COLONIAL BALLADS. SONNETS AND OTHER VERSE '7939 COLONIAL BALLADS, SONNETS AND OTHER VERSE MARGARET J. ^RESTON author of " silverwood," " beechenbrook," '* old song and new,' "cartoons," "for love's sake," etc. 1^^^^^ Ict^^^^^^^^ ^^s ^^^^^^^^ g^^jM^I^^ P^^^^^^^ pM^™^ BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 1887 , , , Copjilglit, 1&87„ By MARGARET J. PRESTON. All rights reserved. The Riverside Press, Cambridge : Blectrotyped and Printed by H. 0. Houghton & Co To BIY FRIEND, JEAN INGELOW, FROM WHOSE BIRTH-PLACE SAILED THE VESSELS THAT BROUGHT SOME OF THE EARLIEST ENGLISH COLONISTS TO THE WESTERN WORLD. jy!76629 Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2007 with funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation http://www.archive.org/details/colonialballadssOOpresrich What wilt thou walk abroad in, Muse of mine f The violet jpeplos, such as in the shades Of Mitylene's gardens, Lesbian maids (JEJrinna and the rest) spun from the fins Milesian wools? Or round thee wilt thou twine Egypt's severer linen, till it lades Thy brows as it did Miriam's dusky braids ? Or drape thee like Egeria at her shrine? Or, as thy vestment, choose the cloth-of-gold, Of later singers, richer dight than these, Which thou mayst borrow, an unquestioned loan, When want impels, to wrap thee from the cold ? Nay, Micse of mine ! in robe of unpatched frieze, Go, rather, thou, — if so it be thine own ! CONTENTS. SONNETS. PAGB The Mount of Vision 1 *'SiT, Jessica" 2 In the Upfizi Gallery 3 Keats's Greek Urn 4 Unbridled 5 The Unsearchable Name . . . . . . .6 Hawthorne 7 A Bit of Autumn Color 8 At St. Oswald's 9 Ultima Thule 10 Attar of Roses 11 Circumstance 12 Out of Nazareth 13 Nature's Comfortings 14 In Cripplegate Church 15 Comfort for the King 16 Dante Gabriel Rossetti 17 The Sibyl's Doubt 18 Vlii CONTENTS. Haydn's Last Quartet 19 Prince Deucalion 20 Pro Republica 21 COLONIAL BALLADS. The Mystery of Cro-a-t1n 22 Sir Walter's Honor 30 The Last Meeting of Pocahontas and the Great Cap- tain 44 The First Thanksgiving Day 48 The Price of a Little Pilgrim 52 The First Proclamation of Miles Standish . . 56 St. Botolph's Chimes 60 The Puritan Maiden's May-Day 63 Lady Yeardley's Guest QQ The Queen of Pamunkey 72 DoRRis' Spinning 77 Fast-Day Sport 82 Greenway Court 85 The Boys' Redoubt 90 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. The Silent Tryst 95 The Ballad of the Bell-Tower 99 The Lake Among the Hills 103 The Royal Abbess 1^5 The Bishop's Epitaph 108 Maid Cicely's Steeple Cap 114 CONTENTS. IX The Wanderer's Bell 117 Before Death 120 A November Nocturne 122 Autumn Love 124 The Flemish Bells 127 Nunc Dimittis 130 The Fairies' Table-Cloth 133 The Kiss of Worship 135 At Last 138 A Belle of Pr-enestb 141 The Longshoreman's View of It 144 The Wine-Vaults of Bergensteen .... 146 pritchard the engineer 150 Compensation 152 Arab Wit 155 Calling the Angels in 158 Persephone 160 The Kept Promise 163 A Touch of Frost 166 The First Te Deum 168 The Christ-Crotch 171 The Begging Cupid 175 How Hilda's Prayer was Answered .... 177 Cambridge Bells 183 The Roman Boy's Share in the Triumph . . . 185 Same-Sickness 189 Her Wedding Song 192 The Angel Unaware 195 X CONTENTS. Nature's Threnody 197 Even-Song 199 SONNETS. The Poet's Answer 201 We Two 202 Hestia 203 Art's Limitations 204 Flood-Tide 205 Abnegation 206 Over-Content 207 In The Pantheon 208 Mendelssohn's Reward 209 " Philip, My King " 210 Moods. Morning . 211 Night 212 Human Providence 213 Horizons 214 The Lesson of the Leaf 215 Wherefore ? 216 Medallion Heads. Saskia 217 VlTTORIA COLONNA 218 La Fornarina . 219 lucrezia 220 Frau Agnes 221 QuiNTiN Matsys' Bride ... . . . 222 CONTENTS, XI CHII.DHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS. Leonardo's Angel 223 Giotto's First Picture 229 Fra Angelico's Boyhood 232 Behind the Arras 235 The Milan Bird-Cages 239 Little Titian's Palette 243 Michael's Mallet 246 GuiDo's Complaint 249 Claude's Journey 252 The Boy Van Dyck 256 SONNETS. THE MOUNT OF VISION. TO RALPH WALDO EMERSON, ON HIS LAST BIRTHDAY. O PROPHET ! standing on thy Nebo height, Wrapt in thy rare, unworldly atmosphere, With senses purged, with aspect large and clear, Thy long-sought, life's Ideal looms in sight : Here, Jordan at thy feet, — there, Hermon white ; And all between, the realms of promised cheer. Wine, olives, milk and honey, now appear Stretched vast before thee in the evening light. What seeth the seer, as from the Mount of Grod He gazes o'er the desert-travel, back Past Sphinx and Pyramids' infinity ? A cloud-led, vatic pathway, bravely trod, — A Bethlehem brightness o'er the forward track. That gleams, glows, broadens, to the " Utmost Sea " ! SONNETS. '!:/''/': i I r.^^^'^ JESSICA." As there she stood, that sweet Venetian night, Her pure face lifted to the skies, aswim With stars from zenith to horizon's rim, I think Lorenzo scarcely saw the light Asleep upon the bank, or felt how bright The patines were. She filled the heavens for him ; And in her low replies, the cherubim Seemed softly quiring from some holy height. And when he drew her down and soothed her tears, Stirred by the minstrelsy, with passionate kiss, Whose long, sweet iterations left her lips Trembling, as roses tremble after sips Of eager bees, the music of the spheres Held not one rhythmic rapture like to this ! SONNETS. IN THE UFFIZI GALLERY. " This bit of paper, thumbed and dingy gray " — The cicerone chattered — but I paid No heed to him, nor even my footsteps stayed, Until he droned, in his perfunctory way, (He tells the story twenty times a day,) — " Is one of Raphael's crayon studies made For DeUa Sedia " — Instant was I laid Spell-bound, as if beneath some sovereign sway ! I touched the master's sleeve, I stood so near ; Watched his held breathing, as the incipient line Took shape, and shadowed the supreme design. Clear-drawn within his soul, and seemed to hear - I saw the blot ! — a quick, ecstatic tear Drop, as the pencil fixed his thought divine ! SONNETS. KEATS'S GREEK URN. When the young poet wrought so unaware From purest Parian, washed by Grecian seas, And stained to amber softness by the breeze Of Attic shores, his Urn, antiquely fair, — And brimmed it at the sacred fountain, where The draughts he drew were sweet as Castaly's, — Had he foreseen what souls would there appease Their purer thirsts, he had not known despair ! About it long processions move and wind, Held by its grace, — a chalice choicely fit For truth's and beauty's perfect interfuse, Whose effluence the exhaling years shall find Unwasted : for the poet's name is writ (Firmer than marble) in Olympian dews ! SONNETS. UNBRIDLED. It might have been so much, — this life now done, - So furrowed with accomplishment, so strong To struggle for the right, oppose the wrong, And be the first at every goal ; for none Went forth less weighted than this favored one, Whom Nature, in her bounty, seemed to throng With helps, his whole unhindered course along. Yet to what end, now that the race is run ? The will, untamed as pampas-steed's, had known No hard-set purpose — yielded to no rein. Obeyed no curb — shirked labor's lasso-coil, And roving masterless, with streaming mane, Scorned, in its lawless liberty, to own Duty's sharp check, and wear the gear of toil. SONNETS. THE UNSEARCHABLE NAME. When I attempt to give the power which I see manifested in the universe an objective form, personal or otherwise, it slips away from me, declining all in- tellectual manipulation. I dare not use the pronoun " He " regarding it ; I dare not call it a " Mind ; " I refuse to call it even a " Cause." — Peof. Tyndall. O CALM philosopher, so seeming meek, Who on the midnight heavens dost gaze with awe, And own the fathomless force behind the law, Confessing that thy finitude is weak To gauge infinity, when thou wouldst seek, With eyes that are but mortal eyes, to draw Within thy vision what mortal never saw, Or utter what no human lips can speak : — Thou " dare not call it ' He ' ? " — Then dare not so, If underneath the mystery, thou art awed. We talk of man thus : '' he '' who treads the sod : Thou wilt not name it " Mind," or " Cause " ? Too low These earth-words comprehensible ! Nay, go Back to primordial truth, and call it God ! SONNETS. HAWTHORNE. He stood apart — but as a mountain stands In isolate repose above the plain, Robed in no pride of aspect, no disdain. Though clothed with power to steep the sunniest lands In mystic shadow. At the mood's demands, Himself he clouded, till no eye could gain The vanished peak, no more, with sense astrain, Than trace a footprint on the surf-washed sands. Yet hidden within that rare, sequestered height, Imperially lonely, what a world Of splendor lay ! what pathless realms untrod ! What rush and wreck of passion ! What delight Of woodland sweets ! What weird winds, phantom- whirled I And over all, the immaculate sky of God ! SONNETS, A BIT OF AUTUMN COLOR. Centred upon a sloping crest, I gazed As one enchanted. The horizon's ring Of billowy mountains, flushed with sunsetting, Islanded me about, and held me mazed, With beauty saturate. Never color blazed On any mortal palette that could fling Such golden glamour over everything As flashed from autumn's prism, till all was hazed With opal, amber, sapphire, amethyst. That shinamered, mingled, dusked to steely blue. Raptured I mused : Salvator never drew Its faintest semblance ; Turner's pencil missed Such culmination : yet we count them true Masters. Behold what God's one touch can do ! SONNETS. AT ST. OSWALD'S. Within the church I knelt, where many a year Wordsworth had worshipped, while his musing eye Wandered o'er mountain, fell, and scaur, and sky, That rimmed the silver circle of Grasmere, Whose crystal held an under-world as clear As that which girt it round ; and questioned why The place was sacred for his lifted sigh. More than the humble dalesman's kneeling near. Strange spell of Genius ! — that can melt the soul To reverence tenderer than o'er it falls Beneath the marvellous heavens which God hath made, And sway it with such human-sweet control That holier henceforth seem these simple walls, Because within them once a poet prayed ! Grasmere, 1884. 10 SONNETS. ULTIMA THULE. H. W. L. Wrap the broad canvas close ; furl the last sail ; Let go the anchor ; for the utmost shore Is reached at length, from which, ah ! nevermore, Shall the brave bark ride forth to meet the gale, Or skim the calm with phosphorescent trail. Or guide lost mariners amid the roar Of hurricanes, or send — far echoing o'er Some shipwrecked craft — the music of his " Hail ! " And he has laid his travel-garb aside ; And forth to meet him come the mystic band Whom he has dreamed of, worshipped, loved so long - The veiled Immortals, who, with holy pride Of exultation, take him by the hand And lead him to the inner shrine of Song. SONNETS. 11 ATTAR OF ROSES. Here in a sandal-box, with Persian lore Gilded upon the slender vial (see ! Some love-line out of Hafiz it may be), I keep imprisoned the delicious store Of a whole Cashmere garden. O'er and o'er, With every inhalation come to me Light, song, breeze, color, — all the witchery That crowds a thousand roses' golden core. Would the wide field be better, where the way Is free to whoso cares to pass ? where none May claim an overplus ? where oft the sun Scorches, and clouds beset the calmest day ? Thou know'st, who hast for me, through yea and nay, Attared my thousand roses into one ! 12 SONNETS. CIRCUMSTANCE. " You may be what you will," the sciolist Says sagely, sitting in the master's seat ; And straightway hastens glibly to repeat Such echoing names, that all dissent is whist To hear the records read, wherein consist The hero-tales of ages ; while defeat Yields proof to him, infaUible, complete, That through weak will alone success is missed. Yet round each life there crowds an atmosphere Of strong environment for woe or weal. That proves to one a joyous fostering power ; To one a fateful force, subversive, drear ; As damps, that nurse to perfect bloom the flower, Rust to corrosion the elastic steel. SONNETS. 13 OUT OF NAZARETH. Dear proud old land, — Judaea of our heart ! Our prophets, poets, kings, we claim of thee, And own that all we have of good and free, And brave and beautiful, is but a part Of England's birthright-gift, because thou art The fount of our ancestral blood, though we Seem only an outlying Galilee To thee, — the assenting nations' mightiest mart. Why should our senses not be keen as thine. Our eye as quick for color ; our strong breath For poet's song ; our ear for music's call ; Since Nature's newest glories round us shine ? Wait the time's fulness : out of Nazareth May come the availing prophet, after all ! 14 SONNETS. NATURE'S COMFORTINGS. I CANNOT bear this gloom of grief (I said) Within shut walls : beneath the open sky So pure in its inviolate calm, so high, I will go forth, and lean my throbbing head On Nature's all-compassionate heart, instead Of human props, that find no more than I An answer to the wild, importunate " why ? ** That moans its questioning wail above my dead. I passed without, beseeching Grief to stay ; The sweet blue air kissed down my sense of pain ; The strong, perpetual mountains seemed to steep My wounds in balm ; the breeze brushed tears away ; The sunshine soothed : and when I turned again Within my door, lo 1 Grief had fallen asleep ! SONNETS. 16 IN CRIPPLEGATE CHURCH.^ I STAND with reverence at the altar-rail, O'er which the soft rose-window sheds its dyes, And, looking up, behold in pictured guise Its choirs of singing cherubs, — heaven's All hail ! Upon each lip, and on each brow a trail Of golden hair, for here the poet's eyes Had rested, dreaming dreams of Paradise, As on yon seat he sat, ere yet the veil Of blindness had descended. Who shall say That when the " during dark " had steeped his sight, And on the ebon tablet flashed to view His Eden, with its angels, mystic, bright, There swept not his unconscious memory through The quiring cherubs that I see to-day ? London. ^ The church in which Milton worshipped, and is buried. 16 SONNETS. COMFORT FOR THE KING. Upon his carven couch the monarch lay, Wrapt in Sidonian purples ; but no trace 0£ Bethlehem ruddiness was on his face, Nor as a king he spake, — "I go the way Of all the earth : " — but as a man who may Find solace in the thought — that of the race, Among its myriads, none should miss a place Upon the path that he must tread that day. Ah, human comfort ! None but God is great Enough for loneliness ! Man in his dearth Of help or hope, succumbing to his fate. Finds what a tender reconcilement hath This royal thought, to moss the flinty path, — 'T is but at most the way of all the earth ! SONNETS. 17 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. O MASTER of mysterious harmony ! Well hast thou proved to us the right divine To wear thy name. The glorious Florentine Had hailed thee comrade on the Stygian sea, — Exiled from haunts of men, and sad as he ; And the strong angel of the inner shrine, — Stooped he not sometimes to that soul of thine, On messages of radiant ministry ? Thy spiritual breath was the cathedral air Of the dead ages. Saints have with thee talked. As with a friend. Thou knewest the sacred thrills That moved Angelico to tears and prayer ; And thou, as in a daily dream, hast walked With Perugino midst his Umhrian hills. 18 SONNETS. THE SIBYL'S DOUBT.^ " This throbbing, reasoning, passionate soul," she said, " May be a mere secretion, hidden away As life is hidden within this coil of clay, So subtly that all search of ages dead Has failed to probe its secret, or to shed More light upon the Everlasting Yea Than Plato knew : and so I grope to-day Mid doubts no Academe has quieted." What matters, then, if ill, or good, or glad, — This life not worth the toil ; this strife so brief, That only ends in some Nirvana dream, Or dark perhaps, that makes the future seem Annihilate ? No marvel she was sad. This sibyl brooding in her unbelief ! 1 Towards the close of her life, George Eliot was accustomed to put forth the idea, in conversation, that " the soul may be nothing more than a secretion." SONNETS. 19 HAYDN^S LAST QUARTET. Hin ist alle meine Kraft : alt und schwach bin ich. Within the old maestro^s brooding brain A yearning inspiration stirred once more ; And catching up the long-neglected score, He sought with trembling hand to link a chain, Wherewith to capture the seolian strain, And cage it with his chords, as heretofore. Ere it should flutter from his touch, and soar Where never breath should weight its wings again. His fingers feebly groped among the keys, As moaning to himself, they heard him say, " Gone is my skill, and old and weak am I : " And when he ceased the labored movement, there Was this one line, that in a plaintive sigh Of sobbing iterations died away. 20 SONNETS. PRINCE DEUCALION. It will be remembered that Bayard Taylor's drama " Prince Deukalion " was published at the time of his death. The closing act was reached, the drama done, And the magician who had wrought the spell Let drop the curtain. Tranced, we scarce could tell Where lay his power, as, shifting one by one The scenes, he showed us how the ages run On toward that life where all perfections dwell. Ending, he said, " Not mine, I deem fuU well. To dare divine thsit future known to none." What secret summons came, we cannot know ; But, on the instant turned, as though he heard A voice beyond the close-drawn curtain, call — And parting it with gesture calm and slow. He stepped within, nor spake another word : And now, behind the veil, he knows it all ! SONNETS. 21 PRO REPUBLICA. Not for thyself, O high, heroic soul ! Didst thou endure the rack of martyr-pain ; Not for thyself, thou caredst to mamtain So grandly the stern struggle, though the whole Heart-yearning world, thriUed with one strange control, Stood by with bated breath and eyes astrain. Waiting, when thou the fearful fight shouldst gain, To girdle earth with pasans to either pole. No Roman falling on the victor's field, Rang out, in dying, with sublimer breath His Pro Bepublica, or fixed an eye Of calmer sacrifice — that would not yield Till bidden of Heaven — upon the face of Death Than thou, who for our sakes hast dared to die. COLONIAL BALLADS. THE MYSTERY OF CRO-A-TAN. The first English colony was sent to America by Sir Walter Raleigh under the auspices of Sir Richard Granville. The settle- ment was made on Roanoke Island in Albemarle Sound. A. D. 1587. I. The home-bound ships stood out to sea, And on the island's marge, Sir Richard waited restlessly To step into the barge. " The Governor tarrieth long," he chode, "As he were loath to go : With food before, and want behind. There should be haste, I trow.'* COLONIAL BALLADS, 23 Even as he spake the Governor came : — " Nay, fret not, for the men Have held me back with frantic let, To have them home again. " The women weep ; — ' Ay, ay, the ships Will come again,' (he saith,) * Before the May : — Before the May We shall have starved to death ! ' " I 've sworn return by God's dear leave, I 've vowed by Court and Crown, Nor yet appeased them. Comrade, thou, Mayhap, canst soothe them down." Sir Richard loosed his helm, and stretched Impatient hands abroad : — " Have ye no trust in man ? " he cried, " Have ye no faith in God ? " Your Governor goes, as needs he must, To bear through royal grace. Hither, such food-supply, that want May never blench a face. 24 COLONIAL BALLADS, " Of freest choice ye willed to leave What so ye had of ease ; For neither stress of liege nor law Hath forced you over seas. " Your Governor leaves fair hostages As costliest pledge of care, — His daughter yonder, and her child, The child Virginia Dare.^ ** Come hither, little sweetheart ! So ! Thou *lt be the first, I ween. To bend the knee, and send through me Thy birthland's virgin fealty, Unto its Virgin Queen. " And now, good folk, for my commands : If ye are fain to roam Beyond this island's narrow bounds. To seek elsewhere a home, — " Upon some pine-tree's smoothen trunk Score deep the Indian name ^ Virginia Dare, the granddaughter of Governor Whyte, was the first English child bom in America. COLONIAL BALLADS. 25 Of tribe or village where ye haunt, That we may read the same. " And if ye leave your haven here Through dire distress or loss, Cut deep within the wood above. The symbol of the cross. " And now on my good blade, I swear, And seal it with this sign. That if the fleet that sails to-day Return not hither by the May, The fault shall not be mine ! " II. The breath of spring was on the sea ; Anon the Governor stepped His good ship's deck right merrily, — His promise had been kept. " See, see ! the coast-line comes in view ! " He heard the mariners shout, — " We '11 drop our anchors in the Sound Before a star is out ! " 26 COLONIAL BALLADS. " Now God be praised ! " he inly breathed, " Who saves from all that harms ; The morrow morn my pretty ones Will rest within my arms." At dawn of day, they moored their ships, And dared the breakers' roar : What meant it ? Not a man was there To welcome them ashore ! They sprang to find the cabins rude ; The quick green sedge had thrown Its knotted web o'er every door, And climbed the chimney-stone. The spring was choked with winter's leaves, And feebly gurgled on ; And from the pathway, strewn with wrack, All trace of feet was gone. Their fingers thrid the matted grass. If there, perchance, a mound Unseen might heave the broken turf : But not a grave was found. COLONIAL BALLADS. 