‘The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan. 65
Long prayers,’ I said, ‘in the world they say.
Come,’ I said, and we rose through the surf in the bay.
We went up the beach, by the sandy down
Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-walled town.
Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still, 70
To the little gray church on the windy hill.
From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers,
But we stood without in the cold blowing airs.
We climbed on the graves, on the stones worn with rains,
And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes.
She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear: 76
‘Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here.
Dear heart,’ I said, ‘we are long alone.
The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.’
But, ah, she gave me never a look, 80
For her eyes were sealed to the holy book.
‘Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door.’
Come away, children, call no more.
Come away, come down, call no more.
Down, down, down. 85
Down to the depths of the sea.
She sits at her wheel in the humming town,
Singing most joyfully.
Hark, what she sings; ‘O joy, O joy,
For the humming street, and the child with its toy, 90
For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well,
For the wheel where I spun,
And the blessèd light of the sun.’
And so she sings her fill,
Singing most joyfully, 95
Till the shuttle falls from her hand,
And the whizzing wheel stands still.
She steals to the window, and looks at the sand;
And over the sand at the sea;
And her eyes are set in a stare; 100
And anon there breaks a sigh,
And anon there drops a tear,
From a sorrow-clouded eye,
And a heart sorrow-laden,
A long, long sigh, 105
For the cold strange eyes of a little mermaiden,
And the gleam of her golden hair.
Come away, away, children,
Come, children, come down.
The hoarse wind blows colder, 110
Lights shine in the town.
She will start from her slumber
When gusts shake the door;
She will hear the winds howling,
Will hear the waves roar. 115
We shall see, while above us
The waves roar and whirl,
A ceiling of amber,
A pavement of pearl,
Singing, ‘Here came a mortal, 120
But faithless was she,
And alone dwell for ever
The kings of the sea.’
But, children, at midnight,
When soft the winds blow; 125
When clear falls the moonlight;
When spring-tides are low:
When sweet airs come seaward
From heaths starred with broom;
And high rocks throw mildly 130
On the blanched sands a gloom:
Up the still, glistening beaches,
Up the creeks we will hie;
Over banks of bright seaweed
The ebb-tide leaves dry. 135
We will gaze, from the sand-hills,
At the white, sleeping town;
At the church on the hill-side--
And then come back down.
Singing, ‘There dwells a loved one, 140
But cruel is she;
She left lonely for ever
The kings of the sea.’
_Matthew Arnold._
CCLIX
_THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN._
A CHILD’S STORY.
Hamelin Town’s in Brunswick,
By famous Hanover city;
The river Weser, deep and wide,
Washes its wall on the southern side;
A pleasanter spot you never spied; 5
But, when begins my ditty,
Almost five hundred years ago,
To see the townsfolk suffer so
From vermin was a pity.
Rats! 10
They fought the dogs, and killed the cats,
And bit the babies in the cradles,
And ate the cheeses out of the vats,
And licked the soup from the cook’s own ladles,
Split open the kegs of salted sprats, 15
Made nests inside men’s Sunday hats,
And even spoiled the women’s chats,
By drowning their speaking
With shrieking and squeaking
In fifty different sharps and flats. 20
At last the people in a body
To the Town Hall came flocking:
‘’Tis clear,’ cried they, ‘our Mayor’s a noddy;
And as for our Corporation--shocking
To think we buy gowns lined with ermine 25
For dolts that can’t or won’t determine
What’s best to rid us of our vermin!
You hope, because you’re old and obese,
To find in the furry civic robe ease?
Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking 30
To find the remedy we’re lacking,
Or, sure as fate, we’ll send you packing!’
At this the Mayor and Corporation
Quaked with a mighty consternation.
An hour they sate in council, 35
At length the Mayor broke silence:
‘For a guilder I’d my ermine gown sell;
I wish I were a mile hence!
It’s easy to bid one rack one’s brain--
I’m sure my poor head aches again 40
I’ve scratched it so, and all in vain,
Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!’
Just as he said this, what should hap
At the chamber door but a gentle tap?
‘Bless us,’ cried the Mayor, ‘what’s that?’ 45
(With the Corporation as he sat,
Looking little though wondrous fat;
Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister,
Than a too-long-opened oyster,
Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous 50
For a plate of turtle green and glutinous),
‘Only a scraping of shoes on the mat?
Anything like the sound of a rat
Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!’
