His father, lonely, old, and gray,

Sits by the fireside day by day,

Thinking ever one thought of care;

Through the southern windows, narrow and tall,

The sun shines into the ancient hall,

And makes a glory round his hair.

The house-dog, stretched beneath his chair,

Groans in his sleep as if in pain

Then wakes, and yawns, and sleeps again,

So silent is it everywhere,--

So silent you can hear the mouse

Run and rummage along the beams

Behind the wainscot of the wall;

And the old man rouses from his dreams,

And wanders restless through the house,

As if he heard strange voices call.

His footsteps echo along the floor

Of a distant passage, and pause awhile;

He is standing by an open door

Looking long, with a sad, sweet smile,

Into the room of his absent son.

There is the bed on which he lay,

There are the pictures bright and gay,

Horses and hounds and sun-lit seas;

There are his powder-flask and gun,

And his hunting-knives in shape of a fan;

The chair by the window where he sat,

With the clouded tiger-skin for a mat,

Looking out on the Pyrenees,

Looking out on Mount Marbore

And the Seven Valleys of Lavedan.

Ah me! he turns away and sighs;

There is a mist before his eyes.

At night whatever the weather be,

Wind or rain or starry heaven,

Just as the clock is striking seven,

Those who look from the windows see

The village Curate, with lantern and maid,

Come through the gateway from the park

And cross the courtyard damp and dark,--

A ring of light in a ring of shade.

And now at the old man's side he stands,

His voice is cheery, his heart expands,

He gossips pleasantly, by the blaze

Of the fire of fagots, about old days,

And Cardinal Mazarin and the Fronde,

And the Cardinal's nieces fair and fond,

And what they did, and what they said,

When they heard his Eminence was dead.

And after a pause the old man says,

His mind still coming back again

To the one sad thought that haunts his brain,

"Are there any tidings from over sea?

Ah, why has that wild boy gone from me?"

And the Curate answers, looking down,

Harmless and docile as a lamb,

"Young blood! young blood! It must so be!"

And draws from the pocket of his gown

A handkerchief like an oriflamb,

And wipes his spectacles, and they play

Their little game of lansquenet

In silence for an hour or so,

Till the clock at nine strikes loud and clear

From the village lying asleep below,

And across the courtyard, into the dark

Of the winding pathway in the park,

Curate and lantern disappear,

And darkness reigns in the old chateau.

The ship has come back from over sea,

She has been signalled from below,

And into the harbor of Bordeaux

She sails with her gallant company.

But among them is nowhere seen

The brave young Baron of St. Castine;

He hath tarried behind, I ween,

In the beautiful land of Acadie!

And the father paces to and fro

Through the chambers of the old chateau,

Waiting, waiting to hear the hum

Of wheels on the road that runs below,

Of servants hurrying here and there,

The voice in the courtyard, the step on the stair,

Waiting for some one who doth not come!

But letters there are, which the old man reads

To the Curate, when he comes at night

Word by word, as an acolyte

Repeats his prayers and tells his beads;

Letters full of the rolling sea,

Full of a young man's joy to be

Abroad in the world, alone and free;

Full of adventures and wonderful scenes

Of hunting the deer through forests vast

In the royal grant of Pierre du Gast;

Of nights in the tents of the Tarratines;

Of Madocawando the Indian chief,

And his daughters, glorious as queens,

And beautiful beyond belief;

And so soft the tones of their native tongue,

The words are not spoken, they are sung!

And the Curate listens, and smiling says:

"Ah yes, dear friend! in our young days

We should have liked to hunt the deer

All day amid those forest scenes,

And to sleep in the tents of the Tarratines;

But now it is better sitting here

Within four walls, and without the fear

Of losing our hearts to Indian queens;

For man is fire and woman is tow,

And the Somebody comes and begins to blow."

Then a gleam of distrust and vague surmise

Shines in the father's gentle eyes,

As fire-light on a window-pane

Glimmers and vanishes again;

But naught he answers; he only sighs,

And for a moment bows his head;

Then, as their custom is, they play

Their little gain of lansquenet,

And another day is with the dead.

Another day, and many a day

And many a week and month depart,

When a fatal letter wings its way

Across the sea, like a bird of prey,

And strikes and tears the old man's heart.

Lo! the young Baron of St. Castine,

Swift as the wind is, and as wild,

Has married a dusky Tarratine,

Has married Madocawando's child!

The letter drops from the father's hand;

Though the sinews of his heart are wrung,

He utters no cry, he breathes no prayer,

No malediction falls from his tongue;

But his stately figure, erect and grand,

Bends and sinks like a column of sand

In the whirlwind of his great despair.

Dying, yes, dying! His latest breath

Of parley at the door of death

Is a blessing on his wayward son.

Lower and lower on his breast

Sinks his gray head; he is at rest;

No longer he waits for any one;

For many a year the old chateau

Lies tenantless and desolate;

Rank grasses in the courtyard grow,

About its gables caws the crow;

Only the porter at the gate

Is left to guard it, and to wait

The coming of the rightful heir;

No other life or sound is there;

No more the Curate comes at night,

No more is seen the unsteady light,

Threading the alleys of the park;

The windows of the hall are dark,

The chambers dreary, cold, and bare!

At length, at last, when the winter is past,

And birds are building, and woods are green,

With flying skirts is the Curate seen

Speeding along the woodland way,

Humming gayly, "No day is so long

But it comes at last to vesper-song."

He stops at the porter's lodge to say

That at last the Baron of St. Castine

Is coming home with his Indian queen,

Is coming without a week's delay;

And all the house must be swept and clean,

And all things set in good array!

And the solemn porter shakes his head;

And the answer he makes is: "Lackaday!

We will see, as the blind man said!"

Alert since first the day began,

The cock upon the village church

Looks northward from his airy perch,

As if beyond the ken of man

To see the ships come sailing on,

And pass the isle of Oleron,

And pass the Tower of Cordouan.

In the church below is cold in clay

The heart that would have leaped for joy--

O tender heart of truth and trust!--

To see the coming of that day;

In the church below the lips are dust;

Dust are the hands, and dust the feet,

That would have been so swift to meet

The coming of that wayward boy.

At night the front of the old chateau

Is a blaze of light above and below;

There's a sound of wheels and hoofs in the street,

A cracking of whips, and scamper of feet,

Bells are ringing, and horns are blown,

And the Baron hath come again to his own.

The Curate is waiting in the hall,

Most eager and alive of all

To welcome the Baron and Baroness;

But his mind is full of vague distress,

For he hath read in Jesuit books

Of those children of the wilderness,

And now, good, simple man! he looks

To see a painted savage stride

Into the room, with shoulders bare,

And eagle feathers in her hair,

And around her a robe of panther's hide.

Instead, he beholds with secret shame

A form of beauty undefined,

A loveliness with out a name,

Not of degree, but more of kind;

Nor bold nor shy, nor short nor tall,

But a new mingling of them all.

Yes, beautiful beyond belief,

Transfigured and transfused, he sees

The lady of the Pyrenees,

The daughter of the Indian chief.

Beneath the shadow of her hair

The gold-bronze color of the skin

Seems lighted by a fire within,

As when a burst of sunlight shines

Beneath a sombre grove of pines,--

A dusky splendor in the air.

The two small hands, that now are pressed

In his, seem made to be caressed,

They lie so warm and soft and still,

Like birds half hidden in a nest,

Trustful, and innocent of ill.

And ah! he cannot believe his ears

When her melodious voice he hears

Speaking his native Gascon tongue;

The words she utters seem to be

Part of some poem of Goudouli,

They are not spoken, they are sung!

And the Baron smiles, and says, "You see,

I told you but the simple truth;

Ah, you may trust the eyes of youth!"

Down in the village day by day

The people gossip in their way,

And stare to see the Baroness pass

On Sunday morning to early Mass;

And when she kneeleth down to pray,

They wonder, and whisper together, and say,

"Surely this is no heathen lass!"

And in course of time they learn to bless

The Baron and the Baroness.

And in course of time the Curate learns

A secret so dreadful, that by turns

He is ice and fire, he freezes and burns.

The Baron at confession hath said,

That though this woman be his wife,

He bath wed her as the Indians wed,

He hath bought her for a gun and a knife!

And the Curate replies: "O profligate,

O Prodigal Son! return once more

To the open arms and the open door

Of the Church, or ever it be too late.

Thank God, thy father did not live

To see what he could not forgive;

On thee, so reckless and perverse,

He left his blessing, not his curse.

But the nearer the dawn the darker the night,

And by going wrong all things come right;

Things have been mended that were worse,

And the worse, the nearer they are to mend.

For the sake of the living and the dead,

Thou shalt be wed as Christians wed,

And all things come to a happy end."

O sun, that followest the night,

In yon blue sky, serene and pure,

And pourest thine impartial light

Alike on mountain and on moor,

Pause for a moment in thy course,

And bless the bridegroom and the bride!

O Gave, that from thy hidden source

In you mysterious mountain-side

Pursuest thy wandering way alone,

And leaping down its steps of stone,

Along the meadow-lands demure

Stealest away to the Adour,

Pause for a moment in thy course

To bless the bridegroom and the bride!

The choir is singing the matin song,

The doors of the church are opened wide,

The people crowd, and press, and throng

To see the bridegroom and the bride.

They enter and pass along the nave;

They stand upon the father's grave;

The bells are ringing soft and slow;

The living above and the dead below

Give their blessing on one and twain;

The warm wind blows from the hills of Spain,

The birds are building, the leaves are green,

And Baron Castine of St. Castine

Hath come at last to his own again.

FINALE

"Nunc plaudite!" the Student cried,

When he had finished; "now applaud,

As Roman actors used to say

At the conclusion of a play";

And rose, and spread his hands abroad,

And smiling bowed from side to side,

As one who bears the palm away.

And generous was the applause and loud,

But less for him than for the sun,

That even as the tale was done

Burst from its canopy of cloud,

And lit the landscape with the blaze

Of afternoon on autumn days,

And filled the room with light, and made

The fire of logs a painted shade.

A sudden wind from out the west

Blew all its trumpets loud and shrill;

The windows rattled with the blast,

The oak-trees shouted as it passed,

And straight, as if by fear possessed,

The cloud encampment on the hill

Broke up, and fluttering flag and tent

Vanished into the firmament,

And down the valley fled amain

The rear of the retreating rain.

Only far up in the blue sky

A mass of clouds, like drifted snow

Suffused with a faint Alpine glow,

Was heaped together, vast and high,

On which a shattered rainbow hung,

Not rising like the ruined arch

Of some aerial aqueduct,

But like a roseate garland plucked

From an Olympian god, and flung

Aside in his triumphal march.

Like prisoners from their dungeon gloom,

Like birds escaping from a snare,

Like school-boys at the hour of play,

All left at once the pent-up room,

And rushed into the open air;

And no more tales were told that day.

PART THIRD

PRELUDE

The evening came; the golden vane

A moment in the sunset glanced,

Then darkened, and then gleamed again,

As from the east the moon advanced

And touched it with a softer light;

While underneath, with flowing mane,

Upon the sign the Red Horse pranced,

And galloped forth into the night.

But brighter than the afternoon

That followed the dark day of rain,

And brighter than the golden vane

That glistened in the rising moon,

Within the ruddy fire-light gleamed;

And every separate window-pane,

Backed by the outer darkness, showed

A mirror, where the flamelets gleamed

And flickered to and fro, and seemed

A bonfire lighted in the road.

Amid the hospitable glow,

Like an old actor on the stage,

With the uncertain voice of age,

The singing chimney chanted low

The homely songs of long ago.

The voice that Ossian heard of yore,

When midnight winds were in his hall;

A ghostly and appealing call,

A sound of days that are no more!

And dark as Ossian sat the Jew,

And listened to the sound, and knew

The passing of the airy hosts,

The gray and misty cloud of ghosts

In their interminable flight;

And listening muttered in his beard,

With accent indistinct and weird,

"Who are ye, children of the Night?"

Beholding his mysterious face,

"Tell me," the gay Sicilian said,

"Why was it that in breaking bread

At supper, you bent down your head

And, musing, paused a little space,

As one who says a silent grace?"

The Jew replied, with solemn air,

"I said the Manichaean's prayer.

It was his faith,--perhaps is mine,--

That life in all its forms is one,

And that its secret conduits run

Unseen, but in unbroken line,

From the great fountain-head divine

Through man and beast, through grain and grass.

Howe'er we struggle, strive, and cry,

From death there can be no escape,

And no escape from life, alas

Because we cannot die, but pass

From one into another shape:

It is but into life we die.

"Therefore the Manichaean said

This simple prayer on breaking bread,

Lest he with hasty hand or knife

Might wound the incarcerated life,

The soul in things that we call dead:

'I did not reap thee, did not bind thee,

I did not thrash thee, did not grind thee,

Nor did I in the oven bake thee!

It was not I, it was another

Did these things unto thee, O brother;

I only have thee, hold thee, break thee!'"

"That birds have souls I can concede,"

The poet cried, with glowing cheeks;

"The flocks that from their beds of reed

Uprising north or southward fly,

And flying write upon the sky

The biforked letter of the Greeks,

As hath been said by Rucellai;

All birds that sing or chirp or cry,

Even those migratory bands,

The minor poets of the air,

The plover, peep, and sanderling,

That hardly can be said to sing,

But pipe along the barren sands,--

All these have souls akin to ours;

So hath the lovely race of flowers:

Thus much I grant, but nothing more.

The rusty hinges of a door

Are not alive because they creak;

This chimney, with its dreary roar,

These rattling windows, do not speak!"

"To me they speak," the Jew replied;

"And in the sounds that sink and soar,

I hear the voices of a tide

That breaks upon an unknown shore!"

Here the Sicilian interfered:

"That was your dream, then, as you dozed

A moment since, with eyes half-closed,

And murmured something in your beard."

The Hebrew smiled, and answered, "Nay;

Not that, but something very near;

Like, and yet not the same, may seem

The vision of my waking dream;

Before it wholly dies away,

Listen to me, and you shall hear."

THE SPANISH JEW'S TALE

AZRAEL

King Solomon, before his palace gate

At evening, on the pavement tessellate

Was walking with a stranger from the East,

Arrayed in rich attire as for a feast,

The mighty Runjeet-Sing, a learned man,

And Rajah of the realms of Hindostan.

And as they walked the guest became aware

Of a white figure in the twilight air,

Gazing intent, as one who with surprise

His form and features seemed to recognize;

And in a whisper to the king he said:

"What is yon shape, that, pallid as the dead,

Is watching me, as if he sought to trace

In the dim light the features of my face?"

