'
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 "7?- 
 
 KERAMOS 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS
 
 K E R A M O S 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 LONDON 
 
 GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS 
 
 1878 
 {Copyright]
 
 H, W. LONGFELLOW'S WORKS. 
 
 Author's Copyright Editions. 
 
 M ,. d. 
 
 POEMS. THE ILLUSTRATED QUARTO EDITION, with 180 De 
 signs by Sir JOHN GILBERT, R.A., and Portrait 21 o 
 Do. THE ILLUSTRATED OCTAVO EDITION, with 53 De 
 signs by Sir JOHN GILBERT, R.A., and Portrait 7 6 
 Do. THE FIVE-SHILLING POET EDITION, with 6 full-page 
 
 Plates by Sir JOHN GILBERT, R.A., post 8vo 5 
 
 Do. THE THREE-AND-SIXPENNY POET EDITION, with 
 6 full-page Plates by Sir JOHN GILBERT, R.A. 
 
 crown 8vo 3 6 
 
 Do. THE CROWN 8vo EDITION, 726 pp., paper cover, 
 
 is. dd.\ cloth 2 o 
 
 Do. PEARL EDITION, with Portrait, paper cover, is.; 
 
 cloth i 6 
 
 PROSE WORKS. With 6 Illustrations by Sir JOHN GILBERT, 
 
 R.A. Crown 8vo, cloth 3 6 
 
 DANTE'S DIVINE COMEDY. Mr. Longfellow's Translation. 
 
 Complete Edition, 760 pp., crown 8 vo, cloth 3 6 
 
 SEPARATE WORKS. 
 
 THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. With 43 Illustrations, 
 
 4to, cloth 10 6 
 
 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. Fcap. 8vo, cloth 3 6 
 
 AFTERMATH. Fcap. 8 vo, cloth 3 6 
 
 THREE BOOKS OF SONG. Fcap. 8vo, cloth 3 6 
 
 THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. Fcap. 8vo, cloth 3 6 
 
 NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. Fcap. 8vo, cloth 3 6 
 
 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. Complete Edition, with 8 
 
 Illustrations by Sir JOHN GILBERT, R.A., crown 8vo, cloth 3 6 
 FAVOURITE POEMS. Illustrated by Sir JOHN GILBERT, 
 
 R.A., 24010, cloth, gilt i o 
 
 EVANGELINE. Illustrated by Sir JOHN GILBERT, R.A., 
 
 24010, cloth, gilt i o 
 
 LONDON: GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS.
 
 =?=??/ 
 
 Kit 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 KERAMOS . , .... . . .11 
 
 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. FLIGHT THE FIFTH. 
 
 THE HERONS OF ELMWOOD ... . 
 
 A DUTCH PICTURE . , . . . . 
 
 CASTLES IK SPAIN . . . . .- . 
 
 VlTTORIA COLONHA 
 
 THE REVENGE OF RAIN-IN-THE-FACK . J . . 
 
 To THE RlTER TVETTE ...... 
 
 THE EMPEROR'S GLOVE . . . . . 
 
 A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH FLEET . . . 4 
 
 THE LEAP OF ROUSHAN BEG . < . 
 
 HAROUN AL RASCHID . . . . 
 
 KING TRISANKU . . . .. . . . 
 
 A WRAITH IN THE MIST ...... 
 
 THE THREE KINGS . . . , . . . . 
 
 SONG 
 
 1314416
 
 Contents. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE WHITE CZAK 79 
 
 DELIA 82 
 
 A BOOK OF SONNETS. PART II. 
 
 NATURE .85 
 
 IN THE CHURCHYARD AT TARRYTOWN 86 
 
 ELIOT'S OAK .87 
 
 THE DESCENT OF THE MUSES 88 
 
 VBHICB . - 89 
 
 THE POETS ........ 90 
 
 PARKER CLEAVELAND ... . . . . 91 
 
 THE HARVEST MOON 92 
 
 To THE RIVER RHONE . . . . .93 
 
 THE THREE SILENCES OF MOLINOS . . 94 
 
 THE Two RIVERS . . . . . . .95 
 
 BOSTON 99 
 
 ST. JOHN'S, CAMBRIDGE 100 
 
 MOODS . . . ' . . . . . .101 
 
 WOODSTOCK PARK . . . . . . . 102 
 
 THE FOUR PRINCESSES AT WILNA .... 103 
 
 HOLIDAYS . . . . . . . . 104 
 
 WAPKNTAKE 105 
 
 THE BROKEN OAR 106
 
 Contents. J 
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 VIRGIL'S FIRST ECLOGUE 109 
 
 OVID IN EXILE 119 
 
 ON THE TERRACE OF THE AIGALADES . . .136 
 
 To MY BROOKLET 139 
 
 BARREGES 141 
 
 FORSAKEN . 143 
 
 ALLAH . . .145 
 
 SEVEN SONNETS AND A CANZONE, FBOH THE ITALIAN 
 OF MICHAEL ANGELO. 
 
 I. THE ARTIST 149 
 
 II. FIRE 150 
 
 III. YOUTH AND AGE . . ..... . 151 
 
 IV. OLD AGH . . . . . . . .152 
 
 V. TO VlTTORIA COLONNA . . . . . .153 
 
 VI. To VITTOHIA COLONNA . . . . . . 154 
 
 VII. DANTK 155 
 
 VIII. CANZONE . 156
 
 KE RAMOS.
 
 fKEKAMOS, 
 
 Turn, turn, my wheel ! Turn round and round 
 Without a pause, without a sound : 
 
 So spins the flying world away! 
 This clay, well mixed with marl and sand, 
 Follows the motion of my hand ; 
 For some must follow, and some command, 
 
 Though all are made of clay ! 
 
 Thus sang the Potter at his task 
 Beneath the blossoming hawthorn-tree, 
 While o'er his features, like a mask, 
 The quilted sunshine and leaf-shade
 
 12 Keramos. 
 
 Moved, as the boughs above him swayed, 
 And clothed him, till he seemed to be 
 A figure woven in tapestry, 
 So sumptuously was he arrayed 
 In that magnificent attire 
 Of sable tissue flaked with fire. 
 Like a magician he appeared, 
 A conjurer without book or beard ; 
 And while he plied his magic art 
 For it was magical to me 
 I stood in silence and apart, 
 And wondered more and more to see 
 That shapeless, lifeless mass of clay 
 Rise up to meet the master's hand, 
 And now contract and now expand, 
 And even his slightest touch obey ; 
 While ever in a thoughtful mood 
 He sang his ditty, and at times 
 Whistled a tune between the rhymes, 
 As a melodious interlude.
 
 Kframos. 1 3 
 
 Turn, turn, my wheel ! All things must change 
 To something new, to something strange ; 
 
 Nothing that is can pause or stay ; 
 The moon will wax, the moon will wane, 
 The mist and cloud will turn to rain, 
 The rain to mist and cloud again, 
 
 To-morrow be to-day. 
 
 Thus still the Potter sang, and still, 
 By some unconscious act of will, 
 The melody and even the words 
 Were intermingled with my thought, 
 As bits of colored thread are caught 
 And woven into nests of birds. 
 And thus to regions far remote, 
 Beyond the ocean's vast expanse, 
 This wizard in the motley coat 
 Transported me on wings of song, 
 And by the northern shores of France 
 Bore me with restless speed along.
 
 Ktramos. 
 
 What land is this that seems to be 
 
 A mingling of the land and sea ? 
 
 This land of sluices, dikes, and dunes ? 
 
 This water-net, that tesselates 
 
 The landscape ? this unending maze 
 
 Of gardens, through whose latticed gates 
 
 The imprisoned pinks and tulips gaze ; 
 
 Where in long summer afternoons 
 
 The sunshine, softened hy the haze, 
 
 Comes streaming down as through a screen ; 
 
 Where over fields and pastures green 
 
 The painted ships float high in air, 
 
 And over all and everywhere 
 
 The sails of windmills sink and soar 
 
 Like wings of sea-gulls on the shore ? 
 
 What land is this ? Yon pretty town 
 Is Delft, with all its wares displayed ; 
 The pride, the market-place, the crown 
 And centre of the Potter's trade.
 
 Keramos. 1 5 
 
 See ! every house and room is bright 
 ^ With glimmers of reflected light 
 
 From plates that on the dresser shine ; 
 Flagons to foam with Flemish beer, 
 Or sparkle with the Khenish wine, 
 And pilgrim flasks with fleurs-de-lis, 
 And ships upon a rolling sea, 
 And tankards pewter topped, and queer 
 "With comic mask and musketeer ! 
 Each hospitable chimney smiles 
 A welcome from its painted tiles ; 
 The parlor walls, the chamber floors, 
 The stairways and the corridors, 
 The borders of the garden walks, 
 Are beautiful with fadeless flowers, 
 That never droop in winds or showers, 
 And never wither on their stalks. 
 
 Turn, turn, my wheel ! All life is brief; 
 What now is bud ivill soon be leaf,
 
 1 6 Ktramos. 
 
 What now is leaf will soon decay ; 
 The wind blows east, the wind blows west ; 
 The blue eggs in the robin's nest 
 Will soon have wings and beak and breast, 
 
 And flutter and fly away. 
 
 Now southward through the air I glide, 
 The song my only pursuivant, 
 And see across the landscape wide 
 The blue Charente, upon whose tide 
 The belfries and the spires of Saintes 
 Ripple and rock from side to side, 
 As, when an earthquake rends its walls, 
 A crumbling city reels and falls. 
 
 Who is it in the suburbs here, 
 This Potter, working with such cheer, 
 In this mean house, this mean attire, 
 His manly features bronzed with fire,
 
 Keramos. 
 
 Whose figulines and rustic wares 
 Scarce find him bread from day to day ? 
 This madman, as the people say, 
 Who breaks his tables and his chairs 
 To feed his furnace fires, nor cares 
 Who goes unfed if they are fed, 
 Nor who may live if they are dead ? 
 This alchemist with hollow cheeks 
 And sunken, searching eyes, who seeks, 
 By mingled earths and ores combined 
 With potency of fire, to find 
 Some new enamel, hard and bright, 
 His dream, his passion, his delight ? 
 
 Palissy ! within thy breast 
 Burned the hot fever of unrest ; 
 Thine was the prophet's vision, thine 
 The exultation, the divine 
 Insanity of noble minds, 
 That never falters nor abates, 
 
 c
 
 1 8 Keramos. 
 
 But labors and endures and waits, 
 Till all that it foresees it finds, 
 Or what it cannot find creates ! 
 
 Turn, turn, my wheel ! This earthen jar 
 A touch can make, a touch can mar ; 
 
 And shall it to the Potter say, 
 What makest thou ? Thou hast no hand ? 
 As men who think to understand 
 A world by their Creator planned, 
 
 Who wiser is than they. 
 
 Still guided by the dreamy song, 
 
 As in a trance I float along 
 
 Above the Pyrenean chain, 
 
 Above the fields and farms of Spain, 
 
 Above the bright Majorcan isle, 
 
 That lends its softened name to art, 
 
 A spot, a dot upon the chart,
 
 K frames. 19 
 
 Whose little towns, red-roofed with tile, 
 
 Are ruby-lustred with the light 
 
 Of blazing furnaces by night, 
 
 And crowned by day with wreaths of smoke. 
 
 Then eastward, wafted in my flight 
 
 On my enchanter's magic cloak, 
 
 I sail across the Tyrrhene Sea 
 
 Into the land of Italy, 
 
 And o'er the windy Apennines, 
 
 Mantled and musical with pines. 
 
 The palaces, the princely halls, 
 The doors of houses and the walls 
 Of churches and of belfry towers, 
 Cloister and castle, street and mart, 
 Are garlanded and gay with flowers 
 That blossom in the fields of art. 
 Here Gubbio's workshops gleam and glow 
 With brilliant, iridescent dyes, 
 The dazzling whiteness of the snow, 
 
 c 2
 
 20 Kfoamos. 
 
 The cobalt blue of summer skies ; 
 And vase, and scutcheon, cup and plate, 
 In perfect finish emulate 
 Faenza, Florence, Pesaro. 
 
 Forth from Urbino's gate there came 
 
 A youth with the angelic name 
 
 Of Raphael, in form and face 
 
 Himself angelic, and divine 
 
 In arts of color and design. 
 
 From him Francesco Xanto caught 
 
 Something of his transcendent grace, 
 
 And into fictile fabrics wrought 
 
 Suggestions of the master's thought. 
 
 Nor less Maestro Giorgio shines 
 
 With madre-perl and golden lines 
 
 Of arabesques, and interweaves 
 
 His birds and fruits and flowers and leaves 
 
 About some landscape, shaded brown, 
 
 With olive tints on rock and town.
 
 Keramos. 2 1 
 
 Behold this cup within whose bowl, 
 Upon a ground of deepest blue 
 With yellow-lustred stars o'erlaid, 
 Colors of every tint and hue 
 Mingle in one harmonious whole ! 
 With large blue eyes and steadfast gaze, 
 Her yellow hair in net and braid, 
 Necklace and ear-rings all ablaze 
 With golden lustre o'er the glaze, 
 A woman's portrait ; on the scroll, 
 Cana, the beautiful ! A name 
 Forgotten save for such brief fame 
 As this memorial can bestow, 
 A gift some lover long ago 
 Gave with his heart to this fair dame. 
 
