It was a pleasant mansion, an abode_The poetical works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Near and yet hidden from the great highroad,

Sequestered among trees, a noble pile,

Baronial and colonial in its style;

Gables and dormer-windows everywhere,

And stacks of chimneys rising high in air,—

Pandæan pipes, on which all winds that blew

Made mournful music the whole winter through.

Within, unwonted splendours met the eye,—

Panels, and floors of oak, and tapestry;

Carved chimney-pieces, where on brazen dogs

Revelled and roared the Christmas fires of logs;

Doors opening into darkness unawares,

Mysterious passages, and flights of stairs;

And on the walls, in heavy gilded frames,

The ancestral Wentworths with Old-Scripture names.

Such was the mansion where the great man dwelt,

A widower and childless; and he felt

The loneliness, the uncongenial gloom,

That like a presence haunted every room;

For though not given to weakness, he could feel

The pain of wounds, that ache because they heal.

The years came and the years went,—seven in all,

And passed in cloud and sunshine o’er the Hall;

The dawns their splendour through its chambers shed,

The sunsets flushed its western windows red;

The snow was on its roofs, the wind, the rain;

Its woodlands were in leaf and bare again;

Moons waxed and waned, the lilacs bloomed and died,

In the broad river ebbed and flowed the tide,

Ships went to sea, and ships came home from sea,

And the slow years sailed by and ceased to be.

And all these years had Martha Hilton served

In the Great House, not wholly unobserved:

By day, by night, the silver crescent grew,

Though hidden by clouds, her light still shining through;

A maid of all work, whether coarse or fine,

A servant who made service seem divine!

Through her each room was fair to look upon;

The mirrors glistened, and the brasses shone;

The very knocker on the outer door,

If she but passed, was brighter than before.

And now the ceaseless turning of the mill

Of Time, that never for an hour stands still,

Ground out the Governor’s sixtieth birthday,

And powdered his brown hair with silver-grey.

The robin, the forerunner of the spring,

The blue-bird with his jocund carolling,

The restless swallows building in the eaves,

The golden buttercups, the grass, the leaves,

The lilacs tossing in the winds of May,—

All welcomed this majestic holiday!

He gave a splendid banquet, served on plate,

Such as became the Governor of the State,

Who represented England and the King,

And was magnificent in everything.

He had invited all his friends and peers,—

The Pepperels, the Langdons, and the Lears,

The Sparhawks, the Penhallows, and the rest;

For why repeat the name of every guest?

But I must mention one, in bands and gown,

The rector there, the Reverend Arthur Brown

Of the Established Church; with smiling face

He sat beside the Governor and said grace;

And then the feast went on, as others do,

But ended as none other I e’er knew.

When they had drunk the King, with many a cheer

The Governor whispered in a servant’s ear,

Who disappeared, and presently there stood

Within the room, in perfect womanhood,

A maiden, modest and yet self-possessed,

Youthful and beautiful, and simply dressed.

Can this be Martha Hilton? It must be!

Yes, Martha Hilton, and no other she!

Dowered with the beauty of her twenty years,

How ladylike, how queen-like she appears;

The pale, thin crescent of the days gone by

Is Dian now in all her majesty!

Yet scarce a guest perceived that she was there,

Until the Governor, rising from his chair,

Played slightly with his ruffles, then looked down,

And said unto the Reverend Arthur Brown:

“This is my birthday; it shall likewise be

My wedding-day; and you shall marry me!”

The listening guests were greatly mystified,

None more so than the rector, who replied:

“Marry you? Yes, that were a pleasant task,

Your Excellency; but to whom? I ask.”

The Governor answered: “To this lady here;”

And beckoned Martha Hilton to draw near.

She came and stood, all blushes, at his side.

The rector paused. The impatient Governor cried:

“This is the lady; do you hesitate?

Then I command you as Chief Magistrate.”