2T They beat the tangled cypress swamp, If haply in despair They might have strayed into its glade : But found no vestige there. " The pine ! the pine ! " the Governor groaned ; And there each staring man Read in a maze, one single word, Deep carven, — Cro-a-tXn ! But cut above, no cross, no sign. No symbol of distress ; Naught else beside that mystic line, Within the wilderness ! And where and what was " Cro-a-tan '' ? But not an answer came ; And none of all who read it there Had ever heard the name. The Governor drew his jerkin sleeve Across his misty eyes ; " Some land, may be, of savagery Beyond the coast that lies ; 28 COLONIAL BALLADS, " And skulking there the wily foe In ambush may have lain ; God's mercy ! Could such sweetest heads Lie scalped among the slain ? " O daughter ! daughter ! with the thought My harrowed brain is wild ! Up with the anchors ! I must find The mother and the child ! " They scoured the mainland near and far : The search no tidings brought ; Till mid a forest's dusky tribe They heard the name they sought. The kindly natives came with gifts Of corn and slaughtered deer ; What room for savage treachery Or foul suspicion here ? Unhindered of a chief or brave, They searched the wigwam through ; But neither lance nor helm nor spear, Nor shred of child's nor woman's gear. Could furnish forth a clue. COLONIAL BALLADS. 29 How could a hundred souls be caught Straight out of life, nor find Device through which to mark their fate, Or leave some hint behind ? Had winter's ocean inland rolled An eagre's deadly spray. That overwhelmed the island's breadth, And swept them all away ? In vain, in vain, their heart-sick search ! No tidings reached them more ; No record save that silent word Upon that silent shore. The mystery rests a mystery still. Unsolved of mortal man : Sphinx-like untold, the ages hold The tale of Cro-a-tXn ! 30 COLONIAL BALLADS. SIR WALTER'S HONOR.^ A. D. 1618. I. 1. " O MOTHER ! fling thy fears away, Bid sorrow from thy brow ! My father's ships, the sailors say, Are in the offing now." 2. " Nay, lad ! Full oft before to me Hath come the self-same tale ; A thousand times I Ve scanned the sea. And never seen his sail." 3. " But hark, sweet mother ! in the street The folk make wild uproar : ^ An incident in the life of Sir Walter Raleigh. COLONIAL BALLADS. 31 Haste ! let us be the first to greet His step upon the shore." 4. ** Ah, boy ! how dare my heart believe ? How dare I crave, good lack ! While foes so plot and friends deceive, To have thy father back ? *' They watch to seize and search his ship, And oh ! mine eyes grow dim, And terror palsies heart and lip : They lay their snares for him — 6. " My noble lord, who weighed no pain, Nor toil nor cost, I ween, Nor ruth of savage lands, to gain New kingdoms for his Queen. 7. " Bermoothes' rocks that gulfed his masts, And tempest-wrack and foam, COLONIAL BALLADS. Are kinder than the King who blasts The joy of coming home ! " n. 1. With drooping sail and shattered mast, Sir Walter's galleons lay Beyond the bar, but soon they cast Anchor in Plymouth Bay. He leaped to shore with bated breath, For there, right full in view, Stood his fair wife, Elizabeth, And his fair son, Carew. 3. ** My Bess ! " he cried, — " my Bess, my boy I " As through the throng he pressed, And caught her in his weary joy, Dead-swooning, to his breast. COLONIAL BALLADS. 33 4. And while he soothed her pale alarms With words all passion-sweet, He heard a troop of men-at-arms Come clattering down the street. 5. He turned to see, as on they rode All dight in gallant sheen : Then out spake he right merrily With cheer of voice and mien : — 6. " Ha, good my cousin ! Scarce I thought Such welcomings to win As thy fair courtesy hath brought To greet thy kith and kin ! ^ 7. *' Gramercy ! I am fain to vow I nevermore will roam, Since with such knightly guise as now, Ye hail the wanderer home ! " ^ Sir Lewis Stukely, who arrested Sir Walter Raleigh on his re- turn from his last voyage, was his cousin. 34 COLONIAL BALLADS. 8. Sir Lewis quickly drew his blade, As from his steed he sprang, And on his kinsman's shoulder laid Its weight with sudden clang. 9. He gave no greet, but on the ear His words did sharply ring : " Sir Walter, I arrest thee here By mandate of the King / " 10. " What hath he done ? " the boy Carew Flashed forth with angry frown ; And from his father's shoulder drew The naked weapon down. 11. " ' What hath he done ? ' Why, treason's taint Hung o'er his head of old ; And he hath failed, though thrice he sailed, To find the mine of gold ; COLONIAL BALLADS. 35 12. " And sheer against the King's commands, Who craves all grace of Spain, He left on Orinoco's sands Full fifty Spaniards slain. 13. " Nay ! peace ! What if they were the first To fall upon thy crew ? The scant pretence of such defence Is weak to bear thee through ! " 14. " Would God I were a man ! I trow My hand a thrust should deal," — Out spake Carew, — " and thou shouldst know The temper of my steel ! " 15. " Tush, boy ! " Sir Lewis jeered in wrath, " Let go thy puny wrest ! By Heaven ! the fledgling eaglet hath The daring of the nest ! 36 COLONIAL BALLADS. 16. " Ho, forward, sturdy musketeers ! Aside the stripling fling ! Bold lad be he who interferes With orders from the King ! " 17. And ere Sir Walter turned about. And ere the truth he wist, They drew the linked iron out. And clasped it on his wrist. 18. " Have off with him ! Beshrew me, how Young malapert doth frown ! But minding of his mother now Will cool his courage down ! " 19. " Sir Lewis ! " — and the boy Carew Fast clenched his fist, — " thy son Will blush with shame, some day, to name The deed which thou hast done ! " COLONIAL BALLADS. 37 III. 1. 'T was midnight : but in Plymouth yet Went on the wassail-bout ; The early moon was just a-set, And all the stars were out ; 2. When at Sir Walter's prison-bars A muffled tap was heard : And as his ear was bent to hear, He caught the whispered word : 3. " Haste, father, haste ! the way is clear ; I Ve bribed the seneschal ; The warder o'er the henchmen's beer Keeps riot in the hall. " I hold the key that opes the gates, And at the water-stair. COLONIAL BALLADS, In the moored barge, my mother waits, - She waits to meet thee there. 5. '^ Quick, father ! catch thy doublet up, Without a moment's stay : Before they drain their latest cup We must be far away. 6. " Outside the bar a galley lies, And ere the sun doth glance Its earliest beam across the skies We shall be safe in France." 7. " Ah, boy ! my boy ! my brave Carew ! Why tempt thy father so ? I — loyal, conscience-clear, and true, — What need have 7 to go ? 8. " My traitorous foes, once trusted friends. Would be the first to say COLONIAL BALLADS, 39 I flout the laws and flee, because I am as false as they." 9. " Yet, father, come ! Foul threats they bring, Dark counsels they have planned ; And justice thou shalt never wring From cold King James's hand ! 10. " My mother at the water's brink Waits, all her fears awake ; And if escape should fail — I think — I think her heart would break ! " 11. Too much ! His bravery shrank to meet The weight of such a blow ; And springing instant to his feet, He answered, " I will go ! " 12. They groped adown the stony hall ; They found the door unbarred ; 40 COLONIAL BALLADS. And in the shadow of the wall They crossed the prison-yard. 13. With stealthy steps they reached the shore, And on its rapid way, The boat, with softly-dipping oar, Dropped down the silent bay. IV. 1. Across the starlit stream they steal Without one uttered word ; The waters gurgling at the keel Was all the sound they heard. 2. The good French bark that soon would bear Them hence, lay full in view ; " An oar's length more, and we are there / " Whispered the boy Carew. COLONIAL BALLADS. 41 3. They rocked within its shadow. Then Sir Walter, under breath, First spoke, and kissed and kissed again Lady Elizabeth. 4. " Nay, Bess, it must not, shall not be. Whatever others can, That I should like a dastard flee, For fear of mortal man ! 5. " All Orinoco's mines of gold. All virgin realms I claim. Are less to me a thousand-fold Than my untarnished name. 6. " Put back the boat ! Nay, sweet, no moan ! Thy love is so divine That thou wouldst rather die than own A craven heart were mine ! 42 COLONIAL BALLADS. 7. " My purse, good oarsman ! Pull thy best, And we may make the shore. Before the latest trencher-guest Has left the warder's door. 8. " Hist ! not one other pleading word : Life were not worth a groat, If breath of shame could blur my name : Put back ! put back the boat ! 9. " Ah, Bess 1 . . . (she is too stunned to hear !) But thou, my boy, Carew, Shalt pledge thy vow, even here and now, That faithful, tried, and true ; 10. " Thou It choose, whatever stress may rise, Whilst thou hast life and breath, Before temjptation^ sacrifice ; Before dishonor^ death ! " COLONIAL BALLADS, 43 V. 1. The boatman turned ; he dared not bide, Nor say Sir Walter nay ; And with his oars against the tide, He labored up the bay. 2. And when beside the water-stair, With grief no words can tell, They braced themselves at length to bear The wrench of the farewell ; The boy, with proud yet tearful eyes, Kept murmuring under breath, " Before temptation, sacrifice ; Bef(yre dishonor^ death ! " 44 COLONIAL BALLADS. THE LAST MEETING OF POCAHONTAS AND THE GREAT CAPTAIN.^ A. D. 1616. In a stately hall at Brentford, when the English June was green, Sat the Indian Princess, summoned that her graces might be seen, For the rumor of her beauty filled the ear of court and Queen. There for audience as she waited, with half-scornful, silent air. All undazzled by the splendor gleaming round her every- where, Dight in broidered hose and doublet, came a courtier down the stair. ^A reference to this interview between the "Lady Rebecca" and Captain John Smith may be found in Smith's Triie Relation of Virginia. COLONIAL BALLADS. 45 As with striding step he hasted, burdened with the Queen's command, Loud he cried, in tones that tingled, " Welcome^ welcome to my land ! " But a tremor seized the Princess, and she drooped upon her hand. " What ! no word, my Sparkling-Water ? ^ Must I come on bended knee ? I were slain within the forest, I were dead beyond the sea; On the banks of wild Pamunkey, I had perished hut for thee, " Ah, I keep a heart right loyal, that can never more forget ! I can hear the rush, the breathing ; I can see the eyelids wet; I can feel the sudden tightening of thine arms about me yet. " Nay, look up. Thy father's daughter never feared the face of man, ^ The signification of the word Pocahontas. 46 COLONIAL BALLADS, Shrank not from the forest darkness when her doe-like footsteps ran To my cabin, bringing tidings of the craft of Powha- tan." With extended arms, entreating, stood the stalwart Cap- tain there. While the courtiers press around her, and the passing pages stare ; But no sign gave Pocahontas underneath her veil of hair. All her lithe and willowy figure quivered like an aspen- leaf, And she crouched as if she shrivelled, frost-touched by some sudden grief. Turning only on her husband, Rolfe, one glance, sharp, searching, brief. At the Captain's haughty gesture, back the curious cour- tiers fell, And with soothest word and accent he besought that she would tell Why she turned away, nor greeted him whom she had served so well. COLONIAL BALLADS, 47 But for two long hours the Princess dumbly sate and bowed her head, Moveless as the statue near her. When at last she spake, she said : " White man's tongue is false. It told me — told me — that my brave was dead. " And I lay upon my deer-skins all one moon of falling leaves, (Who hath care for song or corn-dance, when the voice within her grieves ?) Looking westward where the souls go, up the path the sunset weaves. " Call me ' child ' now. It is over. On my husband's arm I lean ; Never shadow, Nenemoosa, our twain hearts shall come between ; Take my hand, and let us follow the great Captain to his Queen.'' 48 COLONIAL BALLADS. THE FIRST THANKSGIVING DAY. A. D. 1622. "And now," said the Governor, gazing abroad on the piled-up store Of the sheaves that dotted the clearings and covered the meadows o'er, " 'T is meet that we render praises because of this yield of grain; 'Tis meet that the Lord of the Harvest be thanked for His sun and rain. " And therefore, I, William Bradford, (by the grace of God to-day, And the franchise of this good people,) Governor of Ply- mouth, say. Through virtue of vested power — ye shall gather with one accord. And hold, in the month November, thanksgiving unto the Lord. COLONIAL BALLADS. 49 " He hath granted us peace and plenty, and the quiet we Ve sought so long ; He hath thwarted the wily savage, and kept him from wrack and wrong ; And unto our feast the Sachem shall he hidden, that he may know We worship his own Great Spirit who maketh the har- vests grow. " So shoulder your matchlocks, masters : there is hunting of all degrees ; And fishermen, take your tackle, and scour for spoil the seas; And maidens and dames of Plymouth, your delicate crafts employ To honor our First Thanksgiving, and make it a feast of joy ! " We fail of the fruits and dainties — we fail of the old home cheer ; Ah, these are the lightest losses, mayhap, that hefall us here ; But see, in our open clearings, how golden the melons lie ; Enrich them with sweets and spices, and give us the pumpkin-pie ! " 50 COLONIAL BALLADS, So, bravely the preparations went on for the autumn feast ; The deer and the bear were slaughtered ; wild game from the greatest to least Was heaped in the colony cabins ; brown home-brew served for wine, And the plum and the grape of the forest, for orange and peach and pine. At length came the day appointed : the snow had begun to fall, But the clang from the meeting-house belfry rang merrily over all, And summoned the folk of Plymouth, who hastened with glad accord To listen to Elder Brewster as he fervently thanked the Lord. In his seat sate Governor Bradford ; men, matrons, and maidens fair ; Miles Standish and all his soldiers, with corselet and sword, were there ; And sobbing and tears and gladness had each in its turn the sway. For the grave of the sweet Rose Standish o'ershadowed Thanksgiving-Day. COLONIAL BALLADS, 61 And when Massasoit, the Sachem, sate down with his hundred braves, And ate of the varied riches of gardens and woods and waves, And looked on the granaried harvest, — with a blow on his brawny chest, He muttered, " The good Great Spirit loves His white children best ! " 62 COLONIAL BALLADS. THE PRICE OF A LITTLE PILGRIM. A. D. 1621. " Go, wind the signal-horn, and hid My hand of trusty men Come stern and grim, in fighting trim, That I may choose me ten. " They may not wait to kiss their wives, For there 's a life at cost, — A tender one, — the widow's son, Ralph Billington, is lost : " The pretty lad that often drew My sword, and vowed that yet He 'd march away some summer day And capture Aspinet." So spake the Plymouth Governor, And at the signal sound COLONIAL BALLADS, 63 Forth came the band at his command, And crowded eager round. "Ten only," Governor Bradford said, "Will fill the boat enow ; I want but ten strong-handed men, Now which of you will go ? " They shouted, " I ! " and " I ! " and " I ! " " Nay, hold ! " he bade, " I 'U find Some Gideon-test to mark the best ; The rest shall bide behind. " Ye who are fathers, — ye whose homes Are glad with children's joy, — Your quest, I wot, will slacken not, Till ye have found the boy." The shallop manned, they searched the coast, They beat the tangled wild ; And sought to trace, in many a place. Some tidings of the child. They steered through silent, sheltered coves, They skimmed the marshes wide ; 64 COLONIAL BALLADS. And all around the shallows wound, With Squanto ^ for their guide. At length they saw a curl of smoke Float o'er the distant trees ; And all about, the whoop and shout Came blown upon the breeze. Scarce had they landed, when the cry Of " Yengese / " ^ rent the air ; And even before they touched the shore The foe was yelling there, Each with his arrow drawn to head : *' Stay ! stay ! " cried Squanto, " let True braves be friends : our Sachem sends To you his calumet. " The mother in her wigwam weeps. Bereft of peace and joy ; Now we would know if it be so That ye have found her boy." ^ One of the earliest friends of the Plymouth Colony. ^ The Indian term for the English, and the original of Yankees. COLONIAL BALLADS. 55 " Ugh ! " growled the wily Aspinet ; " What will the Yengese grant, If I set loose the white papoose, And bring him from Nahant ? " " Name what ye will," the Captain cried, " So much we prize his life ! " The vSachem heard, and with brief word Muttered, " A knife ! a knife I " " Good ! " and the Captain grimly smiled Aside : " And yet I trow The dame will be scarce pleased that we Should rate her boy so low ! " Go, Squanto, hither fetch the lad ; And lest it will not do, For one jack-knife to buy a life, Why, Squanto, give him two ! " 66 COLONIAL BALLADS, THE FIRST PROCLAMATION OF MILES STANDISH. November, A. D. 1620. " Ho, Rose ! " quoth the stout Miles Standish, As he stood on the Mayflower's deck, And gazed on the sandy coast-line * That loomed as a misty speck On the edge of the distant offing, — " See ! yonder we have in view Bartholomew Gosnold's ' headlands.' 'T was in sixteen hundred and two " That the Concord of Dartmouth anchored Just there where the beach is broad, And the merry old captain named it (Half swamped by the fish) — Cape Cod. " And so as his mighty * headlands ' Are scarcely a league away, COLONIAL BALLADS. 67 What say you to landing, sweetheart, And having a washing-day ? " For did not the mighty Leader Who guided the chosen band Pause under the peaks of Sinai, And issue his strict command — " (For even the least assoilment Of Egypt the spirit loathes) — Or ever they entered Canaan, ^ The people should wash their clothes ? " The land we have left is noisome, And rank with the smirch of sin ; The land that we seek should find us Clean-vestured without and within." " Dear heart " — and the sweet Rose Standish Looked up with a tear in her eye ; She was back in the flag-stoned kitchen Where she watched, in the days gone by, Her mother among her maidens, (She should watch them no more, alas !) 58 COLONIAL BALLADS. And saw as they stretched the linen To bleach on the Suffolk grass. In a moment her brow was cloudless, As she leaned on the vessel's rail, And thought of the sea-stained garments, Of coif and of farthingale ; And the doublets of fine Welsh flannel, The tuckers and homespun gowns, And the piles of the hosen knitted From the wool of the Devon downs. So the matrons aboard the Mayflower Made ready with eager hand To drop from the deck their baskets As soon as the prow touched land. And there did the Pilgrim Mothers, " On a Monday," the record says. Ordain for their new-found England The first of her washing-days. And there did the Pilgrim Fathers, With matchlock and axe well slung. COLONIAL BALLADS. 59 Keep guard o'er the smoking kettles That propt on the crotches hung. For the trail of the startled savage Was over the marshy grass, And the glint of his eyes kept peering Through cedar and sassafras. And the children were mad with pleasure As they gathered the twigs in sheaves, And piled on the fire the fagots, And heaped up the autumn leaves. " Do the thing that is next," saith the proverb, And a nobler shall yet succeed : — 'T is the motive exalts the action ; 'T is the doing, and not the deed ; For the earliest act of the heroes Whose fame has a world-wide sway Was — to fashion a crane for a kettle, And order a washing-day ! 60 COLONIAL BALLADS. ST. BOTOLPH'S CHIMES. A. D. 1640. A Puritan and his little daughter speak on their churchward way. " O FATHER, I wish I could go to church As we did in the dear old times, When we waited to hear the Sunday cheer Of St. Botolph's morning chimes ! " 'T was lovely to walk through leafy lanes In the beautiful English May ; And I marvel now, as I think of it, how You ever could come away. " I want to go back to my oaken seat, Where the great round oriel shed Its crimsons and blues and golden hues, All over my hands and head. " As I watched their glory, the service seemed So holy and rich and bright ! COLONIAL BALLADS. 