) Ha! haſ Well whistled, my sweet caramillo! Well whistled !—I have missed her! — O my God | (The shot is returned. BARTolomé falls.) HFRYBRES HND .OTHERPOEMS Slº. CARILLON. IN the ancient town of Bruges, In the quaint old Flemish city, As the evening shades descended, Low and loud and sweetly blended, Low at times and loud at times, And changing like a poet's rhymes, Rang the beautiful wild chimes - From the Belfry in the market Of the ancient town of Bruges. Then, with deep Sonorous clangor Calmly answering their sweet anger, When the wrangling bells had ended, Slowly struck the clock eleven, And, from out the silent heaven, Silence on the town descended. Silence, silence everywhere, On the earth and in the air, Save that footsteps here and there Of some burgher home returning, By the street lamps faintly burning, For a moment woke the echoes Of the ancient town of Bruges. But amid my broken slumbers Still I heard those magic numbers, As they loud proclaimed the flight And stolen marches of the night ; Till their chimes in sweet collision Mingled with each wandering vision, Mingled with the fortune-telling Gypsy-bands of dreams and fancies, Which amid the waste expanses Of the silent land of trances Have their solitary dwelling; All else seemed asleep in Bruges, In the quaint old Flemish city. And I thought how like these chimes Are the poet's airy rhymes, All his rhymes and roundelays, His conceits, and songs, and ditties, From the belfry of his brain, Scattered downward, though in vain, On the roofs and stones of cities For by night the drowsy ear Under its curtains cannot hear, And by day men go their ways, Hearing the music as they pass, But deeming it no more, alas ! Than the hollow sound of brass. Yet perchance a sleepless wight, Lodging at some humble inn In the narrow lanes of life, When the dusk and husk of night Shut out the incessant din Of daylight and its toil and strife, May listen with a calm delight To the poet's melodies, Till he hears, or dreams he hears, ‘Intermingled with the song, Thoughts that he has cherished long; Hears amid the chime and singing The bells of his own village ringing, And wakes, and finds his slumberous eyes Wet with most delicious tears. Thus dreamed I, as by night I lay In Bruges, at the Fleur-de-Blé, Listening with a wild delight To the chimes that, through the night, Rang their changes from the Belfry Of that quaint old Flemish city. 120 THE POETICAL WORKS OF THE BELFRY OF BRUGES. IN the market-place of Bruges stands the bel- fry old and brown; Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o'er the town. As the summer morn was breaking, on that lofty tower I stood, And the world threw off the darkness, like the weeds of widowhood. Thick with towns and hamlets studded, and with streams and vapors gray, Like a shield embossed with silver, round and vast the landscape lay. At my feet the city slumbered. From its chimneys, here and there, Wreaths of snow-white smoke, ascending, van- ished, ghost-like, into air. Not a sound rose from the city at that early morning hour, But I heard a heart of iron beating in the ancient tower. From their nests beneath the rafters sang the swallows wild and high : And the world, beneath me sleeping, seemed more distant than the sky. Then most musical and solemn, bringing back the olden times, With their strange, unearthly changes rang the melancholy chimes, Like the psalms from some old cloister, when the nuns sing in the choir; And the great bell tolled among them, like the chanting of a friar. Visions of the days departed, shadowy phan- toms filled my brain; They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again ; All the Foresters of Flanders, – mighty Bald- win 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. HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. 12] 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. A GLEAM OF And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land with terror smote; And again the wild alarum sounded from the tocsin's throat; Till the bell of Ghent responded o'er lagoon and dike of sand, “I am Roland I am Roland there is victory in the land ' " Then the sound of drums aroused me. The awakened city's roar Chased the phantoms I had summoned back into their graves once more. Hours had passed away like minutes; and, be- fore I was aware, Lo! the shadow of the belfry crossed the sun- illumined square. SUNSHINE. THIS is the place. Stand still, my steed, Let me review the scene, And summon from the shadowy Past The forms that once have been. The Past and Present here unite Beneath Time's flowing tide, Like footprints hidden by a brook, But seen on either side. - 16 122 - THE POETICAL WORKS OF Here runs the highway to the town; There the green lane descends, Through which I walked to church with thee, O gentlest of my friends ! The shadow of the linden trees Lay moving on the grass; Between them and the moving boughs, A shadow, thou didst pass. Thy dress was like the lilies, And thy heart as pure as they : One of God’s holy messengers Did walk with me that day. I saw the branches of the trees Bend down thy touch to meet, The clover-blossoms in the grass Rise up to kiss thy feet. “Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, Of earth and folly born l’’ 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. THE ARSENAL. A.T THIS is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms; But from their silent pipes no anthem peal- Ing - Startles the villages with strange alarms. Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, When the death-angel touches those swift keys What loud lament and dismal Miserere Will mingle with their awful symphonies I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, The cries of agony, the endless groan, And ever and anon, the wind Sweet-scented with the hay, Turned o'er the hymn-book's fluttering leaves That on the window lay. Long was the good man's sermon, Yet it seemed not so to me; For he spake of Ruth the beautiful, And still I thought of thee. Long was the prayer he uttered, Yet it seemed not so to me ; For in my heart I prayed with him, And still I thought of thee. But now, alas ! the place seems changed; Thou art no longer here: Part of the sunshine of the scene With thee did disappear. Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my heart, Like pine trees dark and high, Subdue the light of noon, and breathe A low and ceaseless sigh ; This memory brightens o'er the past, As when the Sun, concealed Behind some cloud that near us hangs, Shines on a distant field. SPRING FIELD. Which, through the ages that have gone before llS, 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 clamor, O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. I hear the Florentine, who from his palace Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din, And Aztec priests upon their teocallis Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin ; $ HENRY WADSWORTH LOWGFELLOW. 123 The tumult of each sacked and burning vil- lage ; 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 asunder, The rattling musketry, the clashing blade; And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, The diapason of the cannonade. Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, With such accursed instruments as these, Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices, And jarrest the celestial harmonies? Were half the power, that fills the world with terror, Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts, Given to redeem the human mind from error, There were no need of arsenals or forts: The warrior's name would be a name abhorred And every nation, that should lift again Its hand against a brother, on its forehead Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain Down the dark future, through long genera- tions, 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, Nurem- berg, the ancient, stands. Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song, Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them throng : Memories of the Middle Ages, when the em- perors, rough and bold, Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centuries old; And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth rhyme, That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every clime. In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron band, 124 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cunigunde's hand; On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maxi- milian's praise. Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of Art: Fountains wrought with richest sculpture stand- ing in the common mart; And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone, By a former age commissioned as apostles to Our OWI 1. In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps en- shrined his holy dust, And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age their trust; In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture rare, Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted air. º | | º º, º | | | | | Here, when Art was still religion, with a sim ple, reverent heart, Lived and labored Albrecht Dürer, the Evan- gelist of Art; Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand, Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better Land. Emigravit is the inscription on the tomb-stone where he lies; Dead he is not, but departed,—for the artist never dies. Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more fair, That he once has trod its pavement, that he once has breathed its air Through these streets so broad and stately, these obscure and dismal lanes, Walked of yore the Mastersingers, chanting rude poetic strains. From remote and sunless suburbs came they to the friendly guild, Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in spouts the swallows build. As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic rhyme, And the smith his iron measures hammered to the anvil’s chime; Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers of poesy bloom In the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom. Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the gentle craft, Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios sang and laughed. But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely sanded floor, And a garland in the window, and his face above the door; HENRY WADSWORTH LOWGFELLOW. 125 Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Puschman's song, As the old man gray and dove-like, with his great beard white and long. And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cark and care, Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the master's antique chair. Vanished is the ancient splendor, and before my dreamy eye Wave these mingled shapes and figures, like a faded tapestry. Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the world's regard; But thy painter, Albrecht Dürer, and Hans Sachs thy cobbler bard. Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far away, As he paced thy streets and court-yards, sang in thought his careless lay: Gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a floweret of the soil, The nobility of labor, − the long pedigree of toil. THE NORMAN BARON. Dans les moments de la vie oil la réflexion devient plus calme et plus profonde, où l’intérêt et l'avarice parlent moins haut que la raison, dans les instants de chagrin domestique, de maladie, et de péril de mort, les nobles se repentirent de posséder des serfs, comme d'une chose peu agréable à Dieu, qui avait créé tous les hommes a son image. THIERRY, Conquête de l’Angleterre. IN his chamber, weak and dying, By his bed a monk was seated, Was the Norman baron lying: Who in humble voice repeated Loud, without, the tempest thundered, Many a prayer and pater-noster, And the castle-turret shook. From the missal on his knee; In this fight was Death the gainer, And, amid the tempest pealing, Spite of vassal and retainer. Sounds of bells came faintly stealing, And the lands his sires had plundered, Bells, that from the neighboring kloster Written in the Doomsday Book. Rang for the Nativity. 126 WORKS OF THE POETICAL In the hall, the serf and vassal Held, that night, their Christmas wassail; Many a carol, old and Saintly, Sang the minstrels and the waits; And so loud these Saxon gleemen Sang to slaves the songs of freemen, That the storm was heard but faintly, Knocking at the castle-gates. Till at length the lays they chanted Reached the chamber terror-haunted, Where the monk, with accents holy, Whispered at the baron's ear. Tears upon his eyelids glistened, As he paused awhile and listened, And the dying baron slowly Turned his weary head to hear. “Wassail for the kingly stranger Born and cradled in a manger King, like David, priest, like Aaron, Christ is born to set us free l’’ And the lightning showed the sainted Figures on the casement painted, And exclaimed the shuddering baron, “Miserere, Domine !” In that hour of deep contrition He beheld, with clearer vision, Through all outward show and fashion, Justice, the Avenger, rise. All the pomp of earth had vanished, Falsehood and deceit were banished, Reason spake more loud than passion, And the truth wore no disguise. Every vassal of his banner, Every serf born to his manor, All those wronged and wretched creatures, By his hand were freed again. And, as on the sacred missal He recorded their dismissal, Death relaxed his iron features, And the monk replied, “Amen l’ Many centuries have been numbered Since in death the baron slumbered By the convent's sculptured portal, Mingling with the common dust: But the good deed, through the ages Living in historic pages, Brighter grows and gleams immortal, Unconsumed by moth or rust. RAIN IN SUMMER. HOW beautiful is the rain After the dust and heat, In the broad and fiery street, In the narrow lane, How beautiful is the rain How it clatters along the roofs, Like the tramp of hoofs How it gushes and struggles out From the throat of the overflowing spout ! Across the window-pane It pours and pours : And swift and wide, With a muddy tide, Like a river down the gutter roars The rain, the welcome rain The sick man from his chamber looks At the twisted brooks; He can feel the cool Breath of each little pool ; His fevered brain Grows calm again, And he breathes a blessing on the rain. From the neighboring school Come the boys, With more than their wonted noise And commotion ; - º º º º - º 4% º Zººl t | º - .* hº - º º Artist: J. APPLETON BROWN. RAIN IN SUMMER, ; : ::::" HENRY WADS WORTH LOWGFELLO W. 127 And down the wet streets Sail their mimic fleets, Till the treacherous pool Ingulfs them in its whirling And turbulent ocean. In the country, on every side, Where far and wide, Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide, Stretches the plain, To the dry grass and the drier grain How welcome is the rain In the furrowed land The toilsome and patient oxen stand; Lifting the yoke-encumbered head, With their dilated nostrils spread, They silently inhale The clover-scented gale, And the vapors that arise From the well-watered and smoking soil. For this rest in the furrow after toil Their large and lustrous eyes Seem to thank the Lord, More than man's spoken word. Near at hand, From under the sheltering trees, The farmer sees His pastures, and his fields of grain, As they bend their tops To the numberless beating drops Of the incessant rain. He counts it as no sin That he sees therein Only his own thrift and gain. These, and far more than these, The Poet sees | He can behold Aquarius old Walking the fenceless fields of air; And from each ample fold Of the clouds about him rolled Scattering everywhere The showery rain, As the farmer scatters his grain. He can behold Things manifold That have not yet been wholly told, - Have not been wholly sung nor said. For his thought, that never stops, Follows the water-drops Down to the graves of the dead, Down through chasms and gulfs profound, To the dreary fountain-head Of lakes and rivers under ground; And sees them, when the rain is done, On the bridge of colors seven Climbing up once more to heaven, Opposite the setting sun. Thus the Seer, With vision clear, Sees forms appear and disappear, In the perpetual round of strange, Mysterious change From birth to death, from death to birth, From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth; Till glimpses more sublime Of things, unseen before, Unto his wondering eyes reveal The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel Turning forevermore In the rapid and rushing river of Time. TO A CHILD. DEAR child ! how radiant on thy mother's knee With merry-making eyes and jocund smiles, Thou gazest at the painted tiles, Whose figures grace, With many a grotesque form and face, The ancient chimney of thy nursery 2 The lady with the gay macaw, The dancing girl, the grave bashaw With bearded lip and chin; And, leaning idly o'er his gate, Beneath the imperial fan of state, The Chinese mandarin. 128 THE POETICAL WORKS OF With what a look of proud command Thou shakest in thy little hand The coral rattle with its silver bells, Making a merry tune Thousands of years in Indian seas That coral grew, by slow degrees, Until some deadly and wild monsoon Dashed it on Coromandel's sand Those silver bells Reposed of yore, As shapeless ore, Far down in the deep-sunken wells Of darksome mines, In some obscure and sunless place, Beneath huge Chimborazo's base, Or Potosí's o'erhanging pines' And thus for thee, O little child, Through many a danger and escape, º | | The tall ships passed the stormy cape, For thee in foreign lands remote, Beneath a burning, tropic clime, The Indian peasant, chasing the wild goat, Himself as swift and wild, In falling, clutched the frail arbute, The fibres of whose shallow root, Uplifted from the soil, betrayed The silver veins beneath it laid, The buried treasures of the miser, Time. But, lo! thy door is left ajar ! Thou hearest footsteps from afar ! And, at the sound, Thou turnest round With quick and questioning eyes, Like one, who, in a foreign land, Beholds on every hand Some source of wonder and surprise And, restlessly, impatiently, Thou strivest, strugglest, to be free. The four walls of thy nursery Are now like prison walls to thee. No more thy mother's smiles, No more the painted tiles, Delight thee, nor the playthings on the floor, That won thy little, beating heart before ; Thou strugglest for the open door. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 129 Through these once solitary halls Thy pattering footstep falls. The sound of thy merry voice Makes the old walls Jubilant, and they rejoice With the joy of thy young heart, O'er the light of whose gladness No shadows of sadness From the sombre background of memory start. Once, ah, once, within these walls, One whom memory oft recalls, The Father of his Country, dwelt. And yonder meadows broad and damp The fires of the besieging camp Encircled with a burning belt. Up and down these echoing stairs, Heavy with the weight of cares, Sounded his majestic tread; Yes, within this very room Sat he in those hours of gloom, Weary both in heart and head. But what are these grave thoughts to thee? Out, out into the open air Thy only dream is liberty, Thou carest little how or where, I see thee eager at thy play, Now shouting to the apples on the tree, With cheeks as round and red as they : And now among the yellow stalks, Among the flowering shrubs and plants, As restless as the bee. Along the garden walks, The tracks of thy small carriage-wheels I trace; And see at every turn how they efface Whole villages of sand-roofed tents, That rise like golden domes Above the cavernous and secret homes Of wandering and nomadic tribes of ants. Ah, cruel little Tamerlane, Who, with thy dreadful reign, Dost persecute and overwhelm These hapless Troglodytes of thy realm What tired already! with those suppliant looks, And voice more beautiful than a poet's books, Or murmuring sound of water as it flows, Thou comest back to parley with repose This rustic seat in the old apple-tree, With its o'erhanging golden canopy Of leaves illuminate with autumnal hues, And shining with the argent light of dews, 130 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Shall for a season be our place of rest. Beneath us, like an oriole's pendent nest, From which the laughing birds have taken wing, By thee abandoned, hangs thy vacant swing. Dream-like the waters of the river gleam : A sailless vessel drops adown the stream, And like it, to a sea as wide and deep, Thou driftest gently down the tides of sleep. O child ! O new-born denizen Of life's great city on thy head The glory of the morn is shed, Like a celestial benison Here at the portal thou dost stand, And with thy little hand Thou openest the mysterious gate Into the future's undiscovered land. I see its valves expand, As at the touch of Fate! Into those realms of love and hate, Into that darkness blank and drear, By some prophetic feeling taught, I launch the bold, adventurous thought, Freighted with hope and fear; As upon subterranean streams, In caverns unexplored and dark, Men sometimes launch a fragile bark, Laden with flickering fire, And watch its swift-receding beams, Until at length they disappear, And in the distant dark expire. By what astrology of fear or hope Dare I to cast thy horoscope Like the new moon thy life appears; A little strip of silver light, And widening outward into night The shadowy disk of future years; And yet upon its outer rim, A luminous circle, faint and dim, And scarcely visible to us here, Rounds and completes the perfect sphere; A prophecy and intimation, A pale and feeble adumbration, Of the great world of light, that lies Behind all human destinies. Ah! if thy fate, with anguish fraught, Should be to wet the dusty soil With the hot tears and sweat of toil, -— To struggle with imperious thought, Until the overburdened brain, Weary with labor, faint with pain, Like a jarred pendulum, retain Only its motion, not its power, — Remember, in that perilous hour, When most afflicted and oppressed, From labor there shall come forth rest. And if a more auspicious fate On thy advancing steps await, Still let it ever be thy pride To linger by the laborer's side; With words of sympathy or song To cheer the dreary march along Of the great army of the poor, O'er desert sand, o'er dangerous moor. Nor to thyself the task shall be Without reward; for thou shalt learn The wisdom early to discern True beauty in utility; As great Pythagoras of yore, Standing beside the blacksmith's door, And hearing the hammers, as they smote The anvils with a different note, Stole from the varying tones, that hung Vibrant on every iron tongue, The secret of the sounding wire, And formed the seven-chorded lyre. Enough I will not play the Seer; I will no longer strive to ope The mystic volume, where appear The herald Hope, forerunning Fear, And Fear, the pursuivant of Hope. Thy destiny remains untold : For, like Acestes' shaft of old, The swift thought kindles as it flies, And burns to ashes in the skies. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLO W. - 131 THE OCCULTATION OF ORION. I saw, as in a dream sublime, The balance in the hand of Time. O'er East and West its beam impended: And Day, with all its hours of light, Was slowly sinking out of sight, While, opposite, the scale of Night Silently with the stars ascended. Like the astrologers of eld, In that bright vision I beheld Greater and deeper mysteries. I saw, with its celestial keys, Its chords of air, its frets of fire, The Samian's great Æolian lyre, Rising through all its sevenfold bars, From earth unto the fixed stars. And through the dewy atmosphere, Not only could I see, but hear, Its wondrous and harmonious strings, In sweet vibration, sphere by sphere, From Dian's circle light and near, Onward to vaster and wider rings, Where, chanting through his beard of snows, Majestic, mournful, Saturn goes, And down the sunless realms of space Reverberates the thunder of his bass. Beneath the sky’s triumphal arch This music sounded like a march, And with its chorus seemed to be Preluding some great tragedy. Sirius was rising in the east; And, slow ascending one by one, The kindling constellations shone. Begirt with many a blazing star, Stood the great giant Algebar, Orion, hunter of the beast ! His sword hung gleaming by his side, And, on his arm, the lion's hide Scattered across the midnight air The golden radiance of its hair. The moon was pallid, but not faint; And beautiful as some fair saint, Serenely moving on her way In hours of trial and dismay. As if she heard the voice of God, Unharmed with naked feet she trod Upon the hot and burning stars, As on the glowing coals and bars, That were to prove her strength and try Her holiness and her purity. 132 º THE POETICAL WORKS OF Thus moving on, with silent pace, And triumph in her sweet, pale face, She reached the station of Orion. Aghast he stood in strange alarm And suddenly from his outstretched arm Down fell the red skin of the lion Into the river at his feet. His mighty club no longer beat The forehead of the bull; but he Reeled as of yore beside the sea, When, blinded by OEnopion, He sought the blacksmith at his forge, And, climbing up the mountain gorge, Fixed his blank eyes upon the sun. Then, through the silence overhead, An angel with a trumpet said, - “Forevermore, forevermore, The reign of violence is o'er l’” And, like an instrument that flings Its music on another's strings, The trumpet of the angel cast Upon the heavenly lyre its blast, And on from sphere to sphere the words Rečchoed down the burning chords, – “Forevermore, forevermore, The reign of violence is o'er l’” THE BRIDGE. I STOOD on the bridge at midnight, As the clocks were striking the hour, And the moon rose o'er the city, Behind the dark church-tower. I saw her bright reflection In the waters under me, Like a golden goblet falling And sinking into the sea. And far in the hazy distance Of that lovely night in June, The blaze of the flaming furnace Gleamed redder than the moon. Among the long, black rafters The wavering shadows lay, And the current that came from the ocean Seemed to lift and bear them away; As, sweeping and eddying through them, Rose the belated tide, And, streaming into the moonlight, The seaweed floated wide. And like those waters rushing Among the wooden piers, A flood of thoughts came o'er me That filled my eyes with tears. How often, oh how often, In the days that had gone by, I had stood on that bridge at midnight And gazed on that wave and sky How often, oh how often, I had wished that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its bosom O'er the ocean wild and wide For my heart was hot and restless, And my life was full of care, And the burden laid upon me Seemed greater than I could bear. But now it has fallen from me, It is buried in the sea ; And only the sorrow of others Throws its shadow over me. Yet whenever I cross the river On its bridge with wooden piers, Like the odor 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 ! artist : F. B. SCHELL. "And the moon rose o'er the city, Behind the dark church-tower. The Bridge. : HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. - 133 And forever and forever, - The moon and its broken reflection As long as the river flows, And its shadows shall appear, As long as the heart has passions, As the symbol of love in heaven, As long as life has woes; And its wavering image here. TO THE DRIVING CLOUD. GLOOMY and dark art thou, O chief of the mighty Omahas: Gloomy and dark as the driving cloud, whose name thou hast taken Wrapped in thy scarlet blanket, I see thee stalk through the city's Narrow and populous streets, as once by the margin of rivers Stalked those birds unknown, that have left us only their footprints. What, in a few short years, will remain of thy race but the footprints? How canst thou walk these streets, who hast trod the green turf of the prairies 2 How canst thou breathe this air, who hast breathed the sweet air of the mountains 7 Ah! t is in vain that with lordly looks of disdain thou dost challenge Looks of disdain in return, and question these walls and these pavements, Claiming the soil for thy hunting-grounds, while down-trodden millions Starve in the garrets of Europe, and cry from its caverns that they, too, Have been created heirs of the earth, and claim its division | Back, then, back to thy woods in the regions west of the Wabash There as a monarch thou reignest. In autumn the leaves of the maple Pave the floors of thy palace-halls with gold, and in summer Pine-trees waft through its chambers the odorous breath of their branches. There thou art strong and great, a hero, a tamer of horses There thou chasest the stately stag on the banks of the Elkhorn, Or by the roar of the Running-Water, or where the Omaha Calls thee, and leaps through the wild ravine like a brave of the Blackfeet ! Hark! what murmurs arise from the heart of those mountainous deserts 2 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 2 Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the Crows and the Foxes, Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the tread of Behemoth, Lo! the big thunder-canoe, that steadily breasts the Missouri's Merciless currentſ and yonder, afar on the prairies, the camp-fires Gleam through the night ; and the cloud of dust in the gray of the daybreak Marks not the buffalo's track, nor the Mandan's dexterous horse-race; It is a caravan, whitening the desert where dwell the Camanches! Ha! how the breath of these Saxons and Celts, like the blast of the east-wind, Drifts evermore to the west the scanty Smokes of thy wigwams' 134 THE POETICAL WORKS OF THE DAY IS THE day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight. I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me That my soul cannot resist: A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me Some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time. For, like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest \ſ, - #3 & DONE. Life's endless toil and endeavor; 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 labor, And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies. Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction That follows after prayer. Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice. And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away. 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. HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLO W. 135 The snow recommences; The buried fences Mark no longer The road o'er the plain; While through the meadows, Like fearful shadows, Slowly passes A funeral train. The bell is pealing, And every feeling Within me responds To the dismal knell; Shadows are trailing, My heart is bewailing And tolling within Like a funeral bell. TO AN OLD DANISH SONG BOOK. WELCOME, my old friend, Welcome to a foreign fireside, While the sullen gales of autumn Shake the windows. The ungrateful world Has, it seems, dealt harshly with thee, Since, beneath the skies of Denmark, First I met thee. There are marks of age, There are thumb-marks on thy margin, Made by hands that clasped thee rudely, At the alehouse. Soiled and dull thou art; Yellow are thy time-worn pages, As the russet, rain-molested Leaves of autumn. Thou art stained with wine Scattered from hilarious goblets, As the leaves with the libations Of Olympus. Yet dost thou recall Days departed, half-forgotten, When in dreamy youth I wandered By the Baltic, - When I paused to hear The old ballad of King Christian Shouted from suburban taverns In the twilight. Thou recallest bards, Who, in solitary chambers, And with hearts by passion wasted, Wrote thy pages. Thou recallest homes Where thy songs of love and friendship Made the gloomy Northern winter Bright as summer. Once some ancient Scald, In his bleak, ancestral Iceland, Chanted staves of these old ballads To the Vikings. 136 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Once in Elsinore, At the court of old King Hamlet, Yorick and his boon companions Sang these ditties. Once Prince Frederick’s Guard Sang them in their smoky barracks;– Suddenly the English cannon Joined the chorus! Peasants in the field, Sailors on the roaring ocean, Students, tradesmen, pale mechanics, All have sung them. WALTER WON VoGELWEID the Minnesinger, When he left this world of ours, Laid his body in the cloister, Under Würtzburg's minster towers. And he gave the monks his treasures, Gave them all with this behest : They should feed the birds at noontide Daily on his place of rest; Saying, “From these wandering minstrels I have learned the art of song; Let me now repay the lessons They have taught so well and long.” Thus the bard of love departed; And, fulfilling his desire, On his tomb the birds were feasted By the children of the choir. Day by day, o'er tower and turret, In foul weather and in fair, Day by day, in vaster numbers, Flocked the poets of the air. On the tree whose heavy branches Overshadowed all the place, On the pavement, on the tombstone, On the poet's sculptured face, 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 song shall nestle In my bosom, - Quiet, close, and warm, Sheltered from all molestation, And recalling by their voices Youth and travel, DER WOGELWEID. On the cross-bars of each window, On the lintel of each door, They renewed the War of Wartburg, Which the bard had fought before. HENRY WADS WORTH / ON GFDLLO W. 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. DRINKING SONG. INSCRIPTION FOR AN ANTIQUE PITCHER. COME, old friend sit down and listen From the pitcher, placed between us, How the waters laugh and glisten In the head of old Silenus ! Old Silenus, bloated, drunken, Led by his inebriate Satyrs; On his breast his head is sunken, Vacantly he leers and chatters. Fauns with youthful Bacchus follow; Ivy crowns that brow supernal As the forehead of Apollo, And possessing youth eternal. Round about him, fair Bacchantes, Bearing cymbals, flutes, and thyrses, Wild from Naxian groves, or Zante's Vineyards, sing delirious verses. Thus he won, through all the nations, Bloodless victories, and the farmer Bore, as trophies and oblations, Vines for banners, ploughs for armor. Judged by no o'erzealous rigor, Much this mystic throng expresses: Bacchus was the type of vigor, And Silenus of excesses. These are ancient ethnic revels, Of a faith long since forsaken; Now the Satyrs, changed to devils, Frighten mortals wine-o’ertaken. Now to rivulets from the mountains Point the rods of fortune-tellers; Youth perpetual dwells in fountains, - Not in flasks, and casks, and cellars. 18 138 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Claudius, though he sang of flagons And huge tankards filled with Rhenish, From that fiery blood of dragons Never would his own replenish. Even Redi, though he chaunted Bacchus in the Tuscan valleys, Never drank the wine he vaunted In his dithyrambic sallies. Then with water fill the pitcher Wreathed about with classic fables; Ne'er Falernian threw a richer Light upon Lucullus tables. Come, old friend, sit down and listen! As it passes thus between us, How its wavelets laugh and glisten In the head of old Silenus ! THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. L'éternité est une pendule, dont le balancier dit et redit sans cesse ces deux mots seulement, dans le silence des tom- -> ! beaux: “Toujours! jamais! Jamais ! toujours SOMEWHAT back from the village street Stands the old-fashioned country-seat. Across its antique portico Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw ; And from its station in the hall An ancient timepiece says to all, - “Forever — never ! Never—forever !” JACQUES BRIDAINE. www. º, - r - *…*--- - -- wºrst- ------ w º, wºº “ -------- f * * * * * * * ----- r -, Half-way up the stairs it stands, And points and beckons with its hands From its case of massive oak, Like a monk, who, under his cloak, Crosses himself, and sighs, alas ! With sorrowful voice to all who pass, - “Forever – never ! Never — for ever !” HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. 139 By day its voice is low and light; But in the silent dead of night, Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, It echoes along the vacant hall, Along the ceiling, along the floor, And seems to say, at each chamber-door, - “Forever—never ! Never—forever !” Through days of sorrow and of mirth, Through days of death and days of birth, Through every swift vicissitude Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, And as if, like God, it all things saw, It calmly repeats those words of awe, – “Forever — never! Never — Forever !” In that mansion used to be Free-hearted Hospitality; His great fires up the chimney roared; The stranger feasted at his board; But, like the skeleton at the feast, That warning timepiece never ceased, - “Forever—never !” Never — forever !” There groups of merry children played, There youths and maidens dreaming strayed; O precious hours! O golden prime, And affluence of love and time ! Even as a miser counts his gold, Those hours the ancient timepiece told, - “Forever —never ! Never — forever !” 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, – “Forever — never ! Never — forever!” All are scattered now and fled, Some are married, some are dead; And when I ask, with throbs of pain, “Ah! when shall they all meet again 2" As in the days long since gone by, The ancient timepiece makes reply, - “Forever – never ! Never — forever !” Never here, forever there, Where all parting, pain, and care, And death, and time shall disappear, - Forever there, but never here ! The horologe of Eternity Sayeth this incessantly, - “Forever – never ! Never — forever !” THE ARROW AND THE SONG. I SHOT an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight. I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where: For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song? Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend. 140 THE POETICAL WORKS OF .. §ºrgº? •' cººrºº Tº (+ & § IGºlęE=I&ſlºt;>|Glº 5:32. , 2. lºº. SSS 21 Sºlºš-E-2: wº " * * * * - - º sº ------------- º §§ §§§ ** :#. *A* §§§º: ºf-ſiſ-'t Ž º % |S㺠N É |% N t *> is #ſº THE EVENING STAR. Lo! in the painted oriel of the West, Whose panes the sunken sun incarnadines, Like a fair lady at her casement, shines The evening star, the star of love and rest And then anon she doth herself divest Of all her radiant garments, and reclines Behind the sombre screen of yonder pines, With slumber and soft dreams of love oppressed. O my beloved, my sweet Hesperus ! My morning and my evening star of love! My best and gentlest lady even thus, As that fair planet in the sky above, Dost thou retire unto thy rest at night, And from thy darkened window fades the light. AUTUMN. THOU comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain, With banners, by great gales incessant fanned, Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand, And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain' Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne, Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal hand Outstretched with benedictions o'er the land, Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspended So long beneath the heaven's o'erhanging eaves; - Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers at- tended; 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 Fra Hilario in his diocese, As up the convent-walls, in golden streaks, The ascending sunbeams mark the day's de- Crease ; And, as he asks what there the stranger seeks, - Thy voice along the cloister whispers “Peace | ?” HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 141 2–6, 6–G, G, 3–6, tº G, ſº Āſīāvā'īāvāvī s º \S㺠# ===º ==* = (: === {*} (*) G. (S) GS) (s; GF (-) G) ſº ſº) - §WWWWWMMW s ex THE HEMLOCK TREE. FROM THE GERMAN. O HEMLOCK tree O hemlock tree how faith- ful are thy branches! Green not alone in summer time, But in the winter's frost and rime ! O hemlock tree O hemlock tree how faith- ful are thy branches' O maiden fair O maiden fair how faithless is thy bosom To love me in prosperity, And leave me in adversity O maiden fairſ O maiden fair how faithless is thy bosom The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak'st for thine example ! So long as summer laughs she sings, But in the autumn spreads her wings. The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak'st for thine example ! The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mir- ror 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 mir- ror of thy falsehood ANNIE OF THARAW. FROM THE LOW GERMAN OF SIMON DACH. ANNIE of Tharaw, my true love of old, She is my life, and my goods, and my gold. Annie of Tharaw, her heart once again To me has surrendered in joy and in pain. Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my good, Thou, O my soul, my flesh, and my blood | Then come the wild weather, come sleet or COme SnOW, We will stand by each other, however it blow. Oppression, and sickness, and sorrow, and pain Shall be to our true love as links to the chain. As the palm-tree standeth so straight and so tall, The more the hail beats, and the more the rains fall, - So love in our hearts shall grow mighty and strong, Through crosses, through sorrows, through manifold wrong. Shouldst thou be torn from me to wander alone In a desolate land where the sun is scarce known, – 142 * THE POETIOAI, WORKS OF Through forests I’ll follow, and where the Sea flows, Through ice, and through iron, through armies of foes. Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun, The threads of our two lives are woven in one. Whate’er I have bidden thee thou hast obeyed, Whatever forbidden thou hast not gainsaid. How in the turmoil of life can love stand, Where there is not one heart, and one mouth, and one hand? Some seek for dissension, and trouble, and strife; Like a dog and a cat live such man and wife. Annie of Tharaw, such is not our love; Thou art my lambkin, my chick, and my dove. Whate'er my desire is, in thine may be seen; I am king of the household, and thou art its queen. It is this, O my Annie, my heart's Sweetest rest, That makes of us twain but one soul in One breast. This turns to a heaven the hut where we dwell; While wrangling soon changes a home to a hell. THE STATUE OVER THE CATHEDRAL DOOR. FROM THE GERMAN OF JULIUS MOSEN. FORMS of Saints and kings are standing The cathedral door above ; Yet I saw but one among them Who hath soothed my soul with love. In his mantle, – wound about him, As their robes the sowers wind, - Bore he swallows and their fledglings, Flowers and weeds of every kind. And so stands he calm and childlike, High in wind and tempest wild; 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 't would 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 l’’ 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. HEWR Y WADS WOR TH L OWG FE/, 7, O W. I43 THE SEA HATH ITS PEARLS. FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINEICH HEINE. THE sea hath its pearls, The heaven hath its stars; But my heart, my heart, My heart hath its love. Great are the sea and the heaven; Yet greater is my heart, And fairer than pearls and stars Flashes and beams my love. Thou little, youthful maiden, Come unto my great heart; My heart, and the sea, and the heaven Are melting away with love POETIC APHORISMS. FROM THE SINNGEDICHTE OF FERIEDRICH WON LOGAU. SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. MONEY. WHEREUNTO is money good? Who has it not wants hardihood, Who has it has much trouble and care, Who once has had it has despair. THE BEST MEDICINES. JOY and Temperance and Repose Slam the door on the doctor's nose. SIN. 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. POWERTY AND BLINDNESS. A BLIND man is a poor man, and blind a poor man is; For the former seeth no man, and the latter Il O Iſla,Il S6262S, LAW OF LIFE. LIVE I, so live I, To my Lord heartily, To my Prince faithfully, To my Neighbor 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. THE RESTLESS HEART. A MILLSTONE and the human heart are driven ever round; If they have nothing else to grind, they must themselves be ground. CHRISTIAN LOVE. WHILOM Love was like a fire, and warmth and comfort it bespoke: But, alas! it 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 golden room we find. RETRIBUTION. THOUGH the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small; Though with patience he stands waiting, with exactness grinds he all. 144 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 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. I. SoLEMNLY, mournfully, Dealing its dole, The Curfew Bell Is beginning to toll. Cover the embers, And put out the light; Toil comes with the morning, And rest with the night. Dark grow the windows, And quenched is the fire; Sound fades into silence, — All footsteps retire. No voice in the chambers, No sound in the hall! Sleep and oblivion Reign over all! CURFEW. II. THE book is completed, And closed, like the day; And the hand that has written it Lays it away. Dim grow its fancies; Forgotten they lie; Like coals in the ashes, They darken and die. Song sinks into silence, The story is told, The windows are darkened, The hearth-stone is cold. Darker and darker The black shadows fall; Sleep and oblivion Reign over all. Tiu ¿}} E. A. ABBEY. - Artist : EVANGELINE, §º jº § R-3 㺠§§ % s 㺠gº §§§ à: § º : § § º: : º ¥º ºš º º º º %2fº º º & º §§ - Kºº ºxº THIS is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. 148 THE POETICAL WORKS OF This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman? Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers, – Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands, Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven? Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean. Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand Pré. Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient, Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion, List to the mournful tradition, still sung by the pines of the forest; List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy, P A R T THE FIRST. IN the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas, Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand Pré Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward, Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number. HENRY WADS WORTH L ONGF/E/, / O W. - 149 Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant, Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the flood-gates Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows. West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the northward Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended. There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village. Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of hemlock, Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries. Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows; and gables projecting Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway. - There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset Lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes on the chimneys, Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors Mingled their sounds with the whir of the wheels and the songs of the maidens, Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the children Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them. Reverend walked he among them ; and up rose matrons and maidens, Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome. Then came the laborers home from the field, and serenely the sun sank Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from the belfry Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending, Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment. Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers, – Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were they free from Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics. Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows; But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of the owners; There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance. Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of Minas, Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand Pré, Dwelt on his goodly acres; and with him, directing his household, Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village. Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy winters; Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow-flakes; White as the Snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the oak-leaves. Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers. Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside, Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows. When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah fair in sooth was the maiden. Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop 150 THE POETICAL WORKS OF - -- º Rºx - Ǻ º M. º Sº §§§ ºrsº - º *-ºº! - §º §§§ ... Nº lºſſº º ſº sº l - -º- ‘...ſºs \sº º §§ º º §§ -º \\ {\ \\\\\\ |\\ § | w \\ s | º R § N N § - * - - sº 12%, z - - * … - - Nº. ºv/. - Aſ 453 . º- - % 7% r ~ º - wº rº, & Cº. . . . ~~ *\º º > vº - -->~~ - >) - - - - *. J.'" ... .. 2 w *4 °- * * - Pat . | | - -- - - -- vºws 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 confession, Homeward serenely she walked with God’s benediction upon her. When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music. Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea; and a shady Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it. Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath; and a footpath Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow. Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by a penthouse, Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the roadside, Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary. Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss-grown Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses. Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns and the farm-yard HENRY WADS WORTH LOWGFELLO W. 151 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 inmates Murmuring ever of love; while above in the variant breezes Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation. Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of Grand Pré Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed his household. Many a youth, as he knelt in church and opened his missal, Fixed his eyes upon her as the Saint of his deepest devotion; Happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her garment Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness befriended, And, as he knocked and waited to hear the sound of her footsteps, Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of iron ; Or at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the village, Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance as he whispered Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the music. But, among all who came, young Gabriel only was welcome ; Gabriel Lejeunesse, the son of Basil the blacksmith, Who was a mighty man in the village, and honored of all men; For, since the birth of time, throughout all ages and nations, Has the craft of the Smith been held in repute by the people. Basil was Benedict's friend. Their children from earliest childhood Grew up together as brother and sister; and Father Felician, Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them their letters Out of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the church and the plain-song. But when the hymn was sung, and the daily lesson completed, - Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil the blacksmith. There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to behold him Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything, Nailing the shoe in its place; while near him the tire of the cart-wheel Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders. Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gathering darkness Bursting with light seemed the Smithy, through every cranny and crevice, Warm by the forge within they watched the laboring 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 hillside bounding, they glided away o'er the meadow. Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests on the rafters, Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the swallow Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the sight of its fledglings; Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of the swallow ! Thus passed a few swift years and they no longer were children. He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the morning, 152 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened thought into action. She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes of a woman. “Sunshine of Saint Eulalie’’ was she called; for that was the Sunshine Which, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with apples; She, too, would bring to her husband's house delight and abundance, Filling it with love and the ruddy faces of children. II. Now had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer, And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters. Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, from the ice-bound, Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical islands. Harvests were gathered in ; and wild with the winds of September Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the angel. All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement. Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded their honey Till the hives overflowed; and the Indian hunters asserted Cold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the foxes. Such was the advent of autumn. Then followed that beautiful season, Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer of All-Saints' Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape Lay as if new-created in all the freshness of childhood. Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the ocean Was for a moment consoled. All sounds were in harmony blended. Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm-yards, Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons, All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the great sun Looked with the eye of love through the golden vapors around him ; While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and yellow, Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering tree of the forest Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and jewels. Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness. Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descending Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the homestead. Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each other, And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of evening. Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer, Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her collar, Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection. Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the seaside, Where was their favorite pasture. Behind them followed the watch-dog, Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct, Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superbly Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers; Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept ; their protector, When from the forest at night, through the starry silence the wolves howled. Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes, Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odor. HENRY WADSWORTH LOWGFELLOW. 153 Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their fetlocks, While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous saddles, Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson, Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms. Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their udders Unto the milkmaid’s hand; whilst loud and in regular cadence Into the sounding pails the foaming streamlets descended. Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the farm-yard, Echoed back by the barns. Anon they sank into stillness; Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the barn-doors, Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent. In-doors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly the farmer Sat in his elbow-chair and watched how the flames and the smoke-wreaths Struggled together like foes in a burning city. Behind him, Nodding and mocking along the wall, with gestures fantastic, Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into darkness, Faces, clumsily carved in Oak, on the back of his arm-chair Laughed in the flickering light; and the pewter plates on the dresser Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sunshine. Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of Christmas, Such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers before him Sang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vineyards. Close at her father's side was the gentle Evangeline seated, Spinning flax for the loom, that stood in the corner behind her, Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent shuttle, While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the drone of a bagpipe, Followed the old man’s song and united the fragments together. As in a church, when the chant of the choir at intervals ceases, Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the priest at the altar, So, in each pause of the song, with measured motion the clock clicked, Thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, and, suddenly lifted, Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung back on its hinges. Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Basil the blacksmith, And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with him. “Welcome !” the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused on the threshold “Welcome, Basil, my friend! Come, take thy place on the settle Close by the chimney-side, which is always empty without thee; Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of tobacco; Never so much thyself art thou as when through the curling Smoke of the pipe or the forge thy friendly and jovial face gleams Round and red as the harvest moon through the mist of the marshes.” Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Basil the blacksmith, Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fireside : — “Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy jest and thy ballad Ever in cheerfullest mood art thou, when others are filled with Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before them. Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe.” Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evangeline brought him, 20 THE POETICAL WORKS OF | ºt |ºl. T. º § - | until º § º \\\\\ wn N W - Nº. º \ N N And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he slowly continued: – “Four days now are passed since the English ships at their anchors Ride in the Gaspereau's mouth, with their cannon pointed against us. What their design may be is unknown; but all are commanded On the morrow to meet in the church, where his Majesty's mandate Will be proclaimed as law in the land. Alas! in the mean time Many surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the people.” Then made answer the farmer: “Perhaps some friendlier purpose Brings these ships to our shores. Perhaps the harvests in England By untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted, And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and children.” “Not so thinketh the folk in the village,” said, warmly, the blacksmith, Shaking his head, as in doubt; then, heaving a sigh, he continued: – “Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau Séjour, nor Port Royal. Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its outskirts, Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of to-morrow. Arms have been taken from us, and warlike weapons of all kinds; Nothing is left but the blacksmith's sledge and the scythe of the mower.” Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer : — “Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and our cornfields, Safer within these peaceful dikes, besieged by the ocean, Than our fathers in forts, besieged by the enemy's cannon. Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no shadow of sorrow HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 155 Fall on this house and hearth; for this is the night of the contract. Built are the house and the barn. The merry lads of the village Strongly have built them and well ; and, breaking the glebe round about them, Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a twelvemonth. René Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers and inkhorn. Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our children 7” 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 laboring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean, Bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the notary public ; Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the maize, hung Over his shoulders; his forehead was high ; and glasses with horn bows Sat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom supernal. Father of twenty children was he, and more than a hundred Children's children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch tick. Four long years in the times of the war had he languished a captive, Suffering much in an old French fort as the friend of the English. Now, though warier grown, without all guile or suspicion, Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and childlike. He was beloved by all, and most of all by the children; For he told them tales of the Loup-garou in the forest, And of the goblin that came in the night to water the horses, And of the white Létiche, the ghost of a child who unchristened Died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers of children ; And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in the stable, And how the fever was cured by a spider shut up in a nutshell, And of the marvellous powers of four-leaved clover and horseshoes, With whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the village. Then up rose from his seat by the fireside Basil the blacksmith, Knocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly extending his right hand, “Father Leblanc,” he exclaimed, “thou hast heard the talk in the village, And, perchance, canst tell us some news of these ships and their errand.” Then with modest demeanor made answer the notary public, - “Gossip enough have I heard, in sooth, yet am never the wiser ; And what their errand may be I know not better than others. Yet am I not of those who imagine some evil intention Brings them here, for we are at peace ; and why then molest us?” “God’s name !” shouted the hasty and somewhat irascible blacksmith : “Must we in all things look for the how, and the why, and the wherefore ? Daily injustice is done, and might is the right of the strongest l” But without heeding his warmth, continued the notary public, - “Man is unjust, but God is just ; and finally justice Triumphs; and well I remember a story, that often consoled me, When as a captive I lay in the old French fort at Port Royal.” This was the old man's favorite tale, and he loved to repeat it When his neighbors complained that any injustice was done them. “Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer remember, 56 7"HE POETICAL WORKS OF | Raised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of Justice Stood in the public square, upholding the scales in its left hand, And in its right a sword, as an emblem that justice presided Over the laws of the land, and the hearts and homes of the people. Even the birds had built their nests in the scales of the balance, Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the sunshine above them. But in the course of time the laws of the land were corrupted; Might took the place of right, and the weak were oppressed, and the mighty Ruled with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a nobleman's palace That a necklace of pearls was lost, and erelong a suspicion Fell on an orphan girl who lived as a maid in the household. She, after form of trial condemned to die on the scaffold, Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of Justice. As to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit ascended, Lo! o'er the city a tempest rose; and the bolts of the thunder Smote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left hand Down on the pavement below the clattering scales of the balance, And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a magpie, Into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls was inwoven.” Silenced, but not convinced, when the story was ended, the blacksmith Stood like a man who fain would speak, but findeth no language; All his thoughts were congealed into lines on his face, as the vapors Freeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes in the winter. Ne N N N º º \ º N E \ \ . HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 157 Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table, Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with home-brewed Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village of Grand Pré; While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and inkhorn, Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of the parties, Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep and in cattle. Orderly all things proceeded, and duly and well were completed, And the great seal of the law was set like a sun on the margin. Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw on the table Three times the old man's fee in solid pieces of silver; And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and the bridegroom, Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their welfare. Wiping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed and departed, While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside, Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of its corner. Soon was the game begun. In friendly contention the old men Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful 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 embrasure, Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding the moon rise Over the pallid sea, and the silvery mists 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 was the evening passed. Anon the bell from the belfry Rang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and straightway Rose the guests and departed; and silence reigned in the household. |Many a farewell word and sweet good-night on the door-step Lingered long in Evangeline's heart, and filled it with gladness. Carefully then were covered the embers that glowed on the hearth-stone, 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 the hall, and entered the door of her chamber. Simple that chamber was, with its curtains of white, and its clothes-press Ample and high, on whose spacious shelves were carefully folded Linen and woollen stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline woven. This was the precious dower she would bring to her husband in marriage, Better than flocks and herds, being proofs of her skill as a housewife. Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow and radiant moonlight Streamed through the windows, and lighted the room, till the heart of the maiden Swelled and obeyed its power, like the tremulous tides of the ocean. Ah! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she stood with Naked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of her chamber Little she dreamed that below, among the trees of the orchard, Waited her lover and watched for the gleam of her lamp and her shadow. Yet were her thoughts of him, and at times a feeling of sadness Passed o'er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds in the moonlight Flitted across the floor and darkened the room for a moment. 158 THE POETICAL WORKS OF And, as she gazed from the window, she saw serenely the moon pass Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her footsteps, As out of Abraham's tent young Ishmael wandered with Hagar ! IV. PLEASANTLY rose next morn the sun on the village of Grand Pré. Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas, Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were riding at anchor. Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous labor Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the morning. Now from the country around, from the farms and neighboring hamlets, Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants. Many a glad good-morrow and jocund laugh from the young folk Made the bright air brighter, as up from the numerous meadows, Where no path could be seen but the track of wheels in the greensward, Group after group appeared, and joined, or passed on the highway. Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labor were silenced. Thronged were the streets with people; and noisy groups at the house-doors Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together. Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and feasted; For with this simple people, who lived like brothers together, All things were held in common, and what one had was another's. & § º - § HENRY WADSWORTH LOWGFELLO W. #59 Yet under Benedict's roof hospitality seemed more abundant: For Evangeline stood among the guests of her father; Bright was her face with smiles, and words of welcome and gladness Fell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup as she gave it. Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard, Stript of its golden fruit, was spread the feast of betrothal. There in the shade of the porch were the priest and the notary seated; There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the blacksmith. Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and the beehives, Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of hearts and of waistcoats. Shadow and light from the leaves alternately played on his snow-white Hair, as it waved in the wind; and the jolly face of the fiddler Glowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown from the embers. Gayly the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his fiddle, Tous les Bourgeois de Chartres, and Le Carillon de Dunkerque, And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the music. Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows; Old folk and young together, and children mingled among them Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict's daughter Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the blacksmith ! So passed the morning away. And lo! with a summons sonorous Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat. Thronged erelong was the church with men. Without, in the churchyard, Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on the headstones Garlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest, 160 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly among them Entered the sacred portal. With loud and dissonant clangor - Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling and casement, — Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portal Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the soldiers. Then uprose their commander, and spake from the steps of the altar, Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal commission. “You are convened this day,” he said, “ by his Majesty's orders. Clement and kind has he been ; but how you have answered his kindness, Let your own hearts reply To my natural make and my temper Painful the task is I do, which to you I know must be grievous. Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our monarch ; Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all kinds Forfeited be to the crown; and that you yourselves from this province Be transported to other lands. God grant you may dwell there Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people ! Prisoners now I declare you ; for such is his Majesty's pleasure l’’ As, when the air is serene in sultry solstice of summer, Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hailstones Beats down the farmer's corn in the field and shatters his windows, Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch from the house-roofs, Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their enclosures; So on the hearts of the people descended the words of the speaker. Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and then rose Louder and ever louder a wail of Sorrow and anger, And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to the door-way. Vain was the hope of escape; and cries and fierce imprecations Rang through the house of prayer ; and high o'er the heads of the others Rose, with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil the blacksmith, As, on a stormy Sea, a spar is tossed by the billows. - Flushed was his face and distorted with passion ; and wildly he shouted, - “Down with the tyrants of England we never have sworn them allegiance Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our homes and our harvests ’’ More he fain would have said, but the merciless hand of a soldier Smote him upon the mouth, and dragged him down to the pavement. In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry contention, Lo the door of the chancel opened, and Father Felician Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the altar. Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into silence All that clamorous throng; and thus he spake to his people; Deep were his tones and solemn ; in accents measured and mournful Spake he, as, after the tocsin's alarum, distinctly the clock strikes. “What is this that ye do, my children 2 what madness has seized you ? Forty years of my life have I labored among you, and taught you, Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another ? Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers and privations 2 Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and forgiveness? This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and would you profane it Thus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with hatred 2 HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLO W. 161 Lo! where the crucified Christ from his cross is gazing upon you! See in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy compassion Hark! how those lips still repeat the prayer, O Father, forgive them!” Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked assail us, Let us repeat it now, and say, ‘O Father, forgive them ' ' " Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his people Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the passionate outbreak, While they repeated his prayer, and said, “O Father, forgive them ' " Then came the evening service. The tapers gleamed from the altar. Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and the people responded, Not with their lips alone, but their hearts; and the Ave Maria Sang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls, with devotion translated, Rose on the ardor of prayer, like Elijah ascending to heaven. Meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings of ill, and on all sides Wandered, waiting, from house to house the women and children. Long at her father's door Evangeline stood, with her right hand 162 THE POETICAL WORKS OF % Shielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, that, descending, Lighted the village street with mysterious splendor, and roofed each Peasant's cottage with golden thatch, and emblazoned its windows. Long within had been spread the snow-white cloth on the table; There stood the wheaten loaf, and the honey fragrant with wild-flowers; There stood the tankard of ale, and the cheese fresh brought from the dairy, And, at the head of the board, the great arm-chair of the farmer. Thus did Evangeline wait at her father's door, as the sunset Threw the long shadows of trees o'er the broad ambrosial meadows. Ah! on her spirit within a deeper shadow had fallen, And from the fields of her soul a fragrance celestial ascended, - Charity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgiveness, and patience Then, all-forgetful of self, she wandered into the village, Cheering with looks and words the mournful hearts of the women, As o'er the darkening fields with lingering steps they departed, Urged by their household cares, and the weary feet of their children. Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapors Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from Sinai. Sweetly over the village the bell of the Angelus sounded. Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church Evangeline lingered. All was silent within ; and in vain at the door and the windows Stood she, and listened and looked, till, overcome by emotion, Gabriel !” cried she aloud with tremulous voice ; but no answer Came from the graves of the dead, nor the gloomier grave of the living. Slowly at length she returned to the tenantless house of her father. Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board was 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 disconsolate rain fall Loud on the withered leaves of the sycamore-tree by the window. Keenly the lightning flashed ; and the voice of the echoing thunder Told her that God was in heaven, and governed the world he created Then she remembered the tale she had heard of the justice of Heaven; Soothed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully slumbered till morning. V. Four times the sun had risen and set ; and now on the fifth day Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-house. Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession, Came from the neighboring hamlets and farms the Acadian women, Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the sea-shore, Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings, Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the woodland. Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen, While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings. Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried; and there on the sea-beach Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants. HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLO W. 163 All day long between the shore and the ships did the boats ply; All day long the wains came laboring down from the village. Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting, Echoed 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 wayworn, So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descended Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daughters. Foremost the young men came; and, raising together their voices, Sang with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Missions: — “Sacred heart of the Saviour ! O inexhaustible fountain Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and patience l’’ 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 there with, like voices of spirits departed. Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited in silence, Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of affliction, — Calmly and sadly she waited, until the procession approached her, And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with emotion. Tears then filled her eyes, and, eagerly running to meet him, Clasped she his hands, and laid her head on his shoulder, and whispered,— | | | º | \{ º 164 THE POETICAL WORKS OF “Gabriell be of good cheer! for if we love one another Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may happen!” Smiling she spake these words; then suddenly paused, for her father Saw she slowly advancing. Alas! how changed was his aspect Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the fire from his eye, and his footstep Heavier seemed with the weight of the heavy heart in his bosom. But with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck and embraced him, Speaking words of endearment where words of comfort availed not. Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mournful procession. There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking. Busily plied the freighted boats; and in the confusion Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their children Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties. So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried, While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father. Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilight Deepened and darkened around; and in haste the refluent ocean Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beach Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea-weed. Farther back in the midst of the household goods and the wagons, Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle, All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them, Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers. Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean, Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leaving Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors. Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures; Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk from their udders; Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farm-yard, – Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milk-maid. Silence reigned in the streets; from the church no Angelus sounded, Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows. But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had been kindled, Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in the tempest. Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were gathered, Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the crying of children. Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth in his parish, Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and cheering, Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita's desolate sea-shore. Thus he approached the place where Evangeline sat with her father, And in the flickering light beheld the face of the old man, Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either thought or emotion, E’en as the face of a clock from which the hands have been taken. Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses to cheer him, Vainly offered him food; yet he moved not, he looked not, he spake not, But, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flickering fire-light. “Benedicite '’ murmured the priest, in tones of compassion. More he fain would have said, but his heart was full, and his accents HENRY WADSWORTH LOWGFELLO W. 165 Faltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on the threshold, Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful presence of sorrow. Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden, Raising his tearful eyes to the silent stars that above them Moved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs and sorrows of mortals. Then sat he down at her side, and they wept together in silence. Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-red Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizon Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon the mountain and meadow, Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge shadows together. Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village, Gleamed on the sky and sea, and the ships that lay in the roadstead. Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of a martyr. Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and, uplifting, Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred house-tops Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled. These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the shore and on shipboard. Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their anguish, “We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand-Pré !” Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farm-yards, Thinking the day had dawned; and anon the lowing of cattle Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted. Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping encampments Far in the western prairies or forests that skirt the Nebraska, When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of the whirlwind, Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river. - Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and the horses Broke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o'er the meadows. Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the priest and the maiden Gazed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened before them ; And as they turned at length to speak to their silent companion, LO ! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the sea-shore Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed. Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and the maiden Knelt at her father's side, and wailed aloud in her terror. Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head on his bosom. Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious slumber; And when she awoke from the trance, she beheld a multitude near her. Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfully gazing upon her, Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of saddest compassion. Still the blaze of the burning village illumined the kandscape, Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the faces around her, And like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering senses. Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the people, – “Let us bury him here by the sea. When a happier season Brings us again to our homes from the unknown land of our exile, 166 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the churchyard.” Such were the words of the priest. And there in haste by the sea-side, Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches, But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of Grand-Pré, And as the voice of the priest repeated the service of sorrow, Lo! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast congregation, Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges. 'T was 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 the tide the ships sailed out of the harbor, Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins. PART THE SECOND. I. MANY a weary year had passed since the burning of Grand Pré, When on the falling tide the freighted vessels departed, Bearing a nation, with all its household gods, into exile, Exile without an end, and without an example in story. Far asunder, on separate coasts, the Acadians landed; Scattered were they, like flakes of snow, when the wind from the northeast Strikes aslant through the fogs that darken the Banks of Newfoundland. Friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandered from city to city, From the cold lakes of the North to sultry Southern savannas, - From the bleak shores of the sea to the lands where the Father of Waters Seizes the hills in his hands, and drags them down to the ocean, Deep in their sands to bury the scattered bones of the mammoth. ARTIST : MARY HALLOCK Foote. - - - - • * * * * * -- - - - - -* - - - - - - - - Y - - • ". - * , - - - - - - - - -- EVANGELINE. PHENRY WADS WORTH J. O.W.G. FELLO W. 167 Friends they sought and homes; and many, despairing, heart-broken, Asked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a friend nor a fireside. Written their history stands on tablets of stone in the churchyards. Long among them was seen a maiden who waited and wandered, Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffering all things. Fair was she and young: but, alas ! before her extended, Dreary and vast and silent, the desert of life, with its pathway Marked by the graves of those who had sorrowed and suffered before her, Passions long extinguished, and hopes long dead and abandoned, As the emigrant's way o'er the Western desert is marked by Camp-fires long consumed, and bones that bleach in the sunshine. Something there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, unfinished ; As if a morning of June, with all its music and sunshine, Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly descended Into the east again, from whence it late had arisen. Sometimes she lingered in towns, till, urged by the fever within her, Urged by a restless longing, the hunger and thirst of the spirit, She would commence again her endless search and endeavor ; Sometimes in churchyards strayed, and gazed on the crosses and tombstones, Sat by some nameless grave, and thought that perhaps in its bosom He was already at rest, and she longed to slumber beside him. Sometimes a rumor, a hearsay, an inarticulate whisper, Came with its airy hand to point and beckon her forward. Sometimes she spake with those who had seen her beloved and known him, But it was long ago, in some far-off place or forgotten. “Gabriel Lajeunessel ” they said: “O yes! we have seen him. He was with Basil the blacksmith, and both have gone to the prairies; Coureurs-des-Bois are they, and famous hunters and trappers.” “Gabriel Lajeunesse l’” said others; “O yes we have seen him. He is a Voyageur in the lowlands of Louisiana.” Then would they say, “Dear child' why dream and wait for him longer ? Are there not other youths as fair as Gabriel? others Who have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as loyal 2 Here is Baptiste Leblanc, the notary's son, who has loved thee Many a tedious year; come, give him thy hand and be happy Thou art too fair to be left to braid St. Catherine's tresses.” Then would Evangeline answer, serenely but sadly, “I cannot Whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand, and not elsewhere. For when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and illumines the pathway, Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden in darkness.” Thereupon the priest, her friend and father-confessor, Said, with a smile, “O daughter thy God thus speaketh within thee Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted ; If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returning Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment; That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain. Patience; accomplish thy labor; accomplish thy work of affection Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike. Therefore accomplish thy labor of love, till the heart is made godlike, Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered more worthy of heaven l’ 168 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Cheered by the good man's words, Evangeline labored and waited. Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of the ocean, But with its sound there was mingled a voice that whispered, “Despair not!” Thus did that poor soul wander in want and cheerless discomfort, Bleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns of existence, Let me essay, O Muse! to follow the wanderer's footsteps; – Not through each devious path, each changeful year of existence; But as a traveller follows a streamlet's course through the valley: Far from its margin at times, and seeing the gleam of its water Here and there, in some open space, and at intervals only; Then drawing nearer its banks, through sylvan glooms that conceal it, Though he behold it not, he can hear its continuous murmur; Happy, at length, if he find the spot where it reaches an outlet. II. IT was the month of May. Far down the Beautiful River, Past the Ohio shore and past the mouth of the Wabash, Into the golden stream of the broad and swift Mississippi, Floated a cumbrous boat, that was rowed by Acadian boatmen. It was a band of exiles: a raft, as it were, from the shipwrecked Nation, scattered along the coast, now floating together, Bound by the bonds of a common belief and a common misfortune; Men and women and children, who, guided by hope or by hearsay, Sought for their kith and their kin among the few-acred farmers On the Acadian coast, and the prairies of fair Opelousas. With them Evangeline went, and her guide, the Father Felician. Onward o'er sunken sands, through a wilderness sombre with forests, Day after day they glided adown the turbulent river; Night after night, by their blazing fires, encamped on its borders. Now through rushing chutes, among green islands, where plumelike Cotton-trees nodded their shadowy crests, they swept with the current, HEWR Y WADS WORTH LOWG FELLO W. -- 169 Then emerged into broad lagoons, where silvery sand-bars Lay in the stream, and along the wimpling waves of their margin, Shining with snow-white plumes, large flocks of pelicans waded. Level the landscape grew, and along the shores of the river, Shaded by china-trees, in the midst of luxuriant gardens, Stood the houses of planters, with negro-cabins and dove-cots. They were approaching the region where reigns perpetual summer, Where through the Golden Coast, and groves of orange and citron, Sweeps with majestic curve the river away to the eastward. They, too, swerved from their course; and, entering the Bayou of Plaquemine, Soon were lost in a maze of sluggish and devious waters, Which, like a network of steel, extended in every direction. Over their heads the towering and tenebrous boughs of the cypress Met in a dusky arch, and trailing mosses in mid-air Waved like banners that hang on the walls of ancient cathedrals. Deathlike the silence seemed, and unbroken, save by the herons Home to their roosts in the cedar-trees returning at sunset, Or by the owl, as he greeted the moon with demoniac laughter. Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and gleamed on the water, Gleamed on the columns of cypress and cedar sustaining the arches, Down through whose broken vaults it fell as through chinks in a ruin. Dreamlike, and indistinct, and strange were all things around them : And o'er their spirits there came a feeling of wonder and sadness, – Strange forebodings of ill, unseen and that cannot be compassed. As, at the tramp of a horse's hoof on the turf of the prairies, Far in advance are closed the leaves of the shrinking mimosa, So, at the hoof-beats of fate, with sad forebodings of evil, Shrinks and closes the heart, ere the stroke of doom has attained it. But Evangeline's heart was sustained by a vision, that faintly Floated before her eyes, and beckoned her on through the moonlight. It was the thought of her brain that assumed the shape of a phantom. Through those shadowy aisles had Gabriel wandered before her, And every stroke of the oar now brought him nearer and nearer. Then in his place, at the prow of the boat, rose one of the oarsmen, And, as a signal sound, if others like them peradventure Sailed on those gloomy and midnight streams, blew a blast on his bugle. Wild through the dark colonnades and corridors leafy the blast rang, Breaking the seal of silence, and giving tongues to the forest. Soundless above them the banners of moss just stirred to the music. Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance, Over the watery floor, and beneath the reverberant branches; But not a voice replied; no answer came from the darkness; - And, when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence. Then Evangeline slept ; but the boatmen rowed through the midnight, Silent at times, then singing familiar Canadian boat-songs, Such as they sang of old on their own Acadian rivers, While through the night were heard the mysterious sounds of the desert, Far off, -indistinct, — as of wave or wind in the forest, Mixed with the whoop of the crane and the roar of the grim alligator. 22 170 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Thus ere another noon they emerged from the shades; and before them Lay, in the golden sun, the lakes of the Atchafalaya. Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the slight undulations Made by the passing oars, and, resplendent in beauty, the lotus Lifted her golden crown above the heads of the boatmen. Faint was the air with the odorous breath of magnolia blossoms, And with the heat of noon; and numberless sylvan islands, Fragrant and thickly embowered with blossoming hedges of roses, Near to whose shores they glided along, invited to slumber. Soon by the fairest of these their weary oars were suspended. Under the boughs of Wachita willows, that grew by the margin, Safely their boat was moored; and scattered about on the greensward, Tired with their midnight toil, the weary travellers slumbered. Over them vast and high extended the cope of a cedar. Swinging from its great arms, the trumpet- flower and the grapevine Hung their ladder of ropes aloft like the lad- der of Jacob, On whose pendulous stairs the angels ascend- ing, descending, Were the swift humming-birds that flitted from blossom to blossom. Such was the vision Evangeline saw as she slumbered beneath it. Filled was her heart with love, and the dawn of an opening heaven - Lighted her soul in sleep with the glory of regions celestial. PIEWR Y WADS WOR TH LONG FELLO W. 171 Nearer, and ever nearer, among the numberless islands, Darted a light, swift boat, that sped away o'er the water, Urged on its course by the sinewy arms of hunters and trappers. Northward its prow was turned, to the land of the bison and beaver. At the helm sat a youth, with countenance thoughtful and 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 oblivion of self and of sorrow. Swiftly they glided along, close under the lee of the island, But by the opposite bank, and behind a screen of palmettos, So that they saw not the boat, where it lay concealed in the willows, All undisturbed by the dash of their oars, and unseen, were the sleepers, Angel of God was there none to awaken the slumbering maiden. Swiftly they glided away, like the shade of a cloud on the prairie. After the sound of their oars on the tholes had died in the distance, As from a magic trance the sleepers awoke, and the maiden Said with a sigh to the friendly priest, “O Father Felician Something says in my heart that near me Gabriel wanders. Is it a foolish dream, an idle and vague superstition ? Or has an angel passed, and revealed the truth to my spirit 2 ° Then, with a blush, she added, “Alas for my credulous fancy . Unto ears like thine such words as these have no meaning.” But made answer the reverend man, and he smiled as he answered, - “Daughter, thy words are not idle; nor are they to me without meaning. Feeling is deep and still ; and the word that floats on the surface Is as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the anchor is hidden. Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illusions. Gabriel truly is near thee; for not far away to the southward, On the banks of the Têche, are the towns of St. Maur and St. Martin. There the long-wandering bride shall be given again to her bridegroom, There the long-absent pastor regain his flock and his sheepfold. Beautiful is the land, with its prairies and forests of fruit-trees; Under the feet a garden of flowers, and the bluest of heavens Bending above, and resting its dome on the walls of the forest. They who dwell there have named it the Eden of Louisiana | * With these words of cheer they arose and continued their journey. Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizon Like a magician extended his golden wand o'er the landscape ; Twinkling vapors arose; and sky and water and forest Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together. Hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges of silver, Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on the motionless water. Filled was Evangeline's heart with inexpressible sweetness. Touched by the magic spell, the sacred fountains of feeling Glowed with the light of love, as the skies and waters around her. Then from a neighboring thicket the mocking-bird, wildest of singers, Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the water, Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music, 172 THE POETICAL WORKS OF That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to listen. Plaintive at first were the tones and sad: then soaring to madness Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied Bacchantes. Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lamentation; Till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad in derision, As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree-tops Shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower on the branches. With such a prelude as this, and hearts that throbbed with emotion, Slowly they entered the Têche, where it flows through the green Opelousas, And, through the amber air, above the crest of the woodland, Saw the column of smoke that arose from a neighboring dwelling; — Sounds of a horn they heard, and the distant lowing of cattle. III. NEAR to the bank of the river, o’ershadowed by oaks, from whose branches Garlands of Spanish moss and of mystic mistletoe flaunted, Such as the Druids cut down with golden hatchets at Yule-tide, Stood, secluded and still, the house of the herdsman. A garden Girded it round about with a belt of luxuriant blossoms, Filling the air with fragrance. The house itself was of timbers Hewn from the cypress-tree, and carefully fitted together. Large and low was the roof; and on slender columns supported, Rose-wreathed, vine-encircled, a broad and spacious veranda, Haunt of the humming-bird and the bee, extended around it. At each end of the house, amid the flowers of the garden, Stationed the dove-cots were, as love's perpetual symbol, Scenes of endless wooing, and endless contentions of rivals. Silence reigned o'er the place. The line of shadow and sunshine Ran near the tops of the trees; but the house itself was in shadow, And from its chimney-top, ascending and slowly expanding Into the evening air, a thin blue column of Smoke rose. In the rear of the house, from the garden gate, ran a pathway Through the great groves of oak to the skirts of the limitless prairie, Into whose sea of flowers the sun was slowly descending. Full in his track of light, like ships with shadowy canvas Hanging loose from their spars in a motionless calm in the tropics, Stood a cluster of trees, with tangled cordage of grapevines. Just where the woodlands met the flowery surf of the prairie, Mounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and stirrups, Sat a herdsman, arrayed in gaiters and doublet of deerskin. Broad and brown was the face that from under the Spanish sombrero Gazed on the peaceful scene, with the lordly look of its master. Round about him were numberless herds of kine, that were grazing Quietly in the meadows, and breathing the vapory 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 HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLOW. 173 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 recognized Basil the Blacksmith. Hearty his welcome was, as he led his guests to the garden. There in an arbor of roses with endless question and answer Gave they vent to their hearts, and renewed their friendly embraces, Laughing and weeping by turns, or sitting silent and thoughtful. Thoughtful, for Gabriel came not ; and now dark doubts and misgivings Stole o'er the maiden's heart; and Basil, somewhat embarrassed, Broke the silence and said, “If you came by the Atchafalaya, How have you nowhere encountered my Gabriel's boat on the bayous * * Over Evangeline's face at the words of Basil a shade passed. | s ſ Fº CA Tears came into her eyes, and she said, with a tremulous accent, “Gone? is Gabriel gone?” and, concealing her face on his shoulder, All her o'erburdened heart gave way, and she wept and lamented. Then the good Basil said, - and his voice grew blithe as he said it, — “Be of good cheer, my child; it is only to-day he departed. - Foolish boy! he has left me alone with my herds and my horses, 174 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Moody and restless grown, and tried and troubled, his spirit Could no longer endure the calm of this quiet existence. Thinking ever of thee, uncertain and sorrowful ever, Ever silent, or speaking only of thee and his troubles, He at length had become so tedious to men and to maidens, Tedious even to me, that at length I bethought me and sent him Unto the town of Adayes to trade for mules with the Spaniards. Thence he will follow the Indian trails to the Ozark Mountains, Hunting for furs in the forests, on rivers trapping the beaver. Therefore be of good cheer; we will follow the fugitive lover; He is not far on his way, and the Fates and the streams are against him. Up and away to-morrow, and through the red dew of the morning We will follow him fast, and bring him back to his prison.” Then glad voices were heard, and up from the banks of the river, Borne aloft on his comrades' arms, came Michael the fiddler. Long under Basil's roof had he lived like a god on Olympus, Having no other care than dispensing music to mortals. % Far renowned was he for his silver locks and his fiddle. Long live Michael,” they cried, “our brave Acadian minstrell” As they bore him aloft in triumphal procession; and straightway Father Felician advanced with Evangeline, greeting the old man Kindly and oft, and recalling the past, while Basil, enraptured, Hailed with hilarious joy his old companions and gossips, Laughing loud and long, and embracing mothers and daughters. Much they marvelled to see the wealth of the cidevant blacksmith, All his domains and his herds and his patriarchal demeanor; Much they marvelled to hear his tales of the soil and the climate, And of the prairies, whose numberless herds were his who would take them; Each one thought in his heart, that he, too, would go and do likewise. Thus they ascended the steps, and crossed the breezy veranda, Entered the hall of the house, where already the supper of Basil Waited his late return; and they rested and feasted together. Over the joyous feast the sudden darkness descended. All was silent without, and, illuming the landscape with silver, Fair rose the dewy moon and the myriad stars; but within doors, Brighter than these, shone the faces of friends in the glimmering lamplight. Then from his station aloft, at the head of the table, the herdsman Poured forth his heart and his wine together in endless profusion. Lighting his pipe, that was filled with sweet Natchitoches tobacco, Thus he spake to his guests, who listened, and smiled as they listened:— “Welcome once more, my friends, who long have been friendless and homeless , my 3. 9 Welcome once more to a home, that is better perchance than the old one ! Here no hungry winter congeals our blood like the rivers; - Here no stony ground provokes the wrath of the farmer. Smoothly the ploughshare runs through the soil, as a keel through the water. All the year round the orange-groves are in blossom ; and grass grows More in a single night than a whole Canadian summer. Here, too, numberless herds run wild and unclaimed in the prairies; HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. Here, too, lands may be had for the asking, and forests of timber With a few blows of the axe are hewn and framed into houses. After your houses are built, and your fields are yellow with harvests, No King George of England shall drive you away from your homesteads, Burning your dwellings and barns, and stealing your farms and your cattle.” Speaking these words, he blew a wrathful cloud from his nostrils, While his huge, brown hand came thundering down on the table, So that the guests all started; and Father Felician, astounded, Suddenly paused, with a pinch of snuff half-way to his nostrils. But the brave Basil resumed, and his words were milder and gayer: — “Only beware of the fever, my friends, beware of the fever ! For it is not like that of our cold Acadian climate, Cured by wearing a spider hung round one's neck in a nutshell!” Then there were voices heard at the door, and footsteps approaching Sounded upon the stairs and the floor of the breezy veranda. It was the neighboring 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 neighbors: 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 neighboring 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 giddy dance, as it swept and swayed to the music, Dreamlike, with beaming eyes and the rush of fluttering garments. 176 THE POETIONAL WORKS OF Meanwhile, apart, at the head of the hall, the priest and the herdsman Sat, conversing together of past and present and future; While Evangeline stood like one entranced, for within her Olden memories rose, and loud in the midst of the music Heard she the sound of the Sea, and an irrepressible sadness Came o'er her heart, and unseen she stole forth into the garden. Beautiful was the night. Behind the black wall of the forest, Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the river Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of the moonlight, Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious spirit. Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the garden Poured out their souls in odors, 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, and beneath the 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 Gleamed and floated away in mingled and infinite numbers. Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the heavens, Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel and worship, Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that temple, As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, “ Upharsin.” And the Soul of the maiden, between the stars and the fire-flies, Wandered alone, and she cried, “O Gabriel ! O my beloved Art thou So near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee? Art thou So near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach me? Ah! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie Ah! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands around me ! Ah! how often beneath this oak, returning from labor, 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 notes of a whippoorwill sounded Like a flute in the woods; and anon, through the neighboring thickets, Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence. “Patience l’’ whispered the oaks from oracular caverns of darkness: And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, “To-morrow !” Bright rose the sun next day; and all the flowers of the garden Bathed his shining feet with their tears, and anointed his tresses With the delicious balm that they bore in their vases of crystal. “Farewell!” said the priest, as he stood at the shadowy threshold; “See that you bring us the Prodigal Son from his fasting and famine, And, too, the Foolish Virgin, who slept when the bridegroom was coming.” “Farewell !” answered the maiden, and, Smiling, with Basil descended Down to the river's 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. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLO W. 177 Not that day, nor the next, nor yet the day that succeeded, Found they the trace of his course, in lake or forest or river, Nor, after many days, had they found him; but vague and uncertain Rumors alone were their guides through a wild and desolate country; Till, at the little inn of the Spanish town of Adayes, Weary and worn, they alighted, and learned from the garrulous landlord, That on the day before, with horses and guides and companions, Gabriel left the village, and took the road of the prairies. IV. FAR in the West there lies a desert land, where the mountains Lift, through perpetual snows, their lofty and luminous summits. Down from their jagged, deep ravines, where the gorge, like a gateway, Opens a passage rude to the wheels of the emigrant's wagon, Westward the Oregon flows and the Walleway and Owyhee, Eastward, with devious course, among the Wind-river Mountains, Through the Sweet-water Valley precipitate leaps the Nebraska; E- -: --~~ == - And to the south, from Fontaine-qui-bout and the Spanish sierras, Fretted with sands and rocks, and swept by the wind of the desert, Numberless torrents, with ceaseless sound, descend to the ocean, Like the great chords of a harp, in loud and solemn vibrations. Spreading between these streams are the wondrous, beautiful prairies, 23 178 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Billowy bays of grass ever rolling in shadow and Sunshine, Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and purple amorphas. Over them wandered the buffalo herds, and the elk and the roebuck; Over them wandered the wolves, and herds of riderless horses; Fires that blast and blight, and winds that are weary with travel; Over them wander the scattered tribes of Ishmael’s children, Staining the desert with blood; and above their terrible war-trails Circles and sails aloft, on pinions majestic, the vulture, Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaughtered in battle, By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the heavens. . Here and there rise smokes from the camps of these Savage marauders; Here and there rise groves from the margins of Swift-running rivers; And the grim, taciturn bear, the anchorite monk of the desert, Climbs down their dark ravines to dig for roots by the brook-side, And over all is the sky, the clear and crystalline heaven, Like the protecting hand of God inverted above them. Into this wonderful land, at the base of the Ozark Mountains, Gabriel far had entered, with hunters and trappers behind him. Day after day, with their Indian guides, the maiden and Basil Followed his flying steps, and thought each day to o'ertake him. Sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the smoke of his camp-fire Rise in the morning air from the distant plain; but at nightfall, When they had reached the place, they found only embers and ashes. And, though their hearts were sad at times and their bodies were weary, Hope still guided them on, as the magic Fata Morgana Showed them her lakes of light, that retreated and vanished before them. Once, as they sat by their evening fire, there silently entered Into their little camp an Indian woman, whose features - Wore deep traces of sorrow, and patience as great as her sorrow. She was a Shawnee woman returning home to her people, From the far-off hunting-grounds of the cruel Camanches, Where her Canadian husband, a Coureur-des-Bois, had been murdered. Touched were their hearts at her story, and warmest and friendliest welcome Gave they, with words of cheer, and she sat and feasted among them On the buffalo-meat and the venison cooked on the embers. But when their meal was done, and Basil and all his companions, Worn with the long day's march and the chase of the deer and the bison, Stretched themselves on the ground, and slept where the quivering fire-light Flashed on their swarthy cheeks, and their forms wrapped up in their blankets Then at the door of Evangeline's tent she sat and repeated Slowly, with soft, low voice, and the charm of her Indian accent, All the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and pains, and reverses. Much Evangeline wept at the tale, and to know that another Hapless heart like her own had loved and had been disappointed. Moved to the depths of her soul by pity and woman’s compassion, Yet in her sorrow pleased that one who had suffered was near her, She in turn related her love and all its disasters. Mute with wonder the Shawnee sat, and when she had ended HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. 179 Still was mute; but at length, as if a mysterious horror Passed through her brain, she spake, and repeated the tale of the Mowis; Mowis, the bridegroom of snow, who won and wedded a maiden, But, when the morning came, arose and passed from the wigwam, Fading and melting away and dissolving into the sunshine, Till she beheld him no more, though she followed far into the forest. Then, in those sweet, low tones, that seemed like a weird incantation, Told she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was wooed by a phantom, That through the pines o'er her father's lodge, in the hush of the twilight, Breathed like the evening wind, and whispered love to the maiden, Till she followed his green and waving plume through the forest, And nevermore 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 splendor - 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. 180 - THE POETICAL WORKS OF 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. With this thought she slept, and the fear and the phantom had vanished. Early upon the morrow the march was resumed; and the Shawnee Said, as they journeyed along, “On the western slope of these mountains Dwells in his little village the Black Robe chief of the Mission. Much he teaches the people, and tells them of Mary and Jesus. Loud laugh their hearts with joy, and weep with pain, as they hear him.” Then, with a sudden and secret emotion, Evangeline answered, “Let us go to the Mission, for there good tidings await us!” Thither they turned their steeds; and behind a spur of the mountains, Just as the sun went down, they heard a murmur of voices, And in a meadow green and broad, by the bank of a river, Saw the tents of the Christians, the tents of the Jesuit Mission. Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of the village, Knelt the Black Robe chief with his children. A crucifix fastened High on the trunk of the tree, and overshadowed by grapevines, Looked with its agonized face 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 branches. Silent, with heads uncovered, the travellers, nearer approaching, Knelt on the swarded floor, and joined in the evening devotions. But when the service was done, and the benediction had fallen Forth from the hands of the priest, like seed from the hands of the Sower, Slowly the reverend man advanced to the strangers, and bade them Welcome ; and when they replied, he smiled with benignant expression, Hearing the homelike sounds of his mother-tongue in the forest, And, with words of kindness, conducted them into his wigwam. There upon mats and skins they reposed, and on cakes of the maize-ear Feasted, and slaked their thirst from the water-gourd of the teacher. Soon was their story told; and the priest with solemnity answered : –– “Not six Suns have risen and set since Gabriel, seated On this mat by my side, where now the maiden reposes, Told me this same sad tale; then arose and continued his journey !” Soft was the voice of the priest, and he spake with an accent of kindness; But on Evangeline's heart fell his words as in winter the snow-flakes Fall into some lone nest from which the birds have departed. “Far to the north he has gone,” continued the priest ; “but in autumn, When the chase in done, will return again to the Mission.” t Then Evangeline said, and her voice was meek and submissive, “Let me remain with thee, for my soul is sad and afflicted.” So seemed it wise and well unto all; and betimes on the morrow, Mounting his Mexican steed, with his Indian guides and companions, Homeward Basil returned, and Evangeline stayed at the Mission. HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FF/L LOW. 181 Slowly, slowly, slowly the days succeeded each other, — Days and weeks and months; and the fields of maize that were springing Green from the ground when a stranger she came, now waving above her, Lifted their slender shafts, with leaves interlacing, and forming Cloisters for mendicant crows and granaries pillaged by squirrels. Then in the golden weather the maize was husked, and the maidens Blushed at each blood-red ear, for that betokened a lover, But at the crooked laughed, and called it a thief in the corn-field. Even the blood-red ear to Evangeline brought not her lover. “Patience!” the priest would say: “Have faith, and thy prayer will be answered Look at this vigorous plant that lifts its head from the meadow, See how its leaves are turned to the north, as true as the magnet; This is the compass-flower, that the finger of God has planted Here in the houseless wild, to direct the traveller's journey Over the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of the desert. Such in the soul of man is faith. The blossoms of passion, Gay and luxuriant flowers, are brighter and fuller of fragrance, But they beguile us, and lead us astray, and their odor 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 bluebird Sounded sweet upon wold and in wood, yet Gabriel came not. But on the breath of the summer winds a rumor was wafted Sweeter than song of bird, or hue or odor of blossom. Far to the north and east, it said, in the Michigan forests, Gabriel had his lodge by the banks of the Saginaw River. And, with returning guides, that sought the lakes of St. Lawrence, Saying a sad farewell, Evangeline went from the Mission. When over weary ways, by long and perilous marches, She had attained at length the depths of the Michigan forests, Found she the hunter's lodge deserted and fallen to ruin 182 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Thus did the long sad years glide on, and in seasons and places Divers and distant far was seen the wandering maiden : – Now in the Tents of Grace of the meek Moravian Missions, Now in the noisy camps and the battle-fields of the army, Now in secluded hamlets, in towns and populous cities. Like a phantom she came, and passed away unremembered. Fair was she and young, when in hope began the long journey; Faded was she and old, when in disappointment it ended. Each succeeding year stole something away from her beauty, Leaving behind it, broader and deeper, the gloom and the shadow. Then there appeared and spread faint streaks of 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 the morning. V. IN that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware's waters, Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the apostle, Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded. There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of beauty, And the streets still reëcho the names of the trees of the forest, As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose haunts they molested. There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, an exile, Finding among the children of Penn a home and a country. There old René Leblanc had died; and when he departed, Saw at his side only one of all his hundred descendants. HENRY WADSWORTH LOWGFELLO W. 183 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 endeavor, Ended, to recommence no more upon earth, uncomplaining, Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her thoughts and her footsteps. As from the mountain's top the rainy mists of the morning Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape below us, Sun-illumined, with shining rivers and cities and hamlets, So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the world far below her, Dark no longer, but all illumined with love; and the pathway Which she had climbed so far, lying smooth and fair in the distance. Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was his image, Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld him, Only more beautiful made by his death-like silence and absence. Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for it was not. Over him years had no power ; he was not changed, but transfigured; He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not absent ; Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others, This was the lesson a life of trial and Sorrow had taught her. So was her love diffused, but, like to some odorous spices, Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air with aroma. Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour. Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy ; frequenting Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the city, Where distress and want concealed themselves from the sunlight, Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished neglected. Night after night, when the world was asleep, as the watchman repeated Loud, through the gusty streets, that all was well in the city, High at some lonely window he saw the light of her taper. Day after day, in the gray of the dawn, as slow through the suburbs Plodded the German farmer, with flowers and fruits for the market, Met he that meek, pale face, returning home from its watchings. Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city, Presaged by wondrous signs, and mostly by flocks of wild pigeons, Darkening the sun in their flight, with naught in their craws but an acorn. And, as the tides of the sea arise in the month of September, Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads to a lake in the meadow, So death flooded life, and, o'erflowing its natural margin, Spread to a brackish lake, the silver stream of existence. Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm, the oppressor ; But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his anger ; — Only, alas ! the poor, who had neither friends nor attendants, Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the homeless. Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and woodlands ; – Now the city surrounds it ; but still, with its gateway and wicket 184 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Meek, in the midst of splendor, its humble walls seem to echo Softly the words of the Lord: “The poor ye always have with you.” Thither, by might 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 splendor, Such as the artist paints o'er the brows of Saints and apostles, Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a distance. Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city celestial, Into whose shining gates erelong 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 odor of flowers in the garden; And she paused on her way to gather the fairest among them, That the dying once more might rejoice in their fragrance and beauty. Then, as she mounted the stairs to the corridors, cooled by the east-wind, Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from the belfry of Christ Church, While, intermingled with these, across the meadows were wafted Sounds of psalms, that were sung by the Swedes in their church at Wicaco. Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the hour on her spirit; Something within her said, “At length thy trials are ended"; And, with light in her looks, she entered the chambers of sickness. Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, careful attendants, Moistening the feverish lip, and the aching brow, and in silence Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and concealing their faces, Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of snow by the roadside. Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered, Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she passed, for her presence Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the walls of a prison. And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the consoler, Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever, Many familiar forms had disappeared in the night time; Vacant their places were, or filled already by strangers. Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder, Still she stood, with her colorless lips apart, while a shudder Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowerets dropped from her fingers, And from her eyes and cheeks the light and bloom of the morning. Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish, That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows. On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man. Long, and thin, and 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, HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLO W. 185 Darkness of slumber and death, forever sinking and sinking. Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverberations, Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like, “Gabriel ! O my beloved ' " and died away into silence. Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood; Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them, Village, and mountain, and woodlands; and, walking under their shadow, As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision. Tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids, Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bedside. Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would have spoken. Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him, Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom. Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into darkness, As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement. All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow, All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing, 24 186 THE POETICAL WORKS OF HENRY WADS WORTH LONG. FELLO W. All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience! And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom, Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, “Father, I thank thee!” STILL stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow, Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping. Under the humble walls of the little Catholic churchyard, In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed. Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them, Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and forever, Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy, Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their labors, Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey ! Still stands the forest primeval; but under the shade of its branches Dwells another race, with other customs and language. Only along the shore of the mournful and misty Atlantic Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers from exile Wandered back to their native land to die in its bosom. In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are still busy; Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of homespun, And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story, While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced, neighboring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. - ! {{ { §§ - º wº º º &R}}| º 5. i i DEDICATION. As one who, walking in the twilight gloom, Hears round about him voices as it darkens, And seeing not the forms from which they COme, Pauses from time to time, and turns and hearkens; So walking here in twilight, O my friends ! I hear your voices, softened by the dis- tance, And pause, and turn to listen, as each sends His words of friendship, comfort, and as- sistance. If any thought of mine, or sung or told, Has ever given delight or consolation, Ye have repaid me back a thousand-fold, By every friendly sign and salutation. Thanks for the sympathies that ye have shown . Thanks for each kindly word, each silent token, That teaches me, when seeming most alone, Friends are around us, though no word be spoken. Kind messages, that pass from land to land; Kind letters, that betray the heart's deep history, In which we feel the pressure of a hand, - One touch of fire, — and all the rest is mystery ! The pleasant books, that silently among Our household treasures take familiar places, And are to us as if a living tongue Spake from the printed leaves or pictured faces ! Perhaps on earth I never shall behold, With eye of sense, your outward form and semblance ; Therefore to me ye never will grow old, But live forever young in my remembrance Never grow old, nor change, nor pass away ! Your gentle voices will flow on forever, When life grows bare and tarnished with decay, As through a leafless landscape flows a river. Not chance of birth or place has made us friends, Being oftentimes of different tongues and nations, But the endeavor for the selfsame ends, With the same hopes, and fears, and aspira- tions. Therefore I hope to join your seaside walk, Saddened, and mostly silent, with emo- tion ; . Not interrupting with intrusive talk The grand, majestic symphonies of Ocean. Therefore I hope, as no unwelcome guest, At your warm fireside, when the lamps are lighted, To have my place reserved among the rest, Nor stand as one unsought and uninvited 190 THE POETICAL WORKS OF THE BUILDING “BUILD me straight, O 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 unto every Art. A quiet smile played round his lips, As the eddies and dimples of the tide Play round the bows of ships, That steadily at anchor ride. And with a voice that was full of glee, He answered, “Erelong we will launch A vessel as goodly, and strong, and stanch, As ever weathered a wintry sea l’’ And first with nicest skill and art, Perfect and finished in every part, A little model the Master wrought, Which should be to the larger plan What the child is to the man, Its counterpart in miniature ; That with a hand more swift and sure The greater labor might be brought To answer to his inward thought. And as he labored, his mind ran o'er The various ships that were built of yore, And above them all, and strangest of all Towered the Great Harry, crank and tall, Whose picture was hanging on the wall, With bows and stern raised high in air, And balconies hanging here and there, And signal lanterns and flags afloat, And eight round towers, like those that frown From some old castle, looking down OF THE SHIP. Upon the drawbridge and the moat. And he said with a smile, “Our ship, I wis, Shall be of another form than this ’’ It was of another form, indeed; Built for freight, and yet for speed, A beautiful and gallant craft; Broad in the beam, that the stress of the blast, Pressing down upon sail and mast, Might not the sharp bows overwhelm ; Broad in the beam, but sloping aft With graceful curve and slow degrees, That she might be docile to the helm, And that the currents of parted seas, Closing behind, with mighty force, Might aid and not impede her course. In the ship-yard stood the Master, With the model of the vessel, That should laugh at all disaster, And with wave and whirlwind wrestle ! Covering many a rood of ground, Lay the timber piled around; Timber of chestnut, and elm, and oak, And scattered here and there, with these, The knarred and crooked cedar knees; Brought from regions far away, From Pascagoula's sunny bay, And the banks of the roaring Roanoke Ah! what a wondrous thing it is To note how many wheels of toil One thought, one word, can set in motion There 's not a ship that sails the ocean, But every climate, every soil, Must bring its tribute, great or small, And help to build the wooden wall ! HENRY WADSWORTH LONG. FELLO W. 191 The sun was rising o'er the sea, And long the level shadows lay, As if they, too, the beams would be Of some great, airy argosy, Framed and launched in a single day. That silent architect, the sun, Had hewn and laid them every one, Ere the work of man was yet begun. Beside the Master, when he spoke, A youth, against an anchor leaning, Listened, to catch his slightest meaning. Only the long waves, as they broke In ripples on the pebbly beach, Interrupted the old man's speech. Beautiful they were, in sooth, The old man and the fiery youth ! The old man, in whose busy brain Many a ship that sailed the main Was modelled o'er and o'er again; – The fiery youth, who was to be The heir of his dexterity, The heir of his house, and his daughter's hand, When he had built and launched from land What the elder head had planned. “Thus,” said he, “will we build this ship ! Lay square the blocks upon the slip, And follow well this plan of mine. Choose the timbers with greatest care; Of all that is unsound beware : For only what is sound and strong To this vessel shall belong. Cedar of Maine and Georgia pine Here together shall combine. A goodly frame, and a goodly fame, And the UNION be her name ! For the day that gives her to the sea Shall give my daughter unto thee!” The Master's word Enraptured the young man heard; And as he turned his face aside, With a look of joy and a thrill of pride Standing before Her father's door, He saw the form of his promised bride. The sun shone on her golden hair, And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair, With the breath of morn and the soft sea air. Like a beauteous barge was she, 192 THE POETIOAJ, WORKS OF Still at rest on the sandy beach, Just beyond the billow's reach ; But he Was the restless, seething, stormy sea! Ah, how skilful grows the hand That obeyeth Love's command It is the heart, and not the brain, That to the highest doth attain, And he who followeth Love's behest Far excelleth all the rest | Thus with the rising of the sun Was the noble task begun, And soon throughout the ship-yard's bounds Were heard the intermingled sounds Of axes and of mallets, plied With vigorous arms on every side : Plied so deftly and so well, That, ere the shadows of evening fell, The keel of oak for a noble ship, Scarfed and bolted, straight and strong, Was lying ready, and stretched along The blocks, well placed upon the slip. Happy, thrice happy, every one Who sees his labor well begun, And not perplexed and multiplied, By idly waiting for time and tide And when the hot, long day was o'er, The young man at the Master's door Sat with the maiden calm and still, And within the porch, a little more Removed beyond the evening chill, The father sat, and told them tales Of wrecks in the great September gales, Of pirates coasting the Spanish Main, And ships that never came back again, The chance and change of a sailor's life, Want and plenty, rest and strife, His roving fancy, like the wind, That nothing can stay and nothing can bind, And the magic charm of foreign lands, With shadows of palms, and shining sands, Where the tumbling surf, O'er the coral reefs of Madagascar, Washes the feet of the swarthy Lascar, As he lies alone and asleep on the turf. And the trembling maiden held her breath At the tales of that awful, pitiless sea, With all its terror and mystery, The dim, dark sea, so like unto Death, That divides and yet unites mankind And whenever the old man paused, a gleam From the bowl of his pipe would awhile illume The silent group in the twilight gloom, And thoughtful faces, as in a dream : And for a moment one might mark What had been hidden by the dark, That the head of the maiden lay at rest, Tenderly, on the young man's breast ! Day by day the vessel grew, With timbers fashioned strong and true, Stemson and keelson and sternson-knee, Till, framed with perfect symmetry, A skeleton ship rose up to view And around the bows and along the side The heavy hammers and mallets plied, Till after many a week, at length, Wonderful for form and strength, Sublime in its enormous bulk, Loomed aloft the shadowy hulk And around it columns of smoke, upwreathing, Rose from the boiling, bubbling, seething Caldron, that glowed, And overflowed . With the black tar, heated for the sheathing. And amid the clamors * Of clattering hammers, He who listened heard now and then The song of the Master and his men : — “Build me straight, O 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 ; And near it the anchor, whose giant hand Would reach down and grapple with the land, And immovable and fast Hold the great ship against the bellowing blast And at the bows an image stood, By a cunning artist carved in wood, ARTIST : EASTMAN Johnson. “ Standing before Her father's door, He saw the form of his promised bride,” The Building of the Shia | ſ |||ſ. ſ : . * '. - : HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. 193 With robes of white, that far behind Seemed to be fluttering in the wind. It was not shaped in a classic mould, Not like a Nymph or Goddess of old, Or Naiad rising from the water, But modelled from the Master's daughter On many a dreary and misty night, 'T will be seen by the rays of the signal light, Speeding along through the rain and the dark, Like a ghost in its snow-white sark, The pilot of some phantom bark, Guiding the vessel, in its flight, By a path none other knows aright ! Behold, at last, Each tall and tapering mast Is swung into its place; Shrouds and stays Holding it firm and fast ! Long ago, In the deer-haunted forests of Maine, When upon mountain and plain Lay the snow, They fell, - those lordly pines : Those grand, majestic pines' "Mid shouts and cheers The jaded steers, Panting beneath the goad, Dragged down the weary, winding road Those captive kings so straight and tall, To be shorn of their streaming hair, And naked and bare, To feel the stress and the strain Of the wind and the reeling main, Whose roar Would remind them forevermore Of their native forests they should not see again. And everywhere The slender, graceful spars Poise aloft in the air, And at the mast-head, White, blue, and red, A flag unrolls the stripes and stars. Ah! when the wanderer, lonely, friendless, In foreign harbors shall behold That flag unrolled, 'T will be as a friendly hand Stretched out from his native land, Filling his heart with memories sweet and endless 194 THE POETICAL WORKS OF All is finished' and at length His beating heart is not at rest; Has come the bridal day And far and wide, Of beauty and of strength. With ceaseless flow, To-day the vessel shall be launched His beard of snow With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched, Heaves with the heaving of his breast. And o'er the bay, He waits impatient for his bride. Slowly, in all his splendors dight, There she stands, The great sun rises to behold the sight, With her foot upon the sands, Decked with flags and streamers gay, The ocean old, - In honor of her marriage day, Centuries old, Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending, Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled, Round her like a veil descending, Paces restless to and fro, Ready to be Up and down the sands of gold. The bride of the gray old sea. N/º % On the deck another bride Shakes the brown hand of his son, Is standing by her lover's side. Kisses his daughter's glowing cheek Shadows from the flags and shrouds, In silence, for he cannot speak, Like the shadows cast by clouds, And ever faster Broken by many a sunny fleck, Down his own the tears begin to run, Fall around them on the deck. The worthy pastor– The shepherd of that wandering flock, The prayer is said, That has the ocean for its wold, The service read, That has the vessel for its fold, The joyous bridegroom bows his head; Leaping ever from rock to rock — And in tears the good old Master Spake, with accents mild and clear, HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 195 Words of warning, words of cheer, But tedious to the bridegroom's ear. He knew the chart Of the sailor's heart, All its pleasures and its griefs, All its shallows and rocky reefs, All those secret currents, that flow With such resistless undertow, And lift and drift, with terrible force, The will from its moorings and its course. Therefore he spake, and thus said he — “Like unto ships far off at sea, Outward or homeward bound, are we. Before, behind, and all around, Floats and swings the horizon's bound, Seems at its distant rim to rise And climb the crystal wall of the skies, And then again to turn and sink, As if we could slide from its outer brink. Ah! it is not the sea, It is not the sea that sinks and shelves, But ourselves That rock and rise With endless and uneasy motion, Now touching the very skies, Now sinking into the depths of ocean. Ah! if our souls but poise and swing Like the compass in its brazen ring, Ever level and ever true To the toil and the task we have to do, We shall sail securely, and safely reach The Fortunate Isles, on whose shining beach * The sights we see, and the sounds we hear, Will be those of joy and not of fear !” Then the Master, With a gesture of command, Waved his hand; And at the word, Loud and sudden there was heard, All around them and below, The sound of hammers, blow on blow, Knocking away the shores and spurs. And see 1 she stirs She starts, – she moves, – she seems to feel The thrill of life along her keel, And, spurning with her foot the ground, With one exulting, joyous bound, She leaps into the ocean's arms And lo! from the assembled crowd There rose a shout, prolonged and loud, That to the ocean seemed to say, “Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray, Take her to thy protecting arms, With all her youth and all her charms l’’ How beautiful she is How fair She lies within those arms, that press Her form with many a soft caress Of tenderness and watchful care Sail forth into the sea, O ship ! Through wind and wave, right onward steer! The moistened eye, the trembling lip, Are not the signs of doubt or fear. Sail forth into the sea of life, O gentle, loving, trusting wife, And safe from all adversity Upon the bosom of that sea Thy comings and thy goings bel For gentleness and love and trust Prevail o'er angry wave and gust; And in the wreck of noble lives Something immortal still survives | Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State Sail on, O UNION, strong and great Humanity with all its fears, With all the hopes of future years, Is hanging breathless on thy fate We know what Master laid thy keel, What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, What anvils rang, what hammers beat, In what a forge and what a heat Were shaped the anchors of thy hope I Fear not each sudden sound and shock, 'T is of the wave and not the rock ; 'T is but the flapping of the sail, And not a rent made by the gale ! In spite of rock and tempest's roar, In spite of false lights on the shore, Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, Are all with thee, – are all with thee! 196 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 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 rocks: From Bermuda's reefs; from edges Of sunken ledges, In some far-off, bright Azore; From Bahama, and the dashing, Silver-flashing Surges of San Salvador; From the tumbling surf, that buries The Orkneyan skerries, Answering the hoarse Hebrides; And from wrecks of ships, and drifting Spars, uplifting On the desolate, rainy seas: – Ever drifting, drifting, drifting On the shifting Currents of the restless main : Till in sheltered coves, and reaches Of sandy beaches, All have found repose again. SEAWEEI). So when storms of wild emotion Strike the ocean Of the poet's soul, érelong From each cave and rocky fastness, In its vastness, Floats some fragment of a song: From the far-off isles enchanted, Heaven has planted With the golden fruit of Truth; From the flashing surf, whose vision Gleams Elysian In the tropic clime of Youth; From the strong Will, and the Endeavor That forever Wrestle with the tides of Fate ; From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered, Tempest-shattered, Floating waste and desolate; – Ever drifting, drifting, drifting On the shifting Currents of the restless heart; Till at length in books recorded, They, like hoarded Household words, no more depart. HENRY WADS WOR THI J. O.W.G. FELLO W. 197 CHRYSA OR. JUST above yon Sandy bar, Chrysaor, rising out of the sea, - As the day grows fainter and dimmer, Showed thus glorious and thus emulous, Lonely and lovely, a single star Leaving the arms of Callirrhoe, Lights the air with a dusky glimmer. Forever tender, Soft, and tremulous. Into the ocean faint and far Thus o'er the ocean faint and far Falls the trail of its golden splendor, Trailed the gleam of his falchion brightly : And the gleam of that single star Is it a God, or is it a star Is ever refulgent, soft, and tender. That, entranced, I gaze on nightly THE SECRET OF THE SEA. AH ! what pleasant visions haunt me How he heard the ancient helmsman As I gaze upon the Sea Chant a song so wild and clear, All the old romantic legends, That the sailing sea-bird slowly All my dreams, come back to me. Poised upon the mast to hear, Sails of silk and ropes of Sandal, - Till his soul was full of longing, Such as gleam in ancient lore; And he cried, with impulse strong, — And the singing of the sailors, “Helmsman for the love of heaven, And the answer from the shore Teach me, too, that wondrous song ! ” Most of all, the Spanish ballad - “Wouldst thou,”—so the helmsman answered, Haunts me oft, and tarries long, “Learn the secret of the sea 7 Of the noble Count Arnaldos Only those who brave its dangers And the sailor's mystic song. Comprehend its mystery l’’ Like the long waves on a sea-beach, In each sail that skims the horizon, Where the sand as silver shines, In each landward-blowing breeze, With a soft, monotonous cadence, I behold that stately galley, Flow its unrhymed lyric lines; — Hear those mournful melodies; Telling how the Count Arnaldos, Till my soul is full of longing With his hawk upon his hand, For the secret of the sea, Saw a fair and stately galley, And the heart of the great ocean Steering onward to the land; — Sends a thrilling pulse through me. TWILIGHT. THE twilight is sad and cloudy, And a little face at the window The wind blows wild and free, Peers out into the night. And like the wings of sea-birds - Flash the white caps of the Sea. Close, close it is pressed to the window, As if those childish eyes But in the fisherman's cottage Were looking into the darkness, There shines a ruddier light, To see some form arise. 198 WORKS OF THE POETICAL 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 2 And why do the roaring ocean, And the night-wind, wild and bleak, As they beat at the heart of the mother Drive the color from her cheek? SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT. SOUTHWARD with fleet of ice Sailed the corsair Death ; Wild and fast blew the blast, And the east-wind was his breath. His lordly ships of ice Glisten in the sun ; On each side, like pennons wide, Flashing crystal streamlets run. His sails of white sea-mist Dripped with silver rain; But where he passed there were cast Leaden shadows o'er the main. Eastward from Campobello Sir Humphrey Gilbert sailed ; Three days or more seaward he bore, Then, alas ! the land-wind failed. Alas ! the land-wind failed, And ice-cold grew the night; And nevermore, on sea or shore, Should Sir Humphrey see the light. He sat upon the deck, “Do not fear ! Heaven is as near,” He said, “by water as by land l’’ In the first watch of the night, Without a signal’s sound, Out of the sea, mysteriously, The fleet of Death rose all around. The moon and the evening star Were hanging in the shrouds; Every mast, as it passed, - Seemed to rake the passing clouds. They grappled with their prize, At midnight black and cold ! As of a rock was the shock; Heavily the ground-swell rolled. Southward through day and dark, They drift in close embrace, With mist and rain, o'er the open main ; Yet there seems no change of place. Southward, forever southward, They drift through dark and day; And like a dream, in the Gulf-Stream The Book was in his hand ; Sinking, vanish all away. THE LIGHTHOUSE. A speechless wrath, that rises and subsides In the white lip and tremor of the face. THE rocky ledge runs far into the sea, And on its outer point, some miles away, The Lighthouse lifts its massive masonry, A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day. And as the evening darkens, lo l how bright, Through the deep purple of the twilight air, Beams forth the sudden radiance of its light With strange, unearthly splendor in the glare! Even at this distance I can see the tides, Upheaving, break unheard along its base, HEWR Y WADS WORTH LOWGFELLO W. 199 Not one alone; from each projecting cape And perilous reef along the Ocean's verge, Starts into life a dim, gigantic shape, Holding its lantern o'er the restless surge. Like the great giant Christopher it stands Upon the brink of the tempestuous wave, Wading far out among the rocks and Sands, The night-o’ertaken mariner to save. And the great ships sail outward and return, Bending and bowing o'er the billowy swells, And ever joyful, as they see it burn, They wave their silent welcomes and fare- wells. They come forth from the darkness, and their sails - Gleam for a moment only in the blaze, And eager faces, as the light unveils, Gaze at the tower, and vanish while they gaze. The mariner remembers when a child, On his first voyage, he saw it fade and sink; And when, returning from adventures wild, He saw it rise again o'er ocean's brink. Steadfast, serene, immovable, the same Year after year, through all the silent night Burns on forevermore that quenchless flame, Shines on that inextinguishable light ! It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp - The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace ; It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp, And hold it up, and shake it like a fleece. The startled waves leap over it ; the storm Smites it with all the scourges of the rain, And steadily against its solid form Press the great shoulders of the hurricane. The sea-bird wheeling round it, with the din Of wings and winds and solitary cries, Blinded and maddened by the light within, Dashes himself against the glare, and dies. A new Prometheus, chained upon the rock, Still grasping in his hand the fire of Jove, It does not hear the cry, nor heed the shock, But hails the mariner with words of love. “Sail on 1 ° 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 ’’ THE FIRE OF DRIFT WOOD. DEVEREUX FARM, NEAR MARBLEHEAD. WE sat within the farm-house old, Whose windows, looking o'er the bay, Gave to the sea-breeze damp and cold, An easy entrance, night and day. Not far away we saw the port, The strange, old-fashioned, silent town, The lighthouse, the dismantled fort, The wooden houses, quaint and brown. We sat and talked until the night, Descending, filled the little room ; Our faces faded from the sight, Our voices only broke the gloom. We spake of many a vanished scene, Of what we once had thought and said, Of what had been, and might have been, And who was changed, and who was dead; And all that fills the hearts of friends, When first they feel, with secret pain, Their lives thenceforth have separate ends, And never can be one again ; The first slight Swerving of the heart, That words are powerless to express, And leave it still unsaid in part, Or say it in too great excess, 200 THE POETICAL WORKS OF HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLOW. The very tones in which we spake Had something strange, I could but mark: The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark. Oft died the words upon our lips, As suddenly, from out the fire Built of the wreck of stranded ships, The flames would leap and then expire. And, as their splendor flashed and failed, We thought of wrecks upon the main, Of ships dismasted, that were hailed And sent no answer back again. The windows, rattling in their frames, The ocean, roaring up the beach, The gusty blast, the bickering flames, All mingled vaguely in our speech: Until they made themselves a part Of fancies floating through the brain, The long-lost ventures of the heart, That send no answers back again. O flames that glowed O hearts that yearned They were indeed too much akin, The drift-wood fire without that burned, The thoughts that burned and glowed within. * - - - - - w - - º 'll, > * ſ {{...,diſlim.'ll Iſāº: Kºś -º-º-º-º-º: ſtill - " | | ; - |º. |diſºtº s Tºil! i F +]. - i # f - f ſhºtſ!!llſ|| # & t tº attiſſilſtii. 1 |º º ğ. º a *, *, * jit d º | | | || || § || ſº i ſº §ººlſ: ! | •.,hºlip.’” || ||. º º t i. | à A ||º m"ii"miº - ; - Illuſ!!!!IIIllhºll - º º ſºilſillºſ" | . . . . . . . " g||| hiſ | ºwn {ſº}| - | t }. ". º ill g Li iſ sº Er-| º º gº - "il * || || "In pur’. . . .ht º III || || || †† º § ºl } i. jº". |. Žiſſ& || || |. 5" [. | Illuſſºl Nº. 2 iſ diſlipſin. It ſh,ſiſſiliſt.” | º nº |º]|ºlºlº. iſiºn * i ſº 5- ! 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 vapors : 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 tran- sition ; This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian, Whose portal we call Death. She is not dead, - the child of our affection, — But gone unto that school Where she no longer needs our poor protection, And Christ himself doth rule. In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, By guardian angels led, Safe from temptation, safe from sin’s pollution, She lives, whom we call dead. Day after day we think what she is doing In those bright realms of air ; Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, Behold her grown more fair. Thus, do we walk with her, and keep un- broken The bond which nature gives, Thinking that our remembrance, though un- spoken, May reach her where she lives, Not as a child shall we again behold her; For when with raptures wild In our embraces we again enfold her, She will not be a child ; But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, Clothed with celestial grace; And beautiful with all the soul’s expansion Shall we behold her face. And though at times impetuous with emotion And anguish long suppressed, The swelling heart heaves moaning like the OCean, That cannot be at rest, — We will be patient, and assuage the feeling We may not wholly stay ; By silence sanctifying, not concealing, The grief that must have way. 26 202 - THE POETICAL WORKS OF THE BUILDERS. ALL are architects of Fate, Working in these walls of Time; Some with massive deeds and great, Some with ornaments of rhyme. Nothing useless is, or low ; Each thing in its place is best ; And what seems but idle show Strengthens and supports the rest. For the structure that we raise, Time is with materials filled ; Our to-days and yesterdays Are the blocks with which we build. Truly shape and fashion these ; Leave no yawning gaps between ; Think not, because no man sees, Such things will remain unseen. In the elder days of Art, Builders wrought with greatest care SAND OF THE DESERT A HANDFUL of red sand, from the hot clime Of Arab deserts brought, Within this glass becomes the spy of Time, The minister of Thought. How many weary centuries has it been About those deserts blown How many strange vicissitudes has seen, How many histories known Perhaps the camels of the Ishmaelite Trampled and passed it o'er, When into Egypt from the patriarch's sight His favorite son they bore. Perhaps the feet of Moses, burnt and bare, Crushed it beneath their tread, Or Pharaoh's flashing wheels into the air Scattered it as they sped ; Each minute and unseen part; For the Gods see everywhere. Let us do our work as well, Both the unseen and the seen ; Make the house, where Gods may dwell, Beautiful, entire, and clean. Else our lives are incomplete, Standing in these walls of Time, Broken stairways, where the feet Stumble as they seek to climb. Build to-day, then, strong and sure, With a firm and ample base; And ascending and secure Shall to-morrow find its place. Thus alone can we attain To those turrets, where the eye Sees the world as one vast plain, And one boundless reach of sky. IN AN HOUR-GLASS. Or Mary, with the Christ of Nazareth Held close in her caress, Whose pilgrimage of hope and love and faith Illumed the wilderness; Or anchorites beneath Engaddi’s palms Pacing the Dead Sea beach, And singing slow their old Armenian psalms In half-articulate speech ; Or caravans, that from Bassora’s gate With westward steps depart; Or Mecca's pilgrims, confident of Fate, And resolute in heart | These have passed over it, or may have passed Now in this crystal tower Imprisoned by some curious hand at last, It counts the passing hour. -- HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLO W. 203 And as I gaze, these narrow walls expand ; Before my dreamy eye Stretches the desert with its shifting sand, Its unimpeded sky. And borne aloft by the sustaining blast, This little golden thread Dilates into a column high and vast, A form of fear and dread. And onward, and across the setting sun, Across the boundless plain, The column and its broader shadow run, Till thought pursues in vain. The vision vanishes . These walls again Shut out the lurid sun, Shut out the hot, immeasurable plain; The half-hour's sand is run THE OPEN WINDOW. THE old house by the lindens Stood silent in the shade, And on the gravelled pathway The light and shadow played. I saw the nursery windows Wide open to the air; But the faces of the children, They were no longer there. The large Newfoundland house-dog Was standing by the door; He looked for his little playmates, Who would return no more. They walked not under the lindens, They played not in the hall; But shadow, and silence, and sadness Were hanging over all. The birds sang in the branches, With sweet, familiar tone; But the voices of the children Will be heard in dreams alonel And the boy that walked beside me, He could not understand Why closer in mine, ah! closer, I pressed his warm, soft hand 204 THE POETICAI, WORKS OF KING WITLAF'S DRINKING_HORN. WITLAF, a king of the Saxons, And the reader droned from the pulpit, Ere yet his last he breathed, Like the murmur of many bees, To the merry monks of Croyland The legend of good Saint Guthlac, His drinking-horn bequeathed, - And Saint Basil's homilies; That, whenever they sat at their revels, Till the great bells of the convent, And drank from the golden bowl, From their prison in the tower, They might remember the donor, Guthlac and Bartholomaeus, And breathe a prayer for his soul. Proclaimed the midnight hour. So sat they once at Christmas, And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney, And bade the goblet pass ; And the Abbot bowed his head, In their beards the red wine glistened And the flamelets flapped and flickered, Like dew-drops in the grass. But the Abbot was stark and dead. They drank to the soul of Witlaf, Yet still in his pallid fingers They drank to Christ the Lord, He clutched the golden bowl, And to each of the Twelve Apostles, In which, like a pearl dissolving, Who had preached his holy word. Had sunk and dissolved his soul. They drank to the Saints and Martyrs But not for this their revels Of the dismal days of yore, The jovial monks forbore, And as soon as the horn was empty For they cried, “Fill high the goblet ! They remembered one Saint more. We must drink to one Saint more l’’ GASPAR BECERRA. By his evening fire the artist And the day's humiliation Pondered o'er his secret shame; Found oblivion in sleep. Baffled, weary, and disheartened, Still he mused, and dreamed of fame. Then a voice cried, “Rise, O master - From the burning brand of oak *T was an image of the Virgin Shape the thought that stirs within thee!” That had tasked his utmost skill; And the startled artist woke, – But, alas ! his fair ideal Vanished and escaped him still. Woke, and from the smoking embers Seized and quenched the glowing wood; From a distant Eastern island And therefrom he carved an image, Had the precious wood been brought; And he saw that it was good. Day and night the anxious master At his toil untiring wrought ; O thou sculptor, painter, poet ! Take this lesson to thy heart: Till, discouraged and desponding, That is best which lieth nearest; Sat he now in shadows deep, Shape from that thy work of art. HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. 205 º * : º PEGASUS ONCE into a quiet village, Without haste and without heed, In the golden prime of morning, Strayed the poet's winged steed. It was Autumn, and incessant Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves, And, like living coals, the apples Burned among the withering leaves. Loud the clamorous bell was ringing From its belfry gaunt and grim ; ‘Twas the daily call to labor, Not a triumph meant for him. Not the less he saw the landscape, In its gleaming vapor veiled; Not the less he breathed the odors That the dying leaves exhaled. Thus, upon the village common, By the school-boys he was found; IN POUND. 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. Thus the day passed, and the evening Fell, with vapors cold and dim ; But it brought no food nor shelter, Brought no straw nor stall, for him. Patiently, and still expectant, Looked he through the wooden bars, Saw the moon rise o'er the landscape, Saw the tranquil, patient stars; 06 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Till at length the bell at midnight Lo! the strange steed had departed, Sounded from its dark abode, And they knew not when nor where. And, from out a neighboring farm-yard, Loud the cock Alectryon crowed. But they found, upon the greensward Where his struggling hoofs had trod, Then, with nostrils wide distended, Pure and bright, a fountain flowing Breaking from his iron chain, From the hoof-marks in the sod. And unfolding far his pinions, To those stars he soared again. From that hour, the fount unfailing Gladdens the whole region round, On the morrow, when the village Strengthening all who drink its waters, Woke to all its toil and care, While it soothes them with its sound. TEGNER's DRAPA. I HEARD a voice, that cried, Balder the Beautiful, “Balder the Beautiful God of the summer sun, Is dead, is dead!” Fairest of all the Gods ! And through the misty air Light from his forehead beamed, Passed like the mournful cry Runes were upon his tongue, Of sunward sailing cranes. As on the warrior's sword. I saw the pallid corpse All things in earth and air Of the dead sun Bound were by magic spell Borne through the Northern sky. Never to do him harm ; Blasts from Niffelheim Even the plants and stones; Lifted the sheeted mists All save the mistletoe, Around him as he passed. The sacred mistletoe And the voice forever cried, Hoeder, the blind old God, “Balder the Beautiful Whose feet are shod with silence, Is dead, is dead ' " Pierced through that gentle breast And died away With his sharp spear, by fraud, Through the dreary night, Made of the mistletoe, In accents of despair. The accursed mistletoe HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 207 They laid him in his ship. With horse and harness, As on a funeral pyre. Odin placed A ring upon his finger, And whispered in his ear. They launched the burning ship ! It floated far away Over the misty sea, Till like the sun it seemed, Sinking beneath the waves. Balder returned no more So perish the old Gods ! But out of the sea of Time Rises a new land of song, Fairer than the old. Over its meadows green Build it again, O ye bards, Fairer than before Ye fathers of the new race, Feed upon morning dew, Sing the new Song of Love The law of force is dead | The law of love prevails! Thor, the thunderer, . Shall rule the earth no more, No more, with threats, Challenge the meek Christ. Sing no more, O ye bards of the North, Of Vikings and of Jarls Of the days of Eld Preserve the freedom only, Walk the young bards and sing. Not the deeds of blood SONNET. ON MRS. KEMBLE's READINGS FROM SHAKESPEARE. O PRECIOUS evenings all too swiftly sped Leaving us heirs to amplest heritages O happy Reader having for thy text Of all the best thoughts of the greatest The magic book, whose Sibylline leaves have Sages, caught And giving tongues unto the silent dead! The rarest essence of all human thought ! How our hearts glowed and trembled as she read, O happy Poet ! by no critic vext Interpreting by tones the wondrous pages How must thy listening spirit now rejoice Of the great poet who foreruns the ages, To be interpreted by such a voice Anticipating all that shall be said THE SINGERS. GOD sent his Singers upon earth With songs of sadness and of mirth, That they might touch the hearts of men, And bring them back to heaven again. The second, with a bearded face, Stood singing in the market-place, And stirred with accents deep and loud The hearts of all the listening crowd. The first, a youth with soul of fire, Held in his hand a golden lyre; Through groves he wandered, and by streams, Playing the music of our dreams. A gray old man, the third and last, Sang in cathedrals dim and vast, While the majestic organ rolled Contrition from its mouths of gold. 208 THE POETICAL WORKS OF HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. And those who heard the Singers three Disputed which the best might be ; For still their music seemed to start Discordant echoes in each heart. But the great Master said, “I see No best in kind, but in degree; I gave a various gift to each, To charm, to strengthen, and to teach. “These are the three great chords of might, And he whose ear is tuned aright Will hear no discord in the three, But the most perfect harmony.” SUSPIRIA. TAKE them, O Death ! and bear away Whatever thou canst call thine own Thine image, stamped upon this clay, Doth give thee that, but that alone ! Take them, O Gravel and let them lie Folded upon thy narrow shelves, As garments by the soul laid by, And precious only to ourselves! Take them, O great Eternity Our little life is but a gust That bends the branches of thy tree, And trails its blossoms in the dust 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, % S. ºf? & Cº. §§ §§ §§ - Žºš - A º * Aº \\; §: * § ſº f *} £2. * That he may lean upon his arm and say, “Dost thou, dear Lord, approve 7" Beside him at the marriage feast shall be, To make the scene more fair ; Beside him in the dark Gethsemane Of pain and midnight prayer. O holy trust O endless sense of rest Like the beloved John To lay his head upon the Saviour's breast, And thus to journey on 1 №ae，==*: 55，5 ± --№ſſae！！！！！！！!！ №ĒĒĒĒĒĒĒĒĒĒĒĒĒĒĒĒĒĒĒĒ {{№ż№ĒĒĒĒĒĖĖĘĘĢ |№š S★ → -, * : * * *@ . . . . . .”.” *:::::::::::::::::::::::::: FROM THE GASCON OF JASMIN. Only the Lowland tongue of Scotland might Rehearse this little tragedy aright; Let me attempt it with an English quill; And take, O Reader, for the deed the will. At the foot of the mountain height Where is perched Castël Cuillè. When the apple, the plum, and the almond tree In the plain below were growing white, This is the song one might perceive On a Wednesday morn of St. 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 !” 212 THE POETICAL WORKS OF This old Te Deum, rustic rites attending, Seemed from the clouds descending; When lo! a merry company Of rosy village girls, clean as the eye, Each one with her attendant Swain, Came to the cliff, all singing the same strain; Resembling there, so near unto the sky, Rejoicing angels, that kind heaven has sent For their delight and our encouragement. Together blending, And soon descending The narrow sweep Of the hillside steep, They wind aslant Towards Saint Amant, Through leafy alleys Of verdurous valleys With merry Sallies, Singing their chant : “The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom So fair a bride shall leave her home ! Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, So fair a bride shall pass to-day !” It is Baptiste, and his affianced maiden, With garlands for the bridal laden The sky was blue ; without one cloud of gloom, The sun of March was shining brightly, And to the air the freshening wind gave lightly Its breathings of perfume. When one beholds the dusky hedges blossom, A rustic bridal, ah! how sweet it is To sounds of joyous melodies, That touch with tenderness the trembling bosom, A band of maidens Gayly 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 l for a maiden frail, I trow, Never bore so lofty a brow ! What lovers they give not a single caress! To see them so careless and cold to-day, These are grand people, one would say. What ails Baptiste 2 what grief doth him op- press? It is, that, half-way up the hill, In yon cottage, by whose walls Stand the cart-house and the stalls, Dwelleth the blind orphan still, Daughter of a veteran old; And you must know, one year ago, That Margaret, the young and tender, Was the village pride and splendor, And Baptiste her lover bold. Love, the deceiver, them ensnared ; For them the altar was prepared; But alas ! the summer's blight, The dread disease that none can stay, The pestilence that walks by night, Took the young bride's sight away. All at the father's stern command was changed; Their peace was gone, but not their love es- tranged. Wearied at home, erelong the lover fled; Returned but three short days ago, The golden chain they round him throw, He is enticed, and onward led To marry Angela, and yet Is thinking ever of Margaret. HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLOW. 213 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 appears, And all towards her run, as fleet As had they wings upon their feet. It is that Jane, the cripple Jane, Is a soothsayer, wary and kind. She telleth fortunes, and none complain. She promises one a village swain, Another a happy wedding-day, And the bride a lovely boy straightway. All comes to pass as she avers; She never deceives, she never errs. But for this once the village seer Wears a countenance severe, And from beneath her eyebrows thin and white Her two eyes flash like cannons bright Aimed at the bridegroom in waistcoat blue, Who, like a statue, stands in view; Changing color, as well he might, When the beldame wrinkled and gray Takes the young bride by the hand, And, with the tip of her reedy wand Making the sign of the cross, doth say: — “Thoughtless Angela, beware! Lest, when thou weddest this false bride- groom, 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, 1 * So fair a bride shall pass to-day ! II. AND by suffering worn and weary, But beautiful as some fair angel yet, Thus lamented Margaret, In her cottage lone and dreary: — “He has arrived arrived at last ! Yet Jane has named him not these three days past; Arrived yet keeps aloof so far ! And knows that of my night he is the star ! Knows that long months I wait alone, be- nighted, And count the moments since he went away! Come! keep the promise of that happier day, That I may keep the faith to thee I plighted! What joy have I without thee? what delight? Grief wastes my life, and makes it misery; Day for the others ever, but for me Forever night! forever night ! When he is gone t is dark my soul is sad! I suffer O my God! come, make me glad, When he is near, no thoughts of day intrude; Day has blue heavens, but Baptiste has blue eyes! 214 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Within them shines for me a heaven of love, A heaven all happiness, like that above, No more of grief! no more of lassitude! Earth I forget, — and heaven, and all distresses, When seated by my side my hand he presses; But when alone, remember all! Where is Baptiste? he hears not when I call! A branch of ivy, dying on the ground, I need some bough to twine around ! In pity come! be to my suffering kind True love, they say, in grief doth more abound! What then — when one is blind? “Who knows? perhaps I am forsaken Ah! woe is me! then bear me to my grave! O God! what thoughts within me waken! Away! he will return I do but rave! He will return I need not fear ! He swore it by our Saviour dear; He could not come at his own will; Is weary, or perhaps is ill! Perhaps his heart, in this disguise, Prepares for me some sweet surprise But some one comes! Though blind, my heart can see And that deceives me not! 'tis he 'tis he l’’ And the door ajar is set, And poor, confiding Margaret Rises, with outstretched arms, but sightless eyes; 'Tis only Paul, her brother, who thus cries: — “Angela the bride has passed I saw the wedding guests go by : Tell me, my sister, why were we not asked 2 For all are there but you and 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, Upon her heart, that has ceased to beat, Suspends awhile its life and heat. She stands beside the boy, now sore distressed, A wax Madonna as a peasant dressed. At length, the bridal song again Brings her back to her sorrow and pain. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 215 “Hark! the joyous airs are ringing ! Sister, dost thou hear them singing 2 How merrily they laugh and jest Would we were bidden 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!” “I know it !” answered Margaret; Whom the vision, with aspect black as jet, Mastered again ; and its hand of ice Held her heart crushed, as in a vice “Paul, be not sad ' 'T is a holiday; To-morrow put on thy doublet gay ! But leave me now for a while alone.” Away, with a hop and a jump, went Paul, And, as he whistled along the hall, Entered Jane, the crippled crone. “Holy Virgin what dreadful heat I am faint, and weary, and out of breath! But thou art cold, -art chill as death ; My little friend what ails thee, sweet?” “Nothing ! I heard them singing home the bride ; And, as I listened to the song, I thought my turn would come erelong, Thou knowest it is at Whitsuntide. Thy cards forsooth can never lie, To me such joy they prophesy, • Thy skill shall be vaunted far and wide When they behold him at my side. And poor Baptiste, what sayest thou ? It must seem long to him; — methinks I see him now !” Jane, shuddering, her hand doth press: “Thy love I cannot all approve; We must not trust too much to happiness;– Go, pray to God, that thou mayest love him -- less ” “The more I pray, the more I love It is no sin, for God is on my side l’” 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 ; Speak of foul weather or of fair, At every word the maiden Smiles Thus the beguiler she beguiles; So that, departing at the evening's close, She says, “She may be saved 1 she noth- ing knows l’’ Poor Jane, the cunning sorceress Now that thou wouldst, thou art no proph- etess | This morning, in the fulness of thy heart, Thou wast so, far beyond thine art III. Now rings the bell, nine times reverberating, And the white daybreak, stealing up the sky, Sees in two cottages two maidens waiting, How differently Queen of a day, by flatterers caressed, The one puts on her cross and crown, Decks with a huge bouquet her breast, And flaunting, fluttering up and down, Looks at herself, and cannot rest. The other, blind, within her little room, Has neither crown nor flower's perfume; But in their stead for something gropes apart, That in a drawer's recess doth lie, And, 'neath her bodice of bright scarlet dye, Convulsive clasps it to her heart. The one, fantastic, light as air, "Mid kisses ringing, And joyous singing, Forgets to say her morning prayerſ The other, with cold drops upon her brow, Joins her two hands, and kneels upon the floor, And whispers, as her brother opes the door, “O God! forgive me now !” And then the Orphan, young and blind, Conducted by her brother's hand, Towards the church, through paths un- scanned, With tranquil air, her way doth wind. Odors of laurel, making her faint and pale, Round her at times exhale, And in the sky as yet no sunny ray, But brumal vapors gray. 216 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Near that castle, fair to see, Crowded with sculptures old, in every part, Marvels of nature and of art, And proud of its name of high degree, A little chapel, almost bare At the base of the rock, is builded there; All glorious that it lifts aloof, Above each jealous cottage roof, Its sacred summit, swept by autumn gales, And its blackened steeple high in air, Round which the osprey screams and sails. “Paul, lay thy noisy rattle by 1 ° Thus Margaret said. “Where are we? we ascend!” “Yes; seest thou not our journey's end? Hearest not the osprey from the belfry cry? The hideous bird, that brings ill luck, we know! Dost thou remember when our father said, The night we watched beside his bed, “O daughter, I am weak and low; Take care of Paul; I feel that I am dying !’ And thou, and he, and I, all fell to crying? Then on the roof the osprey screamed aloud; And here they brought our father in his shroud. There is his grave; there stands the cross we set ; Why dost thou clasp me so, dear Margaret? Come in the bride will be here soon : Thou tremblest O my God! thou art going to swoon | * She could no more, — the blind girl, weak and weary A voice seemed crying from that grave so dreary, “What wouldst thou do, my daughter?” — and she started, And quick recoiled, aghast, faint-hearted; But Paul, impatient, urges evermore Her steps towards the open door; And when, beneath her feet, the unhappy maid Crushes the laurel near the house immortal, And with her head, as Paul talks on again, Touches the crown of filigrane Suspended from the low-arched portal, No more restrained, no more afraid, She walks, as for a feast arrayed, And in the ancient chapel’s sombre night They both are lost to sight. At length the bell, With booming sound, Sends forth, resounding round, HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLO W. 217 Its hymeneal peal o'er rock and down the dell. It is broad day, with sunshine and with rall) ; And yet the guests delay not long, For soon arrives the bridal train, And with it brings the village throng. In sooth, deceit maketh no mortal gay, For lo! Baptiste on this triumphant day, Mute as an idiot, sad as yester-morning, Thinks only of the beldame's words of warning. | º Ere on the finger of the bride he leaves it, He must pronounce one word at least ! 'T is spoken ; and sudden at the groomsman's side “'T is he " " a well-known voice has cried. And while the wedding guests all hold their breath, Opes the confessional, and the blind girl, see! And Angela thinks of her cross, I wis; To be a bride is all! the pretty lisper Feels her heart swell to hear all round her whisper, “How beautiful! how beautiful she is ''' But she must calm that giddy head, For already the Mass is said; At the holy table stands the priest : The wedding ring is blessed; Baptiste re- ceives it : º “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 ! 28 218 THE POETICAL WORKS OF HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. At eve, instead of bridal verse, Nowhere was a smile that day, The De Profundis filled the air ; No, ah no l for each one seemed to say: — Decked with flowers a simple hearse To the churchyard forth they bear ; Village girls in robes of snow Follow, weeping as they go; “The road should mourn and be veiled in gloom, So fair a corpse shall leave its home Should mourn and should weep, ah, well-away ! So fair a corpse shall pass to-day !” §% (%jó92's (Wºlſis º Vº § º | § Z, - . Qºş2^2 ºš ſº - r 7% Z | y 2. % às ~8% ?" Sº \%.”[º] } º Sºº-ºº: Ž <". º Sºğ , Vºž/ §§ ...-- (£4. Nv. §§ Éſ º (ºg Ž º l; §§ Ä ~- sº - wº º 2 Sºl Zºë § % {{!!!, º ; s—ss - & - º % # = TH ŞZĺ" ſº *... &#& § $ ºzº See 27/ſº f * É - - ºšº ºſſº ſº §§§§ ** º É §§§ *::: sº # = ºś ! % W. §§§º 3. º § 23|\ J º g * #! & ºyſ," § ºš & - º - # /š. ) º º ºś gºssºgluº 7& :* W º . . º t s s ºr. -> Tasºs -----. : zºº. % º *ś #sº ſº º Ǻ sº %; & Gº ū. º - \ These good people sang Songs devout and sweet; While the rafters rang, sº. There they stood with freezing feet. % Let us by the fire Q}ſ. FROM THE NOEI BOURGUIGNON #x A º Ever higher DE GUI BAROZAI. 6; ſº, Sing them till the night expire. Nuns in frigid cells At this holy tide, For want of something else, Christmas songs at times have tried. Let us by the fire Ever higher Sing them till the night expire I HEAR along our street Pass the minstrel throngs; Hark! they play so sweet, On their hautboys, Christmas songs! Let us by the fire Ever higher Sing them till the night expire Washerwomen old, To the sound they beat, Sing by rivers cold, With uncovered heads and feet. Let us by the fire Ever higher Sing them till the night expire. 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. Who by the fireside stands Stamps his feet and sings; But he who blows his hands Not so gay a carol brings. Let us by the fire Let us by the fire Ever higher Ever higher Sing them till the night expire & Sing them till the night expire | | ſ % º º | #. % s s º r | | i ſ +| ºº-- >:W||ſyº §§iw:- -ſº*-º ºW. -º|-|-yCl- :- w sº º:f§t -Š Ea§E.:d º-º|ſºŠ- º''}ſ-i:%s--- *N:i-|-! wºw º§-ºwºEx.:N- .-w§ º;-ºº*!§D ->Fs.S.-º|.d%ºº ºsºR|%iwº--ſº -#-:§:%-- - :D:s%º NWöd- #}º;ºź-s ºº--źs wºº-isºº N&§7-º §iwº ºi~ :º º§º sºs- ººº º-s §º º: *.wRº tº§ *a&R ºD ºº~ º eº iEº& % ºsººº% ººdº º:t% ºſºw f- i- º*- ººr- #:k-- º§ ºs §§§§236 - & - =lò a Gó. º º y Ş wº%N§|\,. - #---- |ºººf \º-R)-w y 3a. * Nº- **P-39&&§ W:ا-%ºIn f\ º$º#52: º 2 º 2. : £: § W s § SS: (ºft º -- 9. : *5 º § ſºlº 'I | ! § & º ./ jº {{(f º | | Kºś. º º # *ś §§ }ſy. | - 2:3 3\º -> _º: - ſº º |# #: - º *2 2-ºxº 3. %) - - - - - ºº:: º il w <&l; §§ #6 \ º ł, sº sº º - rººt twº sºs º wº | §§ s º Bºlsº Š - Sº - S S vº - ſº S$: & Áj -- Swº º - SNº. lº. 3 º - rº '' § . frºm | \}, º | º Y. & ><ſs ºf Tº s e. •', W) - #=#EEFºx Nºº-ºº: j" v ! - º - # | º ºfflº Fº 2.3% | % : l | #ſº Zºº | §§ ºr a I º ſ §%\}*(y) t %|"ſº ſ |: % }} {}) l ! & ! ! i \ \!' // | . “ku | - || | t f §§ INTRODUCTION. SHOULD you ask me, whence these stories? Whence these legends and traditions, With the odors of the forest, With the dew and damp of meadows, With the curling smoke of wigwams, With the rushing of great rivers, With their frequent repetitions, And their wild reverberations, As of thunder in the mountains 2 I should answer, I should tell you, “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. I repeat them as I heard them From the lips of Nawadaha, The musician, the sweet singer.” Should you ask where Nawadaha Found these songs, so wild and wayward, Found these legends and traditions, I should answer, I should tell you, “In the bird's-nests of the forest, In the lodges of the beaver, In the hoof-prints of the bison, In the eyry of the eagle ! “All the wild-fowl sang them to him, In the moorlands and the fen-lands, In the melancholy marshes; Chetowaik, the plover, sang them, Mahng, the loon, the wild-goose, Wawa, The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, And the grouse, the Mushkodasal ’’ If still further you should ask me, Saying, “Who was Nawadaha 2 Tell us of this Nawadaha,” I should answer your inquiries Straightway in such words as follow. “In the Vale of Tawasentha, In the green and silent valley, By the pleasant water-courses, Dwelt the singer Nawadaha. Round about the Indian village Spread the meadows and the corn-fields, And beyond them stood the forest, Stood the groves of singing pine-trees, Green in Summer, white in Winter, Ever sighing, ever singing. “And the pleasant water-courses, You could trace them through the valley, By the rushing in the Spring-time, By the alders in the Summer, By the white fog in the Autumn, By the black line in the Winter; And beside them dwelt the singer, In the vale of Tawasentha, In the green and silent valley. “There he sang of Hiawatha, Sang the Song of Hiawatha, Sang his wondrous birth and being, How he prayed and how he fasted, How he lived, and toiled, and suffered, That the tribes of men might prosper, That he might advance his people !” Ye who love the haunts of Nature, Love the sunshine of the meadow, Love the shadow of the forest, Love the wind among the branches, 22 THE POETICAL WORKS OF And the rain-shower and the snow-storm, And the rushing of great rivers Through their palisades of pine-trees, And the thunder in the mountains, Whose innumerable echoes Flap like eagles in their eyries; — Listen to these wild traditions, To this Song of Hiawatha! Ye who love a nation's legends, Love the ballads of a people, That like voices from afar off Call to us to pause and listen, Speak in tones so plain and childlike, Scarcely can the ear distinguish Whether they are sung or spoken; — Listen to this Indian Legend, To this Song of Hiawatha Ye whose hearts are fresh and simple, Who have faith in God and Nature, Who believe, that in all ages Every human heart is human, That in even savage bosoms There are longings, yearnings, strivings For the good they comprehend not, That the feeble hands and helpless, Groping blindly in the darkness, Touch God’s right hand in that dark- 1162.SS And are lifted up and strengthened;— Listen to this simple story, To this song of Hiawatha Ye, who sometimes, in your rambles Through the green lanes of the country, Where the tangled barberry-bushes Hang their tufts of crimson berries Over stone walls 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 ; — Stay and read this rude inscription, Read this Song of Hiawathal THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. I. THE PEACE-PIPE, ON the Mountains of the Prairie, On the great Red Pipe-stone Quarry, Gitche Manito, the mighty, He the Master of Life, descending, On the red crags of the quarry Stood erect, and called the nations, Called the tribes of men together. From his footprints flowed a river, Leaped into the light of morning, O'er the precipice plunging downward Gleamed the Ishkoodah, the comet. And the Spirit, stooping earthward, With his finger on the meadow Traced a winding pathway for it, Saying to it, “Run in this way !” From the red stone of the quarry With his hand he broke a fragment, Moulded it into a pipe-head, Shaped and fashioned it with figures; From the margin of the river Took a long reed for a pipe-stem, With its dark green leaves upon it; Filled the pipe with bark of willow, With the bark of the red willow ; Breathed upon the neighboring forest, Made its great boughs chafe together, Till in flame they burst and kindled ; And erect upon the mountains, Gitche Manito, the mighty, Smoked the calumet, the Peace-Pipe, As a signal to the nations. And the smoke rose slowly, slowly, Through the tranquil air of morning, First a single line of darkness, Then a denser, bluer vapor, Then a snow-white cloud unfolding, Like the tree-tops of the forest, Ever rising, rising, rising, Till it touched the top of heaven, Till it broke against the heaven, HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FF/L LOW. 223 And rolled outward all around it. From the Vale of Tawasentha, From the Valley of Wyoming, From the groves of Tuscaloosa, From the far-off Rocky Mountains, From the Northern lakes and rivers All the tribes beheld the signal, Saw the distant smoke ascending, The Pukwana of the Peace-Pipe. And the Prophets of the nations Said: “Behold it, the Pukwana By this signal from afar off, Bending like a wand of willow, Waving like a hand that beckons, Gitche Manito, the mighty, Calls the tribes of men together, Calls the warriors to his council ' " Down the rivers, o'er the prairies, Came the warriors of the nations, Came the Delawares and Mohawks, Came the Choctaws and Camanches, Came the Shoshonies and Blackfeet, Came the Pawnees and Omahas, Came the Mandans and Dacotahs, Came the Hurons and Ojibways, All the warriors drawn together By the signal of the Peace-Pipe, To the mountains of the Prairie, To the great Red Pipe-stone Quarry. And they stood there on the meadow, With their weapons and their war-gear, Painted like the leaves of Autumn, Painted like the sky of morning, Wildly glaring at each other ; In their faces stern defiance, In their hearts the feuds of ages, The hereditary hatred, The ancestral thirst of vengeance. Gitche Manito, the mighty, The creator of the nations, Looked upon them with compassion, With paternal love and pity; Looked upon their wrath and wrangling But as quarrels among children, 2 WORKS OF 24 THE POETICAL But as feuds and fights of children Over them he stretched his right hand, To subdue their stubborn natures, To allay their thirst and fever, By the shadow of his right hand; Spake to them with voice majestic As the sound of far-off waters, Falling into deep abysses, Warning, chiding, spake in this wise:– “O my children my poor children' Listen to the words of wisdom, Listen to the words of warning, From the lips of the Great Spirit, From the Master of Life, who made you. “I have given you lands to hunt in, I have given you streams to fish in, I have given you bear and bison, I have given you roe and reindeer, I have given you brant and beaver, Filled the marshes full of wild-fowl, Filled the rivers full of fishes; Why then are you not contented? Why then will you hunt each other ? “I am weary of your quarrels, Weary of your wars and bloodshed, Weary of your prayers for vengeance, Of your Wranglings and dissensions; All your strength is in your union, All your danger is in discord; Therefore be at peace henceforward, And as brothers live together. “I will send a Prophet to you, A Deliverer of the nations, Who shall guide you and shall teach you, Who shall toil and suffer with you. If you listen to his counsels, You will multiply and prosper; If his warnings pass unheeded, You will fade away and perish “Bathe now in the stream before you, Wash the war-paint from your faces, Wash the blood-stains from your fingers, Bury your war-clubs and your weapons, Break the red stone from this quarry, Mould and make it into Peace-Pipes, Take the reeds that grow beside you, Deck them with your brightest feathers, Smoke the calumet together, And as brothers live henceforward ' " Then upon the ground the warriors Threw their cloaks and shirts of deer- skin, Threw their weapons and their war-gear, Leaped into the rushing river, Washed the war-paint from their faces. Clear above them flowed the water, Clear and limpid from the footprints Of the Master of Life descending; Dark below them flowed the water, Soiled and stained with streaks of crimson, As if blood were mingled with it ! From the river came the warriors, Cleaned and washed from all their war-paint; On the banks their clubs they buried, Buried all their warlike weapons. Gitche Manito, the mighty, The Great Spirit, the creator, Smiled upon his helpless children And in silence all the warriors Broke the red stone of the quarry, Smoothed and formed it into Peace-Pipes, Broke the long reeds by the river, Decked them with their brightest feathers, And departed each one homeward, While the Master of Life, ascending, Through the opening of cloud-curtains, Through the doorways of the heaven, Vanished from before their faces, In the Smoke that rolled around him, The Pukwana of the Peace-Pipe HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLOW. 225 THE FOUR WINDS. “HoNor be to Mudjekeewis Cried the warriors, cried the old men, When he came in triumph homeward With the sacred Belt of Wampum, From the regions of the North-Wind, From the kingdom of Wabasso, From the land of the White Rabbit. He had stolen the Belt of Wampum From the neck of Mishe-Mokwa, From the great Bear of the mountains, From the terror of the nations, As he lay asleep and cumbrous On the summit of the mountains, Like a rock with mosses on it, Spotted brown and gray with mosses. Silently he stole upon him Till the red nails of the monster Almost touched him, almost scared him, Till the hot breath of his nostrils Warmed the hands of Mudjekeewis, As he drew the Belt of Wampum Over the round ears, that heard not, Over the small eyes, that saw not, Over the long nose and nostrils, The black muffle of the nostrils, Out of which the heavy breathing Warmed the hands of Mudjekeewis. Then he swung aloft his war-club, Shouted loud and long his war-cry, Smote the mighty Mishe-Mokwa In the middle of the forehead, Right between the eyes he smote him. With the heavy blow bewildered, Rose the Great Bear of the mountains; But his knees beneath him trembled, And he whimpered like a woman, As he reeled and staggered forward, As he sat upon his haunches; And the mighty Mudjekeewis, Standing fearlessly before him, Taunted him in loud derision, Spake disdainfully in this wise : — 226 WORKS OF THE POETICAL “Hark you, Bear ! you are a coward, And no Brave, as you pretended; Else you would not cry and whimper Like a miserable woman - Bear ! you know our tribes are hostile, Long have been at war together; Now you find that we are strongest, You go sneaking in the forest, You go hiding in the mountains! Had you conquered me in battle Not a groan would I have uttered; But you, Bear ! sit here and whimper, And disgrace your tribe by crying, Like a wretched Shaugodaya, Like a cowardly old woman l’’ Then again he raised his war-club, Smote again the Mishe-Mokwa In the middle of his forehead, Broke his skull, as ice is broken When one goes to fish in Winter. Thus was slain the Mishe-Mokwa, He the Great Bear of the mountains, He the terror of the nations. “Honor be to Mudjekeewis With a shout exclaimed the people, Honor be to Mudjekeewis - Henceforth he shall be the West-Wind, And hereafter and forever 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. 2. For himself he kept the West-Wind, Gave the others to his children; Unto Wabun gave the East-Wind, Gave the South to Shawondasee, And the North-Wind, wild and cruel, To the fierce Kabibonokka. ~ * Young and beautiful was Wabun; He it was who brought the morning, He it was whose silver arrows Chased the dark o'er hill and valley; He it was whose cheeks were painted With the brightest streaks of crimson, And whose voice awoke the village, Called the deer, and called the hunter. Lonely in the sky was Wabun; Though the birds sang gayly to him, Though the wild-flowers of the meadow Filled the air with odors for him ; Though the forests and the rivers Sang and shouted at his coming, Still his heart was sad within him, For he was alone in heaven. But one morning, gazing earthward, While the village still was sleeping, And the fog lay on the river, Like a ghost, that goes at sunrise, He beheld a maiden walking All alone upon a meadow, Gathering water-flags and rushes By a river in the meadow. Every morning, gazing earthward, Still the first thing he beheld there Was her blue eyes looking at him, Two blue lakes among the rushes. And he loved the lonely maiden, Who thus waited for his coming; For they both were solitary, - She on earth and he in heaven. And he wooed her with caresses, Wooed her with his smile of sunshine, With his flattering words he wooed her, With his sighing and his singing, Gentlest whispers in the branches, Softest music, sweetest odors, 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 forever in the heavens They are seen together walking, Wabun and the Wabun-Annung, Wabun and the Star of morning. But the fierce Kabibonokka Had his dwelling among icebergs, In the everlasting snow-drifts, In the kingdom of Wabasso, In the land of the White Rabbit. He it was whose hand in Autumn Painted all the trees with scarlet, Stained the leaves with red and yellow ; He it was who sent the snow-flakes, Sifting, hissing through the forest, Froze the ponds, the lakes, the rivers, Drove the loon and sea-gull southward, Drove the cormorant and curlew To their nests of sedge and sea-tang HENRY WADSWORTH LOWGFELLO W. 227 In the realms of Shawondasee. Once the fierce Kabibonokka Issued from his lodge of snow-drifts, From his home among the icebergs, And his hair, with snow besprinkled, Streamed behind him like a river, Like a black and wintry river, As he howled and hurried southward, Over frozen lakes and moorlands. There among the reeds and rushes Found he Shingebis, the diver, Trailing strings of fish behind him, O'er the frozen fens and moorlands, Lingering still among the moorlands, Though his tribe had long departed To the land of Shawondasee. Cried the fierce Kabibonokka, “Who is this that dares to brave me? Dares to stay in my dominions, When the Wawa has departed, When the wild-goose has gone southward, And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, Long ago departed southward 2 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 door-way. Shingebis, the diver, feared not, Shingebis, the diver, cared not : Four great logs had he for firewood, One for each moon of the winter, And for food the fishes served him. By his blazing fire he sat there, Warm and merry, eating, laughing, Singing, “O Kabibonokka, You are but my fellow-mortal!” Then Kabibonokka entered, And though Shingebis, the diver, Felt his presence by the coldness, Felt his icy breath upon him, Still he did not cease his singing, Still he did not leave his laughing, Only turned the log a little, Only made the fire burn brighter, Made the sparks fly up the smoke-flue. From Kabibonokka's forehead, 28 THE POETICAL WORKS OF From his snow-besprinkled tresses, Drops of sweat fell fast and heavy, Making dints upon the ashes, As along the eaves of lodges, As from drooping boughs of hemlock, Drips the melting snow in 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 On the frozen fens and moorlands. Forth went Shingebis, the diver, Wrestled all night with the North-Wind, Wrestled naked on the moorlands With the fierce Kabibonokka, Till his panting breath grew fainter, Till his frozen grasp grew feebler, Till he reeled and staggered backward, And retreated, baffled, beaten, To the kingdom of Wabasso, To the land of the White Rabbit, Hearing still the gusty laughter, Hearing Shingebis, the diver, Singing, “O Kabibonokka, You are but my fellow-mortal!” Shawondasee, fat and lazy, Had his dwelling far to southward, In the drowsy, dreamy sunshine, In the never-ending Summer. He it was who sent the wood-birds, Sent the robin, the Opechee, Sent the blue-bird, the Owaissa, Sent the Shawshaw, sent the swallow, Sent the wild-goose, Wawa, northward, Sent the melons and tobacco, And the grapes in purple clusters. From his pipe the smoke ascending Filled the sky with haze and vapor, Filled the air with dreamy softness, Gave a twinkle to the water, Touched the rugged hills with smoothness, Brought the tender Indian Summer To the melancholy north-land, In the dreary Moon of Snow-shoes. Listless, careless Shawondasee In his life he had one shadow, In his heart one sorrow had he. Once, as he was gazing northward, Far away upon a prairie He beheld a maiden standing, Saw a tall and slender maiden All alone upon a prairie ; Brightest green were all her garments, And her hair was like the sunshine. Day by day he gazed upon her, Day by day he sighed with passion, Day by day his heart within him Grew more hot with love and longing For the maid with yellow tresses. But he was too fat and lazy To bestir himself and woo her. Yes, too indolent and easy To pursue her and persuade her; So he only gazed upon her, Only sat and sighed with passion For the maiden of the prairie. Till one morning, looking northward, He beheld her yellow tresses Changed and covered o'er with whiteness, Covered as with whitest snow-flakes. “Ah! my brother from the North-land, From the kingdom of Wabasso, From the land of the White Rabbit You have stolen the maiden from me, You have laid your hand upon her, You have wooed and won my maiden, With your stories of the North-land ' " Thus the wretched Shawondasee Breathed into the air his sorrow ; And the South-Wind o'er the prairie Wandered warm with sighs of passion, With the sighs of Shawondasee, Till the air seemed full of snow-flakes, Full of thistle-down the prairie, And the maid with hair like sunshine Vanished from his sight forever ; Never more did Shawondasee See the maid with yellow tresses! Poor, deluded Shawondasee 'T was no woman that you gazed at, ‘Twas no maiden that you sighed for, 'T was the prairie dandelion HENRY WADS WORTH L ONGFFL I, O W, 229 That through all the dreamy Summer Thus the Four Winds were divided; You had gazed at with such longing, Thus the sons of Mudjekeewis You had sighed for with such passion, Had their stations in the heavens, And had puffed away forever, - At the corners of the heavens; Blown into the air with sighing. - For himself the West-Wind only Ah! deluded Shawondasee Kept the mighty Mudjekeewis. III. HIAWATHA’s CHILDHOOD. DOWNWARD through the evening twilight, But she heeded not the warning, In the days that are forgotten, - Heeded not those words of wisdom, In the unremembered ages, And the West-Wind came at evening, From the full moon fell Nokomis, Walking lightly o'er the prairie, Fell the beautiful Nokomis, Whispering to the leaves and blossoms, She a wife, but not a mother. - Bending low the flowers and grasses, She was sporting with her women Found the beautiful Wenonah, Swinging in a swing of grape-vines, Lying there among the lilies, When her rival the rejected, Wooed her with his words of sweetness, Full of jealousy and hatred, Wooed her with his soft caresses, Cut the leafy swing asunder, Till she bore a son in sorrow, Cut in twain the twisted grape-vines, Bore a son of love and sorrow. And Nokomis fell affrighted Thus was born my Hiawatha, Downward through the evening twilight, Thus was born the child of wonder; On the Muskoday, the meadow, But the daughter of Nokomis, On the prairie full of blossoms. Hiawatha's gentle mother, “See a star falls!” said the people; In her anguish died deserted “From the sky a star is falling !” By the West-Wind, false and faithless, There among the ferns and mosses, - By the heartless Mudjekeewis. There among the prairie lilies, For her daughter long and loudly On the Muskoday, the meadow, Wailed and wept the sad Nokomis; In the moonlight and the starlight, “Oh that I were dead ' " she murmured, Fair Nokomis bore a daughter. “Oh that I were dead, as thou art | And she called her name Wenonah, No more work, and no more weeping, As the first-born of her daughters. Wahonowin Wahonowin ” And the daughter of Nokomis By the shores of Gitche Gumee, Grew up like the prairie lilies, By the shining Big-Sea-Water, Grew a tall and slender maiden, Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, With the beauty of the moonlight, Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis. With the beauty of the starlight. - Dark behind it rose the forest, And Nokomis warned her often, Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees, Saying oft, and oft repeating, Rose the firs with cones upon them : “Oh, beware of Mudjekeewis, Bright before it beat the water, Of the West-Wind, Mudjekeewis; Beat the clear and sunny water, Listen not to what he tells you ; Beat the shining Big-Sea-Water. Lie not down upon the meadow, . There the wrinkled old Nokomis Stoop not down among the lilies, Nursed the little Hiawatha, Lest the West-Wind come and harm you!” Rocked him in his linden cradle, 230 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Bedded soft in moss and rushes, With the twinkle of its candle Safely bound with reindeer sinews; Lighting up the brakes and bushes, Stilled his fretful wail by saying, And he sang the song of children, “ Hush the Naked Bear will hear thee!” Sang the song Nokomis taught him : Lulled him into slumber, singing, “Wah-wah-taysee, little fire-fly, “Ewa-yea! my little owlet ! Little flitting, white-fire insect, Who is this, that lights the wigwam 2 Little, dancing, white-fire creature, With his great eyes lights the wigwam 2 Light me with your little candle, Ewa-yea! my little owlet !” Ere upon my bed I lay me, Many things Nokomis taught him Ere in sleep I close my eyelids!” Of the stars that shine in heaven; Saw the moon rise from the water Showed him Ishkoodah, the comet, Rippling, rounding from the water, Ishkoodah, with fiery tresses; Saw the flecks and shadows on it, Showed the Death-Dance of the spirits, Whispered, “What is that, Nokomis?” Warriors with their plumes and war-clubs, And the good Nokomis answered: Flaring far away to northward “Once a warrior, very angry. In the frosty nights of Winter; Seized his grandmother, and threw her Showed the broad white road in heaven, Up into the sky at midnight; Pathway of the ghosts, the shadows, Right against the moon he threw her : Running straight across the heavens, 'T is her body that you see there.” Crowded with the ghosts, the shadows. Saw the rainbow in the heaven, At the door on summer evenings In the eastern sky, the rainbow, Sat the little Hiawatha: Whispered, “What is that, Nokomis?” Heard the whispering of the pine-trees, And the good Nokomis answered: Heard the lapping of the waters, “'T is the heaven of flowers you see there; Sounds of music, words of wonder; All the wild-flowers of the forest, “Minne-wawal" said the pine-trees, All the lilies of the prairie, “Mudway-aushka!” said the water. When on earth they fade and perish, Saw the fire-fly, Wah-wah-taysee, Blossom in that heaven above us.” Flitting through the dusk of evening, When he heard the owls at midnight, HENRY WADS WORTH LOWGFELLO W. 23] Hooting, laughing in the forest, “What is that ?” he cried in terror “What is that ?” he said, “ Nokomis 2° And the good Nokomis answered: “That is but the owl and owlet, Talking in their native language, Talking, scolding at each other.” Then the little Hiawatha - Learned of every bird its language, Learned their names and all their secrets, How they built their nests in Summer, Where they hid themselves in Winter, Talked with them whene'er he met them, Called them “Hiawatha's chickens.” Of all beasts he learned the language, Learned their names and all their secrets, How the beavers built their lodges, Where the squirrels hid their acorns, How the reindeer ran so swiftly, Why the rabbit was so timid, Talked with them whene'er he met them, Called them “Hiawatha's Brothers.” Then Iagoo, the great boaster, He the marvellous story-teller, He the traveller and the talker, He the friend of old Nokomis, Made a bow for Hiawatha ; From a branch of ash he made it, From an oak-bough made the arrows, Tipped with flint, and winged with feathers, And the cord he made of deer-skin. Then he said to Hiawatha : “Go, my son, into the forest, Where the red deer herd together, Kill for us a famous roebuck, Kill for us a deer with antlers l’’ Forth into the forest straightway All alone walked Hiawatha Proudly, with his bow and arrows; And the birds sang round him, o'er him, “Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!” Sang the robin, the Opechee, Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa, “Do not shoot us, Hiawatha ’’ Up the oak-tree, close beside him, Sprang the squirrel, Adjidaumo, In and out among the branches, Coughed and chattered from the oak-tree, Laughed, and said between his laughing, “Do not shoot me, Hiawatha l’’ And the rabbit from his pathway Leaped aside, and at a distance Sat erect upon his haunches, Half in fear and half in frolic, Saying to the little hunter, “Do not shoot me, Hiawatha | * But he heeded not, nor heard them, For his thoughts were with the red deer ; On their tracks his eyes were fastened, Leading downward to the river, To the ford across the river, And as one in slumber walked he. Hidden in the alder-bushes, There he waited till the deer came, Till he saw two antlers lifted, Saw two eyes look from the thicket, Saw two nostrils point to windward, And a deer came down the pathway, Flecked with leafy light and shadow. And his heart within him fluttered, Trembled like the leaves above him, Like the birch-leaf palpitated, As the deer came down the pathway. Then, upon one knee uprising, Hiawatha aimed an arrow ; Scarce a twig moved with his motion, Scarce a leaf was stirred or rustled, But the weary roebuck started, Stamped with all his hoofs together, Listened with one foot uplifted, Leaped as if to meet the arrow ; Ah! the singing, fatal arrow, Like a wasp it buzzed and stung him Dead he lay there in the forest, By the ford across the river; Beat his timid heart no longer, But the heart of Hiawatha Throbbed and shouted and exulted, As he bore the red deer homeward, And Iagoo and Nokomis Hailed his coming with applauses. From the red deer's hide Nokomis Made a cloak for Hiawatha, From the red deer's flesh Nokomis Made a banquet to his honor. All the village came and feasted, All the guests praised Hiawatha, Called him Strong-Heart, Soan-ge-tahal Called him Loon-Heart, Mahn-go-tay- see 232 THE POETIONAL WORKS OF IV. HLAWATHA AND MUDJEKEEWIS. OUT of childhood into manhood Now had grown my Hiawatha, Skilled in all the craft of hunters, Learned in all the lore of old men, In all youthful sports and pastimes, In all manly arts and labors. Swift of foot was Hiawatha : He could shoot an arrow from him, And run forward with such fleetness, That the arrow fell behind him Strong of arm was Hiawatha: He could shoot ten arrows upward, Shoot them with such strength and swift- neSS, - That the tenth had left the bow-string Ere the first to earth had fallen He had mittens, Minjekahwun, Magic mittens made of deer-skin ; When upon his hands he wore them, He could Smite the rocks asunder, He could grind them into powder. He had moccasins enchanted, Magic moccasins of deer-skin; When he bound them round his ankles, When upon his feet he tied them, At each stride a mile he measured Much he questioned old Nokomis Of his father Mudjekeewis; Learned from her the fatal secret Of the beauty of his mother, Of the falsehood of his father; And his heart was hot within him, Like a living coal his heart was. Then he said to old Nokomis, I will go to Mudjekeewis, See how fares it with my father, At the doorways of the West-Wind, At the portals of the Sunset !” From his lodge went Hiawatha, - Dressed for travel, armed for hunting; Dressed in deer-skin shirt and leggings, Richly wrought with quills and wanipum ; On his head his eagle-feathers, Round his waist his belt of wampum, In his hand his bow of ash-wood, Strung with sinews of the reindeer; In his quiver Oaken arrows, Tipped with jasper, winged with feathers; With his mittens, Minjekahwun, With his moccasins enchanted. Warning said the old Nokomis, “Go not forth, O Hiawatha To the kingdom of the West-Wind, To the realms of Mudjekeewis, Lest he harm you with his magic, Lest he kill you with his cunning !” But the fearless Hiawatha Heeded not her woman's warning; Forth he strode into the forest, At each stride a mile he measured; Lurid seemed the sky above him, Lurid seemed the earth beneath him, Hot and close the air around him, Filled with smoke and fiery vapors, As of burning woods and prairies, For his heart was hot within him, Like a living coal his heart was. So he journeyed westward, westward, Left the fleetest deer behind him, Left the antelope and bison; Crossed the rushing Esconaba, Crossed the mighty Mississippi, Passed the Mountains of the Prairie, Passed the land of Crows and Foxes, Passed the dwellings of the Blackfeet, Came unto the Rocky Mountains, To the kingdom of the West-Wind, Where upon the gusty summits Sat the ancient Mudjekeewis, Ruler of the winds of heaven. Filled with awe was Hiawatha At the aspect of his father. On the air about him wildly Tossed and streamed his cloudy tresses, Gleamed like drifting snow his tresses, Glared like Ishkoodah, the comet, Like the star with fiery tresses. Filled with joy was Mudjekeewis When he looked on Hiawatha, Saw his youth rise up before him --- • * ---- artist : worthington whittkedge - - --> ---- ----- ... • * "The Kingdom of the West Wind.” -- ",". //ia7tazha. : AEWR Y WADS WOI: TH LONG FELLO W, 233 In the face of Hiawatha, Saw the beauty of Wenonah From the grave rise up before him. “Welcome !” said he, “ Hiawatha, To the kingdom of the West-Wind! Long have I been waiting for you! Youth is lovely, age is lonely, Youth is fiery, age is frosty; You bring back the days departed, You bring back my youth of passion, And the beautiful Wenonah ' " Many days they talked together, Questioned, listened, waited, answered; Much the mighty Mudjekeewis Boasted of his ancient prowess, Of his perilous adventures, His indomitable courage, His invulnerable body. Patiently sat Hiawatha, Listening to his father's boasting; With a smile he sat and listened, Uttered neither threat nor menace, Neither word nor look betrayed him, But his heart was hot within him, Like a living coal his heart was. Then he said, “O Mudjekeewis, Is there nothing that can harm you? Nothing that you are afraid of?” And the mighty Mudjekeewis, Grand and gracious in his boasting, Answered, saying, “There is nothing, Nothing but the black rock yonder, Nothing but the fatal Wawbeek?” And he looked at Hiawatha With a wise look and benignant, With a countenance paternal, Looked with pride upon the beauty Of his tall and graceful figure, Saying, “O my Hiawatha! Is there anything can harm you? Anything you are afraid of?” But the wary Hiawatha Paused awhile, as if uncertain, Held his peace, as if resolving, And then answered, “There is nothing, Nothing but the bulrush yonder, Nothing but the great Apukwa’ ” And as Mudjekeewis, rising, Stretched his hand to pluck the buſrush, Hiawatha cried in terror, 30 234 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Cried in well-dissembled terror, “Kago! kago do not touch it!” “Ah, kaween ſº said Mudjekeewis, “No indeed, I will not touch it!” Then up started Hiawatha, And with threatening look and gesture Laid his hand upon the black rock, On the fatal Wawbeek laid it, Then they talked of other matters; First of Hiawatha's brothers, First of Wabun, of the East-Wind, Of the South-Wind, Shawondasee, Of the North, Kabibonokka; Then of Hiawatha's mother, Of the beautiful Wenonah. Of her birth upon the meadow, Of her death, as old Nokomis Had remembered and related. And he cried, “O Mudjekeewis, It was you who killed Wenonah, Took her young life and her beauty, Broke the Lily of the Prairie, Trampled it beneath your footsteps; You confess it! you confess it !” And the mighty Mudjekeewis Tossed upon the wind his tresses, Bowed his hoary head in anguish, With a silent nod assented. With his mittens, Minjekahwun, Rent the jutting crag asunder, Smote and crushed it into fragments, Hurled them madly at his father, The remorseful Mudjekeewis, For his heart was hot within him, Like a living coal his heart was. But the ruler of the West-Wind Blew the fragments backward from him, With the breathing of his nostrils, With the tempest of his anger, Blew them back at his assailant; Seized the bulrush, the Apukwa, Dragged it with its roots and fibres From the margin of the meadow, From its ooze the giant bulrush; Long and loud laughed Hiawatha! Then began the deadly conflict, Hand to hand among the mountains: From his eyry screamed the eagle, HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLO W. 235 The Keneu, the great war-eagle, Sat upon the crags around them, Wheeling flapped his wings above them. Like a tall tree in the tempest Bent and lashed the giant bulrush; And in masses huge and heavy Crashing fell the fatal Wawbeek; Till the earth shook with the tumult And confusion of the battle, And the air was full of shoutings, And the thunder of the mountains, Starting, answered, “Baim-wawa' " Back retreated Mudjekeewis, Rushing westward o'er the mountains, Stumbling westward down the mountains, Three whole days retreated fighting, Still pursued by Hiawatha To the doorways of the West-Wind, To the portals of the Sunset, To the earth's remotest border, Where into the empty spaces Sinks the sun, as a flamingo Drops into her nest at nightfall In the melancholy marshes. “Hold' " at length cried Mudjekeewis, “Hold, my son, my Hiawatha! 'T is 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 valor! “Go back to your home and people, Live among them, toil among them, Cleanse the earth from all that harms it, Clear the fishing-grounds and rivers, Slay all monsters and magicians, All the Wendigoes, the giants, All the serpents, the Kenabeeks, As I slew the Mishe-Mokwa, Slew the Great Bear of the mountains. “And at last when Death draws near you, When the awful eyes of Pauguk Glare upon you in the darkness, I will share my kingdom with you, Ruler shall you be thenceforward Of the Northwest-Wind, Keewaydin, Of the home-wind, the Keewaydin.” Thus was fought that famous battle In the dreadful days of Shah-shah, In the days long since departed, In the kingdom of the West-Wind. Still the hunter sees its traces Scattered far o'er hill and valley; Sees the giant bulrush growing By the ponds and water-courses, Sees the masses of the Wawbeek Lying still in every valley. Homeward now went Hiawatha , Pleasant was the landscape round him, Pleasant was the air above him, For the bitterness of anger Had departed wholly from him, From his brain the thought of vengeance, From his heart the burning fever. Only once his pace he slackened, Only once he paused or halted, Paused to purchase heads of arrows Of the ancient Arrow-maker, In the land of the Dacotahs, Where the Falls of Minnehaha Flash and gleam among the oak-trees, Laugh and leap into the valley. There the ancient Arrow-maker Made his arrow-heads of sandstone, Arrow-heads of chalcedony, Arrow-heads of flint and jasper, Smoothed and sharpened at the edges, Hard and polished, keen and costly. 236 THE POETICAL WORKS OF With him dwelt his dark-eyed daughter, Wayward as the Minnehaha, With her moods of shade and sunshine, Eyes that smiled and frowned alternate, Feet as rapid as the river, - Tresses flowing like the water, And as musical a laughter: And he named her from the river, From the water-fall he named her, Minnehaha, Laughing Water. Was it then for heads of arrows, Arrow-heads of chalcedony, Arrow-heads of flint and jasper, That my Hiawatha halted In the land of the Dacotahs 2 Was it not to see the maiden, See the face of Laughing Water V. HIAWATHA's YOU shall hear how Hiawatha Prayed and fasted in the forest, Not for greater skill in hunting, Not for greater craft in fishing, Not for triumphs in the battle, And renown among the warriors, But for profit of the people, For advantage of the nations. First he built a lodge for fasting, Built a wigwam in the forest, By the shining Big-Sea-Water, In the blithe and pleasant Spring-time, In the Moon of Leaves he built it, And, with dreams and visions many, Seven whole days and nights he fasted. On the first day of his fasting Through the leafy woods he wandered; Saw the deer start from the thicket, Saw the rabbit in his burrow, Heard the pheasant, Bena, drumming, Heard the squirrel, Adjidaumo, Rattling in his hoard of acorns, Saw the pigeon, the Omeme, Building nests among the pine-trees, And in flocks the wild goose, Wawa, Flying to the fen-lands northward, Whirring, wailing far above him. Peeping from behind the curtain, Hear the rustling of her garments From behind the waving curtain, As one sees the Minnehaha Gleaming, glancing through the branches, As one hears the Laughing Water From behind its screen of branches 2 Who shall say what thoughts and visions Fill the fiery brains of young men 2 Who shall say what dreams of beauty Filled the heart of Hiawatha’ All he told to old Nokomis, When he reached the lodge at sunset, Was the meeting with his father, Was his fight with Mudjekeewis; Not a word he said of arrows, Not a word of Laughing Water. FASTING. “Master of Life l’ he cried, desponding, “Must our lives depend on these things” ” On the next day of his fasting By the river's brink he wandered, Through the Muskoday, the meadow, Saw the wild rice, Mahnomonee, Saw the blueberry, Meenahga, And the strawberry, Odahmin, And the gooseberry, Shahbomin And the grape-vine, the Bemahgut, Trailing o'er the alder-branches, Filling all the air with fragrance “Master of Life l’’ he cried, desponding, “Must our lives depend on these things?” On the third day of his fasting By the lake he sat and pondered, By the still, transparent water ; Saw the sturgeon, Nahma, leaping, Scattering drops like beads of wampum, Saw the yellow perch, the Sahwa, Like a sunbeam in the water, Saw the pike, the Maskenozha, And the herring, Okahahwis, And the Shawgashee, the craw-fish “Master of Life!” he cried, desponding, “Must our lives depend on these things?” On the fourth day of his fasting HENRY WADS WORTH JONGFELLO P. 23 In his lodge he lay exhausted; Come to warn you and instruct you, From his couch of leaves and branches How by struggle and by labor Gazing with half-open eyelids, You shall gain what you have prayed for. Full of shadowy dreams and visions, Rise up from your bed of branches, On the dizzy, swimming landscape, Rise, O youth, and wrestle with me!” On the gleaming of the water, Faint with famine, Hiawatha On the splendor of the sunset. Started from his bed of branches, And he saw a youth approaching, From the twilight of his wigwam Dressed in garments green and yellow Forth into the flush of sunset Coming through the purple twilight, Came, and wrestled with Mondamin, Through the splendor of the sunset; At his touch he felt new courage Plumes of green bent o'er his forehead, Throbbing in his brain and bosom, And his hair was soft and golden. Felt new life and hope and vigor Standing at the open doorway, Run through every nerve and fibre. Long he looked at Hiawatha, So they wrestled there together Looked with pity and compassion In the glory of the sunset, On his wasted form and features, And the more they strove and struggled, And, in accents like the sighing Stronger still grew Hiawatha: Of the South-Wind in the tree-tops, Till the darkness fell around them, Said he, “O my Hiawatha! And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, All your prayers are heard in heaven, From her nest among the pine-trees, For you pray not like the others; Gave a cry of lamentation, Not for greater skill in hunting, Gave a scream of pain and famine. Not for greater craft in fishing, “'Tis enough l’” then said Mondamin, Not for triumph in the battle, Smiling upon Hiawatha, Nor renown among the warriors, “But to-morrow, when the sun sets, But for profit of the people, I will come again to try you.” For advantage of the nations. And he vanished, and was seen not ; “From the Master of Life descending, Whether sinking as the rain sinks, I, the friend of man, Mondamin, Whether rising as the mists rise, 238 WORKS OF THE POETICAL Hiawatha saw not, knew not, Only saw that he had vanished, Leaving him alone and fainting, With the misty lake below him, And the reeling stars above him, On the morrow and the next day, When the sun through heaven descending, Like a red and burning cinder From the hearth of the Great Spirit, Fell into the western waters, Came Mondamin for the trial, For the strife with Hiawatha: Came as silent as the dew comes, From the empty air appearing, Into empty air returning, Taking shape when earth it touches, 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, But invisible to all men In its coming and its going. Thrice they wrestled there together In the glory of the sunset, Till the darkness fell around them, Till the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, From her nest among the pine-trees, Uttered her loud cry of famine, And Mondamin paused to listen. Tall and beautiful he stood there, In his garments green and yellow: To and fro his plumes above him Waved and nodded with his breathing, And the sweat of the encounter Stood like drops of dew upon him. And he cried, “O Hiawatha Is the last day of your fasting. You will conquer and o'ercome me; Make a bed for me to lie in, Where the rain may fall upon me, Where the sun may come and warm me; Strip these garments, green and yellow, HEWR Y WADS WORTH LOWG FELLO W. 239 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, Let not Kahgahgee, the raven, Come to haunt me and molest me, Only come yourself to watch me, Till I wake, and start, and quicken, Till I leap into the sunshine.” And thus saying, he departed ; Peacefully slept Hiawatha, But he heard the Wawonaissa, Heard the whippoorwill complaining, Perched upon his lonely wigwam: Heard the rushing Sebowisha, Heard the rivulet rippling near him, Talking to the darksome forest; Heard the sighing of the branches, As they lifted and subsided At the passing of the night-wind, Heard them, as one hears in slumber Far-off murmurs, dreamy whispers: Peacefully slept Hiawatha. On the morrow came Nokomis, On the seventh day of his fasting, Came with food for Hiawatha, Came imploring and bewailing, Lest his hunger should o'ercome him, Lest his fasting should be fatal. But he tasted not, and touched not, Only said to her, “Nokomis, - Wait until the sun is setting, Till the darkness falls around us, Till the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, Crying from the desolate marshes, Tells us that the day is ended.” Homeward weeping went Nokomis, Sorrowing for her Hiawatha, Fearing lest his strength should fail him, Lest his fasting should be fatal. He meanwhile sat weary waiting For the coming of Mondamin, Till the shadows, pointing eastward, Lengthened over field and forest," Till the sun dropped from the heaven, Floating on the waters westward, As a red leaf in the Autumn Falls and floats upon the water, Falls and sinks into its bosom. And behold the young Mondamin, With his soft and shining tresses, With his garments green and yellow, With his long and glossy plumage, Stood and beckoned at the doorway, And as one in slumber walking, Pale and haggard, but undaunted, From the wigwam Hiawatha Came and wrestled with Mondamin. Round about him spun the landscape, Sky and forest reeled together, And his strong heart leaped within him, As the sturgeon leaps and struggles In a net to break its meshes. Like a ring of fire around him Blazed and flared the red horizon, And a hundred suns seemed looking At the combat of the wrestlers. Suddenly upon the greensward All alone stood Hiawatha, Panting with his wild exertion, Palpitating with the struggle ; And before him, breathless, lifeless, Lay the youth, with hair dishevelled, Plumage torn, and garments tattered, Dead he lay there in the sunset. And victorious Hiawatha Made the grave as he commanded, Stripped the garments from Mondamin, Stripped his tattered plumage from him, Laid him in the earth, and made it Soft and loose and light above him ; And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, From the melancholy moorlands, Gave a cry of lamentation, Gave a cry of pain and anguish Homeward then went Hiawatha To the lodge of old Nokomis, And the seven days of his fasting Were accomplished and completed. But the place was not forgotten Where he wrestled with Mondamin ; Nor forgotten nor neglected Was the grave where lay Mondamin, Sleeping in the rain and Sunshine, Where his scattered plumes and garments Faded in the rain and sunshine. Day by day did Hiawatha Go to wait and watch beside it : Kept the dark mould soft above it, 240 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Kept it clean from weeds and insects, Showed them where the maize was growing, Drove away, with scoffs and shoutings, Told them of his wondrous vision, Kahgahgee, the king of ravens. . Of his wrestling and his triumph, Till at length a small green feather Of this new gift to the nations, From the earth shot slowly upward, Which should be their food forever. Then another and another, And still later, when the Autumn And before the Summer ended Changed the long, green leaves to yellow, Stood the maize in all its beauty, And the soft and juicy kernels With its shining robes about it, Grew like wanipum hard and yellow, And its long, soft, yellow tresses; Then the ripened ears he gathered, And in rapture Hiawatha - Stripped the withered husks from off them, Cried aloud, “It is Mondamin | As he once had stripped the wrestler, Yes, the friend of man, Mondamin l’’ Gave the first Feast of Mondamin, Then he called to old Nokomis - And made known unto the people And Iagoo, the great boaster, This new gift of the Great Spirit. VI. HLAWATHA’s FRIENDS. Two good friends had Hiawatha, From the hollow reeds he fashioned Singled out from all the others, Flutes so musical and mellow, Bound to him in closest union, That the brook, the Sebowisha, And to whom he gave the right hand Ceased to murmur in the woodland, Of his heart, in joy and sorrow ; - That the wood-birds ceased from singing, Chibiabos, the musician, And the squirrel, Adjidaumo, And the very strong man, Kwasind. Ceased his chatter in the oak-tree, Straight between them ran the pathway, And the rabbit, the Wabasso, Never grew the grass upon it; - - Sat upright to look and listen. Singing birds, that utter falsehoods, Yes, the brook, the Sebowisha, Story-tellers, mischief-makers, Pausing, said, “O Chibiabos, Found no eager ear to listen, Teach my waves to flow in music, Could not breed ill-will between them, Softly as your words in singing !” For they kept each other's counsel, . Yes, the bluebird, the Owaissa, Spake with naked hearts together, - Envious, said, “O Chibiabos, Pondering much and much contriving Teach me tones as wild and wayward, How the tribes of men might prosper. Teach me songs as full of frenzy " " Most beloved by Hiawatha - Yes, the robin, the Opechee, Was the gentle Chibiabos, Joyous, said, “O Chibiabos, He the best of all musicians, Teach me tones as sweet and tender, He the sweetest of all singers. - Teach me songs as full of gladness!” Beautiful and childlike was he, And the whippoorwill, Wawonaissa, Brave as man is, soft as woman, Sobbing, said, “O Chibiabos, Pliant as a wand of willow, - Teach me tones as melancholy, Stately as a deer with antlers. Teach me songs as full of sadness!” When he sang, the village listened; All the many sounds of nature All the warriors gathered round him, Borrowed sweetness from his singing : All the women came to hear him ; All the hearts of men were softened Now he stirred their souls to passion, By the pathos of his music ; Now he melted them to pity. For he sang of peace and freedom, HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLO W. 241 Sang of beauty, love, and longing; In the summer you are roaming Sang of death, and life undying Idly in the fields and forest; In the Islands of the Blessed, In the Winter you are cowering In the kingdom of Ponemah, O'er the firebrands in the wigwam | In the land of the hereafter. In the coldest days of Winter Very dear to Hiawatha I must break the ice for fishing; Was the gentle Chibiabos, With my nets you never help me ! He the best of all musicians, At the door my nets are hanging, He the sweetest of all singers; Dripping, freezing with the water; For his gentleness he loved him, Go and wring them, Yenadizzel And the magic of his singing. Go and dry them in the sunshine!” Dear, too, unto Hiawatha Slowly, from the ashes, Kwasind Was the very strong man, Kwasind, Rose, but made no angry answer; He the strongest of all mortals, From the lodge went forth in silence, He the mightiest among many; Took the nets, that hung together, For his very strength he loved him, Dripping, freezing at the doorway, For his strength allied to goodness. Like a wisp of straw he wrung them, Idle in his youth was Kwasind, Like a wisp of straw he broke them, Very listless, dull, and dreamy, Could not wring them without breaking, Never played with other children, Such the strength was in his fingers. Never fished and never hunted, “Lazy Kwasind ' " said his father, Not like other children was he: “In the hunt you never help me; But they saw that much he fasted, Every bow you touch is broken, Much his Manito entreated, Snapped asunder every arrow; Much besought his Guardian Spirit. Yet come with me to the forest, “Lazy Kwasind ' " said his mother, You shall bring the hunting home- “In my work you never help me! ward.” 242 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Down a narrow pass they wandered, Poised it in the air a moment, Where a brooklet led them onward, Pitched it sheer into the river, Where the trail of deer and bison Sheer into the swift Pauwating, Marked the soft mud on the margin, Where it still is seen in Summer. Till they found all further passage Once as down that foaming river, Shut against them, barred securely Down the rapids of Pauwating, By the trunks of trees uprooted, Kwasind sailed with his companions, Lying lengthwise, lying crosswise, In the stream he saw a beaver, And forbidding further passage. Saw Ahmeek, the King of Beavers, “We must go back,” said the old man, Struggling with the rushing currents, “O'er these logs we cannot clamber ; Rising, sinking in the water. Not a woodchuck could get through them, Without speaking, without pausing, Not a squirrel clamber o'er them l’ Kwasind leaped into the river, And straightway his pipe he lighted, Plunged beneath the bubbling surface, And sat down to smoke and ponder. Through the whirlpools chased the beaver, But before his pipe was finished, Followed him among the islands, Lo! the path was cleared before him ; Stayed so long beneath the water, All the trunks had Kwasind lifted, That his terrified companions To the right hand, to the left hand, Cried, “Alas! good-by to Kwasind Shot the pine-trees swift as arrows, We shall never more see Kwasind l’’ Hurled the cedars light as lances. But he reappeared triumphant, “Lazy Kwasind ' " said the young men, And upon his shining shoulders As they sported in the meadow: Brought the beaver, dead and dripping, “Why stand idly looking at us, Brought the King of all the Beavers. Leaning on the rock behind you? And these two, as I have told you, Come and wrestle with the others, Were the friends of Hiawatha, Let us pitch the quoit together l’’ Chibiabos, the musician, Lazy Kwasind made no answer, And the very strong man, Kwasind. To their challenge made no answer, Long they lived in peace together, Only rose, and slowly turning, Spake with naked hearts together, Seized the huge rock in his fingers, Pondering much and much contriving Tore it from its deep foundation, How the tribes of men might prosper. VII. HLAWATHA's SAILING. “GIVE me of your bark, O Birch-tree And the sun is warm in heaven, Of your yellow bark, O Birch-tree And you need no white-skin wrapper l’” Growing by the rushing river, Thus aloud cried Hiawatha Tall and stately in the valley ! In the solitary forest, I a light canoe will build me, By the rushing Taquamenaw, Build a swift Cheemaun for sailing, When the birds were singing gayly, That shall float upon the river, In the Moon of Leaves were singing, Like a yellow leaf in Autumn, And the sun, from sleep awaking, Like a yellow water-lily Started up and said, “Behold me ! “Lay aside your cloak, O Birch-treel Geezis, the great Sun, behold me !” Lay aside your white-skin wrapper, And the tree with all its branches For the Summer-time is coming, Rustled in the breeze of morning, HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLO W. 243 Saying, with a sigh of patience, And the Larch, with all its fibres, “Take my cloak, O Hiawatha!” Shivered in the air of morning, With his knife the tree he girdled; Touched his forehead with its tassels, Just beneath its lowest branches, Said, with one long sigh of sorrow, Just above the roots, he cut it, “Take them all, O Hiawatha' " Till the sap came oozing outward; From the earth he tore the fibres, Down the trunk, from top to bottom, Tore the tough roots of the Larch-tree, Sheer he cleft the bark asunder, Closely sewed the bark together, With a wooden wedge he raised it, Bound it closely to the framework. Stripped it from the trunk unbroken. Give me of your balm, O Fir-tree “Give me of your boughs, O Cedar ! Of your balsam and your resin, Of your strong and pliant branches, So to close the seams together My canoe to make more steady, That the water may not enter, That the river may not wet me!” Make more strong and firm beneath me Through the summit of the Cedar Went a sound, a cry of horror, Went a murmur of resistance; But it whispered, bending downward, “Take my boughs, O Hiawatha!” Down he hewed the boughs of cedar, Shaped them straightway to a frame-work, Like two bows he formed and shaped them, Like two bended bows together. “Give me of your roots, O Tamarack Of your fibrous roots, O Larch-tree My canoe to bind together, So to bind the ends together That the water may not enter, That the river may not wet me 1 * 244 THE POETICAL WORKS OF And the Fir-tree, tall and sombre, Like a yellow leaf in Autumn, Sobbed through all its robes of darkness, Like a yellow water-lily. Rattled like a shore with pebbles, Paddles none had Hiawatha, Answered wailing, answered weeping, Paddles none he had or needed, “Take my balm, O Hiawatha " For his thoughts as paddles served him, And he took the tears of balsam, And his wishes served to guide him; Took the resin of the Fir-tree, Swift or slow at will he glided, Smeared there with each seam and fissure, Veered to right or left at pleasure. Made each crevice safe from Water. Then he called aloud to Kwasind, “Give me of your quills, O Hedgehog To his friend, the strong man, Kwasind, All your quills, O Kagh, the Hedgehog Saying, “Help me clear this river I will make a necklace of them, Of its sunken logs and sand-bars.” Make a girdle for my beauty, Straight into the river Kwasind And two stars to deck her bosom l’’ Plunged as if he were an otter, From a hollow tree the Hedgehog Dived as if he were a beaver, With his sleepy eyes looked at him, Stood up to his waist in water, Shot his shining quills, like arrows, To his arm-pits in the river, Saying with a drowsy murmur, Swam and shouted in the river, Through the tangle of his whiskers, Tugged at sunken logs and branches, “Take my quills, O Hiawatha!” & With his hands he scooped the sand-bars, From the ground the quills he gathered, With his feet the ooze and tangle. All the little shining arrows, And thus sailed my Hiawatha Stained them red and blue and yellow, Down the rushing Taquamenaw, With the juice of roots and berries; Sailed through all its bends and windings, Into his canoe he wrought them, Sailed through all its deeps and shallows, Round its waist a shining girdle, While his friend, the strong man, Kwa- Round its bows a gleaming necklace, sind, On its breast two stars resplendent. Swam the deeps, the shallows waded. Thus the Birch Canoe was builded Up and down the river went they, In the valley, by the river, In and out among its islands, In the bosom of the forest; Cleared its bed of root and sand-bar, And the forest's life was in it, Dragged the dead trees from its channel, All its mystery and its magic, Made its passage safe and certain, All the lightness of the birch-tree, Made a pathway for the people, All the toughness of the cedar, From its springs among the mountains, All the larch's supple sinews; To the waters of Pauwating, And it floated on the river To the bay of Taquamenaw. VIII. HIAWATHA’s FISHING. FORTH upon the Gitche Gumee, Through the clear, transparent water On the shining Big-Sea-Water, He could see the fishes swimming With his fishing-line of cedar, Far down in the depths below him ; Of the twisted bark of cedar, See the yellow perch, the Sahwa, Forth to catch the sturgeon Nahma, Like a sunbeam in the water, Mishe-Nahma, King of Fishes, See the Shawgashee, the craw-fish, In his birch canoe exulting Like a spider on the bottom, All alone went Hiawatha. On the white and sandy bottom. HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLO W. 245 At the stern sat Hiawatha, With his fishing-line of cedar; In his plumes the breeze of morning Played as in the hemlock branches: On the bows, with tail erected, Sat the squirrel, Adjidaumo : In his fur the breeze of morning Played as in the prairie grasses. On the white sand of the bottom Lay the monster Mishe-Nahma, Lay the sturgeon, King of Fishes; And he lay there on the bottom, Fanning with his fins of purple, As above him Hiawatha In his birch canoe came sailing, With his fishing-line of cedar. “Take my bait,” cried Hiawatha, Down into the depths beneath him. * Take my bait, O Sturgeon, Nahma! Come up from below the water, Let us see which is the stronger!” And he dropped his line of cedar Through the clear, transparent water, Waited vainly for an answer, Through his gills he breathed the water, With his fins he fanned and winnowed, With his tail he swept the sand-floor. There he lay in all his armor; On each side a shield to guard him, Plates of bone upon his forehead, Down his sides and back and shoulders Plates of bone with spines projecting Painted was he with his war-paints, Stripes of yellow, red, and azure, Spots of brown and spots of sable: Long sat waiting for an answer, And repeating loud and louder, “Take my bait, O King of Fishes!” Quiet lay the sturgeon, Nahma, Fanning slowly in the water, Looking up at Hiawatha, Listening to his call and clamor, His unnecessary tumult, Till he wearied of the shouting ; And he said to the Kenozha, To the pike, the Maskenozha, “Take the bait of this rude fellow, Break the line of Hiawatha!” 246 - THE POETICAL WORKS OF In his fingers Hiawatha Up he rose with angry gesture, Felt the loose line jerk and tighten ; Quivering in each nerve and fibre, As he drew it in, it tugged so Clashing all his plates of armor, That the birch canoe stood endwise, Gleaming bright with all his war-paint; Like a birch log in the water, In his wrath he darted upward, With the squirrel, Adjidaumo, - Flashing leaped into the sunshine, Perched and frisking on the summit. Opened his great jaws, and swallowed Full of scorn was Hiawatha Both canoe and Hiawatha. When he saw the fish rise upward, Down into that darksome cavern Saw the pike, the Maskenozha, Plunged the headlong Hiawatha, Coming nearer, nearer to him, As a log on some black river And he shouted through the water, Shoots and plunges down the rapids, “Esa esa shame upon you ! Found himself in utter darkness, You are but the pike, Kenozha, Groped about in helpless wonder, You are not the fish I wanted, Till he felt a great heart beating, You are not the King of Fishes 1’’ Throbbing in that utter darkness. Reeling downward to the bottom And he smote it in his anger, Sank the pike in great confusion, With his fist, the heart of Nahma, And the mighty sturgeon, Nahma, Felt the mighty King of Fishes Said to Ugudwash, the sun-fish, Shudder through each nerve and fibre, To the bream, with scales of crimson, Heard the water gurgle round him “Take the bait of this great boaster, As he leaped and staggered through it, Break the line of Hiawatha!” Sick at heart, and faint and weary. Slowly upward, Wavering, gleaming, Crosswise then did Hiawatha Rose the Ugudwash, the sun-fish, Drag his birch-canoe for safety, Seized the line of Hiawatha, Lest from out the jaws of Nahma, Swung with all his weight upon it, In the turmoil and confusion, Made a whirlpool in the water, Forth he might be hurled and perish. Whirled the birch canoe in circles, And the squirrel, Adjidauno, Round and round in gurgling eddies, Frisked and chatted very gayly, Till the circles in the water Toiled and tugged with Hiawatha Reached the far-off sandy beaches, Till the labor was completed, Till the water-flags and rushes Then said Hiawatha to him, Nodded on the distant margins. “O my little friend, the squirrel, But when Hiawatha saw him Bravely have you toiled to help me ; Slowly rising through the water, Take the thanks of Hiawatha, Lifting up his disk refulgent, And the name which now he gives you ; Loud he shouted in derision, For hereafter and forever “Esa esa! shame upon you ! Boys shall call you Adjidaumo, You are Ugudwash, the sun-fish, Tail-in-air the boys shall call you !” You are not the fish I wanted, And again the sturgeon, Nahma, You are not the King of Fishes l’’ Gasped and quivered in the water, Slowly downward, wavering, gleaming, Then was still, and drifted landward Sank the Ugudwash, the sun-fish, Till he grated on the pebbles, And again the sturgeon, Nahma, Till the listening Hiawatha Heard the shout of Hiawatha, Heard him grate upon the margin, Heard his challenge of defiance, Felt him strand upon the pebbles, The unnecessary tumult, Knew that Nahma, King of Fishes, Ringing far across the water. Lay there dead upon the margin. From the white sand of the bottom Then he heard a clang and flapping, HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FF/L LOW. As of many wings assembling, Heard a screaming and confusion, As of birds of prey contending, Saw a gleam of light above him, Shining through the ribs of Nahma, Saw the glittering eyes of sea-gulls, Of Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, peering, Gazing at him through the opening, Heard them saying to each other, “'Tis our brother, Hiawatha " '' And he shouted from below them, Cried exulting from the caverns: “O ye sea-gulls O my brothers! I have slain the sturgeon, Nahma; Make the rifts a little larger, With your claws the openings widen, Set me free from this dark prison, And henceforward and forever Men shall speak of your achievements, Calling you Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, Yes, Kayoshk, the Noble Scratchers!” And the wild and clamorous sea-gulls Toiled with beak and claws together, Made the rifts and openings wider In the mighty ribs of Nahma, And from peril and from prison, From the body of the sturgeon, From the peril of the water, They released my Hiawatha. He was standing near his wigwam, On the margin of the water, And he called to old Nokomis, Called and beckoned to Nokomis, Pointed to the sturgeon, Nahma, Lying lifeless on the pebbles, With the sea-gulls feeding on him. 2 4 7 “I have slain the Mishe-Nahma, Slain the King of Fishes!” said he “Look! the sea-gulls feed upon him, Yes, my friends Kayoshk, the sea-gulls; Drive them not away, Nokomis, They have saved me from great peril In the body of the sturgeon, Wait until their meal is ended, Till their craws are full with feasting, Till they homeward fly, at sunset, To their nests among the marshes; Then bring all your pots and kettles, And make oil for us in Winter.” And she waited till the sun set, Till the pallid moon, the Night-sun, Rose above the tranquil water, Till Kayoshk, the sated sea-gulls, From their banquet rose with clamor, 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 labor, Toiling patient in the moonlight, Till the sun and moon changed places, Till the sky was red with sunrise, And Kayoshk, the hungry sea-gulls, Came back from the reedy islands, Clamorous for their morning banquet. Three whole days and nights alternate Old Nokomis and the sea-gulls Stripped the oily flesh of Nahma, Till the waves washed through the rib-bones, Till the sea-gulls came no longer, And upon the sands lay nothing But the skeleton of Nahma. 248 THE POETICAL WORKS OF IX. HLAWATHA AND THE PEARL-FEATHER. ON the shores of Gitche Gumee, And the oil of Mishe-Nahma, Of the shining Big-Sea-Water, So to smear its sides, that swiftly Stood Nokomis, the old woman, You may pass the black pitch-water; Pointing with her finger westward, Slay this merciless magician, O'er the water pointing westward, Save the people from the fever To the purple clouds of sunset. That he breathes across the fen-lands, Fiercely the red sun descending And avenge my father's murder l’’ Burned his way along the heavens, Straightway then my Hiawatha Set the sky on fire behind him, Armed himself with all his war-gear, As war-parties, when retreating, Launched his birch-canoe for sailing; Burn the prairies on their war-trail; With his palm its sides he patted, And the moon, the Night-sun, eastward, Said with glee, “ Cheemaun, my darling, Suddenly starting from his ambush, O my Birch-canoe leap forward, Followed fast those bloody footprints, Where you see the fiery serpents, Followed in that fiery war-trail, Where you see the black pitch-water l’ With its glare upon his features. Forward leaped Cheemaun exulting, And Nokomis, the old woman, And the noble Hiawatha Pointing with her finger westward, Sang his war-song wild and woful, Spake these words to Hiawatha : And above him the war-eagle, “Yonder dwells the great Pearl-Feather, - The Keneu, the great war-eagle, Megissogwon, the Magician, Master of all fowls with feathers, Manito of Wealth and Wampum, Screamed and hurtled through the heavens, Guarded by his fiery serpents, Soon he reached the fiery serpents, Guarded by the black pitch-water. The Kenabeek, the great serpents, You can see his fiery serpents, Lying huge upon the water, The Kenabeek, the great serpents, Sparkling, rippling in the water, Coiling, playing in the water ; Lying coiled across the passage, You can see the black pitch-water With their blazing crests uplifted, Stretching far away beyond them, Breathing fiery fogs and vapors, To the purple clouds of sunset ! So that none could pass beyond them. “He it was who slew my father, But the fearless Hiawatha By his wicked wiles and cunning, Cried aloud, and spake in this wise : When he from the moon descended, “Let me pass my way, Kenabeek, When he came on earth to seek me. Let me go upon my journey !” He, the mightiest of Magicians, And they answered, hissing fiercely, Sends the fever from the marshes, With their fiery breath made answer: Sends the pestilential vapors, “Back, go back O Shaugodayal Sends the poisonous exhalations, Back to old Nokomis, Faint-heart l’’ Sends the white fog from the fen-lands, Then the angry Hiawatha Sends disease and death among us! Raised his mighty bow of ash-tree, “Take your bow, O Hiawatha, Seized his arrows, jasper-headed, Take your arrows, jasper-headed, Shot them fast among the serpents : Take your war-club, Puggawaugun, Every twanging of the bow-string And your mittens, Minjekahwun, Was a war-cry and a death-cry, And your birch-canoe for sailing, Every whizzing of an arrow HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. 249 Was a death-song of Kenabeek. Weltering in the bloody water, Dead lay all the fiery serpents, And among them Hiawatha Harmless sailed, and cried exulting : “Onward, O Cheemaun, my darling! Onward to the black pitch-water | * Then he took the oil of Nahma, And the bows and sides anointed, Smeared them well with oil, that swiftly He might pass the black pitch-water. All night long he sailed upon it, Sailed upon that sluggish water, Covered with its mould of ages, Black with rotting water-rushes, Rank with flags and leaves of lilies, Stagnant, lifeless, dreary, dismal, Lighted by the shimmering moonlight, And by will-o'-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 mosquito, sang his 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-gah, Far off on the reedy margin, Heralded the hero's coming. Westward thus fared Hiawatha, Toward the realm of Megissogwon, Toward the land of the Pearl-Feather, Till the level moon stared at him, In his face stared pale and haggard, Till the sun was hot behind him, Till it burned upon his shoulders, And before him on the upland 32 250 WORKS OF THE POETICAL (. 6 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, t Leaped through tangled flags and rushes, And upon the beach beyond them Dry-shod landed Hiawatha. Straight he took his bow of ash-tree, On the sand one end he rested, With his knee he pressed the middle, Stretched the faithful bow-string tighter, Took an arrow, jasper-headed, Shot it at the Shining Wigwam, Sent it singing as a herald, As a bearer of his message, Of his challenge loud and lofty: Come forth from your lodge, Pearl-Feather Hiawatha waits your coming !” Straightway from the Shining Wigwam Came the mighty Megissogwon, Tall of stature, broad of shoulder, Dark and terrible in aspect, Clad from head to foot in wanipum, Armed with all his warlike weapons, Painted like the sky of morning, Streaked with crimson, blue, and yellow, Crested with great eagle-feathers, Streaming upward, streaming outward. “Well I know you, Hiawatha " Cried he in a voice of thunder, In a tone of loud derision. Hasten back, O Shaugodayal Hasten back among the women, Back to old Nokomis, Faint-heart | I will slay you as you stand there, As of old I slew her father l’” 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 l’” Then began the greatest battle That the sun had ever looked on, That the war-birds ever witnessed. All a Summer's day it lasted, From the sunrise to the sunset; For the shafts of Hiawatha Harmless hit the shirt of wampum, Harmless fell the blows he dealt it With his mittens, Minjekahwun, Harmless fell the heavy war-club ; It could dash the rocks asunder, But it could not break the meshes Of that magic shirt of wampum. Till at sunset Hiawatha, Leaning on his bow of ash-tree, Wounded, weary, and desponding, With his mighty war-club broken, With his mittens torn and tattered, And three useless arrows only, Paused to rest beneath a pine-tree, From whose branches trailed the mosses, And whose trunk was coated over With the Dead-man’s Moccasin-leather, With the fungus white and yellow. Suddenly from the boughs above him Sang the Mama, the woodpecker : “Aim your arrows, Hiawatha, At the head of Megissogwon, Strike the tuft of hair upon it, At their roots the long black tresses; There alone can he be wounded !” Winged with feathers, tipped with jasper, Swift flew Hiawatha's arrow, Just as Megissogwon, stooping, Raised a heavy stone to throw it. Full upon the crown it struck him, At the roots of his long tresses, And he reeled and staggered forward, Plunging like a wounded bison, Yes, like Pezhekee, the bison, When the snow is on the prairie. Swifter flew the second arrow, In the pathway of the other, Piercing deeper than the other, Wounding sorer than the other ; And the knees of Megissogwon Shook like windy reeds beneath him, Bent and trembled like the rushes. But the third and latest arrow Swiftest flew, and wounded sorest, And the mighty Megissogwon Saw the fiery eyes of Pauguk, Saw the eyes of Death glare at him, HENRY WADS WORTH Heard his voice call in the darkness; At the feet of Hiawatha Lifeless lay the great Pearl-Feather, Lay the mightiest of Magicians. Then the grateful Hiawatha Called the Mama, the woodpecker, From his perch among the branches Of the melancholy pine-tree, And, in honor of his service, Stained with blood the tuft of feathers On the little head of Mama ; Even to this day he wears it, Wears the tuft of crimson feathers, As a symbol of his service. Then he stripped the shirt of wampum From the back of Megissogwon, As a trophy of the battle, As a signal of his conquest. On the shore he left the body, Half on land and half in water, In the sand his feet were buried, And his face was in the water. And above him, wheeled and clamored The Keneu, the great war-eagle, Sailing round in narrower circles, Hovering nearer, nearer, nearer. From the wigwam Hiawatha Bore the wealth of Megissogwon, All his wealth of skins and wanpum, Furs of bison and of beaver, Furs of sable and of ermine, Wampum belts and strings and pouches, J. ONG FE/, LOW. 251 Quivers wrought with beads of wampum, Filled with arrows, silver-headed. Homeward then he sailed exulting, Homeward through the black pitch-water, Homeward through the weltering serpents, With the trophies of the battle, With a shout and song of triumph, On the shore stood old Nokomis, On the shore stood Chibiabos, And the very strong man, Kwasind, Waiting for the hero's coming, Listening to his songs of triumph. And the people of the village Welcomed him with songs and dances, Made a joyous feast, and shouted: “Honor 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. 252 THE POETICAL WORKS OF X. HLAWATHA’s WOOING. Nº º “As unto the bow the cord is, Thus dissuading spake Nokomis, So unto the man is woman, And my Hiawatha answered Though she bends him, she obeys him, Only this: “Dear old Nokomis, Though she draws him, yet she follows, Very pleasant is the firelight, Useless each without the other!!” But I like the starlight better, Thus the youthful Hiawatha Better do I like the moonlight!” Said within himself and pondered, Gravely then said old Nokomis: Much perplexed by various feelings, “Bring not here an idle maiden, Listless, longing, hoping, fearing, Bring not here a useless woman, Dreaming still of Minnehaha, Hands unskilful, feet unwilling; Of the lovely Laughing Water, Bring a wife with nimble fingers, In the land of the Dacotahs. ! Heart and hand that move together, “Wed a maiden of your people.” Feet that run on willing errands !” Warning said the old Nokomis; Smiling answered Hiawatha: “Go not eastward, go not westward, “In the land of the Dacotahs For a stranger, whom we know not Lives the Arrow-maker's daughter, Like a fire upon the hearth-stone Minnehaha, Laughing Water, Is a neighbor's homely daughter, Handsomest of all the women. Like the starlight or the moonlight I will bring her to your wigwam, Is the handsomest of strangers' " She shall run upon your errands, ： ſae§§ } ¿|- ¿§§ № ºff}} ºſſ. ſae. FALLS OF MINNEHAHA. ¿??¿ſae; %%%%%ſae ſººſ% ſſſſſſſſſſſºſ| . 'Mae\'，%ſ）'，% |-ſ.ſae，. - （ - ſſſſſſſſſſſ'%'; # \"，|-ſzáſ ſºſ:§}"…：…%. §}}§§ - -ſºlºſſº)， |× W. H. GIBSON- - Artist HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 253 Be your starlight, moonlight, firelight, Be the sunlight of my people !” Still dissuading said Nokomis : “Bring not to my lodge a stranger From the land of the Dacotahs Very fierce are the Dacotahs, Often is there war between us, There are feuds yet unforgotten, Wounds that ache and still may open " Laughing answered Hiawatha : “For that reason, if no other, Would I wed the fair Dacotah, That our tribes might be united, That old feuds might be forgotten, And old wounds be healed forever !” Thus departed Hiawatha To the land of the Dacotahs, To the land of handsome women ; Striding over moor and meadow, Through interminable forests, Through uninterrupted silence. With his moccasins of magic, At each stride a mile he measured ; Yet the way seemed long before him, And his heart outran his footsteps; And he journeyed without resting, Till he heard the cataract's laughter, 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 forests, 'Twixt the shadow and the sunshine, Herds of fallow deer were feeding, But they saw not Hiawatha; To his bow he whispered, “Fail not " To his arrow whispered, “Swerve not l’’ Sent it singing on its errand, To the red heart of the roebuck; Threw the deer across his shoulder, And sped forward without pausing. At the doorway of his wigwam Sat the ancient Arrow-maker, In the land of the Dacotahs, Making arrow-heads of jasper, Arrow-heads of chalcedony. At his side, in all her beauty, Sat the lovely Minnehaha, Sat his daughter, Laughing Water, Plaiting mats of flags and rushes; Of the past the old man's thoughts were, And the maiden's of the future. He was thinking, as he sat there, Of the days when with such arrows He had struck the deer and bison, On the Muskoday, the meadow ; Shot the wild goose, flying southward, On the wing, the clamorous Wawa; Thinking of the great war-parties, How they came to buy his arrows, Could not fight without his arrows. Ah, no more such noble warriors Could be found on earth as they were ! ‘Now the men were all like women, Only used their tongues for weapons! She was thinking of a hunter, From another tribe and country, Young and tall and very handsome, Who one morning, in the Spring-time, Came to buy her father's arrows, Sat and rested in the wigwam, Lingered long about the doorway, Looking back as he departed. She had heard her father praise him, Praise his courage and his wisdom ; Would he come again for arrows To the Falls of Minnehaha, 2 On the mat her hands lay idle, And her eyes were very dreamy. Through their thoughts they heard a foot- step, * - 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 labor, Laid aside the unfinished arrow, Bade him enter at the doorway, Saying, as he rose to meet him, “Hiawatha, you are welcome !” At the feet of Laughing Water Hiawatha laid his burden, Threw the red deer from his shoulders; And the maiden looked up at him, Looked up from her mat of rushes, Said with gentle look and accent, “You are welcome, Hiawatha, l’’ Very spacious was the wigwam, 254 THE POETICAL WORKS- OF Made of deer-skins dressed and whitened, $6 With the Gods of the Dacotahs Drawn and painted on its curtains, And so tall the doorway, hardly Hiawatha stooped to enter, Hardly touched his eagle-feathers As he entered at the doorway. Then uprose the Laughing Water, From the ground fair Minnehaha, Laid aside her mat unfinished, Brought forth food and set before them, Water brought them from the brooklet, Gave them food in earthen vessels, Gave them drink in bowls of bass-wood, Listened while the guest was speaking, Listened while her father answered, But not once her lips she opened, Not a single word she uttered. Yes, as in a dream she listened To the words of Hiawatha, As he talked of old Nokomis, Who had nursed him in his childhood, As he told of his companions, Chibiabos, the musician, And the very strong man, Kwasind, And of happiness and plenty In the land of the Ojibways, In the pleasant land and peaceful. “After many years of warfare, Many years of strife and bloodshed, There is peace between the Ojibways And the tribe of the Dacotahs.” Thus continued Hiawatha, And then added, speaking slowly, That this peace may last forever, And our hands be clasped more closely, And our hearts be more united, Give me as my wife this maiden, Minnehaha, Laughing Water, Loveliest of Dacotah women l’’ And the ancient Arrow-maker Paused a moment ere he answered, Smoked a little while in silence, Looked at Hiawatha proudly, Fondly looked at Laughing Water, And made answer very gravely: “Yes, if Minnehaha wishes; Let your heart speak, Minnehahal’’ And the lovely Laughing Water Seemed more lovely, as she stood there, Neither willing nor reluctant, As she went to Hiawatha, Softly took the seat beside him, While she said, and blushed to say it, “I will follow you, my husband l’’ This was Hiawatha's wooing! Thus it was he won the daughter Of the ancient Arrow-maker, In the land of the Dacotahs From the wigwam he departed, Leading with him Laughing Water; Hand in hand they went together, Through the woodland and the meadow, Left the old man standing lonely At the doorway of his wigwam, Heard the Falls of Minnehaha Calling to them from the distance, Crying to them from afar off, “Fare thee well, O Minnehaha I’’ And the ancient Arrow-maker Turned again unto his labor, Sat down by his sunny doorway, Murmuring to himself, and saying: “Thus it is our daughters leave us, Those we love, and those who love us, Just when they have learned to help us, When we are old and lean upon them, Comes a youth with flaunting feathers, With his flute of reeds, a stranger Wanders piping through the village, Beckons to the fairest maiden, And she follows where he leads her, Leaving all things for the stranger | >> Pleasant was the journey homeward, Through interminable forests, Over meadow, over mountain, Over river, hill, and hollow. Short it seemed to Hiawatha, Though they journeyed very slowly, Though his pace he checked and slackened To the steps of Laughing Water. Over wide and rushing rivers In his arms he bore the maiden ; Light he thought her as a feather, As the plume upon his head-gear; Cleared the tangled pathway for her, Bent aside the swaying branches, Made at night a lodge of branches, And a bed with boughs of hemlock, And a fire before the doorway HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLO W. 255 With the dry cones of the pine-tree. All the travelling winds went with them, O'er the meadows, through the forest; All the stars of night looked at them, Watched with sleepless eyes their slumber; From his ambush in the oak-tree Peeped the squirrel, Adjidaumo, Watched with eager eyes the lovers; And the rabbit, the Wabasso, Scampered from the path before them, Peering, peeping from his burrow, Sat erect upon his haunches, Watched with curious eyes the lovers. Pleasant was the journey homeward! All the birds sang loud and sweetly Songs of happiness and heart's-ease; Sang the blue-bird, the Owaissa, “Happy are you, Hiawatha, Having such a wife to love you Sang the robin, the Opechee, “Happy are you, Laughing Water, Having such a noble husband' " 1 * From the sky the sun benignant Looked upon them through the branches, Saying to them, “O my children, Love is sunshine, hate is shadow, Life is checkered shade and sunshine, Rule by love, O Hiawatha!” From the sky the moon looked at them, Filled the lodge with mystic splendors, Whispered to them, “O my children, Day is restless, night is quiet, Man imperious, woman feeble; Half is mine, although I follow ; Rule by patience, Laughing Water l’ Thus it was they journeyed homeward; Thus it was that Hiawatha To the lodge of old Nokomis Brought the moonlight, starlight, firelight, Brought the sunshine of his people, Minnehaha, Laughing Water, Handsomest of all the women In the land of the Dacotahs, In the land of handsome women. 