 A nobler title to renown 
 Is thine, pleasant Tuscan town, 
 Seated beside the Arno's stream ; 
 For Lucca della Robbia there
 
 22 Ktramos. 
 
 Created forms so wondrous fair, 
 They made thy sovereignty supreme. 
 These choristers with lips of stone, 
 Whose music is not heard, but seen, 
 Still chant, as from their organ-screen, 
 Their Maker's praise ; nor these alone, 
 But the more fragile forms of clay, 
 Hardly less beautiful than they. 
 These saints and angels that adorn 
 The walls of hospitals, and tell 
 The story of good deeds so well 
 That poverty seems less forlorn, 
 And life more like a holiday. 
 
 Here in this old neglected church, 
 That long eludes the traveller's search, 
 Lies the dead bishop on his tomb ; 
 Earth upon earth he slumbering lies, 
 Life-like and death-like in the gloom ; 
 Garlands of fruit and flowers in bloom
 
 KJramos. 23 
 
 And foliage deck his resting-place ; 
 A shadow in the sightless eyes, 
 A pallor on the patient face, 
 Made perfect by the furnace heat ; 
 All earthly passions and desires 
 Burnt out by purgatorial fires ; 
 Seeming to say, " Our years are fleet, 
 And to the weary death is sweet." 
 
 But the most wonderful of all 
 The ornaments on tomb or wall 
 That grace the fair Ausonian shores 
 Are those the faithful earth restores, 
 Near some Apulian town concealed, 
 In vineyard or in harvest field, 
 Vases and urns and bas-reliefs, 
 Memorials of forgotten griefs, 
 Or records of heroic deeds 
 Of demigods and mighty chiefs : 
 Figures that almost move and speak,
 
 24 Ktramos. 
 
 And, buried amid mould and weeds, 
 Still in their attitudes attest 
 The presence of the graceful Greek, 
 Achilles in his armor dressed, 
 Alcides with the Cretan bull, 
 Aphrodite with her boy, 
 Or lovely Helena of Troy, 
 Still living and still beautiful. 
 
 Turn, turn, my wheel ! 'Tis nature's plan 
 The child should grow into the man, 
 
 The man grow wrinkled, old, and gray 
 In youth the heart exalts and sings, 
 The pulses leap, the feet have wings; 
 In age the cricket chirps, and brings 
 
 The harvest home of day. 
 
 And now the winds that southward blow, 
 And cool the hot Sicilian isle,
 
 Ktramos. 25 
 
 Bear me away. I see below 
 The long line of the Libyan Nile, 
 Flooding and feeding the parched lands 
 With annual ebb and overflow, 
 A fallen palm whose branches lie 
 Beneath the Abyssinian sky, 
 Whose roots are in Egyptian sands. 
 On either bank huge water-wheels, 
 Belted with jars and dripping weeds, 
 Send forth their melancholy moans, 
 As if, in their gray mantles hid, 
 Dead anchorites of the Thebaid 
 Knelt on the shore and told their beads, 
 Beating their breasts with loud appeals 
 And penitential tears and groans. 
 
 This city, walled and thickly set 
 With glittering mosque and minaret, 
 Is Cairo, in whose gay bazaars 
 The dreaming traveller first inhales
 
 26 Ktramos. 
 
 The perfume of Arabian gales, 
 And sees the fabulous earthen jars, 
 Huge as were those wherein the maid 
 Morgiana found the Forty Thieves 
 Concealed in midnight ambuscade ; 
 And seeing, more than half believes 
 The fascinating tales that run 
 Through all the Thousand Nights and One, 
 Told by the fair Scheherezade. 
 
 More strange and wonderful than these 
 
 Are the Egyptian deities, 
 
 Ammon, and Emoth, and the grand 
 
 Osiris, holding in his hand 
 
 The lotus ; Isis, crowned and veiled ; 
 
 The sacred Ibis, and the Sphinx ; 
 
 Bracelets with blue enamelled links; 
 
 The Scarabee in emerald mailed, 
 
 Or spreading wide his funeral wings ; 
 
 Lamps that perchance their night-watch kept
 
 Keramos. 27 
 
 O'er Cleopatra while she slept, 
 
 All plundered from the tombs of kings. 
 
 Turn, turn, my wheel I The human race, 
 Of every tongue, of every place, 
 
 Caucasian, Coptic, or Malay, 
 All that inhabit this great earth, 
 Whatever be their rank or worth, 
 Are kindred and allied by birth, 
 
 And made of the same clay. 
 
 O'er desert sands, o'er gulf and bay, 
 O'er Ganges and o'er Himalay, 
 Bird-like I fly, and flying sing, 
 To flowery kingdoms of Cathay, 
 And bird-like poise on balanced wing 
 Above the town of King-te-tching, 
 A burning town, or seeming so, 
 Three thousand furnaces that glow 
 Incessantly, and fill the air
 
 28 Keramos. 
 
 With smoke uprising, gyre on gyre, 
 And painted by the lurid glare, 
 Of jets and flashes of red fire. 
 
 As leaves that in the autumn fall, 
 Spotted and veined with various hues, 
 Are swept along the avenues, 
 And lie in heaps by hedge and wall, 
 So from this grove of chimneys whirled 
 To all the markets of the world, 
 These porcelain leaves are wafted on, 
 Light yellow leaves with spots and stains 
 Of violet and of crimson dye, 
 Or tender azure of a sky 
 Just washed by gentle April rains, 
 And beautiful with celadon. 
 
 Nor less the coarser household wares, 
 The willow pattern, that we knew 
 In childhood, with its bridge of blue
 
 Kframos. 29 
 
 Leading to unknown thoroughfares ; 
 The solitary man who stares 
 At the white river flowing through 
 Its arches, the fantastic trees 
 And wild perspective of the view ; 
 And intermingled among these 
 The tiles that in our nurseries 
 Filled us with wonder and delight, 
 Or haunted us in dreams at night. 
 
 And yonder by Nankin, behold ! 
 The Tower of Porcelain, strange and old, 
 Uplifting to the astonished skies 
 Its ninefold painted balconies, 
 With balustrades of twining leaves, 
 And roofs of tile, beneath whose eaves 
 Hang porcelain bells that all the time 
 Eing with a soft, melodious chime ; 
 While the whole fabric is ablaze 
 With varied tints, all fused in one
 
 30 Keramos. 
 
 Great mass of color, like a maze 
 Of flowers illumined by the sun. 
 
 Turn, turn, my wheel ! What is begun 
 At daybreak must at dark be done, 
 
 To-morrow will be another day, 
 To-morrow the hot furnace flame 
 Will search the heart and try the frame, 
 And stamp with honor or with shame 
 
 These vessels made of clay. 
 
 Cradled and rocked in Eastern seas 
 
 The islands of the Japanese 
 
 Beneath me lie ; o'er lake and plain 
 
 The stork, the heron, and the crane 
 
 Through the clear realms of azure drift, 
 
 And on the hillside I can see 
 
 The villages of Imari, 
 
 Whose thronged and flaming workshops lift 
 
 Their twisted columns of smoke on high,
 
 K/ramos. 3 1 
 
 Cloud cloisters that in ruins lie, 
 
 With sunshine streaming through each rift, 
 
 And broken arches of blue sky. 
 
 All the bright flowers that fill the land, 
 
 Ripple of waves on rock or sand, 
 
 The snow on Fusiyama's cone. 
 
 The midnight heaven so thickly sown 
 
 With constellations of bright stars, 
 
 The leaves that rustle, the reeds that make 
 
 A whisper by each stream and lake, 
 
 The saffron dawn, the sunset red, 
 
 Are painted on these lovely jars ; 
 
 Again the skylark sings, again 
 
 The stork, the heron, and the crane 
 
 Float through the azure overhead, 
 
 The counterfeit and counterpart 
 
 Of Nature reproduced in Art. 
 
 Art is the child of Nature ; yes, 
 Her darling child, in whom we trace
 
 32 K/ramos. 
 
 The features of the mother's face, 
 
 Her aspect and her attitude, 
 
 All her majestic loveliness 
 
 Chastened and softened and subdued 
 
 Into a more attractive grace, 
 
 And with a human sense imbued. 
 
 He is the greatest artist, then, 
 
 Whether of pencil or of pen, 
 
 Who follows Nature. Never man, 
 
 As artist or as artisan, 
 
 Pursuing his own fantasies, 
 
 Can touch the human heart, or please, 
 
 Or satisfy our nobler needs, 
 
 As he who sets his willing feet, 
 
 In Nature's footprints, light and fleet, 
 
 And follows fearless where she leads. 
 
 Thus mused I on that morn in May, 
 Wrapped in my visions like the Seer, 
 Whose eyes behold not what is near,
 
 Keramos. 33 
 
 But only what is far away, 
 
 / / ' 
 
 When, suddenly sounding peal on peal, 
 The church-bell from the neighboring town 
 Proclaimed the welcome hour of noon. 
 The Potter heard, and stopped his wheel, 
 His apron on the grass threw down, 
 Whistled his quiet little tune, 
 Not overloud nor overlong, 
 And ended thus his simple song : 
 
 Stop, stop, my wheel ! Too soon, too soon 
 The noon will be the afternoon, 
 
 Too soon to-day be yesterday ; 
 Behind us in our path we cast 
 The broken potsherds of the past, 
 And all are ground to dust at last, 
 
 And trodden into clay /
 
 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 
 
 FLIGHT THE FIFTH. 
 
 D 2
 
 THE HERONS OF ELMWOOD. 
 
 WARM and still is the summer night, 
 As here by the river's brink I wander ; 
 
 White overhead are the stars, and white 
 
 The glimmering lamps on the hillside yonder. 
 
 Silent are all the sounds of day ; 
 
 Nothing I hear but the chirp of crickets, 
 And the cry of the herons winging their way 
 
 O'er the poet's house in the Elmwood thickets. 
 
 Call to him, herons, as slowly you pass 
 
 To your roosts in the haunts of the exiled 
 thrushes, 
 
 Sing him the song of the green morass, 
 
 And the tides that water the reeds and rushes.
 
 38 Birds of Passage. 
 
 Sing him the mystical Song of the Hern, 
 And the secret that baffles our utmost seeking'; 
 
 For only a sound of lament we discern, 
 
 And cannot interpret the words you are speak 
 ing 
 
 Sing of the air, and the wild delight 
 
 Of wings that uplift and winds that uphold 
 
 you, 
 The joy of freedom, the rapture of flight 
 
 Through the drift of the floating mists that 
 infold you ; 
 
 Of the landscape lying so far below, 
 
 With its towns and rivers and desert places ; 
 
 And the splendor of light above, and the glow 
 Of the limitless, blue, ethereal spaces. 
 
 Ask him if songs of the Troubadors, 
 Or of Minnesingers in old black-letter,
 
 The Herons of Elmwood. 39 
 
 Sound in his ears more sweet than yours, 
 And if yours are not sweeter and wilder and 
 better. 
 
 Sing to him, say to him, here at his gate, 
 Where the boughs of the stately elms are 
 meeting, 
 
 Some one hath lingered to meditate, 
 And send him unseen this friendly greeting ; 
 
 That many another hath done the same, 
 
 Though not by a sound was the silence 
 broken ; 
 
 The surest pledge of a deathless name 
 
 Is the silent homage of thoughts unspoken.
 
 40 Birds of Passage. 
 
 A DUTCH PICTURE. 
 
 SIMON DANZ has come home again, 
 
 From cruising about with his buccaneers ; 
 
 He has singed the beard of the King of Spain, 
 
 And carried away the Dean of Jaen 
 And sold him in Algiers. 
 
 In his house by the Maese, with its roof of tiles, 
 
 And weathercocks flying aloft in air, 
 There are silver tankards of antique styles, 
 Plunder of convent and castle, and piles 
 Of carpets rich and rare. 
 
 In his tulip-garden there by the town, 
 Overlooking the sluggish stream,
 
 A Dutch Picture. 41 
 
 With his Moorish cap and dressing-gown, 
 The old sea-captain, hale and brown, 
 Walks in a waking dream. 
 
 A smile in his gray mustachio lurks 
 
 Whenever he thinks of the King of Spain, 
 And the listed tulips look like Turks, 
 And the silent gardener as he works 
 Is changed to the Dean of Jaen. 
 
 The windmills on the outermost 
 
 Verge of the landscape in the haze, 
 To him are towers on the Spanish coast, 
 With whiskered sentinels at their post, 
 Though this is the river Maese. 
 
 But when the winter rains begin, 
 
 He sits and smokes by the blazing brands, 
 And old seafaring men come in, 
 Goat-bearded, gray, and with double chin, 
 
 And rings upon their hands.
 
 42 Birds of Passage. 
 
 They sit there in the shadow and shine 
 
 Of the flickering fire of the winter night ; 
 Figures in colour and design 
 Like those by Kembrandt of the Rhine, 
 Half darkness and half light. 
 