The king looked, and replied: "I know him well;

It is the Angel men call Azrael,

'T is the Death Angel; what hast thou to fear?"

And the guest answered: "Lest he should come near,

And speak to me, and take away my breath!

Save me from Azrael, save me from death!

O king, that hast dominion o'er the wind,

Bid it arise and bear me hence to Ind."

The king gazed upward at the cloudless sky,

Whispered a word, and raised his hand on high,

And lo! the signet-ring of chrysoprase

On his uplifted finger seemed to blaze

With hidden fire, and rushing from the west

There came a mighty wind, and seized the guest

And lifted him from earth, and on they passed,

His shining garments streaming in the blast,

A silken banner o'er the walls upreared,

A purple cloud, that gleamed and disappeared.

Then said the Angel, smiling: "If this man

Be Rajah Runjeet-Sing of Hindostan,

Thou hast done well in listening to his prayer;

I was upon my way to seek him there."

INTERLUDE.

"O Edrehi, forbear to-night

Your ghostly legends of affright,

And let the Talmud rest in peace;

Spare us your dismal tales of death

That almost take away one's breath;

So doing, may your tribe increase."

Thus the Sicilian said; then went

And on the spinet's rattling keys

Played Marianina, like a breeze

From Naples and the Southern seas,

That brings us the delicious scent

Of citron and of orange trees,

And memories of soft days of ease

At Capri and Amalfi spent.

"Not so," the eager Poet said;

"At least, not so before I tell

The story of my Azrael,

An angel mortal as ourselves,

Which in an ancient tome I found

Upon a convent's dusty shelves,

Chained with an iron chain, and bound

In parchment, and with clasps of brass,

Lest from its prison, some dark day,

It might be stolen or steal away,

While the good friars were singing mass.

"It is a tale of Charlemagne,

When like a thunder-cloud, that lowers

And sweeps from mountain-crest to coast,

With lightning flaming through its showers,

He swept across the Lombard plain,

Beleaguering with his warlike train

Pavia, the country's pride and boast,

The City of the Hundred Towers."

Thus heralded the tale began,

And thus in sober measure ran.

THE POET'S TALE

CHARLEMAGNE

Olger the Dane and Desiderio,

King of the Lombards, on a lofty tower

Stood gazing northward o'er the rolling plains,

League after league of harvests, to the foot

Of the snow-crested Alps, and saw approach

A mighty army, thronging all the roads

That led into the city. And the King

Said unto Olger, who had passed his youth

As hostage at the court of France, and knew

The Emperor's form and face "Is Charlemagne

Among that host?" And Olger answered: "No."

And still the innumerable multitude

Flowed onward and increased, until the King

Cried in amazement: "Surely Charlemagne

Is coming in the midst of all these knights!"

And Olger answered slowly: "No; not yet;

He will not come so soon." Then much disturbed

King Desiderio asked: "What shall we do,

if he approach with a still greater army!"

And Olger answered: "When he shall appear,

You will behold what manner of man he is;

But what will then befall us I know not."

Then came the guard that never knew repose,

The Paladins of France; and at the sight

The Lombard King o'ercome with terror cried:

"This must be Charlemagne!" and as before

Did Olger answer: "No; not yet, not yet."

And then appeared in panoply complete

The Bishops and the Abbots and the Priests

Of the imperial chapel, and the Counts

And Desiderio could no more endure

The light of day, nor yet encounter death,

But sobbed aloud and said: "Let us go down

And hide us in the bosom of the earth,

Far from the sight and anger of a foe

So terrible as this!" And Olger said:

"When you behold the harvests in the fields

Shaking with fear, the Po and the Ticino

Lashing the city walls with iron waves,

Then may you know that Charlemagne is come.

And even as he spake, in the northwest,

Lo! there uprose a black and threatening cloud,

Out of whose bosom flashed the light of arms

Upon the people pent up in the city;

A light more terrible than any darkness;

And Charlemagne appeared;--a Man of Iron!

His helmet was of iron, and his gloves

Of iron, and his breastplate and his greaves

And tassets were of iron, and his shield.

In his left hand he held an iron spear,

In his right hand his sword invincible.

The horse he rode on had the strength of iron,

And color of iron. All who went before him

Beside him and behind him, his whole host,

Were armed with iron, and their hearts within them

Were stronger than the armor that they wore.

The fields and all the roads were filled with iron,

And points of iron glistened in the sun

And shed a terror through the city streets.

This at a single glance Olger the Dane

Saw from the tower, and turning to the King

Exclaimed in haste: "Behold! this is the man

You looked for with such eagerness!" and then

Fell as one dead at Desiderio's feet.

INTERLUDE

Well pleased all listened to the tale,

That drew, the Student said, its pith

And marrow from the ancient myth

Of some one with an iron flail;

Or that portentous Man of Brass

Hephæstus made in days of yore,

Who stalked about the Cretan shore,

And saw the ships appear and pass,

And threw stones at the Argonauts,

Being filled with indiscriminate ire

That tangled and perplexed his thoughts;

But, like a hospitable host,

When strangers landed on the coast,

Heated himself red-hot with fire,

And hugged them in his arms, and pressed

Their bodies to his burning breast.

The Poet answered: "No, not thus

The legend rose; it sprang at first

Out of the hunger and the thirst

In all men for the marvellous.

And thus it filled and satisfied

The imagination of mankind,

And this ideal to the mind

Was truer than historic fact.

Fancy enlarged and multiplied

The tenors of the awful name

Of Charlemagne, till he became

Armipotent in every act,

And, clothed in mystery, appeared

Not what men saw, but what they feared.

Besides, unless my memory fail,

Your some one with an iron flail

Is not an ancient myth at all,

But comes much later on the scene

As Talus in the Faerie Queene,

The iron groom of Artegall,

Who threshed out falsehood and deceit,

And truth upheld, and righted wrong,

As was, as is the swallow, fleet,

And as the lion is, was strong."

The Theologian said: "Perchance

Your chronicler in writing this

Had in his mind the Anabasis,

Where Xenophon describes the advance

Of Artaxerxes to the fight;

At first the low gray cloud of dust,

And then a blackness o'er the fields

As of a passing thunder-gust,

Then flash of brazen armor bright,

And ranks of men, and spears up-thrust,

Bowmen and troops with wicker shields,

And cavalry equipped in white,

And chariots ranged in front of these

With scythes upon their axle-trees."

To this the Student answered: "Well,

I also have a tale to tell

Of Charlemagne; a tale that throws

A softer light, more tinged with rose,

Than your grim apparition cast

Upon the darkness of the past.

Listen, and hear in English rhyme

What the good Monk of Lauresheim

Gives as the gossip of his time,

In mediaeval Latin prose."

THE STUDENT'S TALE

EMMA AND EGINHARD

When Alcuin taught the sons of Charlemagne,

In the free schools of Aix, how kings should reign,

And with them taught the children of the poor

How subjects should be patient and endure,

He touched the lips of some, as best befit,

With honey from the hives of Holy Writ;

Others intoxicated with the wine

Of ancient history, sweet but less divine;

Some with the wholesome fruits of grammar fed;

Others with mysteries of the stars o'er-head,

That hang suspended in the vaulted sky

Like lamps in some fair palace vast and high.

In sooth, it was a pleasant sight to see

That Saxon monk, with hood and rosary,

With inkhorn at his belt, and pen and book,

And mingled lore and reverence in his look,

Or hear the cloister and the court repeat

The measured footfalls of his sandaled feet,

Or watch him with the pupils of his school,

Gentle of speech, but absolute of rule.

Among them, always earliest in his place.

Was Eginhard, a youth of Frankish race,

Whose face was bright with flashes that forerun

The splendors of a yet unrisen sun.

To him all things were possible, and seemed

Not what he had accomplished, but had dreamed,

And what were tasks to others were his play,

The pastime of an idle holiday.

Smaragdo, Abbot of St. Michael's, said,

With many a shrug and shaking of the head,

Surely some demon must possess the lad,

Who showed more wit than ever schoolboy had,

And learned his Trivium thus without the rod;

But Alcuin said it was the grace of God.

Thus he grew up, in Logic point-device,

Perfect in Grammar, and in Rhetoric nice;

Science of Numbers, Geometric art,

And lore of Stars, and Music knew by heart;

A Minnesinger, long before the times

Of those who sang their love in Suabian rhymes.

The Emperor, when he heard this good report

Of Eginhard much buzzed about the court,

Said to himself, "This stripling seems to be

Purposely sent into the world for me;

He shall become my scribe, and shall be schooled

In all the arts whereby the world is ruled."

Thus did the gentle Eginhard attain

To honor in the court of Charlemagne;

Became the sovereign's favorite, his right hand,

So that his fame was great in all the land,

And all men loved him for his modest grace

And comeliness of figure and of face.

An inmate of the palace, yet recluse,

A man of books, yet sacred from abuse

Among the armed knights with spur on heel,

The tramp of horses and the clang of steel;

And as the Emperor promised he was schooled

In all the arts by which the world is ruled.

But the one art supreme, whose law is fate,

The Emperor never dreamed of till too late.

Home from her convent to the palace came

The lovely Princess Emma, whose sweet name,

Whispered by seneschal or sung by bard,

Had often touched the soul of Eginhard.

He saw her from his window, as in state

She came, by knights attended through the gate;

He saw her at the banquet of that day,

Fresh as the morn, and beautiful as May;

He saw her in the garden, as she strayed

Among the flowers of summer with her maid,

And said to him, "O Eginhard, disclose

The meaning and the mystery of the rose";

And trembling he made answer: "In good sooth,

Its mystery is love, its meaning youth!"

How can I tell the signals and the signs

By which one heart another heart divines?

How can I tell the many thousand ways

By which it keeps the secret it betrays?

O mystery of love! O strange romance!

Among the Peers and Paladins of France,

Shining in steel, and prancing on gay steeds,

Noble by birth, yet nobler by great deeds,

The Princess Emma had no words nor looks

But for this clerk, this man of thought and books.

The summer passed, the autumn came; the stalks

Of lilies blackened in the garden walks;

The leaves fell, russet-golden and blood-red,

Love-letters thought the poet fancy-led,

Or Jove descending in a shower of gold

Into the lap of Danae of old;

For poets cherish many a strange conceit,

And love transmutes all nature by its heat.

No more the garden lessons, nor the dark

And hurried meetings in the twilight park;

But now the studious lamp, and the delights

Of firesides in the silent winter nights,

And watching from his window hour by hour

The light that burned in Princess Emma's tower.

At length one night, while musing by the fire,

O'ercome at last by his insane desire,--

For what will reckless love not do and dare?--

He crossed the court, and climbed the winding stair,

With some feigned message in the Emperor's name;

But when he to the lady's presence came

He knelt down at her feet, until she laid

Her hand upon him, like a naked blade,

And whispered in his ear: "Arise, Sir Knight,

To my heart's level, O my heart's delight."

And there he lingered till the crowing cock,

The Alectryon of the farmyard and the flock,

Sang his aubade with lusty voice and clear,

To tell the sleeping world that dawn was near.

And then they parted; but at parting, lo!

They saw the palace courtyard white with snow,

And, placid as a nun, the moon on high

Gazing from cloudy cloisters of the sky.

"Alas!" he said, "how hide the fatal line

Of footprints leading from thy door to mine,

And none returning!" Ah, he little knew

What woman's wit, when put to proof, can do!

That night the Emperor, sleepless with the cares

And troubles that attend on state affairs,

Had risen before the dawn, and musing gazed

Into the silent night, as one amazed

To see the calm that reigned o'er all supreme,

When his own reign was but a troubled dream.

The moon lit up the gables capped with snow,

And the white roofs, and half the court below,

And he beheld a form, that seemed to cower

Beneath a burden, come from Emma's tower,--

A woman, who upon her shoulders bore

Clerk Eginhard to his own private door,

And then returned in haste, but still essayed

To tread the footprints she herself had made;

And as she passed across the lighted space,

The Emperor saw his daughter Emma's face!

He started not; he did not speak or moan,

But seemed as one who hath been turned to stone;

And stood there like a statue, nor awoke

Out of his trance of pain, till morning broke,

Till the stars faded, and the moon went down,

And o'er the towers and steeples of the town

Came the gray daylight; then the sun, who took

The empire of the world with sovereign look,

Suffusing with a soft and golden glow

All the dead landscape in its shroud of snow,

Touching with flame the tapering chapel spires,

Windows and roofs, and smoke of household fires,

And kindling park and palace as he came;

The stork's nest on the chimney seemed in flame.

And thus he stood till Eginhard appeared,

Demure and modest with his comely beard

And flowing flaxen tresses, come to ask,

As was his wont, the day's appointed task.

The Emperor looked upon him with a smile,

And gently said: "My son, wait yet awhile;

This hour my council meets upon some great

And very urgent business of the state.

Come back within the hour. On thy return

The work appointed for thee shalt thou learn.

Having dismissed this gallant Troubadour,

He summoned straight his council, and secure

And steadfast in his purpose, from the throne

All the adventure of the night made known;

Then asked for sentence; and with eager breath

Some answered banishment, and others death.

Then spake the king: "Your sentence is not mine;

Life is the gift of God, and is divine;

Nor from these palace walls shall one depart

Who carries such a secret in his heart;

My better judgment points another way.

Good Alcuin, I remember how one day

When my Pepino asked you, 'What are men?'

You wrote upon his tablets with your pen,

'Guests of the grave and travellers that pass!'

This being true of all men, we, alas!

Being all fashioned of the selfsame dust,

Let us be merciful as well as just;

This passing traveller, who hath stolen away

The brightest jewel of my crown to-day,

Shall of himself the precious gem restore;

By giving it, I make it mine once more.

Over those fatal footprints I will throw

My ermine mantle like another snow."

Then Eginhard was summoned to the hall,

And entered, and in presence of them all,

The Emperor said: "My son, for thou to me

Hast been a son, and evermore shalt be,

Long hast thou served thy sovereign, and thy zeal

Pleads to me with importunate appeal,

While I have been forgetful to requite

Thy service and affection as was right.

But now the hour is come, when I, thy Lord,

Will crown thy love with such supreme reward,

A gift so precious kings have striven in vain

To win it from the hands of Charlemagne."

Then sprang the portals of the chamber wide,

And Princess Emma entered, in the pride

Of birth and beauty, that in part o'er-came

The conscious terror and the blush of shame.

And the good Emperor rose up from his throne,

And taking her white hand within his own

Placed it in Eginhard's, and said: "My son

This is the gift thy constant zeal hath won;

Thus I repay the royal debt I owe,

And cover up the footprints in the snow."