61 How tender the glow beside this snow, All sheeted and dead and white ! " And the carbines, father, — they only hung, At home, in the great oak hall : Here, we take them abroad to the house of God, Yet shiver with fear, for all ! " Oh, to mix with the crowd in the dear old street, In safety and warmth and ease ! Oh, to wait for the swells of St. Botolph's bells, In Boston beyond the seas ! " " Nay, daughter ! it irks my heart to hear Thee hanker, as those of old. With tears on thy cheeks, for Egyptian leeks, Because thou art scared and cold. " Why, where is the hero-spirit, child ? Thy mother forsook her Devon For an exile here, with a trust as clear As if she were going to Heaven I " Yea, over thy face the oriePs glint Might shimmer with warming glow ; 62 COLONIAL BALLADS. But for me the touch of the priestly clutch Was chiller than Shawmut's ^ snow ! " I *m willing to fight for leave to pray, And wade with my carbine slung On my shoulder, and so all chimes forego St. Botolph hath ever rung, " To carry thee thus to the church to-day, As stoutly my strong arm can, And order my faith as my conscience saith, A free and a fearless man ! " But sweetheart ! patiently thou must wait. For I dream of an end of pains. In which thou shalt walk in tender talk, Through better than English lanes, " With comrades as kind as ever strayed Beside thee o'er Lincoln leas. Or listened betimes to St. Botolph's chimes, In Boston beyond the seas ! " ^ The Indian name of the peninsida on which Boston is built. COLONIAL BALLADS, 63 THE PURITAN MAIDEN'S MAY-DAY. A. D. 1686. Ah, well-a-day ! The grandams say- That they had merry times When they were young, and gayly rung The May-day morning chimes. Before the dark was gone, the lark Had left her grassy nest, And, soaring high, set all the sky Athrob from east to west ! The hawthorn-bloom with rich perfume Was whitening English lanes. The dewy air was everywhere Alive with May-day strains ; And laughing girls with tangled curls, And eyes that gleamed and glanced, 64 COLONIAL BALLADS, And ruddy boys with mirth and noise, Around the May-pole danced. Ah me ! the sight of such delight, The joy, the whirl, the din, Such merriment, such glad content, — How could it be a sin ? When children crowned the May-pole round With daisies from the sod. What was it, pray, but their child's way Of giving thanks to God ? The wild bee sups from buttercups The honey at the brim : May I not take their buds and make A posy up for Him ? If, as I pass knee-deep through grass This May-day cool and bright, And see away on Boston Bay The lines of shimmering light, I gather there great bunches fair Of May-flower as I roam. COLON,! AL BALLADS. 65 And with them round my forehead crowned, Go ladened with them home : And then, if Bess and I should dress A May-pole with our wreath, And just for play, this holiday. Should dare to dance beneath, My father's brow would frown enow : " Child ! why hast thou a mind For Popish days and Romish ways, And lusts we 've left behind ? " Our grandam says that her May-days, With mirth, and song, and flowers. And lilt of rhymes and village chimes. Were happier far than ours. If, as I ween, upon the green She danced with merry din, Yet lived to be the saint I see, How can I count it sin ? 66 COLONIAL BALLADS. LADY YEARDLEY'S GUEST. 1654. 'T WAS a Saturday night, mid-winter, And the snow with its sheeted pall Had covered the stubbled clearings That girdled the rude-built " Hall." But high in the deep-mouthed chimney, 'Mid laughter and shout and din, The children were piling yule-logs To welcome the Christmas in. ^ Ah, so ! We '11 be glad to-morrow,'* The mother half-musing said. As she looked at the eager workers. And laid on a sunny head A touch as of benediction, — " For Heaven is just as near The father at far Patuxent As if he were with us here. COLONIAL BALLADS. 67 " So choose ye the pine and hoUy, And shake from their boughs the snow ; We '11 garland the rough-hewn rafters As they garlanded long ago, — Or ever Sir George went sailing ^ Away o'er the wild sea-foam, — In my beautiful EngHsh Sussex, The happy old walls at home." She sighed. As she paused, a whisper Set quickly all eyes astrain : " See 1 See ! " — and the boy's hand pointed — " There 's a face at the window pane ! " One instant a ghastly terror Shot sudden her features o'er ; The next, and she rose unblenching, And opened the fast-barred door. " Who be ye that seek admission ? Who Cometh for food and rest ? This night is a night above others To shelter a straying guest." 1 Sir George Yeardley, Governor of the Colony of Virginia, in 1626. 68 COLONIAL BALLADS, Deep out of the snowy silence A guttural answer broke : " I come from the great Three Elvers, I am chief of the Roanoke." Straight in through the frightened children, Unshrinking, the red man strode, And loosed on the blazing hearthstone, From his shoulder, a light-borne load ; And out of the pile of deer-skins. With look as serene and mild As if it had been his cradle. Stepped softly a four-year child. As he chafed at the fire his fingers, Close pressed to the brawny knee, The gaze that the silent savage Bent on him was strange to see ; And then, with a voice whose yearning The father could scarcely stem, He said, to the children pointing, " I want him to be like them I " They weep for the boy in the wigwam : I bring him, a moon of days. COLONIAL BALLADS. To learn of the speaking paper ; To hear of the wiser ways Of the people heyond the water ; To break with the plough the sod ; To be kind to papoose and woman ; To pray to the white man's God." " I give thee my hand ! " And the lady Pressed forward with sudden cheer ; " Thou shalt eat of my Enghsh pudding, And drink of my Christmas beer. — My darlings, this night, remember All strangers are kith and kin, — This night when the dear Lord's Mother Could find no room at the inn ! " Next morn from the colony belfry Pealed gayly the Sunday chime, And merrily forth the people Flocked, keeping the Christmas time ; And the lady, with bright-eyed children Behind her, their lips a-smile, And the chief in his skins and wampum, Came walking the narrow aisle. 70 COLONIAL BALLADS, Forthwith from the congregation Broke fiercely a sullen cry ; " Out ! out ! with the crafty red-shin ! Have at him I A spy I A spy ! " And quickly from belts leaped daggers, And swords from their sheaths flashed bare, And men from their seats defiant Sprang, ready to slay him there. But facing the crowd with courage As calm as a knight of yore, Stepped bravely the fair-browed woman The thrust of the steel before ; And spake with a queenly gesture. Her hand on the chief's brown breast : " Ye dare not impeach my honor ! Ye dare not insult my guest ! " They dropped, at her word, their weapons, Half-shamed as the lady smiled. And told them the red man's story, And showed them the red man's child; COLONIAL BALLADS. 71 And pledged them her broad plantations, That never would such betray The trust that a Christian woman Had shown on a Christmas-Day ! 72 COLONIAL BALLADS. THE QUEEN OF PAMUNKEY.^ A. D. 1676. " What ! Ho ! " Sir William Berkeley cried, with hot, impetuous air. As scowlingly his seat he took within the Governor's chair ; " She comes, forsooth, with savage state, to make the Council stare. " Commend a woman for her wiles ! We English never can (She knows it well,) as gruffly deal with woman as with man ; And so she thinks to cozen us with some deceitful plan. " Well, bid the burgesses to place, and let this Queen ap- pear, — ^ Pamunkey was a district lying between the York River and the James. Sir William Berkeley was Governor of the colony of Vir- ginia from 1641 to 1677. COLONIAL BALLADS. 73 This Cleopatra of the woods, — in all her feathered gear : And yet, mayhap, the aid I Ve asked, she comes to say, is near." The words were on Sir William's lip, when wide the door was flung. And up the chamber strode the Queen, her band of braves among, The " wampum-peak " of sovereignty about her forehead strung. A silver frontlet crowned her brow. King Charles's gift to her, And close about her stately form was wrapped a robe of fur. Whose fringe of shells at every step shook with a tinkling stir. Beside her walked a slender boy. "My son," she proudly said, — " The chief of broad Pamunkey's lands, which now ye hold instead, m Snatched from him, since the King, whose word once ruled them all, is dead." 74 COLONIAL BALLADS, " Now hold ! " Sir William stoutly clashed. " Have you naught else to tell Than that stale story of the wrongs we Ve learned to know so well ? Betwixt us and the setting sun your tribes have room to dweU." She strained the deer-skin round her form with a right regal mien, As though it were a purple robe and she a crowned Queen, And stepped before the dais, and spake with accent bold and keen : — " Yea, room enough : then wherefore wrest our lands, as ye have done, And sow with wheat our hunting-grounds, and level one by one Our forests ? Let the palerface go, and seek the setting sun! " Ye basely snared and slew my chief. The boy I lead to-day COLONIAL BALLADS. 75 Is but the broken arrow-shaft, whose head is 'wrenched away : I would his arm were strong enough to strike, and scalp, and slay ! " Yet ye — ye stoop to ask my aid against your fiercer foes ; With craven lures ye bribe my braves their purpose to disclose : I tell you that my warriors wait to slay the first who goes ! " She faced the Council with a scorn too stern to ask re- dress ; Then turned, and with her sullen train adown the hall did press. "Good lack!" Sir William growled, "I vow she flaunts it like Queen Bess ! " And yet without her tribe to aid, I 'm fain to use delay. And watch these whooping savages make inroads day by day. Whilst I, bereft of succor, see my mastery melt away. 76 COLONIAL BALLADS. " I 've held for more than thirty years the royal Gov- ernor's chair ; I '11 hold it to the hloody end, as here and now, I swear ! Out on it ! Shall the Lion cower before the skulking Bear?" COLONIAL BALLADS, 77 DORRIS' SPINNING. A. D. 1740. She sat at the upper chamber, — 't was a summer of long ago, — And looked through the gable window at the river that ran below. And over the quiet pastures, and up at the wide blue sky. And envied the jay his freedom as he lazily flitted by. Yet patiently at her spinning, in a halo of happy light. She wrought, though a shimmer rippled the heads of the wheat in sight, — Though the garden was spilling over its cups on the fragrant day. And the hollyhocks at the doorway had never looked half so gay. She saw, as her wheel kept whirling, the leisure of Na- ture, too, — The beautiful holiday weather left nothing for her to do : 78 COLONIAL BALLADS, The cattle were idly grazing, and even the frisky sheep, Away in the distant meadows, lay under the shade asleep. So sitting, she heard sweet laughter, and a bevy of maid- ens fair, With babble of merry voices, came climbing the chamber stair : — " O Dorris ! how can you bear it, to drone at your spin- ning here ? Why, girl ! it 's the heart of summer, the goldenest time of year ! " Put out of your hand the distaff, this wearisome whirl relax, — There are things that are gayer, Dorris, than sitting and spinning flax : Come with us away to the forest ; when it rains is the time to ply Such tiresome tasks — and to-day is the rarest of all July ! " With a face that was softly saddened, sweet Dorris looked up and said. COLONIAL BALLADS. 79 As she ravelled a bit of tangle, and twisted again her thread : — " Nay, nay, I must do my spinning ! it would n't be kind or right That the loom should be kept a-waiting ; my hanks must be done to-night. " Ay, surely, the day is lovely ! It tugs at my very heart To look at its drifting beauty, nor share in its joy my part: I may not go forth to meet it, but the summer is kind, you see, And I think, as I sit at my spinning — I think it will come to me ! " So the frolicsome maidens left her, with something of mild surprise That Dorris should choose a duty, with pleasure before her eyes ; Not dreaming that when her mother her "dozens" should count up-stairs. And kiss her, and say, " My darling I " her day would be glad as theirs. 80 COLONIAL BALLADS. So she minded her wheel, and blithely she sang as she twirled it round, And cunningly from her fingers the delicate fibre wound ; And on through the sunny hours, that neither were sad nor long, She toiled, in her sweet obedience, and lightened her toil with song ; — \_She sings.'] " Come hither, happy birds, With warbling woo me, Till songs that have no words Melt through and through me ! Come, bees, that drop and rise Within the clover. Where yellow butterflies Go glancing over ! O roses, red and white, And lilies, shining Like gilded goblets bright With silver lining, — Each to my window send Gifts worth the winning, To cheer me as I bend Above my spinning ! COLONIAL BALLADS. 81 " O ripples on the sand, That break in beauty ; O pines that stiffly stand Like guards on duty ; Green meadows, where this morn The scythes were mowing ; Soft slopes, where o'er the corn The wind is blowing ; White clouds above the hill, That sail together ; Eich summer scents, that fill This summer weather, — All bring the sweets you 've found Since morn's beginning. And come and crowd them round My day of spinning ! " 82 COLONIAL BALLADS. FAST-DAY SPORT. A. D. 1648. " Shame, shame upon ye, godless lads, To take your matchlocks down, And to the forest hie for game, When all the folk in town Were gathered in the meeting-house. In Sabbath garb arrayed. To fast and pray this solemn day. As Governor Winthrop bade ! " Ye think, perchance, I failed to mark Some empty places there : Nay, nay, I do my duty, lads. Though ye may mock and stare. I ween, despite your many smirks, When all is said and done, Ye '11 think the hare ye dangle there Was hardly worth the fun. COLONIAL BALLADS, 83 " I Ve copied fair your names, young sirs, ' Trespass — one shilling nine ' — And governor's grandsons though ye be, I wot ye 'U pay the fine ; It should be doubled for the sin Of such example set ; I 'm sorely sad a Boston lad So strangely could forget. " Ye did not ? Ha ! the bold offence Was a deliberate one ? Ye meant to scout the Fast-Day, when Ye went with dog and gun ? Out on such worldly lawlessness I Ye well deserve to be Left in the lurch with King and Church In Suffolk by the sea I " It ought to make the crimson shame Your braggart faces flood, When ye remember that your veins Are warm with Winthrop blood ! Now had ye been Sir Harry's chicks, To do and dare with such 84 COLONIAL BALLADS. Pert looks as send my hair on end, I had not cared so much. " But Governor Winthrop's grandsons ! Heigh ! How godless folk will prate : ' He cannot make his household keep The Fast-Day of the state ! ' Nay, do I hear aright ? Ye say He gave you leave to go To-day and track (alack ! alack !) The rabbits through the snow ? ** Ye look so roguish, scarce I think Ye mean the word ye spake ; But since ye 've dared with bold affront The righteous law to break, Though even the Governor's self forget His bound en duty, — mine Is clear : Ye 11 pay this very day Each farthing of your fine I '* COLONIAL BALLADS. 85 GREENWAY COURT. A. D. 1748. Lord Fairfax sat before the fire, Within his forest hall, Where antlers wide on every side Hung branching from the walL Around the casements howled the wind. The snow was falling deep, And at his feet, crouched in the heat. His stag-hounds lay asleep. They heard a horse's hoofs without, Above the wintry roar, And with a bay they sprang away To guard the opening door ; And if their master had not chid. With instant word and frown. 86 COLONIAL BALLADS. They quick had met with fierce onset The guest, and dragged him down. " Shame ! Shame ! Prince Charles ! " Lord Fairfax cried ; " Off, Berkeley ! With such sport, No friend, I trow, we welcome so Who comes to Greenway Court." He eyed the stripling, straight and tall ; He marked his stalwart frame ; And with a rare and knightly air. He questioned of his name. " Why, you are hut a lad," he said, " And wherefore should you roam So far away, this wintry day. From all the sweets of home ? " At Greenway Court I dwell alone, A soured and saddened man ; With leave to find far from my kind Such solace as I can. " But you, — why hreak away so soon. And all youth's joys forego COLONIAL BALLADS. 81 To seek the work a man might shirk, And miss your boyhood so ? " Yes, I have acres without count. That needs must be surveyed ; But what can you, a stripling, do With none beside to aid ? " The boy's blue eyes shot steel-like clear ; And from his forehead fair, Fresh with the sheen of scarce sixteen, He shook his Saxon hair : — " I am a widow's son," he said — Proud were his look and tone — " The staff and stay, I dare to say, My mother calls her own. " With rod and chain I mean to walk The wilds without a dread ; God's care, I 'm sure, wiU keep secure The boy who wins his bread." " Ay, will He so ! " Lord Fairfax cried, "And ere my days are done, 88 COLONIAL BALLADS. God wot, I '11 hear some word of cheer About this widow's son. " But now forget your rod and chain, For, on the morrow morn, We '11 be away by dawn of day, With huntsman, hound, and horn. " What ! ' Know no woodcraft ? Never brought A pair of antlers down ? ' Is that the way they rear to-day The lads within the town ? " As sure as Shenandoah flows In front of Greenway Court, I promise you a buck or two Shall grace your maiden sport" The Christmas hunt was o'er. The hearth Blazed bright with knots of pine. And host and guest, with whetted zest, Before it supped their wine. COLONIAL BALLADS. 89 " Right merry sport we 've had to-day ; And now, if any bid Tell who " (he laughed) " taught you woodcraft, Why, say, ' Lord Fairfax did/ " He called a huntsman : " Saddle Duke, Without a moment's loss. And lift, and lay, as best you may. That fattest buck across ; " And straight to Alexandria bear The message : That her son Sends his first sport from Greenway Court To Mistress Washington" ^ 1 Thomas, Lord Fairfax, after a love disappointment that em- bittered his life, retired to his boundless acres on the Shenandoah, and there bnilt " Greenway Court," where he lived in rude baronial style. He was always fond of saying that he had taught George Washington, when a lad, to hunt. 90 COLONIAL BALLADS. THE BOYS' REDOUBT. October, A. D. 1775. In continental Buff-and-Blue, With lappets richly laced, Beneath the shade the elm-trees made, A martial figure paced. Along the sluggish Charles's banks He bent at length his way, Just as the gun, at set of sun. Went booming o'er the Bay. His soul was racked with doubt and strife, Despondence gloomed his eye ; He needs must bear his weight of care Out to the open sky. The breeze that flapped his soldier's cloak, The woods so broad and dim, COLONIAL BALLADS, 91 The tides whose sway no bonds could stay, All seemed so free to him ! Yet the young nation that had wrung, Beyond the angry seas, From savage grace, a refuge-place, To pray as they might please, — Must it be hounded from its haunts ? Be fettered at the stake ? Be forced again to wear the chain It risked its all to break ? His step grew heavier with the thought, His lips less firm were set : It could not be that such as he Must yield ! — and yet — and yet — How could they even hope to win A single fight, in lack Of everything, while England's king Had Europe at his back ? Thus musing sad beside the Charles, He saw the Cambridge boys, 92 COLONIAL BALLADS, An eager band, pile up the sand With roar of riot noise. " Ha ! lads, what do you here ? " he said, Arrested by their shout. " What do we here ? Why, give us cheer ; We 're building a redoubt ! " Who knows how soon Lord Howe may come. And all his lion cubs. With growls and snarls, straight up the Charles, In his old British tubs ? " And creeping from them in the dark. As quiet as a mouse. Now what if they should snatch away, Right out of ' Vassal House,' ^ " Our new-made chief ; before a man Has leave to fire a gun ? That ends it ! For there '11 be no war Without a Washington ! ^ Afterwards "Craigie House," — so long the residence of the poet Longfellow, and at the period of this ballad, Washington's headquarters. COLONIAL BALLADS. 93 " Our fathers' hands are filled with work ; Besides, they 're grieving still For Warren, and the gallant band That fell at Bunker Hill. " So we will help them as we can : You wear the Buff-and-Blue ; Yet we aver, we 're ready, sir. To fight as well as you. " May be you 're on the General's staff : Then say we Cambridge boys Will yell and shout from our redoubt With such a savage noise, " That all the vessels in the Bay Will hear the wild uproar. And swear again that Prescott's men Are lining all the shore ! " " Brave lads ! " the soldier said, and raisied The cap that hid his brow ; " Some day, some day, I '11 surely pay The debt I owe you now ! 