‘Come in!’--the Mayor cried, looking bigger: 55
And in did come the strangest figure.
His queer long coat from heel to head
Was half of yellow and half of red;
And he himself was tall and thin,
With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, 60
And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin,
No tuft on cheek, nor beard on chin,
But lips where smiles went out and in--
There was no guessing his kith and kin!
And nobody could enough admire 65
The tall man and his quaint attire.
Quoth one: ‘It’s as my great grandsire,
Starting up at the Trump of Doom’s tone,
Had walked this way from his painted tombstone.’
He advanced to the council-table: 70
And, ‘Please your honours,’ said he, ‘I’m able,
By means of a secret charm, to draw
All creatures living beneath the sun,
That creep, or swim, or fly, or run,
After me so as you never saw! 75
And I chiefly use my charm
On creatures that do people harm,
The mole, and toad, and newt, and viper;
And people call me the Pied Piper.’
(And here they noticed round his neck 80
A scarf of red and yellow stripe,
To match with his coat of the self-same cheque;
And at the scarf’s end hung a pipe;
And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying,
As if impatient to be playing 85
Upon this pipe, as low it dangled
Over his vesture so old-fangled.)
‘Yet,’ said he, ‘poor Piper as I am,
In Tartary I freed the Cham,
Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats; 90
I eased in Asia the Nizam
Of a monstrous brood of vampyre bats:
And, as for what your brain bewilders,
If I can rid your town of rats
Will you give me a thousand guilders?’ 95
‘One? fifty thousand!’--was the exclamation
Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.
Into the street the Piper stept,
Smiling first a little smile,
As if he knew what magic slept 100
In his quiet pipe the while;
Then, like a musical adept,
To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,
And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled,
Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled; 105
And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered,
You heard as if an army muttered;
And the muttering grew to a grumbling;
And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;
And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. 110
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,
Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats,
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,
Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,
Cocking tails and pricking whiskers, 115
Families by tens and dozens,
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives--
Followed the Piper for their lives.
From street to street he piped advancing
And step for step they followed dancing, 120
Until they came to the river Weser,
Wherein all plunged and perished
--Save one, who, stout as Julius Cæsar,
Swam across and lived to carry
(As he the manuscript he cherished) 125
To Rat-land home his commentary,
Which was, ‘At the first shrill notes of the pipe,
I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,
And putting apples, wondrous ripe,
Into a cider-press’s gripe; 130
And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards,
And a leaving ajar of conserve cupboards,
And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks,
And a breaking the hoops of butter casks;
And it seemed as if a voice 135
(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery
Is breathed) called out, Oh! rats, rejoice!
The world is grown to one vast drysaltery!
So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon,
Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon! 140
And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon,
All ready staved, like a great sun shone
Glorious scarce an inch before me,
Just as methought it said, Come, bore me!
--I found the Weser rolling o’er me.’ 145
You should have heard the Hamelin people
Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple.
‘Go,’ cried the Mayor, ‘and get long poles!
Poke out the nests and block up the holes!
Consult with carpenters and builders, 150
And leave in our town not even a trace
Of the rats!’--when suddenly up the face
Of the Piper perked in the market-place,
With a, ‘First, if you please, my thousand guilders!’
A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue; 155
So did the Corporation too.
For council dinners made rare havock
With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock;
And half the money would replenish
Their cellar’s biggest butt with Rhenish. 160
To pay this sum to a wandering fellow
With a gipsy coat of red and yellow!
‘Beside,’ quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink,
‘Our business was done at the river’s brink;
We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, 165
And what’s dead can’t come to life, I think.
So, friend, we’re not the folks to shrink
From the duty of giving you something for drink,
And a matter of money to put in your poke;
But, as for the guilders, what we spoke 170
Of them, as you very well know, was in joke.
Beside, our losses have made us thrifty;
A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!’
The Piper’s face fell, and he cried,
‘No trifling! I can’t wait, beside! 175
I’ve promised to visit by dinner-time
Bagdad, and accept the prime
Of the Head Cook’s pottage, all he’s rich in,
For having left, in the Caliph’s kitchen,
Of a nest of scorpions no survivor-- 180
With him I proved no bargain-driver,
With you, don’t think I’ll bate a stiver!
And folks who put me in a passion
May find me pipe to another fashion.’
‘How?’ cried the Mayor, ‘d’ye think I’ll brook 185
Being worse treated than a Cook?