256 THE POETICAI, WORKS OF HIAWATHA's WEDDING-FEAST. YOU shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis, How the handsome Yenadizze Danced at Hiawatha's wedding; How the gentle Chibiabos, He the sweetest of musicians, Sang his songs of love and longing ; How Iagoo, the great boaster, He the marvellous story-teller, Told his tales of strange adventure, That the feast might be more joyous, That the time might pass more gayly, And the guests be more contented. Sumptuous was the feast Nokomis Made at Hiawatha's wedding; All the bowls were made of bass-wood, White and polished very smoothly, All the spoons of horn of bison, Black and polished very smoothly. She had sent through all the village Messengers with wands of willow, As a sign of invitation, As a token of the feasting ; And the wedding guests assembled, Clad in all their richest raiment, Robes of fur and belts of wampum, Splendid with their paint and plumage, Beautiful with beads and tassels. First they ate the sturgeon, Nahma, And the pike, the Maskenozha, Caught and cooked by old Nokomis; Then on pemican they feasted, Pemican and buffalo marrow, Haunch of deer and hump of bison, Yellow cakes of the Mondamin, And the wild rice of the river. But the gracious Hiawatha, And the lovely Laughing Water, And the careful old Nokomis, Tasted not the food before them, Only waited on the others, Only served their guests in silence. And when all the guests had finished, Old Nokomis, brisk and busy, From an ample pouch of otter, Filled the red-stone pipes for smoking With tobacco from the South-land, Mixed with bark of the red willow, And with herbs and leaves of fragrance. Then she said, “O Pau-Puk-Keewis, Dance for us your merry dances, Dance the Beggar's Dance to please us, That the feast may be more joyous, That the time may pass more gayly, And our guests be more contented ' " Then the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis, He the idle Yenadizze, He the merry mischief-maker, Whom the people called the Storm-Fool, Rose among the guests assembled. Skilled was he in sports and pastimes, In the merry dance of snow-shoes, In the play of quoits and ball-play : Skilled was he in games of hazard, In all games of skill and hazard, Pugasaing, the Bowl and Counters, Kuntassoo, the Game of Plum-stones. Though the warriors called him Faint- Heart, Called him coward, Shaugodaya, Idler, gambler, Yenadizze, Little heeded he their jesting, Little cared he for their insults, For the women and the maidens Loved the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis. He was dressed in shirt of doeskin, White and soft, and fringed with ermine, All inwrought with beads of wampum : He was dressed in deer-skin leggings, Fringed with hedgehog quills and ermine, And in moccasins of buck-skin, Thick with quills and beads embroidered. On his head were plumes of Swan's down, On his heels were tails of foxes, In one hand a fan of feathers, And a pipe was in the other. Barred with streaks of red and yellow, Streaks of blue and bright vermilion, Shone the face of Pau-Puk-Keewis. From his forehead fell his tresses, Smooth, and parted like a woman's, HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLO W. 257 Shining bright with oil, and plaited, Hung with braids of scented grasses, As among the guests assembled, To the sound of flutes and singing, To the sound of drums and voices, Rose the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis. And began his mystic dances. First he danced a solemn measure, Very slow in step and gesture, In and out among the pine-trees, Through the shadows and the sunshine, Treading softly like a panther. Then more swiftly and still swifter, Whirling, spinning round in circles, Leaping o'er the guests assembled, Eddying round and round the wigwam, Till the leaves went whirling with him, Till the dust and wind together Swept in eddies round about him. Then along the sandy margin Of the lake, the Big-Sea-Water, On he sped with frenzied gestures, Stamped upon the sand, and tossed it Wildly in the air around him ; Till the wind became a whirlwind, Till the sand was blown and sifted Like great snowdrifts o'er the landscape, Heaping all the shores with Sand Dunes, Sand Hills of the Nagow Wudjoo ! Thus the merry Pau-Puk-Keewis Danced his Beggar's Dance to please them, And, returning, sat down laughing There among the guests assembled. Sat and fanned himself serenely With his fan of turkey-feathers. Then they said to Chibiabos, To the friend of Hiawatha, To the sweetest of all singers, To the best of all musicians, “Sing to us, O Chibiabos! Songs of love and songs of longing, That the feast may be more joyous, That the time may pass more gayly, And our guests be more contented . " And the gentle Chibiabos Sang in accents sweet and tender, Sang in tones of deep emotion, Songs of love and songs of longing; 33 258 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Looking still at Hiawatha, Looking at fair Laughing Water, Sang he softly, sang in this wise: “Onaway! Awake, beloved Thou the wild-flower of the forest Thou the wild-bird of the prairie Thou with eyes so soft and fawn-like! “If thou only lookest at me, I am happy, I am happy, As the lilies of the prairie, When they feel the dew upon them “Sweet thy breath is as the fragrance Of the wild-flowers in the morning, As their fragrance is at evening, In the Moon when leaves are falling, “Does not all the blood within me Leap to meet thee, leap to meet thee, As the springs to meet the sunshine, In the Moon when nights are brightest? º %lºssº º Fº s Wººnºº. - Sº §ºsº §§§ {\{S-\s Seº Rº sºs \s º “Onaway ! my heart sings to thee, Sings with joy when thou art near me, As the sighing, singing branches In the pleasant Moon of Strawberries' “When thou art not pleased, beloved, Then my heart is sad and darkened, As the shining river darkens When the clouds drop shadows on it! “When thou smilest, my beloved, Then my troubled heart is brightened, As in sunshine gleam the ripples That the cold wind makes in rivers. “Smiles the earth, and smile the waters, Smile the cloudless skies above us, But I lose the way of smiling When thou art no longer near me! “I myself, myself! behold me! Blood of my beating heart, behold me ! Oh awake, awake, beloved Onaway! awake, beloved ' " Thus the gentle Chibiabos Sang his song of love and longing : And Iagoo, the great boaster, He the marvellous story-teller, He the friend of old Nokomis, Jealous of the sweet musician, Jealous of the applause they gave him, Saw in all the eyes around him, Saw in all their looks and gestures, That the wedding guests assembled Longed to hear his pleasant stories, His immeasurable falsehoods. Very boastful was Iagoo : Never heard he an adventure But himself had met a greater; Never any deed of daring But himself had done a bolder; Never any marvellous story But himself could tell a stranger. Would you listen to his boasting, Would you only give him credence, No one ever shot an arrow Half so far and high as he had : Ever caught so many fishes, Ever killed so many reindeer, Ever trapped so many beaver! None could run so fast as he could, None could dive so deep as he could, None could swim so far as he could : None had made so many journeys, None had seen so many wonders, As this wonderful Iagoo, As this marvellous story-teller Thus his name became a by-word And a jest among the people: And whene'er a boastful hunter Praised his own address too highly, Or a warrior, home returning, HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. 259 Talked too much of his achievements, All his hearers cried, “Iagoo ! Here's Iagoo come among us!” He it was who carved the cradle Of the little Hiawatha, Carved its framework out of linden, Bound it strong with reindeer sinews : He it was who taught him later How to make his bows and arrows, How to make the bows of ash-tree, And the arrows of the oak-tree. So among the guests assembled At my Hiawatha's wedding Sat Iagoo, old and ugly, Sat the marvellous story-teller. And they said, “O good Iagoo, Tell us now a tale of wonder, Tell us of some strange adventure, That the feast may be more joyous, That the time may pass more gayly, And our guests be more contented . " And Iagoo answered straightway, “You shall hear a tale of wonder, You shall hear the strange adventures Of Osseo, the Magician, From the Evening Star descended.” XII. THE SON OF THE EVENING STAR. CAN it be the sun descending O'er the level plain of water 2 Or the red swan floating, flying, Wounded by the magic arrow, Staining all the waves with crimson, With the crimson of its life-blood. Filling all the air with splendor, With the splendor of its plumage? Yes; it is the sun descending, Sinking down into the water; All the sky is stained with purple, All the water flushed with crimson' No: it is the Red Swan floating, Diving down beneath the water; To the sky its wings are lifted, With its blood the waves are reddened! Over it the Star of Evening Melts and trembles through the purple, Hangs suspended in the twilight. No; it is a bead of wampum 260 THE POETIOAZ WORKS OF On the robes of the Great Spirit As he passes through the twilight, Walks in silence through the heavens. This with joy beheld Iagoo And he said in haste : “Behold it ! See the sacred Star of Evening ! You shall hear a tale of Wonder, Hear the story of Osseo, Son of the Evening Star, Osseo “Once, in days no more remembered, Ages nearer the beginning, When the heavens were closer to us, And the Gods were more familiar, In the North-land lived a hunter, With ten young and comely daughters, Tall and lithe as wands of willow ; Only Oweenee, the youngest, She the wilful and the wayward, She the silent, dreamy maiden, Was the fairest of the sisters. “All these women married warriors, Married brave and haughty husbands; Only Oweenee, the youngest, Laughed and flouted all her lovers, All her young and handsome suitors, And then married old Osseo, Old Osseo, poor and ugly, Broken with age and weak with coughing, Always coughing like a Squirrel. “Ah, but beautiful within him Was the spirit of Osseo, From the Evening Star descended, Star of Evening, Star of Woman, Star of tenderness and passion All its fire was in his bosom, All its beauty in his spirit, All its mystery in his being, All its splendor in his language! “And her lovers, the rejected, Handsome men with belts of wampum, Handsome men with paints and feathers, Pointed at her in derision, Followed her with jest and laughter. But she said: ‘I care not for you, Care not for your belts of wampum, Care not for your paint and feathers, Care not for your jests and laughter; I am happy with Osseo l’ “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 gayly, These two only walked in silence. “At the western sky Osseo Gazed intent, as if imploring, Often stopped and gazed imploring At the trembling Star of Evening, At the tender Star of Woman; And they heard him murmur softly, “Ah, Showain nemeshin, Nosa / Pity, pity me, my father l’ “‘Listen l’ said the eldest sister, ‘He is praying to his father What a pity that the old man Does not stumble in the pathway, Does not break his neck by falling !' And they laughed till all the forest Rang with their unseemly laughter. “On their pathway through the wood- lands 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 hand- SOIY162. “Thus Osseo was transfigured, Thus restored to youth and beauty; But, alas for good Osseo, And for Oweenee, the faithful Strangely, too, was she transfigured. Changed into a weak old woman, With a staff she tottered onward, Wasted, wrinkled, old, and ugly And the sisters and their husbands Laughed until the echoing forest Rang with their unseemly laughter. “But Osseo turned not from her, Walked with slower step beside her, Took her hand, as brown and withered As an oak-leaf is in Winter, AIENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. 261 Called her sweetheart, Nenemoosha, Soothed her with soft words of kindness, Till they reached the lodge of feasting, Till they sat down in the wigwam, Sacred to the Star of Evening, To the tender Star of Woman. “Wrapt in visions, lost in dreaming, At the banquet sat Osseo : All were merry, all were happy, All were joyous but Osseo. Neither food nor drink he tasted, Neither did he speak nor listen, But as one bewildered sat he, Looking dreamily and sadly, First at Oweenee, then upward At the gleaming sky above them. “Then a voice was heard, a whisper, Coming from the starry distance, Coming from the empty vastness, Low, and musical, and tender: And the voice said: ‘O Osseo! O my son, my best beloved Broken are the spells that bound you, All the charms of the magician, All the magic powers of evil; Come to me; ascend, Osseo! “Taste the food that stands before you : It is blessed and enchanted, It has magic virtues in it, It will change you to a spirit. All your bowls and all your kettles Shall be wood and clay no longer; But the bowls be changed to wanpum, And the kettles shall be silver; They shall shine like shells of scarlet, Like the fire shall gleam and glimmer. “And the women shall no longer Bear the dreary doom of labor, But be changed to birds, and glisten With the beauty of the starlight, Painted with the dusky splendors Of the skies and clouds of evening !’ “What Osseo heard as whispers, What as words he comprehended, Was but music to the others, Music as of birds afar off, Of the whippoorwill afar off, Of the lonely Wawonaissa Singing in the darksome forest. “Then the lodge began to tremble, Straight began to shake and tremble, And they felt it rising, rising, 262 WORKS OF THE POETICAL Slowly through the air ascending, From the darkness of the tree-tops Forth into the dewy starlight, Till it passed the topmost branches; And behold the wooden dishes All were changed to shells of scarlet ! And behold! the earthen kettles All were changed to bowls of silver ! And the roof-poles of the wigwam Were as glittering rods of silver, And the roof of bark upon them As the shining shards of beetles. “Then Osseo gazed around him, And he saw the nine fair sisters, All the sisters and their husbands, Changed to birds of various plumage. Some were jays and some were magpies, Others thrushes, others blackbirds; And they hopped, and sang, and twittered, Perked and fluttered all their feathers, Strutted in their shining plumage, And their tails like fans unfolded. “Only Oweenee, the youngest, Was not changed, but sat in silence, Wasted, wrinkled, old, and ugly, Looking sadly at the others; Till Osseo, gazing upward, Gave another cry of anguish, Such a cry as he had uttered By the oak-tree in the forest. “Then returned her youth and beauty, And her soiled and tattered garments Were transformed to robes of ermine, And her staff became a feather, Yes, a shining silver feather “And again the wigwam trembled, Swayed and rushed through airy currents, Through transparent cloud and vapor And amid celestial splendors On the Evening Star alighted, As a snow-flake falls on snow-flake, As a leaf drops on a river, As the thistle-down on water. “Forth with cheerful words of welcome Came the father of Osseo, He with radiant locks of silver, He with eyes serene and tender. And he said: ‘My son, Osseo, Hang the cage of birds you bring there, Hang the cage with rods of silver, And the birds with glistening feathers, At the doorway of my wigwam.” - “At the door he hung the bird-cage, And they entered in and gladly Listened to Osseo's father, Ruler of the Star of Evening, As he said: ‘O my Osseo I have had compassion on you, Given you back your youth and beauty, Into birds of various plumage Changed your sisters and their husbands; Changed them thus because they mocked you In the figure of the old man, In that aspect sad and wrinkled, Could not see your heart of passion, Could not see your youth immortal; Only Oweenee, the faithful, Saw your naked heart and loved you. “‘In the lodge that glimmers yonder, In the little star that twinkles Through the vapors, on the left hand, Lives the envious Evil Spirit, The Wabeno, the magician, Who transformed you to an old man. Take heed lest his beams fall on you, For the rays he darts around him Are the power of his enchantment, Are the arrows that he uses.’ “Many years, in peace and quiet, On the peaceful Star of Evening Dwelt Osseo with his father; Many years, in song and flutter, At the doorway of the wigwam, Hung the cage with rods of silver, And fair Oweenee, the faithful, Bore a son unto Osseo, With the beauty of his mother, With the courage of his father. “And the boy grew up and prospered, And Osseo, to delight him, Made him little bows and arrows, Opened the great cage of silver, And let loose his aunts and uncles, All those birds with glossy feathers, For his little son to shoot at. “Round and round they wheeled and darted, Filled the Evening Star with music, With their songs of joy and freedom ; Filled the Evening Star with splendor, HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 263 With the fluttering of their plumage; Till the boy, the little hunter, Bent his bow and shot an arrow, Shot a swift and fatal arrow, And a bird, with shining feathers, At his feet fell wounded Sorely. “But, O wondrous transformation 'T was no bird he saw before him, 'T was a beautiful young woman, With the arrow in her bosom “When her blood fell on the planet, On the sacred Star of Evening, Broken was the spell of magic, - Powerless was the strange enchantment, And the youth, the fearless bowman, Suddenly felt himself descending, Held by unseen hands, but sinking Downward through the empty spaces, Downward through the clouds and vapors, Till he rested on an island, On an island, green and grassy, Yonder in the Big-Sea-Water. “After him he saw descending All the birds with shining feathers, Fluttering, falling, wafted downward, Like the painted leaves of Autumn : And the lodge with poles of silver, With its roof like wings of beetles, Like the shining shards of beetles, By the winds of heaven uplifted, Slowly sank upon the island, Bringing back the good Osseo, Bringing Oweenee, the faithful. “Then the birds, again transfigured, Reassumed the shape of mortals, Took their shape, but not their stature ; They remained as Little People, Like the pygmies, the Puk-Wudjies, And on pleasant nights of Summer, When the Evening Star was shining, Hand in hand they danced together On the island's craggy headlands, On the sand-beach low and level. “Still their glittering lodge is seen there, On the tranquil Summer evenings, And upon the shore the fisher Sometimes hears their happy voices, Sees them dancing in the 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, 66 Whom their people understand not, Whom they even make a jest of, Scoff and jeer at in derision. From the story of Osseo Let us learn the fate of jesters!” All the wedding guests delighted Listened to the marvellous story, Listened laughing and applauding, And they whispered to each other : Does he mean himself, I wonder 7 And are we the aunts and uncles 2 ° Then again sang Chibiabos, Sang a song of love and longing, In those accents sweet and tender, In those tones of pensive sadness, Sang a maiden's lamentation For her lover, her Algonquin. “When I think of my beloved, Ah me ! think of my beloved, When my heart is thinking of him, O my sweetheart, my Algonquin “Ah me ! when I parted from him, Round my neck he hung the wanpum, As a pledge, the snow-white wanpum, O my sweetheart, my Algonquin “I will go with you, he whispered, Ah me! to your native country; Let me go with you, he whispered, O my sweetheart, my Algonquin “Far away, away, I answered, Very far away, I answered, Ah me! is my native country, O my sweetheart, my Algonquin “When I looked back to behold him, Where we parted, to behold him, After me he still was gazing, O my sweetheart, my Algonquin “By the tree he still was standing, By the fallen tree was standing, That had dropped into the water, O my sweetheart, my Algonquin “When I think of my beloved, Ah me ! think of my beloved, When my heart is thinking of him, O my sweetheart, my Algonquin l’’ Such was Hiawatha's Wedding, Such the dance of Pau-Puk-Keewis, 264 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 6 % Such the story of Iagoo, Such the songs of Chibiabos; Thus the wedding banquet ended, And the wedding guests departed, Leaving Hiawatha happy With the night and Minnehaha. XIII. BLESSING THE CORNFIELDS. SING, O Song of Hiawatha, Of the happy days that followed, In the land of the Ojibways, In the pleasant land and peaceful Sing the mysteries of Mondamin, Sing the Blessing of the Cornfields ! Buried was the bloody hatchet, Buried was the dreadful war-club, Buried were all warlike weapons, And the war-cry was forgotten. There was peace among the nations; Unmolested roved the hunters, Built the birch canoe for sailing, Caught the fish in lake and river, Shot the deer and trapped the beaver; Unmolested worked the women, Made their sugar from the maple, Gathered wild rice in the meadows, Dressed the skins of deer and beaver. All around the happy village Stood the maize-fields, green and shining, Waved the green plumes of Mondamin, Waved his soft and sunny tresses, Filling all the land with plenty. ‘Twas the women who in Springtime Planted the broad fields and fruitful, Buried in the earth Mondamin ; *T was 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 cornfields, Draw a magic circle round them, To protect them from destruction, Blast of mildew, blight of insect, Wagemin, the thief of cornfields, Paimosaid, who steals the maize-ear ! “In the night, when all is silence, In the night, when all is darkness, When the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin, Shuts the doors of all the wigwams, So that not an ear can hear you, So that not an eye can see you, Rise up from your bed in silence, Lay aside your garments wholly, Walk around the fields you planted, Round the borders of the corn-fields, Covered by your tresses only, - Robed with darkness as a garment. “Thus the fields shall be more fruitful, And the passing of your footsteps Draw a magic circle round them, So that neither blight nor mildew, Neither burrowing worm nor insect, Shall pass o'er the magic circle : Not the dragon-fly, Kwo-ne-she, Nor the spider, Subbekashe, Nor the grasshopper, Pah-puk-keena, Nor the mighty caterpillar, Way-muk-kwana, with the bear-skin, King of all the caterpillars . " On the tree-tops near the cornfields 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 l’” said they : “hear the Wise Man, Hear the plots of Hiawathal’ When the noiseless night descended Broad and dark o'er field and forest, When the mournful Wawonaissa, Sorrowing sang among the hemlocks, And the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin, Shut the doors of all the wigwams, HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. 265 From her bed rose Laughing Water, Spite of all the sacred footprints Laid aside her garments wholly, Minnehaha stamps upon it!” And with darkness clothed and guarded, But the wary Hiawatha, Unashamed and unaffrighted, Ever thoughtful, careful, watchful, Walked securely round the cornfields, Had o'erheard the scornful laughter Drew the sacred, magic circle When they mocked him from the tree-tops. Of her footprints round the cornfields. “Kaw' " he said, “my friends the ravens ! No one but the Midnight only Kahgahgee, my King of Ravens ! Saw her beauty in the darkness, I will teach you all a lesson No one but the Wawonaissa That shall not be soon forgotten ''' Heard the panting of her bosom : He had risen before the daybreak, Guskewau, the darkness, wrapped her He had spread o'er all the cornfields Closely in his sacred mantle, Snares to catch the black marauders, So that none might see her beauty, And was lying now in ambush So that none might boast, “I saw her | * In the neighboring grove of pine-trees, On the morrow, as the day dawned, Waiting for the crows and blackbirds, Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, Waiting for the jays and ravens. Gathered all his black marauders, Soon they came with caw and clamor, Crows and blackbirds, jays and ravens, Rush of wings and cry of voices, Clamorous on the dusky tree-tops, To their work of devastation, And descended, fast and fearless, Settling down upon the cornfields, On the fields of Hiawatha, Delving deep with beak and talon, On the grave of the Mondamin. For the body of Mondamin. “We will drag Mondamin,” said they, And with all their craft and cunning, “From the grave where he is buried, All their skill in wiles of warfare, Spite of all the magic circles They perceived no danger near them, Laughing Water draws around it, Till their claws became entangled, 34 266 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Till they found themselves imprisoned In the snares of Hiawatha. From his place of ambush came he, Striding terrible among them, And so awful was his aspect That the bravest quailed with terror. Without mercy he destroyed them Right and left, by ten and twenties, And their wretched, lifeless bodies Hung aloft on poles for scarecrows Round the consecrated cornfields, As a signal of his vengeance, As a warning to marauders. Only Kahgahgee, the leader, Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, He alone was spared among them As a hostage for his people. With his prisoner-string he bound him, Led him captive to his wigwam, Tied him fast with cords of elm-bark To the ridge-pole of his wigwam. “Kahgahgee, my raven!” said he, “You the leader of the robbers, You the plotter of this mischief, The contriver of this outrage, I will keep you, I will hold you, As a hostage for your people, As a pledge of good behavior ' " And he left him, grim and sulky, Sitting in the morning sunshine On the summit of the wigwam, Croaking fiercely his displeasure, Flapping his great sable pinions, Vainly struggling for his freedom, Vainly calling on his people! Summer passed, and Shawondasee Breathed his sighs o'er all the landscape, From the South-land sent his ardors, Wafted kisses warm and tender; And the maize-field grew and ripened, Till it stood in all the splendor Of its garments green and yellow, Of its tassels and its plumage, And the maize-ears full and shining Gleamed from bursting sheaths of verdure Then Nokomis, the old woman, Spake, and said to Minnehaha : “'Tis the Moon when leaves are falling; All the wild-rice has been gathered, And the maize is ripe and ready; Let us gather in the harvest, Let us wrestle with Mondamin, HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLO W. 267 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 cornfields, 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 labor Of the young men and the women ; Listened to their noisy talking, To their laughter and their singing, Heard them chattering like the magpies, Heard them laughing like the blue-jays, Heard them singing like the robins. And whene'er some lucky maiden Found a red ear in the husking, Found a maize-ear red as blood is, “Nushka l’ cried they all together, “Nushka you shall have a sweetheart, You shall have a handsome husband l’’ “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 maize-ear in the husking Blighted, mildewed, or misshapen, Then they laughed and sang together, Crept and limped about the cornfields, Mimicked in their gait and gestures Some old man, bent almost double, Singing singly or together: “Wagemin, the thief of cornfields ! Paimosaid, who steals the maize-ear !” Till the cornfields rang with laughter, Till from Hiawatha's wigwam Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, Screamed and quivered in his anger, And from all the neighboring tree-tops Cawed and croaked the black marauders. “Ugh !” the old men all responded, From their seats beneath the pine-trees PICTURE-WEITING. IN those days said Hiawatha, “Lo ! how all things fade and perish From the memory of the old men Pass away the great traditions, The achievements of the warriors, The adventures of the hunters, All the wisdom of the Medas, All the craft of the Wabenos, All the marvellous dreams and visions Of the Jossakeeds, the Prophets “Great men die and are forgotten, Wise men speak; their words of wisdom Perish in the ears that hear them, Do not reach the generations That, as yet unborn, are waiting In the great, mysterious darkness Of the speechless days that shall be “On the grave-posts of our fathers Are no signs, no figures painted; Who are in those graves we know not, Only know they are our fathers. Of what kith they are and kindred, From what old, ancestral Totem, Be it Eagle, Bear, or Beaver, They descended, this we know not, Only know they are our fathers. “Face to face we speak together, But we cannot speak when absent, Cannot send our voices from us To the friends that dwell afar off; Cannot send a secret message, But the bearer learns our secret, May pervert it, may betray it, May reveal it unto others.” Thus said Hiawatha, walking In the solitary forest, Pondering, musing in the forest, On the welfare of his people. 268 WORKS OF THE POETICAL From his pouch he took his colors, Took his paints of different colors, On the smooth bark of a birch-tree Painted many shapes and figures, Wonderful and mystic figures, And each figure had a meaning, Each some word or thought suggested. Gitche Manito the Mighty, He, the Master of Life, was painted As an egg, with points projecting To the four winds of the heavens. Everywhere is the Great Spirit, Was the meaning of this symbol. Mitche Manito the Mighty, He the dreadful Spirit of Evil, As a serpent was depicted, As Kenabeek, the great serpent. Very crafty, very cunning, Is the creeping Spirit of Evil, Was the meaning of this symbol. Life and Death he drew as circles, Life was white, but Death was darkened; Sun and moon and stars he painted, Man and beast, and fish and reptile, Forests, mountains, lakes, and rivers. For the earth he drew a straight line, For the sky a bow above it; White the space between for daytime, Filled with little stars for night-time; On the left a point for sunrise, On the right a point for sunset, On the top a point for noontide, And for rain and cloudy weather Waving lines descending from it. Footprints pointing towards a wigwam Were a sign of invitation, Were a sign of guests assembling; Bloody hands with palms uplifted Were a symbol of destruction, Were a hostile sign and symbol. All these things did Hiawatha Show unto his wondering people, And interpreted their meaning. And he said: “Behold, your grave-posts Have no mark, no sign, nor symbol. Go and paint them all with figures: Each one with its household symbol, With its own ancestral Totem : So that those who follow after May distinguish them and know them.” \ \ \ºe *W. § Ø\º And they painted on the grave-posts On the graves yet unforgotten, Each his own ancestral Totem, Each the symbol of his household; Figures of the Bear and Reindeer, Of the Turtle, Crane, and Beaver, Each inverted as a token That the owner was departed, That the chief who bore the symbol Lay beneath in dust and ashes. And the Jossakeeds, the Prophets, The Wabenos, the Magicians, And the Medicine-men, the Medas, Painted upon bark and deer-skin Figures for the songs they chanted, For each song a separate symbol, Figures mystical and awful, Figures strange and brightly colored; 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, HEWR Y WADSWORTH LONG FELLO W. - 269 With his bloody crest erected, Creeping, looking into heaven ; In the sky the sun, that listens, And the moon eclipsed and dying; Owl and eagle, crane and hen-hawk, And the cormorant, bird of magic ; Headless men, that walk the heavens, Bodies lying pierced with arrows, Bloody hands of death uplifted, Flags on graves, and great war-captains Grasping both the earth and heaven Such as these the shapes they painted On the birch-bark and the deer skin; Songs of war and songs of hunting, Songs of medicine and of magic, All were written in these figures, For each figure had its meaning, Each its separate song recorded. Nor forgotten was the Love-Song, The most subtle of all medicines, The most potent spell of magic, Dangerous more than war or hunting ! Thus the Love-Song was recorded, Symbol and interpretation. First a human figure standing, Painted in the brightest scarlet ; 'T is the lover, the musician, And the meaning is, “My painting Makes me powerful over others.” Then the figure seated, singing, Playing on a drum of magic, And the interpretation, “Listen 'T is 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 l’’ Then two figures, man and woman, Standing hand in hand together With their hands so clasped together That they seemed in one united, And the words thus represented Are, “I see your heart within you, And your cheeks are red with blushes Next the maiden on an island, In the centre of an island; And the song this shape suggested Was, “Though you were at a distance, Were upon some far-off island, Such the spell I cast upon you, Such the magic power of passion, I could straightway draw you to me!” Then the figure of the maiden Sleeping, and the lover near her, Whispering to her in her slumbers, Saying, “Though you were far from me In the land of Sleep and Silence, Still the voice of love would reach you !” And the last of all the figures Was a heart within a circle, Drawn within a magic circle; And the image had this meaning : “Naked lies your heart before me, To your naked heart I whisper l’’ 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. | HIAWATHA'S LAMENTATION. IN those days the Evil Spirits, All the Manitos of mischief, Fearing Hiawatha's wisdom, And his love for Chibiabos, Jealous of their faithful friendship, And their noble words and actions, Made at length a league against them, To molest them and destroy them. Hiawatha, wise and wary, Often said to Chibiabos, “O my brother do not leave me, Lest the Evil Spirits harm you !” Chibiabos, young and heedless, Laughing shook his coal-black tresses, 270 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Waved their purple cones above him, Sighing with him to console him, Mingling with his lamentation Their complaining, their lamenting. Came the Spring, and all the forest Looked in vain for Chibiabos ; Sighed the rivulet, Sebowisha, Sighed the rushes in the meadow. From the tree-tops sang the bluebird, Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa, “Chibiabos | Chibiabos He is dead, the sweet musician l’’ From the wigwam sang the robin, Sang the robin, the Opechee, “Chibiabos | Chibiabos He is dead, the sweetest singer And at night through all the forest Answered ever sweet and childlike, “Do not fear for me, O brother Harm and evil come not near me!” Once when Peboan, the Winter, Roofed with ice the Big-Sea-Water, When the snow-flakes, whirling downward, Hissed among the withered oak-leaves, Changed the pine-trees into wigwams, Covered all the earth with silence, — Armed with arrows, shod with snow-shoes, Heeding not his brother's warning, Fearing not the Evil Spirits, Forth to hunt the deer with antlers All alone went Chibiabos. Right across the Big-Sea-Water Sprang with speed the deer before him. With the wind and snow he followed, O'er the treacherous ice he followed, Wild with all the fierce commotion And the rapture of the hunting. But beneath, the Evil Spirits Lay in ambush, waiting for him, Broke the treacherous ice beneath him, Dragged him downward to the bottom, Buried in the sand his body. Unktahee, the god of water, He the god of the Dacotahs, Drowned him in the deep abysses Of the lake of Gitche Gumee. From the headlands Hiawatha Sent forth such a wail of anguish, Such a fearful lamentation, | >> Went the whippoorwill complaining, Wailing went the Wawonaissa, “Chibiabos | Chibiabosſ He is dead, the sweet musician | He the sweetest of all singers' " Then the medicine-men, the Medas, The magicians, the Wabenos, And the Jossakeeds, the prophets, Came to visit Hiawatha ; Build a Sacred Lodge beside him, To appease him, to console him, Walked in silent, grave procession, Bearing each a pouch of healing, Skin of beaver, lynx, or otter, Filled with magic roots and simples, That the bison paused to listen, Filled with very potent medicines. And the wolves howled from the prairies, When he heard their steps approach- And the thunder in the distance ing, Starting answered “Baim-wawa ’’ Hiawatha ceased lamenting, Then his face with black he painted, Called no more on Chibiabos; With his robe his head he covered, Naught he questioned, naught he answered, In his wigwam sat lamenting, But his mournful head uncovered, Seven long weeks he sat lamenting, From his face the mourning colors Uttering still this moan of sorrow : — Washed he slowly and in silence, “He is dead, the sweet musician Slowly and in silence followed He the sweetest of all singers' Onward to the Sacred Wigwam. He has gone from us forever, There a magic drink they gave him, He has moved a little nearer Made of Nahma-Wusk, the spearmint, To the Master of all music, And Wabeno-wusk, the yarrow, To the Master of all singing ! O my brother, Chibiabos l’’ And the melancholy fir-trees Waved their dark green fans above him, Roots of power, and herbs of healing; Beat their drums, and shook their rattles; Chanted singly and in chorus, Mystic songs like these, they chanted. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLO W. 271 “I myself, myself! behold me ! “Hi-au-ha!” replied the chorus. 'T is the great Gray Eagle talking; “Way-ha-way !” the mystic chorus. Come, ye white crows, come and hear him “I myself, myself! the prophet ! The loud-speaking thunder helps me; When I speak the wigwam trembles, All the unseen spirits help me; Shakes the Sacred Lodge with terror, I can hear their voices calling, Hands unseen begin to shake it ! All around the sky I hear them When I walk, the sky I tread on I can blow you strong, my brother, Bends and makes a noise beneath me I can heal you, Hiawatha I can blow you strong, my brother “Hi-au-ha " " replied the chorus, Rise and speak, O Hiawatha " “Way-ha-way !” the mystic chorus. “Hi-au-ha " " replied the chorus, “Friends of mine are all the serpents “Way-ha-way !” the mystic chorus. Hear me shake my skin of hen-hawk | Then they shook their medicine-pouches Mahng, the white loon, I can kill him ; O'er the head of Hiawatha, I can shoot your heart and kill it! Danced their medicine-dance around him ; I can blow you strong, my brother, And upstarting wild and haggard, I can heal you, Hiawatha' " Like a man from dreams awakened, |s- - ~ N s N s\ s s ~ He was healed of all his madness. From the sands of Gitche Gumee As the clouds are swept from heaven, Summoned Hiawatha's brother. Straightway from his brain departed And so mighty was the magic All his moody melancholy: Of that cry and invocation, As the ice is swept from rivers, That he heard it as he lay there Straightway from his heart departed Underneath the Big-Sea-Water; All his sorrow and affliction. From the sand he rose and listened, Then they summoned Chibiabos Heard the music and the singing, From his grave beneath the waters, Came, obedient to the summons, 272 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 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 fire-brand; Ruler in the Land of Spirits, Ruler o'er the dead, they made him, Telling him a fire to kindle For all those that died thereafter, Camp-fires for their night encampments On their solitary journey To the kingdom of Ponemah, To the land of the Hereafter. From the village of his childhood, From the homes of those who knew him, Passing silent through the forest, Like a smoke-wreath wafted sideways, Slowly vanished Chibiabos Where he passed, the branches moved not, Where he trod, the grasses bent not, And the fallen leaves of last year Made no sound beneath his footsteps. Four whole days he journeyed onward Down the pathway of the dead men ; On the dead-man's strawberry feasted, Crossed the melancholy river, On the swinging log he crossed it, Came unto the Lake of Silver, In the Stone Canoe was carried To the Islands of the Blessed, To the land of ghosts and shadows. On that journey, moving slowly, Many weary spirits saw he, Panting under heavy burdens, Laden with war-clubs, bows and arrows, Robes of fur, and pots and kettles, And with food that friends had given For that solitary journey. “Ay! why do the living,” said they, “Lay such heavy burdens on us! Better were it to go naked, Better were it to go fasting, Than to bear such heavy burdens On our long and weary journey !” Forth then issued Hiawatha, Wandered eastward, wandered westward, Teaching men the use of simples And the antidotes for poisons, And the cure of all diseases. Thus was first made known to mortals All the mystery of Medamin, All the sacred art of healing. PAU-PUK-REEWIS. YOU shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis He, the handsome Yenadizze, Whom the people called the Storm Fool, Vexed the village with disturbance ; You shall hear of all his mischief, And his flight from Hiawatha, And his wondrous transmigrations, And the end of his adventures. On the shores of Gitche Gumee, On the dunes of Nagow Wudjoo, By the shining Big-Sea-Water Stood the lodge of Pau-Puk-Keewis. It was he who in his frenzy Whirled these drifting sands together, On the dunes of Nagow Wudjoo, When, among the guests assembled, He so merrily and madly Danced at Hiawatha's wedding, Danced the Beggar's Dance to please them. Now, in search of new adventures, From his lodge went Pau-Puk-Keewis, Came with speed into the village, Found the young men all assembled In the lodge of old Iagoo, Listening to his monstrous stories, To his wonderful adventures. He was telling them the story Of Ojeeg, the Summer-Maker, How he made a hole in heaven, How he climbed up into heaven, And let out the summer-weather, The perpetual, pleasant Summer ; How the Otter first essayed it; How the Beaver, Lynx, and Badger Tried in turn the great achievement, From the summit of the mountain Smote their fists against the heavens, Smote against the sky their foreheads, HENRY WADSWORTH L OWG FELLO W. - 273 Cracked the sky, but could not break it : Shook and jostled them together, How the Wolverine, uprising, Threw them on the ground before him, Made him ready for the encounter, Still exclaiming and explaining: Bent his knees down, like a squirrel, “White are both the great Kenabeeks, Drew his arms back, like a cricket. White the Ininewug, the wedge-men, “Once he leaped,” said old Iagoo, Red are all the other pieces; “Once he leaped, and lo! above him Five tens and an eight are counted.” Bent the sky, as ice in rivers - Thus he taught the game of hazard, When the waters rise beneath it : Thus displayed it and explained it, - Twice be leaped, and lo! above him Running through its various chances, Cracked the sky, as ice in rivers Various changes, various meanings: When the freshet is at highest Twenty curious eyes stared at him. Thrice he leaped, and lo! above him Full of eagerness stared at him. Broke the shattered sky asunder, “Many games,” said old Iagoo, And he disappeared within it, “Many games of skill and hazard And Ojeeg, the Fisher Weasel, - Have I seen in different nations, With a bound went in behind him l’’ Have I played in different countries. “Hark you !” shouted Pau-Puk-Keewis He who plays with old Iagoo As he entered at the doorway; Must have very nimble fingers; “I am tired of all this talking, Though you think yourself so skilful Tired of old Iagoo's stories, I can beat you, Pau-Puk-Keewis, Tired of Hiawatha’s wisdom. I can even give you lessons Here is something to amuse you, In your game of Bowl and Counters ” Better than this endless talking.” So they sat and played together, Then from out his pouch of wolf-skin All the old men and the young men, Forth he drew, with solemn manner, Played for dresses, weapons, wanpum, All the game of Bowl and Counters, Played till midnight, played till morning, Pugasaing, with thirteen pieces. Played until the Yenadizze, White on one side were they painted, Till the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis, And vermilion on the other ; Of their treasures had despoiled them, Two Kenabeeks or great serpents, Of the best of all their dresses, Two Ininewug or wedge-men, Shirts of deer-skin, robes of ermine, One great war-club, Pugamaugun, Belts of wampum, crests of feathers, And one slender fish, the Keego, Warlike weapons, pipes and pouches. Four round pieces, Ozawabeeks, Twenty eyes glared wildly at him, And three Sheshebwug or ducklings. Like the eyes of wolves glared at him. All were made of bone and painted, Said the lucky Pau-Puk-Keewis: All except the Ozawabeeks; “In my wigwam I am lonely, These were brass, on one side burnished, In my wanderings and adventures And were black upon the other. I have need of a companion, In a wooden bowl he placed them, Fain would have a Meshinauwa, Shook and jostled them together, An attendant and pipe-bearer. Threw them on the ground before him. I will venture all these winnings, Thus exclaiming and explaining : All these garments heaped about me, “Red side up are all the pieces, All this wanpum, all these feathers, And one great Kenabeek standing On a single throw will venture On the bright side of a brass piece, - All against the young man yonder l’’ On a burnished Ozawabeek; 'T was a youth of sixteen summers, Thirteen tens and eight are counted.” ’T was a nephew of Iagoo: Then again he shook the pieces, Face-in-a-Mist, the people called him. 35 274 THE POETICAL WORKS OF As the fire burns in a pipe-head Dusky red beneath the ashes, So beneath his shaggy eyebrows Glowed the eyes of old Iagoo. “ Ugh ' " he answered very fiercely; “Ugh ' " they answered all and each one. Seized the wooden bowl the old man, Closely in his bony fingers Clutched the fatal bowl, Onagon, Shook it fiercely and with fury, Made the pieces ring together As he threw them down before him. Red were both the great Kenabeeks, Red the Ininewug, the wedge-men, Red the Sheshebwug, the ducklings, Black the four brass Ozawabeeks, White alone the fish, the Keego; Only five the pieces counted Then the smiling Pau-Puk-Keewis, Shook the bowl and threw the pieces; Lightly in the air he tossed them, And they fell about him scattered; Dark and bright the Ozawabeeks, Red and white the other pieces, And upright among the others One Ininewug was standing, Even as crafty Pau-Puk-Keewis Stood alone among the players, Saying, “Five tens! mine the game is ''' Twenty eyes glared at him fiercely, Like the eyes of wolves glared at him, As he turned and left the wigwam, Followed by his Meshinauwa, By the nephew of Iagoo, By the tall and graceful stripling, Bearing in his arms the winnings, Shirts of deer-skin, robes of ermine, Belts of wampum, pipes and weapons. “Carry them,” said Pau-Puk-Keewis, Pointing with his fan of feathers, “To my wigwam far to eastward, On the dunes of Nagow Wudjoo !” Hot and red with smoke and gambling Were the eyes of Pau-Puk-Keewis As he came forth to the freshness Of the pleasant Summer morning. HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLO W. 275 All the birds were singing gayly, 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 morning, With his fan of turkey-feathers, With his plumes and tufts of swan's down, Till he reached the farthest wigwam, Reached the lodge of Hiawatha. Silent was it and deserted; No one met him at the doorway, No one came to bid him welcome; But the birds were singing round it, In and out and round the doorway, Hopping, singing, fluttering, feeding, And aloft upon the ridge-pole Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, Sat with fiery eyes, and, screaming, Flapped his wings at Pau-Puk-Keewis. “All are gone the lodge is empty " Thus it was spake Pau-Puk-Keewis, In his heart resolving mischief; – “Gone is wary. Hiawatha, Gone the silly Laughing Water, Gone Nokomis, the old woman, And the lodge is left unguarded !” By the neck he seized the raven, Whirled it round him like a rattle, Like a medicine-pouch he shook it, Strangled Kahgahgee, the raven, From the ridge-pole of the wigwam Left its lifeless body hanging, As an insult to its master, As a taunt to Hiawatha. With a stealthy step he entered, Round the lodge in wild disorder Threw the household things about him, Piled together in confusion Bowls of wood and earthen kettles, Robes of buffalo and beaver, Skins of otter, lynx, and ermine, As an insult to Nokomis, As a taunt to Minnehaha. Then departed Pau-Puk-Keewis, Whistling, singing through the forest, Whistling gayly to the squirrels, Who from hollow boughs above him Dropped their acorn-shells upon him, Singing gayly to the wood birds, Who from out the leafy darkness Answered with a song as merry. Then he climbed the rocky headlands, Looking o'er the Gitche Gumee, Perched himself upon their summit, Waiting full of mirth and mischief The return of Hiawatha. Stretched upon his back he lay there; Far below him plashed the waters, Plashed and washed the dreamy waters; Far above him swam the heavens, Swam the dizzy, dreamy heavens; Round him hovered, fluttered, rustled, Hiawatha's mountain chickens, Flock-wise swept and wheeled about him, Almost brushed him with their pinions, And he killed them as he lay there, Slaughtered them by tens and twenties, Threw their bodies down the headland, Threw them on the beach below him, Till at length Kayoshk, the sea-gull, Perched upon a crag above them, Shouted: “It is Pau-Puk-Keewis He is slaying us by hundreds ! Send a message to our brother, Tidings send to Hiawatha!” 276 THE POETIONAL WORKS OF XVII. THE HUNTING OF PAU-PUK-REEWIS. FULL of wrath was Hiawatha That had overflowed its margin, When he came into the village, To a dam made by the beavers, Found the people in confusion, To a pond of quiet water, Heard of all the misdemeanors, - Where knee-deep the trees were standing, All the malice and the mischief, Where the water-lilies floated, Of the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis. Where the rushes waved and whispered. Hard his breath came through his nostrils, On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis, Through his teeth he buzzed and muttered On the dam of trunks and branches, Words of anger and resentment, Through whose chinks the water spouted, Hot and humming, like a hornet. - O'er whose summit flowed the streamlet. “I will slay this Pau-Puk-Keewis, From the bottom rose the beaver, Slay this mischief-maker ' " said he. Looked with two great eyes of wonder, “Not so long and wide the world is, Eyes that seemed to ask a question, Not so rude and rough the way is, At the stranger, Pau-Puk-Keewis. That my wrath shall not attain him, On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis, That my vengeance shall not reach him l’’ O'er his ankles flowed the streamlet, Then in swift pursuit departed Flowed the bright and silvery water, Hiawatha and the hunters And he spake unto the beaver, On the trail of Pau-Puk-Keewis, With a smile he spake in this wise: Through the forest, where he passed it, “O my friend Ahmeek, the beaver, To the headlands where he rested ; Cool and pleasant is the water; But they found not Pau-Puk-Keewis, Let me dive into the water, Only in the trampled grasses, Let me rest there in your lodges; In the whortleberry-bushes, Change me, too, into a beaver !” Found the couch where he had rested, Cautiously replied the beaver, Found the impress of his body. - With reserve he thus made answer : From the lowlands far beneath them, “Let me first consult the others, From the Muskoday, the meadow, - Let me ask the other beavers.” Pau-Puk-Keewis, turning backward, Down he sank into the water, Made a gesture of defiance, Heavily sank he, as a stone sinks, Made a gesture of derision ; Down among the leaves and branches, And aloud cried Hiawatha, Brown and matted at the bottom. From the summit of the mountains : On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis, “Not so long and wide the world is, O'er his ankles flowed the streamlet, Not so rude and rough the way is, Spouted through the chinks below him, But my wrath shall overtake you, Dashed upon the stones beneath him, And my vengeance shall attain you !” Spread serene and calm before him, Over rock and over river, And the sunshine and the shadows Thorough bush, and brake, and forest, Fell in flecks and gleams upon him, Ran the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis; Fell in little shining patches, Like an antelope he bounded, Through the waving, rustling branches. Till he came unto a streamlet From the bottom rose the beavers, In the middle of the forest, Silently above the surface To a streamlet still and tranquil, Rose one head and then another, HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLO W. 277 Till the pond seemed full of beavers, Found the bottom covered over Full of black and shining faces. With the trunks of trees and branches, To the beavers Pau-Puk-Keewis Hoards of food against the winter, Spake entreating, said in this wise: Piles and heaps against the famine; “Very pleasant is your dwelling, Found the lodge with arching doorway, O my friends! and safe from danger; Leading into spacious chambers. Can you not with all your cunning, Here they made him large and larger, All your wisdom and contrivance, Made him largest of the beavers, Change me, too, into a beaver ?” Ten times larger than the others. “Yes!” replied Ahmeek, the beaver, “You shall be our ruler,” said they: He the King of all the beavers, “Chief and King of all the beavers.” “Let yourself slide down among us, But not long had Pau-Puk-Keewis Down into the tranquil water.” Sat in state among the beavers, Down into the pond among them When there came a voice of warning Silently sank Pau-Puk-Keewis; From the watchman at his station Black became his shirt of deer-skin, In the water-flags and lilies, Black his moccasins and leggings, Saying, “Here is Hiawatha In a broad black tail behind him Hiawatha with his hunters | * Spread his fox-tails and his fringes; Then they heard a cry above them, He was changed into a beaver. Heard a shouting and a tramping, “Make me large,” said Pau-Puk-Keewis, Heard a crashing and a rushing, “Make me large and make me larger, And the water round and o'er them Larger than the other beavers.” Sank and sucked away in eddies, “Yes,” the beaver chief responded, And they knew their dam was broken. “When our lodge below you enter, On the lodge's roof the hunters In our wigwam we will make you Leaped, and broke it all asunder; Ten times larger than the others.” Streamed the sunshine through the crevice, Thus into the clear, brown water Sprang the beavers through the doorway, Silently sank Pau-Puk-Keewis: Hid themselves in deeper water, 278 THE POETICAL WORKS OF In the channel of the streamlet: But the mighty Pau-Puk-Keewis Could not pass beneath the doorway; He was puffed with pride and feeding, He was swollen like a bladder. Through the roof looked Hiawatha, Cried aloud, “O Pau-Puk-Keewis! Vain are all your craft and cunning, Vain your manifold disguises! Well I know you, Pau-Puk-Keewis' " With their clubs they beat and bruised him, Beat to death poor Pau-Puk-Keewis, Pounded him as maize is pounded, Till his skull was crushed to pieces. Six tall hunters, lithe and limber, Bore him home on poles and branches, Bore the body of the beaver; But the ghost, the Jeebi in him, Thought and felt as Pau-Puk-Keewis, Still lived on as Pau-Puk-Keewis. And it fluttered, strove, and struggled, Waving hither, waving thither, - - vºllº w Nº | \\ º §§ Ausset-“ Aºzardº sº - As the curtains of a wigwam Struggle with their thongs of deer-skin, When the wintry wind is blowing: Till it drew itself together, Till it rose up from the body, Till it took the form and features Of the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis Vanishing into the forest. But the wary Hiawatha Saw the figure ere it vanished, Saw the form of Pau-Puk-Keewis Glide into the soft blue shadow Of the pine-trees of the forest; Toward the squares of white beyond it, Toward an opening in the forest, Like a wind it rushed and panted, Bending all the boughs before it, And behind it, as the rain comes, Came the steps of Hiawatha. To a lake with many islands Came the breathless Pau-Puk-Keewis, Where among the water-lilies Pishnekuh, the brant, were sailing ; HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 279 Through the tufts of rushes floating, Steering through the reedy islands. Now their broad black beaks they lifted, Now they plunged beneath the water, Now they darkened in the shadow, Now they brightened in the sunshine. “Pishnekuh !” cried Pau-Puk-Keewis, “Pishnekuh ! my brothers | * said he, “Change me to a brant with plumage, With a shining neck and feathers, Make me large, and make me larger, Ten times larger than the others.” Straightway to a brant they changed him, With two huge and dusky pinions, With a bosom smooth and rounded, With a bill like two great paddles, Made him larger than the others, Ten times larger than the largest, Just as, shouting from the forest, On the shore stood Hiawatha. - Up they rose with cry and clamor, With a whir and beat of pinions, Rose up from the reedy islands, From the water-flags and lilies. And they said to Pau-Puk-Keewis: “In your flying, look not downward, Take good heed, and look not downward, Lest some strange mischance should happen, Lest some great mishap befall you !” Fast and far they fled to northward, Fast and far through mist and sunshine, Fed among the moors and fen-lands, Slept among the reeds and rushes. On the morrow as they journeyed, Buoyed and lifted by the South-wind, Wafted onward by the South-wind, Blowing fresh and strong behind them, Rose a sound of human voices, Rose a clamor from beneath them, From the lodges of a village, From the people miles beneath them. For the people of the village Saw the flock of brant with wonder, Saw the wings of Pau-Puk-Keewis Flapping far up in the ether, Broader than two doorway curtains. Pau-Puk-Keewis heard the shouting, Knew the voice of Hiawatha, Knew the outcry of Iagoo, And forgetful of the warning, Drew his neck in, and looked downward, And the wind that blew behind him Caught his mighty fan of feathers, Sent him wheeling, whirling downward All in vain did Pau-Puk-Keewis Struggle to regain his balance Whirling round and round and downward, He beheld in turn the village And in turn the flock above him, Saw the village coming nearer, And the flock receding farther, Heard the voices growing louder, Heard the shouting and the laughter; Saw no more the flock above him, Only saw the earth beneath him ; Dead out of the empty heaven, Dead among the shouting people, With a heavy sound and sullen, Fell the brant with broken pinions. But his soul, his ghost, his shadow, Still survived as Pau-Puk-Keewis, Took again the form and features Of the handsome Yenadizze, And again went rushing onward, Followed fast by Hiawatha, Crying: “Not so wide the world is, Not so long and rough the way is, But my wrath shall overtake you, But my vengeance shall attain you!” And so near he came, so near him, That his hand was stretched to seize him, His right hand to seize and hold him, When the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis Whirled and spun about in circles, Fanned the air into a whirlwind, Danced the dust and leaves about him, And amid the whirling eddies Sprang into a hollow oak-tree, Changed himself into a serpent, Gliding out through root and rubbish. With his right hand Hiawatha Smote amain the hollow oak-tree, Rent it into shreds and splinters, Left it lying there in fragments. But in vain; for Pau-Puk-Keewis, Once again in human figure, Full in sight ran on before him, Sped away in gust and whirlwind, On the shores of Gitche Gumee, Westward by the Big-Sea-Water, 280 WORKS OF THE POETICAL º * Came unto the rocky headlands, To the Pictured Rocks of sandstone, Looking over lake and landscape. And the Old Man of the Mountain, He the Manito of Mountains, Opened wide his rocky doorways, Opened wide his deep abysses, Giving Pau-Puk-Keewis shelter In his caverns dark and dreary, Bidding Pau-Puk-Keewis welcome To his gloomy lodge of sandstone. There without stood Hiawatha, Found the doorways closed against him, With his mittens, Minjekahwun, Smote great caverns in the sandstone, Cried aloud in tones of thunder, Open! I am Hiawatha!” But the old Man of the Mountain Opened not, and made no answer From the silent crags of sandstone, From the gloomy rock abysses. Then he raised his hands to heaven, Called imploring on the tempest, Called Waywassimo, the lightning, And the thunder, Annemeekee; And they came with night and darkness, Sweeping down the Big-Sea-Water From the distant Thunder Mountains; And the trembling Pau-Puk-Keewis Heard the footsteps of the thunder, Saw the red eyes of the lightning, Was afraid, and crouched and trembled. Then Waywassimo, the lightning, Smote the doorways of the caverns, With his war-club smote the doorways, Smote the jutting crags of sandstone, And the thunder, Annemeekee, Shouted down into the caverns, Saying, “Where is Pau-Puk-Keewis' " And the crags fell, and beneath them Dead among the rocky ruins Lay the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis, Lay the handsome Yenadizze, Slain in his own human figure. Ended were his wild adventures, Ended were his tricks and gambols, Ended all his craft and cunning, Ended all his mischief-making, All his gambling and his dancing, All his wooing of the maidens. Then the noble Hiawatha Took his soul, his ghost, his shadow, Spake and said: “O Pau-Puk-Keewis, Never more in human figure Shall you search for new adventures; Never more with jest and laughter Dance the dust and leaves in whirlwinds; But above there in the heavens You shall soar and sail in circles; I will change you to an eagle, To Keneu, the great war-eagle, Chief of all the fowls with feathers, Chief of Hiawatha’s chickens.” And the name of Pau-Puk-Keewis Lingers still among the people, Lingers still among the singers, And among the story-tellers; And in Winter, when the snow-flakes Whirl in eddies round the lodges, When the wind in gusty tumult O'er the smoke-flue pipes and whistles, “There,” they cry, “ comes Pau-Puk-Keewis; 2 He is dancing through the village, He is gathering in his harvest HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FFL I, O W, 281 XVIII. THE DEATH OF KWASIND. FAR and wide among the nations Spread the name and fame of Kwasind; No man dared to strive with Kwasind, No man could compete with Kwasind. But the mischievous Puk-Wudjies, They the envious Little People, They the fairies and the pygmies, Plotted and conspired against him. “If this hateful Kwasind,” said they, “If this great, outrageous fellow Goes on thus a little longer, Tearing everything he touches, Rending everything to pieces, Filling all the world with wonder, What becomes of the Puk-Wudjies? Who will care for the Puk-Wudjies 2 He will tread us down like mushrooms, Drive us all into the water, Give our bodies to be eaten By the wicked Nee-ba-naw-baigs, By the Spirits of the water | * So the angry Little People All conspired against the Strong Man, All conspired to murder Kwasind, Yes, to rid the world of Kwasind, The audacious, overbearing, Heartless, haughty, dangerous Kwasind Now this wondrous strength of Kwasind In his crown alone was seated; In his crown too was his weakness; There alone could he be wounded, Nowhere else could weapon pierce him, Nowhere else could weapon harm him. Even there the only weapon That could wound him, that could slay him, Was the seed-cone of the pine-tree, Was the blue cone of the fir-tree. This was Kwasind's fatal secret, Known to no man among mortals : But the cunning. Little People, The Puk-Wudjies, knew the secret, Knew the only way to kill him. So they gathered cones together, Gathered seed-cones of the pine-tree, Gathered blue cones of the fir-tree, In the woods by Taquamenaw, Brought them to the river's margin, Heaped them in great piles together, Where the red rocks from the margin Jutting overhang the river. There they lay in wait for Kwasind, The malicious Little People. 'Twas an afternoon in Summer ; Very hot and still the air was, Very smooth the gliding river, Motionless the sleeping shadows: Insects glistened in the sunshine, Insects skated on the water, Filled the drowsy air with buzzing, With a far resounding war-cry. Down the river came the Strong Man, In his birch canoe came Kwasind, Floating slowly down the current Of the sluggish Taquamenaw, Very languid with the weather, Very sleepy with the silence. From the overhanging branches, From the tassels of the birch-trees, Soft the Spirit of Sleep descended; By his airy hosts surrounded, His invisible attendants, Came the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin: Like the burnished Dush-kwo-ne-she, Like a dragon-fly, he hovered O'er the drowsy head of Kwasind. To his ear there came a murmur As of waves upon a sea-shore, As of far-off tumbling waters, As of winds among the pine-trees; And he felt upon his forehead Blows of little airy war-clubs, Wielded by the slumbrous legions Of the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin, As of some one breathing on him. At the first blow of their war-clubs, Fell a drowsiness on Kwasind; At the second blow they smote him, Motionless his paddle rested; 36 282 THE POETICAL WORKS OF At the third, before his vision Reeled the landscape into darkness, Very sound asleep was Kwasind. So he floated down the river, Like a blind man seated upright, Floated down the Taquamenaw, Underneath the trembling birch-trees, Underneath the wooded headlands, Underneath the war encampment Of the pygmies, 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. And he sideways swayed and tumbled, Sideways fell into the river, Plunged beneath the sluggish water Headlong, as an otter plunges; And the birch canoe, abandoned, Drifted empty down the river, Bottom upward swerved and drifted : Nothing more was seen of Kwasind. But the memory of the Strong Man Lingered long among the people, And whenever through the forest Raged and roared the wintry tempest, And the branches, tossed and troubled, Creaked and groaned and split asunder, “Death to Kwasind ' " was the sudden War-cry of the Little People. “Kwasind ' " cried they : “that is Kwasind He is gathering in his fire-wood' " HENRY WADS WORTH LOWGFELLO W. XIX. 283 THE GHOSTS, NEVER stoops the soaring vulture On his quarry in the desert, On the sick or wounded bison, But another vulture, watching From his high aerial look-out, Sees the downward plunge, and follows : And a third pursues the second, Coming from the invisible ether, First a speck, and then a vulture, Till the air is dark with pinions. So disasters come not singly ; But as if they watched and waited, Scanning one another's motions, When the first descends, the others Follow, follow, gathering flock-wise Round their victim, sick and wounded, First a shadow, then a sorrow, Till the air is dark with anguish. Now, o'er all the dreary Northland, Mighty Peboan, the Winter, Breathing on the lakes and rivers, Into stone has changed their waters. From his hair he shook the snow-flakes, Till the plains were strewn with whiteness, One uninterrupted level, As if, stooping, the Creator With his hand had smoothed them over. Through the forest, wide and wailing, Roamed the hunter on his snow-shoes; In the village worked the women, Pounded maize, or dressed the deer-skin ; And the young men played together On the ice the noisy ball-play, On the plain the dance of snow-shoes. One dark evening, after sundown, In her wigwam Laughing Water Sat with old Nokomis, waiting For the steps of Hiawatha Homeward from the hunt returning. On their faces gleamed the fire-light, Painting them with streaks of crimson, In the eyes of old Nokomis Glimmered like the watery moonlight, In the eyes of Laughing Water Glistened like the sun in water ; And behind them crouched their shadows In the corners of the wigwam, And the smoke in wreaths above them Climbed and crowded through the smoke- flue. Then the curtain of the doorway From without was slowly lifted : Brighter glowed the fire a moment, And a moment Swerved the smoke-wreath, As two women entered softly, Passed the doorway uninvited, Without word of salutation, Without sign of recognition, Sat down in the farthest corner, Crouching low among the shadows. From their aspect and their garments, Strangers seemed they in the village; Very pale and haggard were they, As they sat there sad and silent, Trembling, cowering with the shadows. Was it the wind above the smoke-flue, Muttering down into the wigwam 2 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 the Hereafter l’’ Homeward now came Hiawatha From his hunting in the forest, With the snow upon his tresses, And the red deer on his shoulders. At the feet of Laughing Water Down he threw his lifeless burden ; Nobler, handsomer she thought him, Than when first he came to woo her, First threw down the deer before her, As a token of his wishes, As a promise of the future. Then he turned and saw the strangers, Cowering, crouching with the shadows; Said within himself, “Who are they 2 What strange guests has Minnehahal" But he questioned not the strangers, 284 WORKS OF THE POETICAL Only spake to bid them welcome To his lodge, his food, his fireside. When the evening meal was ready, And the deer had been divided, Both the pallid guests, the strangers, Springing from among the shadows, Seized upon the choicest portions, Seized the white fat of the roebuck, Set apart for Laughing Water, For the wife of Hiawatha ; Without asking, without thanking, Eagerly devoured the morsels, Flitted back among the shadows In the corner of the wigwam. Not a word spake Hiawatha, Not a motion made Nokomis, Not a gesture Laughing Water ; Not a change came o'er their features; Only Minnehaha softly Whispered, saying, “They are famished ; Let them do what best delights them : Let them eat, for they are famished.” Many a daylight dawned and darkened, Many a night shook off the daylight As the pine shakes off the snow-flakes From the midnight of its branches ; Day by day the guests unmoving Sat there silent in the wigwam: But by night, in storm or starlight, Forth they went into the forest, Bringing fire-wood to the wigwam, Bringing pine-cones for the burning, Always sad and always silent. And whenever Hiawatha Came from fishing or from hunting, When the evening meal was ready, And the food had been divided, Gliding from their darksome corner, Came the pallid guests, the strangers, Seized upon the choicest portions Set aside for Laughing Water, And without rebuke or question Flitted back among the shadows. Never once had Hiawatha By a word or look reproved them : Never once had old Nokomis Made a gesture of impatience; Never once had Laughing Water Shown resentment at the outrage. All had they endured in silence, % That the rights of guest and stranger, That the virtue of free-giving, By a look might not be lessened, By a word might not be broken. Once at midnight Hiawatha, Ever wakeful, ever watchful, In the wigwam, dimly lighted By the brands that still were burning, By the glimmering, flickering fire-light, Heard a sighing, oft repeated, Heard a sobbing, as of sorrow. From his couch rose Hiawatha, From his shaggy hides of bison, Pushed aside the deer-skin curtain, Saw the pallid guests, the shadows, Sitting upright on their couches, Weeping in the silent midnight. And he said: “O guests why is it That your hearts are so afflicted, That you sob so in the midnight 7 Has perchance the old Nokomis, Has my wife, my Minnehaha, Wronged or grieved you by unkindness, Failed in hospitable duties 2 ° Then the shadows ceased from weeping, Ceased from sobbing and lamenting, And they said, with gentle voices: We are ghosts of the departed, Souls of those who once were with you. From the realms of Chibiabos Hither have we come to try you, Hither have we come to warn you. “Cries of grief and lamentation Reach us in the Blessed Islands; Cries of anguish from the living, Calling back their friends departed, Sadden us with useless Sorrow. Therefore have we come to try you ; No one knows us, no one heeds us. We are but a burden to you, And we see that the departed Have no place among the living. “Think of this, O Hiawatha Speak of it to all the people, That henceforward and forever 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, HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. 285 Not such weight of furs and wanpum, By the insult of our presence, Not such weight of pots and kettles, By the outrage of our actions. For the spirits faint beneath them. We have found you great and noble. Only give them food to carry, Fail not in the greater trial, Only give them fire to light them. Faint not in the harder struggle.” “Four days is the spirit's journey When they ceased, a sudden darkness To the land of ghosts and shadows, Fell and filled the silent wigwam. Four its lonely night encampments; Hiawatha heard a rustle Four times must their fires be lighted. As of garments trailing by him, Therefore, when the dead are buried, Heard the curtain of the doorway Let a fire, as night approaches, Lifted by a hand he saw not, Four times on the grave be kindled, Felt the cold breath of the night air, That the soul upon its journey For a moment saw the star-light : May not lack the cheerful fire-light, But he saw the ghosts no longer, May not grope about in darkness. Saw no more the wandering spirits “Farewell, noble Hiawatha! From the kingdom of Ponemah, We have put you to the trial, From the land of the Hereafter. To the proof have put your patience, XX. THE FAMINE. OH, the long and dreary Winter Hardly from his buried wigwam Oh, the cold and cruel Winter Could the hunter force a passage; Ever thicker, thicker, thicker With his mittens and his snow-shoes Froze the ice on lake and river, Vainly walked he through the forest, Ever deeper, deeper, deeper Sought for bird or beast and found none, Fell the snow o'er all the landscape, Saw no track of deer or rabbit, Fell the covering snow, and drifted In the snow beheld no footprints, Through the forest, round the village. In the ghastly, gleaming forest 286 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Fell, and could not rise from weakness, Perished there from cold and hunger. Oh the famine and the fever ! Oh the wasting of the famine ! Oh the blasting of the fever ! Oh the wailing of the children Oh the anguish of the women All the earth was sick and famished ; Hungry was the air around them, Hungry was the sky above them, And the hungry stars in heaven Like the eyes of wolves glared at them Into Hiawatha's wigwam Came two other guests, as silent As the ghosts were, and as gloomy, Waited not to be invited, Did not parley at the doorway, Sat there without word of welcome In the seat of Laughing Water; Looked with haggard eyes and hollow At the face of Laughing Water. And the foremost said: “Behold me ! I am Famine, Bukadawin l’’ And the other said: “Behold me ! I am Fever, Ahkosewin . " And the lovely Minnehaha Shuddered as they looked upon her, Shuddered at the words they uttered, Lay down on her bed in silence, Hid her face, but made no answer ; Lay there trembling, freezing, burning At the looks they cast upon her, At the fearful words they uttered. Forth into the empty forest Rushed the maddened Hiawatha ; In his heart was deadly sorrow, In his face a stony firmness; On his brow the sweat of anguish Started, but it froze and fell not. Wrapped in furs and armed for hunting, With his mighty bow of ash-tree, With his quiver full of arrows, With his mittens, Minjekahwun, Into the vast and vacant forest On his snow-shoes strode he forward. “Gitche Manito, the Mighty ’’ Cried he with his face uplifted In that bitter hour of anguish, “Give your children food, O father Give us food, or we must perish Give me food for Minnehaha, For my dying Minnehaha' " Through the far-resounding forest, Through the forest vast and vacant Rang that cry of desolation, But there came no other answer Than the echo of his crying, Than the echo of the woodlands, “Minnehaha Minnehahal ‘’ All day long roved Hiawatha In that melancholy forest, Through the shadow of whose thickets, In the pleasant days of Summer, Of that ne'er forgotten Summer, He had brought his young wife homeward From the land of the Dacotahs; When the birds sang in the thickets, And the streamlets laughed and glistened, And the air was full of fragrance, And the lovely Laughing Water Said with voice that did not tremble, “I will follow you, my husband l’’ In the wigwam with Nokomis, With those gloomy guests, that watched her, With the Famine and the Fever, She was lying, the Beloved, She the dying Minnehaha. “Hark!” she said; “I hear a rushing, Hear a roaring and a rushing, Hear the Falls of Minnehaha Calling to me from a distance l’ “No, my child !” said old Nokomis, “'T is the night-wind in the pine-trees | * “Look l’ she said; “I see my father Standing lonely at his doorway, Beckoning to me from his wigwam In the land of the Dacotahs ” “No, my child !” said old Nokomis, “”T is the smoke, that waves and beckons !” “Ah!” said she, “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 HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. 287 Calling to him in the darkness, “Hiawatha! Hiawatha!” Over snow-fields waste and pathless, Under snow-encumbered branches, Homeward hurried Hiawatha, Empty-handed, heavy-hearted, Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing: “Wahonowin! Wahonowin! Would that I had perished for you, Would that I were dead as you are Wahonowin! Wahonowin!” And he rushed into the wigwam, Saw the old Nokomis slowly Rocking to and fro and moaning, Saw his lovely Minnehaha Lying dead and cold before him, And his bursting heart within him Uttered such a cry of anguish, That the forest moaned and shuddered, That the very stars in heaven Shook and trembled with his anguish. Then he sat down, still and speechless, On the bed of Minnehaha, At the feet of Laughing Water, At those willing feet, that never More would lightly run to meet him, Never more would lightly follow. With both hands his face he covered, Seven long days and nights he sat there, As if in a swoon he sat there, Speechless, motionless, unconscious Of the daylight or the darkness. Then they buried Minnehaha; In the snow a grave they made her, In the forest deep and darksome, Underneath the moaning hemlocks; Clothed her in her richest garments, Wrapped her in her robes of ermine; Covered her with snow, like ermine, Thus they buried Minnehaha. And at night a fire was lighted, On her grave four times was kindled, For her soul upon its journey To the Islands of the Blessed. From his doorway Hiawatha Saw it burning in the forest, 288 WORKS OF THE POETICAL Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks; From his sleepless bed uprising, From the bed of Minnehaha, Stood and watched it at the doorway, That it might not be extinguished, Might not leave her in the darkness. “Farewell!” said he, “Minnehaha Farewell, O my Laughing Water All my heart is buried with you, All my thoughts go onward with you Come not back again to labor, Come not back again to suffer, Where the Famine and the Fever Wear the heart and waste the body. Soon my task will be completed, Soon your footsteps I shall follow To the Islands of the Blessed, To the Kingdom of Ponemah, To the land of the Hereafter | * THE WHITE MAN's FOOT. IN his lodge beside a river, Close beside a frozen river, Sat an old man, sad and lonely. White his hair was as a snow-drift ; Dull and low his fire was burning, And the old man shook and trembled, Folded in his Waubewyon, In his tattered white-skin-wrapper, Hearing nothing but the tempest As it roared along the forest, Seeing nothing but the snow-storm, As it whirled and hissed and drifted. All the coals were white with ashes, And the fire was slowly dying, As a young man, walking lightly, At the open doorway entered. Red with blood of youth his cheeks were, Soft his eyes, as stars in Spring-time, Bound his forehead was with grasses; Bound and plumed with scented grasses, On his lips a smile of beauty, Filling all the lodge with sunshine, In his hand a bunch of blossoms Filling all the lodge with sweetness. “Ah, my son l’’ exclaimed the old man, Happy are my eyes to see you. Sit here on the mat beside me, Sit here by the dying embers, Let us pass the night together. Tell me of your strange adventures, Of the lands where you have travelled ; I will tell you of my prowess, Of my many deeds of wonder.” From his pouch he drew his peace-pipe, Very old and strangely fashioned; Made of red stone was the pipe-head, And the stem a reed with feathers; Filled the pipe with bark of willow, Placed a burning coal upon it, Gave it to his guest, the stranger, And began to speak in this wise : “When I blow my breath about me, When I breathe upon the landscape, Motionless are all the rivers, Hard as stone becomes the water l’’ And the young man answered, smiling : “When I blow my breath about me, When I breathe upon the landscape, Flowers spring up o'er all the meadows, Singing, onward rush the rivers' " “When I shake my hoary tresses,” Said the old man darkly frowning, “All the land with snow is covered ; All the leaves from all the branches Fall and fade and die and wither, For I breathe, and lo! they are not. From the waters and the marshes Rise the wild goose and the heron, Fly away to distant regions, For I speak, and lo! they are not. And where'er my footsteps wander, All the wild beasts of the forest Hide themselves in holes and caverns, And the earth becomes as flintstone !” “When I shake my flowing ringlets,” Said the young man, Softly laughing, “Showers of rain fall warm and welcome, Plants lift up their heads rejoicing, Back into their lakes and marshes Come the wild goose and the heron, PIENRY WADS WOR TH LONG FELLO W. 289 Homeward shoots the arrowy swallow, Sing the bluebird 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 l’’ While they spake, the night departed : From the distant realms of Wabun, From his shining lodge of silver, Like a warrior robed and painted, Came the sun, and said, “Behold me ! Gheezis, the great sun, behold me !” Then the old man's tongue was speechless And the air grew warm and pleasant, And upon the wigwam sweetly Sang the bluebird 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 North-land After that unheard-of coldness, That intolerable Winter, Came the Spring with all its splendor, All its birds and all its blossoms, All its flowers and leaves and grasses. Sailing on the wind to northward, Flying in great flocks, like arrows, Like huge arrows shot through heaven, Passed the swan, the Mahnahbezee, Speaking almost as a man speaks; And in long lines waving, bending Like a bow-string snapped asunder, Came the white goose, Waw-be-wawa ; And in pairs, or singly flying, ^. Mahng the loon, with clangorous pinions, The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, And the grouse, the Mushkodasa. In the thickets and the meadows Piped the bluebird, the Owaissa, On the summit of the lodges Sang the robin, the Opechee, In the covert of the pine-trees Cooed the pigeon, the Omemee, And the sorrowing Hiawatha, Speechless in his infinite sorrow, Heard their voices calling to him, Went forth from his gloomy doorway, Stood and gazed into the heaven, Gazed upon the earth and waters. From his wanderings far to eastward, From the regions of the morning, From the shining land of Wabun, Homeward now returned Iagoo, The great traveller, the great boaster, Full of new and strange adventures, Marvels many and many wonders. , And the people of the village Listened to him as he told them Of his marvellous adventures, Laughing answered him in this wise: “Ugh! it is indeed Iagoo ! No one else beholds such wonders l’’ He had seen, he said, a water Bigger than the Big-Sea-Water, Broader than the Gitche Gumee, Bitter so that none could drink it ! At each other looked the warriors, Looked the women at each other, Smiled, and said, “It cannot be so | Kaw l’’ they said, “it cannot be sol” O'er it, said he, o'er this water Came a great canoe with pinions, A canoe with wings came flying, Bigger than a grove of pine-trees, Taller than the tallest tree-tops | And the old men and the women Looked and tittered at each other ; “Kaw ” they said, “we don’t believe it !” From its mouth, he said, to greet him, Came Waywassimo, the lightning, Came the thunder, Annemeekeel And the warriors and the women Laughed aloud at poor Iagoo: “Kaw ' ' they said, “what tales you tell us!” 37 290 THE POETICAL WORKS OF In it, said he, came a people, In the great canoe with pinions Came, he said, a hundred warriors; Painted white were all their faces And with hair their chins were covered And the warriors and the women Laughed and shouted in derision, Like the ravens on the tree-tops, Like the crows upon the hemlocks. * Kaw " they said, “what lies you tell us! Do not think that we believe them ''' Only Hiawatha laughed not, But he gravely spake and answered To their jeering and their jesting: “True is all Iagoo tells us; I have seen it in a vision, Seen the great canoe with pinions, Seen the people with white faces, Seen the coming of this bearded People of the wooden vessel From the regions of the morning, From the shining land of Wabun, “Gitche Manito, the Mighty, The Great Spirit, the Creator, Sends them hither on his errand, Sends them to us with his message. Wheresoe'er they move, before them Swarms the stinging fly, the Ahmo. Swarms the bee, the honey-maker; Wheresoe'er they tread, beneath them Springs a flower unknown among us, Springs the White-man's Foot in blossom. “Let us welcome, then, the strangers, Hail them as our friends and brothers, And the heart's right hand of friendship Give them when they come to see us. Gitche Manito, the Mighty, Said this to me in my vision. “I beheld, too, in that vision All the secrets of the future, Of the distant days that shall be. I beheld the westward marches Of the unknown, crowded nations. All the land was full of people, Restless, struggling, toiling, striving, Speaking many tongues, yet feeling But one heart-beat in their bosoms. In the woodlands rang their axes, Smoked their towns in all the valleys, Over all the lakes and rivers Rushed their great canoes of thunder. “Then a darker, drearier vision Passed before me, vague and cloud-like : I beheld our nation scattered, All forgetful of my counsels, Weakened, warring with each other: Saw the remnants of our people Sweeping westward, wild and woful, Like the cloud-rack of a tempest, Like the withered leaves of Autumn !” HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. 291 HLAWATHA's DEPARTURE. BY the shore of Gitche Gumee, By the shining Big-Sea-Water, At the doorway of his wigwam, In the pleasant Summer morning, Hiawatha stood and waited. All the air was full of freshness, All the earth was bright and joyous, And before him, through the sunshine, Westward toward the neighboring forest Passed in golden swarms the Ahmo, Passed the bees, the honey-makers, Burning, singing in the sunshine. Bright above him shone the heavens, Level spread the lake before him : From its bosom leaped the sturgeon, Sparkling, flashing in the sunshine; On its margin the great forest Stood reflected in the water, Every tree-top had its shadow, Motionless beneath the water. From the brow of Hiawatha Gone was every trace of sorrow, As 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 fingers Fell the sunshine on his features, Flecked with light his naked shoulders, As it falls and flecks an oak-tree Through the rifted leaves and branches. O'er the water floating, flying, Something in the hazy distance, Something in the mists of morning, Loomed and lifted from the water, 292 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Now seemed floating, now seemed flying, Coming nearer, nearer, nearer. Was it Shingebis the diver ? Or the pelican, the Shada 2 Or the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah 2 Or the white goose, Waw-be-wawa, With the water dripping, flashing, From its glossy neck and feathers? It was neither goose nor diver, Neither pelican nor heron, O'er the water floating, flying, Through the shining mist of morning, But a birch canoe with paddles, Rising, sinking on the water, Dripping, flashing in the Sunshine ; And within it came a people From the distant land of Wabun, From the farthest realms of morning Came the Black-Robe chief, the Prophet, He the Priest of Prayer, the Pale-face, With his guides and his companions. And the noble Hiawatha, With his hands aloft extended, Held aloft in sign of welcome, Waited, full of exultation, Till the birch canoe with paddles Grated on the shining pebbles, Stranded on the sandy margin, Till the Black-Robe chief, the Pale-face, With the cross upon his bosom, Landed on the sandy margin. Then the joyous Hiawatha Cried aloud and spake in this wise : “Beautiful is the sun, O strangers, When you come so far to see us ! All our town in peace awaits you, All our doors stand open for you ; You shall enter all our wigwams, For the heart's right hand we give you. “Never bloomed the earth so gayly, 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 flavor, Never the broad leaves of our cornfields Were so beautiful to look on, As they seem to us this morning, When you come so far to see us !” And the Black-Robe chief made answer, Stammered in his speech a little, Speaking words yet unfamiliar: “Peace be with you, Hiawatha, Peace be with you and your people, Peace of prayer, and peace of pardon, Peace of Christ, and joy of Mary !” Then the generous Hiawatha Led the strangers to his wigwam, Seated them on skins of bison, Seated them on skins of ermine, And the careful, old Nokomis Brought them food in bowls of basswood, Water brought in birchen dippers, And the calumet, the peace-pipe, Filled and lighted for their smoking. All the old men of the village, All the warriors of the nation, All the Jossakeeds, the prophets, The magicians, the Wabenos, And the medicine-men, the Medas, Came to bid the strangers welcome; “It is well,” they said, “O brothers, That you come so far to see us!” In a circle round the doorway, With their pipes they sat in silence, Waiting to behold the strangers, Waiting to receive their message; Till the Black-Robe chief, the Pale-face, From the wigwam came to greet them, Stammering in his speech a little, Speaking words yet unfamiliar: “It is well,” they said, “O brother, That you come so far to see us!” Then the Black-Robe chief, the prophet, Told his message to the people, Told the purport of his mission, Told them of the Virgin Mary, And her blessed Son, the Saviour, How in distant lands and ages He had lived on earth as we do ; How he fasted, prayed, and labored ; How the Jews, the tribe accursed, Mocked him, scourged him, crucified him ; How he rose from where they laid him, Walked again with his disciples, And ascended into heaven. HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. And the chiefs made answer, saying: “We have listened to your message, We have heard your words of wisdom, We will think on what you tell us. It is well for us, O brothers, That you come so far to see us!” Then they rose up and departed Each one homeward to his wigwam, To the young men and the women Told the story of the strangers Whom the Master of Life had sent them From the shining land of Wabun. Heavy with the heat and silence Grew the afternoon of Summer; With a drowsy sound the forest Whispered round the sultry wigwam, With a sound of sleep the water Rippled on the beach below it : From the cornfields shrill and ceaseless Sang the grasshopper, Pah-puk-keena; And the guests of Hiawatha, Weary with the heat of Summer, Slumbered in the sultry wigwam, Slowly oler the simmering landscape W W wº \\ \ º N § 293 Fell the evening's dusk and coolness, And the long and level sunbeams Shot their spears into the forest, Breaking through its shields of shadow, Rushed into each secret ambush, Searched each thicket, dingle, hollow: Still the guests of Hiawatha Slumbered in the silent wigwam. From his place rose Hiawatha, Bade farewell to old Nokomis, Spake in whispers, spake in this wise, Did not wake the guests, that slumbered: “I am going, O Nokomis, On a long and distant journey, To the portals of the Sunset, To the regions of the home-wind, Of the Northwest wind, Keewaydin. But these guests I leave behind me, In your watch and ward I leave them : See that never harm comes near them, See that never fear molests them, Never danger nor suspicion, Never want of food or shelter, In the lodge of Hiawatha' " s | 294 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Forth into the village went he, Bade farewell to all the warriors, Bade farewell to all the young men, Spake persuading, spake in this wise: “I am going, O my people, On a long and distant journey; Many moons and many winters Will have come, and will have vanished, Ere I come again to see you. But my guests I leave behind me; Listen to their words of wisdom, Listen to the truth they tell you, For the Master of Life has sent them From the land of light and morning ' " On the shore stood Hiawatha, Turned and waved his hand at parting: On the clear and luminous water Launched his birch canoe for sailing, From the pebbles of the margin Shoved it forth into the water : Whispered to it, “Westward! westward!" And with speed it darted forward. And the evening sun descending Set the clouds on fire with redness, Burned the broad sky, like a prairie, Left upon the level water One long track and trail of splendor, Down whose stream, as down a river, Westward, westward Hiawatha Sailed into the fiery sunset, Sailed into the purple vapors, Sailed into the dusk of evening. And the people from the margin Watched him floating, rising, sinking, Till the birch canoe seemed lifted High into that sea of splendor, Till it sank into the vapors Like the new moon slowly, slowly Sinking in the purple distance. And they said, “Farewell forever!” Said, “Farewell, O Hiawatha!” And the forests, dark and lonely, Moved through all their depths of dark neSS, Sighed, “Farewell, O Hiawatha!” And the waves upon the margin Rising, rippling on the pebbles, Sobbed, “Farewell, O Hiawatha!” And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, From her haunts among the fen-lands, Screamed, “Farewell, O Hiawatha!” Thus departed Hiawatha, Hiawatha the Beloved, In the glory of the sunset, In the purple mists of evening, To the regions of the home-wind, Of the Northwest wind Keewaydin, To the Islands of the Blessed, To the kingdom of Ponemah, To the land of the Hereafter : : ARTIST : GEORGE. H. BOUGHT ON. - - o - - : - - - * Why does he not come himself, and take the trouble to woo me 2 If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning !" The Courtship of Miles Standish. ====== --- Fººvºº E. ºGºº MILES STANDISH. IN the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims, To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling, Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan leather, Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain. Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and pausing Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of warfare, Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber, — Cutlass and corselet of steel, and his trusty sword of Damascus, 38 298 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical Arabic sentence, While underneath, in a corner, were fowling-piece, musket, and matchlock. Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic, Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of iron; Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard was already Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November. Near him was seated John Alden, his friend, and household companion, Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window; Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion, Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty thereof, as the captives Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, “Not Angles, but Angels.” Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the Mayflower. Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe interrupting, Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth. “Look at these arms,” he said, “the warlike weapons that hang here Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders; this breastplate, Well I remember the day ! once saved my life in a skirmish ; - - Here in front you can see the very dint of the bullet Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arcabucero. Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles Standish Would at this moment be mould, in their grave in the Flemish morasses.” Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his writing: “Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the bullet : He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield and our weapon l’ Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling: “See, how bright they are burnished, as if in an arsenal hanging ; That is because I have done it myself, and not left it to others. Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent adage; So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your inkhorn. Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invincible army, Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock, Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and pillage, And, like Caesar, I know the name of each of my soldiers l’’ This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes, as the sunbeams Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again in a moment. Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain continued: “Look! you can see from this window my brazen howitzer planted High on the roof of the church, a preacher who speaks to the purpose, Steady, straightforward, and strong, with irresistible logic, Orthodox, flashing conviction right into the hearts of the heathen. Now we are ready, I think, for any assault of the Indians; Let them come, if they like, and the sooner they try it the better, — Let them come, if they like, be it sagamore, Sachem, or pow-wow, Aspinet, Samoset, Corbitant, Squanto, or Tokamahamon l’ Long at the window he stood, and wistfully gazed on the landscape, Washed with a cold gray mist, the vapory breath of the east-wind, Forest and meadow and hill, and the steel-blue rim of the ocean, HENRY WADS WORTH /, ONG FELLO W. 299 Lying silent and sad, in the afternoon shadows and sunshine. Over his countenance flitted a shadow like those on the landscape, Gloom intermingled with light; and his voice was subdued with emotion, Tenderness, pity, regret, as after a pause he proceeded : “Yonder there, on the hill by the sea, lies buried Rose Standish; Beautiful rose of love, that bloomed for me by the wayside She was the first to die of all who came in the Mayflower! Green above her is growing the field of wheat we have sown there, H - R º º ; º º º 33% fiſſ º -- - Xºlºſſ!/Iſiſ/ºſ)/º * Bºž ( º fºllº/ſº §§§ºś% tº º ſº º º - :/ºzº Better to hide from the Indian scouts the graves of our people, Lest they should count them and see how many already have perished Sadly his face he averted, and strode up and down, and was thoughtful. ! » Fixed to the opposite wall was a shelf of books, and among them Prominent three, distinguished alike for bulk and for binding: Bariffe's Artillery Guide, and the Commentaries of 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, 300 THE POETIOA L WORKS OF Or the Artillery practice, designed for belligerent Christians. Finally down from its shelf he dragged the ponderous Roman, Seated himself at the window, and opened the book, and in silence Turned o'er the well-worn leaves, where thumb-marks thick on the margin, Like the trample of feet, proclaimed the battle was hottest, Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling, Busily writing epistles important, to go by the Mayflower, Ready to sail on the morrow, or next day at latest, God willing ! Homeward bound with the tidings of all that terrible winter, Letters written by Alden, and full of the name of Priscilla Full of the name and the fame of the Puritan maiden Priscilla II. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. NOTHING was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling, Or an occasional sigh from the laboring heart of the Captain, Reading the marvellous words and achievements of Julius Caesar. After a while he exclaimed, as he smote with his hand, palm downwards, Heavily 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 fight, and in both was equally skilfull ‘’ Straightway answered and spake John Alden, the comely, the youthful : Yes, he was equally skilled, as you say, with his pen and his weapons. Somewhere have I read, but where I forget, he could dictate Seven letters at once, at the same time writing his memoirs.” Truly,” continued the Captain, not heeding or hearing the other, Truly a wonderful man was Caius Julius Caesar ! Better be first, he said, in a little Iberian village, Than be second in Rome, and I think he was right when he said it. Twice was he married before he was twenty, and many times after ; Battles five hundred he fought, and a thousand cities he conquered; He, too, fought in Flanders, as he himself has recorded ; Finally he was stabbed by his friend, the orator Brutus ! Now, do you know what he did on a certain occasion in Flanders, When the rear-guard of his army retreated, the front giving way too, And the immortal Twelfth Legion was crowded so closely together There was no room for their swords? Why, he seized a shield from a soldier, Put himself straight at the head of his troops, and commanded the captains, Calling on each by his name, to order forward the ensigns ; Then to widen the ranks, and give more room for their weapons; So he won the day, the battle of something-or-other. That's what I always say; if you wish a thing to be well done, You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others!” All was silent again ; the Captain continued his reading. Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling Writing epistles important to go next day by the Mayflower, HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. Filled with the name and the fame of the Puritan maiden Priscilla ; Every sentence began or closed with the name of Priscilla, Till the treacherous pen, to which he confided the secret, Strove to betray it by singing and shouting the name of Priscilla Finally closing his book, with a bang of the ponderous cover, Sudden and loud as the sound of a soldier grounding his musket, Thus to the young man spake Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth : “When you have finished your work, I have something important to tell you. Be not however in haste; I can wait ; I shall not be impatient l’’ Straightway Alden replied, as he folded the last of his letters, Pushing his papers aside, and giving respectful attention: “Speak; for whenever you speak, I am always ready to listen, Always ready to hear whatever pertains to Miles Standish.” Thereupon answered the Captain, embarrassed, and culling his phrases: 30| 3 % % 302 THE POETICAL WORKS OF “”T is not good for a man to be alone, say the Scriptures, This I have said before, and again and again I repeat it : Every hour in the day, I think it, and feel it, and say it. Since Rose Standish died, my life has been weary and dreary; Sick at heart have I been, beyond the healing of friendship ; Oft in my lonely hours have I thought of the maiden Priscilla. She is alone in the world; her father and mother and brother Died in the winter together; I saw her going and coming, Now to the grave of the dead, and now to the bed of the dying, Patient, courageous, and strong, and said to myself, that if ever There were angels on earth, as there are angels in heaven, Two have I seen and known ; and the angel whose name is Priscilla Holds in my desolate life the place which the other abandoned. Long have I cherished the thought, but never have dared to reveal it, Being a coward in this, though valiant enough for the most part. Go to the damsel Priscilla, the loveliest maiden of Plymouth, Say that a blunt old Captain, a man not of words but of actions, Offers his hand and his heart, the hand and heart of a soldier. Not in these words, you know, but this in short is my meaning; I am a maker of war, and not a maker of phrases. You, who are bred as a scholar, can say it in elegant language, Such as you read in your books of the pleadings and wooings of lovers, Such as you think best adapted to win the heart of a maiden.” When he had spoken, John Alden, the fair-haired, taciturn stripling, All aghast at his words, surprised, embarrassed, bewildered, Trying to mask his dismay by treating the subject with lightness, Trying to smile, and yet feeling his heart stand still in his bosom, Just as a timepiece stops in a house that is stricken by lightning, Thus made answer and spake, or rather stammered than answered: “Such a message as that, I am sure I should mangle and mar it ; If you would have it well done, – I am only repeating your maxim, - You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others' " But with the air of a man whom nothing can turn from his purpose, Gravely shaking his head, made answer the Captain of Plymouth : “Truly the maxim is good, and I do not mean to gainsay it; But we must use it discreetly, and not waste powder for nothing. Now, as I said before, I was never a maker of phrases. I can march up to a fortress and summon the place to surrender, But march up to a woman with such a proposal, I dare not. I’m not afraid of bullets, nor shot from the mouth of a cannon, But of a thundering ‘No point-blank from the mouth of a woman, That I confess I’m afraid of, nor am I ashamed to confess it ! So you must grant my request, for you are an elegant scholar, Having the graces of speech, and skill in the turning of phrases.” Taking the hand of his friend, who still was reluctant and doubtful, Holding it long in his own, and pressing it kindly, he added: “Though I have spoken thus lightly, yet deep is the feeling that prompts me; Surely you cannot refuse what I ask in the name of our friendship ! ” Then made answer John Alden : “The name of friendship is sacred; HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLO W. 303 What you demand in that name, I have not the power to deny you!” So the strong will prevailed, subduing and moulding the gentler, Friendship prevailed over love, and Alden went on his errand. III. THE LOVER's ERRAND. So the strong will prevailed, and Alden went on his errand, Out of the street of the village, and into the paths of the forest, Into the tranquil woods, where bluebirds and robins were building Towns in the populous trees, with hanging gardens of verdure, Peaceful, aerial cities of joy and affection and freedom. All around him was calm, but within him commotion and conflict, Love contending with friendship, and self with each generous impulse. To and fro in his breast his thoughts were heaving and dashing, As in a foundering ship, with every roll of the vessel, Washes the bitter sea, the merciless surge of the ocean “Must I relinquish it all,” he cried with a wild lamentation, — “Must I relinquish it all, the joy, the hope, the illusion ? Was it for this I have loved, and waited, and worshipped in silence 2 Was it for this I have followed the flying feet and the shadow Over the wintry sea, to the desolate shores of New England 7 Truly the heart is deceitful, and out of its depths of corruption Rise, like an exhalation, the misty phantoms of passion ; Angels of light they seem, but are only delusions of Satan. All is clear to me now ; I feel it, I see it distinctly This is the hand of the Lord; it is laid upon me in anger, For I have followed too much the heart's desires and devices, Worshipping Astaroth blindly, and impious idols of Baal. This is the cross I must bear ; the sin and the swift retribution.” So through the Plymouth woods John Alden went on his errand ; Crossing the brook at the ford, where it brawled over pebble and shallow, Gathering still, as he went, the May-flowers blooming around him, Fragrant, filling the air with a strange and wonderful sweetness, Children lost in the woods, and covered with leaves in their slumber. “Puritan flowers,” he said, “and the type of Puritan maidens, Modest and simple and sweet, the very type of Priscilla So I will take them to her ; to Priscilla the May-flower of Plymouth, Modest and simple and sweet, as a parting gift will I take them ; Breathing their silent farewells, as they fade and wither and perish, Soon to be thrown away as is the heart of the giver.” So through the Plymouth woods John Alden went on his errand; Came to an open space, and saw the disk of the ocean, Sailless, sombre and cold with the comfortless breath of the east-wind; Saw the new-built house, and people at work in a meadow; Heard, as he drew near the door, the musical voice of Priscilla Singing the hundredth Psalm, the grand old Puritan anthem, THE POETICAL WORKS OF Music that Luther sang to the sacred words of the Psalmist, Full of the breath of the Lord, consoling and comforting many. Then, as he opened the door, he beheld the form of the maiden Seated beside her wheel, and the carded wool like a snow-drift Piled at her knee, her white hands feeding the ravenous spindle, While with her foot on the treadle she guided the wheel in its motion. Open wide on her lap lay the well-worn psalm-book of Ainsworth, Printed in Amsterdam, the words and the music together, Rough-hewn, angular notes, like stones in the wall of a churchyard, Darkened and overhung by the running vine of the verses. Such was the book from whose pages she sang the old Puritan anthem, She, the Puritan girl, in the solitude of the forest, Making the humble house and the modest apparel of home-spun Beautiful with her beauty, and rich with the wealth of her being ! Over him rushed, like a wind that is keen and cold and relentless, Thoughts of what might have been, and the weight and woe of his errand; All the dreams that had faded, and all the hopes that had vanished, All his life henceforth a dreary and tenantless mansion, HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLO W. 305 Haunted by vain regrets, and pallid, sorrowful faces. Still he said to himself, and almost fiercely he said it, “Let not him that putteth his hand to the plough look backwards; Though the ploughshare cut through the flowers of life to its fountains, Though it pass o'er the graves of the dead and the hearths of the living, It is the will of the Lord ; and his mercy endureth forever !” So he entered the house; and the hum of the wheel and the singing Suddenly ceased; for Priscilla, aroused by his step on the threshold, Rose as he entered, and gave him her hand, in signal of welcome, Saying, “I knew it was you, when I heard your step in the passage; For I was thinking of you, as I sat there singing and spinning.” Awkward and dumb with delight, that a thought of him had been mingled Thus in the sacred psalm, that came from the heart of the maiden, Silent before her he stood, and gave her the flowers for an answer, Finding no words for his thought. He remembered that day in the winter, After the first great snow, when he broke a path from the village, Reeling and plunging along through the drifts that encumbered the doorway, Stamping the snow from his feet as he entered the house, and Priscilla Laughed at his snowy locks, and gave him a seat by the fireside, Grateful and pleased to know he had thought of her in the snow-storm, Had he but spoken then perhaps not in vain had he spoken ; 39 306 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Now it was all too late; the golden moment had vanished! So he stood there abashed, and gave her the flowers for an answer. Then they sat down and talked of the birds and the beautiful Spring-time, Talked of their friends at home, and the 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 neighbors f 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. Kind are the people I live with, and dear to me my religion; Still my heart is so sad, that I wish myself back in Old England. You will say it is wrong, but I cannot help it: I almost Wish myself back in Old England, I feel so lonely and wretched.” Thereupon answered the youth: “Indeed I do not condemn you; Stouter hearts than a woman’s have quailed in this terrible winter. Yours is tender and trusting, and needs a stronger to lean on ; So I have come to you now, with an offer and proffer of marriage Made by a good man and true, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth !” Thus he delivered his message, the dexterous writer of letters, – Did not embellish the theme, nor array it in beautiful phrases, But came straight to the point, and blurted it out like a school-boy; Even the Captain himself could hardly have said it more bluntly. Mute with amazement and sorrow, Priscilla the Puritan maiden Looked into Alden’s face, her eyes dilated with wonder, Feeling his words like a blow, that stunned her and rendered her speechless; Till at length she exclaimed, interrupting the ominous silence: “If the great captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me, Why does he not come himself, and take the trouble to woo me? If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning !” Then John Alden began explaining and smoothing the matter, Making it worse as he went, by saying the Captain was busy, - Had no time for such things; — such things the words grating harshly Fell on the ear of Priscilla ; and swift as a flash she made answer: “Has he no time for such things, as you call it, before he is married, Would he be likely to find it, or make it, after the wedding 7 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. HENRY WADSWORTH LOWGF/// O IV. 307 When one is truly in love, one not only says it, but shows it. Had he but waited awhile, had he only showed that he loved me, Even this Captain of yours—who knows? –at last might have won me, Old and rough as he is ; but now it never can happen.” Still John Alden went on, unheeding the words of Priscilla, Urging the suit of his friend, explaining, persuading, expanding; Spoke of his courage and skill, and of all his battles in F landers, How with the people of God he had chosen to suffer affliction; How, in return for his zeal, they had made him Captain of Plymouth; He was a gentleman born, could trace his pedigree plainly Back to Hugh Standish of Duxbury Hall, in Lancashire, England, Who was the son of Ralph, and the grandson of Thurston de Standish; Heir unto vast estates, of which he was basely defrauded, 308 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Still bore the family arms, and had for his crest a cock argent Combed and wattled gules, and all the rest of the blazon. He was a man of honor, of noble and generous nature; Though he was rough, he was kindly; she knew how during the winter He had attended the sick, with a hand as gentle as woman's : Somewhat hasty and hot, he could not deny it, and headstrong, Stern as a soldier might be, but hearty, and placable always, Not to be laughed at and scorned, because he was little of stature; For he was great of heart, magnanimous, courtly, courageous; Any woman in Plymouth, nay, any woman in England, Might be happy and proud to be called the wife of Miles Standish But as he warmed and glowed, in his simple and eloquent language, Quite forgetful of self, and full of the praise of his rival, Archly the maiden smiled, and, with eyes overrunning with laughter, Said, in a tremulous voice, “Why don't you speak for yourself, John’” IV. JOHN ALDEN. INTo the open air John Alden, perplexed and bewildered, Rushed like a man insane, and wandered alone by the sea-side; Paced up and down the sands, and bared his head to the east-wind, Cooling his heated brow, and the fire and fever within him. Slowly as out of the heavens, with apocalyptical splendors, HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLOW. 309 Sank the City of God, in the vision of John the Apostle, So, with its cloudy walls of chrysolite, jasper, and sapphire, Sank the broad red sun, and over its turrets uplifted Glimmered the golden reed of the angel who measured the city. “Welcome, O wind of the East !” he exclaimed in his wild exultation, “Welcome, O wind of the East, from the caves of the misty Atlantic Blowing o'er fields of dulse, and measureless meadows of sea-grass, Blowing o'er rocky wastes, and the grottos and gardens of ocean Lay thy cold, moist hand on my burning forehead, and wrap me Close in thy garments of mist, to allay the fever within me!” Like an awakened conscience, the sea was moaning and tossing, Beating remorseful and loud the mutable sands of the sea-shore. Fierce in his soul was the struggle and tumult of passions contending; Love triumphant and crowned, and friendship wounded and bleeding, Passionate cries of desire, and importunate pleadings of duty “Is it my fault,” he said, “that the maiden has chosen between us? Is it my fault that he failed, - my fault that I am the victor?” Then within him there thundered a voice, like the voice of the Prophet: “It hath displeased the Lord!” — and he thought of David's transgression, Bathsheba's beautiful face, and his friend in the front of the battle ! Shame and confusion of guilt, and abasement and self-condemnation, Overwhelmed him at once; and he cried in the deepest contrition: “It hath displeased the Lord! It is the temptation of Satan l’ Then, uplifting his head, he looked at the sea, and beheld there Dimly the shadowy form of the Mayflower riding at anchor, Rocked on the rising tide, and ready to sail on the morrow ; Heard the voices of men through the mist, the rattle of cordage Thrown on the deck, the shouts of the mate, and the sailors’ “Ay, ay, Sir!” Clear and distinct, but not loud, in the dripping air of the twilight. 310 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Still for a moment he stood, and listened, and stared at the vessel, Then went hurriedly on, as one who, seeing a phantom, Stops, then quickens his pace, and follows the beckoning shadow. Yes, it is plain to me now,” he murmured ; “the hand of the Lord is Léading me out of the land of darkness, the bondage of error, Through the Sea, that shall lift the walls of its waters around me, Hiding me, cutting me off, from the cruel thoughts that pursue me. Back will I go o'er the ocean, this dreary land will abandon, Her whom I may not love, and him whom my heart has offended. Better to be in my grave in the green old churchyard in England, Close by my mother's side, and among the dust of my kindred ; Better be dead and forgotten, than living in shame and dishonor; Sacred and safe and unseen, in the dark of the narrow chamber With me my secret shall lie, like a buried jewel that glimmers Bright on the hand that is dust, in the chambers of silence and darkness, - Yes, as the marriage ring of the great espousal hereafter l’” Thus as he spake, he turned, in the strength of his strong resolution, Leaving behind him the shore, and hurried along in the twilight, Through the congenial gloom of the forest silent and sombre, Till he beheld the lights in the seven houses of Plymouth, Shining like seven stars in the dusk and mist of the evening. Soon he entered his door, and found the redoubtable Captain Sitting alone, and absorbed in the martial pages of Caesar, Fighting some great campaign in Hainault or Brabant or Flanders. Long have you been on your errand,” he said with a cheery demeanor, Even as one who is waiting an answer, and fears not the issue. Not far off is the house, although the woods are between us; But you have lingered so long, that while you were going and coming I have fought ten battles and sacked and demolished a city. Come, sit down, and in order relate to me all that has happened.” Then John Alden spake, and related the wondrous adventure, From beginning to end, minutely, just as it happened ; How he had seen Priscilla, and how he had sped in his courtship, Only smoothing a little, and softening down her refusal. But when he came at length to the words Priscilla had spoken, Words so tender and cruel: “Why don’t you speak for yourself, John ” Up leaped the Captain of Plymouth, and stamped on the floor, till his armor Clanged on the wall, where it hung, with a sound of sinister Omen. All his pent-up wrath burst forth in a sudden explosion, E’en as a hand-grenade, that scatters destruction around it. Wildly he shouted, and loud: “John Alden you have betrayed me ! Me, Miles Standish, your friend l have supplanted, defrauded, betrayed me ! One of my ancestors ran his sword through the heart of Wat Tyler; Who shall prevent me from running my own through the heart of a traitor 2 Yours is the greater treason, for yours is a treason to friendship ! You, who lived under my roof, whom I cherished and loved as a brother ; You, who have fed at my board, and drunk at my cup, to whose keeping I have intrusted my honor, my thoughts the most sacred and secret, — HENRY WADSWORTH LOWGFELLO W. 311 You too, Brutus' ah woe to the name of friendship hereafter | Brutus was Caesar's friend, and you were mine, but henceforward Let there be nothing between us save war, and implacable hatred' " So spake the Captain of Plymouth, and strode about in the chamber, Chafing and choking with rage; like cords were the veins on his temples. But in the midst of his anger a man appeared at the doorway, Bringing in uttermost haste a message of urgent importance, Rumors of danger and war and hostile incursions of Indians ! Straightway the Captain paused, and, without further question or parley, Took from the nail on the wall his sword with its scabbard of iron, Buckled the belt round his waist, and, frowning fiercely, departed. Alden was left alone. He heard the clank of the scabbard Growing fainter and fainter, and dying away in the distance. Then he arose from his seat, and looked forth into the darkness, Felt the cool air blow on his cheek, that was hot with the insult, Lifted his eyes to the heavens, and, folding his hands as in childhood, Prayed in the silence of night to the Father who seeth in secret. Meanwhile the choleric Captain strode wrathful away to the council, Found it already assembled, impatiently waiting his coming : Men in the middle of life, austere and grave in deportment, Only one of them old, the hill that was nearest to heaven, Covered with snow, but erect, the excellent Elder of Plymouth. 312 THE POETICAL WORKS OF God had sifted three kingdoms to find the wheat for this planting, Then had sifted the wheat, as the living seed of a nation : So say the chronicles old, and such is the faith of the people! Near them was standing an Indian, in attitude stern and defiant, Naked down to the waist, and grim and ferocious in aspect; While on the table before them was lying unopened a Bible, Ponderous, bound in leather, brass-studded, printed in Holland, And beside it outstretched the skin of a rattlesnake glittered, Filled, like a quiver, with arrows; a signal and challenge of warfare, Brought by the Indian, and speaking with arrowy tongues of defiance. This Miles Standish beheld, as he entered, and heard them debating What were an answer befitting the hostile message and menace, Talking of this and of that, contriving, suggesting, objecting; One voice only for peace, and that the voice of the Elder, Judging it wise and well that some at least were converted, Rather than any were slain, for this was but Christian behavior Then out spake Miles Standish, the stalwart Captain of Plymouth, Muttering deep in his throat, for his voice was husky with anger, “What! do you mean to make war with milk and the water of roses? Is it to shoot red squirrels you have your howitzer planted There on the roof of the church, or is it to shoot red devils? Truly the only tongue that is understood by a savage Must be the tongue of fire that speaks from the mouth of the cannon l’ Thereupon answered and said the excellent Elder of Plymouth, Somewhat amazed and alarmed at this irreverent language: “Not so thought St. Paul, nor yet the other Apostles; Not from the cannon's mouth were the tongues of fire they spake with !” But unheeded fell this mild rebuke on the Captain, Who had advanced to the table, and thus continued discoursing: “Leave this matter to me, for to me by right it pertaineth, War is a terrible trade; but in the cause that is righteous, Sweet is the smell of powder; and thus I answer the challenge . " Then from the rattlesnake's skin, with a sudden, contemptuous gesture, Jerking the Indian arrows, he filled it with powder and bullets Full to the very jaws, and handed it back to the savage, Saying, in thundering tones: “Here, take it ! this is your answer!” Silently out of the room then glided the glistening savage, Bearing the serpent’s skin, and seeming himself like a serpent, Winding his sinuous way in the dark to the depths of the forest. HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. 313 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. Standish the stalwart it was, with eight of his valorous army, Led by their Indian guide, by Hobomok, friend of the white men, Northward marching to quell the sudden revolt of the savage. Giants they seemed in the mist, or the mighty men of King David; Giants in heart they were, who believed in God and the Bible, – Ay, who believed in the smiting of Midianites and Philistines. Over them gleamed far off the crimson banners of morning; Under them loud on the sands, the serried billows, advancing, Fired along the line, and in regular order retreated. Many a mile had they marched, when at length the village of Plymouth Woke from its sleep, and arose, intent on its manifold labors. 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, 40 314 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 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 Mayflower riding at anchor, Battered and blackened and worn by all the storms of the winter. Loosely against her masts was hanging and flapping her canvas, Rent by so many gales, and patched by the hands of the sailors. Suddenly from her side, as the sun rose over the ocean, Darted a puff of smoke, and floated seaward; anon rang Loud over field and forest the cannon's roar, and the echoes Heard and repeated the sound, the signal-gun of departure Ah but with louder echoes replied the hearts of the people! Meekly, in voices subdued, the chapter was read from the Bible, Meekly the prayer was begun, but ended in fervent entreaty Then from their houses in haste came forth the Pilgrims of Plymouth, Men and women and children, all hurrying down to the sea-shore, Eager, with tearful eyes, to say farewell to the Mayflower, Homeward bound o'er the sea, and leaving them here in the desert. Foremost among them was Alden. All night he had lain without slumber, Turning and tossing about in the heat and unrest of his fever. He had beheld Miles Standish, who came back late from the council, Stalking into the room, and heard him mutter and murmur, Sometimes it seemed a prayer, and sometimes it sounded like swearing. Once he had come to the bed, and stood there a moment in silence; Then he had turned away, and said: “I will not awake him; Let him sleep on, it is best ; for what is the use of more talking!” Then he extinguished the light, and threw himself down on his pallet, Dressed as he was, and ready to start at the break of the morning, — Covered himself with the cloak he had worn in his campaigns in Flanders, – Slept as a soldier sleeps in his bivouac, ready for action. But with the dawn he arose; in the twilight Alden beheld him Put on his corselet of steel, and all the rest of his armor, Buckle about his waist his trusty blade of Damascus, Take from the corner his musket, and so stride out of the chamber. Often the heart of the youth had burned and yearned to embrace him, Often his lips had essayed to speak, imploring for pardon; All the old friendship came back, with its tender and grateful emotions; But his pride overmastered the nobler nature within him, - Pride, and the sense of his wrong, and the burning fire of the insult. So he beheld his friend departing in anger, but spake not, Saw him go forth to danger, perhaps to death, and he spake not! Then he arose from his bed, and heard what the people were saying, Joined in the talk at the door, with Stephen and Richard and Gilbert, Joined in the morning prayer, and in the reading of Scripture, And, with the others, in haste went hurrying down to the sea-shore, HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLO W. 315 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 impatient Lest he should lose the tide, or the wind might shift to the eastward, Square-built, hearty, and strong, with an odor 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. f SS R |S §sº s s, s Nearer the boat stood Alden, with one foot placed on the gunwale, One still firm on the rock, and talking at times with the sailors, Seated erect on the thwarts, all ready and eager for starting. He too was eager to go, and thus put an end to his anguish, Thinking to fly from despair, that swifter than keel is or canvas, Thinking to drown in the sea the ghost that would rise and pursue him. But as he gazed on the crowd, he beheld the form of Priscilla Standing dejected among them, unconscious of all that was passing. Fixed were her eyes upon his, as if she divined his intention, Fixed with a look so sad, so reproachful, imploring, and patient, That with a sudden revulsion his heart recoiled from its purpose, As from the verge of a crag, where one step more is destruction. Strange is the heart of man, with its quick, mysterious instincts' Strange is the life of man, and fatal or fated are moments, Whereupon turn, as on hinges, the gates of the wall adamantine ! “Here I remain ' " he exclaimed, as he looked at the heavens above him, Thanking the Lord whose breath had scattered the mist and the madness, Wherein, blind and lost, to death he was staggering headlong. 316 THE POETICAL WORKS of “Yonder snow-white cloud, that floats in the ether above me, Seems like a hand that is pointing and beckoning over the ocean. There is another hand, that is not so spectral and ghost-like, Holding me, drawing me back, and clasping mine for protection. Float, O hand of cloud, and vanish away in the ether Roll thyself up like a fist, to threaten and daunt me; I heed not Either your warning or menace, or any omen of evil There is no land so sacred, no air so pure and so wholesome, As is the air she breathes, and the soil that is pressed by her footsteps. Here for her sake will I stay, and like an invisible presence Hover around her forever, protecting, supporting her weakness; Yes! as my foot was the first that stepped on this rock at the landing, So, with the blessing of God, shall it be the last at the leaving !” Meanwhile the Master alert, but with dignified air and important, Scanning with watchful eye the tide and the wind and the weather, Walked about on the sands, and the people crowded around him Saying a few last words, and enforcing his careful remembrance. Then, taking each by the hand, as if he were grasping a tiller, Into the boat he sprang, and in haste shoved off to his vessel, Glad in his heart to get rid of all this worry and flurry, Glad to be gone from a land of sand and sickness and sorrow, Short allowance of victual, and plenty of nothing but Gospel ! Lost in the sound of the oars was the last farewell of the Pilgrims. O strong hearts and true ! not one went back in the Mayflower No, not one looked back, who had set his hand to this ploughing! Soon were heard on board the shouts and songs of the sailors Heaving the windlass round, and hoisting the ponderous anchor. Then the yards were braced, and all sails set to the west-wind, Blowing steady and strong; and the Mayflower sailed from the harbor, Rounded the point of the Gurnet, and leaving far to the southward Island and cape of sand, and the Field of the First Encounter, Took the wind on her quarter, and stood for the open Atlantic, Borne on the send of the sea, and the swelling hearts of the Pilgrims. Long in silence they watched the receding sail of the vessel, Much endeared to them all, as something living and human ; Then, as if filled with the spirit, and wrapt in a vision prophetic, Baring his hoary head, the excellent Elder of Plymouth Said, “Let us pray !” and they prayed, and thanked the Lord and took courage. Mournfully sobbed the waves at the base of the rock, and above them Bowed and whispered the wheat on the hill of death, and their kindred Seemed to awake in their graves, and to join in the prayer that they uttered. Sun-illumined and white, on the eastern verge of the ocean Gleamed the departing sail, like a marble slab in a graveyard ; Buried beneath it lay forever all hope of escaping. Lo! as they turned to depart, they saw the form of an Indian, Watching them from the hill; but while they spake with each other, Pointing with outstretched hands, and saying, “Look " " he had vanished. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 317 So they returned to their homes; but Alden lingered a little, Musing alone on the shore, and watching the wash of the billows Round the base of the rock, and the sparkle and flash of the sunshine, Like the spirit of God, moving visibly over the waters. VI e PRISCILLA. THUS for a while he stood, and mused by the shore of the ocean, Thinking of many things, and most of all of Priscilla ; And as if thought had the power to draw to itself, like the loadstone, Whatsoever it touches, by subtile laws of its nature, Lo as he turned to depart, Priscilla was standing beside him. “Are you so much offended, you will not speak to me?” said she. “Am I so much to blame, that yesterday, when you were pleading Warmly the cause of another, my heart, impulsive and wayward, Pleaded your own, and spake out, forgetful perhaps of decorum ? Certainly you can forgive me for speaking so frankly, for saying What I ought not to have said, yet now I can never unsay it; For there are moments in life, when the heart is so full of emotion, That if by chance it be shaken, or into its depths like a pebble Drops some careless word, it overflows, and its secret, Spilt on the ground like water, can never be gathered together. Yesterday I was shocked, when I heard you speak of Miles Standish, Praising his virtues, transforming his very defects into virtues, Praising his courage and strength, and even his fighting in Flanders, As if by fighting alone you could win the heart of a woman, Quite overlooking yourself and the rest, in exalting your hero. Therefore I spake as I did, by an irresistible impulse. You will forgive me, I hope, for the sake of the friendship between us, Which is too true and too sacred to be so easily broken l’’ Thereupon answered John Alden, the scholar, the friend of Miles Standish: “I was not angry with you, with myself alone I was angry, Seeing how badly I managed the matter I had in my keeping.” “No l’ interrupted the maiden, with answer prompt and decisive ; “No ; you were angry with me, for speaking so frankly and freely. It was wrong, I acknowledge; for it is the fate of a woman Long to be patient and silent, to wait like a ghost that is speechless, Till some questioning voice dissolves the spell of its silence. Hence is the inner life of so many suffering women Sunless and silent and deep, like subterranean rivers Running through caverns of darkness, unheard, unseen, and unfruitful, Chafing their channels of stone, with endless and profitless murmurs.” Thereupon answered John Alden, the young man, the lover of women: “Heaven forbid it, Priscilla; and truly they seem to me always More like the beautiful rivers that watered the garden of Eden, More like the river Euphrates, through deserts of Havilah flowing, 3.18 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Filling the land with delight, and memories sweet of the garden " “Ah, by these words, I can see,” again interrupted the maiden, “How very little you prize me, or care for what I am saying. When from the depths of my heart, in pain and with secret misgiving, Frankly I speak to you, asking for sympathy only and kindness, Straightway you take up my words, that are plain and direct and in earnest, Turn them away from their meaning, and answer with flattering phrases. This is not right, is not just, is not true to the best that is in you ; For I know and esteem you, and feel that your nature is noble, Lifting mine up to a higher, a more ethereal level. Therefore I value your friendship, and feel it perhaps the more keenly If you say aught that implies I am only as one among many, If you make use of those common and complimentary phrases Most men think so fine, in dealing and speaking with women, But which women reject as insipid, if not as insulting.” l s \ \, s Q s ºf ºt * ſ º - - -- | | sº º | Mute and amazed was Alden ; and listened and looked at Priscilla, Thinking he never had seen her more fair, more divine in her beauty. He who but yesterday pleaded so glibly the cause of another, Stood there embarrassed and silent, and seeking in vain for an answer. So the maiden went on, and little divined or imagined What was at work in his heart, that made him so awkward and speechless. “Let us, then, be what we are, and speak what we think, and in all things Keep ourselves loyal to truth, and the sacred professions of friendship. It is no secret I tell you, nor am I ashamed to declare it : I have liked to be with you, to see you, to speak with you always. So I was hurt at your words, and a little affronted to hear you HEWR Y WADSWORTH LOWG FELLO W. 319 Urge me to marry your friend, though he were the Captain Miles Standish. For I must tell you the truth: much more to me is your friendship Than all the love he could give, were he twice the hero you think him.” Then she extended her hand, and Alden, who eagerly grasped it, Felt all the wounds in his heart, that were aching and bleeding so sorely, Healed by the touch of that hand, and he said, with a voice full of feeling: “Yes, we must ever be friends; and of all who offer you friendship Let me be ever the first, the truest, the nearest and dearest ’’ Casting a farewell look at the glimmering sail of the Mayflower, 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 l” But as he gently rebuked her, and told her how he had suffered, - How he had even determined to sail that day in the Mayflower, And had remained for her sake, on hearing the dangers that threatened, - .. All her manner was changed, and she said with a faltering accent, “Truly I thank you for this: how good you have been to me always l’ Thus, as a pilgrim devout, who toward Jerusalem journeys, Taking three steps in advance, and one reluctantly backward, Urged by importunate zeal, and withheld by pangs of contrition; Slowly but steadily onward, receding yet ever advancing, Journeyed this Puritan youth to the Holy Land of his longings, Urged by the fervor 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 odor of powder Seeming more sweet to his nostrils than all the scents of the forest. Silent and moody he went, and much he revolved his discomfort ; He who was used to success, and to easy victories always, Thus to be flouted, rejected, and laughed to scorn by a maiden, Thus to be mocked and betrayed by the friend whom most he had trusted Ah! 't was too much to be borne, and he fretted and chafed in his armor 320 THE POETIOAL WORKS OF “I 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? 'T was but a dream, -let it pass, – let it vanish like so many others! What I thought was a flower, is only a weed, and is worthless; Out of my heart will I pluck it, and throw it away, and henceforward Be but a fighter of battles, a lover and wooer of dangers l’” Thus he revolved in his mind his sorry defeat and discomfort, While he was marching by day or lying at night in the forest, Looking up at the trees, and the constellations beyond them. After a three days' march he came to an Indian encampment Pitched on the edge of a meadow, between the sea and the forest; Women at work by the tents, and warriors, horrid with War-paint, Seated about a fire, and smoking and talking together; Who, when they saw from afar the sudden approach of the white men, Saw the flash of the sun on breastplate and sabre and musket, Straightway leaped to their feet, and two, from among them advancing, Came to parley with Standish, and offer him furs as a present; Friendship was in their looks, but in their hearts there was hatred. Braves of the tribe were these, and brothers, gigantic in stature, Huge as Goliath of Gath, or the terrible Og, king of Bashan; One was Pecksuot named, and the other was called Wattawamat. Round their necks were suspended their knives in scabbards of wampum, Two-edged, trenchant knives, with points as sharp as a needle. Other arms had they none, for they were cunning and crafty. “Welcome, English l’ they said, - these words they had learned from the traders Touching at times on the coast, to barter and chaffer for peltries. Then in their native tongue they began to parley with Standish, Through his guide and interpreter, Hobomok, friend of the white man, Begging for blankets and knives, but mostly for muskets and powder, Kept by the white man, they said, concealed, with the plague, in his cellars, Ready to be let loose, and destroy his brother the red man But when Standish refused, and said he would give them the Bible, Suddenly changing their tone, they began to boast and to bluster. Then Wattawamat advanced with a stride in front of the other, And, with a lofty demeanor, thus vauntingly spake to the Captain : “Now Wattawamat can see, by the fiery eyes of the Captain, Angry is he in his heart; but the heart of the brave Wattawamat Is not afraid at the sight. He was not born of a woman, But on a mountain at night, from an oak-tree riven by lightning, Forth he sprang at a bound, with all his weapons about him, Shouting, ‘Who is there here to fight with the brave Wattawamat 7’” Then he unsheathed his knife, and, whetting the blade on his left hand, Held it aloft and displayed a woman's face on the handle; Saying, with bitter expression and look of sinister meaning: “I have another at home, with the face of a man on the handle ; By and by they shall marry; and there will be plenty of children : * Then stood Pecksuot forth, self-vaunting, insulting Miles. Standish : While with his fingers he patted the knife that hung at his bosom, HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 321 Drawing it half from its sheath, and plunging it back, as he muttered, “By and by it shall see; it shall eat; ah, ha! but shall speak not This is the mighty Captain the white men have sent to destroy us! He is a little man; let him go and work with the women | * Meanwhile Standish had noted the faces and figures of Indians Peeping and creeping about from bush to tree in the forest, Feigning to look for game, with arrows set on their bow-strings, Drawing about him still closer and closer the net of their ambush. But undaunted he stood, and dissembled and treated them smoothly; So the old chronicles say, that were writ in the days of the fathers. But when he heard their defiance, the boast, the taunt, and the insult, All the hot blood of his race, of Sir Hugh and of Thurston de Standish, Boiled and beat in his heart, and swelled in the veins of his temples. Headlong he leaped on the boaster, and, snatching his knife from 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 arrows. Then came a cloud of smoke, and out of the cloud came the lightning, Out of the lightning thunder; and death unseen ran before it. Frightened the savages fled for shelter in swamp and in thicket, Hotly pursued and beset ; but their sachem, the brave Wattawamat, Fled not; he was dead. Unswerving and swift had a bullet 41 322 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Passed through his brain, and he fell with both hands clutching the greensward, Seeming in death to hold back from his foe the land of his fathers. There on the flowers of the meadow the warriors lay, and above them, Silent, with folded arms, stood Hobomok, friend of the white man. Smiling at length he exclaimed to the stalwart Captain of Plymouth : — “Pecksuot bragged very loud, of his courage, his strength, and his stature, — Mocked the great Captain, and called him a little man; but I see now Big enough have you been to lay him speechless before you !” Thus the first battle was fought and won by the stalwart Miles Standish. When the tidings thereof were brought to the village of Plymouth, And as a trophy of war the head of the brave Wattawamat Scowled from the roof of the fort, which at once was a church and a fortress, All who beheld it rejoiced, and praised the Lord, and took courage. Only Priscilla averted her face from this spectre of terror, Thanking God in her heart that she had not married Miles Standish ; Shrinking, fearing almost, lest, coming home from his battles, He should lay claim to her hand, as the prize and reward of his valor. VIII. THE SPINNING—WHEEL. MONTH after month passed away, and in Autumn the ships of the merchants Came with kindred and friends, with cattle and corn for the Pilgrims. All in the village was peace; the men were intent on their labors, 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 rumor of warfare Filled the air with alarm, and the apprehension of danger. Bravely the stalwart 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. Anger was still in his heart, but at times the remorse and contrition Which in all noble natures succeed the passionate outbreak, Came like a rising tide, that encounters the rush of a river, Staying its current awhile, but making it bitter and brackish. Meanwhile Alden at home had built him a new habitation, Solid, substantial, of timber rough-hewn from the 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, Oiled to admit the light, while wind and rain were excluded. There too he dug a well, and around it planted an orchard : Still may be seen to this day some trace of the well and the orchard. Close to the house was the stall, where, safe and secure from annoyance, Raghorn, the snow-white bull, that had fallen to Alden's allotment HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. 323 In the division of cattle, might ruminate in the night-time Over the pastures he cropped, made fragrant by sweet pennyroyal. Oft when his labor was finished, with eager feet would the dreamer Follow the pathway that ran through the woods to the house of Priscilla, Led by illusions romantic and subtile deceptions of fancy, Pleasure disguised as duty, and love in the semblance of friendship. Ever of her he thought, when he fashioned the walls of his dwelling; Ever of her he thought, when he delved in the soil 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, – How the heart of her husband doth safely trust in her always, How all the days of her life she will do him good, and not evil, How she seeketh the wool and the flax and worketh with gladness, How she layeth her hand to the spindle and holdeth the distaff, How she is not afraid of the snow for herself or her household, Knowing her household are clothed with the scarlet cloth of her weaving ! So as she sat at her wheel one afternoon in 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, 324 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 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, (, % 6 Never idle a moment, but thrifty and thoughtful of others, Suddenly you are transformed, are visibly changed in a moment; You are no longer Priscilla, but Bertha the Beautiful Spinner.” Here the light foot on the treadle grew swifter and swifter; the spindle Uttered an angry snarl, and the thread snapped short in her fingers; While the impetuous speaker, not heeding the mischief, continued: You are the beautiful Bertha, the spinner, the queen of Helvetia; She whose story I read at a stall in the streets of Southampton, Who, as she rode on her palfrey, o'er valley and meadow and mountain, Ever was spinning her thread from a distaff fixed to her saddle. She was so thrifty and good, that her name passed into a proverb. So shall it be with your own, when the spinning-wheel shall no longer Hum in the house of the farmer, and fill its chambers with music. Then shall the mothers, reproving, relate how it was in their childhood, Praising the good old times, and the days of Priscilla the spinner!” Straight uprose from her wheel the beautiful Puritan maiden, Pleased with the praise of her thrift from him whose praise was the sweetest, Drew from the reel on the table a snowy skein of her spinning, Thus making answer, meanwhile, to the flattering phrases of Alden : Come, you must not be idle; if I am a pattern for housewives, Show yourself equally worthy of being the model of husbands. Hold this skein on your hands, while I wind it, ready for knitting; Then who knows but hereafter, when fashions have changed and the manners, Fathers may talk to their sons of the good old times of John Alden l’ Thus, with a jest and a laugh, the skein on his hands she adjusted, He sitting awkwardly there, with his arms extended before him, She standing graceful, erect, and winding the thread from his fingers, Sometimes chiding a little his clumsy manner of holding, Sometimes touching his hands, as she disentangled expertly Twist or knot in the yarn, unawares — for how could she help it 2 — Sending electrical thrills through every nerve in his body. Lol in the midst of this scene, a breathless messenger entered, Bringing in hurry and heat the terrible news from the village. Yes; Miles Standish was dead — an Indian had brought them the tidings, – Slain by a poisoned arrow, shot down in the front of the battle, Into an ambush beguiled, cut off with the whole of his forces; All the town would be burned, and all the people be murdered Such were the tidings of evil that burst on the hearts of the hearers. Silent and statue-like stood Priscilla, her face looking backward Still at the face of the speaker, her arms uplifted in horror; But John Alden, upstarting, as if the barb of the arrow Piercing the heart of his friend had struck his own, and had sundered Once and forever 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 forever his own, and exclaiming: “Those whom the Lord hath united, let no man put them asunder l’’ HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. 325 Even as rivulets twain, from distant and separate sources, Seeing each other afar, as they leap from the rocks, and pursuing Each one its devious path, but drawing nearer and nearer, Rush together at last, at their trysting-place in the forest; So these lives that had run thus far in separate channels, Coming in sight of each other, then swerving and flowing asunder, Parted by barriers strong, but drawing nearer and nearer, Rushed together at last, and one was lost in the other. IX. THE WEDDING-DAY. ForTH from the curtain of clouds, from the tent of purple and scarlet, Issued the sun, the great High-Priest, in his garments resplendent, Holiness unto the Lord, in letters of light, on his forehead, Round the hem of his robe the golden bells and pomegranates. Blessing the world he came, and the bars of vapor beneath him Gleamed like a grate of brass, and the sea at his feet was a laver! This was the wedding morn of Priscilla the Puritan maiden. Friends were assembled together; the Elder and Magistrate also Graced the scene with their presence, and stood like the Law and the Gospel, One with the sanction of earth and one with the blessing of heaven. Simple and brief was the wedding, as that of Ruth and of Boaz. Softly the youth and the maiden repeated the words of betrothal, Taking each other for husband and wife in the Magistrate's presence, After the Puritan way, and the laudable custom of Holland. Fervently then, and devoutly, the excellent Elder of Plymouth Prayed for the hearth and the home, that were founded that day in affection, Speaking of life and of death, and imploring Divine benedictions. 326 THE POET/CA/, WORKS OF * - --- - * … Lo when the service was ended, a form appeared on the threshold, Clad in armor of steel, a sombre and sorrowful figure' Why does the bridegroom start and stare at the strange apparition 2 Why does the bride turn pale, and hide her face on his shoulder? Is it a phantom of air, – a bodiless, spectral illusion 2 Is it a ghost from the grave, that has come to forbid the betrothal? Long had it stood there unseen, a guest uninvited, unwelcomed; Over its clouded eyes there had passed at times an expression Softening the gloom and revealing the warm heart hidden beneath them, As when across the sky the driving rack of the rain-cloud Grows for a moment thin, and betrays the sun by its brightness. Once it had lifted its hand, and moved its lips, but was silent, As if an iron will had mastered the fleeting intention. - But when were ended the troth and the prayer and the last benediction, Into the room it strode, and the people beheld with amazement Bodily there in his armor Miles Standish, the Captain of Plymouth Grasping the bridegroom's hand, he said with emotion, “Forgive me ! I have been angry and hurt, — too long have I cherished the feeling; I have been cruel and hard, but now, thank God! it is ended. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFEI LOW. 32 Mine is the same hot blood that leaped in the veins of Hugh Standish, Sensitive, swift to resent, but as swift in atoning for error. Never so much as now was Miles Standish the friend of John Alden.” Thereupon answered the bridegroom : “Let all be forgotten between us, - All save the dear, old friendship, and that shall grow older and dearer''' Then the Captain advanced, and, bowing, saluted Priscilla, Gravely, and after the manner of old-fashioned gentry in England, Something of camp and of court, of town and of country, commingled, Wishing her joy of her wedding, and loudly lauding her husband. Then he said with a smile: “I should have remembered the adage, – If you would be well served, you must serve yourself; and moreover, No man can gather cherries in Kent at the season of Christmas!” Great was the people's amazement, and greater yet their rejoicing, Thus to behold once more the sunburnt face of their Captain, Whom they had mourned as dead; and they gathered and crowded about him, Eager to see him and hear him, forgetful of bride and of bridegroom, Questioning, answering, laughing, and each interrupting the other, Till the good Captain declared, being quite overpowered and bewildered, He had rather by far break into an Indian encampment, Than come again to a wedding to which he had not been invited. Meanwhile the bridegroom went forth and stood with the bride at the doorway, Breathing the perfumed air of that warm and beautiful morning. Touched with autumnal tints, but lonely and sad in the sunshine, Lay extended before them the land of toil and privation; There were the graves of the dead, and the barren waste of the sea-shore, There the familiar fields, the groves of pine, and the meadows; But to their eyes transfigured, it seemed as the Garden of Eden, Filled with the presence of God, whose voice was the sound of the ocean. 328 THE POETICAL WORKS OF HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. Soon was their vision disturbed by the noise and stir of departure, Friends coming forth from the house, and impatient of longer delaying, Each with his plan for the day, and the work that was left uncompleted. Then from a stall near at hand, amid exclamations of wonder, Alden the thoughtful, the careful, so happy, so proud of Priscilla, Brought out his snow-white bull, obeying the hand of its master, Led by a cord that was tied to an iron ring in its nostrils, Covered with crimson cloth, and a cushion placed for a saddle. She should not walk, he said, through the dust and heat of the noonday; Nay, she should ride like a queen, not plod along like a peasant. Somewhat alarmed at first, but reassured by the others, Placing her hand on the cushion, her foot in the hand of her husband, Gayly, with joyous laugh, Priscilla mounted her palfrey. “Nothing is wanting now,” he said with a smile, “but the distaff; Then you would be in truth my queen, my beautiful Bertha' " Onward the bridal procession now moved to their new habitation, Happy husband and wife, and friends conversing together. Pleasantly murmured the brook, as they crossed the ford in the forest, Pleased with the image that passed, like a dream of love through its bosom, Tremulous, floating in air, o'er the depths of the azure abysses. Down through the golden leaves the sun was pouring his splendors, Gleaming on purple grapes, that, from branches above them suspended, Mingled their odorous breath with the balm of the pine and the fir-tree, Wild and sweet as the clusters that grew in the valley of 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 always, Love immortal and young in the endless succession of lovers. So through the Plymouth woods passed onward the bridal procession. Artis : . T: F. B. SCHELL, # | | ſº - | ſº “THE LONGFELLOW HOUSE," PORTLAND, MAINE. №.55， №aeae ！§§Ê№È№x::::::::：：::::::::::: №ĒĒĒĒĒĒĖĘĚ3?№ĒĒĒĒĒĒĒĒĒĒĒĒĒĒĒĒĒĒĒĒ---- №ĒĢĒĶĒĖà±√¶№ ae£.ģ ••83 r. &######ĒŠş § →ŠĖĒ №ż-aeāZºz€è§§ ∞∞∞ №：№s §：№™S - * ：=≡s！！！ ::::::=≡ ĶĒĒĒĒĒĒĒĒĒĒĒĒĒĒĒ. žēĒĒĒĒĒĒ **** ·ſae - **, *: ..., ºf , º, º 'ºa §§§º: tºº º: vºº \ 'S Kù. § §% - -Z § $4% 23. # - É sº º - §º: FQ : Nº. 2} §. Kº Yº ºfºss- §§ .)}:{\\ s *...º. s 13: - º ... * : º: º §§ º: \ § º & # § łºś É. º º: . . come i gru van cantando lor lai, Facendo in aer di se lunga riga. DANTE. PROMETHEUS. OR THE POET's FORETHOUGHT. OF Prometheus, how undaunted On Olympus' shining bastions His audacious foot he planted, Myths are told and songs are chanted, Full of promptings and suggestions. Beautiful is the tradition Of that flight through heavenly portals, The old classic superstition Of the theft and the transmission Of the fire of the Immortals | First the deed of noble daring, Born of heavenward aspiration, Then the fire with mortals sharing, Then the vulture, — the despairing Cry of pain on crags Caucasian. All is but a symbol painted Of the Poet, Prophet, Seer; Only those are crowned and sainted Who with grief have been acquainted, Making nations nobler, freer. In their feverish exultations, In their triumph and their yearning, In their passionate pulsations, In their words among the nations, The Promethean fire is burning. Shall it, then, be unavailing, All this toil for human culture ? Through the cloud-rack, dark and trailing Must they see above them sailing O'er life's barren crags the vulture ? Such a fate as this was Dante's, By defeat and exile maddened; Thus were Milton and Cervantes, Nature's priests and Corybantes, By affliction touched and saddened. But the glories so transcendent That around their memories cluster, And, on all their steps attendant, Make their darkened lives resplendent With such gleams of inward lustre All the melodies mysterious, Through the dreary darkness chanted ; Thoughts in attitudes imperious, Voices soft, and deep, and serious, Words that whispered, songs that haunted! All the soul in rapt suspension, All the quivering, palpitating Chords of life in utmost tension, With the fervor of invention, With the rapture of creating ! 332 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Ah, Prometheus' heaven-scaling! And to leaven with fiery leaven In such hours of exultation All the hearts of men forever; Even the faintest heart, unquailing, Might behold the vulture sailing Yet all bards, whose hearts unblighted Round the cloudy crags Caucasian' Honor and believe the presage, Hold aloft their torches lighted, Though to all there be not given Gleaming through the realms benighted, Strength for such sublime endeavor, As they onward bear the message! Thus to scale the walls of heaven, BIRDS OF PASSAGE. BLACK shadows fall But the night is fair, From the lindens tall, And everywhere That lift aloft their massive wall A warm, soft vapor fills the air, Against the southern sky; And distant sounds seem near ; And from the realms And above, in the light Of the shadowy elms Of the star-lit night, A tide-like darkness overwhelms Swift birds of passage wing their flight The fields that round us lie. Through the dewy atmosphere. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 333 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. Oh, 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 sound 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 the murmuring sound of rhyme. 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 common things, each day's events, That with the hour begin and end, Our pleasures and our discontents, Are rounds by which we may ascend. The low desire, the base design, That makes another's virtues less; The revel of the ruddy wine, And all occasions of excess; The longing for ignoble things; The strife for triumph more than truth ; The hardening of the heart, that brings Irreverence for the dreams of youth; All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds, That have their root in thoughts of ill; Whatever hinders or impedes The action of the nobler will ; — All these must first be trampled down Beneath our feet, if we would gain In the bright fields of fair renown The right of eminent domain. We have not wings, we cannot soar; But we have feet to scale and climb By slow degrees, by more and more, The cloudy summits of our time. The mighty pyramids of stone - That wedge-like cleave the desert airs, When nearer seen, and better known, Are but gigantic flights of stairs. The distant mountains, that uprear Their solid bastions to the skies, Are crossed by pathways, that appear As we to higher levels rise. The heights by great men reached and kept Were not attained by sudden flight, But they, while their companions slept, Were toiling upward in the night. Standing on what too long we bore With shoulders bent and downcast eyes, We may discern — unseen before — A path to higher destinies, Nor deem the irrevocable Past, As wholly wasted, wholly vain, If, rising on its wrecks, at last To something nobler we attain. 334 THE POETICAL WORKS OF THE PHANTOM SHIP. IN Mather’s “Magnalia Christi,” Of the old colonial time, May be found in prose the legend That is here set down in rhyme. A ship sailed from New Haven, And the keen and frosty airs, That filled her sails at parting, Were heavy with good men's prayers. “O Lord! if it be thy pleasure” — Thus prayed the old divine — “To bury our friends in the ocean, Take them, for they are thine !” But Master Lamberton muttered, And under his breath said he, “This ship is so crank and walty I fear our grave she will be ” And the 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. Then fell her straining topmasts, Hanging tangled in the shrouds, And her sails were loosened and lifted, And blown away like clouds. And the masts, with all their rigging, Fell slowly, one by one, And the hulk dilated and vanished, As a sea-mist in the Sun And the people who saw this marvel Each said unto his friend, That this was the mould of their vessel, And thus her tragic end. And the pastor of the village Gave thanks to God in prayer, That, to quiet their troubled spirits, He had sent this Ship of Air. THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS. A MIST was driving down the British Chan- nel, 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 C2,1].]]OI). Hailed it with feverish lips. Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hithe, and Dover Were all alert that day, To see the French war-steamers speeding over, When the fog cleared away. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLO W. 335 Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions, Their cannon, through the night, Holding their breath, had watched, in grim defiance, The sea-coast opposite. And now they roared at drum-beat from their stations On every citadel; Each answering each, with morning saluta- tions, That all was well. And down the coast, all taking up the bur- den, Replied the distant forts, As if to summon from his sleep the Warden And Lord of the Cinque Ports. Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure, No drum-beat from the wall, No morning gun from the black fort's em- brasure, Awaken with its call ! No more, surveying with an eye impartial The long line of the coast, Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field Marshal Be seen upon his post For in the night, unseen, a single warrior, In sombre harness mailed, Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer, The rampart wall had scaled. He passed into the chamber of the sleeper, The dark and silent room, And as he entered, darker grew, and deeper, The silence and the gloom. He did not pause to parley or dissemble, But smote the Warden hoar; Ah! what a blow ! that made all England tremble And groan from shore to shore. Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited, The sun rose bright o'erhead; Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated That a great man was dead. 336 THE POETICAL WORKS OF HAUNTED HOUSES. ALL houses wherein men have lived and died Are haunted houses. Through the open doors The harmless phantoms on their errands glide, With feet that make no sound upon the floors. We meet them at the doorway, on the stair, Along the passages they come and go, Impalpable impressions on the air, A sense of something moving to and fro. There are more guests at table, than the hosts Invited: the illuminated hall Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts, As silent as the pictures on the wall. The stranger at my fireside cannot see The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear; He but perceives what is; while unto me All that has been is visible and clear. We have no title-deeds to house or lands; Owners and occupants of earlier dates From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands, And hold in mortmain still their old estates. The spirit-world around this world of sense Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere Wafts through these earthly mists and vapors dense A vital breath of more ethereal air. Our little lives are kept in equipoise By opposite attractions and desires; The struggle of the instinct that enjoys, And the more noble instinct that aspires. These perturbations, this perpetual jar Of earthly wants and aspirations high, Come from the influence of an unseen star, An undiscovered planet in our sky. And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of light, Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd Into the realm of mystery and night, — So from the world of spirits there descends A bridge of light, connecting it with this, O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends, Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss. AENA X WADS WORTH LONG. FELLO W. 337 IN THE CHURCHYARD AT CAMBRIDGE. IN the village churchyard she lies, Dust is in her beautiful eyes, No more she breathes, nor feels, nor stirs; At her feet and at her head Lies a slave to attend the dead, But their dust is white as hers. Was she a lady of high degree, So much in love with the vanity And foolish pomp of this world of ours? Or was it Christian charity, And lowliness and humility, The richest and rarest of all dowers ? THE EMPEROR'S ONCE the Emperor Charles of Spain, With his swarthy, grave commanders, I forget in what campaign, Long besieged, in mud and rain, Some old frontier town of Flanders. Up and down the dreary camp, In great boots of Spanish leather, Striding with a measured tramp, Who shall tell us? No one speaks : No color 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 2 – And do you think to look On the terrible pages of that Book To find her failings, faults, and errors” Ah, you will then have other cares, In your own shortcomings and despairs, In your own secret sins and terrors! BIRD’S_NEST. These Hidalgos, dull and damp, Cursed the Frenchmen, cursed the weather. Thus as to and fro they went Over upland and through hollow, Giving their impatience vent, Perched upon the Emperor's tent, In her nest, they spied a swallow. 43 338 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Yes, it was a swallow's nest, Built of clay and hair of horses, Mane, or tail, or dragoon’s crest, Found on hedge-rows east and west, After skirmish of the forces. Then an old Hidalgo said, As he twirled his gray mustachio, “Sure this swallow overhead Thinks the Emperor's tent a shed, And the Emperor but a Macho l’” Hearing his imperial name Coupled with those words of malice, Half in anger, half in shame, Forth the great campaigner came Slowly from his canvas palace. “Let no hand the bird molest,” Said he solemnly, “nor hurt her l’” Adding then, by way of jest, “Golondrina is my guest, 'T is the wife of some deserter | * THE TWO 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 op- pressed, “Beat not so loud, my heart, lest thou betray The place where thy beloved are at rest l” And he who wore the crown of asphodels, Descending, at my door began to knock, Swift as bowstring speeds a shaft, Through the camp was spread the rumor, And the soldiers, as they quaffed Flemish beer at dinner, laughed At the Emperor's pleasant humor. So unharmed and unafraid Sat the swallow still and brooded, Till the constant cannonade Through the walls a breach had made And the siege was thus concluded. Then the army, elsewhere bent, Struck its tents as if disbanding, Only not the Emperor's tent, For he ordered, ere he went, Very curtly, “Leave it standing !” So it stood there all alone, Loosely flapping, torn and tattered, Till the brood was fledged and flown, Singing o'er those walls of stone Which the cannon-shot had shattered. ANGELS. And my soul sank within me, as in wells The waters sink before an earthquake's shock. I recognized the nameless agony, The terror and the tremor and the pain, That oft before had filled or haunted me, And now returned with threefold strength again. The door I opened to my heavenly guest, And listened, for I thought I heard God’s voice ; And, knowing whatsoe'er he sent was best, Dared neither to lament nor to rejoice. Then with a smile, that filled the house with light, “My errand is not Death, but Life,” he said; And ere I answered, passing out of sight, On his celestial embassy he sped, HEWR Y WADSWORTH I, OWG FELLO W. 339 'T was at thy door, O friend! and not at mine, The angel with the amaranthine wreath, Pausing, descended, and with voice divine Whispered a word that had a sound like Death. Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom, A shadow on those features fair and thin ; And softly, from that hushed and darkened TOOm, Two angels issued, where but one went in. DAYLIGHT AND IN broad daylight, and at noon, Yesterday I saw the moon Sailing high, but faint and white, As a school-boy's paper kite. In broad daylight, yesterday, I read a Poet's mystic lay; And it seemed to me at most As a phantom, or a ghost. But at length the feverish day Like a passion died away, 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 2 MOONLIGHT. And the night, serene and still, Fell on village, vale, and hill. Then the moon, in all her pride, Like a spirit glorified, Filled and overflowed the night With revelations of her light. And the Poet's song again Passed like music through my brain; Night interpreted to me All its grace and mystery. THE JEWISH CEMETERY AT NEWPORT. How strange it seems These Hebrews in their graves. Close by the street of this fair seaport town, Silent beside the never-silent waves, At rest in all this moving up and down The trees are white with dust, that o'er their sleep Wave their broad curtains in the south- wind’s breath, While underneath these leafy tents they keep The long, mysterious Exodus of Death. And these sepulchral stones, so old and brown, That pave with level flags their burial-place, Seem like the tablets of the Law, thrown down And broken by Moses at the mountain's base. The very names recorded here are strange, Of foreign accent, and of different climes; Alvares and Rivera interchange With Abraham and Jacob of old times. “Blessed be God for he created Death !” The mourners said, “and Death is rest and peace ; ” Then added, in the certainty of faith, “And giveth Life that nevermore 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. 340 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 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 remem- brance green. How came they here? What burst of Chris- tian hate, What persecution, merciless and blind, Drove o'er the sea—that desert desolate— These Ishmaels and Hagars of mankind? They lived in narrow streets and lanes obscure, Ghetto and Judenstrass, in mirk and mire; Taught in the school of patience to endure The life of anguish and the death of fire. All their lives long, with the unleavened bread And bitter herbs of exile and its fears, The wasting famine of the heart they fed, And slaked its thirst with marah of their tears. Anathema maranatha! was the cry That rang from town to town, from street to street ; At every gate the accursed Mordecai - Was mocked and jeered, and spurned by Christian feet. Pride and humiliation hand in hand Walked with them through the world where'er they went; Trampled and beaten were they as the sand, And yet unshaken as the continent. For in the background figures vague and vast Of patriarchs and of prophets rose sub- lime, And all the great traditions of the Past They saw reflected in the coming time. And thus forever with reverted look The mystic volume of the world they read, Spelling it backward, like a Hebrew book, Till life became a Legend of the Dead. But ah! what once has been shall be no more The groaning earth in travail and in pain Brings forth its races, but does not restore, And the dead nations never rise again. HENRY WADS WORTH LOWGFELLO W. 341 OLIVER BASSELIN. IN the Valley of the Wire Still is seen an ancient mill, With its gables quaint and queer, And beneath the window sill, On the stone, These words alone: “Oliver Basselin lived here.” Far above it, on the steep, Ruined stands the old Château ; Nothing but the donjon-keep Left for shelter or for show. Its vacant eyes Stare at the skies, Stare at the valley green and deep. Once a convent, old and brown, Looked, but ah! it looks no more, From the neighboring hillside down On the rushing and the roar Of the stream Whose sunny gleam Cheers the little Norman town. In that darksome mill of stone, To the water's dash and din, Careless, humble, and unknown, Sang the poet Basselin Songs that fill That ancient mill With a splendor of its own. Never feeling of unrest Broke the pleasant dream he dreamed ; Only made to be his nest, All the lovely valley seemed; No desire Of soaring higher Stirred or fluttered in his breast. True, his songs were not divine; Were not songs of that high art, Which, as winds do in the pine, Find an answer in each heart; But the mirth Of this green earth Laughed and revelled in his line. From the alehouse and the inn, Opening on the narrow street, Came the loud, convivial din, Singing and applause of feet, The laughing lays That in those days Sang the poet Basselin. In the castle, cased in steel, Knights, who fought at Agincourt, Watched and waited, spur on heel; But the poet Sang for sport Songs that rang Another clang, Songs that lowlier hearts could feel. In the convent, clad in gray, Sat the monks in lonely cells, Paced the cloisters, knelt to pray, And the poet heard their bells; But his rhymes Found other chimes, Nearer to the earth than they. Gone are all the barons bold, Gone are all the knights and Squires, Gone the abbot stern and cold, And the brotherhood of friars; Not a name Remains to fame, From those mouldering days of old But the poet's memory here Of the landscape makes a part ; Like the river, swift and clear, Flows his song through many a heart; Haunting still That ancient mill In the Valley of the Wire. 342 THE POETIONAL WORKS OF 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, He who so well the bugle played, Could not mistake the words it said: “Come forth to thy death, Victor Galbraith !” He looked at the earth, he looked at the sky, He looked at the files of musketry, Victor Galbraith ! And he said, with a steady voice and eye, “Take good aim ; I am ready to die l’” Thus challenges death Victor Galbraith. Twelve fiery tongues flashed straight and red, Six leaden balls on their errand sped : Victor Galbraith Falls to the ground, but he is not dead ; His name was not stamped on those balls of lead, And they only scath Victor Galbraith. Three balls are in his breast and brain, But he rises out of the dust again, Victor Galbraith ! The water he drinks has a bloody stain ; “Oh kill me, and put me out of my pain l’’ In his agony prayeth Victor Galbraith. Forth dart once more those tongues of flame, And the bugler has died a death of shame, Victor Galbraith ! His soul has gone back to whence it came, And no one answers to the name, When the Sergeant saith, “Victor Galbraith !” Under the walls of Monterey By night a bugle is heard to play, Victor Galbraith ! Through the mist of the valley damp and gray The sentinels hear the sound, and say, “That is the wraith Of Victor Galbraith !” MY LOST YOUTH. OFTEN I think of the beautiful town That is seated by the sea; Often in thought go up and down The pleasant streets of that dear old town, And my youth comes back to me. And a verse of a Lapland song Is haunting my memory still: “A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, And catch, in sudden gleams, The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, And islands that were the Hesperides Of all my boyish dreams. And the burden of that old song, It murmurs and whispers still: “A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLO W. 343 I remember the black wharves and the slips, And the sea-tides tossing free; And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, And the beauty and mystery of the ships, And the magic of the sea. And the voice of that wayward song Is singing and saying still: “A boy's will is the wind's will, - And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” I remember the bulwarks by the shore, And the fort upon the hill; The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar, The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er, And the bugle wild and shrill. And the music of that old song Throbs in my memory still: “A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” I remember the sea-fight far away, 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, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” º 1. La N º §§§º 344 THE POETIOAL WORKS OF I remember the gleams and glooms that dart Across the school-boy's brain; The song and the silence in the heart, That in part are prophecies, and in part Are longings wild and vain. And the voice of that fitful song Sings on, and is never still: “A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” There are things of which I may not speak; There are dreams that cannot die; There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, And bring a pallor into the cheek, And a mist before the eye. And the words of that fatal song Come over me like a chill: “A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” Strange to me now are the forms I meet When I visit the dear old town ; But the native air is pure and sweet, And the trees that o'ershadow each well- known street, - As they balance up and down, Are singing the beautiful song, Are sighing and whispering still: “A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair, And with joy that is almost pain My heart goes back to wander there, And among the dreams of the days that were, I find my lost youth again. And the strange and beautiful song, The groves are repeating it still: “A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” THE ROPEWALK. IN that building, long and low, With its windows all a-row, Like the port-holes of a hulk, Human spiders spin and spin, Backward down their threads so thin Dropping, each a hempen bulk. At the end, an open door; Squares of sunshine on the floor Light the long and dusky lane; And the whirring of a wheel, Dull and drowsy, makes me feel All its spokes are in my brain. As the spinners to the end Downward go and reascend, 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. MARY HALLOCK FOOTe artist : ''And a woman with bare arms - - - - - ---- The Roſewalk. Drawing water from a well." HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLO W. 345 Then within a prison-yard, Ships rejoicing in the breeze, Faces fixed, and stern, and hard, Wrecks that float o'er unknown seas, Laughter and indecent mirth ; Anchors dragged through faithless sand; Ah! it is the gallows-tree! Sea-fog drifting overhead, Breath of Christian charity, And, with lessening line and lead, Blow, and sweep it from the earth! Sailors feeling for the land. Then a school-boy, with his kite All these scenes do I behold, Gleaming in a sky of light, These, and many left untold, And an eager, upward look; In that building long and low; Steeds pursued through lane and field; While the wheel goes round and round, Fowlers with their snares concealed : With a drowsy, dreamy sound, And an angler by a brook. And the spinners backward go. THE GOLDEN MILE_STONE. LEAFLESs are the trees; their purple branches On the hearth the lighted logs are glowing, Spread themselves abroad, like reefs of coral, And like Ariel in the cloven pine-tree Rising silent For its freedom In the Red Sea of the winter sunset. Groans and sighs the air imprisoned in them. From the hundred chimneys of the village, Like the Afreet in the Arabian story, | Smoky columns º E. Tower aloft into the air of amber. | At the window winks the flickering fire-light; Here and there the lamps of evening glimmer, º Social watch-fires | Answering one another through the darkness. º | . º º – ºil. | || || Sº 346 THE POETICAL WORKS OF By the fireside there are old men seated, Seeing ruined cities in the ashes, Asking Sadly Of the Past what it can ne'er restore them. By the fireside there are youthful dreamers, Building castles fair, with stately stairways, Asking blindly - Of the Future what it cannot give them. By the fireside tragedies are acted In whose scenes appear two actors only, - Wife and husband, And above them God the sole spectator. By the fireside there are peace and com- fort, Wives and children, with fair, thoughtful faces, Waiting, watching For a well-known footstep in the passage. CATAWBA THIS song of mine Is a Song of the Vine, To be sung by the glowing embers Of wayside inns, When the rain begins To darken the drear Novembers. It is not a song Of the Scuppernong, From warm Carolinian valleys, Nor the Isabel And the Muscadel That bask in our garden alleys. Nor the red Mustang, Whose clusters hang O'er the waves of the Colorado, And the fiery flood Of whose purple blood Has a dash of Spanish bravado. For richest and best Is the wine of the West, That grows by the Beautiful River; Each man's chimney is his Golden Milestone; Is the central point, from which he measures Every distance Through the gateways of the world around him. In his farthest wanderings still he sees it : Hears the talking flame, the answering night- wind, As he heard them When he sat with those who were, but are not. Happy he whom neither wealth nor fashion, Nor the march of the encroaching city, Drives an exile From the hearth of his ancestral homestead. We may build more splendid habitations, Fill our rooms with paintings and with sculp- tures, But we cannot Buy with gold the old associations ! WINE. Whose sweet perfume Fills all the room With a benison on the giver. And as hollow trees Are the haunts of bees, Forever going and coming; So this crystal hive Is all alive With a swarming and buzzing and humming. Very good in its way Is the Verzenay, Or the Sillery soft and creamy; But Catawba wine Has a taste more divine, More dulcet, delicious, and dreamy. There grows no vine By the haunted Rhine, By Danube or Guadalquivir, Nor on island or cape, That bears such a grape As grows by the Beautiful River. HENRY WADS WORTH LOWG FELLO W. - 347 Drugged is their juice For foreign use, When shipped o'er the reeling Atlantic, To rack our brains With the fever pains, That have driven the Old World frantic. To the sewers and sinks With all such drinks, And after them tumble the mixer; For a poison malign Is such Borgia wine, Or at best but a Devil's Elixir. While pure as a spring Is the wine I sing, And to praise it, one needs but name it; For Catawba wine Has need of no sign, No tavern-bush to proclaim it. And this Song of the Vine, This greeting of mine, The winds and the birds shall deliver To the Queen of the West, In her garlands dressed, On the banks of the Beautiful River. SANTA FILOMENA. WHENE’ER a noble deed is wrought, Whene'er is spoken a noble thought, Our hearts, in glad surprise, To higher levels rise. The tidal wave of deeper souls Into our inmost being rolls, And lifts us unawares Out of all meaner cares. 