94 COLONIAL BALLADS. " Your high, heroic, mettled hearts, Your faith that wavers not. To me are more than cannon's store. Or tons of shell and shot. " What people ever fails to gain The patriot's dearest prize. When ' die or win ' is blazing in The very children's eyes ? " No need to bear the General word Of tasks so rich in cheer : He makes his due salute to you, — You see the General here ! " BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. THE SILENT TRYST. TO M. C. L. I. Now that you are in Florence, go To San Lorenzo. The church, you know, Holds Michael's miracle carved in stone, — The brooding figure that under the shade Of its monk-like cowl, severe and lone, Watches you till you grow afraid It may step from its niche, and ask you why You dare intrude with a curious eye Thus on its dusk domain of thought. Study the mystery there inwrought ; For the realm of Art, I think, will fail To show you a greater. Gaze your fill, Search for the secret, if you will, 96 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE, Until you have gotten behind the veil Of the palpable marble. None the less The cunning escapes ; and you '11 confess That what is the wizardry of the spell, Angelo's self alone could tell. II. But other than this is the reason why I point you to San Lorenzo. Nigh To its moss-grown court is a cloister wall : Enter and climb its stony stair, And the guide will show for a single paul The great Laurentian treasures. There, Mid luminous missals musk-enrolled, And psalters that glisten and gleam with gold. And manuscripts crusted with such gems As smother in Eastern diadems, Is a pair of portraits I bid you seek. In a vellum tome, shut face to face ; Laura, the lustre on her cheek Like a Provence rose, in its fadeless grace ; And Petrarch, fresh as he walked the street That morn in Avignon, there to meet His fate in the thrall of the random glance That held him a captive evermore. BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 97 in. What matter, the lady looked askance, In the far forgotten days of yore. While here, through the ages, hrow to brow, And lip to lip, as you see them now, These lovers in dreaming trance have lain ? If not in the flesh, one clear blue vein Throbbed to his touch, — if he did not dare Finger a strand of her flossy hair, — How time hath avenged him ! Here to lie, While over the world's unquiet life Swept endless trouble and change and strife ; To lie in such calm — his cheek close pressed To temples whose flush can never die, Her loosened tresses across his breast, That shall not bleach as the years go by ! IV. I wonder, when marvellous Tuscan nights Are a-thriU with a thousand-toned delights, When the sensitive silence feels the bliss, As the sky bends over the earth with a kiss, I wonder if such a witchery shed. 98 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. Deepens on Laura's cheek the red ? I wonder if then a whisper stirs Those century-muffled lips of hers ? Or if you should turn to the pictured face, Whether a start would show its trace, Just as it will, if one intrude, Surprising a lover's solitude ? V. Well — this we know : She has need no more To ask the question she asked of yore — " Art thou tired of loving one, Petrarch ? " Nay, For here they are wedded in love so true, That for centuries yet, as for centuries through. Not even its shadow shall pass away. BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 99 THE BALLAD OF THE BELL-TOWER. " Five years ago I vowed to Heaven upon my falchion- blade To build the tower ; and to this hour my vow hath not been paid. "When from the eagle's nest I snatched my falcon- hearted dove, And in my breast shaped her a nest, safe and warm- lined with love, " Not all the bells in Christendom, if rung with fervent might, That happy day in janglings gay had told my joy aright. "As up the aisle my bride I led, in that triumphant hour, I ached to hear some wedding-cheer clash from the min- ster tower. 100 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. " Nor chime nor tower the minster had ; so in my soul I sware, Come loss, come let, that I would set church-bells a-ring- ing there " Before a twelvemonth. But ye know what forays lamed the land. How seasons went, and wealth was spent, and all were weak of hand. " And then the yearly harvest failed ('t was when my boy was bom). But could I build while vassals filled my ears with cries for corn ? " Thereafter happed the heaviest woe, and none could help or save ; Nor was there bell to toll a knell above my Hertha's grave. "Ah, had I held my vow supreme all hinderance to control, Maybe these woes — God knows! God knows 1 — had never crushed my soul. BALLAD AND OTHER V^RSE. JlQl " Even now ye beg that I give o'er : ye say the scant supply Of water fails in lowland vales, and mountain-springs are dry. " ' Here be the quarried stones ' (ye grant), * skilled craftsmen come at call ; But with no more of water-store, how can we build the wall ? ' " Nay, listen : Last year's vintage crowds our cellars, tun on tun : With wealth of wine for yours and mine, dare the work go undone ? " Quick ! bring them forth, these mighty butts : let none be elsewhere sold ; And I will pay this very day their utmost worth in gold, " That so the mortar that cements each stone within the shrine, For her dear sake whom God did take, may all be mixed with wine." 102 BALLAD 4^^D OTHER VERSE. 'T was thus the baron built his tower ; and, as the story tells, A fragrance rare bewitched the air whene'er they rang the bells. A merrier music tinkled down when harvest-days were long: They seemed to chime at vintage-time a catch of vintage- song; And when the vats were foamed with must, if any loitered near The minster tower at vesper hour, above him he would hear Tinglings as of subsiding thrills, athwart the purple gloom, And every draught of air he quaffed, would taste of vine- yard bloom. BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 103 THE LAKE AMONG THE HILLS. I KNOW a lake among the hills, Serene and bright and full and free ; Unfed by any mountain rills, And with no outlet to the sea : And yet I marvel if there be Found anywhere through all the land, So gold and jewel-rimmed a cup As Nature with her Hebe hand, Here brims, and, kneeling, offers up. n. Its molten surface gives the sky Its softest sapphire beauty back ; And when the storm comes scudding by. Dark with its might of thunder-wrack, Although its blue be tinged with black, The tempest has no power to dash The creamy swell against the shore, 104 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE, Nor with defiant onset lash The ripple to a sullen roar. in. From secret sources stowed away Beneath its own sweet water, flows The unseen strength that day by day, Keeps it in such supreme repose As never shallow current shows. Its edges flash with tenderest green That lures from far the hungry herds, And midst its stooping copse are seen The nests of thousand brooding birds. IV. Oh, for a nature like the lake's Agleam amid our summer hills ! That gives ungrudged its own, nor takes ; That ever keeps its calm, and stills Its heart, self-centred even when ills Impend, with drift of tempest foam That wooes the weary, and above All other, weaves a nested home For every wandering wing of love ! BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 105 THE ROYAL ABBESS. In the abbey stall, with his vestments old So ravelled and rent through stress of time, The haughty Bishop, St. Ethelwood, Sat waiting the vesper chime. As he turned the page of his service-book, Beside him he heard a soft, low tread, And, ceasing his Aves, with a look Of arrogant scorn, he said : " Ah ! Edith of Wilton ! So, they tell. Thou hast not heeded me ; knowest thou My staff is a mace that can compel The stateliest head to bow ? " I have bidden thee once, and now again. As thy ghostly father, I come to urge That, putting aside thy royal train. Thou clothe thee in simple serge. 106 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. " King Edgar's daughter although thou be, I charge thee remember the Church allows No choice for lofty or low degree To such as assume her vows. " And yet in thy hair the diamond glows, Thy golden cross hath a chain of pearls ; And see ! at thy throat a fresh-blown rose As rare as a gay court-girl's. " And, under thy veil of costly lace, Is little, I ween, of penance done ; What right to heighten her beauty's grace Belongs to a Wilton nun ? " My robe with its reaved and ragged fray, And its knotted girdle of hempen string, I would not give in exchange to-day For the ermine that clothes the King ! The fair young Abbess had stood before The priest as he spake, with lowly guise ; But there shone, when the sharp rebuke was o'er, A fire in her saintly eyes. BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 107 " God gave me the beauty that thou dost bid Me cowardly lessen, or meanly dim ; Nay ! rather than under the rough serge hid, I keep it supreme for Him I " My father, the King, to the court still calls ; But even his summons have not sufficed To lure away from her convent walls The virgin espoused to Christ. " And I for my holy service' sake, As a daughter of princes, choose that He Who winneth me from the world should take My dowry along with me. " He loved the lilies ; He made them fair ; And sweet as the sweetest incense flows The stream of its fragrance when I wear For Him, on my heart, a rose. " And, Father, I doubt not, there may hide Beneath the tatters thou bidst me view. As much of arrogance, scorn, and pride As ever the ermine knew I " 108 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. THE BISHOP'S EPITAPH. AT MONTE FIASCONE. I. Come out of the dim old church, I say, Dismal with dust, and chilly cold, And dank with hundreds of years of mould ; Come out to the fresh, crisp morn of May, And taste how the odorous breezes take A delicate quality from the Lake Of Bolsena, lying yonder, fair As a sapphire setting this ancient ring Of golden, Etruscan hills, that fling Their circles around us everywhere ; Then, I will answer your questioning. n. — You never have heard the story ? — know Nothing about this Bishop, who BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE, 109 Here has been sleeping some centuries through, Under yon battered tomb — nor why His marble effigy there should lie Flanked, as you see, by flasks instead 0£ the cross, on either side of his head. With the strange inscription, " Est — Est — Est / Legible still beneath his breast ? m. Not forsooth, that there 's much to tell — Only I Ve read the chronicle Kept in the convent near, — and learned The curious way the prelate earned Such symbols. It seems this Bishop Johann, In his way was a famous sort of man ; Not for his churchmanship — a thing He did not concern himself about ; Credo and Ave and Pater no doubt Coming by nature, as blue-birds sing ; Nor for his aim-deeds daily wrought, Nor for his holy lessons taught. Nor for his virtues great or small, Nor for his saintly life at all ; But he loved one thing — over, above 110 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE, All that there is on earth to love, — Wine that was fit for an emperor ; And that was all he was famous for ! IV. The season for him was only fine Just as it ripened the laden vine ; The flush of the richest sunset skies Was only suggestive of the dyes Of his favorite clusters, amber, gold ; All Nature was but a cup to hold The mystic mingling of sun and dew, That fired the globules through and through. He knew the secret of every cell — Where slowly mellowed the mossy casks — And not on his rosary could he tell His beads, as he told the cob webbed flasks — Opened on such and such Saint's Day, And fragrant a score of leagues away. V. And as he searched in other lands For the oldest and richest and rarest brands, It happened he heard of wines whose fame BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. Ill He never had even known by name. He summoned his steward : " Go " — he said, ' And wheresoever you chance to find Some vintage of racier, riper kind, Then secretly chalk on the barrel's head Under the cobwebs somewhere, ' Est ' — Saying no word of purchase, lest. Knowing my faultless judgment, thrice Its worth the rogues may demand in price, When I send to fetch the casks away, — * Which even a Bishop is loath to pay." VI. From many a vault the steward drew Full tankards : but only here and there. As he haunted the cellars through and through. Did he find a cask he deemed might bear The Bishop's mark. But he came, one night, To Monte Fiascone — the height Covered with vineyards yonder. When He had finished a goblet of its wine. He secretly chalked the covert sign, And gave them the vessel to brim again. And draining it, wrote the second word, 112 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE, And gulping once more, he scored the third On the bearded cask-head, Est — Est — Est / (The Bishop would know) Good — Better — Best ! vn. Behind his steward three days or more Followed the Bishop. Eagerly He came to Monte Fiascone — For he heard on the way that its wine was rare, Nor paused till his rein was slackened there. He sought the cellars ; and chuckled o'er The thrice scored word, with a huge delight ; He tasted and tippled all the day. He drank and he guzzled all the night, Till his vital power was worn away ; And just as the socket spark seemed fled. He lifted a feeble hand and said To the monks around him, " A purse of gold I give to your convent here, and ask That year by year ye will spill a cask Of your gracious wine upon my grave — That so it may trickle down, and lave My mouldering body ; and carve above * As my epitaph, the word I love BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 113 For its fragrant memories. Est — Est — Est / ' Kind brothers you have my last request 1 " vin. I 've answered your question. Now you know What sort of a Bishop sleeps below, And why the old monks fulfilled their task By ca^rving instead of a cross, a flask Each side of his head — Do you need to ask ? 114 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. MAID CICELY'S STEEPLE CAP. A. D. 1480. I, CONNING my missal, o'erheard to-day, At matins, the Lady Abbess say That Thomas the Friar, who hath an eye For matters that go in the reahn awry, Like Peter the Hermit, comes to aid King Edward by preaching a new crusade. And findeth the secret of all mishaps Bomid up in the women's steeple caps ! She said that he preached in London Town, And took as his text, " Top not come down ; " — Plain language as ever the dear Lord spake - And he vouched if the women failed to take These spires from off their heads and tear The kerchiefs away that dangle there, St. Peter, who keepeth the golden keys Of heaven, on seeing such caps as these. BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 115 Would shut of a surety the door and cry, " The gateway is low, and the coif is high : Begone with the beetling badge of sin. Or not one woman shall enter in ! " He frightened them so that straight they tore Their caps right off on the abbey floor, And fired them there. (I dare suppose The fume was sweet to the Friar's nose !) " Maid Cicely ! " Quick as quick could be, I turned when the Abbess spake to me — " Thou wearest a steeple cap, I ween. As high as the highest that I have seen ; And the silken veil about it wound Trails over thy kirtle to the ground. Such towers, my daughter, proud and tall, May tumble as did Siloam's wall : Take heed ! Thou knowest Saint Luke doth tell, How on the eighteen, that tower fell And slew them " — — " Gramercy," quoth I then, " But good my mother — they all were men ! 116 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. And none had been slain, I trow, at all, Had only the tower refused to fall ! " " Yet had it been meant that thou shouldst be An eU-breadth higher — dost thou not see That God would have made thee so ? " — " Nay, nay," I answered sharp, " that 's not God's way : Whatever we can — 't is, certes, true — Accomplish, He leaveth for us to do. " He meant that the monk be shaven bare ? Then why did he clothe his head with hair ? — He meant that thy nuns should shear away Their beautiful locks ? — Then, wherefore, pray Did he make them grow ? — So, mother mine. Unless thou provest by word and line Of missal, or even Evangelist, That Scripture hath banned it, I will twist The kerchief about my steeple cap ; And the monk shall know that it takes a rap Of something more than a shaven crown To tumble a maiden's top-knot down ! " BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 117 THE WANDERER'S BELL. The Baron's daughter would ride abroad, Though skies grew fleecy, as waned the day ; But what did she care for the thickening air. When she thought of her villagers far away ? They needed the healing draught her hand Was pledged to carry ere set of sun : And she would be back on the homeward track Before she should see the storm begun. " I never could lose myself," she said ; "Or if I should chance astray to roam, My Balther would know through swaths of snow The safest and surest pathway home." So she flung the rein on her palfrey's neck. And hummed in his ear her chirrup-tune. And cantered amain across the plain. Nor heeded the gray of the afternoon. 118 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE, But when, with her sacred mission done (For they held her long with their tales of woe), She mounted, the wold was white and cold. And the path was hidden by swirls of snow. The pines stretched dusky and dim before, And madly aloft their great arms tossed ; But she chirruped her cheer without a fear That Balther could be misled or lost. Yet wilder and fiercer roared the blast, And blindingly beat in Gerta's face. Until she was fain in Balther's mane To cover her mouth for breathing-space. Still into the forest's sheeted maze, As trackless now as the surge of seas. Plunged Balther, although the wreaths of snow At each step buried him to the knees. Far into the night they struggled on, TiU, breathless and spent and sore afraid, With her rein loose flung, fast Gerta clung To the neck of her panting steed, and prayed : BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 119 " Oh, save me, Father, for Christ's dear sake ! " And scarce had she uttered aloud the word When she felt that an ear was pricked to hear Some sound that her own not yet had heard. With a forward bound through the swamping drifts Sprang Balther. Who Gerta's joy could tell As she caught through the white, blind rifts of night The distant peal of a chapel-bell ? The good Knight Waldemar vowed a vow, For his daughter rescued, that nevermore Should any who crossed the wold be lost For lack of a guide to the convent-door. And that is the reason that when the hand Of the clock in the tower at ten appears, The bell on yon height rings every night, And has done it for over three hundred years. 120 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. BEFORE DEATH. I. How much would I care for it, could I know, That when I am under the grass or snow, The ravelled garment of life's brief day Folded, and quietly laid away ; The spirit let loose from mortal bars, And somewhere away among the stars : How much do you think it would matter then What praise was lavished upon me, when. Whatever might be its stint or store, It neither could help nor harm me more ? II. If midst of my toil, they had but thought To stretch a finger, I would have caught Gladly such aid, to bear me through Some bitter duty I had to do : And when it was done, had I but heard BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 121 One breath of applause, one cheering word — One cry of " Courage I " amid the strife, So weighted for me, with death or life — How would it have nerved my soul to strain Through the whirl of the coming surge again ! III. What use for the rope, if it be not flung Till the swimmer's grasp to the rock has clung ? What help in a comrade's bugle-blast When the peril of Alpine heights is past ? What need that the spurring pgean roll When the runner is safe beyond the goal ? What worth is eulogy's blandest breath When whispered in ears that are hushed in death ? No ! no ! if you have but a word of cheer. Speak it, while I am ahve to hear ! 122 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. A NOVEMBER NOCTURNE. The autumn air sweeps faint and chill Across the maple-crested hill ; And on my ear Falls, tingling clear, A strange, mysterious, woodland thrill. From utmost twig, from scarlet crown Untouched with yet a tinct of brown, Reluctant, slow, As loath to go, The loosened leaves come wavering down ; And not a hectic trembler there. In its decadence, doomed to share The fate of all, — But in its fall, Flings something sob-like, on the air. BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 123 No drift or dream of passing bell, Dying afar in twilight dell, Hath any heard, Whose chimes have stirred More yearning pathos of farewell. A silent shiver, as of pain, Goes quivering through each sapless vein ; And there are moans. Whose undertones Are sad as midnight autumn-rain. Ah, if without its dirge-like sigh, No lightest-clinging leaf can die, — Let him who saith Decay and death Should bring no heart-break, tell me why. Each graveyard gives the answer : There I read Resurgam everywhere : — So easy said Above the dead — So weak to anodyne despair ! 124 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE, AUTUMN LOVE. A wife's letter. Dear Heart ! You ask if time has changed The love of long ago ; If summer's flush of love is past — The love we cherished so ; Because with hand in hand we walk Together in the snow. We cannot turn life's seasons back, However much we grieve That summer's solstice days are gone — We cannot once deceive These hearts, so versed in love's true lore, With any make-believe. And now October's deepening glint Goldens the season o'er ; The perfect fruit is on the stem. BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 125 The kernel at the core ; We 've gathered in our harvest-graith, What can we wish for more ? The roses pearled with fancy's dew No longer meet our glance ; The lily stalks of sentiment We look at half-askance, And smile, perhaps, to think they once Were fragrant with romance. Content us so ! We own the change ; We know the splendid hours Have gone with all their drifts of cloud And gusts of rainbow showers ; And love has had its summer-time For these twain hearts of ours. And yet love's lucid atmosphere Hath known no clearer shine : The birds that linger never sang With trills — if few — so fine ; The starlight, as we walk beneath, Seemed never more divine. 