Insulted by a lazy ribald
With idle pipe and vesture piebald?
You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst,
Blow your pipe there till you burst!’ 190
Once more he stept into the street;
And to his lips again
Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;
And ere he blew three notes (such sweet
Soft notes as yet musician’s cunning 195
Never gave the enraptured air),
There was a rustling, that seemed like a bustling
Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling,
Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,
Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering, 200
And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering,
Out came the children running.
All the little boys and girls,
With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,
And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls. 205
Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after
The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.
The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood
As if they were changed into blocks of wood,
Unable to move a step, or cry 210
To the children merrily skipping by--
And could only follow with the eye
That joyous crowd at the Piper’s back.
But how the Mayor was on the rack,
And the wretched Council’s bosoms beat, 215
As the Piper turned from the High Street
To where the Weser rolled its waters
Right in the way of their sons and daughters!
However he turned from South to West,
And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, 220
And after him the children pressed;
Great was the joy in every breast.
‘He never can cross that mighty top!
He’s forced to let the piping drop,
And we shall see our children stop!’ 225
When lo! as they reached the mountain’s side,
A wondrous portal opened wide,
As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed;
And the Piper advanced and the children followed,
And when all were in to the very last, 230
The door in the mountain-side shut fast.
Did I say all? No! one was lame,
And could not dance the whole of the way;
And in after years, if you would blame
His sadness, he was used to say,-- 235
‘It’s dull in our town since my playmates left;
I can’t forget that I’m bereft
Of all the pleasant sights they see,
Which the Piper also promised me;
For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, 240
Joining the town and just at hand,
Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew,
And flowers put forth a fairer hue,
And everything was strange and new;
The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, 245
And their dogs outran our fallow deer,
And honey-bees had lost their stings;
And horses were born with eagle’s wings;
And just as I became assured
My lame foot would be speedily cured, 250
The music stopped, and I stood still,
And found myself outside the Hill,
Left alone against my will,
To go now limping as before,
And never hear of that country more!’ 255
Alas, alas for Hamelin!
There came into many a burgher’s pate
A text which says, that Heaven’s Gate
Opes to the rich at as easy rate
As the needle’s eye takes a camel in! 260
The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South,
To offer the Piper by word of mouth,
Wherever it was men’s lot to find him,
Silver and gold to his heart’s content,
If he’d only return the way he went, 265
And bring the children behind him.
But when they saw ’twas a lost endeavour,
And Piper and dancers were gone for ever,
They made a decree that lawyers never
Should think their records dated duly, 270
If, after the day of the month and year,
These words did not as well appear,
‘And so long after what happened here
On the twenty-second of July,
Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:’ 275
And the better in memory to fix
The place of the children’s last retreat,
They called it, the Pied Piper’s Street--
Where anyone playing on pipe or tabor,
Was sure for the future to lose his labour. 280
Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern
To shock with mirth a street so solemn;
But opposite the place of the cavern
They wrote the story on a column,
And on the great church-window painted 285
The same, to make the world acquainted
How their children were stolen away;
And there it stands to this very day.
And I must not omit to say
That in Transylvania there’s a tribe 290
Of alien people that ascribe
The outlandish ways and dress,
On which their neighbours lay such stress,
To their fathers and mothers having risen
Out of some subterraneous prison, 295
Into which they were trepanned
Long time ago in a mighty band
Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,
But how or why they don’t understand.
So, Willy, let you and me be wipers 300
Of scores out with all men--especially pipers:
And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice,
If we’ve promised them aught, let us keep our promise.
_Robert Browning._
CCLX
_AUTUMN WOODS._
Ere, in the northern gale,
The summer tresses of the trees are gone,
The woods of Autumn, all around our vale,
Have put their glory on.
The mountains, that infold 5
In their wide sweep the coloured landscape round,
Seem groups of giant kings, in purple’ and gold,
That guard the enchanted ground.
I roam the woods that crown
The upland, where the mingled splendours glow, 10
Where the gay company of trees look down
On the green fields below.
My steps are not alone
In these bright walks; the sweet south-west at play,
Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown 15
Along the winding way.
And far in heaven, the while,
The sun, that sends that gale to wander here,
Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,--
The sweetest of the year. 20
Where now the solemn shade,
Verdure and gloom where many branches meet--
So grateful, when the noon of summer made
The valleys sick with heat?
