THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 Gladys Wick son 
 
 Ida Wickson Thomas 
 
 Ednah Wickson Kelly 
 
I 
 
 1 
 
 Henry W. Longfellow. 
 
VOICES OF THE NIGHT 
 
 OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 H. W. LONGFELLOW 
 
 WITH BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 BY 
 
 N. H. DOLE 
 
 NEW YORK : 46 EAST FOURTEENTH STREET 
 
 THOMAS Y. CROWELL & COMPANY 
 
 BOSTON: 100 PURCHASE STREET 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1893, 
 BY T. Y. CROWELL & Co, 
 
VOl 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ix 
 
 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 PRELUDE i 
 
 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 HYMN TO THE NIGHT 6 
 
 A PSALM OF LIFE 7 
 
 THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS 9 
 
 THE LIGHT OF STARS 10 
 
 FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS 1 1 
 
 FLOWERS 13 
 
 THE BELEAGUERED CITY 15 
 
 MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR ... 17 
 
 EARLIER POEMS. 
 
 AN APRIL DAY 20 
 
 AUTUMN 21 
 
 WOODS IN WINTER 23 
 
 HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM . 24 
 
 SUNRISE ON THE HILLS 26 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF POETRY 27 
 
 BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK 29 
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 COPLAS DE MANRIQUE 3" 
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD . 52 
 
 TO-MORROW . ? 
 
 ill 
 
 033 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 THE NATIVE LAND ... 53 
 
 THE IMAGE OF GOD .......... 54 
 
 THE BROOK ............. 55 
 
 THE CELESTIAL PILOT . . 55 
 
 THE TERRESTRIAL PARADISE ....... 57 
 
 BEATRICE ... 59 
 
 SPRING . 61 
 
 THE CHILD ASLEEP 62 
 
 THE GRAVE 63 
 
 KING CHRISTIAN 64 
 
 THE HAPPIEST LAND 66 
 
 THE WAVE .- 68 
 
 THE DEAD . . 68 
 
 THE BIRD AND THE SHIP 69 
 
 WHITHER? 71 
 
 BEWARE ! 72 
 
 SONG OF THE BELL 73 
 
 THE CASTLE BY THE SEA 74 
 
 THE BLACK KNIGHT 75 
 
 SONG OF THE SILENT LAND 78 
 
 L ENVOI 79 
 
 BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 PREFACE 81 
 
 BALLADS. 
 
 THE SKELETON IN ARMOR 91 
 
 THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS 98 
 
 THE LUCK OF EDENHALL 102 
 
 THE ELECTED KNIGHT 104 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD S SUPPER, 107 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH 131 
 
 ENDYMION 133 
 
 THE Two LOCKS OF HAIR* . 134 
 
CONTENTS. V 
 
 PAGE 
 
 IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY 136 
 
 THE RAINY DAY 137 
 
 GOD S-ACRE 137 
 
 To THE RIVER CHARLES 138 
 
 BLIND BARTIMEUS 140 
 
 THE GOBLET OF LIFE 141 
 
 MAIDENHOOD 144 
 
 EXCELSIOR 146 
 
 POEMS ON SLAVERY. 
 
 To WILLIAM E. CHANNING 149 
 
 THE SLAVE S DREAM 150 
 
 THE GOOD PART 152 
 
 THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP 154 
 
 THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT 155 
 
 THE WITNESSES 156 
 
 THE QUADROON GIRL . 158 
 
 THE WARNING . 160 
 
 THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 CARILLON 161 
 
 THE BELFRY OF BRUGES 163 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE 167 
 
 THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD 169 
 
 NUREMBERG 171 
 
 THE NORMAN BARON 175 
 
 RAIN IN SUMMER 178 
 
 To A CHILD 182 
 
 THE OCCULT ATION OF ORION 188 
 
 THE BRIDGE 191 
 
 To THE DRIVING CLOUD 193 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 SONGS. 
 
 SEAWEED 196 
 
 THE DAY is DONE 198 
 
 AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY 199 
 
 To AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK 200 
 
 WALTER VON DER VOGELWEID 203 
 
 DRINKING SONG 205 
 
 THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS 207 
 
 THE ARROW AND THE SONG 210 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 THE EVENING STAR 211 
 
 AUTUMN 211 
 
 DANTE 212 
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 THE HEMLOCK-TREE 213 
 
 ANNIE OF THARAW 214 
 
 THE STATUE OVER THE CATHEDRAL DOOR. . . 216 
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL 216 
 
 THE SEA HATH ITS PEARLS 217 
 
 POETIC APHORISMS 218 
 
 CURFEW 222 
 
 THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 DEDICATION 224 
 
 BY THE SEASIDE. 
 
 THE BUILDING OF THE SHI? 226 
 
 THE EVENING STAR 240 
 
 THE SECRET OF THE SEA 240 
 
 TWILIGHT 242 
 
 SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT 243 
 
 THE LIGHTHOUSE 245 
 
 THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD 247 
 
CONTENTS. vii 
 
 BY THE FIRESIDE. PAGE 
 
 RESIGNATION 250 
 
 THE BUILDERS 252 
 
 SAND OF THE DESERT IN AN HOUR-GLASS . .253 
 
 BIRDS OF PASSAGE 255 
 
 THE OPEN WINDOW 257 
 
 KING WITLAF S DRINKING-HORN 258 
 
 CASPAR BECERRA 259 
 
 PEGASUS IN POUND 260 
 
 TEGNER S DRAPA 263 
 
 SONNET 266 
 
 THE SINGERS 266 
 
 SUSPIRIA 268 
 
 HYMN . ... 268 
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUILLE 270 
 
 A CHRISTMAS CAROL 284 
 
 NOTES 287 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW was born on the 
 2;th of February, 1807, in Portland, Maine. 
 
 His father, Stephen Longfellow, a graduate of Harvard 
 College, in the class with Dr. Channing, Judge Story, and 
 other distinguished men, practised his profession of the 
 Law at the Cumberland Bar, where he soon won a promi 
 nent position. He also took an active part in politics, 
 and was sent as a Representative to the Massachusetts 
 Legislature, and after the separation represented his 
 State in Congress. He married Zilpah Wadsworth, the 
 beautiful daughter of General Peleg Wadsworth, of a 
 family which traced its ancestry back to John Alden and 
 Priscilla Mullens. 
 
 Henry Wadsworth was named after his maternal uncle, 
 a lieutenant in the navy, who perished in the fireship, 
 Intrepid, before Tripoli, in 1804. He was second in a 
 family of four sons and four daughters. Their father, says 
 Samuel Longfellow, " was at once kind and strict, bringing 
 up his children in habits of respect and obedience, of un 
 selfishness, the dread of debt, and the faithful performance 
 of duty." According to the same authority the mother 
 was fond of poetry and music, a lover of nature, cheerful 
 even under the trials of chronic invalidism, full of piety, 
 kind to her neighbors, the devoted friend and confidante of 
 her children. 
 
 ix 
 
X HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 Henry was a lively, active boy, impetuous and quick 
 tempered, but affectionate and placable, sensitive and 
 impressionable. He was fond of singing and dancing, 
 but greatly disliked loud noise and excitement. He was 
 remarkably neat and orderly, " solicitous always to do 
 right," industrious and persevering. He began to go to 
 school when he was three years old. Before he was seven 
 he had studied half-way through the Latin grammar. One 
 of his teachers at the Portland Academy was the famous 
 Jacob Abbott. At home, his father s library gave his hun 
 ger for literature sufficient of the best food, Shakespeare, 
 Miton, Pope, Dryden, Goldsmith, the best poets, essayists, 
 and historians, the "Arabian Nights," "Don Quixote," 
 and Ossian. 
 
 The first book to fascinate his imagination was Washing 
 ton Irving s " Sketch Book." He was a school-boy of twelve 
 when the first number came out; and he long afterwards 
 declared that he read it " with ever increasing wonder and 
 delight, spell-bound by its pleasant humor, its melancholy 
 tenderness, its atmosphere of revery nay, even by its 
 gray-brown covers, the shaded letters of its titles, and the 
 fair, clear type, which seemed an outward symbol of its 
 style." 
 
 Not less poetically nurturing must have been the situa 
 tion of the old Wadsworth mansion, then on the outskirts 
 of the town, from whose upper windows on the one side 
 Mt. Washington was plainly visible seventy miles away, 
 and on the other the beautiful bay with its unnumbered 
 islands, the majestic bluff of White Head, the frowning 
 walls of Fort Preble, and the lighthouse on the Cape. 
 
 His holidays were usually spent on the farm of his 
 grandfather, Judge Longfellow, about three miles from 
 Gorham Corner. His Uncle and Aunt Stephenson and 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW xi 
 
 their children lived on the adjoining farm and gave him 
 pleasant companionship. Sometimes he visited his grand 
 father Wadsworth who lived on his estate of seven thou 
 sand acres in Hiram, between the Saco and Ossipee rivers. 
 Both of his grandfathers dressed in the old-time style of 
 small-clothes and club-tied hair. General Wadsworth 
 years before had even indulged in writing satirical verses. 
 He was a capital story-teller, and had a great fund of per 
 sonal reminiscences of his Harvard and army days, his 
 capture by the British, and his escape from the fort at 
 Castine. All these things had their effect upon an impres 
 sionable mind. 
 
 One November day in 1820, the boy, with fear and 
 trembling, slipped a manuscript poem into the letter-box of 
 the Portland Gazette. When the semi-weekly next 
 appeared, his verses, signed " HENRY," were printed in 
 the " Poet s Corner." They were in commemoration 
 of a fight with the Indians at a pond not far from Hiram: 
 
 THE BATTLE OF LOVELL S POND. 
 
 Cold, cold is the north-wind, and rude is the blast 
 
 That sweeps like a hurricane loudly and fast, 
 
 As it moans through the tall, waving pines lone and drear, 
 
 Sighs a requiem sad o er the warrior s bier. 
 
 The war-whoop is still, and the savage s yell 
 
 Has sunk into silence along the wild dell. 
 
 The din of the battle, the tumult is o er, 
 
 And the war-clarion s voice is now heard no more. 
 
 The warriors that fought for their country and bled, 
 Have sunk to their rest; the damp earth is their bed; 
 No stone tells the place where their ashes repose, 
 Nor points out the spot from the graves of their foes. 
 
Xll HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 They died in their glory, surrounded by fame, 
 And Victory s loud trump their death did proclaim. 
 They are dead ; but they live in each Patriot s breast, 
 And their names are engraven on honor s bright crest. 
 
 Stiff, unmetrical, stilted, unoriginal as these lines were, 
 they gave the boy and the sister who was alone in the 
 secret, unalloyed satisfaction. But soon criticism came to 
 turn joy to tears. Judge Mellen, a neighbor, happened, in 
 the poet s hearing, to condemn them. He escaped from 
 under the whip as speedily as possible, but was not dis 
 couraged. Other pieces from his pen appeared from time 
 to time in the Gazette. He also wrote a poetic " Address " 
 for the newspaper-carriers annual presentation. 
 
 Before he was fifteen he successfully passed the Bow- 
 doin College entrance examinations, but did not reside at 
 Brunswick till the beginning of the sophomore year. 
 When he and his brother went up together, they lodged in 
 the village in the house where afterwards " Uncle Tom s 
 Cabin " was written. The only ornament of their uncar- 
 peted room was a set of card-racks painted by their sister. 
 They complained of the difficulty of keeping themselves 
 warm ; and their mother wrote that she was afraid learning 
 would not flourish or their ideas -properly expand in a 
 frosty atmosphere, and, she added, " I fear the Muses will 
 not visit you." 
 
 In those days he was described as slight and erect in 
 figure, with a light, delicate complexion like a maiden s, 
 a slight bloom upon his cheeks, "his nose rather promi 
 nent, his eyes clear and blue, and his well-formed head 
 covered with a profusion of brown hair waving loosely." 
 The class to which he belonged had several memorable 
 names, not the least distinguished of which was that of 
 Hawthorne. Longfellow held high rank. He was regu- 
 
HENRY WADSIVORTH LONGFELLOW Xlll 
 
 lar and studious in his habits, though he cared more about 
 general reading than the special curriculum. It is inter 
 esting to find him at that early day taking the side of the 
 Indians against the prejudices that have always followed 
 "that reviled and persecuted race." He was greatly de 
 lighted with Gray s poems, and regarded Dr. Johnson s crit 
 icisms upon them as unjust. In the winter vacation of 
 1823, he had some thought of teaching a school, but was, 
 on the whole, glad that he had failed to obtain one. His 
 chief exercise was walking. When the snow was deep he 
 cut wood, and he found it rather irksome. As a make 
 shift for either, he wrote his father, " I have marked out 
 an image upon my closet-door about my own size; and 
 whenever I feel the want of exercise I strip off my coat, 
 and, considering this image as in a posture of defence, 
 make my motions as though in actual combat. This is a 
 very classick amusement, and* I have already become quite 
 skilful as a pugilist." 
 
 In February, 1824, he made his first visit to Boston, saw 
 all the sights, except the Mill-dam, attended a ball at the 
 house of the beautiful and talented Miss Emily Marshall, 
 enjoyed the Shakespeare Jubilee, and found himself 
 "much pleased with the city itself as well as with the 
 inhabitants." 
 
 The most of his vacations, however, he spent at his 
 Portland home. When the college course came to an end 
 he found himself number four in his class. " How I came 
 to get so high, is rather a mystery to me," he wrote, " in 
 asmuch as I have never been a remarkably hard student, 
 touching college studies, except during my Sophomore 
 year, when I used to think that I was studying pretty 
 hard." He chose for his commencement part an oration 
 on the " Life and Writings of Chatterton," but his father 
 
XIV HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 thought that so few of his audience had ever heard of 
 Chatterton he would better take a more popular subject. 
 He accordingly took for his theme " Our Native Writers." 
 During all his stay at Brunswick he continued to write 
 poetry. Two stanzas of a poem "To lanthe " are con 
 sidered by his brother Samuel as alone worthy of preser 
 vation from the work of his first year : 
 
 When upon the western cloud 
 
 Hang day s fading roses, 
 When the linnet sings aloud, 
 
 And the twilight closes, 
 As I mark the moss-grown spring 
 
 By the twisted holly, 
 Pensive thoughts of thee shall bring 
 
 Love s own melancholy. 
 
 Then when tranquil evening throws 
 
 Twilight shades above thee, 
 And when early morning glows, 
 
 Think on those that love thee ! 
 For an interval of years 
 
 We ere long must sever, 
 But the hearts that love endears 
 
 Shall be parted never. 
 
 These early poems, like much imitative verse, bore the 
 impress of deep-settled melancholy. One of his corre 
 spondents wrote him that it was an enigma how one so 
 cheerful and laughter-loving should write in such strains. 
 In the fifteenth number of the United States Gazette, a 
 fortnightly which had been started in April, 1824, edited 
 by Theophilus Parsons, appeared a poem entitled " Thanks 
 giving," and signed " H. W. L." During the following 
 year Longfellow contributed sixteen others, five of which 
 were reprinted in " Voices of the Night." He also con 
 tributed to the Gazette three prose sketches, which showed 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW XV 
 
 the influence of Irving, as the poems showed that of Bry 
 ant. Several poems were also incorporated in them, and 
 one of these was afterwards reprinted with his name : 
 
 THE ANGLER S SONG. 
 
 From the river s plashy bank, 
 
 Where the sedge grows green and rank 
 
 And the twisted woodbine springs, 
 Upward speeds the morning lark 
 To its silver cloud and hark ! 
 
 On his way the woodman sings. 
 
 Where the embracing ivy holds 
 Close the hoar elm in its folds, 
 
 In the meadow s fenny land, 
 And the winding river sweeps 
 Thro its shallows and still deeps, 
 
 Silent with my rod I stand. 
 
 But when sultry suns are high, 
 Underneath the oak I lie, 
 
 As it shades the water s edge; 
 And I mark my line away, 
 In the wheeling eddy play 
 
 Tangling with the river sedge. 
 
 When the eye of evening looks 
 
 On green woods and winding brooks, 
 
 And the wind sighs o er the lea, 
 Woods and streams I leave you then, 
 While the shadows in the glen 
 
 Lengthen by the greenwood tree. 
 
 So far not a ray of originality, nor one of those graceful, 
 if not always accurate, comparisons or metaphors which 
 peculiarly mark Longfellow s fancy. The Yankee " wood 
 man " is not a singing being, nor have we " larks " under 
 New England skies. It is interesting to know that the 
 Gazette then paid its contributors a dollar a column for 
 prose, and got its poetry for nothing. The editor regarded 
 
XVI HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 Longfellow s, however, as so full of promise and any 
 flower in the desert has a smiling aspect that he pro 
 posed that the poet should receive some compensation for 
 regular contributions. This, small as it was, seems to 
 have been enough to excite Longfellow s ambition toward 
 a literary career. He brought up objections against the 
 profession of a physician there were quite enough in 
 the world without him ! In another letter to his father he 
 said, " I hardly think Nature designed me for the bar, or 
 the pulpit, or the dissecting-room;" and again, " I cannot 
 make a lawyer of any eminence, because I have not a talent 
 for argument; I am not good enough for a minister; and 
 as to Physic, I utterly and absolutely detest it." 
 
 Literature beckoned more enticingly: "The fact is, I 
 most eagerly aspire after future eminence in literature ; 
 my whole soul burns most ardently for it, and every earthly 
 thought centres in it. There may be something visionary 
 in this, but I flatter myself that I have prudence enough to 
 keep my enthusiasm from defeating its own object by too 
 great haste. Surely, there never was a better opportunity 
 offered for the exertion of literary talent in our own coun 
 try than is now offered." 
 
 His wise father replied with words that are as appli 
 cable to-day as they were almost seventy years ago : 
 
 " A literary life, to one who has the means of support, 
 must be very pleasant. But there is not wealth enough in 
 this country to afford encouragement and patronage to 
 merely literary men. And as you have not had the for 
 tune (I will not say whether good or ill) to be born rich, 
 you must adopt a profession which will afford you subsis 
 tence as well as reputation. I am happy to observe that 
 my ambition has never been to accumulate wealth for my 
 children, but to cultivate their minds in the best possible 
 
HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW xvil 
 
 manner, and to imbue them with correct moral, political, 
 and religious principles, believing that a person thus 
 educated will, with proper diligence, be certain of attain 
 ing all the wealth which is necessary to happiness." 
 
 His father, while believing that it would be best for him 
 to adopt the profession of the law, readily acceded to his 
 desire to spend a year at Cambridge in the pursuit of 
 general literature, and particularly of the modern languages. 
 
 The Cambridge plan was suddenly supplanted by another, 
 which led directly in the path of his ambition. The trus 
 tees of Bowdoin College, having already a foundation of 
 a thousand dollars given by Madam Bowdoin, deter 
 mined to establish a Professorship of Modern Languages. 
 One of the Board is said to have been so much struck by 
 Longfellow s translation of an ode of Horace, that he pre 
 sented the poet s name for the new chair. It was infor 
 mally proposed that he should visit Europe to fit himself 
 for the position, which on his return would be awaiting 
 him. 
 
 Until the suitable time for the voyage he desultorily read 
 law in his father s office, and thus spent the fall and winter of 
 1825-6. During this period he wrote "The Burial of the 
 Minnisink " and several other poems for the Gazette and 
 the Atlantic Souvenir. The last poem published in the 
 Gazette was a song : 
 
 Where from the eye of day, 
 
 The dark and silent river 
 Pursues thro tangled woods a way, 
 
 O er which the tall trees quiver, 
 
 The silver mist that breaks 
 
 From out that woodland cover, 
 
 Betrays the hidden path it takes, 
 And hangs the current over. 
 
XVI 11 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 So oft the thoughts that burst 
 From hidden streams of feeling, 
 
 Like silent streams unseen at first, 
 From our cold hearts are stealing; 
 
 But soon the clouds that veil 
 The eye of Love when glowing, 
 
 Betray the long unwhispered tale 
 Of thoughts in darkness flowing. 
 
 Commonplace and prosy as these lines are, they yet 
 have that homely simplicity which made Longfellow s 
 poems go straight to the popular heart. 
 
 Toward the last of April he left his home for New York, 
 where he was to take the packet for Europe. The journey 
 was at that time slow and tedious : by stage to Boston, 
 thence through Northampton to Albany and down the Hud 
 son. Both at Boston and at Northampton he made stops, 
 and was given letters of introduction to persons abroad. 
 While waiting for the sailing of the Cadmus he made a 
 short visit to Philadelphia, which he found not half so 
 pleasant as New York. It was during this visit, says his 
 biographer, that strolling through the streets of the city 
 one morning, he came upon the pleasant enclosure of the 
 Pennsylvania Hospital on Spruce Street. He remembered 
 the picture when he came to write " Evangeline." 
 
 After an uneventful voyage of thirty days, Longfellow 
 was landed at Havre, which delighted him with its quaint- 
 ness and oddity. He saw his first cathedral at Rouen, 
 and reached Paris on the nineteenth of June. He trav 
 elled by diligence, and found even " the French dust more 
 palatable than that at home." The city at that day was 
 not the splendidly paved, bright and cheerful Queen of 
 cities that it is to-day. Longfellow found it a gloomy 
 place, "built all of yellow stone, streaked and defaced 
 
HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW XIX 
 
 with smoke and dust, streets narrow and full of black mud 
 which comes up through the pavement . . . no sidewalks; 
 cabriolets, fiacres, and carriages of all kinds driving close to 
 the houses, and spattering or running down whole ranks 
 of foot-passengers, and noise and stench enough to drive a 
 man mad." He liked the public gardens and the boule 
 vards, and soon found himself "settled down into some 
 thing between a Frenchman and a New Englander, within 
 all Jonathan, but outwardly a little of a Parlez-vorts." 
 
 Nevertheless, he was greatly disappointed in finding 
 his advantages in the acquirement of French less than 
 he had expected, and in making comparatively slow prog 
 ress. There was too much temptation to speak English. 
 Most of the people to whom he had letters were absent 
 from town: lectures would not begin till November. 
 
 Taking advantage of this excuse, he set out on a pedes 
 trian tour through central France. Like Goldsmith he 
 carried his flute in his knapsack, but was quite disillusion 
 ized to find that the peasantry had degenerated since 
 Goldsmith s day. He wanted to get into one of the 
 cottages to study character, and determined, if possible, 
 to get an invitation. Falling in with a party of peasants, 
 he addressed a girl who happened to be walking by his 
 side, told her he had a flute, and asked her if she would 
 like to dance. She replied that she liked to dance, but 
 did not know what a flute was. He returned to Paris, and 
 stayed there till the twenty-first of February. Then he 
 set out for Spain, feeling comparatively satisfied with his 
 knowledge of French, but without sorrow at leaving 
 France. His journey to Madrid was uneventful : he was 
 not even robbed, though the country was infested with 
 hordes of banditti. At Madrid he found Alexander 
 Everett and his family, Washington Irving, then engaged 
 
XX HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 in writing his Columbus, and one or two other Americans. 
 He took lodgings at a pleasant house in the family of. an 
 elderly gentleman, his wife and daughter, a young lady of 
 eighteen, who quickly became quite a sister to him, and 
 made his acquisition of Spanish " a delightful task." 
 
 In September, 1827, Longfellow started for Italy, taking 
 thirteen days to go to Seville with which " Paris of the 
 South " he was disappointed. The Guadalquivir reminded 
 him of the Delaware, though more majestic, and flowing 
 ihrough infinitely more fertile banks. He spent nearly a 
 fortnight in Cadiz, and then travelled to Gibraltar on horse 
 back, through a wild and uncultivated region. From 
 there he went by sea to Malaga, where he spent a week; 
 then visited the romantic region of the Moors, spending 
 five days at Granada. In those five days he declared " he 
 lived almost a century." 
 
 These eight months in Spain were among the happiest 
 and most romantic of his life, and he never cared to go to 
 Spain again lest the illusion should be destroyed. 
 
 At Florence he found the so-called " glassy Arno " " a 
 stream of muddy water almost entirely dry in summer," 
 while the other stock accessories of Italian romance 
 "boatmen and convent bells, and white-robed nuns and 
 midnight song," were less agreeable in reality than in 
 imagination. But he enjoyed excellent society there, and 
 princesses played " Yankee Doodle " for him and gave 
 him breakfasts. He was disappointed in the Tuscan pro 
 nunciation, and stayed only a month. 
 
 In February he entered Rome, but in spite of all the 
 gayeties of the Carnival he pursued his studies. At first 
 he intended to cut short his visit to Rome, but delayed by 
 the failure to receive a remittance, he caught the Roman 
 fever and was seriously ill. The result was that he spent 
 
HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW xxi 
 
 nearly a little more than a year in Italy. While still in 
 Rome he received word that the anticipated appointment 
 as Professor of Modern Languages had been refused him 
 on the score of his youth. The disappointment was all 
 the more cruel because he felt that he had honestly earned 
 the place. He had become so conversant with French 
 and Spanish as to speak them correctly and write them 
 with the ease and fluency of his native tongue. Portu 
 guese he read with ease, and at the Italian hotels he was 
 frequently taken for an Italian. 
 
 Longfellow spent a month in Dresden; but social advan 
 tages and amusements prevented more serious studies, and 
 as his friend Preble was at Gottingen, he determined to go 
 there and study during as much of a year as possible. In 
 the spring of 1829 he ran over to England, spent a few 
 days in London, and returned through Holland. The 
 Rhine he thought a noble river, but not so fine as the 
 Hudson. The old castle of Vautsberg, near Bingen, es 
 pecially delighted him, and here he afterwards located 
 some of the scenes of the " Golden Legend." 
 
 He thought the advantages for a student very great at 
 Gottingen, but he was reluctantly obliged to cut short his 
 stay; and after a few days spent in Paris, London, Oxford, 
 and other English towns, he sailed from Liverpool, and 
 reached New York on August u, 1829. 
 
 Soon after his return he was appointed to the professor 
 ship at Bowdoin, at a salary of eight hundred dollars, 
 which was enlarged to nine hundred dollars by the addi 
 tional office of librarian. He immediately took up his 
 duties and fulfilled them to general satisfaction. He 
 translated a French Grammar and prepared several other 
 text-books. His first recitation took place before break 
 fast, at six in the morning. At eleven he listened to the 
 
XX11 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 juniors in Spanish. His library duties occupied the noon 
 hour, and the last recitation of the day came at five. He 
 also, during his second year, prepared a course of lectures 
 on French, Spanish, and Italian literature. Poetry was 
 for the present in abeyance; but he soon began to contrib 
 ute to the North American Review, then edited by 
 Alexander Everett. In the course of the next ten years 
 nearly a dozen articles on various literary subjects con 
 nected with his studies appeared. Most of them were 
 illustrated with metrical translations from various lan 
 guages. It is safe to say that few poets ever excelled him 
 in this difficult art. 
 
 In September, 1831, Longfellow was married to Mary 
 Storer Potter, second daughter of Judge Barrett Potter of 
 Portland. She was a beautiful young woman, and their 
 marriage was very happy. Just a year later, he delivered 
 the poem for the Bowdoin chapter of the $.B.K. Society, 
 and was asked to repeat it at Cambridge. This was his 
 first original poem in eight years. His first book was 
 the " Coplas of Don Jorge Manrique," preceded by an 
 essay on the Moral and Devotional poetry of Spain, 
 and supplemented by half a dozen sonnets from the 
 Spanish. 
 
 He also published parts of " Outre-Mer " in pamphlet 
 form. After he had been in Brunswick three years he 
 began to yearn for wider fields. Several openings were 
 suggested which brought no result. But early in December, 
 1834, he was offered the Smith professorship of modern lan 
 guages at Harvard, with a salary of fifteen hundred dollars 
 a year and the privilege of residing in Europe for a year or 
 eighteen months for more perfect preparation in German. 
 He accepted this " good fortune," as he called it, and in 
 April, 1835, sailed with his wife for Europe. In England 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW xxiii 
 
 he enjoyed friendly acquaintances with Sir John Bowring, 
 the Lockharts, the Carlyles, and others; in Sweden he 
 studied the language, which he found "soft and musical, 
 with an accent like Lowland Scotch." He also took les 
 sons in Finnish, and laid the foundation for his acquaintance 
 with the great Finnish epic, the " Kalevala," the rhythm 
 and style of which he afterwards copied in " Hiawatha." 
 The results of his stay in Stockholm are seen in his beauti 
 ful translations from Bishop Tegner. 
 
 In Copenhagen he took lessons in Danish, and was 
 made a member of the Royal Society of Northern Antiqui 
 ties. During a month s enforced stay in Amsterdam he 
 studied Dutch, which he found "in sound the most disa 
 greeable" he remembered having heard except the Rus 
 sian. His wife was in failing health: she died on the 
 twenty-ninth of November, 1835. Longfellow travelled 
 sadly to Heidelberg, where he found charming compan 
 ionship, and, as he says of the hero of " Hyperion," 
 "buried himself in books, in old dusty books." While 
 here his brother-in-law and friend, George W. Pierce, died. 
 
 " He the young and strong who cherished 
 
 Noble longings for the strife, 
 By the road-side fell and perished, 
 Weary with the march of life." 
 