The rector read the service loud and clear:

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here,”

And so on to the end. At his command,

On the fourth finger of her fair left hand

The Governor placed the ring; and that was all:

Martha was Lady Wentworth of the Hall!

INTERLUDE.

Well pleased the audience heard the tale.

The Theologian said: “Indeed,

To praise you there is little need;

One almost hears the farmer’s flail

Thresh out your wheat, nor does there fail

A certain freshness, as you said,

And sweetness as of home-made bread.

But not less sweet and not less fresh

Are many legends that I know,

Writ by the monks of long ago,

Who loved to mortify the flesh,

So that the soul might purer grow,

And rise to a diviner state;

And one of these—perhaps of all

Most beautiful—I now recall,

And with permission will narrate;

Hoping thereby to make amends

For that grim tragedy of mine,

As strong and black as Spanish wine,

I told last night, and wish almost

It had remained untold, my friends;

For Torquemada’s awful ghost

Came to me in the dreams I dreamed,

And in the darkness glared and gleamed

Like a great lighthouse on the coast.”

The Student laughing said: “Far more

Like to some dismal fire of bale

Flaring portentous on a hill;

Or torches lighted on a shore

By wreckers in a midnight gale.

No matter; be it as you will,

Only go forward with your tale.”

THE THEOLOGIAN’S TALE.

THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL.

“Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!”

That is what the Vision said.

In his chamber all alone,

Kneeling on the floor of stone,

Prayed the Monk in deep contrition

For his sins of indecision,

Prayed for greater self-denial

In temptation and in trial;

It was noonday by the dial,

And the Monk was all alone.

Suddenly, as if it lightened,

An unwonted splendour brightened

All within him and without him

In that narrow cell of stone;

And he saw the Blessed Vision

Of our Lord, with light Elysian

Like a vesture wrapped about him,

Like a garment round him thrown.

Not as crucified and slain,

Not in agonies of pain,

Not with bleeding hands and feet,

Did the Monk his Master see;

But as in the village street,

In the house or harvest-field,

Halt and lame and blind he healed,

When he walked in Galilee.

In an attitude imploring,

Hands upon his bosom crossed,

Wondering, worshipping, adoring,

Knelt the Monk in rapture lost.

Lord, he thought, in heaven that reignest,

Who am I, that thus thou deignest

To reveal thyself to me?

Who am I, that from the centre

Of thy glory thou shouldst enter

This poor cell, my guest to be?

Then amid his exaltation,

Loud the convent bell appalling,

From its belfry calling, calling,

Rang through court and corridor

With persistent iteration

He had never heard before.

It was now the appointed hour

When alike in shine or shower,

Winter’s cold or summer’s heat,

To the convent portals came

All the blind and halt and lame,

All the beggars of the street,

For their daily dole of food

Dealt them by the brotherhood;

And their almoner was he

Who upon his bended knee,

Rapt in silent ecstasy

Of divinest self-surrender,

Saw the Vision and the Splendour.

Deep distress and hesitation

Mingled with his adoration;

Should he go, or should he stay?

Should he leave the poor to wait

Hungry at the convent gate,

Till the Vision passed away?

Should he slight his radiant guest,

Slight his visitant celestial,

For a crowd of ragged, bestial

Beggars at the convent gate?

Would the Vision there remain?

Would the Vision come again?

Then a voice within his breast

Whispered, audible and clear,

As if to the outward ear:

“Do thy duty; that is best;

Leave unto thy Lord the rest!”

Straightway to his feet he started,

And with longing look intent

On the Blessed Vision bent,

Slowly from his cell departed,

Slowly on his errand went.

At the gate the poor were waiting,

Looking through the iron grating,

With that terror in the eye

That is only seen in those

Who amid their wants and woes

Hear the sound of doors that close,

And of feet that pass them by;

Grown familiar with disfavour,

Grown familiar with the savour

Of the bread by which men die!