Let in through all the trees 25
Come the strange rays: the forest depths are bright;
Their sunny-coloured foliage in the breeze
Twinkles, like beams of light.
The rivulet, late unseen,
Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run, 30
Shines with the image of its golden screen,
And glimmerings of the sun.
But ’neath yon crimson tree,
Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame,
Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, 35
Her blush of maiden shame.
Oh, Autumn! why so soon
Depart the hues that make thy forests glad;
Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon,
And leave thee wild and sad? 40
Ah! ’twere a lot too blest,
For ever in thy coloured shades to stray;
Amid the kisses of the soft south-west
To rove and dream for aye;
And leave the vain low strife 45
That makes men mad--the tug for wealth and power,
The passions and the cares that wither life,
And waste its little hour.
_William Cullen Bryant._
CCLXI
_LAPSE._
A heavenly Night!--methinks to me
The soul of other times returns;
Sweet as the scents the orange-tree
Drops in the wind-flower’s scarlet urns,
When sunset, like a city, burns 5
Across the glassy midland sea.
This night gives back that double day,
Which clothed the earth when I was young!
A light most like some godlike lay
By parted hero-angels sung:-- 10
It stirred my heart; and through my tongue
It passed, methought,--but passed away.
The entrancement of that time is o’er,
A calmer, freer soul is here;
I dream not as I dreamed of yore, 15
Awake to sin, awake to fear;
I own the earth,--I see, I hear,
I feel;--oh, may I dream no more!
Farewell, wild world of bygone days,
Here let me now more safely tread! 20
I ask no glory’s vagrant blaze,
To dance around my shining head:
Be peace and hope my crown instead,
With love, God willing, for my praise!
_Thomas Burbidge._
CCLXII
_THE HUMBLE-BEE._
Burly, dozing humble-bee,
Where thou art is clime for me.
Let them sail for Porto Rique,
Far-off heats through seas to seek;
I will follow thee alone, 5
Thou animated torrid-zone!
Zigzag steerer, desert-cheerer,
Let me chase thy waving lines:
Keep me nearer, me thy hearer,
Singing over shrubs and vines. 10
Insect lover of the sun,
Joy of thy dominion!
Sailor of the atmosphere;
Swimmer through the waves of air;
Voyager of light and noon; 15
Epicurean of June;
Wait, I prithee, till I come
Within earshot of thy hum,--
All without is martyrdom.
When the south wind, in May-days, 20
With a net of shining haze
Silvers the horizon wall,
And, with softness touching all,
Tints the human countenance
With a colour of romance, 25
And, infusing subtle heats,
Turns the sod to violets,
Thou, in sunny solitudes,
Rover of the underwoods,
The green silence dost displace 30
With thy mellow, breezy bass.
Hot midsummer’s petted crone,
Sweet to me thy drowsy tone
Tells of countless sunny hours,
Long days, and solid banks of flowers; 35
Of gulfs of sweetness without bound,
In Indian wildernesses found;
Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure,
Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure.
Aught unsavoury or unclean 40
Hath my insect never seen;
But violets and bilberry bells,
Maple-sap, and daffodels,
Grass with green flag half-mast high,
Succory to match the sky, 45
Columbine with horn of honey,
Scented fern, and agrimony,
Clover, catchfly, adder’s-tongue,
And brier-roses, dwelt among;
All beside was unknown waste, 50
All was picture as he passed.
Wiser far than human seer,
Yellow-breeched philosopher!
Seeing only what is fair,
Sipping only what is sweet, 55
Thou dost mock at fate and care,
Leave the chaff, and take the wheat.
When the fierce north-western blast
Cools sea and land so far and fast,
Thou already slumberest deep; 60
Woe and want thou canst outsleep;
Want and woe, which torture us,
Thy sleep makes ridiculous.
_Ralph Waldo Emerson._
CCLXIII
_TO A WATERFOWL._
Whither, midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?
Vainly the fowler’s eye 5
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.
Seek’st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 10
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean-side?
There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast--
The desert and illimitable air-- 15
Lone-wandering, but not lost.
All day thy wings have fanned,
At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere,
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near. 20
And soon that toil shall end,
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend
Soon o’er thy sheltered nest.
Thou’ art gone--the abyss of heaven 25
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.
He who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, 30
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright.
_William Cullen Bryant._
CCLXIV
_ASPIRATION._
Joy for the promise of our loftier homes!
Joy for the promise of another birth!