 In these sorrows his " higher and nobler motive of action " 
 which enabled him for the moment to forget what he 
 called "the tooth of the destroyer," was, as he wrote to 
 his friend Greene, " the love of what is intellectual and 
 beautiful; the love of literature; the love of high con. 
 verse with the minds of the great and good." Dur 
 ing this time he translated Salis s "Song of the Silent 
 Land." At the end of the following June, Longfellow 
 
XXIV HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 left the nightingales of the Neckar and made a pleasant 
 tour through Switzerland. Many of his experiences he 
 wove into "Hyperion," which shows also the influence 
 of Richter. His philosophy after all was not able wholly 
 to take to heart the inscription to the high-noble-born 
 Herr Tinzen Kayetan von Sonnenberg: 
 
 " Look not mournfully into the past; it comes not back 
 again; wisely improve the present, it is thine; go forth 
 to meet the shadowy Future without fear and with a manly 
 heart." He wrote in his note-book: " Oh, what a soli 
 tary, lonely being I am! Every hour my heart aches." 
 Chillon he found the most delightful prison he was ever 
 in, and thought Byron s description overcharged. The 
 Alps he characteristically called " great apostles of nature, 
 whose sermons are avalanches and whose voice is that of 
 one crying in the wilderness." From Geneva he went 
 with the Motleys of Boston to Interlaken, where they 
 found the Appletons established. This was a memorable 
 period, fraught with weighty consequences. The young 
 ladies of the family were very beautiful and intellectual. 
 He wrote in his diary : 
 
 "Since I have joined these two families from America, 
 the time passes pleasantly. I now for the first time enjoy 
 Switzerland." 
 
 At Zurich, where the party went, he translated Uhland s 
 ballad " Hast du das Schloss gesehen," and wrote an 
 impromptu on the exorbitant charges of the Hotel du 
 Corbeau : 
 
 Beware of the Raven of Zurich, 
 T is a bird of omen ill; 
 
 A noisy and an unclean bird 
 With a very, very long bill. 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW XXV 
 
 In December, 1836, Longfellow took up his residence at 
 Cambridge, and prepared for the duties of his professor 
 ship by laying our courses of lectures, making acquaint 
 ances, and getting settled. Though he was somewhat 
 criticised for his fondness for colored coats, waistcoats, 
 and cravats, he soon won many delightful friends. He 
 wrote his father after his first five months of Cambridge 
 life that he spent at least half his evenings in society 
 " it,being almost impossible to avoid it." 
 
 His first lecture did not begin till the last of May. He 
 prepared a course of twelve on the various languages and 
 literature of northern and southern Europe. They were 
 a success from the beginning. 
 
 On a beautiful summer afternoon in 1837 the young 
 professor went to call upon a law-student, who occupied 
 the south-eastern chamber in the Vassall or Craigie house, 
 on Brattle Street. Longfellow subsequently occupied the 
 same room and the one adjoining, tho at first the eccen 
 tric Madam Cragie, thinking him a student, declined to 
 take him as a lodger. She changed her mind when she 
 learned that he was the author of " Outre-Mer." 
 
 In this room, it is said, he composed all his poems 
 between 1837 and 1845 and the romance of " Hyperion." 
 The first poem was the one entitled " Flowers," the allu 
 sion in the first verse being suggested by the German 
 Carove. The next was the "Psalm of Life," which his 
 brother says was written one bright summer morning on 
 the blank leaf of an invitation. 
 
 Longfellow s college work consisted of one oral lecture 
 a week throughout the year, two extra lectures a week on 
 belles-lettres in the summer, and superintendence of the 
 four or more subordinate instructors. The translations 
 from Dante in the present volume were taken from the 
 
XX vi HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 interleaved copy which he used for his classes and which 
 he filled with notes. 
 
 Shortly after he wrote "The Psalm of Life " he thus 
 described his own course of life : 
 
 "I live in a great house which looks like an Italian 
 villa; have two large rooms opening into each other. 
 They were once General Washington s chambers. I break 
 fast at seven on tea and toast, and dine at five or six, 
 generally in Boston. In the evening I walk on the Com 
 mon with Hillard or alone; then go back to Cambridge 
 on foot. If not very late, I sit an hour with Felton or 
 Sparks. For nearly two years I have not studied at 
 night save now and then. Most of the time am alone; 
 smoke a good deal; wear a broad-brimmed black hat, 
 black frock coat, a black cane. Molest no one. Dine 
 out frequently. In winter go much into Boston society. 
 The last year have written a great deal, enough to make 
 volumes. Have not read much. Have a number of lit 
 erary plans and projects ... I do not like this sedentary 
 life. I want action. I want to travel. Am too excited, 
 too tumultuous inwardly." 
 
 The note of discontent with his position at Cambridge 
 thus struck was characteristic of his letters and diary, all 
 the time that he held it. 
 
 "I am in despair," he wrote in October, 1846, at the 
 swift flight of time and the utter impossibility I feel 
 to lay hold upon anything permanent. All my hours 
 and days go to perishable things. College takes half the 
 time; and other people with their interminable letters and 
 poems and requests and demands take the rest. I have 
 hardly a moment to think of my own writings, and am 
 cheated of some of the fairest hours. This is the ex 
 treme of folly; and if I knew a man far off in some 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW xxvil 
 
 foreign land, doing as I do here, I should say he was 
 mad." 
 
 One of his projects was to found a literary newspaper 
 either in Boston or New Vork, but it never materialized. 
 Occasionally he struck off a poem. " It would seem," 
 he said, after finishing "The Reaper and the Flowers" 
 without any effort of his own, " It would seem as if 
 tnoughts, like children, have their periods of gestation, 
 and then are born whether we will or not." 
 
 In 1839 appeared " Hyperion," in two volumes, and a 
 little later, in the autumn, the first volume of his poems 
 "Voices of the Night." The following year he medi 
 tated an epic on the " Newport Round Tower " and the 
 " Skeleton in Armor." The mountain brought forth a 
 mouse. He was, however, at this time tormented with 
 dyspepsia, which he confessed in his diary made him list 
 less and irritable. He also suffered from tooth-ache, and 
 wrote his father that for three months he had not been 
 free from it a day. He also planned a history of English 
 Poetry, a volume of studies or sketches, after the manner 
 of Claude Lorraine, a novel to be entitled " Count Cagli- 
 ostro " and an Epic the saga of Hakon Jarl; but none 
 of them was ever accomplished. There is an interesting 
 entry in his diary under date December 17, 1839: 
 " News of shipwrecks horrible on the coast. Twenty 
 bodies washed ashore near Gloucester, one lashed to 
 a piece of the wreck. There is a reef called Norman s 
 Woe where many of these took place; among others the 
 schooner Hesperiis ... I must write a ballad upon 
 this." 
 
 About a fortnight later he writes: "I sat last evening 
 till twelve o clock by my fire, smoking, when suddenly it 
 came into my mind to write the Ballad of the Schooner 
 
XXV111 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 Hesperus, which I accordingly did. Then I went to bed, 
 but could not sleep. New thoughts were running in my 
 mind, and I got up to add them to the ballad. It was 
 three by the clock. I then went to bed and fell asleep. 
 I feel pleased with the ballad. It hardly cost me an 
 effort. It did not come into my mind by lines but by 
 stanzas." 
 
 The volume of poems was a great success: in three 
 weeks, less than fifty copies were left from an edition of 
 nine hundred; but the publisher of " Hyperion " failed, and 
 half of the edition was seized for debts. It was generally 
 well received by the critics, though it met with some tre 
 mendous attacks. Longfellow wrote that the feelings of 
 the book were true, the events of the story mostly fic 
 titious. 
 
 While lecturing on Spanish literature the following 
 year, the idea of " The Spanish Student " occurred to him, 
 and he immediately carried it out, though he did not pub 
 lish it for some time. Writing to his father in October he 
 says: "My pen has not been very prolific of late; only 
 a little poetry has trickled from it. There will be a kind 
 of a ballad on a blacksmith in the next Knickerbocker ; 
 which you may consider, if you please, was a song in 
 praise of your ancestor atNewbury." " Excelsior," which 
 deserves its popularity in spite of its manifest absurdity, 
 was suggested by the seal of the state of New York, which 
 is a shield with a rising sun and the indefensible Latin 
 motto. Of course the significance of the poem is its life, 
 the ideal soul, regardless of caution, and prudence, un 
 moved by affectionate pleading, woman s love, or formal 
 religion, strains for the highest goal, and, dying in the 
 effort, mounts to the skies. 
 
 Longfellow s volume of "Ballads and other Poems" 
 
HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW xxix 
 
 was published in December, 1841, and six months later 
 he was on his way to Europe for the third time. He 
 spent the summer at the baths at Marienbad. On his way 
 he stopped at Bruges, which inspired him to write the 
 poems on the Belfry. In his diary under date of May 30 
 he writes: "The chimes seemed to be ringing incessantly, 
 and the air of repose and antiquity was delightful. . . . 
 O those chimes, those chimes ! how deliciously they lull 
 one to sleep ! The little bells, with their clear liquid 
 notes, like the voices of boys in a choir, and the solemn 
 base of the great bell tolling in, like the voice of a friar ?" 
 While at Marienbad he partially laid out his plan for 
 his " Christus" drama which had occurred to him suddenly 
 some months before, but which was not completed till 
 1873. The only verse that he wrote there was a sonnet 
 entitled "Mezzo Cammin." It ends irregularly with an 
 Alexandrine line. 
 
 Half of my life is gone, and I have let 
 
 The years slip from me, and have not fulfilled 
 
 The aspiration of my youth to build 
 Some tower of song with lofty parapet. 
 Not indolence, nor pleasure, nor the fret 
 
 Of restless passions that would not be stilled; 
 
 But sorrow, and a care that almost killed, 
 Kept me from what I may accomplish yet; 
 
 Tho half-way up the hill, I see the Past 
 
 Lying beneath me with its sounds and sights, 
 
 A city in the twilight dim and vast, 
 
 With smoking roofs, soft bells and gleaming lights, 
 
 And hear above me on the autumnal blast 
 
 The cataract of death far thundering from the height. 
 
 During a brief stay in England he visited Charles Dick 
 ens for a fortnight, and had a delightful time, the famous 
 raven doing his share of the entertainment. On his return 
 
XXX HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 to America he published, in a pamphlet of thirty page? a 
 collection of poems on Slavery, which he wrote in pencil 
 while "cribbed, cabined, and confined " to his berth by 
 stormy weather on the return voyage. His views re 
 garding slavery were expressed in a letter to his friend, 
 George Lunt, who had criticised the poems as expressive 
 of a weary attitude : 
 
 "I believe slavery to be an unrighteous institution, 
 based on the false maxim that Might makes Right. 
 
 " I have great faith in doing what is righteous, and fear 
 no evil consequences. 
 
 " I believe that every one has a perfect right to express 
 his opinion on the subject of slavery as on every other 
 thing; that every one ought so to do, until the public 
 opinion of all Christendom shall penetrate into and change 
 the hearts of the Southerners on this subject. 
 
 " I would have no other interference than what is 
 sanctioned by law. 
 
 " I believe that where there is a will, there is a way. 
 When the whole country sincerely wishes to get rid of 
 slavery, it will readily find the means. 
 
 "Let us, therefore, do all we can to bring about this 
 will in all gentleness and Christian charity. 
 
 " And God speed the time." 
 
 Of course such an attitude was not radical enough to 
 suit the abolitionists; and Longfellow, standing as it were 
 between the two parties, was blamed by both. Yet Whit- 
 tier wrote to him asking him to accept a nomination to 
 Congress on the ticket of the Liberty party. " Our friends 
 think they could throw for thee one thousand more votes 
 than for any other man." He declined, on the ground 
 that he was not qualified for such a position, and moreover 
 did not belong to that party. 
 
HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW xxxi 
 
 In July, 1843, Longfellow was married to Miss Frances 
 Elizabeth Appleton, in whose company he had enjoyed so 
 much when in Switzerland six years before. During their 
 wedding journey they visited Mrs. Longfellow s relatives, 
 who lived in " the old-fashioned country-seat " at Pittsfield, 
 where stood "the old clock upon the stairs" suggesting 
 its refrain of "Never-Forever." On this journey they 
 passed through Springfield; and in company with Mr. 
 Charles Sumner they visited the Arsenal, where Mrs. Long 
 fellow remarked the resemblance of the gun-barrels to an 
 organ, and suggested what mournful music Death would 
 bring from them. " We grew quite warlike against war," 
 she wrote, " and I urged H. to write a peace poem." He 
 used her beautiful though not perfect comparison in the 
 poem entitled "The Arsenal at Springfield," which grew 
 out of her suggestion. 
 
 Shortly after their return to Cambridge, Longfellow 
 accepted a proposal to edit a work on the Poets and 
 Poetry of Europe. It contained specimens from nearly 
 four hundred poets, translated by various hands. Mrs. 
 Longfellow served as her husband s amanuensis, as severe 
 trouble with his eyes, requiring the aid of an oculist, had 
 disabled him. The biographical sketches were mainly 
 prepared by Cornelius Felton, who shared the honorarium. 
 He also purchased the old mansion where he had roomed 
 so long, and which became his home for the rest of his 
 life. 
 
 In the first fortnight of October, 1845, he notes in his 
 diary the completion of the poems " To a Child," "To an 
 Old Danish Song-book," "The Bridge Over the Charles," 
 and "The Occultation of Orion." On the thirtieth he 
 completed the sonnet " Hesperus," or as he afterwards 
 called it, " The Evening Star," remarked as being the only 
 
XXX11 HENR Y WADS WOR TH L ONGFELL O W 
 
 love-poem in all Longfellow s verse. It was composed in 
 "the rustic seat of the old apple-tree." He also notes 
 in his diary the difference " between his ideal home-world 
 of poetry and the outer actual, tangible prose world." 
 The routine of teaching galled him. " When I go out of 
 the precincts of my study," he wrote, " down the village 
 street to college, how the scaffoldings about the palace of 
 song come rattling and clattering down." 
 
 Still it may be doubted whether a state of absolute lei 
 sure would have been more satisfactory to him. Very 
 likely the lark may say in his heart, "How I would fly if 
 it were not for the air that clogs my wings! " The fol 
 lowing month Longfellow notes the coming into the world 
 of his second boy and his fourth volume of poems, " The 
 Belfry of Bruges." A few days later he had begun his 
 "idyl in hexameters," the name of which he was in a 
 quandary about: " Shall it be Gabrielle, or Celestine, 
 or Evangeline ? " 
 
 In his diary he sets down an impromptu verse which 
 came to him as he lay awake at night listening to the rain : 
 
 Pleasant it is to hear the sound of the rattling rain upon 
 
 the roof, 
 Ceaselessly falling through the night from the clouds that 
 
 pass so far aloof; 
 Pleasant it is to hear the sound of the village clock that 
 
 strikes the hour, 
 Dropping its notes like drops of rain from the darksome 
 
 belfry tower. 
 
 Of an attack upon his poems by the novelist Simms, he 
 wrote: " I consider this the most original and inventive 
 of all his fictions." A " furious onslaught," by Margaret 
 Fuller, he characterizes as "a bilious attack." Later in 
 his diary we come across mention of " a delicious drive," 
 
HENRY WADSWORTPI LONGFELLOW xxxiii 
 
 through Brookline, by the church and "the green lane," 
 where was laid the scene of the poem, " A Gleam of Sun 
 shine," and "a delicious drive" through Maiden and 
 Lynn to Marblehead to the " Devereaux Farm, near the 
 sea-side," which gave rise to "The Fire of Drift-wood." 
 The following year (1847) was marked by the completion 
 and publication of " Evangeline," a story which the rector 
 of a South Boston church had vainly tried to induce Haw 
 thorne to take up. Longfellow at dinner with the two 
 said to Hawthorne, " If you really do not want this inci 
 dent for a tale, let me have it for a poem." It is inter 
 esting to know that he had never visited the region of 
 Grand-Pre. The meter of the poem brought upon him 
 much criticism, and the question is not yet settled whether 
 the so-called classic hexameter can be naturalized in Eng 
 lish. There are lines in "Evangeline " which prove that 
 it can, as for instance : 
 
 " Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance." 
 
 There are others (as in all long poems), which show 
 faulty workmanship. But compare the song of the 
 Mocking-bird (II. 2) with the same translated by the 
 poet as an experiment into what he calls " the common 
 rhymed English pentameter." Here are the two passages, 
 and no critic could hesitate where to award the palm of 
 superiority : 
 
 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, 
 That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed 
 
 silent to listen. 
 
xxxi V HENR Y WA DS WOR TH L O JVC FELL O W 
 
 Plaintive at first were the tones and sad; then soaring to 
 madness 
 
 Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied Bac 
 chantes. 
 
 Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lamenta* 
 tion; 
 
 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. 
 
 Upon a spray that overhung the stream, 
 The mocking-bird, awaking from his dream, 
 Poured such delirious music from his throat 
 That all the air seemed listening to his note. 
 Plaintive, at first, the song began, and slow, 
 It breathed of sadness, and of pain and woe; 
 Then, gathering all his notes, abroad he flung 
 The multitudinous music from his tongue, 
 As after showers, a sudden gust again 
 Upon the leaves shakes down the rattling rain. 
 
 He notes in his diary some pendants to Schiller s poetic 
 characterization of the classic meters : 
 
 In Hexameter plunges the headlong cataract downward; 
 In Pentameter up whirls the eddying mist. 
 
 II. 
 
 In Hexameter rolls sonorous the peal of the organ; 
 In Pentameter soft rises the chant of the choir. 
 
 In Hexameter gallops delighted a beggar on horseback; 
 In Pentameter whack ! tumbles he off his steed. 
 
HENR Y WADS IVOR 777 L ONGFELL O W XXXV 
 
 IV. 
 
 In Hexameter sings serenely a Harvard professor; 
 In Pentameter him damns censorious Poe. 
 
 The day after this exercise he enters a little French poem 
 which he calls the epigram of a former young man on 
 approaching his fortieth birthday: 
 
 " Sous le firmament 
 
 Tout rf est que change in ent, 
 
 Tout passe" 
 Le cantique le </!? /, 
 // est ainsi ecrif, 
 II est sans contredit^ 
 
 To lit passe. 
 
 O douce vie humaine ! 
 
 O temps qui nous entraine ! 
 
 Destinee souverame ! 
 Moi qui, poete reveur, 
 Ne fut jamaisfriseur^ 
 Je frise^ O quelle horreur ! 
 
 La quarantaine ! 
 
 On the occasion of the completion of "The Conquest of 
 Peru Prescott invited Longfellow and a number of other 
 authors; and some one, probably Longfellow himself, 
 declared that nothing could be more appropriate than to 
 invite the Inkers on such an occasion. 
 
 Occasionally Longfellow made a poetic entry in his 
 diary. 
 
 Such is the blank-verse description of the tides composed 
 one day during his August vacation while at Portland : 
 
 Oh faithful, indefatigable tides, 
 That evermore upon God s errands go, 
 Now seaward bearing tidings of the land, 
 Now landward bearing tidings of the sea, 
 
XXXvi HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 And filling every frith and estuary, 
 
 Each arm of the great sea, each little creek, 
 
 Each thread and filament of water-courses, 
 
 Full with your ministrations of delight ! 
 
 Under the rafters of this wooden bridge 
 
 I see you come and go; sometimes in haste 
 
 To reach your journey s end, which, being done, 
 
 With feet unrested ye return again 
 
 And recommence the never-ending task; 
 
 Patient, whatever burdens ye may bear, 
 
 And fretted only by the impeding rocks." 
 
 At first there was some delay in getting " Evangeline " 
 published, but at last, towards the end of October, it came 
 out; and he records that he had received " greater and 
 warmer commendations than on any previous volume. 
 The public takes more kindly to Hexameters than I 
 could have imagined." In six months six thousand copies 
 were sold. 
 
 In February, 1848, he chronicles this horrible pun: 
 "What is tfz^z-ography? What biography ought to 
 be!" 
 
 In October he was asked to write an ode for the occa 
 sion of the introduction of Cochituate water into Boston. 
 He disliked writing occasional verses. Lowell was the 
 odist. Longfellow contented himself with an epigram in 
 his diary : 
 
 Cochituate water, it is said, 
 Tho introduced in pipes of lead, 
 
 Will not prove deleterious; 
 But if the stream of Helicon 
 Thro leaden pipes be made to run 
 
 The effect is very serious. 
 
 " Evangeline " was scarcely off his hands before he began 
 his third prose romance, "Kavanagh;" but after it was 
 
HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW XXXvii 
 
 finished he declared that he had never hesitated so much 
 about any of his books except the first hexameters, "The 
 Children of the Lord s Supper." 
 
 It was published on the I2th of May, 1849. Mr. 
 Emerson wrote that it seemed to him the best sketch which 
 he had as yet seen in the direction of the American 
 novel. Hawthorne called it a " most precious and rare 
 book; as fragrant as a bunch of flowers, and as simple as 
 one flower. A true picture of life, moreover." 
 
 In November he finished the last proof corrections of 
 his " Fireside and Seaside," and confided to his journal 
 his yearning to try a loftier strain, the sublimer song, 
 whose broken melodies " had for so many years breathed 
 through his soul in the better hours of life." 
 
 By October, 1850, Longfellow was so weary of his rou 
 tine of his professorship that he seriously thought of 
 resigning it; more than once he wrote that he was " pawing 
 to get free his hinder parts." He said: " If I wish to do 
 anything in literature it must be done now. Few men have 
 written good poetry after fifty." 
 
 " The Golden Legend " was published in 1851, and the 
 first edition of thirty-five hundred copies was almost imme 
 diately exhausted. 
 
 His time is shown by his diary to have been filled with 
 all sorts of calls and demands; some of them most delight 
 ful, such as visits from notabilities, dinners with his fasci 
 nating circle of friends, concerts; others not so pleasant: 
 foreigners wishing places and help, requests for autographs 
 one day he mentions sending off twenty-seven, another, 
 seventy-six and hundreds of petty annoyances, the penal 
 ties of wealth and growing fame. 
 
 On the 5th of June, 1854, he mentions his delight at 
 the " Kalevala." A little more than a fortnight later he 
 
XXX VI 11 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 writes that he has at last hit upon a plan for a poem on the 
 American Indians; the meter also immediately settled 
 itself. At first he thought of calling it " Manabozho." On 
 the 26th, having looked over Schoolcraft s " huge, ill- 
 digested quartos," he wrote some of the first lines of 
 " Hiawatha." Having at last resigned from his professor 
 ship, he had more leisure to work at it; and though he 
 still had interruptions he had finished the last canto at 
 noon of March 21, 1855. A few days later, pierced 
 through with pain from what he calls the " steel arrows 
 of the west wind," as he lay in bed a poem came into his 
 mind, "A Memory of Portland, my Native Town, the 
 City by the Sea." As a refrain for the poem he used two 
 lines from an old Lapland song: 
 
 "A boy s will is the wind s will, 
 And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 
 
 The first edition of " Hiawatha " was five thousand, 
 and this was immediately followed by a second of three 
 thousand. By the end of two years it had reached a sale 
 of fifty thousand. Bayard Taylor wrote, congratulating 
 him on his success in a subject so beset with difficulties. 
 "It will be parodied," he wrote, "perhaps ridiculed, in 
 many quarters; but it will live after the Indian race has 
 vanished from our continent, and there will be no parodies 
 then." 
 
 Parodies are implicit compliments, and "Hiawatha" 
 enjoyed this distinction. 
 
 Of course, he was immediately charged with having 
 borrowed, not only the meter, but the incidents, from the 
 "Kalevala." He wrote to Sumner that the charge was 
 "truly one of the greatest literary outrages" he had ever 
 
HENRY WADSIVORTH LONGFELLOW XXXIX 
 
 heard of. He added, "I can give chapter and verse for 
 these legends. Their chief value is that they are Indian 
 legends. I know the " Kalevala " very well; and that 
 some of its legends resemble the Indian stories preserved 
 by Schoolcraft is very true. But the idea of making me 
 responsible for that is too ludicrous." 
 
 In 1856 he planned to go to Europe with friends, but 
 unfortunately struck his knee getting into a carriage, and 
 was laid up with the resulting lameness. It was at the same 
 time that his dear friend Sumner was suffering from the 
 brutal attack of Brooks. So he went to his Nahant house, 
 and enjoyed the commotion of the sea, chafing and foaming. 
 
 " So from the bosom of darkness our days come roaring 
 
 and gleaming, 
 
 Chafe and break into foam, sink into darkness again, 
 But on the shores of Time each leaves some trace of its 
 
 passage, 
 Tho the succeeding wave washes it out from the sand." 
 
 On the second of December, the following year, he 
 began his Puritan pastoral, "The Courtship of Miles 
 Standish," which he had before tried to throw into the 
 form of a drama, but without success. The first edition 
 consisted of ten thousand copies. He at first called it 
 "Priscilla." This same year the Atlantic Monthly was 
 established with Lowell, Longfellow s successor as Smith 
 Professor, in the editorial chair. Many of Longfellow s 
 most beautiful poems appeared in it. 
 
 On the ninth of July, 1861, Mrs. Longfellow was sitting 
 in the library with her two little girls, sealing up some small 
 packages of their shorn curls. A lighted match, fallen on 
 the floor, set her dress on fire. She died the next morning 
 from the effect of the shock, and was buried three days 
 later, on the anniversary of her marriage day. Longfellow 
 
xl HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 himself was so severely burned that he was unable to be 
 present at the funeral. Months afterwards, when some 
 visitor expressed the hope that he might be enabled to 
 "bear his cross" with patience, he exclaimed, " Bear 
 the cross, yes; but what if one is stretched upon it ! " 
 
 Just as Bryant in his great sorrow, a similar sorrow, 
 devoted his energies to translating Homer, so Longfellow 
 took up the task of translating Dante, which he had also 
 begun years before. The first volume was printed in time 
 to commemorate the sixth hundredth anniversary of Dante s 
 birth. The King of Italy, in token of his high esteem, 
 then conferred upon him the diploma and cross of the 
 Order of Saints Maurizio and Lazzaro; but Longfellow 
 declined the honor. Writing to Sumner, he declared that 
 he " did not think it appropriate for a Republican and a 
 Protestant to receive a Catholic order of knighthood." It 
 was not completed till 1866, though for a time he trans 
 lated a canto a day. Meantime he published (in 1863) 
 the "Tales of a Wayside Inn," which he at first thought 
 to call " Sudbury Tales." The first edition was fifteen 
 thousand copies. The characters represented as present at 
 the Red Horse Inn were T. W. Parsons, Luigi Monti, Pro 
 fessor Treadwell (of Harvard), Ole Bull, and Henry Ware 
 Wales. The first three were in the habit of spending their 
 summers at Sudbury, which is about twenty miles from 
 Boston. Longfellow drew the subjects of the tales from 
 various sources. "The birds of Killingworth " is sup 
 posed to be the only one of his own invention. The busi 
 ness of publishing the volume was rendered distressing by 
 the necessity of going to Washington to bring back his 
 oldest son Charles, a lieutenant of cavalry who had been 
 severely, though, it proved, not fatally, shot through both 
 shoulders at Antietam. 
 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW xli 
 
 In February, 1868, Longfellow wrote two tragedies, 
 one on the persecution of the Quakers, which he had 
 written and printed in rare form, and the other on 
 the Salem witchcraft. In May, with a large circle of 
 family friends, he made his last visit to Europe. He 
 spent some time in England, and at Eden Hall saw the 
 famous goblet "still entirely unshattered," in spite of 
 Uhland s poem, which he had translated so many years 
 before. At Cambridge he was publicly admitted as Doctor 
 of Laws, a degree which he already bore by courtesy of 
 Harvard University. He wrote to Mrs. J. T. Fields: "I 
 swooped down to Cambridge, where I had a scarlet gown 
 put on me, and the students shouted, Three cheers for 
 the red man of the West. " 
 
 He was invited to spend the day with the Queen at 
 Windsor Castle, and all England vied in showering 
 attentions upon him. He wrote that he had been almost 
 killed with kindness, and had seen almost everybody whom 
 he most cared to see. He travelled through France, and 
 spent the winter at Rome, where, among other enjoyments, 
 he frequently heard Liszt play on his Chickering piano 
 forte. Returning through Germany and Switzerland, he 
 stayed long enough in England to receive the degree of 
 D.C.L. at Oxford, and to visit Devonshire, the Scottish 
 Lakes, and the regions sacred to Burns. By the first of 
 September, 1869, he was once more at his desk, "under 
 the evening lamp." 
 
 It would occupy too much space to enumerate all the 
 names of even the most celebrated of the visitors who 
 were drawn to Craigie House by the fame of its occupant. 
 On one day his diary records visits from fourteen people, 
 thirteen of them Englishmen. In January, 1870, he be 
 gan a second series of the "Tales of a Wayside Inn." 
 
xlii HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 In May he prepared a supplement to the " Poets and Poetry 
 of Europe." In November he was writing "The Divine 
 Tragedy," which had taken entire possession of him. It 
 was published in December, 1871. " Judas Maccabasus," 
 which had occurred to him as a possible subject twenty 
 years before, was written in eleven days. The next year 
 came " Michel Angelo," completed in sixteen days, though 
 constantly changed and enlarged and left unpublished. 
 "Aftermath," containing the third of the Sudbury days, 
 and a number of lyrics, came out in 1873. The following 
 January he finished "The Hanging of the Crane," for 
 which the New York Ledger paid him $3,000; it was after 
 wards included in "The Masque of Pandora." In July, 
 1875, occurred the fiftieth anniversary of his graduation, 
 and he wrote for the occasion his Morituri Salutamus. 
 In 1877 he received $1,000 for his "Keramos," the spur 
 to which may have been given by his memory of an old 
 Pottery which used to stand near Deering s Woods at 
 Portland. 
 