348 WORKS OF THE POETICAL 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. Lo! in that house of misery A lady with a lamp I see Pass through the glimmering gloom, And flit from room to room. And slow, as in a dream of bliss, The speechless sufferer turns to kiss Her shadow, as it falls Upon the darkening walls. As if a door in heaven should be Opened and then closed suddenly, The vision came and went, The light shone and was spent. On England's annals, through the long Hereafter of her speech and song, That light its rays shall cast From portals of the past. A Lady with a Lamp shall stand In the great history of the land, A noble type of good, Heroic womanhood. Nor even shall be wanting here The palm, the lily, and the spear, The symbols that of yore Saint Filomena bore. THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPE. A LEAF FROM KING ALFRED's OROSIUs. OTHERE, the old sea-captain, Who dwelt in Helgoland, To King Alfred, the Lover of Truth, Brought a snow-white walrus-tooth, Which he held in his brown right hand. His figure was tall and stately, Like a boy's his eye appeared; His hair was yellow as hay, But threads of a silvery gray Gleamed in his tawny beard. Hearty and hale was Othere, His cheek had the color of oak ; With a kind of laugh in his speech, Like the sea-tide on a beach, As unto the King he spoke. And Alfred, King of the Saxons, Had a book upon his knees, And wrote down the wondrous tale Of him who was first to sail Into the Arctic seas. “So far I live to the northward, No man lives north of me ; To the east are wild mountain-chains, And beyond them meres and plains ; To the westward all is sea. “So far I live to the northward, From the harbor of Skeringes-hale, If you only sailed by day, With a fair wind all the way, More than a month would you sail. “I own six hundred reindeer, With sheep and swine beside : I have tribute from the Finns, Whalebone and reindeer-skins, And ropes of walrus-hide. “I ploughed the land with horses, But my heart was ill at ease, For the old seafaring men Came to me now and then, With their sagas of the seas; — HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. 349 “Of Iceland and of Greenland, And the stormy Hebrides, And the undiscovered deep; — Oh I could not eat nor sleep For thinking of those seas. “To the northward stretched the desert, How far I fain would know ; So at last I sallied forth, And three days sailed due north, As far as the whale-ships go. “The sea was rough and stormy, The tempest howled and wailed, And the sea-fog, like a ghost, Haunted that dreary coast, But onward still I sailed. “Four days I steered to eastward, Four days without a night: Round in a fiery ring Went the great sun, O King, With red and lurid light.” “To the west of me was the ocean, To the right the desolate shore, But I did not slacken sail For the walrus or the whale, Till after three days more. “The days grew longer and longer, Till they became as one, And northward 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. Here Alfred, King of the Saxons, Ceased writing for a while : And raised his eyes from his book, With a strange and puzzled look, And an incredulous smile. But Othere, the old sea-captain, He neither paused nor stirred, Till the King listened, and then Once more took up his pen, And wrote down every word. 350 THE POETICAL WORKS OF “And now the land,” said Othere, “Bent southward suddenly, And I followed the curving shore And ever southward bore Into a nameless sea. “And there we hunted the walrus, The narwhale, and the seal; Ha! 't was 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, “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 !” HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLO W. 351 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, º “Awake, O bell' proclaim the hour.” º | º º - |Mºººººº." |\\\\\\?\\ º º ºº: ºw- º º ºv \ º º * º º º º -- º/ º \ NYºſ/\º º º |||| º T \\ º º |\%|ººlſ ſº ſº It crossed the churchyard with a sigh, And said, “Not yet! in quiet lie.” º º THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ. MAY 28, 1857. IT was fifty years ago And whenever the way seemed long, In the pleasant month of May, Or his heart began to fail, In the beautiful Pays de Vaud, She would sing a more wonderful song, A child in its cradle lay. Or tell a more marvellous tale. And Nature, the old nurse, took So she keeps him still a child, The child upon her knee, And will not let him go, Saying: “Here is a story-book Though at times his heart beats wild Thy Father has written for thee.” For the beautiful Pays de Vaud; “Come, wander with me,” she said, Though at times he hears in his dreams “Into regions yet untrod; The Ranz des Vaches of old, And read what is still unread And the rush of mountain streams In the manuscripts of God.” From glaciers clear and cold; And he wandered away and away And the mother at home says, “Hark! With Nature, the dear old nurse, For his voice I listen and yearn; Who sang to him night and day It is growing late and dark, The rhymes of the universe. And my boy does not return l’’ CHILDREN. CoME to me, O ye children' Where thoughts are singing swallows For I hear you at your play, And the brooks of morning run. And the questions that perplexed me Have vanished quite away. In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine. In your thoughts the brooklet's flow, Ye open the eastern windows, But in mine is the wind of Autumn That look towards the sun, And the first fall of the snow. 352 THE POETIONAL WORKS OF Ah! what would the world be to us If the children were no more? We should dread the desert behind us Worse than the dark before. What the leaves are to the forest, With light and air for food, Ere their sweet and tender juices Have been hardened into wood, - That to the world are children; Through them it feels the glow Of a brighter and sunnier climate Than reaches the trunks below. Come to me, O ye children And whisper in my ear What the birds and the winds are singing In your Sunny atmosphere. For what are all our contrivings, And the wisdom of our books, When compared with your caresses, And the gladness of your looks? Ye are better than all the ballads That ever were sung or said; For ye are living poems, And all the rest are dead. SANDALPHON. HAVE you read in the Talmud of old, In the Legends the Rabbins have told Of the limitless realms of the air, Have you read it, — the marvellous story Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory, Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer 2 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 2 The Angels of Wind and of Fire Chant only one hymn, and expire With the song's irresistible stress; Expire in their rapture and wonder, As harp-strings are broken asunder By music they throb to express. But serene in the rapturous throng, Unmoved by the rush of the song, With eyes unimpassioned and slow, Among the dead angels, the deathless Sandalphon stands listening breathless To sounds that ascend from below; — From the spirits on earth that adore, From the souls that entreat and implore In the fervor and passion of prayer ; From the hearts that are broken with losses, And weary with dragging the crosses Too heavy for mortals to bear. And he gathers the prayers as he stands, And they change into flowers in his hands, Into garlands of purple and red; And beneath the great arch of the portal, Through the streets of the City Immortal Is wafted the fragrance they shed. It is but a legend, I know, - A fable, a phantom, a show, Of the ancient Rabbinical lore ; Yet the old mediaeval tradition, The beautiful, strange superstition, But haunts me and holds me the more. When I look from my window at night, And the well-in above is all white, All throbbing and panting with stars, Among them majestic is standing Sandalphon the angel, expanding His pinions in nebulous bars. And the legend, I feel, is a part Of the hunger and thirst of the heart, The frenzy and fire of the brain, That grasps at the fruitage forbidden, The golden pomegranates of Eden, To quiet its fever and pain. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 353 - º ºãº º: º Zº º *L & -- º | "Wºº ºiliº º Wº. Nº. º: | - º º BETwºBN the dark and the daylight, I hear in the chamber above me When the night is beginning to lower, The patter of little feet, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, The sound of a door that is opened, That is known as the Children's Hour. And voices soft and sweet. 45 354 THE POETICAL WORKS OF From my study I see in the lamplight, Descending the broad hall stair, Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, And Edith with golden hair. A whisper, and then a silence: Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planning together To take me by surprise. A sudden rush from the stairway, A sudden raid from the hall! By three doors left unguarded - They enter my castle wall! They climb up into my turret O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape, they surround me : They seem to be everywhere. They almost devour me with kisses, Their arms about me entwine, Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine ! Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, Because you have scaled the wall, Such an old mustache as I am Is not a match for you all! I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart, But put you down into the dungeon In the round-tower of my heart. And there will I keep you forever, Yes, forever and a day, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in dust away! ENCEL A.DU.S. 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. HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLO W. 355 The crags are piled on his breast, The earth is heaped on his head; But the groans of his wild unrest, Though smothered and half suppressed, Are heard, and he is not dead. And the nations far away Are watching with eager eyes; They talk together and say, “To-morrow, perhaps to-day, Enceladus will arise l’ And the old gods, the austere Oppressors in their strength, Stand aghast and white with fear At the ominous sounds they hear, And tremble, and mutter, “At length' " Ah me! for the land that is sown With the harvest of despair Where the burning cinders, blown From the lips of the overthrown Enceladus, fill the air. Where ashes are heaped in drifts Over vineyard and field and town, Whenever he starts and lifts His head through the blackened rifts Of the crags that keep him down. See, see the red light shines 'T is the glare of his awful eyes! And the storm-wind shouts through the pines Of Alps and of Apennines, “Enceladus, arise " THE CUMBERLAND. AT anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of-war: And at times from the fortress across the bay The alarum of drums swept past, Or a bugle blast From the camp on the shore. Then far away to the south uprose A little feather of snow-white smoke, And we knew that the iron ship of our foes Was steadily steering its course To try the force Of our ribs of oak. 356 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Down upon us heavily runs, Then, like a kraken huge and black, Silent and sullen, the floating fort; She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp " Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, Down went the Cumberland all a wrack, And leaps the terrible death, With a sudden shudder of death, With fiery breath, And the cannon's breath From each open port. For her dying gasp. We are not idle, but send her straight Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, Defiance back in a full broadside Still floated our flag at the mainmast head. As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, Lord, how beautiful was Thy day ! Rebounds our heavier hail Every waft of the air From each iron scale Was a whisper of prayer, Of the monster's hide. Or a dirge for the dead. “Strike your flagſ “ the rebel cries, Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas' In his arrogant old plantation strain. Ye are at peace in the troubled stream : “Never!” our gallant Morris replies; Ho! brave land with hearts like these, “It is better to sink than to yield | * Thy flag, that is rent in twain, And the whole air pealed Shall be one again, With the cheers of our men. And without a seam | SNOW–FLAKES. OUT of the bosom of the Air, In the white countenance confession, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, The troubled sky reveals Over the woodlands brown and bare, The grief it feels. Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow This is the poem of the air, Descends the snow. Slowly in silent syllables recorded; This is the secret of despair, Even as our cloudy fancies take Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, Suddenly shape in some divine expression, Now whispered and revealed Even as the troubled heart doth make To wood and field. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLO W. 35 7 A DAY OF SUNSHINE. O GIFT of God! O perfect day: Whereon shall no man work, but play : Whereon it is enough for me, Not to be doing, but to be Through every fibre of my brain, Through every nerve, through every vein, I feel the electric thrill, the touch Of life, that seems almost too much. I hear the wind among the trees Playing celestial symphonies; I see the branches downward bent, Like keys of some great instrument. And over me unrolls on high The splendid scenery of the sky, Where through a sapphire sea the sun Sails like a golden galleon, Towards yonder cloud-land in the West, Towards yonder Islands of the Blest, Whose steep sierra far uplifts Its craggy summits white with drifts. Blow, winds! and waft through all the rooms The snows-flakes of the cherry-blooms' Blow, winds! and bend within my reach The fiery blossoms of the peach O Life and Love . O happy throng Of thoughts, whose only speech is song O heart of man canst thou not be Blithe as the air is, and as free ? 358 THE POETICAL WORKS OF SOMETHING LEFT UNDONE. LABOR with what zeal we will, Something still remains undone, Something uncompleted still Waits the rising of the sun. By the bedside, on the stair, At the threshold, near the gates, With its menace or its prayer, Like a mendicant it waits; Waits, and will not go away; Waits, and will not be gainsaid; By the cares of yesterday Each to-day is heavier made; Till at length the burden seems Greater than our strength can bear, Heavy as the weight of dreams, Pressing on us everywhere. And we stand from day to day, Like the dwarfs of times gone by, Who, as Northern legends say, On their shoulders held the sky. WEARINESS. O LITTLE feet! that such long years Must wander on through hopes and fears, Must ache and bleed beneath your load; I, nearer to the wayside inn Where toil shall cease and rest begin, Am weary, thinking of your road O little hands ! that, weak or strong, Have still to serve or rule so long, Have still so long to give or ask: I, who so much with book and pen Have toiled among my fellow-men, Am weary, thinking of your task. O little hearts that throb and beat With such impatient, feverish heat, Such limitless and strong desires; Mine that so long has glowed and burned, With passions into ashes turned Now covers and conceals its fires. O little souls' as pure and white And crystalline as rays of light Direct from heaven, their source divine; Refracted through the mist of years, How red my setting sun appears, How lurid looks this soul of mine ! HENRY WADSWORTH LOWGFELLO W. - 359 #S/4 s - & ŽN FATA MORGANA. O. SWEET illusions of Song, That tempt me everywhere, In the lonely fields, and the throng Of the crowded thoroughfare I approach, and ye Vanish away, I grasp you, and ye are gone; But ever by night and by day, The melody soundeth on. As the weary traveller sees In desert or prairie vast, Blue lakes, overhung with trees, That a pleasant shadow cast; Fair towns with turrets high, And shining roofs of gold, That vanish as he draws nigh, Like mists together rolled, - So I wander and wander along, And forever before me gleams The shining city of song, - In the beautiful land of dreams. But when I would enter the gate Of that golden atmosphere, It is gone, and I wonder and wait For the vision to reappear. THE HAUNTED CHAMBER. EACH heart has its haunted chamber, Where the silent moonlight falls On the floor are mysterious footsteps, There are whispers along the walls And mine at times is haunted By phantoms of the Past, As motionless as shadows By the silent moonlight cast. A form sits by the window, That is not seen by day, For as soon as the dawn approaches It wanishes away. It sits there in the moonlight, Itself as pale and still, And points with its airy finger Across the window-sill. Without, before the window, There stands a gloomy pine, Whose boughs wave upward and downward As wave these thoughts of mine. And underneath its branches Is the grave of a little child, Who died upon life's threshold, And never wept nor smiled. 360 THE POETICAL WORKS OF What are ye, O pallid phantoms That haunt my troubled brain Ż That vanish when day approaches, And at night return again 7 What are ye, O pallid phantoms But the statues without breath, That stand on the bridge overarching The silent river of death 2 THE MEETING. AFTER so long an absence At last we meet again : Does the meeting give us pleasure, Or does it give us pain? The tree of life has been shaken, And but few of us linger now, Like the Prophet's two or three berries In the top of the uppermost bough. We cordially greet each other In the old, familiar tone; And we think, though we do not say it, How old and gray he is grown We speak of a Merry Christmas And many a Happy New Year; But each in his heart is thinking Of those that are not here. We speak of friends and their fortunes, And of what they did and said, Till the dead alone seem living, And the living alone seem dead. And at last we hardly distinguish Between the ghosts and the guests; And a mist and shadow of sadness Steals over our merriest jests. VOX POPULI. WHEN Mazárvan the Magician, Journeyed westward through Cathay, Nothing heard he but the praises Of Badoura on his way. But the lessening rumor ended When he came to Khaledan, There the folk were talking only Of Prince Camaralzaman. So it happens with the poets: Every province hath its own ; Camaralzaman is famous Where Badoura is unknown. THE CASTLE-BUILDER. A GENTLE boy, with soft and silken locks, A dreamy boy, with brown and tender eyes, A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks, And towers that touch imaginary skies. A fearless rider on his father's knee, An eager listener unto stories told At the Round Table of the nursery, Of heroes and adventures manifold. There will be other towers for thee to build ; There will be other steeds for thee to ride; There will be other legends, and all filled With greater marvels and more glorified. Build on, and make thy castles high and fair, Rising and reaching upward to the skies; Listen to voices in the upper air, Nor lose thy simple faith in mysteries. HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLO W. 361 CHANGED. FROM the outskirts of the town, Where of old the mile-stone stood, Now a stranger, looking down I behold the shadowy crown Of the dark and haunted wood. Is it changed, or am I changed? Bright as ever flows the sea, Ah! the oaks are fresh and green, Bright as ever shines the sun, But the friends with whom I ranged But alas! they seem to me Through their thickets are estranged Not the sun that used to be, By the years that intervene. Not the tides that used to run. THE CHALLENGE. I HAVE a vague remembrance Don Diego de Ordoñez Of a story, that is told Sallied forth in front of all, In some ancient Spanish legend And shouted loud his challenge Or chronicle of old. To the warders on the wall. It was when brave King Sanchez All the people of Zamora, Was before Zamora slain, Both the born and the unborn, And his great besieging army As traitors did he challenge Lay encamped upon the plain. With taunting words of scorn. 46 362 THE POETICAL WORKS OF The living, in their houses, And in their graves, the dead! And the waters of their rivers, And their wine, and oil, and bread | There is a greater army, That besets us round with strife, A starving, numberless army, At all the gates of life. The poverty-stricken millions Who challenge our wine and bread, And impeach us all as traitors, Both the living and the dead. And whenever I sit at the banquet, Where the feast and song are high, Amid the mirth and the music I can hear that fearful cry. And hollow and haggard faces Look into the lighted hall, And wasted hands are extended To catch the crumbs that fall. For within there is light and plenty, And odors fill the air; But without there is cold and darkness, And hunger and despair. And there in the camp of famine, In wind and cold and rain, Christ, the great Lord of the army, Lies dead upon the plain THE BROOK AND THE WAWE. THE brooklet came from the mountain, As sang the bard of old, Running with feet of silver Over the sands of gold ! Far away in the briny ocean There rolled a turbulent wave, Now singing along the sea-beach, Now howling along the cave. And the brooklet has found the billow, Though they flowed so far apart, - And has filled with its freshness and sweetness That turbulent, bitter heart | FROM THE SPANISH CANCIONEROS. 1. EYEs so tristful, eyes so tristful, Heart so full of care and cumber, I was lapped in rest and slumber, Ye have made me wakeful, wistful! In this life of labor endless Who shall comfort my distresses 2 Querulous my soul and friendless In its sorrow shuns caresses. Ye have made me, ye have made me Querulous of you, that care not, Eyes so tristful, yet I dare not Say to what ye have betrayed me. 2. Some day, some day, O troubled breast, Shalt thou find rest. If Love in thee To grief give birth, Six feet of earth Can more than he ; There calm and free And unoppressed Shalt thou find rest. The unattained In life at last, When life is passed, Shall all be gained; And no more pained, No more distressed, Shalt thou find rest. 3. Come, O Death, so silent flying That unheard thy coming be, HENRY WADS WORTH JONGFELLO W. 363 Lest the sweet delight of dying Bring life back again to me. For thy sure approach perceiving, In my constancy and pain I new life should win again, Thinking that I am not living. So to me, unconscious lying, All unknown thy coming be, Lest the sweet delight of dying Bring life back again to me. Unto him who finds thee hateful, Death, thou art inhuman pain; But to me, who dying gain, Life is but a task ungrateful. Come, then, with my wish complying, All unheard thy coming be, Lest the sweet delight of dying Bring life back again to me. 4. Glove of black in white hand bare, And about her forehead pale Wound a thin, transparent veil, That doth not conceal her hair; Sovereign attitude and air, Cheek and neck alike displayed, With coquettish charms arrayed, Laughing eyes and fugitive : — This is killing men that live, 'T is not mourning for the dead. AFTERMATH. WHEN the summer fields are mown, When the birds are fledged and flown, And the dry leaves strew the path; With the falling of the snow, With the cawing of the crow, Once again the fields we mow And gather in the aftermath. - - - -º- - --- ºzzº *%. --> Not the sweet, new grass with flowers Is this harvesting of ours; Not the upland clover bloom; But the rowen mixed with weeds, Tangled tufts from marsh and meads, Where the poppy drops its seeds In the silence and the gloom. 364 THE POETICAL WORKS OF EPIMETHEUS, OR THE POET's AFTERTHOUGHT. HAVE I dreamed 2 or was it real, What I saw as in a vision, When to marches hymeneal In the land of the Ideal Moved my thought o'er Fields Elysian” What! are these the guests whose glances Seemed like sunshine gleaming round me? These the wild, bewildering fancies, That with dithyrambic dances As with magic circles bound me? Ah! how cold are their caresses | Pallid cheeks, and haggard bosoms' Spectral gleam their snow-white dresses, And from loose, dishevelled tresses Fall the hyacinthine blossoms' O my songs! whose winsome measures Filled my heart with secret rapture' Children of my golden leisures' Must even your delights and pleasures Fade and perish with the capture? Fair they seemed, those songs sonorous, When they came to me unbidden; Voices single, and in chorus, Like the wild birds singing o'er us In the dark of branches hidden. Disenchantment | Disillusion Must each noble aspiration Come at last to this conclusion, Jarring discord, wild confusion, Lassitude, renunciation 2 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 enamor, Thou, beloved, never leavest; In life's discord, strife, and clamor, Still he feels thy spell of glamour; Him of Hope thou ne'er bereavest. Weary hearts by thee are lifted, Struggling souls by thee are strengthened, Clouds of fear asunder rifted, Truth from falsehood cleansed and sifted, Lives, like days in summer, lengthened Therefore art thou ever dearer, O my Sibyl, my deceiver! For thou makest each mystery clearer, And the unattained seems nearer, When thou fillest my heart with fever! Muse of all the Gifts and Graces ! Though the fields around us wither, There are ampler realms and spaces, Where no foot has left its traces: Let us turn and wander thither HENRY WADSWORTH LOWGFELLOW. 365 CHARLES SUMNER. GARLANDS upon his grave The great design unfinished lies, And flowers upon his hearse, Our lives are incomplete. And to the tender heart and brave The tribute of this verse. But in the dark unknown Perfect their circles seem, His was the troubled life, Even as a bridge's arch of stone The conflict and the pain, Is rounded in the stream. The grief, the bitterness of strife, The honor without stain. Alike are life and death, When life in death survives, Like Winkelried, he took And the uninterrupted breath Into his manly breast Inspires a thousand lives. The sheaf of hostile spears, and broke A path for the oppressed. - Were a star quenched on high, For ages would its light, Then from the fatal field Still travelling downward from the sky, Upon a nation's heart Shine on our mortal sight. Borne like a warrior on his shield | – - So should the brave depart. So when a great man dies, For years beyond our ken, Death takes us by surprise, The light he leaves behind him lies And stays our hurrying feet; Upon the paths of men. TRAVELS BY THE FIRESIDE. THE ceaseless rain is falling fast, I read whatever bards have sung And yonder gilded vane, Of lands beyond the sea, Immovable for three days past, And the bright days when I was young Points to the misty main. Come thronging back to me. It drives me in upon myself In fancy I can hear again And to the fireside gleams, The Alpine torrent's roar, To pleasant books that crowd my shelf, The mule-bells on the hills of Spain, And still more pleasant dreams. The sea at Elsinore. 366 THE POETICAL WORKS OF I see the convent's gleaming wall Rise from its groves of pine, And towers of old cathedrals tall, And castles by the Rhine. I journey on by park and spire, Beneath centennial trees, Through fields with poppies all on fire, And gleams of distant seas. I fear no more the dust and heat, No more I feel fatigue, While journeying with another's feet O'er many a lengthening league. Let others traverse sea and land, And toil through various climes, I turn the world round with my hand Reading these poets' rhymes. From them. I learn whatever lies Beneath each changing zone, And see, when looking with their eyes, Better than with mine own. CADENABBIA. LAKE OF COMO. No sound of wheels or hoof-beat breaks The silence of the summer day, As by the loveliest of all lakes I while the idle hours away. I pace the leafy colonnade Where level branches of the plane Above me weave a roof of shade Impervious to the sun and rain. HENRY WADSWORTH LOWGFELLO W. 367 At times a sudden rush of air Flutters the lazy leaves o'erhead, And gleams of sunshine toss and flare Like torches down the path I tread. By Somariva's garden gate I make the marble stairs my seat, And hear the water, as I wait, Lapping the steps beneath my feet. The undulation sinks and swells Along the stony parapets, And far away the floating bells Tinkle upon the fisher's nets. Silent and slow, by tower and town The freighted barges come and go, Their pendent shadows gliding down By town and tower submerged below. The hills sweep upward from the shore, With villas scattered one by one Upon their wooded spurs, and lower Bellaggio blazing in the sun. And dimly seen, a tangled mass Of walls and woods, of light and shade, Stands beckoning up the Stelvio Pass Varenna with its white cascade. I ask myself, Is this a dream 7 Will it all vanish into air 2 Is there a land of such supreme And perfect beauty anywhere? Sweet vision I Do not fade away: Linger until my heart shall take Into itself the summer day, And all the beauty of the lake. Linger until upon my brain Is stamped an image of the scene, Then fade into the air again, And be as if thou hadst not been. MONTE CASSINO. TERRA DI LAVORO. BEAUTIFUL valley ! through whose verdant meads Unheard the Garigliano glides along; — The Liris, nurse of rushes and of reeds, The river taciturn of classic song. The Land of Labor and the Land of Rest, Where mediaeval towns are white on all The hillsides, and where every mountain's Crest Is an Etrurian or a Roman wall. There is Alagna, where Pope Boniface Was dragged with contumely from his throne; Sciarra Colonna, was that day’s disgrace The Pontiff's only, or in part thine own 2 There is Ceprano, where a renegade Was each Apulian, as great Dante Saith, When Manfred by his men-at-arms betrayed Spurred on to Benevento and to death. There is Aquinum, the old Volscian town, Where Juvenal was born, whose lurid light Still hovers o'er his birthplace like the CI’OWI). Of splendor seen o'er cities in the night. Doubled the splendor is, that in its streets The Angelic Doctor as a school-boy played, And dreamed perhaps the dreams, that he repeats In ponderous folios for scholastics made. And there, uplifted, like a passing cloud That pauses on a mountain summit high, Monte Cassino's convent rears its proud And venerable walls against the sky. Well I remember how on foot I climbed The stony pathway leading to its gate; Above, the convent bells for vespers chimed, Below, the darkening town grew desolate. 368 THE POETIONAL WORKS OF Well I remember the low arch and dark, The court-yard with its well, the terrace wide, From which, far down, the valley like a park, Weiled in the evening mists, was dim de- Scried. The day was dying, and with feeble hands Caressed the mountain-tops; the vales be- tWeen Darkened; the river in the meadowlands Sheathed itself as a sword, and was not seen. The silence of the place was like a sleep, So full of rest it seemed; each passing tread Was a reverberation from the deep Recesses of the ages that are dead. For, more than thirteen centuries ago, Benedict fleeing from the gates of Rome, A youth disgusted with its vice and woe, Sought in these mountain solitudes a home. He founded here his Convent and his Rule Of prayer and work, and counted work as prayer ; - The pen became a clarion, and his school Flamed like a beacon in the midnight air. What though Boccaccio, in his reckless way, Mocking the lazy brotherhood, deplores The illuminated manuscripts, that lay Torn and neglected on the dusty floors? Boccaccio was a novelist, a child Of fancy and of fiction at the best This the urbane librarian said, and Smiled Incredulous, as at some idle jest. Upon such themes as these, with one young friar - I sat conversing late into the night, Till in its cavernous chimney the wood-fire Had burnt its heart out like an anchorite. And then translated, in my convent cell, Myself yet not myself, in dreams I lay, And, as a monk who hears the matin bell, Started from sleep; — already it was day. From the high window I beheld the scene On which Saint Benedict so oft had gazed,— The mountains and the valley in the sheen Of the bright Sun, - and stood as one amazed. Gray mists were rolling, rising, vanishing; The woodlands glistened with their jewelled Crowns; Far off the mellow bells began to ring For matins in the half-awakened towns. The conflict of the Present and the Past, The ideal and the actual in our life, As on a field of battle held me fast, Where this world and the next world were at strife. For, as the valley from its sleep awoke, I saw the iron horses of the steam Toss to the morning air their plumes of smoke, . And woke, as one awaketh from a dream. AMALFI. SWEET the memory is to me Of a land beyond the sea, Where the waves and mountains meet, Where, amid her mulberry-trees Sits Amalfi in the heat, Bathing ever her white feet In the tideless summer seas. In the middle of the town, From its fountains in the hills, Tumbling through the narrow gorge, The Canneto rushes down, Turns the great wheels of the mills, Lifts the hammers of the forge. 'T is a stairway, not a street, That ascends the deep ravine, Where the torrent leaps between Rocky walls that almost meet. Toiling up from stair to stair HENRY WADS WORTH LOWGFELLO W. Peasant girls their burdens bear; Sunburnt daughters of the soil, Stately figures tall and straight, What inexorable fate Dooms them to this life of toil? Lord of vineyards and of lands, Far above the convent stands. On its terraced walk aloof Leans a monk with folded hands, Placid, satisfied, serene, Looking down upon the scene Over wall and red-tiled roof; Wondering unto what good end All this toil and traffic tend, And why all men cannot be Free from care and free from pain, And the sordid love of gain, And as indolent as he. º º # | | | º || || º | Where are now the freighted barks From the marts of east and west? Where the knights in iron sarks Journeying to the Holy Land, Glove of steel upon the hand, Cross of crimson on the breast 2 Where the pomp of camp and court? Where the pilgrims with their prayers? Where the merchants with their wares, And their gallant brigantines Sailing safely into port Chased by corsair Algerines? Vanished like a fleet of cloud, Like a passing trumpet-blast, Are those splendors of the past, And the commerce and the crowd Fathoms deep beneath the seas Lie the ancient wharves and quays, 369 47 370 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Swallowed by the engulfing waves; Silent streets and vacant halls, Ruined roofs and towers and walls; Hidden from all mortal eyes Deep the sunken city lies: Even cities have their graves | This is an enchanted land Round the headlands far away Sweeps the blue Salernian bay With its sickle of white sand : Further still and furthermost On the dim discovered coast Paestum with its ruins lies, And its roses all in bloom Seem to tinge the fatal skies Of that lonely land of doom. On his terrace, high in air, Nothing doth the good monk care For such worldly themes as these. From the garden just below Little puffs of perfume blow, And a sound is in his ears Of the murmur of the bees In the shining chestnut trees; Nothing else he heeds or hears. All the landscape seems to swoon In the happy afternoon ; Slowly o'er his senses creep The encroaching waves of sleep, And he sinks as sank the town, Unresisting, fathoms down, Into caverns cool and deep ! Walled about with drifts of snow, Hearing the fierce north-wind blow, Seeing all the landscape white, And the river cased in ice, Comes this memory of delight, Comes this vision unto me Of a long-lost Paradise In the land beyond the sea. THE SERMON OF ST. FRANCIS. |UP soared the lark into the air, A shaft of 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 desire. Around Assisi's convent gate The birds, God’s poor who cannot wait, From moor and mere and darksome wood Came flocking for their dole of food. “O brother birds,” St. Francis said, “Ye come to me and ask for bread, But not with bread alone to-day Shall ye be fed and sent away. “Ye shall be fed, ye happy birds, With manna of celestial words; Not mine, though mine they seem to be, Not mine, though they be spoken through me. “Oh, doubly are ye bound to praise The great Creator in your lays; He giveth you your plumes of down, Your crimson hoods, your cloaks of brown. “He giveth you your wings to fly And breathe a purer air on high, And careth for you everywhere, Who for yourselves so little care l’’ With flutter of swift wings and songs Together rose the feathered throngs, And singing scattered far apart : Deep peace was in St. Francis' heart. He knew not if the brotherhood His homily had understood ; He only knew that to one ear The meaning of his words was clear. ARTIST : F. S. CHURCH. “O brother birds," St Francis said, "Ye come to me and ask for bread.” The Sermon of St. Francis, HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLO W. BELISARIUS. I AM poor and old and blind; The sun burns me, and the wind Blows through the city gate, And covers me with dust From the wheels of the august Justinian the Great. It was for him I chased The Persians o'er wild and waste, As General of the East; Night after night I lay In their camps of yesterday; Their forage was my feast. For him, with sails of red, And torches at mast-head, Piloting the great fleet, I swept the Afric coasts And scattered the Vandal hosts, Like dust in a windy street. For him I won again The Ausonian realm and reign, Rome and Parthenope; And all the land was mine From the summits of Apennine To the shores of either sea. For him, in my feeble age, I dared the battle's rage, To save Byzantium's state, When the tents of Zabergan Like snow-drifts overran The road to the Golden Gate. And for this, for this, behold ! Infirm and blind and old, With gray, uncovered head, Beneath the very arch Of my triumphal march, I stand and beg my bread! -º % ſº 371 372 THE POETICAL WORKS OF HENRY Methinks I still can hear, Sounding distinct and near, The Vandal monarch's cry, As, captive and disgraced, With majestic step he paced, - “All, all is Vanity!” Ah! vainest of all things Is the gratitude of kings; The plaudits of the crowd WADSWORTH LONG FELLO W. Are but the clatter of feet At midnight in the street, Hollow and restless and loud. But the bitterest disgrace Is to see forever the face Of the Monk of Ephesus! The unconquerable will This, too, can bear; – I still Am Belisarius ! SONGO RIVER, NOWHERE such a devious stream, Save in fancy or in dream, Winding slow through bush and brake Links together lake and lake. Walled with woods or sandy shelf, Ever doubling on itself Flows the stream, so still and slow That it hardly seems to flow. Never errant knight of old, Lost in woodland or on wold, Such a winding path pursued Through the sylvan solitude. Never school-boy in his quest After hazel-nut or nest, Through the forest in and out Wandered loitering thus about. In the mirror of its tide Tangled thickets on each side Hang inverted, and between Floating cloud or sky serene. Swift or swallow on the wing Seems the only living thing, Or the loon, that laughs and flies Down to those reflected skies. Silent stream thy Indian name Unfamiliar is to fame; For thou hidest here alone, Well content to be unknown. But thy tranquil waters teach Wisdom deep as human speech, Moving without haste or noise In unbroken equipoise. Though thou turnest no busy mill, And art ever calm and still, Even thy silence seems to say To the traveller on his way: — “Traveller, hurrying from the heat Of the city, stay thy feet! Rest awhile, nor longer waste Life with inconsiderate haste! “Be not like a stream that brawls Loud with shallow waterfalls, But in quiet self-control Link together soul and soul.” ||||||}|\||||||| | º, MW º - |Lºlº lº ºl. nº |||}ºſº - º - º º - º º -- º will |) | ſ M ſ - º º M wº M º' W. # sº 3. ſº º º | § - ; : PRELUDE. THE WAYSIDE INN. ONE Autumn night, in Sudbury town, Across the meadows bare and brown, The windows of the wayside inn Gleamed red with fire-light through the leaves Of woodbine, hanging from the eaves Their crimson curtains rent and thin. As ancient is this hostelry As any in the land may be, Built in the old Colonial day, When men lived in a grander way, With ampler hospitality; A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall, Now somewhat fallen to decay, With weather-stains upon the wall, And stairways worn, and crazy doors, And creaking and uneven floors, And chimneys huge, and tiled and tall. A region of repose it seems, A place of slumber and of dreams, Remote among the wooded hills! For there no noisy railway speeds, Its torch-race scattering smoke and gleeds; But noon and night, the panting teams Stop under the great oaks, that throw Tangles of light and shade below, On roofs and doors and window-sills. Across the road the barns display Their lines of stalls, their mows of hay, Through the wide doors the breezes blow, The wattled cocks strut to and fro, And, half effaced by rain and shine, The Red Horse prances on the sign. Round this old-fashioned, quaint abode Deep silence reigned, save when a gust Went rushing down the county road, And skeletons of leaves, and dust, A moment quickened by its breath, Shuddered and danced their dance of death, And through the ancient oaks o'erhead Mysterious voices moaned and fled. But from the parlor of the inn A pleasant murmur Smote the ear, Like water rushing through a weir : Oft interrupted by the din Of laughter and of loud applause, And, in each intervening pause, The music of a violin. The fire-light, shedding over all The splendor of its ruddy glow, Filled the whole parlor large and low; It gleamed on wainscot and on wall, It touched with more than wonted grace Fair Princess Mary's pictured face; It bronzed the rafters overhead, On the old spinet’s ivory keys It played inaudible melodies, It crowned the sombre clock with flame, The hands, the hours, the maker's name, And painted with a livelier red The Landlord’s coat-of-arms again; And, flashing on the window-pane, Emblazoned with its light and shade The jovial rhymes, that still remain, 376 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Writ near a century ago, With the delicious melodies; By the great Major Molineaux, Who from the far-off noisy town Whom Hawthorne has immortal made. Had to the wayside inn come down, To rest beneath its old oak trees. Before the blazing fire of wood The fire-light on their faces glanced, Erect the rapt musician stood; Their shadows on the wainscot danced, And ever and anon he bent And, though of different lands and speech, His head upon his instrument, Each had his tale to tell, and each And seemed to listen, till he caught Was anxious to be pleased and please. Confessions of its secret thought, — And while the sweet musician plays, The joy, the triumph, the lament, Let me in outline sketch them all, The exultation and the pain; Perchance uncouthly as the blaze Then, by the magic of his art, With its uncertain touch portrays He soothed the throbbings of its heart, Their shadowy semblance on the wall. And lulled it into peace again. But first the Landlord will I trace; Around the fireside at their ease Grave in his aspect and attire; There sat a group of friends, entranced A man of ancient pedigree, === º 22757 - - HENRY WADS WORTH LOWG FELLO W. 377 A Justice of the Peace was he, Known in all Sudbury as “The Squire.” Proud was he of his name and race, Of old Sir William and Sir Hugh, And in the parlor, full in view, His coat-of-arms, well framed and glazed, Upon the wall in colors blazed; He beareth gules upon his shield, A chevron argent in the field, With three wolf's heads, and for the crest A Wyvern part-per-pale addressed Upon a helmet barred; below The scroll reads, “By the name of Howe.” And over this, no longer bright, Though glimmering with a latent light, Was hung the sword his grandsire bore In the rebellious days of yore, Down there at Concord in the fight. A youth was there, of quiet ways, A Student of old books and days, To whom all tongues and lands were known, And yet a lover of his own ; With many a social virtue graced, And yet a friend of solitude : A man of such a genial mood The heart of all things he embraced, And yet of such fastidious taste, He never found the best too good. Books were his passion and delight, And in his upper room at home Stood many a rare and sumptuous tome, In vellum bound, with gold bedight, Great volumes garmented in white, Recalling Florence, Pisa, Rome. He loved the twilight that surrounds The border-land of old romance ; . Where glitter hauberk, helm, and lance, And banner waves, and trumpet sounds, And ladies ride with hawk on wrist, And mighty warriors sweep along, Magnified by the purple mist, The dusk of centuries and of song. The chronicles of Charlemagne, Of Merlin and the Mort d’Arthure, Mingled together in his brain With tales of Flores and Blanchefleur, Sir Ferumbras, Sir Eglamour, Sir Launcelot, Sir Morgadour, Sir Guy, Sir Bevis, Sir Gawain. A young Sicilian, too, was there; In sight of Etna born and bred, Some breath of its volcanic air Was glowing in his heart and brain, And, being rebellious to his liege, After Palermo's fatal siege, Across the western seas he fled, In good King Bomba's happy reign. His face was like a summer night, All flooded with a dusky light; His hands were small; his teeth shone white As sea-shells, when he smiled or spoke ; His sinews supple and strong as oak ; Clean shaven was he as a priest, Who at the mass on Sunday sings, Save that upon his upper lip His beard, a good palm's length at least, Level and pointed at the tip, Shot sideways, like a swallow's wings. The poets read he o'er and o'er, And most of all the Immortal Four Of Italy; and next to those, The story-telling bard of prose, Who wrote the joyous Tuscan tales Of the Decameron, that make Fiesole's green hills and vales Remembered for Boccaccio's sake. Much too of music was his thought ; The melodies and measures fraught With sunshine and the open air, Of vineyards and the singing sea Of his beloved Sicily; And much it pleased him to peruse The songs of the Sicilian muse, – Bucolic songs by Meli sung In the familiar peasant tongue, That made men say, “Behold ! once more The pitying gods to earth restore Theocritus of Syracuse !” A Spanish Jew from Alicant With aspect grand and grave was there; Vender of silks and fabrics rare, And attar of rose from the Levant. Like an old Patriarch he appeared, Abraham or Isaac, or at least Some later Prophet or High-Priest; With lustrous eyes, and olive skin, And, wildly tossed from cheeks and chin, The tumbling cataract of his beard. . . *e e° 48 378 THE POETIONAL WORKS OF His garments breathed a spicy scent Who, not too eager for renown, Of cinnamon and sandal blent, Accepts, but does not clutch, the crown Like the soft aromatic gales That meet the mariner, who sails Last the Musician, as he stood Through the Moluccas, and the seas Illumined by that fire of wood; That wash the shores of Celebes. Fair-haired, blue-eyed, his aspect blithe, All stories that recorded are His figure tall and straight and lithe, By Pierre Alphonse he knew by heart, And every feature of his face And it was rumored he could say Revealing his Norwegian race; The Parables of Sandabar, A radiance, streaming from within, And all the Fables of Pilpay, Around his eyes and forehead beamed, Or if not all, the greater part The Angel with the violin, Well versed was he in Hebrew books, Painted by Raphael, he seemed. Talmud and Targum, and the lore He lived in that ideal world Of Kabala; and evermore Whose language is not speech, but song; There was a mystery in his looks; Around him evermore the throng His eyes seemed gazing far away, Of elves and sprites their dances whirled ; As if in vision or in trance The Strömkarl sang, the cataract hurled He heard the solemn Sackbut play, Its headlong waters from the height : And saw the Jewish maidens dance. And mingled in the wild delight The scream of sea-birds in their flight, A Theologian, from the school The rumor of the forest trees, Of Cambridge on the Charles, was there; The plunge of the implacable seas, Skilful alike with tongue and pen, The tumult of the wind at night, He preached to all men everywhere Voices of eld, like trumpets blowing, The Gospel of the Golden Rule, Old ballads, and wild melodies The New Commandment given to men, Through mist and darkness pouring forth, Thinking the deed, and not the creed, Like Elivagar's river flowing Would help us in our utmost need. Out of the glaciers of the North. With reverent feet the earth he trod, Nor banished nature from his plan, The instrument on which he played But studied still with deep research Was in Cremona's workshops made, To build the Universal Church, By a great master of the past, Lofty as in the love of God, Ere yet was lost the art divine ; And ample as the wants of man. Fashioned of maple and of pine, That in Tyrolian forests vast A Poet, too, was there, whose verse Had rocked and wrestled with the blast : Was tender, musical, and terse; Exquisite was it in design, The inspiration, the delight, Perfect in each minutest part, The gleam, the glory, the swift flight, A marvel of the lutist’s art ; Of thoughts so sudden, that they seem And in its hollow chamber, thus, The revelations of a dream, The maker from whose hands it came All these were his ; but with them came Had written his unrivalled name, – No envy of another's fame; “Antonius Stradivarius.” He did not find his sleep less sweet For music in some neighboring street, And when he played, the atmosphere Nor rustling hear in every breeze Was filled with magic, and the ear The laurels of Miltiades. Caught echoes of that Harp of Gold, Honor and blessings on his head Whose music had so weird a sound, :::: ...; White living, good report when dead, The hunted stag forgot to bound, HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLO W. 379 The leaping rivulet backward rolled, The birds came down from bush and tree, The dead came from beneath the sea, The maiden to the harper's knee The music ceased; the applause was loud, The pleased musician smiled and bowed; The wood-fire clapped its hands of flame, The shadows on the wainscot stirred, And from the harpsichord there came A ghostly murmur of acclaim, A sound like that sent down at night By birds of passage in their flight, From the remotest distance heard. Then silence followed; then began A clamor for the Landlord's tale, – The story promised them of old, They said, but always left untold: And he, although a bashful man, And all his courage seemed to fail, Finding excuse of no avail, Yielded; and thus the story ran. THE LANDLORD’S TALE. PAUL REVERE’s RIDE. LISTEN, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five; Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year. He said to his friend, “If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch Of the North Church tower as a signal light, — One, if by land, and two, if by sea; And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm, For the country folk to be up and to arm.” Then he said, “Good night !” and with muffled oar Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay, Where swinging wide at her moorings lay The Somerset, British man-of-war; A phantom ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon like a prison bar, And a huge black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide. Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street, Wanders and watches with eager ears, Till in the silence around him he hears The muster of men at the barrack door, - º --- | | | º º 380 THE POETICAL WORKS OF The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, And the measured tread of the grenadiers, Marching down to their boats on the shore. Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church, By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, To the belfry-chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch On the sombre rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes of shade, – By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, To the highest window in the wall, Where he paused to listen and look down A moment on the roofs of the town, And the moonlight flowing over all. Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, In their night-encampment on the hill, Wrapped in silence so deep and still That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, The watchful night-wind, as it went Creeping along from tent to tent, And seeming to whisper, “All is well A moment only he feels the spell 1 * Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead; For suddenly all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy something far away, Where the river widens to meet the bay, - A line of black that bends and floats On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. Now he patted his horse's side, Now gazed at the landscape far and near, Then, impetuous, stamped the earth, And turned and tightened his saddle-girth; But mostly he watched with eager search The belfry-tower of the Old North Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill, Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A second lamp in the belfry burns ! HENRY WADSWORTH LOWGFELLOW. 381 A hurry of hoofs in a village street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet: That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light, The fate of a nation was riding that night; And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, Kindled the land into flame with its heat. He has left the village and mounted the steep, And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; And under the alders, that skirt its edge, Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. It was twelve by the village clock, When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. He heard the crowing of the cock, And the barking of the farmer's dog, And felt the damp of the river fog, That rises after the sun goes down. It was one by the village clock, When he galloped into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the moonlight as he passed, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with a spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon. It was two by the village clock, When he came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twitter of birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning breeze Blowing over the meadows brown. And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall, Who that day would be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket-ball. You know the rest. In the books you have read, How the British Regulars fired and fled,— How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farm-yard wall, Chasing the red-coats down the lane, Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load. So through the night rode Paul Revere; And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm, - A cry of defiance and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo forevermore For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, Through all our history, to the last, In the hour of darkness and peril and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, And the midnight message of Paul Revere. INTERLUDE. THE Landlord ended thus his tale, Then rising took down from its nail The Sword that hung there, dim with dust, And cleaving to its sheath with rust, And said, “This sword was in the fight.” The Poet seized it, and exclaimed, “It is the sword of a good knight, Though homespun was his coat-of-mail; What matter if it be not named Joyeuse, Colada, Durindale, Excalibar, or Aroundight, Or other name the books record? Your ancestor, who bore this sword As Colonel of the Volunteers, Mounted upon his old gray mare, Seen here and there and everywhere, To me a grander shape appears Than old Sir William, or what not, Clinking about in foreign lands With iron gauntlets on his hands, And on his head an iron pot!”. 382 THE POETICAL WORKS OF All laughed; the Landlord’s face grew red As his escutcheon on the wall; He could not comprehend at all The drift of what the Poet said; For those who had been longest dead Were always greatest in his eyes; And he was speechless with surprise To see Sir William's plumed head Brought to a level with the rest, And made the subject of a jest. And this perceiving, to appease The Landlord’s wrath, the others’ fears, The Student said, with careless ease, “The ladies and the cavaliers, The arms, the loves, the courtesies, The deeds of high emprise, I sing ! Thus Ariosto says, in words That have the stately stride and ring Of armed knights and clashing swords. Now listen to the tale I bring ; Listen I though not to me belong The flowing draperies of his song, The words that rouse, the voice that charms. The Landlord’s tale was one of arms, Only a tale of love is mine, Blending the human and divine, A tale of the Decameron, told In Palmieri's garden old, By Fiametta, laurel-crowned, While her companions lay around, And heard the intermingled sound Of airs that on their errands sped, And wild birds gossiping overhead, And lisp of leaves, and fountain's fall, And her own voice more sweet than all, Telling the tale, which, wanting these, Perchance may lose its power to please.” THE STUDENT’S TALE. THE FAILCON OF SER FEDERIGO. ONE Summer morning, when the sun was hot, Weary with labor in his garden-plot, On a rude bench beneath his cottage eaves, Ser Federigo sat among the leaves Of a huge vine, that, with its arms outspread, Hung its delicious clusters overhead. Below him, through the lovely valley, flowed The river Arno, like a winding road, And from its banks were lifted high in air The spires and roofs of Florence called the Fair; - To him a marble tomb, that rose above His wasted fortunes and his buried love. For there, in banquet and in tournament, His wealth had lavished been, his substance spent, To woo and lose, since ill his wooing sped, Monna Giovanna, who his rival wed, Yet ever in his fancy reigned supreme, The ideal woman of a young man's dream. Then he withdrew, in poverty and pain, To this small farm, the last of his domain, ..His only gomfort and his only care e” tº • * ~ * * © © * e a º e º e º e e To prune his vines, and plant the fig and pear; His only forester and only guest His falcon, faithful to him, when the rest, Whose willing hands had found so light of yore The brazen knocker of his palace door, Had now no strength to lift the wooden latch, That entrance gave beneath a roof of thatch. Companion of his solitary ways, Purveyor of his feasts on holidays, On him this melancholy man bestowed The love with which his nature overflowed. And so the empty-handed years went round, Vacant, though voiceful with prophetic sound, And so, that summer morn, he sat and mused With folded, patient hands, as he was used, And dreamily before his half-closed sight Floated the vision of his lost delight. Beside him, motionless, the drowsy bird Dreamed of the chase, and in his slumber heard The sudden, scythe-like sweep of wings, that dare HENRY WADS WORTH LOWG FELLO W. The headlong plunge thro’ eddying gulfs o air, - Then, starting broad awake upon his perch, Tinkled his bells, like mass-bells in a church, And looking at his master, seemed to say, “Ser Federigo, shall we hunt to-day ?” Ser Federigo thought not of the chase; The tender vision of her lovely face, I will not say he seems to see, he sees In the leaf-shadows of the trellises, Herself, yet not herself; a lovely child With flowing tresses, and eyes wide and wild, Coming undaunted up the garden walk, And looking not at him, but at the hawk. “Beautiful falcon | * said he, “would that I Might hold thee on my wrist, or see thee fly!” h The voice was hers, and made strange echoes start Through all the haunted chambers of his heart, As an aeolian harp through gusty doors Of some old ruin its wild music pours. “Who is thy mother, my fair boy 2 ” he said, His hand laid softly on that shining head. “Monna Giovanna. Will you let me stay A little while, and with your falcon play? We live there, just beyond your garden wall, In the great house behind the poplars tall.” So he spake on ; and Federigo heard As from afar each softly uttered word, And drifted onward through the golden gleams And shadows of the misty sea of dreams, As mariners becalmed through vapors drift, And feel the sea beneath them sink and lift, And hear far off the mournful breakers roar, And voices calling faintly from the shore Then waking from his pleasant reveries, He took the little boy upon his knees, And told him stories of his gallant bird, Till in their friendship he became a third. Monna Giovanna, widowed in her prime, Had come with friends to pass the Summer 383 With iron gates, that opened through long lines Of sacred ilex and centennial pines, And terraced gardens, and broad steps of stone, - And sylvan deities, with moss o'ergrown, And fountains palpitating in the heat, And all Val d’Arno stretched beneath its feet. - Here in seclusion, as a widow may, The lovely lady whiled the hours away, Pacing in sable robes the statued hall, Herself the stateliest statue among all, And seeing more and more, with secret joy, Her husband risen and living in her boy, Till the lost sense of life returned again, Not as delight, but as relief from pain. Meanwhile the boy, rejoicing in his strength, Stormed down the terraces from length to length ; - The screaming peacock chased in hot pur- suit, And climbed the garden trellises for fruit. But his chief pastime was to watch the flight Of a gerfalcon, soaring into sight, Beyond the trees that fringed the garden wall, Then downward stooping at some distant call; And as he gazed full often wondered he Who might the master of the falcon be, Until that happy morning, when he found Master and falcon in the cottage ground. And now a shadow and a terror fell On the great house, as if a passing-bell Tolled from the tower, and filled each spa- cious room With secret awe and preternatural gloom ; The petted boy grew ill, and day by day Pined with mysterious malady away. The mother's heart would not be comforted; Her darling seemed to her already dead, And often, sitting by the sufferer's side, “What can I do to comfort thee ?” she cried. At first the silent lips made no reply, But, moved at length by her importunate cry, time In her grand villa, half-way up the hill, O'erlooking Florence, but retired and still ; “Give me,” he answered, with imploring tone, “Ser Federigo's falcon for my own l’ No answer could the astonished mother make : 384 THE POETICAL WORKS OF How could she ask, een for her darling's sake. Such favor at a luckless lover's hand, Well knowing that to ask was to command 2 Well knowing, what all falconers confessed, In all the land that falcon was the best, The master's pride and passion and delight, And the sole pursuivant of this poor knight. But yet, for her child's sake, she could no less Than give assent, to soothe his restlessness, So promised, and then promising to keep Her promise sacred, saw him fall asleep. The morrow was a bright September morn; The earth was beautiful as if new-born ; There was that nameless splendor everywhere, That wild exhilaration in the air, Which makes the passers in the city street Congratulate each other as they meet. Two lovely ladies, clothed in cloak and hood, Passed through the garden gate into the wood, Under the lustrous leaves, and through the sheen Of dewy sunshine showering down between. The one, close-hooded, had the attractive grace Which sorrow sometimes lends a woman's face; Her dark eyes moistened with the mists that roll From the gulf-stream of passion in the soul; The other with her hood thrown back, her hair Making a golden glory in the air, Her cheeks suffused with an auroral blush, Her young heart singing louder than the thrush. So walked, that morn, through mingled light and shade, Each by the other's presence lovelier made, Monna Giovanna and her bosom friend, Intent upon their errand and its end. - They found Ser Federigo at his toil, Like banished Adam, delving in the soil; HEWR Y WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. 385 And when he looked and these fair women spied, The garden suddenly was glorified ; His long-lost Eden was restored again, And the strange river winding through the plain No longer was the Arno to his eyes, But the Euphrates watering Paradise ! Monna Giovanna raised her stately head, And with fair words of salutation said: “Ser Federigo, we come here as friends, Hoping in this to make some poor amends For past unkindness. I who ne'er before Would even cross the threshold of your door, I who in happier days such pride maintained, Refused your banquets, and your gifts dis- dained, This morning come, a self-invited guest, To put your generous nature to the test, And breakfast with you under your own vine.” To which he answered : “Poor desert of mine, Not your unkindness call it, for if aught Is good in me of feeling or of thought, From you it comes, and this last grace out- weighs All sorrows, all regrets of other days.” And after further compliment and talk, Among the asters in the garden walk He left his guests; and to his cottage turned, And as he entered for a moment yearned For the lost splendors of the days of old, The ruby glass, the silver and the gold, And felt how piercing is the sting of pride, By want embittered and intensified. He looked about him for some means or way To keep this unexpected holiday : Searched every cupboard, and then searched again, Summoned the maid, who came, but came in vain : “The Signor did not hunt to-day,” she said, “There’s nothing in the house but wine and bread.” Then suddenly the drowsy falcon shook His little bells, with that sagacious look, Which said, as plain as language to the ear, “If anything is wanting, I am here !” Yes, everything is wanting, gallant bird! The master seized thee without further word. Like thine own lure, he whirled thee round; ah me! The pomp and flutter of brave falconry, The bells, the jesses, the bright scarlet hood, The flight and the pursuit o'er field and wood, All these forevermore are ended now ; No longer victor, but the victim thou! Then on the board a snow-white cloth he spread, Laid on its wooden dish the loaf of bread, Brought purple grapes with autumn Sunshine hot, The fragrant peach, the juicy bergamot ; Then in the midst a flask of wine he placed, And with autumnal flowers the banquet graced. Ser Federigo, would not these suffice Without thy falcon stuffed with cloves and spice” When all was ready, and the courtly dame With her companion to the cottage came, Upon Ser Federigo's brain there fell The wild enchantment of a magic spell ! The room they entered, mean and low and Small, Was changed into a sumptuous banquet-hall, With fanfares by aerial trumpets blown ; The rustic chair she sat on was a throne ; He ate celestial food, and a divine Flavor was given to his country wine, And the poor falcon, fragrant with his spice, A peacock was, or bird of paradise ! When the repast was ended, they arose And passed again into the garden-close. Then said the lady, “Far too well I know, Remembering still the days of long ago, Though you betray it not, with what surprise You see me here in this familiar wise. You have no children, and you cannot guess What anguish, what unspeakable distress A mother feels, whose child is lying ill, Nor how her heart anticipates his will. And yet for this, you see me lay aside All womanly reserve and check of pride, 49 386 * THE POETICAL WORKS OF 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 OWI). But thinking in what manner I could best Do honor to the presence of my guest, I deemed that nothing worthier could be Than what most dear and precious was to Ime ; And so my gallant falcon breathed his last To furnish forth this morning our repast.” In mute contrition, mingled with dismay, The gentle lady turned her eyes away, Grieving that he such sacrifice should make And kill his falcon for a woman’s sake, Yet feeling in her heart a woman's pride, That nothing she could ask for was denied; Then took her leave, and passed out at the gate With footstep slow and soul disconsolate. Three days went by, and lo! a passing-bell Tolled from the little chapel in the dell; Ten strokes Ser Federigo heard, and said, Breathing a prayer, “Alas! her child is dead!” Three months went by ; and lo! a merrier chime Rang from the chapel bells at Christmas-time; The cottage was deserted, and no more Ser Federigo sat beside its door, But now, with servitors to do his will, In the grand villa, half-way up the hill, Sat at the Christmas feast, and at his side Monna Giovanna, his beloved bride, Never so beautiful, so kind, so fair, Enthroned once more in the old rustic chair High-perched upon the back of which there stood The image of a falcon carved in wood, And underneath the inscription, with 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 neighborhood In some remote provincial town, A scandalous chronicle at best They seem to me a stagnant fen, Grown rank with rushes and with reeds, Where a white lily, now and then, Blooms in the midst of noxious weeds And deadly nightshade on its banks!” To this the Student straight replied, “For the white lily, many thanks! One should not say, with too much pride, Fountain, I will not drink of thee! Nor were it grateful to forget That from these reservoirs and tanks Even imperial Shakespeare drew His Moor of Venice, and the Jew, And Romeo and Juliet, And many a famous comedy.” Then a long pause; till some one said, “An Angel is flying overhead l’” At these words spake the Spanish Jew, HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLO W. 387 And murmured with an inward breath : “God grant, if what you say be true, It may not be the Angel of Death!” And then another pause; and then, Stroking his beard, he said again : “This brings back to my memory A story in the Talmud told, That book of gems, that book of gold, Of wonders many and manifold, A tale that often comes to me, And fills my heart, and haunts my brain, And never wearies nor grows old.” THE SPANISH JEW’S TALE. THE LEGEND OF RABBI BEN LEWI. RABBI Ben Levi, on the Sabbath, read A volume of the Law, in which it said, “No man shall look upon my face and live.” And as he read, he prayed that God would give His faithful servant grace with mortal eye To look upon His face and yet not die. Then fell a sudden shadow on the page, And, lifting up his eyes, grown dim with age, He saw the Angel of Death before him stand, Holding a naked sword in his right hand. Rabbi Ben Levi was a righteous man, Yet through his veins a chill of terror ran. With trembling voice he said, “What wilt thou here 2 ° The angel answered, “Lo! the time draws Ilear When thou must die; yet first, by God's decree, 388 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Whate'er thou askest shall be granted thee.” Then all the Angels cried, “O Holy One, Replied the Rabbi, “Let these living eyes See what the son of Levi here hath done ! First look upon my place in Paradise.” The kingdom of Heaven he takes by violence, And in Thy name refuses to go hence l’’ Then said the Angel, “Come with me and The Lord replied, “My Angels, be not wroth; look.” Did eler the son of Levi break his oath 2 Rabbi Ben Levi closed the sacred book, Let him remain ; for he with mortal eye And rising, and uplifting his gray head, Shall look upon my face and yet not die.” “Give me thy sword,” he to the Angel said, “Lest thou shouldst fall upon me by the Beyond the outer wall the Angel of Death way.” Heard the great voice, and said, with panting The angel Smiled and hastened to obey, breath, Then led him forth to the Celestial Town, “Give back the sword, and let me go my And set him on the wall, whence, gazing way.” down, Whereat the Rabbi paused, and answered, Rabbi Ben Levi, with his living eyes, “Nay! Might look upon his place in Paradise. Anguish enough already hath it caused Among the sons of men.” And while he Then straight into the city of the Lord paused The Rabbi leaped with the Death-Angel's He heard the awful mandate of the Lord sword, Resounding through the air, “Give back the And through the streets there swept a Sud- sword ' ' den breath Of something there unknown, which men The Rabbi bowed his head in silent prayer ; call death. Then said he to the dreadful Angel, “Swear Meanwhile the Angel stayed without, and No human eye shall look on it again ; cried, But when thou takest away the souls of men, “Come back l’’ To which the Rabbi’s voice Thyself unseen, and with an unseen sword, replied, Thou wilt perform the bidding of the Lord.” “No I in the name of God, whom I adore, The Angel took the sword again, and swore, I swear that hence I will depart no more!” And walks on earth unseen forevermore. INTERLUDE. HE ended: and a kind of spell They might behold the Angel stand, Upon the silent listeners fell. Holding the sword in his right hand. His solemn manner and his words Had touched the deep, mysterious At last, but in a voice subdued, chords Not to disturb their dreamy mood, That vibrate in each human breast Said the Sicilian : “While you spoke, Alike, but not alike confessed. Telling your legend marvellous, The spiritual world seemed near : Suddenly in my memory woke And close above them, full of fear, The thought of one, now gone from us, - Its awful adumbration passed, An old Abate, meek and mild, A luminous shadow, vague and vast. My friend and teacher, when a child, They almost feared to look, lest Who sometimes in those days of old there, The legend of an Angel told, Embodied from the impalpable air, Which ran, as I remember, thus.” HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. 389 THE SICILIAN’S TALE. KING ROBERT OF SICILY. Rob ERT of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, Apparelled in magnificent attire, With retinue of many a knight and squire, On St. John's eve, at vespers, proudly sat And heard the priests chant the Magnificat. And as he listened, o'er and o'er again Repeated, like a burden or refrain, He caught the words, “Deposuit potentes De sede, et evaltawit humiles; ” And slowly lifting up his kingly head He to a learned clerk beside him said, “What mean these words?” The clerk made answer meet, “He has put down the mighty from their Seat, And has exalted them of low degree.” Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully, “'T is well that such seditious words are sung Only by priests and in the Latin tongue; For unto priests and people be it known, There is no power can push me from my throne 2'' 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, 390 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Save where the lamps, that glimmered few and faint, Lighted a little space before some saint. He started from his seat and gazed around, But saw no living thing and heard no sound. He groped towards the door, but it was locked ; He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked, And uttered awful threatenings and com- plaints, And imprecations upon men and Saints. The sounds reëchoed 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 : *t is I, the King ! Art thou afraid l’’ The frightened sexton, muttering, with a Curse, “This is some drunken vagabond, or worse !” Turned the great key and flung the portal wide ; A man rushed by him at a single stride, Haggard, half naked, without hat or cloak, Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke, But leaped into the blackness of the night, And vanished like a spectre from his sight. Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, Despoiled of his magnificent attire, Bareheaded, breathless, and besprent with mire, With sense of wrong and outrage desperate, Strode on and thundered at the palace gate; Rushed through the courtyard, thrusting in his rage To right and left each seneschal and page, And hurried up the broad and sounding stair, His white face ghastly in the torches' glare. From hall to hall he passed with breathless speed ; Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed, Until at last he reached the banquet-room, Blazing with light, and breathing with perfume. There on the dais sat another king, Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet-ring, King Robert's self in features, form, and height, But all transfigured with angelic light ! It was an Angel; and his presence there With a divine effulgence filled the air, An exaltation, piercing the disguise, Though none the hidden Angel recognize. A moment speechless, motionless, amazed, The throneless monarch on the Angel gazed, Who met his look of anger and surprise With the divine compassion of his eyes; Then said, “Who art thou? and why com'st thou here 7° To which King Robert answered with a sneer, “I am the King, and come to claim my own From an impostor, who usurps my throne !” And suddenly, at these audacious words, Up sprang the angry guests, and drew their swords; The Angel answered, with unruffled brow, “Nay, not the King, but the King's Jester, thou Henceforth shalt wear the bells and scalloped Cape, - And for thy counsellor shalt lead an ape; Thou shalt obey my servants when they call, And wait upon my henchmen in the hall !” Deaf to King Robert's threats and cries and prayers, They thrust him from the hall and down the stairs; A group of tittering pages ran before, And as they opened wide the folding-door, His heart failed, for he heard, with strange alarms, The boisterous laughter of the men-at-arms, And all the vaulted chamber roar and ring With the mock plaudits of “Long live the King !” Next morning, waking with the day's first beam, He said within himself, “It was a dream l’’ HEWR Y WADS WO/PTH LOWGFELLO W. 391 But the straw rustled as he turned his head, There were the cap and bells beside his bed, Around him rose the bare, discolored walls, Close by, the steeds were champing in their stalls, And in the corner, a revolting shape, Shivering and chattering sat the wretched ape. It was no dream; the world he loved so much Had turned to dust and ashes at his touch Days came and went ; and now returned again To Sicily the old Saturnian reign : Under the Angel's governance benign The happy island danced with corn and wine, And deep within the mountain's burning breast Enceladus, the giant, was at rest. Meanwhile King Robert yielded to his fate, Sullen and silent and disconsolate. Dressed in the motley garb that Jesters wear, With look bewildered and a vacant stare, Close shaven above the ears, as monks are shorn, By courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to Scorn, His only friend the ape, his only food What others left, — he still was unsubdued. And when the Angel met him on his way, And half in earnest, half in jest, would say, Sternly, though tenderly, that he might feel The velvet scabbard held a sword of steel, “Art thou the King’” the passion of his woe g p Burst from him in resistless overflow, And, lifting high his forehead, he would fling The haughty answer back, “I am, I am the King!” § N N § Almost three years were ended; when there Canne Ambassadors of great repute and name From Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, Unto King Robert, saying that Pope Urbane By letter summoned them forthwith to come On Holy Thursday to his city of Rome. The Angel with great joy received his guests, And gave them presents of embroidered vests, 392 THE POETICAL WORKS OF And velvet mantles with rich ermine lined, And rings and jewels of the rarest kind. Then he departed with them o'er the sea Into the lovely land of Italy, Whose loveliness was more resplendent made By the mere passing of that cavalcade, With plumes, and cloaks, and housings, and the stir Of jewelled bridle and of golden spur. And lo! among the menials, in mock state, Upon a piebald steed, with shambling gait, His cloak of fox-tails flapping in the wind, The solemn ape demurely perched behind, King Robert rode, making huge merriment In all the country towns through which they Went. The Pope received them with great pomp and blare Of bannered trumpets, on Saint Peter's square, Giving his benediction and embrace, Fervent, and full of apostolic grace. While with congratulations and with prayers He entertained the Angel unawares, Robert, the Jester, bursting through the crowd, Into their presence rushed, and cried aloud, “I am the King ! Look, and behold in me Robert, your brother, King of Sicily This man, who wears my semblance to your eyes, Is an impostor in a king's disguise. Do you not know me? does no voice within Answer my cry, and say we are akin?” The Pope in silence, but with troubled mien, Gazed at the Angel’s countenance serene; The Emperor, laughing, said, “It is strange sport To keep a madman for thy Fool at court l” And the poor, baffled Jester in disgrace Was hustled back among the populace. In solemn state the Holy Week went by, And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky; The presence of the Angel, with its light, Before the sun rose, made the city bright, And with new fervor filled the hearts of men, Who felt that Christ indeed had risen again. Even the Jester, on his bed of straw, With haggard eyes the unwonted splendor saw, He felt within a power unfelt before, “I am an Angel, and thou art the King And, kneeling humbly on his chamber floor, He heard the rushing garments of the Lord Sweep through the silent air, ascending heav- enward. And now the visit ending, and once more Valmond returning to the Danube's shore, Homeward the Angel journeyed, and again The land was made resplendent with his train, Flashing along the towns of Italy Unto Salerno, and from thence by sea. And when once more within Palermo's wall, And, seated on the throne in his great hall, He heard the Angelus from convent towers, As if the better world conversed with ours, He beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher, And with a gesture bade the rest retire; And when they were alone, the Angel said, “Art thou the King?” Then, bowing down his head, King Robert crossed both hands upon his breast, And meekly answered him: “Thou knowest best My sins as scarlet are ; let me go hence, And in some cloister's school of penitence, Across those stones, that pave the way to heaven, Walk barefoot, till my guilty soul be shriven l’” The Angel smiled, and from his radiant face A holy light illumined all the place, And through the open window, loud and clear, They heard the monks chant in the chapel near, Above the stir and tumult of the street : “He has put down the mighty from their seat, And has exalted them of low degree l’ And through the chant a second melody Rose like the throbbing of a single string: ! » King Robert, who was standing near the throne, Lifted his eyes, and lo! he was alone ! But all apparelled as in days of old, With ermined mantle and with cloth of gold; And when his courtiers came, they found him there Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent prayer. HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. 393 INTERLUDE. AND then the blue-eyed Norseman told A Saga of the days of old. “There is,” said he, “a wondrous book Of Legends in the old Norse tongue, Of the dead kings of Norroway, - Legends that once were told or sung In many a smoky fireside nook Of Iceland, in the ancient day, By wandering Saga-man or Scald; * Heimskringla is the volume called; And he who looks may find therein The story that I now begin.” And in each pause the story made Upon his violin he played, As an appropriate interlude, Fragments of old Norwegian tunes That bound in one the separate runes, And held the mind in perfect mood, Entwining and encircling all The strange and antiquated rhymes With melodies of olden times; As over some half-ruined wall, Disjointed and about to fall, Fresh woodbines climb and interlace, And keep the loosened stones in place. THE MUSICIAN’S TALE. THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. THE CHALLENGE OF THOR. º . * 394 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 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, Miólner the mighty; Giants and sorcerers Cannot withstand it ! These are the gauntlets Where with I wield it, And hurl it afar off; This is my girdle; Whenever I brace it, Strength is redoubled ! The light thou beholdest Stream through the heavens, In flashes of crimson, Is but my red beard Blown by the night-wind, Affrighting the nations ! Jove is my brother; Mine eyes are the lightning; The wheels of my chariot Roll in the thunder, The blows of my hammer Ring in the earthquake Force rules the world still, Has ruled it, shall rule it; Meekness is weakness, Strength is triumphant, Over the whole earth Still is it Thor's-Day ! Thou art a God too, O Galilean And thus single-handed Unto the combat, Gauntlet or Gospel, Here I defy thee KING OLAF's RETURN. AND King Olaf heard the cry, Saw the red light in the sky, Laid his hand upon his sword, As he leaned upon the railing, And his ships went sailing, sailing Northward into Drontheim fiord, There he stood as one who dreamed ; And the red light glanced and gleamed On the armor that he wore ; And he shouted, as the rifted Streamers o'er him shook and shifted, “I accept thy challenge, Thor l’” To avenge his father slain, And reconquer realm and reign, Came the youthful Olaf home, Through the midnight sailing, sailing, Listening to the wild wind's wailing, And the dashing of the foam. To his thoughts the sacred name Of his mother Astrid came, And the tale she oft had told Of her flight by secret passes Through the mountains and morasses, To the home of Hakon old. Then strange memories crowded back Of Queen Gunhild's wrath and wrack, And a hurried flight by sea; Of grim Vikings, and the rapture Of the sea-fight, and the capture, And the life of slavery. How a stranger watched his face In the Esthonian market-place, Scanned his features one by One, Saying, “We should know each other; I am Sigurd, Astrid's brother, Thou art Olaf, Astrid's son l’’ HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLO W. Then as Queen Allogia's page, Old in honors, young in age, Chief of all her men-at-arms; Till vague whispers, and mysterious, Reached King Valdemar, the imperious, Filling him with strange alarms. Then his cruisings o'er the seas, Westward to the Hebrides And to Scilly's rocky shore; And the hermit's cavern dismal, Christ's great name and rites baptismal In the ocean's rush and roar. All these thoughts of love and strife Glimmered through his lurid life, As the stars’ intenser light Through the red flames o'er him trailing, As his ships went sailing, sailing Northward in the summer night. Trained for either camp or court, Skilful in each manly sport, Young and beautiful and tall; Art of warfare, craft of chases, Swimming, skating, snow-shoe races, Excellent alike in all. - |. ſ º º * | º 7| Dºº º º º º | ºl. º | º " ' Wº 395 When at sea, with all his rowers, He along the bending oars Outside of his ship could run. He the Smalsor Horn ascended, And his shining shield suspended On its summit, like a sun. On the ship-rails he could stand, Wield his sword with either hand, And at once two javelins throw; At all feasts where ale was strongest Sat the merry monarch longest, First to come and last to go. Norway never yet had seen One so beautiful of mien, One so royal in attire, When in arms completely furnished, Harness gold-inlaid and burnished, Mantle like a flame of fire. Thus came Olaf to his own, When upon the night-wind blown Passed that cry along the shore; And he answered, while the rifted Streamers o'er him shook and shifted, “I accept thy challenge, Thor | * 396 THE POETICAL WORKS OF III. T HORA OF RIMOL. “THORA of Rimol hide me! hide me ! So Hakon Jarl and his base thrall Karker Danger and shame and death betide me ! Crouched in the cave, than a dungeon For Olaf the King is hunting me down darker, Through field and forest, through thorp and As Olaf came riding, with men in mail, - town " Through the forest roads into Orkadale, Thus cried Jarl Hakon Demanding Jarl Hakon To Thora, the fairest of women, Of Thora, the fairest of women. “Hakon Jarl' for the love I bear thee “Rich and honored shall be whoever Neither shall shame nor death come near The head of Hakon Jarl shall dissever !” thee! Hakon heard him, and Karker the slave, But the hiding-place wherein thou must lie Through the breathing-holes of the darksome Is the cave underneath the swine in the sty.” Cave. Thus to Jarl Hakon Alone in her chamber Said Thora, the fairest of women. Wept Thora, the fairest of women. | º º Said Karker, the crafty, “I will not slay thee! And then again black as the earth?’” said For all the king's gold I will never betray the Earl. thee!” More pale and more faithful “Then why dost thou turn so pale, O churl, Was Thora, the fairest of women. PIEWR Y WADSWORTH LOWGFELLOW. 