But to-day, they knew not why,

Like the gate of Paradise

Seemed the convent gate to rise,

Like a sacrament divine

Seemed to them the bread and wine.

In his heart the Monk was praying,

Thinking of the homeless poor,

What they suffer and endure;

What we see not, what we see;

And the inward voice was saying:

“Whatsoever thing thou doest

To the least of mine and lowest,

That thou doest unto me!”

Unto me! but had the Vision

Come to him in beggar’s clothing,

Come a mendicant imploring,

Would he then have knelt adoring,

Or have listened with derision,

And have turned away with loathing?

Thus his conscience put the question,

Full of troublesome suggestion,

As at length, with hurried pace,

Towards his cell he turned his face,

And beheld the convent bright

With a supernatural light,

Like a luminous cloud expanding

Over floor and wall and ceiling.

But he paused with awe-struck feeling

At the threshold of his door,

For the Vision still was standing

As he left it there before,

When the convent bell appalling,

From its belfry calling, calling,

Summoned him to feed the poor.

Through the long hour intervening

It had waited his return,

And he felt his bosom burn,

Comprehending all the meaning,

When the Blessed Vision said,

“Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!”

INTERLUDE.

All praised the Legend more or less;

Some liked the moral, some the verse;

Some thought it better, and some worse

Than other legends of the past;

Until, with ill-concealed distress

At all their cavilling, at last

The Theologian gravely said:

“The Spanish proverb, then, is right;

Consult your friends on what you do,

And one will say that it is white,

And others say that it is red.”

And “Amen!” quoth the Spanish Jew.

“Six stories told! We must have seven,

A cluster like the Pleiades,

And lo! it happens, as with these,

That one is missing from our heaven.

Where is the Landlord? Bring him here;

Let the Lost Pleiad reappear.”

Thus the Sicilian cried, and went

Forthwith to meet his missing star,

But did not find him in the bar,

A place that landlords most frequent,

Nor yet beside the kitchen fire,

Nor up the stairs, nor in the hall;

It was in vain to ask or call,

There were no tidings of the Squire.

So he came back with downcast head,

Exclaiming: “Well, our bashful host

Hath surely given up the ghost.

Another proverb says the dead

Can tell no tales; and that is true.

It follows, then, that one of you

Must tell a story in his stead.

You must,” he to the Student said,

“Who know so many of the best,

And tell them better than the rest.”

Straight, by these flattering words beguiled,

The Student, happy as a child

When he is called a little man,

Assumed the double task imposed,

And without more ado unclosed

His smiling lips, and thus began.

THE STUDENT’S SECOND TALE.

THE BARON OF ST. CASTINE.

Baron Castine of St. Castine

Has left his chateau in the Pyrenees,

And sailed across the western seas.

When he went away from his fair demesne

The birds were building, the woods were green;

And now the winds of winter blow

Round the turrets of the old chateau,

The birds are silent and unseen,

The leaves lie dead in the ravine,

And the Pyrenees are white with snow.

His father, lonely, old, and grey,

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 sunlit 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 Maboré

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 court-yard 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 faggots, 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 court-yard, 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 harbour 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 court-yard, 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 game 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 grey 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 court-yard 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 gaily, “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: “Lack-a-day!

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 Oléron,

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 without 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 colour of the skin

Seems lighted by a fire within,

As when a burst of sunlight shines

Beneath a sombre grove of pines,—

A dusky splendour 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 hath 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 yon 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,

The 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 aërial 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.

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 rear-guard 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 fatal 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 uplifted 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,

We are but 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 scimitar

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 honours 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 scimitar 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.”

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 logs; 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 harbouring 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 embitter 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 through 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 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 high-flown,

In which he endeavoured 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.

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 north-west,

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 colour 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 armour 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.

[Illustration]

_Flower-de-Luce._

1866.

BEAUTIFUL LILY.

Beautiful lily, dwelling by still rivers,

Or solitary mere,

Or where the sluggish meadow-brook delivers

Its water to the weir!