 Just before he reached his seventy-second birthday he 
 called a friend s attention to the mysterious significant part 
 which the number eighteen had played in his life. " I 
 was eighteen years old when I took my college degree; 
 eighteen years afterward, I was married for the second 
 time; I lived with my wife eighteen years, and it is eigh 
 teen years since she died. . . . And then, by way of 
 parenthesis or epicycle, I was eighteen years professor in 
 the college here, and I have published eighteen separate 
 volumes of poems." 
 
 During these last years he was engaged in preparing his 
 "Poems of Places," which he called a "poetic guide 
 book." More than once the author of this sketch saw 
 him at the University Press superintending the proofs. 
 
HENRY WADSIVORTH LONGFELLOW xliii 
 
 The last volume which Longfellow himself published was 
 "Ultima Thule," which contained his verses in memory 
 of Burns. His last verses were written on the fifteenth of 
 March, 1882. They were touching and significant, like 
 Tennyson s and Whittiers: 
 
 O Bells of San Bias, in vain 
 Ye call back the past again, 
 
 The past is dead to your prayer. 
 Out of the shadow of night 
 The world rolls into light; 
 
 It is daybreak everywhere. 
 
 He had not been very well for some little time; in fact, 
 not since "a strange and sudden seizure" which befell 
 him in July, 1873, and which almost deprived him of the 
 use of his right hand and arm. On the eighteenth of 
 March he took a chill, was seized with peritonitis, and died 
 on the afternoon of Friday, the twenty-fourth. 
 
 In regard to his work the words which Motley quoted 
 in a letter to Longfellow in 1856 were appropriate to the 
 last: 
 
 " I heard a brother poet of yours, for whom I hope you 
 have as much regard as I have, say the other day that you 
 had not only written no line which dying you would wish 
 to blot, but not one which living you had not a right to be 
 proud of." 
 
 Pure as crystal are all his works. His life was likewise 
 lofty and blameless, sweet and unselfish. The greatest 
 tribute came to him from the spontaneous love of the chil 
 dren of his native land. Next to that the love and admira 
 tion of his friends; and not least the marble image which 
 enshrines his memory in the Poets Corner of Westminster 
 Abbey. 
 
xliv HENRY WADSWORTII LONGFELLOW 
 
 May this simple memorial be a single leaf contrib 
 uted by the son of one of his Brunswick pupils, to whom 
 also more than once he showed that unfailing courtesy 
 which made his life a perpetual benediction. 
 
 NATHAN UASKELL DOLE. 
 
VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 1839. 
 
 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 ; 
 I 
 
VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 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, 
 
PRELUDE. 
 
 Musing upon many things, 
 I sought the woodlands wide. 
 
 The green trees whispered low and mild ; 
 
 It was a sound of joy ! 
 They were my playmates when a child, 
 And rocked me in their arms so wild ! 
 Still they looked at me and smiled, 
 
 As if I were a boy ; 
 
 And ever whispered, mild and low, 
 " Come, be a child once more ! " 
 
 And waved their long arms to and fro, 
 
 And beckoned solemnly and slow ; 
 
 O, I could not choose but go 
 Into the woodlands hoar ; 
 
 Into the blithe and breathing air, 
 
 Into the solemn wood, 
 Solemn and silent everywhere ! 
 Nature with folded hands seemed there, 
 Kneeling at her evening prayer ! 
 
 Like one in prayer I stood. 
 
 Before me rose an avenue 
 
 Of tall and sombrous pines ; 
 Abroad their fan-like branches grew, 
 And, where the sunshine darted through, 
 Spread a vapor soft and blue, 
 
 In long and sloping lines. 
 
VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 And, falling on my weary brain, 
 
 Like a fast-falling shower, 
 The dreams of youth came back again ; 
 Low lispings of the summer rain, 
 Dropping on the ripened grain, 
 
 As once upon the flower. 
 
 Visions of childhood ! Stay, O stay ! 
 
 Ye were so sweet and wild ! 
 And distant voices seemed to say : 
 " It cannot be ! They pass away ! 
 Other themes demand thy lay ; 
 
 Thou art no more a child ! 
 
 " The land of Song within thee lies, 
 
 Watered by living springs ; 
 The lids of Fancy s sleepless eyes 
 Are gates unto that Paradise, 
 Holy thoughts, like stars, arise, 
 
 Its clouds are angels wings. 
 
 " Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be, 
 Not mountains capped with snow, 
 
 Nor forests sounding like the sea, 
 
 Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly, 
 
 Where the woodlands bend to see 
 The bending heavens below. 
 
 " There is a forest where the din 
 
 Of iron branches sound ! 
 A mighty river roars between, 
 And whosoever looks therein, 
 
PRELUDE. 
 
 Sees the heavens all black with sin, 
 Sees not its depths, nor bounds. 
 
 " Athwart the swinging branches cast, 
 
 Soft rays of sunshine pour ; 
 Then comes the fearful wintry blast ; 
 Our hopes, like withered leaves, fall fast ; 
 Pallid lips say, It is past ! 
 
 We can return no more ! 
 
 " Look, then, into thine heart, and write! 
 
 Yes, into Life s deep stream ! 
 All forms of sorrow and delight, 
 All solemn Voices of the Night, 
 That can soothe thee, or affright, 
 
 Be these henceforth thy theme." 
 
VOICES OF THE NIGHT, 
 
 oTcia, noTVia vvf , 
 
 *Epe/360ei> I6i /u.6Ae /noAe KaTaTrrep 
 
 Ayafj-f/j-vofiov enl SO/JLOV 
 
 VTTO "yap aA yetoi , VTTO re ar /u.</>opas 
 
 EURIPIDES. 
 HYMN TO THE NIGHT. 
 
 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. 
 
A PSALM OF LIFE. / 
 
 O holy Night ! from thee I learn to bear 
 
 What man has borne before ! 
 Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, 
 
 And they complain no more. 
 
 Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! 
 
 Descend with broad-winged flight, 
 The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, 
 
 The best-beloved Night ! 
 
 A PSALM OF LIFE. 
 
 WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO 
 THE PSALMIST. 
 
 TELL me not, in mournful numbers, 
 " Life is but an empty dream ! " 
 
 For the soul is dead that slumbers, 
 And things are not what they seem. 
 
 Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 
 
 And the grave is not its goal ; 
 " Dust thou art, to dust returnest, 1 
 
 Was not spoken of the soul. 
 
 Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 
 Is our destined end or way ; 
 
 But to act, that each to-morrow 
 Finds us farther than to-day. 
 
VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 Art is long, and Time is fleeting, 
 
 And our hearts, though stout and brave, 
 
 Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
 Funeral marches to the grave. 
 
 In the world s broad field of battle, 
 
 In the bivouac of Life, 
 Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! 
 
 Be a hero in the strife ! 
 
 Trust no Future, howe er pleasant ! 
 
 Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 
 Act, act in the living Present I 
 
 Heart within, and God o erhead ! 
 
 Lives of great men all remind us 
 We can make our lives sublime, 
 
 And, departing, leave behind us 
 Footprints on the sands of time ; 
 
 Footprints, that perhaps another, 
 Sailing o er life s solemn main, 
 
 A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 
 Seeing, shall take heart again. 
 
 Let us, then, be up and doing, 
 
 With a heart for any fate : 
 Still achieving, still pursuing, 
 
 Learn to labor and to wait. 
 
THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. 
 
 THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. 
 
 THERE is a Reaper, whose name is Death, 
 
 And, with his sickle keen, 
 He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, 
 
 And the flowers that grow between. 
 
 " Shall I have naught that is fair?" saith he, 
 ** Have naught but the bearded grain? 
 
 Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, 
 I will give them all back again." 
 
 He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, 
 
 He kissed their drooping leaves ; 
 It was for the Lord of Paradise 
 
 He bound them in his sheaves. 
 
 " My Lord has need of these flowerets gay/ 
 
 The Reaper said, and smiled ; 
 " Dear tokens of the earth are they, 
 
 Where he was once a child. 
 
 " They shall all bloom in fields of light, 
 
 Transplanted by my care, 
 And saints, upon their garments white, 
 
 These sacred blossoms wear." 
 
 And the mother gave, in tears and pain, 
 
 The flowers she most did love ; 
 She knew she should find them all again 
 
 In the fields of light above. 
 
10 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 O, not in cruelty, not in wrath, 
 The Reaper came that day ; 
 
 T was an angel visited the green earth, 
 And took the flowers away. 
 
 THE LIGHT OF STARS. 
 
 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? 
 O 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. 
 
FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. II 
 
 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. 
 
 O fear not in a world like this, 
 
 And thou shalt know ere long, 
 Know how sublime a thing it is 
 
 To suffer and be strong. 
 
 FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. 
 
 WHEN the hours of Day are numbered, 
 And the voices of the Night 
 
 Wake the better soul, that slumbered, 
 To a holy, calm delight ; 
 
 Ere the evening lamps are lighted, 
 And, like phantoms grim and tall, 
 
 Shadows from the fitful fire-light 
 Dance upon the parlor wall ; 
 
12 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 Then the forms of the departed 
 
 Enter at the open door ; 
 The beloved, the true-hearted, 
 
 Come to visit us 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 me 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. 
 
FLOWERS. 13 
 
 O, 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, 
 OneVho 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 us 
 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 flowers. 
 
 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. 
 
14 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 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 seeming ; 
 
 Workings are they of the self-same powers, 
 Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming, 
 
 Seeth in himself and in the flowers. 
 
 Everywhere about us are they glowing, 
 Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born ; 
 
 Others, their blue eyes with tears o erflowing, 
 Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn ; 
 
 Not alone in Spring s armorial bearing, 
 And in Summer s green-emblazoned field, 
 
 But in arms of brave old Autumn s wearing, 
 In the centre of his brazen shield ; 
 
 Not alone in meadows and green alleys, 
 On the mountain-top, and by the brink 
 
 Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys, 
 Where the slaves of Nature stoop to drink ; 
 
 Not alone in her vast dome of glory, 
 Not on graves of bird and beast alone, 
 
 But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, 
 On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone ; 
 
THE BELEAGUERED CITY. 
 
 In the cottage of the rudest peasant, 
 
 In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, 
 
 Speaking of the Past unto the Present, 
 Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers ; 
 
 In all places, then, and in all seasons, 
 Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, 
 
 Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, 
 How akin they are to human things. 
 
 And with childlike, credulous affection 
 We behold their tender buds expand ; 
 
 Emblems of our own great 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. 
 
1 6 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE D YING YEAR. 1 7 
 
 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 woe ! 
 
 Through woods and mountain passes 
 
 The winds, like anthems, roll ; 
 They are chanting solemn masses, 
 
 Singing, " Pray for this poor soul, 
 Pray, pray!" 
 
1 8 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 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 heatl^r, 
 
 Like weak, despised Lear, 
 A king, a king ! 
 
 Then comes the summer-like day, 
 
 Bids the old man rejoice ! 
 His joy ! his last ! O, 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 daughters 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, 
 
MIDA IGHTMASS FOR THE D YING YEAR. 1 9 
 
 Like the voice of one who crieth 
 In the wilderness alone, 
 " Vex not his ghost ! " 
 
 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 thus 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 ! 
 
EARLIER POEMS. 
 
 EARLIER POEMS. 
 
 [These poems were written for the most part during my college life, 
 and all of them before the age of nineteen. Some have found their 
 way into schools, and seem to be successful. Others lead a vaga 
 bond 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 neglected, 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 
 Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, 
 T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springs 
 
 The first flower of the plain. 
 
 I love the season well, 
 
 When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, 
 Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell 
 
 The coming on of storms. 
 
 From the earth s loosened mould 
 The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives ; 
 Though stricken to the heart with winter s cold, 
 
 The drooping tree revives. 
 
AUTUMN. 21 
 
 The softly-warbled song 
 
 Comes from the pleasant woods, and colored wings 
 Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along 
 
 The forest openings. 
 
 When the bright sunset fills 
 
 The silver woods with light, the green slope throws 
 Its shadows in the hollows of the hills, 
 
 And wide the upland glows. 
 
 And, when the eve is born, 
 In the blue lake the sky, o er-reaching far, 
 Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn, 
 
 And twinkles many a star. 
 
 Inverted in the tide, 
 
 Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw. 
 And the fair trees look over, side by side, 
 
 And see themselves below. 
 
 Sweet April ! many a thought 
 Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed ; 
 Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, 
 
 Life s golden fruit is shed. 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 WITH what 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 ; 
 
22 EARLIER POEMS. 
 
 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-crimsoned; 
 And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved, 
 Where autumn, like a faint old man, sits down 
 By the wayside a-weary. Through the trees 
 The golden robin moves. The purple finch, 
 That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds, 
 A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle, 
 And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud 
 From cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird sings, 
 And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke, 
 Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail 
 
 O what a glory doth this world put on 
 From 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 IN WINTER, 2$ 
 
 Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings ; 
 He shall so hear the solemn hymn, that Death 
 Has lifted up for all, that he shall go 
 To his long resting-place without a tear. 
 
 WOODS IN WINTER. 
 
 WHEN winter winds are piercing chill, 
 
 And through the hawthorn blows the gale, 
 
 With solemn feet I tread the hill, 
 That overbrows the lonely vale. 
 
 O er the bare upland, and away 
 
 Through the long reach of desert woods, 
 The embracing sunbeams chastely play, 
 
 And gladden these deep solitudes. 
 
 Where, twisted round the barren oak, 
 The summer vine in beauty clung, 
 
 And summer winds the stillness broke, 
 The crystal icicle is hung. 
 
 Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs 
 Pour out the river s gradual tide, 
 
 Shrilly the skater s iron rings, 
 And voices fill the woodland side. 
 
 Alas ! how changed from the fair scene, 
 When birds sang out their mellow lay, 
 
 And winds were soft, and woods were green, 
 And the song ceased not with the day. 
 
24 EARLIER POEMS. 
 
 But still wild music is abroad, 
 
 Pale, desert woods ! within your crowd ; 
 And gathering winds, in hoarse accord, 
 
 Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud . 
 
 Chill airs and wintry winds ! my ear 
 Has grown familiar with your song ; 
 
 I hear it in the opening year, 
 I listen, and it cheers me long. 
 
 HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF 
 BETHLEHEM. 
 
 AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKl s BANNER. 
 
 WHEN the dying flame of day 
 Through the chancel shot its ray, 
 Far the glimmering tapers shed 
 Faint light on the cowled head ; 
 And the censer burning swung, 
 Where, before the altar, hung 
 The blood-red banner, that with prayer 
 Had been consecrated there. 
 And the nuns sweet hymn was heard the while, 
 Sung low in the dim, mysterious aisle. 
 
 " Take thy banner ! May it wave 
 Proudly o er the good and brave ; 
 When the battle s distant wail 
 Breaks the sabbath of our vale, 
 
TY/ff MORA VIA N NUNS OF BE THLEHEM. 2 5 
 
 When the clarion s music thrills- 
 To the hearts of these lone hills, 
 When the spear in conflict shakes, 
 And the strong lance shivering breaks. 
 
 "Take thy banner! and, beneath 
 The battle-cloud s encircling wreath, 
 Guard it ! till our homes are free ! 
 * Guard it ! God will prosper thee ! 
 In the dark and trying hour, 
 In the breaking forth of power, 
 In the rush of steeds and men, 
 His right hand will shield thee then. 
 
 " 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 ! 
 
26 EARLIER POEMS. 
 
 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, 
 Was ringing to the merry shout, 
 That faint and far the glen sent out, 
 
THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. 2/ 
 
 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 air, 
 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-sandalled Eve, 
 In mourning weeds, from out the western gate, 
 Departs with silent pace ! That spirit moves 
 In the green valley, where the silver brook, 
 From its full laver, pours the white cascade ; 
 And, babbling low amid the tangled woods, 
 Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless 
 laughter. 
 
28 EARLIER^ POEMS. 
 
 And frequent, on the everlasting hills, 
 
 Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself 
 
 In all the dark embroidery of the storm, 
 
 And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid 
 
 The silent majesty of these deep woods, 
 
 Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth, 
 
 As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air 
 
 Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards 
 
 Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades. 
 
 For them there was an eloquent voice in all 
 
 The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun, 
 
 The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way, 
 
 Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds, 
 
 The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun 
 
 Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, 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 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 eye 
 The heaven of April, with its changing light, 
 And when it wears the blue of May, is hung, 
 And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair 
 
BURIAL OF THE MIA T A T ISINK. 2Q 
 
 Js 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. 
 
 BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK. 
 
 ON sunny slope and beechen swell, 
 The shadowed light of evening fell ; 
 And, where the maple s leaf was brown, 
 With soft and silent lapse came down 
 The glory, that the wood receives, 
 At sunset, in its brazen leaves. 
 
 Far upward in the mellow light 
 Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white, 
 Around a far uplifted cone, 
 In the warm blush of evening shone ; 
 An image of the silver lakes, 
 By which the Indian s soul awakes. 
 
 But soon a funeral hymn \vas heard 
 Where the soft breath of evening stirred 
 The tall, gray forest ; and a band 
 Of stern in heart, and strong in hand, 
 
30 EARLIER POEMS. 
 
 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. 
 
BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK. 31 
 
 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 2 TRA NSLA TIONS. 
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 [Don Jorge Manrique, the author of the following poem, flourished 
 in the last half of the fifteenth century. He followed 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 Ucles; and speaks of him as " a youth of estimable quali 
 ties, 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 exhibiting to the world the light of his genius, which was al 
 ready known to fame." He was mortally wounded in a skirmish 
 near Canavete, 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 
 Ucles; but, according to the poem of his son, in Ocana. It was 
 his death that called forth the poem upon which rests the literary 
 reputation of the younger Manrique. In the language of his histo 
 rian, "Don Jorge Manrique, in an elegant Ode, full of poetic beau 
 ties, rich embellishments 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. 
 
 O 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 ! 
 
CO PL AS DE MANRIQUE. 33 
 
 Swiftly our pleasures glide away, 
 
 Our hearts recall the distant day 
 
 With many sighs ; 
 
 The moments that are speeding fast 
 
 We heed not, but the past, the past, 
 
 More highly prize. 
 
 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 ; 
 
 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 grave ! 
 
 Thither all earthly pomp and boast 
 Roll, to be swallowed up and lost 
 In one dark wava. 
 
 Thither the mighty torrents stray, 
 Thither the brook pursues its way, 
 And tinkling rill. 
 
3 4 TRA NSLA TIONS. 
 
 There all are equal. Side by side 
 The poor man and the son of pride 
 Lie calm and still. 
 
 I will not here invoke the throng 
 
 Of orators and sons of song, 
 
 The deathless few ; 
 
 Fiction entices and deceives, 
 
 And, sprinkled o er her fragrant leaves, 
 
 Lies poisonous dew. 
 
 To One alone my thoughts arise, 
 
 The Eternal Truth, the Good and Wise, 
 
 To Him I cry, 
 
 Who shared on earth our common lot, 
 
 But 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, 
 In life we run the onward race, 
 And reach the goal ; 
 When, in the mansions of the blest, 
 Death leaves to its eternal rest 
 The weary soul. 
 
CO PL AS DE MANRIQ_UE. 35 
 
 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 accidents, and change, 
 
 That come to all ; 
 
 Even in the most exalted state, 
 
 Relentless sweeps the stroke of fate ; 
 
 The strongest fall. 
 
 Tell me, the charms that lovers seek 
 In the clear eye and blushing cheek, 
 The hues that play 
 
36 TRANSLA TIONS. 
 
 O er rosy lip and brow of snow, 
 When hoary age approaches slow, 
 Ah, where are they? 
 
 The cunning skill, the curious arts, 
 The glorious strength that youth imparts 
 In life s first stage ; 
 These shall become a heavy weight, 
 When Time swings wide his outward gate 
 To weary age. 
 
 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 father bore. 
 
 Wealth and the high estate of pride, 
 With what untimely speed they glide, 
 How soo: depart ! 
 
 Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay, 
 The vassals of a mistress they, 
 Of fickle heart. 
 
CO PL AS DE MANRIQUE. 37 
 
 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? 
 
 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 ; 
 
38 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 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. 
 
CO PL AS DE MANRIQUE. 39 
 
 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, 
 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 ? Where 
 
 Each royal prince and noble heir 
 
 Of Aragon? 
 
 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 ? 
 What but the garlands, gay and green, 
 That deck the tomb ? 
 
 Where are the high-born dames, and where 
 Their gay attire, and jewelled hair, 
 And odors sweet ? 
 
40 TRANS LA TIONS. 
 
 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? 
 
 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? 
 
 And he who next the sceptre swayed, 
 Henry, whose royal court displayed 
 Such power and pride ; 
 O, in what winning smiles arrayed, 
 The world its varipus pleasures laid 
 His throne beside ! 
 
 But O ! 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. 
 
 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 ; 
 
CO PL AS DE MANRIQUE. 41 
 
 The noble steeds, and harness bright, 
 And gallant lord, and stalwart knight, 
 In rich array, 
 
 Where shall we seek them now? Alas! 
 Like the bright dewdrops on the grass, 
 They passed away. 
 
 His brother, too, whose factious zeal 
 Usurped the sceptre of Castile, 
 Unskilled to reign ; 
 What a gay, brilliant court had he, 
 When all the flower of chivalry 
 Was in his train ! 
 
 But he was mortal ; and the breath, 
 That flamed from the hot forge of Death, 
 Blasted his years ; 
 
 Judgment of God ! that flame by thee, 
 When raging fierce and fearfully, 
 Was quenched in tears ! 
 
 Spain s haughty Constable, the true 
 And gallant Master, whom we knew 
 Most loved of all. 
 
 Breathe not a whisper of his pride, 
 He on the gloomy scaffold died, 
 Ignoble fall ! 
 
 The countless treasures of his care, 
 His hamlets green, and cities fair, 
 His mighty power, 
 
42 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 What were they all but grief and shame, 
 Tears and a broken heart, when came 
 The parting hour? 
 
 His other brothers, proud and high, 
 Masters, who, in prosperity, 
 Might rival kings ; 
 Who made the bravest and the best 
 The bondsmen of their high behest, 
 Their underlings ; 
 
 What was their prosperous estate, 
 When high exalted and elate 
 With power and pride ? 
 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 grave. 
 
 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. 
 
CO PL AS DE MANRIQUE. 43 
 
 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 ; 
 
44 TRANSLA TIONS. 
 
 Midway so many toils appear, 
 That he who lingers longest here 
 Knows most of care. 
 
 Thy goods are bought with many a groan, 
 
 By the hot sweat of toil alone, 
 
 And weary hearts ; 
 
 Fleet-footed is the approach of woe, 
 
 But with a lingering step and slow 
 
 Its form departs. 
 
 And he, the good man s shield and shade. 
 To whom all hearts their homage paid, 
 As Virtue s son, 
 Roderic Manrique, lie 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? 
 
 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! 
 
COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 45 
 
 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 
 
 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 ; 
 
46 TRANSLA TIONS. 
 
 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, 
 
 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. 
 
COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 47 
 
 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 ; 
 
48 TRANSLA TIONS. 
 
 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 Ocana 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. 
 
CO PL AS DE MANRIQUE. 49 
 
 ".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. 
 
 " 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, 
 
50 TRANSLA TIONS. 
 
 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, 
 O, pardon me ! " 
 
CO PL AS DE MANRIQUE. 5 I 
 
 As thus the dying warrior prayed, 
 Without one gathering mist or shade 
 Upon his mind ; 
 Encircled by his family, 
 Watched by affection s gentle eye 
 So soft and kind ; 
 
 His soul to Him, who gave it, rose ; 
 
 God 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. 1 
 
 1 This poem of Manrique is a great favorite in Spain. No less 
 than four poetic Glosses, or running commentaries, upon it have been 
 published, no one of which, however, possesses great poetic merit. 
 That of the Carthusian monk, Rodrigo de Valdepenas, is the best. 
 It is known as the Glosa del Cartujo. There is also a prose com 
 mentary by Luis de Aranda. 
 
 The following stanzas of the poem were found in the author s 
 pocket, after his death on the field of battle : 
 
 " 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. 
 
5 2 TRA NSLA TIONS. 
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD. 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA. 
 
 SHEPHERD ! that with thine amorous, sylvan song 
 
 Hast broken the slumber which encompassed me, 
 
 That mad st thy crook from the accursed tree, 
 
 On which thy powerful arms were stretched so long ! 
 
 Lead me to mercy s ever-flowing fountains : 
 
 For thou my shepherd, guard, and guide shalt be ; 
 
 I will obey thy voice, and wait to see 
 
 Thy feet all beautiful upon the mountains. 
 
 Hear, Shepherd ! thou who for thy flock art dying, 
 O, wash away these scarlet sins, for thou 
 Rejoicest at the contrite sinner s vow. 
 O, wait ! to thee my weary soul is crying, 
 Wait for me ! Yet why ask it, when I see, 
 With feet nailed to the cross, thou rt waiting still for 
 me ! 
 
 " 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. 
 
 " Thy goods are bought with many a groan, 
 By the hot sweat of toil alone, 
 And weary hearts ; 
 Fleet-footed is the approach of woe, 
 But with a lingering step and slow 
 Its form departs." 
 
THE NATIVE LAND. 53 
 
 TO-MORROW. 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA. 
 
 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? 
 O strange delusion ! that I did not greet 
 Thy blest approach, and O, 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, O ! how often to that voice of sorrow, 
 " To-morrow we will open," I replied, 
 And when the morrow came I answered still, " To 
 morrow." 
 
 THE NATIVE LAND. 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE ALDANA. 
 | 
 
 CLEAR fount of light ! my native land on high 
 Bright with a glory that shall never fade ! 
 Mansion of truth ! without a veil or shade, 
 Thy holy quiet meets the spirit s eye, 
 There dwells the soul in its ethereal essence, 
 Gasping no longer for life s feeble breath ; 
 
5 4 TRA NSLA T1ONS. 
 
 But, sentinelled in heaven, its glorious presence 
 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 FRANCISCO DE ALDANA. 
 
 O LORD ! that seest, from yon starry height, 
 Centred in one the future and the past, 
 Fashioned in thine own image, see how fast 
 The world obscures in me what once was 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 ! O let thy presence pass 
 Before my spirit, and an image fair 
 Shall meet that look of mercy from on high, 
 As the reflected image in a glass 
 Doth meet the look of him who seeks it there, 
 And owes its being to the gazer s eye. 
 
THE CELESTIAL PILOT. 55 
 
 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 shepherd 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 sweet simplicity of days gone by ! 
 Thou shun st the haunts of man, to dwell in limpid 
 
 fount ! 
 
 THE CELESTIAL PILOT. 
 
 FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, II. 
 
 AND now, behold ! as at the approach of morning, 
 Through the gross vapors, Mars grows fiery red 
 Down in the west upon the ocean floor, 
 
5 6 TRA NSLA TIONS. 
 
 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 conductor, 
 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 brightness into wings unfolded ; 
 
 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 ! 
 Henceforward shalt thou see such officers ! 
 
 " See, how he scorns all human arguments, 
 
 So that no oar he wants, nor other sail 
 
 Than his own wings, between so distant shores ! 
 
 " See, how he holds them, pointed straight to 
 
 heaven, 
 
 Fanning the air with the eternal pinions, 
 That do not moult themselves like mortal hair ! " 
 
 And then, as nearer and more near us came 
 The Bird of Heaven, more glorious he appeared, 
 So that the eye could not sustain his presence, 
 
THE TERRESTRIAL PARADISE. $? 
 
 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 out of Egypt ! " 
 
 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. PURGATORIO, XXVIII. 
 
 LONGING already to search in and round 
 The heavenly forest, dense and living-green, 
 Which to the eyes tempered the new-born day, 
 
 Withouten more delay I left the bank, 
 
 Crossing the level country slowly, slowly, 
 
 Over the soil, that everywhere breathed fragrance. 
 
 A gently-breathing air, that no mutation 
 Had in itself, smote me upon the forehead, 
 No heavier blow, than of a pleasant breeze, 
 
58 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Whereat the tremulous branches readily 
 
 Did all of them bow downward towards that side 
 
 Where its first shadow casts the Holy Mountain ; 
 
 Yet not from their upright direction bent 
 So that the little birds upon their tops 
 Should cease the practice of their tuneful art ; 
 
 But, with full-throated joy, the hours of prime 
 Singing received they in the midst of foliage 
 That made monotonous burden to their rhymes, 
 
 Even as from branch to branch it gathering swells, 
 Through the pine forests on the shore of Chiassi, 
 When yolus 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 farther course cut off a river, 
 
 Which, towards 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 hsve within themselves some mix 
 ture, 
 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. 
 
BE A TRICE. 59 
 
 BEATRICE. 
 
 FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, XXX., XXXI. 
 
 EVEN as the Blessed, in the new covenant, 
 Shall rise up quickened, each one from his grave, 
 Wearing again the garments of the flesh. 
 
 So, upon that celestial chariot, 
 
 A hundred rose ad vocem tanti senis, 
 
 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" 
 
 I once beheld, at the approach of day, 
 
 The orient sky all stained with roseate hues, 
 
 And the other heaven with light serene adorned, 
 
 And the sun s face uprising, overshadowed, 
 So that, by temperate influence of 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. 
 