397 From a dream in the night the thrall started, saying, “Round my neck a gold ring King Olaf was laying !” And Hakon answered, “Beware of the king ! He will lay round thy neck a blood-red ring.” At the ring on her finger Gazed Thora, the fairest of women. At daybreak slept Hakon, with sorrows en- cumbered, But screamed and drew up his feet as he slumbered ; The thrall in the darkness plunged with his knife, And the Earl awakened no more in this life. But wakeful and weeping Sat Thora, the fairest of women. At Nidarholm the priests are all singing, Two ghastly heads on the gibbet are swinging; One is Jarl Hakon's and one is his thrall’s, And the people are shouting from windows and walls; While alone in her chamber Swoons Thora, the fairest of women. QUEEN SIGRID THE HAUGHTY. QUEEN Sigrid the Haughty sat proud and aloft In her chamber, that looked over meadow and croft. Heart's dearest, Why dost thou sorrow so? The floor with tassels of fir was besprent, Filling the room with their fragrant scent. She heard the birds sing, she saw the Sun shine, The air of summer was sweeter than wine. Like a sword without scabbard the bright river lay Between her own kingdom and Norroway. But Olaf the King had sued for her hand, The sword would be sheathed, the river be spanned. Her maidens were seated around her knee, Working bright figures in tapestry. And one was singing the ancient rune Of Brynhilda's love and the wrath of Gudrun. And through it, and round it, and over it all Sounded incessant the waterfall. The Queen in her hand held a ring of gold, From the door of Ladé's Temple old. King Olaf had sent her this wedding gift, But her thoughts as arrows were keen and swift. She had given the ring to her goldsmiths twain, Who Smiled, as they handed it back again. And Sigrid the Queen, in her haughty Way, Said, “Why do you smile, my goldsmiths, say?” And they answered: “O Queen l if the truth must be told, The ring is of copper, and not of gold !” The lightning flashed o'er her forehead and cheek, - She only murmured, she did not speak: “If in his gifts he can faithless be, There will be no gold in his love to me.” A footstep was heard on the outer stair, And in strode King Olaf with royal air. He kissed the Queen's hand, and he whispered of love, And swore to be true as the stars are above. But she smiled with contempt as she answered: “O King, Will you swear it, as Odin once swore, on the ring 2" 398 THE POETICAL WORKS OF And the King: “Oh speak not of Odin to me, His zeal was stronger than fear or love, The wife of King Olaf a Christian must be.” And he struck the Queen in the face with his glove. Looking straight at the King, with her level brows, Then forth from the chamber in anger he She said, “I keep true to my faith and my fled, vows.” And the wooden stairway shook with his tread. Then the face of King Olaf was darkened with gloom, Queen Sigrid the Haughty said under her He rose in his anger and strode through the breath, l'OOIn. “This insult, King Olaf, shall be thy death !” “Why, then, should I care to have thee º’ he Heart's dearest, said, - Why dost thou sorrow so? “A faded old woman, a heathenish jade l’ V. THE Skr. RRY OF SHRIEKS. Now from all King Olaf's farms Loudly through the wide-flung door His men-at-arms Came the roar Gathered on the Eve of Easter; Of the sea upon the Skerry; To his house at Angvalds-ness And its thunder loud and near Fast they press, Reached the ear, Drinking with the royal feaster. Mingling with their voices merry. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 399 “Hark!” said Olaf to his Scald, Then athwart the vapors dun Halfred the Bald, The Easter sun “Listen to that song, and learn it ! Streamed with one broad track of splendor Half my kingdom would I give, In their real forms appeared As I live, The warlocks weird, If by such songs you would earn it ! Awful as the Witch of Endor. “For of all the runes and rhymes Blinded by the light that glared, Of all times, They groped and stared, Best I like the ocean's dirges, Round about with steps unsteady; When the old harper heaves and rocks, From his window Olaf gazed, His hoary locks And, amazed, Flowing and flashing in the surges ’’ “Who are these strange people 2 " said he. Halfred answered : “I am called “Eyvind Kallda and his men l’’ The Unappalled ! Answered then Nothing hinders me or daunts me. From the yard a sturdy farmer ; Hearken to me, then, O King, While the men-at-arms apace While I sing Filled the place, The great Ocean Song that haunts me.” Busily buckling on their armor. “I will hear your song sublime From the gates they sallied forth, Some other time,” South and north, Says the drowsy monarch, yawning, Scoured the island coast around them, And retires ; each laughing guest Seizing all the warlock band, Applauds the jest : Foot and hand Then they sleep till day is dawning. *} On the Skerry's rocks they bound them. Pacing up and down the yard, And at eve the king again King Olaf’s guard Called his train, Saw the sea-mist slowly creeping And, with all the candles burning, O'er the sands, and up the hill, Silent sat and heard once more Gathering still The sullen roar Round the house where they were sleeping. Of the ocean tides returning. It was not the fog he saw, - Shrieks and cries of wild despair Nor misty flaw, Filled the air, That above the landscape brooded; Growing fainter as they listened, It was Eyvind Kallda’s crew Then the bursting surge alone Of warlocks blue Sounded on ; — With their caps of darkness hooded ! Thus the sorcerers were christened Round and round the house they go, - “Sing, O Scald, your song sublime, Weaving slow Your ocean-rhyme,” Magic circles to encumber Cried King Olaf : “it will cheer me!” And imprison in their ring Said the Scald, with pallid cheeks, Olaf the King, “The Skerry of Shrieks As he helpless lies in slumber. Sings too loud for you to hear me!” 400 THE POETICAL WORKS OF VI. THE WRAITH OF ODIN. THE guests were loud, the ale was strong, King Olaf feasted late and long; The hoary Scalds together sang; O'erhead the smoky rafters rang. Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. The door swung wide, with creak and din , A blast of cold night-air came in, And on the threshold shivering stood A one-eyed guest, with cloak and hood. Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. The King exclaimed, “O graybeard pale ! Then spake the King: “Be not afraid : Come warm thee with this cup of ale.” Sit here by me.” The guest obeyed, The foaming draught the old man quaffed, And, seated at the table, told The noisy guests looked on and laughed. Tales of the sea, and Sagas old. Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLO W. 401 And ever, when the tale was o'er, The King demanded yet one more ; Till Sigurd the Bishop smiling said, “'Tis late, O King, and time for bed.” Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. The King retired; the stranger guest Followed and entered with the rest ; The lights were out, the pages gone, But still the garrulous guest spake on. Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. As one who from a volume reads, He spake of heroes and their deeds, Of lands and cities he had seen, And stormy gulfs that tossed between. Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. Then from his lips in music rolled The Havamal of Odin old, With sounds mysterious as the roar Of billows on a distant shore. Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. “Do we not learn from runes and rhymes Made by the gods in elder times, And do not still the great Scalds teach That silence better is than speech 2° Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. Smiling at this, the King replied, “Thy lore is by thy tongue belied; For never was I so enthralled Either by Saga-man or Scald.” Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. The Bishop said, “Late hours we keep ! Night wanes, O King ! 'tis time for sleep l’ 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. IRON-BF ARD. OLAF the King, one summer morn, Blew a blast on his bugle-horn, Sending his signal through the land of Dront- heim. And to the Hus-Ting held at Mere Gathered the farmers far and near, With their war weapons ready to confront him. Ploughing under the morning star, Old Iron-Beard in Yriar Heard the summons, chuckling with a low laugh. He wiped the sweat-drops from his brow, Unharnessed his horses from the plough, And clattering came on horseback to King Olaf. He was the churliest of the churls; Little he cared for king or earls; Bitter as home-brewed ale were his foaming passions. Hodden-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- CI'éSSéS. 51 402 - THE POETICAL WORKS OF Huge and cumbersome was his frame ; His beard, from which he took his name, Frosty and fierce, like that of Hymer the Giant, So at the Hus-Ting he appeared, The farmer of Yriar, Iron-Beard, On horseback, in an attitude defiant. And to King Olaf he cried aloud, Out of the middle of the crowd, That tossed about him like a stormy ocean: “Such sacrifices shalt thou bring; To Odin and to Thor, O King, As other kings have done in their devotion l’’ King Olaf answered: “I command This land to be a Christian land ; Here is my Bishop who the folk baptizes | “But if you ask me to restore Your sacrifices, stained with gore, Then will I offer human sacrifices ! “Not slaves and peasants shall they be, But men of note and high degree, Such men as Orm of Lyra and Kar of Gry- l 2 2. ting ! Then to their Temple strode he in, And loud behind him heard the din Of his men-at-arms and the peasants fiercely fighting. VIII. 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, And downward shattered to the pavement flung them. At the same moment rose without, From the contending crowd, a shout, A mingled sound of triumph and of wailing. And there upon the trampled plain The farmer Iron-Beard lay slain, Midway between the assailed and the assailing. King Olaf from the doorway spoke: “Choose ye between two things, my folk, To be baptized or given up to slaughter l’’ And seeing their leader stark and dead, The people with a murmur said, “O King, baptize us with thy holy water; ” So all the Drontheim land became A Christian land in name and fame, In the old gods no more believing and trusting, And as a blood-atonement, soon King Olaf wed the fair Gudrun; And thus in peace ended the Drontheim Hus- Ting ! GUIDRUN. ON King Olaf's bridal night Shines the moon with tender light, And across the chamber streams Its tide of dreams. At the fatal midnight hour, When all evil things have power, In the glimmer of the moon Stands Gudrun. Close against her heaving breast, Something in her hand is pressed; Like an icicle, its sheen Is cold and keen. On the cairn are fixed her eyes Where her murdered father lies, And a voice remote and drear She seems to hear. HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. 403 What a bridal night is this Cold will be the dagger's kiss; Laden with the chill of death Is its breath. Like the drifting snow she sweeps To the couch where Olaf sleeps; Suddenly he wakes and stirs, His eyes meet hers. “Forests have ears, and fields have eyes; Often treachery lurking lies Underneath the fairest hair Gudrun beware l’’ “What is that,” King Olaf said, “Gleams so bright above my 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.” Ere the earliest peep of morn Blew King Olaf’s bugle-horn; And forever sundered ride Bridegroom and bride! 404 THE POETICAL WORKS OF IX. THANG BRAND THE PRIEST. SHORT of stature, large of limb, Burly face and russet beard, All the women stared at him, When in Iceland he appeared. “Look!” they said, With nodding head, “There goes Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.” All the prayers he knew by rote, He could preach like Chrysostome, From the Fathers he could quote, He had even been at Rome. A learned clerk, A man of mark, Was this Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. He was quarrelsome and loud, And impatient of control, Boisterous in the market crowd, Boisterous at the wassail-bowl, Everywhere Would drink and swear, Swaggering Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. In his house this malcontent Could the King no longer bear, So to Iceland he was sent To convert the heathen there, And away One summer day Sailed this Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. There in Iceland, o'er their books Pored the people day and night, But he did not like their looks, Nor the songs they used to write. “All this rhyme Is waste of time !” Grumbled Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. |\ W | º º FIENR Y WADS WORTH LOWG FELLO W. 405 To the alehouse, where he sat, Something worse they did than that : Came the Scalds and Saga-men ; And what vexed him most of all Is it to be wondered at, Was a figure in shovel hat, That they quarrelled now and then, Drawn in charcoal on the wall; When o'er his beer With words that go Began to leer Sprawling below, Drunken Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest? “This is Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.” All the folk in Altafiord Hardly knowing what he did, Boasted of their island grand ; Then he smote them might and main, Saying in a single word, Thorvald Veile and Veterlid “Iceland is the finest land Lay there in the alehouse slain. That the sun “To-day we are gold, Doth shine upon l’” To-morrow mould l’ Loud laughed Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest. Muttered Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest. And he answered : “What's the use Much in fear of axe and rope, Of this bragging up and down, Back to Norway sailed he then. When three women and one goose “O King Olaf little hope Make a market in your town l’’ Is there of these Iceland men l’’ Every Scald Meekly said, Satires scrawled With bending head, On poor Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest. Pious Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. X. RAUD THE STRONG. “ALL the old gods are dead, The old witchcraft still is spread.” All the wild warlocks fled ; Thus to King Olaf But the White Christ lives and reigns, Said Sigurd the Bishop. And throughout my wide domains His Gospel shall be spread l’” “Far north in the Salten Fiord, On the Evangelists By rapine, fire, and sword, Thus swore King Olaf. Lives the Viking, Raud the Strong; All the Godoe Isles belong But still in dreams of the night To him and his heathem horde.” Beheld he the crimson light, - Thus went on speaking And heard the voice that defied Sigurd the Bishop. Him who was crucified, And challenged him to the fight. “A warlock, a wizard is he, To Sigurd the Bishop And lord of the wind and the sea ; King Olaf confessed it. And whichever way he sails, - He has ever favoring gales, And Sigurd the Bishop said, By his craft in sorcery.” “The old gods are not dead, Here the sign of the cross For the great Thor still reigns, Made devoutly King Olaf. And among the Jarls and Thanes 406 THE POETICAL WORKS OF “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. XI. BISHOP SIGURD AT LOUD the angry wind was wailing As King Olaf's ships came sailing Northward out of Drontheim haven To the mouth of Salten Fiord. Though the flying sea-spray drenches Fore and aft the rowers' benches, Not a single heart is craven Of the champions there on board. All without the Fiord was quiet, But within it storm and riot, Such as on his Viking cruises Raud the Strong was wont to ride. And the sea through all its tide-ways Swept the reeling vessels sideways, As the leaves are swept through sluices, When the flood-gates open wide. “”T is the warlock ' ' tis the demon Raud l’’ cried Sigurd to the seamen; “But the Lord is not affrighted By the witchcraft of his foes.” To the ship's bow he ascended, By his choristers attended, Round him were the tapers lighted, And the sacred incense rose. On the bow stood Bishop Sigurd, In his robes, as one transfigured, And the Crucifix he planted High amid the rain and mist. Then with holy water sprinkled All the ship; the mass-bells tinkled: 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 Dromtheim Sailed King Olaf | SAILTEN FIORD. Loud the monks around him chanted, Loud he read the Evangelist. As into the Fiord they darted, On each side the water parted ; Down a path like silver molten Steadily rowed King Olaf’s ships; Steadily burned all night the tapers, And the White Christ through the vapors Gleamed across the Fiord of Salten, As through John's Apocalypse, – Till at last they reached Raud's dwelling On the little isle of Gelling; Not a guard was at the doorway, Not a glimmer of light was seen. But at anchor, carved and gilded, Lay the dragon-ship he builded, *T was the grandest ship in Norway, With its crest and scales of green. Up the stairway, softly creeping, To the loft where Raud was sleeping, With their fists they burst asunder Bolt and bar that held the door. Drunken with sleep and ale they found him, Dragged him from his bed and bound him, While he stared with stupid wonder, At the look and garb they wore. Then King Olaf said: “O Sea-King ! Little time have we for speaking, Choose between the good and evil; Be baptized, or thou shalt die! HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 407 But in scorn the heathen scoffer Answered : “I disdain thine offer ; Neither fear I God nor Devil; Thee and thy Gospel I defy!” Then between his jaws distended, When his frantic struggles ended, Through King Olaf’s horn an adder, Touched by fire, they forced to glide. Sharp his tooth was as an arrow, As he gnawed through bone and marrow ; But without a groan or shudder, Raud the Strong blaspheming died. Then baptized they all that region, Swarthy Lap and fair Norwegian, Far as swims the salmon, leaping, Up the streams of Salten Fiord. In their temples Thor and Odin Lay in dust and ashes trodden, As King Olaf, onward sweeping, Preached the Gospel with his sword. Then he took the carved and gilded Dragon-ship that Raud had builded, And the tiller single-handed, Grasping, steered into the main. Southward sailed the sea-gulls o'er him, Southward sailed the ship that bore him, Till at Drontheim haven landed Olaf and his crew again. KING OLAF'S CHRISTMAS. AT Drontheim, Olaf the King Heard the bells of Yule-tide ring, As he sat in his banquet-hall, Drinking the nut-brown ale, With his bearded Berserks hale And tall. Three days his Yule-tide feasts He held with Bishops and Priests, And his horn filled up to the brim ; But the ale was never too strong, Nor the Saga-man's tale too long, For him. O'er his drinking-horn, the sign He made of the cross divine, As he drank, and muttered his prayers; But the Berserks evermore Made the sign of the Hammer of Thor Over theirs. The gleams of the fire-light dance Upon helmet and hauberk and lance, And laugh in the eyes of the King ; And he cries to Halfred the Scald, 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 placed His sword. “Quern-biter of Hakon the Good, Wherewith at a stroke he hewed The millstone through and through, And Foot-breadth of Thoralf the Strong, Were neither so broad nor so long, Nor so true.” Then the Scald took his harp and sang And loud through the music rang The sound of that shining word; And the harp-strings a clangor made, As if they were struck with the blade Of a sword. And the Berserks round about Broke forth into a shout That made the rafters ring: They smote with their fists on the board, And shouted, “Long live the Sword, And the King !” 408 THE POETIONAL WORKS OF But the King said, “O my son, And a shout went round the board, I miss the bright word in one “In the name of Christ the Lord, Of thy measures and thy rhymes.” Who died ” And Halfred the Scald replied, - “In another ’t was multiplied Then over the waste of snows Three times.” - The noonday Sun uprose, Through the driving mists revealed, Then King Olaf raised the hilt Like the lifting of the Host, Of iron, cross-shaped and gilt, By incense-clouds almost And said, “Do not refuse; Concealed. Count well the gain and the loss, Thor's hammer or Christ's cross: - On the shining wall a vast Choose !” And shadowy cross was cast From the hilt of the lifted sword, And Halfred the Scald said, “This And in foaming cups of ale In the name of the Lord I kiss, The Berserks drank “Was-hael! Who on it was crucified ” To the Lord l’” XIII. THE BUILDING OF THE LONG SERPENT. THORBERG SKAFTING, master-builder, “Men shall hear of Thorberg Skafting In his ship-yard by the sea, - For a hundred year !” Whistling, said, “It would bewilder Any man but Thorberg Skafting, Workmen sweating at the forges Any man but me!” Fashioned iron bolt and bar, - Like a warlock's midnight orgies Near him lay the Dragon stranded, Smoked and bubbled the black caldron Built of old by Raud the Strong, With the boiling tar. And King Olaf had commanded - He should build another Dragon, Did the warlocks mingle in it, Twice as large and long. Thorberg Skafting, any curse 2 Could you not be gone a minute Therefore whistled Thorberg Skafting, But some mischief must be doing, As he sat with half-closed eyes, Turning bad to worse? And his head turned sideways, drafting That new vessel for King Olaf *T was an ill wind that came wafting, Twice the Dragon's size. From his homestead words of woe: To his farm went Thorberg Skafting, Round him busily hewed and hammered Oft repeating to his workmen, Mallet huge and heavy axe: Build ye thus and so. Workmen laughed and sang and clamored; Whirred the wheels, that into rigging After long delays returning Spun the shining flax Came the master back by night ; To his ship-yard longing, yearning, All this tumult heard the master, — Hurried he, and did not leave it It was music to his ear; Till the morning's light. Fancy whispered all the faster, - HENRY WADSWORTH / ONGFELLO W. 409 “Come and see my ship, my darling!” “Death be to the evil-doer | * On the morrow said the King: With an oath King Olaf spoke; “Finished now from keel to earling: “But rewards to his pursuer | * Never yet was seen in Norway And with wrath his face grew redder Such a wondrous thing !” Than his scarlet cloak. In the ship-yard, idly talking, Straight the master-builder, smiling, At the ship the workmen stared: Answered thus the angry King: Some one, all their labor balking, “Cease blaspheming and reviling, Down her sides had cut deep gashes, Olaf, it was Thorberg Skafting Not a plank was spared Who has done this thing !” Then he chipped and smoothed the planking, Then they launched her from the tressels, Till the King, delighted, swore, In the ship-yard by the sea; With much lauding and much thanking, She was the grandest of all vessels, “Handsomer is now my Dragon Never ship was built in Norway Than she was before | * Half so fine as she Seventy ells and four extended The Long Serpent was she christened, On the grass the vessel's keel; "Mid the roar of cheer on cheer High above it, gilt and splendid, They who to the Saga listened Rose the figure-head ferocious Heard the name of Thorberg Skafting With its crest of steel. For a hundred year ! 52 410 THE POETICAL WORKS OF TIIE CREW 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 Thelemark, A figure gaunt and grand ; On his hairy arm imprinted Was an anchor, azure-tinted ; Like Thor's hammer, huge and dinted Was his brawny hand. Einar Tamberskelver, bare To the winds his golden hair, By the mainmast stood; Graceful was his form, and slender, OF THE LONG SERPENT. And his eyes were deep and tender As a woman's, in the splendor 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 A LITTLE BIRD IN THE AIR. A LITTLE bird in the air Is singing of Thyri the fair, The sister of Svend the Dane : And the song of the garrulous bird In the streets of the town is heard, And repeated again and again. Hoist up your sails of silk, And flee away from each other. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLO W. To King Burislaf, it is said, Was the beautiful Thyri wed, And a sorrowful bride went she ; And after a week and a day, She has fled away and away, From his town by the stormy sea. Hoist up your sails of silk, And flee away from each other. They say, that through heat and through cold, Through weald, they say, and through wold, By day and by night, they say, She has fled ; and the gossips report She has come to King Olaf's court, And the town is all in dismay. Hoist up your sails of silk, And flee away from each other. It is whispered King Olaf has seen, Has talked with the beautiful Queen ; And they wonder how it will end ; For surely, if here she remain, It is war with King Svend the Dane, And King Burislaf the Vend! Hoist up your sails of silk, And flee away from each other. Oh, greatest wonder of all! It is published in hamlet and hall, It roars like a flame that is fanned The King – yes, Olaf the King — Has wedded her with his ring, And Thyri is Queen in the land! Hoist up your sails of silk, And flee away from each other. 411 412 THE POETICAL WORKS OF XVI. QUEEN THYRI AND THE ANGELICA STALKS. NORTHWARD over Drontheim, Flew the clamorous sea-gulls, Sang the lark and linnet From the meadows green ; Weeping in her chamber, Lonely and unhappy, Sat the Drottning Thyri, Sat King Olaf's Queen. In at all the windows Streamed the pleasant Sunshine, On the roof above her Softly cooed the dove; But the sound she heard not, Nor the sunshine heeded, For the thoughts of Thyri Were not thoughts of love. Then King Olaf entered, Beautiful as morning, Like the sun at Easter Shone his happy face; In his hand he carried Angelicas uprooted, With delicious fragrance Filling all the place. Like a rainy midnight Sat the Drottning Thyri, Even the smile of Olaf Could not cheer her gloom; Nor the stalks he gave her With a gracious gesture, And with words as pleasant As their own perfume. In her hands he placed them, And her jewelled fingers Through the green leaves glistened Like the dews of morn ; But she cast them from her, Haughty and indignant, On the floor she threw them With a look of scorn. “Richer presents,” said she, “Gave King Harald Gormson To the Queen, my mother, Than such worthless weeds; “When he ravaged Norway, Laying waste the kingdom, Seizing scatt and treasure For her royal needs. “But thou darest not venture Through the Sound to Vendland, My domains to rescue From King Burislaf; “Lest King Svend of Denmark, 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 Queen : “Never yet did Olaf Fear King Svend of Denmark; This right hand shall hale him By his forked chim l’’ 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. artist : CHARLEs S. REINHART. "Like a rainy midnight Sat the Drottning Thyri.” Queen Thyri and the Angelica Stalks HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. 413 All his ships he gathered, Summoned all his forces, Making his war levy In the region round; Down the coast of Norway, Like a flock of sea-gulls, Sailed the fleet of Olaf Through the Danish Sound. With his own hand fearless, Steered he the Long Serpent, Strained the creaking cordage, Bent each boom and gaff; Till in Vendland landing, The domains of Thyri He redeemed and rescued From King Burislaf. Then said Olaf, laughing, “Not ten yoke of oxen Have the power to draw us Like a woman's hair “Now will I confess it, Better things are jewels Than angelica stalks are For a queen to wear.” XVII. KING SVEND OF THE FORKED BEARD. LOUDLY the sailors cheered Svend 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, Bore she the crimson trace Of Olaf's gauntlet; Like a malignant star, Blazing in heaven afar, Red shone the angry scar Under her frontlet. Oft to King Svend she spake, “For thine own honor's sake Shalt thou swift vengeance take On the vile coward ' " 414 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Until the King at last, 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 flew, Sailed with a chosen crew From Lapland and Finmark. So upon Easter day Sailed the three kings away, Out of the sheltered bay, In the bright season; With them. Earl Sigvald came, Eager for spoil and fame; Pity that such a name Stooped to such treason Safe under Swald at last, Now were their anchors cast, Safe from the sea and blast, Plotted the three kings; While, with a base intent, Southward Earl Sigvald went, On a foul errand bent, Unto the Sea-kings. Thence to hold on his course Unto King Olaf's force, Lying within the hoarse Mouths of Stet—haven; Him to ensnare and bring, Unto the Danish king, Who his dead corse would fling Forth to the raven KING OLAF AND EARL SIGWALD. ON the gray sea-sands King Olaf stands, Northward and seaward He points with his hands. With eddy and whirl The sea-tides curl, Washing the sandals Of Sigvald the Earl. The mariners shout, The ships swing about, The yards are all hoisted, The sails flutter out. The war-horns are played, The anchors are weighed, Like moths in the distance The sails flit and fade. The sea is like lead, The harbor lies dead, As a corse on the sea-shore, Whose spirit has fled! On that fatal day, The histories say, Seventy vessels Sailed out of the bay. But soon scattered wide O'er the billows they ride, While Sigvald and Olaf Sail side by side. Cried the Earl: “Follow me ! I your pilot will be, For I know all the channels Where flows the deep sea ’’ HENRY WADSWORTH LONGIFELLO W. 415 So into the strait Then the sea-fog veils Where his foes lie in wait, The ships and their sails; Gallant King Olaf Queen Sigrid the Haughty, Sails to his fate | Thy vengeance prevails! XIX. KING OLAF's WAR-Horns. “STRIKE the sails | * King Olaf said: Louder and louder the war-horns sang “Never shall men of mine take flight; Over the level floor of the flood; Never away from battle I fled, All the sails came down with a clang, Never away from my foes! And there in the midst overhead Let God dispose The sun hung red Of my life in the fight !” As a drop of blood. “Sound the horns !” said Olaf the King; Drifting down on the Danish fleet And suddenly through the drifting brume Three together the ships were lashed, The blare of the horns began to ring, So that neither should turn and retreat; Like the terrible trumpet shock In the midst, but in front of the rest Of Regnarock, The burnished crest On the Day of Doom Of the Serpent flashed. 416 THE POETICAL WORKS OF King Olaf stood on the quarter-deck, With bow of ash and arrows of oak, His gilded shield was without a fleck, His hemlet inlaid with gold, And in many a fold Hung his crimson cloak. On the forecastle Ulf the Red Watched the lashing of the ships; “If the Serpent lie so far ahead, We shall have hard work of it here, Said he with a sneer On his bearded lips. King Olaf laid an arrow on string, “Have I a coward on board?” said he. “Shoot it another way, O King!” Sullenly answered Ulf, The old sea-wolf; “You have need of me ! ” In front came Svend, the King of the Danes, Sweeping down with his fifty rowers; To the right, the Swedish king with his thanes; And on board of the Iron Beard Earl Eric steered To 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 lashed, And left them to drive and drift With the currents swift Of the outward tide. Louder the war-horns growl and snarl, Sharper the dragons bite and sting ! Eric the son of Hakon Jarl A death-drink salt as the sea Pledges to thee, Olaf the King! EINAR, TAMBERSKELVER. IT was Einar Tamberskelver Stood beside the mast ; From his yew-bow, tipped with silver, Flew the arrows fast : Aimed at Eric unavailing, As he sat concealed, Half behind the quarter-railing, Half behind his shield. First an arrow struck the tiller, Just above his head ; “Sing, O Eyvind Skaldaspiller,” Then Earl Eric said. “Sing the song of Hakon dying, Sing his funeral wail l’’ 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 7” said Olaf, standing On the quarter-deck. “Something heard I like the stranding Of a shattered wreck.” Einar then, the arrow taking From the loosened string, Answered, “That was Norway breaking From thy hand, O King!” HENRY WADS WORTH LOWG FELLO W. . . 417 “Thou art but a poor diviner,” Straightway Olaf said; “Take my bow, and swifter, Einar, Let thy shafts be sped.” Of his bows the fairest choosing, Reached he from above; Einar saw the blood-drops Oozing Through his iron glove. But the bow was thin and narrow ; At the first assay, O'er its head he drew the arrow, Flung the bow away : Said, with hot and angry temper Flushing in his cheek, “Olaf for so great a Kämper Are thy bows too weak l’” Then, with smile of joy defiant On his beardless lip, - Scaled he, light and self-reliant, Eric's dragon-ship. Loose his golden locks were flowing, Bright his armor gleamed ; Like Saint Michael overthrowing Lucifer he seemed. KING OLAF'S DEATH-DRINK. ALL day has the battle raged, All day have the ships engaged, But not yet is assuaged The vengeance of Eric the Earl. The decks with blood are red, The arrows of death are sped, The ships are filled with the dead, And the spears the champions hurl. They drift as wrecks on the tide, The grappling-irons are plied, The boarders climb up the side, The shouts are feeble and few. Ah! never shall Norway again See her sailors come back o'er the main : They all lie wounded or slain, Or asleep in the billows blue ! On the deck stands Olaf the King, Around him whistle and sing The spears that the foemen fling, And the stones they hurl with their hands. In the midst of the stones and the spears, Kolbiorn, the marshal, appears, His shield in the air he uprears, By the side of King Olaf he stands. Over the slippery wreck Of the Long Serpent's deck Sweeps Eric with hardly a check, His lips with anger are pale; He hews with his axe at the mast, Till it falls, with the sails overcast, Like a snow-covered pine in the vast Dim forests of Orkadale. Seeking King Olaf then, He rushes aft with his men, As a hunter into the den Of the bear, when he stands at bay. “Remember Jarl Hakon | * he cries, When lo! on his wondering eyes, Two kingly figures arise, - Two Olafs in warlike array ! Then Kolbiorn speaks in the ear Of King Olaf a word of cheer, In a whisper that none may hear, With a smile on his tremulous lip ; Two shields raised high in the air, Two flashes of golden hair, Two Scarlet meteors' glare, And both have 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 !” 53 4.18 - THE POETICAL WORKS OF While far on the opposite side Like leaves of the brown sea-kale, Floats another shield on the tide, As he swam beneath the main; Like a jewel set in the wide - Sea-current's eddying ring. - But the young grew old and gray, And never, by night or by day, There is told a wonderful tale, In his kingdom of Norroway How the King stripped off his mail, Was King Olaf seen again XXII. THE NUN OF NIDAROS, IN the convent of Drontheim, She heard in the silence Alone in her chamber The voice of one speaking, Knelt Astrid the Abbess, Without in the darkness, At midnight, adoring, In gusts of the night-wind Beseeching, entreating Now louder, now nearer, The Virgin and Mother. Now lost in the distance. HENRY WADS WORTH LOWGFELLO W. 419 The voice of a stranger It seemed as she listened, Of some one who answered Beseeching, imploring, A cry from afar off She could not distinguish. The voice of Saint John, The beloved disciple, Who wandered and waited The Master's appearance, Alone in the darkness, Unsheltered and friendless. “It is accepted, The angry defiance, The challenge of battle ! It is accepted, But not with the weapons Of war that thou wieldest “Cross against corselet, Love against hatred, Peace-cry for war-cry ! Patience is powerful; He that o'ercometh Hath power o'er the nations! “As torrents in summer, Half dried in their channels, Suddenly rise, though the A STRAIN of music closed the tale, A low, monotonous, funeral wail, Sky is still cloudless, For rain has been falling Far off at their fountains; “So hearts that are fainting Grow full to o'erflowing, And they that behold it Marvel, and know not That God at their fountains Far off has been raining ! “Stronger than steel Is the sword of the Spirit; Swifter than arrows The light of the truth is, Greater than anger Is love, and subdueth ! “Thou art a phantom, A shape of the sea-mist, A shape of the brumal Rain, and the darkness Fearful and formless ; Day dawns and thou art not “The dawn is not distant, Nor is the night starless; Love is eternal | God is still God, and His faith shall not fail us; Christ is eternal l’’ INTERLUDE. And no one suffers loss, or bleeds, For thoughts that men call heresies. That with its cadence, wild and sweet, Made the long Saga more complete. “Thank God,” the Theologian said, “The reign of violence is dead, “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 Or dying surely from the world; scorch While Love triumphant reigns instead, Like sparks from an inverted torch, And in a brighter sky o’erhead His blessed banners are unfurled. And most of all thank God for this: The war and waste of clashing creeds Now end in words, and not in deeds, 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. 420 THE POETICAL WORKS OF “Must it be Calvin, and not Christ 2 “Ah! to how many Faith has been Must it be Athanasian creeds, No evidence of things unseen, Or holy water, books, and beads 2 But a dim shadow, that recasts Must struggling souls remain content The creed of the Phantasiasts, With councils and decrees of Trent 2 For whom no Man of Sorrows died, And can it be enough for these For whom the Tragedy Divine The Christian Church the year em- Was but a symbol and a sign, balms And Christ a phantom crucified With evergreens and boughs of palms, And fills the air with litanies 2 “For others a diviner creed Is living in the life they lead. “I know that yonder Pharisee The passing of their beautiful feet Thanks God that he is not like me; Blesses the pavement of the street, In my humiliation dressed, - And all their looks and words repeat I only stand and beat my breast, Old Fuller's saying, wise and sweet, And pray for human charity. Not as a vulture, but a dove, The Holy Ghost came from above. “Not to one church alone, but seven, - - The voice prophetic spake from heaven ; “And this brings back to me a tale And unto each the promise came, So sad the hearer well may quail, Diversified, but still the same : And question if such things can be: For him that overcometh are - Yet in the chronicles of Spain The new name written on the stone, Down the dark pages runs this stain, The raiment white, the crown, the throne, And naught can wash them white again, And I will give him the Morning Star ! So fearful is the tragedy.” THE THEOLOGIAN’S TALE. TORQUEMADA. IN the heroic days when Ferdinand This sombre man counted each day as lost And Isabella ruled the Spanish land, On which his feet no sacred threshold And Torquemada, with his subtle brain, crossed; - Ruled them, as Grand Inquisitor of Spain, And when he chanced the passing Host to In a great castle near Valladolid, meet, Moated and high and by fair woodlands hid, He knelt and prayed devoutly in the street; There dwelt, as from the chronicles we Oft he confessed; and with each mutinous learn, - thought, * An old Hidalgo proud and taciturn, As with wild beasts at Ephesus, he fought. Whose name has perished, with his towers In deep contrition scourged himself in Lent, of stone, Walked in processions, with his head down And all his actions save this one alone ; bent, . This one, so terrible, perhaps 't were best At plays of Corpus Christi oft was seen, If it, too, were forgotten with the rest; And on Palm Sunday bore his bough of Unless, perchance, our eyes can see therein green. The martyrdom triumphant o'er the sin; His sole diversion was to hunt the boar A double picture, with its gloom and glow, Through tangled thickets of the forest hoar, The splendor overhead, the death below. Or with his jingling mules to hurry down HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. 421 To some grand bull-fight in the neighboring town, Or in the crowd with lighted taper stand, When Jews were burned, or banished from the land. Then stirred within him a tumultuous joy; The demon whose delight is to destroy Shook him, and shouted with a trumpet tone, “Kill! kill and let the Lord find out his own ''' And now, in that old castle in the wood, His daughters, in the dawn of womanhood, Returning from their convent school, had made Resplendent with their bloom the forest ... shade, - These two fair daughters of a mother dead Reminding him of their dead mother's face, Were all the dream had left him as it fled. When first she came into that gloomy A joy at first, and then a growing care, place, — As if a voice within him cried, “Beware l’’ A memory in his heart as dim and sweet A vague presentiment of impending doom, As moonlight in a solitary street, Like ghostly footsteps in a vacant room, Where the same rays, that lift the sea, are Haunted him day and night; a formless fear thrown That death to some one of his house was Lovely but powerless upon walls of stone. near, 422 THE POETICAL WORKS OF With dark surmises of a hidden crime, Made life itself a death before its time. Jealous, suspicious, with no sense of shame, A spy upon his daughters he became ; With velvet slippers, noiseless on the floors, He glided softly through half-open doors; Now in the room, and now upon the stair, He stood beside them ere they were aware; He listened in the passage when they talked, He watched them from the casement when they walked, He saw the gypsy haunt the river's side, He saw the monk among the cork-trees glide; And, tortured by the mystery and the doubt Of some dark secret, past his finding out, Baffled he paused ; then reassured again Pursued the flying phantom of his brain. He watched them even when they knelt in church ; And then, descending lower in his search, Questioned the servants, and with eager eyes Listened incredulous to their replies; The gypsy 2 none had seen her in the wood | The monk 2 a mendicant in search of food | At length the awful revelation came, Crushing at once his pride of birth and Iname ; - 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, “Her- esy l’” Wrapped in his cloak, his hat drawn o'er his face, Now hurrying forward, now with lingering pace, He walked all night the alleys of his park, With one unseen companion in the dark, The Demon who within him lay in wait And by his presence turned his love to hate, Forever muttering in an undertone, “Kill! kill and let the Lord find out his Own ” Upon the morrow, after early Mass, While yet the dew was glistening on the graSS, - And all the Woods were musical with birds, The old Hidalgo, uttering fearful words, Walked homeward with the Priest, and in his room Summoned his trembling daughters to their doom. When questioned, with brief answers they replied, - Nor when accused evaded or denied; Expostulations, passionate appeals, All that the human heart most fears or feels, In vain the Priest with earnest voice es- Sayed; In vain the father threatened, wept, and prayed ; - Until at last he said, with haughty mien, “The Holy Office, then, must intervene !” And now the Grand Inquisitor of Spain, With all the fifty horsemen of his train, His awful name resounding, like the blast Of funeral trumpets, as he onward passed, Came to Valladolid, and there began To harry the rich Jews with fire and ban. To him the Hidalgo went, and at the gate Demanded audience on affairs of state, And in a secret chamber stood before A venerable graybeard of fourscore, Dressed in the hood and habit of a friar ; Out of his eyes flashed a consuming fire, And in his hand the mystic horn he held, Which poison and all noxious charms dis- pelled. He heard in silence the Hidalgo's tale, Then answered in a voice that made him quail: “Son of the Church when Abraham of old To sacrifice his only son was told, He did not pause to parley nor protest, But hastened to obey the Lord’s behest. HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLO W. 423 In him it was accounted righteousness; The Holy Church expects of thee no less " A sacred frenzy seized the father's brain, And Mercy from that hour implored in vain. Ah! who will e'er believe the words I say? His daughters he accused, and the same day They both were cast into the dungeon's gloom, That dismal antechamber of the tomb, Arraigned, condemned, and sentenced to the flame, The secret torture and the public shame. Then to the Grand Inquisitor once more The Hidalgo went more eager than before, And said: “When Abraham offered up his SOn, - He clave the wood wherewith it might be done. By his example taught, let me too bring Wood from the forest for my offering !” And the deep voice, without a pause, re- plied : “Son of the Church by faith now justified, Complete thy sacrifice, even as thou wilt; The Church absolves thy conscience from all guilt | * Then this most wretched father went his way Into the woods, that round his castle lay, Where once his daughters in their childhood played With their young mother in the sun and shade. Now all the leaves had fallen; the branches bare Made a perpetual moaning in the air, And screaming from their eyries overhead The ravens sailed athwart the sky of lead. With his own hands he lopped the boughs and bound Fagots, that crackled with foreboding sound, And on his mules, caparisoned and gay With bells and tassels, sent them on their way. Then with his mind on one dark purpose bent, Again to the Inquisitor he went, 424 THE POETICAL WORKS OF And said: “Behold, the fagots I have brought, And now, lest my atonement be as naught, Grant me one more request, one last de- Slre, — With my own hand to light the funeral fire " '' And Torquemada answered from his seat, “Son of the Church Thine offering is com- plete ; Her servants through all ages shall not cease To magnify thy deed. Depart in peace!” Upon the market-place, builded of stone The scaffold rose, whereon Death claimed his OWn. Slowly the long procession crossed the square, And, to the statues of the Prophets bound, The victims stood, with fagots piled around. Then all the air a blast of trumpets shook, And louder sang the monks with bell and book, At the four corners, in stern attitude, Four statues of the Hebrew Prophets stood, Gazing with calm indifference in their eyes Upon this place of human sacrifice, Round which was gathering fast the eager crowd, With clamor of voices dissonant and loud, And every roof and window was alive With restless gazers, swarming like a hive. The church-bells tolled, the chant of monks drew near, Loud trumpets stammered forth their notes of fear, A line of torches smoked along the street, There was a stir, a rush, a tramp of feet, And, with its banners floating in the air. And the Hidalgo, lofty, stern, and proud, Lifted his torch, and, bursting through the crowd, Lighted in haste the fagots, and then fled, Lest those imploring eyes should strike him dead HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLO W. 425 O pitiless skies! why did your clouds retain For peasants’ fields their floods of hoarded rain? O pitiless earth ! why open no abyss To bury in its chasm a crime like this 7 That night, a mingled column of fire and - smoke From the dark thickets of the forest broke, And, glaring o'er the landscape leagues away, Made all the fields and hamlets bright as day. Wrapped in a sheet of flame the castle blazed, And as the villagers in terror gazed, They saw the figure of that cruel knight Lean from a window in the turret's height, His ghastly face illumined with the glare, His hands upraised above his head in prayer, Till the floor sank beneath him, and he fell Down the black hollow of that burning well. Three centuries and more above his bones Have piled the oblivious years like funeral stones; His name has perished with him, and no trace Remains on earth of his afflicted race; But Torquemada's name, with clouds o'ercast, Looms in the distant landscape of the Past, Like a burnt tower upon a blackened heath, Lit by the fires of burning woods beneath ! INTERLUDE. THUS closed the tale of guilt and gloom, That cast upon each listener's face Its shadow, and for some brief space Unbroken silence filled the room. The Jew was thoughtful and distressed ; Upon his memory thronged and pressed The persecution of his race, Their wrongs and sufferings and dis- grace ; His head was sunk upon his breast, And from his eyes alternate came Flashes of wrath and tears of shame. The Student first the silence broke, As one who long has lain in wait, With purpose to retaliate, And thus he dealt the avenging stroke. “In such a company as this, A tale so tragic seems amiss, That by its terrible control O'ermasters and drags down the soul Into a fathomless abyss. The Italian Tales that you disdain, Some merry ‘Night of Straparole,” Or Machiavelli’s ‘Belphagor,” Would cheer us and delight us more, Give greater pleasure and less pain Than your grim tragedies of Spain l’” 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 Caedmon calls the Blithe- heart King ; When on the boughs the purple buds ex- pand, The banners of the vanguard of the Spring, And rivulets, rejoicing, rush and leap, And wave their fluttering signals from the steep. - 54 426 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 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!” Thus came the jocund Spring in Killing- worth In fabulous days, some hundred years ago; And thrifty farmers, as they tilled the earth, Heard with alarm the cawing of the crow, That mingled with the universal mirth, Cassandra-like, prognosticating woe: They shook their heads, and doomed with dreadful words To swift destruction the whole race of birds. And a town-meeting was convened straight- way 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. º º: º º To set a price upon the guilty heads Of these marauders, who, in lieu of pay, Levied black-mail upon the garden beds And cornfields, and beheld without dismay The awful scarecrow, with his fluttering shreds ; The skeleton that waited at their feast, Whereby their sinful pleasure was increased. Then from his house, a temple painted white, With fluted columns, and a roof of red, The Squire came forth, august and splendid sight! HEWR Y WADS WORTH I, ONGFELLO W. 427 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 l’ 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 fervor, Edwards on the Will; His favorite pastime was to slay the deer In Summer on some Adirondac hill; E’en now, while walking down the rural lane, He lopped the wayside lilies with his cane. From the Academy, whose belfry crowned The hill of Science with its vane of brass, Came the Preceptor, gazing idly round, Now at the clouds, and now at the green grass, - Amd all absorbed in reveries profound Of fair Almira in the upper class, Who was, as in a sonnet he had said, As pure as water, and as good as bread. And next the Deacon issued from his door, In his voluminous neck-cloth, white as SnOW ; - A suit of sable bombazine he wore ; His form was ponderous, and his step was slow ; i There never was so wise a man before; He seemed the incarnate “Well, I told you so !” And to perpetuate his great renown There was a street named after him in town. These came together in the new town-hall, With Sundry farmers from the region round. The Squire presided, dignified and tall, His air impressive and his reasoning sound; Ill fared it with the birds, both great and small; Hardly a friend in all that crowd they found, But enemies enough, who every one Charged them with all the crimes beneath the Sun. When they had ended, from his place apart, Rose the Preceptor, to redress the wrong, And, trembling like a steed before the start, Looked round bewildered on the expectant throng; - Then thought of fair Almira, and took heart To speak out what was in him, clear and strong, Alike regardless of their smile or frown, And quite determined not to be laughed down. “Plato, anticipating the Reviewers, From his Republic banished without pity The Poets; in this little town of yours, You put to death, by means of a Commit- tee, - The ballad-singers and the Troubadours, The street-musicians of the heavenly city, The birds, who make sweet music for us all In our dark hours, as David did for Saul. “The thrush that carols at the dawn of day From the green steeples of the piny wood; The oriole in the elm ; the noisy jay, Jargoning like a foreigner at his food ; The bluebird balanced on some topmast Spray, Flooding with melody the neighborhood; 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 428 THE POETICAL WORKS OF - - º is Şs §§ is Nº. | -- - - | T * N º | | | As are the songs these uninvited guests Sing at their feast with comfortable breasts. “Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these ? Do you ne'er think who made them, and who taught The dialect they speak, where melodies Alone are the interpreters of thought? Whose household words are songs in many keys, Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught ! Whose habitations in the tree-tops even Are half-way houses on the road to heaven “Think, every morning when the sun peeps through - The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove, How jubilant the happy birds renew § N º s i s N N N N § N N N§ § N s N N s N N N s 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 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 429 “What I would you rather see the incessant stir - Of insects in the windrows of the hay, And hear the locust and the grasshopper Their melancholy hurdy-gurdies play ? Is this more pleasant to you than the 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 7 “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 selfsame light, although averted hence, - When by your laws, your actions, and your speech, You contradict the very things I teach 7" With this he closed; and through the au- dience 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 ap- plause ; - They made him conscious, each one more than each, - He still was victor, vanquished in their CallS62. Sweetest of all the applause he won from thee, O fair Almira at the Academy And so the dreadful massacre began ; O'er fields and orchards, and o'er woodland Crests, The ceaseless 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 ; A slaughter to be told in groans, not words, The very St. Bartholomew of Birds ! The Summer came, and all the birds were dead; - The days were like hot coals; the very ground Was burned to ashes; in the orchards fed Myriads of caterpillars, and around The cultivated fields and garden beds Hosts of devouring insects crawled, and found No foe to check their march, till they had made - The land a desert without leaf or shade. Devoured by worms, like Herod, was the to Wn, Because, like Herod, it had ruthlessly Slaughtered the Innocents. From the trees 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 favorite walk, The endless theme of all the village talk. 430 THE POETICAL WORKS OF The farmers grew impatient, but a few Confessed their error, and would not com- plain, For after all, the best thing one can do When it is raining, is to let it rain. Then they repealed the law, although they knew It would not call the dead to life again; As school-boys, finding their mistake too late, Draw a wet sponge across the accusing slate. That year in Killingworth the Autumn came Without the light of his majestic look, The wonder of the falling tongues of flame, The illumined pages of his Doom's-Day book. A few lost leaves blushed crimson with their shame, And drowned themselves despairing in the brook, While the wild wind went moaning every- where, 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 wagon, overarched with evergreen, Upon whose boughs were wicker cages hung, All full of singing birds, came down the street, Filling the air with music wild and sweet. From all the country round these birds were brought, By order of the town, with anxious quest, And, loosened from their wicker prisons, sought In woods and fields the places they loved best, Singing loud canticles, which many thought Were satires to the authorities addressed, While others, listening in green lanes, averred Such lovely music never had been heard But blither still and louder carolled they Upon the morrow, for they seemed to know It was the fair Almira's wedding-day, And everywhere, around, above, below, When the Preceptor bore his bride away, Their songs burst forth in joyous overflow, And a new heaven bent over a new earth Amid the sunny farms of Killingworth. FINALE. THE hour was late; the fire burned low, The Landlord's eyes were closed in sleep, And near the story's end a deep Sonorous sound at times was heard, As when the distant bagpipes blow. At this all laughed; the Landlord stirred, As one awaking from a swound, And, gazing anxiously around, Protested that he had not slept, But only shut his eyes, and kept His ears attentive to each word. Then all arose, and said “Good Night.” Alone remained the drowsy Squire To rake the embers of the fire, And quench the waning parlor light; While from the windows, here and there, The scattered lamps a moment gleamed, And the illumined hostel seemed The constellation of the Bear, Downward, athwart the misty air, Sinking and setting toward the sun. Far off the village clock struck one. FIENR Y WADS WORTH Z, OWGFELLO W. - 431 PRELUDE. A COLD, uninterrupted rain, That washed each Southern window-pane, And made a river of the road ; A sea of mist that overflowed The house, the barns, the gilded vane, And drowned the upland and the plain, Through which the oak-trees, broad and high, Like phantom ships went drifting by ; And, hidden behind a watery screen, The sun unseen, or only seen As a faint pallor in the sky; — Thus cold and colorless and gray, The morn of that autumnal day, As if reluctant to begin, Dawned on the silent Sudbury Inn, And all the guests that in it lay. Full late they slept. They did not hear The challenge of Sir Chanticleer, Who on the empty threshing-floor, Disdainful of the rain outside, Was strutting with a martial stride, As if upon his thigh he wore The famous broadsword of the Squire, And said, “Behold me, and admire | * Only the Poet seemed to hear, In drowse or dream, more near and near Across the border-land of sleep The blowing of a blithesome horn, That laughed the dismal day to scorn ; A splash of hoofs and rush of wheels Through sand and mire like stranding keels, As from the road with sudden sweep The Mail drove up the little steep, And stopped beside the tavern door; A moment stopped, and then again With crack of whip and bark of dog Plunged forward through the sea of fog, And all was silent as before, — All silent save the dripping rain. Then one by one the guests came down, And greeted with a smile the Squire, Who sat before the parlor fire, Reading the paper fresh from town. First the Sicilian, like a bird, Before his form appeared, was heard Whistling and singing down the stair; Then came the Student, with a look As placid as a meadow-brook ; The Theologian, still perplexed With thoughts of this world and the next ; The Poet then, as one who seems Walking in visions and in dreams; Then the Musician, like a fair Hyperion from whose golden hair The radiance of the morning streams; And last the aromatic Jew Of Alicant, who, as he threw The door wide open, on the air Breathed round about him a perfume Of damask roses in full bloom, Making a garden of the room. The breakfast ended, each pursued The promptings of his various mood; Beside the fire in silence smoked The taciturn, impassive Jew, 432 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Lost in a pleasant revery : While, by his gravity provoked, His portrait the Sicilian drew, And wrote beneath it “Edrehi, At the Red Horse in Sudbury.” By far the busiest of them all, The Theologian in the hall Was feeding robins in a cage, – Two corpulent and lazy birds, Vagrants and pilferers at best, If one might trust the hostler's words, Chief instrument of their arrest ; Two poets of the Golden Age, Heirs of a boundless heritage Of fields and orchards, east and west, And Sunshine of long summer days, Though outlawed now and dispossessed — Such was the Theologian's phrase. Meanwhile the Student held discourse With the Musician, on the source Of all the legendary lore Among the nations, scattered wide Like silt and seaweed by the force And fluctuation of the tide ; The tale repeated o'er and o'er, With change of place and change of name Disguised, transformed, and yet the same We've heard a hundred times before. The Poet at the window mused, And saw, as in a dream confused, The countenance of the Sun, discrowned, And haggard with a pale despair, And saw the cloud-rack trail and drift Before it, and the trees uplift Their leafless branches, and the air Filled with the arrows of the rain, And heard amid the mist below, Like voices of distress and pain, That haunt the thoughts of men insane, The fateful cawings of the crow. Then down the road, with mud besprent, And drenched with rain from head to hoof, The rain-drops dripping from his mane And tail as from a pent-house roof, A jaded horse, his head down bent, Passed slowly, limping as he went. The young Sicilian — who had grown Impatient longer to abide A prisoner, greatly mortified HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLO W. 433 To see completely overthrown His plans for angling in the brook, And, leaning o'er the bridge of stone, To watch the speckled trout glide by, And float through the inverted sky, Still round and round the baited hook — Now paced the room with rapid stride, And, pausing at the Poet's side, Looked forth, and saw the wretched steed, And said: “Alas for human greed, That with cold hand and stony eye Thus turns an old friend out to die, Or beg his food from gate to gate This brings a tale into my mind, Which, if you are not disinclined To listen, I will now relate.” All gave assent; all wished to hear, Not without many a jest and jeer, The story of a spawined steed; And even the Student with the rest Put in his pleasant little jest Out of Malherbe, that Pegasus Is but a horse that with all speed Bears poets to the hospital; While the Sicilian, self-possessed, After a moment's interval Began his simple story thus, THE SICILIAN’S TALE. THE BELL OF ATRI. AT Atri in Abruzzo, a small town Of ancient Roman date, but scant renown, One of those little places that have run Half up the hill, beneath a blazing sun, And then sat down to rest, as if to say, “I climb no farther upward, come what may,” - 434 THE POETICA L WORKS OF The Re Giovanni, now unknown to fame, So many monarchs since have borne the name, Had a great bell hung in the market-place, Beneath a roof, projecting some small space By way of shelter from the sun and rain. Then rode he through the streets with all his train, And, with the blast of trumpets loud and long, Made proclamation, that whenever wrong Was done to any man, he should but ring The great bell in the square, and he, the King, Would cause the Syndic to decide thereon. Such was the proclamation of King John. How Swift the happy days in Atri sped, What wrongs were righted, need not here be said. Suffice it that, as all things must decay, The hempen rope at length was worn away, Unravelled at the end, and, strand by strand, Loosened and wasted in the ringer's hand, Till one, who noted this in passing by, Mended the rope with braids of briony, So that the leaves and tendrils of the vine Hung like a votive garland at a shrine. By chance it happened that in Atri dwelt A knight, with spur on heel and sword in belt, . Who loved to hunt the wild-boar in the woods, Who loved his falcons with their crimson hoods, Who loved his hounds and horses, and all sports And prodigalities of camps and courts; — Loved, or had loved them ; for at last, grown old, His only passion was the love of gold. He sold his horses, sold his hawks and hounds, Rented his vineyards and his garden-grounds, Kept but one steed, his favorite steed of all, To starve and shiver in a naked stall, And day by day sat brooding in his chair, Devising plans how best to hoard and spare. At length he said: “What is the use or need - To keep at my own cost this lazy steed, Eating his head off in my stables here, When rents are low and provender is dear? Let him go feed upon the public ways; I want him only for the holidays.” So the old steed was turned into the heat Of the long, lonely, silent, shadeless street; And wandered in suburban lanes forlorn, Barked at by dogs, and torn by brier an thorn. * - One afternoon, as in that sultry clime It is the custom in the summer time, With bolted doors and window - shutters closed, The inhabitants of Atri slept or dozed; When suddenly upon their senses fell The loud alarm of the accusing bell ! The Syndic started from his deep repose, Turned on his couch, and listened, and then I’OSé - And donned his robes, and with reluctant pace Went panting forth into the market-place, Where the great bell upon its cross-beam swung Reiterating with persistent tongue, In half-articulate jargon, the old song : “Some one hath done a wrong, hath done a wrong !” But ere he reached the belfry's light arcade He saw, or thought he saw, beneath its shade, No shape of human form of woman born, But a poor steed dejected and forlorn, Who with uplifted head and eager eye Was tugging at the vines of briony. “Domeneddio !” cried the Syndic straight, “This is the Knight of Atri's steed of state He calls for justice, being sore distressed, And pleads his cause as loudly as the best.” Meanwhile from street and lane a noisy crowd - Had rolled together like a summer cloud, And told the story of the wretched beast In five-and-twenty different ways at least, HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLO W. 435 With much gesticulation and appeal To heathen gods, in their excessive zeal. The Knight was called and questioned; in reply Did not confess the fact, did not deny: Treated the matter as a pleasant jest, And set at naught the Syndic and the rest, Maintaining, in an angry undertone, That he should do what pleased him with his own. And thereupon the Syndic gravely read The proclamation of the King ; then said: “Pride goeth forth on horseback grand and gay, But cometh back on foot, and begs its way; Fame is the fragrance of heroic deeds, Of flowers of chivalry and not of weeds These are familiar proverbs; but I fear They never yet have reached your knightly ear. What fair renown, what honor, what repute Can come to you from starving this poor brute? He who serves well and speaks not, merits In Ore Than they who clamor loudest at the door. Therefore the law decrees that as this steed Served you in youth, henceforth you shall take heed To comfort his old age, and to provide Shelter in stall, and food and field beside.” The Knight withdrew abashed; the people all Led home the steed in triumph to his stall, The King heard and approved, and laughed in glee, And cried aloud: “Right well it pleaseth me . Church-bells at best but ring us to the door; But go not in to mass; my bell doth more : It cometh into court and pleads the cause Of creatures dumb and unknown to the laws; - Aud this shall make, in every Christian clime, The Bell of Atri famous for all time.” 436 THE POETICAL WORKS OF INTERLUDE. “YES, well your story pleads the cause To raise the gauntlet from the ground, Of those dumb mouths that have no And try with him the battle's chance. speech, Only a cry from each to each “Wake from your dreams, O Edrehiſ In its own kind, with its own laws; Or dreaming speak to us, and make Something that is beyond the reach A feint of being half awake, Of human power to learn or teach, – And tell us what your dreams may be. An inarticulate moan of pain, Out of the hazy atmosphere Like the immeasurable main - Of cloud-land deign to reappear Breaking upon an unknown beach.” Among us in this Wayside Inn ; Tell us what visions and what scenes Thus spake the Poet with a sigh ; Illuminate the dark ravines Then added, with impassioned cry, In which you grope your way. Begin l’ As one who feels the words he speaks, - The color flushing in his cheeks, Thus the Sicilian spake. The Jew The fervor burning in his eye : Made no reply, but only smiled, “Among the noblest in the land, As men unto a wayward child, Though he may count himself the least, Not knowing what to answer, do. That man I honor and revere - As from a cavern's mouth, O'ergrown Who without favor, without fear, With moss and intertangled vines, In the great city dares to stand A streamlet leaps into the light The friend of every friendless beast, And murmurs over root and stone And tames with his unflinching hand In a melodious undertone ; The brutes that wear our form and Or as amid the noonday night face, Of sombre and wind-haunted pines, The were-wolves of the human race l’’ There runs a sound as of the sea ; Then paused, and waited with a frown, So from his bearded lips there came Like some old champion of romance, A melody without a name, Who, having thrown his gauntlet down, A song, a tale, a history, Expectant leans upon his lance ; Or whatsoever it may be, But neither Knight nor Squire is found Writ and recorded in these lines. THE SPANISH JEW’S TALE. RAM BALU. INTo the city of Kambalu, And saw in the thronging street beneath, By the road that leadeth to Ispahan, In the light of the setting sun, that blazed At the head of his dusty caravan, Through the clouds of dust by the caravan Laden with treasure from realms afar, raised, Baldacca and Kelat and Kandahar, - The flash of harness and jewelled sheath, Rode the great captain Alau. And the shining scimitars of the guard, And the weary camels that bared their The Khan from his palace-window gazed, teeth, - -st # *11 ºil | intº wº º Twº WALTER SHIRLAw. A RTIST "Still clutching his treasure he had died.” A ambalu. HENRY WADS WORTH / ONG FE/, / O W, 437 As they passed and passed through the gates The weavers are busy in Samarcand, unbarred The miners are sifting the golden sand, Into the shade of the palace-yard. The divers plunging for pearls in the seas, And peace and plenty are in the land. Thus into the city of Kambalu Rode the great captain Alau ; - “Baldacca's Kalif, and he alone, And he stood before the Khan, and said: Rose in revolt against thy throne: “The enemies of my lord are dead; His treasures are at thy palace-door, All the Kalifs of all the West With the swords and the shawls and the Bow and obey thy least behest; jewels he wore ; The plains are dark with the mulberry-trees, His body is dust o'er the desert blown. “A mile outside of Baldacca's gate To lure the old tiger from his den I left my forces to lie in wait, Into the ambush I had planned. Concealed by forests and hillocks of sand, Ere we reached the town the alarm was And forward dashed with a handful of men, spread, 38 THE POETICAL WORKS OF For we heard the sound of gongs from within ; And with clash of cymbals and warlike din The gates swung wide; and we turned and fled ; And the garrison sallied forth and pursued, With the gray old Kalif at their head, And above them the banner of Mohammed : So we snared them all, and the town was subdued. “As in at the gate we rode, behold, A tower that is called the Tower of Gold !. For there the Kalif had hidden his wealth, Heaped and hoarded and piled on high, Like sacks of wheat in a granary : And thither the miser crept by stealth To feel of the gold that gave him health, And to gaze and gloat with his hungry eye On jewels that gleamed like a glowworm'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 use- less hoards To spring into shining blades of swords, And keep thine honor sweet and clear. These grains of gold are not grains of wheat; These bars of silver thou canst not eat ; These jewels and pearls and precious stones Cannot cure the aches in thy bones, Nor keep the feet of Death one hour From climbing the stairways of thy tower!’ “Then into his dungeon I locked the drone, And left him to feed there all alone In the honey-cells of his golden hive ; Never a prayer, nor a cry, nor a groan Was heard from those massive walls of stone, Nor again was the Kalif seen alive “When at last we unlocked the door, We found him dead upon the floor; The rings had dropped from his withered hands, His teeth were like bones in the desert sands: Still clutching his treasure he had died ; And as he lay there, he appeared A statue of gold with a silver beard, His arms outstretched as if crucified.” This is the story, strange and true, That the great captain Alau Told to his brother the Tartar Khan, When he rode that day into Kambalu By the road that leadeth to Ispahan. INTERLUDE. “I THOUGHT before your tale began,” The Student murmured, “we should have Some legend written by Judah Rav In his Gemara of Babylon; Or something from the Gulistan, – The tale of the Cazy of Hamadan, Or of that King of Khorasan Who saw in dreams the eyes of one That had a hundred years been dead Still moving restless in his head, Undimmed, and gleaming with the lust Of power, though all the rest was dust. “But lo! your glittering caravan On the road that leadeth to Ispahan Hath led us farther to the East Into the regions of Cathay. Spite of your Kalif and his gold, Pleasant has been the tale you told, And full of color; that at least No one will question or gainsay. And yet on such a dismal day We need a merrier tale to clear The dark and heavy atmosphere. So listen, Lordlings, while I tell, Without a preface, what befell A simple cobbler, in the year — No matter; it was long ago; And that is all we need to know.” HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLO W. 439 THE STUDENT'S TALE. THE COBBLER OF HAGENAU. I TRUST that somewhere and somehow You all have heard of Hagenau, A quiet, quaint, and ancient town Among the green Alsatian hills, A place of valleys, streams, and mills, Where Barbarossa's castle, brown With rust of centuries, still looks down On the broad, drowsy land below, - On shadowy forests filled with game, And the blue river winding slow Through meadows, where the hedges grow That give this little town its name. "ulu º _ - | ºl º | Mºll." | ||| Hans Sachs with vast delight he read, And Regenbogen's rhymes of love, For their poetic fame had spread Even to the town of Hagenau ; And some Quick Melody of the Plough, Or Double Harmony of the Dove Was always running in his head. He kept, moreover, at his side, Among his leathers and his tools, “Reynard the Fox,” the “Ship of Fools,” Or “Eulenspiegel,” open wide : It happened in the good old times, While yet the Master-singers filled The noisy workshop and the guild With various melodies and rhymes, That here in Hagenau there dwelt A cobbler, — one who loved debate, And, arguing from a postulate, Would say what others only felt; A man of forecast and of thrift, And of a shrewd and careful mind In this world’s business, but inclined Somewhat to let the next world drift. with these he was much edified: He thought them wiser than the Schools. His good wife, full of godly fear, Liked not these worldly themes to hear; The Psalter was her book of songs; The only music to her ear Was that which to the Church belongs, When the loud choir on Sunday chanted, And the two angels carved in wood, - That by the windy organ stood, 440 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Blew on their trumpets loud and clear, And all the echoes, far and near, Gibbered as if the church were haunted. Outside his door, one afternoon, This humble votary of the muse Sat in the narrow strip of shade By a projecting cornice made, Mending the Burgomaster's shoes, And singing a familiar tune : — “Our ingress into the world Was naked and bare ; Our progress through the world Is trouble and care; Our egress from the world Will be nobody knows where: But if we do well here We shall do well there ; And I could tell you no more, Should I preach a whole year !” Thus sang the cobbler at his work ; And with his gestures marked the time, Closing together with a jerk Of his waxed thread the stitch and rhyme. Meanwhile his quiet little dame Was leaning o'er the window-sill, Eager, excited, but mouse-still, Gazing impatiently to see What the great throng of folk might be That onward in procession came, Along the unfrequented street, With horns that blew, and drums that beat, And banners flying, and the flame Of tapers, and, at times, the sweet Voices of nuns; and as they sang Suddenly all the church-bells rang. In a gay coach, above the crowd, There sat a monk in ample hood, Who with his right hand held aloft A red and ponderous cross of wood, To which at times he meekly bowed. In front three horsemen rode, and oft, With voice and air importunate, A boisterous herald cried aloud : “The grace of God is at your gate l’” So onward to the church they passed. The cobbler slowly turned his last, And, wagging his Sagacious head, Unto his kneeling housewife said : “‘T is the monk Tetzel. I have heard The cawings of that reverend bird. Don't let him cheat you of your gold; Indulgence is not bought and sold.” The church of Hagenau, that night, Was full of people, full of light; An odor of incense filled the air, The priest intoned, the organ groaned Its inarticulate despair; The candles on the altar blazed, And full in front of it upraised The red cross stood against the glare. Below, upon the altar-rail. Indulgences were set to sale, Like ballads at a country fair. A heavy strong-box, iron-bound And carved with many a quaint device, Received, with a melodious sound, The coin that purchased Paradise. Then from the pulpit overhead, Tetzel the monk, with fiery glow, Thundered upon the crowd below. “Good people all, draw near !” he said : “Purchase these letters, signed and sealed, By which all sins, though unrevealed And unrepented, are forgiven Count but the gain, count not the loss | Your gold and silver are but dross, And yet they pave the way to heaven. I hear your mothers and your sires Cry from their purgatorial fires, And will ye not their ransom pay 2 O senseless people ! when the gate Of heaven is open, will ye wait 2. Will ye not enter in to-day 2 To-morrow it will be too late ; I shall be gone upon my way. Make haste! bring money while ye may!” The women shuddered, and turned pale ; Allured by hope or driven by fear, With many a sob and many a tear, All crowded to the altar-rail. Pieces of silver and of gold HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLO W. Into the tinkling strong-box fell Like pebbles dropped into a well; And soon the ballads were all sold. The cobbler's wife among the rest Slipped into the capacious chest A golden florin; then withdrew, Hiding the paper in her breast : And homeward through the darkness went Comforted, quieted, content; She did not walk, she rather flew, A dove that settles to her nest, When some appalling bird of prey That scared her has been driven away. The days went by, the monk was gone, The summer passed, the winter came; Though seasons changed, yet still the same The daily round of life went on ; The daily round of household care, The narrow life of toil and prayer. But in her heart the cobbler's dame Had now a treasure beyond price, A secret joy without a name, The certainty of Paradise. Alas, alas ! Dust unto dust Before the winter wore away, Her body in the churchyard lay, º 441 Her patient soul was with the Just After her death, among the things That even the poor preserve with care, — Some little trinkets and cheap rings, A locket with her mother's hair, Her wedding gown, the faded flowers She wore upon her wedding day, - Among these memories of past hours, That so much of the heart reveal, Carefully kept and put away, The Letter of Indulgence lay Folded, with signature and seal. Meanwhile the Priest, aggrieved and pained, Waited and wondered that no word Of mass or requiem he heard, As by the Holy Church ordained: Then to the Magistrate complained, That as this woman had been dead A week or more, and no mass said, It was rank heresy, or at least Contempt of Church; thus said the Priest : And straight the cobbler was arraigned He came, confiding in his cause, But rather doubtful of the laws. The Justice from his elbow-chair * | xy Y. w º | ſº | º lº 442 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Gave him a look that seemed to say: “Thou standest before a Magistrate, Therefore do not prevaricate l’’ Then asked him in a business way, Kindly but cold : “Is thy wife dead?” The cobbler meekly bowed his head : “She is,” came struggling from his throat Scarce audibly. The Justice wrote The words down in a book, and then Continued, as he raised his pen; “She is; and hath a mass been said For the salvation of her soul? Come, speak the truth ! confess the whole !” The cobbler without pause replied: “Of mass or prayer there was no need; For at the moment when she died Her soul was with the glorified l’’ And from his pocket with all speed He drew the priestly title-deed, And prayed the Justice he would read. The Justice read, amused, amazed ; And as he read his mirth increased ; At times his shaggy brows he raised, Now wondering at the cobbler gazed, Now archly at the angry Priest. “From all excesses, sins, and crimes Thou hast committed in past times Thee I absolve And furthermore, Purified from all earthly taints, To the communion of the Saints And to the sacraments restore All stains of weakness, and all trace Of shame and censure I efface; Remit the pains thou shouldst endure, And make thee innocent and pure, So that in dying, unto thee The gates of heaven shall open be Though long thou livest, yet this grace Until the moment of thy death Unchangeable continueth !” Then said he to the Priest: “I find This document is duly signed Brother John Tetzel, his own hand. At all tribunals in the land In evidence it may be used; Therefore acquitted is the accused.” Then to the cobbler turned : “My friend, Pray tell me, didst thou ever read * Reynard the Fox?”—“Oh yes, indeed!”— “I thought so. Don't forget the end.” INTERLUDE. “WHAT was the end ? I am ashamed Not to remember Reynard's fate; I have not read the book of late ; Was he not hanged?” the Poet said. The student gravely shook his head, And answered: “You exaggerate. There was a tournament proclaimed, And Reynard fought with Isegrim The Wolf, and having vanquished him, Rose to high honor in the State, And Keeper of the Seals was named !” At this the gay Sicilian laughed: “Fight fire with fire, and craft with craft; Successful cunning seems to be The moral of your tale,” said he. “Mine had a better, and the Jew's Had none at all, that I could see ; His aim was only to amuse.” Meanwhile from out its ebon case His violin the Minstrel drew, And having tuned its strings anew, Now held it close in his embrace, And poising in his outstretched hand The bow, like a magician's wand, He paused, and said, with beaming face : “Last night my story was too long ; To-day I give you but a song, An old tradition of the North ; But first, to put you in the mood, I will a little while prelude, And from this instrument draw forth Something by way of overture.” He played; at first the tones were pure And tender as a summer night, The full moon climbing to her height, The sob and ripple of the seas, HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLO W. 443 He paused amid its varying rhymes, And at each pause again broke in The music of his violin, With tones of sweetness or of fear, Movements of trouble or of calm, Creating their own atmosphere; As sitting in a church we hear Between the verses of the psalm The organ playing soft and clear, Or thundering on the startled ear. The flapping of an idle sail; And then by sudden and sharp degrees The multiplied, wild harmonies Freshened and burst into a gale; A tempest howling through the dark, A crash as of some shipwrecked bark, A loud and melancholy wail. Such was the prelude to the tale Told by the Minstrel; and at times THE MUSICIAN’S TALE. THE BALLAD OF CARMILHAN. AT Stralsund, by the Baltic Sea, Within the sandy bar, At sunset of a summer's day, Ready for sea, at anchor lay The good ship Valdemar. The sunbeams danced upon the waves, And played along her side; And through the cabin windows streamed In ripples of golden light, that seemed The ripple of the tide. There sat the captain with his friends, Old skippers brown and hale, Who smoked and grumbled o'er their grog, And talked of iceberg and of fog, Of calm and storm and gale. And one was spinning a sailor's yarn About Klaboterman, The Kobold of the sea; a spright Invisible to mortal sight, Who o'er the rigging ran. Sometimes he hammered in the hold, Sometimes upon the mast, Sometimes abeam, sometimes abaft, Or at the bows he sang and laughed, And made all tight and fast. He helped the sailors at their work, And toiled with jovial din; He helped them hoist and reef the sails, He helped them stow the casks and bales, And heave the anchor in. 444 THE POETICAL WORKS OF But woe unto the lazy louts, The idlers of the crew ; Them to torment was his delight, And worry them by day and night, And pinch them black and blue. II. THE jolly skipper paused awhile, And then again began : “There is a Spectre Ship,” quoth he, “A ship of the Dead that sails the sea, And is called the Carmilhan. “A ghostly ship, with a ghostly crew, In tempests she appears; And before the gale, or against the gale, She sails without a rag of sail, Without a helmsman steers. “She haunts the Atlantic north and south, But mostly the mid-sea, - And woe to him whose mortal eyes Klaboterman behold. It is a certain sign of death !— The cabin-boy here held his breath, He felt his blood run cold. Where three great rocks rise bleak and bare Like furnace chimneys in the air, And are called the Chimneys Three. “And ill betide the luckless ship That meets the Carmillian ; Over her decks the seas will leap, She must go down into the deep, And perish mouse and man.” The captain of the Valdemar Laughed loud with merry heart. “I should like to see this ship,” said he “I should like to find these Chimneys Three That are marked down in the chart. “I have sailed right over the spot,” he said, “With a good stiff breeze behind, When the sea was blue, and the sky was clear, - You can follow my course by these pin- holes here, — And never a rock could find.” And then he swore a dreadful oath, He swore by the Kingdoms Three, That, should he meet the Carmillian, He would run her down, although he ran Right into Eternity! All this, while passing to and fro, The cabin-boy had heard; He lingered at the door to hear, And drank in all with greedy ear, And pondered every word. He was a simple country lad, But of a roving mind. “Oh, it must be like heaven,” thought he, “Those far-off foreign lands to see, And fortune seek and find l’’ HENRY WADS WORTH LOWGFELLO W. But in the fo'castle, when he heard The mariners blaspheme, He thought of home, he thought of God, And his mother under the church-yard sod, And wished it were a dream. THE cabin windows have grown blank As eyeballs of the dead; No more the glancing sunbeams burn On the gilt letters of the stern, But on the figure-head; On Valdemar Victorious, Who looketh with disdain To see his image in the tide Dismembered float from side to side, And reunite again. “It is the wind,” those skippers said, “That swings the vessel so; It is the wind; it freshens fast, 'T is time to say farewell at last, 'T is time for us to go.” They shook the captain by the hand, “Good luck! good luck!” they cried; Each face was like the setting sun, As, broad and red, they one by one Went o'er the vessel's side. 445 One friend on board that ship had he 'T was the Klaboterman, Who saw the Bible in his chest, And made a sign upon his breast, All evil things to ban. The sun went down, the full moon rose, Serene o'er field and flood; And all the winding creeks and bays And broad sea-meadows seemed ablaze, The sky was red as blood. The southwest wind blew fresh and fair, As fair as wind could be ; Bound for Odessa, o'er the bar, With all sail set, the Valdemar Went proudly out to sea. The lovely moon climbs up the sky As one who walks in dreams; A tower of marble in her light, A wall of black, a wall of white, The stately vessel seems. Low down upon the sandy coast The lights begin to burn; And now, uplifted high in air, They kindle with a fiercer glare, And now drop far astern. 