INTERLUDE

Thus ran the Student's pleasant rhyme

Of Eginhard and love and youth;

Some doubted its historic truth,

But while they doubted, ne'ertheless

Saw in it gleams of truthfulness,

And thanked the Monk of Lauresheim.

This they discussed in various mood;

Then in the silence that ensued

Was heard a sharp and sudden sound

As of a bowstring snapped in air;

And the Musician with a bound

Sprang up in terror from his chair,

And for a moment listening stood,

Then strode across the room, and found

His dear, his darling violin

Still lying safe asleep within

Its little cradle, like a child

That gives a sudden cry of pain,

And wakes to fall asleep again;

And as he looked at it and smiled,

By the uncertain light beguiled,

Despair! two strings were broken in twain.

While all lamented and made moan,

With many a sympathetic word

As if the loss had been their own,

Deeming the tones they might have heard

Sweeter than they had heard before,

They saw the Landlord at the door,

The missing man, the portly Squire!

He had not entered, but he stood

With both arms full of seasoned wood,

To feed the much-devouring fire,

That like a lion in a cage

Lashed its long tail and roared with rage.

The missing man! Ah, yes, they said,

Missing, but whither had he fled?

Where had he hidden himself away?

No farther than the barn or shed;

He had not hidden himself, nor fled;

How should he pass the rainy day

But in his barn with hens and hay,

Or mending harness, cart, or sled?

Now, having come, he needs must stay

And tell his tale as well as they.

The Landlord answered only: "These

Are logs from the dead apple-trees

Of the old orchard planted here

By the first Howe of Sudbury.

Nor oak nor maple has so clear

A flame, or burns so quietly,

Or leaves an ash so clean and white";

Thinking by this to put aside

The impending tale that terrified;

When suddenly, to his delight,

The Theologian interposed,

Saying that when the door was closed,

And they had stopped that draft of cold,

Unpleasant night air, he proposed

To tell a tale world-wide apart

From that the Student had just told;

World-wide apart, and yet akin,

As showing that the human heart

Beats on forever as of old,

As well beneath the snow-white fold

Of Quaker kerchief, as within

Sendal or silk or cloth of gold,

And without preface would begin.

And then the clamorous clock struck eight,

Deliberate, with sonorous chime

Slow measuring out the march of time,

Like some grave Consul of old Rome

In Jupiter's temple driving home

The nails that marked the year and date.

Thus interrupted in his rhyme,

The Theologian needs must wait;

But quoted Horace, where he sings

The dire Necessity of things,

That drives into the roofs sublime

Of new-built houses of the great

The adamantine nails of Fate.

When ceased the little carillon

To herald from its wooden tower

The important transit of the hour,

The Theologian hastened on,

Content to be all owed at last

To sing his Idyl of the Past.

THE THEOLOGIAN'S TALE

ELIZABETH

I

"Ah, how short are the days! How soon the night overtakes us!

In the old country the twilight is longer; but here in the forest

Suddenly comes the dark, with hardly a pause in its coming,

Hardly a moment between the two lights, the day and the lamplight;

Yet how grand is the winter! How spotless the snow is, and perfect!"

Thus spake Elizabeth Haddon at nightfall to Hannah the housemaid,

As in the farm-house kitchen, that served for kitchen and parlor,

By the window she sat with her work, and looked on a landscape

White as the great white sheet that Peter saw in his vision,

By the four corners let down and descending out of the heavens.

Covered with snow were the forests of pine, and the fields and the meadows.

Nothing was dark but the sky, and the distant Delaware flowing

Down from its native hills, a peaceful and bountiful river.

Then with a smile on her lips made answer Hannah the housemaid:

"Beautiful winter! yea, the winter is beautiful, surely,

If one could only walk like a fly with one's feet on the ceiling.

But the great Delaware River is not like the Thames, as we saw it

Out of our upper windows in Rotherhithe Street in the Borough,

Crowded with masts and sails of vessels coming and going;

Here there is nothing but pines, with patches of snow on their branches.

There is snow in the air, and see! it is falling already;

All the roads will be blocked, and I pity Joseph to-morrow,

Breaking his way through the drifts, with his sled and oxen; and then, too,

How in all the world shall we get to Meeting on First-Day?"

But Elizabeth checked her, and answered, mildly reproving:

"Surely the Lord will provide; for unto the snow he sayeth,

Be thou on the earth, the good Lord sayeth; he is it

Giveth snow like wool, like ashes scatters the hoar-frost."

So she folded her work and laid it away in her basket.

Meanwhile Hannah the housemaid had closed and fastened the shutters,

Spread the cloth, and lighted the lamp on the table, and placed there

Plates and cups from the dresser, the brown rye loaf, and the butter

Fresh from the dairy, and then, protecting her hand with a holder,

Took from the crane in the chimney the steaming and simmering kettle,

Poised it aloft in the air, and filled up the earthen teapot,

Made in Delft, and adorned with quaint and wonderful figures.

Then Elizabeth said, "Lo! Joseph is long on his errand.

I have sent him away with a hamper of food and of clothing

For the poor in the village. A good lad and cheerful is Joseph;

In the right place is his heart, and his hand is ready and willing."

Thus in praise of her servant she spake, and Hannah the housemaid

Laughed with her eyes, as she listened, but governed her tongue, and was silent,

While her mistress went on: "The house is far from the village;

We should be lonely here, were it not for Friends that in passing

Sometimes tarry o'ernight, and make us glad by their coming."

Thereupon answered Hannah the housemaid, the thrifty, the frugal:

"Yea, they come and they tarry, as if thy house were a tavern;

Open to all are its doors, and they come and go like the pigeons

In and out of the holes of the pigeon-house over the hayloft,

Cooing and smoothing their feathers and basking themselves in the sunshine."

But in meekness of spirit, and calmly, Elizabeth answered:

"All I have is the Lord's, not mine to give or withhold it;

I but distribute his gifts to the poor, and to those of his people

Who in journeyings often surrender their lives to his service.

His, not mine, are the gifts, and only so far can I make them

Mine, as in giving I add my heart to whatever is given.

Therefore my excellent father first built this house in the clearing;

Though he came not himself, I came; for the Lord was my guidance,

Leading me here for this service. We must not grudge, then, to others

Ever the cup of cold water, or crumbs that fall from our table."

Thus rebuked, for a season was silent the penitent housemaid;

And Elizabeth said in tones even sweeter and softer:

"Dost thou remember, Hannah, the great May-Meeting in London,

When I was still a child, how we sat in the silent assembly,

Waiting upon the Lord in patient and passive submission?

No one spake, till at length a young man, a stranger, John Estaugh,

Moved by the Spirit, rose, as if he were John the Apostle,

Speaking such words of power that they bowed our hearts, as a strong wind

Bends the grass of the fields, or grain that is ripe for the sickle.

Thoughts of him to-day have been oft borne inward upon me,

Wherefore I do not know; but strong is the feeling within me

That once more I shall see a face I have never forgotten."

II

E'en as she spake they heard the musical jangle of sleigh-bells,

First far off, with a dreamy sound and faint in the distance,

Then growing nearer and louder, and turning into the farmyard,

Till it stopped at the door, with sudden creaking of runners.

Then there were voices heard as of two men talking together,

And to herself, as she listened, upbraiding said Hannah the housemaid,

"It is Joseph come back, and I wonder what stranger is with him?"

Down from its nail she took and lighted the great tin lantern

Pierced with holes, and round, and roofed like the top of a lighthouse,

And went forth to receive the coming guest at the doorway,

Casting into the dark a network of glimmer and shadow

Over the falling snow, the yellow sleigh, and the horses,

And the forms of men, snow-covered, looming gigantic.

Then giving Joseph the lantern, she entered the house with the stranger.

Youthful he was and tall, and his cheeks aglow with the night air;

And as he entered, Elizabeth rose, and, going to meet him,

As if an unseen power had announced and preceded his presence,

And he had come as one whose coming had long been expected,

Quietly gave him her hand, and said, "Thou art welcome, John Estaugh."

And the stranger replied, with staid and quiet behavior,

"Dost thou remember me still, Elizabeth? After so many

Years have passed, it seemeth a wonderful thing that I find thee.

Surely the hand of the Lord conducted me here to thy threshold.

For as I journeyed along, and pondered alone and in silence

On his ways, that are past finding out, I saw in the snow-mist,

Seemingly weary with travel, a wayfarer, who by the wayside

Paused and waited. Forthwith I remembered Queen Candace's eunuch,

How on the way that goes down from Jerusalem unto Gaza,

Reading Esaias the Prophet, he journeyed, and spake unto Philip,

Praying him to come up and sit in his chariot with him.

So I greeted the man, and he mounted the sledge beside me,

And as we talked on the way he told me of thee and thy homestead,

How, being led by the light of the Spirit, that never deceiveth,

Full of zeal for the work of the Lord, thou hadst come to this country.

And I remembered thy name, and thy father and mother in England,

And on my journey have stopped to see thee, Elizabeth Haddon.

Wishing to strengthen thy hand in the labors of love thou art doing."

And Elizabeth answered with confident voice, and serenely

Looking into his face with her innocent eyes as she answered,

"Surely the hand of the Lord is in it; his Spirit hath led thee

Out of the darkness and storm to the light and peace of my fireside."

Then, with stamping of feet, the door was opened, and Joseph

Entered, bearing the lantern, and, carefully blowing the light out,

Rung it up on its nail, and all sat down to their supper;

For underneath that roof was no distinction of persons,

But one family only, one heart, one hearth and one household.

When the supper was ended they drew their chairs to the fireplace,

Spacious, open-hearted, profuse of flame and of firewood,

Lord of forests unfelled, and not a gleaner of fagots,

Spreading its arms to embrace with inexhaustible bounty

All who fled from the cold, exultant, laughing at winter!

Only Hannah the housemaid was busy in clearing the table,

Coming and going, and hustling about in closet and chamber.

Then Elizabeth told her story again to John Estaugh,

Going far back to the past, to the early days of her childhood;

How she had waited and watched, in all her doubts and besetments

Comforted with the extendings and holy, sweet inflowings

Of the spirit of love, till the voice imperative sounded,

And she obeyed the voice, and cast in her lot with her people

Here in the desert land, and God would provide for the issue.

Meanwhile Joseph sat with folded hands, and demurely

Listened, or seemed to listen, and in the silence that followed

Nothing was heard for a while but the step of Hannah the housemaid

Walking the floor overhead, and setting the chambers in order.

And Elizabeth said, with a smile of compassion, "The maiden

Hath a light heart in her breast, but her feet are heavy and awkward."

Inwardly Joseph laughed, but governed his tongue, and was silent.

Then came the hour of sleep, death's counterfeit, nightly rehearsal

Of the great Silent Assembly, the Meeting of shadows, where no man

Speaketh, but all are still, and the peace and rest are unbroken!

Silently over that house the blessing of slumber descended.

But when the morning dawned, and the sun uprose in his splendor,

Breaking his way through clouds that encumbered his path in the heavens,

Joseph was seen with his sled and oxen breaking a pathway

Through the drifts of snow; the horses already were harnessed,

And John Estaugh was standing and taking leave at the threshold,

Saying that he should return at the Meeting in May; while above them

Hannah the housemaid, the homely, was looking out of the attic,

Laughing aloud at Joseph, then suddenly closing the casement,

As the bird in a cuckoo-clock peeps out of its window,

Then disappears again, and closes the shutter behind it.

III

Now was the winter gone, and the snow; and Robin the Redbreast,

Boasted on bush and tree it was he, it was he and no other

That had covered with leaves the Babes in the Wood, and blithely

All the birds sang with him, and little cared for his boasting,

Or for his Babes in the Wood, or the Cruel Uncle, and only

Sang for the mates they had chosen, and cared for the nests they were building.

With them, but more sedately and meekly, Elizabeth Haddon

Sang in her inmost heart, but her lips were silent and songless.

Thus came the lovely spring with a rush of blossoms and music,

Flooding the earth with flowers, and the air with melodies vernal.

Then it came to pass, one pleasant morning, that slowly

Up the road there came a cavalcade, as of pilgrims

Men and women, wending their way to the Quarterly Meeting

In the neighboring town; and with them came riding John Estaugh.

At Elizabeth's door they stopped to rest, and alighting

Tasted the currant wine, and the bread of rye, and the honey

Brought from the hives, that stood by the sunny wall of the garden;

Then remounted their horses, refreshed, and continued their journey,

And Elizabeth with them, and Joseph, and Hannah the housemaid.

But, as they started, Elizabeth lingered a little, and leaning

Over her horse's neck, in a whisper said to John Estaugh

"Tarry awhile behind, for I have something to tell thee,

Not to be spoken lightly, nor in the presence of others;

Them it concerneth not, only thee and me it concerneth."

And they rode slowly along through the woods, conversing together.

It was a pleasure to breathe the fragrant air of the forest;

It was a pleasure to live on that bright and happy May morning!

Then Elizabeth said, though still with a certain reluctance,

As if impelled to reveal a secret she fain would have guarded:

"I will no longer conceal what is laid upon me to tell thee;

I have received from the Lord a charge to love thee, John Estaugh."

And John Estaugh made answer, surprised by the words she had spoken,

"Pleasant to me are thy converse, thy ways, thy meekness of spirit;

Pleasant thy frankness of speech, and thy soul's immaculate whiteness,

Love without dissimulation, a holy and inward adorning.

But I have yet no light to lead me, no voice to direct me.

When the Lord's work is done, and the toil and the labor completed

He hath appointed to me, I will gather into the stillness

Of my own heart awhile, and listen and wait for his guidance."

Then Elizabeth said, not troubled nor wounded in spirit,

"So is it best, John Estaugh. We will not speak of it further.

It hath been laid upon me to tell thee this, for to-morrow

Thou art going away, across the sea, and I know not

When I shall see thee more; but if the Lord hath decreed it,

Thou wilt return again to seek me here and to find me."

And they rode onward in silence, and entered the town with the others.

IV

Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing,

Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness;

So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another,

Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.

Now went on as of old the quiet life of the homestead.

Patient and unrepining Elizabeth labored, in all things

Mindful not of herself, but bearing the burdens of others,

Always thoughtful and kind and untroubled; and Hannah the housemaid

Diligent early and late, and rosy with washing and scouring,

Still as of old disparaged the eminent merits of Joseph,

And was at times reproved for her light and frothy behavior,

For her shy looks, and her careless words, and her evil surmisings,

Being pressed down somewhat like a cart with sheaves overladen,

As she would sometimes say to Joseph, quoting the Scriptures.