 And they talk of ventures lost or won, 
 
 And their talk is ever and ever the same", 
 While they drink the red wine of Tarragon, 
 From the cellars of some Spanish Don, 
 Or convent set on flame. 
 
 Restless at times with heavy strides 
 
 He paces his parlor to and fro ; 
 He is like a ship that at anchor rides, 
 And swings with the rising and falling tides, 
 And tugs at her anchor-tow. 
 
 Voices mysterious far and near, 
 
 Sound of the wind and sound of the sea,
 
 A Dutch Picture. 43 
 
 Are calling and whispering in his ear, 
 " Simon Danz ! Why stayest thou here ? 
 Come forth and follow me ! " 
 
 So he thinks he shall take to the sea again 
 For one more cruise with his buccaneers, 
 
 To singe the beard of the King of Spain, 
 
 And capture another Dean of Jaen 
 And sell him in Algiers.
 
 44 Birds of Passage. 
 
 CASTLES IN SPAIN. 
 
 How much of my young heart, Spain, 
 Went out to thee in days of yore ! 
 
 What dreams romantic filled my brain, 
 
 And summoned back to life again 
 
 The Paladins of Charlemagne, 
 The Cid Campeador ! 
 
 And shapes more shadowy than these, 
 
 In the dim twilight half revealed ; 
 Phoenician galleys on the seas, 
 The Roman camps like hives of bees, 
 The Goth uplifting from his knees 
 Pelayo on his shield.
 
 Castles in Spain. 45 
 
 It was these memories perchance, 
 
 From annals of remotest eld, 
 That lent the colors of romance 
 To every trivial circumstance, 
 And changed the form and countenance 
 
 Of all that I beheld. 
 
 Old towns, whose history lies hid 
 In monkish chronicle or rhyme, 
 
 Burgos, the birthplace of the Cid, 
 
 Zamora and Valladolid, 
 
 Toledo, built and walled amid 
 The wars of Wamba's time ; 
 
 The long, straight line of the highway, 
 The distant town that seems so near, 
 
 The peasants in the fields, that stay 
 
 Their toil to cross themselves and pray, 
 
 When from the belfry at midday 
 The Angelus they hear ;
 
 46 Birds of Passage. 
 
 White crosses in the mountain pass, 
 
 Mules gay with tassels, the loud din 
 Of muleteers, the tethered ass 
 That crops the dusty wayside grass, 
 And cavaliers with spurs of brass 
 Alighting at the inn ; 
 
 White hamlets hidden in fields of wheat, 
 
 White cities slumbering by the sea, 
 White sunshine flooding square and street, 
 Dark mountain-ranges, at whose feet 
 The river-beds are dry with heat, 
 All was a dream to me. 
 
 Yet something sombre and severe 
 
 O'er the enchanted landscape reigned ; 
 
 A terror in the atmosphere 
 
 As if King Philip listened near, 
 
 Or Torquemada, the austere, 
 His ghostly sway maintained.
 
 Castles in Spain. 47 
 
 The softer Andalusian skies 
 
 Dispelled the sadness and the gloom ; 
 
 There Cadiz by the seaside lies, 
 
 And Seville's orange-orchards rise, 
 
 Making the land a paradise 
 Of beauty and of bloom. 
 
 There Cordova is hidden among 
 
 The palm, the olive, and the vine ; 
 Gem of the South, by poets sung, 
 And in whose Mosque Almanzor hung 
 As lamps the bells that once had rung 
 
 At Compostella's shrine. 
 
 But over all the rest supreme, 
 
 The star of stars, the cynosure, 
 The artist's and the poet's theme, 
 The young man's vision, the old man's dream, 
 Granada by its winding stream, 
 
 The city of the Moor !
 
 48 Birds of Passage. 
 
 And there the Alhambra still recalls 
 
 Aladdin's palace of delight : 
 Allah il Allah ! through its halls 
 Whispers the fountain as it falls, 
 The Darro darts beneath its walls, 
 
 The hills with snow are white. 
 
 Ah yes, the hills are white with snow, 
 
 And cold with blasts that bite and freeze ; 
 But in the happy vale below 
 The orange and pomegranate grow, 
 And wafts of air toss to and fro 
 The blossoming almond-trees. 
 
 The Vega cleft by the Xenil, 
 
 The fascination and allure 
 Of the sweet landscape chains the will ; 
 The traveller lingers on the hill, 
 His parted lips are breathing still 
 
 The last sigh of the Moor.
 
 Castles in Spain. 49 
 
 How like a ruin overgrown 
 
 With flowers that hide the rents of time, 
 Stands now the Past that I have known, 
 Castles in Spain, not built of stone 
 But of white summer clouds, and blown 
 
 Into this little mist of rhyme ! 
 
 E
 
 jo Birds of Passage. 
 
 -f VITTOEIA COLONNA. 
 
 VITTOKIA COLONNA, on the death of her husband, the Marchese 
 di Pescara, retired to her castle at Ischia (Inarime), and tfcere 
 wrote the Ode upon his death, which gained her the title of 
 Divine. 
 
 ONCE more, once more, Inarime, 
 I see thy purple Mils ! once more 
 
 I hear the billows of the bay 
 
 Wash the white pebbles on thy shore. 
 
 High o'er the sea-surge and the sands, 
 Like a great galleon wrecked and cast 
 
 Ashore by storms, thy castle stands, 
 A mouldering landmark of the Past.
 
 Vittoria Colonna. 5 1 
 
 Upon its terrace-walk I see 
 
 A phantom gliding to and fro ; 
 It is Colonna, it is she 
 
 Who lived and loved so long agi. 
 
 Pescara's beautiful young wife, 
 
 The type of perfect womanhood, 
 Whose life was love, the life of life, 
 
 That time and change and death withstood. 
 
 For death, that breaks the marriage band 
 
 In others, only closer pressed 
 The wedding ring upon her hand 
 
 And closer locked and barred her breast. 
 
 She knew the life-long martyrdom, 
 
 The weariness, the endless pain 
 Of waiting for some one to come 
 
 Who nevermore would come again. 
 
 E 2
 
 52 Birds of Passage. 
 
 The shadows of the chestnut-trees, 
 The odor of the orange-blooms, 
 
 The song of birds, and, more than these, 
 The silence of deserted rooms ; 
 
 The respiration of the sea, 
 
 The soft caresses of the air, 
 All things in nature seemed to be 
 
 But ministers of her despair ; 
 
 Till the o'erburdened heart, so long 
 Imprisoned in itself, found vent 
 
 And voice in one impassioned song 
 Of inconsolable lament. 
 
 Then as the sun, though hidden from sight, 
 Transmutes to gold the leaden mist, 
 
 Her life was interfused with light, 
 
 From realms that, though unseen, exist.
 
 Vittoria Colonna. 53 
 
 Inarime ! Inarime ! 
 
 Thy castle on the crags above 
 In dust shall crumble and decay, 
 
 But not the memory of her love.
 
 54 Birds of Passage. 
 
 THE REVENGE OF RAIN-IN-THE-FACE. 
 
 IN that desolate land and lone, 
 Where the Big Horn and Yellowstone 
 
 Roar down their mountain path, 
 By their fires the Sioux Chiefs 
 Muttered their woes and griefs 
 
 And the menace of their wrath. 
 
 " Revenge ! " cried Rain-in-the-Face, 
 " Revenge upon all the race 
 
 Of the White Chief with yellow hair !" 
 And the mountains dark and high 
 From their crags re-echoed the cry 
 
 Of his anger and despair.
 
 The Revenge of Rain-in-the-Face. 55 
 
 In the meadow, spreading wide 
 By woodland and riverside 
 
 The Indian village stood ; 
 All was silent as a dream, 
 Save the rushing of the stream 
 
 And the blue-jay in the wood. 
 
 In his war paint and his beads, 
 Like a bison among the reeds, 
 
 In ambush the Sitting Bull 
 Lay with three thousand braves 
 Crouched in the clefts and caves, 
 
 Savage, unmerciful ! 
 
 Into the fatal snare 
 
 The White Chief with yellow hair 
 
 And his three hundred men 
 Dashed headlong, sword in hand ; 
 But of that gallant band 
 
 Not one returned again.
 
 56 Birds of Passage. 
 
 The sudden darkness of death 
 Overwhelmed them like the breath 
 
 And smoke of a furnace fire : 
 By the river's bank, and between 
 The rocks of the ravine, 
 
 They lay in their bloody attire. 
 
 But the foemen fled in the night, 
 And Eain-in-the-Face, in his flight, 
 
 Uplifted high in air 
 As a ghastly trophy, bore 
 The brave heart, that beat no more, 
 
 Of the White Chief with yellow hair. 
 
 Whose was the right and the wrong ? 
 Sing it, funeral song, 
 
 With a voice that is full of tears, 
 And say that our broken faith 
 Wrought all this ruin and scathe, 
 In the Year. of a Hundred Years.
 
 57 
 
 TO THE KIVER YVETTE. 
 
 LOVELY river of Yvette ! 
 
 darling river ! like a bride, 
 Some dimpled, bashful, fair Lisette, 
 
 Thou goest to wed the Orge's tide. 
 
 Maincourt, and lordly Dampierre, 
 See and salute thee on thy way, 
 
 And, with a blessing and a prayer, 
 Ring the sweet bells of St. Forget. 
 
 The valley of Chevreuse in vain 
 "Would hold thee in its fond embrace ; 
 
 Thou glidest from its arms again 
 And hurriest on with swifter pace.
 
 58 Birds of Passage. 
 
 Thou wilt not stay ; with restless feet 
 Pursuing still thine onward flight, 
 
 Thou goest as one in haste to meet 
 Her sole desire, her heart's delight. 
 
 O lovely river of Yvette ! 
 
 darling stream ! on balanced wings 
 The wood-birds sang the chansonnette 
 
 That here a wandering poet sings.
 
 59 
 
 THE EMPEKOR'S GLOVE. 
 
 COJIBIEN faudrait-il de pcaux d'Espagne pour faire un gant de 
 cette grandeur ? A play upon the words gant, a glove, and Gand, 
 the French for Ghent. 
 
 ON St. Bavon's tower, commanding 
 
 Half of Flanders, his domain, 
 Charles the Emperor once was standing, 
 While beneath him on the landing 
 Stood Duke Alva and his train. 
 
 Like a print in books of fables, 
 
 Or a model made for show, 
 With its pointed roofs and gables, 
 Dormer windows, scrolls and labels, 
 
 Lay the city far below.
 
 60 Birds of Passage. 
 
 Through its squares and streets and alleys 
 
 Poured the populace of Ghent ; 
 As a routed arrny rallies, 
 Or as rivers run through valleys, 
 Hurrying to their homes they went. 
 
 " Nest of Lutheran misbelievers ! " 
 
 Cried Duke Alva as he gazed ; 
 " Haunt of traitors and deceivers, 
 Stronghold of insurgent weavers, 
 Let it to the ground be razed ! " 
 
 On the Emperor's cap the feather 
 
 Nods, as laughing he replies : 
 " How many skins of Spanish leather, 
 Think you, would, if stitched together, 
 Make a glove of such a size ? "
 
 6i 
 
 A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH FLEET. 
 
 OCTOBER, 1746. 
 MR. THOMAS PKINCK loquitur. 
 
 A FLEET with flags arrayed 
 
 Sailed from the port of Brest, 
 And the Admiral's ship displayed 
 
 The signal : " Steer southwest." 
 For this Admiral D'Anville 
 
 Had sworn by cross and crown 
 To ravage with fire and steel 
 
 Our helpless Boston Town. 
 
 There were rumors in the street, 
 In the houses there was fear 
 
 Of the coming of the fleet, 
 And the danger hovering near.
 
 62 Birds of Passage. 
 
 And while from mouth to mouth 
 Spread the tidings of dismay, 
 
 I stood in the Old South, 
 
 Saying humbly : " Let us pray ! 
 
 " Lord ! we would not advise ; 
 
 But if in thy Providence 
 A tempest should arise 
 
 To drive the French Fleet hence, 
 And scatter it far and wide, 
 
 Or sink it in the sea, 
 "We should he satisfied, 
 
 And thine the glory be." 
 
 This was the prayer I made, 
 For my soul was all on flame, 
 
 And even as I prayed 
 
 The answering tempest came ; 
 
 It came with a mighty power, 
 Shaking the windows and walls,
 
 A Ballad of the French Fleet. 63 
 
 And tolling the bell in the tower, 
 As it tolls at funerals. 
 
 The lightning suddenly 
 
 Unsheathed its flaming sword, 
 And I cried : " Stand still, and see 
 
 The salvation of the Lord ! " 
 The heavens were black with cloud, 
 
 The sea was white with hail, 
 And ever more fierce and loud 
 
 Blew the October gale. 
 
 The fleet it overtook, 
 
 And the broad sails in the van 
 Like the tents of Cushan shook, 
 
 Or the curtains of Midian. 
 Down on the reeling decks 
 
 Crashed the o'erwhelming seas ; 
 Ah, never were there wrecks 
 
 So pitiful as these !
 