126 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. And as my heart in curtained hush Sits wrapped in dreamy bliss Beside our Lares-fire, and feels The warmth of clasp and kiss — I wonder if our summer love Were half so sweet as this ! BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 127 THE FLEMISH BELLS. [The bells cast by the famous moulder, Van den Gheyn, of Lou- vain, are said now to have lost all the sweetness which they had a hundred years ago.] Sadly he shook his frosted head, Listening and leaning on his cane ; " Nay — I am like the bells," he said. Cast by the moulder of Louvain. " Often you Ve read of their mystic powers, Floating o'er Flanders' dull lagoons ; How they would hold the lazy hours Meshed in a net of golden tunes. " Never such bells as those were heard Echoing over the sluggish tide ; Now like a storm crash — now like a bird, Flinging their carillons far and wide. 128 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. " There in Louvain they swing to-day, Up in the turrets where long they Ve swung ; But the rare cunning of yore they say, Somehow has dropped from the brazen tongue. " Over them shines the same pale sky, Under them stretch the same lagoons ; Out from the belfries, bird-like fly, As from a nest, the same sweet tunes : " Ever the same — and yet we know None are entranced, these later times. Just as the listeners long ago Were, with the wonder of their chimes. " Something elusive as viewless air, Something we cannot understand. Strangely has vanished out of the rare Skill of the moulder's master-hand. "So — when you plead that life is still Full, as of old, with tingling joy — That I may hear its music thrill, Just as I heard it when a boy ; BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 129 " All I can say is — Youth has passed — Master of magic falls and swells — Bearing away the cunning cast Into the moulding of the bells ! " 130 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE, NUNC DIMITTIS. What a good world and fair, And excellently lovely ! If there be Among the myriad spheres of upper air, One yet more beautiful, some other where, It matters not to me. What can I crave of good That here I find not ? Nature's stores are spread Abroad with such profusion, that I would Not have one glory added, if I could. Beneath or overhead. And I have loved right well The world God gave us to be happy in ; A world — may be — without a parallel Below that Heaven of Heavens, where doth not dwell The discontent of sin. And yet though I behold Its matchless splendors stretched on every side, — BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 131 Its sapphire seas, its hills, its sunset gold, Its leafage, fresh as Eden's was of old, '— I am not satisfied. Dark, blurring shadows fall On everything ; a strange confusion reigns ; The whole creation travaileth, and, through all, I hear the same sad murmur that Saint Paul Heard, sitting in his chains. Where'er I look abroad. What blight I see ! What pain, and sin, and woe 1 What taint of death beneath the greenest sod ! Until I shudder, questioning how God Can bear to have it so ! I marvel that His love Is not out-worn ; I wonder that He hath A plenitude of patience, so above Finite conception, that it still can prove A stay upon His wrath. And then, — because I tire Of self, and of this poor humanity, — 132 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. Because I grovel where I should aspire, And wail my thwarted hope and balked desire, With such small faith to see, That yet, o'er all this ill, God's final good shall triumph, when the sum Is reckoned up ; that even, if I will, I, at the least, in mine own bosom still May see His kingdom come, — Because of this, I say, I pine for that pure realm where turmoils cease. Sighing (more tired of them than day by day Heart-broken after Heaven !) " Lord, let, I pray y Thy servant go in peace ! '' BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 133 THE FAIRIES' TABLE-CLOTH. Here is the fairies' table, vined Over with lichened buhl-work bright : Here is the cloth they left behind After their feast was done last night. Neyer such napery met my eyes ; Never such cobweb woof I 've found, Dotted with dew-drops damask-wise, Bordered with seed-pearl all around. Service of creamiest lily ware, Spoons of gold from the tulip's heart ; Silver Spergnes of callas rare, Napkins fringed by the gentian's art. Wine from the spice-wood's vintage poured, Out of the bubble's Venice glass ; Bread from the pollen of wild-peas stored ; Gates from the buds of sassafras. 134 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE, Meats from the hazels ; sweets and sours, Fashioned alone for fairy lips, Out of the cores of pungent flowers. Out of the purple haws and hips. Fruits from the winter-green, alder, grape ; Barberries red with ruby glows ; Wildings of elfin size and shape, Folded in leaves of brier-rose. Satiny toad-stools ranged as chairs ; Moon mid-sky for a chandelier ; Crickets and tree-frogs droning airs. Up in the green orchestra near. Ah, what a supper it must have been ! Bountiful, zested, racy, rare ; Ah, ]f I only had fairy kin ! Ah, if I only had been there ! BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 135 THE KISS OF WORSHIP. I. They tell us of a race In far-off lands, Who, in old pagan days, Would kiss their hands And fling upon the air Their homage, so That round them everywhere The gods might know How, in the symbols spread Before their eyes, Beneath and overhead, In seas and skies ; Behind each natural law They felt the sign, And, owned in all they saw The touch divine. 136 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. And, lest through oversight, Some power should miss The reverence deemed his right, They flung their kiss Of worship on the wind, Thus to be blown Where'er its wings could find For gods a throne. II. We of a later race, Who walk on heights That front the dwelling-place Of Him who lights With floods of radiancy Our paths, each one, — Till, like the angel, we Stand in the sun, — Do we, with lifted hands And loyal mouth. Thus over seas and lands — East, west, north, south — Fling worship on the track Of winds abroad, BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE, 137 Till all around comes back The echo ''God*'? And lest we chance to fail In fuU acclaim Of attributes that veil The holiest Name ; Do we send Love, whose wing No space debars, Beyond the luminous ring Of outmost stars, To drop with breathless bliss Of homage sweet Faith's wide-flung, rapturous kiss About His feet ? 138 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE, AT LAST. Written by request for the Ovation held in honor of Edgar Allan Poe, in the New York Academy of Music. If he were here to-night — the strange rare poet, Whose sphinx-like face no jestings could beguile — To meet the award at last, and feel and know it Securely his — how grand would be his smile ! How would the waves of wordless grief, that over His haughty soul had swept through surging years, Sink to a mystic calm, till he would cover His proud pale face to hide the happy tears ! Who knows the secret of that strange existence — That world within a world — how far, how near ; Like thought for closeness, like a star for distance — Who knows ? The conscious essence may be here. If from its viewless bounds the soul has power To free itself for some ethereal flight, BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 139 How strange to think the compensating hour For all the tragic past, may be to-night ! To feel that, where the galling scoffs and curses Of Fate fell heaviest on his blasted track. There, Fame herself the spite of Fate reverses — Might almost win the restless spirit back. Though the stern Tuscan, exiled, desolated. Lies mid Ravenna's marshes far away, At Santa Croce, still his stone is feted, And Florence piles her violets there to-day ! Though broken-hearted the sad singer perished, With woe outworn, amid the convent's gloom, Yet how pathetic are the memories cherished, When Rome keeps Tasso's birthday at his tomb ! So, though our poet sank beneath life's burden, Benumbed and reckless through the crush of fate ; And though, as comes so oft, the yearned-for guerdon, No longer yearned for, since it comes too late : 140 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. He is avenged tonight ! No blur is shrouding The flame his genius feeds : the wise, and brave, And good, and young, and beautiful are crowding Around, to scatter heart's-ease o'er his grave ! And his Virginia, like a tender mother Who breathes above her errant boy no blame, Stoops now to kiss his pallid lips, and smother In pride her sorrow, as she names his name. — Could he have only seen in vatic vision The gorgeous pageant present to our eyes, His soul had known one glimpse of joy elysian ! — Can we call no man happy till he dies ? BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE, 141 A BELLE OF PR^NESTE. CASTELLANI COLLECTION OF ANTIQUES. I. Here is her toilet-case — a crust O'er it of greenest classic rust ; Still with the delicate twist and twine Visible of the rare design ; Even the very casket where, Nearly three thousand years ago, One who was young and fresh and fair — Fair as the fairest that you know — Hoarded her maiden treasures. See, Here is the mirror that used to be Able to flash with silvery grace Back the divinity of her face ; This is the comb — its carvings yet Perfect — that knotted her braids of jet ; There 's the cicada for her brow ; Arrows whose points are blunted now ; Coils for her throat ; an unguent pot 142 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. (Proof of some moulder's wondrous skill), Ivory tablet with a blot Showing a tint of the carmine still. n. This was her necklace : even as I Toy with its links of threaded gold, She may have toyed, with pensive sigh. Dropping them through her fingers, while Hearing, perhaps, with blushing smile, Under the limes, some lover bold Telling a tale that 's never old. Here is the fibula that lay Over her heart for many a day. Throbbing what time that lover won Wreaths when Etruscan games were done ; Quivering under the anguished strain When he was borne from battle, slain ; Rising and falling with her breath. Warming with life or chilled with death ! in. She — has she vanished who seems so near, Drawn by this ancient cista here ? — BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 143 Faded, as faded those sunset dyes Into the infinite, awful skies ? Passed, as the wind passed over the grain Headed to ripeness on the plain Girdling Praeneste ? Did she so Perish, these centuried years ago. Leaving this only trace, whose rust Even may mock her scattered dust ? Can you believe this streak of red Lives, while her subtle soul is dead ? Do the cicada's wings infold Essence her spirit could not hold ? Dare you avouch this bronze can be Something immortal more than she ? rv. Why do I ask ? Somewhere, somewhere, Shrouded in boundless depths of air Nearer than we conceive, or far Out of the reach of sun or star. Vital and sentient, mind, heart, will. Waits this belle of Praeneste still. Conscious as when in the flesh below, Nearly tliree thousand years ago — Waits — and for what ? Ah, God doth know ! 144 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. THE LONGSHOREMAN'S VIEW OF IT. What did he do ? Oh, nothing much ; Standing upon the bluff one day, Suddenly, ere his hand could clutch Even his dress, the boy, I say. Whom he was watching, as he threw Yonder his tackle over the height, Toppled headforemost into the blue Wash of the sea, and was swept from sight. Yonder just where the breakers chum Madly their crested caps to snow. Where you can see the shelving turn Sharp towards the jutting crag below ; That 's where he sank : No faintest chance Even to venture a hope upon : Had he but waited for one brief glance. He would have known it — the boy was gone. Noble ? Yes — think how he rushed on death. Sprang to the spot with one wild leap, BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE, 145 Plunged, without pausing to draw a breath, Into the jaws of the boiling deep. Right where the breakers, hurrying fast Over each other with blinding spray, Tumbled and scattered in surges vast. Just as you see them do to-day. What were a couple of lives to them ? Little as yonder swirling chips, — They with their rush no might can stem. Ready to swallow a hundred ships. Father or brother ? Nay, not he ! Only a stranger, some one said ; The greater the pity, it seems to me, Being no other, — since he is dead. Ah, thank Heaven ! you say, that still Heroes like this among our clods Lift and exalt our nature till Grandly it stretches up to God's. Well, I am one of the common brand, Such as may everywhere be found : Yes, — the example may thrill the land. But — can it help the man who's drowned ? 146 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE, THE WINE-VAULTS OF BERGENSTEIN. A GERMAN LEGEND. Old Heinrich sat at the hostel door, And counted the gains of the market o'er, That never had seemed so small before. " How Gretchen will scold ! But then the beer Has heartened me up with its kindly cheer : — Boy, bring me another tankard here ! " The tankard was drained, and he homeward went With a stagger of stolid, dull content. Though Gretchen should know that his gains were spent. But scarce had he shambled one half his way, When, as it was nearing the close of day, A voice at his elbow seemed to say, — BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 147 " Ah ! here are the ruins of Bergenstein, So famous, 't was said in the days lang syne, For vintages of a wondrous wine. " For such, of a truth, were nowhere known As mellowed beneath the piles of stone, In tuns with their cobwebbed beards o'ergrown. *^ The lords of the castle, although they were Right ancient barons, with scutcheons fau*, Held shamefully riotous revels there. " They drank in the morning, they drank at night, They wasted their lives in brawl and fight ; And the castle it crumbled, as well it might. " Yet steadily, under it all, the vine Kept bearing, beneath the rain and shine ; And still in the vaults they stored the wine. ** 'Twas over two hundred years ago When all that I tell you happened so ; For I was the cooper — and I should know. 148 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE, " The last of the Bergen knights was he Who flung, as he came to die, the key Of the vaults, with an angry glare at me, " And said, — ' It has slain us one by one ; Go turn the spigot of every tun. And let the wine that has cursed us run.' " I flew to obey, in hottest haste, But, stopping to take one golden taste, I had not the heart to see the waste ; " And, lifting my eyes, I could but say, — ' God keep his perilous gifts, I pray, Safe till the Millennium ! When that day " ^ Shall dawn on a world new-made again, Such draughts shall be harmless unto men Grown like to the angels, but — not till then ! ' " My prayer had its answer, — year by year I visit the vaults, and linger near To see that no trace of the tuns appear. BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 149 " And as soon as the blossoms scent the vine, The crones declare 't is a certain sign That the cooper has come to taste his wine. " Poor fool ! as you listen to what I Ve told Of the tuns, you would barter a bag of gold To see them, and stroke their beards of mould." " And toss off a tankard," old Heinrich said, And turned him about and rubbed his head. But — cooper, and castle, and all had fled ! And there in the roadside ditch he lay, And puzzled his brains till break of day, And wondered what Gretchen would have to say. 150 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. PRITCHARD THE ENGINEER. I. Right on the track of the flying train Lay the huge bowlder. Quick as thought, Grasping the throttle with a strain Tightened and terrible, Pritchard caught Hold of the brake-bar. On its way, Crashing to headlong ruin, rushed Madly the engine, till it lay Hurled on the bowlder, wrecked and crushed. II. Smitten with horror, pale with fear, Hastened the anxious crowd to see Whether the faithful engineer (Braver or better none than he) Breathed, as he stood there with his face Grand in its steadfast purpose set. Showing the ordeal's awful trace Stamped on the rigid features yet. BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 151 III. What did they find ? One hand a-strain, Grasping the throttle with a clutch Closer than death's, and one in vain Clinching the hrake-valve bar with such Spasm of grip they could undo Only with wrench of strength applied ; Seeing the bolt that pierced him through, Failed to unclasp it — so he died : IV. Died at his post, as a brave man should, Shirking no duty, danger, strife ; True to his trust, although it would Cost him — he saw it so — his life. These are the heroes, noblest far, — Men who can meet without a fear Death, with their hands upon the bar, Even as Pritchard the engineer ! 152 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. COMPENSATION. Because the page of saint and sage Is closed before your burdened eyes ; Because the thought by genius wrought Forbidden to your vision lies ; Because the fine, ecstatic line The poet writes is shut away ; Because you glance at no romance, Nor sweep the world-news of the day ; — Must you sit by with murmurous sigh, And hopeless sadness in your looks ; As if the best of life's true zest Were bound within the realms of books ? Lift up, I pray, this golden day, That vision which the classic line Has dimmed with pain of overstrain, And own there 's something more divine BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 153 Upon the broad expanse which God Sets clear before your spirit's reach, Freighted with more exalted lore Than human tongue could ever teach. Your pen can trace no faintest grace Of fancy such as throbs and stirs In living light along the bright Record of Nature's characters. No wisest sage, no scholar's page, No secrets, Science may descry, Can teach the heart a thousandth part As much as God's great, open sky. And tell me where are poets rare As lyric birds that thrill and throng The solitudes of breezy woods Just for the very love of song ! What gay romance can weave a dance As airy as the butterfly's ? What drama's dream can ever seem Tragic as that in human eyes ? 154 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE, God's way is best. If He has pressed His hand above your eyelids so, Be sure, therefore, he has some lore To teach you that you do not know. Hold the dear hand, and understand, While covering it with kisses true, That you must lay all else away Till you have heard His teachings through. A Father's care should surely wear No semblance even of love's eclipse. If down he lays the book and says, *' Child, learn your lesson from my lips,'' BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 165 ARAB WIT. In a green oasis where gurgling ran The sedge-choked waters, a caravan Paused, marching to Ispahan. And, calm as the Oman when the roar Of surging breakers along its shore Sinks as the storm is o'er, — On his Yemen cloth the Emir lay ; For many had been the fearful fray Since thither he tracked his way. His pitiless hand had wide and far Traced, with the sweep of his scimitar, A circle of scathe and scar. And now, with his works of vengeance done, Tranquil he prayed at set of sun, " Allah, the Faith hath won." 156 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. " Who sayeth it ? " rang a fierce demand ; For, scouring o'er the soundless sand, An Arab leaped, close at hand. " Pray, how hath he won ? By thousands slain, This Emir, whose rule is scourge and bane : No Tigris could wash his stain ! " " By Allah ! " the Emir scowled, — his brow Pallid with fury — " knowest thou That Emir am I ? And now " Thy life for thy slander 's cost ! " "Nay, nay!'' The Arab laughed, in a jeering way ; " Who questions thy right, I pray ? " Thou hast told thy rank — hear mi?ie : I am Of the powerful race of the Yezidan, Whose reason is cool and calm " Save at full-moon ; and then some blight — Ha ! ha ! — makes fools of us all outright ; And — the moon is full to-night ! " BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 157 The blade slid back to its jewelled head, As, waving his hand, the Emir said, " Give to the fool some bread." 168 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE, CALLING THE ANGELS IN. We mean to do it. Some day, some day, We mean to slacken this fevered rush That is wearing our very souls away ; And grant to our hearts a hush That is only enough to let them hear The footsteps of angels drawing near. We mean to do it. Oh, never doubt, When the burden of daytime broil is o'er, We '11 sit and muse while the stars come out, As the patriarchs sat at the door Of their tents with a heavenward-gazing eye. To watch for the angels passing by. We 've seen them afar at high noontide, When fiercely the world's hot flashings beat ; Yet never have bidden them turn aside, And tarry in converse sweet ; BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 159 Nor prayed them to hallow the cheer we spread, To drink of our wine and break our bread. We promise our hearts that when the stress Of the life-work reaches the longed-for close, When the weight that we groan with hinders less, We '11 welcome such calm repose As banishes care's disturbing din, And then — we 'U call the angels in. The day that we dreamed of comes at length. When, tired of every mocking quest, And broken in spirit and shorn of strength. We drop at the door of rest. And wait and watch as the day wanes on — But — the angels we meant to call, are gone ! 