Meanwhile John Estaugh departed across the sea, and departing

Carried hid in his heart a secret sacred and precious,

Filling its chambers with fragrance, and seeming to him in its sweetness

Mary's ointment of spikenard, that filled all the house with its odor.

O lost days of delight, that are wasted in doubting and waiting!

O lost hours and days in which we might have been happy!

But the light shone at last, and guided his wavering footsteps,

And at last came the voice, imperative, questionless, certain.

Then John Estaugh came back o'er the sea for the gift that was offered,

Better than houses and lands, the gift of a woman's affection.

And on the First-Day that followed, he rose in the Silent Assembly,

Holding in his strong hand a hand that trembled a little,

Promising to be kind and true and faithful in all things.

Such were the marriage-rites of John and Elizabeth Estaugh.

And not otherwise Joseph, the honest, the diligent servant,

Sped in his bashful wooing with homely Hannah the housemaid;

For when he asked her the question, she answered, "Nay"; and then added

"But thee may make believe, and see what will come of it, Joseph."

INTERLUDE

"A pleasant and a winsome tale,"

The Student said, "though somewhat pale

And quiet in its coloring,

As if it caught its tone and air

From the gray suits that Quakers wear;

Yet worthy of some German bard,

Hebel, or Voss, or Eberhard,

Who love of humble themes to sing,

In humble verse; but no more true

Than was the tale I told to you."

The Theologian made reply,

And with some warmth, "That I deny;

'T is no invention of my own,

But something well and widely known

To readers of a riper age,

Writ by the skilful hand that wrote

The Indian tale of Hobomok,

And Philothea's classic page.

I found it like a waif afloat

Or dulse uprooted from its rock,

On the swift tides that ebb and flow

In daily papers, and at flood

Bear freighted vessels to and fro,

But later, when the ebb is low,

Leave a long waste of sand and mud."

"It matters little," quoth the Jew;

"The cloak of truth is lined with lies,

Sayeth some proverb old and wise;

And Love is master of all arts,

And puts it into human hearts

The strangest things to say and do."

And here the controversy closed

Abruptly, ere 't was well begun;

For the Sicilian interposed

With, "Lordlings, listen, every one

That listen may, unto a tale

That's merrier than the nightingale;

A tale that cannot boast, forsooth,

A single rag or shred of truth;

That does not leave the mind in doubt

As to the with it or without;

A naked falsehood and absurd

As mortal ever told or heard.

Therefore I tell it; or, maybe,

Simply because it pleases me."

THE SICILIAN'S TALE

THE MONK OF CASAL-MAGGIORE

Once on a time, some centuries ago,

In the hot sunshine two Franciscan friars

Wended their weary way with footsteps slow

Back to their convent, whose white walls and spires

Gleamed on the hillside like a patch of snow;

Covered with dust they were, and torn by briers,

And bore like sumpter-mules upon their backs

The badge of poverty, their beggar's sacks.

The first was Brother Anthony, a spare

And silent man, with pallid cheeks and thin,

Much given to vigils, penance, fasting, prayer,

Solemn and gray, and worn with discipline,

As if his body but white ashes were,

Heaped on the living coals that glowed within;

A simple monk, like many of his day,

Whose instinct was to listen and obey.

A different man was Brother Timothy,

Of larger mould and of a coarser paste;

A rubicund and stalwart monk was he,

Broad in the shoulders, broader in the waist,

Who often filled the dull refectory

With noise by which the convent was disgraced,

But to the mass-book gave but little heed,

By reason he had never learned to read.

Now, as they passed the outskirts of a wood,

They saw, with mingled pleasure and surprise,

Fast tethered to a tree an ass, that stood

Lazily winking his large, limpid eyes.

The farmer Gilbert of that neighborhood

His owner was, who, looking for supplies

Of fagots, deeper in the wood had strayed,

Leaving his beast to ponder in the shade.

As soon as Brother Timothy espied

The patient animal, he said: "Good-lack!

Thus for our needs doth Providence provide;

We'll lay our wallets on the creature's back."

This being done, he leisurely untied

From head and neck the halter of the jack,

And put it round his own, and to the tree

Stood tethered fast as if the ass were he.

And, bursting forth into a merry laugh,

He cried to Brother Anthony: "Away!

And drive the ass before you with your staff;

And when you reach the convent you may say

You left me at a farm, half tired and half

Ill with a fever, for a night and day,

And that the farmer lent this ass to bear

Our wallets, that are heavy with good fare."

Now Brother Anthony, who knew the pranks

Of Brother Timothy, would not persuade

Or reason with him on his quirks and cranks,

But, being obedient, silently obeyed;

And, smiting with his staff the ass's flanks,

Drove him before him over hill and glade,

Safe with his provend to the convent gate,

Leaving poor Brother Timothy to his fate.

Then Gilbert, laden with fagots for his fire,

Forth issued from the wood, and stood aghast

To see the ponderous body of the friar

Standing where he had left his donkey last.

Trembling he stood, and dared not venture nigher,

But stared, and gaped, and crossed himself full fast;

For, being credulous and of little wit,

He thought it was some demon from the pit.

While speechless and bewildered thus he gazed,

And dropped his load of fagots on the ground,

Quoth Brother Timothy: "Be not amazed

That where you left a donkey should be found

A poor Franciscan friar, half-starved and crazed,

Standing demure and with a halter bound;

But set me free, and hear the piteous story

Of Brother Timothy of Casal-Maggiore.

"I am a sinful man, although you see

I wear the consecrated cowl and cape;

You never owned an ass, but you owned me,

Changed and transformed from my own natural shape

All for the deadly sin of gluttony,

From which I could not otherwise escape,

Than by this penance, dieting on grass,

And being worked and beaten as an ass.

"Think of the ignominy I endured;

Think of the miserable life I led,

The toil and blows to which I was inured,

My wretched lodging in a windy shed,

My scanty fare so grudgingly procured,

The damp and musty straw that formed my bed!

But, having done this penance for my sins,

My life as man and monk again begins."

The simple Gilbert, hearing words like these,

Was conscience-stricken, and fell down apace

Before the friar upon his bended knees,

And with a suppliant voice implored his grace;

And the good monk, now very much at ease,

Granted him pardon with a smiling face,

Nor could refuse to be that night his guest,

It being late, and he in need of rest.

Upon a hillside, where the olive thrives,

With figures painted on its white-washed walls,

The cottage stood; and near the humming hives

Made murmurs as of far-off waterfalls;

A place where those who love secluded lives

Might live content, and, free from noise and brawls,

Like Claudian's Old Man of Verona here

Measure by fruits the slow-revolving year.

And, coming to this cottage of content

They found his children, and the buxom wench

His wife, Dame Cicely, and his father, bent

With years and labor, seated on a bench,

Repeating over some obscure event

In the old wars of Milanese and French;

All welcomed the Franciscan, with a sense

Of sacred awe and humble reverence.

When Gilbert told them what had come to pass,

How beyond question, cavil, or surmise,

Good Brother Timothy had been their ass,

You should have seen the wonder in their eyes;

You should have heard them cry, "Alas! alas!

Have heard their lamentations and their sighs!

For all believed the story, and began

To see a saint in this afflicted man.

Forthwith there was prepared a grand repast,

To satisfy the craving of the friar

After so rigid and prolonged a fast;

The bustling housewife stirred the kitchen fire;

Then her two barnyard fowls, her best and last,

Were put to death, at her express desire,

And served up with a salad in a bowl,

And flasks of country wine to crown the whole.

It would not be believed should I repeat

How hungry Brother Timothy appeared;

It was a pleasure but to see him eat,

His white teeth flashing through his russet beard,

His face aglow and flushed with wine and meat,

His roguish eyes that rolled and laughed and leered!

Lord! how he drank the blood-red country wine

As if the village vintage were divine!

And all the while he talked without surcease,

And told his merry tales with jovial glee

That never flagged, but rather did increase,

And laughed aloud as if insane were he,

And wagged his red beard, matted like a fleece,

And cast such glances at Dame Cicely

That Gilbert now grew angry with his guest,

And thus in words his rising wrath expressed.

"Good father," said he, "easily we see

How needful in some persons, and how right,

Mortification of the flesh may be.

The indulgence you have given it to-night,

After long penance, clearly proves to me

Your strength against temptation is but slight,

And shows the dreadful peril you are in

Of a relapse into your deadly sin.

"To-morrow morning, with the rising sun,

Go back unto your convent, nor refrain

From fasting and from scourging, for you run

Great danger to become an ass again,

Since monkish flesh and asinine are one;

Therefore be wise, nor longer here remain,

Unless you wish the scourge should be applied

By other hands, that will not spare your hide."

When this the monk had heard, his color fled

And then returned, like lightning in the air,

Till he was all one blush from foot to head,

And even the bald spot in his russet hair

Turned from its usual pallor to bright red!

The old man was asleep upon his chair.

Then all retired, and sank into the deep

And helpless imbecility of sleep.

They slept until the dawn of day drew near,

Till the cock should have crowed, but did not crow,

For they had slain the shining chanticleer

And eaten him for supper, as you know.

The monk was up betimes and of good cheer,

And, having breakfasted, made haste to go,

As if he heard the distant matin bell,

And had but little time to say farewell.

Fresh was the morning as the breath of kine;

Odors of herbs commingled with the sweet

Balsamic exhalations of the pine;

A haze was in the air presaging heat;

Uprose the sun above the Apennine,

And all the misty valleys at its feet

Were full of the delirious song of birds,

Voices of men, and bells, and low of herds.

All this to Brother Timothy was naught;

He did not care for scenery, nor here

His busy fancy found the thing it sought;

But when he saw the convent walls appear,

And smoke from kitchen chimneys upward caught

And whirled aloft into the atmosphere,

He quickened his slow footsteps, like a beast

That scents the stable a league off at least.

And as he entered though the convent gate

He saw there in the court the ass, who stood

Twirling his ears about, and seemed to wait,

Just as he found him waiting in the wood;

And told the Prior that, to alleviate

The daily labors of the brotherhood,

The owner, being a man of means and thrift,

Bestowed him on the convent as a gift.

And thereupon the Prior for many days

Revolved this serious matter in his mind,

And turned it over many different ways,

Hoping that some safe issue he might find;

But stood in fear of what the world would say,

If he accepted presents of this kind,

Employing beasts of burden for the packs,

That lazy monks should carry on their backs.

Then, to avoid all scandal of the sort,

And stop the mouth of cavil, he decreed

That he would cut the tedious matter short,

And sell the ass with all convenient speed,

Thus saving the expense of his support,

And hoarding something for a time of need.

So he despatched him to the neighboring Fair,

And freed himself from cumber and from care.

It happened now by chance, as some might say,

Others perhaps would call it destiny,

Gilbert was at the Fair; and heard a bray,

And nearer came, and saw that it was he,

And whispered in his ear, "Ah, lackaday!

Good father, the rebellious flesh, I see,

Has changed you back into an ass again,

And all my admonitions were in vain."

The ass, who felt this breathing in his ear,

Did not turn round to look, but shook his head,

As if he were not pleased these words to hear,

And contradicted all that had been said.

And this made Gilbert cry in voice more clear,

"I know you well; your hair is russet-red;

Do not deny it; for you are the same

Franciscan friar, and Timothy by name."

The ass, though now the secret had come out,

Was obstinate, and shook his head again;

Until a crowd was gathered round about

To hear this dialogue between the twain;

And raised their voices in a noisy shout

When Gilbert tried to make the matter plain,

And flouted him and mocked him all day long

With laughter and with jibes and scraps of song.

"If this be Brother Timothy," they cried,

"Buy him, and feed him on the tenderest grass;

Thou canst not do too much for one so tried

As to be twice transformed into an ass."

So simple Gilbert bought him, and untied

His halter, and o'er mountain and morass

He led him homeward, talking as he went

Of good behavior and a mind content.

The children saw them coming, and advanced,

Shouting with joy, and hung about his neck,--

Not Gilbert's, but the ass's,--round him danced,

And wove green garlands where-withal to deck

His sacred person; for again it chanced

Their childish feelings, without rein or check,

Could not discriminate in any way

A donkey from a friar of Orders Gray.

"O Brother Timothy," the children said,

"You have come back to us just as before;

We were afraid, and thought that you were dead,

And we should never see you any more."

And then they kissed the white star on his head,

That like a birth-mark or a badge he wore,

And patted him upon the neck and face,

And said a thousand things with childish grace.

Thenceforward and forever he was known

As Brother Timothy, and led alway

A life of luxury, till he had grown

Ungrateful being stuffed with corn and hay,

And very vicious. Then in angry tone,

Rousing himself, poor Gilbert said one day

"When simple kindness is misunderstood

A little flagellation may do good."

His many vices need not here be told;

Among them was a habit that he had

Of flinging up his heels at young and old,

Breaking his halter, running off like mad

O'er pasture-lands and meadow, wood and wold,

And other misdemeanors quite as bad;

But worst of all was breaking from his shed

At night, and ravaging the cabbage-bed.

So Brother Timothy went back once more

To his old life of labor and distress;

Was beaten worse than he had been before.

And now, instead of comfort and caress,

Came labors manifold and trials sore;

And as his toils increased his food grew less,

Until at last the great consoler, Death,

Ended his many sufferings with his breath.

Great was the lamentation when he died;

And mainly that he died impenitent;

Dame Cicely bewailed, the children cried,

The old man still remembered the event

In the French war, and Gilbert magnified

His many virtues, as he came and went,

And said: "Heaven pardon Brother Timothy,

And keep us from the sin of gluttony."

INTERLUDE

"Signor Luigi," said the Jew,

When the Sicilian's tale was told,

"The were-wolf is a legend old,

But the were-ass is something new,

And yet for one I think it true.

The days of wonder have not ceased

If there are beasts in forms of men,

As sure it happens now and then,

Why may not man become a beast,

In way of punishment at least?

"But this I will not now discuss,

I leave the theme, that we may thus

Remain within the realm of song.

The story that I told before,

Though not acceptable to all,

At least you did not find too long.

I beg you, let me try again,

With something in a different vein,

Before you bid the curtain fall.

Meanwhile keep watch upon the door,

Nor let the Landlord leave his chair,

Lest he should vanish into air,

And thus elude our search once more."

Thus saying, from his lips he blew

A little cloud of perfumed breath,

And then, as if it were a clew

To lead his footsteps safely through,

Began his tale as followeth.

THE SPANISH JEW'S SECOND TALE

SCANDERBEG

The battle is fought and won

By King Ladislaus the Hun,

In fire of hell and death's frost,

On the day of Pentecost.