 64 Birds of Passage. 
 
 Like a potter's vessel broke 
 
 The great ships of the line ; 
 They were carried away as a smoke, 
 
 Or sank like lead in the brine. 
 Lord ! before thy path 
 
 They vanished and ceased to be, 
 When thou didst walk in wrath 
 
 With thine horses through the sea !
 
 THE LEAP OF ROUSHAN BEG. 
 
 MOUNTED on Kyrat strong and fleet, 
 His chestnut steed with four white feet, 
 
 Roushan Beg, called Kurroglou, 
 Son of the road and bandit chief, 
 Seeking refuge and relief, 
 
 Up the mountain pathway flew. 
 
 Such was Kyrat' s wondrous speed, 
 Never yet could any steed 
 
 Reach the dust-cloud in his course, 
 More than maiden, more than wife, 
 More than gold and next to life 
 
 Roushan the Robber loved his horse. 
 
 F
 
 66 Birds of Passage. 
 
 In the land that lies beyond 
 Erzeroum and Trebizond, 
 
 Garden-girt his fortress stood ; 
 Plundered khan, or caravan 
 Journeying north from Koordistan, 
 
 Gave him wealth and wine and food. 
 
 Seven hundred and fourscore 
 Men at arms his livery wore, 
 
 Did his bidding night and day. 
 Now, through regions all unknown, 
 He was wandering, lost, alone, 
 
 Seeking without guide his way. 
 
 Suddenly, the pathway ends, 
 Sheer the precipice descends, 
 
 Loud the torrent roars unseen ; 
 Thirty feet from side to side 
 Yawns the chasm ; on air must ride 
 
 He who crosses this ravine.
 
 The Leap of Roiishan Beg. 67 
 
 Following close in his pursuit, 
 At the precipice's foot, 
 
 Reyhan the Arab of Orfah 
 Halted with his hundred men, 
 Shouting upward from the glen, 
 
 " La Illah ilia Allah ! " 
 
 Gently Roushan Beg caressed 
 Kyrat's forehead, neck, and breast ; 
 
 Kissed him upon both his eyes ; 
 Sang to him in his wild way, 
 As upon the topmost spray 
 
 Sings a bird before it flies. 
 
 " my Kyrat, my steed, 
 Round and slender as a reed, 
 
 Carry me this peril through ! 
 Satin housings shall be thine, 
 Shoes of gold, Kyrat mine, 
 
 thou soul of Kurroglou ! 
 
 F 2
 
 68 Birds of Passage. 
 
 " Soft thy skin as silken skein, 
 Soft as woman's hair thy mane, 
 
 Tender are thine eyes and true ; 
 All thy hoofs like ivory shine, 
 Polished bright ; 0, life of mine, 
 Leap, and rescue Kurroglou ! " 
 
 Kyrat, then, the strong and fleet, 
 Drew together his four white feet, 
 
 Paused a moment on the verge, 
 Measured with his eye the space, 
 And into the air's embrace 
 
 Leaped as leaps the ocean surge. 
 
 As the ocean surge o'er sand 
 Bears a swimmer safe to land, 
 
 Kyrat safe his rider bore ; 
 Rattling down the deep abyss 
 Fragments of the precipice 
 
 Rolled like pebbles on a shore.
 
 The Leap of Roushan Beg. 69 
 
 Roushan's tasselled cap of red 
 Trembled not upon his head, 
 
 Careless sat he and upright ; 
 Neither hand nor bridle shook, 
 Nor his head he turned to look, 
 
 As he galloped out of sight. 
 
 Flash of harness in the air, 
 Seen a moment like the glare 
 
 Of a sword drawn from its sheath ; 
 Thus the phantom horseman passed, 
 And the shadow that he cast 
 
 Leaped the cataract underneath. 
 
 Reyhan the Arab held his breath 
 While this vision of life and death 
 
 Passed above him. " Allahu ! " 
 Cried he. " In all Koordistan 
 Lives there not so brave a man 
 
 As this Robber Kurroglou ! "
 
 70 Birds of Passage. 
 
 HAROUN AL RASCHID. 
 
 ONE day, Haroun Al Raschid read 
 A book wherein the poet said : 
 
 " Where are the kings, and where the rest 
 Of those who once the world possessed ? 
 
 " They 're gone with all their pomp and show, 
 They 're gone the way that thou shalt go. 
 
 " thou who choosest for thy share 
 The world, and what the world calls fair, 
 
 " Take all that it can give or lend, 
 But know that death is at the end ! " 
 
 Haroun Al Raschid bowed his head : 
 Tears fell upon the page he read.
 
 KING TRISANKU. 
 
 VISWAMITKA the Magician, 
 
 By his spells and incantations, 
 
 Up to Indra's realms elysian 
 
 Raised Trisanku, king of nations. 
 
 Indra and the gods offended 
 
 Hurled him downward, and descending 
 In the air he hung suspended, 
 
 With these equal powers contending. 
 
 Thus by aspirations lifted, 
 
 By misgivings downward driven, 
 
 Human hearts are tossed and drifted 
 Midway between earth and heaven.
 
 72 Birds of Passage. 
 
 A WRAITH IN THE MIST. 
 
 " SIR, I should build me a fortification, if I came to live here. 
 -BUSWKLL'S Johnson. 
 
 ON the green little isle of Inchkenneth, 
 Who is it that walks by the shore, 
 
 So gay with his Highland blue bonnet, 
 So brave with his targe and claymore ? 
 
 His form is the form of a giant, 
 But his face wears an aspect of pain ; 
 
 Can this be the Laird of Inchkenneth ? 
 Can this be Sir Alan McLean ? 
 
 Ah, no ! It is only the Rambler, 
 The Idler, who lives in Bolt Court, 
 
 And who says, were he Laird of Inchkenneth, 
 He would wall himself round with a fort.
 
 73 
 
 THE THREE KINGS. 
 
 THREE Kings came riding from far away, 
 
 Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar ; 
 Three Wise Men out of the East were they, 
 And they travelled by night and they slept by 
 
 day, 
 For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star. 
 
 The star was so beautiful, large, and clear, 
 
 That all tha other stars of the sky 
 Became a white mist in the atmosphere, 
 And by this they knew that the coming was near 
 
 Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy. 
 
 Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows, 
 
 Three caskets of gold with golden keys ; 
 Their robes were of crimson silk with rows
 
 74 Birds of Passage. 
 
 Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows, 
 Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees. 
 
 And so the Three Kings rode into the West, 
 
 Through the dusk of night, over hill and dell, 
 And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast, 
 And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest, 
 With the people they met at some wayside well. 
 
 " Of the child that is born," said Baltasar, 
 
 " Good people, I pray you, tell us the news ; 
 For we in the East have seen his star, 
 And have ridden fast, and have ridden far, 
 To find and worship the King of the Jews." 
 
 And the people answered, " You ask in vain ; 
 
 We know of no king but Herod the Great ! " 
 They thought the Wise Men were men insane, 
 As they spurred their horses across the plain, 
 
 Like riders in haste, and who cannot wait.
 
 The Three Kings. 75 
 
 And when they came to Jerusalem, 
 
 Herod the Great, who had heard this thing, 
 
 Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them ; 
 
 And said, " Go down unto Bethlehem, 
 And bring me tidings of this new king." 
 
 So they rode away ; and the star stood still, 
 The only one in the gray of morn ; 
 
 Yes, it stopped, it stood still of its own free will, 
 
 Eight over Bethlehem on the hill, 
 
 The city of David where Christ was born. 
 
 And the Three Kings rode through the gate and 
 
 the guard, 
 Through the silent street, till their horses 
 
 turned 
 
 And neighed as they entered the great inn-yard ; 
 But the windows were closed, and the doors were 
 
 barred, 
 And only a light in the stable burned.
 
 76 Birds of Passage. 
 
 And cradled there in the scented hay,' 
 
 In the air made sweet by the breath of kine, 
 The little child in the manger lay, 
 The child, that would be king one day 
 Of a kingdom not human but divine. 
 
 His mother Mary of Nazareth 
 
 Sat watching beside his place of rest, 
 Watching the even flow of his breath, 
 For the joy of life and the terror of death 
 "Were mingled together in her breast. 
 
 They laid their offerings at his feet : 
 The gold was their tribute to a King, 
 
 The frankincense, with its odor sweet, 
 
 "Was for the Priest, the Paraclete, 
 The myrrh for the body's burying. 
 
 And the mother wondered and bowed her head, 
 And sat as still as a statue of stone ;
 
 The Three Kings. 77 
 
 Her heart was troubled yet comforted, 
 Eemembering what the Angel had said 
 Of an endless reign and of David's throne. 
 
 Then the Kings rode out of the city gate, 
 With a clatter of hoofs in proud array ; 
 But they went not back to Herod the Great, 
 For they knew his malice and feared his hate, 
 And returned to their homes by another way.
 
 78 Birds of Passage. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 STAY, stay at home, nay heart, and rest ; 
 Home-keeping hearts are happiest, 
 For those that wander they know not where 
 Are full of trouble and full of care ; 
 To stay at home is best. 
 
 Weary and homesick and distressed, 
 They wander east, they wander west, 
 And are baffled and beaten and blown about 
 By the winds of the wilderness of doubt ; 
 To stay at home is best. 
 
 Then stay at home, my heart, and rest ; 
 The bird is safest in its nest ; 
 O'er all that flutter their wings and fly 
 A hawk is hovering in the sky ; 
 To stay at home is best.
 
 79 
 
 THE WHITE CZAE. 
 
 THE White Czar is Peter the Great. Batyushka, Father dear, 
 aud Gosudar, Sovereign, are titles the Russian people are fond of 
 giving to the Czar iu tteir popular songs. 
 
 DOST thou see on the rampart's height 
 That wreath of mist, in the light 
 Of the midnight moon ? 0, hist ! 
 It is not a wreath of mist ; 
 It is the Czar, the "White Czar, 
 Batyushka ! Gosudar ! 
 
 He has heard, among the dead, 
 The artillery roll o'erhead ; 
 The drums and the tramp of feet 
 Of his soldiery in the street ; 
 He is awake ! the White Czar, 
 Batyushka ! Gosudar !
 
 8o Birds of Passage. 
 
 He has heard in the grave the cries 
 Of his people : " Awake]! arise ! " 
 He has rent the gold brocade 
 Whereof his shroud was made ; 
 He is risen ! the "White Czar, 
 Batyushka ! Gosudar ! 
 
 From the Volga and the Don 
 He has led his armies on, 
 Over river and morass, 
 Over desert and mountain pass ; 
 The Czar, the Orthodox Czar, 
 Batyushka ! Gosudar ! 
 
 He looks from the mountain-chain 
 Toward the seas, that cleave in twain 
 The continents ; his hand 
 Points southward o'er the land 
 Of Roumili ! Czar, 
 
 Batyushka ! Gosudar !
 
 The White Czar. 81 
 
 And the words break from his lips : 
 " I am the builder of ships, 
 And my ships shall sail these seas 
 To the Pillars of Hercules ! 
 I say it ; the White Czar, 
 Batyushka ! Gosudar ! 
 
 " The Bosphorus shall be free ; 
 It shall make room for me ; 
 And the gates of its water-streets 
 Be unbarred before my fleets. 
 I say it ; the White Czar, 
 Batyushka ! Gosudar i 
 
 " And the Christian shall no more 
 Be crushed, as heretofore, 
 Beneath thine iron rule, 
 
 Sultan of Istamboul ! 
 
 1 swear it ! I the Czar, 
 
 Batyushka ! Gosudar ! " 
 
 G
 
 82 Birds of Passage. 
 
 DELIA. 
 
 SWEET as the tender fragrance that survives, 
 "When martyred flowers breathe out their little 
 
 lives, 
 
 Sweet as a song that once consoled our pain, 
 But never will be sung to us again, 
 Is thy remembrance. Now the hour of rest 
 Hath come to thee. Sleep, darling ; it is best.
 
 A BOOK OF SONNETS. 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 G 2
 
 f NATURE. 
 
 As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, 
 Leads by the hand her little child to bed, 
 Half willing, half reluctant to be led, 
 And leave his broken playthings on the floor, 
 
 Still gazing at them through the open door, 
 Nor wholly reassured and comforted 
 By promises of others in their stead, 
 Which, though more splendid, may not please 
 him more ; 
 
 So Nature deals with us, and takes away 
 
 Our playthings one by one, and by the hand 
 Leads us to rest so gently, that we go 
 
 Scarce knowing if we wished to go or stay, 
 Being too full of sleep to understand 
 How far the unknown transcends the what we 
 know.
 
 86 A Book of Sonnets. 
 
 IN THE CHURCHYARD AT TARRYTOWN. 
 
 HERE lies the gentle humorist, who died 
 In the bright Indian summer of his fame ! 
 A simple stone, with but a date and name, 
 Marks his secluded resting-place beside 
 
 The river that he loved and glorified. 
 
 Here in the autumn of his days he came, 
 But the dry leaves of life were all aflame 
 With tints that brightened and were multiplied. 
 