60 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 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, 
 
 " O wherefore, lady, dost thou thus consume him? " 
 
 The ice, that was about my heart congealed, 
 To air and water changed, and, in my anguish, 
 Through lips and eyes came gushing from my breast. 
 
 Confusion and dismay, together mingled, 
 Forced such a feeble " Yes ! " out of my mouth, 
 To understand it one had need of sight. 
 
 Even as a cross-bow breaks, when t is discharged, 
 Too tensely drawn the bow-string and the bow, 
 And with less force the arrow hits the mark ; 
 
 So I gave way under this heavy burden, 
 
 Gushing forth into bitter tears and sighs, 
 
 And the voice, fainting, flagged upon its passage. 
 
SPRING. 6 1 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES D ORLE*ANS. 
 
 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 nigh ; 
 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. 
 
62 TRANS LA TIONS. 
 
 THE CHILD ASLEEP. 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH. 
 
 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 mothers 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 harm. 
 Wore not his cheek the apple s ruddy glow, 
 
 Would you not say he slept on Death s cold arm ? 
 
 Awake, my boy ! I tremble with affright ! 
 
 Awake, and chase this fatal thought ! Unclose 
 Thine eye but for one moment on the light ! 
 
 Even at the price of thine, give me repose ! 
 
 Sweet error ! he but slept, I breathe again ; 
 Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep beguile ! 
 
 O ! when shall he, for whom I sigh in vain, 
 Beside me watch to see thy waking smile ? 
 
THE GRAVE. 63 
 
 THE GRAVE. 
 
 FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON. 
 
 FOR thee was a house built 
 Ere thou wast born, 
 For thee was a mould meant 
 Ere thou of mother earnest. 
 But it is not made ready, 
 Nor its depth measured, 
 Nor is it seen 
 How long it shall be. 
 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 ; 
 
64 TRANSLA TIONS. 
 
 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 thea, 
 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 past ; 
 Then sank each hostile hulk and mast, 
 
 In mist and smoke. 
 
KING CHRISTIAN. 65 
 
 " Fly ! " shouted they, " fly, he who can ! 
 Who braves of Denmark s Christian 
 The stroke?" 
 
 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 
 
 Thy murky sky ! 
 
 From Denmark, thunders TordenskioP, 
 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, 
 
66 TRANSLA TIONS. 
 
 Proudly as them the tempest s might, 
 
 Dark-rolling wave ! 
 And amid pleasures and alarms, 
 And war and victory, be thine arms 
 
 My grave ! l 
 
 THE HAPPIEST LAND. 
 FRAGMENT OF A MODERN BALLAD. 
 
 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. 
 
 But. when the maid departed, 
 
 A Swabian raised his hand, 
 And cried, all hot and flushed with wine, 
 
 " Long live the Swabian land ! 
 
 1 Nils Juel was a celebrated Danish Admiral, and Peder Weasel, a 
 Vice-Admiral, who for his great prowess received the popular title of 
 Tordenskiold, or Thunder shield. In childhood he was a tailor s 
 apprentice, and rose to his high rank before the age of twenty-eigfct, 
 when he was killed in a duel. 
 
THE HAPPIEST LAND. <) 
 
 " The greatest kingdom upon earth 
 
 Cannot with that compare ; 
 With all the stout and hardy men 
 
 And the nut-brown maidens there. 1 
 
 "Ha!" cried a Saxon, laughing, 
 
 And dashed his beard with wine ; 
 " I had rather live in Lapland, 
 
 Than that Swabian land of thine ! 
 
 "The goodliest land on all this earth, 
 
 It is the Saxon land ! 
 There have I as many maidens 
 
 As fingers on this hand ! " 
 
 " Hold your tongues ! both Swabian and Saxon ! " 
 
 A bold Bohemian cries ; 
 "If there s a heaven upon this earth, 
 
 In Bohemia it lies. 
 
 " There the tailor blows the flute, 
 
 And the cobbler blows the horn, 
 And the miner blows the bugle, 
 
 Over mountain gorge and bourn." 
 
 And then the landlord s daughter 
 Up to heaven raised her hand, 
 
 And said, " Ye may no more contend, 
 There lies the happiest land ! " 
 
68 TRANSLA TIONS. 
 
 THE WAVE. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF TIEDGE, 
 
 "WHITHER, thou turbid wave? 
 Whither, with so much haste, 
 As if a thief wert thou ? " 
 
 "I am the Wave of Life, 
 Stained with my margin 1 s dust ; 
 From the struggle and the strife 
 Of the narrow stream I fly 
 To the Sea s immensity, 
 To wash from me the slime 
 Of the muddy banks of Time." 
 
 THE DEAD. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF KLOPSTOCK. 
 
 How they so softly rest, 
 All, all the holy dead, 
 Unto whose dwelling-place 
 Now doth my soul draw near I 
 How they so softly rest, 
 All in their silent graves, 
 Deep to corruption 
 Slowly down-sinking ! 
 
THE BIRD AND THE SHIP. 69 
 
 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 overshadowed, 
 Until the Angel 
 Calls them, they slumber ! 
 
 THE BIRD AND THE SHIP. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF MULLER. 
 
 " 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. 
 
70 TRANSLA TIONS. 
 
 " 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? 71 
 
 WHITHER? 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF MULLER. 
 
 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. 
 
 What do I say of a murmur? 
 
 That can no murmur be ; 
 T is the water-nymphs, that are singing 
 
 Their roundelays under me. 
 
 Let them sing, my friend, let them murmur, 
 
 And wander merrily near ; 
 The wheels of a mill are going 
 
 In every brooklet clear. 
 
72 TRANS LA TIONS. 
 
 BEWARE ! 
 
 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 ! 
 
SONG OF THE BELL. 73 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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 ! 
 
74 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 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 BLACK KXIGHT. / 5 
 
 "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? 
 Resplendent as the morning sun, 
 
 Beaming with golden hair? " 
 
 " Well saw I the ancient parents, 
 
 Without the crown of pride ; 
 They were moving slow, in weeds of woe, 
 
 No maiden was bv their side ! " 
 
 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 ; 
 44 So from the halls 
 Of ancient Hofburg s walls, 
 
 A luxuriant Spring shall break." 
 
?6 TRANS LA TIONS. 
 
 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. 
 
THE BLACK KNIGHT. 77 
 
 From breast and hair 
 Down fall from her the fair 
 
 Flowerets, faded, to the ground. 
 
 To the sumptuous banquet came 
 Every Knight and every Dame. 
 
 Twixt son and daughter all distraught, 
 With mournful mind 
 The ancient King reclined, 
 
 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 ; 
 
 O 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! " 
 Spake the grim Guest, 
 From his hollow, cavernous breast, 
 
 " Roses in the spring I gather ! " 
 
78 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 SONG OF THE SILENT LAND. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF SALIS. 
 
 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, O thither, 
 
 Into the Silent Land? 
 
 Into the Silent Land ! 
 
 To you, ye boundless regions 
 
 Of all perfection ! Tender morning visions 
 
 Of beauteous souls ! The Future s pledge and band ! 
 
 Who in Life s battle firm doth stand, 
 
 Shall bear Hope s tender blossoms 
 
 Into the Silent Land ! 
 
 O Land ! 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 
 
 Into the land of the great Departed, 
 
 Into the Silent Land ! 
 
* EN VOL 79 
 
 U ENVOI. 
 
 YE voices, that arose, 
 
 After the Evening s close, 
 
 And whispered to my restless heart repose ! 
 
 Go, breathe it in the ear 
 
 Of all who doubt and fear, 
 
 And say to them, " Be of good cheer!" 
 
 Ye sounds, so low and calm, 
 
 That in the groves of balm 
 
 Seemed to me like an angel s psalm ! 
 
 Go, mingle yet once more 
 
 With the perpetual roar 
 
 Of the pine forest, dark and hoar ! 
 
 Tongues of the dead, not lost, 
 But speaking from death s frost, 
 Like fiery tongues at Pentecost ! 
 
 Glimmer, as funeral lamps. 
 Amid the chills and damps 
 Of the vast plain where Death encamps! 
 
BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 THERE is one poem in this volume, in reference to 
 which a few introductory remarks may be useful. It is 
 "The Children of the Lord s Supper," from the Swedish 
 of Bishop Tegner; a poem which enjoys no inconsidera 
 ble reputation in the North of Europe, and for its beauty 
 and simplicity merits the attention of English readers. It 
 is an Idyl, descriptive of scenes in a Swedish village; and 
 belongs to the same class of poems, as the " Luise " of 
 Voss and the " Hermann und Dorothea " of Gothe. But 
 the Swedish Poet has been guided by a surer taste than 
 his German predecessors. His tone is pure and elevated; 
 and he rarely, if ever, mistakes what is trivial for what is 
 simple. 
 
 There is something patriarchal still lingering about 
 rural life in Sweden, which renders it a fit theme for song. 
 Almost primeval simplicity reigns over that Northern land, 
 almost primeval solitude and stillness. You pass out 
 from the gate of the city, and, as if by magic, the scene 
 changes to a wild, woodland landscape. Around you are 
 forests of fir. Overhead hang the long, fan-like branches, 
 trailing with moss, and heavy with red and blue cones. 
 Underfoot is a carpet of yellow leaves; and the air is warm 
 
 Si 
 
82 PREFACE. 
 
 and balmy. On a wooden bridge you cross a little silver 
 stream; and anon come forth into a pleasant and sunny 
 land of farms. Wooden fences divide the adjoining fields. 
 Across the road are gates, which are opened by troops of 
 children. The peasants take off their hats as you pass; 
 you sneeze, and they cry, "God bless you." The houses 
 in the villages and smaller towns are all built of hewn 
 timber, and for the most part painted red. The floors of 
 the taverns are strewn with the fragrant tips of fir boughs. 
 In many villages there are no taverns, and the peasants 
 take turns in receiving travellers. The thrifty housewife 
 shows you Into the best chamber, the walls of which are 
 hung round with rude pictures from the Bible; and brings 
 you her heavy silver spoons, an heirloom, to dip the 
 curdled milk from the pan. You have oaten cakes baked 
 some months before; or bread with anise-seed and cori 
 ander in it, or perhaps a little pine bark. 
 
 Meanwhile the sturdy husband has brought his horses 
 from the plough, and harnessed them to your carriage. 
 Solitary travellers come and go in uncouth one-horse chaises. 
 Most of them have pipes in their mouths, and hanging 
 around their necks in front, a leather wallet, in which they 
 carry tobacco, and the great bank notes of the country, as 
 large as your two hands. You meet, also, groups of Dale- 
 karlian peasant women, travelling homeward or town-ward 
 in pursuit of work. They walk barefoot, carrying in their 
 hands their shoes, which have high heels under the hollow 
 of the foot, and soles of birch bark. 
 
 Frequent, too, are the village churches, standing by the 
 roadside, each in its own little garden of Gethsemane. In 
 the parish register great events are doubtless recorded. 
 Some old king was christened or buried in that church; and 
 a. little sexton, with a rusty key, shows you the baptismal 
 
PREFACE. 83 
 
 font, or the coffin. In the churchyard are a few flowers, 
 and much green grass; and daily the shadow of the church 
 spire, with its long tapering finger, counts the tombs, rep 
 resenting a dial-plate of human life, on which the hours 
 and minutes are the graves of men. The stones are flat, 
 and large, and low, and perhaps sunken, like the roofs of 
 old houses. On some are armorial bearings; on others 
 only the initials of the poor tenants, with a date, as on the 
 roofs of Dutch cottages. They all sleep with their heads 
 to the westward. Each held a lighted taper in his hand 
 when he died ; and in his coffin were placed his little 
 heart-treasures, and a piece of money for his last journey. 
 Babes that came lifeless into the world were carried in the 
 arms of gray-haired old men to the only cradle they ever 
 slept in; and in the shroud of the dead mother were laid 
 the little garments of the child, that lived and died in her 
 bosom. And over this scene the village pastor looks from 
 his window in the stillness of midnight, and says in his 
 heart, " How quietly they rest, all the departed! " 
 
 Near the churchyard gate stands a poor-box, fastened to 
 a post by iron bands, and secured by a padlock, with a 
 sloping wooden roof to keep off the rain. If it be Sunday, 
 the peasants sit on the church steps and con their psalm- 
 books. Others are coming down the road with their beloved 
 pastor, who talks to them of holy things from beneath his 
 broad-brimmed hat. He speaks of fields and harvests, 
 and of the parable of the sower, that went forth to sow. 
 He leads them to the Good Shepherd, and to the pleasant 
 pastures of the spirit-land. He is their patriarch, and, 
 like Melchizedek, both priest and king, though he has no 
 other throne than the church pulpit. The women carry 
 psalm-books in their hands, wrapped in silk hankerchiefs, 
 and listen devoutly to the good man s words. But the 
 
84 PREFACE. 
 
 young men, like Gallic, care for none of these things. 
 They are busy counting the plaits in the kirtles of the 
 peasant girls, their number being an indication of the 
 wearer s wealth. It may end in a wedding. 
 
 I will endeavor to describe a village wedding in Sweden. 
 It shall be in summer time, that there may be flowers, and 
 in a southern province, that the bride may be fair. The 
 early song of the lark and of chanticleer are mingling in 
 the clear morning air, and the sun, the heavenly bride 
 groom with golden locks, arises in the east, just as our 
 earthly bridegroom with yellow hair, arises in the south. 
 In the yard there is a sound of voices and trampling of 
 hoofs, and horses are led forth and saddled. The steed 
 that is to bear the bridegroom has a bunch of flowers upon 
 his forehead, and a garland of corn-flowers around his 
 neck. Friends from the neighboring farms come riding 
 in, their blue cloaks streaming to the wind; and finally 
 the happy bridegroom, with a whip in his hand, and a 
 monstrous nosegay in the breast of his black jacket, comes 
 forth from his chamber; and then to horse and away, 
 towards the village where the bride already sits and waits. 
 
 Foremost rides the Spokesman, followed by some half- 
 dozen village musicians. Next comes the bridegroom be 
 tween his two groomsmen, and then forty or fifty friends 
 and wedding guests, half of them perhaps with pistols and 
 guns in their hands. A kind of baggage-wagon brings up 
 the rear, laden with food and drink for these merry pil 
 grims. At the entrance of every village stands a triumphal 
 arch, adorned with flowers and ribands and evergree.ns; 
 and as they pass beneath it the wedding guests fire a 
 salute, and the whole procession stops. And straight from 
 every pocket flies a black-jack, filled with punch or 
 brandy. It is passed from hand to hand among the 
 
PREFACE. 85 
 
 crowd; provisions are brought from the wagon, and after 
 eating and drinking and hurrahing, the procession moves 
 forward again, and at length draws near the house of the 
 bride. Four heralds ride forward to announce that a 
 knight and his attendants are in the neighboring forest, 
 and pray for hospitality. " How many are you? " asks the 
 bride s father. " At least three hundred," is the answer; 
 and to this the host replies, " Yes; were you seven times 
 as many, you should all be welcome; and in token thereof 
 receive this cup." Whereupon each herald receives a can 
 of ale; and soon after the whole jovial company comes 
 storming into the farmer s yard, and, riding round the May 
 pole, which stands in the centre, alights amid a grand 
 salute and flourish of music. 
 
 In the hall sits the bride, with a crown upon her head 
 and a tear in her eye, like the Virgin Mary in old church 
 paintings. She is dressed in a red bodice and kirtle, with 
 loose linen sleeves. There is a gilded belt around her 
 waist; and around her neck strings of golden beads, and 
 a golden chain. On the crown rests a wreath of wild 
 roses, and below it another of cypress. Loose over her 
 shoulders falls her flaxen hair; and her blue innocent 
 eyes are fixed upon the ground. O thou good soul ! thou 
 hast hard hands, but a soft heart ! Thou art poor. The 
 very ornaments thou wearest are not thine. They have 
 been hired for this great day. Yet art thou rich; rich in 
 health, rich in hope, rich in thy first, young, fervent love. 
 The blessing of heaven be upon thee ! So thinks the 
 parish priest, as he joins together the hands of bride 
 and bridegroom, saying in deep, solemn tones, "I give 
 thee in marriage this damsel, to be thy wedded wife in all 
 honor, and to share the half of thy bed, thy lock and key, 
 and every third penny which you two may possess, or may 
 
86 PREFACE. 
 
 inherit, and all the rights which Upland s laws provide, 
 and the holy king Erik gave." 
 
 The dinner is now served, and the bride sits between 
 the bridegroom and the priest. The Spokesman delivers 
 an oration after the ancient custom of his fathers. He 
 interlards it well with quotations from the Bible, and in 
 vites the Saviour to be present at this marriage feast, as 
 he was at the marriage feast in Cana of Galilee. The 
 table is not sparingly set forth. Each makes a long arm, 
 and the feast goes cheerly on. Punch and brandy pass 
 round between the courses, and here and there a pipe is 
 smoked, while waiting for the next dish. They sit long 
 at table; but, as all things must have an end, so must a 
 Swedish dinner. Then the dance begins. It is led off 
 by the bride and the priest, who perform a solemn minuet 
 together. Not till after midnight comes the last dance. 
 The girls form a ring around the bride, to keep her from 
 the hands of the married women, who endeavor to break 
 through the magic circle, and seize their new sister. After 
 long struggling they succeed; and the crown is taken from 
 her head and the jewels from her neck, and her bodice is 
 unlaced, and her kirtle taken off, and like a vestal virgin, 
 clad all in white, she goes, but it is to her marriage cham 
 ber, not to her grave; and the wedding guests follow her 
 with lighted candles in their hands. And this is a village 
 bridal. 
 
 Nor must I forget the suddenly changing seasons of the 
 Northern clime. There is no long and lingering spring, 
 unfolding leaf and blossom one by one; no long and 
 lingering autumn, pompous with many-colored leaves and 
 the glow of Indian summers. But winter and summer are 
 wonderful, and pass into each other. The quail has 
 hardly ceased piping in the corn, when winter from the 
 
PREFACE. S/ 
 
 folds of trailing clouds sows broadcast over the land snow, 
 icicles, and rattling hail. The days wane apace. Ere long 
 the sun hardly rises above the horizon, or does not rise at 
 all. The moon and the stars shine through the day; only, 
 at noon, they are pale and wan, and in the southern sky 
 a red, fiery glow, as of sunset, burns along the horizon, 
 and then goes out. And pleasantly under the silver moon, 
 and under the silent, solemn stars, ring the steel shoes of 
 the skaters on the frozen sea, and voices, and the sound 
 of bells. 
 
 And now the Northern Lights begin to burn, faintly at 
 first, like sunbeams playing in the waters of the blue sea. 
 Then a soft crimson glow tinges the heavens. There is a 
 blush on the cheek of night. The colors come and go, 
 and change from crimson to gold, from gold to crimson. 
 The snow is stained with rosy light. Twofold from the 
 zenith, east and west, flames a fiery sword; and a broad 
 band passes athwart the heavens, like a summer sunset. 
 Soft purple clouds come sailing over the sky, and through 
 their vapory folds the winking stars shine white as silver. 
 With such pomp as this is Merry Christmas ushered in, 
 though only a single star heralded the first Christmas. 
 And in memory of that day the Swedish peasants dance on 
 straw, and the peasant girls throw straws at the timbered 
 roof of the hall, and for every one that sticks in a crack 
 shall a groomsman come to their wedding. Merry Christ 
 mas indeed ! For pious souls there shall be church songs and 
 sermons, but for Swedish peasants, brandy and nut-brown 
 ale in wooden bowls, and the great Yulecake crowned 
 with a cheese, and garlanded with apples, and upholding 
 a three-armed candle-stick over the Christmas feast. They 
 may tell tales, too, of Jons Lundsbracka, and Lunkenfus, 
 and the great Riddar Finke of Pingsdaga. 1 
 1 Titles of Swedish popular tales. 
 
88 PREFACE. 
 
 And now the glad, leafy mid-summer, full of blossoms 
 and the song of nightingales, is come ! Saint John has 
 taken the flowers and festival of heathen Balder; and in 
 every village there is a May-pole fifty feet high, with 
 wreaths and roses and ribands streaming in the wind, and 
 a noisy weathercock on top, to tell the village whence the 
 wind cometh and whither it goeth. The sun does not set 
 till ten o clock at night, and the children are at play in 
 the streets an hour later. The windows and doors are all 
 open, and you may sit and read till midnight without a 
 candle. O how beautiful is the summer night, which is 
 not night, but a sunless yet unclouded day, descending 
 upon earth with dews, and shadows, and refreshing cool 
 ness ! How beautiful the long, mild twilight, which like 
 a silver clasp unites to-day with yesterday ! How beauti 
 ful the silent hour, when Morning and Evening thus sit 
 together, hand in hand, beneath the starless sky of mid 
 night. From the church-tower in the public square the 
 bell tolls the hour, with a soft, musical chime, and the 
 watchman, whose watch-tower is the belfry, blows a blast 
 in his horn, for each stroke of the hammer, and four times, 
 to the four corners of the heavens, in a sonorous voice he 
 chaunts, 
 
 " Ho ! watchman, ho ! 
 Twelve is the clock ! 
 God keep our town 
 From fire and brand 
 And hostile hand ! 
 Twelve is the clock ! " 
 
 From his swallow s nest in the belfry he can see the sun 
 all night long; and farther north the priest stands at his 
 door in the warm midnight, and lights his pipe with a 
 common burning glass. 
 
PREFACE. 89 
 
 I trust that these remarks will not be deemed irrelevant 
 to the poem, but will lead to a clearer understanding of it. 
 The translation is literal, perhaps to a fault. In no in 
 stance have I done the author a wrong, by introducing 
 into his work any supposed improvements or embellish 
 ments of my own. I have preserved even the measure^ 
 that inexorable hexameter, in which, it must be confessed, 
 the motions of the English Muse are not unlike those of a 
 prisoner dancing to the music of his chains; and perhaps, 
 as Dr. Johnson said of the dancing dog, " the wonder is 
 not that she should do it so well, but that she should do 
 it at all." 
 
 Esaias Tegner, the author of this poem, was born in 
 the parish of By in Warmland, in the year 1782. In 1799 
 he entered the University of Lund, as a student; and in 
 1812 was appointed Professor of Greek in that institution. 
 In 1824 he became Bishop of Wexio, which orifice he still 
 holds. He stands first among all the poets of Sweden, 
 living or dead. His principal work is Frithiofs Saga; one 
 of the most remarkable poems of the age. This modern 
 Scald has written his name in immortal runes. He is the, 
 glory and boast of Sweden; a prophet, honored in his own 
 country, and adding one more to the list of great names 
 that adorn her history. 
 
 1841. 
 
BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 
 1841. 
 
 THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 
 
 [THE following Ballad was suggested to me while riding on the 
 sea-shore at Newport. A year or two previous a skeleton had 
 been dug up at Fall River, clad in broken and corroded armor ; 
 and the idea occurred to me of connecting it with the Round 
 Tower at Newport, generally known hitherto as the Old Wind- 
 Mill, though now claimed by the Danes as a work of their early 
 ancestors. Professor Rafn. in the Memoires de la Societe Royalc 
 des Antiquaires du Nord for 1838-1839, says : 
 
 " There is no mistaking in this instance the style in which 
 the more ancient stone edifices of the North were constructed, 
 the style which belongs to the Roman or Ante-Gothic architec 
 ture, and which, especially after the time of Charlemagne, dif 
 fused itself from Italy over the whole of the West and North of 
 Europe, where it continued to predominate until the close of 
 the 1 2th century; that style, which some authors have, from 
 one of its most striking characteristics, called the round arch 
 style, the same which in England is denominated Saxon and 
 sometimes Norman architecture. 
 
 " On the ancient structure in Newport there are no ornaments 
 remaining, which might possibly have served to guide us in 
 
92 HALL ADS AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 assigning the probable date of its erection. That no vestige 
 whatever is found of the pointed arch, nor any approximation to 
 it, is indicative of an earlier rather than of a later period. From 
 such characteristics as remain, however, we can scarcely form 
 any other inference than one, in which I am persuaded that all, 
 who are familiar with Old-Northern architecture, will concur, 
 
 THAT THIS BUILDING WAS ERECTED AT A PERIOD DE 
 CIDEDLY NOT LATER THAN THE I2TH CENTURY. This re 
 mark applies, of course, to the original building only, and not 
 to the alterations that it subsequently receives ; for there are 
 several such alterations in the upper part of the building which 
 cannot be mistaken, and which were most likely occasioned by 
 its being adapted in modern times to various uses, for example 
 as the substructure of a wind-mill, and latterly as a hay maga 
 zine. To the same times may be referred the windows, the fire 
 place, and the apertures made above the columns. That this 
 building could not have been erected for a wind-mill is what 
 an architect will easily discern." 
 
 I will not enter into a discussion of the point. It is suffi 
 ciently well established for the purpose of a ballad; though 
 doubtless many an honest citizen of Newport, who has passed 
 his days within sight of the Round Tower, will be ready to 
 exclaim with Sancho, " God bless me ! did I not warn you to 
 have a care of what you were doing, for that it was nothing but 
 a wind-mill ; and nobody could mistake it, but one who had the 
 like in his head."] 
 
 SPEAK ! speak ! thou fearful guest 
 Who, with thy hollow breast 
 Still in rude armor drest, 
 
 Comest to daunt me ! 
 Wrapt not in Eastern balms, 
 But with thy fleshless palms 
 Stretched, as if asking alms, 
 
 Why dost thou haunt me ? " 
 
THE SKELETOX IN ARMOR- 93 
 
 Then, from those cavernous eyes 
 Pale flashes seemed to rise. 
 As when the Northern skies 
 
 Gleam in December : 
 And, like the water s flow 
 Under December s snow, 
 Came a dull voice of woe 
 
 From the heart s chamber. 
 
 I was a Viking old ! 
 
 My deeds, though manifold. 
 
 No Skald in song has told. 
 
 No Saga taught thee ! 
 Take heed, that in thy verse 
 Thou dost the tale rehearse. 
 Else dread a dead man s curse : 
 
 For this I sought thee. 
 
 " Far in the Northern Land, 
 By the wild Baltic s strand, 
 I, with my childish hand, 
 
 Tamed the gerfalcon : 
 And. with my skates fast-bound. 
 Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, 
 That the poor whimpering hound 
 
 Trembled to walk on. 
 
 Oft to his frozen lair 
 Tracked I the grizzly bear. 
 While from my path the hare 
 Fled like a shadow : 
 
94 BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Oft through the forest dark 
 Followed the were-wolfs bark, 
 Until the soaring lark 
 
 .Sang from the meadow. 
 
 " But when I older grew, 
 Joining a corsair s crew, 
 O er the dark sea I flew 
 
 With the marauders. 
 Wild was the life we led ; 
 Many the souls that sped, 
 Many the hearts that bled, 
 
 By our stern orders. 
 
 " Many a wassail-bout 
 Wore the long Winter out ; 
 Often our midnight shout 
 
 Set the cocks crowing, 
 As we the Berserk s tale 
 Measured in cups of ale, 
 Draining the oaken pail, 
 
 Filled to o erflowing. 
 
 " Once as I told in glee 
 Tales of the stormy sea, 
 Soft eyes did gaze on me, 
 Burning yet tender ; 
 And as the white stars shine 
 On the dark Norway pine, 
 On that dark heart of mine 
 
 Fell their soft splendor. 
 
THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 95 
 
 " 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, 
 Chaunting 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 ! 
 
96 BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 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 ! 
 Mid-ships with iron keel 
 Struck we her ribs of steel ; 
 Down her black hulk did reel 
 
 Through the black water ! 
 
PHE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 
 
 " 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 lee-ward ; 
 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 ! 
 
98 BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 In the vast forest here, 
 Clad in my warlike gear, 
 Fell I upon my spear, 
 
 O, death was grateful ! 
 
 " Thus, seamed with many scars 
 Bursting these prison bars, 
 Up to its native stars 
 
 My soul ascended ! 
 There from the flowing bowl 
 Deep drinks the warrior s soul, 
 Skoal! to the Northland! skoal!"*- 
 
 Thus the tale ended. 
 
 THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 
 
 IT was the Schooner Hesperus, 
 
 That sailed the wintry sea ; 
 And the skipper had taken his little daughter, 
 
 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. 
 
 1 In Scandinavia this is the customary salutation when drinking a 
 health. I have slightly changed the orthography of the word, in 
 order to preserve the correct pronunciation. 
 
THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 99 
 
 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 Sailor, 
 
 Had sailed the Spanish Main, 
 " I pray thee, put into yonder port, 
 
 For I fear a hurricane. 
 
 " Last night the moon had a golden ring, 
 
 And to-night no moon we see ! " 
 The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe* 
 
 And a scornful laugh laughed he. 
 
 Colder and colder blew the wind, 
 
 A gale from the North-east ; 
 The snow fell hissing in the brine, 
 
 And the billows frothed like yeast. 
 
 Down came the storm, and smote amain, 
 
 The vessel in its strength ; 
 She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, 
 
 Then leaped her cable s length. 
 
 " Come hither! come hither! my little daught&t. 
 
 And do not tremble so ; 
 For I can weather the roughest gale, 
 
 That ever wind did blow. 1 
 
 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. 
 
100 BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 " O father ! I hear the church-bells ring, 
 
 O 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, 
 
 O say, what may it be?" 
 " Some ship in distress, that cannot live 
 
 In such an angry sea ! " 
 
 " O father ! I see a gleaming light, 
 
 O say, what may it be ? " 
 But the father answered never a word, 
 
 A frozen corpse was he. 
 
 Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, 
 With his face turned to the skies, 
 
 The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow 
 On his fixed and glassy eyes. 
 
 Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed 
 
 That saved she might be ; 
 And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, 
 
 On the Lake of Galilee. 
 
 And fast through the midnight dark and drear, 
 Through the whistling sleet and snow, 
 
 Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept 
 Towards the reef of Norman s Woe. 
 
 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, 
 
THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. IOI 
 
 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 \vaves 
 
 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 : 
 
 Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, 
 Ho ! ho ! the breakers roared ! 
 
 At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, 
 
 A fisherman stood aghast, 
 To see the form of a maiden fair, 
 
 Lashed 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 ! 
 
102 BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 THE LUCK OF EDENHALL. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. 
 
 [The tradition, upon which this ballad is founded, and the " shards of 
 the Luck of Edenhall," still exist in England. The goblet is in the 
 possession of Sir Christopher Musgrave, Bart., of Eden Hall, Cum 
 berland ; and is not so entirely shattered, as the ballad leaves it.] 
 
 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 gray-beard with trembling hand obeys ; 
 
 A purple light shines over all, 
 
 It beams from the Luck of Edenhall. 
 
 Then speaks the Lord, and waves it light, 
 " This glass of flashing crystal tall 
 Gave to my sires the Fountain-Sprite ; 
 She wrote in it, If this glass doth fall, 
 Farewell then, O Luck of Edenhall ! 
 
THE LUCK OF EDENHALL. 1 03 
 
 T was 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 gray-beard in the desert hall, 
 
104 BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 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. 
 
 [The following strange and somewhat mystical ballad is from Nyerup 
 and Rahbek s Danske Viser of the Middle Ages. It seems to refer 
 to the first preaching of Christianity in the North, and to the institu 
 tion of Knight- Errantry. The three maidens I suppose to be Faith, 
 Hope, and Charity. The irregularities of the original have been 
 carefully preserved in the translation.] 
 
 SIR OLUF he rideth over the plain, 
 Full seven miles broad and seven miles wide, 
 
 But never, ah never can meet with the man 
 A tilt with him dare ride. 
 
 He saw under the hillside 
 
 A Knight full well equipped ; 
 His steed was black, his helm was barred ; 
 
 He was riding at full speed. 
 
THE ELECTED KNIGHT. 1 05 
 
 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 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 cftsoon 
 If he were come from heaven down ; 
 
 " Art thou Christ of Heaven, 1 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. 
 
106 BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 " Art thou a Knight elected, 
 
 And have three Maidens thee bedight ; 
 So shalt thou ride a tilt this day, 
 
 For all the Maidens 1 honor ! " 
 
 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 CHILDREN OF 
 
 THE LORD S SUPPER 
 
 FROM THE SWEDISH OF BISHOP TEGNER. 
 
 PENTECOST, day of rejoicing, had come. The church 
 
 of the village 
 Gleaming stood in the morning s sheen. On the 
 
 spire of the belfry, 
 Tipped with a vane of metal, the friendly flames of 
 
 the Spring-sun 
 Glanced like the tongues of fire, beheld by Apostles 
 
 aforetime. 
 Clear was the heaven and blue, and May, with her 
 
 cap crowned with roses, 
 Stood in her holiday dress in the fields, and the 
 
 wind and the brooklet 
 Murmured gladness and peace, God s-peace ! with 
 
 lips rosy-tinted 
 Whispered the race of the flowers, and merry on 
 
 balancing branches 
 Birds were singing their carol, a jubilant hymn to 
 
 the Highest. 
 Swept and clean was the churchyard. Adorned 
 
 like a leaf-woven arbor 
 107 
 
108 THE CHILDREN OF 
 
 Stood its old-fashioned gate ; and within upon each 
 
 cross of iron 
 Hung was a fragrant garland, new twined by the 
 
 hands of affection. 
 Even the dial, that stood on a hillock among the 
 
 departed, 
 (There full a hundred years had it stood,) was 
 
 embellished with blossoms. 
 Like to the patriarch hoary, the sage of his kith and 
 
 the hamlet, 
 Who on his birthday is crowned by children and 
 
 children s children, 
 So stood the ancient prophet, and mute with his 
 
 pencil of iron 
 Marked on the tablet of stone, and measured the 
 
 time and its 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 ot 
 
 the Leafy Pavilions 1 
 
 1 The Feast of the Tabernacles; in Swedish, LofhydaoJidgtiden, 
 the Leaf-huts -high-tide. 
 
THE LORD^S SUPPER. IOQ 
 
 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 Horberg, 1 
 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 from 
 
 the organ, 
 Hover like voices from God, aloft like invisible 
 
 spirits. 
 
 1 The peasant-painter of Sweden. He is known chiefly by his 
 altar-pieces in the village churches. 
 
110 THE CHILDREN OF 
 
 Like as Elias in heaven, when he cast off from him 
 
 his mantle, 
 Even so cast off the soul its garments of earth ; and 
 
 with one voice 
 Chimed in the congregation, and sang an anthem 
 
 immortal 
 Of the sublime Wallin, 1 of David s harp in the 
 
 North-land 
 Tuned to the choral of Luther; the song on its 
 
 powerful pinions 
 Took every living soul, and lifted it gently to 
 
 heaven, 
 And every face did shine like the Holy One s face 
 
 upon Tabor. 
 Lo ! there entered then into the church the Reverend 
 
 Teacher. 
 Father he hight and he was in the parish ; a chris- 
 
 tianly plainness 
 Clothed from his head to his feet the old man of 
 
 seventy winters. 
 
 Friendly was he to behold, and glad as the herald 
 ing angel 
 
 Walked he among the crowds, but still a contem 
 plative 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) 
 
 1 A distinguished pulpit-orator and poet. He is particularly re 
 markable for the beauty and sublimity of his psalms. 
 
THE LORD S SUPPER. Ill 
 
 Th Artist, the friend of heaven, imagines Saint 
 
 John when in Patmos, 
 Gray, with his eyes uplifted to heaven, so seemed 
 
 then the old man ; 
 Such was the glance of his eye, and such were his 
 
 tresses of silver. 
 All the congregation arose in the pews that were 
 
 numbered. 
 But with a cordial look, to the right and the left 
 
 hand, the old man, 
 Nodding all hail and peace, disappeared in the 
 
 innermost chancel. 
 
 Simply and solemnly now proceeded the Christian 
 
 service, 
 Singing and prayer, and at last an ardent discourse 
 
 from the old man. 
 Many a moving word and warning, that out of the 
 
 heart came, 
 Fell like the dew of the morning, like manna on 
 
 those in the desert. 
 Afterwards, when all was finished, the Teacher 
 
 re-entered the chancel, 
 Followed therein by the young. On the right hand 
 
 the boys had their places, 
 Delicate figures, with close-curling hair and cheeks 
 
 rosy-blooming. 
 
 But on the left-hand of these, there stood the tremu 
 lous lilies, 
 Tinged with the blushing light of the morning, the 
 
 diffident maidens, 
 
112 THE CHILDREN OF 
 
 Folding their hands in prayer, and their eyes cast 
 down on the pavement. 
 
 Now came, with question and answer, the cate 
 chism. 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. 
 
 Whene er the answer was closed, and as oft as they 
 named the Redeemer, 
 
 Lowly louted the boys, and lowly the maidens al\ 
 courtesied. 
 
 Friendly the Teacher stood, like an angel of light 
 there among them, 
 
 And to the children explained he the holy, the high 
 est, 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. 
 
 Even as the green-growing bud is unfolded when 
 Springtide approaches, 
 
 Leaf by leaf is developed, and, warmed by the 
 radiant sunshine, 
 
 Blushes with purple and gold, till at last the per 
 fected blossom 
 
 Opens its odorous chalice, and rocks with its crown 
 in the breezes, 
 
 So was unfolded here the Christian lore of salva 
 tion, 
 
THE LORD S SUPPER. 113 
 
 Line by line from the soul of childhood. The 
 
 fathers and mothers 
 Stood behind them in tears, and were glad at each 
 
 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. 
 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 
 
ii4 THP: CHILDREN OF 
 
 Rains from the heaven downward ; to-day on the 
 
 threshold of childhood 
 Kindly she frees you again, to examine and make 
 
 your election, 
 For she knows 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 de- 
 
 parteth 
 Now from your lips the confession ; Bethink ye, 
 
 before ye make answer! 
 Think not, O 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? 
 Will ye promise me here, (a holy promise!) to 
 
 cherish 
 
THE LORD S SUPPER. 115 
 
 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 1 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 thunders therein, and he spake in 
 
 accents more gentle, 
 Soft as the evening s breath, as harps by Babylon s 
 
 rivers. 
 
 " Hail, then, hail to you all ! To the heirdom of 
 
 heaven be ye welcome ! 
 Children no more from this day, but by covenant 
 
 brothers and sisters ! 
 Yet, for what reason not children? Of such is the 
 
 kingdom of heaven. 
 Here upon earth an assemblage of children, in 
 
 heaven one Father, 
 Ruling them all as his household, forgiving in turn 
 
 and chastising, 
 That is of human life a picture, as Scripture has 
 
 taught us. 
 Blessed are the pure before God ! Upon purity and 
 
 upon virtue 
 
Il6 THE CHILDREN OF 
 
 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. 
 O ! as ye wander this day from childhood s sacred 
 
 asylum 
 Downward and ever downward, and deeper in Age s 
 
 chill valley, 
 O ! how soon will ye come, too soon ! and long 
 
 to turn backward 
 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 Inno 
 cence, bride of man s childhood. 
 
THE LORD S SUPPER. 1 1/ 
 
 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 faith 
 ful and humble, 
 Follows so long as she may her friend; O do not 
 
 reject her, 
 For she cometh from God and she holdeth the keys 
 
 of the heavens. 
 
 Prayer is Innocence friend ; and willingly flyeth in 
 cessant 
 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 flames 
 
 ever upward. 
 Still he recalls with emotion his father s manifold 
 
 mansions, 
 Thinks of the land of his fathers, where blossomed 
 
 more freshly the flowers, 
 Shone a more beautiful sun, and he played with the 
 
 winged angels. 
 Then grows the earth too narrow, too close; and 
 
 homesick for heaven 
 
Il8 THE CHILDREN OF 
 
 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 prosper 
 ous with us, 
 Pray in fortunate days, for life s most beautiful 
 
 Fortune 
 Kneels down 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? 
 Therefore, fall in the dust and pray ! The seraphs 
 
 adoring 
 Cover with pinions six their face in the glory of him 
 
 who 
 Hung his masonry pendant on naught, when the 
 
 world he created. 
 Earth declareth his might, and the firmament utter- 
 
 eth his glory. 
 
THE LORD S SUPPER. I IQ 
 
 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? This awful 
 
 avenger, 
 Ah ! is a merciful God ! God s voice was not in the 
 
 earthquake, 
 
 Not in the fire, nor the storm, but it was in the whis 
 pering 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, O quench not that flame ! It is the breath 
 
 of your being. 
 Love is life, but hatred is death. Not father, nor 
 
 mother 
 
120 777.fi: CHILDREN*OF 
 
 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 vail of the tem 
 ple, 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? 
 Readest thou not in his face thine origin? Is he not 
 
 sailing 
 
THE- LORD S SUPPER. 121 
 
 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 round his temples? 
 Earnestly prayed for his foes, for his murderers? 
 
 Say, dost thou know him ? 
 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. 
 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 
 
122 THE CHILDREN OF 
 
 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 de 
 scending. 
 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, 
 
THE LORD S SUPPER. 12$ 
 
 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, 
 
124 THE CHILDREN OF 
 
 Nobler, better than I ; they stand by the throne all 
 
 transfigured, 
 Vested in white, and with harps of gold, and are 
 
 singing an anthem, 
 Writ in the climate of heaven, in the language 
 
 spoken by angels. 
 You, in like manner, ye children beloved, he one 
 
 day shall gather, 
 Never forgets he the weary; then welcome, ye 
 
 loved ones, hereafter ! 
 Meanwhile forget not the keeping of vows, forget not 
 
 the promise, 
 Wander from holiness 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, 
 
THE LORD S SUPPER. 12$ 
 
 Father, lo ! I am here, and the children, whom 
 thou hast given me ! " 
 
 Weeping he spake in these words ; and now at 
 
 the beck of the old man 
 Knee against knee they knitted a wreath round the 
 
 altar s enclosure. 
 
 Kneeling he read then the prayers of the consecra 
 tion, 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 grave-yard ! 
 Some one perhaps of yourselves, a lily broken 
 
 untimely, 
 Bow down his head to the earth ; why delay I ? the 
 
 hour is accomplished. 
 Warm is the heart ; I will so ! for to-day grows 
 
 the harvest of heaven. 
 
126 THE CHILDREN OF 
 
 What I begun accomplish I now ; for what failing 
 therein is 
 
 I, the old man, will answer to God and the reverend 
 father. 
 
 Say to me only, ye children, ye denizens new-come 
 in heaven, 
 
 Are ye ready this day to eat of the bread of Atone 
 ment? 
 
 What it denoteth, that know ye full well, I have 
 told it you often. 
 
 Of the new covenant a symbol it is, of Atonement 
 a token, 
 
 Stablished between earth and heaven. Man by his 
 sins and transgressions 
 
 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 like 
 wise. 
 
 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 life 
 time of mortals. 
 
 Brought forth is sin full-grown ; but Atonement 
 sleeps in our bosoms 
 
 Still as the cradled babe ; and dreams of heaven 
 and of angels, 
 
THE LORD S SUPPER. 12? 
 
 Can not awake to sensation ; is like the tones in the 
 
 harp s strings, 
 
 Spirits imprisoned, that wait evermore the deliver 
 er 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, 
 Loves and atones evermore. So long as Time is, is 
 
 Atonement. 
 Therefore with reverence receive this day her visible 
 
 token. 
 Tokens are dead if the things do not live. The light 
 
 everlasting 
 Unto the blind man is not, but is born of -the eye 
 
 that has vision. 
 Neither in bread nor in wine, but in the heart that is 
 
 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 
 
128 THE CHILDREN OF 
 
 Purified forth from the flames ; in a word, mankind 
 
 by Atonement 
 
 Breaketh Atonement s bread, and drinketh Atone 
 ment 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 trans 
 gressions, 
 Hear us ! give us thy peace ! have mercy, have mercy 
 
 upon us ! 
 Th 1 old man, with trembling hand, and heavenly 
 
 pearls on his eyelids, 
 Filled now the chalice and paten, and dealt round 
 
 the mystical symbols. 
 O! then seemed it to me as if God, with the broad 
 
 eye of mid-day, 
 Clearer looked in at the windows, and all the trees in 
 
 the churchyard 
 
7777i LORD S SUPPER. 1 29 
 
 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 icy 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, weep 
 ing 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. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 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. 
 
 And children coming home from school 
 Look in at the open door ; 
 
1 3 2 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 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 daughters voice, 
 Singing in the village choir, 
 
 And it makes his heart rejoice. 
 
 It sounds to him like her mother s voice, 
 
 Singing in Paradise ! 
 He needs must think of her once more, 
 
 How in the grave she lies ; 
 And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 
 
 A tear out of his eyes. 
 
 Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing, 
 Onward through life he goes ; 
 
 Each morning sees some task begin, 
 Each evening sees it close ; 
 
 Something attempted, something done, 
 Has earned a night s repose. 
 
 Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 
 For the lesson thou hast taught ! 
 
 Thus at the flaming forge of life 
 Our fortunes must be wrought ; 
 
 Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
 Each burning deed and thought ! 
 
ENDYMION. 133 
 
 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, unaskt, 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. 
 
1 34 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 O, weary hearts ! O, slumbering eyes ! 
 O, drooping souls, whose destinies 
 
 Are fraught with fear and pain, 
 
 Ye shall be loved again ! 
 
 No one is so accurst by fate, 
 No one so utterly desolate, 
 
 But some heart, though unknown, 
 
 Responds unto his own. 
 
 Responds, as if with unseen wings, 
 An angel touched its quivering strings ; 
 And whispers, in its song, 
 " Where hast thou stayed so long ! " 
 
 THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF PFIZER. 
 
 A YOUTH, light-hearted and content, 
 I wander through the world ; 
 
 Here, Arab-like, is pitched my tent 
 And straight again is furled. 
 
 Yet oft I dream, that once a wife 
 Close in my heart was locked, 
 
 And in the sweet repose of life 
 A blessed child I rocked. 
 
THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR. 135 
 
 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. 
 
1 36 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY. 
 
 NO HAY PAJAROS EN LOS NIDOS DE ANTANO. 
 
 Spanish Proverb. 
 
 THE sun is bright, the air is clear, 
 The darting swallows soar and sing, 
 
 And from the stately elms I hear 
 The blue-bird prophesying Spring. 
 
 So blue yon winding river flows, 
 It seems an outlet from the sky, 
 
 Where waiting till the west wind blows, 
 The freighted clouds at anchor lie. 
 
 All things are new ; the buds, the leaves, 
 That gild the elm-tree s nodding crest, 
 
 And even the nest beneath the eaves ; 
 There are no birds in last year s nest ! 
 
 All things rejoice in youth and love, 
 The fulness of their first delight ! 
 
 And learn from the soft heavens above 
 The melting tenderness of night. 
 
 Maiden, that read st this simple rhyme, 
 Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay; 
 
 Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, 
 For O ! it is not always May ! 
 
 Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth, 
 To some good angel leave the rest ; 
 
 For Time will teach thee soon the truth, 
 There are no birds in last year s nest ! 
 
GOD S-ACRE. 137 
 
 THE RAINY DAY. 
 t 
 
 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. 
 
 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 breaths a benison o er the sleeping dust. 
 
 GodVAcre ! 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. 
 
1 3 8 MISCELLANE O US. 
 
 Into its furrows shall we all be cast, 
 
 In the sure faith, that we shall rise again 
 
 At the great harvest, when the arch-angel 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, turnup 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. 
 
TO THE RIVER CHARLES. 139 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
1 40 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 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, 
 /ue ! 
 
 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 !" 
 ae ! 
 
THE GOBLET OF LIFE. 14! 
 
 Then saith the Christ, as silent stands 
 The crowd, " What wilt thou at my hands?" 
 And he replies, " O give me light ! 
 Rabbi, restore the blind man s sight !" 
 And Jesus answers, 
 H nlang crov (jfVwxe ae 
 
 Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see, 
 In darkness and in misery, 
 Recall those mighty Voices three, 
 
 nctye 
 C H ntdTig aov ae crwx^ as ! 
 
 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 chaunt 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. 
 
142 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 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 it is 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 ! 
 
THE GOBLET OF LIFE. 143 
 
 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 ! 
 
 ye afflicted ones, who lie 
 Steeped to the lips in misery, 
 Longing, and yet afraid to die, 
 
 Patient, though sorely tried ! 
 
 1 pledge you in this cup of grief, 
 Where floats the fennel s bitter leaf! 
 The Battle of our Life is brief, 
 
 The alarm, the struggle, the relief, 
 Then sleep we side by side. 
 
1 44 MIS CELL A NE O US. 
 
 MAIDENHOOD. 
 
 MAIDEN ! with the meek, brown eyes, 
 In whose orbs a shadow lies 
 Like the dusk in evening skies ! 
 
 Thou whose locks outshine the sun, 
 Golden tresses, wreathed in one, 
 As the braided streamlets run ! 
 
 Standing, with reluctant feet, 
 Where the brook and river meet, 
 Womanhood and childhood fleet ! 
 
 Gazing, with a timid glance, 
 On the brooklet s swift advance, 
 On the river s broad expanse ! 
 
 Deep and still, that gliding stream 
 Beautiful to thee must seem, 
 As the river of a dream. 
 
 Then why pause with indecision, 
 When bright angels in thy vision 
 Beckon thee to fields Elysian? 
 
 Seest thou shadows sailing by, 
 As the dove, with startled eye, 
 Sees the falcon s shadow fly? 
 
 Hearest thou voices on the shore, 
 That our ears perceive no more, 
 Deafened by the cataract s roar? 
 
MAIDENHOOD. 14$ 
 
 O, them child of many prayers ! 
 
 Life hath quicksands, Life hath snares! 
 
 Care and age come unawares ! 
 
 Like the swell of some sweet tune, 
 Morning rises into noon, 
 May glides onward into June. 
 
 Childhood is the bough, where slumbered 
 Birds and blossoms many-numbered ; 
 Age, that bough with snows encumbered. 
 
 Gather, then, each flower that grows, 
 When the young heart overflows, 
 To embalm that tent of snows. 
 
 Bear a lily in thy hand ; 
 
 Gates of brass cannot withstand 
 
 One touch of that magic wand. 
 
 Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, 
 In thy heart the dew of youth, 
 On thy lips the smile of truth. 
 
 O, that dew, like balm, shall steal 
 Into \vounds, that cannot heal, 
 Even as sleep our eyes doth seal ; 
 
 And that smile, like sunshine, dart 
 Into many a sunless heart, 
 For a smile of God thou art. 
 
146 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 EXCELSIOR. 
 
 THE shades of night were falling fast, 
 As through an Alpine village passed 
 A youth, who bore, mid snow and ice, 
 A banner with the strange device, 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 His brow was sad ; his eye beneath, 
 Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, 
 And like a silver clarion rung 
 The accents of that unknown tongue, 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 In happy homes 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 ! " 
 And loud that clarion voice replied, 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 " O stay," the maiden said, "and rest 
 Thy \veary head upon this breast ! " 
 A tear\?tood in his bright blue eye, 
 But still i^e answered, with a sigh, 
 k xcelsior ! 
 
EXCELSIOR. 147 
 
 " Beware the pine-tree s withered branch ! 
 Beware the awful avalanche ! " 
 This was the peasant s last Good-night, 
 A voice replied, far up the height, 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 At break of day, as heavenward 
 The pious monks of Saint Bernard 
 Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 
 A voice cried through the startled 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 ! 
 
POEMS ON SLAVERY. 
 
 1842. 
 
 [The following poems, with one exception, were written at sea, in the 
 latter part of October. 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, a feeble 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. 
 
 149 
 
150 POEMS ON SLAVERY. 
 
 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, 
 
THE SLA VE S DREAM. 1 5 I 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
152 POEMS ON SLAVERY. 
 
 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 BE TAKEN AWAY. 
 
 SHE dwells by Great Kenhawa s side, 
 In valleys green and cool ; 
 
 And all her hope and all her pride 
 Are in the village school. 
 
 Her soul, like the transparent air 
 That robes the hills above, 
 
 Though not of earth, encircles there 
 All things with arms of love. 
 
 And thus she walks among her girls 
 With praise and mild rebukes ; 
 
 Subduing e en rude village churls 
 By her angelic looks. 
 
 She reads to them at eventide 
 Of One who came to save ; 
 
 To cast the captive s chains aside 
 And liberate the slave. 
 
THE GOOD PART. 153 
 
 And oft the blessed time foretells 
 
 When all men shall be free ; 
 And musical, as silver bells, 
 
 Their falling chains shall be. 
 
 And following her beloved Lord, 
 
 In decent poverty, 
 She makes her life one sweet record 
 
 And deed of charity. 
 
 For she was rich, and gave up all 
 
 To break the iron bands 
 Of those who waited in her hall, 
 
 And labored in her lands. 
 
 Long since beyond the Southern Sea 
 Their outbound sails have sped, 
 
 While she, in meek humility, 
 Now earns her daily bread. 
 
 It is their prayers, which never cease, 
 That clothe her with such grace ; 
 
 Their blessing is the light of peace 
 That shines upon her face. 
 
154 POEMS ON SLAVERY. 
 
 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 waning mosses shroud the pine, 
 And the cedar grows, and the poisonous vine 
 
 Is spotted like the snake ; 
 
 Where hardly a human foot could pass, 
 
 Or a human 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 ; 
 On his forehead he bore the brand of shame, 
 And the rags, that hid his mangled frame, 
 
 Were the livery of disgrace. 
 
 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. 
 
THE SLA VE SINGING A T MIDNIGHT. I 5 5 
 
 On him alone was the doom of pain, 
 
 From the morning of his birth ; 
 On him alone the curse of Cain 
 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. 
 
 And the voice of his devotion 
 Filled my soul with strange emotion ; 
 For its tones by turris were glad, 
 Sweetly solemn, wildly sad. 
 
I $6 POEMS ON SLAVERY. 
 
 Paul and Silas, in their prison, 
 Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen, 
 And an earthquake s arm of might 
 Broke their dungeon-gates at night. 
 
 But, alas ! what holy angel 
 Brings the Slave this glad evangel? 
 And what earthquake s arm of might 
 Breaks his dungeon-gates at night? 
 
 THE WITNESSES. 
 
 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. 
 
THE 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 schoolboys from their play ! 
 
 All evil thoughts and deeds ; 
 
 Anger, and lust, and pride ; 
 The foulest, rankest weeds, 
 
 That choke Life s groaning tide ! 
 
 These are the woes of Slaves ; 
 
 They glare from the abyss ; 
 They cry, from unknown graves, 
 
 " We are the witnesses ! " 
 
158 POEMS ON SLAVERY. 
 
 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. 
 
THE QUADROON GIRL. 159 
 
 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 ! 
 
160 POEMS ON SLAVERY. 
 
 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. 
 
THE BELFRY OF BRUGES, 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 1846. 
 
 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 
 161 
 
1 62 THE BELFRY OF BRUGES. 
 
 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. 
 
THE BELFRY OF BRUGES. 163 
 
 Yet perchance a sleepless wight, 
 
 Lodging at some humble inn 
 
 In the narrow lanes of life, 
 
 When the dusk and hush of night 
 
 Shut out the incessant din 
 
 Of daylight and its toil and strife, 
 
 May listen with a calm delight 
 
 To the poet s melodies, 
 
 Till he hears, or dreams he hears, 
 
 Intermingled with the song, 
 
 Thoughts that he has cherished long ; 
 
 Hears amid the chime and singing 
 
 The bells of his own village ringing, 
 
 And wakes, and finds his slumberous eyes 
 
 Wet with most delicious tears. 
 
 Thus dreamed I, as by night I lay 
 In Bruges, at the Fleur-de-Ble, 
 Listening with a wild delight 
 To the chimes that, through the night, 
 Rang their changes from the Belfry 
 Of that quaint old Flemish city. 
 
 THE BELFRY OF BRUGES. 
 
 IN the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old 
 
 and brown ; 
 Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches 
 
 o er the town. 
 
164 THE BELFRY OF BRUGES. 
 
 As the summer morn was breaking, on that lofty 
 
 tower I stood, 
 And the world threw off the darkness, like the 
 
 weeds of widowhood. 
 
 Thick with towns and hamlets studded, and with 
 
 streams and vapors gray, 
 Like a shield embossed with silver, round and vast 
 
 the landscape lay. 
 
 At my feet the city slumbered. From its chimneys, 
 
 here and there, 
 Wreaths of snow-white smoke, ascending, vanished, 
 
 ghost-like, into air. 
 
 Not a sound rose from the city at that early morning 
 
 hour, 
 But I heard a heart of iron beating in the ancient 
 
 tower. 
 
 From their nests beneath the rafters sang the 
 
 swallows wild and high ; 
 And the world, beneath me sleeping, seemed more 
 
 distant than the sky. 
 
 Then most musical and solemn, bringing back the 
 
 olden times, 
 With their strange, unearthly changes rang the 
 
 melancholy chimes, 
 
THE BELFRY OF BRUGES. 165 
 
 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 phantom, 
 
 filled my brain ; 
 They who live in history only seemed to walk the 
 
 earth again ; 
 
 All the Foresters of Flanders, mighty Baldwin 
 
 Bras de Fer, 
 Lyderick du Bucq and Cressy, Philip, Guy de 
 
 Dampierre. 
 
 I beheld the pageants splendid, that adorned those 
 
 days of old ; 
 Stately dames, like queens attended, knights who 
 
 bore the Fleece of Gold ; 
 
 Lombard and Venetian merchants with deep-laden 
 
 argosies ; 
 Ministers from twenty nations; more than royal 
 
 pomp and ease. 
 
 I beheld proud Maximilian, kneeling humbly on the 
 
 ground ; 
 I beheld the gentle Mary, hunting with her hawk 
 
 and hound : 
 
 And her lighted bridal-chamber, where a duke slept 
 with the queen, 
 
1 66 THE BELFRY OF BRUGES. 
 
 And the armed guard around them, and the sword 
 unsheathed between. 
 
 I beheld the Flemish weavers, with Namur and 
 
 Juliers bold, 
 Marching homeward from the bloody battle of the 
 
 Spurs of Gold ; 
 
 Saw the fight at Minnewater, saw the White Hoods 
 
 moving west, 
 Saw great Artevelde victorious scale the Golden 
 
 Dragon s nest. 
 
 And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land with 
 
 terror smote ; 
 And again the 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 ! " 
 
 I 
 
 Then the sound of drums aroused me. The awak 
 ened city s roar 
 
 Chased the phantoms I had summoned back into 
 their graves once more. 
 
 Hours had passed away like minutes ; and, before 
 I was aware, 
 
 Lo! the shadow of the belfry crossed the sun-illu 
 mined square. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE. 
 
 THIS is the place. Stand still, my steed, 
 
 Let me review the scene, 
 And summon from the shadowy Past 
 
 The forms that once have been. 
 