And in rout before his path

From the field of battle red

Flee all that are not dead

Of the army of Amurath.

In the darkness of the night

Iskander, the pride and boast

Of that mighty Othman host,

With his routed Turks, takes flight

From the battle fought and lost

On the day of Pentecost;

Leaving behind him dead

The army of Amurath,

The vanguard as it led,

The rearguard as it fled,

Mown down in the bloody swath

Of the battle's aftermath.

But he cared not for Hospodars,

Nor for Baron or Voivode,

As on through the night he rode

And gazed at the fateful stars,

That were shining overhead

But smote his steed with his staff,

And smiled to himself, and said;

"This is the time to laugh."

In the middle of the night,

In a halt of the hurrying flight,

There came a Scribe of the King

Wearing his signet ring,

And said in a voice severe:

"This is the first dark blot

On thy name, George Castriot!

Alas why art thou here,

And the army of Amurath slain,

And left on the battle plain?"

And Iskander answered and said:

"They lie on the bloody sod

By the hoofs of horses trod;

But this was the decree

Of the watchers overhead;

For the war belongeth to God,

And in battle who are we,

Who are we, that shall withstand

The wind of his lifted hand?"

Then he bade them bind with chains

This man of books and brains;

And the Scribe said: "What misdeed

Have I done, that, without need,

Thou doest to me this thing?"

And Iskander answering

Said unto him: "Not one

Misdeed to me hast thou done;

But for fear that thou shouldst run

And hide thyself from me,

Have I done this unto thee.

"Now write me a writing, O Scribe,

And a blessing be on thy tribe!

A writing sealed with thy ring,

To King Amurath's Pasha

In the city of Croia,

The city moated and walled,

That he surrender the same

In the name of my master, the King;

For what is writ in his name

Can never be recalled."

And the Scribe bowed low in dread,

And unto Iskander said:

"Allah is great and just,

But we are as ashes and dust;

How shall I do this thing,

When I know that my guilty head

Will be forfeit to the King?"

Then swift as a shooting star

The curved and shining blade

Of Iskander's scimetar

From its sheath, with jewels bright,

Shot, as he thundered: "Write!"

And the trembling Scribe obeyed,

And wrote in the fitful glare

Of the bivouac fire apart,

With the chill of the midnight air

On his forehead white and bare,

And the chill of death in his heart.

Then again Iskander cried:

"Now follow whither I ride,

For here thou must not stay.

Thou shalt be as my dearest friend,

And honors without end

Shall surround thee on every side,

And attend thee night and day."

But the sullen Scribe replied

"Our pathways here divide;

Mine leadeth not thy way."

And even as he spoke

Fell a sudden scimetar-stroke,

When no one else was near;

And the Scribe sank to the ground,

As a stone, pushed from the brink

Of a black pool, might sink

With a sob and disappear;

And no one saw the deed;

And in the stillness around

No sound was heard but the sound

Of the hoofs of Iskander's steed,

As forward he sprang with a bound.

Then onward he rode and afar,

With scarce three hundred men,

Through river and forest and fen,

O'er the mountains of Argentar;

And his heart was merry within,

When he crossed the river Drin,

And saw in the gleam of the morn

The White Castle Ak-Hissar,

The city Croia called,

The city moated and walled,

The city where he was born,--

And above it the morning star.

Then his trumpeters in the van

On their silver bugles blew,

And in crowds about him ran

Albanian and Turkoman,

That the sound together drew.

And he feasted with his friends,

And when they were warm with wine,

He said: "O friends of mine,

Behold what fortune sends,

And what the fates design!

King Amurath commands

That my father's wide domain,

This city and all its lands,

Shall be given to me again."

Then to the Castle White

He rode in regal state,

And entered in at the gate

In all his arms bedight,

And gave to the Pasha

Who ruled in Croia

The writing of the King,

Sealed with his signet ring.

And the Pasha bowed his head,

And after a silence said:

"Allah is just and great!

I yield to the will divine,

The city and lands are thine;

Who shall contend with fate?"

Anon from the castle walls

The crescent banner falls,

And the crowd beholds instead,

Like a portent in the sky,

Iskander's banner fly,

The Black Eagle with double head;

And a shout ascends on high,

For men's souls are tired of the Turks,

And their wicked ways and works,

That have made of Ak-Hissar

A city of the plague;

And the loud, exultant cry

That echoes wide and far

Is: "Long live Scanderbeg!"

It was thus Iskander came

Once more unto his own;

And the tidings, like the flame

Of a conflagration blown

By the winds of summer, ran,

Till the land was in a blaze,

And the cities far and near,

Sayeth Ben Joshua Ben Meir,

In his Book of the Words of the Days,

"Were taken as a man

Would take the tip of his ear."

INTERLUDE

"Now that is after my own heart,"

The Poet cried; "one understands

Your swarthy hero Scanderbeg,

Gauntlet on hand and boot on leg,

And skilled in every warlike art,

Riding through his Albanian lands,

And following the auspicious star

That shone for him o'er Ak-Hissar."

The Theologian added here

His word of praise not less sincere,

Although he ended with a jibe;

"The hero of romance and song

Was born," he said, "to right the wrong;

And I approve; but all the same

That bit of treason with the Scribe

Adds nothing to your hero's fame."

The Student praised the good old times

And liked the canter of the rhymes,

That had a hoofbeat in their sound;

But longed some further word to hear

Of the old chronicler Ben Meir,

And where his volume might he found.

The tall Musician walked the room

With folded arms and gleaming eyes,

As if he saw the Vikings rise,

Gigantic shadows in the gloom;

And much he talked of their emprise,

And meteors seen in Northern skies,

And Heimdal's horn, and day of doom

But the Sicilian laughed again;

"This is the time to laugh," he said,

For the whole story he well knew

Was an invention of the Jew,

Spun from the cobwebs in his brain,

And of the same bright scarlet thread

As was the Tale of Kambalu.

Only the Landlord spake no word;

'T was doubtful whether he had heard

The tale at all, so full of care

Was he of his impending fate,

That, like the sword of Damocles,

Above his head hung blank and bare,

Suspended by a single hair,

So that he could not sit at ease,

But sighed and looked disconsolate,

And shifted restless in his chair,

Revolving how he might evade

The blow of the descending blade.

The Student came to his relief

By saying in his easy way

To the Musician: "Calm your grief,

My fair Apollo of the North,

Balder the Beautiful and so forth;

Although your magic lyre or lute

With broken strings is lying mute,

Still you can tell some doleful tale

Of shipwreck in a midnight gale,

Or something of the kind to suit

The mood that we are in to-night

For what is marvellous and strange;

So give your nimble fancy range,

And we will follow in its flight."

But the Musician shook his head;

"No tale I tell to-night," he said,

"While my poor instrument lies there,

Even as a child with vacant stare

Lies in its little coffin dead."

Yet, being urged, he said at last:

"There comes to me out of the Past

A voice, whose tones are sweet and wild,

Singing a song almost divine,

And with a tear in every line;

An ancient ballad, that my nurse

Sang to me when I was a child,

In accents tender as the verse;

And sometimes wept, and sometimes smiled

While singing it, to see arise

The look of wonder in my eyes,

And feel my heart with tenor beat.

This simple ballad I retain

Clearly imprinted on my brain,

And as a tale will now repeat"

THE MUSICIAN'S TALE

THE MOTHER'S GHOST

Svend Dyring he rideth adown the glade;

I myself was young!

There he hath wooed him so winsome a maid;

Fair words gladden so many a heart.

Together were they for seven years,

And together children six were theirs.

Then came Death abroad through the land,

And blighted the beautiful lily-wand.

Svend Dyring he rideth adown the glade,

And again hath he wooed him another maid,

He hath wooed him a maid and brought home a bride,

But she was bitter and full of pride.

When she came driving into the yard,

There stood the six children weeping so hard.

There stood the small children with sorrowful heart;

From before her feet she thrust them apart.

She gave to them neither ale nor bread;

"Ye shall suffer hunger and hate," she said.

She took from them their quilts of blue,

And said: "Ye shall lie on the straw we strew."

She took from them the great waxlight;

"Now ye shall lie in the dark at night."

In the evening late they cried with cold;

The mother heard it under the mould.

The woman heard it the earth below:

"To my little children I must go."

She standeth before the Lord of all:

"And may I go to my children small?"

She prayed him so long, and would not cease,

Until he bade her depart in peace.

"At cock-crow thou shalt return again;

Longer thou shalt not there remain!"

She girded up her sorrowful bones,

And rifted the walls and the marble stones.

As through the village she flitted by,

The watch-dogs howled aloud to the sky.

When she came to the castle gate,

There stood her eldest daughter in wait.

"Why standest thou here, dear daughter mine?

How fares it with brothers and sisters thine?"

"Never art thou mother of mine,

For my mother was both fair and fine.

"My mother was white, with cheeks of red,

But thou art pale, and like to the dead."

"How should I be fair and fine?

I have been dead; pale cheeks are mine.

"How should I be white and red,

So long, so long have I been dead?"

When she came in at the chamber door,

There stood the small children weeping sore.

One she braided, another she brushed,

The third she lifted, the fourth she hushed.

The fifth she took on her lap and pressed,

As if she would suckle it at her breast.

Then to her eldest daughter said she,

"Do thou bid Svend Dyring come hither to me."

Into the chamber when he came

She spake to him in anger and shame.

"I left behind me both ale and bread;

My children hunger and are not fed.

"I left behind me quilts of blue;

My children lie on the straw ye strew.

"I left behind me the great waxlight;

My children lie in the dark at night.

"If I come again unto your hall,

As cruel a fate shall you befall!

"Now crows the cock with feathers red;

Back to the earth must all the dead.

"Now crows the cock with feathers swart;

The gates of heaven fly wide apart.

"Now crows the cock with feathers white;

I can abide no longer to-night."

Whenever they heard the watch-dogs wail,

They gave the children bread and ale.

Whenever they heard the watch-dogs bay,

They feared lest the dead were on their way.

Whenever they heard the watch-dogs bark;

I myself was young!

They feared the dead out there in the dark.

Fair words gladden so many a heart.

INTERLUDE

Touched by the pathos of these rhymes,

The Theologian said: "All praise

Be to the ballads of old times

And to the bards of simple ways,

Who walked with Nature hand in hand,

Whose country was their Holy Land,

Whose singing robes were homespun brown

From looms of their own native town,

Which they were not ashamed to wear,

And not of silk or sendal gay,

Nor decked with fanciful array

Of cockle-shells from Outre-Mer."

To whom the Student answered: "Yes;

All praise and honor! I confess

That bread and ale, home-baked, home-brewed,

Are wholesome and nutritious food,

But not enough for all our needs;

Poets--the best of them--are birds

Of passage; where their instinct leads

They range abroad for thoughts and words,

And from all climes bring home the seeds

That germinate in flowers or weeds.

They are not fowls in barnyards born

To cackle o'er a grain of corn;

And, if you shut the horizon down

To the small limits of their town,

What do you but degrade your bard

Till he at last becomes as one

Who thinks the all-encircling sun

Rises and sets in his back yard?"

The Theologian said again:

"It may be so; yet I maintain

That what is native still is best,

And little care I for the rest.

'T is a long story; time would fail

To tell it, and the hour is late;

We will not waste it in debate,

But listen to our Landlord's tale."

And thus the sword of Damocles

Descending not by slow degrees,

But suddenly, on the Landlord fell,

Who blushing, and with much demur

And many vain apologies,

Plucking up heart, began to tell

The Rhyme of one Sir Christopher.

THE LANDLORD'S TALE

THE RHYME OF SIR CHRISTOPHER

It was Sir Christopher Gardiner,

Knight of the Holy Sepulchre,

From Merry England over the sea,

Who stepped upon this continent

As if his august presence lent

A glory to the colony.

You should have seen him in the street

Of the little Boston of Winthrop's time,

His rapier dangling at his feet

Doublet and hose and boots complete,

Prince Rupert hat with ostrich plume,

Gloves that exhaled a faint perfume,

Luxuriant curls and air sublime,

And superior manners now obsolete!

He had a way of saying things

That made one think of courts and kings,

And lords and ladies of high degree;

So that not having been at court

Seemed something very little short

Of treason or lese-majesty,

Such an accomplished knight was he.

His dwelling was just beyond the town,

At what he called his country-seat;

For, careless of Fortune's smile or frown,

And weary grown of the world and its ways,

He wished to pass the rest of his days

In a private life and a calm retreat.

But a double life was the life he led,

And, while professing to be in search

Of a godly course, and willing, he said,

Nay, anxious to join the Puritan church,

He made of all this but small account,

And passed his idle hours instead

With roystering Morton of Merry Mount,

That pettifogger from Furnival's Inn,

Lord of misrule and riot and sin,

Who looked on the wine when it was red.

This country-seat was little more

Than a cabin of log's; but in front of the door

A modest flower-bed thickly sown

With sweet alyssum and columbine

Made those who saw it at once divine

The touch of some other hand than his own.

And first it was whispered, and then it was known,

That he in secret was harboring there

A little lady with golden hair,

Whom he called his cousin, but whom he had wed

In the Italian manner, as men said,

And great was the scandal everywhere.

But worse than this was the vague surmise,

Though none could vouch for it or aver,

That the Knight of the Holy Sepulchre

Was only a Papist in disguise;

And the more to imbitter their bitter lives,

And the more to trouble the public mind,

Came letters from England, from two other wives,

Whom he had carelessly left behind;

Both of them letters of such a kind

As made the governor hold his breath;

The one imploring him straight to send

The husband home, that he might amend;

The other asking his instant death,

As the only way to make an end.

The wary governor deemed it right,

When all this wickedness was revealed,

To send his warrant signed and sealed,

And take the body of the knight.

Armed with this mighty instrument,

The marshal, mounting his gallant steed,

Rode forth from town at the top of his speed,

And followed by all his bailiffs bold,

As if on high achievement bent,

To storm some castle or stronghold,

Challenge the warders on the wall,

And seize in his ancestral hall

A robber-baron grim and old.

But when though all the dust and heat

He came to Sir Christopher's country-seat,

No knight he found, nor warder there,

But the little lady with golden hair,

Who was gathering in the bright sunshine

The sweet alyssum and columbine;

While gallant Sir Christopher, all so gay,

Being forewarned, through the postern gate

Of his castle wall had tripped away,

And was keeping a little holiday

In the forests, that bounded his estate.

Then as a trusty squire and true

The marshal searched the castle through,

Not crediting what the lady said;

Searched from cellar to garret in vain,

And, finding no knight, came out again

And arrested the golden damsel instead,

And bore her in triumph into the town,

While from her eyes the tears rolled down

On the sweet alyssum and columbine,

That she held in her fingers white and fine.