160 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. PERSEPHONE. Listen ! What a sudden rustle Fills the air ! All the birds are in a bustle Everywhere. Such a ceaseless hum and twitter Overhead ! Such a flash of wings that glitter, Wide outspread ! Far away I hear a drumming — Tap, tap, tap ! Can the woodpecker be coming After sap ? Butterflies are hovering over (Swarms on swarms) Yonder meadow-patch of clover, Like snowstorms. Through the vibrant air a tingle Buzzingly BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE, 161 Throbs, and o'er me sails a single Bumble-bee. Lissome swayings make the willows One bright sheen, Which the breeze puffs out in billows Foamy green. From the marshy brook that 's smoking In the fog, I can catch the crool and croaking Of a frog. Dogwood-stars the slopes are studding, And I see Blooms upon the purple-budding Judas-tree. Aspen-tassels thick are dropping All about. And the alder-leaves are cropping Broader out ; Mouse-ear tufts the hawthorn sprinkle, Edged with rose ; The dark bed of periwinkle Fresher grows. Up and down are midges dancing On the grass ; 162 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. How their gauzy wings are glancing As they pass ! What does all this haste and hurry Mean, I pray — All this ou^doo^ flush and flurry Seen to-day ? This presaging stir and humming, Chirp and cheer Mean ? It means that Spring is coming : Spring is here ! BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE, 163 THE KEPT PROMISE. In the Moslem city of Khorassan, Adjudging the people from his divan, Sat Omar the pitiless, haughty Khan. He had sentenced assassin, knave, and thief, And he called to his guard with order brief : " Now bring to me hither the Vizier Chief, " Who dared to defy my bidding. He Who let from his camp my foe go free. Because he had shared his salt, shall see " That the man who can break his promise, led By a fancied duty, nor risk instead Life rather than do it, must lose his head." The Vizier was summoned. With hurried words He told how a chief of the hostile Kurds, Who seemed but a shepherd of flocks and herds. 164 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. Had come to his tent, his eyeballs dim Through hunger, and gaunt in every limb ; — " What could I, but break my bread with him ? " The face of the Khan grew wroth ; his eye Flashed fire ; he deigned but curt reply : " The soldier who breaks his word must die ! " No pallor the Vizier's cheek o'erspread ; On his bosom he only dropped his head : " It is Fate, — it is Fate ! " he grimly said. " I am ready, O master, to meet the worst. But not till your kindness grants me first A vessel of water to quench my thirst : " Shall the scimitar stay till I drink ? " Quick o'er The forehead of Omar, so harsh before. Dawned something like pity : " Till then : no more ! " The water was brought. The Vizier's brow Shone brighter : " We all of us heard you vow, 'Till then.' Your promise is pledged me now I " BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE, 165 Then he dashed on the ground the goblet ! "So You have snared me, knave ! " said the Khan. " But, no — I never will break a promise. Go ! " 166 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE, A TOUCH OF FROST. Only a word it was — a word Freighted with sweetness to the core, Even for both of them spoken and heard Thousands of times before. What was the matter with it now, That it should seem to .throw a blight Over the flushing cheek and brow, Turned to the sudden light ? Was not the innocent word the same That, in her days of bridal bliss, Oft he had wreathed about her name, Crowning it with a kiss ? Yet what a difference ! Crisp and curt, Piercing the sensitive soul, it drew Blood from her heartrlife, till the hurt Harrowed her through and through. BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 167 He — did he mean to wound her so, Whom he had loved through all the years, Letting her from his presence go Blind with her pent-up tears ? Never ! Does Nature mean to kill Blossoms she cherishes at such cost, When o'er her dews she drops a chill Turning them all to frost ? Can she be conscious that on some night. Frostier, keener, and colder far Than is her wont, she breathes a blight ? No — but the roses are / 168 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE, THE FIRST TE DEUM. 'T WAS Easter night in Milan ; and before The altar in the great Basilica, St. Ambrose stood. At the baptismal font Kneeled a young neophyte, his brow still wet With the symboHc water, and near by The holy Monica, her raised eyes strained, As with unearthly ecstasy she breathed Her Nunc Dimittis, Domine. The words Of comfort spoken — ^' Be sure the child for whom Thy mother-heart hath poured so many prayers Shall not be lost " — had full accomplishment, And her tired heart found peace. St. Ambrose raised His hands to heaven, and on his face there shone Such light as glorified the Prophet's, when An angel from the altar bare a coal And touched his lips. With solemn step and slow, He turned to meet Augustine, as he rose BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 169 Up from the pavement ; and thereon he brake Forth in ascriptive chant : " We praise Thee, God, And we acknowledge Thee to be the Lord 1 " Augustine, on the instant, caught the tone Of answering exultation : " All the earth Doth worship Thee, the Father Everlasting ! " And from the altar-rail came back again The antiphony : " To Thee all angels cry Aloud, the heavens and all the powers therein." And from the font, " To Thee the cherubim And seraphim continually do cry, Oh, Holy, Holy, Holy, Thou Lord God Of Sabaoth ! Heaven and earth are full of all The glory of Thy Majesty ! " And then. With upward gaze, as if he looked upon The infinite multitude about the throne, St. Ambrose uttered with triumphant voice, " The glorious company of the Apostles " — " Praise Thee " — burst reverent from Augustine's lips ; 170 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. " The goodly fellowship of all the Prophets " — " Praise Thee : " " The noble army of the Martyrs " — "Praise Thee!" Thus back and forth responsive rolled The grand antiphonal, until the crowd That kneeled throughout the vast Basilica, Rose to their feet, and toward the altar pressed, With one strong impulse drawn ! The breath of God Had to their thought inspired these mortal tongues To which they listened, as beneath a spell Vatic and wonderful. And when the last Response was reached, and the rapt speakers stood With eyelids closed, as those who had seen God, And could not brook at once a mortal face. Awestruck, the people bowed their heads and wept. Then uttered with acclaim, one long — Amen / BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 171 THE CHRIST-CROTCH.! A. D. 12—. A child's chkistmas ballad. 'T WAS the time of the old Crusaders : And back with his broken band The Lord of a Saxon castle Had come from the Holy Land. He was weary of wars and sieges, And it sickened his soul to roam So far from his wife and children, So long from his English home. And yet with a noble courage He was proud for the Faith to fight ; For he carried upon his shoulder The sign of the Red-Cross Knight. ^ Christ-Crotch or Christ-Cradle — the old Saxon name for Mince- Pie. 172 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. It was Christmas-Eve at the castle, The yule-log burnt in the hall, And helmet and shield and banner Threw shadows upon the wall. And the Baron was telling stories To the children about his knees. Of some of the holy places He had visited over seas. He talked of the watching shepherds, Of the wonderful, mystic sights, Of the song that the angels chanted That first of the Christmas-Nights : He told of the star whose shining Out-sparkled the brightest gem. He told of the hallowed cradle They showed him at Bethlehem. And the eyes of the children glistened To think that a rock sufficed, With nothing but straw for blankets, To cradle the Baby-Christ. BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE, 173 " Nay ! quiet your sobbings, sweetest," Right gayly the Baron cried — " For nothing but smiles must greet me, This blessedest Christmas-Tide. " Come, wife ! I have thought of a cradle Which thou, with the skill I praise, Shalt mould with thy dainty fingers, To honor this day of days ! " So lest we forget the manger, Choose out of thy platters fair. The one that is largest, deepest. And line it with deftest care, " With flakes of the richest pastry, Wrought cunningly by thy hands. That thus it may bring before us The thought of the swaddling-bands. " And out of thy well-stored larder. Set forth of thy very best : Is aught that we have too precious To grant to this Christmas Guest ? 174 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. " Strew meats of the finest shredding, (The litter was chopped in the stall ;) Let butter and wine and honey Be lavished above them all. " Let raisins and figs from Smyrna That draw to the East our thought, With Araby's pungent spices, Just such as the Magi brought ; " And syrups and tincts be mingled With fruits from the Southern sea, And given ungrudged ; remember He gave of his best for thee ! " Then over the noble platter, A cover of pastry draw, A star in its midst, as a token Of that which the Sages saw. " Christ's Cradle ! — for so we '11 call it ; And ever, sweetheart, I pray, With such thou wilt make us merry At dinner each Christmas-Day ! " BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 176 THE BEGGING CUPID. A PIECE OF SCULPTURE. I WATCHED as they stood before it, — A girl with a face as fair As any among the raarbles, So cold in their whiteness there ; And a youth in whose glance, entreaty Each lineament seemed to stir, She only had eyes for the sculpture ; He only had eyes for her. And poising in critic-fashion The delicate upturned head, " Was ever so sweet a beggar ? " With sudden appeal, she said. " Just look at the innocent archness, The simple and childish grace, 176 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. Half mirthful and half pathetic, That dimples his pleading face. " Who ever could think that mischief Was hidden in such a guise ? Or even that rosy sorrows Lurk in those lambent eyes ? " Deny him f Perhaps ! though never With hardness or scorn or blame ; For I think I should sob with pity, If that were the way he came." She turned as she spoke : the glamour Of feeling had made her blind To the trick of the stealthy arrow The Cupid concealed behind : *•' Ah, ha ! " she cried, while the color Rubied her neck of snow — " You plausible, wheedling beggar ! I have nothing to give you, — Go ! " BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 177 HOW HILDA'S PRAYER WAS ANSWERED. AN OLD SAXON BALLAD. " On him who conquers in the lists All who therein shall ride ; Or high or low, I will bestow My daughter as his bride." So spake the Earl with suitors vexed, Who sought fair Hilda's hand ; To whom he dare no choice declare, Since rapine ruled the land. For should he smile on Harold^s hopes, Then Bertric's wrath would fall ; And spear and lance might gleam and glance Around his castle wall. And should he frown on lesser squires, Nor grant them word of grace, 178 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. Each Saxon churl his curse would hurl Against his name and race. So Hilda nursed a gnawing grief Concealed within her breast : For well she knew the knight so true Who long had loved her best — Would meet that rival in the jousts Whose arm a brand could fling (His only claim) with surest aim Of all within the ring. " The prowest spirit of them all, May fail among them there, — So true he was — and just because This carl can split a hair ! " " Beseech thee, father ! spare thy child ! I plead by every tear Of anguish shed that day of dread Above my mother's bier." " Peace ! peace ! — no more ! My word is passed : " 'T was all the Earl would say : BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 179 So forth they hied from far and wide Upon the tilting-day. Thrice Harold's daring swept the ring, But when the lists were done, A blasting blight smote Hilda's sight — For Bertric's lance had won ! The grim Earl held his promise fast ; The marriage-day was set ; And Hilda, pale beneath her veil As snow-swathed violet — Long in her oratory prayed, Low bowed in bitter gloom, That Heaven, even now — she knew not how — Would save her from her doom. " The bridegroom chafes " — her maidens urge, " The gay procession waits ; Thy palfrey champs the bit, and stamps Impatient at the gates." " His gift ! " — she wept : " O happy hours — So free — so far away ! 180 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE, What cruelty, that this should be The roan I ride to-day ! " The palfrey pricked his silken ear, And shook his shining mane, And seemed to know how loath to go Was she who drew the rein. And when the distant abbey bell Rang forth the wedding peals. At the first clang, away he sprang As Fate were at his heels. With flashing hoofs that spurned the ground Along the vale he flew, Fleet as the wind, ere those behind Bethought them what to do : — Swept past the abbey — down the slope — Across the brawling tide. And skimmed the wold whose moorland rolled Unhedged on every side — Nor slackened once his headlong plunge Till at his master's hall. BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 181 He heard a shout he knew, rmg out — Then saw the drawbridge fall — And staggered over. From his neck Half crazed with wild alarms, The shuddering bride was caught — to hide Her swoon in Harold's arms ! He bore her to the utmost tower, And thence they watched the race, As in keen quest each wedding-guest Came spurring on apace. The fiery Bertric dashed in front — Foam frothing from the flank Of the hot steed, urged on full speed Against the moated bank. As rose the lifted hoofs in air, The maddened creature whirled ; And down the steep with backward leap, Rider and horse were hurled ! 182 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. And when on-coming followers sprang To raise the fallen head, With strange dismay the gallants gay Saw that their lord was dead ! BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 183 CAMBRIDGE BELLS. O Cambridge bells, toll out your knells ! O listeners, bow the reverent head, While tears as vain as April rain Fall for your dearest poet dead ! Weep, childhood's bands, whose happy hands Wove, as it were but yesterday. Wreaths for the brow too pallid now For aught but an immortal bay. Ah wailing hearts, whose keenest smarts His spell had power to soften o'er. Till all your fears dissolved in tears : — His voice can comfort you no more ! Glad homes, so bright with all delight. Sing low his songs with saddened breath : As sweet a tongue as ever sung Is palsied with the touch of death. 184 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. Translucent skies on which his «yes Were wont with tranquil gaze to rest, — Beyond your blue he pierces through The Golden Legend of the west. Broad meadows where the grass springs fair, No more he 11 thread your winding path, Nor watch the wain heaped high with grain, Nor loiter 'mid the Aftermath. O land whose pride he was ! beside His grave let tears the tenderest fall : Within your choir is hushed the lyre That was the sweetest of them all ! BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 185 THE ROMAN BOY'S SHARE IN THE TRIUMPH. A. D. 61. WITH A PICTURE. " I HAVE witnessed the great Ovation, I have watched as they slew the sheep ; As they marched from the Campus Martius Up the Capitolium's steep : I was proud as I saw my father From the fiery East come home, I was proud as I looked on the captives And the spoils he had brought to Rome. "Ah, Rome is a grand old city. And it flushes my soul with joy, That my father has won a Triumph — That I am a Roman Boy ! I am glad of the glorious conquests He gained on the far-off shore, 186 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE, That has given the State a splendor It scarcely hath known before ! " It was noble to see the captives, (Poor fellows ! I think they wept !) Go chained, as the car of the victor Behind them in triumph swept : Have they any boys, I wonder, Like Marcus and me, at home ? Who cares ? They are bold plebeians, They have dared to fight with Rome ! " But now that the march is over, Ho ! comites, come and see What spoil from that Eastern country My father hath brought for me ! Here — lean from the wide fenestra And look at this branching bough — Did ever you see together Such birds as I show you now ? " How wise they are looking at me ! Ha, Claudius ! didst thou say BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE, 187 Some of Minerva's nestlings From Athens are caught away ? They are angry that they are fettered — See ! each of them frowns and scowls — I think thou art right, my Claudius, I think they 're Minerva's owls. " And look at this curious trophy — This thing that they call a fan, It once was an Indian Satrap's In far-away Hindostan — They tell me it grew on a palm-tree In its Eastern forest home. As lofty — my father said it — As the loftiest tower in Rome. " And mark what a shield he brought me, Not one in his legions bore A trophy of greater beauty, Or one that hath cost him more : For his own good sword hath won it. And * Keep it,' he said, ' my son. As proof of a deed of valor A soldier of Rome hath done ! ' 188 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. " I will keep it : and when my girdle Gives place to the toga — then Right brave on my arm I '11 wear it, When I fight, as a man, with men. Oh, ho ! — I will get me conquests, And laden with spoils, come home. And march, as to-day my father Has marched through the streets of Rome I " I am glad I have seen the Ovation, And the slaughtering of the sheep — (I wish I had missed the seeing Those poor, chained captives weep !) -^ I am proud of my foreign trophies, I am proud of my father's joy — And over all else, I am proudest That I am a Roman Boy ! " BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE, 189 SAME-SICKNESS. 1. My mountains curve against the sky, A line of beauty pure and true, Beyond what English Hogarth drew ; And yet I watch with half a sigh Their changing lights, and wonder why I weary of their depth of blue. 2. No greener valley, forest-walled, This land of hill and dale can show : Through summer's shine, through winter's snow, Its loveliness has never palled Upon the senses it enthralled, Till now ; — and now it tires me so ! 3. What rippling river ever ran More like a river in a dream, 190 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE, Than this, whose sliding waters gleam Beneath the bridge's airy span, As silvery as waters can ? And yet, to-day, how dull they seem ! 4. The sheen of window-panes, that catch The glint, recurrent mornings trace On yonder hillside dwelling-place. So irksome grows, I 'm fain to snatch My vision from the square bright patch That always stares me in the face. 5. And yet the mountains have not lost One grace out of their splendid line ; And yet the valley forests shine More brilliant through the jewelled frost ; And yet the stream has never tossed Back flashes that were more divine. 6. My eye is just as clear to note Nature's processions, great and small ; BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 191 These oaks whose leaves refuse to fall ; That meadow where the shadows float : But then — I We learned the scene by rote, And spoiled the meaning of it all. 192 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. HER WEDDING-SONG. I. O April air ! Blow fresh and fair, And banish every cloud away, Nor let a stain Of mist or rain Obscure her perfect Wedding-Day. n. O violets ! fling The breath of spring With lavish waste along her way ; Roses distil Your sweets, and spill Their rareness round her Wedding-Day. ni. O birds ! prolong Your matin song. BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 193 And trill your gladdest roundelay, As if ye, too. Would add your due Of joy to grace her Wedding-Day. IV. O tender hearts ! Whose loving arts Must let no quivering tone betray The sob beneath : Your blessing breathe, To sanctify her Wedding-Day. V. O mother ! come, With lips too dumb To utter half your soul would say ; And seal her bliss With prayer and kiss : The holiest of her Wedding-Day ! VI. O father! hold In speechless fold 194 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. The child whom now you give away, With tremulous hreath, For life, for death, — On this her solemn Wedding-Day. VII. O you who stand And clasp her hand, And vow to cherish her alway ! The troth you bring With plighted ring, Shall consecrate her Wedding-Day. vm. O peace of God ! Shed aU abroad Thy benediction now, I pray ; That she may own Thy love alone Can crown supreme her Wedding-Day. BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 196 THE ANGEL UNAWARE. Abroad on the landscape pale and cold, Blurred with a patter of autumn rain, I gazed, and questioned if it could hold Ever the sweet, old joy again. The color had faded from earth and sky, Mists hung low where the light had lain, And through the willows a fretful sigh Moaned as their branches swept the pane. " My days must darken as these," I said — " Out of my life must summer go ; Its russeted memories, dim and dead, Shiver along my pathway so ; No more the elastic life come back — The leap of heart and the spirit-glow That never had sense of loss or lack, Whether my lot were glad or no." 196 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE, But here on my musings broke a child, Fresh from a rush in the pinching air ; And, kissing my hand, she gayly smiled. Speaking no word, but leaving there A handful of heart's-ease, blithe and bright. What had become of my cloud of care ? It had haloed itself in a ring of light Over the angel unaware ! BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 197 NATURE'S THRENODY. p. H. H. I. A MURMUR, sad as far-off muffled bells, Goes faintly soughing through the shivering pines ; The thrill as of a thousand kissed farewells Stirs into tremors all the drooping vines ; The trailing muscadines Forget to take their autumn splendor on, And wring their hands with gesture of despair Athwart the spicy air, Because the voice that sang to them is gone. n. Along the hemlock aisles the winds complain Like chanting priests. I catch the measured tread Of weeping Oreads, following twain by twain ; While Dryads bear the pale and silent dead, Couched on a fragrant bed Of pines, marsh-mallows, and the golden-rod ; And reverently beneath the cedar shade, 198 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. Where they his grave have made, They wrap him in the autumn's russet sod. ni. I hear the whippoorwill within the vale, In tones that break my heart, its dirge repeat ; The mocking-bird sobs out a troubled wail, Most melancholy, most divinely sweet, Because the lingering feet That paused so oft, to catch the mellow strain It practised for him, till the daylight's close — Too well — too well it knows, — Those lingering feet will never come again. IV. The clouds dissolve themselves in pallid mist. That clings like cere-cloths. In the southern breeze All gladness dies, by solemn memories whist ; The patter of the rain amid the trees Is like the moan of seas After the wreck. And all this silence shed O'er nature, like a diapason pause, Has come to pass, because The poet who has led the choir is dead ! BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 199 EVEN-SONG. 1. There 'll come a day when the supremest splendor Of earth or sky or sea, Whate'er then* miracles, sublime or tender, Will wake no joy in me. 2. There '11 come a day when all the aspiration, Now with such fervor fraught, As lifts to heights of breathless exaltation. Will seem a thing of naught. 