For oft oppressive unto pain becomes
The riddle of the earth.
A weary weight it lay upon my youth, 5
Ere I could tell of what I should complain;
My very childhood was not free, in truth,
From something of that pain.
Hours of a dim despondency were there,
Like clouds that take its colour from the rose, 10
Which, knowing not the darkness of the air,
But its own sadness knows.
Youth grew in strength--to bear a stronger chain;
In knowledge grew--to know itself a slave;
And broke its narrower shells again, again, 15
To feel a wider grave.
What woe into the startled spirit sank,
When first it knew the inaudible recall,--
When first in the illimitable blank
It touched the crystal wall! 20
Far spreads this mystery of death and sin,
Year beyond year in gloomy tumult rolls;
And day encircling day clasps closer in
Our solitary souls.
O for the time when in our seraph wings 25
We veil our brows before the Eternal Throne--
The day when drinking knowledge at its springs,
We know as we are known.
_Thomas Burbidge._
CCLXV
_THE PALM-TREE AND THE PINE._
Beneath an Indian palm a girl
Of other blood reposes;
Her cheek is clear and pale as pearl,
Amid that wild of roses.
Beside a northern pine a boy 5
Is learning fancy-bound,
Nor listens where with noisy joy
Awaits the impatient hound.
Cool grows the sick and feverish calm,
Relaxt the frosty twine; 10
The pine-tree dreameth of the palm,
The palm-tree of the pine.
As soon shall nature interlace
Those dimly-visioned boughs,
As these young lovers face to face 15
Renew their early vows.
_Lord Houghton._
CCLXVI
_A SUMMER REMINISCENCE._
I hear no more the locust beat
His shrill loud drum through all the day;
I miss the mingled odours sweet
Of clover and of scented hay.
No more I hear the smothered song 5
From hedges guarded thick with thorn:
The days grow brief, the nights are long,
The light comes like a ghost at morn.
I sit before my fire alone,
And idly dream of all the past: 10
I think of moments that are flown--
Alas! they were too sweet to last.
The warmth that filled the languid noons--
The purple waves of trembling haze--
The liquid light of silver moons-- 15
The summer sunset’s golden blaze.
I feel the soft winds fan my cheek,
I hear them murmur through the rye,
I see the milky clouds that seek
Some nameless harbour in the sky. 20
The stile beside the spreading pine,
The pleasant fields beyond the grove,
The lawn where, underneath the vine,
She sang the song I used to love.
The path along the windy beach, 25
That leaves the shadowy linden tree,
And goes by sandy capes that reach
Their shining arms to clasp the sea.
I view them all, I tread once more
In meadow-grasses cool and deep; 30
I walk beside the sounding shore,
I climb again the wooded steep.
Oh, happy hours of pure delight!
Sweet moments drowned in wells of bliss!
Oh, halcyon days so calm and bright-- 35
Each morn and evening seemed to kiss!
And that whereon I saw her first,
While angling in the noisy brook,
When through the tangled wood she burst;
In one small hand a glove and book, 40
As with the other, dimpled, white,
She held the slender boughs aside,
While through the leaves the yellow light
Like golden water seemed to glide,
And broke in ripples on her neck, 45
And played like fire around her hat,
And slid adown her form to fleck
The moss-grown rock on which I sat.
She standing rapt in sweet surprise,
And seeming doubtful if to turn; 50
Her novel, as I raised my eyes,
Dropped down amid the tall green fern.
This day and that--the one so bright,
The other like a thing forlorn;
To-morrow, and the early light 55
Will shine upon her marriage morn.
For when the mellow autumn flushed
The thickets where the chestnut fell,
And in the vales the maple blushed,
Another came who knew her well, 60
Who sat with her below the pine,
And with her through the meadow moved,
And underneath the purpling vine
She sang to him the song I loved.
_Nathaniel G. Shepherd._
CCLXVII
_SONG._
Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea;
The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape,
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape;
But O too fond, when have I answered thee?
Ask me no more. 5
Ask me no more: what answer should I give?
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye:
Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die!
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live;
Ask me no more. 10
Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are sealed:
I strove against the stream and all in vain:
Let the great river take me to the main:
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield;
Ask me no more. 15
_Alfred Tennyson._
CCLXVIII
_THE VIOLET._
Oh faint, delicious, spring-time violet,
Thine odour, like a key,
Turns noiselessly in memory’s wards to let
A thought of sorrow free.