 How sweet a life was his ; how sweet a death ! 
 Living, to wing with mirth the weary hours, 
 Or with romantic tales the heart to cheer ; 
 
 Dying, to leave a memory like the breath 
 
 Of summers full of sunshine and of showers, 
 A grief and gladness in the atmosphere.
 
 ELIOT'S OAK. 
 
 THOU ancient oak ! whose myriad leaves are loud 
 With sounds of unintelligible speech, 
 Sounds as of surges on a shingly beach, 
 Or multitudinous murmurs of a crowd ; 
 
 With some mysterious gift of tongues endowed, 
 Thou speakest a different dialect to each ; 
 To me a language that no man can teach, 
 Of a lost race, long vanished like a cloud. 
 
 For underneath thy shade, in days remote, 
 Seated like Abraham at eventide 
 Beneath the oaks of Mamre, the unknown 
 
 Apostle of the Indians, Eliot, wrote 
 His Bible in a language that hath died 
 And is forgotten, save by thee alone.
 
 88 A Book of Sonnets. 
 
 THE DESCENT OF THE MUSES. 
 
 NINE sisters, beautiful in form and face, 
 
 Came from their convent on the shining heights 
 Of Pierus, the mountain of delights, 
 To dwell among the people at its base. 
 Then seemed the world to change. All time and 
 
 space, 
 
 Splendor of cloudless days and starry nights, 
 And men and manners, and all sounds and 
 
 sights, 
 
 Had a new meaning, a diviner grace. 
 Proud were these sisters, but were not too proud 
 To teach in schools of little country towns 
 Science and song, and all the arts that please ; 
 So that while housewives span, and farmers 
 
 ploughed, 
 Their comely daughters, clad in homespun 
 
 gowns, 
 Learned the sweet songs of the Pierides.
 
 8 9 
 
 VENICE. 
 
 WHITE swan of cities, slumbering in thy nest 
 So wonderfully built among the reeds 
 Of the lagoon, that fences thee and feeds, 
 As sayeth thy old historian and thy guest ! 
 
 White water-lily, cradled and caressed 
 
 By ocean streams, and from the silt and weeds 
 
 Lifting thy golden filaments and seeds, 
 
 Thy sun-illumined spires, thy crown and crest ! 
 
 White phantom city, whose untrodden streets 
 Are rivers, and whose pavements are the shift 
 ing 
 Shadows of palaces and strips of sky ; 
 
 I wait to see thee vanish like the fleets 
 
 Seen in mirage, or towers of cloud uplifting 
 In air their unsubstantial masonry.
 
 90 A Book of Sonnets. 
 
 THE POETS. 
 
 YE dead Poets, who are living still 
 
 Immortal in your verse, though life be fled, 
 And ye, living Poets, who are dead 
 Though ye are living, if neglect can kill, 
 
 Tell me if in the darkest hours of ill, 
 
 With drops of anguish falling fast and red 
 From the sharp crown of thorns upon your 
 
 head, 
 Ye were not glad your errand to fulfil ? 
 
 Yes ; for the gift and ministry of Song 
 Have something in them so divinely sweet, 
 It can assuage the bitterness of wrong ; 
 
 Not in the clamor of the crowded street, 
 
 Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, 
 But in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.
 
 PARKER CLEAVELAND. 
 
 WRITTEN ON REVISITING BRUNSWICK IN THE SUMMER OP 1875. 
 
 AMONG the many lives that I have known, 
 None I remember more serene and sweet, 
 More rounded in itself and more complete, 
 Than his, who lies beneath this funeral stone. 
 
 These pines, that murmur in low monotone, 
 These walks frequented by scholastic feet, 
 Were all his world ; but in this calm retreat 
 For him the Teacher's chair became a throne. 
 
 With fond affection memory loves to dwell 
 On the old days, when his example made 
 A pastime of the toil of tongue and pen ; 
 
 And now, amid the groves he loved so well 
 
 That naught could lure him from their grateful 
 
 shade, 
 
 He sleeps, but wakes elsewhere, for God hath 
 said, Amen !
 
 92 A Book of Sonnets. 
 
 THE HARVEST MOON. 
 
 IT is the Harvest Moon ! On gilded vanes 
 And roofs of villages, on woodland crests 
 And their aerial neighborhoods of nests 
 Deserted, on the curtained window-panes 
 
 Of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes 
 And harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests ! 
 Gone are the birds that were our summer guests, 
 With the last sheaves return the laboring 
 wains ! 
 
 All things are symbols : the external shows 
 Of Nature have their image in the mind, 
 As flowers and fruits and falling of the leaves ; 
 
 The song-birds leave us at the summer's close, 
 Only the empty nests are left behind, 
 And pipings of the quail among the sheaves.
 
 93 
 
 TO THE RIVER RHONE. 
 
 THOU Royal River, born of sun and shower 
 In chambers purple with the Alpine glow, 
 Wrapped in the spotless ermine of the snow, 
 And rocked by tempests ! at the appointed 
 hour 
 
 Forth, like a steel-clad horseman from a tower, 
 With clang and clink of harness dost thou go 
 To meet thy vassal torrents, that below 
 Rush to receive thee and obey thy power. 
 
 And now thou movest in triumphal march, 
 A king among the rivers ! On thy way 
 A hundred towns await and welcome thee ; 
 
 Bridges uplift for thee the stately arch, 
 Vineyards encircle thee with garlands gay, 
 And fleets attend thy progress to the sea !
 
 94 -A Book of Sonnets. 
 
 THE THREE SILENCES OF MOLINOS. 
 
 TO JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 
 
 THREE Silences there are : the first of speech, 
 The second of desire, the third of thought ; 
 This is the lore a Spanish monk, distraught 
 With dreams and visions, was the first to teach. 
 
 These Silences, commingling each with each, 
 Made up the perfect Silence, that he sought 
 And prayed for, and wherein at times he caught 
 Mysterious sounds from realms beyond our 
 reach. 
 
 thou, whose daily life anticipates 
 
 The life to come, and in whose thought and 
 
 word 
 The spiritual world preponderates, 
 
 Hermit of Amesbury ! thou too hast heard 
 Voices and melodies from beyond the gates, 
 And speakest only when thy soul is stirred !
 
 95 
 
 THE TWO EIVERS. 
 
 I. 
 
 SLOWLY the hour-hand of the clock moves round ; 
 So slowly that no human eye hath power 
 To see it move ! Slowly in shine or shower 
 The painted ship above it, homeward bound, ' 
 
 Sails, but seems motionless, as if aground ; 
 Yet both arrive at last ; and in his tower 
 The slumbrous watchman wakes and strikes 
 
 the hour, 
 A mellow, measured, melancholy sound. 
 
 Midnight ! the outpost of advancing day ! 
 The frontier town and citadel of night ! 
 The watershed of Time, from which the streams 
 
 Of Yesterday and To-morrow take their way, 
 One to the land of promise and of light, 
 One to the land of darkness and of dreams !
 
 g6 A Book of Sonnets. 
 
 II. 
 
 Eiver of Yesterday, with current swift 
 
 Through chasms descending, and soon lost to 
 
 sight, 
 
 I do not care to follow in thy flight 
 The faded leaves, that on thy bosom drift ! 
 
 River of To-morrow, I uplift 
 
 Mine eyes, and thee I follow, as the night 
 Wanes into morning, and the dawning light 
 Broadens, and all the shadows fade and shift ! 
 
 1 follow, follow, where thy waters run 
 Through unfrequented, unfamiliar fields, 
 Fragrant with flowers and musical with song ; 
 
 Still follow, follow ; sure to meet the sun, 
 And confident, that what the future yields 
 Will be the right, unless myself be wrong.
 
 The Two Rivers. 97 
 
 III. 
 
 Yet not in vain, River of Yesterday, 
 
 Through chasms of darkness to the deep 
 
 descending, 
 
 I heard thee sobbing in the rain, and blending 
 Thy voice with other voices far away. 
 
 I called to thee, and yet thou wouldst not stay, 
 But turbulent, and with thyself contending, 
 And torrent-like thy force on pebbles spending, 
 Thou wouldst not listen to a poet's lay. 
 
 Thoughts, like a loud and sudden rush of wings, 
 Regrets and recollections of things past, 
 With hints and prophecies of things to be, 
 
 And inspirations, which, could they be things, 
 And stay with us, and we could hold them fast, 
 Were our good angels, these I owe to thee. 
 
 H
 
 98 A Book of Sonnets. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And thou, River of To-morrow, flowing 
 Between thy narrow adamantine walls, 
 But beautiful, and white with waterfalls, 
 And wreaths of mist, like hands the pathway 
 showing ; 
 
 I hear the trumpets of the morning blowing, 
 I hear thy mighty voice, that calls and calls, 
 And see, as Ossian saw in Morven's halls, 
 Mysterious phantoms, coming, beckoning, 
 
 going 
 
 It is the mystery of the unknown 
 
 That fascinates us ; we are children still, 
 "Wayward and wistful ; with one hand we cling 
 
 To the familiar things we call our own, 
 And with the other, resolute of will, 
 Grope in the dark for what the day will bring.
 
 99 
 
 BOSTON. 
 
 ST. BOTOLPH'S TOWN ! Hither across the plains 
 And fens of Lincolnshire, in garb austere, 
 There came a Saxon monk, and founded here 
 A Priory, pillaged by marauding Danes, 
 
 So that thereof no vestige now remains ; 
 Only a name, that, spoken loud and clear, 
 And echoed in another hemisphere, 
 Survives the sculptured walls and painted panes. 
 
 St. Botolph's Town ! Far over leagues of land 
 And leagues of sea looks forth its noble tower, 
 And far around the chiming bells are heard ; 
 
 So may that sacred name forever stand 
 A landmark, and a symbol of the power, 
 That lies concentred in a single word. 
 
 H 2
 
 IOO A Book of Soi:ncts. 
 
 ST. JOHN'S, CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 I STAND beneath the tree, whose branches shade 
 Thy western window, Chapel of St. John ! 
 And hear its leaves repeat their benison 
 On him, whose hand thy stones memorial laid ; 
 
 Then I remember one of whom was said 
 
 In the world's darkest hour, " Behold thy son ! " 
 And see him living still, and wandering on 
 And waiting for the advent long delayed. 
 
 Not only tongues of the apostles teach 
 
 Lessons of love and light, but these expanding 
 And sheltering boughs with all their leaves 
 implore, 
 
 And say in language clear as human speech, 
 " The peace of God, that passeth under 
 standing, 
 Be and abide with you forevermore ! "
 
 101 
 
 MOODS. 
 
 THAT a Song would sing itself to me 
 Out of the heart of Nature, or the heart 
 Of man, the child of Nature, not of Art. 
 Fresh as the morning, salt as the salt sea, 
 
 With just enough of hitterness to be 
 
 A medicine to this sluggish mood, and start 
 The life-blood in my veins, and so impart 
 Healing and help in this dull lethargy ! 
 
 Alas ! net always doth the breath of song 
 
 Breathe on us. It is like the wind that bloweth 
 At its own will, not ours, nor tarries long ; 
 
 We hear the sound thereof, but no man knoweth 
 From whence it comes, so sudden and swift 
 
 and strong, 
 Nor whither in its wayward course it goeth.
 
 102 A Book of Sonnets. 
 
 WOODSTOCK PARK. 
 
 HEBE in a little rustic hermitage 
 
 Alfred the Saxon King, Alfred the Great, 
 Postponed the cares of king-craft to translate 
 The Consolations of the Roman sage. 
 
 Here Geoffrey Chaucer in his ripe old age 
 
 Wrote the unrivalled Tales, which soon or late 
 The venturous hand that strives to imitate 
 Vanquished must fall on the unfinished page. 
 
 Two kings were tl;ey, who ruled by right divine, 
 And both supreme ; one in the realm of Truth, 
 One in the realm of Fiction and of Song. 
 
 What piince hereditary of their line, 
 
 Uprising in the strength and flush of youth, 
 Their glory shall inherit and prolong ?
 
 103 
 
 THE FOUR PRINCESSES AT WILNA. 
 
 A PHOTOGRAPH. 
 
 SWEET faces, that from pictured casements lean 
 As from a castle window, looking down 
 On some gay pageant passing through a town, 
 Yourselves the fairest figures in the scene ; 
 
 With what a gentle grace, with what serene 
 Unconsciousness ye wear the triple crown 
 Of youth and beauty and the fair renown 
 Of a great name, that ne'er hath tarnished been ! 
 
 From your soft eyes, so innocent and sweet, 
 Four spirits, sweet and innocent as they, 
 Gaze on the world below, the sky above ; 
 
 Hark ! there is some one singing in the street ; 
 " Faith, Hope, and Love ! these three," he 
 seems to say ; 
 
 " These three ; and greatest of the three is Love."
 
 IO4 A Book of Sonnets. 
 
 HOLIDAYS. 
 
 THE holiest of all holidays are those 
 Kept by ourselves in silence and apart ; 
 The secret anniversaiies of the heart, 
 When the full river of feeling overflows ; 
 
 The happy days unclouded to their close ; 
 The sudden joys that out of darkness start 
 As flames from ashes ; swift desires that dart 
 Like swallows singing down each wind that 
 blows ! 
 