3. There '11 come a day when riches, honor, glory, Music and song and art. Will look like puppets in a worn-out story. Where each has played his part. 200 BALLAD AND OTHER VERSE. 4. There '11 come a day when human love, the sweetest Gift that includes the whole Of God's grand giving — sovereignest, completest — Shall fail to fill my soul. 6. There '11 come a day — I will not care how passes The cloud across my sight, If only, lark-like, from earth's nested grasses, I spring to meet its light. SONNETS. THE POET'S ANSWER. "Whence did it come?" — No conscious thought of mine Chose out the theme, as from Carrara's stone The sculptor chooses the one block alone Best fitted to embody his divine Ideal of beauty. But before one line Forecasts the form as Fancy sees it shown Perfect, or yet a mallet-chip is thrown Off from the mass that hides his clear design, — Suppose a flash of quick, electric light Should daze the sculptor's eye, and he should see Step from the stone, evoked as by a spell, The statue of his dream, Persephone : So sprang my poem forth, revealed to sight ; But by what magic wrought, I cannot tell. 202 SONNETS, WE TWO. Ah, painful-sweet ! how can I take it in ! That somewhere in the illimitable blue Of God's pure space, which men call Heaven, we two Again shall find each other, and begin The infinite life of love, a life akin To angels, — only angels never knew The ecstasy of blessedness that drew Us to each other, even in this world of sin. Yea, find each other ! The remotest star Of all the galaxies would hold in vain Our souls apart, that have been heretofore, As closely interchangeable as are One mind and spirit : Oh, joy that aches to pain, To be together — we two — forever more ! SONNETS. 203 HESTIA. O GENTLE Goddess of the Grecian hearth, Whose altar was the cheerful tahle spread ; Whose sacrifice, the pleasant daily bread. Offered with incense of sweet childhood's mirth, And parent's priestly ministration, worth More than all other rites that ever shed Light on the path that those young feet must tread - Has thy pure worship ceased from off the earth ? We heap new fires ; we overbrim the bowl. Yet shiver, hungry. To our inmost shrine. The obtrusive world finds way. Abroad we roam, In discontent of household oil and wine ; And wherefore so ? Because the kindling coal We bring not from the sacred hearth of home ! 204 SONNETS. ART'S LIMITATIONS. This rich, rank age — does it need giants now, Dantes, and Angelos, and Shakespeares ? Nay, Its culture is of other sort to-day, That concentrates no power — that doth allow Growths which divide the strength that should endow The one taU trunk — that fails to lop away, With wise reserve, the shoots which lead astray The wasted sap to some collateral hough. Had Dante chiselled stone — had Angelo Intrigued at courts — had Shakespeare cramped his power With critic-gauge of Drayton, Chaucer, Gower — What lack there were of that refreshing shade Which these high-towered, centurial oaks have made, Where walk the happy nations to and fro ! SONNETS. 206 FLOOD-TIDE. TO THE POET To every artist, howsoe'er his thought Unfolds itself before the eyes of men, — Whether through sculptor's chisel, poet's pen, Or painter's wondrous brush, — there comes, f uU fraught With instant revelation, lightning-wrought, A moment of supremest heart-swell, when The mind leaps to the tidal crest, and then Sweeps on triumphant to the harbor sought. Wait, eager spirit, till the topping waves Shall roll their gathering strength in one, and lift From out the swamping trough thy galleon free ; Mount with the whirl, command the rush that raves A maelstrom round ; then proudly shoreward drift. Rich-freighted as an Indian argosy ! 206 SONNETS. ABNEGATION. . ** The mother of Jesus saith unto Him : They have no wine." St. John. How countless are the souls for whom the days Are empty of all stimulating glow That sends the bounding blood with quickened flow Along the tingling veins, — who never raise Their heavy eyes beyond the flinty ways Their daily feet must tread, — who never know This world is good, because of cares that so Thorn every step of life's laborious maze ! The plodding peasants, they must plant and rear, And weed and water, that the teeming soil May yield its richness to the clustered vine, — Must tramp the grapes until their juice run clear For lordly lips ; — and yet, for all their toil, Taste not the flagon filled : Thei/ have no ivine ! SONNETS. 207 OVER-CONTENT. I WOULD not be too happy in the joys That so fulfil my life : I would not rest Too satisfied, if gifts the very best God grants, were mine : — the bliss that never cloys, Born of Love's perfectness ; the equipoise Exact of flesh and spirit, that keeps youth's zest Still at its acme : — genius whose behest Art waits upon ; all nature to rejoice My sated soul : — Lest, haply, when I hear My Father call, child-wise I say, — Let be ; So many gracious things Thou givest me, — Such store of present good from far and near, Such full contentment with my sunny cheer, Why should I come ? What need have I for Thee ? 208 SONNETS. IN THE PANTHEON. January 17, 1878. In all the score of centuries that have fled Since the victorious Roman reared on high This dome, ceiled with the overarching sky, None of the mighty ones, august and dread. Whose deeds have won for them an honored bed Here, in these statued, seven-fold niches high, Have nobler claim than he hath thus to lie, Whom Italy to-day bears hither, dead. As through yon dome's blue circlet, oft of yore,^ They showered white leaves, when votive prayers were done. So let white benediction-memories fall Around this king ; — his service being o'er ; — Who found his sundered realm wild Faction's thrall, And left it free, compacted, peaceful, one ! 1 " Formerly, when the Popes officiated here on the day of Pen- tecost, white rose-leaves were scattered through the aperture in the dome/* SONNETS. 209 MENDELSSOHN'S REWARD. Tranced with his matchless skill, the royal pair Sat hearkening, while the great composer's hand Urged on at will (as if superb command 0£ the wide waves of sound were his to share), Careering harmonies, that brake in rare Crowned culminations, as upon the strand The over-poise of surge breaks, leaving grand Subsiding murmurs on the vibrant air. Then spake the Queen : " An hour of pure delight Has been your gift to us ; beseech you, say, What now can we bestow, our thanks to tell ? The kind musician's eye grew softly bright : " I am a father ; it would please me well To see the royal children at their play." 210 SONNETS. "PHILIP, MY KING." TO PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. Thou art the same, my friend, about whose brow, In cradle years, a poet twined the lays Through which she glorified, in poet's phrase, Those splendid eyes, that forced her to avow Heart-fealty to thee, her liege, and bow Before thy regal looks, with regal praise Of more enduring freshness than the bays Which blatant crowds bind for their heroes now. Had she prevision that above those eyes God meant to press His hand, the better so To cage the lark-like spirit ? Should it soar Too deep into the sapphire of the skies, We earthly listeners, standing far below. Must fail to catch the ethereal music more. SONNETS. 211 MOODS. MORNING. It is enough : I feel this golden morn, As if a royal appanage were mine, Through Nature's queenly warrant of divine Investiture. What princess, palace-born, Hath right of rapture more, when skies adorn Themselves so grandly ? — when the mountains shine Transfigured ? — the air exalts the wine ? — When pearly purples steep the yellowing corn ? So satisfied with all the goodliness Of God's good world, — my being to its brim Surcharged with utter thankfulness, no less Than bliss of beauty, passionately glad. Through rush of tears that leaves the landscape dim, _J' Who dares," — I cry — " in such a world be sad ? " 212 SONNETS. II. NIGHT. I PRESS my cheek against the window-pane, And gaze abroad into the blank, black space Where earth and sky no more have any place. Wiped from existence by the expunging rain : And as I hear the worried winds complain, A darkness darker than the murk whose trace Invades the curtained room, is on my face, Beneath which life and life's best ends seem vain. My proudest aspirations viewless sink As yon cloud-blotted hills : hopes that shone bright Last eve, as planets, like the stars to-night. Are hidden, eclipsed, as never heretofore : " weary world," — I cry — " how dare I think Thou hast for me one gleam of gladness more ? " SONNETS. 213 HUJVIAN PROVIDENCE. I WOULD not, if I could, arrange the how, The what, the wherefore of to-morrow's plan : Omniscience whose supremest eye doth scan All time, all being as one eternal Now, Devoid of the stern sequences that bow Our wills, and bar their action, only can Previse for each of us the bounded span To walk or work in, as He shall allow. Or if we dare, like Israel of old. In unbelief, to seize the manna spread In white abundance round our tents to-day, Because we doubt of our to-morrow's bread, — Not even an Aaron's priestly pot of gold Shall keep the o'er-gathered portion from decay ! 214 SONNETS. HORIZONS. A PUPIL of the gi^and old Florentine Paused at his work, one day, in hopeless guise — Head bowed despondent, over-wearied eyes, And fingers, whose long labor at the line So cramped their force that now they dropt supine : The master saw the failure ; yet too wise To chide, in letters of the largest size Scored " Amplius ! — Amjplius I " o'er the pinched design. So, when we toil within our narrow groove Till energies succumb, and timorous Doubt Achieves no conquest, as the days go on, — Let but some master-thought the spell disprove, By widening our horizons, broadening out Our warping views — and lo ! despair is gone ! SONNETS. 216 THE LESSON OF THE LEAF. Behold this blade of grass — its lightest sway- Owns Nature's touch — the worldling's name for God : It does not hold itself erect, nor nod Before the breeze, nor turn to meet the day, Nor catch the dew-drop dripping from the spray Of yonder overarching golden-rod, Nor droop a wilted stem upon the sod, Save with one instinct only — to obey. But man, supreme of God's creation, dares Deny His Being's law, and overpass All his clear intuitions. Not to him Belongs such meed of merit as compares Even with the inarticulate praise, — the dim Dumb nature-worship of the blade of grass ! 216 SONNETS, WHEREFORE ? Had the blind bard of Chios, in the stress Of wandering, asked this question, — where would be Those marvellous stories, his rich legacy To all the ages since ? Had the access Of Michael's scorn been potent to repress The grand creations, which he, verily. Cared not that men should praise, what majesty Out of Art's realm were lost ! Had soft idlesse To Raphael whispered — " Fling thy brush away And take thine ease,"- — what types of beauty were Snatched from our vision ! If Cervantes' fare Had starved his soul, and braved it to resist Each mirthful quip, to dire despair a prey — What echoing laughter would the world have missed ! SONNETS, 217 MEDALLION HEADS. I. SASKIA.i The lovely Friesland maiden whom the pride Inherent in her old patrician race Forbade not to renounce her birthright's place, And seek her marriage bliss at Rembrandt's side, Had recompense, to Friesland's best denied : For, never wearying of the auroral grace Of Northern lights that flashed about her face, He for all time her beauty glorified. Her soul lies mute on each Madonna's mouth ; Her blonde hair floats across Bathsheba's breasts ; Her mingled snow-and-roses kindle up Susannah's cheeks ; as Hagar in her drouth, She droops ; and 'mid Ahasuerus' guests She sits. Queen Esther with the jewelled cup. ^ Wife of Rembrandt. 218 SONNETS. II. VITTORIA COLONNA. Serene and sad and still, she sat apart In widowed saintliness, an unvowed nun, Whose duty to the world without was done ; And yet concealing with unselfish art The scars of grief, the pangs of loss, the smart Of pain, she suffered not herself to shun The hurt, and bruised, and wronged, who one by one Sought sanctuary of her cloistered heart. But to that loneliest soul, who found in her His type of womanhood, supremest set, And knew not whether he should kneel or no, — Such sweet, strange comfort did she minister, That, were this deed her all, the world would yet Have loved her for the sake of Angelo ! SONNETS. 219 in. LA FORNARINA. Who can believe that he was thralled by this ? This creature wrought of flesh not over fine, With brazen brow, and mouth whose sensual line Holds no red sting of rapture in its kiss ? — This splendid animal, for whom life is Mere pleased existence, pagan, undivine, — Without a glimpse of soul, without a sign That she could fathom the soundless depths of his ? We see the legend on her armlet traced, *^ Raphael Urhinas : " yet deny that one So born for love, so gracious, calm, and sweet, So like a glad Greek god, with beauty graced, Could yield to toils such as Calypso spun, — Could stoop at such an earthly woman's feet ! 220 SONNETS. TV. LUCREZIA.1 The pretty fooFs face, with its white and red, Its perfect oval, its bewitching pout ; The nimbus-shine of shimmering hair about The Dian curve of brow ; the well-poised head ; The rare-ripe, melting form ; the princess' tread, — All lured his artist nature to devout Love for a siren, who that Art could scout. And barter for the gold it brought instead. Senza errori : — Florence so did call The ma^er Michael loved, and Raphael praised : But when Lucrezia breathed her blighting breath Across his faultless canvas, thenceforth all His genius seemed to shrivel ; till hopeless, crazed, His life's mistake found sole redress in death. 1 Wife of Andrea del Sarto. SONNETS. 221 V. FRAU AGNES. From page to page they still repeat the wrong, — How Agnes, with her shrewish marriage-ways, Saddened the gentle Nuremberger's days, Until the silken tie became a thong Wherewith she pinioned him in bondage strong: Yet who can lay his finger on a phrase That proves it so ? or cite a word's dispraise Of her, his true ' housereckoner ' ^ all life long ? One spiteful line has furnished forth the stuff Whose hempen coil has strangled the fair name Thus filched from Albrecht's wife, the centuries through ; For if the love she gave was not enough. Or if his bosom nursed some fonder flame That perished, surely Agnes never knew. ^ Durer's playful designation of his wife in his letters. 222 SONNETS. VI. QUINTIN MATSYS' BRIDE. An artist's daughter, she, — a toiler, he, At the grim forge : all Antwerp well might stare Upon him as a madman, that he dare Aspire to hope, in face of the decree Passed by parental pride, — that none should be Received as suitor who should fail to bear In hand — his own true work — a picture rare Enough to prove his worth of such as she. Yet nothing is impossible to Love : Soon through the city rang the cry abroad, — " Behold the miracle of Matsys' Saint ! " Blind Genius felt Art's touch, as of a god ; Had faith and saw ! — And graven still above His head, we read : ''Love taught the smith to paint J^ ^ " Connuhialis amor de Mulcihre fecit Apellem.''^ — Inscription on the Cathedral wall at Antwerp. CHILDHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS. TO MY LITTLE ART-LOVERS, MARGARET AND JANET. CHILDHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS. LEONARDO'S ANGEL.^ PIETRO DA VINCI.^ You see this boy, — a spoiled and restless lad Who needs must fret his father, — (eh, my boy ?) With projects changeful as the hours, nor yet In any find content ? From chosen sports Among the Alban hills, with horses, hounds, And contadini, — here he flurries back To Florence, and once more is at his tricks . Of carving, daubing panels, and the like, — Your most refractory pupil, as I deem. And nothing now will serve but that he watch ^ Art-visitors to Florence will recall the Angel — painted by Leo- nardo when a pupil of Verocchio — which, in a corner of one of this master's frescoes, seenas to light up the whole dark picture. 2 Father of Leonardo. 224 CHILDHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS. You at distemper-work, which he will j&nd Needs just a hint from him to perfect it : For the young arrogant has never owned Distrust of self since he was tall enough To draw my poniard forth, and scare his nurse With passes — LEONARDO. Nay, but father, grant me now Tlie skill for what I can do ; — curb the colt That 's wildest in your stalls ; — lead on the hounds, And fly the hawks : or from an ilex-knot. Carve out a shrine, my sister praises more Than Donatello's cuttings ; or frame flutes You own make music to your mind : or paint A saint's face for some teasing servant-maid To say her prayers to ; or — VEROCCHIO. modest youth ! Will panels not content you, that you even Must brave your master in his chosen line ? I dare be sworn you think his practised hand Would yield to yours, upon a frescoed wall ! CHILDHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS. 225 LEONARDO. Just since I *ve watched your way, my fingers itch To snatch a brush, and try — PIETRO. That shall he not ! Forthwith he '11 want to drag our hangings down, And splash us round with hunting-scenes, and make Our dining-hall tumultuous. LEONARDO. Father, pray — If but my master trust me with his tools — Just once ! — the cunning little angel there, Half-outlined in the corner : let me flood Him into rosiness ; I can — I can / PIETRO. You always want your way : Verocchio, chide Your pupil's insolence. VEROCCHIO. I '11 blot his work Easy enough, my lord ; so let him daub : 226 CHILDHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS. 'T will do him good to fail. (Leonardo seizes a brush, and paints vehemently.) PIETRO. Why, boy ! eh, boy ! I did not dream you could : Verocchio, see : That angel has this moment dropped from heaven ! VEROCCHIO. San Luca ! why, I never dreamed of this ! I let no pupil watch me while I work In mortar : yet the boy hath caught the art Unlessoned : what a touch is his ! and look, — His strayling clouds my angels out of sight ! PIETRO. So ! so ! he mars your picture thus — confess ! But here 's a purse. How shall I make amends ? VEROCCHIO. You never can : Why, that one vision there. Cheapens my work below my own contempt, And turns my saints to purgatorial souls Whom I begin to hate. CHILDHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS. 227 PIETRO. Nay, nay ! wipe out The interloper then : he shall not stay To vex you : 't is a varlet's trick to chafe Your patience so. VEROCCHIQ. But he shall stay, to prove That fifty years of skill must yield before The genius that can pluck, at one first grasp, The heart of all my hard-won secrets out. Throw by your narrow panels, boy, and match With frescoes' breadth, your strength — LEONARDO. Ha ! say you so ? — The very hungriest of my desires I My angel, see, entreats. 1 '11 make the walls Of our grim chapel in the Apennines Alive with flowery wreaths of seraphs, till My father even will fancy that he walks In Paradise, with Dante, whom he loves. 