The governor's heart was moved to see

So fair a creature caught within

The snares of Satan and of sin,

And he read her a little homily

On the folly and wickedness of the lives

Of women, half cousins and half wives;

But, seeing that naught his words availed,

He sent her away in a ship that sailed

For Merry England over the sea,

To the other two wives in the old countree,

To search her further, since he had failed

To come at the heart of the mystery.

Meanwhile Sir Christopher wandered away

Through pathless woods for a month and a day,

Shooting pigeons, and sleeping at night

With the noble savage, who took delight

In his feathered hat and his velvet vest,

His gun and his rapier and the rest.

But as soon as the noble savage heard

That a bounty was offered for this gay bird,

He wanted to slay him out of hand,

And bring in his beautiful scalp for a show,

Like the glossy head of a kite or crow,

Until he was made to understand

They wanted the bird alive, not dead;

Then he followed him whithersoever he fled,

Through forest and field, and hunted him down,

And brought him prisoner into the town.

Alas! it was a rueful sight,

To see this melancholy knight

In such a dismal and hapless case;

His hat deformed by stain and dent,

His plumage broken, his doublet rent,

His beard and flowing locks forlorn,

Matted, dishevelled, and unshorn,

His boots with dust and mire besprent;

But dignified in his disgrace,

And wearing an unblushing face.

And thus before the magistrate

He stood to hear the doom of fate.

In vain he strove with wonted ease

To modify and extenuate

His evil deeds in church and state,

For gone was now his power to please;

And his pompous words had no more weight

Than feathers flying in the breeze.

With suavity equal to his own

The governor lent a patient ear

To the speech evasive and highflown,

In which he endeavored to make clear

That colonial laws were too severe

When applied to a gallant cavalier,

A gentleman born, and so well known,

And accustomed to move in a higher sphere.

All this the Puritan governor heard,

And deigned in answer never a word;

But in summary manner shipped away,

In a vessel that sailed from Salem bay,

This splendid and famous cavalier,

With his Rupert hat and his popery,

To Merry England over the sea,

As being unmeet to inhabit here.

Thus endeth the Rhyme of Sir Christopher,

Knight of the Holy Sepulchre,

The first who furnished this barren land

With apples of Sodom and ropes of sand.

FINALE

These are the tales those merry guests

Told to each other, well or ill;

Like summer birds that lift their crests

Above the borders of their nests

And twitter, and again are still.

These are the tales, or new or old,

In idle moments idly told;

Flowers of the field with petals thin,

Lilies that neither toil nor spin,

And tufts of wayside weeds and gorse

Hung in the parlor of the inn

Beneath the sign of the Red Horse.

And still, reluctant to retire,

The friends sat talking by the fire

And watched the smouldering embers burn

To ashes, and flash up again

Into a momentary glow,

Lingering like them when forced to go,

And going when they would remain;

For on the morrow they must turn

Their faces homeward, and the pain

Of parting touched with its unrest

A tender nerve in every breast.

But sleep at last the victory won;

They must be stirring with the sun,

And drowsily good night they said,

And went still gossiping to bed,

And left the parlor wrapped in gloom.

The only live thing in the room

Was the old clock, that in its pace

Kept time with the revolving spheres

And constellations in their flight,

And struck with its uplifted mace

The dark, unconscious hours of night,

To senseless and unlistening ears.

Uprose the sun; and every guest,

Uprisen, was soon equipped and dressed

For journeying home and city-ward;

The old stage-coach was at the door,

With horses harnessed, long before

The sunshine reached the withered sward

Beneath the oaks, whose branches hoar

Murmured: "Farewell forevermore."

"Farewell!" the portly Landlord cried;

"Farewell!" the parting guests replied,

But little thought that nevermore

Their feet would pass that threshold o'er;

That nevermore together there

Would they assemble, free from care,

To hear the oaks' mysterious roar,

And breathe the wholesome country air.

Where are they now? What lands and skies

Paint pictures in their friendly eyes?

What hope deludes, what promise cheers,

What pleasant voices fill their ears?

Two are beyond the salt sea waves,

And three already in their graves.

Perchance the living still may look

Into the pages of this book,

And see the days of long ago

Floating and fleeting to and fro,

As in the well-remembered brook

They saw the inverted landscape gleam,

And their own faces like a dream

Look up upon them from below.

FLOWER-DE-LUCE

FLOWER-DE-LUCE

Beautiful lily, dwelling by still rivers,

Or solitary mere,

Or where the sluggish meadow-brook delivers

Its waters to the weir!

Thou laughest at the mill, the whir and worry

Of spindle and of loom,

And the great wheel that toils amid the hurry

And rushing of the flame.

Born in the purple, born to joy and pleasance,

Thou dost not toil nor spin,

But makest glad and radiant with thy presence

The meadow and the lin.

The wind blows, and uplifts thy drooping banner,

And round thee throng and run

The rushes, the green yeomen of thy manor,

The outlaws of the sun.

The burnished dragon-fly is thine attendant,

And tilts against the field,

And down the listed sunbeam rides resplendent

With steel-blue mail and shield.

Thou art the Iris, fair among the fairest,

Who, armed with golden rod

And winged with the celestial azure, bearest

The message of some God.

Thou art the Muse, who far from crowded cities

Hauntest the sylvan streams,

Playing on pipes of reed the artless ditties

That come to us as dreams.

O flower-de-luce, bloom on, and let the river

Linger to kiss thy feet!

O flower of song, bloom on, and make forever

The world more fair and sweet.

PALINGENESIS

I lay upon the headland-height, and listened

To the incessant sobbing of the sea

In caverns under me,

And watched the waves, that tossed and fled and glistened,

Until the rolling meadows of amethyst

Melted away in mist.

Then suddenly, as one from sleep, I started;

For round about me all the sunny capes

Seemed peopled with the shapes

Of those whom I had known in days departed,

Apparelled in the loveliness which gleams

On faces seen in dreams.

A moment only, and the light and glory

Faded away, and the disconsolate shore

Stood lonely as before;

And the wild-roses of the promontory

Around me shuddered in the wind, and shed

Their petals of pale red.

There was an old belief that in the embers

Of all things their primordial form exists,

And cunning alchemists

Could re-create the rose with all its members

From its own ashes, but without the bloom,

Without the lost perfume.

Ah me! what wonder-working, occult science

Can from the ashes in our hearts once more

The rose of youth restore?

What craft of alchemy can bid defiance

To time and change, and for a single hour

Renew this phantom-flower?

"O, give me back," I cried, "the vanished splendors,

The breath of morn, and the exultant strife,

When the swift stream of life

Bounds o'er its rocky channel, and surrenders

The pond, with all its lilies, for the leap

Into the unknown deep!"

And the sea answered, with a lamentation,

Like some old prophet wailing, and it said,

"Alas! thy youth is dead!

It breathes no more, its heart has no pulsation;

In the dark places with the dead of old

It lies forever cold!"

Then said I, "From its consecrated cerements

I will not drag this sacred dust again,

Only to give me pain;

But, still remembering all the lost endearments,

Go on my way, like one who looks before,

And turns to weep no more."

Into what land of harvests, what plantations

Bright with autumnal foliage and the glow

Of sunsets burning low;

Beneath what midnight skies, whose constellations

Light up the spacious avenues between

This world and the unseen!

Amid what friendly greetings and caresses,

What households, though not alien, yet not mine,

What bowers of rest divine;

To what temptations in lone wildernesses,

What famine of the heart, what pain and loss,

The bearing of what cross!

I do not know; nor will I vainly question

Those pages of the mystic book which hold

The story still untold,

But without rash conjecture or suggestion

Turn its last leaves in reverence and good heed,

Until "The End" I read.

THE BRIDGE OF CLOUD

Burn, O evening hearth, and waken

Pleasant visions, as of old!

Though the house by winds be shaken,

Safe I keep this room of gold!

Ah, no longer wizard Fancy

Builds her castles in the air,

Luring me by necromancy

Up the never-ending stair!

But, instead, she builds me bridges

Over many a dark ravine,

Where beneath the gusty ridges

Cataracts dash and roar unseen.

And I cross them, little heeding

Blast of wind or torrent's roar,

As I follow the receding

Footsteps that have gone before.

Naught avails the imploring gesture,

Naught avails the cry of pain!

When I touch the flying vesture,

'T is the gray robe of the rain.

Baffled I return, and, leaning

O'er the parapets of cloud,

Watch the mist that intervening

Wraps the valley in its shroud.

And the sounds of life ascending

Faintly, vaguely, meet the ear,

Murmur of bells and voices blending

With the rush of waters near.

Well I know what there lies hidden,

Every tower and town and farm,

And again the land forbidden

Reassumes its vanished charm.

Well I know the secret places,

And the nests in hedge and tree;

At what doors are friendly faces,

In what hearts are thoughts of me.

Through the mist and darkness sinking,

Blown by wind and beaten by shower,

Down I fling the thought I'm thinking,

Down I toss this Alpine flower.

HAWTHORNE

MAY 23, 1864

How beautiful it was, that one bright day

In the long week of rain!

Though all its splendor could not chase away

The omnipresent pain.

The lovely town was white with apple-blooms,

And the great elms o'erhead

Dark shadows wove on their aerial looms

Shot through with golden thread.

Across the meadows, by the gray old manse,

The historic river flowed:

I was as one who wanders in a trance,

Unconscious of his road.

The faces of familiar friends seemed strange;

Their voices I could hear,

And yet the words they uttered seemed to change

Their meaning to my ear.

For the one face I looked for was not there,

The one low voice was mute;

Only an unseen presence filled the air,

And baffled my pursuit.

Now I look back, and meadow, manse, and stream

Dimly my thought defines;

I only see--a dream within a dream--

The hill-top hearsed with pines.

I only hear above his place of rest

Their tender undertone,

The infinite longings of a troubled breast,

The voice so like his own.

There in seclusion and remote from men

The wizard hand lies cold,

Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen,

And left the tale half told.

Ah! who shall lift that wand of magic power,

And the lost clew regain?

The unfinished window in Aladdin's tower

Unfinished must remain!

CHRISTMAS BELLS

I heard the bells on Christmas Day

Their old, familiar carols play,

And wild and sweet

The words repeat

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,

The belfries of all Christendom

Had rolled along

The unbroken song

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till, ringing, singing on its way,

The world revolved from night to day,

A voice, a chime,

A chant sublime

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth

The cannon thundered in the South,

And with the sound

The carols drowned

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent

The hearth-stones of a continent,

And made forlorn

The households born

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;

"There is no peace on earth," I said:

"For hate is strong,

And mocks the song

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:

"God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!

The Wrong shall fail,

The Right prevail,

With peace on earth, good-will to men!"

THE WIND OVER THE CHIMNEY

See, the fire is sinking low,

Dusky red the embers glow,

While above them still I cower,

While a moment more I linger,

Though the clock, with lifted finger,

Points beyond the midnight hour.

Sings the blackened log a tune

Learned in some forgotten June

From a school-boy at his play,

When they both were young together,

Heart of youth and summer weather

Making all their holiday.

And the night-wind rising, hark!

How above there in the dark,

In the midnight and the snow,

Ever wilder, fiercer, grander,

Like the trumpets of Iskander,

All the noisy chimneys blow!

Every quivering tongue of flame

Seems to murmur some great name,

Seems to say to me, "Aspire!"

But the night-wind answers, "Hollow

Are the visions that you follow,

Into darkness sinks your fire!"

Then the flicker of the blaze

Gleams on volumes of old days,

Written by masters of the art,

Loud through whose majestic pages

Rolls the melody of ages,

Throb the harp-strings of the heart.

And again the tongues of flame

Start exulting and exclaim:

"These are prophets, bards, and seers;

In the horoscope of nations,

Like ascendant constellations,

They control the coming years."

But the night-wind cries: "Despair!

Those who walk with feet of air

Leave no long-enduring marks;

At God's forges incandescent

Mighty hammers beat incessant,

These are but the flying sparks.

"Dust are all the hands that wrought;

Books are sepulchres of thought;

The dead laurels of the dead

Rustle for a moment only,

Like the withered leaves in lonely

Churchyards at some passing tread."

Suddenly the flame sinks down;

Sink the rumors of renown;

And alone the night-wind drear

Clamors louder, wilder, vaguer,--

"'T is the brand of Meleager

Dying on the hearth-stone here!"

And I answer,--"Though it be,

Why should that discomfort me?

No endeavor is in vain;

Its reward is in the doing,

And the rapture of pursuing

Is the prize the vanquished gain."

THE BELLS OF LYNN

HEARD AT NAHANT

O curfew of the setting sun! O Bells of Lynn!

O requiem of the dying day! O Bells of Lynn!

From the dark belfries of yon cloud-cathedral wafted,

Your sounds aerial seem to float, O Bells of Lynn!

Borne on the evening wind across the crimson twilight,

O'er land and sea they rise and fall, O Bells of Lynn!

The fisherman in his boat, far out beyond the headland,

Listens, and leisurely rows ashore, O Bells of Lynn!

Over the shining sands the wandering cattle homeward

Follow each other at your call, O Bells of Lynn!

The distant lighthouse hears, and with his flaming signal

Answers you, passing the watchword on, O Bells of Lynn!

And down the darkening coast run the tumultuous surges,

And clap their hands, and shout to you, O Bells of Lynn!

Till from the shuddering sea, with your wild incantations,

Ye summon up the spectral moon, O Bells of Lynn!

And startled at the sight like the weird woman of Endor,

Ye cry aloud, and then are still, O Bells of Lynn!

KILLED AT THE FORD.

He is dead, the beautiful youth,

The heart of honor, the tongue of truth,

He, the life and light of us all,

Whose voice was blithe as a bugle-call,

Whom all eyes followed with one consent,

The cheer of whose laugh, and whose pleasant word,

Hushed all murmurs of discontent.

Only last night, as we rode along,

Down the dark of the mountain gap,

To visit the picket-guard at the ford,

Little dreaming of any mishap,

He was humming the words of some old song:

"Two red roses he had on his cap,

And another he bore at the point of his sword."

Sudden and swift a whistling ball

Came out of a wood, and the voice was still;

Something I heard in the darkness fall,

And for a moment my blood grew chill;

I spake in a whisper, as he who speaks

In a room where some one is lying dead;

But he made no answer to what I said.

We lifted him up to his saddle again,

And through the mire and the mist and the rain

Carried him back to the silent camp,

And laid him as if asleep on his bed;

And I saw by the light of the surgeon's lamp

Two white roses upon his cheeks,

And one, just over his heart, blood-red!