 The Past and Present here unite 
 
 Beneath Time-s flowing tide, 
 Like footprints hidden by a brook, 
 
 But seen on either side. 
 
 Here runs the highway to the town ; 
 
 There the green lane descends, 
 Through which I walked to church with thee, 
 
 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. 
 167 
 
1 68 MIS CELL A NE O US. 
 
 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 ! " 
 Solemnly sang the village choir 
 
 On that sweet Sabbath morn. 
 
 Through the closed blinds the golden sun 
 
 Poured in a dusty beam, 
 Like the celestial ladder seen 
 
 By Jacob in his dream. 
 
 And ever and anon, the wind, 
 
 Sweet-scented with the hay, 
 Turned o er the hymn-book s fluttering leaves 
 
 That on the window lay. 
 
 Long was the good man s sermon, 
 
 Yet it seemed not so to me ; 
 For he spake of Ruth the beautiful, 
 
 And still I thought of thee. 
 
THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. 169 
 
 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. 
 
 THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. 
 
 THIS is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, 
 Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms ; 
 
 But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing 
 Startles the villages with strange alarms. 
 
 Ah ! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, 
 When the death-angel touches those swift keys ! 
 What loud lament and dismal Miserere 
 . Will mingle with their awful symphonies ! 
 
1 70 MISCELLANE O US. 
 
 I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, 
 The cries of agony, the endless groan, 
 
 Which, through the ages that have gone before us, 
 In long reverberations reach our own. 
 
 On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, 
 Through Ciinbric 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 ; 
 
 The tumult of each sacked and burning village ; 
 
 The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns ; 
 The soldiers revels in the midst of pillage ; 
 
 The wail of famine in beleaguered towns ; 
 
 The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched 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, 
 
NUREMBERG. IJI 
 
 Given to redeem the human mind from error, 
 There were no need of arsenals nor 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 for evermore the curse of Cain ! 
 
 Down the dark future, through long generations, 
 The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease ; 
 
 And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, 
 I hear once more the voice of Christ say, " Peace ! 
 
 Peace ! and no longer from its brazen portals 
 
 The blast of Wars great organ shakes the skies ! 
 
 But beautiful as songs of the immortals, 
 The holy melodies of love arise. 
 
 NUREMBERG. 
 
 IN the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad 
 
 meadow-lands 
 Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the 
 
 ancient, stands. 
 
 Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town 
 
 of art and song, 
 Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks 
 
 that round them throng : 
 
1 7 2 MI SC ELL A NE O US. 
 
 Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, 
 rough and bold, 
 
 Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, cen 
 turies 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, 
 Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cuni- 
 
 gunde s hand ; 
 
 On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic 
 
 days, 
 Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximilian s 
 
 praise. 
 
 Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world 
 
 of Art : 
 Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in 
 
 the common mart ; 
 
 And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops 
 
 carved in stone, 
 By a former age commissioned as apostles to our 
 
 own. 
 
 In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his 
 
 holy dust, 
 And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age 
 
 to age their trust ; 
 
NUREMBURG. 1/3 
 
 In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of 
 
 sculpture rare, 
 Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the 
 
 painted air. 
 
 Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, rev 
 erent heart, 
 
 Lived and labored Albrecht Diirer, the Evangelist of 
 Art; 
 
 Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy 
 
 hand, 
 Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better 
 
 Land. 
 
 Emigravit is the inscription on the tombstone where 
 
 he lies ; 
 Dead he is not, but departed, for the artist never 
 
 dies. 
 
 Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine 
 
 seems more fair, 
 That he once has trod its pavements, 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. 
 
174 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the 
 
 mystic rhyme, 
 And the smith his iron measures hammered to the 
 
 anvil s chime ; 
 
 Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the 
 
 flowers of poesy bloom 
 In the forge s dust and cinders, in the tissues of the 
 
 loom. 
 
 Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the 
 
 gentle craft, 
 Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios 
 
 sang and laughed. 
 
 But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely 
 
 sanded floor, 
 And a garland in the window, and his face above 
 
 the door ; 
 
 Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Pusch- 
 
 man s song, 
 As the old man gray and dove-lfke, 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 
 
THE NORMAN BARON. 175 
 
 Wave these mingling shapes and figures, like a 
 faded tapestry. 
 
 Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the 
 
 world s regard ; 
 But thy painter, Albrecht Diirer, 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 ou la reflexion devient plus calme et 
 plus profonde, ou 1 interet et 1 avarice parlent moins haul que la 
 niison, dans les instants de chagrin domestique, de maladie, et de 
 peril de mort, les nobles se repentirent de posseder des serfs, comme 
 d une chose peu agreable a Dieu, qui avait cree tous les hommes 
 i son image. 
 
 THIERRY : CONQU^TE DE L ANGLETERRE. 
 
 IN his chamber, weak and dying, 
 Was the Norman baron lying ; 
 Loud, without, the tempest thundered, 
 And the castle turret shook. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 In this fight was Death the gainer, 
 Spite of vassal and retainer, 
 And the lands his sires had plundered, 
 Written in the Doomsday Book. 
 
 By his bed a monk was seated, 
 Who in humble voice repeated 
 Many a prayer and pater-noster, 
 From the missal on his knee ; 
 
 And, amid the tempest pealing, 
 Sounds of bells came faintly stealing, 
 Bells, that, from the neighboring kloster, 
 Rang for the Nativity. 
 
 In the hall, the serf and vassal 
 
 Held, that night, their Christmas wassail; 
 
 Many a carol, old and saintly, 
 
 Sang the minstrels and the waits. 
 
 And so loud these Saxon gleemen 
 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 chaunted 
 Reached the chamber terror-haunted, 
 Where the monk, with accents holy, 
 Whispered at the baron s ear. 
 
THE NORMAN BARON. 
 
 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 ! " 
 
 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 their manor, 
 All those wronged and wretched creatures, 
 By his hand were freed again. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 And, as on the sacred missal 
 He recorded their dismissal, 
 Death relaxed his iron features, 
 
 And the monk replied, " Amen !" 
 
 Many centuries have been numbered 
 Since in death the baron slumbered 
 By the convent s sculptured portal, 
 Mingling with the common dust : 
 
 But the good deed, through the ages 
 Living in historic pages, 
 Brighter 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 
 
RAIN IN SUMMER. 1 79 
 
 Across the window pane 
 
 It pours and pours ; 
 
 And swift and wide, 
 
 With a muddy tide, 
 
 Like a river down the gutter roars 
 
 The rain, the welcome rain! 
 
 The sick man from his chamber looks 
 
 At the twisted brooks ; 
 
 He can feel the cool 
 
 Breath of each little pool ; 
 
 His fevered brain 
 
 Grows calm again, 
 
 And he breathes a blessing on the rain. 
 
 From the neighboring school 
 
 Come the boys, 
 
 With more than their wonted noise 
 
 And commotion ; 
 
 And down the wet streets 
 
 Sail their mimic fleets. 
 
 Till the treacherous pool 
 
 Engulfs 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 ! 
 
180 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 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 
 
RAIN IN SUMMER. l8l 
 
 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 w r ater-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 for evermore 
 
 In the rapid and rushing river of Time. 
 
1 8 2 MISCELLANE O US. 
 
 TO A CHILD. 
 
 DEAR child ! how radiant on thy mother s knee. 
 
 With merry-making eyes and jocund smiles, 
 
 Thou gazest at the painted tiles, 
 
 Whose figures grace, 
 
 With many a grotesque form and face, 
 
 The ancient chimney of thy nursery ! 
 
 The lady, with the gay macaw, 
 
 The dancing girl, the grave bashaw 
 
 With bearded lip and chin ; 
 
 And, leaning idly o er his gate, 
 
 Beneath the imperial fan of state, 
 
 The Chinese mandarin. 
 
 With what a look of proud command 
 
 Thou shakest in thy little hand 
 
 The coral rattle with its silver bells, 
 
 Making a merry tune ! 
 
 Thousands of years in Indian seas 
 
 That coral grew, by slow degrees, 
 
 Until some deadly and wild monsoon 
 
 Dashed it on Coromandel s sand ! 
 
 Those silver bells 
 
 Reposed of yore, 
 
 As shapeless ore, 
 
 Far down in the deep-sunken wells 
 
 Of darksome mines, 
 
 In some obscure and sunless place, 
 
 Beneath huge Chimborazo s base, 
 
 Or Potosfs o erhanging pines ! 
 
TO A CHILD. 183 
 
 And thus for thee, O little child, 
 
 Through many a danger and escape, 
 
 The tall ships passed the stormy cape ; 
 
 For thee in foreign lands remote, 
 
 Beneath the 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 pirate, 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 mothers 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. 
 
1 84 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 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, 
 
TO A CHILD. 185 
 
 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 overhanging golden canopy 
 Of leaves illuminate with autumnal hues, 
 And shining with the argent light of dews, 
 Shall for a season be our place of rest. 
 Beneath us, like an oriole s pendent nest, 
 From which the laughing birds have taken wing, 
 By thee abandoned, hangs thy vacant swing. 
 Dream-like the waters of the river gleam ; 
 A sailless vessel drops adown the stream, 
 And like it, to a sea as wide and deep, 
 Thou driftest gently down the tides of sleep. 
 
 O child ! O ne\v-born denizen 
 Of life s great city ! on thy head 
 
1 86 M ISC ELL A NE O US. 
 
 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 
 
TO A CHILD. 187 
 
 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 opprest, 
 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, 
 
1 88 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 And hearing the hammers, as they smote 
 
 The anvils with a different note, 
 
 Stole from the varying tones, that hung 
 
 Vibrant on every iron tongue, 
 
 The secret of the sounding wire, 
 
 And formed the seven-chorded lyre. 
 
 Enough ! I will not play the Seer ; 
 I will no longer strive to ope 
 The mystic volume, where appear 
 The herald Hope, forerunning Fear, 
 And Fear, the pursuivant of Hope. 
 Thy destiny remains untold ; 
 For, like Acestes shaft of old, 
 The swift thought kindles as it flies, 
 And burns to ashes in the skies. 
 
 THE OCCULTATION OF ORION. 
 
 I SAW, as in a dream sublime, 
 The balance in the hand of Time. 
 O er East and West its beam impended ; 
 And day, with all its hours of light, 
 Was slowly sinking out of sight, 
 While, opposite, the scale of night 
 Silently with the stars ascended. 
 
 Like the astrologers of eld, 
 In that bright vision I beheld 
 Greater and deeper mysteries. 
 
THE OCCULTATION OF ORION. 189 
 
 I saw, with its celestial keys, 
 
 Its chords of air, its frets of fire, 
 
 The Samian s great ^Eolian 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. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 The moon was pallid, but not faint, 
 And beautiful as some fair saint, 
 Serenely moving on her way 
 In hours of trial and dismay. 
 As if she heard the voice of God, 
 Unharmed with naked feet she trod 
 Upon the hot and burning stars, 
 As on the glowing coals and bars 
 That were to prove her strength, and try 
 Her holiness and her purity. 
 
 Thus moving on, with silent pace, 
 
 And triumph in her sweet, pale face, 
 
 She reached the station of Orion. 
 
 Aghast he stood in strange alarm ! 
 
 And suddenly from his outstretched arm 
 
 Down fell the red skin of the lion 
 
 Into the river at his feet. 
 
 His mighty club no longer beat 
 
 The forehead of the bull ; but he 
 
 Reeled as of yore beside the sea, 
 
 When, blinded by (Enopion, 
 
 He sought the blacksmith at his forge, 
 
 And, climbing up the mountain gorge, 
 
 Fixed his black eyes upon the sun. 
 
 Then, through the silence overhead, 
 
 An angel with a trumpet said, 
 
 " Forevermore, forevermore, 
 
 The reign of violence is o er ! " 
 
 And, like an instrument that flings 
 
 Its music on another s strings, 
 
THE BRIDGE. 
 
 The trumpet of the angel cast 
 
 Upon the heavenly lyre its blast, 
 
 And on from sphere to sphere the words 
 
 Re-echoed down the burning chords, 
 
 " Forevermore, forevermore, 
 
 The reign of violence is o er ! " 
 
 THE BRIDGE. 
 
 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 ; 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 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, O, 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, O, 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. 
 
TO THE DRIVING CLOUD. 193 
 
 And I think how many thousands 
 
 Of care-encumbered men, 
 Each bearing his burden of sorrow, 
 
 Have crossed the bridge since then. 
 
 I see the long procession 
 
 Still passing to and fro, 
 The young heart hot and restless, 
 
 And the old subdued and slow ! 
 
 And forever and forever, 
 
 As long as the river flows, 
 As long as the heart has passions, 
 
 As long as life has woes ; 
 
 The moon and its broken reflection 
 
 And its shadows shall appear, 
 As the symbol of love in heaven, 
 
 And its wavering image here. 
 
 TO THE DRIVING CLOUD. 
 
 GLOOMY and dark art thou, O chief of the mighty 
 
 Omawhaws ; 
 Gloomy and dark, as the driving cloud, whose name 
 
 thou hast taken ! 
 Wrapt in thy scarlet blanket, I see thee stalk through 
 
 the city s 
 Narrow and populous streets, as once by the margin 
 
 of rivers 
 
1 94 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 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 in these streets, who hast trod 
 
 the green turf of the prairies ? 
 How canst thou breathe in this air, who hast breathed 
 
 the sweet air of the mountains ? 
 Ah ! t is in vain that with lordly looks of disdain thou 
 
 dost challenge 
 Looks of dislike 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 Elk-horn, 
 
TO THE DRIVING CLOUD. 195 
 
 Or by the roar of the Running-Water, or where the 
 
 Omawhaw 
 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? 
 Is4t the cry of the Foxes and Crows, or the mighty 
 
 Behemoth, 
 Who, unharmed, on his tusks once caught the bolts 
 
 of the thunder, 
 And now lurks in his lair to destroy the race of the 
 
 red man? 
 Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the Crows 
 
 and the Foxes, 
 Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the tread of 
 
 Behemoth, 
 Lo ! the big thunder-canoe, that steadily breasts the 
 
 Missouri s 
 Merciless current ! and yonder, afar on the prairies, 
 
 the camp-fires 
 Gleam through the night ; and the cloud of dust in 
 
 the gray of the daybreak 
 
 Marks not the buffalo s track, nor the Mandan s dex 
 terous 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 ! 
 
196 SONGS. 
 
 SONGS. 
 
 SEAWEED. 
 
 WHEN descends on the Atlantic 
 
 The gigantic 
 
 Storm-wind of the equinox, 
 Landward in his wrath he scourges 
 
 The toiling surges, 
 Laden with seaweed from the 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; * 
 
SEAWEED. 197 
 
 Till in sheltered coves, and reaches 
 
 Of sandy beaches, 
 All have found repose again. 
 
 So when storms of wild emotion 
 
 Strike the ocean 
 Of the poet s soul, ere long 
 From each cave and rocky fastness, 
 
 In its vastness, 
 Floats some fragment of a song : 
 
 From the far-off isles enchanted, 
 
 Heaven has planted 
 With the golden fruit of Truth ; 
 From the flashing surf, whose vision 
 
 Gleams Elysian 
 In the tropic clime of Youth ; 
 
 From the strong Will, and the Endeavor 
 
 That forever 
 
 Wrestles 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. 
 
SONGS. 
 
 THE DAY IS DONE. 
 
 THE day is done, and the darkness 
 Falls from the wings of Night, 
 
 As a feather is wafted downward 
 From an eagle in his flight. 
 
 I see the lights of the village 
 
 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 
 
 Life s endless toil and endeavor ; 
 And to-night I long for rest. 
 
AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY. 199 
 
 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. 
 
2OO SONGS. 
 
 Through clouds like ashes 
 The red sun flashes 
 On village windows 
 That glimmer red. 
 
 The snow recommences ; 
 The buried fences 
 Mark no longer 
 The road o er the plain ; 
 
 While through the meadows, 
 Like fearful shadows, 
 Slowly passes 
 A funeral train. 
 
 The bell is pealing, 
 And every feeling 
 Within me responds 
 To the dismal knell ; 
 
 Shadows are trailing, 
 My heart is bewailing 
 And tolling within 
 Like a funeral bell. 
 
 TO AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK. 
 
 WELCOME, my old friend, 
 Welcome to a foreign fireside, 
 While the sullen gales of autumn 
 Shake the windows. 
 
TO AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK. 2OI 
 
 The ungrateful world 
 Has, it seems, dealt harshly with thee, 
 Since, beneath the skies of Denmark, 
 First I met thee. 
 
 There are marks of age, 
 There are thumb-marks on thy margin, 
 Made by hands that clasped thee rudely, 
 At the alehouse. 
 
 Soiled and dull thou art ; 
 Yellow are thy time-worn pages, 
 As the russet, rain-molested 
 Leaves of autumn. 
 
 Thou art stained with wine 
 Scattered from hilarious goblets, 
 As these leaves with the libations 
 Of Olympus. 
 
 Yet dost thou recall 
 Days departed, half- forgotten, 
 When in dreamy youth I wandered 
 By the Baltic, 
 
 When I paused to hear 
 The old ballad of King Christian 
 Shouted from suburban taverns 
 In the twilight. 
 
 Thou recallest bards, 
 Who, in solitary chambers, 
 And with hearts by passion wasted, 
 Wrote thy pages. 
 
2O2 SONGS. 
 
 Thou recallest homes 
 Where thy songs of love and friendship 
 Made the gloomy Northern winter 
 Bright as summer. 
 
 Once some ancient Scald, 
 In his bleak, ancestral Iceland, 
 Chanted staves of these old ballads 
 To the Vikings. 
 
 Once in Elsinore, 
 At the court of old King Hamlet, 
 Yorick and his boon companions 
 Sang these ditties. 
 
 Once Prince Frederick s Guard 
 Sang them in their smoky barracks ; 
 Suddenly the English cannon 
 Joined the chorus ! 
 
 Peasants in the field, 
 Sailors on the roaring ocean, 
 Students, tradesmen, pale mechanics, 
 All have sune them. 
 
 Thou hast been their friend ; 
 They, alas ! have left thee friendless ! 
 Yet at least by one warm fireside 
 Art thou welcome. 
 
WALTER VON DER VOGELWEID. 2O3 
 
 And, as swallows build 
 In these wide, old-fashioned chimneys, 
 So thy twittering songs shall nestle 
 In my bosom, 
 
 Quiet, close, and warm, 
 Sheltered from all molestation, 
 And recalling by their voices 
 Youth and travel. 
 
 WALTER VON DER VOGELWEID. 
 
 VOGELWEID the Minnesinger, 
 When he left this world of ours, 
 
 Laid his body in the cloister, 
 Under Wiirtzburg s minster towers. 
 
 And he gave the monks his treasures, 
 Gave them all with this behest : 
 
 They should feed the birds at noontide 
 Daily on his place of rest ; 
 
 Saying, " From these wandering minstrels 
 I have learned the art of song ; 
 
 Let me now repay the lessons 
 They have taught so well and long." 
 
 Thus the bard of love departed ; 
 
 And, fulfilling his desire, 
 On his tomb the birds were feasted 
 
 By the children of the choir. 
 
204 SONGS. 
 
 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, 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
DRINKING SONG, 205 
 
 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. 
 
206 SONGS. 
 
 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. 
 
THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 2O/ 
 
 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 1 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 eternite est une pendule, dont le balancier dit et redit sans cesse 
 ces deux mots seulement, dans le silence des tombeaux : " Toujours! 
 jamais! Jamais ! toujours! " JACQUES BRIDAINB. 
 
 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 ! " 
 
208 SONGS. 
 
 Halfway up the stairs it stands. 
 And points and beckons with its hands 
 From its case of massive oak, 
 Like a monk, who, under his cloak, 
 Crosses himself, and sighs, alas ! 
 With sorrowful voice to all who pass, 
 " Forever never ! 
 Never forever ! " 
 
 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 f 
 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, 
 
THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 2OQ 
 
 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?" 
 As in the days long-since gone by, 
 The ancient timepiece makes reply, 
 " Forever never ! 
 Never forever ! " 
 
210 SONGS. 
 
 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. 
 
AUTUMN. 211 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 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 1 
 
 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 opprest. 
 
 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, 
 
212 SONNETS. 
 
 Upcn thy bridge of gold ; thy royal hand 
 
 Outstretched with benedictions o er the land, 
 Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain. 
 Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspended 
 
 So long beneath the heaven s o erhanging eaves ; 
 Thy steps are by the farmer s prayers attended ; 
 
 Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves ; 
 And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid, 
 
 Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden 
 leaves ! * 
 
 DANTE. 
 
 TUSCAN, that wanderest through the realms of gloom, 
 With thoughtful pace, and sad, majestic eyes, 
 Stern thoughts and awful from thy soul arise, 
 
 Like Farinata from his fiery tomb. 
 
 Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom ; 
 Yet in thy heart what human sympathies, 
 What soft compassion glows, as in the skies 
 
 The tender stars their clouded lamps relume ! 
 
 Methinks I see thee stand, with pallid cheeks, 
 By Fra Hilario in his diocese, 
 
 As up the convent-walls, in golden streaks, 
 
 The ascending sunbeams mark the day s decrease ; 
 
 And, as he asks what there the stranger seeks, 
 Thy voice along the cloister whispers, * Peace 1" 
 
THE HEMLOCK TREE. 
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 THE HEMLOCK TREE. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 O HEMLOCK tree ! O hemlock tree ! how faithful are 
 
 thy branches ! 
 
 Green not alone in summer time, 
 But in the winter s frost and rime! 
 O hemlock tree ! O hemlock tree ! how faithful 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 fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is thy 
 bosom ! 
 
 The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak st for thine 
 
 example ! 
 
 So long as summer lasts she sings, 
 But in the autumn spreads her wings. 
 The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak st for thine 
 example! 
 
2 1 4 TRA NSLA TIONS. 
 
 The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror of 
 
 thy falsehood ! 
 
 It flows so long as falls the rain, 
 In drought its springs soon dry again. 
 The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror of 
 thy falsehood ! 
 
 ANNIE OF 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, 
 
ANNIE OF THARAW. 21$ 
 
 So love in our hearts shall grow mighty and strong. 
 Through crosses, through sorrows, through manifold 
 wrong. 
 
 Shouldst thou be torn from me to wander alone 
 
 In a desolate land where the sun is scarce known, 
 
 Through forests I ll follow, and where the sea flows, 
 Through ice, and through iron, through armies of foes. 
 
 Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun, 
 
 The threads of our two lives are woven in one. 
 
 Whatever 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. 
 
 Whatever 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. 
 
2 1 6 TRA NSL A TIONS, 
 
 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; 
 O, were I like him exalted, 
 
 I would be like him, a child ! 
 
 And mv 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. 
 
THE SEA HATH ITS PEARLS. 21 / 
 
 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 ! " 
 
 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. 
 
 THE SEA HATH ITS PEARLS. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINRICH 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. 
 
2 1 8 TRAA T SLA TIONS. 
 
 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 FRIEDRICH VON LOGAU, 
 SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 MONEY. 
 
 WHEREUNTO is money good? 
 Who has it not wants hardihood, 
 Who has it has much trouble and care, 
 Who once has had it has despair. 
 
 THE BEST MEDICINES. 
 
 JOY and Temperance and Repose 
 Slam the door on the doctor s nose. 
 
 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. 
 
POETIC APHORISMS. 2 19 
 
 POVERTY AND BLINDNESS. 
 
 A blind man is a poor man, and blind a poor man is ; 
 For the former seeth no man, and the latter no man 
 sees. 
 
 LAW OF LIFE. 
 
 Live I, so live I, 
 To my Lord heartily, 
 Ty 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 them 
 selves be ground. 
 
220 TRA NSLA TIONS. 
 
 CHRISTIAN LOVE. 
 
 Whilom Love was like a fire, and warmth and com 
 fort 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 exact 
 
 ness grinds he all. 
 
 TRUTH. 
 
 When by night the frogs are croaking, kindle but a 
 
 torch s fire, 
 Ha ! how soon they all are silent ! Thus Truth 
 
 silences the liar. 
 
POETIC APHORISM. 221 
 
 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. 
 
222 CURFEW. 
 
 CURFEW. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 II. 
 
 The book is completed, 
 And closed, like the day ; 
 
 And the hand that has written it 
 Lays it away. 
 
CURFEW. 223 
 
 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. 
 
224 E SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 THE SEASIDE AND THE 
 FIRESIDE. 
 
 1850. 
 
 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 distance, 
 And pause, and turn to listen, as each sends 
 
 His words of friendship, comfort, and assistance. 
 
 If any thought of mine, or sung or told, 
 Has ever given delight or consolation, 
 
 Ye have repaid me 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, 
 
D ED 1C A TION. 22$ 
 
 In which we feei 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 sem 
 blance ; 
 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 aspirations. 
 
 Therefore I hope to join your seaside walk, 
 Saddened, and mostly silent, with emotion ; 
 
 Not interrupting with intrusive talk, 
 
 The grand, majestic symphonies of ocean. 
 
 Therefore I hope, as no unwelcome 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 ! 
 
226 BY THE SEASIDE. 
 
 BY THE SEASIDE. 
 
 THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 
 
 " BUILD me straight, O worthy Master ! 
 
 Staunch 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, " Ere long we will launch 
 
 A vessel as goodly, and strong, and staunch, 
 
 As ever weathered a wintry sea ! " 
 
 And first with nicest skill and art, 
 Perfect and finished in every part, 
 A little model the Master wrought, 
 Which should be to the larger plan 
 What the child is to the man, 
 
THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 22*] 
 
 Its counterpart in miniature ; 
 
 That with a hand more swift and sure 
 
 The greater labor might be brought 
 
 To answer to his inward thought. 
 
 And as he labored, his mind ran o er 
 
 The various ships that were built of yore, 
 
 And above them all, and strangest of all 
 
 Towered the Great Harry, crank and tall, 
 
 Whose picture was hanging on the wall, 
 
 With bows and stern raised high in air, 
 
 And balconies hanging here and there, 
 
 And signal lanterns and flags afloat, 
 
 And eight round towers, like those that frown 
 
 From some old castle, looking down 
 
 Upon the drawbridge and the moat. 
 
 And he said with a smile, " Our ship, I wis, 
 
 Shall be of another form than this ! " 
 
 It was of another form, indeed ; 
 
 Built for freight, and yet for speed, 
 
 A beautiful and gallant craft ; 
 
 Broad in the beam, that the stress of the blast 
 
 Pressing down upon sail and mast, 
 
 Might not the sharp bows overwhelm ; 
 
 Broad in the beam, but sloping aft 
 
 With graceful curve and slow degrees, 
 
 That she might be docile to the helm, 
 
 And that the currents of parted seas, 
 
 Closing behind, with mighty force, 
 
 Might aid and not impede her course. 
 
228 BY THE SEASIDE. 
 
 In the shipyard stood the Master, 
 With the model of the vessel, 
 
 That should laugh at all disaster, 
 
 And with wave and whirlwind wrestle ! 
 
 Covering many a rood of ground, 
 
 Lay the timber piled around ; 
 
 Timber of chestnut, and elm, and oak, 
 
 And scattered here and there, with these, 
 
 The knarred and crooked cedar knees ; 
 
 Brought from regions far away, 
 
 From Pascagoula s sunny bay, 
 
 And the banks of the roaring Roanoke ! 
 
 Ah ! what a wondrous thing it is 
 
 To note how many wheels of toil 
 
 One thought, one word, can set in motion 
 
 There s not a ship that sails the ocean, 
 
 But every climate, every soil, 
 
 Must bring its tribute, great or small, 
 
 And help to build the wooden wall ! 
 
 The sun was rising o er the sea, 
 
 And long the level shadows lay, 
 
 As if they, too, the beams would be 
 
 Of some great, airy argosy, 
 
 Framed and launched in a single day. 
 
 That silent architect, the sun, 
 
 Had hewn and laid them every one, 
 
 Ere the work of man was yet begun. 
 
 Beside the Master, when he spoke, 
 
 A youth, against an anchor leaning, 
 
 Listened, to catch his slightest meaning. 
 
THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 22Q 
 
 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, 1 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, 
 
230 BY THE SEASIDE. 
 
 Standing before 
 
 Her father s door, 
 
 He saw the form of his promised bride. 
 
 The sun shone on her golden hair, 
 
 And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair, 
 
 With the breath of morn and the soft sea air. 
 
 Like a beauteous barge was she, 
 
 Still at rest on the sandy beach, 
 
 Just beyond the billow s reach ; 
 
 But he 
 
 Was the restless, seething, stormy sea ! 
 
 Ah ! how skilful grows the hand 
 That obeyeth Love s command ! 
 It is the heart, and not the brain, 
 That to the highest doth attain, 
 And he who followeth Love s behest 
 Far exceedeth all the rest ! 
 
 Thus with the rising of the sun 
 
 Was the noble task begun, 
 
 And soon throughout the shipyards 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. 
 
THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 231 
 
 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 chil 1 , 
 
 The father sat, and told them tales 
 
 Of wrecks in the great September gales, 
 
 Of pirates upon the Spanish Main, 
 
 And ships that never came back again, 
 
 The chance and change of a sailor s life, 
 
 Want and plenty, rest and strife, 
 
 His roving fancy, like the wind, 
 
 That nothing can stay and nothing can bind, 
 
 And the magic charm of foreign lands, 
 
 With shadows of palms, and shining sands, 
 
 Where the tumbling surf, 
 
 O er the coral reefs of Madagascar, 
 
 Washes the feet of the swarthy Lascar, 
 
 As he lies alone and asleep on the turf. 
 