 White as the gleam of a receding sail, 
 
 White as a cloud that floats and fades in air, 
 White as the whitest lily on a stream, 
 
 These tender memories are ; a Fairy Tale 
 Of some enchanted land we know not where, 
 But lovely as a landscape in a dream.
 
 105 
 
 WAPENTAKE. 
 
 TO ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 POET ! I come to touch thy lance with mine ; 
 Not as a knight, who on the listed field 
 Of tourney touched his adversary's shield 
 In token of defiance, but in sign 
 
 Of homage to the mastery, which is thine, 
 In English song ; nor will I keep concealed, 
 And voiceless as a rivulet frost-congealed, 
 My admiration for thy verse divine. 
 
 Not of the howling dervishes of song, 
 
 Who craze the brain with their delirious dance, 
 Art thou, sweet historian of the heart ! 
 
 Therefore to thee the laurel-leaves belong, 
 To thee our love and our allegiance, 
 For thy allegiance to the poet's art.
 
 io6 A Book of Sonnets. 
 
 THE BROKEN OAE. 
 
 ONCE upon Iceland's solitary strand 
 A poet wandered with his book and pen, 
 Seeking some final word, some sweet Amen, 
 Wherewith to close the volume in his hand. 
 
 The billows rolled and plunged upon the sand, 
 The circling sea-gulls swept beyond his ken, 
 And from the parting cloud-rack now and then 
 Flashed the red sunset over sea and land. 
 
 Then by the billows at his feet was tossed 
 A broken oar ; and carved thereon he read, 
 " Oft was I weary, when I toiled at thee " ; 
 
 And like a man, who findeth what was lost, 
 He wrote the words, then lifted up his head, 
 And flung his useless pen into the sea.
 
 TRANSLATIONS.
 
 VIEGIL'S FIRST ECLOGUE. 
 
 MELIBCEUS. 
 
 TITYRUS, tliou in the shade of a spreading beech- 
 tree reclining, 
 
 Meditatest, with slender pipe, the Muse of the 
 woodlands. 
 
 We our country's bounds and pleasant pastures 
 relinquish, 
 
 We our country fly ; thou, Tityrus, stretched in 
 the shadow, 
 
 Teachest the woods to resound with the name of 
 the fair Amaryllis. 
 
 TITYRUS. 
 
 Melibceus, a god for us this leisure created, 
 For he will be unto me a god forever ; his altar
 
 HO Translations. 
 
 Oftentimes shall imbue a tender lamb from our 
 
 sheepfolds. 
 He, my heifers to wander at large, and myself, 
 
 as thou seest, 
 
 On my rustic reed to play what I will, hath per 
 mitted. 
 
 MELIBOSUS. 
 
 Truly I envy not, I marvel rather ; on all sides 
 In all the fields is such trouble. Behold, my 
 
 goats I am driving, 
 Heartsick, further away ; this one scarce, Tityrus, 
 
 lead I ; 
 For having here yeaned twins just now among the 
 
 dense hazels, 
 Hope of the flock, ah me ! on the naked flint she 
 
 hath left them. 
 Often this evil to me, if my mind had not been 
 
 insensate, 
 Oak-trees stricken by heaven predicted, as now I 
 
 remember ;
 
 Virgil's First Eclogue. in 
 
 Often the sinister crow from the hollow ilex pre 
 dicted. 
 
 Nevertheless, who this god may be, Tityrus, 
 tell me. 
 
 TITYEUS. 
 
 Meliboeus, the city that they call Rome, I 
 
 imagined, 
 Foolish I ! to be like this of ours, where often we 
 
 shepherds 
 Wonted are to drive down of our ewes the delicate 
 
 offspring. 
 Thus whelps like unto dogs had I known, and 
 
 kids to their mothers, 
 Thus to compare great things with small had I 
 
 been accustomed. 
 But this among other cities its head as far hath 
 
 exalted 
 
 As the cypresses do among the lissome vibur 
 nums.
 
 1 1 2 Translations. 
 
 MELIBQEUS, 
 
 And what so great occasion of seeing Rome bath 
 possessed thee ? 
 
 TITYRUS. 
 Liberty, which, though late, looked upon me in 
 
 my inertness 
 After the time when my beard fell whiter from 
 
 me in shaving, 
 Yet she looked upon me, and came to me after a 
 
 long while, 
 Since Amaryllis possesses and Galatea hath left 
 
 me. 
 
 For I will even confess that while Galatea pos 
 sessed me 
 Neither care of my flock nor hope of liberty was 
 
 there 
 Though from my wattled folds there went forth 
 
 many a victim,
 
 Virgil's First Eclogue. 113 
 
 And the unctuous cheese was pressed for the city 
 
 ungrateful, 
 Never did my right hand return home heavy with 
 
 money. 
 
 MELIBCEUS. 
 
 I have wondered why sad thou invokest the gods, 
 
 Amaryllis, 
 And for whom thou didst suffer the apples to hang 
 
 on the branches ! 
 Tityrus hence was absent ! Thee, Tityrus, even 
 
 the pine-trees, 
 Thee, the very fountains, the very copses were 
 
 calling. 
 
 TITYRUS. 
 
 What could I do ? No power had I to escape 
 
 from my bondage, 
 Nor had I power elsewhere to recognize gods so 
 
 propitious.
 
 H4 Translations. 
 
 Here I beheld that youth, to whom each year, 
 
 Melibceus, 
 During twice six days ascends the smoke of our 
 
 altars. 
 Here first gave he response to me soliciting 
 
 favor : 
 " Feed as before your heifers, ye boys, and yoke 
 
 up your bullocks." 
 
 MELIB(EUS. 
 
 Fortunate old man ! So then thy fields will be 
 
 left thee, 
 And large enough for thee, thou naked stone and 
 
 the marish 
 All thy pasture-lands with the dreggy rush may 
 
 encompass. 
 No unaccustomed food thy gravid ewes shall 
 
 endanger, 
 Nor of the neighboring flock the dire contagion 
 
 infect them.
 
 Virgil 's First Eclogue. 1 1 5 
 
 Fortunate old man ! Here among familiar rivers, 
 And these sacred founts, shalt thou take the 
 
 " shadowy coolness. 
 On this side, a hedge along the neighbouring 
 
 cross-road, 
 "Where Hyblseen bees ever feed on the flower of 
 
 the willow, 
 Often with gentle susurrus to fall asleep shall 
 
 persuade thee. 
 Yonder, beneath the high rock, the pruner shall 
 
 sing to the breezes, 
 Nor meanwhile shall thy heart's delight, the 
 
 hoarse wood-pigeons, 
 Nor the turtle-dove cease to mourn from aerial 
 
 elm-trees. 
 
 TITYKUS. 
 
 Therefore the agile stags shall sooner feed in the 
 ether, 
 
 And the billows leave the fishes bare on the sea 
 shore, 
 
 I 2
 
 1 1 6 Translations. 
 
 Sooner, the border-lands of both overpassed, shall 
 
 the exiled 
 Parthian drink of the Soane, or the German drink 
 
 of the Tigris, 
 Than the face of him shall glide away from my 
 
 bosom ! 
 
 MELIBCEUS. 
 
 But we hence shall go, a part to the thirsty 
 
 Africs, 
 Part to Scythia come, and the rapid Cretan 
 
 Oaxes, 
 And to the Britons from all the universe utterly 
 
 sundered. 
 Ah, shall I ever, a long time hence, the bounds 
 
 of my country 
 And the roof of my lowly cottage covered with 
 
 greensward 
 Seeing, with wonder behold, my kingdoms, a 
 
 handful of wheat- ears !
 
 Virgil's First Eclogue. 117 
 
 Shall an impious soldier possess these lands newly 
 cultured, 
 
 And these fields of corn a barbarian ? Lo, whither 
 discord 
 
 Us wrteched people hath brought ! for whom our 
 fields we have planted ! 
 
 Graft, Melibo2us, thy pear-trees now, put in order 
 thy vineyards. 
 
 Go, my goats, go hence, my flocks so happy afore 
 time. 
 
 Never again henceforth outstretched in my ver 
 durous cavern 
 
 Shall I behold you afar from the bushy precipice 
 hanging. 
 
 Songs no more shall I sing ; not with me, ye 
 goats, as your shepherd, 
 
 Shall ye browse on the bitter willow or blooming 
 laburnum.
 
 1 1 8 Translations. 
 
 TITYRUS. 
 Nevertheless, this night together with me canst 
 
 thou rest thee 
 Here on the verdant leaves ; for us there are 
 
 mellowing apples, 
 Chestnuts soft to the touch, and clouted cream in 
 
 abundance ; 
 And the high roofs now of the villages smoke in 
 
 the distance, 
 And from the lofty mountains are falling larger 
 
 the shadows.
 
 OVID IN EXILE, 
 
 AT TOMIS, IN BESSARABIA, NEAR THE MOUTHS OP THS DAKUBE. 
 
 TRISTIA, Book III., Elegy X. 
 
 SHOULD any one there in Home remember Ovid 
 
 the exile, 
 
 And, without me, my name still in the city 
 survive ; 
 
 Tell him that under stars which never set in the 
 
 ocean 
 I am existing still, here in a barbarous land. 
 
 Fierce Sarmatians encompass me round, and the 
 
 Bessi and Getse ; 
 
 Names how unworthy to be sung by a genius 
 like mine !
 
 1 20 Translations. 
 
 Yet when the air is warm, intervening Ister 
 
 defends us : 
 
 He, as he flows, repels inroads of war with his 
 waves. 
 
 But when the dismal winter reveals its hideous 
 
 aspect, 
 
 "When all the earth becomes white with a 
 marble-like frost ; 
 
 And when Boreas is loosed, and the snow hurled 
 
 under Arcturus, 
 
 Then these nations, in sooth, shudder and 
 shiver with cold. 
 
 Deep lies the snow, and neither the sun nor the 
 
 rain can dissolve it ; 
 
 Boreas hardens it still, makes it forever re 
 main.
 
 Ovid in Exile. 121 
 
 Hence, ere the first lias melted away, another 
 
 succeeds it, 
 
 And two years it is wont, in many places, to 
 lie. 
 
 And so great is the power of the North-wind 
 
 awakened, it levels 
 
 Lofty towers with the ground, roofs uplifted 
 bears off. 
 
 "Wrapped in skins, and with trousers sewed, they 
 
 contend with the weather, 
 And their faces alone of the whole body are 
 seen. 
 
 Often their tresses, when shaken, with pendent 
 
 icicles tinkle, 
 
 And their whitened beards shine with the 
 gathering frost.
 
 122 Translations. 
 
 Wines consolidate stand, preserving the form of 
 
 the vessels ; 
 
 No more draughts of wine, pieces presented 
 they drink. 
 
 Why should I tell you how all the rivers are 
 
 frozen and solid, 
 
 And from out of the lake frangible water is 
 dug? 
 
 Ister, no narrower stream than the river that 
 
 bears the papyrus, 
 
 Which through its many mouths mingles its 
 waves with the deep ; 
 
 Ister, with hardening winds, congeals its cerulean 
 
 waters, 
 
 Under a roof of ice, winding its way to the 
 sea.
 
 Ovid in Exile. 123 
 
 There where ships have sailed, men go on foot ; 
 
 and the billows, 
 
 Solid made by the frost, hoof-beats of horses 
 indent. 
 
 Over unwonted bridges, with water gliding be 
 neath them, 
 
 The Sarmatian steers drag their barbarian 
 carts. 
 
 Scarcely shall I be believed; yet when naught 
 
 is gained by a falsehood, 
 
 Absolute credence then should to a witness be 
 given. 
 
 I have beheld the vast Black Sea of ice all com 
 pacted, 
 
 And a slippery crust pressing its motionless 
 tides.
 
 1 24 Translations. 
 
 'T is not enough to have seen, I have trodden 
 
 this indurate ocean ; 
 
 Dry shod passed my foot over its uppermost 
 wave. 
 
 If thou hadst had of old such a sea as this is 
 
 Leander ! 
 
 Then thy death had not been charged as a 
 crime to the Strait. 
 
 Nor can the curved dolphins uplift themselves 
 
 from the water ; 
 
 All their struggles to rise merciless winter 
 prevents ; 
 
 And though Boreas sound with roar of wings in 
 
 commotion, 
 
 In the blockaded gulf never a wave will there 
 be;
 
 Ovid in Exile. 125 
 
 And the ships will stand hemmed in by the frost, 
 
 as in marble, 
 
 Nor will the oar have power through the stiff 
 waters to cleave. 
 
 Fast-bound in the ice have I seen the fishes 
 
 adhering, 
 
 Yet notwithstanding this some of them still 
 were alive. 
 
 Hence, if the savage strength of omnipotent 
 
 Boreas freezes 
 
 Whether the salt- sea wave, whether the refluent 
 stream, 
 
 Straightway, the Ister made level by arid blasts 
 
 of the North-wind, 
 
 Comes the barbaric foe borne on his swift- 
 footed steed ;
 
 1 26 Translations. 
 