228 CHILDHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS. VEROCCHIO. And I, from this day forward, I fling down My brush forever ! Fifty years of pains Quenched by the maiden effort of fifteen ! Let genius have its way ; — I paint no more. CHILDHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS. 229 GIOTTO'S FIRST PICTURE. A. D. 1286. Through the Tuscan meadows dewy- Walked the painter, Cimabue ; Full of fancies sweet and holy, On and on he rambled slowly, Till he saw the pastures spotted White with flocks, like daisies dotted O'er the grass ; and close behind them, One small shepherd-lad to mind them. Still as any stock of mullein, There he sat ; not sad nor sullen, Though without a comrade near him, And with only sheep to cheer him. Round about, the flock came trooping, Yet the boy sat quiet — stooping O'er a broad, flat stone before him, With the sunshine flooded o'er him. Stepping through the verdure dewy, O'er his shoulder Cimabue 230 CHILDHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS. Leaned and watched with silent wonder, For he saw clear outlined, under Fingers coal-begrimed and blackened, — Nor for him their labor slackened. As he stood there, — portrait-traces Of his flock's unconscious faces. Drawn as never yet he saw them, Drawn as never he could draw them. " Little shepherd, who did teach you Drawing ? tell me, I beseech you ! (And the questioner's eye was dewy) He who asks is Cimabue." Up the boy sprang, startled, blushes Crimsoning his face with flushes ; " — Not the painter ! Ah, if only I could meet him wandering lonely Through these pastures, I would ask him Whether I might dare to task him, Just to show, with lightest traces How he draws his angel-faces ! " " Yes, the painter ! I will take you Home with me, my boy, and make you CHILDHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS. 231 Such a maestro as I never Could be, if I drew forever ! '* So to Florence in its beauty Giotto came ; and true to duty, Wrought and studied, fast and faster, Till he grew the greatest master Of a time when arts were scanty : He it was who painted Dante ; And the martyrs, saints, and sages Of those picture-loving ages. But his genius came to flower When he reared the marvellous Tower, Graceful as a Tuscan lily. Which they called the Campanile. Little tourist, if you ever Visit Florence, you will never — Be your art-love stronger, fainter — Quite forget the shepherd-painter. You will think upon his story ; You will go to Del Fiore, And the guide will show the grotto There, in which they buried Giotto. 232 CHILDHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS, FRA ANGELICO'S BOYHOOD. A. D. 1412. Come Marco, and see the grotto where Our little maestro goes for prayer, And paints with a sort of rapture there. Not know him ? — Why he is the childlike saint. With whom the village is all acquaint, Who never does aught but pray and paint. And he is the boy who walked away Across the valley, one bright spring day, To find Masaccio — as they say : That so he might learn of the Master, how Rightly to circle Our Lady's brow With a halo she wears in glory now. CHILDHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS. 233 And oh ! but he draws her wondrous fair, Such splendor behind her golden hair — And garments as blue as the summer air ! And the best of it is — he makes you feel, Unless you Ve a heart as hard as steel. There 's nothing for you to do but kneel ! They say that before his lip could frame A syllable's sound, one day there came From his baby mouth — Our Lord's dear name. And all of his early childish plays Had something to do with churchly ways — And his songs, if he sang, were songs of praise. When the scarlet poppies were all a-blow, Away to the wheat-fields he would go. And gather the finest ones that grow, — Purple and yellow, blue and white. And hasten home with a strange delight, And out of them make a wondrous sight. 234 CHILDHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS, Such cardinals in their crimson dress ! Such bishops with fingers raised to bless ! Such nuns in their snowy loveliness ! And then to his grotto would he call His chosen companions, one and aU, And there on his knees devoutly fall. No wonder they call him The Little Saint, For now that he 's old enough to paint, They tell me he weeps without restraint, Low-bowed in the dust — and asks for grace Before he will let his pencil trace A single line of Our Lady's face ! One day he will be a monk, I trow. Already his comrades deeming so. Have christened him Fra Angelico. CHILDHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS. 235 BEHIND THE ARRAS. A. D. 1486. I. " Nay, father, 't is weary day by day, In stones and in metals to work away At the goldsmith's tiresome trade *' — '< Ah, so ? A * tiresome trade ! * I 'd have thee know That silver and gold are precious things, And the gems we cut are gems for kings To wear in their crowns " — " But, father, hear ! Thou ever hast been so kind and dear, That now I am bold to ask what yet I never ventured — that thou wouldst let Me follow my bent ; for I would paint Pictures of many and many a saint For the shrines where people kneel ; and when 236 CHILDHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS. I come to be famous, father, then Thy heart will flutter with inward joy, To think that the painter is thy boy." " The whim of a lad ! What proof have I Of the bent thou boastest? " " Let me try The strength there is in me. Let me take A panel just like Van Eyck's, and make No holy Madonna thereon, nor Christ, Nor such as the masters have sufficed, But only myself : for I will place Yon Flemish mirror before my face, And copy the form I find therein ; And then, if the portrait fails to win The recognition of those who go To school with me every day — why, so 1 11 bend to thy will, and own I 'rn made To follow my father's goldsmith trade. Do the terms content thee ? '* " Yea, if thou, Unaided, dost paint a portrait now. CHILDHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS. 237 Which all at St. Sebald's school agree Can only be thine — well, then we '11 see Which craftman's tools are the tools for thee." II. " My picture is finished, father. Call The boys of St. Sebald, one and all, Straight into the shop. On a panel there, Near the head Van Eyck has painted, where They well can see it, my work is hung, With an antique bit of arras flung Round it, whereby, in sooth, I meant To make them believe it came from Ghent." " Well, well, as thou wilt. My silver dove Is finished, and ready to perch above St. Barbara's shrine. (The one, I wis, Let loose by Noah was like to this. As it flew from the ark so pure and white.) The scholars will want to come to-night, — For I promised them all, the other day They should see it before it was sent away — And then, as I said, if they declare That thine are the eyes, the mouth, the hair — 238 CHILDHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS. Just thine and none other's — why, thou mayst use Thy will, and have leave which craft to choose. — Ah, here are the boys ! — My task is done, Sweet lads ! Is the dove a pretty one ? " " One lovelier never cleaved the sky ! Aye, marry, it seems about to fly : Look, Jan ! it verily winks its eye At Albrecht yonder, who hides, I ween, A little beyond the arras screen ! " " No Albrecht is there : he left the door Just only a moment or two before Ye entered '* — " Who then, who then, is he That under the arras stares at me ? 'T is Albrecht Durer, beyond a doubt ! Ho, comrades, I think we can drag him out ! " Ah, me I That settles the pact I made : The boy will give up an honest trade For the silly brush ; yet, mayhap, some day The world shall hear of him — who can say ! " CHILDHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS, 239 THE MILAN BIRD-CAGES. A. D. 1485. I. Just four hundred years ago, (You may like to know) — In a city old and quaint, Lived a painter who could paint Knight or lady, child or saint, With so rich a glow, And such wondrous skill as none In the Land of Art had done. n. Should you ever chance to take (As you will) a foreign tour, Milan you will see, I 'm sure. For the Master's sake. And be shown, in colors dim, One grand picture drawn by him — 240 CHILDHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS, Christ's Last Sujpper, If your eyes Fall, while gazing, no surprise Need be either yours or mine. O'er that face divine. ni. Then in Paris, if you go To the great Louvre Gallery, where Miles of paintings make you stare Till your eyes ache, th«y will show As they point the finest out, One the world goes mad about — Such a portrait, all the while How it haunts you with its smile, Lovely Mona Lisa ! she Can't be bought for gold, you see ; Not if kings should come to buy, — Let them try ! IV. Oft the Master used to go (Old Vasari tells us so) To the market where they sold Birds, in cages gay with gold, CHILDHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS, 241 Brightly tipped on wing and crest, Trapped just as they left the nest. Thither went he day by day, Buying all within his way, Making the young peasants glad, Since they sold him all they had ; And no matter what his store, Counting birds and cages o'er, He was always buying more. V. " Wherefore buy so many ? *' Well, That 's just what I 'm going to tell. Soon as he had bought a bird, O'er his upturned head was heard Such a trill, so glad, so high, Dropped from out the sunny sky Down into his happy heart ; Filling it as naught else could — Naught save his beloved Art — • Full of joy, as there he stood Holding wide the wicker door. Watching the bright captives soar Deep into the blue. You see 242 CHILDHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS. Why he bought so many : He Did it just to set them free. VI. Love I Leonardo so For his splendid pictures . — No ! But for his sweet soul, so stirred By a little prisoned bird. CHILDHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS. 243 LITTLE TITIAN'S PALETTE. High up in the Vale of Cadore Encompassed by mountains as wild As the wildness of gloom and of glory Could make them, dwelt Titian, the child. The snow-covered ridges and ranges, The gorges as dusky as night, The cloud-wracks, the shadows, the changes, All filled him with dreams of delight. The flush of the summer, the duller White sheen of the winter abroad, Would move him to ecstasy : color. To him, was a vision of God. Enraptured his mother would hold him With legends that never sufficed To tire him out, as she told him Of Mary, the Mother of Christ. 244 CHILDHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS. " How blue are her eyes ? " he would ask her; " As blue as the harebells I know ; And her cheek ? " — (it was so he would task her) • " Is her cheek like a rose under snow ? " So stirred with the spell of the stores One day as he wandered alone Deep into the Vale of Cadore, Where blossoms by thousands were strown, He suddenly cried : "I will paint her ! The darling Madonna ! — for, see, These anemone-buds are not fainter Than the tint of her temples must be ! " Who ever saw violets bluer ? Their stain is the stain of the skies ; So what could be sweeter or truer For tingeing the blue of her eyes ? " This rose — why, the sunsets have fed her Till she looks like a rose of the South ; I never saw one that was redder ; Oh, that, I will keep for her mouth ! CHILDHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS. 245 *' Yon blood-root, as brown as October, Is just what I want for her hair ; And the juice of this gentian shall robe her In garments an angel might wear ! " Thus the picture was painted. Long after, In Venice, the Bride of the Sea, When he sat amid feasting and laughter. With guests of the noblest degree — When his name, and his fame, and his glory, To the height of the highest arose ; And Titian, the child of Cadore, Was Titian, the Master — who knows If ever his world-widened powers Were touched with so tender a grace As when, from his palette of flowers. He painted that marvellous face ! 246 CHILDHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS. MICHAEL'S MALLET. Long, long ago in the olden day, On a slope of the Tuscan hills, there lay A village with quarries compassed round, And blocks of marble that strewed the ground. And cumbered the streets : and everywhere. With hammer and chisel, and rule and square, And cap of paper ardust and white. The masons sat chipping from morn till night. n. The earliest sound that the boy had heard Was neither the whistle nor pipe of bird. Nor bleating of lambs, nor rush of breeze Through the tops of swaying chestnut trees, Nor laughter and song, nor whoop and shout Of the school at the convent just let out : Nor tinkle of waters plashing sweet From the dolphin's mouth in the village street. CHILDHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS. 247 in. But first in the morning, sharp and clear, Came ever to Michael's drowsy ear, As he waked from slumber, the mallet's knock, Or the stroke of the hammer that shaped the block. From the dawn of the day till the twilight came, The clink of the tools was still the same. And steadily still the ceaseless chip Kept time to the fountain's dreamy drip. IV. And when he could toddle beyond the door Of the cottage, in search of a plaything more, Or venture abroad — a little lad, What toys do you think were the first he had ? Why, splinters of marble white and pure. And a mallet to break them with, be sure. And a chisel to shape them, should he choose, Just such as he saw the masons use. So Michael the baby had his way, And hammered and clipped, and would n't play 248 CHILDHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS. With the simple and senseless sort of toys That pleased the rest of the village boys. They laughed at the little churches he With toil would rear at his nurse's knee ; They scouted the pictures that he drew On the polished slabs with a coal or two ; They jeered and they mocked him when he tried To model, from rubbish cast aside, Rude forms — and screamed " Scultore I " when His bits of marble he shaped like men. VI. But who of them dreamed his mallet's sound Would ever be heard the world around ? Or his mimic churches in time become The mightiest temple in Christendom ? Or the pictures he painted fill the dome Of the Sistine's wonderful walls in Rome ? Or the shapings rude of his moulded clay Be statues that witch the world to-day ? Or the baby that chiselled the splinters so Be the marvellous Michael Angelo ! CHILDHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS. 249 GUIDO'S COMPLAINT. Bologna, 1585. Ah — what shall I do ? They have taken away My paper and pencils and brushes, and say I must keep to the harpsichord day after day. My father is fretted because he foresees I have not the musical genius to please The taste of these lute-loving, gay Bolognese. My mother — dear heart ! there is pain in her look, When she finds me withdrawn in some tapestried nook, Bent over my drawing instead of my book. And so, as it daily is coming to pass. She chides me with idleness, saying, " alas ! They tell me my Guido *s the dunce of his class ! " 250 CHILDHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS. And Friar Tomasso, the stupid old fool ! Because on my grammar, instead of the rule I had pencilled his likeness, has whipped me in school. The boys leaning over, with shoutings began — " Oh ho ! Little Guido Rene is the man To step after Raphael, if any one can ! " I drew on the side of my chamber, in faint And delicate outlines, the head of a saint : My mother has blotted it over with paint. With coals from the brazier I sketched on the wall Great Caesar returning triumphant from Gaul : The maids brought their whitewash, and covered it all. And yesterday after the set of the sun, (I had practised the lute and my lessons were done ;) I went to the garden, and choosing me one Of the plots yet unplanted, I levelled it fair, And traced with my finger the famed Gracchan pair Of brothers : there 's now not a trace of them there. CHILDHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS. 251 I£ only Antonio Caracci could see My drawings, and know how I 'm thwarted, — ah, he Is a painter, and so would be sorry for me ! Oh the pictures — the pictures that crowd to my eye ! If they never will let me have brushes to try And paint them — Madonna ! I think I shall die ! 252 CHILDHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS. CLAUDE'S JOURNEY. A. D. 1602. JACQUES. Whither go you, Master Claude, With your alpenstock in hand, And across your breast a band Like a pedlar, — and a pack Far too heavy on your back For a boy of twelve ? — I say, None but guides should be abroad Such a wild and wintry day : What is taking you away ? Is not Freiburg just the place For a skilful lad like you, Who can cut and carve so true, Copying Nature's nicest grace ? Has that meddling old lace-vender Come to tempt you to surrender CHILDHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS. 263 All the blessings Jean Gel^e Heaps upon you day by day ? Stay and carve your carvings here In our Freiburg : You are dear To us all : But otherwhere Who will praise your work, or care If you thrive, or meet disaster, — If you are a drudge or master ? Let the old lace-vender go : He has told you tales I know, Of that far-off Italy, Till, mayhap, you 're crazed to see What its sights of beauty be. CLAUDE. Nay, good Jacques, — 1 'm fain to go Where I '11 see no Alpine snow — Where the grim Black Forest's glades Cannot scare me with their shades ; Caring not though I should roam Bare-foot over mountains wild. Like a very gypsy's child. So that I but get to Rome — 254 CHILDHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS. Rome where Michael lived and wrought — . Rome where Raphael painted — where I shall hreathe that living air, Out of which these masters caught Something — ah, I know not what ! Stay and carve in Freihurg ? — Why I am mad to paint that sky, — Stretched so blue above the pines Of those distant Apennines — Out of heaven, and fix it fast In such pictures as shall last Through the ages. JACQUES. Drawn, they '11 say, By some straggler — one Gel^e ? CLAUDE. No ! through me some fame shall come, — You shall see it — to that home Where with brothers at my side, All my childhood was a joy — Where until our father died, Never breathed a happier boy ! CHILDHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS. 255 Oh ! I 'U bring their out-of-doors Into gloomy Roman halls : Oh ! I '11 glorify their walls With a sunshine such as pours Through that Southern atmosphere, Colors never dreamed of here ! So — I '11 reach the master's place, Striving for the noblest fame : And if strangers, seeing grace In my pictures, ask my name. What bethink you I will say To their question ? Claude GelSe ? Claude, the Freiburg Carver ? Nay ! On my cheek the flush will glow While my words come proud and slow. All my patriot blood will swell As my childhood's home again, With its beautiful Moselle Gleams before my vision plain. And I '11 answer — Claude Lorraine I ^ ^ After Claude became a great painter, he abandoned his family name of Gel^e and is known in Art only as Claude Lorraine. 256 CHILDHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS. THE BOY VAN DYCK. A. D. 1608. In the grey old Flemish city, . Sat a comely, fair-haired dame, At a window's deep embrasure, Bending o'er her broidery-frame. Round her played her merry children, As they wound about their heads Fillets, pilfered in their mischief, From her skeins of arras-threads. Oft she turned her glance upon them, Softly smiling at their play, All the while her busy needle Pricking in and out its way ; From the open casement gazing. Where the landscape lay in view. Striving from her silken treasures. To portray each varied hue. CHILDHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS. 257 " Nay, I cannot," sighed she sadly, As the threads dropped from her hold, ** Cannot match that steely sapphire, Or that line of burnished gold. How it sparkles as it stretches Straight as any lance across ! Never hint of such a lustre Lives within my brightest floss ! ^' Ah that blaze of splendid color ! I could kneel with folded hands, As I watch it slowly dying Off the emerald pasture-lands. How my crimson pales to ashen. In this flood of sunset hue. Mocking all my poor endeavor. Foiling all my skill can do ! " As they heard her sigh, the children Pressed around their mother's knees : " Nay " — they clamored — " where in Antwerp Are there broideries such as these ? Why, the famous master, Rubens, Craves the piece we think so rare, — 258 CHILDHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS. Asks our father's leave to paint it Flung across the Emperor's chair ! " " How ye talk ! " — she smiled. " Yet often, As I draw my needle through, Gloating o'er my tints, I fancy I might be a painter too : I, a woman, wife, and mother, What have I to do with Art ? Are not ye my noblest pictures ? Portraits painted from my heart ! " Yet, 1 think, if midst my seven, One should show the master's bent, — One should do the things I dream of, — All my soul would rest content." Straight the four-year-old Antonio Answered, sobbing half aloud : " I will be your painter, painting Pictures that shall made you proud ! " Quick she snatched this youngest darling, Smoothing down his golden hair, Kissing with a crazy rapture. Mouth and cheek and forehead fair — CHILDHOOD OF THE OLD MASTERS. 259 Saying mid her sobbing laughter, " So ! my baby ! you would like To be named with Flemish Masters, Rembrandt, Rubens, and — Van Dyck / " ^ ^ The mother of Van Dyck was celebrated for her beautiful tap- estry work. From her, her distinguished son inherited that taste for lucid color which has given him the name of " The Silvery Van Dyck." ^tantiarD anti popular EiBmrp 25oofeie? SELECTED FROM THE CATALOGUE OF HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANYo A Club of One. An Anonymous Volume, ^1.25. Brooks Adams. The Emancipation of Massachusetts, crown 8vo, $1.50. John Adams and Abigail Adams. Familiar Letters of, during the Revolution, i2mo, $2.co. Oscar Fay Adams. Handbook of English Authors, i6mo, 75 cents ; Handbook of American Authors, i6mo, 75 cents. Louis Agassiz. 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