 And tke 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 
 
232 BY THE SEASIDE. 
 
 The silent group in the twilight gloom, 
 And thoughtful faces, as in a dre^.m ; 
 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. 
 
 Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel, 
 That shall laugh at all disaster, 
 
 And with wave and whirlwind wrestle ! " 
 
THE -BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 233 
 
 With oaken brace and copper band, 
 
 Lay the rudder on the sand, 
 
 That, like a thought, should have control 
 
 Over the movement of the whole ; 
 
 And near it the anchor, whose giant hand 
 
 Would reach down and grapple with the land, 
 
 And immovable and fast 
 
 Hold the great ship against the bellowing blast ! 
 
 And at the bows an image stood, 
 
 By a cunning artist carved in wood, 
 
 With robes of white, that far behind 
 
 Seemed to be fluttering in the wind. 
 
 It was not shaped in a classic mould, 
 
 Not like a Nymph or Goddess of old, 
 
 Or Naiad rising from the water, 
 
 But modelled from the Master s daughter ! 
 
 On many a dreary and misty night. 
 
 T will be seen by the rays of the signal light, 
 
 Speeding along through the rain and the dark, 
 
 Like a ghost in its snow-white sark, 
 
 The pilot of some phantom bark, 
 
 Guiding the vessel, in its flight, 
 
 By a path none other knows aright ! 
 
 Behold, at last, 
 
 Each tall and tapering mast 
 
 Is swung into its place ; 
 
 Shrouds and stays 
 
 Holding it firm and fast ! 
 
 Long ago, 
 
 In the deer-haunted forests of Maine, 
 
 When upon mountain and plain 
 
234 B Y THE SEASIDE. 
 
 Lay the snow, 
 
 They fell, those lordly pines ! 
 
 Those grand, majestic pines ! 
 
 Mid shout 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 for evermore 
 
 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 end 
 less ! 
 
 All is finished ! and at length 
 Has come the bridal day 
 
THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP, 235 
 
 Of beauty and of strength. 
 
 To-day the vessel shall be launched ! 
 
 With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched, 
 
 And o er the bay, 
 
 Slowly, in all his splendors dight, 
 
 The great sun rises to behold the sight. 
 
 The ocean old, 
 
 Centuries old, 
 
 Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled, 
 
 Paces restless to and fro, 
 
 Up and down the sands of gold. 
 
 His beating heart is not at rest ; 
 
 And far and wide, 
 
 With ceaseless flow, 
 
 His beard of snow 
 
 Heaves with the heaving of his breast. 
 
 He waits impatient for his bride. 
 
 There she stands, 
 
 With her foot upon the sands, 
 
 Decked with flags and streamers gay, 
 
 In honor of her marriage day, 
 
 Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending, 
 
 Round her like a veil descending, 
 
 Ready to be 
 
 The bride of the gray, old sea. 
 
 On the deck another bride 
 Is standing by her lover s side. 
 Shadows from the flags and shrouds, 
 
236 BY THE SEASIDE. 
 
 Like the shadows cast by clouds, 
 Broken by many a sunny fleck, 
 Fall around them on the deck. 
 
 The prayer is said, 
 The service read, 
 
 The joyous bridegroom bows his head. 
 And in tears the good old Master 
 Shakes the brown hand of his son, 
 Kisses his daughter s glowing cheek 
 In silence, for he cannot speak, 
 And ever faster 
 
 Down his own the tears begin to run. 
 The worthy pastor 
 The shepherd of that wandering flock, 
 That has the ocean for its wold, 
 That has the vessel for its fold, 
 Leaping ever from rock to rock 
 Spake, with accents mild and clear, 
 Words of warning, words of cheer, 
 But tedious to the bridegroom s ear. 
 He knew the chart 
 Of the sailor s heart, 
 All its pleasures and its griefs, 
 All its shallows and rocky reefs, 
 All those secret currents, that flow 
 With such resistless undertow, 
 And lift and drift, with terrible force, 
 The will from its moorings and its course- 
 Therefore he spake, and thus said he : 
 
THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 
 
 " 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, 
 
238 BY THE SEASIDE. 
 
 Knocking away the shores and spurs. 
 
 And see ! she stirs ! 
 
 She starts, she moves, she seems to feel 
 
 The thrill of life along her keel, 
 
 And, spurning with her foot the ground, 
 
 With one exalting, joyous bound, 
 
 She leaps into the ocean s arms ! 
 
 And lo ! from the assembled crowd 
 
 There rose a shout, prolonged and loud, 
 
 That to the ocean seemed to say, 
 
 " Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray, 
 
 Take her to thy protecting arms, 
 
 With all her youth and all her charms ! " 
 
 How beautiful she is ! How fair 
 She lies within those arms, that press 
 Her form with many a soft caress 
 Of tenderness and watchful care ! 
 
 Sail forth into the sea, O ship ! 
 Through wind and wave, right onward steer ! 
 The moistened eye, the trembling lip, 
 Are not the signs of doubt or fear. 
 
 Sail forth into the sea of life, 
 O gentle, loving, trusting wife, 
 And safe from all adversity 
 
THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 239 
 
 Upon the bosom of that sea 
 Thy comings and thy goings be ! 
 For gentleness and love and trust 
 Prevail o er angry wave and gust ; 
 And in the wreck of noble lives 
 Something immortal still survives ! 
 
 Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State ! 
 
 Sail on, O UNION, strong and great ! 
 
 Humanity with all its fears, 
 
 With all the hopes of future years, 
 
 Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! 
 
 We know what Master laid thy keel, 
 
 What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, 
 
 Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, 
 
 What anvils rang, what hammers beat, 
 
 In what a forge and what a heat 
 
 Were shaped the anchors of thy hope ! 
 
 Fear not each sudden sound and shock, 
 
 T is of the wave and not the rock ; 
 
 T is but the flapping of the sail, 
 
 And not a rent made by the gale ! 
 
 In spite of rock and tempest s roar, 
 
 In spite of false lights on the shore, 
 
 Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea ! 
 
 Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, 
 
 Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, 
 
 Our faith triumphant o er our fears, 
 
 Are all with thee, are all with thee ! 
 
240 BY THE SEASIDE. 
 
 THE EVENING STAR. 
 
 JUST above yon sandy bar, 
 
 As the day grows fainter and dimmer, 
 Lonely and lovely, a single star 
 
 Lights the air with a dusky glimmer. 
 
 Into the ocean faint and far 
 
 Falls the trail of its golden splendor, 
 And the gleam of that single star 
 
 Is ever refulgent, soft, and tender. 
 
 Chrysaor rising out of the sea, 
 
 Showed thus glorious and thus emulous, 
 Leaving the arms of Callirrhoe, 
 
 Forever tender, soft, and tremulous. 
 
 Thus o er the ocean faint and far 
 
 Trailed the gleam of his falchion brightly 
 
 Is it a God, or is it a star 
 That, entranced, I gaze on nightly ! 
 
 THE SECRET OF THE SEA. 
 
 AH ! what pleasant visions haunt me 
 
 As I gaze upon the sea ! 
 All the old romantic legends, 
 
 All my dreams, come back to me. 
 
THE SECRET OF THE SEA. 24! 
 
 Sails of silk and ropes of sendal, 
 
 Such as gleam in ancient lore ; 
 And the singing of the sailors, 
 
 And the answer from the shore ! 
 
 Most of all, the Spanish ballad 
 Haunts me oft, and tarries long, 
 
 Of the noble Count Arnaldos 
 And the sailors mystic song. 
 
 Like the long waves on a sea-beach, 
 Where the sand as silver shines, 
 
 With a soft, monotonous cadence, 
 Flow its unrhymed lyric lines : 
 
 Telling how the Count Arnaldos, 
 
 With his hawk upon his hand, 
 Saw a fair and stately galley, 
 
 Steering onward to the land ; 
 
 How he heard the ancient helmsman 
 
 Chant a song so wild and clear, 
 That the sailing sea-bird slowly 
 
 Poised upon the mast to hear, 
 
 Till his soul was full of longing, 
 
 And he cried, with impulse strong, 
 
 * Helmsman ! for the love of heaven, 
 Teach me, too, that wondrous song!" 
 
 * Wouldst thou," so the helmsman answered, 
 
 " Learn the secret of the sea? 
 Only those who brave its dangers 
 
 Comprehend its mystery ! " 
 
242 BY THE SEASIDE. 
 
 In each sail that skims the horizon, 
 In each landward-blowing breeze, 
 
 I behold that stately galley, 
 Hear those mournful melodies ; 
 
 Till my soul is full of longing 
 For the secret of the sea, 
 
 And the heart of the great ocean 
 Sends a thrilling pulse through me. 
 
 TWILIGHT. 
 
 THE twilight is sad and cloudy, 
 The wind blows wild and free, 
 
 And like the wings of sea-birds 
 Flash the white caps of the sea. 
 
 But in the fisherman s cottage 
 There shines a ruddier light, 
 
 And a little face at the window 
 Peers out into the night. 
 
 Close, close it is pressed to the window, 
 
 As if those childish eyes 
 Were looking into the darkness, 
 
 To see some form arise. 
 
 And a woman s waving shadow 
 
 Is passing to and fro, 
 Now rising to the ceiling, 
 
 Now bowing and bending low. 
 
SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT. 243 
 
 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? 
 
 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 
 
 Glistened 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. 
 
244 BY THE SEASIDE. 
 
 Alas ! the land-wind failed, 
 And ice-cold grew the night ; 
 
 And never more, on sea or shore, 
 Should Sir Humphrey see the light. 
 
 He sat upon the deck, 
 
 The Book was in his hand ; 
 
 " Do not fear! Heaven is as near, 
 He said, " by water as by land ! " 
 
 In the first watch of the night, 
 Without a signal s sound, 
 
 Out of the sea, mysteriously, 
 
 The fleet of Death rose all around. 
 
 The moon and the evening star 
 Were hanging in the 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 r,ain, to the Spanish Main 
 
 Yet there seems no change of place. 
 
THE LIGHTHOUSE. 245 
 
 Southward, forever southward, 
 They drift through dark and day ; 
 
 And like a dream, in the Gulf-Stream 
 Sinking, vanish all away. 
 
 THE LIGHTHOUSE. 
 
 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. 
 
 Even at this distance I can see the tides, 
 Upheaving, break unheard along its base, 
 
 A speechless wrath, that rises and subsides 
 In the white lip and tremor of the face. 
 
 And as the evening darkens, lo ! how bright, 
 Through the deep purple of the twilight air, 
 
 Beams forth the sudden radiance of its light 
 With strange, unearthly splendor in its glare 
 
 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. 
 
246 BY THE SEASIDE. 
 
 And the great ships sail outward and return, 
 Bending and bowing o er the billowy swells, 
 
 And ever joyful, as they see it burn, 
 
 They wave their silent welcomes and farewells. 
 
 They come forth from the darkness, and their 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 for evermore 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. 
 
THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD. 247 
 
 A new Prometheus, chained upon the rock, 
 Still grasping in his hand the fire of Jove, 
 
 It does not hear the cry, nor heed the shock, 
 But hails the mariner with words of love. 
 
 " Sail on! " it says, " sail on, ye stately ships f 
 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. 
 
 WE sat within the farmhouse 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. 
 
48 BY THE SEASIDE. 
 
 We spake of many a vanished scene, 
 Of what \ve 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. 
 
 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 FIRE OF DRIFT-IVOOD. 249 
 
 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, 
 
250 BY THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 BY THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 RESIGNATION. 
 
 THERE is no flock, however watched and tended, 
 
 But one dead lamb is there ! 
 There is no fireside, howsoever 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 transition. 
 
 This life of mortal breath 
 Is but a suburb of the life elysian, 
 
 Whose portal we call Death. 
 
RESIGN A TION. 2 5 I 
 
 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 unbroken 
 
 The bond which nature gives, 
 Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, 
 
 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, 
 
252 BY THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 We will be patient, and assuage the feeling 
 
 We may not wholly stay ; 
 By silence sanctifying, not concealing, 
 
 The grief that must have way. 
 
 THE BUILDERS. 
 
 ALL are architects of Fate, 
 
 Working in these walls of Time ; 
 
 Some with massive deeds and great. 
 Some with ornaments of rhyme. 
 
 Nothing useless is, or low ; 
 
 Each thing in its place is best ; 
 And what seems but idle show 
 
 Strengthens and supports the rest. 
 
 For the structure that we raise, 
 Time is with materials filled ; 
 
 Our to-days and yesterdays 
 
 Are the blocks with which we build . 
 
 Truly shape and fashion these ; 
 
 Leave no yawning gaps between ; 
 Think not, because no man sees, 
 
 Such things will remain unseen. 
 
 In the elder days of Art, 
 
 Builders wrought with greatest care 
 Each minute and unseen part ; 
 
 For the Gods see everywhere. 
 
SAND IN AN HOUR-GLASS. 253 
 
 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. 
 
 SAND OF THE DESERT IN AN HOUR 
 GLASS. 
 
 A HANDFUL of red sand, from the hot clime 
 
 Of Arab deserts brought, 
 Within this glass becomes the spy of Time, 
 
 The minister of Thought. 
 
 How many weary centuries has it been 
 
 About those deserts blown ! 
 How many strange vicissitudes has seen, 
 
 How many histories known ! 
 
254 BY THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 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 ; 
 
 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. 
 
 And as I gaze, these narrow walls expand ; 
 
 Before my dreamy eye 
 Stretches the desert with its shifting sand, 
 
 Its unimpeded sky. 
 
BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 255 
 
 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 ! 
 
 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 
 
 BLACK shadows fall 
 From the lindens tall, 
 That lift aloft their massive wall 
 Against the southern sky ; 
 
 And from the realms 
 Of the shadowy elms 
 A tide-like darkness overwhelms 
 The fields that round us lie. 
 
 But the night is fair, 
 And everywhere 
 A warm, soft, vapor fills the air, 
 And distant sounds seem near 
 
256 BY THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 And above, in the light 
 Of the star-lit night, 
 Swift birds of passage wing their flight 
 Through the dewy atmosphere. 
 
 I hear the beat 
 Of their pinions fleet, 
 As from the land of snow and sleet 
 They seek a southern lea. 
 
 I hear the cry 
 
 Of their voices high 
 
 Falling dreamily through the sky, 
 
 But their forms I cannot see. , 
 
 O, say not so ! 
 Those sounds that flow 
 In murmurs of delight and woe 
 Come not from wings of birds. 
 
 They are the throngs 
 Of the poet s songs, 
 
 Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, and wrongs. 
 The 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 OPEN WINDOW. 
 
 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 alone ! 
 
 And the boy that walked beside me, 
 
 He could not understand 
 Why closer in mine, ah ! closer, 
 
 I pressed his warm, soft hand ! 
 
258 BY THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 KING WITLAF S DRINKING-HORN. 
 
 WITLAF, a king of the Saxons, 
 
 Ere yet his last he breathed, 
 To the merry monks of Croyland 
 
 His drinking-horn bequeathed, 
 
 That, whenever they sat at their revels, 
 And drank from the golden bowl, 
 
 They might remember the donor, 
 And breathe a prayer for his soul. 
 
 So sat they once at Christmas, 
 
 And bade the goblet pass ; 
 In their beards the red wine glistened 
 
 Like dewdrops in the grass. 
 
 They drank to the soul of Witlaf, 
 They drank to Christ the Lord, 
 
 And to each of the Twelve Apostles, 
 Who had preached his holy word. 
 
 They drank to the Saints and Martyrs 
 
 Of the dismal days of yore, 
 And as soon as the horn was empty 
 
 They remembered one Saint more. 
 
 And the reader droned from the pulpit, 
 Like the murmur of many bees, 
 
 The legend of good Saint Guthlac, 
 And Saint Basil s homilies ; 
 
CASPAR BECERRA. 
 
 Till the great bells of the convent, 
 From their prison in the tower, 
 
 Guthlac and Bartholomasus, 
 Proclaimed the midnight hour. 
 
 And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney, 
 And the Abbot bowed his head, 
 
 And the flamelets flapped and flickered, 
 But the Abbot was stark and dead. 
 
 Yet still in his pallid fingers 
 He clutched the golden bowl, 
 
 In which, like a pearl dissolving. 
 Had sunk and dissolved his soul. 
 
 But not for this their revels 
 
 The jovial monks forbore, 
 For they cried, " Fill high the goblet ! 
 
 We must drink to one Saint more ! " 
 
 CASPAR BECERRA. 
 
 BY his evening fire the artist 
 Pondered o er his secret shame ; 
 
 Baffled, weary, and disheartened, 
 Still he mused and dreamed of fame, 
 
 T was an image of the Virgin 
 
 That had tasked his utmost skill ; 
 But alas ! his fair ideal 
 
 Vanished and escaped him still. 
 
260 BY THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 From a distant Eastern island 
 
 Had the precious wood been brought ; 
 
 Day and night the anxious master 
 At his toil untiring wrought ; 
 
 Till, discouraged and desponding, 
 Sat he now in shadows deep, 
 
 And the day s humiliation 
 Found oblivion in sleep. 
 
 Then a voice cried, " Rise, O master! 
 
 From the burning brand of oak 
 Shape the thought that stirs within thee ! " 
 
 And the startled artist woke, 
 
 Woke, and from the smoking embers 
 Seized and quenched the glowing wood ; 
 
 And therefrom he carved an image, 
 And he saw that it was good. 
 
 O thou sculptor, painter, poet ! 
 
 Take this lesson to thy heart : 
 That is best which lieth nearest ; 
 
 Shape from that thy work of art. 
 
 PEGASUS IN POUND. 
 
 ONCE into a quiet village, 
 
 Without haste and without heed, 
 In the golden prime of morning, 
 
 Strayed the poet s winged steed. 
 
PEGASUS IN POUND. 26 1 
 
 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 ; 
 T was 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 ; 
 
 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. 
 
262 BY THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 Patiently, and still expectant, 
 
 Looked he through the wooden bars, 
 
 Saw the moon rise o er the landscape, 
 Saw the tranquil, patient stars ; 
 
 Till at length the bell at midnight 
 Sounded from its dark abode, 
 
 And, from out a neighboring farmyard, 
 Loud the cock Alectryon crowed. 
 
 Then, with nostrils wide distended, 
 Breaking from his iron chain, 
 
 And unfolding far his pinions, 
 To those stars he soared again. 
 
 On the morrow, when the village 
 Woke to all its toil and care, 
 
 Lo ! the strange steed had departed, 
 And they knew not when nor where. 
 
 But they found, upon the greensward 
 Where his struggling hoofs had trod, 
 
 Pure and bright, a fountain flowing 
 From the hoof-marks in the sod. 
 
 From that hour, the fount unfailing 
 Gladdens the whole region round, 
 
 Strengthening all who drink its waters, 
 While it soothes them with its sound. 
 
TEGNER S DRAPA. 263 
 
 TEGNER S DRAPA. 
 
 I HEARD a voice, that cried, 
 " Balder the Beautiful 
 Is dead, is dead ! " 
 And through the misty air 
 Passed like the mournful cry 
 Of sunward sailing cranes. 
 
 I saw the pallid corpse 
 
 Of the dead sun 
 
 Borne through the Northern sky,, 
 
 Blasts from Niffelheim 
 
 Lifted the sheeted mists 
 
 Around him as he passed. 
 
 And the voice forever cried, 
 
 " Balder the Beautiful 
 
 Is dead, is dead ! " 
 
 And died away 
 
 Through the dreary night, 
 
 In accents of despair. 
 
 Balder the Beautiful, 
 God of the summer sun, 
 Fairest of all the Gods ! 
 Light from his forehead beamed, 
 Runes were upon his tongue, 
 As on the warrior s sword. 
 
264 BY THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 All things in earth and air 
 Bound were by magic spell 
 Never to do him harm ; 
 Even the plants and stones ; 
 All save the mistletoe, 
 The sacred mistletoe ! 
 
 Hceder, the blind old God, 
 Whose feet are shod with silence, 
 Pierced through that gentle breast 
 With his sharp spear, by fraud 
 Made of the mistletoe, 
 The accursed mistletoe ! 
 
 They laid him in his ship, 
 With horse and harness, 
 As on a funeral pyre. 
 Odin placed 
 A ring upon his finger, 
 And whispered in his ear. 
 
 They launched the burning ship ! 
 
 It floated far away 
 
 Over the misty sea, 
 
 Till like the sun it seemed, 
 
 Sinking beneath the waves. 
 
 Balder returned no more ! 
 
TEGNER S DRAPA. 26$ 
 
 So perish the old Gods ! 
 
 But out of the sea of Time 
 
 Rises a new land of song, 
 
 Fairer than the old. 
 
 Over its meadows green 
 
 Walk the young bards and sing. 
 
 Build it again, 
 
 O ye bards, 
 
 Fairer than before ! 
 
 Ye fathers of the new race, 
 
 Feed upon morning dew, 
 
 Sing the new Song of Love ! 
 
 The law of force is dead ! 
 The law of love prevails ! 
 Thor, the thunderer, 
 Shall rule the earth no more, 
 No more, with threats, 
 Challenge the meek Christ. 
 
 Sing no more, 
 O ye bards of the North, 
 Of Vikings and of Jarls ! 
 Of the days of Eld 
 Preserve the freedom only, 
 Not the deeds of blood 1 
 
266 BY THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 SONNET 
 
 ON MRS. KEMBLE S READINGS FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 O PRECIOUS evenings ! all too swiftly sped ! 
 
 Leaving us heirs to amplest heritages 
 
 Of all the best thoughts of the greatest sages, 
 
 And giving tongues unto the silent dead ! 
 
 How our hearts glowed and trembled as she read, 
 
 Interpreting by tones the wondrous pages 
 
 Of the great poet who foreruns the ages, 
 
 Anticipating all that shall be said ! 
 
 O happy Reader ! having for thy text 
 
 The magic book, whose Sibylline leaves have caught 
 
 The rarest essence of all human thought ! 
 
 O happy Poet ! by no critic vext ! 
 
 How must thy listening spirit now rejoice 
 
 To be interpreted by such a voice ! 
 
 THE SINGERS. 
 
 GOD sent his singers upon earth 
 With songs of sadness and of mirth, 
 That they might touch the hearts of men, 
 And bring them back to heaven again. 
 
 The first, a youth, with soul of fire, 
 
 Held in his hand a golden lyre ; 
 
 Through groves he wandered, and by streams, 
 
 Playing the music of our dreams. 
 
THE SINGERS. 267 
 
 The second, with a bearded face, 
 Stood singing in the market-place, 
 And stirred with accents deep and loud 
 The hearts of all the listening crowd. 
 
 A gray, old man, the third and last. 
 Sang in cathedrals dim and vast, 
 While the majestic organ rolled 
 Contrition from its mouths of gold. 
 
 And those who heard the Singers three 
 Disputed which the best might be ; 
 For still their music seemed to start 
 Discordant echoes in each heart. 
 
 But the great Master said, " I see 
 
 No best in kind, but in degree ; 
 
 I gave a various gift to each, 
 
 To charm, to strengthen, and to teach. 
 
 " These are the three great chords of might, 
 And he whose ear is tuned aright 
 Will hear no discord in the three, 
 But the most perfect harmony." 
 
268 BY THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 SUSPIRIA. 
 
 TAKE them, O Death ! and bear away 
 Whatever them canst call thine own ! 
 
 Thine image, stamped upon this clay, 
 Doth give thee that, but that alone ! 
 
 Take them, O Grave ! 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 ! " 
 
HYMN. 269 
 
 Within this temple Christ again, unseen, 
 Those sacred words hath said, 
 
 And his invisible hands to-day have been 
 Laid on a young man s head. 
 
 And evermore beside him on his way 
 The unseen Christ shall move, 
 
 That he may lean upon his arm and say, 
 " Dost thou, dear Lord, approve?" 
 
 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 ! 
 
2/0 BY THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 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. 
 
 THE BLIND GIRL OF CAST^L-CUILLE. 
 
 FROM THE GASCON OF JASMIN. 
 I. 
 
 AT the foot of the mountain height 
 
 Where is perched Castel-Cuille, 
 When the apple, the plum, and the almond tree 
 
 In the plain below were growing white, 
 
 This is the song one might perceive 
 On a Wednesday morn of Saint Joseph s Eve : 
 
 " The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom, 
 
 So fair a bride shall leave her home ! 
 
 Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, 
 
 So fair a bride shall pass to-day ! " 
 
 This old Te Deum, rustic rites attending, 
 Seemed from the clouds descending ; 
 When lo ! a merry company 
 Of rosy village girls, clean as the eye, 
 
 Each one with her attendant swain, 
 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. 
 
THE BLIND GIRL OF CAST&L-CUILL&. 2/1 
 
 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, 
 
2/2 BY THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 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? 
 O, no ! for a maiden frail, I trow, 
 
THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUILLE. 273 
 
 Never bore so lofty a brow ! 
 What lovers ! they give not a single caress ! 
 To see them so careless and cold to-day, 
 
 These are grand people, one would say. 
 What ails Baptiste ? what grief doth him oppress ? 
 
 It is, that, half way up the hill, 
 
 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 estranged. 
 Wearied at home, ere long 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. 
 
 Then suddenly a maiden cried, 
 "Anna, Theresa, Mary, Kate! 
 
2/4 BY THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 Here comes the cripple Jane ! " And by a foun 
 tain 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 fleet. 
 
 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 bridegroom, 
 Thou diggest for thyself a tomb ! " 
 And she was silent ; and the maidens foil- 
 Saw from each eye escape a swollen tear ; 
 
THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUILLE. 2?$ 
 
 But on a little streamlet silver-clear, 
 What are two drops of turbid rain ? 
 Saddened a moment, the bridal train 
 Resumed the dance and song again ; 
 The bridegroom only was pale with fear ; 
 And down green alleys 
 Of verdurous valleys, 
 With merry sallies, 
 They sang the refrain : 
 
 " The roads should blossom, the roads should 
 
 bloom, 
 
 So fair a bride shall leave her home ! 
 Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, 
 So fair a bride shall pass to-day ! " 
 
 II. 
 
 And by suffering worn and weary, 
 But beautiful as some fair angel yet, 
 Thus lamented Margaret, 
 In her cottage lone and dreary : 
 
 " 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, benighted, 
 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 ! 
 
2/6 BY THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 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 ! 
 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 the 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 ! 
 
THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUILLE. 2// 
 
 But some one comes ! Though blind, my heart can 
 
 see ! 
 And that deceives me not ! t is he ! \ is he ! " 
 
 And the door ajar is set, 
 
 And poor, confiding Margaret 
 Rises, with outstretched arms, but sightless eyes ; 
 T is 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? 
 For all are there but you and I ! " 
 
 * Angela married ! and not send 
 
 To tell her secret unto me ! 
 
 O speak ! who may the bridegroom be ? Yl 
 
 " My sister, t is 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. 
 
2/8 BY THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 " Hark ! the joyous airs are ringing ! 
 Sister, dost thou hear them singing? 
 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 ere long, 
 Thou knowest it is at Whitsuntide. 
 Thy cards forsooth can never lie, 
 To me such joy they prophesy, 
 Thy skill shall be vaunted far and wide 
 When they behold him at my side. 
 
THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTkL-CUILLfc. 2/9 
 
 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 mayst love him less !" 
 
 " The more I pray, the more I love ! 
 It is no sin, for God is on my side ! " 
 It was enough ; and Jane no more replied. 
 
 Now to all hope her heart is barred and cold ; 
 
 But to deceive the beldame old 
 
 She takes a sweet, contented air; 
 
 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! she nothing 
 knows ! " 
 
 Poor Jane, the cunning sorceress ! 
 Now that thou wouldst, thou art no prophetess ! 
 This morning, in the fulness of thy heart, 
 
 Thou wast so, far beyond thine art ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Now rings the bell, nine times reverberating, 
 And the white daybreak, stealing up the sky, 
 Sees in two cottages two maidens waiting, 
 How differently ! 
 
280 BY THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 Queen of a day, by flatterers caressed, 
 
 The one puts on her cross and crown, 
 Decks with a huge bouquet her breast, 
 And flaunting, fluttering up and down, 
 Looks at herself, and cannot rest. 
 
 The other, blind, within her little room, 
 
 Has neither crown nor flower s perfume ; 
 But in their stead for something gropes apart, 
 
 That in a drawer s recess doth lie, 
 And neath her bodice of bright scarlet dye, 
 
 Convulsive clasps it to her heart. 
 
 The one, fantastic, light as air, 
 
 Mid kisses ringing, 
 
 And joyous singing, 
 Forgets to say her morning prayer ! 
 
 The other, with cold drops upon her brow, 
 
 Joins her two hands, and kneels upon the floor, 
 And whispers, as her brother opes the door, 
 O God ! forgive me now ! " 
 
 And then the orphan, young and blind, 
 
 Conducted by her brothers hand, 
 
 Towards the church, through paths unscanned. 
 