 Foe, that powerful made by his steed and his 
 
 far-flying arrows, 
 
 All the neighboring land void of inhabitants 
 makes. 
 
 Some take flight, and none being left to defend 
 
 their possessions, 
 
 Unprotected, their goods pillage and plunder 
 become ; 
 
 Cattle and creaking carts, the little wealth of the 
 
 country, 
 
 And what riches beside indigent peasants 
 possess. 
 
 Some as captives are driven along, their hands 
 
 bound behind them, 
 
 Looking backward in vain toward their Lares 
 and lands.
 
 Ovid in Exile. 127 
 
 Others, transfixed with barbed arrows, in agony 
 
 perish, 
 
 For the swift arrow-heads all have in poison 
 been dipped. 
 
 What they cannot carry or lead away they 
 
 demolish, 
 
 And the hostile flames burn up the innocent 
 eots. 
 
 Even when there is peace, the fear of war is 
 
 impending ; 
 
 None, with the ploughshare pressed, furrows 
 the soil any more. 
 
 Either this region sees, or fears a foe that it sees 
 
 not, 
 
 And the sluggish land slumbers in utter 
 neglect.
 
 128 Translations. 
 
 No sweet grape lies hidden here in the shade of 
 
 its vine-leaves, 
 
 No fermenting must fills and overflows the 
 deep vats. 
 
 Apples the region denies; nor would Acontius 
 
 have found here 
 
 Aught upon which to write words for his 
 mistress to read. 
 
 Naked and barren plains without leaves or trees 
 
 we behold here, 
 
 Places, alas ! unto which no happy man would 
 repair. 
 
 Since then this mighty orb lies open so wide 
 
 upon all sides, 
 
 Has this region been found only my prison 
 to be?
 
 Ovid in Exile. 129 
 
 TfUSTiA, Book III., Elegy XII. 
 
 Now the zephyrs diminish the cold, and tho 
 
 year being ended, 
 "Winter Maeotian seems longer than ever before ; 
 
 And the Ram that bore unsafely the burden of 
 
 Helle, 
 
 Now makes the hours of the day equal with 
 those of the night. 
 
 Now the boys and the laughing girls the violet 
 
 gather, 
 
 "Which the fields bring forth, nobody sowing 
 the seed. 
 
 Now the meadows are blooming with flowers of 
 
 various colors, 
 
 And with untaught throats carol the garrulous 
 birds. 
 
 E
 
 130 Translations. 
 
 Now the swallow, to shun the crime of her 
 
 merciless mother, 
 
 Under the rafters builds cradles and dear little 
 homes ; 
 
 And the blade that lay hid, covered up in the 
 
 furrows of Ceres, 
 
 Now from the tepid ground raises its delicate 
 head. 
 
 Where there is ever a vine, the bud shoots forth 
 
 from the tendrils, 
 
 But from the Getic shore distant afar is the 
 vine ! 
 
 Where there is ever a tree, on the tree the 
 
 branches are swelling, 
 
 But from the Getic land distant afar is the 
 tree !
 
 Ovid in Exile. 131 
 
 Now it is holiday there in Rome, and to games in 
 
 due order 
 
 Give place the windy wars of the vociferous 
 bar. 
 
 Now they are riding the horses ; with light arms 
 
 now they are playing, 
 
 Now with the ball, and now round rolls the 
 swift-flying hoop : 
 
 Now, when the young athlete with flowing oil is 
 
 anointed, 
 
 He in the Virgin's Fount bathes, overwearied, 
 his limbs. 
 
 Thrives the stage ; and applause, with voices at 
 
 variance, thunders, 
 
 And the Theatres three for the three Forums 
 resound.
 
 132 Translations. 
 
 Four times happy is he, and times without num 
 ber is happy, 
 
 Who the city of Rome, uninterdicted, en 
 joys. 
 
 But all I see is the snow in the vernal sunshine 
 
 dissolving, 
 
 And the waters no more delved from the in 
 durate lake. 
 
 Nor is the sea now frozen, nor as before o'er the 
 
 Ister 
 
 Comes the Sarmatian boor driving his stridu- 
 lous cart. 
 
 Hithenvard, nevertheless, some keels already are 
 
 steering, 
 
 And on this Pontic shore alien vessels will 
 be.
 
 Ovid in Exile. 133 
 
 Eagerly shall I run to the sailor, and, having 
 
 saluted, 
 
 Who he may be, I shall ask; wherefore and 
 whence he hath come. 
 
 Strange indeed will it be, if he come not from 
 
 regions adjacent, 
 
 And incautious unless ploughing the neighing 
 sea. 
 
 Rarely a mariner over the deep from Italy passes, 
 Rarely he comes to these shores, wholly of har 
 bors devoid. 
 
 Whether he knoweth Greek, or whether in Latin 
 
 he speaketh, 
 
 Surely on this account he the more welcome 
 will be.
 
 1 34 Translations. 
 
 Also perchance from the mouth of the Strait and 
 
 the waters Propontic, 
 
 Unto the steady South-wind, some one is 
 spreading his sails. 
 
 "Whosoever he is, the news he can faithfully tell 
 
 me, 
 
 Which may become a part and an approach to 
 the truth. 
 
 He, I pray, may be able to tell me the triumphs 
 
 of Cffisar, 
 
 Which he has heard of, and vows paid to the 
 Latian Jove ; 
 
 And that thy sorrowful head, Germania, thou, the 
 
 rebellious, 
 
 Under the feet, at last, of the Great Captain 
 hast laid.
 
 Ovid in Exile. 135 
 
 9 
 
 Whoso shall tell me these things, that not to have 
 
 seen will afflict me, 
 
 Forthwith unto my house welcomed as guest 
 shall he be. 
 
 Woe is me ! Is the house of Ovid in Scythian 
 
 lands now ? 
 
 And doth punishment now give me its place for 
 a home ? 
 
 Grant, ye gods, that C^sar make this not my 
 
 house and my homestead, 
 But decree it to be only the inn of my pain.
 
 136 Translations. 
 
 ON THE TEEEACE OF THE AIGALADES. 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OF MERY. 
 
 FROM this high portal, where upsprings 
 The rose to touch our hands in play, 
 We at a glance tehold three things, 
 The Sea, the Town, and the Highway. 
 
 And the Sea says : My shipwrecks fear ; 
 I drown my best friends in the deep ; 
 And those who braved rny tempests, here 
 Among my sea-weeds lie asleep ! 
 
 The Town says : I am filled and fraught 
 With tumult and with smoke and care ; 
 My days with toil are overwrought, 
 
 And in my nights I gasp for air.
 
 On the Terrace of the Aigalades. 137 
 
 The Highway says : My wheel-tracks guide 
 To the pale climates of the North ; 
 Where my last milestone stands abide 
 The people to their death gone forth. 
 
 Here, in the shade, this life of ours, 
 Full of delicious air, glides by 
 Amid a multitude of flowers 
 As countless as the stars on high ; 
 
 These red-tiled roofs, this fruitful soil, 
 Bathed with an azure all divine, 
 Where springs the tree that gives us oil, 
 The grape that giveth us the wine ; 
 
 Beneath these mountains stripped of trees, 
 Whose tops with flowers are covered o'er, 
 Where springtime of the Hesperides 
 Begins, but endeth nevermore ;
 
 138 Translations. 
 
 Under these leafy vaults and walls, 
 That unto gentle sleep persuade ; 
 This rainbow of the waterfalls, 
 Of mingled mist and sunshine made ; 
 
 Upon these shores, where all invites, 
 We live our languid life apart ; 
 This air is that of life's delights, 
 The festival of sense and heart ; 
 
 This limpid space of time prolong, 
 Forget to-morrow in to-day, 
 And leave unto the passing throng 
 The Sea, the Town, and the Highway.
 
 139 
 
 TO MY BROOKLET. 
 
 FEOM THE FRENCH OF DUCIS. 
 
 THOU brooklet, all unknown to song, 
 Hid in the covert of the wood ! 
 Ah, yes, like thee I fear the throng, 
 Like thee I love the solitude. 
 
 brooklet, let my sorrows past 
 Lie all forgotten in their graves, 
 Till in my thoughts remain at last 
 Only thy peace, thy flowers, thy waves. 
 
 The lily by thy margin waits ; 
 The nightingale, the marguerite ; 
 In shadow here he meditates 
 His nest, his love, his music sweet.
 
 140 Translations. 
 
 Near tliee the self-collected soul 
 Knows naught of error or of crime ; 
 Thy waters, murmuring as they roll, 
 Transform his musings into rhyme. 
 
 Ah, when, on hright autumnal eves, 
 Pursuing still thy course, shall I 
 List the soft shudder of the leaves, 
 And hear the lapwing's plaintive cry ?
 
 141 
 
 BAEREGES. 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OF LBFRANC DE POMPIGKAH. 
 
 I LEAVE you, ye cold mountain chains, 
 Dwelling of warriors stark and frore ! 
 You, may these eyes behold no more, 
 Save on the horizon of our plains. 
 
 Vanish, ye frightful, gloomy views ! 
 Ye rocks that mount up to the clouds ! 
 Of skies, enwrapped in misty shrouds, 
 Impracticable avenues ! 
 
 Ye torrents, that with might and main 
 Break pathways through the rocky walls, 
 With your terrific waterfalls 
 Fatigue no more my weary brain !
 
 142 Translations. 
 
 Arise, ye landscapes full of charms, 
 Arise, ye pictures of delight ! 
 Ye brooks, that water in your flight 
 The flowers and harvests of our farms ! 
 
 You I perceive, ye meadows green, 
 Where the Garonne the lowland fills, 
 Not far from that long chain of hills, 
 With intermingled vales between. 
 
 Yon wreath of smoke, that mounts so high, 
 Methinks from my own hearth must come ; 
 With speed, to that beloved home, 
 Fly, ye too lazy coursers, fly ! 
 
 And bear me thither, where the soul 
 
 In quiet may itself possess, 
 
 Where all things soothe the mind's distress, 
 
 Where all things teach me and console.
 
 143 
 
 FORSAKEN. 
 
 FROM THE GEKMAN. 
 
 SOMETHING the heart must have to cherish, 
 Must love and joy and sorrow learn, 
 
 Something with passion clasp, or perish, 
 And in itself to ashes burn. 
 
 So to this child my heart is clinging, 
 And its frank eyes, with look intense, 
 
 Me from a world of sin are bringing 
 Back to a world of innocence. 
 
 Disdain must thou endure forever ; 
 
 Strong may thy heart in danger be ! 
 Thou shalt not fail ! but ah, be never 
 
 False as thy father was to me.
 
 144 Translations. 
 
 Never will I forsake tliee, faithless, 
 And thou thy mother ne'er forsake, 
 
 Until her lips are white and breathless, 
 Until in death her eyes shall break.
 
 145 
 
 -h ALLAH. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OP MAHLMANN. 
 
 ALLAH gives light in darkness, 
 
 Allah gives rest in pain, 
 Cheeks that are white with weeping 
 
 Allah rcaints red a^ain. 
 
 Allah paints red again. 
 
 The flowers and the blossoms wither, 
 Years vanish with flying feet ; 
 
 But my heart will live on forever, 
 That here in sadness beat. 
 
 Gladly to Allah's dwelling 
 Yonder would I take flight ; 
 
 There will the darkness vanish, 
 There will my eyes have sight. 
 
 L
 
 SEVEN SONNETS 
 
 AND A CANZONE, FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL 
 ANGELO. 
 
 L 2
 
 [The following translations are from the poems of Michael 
 Angelo as revised by his nephew Michael Angelo the Younger, and 
 were made before the publication of the original text by Guasti.]
 
 149 
 
 I. 
 
 THE ARTIST. 
 
 NOTHING the greatest artist can conceive 
 That every marble block doth not confine 
 Within itself; and only its design 
 The hand that follows intellect can achieve. 
 
 The ill I flee, the good that I believe, 
 In thee, fair lady, lofty and divine, 
 Thus hidden lie ; and so that death be mine 
 Art, of desired success, doth me bereave. 
 
 Love is not guilty, then, nor thy fair face, 
 Nor fortune, cruelty, nor great disdain, 
 Of my disgrace, nor chance nor destiny, 
 
 If in thy heart both death and love find place 
 At the same time, and if my humble brain, 
 Burning, can nothing draw but death from thee.
 
 150 Sonnets. 
 
 II. 
 FIEE. 
 
 NOT without fire can any workman mould 
 The iron to his preconceived design, 
 Nor can the artist without fire refine 
 And purify from all its dross the gold ; 
 
 Nor can revive the phoenix, we are told, 
 
 Except by fire. Hence if such death be mine 
 I hope to rise again with the divine, 
 Whom death augments, and time cannot make 
 old. 
 
 sweet, sweet death ! fortunate fire that burns 
 Within me still to renovate my days, 
 Though I am almost numbered with the dead ! 
 
 If by its nature unto heaven returns 
 This element, me, kindled in its blaze, 
 Will it bear upward when my life is fled.
 