Thou laughest at the mill, the whirr and worry

Of spindle and of loom,

And the great wheel that toils amid the hurry

And rushing of the flume.

Born to 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 for ever

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?

“Oh, give me back,” I cried, “the vanished splendours,

The breath of morn, and the exultant strife,

When the swift stream of life

Bounds over 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 for ever 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.

HAWTHORNE.

MAY 23, 1864.

How beautiful it was, that one bright day

In the long week of rain!

Though all its splendour 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 aërial looms,

Shot through with golden thread.

Across the meadows, by the grey 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 the 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 clue regain?

The unfinished window in Aladdin’s tower,

Unfinished must remain!

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 aërial 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!

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.

Nought avails the imploring gesture,

Nought avails the cry of pain!

When I touch the flying vesture,

’Tis the grey 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

Feebly, 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 a thought 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.

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 schoolboy in 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 rumours of renown;

And alone the night-wind drear

Clamours louder, wilder, vaguer,

“’Tis the brand of Meleager

Dying on the hearthstone here!”

And I answer: “Though it be,

Why should that discomfort me?

No endeavour is in vain;

Its reward is in the doing,

And the rapture of pursuing

Is the prize the vanquished gain.”

KILLED AT THE FORD.

He is dead, the beautiful youth,

The heart of honour, 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 picquet-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 the 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 when some one is lying dead;

But he made no answer to what I said.

We lifted him on 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 neighbours wondered that she should die.

NOËL

Envoyé à M. Agassiz, la veille de Noël, 1864, avec un panier de vins

divers.

L’Académie en respect,

Nonobstant l’incorrection,

À la faveur du sujet,

Ture-lure,

N’y fera point de rature;

Noël! ture-lure-lure.

GUI-BARÔZAI.

Quand les astres de Noël

Brillaient, palpitaient au ciel,

Six gaillards, et chacun ivre,

Chantaient gaîment dans le givre,

“Bons amis,

Allons donc chez Agassiz!”

Ces illustres Pélerins

D’Outre Mer, adroits et fins,

Se donnant des airs de prêtre,

A l’envi se vantaient d’être,

“Bons amis,

De Jean Rudolphe Agassiz.”

Œil-de-Perdrix, grand farceur,

Sans reproche et sans pudeur,

Dans son patois de Bourgogne,

Bredouillait comme un ivrogne,

“Bons amis,

J’ai dansé chez Agassiz!”

Verzenay le Champenois,

Bon Français, point New-Yorquois,

Mais des environs d’Avize,

Fredonne, à mainte reprise,

“Bons amis,

J’ai chanté chez Agassiz!”

A côté marchait un vieux

Hidalgo, mais non mousseux;

Dans le temps de Charlemagne,

Fut son père Grand d’Espagne!

“Bons amis,

J’ai diné chez Agassiz!”

Derrière eux un Bordelais,

Gascon, s’il en fût jamais,

Parfumé de poésie

Riait, chantait plein de vie,

“Bons amis,

J’ai soupé chez Agassiz!”

Avec ce beau cadet roux,

Bras dessus et bras dessous,

Mine altière et couleur terne,

Vint le Sire de Sauterne;

“Bon amis,

J’ai couché chez Agassiz!”

Mais le dernier de ces preux

Était un pauvre Chartreux,

Qui disait, d’un ton robuste,

“Bénédictions sur le Juste!

Bon amis,

Bénissons Père Agassiz!”

Ils arrivent trois à trois,

Montent l’escalier de bois

Clopin-clopant! quel gendarme

Peut permettre ce vacarme,

Bons amis,

À la porte d’Agassiz!

“Ouvrez 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

Épargnez aux Philosophes

Vos abominables strophes!

Bons amis,

Respectez mon Agassiz!

CHRISTMAS BELLS.

I heard the bells on Christmas Day

Their old, familiar carols play,

And wild and sweet

The words repeat