And I saw in a vision how far and fleet

That fatal bullet went speeding forth,

Till it reached a town in the distant North,

Till it reached a house in a sunny street,

Till it reached a heart that ceased to beat

Without a murmur, without a cry;

And a bell was tolled, in that far-off town,

For one who had passed from cross to crown,

And the neighbors wondered that she should die.

GIOTTO'S TOWER

How many lives, made beautiful and sweet

By self-devotion and by self-restraint,

Whose pleasure is to run without complaint

On unknown errands of the Paraclete,

Wanting the reverence of unshodden feet,

Fail of the nimbus which the artists paint

Around the shining forehead of the saint,

And are in their completeness incomplete!

In the old Tuscan town stands Giotto's tower,

The lily of Florence blossoming in stone,--

A vision, a delight, and a desire,--

The builder's perfect and centennial flower,

That in the night of ages bloomed alone,

But wanting still the glory of the spire.

TO-MORROW

'T is late at night, and in the realm of sleep

My little lambs are folded like the flocks;

From room to room I hear the wakeful clocks

Challenge the passing hour, like guards that keep

Their solitary watch on tower and steep;

Far off I hear the crowing of the cocks,

And through the opening door that time unlocks

Feel the fresh breathing of To-morrow creep.

To-morrow! the mysterious, unknown guest,

Who cries to me: "Remember Barmecide,

And tremble to be happy with the rest."

And I make answer: "I am satisfied;

I dare not ask; I know not what is best;

God hath already said what shall betide."

DIVINA COMMEDIA

I

Oft have I seen at some cathedral door

A laborer, pausing in the dust and heat,

Lay down his burden, and with reverent feet

Enter, and cross himself, and on the floor

Kneel to repeat his paternoster o'er;

Far off the noises of the world retreat;

The loud vociferations of the street

Become an undistinguishable roar.

So, as I enter here from day to day,

And leave my burden at this minster gate,

Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to pray,

The tumult of the time disconsolate

To inarticulate murmurs dies away,

While the eternal ages watch and wait.

II

How strange the sculptures that adorn these towers!

This crowd of statues, in whose folded sleeves

Birds build their nests; while canopied with leaves

Parvis and portal bloom like trellised bowers,

And the vast minster seems a cross of flowers!

But fiends and dragons on the gargoyled eaves

Watch the dead Christ between the living thieves,

And, underneath, the traitor Judas lowers!

Ah! from what agonies of heart and brain,

What exultations trampling on despair,

What tenderness, what tears, what hate of wrong,

What passionate outcry of a soul in pain,

Uprose this poem of the earth and air,

This medieval miracle of song!

III

I enter, and I see thee in the gloom

Of the long aisles, O poet saturnine!

And strive to make my steps keep pace with thine.

The air is filled with some unknown perfume;

The congregation of the dead make room

For thee to pass; the votive tapers shine;

Like rooks that haunt Ravenna's groves of pine

The hovering echoes fly from tomb to tomb.

From the confessionals I hear arise

Rehearsals of forgotten tragedies,

And lamentations from the crypts below;

And then a voice celestial, that begins

With the pathetic words, "Although your sins

As scarlet be," and ends with "as the snow."

IV

With snow-white veil and garments as of flame,

She stands before thee, who so long ago

Filled thy young heart with passion and the woe

From which thy song and all its splendors came;

And while with stern rebuke she speaks thy name,

The ice about thy heart melts as the snow

On mountain height; and in swift overflow

Comes gushing from thy lips in sobs of shame.

Thou makest full confession; and a gleam,

As of the dawn on some dark forest cast,

Seems on thy lifted forehead to increase;

Lethe and Eunoe--the remembered dream

And the forgotten sorrow--bring at last

That perfect pardon which is perfect peace.

V

I lift mine eyes, and all the windows blaze

With forms of saints and holy men who died,

Here martyred and hereafter glorified;

And the great Rose upon its leaves displays

Christ's Triumph, and the angelic roundelays,

With splendor upon splendor multiplied;

And Beatrice again at Dante's side

No more rebukes, but smiles her words of praise.

And then the organ sounds, and unseen choirs

Sing the old Latin hymns of peace and love,

And benedictions of the Holy Ghost;

And the melodious bells among the spires

O'er all the house-tops and through heaven above

Proclaim the elevation of the Host!

VI

O star of morning and of liberty!

O bringer of the light, whose splendor shines

Above the darkness of the Apennines,

Forerunner of the day that is to be!

The voices of the city and the sea,

The voices of the mountains and the pines,

Repeat thy song, till the familiar lines

Are footpaths for the thought of Italy!

Thy fame is blown abroad from all the heights,

Through all the nations, and a sound is heard,

As of a mighty wind, and men devout,

Strangers of Rome, and the new proselytes,

In their own language hear thy wondrous word,

And many are amazed and many doubt.

NOËL.

ENVOYE A M. AGASSIZ, LA VEILLE DE NOËL 1864,

AVEC UN PANIER DE VINS DIVERS

L'Academie en respect,

Nonobstant l'incorrection

A la faveur du sujet,

Ture-lure,

N'y fera point de rature;

Noël! ture-lure-lure.

-- Gui Barozai

Quand les astres de Noël

Brillaient, palpitaient au ciel,

Six gaillards, et chacun ivre,

Chantaient gaiment dans le givre,

"Bons amis,

Allons donc chez Agassiz!"

Ces illustres Pelerins

D'Outre-Mer adroits et fins,

Se donnant des airs de pretre,

A l'envi se vantaient d'etre

"Bons amis,

De Jean Rudolphe Agassiz!"

Oeil-de-Perdrix, grand farceur,

Sans reproche et sans pudeur,

Dans son patois de Bourgogne,

Bredouillait comme un ivrogne,

"Bons amis,

J'ai danse chez Agassiz!"

Verzenay le Champenois,

Bon Francais, point New-Yorquois,

Mais des environs d'Avize,

Fredonne a mainte reprise,

"Bons amis,

J'ai chante chez Agassiz!"

A cote marchait un vieux

Hidalgo, mais non mousseux;

Dans le temps de Charlemagne

Fut son pere Grand d'Espagne!

"Bons amis,

J'ai dine chez Agassiz!"

Derriere eux un Bordelais,

Gascon, s'il en fut jamais,

Parfume de poesie

Riait, chantait, plein de vie,

"Bons amis,

J'ai soupe chez Agassiz!"

Avec ce beau cadet roux,

Bras dessus et bras dessous,

Mine altiere et couleur terne,

Vint le Sire de Sauterne;

"Bons amis,

J'ai couche chez Agassiz!"

Mais le dernier de ces preux,

Etait un pauvre Chartreux,

Qui disait, d'un ton robuste,

"Benedictions sur le Juste!

Bons amis,

Benissons Pere Agassiz!"

Ils arrivent trois a trois,

Montent l'escalier de bois

Clopin-clopant! quel gendarme

Peut permettre ce vacarme,

Bons amis,

A la porte d'Agassiz!

"Ouvrer donc, mon bon Seigneur,

Ouvrez vite et n'ayez peur;

Ouvrez, ouvrez, car nous sommes

Gens de bien et gentilshommes,

Bons amis

De la famille Agassiz!"

Chut, ganaches! taisez-vous!

C'en est trop de vos glouglous;

Epargnez aux Philosophes

Vos abominables strophes!

Bons amis,

Respectez mon Agassiz!

**************

BIRDS OF PASSAGE

FLIGHT THE THIRD

FATA MORGANA

O sweet illusions of Song,

That tempt me everywhere,

In the lonely fields, and the throng

Of the crowded thoroughfare!

I approach, and ye vanish away,

I grasp you, and ye are gone;

But ever by nigh an day,

The melody soundeth on.

As the weary traveller sees

In desert or prairie vast,

Blue lakes, overhung with trees,

That a pleasant shadow cast;

Fair towns with turrets high,

And shining roofs of gold,

That vanish as he draws nigh,

Like mists together rolled,--

So I wander and wander along,

And forever before me gleams

The shining city of song,

In the beautiful land of dreams.

But when I would enter the gate

Of that golden atmosphere,

It is gone, and I wander and wait

For the vision to reappear.

THE HAUNTED CHAMBER

Each heart has its haunted chamber,

Where the silent moonlight falls!

On the floor are mysterious footsteps,

There are whispers along the walls!

And mine at times is haunted

By phantoms of the Past

As motionless as shadows

By the silent moonlight cast.

A form sits by the window,

That is not seen by day,

For as soon as the dawn approaches

It vanishes away.

It sits there in the moonlight

Itself as pale and still,

And points with its airy finger

Across the window-sill.

Without before the window,

There stands a gloomy pine,

Whose boughs wave upward and downward

As wave these thoughts of mine.

And underneath its branches

Is the grave of a little child,

Who died upon life's threshold,

And never wept nor smiled.

What are ye, O pallid phantoms!

That haunt my troubled brain?

That vanish when day approaches,

And at night return again?

What are ye, O pallid phantoms!

But the statues without breath,

That stand on the bridge overarching

The silent river of death?

THE MEETING

After so long an absence

At last we meet again:

Does the meeting give us pleasure,

Or does it give us pain?

The tree of life has been shaken,

And but few of us linger now,

Like the Prophet's two or three berries

In the top of the uppermost bough.

We cordially greet each other

In the old, familiar tone;

And we think, though we do not say it,

How old and gray he is grown!

We speak of a Merry Christmas

And many a Happy New Year

But each in his heart is thinking

Of those that are not here.

We speak of friends and their fortunes,

And of what they did and said,

Till the dead alone seem living,

And the living alone seem dead.

And at last we hardly distinguish

Between the ghosts and the guests;

And a mist and shadow of sadness

Steals over our merriest jests.

VOX POPULI

When Mazarvan the Magician,

Journeyed westward through Cathay,

Nothing heard he but the praises

Of Badoura on his way.

But the lessening rumor ended

When he came to Khaledan,

There the folk were talking only

Of Prince Camaralzaman,

So it happens with the poets:

Every province hath its own;

Camaralzaman is famous

Where Badoura is unknown.

THE CASTLE-BUILDER

A gentle boy, with soft and silken locks

A dreamy boy, with brown and tender eyes,

A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks,

And towers that touch imaginary skies.

A fearless rider on his father's knee,

An eager listener unto stories told

At the Round Table of the nursery,

Of heroes and adventures manifold.

There will be other towers for thee to build;

There will be other steeds for thee to ride;

There will be other legends, and all filled

With greater marvels and more glorified.

Build on, and make thy castles high and fair,

Rising and reaching upward to the skies;

Listen to voices in the upper air,

Nor lose thy simple faith in mysteries.

CHANGED

From the outskirts of the town

Where of old the mile-stone stood.

Now a stranger, looking down

I behold the shadowy crown

Of the dark and haunted wood.

Is it changed, or am I changed?

Ah! the oaks are fresh and green,

But the friends with whom I ranged

Through their thickets are estranged

By the years that intervene.

Bright as ever flows the sea,

Bright as ever shines the sun,

But alas! they seem to me

Not the sun that used to be,

Not the tides that used to run.

THE CHALLENGE

I have a vague remembrance

Of a story, that is told

In some ancient Spanish legend

Or chronicle of old.

It was when brave King Sanchez

Was before Zamora slain,

And his great besieging army

Lay encamped upon the plain.

Don Diego de Ordonez

Sallied forth in front of all,

And shouted loud his challenge

To the warders on the wall.

All the people of Zamora,

Both the born and the unborn,

As traitors did he challenge

With taunting words of scorn.

The living, in their houses,

And in their graves, the dead!

And the waters of their rivers,

And their wine, and oil, and bread!

There is a greater army,

That besets us round with strife,

A starving, numberless army,

At all the gates of life.

The poverty-stricken millions

Who challenge our wine and bread,

And impeach us all as traitors,

Both the living and the dead.

And whenever I sit at the banquet,

Where the feast and song are high,

Amid the mirth and the music

I can hear that fearful cry.

And hollow and haggard faces

Look into the lighted hall,

And wasted hands are extended

To catch the crumbs that fall.

For within there is light and plenty,

And odors fill the air;

But without there is cold and darkness,

And hunger and despair.

And there in the camp of famine,

In wind and cold and rain,

Christ, the great Lord of the army,

Lies dead upon the plain!

THE BROOK AND THE WAVE

The brooklet came from the mountain,

As sang the bard of old,

Running with feet of silver

Over the sands of gold!

Far away in the briny ocean

There rolled a turbulent wave,

Now singing along the sea-beach,

Now howling along the cave.

And the brooklet has found the billow

Though they flowed so far apart,

And has filled with its freshness and sweetness

That turbulent bitter heart!

AFTERMATH

When the summer fields are mown,

When the birds are fledged and flown,

And the dry leaves strew the path;

With the falling of the snow,

With the cawing of the crow,

Once again the fields we mow

And gather in the aftermath.

Not the sweet, new grass with flowers

Is this harvesting of ours;

Not the upland clover bloom;

But the rowen mired with weeds,

Tangled tufts from marsh and meads,

Where the poppy drops its seeds

In the silence and the gloom.

THE MASQUE OF PANDORA

I

THE WORKSHOP OF HEPHÆSTUS

HEPHÆSTUS (standing before the statue of Pandora.)

Not fashioned out of gold, like Hera's throne,

Nor forged of iron like the thunderbolts

Of Zeus omnipotent, or other works

Wrought by my hands at Lemnos or Olympus,

But moulded in soft clay, that unresisting

Yields itself to the touch, this lovely form

Before me stands, perfect in every part.

Not Aphrodite's self appeared more fair,

When first upwafted by caressing winds

She came to high Olympus, and the gods

Paid homage to her beauty. Thus her hair

Was cinctured; thus her floating drapery

Was like a cloud about her, and her face

Was radiant with the sunshine and the sea.

THE VOICE OF ZEUS.

Is thy work done, Hephæstus?

HEPHÆSTUS.

It is finished!

THE VOICE.

Not finished till I breathe the breath of life

Into her nostrils, and she moves and speaks.

HEPHÆSTUS.

Will she become immortal like ourselves?

THE VOICE.

The form that thou hast fashioned out of clay

Is of the earth and mortal; but the spirit,

The life, the exhalation of my breath,

Is of diviner essence and immortal.

The gods shall shower on her their benefactions,

She shall possess all gifts: the gift of song,

The gift of eloquence, the gift of beauty,

The fascination and the nameless charm

That shall lead all men captive.

HEPHÆSTUS.

Wherefore? wherefore?

(A wind shakes the house.)