446 THE POETICAL WORKS OF The dawn appears, the land is gone, The sea is all around ; Then on each hand low hills of sand Emerge and form another land; She steereth through the Sound. tº Through Kattegat and Skager-rack She fitteth like a ghost; By day and night, by night and day, She bounds, she flies upon her way Along the English coast, IV. AND now along the horizon's edge Mountains of cloud uprose, Black as with forests underneath, Above, their sharp and jagged teeth Were white as drifted snows. Unseen behind them sank the sun, But flushed each snowy peak A little while with rosy light, That faded slowly from the sight As blushes from the cheek. Black grew the sky, - all black, all black; The clouds were everywhere ; There was a feeling of suspense In nature, a mysterious sense Of terror in the air. And all on board the Valdemar Was still as still could be ; Save when the dismal ship-bell tolled, As ever and anon she rolled, - And lurched into the sea. The captain up and down the deck Went striding to and fro; Now watched the compass at the wheel, Now lifted up his hand to feel Which way the wind might blow. And now he looked up at the sails, And now upon the deep ; In every fibre of his frame He felt the storm before it came, He had no thought of sleep. Cape Finisterre is drawing near, Cape Finisterre is past; Into the open ocean stream She floats, the vision of a dream Too beautiful to last. Suns rise and set, and rise, and yet There is no land in sight; The liquid planets overhead Burn brighter now the moon is dead, And longer stays the night. Eight bells l and suddenly abaft, With a great rush of rain, Making the ocean white with spume, In darkness like the day of doom, On came the hurricane. The lightning flashed from cloud to cloud, And rent the sky in two; A jagged flame, a single jet Of white fire, like a bayonet, That pierced the eyeballs through. Then all around was dark again, And blacker than before ; But in that single flash of light He had beheld a fearful sight, And thought of the oath he swore. For right ahead lay the Ship of the Dead, The ghostly Carmillian Her masts were stripped, her yards were bare, And on her bowsprit, poised in air, Sat the Klaboterman. Her crew of ghosts was all on deck Or clambering up the shrouds; The boatswain's whistle, the captain's hail Were like the piping of the gale, And thunder in the clouds. And close behind the Carmilhan There rose up from the sea, As from a foundered ship of stone, Three bare and splintered masts alone : They were the Chimneys Three. HENRY WADSWORTH LOWGFELLO W. 447 And onward dashed the Valdemar And leaped into the dark; A denser mist, a colder blast, A little shudder, and she had passed Right through the Phantom Bark. She cleft in twain the shadowy hulk, But cleft it unaware; As when, careering to her nest, The sea-gull severs with her breast The unresisting air. Again the lightning flashed; again They saw the Carmillian, Whole as before in hull and spar ; But now on board of the Valdemar Stood the Klaboterman. And they all knew their doom was sealed; They knew that death was near : Some prayed who never prayed before, And some they wept, and some they swore, And some were mute with fear. Then suddenly there came a shock, And louder than wind or sea A cry burst from the crew on deck, As she dashed and crashed, a hopeless wreck, Upon the Chimneys Three. The storm and night were passed, the light To streak the east began; The cabin-boy, picked up at sea, Survived the wreck, and only he, To tell of the Carmilhan. 448 THE POETICAL WORKS OH INTERLUDE. WHEN the long murmur of applause That greeted the Musician's lay Had slowly buzzed itself away, - And the long talk of Spectre Ships That followed died upon their lips And came unto a natural pause, “These tales you tell are one and all Of the Old World,” the Poet said, “Flowers gathered from a crumbling wall, Dead leaves that rustle as they fall ; Let me present you in their stead Something of our New England earth, A tale, which, though of no great worth, Has still this merit, that it yields A certain freshness of the fields, A sweetness as of home-made bread.” The Student answered : “Be discreet ; For if the flour be fresh and sound, And if the bread be light and sweet, Who careth in what mill 't was ground, Or of what oven felt the heat, Unless, as old Cervantes said, You are looking after better bread Than any that is made of wheat 2 You know that people nowadays To what is old give little praise ; All must be new in prose and verse, They want hot bread, or something worse, Fresh every morning, and half baked ; The wholesome bread of yesterday, Too stale for them, is thrown away, Nor is their thirst with water slaked.” As oft we see the sky in May Threaten to rain, and yet not rain, The Poet's face, before so gay, Was clouded with a look of pain, But suddenly brightened up again ; And without further let or stay He told his tale of yesterday. THE POET’S TALE. LADY WENTVWORTH. ONE hundred years ago, and something more, - In Queen Street, Portsmouth, at her tavern door, Neat as a pin, and blooming as a rose, Stood Mistress Stavers in her furbelows, Just as her cuckoo-clock was striking nine. Above her head, resplendent on the sign, The portrait of the Earl of Halifax, In Scarlet coat and periwig of flax, Surveyed at leisure all her varied charms, Her cap, her bodice, her white folded arms, And half resolved, though he was past his prime, - And rather damaged by the lapse of time, To fall down at her feet, and to declare The passion that had driven him to de- spair. For from his lofty station he had seen Stavers, her husband, dressed in bottle- green, - Drive his new Flying Stage-coach, four in hand, Down the long lane, and out into the land, And knew that he was far upon the way To Ipswich and to Boston on the Bay ! Just then the meditations of the Earl Were interrupted by a little girl, Barefooted, ragged, with neglected hair, Eyes full of laughter, neck and shoulders bare, A thin slip of a girl, like a new moon, Sure to be rounded into beauty soon, A creature men would worship and adore, Though now in mean habiliments she bore HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLO W. 449 A pail of water, dripping through the street, And bathing, as she went, her naked feet. It was a pretty picture, full of grace, — The slender form, the delicate, thin face; The swaying motion, as she hurried by: The shining feet, the laughter in her eye, That o'er her face in ripples gleamed and glanced, As in her pail the shifting sunbeam danced: And with uncommon feelings of delight The Earl of Halifax beheld the sight. Not so Dame Stavers, for he heard her say These words, or thought he did, as plain as day: “O Martha Hilton Fie! how dare you go About the town half dressed, and looking so 1 '' At which the gypsy laughed, and straight replied: “No matter how I look; I yet shall ride In my own chariot, ma'am.” And on the child The Earl of Halifax benignly smiled, As with her heavy burden she passed on, Looked back, then turned the corner, and was gone. What next, upon that memorable day, Arrested his attention was a gay And brilliant equipage, that flashed and spun, The silver harness glittering in the sun, Outriders with red jackets, lithe and lank, Pounding the saddles as they rose and sank, While all alone within the chariot sat A portly person with three-cornered hat, 57 450 THE POETIOAL WORKS OF A crimson velvet coat, head high in air, Gold-headed cane, and nicely powdered hair, - And diamond buckles sparkling at his knees, Dignified, stately, florid, much at ease. Onward the pageant swept, and as it passed, Fair Mistress Stavers courtesied low and fast : For this was Governor Wentworth, driving down To Little Harbor, just beyond the town, Where his Great House stood looking out to Sea, A goodly place, where it was good to be. It was a pleasant mansion, an abode Near and yet hidden from the great high- road, Sequestered among trees, a noble pile, Baronial and colonial in its style; Gables and dormer-windows everywhere, And stacks of chimneys rising high in alr, – - Pandaean pipes, on which all winds that blew Made mournful music the whole winter through. Within, unwonted splendors met the eye, Panels, and floors of oak, and tapestry; Carved chimney-pieces, where on brazen dogs Revelled and roared the Christmas fires of logs : r Doors opening into darkness unawares, Mysterious passages, and flights of stairs; And on the walls, in heavy gilded frames, The ancestral Wentworths with Old-Scrip- ture nameS. Such was the mansion where the great man dwelt, A widower and childless ; and he felt The loneliness, the uncongenial gloom, That like a presence haunted every room ; For though not given to weakness, he could feel The pain of wounds, that ache because they heal. The years came and the years went, — seven in all, And passed in cloud and sunshine o'er the Hall; The dawns their splendor through its cham- bers shed, The Sunsets flushed its western windows red; - The Snow was on its roofs, the wind, the rain ; Its woodlands were in leaf and bare again ; Moons waxed and waned, the lilacs bloomed and died, In the broad river ebbed and flowed the tide, Ships went to sea, and ships came home from Sea, And the slow years sailed by and ceased to be. And all these years had Martha Hilton served In the Great House, not wholly unob- served : By day, by night, the silver crescent grew, Though hidden by clouds, her light still shining through ; - A maid of all work, whether coarse or fine, A servant who made service seem divine ! Through her each room was fair to look upon ; The mirrors glistened, and the brasses shone, The very knocker on the outer door, If she but passed, was brighter than be. fore. And now the ceaseless turning of the mill Of time, that never for an hour stands still, Ground out the Governor's sixtieth birth- day, - And powdered his brown hair with silver- gray. The robin, the forerunner of the spring, The bluebird with his jocund carolling, The restless swallows building in the eaves, The golden buttercups, the grass, the leaves, The lilacs tossing in the winds of May, All welcomed this majestic holiday ! HENRY WADS WORTH LOWGFELLOW. 451 He gave a splendid banquet, served on plate, Such as became the Governor of the State, Who represented England and the King, And was magnificent in everything. He had invited all his friends and peers, – The Pepperels, the Langdons, and the Lears, The Sparhawks, the Penhallows, and the rest : For why repeat the name of every guest? But I must mention one in bands and gown, The rector there, the Reverend Arthur Brown Of the Established Church; with smiling face He sat beside the Governor and said grace; And then the feast went on, as others do, But ended as none other I eer knew. When they had drunk the King, with many a cheer, The Governor whispered in a servant's ear, Who disappeared, and presently there stood Within the room, in perfect womanhood, A maiden, modest and yet self-possessed, Youthful and beautiful, and simply dressed. Can this be Martha Hilton? It must be Yes, Martha Hilton, and no other she l Dowered with the beauty of her twenty years, How ladylike, how queenlike she appears; The pale, thin crescent of the days gone by Is Dian now in all her majesty Yet scarce a guest perceived that she was there, Until the Governor, rising from his chair, Played slightly with his ruffles, then looked down, And said unto the Reverend Arthur Brown : “This is my birthday : it shall likewise be My wedding-day; and you shall marry me!” The listening guests were greatly mystified, None more so than the rector, who replied: “Marry you? Yes, that were a pleasant task, Your Excellency; but to whom 2 I ask.” The Governor answered: “To this lady here; ” And beckoned Martha Hilton to draw near. She came and stood, all blushes, at his side. The rector paused. The impatient Gov- ernor cried: “This is the lady; do you hesitate 2 Then I command you as Chief Magistrate.” The rector read the service loud and clear: “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here.” And so on to the end. At his command On the fourth finger of her fair left hand The Governor placed the ring ; and that was all : Martha was Lady Wentworth of the Hall! 452 THE POETICAL WORKS OF INTERLUDE. WELL pleased the audience heard the tale. Hoping thereby to make amends The Theologian said : “Indeed, For that grim tragedy of mine, To praise you there is little need ; As strong and black as Spanish wine, One almost hears the farmer's flail I told last night, and wish almost Thresh out your wheat, nor does there It had remained untold, my friends; fail - For Torquemada's awful ghost A certain freshness, as you said, Came to me in the dreams I dreamed, And sweetness as of home-made bread. And in the darkness glared and gleamed But not less sweet and not less fresh Like a great light-house on the coast.” Are many legends that I know, Writ by the monks of long-ago, The Student laughing said: “Far more Who loved to mortify the flesh, Like to some dismal fire of bale So that the soul might purer grow, Flaring portentous on a hill; And rise to a diviner state ; Or torches lighted on a shore And one of these — perhaps of all By wreckers in a midnight gale. Most beautiful — I now recall, No matter; be it as you will, And with permission will narrate; Only go forward with your tale.” THE THEOLOGIAN’S TALE. THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL. “HADST thou stayed, I must have fled !” Not with bleeding hands and feet, That is what the Vision said. Did the Monk his Master see ; But as in the village street, In his chamber all alone, In the house or harvest-field, Kneeling on the floor of stone, Halt and lame and blind. He healed, Prayed the Monk in deep contrition When He walked in Galilee. For his sins of indecision, Prayed for greater self-denial In an attitude imploring, In temptation and in trial ; - Hands upon his bosom crossed, It was noonday by the dial, Wondering, worshipping, adoring, And the Monk was all alone. Knelt the Monk in rapture lost. - - - Lord, he thought, in heaven that reignest, Suddenly, as if it lightened, Who am I, that thus thou deignest An unwonted splendor brightened To reveal thyself to me? All within him and without him Who am I, that from the centre In that narrow cell of stone ; Of thy glory thou shouldst enter And he saw the Blessed Vision This poor cell, my guest to be 2 Of our Lord, with light Elysian Like a vesture wrapped about Him, Then amid his exaltation, Like a garment round Him thrown. - Loud the convent bell appalling, From its belfry calling, calling, Not as crucified and slain, Rang through court and corridor Not in agonies of pain, With persistent iteration HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. 453 He had never heard before. Should he leave the poor to wait It was now the appointed hour Hungry at the convent gate, When alike in shine or shower, Till the Vision passed away? Winter's cold or summer's heat, Should he slight his radiant guest, To the convent portals came Slight this visitant celestial, All the blind and halt and lame, For a crowd of ragged, bestial All the beggars of the street, Beggars at the convent gate 2 For their daily dole of food Would the Vision there remain 2 Dealt them by the brotherhood; Would the Vision come again 2 And their almoner was he Then a voice within his breast Who upon his bended knee, - Whispered, audible and clear Rapt in silent ecstasy As if to the outward ear: Of divinest self-surrender, “Do thy duty; that is best; Saw the Vision and the Splendor. Leave unto thy Lord the rest!” Deep distress and hesitation Straightway to his feet he started, Mingled with his adoration; And with longing look intent Should he go or should he stay? On the Blessed Vision bent, º 454 THE POETIONAL WORKS OF Slowly from his cell departed, Slowly on his errand went. At the gate the poor were waiting, Looking through the iron grating, With that terror in the eye That is only seen in those Who amid their wants and woes Hear the sound of doors that close, And of feet that pass them by: Grown familiar with disfavor, Grown familiar with the savor Of the bread by which men die But to-day, they knew not why, Like the gate of Paradise Seemed the convent gate to rise, Like a sacrament divine Seemed to them the bread and wine. In his heart the Monk was praying, Thinking of the homeless poor, What they suffer and endure; What we see not, what we see : And the inward voice was saying: ‘Whatsoever thing thou doest To the least of mine and lowest, That thou doest, unto me !” Unto me ! but had the Vision Come to him in beggar's clothing, Come a mendicant imploring, Would he then have knelt adoring, Or have listened with derision, And have turned away with loath- ing? Thus his conscience put the question, Full of troublesome suggestion, As at length, with hurried pace, Towards his cell he turned his face, And beheld the convent bright With a supernatural light, Like a luminous cloud expanding Over floor and wall and ceiling, But he paused with awe-struck feel- ing At the threshold of his door, For the Vision still was standing As he left it there before, When the convent bell appalling, From its belfry calling, calling, Summoned him to feed the poor. Through the long hour intervening It had waited his return, And he felt his bosom burn, Comprehending all the meaning, When the Blessed Vision said, “Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled !” INTERLUDE. ALL praised the Legend more or less; Some liked the moral, some the verse; Some thought it better, and some worse Than other legends of the past : Until, with ill-concealed distress At all their cavilling, at last The Theologian gravely said: “The Spanish proverb, then, is right; Consult your friends on what you do, And one will say that it is white, And others say that it is red.” And “Amen l’’ quoth the Spanish Jew. “Six stories told ! We must have seven, A cluster like the Pleiades, And lo! it happens, as with these, That one is missing from our heaven. Where is the Landlord? Bring him here; Let the Lost Pleiad reappear.” Thus the Sicilian cried, and went Forthwith to seek his missing star, But did not find him in the bar, A place that landlords most frequent, Nor yet beside the kitchen fire, Nor up the stairs, nor in the hall; It was in vain to ask or call, There were no tidings of the Squire. So he came back with downcast head, Exclaiming : “Well, our bashful host Hath surely given up the ghost. HENRY WADSWORTH LOWGFELLO W. 455 Another proverb says the dead Can tell no tales; and that is true. It follows, then, that one of you Must tell a story in his stead. You must,” he to the Student said, “Who know so many of the best, And tell them better than the rest.” Straight, by these flattering words be- guiled, The Student, happy as a child When he is called a little man, Assumed the double task imposed, And without more ado unclosed His smiling lips, and thus began. THE STUDENT'S SECOND TALE. THE BARON OF ST. CASTINE. BARON CASTINE of St. Castine Has left his château in the Pyrenees, And sailed across the western seas. When he went away from his fair demesne The birds were building, the woods were green ; And now the winds of winter blow Round the turrets of the old château, The birds are silent and unseen, The leaves lie dead in the ravine, And the Pyrenees are white with snow. His father, lonely, old, and gray, Sits by the fireside day by day, Thinking ever one thought of care; Through the southern windows, narrow and tall, The sun shines into the ancient hall, And makes a glory round his hair. The house-dog, stretched beneath his chair, Groans in his sleep, as if in pain, Then wakes, and yawns, and sleeps again, So silent is it everywhere, — 456 THE POETICAL WORKS OF So silent you can hear the mouse Run and rummage along the beams Behind the wainscot of the wall; And the old man rouses from his dreams, And wanders restless through the house, As if he heard strange voices call. His footsteps echo along the floor Of a distant passage, and pause awhile : He is standing by an open door Looking long, with a sad, sweet smile, Into the room of his absent son. There is the bed on which he lay, There are the pictures bright and gay, Horses and hounds and sun-lit seas; There are his powder-flask and gun, And his hunting-knives in shape of a fan The chair by the window where he sat, With the clouded tiger-skin for a mat, Looking out on the Pyrenees, Looking out on Mount Marboré And the Seven Valleys of Lavedan. Ah me! he turns away and sighs; There is a mist before his eyes. At night, whatever the weather be, Wind or rain or starry heaven, Just as the clock is striking seven, Those who look from the windows see The village Curate, with lantern and maid, Come through the gateway from the park And cross the courtyard damp and dark, - A ring of light in a ring of shade. HEWEY WADS WORTH I, OWGFELLO W. 457 And now at the old man’s side he stands, His voice is cheery, his heart expands, He gossips pleasantly, by the blaze Of the fire of fagots, about old days, And Cardinal Mazarin and the Fronde, And the Cardinal's nieces fair and fond, And what they did, and what they said, When they heard his Eminence was dead. And after a pause the old man says, His mind still coming back again To the one sad thought that haunts his brain, “Are there any tidings from over sea 7 Ah, why has that wild boy gone from me?” And the Curate answers, looking down, Harmless and docile as a lamb, “Young blood l young blood It must so be | * * And draws from the pocket of his gown A handkerchief like an oriflamb, And wipes his spectacles, and they play Their little game of lansquenet In silence for an hour or so, Till the clock at nine strikes loud and clear From the village lying asleep below, And across the courtyard, into the dark Of the winding pathway in the park, Curate and lantern disappear, And darkness reigns in the old château. The ship has come back from over sea, She has been signalled from below, And into the harbor of Bordeaux She sails with her gallant company. But among them is nowhere seen The brave young Baron of St. Castine; He hath tarried behind, I ween, In the beautiful land of Acadie And the father paces to and fro Through the chambers of the old château, Waiting, waiting to hear the hum Of wheels on the road that runs below, Of servants hurrying here and there, The voice in the courtyard, the step on the stair, Waiting for some one who doth not come ! But letters there are, which the old man reads To the Curate, when he comes at night, Word by word, as an acolyte Repeats his prayers and tells his beads; Letters full of the rolling sea, Full of a young man's joy to be Abroad in the world, alone and free ; Full of adventures and wonderful scenes Of hunting the deer through forests vast In the royal grant of Pierre du Gast; Of nights in the tents of the Tarratines; Of Madocawando the Indian chief, And his daughters, glorious as queens, And beautiful beyond belief; And so soft the tones of their native tongue, The words are not spoken, they are sung And the Curate listens, and smiling says: “Ah yes, dear friend in our young days We should have liked to hunt the deer All day amid those forest scenes, And to sleep in the tents of the Tarratines; But now it is better sitting here Within four walls, and without the fear Of losing our hearts to Indian queens; For man is fire and woman is tow, And the Somebody comes and begins to blow.” Then a gleam of distrust and vague surmise Shines in the father's gentle eyes, As fire-light on a window-pane Glimmers and vanishes again ; But naught he answers; he only sighs, And for a moment bows his head; Then, as their custom is, they play Their little game of lansquenet, And another day is with the dead. Another day, and many a day And many a week and month depart, When a fatal letter wings its way Across the sea, like a bird of prey, And strikes and tears the old man’s heart. Lo! the young Baron of St. Castine, Swift as the wind is, and as wild, Has married a dusky Tarratine, Has married Madocawando's child ! The letter drops from the father's hand; Though the sinews of his heart are wrung, 58 458 THE POETICAL WORKS OF He utters no cry, he breathes no prayer, No malediction falls from his tongue; But his stately figure, erect and grand, Bends and sinks like a column of sand In the whirlwind of his great despair. Dying, yes, dying ! His latest breath Of parley at the door of death Is a blessing on his wayward son. Lower and lower on his breast Sinks his gray head; he is at rest; No longer he waits for any one. For many a year the old château Lies tenantless and desolate; Rank grasses in the courtyard grow, About its gables caws the crow ; Only the porter at the gate Is left to guard it, and to wait The coming of the rightful heir ; No other life or sound is there; No more the Curate comes at night, No more, is seen the unsteady light, Threading the alleys of the park; The windows of the hall are dark, The chambers dreary, cold, and bare! At length, at last, when the winter is past, And birds are building, and woods are green, With flying skirts is the Curate seen Speeding along the woodland way, Humming gayly, “No day is so long But it comes at last to vesper-song.” He stops at the porter's lodge to say That at last the Baron of St. Castine Is coming home with his Indian queen, Is coming without a week's delay; And all the house must be swept and clean, And all things set in good array! And the solemn porter shakes his head; And the answer he makes is: “Lackaday ! We will see, as the blind man said!” Alert since first the day began, The cock upon the village church Looks northward from his airy perch, As if beyond the ken of man To see the ships come sailing on, And pass the Isle of Oléron, And pass the Tower of Cordouan. HEWR Y WADS WORTH LOWGFELLO W. 459 In the church below is cold in clay The heart that would have leaped for joy — O tender heart of truth and trust 1 — To see the coming of that day; In the church below the lips are dust; Dust are the hands, and dust the feet That would have been so swift to meet The coming of that wayward boy. At night the front of the old château Is a blaze of light above and below ; There's a sound of wheels and hoofs in the street, A cracking of whips, and scamper of feet, Bells are ringing, and horns are blown, And the Baron hath come again to his own. The Curate is waiting in the hall, Most eager and alive of all - To welcome the Baron and Baroness; But his mind is full of vague distress, For he hath read in Jesuit books Of those children of the wilderness, And now, good, simple man he looks To see a painted Savage stride Into the room, with shoulders bare, And eagle feathers in her hair, And around her a robe of panther's hide. Instead, he beholds with secret shame A form of beauty undefined, A loveliness without a name, Not of degree, but more of kind; Nor bold nor shy, nor short nor tall, But a new mingling of them all. Yes, beautiful beyond belief, Transfigured and transfused, he sees The lady of the Pyrenees, The daughter of the Indian chief. Beneath the shadow of her hair The gold-bronze color of the skin Seems lighted by a fire within, As when a burst of sunlight shines Beneath a sombre grove of pines, – A dusky splendor in the air. The two small hands, that now are pressed In his, seem made to be caressed, They lie so warm and soft and still, Like birds half hidden in a nest, Trustful, and innocent of ill. “Surely this is no heathen lass And ah! he cannot believe his ears When her melodious voice he hears Speaking his native Gascon tongue; The words she utters seem to be Part of some poem of Goudouli, They are not spoken, they are sung ! And the Baron Smiles, and says, “You see, I told you but the simple truth ; Ah, you may trust the eyes of youth !” Down in the village day by day The people gossip in their way, And stare to see the Baroness pass On Sunday morning to early Mass; And when she kneeleth down to pray, They wonder, and whisper together, and say | 2: And in course of time they learn to bless The Baron and the Baroness. - And in course of time the Curate learns A secret so dreadful, that by turns He is ice and fire, he freezes and burns. The Baron at confession hath said, That though this woman be his wife, He hath wed her as the Indians wed, He hath bought her for a gun and a knife And the Curate replies: “O profligate, O Prodigal Son return once more To the open arms and the open door Of the Church, or ever it be too late. Thank God, thy father did not live To see what he could not forgive; On thee, so reckless and perverse, He left his blessing, not his curse. But the nearer the dawn the darker the night, - - And by going wrong all things come right; Things have been mended that were worse, And the worse, the nearer they are to mend. For the sake of the living and the dead, Thou shalt be wed as Christians wed, And all things come to a happy end.” O sun, that followest the night, In yon blue sky, Serene and pure, And pourest thine impartial light Alike on mountain and on moor, Pause for a moment in thy course, 460 WORKS OF THE POETICAL º º And bless the bridegroom and the bride! O Gave, that from thy hidden source In yon mysterious mountain-side Pursuest thy wandering way alone, And leaping down its steps of stone, Along the meadow-lands demure Stealest away to the Adour, Pause for a moment in thy course To bless the bridegroom and the bride' The choir is singing the matin song, The doors of the church are opened wide, The people crowd, and press, and throng To see the bridegroom and the bride. They enter and pass along the nave; They stand upon the father's grave; The bells are ringing soft and slow; The living above and the dead below Give their blessing on one and twain; The warm wind blows from the hills of Spain, The birds are building, the leaves are green, And Baron Castine of St. Castine Hath come at last to his own again. FINALE. Nunc plaudite!” the Student cried, When he had finished; “now applaud, As Roman actors used to say At the conclusion of a play; ” And rose, and spread his hands abroad, And smiling bowed from side to side, As one who bears the palm away. And generous was the applause and loud, But less for him than for the sun, That even as the tale was done Burst from its canopy of cloud, And lit the landscape with the blaze Of afternoon on autumn days, And filled the room with light, and made The fire of logs a painted shade. A sudden wind from out the west Blew all its trumpets loud and shrill; The windows rattled with the blast, The oak-trees shouted as it passed, And straight, as if by fear possessed, The cloud encampment on the hill Broke up, and fluttering flag and tent Vanished into the firmament, And down the valley fled amain The rear of the retreating rain. Only far up in the blue sky A mass of clouds, like drifted snow Suffused with a faint Alpine glow, Was heaped together, vast and high, On which a shattered rainbow hung, Not rising like the ruined arch Of some aerial aqueduct, But like a roseate garland plucked From an Olympian god, and flung Aside in his triumphal march. Like prisoners from their dungeon gloom, Like birds escaping from a snare, Like school-boys at the hour of play, All left at once the pent-up room, And rushed into the open air; And no more tales were told that day. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 461 PRELUDE. THE evening came ; the golden vane A moment in the Sunset glanced, Then darkened, and then gleamed again, As from the east the moon advanced And touched it with a softer light; While underneath, with flowing mane, Upon the sign the Red Horse pranced, And galloped forth into the night. But brighter than the afternoon That followed the dark day of rain, And brighter than the golden vane That glistened in the rising moon, Within, the ruddy fire-light gleamed; And every separate window-pane, Backed by the outer darkness, showed A mirror, where the flamelets gleamed And flickered to and fro, and seemed A bonfire lighted in the road. Amid the hospitable glow, Like an old actor on the stage, With the uncertain voice of age, The singing chimney chanted low The homely songs of long ago. The voice that Ossian heard of yore, When midnight winds were in his hall; A ghostly and appealing call, A sound of days that are no more And dark as Ossian sat the Jew, And listened to the sound, and knew The passing of the airy hosts, The gray and misty cloud of ghosts In their interminable flight ; And listening muttered in his beard, With accent indistinct and weird, “Who are ye, children of the Night?” Beholding his mysterious face, “Tell me,” the gay Sicilian said, “Why was it that in breaking bread At supper, you bent down your head And, musing, paused a little space, As one who says a silent grace?” The Jew replied, with solemn air, “I said the Manichaean's prayer. It was his faith, – perhaps is mine, – That life in all its forms is one, And that its secret conduits run Unseen, but in unbroken line, From the great fountain-head divine Through man and beast, through grain and grass. Howe'er we struggle, strive, and cry, From death there can be no escape, And no escape from life, alas ! Because we cannot die, but pass From one into another shape: It is but into life we die. “Therefore the Manichaean said This simple prayer on breaking bread, Lest he with hasty hand or knife Might wound the incarcerated life, The soul in things that we call dead: ‘I did not reap thee, did not bind thee, I did not thrash thee, did not grind thee, 462 THE POETIOAL WORKS OF Nor did I in the oven bake thee! It was not I, it was another Did these things unto thee, O brother ; I only have thee, hold thee, break thee!’” Thus much I grant, but nothing more. The rusty hinges of a door Are not alive because they creak; This chimney, with its dreary roar, These rattling windows, do not speak | * “To me they speak,” the Jew replied; “And in the Sounds that sink and Soar, I hear the voices of a tide “That birds have souls I can concede,” The Poet cried, with glowing cheeks; “The flocks that from their beds of reed Uprising north or southward fly, And flying write upon the sky The biforked letter of the Greeks, As hath been said by Rucellai ; All birds that sing or chirp or cry, Even those migratory bands, The minor poets of the air, The plover, peep, and Sanderling, That hardly can be said to sing, But pipe along the barren Sands, – All these have souls akin to ours; So hath the lovely race of flowers: That breaks upon an unknown shore!” Here the Sicilian interfered: “That was your dream, then, as you dozed A moment since, with eyes half-closed, And murmured something in your beard.” The Hebrew smiled, and answered, “Nay; Not that, but something very near; Like, and yet not the same, may seem The vision of my waking dream; Before it wholly dies away, Listen to me, and you shall hear.” THE SPANISH JEW’S TALE. AZR.A.E.L. KING SOLOMON, before his palace gate At evening, on the pavement tessellate Was walking with a stranger from the East, Arrayed in rich attire as for a feast, The mighty Runjeet-Sing, a learned man, And Rajah of the realms of Hindostan. And as they walked the guest became aware Of a white figure in the twilight air, Gazing intent, as one who with surprise His form and features seemed to recognize; And in a whisper to the king he said: “What is yon shape, that, pallid as the dead, Is watching me, as if he sought to trace In the dim light the features of my face?” The king looked, and replied: “I know him well; - It is the Angel men call Azrael, 'Tis the Death Angel; what hast thou to fear 2 '' And the guest answered : “Lest he should COme near, And speak to me, and take away my breath! Save me from Azrael, save me from death ! O king, that hast dominion o'er the wind, Bid it arise and bear me hence to Ind.” The king gazed upward at the cloudless sky, Whispered a word, and raised his hand on high, And lo! the signet-ring of chrysoprase On his uplifted finger seemed to blaze With hidden fire, and rushing from the west There came a mighty wind, and seized the guest And lifted him from earth, and on they passed, His shining garments streaming in the blast, A silken banner o'er the walls upreared, A purple cloud, that gleamed and disap- peared. Then said the Angel, smiling: “If this man Be Rajah Runjeet-Sing of Hindostan, Thou hast done well in listening to his prayer ; - I was upon my way to seek him there.” HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLO W. 463 - INTERLUDE. “O EDREHI, forbear to-night Which in an ancient tome I found Your ghostly legends of affright, Upon a convent's dusty shelves, And let the Talmud rest in peace; Chained with an iron chain, and bound Spare us your dismal tales of death In parchment, and with clasps of brass, That almost take away one's breath; Lest from its prison, some dark day, So doing, may your tribe increase.” It might be stolen or steal away, While the good friars were singing mass. Thus the Sicilian said; then went And on the spinet's rattling keys “It is a tale of Charlemagne, Played Marianina, like a breeze When like a thunder-cloud, that lowers From Naples and the Southern seas, And sweeps from mountain-crest to coast, That brings us the delicious scent With lightning flaming through its show- Of citron and of orange trees, ers, - And memories of soft days of ease He swept across the Lombard plain, At Capri and Amalfi spent. Beleaguering with his warlike train Pavia, the country's pride and boast, “Not so,” the eager Poet said; The City of the Hundred Towers.” “At least, not so before I tell The story of my Azrael, Thus heralded the tale began, An angel mortal as ourselves, And thus in sober measure ran. 464 THE POETICAL WORKS OF THE POET’S TALE. CHARLEMAGNE. OLGER the Dane and Desiderio, King of the Lombards, on a lofty tower Stood gazing northward o'er the rolling plains, League after league of harvests, to the foot Of the snow-crested Alps, and saw approach A mighty army, thronging all the roads That led into the city. And the King Said unto Olger, who had passed his youth As hostage at the court of France, and knew The Emperor's form and face: “Is Charle- magne Among that host?” And Olger answered: “ No.” ºvº º: s ºs º º º º --- § º //IV: º - - º º º - - - - -- |-- 2% - - § º ºr - -º t:º -º-:º º%- §: -|i NSºººº w|-- :---- ---º--- ºi -º2º - And still the innumerable multitude Flowed onward and increased, until the King Cried in amazement: “Surely Charlemagne Is coming in the midst of all these knights!” And Olger answered slowly: “No ; not yet; He will not come so soon.” Then much dis- turbed King Desiderio asked: “What shall we do, If he approach with a still greater army?” And Olger answered: “When he shall ap- pear, You will behold what manner of man he is ; But what will then befall us I know not.” HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 465 Then came the guard that never knew re- pose, The Paladins of France; and at the sight The Lombard King o'ercome with terror cried : “This must be Charlemagne!” and as be- fore - Did Olger answer: “No, not yet, not yet.” And then appeared in panoply complete The Bishops and the Abbots and the Priests - Of the imperial chapel, and the Counts; And Desiderio could no more endure The light of day, nor yet encounter death, But sobbed aloud and said; “Let us go down And hide us in the bosom of the earth, Far from the sight and anger of a foe So terrible as this l’ And Olger said: “When you behold the harvests in the fields Shaking with fear, the Po and the Ticino Lashing the city walls with iron waves, Then may you know that Charlemagne is come.” And even as he spake, in the northwest, Lo there uprose a black and threatening cloud, - Out of whose bosom flashed the light of 3.TIſlS Upon the people pent up in the city; A light more terrible than any darkness, And Charlemagne appeared ; — a Man of Iron | - His helmet was of iron, and his gloves Of iron, and his breastplate and his greaves And tassets were of iron, and his shield. In his left hand he held an iron spear, In his right hand his sword invincible. The horse he rode on had the strength of iron, - And color of iron. All who went before him, Beside him and behind him, his whole host, Were armed with iron, and their hearts within them Were stronger than the armor that they wore. The fields and all the roads were filled with iron, - And points of iron glistened in the sun And shed a terror through the city streets. This at a single glance Olger the Dane Saw from the tower, and turning to the king Exclaimed in haste : “Behold ! this is the Illa,Il - You looked for with such eagerness l’ and then Fell as one dead at Desiderio’s feet. INTERLUDE. WELL pleased all listened to the tale, That drew, the Student said, its pith And marrow from the ancient myth Of some one with an iron flail; Or that portentous Man of Brass Hephæstus made in days of yore, Who stalked about the Cretan shore, And saw the ships appear and pass, And threw stones at the Argonauts, Being filled with indiscriminate ire That tangled and perplexed his thoughts; But, like a hospitable host, When strangers landed on the coast, Heated himself red-hot with fire, And hugged them in his arms, and pressed Their bodies to his burning breast. The Poet answered : “No, not thus The legend rose; it sprang at first Out of the hunger and the thirst In all men for the marvellous. And thus it filled and satisfied The imagination of mankind, And this ideal to the mind Was truer than historic fact. Fancy enlarged and multiplied The terrors of the awful name Of Charlemagne, till he became Armipotent in every act, And, clothed in mystery, appeared Not what men saw, but what they feared. “Besides, unless my memory fail, Your some one with an iron flail 59 466 THE POETIONAL WORKS OF Is no an ancient myth at all, But comes much later on the scene As Talus in the ‘Faerie Queene,’ The iron groom of Artegall, Who threshed out falsehood and deceit, And truth upheld, and righted wrong, And was, as is the Swallow, fleet, And as the lion is, was strong.” The Theologian said: “Perchance Your chronicler in writing this Had in his mind the ‘Anabasis,” Where Xenophon describes the advance Of Artaxerxes to the fight; At first the low gray cloud of dust, And then a blackness o'er the fields As of a passing thunder-gust, Then flash of brazen armor bright, And ranks of men, and spears up-thrust, Bowmen and troops with wicker shields, And cavalry equipped in white, And chariots ranged in front of these With scythes upon their axle-trees. To this the Student answered: “Well, I also have a tale to tell Of Charlemagne; a tale that throws A softer light, more tinged with rose, Than your grim apparition cast Upon the darkness of the past. Listen, and hear in English rhyme What the good Monk of Lauresheim Gives as the gossip of his time, In mediaeval Latin prose.” THE STUDENT'S TALE. EMMA AND EGINHARD, WHEN Alcuin taught the sons of Charle- Imagne, In the free schools of Aix, how kings should reign, And with them taught the children of the poor How subjects should be patient and en- dure, - He touched the lips of some, as best befit, With honey from the hives of Holy Writ; Others intoxicated with the wine Of ancient history, sweet but less divine ; Some with the wholesome fruits of grammar fed; Others with mysteries of the stars o'erhead, That hang suspended in the vaulted sky Like lamps in some fair palace vast and high. In sooth, it was a pleasant sight to see That Saxon monk, with hood and rosary, With inkhorn at his belt, and pen and book, And mingled love and reverence in his look, Or hear the cloister and the court repeat The measured footfalls of his sandaled feet, Or watch him with the pupils of his school, Gentle of speech, but absolute of rule. Among them, always earliest in his place, Was Eginhard, a youth of Frankish race, Whose face was bright with flashes that forerun - The splendors of a yet unrisen sun. To him all things were possible, and seemed Not what he had accomplished, but had dreamed, And what were tasks to others were his play, The pastime of an idle holiday. Smaragdo, Abbot of St. Michael's, said, With many a shrug and shaking of the head, Surely some demon must possess the lad, Who showed more wit than ever school-boy had, And learned his Trivium thus without the rod ; - But Alcuin said it was the grace of God. Thus he grew up, in Logic point-device, Perfect in Grammar, and in Rhetoric nice ; Science of Numbers, Geometric art, And lore of Stars, and Music knew by heart; A Minnesinger, long before the times Of those who sang their love in Suabian rhymes. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLO W. 467 The Emperor, when he heard this good re- port Of Eginhard much buzzed about the court, Said to himself, “This stripling seems to be Purposely sent into the world for me; He shall become my scribe, and shall be schooled In all the arts whereby the world is ruled.” Thus did the gentle Eginhard attain To honor in the court of Charlemagne; Became the sovereign's favorite, his right hand, So that his fame was great in all the land, And all men loved him for his modest grace And comeliness of figure and of face. An inmate of the palace, yet recluse, A man of books, yet sacred from abuse Among the armed knights with spur on heel, The tramp of horses and the clang of steel; And as the Emperor promised he was schooled In all the arts by which the world is ruled. But the one art supreme, whose law is fate, The Emperor never dreamed of till too late. Home from her convent to the palace came The lovely Princess Emma, whose sweet name, Whispered by seneschal or sung by bard, Had often touched the soul of Eginhard. He saw her from his window, as in state She came, by knights attended through the gate; He saw her at the banquet of that day, Fresh as the morn, and beautiful as May; He saw her in the garden, as she strayed Among the flowers of summer with her maid, And said to him, “O Eginhard, disclose The meaning and the mystery of the rose; ” And trembling he made answer: “In good sooth, Its mystery is love, its meaning youth !” How can I tell the signals and the signs By which one heart another heart divines? 468 THE POETICAL WORKS OF How can I tell the many thousand ways By which it keeps the secret it betrays 2 O mystery of love O strange romance Among the Peers and Paladins of France, Shining in steel, and prancing on gay steeds Noble by birth, yet nobler by great deeds, The Princess Emma had no words nor looks But for this clerk, this man of thought and books. The summer passed, the autumn came ; the stalks - Of lilies blackened in the garden walks; The leaves fell, russet-golden and blood-red, Love-letters thought the poet fancy-led, Or Jove descending in a shower of gold Into the lap of Danae of old; For poets cherish many a strange conceit, And love transmutes all nature by its heat. No more the garden lessons, nor the dark And hurried meetings in the twilight park; But now the studious lamp, and the delights Of firesides in the silent winter nights, And watching from his window hour by hour The light that burned in Princess Emma's tower. At length one night, while musing by the fire, - O'ercome at last by his insane desire, — For what will reckless love not do and dare 2 He crossed the court, and climbed the wind- ing stair, With some feigned message in the Emperor's name; But when he to the lady's presence came He knelt down at her feet, until she laid Her hand upon him, like a naked blade, And whispered in his ear: “Arise, Sir Knight, To my heart's level, O my heart's delight.” And there he lingered till the crowing cock, The Alectryon of the farmyard and the flock, Sang his aubade with lusty voice and clear, To tell the sleeping world that dawn was near. And then they parted; but at parting, lo! They saw the palace courtyard white with snow, And, placid as a nun, the moon on high Gazing from cloudy cloisters of the sky. “Alas!” he said, “how hide the fatal line Of footprints leading from thy door to mine, And none returning !” Ah, he little knew What woman's wit, when put to proof, can do That night the Emperor, sleepless with the cares - And troubles that attend on state affairs, Had risen before the dawn, and musing gazed - Into the silent night, as one amazed To see the calm that reigned o'er all Su- preme, When his own reign was but a troubled dream. - The moon lit up the gables capped with SnOW, And the white roofs, and half the court below, And he beheld a form, that seemed to COWel’ - Beneath a burden, come from Emma's tower, — A woman, who upon her shoulders bore Clerk Eginhard to his own private door, And then returned in haste, but still es- sayed To tread the footprints she herself had made; x And as she passed across the lighted space, The Emperor saw his daughter Emma's face He started not ; he did not speak or moan, But seemed as one who hath been turned to stone ; . And stood there like a statue, nor awoke Out of his trance of pain, till morning broke, - Till the stars faded, and the moon went down, And o'er the towers and steeples of the town - - Came the gray daylight; then the sun, who took HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. 469 The empire of the world with sovereign look, Suffusing with a soft and golden glow All the dead landscape in its shroud of SnOW, Touching with flame the tapering chapel spires, Windows and roofs, and smoke of household fires, And kindling park and palace as he came : The stork's nest on the chimney seemed in flame. And thus he stood till Eginhard appeared, Demure and modest with his comely beard And flowing flaxen tresses, come to ask, As was his wont, the day's appointed task. The Emperor looked upon him with a smile, And gently said: “My son, wait yet awhile; This hour my council meets upon some great And very urgent business of the state. Come back within the hour. On thy return The work appointed for thee shalt thou learn.” Having dismissed this gallant Troubadour, He summoned straight his council, and secure And steadfast in his purpose, from the throne All the adventure of the night made known; Then asked for sentence; and with eager breath Some answered banishment, and others death. Then spake the king : “Your sentence is not mine; Life is the gift of God, and is divine; Nor from these palace walls shall one depart Who carries such a secret in his heart; My better judgment points another way. Good Alcuin, I remember how one day When my Pepino asked you, ‘What are men’’ You wrote upon his tablets with your pen, 470 WORKS OF THE POETIOAL “Guests of the grave and travellers that pass l’ This being true of all men, we, alas ! Being all fashioned of the selfsame dust, Let us be merciful as well as just ; This passing traveller, who hath stolen away The brightest jewel of my crown to-day, Shall of himself the precious gem restore; By giving it, I make it mine Once more. Over those fatal footprints I will throw My ermine mantle like another snow.” Then Eginhard was summoned to the hall, And entered, and in presence of them all, The Emperor said: “My son, for thou to II].6 Hast been a son, and evermore shalt be, Long hast thou served thy Sovereign, and thy zeal Pleads to me with importunate appeal, While I have been forgetful to requite Thy service and affection as was right. But now the hour is come, when I, thy Lord, Will crown thy love with such supreme reward, A gift so precious kings have striven in vain & To win it from the hands of Charlemagne.” Then sprang the portals of the chamber wide, And Princess Emma entered, in the pride Of birth and beauty, that in part o'ercame The conscious terror and the blush of shame. And the good Emperor rose up from his throne, • And taking her white hand within his own Placed it in Eginhard's, and said: “My son, This is the gift thy constant zeal hath won : Thus I repay the royal debt I owe, And cover up the footprints in the Snow.” INTERLUDE. THUS ran the Student's pleasant rhyme Of Eginhard and love and youth ; ~ Some doubted its historic truth, But while they doubted, ne'ertheless Saw in it gleams of truthfulness, And thanked the Monk of Lauresheim. This they discussed in various mood; Then in the silence that ensued Was heard a sharp and sudden sound As of a bowstring snapped in air; And the Musician with a bound Sprang up in terror from his chair, And for a moment listening stood, Then strode across the room, and found His dear, his darling violin Still lying safe asleep within Its little cradle, like a child That gives a sudden cry of pain, And wakes to fall asleep again : And as he looked at it and Smiled, By the uncertain light beguiled, Despair two strings were broken in twain. While all lamented and made moan, With many a sympathetic word As if the loss had been their own, Deeming the tones they might have heard Sweeter than they had heard before, They saw the Landlord at the door, The missing man, the portly Squire He had not entered, but he stood With both arms full of seasoned wood, To feed the much-devouring fire, That like a lion in a cage Lashed its long tail and roared with rage. The missing man! Ah, yes, they said, Missing, but whither had he fled? Where had he hidden himself away 7 No farther than the barn or shed; He had not hidden himself, not fled; How should he pass the rainy day But in his barn with hens and hay, Or mending harness, cart, or sled? Now, having come, he needs must stay And tell his tale as well as they. HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLO W. 471 The Landlord answered only: “These Are logs from the dead apple-trees Of the old orchard planted here By the first Howe of Sudbury. Nor oak nor maple has so clear A flame, or burns so quietly, Or leaves an ash so clean and white;" Thinking by this to put aside The impending tale that terrified; When suddenly, to his delight, The Theologian interposed, Saying that when the door was closed, And they had stopped that draft of cold, Unpleasant night air, he proposed To tell a tale world-wide apart From that the student had just told : World-wide apart, and yet akin, As showing that the human heart Beats on forever as of old, As well beneath the snow-white fold Of Quaker kerchief, as within Sendal or silk or cloth of gold, And without preface would begin. º º And then the clamorous clock struck eight, Deliberate, with sonorous chime Slow measuring out the march of time, Like some grave Consul of Old Rome In Jupiter's temple driving home The nails that marked the year and date. Thus interrupted in his rhyme, The Theologian needs must wait; But quoted Horace, where he sings The dire Necessity of things, That drives into the roofs sublime Of new-built houses of the great The adamantine nails of Fate. When ceased the little carillon To herald from its wooden tower The important transit of the hour, The Theologian hastened on, Content to be allowed at last To sing his Idyl of the Past. THE THEOLOGIAN’S TALE. ELIZABETH. “AH, how short are the days' How soon the night overtakes us! In the old country the twilight is longer; but here in the forest Suddenly comes the dark, with hardly a pause in its coming, Hardly a moment between the two lights, the day and the lamplight; Yet how grand is the winter How spotless the snow is, and perfect!” Thus spake Elizabeth Haddon at nightfall to Hannah the housemaid, As in the farm-house kitchen, that served for kitchen and parlor, By the window she sat with her work, and looked on a landscape White as the great white sheet that Peter saw in his vision, By the four corners let down and descending out of the heavens. Covered with snow were the forests of pine, and the fields and the meadows. 472 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Nothing was dark but the sky, and the distant Delaware flowing Down from its native hills, a peaceful and bountiful river. Then with a smile on her lips made answer Hannah the housemaid: “Beautiful winter yea, the winter is beautiful, surely, If one could only walk like a fly with one's feet on the ceiling. But the great Delaware River is not like the Thames, as we saw it Out of our upper windows in Rotherhithe Street in the Borough, Crowded with masts and sails of vessels coming and going ; Here there is nothing but pines, with patches of snow on their branches. There is snow in the air, and see it is falling already; All the roads will be blocked, and I pity Joseph to-morrow, Breaking his way through the drifts, with his sled and oxen; and then, too, How in all the world shall we get to Meeting on First-Day ?” But Elizabeth checked her, and answered, mildly reproving : “Surely the Lord will provide; for unto the snow He sayeth, Be thou on the earth, the good Lord sayeth; He is it Giveth snow like wool, like ashes scatters the hoar-frost.” So she folded her work and laid it away in her basket. Meanwhile Hannah the housemaid had closed and fastened the shutters, Spread the cloth, and lighted the lamp on the table, and placed there Plates and cups from the dresser, the brown rye loaf, and the butter Fresh from the dairy, and then, protecting her hand with a holder, Took from the crane in the chimney the steaming and simmering kettle, Poised it aloft in the air, and filled up the earthern teapot, Made in Delft, and adorned with quaint and wonderful figures. Then Elizabeth said, “Lo! Joseph is long on his errand. I have sent him away with a hamper of food and of clothing For the poor in the village. A good lad and cheerful is Joseph ; In the right place is his heart, and his hand is ready and willing.” HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLO W. 473 Thus in praise of her servant she spake, and Hannah the housemaid Laughed with her eyes, as she listened, but governed her tongue, and was silent, While her mistress went on: “The house is far from the village; We should be lonely here, were it not for Friends that in passing Sometimes tarry o’ernight, and make us glad by their coming.” Thereupon answered Hannah the housemaid, the thrifty, the frugal: “Yea, they come and they tarry, as if thy house were a tavern; Open to all are its doors, and they come and go like the pigeons In and out of the holes of the pigeon-house over the hayloft, Cooing and smoothing their feathers and basking themselves in the Sunshine.” But in meekness of spirit, and calmly, Elizabeth answered : “All I have is the Lord's, not mine to give or withhold it : I but distribute his gifts to the poor, and to those of his people Who in journeyings often surrender their lives to his service. His, not mine, are the gifts, and only so far can I make them Mine, as in giving I add my heart to whatever is given. Therefore my excellent father first built this house in the clearing; Though he came not himself, I came ; for the Lord was my guidance, Leading me here for this service. We must not grudge, then, to others Ever the cup of cold water, or crumbs that fall from our table.” Thus rebuked, for a season was silent the penitent housemaid; And Elizabeth said in tones even sweeter and softer : “Dost thou remember, Hannah, the great May-Meeting in London, When I was still a child, how we sat in the silent assembly, Waiting upon the Lord in patient and passive submission” No one spake, till at length a young man, a stranger, John Estaugh, Moved by the Spirit, rose, as if he were John the Apostle, Speaking such words of power that they bowed our hearts, as a strong wind Bends the grass of the fields, or grain that is ripe for the sickle. Thoughts of him to-day have been oft borne inward upon me, Wherefore I do not know ; but strong is the feeling within me That once more I shall see a face I have never forgotten.” II. E’en as she spake they heard the musical jangle of sleigh-bells, First far off, with a dreamy sound and faint in the distance, Then growing nearer and louder, and turning into the farmyard, Till it stopped at the door, with sudden creaking of runners. Then there were voices heard as of two men talking together, And to herself, as she listened, upbraiding said Hannah the housemaid, “It is Joseph come back, and I wonder what stranger is with him.” Down from its nail she took and lighted the great tin lantern Pierced with holes, and round, and roofed like the top of a lighthouse, And went forth to receive the coming guest at the doorway, Casting into the dark a network of glimmer and shadow 60 474 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Over the falling snow, the yellow sleigh, and the horses, And the forms of men, snow-covered, looming gigantic. Then giving Joseph the lantern, she entered the house with the stranger. Youthful he was and tall, and his cheeks aglow with the night air; And as he entered, Elizabeth rose, and, going to meet him, As if an unseen power had announced and preceded his presence, And he had come as one whose coming had long been expected, Quietly gave him her hand, and said, “Thou art welcome, John Estaugh.” And the stranger replied, with staid and quiet behavior, “Dost thou remember me still, Elizabeth 2. After so many Years have passed, it seemeth a wonderful thing that I find thee. Surely the hand of the Lord conducted me here to thy threshold. For as I journeyed along, and pondered alone and in silence On his ways, that are past finding out, I saw in the snow-mist, Seemingly weary with travel, a wayfarer, who by the wayside Paused and waited. Forthwith I remembered Queen Candace's eunuch, How on the way that goes down from Jerusalem unto Gaza, Reading Esaias the Prophet, he journeyed, and spake unto Philip, Praying him to come up and sit in his chariot with him. So I greeted the man, and he mounted the sledge beside me, And as we talked on the way he told me of thee and thy homestead, How, being led by the light of the Spirit, that never deceiveth, Full of zeal for the work of the Lord, thou hadst come to this country. And I remembered thy name, and thy father and mother in England, And on my journey have stopped to see thee, Elizabeth Haddon, Wishing to strengthen thy hand in the labors of love thou art doing.” And Elizabeth answered with confident voice, and serenely Looking into his face with her innocent eyes as she answered, “Surely the hand of the Lord is in it; his Spirit hath led thee Out of the darkness and storm to the light and peace of my fireside.” Then, with stamping of feet the door was opened, and Joseph Entered, bearing the lantern, and, carefully blowing the light out, Hung it up on its nail, and all sat down to their supper ; For underneath that roof was no distinction of persons, But one family only, one heart, one hearth, and one household. When the supper was ended they drew their chairs to the fireplace, Spacious, open-hearted, profuse of flame and of firewood, Lord of forests unfelled, and not a gleaner of fagots, Spreading its arms to embrace with inexhaustible bounty All who fled from the cold, exultant, laughing at winter | Only Hannah the housemaid was busy in clearing the table, Coming and going, and bustling about in closet and chamber. Then Elizabeth told her story again to John Estaugh, Going far back to the past, to the early days of her childhood; How she had waited and watched, in all her doubts and besetments, Comforted with the extendings and holy, sweet inflowings -- ----------- .№…№.|- №.=-Ä#Äſ||||||Ė=|（±\} № ----- ---- ----- |ſ=ſ. ----- === A ſizabeth, in Tales of a Wayside Inn. ed and preceded his presence." d, going to meet him, ed, Elizabeth rose, an power had announc "And as he enter As if an unseen | | - |- ||||||||||||||||||| HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLO W. 475 Of the spirit of love, till the voice imperative sounded, And she obeyed the voice, and cast in her lot with her people Here in the desert land, and God would provide for the issue. Meanwhile Joseph sat with folded hands, and demurely Listened, or seemed to listen, and in the silence that followed Nothing was heard for a while but the step of Hannah the housemaid Walking the floor overhead, and setting the chambers in order. And Elizabeth said, with a smile of compassion, “The maiden Hath a light heart in her breast, but her feet are heavy and awkward.” Inwardly Joseph laughed, but governed his tongue, and was silent. Then came the hour of sleep, death's counterfeit, nightly rehearsal Of the great Silent Assembly, the Meeting of shadows, where no man Speaketh, but all are still, and the peace and rest are unbroken Silently over that house the blessing of slumber descended. But when the morning dawned, and the sun uprose in his splendor, Breaking his way through clouds that encumbered his path in the heavens, Joseph was seen with his sled and oxen breaking a pathway Through the drifts of snow; the horses already were harnessed, And John Estaugh was standing and taking leave at the threshold, Saying that he should return at the Meeting in May; while above them Hannah the housemaid, the homely, was looking out of the attic, Laughing aloud at Joseph, then suddenly closing the casement, As the bird in a cuckoo-clock peeps out of its window, Then disappears again, and closes the shutter behind it. 476 THE POETICAL WORKS OF III. Now was the winter gone, and the snow; and Robin the Redbreast Boasted on bush and tree it was he, it was he and no other That had covered with leaves the Babes in the Wood, and blithely All the birds sang with him, and little cared for his boasting, Or for his Babes in the Wood, or the Cruel Uncle, and only Sang for the mates they had chosen, and cared for the nests they were building. With them, but more sedately and meekly, Elizabeth Haddon Sang in her inmost heart, but her lips were silent and songless. Thus came the lovely spring with a rush of blossoms and music, Flooding the earth with flowers, and the air with melodies vernal. Then it came to pass, one pleasant morning, that slowly Up the road there came a cavalcade, as of pilgrims, Men and women, wending their way to the Quarterly Meeting In the neighboring town; and with them came riding John Estaugh. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 477 At Elizabeth's door they stopped to rest, and alighting Tasted the currant wine, and the bread of rye, and the honey Brought from the hives, that stood by the Sunny wall of the garden; Then remounted their horses, refreshed, and continued their journey, And Elizabeth with them, and Joseph, and Hannah the housemaid. But, as they started, Elizabeth lingered a little, and leaning Over her horse's neck, in a whisper said to John Estaugh : “Tarry awhile behind, for I have something to tell thee, Not to be spoken lightly, nor in the presence of others; Them it concerneth not, only thee and me it concerneth.” And they rode slowly along through the woods, conversing together. It was a pleasure to breathe the fragrant air of the forest; It was a pleasure to live on that bright and happy May morning ! Then Elizabeth said, though still with a certain reluctance, As if impelled to reveal a secret she fain would have guarded: “I will no longer conceal what is laid upon me to tell thee; I have received from the Lord a charge to love thee, John Estaugh.” And John Estaugh made answer, surprised at the words she had spoken, “Pleasant to me are thy converse, thy ways, thy meekness of spirit; Pleasant thy frankness of speech, and thy soul's immaculate whiteness, Love without dissimulation, a holy and inward adorning. But I have yet no light to lead me, no voice to direct me. When the Lord's work is done, and the toil and the labor completed He hath appointed to me, I will gather into the stillness Of my own heart awhile, and listen and wait for his guidance.” Then Elizabeth said, not troubled nor wounded in spirit, “So is it best, John Estaugh. We will not speak of it further. It hath been laid upon me to tell thee this, for to-morrow Thou art going away, across the sea, and I know not When I shall see thee more ; but if the Lord hath decreed it, Thou wilt return again to seek me here and to find me.” And they rode onward in silence, and entered the town with the others, IV. Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing, Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness; So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another, Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence. Now went on as of old the quiet life of the homestead. Patient and unrepining Elizabeth labored, in all things Mindful not of herself, but bearing the burdens of others, Always thoughtful and kind and untroubled; and Hannah the housemaid Diligent early and late, and rosy with washing and scouring, Still as of old disparaged the eminent merits of Joseph, And was at times reproved for her light and frothy behavior, For her shy looks, and her careless words, and her evil surmisings, 4 78 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Being pressed down somewhat, like a cart with sheaves overladen, As she would sometimes say to Joseph, quoting the Scriptures. Meanwhile John Estaugh departed across the sea, and departing Carried hid in his heart a secret sacred and precious, Filling its chambers with fragrance, and seeming to him in its sweetness Mary’s ointment of spikenard, that filled all the house with its odor. O lost days of delight, that are wasted in doubting and waiting ! O lost hours and days in which we might have been happy!. But the light shone at last, and guided his wavering footsteps, And at last came the voice, imperative, questionless, certain. Then John Estaugh came back o'er the sea for the gift that was offered, Better than houses and lands, the gift of a woman's affection. - And on the First-Day that followed, he rose in the Silent Assembly, Holding in his strong hand a hand that trembled a little, Promising to be kind and true and faithful in all things. Such were the marriage rites of John and Elizabeth Estaugh. And not otherwise Joseph, the honest, the diligent servant, Sped in his bashful wooing with homely Hannah the housemaid; For when he asked her the question, she answered, “Nay;” and then added: “But thee may make believe, and see what will come of it, Joseph.” INTERLUDE. “A PLEASANT and a winsome tale,” The Student said, “though somewhat pale And quiet in its coloring, As if it caught its tone and air From the gray suits that Quakers wear ; Yet worthy of some German bard, Hebel, or Voss, or Eberhard, Who love of humble themes to sing, In humble verse ; but no more true Than was the tale I told to you.” The Theologian made reply, And with some warmth, “That I deny ; 'T is no invention of my own, But something well and widely known To readers of a riper age, Writ by the skilful hand that wrote The Indian tale of Hobomok, And Philothea's classic page. I found it like a waif afloat, Or dulse uprooted from its rock, On the swift tides that ebb and flow In daily papers, and at flood Bear freighted vessels to and fro, But later, when the ebb is low, Leave a long waste of sand and mud.” “It matters little,” quoth the Jew; “The cloak of truth is lined with lies, Sayeth some proverb old and wise; And Love is master of all arts, And puts it into human hearts The strangest things to say and do.” And here the controversy closed Abruptly, ere 't was well begun : For the Sicilian interposed With, “Lordlings, listen, every one That listen may, unto a tale That’s merrier than the nightingale; A tale that cannot boast, forsooth, A single rag or shred of truth; That does not leave the mind in doubt As to the with it or without ; A naked falsehood and absurd As mortal ever told or heard. Therefore I tell it ; or, maybe, Simply because it pleases me.” HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. 479 º º º THE SICILIAN’S TALE. THE MONIK OF CASAL-MAGGIORE. ONCE on a time, some centuries ago, In the hot sunshine two Franciscan friars Wended their weary way with footsteps slow Back to their convent, whose white walls and spires Gleamed on the hillside like a patch of Snow ; Covered with dust they were, and torn by briers, And bore like sumpter-mules upon their backs The badge of poverty, their beggar's sacks. The first was Brother Anthony, a spare And silent man, with pallid cheeks and thin, Much given to vigils, penance, fasting, prayer, Solemn and gray, and worn with disci- pline, As if his body but white ashes were, Heaped on the living coals that glowed within : A simple monk, like many of his day, Whose instinct was to listen and obey. 480 THE POETICAL WORKS OF A different man was Brother Timothy, Of larger mould and of a coarser paste ; A rubicund and stalwart monk was he, Broad in the shoulders, broader in the waist, Who often filled the dull refectory With noise by which the convent was disgraced, But to the mass-book gave but little heed, By reason he had never learned to read. Now, as they passed the outskirts of a wood, ` They saw, with mingled pleasure and • surprise, Fast tethered to a tree an ass, that stood Lazily winking his large, limpid eyes. The farmer Gilbert of that neighborhood His owner was, who, looking for supplies Of fagots, deeper in the wood had strayed, Leaving his beast to ponder in the shade. As soon as Brother Timothy espied The patient animal, he said: “Good-lack! Thus for our needs doth Providence pro- vide ; We’ll lay our wallets on the creature's - back.” This being done, he leisurely untied From head and neck the halter of the jack, - And put it round his own, and to the tree Stood tethered fast as if the ass were he. And, bursting forth into a merry laugh, He cried to Brother Anthony: “Away ! And drive the ass before you with your staff; . And when you reach the convent you may say You left me at a farm, half tired and half Ill with a fever, for a night and day, And that the farmer lent this ass to bear Our wallets, that are heavy with good fare.” Now Brother Anthony, who knew the pranks Of Brother Timothy, would not persuade Or reason with him on his quirks and cranks, But, being obedient, silently obeyed; And, Smiting with his staff the ass’s flanks, Drove him before him over hill and glade, Safe with his provend to the convent gate, Leaving poor Brother Timothy to his fate. Then Gilbert, laden with fagots for his fire, Forth issued from the wood, and stood aghast . To see the ponderous body of the friar Standing where he had left his donkey last. : Trembling he stood, and dared not venture nigher, - - But stared, and gaped, and crossed him- self full fast : For, being credulous and of little wit, He thought it was some demon from the pit. While speechless and bewildered thus he gazed, : And dropped his load of fagots on the ground, Quoth Brother Timothy : “Be not amazed That where you left a donkey should be found A poor Franciscan friar, half-starved and crazed, Standing demure and with a halter bound; But set me free, and hear the piteous story Of Brother Timothy of Casal-Maggiore. “I am a sinful man, although you see I wear the consecrated cowl and cape; You never owned an ass, but you owned me, Changed and transformed from my own natural shape All for the deadly sin of gluttony, From which I could not otherwise escape, Than by this penance, dieting on grass, And being worked and beaten as an ass. “Think of the ignominy I endured; Think of the miserable life I led, The toil and blows to which I was inured, My wretched lodging in a windy shed, My scanty fare so grudgingly procured, HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLO W. 481 The damp and musty straw that formed my bed! But, having done this penance for my sins, My life as man and monk again begins.” The simple Gilbert, hearing words like these, Was conscience-stricken, and fell down apace Before the friar upon his bended knees, And with a suppliant voice implored his grace; And the good monk, now very much at ease, Granted him pardon with a smiling face, Nor could refuse to be that night his guest, It being late, and he in need of rest. In the old wars of Milanese and French; All welcomed the Franciscan, with a sense Of sacred awe and humble reverence. When Gilbert told them what had come to pass, How beyond question, cavil, or surmise, Good Brother Timothy had been their ass, Upon a hillside, where the olive thrives, With figures painted on its whitewashed walls, The cottage stood; and near the humming hives Made murmurs as of far-off waterfalls; A place where those who love secluded lives Might live content, and, free from noise and brawls, Like Claudian's Old Man of Verona here Measure by fruits the slow-revolving year. And, coming to this cottage of content, They found his children, and the buxom wench His wife, Dame Cicely, and his father, bent With years and labor, seated on a bench, Repeating over some obscure event *...*.swºrne a You should have seen the wonder in their eyes; You should have heard them cry “Alas! alas!” Have heard their lamentations and their sighs! For all believed the story, and began To see a saint in this afflicted man. 61 482 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Forthwith there was prepared a grand repast, To satisfy the craving of the friar After so rigid and prolonged a fast : The bustling housewife stirred the kitchen fire; Then her two barn-yard fowls, her best and last Were put to death, at her express desire, And served up with a salad in a bowl, And flasks of country wine to crown the whole. It would not be believed should I repeat How hungry Brother Timothy appeared; It was a pleasure but to see him eat, His white teeth flashing through his russet beard, His face aglow and flushed with wine and meat, His roguish eyes that rolled and laughed and leered Lord! how he drank the blood-red country wine As if the village vintage were divine ! And all the while he talked without sur- - Cease, And told his merry tales with jovial glee That never flagged, but rather did increase, And laughed aloud as if insane were he, And wagged his red beard, matted like a fleece, And cast such glances at Dame Cicely That Gilbert now grew angry with his guest, And thus in words his rising wrath ex- pressed. “Good father,” said he, “easily we see How needful in some persons, and how right, Mortification of the flesh may be. The indulgence you have given it to- night, After long penance, clearly proves to me Your strength against temptation is but slight, And shows the dreadful peril you are in Of a relapse into your deadly sin. “To-morrow morning, with the rising Sun, Go back unto your convent, nor refrain From fasting and from scourging, for you TUIIl Great danger to become an ass again, Since monkish flesh and asinine are one ; Therefore be wise, nor longer here re- main, Unless you wish the scourge should be ap- plied By other hands, that will not spare your hide.” When this the monk had heard, his color fled And then returned, like lightning in the air, - Till he was all one blush from foot to head, And even the bald spot in his russet hair Turned from its usual pallor to bright red The old man was asleep upon his chair. Then all retired, and sank into the deep And helpless imbecility of sleep. They slept until the dawn of day drew near, Till the cock should have crowed, but did not crow, For they had slain the shining chanticleer And eaten him for supper, as you know. The monk was up betimes and of good cheer, And, having breakfasted, made haste to go, As if he heard the distant matin bell, And had but little time to say farewell. Fresh was the morning as the breath of kine; Odors of herbs commingled with the Sweet - Balsamic exhalations of the pine; A haze was in the air presaging heat; Uprose the sun above the Apennine, And all the misty valleys at its feet Were full of the delirious song of birds, Voices of men, and bells, and low of herds. HENRY WADS WORTH LONG FELLO W. 483 All this to Brother Timothy was naught : He did not care for scenery, nor here His busy fancy found the thing it sought; But when he saw the convent walls ap- pear, And smoke from kitchen chimneys upward caught And whirled aloft into the atmosphere, He quickened his slow footsteps, like a beast That scents the stable a league off at least. And as he entered through the convent gate He saw there in the court the ass, who stood Twirling his ears about, and seemed to wait, Just as he found him waiting in the wood; And told the Prior that, to alleviate The daily labors of the brotherhood, The owner, being a man of means and thrift, Bestowed him on the convent as a gift. And thereupon the Prior for many days Revolved this serious matter in his mind And turned it over many different ways, Hoping that some safe issue he might find; But stood in fear of what the world would say, If he accepted presents of this kind, Employing beasts of burden for the packs, That lazy monks should carry on their backs. Then, to avoid all scandal of the sort, And stop the mouth of cavil, he decreed That he would cut the tedious matter short, And sell the ass with all convenient speed, Thus saving the expense of his support, And hoarding something for a time of need. So he despatched him to the neighboring Fair, And freed himself from cumber and from Care. º º º Nº. | | º 484 WORKS OF THE POETICAL It happened now by chance, as some might Say, Others perhaps would call it destiny, Gilbert was at the Fair; and heard a bray, And nearer came, and saw that it was he, And whispered in his ear, “Ah, lackaday ! Good father, the rebellious flesh, I see, Has changed you back into an ass again, And all my admonitions were in vain.” The ass, who felt this breathing in his ear, Did not turn round to look, but shook his head, As if he were not pleased these words to hear, And contradicted all that had been said. And this made Gilbert cry in voice more clear, “I know you well; your hair is russet- red; Do not deny it; for you are the same Franciscan friar, and Timothy by name.” The ass, though now the secret had come out, Was obstinate, and shook his head again; Until a crowd was gathered round about To hear this dialogue between the twain; And raised their voices in a noisy shout When Gilbert tried to make the matter plain, And flouted him and mocked him all day long With laughter and with jibes and scraps of song. “If this be Brother Timothy,” they cried, “Buy him, and feed him on the tender- est grass; Thou canst not do too much for one so tried As to be twice transformed into an ass.” So simple Gilbert bought him, and untied His halter, and o'er mountain and morass He led him homeward, talking as he went Of good behavior and a mind content. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 485 The children saw them coming, and ad- vanced, Shouting with joy, and hung about his neck, - - Not Gilbert's, but the ass's, -round him danced, And wove green garlands wherewithal to deck His sacred person; for again it chanced Their childish feelings, without rein or check, Could not discriminate in any way A donkey from a friar of Orders Gray. “O Brother Timothy,” the children said, “You have come back to us just as be- fore ; We were afraid, and thought that you were dead, And we should never see you any more.” And then they kissed the white star on his head, That like a birth-mark or a badge he wore, And patted him upon the neck and face, And said a thousand things with childish grace. Thenceforward and forever he was known As Brother Timothy, and led alway A life of luxury, till he had grown Ungrateful, being stuffed with corn and hay, - And very vicious. Then in angry tone, Rousing himself, poor Gilbert said one day, “When simple kindness is misunderstood A little flagellation may do good.” His many vices need not here be told ; Among them was a habit that he had Of flinging up his heels at young and old, Breaking his halter, running off like mad O'er pasture-lands and meadow, wood and wold, And other misdemeanors quite as bad ; But worst of all was breaking from his shed At night, and ravaging the cabbage-bed. So Brother Timothy went back once more To his old life of labor and distress; Was beaten worse than he had been before ; And now, instead of comfort and caress, Came labors manifold and trials sore ; And as his toils increased his food grew less, Until at last the great consoler, Death, Ended his many sufferings with his breath. Great was the lamentation when he died; And mainly that he died impenitent; Dame Cicely bewailed, the children cried, The old man still remembered the event In the French war, and Gilbert magni. fied His many virtues, as he éame and went, And said: “Heaven pardon Brother Tim- othy, And keep us from the sin of gluttony.” INTERLUDE. “SIGNOR LUIGI,” said the Jew, When the Sicilian's tale was told, “The were-wolf is a legend old, But the were-ass is something new, And yet for one I think it true. The days of wonder have not ceased; If there are beasts in forms of men, As sure it happens now and then, Why may not man become a beast, In way of punishment at least” “But this I will not now discuss ; I leave the theme, that we may thus Remain within the realm of song. The story that I told before, Though not acceptable to all, At least you did not find too long. I beg you, let me try again, With something in a different vein, Before you bid the curtain fall. 3355 486 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Meanwhile keep watch upon the Thus saying, from his lips he blew door, A little cloud of perfumed breath, Nor let the landlord leave his chair, And then, as if it were a clew Lest he should vanish into air, To lead his footsteps safely through, And so elude our search once more.” Began his tale as followeth. THE SPANISH JEW's SECOND TALE. SCANDER BEG. THE battle is fought and won On thy name, George Castriot By King Ladislaus, the Hun, Alas! why art thou here, In fire of hell and death's frost, And the army of Amurath slain, On the day of Pentecost. And left on the battle plain 7” And in rout before his path From the field of battle red And Iskander answered and said: Flee all that are not dead “They lie on the bloody sod Of the army of Amurath. - By the hoofs of horses trod; But this was the decree In the darkness of the night Of the watchers overhead; Iskander, the pride and boast For the war belongeth to God, Of that mighty Othman host, And in battle who are we, With his routed Turks, takes flight Who are we, that shall withstand From the battle fought and lost The wind of his lifted hand 7 ° On the day of Pentecost ; Leaving behind him dead Then he bade them bind with chains The army of Amurath, This man of books and brains; The vanguard as it led, - And the Scribe said: “What misdeed The rearguard as it fled, Have I done, that, without need, Mown down in the bloody swath Thou doest to me this thing 2 ° Of the battle's aftermath. And Iskander answering Said unto him “ Not one But he cared not for Hospodars, Misdeed to me hast thou done ; Nor for Baron or Voivode, But for fear that thou shouldst run As on through the night he rode And hide thyself from me, And gazed at the fateful stars, Have I done this unto thee. That were shining overhead; But smote his steed with his staff, “Now write me a writing, O Scribe, And smiled to himself, and said: And a blessing be on thy tribe “This is the time to laugh.” A writing sealed with thy ring, To King Amurath's Pasha In the middle of the night, In the city of Croia, In a halt of the hurrying flight, The city moated and walled, There came a Scribe of the King That he surrender the same Wearing his signet ring, In the name of my master, the King; And said in a voice severe : For what is writ in his name “This is the first dark blot Can never be recalled.” HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLO W. 487 And the Scribe bowed low in dread, And unto Iskander said “Allah is great and just, But we are as ashes and dust; How shall I do this thing, When I know that my guilty head Will be forfeit to the King?” Then swift as the shooting star The curved and shining blade Of Iskander's scimetar From its sheath, with jewels bright, Shot, as he thundered: “Write " And the trembling Scribe obeyed, And wrote in the fitful glare Of the bivouac fire apart, With the chill of the midnight air On his forehead white and bare, And the chill of death in his heart. Then again Iskander cried: “Now follow whither I ride, For here thou must not stay. Thou shalt be as my dearest friend, And honors without end Shall surround thee on every side, And attend thee night and day.” But the sullen Scribe replied: “Our pathways here divide; Mine leadeth not thy way.” And even as he spoke Fell a sudden scimetar stroke, When no one else was near ; And the Scribe sank to the ground, As a stone, pushed from the brink Of a black pool, might sink With a sob and disappear; And no one saw the deed; And in the stillness around No sound was heard but the sound Of the hoofs of Iskander's steed, As forward he sprang with a bound. Then onward he rode and afar, With scarce three hundred men, Through river and forest and fen, O'er the mountains of Argentar; And his heart was merry within, When he crossed the river Drin, And saw in the gleam of the morn The White Castle Ak-Hissar, The city Croia called, The city moated and walled, The city where he was born, - And above it the morning star. 488 THE POETICAL WORKS OF Then his trumpeters in the van On their silver bugles blew, And in crowds about him ran Albanian and Turkoman, That the sound together drew. And he feasted with his friends, And when they were warm with wine, He said: “O friends of mine, Behold what fortune sends, And what the fates design King Amurath commands That my father's wide domain, This city and all its lands, Shall be given to me again.” Then to the Castle White He rode in regal state, And entered in at the gate In all his arms bedight, And gave to the Pasha Who ruled in Croia The writing of the King, Sealed with his signet ring. And the Pasha bowed his head, And after a silence said: “Allah is just and great I yield to the will divine, The city and lands are thine; Who shall contend with fate?” e--- 20–21 1913 -- Anon from the castle walls The crescent banner falls, And the crowd beholds instead, Like a portent in the sky, Iskander's banner fly, The Black Eagle with double head; And a shout ascends on high, For men's souls are tired of the Turks, And their wicked ways and works, That have made of Ak-Hissar A city of the plague; And the loud, exultant cry That echoes wide and far Is: “Long live Scanderbeg' " It was thus Iskander came Once more unto his own; And the tidings, like the flame Of a conflagration blown By the winds of summer, ran, Till the land was in a blaze, And the cities far and near, Sayeth Ben Joshua Ben Meir, In his Book of the Words of the Days, “Were taken as a man Would take the tip of his ear.” iii l g O8 OF i & - A.A. | 390.59% |×Ě | \; (ſ) ; ;\ CC ！ 2 }·) | § ºr Nº. sº tº º sº.º.º. º ~--~--~...， ¿（...）: gºraes! --№ſs; *********** ， ， , ， ， （* 8.~º： … -º: ººs. ， ¿¿.*** T'ae. №ſſºſ× × × -ºg ***** №-J0 $， š: ∞∞∞ ſe ºsº: šį：º º & ！ ºººººg º. ●º ， ！ ∞ （ ）* * ººk , ** -£ *:）.*? ¿ºſ º 2 &#s， * * ， ） » ***\?.*$' ſaeAº £ { zaº ſººſ ****** #* º：ſrºſ. 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