 III. 
 YOUTH AND AGE. 
 
 GIVE me back the days when loose and free 
 To my blind passion were the curb and rein, 
 give me back the angelic face again, 
 With which all virtue buried seems to be ! 
 
 give my panting footsteps back to me, 
 
 That are in age so slow and fraught with pain, 
 And fire and moisture in the heart and brain, 
 If thou wouldst have me burn and weep for 
 thee ! 
 
 If it be true thou livest alone, Amor, 
 
 On the sweet-bitter tears of human hearts, 
 In an old man thou canst not wake desire ; 
 
 Souls that have almost reached the other shore 
 Of a diviner love should feel the darts, 
 And be as tinder to a holier fire.
 
 IS 2 Sonnets. 
 
 IV. 
 OLD AGE. 
 
 THE course of my long life hath reached at last, 
 In fragile bark o'er a tempestuous sea, 
 The common harbor, where must rendered be 
 Account of all the actions of the past. 
 
 The impassioned phantasy, that, vague and vast, 
 Made art an idol and a king to me, 
 Was an illusion, and but vanity 
 Were the desires that lured me and harassed. 
 
 The dreams of love, that were so sweet of yore, 
 What are they now, when two deaths may be 
 
 mine, 
 One sure, and one forecasting its alarms ? 
 
 Painting and sculpture satisfy no more 
 The soul now turning to the Love Divine, 
 That oped, to embrace us, on the cross its arms.
 
 153 
 
 V. 
 TO VITTORIA COLONNA. 
 
 LADY, how can it chance yet this we see 
 In long experience that will longer last 
 A living image carved from quarries vast 
 Than its own maker, who dies presently ? 
 
 Cause yieldeth to effect if this so be, 
 And even Nature is by Art surpassed ; 
 This know I, who to Art have given the past, 
 But see that Time is breaking faith with me. 
 
 Perhaps on both of us long life can I 
 Either in color or in stone bestow, 
 By now portraying each in look and mien ; 
 
 So that a thousand years after we die, 
 
 How fair thou wast, and I how full of woe, 
 And wherefore I so loved thee, may be seen.
 
 154 Sonnets. 
 
 VI. 
 TO VITTORIA COLONNA. 
 
 WHEN the prime mover of my many sighs 
 
 Heaven took through death from out her 
 
 earthly place, 
 
 Nature, that never made so fair a face, 
 Remained ashamed, and tears were in all eyes. 
 
 fate, unheeding my impassioned cries ! 
 hopes fallacious ! thou spirit of grace, 
 Where art thou now? Earth holds in its 
 
 embrace 
 Thy lovely limhs, thy holy thoughts the skies. 
 
 Vainly did cruel death attempt to stay 
 The rumor of thy virtuous renown, 
 That Lethe's waters could not wash away ! 
 
 A thousand leaves, since he hath stricken thee down, 
 Speak of thee, nor to thee could Heaven convey, 
 Except through death, a refuge and a crown.
 
 155 
 
 vn. 
 
 DANTE. 
 
 WHAT should be said of him cannot be said ; 
 By too great splendor is his name attended ; 
 To blame is easier those who him offended, 
 Than reach the faintest glory round him shed. 
 
 This man descended to the doomed and dead 
 For our instruction ; then to God ascended ; 
 Heaven opened wide to him its portals splendid, 
 Who from his country's, closed against him, fled. 
 
 Ungrateful land ! To its own prejudice 
 
 Nurse of his fortunes ; and this showeth well, 
 That the most perfect most of grief shall see. 
 
 Among a thousand proofs let one suffice, 
 That as his exile hath no parallel, 
 Ne'er walked the earth a greater man than he.
 
 156 Canzone. 
 
 VIII. 
 + CANZONE. 
 
 AH me ! ah me ! when thinking of the years, 
 The vanished years, alas, I do not find 
 Among them all one day that was my own ! 
 Fallacious hopes, desires of the unknown, 
 Lamenting, loving, burning, and in tears, 
 (For human passions all have stirred my 
 
 mind), 
 
 Have held me, now I feel and know, confined 
 Both from the true and good still far away. 
 I perish day by day ; 
 The sunshine fails, the shadows grow more 
 
 dreary, 
 And I am near to fall, infirm and weary. 
 
 Woodfall & Kinder, Printers, Milford Lane, Strand, London, W.C.
 
 NEW BOOKS AND STANDARD WORKS 
 
 PUBLISHED BY 
 
 GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS, 
 
 LONDON AND NEW YORK. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 ROUTLEDGE'S ILLUSTRATED SHAKESPEARE. Edited 
 by HOWARD STAUNTON, with 850 Illustrations by Sir John Gilbert, R.A., 
 and a Steel Portrait. 3 vols., super-royal, cloth. 2/. idr. 
 
 "The pen, the pencil, and the printer have striven together in honourable 
 rivalry, combining clearness of text, elegance of illustration, and beauty of type. 
 The result is worthy of the labour, and we can say with a safe conscience to all 
 who wish to receive or present the bard in a becoming dress, buy ' Routledge's 
 Picture Shakespeare.'" The Times. 
 
 " One of the most important additions to the mass of Shakespearian literature 
 which has appeared for many years." The Critic. 
 
 CHARLES KNIGHT'S GUINEA SHAKSPERE. With 340 
 
 Illustrations by Sir John Gilbert, R.A. 2 vols., super-royal 8vo. ; cloth 
 extra, zis. Gilt edges, 25$. ; or in i volume, gilt edges, 21^. 
 
 THE WORKS OF SHAKESPEARE. Edited by HOWARD 
 STAUNTON, with Notes, Glossary, and Life. A beautiful Library Edition, 
 in large type. 6 vols., demy 8vo, Roxburghe binding, i/. us. 6d. 
 
 SHAKSPEARE'S WORKS. Edited by THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 With Life, Portrait, and Vignette, and 16 page Ilustrations, by Sir John 
 Gilbert, R.A. Bound in cloth, los. dd. ; gilt edges, izs. 
 
 SHAKSPERE. Red Line Edition, Edited by CHARLES KNIGHT. 
 
 With Steel Portrait, cloth extra, js. 6d. 
 THE BLACKFRIARS SHAKSPERE. Edited by CHARLES 
 
 KNIGHT. Crown 8vo, cloth. y. 6d. 
 
 CHARLES KNIGHT'S SHAKSPERE. Complete, with the 
 Poems, 768 pages, with Illustrations, cloth, extra gilt. y. 6d. 
 
 SHAKSPEARE'S DRAMATIC WORKS. A New Edition, 
 
 with Notes and Life. Printed in a new Type from the text of Johnson, 
 Stevens, and Reed. Edited by W. HAZLITT. 5 vols., fcap. 8vo, cloth 
 gilt. iSs.
 
 New Books and Standard Works 
 
 SHAKESPEARE continued. 
 
 THE BOOK OF SHAKESPEARE GEMS. A Series of 
 
 landscape Illustrations to the most Interesting Localities in Shakespeare's 
 Plays. In 45 Steel Plates. 8vo, cloth, gilt edges. Price I2S. dd. 
 
 LAMB'S TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. With Illustra- 
 
 lions by Sir John Gilbert, R.A. 3.1. kd. 
 
 DODO'S BEAUTIES OF SHAKESPEARE. With Illustra 
 tions by Sir John Gilbert, R.A. 3.1. 6d. 
 
 THE MIND OF SHAKESPEARE AS EXHIBITED IN 
 HIS WORKS. By the Rev. A. A. MORGAN. With Illustrations by Sir 
 John Gilbert, R.A. 3$. 6d. 
 
 THE NOVELS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. A New 
 
 Edition, with the Author's Notes. Illustrated with the Original Steel 
 Plates, from designs by J. M. W. Turner, R.A., George Cruikshank, Daniel 
 Maclise, J. Linnell, and others. 25 vols., cloth. 4 js. 6d. 
 
 THE FOUQUE LIBRARY. Containing the Four Seasons, 
 Romantic Fiction, the Magic Ring, Minstrel Love, Thiodolf the Icelander, 
 and Wild Love. 6 vols., in a box. 25$. 
 
 ART RAMBLES IN THE HIGHLANDS AND ISLANDS 
 OF SCOTLAND. By JOHN T. REID. With 150 Sketches taken from 
 Nature and drawn on Wood by the Author, and engraved by Dalziel 
 Brothers. 2is. 
 
 SEYMOUR'S HUMOROUS SKETCHES. Comprising 86 
 
 Caricature Etchings, Illustrated in Prose and Verse by Alfred Crowquill. 
 
 2IS. 
 
 THE BIRTHDAY BOOK OF FLOWER AND SONG. 
 
 Compiled by ALICIA AMY LEITH. Containing Extracts from the Works 
 of the best English Poets, Past and Present. Illustrated with Twelve 
 Floral Designs by the Compiler, printed in Colours by Edmund Evans. 155. 
 
 THE BOOK OF BRITISH BALLADS. Edited by F. C. 
 HALL, F.S. A. With Illustrations by E. M. Ward, R.A., Sir J. Noel Paton, 
 John Tenniel, Sir John Gilbert, R.A., T. Creswick, R.A., and others. 
 X. IS. 
 
 DRAWING FROM NATURE : a Series of Progressive Instruc 
 tions in Sketching. By GEORGE BARNARD. Illustrated with 18 Plates in 
 Tints and Colours, and more than 100 Woodcuts. i. is.
 
 Published by G. Routledge & Sons. 
 
 THE WORKS OF W. H. PRESCOTT. 
 
 THE NEW AND REVISED EDITION, WITH ALL THE 
 ADDITIONAL NOTES BY KIRK, AND STEEL PORTRAITS. 
 
 In 12 vols., demy 8vo, cloth, 6 6s. 
 List of the Volumes, which can also be had separately. 
 
 HISTORY OF THE REIGN OF PHILIP THE SECOND. 
 
 3 vols. ,1 us. 6d. 
 
 HISTORY OF THE REIGN OF FERDINAND AND 
 ISABELLA. 2 vols. 1 is. 
 
 HISTORY OF THE CONQUEST OF MEXICO. 2 vols. 
 
 i 
 HISTORY OF THE CONQUEST OF PERU. 2 vols. 
 
 i is. 
 
 HISTORY OF THE REIGN OF CHARLES THE 
 FIFTH. 2 vols. i is. 
 
 CRITICAL AND HISTORICAL ESSAYS, i vol. ios. 6J. 
 
 PRESCOTT'S WORKS. Cabinet Edition. 
 
 In post 8vo, cloth, with Steel Portraits. 
 
 HISTORY OF THE REIGN OF FERDINAND AND 
 
 Isabella. 3 vols. ios. 6d. 
 
 HISTORY OF THE CONQUEST OF MEXICO. 3 vols. 
 
 IOS. flit. 
 
 HISTORY OF THE CONQUEST OF PERU. 3 vols. 
 
 ios. dd. 
 
 HISTORY OF THE REIGN OF PHILIP THE 
 
 SECOND. 3 vols. ios. 6d. 
 
 HISTORY OF THE REIGN OF CHARLES THE 
 
 FIFTH. 2 vols. 7S. 
 CRITICAL AND HISTORICAL ESSAYS, i vol. 35. 6d.
 
 4 New Books and Standard Works. 
 
 PRESCOTT'S WORKS continued. 
 
 PRESCOTT'S WORKS. Cheap One-Volume Edition. 
 
 FERDINAND AND ISABELLA. 5^. 
 
 CONQUEST OF MEXICO. 5*. 
 
 CONQUEST OF PERU. 5*. 
 
 PHILIP THE SECOND. Vols I. and II. In I vol. 5*. 
 
 PHILIP THE SECOND, Vol. III., and ESSAYS. In 
 
 i vol. 5.5. 
 CHARLES THE FIFTH. 5-r. 
 
 Motley's "Dutch Republic." 
 
 THE RISE OF THE DUTCH REPUBLIC. ByJ.LoTHRUP 
 
 MOTLEY. In 3 vols., crown 8vo. i&s. 
 
 DITTO DITTO. New Edition, Complete in One Volume. 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges. 6s. 
 
 THE OLD POETS 
 
 WITH BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIRS, ETC. 
 
 These Volumes are beautifully printed on fine paper, with Steel 
 Portrait and Vignette, and are each complete in ONE VOLUME. 
 
 SPENSER. With Selected Notes, Life by the Rev. H. J. TODD, 
 M.A. ; Portrait, Vignette, and Glossary Index. In i vol. Price ios. f>d., 
 cloth. 
 
 .CHAUCER. With Notes and Glossary by TYRWHITT ; and 
 Portrait and Vignette. In i vol. Price ios. dd., cloth. 
 
 DRYDEN. With Notes by the Revs. JOSEPH and JOHN 
 WHARTON ; and Portrait and Vignette. In i vol. Price ios. 6</., cloth. 
 
 POPE. Including the Translations. With Notes and Life by the 
 Rev. H. F. GARY, A.M. ; and Portrait and Vignette. In i vol. Price 
 ios. 6d., cloth.
 
 This book is DUE on the last 
 date stamped below. 
 
 10M-11-50(2555)470 
 
 REMINGTON RAND - 2O
 
 in S n U I H ,^ K R GI 21AL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 A A 000033128 
 
 PS 
 2271