 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, 
 
THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUILLE. 28 1 
 
 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 ! " 
 Thus Margaret said. " Where are we ? we ascend ! " 
 
 " Yes ; seest thou not our journey s end? 
 Hearest not the osprey from the belfrey 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 i The bride will be here soon : 
 Thou tremblest ! O my God ! thou art going to 
 swoon ! " 
 
282 BY THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 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 ever more 
 
 Her steps towards the open door ; 
 And when, beneath her feet, the unhappy maid 
 Crushes the laurel near the house immortal, 
 And with her head, as Paul talks on again, 
 
 Touches the crown of filigrane 
 
 Suspended from the low-arched portal, 
 
 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, 
 Its hymeneal peal o er rock and down the dell. 
 It is broad day, with sunshine and with rain ; 
 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. 
 
THE BLIND GIRL OF CAST&L-CUILL&. 283 
 
 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 receives it ; 
 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 ! 
 " Baptiste," she said, "since thou hast wished my 
 
 death, 
 
 As holy water be my blood for thee ! " 
 And calmly in the air a knife suspended ! 
 Doubtless her guardian angel near attended, 
 
 For anguish did its work so well, 
 
 That, ere the fatal stroke descended, 
 Lifeless she fell ! 
 
 At eve, instead of bridal verse, 
 The De Profundis filled the air ; 
 Decked with flowers a simple hearse 
 To the churchyard forth they bear ; 
 Village girls in robes of snow 
 
2 84 RY THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 Follow, weeping as they go ; 
 Nowhere was a smile that day, 
 No, ah no ! for each one seemed to say : 
 
 ** The roads 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 t,o-day ! " 
 
 A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 
 
 FROM THE NOEL BOURGUIGNON DE GUI BAROZAI. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 In December ring 
 Ev^ry 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. 
 
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 28 
 
 Shepherds at the grange, 
 Where the Babe was born, 
 Sang, with many a change, 
 Christmas carols until morn. 
 Let us by the fire 
 Ever higher 
 Sing them till the night expire ! 
 
 These good people sang 
 Songs devout and sweet ; 
 While the rafters rang, 
 There they stood with freezing feet. 
 Let us by the fire 
 Ever higher 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
286 BY THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 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 
 Ever higher 
 Sing them till the night expire. 
 
NOTES. 287 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Page 165. All the Foresters of Flanders. 
 
 The title of Foresters was given to the early governors 
 of Flanders, appointed by the kings of France. Lyderick 
 du Bucq, in the days of Clotaire the Second, was the first 
 of them ; and Beaudoin Bras-de-Fer, who stole away the 
 fair Judith, daughter of Charles the Bald, from the French 
 court, and married her in Bruges, was the last. After him, 
 the title of Forester was changed to that of Count. 
 Philippe d Alsace, Guy de Dampierre, and Louis de 
 Crecy, coming later in the order of time, were therefore 
 rather Counts than Foresters. Philippe went twice to the 
 Holy Land as a Crusader, and died of the plague at St. 
 Jean-d Acre, shortly after the capture of the city by the 
 Christians. Guy de Dampierre died in the prison of Com- 
 piegne. Louis de Crecy was son and successor of Robert 
 de Bethune, who strangled his wife, Yolande de Bour- 
 gogne, with the bridle of his horse, for having poisoned, 
 at the age of eleven years, Charles, his son by his first 
 wife, Blanche d Anjou. 
 
 Page 165. Stately dames , like queens attended. 
 
 When Philippe-le-Bel, king of France, visited Flanders 
 with his queen, she was so astonished at the magnificence 
 of the dames of Bruges, that she exclaimed, " Je croyais 
 etre seule reine ici, mais il parait que ceux de Flandre qui 
 se trouvent dans nos prisons sont tous des princes, car 
 
288 NOTES. 
 
 leurs femmes sont habille es comme des princesses ct des 
 reines." 
 
 When the burgomasters of Ghent, Bruges, and Ypres 
 went to Paris to pay homage to King John, in 1351, they 
 were received with great pomp and distinction; but, being 
 invited to a festival, they observed that their seats at table 
 were not furnished with cushions ; whereupon, to make 
 known their displeasure at this want of regard to their 
 dignity, they folded their richly embroidered cloaks and 
 seated themselves upon them. On rising from table, they 
 left their cloaks behind them, and, being informed of their 
 apparent forgetfulness, Simon van Eertrycke, burgomaster 
 of Bruges, replied, " We Flemings are not in the habit of 
 carrying away our cushions after dinner." 
 
 Page 165. Knights who bore the F~leece of Cold. 
 
 Philippe de Bourgogne, surnamed Le Bon, espoused 
 Isabella of Portugal, on the loth of January, 1430, and 
 on the same day instituted the famous order of the Fleece 
 of Gold. 
 
 Page 165. / beheld the gentle Mary. 
 
 Marie de Valois, Duchess of Burgundy, was left by the 
 death of her father, Charles-le-Temeraire, at the age of 
 twenty, the richest heiress of Europe. She came to 
 Bruges, as Countess of Flanders, in 1477, and in the same 
 year was married by proxy to the Archduke Maximilian. 
 According to the custom of the time, the Duke of Bavaria, 
 Maximilian s substitute, slept with the princess. They 
 were both in complete dress, separated by a naked sword, 
 and attended by four armed guards. Marie was adored 
 by her subjects for her gentleness and her many other 
 virtues. 
 
NOTES. 289 
 
 Maximilian was son of the Emperor Frederick the Third, 
 and is the same person mentioned afterwards in the poem 
 of Nuremberg as the Kaiser Maximilian, and the hero of 
 Pfinzing s poem of Teuerdank. Having been imprisoned 
 by the revolted burghers of Bruges, they refused to release 
 him, till he consented to kneel in the public square, and 
 to swear on the Holy Evangelists and the body of Saint 
 Donatus that he would not take vengeance upon them for 
 their rebellion. 
 
 Page 1 66. The bloody battle of the Spurs of Gold. 
 
 This battle, the most memorable in Flemish history, was 
 fought under the walls of Courtray, on the nth of July, 
 1302, between the French and the Flemings, the former 
 commanded by Robert, Comte d Artois, and the latter by 
 Guillaume de Juliers, and Jean, Comte de Namur. The 
 French army was completely routed, with a loss of twenty 
 thousand infantry and seven thousand cavalry ; among 
 whom were sixty-three princes, dukes, and counts, seven 
 hundred lords-banneret, and eleven hundred noblemen. 
 The flower of the French nobility perished on that day, to 
 which history has given the name of the Journee des 
 Eperons a" Or, from the great number of golden spurs 
 foimd on the field of battle. Seven hundred of them 
 were hung up as a trophy in the church of Notre Dame de 
 Courtray ; and, as the cavaliers of that day wore but a 
 single spur each, these vouched to God for the violent and 
 bloody death of seven hundred of his creatures. 
 
 Page 166. Saw the fight at Minnewater. 
 
 When the inhabitants of Bruges were digging a canal at 
 Minnewater, to bring the waters of the Lys from Deynze 
 to their city, they were attacked and routed by the citizens 
 
2 QO NOTES. 
 
 of Ghent, whose commerce would have been much injured 
 by the canal. They were led by Jean Lyons, captain of a 
 military company at Ghent, called the Chaperons Blanc, 
 He had great sway over the turbulent populace, who, in 
 those prosperous times of the city, gained an easy liveli 
 hood by laboring two or three days in the week, and had 
 the remaining four or five to devote to public affairs. The 
 fight at Minnewater was followed by open rebellion against 
 Louis de Maele, the Count of Flanders and Protector of 
 Bruges. His superb chateau of Wondelghem was pillaged 
 and burnt ; and the insurgents forced the gates of Bruges, 
 and entered in triumph, with Lyons mounted at their 
 head. A few days afterwards he died suddenly, perhaps 
 by poison. 
 
 Meanwhile the insurgents received a check at the village 
 of Nevele; and two hundred of them perished in the 
 church, which was burned by the Count s orders. One of 
 the chiefs, Jean de Lannoy, took refuge in the belfry. 
 From the summit of the tower he held forth his purse 
 filled with gold, and begged for deliverance. It was in 
 vain. His enemies cried to him from below to save him 
 self as best he might ; and, half suffocated with smoke 
 and flame, he threw himself from the tower and perished 
 at their feet. Peace was soon afterwards established, and 
 the Count retired to faithful Bruges. 
 
 Page 1 66. The Golden Dragon s nest. 
 
 The Goldon Dragon, taken from the church of St. 
 Sophia, at Constantinople, in one of the Crusades, and 
 placed on the belfry of Bruges, was afterwards trans 
 ported to Ghent by Philip van Artevelde, and still adorns 
 the belfry of that city. 
 
 The inscription on the alarm-bell at Ghent is, " Mynen 
 
NOTES. 291 
 
 naem is Roland ; ah ik klcp is er brand, and als ik luy 
 is er victorie in het land. My name is Roland ; when 
 I toll there is fire, and when I ring there is victory in the 
 land. 
 
 Page 172. That their great imperial city stretched its 
 hand through every clime. 
 
 An old popular proverb of the town runs thus : 
 
 " Niirnberg V Hand 
 Geht durch alle Land" 
 
 Nuremberg s hand 
 Goes through every land. 
 
 Page 172. Sat the poet Alelchior singing Kaiser Alaxi- 
 milian s praise. 
 
 Melchior Pfinzing was one of the most celebrated Ger 
 man poets of the sixteenth century. The hero of his 
 Teuerdank was the reigning emperor, Maximilian ; and 
 the poem was to the Germans of that day what the 
 Orlando Furioso was to the Italians. Maximilian is men 
 tioned before, in the Belfry of Bruges. See page 165. 
 
 Page 172. /;/ the church of sainted Sebald sleeps en 
 shrined his holy dust. 
 
 The tomb of Saint Sebald, in the church which bears 
 his name, is one of the richest works of art in Nuremberg. 
 It is of bronze, and was cast by Peter Vischer and his 
 sons, who labored upon it thirteen years. It is adorned 
 with nearly one hundred figures, among which those of 
 the Twelve Apostles are conspicuous for size and beauty. 
 
2Q2 NOTES. 
 
 Page 173. In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a 
 pix of sculpture rare. 
 
 This pix, or tabernacle for the vessels of the sacrament, 
 is by the hand of Adam Kraft. It is an exquisite piece of 
 sculpture in white stone, and rises to the height of sixty- 
 four feet. It stands in the choir, whose richly painted 
 windows cover it with varied colors. 
 
 Page 174. Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters. 
 
 The Twelve Wise Masters was the title of the original 
 corporation of the Mastersingers. Hans Sachs, the cob 
 bler of Nuremberg, though not one of the original Twelve, 
 was the most renowned of the Mastersingers, as well as 
 the most voluminous. He flourished in the sixteenth cen 
 tury; and left behind him thirty-four folio volumes of 
 manuscript, containing two hundred and eight plays, one 
 thousand and seven hundred comic tales, and between four 
 and five thousand lyric poems. 
 
 Page 174. As in Adam Puscktnan s song. 
 
 Adam Puschman, in his poem on the death of Hans 
 
 chs, describes him as he appeared in a vision : 
 
 " An old man, 
 
 Gray and white, and dove-like, 
 Who had, in sooth, a great beard, 
 And read in a fair, great book, 
 Beautiful, with golden clasps." 
 
 Page 1 88. The Occupation of Orion. 
 
 Astronomically speaking, this title is incorrect; as I 
 apply to a constellation what can properly be applied to 
 some of its stars only. But my observation is made from 
 the hill of song, and not from that of science; and will, 
 
NOTES. 293 
 
 I trust, be found sufficiently accurate for the present 
 purpose. 
 
 Page 203. Walter von der Vogekveid. 
 
 Walter von der Vogelweid, or Bird-Meadow, was one 
 of the principal Minnesingers of the thirteenth century. 
 He triumphed over Heinrich von Ofterdingen in that poetic 
 contest at Wartburg Castle, known in literary history as 
 the War of Wartburg. 
 
 Page 211. Like imperial Charlemagne. 
 
 Charlemagne may be called by pre-eminence the mon 
 arch of farmers. According to the German tradition, in 
 seasons of great abundance, his spirit crosses the Rhine 
 on a golden bridge at Bingen, and blesses the cornfields 
 and the vineyards. During his lifetime, he did not dis 
 dain, says Montesquieu, " to sells the eggs from the farm 
 yards of his domains, and the superfluous vegetables of his 
 gardens; while he distributed among his people the wealth 
 of the Lombards and the immense treasures of the Huns." 
 
 Page 233. Behold , at last, 
 
 Each tall and tapering wasf 
 Is swung into its place. 
 
 I wish to anticipate a criticism on this passage by stating, 
 that sometimes, though not usually, vessels are launched 
 fully rigged and sparred. I have availed myself of the 
 exception, as better suited to my purposes than the general 
 rule; but the reader will see that it is neither a blunder 
 nor a poetic license. On this subject a friend in Portland, 
 Me., writes me thus : 
 
 " In this State, and also, I am told, in New York, ships 
 are sometimes rigged upon the stocks, in order to save 
 
294 NOTES. 
 
 time, or to make a show. There was a fine, large ship 
 launched last summer at Ellsworth, fully rigged and 
 sparred. Some years ago a ship was launched here, with 
 her rigging, spars, sails, and cargo aboard. She sailed 
 the next day and was never heard of again ! I hope 
 this will not be the fate of your poem ! " 
 
 Page 243. Sir Hiimphrey Gilbert. 
 
 "When the wind abated and the vessels were near 
 enough, the Admiral was seen constantly sitting in the 
 stern, with a book in his hand. On the gth of September 
 he was seen for the last time, and was heard by the people 
 of the Hind to say, We are as near heaven by sea as by 
 land. In the following night, the lights of the ship sud 
 denly disappeared. The people in the other vessel kept a 
 good lookout for him during the remainder of the voyage. 
 On the 22d of September they arrived, through much 
 tempest and peril, at Falmouth. But nothing more was 
 seen or heard of the Admiral." Belknap^s American 
 Biography, I. 203. 
 
 Page 270. The Blind Girl of Castel- Cuilfc. 
 
 Jasmin, the author of this beautiful poem, is to the South 
 of France what Burns is to the South of Scotland, the 
 representative of the heart of the people, one of those 
 happy bards who are born with their mouths full of birds 
 (/a IOMCO plena d aouzelous}. He has written his own 
 biography in a poetic form, and the simple narrative of 
 his poverty, his struggles, and his triumphs, is very touch 
 ing. He still lives at Agen, on the Garonne; and long 
 may he live there to delight his native land with native 
 songs ! 
 
 The following description of his person and way of life 
 
NOTES. 295 
 
 is taken from the graphic pages of "Beam and the Pyre 
 nees," by Louisa Stuart Costello, whose charming pen has 
 done so much to illustrate the French provinces and their 
 literature. 
 
 " At the entrance of the promenade, Du Gravier, is a 
 row of small houses, some cafes, others shops, the indi 
 cation of which is a painted cloth placed across the way, 
 with the owner s name in bright gold letters, in the manner 
 of the arcades in the streets, and their announcements. 
 One of the most glaring of these was, we observed, a 
 bright blue flag, bordered with gold; on which, in large 
 gold letters, appeared the name of Jasmin, Coiffeur. 
 We entered, and were welcomed by a smiling, dark-eyed 
 woman, who informed us that her husband was busy at 
 that moment dressing a customer s hair, but he was desi 
 rous to receive us, and begged we would walk into his 
 parlor at the back of the shop. 
 
 " She exhibited to us a laurel crown of gold, of delicate 
 workmanship, sent from the city of Clemence Isaure, 
 Toulouse, to the poet; who will probably one day take 
 his place in the capitoul. Next came a golden cup, with 
 an inscription in his honor, given by the citizens of Auch; 
 a gold watch, chain, and seals, sent by the king, Louis 
 Philippe; an emerald ring worn and presented by the 
 lamented Duke of Orleans; a pearl pin, by the graceful 
 Duchess, who, on the poet s visit to Paris, accompanied 
 by his son, received him in the words he puts into the 
 mouth of Henri Quatre: 
 
 Brabes Gaseous ! 
 
 A moun amou per bous aou dibes creyre : 
 Benes ! benes ! ey plaze de bous beyre : 
 Aproucha bous ! 
 
296 NOTES. 
 
 A fine service of linen, the offering of the town of Pau, 
 after its citizens had given fetes in his honor, and loaded 
 him with caresses and praises; and nicknacks and jewels 
 of all descriptions offered to him by lady-ambassadresses, 
 and great lords; English misses and miladis; and 
 French, and foreigners of all nations who did or did not 
 understand Gascon. 
 
 "All this, though startling, was not convincing; Jasmin, 
 the barber, might only be a fashion, a furore, a caprice, 
 after all; and it was evident that he knew how to get up 
 a scene well. When we had become nearly tired of look 
 ing over these tributes to his genius, the door opened, and 
 the poet himself appeared. His manner was free and 
 unembarrassed, well-bred, and lively; he received our 
 compliments naturally, and like one accustomed to hom 
 age; said he was ill, and unfortunately too hoarse to read 
 anything to us, or should have been delighted to do so. 
 He spoke with a broad Gascon accent, and very rapidly 
 and eloquently; ran over the story of his successes; told 
 us that his grandfather had been a beggar, and all his fam 
 ily very poor; that he was now as rich as he wished to be : 
 his son placed in a good position at Nantes; then showed 
 us his son s picture, and spoke of his disposition, to which 
 his brisk little wife added, that, though no fool, he had 
 not his father s genius, to which truth Jasmin assented as 
 a matter of course. I told him of having seen mention 
 made of him in an English review; which he said had 
 been sent him by Lord Durham, who had paid him a visit; 
 and I then spoke of Me cal mouri as known to me. 
 This was enough to make him forget his hoarseness and 
 every other evil : it would never do for me to imagine that 
 that little song was his best composition; it was merely 
 his first; he must try to read to me a little of L Abuglo, 
 
NOTES. 297 
 
 a few verses of Francouneto ; You will be 
 charmed, said he; but if I were well, and you would 
 give me the pleasure of your company for some time, if 
 you were not merely running through Agen, I would kill 
 you with weeping, I would make you die with distress 
 for my poor Margarido, my pretty Francouneto ! 
 
 "He caught up two copies of his book, from a pile 
 lying on the table, and making us sit close to him, he 
 pointed out the French translation on one side, which he 
 told us to follow while he read in Gascon. He began in 
 a rich, soft voice, and as he advanced, the surprise ot 
 Hamlet on hearing the player-king recite the disasters of 
 Hecuba was but a type of ours, to find ourselves carried 
 away by the spell of his enthusiasm. His eyes swam in 
 tears ; he became pale and red ; he trembled ; he re 
 covered himself ; his face was now joyous, now exulting, 
 gay, jocose ; in fact, he was twenty actors in one ; he rang 
 the changes from Rachel to Bouffe ; and he finished by 
 delighting us, besides beguiling us of our tears, and over 
 whelming us with astonishment. 
 
 "He would have been a treasure on the stage ; for he 
 is still, though his first youth is past, remarkably good- 
 looking and striking; with black, sparkling eyes, of 
 intense expression; a fine, ruddy complexion; a counte 
 nance of wondrous mobility; a good figure ; and action 
 full of fire and grace; he has handsome hands, which he 
 uses with infinite effect; and, on the whole, he is the best 
 actor of the kind I ever saw. I could now quite under 
 stand what a troubadour or jongleur might be, and I look 
 upon Jasmin as a revived specimen of that extinct race. 
 Such as he is might have been Gaucelm Faidit, of 
 Avignon, the friend of Cceur de Lion, who lamented the 
 death of the hero in such moving strains ; such might have 
 
298 NOTES. 
 
 been Bernard de Ventadour, who sang the praises of 
 Queen Elinore s beauty ; such Geoffrey Rudel, of Blaye, 
 on his own Garonne ; such the wild Vidal : certain it is, 
 that none of these troubadours of old could more move, 
 by their singing or reciting, than Jasmin, in whom all their 
 long-smothered fire and traditional magic seems reillumined. 
 "We found we had stayed hours instead of minutes 
 with the poet ; but he would not hear of any apology, 
 only regretted that his voice was so out of tune, in con 
 sequence of a violent cold, under which he was really 
 laboring, and hoped to see us again. He told us our 
 country-women of Pau had laden him with kindness and 
 attention, and spoke with such enthusiasm of the beauty 
 of certain misses, that I feared his little wife would feel 
 somewhat pique d ; but, on the contrary, she stood by, 
 smiling and happy, and enjoying the stories of his triumphs. 
 I remarked that he had restored the poetry of the trouba 
 dours ; asked him if he knew their songs ; and said he was 
 worthy to stand at their head. I am, indeed, a trouba 
 dour, said he, with energy ; but I am far beyond them 
 all, they were but beginners ; they never composed a 
 poem like my Francouneto ! there are no poets in France 
 now, there cannot be ; the language does not admit of 
 it ; where is the fire, the spirit, the expression, the tender 
 ness, the force of the Gascon? French is but the ladder 
 to reach to the first floor of Gascon, how can you get up 
 to a height except by a ladder ! 
 
 " I returned by Agen, after an absence in the Pyrenees 
 of some months, and renewed my acquaintance with Jasmin 
 and his dark-eyed wife. I did not expect that I should be 
 recognized ; but the moment I entered the little shop I 
 was hailed as an old friend. Ah ! cried Jasmin, enfin 
 
NOTES. 299 
 
 la voila encore ! I could not but be flattered by this 
 recollection, but soon found it was less on my own account 
 that I was thus welcomed, than because a circumstance 
 had occurred to the poet which he thought I could perhaps 
 explain. He produced several French newspapers, in 
 which he pointed out to me an article headed Jasmin a 
 Londres ; being a translation of certain notices of him 
 self, which had appeared in a leading English literary 
 journal. He had, he said, -been informed of the honor 
 done him by numerous friends, and assured me his fame 
 had been much spread by this means ; and he was so de 
 lighted on the occasion, that he had resolved to learn 
 English, in order that he might judge of the translations 
 from his works, which, he had been told, were well done. 
 I enjoyed his surprise, while I informed him that I knew 
 who was the reviewer and translator ; and explained the 
 reason for the verses giving pleasure in an English dress to 
 be the superior simplicity of the English language over 
 modern French, for which he has a great contempt, as un 
 fitted for lyrical composition. He inquired of me respect 
 ing Burns, to whom he had been likened ; and begged me 
 to tell him something of Moore. The delight of himself 
 and his wife was amusing, at having discovered a secret 
 which had puzzled them so long. 
 
 "He had a thousand things to tell me ; in particular, 
 that he had only the day before received a letter from the 
 Duchess of Orleans, informing him that she had ordered 
 a medal of her late husband to be struck, the first of 
 which would be sent to him : she also announced to him 
 the agreeable news of the king having granted him a pen 
 sion of a thousand francs. He smiled and wept by turns, 
 as he told all this ; and declared, much as he was elated at 
 the possession of a sum which made him a rich man for 
 
30O NOTES. 
 
 life, the kindness of the Duchess gratified him even 
 more. 
 
 " He then made us sit down while he read us two new 
 poems ; both charming, and full of grace and naivete ; and 
 one very affecting, being an address to the king, alluding 
 to the death of his son. As he read, his wife stood by, 
 and fearing we did not quite comprehend his language, 
 she made a remark to that effect : to which he answered im 
 patiently, Nonsense, don t you see they are in tears. 
 This was unanswerable ; and we were allowed to hear the 
 poem to the end ; and I certainly never listened to any 
 thing more feelingly and energetically delivered. 
 
 " We had much conversation, for he was anxious to 
 detain us, and, in the course of it, he told me that he had 
 been by some accused of vanity. O, he rejoined, what 
 would you have ! I am a child of nature, and cannot con 
 ceal my feelings ; the only difference between me and a 
 man of refinement is, that he knows how to conceal his 
 vanity and exultation at success, which I let everybody 
 see. " Beam and the Pyrenees, I. 369, et seq. 
 
 Page 284. A Christmas Carol. 
 
 The following description of Christmas in Burgundy is 
 from M. Fertiault s Coup d* oeil sur les Noels en Bourgogne, 
 prefixed to the Paris edition of Les Noels Bourguignons de 
 Bernard de la Monnoye (Gui BarfaaC), 1842. 
 
 " Every year, at the approach of Advent, people refresh 
 their memories, clear their throats, and begin preluding, 
 in the long evenings by the fireside, those carols whose 
 invariable and eternal theme is the coming of the Messiah. 
 They take from old closets pamphlets, little collections be 
 grimed with dust and smoke, to which the press and some 
 times the pen, has consigned these songs; and as soon as 
 
NOTES. 301 
 
 the first Sunday of Advent sounds, they gossip, they gad 
 about, they sit together by the fireside, sometimes at one 
 house, sometimes at another, taking turns in paying for 
 the chestnuts and white wine, but singing with one common 
 voice the grotesque praises of the Little Jesus* There are 
 very few villages even, which, during all the evenings of 
 Advent, do not hear some of these curious canticles shouted 
 in their streets, to the nasal drone of bagpipes. In this 
 case the minstrel comes as a re-enforcement to the singers 
 at the fireside; he brings and adds his dose of joy (spon 
 taneous or mercenary, it matters little which) to the joy 
 which breathes around the hearthstone; and when the 
 voices vibrate and resound, one voice more is always 
 welcome. There, it is not the purity of the notes which 
 makes the concert, but the quantity, non qualitas, sed 
 quantitas ; then (to finish at once with the minstrel), when 
 the Saviour has at length been born in the manger, and 
 the beautiful Christmas Eve is passed, the rustic piper 
 makes his round among the houses, where every one 
 compliments and thanks him, and, moreover, gives him 
 in small coin the price of the shrill notes with which he 
 has enlivened the evening entertainments. 
 
 "More or less, until Christmas Eve, all goes on in this 
 way among our devout singers, with the difference of some 
 gallons of wine or some hundreds of chestnuts. But this 
 famous eve once come, the scale is pitched upon a higher 
 key; the closing evening must be a memorable one. The 
 toilet is begun at nightfall; then comes the hour of supper, 
 admonishing divers appetites; and groups, as numerous as 
 possible, are formed to take together this comfortable even 
 ing repast. The supper finished, a circle gathers around 
 the hearth, which is arranged and set in order this evening 
 after a particular fashion, and which at a later hour of 
 
302 NOTES. 
 
 th night is to become the object of special interest to the 
 children. On the burning brands an enormous log has been 
 placed. This log assuredly does not change its nature, but 
 it changes its name during this evening : it is called the 
 Suche (the Yule-log). Look you, say they to the children, 
 if you are good this evening, Noel (for with children one 
 must always personify) will rain down sugar-plums in the 
 night. And the children sit demurely, keeping as quiet 
 as their turbulent little natures will permit. The groups of 
 older persons, not always as orderly as the children, seize 
 this good opportunity to surrender themselves with merry 
 hearts and boisterous voices to the chanted worship of the 
 miraculous Noel. For this final solemnity, they have kept 
 the most powerful, the most enthusiastic, the most electrify 
 ing carols. Noel ! Noel ! Noel ! This magic word re 
 sounds on all sides; it seasons every sauce, it is served up 
 with every course. Of the thousands of canticles which are 
 heard on this famous eve, ninety-nine in a hundred begin 
 and end with this word; which is, one may say, their Alpha 
 and Omega, their crown and footstool. This last evening, 
 the merry-making is prolonged. Instead of retiring at ten 
 or eleven o clock, as is generally done on all the preceding 
 evenings, they wait for the stroke of midnight : this word 
 sufficiently proclaims to what ceremony they are going to 
 repair. For ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, the bells 
 have been calling the faithful with a triple-bob-major; and 
 each one, furnished with a little taper streaked with various 
 colors (the Christmas Candle), goes through the crowded 
 streets, where the lanterns are dancing like Will-o -the- 
 Wisps, at the impatient summons of the multitudinous 
 chimes. It is the Midnight Mass. Once inside the church, 
 they hear with more or less piety the Mass, emblematic of 
 the coming of the Messiah. Then in tumult and great haste 
 
NOTES. 303 
 
 they return homeward, always in numerous groups; they 
 salute the Yule-log; they pay homage to the hearth; they sit 
 down at table; and, amid songs which reverberate louder 
 than ever, make this meal of after-Christmas, so long looked 
 for, so cherished, so joyous, so noisy, and which it has been 
 thought fit to call, we hardly know why, Rossigiion. The 
 supper eaten at nightfall is no impediment, as you may 
 imagine, to the appetite s returning; above all, if the going 
 to and from church has made the devout eaters feel some 
 little shafts of the sharp and biting north wind. Ros- 
 signon then goes on merrily, sometimes far into the 
 morning hours; but, nevertheless, gradually throats grow 
 hoarse, stomachs are filled, the Yule-log burns out, and at 
 last the hour arrives when each one, as best he may, regains 
 his domicile and his bed, and puts with himself between 
 the* sheets the material fora good sore-throat, or a good 
 indigestion, for the morrow. Previous to this, care has 
 been taken to place in the slippers, or wooden shoes, of 
 the children, the sugar-plums, which shall be for them, on 
 their waking, the welcome fruits of the Christmas log." 
 In the Glossary, the Sttche, or Yule-log, is thus defined : 
 "This is a huge log, which is placed on the fire on 
 Christmas Eve, and which in Burgundy is called, on this 
 account, lai Suche de Noei. Then the father of the family, 
 particularly among the middle classes, sings solemnly 
 Christmas carols with his wife and children, the smallest 
 of whom he sends into the corner to pray that the Yule-log 
 may bear him some sugar-plums. Meanwhile, little parcels 
 of them are placed under each end of the log, and the 
 children come and pick them up, believing, in good faith, 
 that the great log has borne them." 
 
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