I hear the rushing of a mighty wind

Through all the halls and chambers of my house!

Her parted lips inhale it, and her bosom

Heaves with the inspiration. As a reed

Beside a river in the rippling current

Bends to and fro, she bows or lifts her head.

She gazes round about as if amazed;

She is alive; she breathes, but yet she speaks not!

(PANDORA descends from the pedestal.)

CHORUS OF THE GRACES

AGLAIA.

In the workshop of Hephæstus

What is this I see?

Have the Gods to four increased us

Who were only three?

Beautiful in form and feature,

Lovely as the day,

Can there be so fair a creature

Formed of common clay?

THALIA.

O sweet, pale face! O lovely eyes of azure,

Clear as the waters of a brook that run

Limpid and laughing in the summer sun!

O golden hair that like a miser's treasure

In its abundance overflows the measure!

O graceful form, that cloudlike floatest on

With the soft, undulating gait of one

Who moveth as if motion were a pleasure!

By what name shall I call thee? Nymph or Muse,

Callirrhoe or Urania? Some sweet name

Whose every syllable is a caress

Would best befit thee; but I cannot choose,

Nor do I care to choose; for still the same,

Nameless or named, will be thy loveliness.

EUPHROSYNE.

Dowered with all celestial gifts,

Skilled in every art

That ennobles and uplifts

And delights the heart,

Fair on earth shall be thy fame

As thy face is fair,

And Pandora be the name

Thou henceforth shalt bear.

II

OLYMPUS.

HERMES (putting on his sandals.)

Much must he toil who serves the Immortal Gods,

And I, who am their herald, most of all.

No rest have I, nor respite. I no sooner

Unclasp the winged sandals from my feet,

Than I again must clasp them, and depart

Upon some foolish errand. But to-day

The errand is not foolish. Never yet

With greater joy did I obey the summons

That sends me earthward. I will fly so swiftly

That my caduceus in the whistling air

Shall make a sound like the Pandaean pipes,

Cheating the shepherds; for to-day I go,

Commissioned by high-thundering Zeus, to lead

A maiden to Prometheus, in his tower,

And by my cunning arguments persuade him

To marry her. What mischief lies concealed

In this design I know not; but I know

Who thinks of marrying hath already taken

One step upon the road to penitence.

Such embassies delight me. Forth I launch

On the sustaining air, nor fear to fall

Like Icarus, nor swerve aside like him

Who drove amiss Hyperion's fiery steeds.

I sink, I fly! The yielding element

Folds itself round about me like an arm,

And holds me as a mother holds her child.

III

TOWER OF PROMETHEUS ON MOUNT CAUCASUS

PROMETHEUS.

I hear the trumpet of Alectryon

Proclaim the dawn. The stars begin to fade,

And all the heavens are full of prophecies

And evil auguries. Blood-red last night

I saw great Kronos rise; the crescent moon

Sank through the mist, as if it were the scythe

His parricidal hand had flung far down

The western steeps. O ye Immortal Gods,

What evil are ye plotting and contriving?

(HERMES and PANDORA at the threshold.)

PANDORA.

I cannot cross the threshold. An unseen

And icy hand repels me. These blank walls

Oppress me with their weight!

PROMETHEUS.

Powerful ye are,

But not omnipotent. Ye cannot fight

Against Necessity. The Fates control you,

As they do us, and so far we are equals!

PANDORA.

Motionless, passionless, companionless,

He sits there muttering in his beard. His voice

Is like a river flowing underground!

HERMES.

Prometheus, hail!

PROMETHEUS.

Who calls me?

HERMES.

It is I.

Dost thou not know me?

PROMETHEUS.

By thy winged cap

And winged heels I know thee. Thou art Hermes,

Captain of thieves! Hast thou again been stealing

The heifers of Admetus in the sweet

Meadows of asphodel? or Hera's girdle?

Or the earth-shaking trident of Poseidon?

HERMES.

And thou, Prometheus; say, hast thou again

Been stealing fire from Helios' chariot-wheels

To light thy furnaces?

PROMETHEUS.

Why comest thou hither

So early in the dawn?

HERMES.

The Immortal Gods

Know naught of late or early. Zeus himself

The omnipotent hath sent me.

PROMETHEUS.

For what purpose?

HERMES.

To bring this maiden to thee.

PROMETHEUS.

I mistrust

The Gods and all their gifts. If they have sent her

It is for no good purpose.

HERMES.

What disaster

Could she bring on thy house, who is a woman?

PROMETHEUS.

The Gods are not my friends, nor am I theirs.

Whatever comes from them, though in a shape

As beautiful as this, is evil only.

Who art thou?

PANDORA.

One who, though to thee unknown,

Yet knoweth thee.

PROMETHEUS.

How shouldst thou know me, woman?

PANDORA.

Who knoweth not Prometheus the humane?

PROMETHEUS.

Prometheus the unfortunate; to whom

Both Gods and men have shown themselves ungrateful.

When every spark was quenched on every hearth

Throughout the earth, I brought to man the fire

And all its ministrations. My reward

Hath been the rock and vulture.

HERMES.

But the Gods

At last relent and pardon.

PROMETHEUS.

They relent not;

They pardon not; they are implacable,

Revengeful, unforgiving!

HERMES.

As a pledge

Of reconciliation they have sent to thee

This divine being, to be thy companion,

And bring into thy melancholy house

The sunshine and the fragrance of her youth.

PROMETHEUS.

I need them not. I have within myself

All that my heart desires; the ideal beauty

Which the creative faculty of mind

Fashions and follows in a thousand shapes

More lovely than the real. My own thoughts

Are my companions; my designs and labors

And aspirations are my only friends.

HERMES.

Decide not rashly. The decision made

Can never be recalled. The Gods implore not,

Plead not, solicit not; they only offer

Choice and occasion, which once being passed

Return no more. Dost thou accept the gift?

PROMETHEUS.

No gift of theirs, in whatsoever shape

It comes to me, with whatsoever charm

To fascinate my sense, will I receive.

Leave me.

PANDORA.

Let us go hence. I will not stay.

HERMES.

We leave thee to thy vacant dreams, and all

The silence and the solitude of thought,

The endless bitterness of unbelief,

The loneliness of existence without love.

CHORUS OF THE FATES

CLOTHO.

How the Titan, the defiant,

The self-centred, self-reliant,

Wrapped in visions and illusions,

Robs himself of life's best gifts!

Till by all the storm-winds shaken,

By the blast of fate o'ertaken,

Hopeless, helpless, and forsaken,

In the mists of his confusions

To the reefs of doom he drifts!

LACHESIS.

Sorely tried and sorely tempted,

From no agonies exempted,

In the penance of his trial,

And the discipline of pain;

Often by illusions cheated,

Often baffled and defeated

In the tasks to be completed,

He, by toil and self-denial,

To the highest shall attain.

ATROPOS.

Tempt no more the noble schemer;

Bear unto some idle dreamer

This new toy and fascination,

This new dalliance and delight!

To the garden where reposes

Epimetheus crowned with roses,

To the door that never closes

Upon pleasure and temptation,

Bring this vision of the night!

IV

THE AIR

HERMES (returning to Olympus.)

As lonely as the tower that he inhabits,

As firm and cold as are the crags about him,

Prometheus stands. The thunderbolts of Zeus

Alone can move him; but the tender heart

Of Epimetheus, burning at white heat,

Hammers and flames like all his brother's forges!

Now as an arrow from Hyperion's bow,

My errand done, I fly, I float, I soar

Into the air, returning to Olympus.

O joy of motion! O delight to cleave

The infinite realms of space, the liquid ether,

Through the warm sunshine and the cooling cloud,

Myself as light as sunbeam or as cloud!

With one touch of my swift and winged feet,

I spurn the solid earth, and leave it rocking

As rocks the bough from which a bird takes wing.

V

THE HOUSE OF EPIMETHEUS

EPIMETHEUS.

Beautiful apparition! go not hence!

Surely thou art a Goddess, for thy voice

Is a celestial melody, and thy form

Self-poised as if it floated on the air!

PANDORA.

No Goddess am I, nor of heavenly birth,

But a mere woman fashioned out of clay

And mortal as the rest.

EPIMETHEUS.

Thy face is fair;

There is a wonder in thine azure eyes

That fascinates me. Thy whole presence seems

A soft desire, a breathing thought of love.

Say, would thy star like Merope's grow dim

If thou shouldst wed beneath thee?

PANDORA.

Ask me not;

I cannot answer thee. I only know

The Gods have sent me hither.

EPIMETHEUS.

I believe,

And thus believing am most fortunate.

It was not Hermes led thee here, but Eros,

And swifter than his arrows were thine eyes

In wounding me. There was no moment's space

Between my seeing thee and loving thee.

O, what a telltale face thou hast! Again

I see the wonder in thy tender eyes.

PANDORA.

They do but answer to the love in thine,

Yet secretly I wonder thou shouldst love me.

Thou knowest me not.

EPIMETHEUS.

Perhaps I know thee better

Than had I known thee longer. Yet it seems

That I have always known thee, and but now

Have found thee. Ah, I have been waiting long.

PANDORA.

How beautiful is this house! The atmosphere

Breathes rest and comfort, and the many chambers

Seem full of welcomes.

EPIMETHEUS.

They not only seem,

But truly are. This dwelling and its master

Belong to thee.

PANDORA.

Here let me stay forever!

There is a spell upon me.

EPIMETHEUS.

Thou thyself

Art the enchantress, and I feel thy power

Envelop me, and wrap my soul and sense

In an Elysian dream.

PANDORA,

O, let me stay.

How beautiful are all things round about me,

Multiplied by the mirrors on the walls!

What treasures hast thou here! Yon oaken chest,

Carven with figures and embossed with gold,

Is wonderful to look upon! What choice

And precious things dost thou keep hidden in it?

EPIMETHEUS.

I know not. 'T is a mystery.

PANDORA.

Hast thou never

Lifted the lid?

EPIMETHEUS.

The oracle forbids.

Safely concealed there from all mortal eyes

Forever sleeps the secret of the Gods.

Seek not to know what they have hidden from thee,

Till they themselves reveal it.

PANDORA.

As thou wilt.

EPIMETHEUS.

Let us go forth from this mysterious place.

The garden walks are pleasant at this hour;

The nightingales among the sheltering boughs

Of populous and many-nested trees

Shall teach me how to woo thee, and shall tell me

By what resistless charms or incantations

They won their mates.

PANDORA.

Thou dost not need a teacher.

(They go out.)

CHORUS OF THE EUMENIDES.

What the Immortals

Confide to thy keeping,

Tell unto no man;

Waking or sleeping,

Closed be thy portals

To friend as to foeman.

Silence conceals it;

The word that is spoken

Betrays and reveals it;

By breath or by token

The charm may be broken.

With shafts of their splendors

The Gods unforgiving

Pursue the offenders,

The dead and the living!

Fortune forsakes them,

Nor earth shall abide them,

Nor Tartarus hide them;

Swift wrath overtakes them!

With useless endeavor,

Forever, forever,

Is Sisyphus rolling

His stone up the mountain!

Immersed in the fountain,

Tantalus tastes not

The water that wastes not!

Through ages increasing

The pangs that afflict him,

With motion unceasing

The wheel of Ixion

Shall torture its victim!

VI

IN THE GARDEN

EPIMETHEUS.

Yon snow-white cloud that sails sublime in ether

Is but the sovereign Zeus, who like a swan

Flies to fair-ankled Leda!

PANDORA.

Or perchance

Ixion's cloud, the shadowy shape of Hera,

That bore the Centaurs.

EPIMETHEUS.

The divine and human.

CHORUS OF BIRDS.

Gently swaying to and fro,

Rocked by all the winds that blow,

Bright with sunshine from above

Dark with shadow from below,

Beak to beak and breast to breast

In the cradle of their nest,

Lie the fledglings of our love.

ECHO.

Love! love!

EPIMETHEUS.

Hark! listen! Hear how sweetly overhead

The feathered flute-players pipe their songs of love,

And echo answers, love and only love.

CHORUS OF BIRDS.

Every flutter of the wing,

Every note of song we sing,

Every murmur, every tone,

Is of love and love alone.

ECHO.

Love alone!

EPIMETHEUS.

Who would not love, if loving she might be

Changed like Callisto to a star in heaven?

PANDORA.

Ah, who would love, if loving she might be

Like Semele consumed and burnt to ashes?

EPIMETHEUS.

Whence knowest thou these stories?

PANDORA.

Hermes taught me;

He told me all the history of the Gods.

CHORUS OF REEDS.

Evermore a sound shall be

In the reeds of Arcady,

Evermore a low lament

Of unrest and discontent,

As the story is retold

Of the nymph so coy and cold,

Who with frightened feet outran

The pursuing steps of Pan.

EPIMETHEUS.

The pipe of Pan out of these reeds is made,

And when he plays upon it to the shepherds

They pity him, so mournful is the sound.

Be thou not coy and cold as Syrinx was.

PANDORA.

Nor thou as Pan be rude and mannerless.

PROMETHEUS (without).

Ho! Epimetheus!

EPIMETHEUS.

'T is my brother's voice;

A sound unwelcome and inopportune

As was the braying of Silenus' ass,

Once heard in Cybele's garden.

PANDORA.

Let me go.

I would not be found here. I would not see him.

(She escapes among the trees.)

CHORUS OF DRYADES.

Haste and hide thee,

Ere too late,

In these thickets intricate;

Lest Prometheus

See and chide thee,

Lest some hurt

Or harm betide thee,

Haste and hide thee!

PROMETHEUS (entering.)

Who was it fled from here? I saw a shape

Flitting among the trees.

EPIMETHEUS.

It was Pandora.

PROMETHEUS.

O Epimetheus! Is it then in vain

That I have warned thee? Let me now implore.

Thou harborest in thy house a dangerous guest.

EPIMETHEUS.

Whom the Gods love they honor with such guests.

PROMETHEUS.

Whom the Gods would destroy they first make mad.

EPIMETHEUS.

Shall I refuse the gifts they send to me?

PROMETHEUS.

Reject all gifts that come from higher powers.

EPIMETHEUS.

Such gifts as this are not to be rejected.

PROMETHEUS.

Make not thyself the slave of any woman.

EPIMETHEUS.

Make not thyself the judge of any man.

PROMETHEUS.

I judge thee not; for thou art more than man;

Thou art descended from Titanic race,

And hast a Titan's strength, and faculties

That make thee godlike; and thou sittest here

Like Heracles spinning Omphale's flax,

And beaten with her sandals.

EPIMETHEUS.

O my brother!

Thou drivest me to madness with thy taunts.